"We are going to be shot!" cried Raoul; "but, sword-in-hand, at least let us leap the ditch! We shall kill at least two of these scoundrels, when their muskets are empty." And, suiting the action to the word, Raoul was springing forward, followed by Athos, when a well-known voice resounded behind them—"Athos! Raoul!"
"D'Artagnan!" replied the two gentlemen.
"Recover arms! Mordioux!" cried the captain to the soldiers. "I was sure I could not be mistaken!"
"What is the meaning of this?" asked Athos. "What! were we to be shot without warning?"
"It was I who was going to shoot you, and if the governor missed you, I should not have missed you, my dear friends. How fortunate it is that I am accustomed to take a long aim, instead of firing at the instant I raise my weapon! I thought I recognized you. Ah! my dear friends, how fortunate!" And D'Artagnan wiped his brow, for he had run fast, and emotion with him was not feigned.
"How!" said Athos. "And is the gentleman who fired at us the governor of the fortress?"
"In person."
"And why did he fire at us? What have we done to him?"
"Pardieu! You received what the prisoner threw to you?"
"That is true."
"That plate—the prisoner has written something on the bottom of it, has he not?"
"Yes."
"Good heavens! I was afraid he had."
And D'Artagnan, with all the marks of mortal disquietude, seized the plate, to read the inscription. When he had read it, a fearful pallor spread over his countenance. "Oh! Good heavens!" repeated he. "Silence!—Here is the governor."
"And what will he do to us? Is it our fault?"
"It is true, then?" said Athos, in a subdued voice. "Is it true?"
"Silence! I tell you!—silence! If he only believes you can read; if he only suspects you have understood; I love you, my dear friends, I will be killed for you. But—"
"But—" said Athos and Raoul.
"But, I could not save you from perpetual imprisonment, if I saved you from death. Silence, then! Silence again!"
The governor came up, having crossed the ditch upon a plank bridge.
"Well!" said he to D'Artagnan, "what stops us?"
"You are Spaniards—you do not understand a word of French," said the captain, eagerly, to his friends in a low voice.
"Well!" replied he, addressing the governor, "I was right; these gentlemen are two Spanish captains with whom I was acquainted at Ypres, last year; they don't know a word of French."
"Ah!" said the governor, sharply. "And yet they were trying to read the inscription on the plate."
D'Artagnan took it out of his hands, effacing the characters with the point of his sword.
"How!" cried the governor—"what are you doing? I cannot read them now!"
"It is a state secret," replied D'Artagnan, bluntly: "and as you know that, according to the king's orders, it is under the penalty of death any one should penetrate it, I will, if you like, allow you to read it and have you shot immediately afterward."
During this apostrophe—half serious, half ironical—Athos and Raoul preserved the coolest, most unconcerned silence.
"But, is it possible," said the governor, "that these gentlemen do not comprehend at least some words?"
"Suppose they do! If they do understand a few spoken words it does not follow that they should understand what is written. They cannot even read Spanish. A noble Spaniard, remember, ought never to know how to read."
The governor was obliged to be satisfied with these explanations, but he was still tenacious. "Invite these gentlemen to come to the fortress," said he.
"That I will willingly do. I was about to propose it to you." The fact is, the captain had quite another idea, and would have wished his friends a hundred leagues off. But he was obliged to make the best of it. He addressed the two gentlemen in Spanish, giving them a polite invitation, which they accepted. They allturned toward the entrance of the fort, and the incident being exhausted, the eight soldiers returned to their delightful leisure, for a moment disturbed by this unexpected adventure.
When they had entered the fort, and while the governor was making some preparations for the reception of his guests—"Come," said Athos, "let us have a word of explanation while we are alone.
"It is simply this," replied the musketeer. "I have conducted hither a prisoner, who the king commands shall not be seen. You came here, he has thrown something to you through the lattice of the window; I was at dinner with the governor, I saw the object thrown, and I saw Raoul pick it up. It does not take long to understand this. I understood it; and I thought you in intelligence with my prisoner. And then—"
"And then—you commanded us to be shot."
"Ma foi! I admit it; but if I was the first to seize a musket, fortunately I was the last to take aim at you."
"If you had killed me, D'Artagnan, I should have had the good fortune to die for the royal house of France, and it would be an honor to die by your hand—you, its noblest and most loyal defender."
"What the devil, Athos, do you mean by the royal house?" stammered D'Artagnan. "You don't mean that you, a well-informed and sensible man, can place any faith in the nonsense written by an idiot?"
"I do believe in it."
"With so much the more reason, my dear chevalier, from your having orders to kill all those who do believe in it," said Raoul.
"That is because," replied the captain of the musketeers—"because every calumny, however absurd it may be, has thealmost certain chance of becoming popular."
"No, D'Artagnan," replied Athos, promptly; "but because the king is not willing that the secret of his family should transpire among the people, and cover with shame the executioners of the son of Louis XIII."
"Do not talk in such a childish manner, Athos, or I shall begin to think you have lost your senses. Besides, explain to me how it is possible Louis XIII. should have a son in the Isle of Sainte-Marguerite?"
"A son whom you have brought hither masked, in a fishing boat," said Athos. "Why not?"
D'Artagnan was brought to a pause.
"Ah! ah!" said he: "whence do you know that a fishing boat—"
"Brought you to Sainte-Marguerite's with the carriage containing the prisoner—with a prisoner whom you styled monseigneur. Oh! I am acquainted with all that," resumed the comte. D'Artagnan bit his mustache.
"If it were true," said he, "that I had brought hither in a boat and with a carriage a masked prisoner, nothing proves that this prisoner must be a prince—a prince of the house of France?"
"Oh! ask that of Aramis," replied Athos coolly.
"Of Aramis!" cried the musketeer, quite at a stand. "Have you seen Aramis?"
"After his discomfiture at Vaux, yes; I have seen Aramis, a fugitive, pursued, ruined; and Aramis has told me enough to make me believe in the complaints that this unfortunate young man cut upon the bottom of the plate."
D'Artagnan's head sunk upon his breast with confusion. "This is the way," said he, "in which God turns to nothing that which men call their wisdom? A fine secret must that be of which twelve or fifteen persons hold the tattered fragments! Athos, cursed be the chance which has brought you face to face with me in this affair: for now—"
"Well," said Athos, with his customary mild severity, "is your secret lost because I know it? Consult your memory, my friend. Have I not borne secrets as heavy as this?"
"You have never borne one so dangerous," replied D'Artagnan, in a tone of sadness. "I have something like a sinister idea that all who are concerned with this secret will die, and die unfortunately."
"The will of God be done!" said Athos, "but here is your governor."
