"In fact," he said, as he was about to mount and start on his dangerous mission, "Athos, for generosity, is a hero of romance; Porthos has an excellent disposition, but is easily influenced; Aramis has a hieroglyphic countenance, always illegible. What will come out of those three elements when I am no longer present to combine them? The deliverance of the cardinal, perhaps. Now, the deliverance of the cardinal would be the ruin of our hopes; and our hopes are thus far the only recompense we have for labors in comparison with which those of Hercules were pygmean."


He went to find Aramis.


"You, my dear Chevalier d'Herblay," he said, "are the Fronde incarnate. Mistrust Athos, therefore, who will not prosecute the affairs of any one, even his own. Mistrust Porthos, especially, who, to please the count whom he regards as God on earth, will assist him in contriving Mazarin's escape, if Mazarin has the wit to weep or play the chivalric."


Aramis smiled; his smile was at once cunning and resolute.


"Fear nothing," he said; "I have my conditions to impose. My private ambition tends only to the profit of him who has justice on his side."


"Good!" thought D'Artagnan: "in this direction I am satisfied." He pressed Aramis's hand and went in search of Porthos.


"Friend," he said, "you have worked so hard with me toward building up our fortune, that, at the moment when we are about to reap the fruits of our labours, it would be a ridiculous piece of silliness in you to allow yourself to be controlled by Aramis, whose cunning you know—a cunning which, we may say between ourselves, is not always without egotism; or by Athos, a noble and disinterested man, but blasé, who, desiring nothing further for himself, doesn't sympathize with the desires of others. What should you say if either of these two friends proposed to you to let Mazarin go?"


"Why, I should say that we had too much trouble in taking him to let him off so easily."


"Bravo, Porthos! and you would be right, my friend; for in losing him you would lose your barony, which you have in your grasp, to say nothing of the fact that, were he once out of this, Mazarin would have you hanged."


"Do you think so?"


"I am sure of it."


"Then I would kill him rather than let him go."


"And you would act rightly. There is no question, you understand, provided we secure our own interests, of securing those of the Frondeurs; who, besides, don't understand political matters as we old soldiers do."


"Never fear, dear friend," said Porthos. "I shall see you through the window as you mount your horse; I shall follow you with my eyes as long as you are in sight; then I shall place myself at the cardinal's door—a door with glass windows. I shall see everything, and at the least suspicious sign I shall begin to exterminate."


"Bravo!" thought D'Artagnan; "on this side I think the cardinal will be well guarded." He pressed the hand of the lord of Pierrefonds and went in search of Athos.


"My dear Athos," he said, "I am going away. I have only one thing to say to you. You know Anne of Austria; the captivity of Mazarin alone guarantees my life; if you let him go I am a dead man."


"I needed nothing less than that consideration, my dear D'Artagnan, to persuade myself to adopt the rôle of jailer. I give you my word that you will find the cardinal where you leave him."


"This reassures me more than all the royal signatures," thought D'Artagnan. "Now that I have the word of Athos I can set out."


D'Artagnan started alone on his journey, without other escort than his sword, and with a simple passport from Mazarin to secure his admission to the queen's presence. Six hours after he left Pierrefonds he was at Saint Germain.


The disappearance of Mazarin was not as yet generally known. Anne of Austria was informed of it and concealed her uneasiness from every one. In the chamber of D'Artagnan and Porthos the two soldiers had been found bound and gagged. On recovering the use of their limbs and tongues they could, of course, tell nothing but what they knew—that they had been seized, stripped and bound. But as to what had been done by Porthos and D'Artagnan afterward they were as ignorant as all the inhabitants of the château.


Bernouin alone knew a little more than the others. Bernouin, seeing that his master did not return and hearing the stroke of midnight, had made an examination of the orangery. The first door, barricaded with furniture, had aroused in him certain suspicions, but without communicating his suspicions to any one he had patiently worked his way into the midst of all that confusion. Then he came to the corridor, all the doors of which he found open; so, too, was the door of Athos's chamber and that of the park. From the latter point it was easy to follow tracks on the snow. He saw that these tracks tended toward the wall; on the other side he found similar tracks, then footprints of horses and then signs of a troop of cavalry which had moved away in the direction of Enghien. He could no longer cherish any doubt that the cardinal had been carried off by the three prisoners, since the prisoners had disappeared at the same time; and he had hastened to Saint Germain to warn the queen of that disappearance.


Anne had enforced the utmost secrecy and had disclosed the event to no one except the Prince de Condé, who had sent five or six hundred horsemen into the environs of Saint Germain with orders to bring in any suspicious person who was going away from Rueil, in whatsoever direction it might be.


Now, since D'Artagnan did not constitute a body of horsemen, since he was alone, since he was not going away from Rueil and was going to Saint Germain, no one paid any attention to him and his journey was not obstructed in any way.


On entering the courtyard of the old château the first person seen by our ambassador was Maître Bernouin in person, who, standing on the threshold, awaited news of his vanished master.


