The Vicomte de Bragelonne
by Alexandre Dumas

Chapter I:
The Letter.

Towards the middle of the month of May, in the year 1660, at nine o'clock 
in the morning, when the sun, already high in the heavens, was fast 
absorbing the dew from the ramparts of the castle of Blois, a little 
cavalcade, composed of three men and two pages, re-entered the city by 
the bridge, without producing any other effect upon the passengers of the 
quay beyond a first movement of the hand to the head, as a salute, and a 
second movement of the tongue to express, in the purest French then 
spoken in France: "There is Monsieur returning from hunting."  And that 
was all.

Whilst, however, the horses were climbing the steep acclivity which leads 
from the river to the castle, several shop-boys approached the last 
horse, from whose saddle-bow a number of birds were suspended by the beak.

On seeing this, the inquisitive youths manifested with rustic freedom 
their contempt for such paltry sport, and, after a dissertation among 
themselves upon the disadvantages of hawking, they returned to their 
occupations; one only of the curious party, a stout, stubby, cheerful 
lad, having demanded how it was that Monsieur, who, from his great 
revenues, had it in his power to amuse himself so much better, could be 
satisfied with such mean diversions.

"Do you not know," one of the standers-by replied, "that Monsieur's 
principal amusement is to weary himself?"

The light-hearted boy shrugged his shoulders with a gesture which said 
as clear as day: "In that case I would rather be plain Jack than a 
prince."  And all resumed their labors.

In the meanwhile, Monsieur continued his route with an air at once so 
melancholy and so majestic, that he certainly would have attracted the 
attention of spectators, if spectators there had been; but the good 
citizens of Blois could not pardon Monsieur for having chosen their gay 
city for an abode in which to indulge melancholy at his ease, and as 
often as they caught a glimpse of the illustrious _ennuye_, they stole 
away gaping, or drew back their heads into the interior of their 
dwellings, to escape the soporific influence of that long pale face, of 
those watery eyes, and that languid address; so that the worthy prince 
was almost certain to find the streets deserted whenever he chanced to 
pass through them.

Now, on the part of the citizens of Blois this was a culpable piece of 
disrespect, for Monsieur was, after the king - nay, even perhaps, before 
the king - the greatest noble of the kingdom.  In fact, God, who had 
granted to Louis XIV., then reigning, the honor of being son of 
Louis XIII., had granted to Monsieur the honor of being son of Henry IV.  
It was not then, or, at least, it ought not to have been, a trifling 
source of pride for the city of Blois, that Gaston of Orleans had chosen 
it as his residence, and held his court in the ancient Castle of the 
States.

But it was the destiny of this great prince to excite the attention and 
admiration of the public in a very modified degree wherever he might be.  
Monsieur had fallen into this situation by habit.

It was not, perhaps, this which gave him that air of listlessness.  
Monsieur had already been tolerably busy in the course of his life.  A 
man cannot allow the heads of a dozen of his best friends to be cut off 
without feeling a little excitement; and as, since the accession of 
Mazarin to power, no heads had been cut off, Monsieur's occupation was 
gone, and his _morale_ suffered from it.

The life of the poor prince was then very dull.  After his little morning 
hawking-party on the banks of the Beuvron, or in the woods of Cheverny, 
Monsieur crossed the Loire, went to breakfast at Chambord, with or 
without an appetite, and the city of Blois heard no more of its sovereign 
lord and master till the next hawking-day.

So much for the ennui _extra muros_; of the ennui of the interior we will 
give the reader an idea if he will with us follow the cavalcade to the 
majestic porch of the Castle of the States.

Monsieur rode a little steady-paced horse, equipped with a large saddle 
of red Flemish velvet, with stirrups in the shape of buskins; the horse 
was of a bay color; Monsieur's pourpoint of crimson velvet corresponded 
with the cloak of the same shade and the horse's equipment, and it was 
only by this red appearance of the whole that the prince could be known 
from his two companions, the one dressed in violet, the other in green.  
He on the left, in violet, was his equerry; he on the right, in green, 
was the grand veneur.

One of the pages carried two gerfalcons upon a perch, the other a 
hunting-horn, which he blew with a careless note at twenty paces from the 
castle.  Every one about this listless prince did what he had to 
listlessly.

At this signal, eight guards, who were lounging in the sun in the square 
court, ran to their halberts, and Monsieur made his solemn entry into the 
castle.

When he had disappeared under the shades of the porch, three or four 
idlers, who had followed the cavalcade to the castle, after pointing out 
the suspended birds to each other, dispersed with comments upon what they 
saw: and, when they were gone, the street, the palace, and the court, all 
remained deserted alike.

Monsieur dismounted without speaking a word, went straight to his 
apartments, where his valet changed his dress, and as Madame had not yet 
sent orders respecting breakfast, Monsieur stretched himself upon a 
_chaise longue_, and was soon as fast asleep as if it had been eleven 
o'clock at night.

The eight guards, who concluded their service for the day was over, laid 
themselves down very comfortably in the sun upon some stone benches; the 
grooms disappeared with their horses into the stables, and, with the 
exception of a few joyous birds, startling each other with their sharp 
chirping in the tufted shrubberies, it might have been thought that the 
whole castle was as soundly asleep as Monsieur was.

All at once, in the midst of this delicious silence, there resounded a 
clear ringing laugh, which caused several of the halberdiers in the 
enjoyment of their _siesta_ to open at least one eye.

This burst of laughter proceeded from a window of the castle, visited at 
this moment by the sun, that embraced it in one of those large angles 
which the profiles of the chimneys mark out upon the walls before mid-day.

The little balcony of wrought iron which advanced in front of this 
window was furnished with a pot of red gilliflowers, another pot of 
primroses, and an early rose-tree, the foliage of which, beautifully 
green, was variegated with numerous red specks announcing future roses.

In the chamber lighted by this window, was a square table, covered with 
an old large-flowered Haarlem tapestry; in the center of this table was a 
long-necked stone bottle, in which were irises and lilies of the valley; 
at each end of this table was a young girl.

The position of these two young people was singular; they might have 
been taken for two boarders escaped from a convent.  One of them, with 
both elbows on the table, and a pen in her hand, was tracing characters 
upon a sheet of fine Dutch paper; the other, kneeling upon a chair, which 
allowed her to advance her head and bust over the back of it to the 
middle of the table, was watching her companion as she wrote, or rather 
hesitated to write.

Thence the thousand cries, the thousand railleries, the thousand laughs, 
one of which, more brilliant than the rest, had startled the birds in the 
gardens, and disturbed the slumbers of Monsieur's guards.

We are taking portraits now; we shall be allowed, therefore, we hope, 
to sketch the two last of this chapter.

The one who was leaning in the chair - that is to say, the joyous, 
laughing one - was a beautiful girl of from eighteen to twenty, with 
brown complexion and brown hair, splendid, from eyes which sparkled 
beneath strongly-marked brows, and particularly from her teeth, which 
seemed to shine like pearls between her red coral lips.  Her every 
movement seemed the accent of a sunny nature; she did not walk - she 
bounded.

The other, she who was writing, looked at her turbulent companion with an 
eye as limpid, as pure, and as blue as the azure of the day.  Her hair, 
of a shaded fairness, arranged with exquisite taste, fell in silky curls 
over her lovely mantling cheeks; she passed across the paper a delicate 
hand, whose thinness announced her extreme youth.  At each burst of 
laughter that proceeded from her friend, she raised, as if annoyed, her 
white shoulders in a poetical and mild manner, but they were wanting in 
that richfulness of mold that was likewise to be wished in her arms and 
hands.

"Montalais!  Montalais!" said she at length, in a voice soft and 
caressing as a melody, "you laugh too loud - you laugh like a man!  You 
will not only draw the attention of messieurs the guards, but you will 
not hear Madame's bell when Madame rings."

This admonition neither made the young girl called Montalais cease to 
laugh nor gesticulate. She only replied: "Louise, you do not speak as you 
think, my dear; you know that messieurs the guards, as you call them, 
have only just commenced their sleep, and that a cannon would not waken 
them; you know that Madame's bell can be heard at the bridge of Blois, 
and that consequently I shall hear it when my services are required by 
Madame.  What annoys you, my child, is that I laugh while you are 
writing; and what you are afraid of is that Madame de Saint-Remy, your 
mother, should come up here, as she does sometimes when we laugh too 
loud, that she should surprise us, and that she should see that enormous 
sheet of paper upon which, in a quarter of an hour, you have only traced 
the words _Monsieur Raoul_.  Now, you are right, my dear Louise, because 
after these words, 'Monsieur Raoul', others may be put so significant and 
incendiary as to cause Madame Saint-Remy to burst out into fire and 
flames! _Hein!_ is not that true now? - say."

And Montalais redoubled her laughter and noisy provocations.

The fair girl at length became quite angry; she tore the sheet of paper 
on which, in fact, the words "Monsieur Raoul" were written in good 
characters; and crushing the paper in her trembling hands, she threw it 
out of the window.

"There! there!" said Mademoiselle de Montalais; "there is our little 
lamb, our gentle dove, angry! Don't be afraid, Louise - Madame de 
Saint-Remy will not come; and if she should, you know I have a quick 
ear.  Besides, what can be more permissible than to write to an old 
friend of twelve years' standing, particularly when the letter begins 
with the words 'Monsieur Raoul'?"

"It is all very well - I will not write to him at all," said the young 
girl.

"Ah, ah! in good sooth, Montalais is properly punished," cried the 
jeering brunette, still laughing.  "Come, come! let us try another sheet 
of paper, and finish our dispatch off-hand.  Good! there is the bell 
ringing now.  By my faith, so much the worse!  Madame must wait, or else 
do without her first maid of honor this morning."

A bell, in fact, did ring; it announced that Madame had finished her 
toilette, and waited for Monsieur to give her his hand, and conduct her 
from the _salon_ to the refectory.

This formality being accomplished with great ceremony, the husband and 
wife breakfasted, and then separated till the hour of dinner, invariably 
fixed at two o'clock.

The sound of this bell caused a door to be opened in the offices on the 
left hand of the court, from which filed two _maitres d'hotel_ followed 
by eight scullions bearing a kind of hand-barrow loaded with dishes under 
silver covers.

One of the _maitres d'hotel_, the first in rank, touched one of the 
guards, who was snoring on his bench, slightly with his wand; he even 
carried his kindness so far as to place the halbert which stood against 
the wall in the hands of the man stupid with sleep, after which the 
soldier, without explanation, escorted the _viande_ of Monsieur to the 
refectory, preceded by a page and the two _maitres d'hotel_.

Wherever the _viande_ passed, the soldiers ported arms.

Mademoiselle de Montalais and her companion had watched from their 
window the details of this ceremony, to which, by the bye, they must have 
been pretty well accustomed.  But they did not look so much from 
curiosity as to be assured they should not be disturbed.  So, guards, 
scullions, _maitres d'hotel_, and pages having passed, they resumed their 
places at the table; and the sun, which, through the window-frame, had 
for an instant fallen upon those two charming countenances, now only shed 
its light upon the gilliflowers, primroses, and rose-tree.

"Bah!" said Mademoiselle de Montalais, taking her place again; "Madame 
will breakfast very well without me!"

"Oh!  Montalais, you will be punished!" replied the other girl, sitting 
down quietly in hers.

"Punished, indeed! - that is to say, deprived of a ride!  That is just 
the way in which I wish to be punished.  To go out in the grand coach, 
perched upon a doorstep; to turn to the left, twist round to the right, 
over roads full of ruts, where we cannot exceed a league in two hours; 
and then to come back straight towards the wing of the castle in which is 
the window of Mary de Medici, so that Madame never fails to say: 'Could 
one believe it possible that Mary de Medici should have escaped from that 
window - forty-seven feet high?  The mother of two princes and three 
princesses!'  If you call that relaxation, Louise, all I ask is to be 
punished every day; particularly when my punishment is to remain with you 
and write such interesting letters as we write!"

"Montalais!  Montalais! there are duties to be performed."

"You talk of them very much at your ease, dear child! - you, who are 
left quite free amidst this tedious court.  You are the only person that 
reaps the advantages of them without incurring the trouble, - you, who 
are really more one of Madame's maids of honor than I am, because Madame 
makes her affection for your father-in-law glance off upon you; so that 
you enter this dull house as the birds fly into yonder court, inhaling 
the air, pecking the flowers, picking up the grain, without having the 
least service to perform, or the least annoyance to undergo.  And you 
talk to me of duties to be performed!  In sooth, my pretty idler, what 
are your own proper duties, unless to write to the handsome Raoul?  And 
even that you don't do; so that it looks to me as if you likewise were 
rather negligent of your duties!"

Louise assumed a serious air, leant her chin upon her hand, and, in a 
tone full of candid remonstrance, "And do you reproach me with my good 
fortune?" said she.  "Can you have the heart to do it?  You have a 
future; you will belong to the court; the king, if he should marry, will 
require Monsieur to be near his person; you will see splendid _fetes_, 
you will see the king, who they say is so handsome, so agreeable!"

"Ay, and still more, I shall see Raoul, who attends upon M. le Prince," 
added Montalais, maliciously.

"Poor Raoul!" sighed Louise.

"Now is the time to write to him, my pretty dear!  Come, begin again, 
with that famous 'Monsieur Raoul' which figures at the top of the poor 
torn sheet."

She then held the pen toward her, and with a charming smile encouraged 
her hand, which quickly traced the words she named.

"What next?" asked the younger of the two girls.

"Why, now write what you think, Louise," replied Montalais.

"Are you quite sure I think of anything?"

"You think of somebody, and that amounts to the same thing, or rather 
even more."

"Do you think so, Montalais?"

"Louise, Louise, your blue eyes are as deep as the sea I saw at Boulogne 
last year!  No, no, I mistake - the sea is perfidious: your eyes are as 
deep as the azure yonder - look! - over our heads!"

"Well, since you can read so well in my eyes, tell me what I am thinking 
about, Montalais."

"In the first place, you don't think, _Monsieur Raoul_; you think, _My 
dear Raoul_."

"Oh! - "

"Never blush for such a trifle as that!  'My dear Raoul,' we will say - 
'You implore me to write you at Paris, where you are detained by your 
attendance on M. le Prince. As you must be very dull there, to seek for 
amusement in the remembrance of a _provinciale_ - '"

Louise rose up suddenly.  "No, Montalais," said she, with a smile; "I 
don't think a word of that.  Look, this is what I think;" and she seized 
the pen boldly, and traced, with a firm hand, the following words:

"I should have been very unhappy if your entreaties to obtain a 
remembrance of me had been less warm.  Everything here reminds me of our 
early days, which so quickly passed away, which so delightfully flew by, 
that no others will ever replace the charm of them in my heart."

Montalais, who watched the flying pen, and read, the wrong way upwards, 
as fast as her friend wrote, here interrupted by clapping her hands.  
"Capital!" cried she; "there is frankness - there is heart - there is 
style!  Show these Parisians, my dear, that Blois is the city for fine 
language!"

"He knows very well that Blois was a Paradise to me," replied the girl.

"That is exactly what you mean to say; and you speak like an angel."

"I will finish, Montalais," and she continued as follows: "You often 
think of me, you say, Monsieur Raoul: I thank you; but that does not 
surprise me, when I recollect how often our hearts have beaten close to 
each other."

"Oh! oh!" said Montalais.  "Beware, my lamb!  You are scattering your 
wool, and there are wolves about."

Louise was about to reply, when the gallop of a horse resounded under 
the porch of the castle.

"What is that?" said Montalais, approaching the window.  "A handsome 
cavalier, by my faith!"

"Oh! - Raoul!" exclaimed Louise, who had made the same movement as her 
friend, and, becoming pale as death, sunk back beside her unfinished 
letter.

"Now, he is a clever lover, upon my word!" cried Montalais; "he arrives 
just at the proper moment."

"Come in, come in, I implore you!" murmured Louise.

"Bah! he does not know me.  Let me see what he has come here for."


Chapter II:
The Messenger.

Mademoiselle de Montalais was right; the young cavalier was goodly to 
look upon.

He was a young man of from twenty-four to twenty-five years of age, tall 
and slender, wearing gracefully the picturesque military costume of the 
period.  His large boots contained a foot which Mademoiselle de Montalais 
might not have disowned if she had been transformed into a man.  With one 
of his delicate but nervous hands he checked his horse in the middle of 
the court, and with the other raised his hat, whose long plumes shaded 
his at once serious and ingenuous countenance.

The guards, roused by the steps of the horse, awoke, and were on foot in 
a minute.  The young man waited till one of them was close to his 
saddle-bow: then, stooping towards him, in a clear, distinct voice, which 
was perfectly audible at the window where the two girls were concealed, 
"A message for his royal highness," he said.

"Ah, ah!" cried the soldier.  "Officer, a messenger!"

But this brave guard knew very well that no officer would appear, seeing 
that the only one who could have appeared dwelt at the other side of the 
castle, in an apartment looking into the gardens.  So he hastened to add: 
"The officer, monsieur, is on his rounds; but, in his absence, M. de 
Saint-Remy, the _maitre d'hotel_, shall be informed."

"M. de Saint-Remy?" repeated the cavalier, slightly blushing.

"Do you know him?"

"Why, yes; but request him, if you please, that my visit be announced 
to his royal highness as soon as possible."

"It appears to be pressing," said the guard, as if speaking to himself, 
but really in the hope of obtaining an answer.

The messenger made an affirmative sign with his head.

"In that case," said the guard, "I will go and seek the _maitre 
d'hotel_ myself."

The young man, in the meantime, dismounted; and whilst the others were 
making their remarks upon the fine horse the cavalier rode, the soldier 
returned.

"Your pardon, young gentleman; but your name, if you please?"

"The Vicomte de Bragelonne, on the part of his highness M. le Prince de 
Conde."

The soldier made a profound bow, and, as if the name of the conqueror of 
Rocroi and Lens had given him wings, he stepped lightly up the steps 
leading to the ante-chamber.

M. de Bragelonne had not had time to fasten his horse to the iron bars of 
the _perron_, when M. de Saint-Remy came running, out of breath, 
supporting his capacious body with one hand, whilst with the other he cut 
the air as a fisherman cleaves the waves with his oar.

"Ah, Monsieur le Vicomte!  You at Blois!" cried he.  "Well, that is a 
wonder.  Good-day to you - good-day, Monsieur Raoul."

"I offer you a thousand respects, M. de Saint-Remy."

"How Madame de la Vall - I mean, how delighted Madame de Saint-Remy will 
be to see you!  But come in.  His royal highness is at breakfast - must 
he be interrupted?  Is the matter serious?"

"Yes, and no, Monsieur de Saint-Remy.  A moment's delay, however, would 
be disagreeable to his royal highness."

"If that is the case, we will force the _consigne_, Monsieur le Vicomte.  
Come in.  Besides, Monsieur is in an excellent humor to-day.  And then 
you bring news, do you not?"

"Great news, Monsieur de Saint-Remy.

"And good, I presume?"

"Excellent."

"Come quickly, come quickly then!" cried the worthy man, putting his 
dress to rights as he went along.

Raoul followed him, hat in hand, and a little disconcerted at the noise 
made by his spurs in these immense _salons_.

As soon as he had disappeared in the interior of the palace, the window 
of the court was repeopled, and an animated whispering betrayed the 
emotion of the two girls.  They soon appeared to have formed a 
resolution, for one of the two faces disappeared from the window.  This 
was the brunette; the other remained behind the balcony, concealed by 
the flowers, watching attentively through the branches the _perron_ by 
which M. de Bragelonne had entered the castle.

In the meantime the object of so much laudable curiosity continued his 
route, following the steps of the _maitre d'hotel_.  The noise of quick 
steps, an odor of wine and viands, a clinking of crystal and plates, 
warned them that they were coming to the end of their course.

The pages, valets and officers, assembled in the office which led up to 
the refectory, welcomed the newcomer with the proverbial politeness of 
the country; some of them were acquainted with Raoul, and all knew that 
he came from Paris.  It might be said that his arrival for a moment 
suspended the service.  In fact, a page, who was pouring out wine for his 
royal highness, on hearing the jingling of spurs in the next chamber, 
turned round like a child, without perceiving that he was continuing to 
pour out, not into the glass, but upon the tablecloth.

Madame, who was not so preoccupied as her glorious spouse was, remarked 
this distraction of the page.

"Well?" exclaimed she.

"Well!" repeated Monsieur; "what is going on then?"

M. de Saint-Remy, who had just introduced his head through the doorway, 
took advantage of the moment.

"Why am I to be disturbed?" said Gaston, helping himself to a thick slice 
of one of the largest salmon that had ever ascended the Loire to be 
captured between Paimboeuf and Saint-Nazaire.

"There is a messenger from Paris.  Oh! but after monseigneur has 
breakfasted will do; there is plenty of time."

"From Paris!" cried the prince, letting his fork fall.  "A messenger 
from Paris, do you say?  And on whose part does this messenger come?"

"On the part of M. le Prince," said the _maitre d'hotel_ promptly.

Every one knows that the Prince de Conde was so called.

"A messenger from M. le Prince!" said Gaston, with an inquietude that 
escaped none of the assistants, and consequently redoubled the general 
curiosity.

Monsieur, perhaps, fancied himself brought back again to the happy times 
when the opening of a door gave him an emotion, in which every letter 
might contain a state secret, - in which every message was connected 
with a dark and complicated intrigue.  Perhaps, likewise, that great name 
of M. le Prince expanded itself, beneath the roofs of Blois, to the 
proportions of a phantom.

Monsieur pushed away his plate.

"Shall I tell the envoy to wait?" asked M. de Saint-Remy.

A glance from Madame emboldened Gaston, who replied: "No, no! let him 
come in at once, on the contrary.  _A propos_, who is he?"

"A gentleman of this country, M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne."

"Ah, very well!  Introduce him, Saint-Remy - introduce him."

And when he had let fall these words, with his accustomed gravity, 
Monsieur turned his eyes, in a certain manner, upon the people of his 
suite, so that all, pages, officers, and equerries, quitted the service, 
knives and goblets, and made towards the second chamber door a retreat as 
rapid as it was disorderly.

This little army had dispersed in two files when Raoul de Bragelonne, 
preceded by M. de Saint-Remy, entered the refectory.

The short interval of solitude which this retreat had left him, permitted 
Monsieur the time to assume a diplomatic countenance.  He did not turn 
round, but waited till the _maitre d'hotel_ should bring the messenger 
face to face with him.

Raoul stopped even with the lower end of the table, so as to be exactly 
between Monsieur and Madame.  From this place he made a profound bow to 
Monsieur, and a very humble one to Madame; then, drawing himself up into 
military pose, he waited for Monsieur to address him.

On his part the prince waited till the doors were hermetically closed; he 
would not turn round to ascertain the fact, as that would have been 
derogatory to his dignity, but he listened with all his ears for the 
noise of the lock, which would promise him at least an appearance of 
secrecy.

The doors being closed, Monsieur raised his eyes towards the vicomte, and 
said, "It appears that you come from Paris, monsieur?"

"This minute, monseigneur."

"How is the king?"

"His majesty is in perfect health, monseigneur."

"And my sister-in-law?"

"Her majesty the queen-mother still suffers from the complaint in her 
chest, but for the last month she has been rather better."

"Somebody told me you came on the part of M. le Prince.  They must have 
been mistaken, surely?"

"No, monseigneur; M. le Prince has charged me to convey this letter to 
your royal highness, and I am to wait for an answer to it."

Raoul had been a little annoyed by this cold and cautious reception, and 
his voice insensibly sank to a low key.

The prince forgot that he was the cause of this apparent mystery, and his 
fears returned.

He received the letter from the Prince de Conde with a haggard look, 
unsealed it as he would have unsealed a suspicious packet, and in order 
to read it so that no one should remark the effects of it upon his 
countenance, he turned round.

Madame followed, with an anxiety almost equal to that of the prince, 
every maneuver of her august husband.

Raoul, impassible, and a little disengaged by the attention of his hosts, 
looked from his place through the open window at the gardens and the 
statues which peopled them.

"Well!" cried Monsieur, all at once, with a cheerful smile; "here is an 
agreeable surprise, and a charming letter from M. le Prince.  Look, 
Madame!"

The table was too large to allow the arm of the prince to reach the hand 
of Madame; Raoul sprang forward to be their intermediary, and did it 
with so good a grace as to procure a flattering acknowledgement from the 
princess.

"You know the contents of this letter, no doubt?" said Gaston to Raoul.

"Yes, monseigneur; M. le Prince at first gave me the message verbally, 
but upon reflection his highness took up his pen."

"It is beautiful writing," said Madame, "but I cannot read it."

"Will you read it to Madame, M. de Bragelonne?" said the duke.

"Yes; read it, if you please, monsieur."

Raoul began to read, Monsieur giving again all his attention.  The letter 
was conceived in these terms:

"MONSEIGNEUR - The king is about to set out for the frontiers.  You are 
aware the marriage of his majesty is concluded upon.  The king has done 
me the honor to appoint me his _marechal-des-logis_ for this journey, and 
as I knew with what joy his majesty would pass a day at Blois, I venture 
to ask your royal highness's permission to mark the house you inhabit as 
our quarters.  If, however, the suddenness of this request should create 
to your royal highness any embarrassment, I entreat you to say so by the 
messenger I send, a gentleman of my suite, M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne.  
My itinerary will depend on your royal highness's determination, and 
instead of passing through Blois, we shall come through Vendome or 
Romorantin.  I venture to hope that your royal highness will be pleased 
with my arrangement, it being the expression of my boundless desire to 
make myself agreeable to you."

"Nothing can be more gracious toward us," said Madame, who had more than 
once consulted the looks of her husband during the reading of the 
letter.  "The king here!" exclaimed she, in a rather louder tone than 
would have been necessary to preserve secrecy.

"Monsieur," said his royal highness in his turn, "you will offer my 
thanks to M. de Conde, and express to him my gratitude for the honor he 
has done me."  Raoul bowed.

"On what day will his majesty arrive?" continued the prince.

"The king, monseigneur, will in all probability arrive this evening."

"But how, then, could he have known my reply if it had been in the 
negative?"

"I was desired, monseigneur, to return in all haste to Beaugency, to give 
counter-orders to the courier, who was himself to go back immediately 
with counter-orders to M. le Prince."

"His majesty is at Orleans, then?"

"Much nearer, monseigneur; his majesty must by this time have arrived at 
Meung."

"Does the court accompany him?"

"Yes, monseigneur."

"_A propos_, I forgot to ask you after M. le Cardinal."

"His eminence appears to enjoy good health, monseigneur."

"His nieces accompany him, no doubt?"

"No, monseigneur; his eminence has ordered the Mesdemoiselles de Mancini 
to set out for Brouage.  They will follow the left bank of the Loire, 
while the court will come by the right.

"What!  Mademoiselle Mary de Mancini quit the court in that manner?" 
asked Monsieur, his reserve beginning to diminish.

"Mademoiselle Mary de Mancini in particular," replied Raoul discreetly.

A fugitive smile, an imperceptible vestige of his ancient spirit of 
intrigue, shot across the pale face of the prince.

"Thanks, M. de Bragelonne," then said Monsieur.  "You would, perhaps, not 
be willing to carry M. le Prince the commission with which I would charge 
you, and that is, that his messenger has been very agreeable to me; but I 
will tell him so myself."

Raoul bowed his thanks to Monsieur for the honor he had done him.

Monsieur made a sign to Madame, who struck a bell which was placed at her 
right hand; M. de Saint-Remy entered, and the room was soon filled with 
people.

"Messieurs," said the prince, "his majesty is about to pay me the honor of 
passing a day at Blois; I depend on the king, my nephew, not having to 
repent of the favor he does my house."

"_Vive le Roi!_" cried all the officers of the household with frantic 
enthusiasm, and M. de Saint-Remy louder than the rest.

Gaston hung down his head with evident chagrin.  He had all his life been 
obliged to hear, or rather to undergo, this cry of "_Vive le Roi!_" which 
passed over him.  For a long time, being unaccustomed to hear it, his ear 
had had rest, and now a younger, more vivacious, and more brilliant 
royalty rose up before him, like a new and more painful provocation.

Madame perfectly understood the sufferings of that timid, gloomy heart; 
she rose from the table, Monsieur imitated her mechanically, and all the 
domestics, with a buzzing like that of several bee-hives, surrounded 
Raoul for the purpose of questioning him.

Madame saw this movement, and called M. de Saint-Remy.

"This is not the time for gossiping, but working," said she, with the 
tone of an angry housekeeper.

M. de Saint-Remy hastened to break the circle formed by the officers 
round Raoul, so that the latter was able to gain the ante-chamber.

"Care will be taken of that gentleman, I hope," added Madame, addressing 
M. de Saint-Remy.

The worthy man immediately hastened after Raoul.  "Madame desires 
refreshments to be offered to you," said he; "and there is, besides, a 
lodging for you in the castle."

"Thanks, M. de Saint-Remy," replied Raoul; "but you know how anxious I 
must be to pay my duty to M. le Comte, my father."

"That is true, that is true, Monsieur Raoul; present him, at the same 
time, my humble respects, if you please."

Raoul thus once more got rid of the old gentleman, and pursued his way.  
As he was passing under the porch, leading his horse by the bridle, a 
soft voice called him from the depths of an obscure path.

"Monsieur Raoul!" said the voice.

The young man turned round, surprised, and saw a dark complexioned girl, 
who, with a finger on her lip, held out her other hand to him.  This 
young lady was an utter stranger.


Chapter III:
The Interview.

Raoul made one step towards the girl who thus called him.

"But my horse, madame?" said he.

"Oh! you are terribly embarrassed!  Go yonder way - there is a shed in 
the outer court: fasten your horse, and return quickly!"

"I obey, madame."

Raoul was not four minutes in performing what he had been directed to do; 
he returned to the little door, where, in the gloom, he found his 
mysterious conductress waiting for  him, on the first steps of a winding 
staircase.

"Are you brave enough to follow me, monsieur knight errant?" asked the 
girl, laughing at the momentary hesitation Raoul had manifested.

The latter replied by springing up the dark staircase after her.  They 
thus climbed up three stories, he behind her, touching with his hands, 
when he felt for the banister, a silk dress which rubbed against each 
side of the staircase.  At every false step made by Raoul, his 
conductress cried, "Hush!" and held out to him a soft perfumed hand.

"One would mount thus to the belfry of the castle without being conscious 
of fatigue," said Raoul.

"All of which means, monsieur, that you are very much perplexed, very 
tired, and very uneasy.  But be of good cheer, monsieur; here we are, at 
our destination."

The girl threw open a door, which immediately, without any transition, 
filled with a flood of light the landing of the staircase, at the top of 
which Raoul appeared, holding fast by the balustrade.

The girl continued to walk on - he followed her; she entered a chamber – 
he did the same.

As soon as he was fairly in the net he heard a loud cry, and, turning 
round, saw at two paces from him, with her hands clasped and her eyes 
closed, that beautiful fair girl with blue eyes and white shoulders, 
who, recognizing him, called him Raoul.

He saw her, and divined at once so much love and so much joy in the 
expression of her countenance, the he sank on his knees in the middle of 
the chamber, murmuring, on his part, the name of Louise.

"Ah!  Montalais! - Montalais!" she sighed, "it is very wicked to deceive 
me so."

"Who, I?  I have deceived you?"

"Yes; you told me you would go down to inquire the news, and you have 
brought up monsieur!"

"Well, I was obliged to do so - how else could he have received the 
letter you wrote him?"  And she pointed with her finger to the letter 
which was still upon the table.

Raoul made a step to take it; Louise, more rapid, although she had sprung 
forward with a sufficiently remarkable physical hesitation, reached out 
her hand to stop him.  Raoul came in contact with that trembling hand, 
took it within his own, and carried it so respectfully to his lips, that 
he might have been said to have deposited a sigh upon it rather than a 
kiss.

In the meantime, Mademoiselle de Montalais had taken the letter, folded 
it carefully, as women do, in three folds, and slipped it into her bosom.

"Don't be afraid, Louise," said she; "monsieur will no more venture to 
take it hence than the defunct king Louis XIII. ventured to take billets 
from the corsage of Mademoiselle de Hautefort."

Raoul blushed at seeing the smile of the two girls; and he did not remark 
that the hand of Louise remained in his.

"There!" said Montalais, "you have pardoned me, Louise, for having 
brought monsieur to you; and you, monsieur, bear me no malice for having 
followed me to see mademoiselle.  Now, then, peace being made, let us 
chat like old friends.  Present me, Louise, to M. de Bragelonne."

"Monsieur le Vicomte," said Louise, with her quiet grace and ingenuous 
smile, "I have the honor to present to you Mademoiselle Aure de 
Montalais, maid of honor to her royal highness MADAME, and moreover my 
friend - my excellent friend."

Raoul bowed ceremoniously.

"And me, Louise," said he - "will you not present me also to 
mademoiselle?"

"Oh, she knows you - she knows all!"

This unguarded expression made Montalais laugh and Raoul sigh with 
happiness, for he interpreted it thus: "_She knows all our love_."

"The ceremonies being over, Monsieur le Vicomte," said Montalais, "take a 
chair, and tell us quickly the news you bring flying thus."

"Mademoiselle, it is no longer a secret; the king, on his way to 
Poitiers, will stop at Blois, to visit his royal highness."

"The king here!" exclaimed Montalais, clapping her hands.  "What! are we 
going to see the court?  Only think, Louise - the real court from Paris!  
Oh, good heavens!  But when will this happen, monsieur?"

"Perhaps this evening, mademoiselle; at latest, to-morrow."

Montalais lifted her shoulders in a sigh of vexation.

"No time to get ready!  No time to prepare a single dress!  We are as far 
behind the fashions as the Poles.  We shall look like portraits from the 
time of Henry IV.  Ah, monsieur! this is sad news you bring us!"

"But, mesdemoiselles, you will be still beautiful!"

"That's no news!  Yes, we shall always be beautiful, because nature has 
made us passable; but we shall be ridiculous, because the fashion will 
have forgotten us.  Alas! ridiculous!  I shall be thought ridiculous - I!"

"And by whom?" said Louise, innocently.

"By whom?  You are a strange girl, my dear.  Is that a question to put to 
me?  I mean everybody; I mean the courtiers, the nobles; I mean the king."

"Pardon me, my good friend; but as here every one is accustomed to see us 
as we are - "

"Granted; but that is about to change, and we shall be ridiculous, even 
for Blois; for close to us will be seen the fashions from Paris, and they 
will perceive that we are in the fashion of Blois!  It is enough to make 
one despair!"

"Console yourself, mademoiselle."

"Well, so let it be!  After all, so much the worse for those who do not 
find me to their taste!" said Montalais, philosophically.

"They would be very difficult to please," replied Raoul, faithful to his 
regular system of gallantry.

"Thank you,  Monsieur le Vicomte.  We were saying, then, that the king is 
coming to Blois?"

"With all the court."

"Mesdemoiselles de Mancini, will they be with them?"

"No, certainly not."

"But as the king, it is said, cannot do without Mademoiselle Mary?"

"Mademoiselle, the king must do without her.  M. le Cardinal will have it 
so.  He has exiled his nieces to Brouage."

"He! - the hypocrite!"

"Hush!" said Louise, pressing a finger on her friend's rosy lips.

"Bah! nobody can hear me.  I say that old Mazarino Mazarini is a 
hypocrite, who burns impatiently to make his niece Queen of France."

"That cannot be, mademoiselle, since M. le Cardinal, on the contrary, had 
brought about the marriage of his majesty with the Infanta Maria Theresa."

Montalais looked Raoul full in the face, and said, "And do you Parisians 
believe in these tales?  Well! we are a little more knowing than you, at 
Blois."

"Mademoiselle, if the king goes beyond Poitiers and sets out for Spain; 
if the articles of the marriage contract are agreed upon by Don Luis de 
Haro and his eminence, you must plainly perceive that it is not child's 
play."

"All very fine! but the king is king, I suppose?"

"No doubt, mademoiselle; but the cardinal is the cardinal."

"The king is not a man, then!  And he does not love Mary Mancini?"

"He adores her."

"Well, he will marry her then.  We shall have war with Spain.  M. Mazarin 
will spend a few of the millions he has put away; our gentlemen will 
perform prodigies of valor in their encounters with the proud Castilians, 
and many of them will return crowned with laurels, to be recrowned by us 
with myrtles.  Now, that is my view of politics."

"Montalais, you are wild!" said Louise, "and every exaggeration attracts 
you as light does a moth."

"Louise, you are so extremely reasonable, that you will never know how to 
love."

"Oh!" said Louise, in a tone of tender reproach, "don't you see, 
Montalais?  The queen-mother desires to marry her son to the Infanta; 
would you wish him to disobey his mother?  Is it for a royal heart like 
his to set such a bad example?  When parents forbid love, love must be 
banished."

And Louise sighed: Raoul cast down his eyes, with an expression of 
constraint.  Montalais, on her part, laughed aloud.

"Well, I have no parents!" said she.

"You are acquainted, without doubt, with the state of health of M. le 
Comte de la Fere?" said Louise, after breathing that sigh which had 
revealed so many griefs in its eloquent utterance.

"No, mademoiselle," replied Raoul, "I have not let paid my respects to my 
father; I was going to his house when Mademoiselle de Montalais so kindly 
stopped me.  I hope the comte is well.  You have heard nothing to the 
contrary, have you?"

"No, M. Raoul - nothing, thank God!"

Here, for several instants, ensued a silence, during which two spirits, 
which followed the same idea, communicated perfectly, without even the 
assistance of a single glance.

"Oh, heavens!" exclaimed Montalais in a fright; "there is somebody coming 
up."

"Who can it be?" said Louise, rising in great agitation.

"Mesdemoiselles, I inconvenience you very much.  I have, without doubt, 
been very indiscreet," stammered Raoul, very ill at ease.

"It is a heavy step," said Louise.

"Ah! if it is only M. Malicorne," added Montalais, "do not disturb 
yourselves."

Louise and Raoul looked at each other to inquire who M. Malicorne could 
be.

"There is no occasion to mind him," continued Montalais; "he is not 
jealous."

"But, mademoiselle - "said Raoul.

"Yes, I understand.  Well, he is discreet as I am."

"Good heavens!" cried Louise, who had applied her ear to the door, which 
had been left ajar; "it is my mother's step!"

"Madame de Saint-Remy!  Where shall I hide myself?" exclaimed Raoul, 
catching at the dress of Montalais, who looked quite bewildered.

"Yes," said she; "yes, I know the clicking of those pattens!  It is our 
excellent mother.  M. le Vicomte, what a pity it is the window looks upon 
a stone pavement, and that fifty paces below it."

Raoul glanced at the balcony in despair.  Louise seized his arm and held 
it tight.

"Oh, how silly I am!" said Montalais; "have I not the robe-of-ceremony 
closet?  It looks as if it were made on purpose."

It was quite time to act; Madame de Saint-Remy was coming up at a quicker 
pace than usual.  She gained the landing at the moment when Montalais, as 
in all scenes of surprises, shut the closet by leaning with her back 
against the door.

"Ah!" cried Madame de Saint-Remy, "you are here, are you, Louise?"

"Yes, madame," replied she, more pale than if she had committed a great 
crime.

"Well, well!"

"Pray be seated, madame," said Montalais, offering her a chair, which she 
placed so that the back was towards the closet.

"Thank you, Mademoiselle Aure - thank you.  Come, my child, be quick."

"Where do you wish me to go, madame?"

"Why, home, to be sure; have you not to prepare your toilette?"

"What did you say?" cried Montalais, hastening to affect surprise, so 
fearful was she that Louise would in some way commit herself.

"You don't know the news, then?" said Madame de Saint-Remy.

"What news, madame, is it possible for two girls to learn up in this 
dove-cote?"

"What! have you seen nobody?"

"Madame, you talk in enigmas, and you torment us at a  slow fire!" cried 
Montalais, who, terrified at seeing Louise become paler and paler, did 
not know to what saint to put up her vows.

At length she caught an eloquent look of her companion's, one of those 
looks which would convey intelligence to a brick wall.  Louise directed 
her attention to a hat - Raoul's unlucky hat, which was set out in all 
its feathery splendor upon the table.

Montalais sprang towards it, and, seizing it with her left hand, passed 
it behind her into the right, concealing it as she was speaking.

"Well," said Madame de Saint-Remy, "a courier has arrived, announcing the 
approach of the king.  There, mesdemoiselles; there is something to make 
you put on your best looks."

"Quick, quick!" cried Montalais.  "Follow Madame your mother, Louise; and 
leave me to get ready my dress of ceremony."

Louise arose; her mother took her by the hand, and led her out on to the 
landing.

"Come along," said she; then adding in a low voice, "When I forbid you to 
come the apartment of Montalais, why do you do so?"

"Madame, she is my friend.  Besides, I had but just come."

"Did you see nobody concealed while you were there?"

"Madame!"

"I saw a man's hat, I tell you - the hat of that fellow, that good-for-
nothing!"

"Madame!" repeated Louise.

"Of that do-nothing Malicorne!  A maid of honor to have such company – 
fie! fie!" and their voices were lost in the depths of the narrow 
staircase.

Montalais had not missed a word of this conversation, which echo conveyed 
to her as if through a tunnel.  She shrugged her shoulders on seeing 
Raoul, who had listened likewise, issue from the closet.

"Poor Montalais!" said she, "the victim of friendship!  Poor Malicorne, 
the victim of love!"

She stopped on viewing the tragic-comic face of Raoul, who was vexed at 
having, in one day, surprised so many secrets.

"Oh, mademoiselle!" said he; "how can we repay your kindness?"

"Oh, we will balance accounts some day," said she.  "For the present, 
begone, M. de Bragelonne, for Madame de Saint-Remy is not over indulgent; 
and any indiscretion on her part might bring hither a domiciliary visit, 
which would be disagreeable to all parties."

"But Louise - how shall I know - "

"Begone! begone!  King Louis XI. knew very well what he was about when he 
invented the post."

"Alas!" sighed Raoul.

"And am I not here - I, who am worth all the posts in the kingdom?  
Quick, I say, to horse! so that if Madame de Saint-Remy should return for 
the purpose of preaching me a lesson on morality, she may not find you 
here."

"She would tell my father, would she not?" murmured Raoul.

"And you would be scolded.  Ah, vicomte, it is very plain you come from 
court; you are as timid as the king.  _Peste!_ at Blois we contrive 
better than that, to do without papa's consent.  Ask Malicorne else!"

And at these words the girl pushed Raoul out of the room by the 
shoulders.  He glided swiftly down to the porch, regained his horse, 
mounted, and set off as if he had had Monsieur's guards at his heels.


Chapter IV:
Father and Son.

Raoul followed the well-known road, so dear to his memory, which led from 
Blois to the residence of the Comte de la Fere.

The reader will dispense with a second description of that habitation: 
he, perhaps, has been with us there before, and knows it.  Only, since 
our last journey thither, the walls had taken on a grayer tint, and the 
brick-work assumed a more harmonious copper tone; the trees had grown, 
and many that then only stretched their slender branches along the tops 
of the hedges, now, bushy, strong, and luxuriant, cast around, beneath 
boughs swollen with sap, great shadows of blossoms or fruit for the 
benefit of the traveler.

Raoul perceived, from a distance, the two little turrets, the dove-cote 
in the elms, and the flights of pigeons, which wheeled incessantly around 
that brick cone, seemingly without power to quit it, like the sweet 
memories which hover round a spirit at peace.

As he approached, he heard the noise of the pulleys which grated under 
the weight of the heavy pails; he also fancied he heard the melancholy 
moaning of the water which falls back again into the wells - a sad, 
funereal, solemn sound, which strikes the ear of the child and the poet – 
both dreamers - which the English call _splash_; Arabian poets 
_gasgachau_; and which we Frenchmen, who would be poets, can only 
translate by a paraphrase - _the noise of water falling into water_.

It was more than a year since Raoul had been to visit his father.  He had 
passed the whole time in the household of M. le Prince.  In fact, after 
all the commotions of the Fronde, of the early period of which we 
formerly attempted to give a sketch, Louis de Conde had made a public, 
solemn and frank reconciliation with the court.  During all the time that 
the rupture between the king and the prince had lasted, the prince, who 
had long entertained a great regard for Bragelonne, had in vain offered 
him advantages of the most dazzling kind for a young man.  The Comte de 
la Fere, still faithful to his principles of loyalty, and royalty, one 
day developed before his son in the vaults of Saint Denis, - the Comte de 
la Fere, in the name of his son, had always declined them.  Moreover, 
instead of following M. de Conde in his rebellion, the vicomte had 
followed M. de Turenne, fighting for the king.  Then when M. de Turenne, 
in his turn, had appeared to abandon the royal cause, he had quitted M. 
de Turenne, as he had quitted M. de Conde.  It resulted from this 
invariable line of conduct, that, as Conde and Turenne had never been 
conquerors of each other but under the standard of the king, Raoul, 
however young, had ten victories inscribed on his list of services, and 
not one defeat from which his bravery or conscience had to suffer.

Raoul, therefore, had, in compliance with the wish of his father, served 
obstinately and passively the fortunes of Louis XIV., in spite of the 
tergiversations which were endemic, and, it might be said, inevitable, 
at that period.

M. de Conde; on being restored to favor, had at once availed himself of 
all the privileges of the amnesty to ask for many things back again which 
had been granted to him before, and among others, Raoul.  M. de la Fere, 
with his invariable good sense, had immediately sent him again to the 
prince.

A year, then, had passed away since the separation of the father and son; 
a few letters had softened, but not removed, the pain of absence.  We 
have seen that Raoul had left at Blois another love in addition to filial 
love.  But let us do him this justice - if it had not been for chance and 
Mademoiselle de Montalais, two great temptations, Raoul, after delivering 
his message, would have galloped off towards his father's house, turning 
his head round, perhaps, but without stopping for a single instant, even 
if Louise had held out her arms to him.

So the first part of the journey was given by Raoul to regretting the 
past which he had been forced to quit so quickly, that is to say, his 
lady-love; and the other part to the friend he was about to join, so much 
too slowly for his wishes.

Raoul found the garden-gate open, and rode straight in, without regarding 
the long arms, raised in anger, of an old man dressed in a jacket of 
violet-colored wool, and a large cap of faded velvet.

The old man, who was weeding with his hands a bed of dwarf roses and 
arguerites, was indignant at seeing a horse thus traversing his sanded 
and nicely-raked walks.  He even ventured a vigorous "Humph!" which made 
the cavalier turn round.  Then there was a change of scene; for no sooner 
had he caught sight of Raoul's face, than the old man sprang up and set 
off in the direction of the house, amidst interrupted growlings, which 
appeared to be paroxysms of wild delight.

When arrived at the stables, Raoul gave his horse to a little lackey, and 
sprang up the _perron_ with an ardor that would have delighted the heart 
of his father.

He crossed the ante-chamber, the dining-room, and the _salon_, without 
meeting any one; at length, on reaching the door of M. de la Fere's 
apartment, he rapped impatiently, and entered almost without waiting for 
the word "Enter!" which was vouchsafed him by a voice at once sweet and 
serious.  The comte was seated at a table covered with papers and books; 
he was still the noble, handsome gentleman of former days, but time had 
given to this nobleness and beauty a more solemn and distinct character.  
A brow white and void of wrinkles, beneath his long hair, now more white 
than black; an eye piercing and mild, under the lids of a young man; his 
mustache, fine but slightly grizzled, waved over lips of a pure and 
delicate model, as if they had never been curled by mortal passions; a 
form straight and supple; an irreproachable but thin hand - this was what 
remained of the illustrious gentleman whom so many illustrious mouths had 
praised under the name of Athos.  He was engaged in correcting the pages 
of a manuscript book, entirely filled by his own hand.

Raoul seized his father by the shoulders, by the neck, as he could, and 
embraced him so tenderly and so rapidly, that the comte had neither 
strength nor time to disengage himself, or to overcome his paternal 
emotions.

"What! you here, Raoul - you!  Is it possible?" said he.

"Oh, monsieur, monsieur, what joy to see you once again!"

"But you don't answer me, vicomte.  Have you leave of absence, or has 
some misfortune happened at Paris?

"Thank God, monsieur," replied Raoul, calming himself by degrees, 
"nothing has happened but what is fortunate.  The king is going to be 
married, as I had the honor of informing you in my last letter, and, on 
his way to Spain, he will pass through Blois."

"To pay a visit to Monsieur?"

"Yes, monsieur le comte.  So, fearing to find him unprepared, or wishing 
to be particularly polite to him, monsieur le prince sent me forward to 
have the lodgings ready."

"You have seen Monsieur?" asked the comte, eagerly.

"I have had that honor."

"At the castle?"

"Yes, monsieur," replied Raoul, casting down his eyes, because, no doubt, 
he had felt there was something more than curiosity in the comte's 
inquiries.

"Ah, indeed, vicomte?  Accept my compliments thereupon."

Raoul bowed.

"But you have seen some one else at Blois?"

"Monsieur, I saw her royal highness, Madame."

"That's very well: but it is not Madame that I mean."

Raoul colored deeply, but made no reply.

"You do not appear to understand me, monsieur le vicomte," persisted M. 
de la Fere, without accenting his words more strongly, but with a rather 
severer look.

"I understand you quite plainly, monsieur," replied Raoul, "and if I 
hesitate a little in my reply, you are well assured I am not seeking for 
a falsehood."

"No, you cannot tell a lie; and that makes me so astonished you should be 
so long in saying yes or no."

"I cannot answer you without understanding you very well; and if I have 
understood you, you will take my first words in ill part.  You will 
displeased, no doubt, monsieur le comte, because I have seen - "

"Mademoiselle de la Valliere - have you not?"

"It was of her you meant to speak, I know very well, monsieur," said 
Raoul, with inexpressible sweetness.

"And I asked you if you have seen her."

"Monsieur, I was ignorant, when I entered the castle, that Mademoiselle 
de la Valliere was there; it was only on my return, after I had performed 
my mission, that chance brought us together.  I have had the honor of 
paying my respects to her."

"But what do you call the chance that led you into the presence of 
Mademoiselle de la Valliere?"

"Mademoiselle de Montalais, monsieur."

"And who is Mademoiselle de Montalais?"

"A young lady I did not know before, whom I had never seen.  She is maid 
of honor to Madame."

"Monsieur le vicomte, I will push my interrogatory no further, and 
reproach myself with having carried it so far.  I had desired you to 
avoid Mademoiselle de la Valliere, and not to see her without my 
permission.  Oh, I am quite sure you have told me the truth, and that you 
took no measures to approach her.  Chance has done me this injury; I do 
not accuse you of it.  I will be content, then, with what I formerly said 
to you concerning this young lady.  I do not reproach her with anything – 
God is my witness! only it is not my intention or wish that you should 
frequent her place of residence.  I beg you once more, my dear Raoul, 
to understand that."

It was plain the limpid eyes of Raoul were troubled at this speech.

"Now, my friend," said the comte, with his soft smile, and in his 
customary tone, "let us talk of other matters.  You are returning, 
perhaps, to your duty?"

"No, monsieur, I have no duty for to-day, except the pleasure of 
remaining with you.  The prince kindly appointed me no other: which was 
so much in accord with my wish."

"Is the king well?"

"Perfectly."

"And monsieur le prince also?"

"As usual, monsieur."

The comte forgot to inquire after Mazarin; that was an old habit.

"Well, Raoul, since you are entirely mine, I will give up my whole day to 
you.  Embrace me - again, again!  You are at home, vicomte!  Ah, there is 
our old Grimaud!  Come in, Grimaud: monsieur le vicomte is desirous of 
embracing you likewise."

The good old man did not require to be twice told; he rushed in with open 
arms, Raoul meeting him half-way.

"Now, if you please, we will go into the garden, Raoul.  I will show you 
the new lodging I have had prepared for you during your leave of absence; 
and whilst examining the last winter's plantations, and two saddle-horses 
I have just acquired, you will give me all the news of our friends in 
Paris."

The comte closed his manuscript, took the young man's arm, and went out 
into the gardens with him.

Grimaud looked at Raoul with a melancholy air as the young man passed 
out; observing that his head nearly touched the _traverse_ of the 
doorway, stroking his white _royale_, he slowly murmured:-

"How he has grown!"


Chapter V:
In which Something will be said of Cropoli - of Cropoli and of a Great 
Unknown Painter.

Whilst the Comte de la Fere with Raoul visits the new buildings he has 
erected, and the new horses he has bought, with the reader's permission 
we will lead him back to the city of Blois, and make him a witness of 
the unaccustomed activity which pervades that city.

It was in the hotels that the surprise of the news brought by Raoul was 
most sensibly felt.

In fact, the king and the court at Blois, that is to say, a hundred 
horsemen, ten carriages, two hundred horses, as many lackeys as masters – 
where was this crowd to be housed?  Where were to be lodged all the 
gentry of the neighborhood, who would gather in two or three hours after 
the news had enlarged the circle of its report, like the increasing 
circumferences produced by a stone thrown into a placid lake?

Blois, as peaceful in the morning, as we have seen, as the calmest lake 
in the world, at the announcement of the royal arrival, was suddenly 
filled with the tumult and buzzing of a swarm of bees.

All the servants of the castle, under the inspection of the officers, 
were sent into the city in quest of provisions, and ten horsemen were 
dispatched to the preserves of Chambord to seek for game, to the 
fisheries of Beuvron for fish, and to the gardens of Cheverny for fruits 
and flowers.

Precious tapestries, and lusters with great gilt chains, were drawn from 
the cupboards; an army of the poor were engaged in sweeping the courts 
and washing the stone fronts, whilst their wives went in droves to the 
meadows beyond the Loire, to gather green boughs and field-flowers.  The 
whole city, not to be behind in this luxury of cleanliness, assumed its 
best toilette with the help of brushes, brooms, and water.	The gutters of 
the upper town, swollen by these continued ablutions, became rivers at 
the bottom of the city, and the pavement, generally very muddy, it must 
be allowed, took a clean face, and absolutely shone in the friendly rays 
of the sun.

Next the music was to be provided; drawers were emptied; the shop-keepers 
did a glorious trade in wax, ribbons, and sword-knots; housekeepers laid 
in stores of bread, meat, and spices.  Already numbers of the citizens 
whose houses were furnished as if for a siege, having nothing more to do, 
donned their festive clothes, and directed their course towards the city 
gate, in order to be the first to signal or see the _cortege_.  They knew 
very well that the king would not arrive before night, perhaps not before 
the next morning.  Yet what is expectation but a kind of folly, and what 
is that folly but an excess of hope?

In the lower city, at scarcely a hundred paces from the Castle of the 
States, between the mall and the castle, in a sufficiently handsome street, 
then called the Rue Vieille, and which must, in fact, have been very old, 
stood a venerable edifice, with pointed gables, of squat but large 
dimensions, ornamented with three windows looking into the street on the 
first floor, with two in the second, and with a little _oeil de boeuf_ in 
the third.

On the sides of this triangle had recently been constructed a 
parallelogram of considerable size, which encroached upon the street 
remorselessly, according to the familiar uses of the building of that 
period.  The street was narrowed by a quarter by it, but then the house 
was enlarged by a half; and was not that a sufficient compensation?

Tradition said that this house with the pointed gables was inhabited, in 
the time of Henry III., by a councilor of state whom Queen Catherine 
came, some say to visit, and others to strangle.  However that may be, 
the good lady must have stepped with a circumspect foot over the 
threshold of this building.

After the councilor had died - whether by strangulation or naturally is 
of no consequence - the house had been sold, then abandoned, and lastly 
isolated from the other houses of the street.  Towards the middle of the 
reign of Louis XIII. only, an Italian named Cropoli, escaped from the 
kitchens of the Marechal d'Ancre, came and took possession of this 
house.  There he established a little hostelry, in which was fabricated a 
macaroni so delicious that people came from miles round to fetch it or 
eat it.

So famous had the house become for it, that when Mary de Medici was a 
prisoner, as we know, in the castle of Blois, she once sent for some.

It was precisely on the day she had escaped by the famous window.  The 
dish of macaroni was left upon the table, only just tasted by the royal 
mouth.

This double favor, of a strangulation and a macaroni, conferred upon the 
triangular house, gave poor Cropoli a fancy to grace his hostelry with a 
pompous title.  But his quality of an Italian was no recommendation in 
these times, and his small, well-concealed fortune forbade attracting too 
much attention.

When he found himself about to die, which happened in 1643, just after 
the death of Louis XIII., he called to him his son, a young cook of great 
promise, and with tears in his eyes, he recommended him to preserve 
carefully the secret of the macaroni, to Frenchify his name, and at 
length, when the political horizon should be cleared from the clouds 
which obscured it - this was practiced then as in our day, to order of 
the nearest smith a handsome sign, upon which a famous painter, whom he 
named, should design two queens' portraits, with these words as a legend: 
"TO THE MEDICI."

The worthy Cropoli, after these recommendations, had only sufficient time 
to point out to his young successor a chimney, under the slab of which he 
had hidden a thousand ten-franc pieces, and then expired.

Cropoli the younger, like a man of good heart, supported the loss with 
resignation, and the gain without insolence.  He began by accustoming the 
public to sound the final i of his name so little, that by the aid of 
general complaisance, he was soon called nothing but M. Cropole, which is 
quite a French name.  He then married, having had in his eye a little 
French girl, from whose parents he extorted a reasonable dowry by showing 
them what there was beneath the slab of the chimney.

These two points accomplished, he went in search of the painter who was 
to paint the sign; and he was soon found.  He was an old Italian, a rival 
of the Raphaels and the Caracci, but an unfortunate rival.  He said he 
was of the Venetian school, doubtless from his fondness for color.  His 
works, of which he had never sold one, attracted the eye at a distance of 
a hundred paces; but they so formidably displeased the citizens, that he 
had finished by painting no more.

He boasted of having painted a bath-room for Madame la Marechale d'Ancre, 
and mourned over this chamber having been burnt at the time of the 
marechal's disaster.

Cropoli, in his character of a compatriot, was indulgent towards 
Pittrino, which was the name of the artist.  Perhaps he had seen the 
famous pictures of the bath-room.  Be this as it may, he held in such 
esteem, we may say in such friendship, the famous Pittrino, that he took 
him in his own house.

Pittrino, grateful, and fed with macaroni, set about propagating the 
reputation of this national dish, and from the time of its founder, he 
had rendered, with his indefatigable tongue, signal services to the house 
of Cropoli.

As he grew old he attached himself to the son as he had done to the 
father, and by degrees became a kind of over-looker of a house in which 
his remarkable integrity, his acknowledged sobriety, and a thousand other 
virtues useless to enumerate, gave him an eternal place by the fireside, 
with a right of inspection over the domestics.  Besides this, it was he 
who tasted the macaroni, to maintain the pure flavor of the ancient 
tradition; and it must be allowed that he never permitted a grain of 
pepper too much, or an atom of parmesan too little.  His joy was at its 
height on that day when called upon to share the secret of Cropoli the 
younger, and to paint the famous sign.

He was seen at once rummaging with ardor in an old box, in which he found 
some brushes, a little gnawed by the rats, but still passable; some 
linseed-oil in a bottle, and a palette which had formerly belonged to 
Bronzino, that _dieu de la pittoure_, as the ultramontane artist, in his 
ever young enthusiasm, always called him.

Pittrino was puffed up with all the joy of a rehabilitation.

He did as Raphael had done- he changed his style, and painted, in the 
fashion of Albani, two goddesses rather than two queens.  These 
illustrious ladies appeared so lovely on the sign, - they presented to 
the astonished eyes such an assemblage of lilies and roses, the 
enchanting result of the changes of style in Pittrino - they assumed the 
_poses_ of sirens so Anacreontically - that the principal _echevin_, when 
admitted to view this capital piece in the _salle_ of Cropole, at once 
declared that these ladies were too handsome, of too animated a beauty, 
to figure as a sign in the eyes of passers-by.

To Pittrino he added, "His royal highness, Monsieur, who often comes into 
our city, will not be much pleased to see his illustrious mother so 
slightly clothed, and he will send you to the _oubliettes_ of the state; 
for, remember, the heart of that glorious prince is not always tender.  
You must efface either the two sirens or the legend, without which I 
forbid the exhibition of the sign.  I say this for your sake, Master 
Cropole, as well for yours, Signor Pittrino."

What answer could be made to this?  It was necessary to thank the 
_echevin_ for his kindness, which Cropole did.  But Pittrino remained 
downcast and said he felt assured of what was about to happen.

The visitor was scarcely gone when Cropole, crossing his arms, said: 
"Well, master, what is to be done?"

"We must efface the legend," said Pittrino, in a melancholy tone.  "I 
have some excellent ivory-black; it will be done in a moment, and we 
will replace the Medici by the nymphs or the sirens, whichever you 
prefer."

"No," said Cropole, "the will of my father must be carried out.  My 
father considered - "

"He considered the figures of the most importance," said Pittrino.

"He thought most of the legend," said Cropole.

"The proof of the importance in which he held the figures," said 
Pittrino, "is that he desired they should be likenesses, and they are so."

"Yes; but if they had not been so, who would have recognized them without 
the legend?  At the present day even, when the memory of the Blaisois 
begins to be faint with regard to these two celebrated persons, who would 
recognize Catherine and Mary without the words '_To the Medici_'?"

"But the figures?" said Pittrino, in despair; for he felt that young 
Cropole was right.  "I should not like to lose the fruit of my labor."

"And I should not wish you to be thrown into prison, and myself into the 
_oubliettes_."

"Let us efface 'Medici'," said Pittrino, supplicatingly.

"No," replied Cropole, firmly.  "I have got an idea, a sublime idea – 
your picture shall appear, and my legend likewise.  Does not 'Medici' 
mean doctor, or physician, in Italian?"

"Yes, in the plural."

"Well, then, you shall order another sign-frame of the smith; you shall 
paint six physicians, and write underneath '_Aux Medici_' which makes a 
very pretty play upon words."

"Six physicians! impossible!  And the composition?" cried Pittrino.

"That is your business - but so it shall be - I insist upon it - it must 
be so - my macaroni is burning."

This reasoning was peremptory - Pittrino obeyed.  He composed the sign of 
six physicians, with the legend; the _echevin_ applauded and authorized 
it.

The sign produced an extravagant success in the city, which proves that 
poetry has always been in the wrong, before citizens, as Pittrino said.

Cropole, to make amends to his painter-in-ordinary, hung up the nymphs of 
the preceding sign in his bedroom, which made Madame Cropole blush every 
time she looked at it, when she was undressing at night.

This is the way in which the pointed-gable house got a sign; and this is 
how the hostelry of the Medici, making a fortune, was found to be 
enlarged by a quarter, as we have described.  And this is how there was 
at Blois a hostelry of that name, and had for a painter-in-ordinary 
Master Pittrino.


Chapter VI:
The Unknown.

Thus founded and recommended by its sign, the hostelry of Master Cropole 
held its way steadily on towards a solid prosperity.

It was not an immense fortune that Cropole had in perspective; but he 
might hope to double the thousand louis d'or left by his father, to make 
another thousand louis by the sale of his house and stock, and at length 
to live happily like a retired citizen.

Cropole was anxious for gain, and was half-crazy with joy at the news of 
the arrival of Louis XIV.

Himself, his wife, Pittrino, and two cooks, immediately laid hands upon 
all the inhabitants of the dove-cote, the poultry-yard, and the 
rabbit-hutches; so that as many lamentations and cries resounded in the 
yards of the hostelry of the Medici as were formerly heard in Rama.

Cropole had, at the time, but one single traveler in his house.

This was a man of scarcely thirty years of age, handsome, tall, austere, 
or rather melancholy, in all his gestures and looks.

He was dressed in black velvet with jet trimmings; a white collar, as 
plain as that of the severest Puritan, set off the whiteness of his 
youthful neck; a small dark-colored mustache scarcely covered his curled, 
disdainful lip.

He spoke to people looking them full in the face, without affectation, 
it is true, but without scruple; so that the brilliancy of his black eyes 
became so insupportable, that more than one look had sunk beneath his, 
like the weaker sword in a single combat.

At this time, in which men, all created equal by God, were divided, 
thanks to prejudices, into two distinct castes, the gentlemen and the 
commoner, as they are really divided into two races, the black and the 
white, - at this time, we say, he whose portrait we have just sketched 
could not fail of being taken for a gentleman, and of the best class.  
To ascertain this, there was no necessity to consult anything but his 
hands, long, slender, and white, of which every muscle, every vein, 
became apparent through the skin at the least movement, and eloquently 
spoke of good descent.

This gentleman, then, had arrived alone at Cropole's house.  He had 
taken, without hesitation, without reflection even, the principal 
apartment which the _hotelier_ had pointed out to him with a rapacious 
aim, very praiseworthy, some will say, very reprehensible will say 
others, if they admit that Cropole was a physiognomist, and judged people 
at first sight.

This apartment was that which composed the whole front of the ancient 
triangular house; a large _salon_, lighted by two windows on the first 
stage, a small chamber by the side of it, and another above it.

Now, from the time he had arrived, this gentleman had scarcely touched 
any repast that had been served up to him in his chamber.  He had spoken 
but two words to the host, to warn him that a traveler of the name of 
Parry would arrive, and to desire that, when he did, he should be shown 
up to him immediately.

He afterwards preserved so profound a silence, that Cropole was almost 
offended, so much did he prefer people who were good company.

This gentleman had risen early the morning of the day on which this 
history begins, and had placed himself at the window of his _salon_, 
seated upon the ledge, and leaning upon the rail of the balcony, gazing 
sadly but persistently on both sides of the street, watching, no doubt, 
for the arrival of the traveler he had mentioned to the host.

In this way he had seen the little _cortege_ of Monsieur return from 
hunting, then had again partaken of the profound tranquillity of the 
street, absorbed in his own expectations.

All at once the movement of the crowd going to the meadows, couriers 
setting out, washers of pavement, purveyors of the royal household, 
gabbling, scampering shop-boys, chariots in motion, hair-dressers on the 
run, and pages toiling along, this tumult and bustle had surprised him, 
but without losing any of that impassible and supreme majesty which gives 
to the eagle and the lion that serene and contemptuous glance amidst the 
hurrahs and shouts of hunters or the curious.

Soon the cries of the victims slaughtered in the poultry-yard, the hasty 
steps of Madame Cropole up that little wooden staircase, so narrow and so 
echoing; the bounding pace of Pittrino, who only that morning was smoking 
at the door with all the phlegm of a Dutchman; all this communicated 
something like surprise and agitation to the traveler.

As he was rising to make inquiries, the door of his chamber opened.  The 
unknown concluded they were about to introduce the impatiently expected 
traveler, and made three precipitate steps to meet him.

But, instead of the person he expected, it was Master Cropole who 
appeared, and behind him, in the half-dark staircase, the pleasant face 
of Madame Cropole‚ rendered trivial by curiosity.  She only gave one 
furtive glance at the handsome gentleman, and disappeared.

Cropole advanced, cap in hand, rather bent than bowing.

A gesture of the unknown interrogated him, without a word being 
pronounced.

"Monsieur," said Cropole‚ "I come to ask how - what ought I to say: your 
lordship, monsieur le comte, or monsieur le marquis?"

"Say _monsieur_, and speak quickly," replied the unknown, with that 
haughty accent which admits of neither discussion nor reply.

"I came, then, to inquire how monsieur had passed the night, and if 
monsieur intended to keep this apartment?"

"Yes."

"Monsieur, something has happened upon which we could not reckon."

"What?"

"His majesty Louis XIV. will enter our city to-day, and will remain here 
one day, perhaps two."

Great astonishment was painted on the countenance of the unknown.

"The King of France is coming to Blois?"

"He is on the road, monsieur."

"Then there is the stronger reason for my remaining," said the unknown.

"Very well; but will monsieur keep all the apartments?"

"I do not understand you.  Why should I require less to-day than 
yesterday?"

"Because, monsieur, your lordship will permit me to say, yesterday I did 
not think proper, when you chose your lodging, to fix any price that 
might have made your lordship believe that I prejudged your resources; 
whilst to-day - "

The unknown colored; the idea at once struck him that he was supposed to 
be poor, and was being insulted.

"Whilst to-day," replied he, coldly, "you do not prejudge."

"Monsieur, I am a well-meaning man, thank God! and simple _hotelier_ as I 
am, there is in me the blood of a gentleman.  My father was a servant and 
officer of the late Marechal d'Ancre.  God rest his soul!"

"I do not contest that point with you; I only wish to know, and that 
quickly, to what your questions tend?"

"You are too reasonable, monsieur, not to comprehend that our city is 
small, that the court is about to invade it, that the houses will be 
overflowing with inhabitants, and that lodgings will consequently obtain 
considerable prices."

Again the unknown colored.  "Name your terms," said he.

"I name them with scruple, monsieur, because I seek an honest gain, and 
that I wish to carry on my business without being uncivil or extravagant 
in my demands.  Now the room you occupy is considerable, and you are 
alone."

"That is my business."

"Oh! certainly.  I do not mean to turn monsieur out."

The blood rushed to the temples of the unknown; he darted at poor 
Cropole‚ the descendant of one of the officers of the Marechal d'Ancre, a 
glance that would have crushed him down to beneath that famous chimney-
slab, if Cropole had not been nailed to the spot by the question of his 
own proper interests.

"Do you desire me to go?" said he.  "Explain yourself - but quickly."

"Monsieur, monsieur, you do not understand me.  It is very critical - I 
know - that which I am doing.  I express myself badly, or perhaps, as 
monsieur is a foreigner, which I perceive by his accent - "

In fact, the unknown spoke with that impetuosity which is the principal 
character of English accentuation, even among men who speak the French 
language with the greatest purity.

"As monsieur is a foreigner, I say, it is perhaps he who does not catch 
my exact meaning.  I wish for monsieur to give up one or two of the 
apartments he occupies, which would diminish his expenses and ease my 
conscience.  Indeed, it is hard to increase unreasonably the price of the 
chambers, when one has had the honor to let them at a reasonable price."

"How much does the hire amount to since yesterday?"

"Monsieur, to one louis, with refreshments and the charge for the horse."

"Very well; and that of to-day?"

"Ah! there is the difficulty.  This is the day of the king's arrival; if 
the court comes to sleep here, the charge of the day is reckoned.  From 
that it results that three chambers, at two louis each, make six louis.  
Two louis, monsieur, are not much; but six louis make a great deal."

The unknown, from red, as we have seen him, became very pale.

He drew from his pocket, with heroic bravery, a purse embroidered with a 
coat-of-arms, which he carefully concealed in the hollow of his hand.  
This purse was of a thinness, a flabbiness, a hollowness, which did not 
escape the eye of Cropole.

The unknown emptied the purse into his hand.  It contained three double 
louis, which amounted to the six louis demanded by the host.

But it was seven that Cropole had required.

He looked, therefore, at the unknown, as much as to say, "And then?"

"There remains one louis, does there not, master hotelier?"

"Yes, monsieur, but - "

The unknown plunged his hand into the pocket of his _haut-de-chausses_, 
and emptied it.  It contained a small pocket-book, a gold key, and some 
silver.  With this change, he made up a louis.

"Thank you, monsieur," said Cropole.  "It now only remains for me to ask 
whether monsieur intends to occupy his apartments to-morrow, in which 
case I will reserve them for him; whereas, if monsieur does not mean to 
do so, I will promise them to some of the king's people who are coming."

"That is but right," said the unknown, after a long silence; "but as I 
have no more money, as you have seen, and as I yet must retain the 
apartments, you must either sell this diamond in the city, or hold it 
in pledge."

Cropole looked at the diamond so long, that the unknown said, hastily:

"I prefer your selling it, monsieur; for it is worth three hundred 
pistoles.  A Jew - are there any Jews in Blois? - would give you two 
hundred or a hundred and fifty for it - take whatever may be offered for 
it, if it be no more than the price of your lodging.  Begone!"

"Oh! monsieur," replied Cropole‚ ashamed of the sudden inferiority which 
the unknown reflected upon him by this noble and disinterested 
confidence, as well as by the unalterable patience opposed to so many 
suspicions and evasions.  "Oh, monsieur, I hope people are not so 
dishonest at Blois as you seem to think; and that the diamond, being 
worth what you say - "

The unknown here again darted at Cropole one of his withering glances.

"I really do not understand diamonds, monsieur, I assure you," cried he.

"But the jewelers do: ask them," said the unknown.  "Now I believe our 
accounts are settled, are they not, monsieur l'hote?"

"Yes, monsieur, and to my profound regret; for I fear I have offended 
monsieur."

"Not at all!" replied the unknown, with ineffable majesty.

"Or have appeared to be extortionate with a noble traveler.  Consider, 
monsieur, the peculiarity of the case."

"Say no more about it, I desire; and leave me to myself."

Cropole bowed profoundly, and left the room with a stupefied air, which 
announced that he had a good heart, and felt genuine remorse.

The unknown himself shut the door after him, and, when left alone, looked 
mournfully at the bottom of the purse, from which he had taken a small 
silken bag containing the diamond, his last resource.

He dwelt likewise upon the emptiness of his pockets, turned over the 
papers in his pocket-book, and convinced himself of the state of absolute 
destitution in which he was about to be plunged.

He raised his eyes towards heaven, with a sublime emotion of despairing 
calmness, brushed off with his hand some drops of sweat which trickled 
over his noble brow, and then cast down upon the earth a look which just 
before had been impressed with almost divine majesty.

That the storm had passed far from him, perhaps he had prayed in the 
bottom of his soul.

He drew near to the window, resumed his place in the balcony, and 
remained there, motionless, annihilated, dead, till the moment when, the 
heavens beginning to darken, the first flambeaux traversed the enlivened 
street, and gave the signal for illumination to all the windows of the 
city.


Chapter VII:
Parry.

Whilst the unknown was viewing these lights with interest, and lending an 
ear to the various noises, Master Cropole entered his apartment, followed 
by two attendants, who laid the cloth for his meal.

The stranger did not pay them the least attention; but Cropole 
approaching him respectfully, whispered, "Monsieur, the diamond has been 
valued."

"Ah!" said the traveler.  "Well?"

"Well, monsieur, the jeweler of S. A. R. gives two hundred and eighty 
pistoles for it."

"Have you them?"

"I thought it best to take them, monsieur; nevertheless, I made it a 
condition of the bargain, that if monsieur wished to keep his diamond, it 
should be held till monsieur was again in funds."

"Oh, no, not at all: I told you to sell it."

"Then I have obeyed, or nearly so, since, without having definitely sold 
it, I have touched the money."

"Pay yourself," added the unknown.

"I will do so, monsieur, since you so positively require it."

A sad smile passed over the lips of the gentleman.

"Place the money on that trunk," said he, turning round and pointing to 
the piece of furniture.

Cropole deposited a tolerably large bag as directed, after having taken 
from it the amount of his reckoning.

"Now," said he, "I hope monsieur will not give me the pain of not taking 
any supper.  Dinner has already been refused; this is affronting to the 
house of _les Medici_.  Look, monsieur, the supper is on the table, and I 
venture to say that it is not a bad one."

The unknown asked for a glass of wine, broke off a morsel of bread, and 
did not stir from the window whilst he ate and drank.

Shortly after was heard a loud flourish of trumpets; cries arose in the 
distance, a confused buzzing filled the lower part of the city, and the 
first distinct sound that struck the ears of the stranger was the tramp 
of advancing horses.

"The king! the king!" repeated a noisy and eager crowd.

"The king!" cried Cropole, abandoning his guest and his ideas of 
delicacy, to satisfy his curiosity.

With Cropole were mingled, and jostled, on the staircase, Madame Cropole, 
Pittrino, and the waiters and scullions.

The _cortege_ advanced slowly, lighted by a thousand flambeaux, in the 
streets and from the windows.

After a company of musketeers, a closely ranked troop of gentlemen, came 
the litter of monsieur le cardinal, drawn like a carriage by four black 
horses.  The pages and people of the cardinal marched behind.

Next came the carriage of the queen-mother, with her maids of honor at 
the doors, her gentlemen on horseback at both sides.

The king then appeared, mounted upon a splendid horse of Saxon breed, 
with a flowing mane.  The young prince exhibited, when bowing to some 
windows from which issued the most animated acclamations, a noble and 
handsome countenance, illuminated by the flambeaux of his pages.

By the side of the king, though a little in the rear, the Prince de 
Conde, M. Dangeau, and twenty other courtiers, followed by their people 
and their baggage, closed this veritably triumphant march.  The pomp was 
of a military character.

Some of the courtiers - the elder ones, for instance - wore traveling 
dresses; but all the rest were clothed in warlike panoply.  Many wore the 
gorget and buff coat of the times of Henry IV. and Louis XIII.

When the king passed before him, the unknown, who had leant forward over 
the balcony to obtain a better view, and who had concealed his face by 
leaning on his arm, felt his heart swell and overflow with a bitter 
jealousy.

The noise of the trumpets excited him - the popular acclamations deafened 
him: for a moment he allowed his reason to be absorbed in this flood of 
lights, tumult, and brilliant images.

"He is a king!" murmured he, in an accent of despair.

Then, before he had recovered from his sombre reverie, all the noise, all 
the splendor, had passed away.  At the angle of the street there remained 
nothing beneath the stranger but a few hoarse, discordant voices, 
shouting at intervals "_Vive le Roi!_"

There remained likewise the six candles held by the inhabitants of the 
hostelry _des Medici_; that is to say, two for Cropole, two for Pittrino, 
and one for each scullion.  Cropole never ceased repeating, "How 
good-looking the king is!  How strongly he resembles his illustrious 
father!"

"A handsome likeness!" said Pittrino.

"And what a lofty carriage he has!" added Madame Cropole, already in 
promiscuous commentary with her neighbors of both sexes.

Cropole was feeding their gossip with his own personal remarks, without 
observing that an old man on foot, but leading a small Irish horse by the 
bridle, was endeavoring to penetrate the crowd of men and women which 
blocked up the entrance to the _Medici_.  But at that moment the voice of 
the stranger was heard from the window.

"Make way, monsieur l'hotelier, to the entrance of your house!"

Cropole turned around, and, on seeing the old man, cleared a passage for 
him.

The window was instantly closed.

Pittrino pointed out the way to the newly-arrived guest, who entered 
without uttering a word.

The stranger waited for him on the landing; he opened his arms to the old 
man, and led him to a seat.

"Oh, no, no, my lord!" said he.  "Sit down in your presence? - never!"

"Parry," cried the gentleman, "I beg you will; you come from England – 
you come so far.  Ah! it is not for your age to undergo the fatigues my 
service requires.  Rest yourself."

"I have my reply to give your lordship, in the first place."

"Parry, I conjure you to tell me nothing; for if your news had been good, 
you would not have begun in such a manner; you go about, which proves 
that the news is bad."

"My lord," said the old man, "do not hasten to alarm yourself; all is not 
lost, I hope.  You must employ energy, but more particularly resignation."

"Parry," said the young man, "I have reached this place through a 
thousand snares and after a thousand difficulties; can you doubt my 
energy?  I have meditated this journey ten years, in spite of all 
counsels and all obstacles - have you faith in my perseverance?  I have 
this evening sold the last of my father's diamonds; for I had nothing 
wherewith to pay for my lodgings and my host was about to turn me out."

Parry made a gesture of indignation, to which the young man replied by a 
pressure of the hand and a smile.

"I have still two hundred and seventy-four pistoles left and I feel 
myself rich.  I do not despair, Parry; have you faith in my resignation?"

The old man raised his trembling hands towards heaven.

"Let me know," said the stranger, - "disguise nothing from me - what has 
happened?"

"My recital will be short, my lord; but in the name of Heaven do not 
tremble so."

"It is impatience, Parry.  Come, what did the general say to you?"

"At first the general would not receive me."

"He took you for a spy?"

"Yes, my lord; but I wrote him a letter."

"Well?"

"He read it, and received me, my lord."

"Did that letter thoroughly explain my position and my views?"

"Oh, yes!" said Parry, with a sad smile; "it painted your very thoughts 
faithfully."

"Well - then, Parry."

"Then the general sent me back the letter by an aide-de-camp, informing 
me that if I were found the next day within the circumscription of his 
command, he would have me arrested."

"Arrested!" murmured the young man.  "What! arrest you, my most faithful 
servant?"

"Yes, my lord."

"And notwithstanding you had signed the name _Parry?_"

"To all my letters, my lord; and the aide-de-camp had known me at St. 
James's and at Whitehall, too," added the old man with a sigh.

The young man leaned forward, thoughtful and sad.

"Ay, that's what he did before his people," said he, endeavoring to cheat 
himself with hopes.  "But, privately - between you and him - what did he 
do? Answer!"

"Alas! my lord, he sent to me four cavaliers, who gave me the horse with 
which you just now saw me come back.  These cavaliers conducted me, in 
great haste, to the little port of Tenby, threw me, rather than embarked 
me, into a little fishing-boat, about to sail for Brittany, and here I 
am."

"Oh!" sighed the young man, clasping his neck convulsively with his hand, 
and with a sob.  "Parry, is that all? - is that all?"

"Yes, my lord; that is all."

After this brief reply ensued a long interval of silence, broken only by 
the convulsive beating of the heel of the young man on the floor.

The old man endeavored to change the conversation; it was leading to 
thoughts much too sinister.

"My lord," said he, "what is the meaning of all the noise which preceded 
me? What are these people crying '_Vive le Roi!_' for?  What king do they 
mean? and what are all these lights for?"

"Ah!  Parry," replied the young man ironically, "don't you know that this 
is the King of France visiting his good city of Blois? All these trumpets 
are his, all those gilded housings are his, all those gentlemen wear 
swords that are his.  His mother precedes him in a carriage magnificently 
encrusted with silver and gold.  Happy mother!  His minister heaps up 
millions, and conducts him to a rich bride.  Then all these people 
rejoice; they love their king, they hail him with their acclamations, and 
they cry, '_Vive le Roi!  Vive le Roi!_'"

"Well, well, my lord," said Parry, more uneasy at the turn the 
conversation had taken than at the other.

"You know," resumed the unknown, "that _my_ mother and _my_ sister, 
whilst all this is going on in honor of the King of France, have neither 
money nor bread; you know that I myself shall be poor and degraded within 
a fortnight, when all Europe will become acquainted with what you have 
told me.  Parry, are there not examples in which a man of my condition 
should himself - "

"My lord, in the name of Heaven - "

"You are right, Parry; I am a coward, and if I do nothing for myself, 
what will God do?  No, no; I have two arms, Parry, and I have a sword."  
And he struck his arm violently with his hand, and took down his sword, 
which hung against the wall.

"What are you going to do, my lord?"

"What am I going to do, Parry? What every one in my family does.  My 
mother lives on public charity, my sister begs for my mother; I have, 
somewhere or other, brothers who equally beg for themselves; and I, the 
eldest, will go and do as all the rest do - I will go and ask charity!"

And with these words, which he finished sharply with a nervous and 
terrible laugh, the young man girded on his sword, took his hat from the 
trunk, fastened to his shoulder a black cloak, which he had worn all 
during his journey, and pressing the two hands of the old man, who 
watched his proceedings with a look of anxiety, - 

"My good Parry," said he, "order a fire, drink, eat, sleep, and be 
happy; let us both be happy, my faithful friend, my only friend.  We are 
rich, as rich as kings!"

He struck the bag of pistoles with his clenched hand as he spoke, and it 
fell heavily to the ground.  He resumed that dismal laugh that had so 
alarmed Parry; and whilst the whole household was screaming, singing, and 
preparing to install the travelers who had been preceded by their 
lackeys, he glided out by the principal entrance into the street, where 
the old man, who had gone to the window, lost sight of him in a moment.


Chapter VIII:
What his Majesty King Louis XIV. was at the Age of Twenty-Two.

It has been seen, by the account we have endeavored to give of it, that 
the _entree_ of King Louis XIV. into the city of Blois had been noisy and 
brilliant; his young majesty had therefore appeared perfectly satisfied 
with it.

On arriving beneath the porch of the Castle of the States, the king met, 
surrounded by his guards and gentlemen, with S. A. R. the duke, Gaston of 
Orleans, whose physiognomy, naturally rather majestic, had borrowed on 
this solemn occasion a fresh luster and a fresh dignity.  On her part, 
Madame, dressed in her robes of ceremony, awaited, in the interior 
balcony, the entrance of her nephew.  All the windows of the old castle, 
so deserted and dismal on ordinary days, were resplendent with ladies and 
lights.

It was then to the sound of drums, trumpets, and _vivats_, that the young 
king crossed the threshold of that castle in which, seventy-two years 
before, Henry III. had called in the aid of assassination and treachery 
to keep upon his head and in his house a crown which was already slipping 
from his brow, to fall into another family.

All eyes, after having admired the young king, so handsome and so 
agreeable, sought for that other king of France, much otherwise king than 
the former, and so old, so pale, so bent, that people called the Cardinal 
Mazarin.

Louis was at this time endowed with all the natural gifts which make the 
perfect gentleman; his eye was brilliant, mild, and of a clear azure 
blue.  But the most skillful physiognomists, those divers into the soul, 
on fixing their looks upon it, if it had been possible for a subject to 
sustain the glance of the king, - the most skillful physiognomists, we 
say, would never have been able to fathom the depths of that abyss of 
mildness.  It was with the eyes of the king as with the immense depths of 
the azure heavens, or with those more terrific, and almost as sublime, 
which the Mediterranean reveals under the keels of its ships in a clear 
summer day, a gigantic mirror in which heaven delights to reflect sometimes 
its stars, sometimes its storms.

The king was short of stature - he was scarcely five feet two inches: but 
his youth made up for this defect, set off likewise by great nobleness in 
all his movements, and by considerable address in all bodily exercises.

Certes, he was already quite a king, and it was a great thing to be a 
king in that period of traditional devotedness and respect; but as, up to 
that time, he had been but seldom and always poorly shown to the people, 
as they to whom he was shown saw him by the side of his mother, a tall 
woman, and monsieur le cardinal, a man of commanding presence, many found 
him so little of a king as to say, -

"Why, the king is not so tall as monsieur le cardinal!"

Whatever may be thought of these physical observations, which were 
principally made in the capital, the young king was welcomed as a god by 
the inhabitants of Blois, and almost like a king by his uncle and aunt, 
Monsieur and Madame, the inhabitants of the castle.

It must, however, be allowed, that when he saw, in the hall of reception, 
chairs of equal height for himself, his mother, the cardinal, and his 
uncle and aunt, a disposition artfully concealed by the semi-circular 
form of the assembly, Louis XIV. became red with anger, and looked around 
him to ascertain by the countenances of those that were present, if this 
humiliation had been prepared for him.  But as he saw nothing upon the 
impassible visage of the cardinal, nothing on that of his mother, nothing 
on those of the assembly, he resigned himself, and sat down, taking care 
to be seated before anybody else.

The gentlemen and ladies were presented to their majesties and monsieur 
le cardinal.

The king remarked that his mother and he scarcely knew the names of any 
of the persons who were presented to them; whilst the cardinal, on the 
contrary, never failed, with an admirable memory and presence of mind, to 
talk to every one about his estates, his ancestors, or his children, some 
of whom he named, which enchanted those worthy country gentlemen, and 
confirmed them in the idea that he alone is truly king who knows his 
subjects, from the same reason that the sun has no rival, because the sun 
alone warms and lightens.

The study of the young king, which had begun a long time before, without 
anybody suspecting it, was continued then, and he looked around him 
attentively to endeavor to make out something in the physiognomies which 
had at first appeared the most insignificant and trivial.

A collation was served.  The king, without daring to call upon the 
hospitality of his uncle, had waited for it impatiently.  This time, 
therefore, he had all the honors due, if not to his rank, at least to his 
appetite.

As to the cardinal, he contented himself with touching with his withered 
lips a _bouillon_, served in a golden cup.  The all-powerful minister, 
who had taken her regency from the queen, and his royalty from the king, 
had not been able to take a good stomach from nature.

Anne of Austria, already suffering from the cancer which six or eight 
years after caused her death, ate very little more than the cardinal.

For Monsieur, already puffed up with the great event which had taken 
place in his provincial life, he ate nothing whatever.

Madame alone, like a true Lorrainer, kept pace with his majesty; so that 
Louis XIV., who, without this partner, might have eaten nearly alone, was 
at first much pleased with his aunt, and afterwards with M. de Saint-
Remy, her _maitre d'hotel_, who had really distinguished himself.

The collation over, at a sign of approbation from M. de Mazarin, the king 
arose, and, at the invitation of his aunt, walked about among the ranks 
of the assembly.

The ladies then observed - there are certain things for which women are 
as good observers at Blois as at Paris -  the ladies then observed that 
Louis XIV. had a prompt and bold look, which premised a distinguished 
appreciator of beauty.  The men, on their part, observed that the prince 
was proud and haughty, that he loved to look down those who fixed their 
eyes upon him too long or too earnestly, which gave presage of a master.

Louis XIV. had accomplished about a third of his review when his ears 
were struck with a word which his eminence pronounced whilst conversing 
with Monsieur.

This word was the name of a woman.

Scarcely had Louis XIV. heard this word than he heard, or rather 
listening to nothing else; and neglecting the arc of the circle which 
awaited his visit, his object seemed to be to come as quickly as possible 
to the extremity of the curve.

Monsieur, like a good courtier, was inquiring of monsieur le cardinal 
after the health of his nieces; he regretted, he said, not having the 
pleasure of receiving them at the same time with their uncle; they must 
certainly have grown in stature, beauty and grace, as they had promised 
to do the last time Monsieur had seen them.

What had first struck the king was a certain constraint in the voices of 
the two interlocutors.  The voice of Monsieur was calm and natural when 
he spoke thus; while that of M. de Mazarin jumped by a note and a half to 
reply above the diapason of his usual voice.  It might have been said 
that he wished that voice to strike, at the end of the _salon_, any ear 
that was too distant.

"Monseigneur," replied he, "Mesdemoiselles de Mazarin have still to 
finish their education: they have duties to fulfill, and a position to 
make.  An abode in a young and brilliant court would dissipate them a 
little."

Louis, at this last sentence, smiled sadly.  The court was young, it was 
true, but the avarice of the cardinal had taken good care that it should 
not be brilliant.

"You have nevertheless no intention," replied Monsieur, "to cloister them 
or make them _borgeoises?_"

"Not at all," replied the cardinal, forcing his Italian pronunciation in 
such a manner that, from soft and velvety as it was, it became sharp and 
vibrating; "not at all: I have a full and fixed intention to marry them, 
and that as well as I shall be able."

"Parties will not be wanting, monsieur le cardinal," replied Monsieur, 
with a _bonhomie_ worthy of one tradesman congratulating another.

"I hope not, monseigneur, and with reason, as God has been pleased to 
give them grace, intelligence, and beauty."

During this conversation, Louis XIV., conducted by Madame, accomplished, 
as we have described, the circle of presentations.

"Mademoiselle Auricule," said the princess, presenting to his majesty a 
fat, fair girl of two-and-twenty, who at a village _fete_ might have been 
taken for a peasant in Sunday finery, - "the daughter of my music-
mistress."

The king smiled.  Madame had never been able to extract four correct 
notes from either viol or harpsichord.

"Mademoiselle Aure de Montalais," continued Madame; "a young lady of 
rank, and my good attendant."

This time it was not the king that smiled; it was the young lady 
presented, because, for the first time in her life, she heard, given to 
her by Madame, who generally showed no tendency to spoil her, such an 
honorable qualification.

Our old acquaintance Montalais, therefore, made his majesty a profound 
courtesy, the more respectful from the necessity she was under of 
concealing certain contractions of her laughing lips, which the king 
might not have attributed to their real cause.

It was just at this moment that the king caught the word which startled 
him.

"And the name of the third?" asked Monsieur.

"Mary, monseigneur," replied the cardinal.

There was doubtless some magical influence in that word, for, as we have 
said, the king started in hearing it, and drew Madame towards the middle 
of the circle, as if he wished to put some confidential question to her, 
but, in reality, for the sake of getting nearer to the cardinal.

"Madame, my aunt," said he, laughing, and in a suppressed voice, "my 
geography-master did not teach me that Blois was at such an immense 
distance from Paris."

"What do you mean, nephew?" asked Madame.

"Why, because it would appear that it requires several years, as regards 
fashion, to travel the distance! - Look at those young ladies!"

"Well; I know them all."

"Some of them are pretty."

"Don't say that too loud, monsieur my nephew; you will drive them wild."

"Stop a bit, stop a bit, dear aunt!" said the king, smiling; "for the 
second part of my sentence will serve as a corrective to the first.  
Well, my dear aunt, some of them appear old and others ugly, thanks to 
their ten-year-old fashions."

"But, sire, Blois is only five days' journey from Paris."

"Yes, that is it," said the king: "two years behind for each day."

"Indeed! do you really think so?  Well, that is strange!  It never struck 
me."

"Now, look, aunt," said Louis XIV., drawing still nearer to Mazarin, 
under the pretext of gaining a better point of view, "look at that simple 
white dress by the side of those antiquated specimens of finery, and 
those pretentious coiffures.  She is probably one of my mother's maids 
of honor, though I don't know her."

"Ah! ah! my dear nephew!" replied Madame, laughing; "permit me to tell 
you that your divinatory science is at fault for once.  The young lady 
you honor with your praise is not a Parisian, but a Blaisoise."

"Oh, aunt!" replied the king with a look of doubt.

"Come here, Louise," said Madame.

And the fair girl, already known to you under that name, approached them, 
timid, blushing, and almost bent beneath the royal glance.

"Mademoiselle Louise Francoise de la Beaume le Blanc, the daughter of the 
Marquise de la Valliere," said Madame, ceremoniously.

The young girl bowed with so much grace, mingled with the profound 
timidity inspired by the presence of the king, that the latter lost, 
while looking at her, a few words of the conversation of Monsieur and 
the cardinal.

"Daughter-in-law," continued Madame, "of M. de Saint-Remy, my _maitre 
d'hotel_, who presided over the confection of that excellent _daube 
truffee_ which your majesty seemed so much to appreciate."

No grace, no youth, no beauty, could stand out against such a 
presentation.  The king smiled.  Whether the words of Madame were a 
pleasantry, or uttered in all innocency, they proved the pitiless 
immolation of everything that Louis had found charming or poetic in the 
young girl.  Mademoiselle de la Valliere, for Madame and, by rebound, for 
the king, was, for a moment, no more than the daughter of a man of a 
superior talent over _dindes truffees_.
But princes are thus constituted.  The gods, too, were just like this in 
Olympus.  Diana and Venus, no doubt, abused the beautiful Alcmena and 
poor Io, when they condescended for distraction's sake, to speak, amidst 
nectar and ambrosia, of mortal beauties, at the table of Jupiter.

Fortunately, Louise was so bent in her reverential salute, that she did 
not catch either Madame's words or the king's smile.  In fact, if the 
poor child, who had so much good taste as alone to have chosen to dress 
herself in white amidst all her companions - if that dove's heart, so 
easily accessible to painful emotions, had been touched by the cruel 
words of Madame, or the egotistical cold smile of the king, it would 
have annihilated her.

And Montalais herself, the girl of ingenious ideas, would not have 
attempted to recall her to life; for ridicule kills beauty even.

But fortunately, as we have said, Louise, whose ears were buzzing, and 
her eyes veiled by timidity, - Louise saw nothing and heard nothing; and 
the king, who had still his attention directed to the conversation of the 
cardinal and his uncle, hastened to return to them.

He came up just at the moment Mazarin terminated by saying: "Mary, as 
well as her sisters, has just set off for Brouage.  I make them follow 
the opposite bank of the Loire to that along which we have traveled; and 
if I calculate their progress correctly, according to the orders I have 
given, they will to-morrow be opposite Blois."

These words were pronounced with that tact - that measure, that 
distinctness of tone, of intention, and reach - which made _del Signor 
Giulio Mazarini_ the first comedian in the world.

It resulted that they went straight to the heart of Louis XIV., and the 
cardinal, on turning round at the simple noise of the approaching 
footsteps of his majesty, saw the immediate effect of them upon the 
countenance of his pupil, an effect betrayed to the keen eyes of his 
eminence by a slight increase of color.  But what was the ventilation of 
such a secret to him whose craft had for twenty years deceived all the 
diplomatists of Europe?

From the moment the young king heard these last words, he appeared as if 
he had received a poisoned arrow in his heart.  He could not remain quiet 
in a place, but cast around an uncertain, dead, and aimless look over the 
assembly.  He with his eyes interrogated his mother more than twenty 
times: but she, given up to the pleasure of conversing with her sister-in-
law, and likewise constrained by the glance of Mazarin, did not appear to 
comprehend any of the supplications conveyed by the looks of her son.

From this moment, music, lights, flowers, beauties, all became odious and 
insipid to Louis XIV.  After he had a hundred times bitten his lips, 
stretched his legs and his arms like a well-brought-up child, who, 
without daring to gape, exhausts all the modes of evincing his weariness 
- after having uselessly again implored his mother and the minister, he 
turned a despairing look towards the door, that is to say, towards 
liberty.

At this door, in the embrasure of which he was leaning, he saw, standing 
out strongly, a figure with a brown and lofty countenance, an aquiline 
nose, a stern but brilliant eye, gray and long hair, a black mustache, 
the true type of military beauty, whose gorget, more sparkling than a 
mirror, broke all the reflected lights which concentrated upon it, and 
sent them back as lightning.  This officer wore his gray hat with its 
long red plumes upon his head, a proof that he was called there by his 
duty, and not by his pleasure.  If he had been brought thither by his 
pleasure - if he had been a courtier instead of a soldier, as pleasure 
must always be paid for at the same price - he would have held his hat in 
his hand.

That which proved still better that this officer was upon duty, and was 
accomplishing a task to which he was accustomed, was, that he watched, 
with folded arms, remarkable indifference, and supreme apathy, the joys 
and _ennuis_ of this _fete_.  Above all, he appeared, like a philosopher, 
and all old soldiers are philosophers, - he appeared above all to 
comprehend the _ennuis_ infinitely better than the joys; but in the one 
he took his part, knowing very well how to do without the other.

Now, he was leaning, as we have said, against the carved door-frame when 
the melancholy, weary eyes of the king, by chance, met his.

It was not the first time, as it appeared, that the eyes of the officer 
had met those eyes, and he was perfectly acquainted with the expression 
of them; for, as soon as he had cast his own look upon the countenance of 
Louis XIV., and had read by it what was passing in his heart - that is to 
say, all the _ennui_ that oppressed him - all the timid desire to go out 
which agitated him, - he perceived he must render the king a service 
without his commanding it, - almost in spite of himself.  Boldly, 
therefore, as if he had given the word of command to cavalry in battle, 
"On the king's service!" cried he, in a clear, sonorous voice.

At these words, which produced the effect of a peal of thunder, 
prevailing over the orchestra, the singing and the buzz of the 
promenaders, the cardinal and the queen-mother looked at each other 
with surprise.

Louis XIV., pale, but resolved, supported as he was by that intuition of 
his own thought which he had found in the mind of the officer of 
musketeers, and which he had just manifested by the order given, arose 
from his chair, and took a step towards the door.

"Are you going, my son?" said the queen, whilst Mazarin satisfied himself 
with interrogating by a look which might have appeared mild if it had not 
been so piercing.

"Yes, madame," replied the king; "I am fatigued, and, besides, wish to 
write this evening."

A smile stole over the lips of the minister, who appeared, by a bend of 
the head, to give the king permission.

Monsieur and Madame hastened to give orders to the officers who presented 
themselves.

The king bowed, crossed the hall, and gained the door, where a hedge of 
twenty musketeers awaited him.  At the extremity of this hedge stood the 
officer, impassible, with his drawn sword in his hand.  The king passed, 
and all the crowd stood on tip-toe, to have one more look at him.

Ten musketeers, opening the crowd of the ante-chambers and the steps, 
made way for his majesty.  The other ten surrounded the king and 
Monsieur, who had insisted upon accompanying his majesty.  The domestics 
walked behind.  This little _cortege_ escorted the king to the chamber 
destined for him.  The apartment was the same that had been occupied by 
Henry III. during his sojourn in the States.

Monsieur had given his orders.  The musketeers, led by their officer, 
took possession of the little passage by which one wing of the castle 
communicates with the other.  This passage was commenced by a small 
square ante-chamber, dark even in the finest days.  Monsieur stopped 
Louis XIV.

"You are passing now, sire," said he, "the very spot where the Duc de 
Guise received the first stab of the poniard."

The king was ignorant of all historical matters; he had heard of the 
fact, but he knew nothing of the localities or the details.

"Ah!" said he with a shudder.

And he stopped.  The rest, both behind and before him, stopped likewise.

"The duc, sire," continued Gaston, "was nearly were I stand: he was 
walking in the same direction as your majesty; M. de Loignac was exactly 
where your lieutenant of musketeers is; M. de Saint-Maline and his 
majesty's ordinaries were behind him and around him.  It was here that he 
was struck."

The king turned towards his officer, and saw something like a cloud pass 
over his martial and daring countenance.

"Yes, from behind!" murmured the lieutenant, with a gesture of supreme 
disdain.  And he endeavored to resume the march, as if ill at ease at 
being between walls formerly defiled by treachery.

But the king, who appeared to wish to be informed, was disposed to give 
another look at this dismal spot.

Gaston perceived his nephew's desire.

"Look, sire," said he, taking a flambeaux from the hands of M. de Saint-
Remy, "this is where he fell.  There was a bed there, the curtains of 
which he tore with catching at them."

"Why does the floor seem hollowed out at this spot?" asked Louis.

"Because it was here the blood flowed," replied Gaston; "the blood 
penetrated deeply into the oak, and it was only by cutting it out that 
they succeeded in making it disappear.  And even then," added Gaston, 
pointing the flambeaux to the spot, "even then this red stain resisted 
all the attempts made to destroy it."

Louis XIV. raised his head.  Perhaps he was thinking of that bloody trace 
that had once been shown him at the Louvre, and which, as a pendant to 
that of Blois, had been made there one day by the king his father with 
the blood of Concini.

"Let us go on," said he.

The march was resumed promptly; for emotion, no doubt, had given to the 
voice of the young prince a tone of command which was not customary with 
him.  When he arrived at the apartment destined for the king, which 
communicated not only with the little passage we have passed through, but 
further with the great staircase leading to the court, -

"Will your majesty," said Gaston, "condescend to occupy this apartment, 
all unworthy as it is to receive you?"

"Uncle," replied the young king, "I render you my thanks for your cordial 
hospitality."

Gaston bowed to his nephew, embraced him, and then went out.

Of the twenty musketeers who had accompanied the king, ten reconducted 
Monsieur to the reception-rooms, which were not yet empty, 
notwithstanding the king had retired.

The ten others were posted by their officer, who himself explored, in 
five minutes, all the localities, with that cold and certain glance which 
not even habit gives unless that glance belongs to genius.

Then, when all were placed, he chose as his headquarters the ante-
chamber, in which he found a large _fauteuil_, a lamp, some wine, some 
water, and some dry bread.

He refreshed his lamp, drank half a glass of wine, curled his lip with a 
smile full of expression, installed himself in his large armchair, and 
made preparations for sleeping.


Chapter IX:
In which the Unknown of the Hostelry of Les Medici loses his Incognito.

This officer, who was sleeping, or preparing to sleep, was, 
notwithstanding his careless air, charged with a serious responsibility.

Lieutenant of the king's musketeers, he commanded all the company which 
came from Paris, and that company consisted of a hundred and twenty men; 
but, with the exception of the twenty of whom we have spoken, the other 
hundred were engaged in guarding the queen-mother, and more particularly 
the cardinal.

Monsignor Giulio Mazarini economized the traveling expenses of his 
guards; he consequently used the king's, and that largely, since he took 
fifty of them for himself - a peculiarity which would not have failed to 
strike any one unacquainted with the usages of that court.

That which would still further have appeared, if not inconvenient, at 
least extraordinary, to a stranger, was, that the side of the castle 
destined for monsieur le cardinal was brilliant, light and cheerful.  The 
musketeers there mounted guard before every door, and allowed no one to 
enter, except the couriers, who, even while he was traveling, followed 
the cardinal for the carrying on of his correspondence.

Twenty men were on duty with the queen-mother; thirty rested, in order to 
relieve their companions the next day.

On the king's side, on the contrary, were darkness, silence, and 
solitude.  When once the doors were closed, there was no longer an 
appearance of royalty.  All the servitors had by degrees retired.  
Monsieur le Prince had sent to know if his majesty required his 
attendance; and on the customary "_No_" of the lieutenant of musketeers, 
who was habituated to the question and the reply, all appeared to sink 
into the arms of sleep, as if in the dwelling of a good citizen.

And yet it was possible to hear from the side of the house occupied by 
the young king the music of the banquet, and to see the windows of the 
great hall richly illuminated.

Ten minutes after his installation in his apartment, Louis XIV. had been 
able to learn, by movement much more distinguished than marked his own 
leaving, the departure of the cardinal, who, in his turn, sought his 
bedroom, accompanied by a large escort of ladies and gentlemen.

Besides, to perceive this movement, he had nothing to do but look out at 
his window, the shutters of which had not been closed.

His eminence crossed the court, conducted by Monsieur, who himself held a 
flambeau; then followed the queen-mother, to whom Madame familiarly gave 
her arm; and both walked chatting away, like two old friends.

Behind these two couples filed nobles, ladies, pages and officers; the 
flambeaux gleamed over the whole court, like the moving reflections of a 
conflagration.  Then the noise of steps and voices became lost in the 
upper floors of the castle.

No one was then thinking of the king, who, leaning on his elbow at his 
window, had sadly seen pass away all that light, and heard that noise die 
off - no, not one, if it was not that unknown of the hostelry _des 
Medici_, whom we have seen go out, enveloped in his cloak.

He had come straight up to the castle, and had, with his melancholy 
countenance, wandered round and round the palace, from which the people 
had not yet departed; and finding that on one guarded the great entrance, 
or the porch, seeing that the soldiers of Monsieur were fraternizing with 
the royal soldiers - that is to say, swallowing Beaugency at discretion, 
or rather indiscretion - the unknown penetrated through the crowd, then 
ascended to the court, and came to the landing of the staircase leading 
to the cardinal's apartment.

What, according to all probability, induced him to direct his steps that 
way, was the splendor of the flambeaux, and the busy air of the pages and 
domestics.  But he was stopped short by a presented musket and the cry of 
the sentinel.

"Where are you going, my friend?" asked the soldier.

"I am going to the king's apartment," replied the unknown, haughtily, but 
tranquilly.

The soldier called one of his eminence's officers, who, in the tone in 
which a youth in office directs a solicitor to a minister, let fall these 
words: "The other staircase, in front."

And the officer, without further notice of the unknown, resumed his 
interrupted conversation.

The stranger, without reply, directed his steps towards the staircase 
pointed out to him.  On this side there was no noise, there were no more 
flambeaux.

Obscurity, through which a sentinel glided like a shadow; silence, which 
permitted him to hear the sound of his own footsteps, accompanied with 
the jingling of his spurs upon the stone slabs.

This guard was one of the twenty musketeers appointed for attendance upon 
the king, and who mounted guard with the stiffness and consciousness of a 
statue.

"Who goes there?" said the guard.

"A friend," replied the unknown.

"What do you want?"

"To speak to the king."

"Do you, my dear monsieur?  That's not very likely."

"Why not?"

"Because the king has gone to bed."

"Gone to bed already?"

"Yes."

"No matter: I must speak to him."

"And I tell you that is impossible."

"And yet - "

"Go back!"

"Do you require the word?"

"I have no account to render to you.  Stand back!"

And this time the soldier accompanied his word with a threatening 
gesture; but the unknown stirred no more than if his feet had taken root.

"Monsieur le mousquetaire," said he, "are you a gentleman?"

"I have that honor."

"Very well! I also am one; and between gentlemen some consideration ought 
to be observed."

The soldier lowered his arms, overcome by the dignity with which these 
words were pronounced.

"Speak, monsieur," said he; "and if you ask me anything in my power - "

"Thank you.  You have an officer, have you not?"

"Our lieutenant?  Yes, monsieur."

"Well, I wish to speak to him."

"Oh, that's a different thing.  Come up, monsieur."

The unknown saluted the soldier in a lofty fashion, and ascended the 
staircase; whilst a cry, "Lieutenant, a visit!" transmitted from sentinel 
to sentinel, preceded the unknown, and disturbed the slumbers of the 
officer.

Dragging on his boot, rubbing his eyes, and hooking his cloak, the 
lieutenant made three steps towards the stranger.

"What can I do to serve you, monsieur?" asked he.

"You are the officer on duty, lieutenant of the musketeers, are you?"

"I have that honor," replied the officer.

"Monsieur, I must absolutely speak to the king."

The lieutenant looked attentively at the unknown, and in that look, he 
saw all he wished to see - that is to say, a person of high distinction 
in an ordinary dress.

"I do not suppose you to be mad," replied he; "and yet you seem to me to 
be in a condition to know, monsieur, that people do not enter a king's 
apartments in this manner without his consent."

"He will consent."

"Monsieur, permit me to doubt that.  The king has retired this quarter 
of an hour; he must be now undressing.  Besides, the word is given."

"When he knows who I am, he will recall the word."

The officer was more and more surprised, more and more subdued.

"If I consent to announce you, may I at least know whom to announce, 
monsieur?"

"You will announce His Majesty Charles II., King of England, Scotland, 
and Ireland."

The officer uttered a cry of astonishment, drew back, and there might be 
seen upon his pallid countenance one of the most poignant emotions that 
ever an energetic man endeavored to drive back to his heart.

"Oh, yes, sire; in fact," said he, "I ought to have recognized you."

"You have seen my portrait, then?"

"No, sire."

"Or else you have seen me formerly at court, before I was driven from 
France?"

"No, sire, it is not even that."

"How then could you have recognized me, if you have never seen my 
portrait or my person?"

"Sire, I saw his majesty your father at a terrible moment."

"The day - "

"Yes."

A dark cloud passed over the brow of the prince; then, dashing his hand 
across it, "Do you see any difficulty in announcing me?" said he.

"Sire, pardon me," replied the officer, "but I could not imagine a king 
under so simple an exterior; and yet I had the honor to tell your majesty 
just now that I had seen Charles I.  But pardon me, monsieur; I will go 
and inform the king."

But returning after going a few steps, "Your majesty is desirous, without 
doubt, that this interview should be a secret?" said he.

"I do not require it; but if it were possible to preserve it - "

"It is possible, sire, for I can dispense with informing the first 
gentleman on duty; but, for that, your majesty must please to consent to 
give up your sword."

"True, true; I had forgotten that no one armed is permitted to enter the 
chamber of a king of France."

"Your majesty will form an exception, if you wish it; but then I shall 
avoid my responsibility by informing the king's attendant."

"Here is my sword, monsieur.  Will you now please to announce me to his 
majesty?"

"Instantly, sire."  And the officer immediately went and knocked at the 
door of communication, which the valet opened to him.

"His Majesty the King of England!" said the officer.

"His Majesty the King of England!" replied the _valet de chambre_.

At these words a gentleman opened the folding-doors of the king's 
apartment, and Louis XIV. was seen, without hat or sword, and his 
_pourpoint_ open, advancing with signs of the greatest surprise.

"You, my brother - you at Blois!" cried Louis XIV., dismissing with a 
gesture both the gentlemen and the _valet de chambre_, who passed out 
into the next apartment.

"Sire," replied Charles II., "I was going to Paris, in the hope of seeing 
your majesty, when report informed me of your approaching arrival in this 
city.  I therefore prolonged my abode here, having something very 
particular to communicate to you."

"Will this closet suit you, my brother?"

"Perfectly well, sire; for I think no one can hear us here."

"I have dismissed my gentleman and my watcher; they are in the next 
chamber.  There, behind that partition, is a solitary closet, looking 
into the ante-chamber, and in that ante-chamber you found nobody but 
a solitary officer, did you?"

"No, sire."

"Well, then, speak, my brother; I listen to you."

"Sire, I commence, and entreat your majesty to have pity on the 
misfortunes of our house."

The king of France colored, and drew his chair closer to that of the 
king of England.

"Sire," said Charles II., "I have no need to ask if your majesty is 
acquainted with the details of my deplorable history."

Louis XIV. blushed, this time more strongly than before; then, stretching 
forth his hand to that of the king of England, "My brother," said he, "I 
am ashamed to say so, but the cardinal scarcely ever speaks of political 
affairs before me.  Still more, formerly I used to get Laporte, my _valet 
de chambre_, to read historical subjects to me; but he put a stop to 
these readings, and took away Laporte from me.  So that I beg my brother 
Charles to tell me all those matters as to a man who knows nothing."

"Well, sire, I think that by taking things from the beginning I shall 
have a better chance of touching the heart of your majesty."

"Speak on, my brother - speak on."

"You know, sire, that being called in 1650 to Edinburgh, during 
Cromwell's expedition into Ireland, I was crowned at Scone.  A year 
after, wounded in one of the provinces he had usurped, Cromwell returned 
upon us.  To meet him was my object; to leave Scotland was my wish."

"And yet," interrupted the young king, "Scotland is almost your native 
country, is it not, my brother?"

"Yes, but the Scots were cruel compatriots for me, sire; they had forced 
me to forsake the religion of my fathers; they had hung Lord Montrose, 
the most devoted of my servants, because he was not a Covenanter; and as 
the poor martyr, to whom they had offered a favor when dying, had asked 
that his body might be cut into as many pieces as there are cities in 
Scotland, in order that evidence of his fidelity might be met with 
everywhere, I could not leave one city, or go into another, without 
passing under some fragments of a body which had acted, fought, and 
breathed for me.

"By a bold, almost desperate march, I passed through Cromwell's army, and 
entered England.  The Protector set out in pursuit of this strange 
flight, which had a crown for its object.  If I had been able to reach 
London before him, without doubt the prize of the race would have been 
mine; but he overtook me at Worcester.

"The genius of England was no longer with us, but with him.  On the 3rd 
of September, 1651, sire, the anniversary of the other battle of Dunbar, 
so fatal to the Scots, I was conquered.  Two thousand men fell around me 
before I thought of retreating a step.  At length I was obliged to fly.

"From that moment my history became a romance.  Pursued with persistent 
inveteracy, I cut off my hair, I disguised myself as a woodman.  One day 
spent amidst the branches of an oak gave to that tree the name of the 
royal oak, which it bears to this day.  My adventures in the county of 
Stafford, whence I escaped with the daughter of my host on a pillion 
behind me, still fill the tales of the country firesides, and would 
furnish matter for ballads.  I will some day write all this, sire, for 
the instruction of my brother kings.

"I will first tell how, on arriving at the residence of Mr. Norton, I met 
with a court chaplain, who was looking on at a party playing at skittles, 
and an old servant who named me, bursting into tears, and who was as near 
and as certainly killing me by his fidelity as another might have been by 
treachery.  Then I will tell of my terrors - yes, sire, of my terrors – 
when, at the house of Colonel Windham, a farrier who came to shoe our 
horses declared they had been shod in the north."

"How strange!" murmured Louis XIV.  "I never heard anything of all that; 
I was only told of your embarkation at Brighelmstone and your landing 
in Normandy."

Transcriber's note: The correct name is Brightelmstone; the mistake is 
Dumas's. – JB

"Oh!" exclaimed Charles, "if Heaven permits kings to be thus ignorant of 
the histories of each other, how can they render assistance to their 
brothers who need it?"

"But tell me," continued Louis XIV., "how, after being so roughly 
received in England, you can still hope for anything from that unhappy 
country and that rebellious people?"

"Oh, sire! since the battle of Worcester, everything is changed there.  
Cromwell is dead, after having signed a treaty with France, in which his 
name is placed above yours.  He died on the 3rd of September, 1658, a 
fresh anniversary of the battles of Dunbar and Worcester."

"His son has succeeded him."

"But certain men have a family, sire, and no heir.  The inheritance of 
Oliver was too heavy for Richard.  Richard was neither a republican nor a 
royalist; Richard allowed his guards to eat his dinner, and his generals 
to govern the republic; Richard abdicated the protectorate on the 22nd of 
April, 1659, more than a year ago, sire.

"From that time England is nothing but a tennis-court, in which the 
players throw dice for the crown of my father.  The two most eager 
players are Lambert and Monk.  Well, sire, I, in my turn, wish to take 
part in this game, where the stakes are thrown upon my royal mantle.  
Sire, it only requires a million to corrupt one of these players and make 
an ally of him, or two hundred of your gentlemen to drive them out of my 
palace at Whitehall, as Christ drove the money-changers from the temple."

"You come, then," replied Louis XIV., to ask me - "

"For your assistance; that is to say, not only for that which kings owe 
to each other, but that which simple Christians owe to each other - your 
assistance, sire, either in money or men.  Your assistance, sire, and 
within a month, whether I oppose Lambert to Monk, or Monk to Lambert, I 
shall have reconquered my paternal inheritance, without having cost my 
country a guinea, or my subjects a drop of blood, for they are now all 
drunk with revolutions, protectorates, and republics, and ask nothing 
better than to fall staggering to sleep in the arms of royalty.  Your 
assistance, sire, and I shall owe you more than I owe my father, - my 
poor father, who bought at so dear a rate the ruin of our house!  You may 
judge, sire, whether I am unhappy, whether I am in despair, for I accuse 
my own father!"

And the blood mounted to the pale face of Charles II., who remained for 
an instant with his head between his hands, and as if blinded by that 
blood which appeared to revolt against the filial blasphemy.

The young king was not less affected than his elder brother; he threw 
himself about in his _fauteuil_, and could not find a single word of 
reply.

Charles II., to whom ten years in age gave a superior strength to master 
his emotions, recovered his speech the first.

"Sire," said he, "your reply?  I wait for it as a criminal waits for his 
sentence.  Must I die?"

"My brother," replied the French prince, "you ask of me for a million – 
me, who was never possessed of a quarter of that sum!  I possess 
nothing.  I am no more king of France than you are king of England.  I 
am a name, a cipher dressed in _fleur-de-lised_ velvet, - that is all.  I 
am upon a visible throne; that is my only advantage over your majesty.  I 
have nothing - I can do nothing."

"Can it be so?" exclaimed Charles II.

"My brother," said Louis, sinking his voice, "I have undergone miseries 
with which my poorest gentlemen are unacquainted.  If my poor Laporte 
were here, he would tell you that I have slept in ragged sheets, through 
the holes of which my legs have passed; he would tell you that 
afterwards, when I asked for carriages, they brought me conveyances half-
destroyed by the rats of the coach-houses; he would tell you that when I 
asked for my dinner, the servants went to the cardinal's kitchen to 
inquire if there were any dinner for the king.  And look! to-day, this 
very day even, when I am twenty-two years of age, - to-day, when I have 
attained the grade of the majority of kings, - to-day, when I ought to 
have the key of the treasury, the direction of the policy, the supremacy 
in peace and war, - cast your eyes around me, see how I am left!  Look at 
this abandonment - this disdain - this silence! - Whilst yonder - look 
yonder!  View the bustle, the lights, the homage!  There! - there you see 
the real king of France, my brother!"

"In the cardinal's apartments?"

"Yes, in the cardinal's apartments."

"Then I am condemned, sire?"

Louis XIV. made no reply.

"Condemned is the word; for I will never solicit him who left my mother 
and sister to die with cold and hunger - the daughter and grand-daughter 
of Henry IV. – as surely they would have if M. de Retz and the parliament 
had not sent them wood and bread."

"To die?" murmured Louis XIV.

"Well!" continued the king of England, "poor Charles II., grandson of 
Henry IV., as you are, sire having neither parliament nor Cardinal de 
Retz to apply to, will die of hunger, as his mother and sister had nearly 
done."

Louis knitted his brow, and twisted violently the lace of his ruffles.

This prostration, this immobility, serving as a mark to an emotion so 
visible, struck Charles II., and he took the young man's hand.

"Thanks!" said he, "my brother.  You pity me, and that is all I can 
require of you in your present situation."

"Sire," said Louis XIV., with a sudden impulse, and raising his head, "it 
is a million you require, or two hundred gentlemen, I think you say?"

"Sire, a million would be quite sufficient."

"That is very little."

"Offered to a single man it is a great deal.  Convictions have been 
purchased at a much lower price; and I should have nothing to do but with 
venalities."

"Two hundred gentlemen!  Reflect! - that is little more than a single 
company."