D'Artagnan and his friends immediately resumed their parts. The governor, suspicious and hard, behaved toward D'Artagnan with a politeness almost amounting to obsequiousness. With respect to the travelers, he contented himself with offering them good cheer, and never taking his eye from them. Athos and Raoul observed that he often tried to embarrass them by sudden attacks, or to catch them off their guard; but neither the one nor the other gave him the least advantage. What D'Artagnan had said was probable, if the governor did not believe it to be quite true. They rose from the table to impose awhile.
"What is this man's name? I don't like the looks of him," said Athos to D'Artagnan in Spanish.
"De Saint-Mars," replied the captain.
"He is then, I suppose, the prince's jailer?"
"Eh! how can I tell? I may be kept at Sainte-Marguerite forever."
"Oh! no, not you!"
"My friend, I am in the situation of a man who finds a treasure in the midst of a desert. He would like to carry it away, but he cannot; he would like to leave it, but he dares not. The king will not dare to recall me, for fear no one else should serve him as faithfully as I should; he regrets not having me near him, from being aware that no one will be of so much service near his person as myself. But it will happen as it may please God."
"But," observed Raoul, "your not being certain proves that your situation here is provisional, and you will return to Paris?"
"Ask these gentlemen," interrupted the governor, "what was their purpose in coming to Sainte-Marguerite?"
"They came from learning there was a convent of Benedictines at Sainte-Honorat which is considered curious; and from being told there was excellent shooting in the island."
"That is quite at their service, as well as yours," replied Saint-Mars.
D'Artagnan politely thanked him.
"When will they depart?" added the governor.
"To-morrow," replied D'Artagnan.
M. de Saint-Mars went to make his rounds, and left D'Artagnan alone with the pretended Spaniards.
"Oh!" exclaimed the musketeer, "here is a life with a society that suits me but little. I command this man, and he bores me, mordioux! Come, let us have a shot or two at the rabbits: the walk will be beautiful, and not fatiguing. The isle is but a league and a half in length, upon a breadth of a league; a real park. Let us try to amuse ourselves."
"As you please, D'Artagnan; not for the sake of amusing ourselves, but to gain an opportunity for talking freely."
D'Artagnan made a sign to a soldier, who brought the gentlemen some guns, and then returned to the fort.
"And now," said the musketeer, "answer me the question put to you by that black-looking Saint-Mars. What did you come to do at the Lerin Isles?"
"To bid you farewell."
"Bid me farewell! What do you mean by that? Is Raoul going anywhere?"
"Yes."
"Then I will lay a wager it is with M. de Beaufort."
"With M. de Beaufort it is, my dear friend; you always guess rightly."
"From habit."
While the two friends were commencing their conversation, Raoul, with his head hanging down and his heart oppressed, seated himself on a mossy rock, his gun across his knees, looking at the sea—looking at the heavens, and listening to the voice of his soul—he allowed the sportsmen to attain a considerable distance from him. D'Artagnan remarked his absence.
"He has not recovered the blow," said he to Athos.
"He is struck to death."
"Oh! your fears exaggerate, I hope. Raoul is of a fine nature. Around all hearts so noble as his there is a second envelope which forms a cuirass. The first bleeds, the second resists."
"No," replied Athos. "Raoul will die of it."
"Mordioux!" said D'Artagnan, in a melancholy tone. And he did not add a word to this exclamation. Then, a minute after. "Why do you let him go?"
"Because he insists upon going."
"And why do you not go with him?"
"Because I could not bear to see him die."
D'Artagnan looked his friend earnestly in the face. "You know one thing," continued the comte, leaning upon the arm of the captain; "you know that in the course of my life I have been afraid of but few things. Well! I have an incessant, gnawing, insurmountable fear that a day will arrive in which I shall hold the dead body of that boy in my arms."
"Oh!" murmured D'Artagnan; "oh!"
"He will die, I know. I have a perfect conviction of that; but I would not see him die."
"How is this, Athos? you come and place yourself in the presence of the bravest man you say you have ever seen, of your own D'Artagnan, of that man without an equal, as you formerly called him, and you come and tell him with your arms folded that you are afraid of witnessing the death of your son, you who have seen all that can be seen in this world! Why have you this fear, Athos? Man upon this earth must expect everything and ought to face everything."
"Listen to me, my friend. After having worn myself out upon this earth of which you speak, I have preserved but two religions: that of life, my friendships, my duty as a father—that of eternity, love and respect for God. Now, I have within me the revelation that if God should decree that my friend or my son should render up his last sigh in my presence—oh, no, I cannot even tell you, D'Artagnan!"
"Speak, speak, tell me!"
"I am strong against everything, except against the death of those I love. For that only there is no remedy. He who dies, gains; he who sees others die, loses. No; this it is—to know that I should no more meet upon earth him whom I now behold with joy; to know that there would nowhere be a D'Artagnan any more, nowhere again be a Raoul, oh! I am old, see you, I have no longer courage; I pray God to spare me in my weakness; but if He struck me so plainly and in that fashion, I should curse Him. A Christian gentleman ought not to curse his God, D'Artagnan; it is quite enough to have cursed a king."
"Humph!" said D'Artagnan, a little confused by this violent tempest of grief. "Let me speak to him, Athos. Who knows?"
"Try, if you please, but I am convinced you will not succeed."
"I will not attempt to console him, I will serve him."
"You will?"
"Doubtless, I will. Do you think this would be the first time a woman had repented of an infidelity? I will go to him, I tell you."
Athos shook his head, and continued his walk alone. D'Artagnan, cutting across the brambles, rejoined Raoul, and held out his hand to him. "Well, Raoul! you have something to say to me?"
"I have a kindness to ask of you," replied Bragelonne.
"Ask it, then."
"You will some day return to France?"
"I hope so."
"Ought I to write to Mademoiselle de la Valliere?"
"No; you must not."
"But I have so many things to say to her."
"Come and say them to her, then."
"Never!"
"Pray, what virtue do you attribute to a letter which your speech might not possess?"
"Perhaps you are right."
"She loves the king," said D'Artagnan, bluntly; "and she is an honest girl."
Raoul started. "And you, you! whom she abandons, she, perhaps, loves better than she does the king, but after another fashion."
"D'Artagnan, do you believe she loves the king?"
"To idolatry. Her heart is inaccessible to any other feeling. You might continue to live near her, and would be her best friend."
"Ah!" exclaimed Raoul, with a passionate burst of repugnance for such a painful hope.
"Will you do so?"
"It would be base."
"That is a very absurd word, which would lead me to think slightly of your understanding. Please to understand, Raoul, that it is never base to do that which is imposed by a superior force. If your heart says to you, 'Go there, or die,' why, go there, Raoul. Was she base or brave, she whom you loved, in preferring the king to you, the king whom her heart commanded her imperiously to prefer to you? No, she was the bravest of women. Do, then, as she has done. Obey yourself. Do you know one thing of which I am sure, Raoul?"
"What is that?"
"Why, that by seeing her closely with the eyes of a jealous man—"
"Well?"
