"Are we then going to travel, my lord?" asked Mousqueton, rather uneasy.


"Something better still, Mouston."


"An expedition, sir?" asked the steward, whose roses began to change into lilies.


"We are going to return to the service, Mouston," replied Porthos, still trying to restore his mustache to the military curl it had long lost.


"Into the service—the king's service?" Mousqueton trembled; even his fat, smooth cheeks shook as he spoke, and he looked at D'Artagnan with an air of reproach; he staggered, and his voice was almost choked.


"Yes and no. We shall serve in a campaign, seek out all sorts of adventures—return, in short, to our former life."


These last words fell on Mousqueton like a thunderbolt. It was those very terrible old days that made the present so excessively delightful, and the blow was so great he rushed out, overcome, and forgot to shut the door.


The two friends remained alone to speak of the future and to build castles in the air. The good wine which Mousqueton had placed before them traced out in glowing drops to D'Artagnan a fine perspective, shining with quadruples and pistoles, and showed to Porthos a blue ribbon and a ducal mantle; they were, in fact, asleep on the table when the servants came to light them to their bed.


Mousqueton was, however, somewhat consoled by D'Artagnan, who the next day told him that in all probability war would always be carried on in the heart of Paris and within reach of the Château du Vallon, which was near Corbeil, or Bracieux, which was near Melun, and of Pierrefonds, which was between Compiègne and Villars-Cotterets.


"But—formerly—it appears," began Mousqueton timidly.


"Oh!" said D'Artagnan, "we don't now make war as we did formerly. To-day it's a sort of diplomatic arrangement; ask Planchet."


Mousqueton inquired, therefore, the state of the case of his old friend, who confirmed the statement of D'Artagnan. "But," he added, "in this war prisoners stand a chance of being hung."


"The deuce they do!" said Mousqueton; "I think I should like the siege of Rochelle better than this war, then!"


Porthos, meantime, asked D'Artagnan to give him his instructions how to proceed on his journey.


"Four days," replied his friend, "are necessary to reach Blois; one day to rest there; three or four days to return to Paris. Set out, therefore, in a week, with your suite, and go to the Hotel de la Chevrette, Rue Tiquetonne, and there await me."


"That's agreed," said Porthos.


"As to myself, I shall go around to see Athos; for though I don't think his aid worth much, one must with one's friends observe all due politeness," said D'Artagnan.


The friends then took leave of each other on the very border of the estate of Pierrefonds, to which Porthos escorted his friend.


"At least," D'Artagnan said to himself, as he took the road to Villars-Cotterets, "at least I shall not be alone in my undertaking. That devil, Porthos, is a man of prodigious strength; still, if Athos joins us, well, we shall be three of us to laugh at Aramis, that little coxcomb with his too good luck."


At Villars-Cotterets he wrote to the cardinal:


"My Lord,—I have already one man to offer to your eminence, and he is well worth twenty men. I am just setting out for Blois. The Comte de la Fère inhabits the Castle of Bragelonne, in the environs of that city."


Chapter XIII. Two Angelic Faces.


The road was long, but the horses upon which D'Artagnan and Planchet rode had been refreshed in the well supplied stables of the Lord of Bracieux; the master and servant rode side by side, conversing as they went, for D'Artagnan had by degrees thrown off the master and Planchet had entirely ceased to assume the manners of a servant. He had been raised by circumstances to the rank of a confidant to his master. It was many years since D'Artagnan had opened his heart to any one; it happened, however, that these two men, on meeting again, assimilated perfectly. Planchet was in truth no vulgar companion in these new adventures; he was a man of uncommonly sound sense. Without courting danger he never shrank from an encounter; in short, he had been a soldier and arms ennoble a man; it was, therefore, on the footing of friends that D'Artagnan and Planchet arrived in the neighborhood of Blois.


"I know that my going to Athos is useless and absurd; but still I owe this courtesy to my old friend, a man who had in him material for the most noble and generous of characters."


"Oh, Monsieur Athos was a noble gentleman," said Planchet, "was he not? Scattering money round about him as Heaven sprinkles rain. Do you remember, sir, that duel with the Englishman in the inclosure des Carmes? Ah! how lofty, how magnificent Monsieur Athos was that day, when he said to his adversary: 'You have insisted on knowing my name, sir; so much the worse for you, since I shall be obliged to kill you.' I was near him, those were his exact words, when he stabbed his foe as he said he would, and his adversary fell without saying, 'Oh!' 'Tis a noble gentleman—Monsieur Athos."


"Yes, true as Gospel," said D'Artagnan; "but one single fault has swallowed up all these fine qualities."


"I remember well," said Planchet, "he was fond of drinking—in truth, he drank, but not as other men drink. One seemed, as he raised the wine to his lips, to hear him say, 'Come, juice of the grape, and chase away my sorrows.' And how he used to break the stem of a glass or the neck of a bottle! There was no one like him for that."


"And now," replied D'Artagnan, "behold the sad spectacle that awaits us. This noble gentleman with his lofty glance, this handsome cavalier, so brilliant in feats of arms that every one was surprised that he held in his hand a sword only instead of a baton of command! Alas! we shall find him changed into a broken down old man, with garnet nose and eyes that slobber; we shall find him extended on some lawn, whence he will look at us with a languid eye and peradventure will not recognize us. God knows, Planchet, that I should fly from a sight so sad if I did not wish to show my respect for the illustrious shadow of what was once the Comte de la Fère, whom we loved so much."


Planchet shook his head and said nothing. It was evident that he shared his master's apprehensions.


"And then," resumed D'Artagnan, "to this decrepitude is probably added poverty, for he must have neglected the little that he had, and the dirty scoundrel, Grimaud, more taciturn than ever and still more drunken than his master—stay, Planchet, it breaks my heart to merely think of it."


"I fancy myself there and that I see him staggering and hear him stammering," said Planchet, in a piteous tone, "but at all events we shall soon know the real state of things, for I imagine that those lofty walls, now turning ruby in the setting sun, are the walls of Blois."


"Probably; and those steeples, pointed and sculptured, that we catch a glimpse of yonder, are similar to those that I have heard described at Chambord."


At this moment one of those heavy wagons, drawn by bullocks, which carry the wood cut in the fine forests of the country to the ports of the Loire, came out of a byroad full of ruts and turned on that which the two horsemen were following. A man carrying a long switch with a nail at the end of it, with which he urged on his slow team, was walking with the cart.


"Ho! friend," cried Planchet.


"What's your pleasure, gentlemen?" replied the peasant, with a purity of accent peculiar to the people of that district and which might have put to shame the cultured denizens of the Sorbonne and the Rue de l'Université.


"We are looking for the house of Monsieur de la Fère," said D'Artagnan.


The peasant took off his hat on hearing this revered name.


"Gentlemen," he said, "the wood that I am carting is his; I cut it in his copse and I am taking it to the château."


D'Artagnan determined not to question this man; he did not wish to hear from another what he had himself said to Planchet.


"The château!" he said to himself, "what château? Ah, I understand! Athos is not a man to be thwarted; he, like Porthos, has obliged his peasantry to call him 'my lord,' and to dignify his pettifogging place by the name of château. He had a heavy hand—dear old Athos—after drinking."


D'Artagnan, after asking the man the right way, continued his route, agitated in spite of himself at the idea of seeing once more that singular man whom he had so truly loved and who had contributed so much by advice and example to his education as a gentleman. He checked by degrees the speed of his horse and went on, his head drooping as if in deep thought.


Soon, as the road turned, the Château de la Vallière appeared in view; then, a quarter of a mile beyond, a white house, encircled in sycamores, was visible at the farther end of a group of trees, which spring had powdered with a snow of flowers.


On beholding this house, D'Artagnan, calm as he was in general, felt an unusual disturbance within his heart—so powerful during the whole course of life are the recollections of youth. He proceeded, nevertheless, and came opposite to an iron gate, ornamented in the taste of the period.


Through the gate was seen kitchen-gardens, carefully attended to, a spacious courtyard, in which neighed several horses held by valets in various liveries, and a carriage, drawn by two horses of the country.


"We are mistaken," said D'Artagnan. "This cannot be the establishment of Athos. Good heavens! suppose he is dead and that this property now belongs to some one who bears his name. Alight, Planchet, and inquire, for I confess that I have scarcely courage so to do."


Planchet alighted.


"Thou must add," said D'Artagnan, "that a gentleman who is passing by wishes to have the honor of paying his respects to the Comte de la Fère, and if thou art satisfied with what thou hearest, then mention my name!"


Planchet, leading his horse by the bridle, drew near to the gate and rang the bell, and immediately a servant-man with white hair and of erect stature, notwithstanding his age, presented himself.


"Yes, monsieur, it is here he lives," the servant replied to Planchet, who was not in livery.


"A nobleman retired from service, is he not?"


"And who had a lackey named Grimaud?" persisted Planchet, who had prudently considered that he couldn't have too much information.


"Monsieur Grimaud is absent from the château for the time being," said the servitor, who, little used as he was to such inquiries, began to examine Planchet from head to foot.


"Then," cried Planchet joyously, "I see well that it is the same Comte de la Fère whom we seek. Be good enough to open to me, for I wish to announce to monsieur le comte that my master, one of his friends, is here, and wishes to greet him."


"Why didn't you say so?" said the servitor, opening the gate. "But where is your master?"


The servitor opened the gate and walked before Planchet, who made a sign to D'Artagnan. The latter, his heart palpitating more than ever, entered the courtyard without dismounting.


Whilst Planchet was standing on the steps before the house he heard a voice say:


"Well, where is this gentleman and why do they not bring him here?"


This voice, the sound of which reached D'Artagnan, reawakened in his heart a thousand sentiments, a thousand recollections that he had forgotten. He vaulted hastily from his horse, whilst Planchet, with a smile on his lips, advanced toward the master of the house.


"But I know you, my lad," said Athos, appearing on the threshold.


"Oh, yes, monsieur le comte, you know me and I know you. I am Planchet—Planchet, whom you know well." But the honest servant could say no more, so much was he overcome by this unexpected interview.


"Here I am, my friend, dear Athos!" cried D'Artagnan, in a faltering voice and almost staggering from agitation.


At these words a visible emotion was expressed on the beautiful countenance and calm features of Athos. He rushed toward D'Artagnan with eyes fixed upon him and clasped him in his arms. D'Artagnan, equally moved, pressed him also closely to him, whilst tears stood in his eyes. Athos then took him by the hand and led him into the drawing-room, where there were several people. Every one arose.


"I present to you," he said, "Monsieur le Chevalier D'Artagnan, lieutenant of his majesty's musketeers, a devoted friend and one of the most excellent, brave gentlemen that I have ever known."