"Sire, there is in our family a tradition, and that is, that four men, 
four French gentlemen, devoted to my father, were near saving my father, 
though condemned by a parliament, guarded by an army and surrounded by a 
nation."

"Then if I can procure you a million, or two hundred gentlemen, you will 
be satisfied; and you will consider me your well-affectioned brother?"

"I shall consider you as my saviour; and if I recover the throne of my 
father, England will be, as long as I reign it, a sister to France, as 
you will have been a brother to me."

"Well, my brother," said Louis, rising, "what you hesitate to ask for, I 
will myself demand; that which I have never done on my own account, I 
will do on yours.  I will go and find the king of France - the other – 
the rich, the powerful one, I mean.  I will myself solicit this million, 
or these two hundred gentlemen; and - we will see."

"Oh!" cried Charles; "you are a noble friend, sire - a heart created by 
God!  You save me, my brother; and if you should ever stand in need of 
the life you restored me, demand it."

"Silence, my brother, - silence!" said Louis, in a suppressed voice.  
"Take care that no one hears you!  We have not obtained our end yet.  To 
ask money of Mazarin - that is worse than traversing the enchanted 
forest, each tree of which inclosed a demon.  It is more than setting out 
to conquer a world."

"But yet, sire, when you ask it - "

"I have already told you that I never asked," replied Louis with a 
haughtiness that made the king of England turn pale.

And the latter, like a wounded man, made a retreating movement - "Pardon 
me, my brother," replied he.  "I have neither a mother nor a sister who 
are suffering.  My throne is hard and naked, but I am firmly seated on my 
throne.  Pardon me that expression, my brother; it was that of an 
egotist.  I will retract it, therefore, by a sacrifice, - I will go to 
monsieur le cardinal.  Wait for me, if you please - I will return."


Chapter X:
The Arithmetic of M. de Mazarin.

Whilst the king was directing his course rapidly towards the wing of the 
castle occupied by the cardinal, taking nobody with him but his _valet de 
chambre_, the officer of musketeers came out, breathing like a man who 
has for a long time been forced to hold his breath, from the little 
cabinet of which we have already spoken, and which the king believed to 
be quite solitary.  This little cabinet had formerly been part of the 
chamber, from which it was only separated by a thin partition.  It 
resulted that this partition, which was only for the eye, permitted the 
ear the least indiscreet to hear every word spoken in the chamber.

There was no doubt, then, that this lieutenant of musketeers had heard 
all that passed in his majesty's apartment.

Warned by the last words of the young king, he came out just in time to 
salute him on his passage, and to follow him with his eyes till he had 
disappeared in the corridor.

Then as soon as he had disappeared, he shook his head after a fashion 
peculiarly his own, and in a voice which forty years' absence from 
Gascony had not deprived of its Gascon accent, "A melancholy service," 
said he, "and a melancholy master!"

These words pronounced, the lieutenant resumed his place in his 
_fauteuil_, stretched his legs and closed his eyes, like a man who either 
sleeps or meditates.

During this short monologue and the _mise en scene_ that had accompanied 
it, whilst the king, through the long corridors of the old castle, 
proceeded to the apartment of M. de Mazarin, a scene of another sort was 
being enacted in those apartments.

Mazarin was in bed, suffering a little from the gout.  But as he was a 
man of order, who utilized even pain, he forced his wakefulness to be the 
humble servant of his labor.  He had consequently ordered Bernouin, his 
_valet de chambre_, to bring him a little traveling-desk, so that he 
might write in bed.  But the gout is not an adversary that allows itself 
to be conquered so easily; therefore, at each movement he made, the pain 
from dull became sharp.

"Is Brienne there?" asked he of Bernouin.

"No, monseigneur," replied the _valet de chambre_; "M. de Brienne, with 
your permission, is gone to bed.  But if it is the wish of your eminence, 
he can speedily be called."

"No, it is not worth while.  Let us see, however.  Cursed ciphers!"

And the cardinal began to think, counting on his fingers the while.

"Oh, ciphers is it?" said Bernouin.  "Very well! if your eminence 
attempts calculations, I will promise you a pretty headache to-morrow!  
And with that please to remember M. Guenaud is not here."

"You are right, Bernouin.  You must take Brienne's place, my friend.  
Indeed, I ought to have brought M. Colbert with me.  That young man goes 
on very well, Bernouin, very well; a very orderly youth."

"I do not know," sad the _valet de chambre_, "but I don't like the 
countenance of your young man who goes on so well."

"Well, well, Bernouin!  We don't stand in need of your advice.  Place 
yourself there: take the pen and write."

"I am ready, monseigneur; what am I to write?"

"There, that's the place: after the two lines already traced."

"I am there."

"Write seven hundred and sixty thousand livres."

"That is written."

"Upon Lyons - "  The cardinal appeared to hesitate.

"Upon Lyons," repeated Bernouin.

"Three millions nine hundred thousand livres."

"Well, monseigneur?"

"Upon Bordeaux, seven millions."

"Seven?" repeated Bernouin.

"Yes," said the cardinal, pettishly, "seven."  Then, recollecting 
himself, "You understand, Bernouin," added he, "that all this money is 
to be spent?"

"Eh! monseigneur; whether it be spent or put away is of very little 
consequence to me, since none of these millions are mine."

"These millions are the king's; it is the king's money I am reckoning.  
Well, what were we saying?  You always interrupt me!"

"Seven millions upon Bordeaux."

"Ah! yes; that's right.  Upon Madrid four millions.  I give you to 
understand plainly to whom this money belongs, Bernouin, seeing that 
everybody has the stupidity to believe me rich in millions.  I repel the 
silly idea.  A minister, besides, has nothing of his own.  Come, go on.  
_Rentrees generales_, seven millions; properties, nine millions.  Have 
you written that, Bernouin?"

"Yes, monseigneur."

"_Bourse_, six hundred thousand livres; various property, two millions.  
Ah!  I forgot - the furniture of the different chateaux - "

"Must I put of the crown?" asked Bernouin.

"No, no; it is of no use doing that - that is understood.  Have you 
written that, Bernouin?"

"Yes, monseigneur."

"And the ciphers?"

"Stand straight under one another."

"Cast them up, Bernouin."

"Thirty-nine millions two hundred and sixty thousand livres, monseigneur."

"Ah!" cried the cardinal, in a tone of vexation; "there are not yet forty 
millions!"

Bernouin recommenced the addition.

"No, monseigneur; there want seven hundred and forty thousand livres."

Mazarin asked for the account, and revised it carefully.

"Yes, but," said Bernouin, "thirty-nine millions two hundred and sixty 
thousand livres make a good round sum."

"Ah, Bernouin; I wish the king had it."

"Your eminence told me that this money was his majesty's."

"Doubtless, as clear, as transparent as possible.  These thirty-nine 
millions are bespoken, and much more."

Bernouin smiled after his own fashion - that is, like a man who believes 
no more than he is willing to believe - whilst preparing the cardinal's 
night draught, and putting his pillow to rights.

"Oh!" said Mazarin, when the valet had gone out; "not yet forty 
millions!  I must, however, attain that sum, which I had set down for 
myself.  But who knows whether I shall have time?  I sink, I am going, I 
shall never reach it!  And yet, who knows that I may not find two or 
three millions in the pockets of my good friends the Spaniards?  They 
discovered Peru, those people did, and - what the devil! they must have 
something left."

As he was speaking thus, entirely occupied with his ciphers, and thinking 
no more of his gout, repelled by a preoccupation which, with the 
cardinal, was the most powerful of all preoccupations, Bernouin rushed 
into the chamber, quite in a fright.

"Well!" asked the cardinal, "what is the matter now?"

"The king, monseigneur, - the king!"

"How? - the king!" said Mazarin, quickly concealing his paper.  "The king 
here! the king at this hour!  I thought he was in bed long ago.  What is 
the matter, then?"

The king could hear these last words, and see the terrified gesture of 
the cardinal rising up in his bed, for he entered the chamber at that 
moment.

"It is nothing, monsieur le cardinal, or at least nothing which can alarm 
you.  It is an important communication which I wish to make to your 
eminence to-night, - that is all."

Mazarin immediately thought of that marked attention which the king had 
given to his words concerning Mademoiselle de Mancini, and the 
communication appeared to him probably to refer to this source.  He 
recovered his serenity then instantly, and assumed his most agreeable 
air, a change of countenance which inspired the king with the greatest 
joy; and when Louis was seated, -

"Sire," said the cardinal, "I ought certainly to listen to your majesty 
standing, but the violence of my complaint - "

"No ceremony between us, my dear monsieur le cardinal," said Louis 
kindly: "I am your pupil, and not the king, you know very well, and this 
evening in particular, as I come to you as a petitioner, as a solicitor, 
and one very humble, and desirous to be kindly received, too."

Mazarin, seeing the heightened color of the king, was confirmed in his 
first idea; that is to say, that love thoughts were hidden under all 
these fine words.  This time, political cunning, as keen as it was, made 
a mistake; this color was not caused by the bashfulness of a juvenile 
passion, but only by the painful contraction of the royal pride.

Like a good uncle, Mazarin felt disposed to facilitate the confidence.

"Speak, sire," said he, "and since your majesty is willing for an instant 
to forget that I am your subject, and call me your master and 
instructor, I promise your majesty my most devoted and tender 
consideration."

"Thanks, monsieur le cardinal," answered the king; "that which I have to 
ask of your eminence has but little to do with myself."

"So much the worse!" replied the cardinal; "so much the worse!  Sire, I 
should wish your majesty to ask of me something of importance, even a 
sacrifice; but whatever it may be that you ask me, I am ready to set your 
heart at rest by granting it, my dear sire."

"Well, this is what brings me here," said the king, with a beating of the 
heart that had no equal except the beating of the heart of the minister; 
"I have just received a visit from my brother, the king of England."

	Mazarin bounded in his bed as if he had been put in relation with a 
Leyden jar or a voltaic pile, at the same time that a surprise, or rather 
a manifest disappointment, inflamed his features with such a blaze of 
anger, that Louis XIV., little diplomatist as he was, saw that the 
minister had hoped to hear something else.

"Charles II.?" exclaimed Mazarin, with a hoarse voice and a disdainful 
movement of his lips.  "You have received a visit from Charles II.?"

"From King Charles II.," replied Louis, according in a marked manner to 
the grandson of Henry IV. the title which Mazarin had forgotten to give 
him.  "Yes, monsieur le cardinal, that unhappy prince has touched my 
heart with the relation of his misfortunes.  His distress is great, monsieur le 
cardinal, and it has appeared painful to me, who have seen my own throne 
disputed, who have been forced in times of commotion to quit my capital, 
- to me, in short, who am acquainted with misfortune, - to leave a 
deposed and fugitive brother without assistance."

"Eh!" said the cardinal, sharply; "why had he not, as you have, a Jules 
Mazarin by his side?  His crown would then have remained intact."

"I know all that my house owes to your eminence," replied the king, 
haughtily, "and you may well believe that I, on my part, shall never 
forget it.  It is precisely because my brother, the king of England has 
not about him the powerful genius who has saved me, it is for that, I 
say, that I wish to conciliate the aid of that same genius, and beg you 
to extend your arm over his head, well assured, monsieur le cardinal, 
that your hand, by touching him only, would know how to replace upon his 
brow the crown which fell at the foot of his father's scaffold."

"Sire," replied Mazarin, "I thank you for your good opinion with regard 
to myself, but we have nothing to do yonder: they are a set of madmen who 
deny God, and cut off the heads of their kings.  They are dangerous, 
observe, sire, and filthy to the touch after having wallowed in royal 
blood and covenantal murder.  That policy has never suited me, - I scorn 
it and reject it."

"Therefore you ought to assist in establishing a better."

"What is that?"

"The restoration of Charles II., for example."

"Good heavens!" cried Mazarin, "does the poor prince flatter himself with 
that chimera?"

"Yes, he does," replied the young king, terrified at the difficulties 
opposed to this project, which he fancied he could perceive in the 
infallible eye of his minister; "he only asks for a million to carry out 
his purpose."

"Is that all - a little million, if you please!" said the cardinal, 
ironically, with an effort to conquer his Italian accent.  "A little 
million, if you please, brother!  Bah! a family of mendicants!"

"Cardinal," said Louis, raising his head, "that family of mendicants is a 
branch of my family."

"Are you rich enough to give millions to other people, sire?  Have you 
millions to throw away?"

"Oh!" replied Louis XIV., with great pain, which he, however, by a strong 
effort, prevented from appearing on his countenance; - "oh! yes, monsieur 
le cardinal, I am well aware I am poor, and yet the crown of France is 
worth a million, and to perform a good action I would pledge my crown if 
it were necessary.  I could find Jews who would be willing to lend me a 
million."

"So, sire, you say you want a million?" said Mazarin.

"Yes, monsieur, I say so."

"You are mistaken, greatly mistaken, sire; you want much more than 
that, - Bernouin! - you shall see, sire, how much you really want."

"What, cardinal!" said the king, "are you going to consult a lackey about 
my affairs?"

"Bernouin!" cried the cardinal again, without appearing to remark the 
humiliation of the young prince.  "Come here, Bernouin, and tell me the 
figures I gave you just now."

"Cardinal, cardinal! did you not hear me?" said Louis, turning pale with 
anger.

"Do not be angry, sire; I deal openly with the affairs of your majesty.  
Every one in France knows that; my books are as open as day.  What did I 
tell you to do just now, Bernouin?"

"Your eminence commanded me to cast up an account."

"You did it, did you not?"

"Yes, my lord."

"To verify the amount of which his majesty, at this moment, stands in 
need.  Did I not tell you so?  Be frank, my friend."

"Your eminence said so."

"Well, what sum did I say I wanted?"

"Forty-five millions, I think."

"And what sum could we find, after collecting all our resources?"

"Thirty-nine millions two hundred and sixty thousand."

"That is correct, Bernouin; that is all I wanted to know.  Leave us now," 
said the cardinal, fixing his brilliant eye upon the young king, who sat 
mute with stupefaction.

"However - " stammered the king.

"What, do you still doubt, sire?" said the cardinal.  "Well, here is a 
proof of what I said."

And Mazarin drew from under his bolster the paper covered with figures, 
which he presented to the king, who turned away his eyes, his vexation 
was so deep.

"Therefore, as it is a million you want, sire, and that million is not 
set down here, it is forty-six millions your majesty stands in need of.  
Well, I don't think that any Jews in the world would lend such a sum, 
even upon the crown of France."

The king, clenching his hands beneath his ruffles, pushed away his chair.

"So it must be then!" said he; "my brother the king of England will die 
of hunger."

"Sire," replied Mazarin, in the same tone, "remember this proverb, which 
I give you as the expression of the soundest policy: 'Rejoice at being 
poor when your neighbor is poor likewise.'"

Louis meditated this for a few moments, with an inquisitive glance 
directed to the paper, one end of which remained under the bolster.

"Then," said he, "it is impossible to comply with my demand for money, my 
lord cardinal, is it?"

"Absolutely, sire."

"Remember, this will secure me a future enemy, if he succeed in 
recovering his crown without my assistance."

"If your majesty only fears that, you may be quite at ease," replied 
Mazarin, eagerly.

"Very well, I say no more about it," exclaimed Louis XIV.

"Have I at least convinced you, sire?" placing his hand upon that of the 
young king.

"Perfectly."

"If there be anything else, ask it, sire; I shall most happy to grant it 
to you, having refused this."

"Anything else, my lord?"

"Why yes; am I not devoted body and soul to your majesty?  _Hola!_  
Bernouin! - lights and guards for his majesty!  His majesty is returning 
to his own chamber."

"Not yet, monsieur: since you place your good-will at my disposal, I will 
take advantage of it."

"For yourself, sire?" asked the cardinal, hoping that his niece was at 
length about to be named.

"No, monsieur, not for myself," replied Louis, "but still for my brother 
Charles."

The brow of Mazarin again became clouded, and he grumbled a few words 
that the king could not catch.


Chapter XI:
Mazarin's Policy.

Instead of the hesitation with which he had accosted the cardinal a 
quarter of an hour before, there might be read in the eyes of the young 
king that will against which a struggle might be maintained, and which 
might be crushed by its own impotence,  but which, at least, would 
preserve, like a wound in the depth of the heart, the remembrance of its 
defeat.

"This time, my lord cardinal, we have to deal with something more easily 
found than a million."

"Do you think so, sire?" said Mazarin, looking at the king with that 
penetrating eye which was accustomed to read to the bottom of hearts.

"Yes, I think so; and when you know the object of my request - "

"And do you think I do not know it, sire?"

"You know what remains for me to say to you?"

"Listen, sire; these are King Charles's own words - "

"Oh, impossible!"

"Listen.  'And if that miserly, beggarly Italian,' said he - "

"My lord cardinal!"

"That is the sense, if not the words.  Eh! Good heavens!  I wish him no 
ill on that account; one is biased by his passions.  He said to you: 'If 
that vile Italian refuses the million we ask of him, sire, - if we are 
forced, for want of money, to renounce diplomacy, well, then, we will ask 
him to grant us five hundred gentlemen.'"

The king started, for the cardinal was only mistaken in the number.

"Is not that it, sire?" cried the minister, with a triumphant accent.  
"And then he added some fine words: he said, 'I have friends on the other 
side of the channel, and these friends only want a leader and a banner.  
When they see me, when they behold the banner of France, they will rally 
around me, for they will comprehend that I have your support.  The colors 
of the French uniform will be worth as much to me as the million M. de 
Mazarin refuses us,' - for he was pretty well assured I should refuse him 
that million. - 'I shall conquer with these five hundred gentlemen, sire, 
and all the honor will be yours.'  Now, that is what he said, or to that 
purpose, was it not? - turning those plain words into brilliant metaphors 
and pompous images, for they are fine talkers in that family!  The father 
talked even on the scaffold."

The perspiration of shame stood on the brow of Louis.  He felt that it 
was inconsistent with his dignity to hear his brother thus insulted, but 
he did not yet know how to act with him to whom every one yielded, even 
his mother.  At last he made an effort.

"But," said he, "my lord cardinal, it is not five hundred men, it is only 
two hundred."

"Well, but you see I guessed what he wanted."

"I never denied that you had a penetrating eye, and that was why I 
thought you would not refuse my brother Charles a thing so simple and so 
easy to grant him as what I ask of you in his name, my lord cardinal, or 
rather in my own."

"Sire," said Mazarin, "I have studied policy thirty years; first, under 
the auspices of M. le Cardinal Richelieu; and then alone.  This policy 
has not always been over-honest, it must be allowed, but it has never 
been unskillful.  Now that which is proposed to you majesty is dishonest 
and unskillful at the same time."

"Dishonest, monsieur!"

"Sire, you entered into a treaty with Cromwell."

"Yes, and in that very treaty Cromwell signed his name above mine."

"Why did you sign yours so lo down, sire?  Cromwell found a good place, 
and he took it; that was his custom.  I return, then, to M. Cromwell.  
You have a treaty with him, that is to say, with England, since when you 
signed that treaty M. Cromwell was England."

"M. Cromwell is dead."

"Do you think so, sire?"

"No doubt he is, since his son Richard has succeeded him, and has 
abdicated."

"Yes, that is it exactly.  Richard inherited after the death of his 
father, and England at the abdication of Richard.  The treaty formed part 
of the inheritance, whether in the hands of M. Richard or in the hands of 
England.  The treaty is, then, still as good, as valid as ever.  Why 
should you evade it, sire?  What is changed?  Charles wants to-day what 
we were not willing to grant him ten years ago; but that was foreseen and 
provided against.  You are the ally of England, sire, and not of Charles 
II.  It was doubtless wrong, from a family point of view, to sign a 
treaty with a man who had cut off the head of the king your father's 
brother-in-law, and to contract an alliance with a parliament which they 
call yonder the Rump Parliament; it was unbecoming, I acknowledge, but it 
was not unskillful from a political point of view, since, thanks to that 
treaty, I saved your majesty, then a minor, the trouble and danger of a 
foreign war, which the Fronde - you remember the Fronde, sire?" - the 
young king hung his head - "which the Fronde might have fatally 
complicated.  And thus I prove to your majesty that to change our plan 
now, without warning our allies, would be at once unskillful and 
dishonest.  We should make war with the aggression on our side; we should 
make it, deserving to have it made against us; and we should have the 
appearance of fearing it whilst provoking it, for a permission granted to 
five hundred men, to two hundred men, to fifty men, to ten men, is still 
a permission.  One Frenchman, that is the nation; one uniform, that is 
the army.  Suppose, sire, for example, that you should have war with 
Holland, which, sooner or later, will certainly happen; or with Spain, 
which will perhaps ensue if your marriage fails" (Mazarin stole a furtive 
glance at the king), "and there are a thousand causes that might yet make 
your marriage fail, - well, would you approve of England's sending to the 
United Provinces or to Spain a regiment, a company, a squadron even, of 
English gentlemen?  Would you think that they kept within the limits of 
their treaty of alliance?"

Louis listened; it seemed so strange to him that Mazarin should invoke 
good faith, and he the author of so many political tricks, called 
Mazarinades.  "And yet," said the king, "without manifest of my 
authorization, I cannot prevent gentlemen of my states from passing over 
into England, if such should be their good pleasure."

"You should compel them to return, sire, or at least protest against 
their presence as enemies in a allied country."

"But come, my lord cardinal, you who are so profound a genius, try if you 
cannot find a means to assist this poor king, without compromising 
ourselves."

"And that is exactly what I am not willing to do, my dear sire," said 
Mazarin.  "If England were to act exactly according to my wishes, she 
could not act better than she does; if I directed the policy of England 
from this place, I should not direct it otherwise.  Governed as she is 
governed, England is an eternal nest of contention for all Europe.  
Holland protects Charles II., let Holland do so; they will quarrel, they 
will fight.  Let them destroy each other's navies, we can construct ours 
with the wrecks of their vessels; when we shall save our money to buy 
nails."

"Oh, how paltry and mean is all this that you are telling me, monsieur 
le cardinal!"

"Yes, but nevertheless it is true, sire; you must confess that.  Sill 
further.  Suppose I admit, for a moment, the possibility of breaking your 
word, and evading the treaty - such a thing as sometimes happens, but 
that is when some great interest is to be promoted by it, or when the 
treaty is found to be too troublesome - well, you will authorize the 
engagement asked of you: France - her banner, which is the same thing – 
will cross the Straits and will fight; France will be conquered."

"Why so?"

"_Ma foi!_ we have a pretty general to fight under - this Charles 
II.!  Worcester gave us proofs of that."

"But he will no longer have to deal with Cromwell, monsieur."

"But he will have to deal with Monk, who is quite as dangerous.  The 
brave brewer of whom we are speaking, was a visionary; he had moments of 
exaltation, of inflation, during which he ran over like an over-filled 
cask; and from the chinks there always escaped some drops of his 
thoughts, and by the sample the whole of his thought was to be made out.  
Cromwell has thus allowed us more than ten times to penetrate into his 
very soul, when one would have conceived that soul to be enveloped in 
triple brass, as Horace had it.  But Monk!  Oh, sire, God defend you from 
ever having anything to transact politically with Monk.  It is he who has 
given me, in one year, all the gray hairs I have.  Monk is no fanatic; 
unfortunately he is a politician; he does not overflow, he keeps close 
together.  For ten years he has had his eyes fixed upon one object, and 
nobody has yet been able to ascertain what.  Every morning, as Louis XI. 
advised, he burns his nightcap.  Therefore, on the day when this plan, 
slowly and solitarily ripened, shall break forth, it will break forth 
with all the conditions of success which always accompany an unforeseen 
event.  That is Monk, sire, of whom, perhaps, you have never even heard – 
of whom, perhaps, you did not even know the name, before your brother, 
Charles II., who knows what he is, pronounced it before you.  He is a 
marvel of depth and tenacity, the two only things against which 
intelligence and ardor are blunted.  Sire, I had ardor when I was young; 
I always was intelligent.  I may safely boast of it, because I am 
reproached with it.  I have done very well with these two qualities, 
since, from the son of a fisherman of Piscina, I have become prime 
minister to the king of France; and in that position your majesty will 
perhaps acknowledge I have rendered some service to the throne of your 
majesty.  Well, sire, if I had met with Monk on my way, instead of 
Monsieur de Beaufort, Monsieur de Retz, or Monsieur le Prince - well, we 
should have been ruined.  If you engage yourself rashly, sire, you will 
fall into the talons of this politic soldier.  The casque of Monk, sire, 
is an iron coffer, and no one has the key of it.  Therefore, near him, or 
rather before him, I bow, sire, for I have nothing but a velvet cap."

"What do you think Monk wishes to do, then?"

"Eh! sire, if I knew that, I would not tell you to mistrust him, for I 
should be stronger than he; but with him, I am afraid to guess - to 
guess! - you understand my word? - for if I thought I had guessed, I 
should stop at an idea, and, in spite of myself, should pursue that 
idea.  Since that man has been in power yonder, I am like one of the 
damned in Dante whose neck Satan has twisted, and who walk forward 
looking around behind them.  I am traveling towards Madrid, but I never 
lose sight of London.  To guess, with that devil of a man, is to deceive 
one's self and to deceive one's self is to ruin one's self.  God keep me 
from ever seeking to guess what he aims at; I confine myself to watching 
what he does, and that is well enough.  Now I believe - you observe the 
meaning of the word _I believe?_ - _I believe_, with respect to Monk, 
ties one to nothing - I believe that he has a strong inclination to 
succeed Cromwell.  Your Charles II. has already caused proposals to be 
made to him by ten persons; he has satisfied himself with driving these 
ten meddlers from his presence, without saying anything to them but, 
'Begone, or I will have you hung.'  That man is a sepulcher!  At this 
moment Monk is affecting devotion to the Rump Parliament; of this 
devotion, I am not the dupe.  Monk has no wish to be assassinated, - an 
assassination would stop him in the middle of his operations; and his 
work must be accomplished; - so I believe - but do not believe what I 
believe, sire: for as I say I believe from habit - I believe that Monk 
is keeping on friendly terms with the parliament till the day comes for 
dispersing it.  You are asked for swords, but they are to fight against 
Monk.  God preserve you from fighting against Monk, sire; for Monk would 
beat us, and I should never console myself after being beaten by Monk.  I 
should say to myself, Monk has foreseen that victory ten years.  For 
God's sake, sire, out of friendship for you, if not out of consideration 
for himself, let Charles II. keep quiet.  Your majesty will give him a 
little income here; give him one of your chateaux.  Yes, yes - wait 
awhile.  But I forget the treaty - that famous treaty of which we were 
just now speaking.  Your majesty has not even the right to give him a 
chateau."

"How is that?"

"Yes, yes; your majesty is bound not to grant hospitality to King 
Charles, and to compel him to leave France even.  It was on this account 
we forced him to quit you, and yet here he is again.  Sire, I hope you 
will give your brother to understand that he cannot remain with us; that 
it is impossible he should be allowed to compromise us; or I myself - "

"Enough, my lord," said Louis XIV., rising.  "In refusing me a million, 
perhaps you may be right; your millions are your own.  In refusing me 
two hundred gentlemen, you are still further in the right; for you are 
prime minister, and you have, in the eyes of France, the responsibility 
of peace and war.  But that you should pretend to prevent me, who am king, 
from extending my hospitality to the grandson of Henry IV., to my cousin-
german, to the companion of my childhood - there your power stops, and 
there begins my will."

"Sire," said Mazarin, delighted at being let off so cheaply, and who had, 
besides, only fought so earnestly to arrive at that, - "sire, I shall 
always bend before the will of my king.  Let my king, then, keep near 
him, or in one of his chateaux, the king of England; let Mazarin know it, 
but let not the minister know it."

"Good-night, my lord," said Louis XIV., "I go away in despair."

"But convinced, and that is all I desire, sire," replied Mazarin.

The king made no answer, and retired quite pensive, convinced, not of 
all Mazarin had told him, but of one thing which he took care not to 
mention to him; and that was, that it was necessary for him to study 
seriously both his own affairs and those of Europe, for he found them 
very difficult and very obscure.  Louis found the king of England seated 
in the same place where he had left him.  On perceiving him, the English 
prince arose; but at the first glance he saw discouragement written in 
dark letters upon his cousin's brow.  Then, speaking first, as if to 
facilitate the painful avowal that Louis had to make to him, -

"Whatever it may be," said he, "I shall never forget all the kindness, 
all the friendship you have exhibited towards me."

"Alas!" replied Louis, in a melancholy tone, "only barren good-will, my 
brother."

Charles II. became extremely pale; he passed his cold hand over his brow, 
and struggled for a few instants against a faintness that made him 
tremble.  "I understand," said he at last; "no more hope!"

Louis seized the hand of Charles II. "Wait, my brother," said he; 
"precipitate nothing; everything may change; hasty resolutions ruin all 
causes; add another year of trial, I implore you, to the years you have 
already undergone.  You have, to induce you to act now rather than at 
another time, neither occasion nor opportunity.  Come with me, my 
brother; I will give you one of my residences, whichever you prefer, to 
inhabit.  I, with you, will keep my eyes upon events; we will prepare.  
Come, then, my brother, have courage!"

Charles II. withdrew his hand from that of the king, and drawing back, to 
salute him with more ceremony, "With all my heart, thanks!" replied he, 
"sire; but I have prayed without success to the greatest king on earth; 
now I will go and ask a miracle of God."  And he went out without being 
willing to hear any more, his head carried loftily, his hand trembling, 
with a painful contraction of his noble countenance, and that profound 
gloom which, finding no more hope in the world of men, appeared to go 
beyond it, and ask it in worlds unknown.  The officer of musketeers, on 
seeing him pass by thus pale, bowed almost to his knees as he saluted 
him.  He then took a flambeau, called two musketeers, and descended the 
deserted staircase with the unfortunate king, holding in his left hand 
his hat, the plume of which swept the steps.  Arrived at the door, the 
musketeer asked the king which way he was going, that he might direct the 
musketeers.

"Monsieur," replied Charles II., in a subdued voice, "you who have known 
my father, say, did you ever pray for him?  If you have done so, do not 
forget me in your prayers.  Now, I am going alone, and beg of you not to 
accompany me, or have me accompanied any further."

The officer bowed and sent away the musketeers into the interior of the 
palace.  But he himself remained an instant under the porch watching the 
departing Charles II., till he was lost in the turn of the next street.  
"To him as to his father formerly," murmured he, "Athos, if he were here, 
would say with reason, - 'Salute fallen majesty!'"  Then, reascending the 
staircase: "Oh! the vile service that I follow!" said he at every step.  
"Oh! my pitiful master!  Life thus carried on is no longer tolerable, and 
it is at length time that I should do something!  No more generosity, no 
more energy!  The master has succeeded, the pupil is starved forever.  
_Mordioux!_  I will not resist.  Come, you men," continued he, entering 
the ante-chamber, "why are you all looking at me so?  Extinguish these 
torches and return to your posts.  Ah! you were guarding me?  Yes, you 
watch over me, do you not, worthy fellows?  Brave fools!  I am not the 
Duc de Guise.  Begone!  They will not assassinate me in the little 
passage.  Besides," added he, in a low voice, "that would be a 
resolution, and no resolutions have been formed since Monsieur le 
Cardinal Richelieu died.  Now, with all his faults, that was a man!  It 
is settled: to-morrow I will throw my cassock to the nettles."

Then, reflecting: "No," said he, "not yet!  I have one great trial to 
make and I will make it; but that, and I swear it, shall be the last, 
_Mordioux!_"

He had not finished speaking when a voice issued from the king's 
chamber.  "Monsieur le lieutenant!" said this voice.

"Here I am," replied he.

"The king desires to speak to you."

"Humph!" said the lieutenant; "perhaps of what I was thinking about."  
And he went into the king's apartment.


Chapter XII:
The King and the Lieutenant.

As soon as the king saw the officer enter, he dismissed his _valet de 
chambre_ and his gentleman.  

"Who is on duty to-morrow, monsieur?" asked he.

The lieutenant bowed his head with military politeness, and replied, "I 
am, sire."

"What! still you?"

"Always I, sire."

"How can that be, monsieur?"

"Sire, when traveling, the musketeers supply all the posts of your 
majesty's household; that is to say, yours, her majesty the queen's, and 
monsieur le cardinal's, the latter of whom borrows of the king the best 
part, or rather the numerous part, of the royal guard."

"But in the interims?"

"There are no interims, sire, but for twenty or thirty men who rest out 
of a hundred and twenty.  At the Louvre it is very different, and if I 
were at the Louvre I should rely upon my brigadier; but, when traveling, 
sire, no one knows what may happen, and I prefer doing my duty myself."

"Then you are on guard every day?"

"And every night.  Yes, sire."

"Monsieur, I cannot allow that - I will have you rest."

"That is very kind, sire; but I will not."

"What do you say?" said the king, who did not at first comprehend the 
full meaning of this reply.

"I say, sire, that I will not expose myself to the chance of a fault.  If 
the devil had a trick to play on me, you understand, sire, as he knows 
the man with whom he has to deal, he would chose the moment when I should 
not be there.  My duty and the peace of my conscience before everything, 
sire."

"But such duty will kill you, monsieur."

"Eh! sire, I have performed it for thirty years, and in all France and 
Navarre there is not a man in better health than I am.  Moreover, I 
entreat you, sire, not to trouble yourself about me.  That would appear 
very strange to me, seeing that I am not accustomed to it."

The king cut short the conversation by a fresh question.  "Shall you be 
here, then, to-morrow morning?"

"As at present? yes, sire."

The king walked several times up and down his chamber; it was very plain 
that he burned with a desire to speak, but that he was restrained by some 
fear or other.  The lieutenant, standing motionless, hat in hand, watched 
him making these evolutions, and, whilst looking at him, grumbled to 
himself, biting his mustache:

"He has not half a crown worth of resolution!  _Parole d'honneur!_  I 
would lay a wager he does not speak at all!"

The king continued to walk about, casting from time to time a side glance 
at the lieutenant.  "He is the very image of his father," continued the 
latter, in is secret soliloquy, "he is at once proud, avaricious, and 
timid.  The devil take his master, say I."

The king stopped.  "Lieutenant," said he.

"I am here, sire."

"Why did you cry out this evening, down below in the _salons_ - 'The 
king's service!  His majesty's musketeers!'"

"Because you gave me the order, sire."

"I?"

"Yourself."

"Indeed, I did not say a word, monsieur."

"Sire, an order is given by a sign, by a gesture, by a glance, as 
intelligibly, as freely, and as clearly as by word of mouth.  A servant 
who has nothing but ears is not half a good servant."

"Your eyes are very penetrating, then, monsieur."

"How is that, sire?"

"Because they see what is not."

	"My eyes are good, though, sire, although they have served their 
master long and much: when they have anything to see, they seldom miss 
the opportunity.  Now, this evening, they saw that your majesty colored 
with endeavoring to conceal the inclination to yawn, that your majesty 
looked with eloquent supplications, first to his eminence, and then at 
her majesty, the queen-mother, and at length to the entrance door, and 
they so thoroughly remarked all I have said, that they saw your majesty's 
lips articulate these words: 'Who will get me out of this?'"

"Monsieur!"

"Or something to this effect, sire - 'My musketeers!'  I could then no 
longer hesitate.  That look was for me.  I cried out instantly, 'His 
majesty's musketeers!'  And, besides, that was shown to be true, sire, 
not only by your majesty's not saying I was wrong, but proving I was 
right by going out at once."

The king turned away to smile; then, after a few seconds, he again fixed 
his limpid eye upon that countenance, so intelligent, so bold, and so 
firm, that it might have been said to be the proud and energetic profile 
of the eagle facing the sun.  "That is all very well," said he, after a 
short silence, during which he endeavored, in vain, to make his officer 
lower his eyes.

But seeing the king said no more, the latter pirouetted on his heels, and 
took three steps towards the door, muttering, "He will not speak!  
_Mordioux!_ he will not speak!"

"Thank you, monsieur," said the king at last.

"Humph!" continued the lieutenant; "there was only wanting that.  Blamed 
for having been less of a fool than another might have been."  And he 
went to the door, allowing his spurs to jingle in true military style.  
But when he was on the threshold, feeling the king's desire drew him 
back, he returned.

"Has your majesty told me all?" asked he, in a tone we cannot describe, 
but which, without appearing to solicit the royal confidence, contained 
so much persuasive frankness, that the king immediately replied:

"Yes; but draw near, monsieur."

"Now then," murmured the officer, "he is coming to it at last."

"Listen to me."

"I shall not lose a word, sire."

"You will mount on horseback to-morrow, at about half-past four in the 
morning, and you will have a horse saddled for me."

"From your majesty's stables?"

"No; one of your musketeers' horses."

"Very well, sire.  Is that all?"

"And you will accompany me."

"Alone?"

"Alone."

"Shall I come to seek your majesty, or shall I wait?"

"You will wait for me."

"Where, sire?"

"At the little park-gate."

The lieutenant bowed, understanding that the king had told him all he 
had to say.  In fact, the king dismissed him with a gracious wave of the 
hand.  The officer left the chamber of the king, and returned to place 
himself philosophically in his _fauteuil_, where, far from sleeping, as 
might have been expected, considering how late it was, he began to 
reflect more deeply than he had ever reflected before.  The result of 
these reflections was not so melancholy as the preceding ones had been.

"Come, he has begun," said he.  "Love urges him on, and he goes forward – 
he goes forward!  The king is nobody in his own palace; but the man 
perhaps may prove to be worth something.  Well, we shall see to-morrow 
morning.  Oh! oh!" cried he, all at once starting up, "that is a gigantic 
idea, _mordioux!_ and perhaps my fortune depends, at least, upon that 
idea!"  After this exclamation, the officer arose and marched, with his 
hands in the pockets of his _justaucorps_, about the immense ante-chamber 
that served him as an apartment.  The wax-light flamed furiously under 
the effects of a fresh breeze, which stole in through the chinks of the 
door and the window, and cut the _salle_ diagonally.  It threw out a 
reddish, unequal light, sometimes brilliant, sometimes dull, and the tall 
shadow of the lieutenant was seen marching on the wall, in profile, like 
a figure by Callot, with his long sword and feathered hat.

"Certainly!" said he, "I am mistaken if Mazarin is not laying a snare for 
this amorous boy.  Mazarin, this evening, gave an address, and made an 
appointment as complacently as M. Daangeau himself could have done - I 
heard him, and I know the meaning of his words.  'To-morrow morning,' 
said he, 'they will pass opposite the bridge of Blois.'  _Mordioux!_ that 
is clear enough, and particularly for a lover.  That is the cause of this 
embarrassment; that is the cause of this hesitation; that is the cause of 
this order - 'Monsieur the lieutenant of my musketeers, be on horseback 
to-morrow at four o'clock in the morning.'  Which is as clear as if he 
had said, - 'Monsieur the lieutenant of my musketeers, to-morrow, at 
four, at the bridge of Blois, - do you understand?'  Here is a state 
secret, then, which I, humble as I am, have in my possession, while it 
is in action.  And how do I get it?  Because I have good eyes, as his 
majesty just now said.  They say he loves this little Italian doll 
furiously.  They say he threw himself at his mother's feet, to beg her to 
allow him to marry her.  They say the queen went so far as to consult the 
court of Rome, whether such a marriage, contracted against her will, 
would be valid.  Oh, if I were but twenty-five!  If I had by my side 
those I no longer have!  If I did not despise the whole world most 
profoundly, I would embroil Mazarin with the queen-mother, France with 
Spain, and I would make a queen after my own fashion.  But let that 
pass."  And the lieutenant snapped his fingers in disdain.

"This miserable Italian - this poor creature - this sordid wretch - who 
has just refused the king of England a million, would not perhaps give 
me a thousand pistoles for the news I would carry him.  _Mordioux!_  I 
am falling into second childhood - I am becoming stupid indeed!  The idea 
of Mazarin giving anything! ha! ha! ha!" and he laughed in a subdued 
voice.

"Well, let us go to sleep - let us go to sleep; and the sooner the 
better.  My mind is wearied with my evening's work, and will see things 
to-morrow more clearly than to-day."

And upon this recommendation, made to himself, he folded his cloak around 
him, looking with contempt upon his royal neighbor.  Five minutes after 
this he was asleep, with his hands clenched and his lips apart, giving 
escape, not to his secret, but to a sonorous sound, which rose and spread 
freely beneath the majestic roof of the ante-chamber.


Chapter XIII:
Mary de Mancini.

The sun had scarcely shed its first beams on the majestic trees of the 
park and the lofty turrets of the castle, when the young king, who had 
been awake more than two hours, possessed by the sleeplessness of love, 
opened his shutters himself, and cast an inquiring look into the courts 
of the sleeping palace.  He saw that it was the hour agreed upon: the 
great court clock pointed to a quarter past four.  He did not disturb his 
_valet de chambre_, who was sleeping soundly at some distance; he dressed 
himself, and the valet, in a great fright, sprang up, thinking he had 
been deficient in his duty; but the king sent him back again, commanding 
him to preserve the most absolute silence.  He then descended the little 
staircase, went out at a lateral door, and perceived at the end of the 
wall a mounted horseman, holding another horse by the bridle.  This 
horseman could not be recognized in his cloak and slouched hat.  As to 
the horse, saddled like that of a rich citizen, it offered nothing 
remarkable to the most experienced eye.  Louis took the bridle: the 
officer held the stirrup without dismounting, and asked his majesty's 
orders in a low voice.

"Follow me," replied the king.

The officer put his horse to the trot, behind that of his master, and 
they descended the hill towards the bridge.  When they reached the other 
side of the Loire, -

"Monsieur," said the king, "you will please to ride on till you see a 
carriage coming; then return and inform me.  I will wait here."

"Will your majesty deign to give me some description of the carriage I am 
charged to discover?"

"A carriage in which you will see two ladies, and probably their 
attendants likewise."

"Sire, I should not wish to make a mistake; is there no other sign by 
which I may know this carriage?"

"It will bear, in all probability, the arms of monsieur le cardinal."

"That is sufficient, sire," replied the officer, fully instructed in the 
object of his search.  He put his horse to the trot, and rode sharply on 
in the direction pointed out by the king.  But he had scarcely gone five 
hundred paces when he saw four mules, and then a carriage, loom up from 
behind a little hill.  Behind this carriage came another.  It required 
only one glance to assure him that these were the equipages he was in 
search of; he therefore turned his bridle, and rode back to the king.

"Sire," said he, "here are the carriages.  The first, as you said, 
contains two ladies with their _femmes de chambre_; the second contains 
the footmen, provisions, and necessaries."

"That is well," replied the king in an agitated voice.  "Please to go and 
tell those ladies that a cavalier of the court wishes to pay his respects 
to them alone."

The officer set off at a gallop.  "_Mordioux!_" said he, as he rode on, 
"here is a new and honorable employment, I hope!  I complained of being 
nobody.  I am the king's confidant: that is enough to make a musketeer 
burst with pride."

He approached the carriage, and delivered his message gallantly and 
intelligently.  There were two ladies in the carriage: one of great 
beauty, although rather thin; the other less favored by nature, but 
lively, graceful, and uniting in the delicate lines of her brow all the 
signs of a strong will.  Her eyes, animated and piercing, in particular, 
spoke more eloquently than all the amorous phrases in fashion in those 
days of gallantry.  It was to her D'Artagnan addressed himself, without 
fear of being mistaken, although the other was, as we have said, the more 
handsome of the two.

"Madame," said he, "I am the lieutenant of the musketeers, and there is 
on the road a horseman who awaits you, and is desirous of paying his 
respects to you."

At these words, the effect of which he watched closely, the lady with the 
black eyes uttered a cry of joy, leant out of the carriage window, and 
seeing the cavalier approaching, held out her arms, exclaiming:

"Ah, my dear sire!" and the tears gushed from her eyes.

The coachman stopped his team; the women rose in confusion from the back 
of the carriage, and the second lady made a slight curtsey, terminated by 
the most ironical smile that jealousy ever imparted to the lips of woman.

"Marie, dear Marie," cried the king, taking the hand of the black-eyed 
lady in both his.  And opening the heavy door himself, he drew her out of 
the carriage with so much ardor, that she was in his arms before she 
touched the ground.  The lieutenant, posted on the other side of the 
carriage, saw and heard all without being observed.

The king offered his arm to Mademoiselle de Mancini, and made a sign to 
the coachman and lackeys to proceed.  It was nearly six o'clock; the road 
was fresh and pleasant; tall trees with their foliage still inclosed in 
the golden down of their buds, let the dew of morning filter from their 
trembling branches, like liquid diamonds; the grass was bursting at the 
foot of the hedges; the swallows having returned only a few days since, 
described their graceful curves between the heavens and the water; a 
breeze, laden with the perfumes of the blossoming woods, sighed along the 
road, and wrinkled the surface of the waters of the river; all these 
beauties of the day, all these perfumes of the plants, all these 
aspirations of the earth towards heaven, intoxicated the two lovers, 
walking side by side, leaning upon each other, eyes fixed upon eyes, hand 
clasping hand, and who, lingering as by a common desire, did not dare 
to speak, they had so much to say.

The officer saw that the king's horse, in wandering this way and that, 
annoyed Mademoiselle de Mancini.  He took advantage of the pretext of 
securing the horse to draw near them, and dismounting, walked between the 
two horses he led; he did not lose a single word or gesture of the 
lovers.  It was Mademoiselle de Mancini who at length began.

"Ah, my dear sire!" said she, "you do not abandon me, then?"

"No, Marie," replied the king; "you see I do not."

"I had so often been told, though, that as soon as we should be separated 
you would no longer think of me."

"Dear Marie, is it then to-day only that you have discovered we are 
surrounded by people interested in deceiving us?"

"But then, sire, this journey, this alliance with Spain?  They are going 
to marry you off!"

Louis hung his head.  At the same time the officer could see the eyes of 
Marie de Mancini shine in the sun with the brilliancy of a dagger 
starting from its sheath.  "And you have done nothing in favor of our 
love?" asked the girl, after a silence of a moment.

"Ah! mademoiselle, how could you believe that?  I threw myself at the 
feet of my mother; I begged her, I implored her; I told her all my hopes 
of happiness were in you; I even threatened - "

"Well?" asked Marie, eagerly.

"Well, the queen-mother wrote to the court of Rome, and received as 
answer, that a marriage between us would have no validity, and would 
be dissolved by the holy father.  At length, finding there was no hope 
for us, I requested to have my marriage with the infanta at least 
delayed."

"And yet that does not prevent your being on the road to meet her?"

"How can I help it?  To my prayers, to my supplications, to my tears, I 
received no answer but reasons of state."

"Well, well?"

"Well, what is to be done, mademoiselle, when so many wills are leagued 
against me?"

It was now Marie's turn to hang her head.  "Then I must bid you adieu 
forever," said she.  "You know that I am being exiled; you know that I am 
going to be buried alive; you know still more that they want to marry me 
off, too."

Louis became very pale, and placed his hand upon his heart.

"If I had thought that my life only had been at stake, I have been so 
persecuted that I might have yielded; but I thought yours was concerned, 
my dear sire, and I stood out for the sake of preserving your happiness."

"Oh, yes! my happiness, my treasure!" murmured the king, more gallantly 
than passionately, perhaps.

"The cardinal might have yielded," said Marie, "if you had addressed 
yourself to him, if you had pressed him.  For the cardinal to call the 
king of France his nephew! do you not perceive, sire?  He would have made 
war even for that honor; the cardinal, assured of governing alone, under 
the double pretext of having brought up the king and given his niece to 
him in marriage - the cardinal would have fought all antagonists, 
overcome all obstacles.  Oh, sire!  I can answer for that.  I am a woman, 
and I see clearly into everything where love is concerned."

These words produced a strange effect upon the king.  Instead of 
heightening his passion, they cooled it.  He stopped, and said 
hastily, -

"What is to be said, mademoiselle?  Everything has failed."

"Except your will, I trust, my dear sire?"

"Alas!" said the king, coloring, "have I a will?"

"Oh!" said Mademoiselle de Mancini mournfully, wounded by that expression.

"The king has no will but that which policy dictates, but that which 
reasons of state impose upon him."

"Oh! it is because you have no love," cried Mary; "if you loved, sire, 
you would have a will."

On pronouncing these words, Mary raised her eyes to her lover, whom she 
saw more pale and more cast down than an exile who is about to quit his 
native land forever.  "Accuse me," murmured the king, "but do not say I 
do not love you."

A long silence followed these words, which the young king had pronounced 
with a perfectly true and profound feeling.  "I am unable to think that 
to-morrow, and after to-morrow, I shall see you no more; I cannot think 
that I am going to end my sad days at a distance from Paris; that the 
lips of an old man, of an unknown, should touch that hand which you hold 
within yours; no, in truth, I cannot think of all that, my dear sire, 
without having my poor heart burst with despair."

And Marie de Mancini did shed floods of tears.  On his part, the king, 
much affected, carried his handkerchief to his mouth, and stifled a sob.

"See," said she, "the carriages have stopped, my sister waits for me, the 
time is come; what you are about to decide upon will be decided for 
life.  Oh, sire! you are willing, then, that I should lose you?  You are 
willing, then, Louis, that she to whom you have said 'I love you,' should 
belong to another than to her king, to her master, to her lover?  Oh! 
courage, Louis! courage!  One word, a single word!  Say 'I will!' and all 
my life is enchained to yours, and all my heart is yours forever."

The king made no reply.  Mary then looked at him as Dido looked at Aeneas 
in the Elysian fields, fierce and disdainful.

"Farewell, then," said she; "farewell life! love! heaven!"

And she took a step away.  The king detained her, seizing her hand, which 
he pressed to his lips, and despair prevailing over the resolution he 
appeared to have inwardly formed, he let fall upon that beautiful hand a 
burning tear of regret, which made Mary start, so really had that tear 
burnt her.  She saw the humid eyes of the king, his pale brow, his 
convulsed lips, and cried, with an accent that cannot be described, -

"Oh, sire! you are a king, you weep, and yet I depart!"

As his sole reply, the king hid his face in his handkerchief.  The 
officer uttered something so like a roar that it frightened the horses.  
Mademoiselle de Mancini, quite indignant, quitted the king's arm, hastily 
entered the carriage, crying to the coachman, "Go on, go on, and quick!"

The coachman obeyed, flogging his mules, and the heavy carriage rocked 
upon its creaking axle, whilst the king of France, alone, cast down, 
annihilated, did not dare to look either behind or before him.


Chapter XIV:
In which the King and the Lieutenant each give Proofs of Memory.

When the king, like all the people in the world who are in love, had long 
and attentively watched disappear in the distance the carriage which bore 
away his mistress; when he had turned and turned again a hundred times to 
the same side and had at length succeeded in somewhat calming the 
agitation of his heart and thoughts, he recollected that he was not 
alone.  The officer still held the horse by the bridle, and had not lost 
all hope of seeing the king recover his resolution.  He had still the 
resource of mounting and riding after the carriage; they would have lost 
nothing by waiting a little.  But the imagination of the lieutenant of 
the musketeers was too rich and too brilliant; it left far behind it that 
of the king, who took care not to allow himself to be carried away to 
such excess.  He contented himself with approaching the officer, and in 
a doleful voice, "Come," said he, "let us be gone; all is ended.  To 
horse!"

The officer imitated this carriage, this slowness, this sadness, and 
leisurely mounted his horse.  The king pushed on sharply, the 
lieutenant followed him.  At the bridge Louis turned around for the last 
time.  The lieutenant, patient as a god who has eternity behind and 
before him, still hoped for a return of energy.  But it was groundless, 
nothing appeared.  Louis gained the street which led to the castle, and 
entered as seven was striking.  When the king had returned, and the 
musketeer, who saw everything, had seen a corner of the tapestry over 
the cardinal's window lifted up, he breathed a profound sigh, like a man 
unloosed from the tightest bonds, and said in a low voice:

"Now then, my officer, I hope that it is over."

The king summoned his gentleman.  "Please to understand I shall receive 
nobody before two o'clock," said he.

"Sire," replied the gentleman, "there is, however, some one who requests 
admittance."

"Who is that?"

"Your lieutenant of musketeers."

"He who accompanied me?"

"Yes, sire."

"Ah," said the king, "let him come in."

The officer entered.  The king made a sign, and the gentleman and the 
valet retired.  Louis followed them with his eyes until they had shut the 
door, and when the tapestries had fallen behind them, - "You remind me by 
your presence, monsieur, of something I had forgotten to recommend to 
you, that is to say, the most absolute discretion."

"Oh! sire, why does your majesty give yourself the trouble of making me 
such a recommendation?  It is plain you do not know me."

"Yes, monsieur, that is true.  I know that you are discreet; but as I 
had prescribed nothing - "

The officer bowed.  "Has your majesty nothing else to say to me?"

"No, monsieur; you may retire."

"Shall I obtain permission not to do so till I have spoken to the king, 
sire?"

"What do you have to say to me?  Explain yourself, monsieur."

"Sire, a thing without importance to you, but which interests me 
greatly.  Pardon me, then, for speaking of it.  Without urgency, without 
necessity, I never would have done it, and I would have disappeared, mute 
and insignificant as I always have been."

"How!  Disappeared!  I do not understand you, monsieur."

"Sire, in a word," said the officer, "I am come to ask for my discharge 
from your majesty's service."

The king made a movement of surprise, but the officer remained as 
motionless as a statue.

"Your discharge - yours, monsieur? and for how long a time, I pray?"

"Why, forever, sire."

"What, you are desirous of quitting my service, monsieur?" said Louis, 
with an expression that revealed something more than surprise.

"Sire, I regret to say that I am."

"Impossible!"

"It is so, however, sire.  I am getting old; I have worn harness now 
thirty-five years; my poor shoulders are tired; I feel that I must give 
place to the young.  I don't belong to this age; I have still one foot in 
the old one; it results that everything is strange in my eyes, everything 
astonishes and bewilders me.  In short, I have the honor to ask your 
majesty for my discharge."

"Monsieur," said the king, looking at the officer, who wore his uniform 
with an ease that would have caused envy in a young man, "you are 
stronger and more vigorous than I am."

"Oh!" replied the officer, with an air of false modesty, "your majesty 
says so because I still have a good eye and a tolerably firm foot – 
because I can still ride a horse, and my mustache is black; but, sire, 
vanity of vanities all that - illusions all that - appearance, smoke, 
sire!  I have still a youthful air, it is true, but I feel old, and 
within six months I am certain I shall be broken down, gouty, impotent.  
Therefore, then, sire - "

"Monsieur," interrupted the king, "remember your words of yesterday.  You 
said to me in this very place where you now are, that you were endowed 
with the best health of any man in France; that fatigue was unknown to 
you! that you did not mind spending whole days and nights at your post.  
Did you tell me that, monsieur, or not?  Try and recall, monsieur."

The officer sighed.  "Sire," said he, "old age is boastful; and it is 
pardonable for old men to praise themselves when others no longer do it.  
It is very possible I said that; but the fact is, sire, I am very much 
fatigued, an request permission to retire."

"Monsieur," said the king, advancing towards the officer with a gesture 
full of majesty, "you are not assigning me the true reason.  You wish to 
quit my service, it may be true, but you disguise from me the motive of 
your retreat."

"Sire, believe that - "

"I believe what I see, monsieur; I see a vigorous, energetic man, full of 
presence of mind, the best soldier in France, perhaps; and this personage 
cannot persuade me the least in the world that he stands in need of rest."

"Ah! sire," said the lieutenant, with bitterness, "what praise!  Indeed, 
your majesty confounds me!  Energetic, vigorous, brave, intelligent, the 
best soldier in the army!  But, sire, your majesty exaggerates my small 
portion of merit to such a point, that however good an opinion I may have 
of myself, I do not recognize myself; in truth I do not.  If I were vain 
enough to believe only half of your majesty's words, I should consider 
myself a valuable, indispensable man.  I should say that a servant 
possessed of such brilliant qualities was a treasure beyond all price.  
Now, sire, I have been all my life - I feel bound to say it - except at 
the present time, appreciated, in my opinion, much below my value.  I 
therefore repeat, your majesty exaggerates."

The king knitted his brow, for he saw a bitter raillery beneath the words 
of the officer.  "Come, monsieur," said he, "let us meet the question 
frankly.  Are you dissatisfied with my service, say?  No evasions; speak 
boldly, frankly - I command you to do so."

The officer, who had been twisting his hat about in his hands, with an 
embarrassed air, for several minutes, raised his head at these words.  
"Oh! sire," said he, "that puts me a little more at my ease.  To a 
question put so frankly, I will reply frankly.  To tell the truth is a 
good thing, as much from the pleasure one feels in relieving one's heart, 
as on account of the rarity of the fact.  I will speak the truth, then, 
to my king, at the same time imploring him to excuse the frankness of an 
old soldier."

Louis looked at his officer with anxiety, which he manifested by the 
agitation of his gesture.  "Well, then, speak," said he, "for I am 
impatient to hear the truths you have to tell me."

The officer threw his hat upon a table, and his countenance, always so 
intelligent and martial, assumed, all at once, a strange character of 
grandeur and solemnity.  "Sire," said he, "I quit the king's service 
because I am dissatisfied.  The valet, in these times, can approach his 
master as respectfully as I do, can give him an account of his labor, 
bring back his tools, return the funds that have been intrusted to him, 
and say 'Master, my day's work is done.  Pay me, if you please, and let 
us part.'"

"Monsieur! monsieur!" exclaimed the king, crimson with rage.

"Ah! sire," replied the officer, bending his knee for a moment, "never 
was servant more respectful than I am before your majesty; only you 
commanded me to tell the truth.  Now I have begun to tell it, it must 
come out, even if you command me to hold my tongue."

There was so much resolution expressed in the deep-sunk muscles of the 
officer's countenance, that Louis XIV. had no occasion to tell him to 
continue; he continued, therefore, whilst the king looked at him with a 
curiosity mingled with admiration.

"Sire, I have, as I have said, now served the house of France thirty-five 
years; few people have worn out so many swords in that service as I have, 
and the swords I speak of were good swords, too, sire.  I was a boy, 
ignorant of everything except courage, when the king your father guessed 
that there was a man in me.  I was a man, sire, when the Cardinal de 
Richelieu, who was a judge of manhood, discovered an enemy in me.  Sire, 
the history of that enmity between the ant and the lion may be read from 
the first to the last line, in the secret archives of your family.  If 
ever you feel an inclination to know it, do so, sire; the history is 
worth the trouble - it is I who tell you so.  You will there read that 
the lion, fatigued, harassed, out of breath, at length cried for quarter, 
and the justice must be rendered him to say, that he gave as much as he 
required.  Oh! those were glorious times, sire, strewed over with battles 
like one of Tasso's or Ariosto's epics.  The wonders of those times, to 
which the people of ours would refuse belief, were every-day 
occurrences.  For five years together, I was a hero every day; at least, 
so I was told by persons of judgment; and that is a long period for 
heroism, trust me, sire, a period of five years.  Nevertheless, I have 
faith in what these people told me, for the were good judges.  They were 
named M. de Richelieu, M. de Buckingham, M. de Beaufort, M. de Retz, a 
mighty genius himself in street warfare, - in short, the king, Louis 
XIII., and even the queen, your noble mother, who one day condescended to 
say, '_Thank you_.'  I don't know what service I had had the good fortune 
to render her.  Pardon me, sire, for speaking so boldly; but what I 
relate to you, as I have already had the honor to tell your majesty, is 
history."
The king bit his lips, and threw himself violently on a chair.

"I appear importunate to your majesty," said the lieutenant.  "Eh! sire, 
that is the fate of truth; she is a stern companion; she bristles all 
over with steel; she wounds those whom she attacks, and sometimes him who 
speaks her."

"No, monsieur," replied the king: "I bade you speak - speak then."

"After the service of the king and the cardinal, came the service of the 
regency, sire; I fought pretty well in the Fronde - much less, though, 
than the first time.  The men began to diminish in stature.  I have, 
nevertheless, led your majesty's musketeers on some perilous occasions, 
which stand upon the orders of the day of the company.  Mine was a 
beautiful luck at that time.  I was the favorite of M. de Mazarin.  
Lieutenant here! lieutenant there! lieutenant to the right! lieutenant to 
the left!  There was not a buffet dealt in France, of which your humble 
servant did not have the dealing; but soon France was not enough.  The 
cardinal sent me to England on Cromwell's account; another gentleman who 
was not over gentle, I assure you, sire.  I had the honor of knowing him, 
and I was well able to appreciate him.  A great deal was promised me on 
account of that mission.  So, as I did much more than I had been bidden 
to do, I was generously paid, for I was at length appointed captain of 
the musketeers; that is to say, the most envied position in court, which 
takes precedence over the marshals of France, and justly; for who says 
captain of the musketeers says the flower of chivalry and king of the 
brave."

"Captain, monsieur!" interrupted the king; "you make a mistake.  
Lieutenant, you mean."

"Not at all, sire - I make no mistake; your majesty may rely upon me in 
that respect.  Monsieur le cardinal gave me the commission himself."

"Well!"

"But M. de Mazarin, as you know better than anybody, does not often give, 
and sometimes takes back what he has given; he took it back again as soon 
as peace was made and he was no longer in want of me.  Certainly I was 
not worthy to replace M. de Treville, of illustrious memory; but they 
had promised me, and they had given me; they ought to have stopped there."

"Is that what dissatisfies you monsieur?  Well, I shall make inquiries.  
I love justice; and your claim, though made in military fashion, does not 
displease me."

"Oh, sire!" said the officer, "your majesty has ill understood me; I no 
longer claim anything now."

"Excess of delicacy, monsieur; but I will keep my eye upon your affairs, 
and later - "

"Oh, sire! what a word! - later!  Thirty years have I lived upon that 
promising word, which has been pronounced by so many great personages, 
and which your mouth has, in its turn, just pronounced.  Later - that is 
how I have received a score of wounds, and how I have reached fifty-four 
years of age without ever having had a louis in my purse, and without 
ever having met with a protector on my way, - I who have protected so 
many people!  So I change my formula, sire; and when any one says to me 
'Later,' I reply '_Now_.'  It is rest that I solicit, sire.  That may be 
easily granted me.  That will cost nobody anything."

"I did not look for this language, monsieur, particularly from a man who 
has always lived among the great.  You forget you are speaking to the 
king, to a gentleman who is, I suppose, as of good a house as yourself; 
and when I say later, I mean a certainty."

"I do not at all doubt it, sire; but this is the end of the terrible 
truth I had to tell you.  If I were to see upon that table a _marshal's_ 
stick, the sword of constable, the crown of Poland, instead of later, I 
swear to you, sire, that I should still say _Now!_  Oh, excuse me, sire!  
I am from the country of your grandfather, Henry IV.  I do not speak 
often: but when I do speak, I speak all."

"The future of my reign has little temptation for you, monsieur, it 
appears," said Louis, haughtily.

"Forgetfulness, forgetfulness everywhere!" cried the officer, with a 
noble air; "the master has forgotten the servant, so the servant is 
reduced to forget his master.  I live in unfortunate times, sire.  I see 
youth full of discouragement and fear, I see it timid and despoiled, when 
it ought to be rich and powerful.  I yesterday evening, for example, open 
the door to a king of England, whose father, humble as I am, I was near 
saving, if God had not been against me - God, who inspired His elect, 
Cromwell!  I open, I said, the door, that is to say, the palace of one 
brother to another brother, and I see - stop, sire, that is a load on my 
heart! - I see the minister of that king drive away the proscribed 
prince, and humiliate his master by condemning to want another king, his 
equal.  Then I see my prince, who is young, handsome and brave, who has 
courage in his heart and lightening in his eye, - I see him tremble 
before a priest, who laughs at him behind the curtain of his alcove, 
where he digests all the gold of France, which he afterwards stuffs into 
secret coffers.  Yes - I understand your looks, sire.  I am bold to 
madness; but what is to be said?  I am an old man, and I tell you here, 
sire, to you, my king, things which I would cram down the throat of any 
one who should dare to pronounce them before me.  You have commanded me, 
to pour out the bottom of my heart before you, sire, and I cast at the 
feet of your majesty the pent-up indignation of thirty years, as I would 
pour out all my blood, if your majesty commanded me to do so."

The king, without speaking a word, wiped the drops of cold and abundant 
perspiration which trickled from his temples.  The moment of silence 
which followed this vehement outbreak represented for him who had spoken, 
and for him who had listened, ages of suffering.

"Monsieur," said the king at length, "you spoke the word forgetfulness.  
I have heard nothing but that word; I will reply, then, to it alone.  
Others have perhaps been able to forget, but I have not, and the proof 
is, that I remember that one day of riot, that one day when the furious 
people, raging and roaring as the sea, invaded the royal palace; that one 
day when I feigned sleep in my bed, one man alone, naked sword in hand, 
concealed behind my curtain, watched over my life, ready to risk his own 
for me, as he had before risked it twenty times for the lives of my 
family.  Was not the gentleman, whose name I then demanded, called M. 
d'Artagnan? say, monsieur."

"Your majesty has a good memory," replied the officer, coldly.

"You see, then," continued the king, "if I have such remembrances of my 
childhood, what an amount I may gather in the age of reason."

"Your majesty has been richly endowed by God," said the officer, in the 
same tone.

"Come, Monsieur d'Artagnan," continued Louis, with feverish agitation, 
"ought you not to be patient as I am?  Ought you not to do as I do?  
Come!"

"And what do you do, sire?"

"I wait."

"Your majesty may do so, because you are young; but I, sire, have not 
time to wait; old age is at my door, and death is behind it, looking into 
the very depths of my house.  Your majesty is beginning life, its future 
is full of hope and fortune; but I, sire, I am on the other side of the 
horizon, and we are so far from each other, that I should never have time 
to wait till your majesty came up to me."

Louis made another turn in his apartment, still wiping the moisture from 
his brow, in a manner that would have terrified his physicians, if his 
physicians had witnessed the state his majesty was in.

"It is very well, monsieur," said Louis XIV., in a sharp voice; "you are 
desirous of having your discharge, and you shall have it.  You offer me 
your resignation of the rank of lieutenant of the musketeers?"

"I deposit it humbly at your majesty's feet, sire."

"That is sufficient.  I will order your pension."

"I shall have a thousand obligations to your majesty."

"Monsieur," said the king, with a violent effort, "I think you are losing 
a good master."

"And I am sure of it, sire."

"Shall you ever find such another?"

"Oh, sire!  I know that your majesty is alone in the world; therefore 
will I never again take service with any other king upon earth, and will 
never again have other master than myself."

"You say so?"

"I swear so, your majesty."

"I shall remember that word, monsieur."

D'Artagnan bowed.

"And you know I have a good memory," said the king.

"Yes, sire; and yet I should desire that that memory should fail your 
majesty in this instance, in order that you might forget all the miseries 
I have been forced to spread before your eyes.  Your majesty is so much 
above the poor and the mean, that I hope - "

"My majesty, monsieur, will act like the sun, which looks upon all, great 
and small, rich and poor, giving luster to some, warmth to others, and 
life to all.  Adieu,  Monsieur d'Artagnan - adieu: you are free."

And the king, with a hoarse sob, which was lost in his throat, passed 
quickly into the next room.  D'Artagnan took up his hat from the table on 
which he had thrown in, and went out.


Chapter XV:
The Proscribed.

D'Artagnan had not reached the bottom of the staircase, when the king 
called his gentleman.  "I have a commission to give you, monsieur," said 
he.

"I am at your majesty's commands."

"Wait, then."  And the young king began to write the following letter, 
which cost him more than one sigh, although, at the same time, something 
like a feeling of triumph glittered in his eyes:

"MY LORD CARDINAL, - Thanks to your good counsels, and, above all, thanks 
to your firmness, I have succeeded in overcoming a weakness unworthy of a 
king.  You have too ably arranged my destiny to allow gratitude not to 
stop me at the moment when I was about to destroy your work.  I felt I 
was wrong to wish to make my life turn from the course you had marked out 
for it.  Certainly it would have been a misfortune to France and my 
family if a misunderstanding had taken place between me and my minister.  
This, however, would certainly have happened if I had made your niece my 
wife.  I am perfectly aware of this, and will henceforth oppose nothing 
to the accomplishment of my destiny.  I am prepared, then, to wed the 
infanta, Maria Theresa.  You may at once open the conference.  - Your 
affectionate LOUIS."

The king, after reperusing the letter, sealed it himself.

"This letter for my lord cardinal," said he.

The gentleman took it.  At Mazarin's door he found Bernouin waiting with 
anxiety.

"Well?" asked the minister's _valet de chambre_.

"Monsieur," said the gentleman, "here is a letter for his eminence."

"A letter!  Ah! we expected one after the little journey of the morning."

"Oh! you know, then, that his majesty - "

"As first minister, it belongs to the duties of our charge to know 
everything.  And his majesty prays and implores, I presume."

"I don't know, but he sighed frequently whilst he was writing."

"Yes, yes, yes; we understand all that; people sigh sometimes from 
happiness as well as from grief, monsieur."

"And yet the king did not look very happy when he returned, monsieur."

"You did not see clearly.  Besides, you only saw his majesty on his 
return, for he was only accompanied by the lieutenant of the guards.  But 
I had his eminence's telescope; I looked through it when he was tired, 
and I am sure they both wept."

"Well! was it for happiness they wept?"

"No, but for love, and they vowed to each other a thousand tendernesses, 
which the king asks no better to keep.  Now this letter is a beginning of 
the execution."

"And what does his eminence think of this love, which is, by the bye, no 
secret to anybody?"

Bernouin took the gentleman by the arm, and whilst ascending the 
staircase, - "In confidence," said he, in a low voice, "his eminence 
looks for success in the affair.  I know very well we shall have war with 
Spain; but, bah! war will please the nobles.  My lord cardinal, besides, 
can endow his niece royally, nay, more than royally.  There will be 
money, festivities, and fire-works - everybody will be delighted."

"Well, for my part," replied the gentleman, shaking his head, "it appears 
to me that this letter is very light to contain all that."

"My friend," replied Bernouin, "I am certain of what I tell you.  M. 
d'Artagnan related all that passed to me."

"Ay, ay! and what did he tell you?  Let us hear."

"I accosted him by asking him, on the part of the cardinal, if there were 
any news, without discovering my designs, observe, for M. d'Artagnan is a 
cunning hand.  'My dear Monsieur Bernouin,' he replied, 'the king is 
madly in love with Mademoiselle de Mancini, that is all I have to tell 
you.'  And then I asked him: 'Do you think, to such a degree that it will 
urge him to act contrary to the designs of his eminence?'  'Ah! don't ask 
me,' said he; 'I think the king capable of anything; he has a will of 
iron, and what he wills he wills in earnest.  If he takes it into his 
head to marry Mademoiselle de Mancini, he will marry her, depend upon 
it.'  And thereupon he left me and went straight to the stables, took a 
horse, saddled it himself, jumped upon its back, and set off as if the 
devil were at his heels."

"So that you believe, then - "

"I believe that monsieur the lieutenant of the guards knew more than he 
was willing to say."

"In you opinion, then, M. d'Artagnan - "

"Is gone, according to all probability, after the exiles, to carry out 
all that can facilitate the success of the king's love."

Chatting thus, the two confidants arrived at the door of his eminence's 
apartment.  His eminence's gout had left him; he was walking about his 
chamber in a state of great anxiety, listening at doors and looking out 
of windows.  Bernouin entered, followed by the gentleman, who had orders 
from the king to place the letter in the hands of the cardinal himself.  
Mazarin took the letter, but before opening it, he got up a ready smile, 
a smile of circumstance, able to throw a veil over emotions of whatever 
sort they might be.  So prepared, whatever was the impression received 
from the letter, no reflection of that impression was allowed to 
transpire upon his countenance.

"Well," said he, when he had read and reread the letter, "very well, 
monsieur.  Inform the king that I thank him for his obedience to the 
wishes of the queen-mother, and that I will do everything for the 
accomplishment of his will."

The gentleman left the room.  The door had scarcely closed before the 
cardinal, who had no mask for Bernouin, took off that which had so 
recently covered his face, and with a most dismal expression, - "Call M. 
de Brienne," said he.  Five minutes afterward the secretary entered.

"Monsieur," said Mazarin, "I have just rendered a great service to the 
monarchy, the greatest I have ever rendered it.  You will carry this 
letter, which proves it, to her majesty the queen-mother, and when she 
shall have returned it to you, you will lodge it in portfolio B., which 
is filed with documents and papers relative to my ministry."

Brienne went as desired, and, as the letter was unsealed, did not fail to 
read it on his way.  There is likewise no doubt that Bernouin, who was on 
good terms with everybody, approached so near to the secretary as to be 
able to read the letter over his shoulder; so that the news spread with 
such activity through the castle, that Mazarin might have feared it would 
reach the ears of the queen-mother before M. de Brienne could convey 
Louis XIV.'s letter to her.  A moment after orders were given for 
departure, and M. de Conde having been to pay his respects to the king on 
his pretended rising, inscribed the city of Poitiers upon his tablets, as 
the place of sojourn and rest for their majesties.

Thus in a few instants was unraveled an intrigue which had covertly 
occupied all the diplomacies of Europe.  It had nothing, however, very 
clear as a result, but to make a poor lieutenant of musketeers lose his 
commission and his fortune.  It is true, that in exchange he gained his 
liberty.  We shall soon know how M. d'Artagnan profited by this.  For 
the moment, if the reader will permit us, we shall return to the hostelry 
of _les Medici_, of which one of the windows opened at the very moment 
the orders were given for the departure of the king.

The window that opened was that of one of the rooms of Charles II.  The 
unfortunate prince had passed the night in bitter reflections, his head 
resting on his hands, and his elbows on the table, whilst Parry, infirm 
and old, wearied in body and in mind, had fallen asleep in a corner.  A 
singular fortune was that of this faithful servant, who saw beginning for 
the second generation the fearful series of misfortunes which had weighed 
so heavily on the first.  When Charles II. had well thought over the 
fresh defeat he had experienced, when he perfectly comprehended the 
complete isolation into which he had just fallen, on seeing his fresh 
hope left behind him, he was seized as with a vertigo, and sank back into 
the large armchair in which he was seated.  Then God took pity on the 
unhappy prince, and sent to console him sleep, the innocent brother of 
death.  He did not wake till half-past six, that is to say, till the sun 
shone brightly into his chamber, and Parry, motionless with fear of 
waking him, was observing with profound grief the eyes of the young man 
already red with wakefulness, and his cheeks pale with suffering and 
privations.

At length the noise of some heavy carts descending towards the Loire 
awakened Charles.  He arose, looked around him like a man who has 
forgotten everything, perceived Parry, shook him by the hand, and 
commanded him to settle the reckoning with Master Cropole.  Master 
Cropole, being called upon to settle his account with Parry, acquitted 
himself, it must be allowed, like an honest man; he only made his 
customary remark, that the two travelers had eaten nothing, which had the 
double disadvantage of being humiliating for his kitchen, and of forcing 
him to ask payment for a repast not consumed, but not the less lost.  
Parry had nothing to say to the contrary, and paid.

"I hope," said the king, "it has not been the same with the horses.  I 
don't see that they have eaten at your expense, and it would be a 
misfortune for travelers like us, who have a long journey to make, to 
have our horses fail us."

But Cropole, at this doubt, assumed his majestic air, and replied that 
the stables of _les Medici_ were not less hospitable than its refectory.

The king mounted his horse; his old servant did the same, and both set 
out towards Paris, without meeting a single person on their road, in the 
streets or the faubourgs of the city.  For the prince the blow was the 
more severe, as it was a fresh exile.  The unfortunates cling to the 
smallest hopes, as the happy do to the greatest good; and when they are 
obliged to quit the place where that hope has soothed their hearts, they 
experience the mortal regret which the banished man feels when he places 
his foot upon the vessel which is to bear him into exile.  It appears 
that the heart already wounded so many times suffers from the least 
scratch; it appears that it considers as a good the momentary absence of 
evil, which is nothing but the absence of pain; and that God, into the 
most terrible misfortunes, has thrown hope as the drop of water which the 
rich sinner in hell entreated of Lazarus.

For one instant even the hope of Charles II. had been more than a 
fugitive joy; - that was when he found himself so kindly welcomed by his 
brother king; then it had taken a form that had become a reality; then, 
all at once, the refusal of Mazarin had reduced the fictitious reality to 
the state of a dream.  This promise of Louis XIV., so soon retracted, had 
been nothing but a mockery; a mockery like his crown - like his scepter – 
like his friends - like all that had surrounded his royal childhood, and 
which had abandoned his proscribed youth.  Mockery! everything was a 
mockery for Charles II. except the cold, black repose promised by death.

Such were the ideas of the unfortunate prince while sitting listlessly 
upon his horse, to which he abandoned the reins: he rode slowly along 
beneath the warm May sun, in which the somber misanthropy of the exile 
perceived a last insult to his grief.


Chapter XVI:
"Remember!"

A horseman going rapidly along the road leading towards Blois, which he 
had left nearly half an hour before, passed the two travelers, and, 
though apparently in haste, raised his hat as he passed them.  The king 
scarcely observed this young man, who was about twenty-five years of age, 
and who, turning round several times, made friendly signals to a man 
standing before the gate of a handsome white-and-red house; that is to 
say, built of brick and stone, with a slated roof, situated on the left 
hand of the road the prince was traveling.

This man, old, tall, and thin, with white hair, - we speak of the one 
standing by the gate; - this man replied to the farewell signals of the 
young one by signs of parting as tender as could have been made by a 
father.  The young man disappeared at the first turn of the road, 
bordered by fine trees, and the old man was preparing to return to the 
house, when the two travelers, arriving in front of the gate, attracted 
his attention.

The king, as we have said, was riding with his head cast down, his arms 
inert, leaving his horse to go what pace he liked, whilst Parry, behind 
him, the better to imbibe the genial influence of the sun, had taken off 
his hat, and was looking about right and left.  His eyes encountered 
those of the old man leaning against the gate; the latter, as if struck 
by some strange spectacle, uttered an exclamation, and made one step 
towards the two travelers.  From Parry his eyes immediately turned 
towards the king, upon whom they rested for an instant.  This 
examination, however rapid, was instantly reflected in a visible manner 
upon the features of the tall old man.  For scarcely had he recognized 
the younger of the travelers - and we said recognized, for nothing but a 
perfect recognition could have explained such an act - scarcely, we say, 
had he recognized the younger of the two travelers, than he clapped his 
hands together, with respectful surprise, and, raising his hat from his 
head, bowed so profoundly that it might have been said he was kneeling.  
This demonstration, however absent, or rather, however absorbed was the 
king in his reflections, attracted his attention instantly; and checking 
his horse and turning towards Parry, he exclaimed, "Good God, Parry, who 
is that man who salutes me in such a marked manner?  Can he know me, 
think you?"

Parry, much agitated and very pale, had already turned his horse towards 
the gate.  "Ah, sire!" said he, stopping suddenly at five or six paces' 
distance from the still bending old man: "sire, I am seized with 
astonishment, for I think I recognize that brave man.  Yes, it must be 
he!  Will your majesty permit me to speak to him?"

"Certainly."

"Can it be you, Monsieur Grimaud?" asked Parry.

"Yes, it is I," replied the tall old man, drawing himself up, but without 
losing his respectful demeanor.

"Sire," then said Parry, "I was not deceived.  This good man is the 
servant of the Comte de la Fere, and the Comte de la Fere, if you 
remember, is the worthy gentleman of whom I have so often spoken to your 
majesty that the remembrance of him must remain, not only in your mind, 
but in your heart."

"He who assisted my father at his last moments?" asked Charles, evidently 
affected at the remembrance.

"The same, sire."

"Alas!" said Charles; and then addressing Grimaud, whose penetrating 
and intelligent eyes seemed to search and divine his thoughts. - "My 
friend," said he, "does your master, Monsieur le Comte de la Fere, live 
in this neighborhood?"

"There," replied Grimaud, pointing with his outstretched arm to the white-
and-red house behind the gate.

"And is Monsieur le Comte de la Fere at home at present?"

"At the back, under the chestnut trees."

"Parry," said the king, "I will not miss this opportunity, so precious 
for me, to thank the gentleman to whom our house is indebted for such a 
noble example of devotedness and generosity.  Hold my horse, my friend, 
if you please."  And, throwing the bridle to Grimaud, the king entered 
the abode of Athos, quite alone, as one equal enters the dwelling of 
another.  Charles had been informed by the concise explanation of 
Grimaud, - "At the back, under the chestnut trees;" he left, therefore, 
the house on the left, and went straight down the path indicated.  The 
thing was easy; the tops of those noble trees, already covered with 
leaves and flowers, rose above all the rest.

On arriving under the lozenges, by turns luminous and dark, which 
checkered the ground of this path according as the trees were more or 
less in leaf, the young prince perceived a gentleman walking with his 
arms behind him, apparently plunged in a deep meditation.  Without doubt, 
he had often had this gentleman described to himself, for, without 
hesitating, Charles II. walked straight up to him.  At the sound of his 
footsteps, the Comte de la Fere raised his head, and seeing an unknown 
man of noble and elegant carriage coming towards him, he raised his hat 
and waited.  At some paces from him, Charles II. likewise took off his 
hat.  Then, as if in reply to the comte's mute interrogation, -

"Monsieur le Comte," said he, "I come to discharge a debt towards you.  I 
have, for a long time, had the expression of a profound gratitude to 
bring you.  I am Charles II., son of Charles Stuart, who reigned in 
England, and died on the scaffold."

On hearing this illustrious name, Athos felt a kind of shudder creep 
through his veins, but at the sight of the young prince standing 
uncovered before him, and stretching out his hand towards him, two tears, 
for an instant, dimmed his brilliant eyes.  He bent respectfully, but the 
prince took him by the hand.

"See how unfortunate I am, my lord count; it is only due to chance that I 
have met with you.  Alas!  I ought to have people around me whom I love 
and honor, whereas I am reduced to preserve their services in my heart, 
and their names in my memory: so that if your servant had not recognized 
mine, I should have passed by your door as by that of a stranger."

"It is but too true," said Athos, replying with his voice to the first 
part of the king's speech, and with a bow to the second; "it is but too 
true, indeed, that your majesty has seen many evil days."

"And the worst, alas!" replied Charles, "are perhaps still to come."

"Sire, let us hope."

"Count, count," continued Charles, shaking his head, "I entertained hope 
till last night, and that of a good Christian, I swear."

Athos looked at the king as if to interrogate him.

"Oh, the history is soon related," said Charles.  "Proscribed, despoiled, 
disdained, I resolved, in spite of all my repugnance, to tempt fortune 
one last time.  Is it not written above, that, for our family, all good 
fortune and all bad fortune shall eternally come from France?  You know 
something of that, monsieur, - you, who are one of the Frenchmen whom my 
unfortunate father found at the foot of his scaffold, on the day of his 
death, after having found them at his right hand on the day of battle."

"Sire," said Athos modestly, "I was not alone.  My companions and I did, 
under the circumstances, our duty as gentlemen, and that was all.  Your 
majesty was about to do me the honor to relate - "

"That is true, I had the protection, - pardon my hesitation, count, but, 
for a Stuart, you, who understand everything, you will comprehend that 
the word is hard to pronounce; - I had, I say, the protection of my 
cousin the stadtholder of Holland; but without the intervention, or at 
least without the authorization of France, the stadtholder would not take 
the initiative.  I came, then, to ask this authorization of the king of 
France, who has refused me."

"The king has refused you, sire!"

"Oh, not he; all justice must be rendered to my younger brother Louis; 
but Monsieur de Mazarin - "

Athos bit his lips.

"You perhaps think I should have expected this refusal?" said the king, 
who had noticed the movement.

"That was, in truth, my thought, sire," replied Athos, respectfully; "I 
know that Italian of old."

"Then I determined to come to the test, and know at once the last word of 
my destiny.  I told my brother Louis, that, not to compromise either 
France or Holland, I would tempt fortune myself in person, as I had 
already done, with two hundred gentlemen, if he would give them to me; 
and a million, if he would lend it me."

"Well, sire?"

"Well, monsieur, I am suffering at this moment something strange, and 
that is, the satisfaction of despair.  There is in certain souls, - and I 
have just discovered that mine is of the number,- a real satisfaction in 
the assurance that all is lost, and the time is come to yield."

"Oh, I hope," said Athos, "that your majesty is not come to that 
extremity."

"To say so, my lord count, to endeavor to revive hope in my heart, you 
must have ill understood what I have just told you.  I came to Blois to 
ask of my brother Louis the alms of a million, with which I had the hopes 
of re-establishing my affairs; and my brother Louis has refused me.  You 
see, then, plainly, that all is lost."

"Will your majesty permit me to express a contrary opinion?"

"How is that, count?  Do you think my heart of so low an order that I do 
not know how to face my position?"

"Sire, I have always seen that it was in desperate positions that 
suddenly the great turns of fortune have taken place."

"Thank you, count: it is some comfort to meet with a heart like yours; 
that is to say, sufficiently trustful in God and in monarchy, never to 
despair of a royal fortune, however low it may be fallen.  Unfortunately, 
my dear count, your words are like those remedies they call 'sovereign,' 
and which, though able to cure curable wounds or diseases, fail against 
death.  Thank you for your perseverance in consoling me, count, thanks 
for your devoted remembrance, but I know in what I must trust - nothing 
will save me now.  And see, my friend, I was so convinced, that I was 
taking the route of exile, with my old Parry; I was returning to devour 
my poignant griefs in the little hermitage offered me by Holland.  There, 
believe me, count, all will soon be over, and death will come quickly; it 
is called so often by this body, eaten up by its soul, and by this soul, 
which aspires to heaven."

"Your majesty has a mother, a sister, and brothers; your majesty is the 
head of the family, and ought, therefore, to ask a long life of God, 
instead of imploring Him for a prompt death.  Your majesty is an exile, 
a fugitive, but you have right on your side; you ought to aspire to 
combats, dangers, business, and not to rest in heavens."

"Count," said Charles II., with a smile of indescribable sadness, "have 
you ever heard of a king who reconquered his kingdom with one servant the 
age of Parry, and with three hundred crowns which that servant carried in 
his purse?"

"No, sire; but I have heard - and that more than once - that a dethroned 
king has recovered his kingdom with a firm will, perseverance, some 
friends, and a million skillfully employed."

"But you cannot have understood me.  The million I asked of my brother 
Louis was refused me."

"Sire," said Athos, "will your majesty grant me a few minutes, and listen 
attentively to what remains for me to say to you?"

Charles II. looked earnestly at Athos.  "Willingly, monsieur," said he.

"Then I will show your majesty the way," resumed the count, directing his 
steps towards the house.  He then conducted the king to his study, and 
begged him to be seated.  "Sire," said he, "your majesty just now told me 
that, in the present state of England, a million would suffice for the 
recovery of your kingdom."

"To attempt it at least, monsieur; and to die as a king if I should not 
succeed."

"Well, then, sire, let your majesty, according to the promise you have 
made me, have the goodness to listen to  what I have to say."  Charles 
made an affirmative sign with his head.  Athos walked straight up to the 
door, the bolts of which he drew, after looking to see if anybody was 
near, and then returned.  "Sire," said he, "your majesty has kindly 
remembered that I lent assistance to the very noble and very unfortunate 
Charles I., when his executioners conducted him from St. James's to 
Whitehall."

"Yes, certainly I do remember it, and always shall remember it."

"Sire, it is a dismal history to be heard by a son who no doubt has had 
it related to him many times; and yet I ought to repeat it to your 
majesty without omitting one detail."

"Speak on, monsieur."

"When the king your father ascended the scaffold, or rather when he 
passed from his chamber to the scaffold, on a level with his window, 
everything was prepared for his escape.  The executioner was got out of 
the way; a hole contrived under the floor of his apartment; I myself was 
beneath the funeral vault, which I heard all at once creak beneath his 
feet."

"Parry has related to me all these terrible details, monsieur."

Athos bowed and resumed.  "But here is something he had not related to 
you, sire, for what follows passed between God, your father, and myself; 
and never has the revelation of it been made even to my dearest friends.  
'Go a little further off,' said the august prisoner to the executioner; 
'it is but for an instant, and I know that I belong to you; but remember 
not to strike till I give the signal.  I wish to offer up my prayers in 
freedom."

"Pardon me," said Charles II., turning very pale," but you, count, who 
know so many details of this melancholy event, - details which, as you 
said just now, have never been revealed to any one, - do you know the 
name of that infernal executioner, of that base wretch who concealed his 
face that he might assassinate a king with impunity?"

Athos became slightly pale.  "His name?" said he, "yes, I know it, but 
cannot tell it."

"And what is become of him, for nobody in England knows his destiny?"

"He is dead."

"But he did not die in his bed; he did not die a calm and peaceful death; 
he did not die the death of the good?"

"He died a violent death, in a terrible night, rendered so by the 
passions of man and a tempest from God.  His body, pierced by a dagger, 
sank to the depths of the ocean.  God pardon his murderer!"

"Proceed, then," said Charles II., seeing that the count was unwilling to 
say more.

"The king of England, after having, as I have said, spoken thus to the 
masked executioner, added, - 'Observe, you will not strike till I shall 
stretch out my arms, saying - REMEMBER!'"

"I was aware," said Charles, in an agitated voice, "that that was the 
last word pronounced by my unfortunate father.  But why and for whom?"

"For the French gentleman placed beneath his scaffold."

"For you, then, monsieur?"

"Yes, sire; and every one of the words which he spoke to me, through the 
planks of the scaffold covered with a black cloth, still sounds in my 
ears.  The king knelt down on one knee: 'Comte de la Fere,' said he, 'are 
you there?'  'Yes, sire,' replied I.  Then the king stooped towards the 
boards."

Charles II., also palpitating with interest, burning with grief, stooped 
towards Athos, to catch, one by one, every word that escaped from him.  
His head touched that of the comte.

"Then," continued Athos, "the king stooped.  'Comte de la Fere,' said he, 
'I could not be saved by you: it was not to be.  Now, even though I 
commit a sacrilege, I must speak to you.  Yes, I have spoken to men - 
yes, I have spoken to God, and I speak to you the last.  To sustain a 
cause which I thought sacred, I have lost the throne of my fathers and 
the heritage of my children.'"

Charles II. concealed his face in his hands, and a bitter tear glided 
between his white and slender fingers.

"'I have still a million in gold,' continued the king.  'I buried it in 
the vaults of the castle of Newcastle, a moment before I left that 
city.'"  Charles raised his head with an expression of such painful joy 
that it would have drawn tears from any one acquainted with his 
misfortunes.

"A million!" murmured he, "Oh, count!"

"'You alone know that this money exists: employ it when you think it can 
be of the greatest service to my eldest son.  And now, Comte de la Fere, 
bid me adieu!'

"'Adieu, adieu, sire!' cried I."

Charles arose, and went and leant his burning brow against the window.

"It was then," continued Athos, "that the king pronounced the word 
'REMEMBER!' addressed to me.  You see, sire, that I have remembered."

The king could not resist or conceal his emotion.  Athos beheld the 
movement of his shoulders, which undulated convulsively; he heard the 
sobs which burst from his over-charged breast.  He was silent himself, 
suffocated by the flood of bitter remembrances he had just poured upon 
that royal head.  Charles II., with a violent effort, left the window, 
devoured his tears, and came and sat by Athos.  "Sire," said the latter, 
"I thought till to-day that the time had not yet arrived for the 
employment of that last resource; but, with my eyes fixed upon England, I 
felt it was approaching.  To-morrow I meant to go and inquire in what 
part of the world your majesty was, and then I purposed going to you.  
You come to me, sire; that is an indication that God is with us."

"My lord," said Charles, in a voice choked by emotion, "you are, for me, 
what an angel sent from heaven would be, - you are a preserver sent to me 
from the tomb of my father himself; but, believe me, for ten years' civil 
war has passed over my country, striking down men, tearing up soil, it is 
no more probable that gold should remain in the entrails of the earth, 
than love in the hearts of my subjects."

"Sire, the spot in which his majesty buried the million is well known to 
me, and no one, I am sure, has been able to discover it.  Besides, is the 
castle of Newcastle quite destroyed? Have they demolished it stone by 
stone, and uprooted the soil to the last tree?"

"No, it is still standing: but at this moment General Monk occupies it 
and is encamped there.  The only spot from which I could look for succor, 
where I possess a single resource, you see, is invaded by my enemies."

"General Monk, sire, cannot have discovered the treasure which I speak 
of."

"Yes, but can I go and deliver myself up to Monk, in order to recover 
this treasure? Ah! count, you see plainly I must yield to destiny, since 
it strikes me to the earth every time I rise.  What can I do with Parry 
as my only servant, with Parry, whom Monk has already driven from his 
presence?  No, no, no, count, we must yield to this last blow."

"But what your majesty cannot do, and what Parry can no more attempt, do 
you not believe that I could succeed in accomplishing?"

"You - you, count - you would go?"

"If it please your majesty," said Athos, bowing to the king, "yes, I will 
go, sire."

"What! you so happy here, count?"

"I am never happy when I have a duty left to accomplish, and it is an 
imperative duty which the king your father left me to watch over your 
fortunes, and make a royal use of his money.  So, if your majesty honors 
me with a sign, I will go with you."

"Ah, monsieur!" said the king, forgetting all royal etiquette and 
throwing his arms around the neck of Athos, "you prove to me that there 
is a God in heaven, and that this God sometimes sends messengers to the 
unfortunate who groan on the earth."

Athos, exceedingly moved by this burst of feeling of the young man, 
thanked him with profound respect, and approached the window.  "Grimaud!" 
cried he, "bring out my horses."

"What, now - immediately!" said the king.  "Ah, monsieur, you are indeed 
a wonderful man!"

"Sire," said Athos, "I know nothing more pressing than your majesty's 
service.  Besides," added he, smiling, "it is a habit contracted long 
since, in the service of the queen your aunt, and of the king your 
father.  How is it possible for me to lose it at the moment your 
majesty's service calls for it?"

"What a man!" murmured the king.

Then, after a moment's reflection, - "But no, count, I cannot expose you 
to such privations.  I have no means of rewarding such services."

"Bah!" said Athos, laughing.  "Your majesty is joking; have you not a 
million? Ah! why am I not possessed of half such a sum!  I would already 
have raised a regiment.  But, thank God!  I have still a few rolls of 
gold and some family diamonds left.  Your majesty will, I hope, deign to 
share with a devoted servant."

"With a friend - yes, count, but on condition that, in his turn, that 
friend will share with me hereafter!"

"Sire!" said Athos, opening a casket, form which he drew both gold and 
jewels, "you see, sire, we are too rich.  Fortunately, there are four of 
us, in the event of our meeting with thieves."

Joy made the blood rush to the pale cheeks of Charles II., as he saw 
Athos's two horses, led by Grimaud, already booted for the journey, 
advance towards the porch.

"Blaisois, this letter for the Vicomte de Bragelonne.  For everybody else 
I am gone to Paris.  I confide the house to you, Blaisois."  Blaisois 
bowed, shook hands with Grimaud, and shut the gate.


Chapter XVII:
In which Aramis is sought, and only Bazin is found.

Two hours had scarcely elapsed since the departure of the master of the 
house, who, in Blaisois's sight, had taken the road to Paris, when a 
horseman, mounted on a good pied horse, stopped before the gate, and with 
a sonorous "_hola!_" called the stable-boys, who, with the gardeners, had 
formed a circle round Blaisois, the historian-in-ordinary to the 
household of the chateau.  This "_hola_," doubtless well known to Master 
Blaisois, made him turn his head and exclaim - "Monsieur d'Artagnan! run 
quickly, you chaps, and open the gate."

A swarm of eight brisk lads flew to the gate, which was opened as if it 
had been made of feathers; and every one loaded him with attentions, for 
they knew the welcome this friend was accustomed to receive from their 
master; and for such remarks the eye of the valet may always be depended 
upon.

"Ah!" said M. d'Artagnan, with an agreeable smile, balancing himself upon 
his stirrup to jump to the ground, "where is that dear count?"

"Ah! how unfortunate you are, monsieur!" said Blaisois: "and how 
unfortunate will monsieur le comte, our master, think himself when he 
hears of your coming!  As ill luck will have it, monsieur le comte left 
home two hours ago."

D'Artagnan did not trouble himself about such trifles.  "Very good!" said 
he.  "You always speak the best French in the world; you shall give me a 
lesson in grammar and correct language, whilst I wait the return of your 
master."

"That is impossible, monsieur," said Blaisois; "you would have to wait 
too long."

"Will he not come back to-day, then?"

"No, nor to-morrow, nor the day after to-morrow.  Monsieur le comte has 
gone on a journey."

"A journey!" said D'Artagnan, surprised; "that's a fable, Master 
Blaisois."

"Monsieur, it is no more than the truth.  Monsieur has done me the honor 
to give me the house in charge; and he added, with his voice so full of 
authority and kindness - that is all one to me: 'You will say I have gone 
to Paris.'"

"Well!" cried D'Artagnan, "since he is gone towards Paris, that is all I 
wanted to know! you should have told me so at first, booby!  He is then 
two hours in advance?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"I shall soon overtake him.  Is he alone?"

"No, monsieur."

"Who is with him, then?"

"A gentleman whom I don't know, an old man, and M. Grimaud."

"Such a party cannot travel as fast as I can - I will start."

"Will monsieur listen to me an instant?" said Blaisois, laying his hand 
gently on the reins of the horse.

"Yes, if you don't favor me with fine speeches, and make haste."

"Well, then, monsieur, that word Paris appears to me to be only an 
excuse."

"Oh, oh!" said D'Artagnan, seriously, "an excuse, eh?"

"Yes, monsieur: and monsieur le comte is not going to Paris, I will 
swear."

"What makes you think so?"

"This, - M. Grimaud always knows where our master is going; and he had 
promised me that the first time he went to Paris, he would take a little 
money for me to my wife."

"What, have you a wife, then?"

"I had one - she was of this country; but monsieur thought her a noisy 
scold, and I sent her to Paris; it is sometimes inconvenient, but very 
agreeable at others."

"I understand; but go on.  You do not believe the count gone to Paris?"

"No, monsieur; for then M. Grimaud would have broken his word; he would 
have perjured himself, and that is impossible."

"That is impossible," repeated D'Artagnan, quite in a study, because he 
was quite convinced.  "Well, my brave Blaisois, many thanks to you."

Blaisois bowed.

"Come, you know I am not curious - I have serious business with your 
master.  Could you not, by a little bit of a word - you who speak so 
well - give me to understand - one syllable only - I will guess the 
rest."

"Upon my word, monsieur, I cannot.  I am quite ignorant where monsieur le 
comte is gone.  As to listening at doors, that is contrary to my nature; 
and besides, it is forbidden here."

"My dear fellow," said D'Artagnan, "this is a very bad beginning for me.  
Never mind; you know when monsieur le comte will return, at least?"

"As little, monsieur, as the place of his destination."

"Come, Blaisois, come, search."

"Monsieur doubts my sincerity?  Ah, monsieur, that grieves me much."

"The devil take his gilded tongue!" grumbled D'Artagnan.  "A clown with a 
word would be worth a dozen of him.  Adieu!"

"Monsieur, I have the honor to present you my respects."

"_Cuistre!_" said D'Artagnan to himself, "the fellow is unbearable."  He 
gave another look up to the house, turned his horse's head, and set off 
like a man who has nothing either annoying or embarrassing in his mind.  
When he was at the end of the wall, and out of sight, - "Well, now, I 
wonder," said he, breathing quickly, "whether Athos was at home.  No; all 
those idlers, standing with their arms crossed, would have been at work 
if the eye of the master was near.  Athos gone on a journey? - that is  
incomprehensible.  Bah! it is all devilish mysterious!  And then - no - 
he is not the man I want.  I want one of a cunning, patient mind.  My 
business is at Melun, in a certain presbytery I am acquainted with.  
Forty-five leagues - four days and a half!  Well, it is fine weather, and 
I am free.  Never mind the distance!"

And he put his horse into a trot, directing his course towards Paris.  On 
the fourth day he alighted at Melun, as he had intended.

D'Artagnan was never in the habit of asking any one on the road for any 
common information.  For these sorts of details, unless in very serious 
circumstances, he confided in his perspicacity, which was so seldom at 
fault, in his experience of thirty years, and in a great habit of reading 
the physiognomies of houses, as well as those of men.  At Melun, 
D'Artagnan immediately found the presbytery - a charming house, plastered 
over red brick, with vines climbing along the gutters, and a cross, in 
carved stone, surmounting the ridge of the roof.  From the ground-floor 
of this house came a noise, or rather a confusion of voices, like the 
chirping of young birds when the brood is just hatched under the down.  
One of these voices was spelling the alphabet distinctly.  A voice thick, 
yet pleasant, at the same time scolded the talkers and corrected the 
faults of the reader.  D'Artagnan recognized that voice, and as the 
window of the ground-floor was open, he leant down from his horse under 
the branches and red fibers of the vine and cried, "Bazin, my dear Bazin! 
good-day to you."

A short, fat man, with a flat face, a cranium ornamented with a crown of 
gray hairs, cut short, in imitation of a tonsure, and covered with an old 
black velvet cap, arose as soon as he heard D'Artagnan - we ought not to 
say arose, but _bounded up_.  In fact, Bazin bounded up, carrying with 
him his little low chair, which the children tried to take away, with 
battles more fierce than those of the Greeks endeavoring to recover the 
body of Patroclus from the hands of the Trojans.  Bazin did more than 
bound; he let fall both his alphabet and his ferule.  "You!" said he; 
"you, Monsieur D'Artagnan?"

"Yes, myself!  Where is Aramis - no, M. le Chevalier d'Herblay - no, I am 
still mistaken - Monsieur le Vicaire-General?"

"Ah, monsieur," said Bazin, with dignity, "monseigneur is at his diocese."

"What did you say?" said D'Artagnan.  Bazin repeated the sentence.

"Ah, ah! but has Aramis a diocese?"

"Yes, monsieur.  Why not?"

"Is he a bishop, then?"

"Why, where can you come from," said Bazin, rather irreverently, "that 
you don't know that?"

"My dear Bazin, we pagans, we men of the sword, know very well when a man 
is made a colonel, or maitre-de-camp, or marshal of France; but if he be 
made a bishop, arch-bishop, or pope - devil take me if the news reaches 
us before the three quarters of the earth have had the advantage of it!"

"Hush! hush!" said Bazin, opening his eyes: "do not spoil these poor 
children, in whom I am endeavoring to inculcate such good principles."  
In fact, the children had surrounded D'Artagnan, whose horse, long sword, 
spurs, and martial air they very much admired.  But above all, they 
admired his strong voice; so that, when he uttered his oath, the whole 
school cried out, "The devil take me!" with fearful bursts of laughter, 
shouts, and bounds, which delighted the musketeer, and bewildered the old 
pedagogue.

"There!" said he, "hold your tongues, you brats!  You have come, M. 
d'Artagnan, and all my good principles fly away.  With you, as usual, 
comes disorder.  Babel is revived.  Ah!  Good Lord!  Ah! the wild little 
wretches!"  And the worthy Bazin distributed right and left blows which 
increased the cries of his scholars by changing the nature of them.

"At least," said he, "you will no longer decoy any one here."

"Do you think so?" said D'Artagnan, with a smile which made a shudder 
creep over the shoulders of Bazin.

"He is capable of it," murmured he.

"Where is your master's diocese?"

"Monseigneur Rene is bishop of Vannes."

"Who had him nominated?"

"Why, monsieur le surintendant, our neighbor."

"What!  Monsieur Fouquet?"

"To be sure he did."

"Is Aramis on good terms with him, then?"

"Monseigneur preached every Sunday at the house of monsieur le 
surintendant at Vaux; then they hunted together."

"Ah!"

"And monseigneur composed his homilies - no, I mean his sermons - with 
monsieur le surintendant."

"Bah! he preached in verse, then, this worthy bishop?"

"Monsieur, for the love of heaven, do not jest with sacred things."

"There, Bazin, there!  So, then, Aramis is at Vannes?"

"At Vannes, in Bretagne."

"You are a deceitful old hunks, Bazin; that is not true."

"See, monsieur, if you please; the apartments of the presbytery are 
empty."

"He is right there," said D'Artagnan, looking attentively at the house, 
the aspect of which announced solitude.

"But monseigneur must have written you an account of his promotion."

"When did it take place?"

"A month back."

"Oh! then there is no time lost.  Aramis cannot yet have wanted me.  But 
how is it, Bazin, you do not follow your master?"

"Monsieur, I cannot; I have occupations."

"Your alphabet?"

"And my penitents."

"What, do you confess, then?  Are you a priest?"

"The same as one.  I have such a call."

"But the orders?"

"Oh," said Bazin, without hesitation, "now that monseigneur is a bishop, 
I shall soon have my orders, or at least my dispensations."  And he 
rubbed his hands.

"Decidedly," said D'Artagnan to himself, "there will be no means of 
uprooting these people.  Get me some supper, Bazin."

"With pleasure, monsieur."

"A fowl, a _bouillon,_ and a bottle of wine."

"This is Saturday night, monsieur - it is a day of abstinence."

"I have a dispensation," said D'Artagnan.

Bazin looked at him suspiciously.

"Ah, ah, master hypocrite!" said the musketeer, "for whom do you take 
me?  If you, who are the valet, hope for dispensation to commit a crime, 
shall not I, the friend of your bishop, have dispensation for eating meat 
at the call of my stomach?  Make yourself agreeable with me, Bazin, or by 
heavens!  I will complain to the king, and you shall never confess.  Now 
you know that the nomination of bishops rests with the king, - I have the 
king, I am the stronger."

Bazin smiled hypocritically.  "Ah, but we have monsieur le surintendant," 
said he.

"And you laugh at the king, then?"

Bazin made no reply; his smile was sufficiently eloquent.

"My supper," said D'Artagnan, "it is getting towards seven o'clock."

Bazin turned round and ordered the eldest of the pupils to inform the 
cook.  In the meantime, D'Artagnan surveyed the presbytery.

"Phew!" said he, disdainfully, "monseigneur lodged his grandeur very 
meanly here."

"We have the Chateau de Vaux," said Bazin.

"Which is perhaps equal to the Louvre?" said D'Artagnan, jeeringly.

"Which is better," replied Bazin, with the greatest coolness imaginable.

"Ah, ah!" said D'Artagnan.

He would perhaps have prolonged the discussion, and maintained the 
superiority of the Louvre, but the lieutenant perceived that his horse 
remained fastened to the bars of a gate.

"The devil!" said he.  "Get my horse looked after; your master the bishop 
has none like him in his stables."

Bazin cast a sidelong glance at the horse, and replied, "Monsieur le 
surintendant gave him four from his own stables; and each of the four is 
worth four of yours."

The blood mounted to the face of D'Artagnan.  His hand itched and his eye 
glanced over the head of Bazin, to select the place upon which he should 
discharge his anger.  But it passed away; reflection came, and D'Artagnan 
contented himself with saying, -

"The devil! the devil!  I have done well to quit the service of the 
king.  Tell me, worthy Master Bazin," added he, "how many musketeers does 
monsieur le surintendant retain in his service?"

"He could have all there are in the kingdom with his money," replied 
Bazin, closing his book, and dismissing the boys with some kindly blows 
of his cane.

"The devil! the devil!" repeated D'Artagnan, once more, as if to annoy 
the pedagogue.  But as supper was now announced, he followed the cook, 
who introduced him into the refectory, where it awaited him.  D'Artagnan 
placed himself at the table, and began a hearty attack upon his fowl.

"It appears to me," said D'Artagnan, biting with all his might at the 
tough fowl they had served up to him, and which they had evidently 
forgotten to fatten, - "it appears that I have done wrong in not seeking 
service with that master yonder.  A powerful noble this intendant, 
seemingly!  In good truth, we poor fellows know nothing at the court, and 
the rays of the sun prevent our seeing the large stars, which are also 
suns, at a little greater distance from our earth, - that is all."

As D'Artagnan delighted, both from pleasure and system, in making people 
talk about things which interested him, he fenced in his best style with 
Master Bazin, but it was pure loss of time; beyond the tiresome and 
hyperbolical praises of monsieur le surintendant of the finances, Bazin, 
who, on his side, was on his guard, afforded nothing but platitudes to 
the curiosity of D'Artagnan, so that our musketeer, in a tolerably bad 
humor, desired to go to bed as soon as he had supped.  D'Artagnan was 
introduced by Bazin into a mean chamber, in which there was a poor bed; 
but D'Artagnan was not fastidious in that respect.  He had been told that 
Aramis had taken away the key of his own private apartment, and as he 
knew Aramis was a very particular man, and had generally many things to 
conceal in his apartment, he had not been surprised.  He, therefore, 
although it seemed comparatively even harder, attacked the bed as bravely 
as he had done the fowl; and, as he had as good an inclination to sleep 
as he had had to eat, he took scarcely longer time to be snoring 
harmoniously than he had employed in picking the last bones of the bird.

Since he was no longer in the service of any one, D'Artagnan had promised 
himself to indulge in sleeping as soundly as he had formerly slept 
lightly; but with whatever good faith D'Artagnan had made himself this 
promise, and whatever desire he might have to keep it religiously, he was 
awakened in the middle of the night by a loud noise of carriages, and 
servants on horseback.  A sudden illumination flashed over the walls of 
his chamber; he jumped out of bed and ran to the window in his shirt.  
"Can the king be coming this way?" he thought, rubbing his eyes; "in 
truth, such a suite can only be attached to royalty."

"_Vive le monsieur le surintendant!_" cried, or rather vociferated, from 
a window on the ground-floor, a voice which he recognized as Bazin's, who 
at the same time waved a handkerchief with one hand, and held a large 
candle in the other.  D'Artagnan then saw something like a brilliant 
human form leaning out of the principal carriage; at the same time loud 
bursts of laughter, caused, no doubt, by the strange figure of Bazin, and 
issuing from the same carriage, left, as it were, a train of joy upon the 
passage of the rapid _cortege_.

"I might easily see it was not the king," said D'Artagnan; "people don't 
laugh so heartily when the king passes.  _Hola_, Bazin!" cried he to his 
neighbor, three-quarters of whose body still hung out of the window, to 
follow the carriage with his eyes as long as he could.  "What is all that 
about?"

"It is M. Fouquet," said Bazin, in a patronizing tone.

"And all those people?"

"That is the court of M. Fouquet."

"Oh, oh!" said D'Artagnan; "what would M. de Mazarin say to that if he 
heard it?"  And he returned to his bed, asking himself how Aramis always 
contrived to be protected by the most powerful personages in the 
kingdom.  "Is it that he has more luck than I, or that I am a greater 
fool than he?  Bah!"  That was the concluding word by the aid of which 
D'Artagnan, having become wise, now terminated every thought and every 
period of his style.  Formerly he said, "_Mordioux!_" which was a prick 
of the spur, but now he had become older, and he murmured that 
philosophical "_Bah!_" which served as a bridle to all the passions.


Chapter XVIII:
In which D'Artagnan seeks Porthos, and only finds Mousqueton.

When D'Artagnan had perfectly convinced himself that the absence of the 
Vicar-General d'Herblay was real, and that his friend was not to be found 
at Melun or in its vicinity, he left Bazin without regret, cast an ill-
natured glance at the magnificent Chateau de Vaux, which was beginning to 
shine with that splendor which brought on its ruin, and, compressing his 
lips like a man full of mistrust and suspicion, he put spurs to his pied 
horse, saying, "Well, well!  I have still Pierrefonds left, and there I 
shall find the best man and the best filled coffer.  And that is all I 
want, for I have an idea of my own."

We will spare our readers the prosaic incidents of D'Artagnan's journey, 
which terminated on the morning of the third day within sight of 
Pierrefonds.  D'Artagnan came by the way of Nanteuil-le-Haudouin and 
Crepy.  At a distance he perceived the Castle of Louis of Orleans, which, 
having become part of the crown domain, was kept by an old _concierge_.  
This was one of those marvelous manors of the middle ages, with walls 
twenty feet in thickness, and a hundred in height.

D'Artagnan rode slowly past its walls, measured its towers with his eye 
and descended into the valley.  From afar he looked down upon the chateau 
of Porthos, situated on the shores of a small lake, and contiguous to a 
magnificent forest.  It was the same place we have already had the honor 
of describing to our readers; we shall therefore satisfy ourselves with 
naming it.  The first thing D'Artagnan perceived after the fine trees, 
the May sun gilding the sides of the green hills, the long rows of 
feather-topped trees which stretched out towards Compiegne, was a large 
rolling box, pushed forward by two servants and dragged by two others.  
In this box there was an enormous green-and-gold thing, which went along 
the smiling glades of the park, thus dragged and pushed.  This thing, at 
a distance, could not be distinguished, and signified absolutely nothing; 
nearer, it was a hogshead muffled in gold-bound green cloth; when close, 
it was a man, or rather a _poussa_, the inferior extremity of whom, 
spreading over the interior of the box, entirely filled it; when still 
closer, the man was Mousqueton - Mousqueton, with gray hair and a face as 
red as Punchinello's.

"_Pardieu!_" cried D'Artagnan; "why, that's my dear Monsieur Mousqueton!"

"Ah!" cried the fat man - "ah! what happiness! what joy!  There's M. 
d'Artagnan.  Stop, you rascals!"  These last words were addressed to the 
lackeys who pushed and dragged him.  The box stopped, and the four 
lackeys, with a precision quite military, took off their laced hats and 
ranged themselves behind it.

"Oh, Monsieur d'Artagnan!" said Mousqueton, "why can I not embrace your 
knees?  But I have become impotent, as you see."

"_Dame!_ my dear Mousqueton, it is age."

"No, monsieur, it is not age; it is infirmities - troubles."

"Troubles! you, Mousqueton?" said D'Artagnan, making the tour of the box; 
"are you out of your mind, my dear friend?  Thank God! you are as hearty 
as a three-hundred-year-old oak."

"Ah! but my legs, monsieur, my legs!" groaned the faithful servant.

"What's the matter with your legs?"

"Oh, they will no longer bear me!"

"Ah, the ungrateful things!  And yet you feed them well, Mousqueton, 
apparently."

"Alas, yes!  They can reproach me with nothing in that respect," said 
Mousqueton, with a sigh; "I have always done what I could for my poor 
body; I am not selfish."  And Mousqueton sighed afresh.

"I wonder whether Mousqueton wants to be a baron, too, as he sighs after 
that fashion?" thought D'Artagnan.

"_Mon Dieu_, monsieur!" said Mousqueton, as if rousing himself from a 
painful reverie; "how happy monseigneur will be that you have thought of 
him!"

"Kind Porthos!" cried D'Artagnan, "I am anxious to embrace him."

"Oh!" said Mousqueton, much affected, "I shall certainly write to him."

"What!" cried D'Artagnan, "you will write to him?"

"This very day; I shall not delay it an hour."

"Is he not here, then?"

"No, monsieur."

"But is he near at hand? - is he far off?"

"Oh, can I tell, monsieur, can I tell?"

"_Mordioux!_" cried the musketeer, stamping with his foot, "I am 
unfortunate.  Porthos is such a stay-at-home!"

"Monsieur, there is not a more sedentary man that monseigneur, but - "

"But what?"

"When a friend presses you - "

"A friend?"

"Doubtless - the worthy M. d'Herblay."

"What, has Aramis pressed Porthos?"

"This is how the thing happened, Monsieur d'Artagnan.  M. d'Herblay wrote 
to monseigneur - "

"Indeed!"

"A letter, monsieur, such a pressing letter that it threw us all into a 
bustle."

"Tell me all about it, my dear friend," said D'Artagnan; "but remove 
these people a little further off first."

Mousqueton shouted, "Fall back, you fellows," with such powerful lungs 
that the breath, without the words, would have been sufficient to 
disperse the four lackeys.  D'Artagnan seated himself on the shaft of the 
box and opened his ears.  "Monsieur," said Mousqueton, "monseigneur, 
then, received a letter from M. le Vicaire-General d'Herblay, eight or 
nine days ago; it was the day of the rustic pleasures, yes, it must have 
been Wednesday."

"What do you mean?" said D'Artagnan.  "The day of rustic pleasures?"

"Yes, monsieur; we have so many pleasures to take in this delightful 
country, that we were encumbered by them; so much so, that we have been 
forced to regulate the distribution of them."

"How easily do I recognize Porthos's love of order in that!  Now, that 
idea would never have occurred to me; but then I am not encumbered with 
pleasures."

"We were, though," said Mousqueton.

"And how did you regulate the matter, let me know?" said D'Artagnan.

"It is rather long, monsieur."

"Never mind, we have plenty of time; and you speak so well, my dear 
Mousqueton, that it is really a pleasure to hear you."

"It is true," said Mousqueton, with a sigh of satisfaction, which 
emanated evidently from the justice which had been rendered him, "it is 
true I have made great progress in the company of monseigneur."

"I am waiting for the distribution of the pleasures, Mousqueton, and with 
impatience.  I want to know if I have arrived on a lucky day."

"Oh, Monsieur d'Artagnan," said Mousqueton in a melancholy tone, "since 
monseigneur's departure all the pleasures have gone too!"

"Well, my dear Mousqueton, refresh your memory."

"With what day shall I begin?"

"Eh, _pardieux!_ begin with Sunday; that is the Lord's day."

"Sunday, monsieur?"

"Yes."

"Sunday pleasures are religious: monseigneur goes to mass, makes the 
bread-offering, and has discourses and instructions made to him by his 
almoner-in-ordinary.  That is not very amusing, but we expect a Carmelite 
from Paris who will do the duty of our almonry, and who, we are assured, 
speaks very well, which will keep us awake, whereas our present almoner 
always sends us to sleep.  These are Sunday religious pleasures.  On 
Monday, worldly pleasures."

"Ah, ah!" said D'Artagnan, "what do you mean by that?  Let us have a 
glimpse at your worldly pleasures."

"Monsieur, on Monday we go into the world; we pay and receive visits, we 
play on the lute, we dance, we make verses, and burn a little incense in 
honor of the ladies."

"_Peste!_ that is the height of gallantry," said the musketeer, who was 
obliged to call to his aid all the strength of his facial muscles to 
suppress an enormous inclination to laugh.

"Tuesday, learned pleasures."

"Good!" cried D'Artagnan.  "What are they?  Detail them, my dear 
Mousqueton."

"Monseigneur has bought a sphere or globe, which I shall show you; it 
fills all the perimeter of the great tower, except a gallery which he has 
had built over the sphere: there are little strings and brass wires to 
which the sun and moon are hooked.  It all turns; and that is very 
beautiful.  Monseigneur points out to me the seas and distant countries.  
We don't intend to visit them, but it is very interesting."

"Interesting! yes, that's the word," repeated D'Artagnan.  "And 
Wednesday?"

"Rustic pleasures, as I have had the honor to tell you, monsieur le 
chevalier.  We look over monseigneur's sheep and goats; we make the 
shepherds dance to pipes and reeds, as is written in a book monseigneur 
has in his library, which is called 'Bergeries.'  The author died about a 
month ago."

"Monsieur Racan, perhaps," said D'Artagnan.

"Yes, that was his name - M. Racan.  But that is not all: we angle in the 
little canal, after which we dine, crowned with flowers.  That is 
Wednesday."


"_Peste!_" said D'Artagnan; "you don't divide your pleasures badly.  And 
Thursday? - what can be left for poor Thursday?"

"It is not very unfortunate, monsieur," said Mousqueton, smiling.  
"Thursday, Olympian pleasures.  Ah, monsieur, that is superb!  We get 
together all monseigneur's young vassals, and we make them throw the 
disc, wrestle, and run races.  Monseigneur can't run now, no more can I; 
but monseigneur throws the disc as nobody else can throw it.  And when he 
does deal a blow, oh, that proves a misfortune!"

"How so?"

"Yes, monsieur, we were obliged to renounce the cestus.  He cracked 
heads; he broke jaws - beat in ribs.  It was charming sport; but nobody 
was willing to play with him."

"Then his wrist - "

"Oh, monsieur, firmer than ever.  Monseigneur gets a trifle weaker in his 
legs, - he confesses that himself; but his strength has all taken refuge 
in his arms, so that - "

"So that he can knock down bullocks, as he used to formerly."

"Monsieur, better than that - he beats in walls.  Lately, after having 
supped with one of our farmers - you know how popular and kind 
monseigneur is - after supper, as a joke, he struck the wall a blow.  The 
wall crumbled away beneath his hand, the roof fell in, and three men and 
an old woman were stifled."

"Good God, Mousqueton!  And your master?"

