Александр Дюма
Louise de la Valliere
Chapter LXV. Political Rivals
D’Artagnan had promised M. de Baisemeaux to return in time for dessert, and he kept his word. They had just reached the finer and more delicate class of wines and liqueurs with which the governor’s cellar had the reputation of being most admirably stocked, when the silver spurs of the captain resounded in the corridor, and he himself appeared at the threshold. Athos and Aramis had played a close game; neither of the two had been able to gain the slightest advantage over the other. They had supped, talked a good deal about the Bastile, of the last journey to Fontainebleau, of the intended fete that M. Fouquet was about to give at Vaux; they had generalized on every possible subject; and no one, excepting Baisemeaux, had in the slightest degree alluded to private matters. D’Artagnan arrived in the very midst of the conversation, still pale and much disturbed by his interview with the king. Baisemeaux hastened to give him a chair; D’Artagnan accepted a glass of wine, and set it down empty. Athos and Aramis both remarked his emotion; as for Baisemeaux, he saw nothing more than the captain of the king’s musketeers, to whom he endeavored to show every possible attention. But, although Aramis had remarked his emotion, he had not been able to guess the cause of it. Athos alone believed he had detected it. For him, D’Artagnan’s return, and particularly the manner in which he, usually so impassible, seemed overcome, signified, “I have just asked the king something which the king has refused me.” Thoroughly convinced that his conjecture was correct, Athos smiled, rose from the table, and made a sign to D’Artagnan, as if to remind him that they had something else to do than to sup together. D’Artagnan immediately understood him, and replied by another sign. Aramis and Baisemeaux watched this silent dialogue, and looked inquiringly at each other. Athos felt that he was called upon to give an explanation of what was passing.
“The truth is, my friend,” said the Comte de la Fere, with a smile, “that you, Aramis, have been supping with a state criminal, and you, Monsieur de Baisemeaux, with your prisoner.”
Baisemeaux uttered an exclamation of surprise, and almost of delight; for he was exceedingly proud and vain of his fortress, and for his own individual profit, the more prisoners he had, the happier he was, and the higher in rank the prisoners happened to be, the prouder he felt. Aramis assumed the expression of countenance he thought the position justified, and said, “Well, dear Athos, forgive me, but I almost suspected what has happened. Some prank of Raoul and La Valliere, I suppose?”
“Alas!” said Baisemeaux.
“And,” continued Aramis, “you, a high and powerful nobleman as you are, forgetful that courtiers now exist – you have been to the king, I suppose, and told him what you thought of his conduct?”
“Yes, you have guessed right.”
“So that,” said Baisemeaux, trembling at having supped so familiarly with a man who had fallen into disgrace with the king; “so that, monsieur le comte – ”
“So that, my dear governor,” said Athos, “my friend D’Artagnan will communicate to you the contents of the paper which I perceived just peeping out of his belt, and which assuredly can be nothing else than the order for my incarceration.”
Baisemeaux held out his hand with his accustomed eagerness. D’Artagnan drew two papers from his belt, and presented one of them to the governor, who unfolded it, and then read, in a low tone of voice, looking at Athos over the paper, as he did so, and pausing from time to time: “‘Order to detain, in my chateau of the Bastile, Monsieur le Comte de la Fere.’ Oh, monsieur! this is indeed a very melancholy day for me.”
“You will have a patient prisoner, monsieur,” said Athos, in his calm, soft voice.
“A prisoner, too, who will not remain a month with you, my dear governor,” said Aramis; while Baisemeaux, still holding the order in his hand, transcribed it upon the prison registry.
“Not a day, or rather not even a night,” said D’Artagnan, displaying the second order of the king, “for now, dear M. de Baisemeaux, you will have the goodness to transcribe also this order for setting the comte immediately at liberty.”
“Ah!” said Aramis, “it is a labor that you have deprived me of, D’Artagnan;” and he pressed the musketeer’s hand in a significant manner, at the same moment as that of Athos.
“What!” said the latter in astonishment, “the king sets me at liberty!”
“Read, my dear friend,” returned D’Artagnan.
Athos took the order and read it. “It is quite true,” he said.