D'Artagnan received the compliments of those who were present in his own way, and whilst the conversation became general he looked earnestly at Athos.


Strange! Athos was scarcely aged at all! His fine eyes, no longer surrounded by that dark line which nights of dissipation pencil too infallibly, seemed larger, more liquid than ever. His face, a little elongated, had gained in calm dignity what it had lost in feverish excitement. His hand, always wonderfully beautiful and strong, was set off by a ruffle of lace, like certain hands by Titian and Vandyck. He was less stiff than formerly. His long, dark hair, softly powdered here and there with silver tendrils, fell elegantly over his shoulders in wavy curls; his voice was still youthful, as if belonging to a Hercules of twenty-five, and his magnificent teeth, which he had preserved white and sound, gave an indescribable charm to his smile.


Meanwhile the guests, seeing that the two friends were longing to be alone, prepared to depart, when a noise of dogs barking resounded through the courtyard and many persons said at the same moment:


"Ah! 'tis Raoul, who is come home."


Athos, as the name of Raoul was pronounced, looked inquisitively at D'Artagnan, in order to see if any curiosity was painted on his face. But D'Artagnan was still in confusion and turned around almost mechanically when a fine young man of fifteen years of age, dressed simply, but in perfect taste, entered the room, raising, as he came, his hat, adorned with a long plume of scarlet feathers.


Nevertheless, D'Artagnan was struck by the appearance of this new personage. It seemed to explain to him the change in Athos; a resemblance between the boy and the man explained the mystery of this regenerated existence. He remained listening and gazing.


"Here you are, home again, Raoul," said the comte.


"Yes, sir," replied the youth, with deep respect, "and I have performed the commission that you gave me."


"But what's the matter, Raoul?" said Athos, very anxiously. "You are pale and agitated."


"Sir," replied the young man, "it is on account of an accident which has happened to our little neighbor."


"What is it?" cried many persons present.


"She was walking with her nurse Marceline, in the place where the woodmen cut the wood, when, passing on horseback, I stopped. She saw me also and in trying to jump from the end of a pile of wood on which she had mounted, the poor child fell and was not able to rise again. I fear that she has badly sprained her ankle."


"Oh, heavens!" cried Athos. "And her mother, Madame de Saint-Remy, have they yet told her of it?"


"No, sir, Madame de Saint-Remy is at Blois with the Duchess of Orléans. I am afraid that what was first done was unskillful, if not worse than useless. I am come, sir, to ask your advice."


"Send directly to Blois, Raoul; or, rather, take horse and ride immediately yourself."


Raoul bowed.


"But where is Louise?" asked the comte.


"I have brought her here, sir, and I have deposited her in charge of Charlotte, who, till better advice comes, has bathed the foot in cold well-water."


The guests now all took leave of Athos, excepting the old Duc de Barbe, who, as an old friend of the family of La Vallière, went to see little Louise and offered to take her to Blois in his carriage.


"You are right, sir," said Athos. "She will be the sooner with her mother. As for you, Raoul, I am sure it is your fault, some giddiness or folly."


"No, sir, I assure you," muttered Raoul, "it is not."


"Oh, no, no, I declare it is not!" cried the young girl, while Raoul turned pale at the idea of his being perhaps the cause of her disaster.


"Nevertheless, Raoul, you must go to Blois and you must make your excuses and mine to Madame de Saint-Remy."


The youth looked pleased. He again took in his strong arms the little girl, whose pretty golden head and smiling face rested on his shoulder, and placed her gently in the carriage; then jumping on his horse with the elegance of a first-rate esquire, after bowing to Athos and D'Artagnan, he went off close by the door of the carriage, on somebody inside of which his eyes were riveted.


Chapter XIV. The Castle of Bragelonne.


Whilst this scene was going on, D'Artagnan remained with open mouth and a confused gaze. Everything had turned out so differently from what he expected that he was stupefied with wonder.


Athos, who had been observing him and guessing his thoughts, took his arm and led him into the garden.


"Whilst supper is being prepared," he said, smiling, "you will not, my friend, be sorry to have the mystery which so puzzles you cleared up."


"True, monsieur le comte," replied D'Artagnan, who felt that by degrees Athos was resuming that great influence which aristocracy had over him.


Athos smiled.


"First and foremost, dear D'Artagnan, we have no title such as count here. When I call you 'chevalier,' it is in presenting you to my guests, that they may know who you are. But to you, D'Artagnan, I am, I hope, still dear Athos, your comrade, your friend. Do you intend to stand on ceremony because you are less attached to me than you were?"


"Then let us be as we used to be; let us be open with each other. You are surprised at what you see here?"


"But above all things, I am a marvel to you?"


"I confess it."


"I am still young, am I not? Should you not have known me again, in spite of my eight-and-forty years of age?"


"On the contrary, I do not find you the same person at all."


"I understand," cried Athos, with a gentle blush. "Everything, D'Artagnan, even folly, has its limit."


"Then your means, it appears, are improved; you have a capital house—your own, I presume? You have a park, and horses, servants."


"Yes, I inherited this little property when I quitted the army, as I told you. The park is twenty acres—twenty, comprising kitchen-gardens and a common. I have two horses,—I do not count my servant's bobtailed nag. My sporting dogs consist of two pointers, two harriers and two setters. But then all this extravagance is not for myself," added Athos, laughing.


"Yes, I see, for the young man Raoul," said D'Artagnan.


"You guess aright, my friend; this youth is an orphan, deserted by his mother, who left him in the house of a poor country priest. I have brought him up. It is Raoul who has worked in me the change you see; I was dried up like a miserable tree, isolated, attached to nothing on earth; it was only a deep affection that could make me take root again and drag me back to life. This child has caused me to recover what I had lost. I had no longer any wish to live for myself, I have lived for him. I have corrected the vices that I had; I have assumed the virtues that I had not. Precept something, but example more. I may be mistaken, but I believe that Raoul will be as accomplished a gentleman as our degenerate age could display."


The remembrance of Milady recurred to D'Artagnan.


"And you are happy?" he said to his friend.


"As happy as it is allowed to one of God's creatures to be on this earth; but say out all you think, D'Artagnan, for you have not yet done so."


"You are too bad, Athos; one can hide nothing from you," answered D'Artagnan. "I wished to ask you if you ever feel any emotions of terror resembling——"


"Remorse! I finish your phrase. Yes and no. I do not feel remorse, because that woman, I profoundly hold, deserved her punishment. Had she one redeeming trait? I doubt it. I do not feel remorse, because had we allowed her to live she would have persisted in her work of destruction. But I do not mean, my friend that we were right in what we did. Perhaps all blood demands some expiation. Hers had been accomplished; it remains, possibly, for us to accomplish ours."


"I have sometimes thought as you do, Athos."


"She had a son, that unhappy woman?"


"Have you ever heard of him?"


"He must be about twenty-three years of age," said Athos, in a low tone. "I often think of that young man, D'Artagnan."


"Strange! for I had forgotten him," said the lieutenant.


Athos smiled; the smile was melancholy.


"And Lord de Winter—do you know anything about him?"


"I know that he is in high favor with Charles I."


"The fortunes of that monarch now are at low water. He shed the blood of Strafford; that confirms what I said just now—blood will have blood. And the queen?"


"Madame Henrietta of England, daughter of Henry IV."


"She is at the Louvre, as you know."


"Yes, and I hear in bitter poverty. Her daughter, during the severest cold, was obliged for want of fire to remain in bed. Do you grasp that?" said Athos, shrugging his shoulders; "the daughter of Henry IV. shivering for want of a fagot! Why did she not ask from any one of us a home instead of from Mazarin? She should have wanted nothing."


"Have you ever seen the queen of England?" inquired D'Artagnan.


"No; but my mother, as a child, saw her. Did I ever tell you that my mother was lady of honor to Marie de Medici?"


"Never. You know, Athos, you never spoke much of such matters."


"Ah, mon Dieu, yes, you are right," Athos replied; "but then there must be some occasion for speaking."


"Porthos wouldn't have waited for it so patiently," said D'Artagnan, with a smile.


"Every one according to his nature, my dear D'Artagnan. Porthos, in spite of a touch of vanity, has many excellent qualities. Have you seen him?"


"I left him five days ago," said D'Artagnan, and he portrayed with Gascon wit and sprightliness the magnificence of Porthos in his Château of Pierrefonds; nor did he neglect to launch a few arrows of wit at the excellent Monsieur Mouston.


"I sometimes wonder," replied Athos, smiling at that gayety which recalled the good old days, "that we could form an association of men who would be, after twenty years of separation, still so closely bound together. Friendship throws out deep roots in honest hearts, D'Artagnan. Believe me, it is only the evil-minded who deny friendship; they cannot understand it. And Aramis?"


"I have seen him also," said D'Artagnan; "but he seemed to me cold."


"Ah, you have seen Aramis?" said Athos, turning on D'Artagnan a searching look. "Why, it is a veritable pilgrimage, my dear friend, that you are making to the Temple of Friendship, as the poets would say."


"Why, yes," replied D'Artagnan, with embarrassment.


"Aramis, you know," continued Athos, "is naturally cold, and then he is always involved in intrigues with women."


"I believe he is at this moment in a very complicated one," said D'Artagnan.


Athos made no reply.


"He is not curious," thought D'Artagnan.


Athos not only failed to reply, he even changed the subject of conversation.


"You see," said he, calling D'Artagnan's attention to the fact that they had come back to the château after an hour's walk, "we have made a tour of my domains."


"All is charming and everything savors of nobility," replied D'Artagnan.


At this instant they heard the sound of horses' feet.


"'Tis Raoul who has come back," said Athos; "and we can now hear how the poor child is."


In fact, the young man appeared at the gate, covered with dust, entered the courtyard, leaped from his horse, which he consigned to the charge of a groom, and then went to greet the count and D'Artagnan.


"Monsieur," said Athos, placing his hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder, "monsieur is the Chevalier D'Artagnan of whom you have often heard me speak, Raoul."


"Monsieur," said the young man, saluting again and more profoundly, "monsieur le comte has pronounced your name before me as an example whenever he wished to speak of an intrepid and generous gentleman."


That little compliment could not fail to move D'Artagnan. He extended a hand to Raoul and said:


"My young friend, all the praises that are given me should be passed on to the count here; for he has educated me in everything and it is not his fault that his pupil profited so little from his instructions. But he will make it up in you I am sure. I like your manner, Raoul, and your politeness has touched me."


Athos was more delighted than can be told. He looked at D'Artagnan with an expression of gratitude and then bestowed on Raoul one of those strange smiles, of which children are so proud when they receive them.


"Now," said D'Artagnan to himself, noticing that silent play of countenance, "I am sure of it."