At the sight of D'Artagnan, who entered the courtyard on horseback, Bernouin rubbed his eyes and thought he must be mistaken. But D'Artagnan made a friendly sign to him with his head, dismounted, and throwing his bridle to a lackey who was passing, he approached the valet-de-chambre with a smile on his lips.


"Monsieur d'Artagnan!" cried the latter, like a man who has the nightmare and talks in his sleep, "Monsieur d'Artagnan!"


"And why have you come here?"


"To bring news of Monsieur de Mazarin—the freshest news there is."


"What has become of him, then?"


"He is as well as you and I."


"Nothing bad has happened to him, then?"


"Absolutely nothing. He felt the need of making a trip in the Ile de France, and begged us—the Comte de la Fère and Monsieur du Vallon—to accompany him. We were too devoted servants to refuse him a request of that sort. We set out last evening and here we are."


"His eminence had something to communicate to her majesty, something secret and private—a mission that could be confided only to a sure man—and so has sent me to Saint Germain. And therefore, my dear Monsieur Bernouin, if you wish to do what will be pleasing to your master, announce to her majesty that I have come, and tell her with what purpose."


Whether he spoke seriously or in jest, since it was evident that under existing circumstances D'Artagnan was the only man who could relieve the queen's uneasiness, Bernouin went without hesitation to announce to her this strange embassy; and as he had foreseen, the queen gave orders to introduce Monsieur d'Artagnan at once.


D'Artagnan approached the sovereign with every mark of profound respect, and having fallen on his knees presented to her the cardinal's letter


It was, however, merely a letter of introduction. The queen read it, recognized the writing, and, since there were no details in it of what had occurred, asked for particulars. D'Artagnan related everything with that simple and ingenuous air which he knew how to assume on occasions. The queen, as he went on, looked at him with increasing astonishment. She could not comprehend how a man could conceive such an enterprise and still less how he could have the audacity to disclose it to her whose interest and almost duty it was to punish him.


"How, sir!" she cried, as D'Artagnan finished, "you dare to tell me the details of your crime—to give me an account of your treason!"


"Pardon, madame, but I think that either I have expressed myself badly or your majesty has imperfectly understood me. There is here no question of crime or treason. Monsieur de Mazarin held us in prison, Monsieur du Vallon and myself, because we could not believe that he had sent us to England to quietly look on while they cut off the head of Charles I., brother-in-law of the late king, your husband, the consort of Madame Henrietta, your sister and your guest, and because we did all that we could do to save the life of the royal martyr. We were then convinced, my friend and I, that there was some error of which we were the victims, and that an explanation was called for between his eminence and ourselves. Now, that an explanation may bear fruit, it is necessary that it should be quietly conducted, far from noise and interruption. We have therefore taken away monsieur le cardinal to my friend's château and there we have come to an understanding. Well, madame, it proved to be as we had supposed; there was a mistake. Monsieur de Mazarin had thought that we had rendered service to General Cromwell, instead of King Charles, which would have been a disgrace, rebounding from us to him, and from him to your majesty—a dishonor which would have tainted the royalty of your illustrious son. We were able to prove the contrary, and that proof we are ready to give to your majesty, calling in support of it the august widow weeping in the Louvre, where your royal munificence has provided for her a home. That proof satisfied him so completely that, as a sign of satisfaction, he has sent me, as your majesty may see, to consider with you what reparation should be made to gentlemen unjustly treated and wrongfully persecuted."


"I listen to you, and I wonder at you, sir," said the queen. "In fact, I have rarely seen such excess of impudence."


"Your majesty, on your side," said D'Artagnan, "is as much mistaken as to our intentions as the Cardinal Mazarin has always been."


"You are in error, sir," answered the queen. "I am so little mistaken that in ten minutes you shall be arrested, and in an hour I shall set off at the head of my army to release my minister."


"I am sure your majesty will not commit such an act of imprudence, first, because it would be useless and would produce the most disastrous results. Before he could be possibly set free the cardinal would be dead; and indeed, so convinced is he of this, that he entreated me, should I find your majesty disposed to act in this way, to do all I could to induce you to change your resolution."


"Well, then, I will content myself with arresting you!"


"Madame, the possibility of my arrest has been foreseen, and should I not have returned by to-morrow, at a certain hour the next day the cardinal will be brought to Paris and delivered to the parliament."


"It is evident, sir, that your position has kept you out of relation to men and affairs; otherwise you would know that since we left Paris monsieur le cardinal has returned thither five or six times; that he has there met De Beaufort, De Bouillon, the coadjutor and D'Elbeuf and that not one of them had any desire to arrest him."


"Your pardon, madame, I know all that. And therefore my friends will conduct monsieur le cardinal neither to De Beaufort, nor to De Bouillon, nor to the coadjutor, nor to D'Elbeuf. These gentlemen wage war on private account, and in buying them up, by granting them what they wished, monsieur le cardinal has made a good bargain. He will be delivered to the parliament, members of which can, of course, be bought, but even Monsieur de Mazarin is not rich enough to buy the whole body."


