"And you are right, my dear La Ramee," said the duke, wiping away the sweat that stood on his brow, wide awake though he was; "after this I will think of nothing but eating and drinking."


"Hush!" said La Ramee; and one by one he sent away the guards, on various pretexts.


"Well?" asked the duke when they were alone.


"Well!" replied La Ramee, "your supper is ordered."


"Ah! and what is it to be? Monsieur, my majordomo, will there be a pie?"


"I should think so, indeed—almost as high as a tower."


"You told him it was for me?"


"Yes, and he said he would do his best to please your highness."


"Good!" exclaimed the duke, rubbing his hands.


"Devil take it, my lord! what a gourmand you are growing; I haven't seen you with so cheerful a face these five years."


The duke saw that he had not controlled himself as he ought, but at that moment, as if he had listened at the door and comprehended the urgent need of diverting La Ramee's ideas, Grimaud entered and made a sign to La Ramee that he had something to say to him.


La Ramee drew near to Grimaud, who spoke to him in a low voice.


The duke meanwhile recovered his self-control.


"I have already forbidden that man," he said, "to come in here without my permission."


"You must pardon him, my lord," said La Ramee, "for I directed him to come."


"And why did you so direct when you know that he displeases me?"


"My lord will remember that it was agreed between us that he should wait upon us at that famous supper. My lord has forgotten the supper."


"My lord understands that there can be no supper unless he is allowed to be present."


"Go on, then; have it your own way."


"Come here, my lad," said La Ramee, "and hear what I have to say."


Grimaud approached, with a very sullen expression on his face.


La Ramee continued: "My lord has done me the honor to invite me to a supper to-morrow en tête-à-tête."


Grimaud made a sign which meant that he didn't see what that had to do with him.


"Yes, yes," said La Ramee, "the matter concerns you, for you will have the honor to serve us; and besides, however good an appetite we may have and however great our thirst, there will be something left on the plates and in the bottles, and that something will be yours."


Grimaud bowed in thanks.


"And now," said La Ramee, "I must ask your highness's pardon, but it seems that Monsieur de Chavigny is to be away for a few days and he has sent me word that he has certain directions to give me before his departure."


The duke tried to exchange a glance with Grimaud, but there was no glance in Grimaud's eyes.


"Go, then," said the duke, "and return as soon as possible."


"Does your highness wish to take revenge for the game of tennis yesterday?"


Grimaud intimated by a scarcely perceptible nod that he should consent.


"Yes," said the duke, "but take care, my dear La Ramee, for I propose to beat you badly."


La Ramee went out. Grimaud looked after him, and when the door was closed he drew out of his pocket a pencil and a sheet of paper.


"Write, my lord," he said.


"And what?"


"All is ready for to-morrow evening. Keep watch from seven to nine. Have two riding horses ready. We shall descend by the first window in the gallery."


"What next?"


"Sign your name, my lord."


The duke signed.


"Now, my lord, give me, if you have not lost it, the ball—that which contained the letter."


The duke took it from under his pillow and gave it to Grimaud. Grimaud gave a grim smile.


"Well?" asked the duke.


"Well, my lord, I sew up the paper in the ball and you, in your game of tennis, will send the ball into the ditch."


"But will it not be lost?"


"Oh no; there will be some one at hand to pick it up."


"The same as yesterday?"


Another nod on the part of Grimaud.


"The Count de Rochefort?"


Grimaud nodded the third time.


"Come, now," said the duke, "give some particulars of the plan for our escape."


"That is forbidden me," said Grimaud, "until the last moment."


"Who will be waiting for me beyond the ditch?"


"I know nothing about it, my lord."


"But at least, if you don't want to see me turn crazy, tell what that famous pâté will contain."


"Two poniards, a knotted rope and a poire d'angoisse." *


This poire d'angoisse was a famous gag, in the form of a pear, which, being thrust into the mouth, by the aid of a spring, dilated, so as to distend the jaws to their greatest width.


"My lord observes that there will be enough to go around."


"We shall take to ourselves the poniards and the rope," replied the duke.


"And make La Ramee eat the pear," answered Grimaud.


"My dear Grimaud, thou speakest seldom, but when thou dost, one must do thee justice—thy words are words of gold."


Chapter XX. One of Marie Michon's Adventures.


Whilst these projects were being formed by the Duc de Beaufort and Grimaud, the Comte de la Fère and the Vicomte de Bragelonne were entering Paris by the Rue du Faubourg Saint Marcel.


They stopped at the sign of the Fox, in the Rue du Vieux Colombier, a tavern known for many years by Athos, and asked for two bedrooms.


"You must dress yourself, Raoul," said Athos, "I am going to present you to some one."


"To-day, monsieur?" asked the young man.


"In half an hour."


The young man bowed. Perhaps, not being endowed with the endurance of Athos, who seemed to be made of iron, he would have preferred a bath in the river Seine of which he had heard so much, and afterward his bed; but the Comte de la Fère had spoken and he had no thought but to obey.


"By the way," said Athos, "take some pains with your toilet, Raoul; I want you to be approved."


"I hope, sir," replied the youth, smiling, "that there's no idea of a marriage for me; you know of my engagement to Louise?"


Athos, in his turn, smiled also.


"No, don't be alarmed, although it is to a lady that I am going to present you, and I am anxious that you should love her——"


The young man looked at the count with a certain uneasiness, but at a smile from Athos he was quickly reassured.


"How old is she?" inquired the Vicomte de Bragelonne.


"My dear Raoul, learn, once for all, that that is a question which is never asked. When you can find out a woman's age by her face, it is useless to ask it; when you cannot do so, it is indiscreet."


"Is she beautiful?"


"Sixteen years ago she was deemed not only the prettiest, but the most graceful woman in France."


This reply reassured the vicomte. A woman who had been a reigning beauty a year before he was born could not be the subject of any scheme for him. He retired to his toilet. When he reappeared, Athos received him with the same paternal smile as that which he had often bestowed on D'Artagnan, but a more profound tenderness for Raoul was now visibly impressed upon his face.


Athos cast a glance at his feet, hands and hair—those three marks of race. The youth's dark hair was neatly parted and hung in curls, forming a sort of dark frame around his face; such was the fashion of the day. Gloves of gray kid, matching the hat, well displayed the form of a slender and elegant hand; whilst his boots, similar in color to the hat and gloves, confined feet small as those of a boy twelve years old.


"Come," murmured Athos, "if she is not proud of him, she must be hard to please."


It was three o'clock in the afternoon. The two travelers proceeded to the Rue Saint Dominique and stopped at the door of a magnificent hotel, surmounted with the arms of De Luynes.


"'Tis here," said Athos.


He entered the hotel and ascended the front steps, and addressing a footman who waited there in a grand livery, asked if the Duchess de Chevreuse was visible and if she could receive the Comte de la Fère?


The servant returned with a message to say, that, though the duchess had not the honor of knowing Monsieur de la Fère, she would receive him.


Athos followed the footman, who led him through a long succession of apartments and paused at length before a closed door. Athos made a sign to the Vicomte de Bragelonne to remain where he was.


The footman opened the door and announced Monsieur le Comte de la Fère.


Madame de Chevreuse, whose name appears so often in our story "The Three Musketeers," without her actually having appeared in any scene, was still a beautiful woman. Although about forty-four or forty-five years old, she might have passed for thirty-five. She still had her rich fair hair; her large, animated, intelligent eyes, so often opened by intrigue, so often closed by the blindness of love. She had still her nymph-like form, so that when her back was turned she still was not unlike the girl who had jumped, with Anne of Austria, over the moat of the Tuileries in 1563. In all other respects she was the same mad creature who threw over her amours such an air of originality as to make them proverbial for eccentricity in her family.


She was in a little boudoir, hung with blue damask, adorned by red flowers, with a foliage of gold, looking upon a garden; and reclined upon a sofa, her head supported on the rich tapestry which covered it. She held a book in her hand and her arm was supported by a cushion.


At the footman's announcement she raised herself a little and peeped out, with some curiosity.


Athos appeared.


He was dressed in violet-tinted velvet, trimmed with silk of the same color. His shoulder-knots were of burnished silver, his mantle had no gold nor embroidery on it; a simple plume of violet feathers adorned his hat; his boots were of black leather, and at his girdle hung that sword with a magnificent hilt that Porthos had so often admired in the Rue Féron. Splendid lace adorned the falling collar of his shirt, and lace fell also over the top of his boots.


In his whole person he bore such an impress of high degree, that Madame de Chevreuse half rose from her seat when she saw him and made him a sign to sit down near her.


Athos bowed and obeyed. The footman was withdrawing, but Athos stopped him by a sign.


"Madame," he said to the duchess, "I have had the boldness to present myself at your hotel without being known to you; it has succeeded, since you deign to receive me. I have now the boldness to ask you for an interview of half an hour."


"I grant it, monsieur," replied Madame de Chevreuse with her most gracious smile.


"But that is not all, madame. Oh, I am very presuming, I am aware. The interview for which I ask is of us two alone, and I very earnestly wish that it may not be interrupted."


"I am not at home to any one," said the Duchess de Chevreuse to the footman. "You may go."


The footman went out.


There ensued a brief silence, during which these two persons, who at first sight recognized each other so clearly as of noble race, examined each other without embarrassment on either side.


The duchess was the first to speak.


"Well, sir, I am waiting with impatience to hear what you wish to say to me."


"And I, madame," replied Athos, "am looking with admiration."


"Sir," said Madame de Chevreuse, "you must excuse me, but I long to know to whom I am talking. You belong to the court, doubtless, yet I have never seen you at court. Have you, by any chance, been in the Bastile?"


"No, madame, I have not; but very likely I am on the road to it."


"Ah! then tell me who you are, and get along with you upon your journey," replied the duchess, with the gayety which made her so charming, "for I am sufficiently in bad odor already, without compromising myself still more."


"Who I am, madame? My name has been mentioned to you—the Comte de la Fère; you do not know that name. I once bore another, which you knew, but you have certainly forgotten it."


"Formerly," said the count, "I was Athos."


Madame de Chevreuse looked astonished. The name was not wholly forgotten, but mixed up and confused with ancient recollections.


"Athos?" said she; "wait a moment."


And she placed her hands on her brow, as if to force the fugitive ideas it contained to concentration in a moment.


"Shall I help you, madame?" asked Athos.


"Yes, do," said the duchess.


"This Athos was connected with three young musketeers, named Porthos, D'Artagnan, and——"


He stopped short.


"And Aramis," said the duchess, quickly.


"And Aramis; I see you have not forgotten the name."


"No," she said; "poor Aramis; a charming man, elegant, discreet, and a writer of poetical verses. I am afraid he has turned out ill," she added.


"He has; he is an abbé."