"I hope the accident has been of no consequence?"


"They don't yet know, sir, on account of the swelling; but the doctor is afraid some tendon has been injured."


At this moment a little boy, half peasant, half foot-boy, came to announce supper.


Athos led his guest into a dining-room of moderate size, the windows of which opened on one side on a garden, on the other on a hot-house full of magnificent flowers.


D'Artagnan glanced at the dinner service. The plate was magnificent, old, and appertaining to the family. D'Artagnan stopped to look at a sideboard on which was a superb ewer of silver.


"That workmanship is divine!" he exclaimed.


"Yes, a chef d'œuvre of the great Florentine sculptor, Benvenuto Cellini," replied Athos.


"What battle does it represent?"


"That of Marignan, just at the point where one of my forefathers is offering his sword to Francis I., who has broken his. It was on that occasion that my ancestor, Enguerrand de la Fère, was made a knight of the Order of St. Michael; besides which, the king, fifteen years afterward, gave him also this ewer and a sword which you may have seen formerly in my house, also a lovely specimen of workmanship. Men were giants in those times," said Athos; "now we are pigmies in comparison. Let us sit down to supper. Call Charles," he added, addressing the boy who waited.


"My good Charles, I particularly recommend to your care Planchet, the laquais of Monsieur D'Artagnan. He likes good wine; now you have the key of the cellar. He has slept a long time on a hard bed, so he won't object to a soft one; take every care of him, I beg of you." Charles bowed and retired.


"You think of everything," said D'Artagnan; "and I thank you for Planchet, my dear Athos."


Raoul stared on hearing this name and looked at the count to be quite sure that it was he whom the lieutenant thus addressed.


"That name sounds strange to you," said Athos, smiling; "it was my nom de guerre when Monsieur D'Artagnan, two other gallant friends and myself performed some feats of arms at the siege of La Rochelle, under the deceased cardinal and Monsieur de Bassompierre. My friend is still so kind as to address me by that old and well beloved appellation, which makes my heart glad when I hear it."


"'Tis an illustrious name," said the lieutenant, "and had one day triumphal honors paid to it."


"What do you mean, sir?" inquired Raoul.


"You have not forgotten St. Gervais, Athos, and the napkin which was converted into a banner?" and he then related to Raoul the story of the bastion, and Raoul fancied he was listening to one of those deeds of arms belonging to days of chivalry, so gloriously recounted by Tasso and Ariosto.


"D'Artagnan does not tell you, Raoul," said Athos, in his turn, "that he was reckoned one of the finest swordsmen of his time—a knuckle of iron, a wrist of steel, a sure eye and a glance of fire; that's what his adversary met with. He was eighteen, only three years older than you are, Raoul, when I saw him set to work, pitted against tried men."


"And did Monsieur D'Artagnan come off the conqueror?" asked the young man, with glistening eye.


"I killed one man, if I recollect rightly," replied D'Artagnan, with a look of inquiry directed to Athos; "another I disarmed or wounded, I don't remember which."


"Wounded!" said Athos; "it was a phenomenon of skill."


The young man would willingly have prolonged this conversation far into the night, but Athos pointed out to him that his guest must need repose. D'Artagnan would fain have declared that he was not fatigued, but Athos insisted on his retiring to his chamber, conducted thither by Raoul.


Chapter XV. Athos as a Diplomatist.


D'Artagnan retired to bed—not to sleep, but to think over all he had heard that evening. Being naturally goodhearted, and having had once a liking for Athos, which had grown into a sincere friendship, he was delighted at thus meeting a man full of intelligence and moral strength, instead of a drunkard. He admitted without annoyance the continued superiority of Athos over himself, devoid as he was of that jealousy which might have saddened a less generous disposition; he was delighted also that the high qualities of Athos appeared to promise favorably for his mission. Nevertheless, it seemed to him that Athos was not in all respects sincere and frank. Who was the youth he had adopted and who bore so striking a resemblance to him? What could explain Athos's having re-entered the world and the extreme sobriety he had observed at table? The absence of Grimaud, whose name had never once been uttered by Athos, gave D'Artagnan uneasiness. It was evident either that he no longer possessed the confidence of his friend, or that Athos was bound by some invisible chain, or that he had been forewarned of the lieutenant's visit.


He could not help thinking of M. Rochefort, whom he had seen in Notre Dame; could De Rochefort have forestalled him with Athos? Again, the moderate fortune which Athos possessed, concealed as it was, so skillfully, seemed to show a regard for appearances and to betray a latent ambition which might be easily aroused. The clear and vigorous intellect of Athos would render him more open to conviction than a less able man would be. He would enter into the minister's schemes with the more ardor, because his natural activity would be doubled by necessity.


Resolved to seek an explanation on all these points on the following day, D'Artagnan, in spite of his fatigue, prepared for an attack and determined that it should take place after breakfast. He determined to cultivate the good-will of the youth Raoul and, either whilst fencing with him or when out shooting, to extract from his simplicity some information which would connect the Athos of old times with the Athos of the present. But D'Artagnan at the same time, being a man of extreme caution, was quite aware what injury he should do himself, if by any indiscretion or awkwardness he should betray has manoeuvering to the experienced eye of Athos. Besides, to tell truth, whilst D'Artagnan was quite disposed to adopt a subtle course against the cunning of Aramis or the vanity of Porthos, he was ashamed to equivocate with Athos, true-hearted, open Athos. It seemed to him that if Porthos and Aramis deemed him superior to them in the arts of diplomacy, they would like him all the better for it; but that Athos, on the contrary, would despise him.


"Ah! why is not Grimaud, the taciturn Grimaud, here?" thought D'Artagnan, "there are so many things his silence would have told me; with Grimaud silence was another form of eloquence!"


There reigned a perfect stillness in the house. D'Artagnan had heard the door shut and the shutters barred; the dogs became in their turn silent. At last a nightingale, lost in a thicket of shrubs, in the midst of its most melodious cadences had fluted low and lower into stillness and fallen asleep. Not a sound was heard in the castle, except of a footstep up and down, in the chamber above—as he supposed, the bedroom of Athos.


"He is walking about and thinking," thought D'Artagnan; "but of what? It is impossible to know; everything else might be guessed, but not that."


At length Athos went to bed, apparently, for the noise ceased.


Silence and fatigue together overcame D'Artagnan and sleep overtook him also. He was not, however, a good sleeper. Scarcely had dawn gilded his window curtains when he sprang out of bed and opened the windows. Somebody, he perceived, was in the courtyard, moving stealthily. True to his custom of never passing anything over that it was within his power to know, D'Artagnan looked out of the window and perceived the close red coat and brown hair of Raoul.


The young man was opening the door of the stable. He then, with noiseless haste, took out the horse that he had ridden on the previous evening, saddled and bridled it himself and led the animal into the alley to the right of the kitchen-garden, opened a side door which conducted him to a bridle road, shut it after him, and D'Artagnan saw him pass by like a dart, bending, as he went, beneath the pendent flowery branches of maple and acacia. The road, as D'Artagnan had observed, was the way to Blois.


"So!" thought the Gascon "here's a young blade who has already his love affair, who doesn't at all agree with Athos in his hatred to the fair sex. He's not going to hunt, for he has neither dogs nor arms; he's not going on a message, for he goes secretly. Why does he go in secret? Is he afraid of me or of his father? for I am sure the count is his father. By Jove! I shall know about that soon, for I shall soon speak out to Athos."


Day was now advanced; all the noises that had ceased the night before reawakened, one after the other. The bird on the branch, the dog in his kennel, the sheep in the field, the boats moored in the Loire, even, became alive and vocal. The latter, leaving the shore, abandoned themselves gaily to the current. The Gascon gave a last twirl to his mustache, a last turn to his hair, brushed, from habit, the brim of his hat with the sleeve of his doublet, and went downstairs. Scarcely had he descended the last step of the threshold when he saw Athos bent down toward the ground, as if he were looking for a crown-piece in the dust.


"Good-morning, my dear host," cried D'Artagnan.


"Good-day to you; have you slept well?"


"Excellently, Athos, but what are you looking for? You are perhaps a tulip fancier?"


"My dear friend, if I am, you must not laugh at me for being so. In the country people alter; one gets to like, without knowing it, all those beautiful objects that God causes to spring from the earth, which are despised in cities. I was looking anxiously for some iris roots I planted here, close to this reservoir, and which some one has trampled upon this morning. These gardeners are the most careless people in the world; in bringing the horse out to the water they've allowed him to walk over the border."


And he took his friend along the alley, where a number of tracks like those which had trampled down the flowerbeds, were visible.


"Here are the horse's hoofs again, it seems, Athos," he said carelessly.


"Yes, indeed, the marks are recent."


"Quite so," replied the lieutenant.


"Who went out this morning?" Athos asked, uneasily. "Has any horse got loose?"


"Not likely," answered the Gascon; "these marks are regular."


"Where is Raoul?" asked Athos; "how is it that I have not seen him?"


"Hush!" exclaimed D'Artagnan, putting his finger on his lips; and he related what he had seen, watching Athos all the while.


"Ah, he's gone to Blois; the poor boy——"


"Wherefore?"


"Ah, to inquire after the little La Vallière; she has sprained her foot, you know."


"You think he has?"


"I am sure of it," said Athos; "don't you see that Raoul is in love?"


"Indeed! with whom—with a child seven years old?"


"Dear friend, at Raoul's age the heart is so expansive that it must encircle one object or another, fancied or real. Well, his love is half real, half fanciful. She is the prettiest little creature in the world, with flaxen hair, blue eyes,—at once saucy and languishing."


"But what say you to Raoul's fancy?"


"Nothing—I laugh at Raoul; but this first desire of the heart is imperious. I remember, just at his age, how deep in love I was with a Grecian statue which our good king, then Henry IV., gave my father, insomuch that I was mad with grief when they told me that the story of Pygmalion was nothing but a fable."


"It is mere want of occupation. You do not make Raoul work, so he takes his own way of employing himself."


"Exactly; therefore I think of sending him away from here."


"You will be wise to do so."


"No doubt of it; but it will break his heart. So long as three or four years ago he used to adorn and adore his little idol, whom he will some day fall in love with in right earnest if he remains here. The parents of little La Vallière have for a long time perceived and been amused at it; now they begin to look concerned."


"Nonsense! However, Raoul must be diverted from this fancy. Send him away or you will never make a man of him."


"I think I shall send him to Paris."


"So!" thought D'Artagnan, and it seemed to him that the moment for attack had arrived.


"Suppose," he said, "we roughly chalk out a career for this young man. I wish to consult you about some thing."


"Do you think it is time for us to enter the service?"