"I think," returned Anne of Austria, fixing upon him a glance, which in any woman's face would have expressed disdain, but in a queen's, spread terror to those she looked upon, "nay, I perceive you dare to threaten the mother of your sovereign."


"Madame," replied D'Artagnan, "I threaten simply and solely because I am obliged to do so. Believe me, madame, as true a thing as it is that a heart beats in this bosom—a heart devoted to you—believe that you have been the idol of our lives; that we have, as you well know—good Heaven!—risked our lives twenty times for your majesty. Have you, then, madame, no compassion for your servants who for twenty years have vegetated in obscurity, without betraying in a single sigh the solemn and sacred secrets they have had the honor to share with you? Look at me, madame—at me, whom you accuse of speaking loud and threateningly. What am I? A poor officer, without fortune, without protection, without a future, unless the eye of my queen, which I have sought so long, rests on me for a moment. Look at the Comte de la Fère, a type of nobility, a flower of chivalry. He has taken part against his queen, or rather, against her minister. He has not been unreasonably exacting, it seems to me. Look at Monsieur du Vallon, that faithful soul, that arm of steel, who for twenty years has awaited the word from your lips which will make him in rank what he is in sentiment and in courage. Consider, in short, your people who love you and who yet are famished, who have no other wish than to bless you, and who, nevertheless—no, I am wrong, your subjects, madame, will never curse you; say one word to them and all will be ended—peace succeed war, joy tears, and happiness to misfortune!"


Anne of Austria looked with wonderment on the warlike countenance of D'Artagnan, which betrayed a singular expression of deep feeling.


"Why did you not say all this before you took action, sir?" she said.


"Because, madame, it was necessary to prove to your majesty one thing of which you doubted—-that is, that we still possess amongst us some valor and are worthy of some consideration at your hands."


"And that valor would shrink from no undertaking, according to what I see."


"It has hesitated at nothing in the past; why, then, should it be less daring in the future?"


"Then, in case of my refusal, this valor, should a struggle occur, will even go the length of carrying me off in the midst of my court, to deliver me into the hands of the Fronde, as you propose to deliver my minister?"


"We have not thought about it yet, madame," answered D'Artagnan, with that Gascon effrontery which had in him the appearance of naïveté; "but if we four had resolved upon it we should do it most certainly."


"I ought," muttered Anne to herself, "by this time to remember that these men are giants."


"Alas, madame!" exclaimed D'Artagnan, "this proves to me that not till to-day has your majesty had a just idea of us."


"Perhaps," said Anne; "but that idea, if at last I have it——"


"Your majesty will do us justice. In doing us justice you will no longer treat us as men of vulgar stamp. You will see in me an ambassador worthy of the high interests he is authorized to discuss with his sovereign."


"Where is the treaty?"


Anne of Austria cast her eyes upon the treaty that D'Artagnan presented to her.


"I do not see here," she said, "anything but general conditions; the interests of the Prince de Conti or of the Ducs de Beaufort, de Bouillon and d'Elbeuf and of the coadjutor, are herein consulted; but with regard to yours?"


"We do ourselves justice, madame, even in assuming the high position that we have. We do not think ourselves worthy to stand near such great names."


"But you, I presume, have decided to assert your pretensions viva voce?"


"I believe you, madame, to be a great and powerful queen, and that it will be unworthy of your power and greatness if you do not recompense the arms which will bring back his eminence to Saint Germain."


"It is my intention so to do; come, let us hear you. Speak."


"He who has negotiated these matters (forgive me if I begin by speaking of myself, but I must claim that importance which has been given to me, not assumed by me) he who has arranged matters for the return of the cardinal, ought, it appears to me, in order that his reward may not be unworthy of your majesty, to be made commandant of the guards—an appointment something like that of captain of the musketeers."


"The place, madame, is vacant, and although 'tis a year since Monsieur de Tréville has left it, it has not been filled."


"But it is one of the principal military appointments in the king's household."


"Monsieur de Tréville was but a younger son of a simple Gascon family, like me, madame; he occupied that post for twenty years."


"You have an answer ready for everything," replied the queen, and she took from her bureau a document, which she filled up and signed.


"Undoubtedly, madame," said D'Artagnan, taking the document and bowing, "this is a noble reward; but everything in the world is unstable, and the man who happened to fall into disgrace with your majesty might lose this office to-morrow."


"What more do you want?" asked the queen, coloring, as she found that she had to deal with a mind as subtle as her own.


"A hundred thousand francs for this poor captain of musketeers, to be paid whenever his services shall no longer be acceptable to your majesty."


Anne hesitated.


"To think of the Parisians," soliloquized D'Artagnan, "offering only the other day, by an edict of the parliament, six hundred thousand francs to any man soever who would deliver up the cardinal to them, dead or alive—if alive, in order to hang him; if dead, to deny him the rites of Christian burial!"