"Oh, monseigneur, a little skin was rubbed off his head.  We bathed the 
wounds with some water which the monks gave us.  But there was nothing 
the matter with his hand."

"Nothing?"

"No, nothing, monsieur."

"Deuce take the Olympic pleasures!  They must cost your master too dear; 
for widows and orphans - "

"They all had pensions, monsieur; a tenth of monseigneur's revenue was 
spent in that way."

"Then pass on to Friday," said D'Artagnan.

"Friday, noble and warlike pleasures.  We hunt, we fence, we dress 
falcons and break horses.  Then, Saturday is the day for intellectual 
pleasures: we adorn our minds; we look at monseigneur's pictures and 
statues; we write, even, and trace plans: and then we fire monseigneur's 
cannon."

"You draw plans, and fire cannon?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Why, my friend," said D'Artagnan, "M. du Vallon, in truth, possesses the 
most subtle and amiable mind that I know.  But there is one kind of 
pleasure you have forgotten, it appears to me."

"What is that, monsieur?" asked Mousqueton, with anxiety.

"The material pleasures."

Mousqueton colored.  "What do you mean by that, monsieur?" said he, 
casting down his eyes.

"I mean the table - good wine - evenings occupied in passing the bottle."

"Ah, monsieur, we don't reckon those pleasures, - we practice them every 
day."

"My brave Mousqueton," resumed D'Artagnan, "pardon me, but I was so 
absorbed in your charming recital that I have forgotten the principal 
object of our conversation, which was to learn what M. le Vicaire-General 
d'Herblay could have to write to your master about."

"That is true, monsieur," said Mousqueton; "the pleasures have misled 
us.  Well, monsieur, this is the whole affair."

"I am all attention, Mousqueton."

"On Wednesday - "

"The day of the rustic pleasures?"

"Yes - a letter arrived; he received it from my hands.  I had recognized 
the writing."

"Well?"

"Monseigneur read it and cried out, "Quick, my horses! my arms!'"

"Oh, good Lord! then it was for some duel?" said D'Artagnan.

"No, monsieur, there were only these words: 'Dear Porthos, set out, if 
you would wish to arrive before the Equinox.  I expect you.'"

"_Mordioux!_" said D'Artagnan, thoughtfully, "that was pressing, 
apparently."

"I think so; therefore," continued Mousqueton, "monseigneur set out the 
very same day with his secretary, in order to endeavor to arrive in time."

"And did he arrive in time?"

"I hope so.  Monseigneur, who is hasty, as you know, monsieur, repeated 
incessantly, '_Tonne Dieu!_  What can this mean?  The Equinox?  Never 
mind, a fellow must be well mounted to arrive before I do.'"

"And you think Porthos will have arrived first, do you?" asked D'Artagnan.

"I am sure of it.  This Equinox, however rich he may be, has certainly no 
horses so good as monseigneur's."

D'Artagnan repressed his inclination to laugh, because the brevity of 
Aramis's letter gave rise to reflection.  He followed Mousqueton, or 
rather Mousqueton's chariot, to the castle.  He sat down to a sumptuous 
table, of which they did him the honors as to a king.  But he could draw 
nothing from Mousqueton, - the faithful servant seemed to shed tears at 
will, but that was all.

D'Artagnan, after a night passed in an excellent bed, reflected much upon 
the meaning of Aramis's letter; puzzled himself as to the relation of the 
Equinox with the affairs of Porthos; and being unable to make anything 
out unless it concerned some amour of the bishop's, for which it was 
necessary that the days and nights should be equal, D'Artagnan left 
Pierrefonds as he had left Melun, as he had left the chateau of the Comte 
de la Fere.  It was not, however, without a melancholy, which might in 
good sooth pass for one of the most dismal of D'Artagnan's moods.  His 
head cast down, his eyes fixed, he suffered his legs to hang on each side 
of his horse, and said to himself, in that vague sort of reverie which 
ascends sometimes to the sublimest eloquence:

"No more friends! no more future! no more anything!  My energies are 
broken like the bonds of our ancient friendship.  Oh, old age is coming, 
cold and inexorable; it envelopes in its funeral crepe all that was 
brilliant, all that was embalming in my youth; then it throws that sweet 
burthen on its shoulders and carries it away with the rest into the 
fathomless gulf of death."

A shudder crept through the heart of the Gascon, so brave and so strong 
against all the misfortunes of life; and during some moments the clouds 
appeared black to him, the earth slippery and full of pits as that of 
cemeteries.

"Whither am I going?" said he to himself.  "What am I going to do!  
Alone, quite alone - without family, without friends!  Bah!" cried he all 
at once.  And he clapped spurs to his horse, who, having found nothing 
melancholy in the heavy oats of Pierrefonds, profited by this permission 
to show his gayety in a gallop which absorbed two leagues.  "To Paris!" 
said D'Artagnan to himself.  And on the morrow he alighted in Paris.  He 
had devoted ten days to this journey.


Chapter XIX:
What D'Artagnan went to Paris for.

The lieutenant dismounted before a shop in the Rue des Lombards, at the 
sign of the Pilon d'Or.  A man of good appearance, wearing a white apron, 
and stroking his gray mustache with a large hand, uttered a cry of joy on 
perceiving the pied horse.  "Monsieur le chevalier," said he, "ah, is 
that you?"

"_Bon jour_, Planchet," replied D'Artagnan, stooping to enter the shop.

"Quick, somebody," cried Planchet, "to look after Monsieur d'Artagnan's 
horse, - somebody to get ready his room, - somebody to prepare his 
supper."

"Thanks, Planchet.  Good-day, my children!" said D'Artagnan to the eager 
boys.

"Allow me to send off this coffee, this treacle, and these raisins," 
said Planchet; "they are for the store-room of monsieur le surintendant."

"Send them off, send them off!"

"That is only the affair of a moment, then we shall sup."

"Arrange it that we may sup alone; I want to speak to you."

Planchet looked at his old master in a significant manner.

"Oh, don't be uneasy, it is nothing unpleasant," said D'Artagnan.

"So much the better - so much the better!"  And Planchet breathed freely 
again, whilst D'Artagnan seated himself quietly down in the shop, upon a 
bale of corks, and made a survey of the premises.  The shop was well 
stocked; there was a mingled perfume of ginger, cinnamon, and ground 
pepper, which made D'Artagnan sneeze.  The shop-boy, proud of being in 
company with so renowned a warrior, of a lieutenant of musketeers, who 
approached the person of the king, began to work with an enthusiasm which 
was something like delirium, and to serve the customers with a disdainful 
haste that was noticed by several.

Planchet put away his money, and made up his accounts, amidst civilities 
addressed to his former master.  Planchet had with his equals the short 
speech and haughty familiarity of the rich shopkeeper who serves 
everybody and waits for nobody.  D'Artagnan observed this habit with a 
pleasure which we shall analyze presently.  He saw night come on by 
degrees, and at length Planchet conducted him to a chamber on the first 
story, where, amidst bales and chests, a table very nicely set out 
awaited the two guests.

D'Artagnan took advantage of a moment's pause to examine the countenance 
of Planchet, whom he had not seen for a year.  The shrewd Planchet had 
acquired a slight protuberance in front, but his countenance was not 
puffed.  His keen eye still played with facility in its deep-sunk orbit; 
and fat, which levels all the characteristic saliences of the human face, 
had not yet touched either his high cheek-bones, the sign of cunning and 
cupidity, or his pointed chin, the sign of acuteness and perseverance.  
Planchet reigned with as much majesty in his dining-room as in his shop.  
He set before his master a frugal, but perfectly Parisian repast: roast 
meat, cooked at the baker's, with vegetables, salad, and a dessert 
borrowed from the shop itself.  D'Artagnan was pleased that the grocer 
had drawn from behind the fagots a bottle of that Anjou wine which during 
all his life had been D'Artagnan's favorite wine.

"Formerly, monsieur," said Planchet, with a smile full of _bonhomie_, "it 
was I who drank your wine; now you do me the honor to drink mine."

"And, thank God, friend Planchet, I shall drink it for a long time to 
come, I hope; for at present I am free."

"Free?  You have a leave of absence, monsieur?"

"Unlimited."

"You are leaving the service?" said Planchet, stupefied.

"Yes, I am resting."

"And the king?" cried Planchet, who could not suppose it possible that 
the king could do without the services of such a man as D'Artagnan.

"The king will try his fortune elsewhere.  But we have supped well, you 
are disposed to enjoy yourself; you invite me to confide in you.  Open 
your ears, then."

"They are open."  And Planchet, with a laugh more frank than cunning, 
opened a bottle of white wine.

"Leave me my reason, at least."

"Oh, as to you losing your head - you, monsieur!"

"Now my head is my own, and I mean to take better care of it than ever.  
In the first place we shall talk business.  How fares our money-box?"

"Wonderfully well, monsieur.  The twenty thousand livres I had of you are 
still employed in my trade, in which they bring me nine per cent.  I give 
you seven, so I gain two by you."

"And you are still satisfied?"

"Delighted.  Have you brought me any more?"

"Better than that.  But do you want any?"

"Oh! not at all.  Every one is willing to trust me now.  I am extending 
my business."

"That was your intention."

"I play the banker a little.  I buy goods of my needy brethren; I lend 
money to those who are not ready for their payments."

"Without usury?"

"Oh! monsieur, in the course of the last week I have had two meetings on 
the boulevards, on account of the word you have just pronounced."

"What?"

"You shall see: it concerned a loan.  The borrower gives me in pledge 
some raw sugars, on condition that I should sell if repayment were not 
made within a fixed period.  I lend a thousand livres.  He does not pay 
me, and I sell the sugars for thirteen hundred livres.  He learns this 
and claims a hundred crowns.  _Ma foi!_  I refused, pretending that I 
could not sell them for more than nine hundred livres.  He accused me of 
usury.  I begged him to repeat that word to me behind the boulevards.  He 
was an old guard, and he came: and I passed your sword through his left 
thigh."

"_Tu dieu!_ what a pretty sort of banker you make!" said D'Artagnan.

"For above thirteen per cent I fight," replied Planchet; "that is my 
character."

"Take only twelve," said D'Artagnan, "and call the rest premium and 
brokerage."

"You are right, monsieur; but to your business."

"Ah!  Planchet, it is very long and very hard to speak."

"Do speak it, nevertheless."

D'Artagnan twisted his mustache like a man embarrassed with the 
confidence he is about to make and mistrustful of his confidant.

"Is it an investment?" asked Planchet.

"Why, yes."

"At good profit?"

"A capital profit, - four hundred per cent, Planchet."

Planchet gave such a blow with his fist upon the table, that the bottles 
bounded as if they had been frightened.

"Good heavens! is that possible?"

"I think it will be more," replied D'Artagnan coolly; "but I like to lay 
it at the lowest!"

"The devil!" said Planchet, drawing nearer.  "Why, monsieur, that is 
magnificent!  Can one put much money in it?"

"Twenty thousand livres each, Planchet."

"Why, that is all you have, monsieur.  For how long a time?"

"For a month."

"And that will give us - "

"Fifty thousand livres each, profit."

"It is monstrous!  It is worth while to fight for such interest as that!"

"In fact, I believe it will be necessary to fight not a little," said 
D'Artagnan, with the same tranquillity; "but this time there are two of 
us, Planchet, and I shall take all the blows to myself."

"Oh! monsieur, I will not allow that."

"Planchet, you cannot be concerned in it; you would be obliged to leave 
your business and your family."

"The affair is not in Paris, then."

"No."

"Abroad?"

"In England."

"A speculative country, that is true," said Planchet, - "a country that I 
know well.  What sort of an affair, monsieur, without too much curiosity?"

"Planchet, it is a restoration."

"Of monuments?"

"Yes, of monuments; we shall restore Whitehall."

"That is important.  And in a month, you think?"

"I shall undertake it."

"That concerns you, monsieur, and when once you are engaged - "

"Yes, that concerns me.  I know what I am about; nevertheless, I will 
freely consult with you."

"You do me great honor; but I know very little about architecture."

"Planchet, you are wrong; you are an excellent architect, quite as good 
as I am, for the case in question."

"Thanks, monsieur.  But your old friends of the musketeers?"

"I have been, I confess, tempted to speak of the thing to those 
gentlemen, but they are all absent from their houses.  It is vexatious, 
for I know none more bold or able."

"Ah! then it appears there will be an opposition, and the enterprise will 
be disputed?"

"Oh, yes, Planchet, yes."

"I burn to know the details, monsieur."

"Here they are, Planchet - close all the doors tight."

"Yes, monsieur."  And Planchet double-locked them.

"That is well; now draw near."  Planchet obeyed.

"And open the window, because the noise of the passers-by and the carts 
will deafen all who might hear us."  Planchet opened the window as 
desired, and the gust of tumult which filled the chamber with cries, 
wheels, barkings, and steps deafened D'Artagnan himself, as he had 
wished.  He then swallowed a glass of white wine, and began in these 
terms: "Planchet, I have an idea."

"Ah! monsieur, I recognize you so well in that!" replied Planchet, 
panting with emotion.


Chapter XX:
Of the Society which was formed in the Rue des Lombards, at the Sign of 
the Pilon d'Or, to carry out M. d'Artagnan's Idea.

After a moment's silence, in which D'Artagnan appeared to be collecting, 
not one idea but all his ideas, - "It cannot be, my dear Planchet," said 
he, "that you have not heard of his majesty Charles I. of England?"

"Alas! yes, monsieur, since you left France in order to assist him, and 
that, in spite of that assistance, he fell, and was near dragging you 
down in his fall."

"Exactly so; I see you have a good memory, Planchet."

"_Peste!_ the astonishing thing would be, if I could have lost that 
memory, however bad it might have been.  When one has heard Grimaud, who, 
you know, is not given to talking, relate how the head of King Charles 
fell, how you sailed the half of a night in a scuttled vessel, and saw 
floating on the water that good M. Mordaunt with a certain gold-hafted 
dagger buried in his breast, one is not very likely to forget such 
things."

"And yet there are people who forget them, Planchet."

"Yes, such as have not seen them, or have not heard Grimaud relate them."

"Well, it is all the better that you recollect all that; I shall only 
have to remind you of one thing, and that is that Charles I. had a son."

"Without contradicting you, monsieur, he had two," said Planchet; "for I 
saw the second one in Paris, M. le Duke of York, one day, as he was going 
to the Palais Royal, and I was told that he was not the eldest son of 
Charles I.  As to the eldest, I have the honor of knowing him by name, 
but not personally."

"That is exactly the point, Planchet, we must come to: it is to this 
eldest son, formerly called the Prince of Wales, and who is now styled 
Charles II., king of England."

"A king without a kingdom, monsieur," replied Planchet, sententiously.

"Yes, Planchet, and you may add an unfortunate prince, more unfortunate 
than the poorest man of the people lost in the worst quarter of Paris."

Planchet made a gesture full of that sort of compassion which we grant to 
strangers with whom we think we can never possibly find ourselves in 
contact.  Besides, he did not see in this politico-sentimental operation 
any sign of the commercial idea of M. d'Artagnan, and it was in this idea 
that D'Artagnan, who was, from habit, pretty well acquainted with men and 
things, had principally interested Planchet.

"I am come to our business.  This young Prince of Wales, a king without 
a kingdom, as you have so well said, Planchet, has interested me.  I, 
D'Artagnan, have seen him begging assistance of Mazarin, who is a miser, 
and the aid of Louis, who is a child, and it appeared to me, who am 
acquainted with such things, that in the intelligent eye of the fallen 
king, in the nobility of his whole person, a nobility apparent above all 
his miseries, I could discern the stuff of a man and the heart of a king."

Planchet tacitly approved of all this; but it did not at all, in his eyes 
at least, throw any light upon D'Artagnan's idea.  The latter continued: 
"This, then, is the reasoning which I made with myself.  Listen 
attentively, Planchet, for we are coming to the conclusion."

"I am listening."

"Kings are not so thickly sown upon the earth, that people can find them 
whenever they want them.  Now, this king without a kingdom is, in my 
opinion, a grain of seed which will blossom in some season or other, 
provided a skillful, discreet, and vigorous hand sow it duly and truly, 
selecting soil, sky, and time."

Planchet still approved by a nod of his head, which showed that he did 
not perfectly comprehend all that was said.

"'Poor little seed of a king,' said I to myself, and really I was 
affected, Planchet, which leads me to think I am entering upon a foolish 
business.  And that is why I wished to consult you, my friend."

Planchet colored with pleasure and pride.

"'Poor little seed of a king!  I will pick you up and cast you into good 
ground.'"

"Good God!" said Planchet, looking earnestly at his old master, as if in 
doubt as to the state of his reason.

"Well, what is it?" said D'Artagnan; "who hurts you?"

"Me! nothing, monsieur."

"You said, 'Good God!'"

"Did I?"

"I am sure you did.  Can you already understand?"

"I confess, M. d'Artagnan, that I am afraid - "

"To understand?"

"Yes."

"To understand that I wish to replace upon his throne this King Charles 
II., who has no throne?  Is that it?"

Planchet made a prodigious bound in his chair.  "Ah, ah!" said he, in 
evident terror, "that is what you call a restoration!"

"Yes, Planchet; is it not the proper term for it?"

"Oh, no doubt, no doubt!  But have you reflected seriously?"

"Upon what?"

"Upon what is going on yonder."

"Where?"

"In England."

"And what is that?  Let us see, Planchet."

"In the first place, monsieur, I ask you pardon for meddling in these 
things, which have nothing to do with my trade; but since it is an affair 
that you propose to me - for you are proposing an affair, are you not? - "

"A superb one, Planchet."

"But as it is business you propose to me, I have the right to discuss it."

"Discuss it, Planchet; out of discussion is born light."

"Well, then, since I have monsieur's permission, I will tell him that 
there is yonder, in the first place, the parliament."

"Well, next?"

"And then the army."

"Good!  Do you see anything else?"

"Why, then the nation."

"Is that all?"

"The nation which consented to the overthrow and death of the late king, 
the father of this one, and which will not be willing to belie its acts."

"Planchet," said D'Artagnan, "you argue like a cheese!  The nation - the 
nation is tired of these gentlemen who give themselves such barbarous 
names, and who sing songs to it.  Chanting for chanting, my dear 
Planchet; I have remarked that nations prefer singing a merry chant to 
the plain chant.  Remember the Fronde; what did they sing in those 
times?  Well, those were good times."

"Not too good, not too good!  I was near being hung in those times."

"Well, but you were not."

"No."

"And you laid the foundations of your fortune in the midst of all those 
songs?"

"That is true."

"Then you have nothing to say against them."

"Well, I return, then, to the army and parliament."

"I say that I borrow twenty thousand livres of M. Planchet, and that I 
put twenty thousand livres of my own to it; and with these forty thousand 
livres I raise an army."

Planchet clasped his hands; he saw that D'Artagnan was in earnest, and, 
in good truth, he believed his master had lost his senses.

"An army! - ah, monsieur," said he, with his most agreeable smile, for 
fear of irritating the madman, and rendering him furious, - "an army! – 
how many?"

"Of forty men," said D'Artagnan.

"Forty against forty thousand! that is not enough.  I know very well that 
you, M. d'Artagnan, alone, are equal to a thousand men; but where are we 
to find thirty-nine men equal to you?  Or, if we could find them, who 
would furnish you with money to pay them?"

"Not bad, Planchet.  Ah, the devil! you play the courtier."

"No, monsieur, I speak what I think, and that is exactly why I say that, 
in the first pitched battle you fight with your forty men, I am very much 
afraid - "

"Therefore I shall fight no pitched battles, my dear Planchet," said the 
Gascon, laughing.  "We have very fine examples in antiquity of skillful 
retreats and marches, which consisted in avoiding the enemy instead of 
attacking them.  You should know that, Planchet, you who commanded the 
Parisians the day on which they ought to have fought against the 
musketeers, and who so well calculated marches and countermarches, that 
you never left the Palais Royal."

Planchet could not help laughing.  "It is plain," replied he, "that if 
your forty men conceal themselves, and are not unskillful, they may hope 
not to be beaten: but you propose obtaining some result, do you not?"

"No doubt.  This, then, in my opinion, is the plan to be proceeded upon 
in order quickly to replace his majesty Charles II. on his throne."

"Good!" said Planchet, increasing his attention; "let us see your plan.  
But in the first place it seems to me we are forgetting something."

"What is that?"

"We have set aside the nation, which prefers singing merry songs to 
psalms, and the army, which we will not fight; but the parliament 
remains, and that seldom sings."

"Nor does it fight.  How is it, Planchet, that an intelligent man like 
yourself should take any heed of a set of brawlers who call themselves 
Rumps and Barebones?  The parliament does not trouble me at all, 
Planchet."

"As soon as it ceases to trouble you, monsieur, let us pass on."

"Yes, and arrive at the result.  You remember Cromwell, Planchet?"

"I have heard a great deal of talk about him.

"He was a rough soldier."

"And a terrible eater, moreover."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Why, at one gulp he swallowed all England."

"Well, Planchet, the evening before the day on which he swallowed 
England, if any one had swallowed M. Cromwell?"

"Oh, monsieur, it is one of the axioms of mathematics that the container 
must be greater than the contained."

"Very well!  That is our affair, Planchet."

"But M. Cromwell is dead, and his container is now the tomb."

"My dear Planchet, I see with pleasure that you have not only become a 
mathematician, but a philosopher."

"Monsieur, in my grocery business I use much printed paper, and that 
instructs me."

"Bravo!  You know then, in that case - for you have not learnt 
mathematics and philosophy without a little history - that after this 
Cromwell so great, there came one who was very little."

"Yes; he was named Richard, and he as done as you have, M. d'Artagnan – 
he has tendered his resignation."

"Very well said - very well!  After the great man who is dead, after the 
little one who tendered his resignation, there came a third.  This one is 
named Monk; he is an able general, considering he has never fought a 
battle; he is a skillful diplomatist, considering that he never speaks in 
public, and that having to say 'good-day' to a man, he meditates twelve 
hours, and ends by saying 'good night;' which makes people exclaim 
'_miracle!_' seeing that it falls out correctly."

"That is rather strong," said Planchet; "but I know another political man 
who resembles him very much."

"M. Mazarin you mean?"

"Himself."

"You are right, Planchet; only M. Mazarin does not aspire to the throne 
of France; and that changes everything.  Do you see?  Well, this M. Monk, 
who has England ready-roasted in his plate, and who is already opening 
his mouth to swallow it - this M. Monk, who says to the people of Charles 
II., and to Charles II. himself, '_Nescio vos_' - "

"I don't understand English," said Planchet.

"Yes, but I understand it," said D'Artagnan.  "'_Nescio vos_' means 'I do 
not know you.'  This M. Monk, the most important man in England, when he 
shall have swallowed it - "

"Well?" asked Planchet.

"Well, my friend, I shall go over yonder, and with my forty men I shall 
carry him off, pack him up, and bring him into France, where two modes of 
proceeding present themselves to my dazzled eyes."

"Oh! and to mine too," cried Planchet, transported with enthusiasm.  "We 
will put him in a cage and show him for money."

"Well, Planchet, that is a third plan, of which I had not thought."

"Do you think it a good one?"

"Yes, certainly, but I think mine better."

"Let us see yours, then."

"In the first place, I shall set a ransom on him."

"Of how much?"

"_Peste!_ a fellow like that must be well worth a hundred thousand 
crowns."

"Yes, yes!"

"You see, then - in the first place, a ransom of a hundred thousand 
crowns."

"Or else - "

"Or else, what is much better, I deliver him up to King Charles, who, 
having no longer either a general or an army to fear, nor a diplomatist 
to trick him, will restore himself, and when once restored, will pay down 
to me the hundred thousand crowns in question.  That is the idea I have 
formed; what do you say to it, Planchet?"

"Magnificent, monsieur!" cried Planchet, trembling with emotion.  "How 
did you conceive that idea?"

"It came to me one morning on the banks of the Loire, whilst our beloved 
king, Louis XIV., was pretending to weep upon the hand of Mademoiselle de 
Mancini."

"Monsieur, I declare the idea is sublime.  But - "

"Ah! is there a _but?_"

"Permit me!  But this is a little like the skin of that fine bear - you 
know - that they were about to sell, but which it was necessary to take 
from the back of the living bear.  Now, to take M. Monk, there will be a 
bit of a scuffle, I should think."

"No doubt; but as I shall raise an army to - "

"Yes, yes - I understand, _parbleu!_ - a _coup-de-main_.  Yes, then, 
monsieur, you will triumph, for  no one equals you in such sorts of 
encounters."

"I certainly am lucky in them," said D'Artagnan, with a proud 
simplicity.  "You know that if for this affair I had my dear Athos, my 
brave Porthos, and my cunning Aramis, the business would be settled; but 
they are all lost, as it appears, and nobody knows where to find them.  
I will do it, then, alone.  Now, do you find the business good, and the 
investment advantageous?"

"Too much so - too much so."

"How can that be?"

"Because fine things never reach the expected point."

"This is infallible, Planchet, and the proof is that I undertake it.  It 
will be for you a tolerably pretty gain, and for me a very interesting 
stroke.  It will be said, 'Such was the old age of M. d'Artagnan,' and I 
shall hold a place in tales and even in history itself, Planchet.  I am 
greedy of honor."

"Monsieur," cried Planchet, "when I think that it is here, in my home, in 
the midst of my sugar, my prunes, and my cinnamon, that this gigantic 
project is ripened, my shop seems a palace to me."

"Beware, beware, Planchet!  If the least report of this escapes, there is 
the Bastile for both of us.  Beware, my friend, for this is a plot we are 
hatching.  M. Monk is the ally of M. Mazarin - beware!"

"Monsieur, when a man has had the honor to belong to you, he knows 
nothing of fear; and when he has had the advantage of being bound up in 
interests with you, he holds his tongue."

"Very well; that is more your affair than mine, seeing that in a week I 
shall be in England."

"Depart, monsieur, depart - the sooner the better."

"Is the money, then, ready?"

"It will be to-morrow; to-morrow you shall receive it from my own hands.  
Will you have gold or silver?"

"Gold; that is most convenient.  But how are we going to arrange this?  
Let us see."

"Oh, good Lord! in the simplest way possible.  You shall give me a 
receipt, that is all."

"No, no," said D'Artagnan, warmly; "we must preserve order in all things."

"That is likewise my opinion; but with you, M. d'Artagnan - "

"And if I should die yonder - if I should be killed by a musket-ball - if 
I should burst from drinking beer?"

"Monsieur, I beg you to believe that in that case I should be so much 
afflicted at your death, that I should not think about the money."

"Thank you, Planchet; but no matter.  We shall, like two lawyers' clerks, 
draw up together an agreement, a sort of act, which may be called a deed 
of company."

"Willingly, monsieur."

"I know it is difficult to draw such a thing up, but we can try."

"Let us try, then."  And Planchet went in search of pens, ink, and 
paper.  D'Artagnan took the pen and wrote: - "Between Messire d'Artagnan, 
ex-lieutenant of the king's musketeers, at present residing in the Rue 
Tiquetonne, Hotel de la Chevrette; and the Sieur Planchet, grocer, 
residing in the Rue des Lombards, at the sign of the Pilon d'Or, it has 
been agreed as follows: - A company, with a capital of forty thousand 
livres, and formed for the purpose of carrying out an idea conceived by 
M. d'Artagnan, and the said Planchet approving of it in all points, will 
place twenty thousand livres in the hands of M. d'Artagnan.  He will 
require neither repayment nor interest before the return of M. d'Artagnan 
from a journey he is about to take into England.  On his part, M. 
d'Artagnan undertakes it to find twenty thousand livres, which he will 
join to the twenty thousand already laid down by the Sieur Planchet.  He 
will employ the said sum of forty thousand livres according to his 
judgment in an undertaking which is described below.  On the day when M. 
d'Artagnan shall have re-established, by whatever means, his majesty King 
Charles II. upon the throne of England, he will pay into the hands of M. 
Planchet the sum of - "

"The sum of a hundred and fifty thousand livres," said Planchet, 
innocently, perceiving that D'Artagnan hesitated.

"Oh, the devil, no!" said D'Artagnan, "the division cannot be made by 
half; that would not be just."

"And yet, monsieur, we each lay down half," objected Planchet, timidly.

"Yes; but listen to this clause, my dear Planchet, and if you do not find 
if equitable in every respect when it is written, well, we can scratch it 
out again: - 'Nevertheless, as M. d'Artagnan brings to the association, 
besides his capital of twenty thousand livres, his time, his idea, his 
industry, and his skin, - things which he appreciates strongly, 
particularly the last, - M. d'Artagnan will keep, of the three hundred 
thousand livres, two hundred thousand livres for himself, which will make 
his share two-thirds."

"Very well," said Planchet.

"Is it just?" asked D'Artagnan.

"Perfectly just, monsieur."

"And you will be contented with a hundred thousand livres?"

"_Peste!_ I think so.  A hundred thousand for twenty thousand!"

"And in a month, understand."

"How, in a month?"

"Yes, I only ask one month."

"Monsieur," said Planchet, generously, "I give you six weeks."

"Thank you," replied the musketeer, politely; after which the two 
partners reperused their deed.

"That is perfect, monsieur," said Planchet; "and the late M. Coquenard, 
the first husband of Madame la Baronne du Vallon, could not have done it 
better."

"Do you find it so?  Let us sign it then."  And both affixed their 
signatures.

"In this fashion," said D'Artagnan, "I shall be under obligations to no 
one."

"But I shall be under obligations to you," said Planchet.

"No; for whatever store I set by it, Planchet, I may lose my skin yonder, 
and you will lose all.  _A propos – peste!_ - that makes me think of the 
principal, an indispensable clause.  I shall write it: - 'In case of M. 
d'Artagnan dying in this enterprise, liquidation will be considered made, 
and the Sieur Planchet will give quittance from that moment to the shade 
of Messire d'Artagnan for the twenty thousand livres paid by him into the 
hands of the said company.'"

This last clause made Planchet knit his brows a little, but when he saw 
the brilliant eye, the muscular hand, the supple and strong back of his 
associate, he regained his courage, and, without regret, he at once added 
another stroke to his signature.  D'Artagnan did the same.  Thus was 
drawn the first known company contract; perhaps such things have been 
abused a little since, both in form and principle.

"Now," said Planchet, pouring out the last glass of Anjou wine for 
D'Artagnan, - "now go to sleep, my dear master."

"No," replied D'Artagnan; "for the most difficult part now remains to be 
done, and I will think over that difficult part."

"Bah!" said Planchet; "I have such great confidence in you, M. 
d'Artagnan, that I would not give my hundred thousand livres for ninety 
thousand livres down."

"And devil take me if I don't think you are right!"  Upon which 
D'Artagnan took a candle and went up to his bedroom.


Chapter XXI:
In which D'Artagnan prepares to travel for the Firm of Planchet & Company.

D'Artagnan reflected to such good purpose during the night that his plan 
was settled by morning.  "This is it," said he, sitting up in bed, 
supporting his elbow on his knee, and his chin in his hand; - "this is 
it.  I shall seek out forty steady, firm men, recruited among people a 
little compromised, but having habits of discipline.  I shall promise 
them five hundred livres for a month if they return; nothing if they do 
not return, or half for their kindred.  As to food and lodging, that 
concerns the English, who have cattle in their pastures, bacon in their 
bacon-racks, fowls in their poultry-yards, and corn in their barns.  I 
will present myself to General Monk with my little body of troops.  He 
will receive me.  I shall win his confidence, and take advantage of it, 
as soon as possible."

But without going further, D'Artagnan shook his head and interrupted 
himself.  "No," said he; "I should not dare to relate this to Athos; the 
way is therefore not honorable.  I must use violence," continued he, - 
"very certainly I must, but without compromising my loyalty.  With forty 
men I will traverse the country as a partisan.  But if I fall in with, 
not forty thousand English, as Planchet said, but purely and simply with 
four hundred, I shall be beaten.  Supposing that among my forty warriors 
there should be found at least ten stupid ones - ten who will allow 
themselves to be killed one after the other, from mere folly?  No; it is, 
in fact, impossible to find forty men to be depended upon - they do not 
exist.  I must learn how to be contented with thirty.  With ten men less 
I should have the right of avoiding any armed encounter, on account of 
the small number of my people; and if the encounter should take place, my 
chance is better with thirty men than forty.  Besides, I should save five 
thousand francs; that is to say, the eighth of my capital; that is worth 
the trial.  This being so, I should have thirty men.  I shall divide them 
into three bands, - we will spread ourselves about over the country, with 
an injunction to reunite at a given moment; in this fashion, ten by ten, 
we should excite no suspicion - we should pass unperceived.  Yes, yes, 
thirty - that is a magic number.  There are three tens - three, that 
divine number!  And then, truly, a company of thirty men, when all 
together, will look rather imposing.  Ah! stupid wretch that I am!" 
continued D'Artagnan, "I want thirty horses.  That is ruinous.  Where the 
devil was my head when I forgot the horses?  We cannot, however, think of 
striking such a blow without horses.  Well, so be it, that sacrifice must 
be made; we can get the horses in the country - they are not bad, 
besides.  But I forgot - _peste!_  Three bands - that necessitates three 
leaders; there is the difficulty.  Of the three commanders I have already 
one - that is myself; - yes, but the two others will of themselves cost 
almost as much money as all the rest of the troop.  No; positively I must 
have but one lieutenant.  In that case, then, I should reduce my troop to 
twenty men.  I know very well that twenty men is but very little; but 
since with thirty I was determined not to seek to come to blows, I should 
do so more carefully still with twenty.  Twenty - that is a round number; 
that, besides, reduces the number of the horses by ten, which is a 
consideration; and then, with a good lieutenant - _Mordioux!_ what things 
patience and calculation are!  Was I not going to embark with forty men, 
and I have now reduced them to twenty for an equal success?  Ten thousand 
livres saved at one stroke, and more safety; that is well!  Now, then, 
let us see; we have nothing to do but to find this lieutenant - let him 
be found, then; and after -  That is not so easy; he must be brave and 
good, a second myself.  Yes, but a lieutenant must have my secret, and as 
that secret is worth a million, and I shall only pay my man a thousand 
livres, fifteen hundred at the most, my man will sell the secret to 
Monk.  _Mordioux!_ no lieutenant.  Besides, this man, were he as mute as 
a disciple of Pythagoras, - this man would be sure to have in the troop 
some favorite soldier, whom he would make his sergeant; the sergeant 
would penetrate the secret of the lieutenant, in case the latter should 
be honest and unwilling to sell it.  Then the sergeant, less honest and 
less ambitious, will give up the whole for fifty thousand livres.  Come, 
come! that is impossible.  The lieutenant is impossible.  But then I must 
have no fractions; I cannot divide my troop in two, and act upon two 
points, at once, without another self, who -  But what is the use of 
acting upon two points, as we have only one man to take?  What can be the 
use of weakening a corps by placing the right here, and the left there?  
A single corps - _Mordioux!_ a single one, and that commanded by 
D'Artagnan.  Very well.  But twenty men marching in one band are 
suspected by everybody; twenty horsemen must not be seen marching 
together, or a company will be detached against them and the password 
will be required; the which company, upon seeing them embarrassed to give 
it, would shoot M. d'Artagnan and his men like so many rabbits.  I reduce 
myself then to ten men; in this fashion I shall act simply and with 
unity; I shall be forced to be prudent, which is half the success in an 
affair of the kind I am undertaking; a greater number might, perhaps, 
have drawn me into some folly.  Ten horses are not many, either, to buy 
or take.  A capital idea; what tranquillity it infuses into my mind! no 
more suspicions - no passwords - no more dangers!  Ten men, they are 
valets or clerks.  Ten men, leading ten horses laden with merchandise of 
whatever kind, are tolerated, well received everywhere.  Ten men travel 
on account of the house of Planchet & Co., of France, - nothing can be 
said against that.  These ten men, clothed like manufacturers, have a 
good cutlass or a good musket at their saddle-bow, and a good pistol in 
the holster.  They never allow themselves to be uneasy, because they have 
no evil designs.  They are, perhaps, in truth, a little disposed to be 
smugglers, but what harm is in that?  Smuggling is not, like polygamy, a 
hanging offense.  The worst that can happen to us is the confiscation of 
our merchandise.  Our merchandise confiscated - a fine affair that!  
Come, come! it is a superb plan.  Ten men only - ten men, whom I will 
engage for my service; ten men who shall be as resolute as forty, who 
would cost me four times as much, and to whom, for greater security, I 
will never open my mouth as to my designs, and to whom I shall only say 
'My friends, there is a blow to be struck.'  Things being after this 
fashion, Satan will be very malicious if he plays me one of his tricks.  
Fifteen thousand livres saved - that's superb - out of twenty!"

Thus fortified by his laborious calculations, D'Artagnan stopped at this 
plan, and determined to change nothing in it.  He had already on a list 
furnished by his inexhaustible memory, ten men illustrious amongst the 
seekers of adventure, ill-treated by fortune, and not on good terms with 
justice.  Upon this D'Artagnan rose, and instantly set off on the search, 
telling Planchet not to expect him to breakfast, and perhaps not to 
dinner.  A day and a half spent in rummaging amongst certain dens of 
Paris sufficed for his recruiting; and, without allowing his adventurers 
to communicate with each other, he had picked up and got together, in 
less than thirty hours, a charming collection of ill-looking faces, 
speaking a French less pure than the English they were about to attempt.  
These men were, for the most part, guards, whose merit D'Artagnan had had 
an opportunity of appreciating in various encounters, whom drunkenness, 
unlucky sword-thrusts, unexpected winnings at play, or the economical 
reforms of Mazarin, had forced to seek shade and solitude, those two 
great consolers of irritated and chafing spirits.  They bore upon their 
countenances and in their vestments the traces of the heartaches they had 
undergone.  Some had their visages scarred, - all had their clothes in 
rags.  D'Artagnan comforted the most needy of these brotherly miseries by 
a prudent distribution of the crowns of the company; then, having taken 
care that these crowns should be employed in the physical improvement of 
the troop, he appointed a trysting place in the north of France, between 
Bergues and Saint Omer.  Six days were allowed as the utmost term, and 
D'Artagnan was sufficiently acquainted with the good-will, the good-
humor, and the relative probity of these illustrious recruits, to be 
certain that not one of them would fail in his appointment.  These orders 
given, this rendezvous fixed, he went to bid farewell to Planchet, who 
asked news of his army.  D'Artagnan did not think it proper to inform 
him of the reduction he had made in his _personnel_.  He feared that the 
confidence of his associate would be abated by such an avowal.  Planchet 
was delighted to learn that the army was levied, and that he (Planchet) 
found himself a kind of half king, who from his throne-counter kept in 
pay a body of troops destined to make war against perfidious Albion, that 
enemy of all true French hearts.  Planchet paid down in double louis, 
twenty thousand livres to D'Artagnan, on the part of himself (Planchet), 
and twenty thousand livres, still in double louis, in account with 
D'Artagnan.  D'Artagnan placed each of the twenty thousand francs in a 
bag, and weighing a bag in each hand, - "This money is very embarrassing, 
my dear Planchet," said he.  "Do you know this weighs thirty pounds?"

"Bah! your horse will carry that like a feather."

D'Artagnan shook his head.  "Don't tell me such things, Planchet: a horse 
overloaded with thirty pounds, in addition to the rider and his 
portmanteau, cannot cross a river so easily - cannot leap over a wall or 
ditch so lightly; and the horse failing, the horseman fails.  It is true 
that you, Planchet, who have served in the infantry, may not be aware of 
all that."

"Then what is to be done, monsieur?" said Planchet, greatly embarrassed.

"Listen to me," said D'Artagnan.  "I will pay my army on its return 
home.  Keep my half of twenty thousand livres, which you can use during 
that time."

"And my half?" said Planchet.

"I shall take that with me."

"Your confidence does me honor," said Planchet: "but supposing you should 
not return?"

"That is possible, though not very probable.  Then, Planchet, in case I 
should not return - give me a pen; I will make my will."  D'Artagnan took 
a pen and some paper, and wrote upon a plain sheet, - "I, D'Artagnan, 
possess twenty thousand livres, laid up cent per cent during thirty years 
that I have been in the service of his majesty the king of France.  I 
leave five thousand to Athos, five thousand to Porthos, and five thousand 
to Aramis, that they may give the said sums in my name and their own to 
my young friend Raoul, Vicomte de Bragelonne.  I give the remaining five 
thousand to Planchet, that he may distribute the fifteen thousand with 
less regret among my friends.  With which purpose I sign these presents. 
- D'ARTAGNAN."

Planchet appeared very curious to know what D'Artagnan had written.

"Here," said the musketeer, "read it."

On reading the last lines the tears came into Planchet's eyes.  "You 
think, then, that I would not have given the money without that?  Then I 
will have none of your five thousand francs."

D'Artagnan smiled.  "Accept it, accept it, Planchet; and in that way you 
will only lose fifteen thousand francs instead of twenty thousand, and 
you will not be tempted to disregard the signature of your master and 
friend, by losing nothing at all."

How well that dear Monsieur d'Artagnan knew the hearts of men and 
grocers!  They who have pronounced Don Quixote mad because he rode out to 
the conquest of an empire with nobody but Sancho his squire, and they who 
have pronounced Sancho mad because he accompanied his master in his 
attempt to conquer the said empire, - they certainly will have no 
hesitation in extending the same judgment to D'Artagnan and Planchet.  
And yet the first passed for one of the most subtle spirits among the 
astute spirits of the court of France.  As to the second, he had acquired 
by good right the reputation of having one of the longest heads among the 
grocers of the Rue des Lombards; consequently of Paris, and consequently 
of France.  Now, to consider these two men from the point of view from 
which you would consider other men, and the means by the aid of which 
they contemplated to restore a monarch to his throne, compared with other 
means, the shallowest brains of the country where brains are most shallow 
must have revolted against the presumptuous madness of the lieutenant and 
the stupidity of his associate.  Fortunately, D'Artagnan was not a man to 
listen to the idle talk of those around him, or to the comments that were 
made on himself.  He had adopted the motto, "Act well, and let people 
talk."  Planchet, on his part had adopted this, "Act and say nothing."  
It resulted from this, that, according to the custom of all superior 
geniuses, these two men flattered themselves, _intra pectus_, with being 
in the right against all who found fault with them.

As a beginning, D'Artagnan set out in the finest of possible weather, 
without a cloud in the heavens - without a cloud on his mind, joyous and 
strong, calm and decided, great in his resolution, and consequently 
carrying with him a tenfold dose of that potent fluid which the shocks of 
mind cause to spring from the nerves, and which procure for the human 
machine a force and an influence of which future ages will render, 
according to all probability, a more arithmetical account than we can 
possibly do at present.  He was again, as in times past, on that same 
road of adventures which had led him to Boulogne, and which he was now 
traveling for the fourth time.  It appeared to him that he could almost 
recognize the trace of his own steps upon the road, and that of his fist 
upon the doors of the hostelries; - his memory, always active and 
present, brought back that youth which neither thirty years later his 
great heart nor his wrist of steel would have belied.  What a rich nature 
was that of this man!  He had all the passions, all the defects, all the 
weaknesses, and the spirit of contradiction familiar to his understanding 
changed all these imperfections into corresponding qualities.  
D'Artagnan, thanks to his ever active imagination, was afraid of a 
shadow, and ashamed of being afraid, he marched straight up to that 
shadow, and then became extravagant in his bravery, if the danger proved 
to be real.  Thus everything in him was emotion, and therefore 
enjoyment.  He loved the society of others, but never became tired of his 
own; and more than once, if he could have been heard when he was alone, 
he might have been seen laughing at the jokes he related to himself or 
the tricks his imagination created just five minutes before _ennui_ might 
have been looked for.  D'Artagnan was not perhaps so gay this time as he 
would have been with the prospect of finding some good friends at Calais, 
instead of joining the ten scamps there; melancholy, however, did not 
visit him more than once a day, and it was about five visits that he 
received from that somber deity before he got sight of the sea at 
Boulogne, and then these visits were indeed but short.  But when once 
D'Artagnan found himself near the field of action, all other feelings but 
that of confidence disappeared never to return.  From Boulogne he 
followed the coast to Calais.  Calais was the place of general 
rendezvous, and at Calais he had named to each of his recruits the 
hostelry of "Le Grande Monarque," where living was not extravagant, where 
sailors messed, and where men of the sword, with sheath of leather, be it 
understood, found lodging, table, food, and all the comforts of life, for 
thirty sous per diem.  D'Artagnan proposed to himself to take them by 
surprise _in flagrante delicto_ of wandering life, and to judge by the 
first appearance if he could count on them as trusty companions.

He arrived at Calais at half past four in the afternoon.


Chapter XXII:
D'Artagnan travels for the House of Planchet and Company.

The hostelry of "Le Grand Monarque" was situated in a little street 
parallel to the port without looking out upon the port itself.  Some 
lanes cut - as steps cut the two parallels of the ladder - the two great 
straight lines of the port and the street.  By these lanes passengers 
came suddenly from the port into the street, or from the street on to the 
port.  D'Artagnan, arrived at the port, took one of these lanes, and came 
out in front of the hostelry of "Le Grand Monarque."  The moment was well 
chosen and might remind D'Artagnan of his start in life at the hostelry 
of the "Franc-Meunier" at Meung.  Some sailors who had been playing at 
dice had started a quarrel, and were threatening each other furiously.  
The host, hostess, and two lads were watching with anxiety the circle of 
these angry gamblers, from the midst of which war seemed ready to break 
forth, bristling with knives and hatchets.  The play, nevertheless, was 
continued.  A stone bench was occupied by two men, who appeared thence to 
watch the door; four tables, placed at the back of the common chamber, 
were occupied by eight other individuals.  Neither the men at the door, 
nor those at the tables took any part in the play or the quarrel.  
D'Artagnan recognized his ten men in these cold, indifferent spectators.  
The quarrel went on increasing.  Every passion has, like the sea, its 
tide which ascends and descends.  Reaching the climax of passion, one 
sailor overturned the table and the money which was upon it.  The table 
fell, and the money rolled about.  In an instant all belonging to the 
hostelry threw themselves upon the stakes, and many a piece of silver was 
picked up by people who stole away whilst the sailors were scuffling with 
each other.

The two men on the bench and the eight at the tables, although they 
seemed perfect strangers to each other, these ten men alone, we say, 
appeared to have agreed to remain impassible amidst the cries of fury and 
the chinking of money.  Two only contented themselves with pushing with 
their feet combatants who came under their table.  Two others, rather 
than take part in this disturbance, buried their hands in their pockets; 
and another two jumped upon the table they occupied, as people do to 
avoid being submerged by overflowing water.

"Come, come," said D'Artagnan to himself, not having lost one of the 
details we have related, "this is a very fair gathering - circumspect, 
calm, accustomed to disturbance, acquainted with blows!  _Peste!_  I have 
been lucky."

All at once his attention was called to a particular part of the room.  
The two men who had pushed the strugglers with their feet, were assailed 
with abuse by the sailors, who had become reconciled.  One of them, half 
drunk with passion, and quite drunk with beer, came, in a menacing 
manner, to demand of the shorter of these two sages by what right he had 
touched with his foot creatures of the good God, who were not dogs.  And 
whilst putting this question, in order to make it more direct, he applied 
his great fist to the nose of D'Artagnan's recruit.

This man became pale, without its being to be discerned whether his 
pallor arose from anger or fear; seeing which, the sailor concluded it 
was from fear, and raised his fist with the manifest intention of letting 
it fall upon the head of the stranger.  But though the threatened man did 
not appear to move, he dealt the sailor such a severe blow in the stomach 
that he sent him rolling and howling to the other side of the room.  At 
the same instant, rallied by the _espirit de corps_, all the comrades of 
the conquered man fell upon the conqueror

The latter, with the same coolness of which he had given proof, without 
committing the imprudence of touching his weapons, took up a beer-pot 
with a pewter-lid, and knocked down two or three of his assailants; then, 
as he was about to yield to numbers, the seven other silent men at the 
tables, who had not yet stirred, perceived that their cause was at stake, 
and came to the rescue.  At the same time, the two indifferent spectators 
at the door turned round with frowning bows, indicating their evident 
intention of taking the enemy in the rear, if the enemy did not cease 
their aggressions.

The host, his helpers, and two watchmen who were passing, and who from 
the curiosity had penetrated too far into the room, were mixed up in the 
tumult and showered with blows.  The Parisians hit like Cyclops, with an 
_ensemble_ and a tactic delightful to behold.  At length, obliged to beat 
a retreat before superior numbers, they formed an intrenchment behind the 
large table, which they raised by main force; whilst the two others, 
arming themselves each with a trestle, and using it like a great sledge-
hammer, knocked down at a blow eight sailors upon whose heads they had 
brought their monstrous catapult in play.  The floor was already strewn 
with wounded, and the room filled with cries and dust, when D'Artagnan, 
satisfied with the test, advanced, sword in hand, and striking with the 
pommel every head that came in his way, he uttered a vigorous _hola!_ 
which put an instantaneous end to the conflict.  A great back-flood 
directly took place from the center to the sides of the room, so that 
D'Artagnan found himself isolated and dominator.

"What is this all about?" then demanded he of the assembly, with the 
majestic tone of Neptune pronouncing the _Quos ego_.

At the very instant, at the first sound of his voice, to carry on the 
Virgilian metaphor, D'Artagnan's recruits, recognizing each his sovereign 
lord, discontinued their plank-fighting and trestle blows.  On their 
side, the sailors, seeing that long naked sword, that martial air, and 
the agile arm which came to the rescue of their enemies, in the person of 
a man who seemed accustomed to command, the sailors picked up their 
wounded and their pitchers.  The Parisians wiped their brows, and viewed 
their leader with respect.  D'Artagnan was loaded with thanks by the host 
of "Le Grand Monarque."  He received them like a man who knows that 
nothing is being offered that does not belong to him, and then said he 
would go and walk upon the port till supper was ready.  Immediately each 
of the recruits, who understood the summons, took his hat, brushed the 
dust off his clothes, and followed D'Artagnan.  But D'Artagnan, whilst 
walking and observing, took care not to stop; he directed his course 
towards the downs, and the ten men - surprised at finding themselves 
going in the track of each other, uneasy at seeing on their right, on 
their left, and behind them, companions upon whom they had not reckoned - 
followed him, casting furtive glances at each other.  It was not till he 
had arrived at the hollow part of the deepest down that D'Artagnan, 
smiling to see them outdone, turned towards them, making a friendly sign 
with his hand.

"Eh! come, come, gentlemen," said he, "let us not devour each other; you 
are made to live together, to understand each other in all respects, and 
not to devour one another."

Instantly all hesitation ceased; the men breathed as if they had been 
taken out of a coffin, and examined each other complacently.  After this 
examination they turned their eyes towards their leader, who had long 
been acquainted with the art of speaking to men of that class, and who 
improvised the following little speech, pronounced with an energy truly 
Gascon:

"Gentlemen, you all know who I am.  I have engaged you from knowing you 
to be brave, and willing to associate you with me in a glorious 
enterprise.  Imagine that in laboring for me you labor for the king.  I 
only warn you that if you allow anything of this supposition to appear, I 
shall be forced to crack your skulls immediately, in the manner most 
convenient to me.  You are not ignorant, gentlemen, that state secrets 
are like a mortal poison: as long as that poison is in its box and the 
box is closed, it is not injurious; out of the box, it kills.  Now draw 
near, and you shall know as much of this secret as I am able to tell 
you."  All drew close to him with an expression of curiosity.  
"Approach," continued D'Artagnan, "and let not the bird which passes over 
our heads, the rabbit which sports on the downs, the fish which bounds 
from the waters, hear us.  Our business is to learn and to report to 
monsieur le surintendant of the finances to what extent English smuggling 
is injurious to the French merchants.  I shall enter every place, and see 
everything.  We are poor Picard fishermen, thrown upon the coast by a 
storm.  It is certain that we must sell fish, neither more nor less, like 
true fishermen.  Only people might guess who we are, and might molest us; 
it is therefore necessary that we should be in a condition to defend 
ourselves.  And this is why I have selected men of spirit and courage.  
We shall lead a steady life, and not incur much danger, seeing that we 
have behind us a powerful protector, thanks to whom no embarrassment is 
possible.  One thing alone puzzles me; but I hope that after a short 
explanation, you will relieve me from that difficulty.  The thing which 
puzzles me is taking with me a crew of stupid fishermen, which crew will 
annoy me immensely, whilst if, by chance, there were among you any who 
have seen the sea - "

"Oh! don't let that trouble you," said one of the recruits; "I was a 
prisoner among the pirates of Tunis three years, and can maneuver a boat 
like an admiral."

"See," said D'Artagnan, "what an admirable thing chance is!"  D'Artagnan 
pronounced these words with an indefinable tone of feigned _bonhomie_, 
for he knew very well that the victim of the pirates was an old corsair, 
and had engaged him in consequence of that knowledge.  But D'Artagnan 
never said more than there was need to say, in order to leave people in 
doubt.  He paid himself with the explanation, and welcomed the effect, 
without appearing to be preoccupied with the cause.

"And I," said a second, "I, by chance, had an uncle who directed the 
works of the port of La Rochelle.  When quite a child, I played about the 
boats, and I know how to handle an oar or a sail as well as the best 
Ponantais sailor."  The latter did not lie much more than the first, for 
he had rowed on board his majesty's galleys six years, at Ciotat.  Two 
others were more frank: they confessed honestly that they had served on 
board a vessel as soldiers as punishment, and did not blush for it.  
D'Artagnan found himself, then, the leader of ten men of war and four 
sailors, having at once an land army and a sea force, which would have 
carried the pride of Planchet to its height, if Planchet had known the 
details.

Nothing was now left but arranging the general orders, and D'Artagnan 
gave them with precision.  He enjoined his men to be ready to set out for 
the Hague, some following the coast which leads to Breskens, others the 
road to Antwerp.  The rendezvous was given, by calculating each day's 
march, a fortnight from that time, upon the chief place at the Hague.  
D'Artagnan recommended his men to go in couples, as they liked best, from 
sympathy.  He himself selected from among those with the least 
disreputable look, two guards whom he had formerly known, and whose only 
faults were being drunkards and gamblers.  These men had not entirely 
lost all ideas of civilization, and under proper garments their hearts 
would beat again.  D'Artagnan, not to create any jealousy with the 
others, made the rest go forward.  He kept his two selected ones, clothed 
them from his own wardrobe, and set out with them.

It was to these two, whom he seemed to honor with an absolute confidence, 
that D'Artagnan imparted a false secret, destined to secure the success 
of the expedition.  He confessed to them that the object was not to learn 
to what extent French merchants were injured by English smuggling, but to 
learn how far French smuggling could annoy English trade.  These men 
appeared convinced; they were effectively so.  D'Artagnan was quite sure 
that at the first debauch, when thoroughly drunk, one of the two would 
divulge the secret to the whole band.  His game appeared infallible.

A fortnight after all we have said had taken place at Calais, the whole 
troop assembled at the Hague.

Then D'Artagnan perceived that all his men, with remarkable intelligence, 
had already travestied themselves into sailors, more or less ill-treated 
by the sea.  D'Artagnan left them to sleep in a den in Newkerke street, 
whilst he lodged comfortably upon the Grand Canal.  He learned that the 
king of England had come back to his old ally, William II. of Nassau, 
stadtholder of Holland.  He learned also that the refusal of Louis XIV. 
had a little cooled the protection afforded him up to that time, and in 
consequence he had gone to reside in a little village house at 
Scheveningen, situated in the downs, on the sea-shore, about a league 
from the Hague.

There, it was said, the unfortunate banished king consoled himself in his 
exile, by looking, with the melancholy peculiar to the princes of his 
race, at that immense North Sea, which separated him from his England, as 
it had formerly separated Mary Stuart from France.  There, behind the 
trees of the beautiful wood of Scheveningen, on the fine sand upon which 
grows the golden broom of the down, Charles II. vegetated as it did, more 
unfortunate, for he had life and thought, and he hoped and despaired by 
turns.

D'Artagnan went once as far as Scheveningen, in order to be certain that 
all was true that was said of the king.  He beheld Charles II., pensive 
and alone, coming out of a little door opening into the wood, and walking 
on the beach in the setting sun, without even attracting the attention of 
the fishermen, who, on their return in the evening, drew, like the 
ancient mariners of the Archipelago, their barks up upon the sand of the 
shore.

D'Artagnan recognized the king; he saw him fix his melancholy look upon 
the immense extent of the waters, and absorb upon his pale countenance 
the red rays of the sun already cut by the black line of the horizon.  
Then Charles returned to his isolated abode, always alone, slow and sad, 
amusing himself with making the friable and moving sand creak beneath his 
feet.

That very evening D'Artagnan hired for a thousand livres a fishing-boat 
worth four thousand.  He paid a thousand livres down, and deposited the 
three thousand with a Burgomaster, after which he brought on board, 
without their being seen, the six men who formed his land army; and with 
the rising tide, at three o'clock in the morning, he got into the open 
sea, maneuvering ostensibly with the four others, and depending upon the 
science of his galley slave as upon that of the first pilot of the port.


Chapter XXIII:
In which the Author, very unwillingly, is forced to write a Little 
History.

While kings and men were thus occupied with England, which governed 
itself quite alone, and which, it must be said in its praise, had never 
been so badly governed, a man upon whom God had fixed his eye, and placed 
his finger, a man predestined to write his name in brilliant letters upon 
the page of history, was pursuing in the face of the world a work full of 
mystery and audacity.  He went on, and no one knew whither he meant to 
go, although not only England, but France, and Europe, watched him 
marching with a firm step and head held high.  All that was known of this 
man we are about to tell.

Monk had just declared himself in favor of the liberty of the Rump 
Parliament, a parliament which General Lambert, imitating Cromwell, whose 
lieutenant he had been, had just blocked up so closely, in order to bring 
it to his will, that no member, during all the blockade, was able to go 
out, and only one, Peter Wentworth, had been able to get in.

Lambert and Monk - everything was summed up in these two men; the first 
representing military despotism, the second pure republicanism.  These 
men were the two sole political representatives of that revolution in 
which Charles I. had first lost his crown, and afterwards his head.  As 
regarded Lambert, he did not dissemble his views; he sought to establish 
a military government, and to be himself the head of that government.

Monk, a rigid republican, some said, wished to maintain the Rump 
Parliament, that visible though degenerated representative of the 
republic.  Monk, artful and ambitious, said others, wished simply to make 
of this parliament, which he affected to protect, a solid step by which 
to mount the throne which Cromwell had left empty, but upon which he had 
never dared to take his seat.

Thus Lambert by persecuting the parliament, and Monk by declaring for it, 
had mutually proclaimed themselves enemies of each other.  Monk and 
Lambert, therefore, had at first thought of creating an army each for 
himself: Monk in Scotland, where were the Presbyterians and the 
royalists, that is to say, the malcontents; Lambert in London, where was 
found, as is always the case, the strongest opposition to the existing 
power which it had beneath its eyes.

Monk had pacified Scotland, he had there formed for himself an army, and 
found an asylum.  The one watched the other.  Monk knew that the day was 
not yet come, the day marked by the Lord for a great change; his sword, 
therefore, appeared glued to the sheath.  Inexpugnable in his wild and 
mountainous Scotland, an absolute general, king of an army of eleven 
thousand old soldiers, whom he had more than once led on to victory; as 
well informed, nay, even better, of the affairs of London, than Lambert, 
who held garrison in the city, - such was the position of Monk, when, at 
a hundred leagues from London, he declared himself for the parliament.  
Lambert, on the contrary, as we have said, lived in the capital.  That 
was the center of all his operations, and he there collected all around 
him all his friends, and all the people of the lower class, eternally 
inclined to cherish the enemies of constituted power.

It was then in London that Lambert learnt the support that, from the 
frontiers of Scotland, Monk lent to the parliament.  He judged there was 
no time to be lost, and that the Tweed was not so far distant from the 
Thames that an army could not march from one river to the other, 
particularly when it was well commanded.  He knew, besides, that as fast 
as the soldiers of Monk penetrated into England, they would form on their 
route that ball of snow, the emblem of the globe of fortune, which is for 
the ambitious nothing but a step growing unceasingly higher to conduct 
him to his object.  He got together, therefore, his army, formidable at 
the same time for its composition and its numbers, and hastened to meet 
Monk, who, on his part, like a prudent navigator sailing amidst rocks, 
advanced by very short marches, listening to the reports which came from 
London.

The two armies came in sight of each other near Newcastle; Lambert, 
arriving first, encamped in the city itself.  Monk, always circumspect, 
stopped where he was, and placed his general quarters at Coldstream, on 
the Tweed.  The sight of Lambert spread joy through Monk's army, whilst, 
on the contrary, the sight of Monk threw disorder into Lambert's army.  
It might have been thought that these intrepid warriors, who had made 
such a noise in the streets of London, had set out with the hopes of 
meeting no one, and that now seeing that they had met an army, and that 
that army hoisted before them not only a standard, but still further, a 
cause and a principle, - it might have been believed, we say, that these 
intrepid warriors had begun to reflect that they were less good 
republicans than the soldiers of Monk, since the latter supported the 
parliament; whilst Lambert supported nothing, not even himself.

As to Monk, if he had had to reflect, or if he did reflect, it must have 
been after a sad fashion, for history relates - and that modest dame, it 
is well known, never lies - history relates, that the day of his arrival 
at Coldstream search was made in vain throughout the place for a single 
sheep.

If Monk had commanded an English army, that was enough to have brought 
about a general desertion.  But it is not with the Scots as it is with 
the English, to whom that fluid flesh which is called blood is a 
paramount necessity; the Scots, a poor and sober race, live upon a 
little barley crushed between two stones, diluted with the water of the 
fountain, and cooked upon another stone, heated.

The Scots, their distribution of barley being made, cared very little 
whether there was or was not any meat in Coldstream.  Monk, little 
accustomed to barley-cakes, was hungry, and his staff, at least as hungry 
as himself, looked with anxiety right and left, to know what was being 
prepared for supper.

Monk ordered search to be made; his scouts had on arriving in the place 
found it deserted and the cupboards empty; upon butchers and bakers it 
was of no use depending in Coldstream.  The smallest morsel of bread, 
then, could not be found for the general's table.

As accounts succeeded each other, all equally unsatisfactory, Monk, 
seeing terror and discouragement upon every face, declared that he was 
not hungry; besides, they should eat on the morrow, since Lambert was 
there probably with the intention of giving battle, and consequently 
would give up his provisions, if he were forced from Newcastle, or 
forever to relieve Monk's soldiers from hunger if he conquered.

This consolation was only efficacious upon a very small number; but of 
what importance was it to Monk? for Monk was very absolute, under the 
appearance of the most perfect mildness.  Every one, therefore, was 
obliged to be satisfied, or at least to appear so.  Monk, quite as hungry 
as his people, but affecting perfect indifference for the absent mutton, 
cut a fragment of tobacco, half an inch long, from the _carotte_ of a 
sergeant who formed part of his suite, and began to masticate the said 
fragment, assuring his lieutenant that hunger was a chimera, and that, 
besides, people were never hungry when they had anything to chew.

This joke satisfied some of those who had resisted Monk's first deduction 
drawn from the neighborhood of Lambert's army; the number of the 
dissentients diminished greatly; the guard took their posts, the patrols 
began, and the general continued his frugal repast beneath his open tent.

Between his camp and that of the enemy stood an old abbey, of which, at 
the present day, there only remain some ruins, but which then was in 
existence, and was called Newcastle Abbey.  It was built upon a vast 
site, independent at once of the plain and of the river, because it was 
almost a marsh fed by springs and kept up by rains.  Nevertheless, in the 
midst of these pools of water, covered with long grass, rushes, and 
reeds, were seen solid spots of ground, formerly used as the kitchen-
garden, the park, the pleasure-gardens, and other dependencies of the 
abbey, looking like one of those great sea-spiders, whose body is round, 
whilst the claws go diverging round from this circumference.

The kitchen-garden, one of the longest claws of the abbey, extended to 
Monk's camp.  Unfortunately it was, as we have said, early in June, and 
the kitchen-garden, being abandoned, offered no resources.

Monk had ordered this spot to be guarded, as most subject to surprises.  
The fires of the enemy's general were plainly to be perceived on the 
other side of the abbey.  But between these fires and the abbey extended 
the Tweed, unfolding its luminous scales beneath the thick shade of tall 
green oaks.  Monk was perfectly well acquainted with this position, 
Newcastle and its environs having already more than once been his 
headquarters.  He knew that by this day his enemy might without doubt 
throw a few scouts into these ruins and promote a skirmish, but that by 
night he would take care to abstain from such a risk.  He felt himself, 
therefore, in security.

Thus his soldiers saw him, after what he boastingly called his supper – 
that is to say, after the exercise of mastication reported by us at the 
commencement of this chapter - like Napoleon on the eve of Austerlitz, 
seated asleep in his rush chair, half beneath the light of his lamp, half 
beneath the reflection of the moon, commencing its ascent in the heavens, 
which denoted that it was nearly half past nine in the evening.  All at 
once Monk was roused from his half sleep, fictitious perhaps, by a troop 
of soldiers, who came with joyous cries, and kicked the poles of his tent 
with a humming noise as if on purpose to wake him.  There was no need of 
so much noise; the general opened his eyes quickly.

"Well, my children, what is going on now?" asked the general.

"General!" replied several voices at once, "General! you shall have 
some supper."

"I have had my supper, gentlemen," replied he quietly, "and was 
comfortably digesting it, as you see.  But come in, and tell me what 
brings you hither."

"Good news, general."

"Bah!  Has Lambert sent us word that he will fight to-morrow?"

"No; but we have just captured a fishing-boat conveying fish to 
Newcastle."

"And you have done very wrong, my friends.  These gentlemen from London 
are delicate, must have their first course; you will put them sadly out 
of humor this evening, and to-morrow they will be pitiless.  It would 
really be in good taste to send back to Lambert both his fish and his 
fishermen, unless - " and the general reflected an instant.

"Tell me," continued he, "what are these fishermen, if you please?"

"Some Picard seamen who were fishing on the coasts of France or Holland, 
and who have been thrown upon ours by a gale of wind."

"Do any among them speak our language?"

"The leader spoke some few words of English."

The mistrust of the general was awakened in proportion as fresh 
information reached him.  "That is well," said he.  "I wish to see these 
men; bring them to me."

An officer immediately went to fetch them.

"How many are there of them?" continued Monk; "and what is their vessel?"

"There are ten or twelve of them, general, and they were aboard of a kind 
of _chasse-maree_, as it is called - Dutch-built, apparently."

"And you say they were carrying fish to Lambert's camp?"

"Yes, general, and they seem to have had good luck in their fishing."

"Humph!  We shall see that," said Monk.

At this moment the officer returned, bringing the leader of the fishermen 
with him.  He was a man from fifty to fifty-five years old, but good-
looking for his age.  He was of middle height, and wore a _justaucorps_ 
of coarse wool, a cap pulled down over his eyes, a cutlass hung from his 
belt, and he walked with the hesitation peculiar to sailors, who, never 
knowing, thanks to the movement of the vessel, whether their foot will be 
placed upon the plank or upon nothing, give to every one of their steps a 
fall as firm as if they were driving a pile.  Monk, with an acute and 
penetrating look, examined the fisherman for some time, while the latter 
smiled, with that smile, half cunning, half silly, peculiar to French 
peasants.

"Do you speak English?" asked Monk, in excellent French.

"Ah! but badly, my lord," replied the fisherman.

This reply was made much more with the lively and sharp accentuation of 
the people beyond the Loire, than with the slightly-drawling accent of 
the countries of the west and north of France.

"But you do speak it?" persisted Monk, in order to examine his accent 
once more.

"Eh! we men of the sea," replied the fisherman, "speak a little of all 
languages."

"Then you are a sea fisherman?"

"I am at present, my lord - a fisherman, and a famous fisherman, too.  I 
have taken a barbel that weighs at least thirty pounds, and more than 
fifty mullets; I have also some little whitings that will fry 
beautifully."

"You appear to me to have fished more frequently in the Gulf of Gascony 
than in the Channel," said Monk, smiling.

"Well, I am from the south; but does that prevent me from being a good 
fisherman, my lord?"

"Oh! not at all; I shall buy your fish.  And now speak frankly; for whom 
did you destine them?"

"My lord, I will conceal nothing from you.  I was going to Newcastle, 
following the coast, when a party of horsemen who were passing along in 
an opposite direction made a sign to my bark to turn back to your honor's 
camp, under penalty of a discharge of musketry.  As I was not armed for 
fighting," added the fisherman, smiling, "I was forced to submit."

"And why did you go to Lambert's camp in preference to mine?"

"My lord, I will be frank; will your lordship permit me?"

"Yes, and even if need be shall command you to be so."

"Well, my lord, I was going to M. Lambert's camp because those gentlemen 
from the city pay well - whilst your Scotchmen, Puritans, Presbyterians, 
Covenanters, or whatever you chose to call them, eat but little, and pay 
for nothing."

Monk shrugged his shoulders, without, however, being able to refrain from 
smiling at the same time.  "How is it that, being from the south, you 
come to fish on our coasts?"

"Because I have been fool enough to marry in Picardy."

"Yes; but even Picardy is not England."

"My lord, man shoves his boat into the sea, but God and the wind do the 
rest, and drive the boat where they please."

"You had, then, no intention of landing on our coasts?"

"Never."

"And what route were you steering?"

"We were returning from Ostend, where some mackerel had already been 
seen, when a sharp wind from the south drove us from our course; then, 
seeing that it was useless to struggle against it, we let it drive us.  
It then became necessary, not to lose our fish, which were good, to go 
and sell them at the nearest English port, and that was Newcastle.  We 
were told the opportunity was good, as there was an increase of 
population in the camp, an increase of population in the city; both, we 
were told, were full of gentlemen, very rich and very hungry.  So we 
steered our course towards Newcastle."

"And your companions, where are they?"

"Oh, my companions have remained on board; they are sailors without the 
least instruction."

"Whilst you - " said Monk.

"Who, I?" said the _patron_, laughing; "I have sailed about with my 
father; and I know what is called a sou, a crown, a pistole, a louis, and 
a double louis, in all the languages of Europe; my crew, therefore, 
listen to me as they would to an oracle, and obey me as if I were an 
admiral."

"Then it was you who preferred M. Lambert as the best customer?"

"Yes, certainly.  And, to be frank, my lord, was I wrong?"

"You will see that by and by."

"At all events, my lord, if there is a fault, the fault is mine; and my 
comrades should not be dealt hardly with on that account."

"This is decidedly an intelligent, sharp fellow," thought Monk.  Then, 
after a few minutes' silence employed in scrutinizing the fisherman, - 
"You come from Ostend, did you not say?" asked the general.

"Yes, my lord, in a straight line."

"You have then heard of the affairs of the day; for I have no doubt that 
both in France and Holland they excite interest.  What is he doing who 
calls himself king of England?"

"Oh, my lord!" cried the fisherman, with loud and expansive frankness, 
"that is a lucky question, and you could not put it to anybody better 
than to me, for in truth I can make you a famous reply.  Imagine, my 
lord, that when putting into Ostend to sell the few mackerel we had 
caught, I saw the ex-king walking on the downs waiting for his horses, 
which were to take him to the Hague.  He is a rather tall, pale man, with 
black hair, and somewhat hard-featured.  He looks ill, and I don't think 
the air of Holland agrees with him."

Monk followed with the greatest attention the rapid, heightened, and 
diffuse conversation of the fisherman, in a language which was not his 
own, but which, as we have said, he spoke with great facility.  The 
fisherman, on his part, employed sometimes a French word, sometimes an 
English word, and sometimes a word which appeared not to belong to any 
language, but was, in truth, pure Gascon.  Fortunately his eyes spoke for 
him, and that so eloquently, that it was possible to lose a word from his 
mouth, but not a single intention from his eyes.  The general appeared 
more and more satisfied with his examination.  "You must have heard that 
this ex-king, as you call him, was going to the Hague for some purpose?"

"Oh, yes," said the fisherman, "I heard that."

"And what was his purpose?"

"Always the same," said the fisherman.  "Must he not always entertain the 
fixed idea of returning to England?"

"That is true," said Monk, pensively.

"Without reckoning," added the fisherman, "that the stadtholder - you 
know, my lord, William II.? - "

"Well?"

"He will assist him with all his power."

"Ah! did you hear that said?"

"No, but I think so."

"You are quite a politician, apparently," said Monk.

"Why, we sailors, my lord, who are accustomed to study the water and the 
air - that is to say, the two most changeable things in the world - are 
seldom deceived as to the rest."

"Now, then," said Monk, changing the conversation, "I am told you are 
going to provision us."

"I shall do my best, my lord."

"How much do you ask for your fish in the first place?"

"Not such a fool as to name a price, my lord."

"Why not?"

"Because my fish is yours."

"By what right?"

"By that of the strongest."

"But my intention is to pay you for it."

"That is very generous of you, my lord."

"And the worth of it - "

"My lord, I fix no price."

"What do you ask, then?"

"I only ask to be permitted to go away."

"Where? - to General Lambert's camp?"

"I!" cried the fisherman; "what should I go to Newcastle for, now I have 
no longer any fish?"

"At all events, listen to me."

"I do, my lord."

"I shall give you some advice."

"How, my lord! - pay me and give me good advice likewise!  You overwhelm 
me, my lord."

Monk looked more earnestly than ever at the fisherman, about whom he 
still appeared to entertain some suspicion.  "Yes, I shall pay you, and 
give you a piece of advice; for the two things are connected.  If you 
return, then, to General Lambert - "

The fisherman made a movement of his head and shoulders, which signified, 
"If he persists in it, I won't contradict him."

"Do not cross the marsh," continued Monk: "you will have money in your 
pocket, and there are in the marsh some Scottish ambuscaders I have 
placed there.  Those people are very intractable; they understand but 
very little of the language which you speak, although it appears to me to 
be composed of three languages.  They might take from you what I have 
given you, and, on your return to your country, you would not fail to say 
that General Monk has two hands, the one Scottish, and the other English; 
and that he takes back with the Scottish hand what he has given with the 
English hand."

"Oh! general, I shall go where you like, be sure of that," said the 
fisherman, with a fear too expressive not to be exaggerated.  "I only 
wish to remain here, if you will allow me to remain."

"I readily believe you," said Monk, with an imperceptible smile, "but I 
cannot, nevertheless, keep you in my tent."

"I have no such wish, my lord, and desire only that your lordship should 
point out where you will have me posted.  Do not trouble yourself about 
us - with us a night soon passes away."

"You shall be conducted to your bark."

"As your lordship pleases.  Only, if your lordship would allow me to be 
taken back by a carpenter, I should be extremely grateful."

"Why so?"

"Because the gentlemen of your army, in dragging my boat up the river 
with a cable pulled by their horses, have battered it a little upon the 
rocks of the shore, so that I have at least two feet of water in my hold, 
my lord."

"The greater reason why you should watch your boat, I think."

"My lord, I am quite at your orders," said the fisherman; "I shall empty 
my baskets where you wish; then you will pay me, if you please to do so; 
and you will send me away, if it appears right to you.  You see I am very 
easily managed and pleased, my lord."

"Come, come, you are a very good sort of fellow," said Monk, whose 
scrutinizing glance had not been able to find a single shade in the clear 
eye of the fisherman.  "Holloa, Digby!"  An aid-de-camp appeared.  "You 
will conduct this good fellow and his companions to the little tents of 
the canteens, in front of the marshes, so that they will be near their 
bark, and yet will not sleep on board to-night.  What is the matter, 
Spithead?"

Spithead was the sergeant from whom Monk had borrowed a piece of tobacco 
for his supper.  Spithead having entered the general's tent without being 
sent for, had drawn this question from Monk.

"My lord," said he, "a French gentleman has just presented himself at the 
outposts and wishes to speak to your honor."

All this was said, be it understood, in English; but, notwithstanding, 
it produced a slight emotion in the fisherman, which Monk, occupied with 
his sergeant, did not remark.

"Who is the gentleman?" asked Monk.

"My lord," replied Spithead, "he told it me; but those devils of French 
names are so difficult to pronounce for a Scottish throat, that I could 
not retain it.  I believe, however, from what the guards say, that it is 
the same gentleman who presented himself yesterday at the halt, and whom 
your honor would not receive."

"That is true; I was holding a council of officers."

"Will your honor give any orders respecting this gentleman?"

"Yes, let him be brought here."

"Must we take any precautions?"

"Such as what?"

"Blinding his eyes, for instance?"

"To what purpose?  He can only see what I desire should be seen; that is 
to say, that I have around me eleven thousand brave men, who ask no 
better than to have their throats cut in honor of the parliament of 
Scotland and England."

"And this man, my lord?" said Spithead, pointing to the fisherman, who, 
during this conversation, had remained standing and motionless, like a 
man who sees but does not understand.

"Ah, that is true," said Monk.  Then turning towards the fisherman, - "I 
shall see you again, my brave fellow," said he; "I have selected a 
lodging for you.  Digby, take him to it.  Fear nothing; your money shall 
be sent to you presently."

"Thank you, my lord," said the fisherman, and after having bowed, he left 
the tent, accompanied by Digby.  Before he had gone a hundred paces he 
found his companions, who were whispering with a volubility which did not 
appear exempt from uneasiness, but he made them a sign which seemed to 
reassure them.  "_Hola_, you fellows!" said the _patron_, "come this 
way.  His lordship, General Monk, has the generosity to pay us for our 
fish, and the goodness to give us hospitality for to-night."

The fishermen gathered round their leader, and, conducted by Digby, the 
little troop proceeded towards the canteens, the post, as may be 
remembered, which had been assigned them.  As they went along in the 
dark, the fishermen passed close to the guards who were conducting the 
French gentleman to General Monk.  This gentleman was on horseback and 
enveloped in a large cloak, which prevented the _patron_ from seeing him, 
however great his curiosity might be.  As to the gentleman, ignorant that 
he was elbowing compatriots, he did not pay any attention to the little 
troop.

The aid-de-camp settled his guests in a tolerably comfortable tent, from 
which was dislodged an Irish canteen woman, who went, with her six 
children, to sleep where she could.  A large fire was burning in front of 
this tent, and threw its purple light over the grassy pools of the marsh, 
rippled by a fresh breeze.  The arrangements made, the aid-de-camp wished 
the fishermen good-night, calling to their notice that they might see 
from the door of the tent the masts of their bark, which was tossing 
gently on the Tweed, a proof that it had not yet sunk.  The sight of this 
appeared to delight the leader of the fishermen infinitely.


Chapter XXIV:
The Treasure.

The French gentleman whom Spithead had announced to Monk, and who, 
closely wrapped in his cloak, had passed by the fishermen who left the 
general's tent five minutes before he entered it, - the French gentleman 
went through the various posts without even casting his eyes around him, 
for fear of appearing indiscreet.  As the order had been given, he was 
conducted to the tent of the general.  The gentleman was left alone in 
the sort of ante-chamber in front of the principal body of the tent, 
where he awaited Monk, who only delayed till he had heard the report of 
his people, and observed through the opening of the canvas the 
countenance of the person who solicited an audience.

Without doubt, the report of those who had accompanied the French 
gentleman established the discretion with which he had behaved, for the 
first impression the stranger received of the welcome made him by the 
general was more favorable than he could have expected at such a moment, 
and on the part of so suspicious a man.  Nevertheless, according to his 
custom, when Monk found himself in the presence of a stranger, he fixed 
upon him his penetrating eyes, which scrutiny, the stranger, on his part, 
sustained without embarrassment or notice.  At the end of a few seconds, 
the general made a gesture with his hand and head in sign of attention.

"My lord," said the gentleman, in excellent English, "I have requested 
an interview with your honor, for an affair of importance."

"Monsieur," replied Monk, in French, "you speak our language well for a 
son of the continent.  I ask your pardon - for doubtless the question is 
indiscreet - do you speak French with the same purity?"

"There is nothing surprising, my lord, in my speaking English tolerably; 
I resided for some time in England in my youth, and since then I have 
made two voyages to this country."  These words were spoken in French, 
and with a purity of accent that bespoke not only a Frenchman, but a 
Frenchman from the vicinity of Tours.

"And what part of England have you resided in, monsieur?"

"In my youth, London, my lord; then, about 1635, I made a pleasure trip 
to Scotland; and lastly, in 1648, I lived for some time at Newcastle, 
particularly in the convent, the gardens of which are now occupied by 
your army."

"Excuse me, monsieur; but you must comprehend that these questions are 
necessary on my part - do you not?"

"It would astonish me, my lord, if they were not asked."

"Now, then, monsieur, what can I do to serve you?  What do you wish?"

"This, my lord; - but, in the first place, are we alone?"

"Perfectly so, monsieur, except, of course, the post which guards us."  
So saying, Monk pulled open the canvas with his hand, and pointed to the 
soldier placed at ten paces from the tent, and who, at the first call, 
could have rendered assistance in a second.

"In that case, my lord," said the gentleman, in as calm a tone as if he 
had been for a length of time in habits of intimacy with his 
interlocutor, "I have made up my mind to address myself to you, because I 
believe you to be an honest man.  Indeed, the communication I am about to 
make to you will prove to you the esteem in which I hold you."

Monk, astonished at this language, which established between him and the 
French gentleman equality at least,  raised his piercing eye to the 
stranger's face, and with a sensible irony conveyed by the inflection of 
his voice alone, for not a muscle of his face moved, - "I thank you, 
monsieur," said he; "but, in the first place, to whom have I the honor of 
speaking?"

"I sent you my name by your sergeant, my lord."

"Excuse him, monsieur, he is a Scotsman, - he could not retain it."

"I am called the Comte de la Fere, monsieur," said Athos, bowing.

"The Comte de la Fere?" said Monk, endeavoring to recollect the name.  
"Pardon me, monsieur, but this appears to be the first time I have ever 
heard that name.  Do you fill any post at the court of France?"

"None; I am a simple gentleman."

"What dignity?"

"King Charles I. made me a knight of the Garter, and Queen Anne of 
Austria has given me the cordon of the Holy Ghost.  These are my only 
dignities."

"The Garter! the Holy Ghost!  Are you a knight of those two orders, 
monsieur?"

"Yes."

"And on what occasions have such favors been bestowed upon you?"

"For services rendered to their majesties."

Monk looked with astonishment at this man, who appeared to him so simple 
and so great at the same time.  Then, as if he had renounced endeavoring 
to penetrate this mystery of a simplicity and grandeur upon which the 
stranger did not seem disposed to give him any other information than 
that which he had already received, - "Did you present yourself yesterday 
at our advanced posts?"

"And was sent back?  Yes, my lord."

"Many officers, monsieur, would permit no one to enter their camp, 
particularly on the eve of a probable battle.  But I differ from my 
colleagues, and like to leave nothing behind me.  Every advice is good 
to me; all danger is sent to me by God, and I weigh it in my hand with 
the energy He has given me.  So, yesterday, you were only sent back on 
account of the council I was holding.  To-day I am at liberty, - speak."

"My lord, you have done much better in receiving me, for what I have to 
say has nothing to do with the battle you are about to fight with General 
Lambert, or with your camp; and the proof is, that I turned away my head 
that I might not see your men, and closed my eyes that I might not count 
your tents.  No, I came to speak to you, my lord, on my own account."

"Speak then, monsieur," said Monk.

"Just now," continued Athos, "I had the honor of telling your lordship 
that for a long time I lived in Newcastle; it was in the time of Charles 
I., and when the king was given up to Cromwell by the Scots."

"I know," said Monk, coldly.

"I had at that time a large sum in gold, and on the eve of the battle, 
from a presentiment perhaps of the turn which things would take on the 
morrow, I concealed it in the principal vault of the covenant of 
Newcastle, in the tower whose summit you now see silvered by the 
moonbeams.  My treasure has then remained interred there, and I have come 
to entreat your honor to permit me to withdraw it before, perhaps, the 
battle turning that way, a mine or some other war engine has destroyed 
the building and scattered my gold, or rendered it so apparent that the 
soldiers will take possession of it."

Monk was well acquainted with mankind; he saw in the physiognomy of this 
gentleman all the energy, all the reason, all the circumspection 
possible; he could therefore only attribute to a magnanimous confidence 
the revelation the Frenchman had made him, and he showed himself 
profoundly touched by it.

"Monsieur," said he, "you have augured well of me.  But is the sum worth 
the trouble to which you expose yourself?  Do you even believe that it 
can be in the same place where you left it?"

"It is there monsieur, I do not doubt."

"That is a reply to one question; but to the other.  I asked you if the 
sum was so large as to warrant your exposing yourself thus."

"It is really large; yes, my lord, for it is a million I inclosed in two 
barrels."

"A million!" cried Monk, at whom this time, in turn, Athos looked 
earnestly and long.  Monk perceived this, and his mistrust returned.

"Here is a man," said he to himself, "who is laying a snare for me.  So 
you wish to withdraw this money, monsieur," replied he, "as I understand?"

"If you please, my lord."

"To-day?"

"This very evening, and that on account of the circumstances I have 
named."

"But, monsieur," objected Monk, "General Lambert is as near the abbey 
where you have to act as I am.  Why, then, have you not addressed 
yourself to him?"

"Because, my lord, when one acts in important matters, it is best to 
consult one's instinct before everything.  Well, General Lambert does 
not inspire with me so much confidence as you do."

"Be it so, monsieur.  I shall assist you in recovering your money, if, 
however, it can still be there; for that is far from likely.  Since 1648 
twelve years have rolled away, and many events have taken place."  Monk 
dwelt upon this point to see if the French gentleman would seize the 
evasions that were open to him, but Athos did not hesitate.

"I assure you, my lord," he said firmly, "that my conviction is, that the 
two barrels have neither changed place nor master."  This reply had 
removed one suspicion from the mind of Monk, but it had suggested 
another.  Without doubt this Frenchman was some emissary sent to entice 
into error the protector of the parliament; the gold was nothing but a 
lure; and by the help of this lure they thought to excite the cupidity of 
the general.  This gold might not exist.  It was Monk's business, then, 
to seize the Frenchman in the act of falsehood and trick, and to draw 
from the false step itself in which his enemies wished to entrap him, a 
triumph for his renown.  When Monk was determined how to act, -

"Monsieur," said he to Athos, "without doubt you will do me the honor to 
share my supper this evening?"

"Yes, my lord," replied Athos, bowing; "for you do me an honor of which I 
feel myself worthy, by the inclination which drew me towards you."

"It is so much the more gracious on your part to accept my invitation 
with such frankness, as my cooks are but few and inexperienced, and my 
providers have returned this evening empty-handed; so that if it had not 
been for a fisherman of your nation who strayed into our camp, General 
Monk would have gone to bed without his supper to-day; I have, then, some 
fresh fish to offer you, as the vendor assures me."

"My lord, it is principally for the sake of having the honor to pass an 
hour with you."

After this exchange of civilities, during which Monk had lost nothing of 
his circumspection, the supper, or what was to serve for one, had been 
laid upon a deal table.  Monk invited the Comte de la Fere to be seated 
at this table, and took his place opposite to him.  A single dish of 
boiled fish, set before the two illustrious guests, was more tempting to 
hungry stomachs than to delicate palates.

Whilst supping, that is, while eating the fish, washed down with bad ale, 
Monk got Athos to relate to him the last events of the Fronde, the 
reconciliation of M. de Conde with the king, and the probable marriage of 
the infanta of Spain; but he avoided, as Athos himself avoided it, all 
allusion to the political interests which united, or rather which 
disunited at this time, England, France and Holland.

Monk, in this conversation, convinced himself of one thing, which he must 
have remarked after the first words exchanged: that was, that he had to 
deal with a man of high distinction.  He could not be an assassin, and it 
was repugnant to Monk to believe him to be a spy; but there was 
sufficient _finesse_ and at the same time firmness in Athos to lead Monk 
to fancy he was a conspirator.  When they had quitted the table, "You 
still believe in your treasure, then, monsieur?" asked Monk.

"Yes, my lord."

"Quite seriously?"

"Seriously."

"And you think you can find the place again where it was buried?"

"At the first inspection."

"Well, monsieur, from curiosity I shall accompany you.  And it is so much 
the more necessary that I should accompany you, that you would find great 
difficulties in passing through the camp without me or one of my 
lieutenants."

"General, I would not suffer you to inconvenience yourself if I did not, 
in fact, stand in need of your company; but as I recognize that this 
company is not only honorable, but necessary, I accept it."

"Do you desire we should take any people with us?" asked Monk.

"General, I believe that would be useless, if you yourself do not see the 
necessity for it.  Two men and a horse will suffice to transport the two 
casks on board the felucca which brought me hither."

"But it will be necessary to pick, dig, and remove the earth, and split 
stones; you don't intend doing this work yourself, monsieur, do you?"

"General, there is no picking or digging required.  The treasure is 
buried in the sepulchral vault of the convent, under a stone in which is 
fixed a large iron ring, and under which there are four steps leading 
down.  The two casks are there, placed end to end, covered with a coat of 
plaster in the form of a bier.  There is, besides, an inscription, which 
will enable me to recognize the stone; and as I am not willing, in an 
affair of delicacy and confidence, to keep the secret from your honor, 
here is the inscription: - '_Hic jacet venerabilis, Petrus Gulielmus 
Scott, Canon Honorab. Conventus Novi Castelli.  Obiit quarta et decima 
Feb. ann. Dom. MCCVIII.  Requiescat in pace._'"

Monk did not lose a single word.  He was astonished either at the 
marvelous duplicity of this man and the superior style in which he played 
his part, or at the good loyal faith with which he presented his request, 
in a situation in which concerning a million of money, risked against the 
blow from a dagger, amidst an army that would have looked upon the theft 
as a restitution.

"Very well," said he; "I shall accompany you; and the adventure appears 
to me so wonderful, that I shall carry the torch myself."  And saying 
these words, he girded on a short sword, placed a pistol in his belt, 
disclosing in this movement, which opened his doublet a little, the fine 
rings of a coat of mail, destined to protect him from the first dagger-
thrust of an assassin.  After which he took a Scottish dirk in his left 
hand, and then turning to Athos, "Are you ready, monsieur?" said he.

"I am."

Athos, as if in opposition to what Monk had done, unfastened his poniard, 
which he placed upon the table; unhooked his sword-belt, which he laid 
close to his poniard; and, without affectation, opening his doublet as if 
to look for his handkerchief, showed beneath his fine cambric shirt his 
naked breast, without weapons either offensive or defensive.

"This is truly a singular man," said Monk; "he is without any arms; he 
has an ambuscade placed somewhere yonder."

"General," said he, as if he had divined Monk's thought, "you wish we 
should be alone; that is very right, but a great captain ought never to 
expose himself with temerity.  It is night, the passage of the marsh may 
present dangers; be accompanied."

"You are right," replied he, calling Digby.  The aid-de-camp appeared.  
"Fifty men with swords and muskets," said he, looking at Athos.

"That is too few if there is danger, too many if there is not."

"I will go alone," said Monk; "I want nobody.  Come, monsieur."


Chapter XXV:
The Marsh.

Athos and Monk passed over, in going from the camp towards the Tweed, 
that part of the ground which Digby had traversed with the fishermen 
coming from the Tweed to the camp.  The aspect of this place, the aspect 
of the changes man had wrought in it, was of a nature to produce a great 
effect upon a lively and delicate imagination like that of Athos.  Athos 
looked at nothing but these desolate spots; Monk looked at nothing but 
Athos - at Athos, who, with his eyes sometimes directed towards heaven, 
and sometimes towards the earth, sought, thought, and sighed.

Digby, whom the last orders of the general, and particularly the accent 
with which he had given them, had at first a little excited, Digby 
followed the pair at about twenty paces, but the general having turned 
round as if astonished to find his orders had not been obeyed, the aid-de-
camp perceived his indiscretion, and returned to his tent.

He supposed that the general wished to make, incognito, one of those 
reviews of vigilance which every experienced captain never fails to make 
on the eve of a decisive engagement: he explained to himself the presence 
of Athos in this case as an inferior explains all that is mysterious on 
the part of his leader.  Athos might be, and, indeed, in the eyes of 
Digby, must be, a spy, whose information was to enlighten the general.

At the end of a walk of about ten minutes among the tents and posts, 
which were closer together near the headquarters, Monk entered upon a 
little causeway which diverged into three branches.  That on the left led 
to the river, that in the middle to Newcastle Abbey on the marsh, that on 
the right crossed the first lines of Monk's camp; that is to say, the 
lines nearest to Lambert's army.  Beyond the river was an advanced post, 
belonging to Monk's army, which watched the enemy; it was composed of one 
hundred and fifty Scots.  They had swum across the Tweed, and, in case of 
attack, were to recross it in the same manner, giving the alarm; but as 
there was no post at that spot, and as Lambert's soldiers were not so 
prompt at taking to the water as Monk's were, the latter appeared not to 
have as much uneasiness on that side.  On this side of the river, at 
about five hundred paces from the old abbey, the fishermen had taken up 
their abode amidst a crowd of small tents raised by soldiers of the 
neighboring clans, who had with them their wives and children.  All this 
confusion, seen by the moon's light, presented a striking _coup d'oeil_; 
the half shadow enlarged every detail, and the light, that flatterer 
which only attaches itself to the polished side of things, courted upon 
each rusty musket the point still left intact, and upon every rag of 
canvas the whitest and least sullied part.

Monk arrived then with Athos, crossing this spot, illumined with a double 
light, the silver splendor of the moon, and the red blaze of the fires at 
the meeting of these three causeways; there he stopped, and addressing 
his companion, - "Monsieur," said he, "do you know your road?"

"General, if I am not mistaken, the middle causeway leads straight to the 
abbey."

"That is right; but we shall want lights to guide us in the vaults."  
Monk turned round.

"Ah!  I thought Digby was following us!" said he.  "So much the better; 
he will procure us what we want."

"Yes, general, there is a man yonder who has been walking behind us for 
some time."

"Digby!" cried Monk.  "Digby! come here, if you please."

But instead of obeying, the shadow made a motion of surprise, and, 
retreating instead of advancing, it bent down and disappeared along the 
jetty on the left, directing its course towards the lodging of the 
fishermen.

"It appears not to be Digby," said Monk.

Both had followed the shadow which had vanished.  But it was not so rare 
a thing for a man to be wandering about at eleven o'clock at night, in a 
camp in which are reposing ten or eleven thousand men, as to give Monk 
and Athos any alarm at his disappearance.

"As it is so," said Monk, "and we must have a light, a lantern, a torch, 
or something by which we may see where to see our feet; let us seek this 
light."

"General, the first soldier we meet will light us."

"No," said Monk, in order to discover if there were not any connivance 
between the Comte de la Fere and the fisherman.  "No, I should prefer one 
of these French sailors who came this evening to sell me their fish.  
They leave to-morrow, and the secret will be better kept by them; 
whereas, if a report should be spread in the Scottish army, that 
treasures are to be found in the abbey of Newcastle, my Highlanders will 
believe there is a million concealed beneath every slab, and they will 
not leave stone upon stone in the building."

"Do as you think best, general," replied Athos, in a natural tone of 
voice, making evident that soldier or fisherman was the same to him, and 
that he had no preference.

Monk approached the causeway behind which had disappeared the person he 
had taken for Digby, and met a patrol who, making the tour of the tents, 
was going towards headquarters; he was stopped with his companion, gave 
the password, and went on.  A soldier, roused by the noise, unrolled his 
plaid, and looked up to see what was going forward.  "Ask him," said Monk 
to Athos, "where the fishermen are; if I were to speak to him, he would 
know me."

Athos went up to the soldier, who pointed out the tent to him; 
immediately Monk and Athos turned towards it.  It appeared to the general 
that at the moment they came up, a shadow like that they had already 
seen, glided into this tent; but on drawing nearer he perceived he must 
have been mistaken, for all of them were asleep _pele mele_, and nothing 
was seen but arms and legs joined, crossed, and mixed.  Athos, fearing 
lest he should be suspected of connivance with some of his compatriots, 
remained outside the tent.

"_Hola!_" said Monk, in French, "wake up here."  Two or three of the 
sleepers got up.

"I want a man to light me," continued Monk.

"Your honor may depend on us," said a voice which made Athos start.  
"Where do you wish us to go?"

"You shall see.  A light! come, quickly!"

"Yes, your honor.  Does it please your honor that I should accompany you?"

"You or another; it is of very little consequence, provided I have a 
light."

"It is strange!" thought Athos; "what a singular voice that man has!"

"Some fire, you fellows!" cried the fisherman; "come, make haste!"

Then addressing his companion nearest to him in a low voice: - "Get ready 
a light, Menneville," said he, "and hold yourself ready for anything."

One of the fishermen struck light from a stone, set fire to some tinder, 
and by the aid of a match lit a lantern.  The light immediately spread 
all over the tent.

"Are you ready, monsieur?" said Monk to Athos, who had turned away, not 
to expose his face to the light.

"Yes, general," replied he.

"Ah! the French gentleman!" said the leader of the fishermen to himself.  
"_Peste!_  I have a great mind to charge you with the commission, 
Menneville; he may know me.  Light! light!"  This dialogue was pronounced 
at the back of the tent, and in so low a voice that Monk could not hear a 
syllable of it; he was, besides, talking with Athos.  Menneville got 
himself ready in the meantime, or rather received the orders of his 
leader.

"Well?" said Monk.

"I am ready, general," said the fisherman.

Monk, Athos, and the fisherman left the tent.

"It is impossible!" thought Athos.  "What dream could put that into my 
head?"

"Go forward; follow the middle causeway, and stretch out your legs," said 
Monk to the fisherman.

They were not twenty paces on their way when the same shadow that had 
appeared to enter the tent came out of it again, crawled along as far as 
the piles, and, protected by that sort of parapet placed along the 
causeway, carefully observed the march of the general.  All three 
disappeared in the night haze.  They were walking towards Newcastle, the 
white stones of which appeared to them like sepulchers.  After standing 
for a few seconds under the porch, they penetrated into the interior.  
The door had been broken open by hatchets.  A post of four men slept in 
safety in a corner, so certain were they that the attack would not take 
place on that side.

"Will not these men be in your way?" said Monk to Athos.

"On the contrary, monsieur, they will assist in rolling out the barrels, 
if your honor will permit them."


"You are right."

The post, though fast asleep, roused up at the first steps of the three 
visitors amongst the briars and grass that invaded the porch.  Monk gave 
the password, and penetrated into the interior of the convent, preceded 
by the light.  He walked last, watching the least movement of Athos, his 
naked dirk in his sleeve, and ready to plunge it into the back of the 
gentleman at the first suspicious gesture he should see him make.  But 
Athos, with a firm and sure step, crossed the chambers and courts.

Not a door, not a window was left in the building.  The doors had been 
burnt, some on the spot, and the charcoal of them was still jagged with 
the action of the fire, which had gone out of itself, powerless, no 
doubt, to get to the heart of those massive joints of oak fastened 
together with iron nails.  As to the windows, all the panes having been 
broken, night birds, alarmed by the torch, flew away through their 
holes.  At the same time, gigantic bats began to trace their vast, silent 
circles around the intruders, whilst the light of the torch made their 
shadows tremble on the high stone walls.  Monk concluded that there could 
be no man in the convent, since wild beasts and birds were there still, 
and fled away at his approach.

After having passed the rubbish, and torn away more than one branch of 
ivy that had made itself a guardian of the solitude, Athos arrived at the 
vaults situated beneath the great hall, but the entrance of which was 
from the chapel.  There he stopped.  "Here we are, general," said he.

"This, then, is the slab?"

"Yes."

"Ay, and here is the ring - but the ring is sealed into the stone."

"We must have a lever."

"That's a very easy thing to find."

Whilst looking around them, Athos and Monk perceived a little ash of 
about three inches in diameter, which had shot up in an angle of the 
wall, reaching a window, concealed by its branches.

"Have you a knife?" said Monk to the fisherman.

"Yes, monsieur."

"Cut down this tree, then."

The fisherman obeyed, but not without notching his cutlass.  When the ash 
was cut and fashioned into the shape of a lever, the three men penetrated 
into the vault.

"Stop where you are," said Monk to the fisherman.  "We are going to dig 
up some powder; your light may be dangerous."

The man drew back in a sort of terror, and faithfully kept to the post 
assigned him, whilst Monk and Athos turned behind a column at the foot of 
which, penetrating through a crack, was a moonbeam, reflected exactly on 
the stone which the Comte de la Fere had come so far in search.

"This is it," said Athos, pointing out to the general the Latin 
inscription.

"Yes," said Monk.

Then, as if still willing to leave the Frenchman one means of evasion, -

"Do you not observe that this vault has already been broken into," 
continued he, "and that several statues have already been knocked down?"

"My lord, you have, without doubt, heard that the religious respect of 
your Scots loves to confide to the statues of the dead the valuable 
objects they have possessed during their lives.  Therefore, the soldiers 
had reason to think that under the pedestals of the statues which 
ornament most of these tombs, a treasure was hidden.  They have 
consequently broken down pedestal and statue: but the tomb of the 
venerable cannon, with which we have to do, is not distinguished by any 
monument.  It is simple, therefore it has been protected by the 
superstitious fear which your Puritans have always had of sacrilege.  Not 
a morsel of the masonry of this tomb has been chipped off."

"That is true," said Monk.

Athos seized the lever.

"Shall I help you?" said Monk.

"Thank you, my lord; but I am not willing that your honor should lend 
your hand to a work of which, perhaps, you would not take the 
responsibility if you knew the probable consequences of it."

Monk raised his head.

"What do you mean by that, monsieur?"

"I mean - but that man - "

"Stop," said Monk; "I perceive what you are afraid of.  I shall make a 
trial."  Monk turned towards the fisherman, the whole of whose profile 
was thrown upon the wall.

"Come here, friend!" said he in English, and in a tone of command.

The fisherman did not stir.

"That is well," continued he: "he does not know English.  Speak to me, 
then, in English, if you please, monsieur."

"My lord," replied Athos, "I have frequently seen men in certain 
circumstances have sufficient command over themselves not to reply to a 
question put to them in a language they understood.  The fisherman is 
perhaps more learned than we believe him to be.  Send him away, my lord, 
I beg you."

"Decidedly," said Monk, "he wishes to have me alone in this vault.  Never 
mind, we shall go through with it; one man is as good as another man; and 
we are alone.  My friend," said Monk to the fisherman, "go back up the 
stairs we have just descended, and watch that nobody comes to disturb 
us."  The fisherman made a sign of obedience.  "Leave your torch," said 
Monk; "it would betray your presence, and might procure you a musket-
ball."

The fisherman appeared to appreciate the counsel; he laid down the light, 
and disappeared under the vault of the stairs.  Monk took up the torch, 
and brought it to the foot of the column.

"Ah, ah!" said he; "money, then, is concealed under this tomb?"

"Yes, my lord; and in five minutes you will no longer doubt it."

At the same time Athos struck a violent blow upon the plaster, which 
split, presenting a chink for the point of the lever.  Athos introduced 
the bar into this crack, and soon large pieces of plaster yielded, rising 
up like rounded slabs.  Then the Comte de la Fere seized the stones and 
threw them away with a force that hands so delicate as his might not have 
been supposed capable of having.

"My lord," said Athos, "this is plainly the masonry of which I told your 
honor."

"Yes; but I do not yet see the casks," said Monk.

"If I had a dagger," said Athos, looking round him, "you should soon see 
them, monsieur.  Unfortunately, I left mine in your tent."

"I would willingly offer you mine," said Monk, "but the blade is too thin 
for such work."

Athos appeared to look around him for a thing of some kind that might 
serve as a substitute for the weapon he desired.  Monk did not lose one 
of the movements of his hands, or one of the expressions of his eyes.  
"Why do you not ask the fisherman for his cutlass?" said Monk; "he has a 
cutlass."

"Ah! that is true," said Athos; "for he cut the tree down with it."  And 
he advanced towards the stairs.

"Friend," said he to the fisherman, "throw me down your cutlass, if you 
please; I want it."

The noise of the falling weapon sounded on the steps.

"Take it," said Monk; "it is a solid instrument, as I have seen, and a 
strong hand might make good use of it."

Athos appeared only to give to the words of Monk the natural and simple 
sense under which they were to be heard and understood.  Nor did he 
remark, or at least appear to remark, that when he returned with the 
weapon, Monk drew back, placing his left hand on the stock of his pistol; 
in the right he already held his dirk.  He went to work then, turning his 
back to Monk, placing his life in his hands, without possible defense.  
He then struck, during several seconds, so skillfully and sharply upon 
the intermediary plaster, that it separated into two parts, and Monk was 
able to discern two barrels placed end to end, and which their weight 
maintained motionless in their chalky envelope.

"My lord," said Athos, "you see that my presentiments have not been 
disappointed."

"Yes, monsieur," said Monk, "and I have good reason to believe you are 
satisfied; are you not?"

"Doubtless I am; the loss of this money would have been inexpressibly 
great to me: but I was certain that God, who protects the good cause, 
would not have permitted this gold, which should procure its triumph, to 
be diverted to baser purposes.

"You are, upon my honor, as mysterious in your words as in your actions, 
monsieur," said Monk.  "Just now as I did not perfectly understand you 
when you said that you were not willing to throw upon me the 
responsibility of the work we were accomplishing."

"I had reason to say so, my lord."

"And now you speak to me of the good cause.  What do you mean by the 
words 'the good cause?'  We are defending at this moment, in England, 
five or six causes, which does not prevent every one from considering his 
own not only as the good cause, but as the best.  What is yours, 
monsieur?  Speak boldly, that we may see if, upon this point, to which 
you appear to attach a great importance, we are of the same opinion."

Athos fixed upon Monk one of those penetrating looks which seemed to 
convey to him to whom they are directed a challenge to conceal a single 
one of his thoughts; then, taking off his hat, he began in a solemn 
voice, while his interlocutor, with one hand upon his visage, allowed 
that long and nervous hand to compress his mustache and beard, while his 
vague and melancholy eye wandered about the recesses of the vaults.


Chapter XXVI:
Heart and Mind.

"My lord," said the Comte de la Fere, "you are an noble Englishman, you 
are a loyal man; you are speaking to a noble Frenchman, to a man of 
heart.  The gold contained in these two casks before us, I have told you 
was mine.  I was wrong - it is the first lie I have pronounced in my 
life, a temporary lie, it is true.  This gold is the property of King 
Charles II., exiled from his country, driven from his palaces, the orphan 
at once of his father and his throne, and deprived of everything, even of 
the melancholy happiness of kissing on his knees the stone upon which the 
hands of his murderers have written that simple epitaph which will 
eternally cry out for vengeance upon them: -'HERE LIES CHARLES I.'"

Monk grew slightly pale, and an imperceptible shudder crept over his skin 
and raised his gray mustache.

"I," continued Athos, "I, Comte de la Fere, the last, only faithful 
friend the poor abandoned prince has left, I have offered him to come 
hither to find the man upon whom now depends the fate of royalty and of 
England; and I have come, and placed myself under the eye of this man, 
and have placed myself naked and unarmed in his hands, saying: - 'My 
lord, here are the last resources of a prince whom God made your master, 
whom his birth made your king; upon you, and you alone, depend his life 
and future.  Will you employ this money in consoling England for the 
evils it must have suffered from anarchy; that is to say, will you aid, 
and if not aid, will you allow King Charles II. to act?  You are master, 
you are king, all-powerful master and king, for chance sometimes defeats 
the work of time and God.  I am here alone with you, my lord: if divided 
success alarms you, if my complicity annoys you, you are armed, my lord, 
and here is a grave ready dug; if, on the contrary, the enthusiasm of 
your cause carries you away, if you are what you appear to be, if your 
hand in what it undertakes obeys your mind, and your mind your heart, 
here are the means of ruining forever the cause of your enemy, Charles 
Stuart.  Kill, then, the man you have before you, for that man will never 
return to him who has sent him without bearing with him the deposit which 
Charles I., his father, confided to him, and keep the gold which may 
assist in carrying on the civil war.  Alas! my lord, it is the fate of 
this unfortunate prince.  He must either corrupt or kill, for everything 
resists him, everything repulses him, everything is hostile to him; and 
yet he is marked with divine seal, and he must, not to belie his blood, 
reascend the throne, or die upon the sacred soil of his country.'

"My lord, you have heard me.  To any other but the illustrious man who 
listens to me, I would have said: 'My lord, you are poor; my lord, the 
king offers you this million as an earnest of an immense bargain; take 
it, and serve Charles II. as I served Charles I., and I feel assured that 
God, who listens to us, who sees us, who alone reads in your heart, shut 
up from all human eyes, - I am assured God will give you a happy eternal 
life after death.'  But to General Monk, to the illustrious man of whose 
standard I believe I have taken measure, I say: 'My lord, there is for 
you in the history of peoples and kings a brilliant place, an immortal, 
imperishable glory, if alone, without any other interest but the good of 
your country and the interests of justice, you become the supporter of 
your king.  Many others have been conquerors and glorious usurpers; you, 
my lord, you will be content with being the most virtuous, the most 
honest, and the most incorruptible of men: you will have held a crown in 
your hand, and instead of placing it upon your own brow, you will have 
deposited it upon the head of him for whom it was made.  Oh, my lord, act 
thus, and you will leave to posterity the most enviable of names, in 
which no human creature can rival you.'"

Athos stopped.  During the whole time that the noble gentleman was 
speaking, Monk had not given one sign of either approbation or 
disapprobation; scarcely even, during this vehement appeal, had his eyes 
been animated with that fire which bespeaks intelligence.  The Comte de 
la Fere looked at him sorrowfully, and on seeing that melancholy 
countenance, felt discouragement penetrate to his very heart.  At length 
Monk appeared to recover, and broke the silence.

"Monsieur," said he, in a mild, calm tone, "in reply to you, I will make 
use of your own words.  To any other but yourself I would reply by 
expulsion, imprisonment, or still worse, for, in fact, you tempt me and 
you force me at the same time.  But you are one of those men, monsieur, 
to whom it is impossible to refuse the attention and respect they merit; 
you are a brave gentleman, monsieur - I say so, and I am a judge.  You 
just now spoke of a deposit which the late king transmitted through you 
to his son - are you, then, one of those Frenchmen who, as I have heard, 
endeavored to carry off Charles I. from Whitehall?"

"Yes, my lord; it was I who was beneath the scaffold during the 
execution; I, who had not been able to redeem it, received upon my brow 
the blood of the martyred king.  I received, at the same time, the last 
word of Charles I.; it was to me he said, 'REMEMBER!' and in saying, 
'Remember!' he alluded to the money at your feet, my lord."

"I have heard much of you, monsieur," said Monk, "but I am happy to have, 
in the first place, appreciated you by my own observations, and not by my 
remembrances.  I will give you, then, explanations that I have given to 
no other, and you will appreciate what a distinction I make between you 
and the persons who have hitherto been sent to me."

Athos bowed and prepared to absorb greedily the words which fell, one by 
one, from the mouth of Monk, - those words rare and precious as the dew 
in the desert.

"You spoke to me," said Monk, "of Charles II.; but pray, monsieur, of 
what consequence to me is that phantom of a king?  I have grown old in a 
war and in a policy which are nowadays so closely linked together, that 
every man of the sword must fight in virtue of his rights or his ambition 
with a personal interest, and not blindly behind an officer, as in 
ordinary wars.  For myself, I perhaps desire nothing, but I fear much.  
In the war of to-day rests the liberty of England, and, perhaps, that of 
every Englishman.  How can you expect that I, free in the position I have 
made for myself, should go willingly and hold out my hands to the 
shackles of a stranger?  That is all Charles is to me.  He has fought 
battles here which he has lost, he is therefore a bad captain; he has 
succeeded in no negotiation, he is therefore a bad diplomatist; he has 
paraded his wants and his miseries in all the courts of Europe, he has 
therefore a weak and pusillanimous heart.  Nothing noble, nothing great, 
nothing strong has hitherto emanated from that genius which aspires to 
govern one of the greatest kingdoms of the earth.  I know this Charles, 
then, under none but bad aspects, and you would wish me, a man of good 
sense, to go and make myself gratuitously the slave of a creature who is 
inferior to me in military capacity, in politics, and in dignity!  No, 
monsieur.  When some great and noble action shall have taught me to value 
Charles, I shall perhaps recognize his rights to a throne from which we 
cast the father because he wanted the virtues which his son has hitherto 
lacked, but, in fact of rights, I only recognize my own; the revolution 
made me a general, my sword will make me protector, if I wish it.  Let 
Charles show himself, let him present himself, let him enter the 
competition open to genius, and, above all, let him remember that he is 
of a race from whom more will be expected than from any other.  
Therefore, monsieur, say no more about him.  I neither refuse nor accept: 
I reserve myself - I wait."

Athos knew Monk to be too well informed of all concerning Charles to 
venture to urge the discussion further; it was neither the time nor the 
place.  "My lord," then said he, "I have nothing to do but thank you."

"And why, monsieur?  Because you have formed a correct opinion of me, or 
because I have acted according to your judgment?  Is that, in truth, 
worthy of thanks?  This gold which you are about to carry to Charles will 
serve me as a test for him, by seeing the use he will make of it.  I 
shall have an opinion which now I have not."

"And yet does not your honor fear to compromise yourself by allowing such 
a sum to be carried away for the service of your enemy?"

"My enemy, say you?  Eh, monsieur, I have no enemies.  I am in the 
service of the parliament, which orders me to fight General Lambert and 
Charles Stuart - its enemies, and not mine.  I fight them.  If the 
parliament, on the contrary, ordered me to unfurl my standards on the 
port of London, and to assemble my soldiers on the banks to receive 
Charles II. - "

"You would obey?" cried Athos, joyfully.

"Pardon me," said Monk, smiling, "I was going on - I, a gray-headed man – 
in truth, how could I forget myself? was going to speak like a foolish 
young man."

"Then you would not obey?" said Athos.

"I do not say that either, monsieur.  The welfare of my country before 
everything.  God, who has given me the power, has, no doubt, willed that 
I should have that power for the good of all, and He has given me, at the 
same time, discernment.  If the parliament were to order such a thing, I 
should reflect."

The brow of Athos became clouded.  "Then I may positively say that your 
honor is not inclined to favor King Charles II.?"

"You continue to question me, monsieur le comte; allow me to do so in 
turn, if you please."

"Do, monsieur; and may God inspire you with the idea of replying to me as 
frankly as I shall reply to you."

"When you shall have taken this money back to your prince, what advice 
will you give him?"

Athos fixed upon Monk a proud and resolute look.

"My lord," said he, "with this million, which others would perhaps employ 
in negotiating, I would advise the king to rise two regiments, to enter 
Scotland, which you have just pacified: to give to the people the 
franchises which the revolution promised them, and in which it has not, 
in all cases, kept its word.  I should advise him to command in person 
this little army, which would, believe me, increase, and to die, standard 
in hand, and sword in sheath, saying, 'Englishmen!  I am the third king 
of my race you have killed; beware of the justice of God!'"

Monk hung down his head, and mused for an instant.  "If he succeeded," 
said he, "which is very improbable, but not impossible - for everything 
is possible in this world - what would you advise him to do?"

"To think that by the will of God he lost his crown, by the good will of 
men he recovered it."

An ironical smile passed over the lips of Monk.

"Unfortunately, monsieur," said he, "kings do not know how to follow good 
advice."

"Ah, my lord, Charles II. is not a king," replied Athos, smiling in his 
turn, but with a very different expression from Monk.

"Let us terminate this, monsieur le comte, - that is your desire, is it 
not?"

Athos bowed.

"I shall give orders to have these two casks transported whither you 
please.  Where are you lodging, monsieur?"

"In a little hamlet at the mouth of the river, your honor."

"Oh, I know the hamlet; it consists of five or six houses, does it not?"

"Exactly.  Well, I inhabit the first, - two net-makers occupy it with me; 
it is their bark which brought me ashore."

"But your own vessel, monsieur?"

"My vessel is at anchor, a quarter of a mile at sea, and waits for me."

"You do not think, however, of setting out immediately?"

"My lord, I shall try once more to convince your honor."

"You will not succeed," replied Monk; "but it is of consequence that you 
should depart from Newcastle without leaving of your passage the least 
suspicion that might prove injurious to me or you.  To-morrow my officers 
think Lambert will attack me.  I, on the contrary, am convinced he will 
not stir; it is in my opinion impossible.  Lambert leads an army devoid 
of homogeneous principles, and there is no possible army with such 
elements.  I have taught my soldiers to consider my authority subordinate 
to another, therefore, after me, round me, and beneath me, they still 
look for something.  It would result that if I were dead, whatever might 
happen, my army would not be demoralized all at once; it results, that if 
I choose to absent myself, for instance, as it does please me to do 
sometimes, there would not be in the camp the shadow of uneasiness or 
disorder.  I am the magnet - the sympathetic and natural strength of the 
English.  All those scattered irons that will be sent against me I shall 
attract to myself.  Lambert, at this moment, commands eighteen thousand 
deserters; but I have never mentioned that to my officers, you may easily 
suppose.  Nothing is more useful to an army than the expectation of a 
coming battle; everybody is awake - everybody is on guard.  I tell you 
this that you may live in perfect security.  Do not be in a hurry, then, 
to cross the seas; within a week there will be something fresh, either a 
battle or an accommodation.  Then, as you have judged me to be an 
honorable man, and confided your secret to me, I have to thank you for 
this confidence, and I shall come and pay you a visit or send for you.  
Do not go before I send word.  I repeat the request."

"I promise you, general," cried Athos, with a joy so great, that in spite 
of all his circumspection, he could not prevent its sparkling in his eyes.

Monk surprised this flash, and immediately extinguished it by one of 
those silent smiles which always caused his interlocutors to know they 
had made no inroad on his mind.

"Then, my lord, it is a week that you desire me to wait?"

"A week? yes, monsieur."

"And during those days what shall I do?"

"If there should be a battle, keep at a distance from it, I beseech you.  
I know the French delight in such amusements; - you might take a fancy to 
see how we fight, and you might receive some chance shot.  Our Scotsmen 
are very bad marksmen, and I do not wish that a worthy gentleman like you 
should return to France wounded.  Nor should I like to be obliged, 
myself, to send to your prince his million left here by you; for then it 
would be said, and with some reason, that I paid the Pretender to enable 
him to make war against the parliament.  Go, then, monsieur, and let it 
be done as has been agreed upon."

"Ah, my lord," said Athos, "what joy it would give me to be the first 
that penetrated to the noble heart which beats beneath that cloak!"

"You think, then, that I have secrets," said Monk, without changing the 
half cheerful expression of his countenance.  "Why, monsieur, what secret 
can you expect to find in the hollow head of a soldier?  But it is 
getting late, and our torch is almost out; let us call our man."

"_Hola!_" cried Monk in French, approaching the stairs; "_hola!_ 
fisherman!"

The fisherman, benumbed by the cold night air, replied in a hoarse voice, 
asking what they wanted of him.

"Go to the post," said Monk, "and order a sergeant, in the name of 
General Monk, to come here immediately."

This was a commission easily performed; for the sergeant, uneasy at the 
general's being in that desolate abbey, had drawn nearer by degrees, and 
was not much further off than the fisherman.  The general's order was 
therefore heard by him, and he hastened to obey it.

"Get a horse and two men," said Monk.

"A horse and two men?" repeated the sergeant.

"Yes," replied Monk.  "Have you got any means of getting a horse with a 
pack-saddle or two panniers?"

"No doubt, at a hundred paces off, in the Scottish camp."

"Very well."

"What shall I do with the horse, general."

"Look here."

The sergeant descended the three steps which separated him from Monk, and 
came into the vault.

"You see," said Monk, "that gentleman yonder?"

"Yes, general."

"And you see these two casks?"

"Perfectly."

"They are two casks, one containing powder, and the other balls; I wish 
these casks to be transported to the little hamlet at the mouth of the 
river, and which I intend to occupy to-morrow with two hundred muskets.  
You understand that the commission is a secret one, for it is a movement 
that may decide the fate of the battle."

"Oh, general!" murmured the sergeant.

"Mind, then!  Let these casks be fastened on to the horse, and let them 
be escorted by two men and you to the residence of this gentleman, who is 
my friend.  But take care that nobody knows it."

"I would go by the marsh if I knew the road," said the sergeant.

"I know one myself," said Athos; "it is not wide, but it is solid, having 
been made upon piles; and with care we shall get over safely enough."

"Do everything this gentleman shall order you to do."