"But are you not still in the service—you, D'Artagnan?"


"I mean active service. Our former life, has it still no attractions for you? would you not be happy to begin anew in my society and in that of Porthos, the exploits of our youth?"


"Decidedly and honestly."


"On whose side?" asked Athos, fixing his clear, benevolent glance on the countenance of the Gascon.


"Ah, devil take it, you speak in earnest——"


"And must have a definite answer. Listen, D'Artagnan. There is but one person, or rather, one cause, to whom a man like me can be useful—that of the king."


"Exactly," answered the musketeer.


"Yes, but let us understand each other," returned Athos, seriously. "If by the cause of the king you mean that of Monsieur de Mazarin, we do not understand each other."


"I don't say exactly," answered the Gascon, confused.


"Come, D'Artagnan, don't let us play a sidelong game; your hesitation, your evasion, tells me at once on whose side you are; for that party no one dares openly to recruit, and when people recruit for it, it is with averted eyes and humble voice."


"Ah! my dear Athos!"


"You know that I am not alluding to you; you are the pearl of brave, bold men. I speak of that spiteful and intriguing Italian—of the pedant who has tried to put on his own head a crown which he stole from under a pillow—of the scoundrel who calls his party the party of the king—who wants to send the princes of the blood to prison, not daring to kill them, as our great cardinal—our cardinal did—of the miser, who weighs his gold pieces and keeps the clipped ones for fear, though he is rich, of losing them at play next morning—of the impudent fellow who insults the queen, as they say—so much the worse for her—and who is going in three months to make war upon us, in order that he may retain his pensions; is that the master whom you propose to me? I thank you, D'Artagnan."


"You are more impetuous than you were," returned D'Artagnan. "Age has warmed, not chilled your blood. Who informed you this was the master I propose to you? Devil take it," he muttered to himself, "don't let me betray my secrets to a man not inclined to entertain them."


"Well, then," said Athos, "what are your schemes? what do you propose?"


"Zounds! nothing more than natural. You live on your estate, happy in golden mediocrity. Porthos has, perhaps, sixty thousand francs income. Aramis has always fifty duchesses quarreling over the priest, as they quarreled formerly over the musketeer; but I—what have I in the world? I have worn my cuirass these twenty years, kept down in this inferior rank, without going forward or backward, hardly half living. In fact, I am dead. Well! when there is some idea of being resuscitated, you say he's a scoundrel, an impudent fellow, a miser, a bad master! By Jove! I am of your opinion, but find me a better one or give me the means of living."


Athos was for a few moments thoughtful.


"Good! D'Artagnan is for Mazarin," he said to himself.


From that moment he grew very guarded.


On his side D'Artagnan became more cautious also.


"You spoke to me," Athos resumed, "of Porthos; have you persuaded him to seek his fortune? But he has wealth, I believe, already."


"Doubtless he has. But such is man, we always want something more than we already have."


"What does Porthos wish for?"


"To be a baron."


"Ah, true! I forgot," said Athos, laughing.


"'Tis true!" thought the Gascon, "where has he heard it? Does he correspond with Aramis? Ah! if I knew that he did I should know all."


The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Raoul.


"Is our little neighbor worse?" asked D'Artagnan, seeing a look of vexation on the face of the youth.


"Ah, sir!" replied Raoul, "her fall is a very serious one, and without any ostensible injury, the physician fears she will be lame for life."


"This is terrible," said Athos.


"And what makes me all the more wretched, sir, is, that I was the cause of this misfortune."


"How so?" asked Athos.


"It was to run to meet me that she leaped from that pile of wood."


"There's only one remedy, dear Raoul—that is, to marry her as a compensation." remarked D'Artagnan.


"Ah, sir!" answered Raoul, "you joke about a real misfortune; that is cruel, indeed."


The good understanding between the two friends was not in the least altered by the morning's skirmish. They breakfasted with a good appetite, looking now and then at poor Raoul, who with moist eyes and a full heart, scarcely ate at all.


After breakfast two letters arrived for Athos, who read them with profound attention, whilst D'Artagnan could not restrain himself from jumping up several times on seeing him read these epistles, in one of which, there being at the time a very strong light, he perceived the fine writing of Aramis. The other was in a feminine hand, long, and crossed.


"Come," said D'Artagnan to Raoul, seeing that Athos wished to be alone, "come, let us take a turn in the fencing gallery; that will amuse you."


And they both went into a low room where there were foils, gloves, masks, breastplates, and all the accessories for a fencing match.


In a quarter of an hour Athos joined them and at the same moment Charles brought in a letter for D'Artagnan, which a messenger had just desired might be instantly delivered.


It was now Athos's turn to take a sly look.


D'Artagnan read the letter with apparent calmness and said, shaking his head:


"See, dear friend, what it is to belong to the army. Faith, you are indeed right not to return to it. Monsieur de Tréville is ill, so my company can't do without me; there! my leave is at an end!"


"Do you return to Paris?" asked Athos, quickly.


"Egad! yes; but why don't you come there also?"


Athos colored a little and answered:


"Should I go, I shall be delighted to see you there."


"Halloo, Planchet!" cried the Gascon from the door, "we must set out in ten minutes; give the horses some hay."


Then turning to Athos he added:


"I seem to miss something here. I am really sorry to go away without having seen Grimaud."


"Grimaud!" replied Athos. "I'm surprised you have never so much as asked after him. I have lent him to a friend——"


"Who will understand the signs he makes?" returned D'Artagnan.


"I hope so."


The friends embraced cordially; D'Artagnan pressed Raoul's hand.


"Will you not come with me?" he said; "I shall pass by Blois."


Raoul turned toward Athos, who showed him by a secret sign that he did not wish him to go.


"No, monsieur," replied the young man; "I will remain with monsieur le comte."


"Adieu, then, to both, my good friends," said D'Artagnan; "may God preserve you! as we used to say when we said good-bye to each other in the late cardinal's time."


Athos waved his hand, Raoul bowed, and D'Artagnan and Planchet set out.


The count followed them with his eyes, his hands resting on the shoulders of the youth, whose height was almost equal to his own; but as soon as they were out of sight he said:


"Raoul, we set out to-night for Paris."


"Eh?" cried the young man, turning pale.


"You may go and offer your adieux and mine to Madame de Saint-Remy. I shall wait for you here till seven."


The young man bent low, with an expression of sorrow and gratitude mingled, and retired in order to saddle his horse.


As to D'Artagnan, scarcely, on his side, was he out of sight when he drew from his pocket a letter, which he read over again:


"Return immediately to Paris.—J. M——."


"The epistle is laconic," said D'Artagnan; "and if there had not been a postscript, probably I should not have understood it; but happily there is a postscript."


And he read that welcome postscript, which made him forget the abruptness of the letter.


"P. S.—Go to the king's treasurer, at Blois; tell him your name and show him this letter; you will receive two hundred pistoles."


"Assuredly," said D'Artagnan, "I admire this piece of prose. The cardinal writes better than I thought. Come, Planchet, let us pay a visit to the king's treasurer and then set off."


"Toward Paris, sir?"


"Toward Paris."


And they set out at as hard a canter as their horses could maintain.


The circumstances that had hastened the return of D'Artagnan to Paris were as follows:


One evening, when Mazarin, according to custom, went to visit the queen, in passing the guard-chamber he heard loud voices; wishing to know on what topic the soldiers were conversing, he approached with his wonted wolf-like step, pushed open the door and put his head close to the chink.


There was a dispute among the guards.


"I tell you," one of them was saying, "that if Coysel predicted that, 'tis as good as true; I know nothing about it, but I have heard say that he's not only an astrologer, but a magician."


"Deuce take it, friend, if he's one of thy friends thou wilt ruin him in saying so."


"Because he may be tried for it."


"Ah! absurd! they don't burn sorcerers nowadays."


"No? 'Tis not a long time since the late cardinal burnt Urban Grandier, though."


"My friend, Urban Grandier wasn't a sorcerer, he was a learned man. He didn't predict the future, he knew the past—often a more dangerous thing."


Mazarin nodded an assent, but wishing to know what this prediction was, about which they disputed, he remained in the same place.


"I don't say," resumed the guard, "that Coysel is not a sorcerer, but I say that if his prophecy gets wind, it's a sure way to prevent it's coming true."


"Why, in this way: if Coysel says loud enough for the cardinal to hear him, on such or such a day such a prisoner will escape, 'tis plain that the cardinal will take measures of precaution and that the prisoner will not escape."


"Good Lord!" said another guard, who might have been thought asleep on a bench, but who had lost not a syllable of the conversation, "do you suppose that men can escape their destiny? If it is written yonder, in Heaven, that the Duc de Beaufort is to escape, he will escape; and all the precautions of the cardinal will not prevent it."


Mazarin started. He was an Italian and therefore superstitious. He walked straight into the midst of the guards, who on seeing him were silent.


"What were you saying?" he asked with his flattering manner; "that Monsieur de Beaufort had escaped, were you not?"


"Oh, no, my lord!" said the incredulous soldier. "He's well guarded now; we only said he would escape."


"Repeat your story, Saint Laurent," replied the man, turning to the originator of the tale.


"My lord," said the guard, "I have simply mentioned the prophecy I heard from a man named Coysel, who believes that, be he ever so closely watched and guarded, the Duke of Beaufort will escape before Whitsuntide."


"Coysel is a madman!" returned the cardinal.


"No," replied the soldier, tenacious in his credulity; "he has foretold many things which have come to pass; for instance, that the queen would have a son; that Monsieur Coligny would be killed in a duel with the Duc de Guise; and finally, that the coadjutor would be made cardinal. Well! the queen has not only one son, but two; then, Monsieur de Coligny was killed, and——"


"Yes," said Mazarin, "but the coadjutor is not yet made cardinal!"


"No, my lord, but he will be," answered the guard.


Mazarin made a grimace, as if he meant to say, "But he does not wear the cardinal's cap;" then he added:


"So, my friend, it's your opinion that Monsieur de Beaufort will escape?"


"That's my idea, my lord; and if your eminence were to offer to make me at this moment governor of the castle of Vincennes, I should refuse it. After Whitsuntide it would be another thing."


There is nothing so convincing as a firm conviction. It has its own effect upon the most incredulous; and far from being incredulous, Mazarin was superstitious. He went away thoughtful and anxious and returned to his own room, where he summoned Bernouin and desired him to fetch thither in the morning the special guard he had placed over Monsieur de Beaufort and to awaken him whenever he should arrive.