"Come," said Anne, "'tis reasonable, since you only ask from a queen the sixth of what the parliament has proposed;" and she signed an order for a hundred thousand francs.


"Now, then," she said, "what next?"


"Madame, my friend Du Vallon is rich and has therefore nothing in the way of fortune to desire; but I think I remember that there was a question between him and Monsieur Mazarin as to making his estate a barony. Nay, it must have been a promise."


"A country clown," said Anne of Austria, "people will laugh."


"Let them," answered D'Artagnan. "But I am sure of one thing—that those who laugh at him in his presence will never laugh a second time."


"Here goes the barony." said the queen; she signed a patent.


"Now there remains the chevalier, or the Abbé d'Herblay, as your majesty pleases."


"Does he wish to be a bishop?"


"No, madame, something easier to grant."


"It is that the king should deign to stand godfather to the son of Madame de Longueville."


"Yes," said the queen; "but his son?"


"His son, madame, must be, since the husband of the son's mother is."


"And your friend has nothing more to ask for Madame de Longueville?"


"No, madame, for I presume that the king, standing godfather to him, could do no less than present him with five hundred thousand francs, giving his father, also, the government of Normandy."


"As to the government of Normandy," replied the queen, "I think I can promise; but with regard to the present, the cardinal is always telling me there is no more money in the royal coffers."


"We shall search for some, madame, and I think we can find a little, and if your majesty approves, we will seek for some together."


"What next, madame?"


"That is all."


"Haven't you, then, a fourth companion?"


"What does he ask?"


"There is in the world, then, one man who, having the power to ask, asks—nothing!"


"There is the Comte de la Fère, madame. The Comte de la Fère is not a man."


"Has he not a son, a young man, a relative, a nephew, of whom Comminges spoke to me as being a brave boy, and who, with Monsieur de Châtillon, brought the standards from Lens?"


"He has, as your majesty has said, a ward, who is called the Vicomte de Bragelonne."


"If that young man should be appointed to a regiment what would his guardian say?"


"Perhaps he would accept."


"Yes, if your majesty herself should beg him to accept."


"He must be indeed a strange man. Well, we will reflect and perhaps we will beg him. Are you satisfied, sir?"


"There is one thing the queen has not signed—her assent to the treaty."


"Of what use to-day? I will sign it to-morrow."


"I can assure her majesty that if she does not sign to-day she will not have time to sign to-morrow. Consent, then, I beg you, madame, to write at the bottom of this schedule, which has been drawn up by Mazarin, as you see:


"'I consent to ratify the treaty proposed by the Parisians.'"


Anne was caught, she could not draw back—she signed; but scarcely had she done so when pride burst forth and she began to weep.


D'Artagnan started on seeing these tears. Since that period of history queens have shed tears, like other women.


The Gascon shook his head, these tears from royalty melted his heart.


"Madame," he said, kneeling, "look upon the unhappy man at your feet. He begs you to believe that at a gesture of your majesty everything will be possible to him. He has faith in himself; he has faith in his friends; he wishes also to have faith in his queen. And in proof that he fears nothing, that he counts on nothing, he will restore Monsieur de Mazarin to your majesty without conditions. Behold, madame! here are the august signatures of your majesty's hand; if you think you are right in giving them to me, you shall do so, but from this very moment you are free from any obligation to keep them."


And D'Artagnan, full of splendid pride and manly intrepidity, placed in Anne's hands, in a bundle, the papers that he had one by one won from her with so much difficulty.


There are moments—for if everything is not good, everything in this world is not bad—in which the most rigid and the coldest soul is softened by the tears of strong emotion, heart-arraigning sentiment: one of these momentary impulses actuated Anne. D'Artagnan, when he gave way to his own feelings—which were in accordance with those of the queen—had accomplished more than the most astute diplomacy could have attempted. He was therefore instantly recompensed, either for his address or for his sensibility, whichever it might be termed.


"You were right, sir," said Anne. "I misunderstood you. There are the acts signed; I deliver them to you without compulsion. Go and bring me back the cardinal as soon as possible."


"Madame," faltered D'Artagnan, "'tis twenty years ago—I have a good memory—since I had the honor behind a piece of tapestry in the Hotel de Ville, of kissing one of those lovely hands."


"There is the other," replied the queen; "and that the left hand should not be less liberal than the right," she drew from her finger a diamond similar to the one formerly given to him, "take and keep this ring in remembrance of me.


"Madame," said D'Artagnan, rising, "I have only one thing more to wish, which is, that the next thing you ask from me, shall be—my life."


And with this conclusion—a way peculiar to himself—he rose and left the room.


"I never rightly understood those men," said the queen, as she watched him retiring from her presence; "and it is now too late, for in a year the king will be of age."


In twenty-four hours D'Artagnan and Porthos conducted Mazarin to the queen; and the one received his commission, the other his patent of nobility.