"Ah, what a misfortune!" exclaimed the duchess, playing carelessly with her fan. "Indeed, sir, I thank you; you have recalled one of the most agreeable recollections of my youth."


"Will you permit me, then, to recall another to you?"


"Yes and no."


"Faith!" said Madame de Chevreuse, "say on. With a man like you I fear nothing."


Athos bowed. "Aramis," he continued, "was intimate with a young needlewoman from Tours, a cousin of his, named Marie Michon."


"Ah, I knew her!" cried the duchess. "It was to her he wrote from the siege of Rochelle, to warn her of a plot against the Duke of Buckingham."


"Exactly so; will you allow me to speak to you of her?"


"If," replied the duchess, with a meaning look, "you do not say too much against her."


"I should be ungrateful," said Athos, "and I regard ingratitude, not as a fault or a crime, but as a vice, which is much worse."


"You ungrateful to Marie Michon, monsieur?" said Madame de Chevreuse, trying to read in Athos's eyes. "But how can that be? You never knew her."


"Eh, madame, who knows?" said Athos. "There is a popular proverb to the effect that it is only mountains that never meet; and popular proverbs contain sometimes a wonderful amount of truth."


"Oh, go on, monsieur, go on!" said Madame de Chevreuse eagerly; "you can't imagine how much this conversation interests me."


"You encourage me," said Athos, "I will continue, then. That cousin of Aramis, that Marie Michon, that needlewoman, notwithstanding her low condition, had acquaintances in the highest rank; she called the grandest ladies of the court her friend, and the queen—proud as she is, in her double character as Austrian and as Spaniard—called her her sister."


"Alas!" said Madame de Chevreuse, with a slight sigh and a little movement of her eyebrows that was peculiarly her own, "since that time everything has changed."


"And the queen had reason for her affection, for Marie was devoted to her—devoted to that degree that she served her as medium of intercourse with her brother, the king of Spain."


"Which," interrupted the duchess, "is now brought up against her as a great crime."


"And therefore," continued Athos, "the cardinal—the true cardinal, the other one—determined one fine morning to arrest poor Marie Michon and send her to the Château de Loches. Fortunately the affair was not managed so secretly but that it became known to the queen. The case had been provided for: if Marie Michon should be threatened with any danger the queen was to send her a prayer-book bound in green velvet."


"That is true, monsieur, you are well informed."


"One morning the green book was brought to her by the Prince de Marsillac. There was no time to lose. Happily Marie and a follower of hers named Kitty could disguise themselves admirably in men's clothes. The prince procured for Marie Michon the dress of a cavalier and for Kitty that of a lackey; he sent them two excellent horses, and the fugitives went out hastily from Tours, shaping their course toward Spain, trembling at the least noise, following unfrequented roads, and asking for hospitality when they found themselves where there was no inn."


"Why, really, it was all exactly as you say!" cried Madame de Chevreuse, clapping her hands. "It would indeed be strange if——" she checked herself.


"If I should follow the two fugitives to the end of their journey?" said Athos. "No, madame, I will not thus waste your time. We will accompany them only to a little village in Limousin, lying between Tulle and Angouleme—a little village called Roche-l'Abeille."


Madame de Chevreuse uttered a cry of surprise, and looked at Athos with an expression of astonishment that made the old musketeer smile.


"Wait, madame," continued Athos, "what remains for me to tell you is even more strange than what I have narrated."


"Monsieur," said Madame de Chevreuse, "I believe you are a sorcerer; I am prepared for anything. But really—No matter, go on."


"The journey of that day had been long and wearing; it was a cold day, the eleventh of October, there was no inn or château in the village and the homes of the peasants were poor and unattractive. Marie Michon was a very aristocratic person; like her sister the queen, she had been accustomed to pleasing perfumes and fine linen; she resolved, therefore, to seek hospitality of the priest."


Athos paused.


"Oh, continue!" said the duchess. "I have told you that I am prepared for anything."


"The two travelers knocked at the door. It was late; the priest, who had gone to bed, cried out to them to come in. They entered, for the door was not locked—there is much confidence among villagers. A lamp burned in the chamber occupied by the priest. Marie Michon, who made the most charming cavalier in the world, pushed open the door, put her head in and asked for hospitality. 'Willingly, my young cavalier,' said the priest, 'if you will be content with the remains of my supper and with half my chamber.'


"The two travelers consulted for a moment. The priest heard a burst of laughter and then the master, or rather, the mistress, replied: 'Thank you, monsieur le curé, I accept.' 'Sup, then, and make as little noise as possible,' said the priest, 'for I, too, have been on the go all day and shall not be sorry to sleep to-night.'"


Madame de Chevreuse evidently went from surprise to astonishment, and from astonishment to stupefaction. Her face, as she looked at Athos, had taken on an expression that cannot be described. It could be seen that she had wished to speak, but she had remained silent through fear of losing one of her companion's words.


"What happened then?" she asked.


"Then?" said Athos. "Ah, I have come now to what is most difficult."


"Speak, speak! One can say anything to me. Besides, it doesn't concern me; it relates to Mademoiselle Marie Michon."


"Ah, that is true," said Athos. "Well, then, Marie Michon had supper with her follower, and then, in accordance with the permission given her, she entered the chamber of her host, Kitty meanwhile taking possession of an armchair in the room first entered, where they had taken their supper."


"Really, monsieur," said Madame de Chevreuse, "unless you are the devil in person I don't know how you could become acquainted with all these details."


"A charming woman was that Marie Michon," resumed Athos, "one of those wild creatures who are constantly conceiving the strangest ideas. Now, thinking that her host was a priest, that coquette took it into her head that it would be a happy souvenir for her old age, among the many happy souvenirs she already possessed, if she could win that of having damned an abbé."


"Count," said the duchess, "upon my word, you frighten me."


"Alas!" continued Athos, "the poor abbé was not a St. Ambroise, and I repeat, Marie Michon was an adorable creature."


"Monsieur!" cried the duchess, seizing Athos's hands, "tell me this moment how you know all these details, or I will send to the convent of the Vieux Augustins for a monk to come and exorcise you."


Athos laughed. "Nothing is easier, madame. A cavalier, charged with an important mission, had come an hour before your arrival, seeking hospitality, at the very moment that the curé, summoned to the bedside of a dying person, left not only his house but the village, for the entire night. The priest having all confidence in his guest, who, besides, was a nobleman, had left to him his house, his supper and his chamber. And therefore Marie came seeking hospitality from the guest of the good abbé and not from the good abbé himself."


"And that cavalier, that guest, that nobleman who arrived before she came?"


"It was I, the Comte de la Fère," said Athos, rising and bowing respectfully to the Duchess de Chevreuse.


The duchess remained a moment stupefied; then, suddenly bursting into laughter:


"Ah! upon my word," said she, "it is very droll, and that mad Marie Michon fared better than she expected. Sit down, dear count, and go on with your story."


"At this point I have to accuse myself of a fault, madame. I have told you that I was traveling on an important mission. At daybreak I left the chamber without noise, leaving my charming companion asleep. In the front room the follower was also still asleep, her head leaning back on the chair, in all respects worthy of her mistress. Her pretty face arrested my attention; I approached and recognized that little Kitty whom our friend Aramis had placed with her. In that way I discovered that the charming traveler was——"


"Marie Michon!" said Madame de Chevreuse, hastily.


"Marie Michon," continued Athos. "Then I went out of the house; I proceeded to the stable and found my horse saddled and my lackey ready. We set forth on our journey."


"And have you never revisited that village?" eagerly asked Madame de Chevreuse.


"A year after, madame."


"I wanted to see the good curé again. I found him much preoccupied with an event that he could not at all comprehend. A week before he had received, in a cradle, a beautiful little boy three months old, with a purse filled with gold and a note containing these simple words: '11 October, 1633.'"


"It was the date of that strange adventure," interrupted Madame de Chevreuse.


"Yes, but he couldn't understand what it meant, for he had spent that night with a dying person and Marie Michon had left his house before his return."


"You must know, monsieur, that Marie Michon, when she returned to France in 1643, immediately sought for information about that child; as a fugitive she could not take care of it, but on her return she wished to have it near her."


"And what said the abbé?" asked Athos.


"That a nobleman whom he did not know had wished to take charge of it, had answered for its future, and had taken it away."


"That was true."


"Ah! I see! That nobleman was you; it was his father!"


"Hush! do not speak so loud, madame; he is there."


"He is there! my son! the son of Marie Michon! But I must see him instantly."


"Take care, madame," said Athos, "for he knows neither his father nor his mother."


"You have kept the secret! you have brought him to see me, thinking to make me happy. Oh, thanks! sir, thanks!" cried Madame de Chevreuse, seizing his hand and trying to put it to her lips; "you have a noble heart."


"I bring him to you, madame," said Athos, withdrawing his hand, "hoping that in your turn you will do something for him; till now I have watched over his education and I have made him, I hope, an accomplished gentleman; but I am now obliged to return to the dangerous and wandering life of party faction. To-morrow I plunge into an adventurous affair in which I may be killed. Then it will devolve on you to push him on in that world where he is called on to occupy a place."


"Rest assured," cried the duchess, "I shall do what I can. I have but little influence now, but all that I have shall most assuredly be his. As to his title and fortune——"


"As to that, madame, I have made over to him the estate of Bragelonne, my inheritance, which will give him ten thousand francs a year and the title of vicomte."


"Upon my soul, monsieur," said the duchess, "you are a true nobleman! But I am eager to see our young vicomte. Where is he?"


"There, in the salon. I will have him come in, if you really wish it."


Athos moved toward the door; the duchess held him back.


"Is he handsome?" she asked.


"He resembles his mother."


So he opened the door and beckoned the young man in.


The duchess could not restrain a cry of joy on seeing so handsome a young cavalier, so far surpassing all that her maternal pride had been able to conceive.


"Vicomte, come here," said Athos; "the duchess permits you to kiss her hand."


The youth approached with his charming smile and his head bare, and kneeling down, kissed the hand of the Duchess de Chevreuse.


"Sir," he said, turning to Athos, "was it not in compassion to my timidity that you told me that this lady was the Duchess de Chevreuse, and is she not the queen?"


"No, vicomte," said Madame de Chevreuse, taking his hand and making him sit near her, while she looked at him with eyes sparkling with pleasure; "no, unhappily, I am not the queen. If I were I should do for you at once the most that you deserve. But let us see; whatever I may be," she added, hardly restraining herself from kissing that pure brow, "let us see what profession you wish to follow."


Athos, standing, looked at them both with indescribable pleasure.


"Madame," answered the youth in his sweet voice, "it seems to me that there is only one career for a gentleman—that of the army. I have been brought up by monsieur le comte with the intention, I believe, of making me a soldier; and he gave me reason to hope that at Paris he would present me to some one who would recommend me to the favor of the prince."