“Are you sorry for it?” asked D’Artagnan.
“Oh, no, on the contrary. I wish the king no harm; and the greatest evil or misfortune that any one can wish kings, is that they should commit an act of injustice. But you have had a difficult and painful task, I know. Tell me, have you not, D’Artagnan?”
“I? not at all,” said the musketeer, laughing: “the king does everything I wish him to do.”
Aramis looked fixedly at D’Artagnan, and saw that he was not speaking the truth. But Baisemeaux had eyes for nothing but D’Artagnan, so great was his admiration for a man who seemed to make the king do all he wished.
“And does the king exile Athos?” inquired Aramis.
“No, not precisely; the king did not explain himself upon that subject,” replied D’Artagnan; “but I think the comte could not well do better unless, indeed, he wishes particularly to thank the king – ”
“No, indeed,” replied Athos, smiling.
“Well, then, I think,” resumed D’Artagnan, “that the comte cannot do better than to retire to his own chateau. However, my dear Athos, you have only to speak, to tell me what you want. If any particular place of residence is more agreeable to you than another, I am influential enough, perhaps, to obtain it for you.”
“No, thank you,” said Athos; “nothing can be more agreeable to me, my dear friend, than to return to my solitude beneath my noble trees on the banks of the Loire. If Heaven be the overruling physician of the evils of the mind, nature is a sovereign remedy. And so, monsieur,” continued Athos, turning again towards Baisemeaux, “I am now free, I suppose?”
“Yes, monsieur le comte, I think so – at least, I hope so,” said the governor, turning over and over the two papers in question, “unless, however, M. d’Artagnan has a third order to give me.”
“No, my dear Baisemeaux, no,” said the musketeer; “the second is quite enough: we will stop there – if you please.”
“Ah! monsieur le comte,” said Baisemeaux addressing Athos, “you do not know what you are losing. I should have placed you among the thirty-franc prisoners, like the generals – what am I saying? – I mean among the fifty-francs, like the princes, and you would have supped every evening as you have done to-night.”
“Allow me, monsieur,” said Athos, “to prefer my own simpler fare.” And then, turning to D’Artagnan, he said, “Let us go, my dear friend. Shall I have that greatest of all pleasures for me – that of having you as my companion?”
“To the city gate only,” replied D’Artagnan, “after which I will tell you what I told the king: ‘I am on duty.’”
“And you, my dear Aramis,” said Athos, smiling; “will you accompany me? La Fere is on the road to Vannes.”
“Thank you, my dear friend,” said Aramis, “but I have an appointment in Paris this evening, and I cannot leave without very serious interests suffering by my absence.”
“In that case,” said Athos, “I must say adieu, and take my leave of you. My dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux, I have to thank you exceedingly for your kind and friendly disposition towards me, and particularly for the enjoyable specimen you have given me of the ordinary fare of the Bastile.” And, having embraced Aramis, and shaken hands with M. de Baisemeaux, and having received best wishes for a pleasant journey from them both, Athos set off with D’Artagnan.
Whilst the denouement of the scene of the Palais Royal was taking place at the Bastile, let us relate what was going on at the lodgings of Athos and Bragelonne. Grimaud, as we have seen, had accompanied his master to Paris; and, as we have said, he was present when Athos went out; he had observed D’Artagnan gnaw the corners of his mustache; he had seen his master get into the carriage; he had narrowly examined both their countenances, and he had known them both for a sufficiently long period to read and understand, through the mask of their impassibility, that something serious was the matter. As soon as Athos had gone, he began to reflect; he then, and then only, remembered the strange manner in which Athos had taken leave of him, the embarrassment – imperceptible as it would have been to any but himself – of the master whose ideas were, to him, so clear and defined, and the expression of whose wishes was so precise. He knew that Athos had taken nothing with him but the clothes he had on him at the time; and yet he seemed to fancy that Athos had not left for an hour merely; or even for a day. A long absence was signified by the manner in which he pronounced the word “Adieu.” All these circumstances recurred to his mind, with feelings of deep affection for Athos, with that horror of isolation and solitude which invariably besets the minds of those who love; and all these combined rendered poor Grimaud very melancholy, and particularly uneasy. Without being able to account to himself for what he did since his master’s departure, he wandered about the room, seeking, as it were, for some traces of him, like a faithful dog, who is not exactly uneasy about his absent master, but at least is restless. Only as, in addition to the instinct of the animal, Grimaud subjoined the reasoning faculties of the man, Grimaud therefore felt uneasy and restless too. Not having found any indication which could serve as a guide, and having neither seen nor discovered anything which could satisfy his doubts, Grimaud began to wonder what could possibly have happened. Besides, imagination is the resource, or rather the plague of gentle and affectionate hearts. In fact, never does a feeling heart represent its absent friend to itself as being happy or cheerful. Never does the dove that wings its flight in search of adventures inspire anything but terror at home.