"Well! You would cease to love her."
"Then I am decided, my dear D'Artagnan."
"To set off to see her again?"
"No; to set off that I may never see her again. I wish to love her forever."
"Humph! I must confess," replied the musketeer, "that is a conclusion which I was far from expecting."
"This is what I wish, my friend. You will see her again, and you will give her a letter which, if you think proper, will explain to her as to yourself, what is passing in my heart. Read it; I prepared it last night. Something told me I should see you to-day." He held the letter out, and D'Artagnan read it:
"Mademoiselle—You are not wrong in my eyes in not loving me. You have only been guilty of one fault toward me, that of having left me to believe you loved me. This error will cost me my life. I pardon you, but I cannot pardon myself. It is said that happy lovers are deaf to the complaints of rejected lovers. It will not be so with you who did not love me, except with anxiety. I am sure that if I had persisted in endeavoring to change that friendship into love, you would have yielded out of a fear of bringing about my death, or of lessening the esteem I had for you. It is much more delightful to me to die, knowing you are free and satisfied. How much, then, will you love me, when you will no longer fear either my presence or my reproaches! You will love me, because, however charming a new love may appear to you, God has not made me in anything inferior to him you have chosen, and because my devotedness, my sacrifice, and my painful end will assure me, in your eyes, a certain superiority over him. I have allowed to escape, in the candid credulity of my heart, the treasure I possessed. Many people tell me that you loved me enough to lead me to hope you would have loved me much. That idea takes from my mind all bitterness, and leads me only to blame myself. You will accept this last farewell, and you will bless me for having taken refuge in the inviolable asylum where all hatred is extinguished, and where all love endures forever. Adieu, mademoiselle. If your happiness could be purchased by the last drop of my blood, I would shed that drop. I willingly make the sacrifice of it to my misery!
"Mademoiselle—You are not wrong in my eyes in not loving me. You have only been guilty of one fault toward me, that of having left me to believe you loved me. This error will cost me my life. I pardon you, but I cannot pardon myself. It is said that happy lovers are deaf to the complaints of rejected lovers. It will not be so with you who did not love me, except with anxiety. I am sure that if I had persisted in endeavoring to change that friendship into love, you would have yielded out of a fear of bringing about my death, or of lessening the esteem I had for you. It is much more delightful to me to die, knowing you are free and satisfied. How much, then, will you love me, when you will no longer fear either my presence or my reproaches! You will love me, because, however charming a new love may appear to you, God has not made me in anything inferior to him you have chosen, and because my devotedness, my sacrifice, and my painful end will assure me, in your eyes, a certain superiority over him. I have allowed to escape, in the candid credulity of my heart, the treasure I possessed. Many people tell me that you loved me enough to lead me to hope you would have loved me much. That idea takes from my mind all bitterness, and leads me only to blame myself. You will accept this last farewell, and you will bless me for having taken refuge in the inviolable asylum where all hatred is extinguished, and where all love endures forever. Adieu, mademoiselle. If your happiness could be purchased by the last drop of my blood, I would shed that drop. I willingly make the sacrifice of it to my misery!
"Raoul, Vicomte de Bragelonne."
"The letter is very well," said the captain. "I have only one fault to find with it."
"Tell me what that is?" said Raoul.
"Why, it is, that it tells everything, except the thing which exhales, like a mortal poison, from your eyes and from your heart; except the senseless love which still consumes you." Raoul grew paler, but remained silent.
"Why did you not write simply these words:
"'Mademoiselle—Instead of cursing you, I love you and I die.'"
"That is true," exclaimed Raoul, with a sinister kind of joy.
And tearing the letter he had just taken back, he wrote the following words upon a leaf of his tablets:
"To procure the happiness of once more telling you I love you, I commit the baseness of writing to you; and to punish myself for that baseness, I die." And he signed it.
"You will give her these tablets, captain, will you not?"
"When?" asked the latter.
"On the day," said Bragelonne, pointing to the last sentence, "on the day when you can place a date under these words." And he sprang away quickly to join Athos, who was returning with slow steps.
As they re-entered the fort, the sea rose with that rapid, gusty vehemence which characterizes the Mediterranean; the ill humor of the element became a tempest. Something shapeless, and tossed about violently by the waves, appeared just off the coast.
"What is that?" said Athos—"a wrecked boat?"
"No, it is not a boat," said D'Artagnan.
"Pardon me," said Raoul, "there is a bark gaining the port rapidly."
"Yes, there is a bark in the creek, which is prudently seeking shelter here; but that which Athos points to in the sand is not a boat at all—it has run aground."
"Yes, yes, I see it."
"It is the carriage which I threw into the sea, after landing the prisoner."
"Well!" said Athos, "if you will take my advice, D'Artagnan, you will burn that carriage, in order that no vestige of it may remain, without which the fishermen of Antibes, who have believed they had to do with the devil, will endeavor to prove that your prisoner was but a man."
"Your advice is good, Athos, and I will this night have it carried out, or rather, I will carry it out myself; but let us goin, for the rain falls heavily, and the lightning is terrific."
As they were passing over the ramparts to a gallery of which D'Artagnan had the key, they saw M. de Saint-Mars directing his steps toward the chamber inhabited by the prisoner. Upon a sign from D'Artagnan, they concealed themselves in an angle of the staircase.
"What is it?" said Athos.
"You will see. Look. The prisoner is returning from chapel."
And they saw, by the red flashes of the lightning against the violet fog which the wind stamped upon the bankward sky, they saw pass gravely, at six paces behind the governor, a man clothed in black and masked by a vizor of polished steel, soldered to a helmet of the same nature, which altogether enveloped the whole of his head. The fire of the heavens cast red reflections upon the polished surface, and these reflections, flying off capriciously, seemed to be angry looks launched by this unfortunate, instead of imprecations. In the middle of the gallery, the prisoner stopped for a moment, to contemplate the infinite horizon, to respire the sulphurous perfumes of the tempest, to drink in thirstily the hot rain, and to breathe a sigh resembling a smothered roar.
"Come on, monsieur," said Saint-Mars, sharply to the prisoner, for he already became uneasy at seeing him look so long beyond the walls. "Monsieur, come on!"
"Say monseigneur!" cried Athos, from his corner, with a voice so solemn and terrible, that the governor trembled from head to foot. Athos insisted upon respect being paid to fallen majesty. The prisoner turned round.
"Who spoke?" asked Saint-Mars.
"It was I," replied D'Artagnan, showing himself promptly. "You know that is the order."
"Call me neither Monsieur nor Monseigneur," said the prisoner in his turn, in a voice that penetrated to the very soul of Raoul; "call meAccursed!" He passed on, and the iron door creaked after him.
"That is truly an unfortunate man!" murmured the musketeer in a hollow whisper, pointing-out to Raoul the chamber inhabited by the prince.