The guard had, in fact, touched the cardinal in the tenderest point. During the whole five years in which the Duc de Beaufort had been in prison not a day had passed in which the cardinal had not felt a secret dread of his escape. It was not possible, as he knew well, to confine for the whole of his life the grandson of Henry IV., especially when this young prince was scarcely thirty years of age. But however and whensoever he did escape, what hatred he must cherish against him to whom he owed his long imprisonment; who had taken him, rich, brave, glorious, beloved by women, feared by men, to cut off his life's best, happiest years; for it is not life, it is merely existence, in prison! Meantime, Mazarin redoubled his surveillance over the duke. But like the miser in the fable, he could not sleep for thinking of his treasure. Often he awoke in the night, suddenly, dreaming that he had been robbed of Monsieur de Beaufort. Then he inquired about him and had the vexation of hearing that the prisoner played, drank, sang, but that whilst playing, drinking, singing, he often stopped short to vow that Mazarin should pay dear for all the amusements he had forced him to enter into at Vincennes.


So much did this one idea haunt the cardinal even in his sleep, that when at seven in the morning Bernouin came to arouse him, his first words were: "Well, what's the matter? Has Monsieur de Beaufort escaped from Vincennes?"


"I do not think so, my lord," said Bernouin; "but you will hear about him, for La Ramee is here and awaits the commands of your eminence."


"Tell him to come in," said Mazarin, arranging his pillows, so that he might receive the visitor sitting up in bed.


The officer entered, a large fat man, with an open physiognomy. His air of perfect serenity made Mazarin uneasy.


"Approach, sir," said the cardinal.


The officer obeyed.


"Do you know what they are saying here?"


"Well, they say that Monsieur de Beaufort is going to escape from Vincennes, if he has not done so already."


The officer's face expressed complete stupefaction. He opened at once his little eyes and his great mouth, to inhale better the joke his eminence deigned to address to him, and ended by a burst of laughter, so violent that his great limbs shook in hilarity as they would have done in an ague.


"Escape! my lord—escape! Your eminence does not then know where Monsieur de Beaufort is?"


"Yes, I do, sir; in the donjon of Vincennes."


"Yes, sir; in a room, the walls of which are seven feet thick, with grated windows, each bar as thick as my arm."


"Sir," replied Mazarin, "with perseverance one may penetrate through a wall; with a watch-spring one may saw through an iron bar."


"Then my lord does not know that there are eight guards about him, four in his chamber, four in the antechamber, and that they never leave him."


"But he leaves his room, he plays at tennis at the Mall?"


"Sir, those amusements are allowed; but if your eminence wishes it, we will discontinue the permission."


"No, no!" cried Mazarin, fearing that should his prisoner ever leave his prison he would be the more exasperated against him if he thus retrenched his amusement. He then asked with whom he played.


"My lord, either with the officers of the guard, with the other prisoners, or with me."


"But does he not approach the walls while playing?"


"Your eminence doesn't know those walls; they are sixty feet high and I doubt if Monsieur de Beaufort is sufficiently weary of life to risk his neck by jumping off."


"Hum!" said the cardinal, beginning to feel more comfortable. "You mean to say, then, my dear Monsieur la Ramee——"


"That unless Monsieur de Beaufort can contrive to metamorphose himself into a little bird, I will continue answerable for him."


"Take care! you assert a great deal," said Mazarin. "Monsieur de Beaufort told the guards who took him to Vincennes that he had often thought what he should do in case he were put into prison, and that he had found out forty ways of escaping."


"My lord, if among these forty there had been one good way he would have been out long ago."


"Come, come; not such a fool as I fancied!" thought Mazarin.


"Besides, my lord must remember that Monsieur de Chavigny is governor of Vincennes," continued La Ramee, "and that Monsieur de Chavigny is not friendly to Monsieur de Beaufort."


"When he is absent I am there."


"But when you leave him, for instance?"


"Oh! when I leave him, I place in my stead a bold fellow who aspires to be his majesty's special guard. I promise you he keeps a good watch over the prisoner. During the three weeks that he has been with me, I have only had to reproach him with one thing—being too severe with the prisoners."


"And who is this Cerberus?"


"And what was he before he went to Vincennes?"


"He was in the country, as I was told by the person who recommended him to me."


"And who recommended this man to you?"


"The steward of the Duc de Grammont."


"He is not a gossip, I hope?"


"Lord a mercy, my lord! I thought for a long time that he was dumb; he answers only by signs. It seems his former master accustomed him to that."


"Well, dear Monsieur la Ramee," replied the cardinal "let him prove a true and thankful keeper and we will shut our eyes upon his rural misdeeds and put on his back a uniform to make him respectable, and in the pockets of that uniform some pistoles to drink to the king's health."


Mazarin was large in promises,—quite unlike the virtuous Monsieur Grimaud so bepraised by La Ramee; for he said nothing and did much.


It was now nine o'clock. The cardinal, therefore, got up, perfumed himself, dressed, and went to the queen to tell her what had detained him. The queen, who was scarcely less afraid of Monsieur de Beaufort than the cardinal himself, and who was almost as superstitious as he was, made him repeat word for word all La Ramee's praises of his deputy. Then, when the cardinal had ended:


"Alas, sir! why have we not a Grimaud near every prince?"


"Patience!" replied Mazarin, with his Italian smile; "that may happen one day; but in the meantime——"


"Well, in the meantime?"


"I shall still take precautions."


And he wrote to D'Artagnan to hasten his return.


Chapter XVII. Duc de Beaufort amused his Leisure Hours in the Donjon of Vincennes.


The captive who was the source of so much alarm to the cardinal and whose means of escape disturbed the repose of the whole court, was wholly unconscious of the terror he caused at the Palais Royal.


He had found himself so strictly guarded that he soon perceived the fruitlessness of any attempt at escape. His vengeance, therefore, consisted in coining curses on the head of Mazarin; he even tried to make some verses on him, but soon gave up the attempt, for Monsieur de Beaufort had not only not received from Heaven the gift of versifying, he had the greatest difficulty in expressing himself in prose.


The duke was the grandson of Henry IV. and Gabrielle d'Estrées—as good-natured, as brave, as proud, and above all, as Gascon as his ancestor, but less elaborately educated. After having been for some time after the death of Louis XIII. the favorite, the confidant, the first man, in short, at the court, he had been obliged to yield his place to Mazarin and so became the second in influence and favor; and eventually, as he was stupid enough to be vexed at this change of position, the queen had had him arrested and sent to Vincennes in charge of Guitant, who made his appearance in these pages in the beginning of this history and whom we shall see again. It is understood, of course, that when we say "the queen," Mazarin is meant.


During the five years of this seclusion, which would have improved and matured the intellect of any other man, M. de Beaufort, had he not affected to brave the cardinal, despise princes, and walk alone without adherents or disciples, would either have regained his liberty or made partisans. But these considerations never occurred to the duke and every day the cardinal received fresh accounts of him which were as unpleasant as possible to the minister.


After having failed in poetry, Monsieur de Beaufort tried drawing. He drew portraits, with a piece of coal, of the cardinal; and as his talents did not enable him to produce a very good likeness, he wrote under the picture that there might be little doubt regarding the original: "Portrait of the Illustrious Coxcomb, Mazarin." Monsieur de Chavigny, the governor of Vincennes, waited upon the duke to request that he would amuse himself in some other way, or that at all events, if he drew likenesses, he would not put mottoes underneath them. The next day the prisoner's room was full of pictures and mottoes. Monsieur de Beaufort, in common with many other prisoners, was bent upon doing things that were prohibited; and the only resource the governor had was, one day when the duke was playing at tennis, to efface all these drawings, consisting chiefly of profiles. M. de Beaufort did not venture to draw the cardinal's fat face.


The duke thanked Monsieur de Chavigny for having, as he said, cleaned his drawing-paper for him; he then divided the walls of his room into compartments and dedicated each of these compartments to some incident in Mazarin's life. In one was depicted the "Illustrious Coxcomb" receiving a shower of blows from Cardinal Bentivoglio, whose servant he had been; another, the "Illustrious Mazarin" acting the part of Ignatius Loyola in a tragedy of that name; a third, the "Illustrious Mazarin" stealing the portfolio of prime minister from Monsieur de Chavigny, who had expected to have it; a fourth, the "Illustrious Coxcomb Mazarin" refusing to give Laporte, the young king's valet, clean sheets, and saving that "it was quite enough for the king of France to have clean sheets every three months."


The governor, of course, thought proper to threaten his prisoner that if he did not give up drawing such pictures he should be obliged to deprive him of all the means of amusing himself in that manner. To this Monsieur de Beaufort replied that since every opportunity of distinguishing himself in arms was taken from him, he wished to make himself celebrated in the arts; since he could not be a Bayard, he would become a Raphael or a Michael Angelo. Nevertheless, one day when Monsieur de Beaufort was walking in the meadow his fire was put out, his charcoal all removed, taken away; and thus his means of drawing utterly destroyed.


The poor duke swore, fell into a rage, yelled, and declared that they wished to starve him to death as they had starved the Maréchal Ornano and the Grand Prior of Vendôme; but he refused to promise that he would not make any more drawings and remained without any fire in the room all the winter.


His next act was to purchase a dog from one of his keepers. With this animal, which he called Pistache, he was often shut up for hours alone, superintending, as every one supposed, its education. At last, when Pistache was sufficiently well trained, Monsieur de Beaufort invited the governor and officers of Vincennes to attend a representation which he was going to have in his apartment.


The party assembled, the room was lighted with waxlights, and the prisoner, with a bit of plaster he had taken out of the wall of his room, had traced a long white line, representing a cord, on the floor. Pistache, on a signal from his master, placed himself on this line, raised himself on his hind paws, and holding in his front paws a wand with which clothes used to be beaten, he began to dance upon the line with as many contortions as a rope-dancer. Having been several times up and down it, he gave the wand back to his master and began without hesitation to perform the same evolutions over again.


The intelligent creature was received with loud applause.


The first part of the entertainment being concluded Pistache was desired to say what o'clock it was; he was shown Monsieur de Chavigny's watch; it was then half-past six; the dog raised and dropped his paw six times; the seventh he let it remain upraised. Nothing could be better done; a sun-dial could not have shown the hour with greater precision.


Then the question was put to him who was the best jailer in all the prisons in France.


The dog performed three evolutions around the circle and laid himself, with the deepest respect, at the feet of Monsieur de Chavigny, who at first seemed inclined to like the joke and laughed long and loud, but a frown succeeded, and he bit his lips with vexation.


Then the duke put to Pistache this difficult question, who was the greatest thief in the world?


Pistache went again around the circle, but stopped at no one, and at last went to the door and began to scratch and bark.


"See, gentlemen," said M. de Beaufort, "this wonderful animal, not finding here what I ask for, seeks it out of doors; you shall, however, have his answer. Pistache, my friend, come here. Is not the greatest thief in the world, Monsieur (the king's secretary) Le Camus, who came to Paris with twenty francs in his pocket and who now possesses ten millions?"