"Yes, I understand it well. Personally, I am on bad terms with him, on account of the quarrels between Madame de Montbazon, my mother-in-law, and Madame de Longueville. But the Prince de Marsillac! Yes, indeed, that's the right thing. The Prince de Marsillac—my old friend—will recommend our young friend to Madame de Longueville, who will give him a letter to her brother, the prince, who loves her too tenderly not to do what she wishes immediately."


"Well, that will do charmingly," said the count; "but may I beg that the greatest haste may be made, for I have reasons for wishing the vicomte not to sleep longer than to-morrow night in Paris!"


"Do you wish it known that you are interested about him, monsieur le comte?"


"Better for him in future that he should be supposed never to have seen me."


"Oh, sir!" cried Raoul.


"You know, Bragelonne," said Athos, "I never speak without reflection."


"Well, comte, I am going instantly," interrupted the duchess, "to send for the Prince de Marsillac, who is happily, in Paris just now. What are you going to do this evening?"


"We intend to visit the Abbé Scarron, for whom I have a letter of introduction and at whose house I expect to meet some of my friends."


"'Tis well; I will go there also, for a few minutes," said the duchess; "do not quit his salon until you have seen me."


Athos bowed and prepared to leave.


"Well, monsieur le comte," said the duchess, smiling, "does one leave so solemnly his old friends?"


"Ah," murmured Athos, kissing her hand, "had I only sooner known that Marie Michon was so charming a creature!" And he withdrew, sighing.


Chapter XXI. The Abbé Scarron.


There was once in the Rue des Tournelles a house known by all the sedan chairmen and footmen of Paris, and yet, nevertheless, this house was neither that of a great lord nor of a rich man. There was neither dining, nor playing at cards, nor dancing in that house. Nevertheless, it was the rendezvous of the great world and all Paris went there. It was the abode of the little Abbé Scarron.


In the home of the witty abbé dwelt incessant laughter; there all the items of the day had their source and were so quickly transformed, misrepresented, metamorphosed, some into epigrams, some into falsehoods, that every one was anxious to pass an hour with little Scarron, listening to what he said, reporting it to others.


The diminutive Abbé Scarron, who, however, was an abbé only because he owned an abbey, and not because he was in orders, had formerly been one of the gayest prebendaries in the town of Mans, which he inhabited. On a day of the carnival he had taken a notion to provide an unusual entertainment for that good town, of which he was the life and soul. He had made his valet cover him with honey; then, opening a feather bed, he had rolled in it and had thus become the most grotesque fowl it is possible to imagine. He then began to visit his friends of both sexes, in that strange costume. At first he had been followed through astonishment, then with derisive shouts, then the porters had insulted him, then children had thrown stones at him, and finally he was obliged to run, to escape the missiles. As soon as he took to flight every one pursued him, until, pressed on all sides, Scarron found no way of escaping his escort, except by throwing himself into the river; but the water was icy cold. Scarron was heated, the cold seized on him, and when he reached the farther bank he found himself crippled.


Every means had been employed in vain to restore the use of his limbs. He had been subjected to a severe disciplinary course of medicine, at length he sent away all his doctors, declaring that he preferred the disease to the treatment, and came to Paris, where the fame of his wit had preceded him. There he had a chair made on his own plan, and one day, visiting Anne of Austria in this chair, she asked him, charmed as she was with his wit, if he did not wish for a title.


"Yes, your majesty, there is a title which I covet much," replied Scarron.


"And what is that?"


"That of being your invalid," answered Scarron.


So he was called the queen's invalid, with a pension of fifteen hundred francs.


From that lucky moment Scarron led a happy life, spending both income and principal. One day, however, an emissary of the cardinal's gave him to understand that he was wrong in receiving the coadjutor so often.


"And why?" asked Scarron; "is he not a man of good birth?"


"Agreeable?"


"Undeniably."


"He has, unfortunately, too much wit."


"Well, then, why do you wish me to give up seeing such a man?"


"Because he is an enemy."


"Of whom?"


"Of the cardinal."


"What?" answered Scarron, "I continue to receive Monsieur Gilles Despreaux, who thinks ill of me, and you wish me to give up seeing the coadjutor, because he thinks ill of another man. Impossible!"


The conversation had rested there and Scarron, through sheer obstinacy, had seen Monsieur de Gondy only the more frequently.


Now, the very morning of which we speak was that of his quarter-day payment, and Scarron, as usual, had sent his servant to get his money at the pension-office, but the man had returned and said that the government had no more money to give Monsieur Scarron.


It was on Thursday, the abbé's reception day; people went there in crowds. The cardinal's refusal to pay the pension was known about the town in half an hour and he was abused with wit and vehemence.


In the Rue Saint Honoré Athos fell in with two gentlemen whom he did not know, on horseback like himself, followed by a lackey like himself, and going in the same direction that he was. One of them, hat in hand, said to him:


"Would you believe it, monsieur? that contemptible Mazarin has stopped poor Scarron's pension."


"That is unreasonable," said Athos, saluting in his turn the two cavaliers. And they separated with courteous gestures.


"It happens well that we are going there this evening," said Athos to the vicomte; "we will pay our compliments to that poor man."


"What, then, is this Monsieur Scarron, who thus puts all Paris in commotion? Is he some minister out of office?"


"Oh, no, not at all, vicomte," Athos replied; "he is simply a gentleman of great genius who has fallen into disgrace with the cardinal through having written certain verses against him."


"Do gentlemen, then, make verses?" asked Raoul, naïvely, "I thought it was derogatory."


"So it is, my dear vicomte," said Athos, laughing, "to make bad ones; but to make good ones increases fame—witness Monsieur de Rotrou. Nevertheless," he continued, in the tone of one who gives wholesome advice, "I think it is better not to make them."


"Then," said Raoul, "this Monsieur Scarron is a poet?"


"Yes; you are warned, vicomte. Consider well what you do in that house. Talk only by gestures, or rather always listen."


"You will see me talking with one of my friends, the Abbé d'Herblay, of whom you have often heard me speak."


"Come near to us from time to time, as if to speak; but do not speak, and do not listen. That little stratagem may serve to keep off interlopers."


"Very well, monsieur; I will obey you at all points."


Athos made two visits in Paris; at seven o'clock he and Raoul directed their steps to the Rue des Tournelles; it was stopped by porters, horses and footmen. Athos forced his way through and entered, followed by the young man. The first person that struck him on his entrance was Aramis, planted near a great chair on castors, very large, covered with a canopy of tapestry, under which there moved, enveloped in a quilt of brocade, a little face, youngish, very merry, somewhat pallid, whilst its eyes never ceased to express a sentiment at once lively, intellectual, and amiable. This was the Abbé Scarron, always laughing, joking, complimenting—yet suffering—and toying nervously with a small switch.


Around this kind of rolling tent pressed a crowd of gentlemen and ladies. The room was neatly, comfortably furnished. Large valances of silk, embroidered with flowers of gay colors, which were rather faded, fell from the wide windows; the fittings of the room were simple, but in excellent taste. Two well trained servingmen were in attendance on the company. On perceiving Athos, Aramis advanced toward him, took him by the hand and presented him to Scarron. Raoul remained silent, for he was not prepared for the dignity of the bel esprit.


After some minutes the door opened and a footman announced Mademoiselle Paulet.


Athos touched the shoulder of the vicomte.


"Look at this lady, Raoul, she is an historic personage; it was to visit her King Henry IV. was going when he was assassinated."


Every one thronged around Mademoiselle Paulet, for she was always very much the fashion. She was a tall woman, with a slender figure and a forest of golden curls, such as Raphael was fond of and Titian has painted all his Magdalens with. This fawn-colored hair, or, perhaps the sort of ascendancy which she had over other women, gave her the name of "La Lionne." Mademoiselle Paulet took her accustomed seat, but before sitting down, she cast, in all her queen-like grandeur, a look around the room, and her eyes rested on Raoul.


"Mademoiselle Paulet has observed you, vicomte; go and bow to her; don't try to appear anything but what you are, a true country youth; on no account speak to her of Henry IV."


"When shall we two walk together?" Athos then said to Aramis.


"Presently—there are not a sufficient number of people here yet; we shall be remarked."


At this moment the door opened and in walked the coadjutor.


At this name every one looked around, for his was already a very celebrated name. Athos did the same. He knew the Abbé de Gondy only by report.


He saw a little dark man, ill made and awkward with his hands in everything—except drawing a sword and firing a pistol—with something haughty and contemptuous in his face.


Scarron turned around toward him and came to meet him in his chair.


"Well," said the coadjutor, on seeing him, "you are in disgrace, then, abbé?"


This was the orthodox phrase. It had been said that evening a hundred times—and Scarron was at his hundredth bon mot on the subject; he was very nearly at the end of his humoristic tether, but one despairing effort saved him.


"Monsieur, the Cardinal Mazarin has been so kind as to think of me," he said.


"But how can you continue to receive us?" asked the coadjutor; "if your income is lessened I shall be obliged to make you a canon of Notre Dame."


"Oh, no!" cried Scarron, "I should compromise you too much."


"Perhaps you have resources of which we are ignorant?"


"I shall borrow from the queen."


"But her majesty has no property," interposed Aramis.


At this moment the door opened and Madame de Chevreuse was announced. Every one arose. Scarron turned his chair toward the door, Raoul blushed, Athos made a sign to Aramis, who went and hid himself in the enclosure of a window.


In the midst of all the compliments that awaited her on her entrance, the duchess seemed to be looking for some one; at last she found out Raoul and her eyes sparkled; she perceived Athos and became thoughtful; she saw Aramis in the seclusion of the window and gave a start of surprise behind her fan.


"Apropos," she said, as if to drive away thoughts that pursued her in spite of herself, "how is poor Voiture, do you know, Scarron?"


"What, is Monsieur Voiture ill?" inquired a gentleman who had spoken to Athos in the Rue Saint Honoré; "what is the matter with him?"


"He was acting, but forgot to take the precaution to have a change of linen ready after the performance," said the coadjutor, "so he took cold and is about to die."


"Is he then so ill, dear Voiture?" asked Aramis, half hidden by the window curtain.


"Die!" cried Mademoiselle Paulet, bitterly, "he! Why, he is surrounded by sultanas, like a Turk. Madame de Saintot has hastened to him with broth; La Renaudot warms his sheets; the Marquise de Rambouillet sends him his tisanes."


"What an injustice, my dear invalid! I hate him so little that I should be delighted to order masses for the repose of his soul."


"You are not called 'Lionne' for nothing," observed Madame de Chevreuse, "your teeth are terrible."


"You are unjust to a great poet, it seems to me," Raoul ventured to say.