"Oh! oh! the casks are heavy," said the sergeant, trying to lift one.

"They weigh four hundred pounds each, if they contain what they ought to 
contain, do they not, monsieur."

"Thereabouts," said Athos.

The sergeant went in search of the two men and the horse.  Monk, left 
alone with Athos, affected to speak to him on nothing but indifferent 
subjects while examining the vault in a cursory manner.  Then, hearing 
the horse's steps, -

"I leave you with your men, monsieur," said he, "and return to the camp.  
You are perfectly safe."

"I shall see you again, then, my lord?" asked Athos.

"That is agreed upon, monsieur, and with much pleasure."

Monk held out his hand to Athos.

"Ah! my lord, if you would!" murmured Athos.

"Hush! monsieur, it is agreed that we shall speak no more of that."  And 
bowing to Athos, he went up the stairs, meeting about half-way his men, 
who were coming down.  He had not gone twenty paces, when a faint but 
prolonged whistle was heard at a distance.  Monk listened, but seeing 
nothing and hearing nothing, he continued his route.  Then he remembered 
the fisherman, and looked about for him; but the fisherman had 
disappeared.  If he had, however, looked with more attention, he might 
have seen that man, bent double, gliding like a serpent along the stones 
and losing himself in the mist that floated over the surface of the 
marsh.  He might equally have seen, had he attempted to pierce that mist, 
a spectacle that might have attracted his attention; and that was the 
rigging of the vessel, which had changed place, and was now nearer the 
shore.  But Monk saw nothing; and thinking he had nothing to fear, he 
entered the deserted causeway which led to his camp.  It was then that 
the disappearance of the fisherman appeared strange, and that a real 
suspicion began to take possession of his mind.  He had just placed at 
the orders of Athos the only post that could protect him.  He had a mile 
of causeway to traverse before he could regain his camp.  The fog 
increased with such intensity that he could scarcely distinguish objects 
at ten paces' distance.  Monk then thought he heard the sound of an oar 
over the marsh on the right.  "Who goes there?" said he.

But nobody answered; then he cocked his pistol, took his sword in his 
hand, and quickened his pace, without, however, being willing to call 
anybody.  Such a summons, for which there was no absolute necessity, 
appeared unworthy of him.


Chapter XXVII:
The Next Day.

It was seven o'clock in the morning, the first rays of day lightened the 
pools of the marsh, in which the sun was reflected like a red ball, when 
Athos, awakening and opening the window of his bed-chamber, which looked 
out upon the banks of the river, perceived, at fifteen paces' distance 
from him, the sergeant and the men who had accompanied him the evening 
before, and who, after having deposited the casks at his house, had 
returned to the camp by the causeway on the right.

Why had these men come back after having returned to the camp?  That was 
the question which first presented itself to Athos.  The sergeant, with 
his head raised, appeared to be watching the moment when the gentleman 
should appear to address him.  Athos, surprised to see these men, whom he 
had seen depart the night before, could not refrain from expressing his 
astonishment to them.

"There is nothing surprising in that, monsieur," said the sergeant; "for 
yesterday the general commanded me to watch over your safety, and I 
thought it right to obey that order."

"Is the general at the camp?" asked Athos.

"No doubt he is, monsieur; as when he left you he was going back."

"Well, wait for me a moment; I am going thither to render an account of 
the fidelity with which you fulfilled your duty, and to get my sword, 
which I left upon the table in the tent."

"This happens very well," said the sergeant, "for we were about to 
request you to do so."

Athos fancied he could detect an air of equivocal _bonhomie_ upon the 
countenance of the sergeant; but the adventure of the vault might have 
excited the curiosity of the man, and it was not surprising that he 
allowed some of the feelings which agitated his mind to appear in his 
face.  Athos closed the doors carefully, confiding the keys to Grimaud, 
who had chosen his domicile beneath the shed itself, which led to the 
cellar where the casks had been deposited.  The sergeant escorted the 
Comte de la Fere to the camp.  There a fresh guard awaited him, and 
relieved the four men who had conducted Athos.

This fresh guard was commanded by the aid-de-camp Digby, who, on their 
way, fixed upon Athos looks so little encouraging, that the Frenchman 
asked himself whence arose, with regard to him, this vigilance and this 
severity, when the evening before he had been left perfectly free.  He 
nevertheless continued his way to the headquarters, keeping to himself 
the observations which men and things forced him to make.  He found in 
the general's tent, to which he had been introduced the evening before, 
three superior officers: these were Monk's lieutenant and two colonels.  
Athos perceived his sword; it was still on the table where he left it.  
Neither of the officers had seen Athos, consequently neither of them knew 
him.  Monk's lieutenant asked, at the appearance of Athos, if that were 
the same gentleman with whom the general had left the tent.

"Yes, your honor," said the sergeant; "it is the same."

"But," said Athos, haughtily, "I do not deny it, I think; and now, 
gentlemen, in turn, permit me to ask you to what purpose these questions 
are asked, and particularly some explanations upon the tone in which you 
ask them?"

"Monsieur," said the lieutenant, "if we address these questions to you, 
it is because we have a right to do so, and if we make them in a 
particular tone, it is because that tone, believe me, agrees with the 
circumstances."

"Gentlemen," said Athos, "you do not know who I am; but I must tell you 
that I acknowledge no one here but General Monk as my equal.  Where is 
he?  Let me be conducted to him, and if he has any questions to put to 
me, I will answer him and to his satisfaction, I hope.  I repeat, 
gentlemen, where is the general?"

"Eh! good God! you know better than we do where he is," said the 
lieutenant.

"I?"

"Yes, you."

"Monsieur," said Athos; "I do not understand you."

"You will understand me - and, in the first place, do not speak so 
loudly."

Athos smiled disdainfully.

"We don't ask you to smile," said one of the colonels warmly; "we require 
you to answer."

"And I, gentlemen, declare to you that I will not reply until I am in 
the presence of the general."

"But," replied the same colonel who had already spoken, "you know very 
well that is impossible."

"This is the second time I have received this strange reply to the wish I 
express," said Athos.  "Is the general absent?"

This question was made with such apparent good faith, and the gentleman 
wore an air of such natural surprise, that the three officers exchanged a 
meaning look.  The lieutenant, by a tacit convention with the other two, 
was spokesman.

"Monsieur, the general left you last night on the borders of the 
monastery."

"Yes, monsieur."

"And you went - "

"It is not for me to answer you, but for those who have accompanied me.  
They were your soldiers, ask them."

"But if we please to question you?"

"Then it will please me to reply, monsieur, that I do not recognize any 
one here, that I know no one here but the general, and that it is to him 
alone I will reply."

"So be it, monsieur; but as we are the masters, we constitute ourselves a 
council of war, and when you are before judges you must reply."

The countenance of Athos expressed nothing but astonishment and disdain, 
instead of the terror the officers expected to read in it at this threat.

"Scottish or English judges upon me, a subject of the king of France; 
upon me, placed under the safeguard of British honor!  You are mad, 
gentlemen!" said Athos, shrugging his shoulders.

The officers looked at each other.  "Then, monsieur," said one of them, 
"do you pretend not to know where the general is?"

"To that, monsieur, I have already replied."

"Yes, but you have already replied an incredible thing."

"It is true, nevertheless, gentlemen.  Men of my rank are not generally 
liars.  I am a gentleman, I have told you, and when I have at my side the 
sword which, by an excess of delicacy, I left last night upon the table 
whereon it still lies, believe me, no man says that to me which I am 
unwilling to hear.  I am at this moment disarmed; if you pretend to be my 
judges, try me; if you are but my executioners, kill me."

"But, monsieur - " asked the lieutenant, in a more courteous voice, 
struck with the lofty coolness of Athos.

"Sir, I came to speak confidentially with your general about affairs of 
importance.  It was not an ordinary welcome that he gave me.  The 
accounts your soldiers can give you may convince you of that.  If, then, 
the general received me in that manner, he knew my titles to his esteem.  
Now, you do not suspect, I should think, that I should reveal my secrets 
to you, and still less his."

"But these casks, what do they contain?"

"Have you not put that question to your soldiers?  What was their 
reply?"

"That they contained powder and ball."

"From whom had they that information?  They must have told you that."

"From the general; but we are not dupes."

"Beware, gentlemen; it is not to me you are now giving the lie, it is to 
your leader."

The officers again looked at each other.  Athos continued: "Before your 
soldiers the general told me to wait a week, and at the expiration of 
that week he would give me the answer he had to make me.  Have I fled 
away?  No; I wait."

"He told you to wait a week!" cried the lieutenant.

"He told me that so clearly, sir, that I have a sloop at the mouth of the 
river, which I could with ease have joined yesterday, and embarked.  Now, 
if I have remained, it was only in compliance with the desire of your 
general; his honor having requested me not to depart without a last 
audience, which he fixed at a week hence.  I repeat to you, then, I am 
waiting."

The lieutenant turned towards the other officers, and said, in a low 
voice: "If this gentleman speaks truth, there may still be some hope.  
The general may be carrying out some negotiations so secret, that he 
thought it imprudent to inform even us.  Then the time limited for his 
absence would be a week."  Then, turning towards Athos: "Monsieur," said 
he, "your declaration is of the most serious importance; are you willing 
to repeat it under the seal of an oath?"

"Sir," replied Athos, "I have always lived in a world where my simple 
word was regarded as the most sacred of oaths."

"This time, however, monsieur, the circumstance is more grave than any 
you may have been placed in.  The safety of the whole army is at stake.  
Reflect; the general has disappeared, and our search for him has been in 
vain.  Is this disappearance natural?  Has a crime been committed?  Are 
we not bound to carry our investigations to extremity?  Have we any right 
to wait with patience?  At this moment, everything, monsieur, depends 
upon the words you are about to pronounce."

"Thus questioned, gentlemen, I no longer hesitate," said Athos.  "Yes, I 
came hither to converse confidentially with General Monk, and ask him for 
an answer regarding certain interests; yes, the general being, doubtless, 
unable to pronounce before the expected battle, begged me to remain a 
week in the house I inhabit, promising me that in a week I should see him 
again.  Yes, all this is true, and I swear it by God who is the absolute 
master of my life and yours."  Athos pronounced these words with so much 
grandeur and solemnity, that the three officers were almost convinced.  
Nevertheless, one of the colonels made a last attempt.

"Monsieur," said he, "although we may now be persuaded of the truth of 
what you say, there is yet a strange mystery in all this.  The general is 
too prudent a man to have thus abandoned his army on the eve of a battle 
without having at least given notice of it to one of us.  As for myself, 
I cannot believe but some strange event has been the cause of this 
disappearance.  Yesterday some foreign fishermen came to sell their fish 
here; they were lodged yonder among the Scots; that is to say, on the 
road the general took with this gentleman, to go to the abbey, and to 
return from it.  It was one of these fishermen that accompanied the 
general with a light.  And this morning, bark and fishermen have all 
disappeared, carried away by the night's tide."

"For my part," said the lieutenant, "I see nothing in that that is not 
quite natural, for these people were not prisoners."

"No; but I repeat it was one of them who lighted the general and this 
gentleman to the abbey, and Digby assures us that the general had strong 
suspicions concerning those people.  Now, who can say whether these 
people were not connected with this gentleman; and that, the blow being 
struck, the gentleman, who is evidently brave, did not remain to reassure 
us by his presence, and to prevent our researches being made in a right 
direction?"

This speech made an impression upon the other two officers.

"Sir," said Athos, "permit me to tell you, that your reasoning, though 
specious in appearance, nevertheless wants consistency, as regards me.  I 
have remained, you say, to divert suspicion.  Well! on the contrary, 
suspicions arise in me as well as in you; and I say, it is impossible, 
gentlemen, that the general, on the eve of a battle, should leave his 
army without saying anything to at least one of his officers.  Yes, there 
is some strange event connected with this; instead of being idle and 
waiting, you must display all the activity and all the vigilance 
possible.  I am your prisoner, gentlemen, upon parole or otherwise.  My 
honor is concerned in ascertaining what has become of General Monk, and 
to such a point, that if you were to say to me, 'Depart!'  I should 
reply: 'No, I will remain!'  And if you were to ask my opinion, I should 
add:  'Yes, the general is the victim of some conspiracy, for, if he had 
intended to leave the camp he would have told me so.'  Seek, then, search 
the land, search the sea; the general has not gone of his own good will."

The lieutenant made a sign to the two other officers.

"No, monsieur," said he, "no; in your turn you go too far.  The general 
has nothing to suffer from these events, and, no doubt, has directed 
them.  What Monk is now doing he has often done before.  We are wrong in 
alarming ourselves; his absence will, doubtless, be of short duration; 
therefore, let us beware, lest by a pusillanimity which the general would 
consider a crime, of making his absence public, and by that means 
demoralize the army.  The general gives a striking proof of his 
confidence in us; let us show ourselves worthy of it.  Gentlemen, let the 
most profound silence cover all this with an impenetrable veil; we will 
detain this gentleman, not from mistrust of him with regard to the crime, 
but to assure more effectively the secret of the general's absence by 
keeping among ourselves; therefore, until fresh orders, the gentleman 
will remain at headquarters."

"Gentlemen," said Athos, "you forget that last night the general confided 
to me a deposit over which I am bound to watch.  Give me whatever guard 
you like, chain me if you like, but leave me the house I inhabit for my 
prison.  The general, on his return, would reproach you, I swear on the 
honor of a gentleman, for having displeased him in this."

"So be it, monsieur," said the lieutenant; "return to your abode."

Then they placed over Athos a guard of fifty men, who surrounded his 
house, without losing sight of him for a minute.

The secret remained secure, but hours, days passed away without the 
general's returning, or without anything being heard of him.


Chapter XXVIII:
Smuggling.

Two days after the events we have just related, and while General Monk 
was expected every minute in the camp to which he did not return, a 
little Dutch _felucca_, manned by eleven men, cast anchor upon the coast 
of Scheveningen, nearly within cannon-shot of the port.  It was night, 
the darkness was great, the tide rose in the darkness; it was a capital 
time to land passengers and merchandise.

The road of Scheveningen forms a vast crescent; it is not very deep and 
not very safe; therefore, nothing is seen stationed there but large 
Flemish hoys, or some of those Dutch barks which fishermen draw up on the 
sand on rollers, as the ancients did, according to Virgil.  When the tide 
is rising, and advancing on land, it is not prudent to bring the vessels 
too close in shore, for, if the wind is fresh, the prows are buried in 
the sand; and the sand of that coast is spongy; it receives easily, but 
does not yield so well.  It was on this account, no doubt, that a boat 
was detached from the bark, as soon as the latter had cast anchor, and 
came with eight sailors, amidst whom was to be seen an object of an 
oblong form, a sort of large pannier or bale.

The shore was deserted; the few fishermen inhabiting the down were gone 
to bed.  The only sentinel that guarded the coast (a coast very badly 
guarded, seeing that a landing from large ships was impossible), without 
having been able to follow the example of the fishermen, who were gone to 
bed, imitated them so far, that he slept at the back of his watch-box as 
soundly as they slept in their beds.  The only noise to be heard, then, 
was the whistling of the night breeze among the bushes and the brambles 
of the downs.  But the people who were approaching were doubtless 
mistrustful people, for this real silence and apparent solitude did not 
satisfy them.  Their boat, therefore, scarcely as visible as a dark speck 
upon the ocean, gilded along noiselessly, avoiding the use of their oars 
for fear of being heard, and gained the nearest land.

Scarcely had it touched the ground when a single man jumped out of the 
boat, after having given a brief order, in a manner which denoted the 
habit of commanding.  In consequence of this order, several muskets 
immediately glittered in the feeble light reflected from that mirror of 
the heavens, the sea; and the oblong bale of which we spoke, containing 
no doubt some contraband object, was transported to land, with infinite 
precautions.  Immediately after that, the man who had landed first, set 
off at a rapid pace diagonally towards the village of Scheveningen, 
directing his course to the nearest point of the wood.  When there, he 
sought for that house already described as the temporary residence - and 
a very humble residence - of him who was styled by courtesy king of 
England.

All were asleep there, as everywhere else, only a large dog, of the race 
of those which the fishermen of Scheveningen harness to little carts to 
carry fish to the Hague, began to bark formidably as soon as the 
stranger's steps were audible beneath the windows.  But the watchfulness, 
instead of alarming the newly-landed man, appeared, on the contrary, to 
give him great joy, for his voice might perhaps have proved insufficient 
to rouse the people of the house, whilst, with an auxiliary of that sort, 
his voice became almost useless.  The stranger waited, then, till these 
reiterated and sonorous barkings should, according to all probability, 
have produced their effect, and then he ventured a summons.  On hearing 
his voice, the dog began to roar with such violence that another voice 
was soon heard from the interior, quieting the dog.  With that the dog 
was quieted.

"What do you want?" asked that voice, at the same time weak, broken, and 
civil.

"I want his majesty King Charles II., king of England," said the stranger.

"What do you want with him?"

"I want to speak with him."

"Who are you?"

"Ah!  _Mordioux!_ you ask too much; I don't like talking through doors."

"Only tell me your name."

"I don't like to declare my name in the open air, either; besides, you 
may be sure I shall not eat your dog, and I hope to God he will be as 
reserved with respect to me."

"You bring news, perhaps, monsieur, do you not?" replied the voice, 
patient and querulous as that of an old man.

"I will answer for it, I bring you news you little expect.  Open the 
door, then, if you please, _hein!_"

"Monsieur," persisted the old man, "do you believe, upon your soul and 
conscience, that your news is worth waking the king?"

"For God's sake, my dear monsieur, draw your bolts; you will not be 
sorry, I swear, for the trouble it will give you.  I am worth my weight 
in gold, _parole d'honneur!_"

"Monsieur, I cannot open the door till you have told me your name."

"Must I, then?"

"It is by the order of my master, monsieur."

"Well, my name is - but, I warn you, my name will tell you absolutely 
nothing."

"Never mind, tell it, notwithstanding."

"Well, I am the Chevalier d'Artagnan."

The voice uttered an exclamation.

"Oh! good heavens!" said a voice on the other side of the door.  
"Monsieur d'Artagnan.  What happiness!  I could not help thinking I knew 
that voice."

"Humph!" said D'Artagnan.  "My voice is known here!  That's flattering."

"Oh! yes, we know it," said the old man, drawing the bolts; "and here is 
the proof."  And at these words he let in D'Artagnan, who, by the light 
of the lantern he carried in his hand, recognized his obstinate 
interlocutor.

"Ah!  _Mordioux!_" cried he: "why, it is Parry!  I ought to have known 
that."

"Parry, yes, my dear Monsieur d'Artagnan, it is I.  What joy to see you 
once again!"

"You are right there, what joy!" said D'Artagnan, pressing the old man's 
hand.  "There, now you'll go and inform the king, will you not?"

"But the king is asleep, my dear monsieur."

"_Mordioux!_ then wake him.  He won't scold you for having disturbed him, 
I will promise you."

"You come on the part of the count, do you not?"

"The Comte de la Fere?"

"From Athos?"

"_Ma foi!_ no; I come on my own part.  Come, Parry, quick!  The king - I 
want the king."

Parry did not think it his duty to resist any longer; he knew D'Artagnan 
of old; he knew that, although a Gascon, his words never promised more 
than they could stand to.  He crossed a court and a little garden, 
appeased the dog, that seemed most anxious to taste of the musketeer's 
flesh, and went to knock at the window of a chamber forming the ground-
floor of a little pavilion.  Immediately a little dog inhabiting that 
chamber replied to the great dog inhabiting the court.

"Poor king!" said D'Artagnan to himself, "these are his body-guards.  It 
is true he is not the worse guarded on that account."

"What is wanted with me?" asked the king, from the back of the chamber.

"Sire, it is M. le Chevalier d'Artagnan, who brings you some news."

A noise was immediately heard in the chamber, a door was opened, and a 
flood of light inundated the corridor and the garden.  The king was 
working by the light of a lamp.  Papers were lying about upon his desk, 
and he had commenced the first copy of a letter which showed, by the 
numerous erasures, the trouble he had had in writing it.

"Come in, monsieur le chevalier," said he, turning around.  Then 
perceiving the fisherman, "What do you mean, Parry?  Where is M. le 
Chevalier d'Artagnan?" asked Charles.

"He is before you, sire," said M. d'Artagnan.

"What, in that costume?"

"Yes; look at me, sire; do you not remember having seen me at Blois, in 
the ante-chamber of King Louis XIV.?"

"Yes, monsieur, and I remember I was much pleased with you."

D'Artagnan bowed.  "It was my duty to behave as I did, the moment I knew 
that I had the honor of being near your majesty."

"You bring me news, do you say?"

"Yes, sire."

"From the king of France?"

"_Ma foi!_ no, sire," replied D'Artagnan.  "Your majesty must have seen 
yonder that the king of France is only occupied with his own majesty."

Charles raised his eyes towards heaven.

"No, sire, no," continued D'Artagnan.  "I bring news entirely composed of 
personal facts.  Nevertheless, I hope that your majesty will listen to 
the facts and news with some favor."

"Speak, monsieur."

"If I am not mistaken, sire, your majesty spoke a great deal at Blois, of 
the embarrassed state in which the affairs of England are."

Charles colored.  "Monsieur," said he, "it was to the king of France I 
related - "

"Oh! your majesty is mistaken," said the musketeer, coolly; "I know how 
to speak to kings in misfortune.  It is only when they are in misfortune 
that they speak to me; once fortunate, they look upon me no more.  I 
have, then, for your majesty, not only the greatest respect, but, still 
more, the most absolute devotion; and that, believe me, with me, sire, 
means something.  Now, hearing your majesty complain of fate, I found 
that you were noble and generous, and bore misfortune well."

"In truth!" said Charles, much astonished, "I do not know which I ought 
to prefer, your freedoms or your respects."

"You will choose presently, sire," said D'Artagnan.  "Then your majesty 
complained to your brother, Louis XIV., of the difficulty you experienced 
in returning to England and regaining your throne for want of men and 
money."

Charles allowed a movement of impatience to escape him.

"And the principal object your majesty found in your way," continued 
D'Artagnan, "was a certain general commanding the armies of the 
parliament, and who was playing yonder the part of another Cromwell.  Did 
not your majesty say so?"

"Yes; but I repeat to you, monsieur, those words were for the king's ears 
alone."

"And you will see, sire, that it is very fortunate that they fell into 
those of his lieutenant of musketeers.  That man so troublesome to your 
majesty was one General Monk, I believe; did I not hear his name 
correctly, sire?"

"Yes, monsieur, but once more, to what purpose are all these questions."

"Oh!  I know very well, sire, that etiquette will not allow kings to be 
questioned.  I hope, however, presently you will pardon my want of 
etiquette.  Your majesty added that, notwithstanding, if you could see 
him, confer with him, and meet him face to face, you would triumph, 
either by force or persuasion, over that obstacle - the only serious one, 
the only insurmountable one, the only real one you met with on your road."

"All that is true, monsieur: my destiny, my future, my obscurity, or my 
glory depend upon that man; but what do you draw from that?"

"One thing alone, that if this General Monk is troublesome to the point 
your majesty describes, it would be expedient to get rid of him or make 
an ally of him."

"Monsieur, a king who has neither army nor money, as you have heard my 
conversation with my brother Louis, has no means of acting against a man 
like Monk."

"Yes, sire, that was your opinion, I know very well: but, fortunately for 
you, it was not mine."

"What do you mean by that?"

"That, without an army and without a million, I have done - I, myself – 
what your majesty thought could alone be done with an army and a million."

"How!  What do you say?  What have you done?"

"What have I done?  Eh! well, sire, I went yonder to take this man who is 
so troublesome to your majesty."

"In England?"

"Exactly, sire."

"You went to take Monk in England?"

"Should I by chance have done wrong, sire?"

"In truth, you are mad, monsieur!"

"Not the least in the world, sire."

"You have taken Monk?"

"Yes, sire."

"Where?"

"In the midst of his camp."

The king trembled with impatience.

"And having taken him on the causeway of Newcastle, I bring him to your 
majesty," said D'Artagnan, simply.

"You bring him to me!" cried the king, almost indignant at what he 
considered a mystification.

"Yes, sire," replied D'Artagnan, in the same tone, "I bring him to you; 
he is down below yonder, in a large chest pierced with holes, so as to 
allow him to breathe."

"Good God!"

"Oh! don't be uneasy, sire, we have taken the greatest possible care of 
him.  He comes in good state, and in perfect condition.  Would your 
majesty please to see him, to talk with him, or to have him thrown into 
the sea?"

"Oh, heavens!" repeated Charles, "oh, heavens! do you speak the truth, 
monsieur?  Are you not insulting me with some unworthy joke?  You have 
accomplished this unheard-of act of audacity and genius - impossible!"

"Will your majesty permit me to open the window?" said D'Artagnan, 
opening it.

The king had not time to reply yes or no.  D'Artagnan gave a shrill and 
prolonged whistle, which he repeated three times through the silence of 
the night.

"There!" said he, "he will be brought to your majesty."


Chapter XXIX:
In which D'Artagnan begins to fear he has placed his Money and that of 
Planchet in the Sinking Fund.

The king could not overcome his surprise, and looked sometimes at the 
smiling face of the musketeer, and sometimes at the dark window which 
opened into the night.  But before he had fixed his ideas, eight of 
D'Artagnan's men, for two had remained to take care of the bark, brought 
to the house, where Parry received him, that object of an oblong form, 
which, for the moment, inclosed the destinies of England.  Before he left 
Calais, D'Artagnan had had made in that city a sort of coffin, large and 
deep enough for a man to turn in it at his ease.  The bottom and sides, 
properly upholstered, formed a bed sufficiently soft to prevent the 
rolling of the ship turning this kind of cage into a rat-trap.  The 
little grating, of which D'Artagnan had spoken to the king, like the 
visor of the helmet, was placed opposite to the man's face.  It was so 
constructed that, at the least cry, a sudden pressure would stifle that 
cry, and, if necessary, him who had uttered that cry.

D'Artagnan was so well acquainted with his crew and his prisoner, that 
during the whole voyage he had been in dread of two things: either that 
the general would prefer death to this sort of imprisonment, and would 
smother himself by endeavoring to speak, or that his guards would allow 
themselves to be tempted by the offers of the prisoner, and put him, 
D'Artagnan, into the box instead of Monk.

D'Artagnan, therefore, had passed the two days and the two nights of the 
voyage close to the coffin, alone with the general, offering him wine and 
food, which the latter had refused, and constantly endeavoring to 
reassure him upon the destiny which awaited him at the end of this 
singular captivity.  Two pistols on the table and his naked sword made 
D'Artagnan easy with regard to indiscretions from without.

When once at Scheveningen he had felt completely reassured.  His men 
greatly dreaded any conflict with the lords of the soil.  He had, 
besides, interested in his cause him who had morally served him as 
lieutenant, and whom we have seen reply to the name of Menneville.  The 
latter, not being a vulgar spirit, had more to risk than the others, 
because he had more conscience.  He believed in a future in the service 
of D'Artagnan, and consequently would have allowed himself to be cut to 
pieces, rather than violate the order given by his leader.  Thus it was 
that, once landed, it was to him that D'Artagnan had confided the care of 
the chest and the general's breathing.  It was he, too, he had ordered to 
have the chest brought by the seven men as soon as he should hear the 
triple whistle.  We have seen that the lieutenant obeyed.  The coffer 
once in the house, D'Artagnan dismissed his men with a gracious smile, 
saying, "Messieurs, you have rendered a great service to King Charles 
II., who in less than six weeks will be king of England.  Your 
gratification will then be doubled.  Return to the boat and wait for 
me."  Upon which they departed with such shouts of joy as terrified even 
the dog himself.

D'Artagnan had caused the coffer to be brought as far as the king's ante-
chamber.  He then, with great care, closed the door of this ante-chamber, 
after which he opened the coffer, and said to the general:

"General, I have a thousand excuses to make to you; my manner of acting 
has not been worthy of such a man as you, I know very well; but I wished 
you to take me for the captain of a bark.  And then England is a very 
inconvenient country for transports.  I hope, therefore, you will take 
all that into consideration.  But now, general, you are at liberty to get 
up and walk."  This said, he cut the bonds which fastened the arms and 
hands of the general.  The latter got up, and then sat down with the 
countenance of a man who expects death.  D'Artagnan opened the door of 
Charles's study, and said, "Sire, here is your enemy, M. Monk; I promised 
myself to perform this service for your majesty.  It is done; now order 
as you please.  M. Monk," added he, turning towards the prisoner, "you 
are in the presence of his majesty Charles II., sovereign lord of Great 
Britain."

Monk raised towards the prince his coldly stoical look, and replied: "I 
know no king of Great Britain; I recognize even here no one worthy of 
bearing the name of gentleman: for it is in the name of King Charles II. 
that an emissary, whom I took for an honest man, came and laid an 
infamous snare for me.  I have fallen into that snare; so much the worse 
for me.  Now, you the tempter," said he to the king; "you the executor," 
said he to D'Artagnan; "remember what I am about to say to you: you have 
my body, you may kill it, and I advise you to do so, for you shall never 
have my mind or my will.  And now, ask me not a single word, as from this 
moment I will not open my mouth even to cry out.  I have said."

And he pronounced these words with the savage, invincible resolution of 
the most mortified Puritan.  D'Artagnan looked at his prisoner like a man 
who knows the value of every word, and who fixes that value according to 
the accent with which it has been pronounced.

"The fact is," said he, in a whisper to the king, "the general is an 
obstinate man; he would not take a mouthful of bread, nor swallow a drop 
of wine, during the two days of our voyage.  But as from this moment it 
is your majesty who must decide his fate, I wash my hands of him."

Monk, erect, pale, and resigned, waited with his eyes fixed and his arms 
folded.  D'Artagnan turned towards him.  "You will please to understand 
perfectly," said he, "that your speech, otherwise very fine, does not 
suit anybody, not even yourself.  His majesty wished to speak to you, you 
refused an interview; why, now that you are face to face, that you are 
here by a force independent of your will, why do you confine yourself to 
the rigors which I consider useless and absurd?  Speak! what the devil! 
speak, if only to say 'No.'"

Monk did not unclose his lips; Monk did not turn his eyes; Monk stroked 
his mustache with a  thoughtful air, which announced that matters were 
going on badly.

During all this time Charles II. had fallen into a profound reverie.  For 
the first time he found himself face to face with Monk; with the man he 
had so much desired to see; and, with that peculiar glance which God has 
given to eagles and kings, he had fathomed the abyss of his heart.  He 
beheld Monk, then, resolved positively to die rather than speak, which 
was not to be wondered at in so considerable a man, the wound in whose 
mind must at the moment have been cruel.  Charles II. formed, on the 
instant, one of those resolutions upon which an ordinary man risks his 
life, a general his fortune, and a king his kingdom.  "Monsieur," said he 
to Monk, "you are perfectly right upon certain points; I do not, 
therefore, ask you to answer me, but to listen to me."

There was a moment's silence, during which the king looked at Monk, who 
remained impassible.

"You have made me just now a painful reproach, monsieur," continued the 
king; "you said that one of my emissaries had been to Newcastle to lay a 
snare for you, and that, parenthetically, cannot be understood by M. 
d'Artagnan here, and to whom, before everything, I owe sincere thanks for 
his generous, his heroic devotion."

D'Artagnan bowed with respect; Monk took no notice.

"For M. d'Artagnan - and observe, M. Monk, I do not say this to excuse 
myself - for M. d'Artagnan," continued the king, "went to England of his 
free will, without interest, without orders, without hope, like a true 
gentleman as he is, to render a service to an unfortunate king, and to 
add to the illustrious actions of an existence, already so well filled, 
one glorious deed more."

D'Artagnan colored a little, and coughed to keep his countenance.  Monk 
did not stir.

"You do not believe what I tell you, M. Monk," continued the king.  "I 
can understand that, - such proofs of devotion are so rare, that their 
reality may well be put in doubt."

"Monsieur would do wrong not to believe you, sire," cried D'Artagnan: 
"for that which your majesty has said is the exact truth, and the truth 
so exact that it seems, in going to fetch the general, I have done 
something which sets everything wrong.  In truth, if it be so, I am in 
despair."

"Monsieur d'Artagnan," said the king, pressing the hand of the musketeer, 
"you have obliged me as much as if you had promoted the success of my 
cause, for you have revealed to me an unknown friend, to whom I shall 
ever be grateful, and whom I shall always love."  And the king pressed 
his hand cordially.  "And," continued he, bowing to Monk, "an enemy whom 
I shall henceforth esteem at his proper value."

The eyes of the Puritan flashed, but only once, and his countenance, for 
an instant, illuminated by that flash, resumed its somber impassibility.

"Then, Monsieur d'Artagnan," continued Charles, "this is what was about 
to happen: M. le Comte de la Fere, who you know, I believe, has set out 
for Newcastle."

"What, Athos!" exclaimed D'Artagnan.

"Yes, that was his _nom de guerre_, I believe.  The Comte de la Fere had 
then set out for Newcastle, and was going, perhaps, to bring the general 
to hold a conference with me or with those of my party, when you 
violently, as it appears, interfered with the negotiation."

"_Mordioux!_" replied D'Artagnan, "he entered the camp the very evening 
in which I succeeded in getting into it with my fishermen - "

An almost imperceptible frown on the brow of Monk told D'Artagnan that he 
had surmised rightly.

"Yes, yes," muttered he; "I thought I knew his person; I even fancied 
I knew his voice.  Unlucky wretch that I am!  Oh! sire, pardon me!  I 
thought I had so successfully steered my bark."

"There is nothing ill in it, sir," said the king, "except that the 
general accuses me of having laid a snare for him, which is not the 
case.  No, general, those are not the arms which I contemplated employing 
with you, as you will soon see.  In the meanwhile, when I give you my 
word upon the honor of a gentleman, believe me, sir, believe me!  Now, 
Monsieur d'Artagnan, a word with you, if you please."

"I listen on my knees, sire."

"You are truly at my service, are you not?"

"Your majesty has seen that I am, too much so."

"That is well; from a man like you one word suffices.  In addition to 
that word you bring actions.  General, have the goodness to follow me.  
Come with us, M. d'Artagnan"

D'Artagnan, considerably surprised, prepared to obey.  Charles II. went 
out, Monk followed him, D'Artagnan followed Monk.  Charles took the path 
by which D'Artagnan had come to his abode; the fresh sea breezes soon 
caressed the faces of the three nocturnal travelers, and, at fifty paces 
from the little gate which Charles opened, they found themselves upon the 
down in the face of the ocean, which, having ceased to rise, reposed upon 
the shore like a wearied monster.  Charles II. walked pensively along, 
his head hanging down and his hand beneath his cloak.  Monk followed him, 
with crossed arms and an uneasy look.  D'Artagnan came last, with his 
hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Where is the boat in which you came, gentlemen?" said Charles to the 
musketeer.

"Yonder, sire; I have seven men and an officer waiting me in that little 
bark which is lighted by a fire."

"Yes, I see; the boat is drawn upon the sand; but you certainly did not 
come from Newcastle in that frail bark?"

No, sire; I freighted a felucca, at my own expense, which is at anchor 
within cannon-shot of the downs.  It was in that felucca we made the 
voyage."

"Sir," said the king to Monk, "you are free."

However firm his will, Monk could not suppress an exclamation.  The king 
added an affirmative motion of his head, and continued: "We shall waken a 
fisherman of the village, who will put his boat to sea immediately, and 
will take you back to any place you may command him.  M. d'Artagnan here 
will escort your honor.  I place M. d'Artagnan under the safeguard of 
your loyalty, M. Monk."

Monk allowed a murmur of surprise to escape him, and D'Artagnan a 
profound sigh.  The king, without appearing to notice either, knocked 
against the deal trellis which inclosed the cabin of the principal 
fisherman inhabiting the down.

"Hey!  Keyser!" cried he, "awake!"

"Who calls me?" asked the fisherman.

"I, Charles the king."

"Ah, my lord!" cried Keyser, rising ready dressed from the sail in which 
he slept, as people sleep in a hammock.  "What can I do to serve you?"

"Captain Keyser," said Charles, "you must set sail immediately.  Here is 
a traveler who wishes to freight your bark, and will pay you well; serve 
him well."  And the king drew back a few steps to allow Monk to speak to 
the fisherman.

"I wish to cross over into England," said Monk, who spoke Dutch enough to 
make himself understood.

"This minute," said the _patron_, "this very minute, if you wish it."

"But will that be long?" said Monk.

"Not half an hour, your honor.  My eldest son is at this moment preparing 
the boat, as we were going out fishing at three o'clock in the morning."

"Well, is all arranged?" asked the king, drawing near.

"All but the price," said the fisherman; "yes, sire."

"That is my affair," said Charles, "the gentleman is my friend."

Monk started and looked at Charles on hearing this word.

"Very well, my lord," replied Keyser.  And at that moment they heard 
Keyser's son, signaling form the shore with the blast of a bull's horn.

"Now, gentlemen," said the king, "depart."

"Sire," said D'Artagnan, "will it please your majesty to grant me a few 
minutes?  I have engaged men, and I am going without them; I must give 
them notice."

"Whistle to them," said Charles, smiling.

D'Artagnan, accordingly, whistled, whilst the _patron_ Keyser replied to 
his son; and four men, led by Menneville, attended the first summons.

"Here is some money in account," said D'Artagnan, putting into their 
hands a purse containing two thousand five hundred livres in gold.  "Go 
and wait for me at Calais, you know where."  And D'Artagnan heaved a 
profound sigh, as he let the purse fall into the hands of Menneville.

"What, are you leaving us?" cried the men.

"For a short time," said D'Artagnan, "or for a long time, who knows?  But 
with 2,500 livres, and the 2,500 you have already received, you are paid 
according to our agreement.  We are quits, then, my friend."

"But the boat?"

"Do not trouble yourself about that."

"Our things are on board the felucca."

"Go and seek them, and then set off immediately."

"Yes, captain."

D'Artagnan returned to Monk, saying, - "Monsieur, I await your orders, 
for I understand we are to go together, unless my company be disagreeable 
to you."

"On the contrary, monsieur," said Monk.

"Come, gentlemen, on board," cried Keyser's son.

Charles bowed to the general with grace and dignity, saying, - "You will 
pardon me this unfortunate accident, and the violence to which you have 
been subjected, when you are convinced that I was not the cause of them."

Monk bowed profoundly without replying.  On his side, Charles affected 
not to say a word to D'Artagnan in private, but aloud, - "Once more, 
thanks, monsieur le chevalier," said he, "thanks for your services.  They 
will be repaid you by the Lord God, who, I hope, reserves trials and 
troubles for me alone."

Monk followed Keyser and his son embarked with them.  D'Artagnan came 
after, muttering to himself, - "Poor Planchet! poor Planchet!  I am very 
much afraid we have made a bad speculation."


Chapter XXX:
The Shares of Planchet and Company rise again to Par.


During the passage, Monk only spoke to D'Artagnan in cases of urgent 
necessity.  Thus, when the Frenchman hesitated to come and take his 
meals, poor meals, composed of salt fish, biscuit, and Hollands gin, Monk 
called him, saying, - "To table, monsieur, to table!"

This was all.  D'Artagnan, from being himself on all great occasions, 
extremely concise, did not draw from the general's conciseness a 
favorable augury of the result of his mission.  Now, as D'Artagnan had 
plenty of time for reflection, he battered his brains during this time in 
endeavoring to find out how Athos had seen King Charles, how he had 
conspired his departure with him, and lastly, how he had entered Monk's 
camp; and the poor lieutenant of musketeers plucked a hair from his 
mustache every time that he reflected that the horseman who accompanied 
Monk on the night of the famous abduction must have been Athos.

At length, after a passage of two nights and two days, the _patron_ 
Keyser touched at the point where Monk, who had given all the orders 
during the voyage, had commanded they should land.  It was exactly at the 
mouth of the little river, near where Athos had chosen his abode.

Daylight was waning, a splendid sun, like a red steel buckler, was 
plunging the lower extremity of its disc beneath the blue line of the 
sea.  The felucca was making fair way up the river, tolerably wide in 
that part, but Monk, in his impatience, desired to be landed, and 
Keyser's boat set him and D'Artagnan upon the muddy bank, amidst the 
reeds.  D'Artagnan, resigned to obedience, followed Monk exactly as a 
chained bear follows his master; but the position humiliated him not a 
little, and he grumbled to himself that the service of kings was a bitter 
one, and that the best of them was good for nothing.  Monk walked with 
long and hasty strides; it might be thought that he did not yet feel 
certain of having reached English land.  They had already begun to 
perceive distinctly a few of the cottages of the sailors and fishermen 
spread over the little quay of this humble port, when, all at once, 
D'Artagnan cried out, - "God pardon me, there is a house on fire!"

Monk raised his eyes, and perceived there was, in fact, a house which the 
flames were beginning to devour.  It had begun at a little shed belonging 
to the house, the roof of which had caught.  The fresh evening breeze 
agitated the fire.  The two travelers quickened their steps, hearing loud 
cries, and seeing, as they drew nearer, soldiers with their glittering 
arms pointed towards the house on fire.  It was doubtless this menacing 
occupation which had made them neglect to signal the felucca.  Monk 
stopped short for an instant, and, for the first time, formulated his 
thoughts into words.  "Eh! but," said he, "perhaps they are not my 
soldiers but Lambert's."

These words contained at once a sorrow, and apprehension, and a reproach 
perfectly intelligible to D'Artagnan.  In fact, during the general's 
absence, Lambert might have given battle, conquered, and dispersed the 
parliament's army, and taken with his own the place of Monk's army, 
deprived of its strongest support.  At this doubt, which passed from the 
mind of Monk to his own, D'Artagnan reasoned in this manner: - "One of 
two things is going to happen; either Monk has spoken correctly, and 
there are no longer any but Lambertists in the country - that is to say, 
enemies, who would receive me wonderfully well, since it is to me they 
owe their victory; or nothing is changed, and Monk, transported with joy 
at finding his camp still in the same place, will not prove too severe in 
his settlement with me."  Whilst thinking thus, the two travelers 
advanced, and began to mingle with a little knot of sailors, who looked 
on with sorrow at the burning house, but did not dare to say anything on 
account of the threats of the soldiers.  Monk addressed one of these 
sailors: - "What is going on here?" asked he.

"Sir," replied  the man, not recognizing Monk as an officer, under the 
thick cloak which enveloped him, "that house was inhabited by a foreign 
gentleman, and this foreigner became suspected by the soldiers.  They 
wanted to get into his house under pretense of taking him to the camp; 
but he, without being frightened by their number, threatened death to the 
first who should cross the threshold of his door; and as there was one 
who did venture, the Frenchman stretched him on the earth with a pistol-
shot."

"Ah! he is a Frenchman, is he?" said D'Artagnan, rubbing his hands.  
"Good!"

"How good?" replied the fisherman.

"No, I don't mean that. - What then - my tongue slipped."

"What then, sir? - why, the other men became as enraged as so many lions: 
they fired more than a hundred shots at the house; but the Frenchman was 
sheltered by the wall, and every time they tried to enter by the door 
they met with a shot from his lackey, whose aim is deadly, d'ye see?  
Every time they threatened the window, they met with a pistol-shot from 
the master.  Look and count - there are seven men down."

"Ah! my brave countryman," cried D'Artagnan, "wait a little, wait a 
little.  I will be with you; and we will settle with this rabble."

"One instant, sir," said Monk, "wait."

"Long?"

"No; only the time to ask a question."  Then, turning towards the sailor, 
"My friend," asked he, with an emotion which, in spite of all his self-
command, he could not conceal, "whose soldiers are these, pray tell me?"

"Whose should they be but that madman, Monk's?"

"There has been no battle, then?"

"A battle, ah, yes! for what purpose?  Lambert's army is melting away 
like snow in April.  All come to Monk, officers and soldiers.  In a week 
Lambert won't have fifty men left."

The fisherman was interrupted by a fresh discharge directed against the 
house, and by another pistol-shot which replied to the discharge and 
struck down the most daring of the aggressors.  The rage of soldiers was 
at its height.  The fire still continued to increase, and a crest of 
flame and smoke whirled and spread over the roof of the house.  
D'Artagnan could no longer contain himself.  "_Mordioux!_" said he to 
Monk, glancing at him sideways: "you are a general, and allow your men to 
burn houses and assassinate people, while you look on and warm your hands 
at the blaze of the conflagration?  _Mordioux!_ you are not a man."

"Patience, sir, patience!" said Monk, smiling.

"Patience! yes, until that brave gentleman is roasted - is that what you 
mean?"  And D'Artagnan rushed forward.

"Remain where you are, sir," said Monk, in a tone of command.  And he 
advanced towards the house, just as an officer had approached it, saying 
to the besieged: "The house is burning, you will be roasted within an 
hour!  There is still time - come, tell us what you know of General Monk, 
and we will spare your life.  Reply, or by Saint Patrick - "

The besieged made no answer; he was no doubt reloading his pistol.

"A reinforcement is expected," continued the officer; "in a quarter of an 
hour there will be a hundred men around your house."

"I reply to you," said the Frenchman.  "Let your men be sent away; I will 
come out freely and repair to the camp alone, or else I will be killed 
here!"

"_Mille tonnerres!_" shouted D'Artagnan; "why, that's the voice of 
Athos!  _Ah canailles!_" and the sword of D'Artagnan flashed from its 
sheath.  Monk stopped him and advanced himself, exclaiming, in a sonorous 
voice: "_Hola!_ what is going on here?  Digby, whence this fire? why 
these cries?"

"The general!" cried Digby, letting the point of his sword fall.

"The general!" repeated the soldiers.

"Well, what is there so astonishing in that?" said Monk, in a calm tone.  
Then, silence being re-established, - "Now," said he, "who lit this fire?"

The soldiers hung their heads.

"What! do I ask a question, and nobody answers me?" said Monk.  "What! do 
I find a fault, and nobody repairs it?  The fire is still burning, I 
believe."

Immediately the twenty men rushed forward, seizing pails, buckets, jars, 
barrels, and extinguishing the fire with as much ardor as they had, an 
instant before, employed in promoting it.  But already, and before all 
the rest, D'Artagnan had applied a ladder to the house, crying, "Athos! 
it is I, D'Artagnan!  Do not kill me, my dearest friend!"  And in a 
moment the count was clasped in his arms.
In the meantime, Grimaud, preserving his calmness, dismantled the 
fortification of the ground-floor, and after having opened the door, 
stood, with his arms folded, quietly on the sill.  Only, on hearing the 
voice of D'Artagnan, he uttered an exclamation of surprise.  The fire 
being extinguished, the soldiers presented themselves, Digby at their 
head.

"General," said he, "excuse us; what we have done was for love of your 
honor, whom we thought lost."

"You are mad, gentlemen.  Lost!  Is a man like me to be lost?  Am I not 
permitted to be absent, according to my pleasure, without giving formal 
notice?  Do you, by chance, take me for a citizen from the city?  Is a 
gentleman, my friend, my guest, to be besieged, entrapped, and threatened 
with death, because he is suspected?  What signifies the word, 
suspected?  Curse me if I don't have every one of you shot like dogs, 
that the brave gentleman has left alive!

"General," said Digby, piteously, "there were twenty-eight of us, and 
see, there are eight on the ground."

"I authorize M. le Comte de la Fere to send the twenty to join the 
eight," said Monk, stretching out his hand to Athos.  "Let them return to 
camp.  Mr. Digby, you will consider yourself under arrest for a month."

"General - "

"That is to teach you, sir, not to act, another time, without orders."

"I had those of the lieutenant, general."

"The lieutenant had no such orders to give you, and he shall be placed 
under arrest, instead of you, if he has really commanded you to burn this 
gentleman."

"He did not command that, general; he commanded us to bring him to the 
camp; but the count was not willing to follow us."

"I was not willing that they should enter and plunder my house," said 
Athos to Monk, with a significant look.

"And you were quite right.  To the camp, I say."  The soldiers departed 
with dejected looks.  "Now we are alone," said Monk to Athos, "have the 
goodness to tell me, monsieur, why you persisted in remaining here, 
whilst you had your felucca - "

"I waited for you, general," said Athos.  "Had not your honor appointed 
to meet me in a week?"

An eloquent look from D'Artagnan made it clear to Monk that these two 
men, so brave and so loyal, had not acted in concert for his abduction.  
He knew already it could not be so.

"Monsieur," said he to D'Artagnan, "you were perfectly right.  Have the 
kindness to allow me a moment's conversation with M. le Comte de la Fere?"

D'Artagnan took advantage of this to go and ask Grimaud how he was.  Monk 
requested Athos to conduct him to the chamber he lived in.

This chamber was still full of smoke and rubbish.  More than fifty balls 
had passed through the windows and mutilated the walls.  They found a 
table, inkstand, and materials for writing.  Monk took up a pen, wrote a 
single line, signed it, folded the paper, sealed the letter with the seal 
of his ring, and handed over the missive to Athos, saying, "Monsieur, 
carry, if you please, this letter to King Charles II., and set out 
immediately, if nothing detains you here any longer."

"And the casks?" said Athos.

"The fisherman who brought me hither will assist you in transporting them 
on board.  Depart, if possible, within an hour."

"Yes, general," said Athos.

"Monsieur D'Artagnan!" cried Monk, from the window.  D'Artagnan ran up 
precipitately.

"Embrace your friend and bid him adieu, sir; he is returning to Holland."

"To Holland!" cried D'Artagnan; "and I?"

"You are at liberty to follow him, monsieur; but I request you to 
remain," said Monk.  "Will you refuse me?"

"Oh, no, general; I am at your orders."

D'Artagnan embraced Athos, and only had time to bid him adieu.  Monk 
watched them both.  Then he took upon himself the preparations for the 
departure, the transportation of the casks on board, and the embarking of 
Athos; then, taking D'Artagnan by the arm, who was quite amazed and 
agitated, he led him towards Newcastle.  Whilst going along, the general 
leaning on his arm, D'Artagnan could not help murmuring to himself, - 
"Come, come, it seems to me that the shares of the firm of Planchet and 
Company are rising."


Chapter XXXI:
Monk reveals Himself.

D'Artagnan, although he flattered himself with better success, had, 
nevertheless, not too well comprehended his situation.  It was a strange 
and grave subject for him to reflect upon - this voyage of Athos into 
England; this league of the king with Athos, and that extraordinary 
combination of his design with that of the Comte de la Fere.  The best 
way was to let things follow their own train.  An imprudence had been 
committed, and, whilst having succeeded, as he had promised, D'Artagnan 
found that he had gained no advantage by his success.  Since everything 
was lost, he could risk no more.

D'Artagnan followed Monk through his camp.  The return of the general had 
produced a marvelous effect, for his people had thought him lost.  But 
Monk, with his austere look and icy demeanor, appeared to ask of his 
eager lieutenants and delighted soldiers the cause of all this joy.  
Therefore, to the lieutenants who had come to meet him, and who expressed 
the uneasiness with which they had learnt his departure, -

"Why is all this?" said he; "am I obliged to give you an account of 
myself?"

"But your honor, the sheep may well tremble without the shepherd."

"Tremble!" replied Monk, in his calm and powerful voice; "ah, monsieur, 
what a word!  Curse me, if my sheep have not both teeth and claws; I 
renounce being their shepherd.  Ah, you tremble, gentlemen, do you?"

"Yes, general, for you."

"Oh! pray meddle with your own concerns.  If I have not the wit God gave 
to Oliver Cromwell, I have that which He has sent to me: I am satisfied 
with it, however little it may be."

The officer made no reply; and Monk, having imposed silence on his 
people, all remained persuaded that he had accomplished some important 
work or made some important trial.  This was forming a very poor 
conception of his patience and scrupulous genius.  Monk, if he had the 
good faith of the Puritans, his allies, must have returned fervent thanks 
to the patron saint who had taken him from the box of M. d'Artagnan.  
Whilst these things were going on, our musketeer could not help 
constantly repeating, -

"God grant that M. Monk may not have as much pride as I have; for I 
declare that if any one had put me into a coffer with that grating over 
my mouth, and carried me packed up, like a calf, across the seas, I 
should cherish such a memory of my piteous looks in that coffer, and such 
an ugly animosity against him who had inclosed me in it, I should dread 
so greatly to see a sarcastic smile blooming upon the face of the 
malicious wretch, or in his attitude any grotesque imitation of my 
position in the box, that, _Mordioux!_  I should plunge a good dagger 
into his throat in compensation for the grating, and would nail him down 
in a veritable bier, in remembrance of the false coffin in which I had 
been left in to grow moldy for two days."

And D'Artagnan spoke honestly when he spoke thus; for the skin of our 
Gascon was a very thin one.  Monk, fortunately, entertained other ideas.  
He never opened his mouth to his timid conqueror concerning the past; but 
he admitted him very near to his person in his labors, took him with him 
to several reconnoiterings, in such a way as to obtain that which he 
evidently warmly desired, - a rehabilitation in the mind of D'Artagnan.  
The latter conducted himself like a past-master in the art of flattery: 
he admired all Monk's tactics, and the ordering of his camp; he joked 
very pleasantly upon the circumvallations of Lambert's camp, who had, he 
said, very uselessly given himself the trouble to inclose a camp for 
twenty thousand men, whilst an acre of ground would have been quite 
sufficient for the corporal and fifty guards who would perhaps remain 
faithful to him.

Monk, immediately after his arrival, had accepted the proposition made by 
Lambert the evening before, for an interview, and which Monk's 
lieutenants had refused under the pretext that the general was 
indisposed.  This interview was neither long nor interesting: Lambert 
demanded a profession of faith from his rival.  The latter declared he 
had no other opinion than that of the majority.  Lambert asked if it 
would not be more expedient to terminate the quarrel by an alliance than 
by a battle.  Monk hereupon demanded a week for consideration.  Now, 
Lambert could not refuse this: and Lambert, nevertheless, had come saying 
that he should devour Monk's army.  Therefore, at the end of the 
interview, which Lambert's party watched with impatience, nothing was 
decided - neither treaty nor battle - the rebel army, as M. d'Artagnan 
had foreseen, began to prefer the good cause to the bad one, and the 
parliament, rumpish as it was, to the pompous nothings of Lambert's 
designs.

They remembered, likewise, the good feasts of London - the profusion of 
ale and sherry with which the citizens of London paid their friends the 
soldiers; - they looked with terror at the black war bread, at the 
troubled waters of the Tweed, - too salt for the glass, not enough so for 
the pot; and they said to themselves, "Are not the roast meats kept warm 
for Monk in London?"  From that time nothing was heard of but desertion 
in Lambert's army.  The soldiers allowed themselves to be drawn away by 
the force of principles, which are, like discipline, the obligatory tie 
in everybody constituted for any purpose.  Monk defended the parliament - 
Lambert attacked it.  Monk had no more inclination to support parliament 
than Lambert, but he had it inscribed on his standards, so that all those 
of the contrary party were reduced to write upon theirs, "Rebellion," 
which sounded ill to puritan ears.  They flocked, then, from Lambert to 
Monk, as sinners flock from Baal to God.

Monk made his calculations; at a thousand desertions a day Lambert had 
men enough to last twenty days; but there is in sinking things such a 
growth of weight and swiftness, which combine with each other, that a 
hundred left the first day, five hundred the second, a thousand the 
third.  Monk thought he had obtained his rate.  But from one thousand the 
deserters increased to two thousand, then to four thousand, and, a week 
after, Lambert, perceiving that he had no longer the possibility of 
accepting battle, if it were offered to him, took the wise resolution of 
decamping during the night, returning to London, and being beforehand 
with Monk in constructing a power with the wreck of the military party.

But Monk, free and without uneasiness, marched towards London as a 
conqueror, augmenting his army with all the floating parties on the way.  
He encamped at Barnet, that is to say, within four leagues of the 
capital, cherished by the parliament, which thought it beheld in him a 
protector, and awaited by the people, who were anxious to see him reveal 
himself, that they might judge him.  D'Artagnan himself had not been able 
to fathom his tactics; he observed - he admired.  Monk could not enter 
London with a settled determination without bringing about civil war.  He 
temporized for a short time.

Suddenly, when least expected, Monk drove the military party out of 
London, and installed himself in the city amidst the citizens, by order 
of the parliament; then, at the moment when the citizens were crying out 
against Monk - at the moment when the soldiers themselves were accusing 
their leader - Monk, finding himself certain of a majority, declared to 
the Rump Parliament that it must abdicate - be dissolved - and yield its 
place to a government which would not be a joke.  Monk pronounced this 
declaration, supported by fifty thousand swords, to which, that same 
evening, were united, with shouts of delirious joy, the five thousand 
inhabitants of the good city of London.  At length, at the moment when 
the people, after their triumphs and festive repasts in the open streets, 
were looking about for a master, it was affirmed that a vessel had left 
the Hague, bearing King Charles II. and his fortunes.

"Gentlemen," said Monk to his officers, "I am going to meet the 
legitimate king.  He who loves me will follow me."  A burst of 
acclamations welcomed these words, which D'Artagnan did not hear without 
the greatest delight.

"_Mordioux!_" said he to Monk, "that is bold, monsieur."

"You will accompany me, will you not?" said Monk.

"_Pardieu!_ general.  But tell me, I beg, what you wrote by Athos, that 
is to say, the Comte de la Fere - you know - the day of our arrival?"

"I have no secrets from you now," replied Monk.  "I wrote these words: 
'Sire, I expect your majesty in six weeks at Dover.'"

"Ah!" said D'Artagnan, "I no longer say it is bold; I say it is well 
played; it is a fine stroke!"

"You are something of a judge in such matters," replied Monk.

And this was the only time the general had ever made an allusion to his 
voyage to Holland.


Chapter XXXII:
Athos and D'Artagnan meet once more at the Hostelry of the Corne du Cerf.

The king of England made his _entree_ into Dover with great pomp, as he 
afterwards did in London.  He had sent for his brothers; he had brought 
over his mother and sister.  England had been for so long a time given up 
to herself - that is to say, to tyranny, mediocrity and nonsense - that 
this return of Charles II., whom the English only knew as the son of the 
man whose head they had cut off, was a festival for three kingdoms.  
Consequently, all the good wishes, all the acclamations which accompanied 
his return, struck the young king so forcibly that he stooped and 
whispered in the ear of James of York, his younger brother, "In truth, 
James, it seems to have been our own fault that we were so long absent 
from a country where we are so much beloved!"  The pageant was 
magnificent.  Beautiful weather favored the solemnity.  Charles had 
regained all his youth, all his good humor; he appeared to be 
transfigured; hearts seemed to smile on him like the sun.  Amongst this 
noisy crowd of courtiers and worshipers, who did not appear to remember 
they had conducted to the scaffold at Whitehall the father of the new 
king, a man, in the garb of a lieutenant of musketeers, looked, with a 
smile upon his thin, intellectual lips, sometimes at the people 
vociferating their blessings, and sometimes at the prince, who pretended 
emotion, and who bowed most particularly to the women, whose _bouquets_ 
fell beneath his horse's feet.

"What a fine trade is that of king!" said this man, so completely 
absorbed in contemplation that he stopped in the middle of the road, 
leaving the _cortege_ to file past.  "Now, there is, in good truth, a 
prince all bespangled over with gold and diamonds, enamelled with flowers 
like a spring meadow; he is about to plunge his empty hands into the 
immense coffer in which his now faithful - but so lately unfaithful – 
subjects have amassed one or two cartloads of ingots of gold.  They cast 
_bouquets_ enough upon him to smother him; and yet, if he had presented 
himself to them two months ago, they would have sent as many bullets and 
balls at him as they now throw flowers.  Decidedly it is worth something 
to be born in a certain sphere, with due respect to the lowly, who 
pretend that it is of very little advantage to them to be born lowly."  
The _cortege_ continued to file on, and, with the king, the acclamations 
began to die away in the direction of the palace, which, however, did not 
prevent our officer from being pushed about.

"_Mordioux!_" continued the reasoner, "these people tread upon my toes 
and look upon _me_ as of very little consequence, or rather of none at 
all, seeing that they are Englishmen and I am a Frenchman.  If all these 
people were asked, - 'Who is M. d'Artagnan?' they would reply, '_Nescio 
vos_.'  But let any one say to them, 'There is the king going by,' 'There 
is M. Monk going by,' they would run away, shouting, - '_Vive le roi!_'  
'_Vive M. Monk!_' till their lungs were exhausted.  And yet," continued 
he, surveying, with that look sometimes so keen and sometimes so proud, 
the diminishing crowd, - "and yet, reflect a little, my good people, on 
what your king has done, on what M. Monk has done, and then think what 
has been done by this poor unknown, who is called M. d'Artagnan!  It is 
true you do not know him, since he is here unknown, and that prevents 
your thinking about the matter!  But, bah! what matters it!  All that 
does not prevent Charles II. from being a great king, although he has 
been exiled twelve years, or M. Monk from being a great captain, although 
he did make a voyage to Holland in a box.  Well, then, since it is 
admitted that one is a great king and the other a great captain, - 
'_Hurrah for King Charles II.!_ - _Hurrah for General Monk!_'"  And his 
voice mingled with the voices of the hundreds of spectators, over which 
it sounded for a moment.  Then, the better to play the devoted man, he 
took off his hat and waved it in the air.  Some one seized his arm in the 
very height of his expansive loyalism.  (In 1660 that was so termed which 
we now call royalism.)

"Athos!" cried D'Artagnan, "you here!"  And the two friends seized each 
other's hands.

"You here! - and being here," continued the musketeer, "you are not in the 
midst of all these courtiers, my dear comte!  What! you, the hero of the 
_fete_, you are not prancing on the left hand of the king, as M. Monk is 
prancing on the right?  In truth, I cannot comprehend your character, nor 
that of the prince who owes you so much!"

"Always scornful, my dear D'Artagnan!" said Athos.  "Will you never 
correct yourself of that vile habit?"

"But you do not form part of the pageant?"

"I do not, because I was not willing to do so."

"And why were you not willing?"

"Because I am neither envoy nor ambassador, nor representative of the 
king of France; and it does not become me to exhibit myself thus near the 
person of another king than the one God has given me for a master."

"_Mordioux!_ you came very near to the person of the king, his father."

"That was another thing, my friend; he was about to die."

"And yet that which you did for him - "

"I did it because it was my duty to do it.  But you know I hate all 
ostentation.  Let King Charles II., then, who no longer stands in need of 
me, leave me to my rest, and the shadow; that is all I claim of him."

D'Artagnan sighed.

"What is the matter with you?" said Athos.  "One would say that this 
happy return of the king to London saddens you, my friend; you who have 
done at least as much for his majesty as I have."

"Have I not," replied D'Artagnan, with his Gascon laugh, "have I not done 
much for his majesty, without any one suspecting it?"

"Yes, yes, but the king is well aware of it, my friend," cried Athos.

"He is aware of it!" said the musketeer bitterly.  "By my faith!  I did 
not suspect so, and I was even a moment ago trying to forget it myself."

"But he, my friend, will not forget it, I will answer for him."

"You tell me that to console me a little, Athos."

"For what?"

"_Mordioux!_ for all the expense I incurred.  I have ruined myself, my 
friend, ruined myself for the restoration of this young prince who has 
just passed, cantering on his _isabelle_ colored horse."

"The king does not know you have ruined yourself, my friend; but he knows 
he owes you much."

"And say, Athos, does that advance me in any respect? for, to do you 
justice, you have labored nobly.  But I - I who in appearance marred your 
combinations, it was I who really made them succeed.  Follow my 
calculations closely; you might not have, by persuasions or mildness, 
convinced General Monk, whilst I so roughly treated this dear general, 
that I furnished your prince with an opportunity of showing himself 
generous: this generosity was inspired in him by the fact of my fortunate 
mistake, and Charles is paid by the restoration which Monk has brought 
about."

"All that, my dear friend, is strikingly true," replied Athos.

"Well, strikingly true as it may be, it is not less true, my friend, that 
I shall return - greatly beloved by M. Monk, who calls me _dear captain_ 
all day long, although I am neither dear to him nor a captain; - and much 
appreciated by the king, who has already forgotten my name; - it is not 
less true, I say, that I shall return to my beautiful country, cursed by 
the soldiers I had raised with the hopes of large pay, cursed by the 
brave Planchet, of who I have borrowed a part of his fortune."

"How is that?  What the devil had Planchet to do in all this?"

"Ah, yes, my friend; but this king, so spruce, so smiling, so adored, M. 
Monk fancies he has recalled him, you fancy you have supported him, I 
fancy I have brought him back, the people fancy they have reconquered 
him, he himself fancies he has negotiated his restoration; and yet 
nothing of all this is true, for Charles II., king of England, Scotland, 
and Ireland, has been replaced upon the throne by a French grocer, who 
lives in the Rue des Lombards, and is named Planchet.  And such is 
grandeur!  'Vanity!' says the Scripture: vanity, all is vanity.'"

Athos could not help laughing at this whimsical outbreak of his friend.

"My dear D'Artagnan," said he, pressing his hand affectionately, "should 
you not exercise a little more philosophy?  Is it not some further 
satisfaction to you to have saved my life as you did by arriving so 
fortunately with Monk, when those damned parliamentarians wanted to burn 
me alive?"

"Well, but you, in some degree, deserved a little burning, my friend."

"How so?  What, for having saved King Charles's million?"

"What million?"

"Ah, that is true! you never knew that, my friend; but you must not be 
angry, for it was my secret.  That word 'REMEMBER' which the king 
pronounced upon the scaffold."

"And which means '_souviens-toi!_'"

"Exactly.  That was signified.  'Remember there is a million buried in 
the vaults of Newcastle Abbey, and that that million belongs to my son.'"

"Ah! very well, I understand.  But what I understand likewise, and what 
is very frightful, is, that every time his majesty Charles II. will think 
of me, he will say to himself: 'There is the man who came very near to 
making me lose my crown.  Fortunately I was generous, great, full of 
presence of mind.'  That will be said by the young gentleman in a shabby 
black doublet, who came to the chateau of Blois, hat in hand, to ask me 
if I would give him access to the king of France."

"D'Artagnan!  D'Artagnan!" said Athos, laying his hand on the shoulder of 
the musketeer, "you are unjust."

"I have a right to be so."

"No - for you are ignorant of the future."

D'Artagnan looked his friend full in the face, and began to laugh.  "In 
truth, my dear Athos," said he, "you have some sayings so superb, that 
they only belong to you and M. le Cardinal Mazarin."

Athos frowned slightly.

"I beg your pardon," continued D'Artagnan, laughing, "I beg your pardon 
if I have offended you.  The future!  _Nein!_ what pretty words are words 
that promise, and how well they fill the mouth in default of other 
things!  _Mordioux!_  After having met with so many who promised, when 
shall I find one who will give?  But, let that pass!" continued 
D'Artagnan.  "What are you doing here, my dear Athos?  Are you the king's 
treasurer?"

"How - why the king's treasurer?"

"Well, since the king possess a million, he must want a treasurer.  The 
king of France, although he is not worth a sou, has still a 
superintendent of finance, M. Fouquet.  It is true, that, in exchange, M. 
Fouquet, they say, has a good number of millions of his own."

"Oh! our million was spent long ago," said Athos, laughing in his turn.

"I understand; it was frittered away in satin, precious stones, velvet, 
and feathers of all sorts and colors.  All these princes and princesses 
stood in great need of tailors and dressmakers.  Eh!  Athos, do you 
remember what we fellows spent in equipping ourselves for the campaign of 
La Rochelle, and to make our appearance on horseback?  Two or three 
thousand livres, by my faith!  But a king's robe is the more ample; it 
would require a million to purchase the stuff.  At least, Athos, if you 
are not treasurer, you are on good footing at court."

"By the faith of a gentleman, I know nothing about it," said Athos, 
simply.

"What! you know nothing about it?"

"No!  I have not seen the king since we left Dover."

"Then he has forgotten you, too!  _Mordioux!_  That is shameful!"

"His majesty has had so much business to transact."

"Oh!" cried D'Artagnan, with one of those intelligent grimaces which he 
alone knew how to make, "that is enough to make me recover my love for 
Monseigneur Giulio Mazarini.  What, Athos! the king has not seen you 
since then?"

"No."

"And you are not furious?"

"I! why should I be?  Do you imagine, my dear D'Artagnan, that it was on 
the king's account I acted as I have done?  I did not know the young 
man.  I defended the father, who represented a principle - sacred in my 
eyes, and I allowed myself to be drawn towards the son from sympathy for 
this same principle.  Besides, he was a worthy knight, a noble creature, 
that father; do you remember him?"

"Yes; that is true; he was a brave, an excellent man, who led a sad life, 
but made a fine end."

"Well, my dear D'Artagnan, understand this; to that king, to that man of 
heart, to that friend of my thoughts, if I durst venture to say so, I 
swore at the last hour to preserve faithfully the secret of a deposit 
which was to be transmitted to his son, to assist him in his hour of 
need.  This young man came to me; he described his destitution; he was 
ignorant that he was anything to me save a living memory of his father.  
I have accomplished towards Charles II. what I promised Charles I.; that 
is all!  Of what consequence is it to me, then, whether he be grateful or 
not?  It is to myself I have rendered a service, by relieving myself of 
this responsibility, and not to him."

"Well, I have always said," replied D'Artagnan, with a sigh, "that 
disinterestedness was the finest thing in the world."

"Well, and you, my friend," resumed Athos, "are you not in the same 
situation as myself?  If I have properly understood your words, you 
allowed yourself to be affected by the misfortunes of this young man; 
that, on your part, was much greater than it was upon mine, for I had a 
duty to fulfill; whilst you were under no obligation to the son of the 
martyr.  You had not, on your part, to pay him the price of that precious 
drop of blood which he let fall upon my brow, through the floor of the 
scaffold.  That which made you act was heart alone - the noble and good 
heart which you possess beneath your apparent skepticism and sarcastic 
irony; you have engaged the fortune of a servitor, and your own, I 
suspect, my benevolent miser! and your sacrifice is not acknowledged!  Of 
what consequence is it?  You wish to repay Planchet his money.  I can 
comprehend that, my friend: for it is not becoming in a gentleman to 
borrow from his inferior, without returning to him principal and 
interest.  Well, I will sell La Fere if necessary, and if not, some 
little farm.  You shall pay Planchet, and there will be enough, believe 
me, of corn left in my granaries for us two and Raoul.  In this way, my 
friend, you will be under obligations to nobody but yourself; and, if I 
know you well, it will not be a small satisfaction to your mind to be 
able to say, 'I have made a king!'  Am I right?"

"Athos!  Athos!" murmured D'Artagnan, thoughtfully, "I have told you more 
than once that the day on which you will preach I shall attend the 
sermon; the day on which you will tell me there is a hell - _Mordioux!_  
I shall be afraid of the gridiron and the pitch-forks.  You are better 
than I, or rather, better than anybody, and I only acknowledge the 
possession of one quality, and that is, of not being jealous.  Except 
that defect, damme, as the English say, if I have not all the rest."

"I know no one equal to D'Artagnan," replied Athos; "but here we are, 
having quietly reached the house I inhabit.  Will you come in, my friend?"

"Eh! why this is the tavern of the Corne du Cerf, I think," said 
D'Artagnan.

"I confess I chose it on purpose.  I like old acquaintances; I like to 
sit down on that place, whereon I sank, overcome by fatigue, overwhelmed 
by despair, when you returned on the 31st of January."

"After having discovered the abode of the masked executioner?  Yes, that 
was a terrible day!"

"Come in, then," said Athos, interrupting him.

They entered the large apartment, formerly the common one.  The tavern, 
in general, and this room in particular, had undergone great changes; the 
ancient host of the musketeers, having become tolerably rich for an 
innkeeper, had closed his shop, and make of this room of which we were 
speaking, a store-room for colonial provisions.  As for the rest of the 
house, he let it ready furnished to strangers.  It was with unspeakable 
emotion D'Artagnan recognized all the furniture of the chamber of the 
first story; the wainscoting, the tapestries, and even that geographical 
chart which Porthos had so fondly studied in his moments of leisure.

"It is eleven years ago," cried D'Artagnan.  "_Mordioux!_ it appears to 
me a century!"

"And to me but a day," said Athos.  "Imagine the joy I experience, my 
friend, in seeing you there, in pressing your hand, in casting from me 
sword and dagger, and tasting without mistrust this glass of sherry.  
And, oh! what still further joy it would be, if our two friends were 
there, at the two corners of the table, and Raoul, my beloved Raoul, on 
the threshold, looking at us with his large eyes, at once so brilliant 
and so soft!"

"Yes, yes," said D'Artagnan, much affected, "that is true.  I approve 
particularly of the first part of your thought; it is very pleasant to 
smile there where we have so legitimately shuddered in thinking that from 
one moment to another M. Mordaunt might appear upon the landing."

At this moment the door opened, and D'Artagnan, brave as he was, could 
not restrain a slight movement of fright.  Athos understood him, and, 
smiling, -

"It is our host," said he, "bringing me a letter."

"Yes, my lord," said the good man; "here is a letter for your honor."

"Thank you," said Athos, taking the letter without looking at it.  "Tell 
me, my dear host, if you do not remember this gentleman?"

The old man raised his head, and looked attentively at D'Artagnan.

"No," said he.

"It is," said Athos, "one of those friends of whom I have spoken to you, 
and who lodged here with me eleven years ago."

"Oh! but," said the old man, "so many strangers have lodged here!"

"But we lodged here on the 30th of January, 1649," added Athos, believing 
he should stimulate the lazy memory of the host by this remark.

"That is very possible," replied he, smiling; "but it is so long ago!" 
and he bowed, and went out.

"Thank you," said D'Artagnan - "perform exploits, accomplish revolutions, 
endeavor to engrave your name in stone or bronze with strong swords! 
there is something more rebellious, more hard, more forgetful than iron, 
bronze, or stone, and that is, the brain of a lodging-house keeper who 
has grown rich in the trade; - he does not know me!  Well, I should have 
known him, though."

Athos, smiling at his friend's philosophy, unsealed his letter.

"Ah!" said he, "a letter from Parry."

"Oh! oh!" said D'Artagnan; "read it, my friend, read it!  No doubt it 
contains news."

	Athos shook his head, and read:

"MONSIEUR LE COMTE. - The king has experienced much regret at not seeing 
you to-day beside him, at his entrance.  His majesty commands me to say 
so, and to recall him to your memory.  His majesty will expect you this 
evening, at the palace of St. James, between nine and ten o'clock.

"I am, respectfully, monsieur le comte, your honor's very humble and very 
obedient servant, - PARRY."

"You see, my dear D'Artagnan," said Athos, "we must not despair of the 
hearts of kings."

"Not despair! you are right to say so!" replied D'Artagnan.

"Oh! my dear, very dear friend," resumed Athos, whom the almost 
imperceptible bitterness of D'Artagnan had not escaped.  "Pardon me! can 
I have unintentionally wounded my best comrade?"

"You are mad, Athos, and to prove it, I shall conduct you to the palace; 
to the very gate, I mean; the walk will do me good."

"You shall go in with me, my friend; I will speak to his majesty."

"No, no!" replied D'Artagnan, with true pride, free from all mixture; "if 
there is anything worse than begging yourself, it is making others beg 
for you.  Come, let us go, my friend, the walk will be charming; on the 
way I shall show you the house of M. Monk, who has detained me with him.  
A beautiful house, by my faith.  Being a general in England is better 
than being a marechal in France, please to know."

Athos allowed himself to be led along, quite saddened by D'Artagnan's 
forced attempts at gayety.  The whole city was in a state of joy; the two 
friends were jostled at every moment by enthusiasts who required them, in 
their intoxication, to cry out, "Long live good King Charles!"  
D'Artagnan replied by a grunt, and Athos by a smile.  They arrived thus 
in front of Monk's house, before which, as we have said, they had to pass 
on their way to St. James's.

Athos and D'Artagnan said but little on the road, for the simple reason 
that they would have had so many things to talk about if they had 
spoken.  Athos thought that by speaking he should evince satisfaction, 
and that might wound D'Artagnan.  The latter feared that in speaking he 
should allow some little bitterness to steal into his words which would 
render his company unpleasant to his friend.  It was a singular emulation 
of silence between contentment and ill-humor.  D'Artagnan gave way first 
to that itching at the tip of his tongue which he so habitually 
experienced.

"Do you remember, Athos," said he, "the passage of the 'Memoires de 
D'Aubigny,' in which that devoted servant, a Gascon like myself, poor as 
myself, and, I was going to add, brave as myself, relates instances of 
the meanness of Henry IV.?  My father always told me, I remember, that 
D'Aubigny was a liar.  But, nevertheless, examine how all the princes, 
the issue of the great Henry, keep up the character of the race."

"Nonsense!" said Athos," the kings of France misers?  You are mad, my 
friend."

"Oh! you are so perfect yourself, you never agree to the faults of 
others.  But, in reality, Henry IV. was covetous, Louis XIII., his son, 
was so likewise; we know something of that, don't we?  Gaston carried 
this vice to exaggeration, and has made himself, in this respect, hated 
by all who surround him.  Henriette, poor woman, might well be 
avaricious, she who did not eat every day, and could not warm herself 
every winter; and that is an example she has given to her son Charles 
II., grandson of the great Henry IV., who is as covetous as his mother 
and his grandfather.  See if I have well traced the genealogy of the 
misers?"

"D'Artagnan, my friend," cried Athos, "you are very rude towards that 
eagle race called the Bourbons."

"Eh! and I have forgotten the best instance of all - the other grandson 
of the Bernais, Louis XIV., my ex-master.  Well, I hope he is miserly 
enough, he who would not lend a million to his brother Charles!  Good!  I 
see you are beginning to be angry.  Here we are, by good luck, close to 
my house, or rather that of my friend, M. Monk."

"My dear D'Artagnan, you do not make me angry, you make me sad; it is 
cruel, in fact, to see a man of your deserts out of the position his 
services ought to have acquired; it appears to me, my dear friend, that 
your name is as radiant as the greatest names in war and diplomacy.  Tell 
me if the Luynes, the Ballegardes, and the Bassompierres have merited, as 
we have, fortunes and honors?  You are right, my friend, a hundred times 
right."

D'Artagnan sighed, and preceded his friend under the porch of he mansion 
Monk inhabited, at the extremity of the city.  "Permit me," said he, "to 
leave my purse at home; for if in the crowd those clever pickpockets of 
London, who are much boasted of, even in Paris, were to steal from me the 
remainder of my poor crowns, I should not be able to return to France.  
Now, content I left France, and wild with joy I should return to it, 
seeing that all my prejudices of former days against England have 
returned, accompanied by many others."

Athos made no reply.

"So, then, my dear friend, one second, and I will follow you," said 
D'Artagnan.  "I know you are in a hurry to go yonder to receive your 
reward, but, believe me, I am not less eager to partake of your joy, 
although from a distance.  Wait for me."  And D'Artagnan was already 
passing through the vestibule, when a man, half servant, half soldier, 
who filled in Monk's establishment the double function of porter and 
guard, stopped our musketeer, saying to him in English:

"I beg your pardon, my Lord d'Artagnan!"

"Well," replied the latter: "what is it?  Is the general going to dismiss 
me?  I only needed to be expelled by him."

These words, spoken in French, made no impression upon the person to whom 
they were addressed, and who himself only spoke an English mixed with the 
rudest Scots.  But Athos was grieved at them, for he began to think 
D'Artagnan was not wrong.

The Englishman showed D'Artagnan a letter: "From the general," said he.

"Aye! that's it, my dismissal!" replied the Gascon.  "Must I read it, 
Athos?"

"You must be deceived," said Athos, "or I know no more honest people in 
the world but you and myself."

D'Artagnan shrugged his shoulders and unsealed the letter, while the 
impassible Englishman held for him a large lantern, by the light of which 
he was enabled to read it.

"Well, what is the matter?" said Athos, seeing the countenance of the 
reader change.

"Read it yourself," said the musketeer.

Athos took the paper and read:

"MONSIEUR D'ARTAGNAN. - The king regrets very much you did not come to 
St. Paul's with his _cortege_.  He missed you, as I also have missed you, 
my dear captain.  There is but one means of repairing all this.  His 
majesty expects me at nine o'clock at the palace of St. James's: will you 
be there at the same time with me?  His gracious majesty appoints that 
hour for an audience he grants you."

This letter was from Monk.


Chapter XXXIII:
The Audience.

"Well?" cried Athos with a mild look of reproach, when D'Artagnan had 
read the letter addressed to him by Monk.

"Well!" said D'Artagnan, red with pleasure, and a little with shame, at 
having so hastily accused the king and Monk.  "This is a politeness, - 
which leads to nothing, it is true, but yet it is a politeness."

"I had great difficulty in believing the young prince ungrateful," said 
Athos.

"The fact is, that his present is still too near his past," replied 
D'Artagnan; "after all, everything to the present moment proved me right."

"I acknowledge it, my dear friend, I acknowledge it.  Ah! there is your 
cheerful look returned.  You cannot think how delighted I am."

"Thus you see," said D'Artagnan, "Charles II. receives M. Monk at nine 
o'clock; he will receive me at ten; it is a grand audience, of the sort 
which at the Louvre are called 'distributions of court holy water.'  
Come, let us go and place ourselves under the spout, my dear friend!  
Come along."

Athos replied nothing; and both directed their steps, at a quick pace, 
towards the palace of St. James's, which the crowd still surrounded, to 
catch, through the windows, the shadows of the courtiers, and the 
reflection of the royal person.  Eight o'clock was striking when the two 
friends took their places in the gallery filled with courtiers and 
politicians.  Every one looked at these simply-dressed men in foreign 
costumes, at these two noble heads so full of character and meaning.  On 
their side, Athos and D'Artagnan, having with two glances taken the 
measure of the whole assembly, resumed their chat.

A great noise was suddenly heard at the extremity of the gallery, - it 
was General Monk, who entered, followed by more than twenty officers, all 
eager for a smile, as only the evening before he was master of all 
England, and a glorious to-morrow was looked to, for the restorer of the 
Stuart family.

"Gentlemen," said Monk, turning round, "henceforward I beg you to 
remember that I am no longer anything.  Lately I commanded the principal 
army of the republic; now that army is the king's, into whose hands I am 
about to surrender, at his command, my power of yesterday."

Great surprise was painted on all the countenances, and the circle of 
adulators and suppliants which surrounded Monk an instant before, was 
enlarged by degrees, and ended by being lost in the large undulations of 
the crowd.  Monk was going into the ante-chamber as others did.  
D'Artagnan could not help remarking this to the Comte de la Fere, who 
frowned on beholding it.  Suddenly the door of the royal apartment 
opened, and the young king appeared, preceded by two officers of his 
household.

"Good evening, gentlemen," said he.  "Is General Monk here?"

"I am here, sire," replied the old general.

Charles stepped hastily towards him, and seized his hand with the warmest 
demonstration of friendship.  "General," said the king, aloud, "I have 
just signed your patent, - you are Duke of Albemarle; and my intention 
is that no one shall equal you in power and fortune in this kingdom, 
where - the noble Montrose excepted - no one has equaled you in loyalty, 
courage, and talent.  Gentlemen, the duke is commander of our armies of 
land and sea; pay him your respects, if you please, in that character."

Whilst every one was pressing round the general, who received all this 
homage without losing his impassibility for an instant, D'Artagnan said 
to Athos: "When one thinks that this duchy, this commander of the land 
and sea forces, all these grandeurs, in a word, have been shut up in a 
box six feet long and three feet wide - "

"My friend," replied Athos, "much more imposing grandeurs are confined in 
boxes still smaller, - and remain there forever."

All at once Monk perceived the two gentlemen, who held themselves aside 
until the crowd had diminished; he made himself a passage towards them, 
so that he surprised them in the midst of their philosophical 
reflections.  "Were you speaking of me?" sad he, with a smile.

"My lord," replied Athos, "we were speaking likewise of God."

Monk reflected for a moment, and then replied gayly: "Gentlemen, let us 
speak a little of the king likewise, if you please; for you have, I 
believe, an audience of his majesty."

"At nine o'clock," said Athos.

"At ten o'clock," said D'Artagnan.

"Let us go into this closet at once," replied Monk, making a sign to his 
two companions to precede him; but to that neither would consent.

The king, during this discussion so characteristic of the French, had 
returned to the center of the gallery.

"Oh! my Frenchmen!" said he, in that tone of careless gayety which, in 
spite of so much grief and so many crosses, he had never lost.  "My 
Frenchmen! my consolation!"  Athos and D'Artagnan bowed.

"Duke, conduct these gentlemen into my study.  I am at your service, 
messieurs," added he in French.  And he promptly expedited his court, to 
return to his Frenchmen, as he called them.  "Monsieur d'Artagnan," said 
he, as he entered his closet, "I am glad to see you again."

"Sire, my joy is at its height, at having the honor to salute your 
majesty in your own palace of St. James's."

"Monsieur, you have been willing to render me a great service, and I owe 
you my gratitude for it.  If I did not fear to intrude upon the rights of 
our command general, I would offer you some post worthy of you near our 
person."

"Sire," replied D'Artagnan, "I have quitted the service of the king of 
France, making a promise to my prince not to serve any other king."

"Humph!" said Charles, "I am sorry to hear that; I should like to do much 
for you; I like you very much."

"Sire - "

"But, let us see," said Charles with a smile, "if we cannot make you 
break your word.  Duke, assist me.  If you were offered, that is to say, 
if I offered you the chief command of my musketeers?"  D'Artagnan bowed 
lower than before.

"I should have the regret to refuse what your gracious majesty would 
offer me," said he; "a gentleman has but his word, and that word, as I 
have had the honor to tell your majesty, is engaged to the king of 
France."

"We shall say no more about it, then," said the king, turning towards 
Athos, and leaving D'Artagnan plunged in the deepest pangs of 
disappointment.

"Ah!  I said so!" muttered the musketeer.  "Words! words!  Court holy 
water!  Kings have always a marvelous talent for offering us that which 
they know we will not accept, and in appearing generous without risk.  So 
be it! - triple fool that I was to have hoped for a moment!"

During this time, Charles took the hand of Athos.  "Comte," said he, "you 
have been to me a second father; the services you have rendered to me are 
above all price.  I have, nevertheless, thought of a recompense.  You 
were created by my father a Knight of the Garter - that is an order which 
all the kings of Europe cannot bear; by the queen regent, Knight of the 
Holy Ghost - which is an order not less illustrious; I join to it that of 
the Golden Fleece sent me by the king of France, to whom the king of 
Spain, his father-in-law, gave two on the occasion of his marriage; but 
in return, I have a service to ask of you."

"Sire," said Athos, with confusion, "the Golden Fleece for me! when the 
king of France is the only person in my country who enjoys that 
distinction?"

"I wish you to be in your country and all others the equal of all those 
whom sovereigns have honored with their favor," said Charles, drawing the 
chain from his neck; "and I am sure, comte, my father smiles on me from 
his grave."

"It is unaccountably strange," said D'Artagnan to himself, whilst his 
friend, on his knees, received the eminent order which the king conferred 
on him - "it is almost incredible that I have always seen showers of 
prosperity fall upon all who surrounded me, and that not a drop ever 
reached me!  If I were a jealous man, it would be enough to make one tear 
one's hair, _parole d'honneur!_"

Athos rose from his knees, and Charles embraced him tenderly.  "General!" 
said he to Monk - then stopping, with a smile, "pardon me, duke, I mean.  
No wonder if I make a mistake; the word duke is too short for me, I 
always seek some title to lengthen it.  I should wish to see you so near 
my throne, that I might say to you, as to Louis XIV., my brother!  Oh!  I 
have it; and you will almost be my brother, for I make you viceroy of 
Ireland and Scotland, my dear duke.  So, after that fashion, henceforward 
I shall not make a mistake."

The duke seized the hand of the king, but without enthusiasm, without 
joy, as he did everything.  His heart, however, had been moved by this 
last favor.  Charles, by skillfully husbanding his generosity, had given 
the duke time to wish, although he might not have wished for so much as 
was given him.

"_Mordioux!_" grumbled D'Artagnan, "there is the shower beginning again!  
Oh! it is enough to turn one's brain!" and he turned away with an air so 
sorrowful and so comically piteous, that the king, who caught it, could 
not restrain a smile.  Monk was preparing to leave the room, to take 
leave of Charles.

"What! my trusty and well-beloved!" said the king to the duke, "are you 
going?"

"With your majesty's permission, for in truth I am weary.  The emotions 
of the day have worn me out; I stand in need of rest."

"But," said the king, "you are not going without M. d'Artagnan, I hope."

"Why not, sire?" said the old warrior.

"Well! you know very well why," said the king.

Monk looked at Charles with astonishment.

"Oh! it may be possible; but if you forget, you, M. d'Artagnan, do not."

Astonishment was painted on the face of the musketeer.

"Well, then, duke," said the king, "do you not lodge with M. d'Artagnan?"

"I had the honor of offering M. d'Artagnan a lodging; yes, sire."

"That idea is your own, and yours solely?"

"Mine and mine only; yes, sire."

"Well! but it could not be otherwise - the prisoner always lodges with 
his conqueror."

Monk colored in his turn.  "Ah! that is true," said he; "I am M. 
d'Artagnan's prisoner."

"Without doubt, duke, since you are not yet ransomed; but have no care of 
that; it was I who took you out of M. d'Artagnan's hands, and it is I who 
will pay your ransom."

The eyes of D'Artagnan regained their gayety and their brilliancy.  The 
Gascon began to understand.  Charles advanced towards him.

"The general," said he, "is not rich, and cannot pay you what he is 
worth.  I am richer, certainly; but now that he is a duke, and if not a 
king, almost a king, he is worth a sum I could not perhaps pay.  Come, M. 
d'Artagnan, be moderate with me; how much do I owe you?"

D'Artagnan, delighted at the turn things were taking, but not for a 
moment losing his self-possession, replied, - "Sire, your majesty has no 
occasion to be alarmed.  When I had the good fortune to take his grace, 
M. Monk was only a general; it is therefore only a general's ransom that 
is due to me.  But if the general will have the kindness to deliver me 
his sword, I shall consider myself paid; for there is nothing in the 
world but the general's sword which is worth as much as himself."

"Odds fish! as my father said," cried Charles.  "That is a gallant 
proposal, and a gallant man, is he not, duke?"

"Upon my honor, yes, sire," and he drew his sword.  "Monsieur," said he 
to D'Artagnan, "here is what you demand.  Many have handled a better 
blade; but however modest mine may be, I have never surrendered it to any 
one."

D'Artagnan received with pride the sword which had just made a king.

"Oh! oh!" cried Charles II.; "what a sword that has restored me to my 
throne - to go out of the kingdom - and not, one day, to figure among the 
crown jewels!  No, on my soul! that shall not be!  Captain d'Artagnan, I 
will give you two hundred thousand livres for your sword!  If that is too 
little, say so."

"It is too little, sire," replied D'Artagnan, with inimitable 
seriousness.  "In the first place, I do not at all wish to sell it; but 
your majesty desires me to do so, and that is an order.  I obey, then, 
but the respect I owe to the illustrious warrior who hears me, commands 
me to estimate a third more the reward of my victory.  I ask then three 
hundred thousand livres for the sword, or I shall give it to your majesty 
for nothing."  And taking it by the point he presented it to the king.  
Charles broke into hilarious laughter.

"A gallant man, and a merry companion!  Odds fish! is he not, duke? is he 
not, comte?  He pleases me!  I like him!  Here, Chevalier d'Artagnan, 
take this."  And going to the table, he took a pen and wrote an order 
upon his treasurer for three hundred thousand livres.

D'Artagnan took it, and turning gravely towards Monk: "I have still asked 
too little, I know," said he, "but believe me, your grace, I would rather 
have died that allow myself to be governed by avarice."

The king began to laugh again, like the happiest cockney of his kingdom.

"You will come and see me again before you go, chevalier?" said he; "I 
shall want to lay in a stock of gayety now my Frenchmen are leaving me."

"Ah! sire, it will not be with the gayety as with the duke's sword; I 
will give it to your majesty gratis," replied D'Artagnan, whose feet 
scarcely seemed to touch the ground.

"And you, comte," added Charles, turning towards Athos, "come again, 
also; I have an important message to confide to you.  Your hand, duke."  
Monk pressed the hand of the king.

"Adieu! gentlemen," said Charles, holding out each of his hands to the 
two Frenchmen, who carried them to their lips.

"Well," said Athos, when they were out of the palace, "are you satisfied?"

"Hush!" said D'Artagnan, wild with joy, "I have not yet returned from the 
treasurer's - a shutter may fall upon my head."


Chapter XXXIV:
Of the Embarrassment of Riches.

D'Artagnan lost no time, and as soon as the thing was suitable and 
opportune, he paid a visit to the lord treasurer of his majesty.  He had 
then the satisfaction to exchange a piece of paper, covered with very 
ugly writing, for a prodigious number of crowns, recently stamped with 
the _effigies_ of his very gracious majesty Charles II.

D'Artagnan easily controlled himself: and yet, on this occasion, he could 
not help evincing a joy which the reader will perhaps comprehend, if he 
deigns to have some indulgence for a man who, since his birth, had never 
seen so many pieces and rolls of pieces juxta-placed in an order truly 
agreeable to the eye.  The treasurer placed all the rolls in bags, and 
closed each bag with a stamp sealed with the arms of England, a favor 
which treasurers do not grant to everybody.  Then, impassible, and just 
as polite as he ought to be towards a man honored with the friendship of 
the king, he said to D'Artagnan:

"Take away your money, sir."  _Your money!_  These words made a thousand 
chords vibrate in the heart of D'Artagnan, which he had never felt 
before.  He had the bags packed in a small cart, and returned home 
meditating deeply.  A man who possessed three hundred thousand livres can 
no longer expect to wear a smooth brow; a wrinkle for every hundred 
thousand livres is not too much.

D'Artagnan shut himself up, ate no dinner, closed his door to everybody, 
and, with a lighted lamp, and a loaded pistol on the table, he watched 
all night, ruminating upon the means of preventing these lovely crowns, 
which from the coffers of the king had passed into his coffers, from 
passing from his coffers into the pockets of any thief whatever.  The 
best means discovered by the Gascon was to inclose his treasure, for the 
present, under locks so solid that no wrist could break them, and so 
complicated that no master-key could open them.  D'Artagnan remembered 
that the English are masters in mechanics and conservative industry; and 
he determined to go in the morning in search of a mechanic who would sell 
him a strong box.  He did not go far; Master Will Jobson, dwelling in 
Piccadilly, listened to his propositions, comprehended his wishes, and 
promised to make him a safety lock that should relieve him from all 
future fear.

"I will give you," said he, "a piece of mechanism entirely new.  At the 
first serious attempt upon your lock, an invisible plate will open of 
itself and vomit forth a pretty copper bullet the weight of a mark - 
which will knock down the intruder, and not with a loud report.  What do 
you think of it?"

"I think it very ingenuous," cried D'Artagnan; "the little copper bullet 
pleases me mightily.  So now, sir mechanic, the terms?"

"A fortnight for the execution, and fifteen hundred livres payable on 
delivery," replied the artisan.

D'Artagnan's brow darkened.  A fortnight was delay enough to allow the 
thieves of London time to remove all occasion for the strong box.  As to 
the fifteen hundred livres - that would be paying too dear for what a 
little vigilance would procure him for nothing.

"I will think of it," said he; "thank you, sir."  And he returned home at 
full speed; nobody had yet touched his treasure.  That same day Athos 
paid a visit to his friend and found him so thoughtful that he could not 
help expressing his surprise.

"How is this?" said he, "you are rich and not gay - you, who were so 
anxious for wealth!"

"My friend, the pleasures to which we are not accustomed oppress us more 
than the griefs with which we are familiar.  Give me your opinion, if you 
please.  I can ask you, who have always had money: when we have money, 
what do we do with it?"

"That depends."

"What have you done with yours, seeing that it has not made you a miser 
or a prodigal?  For avarice dries up the heart, and prodigality drowns 
it - is that not so?"

"Fabricius could not have spoken more justly.  But in truth, my money has 
never been a burden to me."

"How so?  Do you place it out at interest?"

"No; you know I have a tolerably handsome house; and that house composes 
the better part of my property."

"I know it does."

"So that you can be as rich as I am, and, indeed, more rich, whenever you 
like, by the same means."

"But your rents, - do you lay them by?"

"No."

"What do you think of a chest concealed in a wall?"

"I never made use of such a thing."

"Then you must have some confidant, some safe man of business who pays 
you interest at a fair rate."

"Not at all."

"Good heavens! what do you do with it, then?"

"I spend all I have, and I only have what I spend, my dear D'Artagnan."

"Ah! that may be.  But you are something of a prince; fifteen or sixteen 
thousand livres melt away between your fingers; and then you have 
expenses and appearances - "

"Well, I don't see why you should be less of a noble than I am, my 
friend; your money would be quite sufficient."

"Three hundred thousand livres!  Two-thirds too much!"

"I beg your pardon - did you not tell me? - I thought I heard you say - I 
fancied you had a partner - "

"Ah!  _Mordioux!_ that's true," cried D'Artagnan, coloring; "there is 
Planchet.  I had forgotten Planchet, upon my life!  Well! there are my 
three hundred thousand livres broken into.  That's a pity! it was a round 
sum, and sounded well.  That is true, Athos; I am no longer rich.  What a 
memory you have!"

"Tolerably good; yes, thank God!"

"The worthy Planchet!" grumbled D'Artagnan; "his was not a bad dream!  
What a speculation!  _Peste!_  Well! what is said is said."

"How much are you to give him?"

"Oh!" said D'Artagnan, "he is not a bad fellow; I shall arrange matters 
with him.  I have had a great deal of trouble, you see, and expenses; all 
that must be taken into account."

"My dear friend, I can depend on you, and have no fear for the worthy 
Planchet; his interests are better in your hands than in his own.  But 
now that you have nothing more to do here, we shall depart, if you 
please.  You can go and thank his majesty, ask if he has any commands, 
and in six days we may be able to get sight of the towers of Notre Dame."

"My friend, I am most anxious to be off, and will go at once and pay my 
respects to the king."

"I," said Athos, "am going to call upon some friends in the city, and 
shall then be at your service."

"Will you lend me Grimaud?"

"With all my heart.  What do you want to do with him?"

"Something very simple, and which will not fatigue him; I shall only beg 
him to take charge of my pistols, which lie there on the table near that 
coffer."

"Very well!" replied Athos, imperturbably.

"And he will not stir, will he?"

"Not more than the pistols themselves."

"Then I shall go and take leave of his majesty.  _Au revoir!_"

D'Artagnan arrived at St. James's, where Charles II., who was busy 
writing, kept him in the ante-chamber a full hour.  Whilst walking about 
in the gallery, from the door to the window, from the window to the door, 
he thought he saw a cloak like Athos's cross the vestibule; but at the 
moment he was going to ascertain if it were he, the usher summoned him to 
his majesty's presence.  Charles II. rubbed his hands while receiving the 
thanks of our friend.

"Chevalier," said he, "you are wrong to express gratitude to me; I have 
not paid you a quarter of the value of the history of the box into which 
you put the brave general - the excellent Duke of Albemarle, I mean."  
And the king laughed heartily.

D'Artagnan did not think it proper to interrupt his majesty, and he bowed 
with much modesty.

"_A propos_," continued Charles, "do you think my dear Monk has really 
pardoned you?"

"Pardoned me! yes, I hope so, sire!"

"Eh! - but it was a cruel trick!  Odds fish! to pack up the first 
personage of the English revolution like a herring.  In your place I 
would not trust him, chevalier."

"But, sire - "

"Yes, I know very well Monk calls you his friend, but he has too 
penetrating an eye not to have a memory, and too lofty a brow not to be 
very proud, you know, _grande supercilium_."

"I shall certainly learn Latin," said D'Artagnan to himself.

"But stop," cried the merry monarch, "I must manage your reconciliation; 
I know how to set about it; so - "

D'Artagnan bit his mustache.  "Will your majesty permit me to tell you 
the truth?"

"Speak, chevalier, speak."

"Well, sire, you alarm me greatly.  If your majesty undertakes the 
affair, as you seem inclined to do, I am a lost man; the duke will have 
me assassinated."

The king burst into a fresh roar of laughter, which changed D'Artagnan's 
alarm into downright terror.

"Sire, I beg you to allow me to settle this matter myself, and if your 
majesty has no further need of my services - "

"No, chevalier.  What, do you want to leave us?" replied Charles, with a 
hilarity that grew more and more alarming.

"If your majesty has no more commands for me."

Charles became more serious.

"One single thing.  See my sister, the Lady Henrietta.  Do you know her?"

"No, sire, but - an old soldier like me is not an agreeable spectacle for 
a young and gay princess."

"Ah! but my sister must know you; she must in case of need have you to 
depend upon."

"Sire, every one that is dear to your majesty will be sacred to me."

"Very well! - Parry!  Come here, Parry!"

The side door opened and Parry entered, his face beaming with pleasure as 
soon as he saw D'Artagnan.

"What is Rochester doing?" said the king.

"He is on the canal with the ladies," replied Parry.

"And Buckingham?"

"He is there also."

"That is well.  You will conduct the chevalier to Villiers; that is the 
Duke of Buckingham, chevalier; and beg the duke to introduce M. 
d'Artagnan to the Princess Henrietta."

Parry bowed and smiled to D'Artagnan.

"Chevalier," continued the king, "this is your parting audience; you can 
afterwards set out as soon as you please."

"Sire, I thank you."

"But be sure you make your peace with Monk!"

"Oh, sire - "

"You know there is one of my vessels at your disposal?"

"Sire, you overpower me; I cannot think of putting your majesty's 
officers to inconvenience on my account."

The king slapped D'Artagnan upon the shoulder.

"Nobody will be inconvenienced on your account, chevalier, but for that 
of an ambassador I am about sending to France, and to whom you will 
willingly serve as a companion, I fancy, for you know him."

D'Artagnan appeared astonished.

"He is a certain Comte de la Fere, - whom you call Athos," added the 
king; terminating the conversation, as he had begun it, by a joyous burst 
of laughter.  "Adieu, chevalier, adieu.  Love me as I love you."  And 
thereupon, making a sign to Parry to ask if there were any one waiting 
for him in the adjoining closet, the king disappeared into that closet, 
leaving the chevalier perfectly astonished by this singular audience.  
The old man took his arm in a friendly way, and led him towards the 
garden.


Chapter XXXV:
On the Canal.


Upon the green waters of the canal bordered with marble, upon which time 
had already scattered black spots and tufts of mossy grass, there glided 
majestically a long, flat bark adorned with the arms of England, 
surmounted by a dais, and carpeted with long damasked stuffs, which 
trailed their fringes in the water.  Eight rowers, leaning lazily to 
their oars, made it move upon the canal with the graceful slowness of the 
swans, which, disturbed in their ancient possessions by the approach of 
the bark, looked from a distance at this splendid and noisy pageant.  We 
say noisy - for the bark contained four guitar and lute players, two 
singers, and several courtiers, all sparkling with gold and precious 
stones, and showing their white teeth in emulation of each other, to 
please the Lady Henrietta Stuart, grand-daughter of Henry IV., daughter 
of Charles I., and sister of Charles II., who occupied the seat of honor 
under the dais of the bark.  We know this young princess, we have seen 
her at the Louvre with her mother, wanting wood, wanting bread, and fed 
by the _coadjuteur_ and the parliament.  She had, therefore, like her 
brothers, passed through an uneasy youth; then, all at once, she had just 
awakened from a long and horrible dream, seated on the steps of a throne, 
surrounded by courtiers and flatterers.  Like Mary Stuart on leaving 
prison, she aspired not only to life and liberty, but to power and wealth.

The Lady Henrietta, in growing, had attained remarkable beauty, which the 
recent restoration had rendered celebrated.  Misfortune had taken from 
her the luster of pride, but prosperity had restored it to her.  She was 
resplendent, then, in her joy and her happiness, - like those hot-house 
flowers which, forgotten during a frosty autumn night, have hung their 
heads, but which on the morrow, warmed once more by the atmosphere in 
which they were born, rise again with greater splendor than ever.  
Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, son of him who played so conspicuous a part 
in the early chapters of this history, - Villiers of Buckingham, a 
handsome cavalier, melancholy with women, a jester with men, - and 
Wilmot, Lord Rochester, a jester with both sexes, were standing at this 
moment before the Lady Henrietta, disputing the privilege of making her 
smile.  As to that young and beautiful princess, reclining upon a cushion 
of velvet bordered with gold, her hands hanging listlessly so as to dip 
in the water, she listened carelessly to the musicians without hearing 
them, and heard the two courtiers without appearing to listen to them.

This Lady Henrietta - this charming creature - this woman who joined the 
graces of France to the beauties of England, not having yet loved, was 
cruel in her coquetry.  The smile, then, - that innocent favor of young 
girls, - did not even lighten her countenance; and if, at times, she did 
raise her eyes, it was to fasten them upon one or other of the cavaliers 
with such a fixity, that their gallantry, bold as it generally was, took 
the alarm, and became timid.

In the meanwhile the boat continued its course, the musicians made a 
great noise, and the courtiers began, like them, to be out of breath.  
Besides, the excursion became doubtless monotonous to the princess, for 
all at once, shaking her head with an air of impatience, - "Come 
gentlemen, - enough of this; - let us land."

"Ah, madam," said Buckingham, "we are very unfortunate!  We have not 
succeeded in making the excursion agreeable to your royal highness."

"My mother expects me," replied the princess; "and I must frankly admit, 
gentlemen, I am bored."  And whilst uttering this cruel word, Henrietta 
endeavored to console by a look each of the two young men, who appeared 
terrified at such frankness.  The look produced its effect - the two 
faces brightened; but immediately, as if the royal coquette thought she 
had done too much for simple mortals, she made a movement, turned her 
back on both her adorers, and appeared plunged in a reverie in which it 
was evident they had no part.

Buckingham bit his lips with anger, for he was truly in love with the 
Lady Henrietta, and, in that case, took everything in a serious light.  
Rochester bit his lips likewise; but his wit always dominated over his 
heart, it was purely and simply to repress a malicious smile.  The 
princess was then allowing the eyes she turned from the young nobles to 
wander over the green and flowery turf of the park, when she perceived 
Parry and D'Artagnan at a distance.

"Who is coming yonder?" said she.

The two young men turned round with the rapidity of lightning.

"Parry," replied Buckingham; "nobody but Parry."

"I beg your pardon," said Rochester, "but I think he has a companion."

"Yes," said the princess, at first with languor, but then, - "What mean 
those words, 'Nobody but Parry;' say, my lord?"

"Because, madam," replied Buckingham, piqued, "because the faithful 
Parry, the wandering Parry, the eternal Parry, is not, I believe, of much 
consequence."

"You are mistaken, duke.  Parry - the wandering Parry, as you call him – 
has always wandered in the service of my family, and the sight of that 
old man always gives me satisfaction."

The Lady Henrietta followed the usual progress of pretty women, 
particularly coquettish women; she passed from caprice to 
contradiction; - the gallant had undergone the caprice, the courtier must 
bend beneath the contradictory humor.  Buckingham bowed, but made no 
reply.

"It is true, madam," said Rochester, bowing in his turn, "that Parry is 
the model of servants; but, madam, he is no longer young, and we laugh 
only when we see cheerful objects.  Is an old man a gay object?"

"Enough, my lord," said the princess, coolly; "the subject of 
conversation is unpleasant to me."

Then, as if speaking to herself, "It is really unaccountable," said she, 
"how little regard my brother's friends have for his servants."

"Ah, madam," cried Buckingham, "your royal highness pierces my heart with 
a dagger forged by your own hands."

"What is the meaning of that speech, which is turned so like a French 
madrigal, duke?  I do not understand it."

"It means, madam, that you yourself, so good, so charming, so sensible, 
you have laughed sometimes - smiled, I should say - at the idle prattle 
of that good Parry, for whom your royal highness to-day entertains such a 
marvelous susceptibility."

"Well, my lord, if I have forgotten myself so far," said Henrietta, "you 
do wrong to remind me of it."  And she made a sign of impatience.  "The 
good Parry wants to speak to me, I believe: please order them to row to 
the shore, my Lord Rochester."

Rochester hastened to repeat the princess's command; and a moment later 
the boat touched the bank.

"Let us land, gentlemen," said Henrietta, taking the arm which Rochester 
offered her, although Buckingham was nearer to her, and had presented 
his.  Then Rochester, with an ill-dissembled pride, which pierced the 
heart of the unhappy Buckingham through and through, led the princess 
across the little bridge which the rowers had cast from the royal boat to 
the shore.

"Which way will your highness go?" asked Rochester.

"You see, my lord, towards that good Parry, who is wandering, as my lord 
of Buckingham says, and seeking me with eyes weakened by the tears he has 
shed over our misfortunes."

"Good heavens!" said Rochester, "how sad your royal highness is to-day; 
in truth we seem ridiculous fools to you, madam."

"Speak for yourself, my lord," interrupted Buckingham with vexation; "for 
my part, I displease her royal highness to such a degree, that I appear 
absolutely nothing to her."

Neither Rochester nor the princess made any reply; Henrietta only urged 
her companion more quickly on.  Buckingham remained behind, and took 
advantage of this isolation to give himself up to his anger; he bit his 
handkerchief so furiously that it was soon in shreds.

"Parry, my good Parry," said the princess, with her gentle voice, "come 
hither.  I see you are seeking me, and I am waiting for you."

"Ah, madam," said Rochester, coming charitably to the help of his 
companion, who had remained, as we have said, behind, "if Parry cannot 
see your royal highness, the man who follows him is a sufficient guide, 
even for a blind man; for he has eyes of flame.  That man is a double-
lamped lantern."

"Lighting a very handsome martial countenance," said the princess, 
determined to be as ill-natured as possible.  Rochester bowed.  "One of 
those vigorous soldiers' heads seen nowhere but in France," added the 
princess, with the perseverance of a woman sure of impunity.

Rochester and Buckingham looked at each other, as much as to say, - "What 
can be the matter with her?"

"See, my lord of Buckingham, what Parry wants," said Henrietta.  "Go!"

The young man, who considered this order as a favor, resumed his courage, 
and hastened to meet Parry, who, followed by D'Artagnan, advanced slowly 
on account of his age.  D'Artagnan walked slowly but nobly, as 
D'Artagnan, doubled by the third of a million, ought to walk, that is to 
say, without conceit or swagger, but without timidity.  When Buckingham, 
very eager to comply with the desire of the princess, who had seated 
herself on a marble bench, as if fatigued with the few steps she had 
gone, - when Buckingham, we say, was at a distance of only a few paces 
from Parry, the latter recognized him.

"Ah! my lord!" cried he, quite out of breath, "will your grace obey the 
king?"

"In what, Mr. Parry?" said the young man, with a kind of coolness 
tempered by a desire to make himself agreeable to the princess.

"Well, his majesty begs your grace to present this gentleman to her royal 
highness the Princess Henrietta."

"In the first place, what is the gentleman's name?" said the duke, 
haughtily.

D'Artagnan, as we know, was easily affronted, and the Duke of 
Buckingham's tone displeased him.  He surveyed the courtier from head to 
foot, and two flashes beamed from beneath his bent brows.  But, after a 
struggle, - "Monsieur le Chevalier d'Artagnan, my lord," replied he, 
quietly.

"Pardon me, sir, that teaches me your name, but nothing more."

"You mean - "

"I mean I do not know you."

"I am more fortunate than you, sir," replied D'Artagnan, "for I have had 
the honor of knowing your family, and particularly my lord Duke of 
Buckingham, your illustrious father."

"My father?" said Buckingham.  "Well, I think I now remember.  Monsieur 
le Chevalier d'Artagnan, do you say?"

D'Artagnan bowed.  "In person," said he.

"Pardon me, but are you one of those Frenchmen who had secret relations 
with my father?"

"Exactly, my lord duke, I am one of those Frenchmen."

"Then, sir, permit me to say that it was strange my father never heard of 
you during his lifetime."

"No, monsieur, but he heard of me at the moment of his death: it was I 
who sent to him, through the hands of the _valet de chambre_ of Anne of 
Austria, notice of the dangers which threatened him; unfortunately, it 
came too late."

"Never mind, monsieur," said Buckingham.  "I understand now, that, having 
had the intention of rendering a service to the father, you have come to 
claim the protection of the son."

"In the first place, my lord," replied D'Artagnan, phlegmatically, "I 
claim the protection of no man.  His majesty, Charles II., to whom I have 
had the honor of rendering some services - I may tell you, my lord, my 
life has been passed in such occupations - King Charles II., then, who 
wishes to honor me with some kindness, desires me to be presented to her 
royal highness the Princess Henrietta, his sister, to whom I shall, 
perhaps, have the good fortune to be of service hereafter.  Now, the king 
knew that you at this moment were with her royal highness, and sent me to 
you.  There is no other mystery, I ask absolutely nothing of you; and if 
you will not present me to her royal highness, I shall be compelled to do 
without you, and present myself."

"At least, sir," said Buckingham, determined to have the last word, "you 
will not refuse me an explanation provoked by yourself."

"I never refuse, my lord," said D'Artagnan.

"As you have had relations with my father, you must be acquainted with 
some private details?"

"These relations are already far removed from us, my lord - for you were 
not then born - and for some unfortunate diamond studs, which I received 
from his hands and carried back to France, it is really not worth while 
awakening so many remembrances."

"Ah! sir," said Buckingham, warmly, going up to D'Artagnan, and holding 
out his hand to him, "it is you, then - you whom my father sought 
everywhere and who had a right to expect so much from us."

"To expect, my lord, in truth, that is my _forte_; all my life I have 
expected."

At this moment, the princess, who was tired of not seeing the stranger 
approach her, arose and came towards them.

"At least, sir," said Buckingham, "you shall not wait for the 
presentation you claim of me."

Then turning towards the princess and bowing: "Madam," said the young 
man, "the king, your brother, desires me to have the honor of presenting 
to your royal highness, Monsieur le Chevalier d'Artagnan."

"In order that your royal highness may have, in case of need, a firm 
support and a sure friend," added Parry.  D'Artagnan bowed.

"You have still something to say, Parry," replied Henrietta, smiling upon 
D'Artagnan, while addressing the old servant.

"Yes, madam, the king desires you to preserve religiously in your memory 
the name and merit of M. d'Artagnan, to whom his majesty owes, he says, 
the recovery of his kingdom."  Buckingham, the princess, and Rochester 
looked at each other.

"That," said D'Artagnan, "is another little secret, of which, in all 
probability, I shall not boast to his majesty's son, as I have done to 
you with respect to the diamond studs."

"Madam," said Buckingham, "monsieur has just, for the second time, 
recalled to my memory an event which excites my curiosity to such a 
degree, that I shall venture to ask your permission to take him to one 
side for a moment, to converse in private."

"Do, my lord," said the princess; "but restore to the sister, as quickly 
as possible, this friend so devoted to the brother."  And she took the 
arm of Rochester, whilst Buckingham took that of D'Artagnan.

"Oh! tell me, chevalier," said Buckingham, "all that affair of the 
diamonds, which nobody knows in England, not even the son of him who was 
the hero of it."

"My lord, one person alone had a right to relate all that affair, as you 
call it, and that was your father; he thought it proper to be silent, I 
must beg you to allow me to be so likewise."  And D'Artagnan bowed like a 
man upon whom it was evident no entreaties could prevail.

"Since it is so, sir," said Buckingham, "pardon my indiscretion, I beg 
you; and if, at any time, I should go into France - " and he turned round 
to take a last look at the princess, who took but little notice of him, 
totally occupied as she was, or appeared to be, with Rochester.  
Buckingham sighed.

"Well?" said D'Artagnan.

"I was saying that if, any day, I were to go to France - "

"You will go, my lord," said D'Artagnan, "I shall answer for that."

"And how so?"

"Oh, I have strange powers of prediction; if I do predict anything I am 
seldom mistaken.  If, then, you do come to France?"

"Well, then, monsieur, you, of whom kings ask that valuable friendship 
which restores crowns to them, I will venture to beg of you a little of 
that great interest you took in my father."

"My lord," replied D'Artagnan, "believe me, I shall deem myself highly 
honored if, in France, you remember having seen me here.  And now 
permit - "

Then, turning towards the princess: "Madam," said he, "your royal 
highness is a daughter of France; and in that quality I hope to see you 
again in Paris.  One of my happy days will be on that on which your royal 
highness shall give me any command whatever, thus proving to me that you 
have not forgotten the recommendations of your august brother."  And he 
bowed respectfully to the young princess, who gave him her hand to kiss 
with a right royal grace.

"Ah! madam," said Buckingham, in a subdued voice, "what can a man do to 
obtain a similar favor from your royal highness?"

"_Dame!_ my lord," replied Henrietta, "ask Monsieur d'Artagnan; he will 
tell you."


Chapter XXXVI:
How D'Artagnan drew, as a Fairy would have done, a Country-Seat from a 
Deal Box.

The king's words regarding the wounded pride of Monk had inspired 
D'Artagnan with no small portion of apprehension.  The lieutenant had 
had, all his life, the great art of choosing his enemies; and when he had 
found them implacable and invincible, it was when he had not been able, 
under any pretense, to make them otherwise.  But points of view change 
greatly in the course of a life.  It is a magic lantern, of which the eye 
of man every year changes the aspects.  It results that from the last day 
of a year on which we saw white, to the first day of the year on which we 
shall see black, there is the interval of but a single night.

Now, D'Artagnan, when he left Calais with his ten scamps, would have 
hesitated as little in attacking a Goliath, a Nebuchadnezzar, or a 
Holofernes, as he would in crossing swords with a recruit or caviling 
with a land-lady.  Then he resembled the sparrow-hawk, which, when 
fasting, will attack a ram.  Hunger is blind.  But D'Artagnan satisfied - 
D'Artagnan rich - D'Artagnan a conqueror - D'Artagnan proud of so 
difficult a triumph - D'Artagnan had too much to lose not to reckon, 
figure by figure, with probable misfortune.

His thoughts were employed, therefore, all the way on the road from his 
presentation, with one thing, and that was, how he should conciliate a 
man like Monk, a man whom Charles himself, king as he was, conciliated 
with difficulty; for, scarcely established, the protected might again 
stand in need of the protector, and would, consequently, not refuse him, 
such being the case, the petty satisfaction of transporting M. 
d'Artagnan, or of confining him in one of the Middlesex prisons, or 
drowning him a little on his passage from Dover to Boulogne.  Such sorts 
of satisfaction kings are accustomed to render to viceroys without 
disagreeable consequences.

It would not be at all necessary for the king to be active in that 
_contrepartie_ of the play in which Monk should take his revenge.  The 
part of the king would be confined to simply pardoning the viceroy of 
Ireland all he should undertake against D'Artagnan.  Nothing more was 
necessary to place the conscience of the Duke of Albemarle at rest than 
a _te absolvo_ said with a laugh, or the scrawl of "Charles the King," 
traced at the foot of a parchment; and with these two words pronounced, 
and these two words written, poor D'Artagnan was forever crushed beneath 
the ruins of his imagination.

And then, a thing sufficiently disquieting for a man with such foresight 
as our musketeer, he found himself alone; and even the friendship of 
Athos could not restore his confidence.  Certainly if the affair had only 
concerned a free distribution of sword-thrusts, the musketeer would have 
counted upon his companion; but in delicate dealings with a king, when 
the _perhaps_ of an unlucky chance should arise in justification of Monk 
or of Charles of England, D'Artagnan knew Athos well enough to be sure he 
would give the best possible coloring to the loyalty of the survivor, and 
would content himself with shedding floods of tears on the tomb of the 
dead, supposing the dead to be his friend, and afterwards composing his 
epitaph in the most pompous superlatives.

"Decidedly," thought the Gascon; and this thought was the result of the 
reflections which he had just whispered to himself and which we have 
repeated aloud - "decidedly, I must be reconciled with M. Monk, and 
acquire proof of his perfect indifference for the past.  If, and God 
forbid it should be so! he is still sulky and reserved in the expression 
of this sentiment, I shall give my money to Athos to take away with him, 
and remain in England just long enough to unmask him, then, as I have a 
quick eye and a light foot, I shall notice the first hostile sign; to 
decamp or conceal myself at the residence of my lord Buckingham, who 
seems a good sort of devil at the bottom, and to whom, in return for his 
hospitality, I shall relate all that history of the diamonds, which can 
now compromise nobody but an old queen, who need not be ashamed, after 
being the wife of a miserly creature like Mazarin, of having formerly 
been the mistress of a handsome nobleman like Buckingham.  _Mordioux!_ 
that is the thing, and this Monk shall not get the better of me.  Eh? 
and besides I have an idea!"