The dog shook his head.


"Then is it not," resumed the duke, "the Superintendent Emery, who gave his son, when he was married, three hundred thousand francs and a house, compared to which the Tuileries are a heap of ruins and the Louvre a paltry building?"


The dog again shook his head as if to say "no."


"Then," said the prisoner, "let's think who it can be. Can it be, can it possibly be, the 'Illustrious Coxcomb, Mazarin de Piscina,' hey?"


Pistache made violent signs that it was, by raising and lowering his head eight or ten times successively.


"Gentlemen, you see," said the duke to those present, who dared not even smile, "that it is the 'Illustrious Coxcomb' who is the greatest thief in the world; at least, according to Pistache."


"Let us go on to another of his exercises."


"Gentlemen!"—there was a profound silence in the room when the duke again addressed them—"do you not remember that the Duc de Guise taught all the dogs in Paris to jump for Mademoiselle de Pons, whom he styled 'the fairest of the fair?' Pistache is going to show you how superior he is to all other dogs. Monsieur de Chavigny, be so good as to lend me your cane."


Monsieur de Chavigny handed his cane to Monsieur de Beaufort. Monsieur de Beaufort placed it horizontally at the height of one foot.


"Now, Pistache, my good dog, jump the height of this cane for Madame de Montbazon."


"But," interposed Monsieur de Chavigny, "it seems to me that Pistache is only doing what other dogs have done when they jumped for Mademoiselle de Pons."


"Stop," said the duke, "Pistache, jump for the queen." And he raised his cane six inches higher.


The dog sprang, and in spite of the height jumped lightly over it.


"And now," said the duke, raising it still six inches higher, "jump for the king."


The dog obeyed and jumped quickly over the cane.


"Now, then," said the duke, and as he spoke, lowered the cane almost level with the ground; "Pistache, my friend, jump for the 'Illustrious Coxcomb, Mazarin de Piscina.'"


The dog turned his back to the cane.


"What," asked the duke, "what do you mean?" and he gave him the cane again, first making a semicircle from the head to the tail of Pistache. "Jump then, Monsieur Pistache."


But Pistache, as at first, turned round on his legs and stood with his back to the cane.


Monsieur de Beaufort made the experiment a third time, but by this time Pistache's patience was exhausted; he threw himself furiously upon the cane, wrested it from the hands of the prince and broke it with his teeth.


Monsieur de Beaufort took the pieces out of his mouth and presented them with great formality to Monsieur de Chavigny, saying that for that evening the entertainment was ended, but in three months it should be repeated, when Pistache would have learned a few new tricks.


Three days afterward Pistache was found dead—poisoned.


Then the duke said openly that his dog had been killed by a drug with which they meant to poison him; and one day after dinner he went to bed, calling out that he had pains in his stomach and that Mazarin had poisoned him.


This fresh impertinence reached the ears of the cardinal and alarmed him greatly. The donjon of Vincennes was considered very unhealthy and Madame de Rambouillet had said that the room in which the Maréchal Ornano and the Grand Prior de Vendôme had died was worth its weight in arsenic—a bon mot which had great success. So it was ordered the prisoner was henceforth to eat nothing that had not previously been tasted, and La Ramee was in consequence placed near him as taster.


Every kind of revenge was practiced upon the duke by the governor in return for the insults of the innocent Pistache. De Chavigny, who, according to report, was a son of Richelieu's, and had been a creature of the late cardinal's, understood tyranny. He took from the duke all the steel knives and silver forks and replaced them with silver knives and wooden forks, pretending that as he had been informed that the duke was to pass all his life at Vincennes, he was afraid of his prisoner attempting suicide. A fortnight afterward the duke, going to the tennis court, found two rows of trees about the size of his little finger planted by the roadside; he asked what they were for and was told that they were to shade him from the sun on some future day. One morning the gardener went to him and told him, as if to please him, that he was going to plant a bed of asparagus for his especial use. Now, since, as every one knows, asparagus takes four years in coming to perfection, this civility infuriated Monsieur de Beaufort.


At last his patience was exhausted. He assembled his keepers, and notwithstanding his well-known difficulty of utterance, addressed them as follows:


"Gentlemen! will you permit a grandson of Henry IV. to be overwhelmed with insults and ignominy?


"Odds fish! as my grandfather used to say, I once reigned in Paris! do you know that? I had the king and Monsieur the whole of one day in my care. The queen at that time liked me and called me the most honest man in the kingdom. Gentlemen and citizens, set me free; I shall go to the Louvre and strangle Mazarin. You shall be my body-guard. I will make you all captains, with good pensions! Odds fish! On! march forward!"


But eloquent as he might be, the eloquence of the grandson of Henry IV. did not touch those hearts of stone; not one man stirred, so Monsieur de Beaufort was obliged to be satisfied with calling them all kinds of rascals underneath the sun.


Sometimes, when Monsieur de Chavigny paid him a visit, the duke used to ask him what he should think if he saw an army of Parisians, all fully armed, appear at Vincennes to deliver him from prison.


"My lord," answered De Chavigny, with a low bow, "I have on the ramparts twenty pieces of artillery and in my casemates thirty thousand guns. I should bombard the troops till not one grain of gunpowder was unexploded."


"Yes, but after you had fired off your thirty thousand guns they would take the donjon; the donjon being taken, I should be obliged to let them hang you—at which I should be most unhappy, certainly."


And in his turn the duke bowed low to Monsieur de Chavigny.


"For myself, on the other hand, my lord," returned the governor, "when the first rebel should pass the threshold of my postern doors I should be obliged to kill you with my own hand, since you were confided peculiarly to my care and as I am obliged to give you up, dead or alive."


And once more he bowed low before his highness.


These bitter-sweet pleasantries lasted ten minutes, sometimes longer, but always finished thus:


Monsieur de Chavigny, turning toward the door, used to call out: "Halloo! La Ramee!"


La Ramee came into the room.


"La Ramee, I recommend Monsieur le Duc to you, particularly; treat him as a man of his rank and family ought to be treated; that is, never leave him alone an instant."


La Ramee became, therefore, the duke's dinner guest by compulsion—an eternal keeper, the shadow of his person; but La Ramee—gay, frank, convivial, fond of play, a great hand at tennis, had one defect in the duke's eyes—his incorruptibility.


Now, although La Ramee appreciated, as of a certain value, the honor of being shut up with a prisoner of so great importance, still the pleasure of living in intimacy with the grandson of Henry IV. hardly compensated for the loss of that which he had experienced in going from time to time to visit his family.


One may be a jailer or a keeper and at the same time a good father and husband. La Ramee adored his wife and children, whom now he could only catch a glimpse of from the top of the wall, when in order to please him they used to walk on the opposite side of the moat. 'Twas too brief an enjoyment, and La Ramee felt that the gayety of heart he had regarded as the cause of health (of which it was perhaps rather the result) would not long survive such a mode of life.


He accepted, therefore, with delight, an offer made to him by his friend the steward of the Duc de Grammont, to give him a substitute; he also spoke of it to Monsieur de Chavigny, who promised that he would not oppose it in any way—that is, if he approved of the person proposed.


We consider it useless to draw a physical or moral portrait of Grimaud; if, as we hope, our readers have not wholly forgotten the first part of this work, they must have preserved a clear idea of that estimable individual, who is wholly unchanged, except that he is twenty years older, an advance in life that has made him only more silent; although, since the change that had been working in himself, Athos had given Grimaud permission to speak.


But Grimaud had for twelve or fifteen years preserved habitual silence, and a habit of fifteen or twenty years' duration becomes second nature.


Chapter XVIII. Grimaud begins his Functions.


Grimaud thereupon presented himself with his smooth exterior at the donjon of Vincennes. Now Monsieur de Chavigny piqued himself on his infallible penetration; for that which almost proved that he was the son of Richelieu was his everlasting pretension; he examined attentively the countenance of the applicant for place and fancied that the contracted eyebrows, thin lips, hooked nose, and prominent cheek-bones of Grimaud were favorable signs. He addressed about twelve words to him; Grimaud answered in four.


"Here's a promising fellow and it is I who have found out his merits," said Monsieur de Chavigny. "Go," he added, "and make yourself agreeable to Monsieur la Ramee, and tell him that you suit me in all respects."


Grimaud had every quality that could attract a man on duty who wishes to have a deputy. So, after a thousand questions which met with only a word in reply, La Ramee, fascinated by this sobriety in speech, rubbed his hands and engaged Grimaud.


"They are these; never to leave the prisoner alone; to keep away from him every pointed or cutting instrument, and to prevent his conversing any length of time with the keepers."


"Those are all?" asked Grimaud.


"All now," replied La Ramee.


"Good," answered Grimaud; and he went right to the prisoner.


The duke was in the act of combing his beard, which he had allowed to grow, as well as his hair, in order to reproach Mazarin with his wretched appearance and condition. But having some days previously seen from the top of the donjon Madame de Montbazon pass in her carriage, and still cherishing an affection for that beautiful woman, he did not wish to be to her what he wished to be to Mazarin, and in the hope of seeing her again, had asked for a leaden comb, which was allowed him. The comb was to be a leaden one, because his beard, like that of most fair people, was rather red; he therefore dyed it thus whilst combing it.


As Grimaud entered he saw this comb on the tea-table; he took it up, and as he took it he made a low bow.


The duke looked at this strange figure with surprise. The figure put the comb in its pocket.


"Ho! hey! what's that?" cried the duke. "Who is this creature?"


Grimaud did not answer, but bowed a second time.


"Art thou dumb?" cried the duke.


Grimaud made a sign that he was not.


"What art thou, then? Answer! I command thee!" said the duke.


"A keeper!" reiterated the duke; "there was nothing wanting in my collection, except this gallows-bird. Halloo! La Ramee! some one!"


La Ramee ran in haste to obey the call.


"Who is this wretch who takes my comb and puts it in his pocket?" asked the duke.


"One of your guards, my prince; a man of talent and merit, whom you will like, as I and Monsieur de Chavigny do, I am sure."


"Why does he take my comb?"


"Why do you take my lord's comb?" asked La Ramee.


Grimaud drew the comb from his pocket and passing his fingers over the largest teeth, pronounced this one word, "Pointed."


"What does the animal say?" asked the duke.


"That the king has forbidden your lordship to have any pointed instrument."


"Are you mad, La Ramee? You yourself gave me this comb."


"I was very wrong, my lord, for in giving it to you I acted in opposition to my orders."


The duke looked furiously at Grimaud.


"I perceive that this creature will be my particular aversion," he muttered.