"A great poet! come, one may easily see, vicomte, that you are lately from the provinces and have never so much as seen him. A great poet! he is scarcely five feet high."


"Bravo bravo!" cried a tall man with an enormous mustache and a long rapier, "bravo, fair Paulet, it is high time to put little Voiture in his right place. For my part, I always thought his poetry detestable, and I think I know something about poetry."


"Who is this officer," inquired Raoul of Athos, "who is speaking?"


"Monsieur de Scudéry, the author of 'Clélie,' and of 'Le Grand Cyrus,' which were composed partly by him and partly by his sister, who is now talking to that pretty person yonder, near Monsieur Scarron."


Raoul turned and saw two faces just arrived. One was perfectly charming, delicate, pensive, shaded by beautiful dark hair, and eyes soft as velvet, like those lovely flowers, the heartsease, in which shine out the golden petals. The other, of mature age, seemed to have the former one under her charge, and was cold, dry and yellow—the true type of a duenna or a devotee.


Raoul resolved not to quit the room without having spoken to the beautiful girl with the soft eyes, who by a strange fancy, although she bore no resemblance, reminded him of his poor little Louise, whom he had left in the Château de la Vallière and whom, in the midst of all the party, he had never for one moment quite forgotten. Meantime Aramis had drawn near to the coadjutor, who, smiling all the while, contrived to drop some words into his ear. Aramis, notwithstanding his self-control, could not refrain from a slight movement of surprise.


"Laugh, then," said Monsieur de Retz; "they are looking at us." And leaving Aramis he went to talk with Madame de Chevreuse, who was in the midst of a large group.


Aramis affected a laugh, to divert the attention of certain curious listeners, and perceiving that Athos had betaken himself to the embrasure of a window and remained there, he proceeded to join him, throwing out a few words carelessly as he moved through the room.


As soon as the two friends met they began a conversation which was emphasized by frequent gesticulation.


Raoul then approached them as Athos had directed him to do.


"'Tis a rondeau by Monsieur Voiture that monsieur l'abbé is repeating to me." said Athos in a loud voice, "and I confess I think it incomparable."


Raoul stayed only a few minutes near them and then mingled with the group round Madame de Chevreuse.


"Well, then?" asked Athos, in a low tone.


"It is to be to-morrow," said Aramis hastily.


"Six o'clock."


"Who told you?"


"The Count de Rochefort."


Some one drew near.


"And then philosophic ideas are wholly wanting in Voiture's works, but I am of the same opinion as the coadjutor—he is a poet, a true poet." Aramis spoke so as to be heard by everybody.


"And I, too," murmured the young lady with the velvet eyes. "I have the misfortune also to admire his poetry exceedingly."


"Monsieur Scarron, do me the honor," said Raoul, blushing, "to tell me the name of that young lady whose opinion seems so different from that of others of the company."


"Ah! my young vicomte," replied Scarron, "I suppose you wish to propose to her an alliance offensive and defensive."


Raoul blushed again.


"You asked the name of that young lady. She is called the fair Indian."


"Excuse me, sir," returned Raoul, blushing still more deeply, "I know no more than I did before. Alas! I am from the country."


"Which means that you know very little about the nonsense which here flows down our streets. So much the better, young man! so much the better! Don't try to understand it—you will only lose your time."


"You forgive me, then, sir," said Raoul, "and you will deign to tell me who is the person that you call the young Indian?"


"Certainly; one of the most charming persons that lives—Mademoiselle Frances d'Aubigné."


"Does she belong to the family of the celebrated Agrippa, the friend of Henry IV.?"


"His granddaughter. She comes from Martinique, so I call her the beautiful Indian."


Raoul looked surprised and his eyes met those of the young lady, who smiled.


The company went on speaking of the poet Voiture.


"Monsieur," said Mademoiselle d'Aubigné to Scarron, as if she wished to join in the conversation he was engaged in with Raoul, "do you not admire Monsieur Voiture's friends? Listen how they pull him to pieces even whilst they praise him; one takes away from him all claim to good sense, another robs him of his poetry, a third of his originality, another of his humor, another of his independence of character, a sixth—but, good heavens! what will they leave him? as Mademoiselle de Scudéry remarks."


Scarron and Raoul laughed. The fair Indian, astonished at the sensation her observation produced, looked down and resumed her air of naïveté.


Athos, still within the inclosure of the window, watched this scene with a smile of disdain on his lips.


"Tell the Comte de la Fère to come to me," said Madame de Chevreuse, "I want to speak to him."


"And I," said the coadjutor, "want it to be thought that I do not speak to him. I admire, I love him—for I know his former adventures—but I shall not speak to him until the day after to-morrow."


"And why day after to-morrow?" asked Madame de Chevreuse.


"You will know that to-morrow evening," said the coadjutor, smiling.


"Really, my dear Gondy," said the duchess, "you remind one of the Apocalypse. Monsieur d'Herblay," she added, turning toward Aramis, "will you be my servant once more this evening?"


"How can you doubt it?" replied Aramis; "this evening, to-morrow, always; command me."


"I will, then. Go and look for the Comte de la Fère; I wish to speak with him."


Aramis found Athos and brought him.


"Monsieur le comte," said the duchess, giving him a letter, "here is what I promised you; our young friend will be extremely well received."


"Madame, he is very happy in owing any obligation to you."


"You have no reason to envy him on that score, for I owe to you the pleasure of knowing him," replied the witty woman, with a smile which recalled Marie Michon to Aramis and to Athos.


As she uttered that bon mot, she arose and asked for her carriage. Mademoiselle Paulet had already gone; Mademoiselle de Scudéry was going.


"Vicomte," said Athos to Raoul, "follow the duchess; beg her to do you the favor to take your arm in going downstairs, and thank her as you descend."


The fair Indian approached Scarron.


"One of the last, as you see; if you hear anything of Monsieur Voiture, be so kind as to send me word to-morrow."


"Oh!" said Scarron, "he may die now."


"Why?" asked the young girl with the velvet eyes.


"Certainly; his panegyric has been uttered."


They parted, laughing, she turning back to gaze at the poor paralytic man with interest, he looking after her with eyes of love.


One by one the several groups broke up. Scarron seemed not to observe that certain of his guests had talked mysteriously, that letters had passed from hand to hand and that the assembly had seemed to have a secret purpose quite apart from the literary discussion carried on with so much ostentation. What was all that to Scarron? At his house rebellion could be planned with impunity, for, as we have said, since that morning he had ceased to be "the queen's invalid."


As to Raoul, he had attended the duchess to her carriage, where, as she took her seat, she gave him her hand to kiss; then, by one of those wild caprices which made her so adorable and at the same time so dangerous, she had suddenly put her arm around his neck and kissed his forehead, saying:


"Vicomte, may my good wishes and this kiss bring you good fortune!"


Then she had pushed him away and directed the coachman to stop at the Hotel de Luynes. The carriage had started, Madame de Chevreuse had made a parting gesture to the young man, and Raoul had returned in a state of stupefaction.


Athos surmised what had taken place and smiled. "Come, vicomte," he said, "it is time for you to go to bed; you will start in the morning for the army of monsieur le prince. Sleep well your last night as citizen."


"I am to be a soldier then?" said the young man. "Oh, monsieur, I thank you with all my heart."


"Adieu, count," said the Abbé d'Herblay; "I return to my convent."


"Adieu, abbé," said the coadjutor, "I am to preach to-morrow and have twenty texts to examine this evening."


"Adieu, gentlemen," said the count; "I am going to sleep twenty-four hours; I am just falling down with fatigue."


The three men saluted one another, whilst exchanging a last look.


Scarron followed their movements with a glance from the corner of his eye.


"Not one of them will do as he says," he murmured, with his little monkey smile; "but they may do as they please, the brave gentlemen! Who knows if they will not manage to restore to me my pension? They can move their arms, they can, and that is much. Alas, I have only my tongue, but I will try to show that it is good for something. Ho, there, Champenois! here, it is eleven o'clock. Come and roll me to bed. Really, that Demoiselle d'Aubigné is very charming!"


So the invalid disappeared soon afterward and went into his sleeping-room; and one by one the lights in the salon of the Rue des Tournelles were extinguished.


The day had begun to break when Athos arose and dressed himself. It was plain, by a paleness still greater than usual, and by those traces which loss of sleep leaves on the face, that he must have passed almost the whole of the night without sleeping. Contrary to the custom of a man so firm and decided, there was this morning in his personal appearance something tardy and irresolute.


He was occupied with the preparations for Raoul's departure and was seeking to gain time. In the first place he himself furbished a sword, which he drew from its perfumed leather sheath; he examined it to see if its hilt was well guarded and if the blade was firmly attached to the hilt. Then he placed at the bottom of the valise belonging to the young man a small bag of louis, called Olivain, the lackey who had followed him from Blois, and made him pack the valise under his own eyes, watchful to see that everything should be put in which might be useful to a young man entering on his first campaign.


At length, after occupying about an hour in these preparations, he opened the door of the room in which the vicomte slept, and entered.


The sun, already high, penetrated into the room through the window, the curtains of which Raoul had neglected to close on the previous evening. He was still sleeping, his head gracefully reposing on his arm.


Athos approached and hung over the youth in an attitude full of tender melancholy; he looked long on this young man, whose smiling mouth and half closed eyes bespoke soft dreams and lightest slumber, as if his guardian angel watched over him with solicitude and affection. By degrees Athos gave himself up to the charms of his reverie in the proximity of youth, so pure, so fresh. His own youth seemed to reappear, bringing with it all those savoury remembrances, which are like perfumes more than thoughts. Between the past and the present was an ineffable abyss. But imagination has the wings of an angel of light and travels safely through or over the seas where we have been almost shipwrecked, the darkness in which our illusions are lost, the precipice whence our happiness has been hurled and swallowed up. He remembered that all the first part of his life had been embittered by a woman and he thought with alarm of the influence love might assume over so fine, and at the same time so vigorous an organization as that of Raoul.


In recalling all he had been through, he foresaw all that Raoul might suffer; and the expression of the deep and tender compassion which throbbed in his heart was pictured in the moist eye with which he gazed on the young man.


At this moment Raoul awoke, without a cloud on his face without weariness or lassitude; his eyes were fixed on those of Athos and perhaps he comprehended all that passed in the heart of the man who was awaiting his awakening as a lover awaits the awakening of his mistress, for his glance, in return, had all the tenderness of love.


"You are there, sir?" he said, respectfully.


"Yes, Raoul," replied the count.


"I wished to leave you still to enjoy some moments of sleep, my child; you must be fatigued from yesterday."


"How do you feel this morning?" he inquired.


"Perfectly well; quite rested, sir."


"You are still growing," Athos continued, with that charming and paternal interest felt by a grown man for a youth.