On the same day the Treaty of Paris was signed, and it was everywhere announced that the cardinal had shut himself up for three days in order to draw it up with the greatest care.


Here is what each of the parties concerned gained by that treaty:


Monsieur de Conti received Damvilliers, and having made his proofs as general, he succeeded in remaining a soldier, instead of being made cardinal. Moreover, something had been said of a marriage with Mazarin's niece. The idea was welcomed by the prince, to whom it was of little importance whom he married, so long as he married some one.


The Duc de Beaufort made his entrance at court, receiving ample reparation for the wrongs he had suffered, and all the honor due to his rank. Full pardon was accorded to those who had aided in his escape. He received also the office of admiral, which had been held by his father, the Duc de Vendôme and an indemnity for his houses and castles, demolished by the Parliament of Bretagne.


The Duc de Bouillon received domains of a value equal to that of his principality of Sedan, and the title of prince, granted to him and to those belonging to his house.


The Duc de Longueville gained the government of Pont-de-l'Arche, five hundred thousand francs for his wife and the honor of seeing her son held at the baptismal font by the young king and Henrietta of England.


Aramis stipulated that Bazin should officiate at that ceremony and that Planchet should furnish the christening sugar plums.


The Duc d'Elbeuf obtained payment of certain sums due to his wife, one hundred thousand francs for his eldest son and twenty-five thousand for each of the three others.


The coadjutor alone obtained nothing. They promised, indeed, to negotiate with the pope for a cardinal's hat for him; but he knew how little reliance should be placed on such promises, made by the queen and Mazarin. Quite contrary to the lot of Monsieur de Conti, unable to be cardinal, he was obliged to remain a soldier.


And therefore, when all Paris was rejoicing in the expected return of the king, appointed for the next day, Gondy alone, in the midst of the general happiness, was dissatisfied; he sent for the two men whom he was wont to summon when in especially bad humor. Those two men were the Count de Rochefort and the mendicant of Saint Eustache. They came with their usual promptness, and the coadjutor spent with them a part of the night.


Chapter LXXXIX. Difficult for Kings to return to the Capitals of their Kingdoms.


Whilst D'Artagnan and Porthos were engaged in conducting the cardinal to Saint Germain, Athos and Aramis returned to Paris.


Each had his own particular visit to make.


Aramis rushed to the Hôtel de Ville, where Madame de Longueville was sojourning. The duchess loudly lamented the announcement of peace. War had made her a queen; peace brought her abdication. She declared that she would never assent to the treaty and that she wished eternal war.


But when Aramis had presented that peace to her in a true light—that is to say, with all its advantages; when he had pointed out to her, in exchange for the precarious and contested royalty of Paris, the viceroyalty of Font-de-l'Arche, in other words, of all Normandy; when he had rung in her ears the five hundred thousand francs promised by the cardinal; when he had dazzled her eyes with the honor bestowed on her by the king in holding her child at the baptismal font, Madame de Longueville contended no longer, except as is the custom with pretty women to contend, and defended herself only to surrender at last.


Aramis made a presence of believing in the reality of her opposition and was unwilling to deprive himself in his own view of the credit of her conversion.


"Madame," he said, "you have wished to conquer the prince your brother—that is to say, the greatest captain of the age; and when women of genius wish anything they always succeed in attaining it. You have succeeded; the prince is beaten, since he can no longer fight. Now attach him to our party. Withdraw him gently from the queen, whom he does not like, from Mazarin, whom he despises. The Fronde is a comedy, of which the first act only is played. Let us wait for a dénouement—for the day when the prince, thanks to you, shall have turned against the court."


Madame de Longueville was persuaded. This Frondist duchess trusted so confidently to the power of her fine eyes, that she could not doubt their influence even over Monsieur de Condé; and the chronicles of the time aver that her confidence was justified.


Athos, on quitting Aramis, went to Madame de Chevreuse. Here was another frondeuse to persuade, and she was even less open to conviction than her younger rival. There had been no stipulation in her favor. Monsieur de Chevreuse had not been appointed governor of a province, and if the queen should consent to be godmother it could be only of her grandson or granddaughter. At the first announcement of peace Madame de Chevreuse frowned, and in spite of all the logic of Athos to show her that a prolonged war would have been impracticable, contended in favor of hostilities.


"My fair friend," said Athos, "allow me to tell you that everybody is tired of war. You will get yourself exiled, as you did in the time of Louis XIII. Believe me, we have passed the time of success in intrigue, and your fine eyes are not destined to be eclipsed by regretting Paris, where there will always be two queens as long as you are there."


"Oh," cried the duchess, "I cannot make war alone, but I can avenge myself on that ungrateful queen and most ambitious favorite-on the honor of a duchess, I will avenge myself."


"Madame," replied Athos, "do not injure the Vicomte de Bragelonne—do not ruin his prospects. Alas! excuse my weakness! There are moments when a man grows young again in his children."


The duchess smiled, half tenderly, half ironically.