Grimaud, nevertheless, was resolved for certain reasons not at once to come to a full rupture with the prisoner; he wanted to inspire, not a sudden repugnance, but a good, sound, steady hatred; he retired, therefore, and gave place to four guards, who, having breakfasted, could attend on the prisoner.


A fresh practical joke now occurred to the duke. He had asked for crawfish for his breakfast on the following morning; he intended to pass the day in making a small gallows and hang one of the finest of these fish in the middle of his room—the red color evidently conveying an allusion to the cardinal—so that he might have the pleasure of hanging Mazarin in effigy without being accused of having hung anything more significant than a crawfish.


The day was employed in preparations for the execution. Every one grows childish in prison, but the character of Monsieur de Beaufort was particularly disposed to become so. In the course of his morning's walk he collected two or three small branches from a tree and found a small piece of broken glass, a discovery that quite delighted him. When he came home he formed his handkerchief into a loop.


Nothing of all this escaped Grimaud, but La Ramee looked on with the curiosity of a father who thinks that he may perhaps get a cheap idea concerning a new toy for his children. The guards looked on it with indifference. When everything was ready, the gallows hung in the middle of the room, the loop made, and when the duke had cast a glance upon the plate of crawfish, in order to select the finest specimen among them, he looked around for his piece of glass; it had disappeared.


"Who has taken my piece of glass?" asked the duke, frowning. Grimaud made a sign to denote that he had done so.


"What! thou again! Why didst thou take it?"


"Yes—why?" asked La Ramee.


Grimaud, who held the piece of glass in his hand, said: "Sharp."


"True, my lord!" exclaimed La Ramee. "Ah! deuce take it! we have a precious fellow here!"


"Monsieur Grimaud!" said the duke, "for your sake I beg of you, never come within the reach of my fist!"


"Hush! hush!" cried La Ramee, "give me your gibbet, my lord. I will shape it out for you with my knife."


And he took the gibbet and shaped it out as neatly as possible.


"That's it," said the duke, "now make me a little hole in the floor whilst I go and fetch the culprit."


La Ramee knelt down and made a hole in the floor; meanwhile the duke hung the crawfish up by a thread. Then he placed the gibbet in the middle of the room, bursting with laughter.


La Ramee laughed also and the guards laughed in chorus; Grimaud, however, did not even smile. He approached La Ramee and showing him the crawfish hung up by the thread:


"Cardinal," he said.


"Hung by order of his Highness the Duc de Beaufort!" cried the prisoner, laughing violently, "and by Master Jacques Chrysostom La Ramee, the king's commissioner."


La Ramee uttered a cry of horror and rushed toward the gibbet, which he broke at once and threw the pieces out of the window. He was going to throw the crawfish out also, when Grimaud snatched it from his hands.


"Good to eat!" he said, and put it in his pocket.


This scene so enchanted the duke that at the moment he forgave Grimaud for his part in it; but on reflection he hated him more and more, being convinced he had some evil motive for his conduct.


But the story of the crab made a great noise through the interior of the donjon and even outside. Monsieur de Chavigny, who at heart detested the cardinal, took pains to tell the story to two or three friends, who put it into immediate circulation.


The prisoner happened to remark among the guards one man with a very good countenance; and he favored this man the more as Grimaud became the more and more odious to him. One morning he took this man on one side and had succeeded in speaking to him, when Grimaud entered and seeing what was going on approached the duke respectfully, but took the guard by the arm.


The guard obeyed.


"You are insupportable!" cried the duke; "I shall beat you."


"I will break every bone in your body!" cried the duke.


Grimaud bowed, but stepped back.


"Mr. Spy," cried the duke, more and more enraged, "I will strangle you with my own hands."


And he extended his hands toward Grimaud, who merely thrust the guard out and shut the door behind him. At the same time he felt the duke's arms on his shoulders like two iron claws; but instead either of calling out or defending himself, he placed his forefinger on his lips and said in a low tone:


"Hush!" smiling as he uttered the word.


A gesture, a smile and a word from Grimaud, all at once, were so unusual that his highness stopped short, astounded.


Grimaud took advantage of that instant to draw from his vest a charming little note with an aristocratic seal, and presented it to the duke without a word.


The duke, more and more bewildered, let Grimaud loose and took the note.


"From Madame de Montbazon?" he cried.


Grimaud nodded assent.


The duke tore open the note, passed his hands over his eyes, for he was dazzled and confused, and read:


"My Dear Duke,—You may entirely confide in the brave lad who will give you this note; he has consented to enter the service of your keeper and to shut himself up at Vincennes with you, in order to prepare and assist your escape, which we are contriving. The moment of your deliverance is at hand; have patience and courage and remember that in spite of time and absence all your friends continue to cherish for you the sentiments they have so long professed and truly entertained.


"Yours wholly and most affectionately,


"P.S.—I sign my full name, for I should be vain if I could suppose that after five years of absence you would remember my initials."


The poor duke became perfectly giddy. What for five years he had been wanting—a faithful servant, a friend, a helping hand—seemed to have fallen from Heaven just when he expected it the least.


"Oh, dearest Marie! she thinks of me, then, after five years of separation! Heavens! there is constancy!" Then turning to Grimaud, he said:


"And thou, my brave fellow, thou consentest thus to aid me?"


Grimaud signified his assent.


"And you have come here with that purpose?"


Grimaud repeated the sign.


"And I was ready to strangle you!" cried the duke.


"Wait, then," said the duke, fumbling in his pocket. "Wait," he continued, renewing his fruitless search; "it shall not be said that such devotion to a grandson of Henry IV. went without recompense."


The duke's endeavors evinced the best intention in the world, but one of the precautions taken at Vincennes was that of allowing prisoners to keep no money. Whereupon Grimaud, observing the duke's disappointment, drew from his pocket a purse filled with gold and handed it to him.


"Here is what you are looking for," he said.


The duke opened the purse and wanted to empty it into Grimaud's hands, but Grimaud shook his head.


"Thank you, monseigneur," he said, drawing back; "I am paid."


The duke went from one surprise to another. He held out his hand. Grimaud drew near and kissed it respectfully. The grand manner of Athos had left its mark on Grimaud.


"What shall we do? and when? and how proceed?"


"It is now eleven," answered Grimaud. "Let my lord at two o'clock ask leave to make up a game at tennis with La Ramee and let him send two or three balls over the ramparts."


"And then?"


"Your highness will approach the walls and call out to a man who works in the moat to send them back again."


"I understand," said the duke.


Grimaud made a sign that he was going away.


"Ah!" cried the duke, "will you not accept any money from me?"


"I wish my lord would make me one promise."


"What! speak!"


"'Tis this: when we escape together, that I shall go everywhere and be always first; for if my lord should be overtaken and caught, there's every chance of his being brought back to prison, whereas if I am caught the least that can befall me is to be—hung."


"True, on my honor as a gentleman it shall be as thou dost suggest."


"Now," resumed Grimaud, "I've only one thing more to ask—that your highness will continue to detest me."


"I'll try," said the duke.


At this moment La Ramee, after the interview we have described with the cardinal, entered the room. The duke had thrown himself, as he was wont to do in moments of dullness and vexation, on his bed. La Ramee cast an inquiring look around him and observing the same signs of antipathy between the prisoner and his guardian he smiled in token of his inward satisfaction. Then turning to Grimaud:


"Very good, my friend, very good. You have been spoken of in a promising quarter and you will soon, I hope, have news that will be agreeable to you."


Grimaud saluted in his politest manner and withdrew, as was his custom on the entrance of his superior.


"Well, my lord," said La Ramee, with his rude laugh, "you still set yourself against this poor fellow?"


"So! 'tis you, La Ramee; in faith, 'tis time you came back again. I threw myself on the bed and turned my nose to the wall, that I mightn't break my promise and strangle Grimaud."


"I doubt, however," said La Ramee, in sprightly allusion to the silence of his subordinate, "if he has said anything disagreeable to your highness."


"Pardieu! you are right—a mute from the East! I swear it was time for you to come back, La Ramee, and I was eager to see you again."


"Monseigneur is too good," said La Ramee, flattered by the compliment.


"Yes," continued the duke, "really, I feel bored today beyond the power of description."


"Then let us have a match in the tennis court," exclaimed La Ramee.


"If you wish it."


"I am at your service, my lord."


"I protest, my dear La Ramee," said the duke, "that you are a charming fellow and that I would stay forever at Vincennes to have the pleasure of your society."


"My lord," replied La Ramee, "I think if it depended on the cardinal your wishes would be fulfilled."


"What do you mean? Have you seen him lately?"


"He sent for me to-day."


"Really! to speak to you about me?"


"Of what else do you imagine he would speak to me? Really, my lord, you are his nightmare."


The duke smiled with bitterness.


"Ah, La Ramee! if you would but accept my offers! I would make your fortune."


"How? you would no sooner have left prison than your goods would be confiscated."


"I shall no sooner be out of prison than I shall be master of Paris."


"Pshaw! pshaw! I cannot hear such things said as that; this is a fine conversation with an officer of the king! I see, my lord, I shall be obliged to fetch a second Grimaud!"


"Very well, let us say no more about it. So you and the cardinal have been talking about me? La Ramee, some day when he sends for you, you must let me put on your clothes; I will go in your stead; I will strangle him, and upon my honor, if that is made a condition I will return to prison."


"Monseigneur, I see well that I must call Grimaud."


"Well, I am wrong. And what did the cuistre [pettifogger] say about me?"


"I admit the word, monseigneur, because it rhymes with ministre [minister]. What did he say to me? He told me to watch you."


"And why so? why watch me?" asked the duke uneasily.


"Because an astrologer had predicted that you would escape."


"Ah! an astrologer predicted that?" said the duke, starting in spite of himself.


"Oh, mon Dieu! yes! those imbeciles of magicians can only imagine things to torment honest people."


"And what did you reply to his most illustrious eminence?"


"That if the astrologer in question made almanacs I would advise him not to buy one."


"Because before you could escape you would have to be turned into a bird."


"Unfortunately, that is true. Let us go and have a game at tennis, La Ramee."


"My lord—I beg your highness's pardon—but I must beg for half an hour's leave of absence."


"Because Monseigneur Mazarin is a prouder man than his highness, though not of such high birth: he forgot to ask me to breakfast."


"No, my lord; I must tell you that the confectioner who lived opposite the castle—Daddy Marteau, as they called him——"


"Well, he sold his business a week ago to a confectioner from Paris, an invalid, ordered country air for his health."


"Well, what have I to do with that?"