Scarcely had D'Artagnan re-entered his apartment with his two friends, than one of the soldiers of the fort came to inform him that the governor was seeking for him. The bark which Raoul had perceived at sea, and which appeared so eager to gain the port, came to Sainte-Marguerite with an important dispatch for the captain of the musketeers. On opening it, D'Artagnan recognized the writing of the king: "I should think," said Louis XIV., "you will have completed the execution of my orders, Monsieur d'Artagnan; return then immediately to Paris, and join me at the Louvre."
"There is the end of my exile!" cried the musketeer with joy; "God be praised, I am no longer a jailer!" And he showed the letter to Athos.
"So then you must leave us?" replied the latter, in a melancholy tone.
"Yes; but to meet again, dear friend, seeing that Raoul is old enough now to go alone with M. de Beaufort, and who will prefer his father going back in company with M. d'Artagnan, to forcing him to travel two hundred leagues solitarily to reach home at La Fere; would you not, Raoul?"
"Certainly," stammered the latter, with an expression of tender regret.
"No, no, my friend," interrupted Athos, "I will never quit Raoul till the day his vessel shall have disappeared on the horizon. As long as he remains in France, he shall not be separated from me."
"As you please, dear friend; but we will, at least, leave Sainte-Marguerite together; take advantage of the bark which will convey me back to Antibes."
"With all my heart; we cannot too soon be at a distance from this fort, and from the spectacle which saddened us so just now."
The three friends quitted the little isle, after paying their respects to the governor, and by the last flashes of the departing tempest they took their farewell of the white walls of the fort. D'Artagnan parted from his friends that same night, after having seen fire set to the carriage upon the shore by the orders of Saint-Mars, according to the advice the captain had given him. Before getting on horseback, and after leaving the arms of Athos: "My friends," said he, "you bear too much resemblance to two soldiers who are abandoning their post. Something warns me that Raoul will require being supported by you in his rank. Will you allow me to ask permission to go over into Africa with a hundred good muskets? The king will not refuse me, and I will take you with me."
"Monsieur d'Artagnan," replied Raoul, pressing his hand with emotion, "thanks for that offer, which would give us more than we wish, either Monsieur le Comte or I. I, who am young, stand in need of labor of mind and fatigue of body; Monsieur le Comte wants the profoundest repose. You are his best friend. I recommend him to your care. In watching over him, you will hold both our souls in your hands."
"I must go; my horse is all in a fret," said D'Artagnan, with whom the most manifest sign of a lively emotion was the change of ideas in a conversation. "Come, comte, how many days longer has Raoul to stay here?"
"Three days at most."
"And how long will it take you to reach home?"
"Oh! a considerable time," replied Athos. "I shall not like the idea of being separated too quickly from Raoul. Time will travel too fast of itself to require me to aid it by distance. I shall only make half-stages."
"And why so, my friend? Nothing is more dull than traveling slowly; and hostelry life does not become a man like you."
"My friend, I came hither on post-horses; but I wish to purchase two animals of a superior kind. Now, to takethem home fresh, it would not be prudent to make them travel more than seven or eight leagues a day."
"Where is Grimaud?"
"He arrived yesterday morning, with Raoul's appointments; and I have left him to sleep."
"That is, never to come back again," D'Artagnan suffered to escape him. "Till we meet again, then, dear Athos—and if you are diligent, well, I shall embrace you the sooner." So saying, he put his foot in the stirrup, which Raoul held.
"Farewell!" said the young man, embracing him.
"Farewell!" said D'Artagnan, as he got into his saddle.
His horse made a movement which divided the cavalier from his friends. This scene had taken place in front of the house chosen by Athos, near the gates of Antibes, whither D'Artagnan, after his supper, had ordered his horses to be brought. The road began to extend there, white and undulating in the vapors of the night. The horse eagerly respired the salt, sharp perfume of the marshes. D'Artagnan put him into a trot; and Athos and Raoul sadly turned toward the house. All at once they heard the rapid approach of a horse's steps, and at first believed it to be one of those singular repercussions which deceive the ear at every turn in a road. But it was really the return of the horseman. They uttered a cry of joyous surprise; and the captain, springing to the ground like a young man, seized within his arms the two beloved heads of Athos and Raoul. He held them long embraced thus, without speaking a word, or suffering the sigh which was bursting his breast to escape him. Then, as rapidly as he had come back, he set off again, with a sharp application of his spurs to the sides of his fiery horse.
"Alas!" said the comte, in a low voice, "alas! alas!"
"Evil presage!" on his side said D'Artagnan to himself, making up for lost time. "I could not smile upon them. An evil presage!"
The next day Grimaud was on footagain. The service commanded by M. de Beaufort was happily accomplished. The flotilla, sent to Toulon by the exertions of Raoul, had set out, dragging after it in little nutshells, almost invisible, the wives and friends of the fishermen and smugglers put in requisition for the service of the fleet. The time, so short, which remained for the father and the son to live together, appeared to have doubled in rapidity, as the swiftness of everything increases which inclines toward mixing with the gulf of eternity.
Athos and Raoul returned to Toulon, which began to be filled with the noise of carriages, with the noise of arms, with the noise of neighing horses. The trumpeters sounded their spirited marches; the drummers signalized their strength; the streets were overflowing with soldiers, servants, and tradespeople. The Duc de Beaufort was everywhere, superintending the embarkation with the zeal and interest of a good captain. He encouraged even the most humble of his companions; he scolded his lieutenants, even those of the highest rank. Artillery, provisions, baggage, he insisted upon seeing all himself. He examined the equipment of every soldier; he assured himself of the health and soundness of every horse. It was plain that, light, boastful, and egotistical, in his hotel, the gentleman became the soldier again—the high noble, a captain—in face of the responsibility he had accepted. And yet, it must be admitted that, whatever was the care with which he presided over the preparations for departure, it was easy to perceive careless precipitation, and the absence of all the precaution which make the French soldier the first soldier in the world, because, in that world, he is the one most abandoned to his own physical and moral resources. All things having satisfied, or appearing to have satisfied, the admiral, he paid his compliments to Raoul, and gave the last orders for sailing, which was ordered the next morning at daybreak. He invited the comte and his son to dine with him; but they, under a pretext of the service, kept themselves apart. Gaining their hostelry, situated under the trees of the great Place, they took their repast in haste, and Athos led Raoul to the rocks which dominate the city, vast gray mountains, whence the view is infinite, and embraces a liquid horizon, which appears, so remote is it, on a level with the rocks themselves.