"Oh, sir, I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Raoul, ashamed of so much attention; "in an instant I shall be dressed."


Athos then called Olivain.


"Everything," said Olivain to Athos, "has been done according to your directions; the horses are waiting."


"And I was asleep," cried Raoul, "whilst you, sir, you had the kindness to attend to all these details. Truly, sir, you overwhelm me with benefits!"


"Therefore you love me a little, I hope," replied Athos, in a tone of emotion.


"Oh, sir! God knows how much I love, revere you."


"See that you forget nothing," said Athos, appearing to look about him, that he might hide his emotion.


"No, indeed, sir," answered Raoul.


The servant then approached Athos and said, hesitatingly:


"'Tis well," said Athos, "I will take care of that."


They went downstairs, Raoul looking every now and then at the count to see if the moment of farewell was at hand, but Athos was silent. When they reached the steps Raoul saw three horses.


"Oh, sir! then you are going with me?"


"I will accompany you a portion of the way," said Athos.


Joy shone in Raoul's eyes and he leaped lightly to his saddle.


Athos mounted more slowly, after speaking in a low voice to the lackey, who, instead of following them immediately, returned to their rooms. Raoul, delighted at the count's companionship, perceived, or affected to perceive nothing of this byplay.


They set out, passing over the Pont Neuf; they pursued their way along the quay then called L'Abreuvoir Pepin, and went along by the walls of the Grand Châtelet. They proceeded to the Rue Saint Denis.


After passing through the Porte Saint Denis, Athos looked at Raoul's way of riding and observed:


"Take care, Raoul! I have already often told you of this; you must not forget it, for it is a great defect in a rider. See! your horse is tired already, he froths at the mouth, whilst mine looks as if he had only just left the stable. You hold the bit too tight and so make his mouth hard, so that you will not be able to make him manœuvre quickly. The safety of a cavalier often depends on the prompt obedience of his horse. In a week, remember, you will no longer be performing your manœuvres for practice, but on a field of battle."


Then suddenly, in order not to give too uncomfortable an importance to this observation:


"See, Raoul!" he resumed; "what a fine plain for partridge shooting."


The young man stored in his mind the admonition whilst he admired the delicate tenderness with which it was bestowed.


"I have remarked also another thing," said Athos, "which is, that in firing off your pistol you hold your arm too far outstretched. This tension lessens the accuracy of the aim. So in twelve times you thrice missed the mark."


"Which you, sir, struck twelve times," answered Raoul, smiling.


"Because I bent my arm and rested my hand on my elbow—so; do you understand what I mean?"


"Yes, sir. I have fired since in that manner and have been quite successful."


"What a cold wind!" resumed Athos; "a wintry blast. Apropos, if you fire—and you will do so, for you are recommended to a young general who is very fond of powder—remember that in single combat, which often takes place in the cavalry, never to fire the first shot. He who fires the first shot rarely hits his man, for he fires with the apprehension of being disarmed, before an armed foe; then, whilst he fires, make your horse rear; that manœuvre has saved my life several times."


"I shall do so, if only in gratitude——"


"Eh!" cried Athos, "are not those fellows poachers they have arrested yonder? They are. Then another important thing, Raoul: should you be wounded in a battle, and fall from your horse, if you have any strength left, disentangle yourself from the line that your regiment has formed; otherwise, it may be driven back and you will be trampled to death by the horses. At all events, should you be wounded, write to me that very instant, or get some one at once to write to me. We are judges of wounds, we old soldiers," Athos added, smiling.


"Thank you, sir," answered the young man, much moved.


They arrived that very moment at the gate of the town, guarded by two sentinels.


"Here comes a young gentleman," said one of them, "who seems as if he were going to join the army."


"How do you make that out?" inquired Athos.


"By his manner, sir, and his age; he's the second to-day."


"Has a young man, such as I am, gone through this morning, then?" asked Raoul.


"Faith, yes, with a haughty presence, a fine equipage; such as the son of a noble house would have."


"He will be my companion on the journey, sir," cried Raoul. "Alas! he cannot make me forget what I shall have lost!"


Thus talking, they traversed the streets, full of people on account of the fête, and arrived opposite the old cathedral, where first mass was going on.


"Let us alight; Raoul," said Athos. "Olivain, take care of our horses and give me my sword."


The two gentlemen then went into the church. Athos gave Raoul some of the holy water. A love as tender as that of a lover for his mistress dwells, undoubtedly, in some paternal hearts toward a son.


Athos said a word to one of the vergers, who bowed and proceeded toward the basement.


"Come, Raoul," he said, "let us follow this man."


The verger opened the iron grating that guarded the royal tombs and stood on the topmost step, whilst Athos and Raoul descended. The sepulchral depths of the descent were dimly lighted by a silver lamp on the lowest step; and just below this lamp there was laid, wrapped in a flowing mantle of violet velvet, worked with fleurs-de-lis of gold, a catafalque resting on trestles of oak. The young man, prepared for this scene by the state of his own feelings, which were mournful, and by the majesty of the cathedral which he had passed through, descended in a slow and solemn manner and stood with head uncovered before these mortal spoils of the last king, who was not to be placed by the side of his forefathers until his successor should take his place there; and who appeared to abide on that spot, that he might thus address human pride, so sure to be exalted by the glories of a throne: "Dust of the earth! Here I await thee!"


There was profound silence.


Then Athos raised his hand and pointing to the coffin:


"This temporary sepulture is," he said, "that of a man who was of feeble mind, yet one whose reign was full of great events; because over this king watched the spirit of another man, even as this lamp keeps vigil over this coffin and illumines it. He whose intellect was thus supreme, Raoul, was the actual sovereign; the other, nothing but a phantom to whom he lent a soul; and yet, so powerful is majesty amongst us, this man has not even the honor of a tomb at the feet of him in whose service his life was worn away. Remember, Raoul, this! If Richelieu made the king, by comparison, seem small, he made royalty great. The Palace of the Louvre contains two things—the king, who must die, and royalty, which never dies. The minister, so feared, so hated by his master, has descended into the tomb, drawing after him the king, whom he would not leave alone on earth, lest his work should be destroyed. So blind were his contemporaries that they regarded the cardinal's death as a deliverance; and I, even I, opposed the designs of the great man who held the destinies of France within the hollow of his hand. Raoul, learn how to distinguish the king from royalty; the king is but a man; royalty is the gift of God. Whenever you hesitate as to whom you ought to serve, abandon the exterior, the material appearance for the invisible principle, for the invisible principle is everything. Raoul, I seem to read your future destiny as through a cloud. It will be happier, I think, than ours has been. Different in your fate from us, you will have a king without a minister, whom you may serve, love, respect. Should the king prove a tyrant, for power begets tyranny, serve, love, respect royalty, that Divine right, that celestial spark which makes this dust still powerful and holy, so that we—gentlemen, nevertheless, of rank and condition—are as nothing in comparison with the cold corpse there extended."


"I shall adore God, sir," said Raoul, "respect royalty and ever serve the king. And if death be my lot, I hope to die for the king, for royalty and for God. Have I, sir, comprehended your instructions?"


"Yours is a noble nature." he said; "here is your sword."


Raoul bent his knee to the ground.


"It was worn by my father, a loyal gentleman. I have worn it in my turn and it has sometimes not been disgraced when the hilt was in my hand and the sheath at my side. Should your hand still be too weak to use this sword, Raoul, so much the better. You will have the more time to learn to draw it only when it ought to be used."


"Sir," replied Raoul, putting the sword to his lips as he received it from the count, "I owe you everything and yet this sword is the most precious gift you have yet made me. I will wear it, I swear to you, as a grateful man should do."


"'Tis well; arise, vicomte, embrace me."


Raoul arose and threw himself with emotion into the count's arms.


"Adieu," faltered the count, who felt his heart die away within him; "adieu, and think of me."


"Oh! for ever and ever!" cried the youth; "oh! I swear to you, sir, should any harm befall me, your name will be the last name that I shall utter, the remembrance of you my last thought."


Athos hastened upstairs to conceal his emotion, and regained with hurried steps the porch where Olivain was waiting with the horses.


"Olivain," said Athos, showing the servant Raoul's shoulder-belt, "tighten the buckle of the sword, it falls too low. You will accompany monsieur le vicomte till Grimaud rejoins you. You know, Raoul, Grimaud is an old and zealous servant; he will follow you."


"Yes, sir," answered Raoul.


"Now to horse, that I may see you depart!"


Raoul obeyed.


"Adieu, Raoul," said the count; "adieu, my dearest boy!"


Athos waved his hand—he dared not trust himself to speak: and Raoul went away, his head uncovered. Athos remained motionless, looking after him until he turned the corner of the street.


Then the count threw the bridle of his horse into the hands of a peasant, remounted the steps, went into the cathedral, there to kneel down in the darkest corner and pray.


Chapter XXIII. One of the Forty Methods of Escape of the Duc de Beaufort.


Meanwhile time was passing on for the prisoner, as well as for those who were preparing his escape; only for him it passed more slowly. Unlike other men, who enter with ardor upon a perilous resolution and grow cold as the moment of execution approaches, the Duc de Beaufort, whose buoyant courage had become a proverb, seemed to push time before him and sought most eagerly to hasten the hour of action. In his escape alone, apart from his plans for the future, which, it must be admitted, were for the present sufficiently vague and uncertain, there was a beginning of vengeance which filled his heart. In the first place his escape would be a serious misfortune to Monsieur de Chavigny, whom he hated for the petty persecutions he owed to him. It would be a still worse affair for Mazarin, whom he execrated for the greater offences he had committed. It may be observed that there was a proper proportion in his sentiments toward the governor of the prison and the minister—toward the subordinate and the master.


Then Monsieur de Beaufort, who was so familiar with the interior of the Palais Royal, though he did not know the relations existing between the queen and the cardinal, pictured to himself, in his prison, all that dramatic excitement which would ensue when the rumor should run from the minister's cabinet to the chamber of Anne of Austria: "Monsieur de Beaufort has escaped!" Whilst saying that to himself, Monsieur de Beaufort smiled pleasantly and imagined himself already outside, breathing the air of the plains and the forests, pressing a strong horse between his knees and crying out in a loud voice, "I am free!"


It is true that on coming to himself he found that he was still within four walls; he saw La Ramee twirling his thumbs ten feet from him, and his guards laughing and drinking in the ante-chamber. The only thing that was pleasant to him in that odious tableau—such is the instability of the human mind—was the sullen face of Grimaud, for whom he had at first conceived such a hatred and who now was all his hope. Grimaud seemed to him an Antinous. It is needless to say that this transformation was visible only to the prisoner's feverish imagination. Grimaud was still the same, and therefore he retained the entire confidence of his superior, La Ramee, who now relied upon him more than he did upon himself, for, as we have said, La Ramee felt at the bottom of his heart a certain weakness for Monsieur de Beaufort.