"Why, good Lord! this man, your highness, when he saw me stop before his shop, where he has a display of things which would make your mouth water, my lord, asked me to get him the custom of the prisoners in the donjon. 'I bought,' said he, 'the business of my predecessor on the strength of his assurance that he supplied the castle; whereas, on my honor, Monsieur de Chavigny, though I've been here a week, has not ordered so much as a tartlet.' 'But,' I then replied, 'probably Monsieur de Chavigny is afraid your pastry is not good.' 'My pastry not good! Well, Monsieur La Ramee, you shall judge of it yourself and at once.' 'I cannot,' I replied; 'it is absolutely necessary for me to return to the château.' 'Very well,' said he, 'go and attend to your affairs, since you seem to be in a hurry, but come back in half an hour.' 'In half an hour?' 'Yes, have you breakfasted?' 'Faith, no.' 'Well, here is a pâté that will be ready for you, with a bottle of old Burgundy.' So, you see, my lord, since I am hungry, I would, with your highness's leave——" And La Ramee bent low.


"Go, then, animal," said the duke; "but remember, I only allow you half an hour."


"May I promise your custom to the successor of Father Marteau, my lord?"


"Yes, if he does not put mushrooms in his pies; thou knowest that mushrooms from the wood of Vincennes are fatal to my family."


La Ramee went out, but in five minutes one of the officers of the guard entered in compliance with the strict orders of the cardinal that the prisoner should never be left alone a moment.


But during these five minutes the duke had had time to read again the note from Madame de Montbazon, which proved to the prisoner that his friends were concerting plans for his deliverance, but in what way he knew not.


But his confidence in Grimaud, whose petty persecutions he now perceived were only a blind, increased, and he conceived the highest opinion of his intellect and resolved to trust entirely to his guidance.


Chapter XIX. Pâtés made by the Successor of Father Marteau are described.


In half an hour La Ramee returned, full of glee, like most men who have eaten, and more especially drank to their heart's content. The pâtés were excellent, the wine delicious.


The weather was fine and the game at tennis took place in the open air.


At two o'clock the tennis balls began, according to Grimaud's directions, to take the direction of the moat, much to the joy of La Ramee, who marked fifteen whenever the duke sent a ball into the moat; and very soon balls were wanting, so many had gone over. La Ramee then proposed to send some one to pick them up, but the duke remarked that it would be losing time; and going near the rampart himself and looking over, he saw a man working in one of the numerous little gardens cleared out by the peasants on the opposite side of the moat.


"Hey, friend!" cried the duke.


The man raised his head and the duke was about to utter a cry of surprise. The peasant, the gardener, was Rochefort, whom he believed to be in the Bastile.


"Well? Who's up there?" said the man.


"Be so good as to collect and throw us back our balls," said the duke.


The gardener nodded and began to fling up the balls, which were picked up by La Ramee and the guard. One, however, fell at the duke's feet, and seeing that it was intended for him, he put it into his pocket.


La Ramee was in ecstasies at having beaten a prince of the blood.


The duke went indoors and retired to bed, where he spent, indeed, the greater part of every day, as they had taken his books away. La Ramee carried off all his clothes, in order to be certain that the duke would not stir. However, the duke contrived to hide the ball under his bolster and as soon as the door was closed he tore off the cover of the ball with his teeth and found underneath the following letter:


My Lord,—Your friends are watching over you and the hour of your deliverance is at hand. Ask day after to-morrow to have a pie supplied you by the new confectioner opposite the castle, and who is no other than Noirmont, your former maître d'hôtel. Do not open the pie till you are alone. I hope you will be satisfied with its contents.


"Your highness's most devoted servant,


"In the Bastile, as elsewhere,


The duke, who had latterly been allowed a fire, burned the letter, but kept the ball, and went to bed, hiding the ball under his bolster. La Ramee entered; he smiled kindly on the prisoner, for he was an excellent man and had taken a great liking for the captive prince. He endeavored to cheer him up in his solitude.


"Ah, my friend!" cried the duke, "you are so good; if I could but do as you do, and eat pâtés and drink Burgundy at the house of Father Marteau's successor."


"'Tis true, my lord," answered La Ramee, "that his pâtés are famous and his wine magnificent."


"In any case," said the duke, "his cellar and kitchen might easily excel those of Monsieur de Chavigny."


"Well, my lord," said La Ramee, falling into the trap, "what is there to prevent your trying them? Besides, I have promised him your patronage."


"You are right," said the duke. "If I am to remain here permanently, as Monsieur Mazarin has kindly given me to understand, I must provide myself with a diversion for my old age, I must turn gourmand."


"My lord," said La Ramee, "if you will take a bit of good advice, don't put that off till you are old."


"Good!" said the Duc de Beaufort to himself, "every man in order that he may lose his heart and soul, must receive from celestial bounty one of the seven capital sins, perhaps two; it seems that Master La Ramee's is gluttony. Let us then take advantage of it." Then, aloud:


"Well, my dear La Ramee! the day after to-morrow is a holiday."


"Yes, my lord—Pentecost."


"Will you give me a lesson the day after to-morrow?"


"In what?"


"In gastronomy?"


"Willingly, my lord."


"But tête-à-tête. Send the guards to take their meal in the canteen of Monsieur de Chavigny; we'll have a supper here under your direction."


The proposal was seductive, but La Ramee was an old stager, acquainted with all the traps a prisoner was likely to set. Monsieur de Beaufort had said that he had forty ways of getting out of prison. Did this proposed breakfast cover some stratagem? He reflected, but he remembered that he himself would have charge of the food and the wine and therefore that no powder could be mixed with the food, no drug with the wine. As to getting him drunk, the duke couldn't hope to do that, and he laughed at the mere thought of it. Then an idea came to him which harmonized everything.


The duke had followed with anxiety La Ramee's unspoken soliloquy, reading it from point to point upon his face. But presently the exempt's face suddenly brightened.


"Well," he asked, "that will do, will it not?"


"Yes, my lord, on one condition."


"That Grimaud shall wait on us at table."


Nothing could be more agreeable to the duke, however, he had presence of mind enough to exclaim:


"To the devil with your Grimaud! He will spoil the feast."


"I will direct him to stand behind your chair, and since he doesn't speak, your highness will neither see nor hear him and with a little effort can imagine him a hundred miles away."


"Do you know, my friend, I find one thing very evident in all this, you distrust me."


"My lord, the day after to-morrow is Pentecost."


"Well, what is Pentecost to me? Are you afraid that the Holy Spirit will come as a tongue of fire to open the doors of my prison?"


"No, my lord; but I have already told you what that damned magician predicted."


"And what was it?"


"That the day of Pentecost would not pass without your highness being out of Vincennes."


"You believe in sorcerers, then, you fool?"


"I—-I mind them no more than that——" and he snapped his fingers; "but it is my Lord Giulio who cares about them; as an Italian he is superstitious."


The duke shrugged his shoulders.


"Well, then," with well acted good-humor, "I allow Grimaud, but no one else; you must manage it all. Order whatever you like for supper—the only thing I specify is one of those pies; and tell the confectioner that I will promise him my custom if he excels this time in his pies—not only now, but when I leave my prison."


"Then you think you will some day leave it?" said La Ramee.


"The devil!" replied the prince; "surely, at the death of Mazarin. I am fifteen years younger than he is. At Vincennes, 'tis true, one lives faster——"


"My lord," replied La Ramee, "my lord——"


"Or dies sooner, for it comes to the same thing."


La Ramee was going out. He stopped, however, at the door for an instant.


"Whom does your highness wish me to send to you?"


"The officer of the guard, then, with his chessboard?"


Five minutes afterward the officer entered and the duke seemed to be immersed in the sublime combinations of chess.


A strange thing is the mind, and it is wonderful what revolutions may be wrought in it by a sign, a word, a hope. The duke had been five years in prison, and now to him, looking back upon them, those five years, which had passed so slowly, seemed not so long a time as were the two days, the forty-eight hours, which still parted him from the time fixed for his escape. Besides, there was one thing that engaged his most anxious thought—in what way was the escape to be effected? They had told him to hope for it, but had not told him what was to be hidden in the mysterious pâté. And what friends awaited him without? He had friends, then, after five years in prison? If that were so he was indeed a highly favored prince. He forgot that besides his friends of his own sex, a woman, strange to say, had remembered him. It is true that she had not, perhaps, been scrupulously faithful to him, but she had remembered him; that was something.


So the duke had more than enough to think about; accordingly he fared at chess as he had fared at tennis; he made blunder upon blunder and the officer with whom he played found him easy game.


But his successive defeats did service to the duke in one way—they killed time for him till eight o'clock in the evening; then would come night, and with night, sleep. So, at least, the duke believed; but sleep is a capricious fairy, and it is precisely when one invokes her presence that she is most likely to keep him waiting. The duke waited until midnight, turning on his mattress like St. Laurence on his gridiron. Finally he slept.


But at daybreak he awoke. Wild dreams had disturbed his repose. He dreamed that he was endowed with wings—he wished to fly away. For a time these wings supported him, but when he reached a certain height this new aid failed him. His wings were broken and he seemed to sink into a bottomless abyss, whence he awoke, bathed in perspiration and nearly as much overcome as if he had really fallen. He fell asleep again and another vision appeared. He was in a subterranean passage by which he was to leave Vincennes. Grimaud was walking before him with a lantern. By degrees the passage narrowed, yet the duke continued his course. At last it became so narrow that the fugitive tried in vain to proceed. The sides of the walls seem to close in, even to press against him. He made fruitless efforts to go on; it was impossible. Nevertheless, he still saw Grimaud with his lantern in front, advancing. He wished to call out to him but could not utter a word. Then at the other extremity he heard the footsteps of those who were pursuing him. These steps came on, came fast. He was discovered; all hope of flight was gone. Still the walls seemed to be closing on him; they appeared to be in concert with his enemies. At last he heard the voice of La Ramee. La Ramee took his hand and laughed aloud. He was captured again, and conducted to the low and vaulted chamber, in which Ornano, Puylaurens, and his uncle had died. Their three graves were there, rising above the ground, and a fourth was also there, yawning for its ghastly tenant.


The duke was obliged to make as many efforts to awake as he had done to go to sleep; and La Ramee found him so pale and fatigued that he inquired whether he was ill.


"In fact," said one of the guards who had remained in the chamber and had been kept awake by a toothache, brought on by the dampness of the atmosphere, "my lord has had a very restless night and two or three times, while dreaming, he called for help."


"What is the matter with your highness?" asked La Ramee.


"'Tis your fault, you simpleton," answered the duke. "With your idle nonsense yesterday about escaping, you worried me so that I dreamed that I was trying to escape and broke my neck in doing so."


"Come," he said, "'tis a warning from Heaven. Never commit such an imprudence as to try to escape, except in your dreams."