The night was fine, as it always is in these happy climates. The moon, rising behind the rocks, unrolled, like a silver sheet, upon the blue carpet of the sea. In the road, maneuvered silently the vessels which had just taken their rank to facilitate the embarkation. The sea, loaded with phosphoric light, opened beneath the hulls of the barks which transported the baggage and munitions; every dip of the prow plowed up this gulf of white flames; and from every oar dropped liquid diamonds. The sailors, rejoicing in the largesses of the admiral, were heard murmuring their slow and artless songs. Sometimes, the grinding of the chains was mixed with the dull noise of shot falling into the holds. These harmonies, and this spectacle, oppress the heart like fear, and dilate it like hope. All this life speaks of death. Athos had seated himself with his son, upon the moss, among the brambles of the promontory. Around their heads passed and repassed large bats, carried along in the fearful whirl of their blind chase. The feet of Raoul were across the edge of the cliff, and bathed in that void which is peopled by vertigo and provokes to annihilation. When the moon had risen to its full height, caressing with its light the neighboring peaks, when the watery mirror was illumined in its full extent, and the little red fires had made their openings in the black masses of every ship, Athos collected all his ideas, and all his courage, and said:
"God has made all that we see, Raoul; He has made us, also—poor atoms mixed up with this great universe. We shine like those fires and those stars; we sigh like those waves; we suffer like those great ships which are worn out in plowing the waves, in obeying the wind which urges them toward an end, as the breath of God blows us toward a port. Everything likes to live, Raoul; and everything is beautiful in living things."
"Monsieur," said Raoul, "we have before us a beautiful spectacle!"
"How good D'Artagnan is!" interrupted. Athos, suddenly, "and what a rare good fortune it is to be supported during a whole life by such a friend as he is! That is what you have wanted, Raoul."
"A friend!" cried Raoul, "I have wanted a friend!"
"M. de Guiche is an agreeable companion," resumed the comte, coldly, "but I believe, in the times in which you live, men are more engaged in their own interests and their own pleasures than they were in our times. You have sought a secluded life; that is a great happiness, but you have lost your strength in it. We four, more weaned from these delicate abstractions which constitute your joy, we furnished much more resistance when misfortune presented itself."
"I have not interrupted you, monsieur, to tell you that I had a friend, and that that friend is M. Guiche. Certes, he is good and generous, and, moreover, he loves me. But I have lived under the guardianship of another friendship, monsieur, as precious and as strong as that of which you speak, since that is yours."
"I have not been a friend for you, Raoul," said Athos.
"Eh! monsieur, and in what respect not?"
"Because I have given you reason to think that life has but one face, because, sad and severe, alas! I have always cut off for you, without, God knows, wishing to do so, the joyous buds which incessantly spring from the tree of youth; so that at this moment I repent of not having made of you a more expansive, dissipated, animated man."
"I know why you say that, monsieur. No, it is not you who have made me what I am; it was love which took me at the time when children have only inclinations; it is the constancy natural to my character, which with other creatures is but a habit. I believed that I should always beas I was; I thought God had cast me in a path quite cleared, quite straight, bordered with fruits and flowers. I had watching over me your vigilance and your strength. I believed myself to be vigilant and strong. Nothing prepared me; I fell once, and that once deprived me of courage for the whole of my life. It is quite true that I wrecked myself. Oh, no, monsieur! you are nothing in my past but a happiness—you are nothing in my future but a hope! No, I have no reproach to make against life, such as you made it for me; I bless you, and I love you ardently."
"My dear Raoul, your words do me good. They prove to me that you will act a little for me in the time to come."
"I shall only act for you, monsieur."
"Raoul, what I have never hitherto done with respect to you, I will henceforward do. I will be your friend, not your father. We will live in expanding ourselves, instead of living and holding ourselves prisoners, when you come back. And that will be soon, will it not?"
"Certainly, monsieur, for such an expedition cannot be long."
"Soon then, Raoul, soon, instead of living moderately upon my income, I will give you the capital of my estates. It will suffice for launching you into the world till my death; and you will give me, I hope, before that time, the consolation of not seeing my race extinct."
"I will do all you shall command," said Raoul, much agitated.
"It is not necessary, Raoul, that your duty as aid-de-camp should lead you into too hazardous enterprises. You have gone through your ordeal; you are known to be good under fire. Remember that war with the Arabs is a war of snares, ambuscades, and assassinations."
"So it is said, monsieur."
"There is never much glory in falling in an ambuscade. It is a death which always implies a little rashness or want of foresight. Often, indeed, he who falls in it meets with but little pity. They who are not pitied, Raoul, have died uselessly. Still further, the conqueror laughs, and we Frenchmen ought not to allow stupidinfidels to triumph over our faults. Do you clearly understand what I am saying to you, Raoul? God forbid I should encourage you to avoid encounters."
"I am naturally prudent, monsieur, and I have very good fortune," said Raoul, with a smile which chilled the heart of his poor father; "for," the young man hastened to add, "in twenty combats in which I have been, I have only received one scratch."
"There is in addition," said Athos, "the climate to be dreaded: that is an ugly end, that fever! King Saint-Louis prayed God to send him an arrow or the plague, rather than the fever."
"Oh! monsieur, with sobriety, with reasonable exercise—"
"I have already obtained from M. de Beaufort a promise that his dispatches shall be sent off every fortnight to France. You, as his aid-de-camp, will be charged with expediting them, and will be sure not to forget me."
"No, monsieur," said Raoul, almost choked with emotion.
"Besides, Raoul, as you are a good Christian, and I am one also, we ought to reckon upon a more special protection of God and his guardian angels. Promise me that if anything evil should happen to you on any occasion, you will think of me at once."
"First and at once! Oh! yes, monsieur."
"And will call upon me?"
"Instantly."
"You dream of me sometimes, do you not, Raoul?"
"Every night, monsieur. During my early youth I saw you in my dreams, calm and mild, with one hand stretched out over my head, and that it was that made me sleep so soundly—formerly."
"We love each other too dearly," said the comte, "that from this moment in which we separate, a portion of both our souls should not travel with one and the other of us, and should not dwell where-ever we may dwell. Whenever you may be sad, Raoul, I feel that my heart will be drowned in sadness; and when you smile on thinking of me, be assured you will send me, from however remote a distance, a ray of your joy."
"I will not promise you to be joyous," replied the young man: "but you may be certain that I will never pass an hour without thinking of you, not one hour, I swear, unless I be dead."
Athos could contain himself no longer: he threw his arm round the neck of his son, and held him embraced with all the powers of his heart. The moon began to be now eclipsed by twilight; a golden band surrounded the horizon, announcing the approach of day. Athos threw his cloak over the shoulders of Raoul, and led him back to the city, where burdens and porters were already in motion, like a vast ant-hill. At the extremity of the plateau, which Athos and Bragelonne were quitting, they saw a dark shadow moving uneasily backward and forward, as if in indecision or ashamed to be seen. It was Grimaud, who, in his anxiety, had tracked his master, and was waiting for him.
"Oh! my good Grimaud," cried Raoul, "what do you want? You are come to tell us it is time to be gone, have you not?"