"Count," she said, "you are, I fear, gained over to the court. I suppose you have a blue ribbon in your pocket?"


"Yes, madame; I have that of the Garter, which King Charles I. gave me some days before he died."


"Come, I am growing an old woman!" said the duchess, pensively.


Athos took her hand and kissed it. She sighed, as she looked at him.


"Count," she said, "Bragelonne must be a charming place. You are a man of taste. You have water—woods—flowers there?"


She sighed again and leaned her charming head, gracefully reclined, on her hand, still beautiful in form and color.


"Madame!" exclaimed Athos, "what were you saying just now about growing old? Never have I seen you look so young, so beautiful!"


The duchess shook her head.


"What think you of it?" inquired Athos.


"Leave him with me," replied the duchess.


"No, madame; if you have forgotten the history of Œdipus, I, at least, remember it."


"Really, sir, you are delightful, and I should like to spend a month at Bragelonne."


"Are you not afraid of making people envious of me, duchess?" replied Athos.


"No, I shall go incognito, count, under the name of Marie Michon."


"But do not keep Raoul with you."


"Because he is in love."


"He! he is quite a child!"


"And 'tis a child he loves."


Athos became thoughtful.


"You are right, duchess. This singular passion for a child of seven may some day make him very unhappy. There is to be war in Flanders. He shall go thither."


"And at his return you will send him to me. I will arm him against love."


"Alas, madame!" exclaimed Athos, "to-day love is like war—the breastplate is becoming useless."


Raoul entered at this moment; he came to announce that the solemn entrance of the king, queen, and her ministers was to take place on the ensuing day.


The next day, in fact, at daybreak, the court made preparations to quit Saint Germain.


Meanwhile, the queen every hour had been sending for D'Artagnan.


"I hear," she said, "that Paris is not quiet. I am afraid for the king's safety; place yourself close to the coach door on the right."


"Reassure yourself, madame, I will answer for the king's safety."


As he left the queen's presence Bernouin summoned him to the cardinal.


"Sir," said Mazarin to him "an émeute is spoken of in Paris. I shall be on the king's left and as I am the chief person threatened, remain at the coach door to the left."


"Your eminence may be perfectly easy," replied D'Artagnan; "they will not touch a hair of your head."


"Deuce take it!" he thought to himself, "how can I take care of both? Ah! plague on't, I will guard the king and Porthos shall guard the cardinal."


This arrangement pleased every one. The queen had confidence in the courage of D'Artagnan, which she knew, and the cardinal in the strength of Porthos, which he had experienced.


The royal procession set out for Paris. Guitant and Comminges, at the head of the guards, marched first; then came the royal carriage, with D'Artagnan on one side, Porthos on the other; then the musketeers, for two and twenty years staunch friends of D'Artagnan. During twenty he had been lieutenant, their captain since the night before.


The cortège proceeded to Notre Dame, where a Te Deum was chanted. All Paris were in the streets. The Swiss were drawn up along the road, but as the road was long, they were placed at six or eight feet distant from each other and one deep only. This force was therefore wholly insufficient, and from time to time the line was broken through by the people and was formed again with difficulty. Whenever this occurred, although it proceeded only from goodwill and a desire to see the king and queen, Anne looked at D'Artagnan anxiously.


Mazarin, who had dispensed a thousand louis to make the people cry "Long live Mazarin," and who had accordingly no confidence in acclamations bought at twenty pistoles each, kept one eye on Porthos; but that gigantic body-guard replied to the look with his great bass voice, "Be tranquil, my lord," and Mazarin became more and more composed.


At the Palais Royal, the crowd, which had flowed in from the adjacent street was still greater; like an impetuous mob, a wave of human beings came to meet the carriage and rolled tumultuously into the Rue Saint Honoré.


When the procession reached the palace, loud cries of "Long live their majesties!" resounded. Mazarin leaned out of the window. One or two shouts of "Long live the cardinal" saluted his shadow; but instantly hisses and yells stifled them remorselessly. Mazarin turned pale and shrank back in the coach.


"Low-born fellows!" ejaculated Porthos.


D'Artagnan said nothing, but twirled his mustache with a peculiar gesture which showed that his fine Gascon humor was awake.


Anne of Austria bent down and whispered in the young king's ear:


"Say something gracious to Monsieur d'Artagnan, my son."


The young king leaned toward the door.


"I have not said good-morning to you, Monsieur d'Artagnan," he said; "nevertheless, I have remarked you. It was you who were behind my bed-curtains that night the Parisians wished to see me asleep."


"And if the king permits me," returned the Gascon, "I shall be near him always when there is danger to be encountered."


"Sir," said Mazarin to Porthos, "what would you do if the crowd fell upon us?"


"Kill as many as I could, my lord."


"Hem! brave as you are and strong as you are, you could not kill them all."


"'Tis true," answered Porthos, rising on his saddle, in order that he might appraise the immense crowd, "there are a lot of them."