Grimaud soon passed from uneasiness to terror; he carefully went over, in his own mind, everything that had taken place: D’Artagnan’s letter to Athos, the letter which had seemed to distress Athos so much after he had read it; then Raoul’s visit to Athos, which resulted in Athos desiring him (Grimaud) to get his various orders and his court dress ready to put on; then his interview with the king, at the end of which Athos had returned home so unusually gloomy; then the explanation between the father and the son, at the termination of which Athos had embraced Raoul with such sadness of expression, while Raoul himself went away equally weary and melancholy; and finally, D’Artagnan’s arrival, biting, as if he were vexed, the end of his mustache, and leaving again in the carriage, accompanied by the Comte de la Fere. All this composed a drama in five acts very clearly, particularly for so analytical an observer as Grimaud.
The first step he took was to search in his master’s coat for M. d’Artagnan’s letter; he found the letter still there, and its contents were found to run as follows:
“MY DEAR FRIEND, – Raoul has been to ask me for some particulars about the conduct of Mademoiselle de la Valliere, during our young friend’s residence in London. I am a poor captain of musketeers, and I am sickened to death every day by hearing all the scandal of the barracks and bedside conversations. If I had told Raoul all I believe, I know the poor fellow would have died of it; but I am in the king’s service, and cannot relate all I hear about the king’s affairs. If your heart tells you to do it, set off at once; the matter concerns you more than it does myself, and almost as much as Raoul.”
Grimaud tore, not a handful, but a finger-and-thumbful of hair out of his head; he would have done more if his head of hair had been in a more flourishing condition.
“Yes,” he said, “that is the key of the whole enigma. The young girl has been playing her pranks; what people say about her and the king is true, then; our young master has been deceived; he ought to know it. Monsieur le comte has been to see the king, and has told him a piece of his mind; and then the king sent M. d’Artagnan to arrange the affair. Ah! gracious goodness!” continued Grimaud, “monsieur le comte, I now remember, returned without his sword.”
This discovery made the perspiration break out all over poor Grimaud’s face. He did not waste any more time in useless conjecture, but clapped his hat on his head, and ran to Raoul’s lodgings.
Raoul, after Louise had left him, had mastered his grief, if not his affection; and, compelled to look forward on that perilous road over which madness and revulsion were hurrying him, he had seen, from the very first glance, his father exposed to the royal obstinacy, since Athos had himself been the first to oppose any resistance to the royal will. At this moment, from a very natural sequence of feeling, the unhappy young man remembered the mysterious signs which Athos had made, and the unexpected visit of D’Artagnan; the result of the conflict between a sovereign and a subject revealed itself to his terrified vision. As D’Artagnan was on duty, that is, a fixture at his post without the possibility of leaving it, it was certainly not likely that he had come to pay Athos a visit merely for the pleasure of seeing him. He must have come to say something to him. This something in the midst of such painful conjectures must have been the news of either a misfortune or a danger. Raoul trembled at having been so selfish as to have forgotten his father for his affection; at having, in a word, passed his time in idle dreams, or in an indulgence of despair, at a time when a necessity existed for repelling such an imminent attack on Athos. The very idea nearly drove him frantic; he buckled on his sword and ran towards his father’s lodgings. On his way there he encountered Grimaud, who, having set off from the opposite pole, was running with equal eagerness in search of the truth. The two men embraced each other most warmly.