We know that, in general, D'Artagnan was not wanting in ideas; and during 
this soliloquy, D'Artagnan buttoned his vest up to the chin, and nothing 
excited his imagination like this preparation for a combat of any kind, 
called _accinction_ by the Romans.  He was quite heated when he reached the 
mansion of the Duke of Albemarle.  He was introduced to the viceroy with 
a promptitude which proved that he was considered as one of the 
household.  Monk was in his business-closet.

"My lord," said D'Artagnan, with that expression of frankness which the 
Gascon knew so well how to assume, "my lord, I have come to ask your 
grace's advice!"

Monk, as closely buttoned up morally as his antagonist was physically, 
replied: "Ask, my friend;" and his countenance presented an expression 
not less open than that of D'Artagnan.

"My lord, in the first place, promise me secrecy and indulgence."

"I promise you all you wish.  What is the matter?  Speak!"

"It is, my lord, that I am not quite pleased with the king."

"Indeed!  And on what account, my dear lieutenant?"

"Because his majesty gives way sometimes to jests very compromising for 
his servants; and jesting, my lord, is a weapon that seriously wounds men 
of the sword, as we are."

Monk did all in his power not to betray his thought, but D'Artagnan 
watched him with too close attention not to detect an almost 
imperceptible flush upon his face.  "Well, now, for my part," said he, 
with the most natural air possible, "I am not an enemy of jesting, my 
dear Monsieur d'Artagnan; my soldiers will tell you that even many times 
in camp, I listened very indifferently, and with a certain pleasure, to 
the satirical songs which the army of Lambert passed into mine, and 
which, certainly, would have caused the ears of a general more 
susceptible than I am to tingle."

"Oh, my lord," said D'Artagnan, "I know you are a complete man; I know 
you have been, for a long time, placed above human miseries; but there 
are jests and jests of a certain kind, which have the power of irritating 
me beyond expression."

"May I inquire what kind, my friend?"

"Such as are directed against my friends or against people I respect, my 
lord!"

Monk made a slight movement, which D'Artagnan perceived.  "Eh! and in 
what," asked Monk, "in what can the stroke of a pin which scratches 
another tickle your skin?  Answer me that."

"My lord, I can explain it to you in a single sentence; it concerns you."

Monk advanced a single step towards D'Artagnan.  "Concerns me?" said he.

"Yes, and this is what I cannot explain; but that arises, perhaps, from 
my want of knowledge of his character.  How can the king have the heart 
to jest about a man who has rendered him so many and such great 
services?  How can one understand that he should amuse himself in setting 
by the ears a lion like you with a gnat like me?"

"I cannot conceive that in any way," said Monk.

"But so it is.  The king, who owed me a reward, might have rewarded me as 
a soldier, without contriving that history of the ransom, which affects 
you, my lord."

"No," said Monk, laughing: "it does not affect me in any way, I can 
assure you."

"Not as regards me, I can understand; you know me, my lord, I am so 
discreet that the grave would appear a babbler compared to me; but - do 
you understand, my lord?"

"No," replied Monk, with persistent obstinacy.

"If another knew the secret which I know - "

"What secret?"

"Eh! my lord, why, that unfortunate secret of Newcastle."

"Oh! the million of the Comte de la Fere?"

"No, my lord, no; the enterprise made upon your grace's person."

"It was well played, chevalier, that is all, and no more is to be said 
about it: you are a soldier, both brave and cunning, which proves that 
you unite the qualities of Fabius and Hannibal.  You employed your means, 
force and cunning: there is nothing to be said against that: I ought to 
have been on guard."

"Ah! yes; I know, my lord, and I expected nothing less from your 
partiality; so that if it were only the abduction in itself, _Mordioux!_ 
that would be nothing; but there are - "

"What?"

"The circumstances of that abduction."

"What circumstances?"

"Oh! you know very well what I mean, my lord."

"No, curse me if I do."

"There is - in truth, it is difficult to speak it."

"There is?"

"Well, there is that devil of a box!"

Monk colored visibly.  "Well, I have forgotten it."

"Deal box," continued D'Artagnan, "with holes for the nose and mouth.  In 
truth, my lord, all the rest was well; but the box, the box! that was 
really a coarse joke."  Monk fidgeted about in his chair.  "And, 
notwithstanding my having done that," resumed D'Artagnan, "I, a soldier 
of fortune, it was quite simple, because by the side of that action, a 
little inconsiderate I admit, which I committed, but which the gravity of 
the case may excuse, I am circumspect and reserved."

"Oh!" said Monk, "believe me, I know you well, Monsieur d'Artagnan, and I 
appreciate you."

D'Artagnan never took his eyes off Monk; studying all which passed in the 
mind of the general, as he prosecuted _his idea_.  "But it does not 
concern me," resumed he.

"Well, then, who does it concern?" said Monk, who began to grow a little 
impatient.

"It relates to the king, who will never restrain his tongue."

"Well! and suppose he should say all he knows?" said Monk, with a degree 
of hesitation.

"My lord," replied D'Artagnan, "do not dissemble, I implore you, with a 
man who speaks so frankly as I do.  You have a right to feel your 
susceptibility excited, however benignant it may be.  What, the devil! it 
is not the place for a man like you, a man who plays with crowns and 
scepters as a Bohemian plays with his balls; it is not the place of a 
serious man, I said, to be shut up in a box like some freak of natural 
history; for you must understand it would make all your enemies ready to 
burst with laughter, and you are so great, so noble, so generous, that 
you must have many enemies.  This secret is enough to set half the human 
race laughing, if you were represented in that box.  It is not decent to 
have the second personage in the kingdom laughed at."

Monk was quite out of countenance at the idea of seeing himself 
represented in this box.  Ridicule, as D'Artagnan had judiciously 
foreseen, acted upon him in a manner which neither the chances of war, 
the aspirations of ambition, nor the fear of death had been able to do.

"Good," thought the Gascon, "he is frightened: I am safe."

"Oh! as to the king," said Monk, "fear nothing, my dear Monsieur 
d'Artagnan; the king will not jest with Monk, I assure you!"

The momentary flash of his eye was noticed by D'Artagnan.  Monk lowered 
his tone immediately: "The king," continued he, "is of too noble a 
nature, the king's heart is too high to allow him to wish ill to those 
who do him good."

"Oh! certainly," cried D'Artagnan.  "I am entirely of your grace's 
opinion with regard to his heart, but not as to his head - it is good, 
but it is trifling."

"The king will not trifle with Monk, be assured."

"Then you are quite at ease, my lord?"

"On that side, at least! yes, perfectly!"

"Oh!  I understand you; you are at ease as far as the king is concerned?"

"I have told you I was."

"But you are not so much so on my account?"

"I thought I had told you that I had faith in your loyalty and 
discretion."

"No doubt, no doubt, but you must remember one thing - "

"What is that?"

"That I was not alone, that I had companions; and what companions!"

"Oh! yes, I know them."

"And, unfortunately, my lord, they know you, too!"

"Well?"

"Well; they are yonder, at Boulogne, waiting for me."

"And you fear - "

"Yes, I fear that in my absence - _Parbleu!_  If I were near them, I 
could answer for their silence."

"Was I not right in saying that the danger, if there was any danger, 
would not come from his majesty, however disposed he may be to jest, but 
from your companions, as you say?  To be laughed at by a king may be 
tolerable, but by the horse-boys and scamps of the army!  Damn it!"

"Yes, I understand, that would be unbearable; that is why, my lord, I 
came to say, - do you not think it would be better for me to set out for 
France as soon as possible?"

"Certainly, if you think your presence - "

"Would impose silence upon those scoundrels?  Oh!  I am sure of that, my 
lord."

"Your presence will not prevent the report from spreading, if the tale 
has already transpired."

"Oh! it has not transpired, my lord, I will wager.  At all events, be 
assured that I am determined upon one thing."

"What is that?"

"To blow out the brains of the first who shall have propagated that 
report, and of the first who has heard it.  After which I shall return to 
England to seek an asylum, and perhaps employment with your grace."

"Oh, come back! come back!"

"Unfortunately, my lord, I am acquainted with nobody here but your grace, 
and if I should no longer find you, or if you should have forgotten me in 
your greatness?"

"Listen to me, Monsieur d'Artagnan," replied Monk; "you are a superior 
man, full of intelligence and courage; you deserve all the good fortune 
this world can bring you; come with me into Scotland, and, I swear to 
you, I shall arrange for you a fate which all may envy."

"Oh! my lord, that is impossible.  At present I have a sacred duty to 
perform; I have to watch over your glory, I have to prevent a low jester 
from tarnishing in the eyes of our contemporaries - who knows? in the 
eyes of posterity - the splendor of your name."

"Of posterity, Monsieur d'Artagnan?"

"Doubtless.  It is necessary, as regards posterity, that all the details 
of that history should remain a mystery; for, admit that this unfortunate 
history of the deal box should spread, and it should be asserted that you 
had not re-established the king loyally, and of your own free will, but 
in consequence of a compromise entered into at Scheveningen between you 
two.  It would be vain for me to declare how the thing came about, for 
though I know I should not be believed, it would be said that I had 
received my part of the cake, and was eating it."

Monk knitted his brow. - "Glory, honor, probity!" said he, "you are but 
empty words."

"Mist!" replied D'Artagnan; "nothing but mist, through which nobody can 
see clearly."

"Well, then, go to France, my dear Monsieur d'Artagnan," said Monk; "go, 
and to render England more attractive and agreeable to you, accept a 
remembrance of me."

"What now?" thought D'Artagnan.

"I have on the banks of the Clyde," continued Monk, "a little house in a 
grove, cottage as it is called here.  To this house are attached a 
hundred acres of land.  Accept it as a souvenir."

"Oh, my lord! - "

"Faith! you will be there in your own home, and that will be the place of 
refuge you spoke of just now."

"For me to be obliged to your lordship to such an extent!  Really, your 
grace, I am ashamed."

"Not at all, not at all, monsieur," replied Monk, with an arch smile; "it 
is I who shall be obliged to you.  And," pressing the hand of the 
musketeer, "I shall go and draw up the deed of gift," - and he left the 
room.

D'Artagnan looked at him as he went out with something of a pensive and 
even an agitated air.

"After all," said he, "he is a brave man.  It is only a sad reflection 
that it is from fear of me, and not affection that he acts thus.  Well, I 
shall endeavor that affection may follow."  Then, after an instant's 
deeper reflection, - "Bah!" said he, "to what purpose?  He is an 
Englishman."  And he in turn went out, a little confused after the combat.

"So," said he, "I am a land-owner!  But how the devil am I to share the 
cottage with Planchet?  Unless I give him the land, and I take the 
chateau, or the he takes the house and I - nonsense!  M. Monk will never 
allow me to share a house he has inhabited, with a grocer.  He is too 
proud for that.  Besides, why should I say anything about it to him?  It 
was not with the money of the company I have acquired that property, it 
was with my mother-wit alone; it is all mine, then.  So, now I will go 
and find Athos."  And he directed his steps towards the dwelling of the 
Comte de la Fere.


Chapter XXXVII:
How D'Artagnan regulated the "Assets" of the Company before he 
established its "Liabilities."

"Decidedly," said D'Artagnan to himself, "I have struck a good vein.  
That star which shines once in the life of every man, which shone for Job 
and Iris, the most unfortunate of the Jews and the poorest of the Greeks, 
is come at last to shine on me.  I will commit no folly, I will take 
advantage of it; it comes quite late enough to find me reasonable."

He supped that evening, in very good humor, with his friend Athos; he 
said nothing to him about the expected donation, but he could not forbear 
questioning his friend, while eating, about country produce, sowing, and 
planting.  Athos replied complacently, as he always did.  His idea was 
that D'Artagnan wished to become a land-owner, only he could not help 
regretting, more than once, the absence of the lively humor and amusing 
sallies of the cheerful companion of former days.  In fact, D'Artagnan 
was so absorbed, that, with his knife, he took advantage of the grease 
left at the bottom of his plate, to trace ciphers and make additions of 
surprising rotundity.

The order, or rather license, for their embarkation, arrived at Athos's 
lodgings that evening.  While this paper was remitted to the comte, 
another messenger brought to D'Artagnan a little bundle of parchments, 
adorned with all the seals employed in setting off property deeds in 
England.  Athos surprised him turning over the leaves of these different 
acts which established the transmission of property.  The prudent Monk – 
others would say the generous Monk - had commuted the donation into a 
sale, and acknowledged the receipt of the sum of fifteen thousand crowns 
as the price of the property ceded.  The messenger was gone.  D'Artagnan 
still continued reading, Athos watched him with a smile.  D'Artagnan, 
surprising one of those smiles over his shoulder, put the bundle in its 
wrapper.

"I beg your pardon," said Athos.

"Oh! not at all, my friend," replied the lieutenant, "I shall tell you - "

"No, don't tell me anything, I beg you; orders are things so sacred, that 
to one's brother, one's father, the person charged with such orders 
should never open his mouth.  Thus I, who speak to you, and love you more 
tenderly than brother, father, or all the world - "

"Except your Raoul?"

"I shall love Raoul still better when he shall be a man, and I shall have 
seen him develop himself in all the phases of his character and his 
actions - as I have seen you, my friend."

"You said, then, that you had an order likewise, and that you would not 
communicate it to me."

"Yes, my dear D'Artagnan."

The Gascon sighed.  "There was a time," said he, "when you would have 
placed that order open upon the table, saying, 'D'Artagnan, read this 
scrawl to Porthos, Aramis, and to me.'"

"That is true.  Oh! that was the time of youth, confidence, the generous 
season when the blood commands, when it is warmed by feeling!"

"Well! Athos, will you allow me to tell you?"

"Speak, my friend!"

"That delightful time, that generous season, that ruling by warm blood, 
were all very fine things, no doubt: but I do not regret them at all.  It 
is absolutely like the period of studies.  I have constantly met with 
fools who would boast of the days of pensums, ferules, and crusts of dry 
bread.  It is singular, but I never loved all that; for my part, however 
active and sober I might be (you know if I was so, Athos), however simple 
I might appear in my clothes, I would not the less have preferred the 
braveries and embroideries of Porthos to my little perforated cassock, 
which gave passage to the wind in winter and the sun in summer.  I should 
always, my friend, mistrust him who would pretend to prefer evil to 
good.  Now, in times past all went wrong with me, and every month found a 
fresh hole in my cassock and in my skin, a gold crown less in my poor 
purse; of that execrable time of small beer and see-saw, I regret 
absolutely nothing, nothing, nothing save our friendship; for within me I 
have a heart, and it is a miracle that heart has not been dried up by the 
wind of poverty which passed through all the holes of my cloak, or 
pierced by the swords of all shapes which passed through the holes in my 
poor flesh."

"Do not regret our friendship," said Athos, "that will only die with 
ourselves.  Friendship is composed, above all things, of memories and 
habits, and if you have just now made a little satire upon mine, because 
I hesitate to tell you the nature of my mission into France - "

"Who!  I? - Oh! heavens! if you knew, my dear friend, how indifferent all 
the missions of the world will henceforth become to me!"  And he laid his 
hand upon the parchment in his vest pocket.

Athos rose from the table and called the host in order to pay the 
reckoning.

"Since I have known you, my friend," said D'Artagnan, "I have never 
discharged the reckoning.  Porthos often did, Aramis sometimes, and you, 
you almost always drew out your purse with the dessert.  I am now rich, 
and should like to try if it is heroic to pay."

"Do so," said Athos, returning his purse to his pocket.

The two friends then directed their steps towards the port, not, however, 
without D'Artagnan's frequently turning round to watch the transportation 
of his dear crowns.  Night had just spread her thick veil over the yellow 
waters of the Thames; they heard those noises of casks and pulleys, the 
preliminaries of preparing to sail which had so many times made the 
hearts of the musketeers beat when the dangers of the sea were the least 
of those they were going to face.  This time they were to embark on board 
a large vessel which awaited them at Gravesend, and Charles II., always 
delicate in small affairs, had sent one of his yachts, with twelve men of 
his Scots guard, to do honor to the ambassador he was sending to France.  
At midnight the yacht had deposited its passengers on board the vessel, 
and at eight o'clock in the morning, the vessel landed the ambassador and 
his friend on the wharf at Boulogne.  Whilst the comte, with Grimaud, was 
busy procuring horses to go straight to Paris, D'Artagnan hastened to the 
hostelry where, according to his orders, his little army was to wait for 
him.  These gentlemen were at breakfast upon oysters, fish, and spiced 
brandy, when D'Artagnan appeared.  They were all very gay, but not one of 
them had yet exceeded the bounds of reason.  A hurrah of joy welcomed the 
general.  "Here I am," said D'Artagnan, "the campaign is ended.  I am 
come to bring each his supplement of pay, as agreed upon."  Their eyes 
sparkled.  "I will lay a wager there are not, at this moment, a hundred 
crowns remaining in the purse of the richest among you."

"That is true!" cried they in chorus.

"Gentlemen," said D'Artagnan, "then, this is the last order.  The treaty 
of commerce has been concluded, thanks to our _coup-de-main_ which made 
us masters of the most skillful financier of England, for now I am at 
liberty to confess to you that the man we had to carry off was the 
treasurer of General Monk."

This word treasurer produced a certain effect on his army.  D'Artagnan 
observed that the eyes of Menneville alone did not evince perfect faith.  
"This treasurer," he continued, "I conveyed to a neutral territory, 
Holland; I forced him to sign the treaty; I have even reconducted him to 
Newcastle, and he was obliged to be satisfied with our proceedings 
towards him - the deal coffer being always carried without jolting, and 
being lined softly, I asked a gratification for you.  Here it is."  He 
threw a respectable-looking purse upon the cloth; and all involuntarily 
stretched out their hands.  "One moment, my lambs," said D'Artagnan; "if 
there are profits, there are also charges."

"Oh! oh!" murmured they.

"We are about to find ourselves, my friends, in a position which would 
not be tenable for people without brains.  I speak plainly; we are 
between the gallows and the Bastile."

"Oh! Oh!" said the chorus.

"That is easily understood.  It was necessary to explain to General Monk 
the disappearance of his treasurer.  I waited, for that purpose, till the 
unhoped-for moment of the restoration of King Charles II., who is one of 
my friends."

This army exchanged a glance of satisfaction in reply to the sufficiently 
proud look of D'Artagnan.  "The king being restored, I restored to Monk 
his man of business, a little plucked, it is true, but, in short, I 
restored him.  Now, General Monk, when he pardoned me, for he has 
pardoned me, could not help repeating these words to me, which I charge 
every one of you to engrave deeply there, between the eyes, under the 
vault of the cranium: - 'Monsieur, the joke has been a good one, but I 
don't naturally like jokes; if ever a word of what you have done' (you 
understand me, Menneville) 'escapes from your lips, or the lips of your 
companions, I have, in my government of Scotland and Ireland, seven 
hundred and forty-one wooden gibbets, of strong oak, clamped with iron, 
and freshly greased every week.  I will make a present of one of these 
gibbets to each of you, and observe well, M. d'Artagnan,' added he 
(observe it also, M. Menneville), 'I shall still have seven hundred and 
thirty left for my private pleasure.  And still further – '"

"Ah! ah!" said the auxiliaries, "is there still more?"

"A mere trifle.  'Monsieur d'Artagnan, I send to the king of France the 
treaty in question, with a request that he will cast into the Bastile 
provisionally, and then send to me, all who have taken part in this 
expedition; and that is a prayer with which the king will certainly 
comply.'"

A cry of terror broke from all corners of the table.

"There! there! there!" said D'Artagnan, "this brave M. Monk has forgotten 
one thing, and that is he does not know the name of any one of you; I 
alone know you, and it is not I, you well may believe, who will betray 
you.  Why should I?  As for you - I cannot suppose you will be silly 
enough to denounce yourselves, for then the king, to spare himself the 
expense of feeding and lodging you, will send you off to Scotland, where 
the seven hundred and forty-one gibbets are to be found.  That is all, 
messieurs; I have not another word to add to what I have had the honor to 
tell you.  I am sure you have understood me perfectly well, have you not, 
M. Menneville?"

"Perfectly," replied the latter.

"Now the crowns!" said D'Artagnan.  "Shut the doors," he cried, and 
opened the bag upon the table, from which rolled several fine gold 
crowns.  Every one made a movement towards the floor.

"Gently!" cried D'Artagnan.  "Let no one stoop, and then I shall not be 
out in my reckoning."  He found it all right, gave fifty of those 
splendid crowns to each man, and received as many benedictions as he 
bestowed pieces.  "Now," said he, "if it were possible for you to reform 
a little, if you could become good and honest citizens - "

"That is rather difficult," said one of the troop.

"What then, captain?" said another.

"Because I might be able to find you again, and, who knows what other 
good fortune?"  He made a sign to Menneville, who listened to all he said 
with a composed air.  "Menneville," said he, "come with me.  Adieu, my 
brave fellows!  I need not warn you to be discreet."

Menneville followed him, whilst the salutations of the auxiliaries were 
mingled with the sweet sound of the money clinking in their pockets.

"Menneville," said D'Artagnan, when they were once in the street, "you 
were not my dupe; beware of being so.  You did not appear to have any 
fear of the gibbets of Monk, or the Bastile of his majesty, King Louis 
XIV., but you will do me the favor of being afraid of me.  Then listen; 
at the smallest word that shall escape you, I will kill you as I would a 
fowl.  I have absolution from our holy father, the pope, in my pocket."

"I assure you I know absolutely nothing, my dear M. d'Artagnan, and that 
your words have all been to me so many articles of faith."

"I was quite sure you were an intelligent fellow," said the musketeer; "I 
have tried you for a length of time.  These fifty crowns which I give you 
above the rest will prove the esteem  I have for you.  Take them."

"Thanks, Monsieur d'Artagnan," said Menneville.

"With that sum you can really become an honest man," replied D'Artagnan, 
in the most serious tone possible.  "It would be disgraceful for a mind 
like yours, and a name you no longer dare to bear, to sink forever under 
the rust of an evil life.  Become a gallant man, Menneville, and live for 
a year upon those hundred gold crowns: it is a good provision; twice the 
pay of a high officer.  In a year come to me, and, _Mordioux!_  I will 
make something of you."

Menneville swore, as his comrades had sworn, that he would be as silent 
as the grave.  And yet some one must have spoken; and as, certainly, it 
was not one of the nine companions, and quite as certainly, it was not 
Menneville, it must have been D'Artagnan, who, in his quality of a 
Gascon, had his tongue very near to his lips.  For, in short, if it were 
not he, who could it be?  And how can it be explained that the secret of 
the deal coffer pierced with holes should come to our knowledge, and in 
so complete a fashion that we have, as has been seen, related the history 
of it in all its most minute details; details which, besides, throw a 
light as new as unexpected upon all that portion of the history of 
England which has been left, up to the present day, completely in 
darkness by the historian of our neighbors?


Chapter XXXVIII:
In which it is seen that the French Grocer had already been established 
in the Seventeenth Century.

His accounts once settled, and his recommendations made, D'Artagnan 
thought of nothing but returning to Paris as soon as possible.  Athos, on 
his part, was anxious to reach home and to rest a little.  However whole 
the character and the man may remain after the fatigues of a voyage, the 
traveler perceives with pleasure, at the close of the day - even though 
the day has been a fine one - that night is approaching, and will bring a 
little sleep with it.  So, from Boulogne to Paris, jogging on, side by 
side, the two friends, in some degree absorbed each in his individual 
thoughts, conversed of nothing sufficiently interesting for us to repeat 
to our readers.  Each of them given up to his personal reflections, and 
constructing his future after his own fashion, was, above all, anxious to 
abridge the distance by speed.  Athos and D'Artagnan arrived at the gates 
of Paris on the evening of the fourth day after leaving Boulogne.

"Where are you going, my friend?" asked Athos.  "I shall direct my course 
straight to my hotel."

"And I straight to my partner's."

"To Planchet's?"

"Yes; at the Pilon d'Or."

"Well, but shall we not meet again?"

"If you remain in Paris, yes; for I shall stay here."

"No: after having embraced Raoul, with whom I have appointed a meeting at 
my hotel, I shall set out immediately for La Fere."

"Well, adieu, then, dear and true friend."

"_Au revoir!_  I should rather say, for why can you not come and live 
with me at Blois?  You are free, you are rich, I shall purchase for you, 
if you like, a handsome estate in the vicinity of Cheverny or of 
Bracieux.  On the one side you will have the finest woods in the world, 
which join those of Chambord; on the other, admirable marshes.  You who 
love sporting, and who, whether you admit it or not, are a poet, my dear 
friend, you will find pheasants, rail and teal, without counting sunsets 
and excursions on the water, to make you fancy yourself Nimrod and Apollo 
themselves.  While awaiting the purchase, you can live at La Fere, and we 
shall go together to fly our hawks among the vines, as Louis XIII. used 
to do.  That is a quiet amusement for old fellows like us."

D'Artagnan took the hands of Athos in his own.  "Dear count," said he, "I 
shall say neither 'Yes' nor 'No.'  Let me pass in Paris the time 
necessary for the regulation of my affairs, and accustom myself, by 
degrees, to the heavy and glittering idea which is beating in my brain 
and dazzles me.  I am rich, you see, and from this moment until the time 
when I shall have acquired the habit of being rich, I know myself, and I 
shall be an insupportable animal.  Now, I am not enough of a fool to wish 
to appear to have lost my wits before a friend like you, Athos.  The 
cloak is handsome, the cloak is richly gilded, but it is new, and does 
not seem to fit me."

Athos smiled.  "So be it," said he.  "But _a propos_ of this cloak, dear 
D'Artagnan, will you allow me to offer you a little advice?"

"Yes, willingly."

"You will not be angry?"

"Proceed."

"When wealth comes to a man late in life or all at once, that man, in 
order not to change, must most likely become a miser - that is to say, 
not spend much more money than he had done before; or else become a 
prodigal, and contract so many debts as to become poor again."

"Oh! but what you say looks very much like a sophism, my dear philosophic 
friend."

"I do not think so.  Will you become a miser?"

"No, _pardieu!_  I was one already, having nothing.  Let us change."

"Then be prodigal."

"Still less, _Mordioux!_  Debts terrify me.  Creditors appear to me, by 
anticipation, like those devils who turn the damned upon the gridirons, 
and as patience is not my dominant virtue, I am always tempted to thrash 
those devils."

"You are the wisest man I know, and stand in no need of advice from any 
one.  Great fools must they be who think they have anything to teach 
you.  But are we not at the Rue Saint Honore?"

"Yes, dear Athos."

"Look yonder, on the left, that small, long white house is the hotel 
where I lodge.  You may observe that it has but two stories; I occupy the 
first; the other is let to an officer whose duties oblige him to be 
absent eight or nine months in the year, - so I am in that house as in my 
own home, without the expense."

"Oh! how well you manage, Athos!  What order and what liberality!  They 
are what I wish to unite!  But, of what use trying! that comes from 
birth, and cannot be acquired."

"You are a flatterer!  Well! adieu, dear friend.  _A propos_, remember me 
to Master Planchet; he always was a bright fellow."

"And a man of heart, too, Athos.  Adieu."

And the separated.  During all this conversation, D'Artagnan had not for 
a moment lost sight of a certain pack-horse, in whose panniers, under 
some hay, were spread the _sacoches_ (messenger's bags) with the 
portmanteau.  Nine o'clock was striking at Saint-Merri.  Planchet's helps 
were shutting up his shop.  D'Artagnan stopped the postilion who rode the 
pack-horse, at the corner of the Rue des Lombards, under a pent-house, 
and calling one of Planchet's boys, he desired him not only to take care 
of the two horses, but to watch the postilion; after which he entered the 
shop of the grocer, who had just finished supper, and who, in his little 
private room, was, with a degree of anxiety, consulting the calendar, on 
which, every evening, he scratched out the day that was past.  At the 
moment when Planchet, according to his daily custom, with the back of his 
pen, erased another day, D'Artagnan kicked the door with his foot, and 
the blow made his steel spur jingle.  "Oh! good Lord!" cried Planchet.  
The worthy grocer could say no more; he had just perceived his partner.  
D'Artagnan entered with a bent back and a dull eye: the Gascon had an 
idea with regard to Planchet.

"Good God!" thought the grocer, looking earnestly at the traveler, "he 
looks sad!"  The musketeer sat down.

"My dear Monsieur d'Artagnan!" said Planchet, with a horrible palpitation 
of the heart.  "Here you are! and your health?"

"Tolerably good, Planchet, tolerably good!" said D'Artagnan, with a 
profound sigh.

"You have not been wounded, I hope?"

"Phew!"

"Ah, I see," continued Planchet, more and more alarmed, "the expedition 
has been a trying one?"

"Yes," said D'Artagnan.  A shudder ran down Planchet's back.  "I should 
like to have something to drink," said the musketeer, raising his head 
piteously.

Planchet ran to the cupboard, and poured out to D'Artagnan some wine in a 
large glass.  D'Artagnan examined the bottle.

"What wine is that?" asked he.

"Alas! that which you prefer, monsieur," said Planchet; "that good old 
Anjou wine, which was one day nearly costing us all so dear."

"Ah!" replied D'Artagnan, with a melancholy smile, "Ah! my poor Planchet, 
ought I still to drink good wine?"

"Come! my dear master," said Planchet, making a super-human effort, 
whilst all his contracted muscles, his pallor and his trembling betrayed 
the most acute anguish.  "Come!  I have been a soldier and consequently 
have some courage; do not make me linger, dear Monsieur d'Artagnan; our 
money is lost, is it not?"

Before he answered, D'Artagnan took his time, and that appeared an age to 
the poor grocer.  Nevertheless he did nothing but turn about on his chair.

"And if that were the case," said he, slowly, moving his head up and 
down, "if that were the case, what would you say, my dear friend?"

Planchet, from being pale, turned yellow.  It might have been thought he 
was going to swallow his tongue, so full became his throat, so red were 
his eyes!

"Twenty thousand livres!" murmured he.  "Twenty thousand livres, and 
yet - "

D'Artagnan, with his neck elongated, his legs stretched out, and his 
hands hanging listlessly, looked like a statue of discouragement.  
Planchet drew up a sigh from the deepest cavities of his breast.

"Well," said he, "I see how it is.  Let us be men!  It is all over, is it 
not?  The principal thing is, monsieur, that your life is safe."

"Doubtless! doubtless! - life is something - but I am ruined!"

"_Cordieu!_ monsieur!" said Planchet, "If it is so, we must not despair 
for that; you shall become a grocer with me; I shall take you for my 
partner, we will share the profits, and if there should be no more 
profits, well, why then we shall share the almonds, raisins and prunes, 
and we will nibble together the last quarter of Dutch cheese."

D'Artagnan could hold out no longer.  "_Mordioux!_" cried he, with great 
emotion, "thou art a brave fellow, on my honor, Planchet.  You have not 
been playing a part, have you?  You have not seen the pack-horse with the 
bags under the shed yonder?"

"What horse?  What bags?" said Planchet, whose trembling heart began to 
suggest that D'Artagnan was mad.

"Why, the English bags, _Mordioux!_" said D'Artagnan, all radiant, quite 
transfigured.

"Ah! good God!" articulated Planchet, drawing back before the dazzling 
fire of his looks.

"Imbecile!" cried D'Artagnan, "you think me mad!  _Mordioux!_  On the 
contrary, never was my head more clear, or my heart more joyous.  To the 
bags, Planchet, to the bags!"

"But to what bags, good heavens!"

D'Artagnan pushed Planchet towards the window.

"Under that shed yonder, don't you see a horse?"

"Yes."

"Don't you see how his back is laden?"

"Yes, yes!"

"Don't you see your lad talking with the postilion?"

"Yes, yes, yes!"

"Well, you know the name of that lad, because he is your own.  Call him."

"Abdon!  Abdon!" vociferated Planchet, from the window.

"Bring the horse!" shouted D'Artagnan.

"Bring the horse!" screamed Planchet.

"Now give ten livres to the postilion," said D'Artagnan, in the tone he 
would have employed in commanding a maneuver; "two lads to bring up the 
first two bags, two to bring up the two last, - and move, _Mordioux!_ be 
lively!"

Planchet rushed down the stairs, as if the devil had been at his heels.  
A moment later the lads ascended the stairs, bending beneath their 
burden.  D'Artagnan sent them off to their garrets, carefully closed the 
door, and addressing Planchet, who, in his turn, looked a little wild, -

"Now, we are by ourselves," said he; and he spread upon the floor a large 
cover, and emptied the first bag into it.  Planchet did the same with the 
second; then D'Artagnan, all in a tremble, let out the precious bowels of 
the third with a knife.  When Planchet heard the provoking sound of the 
silver and gold - when he saw bubbling out of the bags the shining 
crowns, which glittered like fish from the sweep-net - when he felt 
himself plunging his hands up to the elbows in that still rising tide of 
yellow and white coins, a giddiness seized him, and like a man struck by 
lightning, he sank heavily down upon the enormous heap, which his weight 
caused to roll away in all directions.  Planchet, suffocated with joy, 
had lost his senses.  D'Artagnan threw a glass of white wine in his face, 
which incontinently recalled him to life.

"Ah! good heavens! good heavens! good heavens!" said Planchet, wiping his 
mustache and beard.

At that time, as they do now, grocers wore the cavalier mustache and the 
lansquenet beard, only the money baths, already rare in those days, have 
become almost unknown now.

"_Mordioux!_" said D'Artagnan, "there are a hundred thousand livres for 
you, partner.  Draw your share, if you please, and I will draw mine."

"Oh! the lovely sum!  Monsieur d'Artagnan, the lovely sum!"

"I confess that half an hour ago I regretted that I had to give you so 
much; but now I no longer regret it; thou art a brave grocer, Planchet.  
There, let us close our accounts, for, as they say, short reckonings make 
long friends."

"Oh! rather, in the first place, tell me the whole history," said 
Planchet; "that must be better than the money."

"_Ma foi!_" said D'Artagnan, stroking his mustache, "I can't say no; and 
if ever the historian turns to me for information, he will be able to say 
he has not dipped his bucket into a dry spring.  Listen, then, Planchet, 
I will tell you all about it."

"And I shall build piles of crowns," said Planchet.  "Begin, my dear 
master."

"Well, this is it," said D'Artagnan, drawing his breath.

"And that is it," said Planchet, picking up his first handful of crowns.


Chapter XXXIX:
Mazarin's Gaming Party.

In a large chamber of the Palais Royal, hung with a dark colored velvet, 
which threw into strong relief the gilded frames of a great number of 
magnificent pictures, on the evening of the arrival of the two Frenchmen, 
the whole court was assembled before the alcove of M. le Cardinal de 
Mazarin, who gave a card party to the king and queen.

A small screen separated three prepared tables.  At one of these tables 
the king and the two queens were seated.  Louis XIV., placed opposite to 
the young queen, his wife, smiled upon her with an expression of real 
happiness.  Anne of Austria held the cards against the cardinal, and her 
daughter-in-law assisted her in the game, when she was not engaged in 
smiling at her husband.  As for the cardinal, who was lying on his bed 
with a weary and careworn face, his cards were held by the Comtesse de 
Soissons, and he watched them with an incessant look of interest and 
cupidity.

The cardinal's face had been painted by Bernouin; but the rouge, which 
glowed only on his cheeks, threw into stronger contrast the sickly pallor 
of his countenance and the shining yellow of his brow.  His eyes alone 
acquired a more brilliant luster from this auxiliary, and upon those sick 
man's eyes were, from time to time, turned the uneasy looks of the king, 
the queen, and the courtiers.  The fact is, that the two eyes of the 
Signor Mazarin were the stars more or less brilliant in which the France 
of the seventeenth century read its destiny every evening and every 
morning.

Monseigneur neither won nor lost; he was, therefore, neither gay nor 
sad.  It was a stagnation in which, full of pity for him, Anne of Austria 
would not have willingly left him; but in order to attract the attention 
of the sick man by some brilliant stroke, she must have either won or 
lost.  To win would have been dangerous, because Mazarin would have 
changed his indifference into an ugly grimace; to lose would likewise 
have been dangerous, because she must have cheated, and the infanta, who 
watched her game, would, doubtless, have exclaimed against her partiality 
for Mazarin.  Profiting by this calm, the courtiers were chatting.  When 
not in a bad humor, M. de Mazarin was a very _debonnaire_ prince, and he, 
who prevented nobody from singing, provided they paid, was not tyrant 
enough to prevent people from talking, provided they made up their minds 
to lose.

They were therefore chatting.  At the first table, the king's younger 
brother, Philip, Duc d'Anjou, was admiring his handsome face in the glass 
of a box.  His favorite, the Chevalier de Lorraine, leaning over the back 
of the prince's chair, was listening, with secret envy, to the Comte de 
Guiche, another of Philip's favorites, who was relating in choice terms 
the various vicissitudes of fortune of the royal adventurer Charles II.  
He told, as so many fabulous events, all the history of his 
perigrinations in Scotland, and his terrors when the enemy's party was so 
closely on his track; of nights spent in trees, and days spent in hunger 
and combats.  By degrees, the fate of the unfortunate king interested his 
auditors so greatly, that the play languished even at the royal table, 
and the young king, with a pensive look and downcast eye, followed, 
without appearing to give any attention to it, the smallest details of 
this Odyssey, very picturesquely related by the Comte de Guiche.

The Comtesse de Soissons interrupted the narrator: "Confess, count, you 
are inventing."

"Madame, I am repeating like a parrot all the stories related to me by 
different Englishmen.  To my shame I am compelled to say, I am as exact 
as a copy."

"Charles II. would have died before he could have endured all that."

Louis XIV. raised his intelligent and proud head.  "Madame," said he, in 
a grave tone, still partaking something of the timid child, "monsieur le 
cardinal will tell you that during my minority the affairs of France were 
in jeopardy, - and that if I had been older, and obliged to take sword in 
hand, it would sometimes have been for the purpose of procuring the 
evening meal."

"Thanks to God," said the cardinal, who spoke for the first time, "your 
majesty exaggerates, and your supper has always been ready with that of 
your servants."

The king colored.

"Oh!" cried Philip, inconsiderately, from his place, and without ceasing 
to admire himself, - "I recollect once, at Melun, the supper was laid for 
nobody, and that the king ate two-thirds of a slice of bread, and 
abandoned to me the other third."

The whole assembly, seeing Mazarin smile, began to laugh.  Courtiers 
flatter kings with the remembrance of past distresses, as with the hopes 
of future good fortune.

"It is not to be denied that the crown of France has always remained firm 
upon the heads of its kings," Anne of Austria hastened to say, "and that 
it has fallen off of that of the king of England; and when by chance that 
crown oscillated a little, - for there are throne-quakes as well as 
earthquakes, - every time, I say, that rebellion threatened it, a good 
victory restored tranquillity."

"With a few gems added to the crown," said Mazarin.

The Comte de Guiche was silent: the king composed his countenance, and 
Mazarin exchanged looks with Anne of Austria, as if to thank her for her 
intervention.

"It is of no consequence," said Philip, smoothing his hair; "my cousin 
Charles is not handsome, but he is very brave, and fought like a 
landsknecht; and if he continues to fight thus, no doubt he will finish 
by gaining a battle, like Rocroi - "

"He has no soldiers," interrupted the Chevalier de Lorraine.

"The king of Holland, his ally, will give him some.  I would willingly 
have given him some if I had been king of France."

Louis XIV. blushed excessively.  Mazarin affected to be more attentive to 
his game than ever.

"By this time," resumed the Comte de Guiche, "the fortune of this unhappy 
prince is decided.  If he has been deceived by Monk, he is ruined.  
Imprisonment, perhaps death, will finish what exiles, battles, and 
privations have commenced."

Mazarin's brow became clouded.

"It is certain," said Louis XIV., "that his majesty Charles II., has 
quitted the Hague?"

"Quite certain, your majesty," replied the young man; "my father has 
received a letter containing all the details; it is even known that the 
king has landed at Dover; some fishermen saw him entering the port; the 
rest is still a mystery."

"I should like to know the rest," said Philip, impetuously.  "You know, - 
you, my brother."

Louis XIV. colored again.  That was the third time within an hour.  "Ask 
my lord cardinal," replied he, in a tone which made Mazarin, Anne of 
Austria, and everybody else open their eyes.

"That means, my son," said Anne of Austria, laughing, "that the king does 
not like affairs of state to be talked of out of the council."

Philip received the reprimand with good grace, and bowed, first smiling 
at his brother, and then at his mother.  But Mazarin saw from the corner 
of his eye that a group was about to be formed in the corner of the room, 
and that the Duc d'Anjou, with the Comte de Guiche, and the Chevalier de 
Lorraine, prevented from talking aloud, might say, in a whisper, what it 
was not convenient should be said.  He was beginning, then, to dart at 
them glances full of mistrust and uneasiness, inviting Anne of Austria to 
throw perturbation in the midst of the unlawful assembly, when, suddenly, 
Bernouin, entering from behind the tapestry of the bedroom, whispered in 
the ear of Mazarin, "Monseigneur, an envoy from his majesty, the king of 
England."

Mazarin could not help exhibiting a slight emotion, which was perceived 
by the king.  To avoid being indiscreet, rather than to appear useless, 
Louis XIV. rose immediately, and approaching his eminence, wished him 
good-night.  All the assembly had risen with a great noise of rolling of 
chairs and tables being pushed away.

"Let everybody depart by degrees," said Mazarin in a whisper to Louis 
XIV., "and be so good as to excuse me a few minutes.  I am going to 
dispatch an affair about which I wish to converse with your majesty this 
very evening."

"And the queens?" asked Louis XIV.

"And M. le Duc d'Anjou," said his eminence.

At the same time he turned round in his _ruelle_, the curtains of which, 
in falling, concealed the bed.  The cardinal, nevertheless, did not lose 
sight of the conspirators.

"M. le Comte de Guiche," said he, in a fretful voice, whilst putting on, 
behind the curtain, his dressing-gown, with the assistance of Bernouin.

"I am here, my lord," said the young man, as he approached.

"Take my cards, you are lucky.  Win a little money for me of these 
gentlemen."

"Yes, my lord."

The young man sat down at the table from which the king withdrew to talk 
with the two queens.  A serious game was commenced between the comte and 
several rich courtiers.  In the meantime Philip was discussing the 
questions of dress with the Chevalier de Lorraine, and they had ceased to 
hear the rustling of the cardinal's silk robe from behind the curtain.  
His eminence had followed Bernouin into the closet adjoining the bedroom.


Chapter XL:
An Affair of State.

The cardinal, on passing into his cabinet, found the Comte de la Fere, 
who was waiting for him, engaged in admiring a very fine Raphael placed 
over a sideboard covered with a plate.  His eminence came in softly, 
lightly, and as silently as a shadow, and surprised the countenance of 
the comte, as he was accustomed to do, pretending to divine by the simple 
expression of the face of his interlocutor what would be the result of 
the conversation.

But this time Mazarin was foiled in his expectation: he read nothing upon 
the face of Athos, not even the respect he was accustomed to see on all 
faces.  Athos was dressed in black, with a simple lacing of silver.  He 
wore the Holy Ghost, the Garter, and the Golden Fleece, three orders of 
such importance, that a king alone, or else a player, could wear them at 
once.

Mazarin rummaged a long time in his somewhat troubled memory to recall 
the name he ought to give to this icy figure, but he did not succeed.  "I 
am told," said he, at length, "you have a message from England for me."

And he sat down, dismissing Bernouin, who, in his quality of secretary, 
was getting his pen ready.

"On the part of his majesty, the king of England, yes, your eminence."

"You speak very good French for an Englishman, monsieur," said Mazarin, 
graciously, looking through his fingers at the Holy Ghost, Garter, and 
Golden Fleece, but more particularly at the face of the messenger.

"I am not an Englishman, but a Frenchman, monsieur le cardinal," replied 
Athos.

"It is remarkable that the king of England should choose a Frenchman for 
his ambassador; it is an excellent augury.  Your name, monsieur, if you 
please."

"Comte de la Fere," replied Athos, bowing more slightly than the 
ceremonial and pride of the all-powerful minister required.

Mazarin bent his shoulders, as if to say: -

"I do not know that name."

Athos did not alter his carriage.

"And you come, monsieur," continued Mazarin, "to tell me - "

"I come on the part of his majesty the king of Great Britain to announce 
to the king of France" - Mazarin frowned - "to announce to the king of 
France," continued Athos, imperturbably, "the happy restoration of his 
majesty Charles II. to the throne of his ancestors."

This shade did not escape his cunning eminence.  Mazarin was too much 
accustomed to mankind, not to see in the cold and almost haughty 
politeness of Athos, an index of hostility, which was not of the 
temperature of that hot-house called a court.

"You have powers, I suppose?" asked Mazarin, in a short, querulous tone.

"Yes, monseigneur."  And the word "monseigneur" came so painfully from 
the lips of Athos that it might be said it skinned them.

Athos took from an embroidered velvet bag which he carried under his 
doublet a dispatch.  The cardinal held out his hand for it.  "Your 
pardon, monseigneur," said Athos.  "My dispatch is for the king."

"Since you are a Frenchman, monsieur, you ought to know the position of a 
prime minister at the court of France."

"There was a time," replied Athos, "when I occupied myself with the 
importance of prime ministers; but I have formed, long ago, a resolution 
to treat no longer with any but the king."

"Then, monsieur," said Mazarin, who began to be irritated, "you will 
neither see the minister nor the king."

Mazarin rose.  Athos replaced his dispatch in its bag, bowed gravely, and 
made several steps towards the door.  This coolness exasperated Mazarin.  
"What strange diplomatic proceedings are these!" cried he.  "Have we 
returned to the times when Cromwell sent us bullies in the guise of 
_charges d'affaires?_  You want nothing, monsieur, but the steel cap on 
your head, and a Bible at your girdle."

"Monsieur," said Athos, dryly, "I have never had, as you have, the 
advantage of treating with Cromwell; and I have only seen his _charges 
d'affaires_ sword in hand; I am therefore ignorant of how he treated with 
prime ministers.  As for the king of England, Charles II., I know that 
when he writes to his majesty King Louis XIV., he does not write to his 
eminence the Cardinal Mazarin.  I see no diplomacy in that distinction."

"Ah!" cried Mazarin, raising his attenuated hand, and striking his head, 
"I remember now!"  Athos looked at him in astonishment.  "Yes, that is 
it!" said the cardinal, continuing to look at his interlocutor; "yes, 
that is certainly it.  I know you now, monsieur.  Ah! _diavolo!_  I am no 
longer astonished."

"In fact, I was astonished that, with your eminence's excellent memory," 
replied Athos, smiling, "you had not recognized me before."

"Always refractory and grumbling - monsieur - monsieur - What do they 
call you?  Stop - a name of a river - Potamos; no - the name of an island 
- Naxos; no, _per Giove!_ - the name of a mountain - Athos! now I have 
it.  Delighted to see you again, and to be no longer at Rueil, where you 
and your damned companions made me pay ransom.  Fronde! still Fronde! 
accursed Fronde!  Oh, what grudges!  Why, monsieur, have your antipathies 
survived mine?  If any one has cause to complain, I think it could not be 
you, who got out of the affair not only in a sound skin, but with the 
_cordon_ of the Holy Ghost around your neck."

"My lord cardinal," replied Athos, "permit me not to enter into 
considerations of that kind.  I have a mission to fulfill.  Will you 
facilitate the means of my fulfilling that mission, or will you not?"

"I am astonished," said Mazarin, - quite delighted at having recovered 
his memory, and bristling with malice, - "I am astonished, Monsieur – 
Athos - that a _Frondeur_ like you should have accepted a mission for the 
Perfidious Mazarin, as used to be said in the good old times - "  And 
Mazarin began to laugh, in spite of a painful cough, which cut short his 
sentences, converting them into sobs.

"I have only accepted the mission near the king of France, monsieur le 
cardinal," retorted the comte, though with less asperity, for he thought 
he had sufficiently the advantage to show himself moderate.

"And yet, _Monsieur le Frondeur_," said Mazarin, gayly, "the affair which 
you have taken in charge must, from the king - "

"With which I have been given in charge, monseigneur.  I do not run after 
affairs."

"Be it so.  I say that this negotiation must pass through my hands.  Let 
us lose no precious time, then.  Tell me the conditions."

"I have had the honor of assuring your eminence that only the letter of 
his majesty King Charles II. contains the revelation of his wishes."

"Pooh! you are ridiculous with your obstinacy, Monsieur Athos.  It is 
plain you have kept company with the Puritans yonder.  As to your secret, 
I know it better than you do; and you have done wrongly, perhaps, in not 
having shown some respect for a very old and suffering man, who has 
labored much during his life, and kept the field for his ideas as bravely 
as you have for yours.  You will not communicate your letter to me?  You 
will say nothing to me?  Very well!  Come with me into my chamber; you 
shall speak to the king - and before the king. - Now, then, one last 
word: who gave you the Fleece?  I remember you passed for having the 
Garter; but as to the Fleece, I do not know - "

"Recently, my lord, Spain, on the occasion of the marriage of his majesty 
Louis XIV., sent King Charles II. a brevet of the Fleece in blank; 
Charles II. immediately transmitted it to me, filling up the blank with 
my name."

Mazarin arose, and leaning on the arm of Bernouin, he returned to his 
_ruelle_ at the moment the name of M. le Prince was being announced.  The 
Prince de Conde, the first prince of the blood, the conqueror of Rocroi, 
Lens, and Nordlingen, was, in fact, entering the apartment of Monseigneur 
de Mazarin, followed by his gentlemen, and had already saluted the king, 
when the prime minister raised his curtain.  Athos had time to see Raoul 
pressing the hand of the Comte de Guiche, and send him a smile in return 
for his respectful bow.  He had time, likewise, to see the radiant 
countenance of the cardinal, when he perceived before him, upon the 
table, an enormous heap of gold, which the Comte de Guiche had won in a 
run of luck, after his eminence had confided his cards to him.  So 
forgetting ambassador, embassy and prince, his first thought was of the 
gold.  "What!" cried the old man - "all that - won?"

"Some fifty thousand crowns; yes, monseigneur," replied the Comte de 
Guiche, rising.  "Must I give up my place to your eminence, or shall I 
continue?"

"Give up! give up! you are mad.  You would lose all you have won.  
_Peste!_"

"My lord!" said the Prince de Conde, bowing.

"Good-evening, monsieur le prince," said the minister, in a careless 
tone; "it is very kind of you to visit an old sick friend."

"A friend!" murmured the Comte de la Fere, at witnessing with stupor this 
monstrous alliance of words; - "friends! when the parties are Conde and 
Mazarin!"

Mazarin seemed to divine the thoughts of the _Frondeur_, for he smiled 
upon him with triumph, and immediately, - "Sire," said he to the king, "I 
have the honor of presenting to your majesty, Monsieur le Comte de la 
Fere, ambassador from his Britannic majesty.  An affair of state, 
gentlemen," added he, waving his hand to all who filled the chamber, and 
who, the Prince de Conde at their head, all disappeared at the simple 
gesture.  Raoul, after a last look cast at the comte, followed M. de 
Conde.  Philip of Anjou and the queen appeared to be consulting about 
departing.

"A family affair," said Mazarin, suddenly, detaining them in their 
seats.  "This gentleman is the bearer of a letter in which King Charles 
II., completely restored to his throne, demands an alliance between 
Monsieur, the brother of the king, and Mademoiselle Henrietta, grand-
daughter of Henry IV.  Will you remit your letter of credit to the king, 
monsieur le comte?"

Athos remained for a minute stupefied.  How could the minister possibly 
know the contents of the letter, which had never been out of his keeping 
for a single instant?  Nevertheless, always master of himself, he held 
out the dispatch to the young king, Louis XIV., who took it with a 
blush.  A solemn silence reigned in the cardinal's chamber.  It was only 
troubled by the dull sound of the gold, which Mazarin, with his yellow, 
dry hand, piled up in a casket, whilst the king was reading.


Chapter XLI:
The Recital.

The maliciousness of the cardinal did not leave much for the ambassador 
to say; nevertheless, the word "restoration" had struck the king, who, 
addressing the comte, upon whom his eyes had been fixed since his 
entrance, - "Monsieur," said he, "will you have the kindness to give us 
some details concerning the affairs of England.  You come from that 
country, you are a Frenchman, and the orders which I see glittering upon 
your person announce you to be a man of merit as well as a man of 
quality."

"Monsieur," said the cardinal, turning towards the queen-mother, "is an 
ancient servant of your majesty's, Monsieur le Comte de la Fere."

Anne of Austria was as oblivious as a queen whose life had been mingled 
with fine and stormy days.  She looked at Mazarin, whose evil smile 
promised her something disagreeable; then she solicited from Athos, by 
another look, an explanation.

"Monsieur," continued the cardinal, "was a Treville musketeer, in the 
service of the late king.  Monsieur is well acquainted with England, 
whither he has made several voyages at various periods; he is a subject 
of the highest merit."

These words made allusion to all the memories which Anne of Austria 
trembled to evoke.  England, that was her hatred of Richelieu and her 
love for Buckingham; a Treville musketeer, that was the whole Odyssey of 
the triumphs which had made the heart of the young woman throb, and of 
the dangers which had been so near overturning the throne of the young 
queen.  These words had much power, for they rendered mute and attentive 
all the royal personages, who, with very various sentiments, set about 
recomposing at the same time the mysteries which the young had not seen, 
and which the old had believed to be forever effaced.

"Speak, monsieur," said Louis XIV., the first to escape from troubles, 
suspicions, and remembrances.

"Yes, speak," added Mazarin, to whom the little malicious thrust directed 
against Anne of Austria had restored energy and gayety.

"Sire," said the comte, "a sort of miracle has changed the whole destiny 
of Charles II.  That which men, till that time, had been unable to do, 
God resolved to accomplish."

Mazarin coughed while tossing about in his bed.

"King Charles II.," continued Athos, "left the Hague neither as a 
fugitive nor a conqueror, but as an absolute king, who, after a distant 
voyage from his kingdom, returns amidst universal benedictions."

"A great miracle, indeed," said Mazarin; "for, if the news was true, King 
Charles II., who has just returned amidst benedictions, went away amidst 
musket-shots."

The king remained impassible.  Philip, younger and more frivolous, could 
not repress a smile, which flattered Mazarin as an applause of his 
pleasantry.

"It is plain," said the king, "there is a miracle; but God, who does so 
much for kings, monsieur le comte, nevertheless employs the hand of man 
to bring about the triumph of His designs.  To what men does Charles II. 
principally owe his re-establishment?"

"Why," interrupted Mazarin, without any regard for the king's pride – 
"does not your majesty know that it is to M. Monk?"

"I ought to know it," replied Louis XIV., resolutely; "and yet I ask my 
lord ambassador, the causes of the change in this General Monk?"

"And your majesty touches precisely the question," replied Athos; "for 
without the miracle of which I have had the honor to speak, General Monk 
would probably have remained an implacable enemy of Charles II.  God 
willed that a strange, bold, and ingenious idea should enter into the 
mind of a certain man, whilst a devoted and courageous idea took 
possession of the mind of another man.  The combinations of these two 
ideas brought about such a change in the position of M. Monk, that, from 
an inveterate enemy, he became a friend to the deposed king."

"These are exactly the details I asked for," said the king.  "Who and 
what are the two men of whom you speak?"

"Two Frenchmen, sire."

"Indeed!  I am glad of that."

"And the two ideas," said Mazarin; - "I am more curious about ideas than 
about men, for my part."

"Yes," murmured the king.

"The second idea, the devoted, reasonable idea - the least important, sir 
- was to go and dig up a million in gold, buried by King Charles I. at 
Newcastle, and to purchase with that gold the adherence of Monk."

"Oh, oh!" said Mazarin, reanimated by the word million.  "But Newcastle 
was at the time occupied by Monk."

"Yes, monsieur le cardinal, and that is why I venture to call the idea 
courageous as well as devoted.  It was necessary, if Monk refused the 
offers of the negotiator, to reinstate King Charles II. in possession of 
this million, which was to be torn, as it were, from the loyalty and not 
the loyalism of General Monk.  This was effected in spite of many 
difficulties: the general proved to be loyal, and allowed the money to be 
taken away."

"It seems to me," said the timid, thoughtful king, "that Charles II. 
could not have known of this million whilst he was in Paris."

"It seems to me," rejoined the cardinal, maliciously, "that his majesty 
the king of Great Britain knew perfectly well of this million, but that 
he preferred having two millions to having one."

"Sire," said Athos, firmly, "the king of England, whilst in France, was 
so poor that he had not even money to take the post; so destitute of hope 
that he frequently thought of dying.  He was so entirely ignorant of the 
existence of the million at Newcastle, that but for a gentleman - one of 
your majesty's subjects - the moral depositary of the million, who 
revealed the secret to King Charles II., that prince would still be 
vegetating in the most cruel forgetfulness."

"Let us pass on to the strange, bold and ingenious idea," interrupted 
Mazarin, whose sagacity foresaw a check.  "What was that idea?"

"This - M. Monk formed the only obstacle to the re-establishment of the 
fallen king.  A Frenchman imagined the idea of suppressing this obstacle."

"Oh! oh! but he is a scoundrel, that Frenchman," said Mazarin; "and the 
idea is not so ingenious as to prevent its author being tied up by the 
neck at the Place de Greve, by decree of the parliament."

"Your eminence is mistaken," replied Athos, dryly; "I did not say that 
the Frenchman in question had resolved to assassinate M. Monk, but only 
to suppress him.  The words of the French language have a value which the 
gentlemen of France know perfectly.  Besides, this is an affair of war; 
and when men serve kings against their enemies they are not to be 
condemned by a parliament - God is their judge.  This French gentleman, 
then, formed the idea of gaining possession of the person of Monk, and he 
executed his plan."

The king became animated at the recital of great actions.  The king's 
younger brother struck the table with his hand, exclaiming, "Ah! that is 
fine!"

"He carried off Monk?" said the king.  "Why, Monk was in his camp."

"And the gentleman was alone, sire."

"That is marvelous!" said Philip.

"Marvelous, indeed!" cried the king.

"Good!  There are the two little lions unchained," murmured the 
cardinal.  And with an air of spite, which he did not dissemble: "I am 
unacquainted with these details, will you guarantee their authenticity, 
monsieur?"

"All the more easily, my lord cardinal, from having seen the events."

"You have?"

"Yes, monseigneur."

The king had involuntarily drawn close to the count, the Duc d'Anjou had 
turned sharply round, and pressed Athos on the other side.

"What next? monsieur, what next?" cried they both at the same time.

"Sire, M. Monk, being taken by the Frenchman, was brought to King Charles 
II., at the Hague.  The king gave back his freedom to Monk, and the 
grateful general, in return, gave Charles II. the throne of Great 
Britain, for which so many valiant men had fought in vain."

Philip clapped his hands with enthusiasm, Louis XIV., more reflective, 
turned towards the Comte de la Fere.

"Is this true," said he, "in all its details?"

"Absolutely true, sire."

"That one of my gentlemen knew the secret of the million, and kept it?"

"Yes, sire."

"The name of that gentleman?"

"It was your humble servant," said Athos, simply, and bowing.

A murmur of admiration made the heart of Athos swell with pleasure.  He 
had reason to be proud, at least.  Mazarin, himself, had raised his arms 
towards heaven.

"Monsieur," said the king, "I shall seek and find means to reward you."  
Athos made a movement.  "Oh, not for your honesty, to be paid for that 
would humiliate you; but I owe you a reward for having participated in 
the restoration of my brother, King Charles II."

"Certainly," said Mazarin.

"It is the triumph of a good cause which fills the whole house of France 
with joy," said Anne of Austria.

" I continue," said Louis XIV.: "Is it also true that a single man 
penetrated to Monk, in his camp, and carried him off?"

"That man had ten auxiliaries, taken from a very inferior rank."

"And nothing more but them?"

"Nothing more."

"And he is named?"

"Monsieur d'Artagnan, formerly lieutenant of the musketeers of your 
majesty."

Anne of Austria colored; Mazarin became yellow with shame; Louis XIV. was 
deeply thoughtful, and a drop of moisture fell from his pale brow.  "What 
men!" murmured he.  And, involuntarily, he darted a glance at the 
minister which would have terrified him, if Mazarin, at the moment, had 
not concealed his head under his pillow.

"Monsieur," said the young Duc d'Anjou, placing his hand, delicate and 
white as that of a woman, upon the arm of Athos, "tell that brave man, I 
beg you, that Monsieur, brother of the king, will to-morrow drink his 
health before five hundred of the best gentlemen of France."  And, on 
finishing those words, the young man, perceiving that his enthusiasm had 
deranged one of his ruffles, set to work to put it to rights with the 
greatest care imaginable.

"Let us resume business, sire," interrupted Mazarin, who never was 
enthusiastic, and who wore no ruffles.

"Yes, monsieur," replied Louis XIV.  "Pursue your communication, monsieur 
le comte," added he, turning towards Athos.

Athos immediately began and offered in due form the hand of the Princess 
Henrietta Stuart to the young prince, the king's brother.  The conference 
lasted an hour; after which the doors of the chamber were thrown open to 
the courtiers, who resumed their places as if nothing had been kept from 
them in the occupations of that evening.  Athos then found himself again 
with Raoul, and the father and son were able to clasp each other's hands.


Chapter XLII:
In which Mazarin becomes Prodigal.

Whilst Mazarin was endeavoring to recover from the serious alarm he had 
just experienced, Athos and Raoul were exchanging a few words in a corner 
of the apartment.  "Well, here you are at Paris, then, Raoul?" said the 
comte.

"Yes, monsieur, since the return of M. le Prince."

"I cannot converse freely with you here, because we are observed; but I 
shall return home presently, and shall expect you as soon as your duty 
permits."

Raoul bowed, and, at that moment, M. le Prince came up to them.  The 
prince had that clear and keen look which distinguishes birds of prey of 
the noble species; his physiognomy itself presented several distinct 
traits of this resemblance.  It is known that in the Prince de Conde, the 
aquiline nose rose out sharply and incisively from a brow slightly 
retreating, rather low than high, and according to the railers of the 
court, - a pitiless race without mercy even for genius, - constituted 
rather an eagle's beak than a human nose, in the heir of the illustrious 
princes of the house of Conde.  This penetrating look, this imperious 
expression of the whole countenance, generally disturbed those to whom 
the prince spoke, more than either majesty or regular beauty could have 
done in the conqueror of Rocroi.  Besides this, the fire mounted so 
suddenly to his projecting eyes, that with the prince every sort of 
animation resembled passion.  Now, on account of his rank, everybody at 
the court respected M. le Prince, and many even, seeing only the man, 
carried their respect as far as terror.

Louis de Conde then advanced towards the Comte de la Fere and Raoul, with 
the marked intention of being saluted by the one, and of speaking with 
the other.  No man bowed with more reserved grace than the Comte de la 
Fere.  He disdained to put into a salutation all the shades which a 
courtier ordinarily borrows from the same color - the desire to please.  
Athos knew his own personal value, and bowed to the prince like a man, 
correcting by something sympathetic and undefinable that which might have 
appeared offensive to the pride of the highest rank in the inflexibility 
of his attitude.  The prince was about to speak to Raoul.  Athos 
forestalled him.  "If M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne," said he, "were not 
one of the humble servants of your royal highness, I would beg him to 
pronounce my name before you - _mon prince_."

"I have the honor to address Monsieur le Comte de la Fere," said Conde, 
instantly.

"My protector," added Raoul, blushing.

"One of the most honorable men in the kingdom," continued the prince; 
"one of the first gentlemen of France, and of whom I have heard so much 
that I have frequently desired to number him among my friends."

"An honor of which I should be unworthy," replied Athos, "but for the 
respect and admiration I entertain for your royal highness."

"Monsieur de Bragelonne," said the prince, "is a good officer, and it is 
plainly seen that he has been to a good school.  Ah, monsieur le comte, 
in your time, generals had soldiers!"

"That is true, my lord, but nowadays soldiers have generals."

This compliment, which savored so little of flattery, gave a thrill of 
joy to the man whom already Europe considered a hero; and who might be 
thought to be satiated with praise.

"I regret very much," continued the prince, "that you should have retired 
from the service, monsieur le comte; for it is more than probable that 
the king will soon have a war with Holland or England, and opportunities 
for distinguishing himself would not be wanting for a man who, like you, 
knows Great Britain as well as you do France."

"I believe I may say, monseigneur, that I have acted wisely in retiring 
from the service," said Athos, smiling.  "France and Great Britain will 
henceforward live like two sisters, if I can trust my presentiments."

"Your presentiments?"

"Stop, monseigneur, listen to what is being said yonder, at the table of 
my lord the cardinal."

"Where they are playing?"

"Yes, my lord."

The cardinal had just raised himself on one elbow, and made a sign to the 
king's brother, who went to him.

"My lord," said the cardinal, "pick up, if you please, all those gold 
crowns."  And he pointed to the enormous pile of yellow and glittering 
pieces which the Comte de Guiche had raised by degrees before him by a 
surprising run of luck at play.

"For me?" cried the Duc d'Anjou.

"Those fifty thousand crowns; yes, monseigneur, they are yours."

"Do you give them to me?"

"I have been playing on your account, monseigneur," replied the cardinal, 
getting weaker and weaker, as if this effort of giving money had 
exhausted all his physical and moral faculties.

"Oh, good heavens!" exclaimed Philip, wild with joy, "what a fortunate 
day!"  And he himself, making a rake of his fingers, drew a part of the 
sum into his pockets, which he filled, and still full a third remained on 
the table.

"Chevalier," said Philip to his favorite, the Chevalier de Lorraine, 
"come hither, chevalier."  The favorite quickly obeyed.  "Pocket the 
rest," said the young prince.

This singular scene was considered by the persons present only as a 
touching kind of family _fete_.  The cardinal assumed the airs of a 
father with the sons of France, and the two princes had grown up under 
his wing.  No one then imputed to pride, or even impertinence, as would 
be done nowadays, this liberality on the part of the first minister.  The 
courtiers were satisfied with envying the prince. - The king turned away 
his head.

"I never had so much money before," said the young prince, joyously, as 
he crossed the chamber with his favorite to go to his carriage.  "No, 
never!  What a weight these crowns are!"

"But why has monsieur le cardinal given away all this money at once?" 
asked M. le Prince of the Comte de la Fere.  "He must be very ill, the 
dear cardinal!"

"Yes, my lord, very ill, without doubt; he looks very ill, as your royal 
highness may perceive."

"But surely he will die of it.  A hundred and fifty thousand livres!  Oh, 
it is incredible!  But, comte, tell me a reason for it?"

"Patience, monseigneur, I beg of you.  Here comes M. le Duc d'Anjou, 
talking with the Chevalier de Lorraine; I should not be surprised if they 
spared us the trouble of being indiscreet.  Listen to them."

In fact the chevalier said to the prince in a low voice, "My lord, it is 
not natural for M. Mazarin to give you so much money.  Take care! you 
will let some of the pieces fall, my lord.  What design has the cardinal 
upon you to make him so generous?"

"As I said," whispered Athos in the prince's ear; "that, perhaps, is the 
best reply to your question."

"Tell me, my lord," repeated the chevalier impatiently, as he was 
calculating, by weighing them in his pocket, the quota of the sum which 
had fallen to his share by rebound.

"My dear chevalier, a wedding present."

"How a wedding present?"

"Eh! yes, I am going to be married," replied the Duc d'Anjou, without 
perceiving, at the moment, he was passing the prince and Athos, who both 
bowed respectfully.

The chevalier darted at the young duke a glance so strange, and so 
malicious, that the Comte de la Fere quite started on beholding it.

"You! you to be married!" repeated he; "oh! that's impossible.  You would 
not commit such a folly!"

"Bah!  I don't do it myself; I am made to do it," replied the Duc 
d'Anjou.  "But come, quick! let us get rid of our money."  Thereupon he 
disappeared with his companion, laughing and talking, whilst all heads 
were bowed on his passage.

"Then," whispered the prince to Athos, "that is the secret."

"It was not I who told you so, my lord."

"He is to marry the sister of Charles II.?"

"I believe so."

The prince reflected for a moment, and his eye shot forth one of its not 
infrequent flashes.  "Humph!" said he slowly, as if speaking to himself; 
"our swords are once more to be hung on the wall - for a long time!" and 
he sighed.

All that sigh contained of ambition silently stifled, of extinguished 
illusions and disappointed hopes, Athos alone divined, for he alone heard 
that sigh.  Immediately after, the prince took leave and the king left 
the apartment.  Athos, by a sign made to Bragelonne, renewed the desire 
he had expressed at the beginning of the scene.  By degrees the chamber 
was deserted, and Mazarin was left alone, a prey to suffering which he 
could no longer dissemble.  "Bernouin!  Bernouin!" cried he in a broken 
voice.

"What does monseigneur want?"

"Guenaud - let Guenaud be sent for," said his eminence.  "I think I'm 
dying."

Bernouin, in great terror, rushed into the cabinet to give the order, and 
the _piqueur_, who hastened to fetch the physician, passed the king's 
carriage in the Rue Saint Honore.


Chapter XLIII:
Guenaud.

The cardinal's order was pressing; Guenaud quickly obeyed it.  He found 
his patient stretched on his bed, his legs swelled, his face livid, and 
his stomach collapsed.  Mazarin had a severe attack of gout.  He suffered 
tortures with the impatience of a man who has not been accustomed to 
resistances.  On seeing Guenaud: "Ah!" said he; "now I am saved!"

Guenaud was a very learned and circumspect man, who stood in no need of 
the critiques of Boileau to obtain a reputation.  When facing a disease, 
if it were personified in a king, he treated the patient as a Turk treats 
a Moor.  He did not, therefore, reply to Mazarin as the minister 
expected: "Here is the doctor; good-bye disease!"  On the contrary, on 
examining his patient, with a very serious air:

"Oh! oh!" said he.

"Eh! what!  Guenaud!  How you look at me!"

"I look as I should on seeing your complaint, my lord; it is a very 
dangerous one."

"The gout - oh! yes, the gout."

"With complications, my lord."

Mazarin raised himself upon his elbow, and, questioning by look and 
gesture: "What do you mean by that?  Am I worse than I believe myself to 
be?"

"My lord," said Guenaud, seating himself beside the bed; "your eminence 
has worked very hard during your life; your eminence has suffered much."

"But I am not old, I fancy.  The late M. de Richelieu was but seventeen 
months younger than I am when he died, and died of a mortal disease.  I 
am young, Guenaud: remember, I am scarcely fifty-two."

"Oh! my lord, you are much more than that.  How long did the Fronde last?"

"For what purpose do you put such a question to me?"

"For a medical calculation, monseigneur."

"Well, some ten years - off and on."

"Very well; be kind enough to reckon every year of the Fronde as three 
years - that makes thirty; now twenty and fifty-two makes seventy-two 
years.  You are seventy-two, my lord; and that is a great age."

Whilst saying this, he felt the pulse of his patient.  This pulse was 
full of such fatal indications, that the physician continued, 
notwithstanding the interruptions of the patient: "Put down the years of 
the Fronde at four each, and you have lived eighty-two years."

"Are you speaking seriously, Guenaud?"

"Alas! yes, monseigneur."

"You take a roundabout way, then, to inform me that I am very ill?"

"_Ma foi!_ yes, my lord, and with a man of the mind and courage of your 
eminence, it ought not to be necessary to do so."

The cardinal breathed with such difficulty that he inspired pity even in 
a pitiless physician.  "There are diseases and diseases," resumed 
Mazarin.  "From some of them people escape."

"That is true, my lord."

"Is it not?" cried Mazarin, almost joyously; "for, in short, what else 
would be the use of power, of strength of will?  What would the use of 
genius be - your genius, Guenaud?  What would be the use of science and 
art, if the patient, who disposes of all that, cannot be saved from 
peril?"

Guenaud was about to open his mouth, but Mazarin continued:

"Remember," said he, "I am the most confiding of your patients; remember 
I obey you blindly, and that consequently - "

"I know all that," said Guenaud.

"I shall be cured, then?"

"Monseigneur, there is neither strength of will, nor power, nor genius, 
nor science that can resist a disease which God doubtless sends, or which 
He cast upon the earth at the creation, with full power to destroy and 
kill mankind.  When the disease is mortal, and nothing can - "

"Is - my - disease - mortal?" asked Mazarin.

"Yes, my lord."

His eminence sank down for a moment, like an unfortunate wretch who is 
crushed by a falling column.  But the spirit of Mazarin was a strong one, 
or rather his mind was a firm one.  "Guenaud," said he, recovering from 
his first shock, "you will permit me to appeal from your judgment.  I 
will call together the most learned men of Europe: I will consult them.  
I will live, in short, by the virtue of I care not what remedy."

"My lord must not suppose," said Guenaud, "that I have the presumption to 
pronounce alone upon an existence so valuable as yours.  I have already 
assembled all the good physicians and practitioners of France and 
Europe.  There were twelve of them."

"And they said - "

"They said that your eminence was suffering from a mortal disease; I have 
the consultation signed in my portfolio.  If your eminence will please to 
see it, you will find the names of all the incurable diseases we have met 
with.  There is first - "

"No, no!" cried Mazarin, pushing away the paper.  "No, no, Guenaud, I 
yield!  I yield!"  And a profound silence, during which the cardinal 
resumed his senses and recovered his strength, succeeded to the agitation 
of this scene.  "There is another thing," murmured Mazarin; "there are 
empirics and charlatans.  In my country, those whom physicians abandon 
run the chance of a quack, who kills them ten times but saves them a 
hundred times."

"Has not your eminence observed, that during the last month I have 
changed my remedies ten times?"

"Yes.  Well?"

"Well, I have spent fifty thousand crowns in purchasing the secrets of 
all these fellows: the list is exhausted, and so is my purse.  You are 
not cured: and, but for my art, you would be dead."

"That ends it!" murmured the cardinal; "that ends it."  And he threw a 
melancholy look upon the riches which surrounded him.  "And must I quit 
all that?" sighed he.  "I am dying, Guenaud!  I am dying!"

"Oh! not yet, my lord," said the physician.

Mazarin seized his hand.  "In what time?" asked he, fixing his two large 
eyes upon the impassible countenance of the physician.

"My lord, we never tell that."

"To ordinary men, perhaps not; - but to me - to me, whose every minute is 
worth a treasure.  Tell me, Guenaud, tell me!"

"No, no, my lord."

"I insist upon it, I tell you.  Oh! give me a month, and for every one of 
those thirty days I will pay you a hundred thousand crowns."

"My lord," replied Guenaud, in a firm voice, "it is God who can give you 
days of grace, and not I.  God only allows you a fortnight."

The cardinal breathed a painful sigh, and sank back down upon his pillow, 
murmuring, "Thank you, Guenaud, thank you!"

The physician was about to depart; the dying man, raising himself up: 
"Silence!" said he, with flaming eyes, "silence!"

"My lord, I have known this secret two months; you see that I have kept 
it faithfully."

"Go, Guenaud; I will take care of your fortunes; go, and tell Brienne to 
send me a clerk called M. Colbert.  Go!"


Chapter XLIV:
Colbert.

Colbert was not far off.  During the whole evening he had remained in one 
of the corridors, chatting with Bernouin and Brienne, and commenting, 
with the ordinary skill of people of court, upon the news which developed 
like air-bubbles upon the water, on the surface of each event.  It is 
doubtless time to trace, in a few words, one of the most interesting 
portraits of the age, and to trace it with as much truth, perhaps, as 
contemporary painters have been able to do.  Colbert was a man in whom 
the historian and the moralist have an equal right.

He was thirteen years older than Louis XIV., his future master.  Of 
middle height, rather lean than otherwise, he had deep-set eyes, a mean 
appearance, his hair was coarse, black and thin, which, say the 
biographers of his time, made him take early to the skull-cap.  A look of 
severity, of harshness even, a sort of stiffness, which, with inferiors, 
was pride, with superiors an affectation of superior virtue; a surly cast 
of countenance upon all occasions, even when looking at himself in a 
glass alone - such is the exterior of his personage.  As to the moral 
part of his character, the depth of his talent for accounts, and his 
ingenuity in making sterility itself productive, were much boasted of.  
Colbert had formed the idea of forcing governors of frontier places to 
feed the garrisons without pay, with what they drew from contributions.  
Such a valuable quality made Mazarin think of replacing Joubert, his 
intendant, who had recently died, by M. Colbert, who had such skill in 
nibbling down allowances.  Colbert by degrees crept into court, 
notwithstanding his lowly birth, for he was the son of a man who sold 
wine as his father had done, but who afterwards sold cloth, and then silk 
stuffs.  Colbert, destined for trade, had been clerk in Lyons to a 
merchant, whom he had quitted to come to Paris in the office of a Chatlet 
procureur named Biterne.  It was here he learned the art of drawing up an 
account, and the much more valuable one of complicating it.

This stiffness of manner in Colbert had been of great service to him; it 
is so true that Fortune, when she has a caprice, resembles those women of 
antiquity, who, when they had a fancy, were disgusted by no physical or 
moral defects in either men or things.  Colbert, placed with Michel 
Letellier, secretary of state in 1648, by his cousin Colbert, Seigneur de 
Saint-Penange, who protected him, received one day from the minister a 
commission for Cardinal Mazarin.  His eminence was then in the enjoyment 
of flourishing health, and the bad years of the Fronde had not yet 
counted triple and quadruple for him.  He was at Sedan, very much annoyed 
at a court intrigue in which Anne of Austria seemed inclined to desert 
his cause.

Of this intrigue Letellier held the thread.  He had just received a 
letter from Anne of Austria, a letter very valuable to him, and strongly 
compromising Mazarin; but, as he already played the double part which 
served him so well, and by which he always managed two enemies so as to 
draw advantage from both, either by embroiling them more and more or by 
reconciling them, Michel Letellier wished to send Anne of Austria's 
letter to Mazarin, in order that he might be acquainted with it, and 
consequently pleased with his having so willingly rendered him a 
service.  To send the letter was an easy matter; to recover it again, 
after having communicated it, that was the difficulty.  Letellier cast 
his eyes around him, and seeing the black and meager clerk with the 
scowling brow, scribbling away in his office, he preferred him to the 
best gendarme for the execution of this design.

Colbert was commanded to set out for Sedan, with positive orders to carry 
the letter to Mazarin, and bring it back to Letellier.  He listened to 
his orders with scrupulous attention, required the instructions to be 
repeated twice, and was particular in learning whether the bringing back 
was as necessary as the communicating, and Letellier replied sternly, 
"More necessary."  Then he set out, traveled like a courier, without any 
care for his body, and placed in the hands of Mazarin, first a letter 
from Letellier, which announced to the cardinal the sending of the 
precious letter, and then that letter itself.  Mazarin colored greatly 
whilst reading Anne of Austria's letter, gave Colbert a gracious smile 
and dismissed him.

"When shall I have the answer, monseigneur?"

"To-morrow."

"To-morrow morning?"

"Yes, monsieur."

The clerk turned upon his heel, after making his very best bow.  The next 
day he was at his post at seven o'clock.  Mazarin made him wait till 
ten.  He remained patiently in the ante-chamber; his turn having come, he 
entered; Mazarin gave him a sealed packet.  On the envelope of this packet 
were these words: - Monsieur Michel Letellier, etc.  Colbert looked at 
the packet with much attention; the cardinal put on a pleasant 
countenance and pushed him towards the door.

"And the letter of the queen-mother, my lord?" asked Colbert.

"It is in with the rest, in the packet," said Mazarin.

"Oh! very well," replied Colbert; and placing his hat between his knees, 
he began to unseal the packet.

Mazarin uttered a cry.  "What are you doing?" said he, angrily.

"I am unsealing the packet, my lord."

"You mistrust me, then, master pedant, do you?  Did any one ever see such 
impertinence?"

"Oh! my lord, do not be angry with me!  It is certainly not your 
eminence's word I place in doubt, God forbid!"

"What then?"

"It is the carefulness of your chancery, my lord.  What is a letter?  A 
rag.  May not a rag be forgotten?  And look, my lord, look if I was not 
right.  Your clerks have forgotten the rag; the letter is not in the 
packet."

"You are an insolent fellow, and you have not looked," cried Mazarin, 
very angrily; "begone and wait my pleasure."  Whilst saying these words, 
with perfectly Italian subtlety he snatched the packet from the hands of 
Colbert, and re-entered his apartments.

But this anger could not last so long as to be replaced in time by 
reason.  Mazarin, every morning, on opening his closet door, found the 
figure of Colbert like a sentinel behind the bench, and this disagreeable 
figure never failed to ask him humbly, but with tenacity, for the queen-
mother's letter.  Mazarin could hold out no longer, and was obliged to 
give it up.  He accompanied this restitution with a most severe 
reprimand, during which Colbert contented himself with examining, 
feeling, even smelling, as it were, the paper, the characters, and the 
signature, neither more nor less than if he had to deal with the greatest 
forger in the kingdom.  Mazarin behaved still more rudely to him, but 
Colbert, still impassible, having obtained a certainty that the letter 
was the true one, went off as if he had been deaf.  This conduct obtained 
for him afterwards the post of Joubert; for Mazarin, instead of bearing 
malice, admired him, and was desirous of attaching so much fidelity to 
himself.

It may be judged by this single anecdote, what the character of Colbert 
was.  Events, developing themselves, by degrees allowed all the powers of 
his mind to act freely.  Colbert was not long in insinuating himself to 
the good graces of the cardinal: he became even indispensable to him.  
The clerk was acquainted with all his accounts without the cardinal's 
ever having spoken to him about them.  This secret between them was a 
powerful tie, and this was why, when about to appear before the Master of 
another world, Mazarin was desirous of taking good counsel in disposing 
the wealth he was so unwillingly obliged to leave in this world.  After 
the visit of Guenaud, he therefore sent for Colbert, desired him to sit 
down, and said to him: "Let us converse, Monsieur Colbert, and seriously, 
for I am very ill, and I may chance to die."

"Man is mortal," replied Colbert.

"I have always remembered that, M. Colbert, and I have worked with that 
end in view.  You know that I have amassed a little wealth."

"I know you have, monseigneur."

"At how much do you estimate, as near as you can, the amount of this 
wealth, M. Colbert?"

"At forty millions, five hundred and sixty thousand, two hundred livres, 
nine cents, eight farthings," replied Colbert.

The cardinal heaved a deep sigh, and looked at Colbert with wonder, but 
he allowed a smile to steal across his lips.

"Known money," added Colbert, in reply to that smile.

The cardinal gave quite a start in bed.  "What do you mean by that?" said 
he.

"I mean," said Colbert, "that besides those forty millions, five hundred 
and sixty thousand, two hundred livres, nine cents, eight farthings, 
there are thirteen millions that are not known."

"_Ouf!_" sighed Mazarin, "what a man!"

At this moment, the head of Bernouin appeared through the embrasure of 
the door.

"What is it?" asked Mazarin, "and why do you disturb me?"

"The Theatin father, your eminence's director, was sent for this evening; 
and he cannot come again to my lord till after to-morrow."

Mazarin looked a Colbert, who rose and took his hat, saying: "I shall 
come again, my lord."

Mazarin hesitated.  "No, no," said he; "I have as much business to 
transact with you as with him.  Besides, you are my other confessor - and 
what I have to say to one the other may hear.  Remain where you are, 
Colbert."

"But my lord, if there be no secret of penitence, will the director 
consent to my being here?"

"Do not trouble yourself about that; come into the _ruelle_."

"I can wait outside, monseigneur."

"No, no, it will do you good to hear the confession of a rich man."

Colbert bowed and went into the _ruelle_.

"Introduce the Theatin father," said Mazarin, closing the curtains.


Chapter XLV:
Confession of a Man of Wealth.

The Theatin entered deliberately, without being too much astonished at 
the noise and agitation which anxiety for the cardinal's health had 
raised in his household.  "Come in, my reverend  father," said Mazarin, 
after a last look at the _ruelle_, "come in and console me."

"That is my duty, my lord," replied the Theatin.

"Begin by sitting down, and making yourself comfortable, for I am going 
to begin with a general confession; you will afterwards give me a good 
absolution, and I shall believe myself more tranquil."

"My lord," said the father, "you are not so ill as to make a general 
confession urgent - and it will be very fatiguing - take care."

"You suspect, then, that it may be long, father?"

"How can I think it otherwise, when a man has lived so completely as your 
eminence has done?"

"Ah! that is true! - yes - the recital may be long."

"The mercy of God is great," snuffled the Theatin.

"Stop," said Mazarin; "there I begin to terrify myself with having 
allowed so many things to pass which the Lord might reprove."

"Is that not always so?" said the Theatin naively, removing further from 
the lamp his thin pointed face, like that of a mole.  "Sinners are so 
forgetful beforehand, and scrupulous when it is too late."

"Sinners?" replied Mazarin.  "Do you use that word ironically, and to 
reproach me with all the genealogies I have allowed to be made on my 
account - I - the son of a fisherman, in fact?"

[This is quite untranslatable - it being a play upon the words _pecheur_ 
(with a grave over the first e), a sinner, and _pecheur_ (with an accent 
circumflex over the first e), a fisherman.  It is in very bad taste. – 
TRANS.]

"Hum!" said the Theatin.

"That is a first sin, father; for I have allowed myself made to descend 
from two old Roman consuls, S. Geganius Macerinus 1st, Macerinus 2d, and 
Proculus Macerinus 3d, of whom the Chronicle of Haolander speaks.  From 
Macerinus to Mazarin the proximity was tempting.  Macerinus, a 
diminutive, means leanish, poorish, out of case.  Oh! reverend father!  
Mazarini may now be carried to the augmentative _Maigre_, thin as 
Lazarus.  Look!" - and he showed his fleshless arms.

"In your having been born of a family of fishermen I see nothing 
injurious to you; for - St. Peter was a fisherman; and if you are a 
prince of the church, my lord, he was the supreme head of it.  Pass on, 
if you please."

"So much the more for my having threatened with the Bastile a certain 
Bounet, a priest of Avignon, who wanted to publish a genealogy of the 
Casa Mazarini much too marvelous."

"To be probable?" replied the Theatin.

"Oh! if I had acted up to his idea, father, that would have been the vice 
of pride - another sin."

"It was an excess of wit, and a person is not to be reproached with such 
sorts of abuses.  Pass on, pass on!"

"I was all pride.  Look you, father, I will endeavor to divide that into 
capital sins."

"I like divisions, when well made."

"I am glad of that.  You must know that in 1630 - alas! that is thirty-
one years ago - "

"You were then twenty-nine years old, monseigneur."

"A hot-headed age.  I was then something of a soldier, and I threw myself 
at Casal into the arquebusades, to show that I rode on horseback as well 
as an officer.  It is true, I restored peace between the French and the 
Spaniards.  That redeems my sin a little."

"I see no sin in being able to ride well on horseback," said the Theatin; 
"that is in perfect good taste, and does honor to our gown.  As a 
Christian, I approve of your having prevented the effusion of blood; as a 
monk, I am proud of the bravery a monk has exhibited."

Mazarin bowed his head humbly.  "Yes," said he, "but the consequences?"

"What consequences?"

"Eh! that damned sin of pride has roots without end.  From the time that 
I threw myself in that manner between two armies, that I had smelt powder 
and faced lines of soldiers, I have held generals a little in contempt."

"Ah!" said the father.

"There is the evil; so that I have not found one endurable since that 
time."

"The fact is," said the Theatin, "that the generals we have had have not 
been remarkable."

"Oh!" cried Mazarin, "there was Monsieur le Prince.  I have tormented him 
thoroughly!"

"He is not much to be pitied: he has acquired sufficient glory, and 
sufficient wealth."

"That may be, for Monsieur le Prince; but M. Beaufort, for example - whom 
I held suffering so long in the dungeon of Vincennes?"

"Ah! but he was a rebel, and the safety of the state required that you 
should make a sacrifice.  Pass on!"

"I believe I have exhausted pride.  There is another sin which I am 
afraid to qualify."

"I can qualify it myself.  Tell it."

"A great sin, reverend father!"

"We shall judge, monseigneur."

"You cannot fail to have heard of certain relations which I have had – 
with her majesty the queen-mother; - the malevolent - "

"The malevolent, my lord, are fools.  Was it not necessary for the good 
of the state and the interests of the young king, that you should live in 
good intelligence with the queen?  Pass on, pass on!"

"I assure you," said Mazarin, "you remove a terrible weight from my 
breast."

"These are all trifles! - look for something serious."

"I have had much ambition, father."

"That is the march of great minds and things, my lord."

"Even the longing for the tiara?"

"To be pope is to be the first of Christians.  Why should you not desire 
that?"

"It has been printed that, to gain that object, I had sold Cambria to the 
Spaniards."

"You have, perhaps, yourself written pamphlets without severely 
persecuting pamphleteers."

"Then, reverend father, I have truly a clean breast.  I feel nothing 
remaining but slight peccadilloes."

"What are they?"

"Play."

"That is rather worldly: but you were obliged by the duties of greatness 
to keep a good house."

"I like to win."

"No player plays to lose."

"I cheated a little."

"You took your advantage.  Pass on."

"Well! reverend father, I feel nothing else upon my conscience.  Give me 
absolution, and my soul will be able, when God shall please to call it, 
to mount without obstacle to the throne - "

The Theatin moved neither his arms nor his lips.  "What are you waiting 
for, father?" said Mazarin.

"I am waiting for the end."

"The end of what?"

"Of the confession, monsieur."

"But I have ended."

"Oh, no; your eminence is mistaken."

"Not that I know of."

"Search diligently."

"I have searched as well as possible."

"Then I shall assist your memory."

"Do."

The Theatin coughed several times.  "You have said nothing of avarice, 
another capital sin, nor of those millions," said he.

"What millions, father?"

"Why, those you possess, my lord."

"Father, that money is mine, why should I speak to you about that?"

"Because, you see, our opinions differ.  You say that money is yours, 
whilst I - I believe it is rather the property of others."

Mazarin lifted his cold hand to his brow, which was beaded with 
perspiration.  "How so?" stammered he.

"This way.  Your excellency had gained much wealth - in the service of 
the king."

"Hum! much - that is, not too much."

"Whatever it may be, whence came that wealth?"

"From the state."

"The state; that is the king."

"But what do you conclude from that, father?" said Mazarin, who began to 
tremble.

"I cannot conclude without seeing a list of the riches you possess.  Let 
us reckon a little, if you please.  You have the bishopric of Metz?"

"Yes."

"The abbeys of St. Clement, St. Arnould, and St. Vincent, all at Metz?"

"Yes."

"You have the abbey of St. Denis, in France,  magnificent property?"

"Yes, father."

"You have the abbey of Cluny, which is rich?"

"I have."

"That of St. Medard at Soissons, with a revenue of one hundred thousand 
livres?"

"I cannot deny it."

"That of St. Victor, at Marseilles, - one of the best in the south?"

"Yes father."

"A good million a year.  With the emoluments of the cardinalship and the 
ministry, I say too little when I say two millions a year."

"Eh!"

"In ten years that is twenty millions - and twenty millions put out at 
fifty per cent. give, by progression, twenty-three millions in ten years."

"How well you reckon for a Theatin!"

"Since your eminence placed our order in the convent we occupy, near St. 
Germain des Pres, in 1644, I have kept the accounts of the society."

"And mine likewise, apparently, father."

"One ought to know a little of everything, my lord."

"Very well.  Conclude, at present."

"I conclude that your baggage is too heavy to allow you to pass through 
the gates of Paradise."

"Shall I be damned?"

"If you do not make restitution, yes."

Mazarin uttered a piteous cry.  "Restitution! - but to whom, good God?"

"To the owner of that money, - to the king."

"But the king did not give it all to me."

"One moment, - does not the king sign the _ordonances_?"

Mazarin passed from sighs to groans.  "Absolution! absolution!" cried he.

"Impossible, my lord.  Restitution! restitution!" replied the Theatin.

"But you absolve me from all other sins, why not from that?"

"Because," replied the father, "to absolve you for that motive would be a 
sin for which the king would never absolve me, my lord."

Thereupon the confessor quitted his penitent with an air full of 
compunction.  He then went out in the same manner he had entered.

"Oh, good God!" groaned the cardinal.  "Come here, Colbert, I am very, 
very ill indeed, my friend."


Chapter XLVI:
The Donation.

Colbert reappeared beneath the curtains.

"Have you heard?" said Mazarin.

"Alas! yes, my lord."

"Can he be right?  Can all this money be badly acquired?"

"A Theatin, monseigneur, is a bad judge in matters of finance," replied 
Colbert, coolly.  "And yet it is very possible that, according to his 
theological views, your eminence has been, in a certain degree, in the 
wrong.  People generally find they have been so, - when they die."

"In the first place, they commit the wrong of dying, Colbert."

"That is true, my lord.  Against whom, however, did the Theatin make out 
that you had committed these wrongs?  Against the king?"

Mazarin shrugged his shoulders.  "As if I had not saved both his state 
and his finances."

"That admits of no contradiction, my lord."

"Does it?  Then I have received a merely legitimate salary, in spite of 
the opinion of my confessor?"

"That is beyond doubt."

"And I might fairly keep for my own family, which is so needy, a good 
fortune, - the whole, even, of which I have earned?"

"I see no impediment to that, monseigneur."

"I felt assured that in consulting you, Colbert, I should have good 
advice," replied Mazarin, greatly delighted.

Colbert resumed his pedantic look.  "My lord," interrupted he, "I think 
it would be quite as well to examine whether what the Theatin said is not 
a _snare_."

"Oh! no; a snare?  What for?  The Theatin is an honest man."

"He believed your eminence to be at death's door, because your eminence 
consulted him.  Did I not hear him say - 'Distinguish that which the king 
has given you from that which you have given yourself.'  Recollect, my 
lord, if he did not say something a little like that to you? - that is 
quite a theatrical speech."

"That is possible."

"In which case, my lord, I should consider you as required by the Theatin 
to - "

"To make restitution!" cried Mazarin, with great warmth.

"Eh!  I do not say no."

"What, of all!  You do not dream of such a thing!  You speak just as the 
confessor did."

"To make restitution of a part, - that is to say, his majesty's part; and 
that, monseigneur, may have its dangers.  Your eminence is too skillful a 
politician not to know that, at this moment, the king does not possess a 
hundred and fifty thousand livres clear in his coffers."

"That is not my affair," said Mazarin, triumphantly; "that belongs to M. 
le Surintendant Fouquet, whose accounts I gave you to verify some months 
ago."

Colbert bit his lips at the name of Fouquet.  "His majesty," said he, 
between his teeth, "has no money but that which M. Fouquet collects: your 
money, monseigneur, would afford him a delicious banquet."

"Well, but I am not the superintendent of his majesty's finances - I have 
my purse - surely I would do much for his majesty's welfare - some legacy 
- but I cannot disappoint my family."

"The legacy of a part would dishonor you and offend the king.  Leaving a 
part to his majesty, is to avow that that part has inspired you with 
doubts as to the lawfulness of the means of acquisition."

"Monsieur Colbert!"

"I thought your eminence did me the honor to ask my advice?"

"Yes, but you are ignorant of the principal details of the question."

"I am ignorant of nothing, my lord; during ten years, all the columns of 
figures which are found in France, have passed into review before me; and 
if I have painfully nailed them into my brain, they are there now so well 
riveted, that, from the office of M. Letellier, who is sober, to the 
little secret largesses of M. Fouquet, who is prodigal, I could recite, 
figure by figure, all the money that is spent in France from Marseilles 
to Cherbourg."

"Then, you would have me throw all my money into the coffers of the 
king!" cried Mazarin, ironically; and from whom, at the same time the 
gout forced painful moans.  "Surely the king would reproach me with 
nothing, but he would laugh at me, while squandering my millions, and 
with good reason."

"Your eminence has misunderstood me.  I did not, the least in the world, 
pretend that his majesty ought to spend your money."

"You said so, clearly, it seems to me, when you advised me to give it to 
him."

"Ah," replied Colbert, "that is because your eminence, absorbed as you 
are by your disease, entirely loses sight of the character of Louis XIV."

"How so?"

"That character, if I may venture to express myself thus, resembles that 
which my lord confessed just now to the Theatin."

"Go on - that is?"

"Pride!  Pardon me, my lord, haughtiness, nobleness; kings have no pride, 
that is a human passion."

"Pride, - yes, you are right.  Next?"

"Well, my lord, if I have divined rightly, your eminence has but to give 
all your money to the king, and that immediately."

"But for what?" said Mazarin, quite bewildered.

"Because the king will not accept of the whole."

"What, and he a young man, and devoured by ambition?"

"Just so."

"A young man who is anxious for my death - "

"My lord!"

"To inherit, yes, Colbert, yes; he is anxious for my death, in order to 
inherit.  Triple fool that I am!  I would prevent him!"

"Exactly: if the donation were made in a certain form he would refuse it."

"Well; but how?"

"That is plain enough.  A young man who has yet done nothing - who burns 
to distinguish himself - who burns to reign alone, will never take 
anything ready built, he will construct for himself.  This prince, 
monseigneur, will never be content with the Palais Royal, which M. de 
Richelieu left him, nor with the Palais Mazarin, which you have had so 
superbly constructed, nor with the Louvre, which his ancestors inhabited; 
nor with St. Germain, where he was born.  All that does not proceed from 
himself, I predict, he will disdain."

"And you will guarantee, that if I give my forty millions to the king - "

"Saying certain things to him at the same time, I guarantee he will 
refuse them."

"But those things - what are they?"

"I will write them, if my lord will have the goodness to dictate them."

"Well, but, after all, what advantage will that be to me?"

"An enormous one.  Nobody will afterwards be able to accuse your eminence 
of that unjust avarice with which pamphleteers have reproached the most 
brilliant mind of the present age."

"You are right, Colbert, you are right; go, and seek the king, on my 
part, and take him my will."

"Your donation, my lord."

"But, if he should accept it; if he should even think of accepting it!"

"Then there would remain thirteen millions for your family, and that is a 
good round sum."

"But then you would be either a fool or a traitor."

"And I am neither the one nor the other, my lord.  You appear to be much 
afraid that the king will accept; you have a deal more reason to fear 
that he will not accept."

"But, see you, if he does not accept, I should like to guarantee my 
thirteen reserved millions to him - yes, I will do so - yes.  But my 
pains are returning, I shall faint.  I am very, very ill, Colbert; I am 
near my end!"

Colbert started.  The cardinal was indeed very ill; large drops of sweat 
flowed down upon his bed of agony, and the frightful pallor of a face 
streaming with water was a spectacle which the most hardened practitioner 
could not have beheld without much compassion.  Colbert was, without 
doubt, very much affected, for he quitted the chamber, calling Bernouin 
to attend to the dying man, and went into the corridor.  There, walking 
about with a meditative expression, which almost gave nobility to his 
vulgar head, his shoulders thrown up, his neck stretched out, his lips 
half open, to give vent to unconnected fragments of incoherent thoughts, 
he lashed up his courage to the pitch of the undertaking contemplated, 
whilst within ten paces of him, separated only by a wall, his master was 
being stifled by anguish which drew from him lamentable cries, thinking 
no more of the treasures of the earth, or of the joys of Paradise, but 
much of all the horrors of hell.  Whilst burning-hot napkins, physic, 
revulsives, and Guenaud, who was recalled, were performing their 
functions with increased activity, Colbert, holding his great head in 
both his hands, to compress within it the fever of the projects 
engendered by the brain, was meditating the tenor of the donation he 
would make Mazarin write, at the first hour of respite his disease should 
afford him.  It would appear as if all the cries of the cardinal, and all 
the attacks of death upon this representative of the past, were 
stimulants for the genius of this thinker with the bushy eyebrows, who 
was turning already towards the rising sun of a regenerated society.  
Colbert resumed his place at Mazarin's pillow at the first interval of 
pain, and persuaded him to dictate a donation thus conceived.

"About to appear before God, the Master of mankind, I beg the king, who 
was my master on earth, to resume the wealth which his bounty has 
bestowed upon me, and which my family would be happy to see pass into 
such illustrious hands.  The particulars of my property will be found – 
they are drawn up - at the first requisition of his majesty, or at the 
last sigh of his most devoted servant,

"JULES, _Cardinal de Mazarin._"

The cardinal sighed heavily as he signed this; Colbert sealed the packet, 
and carried it immediately to the Louvre, whither the king had returned.

He then went back to his own home, rubbing his hands with the confidence 
of  workman who has done a good day's work.


Chapter XLVII:
How Anne of Austria gave one Piece of Advice to Louis XIV., and how M. 
Fouquet gave him Another.

The news of the extreme illness of the cardinal had already spread, and 
attracted at least as much attention among the people of the Louvre as 
the news of the marriage of Monsieur, the king's brother, which had 
already been announced as an official fact.  Scarcely had Louis XIV. 
returned home, with his thoughts fully occupied with the various things 
he had seen and heard in the course of the evening, when an usher 
announced that the same crowd of courtiers who, in the morning, had 
thronged his _lever_, presented themselves again at his _coucher_, a 
remarkable piece of respect which, during the reign of the cardinal, the 
court, not very discreet in its performance, had accorded to the 
minister, without caring about displeasing the king.

But the minister had had, as we have said, an alarming attack of gout, 
and the tide of flattery was mounting towards the throne.  Courtiers have 
a marvelous instinct in scenting the turn of events; courtiers possess a 
supreme kind of science; they are diplomatists in throwing light upon the 
unraveling of complicated intrigues, captains in divining the issue of 
battles, and physicians in curing the sick.  Louis XIV., to whom his 
mother had taught this axiom, together with many others, understood at 
once that the cardinal must be very ill.

Scarcely had Anne of Austria conducted the young queen to her apartments 
and taken from her brow the head-dress of ceremony, when she went to see 
her son in his cabinet, where, alone, melancholy, and depressed, he was 
indulging, as if to exercise his will, in one of those terrible inward 
passions - king's passions - which create events when they break out, and 
with Louis XIV., thanks to his astonishing command over himself, became 
such benign tempests, that his most violent, his only passion, that 
which Saint Simon mentions with astonishment, was that famous fit of 
anger which he exhibited fifty years later, on the occasion of a little 
concealment of the Duc de Maine's, and which had for result a shower of 
blows inflicted with a cane upon the back of a poor valet who had stolen 
a biscuit.  The young king then was, as we have seen, a prey to a double 
excitement; and he said to himself as he looked in a glass, "O king! – 
king by name, and not in fact; - phantom, vain phantom art thou! - inert 
statue, which has no other power than that of provoking salutations from 
courtiers, when wilt thou be able to raise thy velvet arm, or clench thy 
silken hand? when wilt thou be able to open, for any purpose but to sigh, 
or smile, lips condemned to the motionless stupidity of the marbles in 
thy gallery?"

Then, passing his hand over his brow, and feeling the want of air, he 
approached a window, and looking down, saw below some horsemen talking 
together, and groups of timid observers.  These horsemen were a fraction 
of the watch: the groups were busy portions of the people, to whom a king 
is always a curious thing, the same as a rhinoceros, a crocodile, or a 
serpent.  He struck his brow with his open hand, crying, - "King of 
France! what a title!  People of France! what a heap of creatures!  I 
have just returned to my Louvre; my horses, just unharnessed, are still 
smoking, and I have created interest enough to induce scarcely twenty 
persons to look at me as I passed.  Twenty! what do I say? no; there were 
not twenty anxious to see the king of France.  There are not even ten 
archers to guard my palace of residence: archers, people, guards, all are 
at the Palais Royal!  Why, my good God! have not I, the king, the right 
to ask of you all that?"

"Because," said a voice, replying to his, and which sounded from the 
other side of the door of the cabinet, "because at the Palais Royal lies 
all the gold, - that is to say, all the power of him who desires to 
reign."

Louis turned round sharply.  The voice which had pronounced these words 
was that of Anne of Austria.  The king started, and advanced towards 
her.  "I hope," said he, "you majesty has paid no attention to the vain 
declamations which the solitude and disgust familiar to kings suggest to 
the happiest dispositions?"

"I only paid attention to one thing, my son, and that was, that you were 
complaining."

"Who!  I?  Not at all," said Louis XIV.; "no, in truth, you err, madame."

"What were you doing, then?"

"I thought I was under the ferule of my professor, and developing a 
subject of amplification."

"My son," replied Anne of Austria, shaking her head, "you are wrong not 
to trust my word; you are wrong not to grant me your confidence.  A day 
will come, and perhaps quickly, wherein you will have occasion to 
remember that axiom: - 'Gold is universal power; and they alone are kings 
who are all-powerful.'"

"Your intention," continued the king, "was not, however, to cast blame 
upon the rich men of this age, was it?"

"No," said the queen, warmly; "no, sire; they who are rich in this age, 
under your reign, are rich because you have been willing they should be 
so, and I entertain against them neither malice nor envy; they have, 
without doubt, served your majesty sufficiently well for your majesty to 
have permitted them to reward themselves.  That is what I mean to say by 
the words for which you reproach me."

"God forbid, madame, that I should ever reproach my mother with anything!"

"Besides," continued Anne of Austria, "the Lord never gives the goods of 
this world but for a season; the Lord - as correctives to honor and 
riches - the Lord has placed sufferings, sickness, and death; and no 
one," added she, with a melancholy smile, which proved she made the 
application of the funeral precept to herself, "no man can take his 
wealth or greatness with him to the grave.  It results, therefore, that 
the young gather the abundant harvest prepared for them by the old."

Louis listened with increased attention to the words which Anne of 
Austria, no doubt, pronounced with a view to console him.  "Madame," said 
he, looking earnestly at his mother, "one would almost say in truth that 
you had something else to announce to me."

"I have absolutely nothing, my son; only you cannot have failed to remark 
that his eminence the cardinal is very ill."

Louis looked at his mother, expecting some emotion in her voice, some 
sorrow in her countenance.  The face of Anne of Austria appeared a little 
changed, but that was from sufferings of quite a personal character.  
Perhaps the alteration was caused by the cancer which had begun to 
consume her breast.  "Yes, madame," said the king; "yes, M. de Mazarin is 
very ill."

"And it would be a great loss to the kingdom if God were to summon his 
eminence away.  Is not that your opinion as well as mine, my son?" said 
the queen.

"Yes, madame; yes, certainly, it would be a great loss for the kingdom," 
said Louis, coloring; "but the peril does not seem to me to be so great; 
besides, the cardinal is still young."  The king had scarcely ceased 
speaking when an usher lifted the tapestry, and stood with a paper in his 
hand, waiting for the king to speak to him.

"What have you there?" asked the king.

"A message from M. de Mazarin," replied the usher.

"Give it to me," said the king; and he took the paper.  But at the moment 
he was about to open it, there was a great noise in the gallery, the ante-
chamber, and the court.

"Ah, ah," said Louis XIV., who doubtless knew the meaning of that triple 
noise.  "How could I say there was but one king in France!  I was 
mistaken, there are two."

As he spoke or thought thus, the door opened, and the superintendent of 
finances, Fouquet, appeared before his nominal master.  It was he who 
made the noise in the ante-chamber, it was his horse that made the noise 
in the courtyard.  In addition to all this, a loud murmur was heard along 
his passage, which did not die away till some time after he had passed.  
It was this murmur which Louis XIV. regretted so deeply not hearing as he 
passed, and dying away behind him.

"He is not precisely a king, as you fancy," said Anne of Austria to her 
son; "he is only a man who is much too rich - that is all."

Whilst saying these words, a bitter feeling gave to these words of the 
queen a most hateful expression; whereas the brow of the king, calm and 
self-possessed, on the contrary, was without the slightest wrinkle.  He 
nodded, therefore, familiarly to Fouquet, whilst he continued to unfold 
the paper given to him by the usher.  Fouquet perceived this movement, 
and with a politeness at once easy and respectful, advanced towards the 
queen, so as not to disturb the king.  Louis had opened the paper, and 
yet he did not read it.  He listened to Fouquet paying the most charming 
compliments to the queen upon her hand and arm.  Anne of Austria's frown 
relaxed a little, she even almost smiled.  Fouquet perceived that the 
king, instead of reading, was looking at him; he turned half round, 
therefore, and while continuing his conversation with the queen, faced 
the king.

"You know, Monsieur Fouquet," said Louis, "how ill M. Mazarin is?"

"Yes, sire, I know that," said Fouquet; "in fact, he is very ill.  I was 
at my country-house of Vaux when the news reached me; and the affair 
seemed so pressing that I left at once."

"You left Vaux this evening, monsieur?"

"An hour and a half ago, yes, your majesty," said Fouquet, consulting a 
watch, richly ornamented with diamonds.

"An hour and a half!" said the king, still able to restrain his anger, 
but not to conceal his astonishment.

"I understand you, sire.  Your majesty doubts my word, and you have 
reason to do so; but I have really come in that time, though it is 
wonderful!  I received from England three pairs of very fast horses, as I 
had been assured.  They were placed at distances of four leagues apart, 
and I tried them this evening.  They really brought me from Vaux to the 
Louvre in an hour and a half, so your majesty sees I have not been 
cheated."  The queen-mother smiled with something like secret envy.  But 
Fouquet caught her thought.  "Thus, madame," he promptly said, "such 
horses are made for kings, not for subjects; for kings ought never to 
yield to any one in anything."

The king looked up.

"And yet," interrupted Anne of Austria, "you are not a king, that I know 
of, M. Fouquet."

"Truly not, madame; therefore the horses only await the orders of his 
majesty to enter the royal stables; and if I allowed myself to try them, 
it was only for fear of offering to the king anything that was not 
positively wonderful."

The king became quite red.

"You know, Monsieur Fouquet," said the queen, "that at the court of 
France it is not the custom for a subject to offer anything to his king."

Louis started.

"I hoped, madame," said Fouquet, much agitated, "that my love for his 
majesty, my incessant desire to please him, would serve to compensate the 
want of etiquette.  It was not so much a present that I permitted myself 
to offer, as the tribute I paid."

"Thank you, Monsieur Fouquet," said the king politely, "and I am 
gratified by your intention, for I love good horses; but you know I am 
not very rich; you, who are my superintendent of finances, know it better 
than any one else.  I am not able, then, however willing I may be, to 
purchase such a valuable set of horses."

Fouquet darted a haughty glance at the queen-mother, who appeared to 
triumph at the false position in which the minister had placed himself, 
and replied: -

"Luxury is the virtue of kings, sire: it is luxury which makes them 
resemble God; it is by luxury they are more than other men.  With luxury 
a king nourishes his subjects, and honors them.  Under the mild heat of 
this luxury of kings springs the luxury of individuals, a source of 
riches for the people.  His majesty, by accepting the gift of these six 
incomparable horses, would stimulate the pride of his own breeders, of 
Limousin, Perche, and Normandy; and this emulation would have been 
beneficial to all.  But the king is silent, and consequently I am 
condemned."

During this speech, Louis was, unconsciously, folding and unfolding 
Mazarin's paper, upon which he had not cast his eyes.  At length he 
glanced upon it, and uttered a faint cry at reading the first line.

"What is the matter, my son?" asked the queen, anxiously, and going 
towards the king.

"From the cardinal," replied the king, continuing to read; "yes, yes, it 
is really from him."

"Is he worse, then?"

"Read!" said the king, passing the parchment to his mother, as if he 
thought that nothing less than reading would convince Anne of Austria of 
a thing so astonishing as was conveyed in that paper.

Anne of Austria read in turn, and as she read, her eyes sparkled with joy 
all the greater from her useless endeavor to hide it, which attracted the 
attention of Fouquet.

"Oh! a regularly drawn up deed of gift," said she.

"A gift?" repeated Fouquet.

"Yes," said the king, replying pointedly to the superintendent of 
finances, "yes, at the point of death, monsieur le cardinal makes me a 
donation of all his wealth."

"Forty millions," cried the queen.  "Oh, my son! this is very noble on 
the part of his eminence, and will silence all malicious rumors; forty 
millions scraped together slowly, coming back all in one heap to the 
treasury!  It is the act of a faithful subject and a good Christian."  
And having once more cast her eyes over the act, she restored it to Louis 
XIV., whom the announcement of the sum greatly agitated.  Fouquet had 
taken some steps backwards and remained silent.  The king looked at him, 
and held the paper out to him, in turn.  The superintendent only bestowed 
a haughty look of a second upon it; then bowing, - "Yes, sire," said he, 
"a donation, I see."

"You must reply to it, my son," said Anne of Austria; "you must reply to 
it, and immediately."

"But how, madame?"

"By a visit to the cardinal."

"Why, it is but an hour since I left his eminence," said the king.

"Write, then, sire."

"Write!" said the young king, with evident repugnance.

"Well!" replied Anne of Austria, "it seems to me, my son, that a man who 
has just made such a present, has a good right to expect to be thanked 
for it with some degree of promptitude."  Then turning towards Fouquet: 
"Is not that likewise your opinion, monsieur?"

"That the present is worth the trouble?  Yes, madame," said Fouquet, with 
a lofty air that did not escape the king.

"Accept, then, and thank him," insisted Anne of Austria.

"What says M. Fouquet?" asked Louis XIV.

"Does your majesty wish to know my opinion?"

"Yes."

"Thank him, sire - "

"Ah!" said the queen.

"But do not accept," continued Fouquet.

"And why not?" asked the queen.

"You have yourself said why, madame," replied Fouquet; "because kings 
cannot and ought not to receive presents from their subjects."

The king remained silent between these two contrary opinions.

"But forty millions!" said Anne of Austria, in the same tone as that in 
which, at a later period, poor Marie Antoinette replied, "You will tell 
me as much!"

"I know," said Fouquet, laughing, "forty millions makes a good round sum, 
- such a sum as could almost tempt a royal conscience."

"But, monsieur," said Anne of Austria, "instead of persuading the king 
not to receive this present, recall to his majesty's mind, you, whose 
duty it is, that these forty millions are a fortune to him."

"It is precisely, madame, because these forty millions would be a fortune 
that I will say to the king, 'Sire, if it be not decent for a king to 
accept from a subject six horses, worth twenty thousand livres, it would 
be disgraceful for him to owe a fortune to another subject, more or less 
scrupulous in the choice of the materials which contributed to the 
building up of that fortune.'"

"It ill becomes you, monsieur, to give your king a lesson," said Anne of 
Austria; "better procure for him forty millions to replace those you make 
him lose."

"The king shall have them whenever he wishes," said the superintendent of 
finances, bowing.

"Yes, by oppressing the people," said the queen.

"And were they not oppressed, madame," replied Fouquet, "when they were 
made to sweat the forty millions given by this deed?  Furthermore, his 
majesty has asked my opinion, I have given it; if his majesty ask my 
concurrence, it will be the same."

"Nonsense! accept, my son, accept," said Anne of Austria.  "You are above 
reports and interpretations."

"Refuse, sire," said Fouquet.  "As long as a king lives, he has no other 
measure but his conscience, - no other judge than his own desires; but 
when dead, he has posterity, which applauds or accuses."

"Thank you, mother," replied Louis, bowing respectfully to the queen.  
"Thank you Monsieur, Fouquet," said he, dismissing the superintendent 
civilly.

"Do you accept?" asked Anne of Austria, once more.

"I shall consider of it," replied he, looking at Fouquet.


Chapter XLVIII:
Agony.

The day that the deed of gift had been sent to the king, the cardinal 
caused himself to be transported to Vincennes.  The king and the court 
followed him thither.  The last flashes of this torch still cast splendor 
enough around to absorb all other lights in its rays.  Besides, as it has 
been seen, the faithful satellite of his minister, young Louis XIV., 
marched to the last minute in accordance with his gravitation.  The 
disease, as Guenaud had predicted, had become worse; it was no longer an 
attack of gout, it was an attack of death; then there was another thing 
which made that agony more agonizing still, - and that was the agitation 
brought into his mind by the donation he had sent to the king, and which, 
according to Colbert, the king ought to send back unaccepted to the 
cardinal.  The cardinal had, as we have said, great faith in the 
predictions of his secretary; but the sum was a large one, and whatever 
might be the genius of Colbert, from time to time the cardinal thought to 
himself that the Theatin also might possibly have been mistaken, and 
there was at least as much chance of his not being damned, as there was 
of Louis XIV. sending back his millions.

Besides, the longer the donation was in coming back, the more Mazarin 
thought that forty millions were worth a little risk, particularly of so 
hypothetic a thing as the soul.  Mazarin, in his character of cardinal 
and prime minister, was almost an atheist, and quite a materialist.  
Every time that the door opened, he turned sharply round towards that 
door, expecting to see the return of his unfortunate donation; then, 
deceived in his hope, he fell back again with a sigh, and found his pains 
so much the greater for having forgotten them for an instant.

Anne of Austria had also followed the cardinal; her heart, though age had 
made it selfish, could not help evincing towards the dying man a sorrow 
which she owed him as a wife, according to some; and as a sovereign, 
according to others.  She had, in some sort, put on a mourning 
countenance beforehand, and all the court wore it as she did.

Louis, in order not to show on his face what was passing at the bottom of 
his heart, persisted in remaining in his own apartments, where his nurse 
alone kept him company; the more he saw the approach of the time when all 
constraint would be at an end, the more humble and patient he was, 
falling back upon himself, as all strong men do when they form great 
designs, in order to gain more spring at the decisive moment.  Extreme 
unction had been administered to the cardinal, who, faithful to his 
habits of dissimulation, struggled against appearances, and even against 
reality, receiving company in his bed, as if he only suffered from a 
temporary complaint.

Guenaud, on his part, preserved profound secrecy; wearied with visits and 
questions, he answered nothing but "his eminence is still full of youth 
and strength, but God wills that which He wills, and when He has decided 
that man is to be laid low, he will be laid low."  These words, which he 
scattered with a sort of discretion, reserve, and preference, were 
commented upon earnestly by two persons, - the king and the cardinal.  
Mazarin, notwithstanding the prophecy of Guenaud, still lured himself 
with a hope, or rather played his part so well, that the most cunning, 
when saying that he lured himself, proved that they were his dupes.

Louis, absent from the cardinal for two days; Louis, with his eyes fixed 
upon that same donation which so constantly preoccupied the cardinal; 
Louis did not exactly know how to make out Mazarin's conduct.  The son of 
Louis XIII., following the paternal traditions, had, up to that time, 
been so little of a king that, whilst ardently desiring royalty, he 
desired it with that terror which always accompanies the unknown.  Thus, 
having formed his resolution, which, besides, he communicated to nobody, 
he determined to have an interview with Mazarin.  It was Anne of Austria, 
who, constant in her attendance upon the cardinal, first heard this 
proposition of the king's, and transmitted it to the dying man, whom it 
greatly agitated.  For what purpose could Louis wish for an interview?  
Was it to return the deed, as Colbert had said he would?  Was it to keep 
it, after thanking him, as Mazarin thought he would?  Nevertheless, as 
the dying man felt that the uncertainty increased his torments, he did 
not hesitate an instant.

"His majesty will be welcome, - yes, very welcome," cried he, making a 
sign to Colbert, who was seated at the foot of the bed, and which the 
latter understood perfectly.  "Madame," continued Mazarin, "will your 
majesty be good enough to assure the king yourself of the truth of what I 
have just said?"

Anne of Austria rose; she herself was anxious to have the question of the 
forty millions settled - the question which seemed to lie heavy on the 
mind of everyone.  Anne of Austria went out; Mazarin made a great effort, 
and, raising himself up towards Colbert: "Well, Colbert," said he, "two 
days have passed away - two mortal days - and, you see, nothing has been 
returned from yonder."

"Patience, my lord," said Colbert.

"Are you mad, you wretch?  You advise me to have patience!  Oh, in sad 
truth, Colbert, you are laughing at me.  I am dying and you call out to 
me to wait!"

"My lord," said Colbert, with his habitual coolness, "it is impossible 
that things should not come out as I have said.  His majesty is coming to 
see you, and no doubt he brings back the deed himself."

"Do you think so?  Well, I, on the contrary, am sure that his majesty is 
coming to thank me."

At this moment Anne of Austria returned.  On her way to the apartments of 
her son she had met with a new empiric.  This was a powder which was said 
to have power to save the cardinal; and she brought a portion of this 
powder with her.  But this was not what Mazarin expected; therefore he 
would not even look at it, declaring that life was not worth the pains 
that were taken to preserve it.  But, whilst professing this 
philosophical axiom, his long-confined secret escaped him at last.