"Alone?" said Grimaud, addressing Athos, and pointing to Raoul in a tone of reproach, which showed to what an extent the old man was troubled.
"Oh! you are right!" cried the comte. "No, Raoul, do not go alone; no, he shall not be left alone in a strange land, without some friendly hand to support him, some friendly heart to recall to him all he loved!"
"I?" said Grimaud.
"You, yes, you!" cried Raoul, touched to his inmost heart.
"Alas!" said Athos, "you are very old, my good Grimaud."
"So much the better," replied the latter, with an inexpressible depth of feeling and intelligence.
"But the embarkation is begun," said Raoul, "and you are not prepared."
"Yes," said Grimaud, showing the keys of his trunks, mixed with those of his young master.
"But," again objected Raoul, "you cannot leave M. le Comte thus alone: M. le Comte, whom you have never quitted?"
Grimaud turned his dimmed eyes upon Athos and Raoul, as if to measure the strength of both. The comte uttered not a word.
"M. le Comte will prefer my going," said Grimaud.
"I should," said Athos, by an inclination of the head.
At that moment the drums suddenly rolled, and the clarions filled the air with their inspiring notes. The regiments destined for the expedition began to debouch from the city. They advanced to the number of five, each composed of forty companies. Royals marched first, distinguished by their white uniform, faced with blue. The ordonnance colors, quartered crosswise, violet and dead leaf, with a sprinkling of golden fleurs-de-lis, left the white-colored flag, with its fleur-de-lised cross, to dominate over the whole. Musketeers at the wings, with their forked sticks and their muskets on their shoulders; pikemen in the center, with their lances, fourteen feet in length, marched gaily toward the transports, which carried them in detail to the ships. The regiments of Picardy, Navarre, Normandy, and Royal Vaisseau, followed after. M. de Beaufort had known well how to select his troops. He himself was seen closing the march, with his staff—it would take a full hour before he could reach the sea. Raoul with Athos turned his steps slowly toward the beach, in order to take his place when the prince embarked. Grimaud, boiling with the ardor of a young man, superintended the embarkation of Raoul's baggage in the admiral's vessel. Athos, with his arm passed through that of the son he was about to lose, absorbed in melancholy meditation, was deaf to the noise around him. An officer came quickly toward them to inform Raoul that M. de Beaufort was anxious to have him by his side.
"Have the kindness to tell the prince," said Raoul, "that I request he will allow me this hour to enjoy the company of my father."
"No, no," said Athos, "an aid-de-campought not thus to quit his general. Please to tell the prince, monsieur, that the vicomte will join him immediately." The officer set off at a gallop.
"Whether we part here or part there," added the comte, "it is no less a separation." He carefully brushed the dust off his son's coat, and passed his hand over his hair as they walked along. "But, Raoul," said he, "you want money. M. de Beaufort's train will be splendid, and I am certain it would be agreeable to you to purchase horses and arms, which are very dear things in Africa. Now, as you are not actually in the service of the king or M. de Beaufort, and are simply a volunteer, you must not reckon upon either pay or largesses. But I should not like you to want for anything at Gigelli. Here are two hundred pistoles; if you would please me, Raoul, spend them."
Raoul pressed the hand of his father, and, at the turning of a street, they saw M. de Beaufort, mounted upon a magnificent white genet, which replied by graceful curvets to the applauses of the women of the city. The duc called Raoul and held out his hand to the comte. He spoke to him for some time, with such a kindly expression, that the heart of the poor father even felt a little comforted. It was, however, evident to both father and son that their walk was directed to nothing less than a punishment. There was a terrible moment—that at which, on quitting the sands of the shore, the soldiers and sailors exchanged the last kisses with their families and friends; a supreme moment, in which, notwithstanding the clearness of the heavens, the warmth of the sun, of the perfumes of the air, and the rich life that was circulating in their veins, everything appeared black, everything appeared bitter, everything created doubts of a God, while speaking by the mouth, even, of God. It was customary for the admiral and his suite to embark the last: the cannon waited to announce, with its formidable voice, that the leader had placed his foot on board his vessel. Athos, forgetful of both the admiral and the fleet, and of his own dignity as a strong man, opened hisarms to his son, and pressed him, convulsively, to his heart.
"Accompany us on board," said the duc, very much affected; "you will gain a good half-hour."
"No," said Athos, "my farewell is spoken. I do not wish to speak a second."
"Then, vicomte, embark—embark quickly!" added the prince, wishing to spare the tears of these two men, whose hearts were bursting. And paternally, tenderly, very much as Porthos might have done, he took Raoul in his arms and placed him in the boat; the oars of which, at a signal, immediately were dipped in the waves. Himself, forgetful of ceremony, he jumped into his boat, and pushed it off with a vigorous foot.
"Adieu!" cried Raoul.
Athos replied only by a sign, but he felt something burning on his hand; it was the respectful kiss of Grimaud—the last farewell of the faithful dog. This kiss given, Grimaud jumped from the step of the mole upon the stem of a two-oared yawl, which had just been taken in tow by achalandserved by twelve galley-oars. Athos seated himself on the mole, stunned, deaf, abandoned. Every instant took from him one of the features, one of the shades of the pale face of his son. With his arms hanging down, his eyes fixed, his mouth open, he remained confounded with Raoul—in one same look, in one same thought, in one same stupor. The sea, by degrees, carried away boats and faces, until at the distance at which men become nothing but points—loves, nothing but remembrances, Athos saw his son ascend the ladder of the admiral's ship, he saw him lean upon the rail of the deck, and place himself in such a manner as to be always an object in the eye of his father. In vain the cannon thundered, in vain from the ship sounded a long and loud tumult, responded to by immense acclamations from the shore; in vain did the noise deafen the ear of the father, and the smoke obscure the cherished object of all his aspirations. Raoul appeared to him up to the last moment; and the imperceptible atom, passing from black to pale, from pale to white, from white to nothing, disappeared for Athos—disappeared very long after, for all the eyes of the spectators, had disappeared both gallant ships and swelling sails. Toward mid-day, when the sun devoured space, and scarcely the tops of the masts dominated the incandescent line of the sea, Athos perceived a soft, aërial shadow rise, and vanish as soon as seen. This was the smoke of a cannon, which M. de Beaufort ordered to be fired as a last salute to the coast of France. The point was buried in its turn beneath the sky, and Athos returned painfully and slowly to his hostelry.
D'Artagnan had not been able to hide his feelings from his friends so much as he would have wished. The stoical soldier, the impassible man-at-arms, overcome by fear and presentiments, had yielded, for a few minutes, to human weakness. When, therefore, he had silenced his heart and calmed the agitation of his nerves, turning toward his lackey, a silent servant, always listening in order to obey the more promptly:
"Rabaud," said he, "mind, we must travel thirty leagues a day."