“Grimaud,” exclaimed Raoul, “is the comte well?”
“Have you seen him?”
“No; where is he?”
“I am trying to find out.”
“And M. d’Artagnan?”
“Went out with him.”
“When?”
“Ten minutes after you did.”
“In what way did they go out?”
“In a carriage.”
“Where did they go?”
“I have no idea at all.”
“Did my father take any money with him?”
“No.”
“Or his sword?”
“No.”
“I have an idea, Grimaud, that M. d’Artagnan came in order to – ”
“Arrest monsieur le comte, do you not think, monsieur?”
“Yes, Grimaud.”
“I could have sworn it.”
“What road did they take?”
“The way leading towards the quay.”
“To the Bastile, then?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Quick, quick; let us run.”
“Yes, let us not lose a moment.”
“But where are we to go?” said Raoul, overwhelmed.
“We will go to M. d’Artagnan’s first, we may perhaps learn something there.”
“No; if they keep me in ignorance at my father’s, they will do the same everywhere. Let us go to – Oh, good heavens! why, I must be mad to-day, Grimaud; I have forgotten M. du Vallon, who is waiting for and expecting me still.”
“Where is he, then?”
“At the Minimes of Vincennes.”
“Thank goodness, that is on the same side as the Bastile. I will run and saddle the horses, and we will go at once,” said Grimaud.
“Do, my friend, do.”
Chapter LXVI. In Which Porthos Is Convinced without Having Understood Anything
The good and worthy Porthos, faithful to all the laws of ancient chivalry, had determined to wait for M. de Saint-Aignan until sunset; and as Saint-Aignan did not come, as Raoul had forgotten to communicate with his second, and as he found that waiting so long was very wearisome, Porthos had desired one of the gate-keepers to fetch him a few bottles of good wine and a good joint of meat, – so that, at least, he might pass away the time by means of a glass or two and a mouthful of something to eat. He had just finished when Raoul arrived, escorted by Grimaud, both of them riding at full speed. As soon as Porthos saw the two cavaliers riding at such a pace along the road, he did not for a moment doubt but that they were the men he was expecting, and he rose from the grass upon which he had been indolently reclining and began to stretch his legs and arms, saying, “See what it is to have good habits. The fellow has finished by coming, after all. If I had gone away he would have found no one here and would have taken advantage of that.” He then threw himself into a martial attitude, and drew himself up to the full height of his gigantic stature. But instead of Saint-Aignan, he only saw Raoul, who, with the most despairing gestures, accosted him by crying out, “Pray forgive me, my dear friend, I am most wretched.”
“Raoul!” cried Porthos, surprised.
“You have been angry with me?” said Raoul, embracing Porthos.
“I? What for?”
“For having forgotten you. But I assure you my head seems utterly lost. If you only knew!”
“You have killed him?”
“Who?”
“Saint-Aignan; or, if that is not the case, what is the matter?”
“The matter is, that Monsieur le Comte de la Fere has by this time been arrested.”
Porthos gave a start that would have thrown down a wall.
“Arrested!” he cried out; “by whom?”
“By D’Artagnan.”
“It is impossible,” said Porthos.
“My dear friend, it is perfectly true.”
Porthos turned towards Grimaud, as if he needed a second confirmation of the intelligence.
Grimaud nodded his head. “And where have they taken him?”
“Probably to the Bastile.”
“What makes you think that?”
“As we came along we questioned some persons, who saw the carriage pass; and others who saw it enter the Bastile.”
“Oh!” muttered Porthos.
“What do you intend to do?” inquired Raoul.
“I? Nothing; only I will not have Athos remain at the Bastile.”
“Do you know,” said Raoul, advancing nearer to Porthos, “that the arrest was made by order of the king?”
Porthos looked at the young man, as if to say, “What does that matter to me?” This dumb language seemed so eloquent of meaning to Raoul that he did not ask any other question. He mounted his horse again; and Porthos, assisted by Grimaud, had already done the same.
“Let us arrange our plan of action,” said Raoul.
“Yes,” returned Porthos, “that is the best thing we can do.”
Raoul sighed deeply, and then paused suddenly.
“What is the matter?” asked Porthos; “are you faint?”