"I think I should like the other fellow better than this one," said Mazarin to himself, and he threw himself back in his carriage.


The queen and her minister, more especially the latter, had reason to feel anxious. The crowd, whilst preserving an appearance of respect and even of affection for the king and queen regent, began to be tumultuous. Reports were whispered about, like certain sounds which announce, as they whistle from wave to wave, the coming storm—and when they pass athwart a multitude, presage an émeute.


D'Artagnan turned toward the musketeers and made a sign imperceptible to the crowd, but very easily understood by that chosen regiment, the flower of the army.


The ranks closed firmly in and a kind of majestic tremor ran from man to man.


At the Barrière des Sergents the procession was obliged to stop. Comminges left the head of the escort and went to the queen's carriage. Anne questioned D'Artagnan by a look. He answered in the same language.


"Proceed," she said.


Comminges returned to his post. An effort was made and the living barrier was violently broken through.


Some complaints arose from the crowd and were addressed this time to the king as well as the minister.


"Onward!" cried D'Artagnan, in a loud voice.


"Onward!" cried Porthos.


But as if the multitude had waited only for this demonstration to burst out, all the sentiments of hostility that possessed it exploded simultaneously. Cries of "Down with Mazarin!" "Death to the cardinal!" resounded on all sides.


At the same time through the streets of Grenelle, Saint Honoré, and Du Coq, a double stream of people broke the feeble hedge of Swiss guards and came like a whirlwind even to the very legs of Porthos's horse and that of D'Artagnan.


This new eruption was more dangerous than the others, being composed of armed men. It was plain that it was not the chance combination of those who had collected a number of the malcontents at the same spot, but a concerted organized attack.


Each of these mobs was led by a chief, one of whom appeared to belong, not to the people, but to the honorable corporation of mendicants, and the other, notwithstanding his affected imitation of the people, might easily be discerned to be a gentleman. Both were evidently stimulated by the same impulse.


There was a shock which was perceived even in the royal carriage. Myriads of hoarse cries, forming one vast uproar, were heard, mingled with guns firing.


"Ho! Musketeers!" cried D'Artagnan.


The escort divided into two files. One of them passed around to the right of the carriage, the other to the left. One went to support D'Artagnan, the other Porthos. Then came a skirmish, the more terrible because it had no definite object; the more melancholy, because those engaged in it knew not for whom they were fighting. Like all popular movements, the shock given by the rush of this mob was formidable. The musketeers, few in number, not being able, in the midst of this crowd, to make their horses wheel around, began to give way. D'Artagnan offered to lower the blinds of the royal carriage, but the young king stretched out his arm, saying:


"No, sir! I wish to see everything."


"If your majesty wishes to look out—well, then, look!" replied D'Artagnan. And turning with that fury which made him so formidable, he rushed toward the chief of the insurgents, a man who, with a huge sword in his hand, was trying to hew a passage to the coach door through the musketeers.


"Make room!" cried D'Artagnan. "Zounds! give way!"


At these words the man with a pistol and sword raised his head, but it was too late. The blow was sped by D'Artagnan; the rapier had pierced his bosom.


"Ah! confound it!" cried the Gascon, trying in vain, too late, to retract the thrust. "What the devil are you doing here, count?"


"Accomplishing my destiny," replied Rochefort, falling on one knee. "I have already got up again after three stabs from you, I shall never rise after this fourth."


"Count!" said D'Artagnan, with some degree of emotion, "I struck without knowing that it was you. I am sorry, if you die, that you should die with sentiments of hatred toward me."


Rochefort extended his hand to D'Artagnan, who took it. The count wished to speak, but a gush of blood stifled him. He stiffened in the last convulsions of death and expired.


"Back, people!" cried D'Artagnan, "your leader is dead; you have no longer any business here."


Indeed, as if De Rochefort had been the very soul of the attack, the crowd who had followed and obeyed him took to flight on seeing him fall. D'Artagnan charged, with a party of musketeers, up the Rue du Coq, and the portion of the mob he assailed disappeared like smoke, dispersing near the Place Saint Germain-l'Auxerrois and taking the direction of the quays.


D'Artagnan returned to help Porthos, if Porthos needed help; but Porthos, for his part, had done his work as conscientiously as D'Artagnan. The left of the carriage was as well cleared as the right, and they drew up the blind of the window which Mazarin, less heroic than the king, had taken the precaution to lower.


Porthos looked very melancholy.


"What a devil of a face you have, Porthos! and what a strange air for a victor!"


"But you," answered Porthos, "seem to me agitated."


"There's a reason! Zounds! I have just killed an old friend."


"Indeed!" replied Porthos, "who?"


"That poor Count de Rochefort."


"Well! exactly like me! I have just killed a man whose face is not unknown to me. Unluckily, I hit him on the head and immediately his face was covered with blood."


"And he said nothing as he died?"


"Yes; he exclaimed, 'Oh!'"