"At your pleasure, captain," replied Rabaud.
And from that moment D'Artagnan, accommodating his action to the pace of his horse, like a true centaur, employed his thoughts about nothing—that is to say, about everything. He asked himself why the king had sent for him back; why the Iron Mask had thrown the silver plate at the feet of Raoul? As to the first subject, the reply was negative; he knew right well that the king's calling him was from necessity. He still further knew that Louis XIV. must experience an imperious want of a private conversation with one whom the possession of such a secret placed on a level with the highest powers of the kingdom. But as to saying exactly what the king's wish was, D'Artagnan found himself completely at a loss. The musketeer had no other doubts, either, upon the reason which had urged the unfortunate Philippe to reveal his character and his birth. Philippe, hidden forever beneath a mask of iron, exiled to a country where the men seemed little more than slaves of the elements; Philippe, deprived even of the society of D'Artagnan, who had loaded him with honors and delicate attentions, had nothing more to see than specters and griefs in this world, and despair beginning to devour him, he poured himself forth in complaints, in the belief that his revelations would raise an avenger for him.
The manner in which the musketeer had been near killing his two best friends, the destiny which had so strangely brought Athos to participate in the great state secret, the farewell of Raoul, the obscurity of that future which threatened to end in a melancholy death; all this threw D'Artagnan incessantly back to the lamentable predictions and forebodings, which the rapidity of his pace did not dissipate, as it used formerly to do. D'Artagnan passed from these considerations to the remembrance of the proscribed Porthos and Aramis. He saw them both, fugitives, tracked, ruined—laborious architects of a fortune they must lose; and, as the king called for his man of execution in the hours of vengeance and malice, D'Artagnan trembled at the idea of receiving some commission that would make his very heart bleed. Sometimes, when ascending hills, when the winded horse breathed hard from his nostrils, and heaved his flanks, the captain, left to more freedom of thought, reflected upon the prodigious genius of Aramis, a genius of astucity and intrigue, such as the Fronde and the civil war had produced but two. Soldier, priest, and diplomatist; gallant, avaricious, and cunning; Aramis had never taken the good things of this life but as stepping-stones to rise to bad ones. Generous in spirit, if not high in heart, he never did ill but for the sake of shining a little more brilliantly. Toward the end of his career, at the moment of reaching the goal like the patrician Fuscus, he had made a false step upon a plank, and had fallen into the sea. But Porthos, the good harmless Porthos! To see Porthos hungry, to see Mousqueton without gold lace, imprisoned perhaps; to see Pierrefonds, Bracieux, razed to the very stones, dishonored even to the timber—these were so many poignant griefs for D'Artagnan, and every time that one of these griefs struck him, he bounded like a horse at the sting of the gadfly beneath the vaults of foliage where he has sought shade and shelter from the burning sun.
Never was the man of spirit subjected to ennui, if his body was exposed to fatigue; never did the man healthy of body fail to find life light, if he had something to engage his mind. D'Artagnan, riding fast, thinking as constantly, alighted from his horse in Paris, fresh and tender in his muscles as the athlete preparing for the gymnasium. The king did not expect him so soon, and had just departed for the chase toward Meudon. D'Artagnan, instead of riding after the king, as he would formerly have done, took off his boots, had a bath, and waited till his majesty should return dusty and tired. He occupied the interval of five hours in taking, as people say, the air of the house, and in arming himself against all ill-chances. He learned that the king, during the last fortnight, had been gloomy; that the queen-mother was ill and much depressed; that Monsieur, the king's brother, was exhibiting a devotional turn; that Madame had the vapors; and that M. de Guiche was gone to one of his estates. He learned that M. Colbert was radiant; that M. Fouquet consulted a fresh physician every day, who still did not cure him, and that his principal complaint was one which physicians do not usually cure, unless they are political physicians. The king, D'Artagnan was told, behaved in the kindest manner to M. Fouquet, and did not allow him to be ever out of his sight; but the surintendant, touched to the heart, like one of those fine trees which a worm has punctured, was declining daily, in spite of the royal smile, that sun of court trees. D'Artagnan learned that Mademoiselle de la Valliere had become indispensable to the king, that the king, during his sporting excursions, if he did not take her with him, wrote to her frequently, no longer verses, but, what was still much worse, prose, and that, whole pages at a time. Thus, as the poetical Pleiad of the day said, thefirst king in the worldwas seen descending from his horsewith an ardor beyond compare, and on the crown of his hat scrawling bombastic phrases, which M. de Saint-Aignan, aid-de-camp in perpetuity, carried to La Valliere at the risk of foundering his horses. During this time, deer and pheasants were left to the free enjoyments of their nature, hunted so lazily, that, it was said, the art of venery ran great risk of degenerating at the court of France. D'Artagnan then thought of the wishes of poor Raoul, of that desponding letter destined for a woman who passed her life in hoping, and as D'Artagnan loved to philosophize a little occasionally, he resolved to profit by the absence of the king to have a minute's talk with Mademoiselle de la Valliere.
This was a very easy affair: while the king was hunting, Louise was walking with some other ladies in one of the galleries of the Palais Royal, exactly where the captain of the musketeers had some guards to inspect. D'Artagnan did not doubt, that if he could but open the conversation upon Raoul, Louise might give him grounds for writing a consolatory letter to the poor exile; and hope, or at least consolation for Raoul, in the state of heart in which he had left him, was the sun, was life to two men who were very dear to our captain. He directed his course, therefore, to the spot where he knew he should find Mademoiselle de la Valliere. D'Artagnan found La Valliere the center of a circle. In her apparent solitude, the king's favorite received, like a queen, more perhaps than the queen, a homage of which Madame had been so proud, when all the king's looks were directed to her, and commanded the looks of the courtiers. D'Artagnan, although no squire of dames, received, nevertheless, civilities and attentions from the ladies; he was polite, as a brave man always is, and his terrible reputation had conciliated as much friendship among the men as admiration among the women. On seeing him enter, therefore, they immediately accosted him; and, as is not unfrequently the case with fair ladies, opened the attack by questions. "Wherehadhe been? Whathadbecome of him so long? Why had they not seen him as usual make his fine horse curvet in such beautiful style, to the delight and astonishment of the curious from the king's balcony?"
He replied that he had just come from the land of oranges. This set all the ladies laughing. Those were times in which everybody traveled, but in which, notwithstanding, a journey of a hundred leagues was a problem often solved by death.
"'From the land of oranges?'" exclaimed Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente. "From Spain?"
"Eh! eh!" said the musketeer.
"From Malta?" said Montalais.
"Ma foi! You are coming very near, ladies."
"Is it an island?" asked La Valliere.
"Mademoiselle," said D'Artagnan; "I will not give you the trouble of seeking any further; I come from the country where M. de Beaufort is, at this moment, embarking for Algiers."