And so the good La Ramee made a festivity of the little supper with his prisoner. He had but one fault—he was a gourmand; he had found the pâtés good, the wine excellent. Now the successor of Père Marteau had promised him a pâté of pheasant instead of a pâté of fowl, and Chambertin wine instead of Macon. All this, set off by the presence of that excellent prince, who was so good-natured, who invented so droll tricks against Monsieur de Chavigny and so fine jokes against Mazarin, made for La Ramee the approaching Pentecost one of the four great feasts of the year. He therefore looked forward to six o'clock with as much impatience as the duke himself.


Since daybreak La Ramee had been occupied with the preparations, and trusting no one but himself, he had visited personally the successor of Père Marteau. The latter had surpassed himself; he showed La Ramee a monstrous pâté, ornamented with Monsieur de Beaufort's coat-of-arms. It was empty as yet, but a pheasant and two partridges were lying near it. La Ramee's mouth watered and he returned to the duke's chamber rubbing his hands. To crown his happiness, Monsieur de Chavigny had started on a journey that morning and in his absence La Ramee was deputy-governor of the château.


As for Grimaud, he seemed more sullen than ever.


In the course of the forenoon Monsieur de Beaufort had a game of tennis with La Ramee; a sign from Grimaud put him on the alert. Grimaud, going in advance, followed the course which they were to take in the evening. The game was played in an inclosure called the little court of the château, a place quite deserted except when Monsieur de Beaufort was playing; and even then the precaution seemed superfluous, the wall was so high.


There were three gates to open before reaching the inclosure, each by a different key. When they arrived Grimaud went carelessly and sat down by a loophole in the wall, letting his legs dangle outside. It was evident that there the rope ladder was to be attached.


This manœuvre, transparent to the Duc de Beaufort, was quite unintelligible to La Ramee.


The game at tennis, which, upon a sign from Grimaud, Monsieur de Beaufort had consented to play, began in the afternoon. The duke was in full strength and beat La Ramee completely.


Four of the guards, who were constantly near the prisoner, assisted in picking up the tennis balls. When the game was over, the duke, laughing at La Ramee for his bad play, offered these men two louis d'or to go and drink his health, with their four other comrades.


The guards asked permission of La Ramee, who gave it to them, but not till the evening, however; until then he had business and the prisoner was not to be left alone.


Six o'clock came and, although they were not to sit down to table until seven o'clock, dinner was ready and served up. Upon a sideboard appeared the colossal pie with the duke's arms on it, and seemingly cooked to a turn, as far as one could judge by the golden color which illuminated the crust.


The rest of the dinner was to come.


Every one was impatient, La Ramee to sit down to table, the guards to go and drink, the duke to escape.


Grimaud alone was calm as ever. One might have fancied that Athos had educated him with the express forethought of such a great event.


There were moments when, looking at Grimaud, the duke asked himself if he was not dreaming and if that marble figure was really at his service and would grow animated when the moment came for action.


La Ramee sent away the guards, desiring them to drink to the duke's health, and as soon as they were gone shut all the doors, put the keys in his pocket and showed the table to the prince with an air that signified:


"Whenever my lord pleases."


The prince looked at Grimaud, Grimaud looked at the clock; it was hardly a quarter-past six. The escape was fixed to take place at seven o'clock; there was therefore three-quarters of an hour to wait.


The duke, in order to pass away another quarter of an hour, pretended to be reading something that interested him and muttered that he wished they would allow him to finish his chapter. La Ramee went up to him and looked over his shoulder to see what sort of a book it was that had so singular an influence over the prisoner as to make him put off taking his dinner.


It was "Cæsar's Commentaries," which La Ramee had lent him, contrary to the orders of the governor; and La Ramee resolved never again to disobey these injunctions.


Meantime he uncorked the bottles and went to smell if the pie was good.


At half-past six the duke arose and said very gravely:


"Certainly, Cæsar was the greatest man of ancient times."


"You think so, my lord?" answered La Ramee.


"Well, as for me, I prefer Hannibal."


"And why, pray, Master La Ramee?" asked the duke.


"Because he left no Commentaries," replied La Ramee, with his coarse laugh.


The duke vouchsafed no reply, but sitting down at the table made a sign that La Ramee should seat himself opposite. There is nothing so expressive as the face of an epicure who finds himself before a well spread table, so La Ramee, when receiving his plate of soup from Grimaud, presented a type of perfect bliss.


The duke smiled.


"Zounds!" he said; "I don't suppose there is a more contented man at this moment in all the kingdom than yourself!"


"You are right, my lord duke," answered the officer; "I don't know any pleasanter sight on earth than a well covered table; and when, added to that, he who does the honors is the grandson of Henry IV., you will, my lord duke, easily comprehend that the honor fairly doubles the pleasure one enjoys."


The duke, in his turn, bowed, and an imperceptible smile appeared on the face of Grimaud, who kept behind La Ramee.


"My dear La Ramee," said the duke, "you are the only man to turn such faultless compliments."


"No, my lord duke," replied La Ramee, in the fullness of his heart; "I say what I think; there is no compliment in what I say to you——"


"Then you are attached to me?" asked the duke.


"To own the truth, I should be inconsolable if you were to leave Vincennes."


"A droll way of showing your affliction." The duke meant to say "affection."


"But, my lord," returned La Ramee, "what would you do if you got out? Every folly you committed would embroil you with the court and they would put you into the Bastile, instead of Vincennes. Now, Monsieur de Chavigny is not amiable, I allow, but Monsieur du Tremblay is considerably worse."


"Indeed!" exclaimed the duke, who from time to time looked at the clock, the fingers of which seemed to move with sickening slowness.


"But what can you expect from the brother of a capuchin monk, brought up in the school of Cardinal Richelieu? Ah, my lord, it is a great happiness that the queen, who always wished you well, had a fancy to send you here, where there's a promenade and a tennis court, good air, and a good table."


"In short," answered the duke, "if I comprehend you aright, La Ramee, I am ungrateful for having ever thought of leaving this place?"


"Oh! my lord duke, 'tis the height of ingratitude; but your highness has never seriously thought of it?"


"Yes," returned the duke, "I must confess I sometimes think of it."


"Still by one of your forty methods, your highness?"


"Yes, yes, indeed."


"My lord," said La Ramee, "now we are quite at our ease and enjoying ourselves, pray tell me one of those forty ways invented by your highness."


"Willingly," answered the duke, "give me the pie!"


"I am listening," said La Ramee, leaning back in his armchair and raising his glass of Madeira to his lips, and winking his eye that he might see the sun through the rich liquid that he was about to taste.


The duke glanced at the clock. In ten minutes it would strike seven.


Grimaud placed the pie before the duke, who took a knife with a silver blade to raise the upper crust; but La Ramee, who was afraid of any harm happening to this fine work of art, passed his knife, which had an iron blade, to the duke.


"Thank you, La Ramee," said the prisoner.


"Well, my lord! this famous invention of yours?"


"Must I tell you," replied the duke, "on what I most reckon and what I determine to try first?"


"Yes, that's the thing, my lord!" cried his custodian, gaily.


"Well, I should hope, in the first instance, to have for keeper an honest fellow like you."


"And you have me, my lord. Well?"


"Having, then, a keeper like La Ramee, I should try also to have introduced to him by some friend or other a man who would be devoted to me, who would assist me in my flight."


"Come, come," said La Ramee, "that's not a bad idea."


"Capital, isn't it? for instance, the former servingman of some brave gentleman, an enemy himself to Mazarin, as every gentleman ought to be."


"Hush! don't let us talk politics, my lord."


"Then my keeper would begin to trust this man and to depend upon him, and I should have news from those without the prison walls."


"Ah, yes! but how can the news be brought to you?"


"Nothing easier; in a game of tennis, for example."


"In a game of tennis?" asked La Ramee, giving more serious attention to the duke's words.


"Yes; see, I send a ball into the moat; a man is there who picks it up; the ball contains a letter. Instead of returning the ball to me when I call for it from the top of the wall, he throws me another; that other ball contains a letter. Thus we have exchanged ideas and no one has seen us do it."


"The devil it does! The devil it does!" said La Ramee, scratching his head; "you are in the wrong to tell me that, my lord. I shall have to watch the men who pick up balls."


"But," resumed La Ramee, "that is only a way of corresponding."


"And that is a great deal, it seems to me."


"But not enough."


"Pardon me; for instance, I say to my friends, Be on a certain day, on a certain hour, at the other side of the moat with two horses."


"Well, what then?" La Ramee began to be uneasy; "unless the horses have wings to mount the ramparts and come and fetch you."


"That's not needed. I have," replied the duke, "a way of descending from the ramparts."


"Yes, but," answered La Ramee, trying to laugh, "a ladder of ropes can't be sent around a ball, like a letter."


"No, but it may be sent in something else."


"In something else—in something else? In what?"


"Yes. Let us suppose one thing," replied the duke "let us suppose, for instance, that my maître d'hôtel, Noirmont, has purchased the shop of Père Marteau——"


"Well?" said La Ramee, shuddering.


"Well, La Ramee, who is a gourmand, sees his pâtés, thinks them more attractive than those of Père Marteau and proposes to me that I shall try them. I consent on condition that La Ramee tries them with me. That we may be more at our ease, La Ramee removes the guards, keeping only Grimaud to wait on us. Grimaud is the man whom a friend has sent to second me in everything. The moment for my escape is fixed—seven o'clock. Well, at a few minutes to seven——"


"At a few minutes to seven?" cried La Ramee, cold sweat upon his brow.


"At a few minutes to seven," returned the duke (suiting the action to the words), "I raise the crust of the pie; I find in it two poniards, a ladder of rope, and a gag. I point one of the poniards at La Ramee's breast and I say to him, 'My friend, I am sorry for it, but if thou stirrest, if thou utterest one cry, thou art a dead man!'"


The duke, in pronouncing these words, suited, as we have said, the action to the words. He was standing near the officer and he directed the point of the poniard in such a manner, close to La Ramee's heart, that there could be no doubt in the mind of that individual as to his determination. Meanwhile, Grimaud, still mute as ever, drew from the pie the other poniard, the rope ladder and the gag.


La Ramee followed all these objects with his eyes, his alarm every moment increasing.


"Oh, my lord," he cried, with an expression of stupefaction in his face; "you haven't the heart to kill me!"


"No; not if thou dost not oppose my flight."


"But, my lord, if I allow you to escape I am a ruined man."


"I will compensate thee for the loss of thy place."


"You are determined to leave the château?"


"By Heaven and earth! This night I am determined to be free."


"And if I defend myself, or call, or cry out?"


"I will kill thee, on the honor of a gentleman."