“No, only I feel how utterly helpless our position is. Can we three pretend to go and take the Bastile?”
“Well, if D’Artagnan were only here,” replied Porthos, “I am not so very certain we would fail.”
Raoul could not resist a feeling of admiration at the sight of such perfect confidence, heroic in its simplicity. These were truly the celebrated men who, by three or four, attacked armies and assaulted castles! Men who had terrified death itself, who had survived the wrecks of a tempestuous age, and still stood, stronger than the most robust of the young.
“Monsieur,” said he to Porthos, “you have just given me an idea; we absolutely must see M. d’Artagnan.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“He ought by this time to have returned home, after having taken my father to the Bastile. Let us go to his house.”
“First inquire at the Bastile,” said Grimaud, who was in the habit of speaking little, but that to the purpose.
Accordingly, they hastened towards the fortress, when one of those chances which Heaven bestows on men of strong will caused Grimaud suddenly to perceive the carriage, which was entering by the great gate of the drawbridge. This was the moment that D’Artagnan was, as we have seen, returning from his visit to the king. In vain was it that Raoul urged on his horse in order to join the carriage, and to see whom it contained. The horses had already gained the other side of the great gate, which again closed, while one of the sentries struck the nose of Raoul’s horse with his musket; Raoul turned about, only too happy to find he had ascertained something respecting the carriage which had contained his father.
“We have him,” said Grimaud.
“If we wait a little it is certain he will leave; don’t you think so, my friend?”
“Unless, indeed, D’Artagnan also be a prisoner,” replied Porthos, “in which case everything is lost.”
Raoul returned no answer, for any hypothesis was admissible. He instructed Grimaud to lead the horses to the little street Jean-Beausire, so as to give rise to less suspicion, and himself with his piercing gaze watched for the exit either of D’Artagnan or the carriage. Nor had he decided wrongly; for twenty minutes had not elapsed before the gate reopened and the carriage reappeared. A dazzling of the eyes prevented Raoul from distinguishing what figures occupied the interior. Grimaud averred that he had seen two persons, and that one of them was his master. Porthos kept looking at Raoul and Grimaud by turns, in the hope of understanding their idea.
“It is clear,” said Grimaud, “that if the comte is in the carriage, either he is set at liberty or they are taking him to another prison.”
“We shall soon see that by the road he takes,” answered Porthos.
“If he is set at liberty,” said Grimaud, “they will conduct him home.”
“True,” rejoined Porthos.
“The carriage does not take that way,” cried Raoul; and indeed the horses were just disappearing down the Faubourg St. Antoine.
“Let us hasten,” said Porthos; “we will attack the carriage on the road and tell Athos to flee.”
“Rebellion,” murmured Raoul.
Porthos darted a second glance at Raoul, quite worthy of the first. Raoul replied only by spurring the flanks of his steed. In a few moments the three cavaliers had overtaken the carriage, and followed it so closely that their horses’ breath moistened the back of it. D’Artagnan, whose senses were ever on the alert, heard the trot of the horses, at the moment when Raoul was telling Porthos to pass the chariot, so as to see who was the person accompanying Athos. Porthos complied, but could not see anything, for the blinds were lowered. Rage and impatience were gaining mastery over Raoul. He had just noticed the mystery preserved by Athos’s companion, and determined on proceeding to extremities. On his part D’Artagnan had perfectly recognized Porthos, and Raoul also, from under the blinds, and had communicated to the comte the result of his observation. They were desirous only of seeing whether Raoul and Porthos would push the affair to the uttermost. And this they speedily did, for Raoul, presenting his pistol, threw himself on the leader, commanding the coachmen to stop. Porthos seized the coachman, and dragged him from his seat. Grimaud already had hold of the carriage door. Raoul threw open his arms, exclaiming, “M. le comte! M. le comte!”
“Ah! is it you, Raoul?” said Athos, intoxicated with joy.
“Not bad, indeed!” added D’Artagnan, with a burst of laughter, and they both embraced the young man and Porthos, who had taken possession of them.
“My brave Porthos! best of friends,” cried Athos, “it is still the same old way with you.”