"That, madame," said he, "that is not the interesting part of my 
situation.  I made, two days ago, a little donation to the king; up to 
this time, from delicacy, no doubt, his majesty has not condescended to 
say anything about it; but the time for explanation is come, and I 
implore your majesty to tell me if the king has made up his mind on that 
matter."

Anne of Austria was about to reply, when Mazarin stopped her.

"The truth, madame," said he - "in the name of Heaven, the truth!  Do 
not flatter a dying man with a hope that may prove vain."  There he 
stopped, a look from Colbert telling him he was on the wrong track.

"I know," said Anne of Austria, taking the cardinal's hand, "I know that 
you have generously made, not a little donation, as you modestly call it, 
but a magnificent gift.  I know how painful it would be to you if the 
king - "

Mazarin listened, dying as he was, as ten living men could not have 
listened.

"If the king - " replied he.

"If the king," continued Anne of Austria, "should not freely accept what 
you offer so nobly."

Mazarin allowed himself to sink back upon his pillow like Pantaloon; that 
is to say, with all the despair of a man who bows before the tempest; but 
he still preserved sufficient strength and presence of mind to cast upon 
Colbert one of those looks which are well worth ten sonnets, which is to 
say, ten long poems.

"Should you not," added the queen, "have considered the refusal of the 
king as a sort of insult?"  Mazarin rolled his head about upon his 
pillow, without articulating a syllable.  The queen was deceived, or 
feigned to be deceived, by this demonstration.

"Therefore," resumed she, "I have circumvented him with good counsels; 
and as certain minds, jealous, no doubt, of the glory you are about to 
acquire by this generosity, have endeavored to prove to the king that he 
ought not to accept this donation, I have struggled in your favor, and so 
well I have struggled, that you will not have, I hope, that distress to 
undergo."

"Ah!" murmured Mazarin, with languishing eyes, "ah! that is a service I 
shall never forget for a single minute of the few hours I still have to 
live."

"I must admit," continued the queen, "that it was not without trouble I 
rendered it to your eminence."

"Ah, _peste!_  I believe that.  Oh! oh!"

"Good God! what is the matter?"

"I am burning!"

"Do you suffer much?"

"As much as one of the damned."

Colbert would have liked to sink through the floor.

"So, then," resumed Mazarin, "your majesty thinks that the king - " he 
stopped several seconds - "that the king is coming here to offer me some 
small thanks?"

"I think so," said queen.  Mazarin annihilated Colbert with his last look.

At that moment the ushers announced that the king was in the ante-
chambers, which were filled with people.  This announcement produced a 
stir of which Colbert took advantage to escape by the door of the 
_ruelle_.  Anne of Austria arose, and awaited her son, standing.  Louis 
XIV. appeared at the threshold of the door, with his eyes fixed upon the 
dying man, who did not even think it worth while to notice that majesty 
from whom he thought he had nothing more to expect.  An usher placed an 
armchair close to the bed.  Louis bowed to his mother, then to the 
cardinal, and sat down.  The queen took a seat in her turn.

Then, as the king looked behind him, the usher understood that look, and 
made a sign to the courtiers who filled up the doorway to go out, which 
they instantly did.  Silence fell upon the chamber with the velvet 
curtains.  The king, still very young, and very timid in the presence of 
him who had been his master from his birth, still respected him much, 
particularly now, in the supreme majesty of death.  He did not dare, 
therefore, to begin the conversation, feeling that every word must have 
its weight not only upon things of this world, but of the next.  As to 
the cardinal, at that moment he had but one thought - his donation.  It 
was not physical pain which gave him that air of despondency, and that 
lugubrious look; it was the expectation of the thanks that were about to 
issue from the king's mouth, and cut off all hope of restitution.  
Mazarin was the first to break the silence.  "Is your majesty come to 
make any stay at Vincennes?" said he.

Louis made an affirmative sign with his head.

"That is a gracious favor," continued Mazarin, "granted to a dying man, 
and which will render death less painful to him."

"I hope," replied the king, "I am come to visit, not a dying man, but a 
sick man, susceptible of cure."

Mazarin replied by a movement of the head.

"Your majesty is very kind; but I know more than you on that subject.  
The last visit, sire," said he, "the last visit."

"If it were so, monsieur le cardinal," said Louis, "I would come a last 
time to ask the counsels of a guide to whom I owe everything."

Anne of Austria was a woman; she could not restrain her tears.  Louis 
showed himself much affected, and Mazarin still more than his two guests, 
but from very different motives.  Here the silence returned.  The queen 
wiped her eyes, and the king resumed his firmness.

"I was saying," continued the king, "that I owed much to your eminence."  
The eyes of the cardinal had devoured the king, for he felt the great 
moment had come.  "And," continued Louis, "the principal object of my 
visit was to offer you very sincere thanks for the last evidence of 
friendship you have kindly sent me."

The cheeks of the cardinal became sunken, his lips partially opened, and 
the most lamentable sigh he had ever uttered was about to issue from his 
chest.

"Sire," said he, "I shall have despoiled my poor family; I shall have 
ruined all who belong to me, which may be imputed to me as an error; but, 
at least, it shall not be said of me that I have refused to sacrifice 
everything to my king."

Anne of Austria's tears flowed afresh.

"My dear Monsieur Mazarin," said the king, in a more serious tone than 
might have been expected from his youth, "you have misunderstood me, 
apparently."

Mazarin raised himself upon his elbow.

"I have no purpose to despoil your dear family, nor to ruin your 
servants.  Oh, no, that must never be!"

"Humph!" thought Mazarin, "he is going to restore me some scraps; let us 
get the largest piece we can."

"The king is going to be foolishly affected and play generous," thought 
the queen; "he must not be allowed to impoverish himself; such an 
opportunity for getting a fortune will never occur again."

"Sire," said the cardinal, aloud, "my family is very numerous, and my 
nieces will be destitute when I am gone."

"Oh," interrupted the queen, eagerly, "have no uneasiness with respect to 
your family, dear Monsieur Mazarin; we have no friends dearer than your 
friends; your nieces shall be my children, the sisters of his majesty; 
and if a favor be distributed in France, it shall be to those you love."

"Smoke!" thought Mazarin, who knew better than any one the faith that can 
be put in the promises of kings.  Louis read the dying man's thought in 
his face.

"Be comforted, my dear Monsieur Mazarin," said he, with a half-smile, sad 
beneath its irony; "the Mesdemoiselles de Mancini will lose, in losing 
you, their most precious good; but they shall none the less be the 
richest heiresses of France; and since you have been kind enough to give 
me their dowry" - the cardinal was panting - "I restore it to them," 
continued Louis, drawing from his breast and holding towards the 
cardinal's bed the parchment which contained the donation that, during 
two days, had kept alive such tempests in the mind of Mazarin.

"What did I tell you, my lord?" murmured in the alcove a voice which 
passed away like a breath.

"Your majesty returns my donation!" cried Mazarin, so disturbed by joy as 
to forget his character of a benefactor.

"Your majesty rejects the forty millions!" cried Anne of Austria, so 
stupefied as to forget her character of an afflicted wife, or queen.

"Yes, my lord cardinal; yes, madame," replied Louis XIV., tearing the 
parchment which Mazarin had not yet ventured to clutch; "yes, I 
annihilate this deed, which despoiled a whole family.  The wealth 
acquired by his eminence in my service is his own wealth and not mine."

"But, sire, does your majesty reflect," said Anne of Austria, "that you 
have not ten thousand crowns in your coffers?"

"Madame, I have just performed my first royal action, and I hope it will 
worthily inaugurate my reign."

"Ah! sire, you are right!" cried Mazarin; "that is truly great - that is 
truly generous which you have just done."  And he looked, one after the 
other, at the pieces of the act spread over his bed, to assure himself 
that it was the original and not a copy that had been torn.  At length 
his eyes fell upon the fragment which bore his signature, and recognizing 
it, he sunk back on his bolster in a swoon.  Anne of Austria, without 
strength to conceal her regret, raised her hands and eyes towards heaven.

"Oh! sire," cried Mazarin, "may you be blessed!  My God!  May you be 
beloved by all my family.  _Per Baccho!_  If ever any of those belonging 
to me should cause your displeasure, sire, only frown, and I will rise 
from my tomb!"

This _pantalonnade_ did not produce all the effect Mazarin had counted 
upon.  Louis had already passed to considerations of a higher nature, and 
as to Anne of Austria, unable to bear, without abandoning herself to the 
anger she felt burning within her, the magnanimity of her son and the 
hypocrisy of the cardinal, she arose and left the chamber, heedless of 
thus betraying the extent of her grief.  Mazarin saw all this, and 
fearing that Louis XIV. might repent his decision, in order to draw 
attention another way he began to cry out, as, at a later period, Scapin 
was to cry out, in that sublime piece of pleasantry with which the morose 
and grumbling Boileau dared to reproach Moliere.  His cries, however, by 
degrees, became fainter; and when Anne of Austria left the apartment, 
they ceased altogether.

"Monsieur le cardinal," said the king, "have you any recommendations to 
make me?"

"Sire," replied Mazarin, "you are already wisdom itself, prudence 
personified; of your generosity I shall not venture to speak; that which 
you have just done exceeds all that the most generous men of antiquity or 
of modern times have ever done."

The king received this praise coldly.

"So you confine yourself," said he, "to your thanks - and your 
experience, much more extensive than my wisdom, my prudence, or my 
generosity, does not furnish you with a single piece of friendly advice 
to guide my future."  Mazarin reflected for a moment.  "You have just 
done much for me, sire," said he, "that is, for my family."

"Say no more about that," said the king.

"Well!" continued Mazarin, "I shall give you something in exchange for 
these forty millions you have refused so royally."

Louis XIV. indicated by a movement that these flatteries were displeasing 
to him.  "I shall give you a piece of advice," continued Mazarin; "yes, a 
piece of advice - advice more precious than the forty millions."

"My lord cardinal!" interrupted Louis.

"Sire, listen to this advice."

"I am listening."

"Come nearer, sire, for I am weak! - nearer, sire, nearer!"

The king bent over the dying man.  "Sire," said Mazarin, in so low a tone 
that the breath of his words arrived only like a recommendation from the 
tomb in the attentive ears of the king - "Sire, never have a prime 
minister."

Louis drew back astonished.  The advice was a confession - a treasure, in 
fact, was that sincere confession of Mazarin.  The legacy of the cardinal 
to the young king was composed of six words only, but those six words, as 
Mazarin had said, were worth forty millions.  Louis remained for an 
instant bewildered.  As for Mazarin, he appeared only to have said 
something quite natural.  A little scratching was heard along the 
curtains of the alcove.  Mazarin understood: "Yes, yes!" cried he, 
warmly, "yes, sire, I recommend to you a wise man, an honest man, and a 
clever man."

"Tell me his name, my lord."

"His name is yet almost unknown, sire; it is M. Colbert, my attendant.  
Oh! try him," added Mazarin, in an earnest voice; "all that he has 
predicted has come to pass; he has a safe glance, he is never mistaken 
either in things or in men - which is more surprising still.  Sire, I owe 
you much, but I think I acquit myself of all towards you in giving you M. 
Colbert."

"So be it," said Louis, faintly, for, as Mazarin had said, the name of 
Colbert was quite unknown to him, and he thought the enthusiasm of the 
cardinal partook of the delirium of a dying man.  The cardinal sank back 
on his pillows.

"For the present, adieu, sire! adieu," murmured Mazarin.  "I am tired, 
and I have yet a rough journey to take before I present myself to my new 
Master.  Adieu, sire!"

The young king felt the tears rise to his eyes; he bent over the dying 
man, already half a corpse, and then hastily retired.


Chapter XLIX:
The First Appearance of Colbert.

The whole night was passed in anguish, common to the dying man and to the 
king: the dying man expected his deliverance, the king awaited his 
liberty.  Louis did not go to bed.  An hour after leaving the chamber of 
the cardinal, he learned that the dying man, recovering a little 
strength, had insisted upon being dressed, adorned and painted, and 
seeing the ambassadors.  Like Augustus, he no doubt considered the world 
a great stage, and was desirous of playing out the last act of the 
comedy.  Anne of Austria reappeared no more in the cardinal's apartments; 
she had nothing more to do there.  Propriety was the pretext for her 
absence.  On his part, the cardinal did not ask for her: the advice the 
queen had giver her son rankled in his heart.

Towards midnight, while still painted, Mazarin's mortal agony came on.  
He had revised his will, and as this will was the exact expression of his 
wishes, and as he feared that some interested influence might take 
advantage of his weakness to make him change something in it, he had 
given orders to Colbert, who walked up and down the corridor which led to 
the cardinal's bed-chamber, like the most vigilant of sentinels.  The 
king, shut up in his own apartment, dispatched his nurse every hour to 
Mazarin's chamber, with orders to bring him back an exact bulletin of the 
cardinal's state.  After having heard that Mazarin was dressed, painted, 
and had seen the ambassadors, Louis herd that the prayers for the dying 
were being read for the cardinal.  At one o'clock in the morning, Guenaud 
had administered the last remedy.  This was a relic of the old customs of 
that fencing time, which was about to disappear to give place to another 
time, to believe that death could be kept off by some good secret 
thrust.  Mazarin, after having taken the remedy, respired freely for 
nearly ten minutes.  He immediately gave orders that the news should be 
spread everywhere of a fortunate crisis.  The king, on learning this, 
felt as if a cold sweat were passing over his brow; - he had had a 
glimpse of the light of liberty; slavery appeared to him more dark and 
less acceptable than ever.  But the bulletin which followed entirely 
changed the face of things.  Mazarin could no longer breathe at all, and 
could scarcely follow the prayers which the cure of Saint-Nicholas-des-
Champs recited near him.  The king resumed his agitated walk about his 
chamber, and consulted, as he walked, several papers drawn from a casket 
of which he alone had the key.  A third time the nurse returned.  M. de 
Mazarin had just uttered a joke, and had ordered his "Flora," by Titian, 
to be revarnished.  At length, towards two o'clock in the morning, the 
king could no longer resist his weariness: he had not slept for twenty-
four hours.  Sleep, so powerful at his age, overcame him for about an 
hour.  But he did not go to bed for that hour; he slept in a _fauteuil_.  
About four o'clock his nurse awoke him by entering the room.

"Well?" asked the king.

"Well, my dear sire," said the nurse, clasping her hands with an air of 
commiseration.  "Well; he is dead!"

The king arose at a bound, as if a steel spring had been applied to his 
legs.  "Dead!" cried he.

"Alas! yes."

"Is it quite certain?"

"Yes."

"Official?"

"Yes."

"Has the news been made public?"

"Not yet."

"Who told you, then, that the cardinal was dead?"

"M. Colbert."

"M. Colbert?"

"Yes."

"And he was sure of what he said?"

"He came out of the chamber, and had held a glass for some minutes before 
the cardinal's lips."

"Ah!" said the king.  "And what is become of M. Colbert?"

"He has just left his eminence's chamber."

"Where is he?"

"He followed me."

"So that he is - "

"Sire, waiting at your door, till it shall be your good pleasure to 
receive him."

Louis ran to the door, opened it himself, and perceived Colbert standing 
waiting in the passage.  The king started at sight of this statue, all 
clothed in black.  Colbert, bowing with profound respect, advanced two 
steps towards his majesty.  Louis re-entered his chamber, making Colbert 
a sign to follow.  Colbert entered; Louis dismissed the nurse, who closed 
the door as she went out.  Colbert remained modestly standing near that 
door.

"What do you come to announce to me, monsieur?" said Louis, very much 
troubled at being thus surprised in his private thoughts, which he could 
not completely conceal.

"That monsieur le cardinal has just expired, sire; and that I bring your 
majesty his last adieu."

The king remained pensive for a minute; and during that minute he looked 
attentively at Colbert; - it was evident that the cardinal's last words 
were in his mind.  "Are you, then, M. Colbert?" asked he.

"Yes, sire."

"His faithful servant, as his eminence himself told me?"

"Yes, sire."

"The depositary of many of his secrets?"

"Of all of them."

"The friends and servants of his eminence will be dear to me, monsieur, 
and I shall take care that you are well placed in my employment."

Colbert bowed.

"You are a financier, monsieur, I believe?"

"Yes, sire."

"And did monsieur le cardinal employ you in his stewardship?"

"I had that honor, sire."

"You never did anything personally for my household, I believe?"

"Pardon me, sire, it was I who had the honor of giving monsieur le 
cardinal the idea of an economy which puts three hundred thousand francs 
a year into your majesty's coffers."

"What economy was that, monsieur?" asked Louis XIV.

"Your majesty knows that the hundred Swiss have silver lace on each side 
of their ribbons?"

"Doubtless."

"Well, sire, it was I who proposed that imitation silver lace should be 
placed upon these ribbons; it could not be detected, and a hundred 
thousand crowns serve to feed a regiment during six months; and is the 
price of ten thousand good muskets or the value of a vessel of ten guns, 
ready for sea."

"That is true," said Louis XIV., considering more attentively, "and, _ma 
foi!_ that was a well placed economy; besides, it was ridiculous for 
soldiers to wear the same lace as noblemen."

"I am happy to be approved of by your majesty."

"Is that the only appointment you held about the cardinal?" asked the 
king.

"It was I who was appointed to examine the accounts of the 
superintendent, sire."

"Ah!" said Louis, who was about to dismiss Colbert, but whom that word 
stopped; "ah! it was you whom his eminence had charged to control M. 
Fouquet, was it?  And the result of that examination?"

"Is that there is a deficit, sire; but if your majesty will permit me - "

"Speak, M. Colbert."

"I ought to give your majesty some explanations."

"Not at all, monsieur, it is you who have controlled these accounts; give 
me the result."

"That is very easily done, sire: emptiness everywhere, money nowhere."

"Beware, monsieur; you are roughly attacking the administration of M. 
Fouquet, who, nevertheless, I have heard say, is an able man."

Colbert colored, and then became pale, for he felt that from that minute 
he entered upon a struggle with a man whose power almost equaled the sway 
of him who had just died.  "Yes, sire, a very able man," repeated 
Colbert, bowing.

"But if M. Fouquet is an able man, and, in spite of that ability, if 
money be wanting, whose fault is it?"

"I do not accuse, sire, I verify."

"That is well; make out your accounts, and present them to me.  There is 
a deficit, you say?  A deficit may be temporary; credit returns and funds 
are restored."

"No, sire."

"Upon this year, perhaps, I understand that; but upon next year?"

"Next year is eaten as bare as the current year."

"But the year after, then?"

"Will be just like next year."

"What do you tell me, Monsieur Colbert?"

"I say there are four years engaged beforehand."

"They must have a loan, then."

"They must have three, sire."

"I will create offices to make them resign, and the salary of the posts 
shall be paid into the treasury."

"Impossible, sire, for there have already been creations upon creations 
of offices, the provisions of which are given in blank, so that the 
purchasers enjoy them without filling them.  That is why your majesty 
cannot make them resign.  Further, upon each agreement M. Fouquet has 
made an abatement of a third, so that the people have been plundered, 
without your majesty profiting by it."

The king started.  "Explain me that, M. Colbert," he said.

"Let your majesty set down clearly your thought, and tell me what you 
wish me to explain."

"You are right, clearness is what you wish, is it not?"

"Yes, sire, clearness.  God is God above all things, because He made 
light."

"Well, for example," resumed Louis XIV., "if to-day, the cardinal being 
dead, and I being king, suppose I wanted money?"

"Your majesty would not have any."

"Oh! that is strange, monsieur!  How! my superintendent would not find me 
any money?"

Colbert shook his large head.

"How is that?" said the king; "is the income of the state so much in debt 
that there is no longer any revenue?"

"Yes, sire."

The king frowned and said, "If it be so, I will get together the 
_ordonnances_ to obtain a discharge from the holders, a liquidation at a 
cheap rate."

"Impossible, for the _ordonnances_ have been converted into bills, which 
bills, for the convenience of return and facility of transaction, are 
divided into so many parts that the originals can no longer be 
recognized."

Louis, very much agitated, walked about, still frowning.  "But, if this 
is as you say, Monsieur Colbert," said he, stopping all at once, "I shall 
be ruined before I begin to reign."

"You are, in fact, sire," said the impassible caster-up of figures.

"Well, but yet, monsieur, the money is somewhere?"

"Yes, sire, and even as a beginning, I bring your majesty a note of funds 
which M. le Cardinal Mazarin was not willing to set down in his 
testament, neither in any act whatever, but which he confided to me."

"To you?"

"Yes, sire, with an injunction to remit it to your majesty."

"What! besides the forty millions of the testament?"

"Yes, sire."

"M. de Mazarin had still other funds?"

Colbert bowed.

"Why, that man was a gulf!" murmured the king.  "M. de Mazarin on one 
side, M. Fouquet on the other, - more than a hundred millions perhaps 
between them!  No wonder my coffers should be empty!"  Colbert waited 
without stirring.

"And is the sum you bring me worth the trouble?" asked the king.

"Yes, sire, it is a round sum."

"Amounting to how much?"

"To thirteen millions of livres, sire."

"Thirteen millions!" cried Louis, trembling with joy; "do you say 
thirteen millions, Monsieur Colbert?"

"I said thirteen millions, yes, your majesty."

"Of which everybody is ignorant?"

"Of which everybody is ignorant."

"Which are in your hands?"

"In my hands, yes, sire."

"And which I can have?"

"Within two hours, sire."

"But where are they, then?"

"In the cellar of a house which the cardinal possessed in the city, and 
which he was so kind as to leave me by a particular clause of his will."

"You are acquainted with the cardinal's will, then?"

"I have a duplicate of it, signed by his hand."

"A duplicate?"

"Yes, sire, and here it is."  Colbert drew the deed quietly from his 
pocket, and showed it to the king.  The king read the article relative to 
the donation of the house.

"But," said he, "there is no question here but of the house; there is 
nothing said of the money."

"Your pardon, sire, it is in my conscience."

"And Monsieur Mazarin has intrusted it to you?"

"Why not, sire?"

"He! a man mistrustful of everybody?"

"He was not so of me, sire, as your majesty may perceive."

Louis fixed his eyes with admiration upon that vulgar but expressive 
face.  "You are an honest man, M. Colbert," said the king.

"That is not a virtue, it is a duty," replied Colbert, coolly.

"But," added Louis, "does not the money belong to the family?"

"If this money belonged to the family it would be disposed of in the 
testament, as the rest of the fortune is.  If this money belonged to the 
family, I, who drew up the deed of donation in favor of your majesty, 
should have added the sum of thirteen millions to that of forty millions 
which was offered to you."

"How!" exclaimed Louis XIV., "was it you who drew up the deed of 
donation?"

"Yes, sire."

"And yet the cardinal was attached to you?" added the king, ingenuously.

"I had assured his eminence you would by no means accept the gift," said 
Colbert, in that same quiet manner we have described, and which, even in 
the common habits of life, had something solemn in it.

Louis passed his hand over his brow: "Oh! how young I am," murmured he, 
"to have command of men."

Colbert waited the end of this monologue.  He saw Louis raise his head.  
"At what hour shall I send the money to your majesty?" asked he.

"To-night, at eleven o'clock; I desire that no one may know that I 
possess this money."

Colbert made no more reply than if the thing had not been said to him.

"Is the amount in ingots, or coined gold?"

"In coined gold, sire."

"That is well."

"Where shall I send it?"

"To the Louvre.  Thank you, M. Colbert."

Colbert bowed and retired.  "Thirteen millions!" exclaimed Louis, as soon 
as he was alone.  "This must be a dream!"  Then he allowed his head to 
sink between his hands, as if he were really asleep.  But, at the end of 
a moment, he arose, and opening the window violently, he bathed his 
burning brow in the keen morning air, which brought to his senses the 
scent of the trees, and the perfume of the flowers.  A splendid dawn was 
gilding the horizon, and the first rays of the sun bathed in flame the 
young king's brow.  "This is the dawn of my reign," murmured Louis XIV.  
"It's a presage sent by the Almighty."


Chapter L:
The First Day of the Royalty of Louis XIV.

In the morning, the news of the death of the cardinal was spread through 
the castle, and thence speedily reached the city.  The ministers Fouquet, 
Lyonne, and Letellier entered _la salle des seances_, to hold a council.  
The king sent for them immediately.  "Messieurs," said he," as long as 
monsieur le cardinal lived, I allowed him to govern my affairs; but now I 
mean to govern them myself.  You will give me your advice when I ask it.  
You may go."

The ministers looked at each other with surprise.  If they concealed a 
smile it was with a great effort, for they knew that the prince, brought 
up in absolute ignorance of business, by this took upon himself a burden 
much too heavy for his strength.  Fouquet took leave of his colleagues 
upon the stairs, saying: - "Messieurs! there will be so much the less 
labor for us."

And he gayly climbed into his carriage.  The others, a little uneasy at the 
turn things had taken, went back to Paris together.  Towards ten o'clock 
the king repaired to the apartment of his mother, with whom he had a long 
and private conversation.  After dinner, he got into his carriage, and 
went straight to the Louvre.  There he received much company, and took a 
degree of pleasure in remarking the hesitation of each, and the curiosity 
of all.  Towards evening he ordered the doors of the Louvre to be closed, 
with the exception of only one, which opened on the quay.  He placed on 
duty at this point two hundred Swiss, who did not speak a word of French, 
with orders to admit all who carried packages, but no others; and by no 
means to allow any one to go out.  At eleven o'clock precisely, he heard 
the rolling of a heavy carriage under the arch, then of another, then of 
a third; after which the gate grated upon its hinges to be closed.  Soon 
after, somebody scratched with his nail at the door of the cabinet.  The 
king opened it himself, and beheld Colbert, whose first word was this: - 
"The money is in your majesty's cellar."

The king then descended and went himself to see the barrels of specie, in 
gold and silver, which, under the direction of Colbert, four men had just 
rolled into a cellar of which the king had given Colbert the key in the 
morning.  This review completed, Louis returned to his apartments, 
followed by Colbert, who had not apparently warmed with one ray of 
personal satisfaction.

"Monsieur," said the king, "what do you wish that I should give you, as a 
recompense for this devotedness and probity?"

"Absolutely nothing, sire."

"How! nothing?  Not even an opportunity of serving me?"

"If your majesty were not to furnish me with that opportunity, I should 
not the less serve you.  It is impossible for me not to be the best 
servant of the king."

"You shall be intendant of the finances, M. Colbert."

"But there is already a superintendent, sire."

"I know that."

"Sire, the superintendent of the finances is the most powerful man in the 
kingdom."

"Ah!" cried Louis, coloring, "do you think so?"

"He will crush me in a week, sire.  Your majesty gives me a _controle_ 
for which strength is indispensable.  An intendant under a 
superintendent, - that is inferiority."

"You want support - you do not reckon upon me?"

"I had the honor of telling your majesty, that during the lifetime of M. 
de Mazarin, M. Fouquet was the second man in the kingdom; now M. de 
Mazarin is dead, M. Fouquet is become the first."

"Monsieur, I agree to what you told me of all things up to to-day; but to-
morrow, please to remember, I shall no longer suffer it."

"Then I shall be of no use to your majesty?"

"You are already, since you fear to compromise yourself in serving me."

"I only fear to be placed so that I cannot serve your majesty."

"What do you wish, then?"

"I wish your majesty to allow me assistance in the labors of the office 
of intendant."

"That post would lose its value."

"It would gain in security."

"Choose your colleagues."

"Messieurs Breteuil, Marin, Hervart."

"To-morrow the _ordonnance_ shall appear."

"Sire, I thank you."

"Is that all you ask?"

"No, sire, one thing more."

"What is that?"

"Allow me to compose a chamber of justice."

"What would this chamber of justice do?"

"Try the farmers-general and contractors, who, during ten years, have 
been robbing the state."

"Well, but what would you do with them?"

"Hang two or three, and that would make the rest disgorge."

"I cannot commence my reign with executions, Monsieur Colbert."

"On the contrary, sire, you had better, in order not to have to end with 
them."

The king made no reply.  "Does your majesty consent?" said Colbert.

"I will reflect upon it, monsieur."

"It will be too late when reflection may be made."

"Why?"

"Because you have to deal with people stronger than ourselves, if they 
are warned."

"Compose that chamber of justice, monsieur."

"I will, sire."

"Is that all?"

"No, sire; there is still another important affair.  What rights does 
your majesty attach to this office of intendant?"

"Well - I do not know - the customary ones."

"Sire, I desire that this office be invested with the right of reading 
the correspondence with England."

"Impossible, monsieur, for that correspondence is kept from the council; 
monsieur le cardinal himself carried it on."

"I thought your majesty had this morning declared that there should no 
longer be a council?"

"Yes, I said so."

"Let your majesty then have the goodness to read all the letters 
yourself, particularly those from England; I hold strongly to this 
article."

"Monsieur, you shall have that correspondence, and render me an account 
of it."

"Now, sire, what shall I do with respect to the finances?"

"Everything M. Fouquet has _not_ done."

"That is all I ask of your majesty.  Thanks, sire, I depart in peace;" 
and at these words he took his leave.  Louis watched his departure.  
Colbert was not yet a hundred paces from the Louvre when the king 
received a courier from England.  After having looked at and examined 
the envelope, the king broke the seal precipitately, and found a letter 
from Charles II.  The following is what the English prince wrote to his 
royal brother: -

"Your majesty must be rendered very uneasy by the illness of M. le 
Cardinal Mazarin; but the excess of danger can only prove of service to 
you.  The cardinal is given over by his physician.  I thank you for the 
gracious reply you have made to my communication touching the Princess 
Henrietta, my sister, and, in a week, the princess and her court will set 
out for Paris.  It is gratifying to me to acknowledge the fraternal 
friendship you have evinced towards me, and to call you, more justly than 
ever, my brother.  It is gratifying to me, above everything, to prove to 
your majesty how much I am interested in all that may please you.  You 
are wrong in having Belle-Isle-en-Mer secretly fortified.  That is 
wrong.  We shall never be at war against each other.  That measure does 
not make me uneasy, it makes me sad.  You are spending useless millions; 
tell your ministers so; and rest assured that I am well informed; render 
me the same service, my brother, if occasion offers."

The king rang his bell violently, and his _valet de chambre_ appeared.  
"Monsieur Colbert is just gone; he cannot be far off.  Let him be called 
back!" exclaimed he.

The valet was about to execute the order, when the king stopped him.

"No," said he, "no; I see the whole scheme of that man.  Belle-Isle 
belongs to M. Fouquet; Belle-Isle is being fortified: that is a 
conspiracy on the part of M. Fouquet.  The discovery of that conspiracy 
is the ruin of the superintendent, and that discovery is the result of 
the correspondence with England: this is why Colbert wished to have that 
correspondence.  Oh! but I cannot place all my dependence upon that man; 
he has a good head, but I must have an arm!"  Louis, all at once, uttered 
a joyful cry.  "I had," said he, "a lieutenant of musketeers!"

"Yes, sire - Monsieur d'Artagnan."

"He quitted the service for a time."

"Yes, sire."

"Let him be found, and be here to-morrow the first thing in the morning."

The _valet de chambre_ bowed and went out.

"Thirteen millions in my cellar," said the king; "Colbert carrying my 
purse and D'Artagnan my sword - _I am king_."


Chapter LI:
A Passion.

The day of his arrival, on returning from the Palais Royal, Athos, as we 
have seen, went straight to his hotel in the Rue Saint-Honore.  He there 
found the Vicomte de Bragelonne waiting for him in his chamber, chatting 
with Grimaud.  It was not an easy thing to talk with this old servant.  
Two men only possessed the secret, Athos and D'Artagnan.  The first 
succeeded, because Grimaud sought to make him speak himself; D'Artagnan, 
on the contrary, because he knew how to make Grimaud talk.  Raoul was 
occupied in making him describe the voyage to England, and Grimaud had 
related it in all its details, with a limited number of gestures and 
eight words, neither more nor less.  He had, at first, indicated by an 
undulating movement of his hand, that his master and he had crossed the 
sea.  "Upon some expedition?" Raoul had asked.

Grimaud by bending down his head had answered, "Yes."

"When monsieur le comte incurred much danger?" asked Raoul.

"Neither too much nor too little," was replied by a shrug of the 
shoulders.

"But still, what sort of danger?" insisted Raoul.

Grimaud pointed to the sword; he pointed to the fire and to a musket that 
was hanging on the wall.

"Monsieur le comte had an enemy there, then?" cried Raoul.

"Monk," replied Grimaud.

"It is strange," continued Raoul, "that monsieur le comte persists in 
considering me a novice, and not allowing me to partake the honor and 
danger of his adventure."

Grimaud smiled.  It was at this moment Athos came in.  The host was 
lighting him up the stairs, and Grimaud, recognizing the step of his 
master, hastened to meet him, which cut short the conversation.  But 
Raoul was launched on the sea of interrogatories, and did not stop.  
Taking both hands of the comte, with warm, but respectful tenderness, - 
"How is it, monsieur," said he, "that you have set out upon a dangerous 
voyage without bidding me adieu, without commanding the aid of my sword, 
of myself, who ought to be your support, now I have the strength; whom 
you have brought up like a man?  Ah! monsieur, can you expose me to the 
cruel trial of never seeing you again?"

"Who told you, Raoul," said the comte, placing his cloak and hat in the 
hands of Grimaud, who had unbuckled his sword, "who told you that my 
voyage was a dangerous one?"

"I," said Grimaud.

"And why did you do so?" said Athos, sternly.

Grimaud was embarrassed; Raoul came to his assistance, by answering for 
him.  "It is natural, monsieur, that our good Grimaud should tell me the 
truth in what concerns you.  By whom should you be loved an supported, if 
not by me?"

Athos did not reply.  He made a friendly motion to Grimaud, which sent 
him out of the room; he then seated himself in a _fauteuil_, whilst Raoul 
remained standing before him.

"But it is true," continued Raoul, "that your voyage was an expedition, 
and that steel and fire threatened you?"

"Say no more about that, vicomte," said Athos, mildly.  "I set out 
hastily, it is true: but the service of King Charles II. required a 
prompt departure.  As to your anxiety, I thank you for it, and I know 
that I can depend on you.  You have not wanted for anything, vicomte, in 
my absence, have you?"

"No, monsieur, thank you."

"I left orders with Blaisois to pay you a hundred pistoles, if you should 
stand in need of money."

"Monsieur, I have not seen Blaisois."

"You have been without money, then?"

"Monsieur, I had thirty pistoles left from the sale of the horses I took 
in my last campaign, and M. le Prince had the kindness to allow me to win 
two hundred pistoles at his play-table three months ago."

"Do you play?  I don't like that, Raoul."

"I never play, monsieur; it was M. le Prince who ordered me to hold his 
cards at Chantilly - one night when a courier came to him from the king.  
I won, and M. le Prince commanded me to take the stakes."

"Is that a practice in the household, Raoul?" asked Athos with a frown.

"Yes, monsieur; every week M. le Prince affords, upon one occasion or 
another, a similar advantage to one of his gentlemen.  There are fifty 
gentlemen in his highness's household; it was my turn."

"Very well!  You went into Spain, then?"

"Yes, monsieur, I made a very delightful and interesting journey."

"You have been back a month, have you not?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"And in the course of that month?"

"In that month - "

"What have you done?"

"My duty, monsieur."

"Have you not been home, to La Fere?"

Raoul colored.  Athos looked at him with a fixed but tranquil expression.

"You would be wrong not to believe me," said Raoul.  "I feel that I 
colored, and in spite of myself.  The question you did me the honor to 
ask me is of a nature to raise in me much emotion.  I color, then, 
because I am agitated, not because I meditate a falsehood."

"I know, Raoul, you never lie."

"No, monsieur."

"Besides, my young friend, you would be wrong; what I wanted to say - "

"I know quite well, monsieur.  You would ask me if I have not been to 
Blois?"

"Exactly so."

"I have not been there; I have not even seen the person to whom you 
allude."

Raoul's voice trembled as he pronounced these words.  Athos, a sovereign 
judge in all matters of delicacy, immediately added, "Raoul, you answer 
me with a painful feeling; you are unhappy."

"Very, monsieur; you have forbidden me to go to Blois, or to see 
Mademoiselle de la Valliere again."  Here the young man stopped.  That 
dear name, so delightful to pronounce, made his heart bleed, although so 
sweet upon his lips.

"And I have acted rightly, Raoul." Athos hastened to reply.  "I am 
neither an unjust nor a barbarous father; I respect true love; but I look 
forward for you to a future - an immense future.  A new reign is about to 
break upon us like a fresh dawn.  War calls upon a young king full of 
chivalric spirit.  What is wanting to assist this heroic ardor is a 
battalion of young and free lieutenants who would rush to the fight with 
enthusiasm, and fall, crying: '_Vive le Roi!_' instead of 'Adieu, my dear 
wife.'  You understand that, Raoul.  However brutal my reasoning may 
appear, I conjure you, then, to believe me, and to turn away your 
thoughts from those early days of youth in which you took up this habit 
of love - days of effeminate carelessness, which soften the heart and 
render it incapable of consuming those strong bitter draughts called 
glory and adversity.  Therefore,  Raoul, I repeat to you, you should see 
in my counsel only the desire of being useful to you, only the ambition 
of seeing you prosper.  I believe you capable of becoming a remarkable 
man.  March alone, and you will march better, and more quickly."

"You have commanded, monsieur," replied Raoul, "and I obey."

"Commanded!" cried Athos.  "Is it thus you reply to me?  I have commanded 
you!  Oh! you distort my words as you misconceive my intentions.  I do 
not command you; I request you."

"No, monsieur, you have commanded," said Raoul, persistently; "had you 
requested me, your request is even more effective than your order.  I 
have not seen Mademoiselle de la Valliere again."

"But you are unhappy! you are unhappy!" insisted Athos.

Raoul made no reply.

"I find you pale; I find you dull.  The sentiment is strong, then?"

"It is a passion," replied Raoul.

"No - a habit."

"Monsieur, you know I have traveled much, that I have passed two years 
far away from her.  A habit would yield to an absence of two years, I 
believe; whereas, on my return, I loved not more, that was impossible, 
but as much.  Mademoiselle de la Valliere is for me the one lady above 
all others; but you are for me a god upon earth - to you I sacrifice 
everything."

"You are wrong," said Athos; "I have no longer any right over you.  Age 
has emancipated you; you no longer even stand in need of my consent.  
Besides, I will not refuse my consent after what you have told me.  Marry 
Mademoiselle de la Valliere, if you like."

Raoul was startled, but suddenly: "You are very kind, monsieur," said he; 
"and your concession excites my warmest gratitude, but I will not accept 
it."

"Then you now refuse?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"I will not oppose you in anything, Raoul."

"But you have at the bottom of your heart an idea against this marriage: 
it is not your choice."

"That is true."

"That is sufficient to make me resist: I will wait."

"Beware, Raoul!  What you are now saying is serious."

"I know it is, monsieur; as I said, I will wait."

"Until I die?" said Athos, much agitated.

"Oh! monsieur," cried Raoul, with tears in his eyes, "is it possible that 
you should wound my heart thus?  I have never given you cause of 
complaint!"

"Dear boy, that is true," murmured Athos, pressing his lips violently 
together to conceal the emotion of which he was no longer master.  "No, I 
will no longer afflict you; only I do not comprehend what you mean by 
waiting.  Will you wait till you love no longer?"

"Ah! for that! - no, monsieur.  I will wait till you change your opinion."

"I should wish to put the matter to a test, Raoul; I should like to see 
if Mademoiselle de la Valliere will wait as you do."

"I hope so, monsieur."

"But, take care, Raoul! suppose she did not wait?  Ah, you are young, so 
confiding, so loyal!  Women are changeable."

"You have never spoken ill to me of women, monsieur; you have never had 
to complain of them; why should you doubt of Mademoiselle de la Valliere?"

"That is true," said Athos, casting down his eyes; "I have never spoken 
ill to you of women; I have never had to complain of them; Mademoiselle 
de la Valliere never gave birth to a suspicion; but when we are looking 
forward, we must go even to exceptions, even to improbabilities!  _If_, I 
say, Mademoiselle de la Valliere should not wait for you?"

"How, monsieur?"

"If she turned her eyes another way."

"If she looked favorably upon another, do you mean, monsieur?" said 
Raoul, pale with agony.

"Exactly."

"Well, monsieur, I would kill him," said Raoul, simply, "and all the men 
whom Mademoiselle de la Valliere should choose, until one of them had 
killed me, or Mademoiselle de la Valliere had restored me her heart."

Athos started.  "I thought," resumed he, in an agitated voice, "that you 
called my just now your god, your law in this world."

"Oh!" said Raoul, trembling, "you would forbid me the duel?"

"Suppose I _did_ forbid it, Raoul?"

"You would not forbid me to hope, monsieur; consequently you would not 
forbid me to die."

Athos raised his eyes toward the vicomte.  He had pronounced these words 
with the most melancholy look.  "Enough," said Athos, after a long 
silence, "enough of this subject, upon which we both go too far.  Live as 
well as you are able, Raoul, perform your duties, love Mademoiselle de la 
Valliere; in a word, act like a man, since you have attained the age of a 
man; only do not forget that I love you tenderly, and that you profess to 
love me."

"Ah! monsieur le comte!" cried Raoul, pressing the hand of Athos to his 
heart.

"Enough, dear boy, leave me; I want rest.  _A propos_, M. d'Artagnan has 
returned from England with me; you owe him a visit."

"I will pay it, monsieur, with great pleasure.  I love Monsieur 
d'Artagnan exceedingly."

"You are right in doing so; he is a worthy man and a brave cavalier."

"Who loves you dearly."

"I am sure of that.  Do you know his address?"

"At the Louvre, I suppose, or wherever the king is.  Does he not command 
the musketeers?"

"No; at present M. d'Artagnan is absent on leave; he is resting for 
awhile.  Do not, therefore, seek him at the posts of his service.  You 
will hear of him at the house of a certain Planchet."

"His former lackey?"

"Exactly; turned grocer."

"I know; Rue des Lombards?"

"Somewhere thereabouts, or Rue des Arcis."

"I will find it, monsieur - I will find it."

"You will say a thousand kind things to him, on my part, and ask him to 
come and dine with me before I set out for La Fere."

"Yes, monsieur."

"Good-might, Raoul!"

"Monsieur, I see you wear an order I never saw you wear before; accept my 
compliments."

"The Fleece! - that is true.  A bauble, my boy, which no longer amuses an 
old child like myself.  Good-night, Raoul!"


Chapter LII:
D'Artagnan's Lesson.

Raoul did not meet with D'Artagnan the next day, as he had hoped.  He 
only met with Planchet, whose joy was great at seeing the young man 
again, and who contrived to pay him two or three little soldierly 
compliments, savoring very little of the grocer's shop.  But as Raoul was 
returning the next day from Vincennes at the head of fifty dragoons 
confided to him by Monsieur le Prince, he perceived, in La Place 
Baudoyer, a man with his nose in the air, examining a house as we examine 
a horse we have a fancy to buy.  This man, dressed in a citizen costume 
buttoned up like a military _pourpoint_, a very small hat on his 
head, but a long shagreen-mounted sword by his side, turned his head as 
soon as he heard the steps of the horses, and left off looking at the 
house to look at the dragoons.  It was simply M. d'Artagnan; D'Artagnan 
on foot; D'Artagnan with his hands behind him, passing a little review 
upon the dragoons, after having reviewed the buildings.  Not a man, not a 
tag, not a horse's hoof escaped his inspection.  Raoul rode at the side 
of his troop; D'Artagnan perceived him the last.  "Eh!" said he, "Eh!  
_Mordioux!_"

"I was not mistaken!" cried Raoul, turning his horse towards him.

"Mistaken - no!  Good-day to you," replied the ex-musketeer; whilst Raoul 
eagerly pressed the hand of his old friend.  "Take care, Raoul," said 
D'Artagnan, "the second horse of the fifth rank will lose a shoe before 
he gets to the Pont Marie; he has only two nails left in his off fore-
foot."

"Wait a minute, I will come back," said Raoul.

"Can you quit your detachment?"

"The cornet is there to take my place."

"Then you will come and dine with me?"

"Most willingly, Monsieur d'Artagnan."

"Be quick, then; leave your horse, or make them give me one."

"I prefer coming back on foot with you."

Raoul hastened to give notice to the cornet, who took his post; he then 
dismounted, gave his horse to one of the dragoons, and with great delight 
seized the arm of M. d'Artagnan, who had watched him during all these 
little evolutions with the satisfaction of a connoisseur.

"What, do you come from Vincennes?" said he.

"Yes, monsieur le chevalier."

"And the cardinal?"

"Is very ill; it is even reported he is dead."

"Are you on good terms with M. Fouquet?" asked D'Artagnan, with a 
disdainful movement of the shoulders, proving that the death of Mazarin 
did not affect him beyond measure.

"With M. Fouquet?" said Raoul; "I do not know him."

"So much the worse! so much the worse! for a new king always seeks to get 
good men in his employment."

"Oh! the king means no harm," replied the young man.

"I say nothing about the crown," cried D'Artagnan; "I am speaking of the 
king - the king, that is M. Fouquet, if the cardinal is dead.  You must 
contrive to stand well with M. Fouquet, if you do not wish to molder away 
all your life as I have moldered.  It is true you have, fortunately, 
other protectors."

"M. le Prince, for instance."

"Worn out! worn out!"

"M. le Comte de la Fere?"

"Athos!  Oh! that's different; yes, Athos - and if you have any wish to 
make your way in England, you cannot apply to a better person; I can even 
say, without too much vanity, that I myself have some credit at the court 
of Charles II.  There is a king - God speed him!"

"Ah!" cried Raoul, with the natural curiosity of well-born young people, 
while listening to experience and courage.

"Yes, a king who amuses himself, it is true, but who has had a sword in 
his hand, and can appreciate useful men.  Athos is on good terms with 
Charles II.  Take service there, and leave these scoundrels of 
contractors and farmers-general, who steal as well with French hands as 
others have done with Italian hands; leave the little snivelling king, 
who is going to give us another reign of Francis II.  Do you know 
anything of history, Raoul?"

"Yes, monsieur le chevalier."

"Do you know, then, that Francis II. had always the earache?"

"No, I did not know that."

"That Charles IV. had always the headache?"

"Indeed!"

"And Henry III. had always the stomach-ache?"

Raoul began to laugh.

"Well, my dear friend, Louis XIV. always has the heart-ache; it is 
deplorable to see a king sighing from morning till night without saying 
once in the course of the day, _ventre-saint-gris!  corboef!_ or anything 
to rouse one."

"Was that the reason why you quitted the service, monsieur le chevalier?"

"Yes."

"But you yourself, M. d'Artagnan, are throwing the handle after the axe; 
you will not make a fortune."

"Who?  I?" replied D'Artagnan, in a careless tone; "I am settled - I had 
some family property."

Raoul looked at him.  The poverty of D'Artagnan was proverbial.  A 
Gascon, he exceeded in ill-luck all the gasconnades of France and 
Navarre; Raoul had a hundred times heard Job and D'Artagnan named 
together, as the twins Romulus and Remus.  D'Artagnan caught Raoul's look 
of astonishment.

"And has not your father told you I have been in England?"

"Yes, monsieur le chevalier."

"And that I there met with a very lucky chance?"

"No, monsieur, I did not know that."

"Yes, a very worthy friend of mine, a great nobleman, the viceroy of 
Scotland and Ireland, has endowed me with an inheritance."

"An inheritance?"

"And a good one, too."

"Then you are rich?"

"Bah!"

"Receive my sincere congratulation."

"Thank you!  Look, that is my house."

"Place de Greve?"

"Yes; don't you like this quarter?"

"On the contrary, the look-out over the water is pleasant.  Oh! what a 
pretty old house!"

"The sign Notre Dame; it is an old _cabaret_, which I have transformed 
into a private house in two days."

"But the _cabaret_ is still open?"

"_Pardieu!_"

"And where do you lodge, then?"

"I?  I lodge with Planchet."

"You said, just now, 'This is my house.'"

"I said so, because, in fact, it is my house.  I have bought it."

"Ah!" said Raoul.

"At ten years' purchase, my dear Raoul; a superb affair; I bought the 
house for thirty thousand livres; it has a garden which opens to the Rue 
de la Mortillerie; the _cabaret_ lets for a thousand livres, with the 
first story; the garret, or second floor, for five hundred livres."

"Indeed!"

"Yes, indeed."

"Five hundred livres for a garret?  Why, it is not habitable."

"Therefore no one inhabits it; only, you see, this garret has two windows 
which look out upon the Place."

"Yes, monsieur."

"Well, then, every time anybody is broken on the wheel or hung, 
quartered, or burnt, these two windows let for twenty pistoles."

"Oh!" said Raoul, with horror.

"It is disgusting, is it not?" said D'Artagnan.

"Oh!" repeated Raoul.

"It is disgusting, but so it is.  These Parisian cockneys are sometimes 
real anthropophagi.  I cannot conceive how men, Christians, can make such 
speculation.

"That is true."

"As for myself," continued D'Artagnan, "if I inhabited that house, on 
days of execution I would shut it up to the very keyholes; but I do not 
inhabit it."

"And you let the garret for five hundred livres?"

"To the ferocious _cabaretier_, who sub-lets it.  I said, then, fifteen 
hundred livres."

"The natural interest of money," said Raoul, - "five per cent."

"Exactly so.  I then have left the side of the house at the back, store-
rooms, and cellars, inundated every winter, two hundred livres; and the 
garden, which is very fine, well planted, well shaded under the walls and 
the portal of Saint-Gervais-Saint-Protais, thirteen hundred livres."

"Thirteen hundred livres! why, that is royal!"

"This is the whole history.  I strongly suspect some canon of the parish 
(these canons are all rich as Croesus) - I suspect some canon of having 
hired the garden to take his pleasure in.  The tenant has given the name 
of M. Godard.  That is either a false name or a real name; if true, he is 
a canon; if false, he is some unknown; but of what consequence is it to 
me? he always pays in advance.  I had also an idea just now, when I met 
you, of buying a house in the Place Baudoyer, the back premises of which 
join my garden, and would make a magnificent property.  Your dragoons 
interrupted my calculations.  But come, let us take the Rue de la 
Vannerie: that will lead us straight to M. Planchet's."  D'Artagnan 
mended his pace, and conducted Raoul to Planchet's dwelling, a chamber of 
which the grocer had given up to his old master.  Planchet was out, but 
the dinner was ready.  There was a remains of military regularity and 
punctuality preserved in the grocer's household.  D'Artagnan returned to 
the subject of Raoul's future.

"Your father brings you up rather strictly?" said he.

"Justly, monsieur le chevalier."

"Oh, yes, I know Athos is just; but close, perhaps?"

"A royal hand, Monsieur d'Artagnan."

"Well, never want, my boy!  If ever you stand in need of a few pistoles, 
the old musketeer is at hand."

"My dear Monsieur d'Artagnan!"

"Do you play a little?"

"Never."

"Successful with the ladies, then? - Oh! my little Aramis!  That, my dear 
friend, costs even more than play.  It is true we fight when we lose; 
that is a compensation.  Bah! that little sniveller, the king, makes 
winners give him his revenge.  What a reign! my poor Raoul, what a 
reign!  When we think that, in my time, the musketeers were besieged in 
their houses like Hector and Priam in the city of Troy; and the women 
wept, and then the walls laughed, and then five hundred beggarly fellows 
clapped their hands and cried, 'Kill! kill!' when not one musketeer was 
hurt.  _Mordioux!_ you will never see anything like that."

"You are very hard upon the king, my dear Monsieur d'Artagnan and yet you 
scarcely know him."

"I!  Listen, Raoul.  Day by day, hour by hour, - take note of my words, - 
I will predict what he will do.  The cardinal being dead, he will fret; 
very well, that is the least silly thing he will do, particularly if he 
does not shed a tear."

"And then?"

"Why, then he will get M. Fouquet to allow him a pension, and will go and 
compose verses at Fontainebleau, upon some Mancini or other, whose eyes 
the queen will scratch out.  She is a Spaniard, you see, - this queen of 
ours; and she has, for mother-in-law, Madame Anne of Austria.  I know 
something of the Spaniards of the house of Austria."

"And next?"

"Well, after having torn the silver lace from the uniforms of his Swiss, 
because lace is too expensive, he will dismount his musketeers, because 
oats and hay of a horse cost five sols a day."

"Oh! do not say that."

"Of what consequence is it to _me?_ I am no longer a musketeer, am I?  
Let them be on horseback, let them be on foot, let them carry a larding-
pin, a spit, a sword, or nothing - what is it to _me?_"

"My dear Monsieur d'Artagnan, I beseech you speak no more ill of the 
king.  I am almost in his service, and my father would be very angry with 
me for having heard, even from your mouth, words injurious to his 
majesty."

"Your father, eh!  He is a knight in every bad cause.  _Pardieu!_ yes, 
your father is a brave man, a Caesar, it is true - but a man without 
perception."

"Now, my dear chevalier," exclaimed Raoul, laughing, "are you going to 
speak ill of my father, of him you call the great Athos?  Truly you are 
in a bad vein to-day; riches render you as sour as poverty renders other 
people."

"_Pardieu!_ you are right.  I am a rascal and in my dotage; I am an 
unhappy wretch grown old; a tent-cord untwisted, a pierced cuirass, a 
boot without a sole, a spur without a rowel ; - but do me the pleasure to 
add one thing."

"What is that, my dear Monsieur d'Artagnan?"

"Simply say: 'Mazarin was a pitiful wretch.'"

"Perhaps he is dead."

"More the reason - I say _was_; if I did not hope that he was dead, I 
would entreat you to say: 'Mazarin is a pitiful wretch.'  Come, say so, 
say so, for love of me."

"Well, I will."

"Say it!"

"Mazarin was a pitiful wretch," said Raoul, smiling at the musketeer, who 
roared with laughter, as in his best days.

"A moment," said the latter; "you have spoken my first proposition, here 
is the conclusion of it, - repeat, Raoul, repeat: 'But I regret Mazarin.'"

"Chevalier!"

"You will not say it?  Well, then, I will say it twice for you."

"But you would regret Mazarin?"

And they were still laughing and discussing this profession of 
principles, when one of the shop-boys entered.  "A letter, monsieur," 
said he, "for M. d'Artagnan."

"Thank you; give it me," cried the musketeer,

"The handwriting of monsieur le comte," said Raoul.

"Yes, yes."  And D'Artagnan broke the seal.

"Dear friend," said Athos, "a person has just been here to beg me to seek 
for you, on the part of the king."

"Seek me!" said D'Artagnan, letting the paper fall upon the table.  Raoul 
picked it up, and continued to read aloud: -

"Make haste.  His majesty is very anxious to speak to you, and expects 
you at the Louvre."

"Expects me?" again repeated the musketeer.

"He, he, he!" laughed Raoul.

"Oh, oh!" replied D'Artagnan.  "What the devil can this mean?"


Chapter LIII:
The King.

The first moment of surprise over, D'Artagnan reperused Athos's note.  
"It is strange," said he, "that the king should send for me."

"Why so?" said Raoul; "do you not think, monsieur, that the king must 
regret such a servant as you?"

"Oh, oh!" cried the officer, laughing with all his might; "you are poking 
fun at me, Master Raoul.  If the king had regretted me, he would not have 
let me leave him.  No, no; I see in it something better, or worse, if you 
like."

"Worse!  What can that be, monsieur le chevalier?"

"You are young, you are a boy, you are admirable.  Oh, how I should like 
to be as you are!  To be but twenty-four, with an unfortunate brow, under 
which the brain is void of everything but women, love, and good 
intentions.  Oh, Raoul, as long as you have not received the smiles of 
kings, the confidence of queens; as long as you have not had two 
cardinals killed under you, the one a tiger, the other a fox; as long as 
you have not - But what is the good of all this trifling?  We must part, 
Raoul."

"How you say the word!  What a serious face!"

"Eh! but the occasion is worthy of it.  Listen to me.  I have a very good 
recommendation to tender you."

"I am all attention, Monsieur d'Artagnan."

"You will go and inform your father of my departure."

"Your departure?"

"_Pardieu!_  You will tell him I am gone into England; and that I am 
living in my little country-house."

"In England, you! - And the king's orders?"

"You get more and more silly: do you imagine that I am going to the 
Louvre, to place myself at the disposal of that little crowned wolf-cub?"

"The king a wolf-cub?  Why, monsieur le chevalier, you are mad!"

"On the contrary, I never was so sane.  You do not know what he wants to 
do with me, this worthy son of _Louis le Juste!_ - But, _mordioux!_ that 
is policy.  He wishes to ensconce me snugly in the Bastile - purely and 
simply, look you!"

"What for?" cried Raoul, terrified at what he heard.

"On account of what I told him one day at Blois.  I was warm; he 
remembers it."

"You told him what?"

"That he was mean, cowardly, and silly."

"Good God!" cried Raoul, "is it possible that such words should have 
issued from your mouth?"

"Perhaps I don't give the letter of my speech, but I give the sense of 
it."

"But did not the king have you arrested immediately?"

"By whom?  It was I who commanded the musketeers; he must have commanded 
me to convey myself to prison; I would never have consented: I would have 
resisted myself.  And then I went into England - no more D'Artagnan.  
Now, the cardinal is dead, or nearly so, they learn that I am in Paris, 
and they lay their hands on me."

"The cardinal was your protector?"

"The cardinal knew me; he knew certain particularities of me; I also knew 
some of his; we appreciated each other mutually.  And then, on rendering 
his soul to the devil, he would recommend Anne of Austria to make me the 
inhabitant of a safe place.  Go, then, and find your father, relate the 
fact to him - and adieu!"

"My dear Monsieur d'Artagnan," said Raoul, very much agitated, after 
having looked out the window, "you cannot even fly!"

"Why not?"

"Because there is below an officer of the Swiss guards waiting for you."

"Well?"

"Well, he will arrest you."

D'Artagnan broke into a Homeric laugh.

"Oh!  I know very well that you will resist, that you will fight, even; I 
know very well that you will prove the conqueror; but that amounts to 
rebellion, and you are an officer yourself, knowing what discipline is."

"Devil of a boy, how logical that is!" grumbled D'Artagnan.

"You approve of it, do you not?"

"Yes, instead of passing into the street, where that idiot is waiting for 
me, I will slip quietly out at the back.  I have a horse in the stable, 
and a good one.  I will ride him to death; my means permit me to do so, 
and by killing one horse after another, I shall arrive at Boulogne in 
eleven hours; I know the road.  Only tell your father one thing."

"What is that?"

"That is - that the thing he knows about is placed at Planchet's house, 
except a fifth, and that - "

"But, my dear D'Artagnan, rest assured that if you fly, two things will 
be said of you."

"What are they, my dear friend?"

"The first, that you have been afraid."

"Ah! and who will dare to say that?"

"The king first."

"Well! but he will tell the truth, - I am afraid."

"The second, that you knew yourself guilty."

"Guilty of what?"

"Why, of the crimes they wish to impute to you."

"That is true again.  So, then, you advise me to go and get myself made a 
prisoner in the Bastile?"

"M. le Comte de la Fere would advise you just as I do."

"_Pardieu!_  I know he would," said D'Artagnan thoughtfully.  "You are 
right, I shall not escape.  But if they cast me into the Bastile?"

"We will get you out again," said Raoul, with a quiet, calm air.

"_Mordioux!_  You said that after a brave fashion, Raoul," said 
D'Artagnan, seizing his hand; "that savors of Athos, distinctly.  Well, I 
will go, then.  Do not forget my last word."

"Except a fifth," said Raoul.

"Yes, you are a fine boy! and I wish you to add one thing to that last 
word."

"Speak, chevalier!"

"It is that if you cannot get me out of the Bastile, and I remain there – 
Oh! that will be so, and I shall be a detestable prisoner; I, who have 
been a passable man, - in that case, I give three-fifths to you, and the 
fourth to your father."

"Chevalier!"

"_Mordioux!_  If you will have some masses said for me, you are welcome."

That being said, D'Artagnan took his belt from the hook, girded on his 
sword, took a hat the feather of which was fresh, and held his hand out 
to Raoul, who threw himself into his arms.  When in the shop, he cast a 
quick glance at the shop-lads, who looked upon the scene with a pride 
mingled with some inquietude; then plunging his hands into a chest of 
currants, he went straight to the officer who was waiting for him at the 
door.

"Those features!  Can it be you, Monsieur de Friedisch?" cried 
D'Artagnan, gayly.  "Eh! eh! what, do we arrest our friends?"

"Arrest!" whispered the lads among themselves.

"Ja, it is I, Monsieur d'Artagnan!  Good-day to you!" said the Swiss, in 
his mountain _patois_.

"Must I give you up my sword?  I warn you that it is long and heavy; you 
had better let me wear if to the Louvre: I feel quite lost in the streets 
without a sword, and you would be more at a loss that I should, with two."

"The king has given me no orders about it," replied the Swiss, "so keep 
your sword."

"Well, that is very polite on the part of the king.  Let us go, at once."

Monsieur Friedisch was not a talker, and D'Artagnan had too many things 
to think about to say much.  From Planchet's shop to the Louvre was not 
far, - they arrived in ten minutes.  It was a dark night.  M. de 
Friedisch wanted to enter by the wicket.  "No," said D'Artagnan, "you 
would lose time by that; take the little staircase."

The Swiss did as D'Artagnan advised, and conducted him to the vestibule 
of the king's cabinet.  When arrived there, he bowed to his prisoner, 
and, without saying anything, returned to his post.  D'Artagnan had not 
had time to ask why his sword was not taken from him, when the door of 
the cabinet opened, and a _valet de chambre_ called, "M. d'Artagnan!"  
The musketeer assumed his parade carriage, and entered, with his large 
eyes wide open, his brow calm, his moustache stiff.  The king was seated 
at a table writing.  He did not disturb himself when the step of the 
musketeer resounded on the floor; he did not even turn his head.  
D'Artagnan advanced as far as the middle of the room, and seeing that the 
king paid no attention to him, and suspecting, besides, that this was 
nothing but affectation, a sort of tormenting preamble to the explanation 
that was preparing, he turned his back on the prince, and began to 
examine the frescoes on the cornices, and the cracks in the ceiling.  
This maneuver was accompanied by a little tacit monologue.  "Ah! you want 
to humble me, do you? - you, whom I have seen so young - you, whom I have 
saved as I would my own child, - you, whom I have served as I would a God 
- that is to say, for nothing.  Wait awhile! wait awhile! you shall see 
what a man can do who has suffered the air of the fire of the Huguenots, 
under the beard of monsieur le cardinal - the true cardinal."  At this 
moment Louis turned round.

"Ah! are you there, Monsieur d'Artagnan?" said he.

D'Artagnan saw the movement and imitated it.  "Yes, sire," said he.

"Very well; have the goodness to wait till I have cast this up."

D'Artagnan made no reply; he only bowed.  "That is polite enough," 
thought he; "I have nothing to say."

Louis made a violent dash with his pen, and threw it angrily away.

"Ah! go on, work yourself up!" thought the musketeer; "you will put me at 
my ease.  You shall find I did not empty the bag, the other day, at 
Blois."

Louis rose from his seat, passed his hand over his brow, then, stopping 
opposite to D'Artagnan, he looked at him with an air at once imperious 
and kind,  "What the devil does he want with me?  I wish he would begin!" 
thought the musketeer.

"Monsieur," said the king, "you know, without doubt, that monsieur le 
cardinal is dead?"

"I suspected so, sire."

"You know that, consequently, I am master in my own kingdom?"

"That is not a thing that dates from the death of monsieur le cardinal, 
sire; a man is always master in his own house, when he wishes to be so."

"Yes; but do you not remember all you said to me at Blois?"

"Now we come to it," thought D'Artagnan; "I was not deceived.  Well, so 
much the better, it is a sign that my scent is tolerably keen yet."

"You do not answer me," said Louis.

"Sire, I think I recollect."

"You only think?"

"It is so long ago."

"If you do not remember, I do.  You said to me, - listen with attention."

"Ah! I shall listen with all my ears, sire; for it is very likely the 
conversation will turn in a fashion very interesting to me."

Louis once more looked at the musketeer.  The latter smoothed the feather 
of his hat, then his mustache, and waited bravely.  Louis XIV. continued: 
"You quitted my service, monsieur, after having told me the whole truth?"

"Yes, sire."

"That is, after having declared to me all you thought to be true, with 
regard to my mode of thinking and acting.  That is always a merit.  You 
began by telling me that you had served my family thirty years, and were 
fatigued."

"I said so; yes, sire."

"And you afterwards admitted that that fatigue was a pretext, and that 
discontent was the real cause."

"I was discontented, in fact; but that discontent has never betrayed 
itself, that I know of, and if, like a man of heart, I have spoken out 
before your majesty, I have not even thought of the matter before anybody 
else."

"Do not excuse yourself, D'Artagnan, but continue to listen to me.  When 
making me the reproach that you were discontented, you received in reply 
a promise: - 'Wait.' - Is that not true?"

"Yes, sire, as true as what I told you."

"You answered me, 'Hereafter!  No, now, immediately.'  Do not excuse 
yourself, I tell you.  It was natural, but you had no charity for your 
poor prince, Monsieur d'Artagnan."

"Sire! - charity for a king, on the part of a poor soldier!"

"You understand me very well; you knew that I stood in need of it; you 
knew very well that I was not master; you knew very well that my hope was 
in the future.  Now, you answered me when I spoke of the future, 'My 
discharge, - and that directly.'"

"That is true," murmured D'Artagnan, biting his mustache.

"You did not flatter me when I was in distress," added Louis.

"But," said D'Artagnan, raising his head nobly, "if I did not flatter 
your majesty when poor, neither did I betray you.  I have shed my blood 
for nothing; I have watched like a dog at a door, knowing full well that 
neither bread nor bone would be thrown to me.  I, although poor likewise, 
asked nothing of your majesty but the discharge you speak of."

"I know you are a brave man, but I was a young man, and you ought to have 
had some indulgence for me.  What had you to reproach the king with? – 
that he left King Charles II. without assistance? - let us say further – 
that he did not marry Mademoiselle de Mancini?"  When saying these words, 
the king fixed upon the musketeer a searching look.

"Ah! ah!" thought the latter, "he is doing far more than remembering, he 
divines.  The devil!"

"Your sentence," continued Louis, "fell upon the king and fell upon the 
man.  But, Monsieur d'Artagnan, that weakness, for you considered it a 
weakness?" - D'Artagnan made no reply - "you reproached me also with 
regard to monsieur, the defunct cardinal.  Now, monsieur le cardinal, did 
he not bring me up, did he not support me? - elevating himself and 
supporting himself at the same time, I admit; but the benefit was 
discharged.  As an ingrate or an egotist, would you, then, have better 
loved or served me?"

"Sire!"

"We will say no more about it, monsieur; it would only create in you too 
many regrets, and me too much pain."

D'Artagnan was not convinced.  The young king, in adopting a tone of 
_hauteur_ with him, did not forward his purpose.

"You have since reflected?" resumed Louis.

"Upon what, sire?" asked D'Artagnan, politely.

"Why, upon all that I have said to you, monsieur."

"Yes, sire, no doubt - "

"And you have only waited for an opportunity of retracting your words?"

"Sire!"

"You hesitate, it seems."

"I do not understand what your majesty did me the honor to say to me."

Louis's brow became cloudy.

"Have the goodness to excuse me, sire; my understanding is particularly 
thick; things do not penetrate it without difficulty; but it is true, 
once they get in, they remain there."

"Yes, yes; you appear to have a memory."

"Almost as good a one as your majesty's."

"Then give me quickly one solution.  My time is valuable.  What have you 
been doing since your discharge?"

"Making my fortune, sire."

"The expression is crude, Monsieur d'Artagnan."

"Your majesty takes it in bad part, certainly.  I entertain nothing but 
the profoundest respect for the king; and if I have been impolite, which 
might be excused by my long sojourn in camps and barracks, your majesty 
is too much above me to be offended at a word that innocently escapes 
from a soldier."

"In fact, I know you performed a brilliant action in England, monsieur.  
I only regret that you have broken your promise."

"I!" cried D'Artagnan.

"Doubtless.  You engaged your word not to serve any other prince on 
quitting my service.  Now it was for King Charles II. that you undertook 
the marvelous carrying off of M. Monk."

"Pardon me, sire; it was for myself."

"And did you succeed?"

"Like the captains of the fifteenth century, _coups-de-main_ and 
adventures."

"What do you call succeeding? - a fortune?"

"A hundred thousand crowns, sire, which I now possess - that is, in one 
week three times as much money as I ever had in fifty years."

"It is a handsome sum.  But you are ambitious, I perceive."

"I, sire?  The quarter of that would be a treasure; and I swear to you I 
have no thought of augmenting it."

"What! you contemplate remaining idle?"

"Yes, sire."

"You mean to drop the sword?"

"That I have already done."

"Impossible, Monsieur d'Artagnan," said Louis, firmly.

"But, sire - "

"Well?"

"And why, sire?"

"Because it is _my_ wish you should not!" said the young prince, in a 
voice so stern and imperious that D'Artagnan evinced surprise and even 
uneasiness.

"Will your majesty allow me one word of reply?" said he.

"Speak."

"I formed that resolution when I was poor and destitute."

"So be it.  Go on."

"Now, when by my energy I have acquired a comfortable means of 
subsistence, would your majesty despoil me of my liberty?  Your majesty 
would condemn me to the lowest, when I have gained the highest?"

"Who gave you permission, monsieur, to fathom my designs, or to reckon 
with me?" replied Louis, in a voice almost angry; "who told you what I 
shall do or what you will yourself do?"

"Sire," said the musketeer, quietly, "as far as I see, freedom is not the 
order of the conversation, as it was on the day we came to an explanation 
at Blois."

"No, monsieur; everything is changed."

"I tender your majesty my sincere compliments upon that, but - "

"But you don't believe it?"

"I am not a great statesman, and yet I have my eye upon affairs; it 
seldom fails; now, I do not see exactly as your majesty does, sire.  The 
reign of Mazarin is over, but that of the financiers is begun.  They have 
the money; your majesty will not often see much of it.  To live under the 
paw of these hungry wolves is hard for a man who reckoned upon 
independence."

At this moment someone scratched at the door of the cabinet; the king 
raised his head proudly.  "Your pardon, Monsieur d'Artagnan," said he; 
"it is M. Colbert, who comes to make me a report.  Come in, M. Colbert."

D'Artagnan drew back.  Colbert entered with papers in his hand, and went 
up to the king.  There can be little doubt that the Gascon did not lose 
the opportunity of applying his keen, quick glance to the new figure 
which presented itself.

"Is the inquiry made?"

"Yes, sire."

"And the opinion of the inquisitors?"

"Is that the accused merit confiscation and death."

"Ah! ah!" said the king, without changing countenance, and casting an 
oblique look at D'Artagnan.  "And your own opinion, M. Colbert?" said he.

Colbert looked at D'Artagnan is his turn.  That imposing countenance 
checked the words upon his lips.  Louis perceived this.  "Do not disturb 
yourself," said he; "it is M. d'Artagnan, - do you not know M. d'Artagnan 
again?"

These two men looked at each other - D'Artagnan, with eyes open and 
bright as the day - Colbert, with his half closed, and dim.  The frank 
intrepidity of the financier annoyed the other; the circumspection of the 
financier disgusted the soldier.  "Ah! ah! this is the gentleman who made 
that brilliant stroke in England," said Colbert.  And he bowed slightly 
to D'Artagnan.

"Ah! ah!" said the Gascon, "this is the gentleman who clipped off the 
lace from the uniform of the Swiss!  A praiseworthy piece of economy."

The financier thought to pierce the musketeer; but the musketeer ran the 
financier through.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan," resumed the king, who had not remarked all the 
shades of which Mazarin would have missed not one, "this concerns the 
farmers of the revenue who have robbed me, whom I am hanging, and whose 
death-warrants I am about to sign."

"Oh! oh!" said D'Artagnan, starting.

"What did you say?"

"Oh! nothing, sire.  This is no business of mine."

The king had already taken up the pen, and was applying it to the paper.  
"Sire," said Colbert in a subdued voice, "I beg to warn your majesty, 
that if an example be necessary, there will be difficulty in the 
execution of your orders."

"What do you say?" said Louis.

"You must not conceal from yourself," continued Colbert quietly, "that 
attacking the farmers-general is attacking the superintendence.  The two 
unfortunate guilty men in question are the particular friends of a 
powerful personage, and the punishment, which otherwise might be 
comfortably confined to the Chatlet, will doubtless be a signal for 
disturbances!"

Louis colored and turned towards D'Artagnan, who took a slight bite at 
his mustache, not without a smile of pity for the financier, and for the 
king who had to listen to him so long.  But Louis seized the pen, and 
with a movement so rapid that his hand shook, he affixed his signature at 
the bottom of the two papers presented by Colbert, - then looking the 
latter in the face, - "Monsieur Colbert," said he, "when you speak to me 
on business, exclude more frequently the word difficulty from your 
reasonings and opinions; as to the word impossibility, never pronounce 
it."

Colbert bowed, much humiliated at having to undergo such a lesson before 
the musketeer; he was about to go out, but, jealous to repair his check: 
"I forgot to announce to your majesty," said he, "that the confiscations 
amount to the sum of five millions of livres."

"That's pretty well!" thought D'Artagnan.

"Which makes in my coffers?" said the king.

"Eighteen millions of livres, sire," replied Colbert, bowing.

"_Mordioux!_" growled D'Artagnan, "that's glorious!"

"Monsieur Colbert," added the king, "you will, if you please, go through 
the gallery where M. Lyonne is waiting, and will tell him to bring hither 
what he has drawn up - by my order."

"Directly, sire; if your majesty wants me no more this evening?"

"No, monsieur: good-night!"  And Colbert went out.

"Now, let us return to our affair, M. d'Artagnan," said the king, as if 
nothing had happened.  "You see that, with respect to money, there is 
already a notable change."

"Something to the tune of from zero to eighteen millions," replied the 
musketeer gayly.  "Ah! that was what your majesty wanted the day King 
Charles II. came to Blois.  The two states would not have been embroiled 
to-day; for I must say, that there also I see another stumbling-block."

"Well, in the first place," replied Louis, "you are unjust, monsieur; 
for, if Providence had made me able to give my brother the million that 
day, you would not have quitted my service, and, consequently, you would 
not have made your fortune, as you told me just now you have done.  But, 
in addition to this, I have had another piece of good fortune; and my 
difference with Great Britain need not alarm you."

A _valet de chambre_ interrupted the king by announcing M. Lyonne.  "Come 
in, monsieur," said the king; "you are punctual; that is like a good 
servant.  Let us see your letter to my brother Charles II."

D'Artagnan pricked up his ears.  "A moment, monsieur," said Louis 
carelessly to the Gascon; "I must expedite to London my consent to the 
marriage of my brother, M. le Duc d'Anjou, with the Princess Henrietta 
Stuart."

"He is knocking me about, it seems," murmured D'Artagnan, whilst the king 
signed the letter, and dismissed M. de Lyonne; "but _ma foi!_ the more he 
knocks me about in this manner, the better I like it."

The king followed M. de Lyonne with his eyes, till the door was closed 
behind him; he even made three steps, as if he would follow the minister; 
but, after these three steps, stopping, passing, and coming back to the 
musketeer, - "Now, monsieur," said he, "let us hasten to terminate our 
affair.  You told me the other day, at Blois, that you were not rich?"

"But I am now, sire."

"Yes, but that does not concern me; you have your own money, not mine; 
_that_ does not enter into my account."

"I do not well understand what your majesty means."

"Then, instead of leaving you to draw out words, speak spontaneously.  
Should you be satisfied with twenty thousand livres a year as a fixed 
income?"

"But, sire" said D'Artagnan, opening his eyes to the utmost.

"Would you be satisfied with four horses furnished and kept, and with a 
supplement of funds such as you might require, according to occasions and 
needs, or would you prefer a fixed sum which would be, for example, forty 
thousand livres?  Answer."

"Sire, your majesty - "

"Yes, you are surprised; that is natural, and I expected it.  Answer me, 
come! or I shall think you have no longer that rapidity of judgment I 
have so much admired in you."

"It is certain, sire, that twenty thousand livres a year make a handsome 
sum; but - "

"No buts!  Yes or no, is it an honorable indemnity?"

"Oh! very certainly."

"You will be satisfied with it?  That is well.  It will be better to 
reckon the extra expenses separately; you can arrange that with Colbert. 
 Now let us pass to something more important."

"But, sire, I told your majesty - "

"That you wanted rest, I know you did: only I replied that I would not 
allow it - I am master, I suppose?"

"Yes, sire."

"That is well.  You were formerly in the way of becoming captain of the 
musketeers?"

"Yes, sire."

"Well, here is your commission signed.  I place it in this drawer.  The 
day on which you return from a certain expedition which I have to confide 
to you, on that day you may yourself take the commission from the 
drawer."  D'Artagnan still hesitated, and hung down his head.  "Come, 
monsieur," said the king, "one would believe, to look at you, that you 
did not know that at the court of the most Christian king, the captain-
general of the musketeers takes precedence of the marechals of France."

"Sire, I know he does."

"Then, am I to think you do put no faith in my word?"

"Oh! sire, never - never dream of such a thing."

"I have wished to prove to you, that you, so good a servant, had lost a 
good master; am I anything like the master that will suit you?"

"I begin to think you are, sire."

"Then, monsieur, you will resume your functions.  Your company is quite 
disorganized since your departure, and the men go about drinking and 
rioting in the _cabarets_, where they fight, in spite of my edicts, and 
those of my father.  You will reorganize the service as soon as possible."

"Yes, sire."

"You will not again quit my person."

"Very well, sire."

"You will march with me to the army, you will encamp round my tent."

"Then, sire," said D'Artagnan, "if it is only to impose upon me a service 
like that, your majesty need not give me twenty thousand livres a year.  
I shall not earn them."

"I desire that you shall keep open house; I desire that you should keep a 
liberal table; I desire that my captain of musketeers should be a 
personage."

"And I," said D'Artagnan, bluntly; "I do not like easily found money; I 
like money won!  Your majesty gives me an idle trade, which the first 
comer would perform for four thousand livres."

Louis XIV. began to laugh.  "You are a true Gascon, Monsieur d'Artagnan; 
you will draw my heart's secret from me."

"Bah! has your majesty a secret, then?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Well! then I accept the twenty thousand livres, for I will keep that 
secret, and discretion is above all price, in these times.  Will your 
majesty speak now?"

"Boot yourself, Monsieur d'Artagnan, and to horse!"

"Directly, sire."

"Within two days."

"That is well, sire: for I have my affairs to settle before I set out; 
particularly if it is likely there should be any blows stirring."

"That _may_ happen."

"We can receive them!  But, sire, you have addressed yourself to avarice, 
to ambition; you have addressed yourself to the heart of M. d'Artagnan, 
but you have forgotten one thing."

"What is that?"

"You have said nothing to his vanity; when shall I be a knight of the 
king's orders?"

"Does that interest you?"

"Why, yes, sire.  My friend Athos is quite covered with orders, and that 
dazzles me."

"You shall be a knight of my order a month after you have taken your 
commission of captain."

"Ah! ah!" said the officer, thoughtfully, "after the expedition."

"Precisely."

"Where is your majesty going to send me?"

"Are you acquainted with Bretagne?"

"No, sire."

"Have you any friends there?"

"In Bretagne?  No, _ma foi!_"

"So much the better.  Do you know anything about fortifications?"

"I believe I do, sire," said D'Artagnan, smiling.

"That is to say you can readily distinguish a fortress from a simple 
fortification, such as is allowed to _chatelains_ or vassals?"

"I distinguish a fort from a rampart as I distinguish a cuirass from a 
raised pie-crust, sire.  Is that sufficient?"

"Yes, monsieur.  You will set out, then."

"For Bretagne?"

"Yes."

"Alone?"

"Absolutely alone.  That is to say, you must not even take a lackey with 
you."

"May I ask your majesty for what reason?"

"Because, monsieur, it will be necessary to disguise yourself sometimes, 
as the servant of a good family.  Your face is very well known in France, 
M. d'Artagnan."

"And then, sire?"

"And then you will travel slowly through Bretagne, and will examine the 
fortifications of that country."

"The coasts?"

"Yes, and the isles; commencing by Belle-Isle-en-Mer."

"Ah! which belongs to M. Fouquet!" said D'Artagnan, in a serious tone, 
raising his intelligent eye to Louis XIV.

"I fancy you are right, monsieur, and that Bell-Isle does belong to M. 
Fouquet, in fact."

"Then your majesty wishes me to ascertain if Belle-Isle is a strong 
place?"

"Yes."

"If the fortifications of it are new or old?"

"Precisely."

"And if the vassals of M. Fouquet are sufficiently numerous to form a 
garrison?"

"That is what I want to know; you have placed your finger on the 
question."

"And if they are not fortifying, sire?"

"You will travel about Bretagne, listening and judging."

"Then  I am a king's spy?" said D'Artagnan, bluntly, twisting his 
mustache.

"No, monsieur."

"Your pardon sire; I spy on your majesty's account."

"You start on a voyage of discovery, monsieur.  Would you march at the 
head of your musketeers, with your sword in your hand, to observe any 
spot whatever, or an enemy's position?"

At this word D'Artagnan started.

"Do you," continued the king, "imagine yourself to be a spy?"

"No, no," said D'Artagnan, but pensively; "the thing changes its face 
when one observes an enemy: one is but a soldier.  And if they are 
fortifying Belle-Isle?" added he, quickly.

"You will take an exact plan of the fortifications."

"Will they permit me to enter?"

"That does not concern me; that is _your_ affair.  Did you not understand 
that I reserved for you a supplement of twenty thousand livres per annum, 
if you wished it?"

"Yes, sire; but if they are not fortifying?"

"You will return quietly, without fatiguing your horse."

"Sire, I am ready."

"You will begin to-morrow by going to monsieur le surintendant's to take 
the first quarter of the pension I give you.  Do you know M. Fouquet?"

"Very little, sire; but I beg your majesty to observe that I don't think 
it immediately necessary that I _should_ know him."

"Your pardon, monsieur; for he will refuse you the money I wish you to 
take; and it is that refusal I look for."

"Ah!" said D'Artagnan.  "Then, sire?"

"The money being refused, you will go and seek it at M. Colbert's.  _A 
propos_, have you a good horse?"

"An excellent one, sire."

"How much did it cost you?"

"A hundred and fifty pistoles."

"I will buy it of you.  Here is a note for two hundred pistoles."

"But I want a horse for my journey, sire."

"Well!"

"Well, and you take mine from me."

"Not at all.  On the contrary, I give it you.  Only as it is now mine and 
not yours, I am sure you will not spare it."

"Your majesty is in a hurry, then?"

"A great hurry."

"Then what compels me to wait two days?"

"Reasons known to myself."

"That's a different affair.  The horse may make up the two days, in the 
eight he has to travel; and then there is the post."

"No, no, the post compromises, Monsieur d'Artagnan.  Begone and do not 
forget you are my servant."

"Sire, it is not my duty to forget it!  At what hour to-morrow shall I 
take my leave of your majesty?"

"Whence do you lodge?"

"I must henceforward lodge at the Louvre."

"That must not be now - keep your lodgings in the city: I will pay for 
them.  As to your departure, it must take place at night; you must set 
out without being seen by any one, or, if you are seen, it must not be 
known that you belong to me.  Keep your mouth shut, monsieur."

"Your majesty spoils all you have said by that single word."

"I asked where you lodged, for I cannot always send to M. le Comte de la 
Fere to seek you."

"I lodge with M. Planchet, a grocer, Rue des Lombards, at the sign of the 
Pilon d'Or."

"Go out but little, show yourself less, and await my orders."

"And yet, sire, I must go for the money."

"That is true, but when going to the superintendence, where so many 
people are constantly going, you must mingle with the crowd."

"I want the notes, sire, for the money."

"Here they are."  The king signed them, and D'Artagnan looked on, to 
assure himself of their regularity.

"Adieu!  Monsieur d'Artagnan," added the king; "I think you have 
perfectly understood me."

"I?  I understand that your majesty sends me to Belle-Isle-en-Mer, that 
is all."

"To learn?"

"To learn how M. Fouquet's works are going on; that is all."

"Very well: I admit you may be taken."

"And I do not admit it," replied the Gascon, boldly.

"I admit you may be killed," continued the king.

"That is not probable, sire."

"In the first case, you must not speak; in the second there must be no 
papers found upon you."

D'Artagnan shrugged his shoulders without ceremony, and took leave of the 
king, saying to himself: - "The English shower continues - let us remain 
under the spout!"


Chapter LIV:
The Houses of M. Fouquet.

Whilst D'Artagnan was returning to Planchet's house, his head aching and 
bewildered with all that had happened to him, there was passing a scene 
of quite a different character, and which, nevertheless, is not foreign 
to the conversation our musketeer had just had with the king; only this 
scene took place out of Paris, in a house possessed by the superintendent 
Fouquet in the village of Saint-Mande.  The minister had just arrived at 
this country-house, followed by his principal clerk, who carried an 
enormous portfolio full of papers to be examined, and others waiting for 
signature.  As it might be about five o'clock in the afternoon, the 
masters had dined: supper was being prepared for twenty subaltern 
guests.  The superintendent did not stop: on alighting from his carriage, 
he, at the same bound, sprang through the doorway, traversed the 
apartments and gained his cabinet, where he declared he would shut 
himself up to work, commanding that he should not be disturbed for 
anything but an order from the king.  As soon as this order was given, 
Fouquet shut himself up, and two footmen were placed as sentinels at his 
door.  Then Fouquet pushed a bolt which displaced a panel that walled up 
the entrance, and prevented everything that passed in this apartment from 
being either seen or heard.  But, against all probability, it was only 
for the sake of shutting himself up that Fouquet shut himself up thus, 
for he went straight to a bureau, seated himself at it, opened the 
portfolio, and began to make a choice amongst the enormous mass of papers 
it contained.  It was not more than ten minutes after he had entered, and 
taken all the precautions we have described, when the repeated noise of 
several slight equal knocks struck his ear, and appeared to fix his 
utmost attention.  Fouquet raised his head, turned his ear, and listened.

The strokes continued.  Then the worker arose with a slight movement of 
impatience and walked straight up to a glass behind which the blows were 
struck by a hand, or by some invisible mechanism.  It was a large glass 
let into a panel.  Three other glasses, exactly similar to it, completed 
the symmetry of the apartment.  Nothing distinguished that one from the 
others.  Without doubt, these reiterated knocks were a signal; for, at 
the moment Fouquet approached the glass listening, the same noise was 
renewed, and in the same measure.  "Oh! oh!" murmured the _intendant_, 
with surprise, "who is yonder?  I did not expect anybody to-day."  And 
without doubt, to respond to the signal, he pulled out a gilded nail near 
the glass, and shook it thrice.  Then returning to his place, and seating 
himself again, "_Ma foi!_ let them wait," said he.  And plunging again 
into the ocean of papers unrolled before him, he appeared to think of 
nothing now but work.  In fact, with incredible rapidity and marvelous 
lucidity, Fouquet deciphered the largest papers and most complicated 
writings, correcting them, annotating them with a pen moved as if by a 
fever, and the work melting under his hands, signatures, figures, 
references, became multiplied as if ten clerks - that is to say, a 
hundred fingers and ten brains had performed the duties, instead of the 
five fingers and single brain of this man.  From time to time, only, 
Fouquet, absorbed by his work, raised his head to cast a furtive glance 
upon a clock placed before him.  The reason of this was, Fouquet set 
himself a task, and when this task was once set, in one hour's work he, 
by himself, did what another would not have accomplished in a day; always 
certain, consequently, provided he was not disturbed, of arriving at the 
close in the time his devouring activity had fixed.  But in the midst of 
his ardent labor, the soft strokes upon the little bell placed behind the 
glass sounded again, hasty, and, consequently, more urgent.

"The lady appears to be impatient," said Fouquet.  "Humph! a calm!  That 
must be the comtesse; but, no, the comtesse is gone to Rambouillet for 
three days.  The presidente, then?  Oh! no, the presidente would not 
assume such grand airs; she would ring very humbly, then she would wait 
my good pleasure.  The greatest certainty is, that I do not know who it 
can be, but that I know who it cannot be.  And since it is not you, 
marquise, since it cannot be you, deuce take the rest!"  And he went on 
with his work in spite of the reiterated appeals of the bell.  At the end 
of a quarter of an hour, however, impatience prevailed over Fouquet in 
his turn: he might be said to consume, rather than to complete the rest 
of his work; he thrust his papers into his portfolio, and giving a glance 
at the mirror, whilst the taps continued faster than ever: "Oh! oh!" said 
he, "whence comes all this racket?  What has happened, and who can the 
Ariadne be who expects me so impatiently.  Let us see!"

He then applied the tip of his finger to the nail parallel to the one he 
had drawn.  Immediately the glass moved like a folding-door and 
discovered a secret closet, rather deep, into which the superintendent 
disappeared as if going into a vast box.  When there, he touched another 
spring, which opened, not a board, but a block of the wall, and he went 
out by that opening, leaving the door to shut of itself.  Then Fouquet 
descended about a score of steps which sank, winding, underground, and 
came to a long, subterranean passage, lighted by imperceptible 
loopholes.  The walls of this vault were covered with slabs or tiles, and 
the floor with carpeting.  This passage was under the street itself, 
which separated Fouquet's house from the Park of Vincennes.  At the end 
of the passage ascended a winding staircase parallel with that by which 
Fouquet had entered.  He mounted these other stairs, entered by means of 
a spring placed in a closet similar to that in his cabinet, and from this 
closet an untenanted chamber furnished with the utmost elegance.  As soon 
as he entered, he examined carefully whether the glass closed without 
leaving any trace, and, doubtless satisfied with his observation, he 
opened by means of a small gold key the triple fastenings of a door in 
front of him.  This time the door opened upon a handsome cabinet, 
sumptuously furnished, in which was seated upon cushions a lady of 
surpassing beauty, who at the sound of the lock sprang towards Fouquet.  
"Ah! good heavens!" cried the latter, starting back with astonishment.  
"Madame la Marquise de Belliere, you here?"

"Yes," murmured la marquise.  "Yes; it is I, monsieur."

"Marquise! dear marquise!" added Fouquet, ready to prostrate himself.  
"Ah! my God! how did you come here?  And I, to keep you waiting!"

"A long time, monsieur; yes, a very long time!"

"I am happy in thinking this waiting has appeared long to you, marquise!"

"Oh! an eternity, monsieur; oh!  I rang more than twenty times.  Did you 
not hear me?"

"Marquise, you are pale, you tremble."

"Did you not hear, then, that you were summoned?"

"Oh, yes; I heard plainly enough, madame; but I could not come.  After 
your rigors and your refusals, how could I dream it was you?  If I could 
have had any suspicion of the happiness that awaited me, believe me, 
madame, I would have quitted everything to fall at your feet, as I do at 
this moment."

"Are we quite alone, monsieur?" asked the marquise, looking round the 
room.

"Oh, yes, madame, I can assure you of that."

"Really?" said the marquise, in a melancholy tone.

"You sigh!" said Fouquet.

"What mysteries! what precautions!" said the marquise, with a slight 
bitterness of expression; "and how evident it is that you fear the least 
suspicion of your amours to escape."

"Would you prefer their being made public?"

"Oh, no; you act like a delicate man," said the marquise, smiling.

"Come, dear marquise, punish me not with reproaches, I implore you."

"Reproaches!  Have I a right to make you any?"

"No, unfortunately, no; but tell me, you, who during a year I have loved 
without return or hope - "

"You are mistaken - without hope it is true, but not without return."

"What! for me, of my love! there is but one proof, and that proof I still 
want."

"I am here to bring it, monsieur."

Fouquet wished to clasp her in his arms, but she disengaged herself with 
a gesture.

"You persist in deceiving yourself, monsieur, and will never accept of me 
the only thing I am willing to give you - devotion."

"Ah, then, you do not love me?  Devotion is but a virtue, love is a 
passion."

"Listen to me, I implore you: I should not have come hither without a 
serious motive: you are well assured of that, are you not?"

"The motive is of very little consequence, so that you are but here - so 
that I see you - so that I speak to you!"

"You are right; the principal thing is that I am here without any one 
having seen me, and that I can speak to you." - Fouquet sank on his knees 
before her.  "Speak! speak, madame!" said he, "I listen to you."

The marquise looked at Fouquet, on his knees at her feet, and there was 
in the looks of the woman a strange mixture of love and melancholy.  
"Oh!" at length murmured she, "would that I were she who has the right of 
seeing you every minute, of speaking to you every instant! would that I 
were she who might watch over you, she who would have no need of 
mysterious springs to summon and cause to appear, like a sylph, the man 
she loves, to look at him for an hour, and then see him disappear in the 
darkness of a mystery, still more strange at his going out than at his 
coming in.  Oh! that would be to live like a happy woman!"

"Do you happen, marquise," said Fouquet, smiling, "to be speaking of my 
wife?"

"Yes, certainly, of her I spoke."

"Well, you need not envy her lot, marquise; of all the women with whom I 
have had any relations, Madame Fouquet is the one I see the least of, and 
who has the least intercourse with me."

"At least, monsieur, she is not reduced to place, as I have done, her 
hand upon the ornament of a glass to call you to her; at least you do not 
reply to her by the mysterious, alarming sound of a bell, the spring of 
which comes from I don't know where; at least you have not forbidden her 
to endeavor to discover the secret of these communications under pain of 
breaking off forever your connections with her, as you have forbidden all 
who come here before me, and who will come after me."

"Dear marquise, how unjust you are, and how little do you know what you 
are doing in thus exclaiming against mystery; it is with mystery alone we 
can love without trouble; it is with love without trouble alone that we 
can be happy.  But let us return to ourselves, to that devotion of which 
you were speaking, or rather let me labor under a pleasing delusion, and 
believe this devotion is love."

"Just now," repeated the marquise, passing over her eyes a hand that 
might have been a model for the graceful contours of antiquity; "just now 
I was prepared to speak, my ideas were clear and bold; now I am quite 
confused, quite troubled; I fear I bring you bad news."

"If it is to that bad news I owe your presence, marquise, welcome be even 
that bad news! or rather, marquise, since you allow that I am not quite 
indifferent to you, let me hear nothing of the bad news, but speak of 
yourself."

"No, no, on the contrary, demand it of me; require me to tell it to you 
instantly, and not to allow myself to be turned aside by any feeling 
whatever.  Fouquet, my friend! it is of immense importance."

"You astonish me, marquise; I will even say you almost frighten me.  You, 
so serious, so collected; you who know the world we live in so well.  Is 
it, then, important?"

"Oh! very important."

"In the first place, how did you come here?"

"You shall know that presently; but first to something of more 
consequence."

"Speak, marquise, speak!  I implore you, have pity on my impatience."

"Do you know that Colbert is made intendant of the finances?"

"Bah! Colbert, little Colbert."

"Yes, Colbert, _little_ Colbert."

"Mazarin's factotum?"

"The same."

"Well! what do you see so terrific in that, dear marquise? little Colbert 
is intendant; that is astonishing I confess, but is not terrible."

"Do you think the king has given, without pressing motive, such a place 
to one you call a little _cuistre?_"

"In the first place, is it positively true that the king has given it to 
him?"

"It is so said."

"Ay, but who says so?"

"Everybody."

"Everybody, that's nobody; mention some one likely to be well informed 
who says so."

"Madame Vanel."

"Ah! now you begin to frighten me in earnest," said Fouquet, laughing; 
"if any one is well informed, or ought to be well informed, it is the 
person you name."

"Do not speak ill of poor Marguerite, Monsieur Fouquet, for she still 
loves you."

"Bah! indeed?  That is scarcely credible.  I thought little Colbert, as 
you said just now, had passed over that love, and left the impression 
upon it of a spot of ink or a stain of grease."

"Fouquet!  Fouquet!  Is this the way you always treat the poor creatures 
you desert?"

"Why, you surely are not going to undertake the defense of Madame Vanel?"

"Yes, I will undertake it; for, I repeat, she loves you still, and the 
proof is she saves you."

"But your interposition, marquise; that is very cunning on her part.  No 
angel could be more agreeable to me, or could lead me more certainly to 
salvation.  But, let me ask you, do you know Marguerite?"

"She was my convent friend."

"And you say that she has informed you that Monsieur Colbert was named 
intendant?"

"Yes, she did."

"Well, enlighten me, marquise; granted Monsieur Colbert is intendant - so 
be it.  In what can an intendant, that is to say my subordinate, my 
clerk, give me umbrage or injure me, even if he is Monsieur Colbert?"

"You do not reflect, monsieur, apparently," replied the marquise.

"Upon what?"

"This: that Monsieur Colbert hates you."

"Hates me?" cried Fouquet.  "Good heavens! marquise, whence do you come? 
where can you live?  Hates me! why all the world hates me, he, of course, 
as others do."

"He more than others."

"More than others - let him."

"He is ambitious."

"Who is not, marquise."

"Yes, but with him ambition has no bounds."

"I am quite aware of that, since he made it a point to succeed me with 
Madame Vanel."

"And obtained his end; look at that."

"Do you mean to say he has the presumption to pass from intendant to 
superintendent?"

"Have you not yourself already had the same fear?"

"Oh! oh!" said Fouquet, "to succeed with Madame Vanel is one thing, to 
succeed me with the king is another.  France is not to be purchased so 
easily as the wife of a _maitre des comptes_."

"Eh! monsieur, everything is to be bought; if not by gold, by intrigue."

"Nobody knows to the contrary better than you, madame, you to whom I have 
offered millions."

"Instead of millions, Fouquet, you should have offered me a true, only 
and boundless love: I might have accepted that.  So you see, still, 
everything is to be bought, if not in one way, by another."

"So, Colbert, in your opinion, is in a fair way of bargaining for my 
place of superintendent.  Make yourself easy on that head, my dear 
marquise; he is not yet rich enough to purchase it."

"But if he should rob you of it?"

"Ah! that is another thing.  Unfortunately, before he can reach me, that 
is to say, the body of the place, he must destroy, must make a breach in 
the advanced works, and I am devilishly well fortified, marquise."

"What you call your advanced works are your creatures, are they not – 
your friends?"

"Exactly so."

"And is M. d'Eymeris one of your creatures?"

"Yes, he is."

"Is M. Lyodot one of your friends?"

"Certainly."

"M. de Vanin?"

"M. de Vanin! ah! they may do what they like with him, but - "

"But - "

"But they must not touch the others!"

"Well, if you are anxious they should not touch MM. d'Eymeris and Lyodot, 
it is time to look about you."

"Who threatens them?"

"Will you listen to me now?"

"Attentively, marquise."

"Without interrupting me?"

"Speak."

"Well, this morning Marguerite sent for me."

"And what did she want with you?"

"'I dare not see M. Fouquet myself,' said she."

"Bah! why should she think I would reproach her?  Poor woman, she vastly 
deceives herself."

"'See him yourself,' said she, 'and tell him to beware of M. Colbert.'"

"What! she warned me to beware of her lover?"

"I have told you she still loves you."

"Go on, marquise."

"'M. Colbert,' she added, 'came to me two hours ago, to inform me he was 
appointed intendant.'"

"I have already told you, marquise, that M. Colbert would only be the 
more in my power for that."

"Yes, but that is not all: Marguerite is intimate, as you know, with 
Madame d'Eymeris and Madame Lyodot."

"I know it."

"Well, M. Colbert put many questions to her, relative to the fortunes of 
these two gentlemen, and as to the devotion they had for you."

"Oh, as to those two, I can answer for them; they must be killed before 
they will cease to be mine."

"Then, as Madame Vanel was obliged to quit M. Colbert for an instant to 
receive a visitor, and as M. Colbert is industrious, scarcely was the new 
intendant left alone, before he took a pencil from his pocket, and, there 
was paper on the table, began to make notes."

"Notes concerning d'Eymeris and Lyodot?"

"Exactly."

"I should like to know what those notes were about."

"And that is just what I have brought you."

"Madame Vanel has taken Colbert's notes and sent them to me?"

"No; but by a chance which resembles a miracle, she has a duplicate of 
those notes."

"How could she get that?"

"Listen; I told you that Colbert found paper on the table."

"Yes."

"That he took a pencil from his pocket."

"Yes."

"And wrote upon that paper."

"Yes."

"Well, this pencil was a lead-pencil, consequently hard; so, it marked in 
black upon the first sheet, and in white upon the second."

"Go on."

"Colbert, when tearing off the first sheet, took no notice of the second."

"Well?"

"Well, on the second was to be read what had been written on the first; 
Madame Vanel read it, and sent for me."

"Yes, yes."

"Then, when she was assured I was your devoted friend, she gave me the 
paper, and told me the secret of this house."

"And this paper?" said Fouquet, in some degree of agitation.

"Here it is, monsieur - read it," said the marquise.

Fouquet read:

"Names of the farmers of revenue to be condemned by the Chamber of 
Justice: D'Eymeris, friend of M. F.; Lyodot, friend of M. F.; De Vanin, 
indif."

"D'Eymeris and Lyodot!" cried Fouquet, reading the paper eagerly again.

"Friends of M. F.," pointed the marquise with her finger.

"But what is the meaning of these words: 'To be condemned by the Chamber 
of Justice'?"

"_Dame!_" said the marquise, "that is clear enough, I think.  Besides, 
that is not all.  Read on, read on;" and Fouquet continued, - "The two 
first to death, the third to be dismissed, with MM. d'Hautemont and de la 
Vallette, who will only have their property confiscated."

"Great God!" cried Fouquet, "to death, to death!  Lyodot and D'Eymeris.  
But even if the Chamber of Justice should condemn them to death, the king 
will never ratify their condemnation, and they cannot be executed without 
the king's signature."

"The king has made M. Colbert intendant."

"Oh!" cried Fouquet, as if he caught a glimpse of the abyss that yawned 
beneath his feet, "impossible! impossible!  But who passed a pencil over 
the marks made by Colbert?"

"I did.  I was afraid the first would be effaced."

"Oh! I will know all."

"You will know nothing, monsieur; you despise your enemy too much for 
that."

"Pardon me, my dear marquise; excuse me; yes, M. Colbert is my enemy, I 
believe him to be so; yes, M. Colbert is a man to be dreaded, I admit.  
But I!  I have time, and as you are here, as you have assured me of your 
devotion, as you have allowed me to hope for your love, as we are alone 
- "

"I came here to save you, Monsieur Fouquet, and not to ruin myself," said 
the marquise, rising - "therefore, beware! - "

"Marquise, in truth you terrify yourself too much at least, unless this 
terror is but a pretext - "

"He is very deep, very deep; this M. Colbert: beware!"

Fouquet, in his turn, drew himself up.  "And I?" asked he.

"And you, you have only a noble heart.  Beware! beware!"

"So?"

"I have done what was right, my friend, at the risk of my reputation.  
Adieu!"

"Not adieu, _au revoir!_"

"Perhaps," said the marquise, giving her hand to Fouquet to kiss, and 
walking towards the door with so firm a step, that he did not dare to bar 
her passage.  As to Fouquet, he retook, with his head hanging down and a 
fixed cloud on his brow, the path of the subterranean passage along which 
ran the metal wires that communicated from one house to the other, 
transmitting, through two glasses, the wishes and signals of hidden 
correspondents.


Chapter LV:
The Abbe Fouquet.

Fouquet hastened back to his apartment by the subterranean passage, and 
immediately closed the mirror with the spring.  He was scarcely in his
 closet, when he heard some one knocking violently at the door, and a 
well-known voice crying: - "Open the door, monseigneur, I entreat you, 
open the door!"  Fouquet quickly restored a little order to everything 
that might have revealed either his absence or his agitation: he spread 
his papers over the desk, took up a pen, and, to gain time, said, through 
the closed door, - "Who is there?"

"What, monseigneur, do you not know me?" replied the voice.

"Yes, yes," said Fouquet to himself, "yes, my friend, I know you well 
enough."  And then, aloud: "Is it not Gourville?"

"Why, yes, monseigneur."

Fouquet arose, cast a look at one of his glasses, went to the door, 
pushed back the bolt, and Gourville entered.  "Ah! monseigneur! 
monseigneur!" cried he, "what cruelty!"

"In what?"

"I have been a quarter of an hour imploring you to open the door, and you 
would not even answer me."

"Once and for all, you know that I will not be disturbed when I am busy.  
Now, although I might make you an exception, Gourville, I insist upon my 
orders being respected by others."

"Monseigneur, at this moment, orders, doors, bolts, locks, and walls I 
could have broken, forced and overthrown!"

"Ah! ah! it relates to some great event, then?" asked Fouquet.

"Oh! I assure you it does, monseigneur," replied Gourville.

"And what is this event?" said Fouquet, a little troubled by the evident 
agitation of his most intimate confidant.

"There is a secret chamber of justice instituted, monseigneur."

"I know there is, but do the members meet, Gourville?"

"They not only meet, but they have passed a sentence, monseigneur."

"A sentence?" said the superintendent, with a shudder and pallor he could 
not conceal.  "A sentence! - and on whom?"

"Two of your best friends."

"Lyodot and D'Eymeris, do you mean?  But what sort of a sentence?"

"Sentence of death."

"Passed?  Oh! you must be mistaken, Gourville; that is impossible."

"Here is a copy of the sentence which the king is to sign to-day, if he 
has not already signed it."

Fouquet seized the paper eagerly, read it, and returned it to Gourville.  
"The king will never sign that," said he.

Gourville shook his head.

"Monseigneur, M. Colbert is a bold councilor: do not be too confident!"

"Monsieur Colbert again!" cried Fouquet.  "How is it that that name rises 
upon all occasions to torment my ears, during the last two or three 
days?  You make so trifling a subject of too much importance, Gourville.  
Let M. Colbert appear, I will face him; let him raise his head, I will 
crush him; but you understand, there must be an outline upon which my 
look may fall, there must be a surface upon which my feet may be placed."

Patience, monseigneur; for you do not know what Colbert is - study him 
quickly; it is with this dark financier as it is with meteors, which the 
eye never sees completely before their disastrous invasion; when we feel 
them we are dead."

"Oh! Gourville, this is going too far," replied Fouquet, smiling; "allow 
me, my friend, not to be so easily frightened; M. Colbert a meteor!  
_Corbleu_, we confront the meteor.  Let us see acts, and not words.  What 
has he done?"

"He has ordered two gibbets of the executioner of Paris," answered 
Gourville.

Fouquet raised his head, and a flash gleamed from his eyes.  "Are you 
sure of what you say?" cried he.

"Here is the proof, monseigneur."  And Gourville held out to the 
superintendent a note communicated by a certain secretary of the Hotel de 
Ville, who was one of Fouquet's creatures.

"Yes, that is true," murmured the minister; "the scaffold may be 
prepared, but the king has not signed; Gourville, the king will not sign."

"I shall soon know," said Gourville.

"How?"

"If the king has signed, the gibbets will be sent this evening to the 
Hotel de Ville, in order to be got up and ready by to-morrow morning."

"Oh! no, no!" cried the superintendent, once again; "you are all 
deceived, and deceive me in my turn; Lyodot came to see me only the day 
before yesterday; only three days ago I received a present of some 
Syracuse wine from poor D'Eymeris."

"What does that prove?" replied Gourville, "except that the chamber of 
justice has been secretly assembled, has deliberated in the absence of 
the accused, and that the whole proceeding was complete when they were 
arrested."

"What! are they, then, arrested?"

"No doubt they are."

"But where, when, and how have they been arrested?"

"Lyodot, yesterday at daybreak; D'Eymeris, the day before yesterday, in 
the evening, as he was returning from the house of his mistress; their 
disappearances had disturbed nobody; but at length M. Colbert all at once 
raised the mask, and caused the affair to be published; it is being cried 
by sound of trumpet, at this moment in Paris, and, in truth, monseigneur, 
there is scarcely anybody but yourself ignorant of the event."

Fouquet began to walk about in his chamber with an uneasiness that became 
more and more serious.

"What do you decide upon, monseigneur?" said Gourville.

"If it were really as easy as you say, I would go to the king," cried 
Fouquet.  "But as I go to the Louvre, I will pass by the Hotel de Ville.  
We shall see if the sentence is signed."

"Incredulity! thou art the pest of all great minds," said Gourville, 
shrugging his shoulders.

"Gourville!"

"Yes," continued he, "and incredulity! thou ruinest, as contagion 
destroys the most robust health; that is to say, in an instant."

"Let us go," cried Fouquet; "desire the door to be opened, Gourville."

"Be cautious," said the latter, "the Abbe Fouquet is there."

"Ah! my brother," replied Fouquet, in a tone of annoyance; "he is there, 
is he? he knows all the ill news, then, and is rejoiced to bring it to 
me, as usual.  The devil! if my brother is there, my affairs are bad, 
Gourville; why did you not tell me that sooner: I should have been the 
more readily convinced."

"Monseigneur calumniates him," said Gourville, laughing; "if he is come, 
it is not with a bad intention."

"What, do you excuse him?" cried Fouquet; "a fellow without a heart, 
without ideas; a devourer of wealth."

"He knows you are rich."

"And would ruin me."

"No, but he would have your purse.  That is all."

"Enough! enough!  A hundred thousand crowns per month, during two years.  
_Corbleu!_ it is I that pay, Gourville, and I know my figures."  
Gourville laughed in a silent, sly manner.  "Yes, yes, you mean to say it 
is the king pays," said the superintendent.  "Ah, Gourville, that is a 
vile joke; this is not the place."

"Monseigneur, do not be angry."

"Well, then, send away the Abbe Fouquet; I have not a sou."  Gourville 
made a step towards the door.  "He has been a month without seeing me," 
continued Fouquet, "why could he not be _two_ months?"

"Because he repents of living in bad company," said Gourville, "and 
prefers you to all his bandits."

"Thanks for the preference!  You make a strange advocate, Gourville, to-
day - the advocate of the Abbe Fouquet!"

"Eh! but everything and every man has a good side - their useful side, 
monseigneur."

"The bandits whom the abbe keeps in pay and drink have their useful side, 
have they?  Prove that, if you please."

"Let the circumstance arise, monseigneur, and you will be very glad to 
have these bandits under your hand."

"You advise me, then, to be reconciled to the abbe?" said Fouquet, 
ironically.

"I advise you, monseigneur, not to quarrel with a hundred or a hundred 
and twenty loose fellows, who, by putting their rapiers end to end, would 
form a cordon of steel capable of surrounding three thousand men."

Fouquet darted a searching glance at Gourville, and passing before him, - 
"That is all very well; let M. l'Abbe Fouquet be introduced," said he to 
the footman.  "You are right, Gourville."

Two minutes after, the Abbe Fouquet appeared in the doorway, with 
profound reverence.  He was a man of from forty to forty-five years of 
age, half churchman, half soldier, - a _spadassin_ grafted upon an abbe; 
upon seeing that he had not a sword by his side, you might be sure he had 
pistols.  Fouquet saluted him more as elder brother than as a minister.

"What can I do to serve you, monsieur l'abbe?" said he.

"Oh! oh! how coldly you speak to me, brother!"

"I speak like a man who is in a hurry, monsieur."

The abbe looked maliciously at Gourville, and anxiously at Fouquet, and 
said, "I have three hundred pistoles to pay to M. de Bregi this evening.  
A play debt, a sacred debt."

"What next?" said Fouquet bravely, for he comprehended that the Abbe 
Fouquet would not have disturbed him for such a want.

"A thousand to my butcher, who will supply no more meat."

"Next?"

"Twelve hundred to my tailor," continued the abbe; "the fellow has made 
me take back seven suits of my people's, which compromises my liveries, 
and my mistress talks of replacing me by a farmer of the revenue, which 
would be a humiliation for the church."

"What else?" said Fouquet.

"You will please to remark," said the abbe, humbly, "that I have asked 
nothing for myself."

"That is delicate, monsieur," replied Fouquet; "so, as you see, I wait."

"And I ask nothing, oh! no, - it is not for want of need, though, I 
assure you."

The minister reflected for a minute.  "Twelve hundred pistoles to the 
tailor; that seems a great deal for clothes," said he.

"I maintain a hundred men," said the abbe, proudly; "that is a charge, I 
believe."

"Why a hundred men?" said Fouquet.  "Are you a Richelieu or a Mazarin, to 
require a hundred men as a guard?  What use do you make of these men? – 
speak."

"And do you ask me that?" cried the Abbe Fouquet; "ah! how can you put 
such a question, - why I maintain a hundred men?  Ah!"

"Why, yes, I do put that question to you.  What have you to do with a 
hundred men? - answer."

"Ingrate!" continued the abbe, more and more affected.

"Explain yourself."

"Why, monsieur the superintendent, I only want one _valet de chambre_, 
for _my_ part, and even if I were alone, could help myself very well; but 
you, you who have so many enemies - a hundred men are not enough for me 
to defend you with.  A hundred men! - you ought to have ten thousand.  I 
maintain, then, these men in order that in public places, in assemblies, 
no voice may be raised against you; and without them, monsieur, you would 
be loaded with imprecations, you would be torn to pieces, you would not 
last a week; no, not a week, do you understand?"

"Ah! I did not know you were my champion to such an extent, monsieur le 
abbe."

"You doubt it!" cried the abbe.  "Listen, then, to what happened, no 
longer ago than yesterday, in the Rue de la Hochette.  A man was 
cheapening a fowl."

"Well, how could that injure me, abbe?"

"This way.  The fowl was not fat.  The purchaser refused to give eighteen 
sous for it, saying that he could not afford eighteen sous for the skin 
of a fowl from which M. Fouquet had sucked all the fat."

"Go on."

"The joke caused a deal of laughter," continued the abbe; "laughter at 
your expense, death to the devils! and the _canaille_ were delighted.  
The joker added, 'Give me a fowl fed by M. Colbert, if you like! and I 
will pay all you ask.'  And immediately there was a clapping of hands.  A 
frightful scandal! you understand; a scandal which forces a brother to 
hide his face."

Fouquet colored.  "And you veiled it?" said the superintendent.

"No, for so it happened I had one of my men in the crowd; a new recruit 
from the provinces, one M. Menneville, whom I like very much.  He made 
his way through the press, saying to the joker: '_Mille barbes!_  
Monsieur the false joker, here's a thrust for  Colbert!'  'And one for 
Fouquet,' replied the joker.  Upon which they drew in front of the cook's 
shop, with a hedge of the curious round them, and five hundred as curious 
at the windows."

"Well?" said Fouquet.

"Well, monsieur, my Menneville spitted the joker, to the great 
astonishment of the spectators, and said to the cook: - 'Take this goose, 
my friend, for it is fatter than your fowl.'  That is the way, monsieur," 
ended the abbe , triumphantly, "in which I spend my revenues; I maintain 
the honor of the family, monsieur."  Fouquet hung his head.  "And I have 
a hundred as good as he," continued the abbe.

"Very well," said Fouquet, "give the account to Gourville, and remain 
here this evening."

"Shall we have supper?"

"Yes, there will be supper."

"But the chest is closed."

"Gourville will open it for you.  Leave us, monsieur l'abbe, leave us."

"Then we are friends?" said the abbe, with a bow.

"Oh, yes, friends.  Come, Gourville."

"Are you going out?  You will not stay to supper, then?"

"I shall be back in an hour; rest easy, abbe."  Then aside to Gourville, 
- "Let them put to my English horses," said he, "and direct the coachman 
to stop at the Hotel de Ville de Paris."


Chapter LVI:
M. de la Fontaine's Wine.

Carriages were already bringing the guests of Fouquet to Saint-Mande; 
already the whole house was getting warm with the preparations for 
supper, when the superintendent launched his fleet horses upon the roads 
to Paris, and going by the quays, in order to meet fewer people on the 
way, soon reached the Hotel de Ville.  It wanted a quarter to eight.  
Fouquet alighted at the corner of the Rue de Long-Pont, and, on foot, 
directed his course towards the Place de Greve, accompanied by 
Gourville.  At the turning of the Place they saw a man dressed in black 
and violet, of dignified mien, who was preparing to stop at Vincennes.  
He had before him a large hamper filled with bottles, which he had 
just purchased at the _cabaret_ with the sign of "L'Image-de-Notre-Dame."

"Eh, but! that is Vatel! my _maitre d'hotel!_" said Fouquet to Gourville.

"Yes, monseigneur," replied the latter.

"What can he have been doing at the sign of L'Image-de-Notre-Dame?"

"Buying wine, no doubt."

"What! buy wine for me, at a _cabaret?_" said Fouquet.  "My cellar, then, 
must be in a miserable condition!" and he advanced towards the _maitre 
d'hotel_, who was arranging his bottles in the carriage with the most 
minute care.

"_Hola!_  Vatel," said he, in the voice of a master.

"Take care, monseigneur!" said Gourville, "you will be recognized."

"Very well!  Of what consequence? - Vatel!"

The man dressed in black and violet turned round.  He had a good and mild 
countenance, without expression - a mathematician minus the pride.  A 
certain fire sparkled in the eyes of this personage, a rather sly smile 
played round his lips; but the observer might soon have remarked that 
this fire and this smile applied to nothing, enlightened nothing.  Vatel 
laughed like an absent man, and amused himself like a child.  At the 
sound of his master's voice he turned round, exclaiming: "Oh! 
monseigneur!"

"Yes, it is I.  What the devil are you doing here, Vatel?  Wine!  You are 
buying wine at a _cabaret_ in the Place de Greve!"

"But, monseigneur," said Vatel, quietly after having darted a hostile 
glance at Gourville, "why am I interfered with here?  Is my cellar kept 
in bad order?"

"No, certes, Vatel, no; but - "

"But what?" replied Vatel.  Gourville touched Fouquet's elbow.

"Don't be angry, Vatel; I thought my cellar - your cellar - sufficiently 
well stocked for us to be able to dispense with recourse to the cellar of 
L'Image-de-Notre-Dame."

"Eh, monsieur," said Vatel, shrinking from monseigneur to monsieur with a 
degree of disdain: "your cellar is so well stocked that when certain of 
your guests dine with you they have nothing to drink."

Fouquet, in great surprise, looked at Gourville.  "What do you mean by 
that?"

"I mean that your butler had not wine for all tastes, monsieur; and that 
M. de la Fontaine, M. Pellisson, and M. Conrart, do not drink when they 
come to the house - these gentlemen do not like strong wine.  What is to 
be done, then?"

"Well, and therefore?"

"Well, then, I have found here a _vin de Joigny_, which they like.  I 
know they come here once a week to drink at the Image-de-Notre-Dame.  
That is the reason I am making this provision."

Fouquet had no more to say; he was convinced.  Vatel, on his part, had 
much more to say, without doubt, and it was plain he was getting warm.  
"It is just as if you would reproach me, monseigneur, for going to the 
Rue Planche Milbray, to fetch, myself, the cider M. Loret drinks when he 
comes to dine at your house."

"Loret drinks cider at my house!" cried Fouquet, laughing.

"Certainly he does, monsieur, and that is the reason why he dines there 
with pleasure."

"Vatel," cried Fouquet, pressing the hand of his _maitre d'hotel_, "you 
are a man!  I thank you, Vatel, for having understood that at my house M. 
de la Fontaine, M. Conrart, and M. Loret are as great as dukes and peers, 
as great as princes, greater than myself.  Vatel, you are a good servant, 
and I double your salary."

Vatel did not even thank his master, he merely shrugged his shoulders a 
little, murmuring this superb sentiment: "To be thanked for having done 
one's duty is humiliating."

"He is right," said Gourville, as he drew Fouquet's attention, by a 
gesture, to another point.  He showed him a low-built tumbrel, drawn by 
two horses, upon which rocked two strong gibbets, bound together, back to 
back, by chains, whilst an archer, seated upon the cross-beam, suffered, 
as well as he could, with his head cast down, the comments of a hundred 
vagabonds, who guessed the destination of the gibbets, and were escorting 
them to the Hotel de Ville.  Fouquet started.  "It is decided, you see," 
said Gourville.

"But it is not done," replied Fouquet.

"Oh, do not flatter yourself, monseigneur; if they have thus lulled your 
friendship and suspicions - if things have gone so far, you will be able 
to undo nothing."

"But I have not given my sanction."

"M. de Lyonne has ratified for you."

"I will go to the Louvre."

"Oh, no, you will not."