At this moment the clock struck.


"Seven o'clock!" said Grimaud, who had not spoken a word.


La Ramee made one movement, in order to satisfy his conscience. The duke frowned, the officer felt the point of the poniard, which, having penetrated through his clothes, was close to his heart.


"Let us dispatch," said the duke.


"My lord, one last favor."


"Bind my arms, my lord, fast."


"Why bind thee?"


"That I may not be considered as your accomplice."


"Your hands?" asked Grimaud.


"But with what?" asked the duke.


"With your belt, my lord!" replied La Ramee.


The duke undid his belt and gave it to Grimaud, who tied La Ramee in such a way as to satisfy him.


La Ramee stretched out his legs, Grimaud took a table-cloth, tore it into strips and tied La Ramee's feet together.


"Now, my lord," said the poor man, "let me have the poire d'angoisse. I ask for it; without it I should be tried in a court of justice because I did not raise the alarm. Thrust it into my mouth, my lord, thrust it in."


Grimaud prepared to comply with this request, when the officer made a sign as if he had something to say.


"Speak," said the duke.


"Now, my lord, do not forget, if any harm happens to me on your account, that I have a wife and four children."


"Rest assured; put the gag in, Grimaud."


In a second La Ramee was gagged and laid prostrate. Two or three chairs were thrown down as if there had been a struggle. Grimaud then took from the pocket of the officer all the keys it contained and first opened the door of the room in which they were, then shut it and double-locked it, and both he and the duke proceeded rapidly down the gallery which led to the little inclosure. At last they reached the tennis court. It was completely deserted. No sentinels, no one at any of the windows. The duke ran to the rampart and perceived on the other side of the ditch, three cavaliers with two riding horses. The duke exchanged a signal with them. It was indeed for him that they were there.


Grimaud, meantime, undid the means of escape.


This was not, however, a rope ladder, but a ball of silk cord, with a narrow board which was to pass between the legs, the ball to unwind itself by the weight of the person who sat astride upon the board.


"Go!" said the duke.


"First, my lord?" inquired Grimaud.


"Certainly. If I am caught, I risk nothing but being taken back again to prison. If they catch thee, thou wilt be hung."


"True," replied Grimaud.


And instantly, Grimaud, sitting upon the board as if on horseback, commenced his perilous descent.


The duke followed him with his eyes, with involuntary terror. He had gone down about three-quarters of the length of the wall when the cord broke. Grimaud fell—precipitated into the moat.


The duke uttered a cry, but Grimaud did not give a single moan. He must have been dreadfully hurt, for he did not stir from the place where he fell.


Immediately one of the men who were waiting slipped down into the moat, tied under Grimaud's shoulders the end of a cord, and the remaining two, who held the other end, drew Grimaud to them.


"Descend, my lord," said the man in the moat. "There are only fifteen feet more from the top down here, and the grass is soft."


The duke had already begun to descend. His task was the more difficult, as there was no board to support him. He was obliged to let himself down by his hands and from a height of fifty feet. But as we have said he was active, strong, and full of presence of mind. In less than five minutes he arrived at the end of the cord. He was then only fifteen feet from the ground, as the gentlemen below had told him. He let go the rope and fell upon his feet, without receiving any injury.


He instantly began to climb up the slope of the moat, on the top of which he met De Rochefort. The other two gentlemen were unknown to him. Grimaud, in a swoon, was tied securely to a horse.


"Gentlemen," said the duke, "I will thank you later; now we have not a moment to lose. On, then! on! those who love me, follow me!"


And he jumped on his horse and set off at full gallop, snuffing the fresh air in his triumph and shouting out, with an expression of face which it would be impossible to describe:


"Free! free! free!"


Chapter XXIV. The timely Arrival of D'Artagnan in Paris.


At Blois, D'Artagnan received the money paid to him by Mazarin for any future service he might render the cardinal.


From Blois to Paris was a journey of four days for ordinary travelers, but D'Artagnan arrived on the third day at the Barrière Saint Denis. In turning the corner of the Rue Montmartre, in order to reach the Rue Tiquetonne and the Hotel de la Chevrette, where he had appointed Porthos to meet him, he saw at one of the windows of the hotel, that friend himself dressed in a sky-blue waistcoat, embroidered with silver, and gaping, till he showed every one of his white teeth; whilst the people passing by admiringly gazed at this gentleman, so handsome and so rich, who seemed to weary of his riches and his greatness.


D'Artagnan and Planchet had hardly turned the corner when Porthos recognized them.


"Eh! D'Artagnan!" he cried. "Thank God you have come!"


"Eh! good-day, dear friend!" replied D'Artagnan.


Porthos came down at once to the threshold of the hotel.


"Ah, my dear friend!" he cried, "what bad stabling for my horses here."


"Indeed!" said D'Artagnan; "I am most unhappy to hear it, on account of those fine animals."


"And I, also—I was also wretchedly off," he answered, moving backward and forward as he spoke; "and had it not been for the hostess," he added, with his air of vulgar self-complacency, "who is very agreeable and understands a joke, I should have got a lodging elsewhere."


The pretty Madeleine, who had approached during this colloquy, stepped back and turned pale as death on hearing Porthos's words, for she thought the scene with the Swiss was about to be repeated. But to her great surprise D'Artagnan remained perfectly calm, and instead of being angry he laughed, and said to Porthos:


"Yes, I understand, the air of La Rue Tiquetonne is not like that of Pierrefonds; but console yourself, I will soon conduct you to one much better."


"When will you do that?"


"Immediately, I hope."


To that exclamation of Porthos's succeeded a groaning, low and profound, which seemed to come from behind a door. D'Artagnan, who had just dismounted, then saw, outlined against the wall, the enormous stomach of Mousqueton, whose down-drawn mouth emitted sounds of distress.


"And you, too, my poor Monsieur Mouston, are out of place in this poor hotel, are you not?" asked D'Artagnan, in that rallying tone which may indicate either compassion or mockery.


"He finds the cooking detestable," replied Porthos.


"Why, then, doesn't he attend to it himself, as at Chantilly?"


"Ah, monsieur, I have not here, as I had there, the ponds of monsieur le prince, where I could catch those beautiful carp, nor the forests of his highness to provide me with partridges. As for the cellar, I have searched every part and poor stuff I found."


"Monsieur Mouston," said D'Artagnan, "I should indeed condole with you had I not at this moment something very pressing to attend to."


Then taking Porthos aside:


"My dear Du Vallon," he said, "here you are in full dress most fortunately, for I am going to take you to the cardinal's."


"Gracious me! really!" exclaimed Porthos, opening his great wondering eyes.


"Yes, my friend."


"A presentation? indeed!"


"Does that alarm you?"


"No, but it agitates me."


"Oh! don't be distressed; you have to deal with a cardinal of another kind. This one will not oppress you by his dignity."


"'Tis the same thing—you understand me, D'Artagnan—a court."


"There's no court now. Alas!"


"The queen!"


"I was going to say, there's no longer a queen. The queen! Rest assured, we shall not see her."


"And you say that we are going from here to the Palais Royal?"


"Immediately. Only, that there may be no delay, I shall borrow one of your horses."


"Certainly; all the four are at your service."


"Oh, I need only one of them for the time being."


"Yes, you may as well take Mousqueton. As to Planchet, he has certain reasons for not going to court."


"And what are they?"


"Oh, he doesn't stand well with his eminence."


"Mouston," said Porthos, "saddle Vulcan and Bayard."


"And for myself, monsieur, shall I saddle Rustaud?"


"No, take a more stylish horse, Phœbus or Superbe; we are going with some ceremony."


"Ah," said Mousqueton, breathing more freely, "you are only going, then, to make a visit?"


"Oh! yes, of course, Mouston; nothing else. But to avoid risk, put the pistols in the holsters. You will find mine on my saddle, already loaded."


Mouston breathed a sigh; he couldn't understand visits of ceremony made under arms.


"Indeed," said Porthos, looking complacently at his old lackey as he went away, "you are right, D'Artagnan; Mouston will do; Mouston has a very fine appearance."


"But you, my friend—are you not going to change your dress?"


"No, I shall go as I am. This traveling dress will serve to show the cardinal my haste to obey his commands."


They set out on Vulcan and Bayard, followed by Mousqueton on Phœbus, and arrived at the Palais Royal at about a quarter to seven. The streets were crowded, for it was the day of Pentecost, and the crowd looked in wonder at these two cavaliers; one as fresh as if he had come out of a bandbox, the other so covered with dust that he looked as if he had but just come off a field of battle.


Mousqueton also attracted attention; and as the romance of Don Quixote was then the fashion, they said that he was Sancho, who, after having lost one master, had found two.


On reaching the palace, D'Artagnan sent to his eminence the letter in which he had been ordered to return without delay. He was soon ordered to the presence of the cardinal.


"Courage!" he whispered to Porthos, as they proceeded. "Do not be intimidated. Believe me, the eye of the eagle is closed forever. We have only the vulture to deal with. Hold yourself as bolt upright as on the day of the bastion of St. Gervais, and do not bow too low to this Italian; that might give him a poor idea of you."


"Good!" answered Porthos. "Good!"


Mazarin was in his study, working at a list of pensions and benefices, of which he was trying to reduce the number. He saw D'Artagnan and Porthos enter with internal pleasure, yet showed no joy in his countenance.


"Ah! you, is it? Monsieur le lieutenant, you have been very prompt. 'Tis well. Welcome to ye."


"Thanks, my lord. Here I am at your eminence's service, as well as Monsieur du Vallon, one of my old friends, who used to conceal his nobility under the name of Porthos."


Porthos bowed to the cardinal.


Porthos turned his head to the right and to the left, and drew himself up with a movement full of dignity.


"The best swordsman in the kingdom, my lord," said D'Artagnan.


Porthos bowed to his friend.


Mazarin was as fond of fine soldiers as, in later times, Frederick of Prussia used to be. He admired the strong hands, the broad shoulders and the steady eye of Porthos. He seemed to see before him the salvation of his administration and of the kingdom, sculptured in flesh and bone. He remembered that the old association of musketeers was composed of four persons.


"And your two other friends?" he asked.


Porthos opened his mouth, thinking it a good opportunity to put in a word in his turn; D'Artagnan checked him by a glance from the corner of his eye.


"They are prevented at this moment, but will join us later."


Mazarin coughed a little.


"And this gentleman, being disengaged, takes to the service willingly?" he asked.


"Yes, my lord, and from pure devotion to the cause, for Monsieur de Bracieux is rich."


"Rich!" said Mazarin, whom that single word always inspired with a great respect.


"Fifty thousand francs a year," said Porthos.


These were the first words he had spoken.


"From pure zeal?" resumed Mazarin, with his artful smile; "from pure zeal and devotion then?"