“He is still only twenty,” said D’Artagnan, “brave Porthos!”
“Confound it,” answered Porthos, slightly confused, “we thought that you were being arrested.”
“While,” rejoined Athos, “the matter in question was nothing but my taking a drive in M. d’Artagnan’s carriage.”
“But we followed you from the Bastile,” returned Raoul, with a tone of suspicion and reproach.
“Where we had been to take supper with our friend M. Baisemeaux. Do you recollect Baisemeaux, Porthos?”
“Very well, indeed.”
“And there we saw Aramis.”
“In the Bastile?”
“At supper.”
“Ah!” said Porthos, again breathing freely.
“He gave us a thousand messages to you.”
“And where is M. le comte going?” asked Grimaud, already recompensed by a smile from his master.
“We were going home to Blois.”
“How can that be?”
“At once?” said Raoul.
“Yes, right forward.”
“Without any luggage?”
“Oh! Raoul would have been instructed to forward me mine, or to bring it with him on his return, if he returns.”
“If nothing detains him longer in Paris,” said D’Artagnan, with a glance firm and cutting as steel, and as painful (for it reopened the poor young fellow’s wounds), “he will do well to follow you, Athos.”
“There is nothing to keep me any longer in Paris,” said Raoul.
“Then we will go immediately.”
“And M. d’Artagnan?”
“Oh! as for me, I was only accompanying Athos as far as the barrier, and I return with Porthos.”
“Very good,” said the latter.
“Come, my son,” added the comte, gently passing his arm around Raoul’s neck to draw him into the carriage, and again embracing him. “Grimaud,” continued the comte, “you will return quietly to Paris with your horse and M. du Vallon’s, for Raoul and I will mount here and give up the carriage to these two gentlemen to return to Paris in; and then, as soon as you arrive, you will take my clothes and letters and forward the whole to me at home.”
“But,” observed Raoul, who was anxious to make the comte converse, “when you return to Paris, there will not be a single thing there for you – which will be very inconvenient.”
“I think it will be a very long time, Raoul, ere I return to Paris. The last sojourn we have made there has not been of a nature to encourage me to repeat it.”
Raoul hung down his head and said not a word more. Athos descended from the carriage and mounted the horse which had brought Porthos, and which seemed no little pleased at the exchange. Then they embraced, and clasped each other’s hands, and interchanged a thousand pledges of eternal friendship. Porthos promised to spend a month with Athos at the first opportunity. D’Artagnan engaged to take advantage of his first leave of absence; and then, having embraced Raoul for the last time: “To you, my boy,” said he, “I will write.” Coming from D’Artagnan, who he knew wrote very seldom, these words expressed everything. Raoul was moved even to tears. He tore himself away from the musketeer and departed.
D’Artagnan rejoined Porthos in the carriage: “Well,” said he, “my dear friend, what a day we have had!”
“Indeed we have,” answered Porthos.
“You must be quite worn out.”
“Not quite; however, I shall retire early to rest, so as to be ready for to-morrow.”
“And wherefore?”
“Why! to complete what I have begun.”
“You make me shudder, my friend, you seem to me quite angry. What the devil have you begun which is not finished?”
“Listen; Raoul has not fought, but I must fight!”
“With whom? with the king?”
“How!” exclaimed Porthos, astounded, “with the king?”
“Yes, I say, you great baby, with the king.”
“I assure you it is with M. Saint-Aignan.”
“Look now, this is what I mean; you draw your sword against the king in fighting with this gentleman.”
“Ah!” said Porthos, staring; “are you sure of it?”
“Indeed I am.”
“What in the world are we to do, then?”
“We must try and make a good supper, Porthos. The captain of the musketeers keeps a tolerable table. There you will see the handsome Saint-Aignan, and will drink his health.”
“I?” cried Porthos, horrified.
“What!” said D’Artagnan, “you refuse to drink the king’s health?”
“But, body alive! I am not talking to you about the king at all; I am speaking of M. de Saint-Aignan.”
“But when I repeat that it is the same thing?”
“Ah, well, well!” said Porthos, overcome.
“You understand, don’t you?”
“No,” answered Porthos, “but ‘tis all the same.”