"Have you seen the army?" asked several warlike fair ones.
"As plainly as I see you," replied D'Artagnan.
"And the fleet?"
"Yes; I saw everything."
"Have we any of us any friends there?" said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, coldly, but in a manner to attract attention to a question that was not without a calculated aim.
"Why?" replied D'Artagnan, "yes; there were M. de la Guillotiere, M. de Manchy, M. de Bragelonne—"
La Valliere became pale. "M. de Bragelonne!" cried the perfidious Athenaïs. "Eh, what!—is he gone to the wars?—he!"
Montalais trod upon her toe, but in vain.
"Do you know what my opinion is?" continued she, addressing D'Artagnan.
"No, mademoiselle; but I should like very much to know it."
"My opinion is, then, that all the men who go to this war, are desperate, desponding men, whom love has treated ill; and who go to try if they cannot find black women more kind than fair ones have been."
Some of the ladies laughed. La Valliere was evidently confused. Montalais coughed loud enough to waken the dead.
"Mademoiselle," interrupted D'Artagnan, "you are in error when you speak of black women at Gigelli; the women there are not black; it is true they are not white—they are yellow."
"Yellow!" exclaimed the bevy of fair beauties.
"Eh! do not disparage it. I have never seen a finer color to match with black eyes and a coral mouth."
"So much the better for M. de Bragelonne," said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, with persistent malice. "He will make amends for his loss. Poor fellow!"
A profound silence followed these words; and D'Artagnan had time to observe and reflect that women—those mild doves—treat each other much more cruelly than tigers and bears. But making La Valliere pale did not satisfy Athenaïs; she determined to make her blush likewise. Resuming the conversation without pause, "Do you know, Louise," said she, "that that is a great sin on your conscience?"
"What sin, mademoiselle?" stammered the unfortunate girl, looking round her for support, without finding it.
"Eh!—why?" continued Athenaïs, "the poor young man was affianced to you; he loved you, you cast him off."
"Well, and that is a right every honest woman has," said Montalais, in an affected tone. "When we know we cannot constitute the happiness of a man it is much better to cast him off."
"Cast him off! or refuse him!—that's all very well," said Athenaïs, "but that is not the sin Mademoiselle de la Valliere has to reproach herself with. The actual sin, is sending poor Bragelonne to the wars; and to wars in which death is to be met with." Louise pressed her hand over her icy-brow. "And if he dies," continued her pitiless tormentor; "you will have killed him. That is the sin."
Louise, half-dead, caught at the arm of the captain of the musketeers, whose face betrayed unusual emotion. "You wished to speak with me, Monsieur D'Artagnan," said she, in a voice broken by anger and pain. "What had you to say to me?"
D'Artagnan made several steps along the gallery, holding Louise on his arm; then, when they were far enough removed from the others—"What I had to say to you, mademoiselle," replied he, "Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente has just expressed; roughly and unkindly, it is true, but still in its entirety."
She uttered a faint cry; struck to the heart by this new wound, she went on her way, like one of those poor birds which, struck to death, seek the shade of the thicket to die in. She disappeared at one door, at the moment the king was entering by another. The first glance of the king was directed toward the empty seat of his mistress. In not perceiving La Valliere, a frown came over his brow; but as soon as he saw D'Artagnan, who bowed to him—"Ah! monsieur!" cried he, "youhavebeen diligent! I am much pleased with you." This was the superlative expression of royal satisfaction. Many men would have been ready to lay down their lives for such a speech from the king. The maids of honor and the courtiers, who had formed a respectful circle round the king on his entrance, drew back, on observing he wished to speak privately with his captain of the musketeers. The king led the way out of the gallery, after having again, with his eyes, sought everywhere for La Valliere, whose absence he could not account for. The moment they were out of reach of curious ears, "Well! Monsieur d'Artagnan," said he, "the prisoner?"
"Is in his prison, sire."
"What did he say on the road?"
"Nothing, sire."
"What did he do?"
"There was a moment at which the fisherman—who took me in his boat to Sainte-Marguerite—revolted, and did his best to kill me. The—the prisoner defended me instead of attempting to fly."
The king became pale. "Enough!" said he; and D'Artagnan bowed. Louis walked about his cabinet with hasty steps. "Were you at Antibes," said he, "when Monsieur de Beaufort came there?"
"No, sire; I was setting off when Monsieur le Duc arrived."
"Ah!" which was followed by a fresh silence. "Whom did you see there?"
"A great many persons," said D'Artagnan, coolly.
The king perceived that he was unwilling to speak. "I have sent for you, Monsieur le Capitaine, to desire you to go and prepare my lodgings at Nantes."
"At Nantes!" cried D'Artagnan.
"In Bretagne."
"Yes, sire, it is in Bretagne. Will your majesty make so long a journey as to Nantes?"
"The States are assembled there," replied the king. "I have two demands to make of them: I wish to be there."
"When shall I set out?" said the captain.
"This evening—to-morrow—to-morrow evening; for you must stand in need of rest."
"I have rested, sire."
"That is well. Then between this and to-morrow evening, when you please."
D'Artagnan bowed as if to take his leave; but, perceiving the king very much embarrassed, "Will your majesty," said he, stepping two paces forward, "take the court with you?"
"Certainly I shall."
"Then your majesty will, doubtless, want the musketeers?" And the eye of the king sank beneath the penetrating glance of the captain.
"Take a brigade of them," replied Louis.
"Is that all? Has your majesty no other orders to give me?"
"No—ah—yes."
"I am all attention, sire."
"At the castle of Nantes, which I hear is very ill arranged, you will adopt the practice of placing musketeers at the door of each of the principal dignitaries I shall take with me."
"Of the principal?"
"Yes."
"For instance, at the door of M. de Lyonne?"
"Yes."
"At that of M. Letellier?"
"Yes."
"Of M. de Brienne?"
"Yes."
"And of Monsieur le Surintendant?"
"Without doubt."
"Very well, sire. By to-morrow I shall have set out."
"Oh, yes; but one more word, Monsieur d'Artagnan. At Nantes you will meet with M. le Duc de Gesvres, captain of the guards. Be sure that your musketeers are placed before his guards arrive. Precedence always belongs to the first comer."
"Yes, sire."
"And if M. de Gesvres should question you?"
"Question me, sire! Is it likely that M. de Gesvres should question me?" And the musketeer, turning cavalierly on his heel, disappeared. "To Nantes!" said he to himself, as he descended the stairs. "Why did he not dare to say from thence to Belle-Isle?"
As he reached the great gates, one of M. Brienne's clerks came running after him exclaiming, "Monsieur d'Artagnan. I beg your pardon—"
"What is the matter, Monsieur Ariste?"
"The king has desired me to give you this order."
"Upon your cash-box?" asked the musketeer.
"No, monsieur; upon that of M. Fouquet."