"Would you advise such baseness?" cried Fouquet, "would you advise me to 
abandon my friends? would you advise me, whilst able to fight, to throw 
the arms I hold in my hand to the ground?"

"I do not advise you to do anything of the kind, monseigneur.  Are you 
in a position to quit the post of superintendent at this moment?"

"No."

"Well, if the king wishes to displace you - "

"He will displace me absent as well as present."

"Yes, but you will not have insulted him."

"Yes, but I shall have been base; now I am not willing that my friends 
should die; and they shall _not_ die!"

"For that it is necessary you should go to the Louvre, is it not?"

"Gourville!"

"Beware! once at the Louvre, you will be forced to defend your friends 
openly, that is to say, to make a profession of faith; or you will be 
forced to abandon them irrevocably."

"Never!"

"Pardon me; - the king will propose the alternative to you, rigorously, 
or else you will propose it to him yourself."

"That is true."

"That is the reason why conflict must be avoided.  Let us return to Saint-
Mande, monseigneur."

"Gourville, I will not stir from this place, where the crime is to be 
carried out, where my disgrace is to be accomplished; I will not stir, I 
say, till I have found some means of combating my enemies."

"Monseigneur," replied Gourville, "you would excite my pity, if I did not 
know you for one of the great spirits of this world.  You possess a 
hundred and fifty millions, you are equal to the king in position, and a 
hundred and fifty millions his superior in money.  M. Colbert has not 
even had the wit to have the will of Mazarin accepted.  Now, when a man 
is the richest person in a kingdom, and will take the trouble to spend 
the money, if things are done he does not like, it is because he is a 
poor man.  Let us return to Saint-Mande, I say."

"To consult with Pellisson? - we will."

"No, monseigneur, to count your money."

"So be it," said Fouquet, with angry eyes; - "yes, yes, to Saint-Mande!"  
He got into his carriage again, and Gourville with him.  Upon their road, 
at the end of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, they overtook the humble 
equipage of Vatel, who was quietly conveying home his _vin de Joigny_.  
The black horses, going at a swift pace, alarmed, as they passed, the 
timid hack of the _maitre d'hotel_, who, putting his head out at the 
window, cried, in a fright, "Take care of my bottles!"

Transcriber's note: In the five-volume edition, Volume 1 ends here. - JB


Chapter LVII:
The Gallery of Saint-Mande.

Fifty persons were waiting for the superintendent.  He did not even take 
the time to place himself in the hands of his _valet de chambre_ for a 
minute, but from the _perron_ went straight into the _premier salon_.  
There his friends were assembled in full chat.  The intendant was about 
to order supper to be served, but, above all, the Abbe Fouquet watched 
for the return of his brother, and was endeavoring to do the honors of 
the house in his absence.  Upon the arrival of the superintendent, a 
murmur of joy and affection was heard; Fouquet, full of affability, good 
humor, and munificence, was beloved by his poets, his artists, and his 
men of business.  His brow, upon which his little court read, as upon 
that of a god, all the movements of his soul, and thence drew rules of 
conduct, - his brow, upon which affairs of state never impressed a 
wrinkle, was this evening paler than usual, and more than one friendly 
eye remarked that pallor.  Fouquet placed himself at the head of the 
table, and presided gayly during supper.  He recounted Vatel's expedition 
to La Fontaine, he related the history of Menneville and the skinny fowl 
to Pellisson, in such a manner that all the table heard it.  A tempest of 
laughter and jokes ensued, which was only checked by a serious and even 
sad gesture from Pellisson.  The Abbe Fouquet, not being able to 
comprehend why his brother should have led the conversation in that 
direction, listened with all his ears, and sought in the countenance of 
Gourville, or in that of his brother, an explanation which nothing 
afforded him.  Pellisson took up the matter: - "Did they mention M. 
Colbert, then?" said he.

"Why not?" replied Fouquet; "if true, as it is said to be, that the king 
has made him his intendant?"  Scarcely had Fouquet uttered these words, 
with a marked intention, than an explosion broke forth among the guests.

"The miser!" said one.

"The mean, pitiful fellow!" said another.

"The hypocrite!" said a third.

Pellisson exchanged a meaning look with Fouquet.  "Messieurs," said he, 
"in truth we are abusing a man whom no one knows: it is neither 
charitable nor reasonable; and here is monsieur le surintendant, who, I 
am sure, agrees with me."

"Entirely," replied Fouquet.  "Let the fat fowls of M. Colbert alone; our 
business to-day is with the _faisans truffes_ of M. Vatel."  This speech 
stopped the dark cloud which was beginning to throw its shade over the 
guests.  Gourville succeeded so well in animating the poets with the _vin 
de Joigny_; the abbe, intelligent as a man who stands in need of his 
host's money, so enlivened the financiers and the men of the sword, that, 
amidst the vapors of this joy and the noise of conversation, inquietudes 
disappeared completely.  The will of Cardinal Mazarin was the text of the 
conversation at the second course and dessert; then Fouquet ordered bowls 
of sweetmeats and fountains of liquor to be carried into the _salon_ 
adjoining the gallery.  He led the way thither, conducting by the hand a 
lady, the queen, by his preference, of the evening.  The musicians then 
supped, and the promenades in the gallery and the gardens commenced, 
beneath a spring sky, mild and flower-scented.  Pellisson then approached 
the superintendent, and said: "Something troubles monseigneur?"

"Greatly," replied the minister; "ask Gourville to tell you what it is."  
Pellisson, on turning round, found La Fontaine treading upon his heels.  
He was obliged to listen to a Latin verse, which the poet had composed 
upon Vatel.  La Fontaine had, for an hour, been scanning this verse in 
all corners, seeking some one to pour it out upon advantageously.  He 
thought he had caught Pellisson, but the latter escaped him; he turned 
towards Sorel, who had, himself, just composed a _quatrain_ in honor of 
the supper, and the _Amphytrion_.  La Fontaine in vain endeavored to gain 
attention to his verses; Sorel wanted to obtain a hearing for his 
_quatrain_.  He was obliged to retreat before M. le Comte de Charost, 
whose arm Fouquet had just taken.  L'Abbe Fouquet perceived that the 
poet, absent-minded, as usual, was about to follow the two talkers; and 
he interposed.  La Fontaine seized upon him, and recited his verses.  The 
abbe, who was quite innocent of Latin, nodded his head, in cadence, at 
every roll which La Fontaine impressed upon his body, according to the 
undulations of the dactyls and spondees.  While this was going on, behind 
the confiture-basins, Fouquet related the event of the day to his son-in-
law, M. de Charost.  "We will send the idle and useless to look at the 
fireworks," said Pellisson to Gourville, "whilst we converse here."

"So be it," said Gourville, addressing four words to Vatel.  The latter 
then led towards the gardens the major part of the beaux, the ladies and 
the chatterers, whilst the men walked in the gallery, lighted by three 
hundred wax-lights, in the sight of all; the admirers of fireworks all 
ran away towards the garden.  Gourville approached Fouquet, and said: 
"Monsieur, we are here."

"All?" said Fouquet.

"Yes, - count."  The superintendent counted; there were eight persons.  
Pellisson and Gourville walked arm in arm, as if conversing upon vague 
and frivolous subjects.  Sorel and two officers imitated them, and in an 
opposite direction.  The Abbe Fouquet walked alone.  Fouquet, with M. de 
Charost, walked as if entirely absorbed in the conversation of his son-in-
law.  "Messieurs," said he, "let no one of you raise his head as he 
walks, or appear to pay attention to me; continue walking, we are alone, 
listen to me."

A perfect silence ensued, disturbed only by the distant cries of the 
joyous guests, from the groves whence they beheld the fireworks. It was a 
whimsical spectacle this, of these men walking in groups, as if each one 
was occupied about something, whilst lending attention really only to one 
amongst them, who, himself, seemed to be speaking only to his companion.  
"Messieurs," said Fouquet, "you have, without doubt, remarked the absence 
of two of my friends this evening, who were with us on Wednesday.  For 
God's sake, abbe, do not stop, - it is not necessary to enable you to 
listen; walk on, carrying your head in a natural way, and as you have 
excellent sight, place yourself at the window, and if any one returns 
towards the gallery, give us notice by coughing."

The abbe obeyed.

"I have not observed their absence," said Pellisson, who, at this moment, 
was turning his back to Fouquet, and walking the other way.

"I do not see M. Lyodot," said Sorel, "who pays me my pension."

"And I," said the abbe, at the window, "do not see M. d'Eymeris, who owes 
me eleven hundred livres from our last game of brelan."

"Sorel," continued Fouquet, walking bent, and gloomily, "you will never 
receive your pension any more from M. Lyodot; and you, abbe, will never 
be paid you eleven hundred livres by M. d'Eymeris; for both are doomed to 
die."

"To die!" exclaimed the whole assembly, arrested, in spite of themselves, 
in the comedy they were playing, by that terrible word.

"Recover yourselves, messieurs," said Fouquet, "for perhaps we are 
watched - I said: to die!"

"To die!" repeated Pellisson; "what, the men I saw six days ago, full of 
health, gayety, and the spirit of the future!  What then is man, good 
God! that disease should thus bring him down all at once!"

"It is not a disease," said Fouquet.

"Then there is a remedy," said Sorel.

"No remedy.  Messieurs de Lyodot and D'Eymeris are on the eve of their 
last day."

"Of what are these gentlemen dying, then?" asked an officer.

"Ask of him who kills them," replied Fouquet.

"Who kills them?  Are they being killed, then?" cried the terrified 
chorus.

"They do better still; the are hanging them," murmured Fouquet, in a 
sinister voice, which sounded like a funeral knell in that rich gallery, 
splendid with pictures, flowers, velvet, and gold.  Involuntarily every 
one stopped; the abbe quitted his window; the first fuses of the 
fireworks began to mount above the trees.  A prolonged cry from the 
gardens attracted the superintendent to enjoy the spectacle.  He drew 
near to a window, and his friends placed themselves behind him, attentive 
to his least wish.

"Messieurs," said he, "M. Colbert has caused to be arrested, tried and 
will execute my two friends; what does it become me to do?"

"_Mordieu!_" exclaimed the abbe, the first one to speak, "run M. Colbert 
through the body."

"Monseigneur," said Pellisson, "you must speak to his majesty."

"The king, my dear Pellisson, himself signed the order for the execution."

"Well!" said the Comte de Charost, "the execution must not take place, 
then; that is all."

"Impossible," said Gourville, "unless we could corrupt the jailers."

"Or the governor," said Fouquet.

"This night the prisoners might be allowed to escape."

"Which of you will take charge of the transaction?"

"I," said the abbe, "will carry the money."

"And I," said Pellisson, "will be the bearer of the words."

"Words and money," said Fouquet, "five hundred thousand livres to the 
governor of the _conciergerie_ that is sufficient; nevertheless, it shall 
be a million, if necessary."

"A million!" cried the abbe; "why, for less than half, I would have half 
Paris sacked."

"There must be no disorder," said Pellisson.  "The governor being gained, 
the two prisoners escape; once clear of the fangs of the law, they will 
call together the enemies of Colbert, and prove to the king that his 
young justice, like all other monstrosities, is not infallible."

"Go to Paris, then, Pellisson," said Fouquet, "and bring hither the two 
victims; to-morrow we shall see."

Gourville gave Pellisson the five hundred thousand livres.  "Take care 
the wind does not carry you away," said the abbe; "what a 
responsibility.  _Peste!_  Let me help you a little."

"Silence!" said Fouquet, "somebody is coming.  Ah! the fireworks are 
producing a magical effect."  At this moment a shower of sparks fell 
rustling among the branches of the neighboring trees.  Pellisson and 
Gourville went out together by the door of the gallery; Fouquet descended 
to the garden with the five last plotters.


Chapter LVIII:
Epicureans.

As Fouquet was giving, or appearing to give, all his attention to the 
brilliant illuminations, the languishing music of the violins and 
hautboys, the sparkling sheaves of the artificial fires, which, inflaming 
the heavens with glowing reflections, marked behind the trees the dark 
profile of the donjon of Vincennes; as, we say, the superintendent was 
smiling on the ladies and the poets, the _fete_ was every whit as gay as 
usual; and Vatel, whose restless, even jealous look, earnestly consulted 
the aspect of Fouquet, did not appear dissatisfied with the welcome given 
to the ordering of the evening's entertainment.  The fireworks over, the 
company dispersed about the gardens and beneath the marble porticoes with 
the delightful liberty which reveals in the master of the house so much 
forgetfulness of greatness, so much courteous hospitality, so much 
magnificent carelessness.  The poets wandered about, arm in arm, through 
the groves; some reclined upon beds of moss, to the great damage of 
velvet clothes and curled heads, into which little dried leaves and 
blades of grass insinuated themselves.  The ladies, in small numbers, 
listened to the songs of the singers and the verses of the poets; others 
listened to the prose, spoken with much art, by men who were neither 
actors nor poets, but to whom youth and solitude gave an unaccustomed 
eloquence, which appeared to them better than everything else in the 
world.  "Why," said La Fontaine, "does not our master Epicurus descend 
into the garden?  Epicurus never abandoned his pupils; the master is 
wrong."

"Monsieur," said Conrart, "you yourself are in the wrong persisting in 
decorating yourself with the name of an Epicurean; indeed, nothing here 
reminds me of the doctrine of the philosopher of Gargetta."

"Bah!" said La Fontaine, "is it not written that Epicurus purchased a 
large garden and lived in it tranquilly with his friends?"

"That is true."

"Well, has not M. Fouquet purchased a large garden at Saint-Mande, and do 
we not live here very tranquilly with him and his friends?"

"Yes, without doubt; unfortunately it is neither the garden nor the 
friends which constitute the resemblance.  Now, what likeness is there 
between the doctrine of Epicurus and that of M. Fouquet?"

"This - pleasure gives happiness."

"Next?"

"Well, I do not think we ought to consider ourselves unfortunate, for my 
part, at least.  A good repast - _vin de Joigny_, which they have the 
delicacy to go and fetch for me from my favorite _cabaret_ - not one 
impertinence heard during a supper an hour long, in spite of the presence 
of ten millionaires and twenty poets."

"I stop you there.  You mentioned _vin de Joigny_, and a good repast; do 
you persist in that?"

"I persist, - _anteco_, as they say at Port Royal."

"Then please to recollect that the great Epicurus lived, and made his 
pupils live, upon bread, vegetables, and water."

"That is not certain," said La Fontaine; "and you appear to me to be 
confounding Epicurus with Pythagoras, my dear Conrart."

"Remember, likewise, that the ancient philosopher was rather a bad friend 
of the gods and the magistrates."

"Oh! that is what I will not admit," replied La Fontaine.  "Epicurus was 
like M. Fouquet."

"Do not compare him to monsieur le surintendant," said Conrart, in an 
agitated voice, "or you would accredit the reports which are circulating 
concerning him and us."

"What reports?"

"That we are bad Frenchmen, lukewarm with regard to the king, deaf to the 
law."

"I return, then, to my text," said La Fontaine.  "Listen, Conrart, this 
is the morality of Epicurus, whom, besides, I consider, if I must tell 
you so, as a myth.  Antiquity is mostly mythical.  Jupiter, if we give a 
little attention to it, is life.  Alcides is strength.  The words are 
there to bear me out; Zeus, that is, _zen_, to live.  Alcides, that is, 
_alce_, vigor.  Well, Epicurus, that is mild watchfulness, that is 
protection; now who watches better over the state, or who protects 
individuals better than M. Fouquet does?"

"You talk etymology and not morality; I say that we modern Epicureans are 
indifferent citizens."

"Oh!" cried La Fontaine," if we become bad citizens, it is not through 
following the maxims of our master.  Listen to one of his principal 
aphorisms."

"I - will."

"Pray for good leaders."

"Well?"

"Well! what does M. Fouquet say to us every day?  'When shall we be 
governed?'  Does he say so?  Come, Conrart, be frank."

"He says so, that is true."

"Well, that is a doctrine of Epicurus."

"Yes; but that is a little seditious, observe."

"What! seditious to wish to be governed by good heads or leaders?"

"Certainly, when those who govern are bad."

"Patience, I have a reply for all."

"Even for what I have just said to you?"

"Listen! would you submit to those who govern ill?  Oh! it is written: 
_Cacos politeuousi_.  You grant me the text?"

"_Pardieu!_  I think so.  Do you know, you speak Greek as well as Aesop 
did, my dear La Fontaine."

"Is there any wickedness in that, my dear Conrart?"

"God forbid I should say so."

"Then let us return to M. Fouquet.  What did he repeat to us all the 
day?  Was it not this?  'What a _cuistre_ is that Mazarin! what an ass! 
what a leech!  We must, however, submit to that fellow.'  Now, Conrart, 
did he say so, or did he not?"

"I confess that he said it, and even perhaps too often."

"Like Epicurus, my friend, still like Epicurus; I repeat, we are 
Epicureans, and that is very amusing."

"Yes; but I am afraid there will rise up, by the side of us, a sect like 
that of Epictetus; you know him well; the philosopher of Hierapolis, he 
who called bread luxury, vegetables prodigality, and clear water 
drunkenness; he who, being beaten by his master, said to him, grumbling a 
little it is true, but without being angry, 'I will lay a wager you have 
broken my leg!' - and who won his wager."

"He was a goose, that fellow Epictetus."

"Granted, but he might easily become the fashion by only changing his 
name into that of Colbert."

"Bah!" replied La Fontaine, "that is impossible.  Never will you find 
Colbert in Epictetus."

"You are right, I shall find - _Coluber_ there, at the most."

"Ah! you are beaten, Conrart; you are reduced to a play upon words.  M. 
Arnaud pretends that I have no logic; I have more than M. Nicole."

"Yes," replied Conrart, "you have logic, but you are a Jansenist."

This peroration was hailed with a boisterous shout of laughter; by 
degrees the promenaders had been attracted by the exclamations of the two 
disputants around the arbor under which they were arguing.  The 
discussion had been religiously listened to, and Fouquet himself, 
scarcely able to suppress his laughter, had given an example of 
moderation.  But with the _denouement_ of the scene he threw off all 
restraint, and laughed aloud.  Everybody laughed as he did, and the two 
philosophers were saluted with unanimous felicitations.  La Fontaine, 
however, was declared conqueror, on account of his profound erudition and 
his irrefragable logic.  Conrart obtained the compensation due to an 
unsuccessful combatant; he was praised for the loyalty of his intentions, 
and the purity of his conscience.

At the moment when this jollity was manifesting itself by the most lively 
demonstrations, when the ladies were reproaching the two adversaries with 
not having admitted women into the system of Epicurean happiness, 
Gourville was seen hastening from the other end of the garden, 
approaching Fouquet, and detaching him, by his presence alone, from the 
group.  The superintendent preserved on his face the smile and character 
of carelessness; but scarcely was he out of sight than he threw off the 
mask.

"Well!" said he, eagerly, "where is Pellisson!  What is he doing?"

"Pellisson has returned from Paris."

"Has he brought back the prisoners?"

"He has not even seen the _concierge_ of the prison."

"What! did he not tell him he came from me?"

"He told him so, but the _concierge_ sent him this reply: 'If any one 
came to me from M. Fouquet, he would have a letter from M. Fouquet.'"

"Oh!" cried the latter, "if a letter is all he wants - "

"It is useless, monsieur!" said Pellisson, showing himself at the corner 
of the little wood, "useless!  Go yourself, and speak in your own name."

"You are right.  I will go in, as if to work; let the horses remain 
harnessed, Pellisson.  Entertain my friends, Gourville."

"One last word of advice, monseigneur," replied the latter.

"Speak, Gourville."

"Do not go to the _concierge_ save at the last minute; it is brave, but 
it is not wise.  Excuse me, Monsieur Pellisson, if I am not of the same 
opinion as you; but take my advice, monseigneur, send again a message to 
this _concierge_, - he is a worthy man, but do not carry it yourself."

"I will think of it," said Fouquet; "besides, we have all the night 
before us."

"Do not reckon too much on time; were the hours we have twice as many as 
they are, they would not be too much," replied Pellisson; "it is never a 
fault to arrive too soon."

"Adieu!" said the superintendent; "come with me, Pellisson.  Gourville, I 
commend my guests to your care."  And he set off.  The Epicureans did not 
perceive that the head of the school had left them; the violins continued 
playing all night long.


Chapter LIX:
A Quarter of an Hour's Delay.

Fouquet, on leaving his house for the second time that day, felt himself 
less heavy and less disturbed than might have been expected.  He turned 
towards Pellisson, who was meditating in the corner of the carriage some 
good arguments against the violent proceedings of Colbert.

"My dear Pellisson," said Fouquet, "it is a great pity you are not a 
woman."

"I think, on the contrary, it is very fortunate," replied Pellisson, 
"for, monseigneur, I am excessively ugly."

"Pellisson!  Pellisson!" said the superintendent, laughing: "You repeat 
too often, you are 'ugly', not to leave people to believe that it gives 
you much pain."

"In fact it does, monseigneur, much pain; there is no man more 
unfortunate than I: I was handsome, the small-pox rendered me hideous; I 
am deprived of a great means of attraction; now, I am your principal 
clerk, or something of that sort; I take great interest in your affairs, 
and if, at this moment, I were a pretty woman, I could render you an 
important service."

"What?"

"I would go and find the _concierge_ of the Palais.  I would seduce him, 
for he is a gallant man, extravagantly partial to women; then I would get 
away our two prisoners."

"I hope to be able to do so myself, although I am not a pretty woman," 
replied Fouquet.

"Granted, monseigneur; but you are compromising yourself very much."

"Oh!" cried Fouquet, suddenly, with one of those secret transports which 
the generous blood of youth, or the remembrance of some sweet emotion, 
infuses into the heart.  "Oh!  I know a woman who will enact the 
personage we stand in need of, with the lieutenant-governor of the 
_concierge_."

"And, on my part, I know fifty, monseigneur; fifty trumpets, which will 
inform the universe of your generosity, of your devotion to your friends, 
and, consequently, will ruin you sooner or later in ruining themselves."

"I do not speak of such women, Pellisson; I speak of a noble and 
beautiful creature who joins to the intelligence and wit of her sex the 
valor and coolness of ours; I speak of a woman, handsome enough to make 
the walls of a prison bow down to salute her, discreet enough to let no 
one suspect by whom she has been sent."

"A treasure!" said Pellisson; "you would make a famous present to 
monsieur the governor of the _concierge!  Peste!_ monseigneur, he might 
have his head cut off; but he would, before dying, have had such 
happiness as no man had enjoyed before him."

"And I add," said Fouquet, "that the _concierge_ of the Palais would not 
have his head cut off, for he would receive of me my horses, to effect 
his escape, and five hundred thousand livres wherewith to live 
comfortably in England: I add, that this lady, my friend, would give him 
nothing but the horses and the money.  Let us go and seek her, Pellisson."

The superintendent reached forth his hand towards the golden and silken 
cord placed in the interior of his carriage, but Pellisson stopped him.  
"Monseigneur," said he, "you are going to lose as much time in seeking 
this lady as Columbus took to discover the new world.  Now, we have but 
two hours in which we can possibly succeed; the _concierge_ once gone to 
bed, how shall we get at him without making a disturbance?  When daylight 
dawns, how can we conceal our proceedings?  Go, go yourself, monseigneur, 
and do not seek either woman or angel to-night."

"But, my dear Pellisson, here we are before her door."

"What! before the angel's door?"

"Why, yes."

"This is the hotel of Madame de Belliere!"

"Hush!"

"Ah!  Good Lord!" exclaimed Pellisson.

"What have you to say against her?"

"Nothing, alas! and it is that which causes my despair.  Nothing, 
absolutely nothing.  Why can I not, on the contrary, say ill enough of 
her to prevent your going to her?"

But Fouquet had already given orders to stop, and the carriage was 
motionless.  "Prevent me!" cried Fouquet; "why, no power on earth should 
prevent my going to pay my compliments to Madame de Plessis-Belliere; 
besides, who knows that we shall not stand in need of her!"

"No, monseigneur, no!"

"But I do not wish you to wait for me, Pellisson," replied Fouquet, 
sincerely courteous.

"The more reason I should, monseigneur; knowing that you are keeping me 
waiting, you will, perhaps, stay a shorter time.  Take care!  You see 
there is a carriage in the courtyard: she has some one with her."  
Fouquet leaned towards the steps of the carriage.  "One word more," cried 
Pellisson; "do not go to this lady till you have been to the _concierge_, 
for Heaven's sake!"

"Eh! five minutes, Pellisson," replied Fouquet, alighting at the steps of 
the hotel, leaving Pellisson in the carriage, in a very ill-humor.  
Fouquet ran upstairs, told his name to the footman, which excited an 
eagerness and a respect that showed the habit the mistress of the house 
had of honoring that name in her family.  "Monsieur le surintendant," 
cried the marquise, advancing, very pale, to meet him; "what an honor! 
what an unexpected pleasure!" said she.  Then, in a low voice, "Take 
care!" added the marquise, "Marguerite Vanel is here!"

"Madame," replied Fouquet, rather agitated, "I came on business.  One 
single word, and quickly, if you please!"  And he entered the _salon_.  
Madame Vanel had risen, paler, more livid, than Envy herself.  Fouquet in 
vain addressed her, with the most agreeable, most pacific salutation; she 
only replied by a terrible glance darted at the marquise and Fouquet.  
This keen glance of a jealous woman is a stiletto which pierces every 
cuirass; Marguerite Vanel plunged it straight into the hearts of the two 
confidants.  She made a courtesy to _her friend_, a more profound one to 
Fouquet, and took leave, under pretense of having a number of visits to 
make, without the marquise trying to prevent her, or Fouquet, a prey to 
anxiety, thinking further about her.  She was scarcely out of the room, 
and Fouquet left alone with the marquise, before he threw himself on his 
knees, without saying a word.  "I expected you," said the marquise, with 
a tender sigh.

"Oh! no," cried he, "or you would have sent away that woman."

"She has been here little more than half an hour, and I had no 
expectation she would come this evening."

"You love me just a little, then, marquise?"

"That is not the question now; it is of your danger; how are your affairs 
going on?"

"I am going this evening to get my friends out of the prisons of the 
Palais."

"How will you do that?"

"By buying and bribing the governor."

"He is a friend of mine; can I assist you, without injuring you?"

"Oh! marquise, it would be a signal service; but how can you be employed 
without your being compromised?  Now, never shall my life, my power, or 
even my liberty, be purchased at the expense of a single tear from your 
eyes, or of one frown of pain upon your brow."

"Monseigneur, no more such words, they bewilder me; I have been culpable 
in trying to serve you, without calculating the extent of what I was 
doing.  I love you in reality, as a tender friend; and as a friend, I am 
grateful for your delicate attentions - but, alas! - alas! you will never 
find a mistress in me."

"Marquise!" cried Fouquet, in a tone of despair; "why not?"

"Because you are too much beloved," said the young woman, in a low voice; 
"because you are too much beloved by too many people - because the 
splendor of glory and fortune wound my eyes, whilst the darkness of 
sorrow attracts them; because, in short, I, who have repulsed you in your 
proud magnificence; I who scarcely looked at you in your splendor, I 
came, like a mad woman, to throw myself, as it were, into your arms, when 
I saw a misfortune hovering over your head.  You understand me now, 
monseigneur?  Become happy again, that I may remain chaste in heart and 
in thought: your misfortune entails my ruin."

"Oh! madame," said Fouquet, with an emotion he had never before felt; 
"were I to fall to the lowest degree of human misery, and hear from your 
mouth that word which you now refuse me, that day, madame, you will be 
mistaken in your noble egotism; that day you will fancy you are consoling 
the most unfortunate of men, and you will have said, _I love you_, to the 
most illustrious, the most delighted, the most triumphant of the happy 
beings of this world."

He was still at her feet, kissing her hand, when Pellisson entered 
precipitately, crying, in very ill-humor, "Monseigneur! madame! for 
Heaven's sake! excuse me.  Monseigneur, you have been here half an hour.  
Oh! do not both look at me so reproachfully.  Madame, pray who is that 
lady who left your house soon after monseigneur came in?"

"Madame Vanel," said Fouquet.

"Ha!" cried Pellisson, "I was sure of that."

"Well! what then?"

"Why, she got into her carriage, looking deadly pale."

"What consequence is that to me?"

"Yes, but what she said to her coachman is of consequence to you."

"Kind heaven!" cried the marquise, "what was that?"

"To M. Colbert's!" said Pellisson, in a hoarse voice.

"_Bon Dieu!_ - begone, begone, monseigneur!" replied the marquise, 
pushing Fouquet out of the salon, whilst Pellisson dragged him by the 
hand.

"Am I, then, indeed," said the superintendent, "become a child, to be 
frightened by a shadow?"

"You are a giant," said the marquise, "whom a viper is trying to bite in 
the heel."

Pellisson continued to drag Fouquet to the carriage.  "To the Palais at 
full speed!" cried Pellisson to the coachman.  The horses set off like 
lightening; no obstacle relaxed their pace for an instant.  Only, at the 
arcade Saint-Jean, as they were coming out upon the Place de Greve, a 
long file of horsemen, barring the narrow passage, stopped the carriage 
of the superintendent.  There was no means of forcing this barrier; it 
was necessary to wait till the mounted archers of the watch, for it was 
they who stopped the way, had passed with the heavy carriage they were 
escorting, and which ascended rapidly towards the Place Baudoyer.  
Fouquet and Pellisson took no further account of this circumstance beyond 
deploring the minute's delay they had thus to submit to.  They entered 
the habitation of the _concierge du Palais_ five minutes after.  That 
officer was still walking about in the front court.  At the name of 
Fouquet, whispered in his ear by Pellisson, the governor eagerly 
approached the carriage, and, hat in hand, was profuse in his 
attentions.  "What an honor for me, monseigneur," said he.

"One word, monsieur le governeur, will you take the trouble to get into 
my carriage?"  The officer placed himself opposite Fouquet in the coach.

"Monsieur," said Fouquet, "I have a service to ask of you."

"Speak, monseigneur."

"A service that will be compromising for you, monsieur, but which will 
assure to you forever my protection and my friendship."

"Were it to cast myself into the fire for you, monseigneur, I would do 
it."

"That is well," said Fouquet; "what I require is much more simple."

"That being so, monseigneur, what is it?"

"To conduct me to the chamber of Messieurs Lyodot and D'Eymeris."

"Will monseigneur have the kindness to say for what purpose?"

"I will tell you that in their presence, monsieur; at the same time that 
I will give you ample means of palliating this escape."

"Escape!  Why, then, monseigneur does not know?"

"What?"

"That Messieurs Lyodot and D'Eymeris are no longer here."

"Since when?" cried Fouquet, in great agitation.

"About a quarter of an hour."

"Whither have they gone, then?"

"To Vincennes - to the donjon."

"Who took them from here?"

"An order from the king."

"Oh! woe! woe!" exclaimed Fouquet, striking his forehead.  "Woe!" and 
without saying a single word more to the governor, he threw himself back 
into his carriage, despair in his heart, and death on his countenance.

"Well!" said Pellisson, with great anxiety.

"Our friends are lost.  Colbert is conveying them to the donjon.  They 
crossed our path under the arcade Saint-Jean."

Pellisson, struck as by a thunderbolt, made no reply.  With a single 
reproach he would have killed his master.  "Where is monseigneur going?" 
said the footman.

"Home - to Paris.  You, Pellisson, return to Saint-Mande, and bring the 
Abbe Fouquet to me within an hour.  Begone!"


Chapter LX:
Plan of Battle.

The night was already far advanced when the Abbe Fouquet joined his 
brother.  Gourville had accompanied him.  These three men, pale with 
dread of future events, resembled less three powers of the day than three 
conspirators, united by one single thought of violence.  Fouquet walked 
for a long time, with his eyes fixed upon the floor, striking his hands 
one against the other.  At length, taking courage, in the midst of a deep 
sigh: "Abbe," said he, "you were speaking to me only to-day of certain 
people you maintain."

"Yes, monsieur," replied the abbe.

"Tell me precisely who are these people."  The abbe hesitated.

"Come! no fear, I am not threatening; no romancing, for I am not joking."

"Since you demand the truth, monseigneur, here it is: - I have a hundred 
and twenty friends or companions of pleasure, who are sworn to me as the 
thief is to the gallows."

"And you think you can depend on them?"

"Entirely."

"And you will not compromise yourself?"

"I will not even make my appearance."

"Are they men of resolution?"

"They would burn Paris, if I promised them they should not be burnt in 
turn."

"The thing I ask of you, abbe," said Fouquet, wiping the sweat which fell 
from his brow, "is to throw your hundred and twenty men upon the people I 
will point out to you, at a certain moment given - is it possible?"

"It will not be the first time such a thing has happened to them, 
monseigneur."

"That is well: but would these bandits attack an armed force?"

"They are used to that."

"Then get your hundred and twenty men together, abbe."

"Directly.  But where?"

"On the road to Vincennes, to-morrow, at two o'clock precisely."

"To carry off Lyodot and D'Eymeris?  There will be blows to be got!"

"A number, no doubt; are you afraid?"

"Not for myself, but for you."

"Your men will know, then, what they have to do?"

"They are too intelligent not to guess it.  Now, a minister who gets up a 
riot against his king - exposes himself - "


"Of what importance is that to you, I pray?  Besides, if I fall, you fall 
with me."

"It would then be more prudent, monsieur, not to stir in the affair, and 
leave the king to take this little satisfaction."

"Think well of this, abbe, Lyodot and D'Eymeris at Vincennes are a 
prelude of ruin for my house.  I repeat it - I arrested, you will be 
imprisoned - I imprisoned, you will be exiled."

"Monsieur, I am at your orders; have you any to give me?"

"What I told you - I wish that, to-morrow, the two financiers of whom 
they mean to make victims, whilst there remain so many criminals 
unpunished, should be snatched from the fury of my enemies.  Take your 
measures accordingly.  Is it possible?"

"It is possible."

"Describe your plan."

"It is of rich simplicity.  The ordinary guard at executions consists of 
twelve archers."

"There will be a hundred to-morrow."

"I reckon so.  I even say more - there will be two hundred."

"Then your hundred and twenty men will not be enough."

"Pardon me.  In every crowd composed of a hundred thousand spectators, 
there are ten thousand bandits or cut-purses - only they dare not take 
the initiative."

"Well?"

"There will then be, to-morrow, on the Place de Greve, which I choose as 
my battle-field, ten thousand auxiliaries to my hundred and twenty men.  
The attack commenced by the latter, the others will finish it."

"That all appears feasible.  But what will be done with regard to the 
prisoners upon the Place de Greve?"

"This: they must be thrust into some house - that will make a siege 
necessary to get them out again.  And stop! here is another idea, more 
sublime still: certain houses have two issues - one upon the Place, and 
the other into the Rue de la Mortellerie, or la Vannerie, or la 
Tixeranderie.  The prisoners entering by one door will go out at another."

"Yes; but fix upon something positive."

"I am seeking to do so."

"And I," cried Fouquet, "I have found it.  Listen to what has occurred to 
me at this moment."

"I am listening."

Fouquet made a sign to Gourville, who appeared to understand.  "One of my 
friends lends me sometimes the keys of a house which he rents, Rue 
Baudoyer, the spacious gardens of which extend behind a certain house on 
the Place de Greve."

"That is the place for us," said the abbe.  "What house?"

"A _cabaret_, pretty well frequented, whose sign represents the image of 
Notre Dame."

"I know it," said the abbe.

"This _cabaret_ has windows opening upon the Place, a place of exit into 
the court, which must abut upon the gardens of my friend by a door of 
communication."

"Good!" said the abbe.

"Enter by the _cabaret_, take the prisoners in; defend the door while you 
enable them to fly by the garden and the Place Baudoyer."

"That is all plain.  Monsieur, you would make an excellent general, like 
monsieur le prince."

"Have you understood me?"

"Perfectly well."

"How much will it amount to, to make your bandits all drunk with wine, 
and to satisfy them with gold?"

"Oh, monsieur, what an expression!  Oh! monsieur, if they heard you! some 
of them are very susceptible."

"I mean to say they must be brought to the point where they cannot tell 
the heavens from the earth; for I shall to-morrow contend with the king; 
and when I fight I mean to conquer - please to understand."

"It shall be done, monsieur.  Give me your other ideas."

"That is your business."

"Then give me your purse."

"Gourville, count a hundred thousand livres for the abbe."

"Good! and spare nothing, did you not say?"

"Nothing."

"That is well."

"Monseigneur," objected Gourville, "if this should be known, we should 
lose our heads."

"Eh!  Gourville," replied Fouquet, purple with anger, "you excite my 
pity.  Speak for yourself, if you please.  My head does not shake in that 
manner upon my shoulders.  Now, abbe, is everything arranged?"

"Everything."

"At two o'clock to-morrow."

"At twelve, because it will be necessary to prepare our auxiliaries in a 
secret manner."

"That is true; do not spare the wine of the _cabaretier_."

"I will spare neither his wine nor his house," replied the abbe, with a 
sneering laugh.  "I have my plan, I tell you; leave me to set it in 
operation, and you shall see."

"Where shall you be yourself?"

"Everywhere; nowhere."

"And how shall I receive information?"

"By a courier whose horse shall be kept in the very same garden of your 
friend.  _A propos_, the name of your friend?"

Fouquet looked again at Gourville.  The latter came to the succor of his 
master, saying, ["The name is of no importance."

Fouquet continued, "Accompany] monsieur l'abbe, for several reasons, but 
the house is easily to be known - the 'Image-de-Notre-Dame' in the front, 
a garden, the only one in the quarter, behind."

[The text is corrupt at this point.  The suggested reading, in brackets, 
is my own. – JB.]

"Good, good!  I will go and give notice to my soldiers."

"Accompany him, Gourville," said Fouquet, "and count him down the money.  
One moment, abbe - one moment, Gourville - what name will be given to 
this carrying off?"

"A very natural one, monsieur - the Riot."

"The riot on account of what?  For, if ever the people of Paris are 
disposed to pay their court to the king, it is when he hangs financiers."

"I will manage that," said the abbe.

"Yes; but you may manage it badly, and people will guess."

"Not at all, - not at all.  I have another idea."

"What is that?"

"My men shall cry out, '_Colbert, vive Colbert!_' and shall throw 
themselves upon the prisoners as if they would tear them in pieces, and 
shall force them from the gibbets, as too mild a punishment."

"Ah! that is an idea," said Gourville.  "_Peste!_ monsieur l'abbe, what 
an imagination you have!"

"Monsieur, we are worthy of our family," replied the abbe, proudly.

"Strange fellow," murmured Fouquet.  Then he added, "That is ingenious.  
Carry it out, but shed no blood."

Gourville and the abbe set off together, with their heads full of the 
meditated riot.  The superintendent laid himself down upon some cushions, 
half valiant with respect to the sinister projects of the morrow, half 
dreaming of love.


Chapter LXI:
The Cabaret of the Image-de-Notre-Dame.

At two o'clock the next day fifty thousand spectators had taken their 
position upon the Place, around the two gibbets which had been elevated 
between the Quai de la Greve and the Quai Pelletier; one close to the 
other, with their backs to the embankment of the river.  In the morning 
also, all the sworn criers of the good city of Paris had traversed the 
quarters of the city, particularly the _halles_ and the _faubourgs_, 
announcing with their hoarse and indefatigable voices the great justice 
done by the king upon two speculators, two thieves, devourers of the 
people.  And these people, whose interests were so warmly looked after, 
in order not to fail in respect for their king, quitted shops, stalls, 
and _atliers_, to go and evince a little gratitude to Louis XIV., 
absolutely like invited guests, who feared to commit an impoliteness in 
not repairing to the house of him who had invited them.  According to the 
tenor of the sentence, which the criers read aloud and incorrectly, two 
farmers of the revenues, monopolists of money, dilapidators of the royal 
provisions, extortioners, and forgers, were about to undergo capital 
punishment on the Place de Greve, with their names blazoned over their 
heads, according to their sentence.  As to those names, the sentence made 
no mention of them.  The curiosity of the Parisians was at its height, 
and, as we have said, an immense crowd waited with feverish impatience 
the hour fixed for the execution.  The news had already spread that the 
prisoners, transferred to the Chateau of Vincennes, would be conducted 
from that prison to the Place de Greve.  Consequently, the faubourg and 
the Rue Saint Antoine were crowded; for the population of Paris in those 
days of great executions was divided into two categories: those who came 
to see the condemned pass - these were of timid and mild hearts, but 
philosophically curious - and those who wished to see the condemned die - 
these had hearts that hungered for sensation.  On this day M. d'Artagnan 
received his last instructions from the king, and made his adieus to his 
friends, the number of whom was, at the moment, reduced to Planchet, 
then he traced the plan of his day, as every busy man whose moments are 
counted ought to do, because he appreciates their importance.

"My departure is to be," said he, "at break of day, three o'clock in the 
morning; I have then fifteen hours before me.  Take from them the six 
hours of sleep which are indispensable for me - six; one hour for repasts 
- seven; one hour for a farewell visit to Athos - eight; two hours for 
chance circumstances - total, ten.  There are then five hours left.  One 
hour to get my money, - that is, to have payment refused by M. Fouquet; 
another hour to go and receive my money of M. Colbert, together with his 
questions and grimaces; one hour to look over my clothes and arms, and 
get my boots cleaned.  I still have two hours left.  _Mordioux!_ how rich 
I am."  And so saying, D'Artagnan felt a strange joy, a joy of youth, a 
perfume of those great and happy years of former times mount into his 
brain and intoxicate him.  "During these two hours I will go," said the 
musketeer, "and take my quarter's rent of the Image-de-Notre-Dame.  That 
will be pleasant.  Three hundred and seventy-five livres!  _Mordioux!_ 
but that is astonishing!  If the poor man who has but one livre in his 
pocket, found a livre and twelve deniers, that would be justice, that 
would be excellent; but never does such a godsend fall to the lot of the 
poor man.  The rich man, on the contrary, makes himself revenue with his 
money, which he does not even touch.  Here are three hundred and seventy-
five livres which fall to me from heaven.  I will go then to the Image-de-
Notre-Dame, and drink a glass of Spanish wine with my tenant, which he 
cannot fail to offer me.  But order must be observed, Monsieur 
d'Artagnan, order must be observed!  Let us organize our time, then, and 
distribute the employment of it!  Art. 1st, Athos; Art. 2d, the Image-de-
Notre-Dame; Art. 3rd, M. Fouquet; Art. 4th, M. Colbert; Art. 5th, supper; 
Art. 6th, clothes, boots, horse, portmanteau; Art. 7th and last, sleep."

In consequence of this arrangement, D'Artagnan went straight to the Comte 
de la Fere, to whom, modestly and ingenuously, he related a part of his 
fortunate adventures.  Athos had not been without uneasiness on the 
subject of D'Artagnan's visit to the king; but few words sufficed for an 
explanation of that.  Athos divined that Louis had charged D'Artagnan 
with some important mission, and did not even make an effort to draw the 
secret from him.  He only recommended him to take care of himself, and 
offered discreetly to accompany him if that were desirable.

"But, my dear friend," said D'Artagnan, " I am going nowhere."

"What! you come and bid me adieu, and are going nowhere?"

"Oh! yes, yes," replied D'Artagnan, coloring a little, "I am going to 
make an acquisition."

"That is quite another thing.  Then I change my formula.  Instead of 'Do 
not get yourself killed,' I will say, - 'Do not get yourself robbed.'"

"My friend, I will inform you if I set eyes on any property that pleases 
me, and shall expect you will favor me with your opinion."

"Yes, yes," said Athos, too delicate to permit himself even the 
consolation of a smile.  Raoul imitated the paternal reserve.  But 
D'Artagnan thought it would appear too mysterious to leave his friends 
under a pretense, without even telling them the route he was about to 
take."

"I have chosen Le Mans," said he to Athos.  "It is a good country?"

"Excellent, my friend," replied the count, without making him observe 
that Le Mans was in the same directions as La Touraine, and that by 
waiting two days, at most, he might travel with a friend.  But 
D'Artagnan, more embarrassed than the count, dug, at every explanation, 
deeper into the mud, into which he sank by degrees.  "I shall set out to-
morrow at daybreak," said he at last.  "Till that time, will you come 
with me, Raoul?"

"Yes, monsieur le chevalier," said the young man, "if monsieur le comte 
does not want me."

"No, Raoul; I am to have an audience to-day of Monsieur, the king's 
brother; that is all I have to do."

Raoul asked Grimaud for his sword, which the old man brought him 
immediately.  "Now then," added D'Artagnan, opening his arms to Athos, 
"adieu, my dear friend!"  Athos held him in a long embrace, and the 
musketeer, who knew his discretion so well, murmured in his ear - "An 
affair of state," to which Athos only replied by a pressure of the hand, 
still more significant.  They then separated.  Raoul took the arm of his 
old friend, who led him along the Rue Saint-Honore.  "I an conducting you 
to the abode of the god Plutus," said D'Artagnan to the young man; 
"prepare yourself.  The whole day you will witness the piling up of 
crowns.  Heavens! how I am changed!"

"Oh! what numbers of people there are in the street!" said Raoul.

"Is there a procession to-day?" asked D'Artagnan of a passer-by.

"Monsieur, it is a hanging," replied the man.

"What! a hanging at the Greve?" said D'Artagnan.

"Yes, monsieur."

"The devil take the rogue who gets himself hung the day I want to go and 
take my rent!" cried D'Artagnan.  "Raoul, did you ever see anybody hung?"

"Never, monsieur - thank God!"

"Oh! how young that sounds!  If you were on guard in the trenches, as I 
was, and a spy!  But, pardon me, Raoul, I am doting - you are quite 
right, it is a hideous sight to see a person hung!  At what hour do they 
hang them, monsieur, if you please?"

"Monsieur," replied the stranger respectfully, delighted at joining 
conversation with two men of the sword, "it will take place at about 
three o'clock."

"Aha! it is now only half-past one; let us step out, we shall be there in 
time to touch my three hundred and seventy-five livres, and get away 
before the arrival of the malefactor."

"Malefactors, monsieur," continued the _bourgeois_; "there are two of 
them."

"Monsieur, I return to you many thanks," said D'Artagnan, who as he grew 
older, had become polite to a degree.  Drawing Raoul along, he directed 
his course rapidly in the direction of La Greve.  Without that great 
experience musketeers have of a crowd, to which were joined an 
irresistible strength of wrist, and an uncommon suppleness of shoulders, 
our two travelers would not have arrived at their place of destination.  
They followed the line of the Quai, which they had gained on quitting the 
Rue Saint-Honore, where they left Athos.  D'Artagnan went first; his 
elbow, his wrist, his shoulder formed three wedges which he knew how to 
insinuate with skill into the groups, to make them split and separate 
like firewood.  He made use sometimes of the hilt of his sword as an 
additional help: introducing it between ribs that were too rebellious, 
making it take the part of a lever or crowbar, to separate husband from 
wife, uncle from nephew, and brother from brother.  And all that was done 
so naturally, and with such gracious smiles, that people must have had 
ribs of bronze not to cry thank you when the wrist made its play, or 
hearts of diamond not to be enchanted when such a bland smile enlivened 
the lips of the musketeer.  Raoul, following his friend, cajoled the 
women who admired his beauty, pushed back the men who felt the rigidity 
of his muscles, and both opened, thanks to these maneuvers, the compact 
and muddy tide of the populace.  They arrived in sight of the two 
gibbets, from which Raoul turned away his eyes in disgust.  As for 
D'Artagnan, he did not even see them; his house with its gabled roof, its 
windows crowded with the curious, attracted and even absorbed all the 
attention he was capable of.  He distinguished in the Place and around 
the houses a good number of musketeers on leave, who, some with women, 
others with friends, awaited the crowning ceremony.  What rejoiced him 
above all was to see that his tenant, the _cabaretier_, was so busy he 
hardly knew which way to turn.  Three lads could not supply the 
drinkers.  They filled the shop, the chambers, and the court, even.  
D'Artagnan called Raoul's attention to this concourse, adding: "The 
fellow will have no excuse for not paying his rent.  Look at those 
drinkers, Raoul, one would say they were jolly companions.  _Mordioux!_ 
why, there is no room anywhere!"  D'Artagnan, however, contrived to catch 
hold of the master by the corner of his apron, and to make himself known 
to him.

"Ah, monsieur le chevalier," said the _cabaretier_, half distracted, "one 
minute if you please.  I have here a hundred mad devils turning my cellar 
upside down."

"The cellar, if you like, but not the money-box."

"Oh, monsieur, your thirty-seven and a half pistoles are all counted out 
ready for you, upstairs in my chamber; but there are in that chamber 
thirty customers, who are sucking the staves of a little barrel of Oporto 
which I tapped for them this very morning.  Give me a minute, - only a 
minute?"

"So be it; so be it."

"I will go," said Raoul, in a low voice, to D'Artagnan; "this hilarity is 
vile!"

"Monsieur," replied D'Artagnan, sternly, "you will please to remain where 
you are.  The soldier ought to familiarize himself with all kinds of 
spectacles.  There are in the eye, when it is young, fibers which we must 
learn how to harden; and we are not truly generous and good save from the 
moment when the eye has become hardened, and the heart remains tender.  
Besides, my little Raoul, would you leave me alone here?  That would be 
very wrong of you.  Look, there is yonder in the lower court a tree, and 
under the shade of that tree we shall breathe more freely than in this 
hot atmosphere of spilt wine."

From the spot on which they had placed themselves the two new guests of 
the Image-de-Notre-Dame heard the ever-increasing hubbub of the tide of 
people, and lost neither a cry nor a gesture of the drinkers, at tables 
in the _cabaret_, or disseminated in the chambers.  If D'Artagnan had 
wished to place himself as a _vidette_ for an expedition, he could not 
have succeeded better.  The tree under which he and Raoul were seated 
covered them with its already thick foliage; it was a low, thick chestnut-
tree, with inclined branches, that cast their shade over a table so 
dilapidated the drinkers had abandoned it.  We said that from this post 
D'Artagnan saw everything.  He observed the goings and comings of the 
waiters; the arrival of fresh drinkers; the welcome, sometimes friendly, 
sometimes hostile, given to the newcomers by others already installed.  
He observed all this to amuse himself, for the thirty-seven and a half 
pistoles were a long time coming.  Raoul recalled his attention to it.  
"Monsieur," said he, "you do not hurry your tenant, and the condemned 
will soon be here.  There will then be such a press we shall not be able 
to get out."

"You are right," said the musketeer; "_Hola!_ oh! somebody there!  
_Mordioux!_"  But it was in vain he cried and knocked upon the wreck of 
the old table, which fell to pieces beneath his fist; nobody came.  
D'Artagnan was preparing to go and seek the _cabaretier_ himself, to 
force him to a definite explanation, when the door of the court in which 
he was with Raoul, a door which communicated with the garden situated at 
the back, opened, and a man dressed as a cavalier, with his sword in the 
sheath, but not at his belt, crossed the court without closing the door; 
and having cast an oblique glance at D'Artagnan and his companion, 
directed his course towards the _cabaret_ itself, looking about in all 
directions with his eyes capable of piercing walls of consciences.  
"Humph!" said D'Artagnan, "my tenants are communicating.  That, no doubt, 
now, is some amateur in hanging matters."  At the same moment the cries 
and disturbance in the upper chambers ceased.  Silence, under such 
circumstances, surprises more than a twofold increase of noise.  
D'Artagnan wished to see what was the cause of this sudden silence.  He 
then perceived that this man, dressed as a cavalier, had just entered the 
principal chamber, and was haranguing the tipplers, who all listened to 
him with the greatest attention.  D'Artagnan would perhaps have heard his 
speech but for the dominant noise of the popular clamors, which made a 
formidable accompaniment to the harangue of the orator.  But it was soon 
finished, and all the people the _cabaret_ contained came out, one after 
the other, in little groups, so that there only remained six in the 
chamber; one of these six, the man with the sword, took the _cabaretier_ 
aside, engaging him in discourse more or less serious, whilst the others 
lit a great fire in the chimney-place - a circumstance rendered strange 
by the fine weather and the heat.

"It is very singular," said D'Artagnan to Raoul, "but I think I know 
those faces yonder."

"Don't you think you can smell the smoke here?" said Raoul.

"I rather think I can smell a conspiracy," replied D'Artagnan.

He had not finished speaking, when four of these men came down into the 
court, and without the appearance of any bad design, mounted guard at the 
door of communication, casting, at intervals, glances at D'Artagnan, 
which signified many things.

"_Mordioux!_" said D'Artagnan, in a low voice," there is something going 
on.  Are you curious, Raoul?"

"According to the subject, chevalier."

"Well, I am as curious as an old woman.  Come a little more in front; we 
shall get a better view of the place.  I would lay a wager that view will 
be something curious."

"But you know, monsieur le chevalier, that I am not willing to become a 
passive and indifferent spectator of the death of the two poor devils."

"And I, then - do you think I am a savage?  We will go in again, when it 
is time to do so.  Come along!"  And they made their way towards the 
front of the house, and placed themselves near the window which, still 
more strangely than the rest, remained unoccupied.  The two last 
drinkers, instead of looking out at this window, kept up the fire.  On 
seeing D'Artagnan and his friend enter: - "Ah! ah! a reinforcement," 
murmured they.

D'Artagnan jogged Raoul's elbow.  "Yes, my braves, a reinforcement," said 
he; "_cordieu!_ there is a famous fire.  Whom are you going to cook?"

The two men uttered a shout of jovial laughter, and, instead of 
answering, threw on more wood.  D'Artagnan could not take his eyes off 
them.

"I suppose," said one of the fire-makers, "they sent you to tell us the 
time - did not they?"

"Without doubt they have," said D'Artagnan, anxious to know what was 
going on; "why should I be here else, if it were not for that?"

"Then place yourself at the window, if you please, and observe."  
D'Artagnan smiled in his mustache, made a sign to Raoul, and placed 
himself at the window.


Chapter LXII:
Vive Colbert!

The spectacle which the Greve now presented was a frightful one.  The 
heads, leveled by the perspective, extended afar, thick and agitated as 
the ears of corn in a vast plain.  From time to time a fresh report, or a 
distant rumor, made the heads oscillate and thousands of eyes flash.  Now 
and then there were great movements.  All those ears of corn bent, and 
became waves more agitated than those of the ocean, which rolled from the 
extremities to the center, and beat, like the tides, against the hedge of 
archers who surrounded the gibbets.  Then the handles of the halberds 
were let fall upon the heads and shoulders of the rash invaders; at 
times, also, it was the steel as well as the wood, and, in that case, a 
large empty circle was formed around the guard; a space conquered upon 
the extremities, which underwent, in their turn the oppression of the 
sudden movement, which drove them against the parapets of the Seine.  
From the window, that commanded a view of the whole Place, D'Artagnan 
saw, with interior satisfaction, that such of the musketeers and guards 
as found themselves involved in the crowd, were able, with blows of their 
fists and the hilts of theirs swords, to keep room.  He even remarked 
that they had succeeded, by that _esprit de corps_ which doubles the 
strength of the soldier, in getting together in one group to the amount 
of about fifty men; and that, with the exception of a dozen stragglers 
whom he still saw rolling here and there, the nucleus was complete, and 
within reach of his voice.  But it was not the musketeers and guards that 
drew the attention of D'Artagnan.  Around the gibbets, and particularly 
at the entrances to the arcade of Saint-Jean, moved a noisy mass, a busy 
mass; daring faces, resolute demeanors were to be seen here and there, 
mingled with silly faces and indifferent demeanors; signals were 
exchanged, hands given and taken.  D'Artagnan remarked among the groups, 
and those groups the most animated, the face of the cavalier whom he had 
seen enter by the door of communication from his garden, and who had gone 
upstairs to harangue the drinkers.  That man was organizing troops and 
giving orders.

"_Mordioux!_" said D'Artagnan to himself, "I was not deceived; I know 
that man, - it is Menneville.  What the devil is he doing here?"

A distant murmur, which became more distinct by degrees, stopped this 
reflection, and drew his attention another way.  This murmur was 
occasioned by the arrival of the culprits; a strong picket of archers 
preceded them, and appeared at the angle of the arcade.  The entire crowd 
now joined as if in one cry; all the cries united formed one immense 
howl.  D'Artagnan saw Raoul was becoming pale, and he slapped him roughly 
on the shoulder.  The fire-keepers turned round on hearing the great cry, 
and asked what was going on.  "The condemned are arrived," said 
D'Artagnan.  "That's well," replied they, again replenishing the fire.  
D'Artagnan looked at them with much uneasiness; it was evident that these 
men who were making such a fire for no apparent purpose had some strange 
intentions.  The condemned appeared upon the Place.  They were walking, 
the executioner before them, whilst fifty archers formed a hedge on their 
right and their left.  Both were dressed in black; they appeared pale, 
but firm.  They looked impatiently over the people's heads, standing on 
tip-toe at every step.  D'Artagnan remarked this.  "_Mordioux!_" cried 
he, "they are in a great hurry to get a sight of the gibbet!"  Raoul drew 
back, without, however, having the power to leave the window.  Terror 
even has its attractions.

"To the death! to the death!" cried fifty thousand voices.

"Yes; to the death!" howled a hundred frantic others, as if the great 
mass had given them the reply.

"To the halter! to the halter!" cried the great whole; "_Vive le roi!_"

"Well," said D'Artagnan, "this is droll; I should have thought it was M. 
Colbert who had caused them to be hung."

There was, at this moment, a great rolling movement in the crowd, which 
stopped for a moment the march of the condemned.  The people of a bold 
and resolute mien, whom D'Artagnan had observed, by dint of pressing, 
pushing, and lifting themselves up, had succeeded in almost touching the 
hedge of archers.  The _cortege_ resumed its march.  All at once, to 
cries of "_Vive Colbert!_" those men, of whom D'Artagnan never lost 
sight, fell upon the escort, which in vain endeavored to stand against 
them.  Behind these men was the crowd.  Then commenced, amidst a 
frightful tumult, as frightful a confusion.  This time there was 
something more than cries of expectation or cries of joy, there were 
cries of pain.  Halberds struck men down, swords ran through them, 
muskets were discharged at them.  The confusion became then so great that 
D'Artagnan could no longer distinguish anything.  Then, from this chaos, 
suddenly surged something like a visible intention, like a will 
pronounced.  The condemned had been torn from the hands of the guards, 
and were being dragged towards the house of L'Image-de-Notre-Dame.  Those 
who dragged them shouted, "_Vive Colbert!_"  The people hesitated, not 
knowing which they ought to fall upon, the archers or the aggressors.  
What stopped the people was, that those who cried "_Vive Colbert!_" began 
to cry, at the same time, "No halter! no halter! to the fire! to the 
fire! burn the thieves! burn the extortioners!"  This cry, shouted with 
an _ensemble_, obtained enthusiastic success.  The populace had come to 
witness an execution, and here was an opportunity offered them of 
performing one themselves.  It was this that must be most agreeable to 
the populace: therefore, they ranged themselves immediately on the party 
of the aggressors against the archers, crying with the minority, which 
had become, thanks to them, the most compact majority: "Yes, yes: to the 
fire with the thieves!  _Vive Colbert!_"

"_Mordioux!_" exclaimed D'Artagnan, "this begins to look serious."

One of the men who remained near the chimney approached the window, a 
firebrand in his hand.  "Ah, ah!" said he, "it gets warm."  Then, turning 
to his companion: "There is the signal," added he; and he immediately 
applied the burning brand to the wainscoting.  Now, this _cabaret_ of the 
Image-de-Notre-Dame was not a very newly built house, and therefore, did 
not require much entreating to take fire.  In a second the boards began 
to crackle, and the flames arose sparkling to the ceiling.  A howling 
from without replied to the shouts of the incendiaries.  D'Artagnan, who 
had not seen what passed, from being engaged at the window, felt, at the 
same time, the smoke which choked him and the fire that scorched him.  
"_Hola!_" cried he, turning round, "is the fire here?  Are you drunk or 
mad, my masters?"

The two men looked at each other with an air of astonishment.  "In what?" 
asked they of D'Artagnan; "was it not a thing agreed upon?"

"A thing agreed upon that you should burn my house!" vociferated 
D'Artagnan, snatching the brand from the hand of the incendiary, and 
striking him with it across the face.  The second wanted to assist his 
comrade, but Raoul, seizing him by the middle, threw him out of the 
window, whilst D'Artagnan pushed his man down the stairs.  Raoul, first 
disengaged, tore the burning wainscoting down, and threw it flaming into 
the chamber.  At a glance D'Artagnan saw there was nothing to be feared 
from the fire, and sprang to the window.  The disorder was at its 
height.  The air was filled with simultaneous cries of "To the fire!"  
"To the death!"  "To the halter!"  "To the stake!"  "_Vive Colbert!_"  
"_Vive le roi!_"  The group which had forced the culprits from the hands 
of the archers had drawn close to the house, which appeared to be the 
goal towards which they dragged them.  Menneville was at the head of this 
group, shouting louder than all the others, "To the fire! to the fire!  
_Vive Colbert!_"  D'Artagnan began to comprehend what was meant.  They 
wanted to burn the condemned, and his house was to serve as a funeral 
pile.

"Halt, there!" cried he, sword in hand, and one foot upon the window.  
"Menneville, what do you want to do?"

"Monsieur d'Artagnan," cried the latter; "give way, give way!"

"To the fire! to the fire with the thieves!  _Vive Colbert!_"

These cries exasperated D'Artagnan.  "_Mordioux!_" said he.  "What! burn 
the poor devils who are only condemned to be hung? that is infamous!"

Before the door, however, the mass of anxious spectators, rolled back 
against the walls, had become more thick, and closed up the way.  
Menneville and his men, who were dragging along the culprits, were within 
ten paces of the door.

Menneville made a last effort.  "Passage! passage!" cried he, pistol in 
hand.

"Burn them! burn them!" repeated the crowd.  "The Image-de-Notre-Dame is 
on fire!  Burn the thieves! burn the monopolists in the Image-de-Notre-
Dame!"

There now remained no doubt, it was plainly D'Artagnan's house that was 
their object.  D'Artagnan remembered the old cry, always so effective 
from his mouth: "_A moi! mousquetaires!_" shouted he, with the voice of a 
giant, with one of those voices which dominate over cannon, the sea, the 
tempest.  "_A moi! mousquetaires!_"  And suspending himself by the arm 
from the balcony, he allowed himself to drop amidst the crowd, which 
began to draw back form a house that rained men.  Raoul was on the ground 
as soon as he, both sword in hand.  All the musketeers on the Place heard 
that challenging cry - all turned round at that cry, and recognized 
D'Artagnan.  "To the captain, to the captain!" cried they, in their 
turn.  And the crowd opened before them as though before the prow of a 
vessel.  At that moment D'Artagnan and Menneville found themselves face 
to face.  "Passage, passage!" cried Menneville, seeing that he was within 
an arm's length from the door.

"No one passes here," said D'Artagnan.

"Take that, then!" said Menneville, firing his pistol almost within an 
arm's length.  But before the cock fell, D'Artagnan had struck up 
Menneville's arm with the hilt of his sword and passed the blade through 
his body.

"I told you plainly to keep yourself quiet," said D'Artagnan to 
Menneville, who rolled at his feet.

"Passage! passage!" cried the companions of Menneville, at first 
terrified, but soon recovering, when they found they had only to do with 
two men.  But those two men were hundred-armed giants; the swords flew 
about in their hands like the burning _glaive_ of the archangel.  They 
pierce with its point, strike with the flat, cut with the edge; every 
stroke brings down a man.  "For the king!" cried D'Artagnan, to every man 
he struck at, that is to say, to every man that fell.  This cry became 
the charging word for the musketeers, who, guided by it, joined 
D'Artagnan.  During this time the archers, recovering from the panic they 
had undergone, charge the aggressors in the rear, and regular as mill 
strokes, overturn or knock down all that opposed them.  The crowd, which 
sees swords gleaming, and drops of blood flying in the air - the crowd 
falls back and crushes itself.  At length cries for mercy and of 
despair resound; that is, the farewell of the vanquished.  The two 
condemned are again in the hands of the archers.  D'Artagnan approaches 
them, seeing them pale and sinking: "Console yourselves, poor men," said 
he, "you will not undergo the frightful torture with which these wretches 
threatened you.  The king has condemned you to be hung: you shall only be 
hung.  Go on, hang them, and it will be over."

There is no longer anything going on at the Image-de-Notre-Dame.  The 
fire has been extinguished with two tuns of wine in default of water.  
The conspirators have fled by the garden.  The archers are dragging the 
culprits to the gibbets.  From this moment the affair did not occupy much 
time.  The executioner, heedless about operating according to the rules 
of the art, made such haste that he dispatched the condemned in a couple 
of minutes.  In the meantime the people gathered around D'Artagnan, - 
they felicitated, they cheered him.  He wiped his brow, streaming with 
sweat, and his sword, streaming with blood.  He shrugged his shoulders at 
seeing Menneville writhing at his feet in the last convulsions.  And, 
while Raoul turned away his eyes in compassion, he pointed to the 
musketeers the gibbets laden with their melancholy fruit.  "Poor devils!" 
said he, "I hope they died blessing me, for I saved them with great 
difficulty."  These words caught the ear of Menneville at the moment when 
he himself was breathing his last sigh.  A dark, ironical smile flitted 
across his lips; he wished to reply, but the effort hastened the snapping 
of the chord of life - he expired.

"Oh! all this is very frightful!" murmured Raoul: "let us begone, 
monsieur le chevalier."

"You are not wounded?" asked D'Artagnan.

"Not at all; thank you."

"That's well!  Thou art a brave fellow, _mordioux!_  The head of the 
father, and the arm of Porthos.  Ah! if he had been here, good Porthos, 
you would have seen something worth looking at."  Then as if by way of 
remembrance -

"But where the devil can that brave Porthos be?" murmured D'Artagnan.

"Come, chevalier, pray come away," urged Raoul.

"One minute, my friend; let me take my thirty-seven and a half pistols, 
and I am at your service.  The house is a good property," added 
D'Artagnan, as he entered the Image-de-Notre-Dame, "but decidedly, even 
if it were less profitable, I should prefer its being in another quarter."


Chapter LXIII:
How M. d'Eymeris's Diamond passed into the Hands of M. d'Artagnan.

Whilst this violent, noisy, and bloody scene was passing on the Greve, 
several men, barricaded behind the gate of communication with the garden, 
replaced their swords in their sheaths, assisted one among them to mount 
a ready saddled horse which was waiting in the garden, and like a flock 
of startled birds, fled in all directions, some climbing the walls, 
others rushing out at the gates with all the fury of a panic.  He who 
mounted the horse, and gave him the spur so sharply that the animal was 
near leaping the wall, this cavalier, we say, crossed the Place Baudoyer, 
passed like lightening before the crowd in the streets, riding against, 
running over and knocking down all that came in his way, and, ten minutes 
after, arrived at the gates of the superintendent, more out of breath 
than his horse.  The Abbe Fouquet, at the clatter of hoofs on the 
pavement, appeared at a window of the court, and before even the cavalier 
had set foot to the ground, "Well!  Danicamp?" cried he, leaning half out 
of the window.

"Well, it is all over," replied the cavalier.

"All over!" cried the abbe.  "Then they are saved?"

"No, monsieur," replied the cavalier, "they are hung."

"Hung!" repeated the abbe, turning pale.  A lateral door suddenly opened, 
and Fouquet appeared in the chamber, pale, distracted, with lips half 
opened, breathing a cry of grief and anger.  He stopped upon the 
threshold to listen to what was addressed from the court to the window.

"Miserable wretches!" said the abbe, "you did not fight, then?"

"Like lions."

"Say like cowards."

"Monsieur!"

"A hundred men accustomed to war, sword in hand, are worth ten thousand 
archers in a surprise.  Where is Menneville, that boaster, that braggart, 
who was to come back either dead or a conqueror?"

"Well, monsieur, he kept his word.  He is dead!"

"Dead!  Who killed him?"

"A demon disguised as a man, a giant armed with ten flaming swords - a 
madman, who at one blow extinguished the fire, put down the riot, and 
caused a hundred musketeers to rise up out of the pavement of the Greve."

Fouquet raised his brow, streaming with sweat, murmuring, "Oh!  Lyodot 
and D'Eymeris! dead! dead! dead! and I dishonored."

The abbe turned round, and perceiving his brother, despairing and livid, 
"Come, come," said he, "it is a blow of fate, monsieur; we must not 
lament thus.  Our attempt has failed because God - "

"Be silent, abbe! be silent!" cried Fouquet; "your excuses are 
blasphemies.  Order that man up here, and let him relate the details of 
this terrible event."

"But, brother - "

"Obey, monsieur!"

The abbe made a sign, and in half a minute the man's step was heard upon 
the stairs.  At the same time Gourville appeared behind Fouquet, like the 
guardian angel of the superintendent, pressing one finger on his lips to 
enjoin observation even amidst the bursts of his grief.  The minister 
resumed all the serenity that human strength left at the disposal of a 
heart half broken with sorrow.  Danicamp appeared.  "Make your report," 
said Gourville.

"Monsieur," replied the messenger, "we received orders to carry off the 
prisoners, and to cry '_Vive Colbert!_' whilst carrying them off."

"To burn them alive, was it not, abbe?" interrupted Gourville.

"Yes, yes, the order was given to Menneville.  Menneville knew what was 
to be done, and Menneville is dead."

This news appeared rather to reassure Gourville than to sadden him.

"Yes, certainly to burn them alive," said the abbe, eagerly.

"Granted, monsieur, granted," said the man, looking into the eyes and the 
faces of the two interlocutors, to ascertain what there was profitable or 
disadvantageous to himself in telling the truth.

"Now, proceed," said Gourville.

"The prisoners," cried Danicamp, "were brought to the Greve, and the 
people, in a fury, insisted upon their being burnt instead of being hung."

"And the people were right," said the abbe.  "Go on."

"But," resumed the man, "at the moment the archers were broken, at the 
moment the fire was set to one of the houses of the Place destined to 
serve as a funeral-pile for the guilty, this fury, this demon, this giant 
of whom I told you, and who, we had been informed, was the proprietor of 
the house in question, aided by a young man who accompanied him, threw 
out of the window those who kept the fire, called to his assistance the 
musketeers who were in the crowd, leaped himself from the window of the 
first story into the Place, and plied his sword so desperately that the 
victory was restored to the archers, the prisoners were retaken, and 
Menneville killed.  When once recaptured, the condemned were executed in 
three minutes."  Fouquet, in spite of his self-command, could not prevent 
a deep groan escaping him.

"And this man, the proprietor of the house, what is his name?" said the 
abbe.

"I cannot tell you, not having even been able to get sight of him; my 
post had been appointed in the garden, and I remained at my post: only 
the affair was related to me as I repeat it.  I was ordered, when once 
the affair was at an end, to come at best speed and announce to you the 
manner in which it finished.  According to this order, I set out, full 
gallop, and here I am."

"Very well, monsieur, we have nothing else to ask of you," said the abbe, 
more and more dejected, in proportion as the moment approached for 
finding himself alone with his brother.

"Have you been paid?" asked Gourville.

"Partly, monsieur," replied Danicamp.

"Here are twenty pistols.  Begone, monsieur, and never forget to defend, 
as this time has been done, the true interests of the king."

"Yes, monsieur," said the man, bowing and pocketing the money.  After 
which he went out.  Scarcely had the door closed after him when Fouquet, 
who had remained motionless, advanced with a rapid step and stood between 
the abbe and Gourville.  Both of them at the same time opened their 
mouths to speak to him.  "No excuses," said he, "no recriminations 
against anybody.  If I had not been a false friend I should not have 
confided to any one the care of delivering Lyodot and D'Eymeris.  I alone 
am guilty; to me alone are reproaches and remorse due.  Leave me, abbe."

"And yet, monsieur, you will not prevent me," replied the latter, "from 
endeavoring to find out the miserable fellow who has intervened to the 
advantage of M. Colbert in this so well-arranged affair; for, if it is 
good policy to love our friends dearly, I do not believe that is bad 
which consists in obstinately pursuing our enemies."

"A truce to policy, abbe; begone, I beg of you, and do not let me hear 
any more of you till I send for you; what we most need is circumspection 
and silence.  You have a terrible example before you, gentlemen: no 
reprisals, I forbid them."

"There are no orders," grumbled the abbe, "which will prevent me from 
avenging a family affront upon the guilty person."

"And I," cried Fouquet, in that imperative tone to which one feels there 
is nothing to reply, "if you entertain one thought, one single thought, 
which is not the absolute expression of my will, I will have you cast 
into the Bastile two hours after that thought has manifested itself.  
Regulate your conduct accordingly, abbe."

The abbe colored and bowed.  Fouquet made a sign to Gourville to follow 
him, and was already directing his steps towards his cabinet, when the 
usher announced with a loud voice: "Monsieur le Chevalier d'Artagnan."

"Who is he?" said Fouquet, negligently, to Gourville.

"An ex-lieutenant of his majesty's musketeers," replied Gourville, in the 
same tone.  Fouquet did not even take the trouble to reflect, and resumed 
his walk.  "I beg your pardon, monseigneur!" said Gourville, "but I have 
remembered; this brave man has quitted the king's service, and probably 
comes to receive an installment of some pension or other."

"Devil take him!" said Fouquet, "why does he choose his opportunity so 
ill?"

"Permit me then, monseigneur, to announce your refusal to him; for he is 
one of my acquaintance, and is a man whom, in our present circumstances, 
it would be better to have as a friend than an enemy."

"Answer him as you please," said Fouquet.

"Eh! good Lord!" said the abbe, still full of malice, like an egotistical 
man; "tell him there is no money, particularly for musketeers."

But scarcely had the abbe uttered this imprudent speech, when the partly 
open door was thrown back, and D'Artagnan appeared.

"Eh!  Monsieur Fouquet," said he, "I was well aware there was no money 
for musketeers here.  Therefore I did not come to obtain any, but to have 
it refused.  That being done, receive my thanks.  I give you good-day, 
and will go and seek it at M. Colbert's."  And he went out, making an 
easy bow.

"Gourville," said Fouquet, "run after that man and bring him back."  
Gourville obeyed, and overtook D'Artagnan on the stairs.

D'Artagnan, hearing steps behind him, turned round and perceived 
Gourville.  "_Mordioux!_ my dear monsieur," said he, "there are sad 
lessons which you gentlemen of finance teach us; I come to M. Fouquet to 
receive a sum accorded by his majesty, and I am received like a mendicant 
who comes to ask charity, or a thief who comes to steal a piece of plate."

"But you pronounced the name of M. Colbert, my dear M. d'Artagnan; you 
said you were going to M. Colbert's?"

"I certainly am going there, were it only to ask satisfaction of the 
people who try to burn houses, crying '_Vive Colbert!_'"

Gourville pricked up his ears.  "Oh, oh!" said he, "you allude to what 
has just happened at the Greve?"

"Yes, certainly."

"And in what did that which has taken place concern you?"

"What! do you ask me whether it concerns me or does not concern me, if M. 
Colbert pleases to make a funeral-pile of my house?"

"So, ho, _your_ house - was it your house they wanted to burn?"

"_Pardieu!_ was it!"

"Is the _cabaret_ of the Image-de-Notre-Dame yours, then?"

"It has been this week."

"Well, then, are you the brave captain, are you the valiant blade who 
dispersed those who wished to burn the condemned?"

"My dear Monsieur Gourville, put yourself in my place.  I was an agent of 
the public force and a landlord, too.  As a captain, it is my duty to 
have the orders of the king accomplished.  As a proprietor, it is to my 
interest my house should not be burnt.  I have at the same time attended 
to the laws of interest and duty in replacing Messieurs Lyodot and 
D'Eymeris in the hands of the archers."

"Then it was you who threw the man out of the window?"

"It was I, myself," replied D'Artagnan, modestly.

"And you who killed Menneville?"

"I had that misfortune," said D'Artagnan, bowing like a man who is being 
congratulated.

"It was you, then, in short, who caused the two condemned persons to be 
hung?"

"Instead of being burnt, yes, monsieur, and I am proud of it.  I saved 
the poor devils from horrible tortures.  Understand, my dear Monsieur de 
Gourville, that they wanted to burn them alive.  It exceeds imagination!"

"Go, my dear Monsieur d'Artagnan, go," said Gourville, anxious to spare 
Fouquet the sight of the man who had just caused him such profound grief.

"No," said Fouquet, who had heard all from the door of the ante-chamber; 
"not so; on the contrary, Monsieur d'Artagnan, come in."

D'Artagnan wiped from the hilt of his sword a last bloody trace, which 
had escaped his notice, and returned.  He then found himself face to face 
with these three men, whose countenances wore very different 
expressions.  With the abbe it was anger, with Gourville stupor, with 
Fouquet it was dejection.

"I beg your pardon, monsieur le ministre," said D'Artagnan, "but my time 
is short; I have to go to the office of the intendant, to have an 
explanation with Monsieur Colbert, and to receive my quarter's pension."

"But, monsieur," said Fouquet, "there is money here."  D'Artagnan looked 
at the superintendent with astonishment.  "You have been answered 
inconsiderately, monsieur, I know, because I heard it," said the 
minister; "a man of your merit ought to be known by everybody."  
D'Artagnan bowed.  "Have you an order?" added Fouquet.

"Yes, monsieur."

"Give it me, I will pay you myself; come with me."  He made a sign to 
Gourville and the abbe, who remained in the chamber where they were.  He 
led D'Artagnan into his cabinet.  As soon as the door was shut, - "how 
much is due to you, monsieur?"

"Why, something like five thousand livres, monseigneur."

"For arrears of pay?"

"For a quarter's pay."

"A quarter consisting of five thousand livres!" said Fouquet, fixing upon 
the musketeer a searching look.  "Does the king, then, give you twenty 
thousand livres a year?"

"Yes, monseigneur, twenty thousand livres a year.  Do you think it is too 
much?"

"I?" cried Fouquet, and he smiled bitterly.  "If I had any knowledge of 
mankind, if I were - instead of being a frivolous, inconsequent, and vain 
spirit - of a prudent and reflective spirit; if, in a word, I had, as 
certain persons have known how, regulated my life, you would not receive 
twenty thousand livres a year, but a hundred thousand, and you would 
belong not to the king but to me."

D'Artagnan colored slightly.  There is sometimes in the manner in which a 
eulogium is given, in the voice, in the affectionate tone, a poison so 
sweet, that the strongest mind is intoxicated by it.  The superintendent 
terminated his speech by opening a drawer, and taking from it four 
_rouleaux_, which he placed before D'Artagnan.  The Gascon opened one.  
"Gold!" said he.

"It will be less burdensome, monsieur."

"But, then, monsieur, these make twenty thousand livres."

"No doubt they do."

"But only five are due to me."

"I wish to spare you the trouble of coming four times to my office."

"You overwhelm me, monsieur."

"I do only what I ought to do, monsieur le chevalier; and I hope you will 
not bear me any malice on account of the rude reception my brother gave 
you.  He is of a sour, capricious disposition."

"Monsieur," said D'Artagnan, "believe me, nothing would grieve me more 
than an excuse from you."

"Therefore I will make no more, and will content myself with asking you a 
favor."

"Oh, monsieur."

Fouquet drew from his finger a ring worth about three thousand pistoles.  
"Monsieur," said he, "this stone was given me by a friend of my 
childhood, by a man to whom you have rendered a great service."

"A service - I?" said the musketeer; "I have rendered a service to one of 
your friends?"

"You cannot have forgotten it, monsieur, for it dates this very day."

"And that friend's name was - "

"M. d'Eymeris."

"One of the condemned?"

"Yes, one of the victims.  Well!  Monsieur d'Artagnan, in return for the 
service you have rendered him, I beg you to accept this diamond.  Do so 
for my sake."

"Monsieur! you - "

"Accept it, I say.  To-day is with me a day of mourning; hereafter you 
will, perhaps, learn why; to-day I have lost one friend; well, I will try 
to get another."

"But, Monsieur Fouquet - "

"Adieu!  Monsieur d'Artagnan, adieu!"  cried Fouquet, with much emotion; 
"or rather, _au revoir_."  And the minister quitted the cabinet, leaving 
in the hands of the musketeer the ring and the twenty thousand livres.

"Oh!" said D'Artagnan, after a moment's dark reflection.  "How on earth 
am I to understand what this means?  _Mordioux!_  I can understand this 
much, only: he is a gallant man!  I will go and explain matters to M. 
Colbert."  And he went out.


Chapter LXIV:
Of the Notable Difference D'Artagnan finds between Monsieur the Intendant 
and Monsieur the Superintendent.

M. Colbert resided in the Rue Neuve des Petits-Champs, in a house which 
had belonged to Beautru.  D'Artagnan's legs cleared the distance in a 
short quarter of an hour.  When he arrived at the residence of the new 
favorite, the court was full of archers and police, who came to 
congratulate him, or to excuse themselves, according to whether he should 
choose to praise or blame.  The sentiment of flattery is instinctive with 
people of abject condition; they have the sense of it, as the wild animal 
has that of hearing and smell.  These people, or their leader, understood 
that there was a pleasure to offer to M. Colbert, in rendering him an 
account of the fashion in which his name had been pronounced during the 
rash enterprise of the morning.  D'Artagnan made his appearance just as 
the chief of the watch was giving his report.  He stood close to the 
door, behind the archers.  That officer took Colbert on one side, in 
spite of his resistance and the contradiction of his bushy eyebrows.  "In 
case," said he, "you really desired, monsieur, that the people should do 
justice on the two traitors, it would have been wise to warn us of it; 
for, indeed, monsieur, in spite of our regret at displeasing you, or 
thwarting your views, we had our orders to execute."

"Triple fool!" replied Colbert, furiously shaking his hair, thick and 
black as a mane; "what are you telling me?  What! that _I_ could have had 
an idea of a riot!  Are you mad or drunk?"

"But, monsieur, they cried '_Vive Colbert!_'" replied the trembling watch.

"A handful of conspirators - "

"No, no; a mass of people."

"Ah! indeed," said Colbert, expanding.  "A mass of people cried '_Vive 
Colbert!_'  Are you certain of what you say, monsieur?"

"We had nothing to do but open our ears, or rather to close them, so 
terrible were the cries."

"And this was from the people, the real people?"

"Certainly, monsieur; only these real people beat us."

"Oh! very well," continued Colbert, thoughtfully.  "Then you suppose it 
was the people alone who wished to burn the condemned?"

"Oh! yes, monsieur."

"That is quite another thing.  You strongly resisted, then?"

"We had three of our men crushed to death, monsieur!"

"But you killed nobody yourselves?"

"Monsieur, a few of the rioters were left upon the square, and one among 
them who was not a common man."

"Who was he?"

"A certain Menneville, upon whom the police have a long time had an eye."

"Menneville!" cried Colbert, "what, he who killed Rue de la Huchette, a 
worthy man who wanted a fat fowl?"

"Yes, monsieur; the same."

"And did this Menneville also cry, '_Vive Colbert_'?"

"Louder than all the rest; like a madman."

Colbert's brow grew dark and wrinkled.  A kind of ambitious glory which 
had lighted his face was extinguished, like the light of glow-worms we 
crush beneath the grass.  "Then you say," resumed the deceived intendant, 
"that the initiative came from the people?  Menneville was my enemy; I 
would have had him hung, and he knew it well.  Menneville belonged to the 
Abbe Fouquet - the affair originated with Fouquet; does not everybody 
know that the condemned were his friends from childhood?"

"That is true," thought D'Artagnan, "and thus are all my doubts cleared 
up.  I repeat it, Monsieur Fouquet may be called what they please, but he 
is a very gentlemanly man."

"And," continued Colbert, "are you quite sure Menneville is dead?"

D'Artagnan thought the time was come for him to make his appearance.  
"Perfectly, monsieur;" replied he, advancing suddenly.

"Oh! is that you, monsieur?" said Colbert.

"In person," replied the musketeer with his deliberate tone; "it appears 
that you had in Menneville a pretty enemy."

"It was not I, monsieur, who had an enemy," replied Colbert; "it was the 
king."

"Double brute!" thought D'Artagnan, "to think to play the great man and 
the hypocrite with me.  Well," continued he to Colbert, "I am very happy 
to have rendered so good a service to the king; will you take upon you to 
tell his majesty, monsieur l'intendant?"

"What commission is this you give me, and what do you charge me to tell 
his majesty, monsieur?  Be precise, if you please," said Colbert, in a 
sharp voice, tuned beforehand to hostility.

"I give you no commission," replied D'Artagnan, with that calmness which 
never abandons the banterer; "I thought it would be easy for you to 
announce to his majesty that it was I who, being there by chance, did 
justice upon Menneville and restored order to things."

Colbert opened his eyes and interrogated the chief of the watch with a 
look - "Ah! it is very true," said the latter, "that this gentleman saved 
us."

"Why did you not tell me, monsieur, that you came to relate me this?" 
said Colbert with envy; "everything is explained, and more favorably for 
you than for anybody else."

"You are in error, monsieur l'intendant, I did not at all come for the 
purpose of relating that to you."

"It is an exploit, nevertheless."

"Oh!" said the musketeer carelessly, "constant habit blunts the mind."

"To what do I owe the honor of your visit, then?"

"Simply to this: the king ordered me to come to you."

"Ah!" said Colbert, recovering himself when he saw D'Artagnan draw a 
paper from his pocket; "it is to demand some money of me?"

"Precisely, monsieur."

"Have the goodness to wait, if you please, monsieur, till I have 
dispatched the report of the watch."

D'Artagnan turned upon his heel, insolently enough, and finding himself 
face to face with Colbert, after his first turn, he bowed to him as a 
harlequin would have done; then, after a second evolution, he directed 
his steps towards the door in quick time.  Colbert was struck with this 
pointed rudeness, to which he was not accustomed.  In general, men of the 
sword, when they came to his office, had such a want of money, that 
though their feet seemed to take root in the marble, they hardly lost 
their patience.  Was D'Artagnan going straight to the king?  Would he go 
and describe his rough reception, or recount his exploit?  This was a 
matter for grave consideration.  At all events, the moment was badly 
chosen to send D'Artagnan away, whether he came from the king, or on his 
own account.  The musketeer had rendered too great a service, and that 
too recently, for it to be already forgotten.  Therefore Colbert thought 
it would be better to shake off his arrogance and call D'Artagnan back.  
"Ho!  Monsieur d'Artagnan," cried Colbert, "what! are you leaving me 
thus?"

D'Artagnan turned round: "Why not?" said he, quietly, "we have no more to 
say to each other, have we?"

"You have, at least, money to receive, as you have an order?"

"Who, I?  Oh! not at all, my dear Monsieur Colbert."

"But, monsieur, you have an order.  And, in the same manner as you give a 
sword-thrust, when you are required, I, on my part, pay when an order is 
presented to me.  Present yours."

"It is useless, my dear Monsieur Colbert," said D'Artagnan, who inwardly 
enjoyed this confusion in the ideas of Colbert; "my order is paid."

"Paid, by whom?"

"By monsieur le surintendant."

Colbert grew pale.

"Explain yourself," said he, in a stifled voice - "if you are paid why do 
you show me that paper?"

"In consequence of the word of order of which you spoke to me so 
ingeniously just now, dear M. Colbert; the king told me to take a quarter 
of the pension he is pleased to make me."

"Of me?" said Colbert.

"Not exactly.  The king said to me: 'Go to M. Fouquet; the superintendent 
will, perhaps, have no money, then you will go and draw it of M. 
Colbert.'"

The countenance of M. Colbert brightened for a moment; but it was with 
his unfortunate physiognomy as with a stormy sky, sometimes radiant, 
sometimes dark as night, according as the lightening gleams or the cloud 
passes.  "Eh! and was there any money in the superintendent's coffers?" 
asked he.

"Why, yes, he could not be badly off for money," replied D'Artagnan - "it 
may be believed, since M. Fouquet, instead of paying me a quarter or five 
thousand livres - "

"A quarter or five thousand livres!" cried Colbert, struck, as Fouquet 
had been, with the generosity of the sum for a soldier's pension, "why, 
that would be a pension of twenty thousand livres?"

"Exactly, M. Colbert.  _Peste!_ you reckon like old Pythagoras; yes, 
twenty thousand livres."

"Ten times the appointment of an intendant of the finances.  I beg to 
offer you my compliments," said Colbert, with a vicious smile.

"Oh!" said D'Artagnan, "the king apologized for giving me so little; but 
he promised to make it more hereafter, when he should be rich; but I must 
be gone, having much to do - "

"So, then, notwithstanding the expectation of the king, the 
superintendent paid you, did he?"

"In the same manner, as, in opposition to the king's expectation, you 
refused to pay me."

"I did not refuse, monsieur, I only begged you to wait.  And you say that 
M. Fouquet paid you your five thousand livres?"

"Yes, as _you_ might have done; but he did even better than that, M. 
Colbert."

"And what did he do?"

"He politely counted me down the sum-total, saying, that for the king, 
his coffers were always full."

"The sum-total!  M. Fouquet has given you twenty thousand livres instead 
of five thousand?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"And what for?"

"In order to spare me three visits to the money-chest of the 
superintendent, so that I have the twenty thousand livres in my pocket in 
good new coin.  You see, then, that I am able to go away without standing 
in need of you, having come here only for form's sake."  And D'Artagnan 
slapped his hand upon his pocket, with a laugh which disclosed to Colbert 
thirty-two magnificent teeth, as white as teeth of twenty-five years old, 
and which seemed to say in their language: "Serve up to us thirty-two 
little Colberts, and we will chew them willingly."  The serpent is as 
brave as the lion, the hawk as courageous as the eagle, that cannot be 
contested.  It can only be said of animals that are decidedly cowardly, 
and are so called, that they will be brave only when they have to defend 
themselves.  Colbert was not frightened at the thirty-two teeth of 
D'Artagnan.  He recovered, and suddenly, - "Monsieur," said he, "monsieur 
le surintendant has done what he had no right to do."

"What do you mean by that?" replied D'Artagnan.

"I mean that your note - will you let me see your note, if you please?"

"Very willingly; here it is."

Colbert seized the paper with an eagerness which the musketeer did not 
remark without uneasiness, and particularly without a certain degree of 
regret at having trusted him with it.  "Well, monsieur, the royal order 
says thus: - 'At sight, I command that there be paid to M. d'Artagnan the 
sum of five thousand livres, forming a quarter of the pension I have made 
him.'"

"So, in fact, it is written," said D'Artagnan, affecting calmness.

"Very well; the king only owed you five thousand livres; why has more 
been given to you?"

"Because there was more; and M. Fouquet was willing to give me more; that 
does not concern anybody."

"It is natural," said Colbert with a proud ease, "that you should be 
ignorant of the usages of state-finance; but, monsieur, when you have a 
thousand livres to pay, what do you do?"

"I never have a thousand livres to pay," replied D'Artagnan.

"Once more," said Colbert, irritated - "once more, if you had any sum to 
pay, would you not pay what you ought?"

"That only proves one thing," said D'Artagnan; "and that is, that you 
have your own particular customs in finance, and M. Fouquet has his own."

"Mine, monsieur, are the correct ones."

"I do not say that they are not."

"And you have accepted what was not due to you."

D'Artagnan's eyes flashed.  "What is not due to me yet, you meant to say, 
M. Colbert; for if I have received what was not due to me at all, I 
should have committed a theft."

Colbert made no reply to this subtlety.  "You then owe fifteen thousand 
livres to the public chest," said he, carried away by his jealous ardor.

"Then you must give me credit for them," replied D'Artagnan, with his 
imperceptible irony.

"Not at all, monsieur."

"Well! what will you do, then?  You will not take my _rouleaux_ from me, 
will you?"

"You must return them to my chest."

"I!  Oh!  Monsieur Colbert, don't reckon upon that."

"The king wants his money, monsieur."

"And I, monsieur, I want the king's money."

"That may be so; but you must return this."

"Not a _sou_.  I have always understood that in matters of 
_comptabilite_, as you call it, a good cashier never gives back or takes 
back."

"Then, monsieur, we shall see what the king will say about it.  I will 
show him this note, which proves that M. Fouquet not only pays what he 
does not owe, but that he does not even take care of vouchers for the 
sums that he has paid."

"Ah! now I understand why you have taken that paper, M. Colbert!"

Colbert did not perceive all that there was of a threatening character in 
his name pronounced in a certain manner.  "You shall see hereafter what 
use I will make of it," said he, holding up the paper in his fingers.

"Oh!" said D'Artagnan, snatching the paper from him with a rapid 
movement; "I understand perfectly well, M. Colbert; I have no occasion to 
wait for that."  And he crumpled up the paper he had so cleverly seized.

"Monsieur, monsieur!" cried Colbert, "this is violence!"

"Nonsense!  You must not be particular about a soldier's manners!" 
replied D'Artagnan.  "I kiss your hands, my dear M. Colbert."  And he 
went out, laughing in the face of the future minister.

"That man, now," muttered he, "was about to grow quite friendly; it is a 
great pity I was obliged to cut his company so soon."


Chapter LXV:
Philosophy of the Heart and Mind.

For a man who had seen so many much more dangerous ones, the position of 
D'Artagnan with respect to M. Colbert was only comic.  D'Artagnan, 
therefore, did not deny himself the satisfaction of laughing at the 
expense of monsieur l'intendant, from the Rue des Petits-Champs to the 
Rue des Lombards.  It was a great while since D'Artagnan had laughed so 
long together.  He was still laughing when Planchet appeared, laughing 
likewise, at the door of his house; for Planchet, since the return of his 
patron, since the entrance of the English guineas, passed the greater 
part of his life in doing what D'Artagnan had only done from the Rue 
Neuve des Petits-Champs to the Rue des Lombards.

"You are home, then, my dear master?" said Planchet.

"No, my friend," replied the musketeer; "I am off, and that quickly.  I 
will sup with you, go to bed, sleep five hours, and at break of day leap 
into my saddle.  Has my horse had an extra feed?"

"Eh! my dear master," replied Planchet, "you know very well that your 
horse is the jewel of the family; that my lads are caressing it all day, 
and cramming it with sugar, nuts, and biscuits.  You ask me if he has had 
an extra feed of oats; you should ask if he has not had enough to burst 
him."

"Very well, Planchet, that is all right.  Now, then, I pass to what 
concerns me - my supper?"

"Ready.  A smoking roast joint, white wine, crayfish, and fresh-gathered 
cherries.  All ready, my master."

"You are a capital fellow, Planchet; come on, then, let us sup, and I 
will go to bed."

During supper D'Artagnan observed that Planchet kept rubbing his 
forehead, as if to facilitate the issue of some idea closely pent within 
his brain.  He looked with an air of kindness at this worthy companion of 
former adventures and misadventures, and, clinking glass against glass, 
"Come, Planchet," said he, "let us see what it is that gives you so much 
trouble to bring forth.  _Mordioux!_  Speak freely, and quickly."

"Well, this is it," replied Planchet: "you appear to me to be going on 
some expedition or another."

"I don't say that I am not."

"Then you have some new idea?"

"That is possible, too, Planchet."

"Then there will be fresh capital to be ventured?  I will lay down fifty 
thousand livres upon the idea you are about to carry out."  And so 
saying, Planchet rubbed his hands one against the other with a rapidity 
evincing great delight.

"Planchet," said D'Artagnan, "there is but one misfortune in it."

"And what is that?"

"That the idea is not mine.  I can risk nothing upon it."

These words drew a deep sigh from the heart of Planchet.  That Avarice is 
an ardent counselor; she carries away her man, as Satan did Jesus, to the 
mountain, and when once she has shown to an unfortunate all the kingdoms 
of the earth, she is able to repose herself, knowing full well that she 
has left her companion, Envy, to gnaw at his heart.  Planchet had tasted 
of riches easily acquired, and was never afterwards likely to stop in his 
desires; but, as he had a good heart in spite of his covetousness, as he 
adored D'Artagnan, he could not refrain from making him a thousand 
recommendations, each more affectionate than the others.  He would not 
have been sorry, nevertheless, to have caught a little hint of the secret 
his master concealed so well; tricks, turns, counsels, and traps were all 
useless, D'Artagnan let nothing confidential escape him.  The evening 
passed thus.  After supper the portmanteau occupied D'Artagnan, he took a 
turn to the stable, patted his horse, and examined his shoes and legs; 
then, having counted over his money, he went to bed, sleeping as if only 
twenty, because he had neither inquietude nor remorse; he closed his eyes 
five minutes after he had blown out his lamp.  Many events might, 
however, have kept him awake.  Thought boiled in his brain, conjectures 
abounded, and D'Artagnan was a great drawer of horoscopes; but, with that 
imperturbable phlegm which does more than genius for the fortune and 
happiness of men of action, he put off reflection till the next day, for 
fear, he said, not to be fresh when he wanted to be so.

The day came.  The Rue des Lombards had its share of the caresses of 
Aurora with the rosy fingers, and D'Artagnan arose like Aurora.  He did 
not awaken anybody, he placed his portmanteau under his arm, descended 
the stairs without making one of them creak, and without disturbing one 
of the sonorous snorings in every story from the garret to the cellar, 
then, having saddled his horse, shut the stable and house doors, he set 
off, at a foot-pace, on his expedition to Bretagne.  He had done quite 
right not to trouble himself with all the political and diplomatic 
affairs which solicited his attention; for, in the morning, in freshness 
and mild twilight, his ideas developed themselves in purity and 
abundance.  In the first place, he passed before the house of Fouquet, 
and threw in a large gaping box the fortunate order which, the evening 
before, he had had so much trouble to recover from the hooked fingers of 
the intendant.  Placed in an envelope, and addressed to Fouquet, it had 
not even been divined by Planchet, who in divination was equal to Calchas 
or the Pythian Apollo.  D'Artagnan thus sent back the order to Fouquet, 
without compromising himself, and without having thenceforward any 
reproaches to make himself.  When he had effected this proper 
restitution, "Now," he said to himself, "let us inhale much maternal air, 
much freedom from cares, much health, let us allow the horse Zephyr, 
whose flanks puff as if he had to respire an atmosphere, to breathe, and 
let us be very ingenious in our little calculations.  It is time," said 
D'Artagnan, "to form a plan of the campaign, and, according to the method 
of M. Turenne, who has a large head full of all sorts of good counsels, 
before the plan of the campaign it is advisable to draw a striking 
portrait of the generals to whom we are opposed.  In the first place, M. 
Fouquet presents himself.  What is M. Fouquet?  M. Fouquet," replied 
D'Artagnan to himself, "is a handsome man, very much beloved by the 
women, a generous man very much beloved by the poets; a man of wit, much 
execrated by pretenders.  Well, now I am neither woman, poet, nor 
pretender: I neither love not hate monsieur le surintendant.  I find 
myself, therefore, in the same position in which M. Turenne found himself 
when opposed to the Prince de Conde at Jargeau, Gien and the Faubourg 
Saint-Antoine.  He did not execrate monsieur le prince, it is true, but 
he obeyed the king.  Monsieur le prince is an agreeable man, but the king 
is king.  Turenne heaved a deep sigh, called Conde 'My cousin,' and swept 
away his army.  Now what does the king wish?  That does not concern me.  
Now, what does M. Colbert wish?  Oh, that's another thing.  M. Colbert 
wishes all that M. Fouquet does not wish.  Then what does M. Fouquet 
wish?  Oh, that is serious.  M. Fouquet wishes precisely for all the king 
wishes."

This monologue ended, D'Artagnan began to laugh, whilst making his whip 
whistle in the air.  He was already on the high road, frightening the 
birds in the hedges, listening to the livres chinking and dancing in his 
leather pocket, at every step; and, let us confess it, every time that 
D'Artagnan found himself in such conditions, tenderness was not his 
dominant vice.  "Come," said he, "I cannot think the expedition a very 
dangerous one; and it will fall out with my voyage as with that piece M. 
Monk took me to see in London, which was called, I think, 'Much Ado about 
Nothing.'"


Chapter LXVI:
The Journey.

It was perhaps the fiftieth time since the day on which we open this 
history, that this man, with a heart of bronze and muscles of steel, had 
left house and friends, everything, in short, to go in search of fortune 
and death.  The one - that is to say, death - had constantly retreated 
before him, as if afraid of him; the other - that is to say, fortune - 
for only a month past had really made an alliance with him.  Although 
he was not a great philosopher, after the fashion of either Epicurus or 
Socrates, he was a powerful spirit, having knowledge of life, and endowed 
with thought.  No one is as brave, as adventurous, or as skillful as 
D'Artagnan, without at the same time being inclined to be a _dreamer_.  
He had picked up, here and there, some scraps of M. de la Rochefoucault, 
worthy of being translated into Latin by MM. de Port Royal; and he had 
made a collection, _en passant_, in the society of Athos and Aramis, of 
many morsels of Seneca and Cicero, translated by them, and applied to the 
uses of common life.  That contempt of riches which our Gascon had 
observed as an article of faith during the thirty-five first years of his 
life, had for a long time been considered by him as the first article of 
the code of bravery.  "Article first," said he, "A man is brave because 
he has nothing.  A man has nothing because he despises riches."  
Therefore, with these principles, which, as we have said, had regulated 
the thirty-five first years of his life, D'Artagnan was no sooner 
possessed of riches, than he felt it necessary to ask himself if, in 
spite of his riches, he were still brave.  To this, for any other but 
D'Artagnan, the events of the Place de Greve might have served as a 
reply.  Many consciences would have been satisfied with them, but 
D'Artagnan was brave enough to ask himself sincerely and conscientiously 
if he were brave.  Therefore to this: -

"But it appears to me that I drew promptly enough, and cut and thrust 
pretty freely on the Place de Greve, to be satisfied of my bravery," 
D'Artagnan had himself replied.  "Gently, captain, that is not an 
answer.  I was brave that day, because they were burning my house, and 
there are a hundred, and even a thousand, to speak against one, that if 
those gentlemen of the riots had not formed that unlucky idea, their plan 
of attack would have succeeded, or, at least, it would not have been I 
who would have opposed myself to it.  Now, what will be brought against 
me?  I have no house to be burnt in Bretagne; I have no treasure there 
that can be taken from me. - No; but I have my skin; that precious skin 
of M. d'Artagnan, which to him is worth more than all the houses and all 
the treasures of the world.  That skin to which I cling above everything, 
because it is, everything considered, the binding of a body which 
encloses a heart very warm and ready to fight, and, consequently, to 
live.  Then, I do desire to live: and, in reality, I live much better, 
more completely, since I have become rich.  Who the devil ever said that 
money spoiled life?  Upon my soul, it is no such thing, on the contrary, 
it seems as if I absorbed a double quantity of air and sun.  _Mordioux!_ 
what will it be then, if I double that fortune; and if, instead of the 
switch I now hold in my hand, I should ever carry the baton of a 
marechal?  Then I really don't know if there will be, from that moment, 
enough of air and sun for me.  In fact, this is not a dream, who the 
devil would oppose it, if the king made me a marechal, as his father, 
King Louis XIII., made a duke and constable of Albert de Luynes?  Am I 
not as brave, and much more intelligent, than that imbecile De Vitry?  
Ah! that's exactly what will prevent my advancement: I have too much 
wit.  Luckily, if there is any justice in this world, fortune owes me 
many compensations.  She owes me certainly a recompense for all I did for 
Anne of Austria, and an indemnification for all she has not done for me.  
Then, at the present, I am very well with a king, and with a king who has 
the appearance of determining to reign.  May God keep him in that 
illustrious road!  For, if he is resolved to reign, he will want me; and 
if he wants me, he will give me what he has promised me - warmth and 
light; so that I march, comparatively, now, as I marched formerly, - from 
nothing to everything.  Only the nothing of to-day is the all of former 
days; there has only this little change taken place in my life.  And now 
let us see! let us take the part of the heart, as I just now was speaking 
of it.  But in truth, I only spoke of it from memory."  And the Gascon 
applied his hand to his breast, as if he were actually seeking the place 
where his heart was.

"Ah! wretch!" murmured he, smiling with bitterness.  "Ah! poor mortal 
species!  You hoped, for an instant, that you had not a heart, and now 
you find you have one - bad courtier as thou art, - and even one of the 
most seditious.  You have a heart which speaks to you in favor of M. 
Fouquet.  And what is M. Fouquet, when the king is in question? - A 
conspirator, a real conspirator, who did not even give himself the 
trouble to conceal his being a conspirator; therefore, what a weapon 
would you not have against him, if his good grace, and his intelligence 
had not made a scabbard for that weapon.  An armed revolt! - for, in 
fact, M. Fouquet has been guilty of an armed revolt.  Thus, while the 
king vaguely suspects M. Fouquet of rebellion, I know it - I could prove 
that M. Fouquet had caused the shedding of the blood of his majesty's 
subjects.  Now, then, let us see.  Knowing all that, and holding my 
tongue, what further would this heart wish in return for a kind action of 
M. Fouquet's, for an advance of fifteen thousand livres, for a diamond 
worth a thousand pistoles, for a smile in which there was as much 
bitterness as kindness? - I save his life."

"Now, then, I hope," continued the musketeer, "that this imbecile of a 
heart is going to preserve silence, and so be fairly quits with M. 
Fouquet.  Now, then, the king becomes my sun, and as my heart is quits 
with M. Fouquet, let him beware who places himself between me and my 
sun!  Forward, for his majesty Louis XIV.! - Forward !"

These reflections were the only impediments which were able to retard the 
progress of D'Artagnan.  These reflections once made, he increased the 
speed of his horse.  But, however perfect his horse Zephyr might be, it 
could not hold out at such a pace forever.  The day after his departure 
from Paris, his mount was left at Chartres, at the house of an old friend 
D'Artagnan had met with in an _hotelier_ of that city.  From that moment 
the musketeer travelled on post-horses.  Thanks to this mode of 
locomotion, he traversed the space separating Chartres from 
Chateaubriand.  In the last of these two cities, far enough from the 
coast to prevent any one guessing that D'Artagnan wished to reach the sea 
- far enough from Paris to prevent all suspicion of his being a messenger 
from Louis XIV., whom D'Artagnan had called his sun, without suspecting 
that he who was only at present a rather poor star in the heaven of 
royalty, would, one day, make that star his emblem; the messenger of 
Louis XIV., we say, quitted his post and purchased a _bidet_ of the 
meanest appearance, - one of those animals which an officer of the 
cavalry would never choose, for fear of being disgraced.  Excepting the 
color, this new acquisition recalled to the mind of D'Artagnan the famous 
orange-colored horse, with which, or rather upon which, he had made his 
first appearance in the world.  Truth to say, from the moment he crossed 
this new steed, it was no longer D'Artagnan who was travelling, - it was 
a good man clothed in an iron-gray _justaucorps_, brown _haut-de-
chausses_, holding the medium between a priest and a layman; that which 
brought him nearest to the churchman was, that D'Artagnan had placed on 
his head a _calotte_ of threadbare velvet, and over the _calotte_, a 
large black hat; no more sword, a stick hung by a cord to his wrist, but 
to which, he promised himself, as an unexpected auxiliary, to join, upon 
occasion, a good dagger, ten inches long, concealed under his cloak.  The 
_bidet_ purchased at Chateaubriand completed the metamorphosis; it was 
called, or rather D'Artagnan called if, Furet (ferret).

"If I have changed Zephyr into Furet," said D'Artagnan, "I must make some 
diminutive or other of my own name.  So, instead of D'Artagnan, I will be 
Agnan, short; that is a concession which I naturally owe to my gray coat, 
my round hat, and my rusty _calotte_."

Monsieur d'Artagnan traveled, then, pretty easily upon Furet, who ambled 
like a true butter-woman's pad, and who, with his amble, managed 
cheerfully about twelve leagues a day, upon four spindle-shanks, of which 
the practiced eye of D'Artagnan had appreciated the strength and safety 
beneath the thick mass of hair which covered them.  Jogging along, the 
traveler took notes, studied the country, which he traversed reserved and 
silent, ever seeking the most plausible pretext for reaching Belle-Isle-
en-Mer, and for seeing everything without arousing suspicion.  In this 
manner, he was enabled to convince himself of the importance the event 
assumed in proportion as he drew near to it.  In this remote country, in 
this ancient duchy of Bretagne, which was not France at that period, and 
is not so even now, the people knew nothing of the king of France.  They 
not only did not know him, but were unwilling to know him.  One face - a 
single one - floated visibly for them upon the political current.  Their 
ancient dukes no longer ruled them; government was a void - nothing 
more.  In place of the sovereign duke, the seigneurs of parishes reigned 
without control; and, above these seigneurs, God, who has never been 
forgotten in Bretagne.  Among these suzerains of chateaux and belfries, 
the most powerful, the richest, the most popular, was M. Fouquet, 
seigneur of Belle-Isle.  Even in the country, even within sight of that 
mysterious isle, legends and traditions consecrate its wonders.  Every 
one might not penetrate it: the isle, of an extent of six leagues in 
length, and six in breadth, was a seignorial property, which the people 
had for a long time respected, covered as it was with the name of Retz, 
so redoubtable in the country.  Shortly after the erection of this 
seignory into a marquistate, Belle-Isle passed to M. Fouquet.  The 
celebrity of the isle did not date from yesterday; its name, or rather 
its qualification, is traced back to the remotest antiquity.  The 
ancients called it Kalonese, from two Greek words, signifying beautiful 
isle.  Thus, at a distance of eighteen hundred years, it had borne, in 
another idiom, the same name it still bears.  There was, then, something 
in itself in this property of M. Fouquet's, besides its position of six 
leagues off the coast of France; a position which makes it a sovereign in 
its maritime solitude, like a majestic ship which disdains roads, and 
proudly casts anchor in mid-ocean.

D'Artagnan learnt all this without appearing the least in the world 
astonished.  He also learnt the best way to get intelligence was to go to 
La Roche-Bernard, a tolerably important city at the mouth of the 
Vilaine.  Perhaps there he could embark; if not, crossing the salt 
marshes, he would repair to Guerande or Le Croisic, to wait for an 
opportunity to cross over to Belle-Isle.  He had discovered, besides, 
since his departure from Chateaubriand, that nothing would be impossible 
for Furet under the impulsion of M. Agnan, and nothing to M. Agnan 
through the initiative of Furet.  He prepared, then, to sup off a teal 
and a _torteau_, in a hotel of La Roche-Bernard, and ordered to be 
brought from the cellar, to wash down these two Breton dishes, some 
cider, which, the moment it touched his lips, he perceived to be more 
Breton still.


Chapter LXVII:
How D'Artagnan became Acquainted with a Poet, who had turned Printer for 
the Sake of Printing his own Verses.

Before taking his place at table, D'Artagnan acquired, as was his custom, 
all the information he could; but it is an axiom of curiosity, that every 
man who wishes to question well and fruitfully ought in the first place 
to lay himself open to questions.  D'Artagnan sought, then, with his 
usual skill, a promising questioner in the hostelry of La Roche-Bernard.  
At the moment, there were in the house, on the first story, two travelers 
either preparing for supper, or at supper itself.  D'Artagnan had seen 
their nags in the stable, and their equipages in the _salle_.  One 
traveled with a lackey, undoubtedly a person of consideration; - two 
Perche mares, sleek, sound beasts, were suitable means of locomotion.  
The other, a little fellow, a traveler of meagre appearance, wearing a 
dusty surtout, dirty linen, and boots more worn by the pavement than the 
stirrup, had come from Nantes with a cart drawn by a horse so like Furet 
in color, that D'Artagnan might have gone a hundred miles without finding 
a better match.  This cart contained divers large packets wrapped in 
pieces of old stuff.

"That traveler yonder," said D'Artagnan to himself, "is the man for my 
money.  He will do, he suits me; I ought to do for him and suit him; M. 
Agnan, with the gray doublet and the rusty _calotte_, is not unworthy of 
supping with the gentleman of the old boots and still older horse."

This said, D'Artagnan called the host, and desired him to send his teal, 
_tourteau_, and cider up to the chamber of the gentleman of modest 
exterior.  He himself climbed, a plate in his hand, the wooden staircase 
which led to the chamber, and began to knock at the door.

"Come in!" said the unknown.  D'Artagnan entered, with a simper on his 
lips, his plate under his arm, his hat in one hand, his candle in the 
other.

"Excuse me, monsieur," said he, "I am as you are, a traveler; I know no 
one in the hotel, and I have the bad habit of losing my spirits when I 
eat alone; so that my repast appears a bad one to me, and does not 
nourish me.  Your face, which I saw just now, when you came down to have 
some oysters opened, - your face pleased me much.  Besides, I have 
observed you have a horse just like mine, and that the host, no doubt on 
account of that resemblance, has placed them side by side in the stable, 
where they appear to agree amazingly well together.  I therefore, 
monsieur, do not see any reason why the masters should be separated when 
the horses are united.  Accordingly, I am come to request the pleasure of 
being admitted to your table.  My name is Agnan, at your service, 
monsieur, the unworthy steward of a rich seigneur, who wishes to purchase 
some salt-mines in this country, and sends me to examine his future 
acquisitions.  In truth, monsieur, I should be well pleased if my 
countenance were as agreeable to you as yours is to me; for, upon my 
honor, I am quite at your service."

The stranger, whom D'Artagnan saw for the first time, - for before he had 
only caught a glimpse of him, - the stranger had black and brilliant 
eyes, a yellow complexion, a brow a little wrinkled by the weight of 
fifty years, _bonhomie_ in his features collectively, but some cunning in 
his look.

"One would say," thought D'Artagnan, "that this merry fellow has never 
exercised more than the upper part of his head, his eyes, and his brain.  
He must be a man of science: his mouth, nose, and chin signify absolutely 
nothing."

"Monsieur," replied the latter, with whose mind and person we have been 
making so free, "you do me much honor; not that I am ever _ennuye_, for I 
have," added he, smiling, "a company which amuses me always: but, never 
mind that, I am happy to receive you."  But when saying this, the man 
with the worn boots cast an uneasy look at his table, from which the 
oysters had disappeared, and upon which there was nothing left but a 
morsel of salt bacon.

"Monsieur," D'Artagnan hastened to say, "the host is bringing me up a 
pretty piece of roasted poultry and a superb _tourteau_."  D'Artagnan had 
read in the look of his companion, however rapidly it disappeared, the 
fear of an attack by a parasite: he divined justly.  At this opening, the 
features of the man of modest exterior relaxed; and, as if he had watched 
the moment for his entrance, as D'Artagnan spoke, the host appeared, 
bearing the announced dishes.  The _tourteau_ and the teal were added to 
the morsel of broiled bacon; D'Artagnan and his guest bowed, sat down 
opposite to each other, and, like two brothers, shared the bacon and the 
other dishes.

"Monsieur," said D'Artagnan, "you must confess that association is a 
wonderful thing."

"How so?" replied the stranger, with his mouth full.

"Well, I will tell you," replied D'Artagnan.

The stranger gave a short truce to the movement of his jaws, in order to 
hear the better.

"In the first place," continued D'Artagnan, "instead of one candle, which 
each of us had, we have two."

"That is true!" said the stranger, struck with the extreme lucidity of 
the observation.

"Then I see that you eat my _tourteau_ in preference, whilst I, in 
preference, eat your bacon."

"That is true again."

"And then, in addition to being better lighted and eating what we prefer, 
I place the pleasure of your company."

"Truly, monsieur, you are very jovial," said the unknown, cheerfully.

"Yes, monsieur; jovial, as all people are who carry nothing on their 
minds, or, for that matter, in their heads.  Oh!  I can see it is quite 
another sort of thing with you," continued D'Artagnan; "I can read in 
your eyes all sorts of genius."

"Oh, monsieur!"

"Come, confess one thing."

"What is that?"

"That you are a learned man."

"_Ma foi!_ monsieur."

"_Hein?_"

"Almost."

"Come, then!"

"I am an author."

"There!" cried D'Artagnan, clapping his hands, "I knew I could not be 
deceived!  It is a miracle!"

"Monsieur - "

"What, shall I have the honor of passing the evening in the society of an 
author, of a celebrated author, perhaps?"

"Oh!" said the unknown, blushing, "celebrated, monsieur, celebrated is 
not the word."

"Modest!" cried D'Artagnan, transported, "he is modest!"  Then, turning 
towards the stranger, with a character of blunt _bonhomie_: "But tell me 
at least the name of your works, monsieur; for you will please to observe 
you have not told me your name, and I have been forced to divine your 
genius."

"My name is Jupenet, monsieur," said the author.

"A fine name! a grand name! upon my honor; and I do not know why - pardon 
me the mistake, if it be one - but surely I have heard that name 
somewhere."

"I have made verses," said the poet, modestly.

"Ah! that is it, then; I have heard them read."

"A tragedy."

"I must have seen it played."

The poet blushed again, and said: "I do not think that can be the case, 
for my verses have never been printed."

"Well, then, it must have been the tragedy which informed me of your 
name."

"You are again mistaken, for MM. the comedians of the Hotel de Bourgogne, 
would have nothing to do with it," said the poet, with a smile, the 
receipt for which certain sorts of pride alone knew the secret.  
D'Artagnan bit his lips.  "Thus, then, you see, monsieur," continued the 
poet, "you are in error on my account, and that not being at all known to 
you, you have never heard tell of me."

"Ah! that confounds me.  That name, Jupenet, appears to me, nevertheless, 
a fine name, and quite as worthy of being known as those of MM. 
Corneille, or Rotrou, or Garnier.  I hope, monsieur, you will have the 
goodness to repeat to me a part of your tragedy presently, by way of 
dessert, for instance.  That will be sugared roast meat, - _mordioux!_  
Ah! pardon me, monsieur, that was a little oath which escaped me, because 
it is a habit with my lord and master.  I sometimes allow myself to usurp 
that little oath, as it seems in pretty good taste.  I take this liberty 
only in his absence, please to observe, for you may understand that in 
his presence - but, in truth, monsieur, this cider is abominable; do you 
not think so?  And besides, the pot is of such an irregular shape it will 
not stand on the table."

"Suppose we were to make it level?"

"To be sure; but with what?"

"With this knife."

"And the teal, with what shall we cut that up?  Do you not, by chance, 
mean to touch the teal?"

"Certainly."

"Well, then - "

"Wait."

And the poet rummaged in his pocket, and drew out a piece of brass, 
oblong, quadrangular, about a line in thickness, and an inch and a half 
in length.  But scarcely had this little piece of brass seen the light, 
than the poet appeared to have committed an imprudence, and made a 
movement to put it back again in his pocket.  D'Artagnan perceived this, 
for he was a man that nothing escaped.  He stretched forth his hand 
towards the piece of brass: "Humph! that which you hold in your hand is 
pretty; will you allow me to look at it?"

"Certainly," said the poet, who appeared to have yielded too soon to a 
first impulse.  "Certainly, you may look at it: but it will be in vain 
for you to look at it," added he, with a satisfied air; "if I were not 
to tell you its use, you would never guess it."

D'Artagnan had seized as an avowal the hesitation of the poet, and his 
eagerness to conceal the piece of brass which a first movement had 
induced him to take out of his pocket.  His attention, therefore, once 
awakened on this point, he surrounded himself with a circumspection which 
gave him a superiority on all occasions.  Besides, whatever M. Jupenet 
might say about it, by a simple inspection of the object, he perfectly 
well knew what it was.  It was a character in printing.

"Can you guess, now, what this is?" continued the poet.

"No," said D'Artagnan, "no, _ma foi!_"

"Well, monsieur," said M. Jupenet, "this little piece of metal is a 
printing letter."

"Bah!"

"A capital."

"Stop, stop, stop," said D'Artagnan, opening his eyes very innocently.

"Yes, monsieur, a capital; the first letter of my name."

"And this is a letter, is it?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Well, I will confess one thing to you."

"And what is that?"

"No, I will not, I was going to say something stupid."

"No, no," said Master Jupenet, with a patronizing air.

"Well, then, I cannot comprehend, if that is a letter, how you can make a 
word."

"A word?"

"Yes, a printed word."

"Oh, that's very easy."

"Let me see."

"Does it interest you?"

"Enormously."

"Well, I will explain the thing to you.  Attend."

"I am attending."

"This is it."

"Good."

"Look attentively."

"I am looking."  D'Artagnan, in fact, appeared absorbed in observations.  
Jupenet drew from his pocket seven or eight other pieces of brass smaller 
than the first.

"Ah, ah," said D'Artagnan.

"What!"

"You have, then, a whole printing-office in your pocket.  _Peste!_ that 
is curious, indeed."

"Is it not?"

"Good God, what a number of things we learn by traveling."