"My lord has, perhaps, no faith in those words?" said D'Artagnan.


"Have you, Monsieur le Gascon?" asked Mazarin, supporting his elbows on his desk and his chin on his hands.


"I," replied the Gascon, "I believe in devotion as a word at one's baptism, for instance, which naturally comes before one's proper name; every one is naturally more or less devout, certainly; but there should be at the end of one's devotion something to gain."


"And your friend, for instance; what does he expect to have at the end of his devotion?"


"Well, my lord, my friend has three magnificent estates: that of Vallon, at Corbeil; that of Bracieux, in the Soissonais; and that of Pierrefonds, in the Valois. Now, my lord, he would like to have one of his three estates erected into a barony."


"Only that?" said Mazarin, his eyes twinkling with joy on seeing that he could pay for Porthos's devotion without opening his purse; "only that? That can be managed."


"I shall be baron!" explained Porthos, stepping forward.


"I told you so," said D'Artagnan, checking him with his hand; "and now his eminence confirms it."


"My lord," said D'Artagnan, "it is twenty years since Cardinal de Richelieu made me lieutenant."


"Yes, and you would be gratified if Cardinal Mazarin should make you captain."


D'Artagnan bowed.


"Well, that is not impossible. We will see, gentlemen, we will see. Now, Monsieur de Vallon," said Mazarin, "what service do you prefer, in the town or in the country?"


Porthos opened his mouth to reply.


"My lord," said D'Artagnan, "Monsieur de Vallon is like me, he prefers service extraordinary—that is to say, enterprises that are considered mad and impossible."


That boastfulness was not displeasing to Mazarin; he fell into meditation.


"And yet," he said, "I must admit that I sent for you to appoint you to quiet service; I have certain apprehensions—well, what is the meaning of that?"


In fact, a great noise was heard in the ante-chamber; at the same time the door of the study was burst open and a man, covered with dust, rushed into it, exclaiming:


"My lord the cardinal! my lord the cardinal!"


Mazarin thought that some one was going to assassinate him and he drew back, pushing his chair on the castors. D'Artagnan and Porthos moved so as to plant themselves between the person entering and the cardinal.


"Well, sir," exclaimed Mazarin, "what's the matter? and why do you rush in here, as if you were about to penetrate a crowded market-place?"


"My lord," replied the messenger, "I wish to speak to your eminence in secret. I am Monsieur du Poins, an officer in the guards, on duty at the donjon of Vincennes."


Mazarin, perceiving by the paleness and agitation of the messenger that he had something of importance to say, made a sign that D'Artagnan and Porthos should give place.


D'Artagnan and Porthos withdrew to a corner of the cabinet.


"Speak, monsieur, speak at once!" said Mazarin "What is the matter?"


"The matter is, my lord, that the Duc de Beaufort has contrived to escape from the Château of Vincennes."


Mazarin uttered a cry and became paler than the man who had brought the news. He fell back, almost fainting, in his chair.


"My lord, I saw him run off from the top of the terrace."


"And you did not fire on him?"


"He was out of range."


"Monsieur de Chavigny—where was he?"


"Was found locked up in the prisoner's room, a gag in his mouth and a poniard near him."


"But the man who was under him?"


"Was an accomplice of the duke's and escaped along with him."


Mazarin groaned.


"My lord," said D'Artagnan, advancing toward the cardinal, "it seems to me that your eminence is losing precious time. It may still be possible to overtake the prisoner. France is large; the nearest frontier is sixty leagues distant."


"And who is to pursue him?" cried Mazarin.


"And you would arrest him?"


"You would arrest the Duc de Beaufort, armed, in the field?"


"If your eminence should order me to arrest the devil, I would seize him by the horns and would bring him in."


"So would I," said Porthos.


"So would you!" said Mazarin, looking with astonishment at those two men. "But the duke will not yield himself without a furious battle."


"Very well," said D'Artagnan, his eyes aflame, "battle! It is a long time since we have had a battle, eh, Porthos?"


"Battle!" cried Porthos.


"And you think you can catch him?"


"Yes, if we are better mounted than he."


"Go then, take what guards you find here, and pursue him."


"You command us, my lord, to do so?"


"And I sign my orders," said Mazarin, taking a piece of paper and writing some lines; "Monsieur du Vallon, your barony is on the back of the Duc de Beaufort's horse; you have nothing to do but to overtake it. As for you, my dear lieutenant, I promise you nothing; but if you bring him back to me, dead or alive, you may ask all you wish."


"To horse, Porthos!" said D'Artagnan, taking his friend by the hand.


"Here I am," smiled Porthos, with his sublime composure.


They descended the great staircase, taking with them all the guards they found on their road, and crying out, "To arms! To arms!" and immediately put spur to horse, which set off along the Rue Saint Honoré with the speed of the whirlwind.


"Well, baron, I promise you some good exercise!" said the Gascon.


"Yes, my captain."


As they went, the citizens, awakened, left their doors and the street dogs followed the cavaliers, barking. At the corner of the Cimetière Saint Jean, D'Artagnan upset a man; it was too insignificant an occurrence to delay people so eager to get on. The troop continued its course as though their steeds had wings.


Alas! there are no unimportant events in this world and we shall see that this apparently slight incident came near endangering the monarchy.


Chapter XXV. An Adventure on the High Road.


The musketeers rode the whole length of the Faubourg Saint Antoine and of the road to Vincennes, and soon found themselves out of the town, then in a forest and then within sight of a village.


The horses seemed to become more lively with each successive step; their nostrils reddened like glowing furnaces. D'Artagnan, freely applying his spurs, was in advance of Porthos two feet at the most; Mousqueton followed two lengths behind; the guards were scattered according to the varying excellence of their respective mounts.


From the top of an eminence D'Artagnan perceived a group of people collected on the other side of the moat, in front of that part of the donjon which looks toward Saint Maur. He rode on, convinced that in this direction he would gain intelligence of the fugitive. In five minutes he had arrived at the place, where the guards joined him, coming up one by one.


The several members of that group were much excited. They looked at the cord, still hanging from the loophole and broken at about twenty feet from the ground. Their eyes measured the height and they exchanged conjectures. On the top of the wall sentinels went and came with a frightened air.


A few soldiers, commanded by a sergeant, drove away idlers from the place where the duke had mounted his horse. D'Artagnan went straight to the sergeant.


"My officer," said the sergeant, "it is not permitted to stop here."


"That prohibition is not for me," said D'Artagnan. "Have the fugitives been pursued?"


"Yes, my officer; unfortunately, they are well mounted."


"How many are there?"


"Four, and a fifth whom they carried away wounded."


"Four!" said D'Artagnan, looking at Porthos. "Do you hear, baron? They are only four!"


A joyous smile lighted Porthos's face.


"How long a start have they?"


"Two hours and a quarter, my officer."


"Two hours and a quarter—that is nothing; we are well mounted, are we not, Porthos?"


Porthos breathed a sigh; he thought of what was in store for his poor horses.


"Very good," said D'Artagnan; "and now in what direction did they set out?"


"That I am forbidden to tell."


D'Artagnan drew from his pocket a paper. "Order of the king," he said.


"Speak to the governor, then."


"And where is the governor?"


"In the country."


Anger mounted to D'Artagnan's face; he frowned and his cheeks were colored.


"Ah, you scoundrel!" he said to the sergeant, "I believe you are impudent to me! Wait!"


He unfolded the paper, presented it to the sergeant with one hand and with the other took a pistol from his holsters and cocked it.


"Order of the king, I tell you. Read and answer, or I will blow out your brains!"


The sergeant saw that D'Artagnan was in earnest. "The Vendomois road," he replied.


"And by what gate did they go out?"


"By the Saint Maur gate."


"If you are deceiving me, rascal, you will be hanged to-morrow."


"And if you catch up with them you won't come back to hang me," murmured the sergeant.


D'Artagnan shrugged his shoulders, made a sign to his escort and started.


"This way, gentlemen, this way!" he cried, directing his course toward the gate that had been pointed out.


But, now that the duke had escaped, the concierge had seen fit to fasten the gate with a double lock. It was necessary to compel him to open it, as the sergeant had been compelled to speak, and this took another ten minutes. This last obstacle having been overcome, the troop pursued their course with their accustomed ardor; but some of the horses could no longer sustain this pace; three of them stopped after an hour's gallop, and one fell down.


D'Artagnan, who never turned his head, did not perceive it. Porthos told him of it in his calm manner.


"If only we two arrive," said D'Artagnan, "it will be enough, since the duke's troop are only four in number."


"That is true," said Porthos


And he spurred his courser on.


At the end of another two hours the horses had gone twelve leagues without stopping; their legs began to tremble, and the foam they shed whitened the doublets of their masters.


"Let us rest here an instant to give these poor creatures breathing time," said Porthos.


"Let us rather kill them! yes, kill them!" cried D'Artagnan; "I see fresh tracks; 'tis not a quarter of an hour since they passed this place."


In fact, the road was trodden by horses' feet, visible even in the approaching gloom of evening.


They set out; after a run of two leagues, Mousqueton's horse sank.


"Gracious me!" said Porthos, "there's Phœbus ruined."


"The cardinal will pay you a hundred pistoles."


"I'm above that."


"Let us set out again, at full gallop."


But at last the lieutenant's horse refused to go on; he could not breathe; one last spur, instead of making him advance, made him fall.


"The devil!" exclaimed Porthos; "there's Vulcan foundered."


"Zounds!" cried D'Artagnan, "then we must stop! Give me your horse, Porthos. What the devil are you doing?"


"By Jove, I am falling, or rather, Bayard is falling," answered Porthos.


All three then cried: "All's over."


"I hear a horse."


"It belongs to one of our companions, who is overtaking us."


"No," said D'Artagnan, "it is in advance."


"That is another thing," said Porthos; and he listened toward the quarter indicated by D'Artagnan.


"Monsieur," said Mousqueton, who, abandoning his horse on the high road, had come on foot to rejoin his master, "Phœbus could no longer hold out and——"


"Silence!" said Porthos.


In fact, at that moment a second neighing was borne to them on the night wind.


"It is five hundred feet from here, in advance," said D'Artagnan.


"True, monsieur," said Mousqueton; "and five hundred feet from here is a small hunting-house."


"I have them at hand, monsieur."


"Porthos, take yours from your holsters."


"I have them."


"Good!" said D'Artagnan, seizing his own; "now you understand, Porthos?"


"Not too well."


"We are out on the king's service."


"For the king's service we need horses."


"That is true," said Porthos.


"Then not a word, but set to work!"


They went on through the darkness, silent as phantoms; they saw a light glimmering in the midst of some trees.


"Yonder is the house, Porthos," said the Gascon; "let me do what I please and do you what I do."