"To your health!" said Jupenet, quite enchanted.

"To yours, _mordioux_, to yours.  But - an instant - not in this cider.  
It is an abominable drink, unworthy of a man who quenches his thirst at 
the Hippocrene fountain - is not it so you call your fountain, you poets?"

"Yes, monsieur, our fountain is so called.  That comes from two Greek 
words - _hippos_, which means a horse, and - "

"Monsieur," interrupted D'Artagnan, "you shall drink of a liquor which 
comes from one single French word, and is none the worse for that - from 
the word _grape_; this cider gives me the heartburn.  Allow me to inquire 
of your host if there is not a good bottle of Beaugency, or of the Ceran 
growth, at the back of the large bins in his cellar."

The host, being sent for, immediately attended.

"Monsieur," interrupted the poet, "take care, we shall not have time to 
drink the wine, unless we make great haste, for I must take advantage of 
the tide to secure the boat."

"What boat?" asked D'Artagnan.

"Why the boat which sets out for Belle-Isle."

"Ah - for Belle-Isle," said the musketeer, "that is good."

"Bah! you will have plenty of time, monsieur," replied the _hotelier_, 
uncorking the bottle, "the boat will not leave this hour."

"But who will give me notice?" said the poet.

"Your fellow-traveler," replied the host.

"But I scarcely know him."

"When you hear him departing, it will be time for you to go."

"Is he going to Belle-Isle, likewise, then?"

"Yes."

"The traveler who has a lackey?" asked D'Artagnan.  "He is some 
gentleman, no doubt?"

"I know nothing of him."

"What! - know nothing of him?"

"No, all I know is, that he is drinking the same wine as you."

"_Peste!_ - that is a great honor for us," said D'Artagnan, filling his 
companion's glass, whilst the host went out.

"So," resumed the poet, returning to his dominant ideas, "you never saw 
any printing done?"

"Never."

"Well, then, take the letters thus, which compose the word, you see: A B; 
_ma foi!_ here is an R, two E E, then a G."  And he assembled the letters 
with a swiftness and skill which did not escape the eye of D'Artagnan.

"_Abrege_," said he, as he ended.

"Good!" said D'Artagnan; "here are plenty of letters got together; but 
how are they kept so?"  And he poured out a second glass for the poet.  
M. Jupenet smiled like a man who has an answer for everything; then he 
pulled out - still from his pocket - a little metal ruler, composed of 
two parts, like a carpenter's rule, against which he put together, and in 
a line, the characters, holding them under his left thumb.

"And what do you call that little metal ruler?" said D'Artagnan, "for, I 
suppose, all these things have names."

"This is called a composing-stick," said Jupenet; "it is by the aid of 
this stick that the lines are formed."

"Come, then, I was not mistaken in what I said; you have a press in your 
pocket," said D'Artagnan, laughing with an air of simplicity so stupid, 
that the poet was completely his dupe.

"No," replied he; "but I am too lazy to write, and when I have a verse in 
my head, I print it immediately.  That is a labor spared."

"_Mordioux!_" thought D'Artagnan to himself, "this must be cleared up."  
And under a pretext, which did not embarrass the musketeer, who was 
fertile in expedients, he left the table, went downstairs, ran to the 
shed under which stood the poet's little cart, and poked the point of his 
poniard into the stuff which enveloped one of the packages, which he 
found full of types, like those which the poet had in his pocket.

"Humph!" said D'Artagnan, "I do not yet know whether M. Fouquet wishes to 
fortify Belle-Isle; but, at all events, here are some spiritual munitions 
for the castle."  Then, enchanted with his rich discovery, he ran 
upstairs again, and resumed his place at the table.

D'Artagnan had learnt what he wished to know.  He, however, remained, 
none the less, face to face with his partner, to the moment when they 
heard from the next room symptoms of a person's being about to go out.  
The printer was immediately on foot; he had given orders for his horse to 
be got ready.  His carriage was waiting at the door.  The second traveler 
got into his saddle, in the courtyard, with his lackey.  D'Artagnan 
followed Jupenet to the door; he embarked his cart and horse on board the 
boat.  As to the opulent traveler, he did the same with his two horses 
and servant.  But all the wit D'Artagnan employed in endeavoring to find 
out his name was lost - he could learn nothing.  Only he took such notice 
of his countenance, that it was impressed upon his mind forever.  
D'Artagnan had a great inclination to embark with the two travelers, but 
an interest more powerful than curiosity - that of success - repelled him 
from the shore, and brought him back again to the hostelry.  He entered 
with a sigh, and went to bed directly in order to be ready early in the 
morning with fresh ideas and the sage counsel of sufficing sleep.


Chapter LXVIII:
D'Artagnan continues his Investigations.

At daybreak D'Artagnan saddled Furet, who had fared sumptuously all 
night, devouring the remainder of the oats and hay left by his 
companions.  The musketeer sifted all he possibly could out of the host, 
who he found cunning, mistrustful, and devoted, body and soul, to M. 
Fouquet.  In order not to awaken the suspicions of this man, he carried 
on his fable of being a probable purchaser of some salt-mines.  To have 
embarked for Belle-Isle at Roche-Bernard, would have been to expose 
himself still further to comments which had, perhaps, been already made, 
and would be carried to the castle.  Moreover, it was singular that this 
traveler and his lackey should have remained a mystery to D'Artagnan, in 
spite of all the questions addressed by him to the host, who appeared to 
know him perfectly well.  The musketeer then made some inquiries 
concerning the salt-mines, and took the road to the marshes, leaving the 
sea on his right, and penetrating into that vast and desolate plain which 
resembles a sea of mud, of which, here and there, a few crests of salt 
silver the undulations.  Furet walked admirably, with his little nervous 
legs, along the foot-wide causeways which separate the salt-mines.  
D'Artagnan, aware of the consequences of a fall, which would result in a 
cold bath, allowed him to go as he liked, contenting himself with looking 
at, on the horizon, three rocks, that rose up like lance-blades from the 
bosom of the plain, destitute of verdure.  Piriac, the bourgs of Batz and 
Le Croisic, exactly resembling each other, attracted and suspended his 
attention.  If the traveler turned round, the better to make his 
observations, he saw on the other side an horizon of three other 
steeples, Guerande, Le Pouliguen, and Saint-Joachim, which, in their 
circumference, represented a set of skittles, of which he and Furet were 
but the wandering ball.  Piriac was the first little port on his right.  
He went thither, with the names of the principal salters on his lips.  At 
the moment he reached the little port of Piriac, five large barges, laden 
with stone, were leaving it.  It appeared strange to D'Artagnan, that 
stones should be leaving a country where none are found.  He had recourse 
to all the amenity of M. Agnan to learn from the people of the port the 
cause of this singular arrangement.  An old fisherman replied to M. 
Agnan, that the stones very certainly did not come from Piriac or the 
marshes.

"Where do they come from, then?" asked the musketeer.

"Monsieur, they come from Nantes and Paimboeuf."

"Where are they going, then?"

"Monsieur, to Belle-Isle."

"Ah! ah!" said D'Artagnan, in the same tone he had assumed to tell the 
printer that his character interested him; "are they building at Belle-
Isle, then?"

"Why, yes, monsieur, M. Fouquet has the walls of the castle repaired 
every year."

"It is in ruins, then?"

"It is old."

"Thank you."

"The fact is," said D'Artagnan to himself, "nothing is more natural; 
every proprietor has a right to repair his own property.  It would be 
like telling me I was fortifying the Image-de-Notre-Dame, when I was 
simply obliged to make repairs.  In good truth, I believe false reports 
have been made to his majesty, and he is very likely to be in the wrong."

"You must confess," continued he then, aloud, and addressing the 
fisherman - for his part of a suspicious man was imposed upon him by the 
object even of his mission - "you must confess, my dear monsieur, that 
these stones travel in a very curious fashion."

"How so?" said the fisherman.

"They come from Nantes or Paimboeuf by the Loire, do they not?"

"With the tide."

"That is convenient, - I don't say it is not; but why do they not go 
straight from Saint-Nazaire to Belle-Isle?"

"Eh! because the _chalands_ (barges) are fresh-water boats, and take the 
sea badly," replied the fisherman.

"That is not sufficient reason."

"Pardon me, monsieur, one may see that you have never been a sailor," 
added the fisherman, not without a sort of disdain.

"Explain to me, if you please, my good man.  It appears to me that to 
come from Paimboeuf to Piriac, and go from Piriac to Belle-Isle, is as if 
we went from Roche-Bernard to Nantes, and from Nantes to Piriac."

"By water that would be the nearest way," replied the fisherman 
imperturbably.

"But there is an elbow?"

The fisherman shook his head.

"The shortest road from one place to another is a straight line," 
continued D'Artagnan.

"You forget the tide, monsieur."

"Well! take the tide."

"And the wind."

"Well, and the wind."

"Without doubt; the current of the Loire carries barks almost as far as 
Croisic.  If they want to lie by a little, or to refresh the crew, they 
come to Piriac along the coast; from Piriac they find another inverse 
current, which carries them to the Isle-Dumal, two leagues and a half."

"Granted."

"There the current of the Vilaine throws them upon another isle, the Isle 
of Hoedic."

"I agree with that."

"Well, monsieur, from that isle to Belle-Isle the way is quite straight.  
The sea, broken both above and below, passes like a canal - like a mirror 
between the two isles; the _chalands_ glide along upon it like ducks upon 
the Loire; that's how it is."

"It does not signify," said the obstinate M. Agnan; "it is a long way 
round."

"Ah! yes; but M. Fouquet will  have it so," replied, as conclusive, the 
fisherman, taking off his woolen cap at the enunciation of that respected 
name.

A look from D'Artagnan, a look as keen and piercing as a sword-blade, 
found nothing in the heart of the old man but a simple confidence - on 
his features, nothing but satisfaction and indifference.  He said, "M. 
Fouquet will have it so," as he would have said, "God has willed it."

D'Artagnan had already advanced too far in this direction; besides, the 
_chalands_ being gone, there remained nothing at Piriac but a single bark 
- that of the old man, and it did not look fit for sea without great 
preparation.  D'Artagnan therefore patted Furet, who, as a new proof of 
his charming character, resumed his march with his feet in the salt-
mines, and his nose to the dry wind, which bends the furze and the broom 
of this country.  They reached Le Croisic about five o'clock.

If D'Artagnan had been a poet, it was a beautiful spectacle: the immense 
strand of a league or more, the sea covers at high tide, and which, at 
the reflux, appears gray and desolate, strewed with polypi and seaweed, 
with pebbles sparse and white, like bones in some vast old cemetery.  But 
the soldier, the politician, and the ambitious man, had no longer the 
sweet consolation of looking towards heaven to read there a hope or a 
warning.  A red sky signifies nothing to such people but wind and 
disturbance.  White and fleecy clouds upon the azure only say that the 
sea will be smooth and peaceful.  D'Artagnan found the sky blue, the 
breeze embalmed with saline perfumes, and he said: "I will embark with 
the first tide, if it be but in a nutshell."

At Le Croisic as at Piriac, he had remarked enormous heaps of stone lying 
along the shore.  These gigantic walls, diminished every tide by the 
barges for Belle-Isle, were, in the eyes of the musketeer, the 
consequence and the proof of what he had well divined at Piriac.  Was it 
a wall that M. Fouquet was constructing?  Was it a fortification that he 
was erecting?  To ascertain that, he must make fuller observations.  
D'Artagnan put Furet into a stable; supped, went to bed, and on the 
morrow took a walk upon the port or rather upon the shingle.  Le Croisic 
has a port of fifty feet; it has a look-out which resembles an enormous 
_brioche_ (a kind of cake) elevated on a dish.  The flat strand is the 
dish.  Hundreds of barrowsful of earth amalgamated with pebbles, and 
rounded into cones, with sinuous passages between, are look-outs and 
_brioches_ at the same time.  It is so now, and it was so two hundred 
years ago, only the _brioche_ was not so large, and probably there were 
to be seen to trellises of lath around the _brioche_, which constitute an 
ornament, planted like _gardes-fous_ along the passages that wind towards 
the little terrace.  Upon the shingle lounged three or four fishermen 
talking about sardines and shrimps.  D'Artagnan, with his eyes animated 
by a rough gayety, and a smile upon his lips, approached these fishermen.

"Any fishing going on to-day?" said he.

"Yes, monsieur," replied one of them, "we are only waiting for the tide."

"Where do you fish, my friends?"

"Upon the coasts, monsieur."

"Which are the best coasts?"

"Ah, that is all according.  The tour of the isles, for example?"

"Yes, but they are a long way off, those isles, are they not?"

"Not very; four leagues."

"Four leagues!  That is a voyage."

The fishermen laughed in M. Agnan's face.

"Hear me, then," said the latter with an air of simple stupidity; "four 
leagues off you lose sight of land, do you not?"

"Why, not always."

"Ah, it is a long way - too long, or else I would have asked you to take 
me aboard, and to show me what I have never seen."

"What is that?"

"A live sea-fish."

"Monsieur comes from the province?" said a fisherman.

"Yes, I come from Pairs."

The Breton shrugged his shoulders; then:

"Have you ever seen M. Fouquet in Paris?" asked he.

"Often," replied D'Artagnan.

"Often!" repeated the fishermen, closing their circle round the 
Parisian.  "Do you know him?"

"A little; he is the intimate friend of my master."

"Ah!" said the fishermen, in astonishment.

"And," said D'Artagnan, "I have seen all his chateaux of Saint Mande, of 
Vaux, and his hotel in Paris."

"Is that a fine place?"

"Superb."

"It is not so fine a place as Belle-Isle," said the fisherman.

"Bah!" cried M. d'Artagnan, breaking into a laugh so loud that he angered 
all his auditors.

"It is very plain that you have never seen Belle-Isle," said the most 
curious of the fishermen.  "Do you know that there are six leagues of it, 
and that there are such trees on it as cannot be equaled even at Nates-
sur-le-Fosse?"

"Trees in the sea!" cried D'Artagnan; "well, I should like to see them."

"That can be easily done; we are fishing at the Isle de Hoedic - come 
with us.  From that place you will see, as a Paradise, the black trees of 
Belle-Isle against the sky; you will see the white line of the castle, 
which cuts the horizon of the sea like a blade."

"Oh," said D'Artagnan, "that must be very beautiful.  But do you know 
there are a hundred belfries at M. Fouquet's chateau of Vaux?"

The Breton raised his head in profound admiration, but he was not 
convinced.  "A hundred belfries!  Ah, that may be; but Belle-Isle is 
finer than that.  Should you like to see Belle-Isle?"

"Is that possible?" asked D'Artagnan.

"Yes, with permission of the governor."

"But I do not know the governor."

"As you know M. Fouquet, you can tell your name."

"Oh, my friends, I am not a gentleman."

"Everybody enters Belle-Isle," continued the fisherman in his strong, 
pure language, "provided he means no harm to Belle-Isle or its master."

A slight shudder crept over the body of the musketeer.  "That is true," 
thought he.  Then recovering himself, "If I were sure," said he, "not to 
be sea-sick."

"What, upon _her?_" said the fisherman, pointing with pride to his pretty 
round-bottomed bark

"Well, you almost persuade me," cried M. Agnan; "I will go and see Belle-
Isle, but they will not admit me."

"We shall enter, safe enough."

"You!  What for?"

"Why, _dame!_ to sell fish to the corsairs."

"Ha!  Corsairs - what do you mean?"

"Well, I mean that M. Fouquet is having two corsairs built to chase the 
Dutch and the English, and we sell our fish to the crews of those little 
vessels."

"Come, come!" said D'Artagnan to himself - "better and better.  A 
printing-press, bastions, and corsairs!  Well, M. Fouquet is not an enemy 
to be despised, as I presumed to fancy.  He is worth the trouble of 
travelling to see him nearer."

"We set out at half-past five," said the fisherman gravely.

"I am quite ready, and I will not leave you now."  So D'Artagnan saw the 
fishermen haul their barks to meet the tide with a windlass.  The sea 
rose; M. Agnan allowed himself to be hoisted on board, not without 
sporting a little fear and awkwardness, to the amusement of the young 
beach-urchins who watched him with their large intelligent eyes.  He laid 
himself down upon a folded sail, not interfering with anything whilst the 
bark prepared for sea; and, with its large square sail, it was fairly out 
within two hours.  The fishermen, who prosecuted their occupation as they 
proceeded, did not perceive that their passenger had  not become pale, 
neither groaned nor suffered; that in spite of that horrible tossing and 
rolling of the bark, to which no hand imparted direction, the novice 
passenger had preserved his presence of mind and his appetite.  They 
fished, and their fishing was sufficiently fortunate.  To lines bated 
with prawn, soles came, with numerous gambols, to bite.  Two nets had 
already been broken by the immense weight of congers and haddocks; three 
sea-eels plowed the hold with their slimy folds and their dying 
contortions.  D'Artagnan brought them good luck; they told him so.  The 
soldier found the occupation so pleasant, that he put his hand to the 
work - that is to say, to the lines - and uttered roars of joy, and 
_mordioux_ enough to have astonished his musketeers themselves, every 
time that a shock given to his line by the captured fish required the 
play of the muscles of his arm, and the employment of his best 
dexterity.  The party of pleasure had made him forget his diplomatic 
mission.  He was struggling with a very large conger, and holding fast 
with one hand to the side of the vessel, in order to seize with the other 
the gaping jowl of his antagonist, when the master said to him, "Take 
care they don't see you from Belle-Isle!"

These words produced the same effect upon D'Artagnan as the hissing of 
the first bullet on a day of battle; he let go of both line and conger, 
which, dragging each other, returned again to the water.  D'Artagnan 
perceived, within half a league at most, the blue and marked profile of 
the rocks of Belle-Isle, dominated by the majestic whiteness of the 
castle.  In the distance, the land with its forests and verdant plains; 
cattle on the grass.  This was what first attracted the attention of the 
musketeer.  The sun darted its rays of gold upon the sea, raising a 
shining mist round this enchanted isle.  Little could be seen of it, 
owing to this dazzling light, but the salient points; every shadow was 
strongly marked, and cut with bands of darkness the luminous fields and 
walls.  "Eh! eh!" said D'Artagnan, at the aspect of those masses of black 
rocks, "these are fortifications which do not stand in need of any 
engineer to render a landing difficult.  How the devil can a landing be 
effected on that isle which God has defended so completely?"

"This way," replied the patron of the bark, changing the sail, and 
impressing upon the rudder a twist which turned the boat in the direction 
of a pretty little port, quite coquettish, round, and newly battlemented.

"What the devil do I see yonder?" said D'Artagnan.

"You see Locmaria," replied the fisherman.

"Well, but there?"

"That is Bangor."

"And further on?"

"Sauzon, and then Le Palais."

"_Mordioux!_  It is a world.  Ah! there are some soldiers."

"There are seventeen hundred men in Belle-Isle, monsieur," replied the 
fisherman, proudly.  "Do you know that the least garrison is of twenty 
companies of infantry?"

"_Mordioux!_" cried D'Artagnan, stamping with his foot.  "His majesty was 
right enough."

They landed.


Chapter LXIX:
In which the Reader, no Doubt, will be as astonished as D'Artagnan was to 
meet an Old Acquaintance.

There is always something in a landing, if it be only from the smallest 
sea-boat - a trouble and a confusion which do not leave the mind the 
liberty of which it stands in need in order to study at the first glance 
the new locality presented to it.  The moveable bridges, the agitated 
sailors, the noise of the water on the pebbles, the cries and 
importunities of those who wait upon the shores, are multiplied details 
of that sensation which is summed up in one single result - hesitation.  
It was not, then, till after standing several minutes on the shore that 
D'Artagnan saw upon the port, but more particularly in the interior of 
the isle, an immense number of workmen in motion.  At his feet D'Artagnan 
recognized the five _chalands_ laden with rough stone he had seen leave 
the port of Piriac.  The smaller stones were transported to the shore by 
means of a chain formed by twenty-five or thirty peasants.  The large 
stones were loaded on trollies which conveyed them in the same direction 
as the others, that is to say, towards the works, of which D'Artagnan 
could as yet appreciate neither the strength nor the extent.  Everywhere 
was to be seen an activity equal to that which Telemachus observed on his 
landing at Salentum.  D'Artagnan felt a strong inclination to penetrate 
into the interior; but he could not, under the penalty of exciting 
mistrust, exhibit too much curiosity.  He advanced then little by little, 
scarcely going beyond the line formed by the fishermen on the beach, 
observing everything, saying nothing, and meeting all suspicion that 
might have been excited with a half-silly question or a polite bow.  And 
yet, whilst his companions carried on their trade, giving or selling 
their fish to the workmen or the inhabitants of the city, D'Artagnan had 
gained by degrees, and, reassured by the little attention paid to him, he 
began to cast an intelligent and confident look upon the men and things 
that appeared before his eyes.  And his very first glance fell on certain 
movements of earth about which the eye of a soldier could not be 
mistaken.  At the two extremities of the port, in order that their fires 
should converge upon the great axis of the ellipse formed by the basin, 
in the first place, two batteries had been raised, evidently destined to 
receive flank pieces, for D'Artagnan saw the workmen finishing the 
platform and making ready the demi-circumference in wood upon which the 
wheels of the pieces might turn to embrace every direction over the 
epaulement.  By the side of each of these batteries other workmen were 
strengthening gabions filled with earth, the lining of another battery.  
The latter had embrasures, and the overseer of the works called 
successively men who, with cords, tied the _saucissons_ and cut the 
lozenges and right angles of turfs destined to retain the matting of the 
embrasures.  By the activity displayed in these works, already so far 
advanced, they might be considered as finished: they were not yet 
furnished with their cannons, but the platforms had their _gites_ and 
their _madriers_ all prepared; the earth, beaten carefully, was 
consolidated; and supposing the artillery to be on the island, in less 
than two or three days the port might be completely armed.  That which 
astonished D'Artagnan, when he turned his eyes from the coast batteries 
to the fortifications of the city, was to see that Belle-Isle was 
defended by an entirely new system, of which he had often heard the Comte 
de la Fere speak as a wonderful advance, but of which he had as yet never 
seen the application.  These fortifications belonged neither to the Dutch 
method of Marollais, nor to the French method of the Chevalier Antoine de 
Ville, but to the system of Manesson Mallet, a skillful engineer, who 
about six or eight years previously had quitted the service of Portugal 
to enter that of France.  The works had this peculiarity, that instead of 
rising above the earth, as did the ancient ramparts destined to defend a 
city from escalades, they, on the contrary, sank into it; and what 
created the height of the walls was the depth of the ditches.  It did not 
take long to make D'Artagnan perceive the superiority of such a system, 
which gives no advantage to cannon.  Besides, as the _fosses_ were lower 
than, or on a level with, the sea, these _fosses_ could be instantly 
inundated by means of subterranean sluices.  Otherwise, the works were 
almost complete, and a group of workmen, receiving orders from a man who 
appeared to be conductor of the works, were occupied in placing the last 
stones.  A bridge of planks thrown over the _fosses_ for the greater 
convenience of the maneuvers connected with the barrows, joined the 
interior to the exterior.  With an air of simple curiosity D'Artagnan 
asked if he might be permitted to cross the bridge, and he was told that 
no order prevented it.  Consequently he crossed the bridge, and advanced 
towards the group.

This group was superintended by the man whom D'Artagnan had already 
remarked, and who appeared to be the engineer-in-chief.  A plan was lying 
open before him upon a large stone forming a table, and at some paces 
from him a crane was in action.  This engineer, who by his evident 
importance first attracted the attention of D'Artagnan, wore a 
_justaucorps_, which, from its sumptuousness, was scarcely in harmony 
with the work he was employed in, that rather necessitated the costume of 
a master-mason than of a noble.  He was a man of immense stature and 
great square shoulders, and wore a hat covered with feathers.  He 
gesticulated in the most majestic manner, and appeared, for D'Artagnan 
only saw his back, to be scolding the workmen for their idleness and want 
of strength.

D'Artagnan continued to draw nearer.  At that moment the man with the 
feathers ceased to gesticulate, and, with his hands placed upon his 
knees, was following, half-bent, the effort of six workmen to raise a 
block of hewn stone to the top of a piece of timber destined to support 
that stone, so that the cord of the crane might be passed under it.  The 
six men, all on one side of the stone, united their efforts to raise it 
to eight or ten inches from the ground, sweating and blowing, whilst a 
seventh got ready for when there should be daylight enough beneath it to 
slide in the roller that was to support it.  But the stone had already 
twice escaped from their hands before gaining a sufficient height for the 
roller to be introduced.  There can be no doubt that every time the stone 
escaped them, they bounded quickly backwards, to keep their feet from 
being crushed by the refalling stone.  Every time, the stone, abandoned 
by them, sunk deeper into the damp earth, which rendered the operation 
more and more difficult.  A third effort was followed by no better 
success, but with progressive discouragement.  And yet, when the six men 
were bent towards the stone, the man with the feathers had himself, with 
a powerful voice, given the word of command, "_Ferme!_" which regulates 
maneuvers of strength.  Then he drew himself up.

"Oh! oh!" said he, "what is this all about?  Have I to do with men of 
straw?  _Corne de boeuf!_ stand on one side, and you shall see how this 
is to be done."

"_Peste!_" said D'Artagnan, "will he pretend to raise that rock? that 
would be a sight worth looking at."

The workmen, as commanded by the engineer, drew back with their ears 
down, and shaking their heads, with the exception of the one who held the 
plank, who prepared to perform the office.  The man with the feathers 
went up to the stone, stooped, slipped his hands under the face lying 
upon the ground, stiffened his Herculean muscles, and without a strain, 
with a slow motion, like that of a machine, lifted the end of the rock a 
foot from the ground.  The workman who held the plank profited by the 
space thus given him, and slipped the roller under the stone.

"That's the way," said the giant, not letting the rock fall again, but 
placing it upon its support.

"_Mordioux!_" cried D'Artagnan, "I know but one man capable of such a 
feat of strength."

"_Hein!_" cried the colossus, turning round.

"Porthos!" murmured D'Artagnan, seized with stupor, "Porthos at Belle-
Isle!"

On his part, the man with the feathers fixed his eyes upon the disguised 
lieutenant, and, in spite of his metamorphosis, recognized him.  
"D'Artagnan!" cried he; and the color mounted to his face.  "Hush!" said 
he to D'Artagnan.

"Hush!" in his turn, said the musketeer.  In fact, if Porthos had just 
been discovered by D'Artagnan, D'Artagnan had just been discovered by 
Porthos.  The interest of the particular secret of each struck them both 
at the same instant.  Nevertheless the first movement of the two men was 
to throw their arms around each other.  What they wished to conceal from 
the bystanders, was not their friendship, but their names.  But, after 
the embrace, came reflection.

"What the devil brings Porthos to Belle-Isle, lifting stones?" said 
D'Artagnan; only D'Artagnan uttered that question in a low voice.  Less 
strong in diplomacy than his friend, Porthos thought aloud.

"How the devil did you come to Belle-Isle?" asked he of D'Artagnan; "and 
what do you want to do here?"  It was necessary to reply without 
hesitation.  To hesitate in answer to Porthos would have been a check, 
for which the self-love of D'Artagnan would never have consoled itself.

"_Pardieu!_ my friend, I am at Belle-Isle because you are here."

"Ah, bah!" said Porthos, visibly stupefied with the argument and seeking 
to account for it to himself, with the felicity of deduction we know to 
be particular to him.

"Without doubt," continued D'Artagnan, unwilling to give his friend time 
to recollect himself, "I have been to see you at Pierrefonds."

"Indeed!"

"Yes."

"And you did not find me there?"

"No, but I found Mouston."

"Is he well?"

"_Peste!_"

"Well, but Mouston did not tell you I was here."

"Why should he _not?_  Have I, perchance, deserved to lose his 
confidence?"

"No; but he did not know it."

"Well; that is a reason at least that does not offend my self-love."

"Then how did you manage to find me?"

"My dear friend, a great noble like you always leaves traced behind him 
on his passage; and I should think but poorly of myself, if I were not 
sharp enough to follow the traces of my friends."  This explanation, 
flattering as it was, did not entirely satisfy Porthos.

"But I left no traces behind me, for I came here disguised," said Porthos.

"Ah!  You came disguised did you?" said D'Artagnan.

"Yes."

"And how?"

"As a miller."

"And do you think a great noble, like you, Porthos, can affect common 
manners so as to deceive people?"

"Well, I swear to you my friend, that I played my part so well that 
_everybody_ was deceived."

"Indeed! so well, that I have not discovered and joined you?"

"Yes; but _how_ did you discover and join me?"

"Stop a bit.  I was going to tell you how.  Do you imagine Mouston - "

"Ah! it was that fellow, Mouston," said Porthos, gathering up those two 
triumphant arches which served him for eyebrows.

"But stop, I tell you - it was no fault of Mouston's because he was 
ignorant of where you were."

"I know he was; and that is why I am in such haste to understand - "

"Oh! how impatient you are, Porthos."

"When I do not comprehend, I am terrible."

"Well, you will understand.  Aramis wrote to you at Pierrefonds, did he 
not?"

"Yes."

"And he told you to come before the equinox."

"That is true."

"Well! that is it," said D'Artagnan, hoping that this reason would 
mystify Porthos.  Porthos appeared to give himself up to a violent mental 
labor.

"Yes, yes," said he, "I understand.  As Aramis told me to come before the 
equinox, you have understood that that was to join him.  You then 
inquired where Aramis was, saying to yourself, 'Where Aramis is, there 
Porthos will be.'  You have learnt that Aramis was in Bretagne, and you 
said to yourself, 'Porthos is in Bretagne.'"

"Exactly.  In good truth, Porthos, I cannot tell why you have not turned 
conjuror.  So you understand that, arriving at Roche-Bernard, I heard of 
the splendid fortifications going on at Belle-Isle.  The account raised 
my curiosity, I embarked in a fishing boat, without dreaming that you 
were here: I came, and I saw a monstrous fine fellow lifting a stone Ajax 
could not have stirred.  I cried out, 'Nobody but the Baron de Bracieux 
could have performed such a feat of strength.'  You heard me, you turned 
round, you recognized me, we embraced; and, _ma foi!_ if you like, my 
dear friend, we will embrace again."

"Ah! now all is explained," said Porthos; and he embraced D'Artagnan with 
so much friendship as to deprive the musketeer of his breath for five 
minutes.

"Why, you are stronger than ever," said D'Artagnan, "and still, happily, 
in your arms."  Porthos saluted D'Artagnan with a gracious smile.  During 
the five minutes D'Artagnan was recovering his breath, he reflected that 
he had a very difficult part to play.  It was necessary that he always 
should question and never reply.  By the time his respiration returned, 
he had fixed his plans for the campaign.


Chapter LXX:
Wherein the Ideas of D'Artagnan, at first strangely clouded, begin to 
clear up a little.

D'Artagnan immediately took the offensive.  "Now that I have told you 
all, dear friend, or rather you have guessed all, tell me what you are 
doing here, covered with dust and mud?"

Porthos wiped his brow, and looked around him with pride.  "Why, it 
appears," said he, "that you may see what I am doing here."

"No doubt, no doubt, you lift great stones."

"Oh! to show these idle fellows what a _man_ is," said Porthos, with 
contempt.  "But you understand - "

"Yes, that is not your place to lift stones, although there are many 
whose place it is, who cannot lift them as you do.  It was that which 
made me ask you, just now.  What are you doing here, baron?"

"I am studying topography, chevalier."

"You are studying topography?"

"Yes; but you - what are you doing in that common dress?"

D'Artagnan perceived he had committed a fault in giving expression to his 
astonishment.  Porthos had taken advantage of it, to retort with a 
question.  "Why," said he, "you know I am a bourgeois, in fact; my dress, 
then, has nothing astonishing in it, since it conforms with my condition."

"Nonsense! you are a musketeer."

"You are wrong, my friend; I have given in my resignation."

"Bah!"

"Oh, _mon Dieu!_ yes."

"And you have abandoned the service?"

"I have quitted it."

"You have abandoned the king?"

"Quite."

Porthos raised his arms towards heaven, like a man who has heard 
extraordinary news.  "Well, that _does_ confound me," said he.

"It is nevertheless true."

"And what led you to form such a resolution."

"The king displeased me.  Mazarin had disgusted me for a long time, as you 
know; so I threw my cassock to the nettles."

"But Mazarin is dead."

"I know that well enough, _parbleu!_  Only, at the period of his death, 
my resignation had been given in and accepted two months.  Then, feeling 
myself free, I set off for Pierrefonds, to see my friend Porthos.  I had 
heard talk of the happy division you had made of your time, and I wished, 
for a fortnight, to divide mine after your fashion."

"My friend, you know that it is not for a fortnight my house is open to 
you; it is for a year - for ten years - for life."

"Thank you, Porthos."

"Ah! but perhaps you want money - do you?" said Porthos, making something 
like fifty louis chink in his pocket.  "In that case, you know - "

"No, thank you; I am not in want of anything.  I placed my savings with 
Planchet, who pays me the interest of them."

"Your savings?"

"Yes, to be sure," said D'Artagnan: "why should I not put by my savings, 
as well as another, Porthos?"

"Oh, there is no reason why; on the contrary, I always suspected you - 
that is to say, Aramis always suspected you to have savings.  For my own 
part, d'ye see, I take no concern about the management of my household; 
but I presume the savings of a musketeer must be small."

"No doubt, relative to yourself, Porthos, who are a millionaire; but you 
shall judge.  I had laid by twenty-five thousand livres."

"That's pretty well," said Porthos, with an affable air.

"And," continued D'Artagnan, "on the twenty-eighth of last month I added 
to it two hundred thousand livres more."

Porthos opened his large eyes, which eloquently demanded of the 
musketeer, "Where the devil did you steal such a sum as that, my dear 
friend?"  "Two hundred thousand livres!" cried he, at length.

"Yes; which, with the twenty-five I had, and twenty thousand I have about 
me, complete the sum of two hundred and forty-five thousand livres."

"But tell me, whence comes this fortune?"

"I will tell you all about it presently, dear friend; but as you have, in 
the first place, many things to tell me yourself, let us have my recital 
in its proper order."

"Bravo!" said Porthos; "then we are both rich.  But what can I have to 
relate to you?"

"You have to relate to me how Aramis came to be named - "

"Ah! bishop of Vannes."

"That's it," said D'Artagnan, "bishop of Vannes.  Dear Aramis! do you 
know how he succeeded so well?"

"Yes, yes; without reckoning that he does not mean to stop there."

"What! do you mean he will not be contented with violet stockings, and 
that he wants a red hat?"

"Hush! that is _promised_ him."

"Bah! by the king?"

"By somebody more powerful than the king."

"Ah! the devil! Porthos: what incredible things you tell me, my friend!"

"Why incredible?  Is there not always somebody in France more powerful 
than the king?"

"Oh, yes; in the time of King Louis XIII. it was Cardinal Richelieu; in 
the time of the regency it was Cardinal Mazarin.  In the time of Louis 
XIV. it is M - "

"Go on."

"It is M. Fouquet."

"Jove! you have hit it the first time."

"So, then, I suppose it is M. Fouquet who has promised Aramis the red 
hat."

Porthos assumed an air of reserve.  "Dear friend," said he, "God preserve 
me from meddling with the affairs of others, above all from revealing 
secrets it may be to their interest to keep.  When you see Aramis, he 
will tell you all he thinks he ought to tell you."

"You are right, Porthos; and you are quite a padlock for safety.  But, to 
revert to yourself?"

"Yes," said Porthos.

"You said just now you came hither to study topography?"

"I did so."

"_Tudieu!_ my friend, what fine things you will do!"

"How do you mean?"

"Why, these fortifications are admirable."

"Is that your opinion?"

"Decidedly it is.  In truth, to anything but a regular siege, Belle-Isle 
is absolutely impregnable."

Porthos rubbed his hands.  "That is my opinion," said he.

"But who the devil has fortified this paltry little place in this manner?"

Porthos drew himself up proudly: "Did I not tell you who?"

"No."

"Do you not suspect?"

"No; all I can say is that he is a man who has studied all the systems, 
and who appears to me to have stopped at the best."

"Hush!" said Porthos; "consider my modesty, my dear D'Artagnan."

"In truth," replied the musketeer, "can it be you - who - oh!"

"Pray - my dear friend - "

"You who have imagined, traced, and combined between these bastions, 
these redans, these curtains, these half-moons; and are preparing that 
covered way?"

"I beg you - "

"You who have built that lunette with its retiring angles and its salient 
edges?"

"My friend - "

"You who have given that inclination to the openings of your embrasures, 
by means of which you so effectively protect the men who serve the guns?"

"Eh! _mon Dieu!_ yes."

"Oh!  Porthos, Porthos!  I must bow down before you - I must admire you!  
But you have always concealed from us this superb, this incomparable 
genius.  I hope, my dear friend, you will show me all this in detail."

"Nothing more easy.  Here lies my original sketch, my plan."

"Show it me."  Porthos led D'Artagnan towards the stone that served him 
for a table, and upon which the plan was spread.  At the foot of the plan 
was written, in the formidable writing of Porthos, writing of which we 
have already had occasion to speak: -

"Instead of making use of the square or rectangle, as has been done to 
this time, you will suppose your place inclosed in a regular hexagon, 
this polygon having the advantage of offering more angles than the 
quadrilateral one.  Every side of your hexagon, of which you will 
determine the length in proportion to the dimensions taken upon the 
place, will be divided into two parts, and upon the middle point you will 
elevate a perpendicular towards the center of the polygon, which will 
equal in length the sixth part of the side.  By the extremities of each 
side of the polygon, you will trace two diagonals, which will cut the 
perpendicular.  These will form the precise lines of your defense."

"The devil!" said D'Artagnan, stopping at this point of the 
demonstration; "why, this is a complete system, Porthos."

"Entirely," said Porthos.  "Continue."

"No; I have read enough of it; but, since it is you, my dear Porthos, who 
direct the works, what need have you of setting down your system so 
formally in writing?"

"Oh! my dear friend, death!"

"How! death?"

"Why, we are all mortal, are we not?"

"That is true," said D'Artagnan; "you have a reply for everything, my 
friend."  And he replaced the plan upon the stone.

But however short the time he had the plan in his hands, D'Artagnan had 
been able to distinguish, under the enormous writing of Porthos, a much 
more delicate hand, which reminded him of certain letters to Marie 
Michon, with which he had been acquainted in his youth.  Only the India-
rubber had passed and repassed so often over this writing that it might 
have escaped a less practiced eye than that of our musketeer.

"Bravo! my friend, bravo!" said D'Artagnan.

"And now you know all that you want to know, do you not?" said Porthos, 
wheeling about.

"_Mordioux!_ yes, only do me one last favor, dear friend!"

"Speak, I am master here."

"Do me the pleasure to tell me the name of that gentleman who is walking 
yonder."

"Where, there?"

"Behind the soldiers."

"Followed by a lackey?"

"Exactly."

"In company with a mean sort of fellow, dressed in black?"

"Yes, I mean him."

"That is M. Getard."

"And who is Getard, my friend?"

"He is the architect of the house."

"Of what house?"

"Of M. Fouquet's house."

"Ah! ah!" cried D'Artagnan, "you are of the household of M. Fouquet, 
then, Porthos?"

"I! what do you mean by that?" said the topographer, blushing to the top 
of his ears.

"Why, you say the house, when speaking of Belle-Isle, as if you were 
speaking of the chateau of Pierrefonds."

Porthos bit his lip.  "Belle-Isle, my friend," said he, "belongs to M. 
Fouquet, does it not?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"As Pierrefonds belongs to me?"

"I told you I believed so; there are no two words to _that_."

"Did you ever see a man there who is accustomed to walk about with a 
ruler in his hand?"

"No; but I might have seen him there, if he really walked there."

"Well, that gentleman is M. Boulingrin."

"Who is M. Boulingrin?"

"Now we are coming to it.  If, when this gentleman is walking with a 
ruler in his hand, any one should ask me, - 'who is M. Boulingrin?'  I 
should reply: 'He is the architect of the house.'  Well!  M. Getard is 
the Boulingrin of M. Fouquet.  But he has nothing to do with the 
fortifications, which are my department alone; do you understand? mine, 
absolutely mine."

"Ah! Porthos," cried D'Artagnan, letting his arms fall as a conquered man 
gives up his sword; "ah! my friend, you are not only a Herculean 
topographer, you are, still further, a dialectician of the first water."

"Is it not powerfully reasoned?" said Porthos: and he puffed and blew 
like the conger which D'Artagnan had let slip from his hand.

"And now," said D'Artagnan, "that shabby-looking man, who accompanies M. 
Getard, is he also of the household of M. Fouquet?"

"Oh! yes," said Porthos, with contempt; "it is one M. Jupenet, or 
Juponet, a sort of poet."

"Who is come to establish himself here?"

"I believe so."

"I thought M. Fouquet had poets enough, yonder - Scudery, Loret, 
Pellisson, La Fontaine?  If I must tell you the truth, Porthos, that poet 
disgraces you."

"Eh! - my friend; but what saves us is that he is not here as a poet."

"As what, then, is he?"

"As printer.  And you make me remember, I have a word to say to the 
_cuistre_."

"Say it, then."

Porthos made a sign to Jupenet, who perfectly recollected D'Artagnan, and 
did not care to come nearer; which naturally produced another sign from 
Porthos.  This was so imperative, he was obliged to obey.  As he 
approached, "Come hither!" said Porthos.  "You only landed yesterday and 
you have begun your tricks already."

"How so, monsieur le baron?" asked Jupenet, trembling.

"Your press was groaning all night, monsieur," said Porthos, "and you 
prevented my sleeping, _corne de boeuf!_"

"Monsieur - " objected Jupenet, timidly.

"You have nothing yet to print: therefore you have no occasion to set 
your press going.  What did you print last night?"

"Monsieur, a light poem of my own composition."

"Light! no, no, monsieur; the press groaned pitifully beneath it.  Let it 
not happen again.  Do you understand?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"You promise me?"

"I do, monsieur!"

"Very well; this time I pardon you.  Adieu!"

The poet retreated as humbly as he had approached.

"Well, now we have combed that fellow's head, let us breakfast."

"Yes," replied D'Artagnan, "let us breakfast."

"Only," said Porthos, "I beg you to observe, my friend, that we only have 
two hours for our repast."

"What would you have?  We will try to make two hours suffice.  But why 
have you only two hours?"

"Because it is high tide at one o'clock, and, with the tide, I am going 
to Vannes.  But, as I shall return to-morrow, my dear friend, you can 
stay here; you shall be master; I have a good cook and a good cellar."

"No," interrupted D'Artagnan, "better than that."

"What?"

"You are going to Vannes, you say?"

"To a certainty."

"To see Aramis?"

"Yes."

"Well!  I came from Paris on purpose to see Aramis."

"That's true."

"I will go with you then."

"Do; that's the thing."

"Only, I ought to have seen Aramis first, and you after.  But man 
proposes, and God disposes.  I have begun with you, and will finish with 
Aramis."

"Very well!"

"And in how many hours can you go from here to Vannes?"

"Oh! _pardieu!_ in six hours.  Three hours by sea to Sarzeau, three hours 
by road from Sarzeau to Vannes."

"How convenient that is!  Being so near to the bishopric; do you often go 
to Vannes?"

"Yes; once a week.  But, stop till I get my plan."

Porthos picked up his plan, folded it carefully, and engulfed it in his 
large pocket.

"Good!" said D'Artagnan aside; "I think I now know the real engineer who 
is fortifying Belle-Isle."

Two hours after, at high tide, Porthos and D'Artagnan set out for Sarzeau.


Chapter LXXI:
A Procession at Vannes.

The passage from Belle-Isle to Sarzeau was made rapidly enough, thanks to 
one of those little corsairs of which D'Artagnan had been told during his 
voyage, and which, shaped for fast sailing and destined for the chase, 
were sheltered at that time in the roadstead of Locmaria, where one of 
them, with a quarter of its war-crew, performed duty between Belle-Isle 
and the continent.  D'Artagnan had an opportunity of convincing himself 
that Porthos, though engineer and topographer, was not deeply versed in 
affairs of state.  His perfect ignorance, with any other, might have 
passed for well-informed dissimulation.  But D'Artagnan knew too well all 
the folds and refolds of his Porthos, not to find a secret if there were 
one there; like those regular, minute old bachelors, who know how to 
find, with their eyes shut, each book on the shelves of their library and 
each piece of linen in their wardrobe.  So if he had found nothing, our 
cunning D'Artagnan, in rolling and unrolling his Porthos, it was because, 
in truth, there was nothing to be found.

"Be it so," said D'Artagnan; "I shall get to know more at Vannes in half 
an hour than Porthos has discovered at Belle-Isle in two months.  Only, 
in order that I may know something, it is important that Porthos should 
not make use of the only stratagem I leave at his disposal.  He must not 
warn Aramis of my arrival."  All the care of the musketeer was then, for 
the moment, confined to the watching of Porthos.  And let us hasten to 
say, Porthos did not deserve all this mistrust.  Porthos thought of no 
evil.  Perhaps, on first seeing him, D'Artagnan had inspired him with a 
little suspicion; but almost immediately D'Artagnan had reconquered in 
that good and brave heart the place he had always occupied, and not the 
least cloud darkened the large eye of Porthos, fixed from time to time 
with tenderness on his friend.

On landing, Porthos inquired if his horses were waiting and soon 
perceived them at the crossing of the road that winds round Sarzeau, and 
which, without passing through that little city, leads towards Vannes.  
These horses were two in number, one for M. de Vallon, and one for his 
equerry; for Porthos had an equerry since Mouston was only able to use a 
carriage as a means of locomotion.  D'Artagnan expected that Porthos 
would propose to send forward his equerry upon one horse to bring back 
another, and he - D'Artagnan - had made up his mind to oppose this 
proposition.  But nothing D'Artagnan had expected happened.  Porthos 
simply told the equerry to dismount and await his return at Sarzeau, 
whilst D'Artagnan would ride his horse; which was arranged.

"Eh! but you are quite a man of precaution, my dear Porthos," said 
D'Artagnan to his friend, when he found himself in the saddle, upon the 
equerry's horse.

"Yes; but this is a kindness on the part of Aramis.  I have not my stud 
here, and Aramis has placed his stables at my disposal."

"Good horses for bishop's horses, _mordioux!_" said D'Artagnan.  "It is 
true, Aramis is a bishop of a peculiar kind."

"He is a holy man!" replied Porthos, in a tone almost nasal, and with his 
eyes raised towards heaven.

"Then he is much changed," said D'Artagnan; "you and I have known him 
passably profane."

"Grace has touched him," said Porthos.

"Bravo," said D'Artagnan, "that redoubles my desire to see my dear old 
friend."  And he spurred his horse, which sprang off into a more rapid 
pace.

"_Peste!_" said Porthos, "if we go on at this rate, we shall only take 
one hour instead of two."

"To go how far, do you say, Porthos?"

"Four leagues and a half."

"That will be a good pace."

"I could have embarked you on the canal, but the devil take rowers and 
boat-horses!  The first are like tortoises; the second like snails; and 
when a man is able to put a good horse between his knees, that horse is 
better than rowers or any other means."

"You are right; you above all, Porthos, who always look magnificent on 
horseback."

"Rather heavy, my friend; I was weighed the other day."

"And what do you weigh?"

"Three hundred-weight!" said Porthos, proudly.

"Bravo!"

"So that you must perceive, I am forced to choose horses whose loins are 
straight and wide, otherwise I break them down in two hours."

"Yes, giant's horses you must have, must you not?"

"You are very polite, my friend," replied the engineer, with affectionate 
majesty.

"As a case in point," replied D'Artagnan, "your horse seems to sweat 
already."

"_Dame!_  It is hot!  Ah, ah! do you see Vannes now?"

"Yes, perfectly.  It is a handsome city, apparently."

"Charming, according to Aramis, at least; but I think it black; but black 
seems to be considered handsome by artists: I am sorry for it."

"Why so, Porthos?"

"Because I have lately had my chateau of Pierrefonds, which was gray with 
age, plastered white."

"Humph!" said D'Artagnan, "and white is more cheerful."

"Yes, but it is less august, as Aramis tells me.  Fortunately there are 
dealers in black as well as white.  I will have Pierrefonds replastered 
in black; that's all there is about it.  If gray is handsome, you 
understand, my friend, black must be superb."

"_Dame!_" said D'Artagnan, "that appears logical."

"Were you never at Vannes, D'Artagnan?"

"Never."

"Then you know nothing of the city?"

"Nothing."

"Well, look!" said Porthos, raising himself in his stirrups, which made 
the fore-quarters of his horse bend sadly, - "do you see that corner, in 
the sun, yonder?"

"Yes, I see it plainly."

"Well, that is the cathedral."

"Which is called?"

"Saint-Pierre.  Now look again - in the faubourg on the left, do you see 
another cross?"

"Perfectly well."

"That is Saint-Patern, the parish preferred by Aramis."

"Indeed!"

"Without doubt.  Saint-Patern, you see, passes for having been the first 
bishop of Vannes.  It is true that Aramis pretends he was not.  But he is 
so learned that that may be only a paro - a para - "

"A paradox," said D'Artagnan.

"Precisely; thank you! my tongue trips, I am so hot."

"My friend," said D'Artagnan, "continue your interesting description, I 
beg.  What is that large white building with many windows?"

"Oh! that is the college of the Jesuits.  _Pardieu!_ you have an apt 
hand.  Do you see, close to the college, a large house with steeples, 
turrets, built in a handsome Gothic style, as that fool, M. Getard, says?"

"Yes, that is plainly to be seen.  Well?"

"Well, that is where Aramis resides."

"What! does he not reside at the episcopal palace?"

"No; that is in ruins.  The palace likewise is in the city, and Aramis 
prefers the faubourgs.  That is why, as I told you, he is partial to 
Saint-Patern; Saint-Patern is in the faubourg.  Besides, there are in 
this faubourg a mall, a tennis-court, and a house of Dominicans.  Look, 
that where the handsome steeple rises to the heavens."

"Well?"

"Next, you see the faubourg is like a separate city, it has its walls, 
its towers, its ditches; the quay is upon it likewise, and the boats land 
at the quay.  If our little corsair did not draw eight feet of water, we 
could have come full sail up to Aramis's windows."

"Porthos, Porthos," cried D'Artagnan, "you are a well of knowledge, a 
spring of ingenious and profound reflections.  Porthos, you no longer 
surprise me, you confound me."

"Here we are," said Porthos, turning the conversation with his usual 
modesty.

"And high time we were," thought D'Artagnan, "for Aramis's horse is 
melting away like a steed of ice."

They entered almost at the same instant the faubourg; but scarcely had 
they gone a hundred paces when they were surprised to find the streets 
strewed with leaves and flowers.  Against the old walls of Vannes, hung 
the oldest and the strangest tapestries of France.  From over balconies 
fell long white sheets stuck all over with bouquets.  The streets were 
deserted; it was plain the entire population was assembled on one point.  
The blinds were closed, and the breeze penetrated into the houses under 
the hangings, which cast long, black shades between their places of issue 
and the walls.  Suddenly, at the turning of a street, chants struck the 
ears of the newly arrived travelers.  A crowd in holiday garb appeared 
through the vapors of incense which mounted to the heavens in blue 
fleeces, and clouds of rose-leaves fluttered as high as the first 
stories.  Above all heads were to be seen the cross and banners, the 
sacred symbols of religion.  Then, beneath these crosses and banners, as 
if protected by them, walked a whole world of young girls clothed in 
white, crowned with corn-flowers.  At the two sides of the street, 
inclosing the _cortege_, marched the guards of the garrison, carrying 
bouquets in the barrels of their muskets and on the points of their 
lances.  This was the procession.

Whilst D'Artagnan and Porthos were looking on with critical glances, 
which disguised an extreme impatience to get forward, a magnificent dais 
approached preceded by a hundred Jesuits and a hundred Dominicans, and 
escorted by two archdeacons, a treasurer, a penitent and twelve canons.  
A singer with a thundering voice - a man certainly picked out from all 
the voices of France, as was the drum-major of the imperial guard from 
all the giants of the empire - escorted by four other chanters, who 
appeared to be there only to serve him as an accompaniment, made the air 
resound, and the windows of the houses vibrate.  Under the dais appeared 
a pale and noble countenance with black eyes, black hair streaked with 
threads of white, a delicate, compressed mouth, a prominent and angular 
chin.  His head, full of graceful majesty, was covered with the episcopal 
mitre, a headdress which gave it, in addition to the character of 
sovereignty, that of asceticism and evangelic meditation.

"Aramis!" cried the musketeer, involuntarily, as this lofty countenance 
passed before him.  The prelate started at the sound of the voice.  He 
raised his large black eyes, with their long lashes, and turned them 
without hesitation towards the spot whence the exclamation proceeded.  At 
a glance, he saw Porthos and D'Artagnan close to him.  On his part, 
D'Artagnan, thanks to the keenness of his sight, had seen all, seized 
all.  The full portrait of the prelate had entered his memory, never to 
leave it.  One thing had particularly struck D'Artagnan.  On perceiving 
him, Aramis had colored, then he had concentrated under his eyelids the 
fire of the look of the master, and the indefinable affection of the 
friend.  It was evident that Aramis had asked himself this question: - 
"Why is D'Artagnan with Porthos, and what does he want at Vannes?"  
Aramis comprehended all that was passing in the mind of D'Artagnan, on 
turning his look upon him again, and seeing that he had not lowered his 
eyes.  He knew the acuteness and intelligence of his friend; he feared to 
let him divine the secret of his blush and his astonishment.  He was 
still the same Aramis, always having a secret to conceal.  Therefore, to 
put an end to his look of an inquisitor, which it was necessary to get 
rid of at all events, as, at any price, a general extinguishes a battery 
which annoys him, Aramis stretched forth his beautiful white hand, upon 
which sparkled the amethyst of the pastoral ring; he cut the air with 
sign of the cross, and poured out his benediction upon his two friends.  
Perhaps thoughtful and absent, D'Artagnan, impious in spite of himself, 
might not have bent beneath this holy benediction; but Porthos saw his 
distraction, and laying his friendly hand upon the back of his companion, 
he crushed him down towards the earth.  D'Artagnan was forced to give 
way; indeed, he was little short of being flat on the ground.  In the 
meantime Aramis had passed.  D'Artagnan, like Antaeus, had only touched 
the ground, and he turned towards Porthos, almost angry.  But there was 
no mistaking the intention of the brave Hercules; it was a feeling of 
religious propriety that had influenced him.  Besides, speech with 
Porthos, instead of disguising his thought, always completed it.

"It is very polite of him," said he, "to have given his benediction to us 
alone.  Decidedly, he is a holy man, and a brave man."  Less convinced 
than Porthos, D'Artagnan made no reply.

"Observe my friend," continued Porthos, "he has seen us; and, instead of 
continuing to walk on at the simple pace of the procession, as he did 
just now, - see, what a hurry he is in; do you see how the _cortege_ is 
increasing its speed?  He is eager to join us and embrace us, is that 
dear Aramis."

"That is true," replied D'Artagnan, aloud. - Then to himself: - "It is 
equally true he has seen me, the fox, and will have time to prepare 
himself to receive me."

But the procession had passed; the road was free.  D'Artagnan and Porthos 
walked straight up to the episcopal palace, which was surrounded by a 
numerous crowd anxious to see the prelate return.  D'Artagnan remarked 
that this crowd was composed principally of citizens and military men.  
He recognized in the nature of these partisans the address of his 
friend.  Aramis was not the man to seek for a useless popularity.  He 
cared very little for being beloved by people who could be of no service 
to him.  Women, children, and old men, that is to say, the _cortege_ of 
ordinary pastors; was not the _cortege_ for him.

Ten minutes after the two friends had passed the threshold of the palace, 
Aramis returned like a triumphant conqueror; the soldiers presented arms 
to him as to a superior; the citizens bowed to him as to a friend and a 
patron, rather than as a head of the Church.  There was something in 
Aramis resembling those Roman senators who had their doors always 
surrounded by clients.  At the foot of the steps, he had a conference of 
half a minute with a Jesuit, who, in order to speak to him more secretly, 
passed his head under the dais.  He then re-entered his palace; the doors 
closed slowly, and the crowd melted away, whilst chants and prayers were 
still resounding abroad.  It was a magnificent day.  Earthly perfumes 
were mingled with the perfumes of the air and the sea.  The city breathed 
happiness, joy, and strength.  D'Artagnan felt something like the 
presence of an invisible hand which had, all-powerfully, created this 
strength, this joy, this happiness, and spread everywhere these perfumes.

"Oh! oh!" said he, "Porthos has got fat; but Aramis is grown taller."


Chapter LXXII:
The Grandeur of the Bishop of Vannes.

Porthos and D'Artagnan had entered the bishop's residence by a private 
door, as his personal friends.  Of course, Porthos served D'Artagnan as 
guide.  The worthy baron comported himself everywhere rather as if he 
were at home.  Nevertheless, whether it was a tacit acknowledgement of 
the sanctity of the personage of Aramis and his character, or the habit 
of respecting him who imposed upon him morally, a worthy habit which had 
always made Porthos a model soldier and an excellent companion; for all 
these reasons, say we, Porthos preserved in the palace of His Greatness 
the Bishop of Vannes a sort of reserve which D'Artagnan remarked at once, 
in the attitude he took with respect to the valets and officers.  And yet 
this reserve did not go so far as to prevent his asking questions.  
Porthos questioned.  They learned that His Greatness had just returned to 
his apartment and was preparing to appear in familiar intimacy, less 
majestic than he had appeared with his flock.  After a quarter of an 
hour, which D'Artagnan and Porthos passed in looking mutually at each 
other with the white of their eyes, and turning their thumbs in all the 
different evolutions which go from north to south, a door of the chamber 
opened and His Greatness appeared, dressed in the undress, complete, of a 
prelate.  Aramis carried his head high, like a man accustomed to command: 
his violet robe was tucked up on one side, and his white hand was on his 
hip.  He had retained the fine mustache, and the lengthened _royale_ of 
the time of Louis XIII.  He exhaled, on entering, that delicate perfume 
which, among elegant men and women of high fashion, never changes, and 
appears to be incorporated in the person, of whom it has become the 
natural emanation.  In this case only, the perfume had retained something 
of the religious sublimity of incense.  It no longer intoxicated, it 
penetrated; it no longer inspired desire, it inspired respect.  Aramis, 
on entering the chamber, did not hesitate an instant; and without 
pronouncing one word, which, whatever it might be, would have been cold 
on such an occasion, he went straight up to the musketeer, so well 
disguised under the costume of M. Agnan, and pressed him in his arms with 
a tenderness which the most distrustful could not have suspected of 
coldness or affectation.

D'Artagnan, on his part, embraced him with equal ardor.  Porthos pressed 
the delicate hand of Aramis in his immense hands, and D'Artagnan remarked 
that His Greatness gave him his left hand, probably from habit, seeing 
that Porthos already ten times had been near injuring his fingers covered 
with rings, by pounding his flesh in the vise of his fist.  Warned by the 
pain, Aramis was cautious, and only presented flesh to be bruised, and 
not fingers to be crushed, against the gold or the angles of diamonds.

Between two embraces, Aramis looked D'Artagnan in the face, offered him a 
chair, sitting down himself in the shade, observing that the light fell 
full upon the face of his interlocutor.  This maneuver, familiar to 
diplomatists and women, resembles much the advantage of the guard which, 
according to their skill or habit, combatants endeavor to take on the 
ground at a duel.  D'Artagnan was not the dupe of this maneuver; but he 
did not appear to perceive it.  He felt himself caught; but, precisely 
because he was caught he felt himself on the road to discovery, and it 
little imported to him, old condottiere as he was, to be beaten in 
appearance, provided he drew from his pretended defeat the advantages of 
victory.  Aramis began the conversation.

"Ah! dear friend! my good D'Artagnan," said he, "what an excellent 
chance!"

"It is a chance, my reverend companion," said D'Artagnan, "that I will 
call friendship.  I seek you, as I always have sought you, when I had any 
grand enterprise to propose to you, or some hours of liberty to give you."

"Ah! indeed," said Aramis, without explosion, "you have been seeking me?"

"Eh! yes, he has been seeking you, Aramis," said Porthos, "and the proof 
is that he has unharbored me at Belle-Isle.  That is amiable, is it not?"

"Ah! yes," said Aramis, "at Belle-Isle! certainly!"

"Good!" said D'Artagnan; "there is my booby Porthos, without thinking of 
it, has fired the first cannon of attack."

"At Belle-Isle!" said Aramis, "in that hole, in that desert!  That is 
kind, indeed!"

"And it was I who told him you were at Vannes," continued Porthos, in the 
same tone.

D'Artagnan armed his mouth with a finesse almost ironical.

"Yes, I knew, but I was willing to see," replied he.

"To see what?"

"If our old friendship still held out; if, on seeing each other, our 
hearts, hardened as they are by age, would still let the old cry of joy 
escape, which salutes the coming of a friend."

"Well, and you must have been satisfied," said Aramis.

"So, so."

"How is that?"

"Yes, Porthos said hush! and you - "

"Well! and I?"

"And you gave me your benediction."

"What would you have, my friend?" said Aramis, smiling; "that is the most 
precious thing that a poor prelate, like me, has to give."

"Indeed, my dear friend!"

"Doubtless."

"And yet they say at Paris that the bishopric of Vannes is one of the 
best in France."

"Ah! you are now speaking of temporal wealth," said Aramis, with a 
careless air.

"To be sure, I wish to speak of that; I hold by it, on my part."

"In that case, let me speak of it," said Aramis, with a smile.

"You own yourself to be one of the richest prelates in France?"

"My friend, since you ask me to give you an account, I will tell you that 
the bishopric of Vannes is worth about twenty thousand livres a year, 
neither more nor less.  It is a diocese which contains a hundred and 
sixty parishes."

"That is very pretty," said D'Artagnan.

"It is superb!" said Porthos.

"And yet," resumed D'Artagnan, throwing his eyes over Aramis, "you don't 
mean to bury yourself here forever?"

"Pardon me.  Only I do not admit the word _bury_."

"But it seems to me, that at this distance from Paris a man is buried, or 
nearly so."

"My friend, I am getting old," said Aramis; "the noise and bustle of a 
city no longer suit me.  At fifty-seven we ought to seek calm and 
meditation.  I have found them here.  What is there more beautiful, and 
stern at the same time, than this old Armorica.  I find here, dear 
D'Artagnan, all that is opposite to what I formerly loved, and that is 
what must happen at the end of life, which is opposite to the beginning.  
A little of my old pleasure of former times still comes to salute me 
here, now and then, without diverting me from the road of salvation.  I 
am still of this world, and yet every step that I take brings me nearer 
to God."

"Eloquent, wise and discreet; you are an accomplished prelate, Aramis, 
and I offer you my congratulations."

"But," said Aramis smiling, "you did not come here only for the purpose 
of paying me compliments.  Speak; what brings you hither?  May it be 
that, in some fashion or other, you want me?"

"Thank God, no, my friend," said D'Artagnan, "it is nothing of that kind. 
- I am rich and free."

"Rich!" exclaimed Aramis.

"Yes, rich for me; not for you or Porthos, understand.  I have an income 
of about fifteen thousand livres."

Aramis looked at him suspiciously.  He could not believe - particularly 
on seeing his friend in such humble guise - that he had made so fine a 
fortune.  Then D'Artagnan, seeing that the hour of explanations was come, 
related the history of his English adventures.  During the recital he 
saw, ten times, the eyes of the prelate sparkle, and his slender fingers 
work convulsively.  As to Porthos, it was not admiration he manifested 
for D'Artagnan; it was enthusiasm, it was delirium.  When D'Artagnan had 
finished, "Well!" said Aramis.

"Well!" said D'Artagnan, "you see, then, I have in England friends and 
property, in France a treasure.  If your heart tells you so, I offer them 
to you.  That is what I came here for."

However firm was his look, he could not this time support the look of 
Aramis.  He allowed, therefore, his eye to stray upon Porthos - like the 
sword which yields to too powerful a pressure, and seeks another road.

"At all events," said the bishop, "you have assumed a singular traveling 
costume, old friend."

"Frightful!  I know it is.  You may understand why I would not travel as 
a cavalier or a noble; since I became rich, I am miserly."

"And you say, then, you came to Belle-Isle?" said Aramis, without 
transition.

"Yes," replied D'Artagnan; "I knew I should find you and Porthos there."

"Find me!" cried Aramis.  "Me! for the last year past I have not once 
crossed the sea."

"Oh," said D'Artagnan, "I should never have supposed you such a 
housekeeper."

"Ah, dear friend, I must tell you that I am no longer the Aramis of 
former times.  Riding on horseback is unpleasant to me; the sea fatigues 
me.  I am a poor, ailing priest, always complaining, always grumbling, 
and inclined to the austerities which appear to accord with old age, - 
preliminary parleyings with death.  I linger, my dear D'Artagnan, I 
linger."

"Well, that is all the better, my friend, for we shall probably be 
neighbors soon."

"Bah!" said Aramis with a degree of surprise he did not even seek to 
dissemble.  "You my neighbor!"

"_Mordioux!_ yes."

"How so?"

"I am about to purchase some very profitable salt-mines, which are 
situated between Piriac and Le Croisic.  Imagine, my dear friend, a clear 
profit of twelve per cent.  Never any deficiency, never any idle 
expenses; the ocean, faithful and regular, brings every twelve hours its 
contingency to my coffers.  I am the first Parisian who has dreamt of 
such a speculation.  Do not say anything about it, I beg of you, and in 
a short time we will communicate on the matter.  I am to have three 
leagues of country for thirty thousand livres."

Aramis darted a look at Porthos, as if to ask if all this were true, if 
some snare were not concealed beneath this outward indifference.  But 
soon, as if ashamed of having consulted this poor auxiliary, he collected 
all his forces for a fresh assault and new defense.  "I heard that you 
had had some difference with the court, but that you had come out of it 
as you know how to get through everything, D'Artagnan, with the honors of 
war."

"I!" said the musketeer, with a burst of laughter that did not conceal 
his embarrassment: for, from those words, Aramis was not unlikely to be 
acquainted with his last relations with the king.  "I!  Oh, tell me all 
about that, pray, Aramis?"

"Yes, it was related to me, a poor bishop, lost in the middle of the 
_Landes_, that the king had taken you as the confidant of his amours."

"With whom?"

"With Mademoiselle de Mancini."

D'Artagnan breathed freely again.  "Ah! I don't say no to that," replied 
he.

"It appears that the king took you one morning, over the bridge of Blois 
to talk with his lady-love."

"That's true," said D'Artagnan.  "And you know that, do you?  Well, then, 
you must know that the same day I gave in my resignation!"

"What, sincerely?"

"Nothing more so."

"It was after that, then, that you went to the Comte de la Fere's?"

"Yes."

"Afterwards to me?"

"Yes."

"And then Porthos?"

"Yes."

"Was it in order to pay us a simple visit?"

"No, I did no know you were engaged, and I wished to take you with me 
into England."

"Yes, I understand; and then you executed alone, wonderful man as you 
are, what you wanted to propose to us all four.  I suspected you had 
something to do with that famous restoration, when I learned that you had 
been seen at King Charles's receptions, and that he appeared to treat you 
like a friend, or rather like a person to whom he was under an 
obligation."

"But how the devil did you learn all that?" asked D'Artagnan, who began 
to fear that the investigation of Aramis had extended further than he 
wished.

"Dear D'Artagnan," said the prelate, "my friendship resembles, in a 
degree, the solicitude of that night watch whom we have in the little 
tower of the mole, at the extremity of the quay.  That brave man, every 
night, lights a lantern to direct the barks that come from sea.  He is 
concealed in his sentry-box, and the fishermen do not see him; but he 
follows them with interest; he divines them; he calls them; he attracts 
them into the way to the port.  I resemble this watcher; from time to 
time some news reaches me, and recalls to my remembrance all those I 
loved.  Then I follow the friends of old days over the stormy ocean of 
the world, I, a poor watcher, to whom God has kindly given the shelter of 
a sentry-box."

"Well, what did I do when I came from England?"

"Ah! there," replied Aramis, "you get beyond my depth.  I know nothing of 
you since your return.  D'Artagnan, my eyes are dim.  I regretted you did 
not think of me.  I wept over your forgetfulness.  I was wrong.  I see 
you again, and it is a festival, a great festival, I assure you, 
solemnly!  How is Athos?"

"Very well, thank you."

"And our young pupil, Raoul?"

"He seems to have inherited the skill of his father, Athos, and the 
strength of his tutor, Porthos."

"And on what occasion have you been able to judge of that?"

"Eh! _mon Dieu!_ on the eve of my departure from Paris."

"Indeed! tell me all about it!"

"Yes; there was an execution at the Greve, and in consequence of that 
execution, a riot.  We happened, by accident, to be in the riot; and in 
this riot we were obliged to have recourse to our swords.  And he did 
wonders."

"Bah! what did he do?"

"Why, in the first place, he threw a man out of the window, as he would 
have flung a sack full of flock."

"Come, that's pretty well," said Porthos.

"Then he drew, and cut and thrust away, as we fellows used to do in the 
good old times."

"And what was the cause of this riot?" said Porthos.

D'Artagnan remarked upon the face of Aramis a complete indifference to 
this question of Porthos.  "Why," said he, fixing his eyes upon Aramis, 
"on account of the two farmers of the revenue, friends of M. Fouquet, 
whom the king forced to disgorge their plunder, and then hanged them."

A scarcely perceptible contraction of the prelate's brow showed that he 
had heard D'Artagnan's reply.  "Oh, oh!" said Porthos; "and what were the 
names of these friends of M. Fouquet?"

"MM. d'Eymeris and Lyodot," said D'Artagnan.  "Do you know these names, 
Aramis?"

"No," said the prelate, disdainfully; "they sound like the names of 
financiers."

"Exactly; so they were."

"Oh!  M. Fouquet allows his friends to be hanged, then," said Porthos.

"And why not?" said Aramis.

"Why, it seems to me - "

"If these culprits were hanged, it was by order of the king.  Now M. 
Fouquet, although superintendent of the finances, has not, I believe, the 
right of life and death."

"That may be," said Porthos; "but in the place of M. Fouquet - "

Aramis was afraid Porthos was about to say something awkward, so 
interrupted him.  "Come, D'Artagnan," said he; "this is quite enough 
about other people, let us talk a little about you."

"Of me you know all that I can tell you.  On the contrary let me hear a 
little about you, Aramis."

"I have told you, my friend.  There is nothing of Aramis left in me."

"Nor of the Abbe d'Herblay even?"

"No, not even of him.  You see a man whom Providence has taken by the 
hand, whom he has conducted to a position that he could never have dared 
even to hope for."

"Providence?" asked D'Artagnan.

"Yes."

"Well, that is strange!  I was told it was M. Fouquet."

"Who told you that?" cried Aramis, without being able, with all the power 
of his will, to prevent the color rising to his cheeks.

"_Ma foi!_ why, Bazin!"

"The fool!"

"I do not say he is a man of genius, it is true; but he told me so; and 
after him, I repeat it to you."

"I have never even seen M. Fouquet," replied Aramis with a look as pure 
and calm as that of a virgin who has never told a lie.

"Well, but if you had seen him and known him, there is no harm in that," 
replied D'Artagnan.  "M. Fouquet is a very good sort of a man."

"Humph!"

"A great politician."  Aramis made a gesture of indifference.

"An all-powerful minister."

"I only hold to the king and the pope."

"_Dame!_ listen then," said D'Artagnan, in the most natural tone 
imaginable.  "I said that because everybody here swears by M. Fouquet.  
The plain is M. Fouquet's; the salt-mines I am about to buy are M. 
Fouquet's; the island in which Porthos studies topography is M. 
Fouquet's; the garrison is M. Fouquet's; the galleys are M. Fouquet's.  I 
confess, then, that nothing would have surprised me in your enfeoffment, 
or rather in that of your diocese, to M. Fouquet.  He is a different 
master from the king, that is all; but quite as powerful as Louis."

"Thank God!  I am not vassal to anybody; I belong to nobody, and am 
entirely my own master," replied Aramis, who, during this conversation, 
followed with his eye every gesture of D'Artagnan, every glance of 
Porthos.  But D'Artagnan was impassible and Porthos motionless; the 
thrusts aimed so skillfully were parried by an able adversary; not one 
hit the mark.  Nevertheless, both began to feel the fatigue of such a 
contest, and the announcement of supper was well received by everybody.  
Supper changed the course of conversation.  Besides, they felt that, upon 
their guard as each one had been, they could neither of them boast of 
having the advantage.  Porthos had understood nothing of what had been 
meant.  He had held himself motionless, because Aramis had made him a 
sign not to stir.  Supper, for him, was nothing but supper; but that was 
quite enough for Porthos.  The supper, then, went off very well.  
D'Artagnan was in high spirits.  Aramis exceeded himself in kind 
affability.  Porthos ate like old Pelops.  Their talk was of war, 
finance, the arts, and love.  Aramis played astonishment at every word of 
politics D'Artagnan risked.  This long series of surprises increased the 
mistrust of D'Artagnan, as the eternal indifference of D'Artagnan 
provoked the suspicions of Aramis.  At length D'Artagnan, designedly, 
uttered the name of Colbert: he had reserved that stroke for the last.

"Who is this Colbert?" asked the bishop.

"Oh! come," said D'Artagnan to himself, "that is too strong!  We must be 
careful, _mordioux!_ we must be careful."

And he then gave Aramis all the information respecting M. Colbert he 
could desire.  The supper, or rather, the conversation, was prolonged 
till one o'clock in the morning between D'Artagnan and Aramis.  At ten 
o'clock precisely, Porthos had fallen asleep in his chair and snored like 
an organ.  At midnight he woke up and they sent him to bed.  "Hum!" said 
he, "I was near falling asleep; but that was all very interesting you 
were talking about."

At one o'clock Aramis conducted D'Artagnan to the chamber destined for 
him, which was the best in the episcopal residence.  Two servants were 
placed at his command.  "To-morrow, at eight o'clock," said he, taking 
leave of D'Artagnan, "we will take, if agreeable to you, a ride on 
horseback with Porthos."

"At eight o'clock!" said D'Artagnan; "so late?"

"You know that I require seven hours' sleep," said Aramis.

"That is true."

"Good-night, dear friend!"  And he embraced the musketeer cordially.

D'Artagnan allowed him to depart; then, as soon as the door closed, 
"Good!" cried he, "at five o'clock I will be on foot."

This determination being made, he went to bed and quietly, "put two and 
two together," as people say.


Chapter LXXIII:
In which Porthos begins to be sorry for having come with D'Artagnan.

Scarcely had D'Artagnan extinguished his taper, when Aramis, who had 
watched through his curtains the last glimmer of light in his friend's 
apartment, traversed the corridor on tiptoe, and went to Porthos's room.  
The giant who had been in bed nearly an hour and a half, lay grandly 
stretched out on the down bed.  He was in that happy calm of the first 
sleep, which, with Porthos, resisted the noise of bells or the report of 
cannon: his head swam in that soft oscillation which reminds us of the 
soothing movement of a ship.  In a moment Porthos would have begun to 
dream.  The door of the chamber opened softly under the delicate pressure 
of the hand of Aramis.  The bishop approached the sleeper.  A thick 
carpet deadened his steps, besides which Porthos snored in a manner to 
drown all noise.  He laid one hand on his shoulder - "Rouse," said he, 
"wake up, my dear Porthos."  The voice of Aramis was soft and kind, but 
it conveyed more than a notice, - it conveyed an order.  His hand was 
light, but it indicated danger.  Porthos heard the voice and felt the 
hand of Aramis, even in the depth of sleep.  He started up.  "Who goes 
there?" cried he, in his giant's voice.

"Hush! hush!  It is I," said Aramis.

"You, my friend?  And what the devil do you wake me for?"

"To tell you that you must set off directly."

"Set off?"

"Yes."

"Where for?"

"For Paris."

Porthos bounded up in his bed, and then sank back down again, fixing his 
great eyes in agitation upon Aramis.

"For Paris?"

"Yes."

"A hundred leagues?" said he.

"A hundred and four," replied the bishop.

"Oh! _mon Dieu!_" sighed Porthos, lying down again, like children who 
contend with their _bonne_ to gain an hour or two more sleep.

"Thirty hours' riding," said Aramis, firmly.  "You know there are good 
relays."

Porthos pushed out one leg, allowing a groan to escape him.

"Come, come! my friend," insisted the prelate with a sort of impatience.

Porthos drew the other leg out of the bed.  "And is it absolutely 
necessary that I should go, at once?"

"Urgently necessary."

Porthos got upon his feet, and began to shake both walls and floors with 
his steps of a marble statue.

"Hush! hush! for the love of Heaven, my dear Porthos!" said Aramis, "you 
will wake somebody."

"Ah! that's true," replied Porthos, in a voice of thunder, "I forgot 
that; but be satisfied, I am on guard."  And so saying, he let fall a 
belt loaded with his sword and pistols, and a purse, from which the 
crowns escaped with a vibrating and prolonged noise.  This noise made the 
blood of Aramis boil, whilst it drew from Porthos a formidable burst of 
laughter.  "How droll that is!" said he, in the same voice.

"Not so loud, Porthos, not so loud."

"True, true!" and he lowered his voice a half-note.

"I was going to say," continued Porthos, "that it is droll that we are 
never so slow as when we are in a hurry, and never make so much noise as 
when we wish to be silent."

"Yes, that is true; but let us give the proverb the lie, Porthos; let us 
make haste, and hold our tongue."

"You see I am doing my best," said Porthos, putting on his _haut de 
chausses_.

"Very well."

"This is something in haste?"

"It is more than that, it is serious, Porthos."

"Oh, oh!"

"D'Artagnan has questioned you, has he not?"

"Questioned me?"

"Yes, at Belle-Isle?"

"Not the least in the world."

"Are you sure of that, Porthos?"

"_Parbleu!_"

"It is impossible.  Recollect yourself."
"He asked me what I was doing, and I told him - studying topography.  I 
would have made use of another word which you employed one day."

"'Castrametation'?"

"Yes, that's it; but I never could recollect it."

"All the better.  What more did he ask you?"

"Who M. Getard was."

"Next?"

"Who M. Jupenet was."

"He did not happen to see our plan of fortifications, did he?"

"Yes."

"The devil he did!"

"But don't be alarmed, I had rubbed out your writing with India-rubber.  
It was impossible for him to suppose you had given me any advice in those 
works."

"Ay; but our friend has phenomenally keen eyes."

"What are you afraid of?"

"I fear that everything is discovered, Porthos; the matter is, then, to 
prevent a great misfortune.  I have given orders to my people to close 
all the gates and doors.  D'Artagnan will not be able to get out before 
daybreak.  Your horse is ready saddled; you will gain the first relay; by 
five o'clock in the morning you will have traversed fifteen leagues.  
Come!"

Aramis then assisted Porthos to dress, piece by piece, with as much 
celerity as the most skillful _valet de chambre_ could have done.  
Porthos, half stupefied, let him do as he liked, and confounded himself 
in excuses.  When he was ready, Aramis took him by the hand, and led him, 
making him place his foot with precaution on every step of the stairs, 
preventing him running against door-frames, turning him this way and 
that, as if Aramis had been the giant and Porthos the dwarf.  Soul set 
fire to and animated matter.  A horse was waiting, ready saddled, in the 
courtyard.  Porthos mounted.  Then Aramis himself took the horse by the 
bridle, and led him over some dung spread in the yard, with the evident 
intention of suppressing noise.  He, at the same time, held tight the 
horse's nose, to prevent him neighing.  When arrived at the outward gate, 
drawing Porthos towards him, who was going off without even asking him 
what for: "Now, friend Porthos, now; without drawing bridle, till you get 
to Paris," whispered he in his ears; "eat on horseback, drink on 
horseback, but lose not a minute."

"That's enough; I will not stop."

"This letter to M. Fouquet; cost what it may, he must have it to-morrow 
before mid-day."

"He shall."

"And do not forget _one_ thing, my friend."

"What is that?"

"That you are riding out on a hunt for your _brevet_ of _duc_ and peer."

"Oh! oh!" said Porthos, with his eyes sparkling; "I will do it in twenty-
four hours, in that case."

"Try."

"Then let go the bridle - and forward, Goliath!"

Aramis did let go, not the bridle, but the horse's nose.  Porthos 
released his hand, clapped spurs to his horse, which set off at a 
gallop.  As long as he could distinguish Porthos through the darkness, 
Aramis followed him with his eyes: when he was completely out of sight, 
he re-entered the yard.  Nothing had stirred in D'Artagnan's apartment.  
The _valet_ placed on watch at the door had neither seen any light, nor 
heard any noise.  Aramis closed his door carefully, sent the lackey to 
bed, and quickly sought his own.  D'Artagnan really suspected nothing, 
therefore thought he had gained everything, when he awoke in the morning, 
about half-past four.  He ran to the window in his shirt.  The window 
looked out upon the court.  Day was dawning.  The court was deserted; the 
fowls, even, had not left their roosts.  Not a servant appeared.  Every 
door was closed.

"Good! all is still," said D'Artagnan to himself.  "Never mind: I am up 
first in the house.  Let us dress; that will be so much done."  And 
D'Artagnan dressed himself.  But, this time, he endeavored not to give to 
the costume of M. Agnan that _bourgeoise_ and almost ecclesiastical 
rigidity he had affected before; he managed, by drawing his belt tighter, 
by buttoning his clothes in a different fashion, and by putting on his 
hat a little on one side, to restore to his person a little of that 
military character, the absence of which had surprised Aramis.  This 
being done, he made free, or affected to make free with his host, and 
entered his chamber without ceremony.  Aramis was asleep or feigned to be 
so.  A large book lay open upon his night-desk, a wax-light was still 
burning in its silver sconce.  This was more than enough to prove to 
D'Artagnan the quiescence of the prelate's night, and the good intentions 
of his waking.  The musketeer did to the bishop precisely as the bishop 
had done to Porthos - he tapped him on the shoulder.  Evidently Aramis 
pretended to sleep; for, instead of waking suddenly, he who slept so 
lightly required a repetition of the summons.

"Ah! ah! is that you?" said he, stretching his arms.  "What an agreeable 
surprise!  _Ma foi!_  Sleep had made me forget I had the happiness to 
possess you.  What o'clock is it?"

"I do not know," said D'Artagnan, a little embarrassed.  "Early, I 
believe.  But, you know, that devil of a habit of waking with the day, 
sticks to me still."

"Do you wish that we should go out so soon?" asked Aramis.  "It appears 
to me to be very early."

"Just as you like."

"I thought we had agreed not to get on horseback before eight."

"Possibly; but I had so great a wish to see you, that I said to myself, 
the sooner the better."

"And my seven hours' sleep!" said Aramis: "Take care; I had reckoned upon 
them, and what I lose of them I must make up."

"But it seems to me that, formerly, you were less of a sleeper than that, 
dear friend; your blood was alive, and you were never to be found in bed."

"And it is exactly on account of what you tell me, that I am so fond of 
being there now."

"Then you confess, that it is not for the sake of sleeping, that you have 
put me off till eight o'clock."

"I have been afraid you would laugh at me, if I told you the truth."

"Tell me, notwithstanding."

"Well, from six to eight, I am accustomed to perform my devotions."

"Your devotions?"

"Yes."

"I did not believe a bishop's exercises were so severe."

"A bishop, my friend, must sacrifice more to appearance than a simple 
cleric."

"_Mordioux!_  Aramis, that is a word which reconciles me with your 
greatness.  To appearances!  That is a musketeer's word, in good truth!  
_Vivent les apparences_, Aramis!"

"Instead of felicitating me upon it, pardon me, D'Artagnan.  It is a very 
mundane word which I had allowed to escape me."

"Must I leave you, then?"

"I want time to collect my thoughts, my friend, and for my usual prayers."

"Well, I leave you to them; but on account of that poor pagan, 
D'Artagnan, abridge them for once, I beg; I thirst for speech with you."

"Well, D'Artagnan, I promise you that within an hour and a half - "

"An hour and a half of devotions!  Ah! my friend, be as reasonable with 
me as you can.  Let me have the best bargain possible."

Aramis began to laugh.

"Still agreeable, still young, still gay," said he.  "You have come into 
my diocese to set me quarreling with grace."

"Bah!"

"And you know well that I was never able to resist your seductions; you 
will cost me my salvation, D'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan bit his lips.

"Well," said he, "I will take the sin on my own head, favor me with one 
simple Christian sign of the cross, favor me with one prayer, and we will 
part."

"Hush!" said Aramis, "we are already no longer alone, I hear strangers 
coming up."

"Well, dismiss them."

"Impossible; I made an appointment with them yesterday; it is the 
principal of the college of the Jesuits, and the superior of the 
Dominicans."

"Your staff?  Well, so be it."

"What are you going to do?"

"I will go and wake Porthos, and remain in his company till you have 
finished the conference."

Aramis did not stir, his brow remained unbent, he betrayed himself by no 
gesture or word; "Go," said he, as D'Artagnan advanced to the door.  "_A 
propos_, do you know where Porthos sleeps?"

"No, but I will inquire."

"Take the corridor, and open the second door on the left."

"Thank you! _au revoir_."  And D'Artagnan departed in the direction 
pointed out by Aramis.

Ten minutes had not passed away when he came back.  He found Aramis 
seated between the superior of the Dominicans and the principal of the 
college of the Jesuits, exactly in the same situation as he had found him 
formerly in the auberge at Crevecœur.  This company did not at all 
terrify the musketeer.

"What is it?" said Aramis, quietly.  "You have apparently something to 
say to me, my friend."

"It is," replied D'Artagnan, fixing his eyes upon Aramis, "it is that 
Porthos is not in his apartment."

"Indeed," said Aramis calmly; "are you sure?"

"_Pardieu!_  I came from his chamber."

"Where can he be, then?"

"That is what I am asking _you_."

"And have you not inquired?"

"Yes, I have."

"And what answer did you get?"

"That Porthos, often walking out in a morning, without saying anything, 
had probably gone out."

"What did you do, then?"

"I went to the stables," replied D'Artagnan, carelessly.

"What to do?"

"To see if Porthos had departed on horseback."

"And?" interrogated the bishop.

"Well, there is a horse missing, stall No. 3, Goliath."

All this dialogue, it may be easily understood, was not exempt from a 
certain affectation on the part of the musketeer, and a perfect 
complaisance on the part of Aramis.

"Oh!  I guess how it is," said Aramis, after having considered for a 
moment, "Porthos is gone out to give us a surprise."

"A surprise?"

"Yes; the canal which goes from Vannes to the sea abounds in teal and 
snipes; that is Porthos's favorite sport, and he will bring us back a 
dozen for breakfast."

"Do you think so?" said D'Artagnan.

"I am sure of it.  Where else can he be?  I would lay a wager he took a 
gun with him."

"Well, that is possible," said D'Artagnan.

"Do one thing, my friend.  Get on horseback, and join him."

"You are right," said D'Artagnan, "I will."

"Shall I go with you?"

"No, thank you; Porthos is a rather remarkable man: I will inquire as I 
go along."

"Will you take an arquebus?"

"Thank  you."

"Order what horse you like to be saddled."

"The one I rode yesterday, on coming from Belle-Isle."

"So be it: use the horse as your own."

Aramis rang, and gave orders to have the horse M. d'Artagnan had chosen 
saddled.

D'Artagnan followed the servant charged with the execution of this 
order.  When arrived at the door, the servant drew on one side to allow 
M. d'Artagnan to pass; and at that moment he caught the eye of his 
master.  A knitting of the brow gave the intelligent spy to understand 
that all should be given to D'Artagnan he wished.  D'Artagnan got into 
the saddle, and Aramis heard the steps of his horse on the pavement.  An 
instant after, the servant returned.

"Well?" asked the bishop.

"Monseigneur, he has followed the course of the canal, and is going 
towards the sea," said the servant.

"Very well!" said Aramis.

In fact, D'Artagnan, dismissing all suspicion, hastened towards the 
ocean, constantly hoping to see in the _Landes_, or on the beach, the 
colossal profile of Porthos.  He persisted in fancying he could trace 
a horse's steps in every puddle.  Sometimes he imagined he heard the 
report of a gun.  This illusion lasted three hours; during two of which 
he went forward in search of his friend - in the last he returned to the 
house.

"We must have crossed," said he, "and I shall find them waiting for me at 
table."

D'Artagnan was mistaken.  He no more found Porthos at the palace than he 
had found him on the sea-shore.  Aramis was waiting for him at the top of 
the stairs, looking very much concerned.

"Did my people not find you, my dear D'Artagnan?" cried he, as soon as he 
caught sight of the musketeer.

"No; did you send any one after me?"

"I am deeply concerned, my friend, deeply, to have induced you to make 
such a useless search; but, about seven o'clock, the almoner of Saint-
Patern came here.  He had met Du Vallon, who was going away, and who, 
being unwilling to disturb anybody at the palace, had charged him to tell 
me that, fearing M. Getard would play him some ill turn in his absence, 
he was going to take advantage of the morning tide to make a tour of 
Belle-Isle."

"But tell me, Goliath has not crossed the four leagues of sea, I should 
think."

"There are full six," said Aramis.

"That makes it less probable still."

"Therefore, my friend," said Aramis, with one of his blandest smiles, 
"Goliath is in the stable, well pleased, I will answer for it, that 
Porthos is no longer on his back."  In fact, the horse had been brought 
back from the relay by the direction of the prelate, from whom no detail 
escaped.  D'Artagnan appeared as well satisfied with as possible with the 
explanation.  He entered upon a part of dissimulation which agreed 
perfectly with the suspicions that arose more strongly in his mind.  He 
breakfasted between the Jesuit and Aramis, having the Dominican in front 
of him, and smiling particularly at the Dominican, whose jolly, fat face 
pleased him much.  The repast was long and sumptuous; excellent Spanish 
wine, fine Morbihan oysters, exquisite fish from the mouth of the Loire, 
enormous prawns from Paimboeuf, and delicious game from the moors, 
constituted the principal part of it.  D'Artagnan ate much, and drank but 
little.  Aramis drank nothing, unless it was water.  After the repast, -

"You offered me an arquebus," said D'Artagnan.

"I did."

"Lend it me, then."

"Are you going shooting?"

"Whilst waiting for Porthos, it is the best thing I can do, I think."

"Take which you like from the trophy."

"Will you not come with me?"

"I would with great pleasure; but, alas! my friend, sporting is forbidden 
to bishops."

"Ah!" said D'Artagnan, "I did not know that."

"Besides," continued Aramis, "I shall be busy till mid-day."

"I shall go alone, then?" said D'Artagnan.

"I am sorry to say you must; but come back to dinner."

"_Pardieu!_ the eating at your house is too good to make me think of not 
coming back."  And thereupon D'Artagnan quitted his host, bowed to the 
guests, and took his arquebus; but instead of shooting, went straight to 
the little port of Vannes.  He looked in vain to observe if anybody saw 
him; he could discern neither thing nor person.  He engaged a little 
fishing boat for twenty-five livres, and set off at half-past eleven, 
convinced that he had not been followed; and that was true, he had not 
been followed; only a Jesuit brother, placed in the top of the steeple of 
his church, had not, since the morning, by the help of an excellent 
glass, lost sight of one of his steps.  At three quarters past eleven, 
Aramis was informed that D'Artagnan was sailing towards Belle-Isle.  The 
voyage was rapid; a good north north-east wind drove him towards the 
isle.  As he approached, his eyes were constantly fixed upon the coast.  
He looked to see if, upon the shore or upon the fortifications the 
brilliant dress and vast stature of Porthos should stand out against a 
slightly clouded sky; but his search was in vain.  He landed without 
having seen anything; and learnt from the first soldier interrogated by 
him, that M. du Vallon had not yet returned from Vannes.  Then, without 
losing an instant, D'Artagnan ordered his little bark to put its head 
towards Sarzeau.  We know that the wind changes with the different hours 
of the day.  The breeze had veered from the north north-east to the 
south-east; the wind, then, was almost as good for the return to Sarzeau, 
as it had been for the voyage to Belle-Isle.  In three hours D'Artagnan 
had touched the continent; two hours more sufficed for his ride to 
Vannes.  In spite of the rapidity of his passage, what D'Artagnan endured 
of impatience and anger during that short passage, the deck alone of the 
vessel, upon which he stamped backwards and forwards for three hours, 
could testify.  He made but one bound from the quay whereon he landed to 
the episcopal palace.  He thought to terrify Aramis by the promptitude of 
his return; he wished to reproach him with his duplicity, and yet with 
reserve; but with sufficient spirit, nevertheless, to make him feel all 
the consequences of it, and force from him a part of his secret.  He 
hoped, in short - thanks to that heat of expression which is to _secrets_ 
what the charge with the bayonet is to redoubts - to bring the mysterious 
Aramis to some manifestation or other.  But he found, in the vestibule of 
the palace, the _valet de chambre_, who closed his passage, while smiling 
upon him with a stupid air.

"Monseigneur?" cried D'Artagnan, endeavoring to put him aside with his 
hand.  Moved for an instant the valet resumed his station.

"Monseigneur?" said he.

"Yes, to be sure; do you not know me, _imbecile?_"

"Yes; you are the Chevalier d'Artagnan."

"Then let me pass."

"It is of no use."

"Why of no use?"

"Because His Greatness is not at home."

"What!  His Greatness is not at home? where is he, then?"

"Gone."

"Gone?"

"Yes."

"Whither?"

"I don't know; but perhaps he tells monsieur le chevalier."

"And how? where? in what fashion?"

"In this letter, which he gave me for monsieur le chevalier."  And the 
_valet de chambre_ drew a letter form his pocket."

"Give it me, then, you rascal," said D'Artagnan, snatching it from his 
hand.  "Oh, yes," continued he, at the first line, "yes, I understand;" 
and he read: -

"Dear Friend, - An affair of the most urgent nature calls me to a distant 
parish of my diocese.  I hoped to see you again before I set out; but I 
lose that hope in thinking that you are going, no doubt, to remain two or 
three days at Belle-Isle, with our dear Porthos.  Amuse yourself as well 
as you can; but do not attempt to hold out against him at table.  This is 
a counsel I might have given even to Athos, in his most brilliant and 
best days.  Adieu, dear friend; believe that I regret greatly not having 
better, and for a longer time, profited by your excellent company."

_"Mordioux!_" cried D'Artagnan.  "I am tricked.  Ah! blockhead, brute, 
triple fool that I am!  But those laugh best who laugh last.  Oh, duped, 
duped like a monkey, cheated with an empty nutshell!"  And with a hearty 
blow bestowed upon the nose of the smirking _valet de chambre_, he made 
all haste out of the episcopal palace.  Furet, however good a trotter, 
was not equal to present circumstances.  D'Artagnan therefore took the 
post, and chose a horse which he soon caused to demonstrate, with good 
spurs and a light hand, that deer are not the swiftest animals in nature.


Chapter LXXIV:
In which D'Artagnan makes all Speed, Porthos snores, and Aramis counsels.

From thirty to thirty-five hours after the events we have just related, 
as M. Fouquet, according to his custom, having interdicted his door, was 
working in the cabinet of his house at Saint-Mande, with which we are 
already acquainted, a carriage, drawn by four horses steaming with sweat, 
entered the court at full gallop.  This carriage was, probably, expected; 
for three or four lackeys hastened to the door, which they opened.  
Whilst M. Fouquet rose from his bureau and ran to the window, a man got 
painfully out of the carriage, descending with difficulty the three steps 
of the door, leaning upon the shoulders of the lackeys.  He had scarcely 
uttered his name, when the _valet_ upon whom he was not leaning, sprang 
up to the _perron_, and disappeared in the vestibule.  This man went to 
inform his master; but he had no occasion to knock at the door: Fouquet 
was standing on the threshold.

"Monseigneur, the Bishop of Vannes," said he.

"Very well!" replied his master.

Then, leaning over the banister of the staircase, of which Aramis was 
beginning to ascend the first steps, -

"Ah, dear friend!" said he, "you, so soon!"

"Yes; I, myself, monsieur! but bruised, battered, as you see."

"Oh! my poor friend," said Fouquet, presenting him his arm, on which 
Aramis leant, whilst the servants drew back respectfully.

"Bah!" replied Aramis, "it is nothing, since I am here; the principal 
thing was that I should _get_ here, and here I am."

"Speak quickly," said Fouquet, closing the door of the cabinet behind 
Aramis and himself.

"Are we alone?"

"Yes, perfectly."

"No one observes us? - no one can hear us?"

"Be satisfied; nobody."

"Is M. du Vallon arrived?"

"Yes."

"And you have received my letter?"

"Yes.  The affair is serious, apparently, since it necessitates your 
attendance in Paris, at a moment when your presence was so urgent 
elsewhere."

"You are right, it could not be more serious."

"Thank you! thank you!  What is it about?  But, for God's sake! before 
anything else, take time to breathe, dear friend.  You are so pale, you 
frighten me."

"I am really in great pain.  But, for Heaven's sake, think nothing about 
me.  Did M. du Vallon tell you nothing, when he delivered the letter to 
you?"

"No; I heard a great noise; I went to the window; I saw at the foot of 
the _perron_ a sort of horseman of marble; I went down, he held the 
letter out to me, and his horse fell down dead."

"But he?"

"He fell with the horse; he was lifted, and carried to an apartment.  
Having read the letter, I went up to him, in hopes of obtaining more 
ample information; but he was asleep, and, after such a fashion, that it 
was impossible to wake him.  I took pity on him; I gave orders that his 
boots should be cut from off his legs, and that he should be left quite 
undisturbed."

"So far well; now, this is the question in hand, monseigneur.  You have 
seen M. d'Artagnan in Paris, have you not?"

"_Certes_, and think him a man of intelligence, and even a man of heart; 
although he did bring about the death of our dear friends, Lyodot and 
D'Eymeris."

"Alas! yes, I heard of that.  At Tours I met the courier who was bringing 
the letter from Gourville, and the dispatches from Pellisson.  Have you 
seriously reflected on that event, monsieur?"

"Yes."

"And in it you perceived a direct attack upon your sovereignty?"

"And do you believe it to be so?"

"Oh, yes, I think so."

"Well, I must confess, that sad idea occurred to me likewise."

"Do not blind yourself, monsieur, in the name of Heaven!  Listen 
attentively to me, - I return to D'Artagnan."

"I am all attention."

"Under what circumstances did you see him?"

"He came here for money."

"With what kind of order?"

"With an order from the king."

"Direct?"

"Signed by his majesty."

"There, then!  Well, D'Artagnan has been to Belle-Isle; he was disguised; 
he came in the character of some sort of an _intendant_, charged by his 
master to purchase salt-mines.  Now, D'Artagnan has no other master but 
the king: he came, then, sent by the king.  He saw Porthos."

"Who is Porthos?"

"I beg your pardon, I made a mistake.  He saw M. du Vallon at Belle-Isle; 
and he knows, as well as you and I do, that Belle-Isle is fortified."

"And you think that the king sent him there?" said Fouquet, pensively.

"I certainly do."

"And D'Artagnan, in the hands of the king, is a dangerous instrument?"

"The most dangerous imaginable."

"Then I formed a correct opinion of him at the first glance."

"How so?"

"I wished to attach him to myself."

"If you judged him to be the bravest, the most acute, and the most adroit 
man in France, you judged correctly."

"He must be had then, at any price."

"D'Artagnan?"

"Is that not your opinion?"

"It may be my opinion, but you will never get him."

"Why?"

"Because we have allowed the time to go by.  He was dissatisfied with the 
court, we should have profited by that; since that, he has passed into 
England; there he powerfully assisted in the restoration, there he gained 
a fortune, and, after all, he returned to the service of the king.  Well, 
if he has returned to the service of the king, it is because he is well 
paid in that service."

"We will pay him even better, that is all."

"Oh! monsieur, excuse me; D'Artagnan has a high respect for his word, and 
where that is once engaged he keeps it."

"What do you conclude, then?" said Fouquet, with great inquietude.

"At present, the principal thing is to parry a dangerous blow."

"And how is it to be parried?"

"Listen."

"But D'Artagnan will come and render an account to the king of his 
mission."

"Oh, we have time enough to think about that."

"How so?  You are much in advance of him, I presume?"

"Nearly ten hours."

"Well, in ten hours - "

Aramis shook his pale head.  "Look at these clouds which flit across the 
heavens; at these swallows which cut the air.  D'Artagnan moves more 
quickly than the clouds or the birds; D'Artagnan is the wind which 
carries them."

"A strange man!"

"I tell you, he is superhuman, monsieur.  He is of my own age, and I have 
known him these five-and-thirty years."

"Well?"

"Well, listen to my calculation, monsieur.  I send M. du Vallon off to 
you two hours after midnight.  M. du Vallon was eight hours in advance of 
me; when did M. du Vallon arrive?"

"About four hours ago."

"You see, then, that I gained four upon him; and yet Porthos is a staunch 
horseman, and he has left on the road eight dead horses, whose bodies I 
came to successively.  I rode post fifty leagues; but I have the gout, 
the gravel, and what else I know not; so that fatigue kills me.  I was 
obliged to dismount at Tours; since that, rolling along in a carriage, 
half dead, sometimes overturned, drawn upon the sides, and sometimes on 
the back of the carriage, always with four spirited horses at full 
gallop, I have arrived – arrived, gaining four hours upon Porthos; but, 
see you, D'Artagnan does not weigh three hundred-weight, as Porthos does; 
D'Artagnan has not the gout and gravel, as I have; he is not a horseman, 
he is a centaur.  D'Artagnan, look you, set out for Belle-Isle when I set 
out for Paris; and D'Artagnan, notwithstanding my ten hours' advance, 
D'Artagnan will arrive within two hours after me."

"But, then, accidents?"

"He never meets with accidents."

"Horses may fail him."

"He will run as fast as a horse."

"Good God! what a man!"

"Yes, he is a man whom I love and admire.  I love him because he is good, 
great, and loyal; I admire him because he represents in my eyes the 
culminating point of human power; but, whilst loving and admiring him, I 
fear him, and am on my guard against him.  Now then, I resume, monsieur; 
in two hours D'Artagnan will be here; be beforehand with him.  Go to the 
Louvre, and see the king, before he sees D'Artagnan."

"What shall I say to the king?"

"Nothing; give him Belle-Isle."

"Oh!  Monsieur d'Herblay!  Monsieur d'Herblay," cried Fouquet, "what 
projects crushed all at once!"

"After one project that has failed, there is always another project that 
may lead to fortune; we should never despair.  Go, monsieur, and go at 
once."

"But that garrison, so carefully chosen, the king will change it 
directly."

"That garrison, monsieur, was the king's when it entered Belle-Isle; it 
is yours now; it is the same with all garrisons after a fortnight's 
occupation.  Let things go on, monsieur.  Do you see any inconvenience in 
having an army at the end of a year, instead of two regiments?  Do you 
not see that your garrison of to-day will make you partisans at La 
Rochelle, Nantes, Bordeaux, Toulouse - in short, wherever they may be 
sent to?  Go to the king, monsieur; go; time flies, and D'Artagnan, while 
we are losing time, is flying, like an arrow, along the high-road."

"Monsieur d'Herblay, you know that each word from you is a germ which 
fructifies in my thoughts.  I will go to the Louvre."

"Instantly, will you not?"

"I only ask time to change my dress."

"Remember that D'Artagnan has no need to pass through Saint-Mande; but 
will go straight to the Louvre; that is cutting off an hour from the 
advantage that yet remains to us."

"D'Artagnan may have everything except my English horses.  I shall be at 
the Louvre in twenty-five minutes."  And, without losing a second, 
Fouquet gave orders for his departure.

Aramis had only time to say to him, "Return as quickly as you go; for I 
shall await you impatiently."

Five minutes after, the superintendent was flying along the road to 
Paris.  During this time, Aramis desired to be shown the chamber in which 
Porthos was sleeping.  At the door of Fouquet's cabinet he was folded in 
the arms of Pellisson, who had just heard of his arrival, and had left 
his office to see him.  Aramis received, with that friendly dignity which 
he knew so well how to assume, these caresses, respectful as earnest; but 
all at once stopping on the landing-place, "What is that I hear up 
yonder?"

There was, in fact, a hoarse, growling kind of noise, like the roar of a 
hungry tiger, or an impatient lion.  "Oh, that is nothing," said 
Pellisson, smiling.

"Well; but - "

"It is M. du Vallon snoring."

"Ah! true," said Aramis: "I had forgotten.  No one but he is capable of 
making such a noise.  Allow me, Pellisson, to inquire if he wants 
anything."

"And you will permit me to accompany you?"

"Oh, certainly;" and both entered the chamber.  Porthos was stretched 
upon the bed; his face was violet rather than red; his eyes were swelled; 
his mouth was wide open.  The roaring which escaped from the deep 
cavities of his chest made the glass of the windows vibrate.  To those 
developed and clearly defined muscles starting from his face, to his hair 
matted with sweat, to the energetic heaving of his chin and shoulders, it 
was impossible to refuse a certain degree of admiration.  Strength 
carried to this point is semi-divine.  The Herculean legs and feet of 
Porthos had, by swelling, burst his stockings; all the strength of his 
huge body was converted into the rigidity of stone.  Porthos moved no 
more than does the giant of granite which reclines upon the plains of 
Agrigentum.  According to Pellisson's orders, his boots had been cut off, 
for no human power could have pulled them off.  Four lackeys had tried in 
vain, pulling at them as they would have pulled capstans; and yet all 
this did not awaken him.  They had hacked off his boots in fragments, and 
his legs had fallen back upon the bed.  They then cut off the rest of his 
clothes, carried him to a bath, in which they let him soak a considerable 
time.  They then put on him clean linen, and placed him in a well-warmed 
bed - the whole with efforts and pains which might have roused a dead 
man, but which did not make Porthos open an eye, or interrupt for a 
second the formidable diapason of his snoring.  Aramis wished on his 
part, with his nervous nature, armed with extraordinary courage, to 
outbrave fatigue, and employ himself with Gourville and Pellisson, but he 
fainted in the chair in which he had persisted sitting.  He was carried 
into the adjoining room, where the repose of bed soon soothed his failing 
brain.


Chapter LXXV:
In which Monsieur Fouquet Acts.

In the meantime Fouquet was hastening to the Louvre, at the best speed of 
his English horses.  The king was at work with Colbert.  All at once the 
king became thoughtful.  The two sentences of death he had signed on 
mounting his throne sometimes recurred to his memory; they were two black 
spots which he saw with his eyes open; two spots of blood which he saw 
when his eyes were closed.  "Monsieur," said he rather sharply, to the 
intendant; "it sometimes seems to me that those two men you made me 
condemn were not very great culprits."

"Sire, they were picked out from the herd of the farmers of the 
financiers, which wanted decimating."

"Picked out by whom?"

"By necessity, sire," replied Colbert, coldly.

"Necessity! - a great word," murmured the young king.

"A great goddess, sire."

"They were devoted friends of the superintendent, were they not?"

"Yes, sire; friends who would have given up their lives for Monsieur 
Fouquet."

"They have given them, monsieur," said the king.

"That is true; - but uselessly, by good luck, - which was not their 
intention."

"How much money had these men fraudulently obtained?"

"Ten millions, perhaps; of which six have been confiscated."

"And is that money in my coffers?" said the king with a certain air of 
repugnance.

"It is there, sire; but this confiscation, whilst threatening M. Fouquet, 
has not touched him."

"You conclude, then, M. Colbert - "

"That if M. Fouquet has raised against your majesty a troop of factious 
rioters to extricate his friends from punishment, he will raise an army 
when he has in turn to extricate _himself_ from punishment."

The king darted at his confidant one of those looks which resemble the 
livid fire of a flash of lightning, one of those looks which illuminate 
the darkness of the basest consciences.  "I am astonished," said he, 
"that, thinking such things of M. Fouquet, you did not come to give me 
your counsels thereupon."

"Counsels upon what, sire?"

"Tell me, in the first place, clearly and precisely, what you think, M. 
Colbert."

"Upon what subject, sire?"

"Upon the conduct of M. Fouquet."

"I think, sire, that M. Fouquet, not satisfied with attracting all the 
money to himself, as M. Mazarin did, and by that means depriving your 
majesty of one part of your power, still wishes to attract to himself all 
the friends of easy life and pleasure - of what idlers call poetry, and 
politicians, corruption.  I think that, by holding the subjects of your 
majesty in pay, he trespasses upon the royal prerogative, and cannot, if 
this continues so, be long in placing your majesty among the weak and the 
obscure."

"How would you qualify all these projects, M. Colbert?"

"The projects of M. Fouquet, sire?"

"Yes."

"They are called crimes of _lese majeste_."

"And what is done to criminals guilty of _lese majeste?_"

"They are arrested, tried, and punished."

"You are quite certain that M. Fouquet has conceived the idea of the 
crime you impute to him?"

"I can say more, sire; there is even a commencement of the execution of 
it."

"Well, then, I return to that which I was saying, M. Colbert."

"And you were saying, sire?"

"Give me counsel."

"Pardon me, sire; but in the first place, I have something to add."

"Say - what?"

"An evident, palpable, material proof of treason."

"And what is that?"

"I have just learnt that M. Fouquet is fortifying Belle-Isle."

"Ah, indeed!"

"Yes, sire."

"Are you sure?"

"Perfectly.  Do you know, sire, what soldiers there are in Belle-Isle?"

"No, _ma foi!_  Do you?"

"I am ignorant, likewise, sire; I should therefore propose to your 
majesty to send somebody to Belle-Isle?"

"Who?"

"Me, for instance."

"And what would you do at Belle-Isle?"

"Inform myself whether, after the example of the ancient feudal lords, M. 
Fouquet was battlementing his walls."

"And with what purpose could he do that?"

"With the purpose of defending himself someday against his king."

"But, if it be thus, M. Colbert," said Louis, "we must immediately do as 
you say; M. Fouquet must be arrested."

"That is impossible."

"I thought I had already told you, monsieur, that I suppressed that word 
in my service."

"The service of your majesty cannot prevent M. Fouquet from being 
surintendant-general."

"Well?"

"That, in consequence of holding that post, he has for him all the 
parliament, as he has all the army by his largesses, literature by his 
favors, and the _noblesse_ by his presents."

"That is to say, then, that I can do nothing against M. Fouquet?"

"Absolutely nothing, - at least at present, sire."

"You are a sterile counselor, M. Colbert."

"Oh, no, sire; for I will not confine myself to pointing out the peril to 
your majesty."

"Come, then, where shall we begin to undermine this Colossus; let us 
see;" and his majesty began to laugh bitterly.

"He has grown great by money; kill him by money, sire."

"If I were to deprive him of his charge?"

"A bad means, sire."

"The good - the good, then?"

"Ruin him, sire, that is the way."

"But how?"

"Occasions will not be wanting; take advantage of all occasions."

"Point them out to me."

"Here is one at once.  His royal highness Monsieur is about to be 
married; his nuptials must be magnificent.  That is a good occasion for 
your majesty to demand a million of M. Fouquet.  M. Fouquet, who pays 
twenty thousand livres down when he need not pay more than five thousand, 
will easily find that million when your majesty demands it."

"That is all very well; I _will_ demand it," said Louis.

"If your majesty will sign the _ordonnance_ I will have the money got 
together myself."  And Colbert pushed a paper before the king, and 
presented a pen to him.

At that moment the usher opened the door and announced monsieur le 
surintendant.  Louis turned pale.  Colbert let the pen fall, and drew 
back from the king, over whom he extended his black wings like an evil 
spirit.  The superintendent made his entrance like a man of the court, to 
whom a single glance was sufficient to make him appreciate the 
situation.  That situation was not very encouraging for Fouquet, whatever 
might be his consciousness of strength.  The small black eye of Colbert, 
dilated by envy, and the limpid eye of Louis XIV. inflamed by anger, 
signalled some pressing danger.  Courtiers are, with regard to court 
rumors, like old soldiers, who distinguish through the blasts of wind and 
bluster of leaves the sound of the distant steps of an armed troop.  They 
can, after having listened, tell pretty nearly how many men are marching, 
how many arms resound, how many cannons roll.  Fouquet had then only to 
interrogate the silence which his arrival had produced; he found it big 
with menacing revelations.  The king allowed him time enough to advance 
as far as the middle of the chamber.  His adolescent modesty commanded 
this forbearance of the moment.  Fouquet boldly seized the opportunity.

"Sire," said he, "I was impatient to see your majesty."

"What for?" asked Louis.

"To announce some good news to you."

Colbert, minus grandeur of person, less largeness of heart, resembled 
Fouquet in many points.  He had the same penetration, the same knowledge 
of men; moreover, that great power of self-compression which gives to 
hypocrites time to reflect, and gather themselves up to take a spring.  
He guessed that Fouquet was going to meet the blow he was about to deal 
him.  His eyes glittered ominously.

"What news?" asked the king.  Fouquet placed a roll of papers on the 
table.

"Let your majesty have the goodness to cast your eyes over this work," 
said he.  The king slowly unfolded the paper.

"Plans?" said he.

"Yes, sire."

"And what are these plans?"

"A new fortification, sire."

"Ah, ah!" said the king, "you amuse yourself with tactics and strategies 
then, M. Fouquet?"

"I occupy myself with everything that may be useful to the reign of your 
majesty," replied Fouquet.

"Beautiful descriptions!" said the king, looking at the design.

"Your majesty comprehends, without doubt," said Fouquet, bending over the 
paper; "here is the circle of the walls, here are the forts, there the 
advanced works."

"And what do I see here, monsieur?"

"The sea."

"The sea all round?"

"Yes, sire."

"And what is, then, the name of this place of which you show me the plan?"

"Sire, it is Belle-Isle-en-Mer," replied Fouquet with simplicity.

At this word, at this name, Colbert made so marked a movement, that the 
king turned round to enforce the necessity for reserve.  Fouquet did not 
appear to be the least in the world concerned by the movement of Colbert, 
or the king's signal.

"Monsieur," continued Louis, "you have then fortified Belle-Isle?"

"Yes, sire; and I have brought the plan and the accounts to your 
majesty," replied Fouquet; "I have expended sixteen hundred livres in 
this operation."

"What to do?" replied Louis, coldly, having taken the initiative from a 
malicious look of the intendant.

"For an aim very easy to seize," replied Fouquet.  "Your majesty was on 
cool terms with Great Britain."

"Yes; but since the restoration of King Charles II. I have formed an 
alliance with him."

"A month since, sire, your majesty has truly said; but it is more than 
six months since the fortifications of Belle-Isle were begun."

"Then they have become useless."

"Sire, fortifications are never useless.  I fortified Belle-Isle against 
MM. Monk and Lambert and all those London citizens who were playing at 
soldiers.  Belle-Isle will be ready fortified against the Dutch, against 
whom either England or your majesty cannot fail to make war."

The king was again silent, and looked askant at Colbert.  "Belle-Isle, I 
believe," added Louis, "is yours, M. Fouquet?"

"No, sire."

"Whose then?"

"Your majesty's."

Colbert was seized with as much terror as if a gulf had opened beneath 
his feet.  Louis started with admiration, either at the genius or the 
devotion of Fouquet.

"Explain yourself, monsieur," said he.

"Nothing more easy, sire; Belle-Isle is one of my estates; I have 
fortified it at my own expense.  But as nothing in the world can oppose a 
subject making an humble present to his king, I offer your majesty the 
proprietorship of the estate, of which you will leave me the usufruct.  
Belle-Isle, as a place of war, ought to be occupied by the king.  Your 
majesty will be able, henceforth, to keep a safe garrison there."

Colbert felt almost sinking down upon the floor.  To keep himself from 
falling, he was obliged to hold by the columns of the wainscoting.

"This is a piece of great skill in the art of war that you have exhibited 
here, monsieur," said Louis.

"Sire, the initiative did not come from me," replied Fouquet; "many 
officers have inspired me with it.  The plans themselves have been made 
by one of the most distinguished engineers."

"His name?"

"M. du Vallon."

"M. du Vallon?" resumed Louis; "I do not know him.  It is much to be 
lamented, M. Colbert," continued he, "that I do not know the names of the 
men of talent who do honor to my reign."  And while saying these words he 
turned towards Colbert.  The latter felt himself crushed, the sweat 
flowed from his brow, no word presented itself to his lips, he suffered 
an inexpressible martyrdom.  "You will recollect that name," added Louis 
XIV.

Colbert bowed, but was paler than his ruffles of Flemish lace.  Fouquet 
continued:

"The masonries are of Roman concrete; the architects amalgamated it for 
me after the best accounts of antiquity."

"And the cannon?" asked Louis.

"Oh! sire, that concerns your majesty; it did not become me to place 
cannon in my own house, unless your majesty had told me it was yours."

Louis began to float, undetermined between the hatred which this so 
powerful man inspired him with, and the pity he felt for the other, so 
cast down, who seemed to him the counterfeit of the former.  But the 
consciousness of his kingly duty prevailed over the feelings of the man, 
and he stretched out his finger to the paper.

"It must have cost you a great deal of money to carry these plans into 
execution," said he.

"I believe I had the honor of telling your majesty the amount."

"Repeat it if you please, I have forgotten it."

"Sixteen hundred thousand livres."

"Sixteen hundred thousand livres! you are enormously rich, monsieur."

"It is your majesty who is rich, since Belle-Isle is yours."

"Yes, thank you; but however rich I may be, M. Fouquet - "  The king 
stopped.

"Well, sire?" asked the superintendent.

"I foresee the moment when I shall want money."

"You, sire?  And at what moment then?"

"To-morrow, for example."

"Will your majesty do me the honor to explain yourself?"

"My brother is going to marry the English Princess."

"Well, sire?"

"Well, I ought to give the bride a reception worthy of the granddaughter 
of Henry IV."

"That is but just, sire."

"Then I shall want money."

"No doubt."

"I shall want - "  Louis hesitated.  The sum he was going to demand was 
the same that he had been obliged to refuse Charles II.  He turned 
towards Colbert, that he might give the blow.

"I shall want, to-morrow - " repeated he, looking at Colbert.

"A million," said the latter, bluntly; delighted to take his revenge.

Fouquet turned his back upon the intendant to listen to the king.  He did 
not turn round, but waited till the king repeated, or rather murmured, "A 
million."

"Oh! sire," replied Fouquet disdainfully, "a million! what will your 
majesty do with a million?"

"It appears to me, nevertheless - " said Louis XIV.

"That is not more than is spent at the nuptials of one of the most pretty 
princes of Germany."

"Monsieur!"

"Your majesty must have two millions at least.  The horses alone would 
run away with five hundred thousand livres.  I shall have the honor of 
sending your majesty sixteen hundred thousand livres this evening."

"How," said the king, "sixteen hundred thousand livres?"

"Look, sire," replied Fouquet, without even turning towards Colbert, "I 
know that wants four hundred thousand livres of the two millions.  But 
this monsieur of l'intendance" (pointing over his shoulder to Colbert, 
who if possible, became paler, behind him) "has in his coffers nine 
hundred thousand livres of mine."

The king turned round to look at Colbert.

"But - " said the latter.

"Monsieur," continued Fouquet, still speaking indirectly to Colbert, 
"monsieur has received, a week ago, sixteen hundred thousand livres; he 
has paid a hundred thousand livres to the guards, sixty-four thousand 
livres to the hospitals, twenty-five thousand to the Swiss, an hundred 
and thirty thousand for provisions, a thousand for arms, ten thousand for 
accidental expenses; I do not err, then, in reckoning upon nine hundred 
thousand livres that are left."  Then turning towards Colbert, like a 
disdainful head of office towards his inferior, "Take care, monsieur," 
said he, "that those nine hundred thousand livres be remitted to his 
majesty this evening, in gold."

"But," said the king, "that will make two millions five hundred thousand 
livres."

"Sire, the five hundred thousand livres over will serve as pocket money 
for his royal highness.  You understand, Monsieur Colbert, this evening 
before eight o'clock."

And with these words, bowing respectfully to the king, the superintendent 
made his exit backwards, without honoring with a single look the envious 
man, whose head he had just half shaved.

Colbert tore his ruffles to pieces in his rage, and bit his lips till 
they bled.

Fouquet had not passed the door of the cabinet, when an usher pushing by 
him, exclaimed: "A courier from Bretagne for his majesty."

"M. d'Herblay was right," murmured Fouquet, pulling out his watch; "an 
hour and fifty-five minutes.  It was quite true."