"I suppose," answered D'Artagnan, laughing, "if he only said that, it did not enlighten you much."


"Well, sir!" cried the queen.


"Madame, the passage is quite clear and your majesty can continue your road."


In fact, the procession arrived, in safety at Notre Dame, at the front gate of which all the clergy, with the coadjutor at their head, awaited the king, the queen and the minister, for whose happy return they chanted a Te Deum.


As the service was drawing to a close a boy entered the church in great excitement, ran to the sacristy, dressed himself quickly in the choir robes, and cleaving, thanks to that uniform, the crowd that filled the temple, approached Bazin, who, clad in his blue robe, was standing gravely in his place at the entrance to the choir.


Bazin felt some one pulling his sleeve. He lowered to earth his eyes, beatifically raised to Heaven, and recognized Friquet.


"Well, you rascal, what is it? How do you dare to disturb me in the exercise of my functions?" asked the beadle.


"Monsieur Bazin," said Friquet, "Monsieur Maillard—you know who he is, he gives holy water at Saint Eustache——"


"Well, he received in the scrimmage a sword stroke on the head. That great giant who was there gave it to him."


"In that case," said Bazin, "he must be pretty sick."


"So sick that he is dying, and he wants to confess to the coadjutor, who, they say, has power to remit great sins."


"And does he imagine that the coadjutor will put himself out for him?"


"To be sure; the coadjutor has promised."


"Who told you that?"


"You have seen him, then?"


"Certainly; I was there when he fell."


"What were you doing there?"


"I was shouting, 'Down with Mazarin!' 'Death to the cardinal!' 'The Italian to the gallows!' Isn't that what you would have me shout?"


"Be quiet, you rascal!" said Bazin, looking uneasily around.


"So that he told me, that poor Monsieur Maillard, 'Go find the coadjutor, Friquet, and if you bring him to me you shall be my heir.' Say, then, Father Bazin—the heir of Monsieur Maillard, the giver of holy water at Saint Eustache! Hey! I shall have nothing to do but to fold my arms! All the same, I should like to do him that service—what do you say to it?"


"I will tell the coadjutor," said Bazin.


In fact, he slowly and respectfully approached the prelate and spoke to him privately a few words, to which the latter responded by an affirmative sign. He then returned with the same slow step and said:


"Go and tell the dying man that he must be patient. Monseigneur will be with him in an hour."


"By the way," said Bazin, "where was he carried?"


"To the tower Saint Jacques la Boucherie;" and delighted with the success of his embassy, Friquet started off at the top of his speed.


When the Te Deum was over, the coadjutor, without stopping to change his priestly dress, took his way toward that old tower which he knew so well. He arrived in time. Though sinking from moment to moment, the wounded man was not yet dead. The door was opened to the coadjutor of the room in which the mendicant was suffering.


A moment later Friquet went out, carrying in his hand a large leather bag; he opened it as soon as he was outside the chamber and to his great astonishment found it full of gold. The mendicant had kept his word and made Friquet his heir.


"Ah! Mother Nanette!" cried Friquet, suffocating; "ah! Mother Nanette!"


He could say no more; but though he hadn't strength to speak he had enough for action. He rushed headlong to the street, and like the Greek from Marathon who fell in the square at Athens, with his laurel in his hand, Friquet reached Councillor Broussel's threshold, and then fell exhausted, scattering on the floor the louis disgorged by his leather bag.


Mother Nanette began by picking up the louis; then she picked up Friquet.


In the meantime the cortège returned to the Palais Royal.


"That Monsieur d'Artagnan is a very brave man, mother," said the young king.


"Yes, my son; and he rendered very important services to your father. Treat him kindly, therefore, in the future."


"Captain," said the young king to D'Artagnan, on descending from the carriage, "the queen has charged me to invite you to dinner to-day—you and your friend the Baron du Vallon."


That was a great honor for D'Artagnan and for Porthos. Porthos was delighted; and yet during the entire repast he seemed to be preoccupied.


"What was the matter with you, baron?" D'Artagnan said to him as they descended the staircase of the Palais Royal. "You seemed at dinner to be anxious about something."


"I was trying," said Porthos, "to recall where I had seen that mendicant whom I must have killed."


"And you couldn't remember?"


"Well, search, my friend, search; and when you have found, you will tell me, will you not?"


Chapter XC. Conclusion.


On going home, the two friends found a letter from Athos, who desired them to meet him at the Grand Charlemagne on the following day.


The friends went to bed early, but neither of them slept. When we arrive at the summit of our wishes, success has usually the power to drive away sleep on the first night after the fulfilment of long cherished hopes.


The next day at the appointed hour they went to see Athos and found him and Aramis in traveling costume.


"What!" cried Porthos, "are we all going away, then? I also have made my preparations this morning."


"Oh, heavens! yes," said Aramis. "There's nothing to do in Paris now there's no Fronde. The Duchess de Longueville has invited me to pass a few days in Normandy, and has deputed me, while her son is being baptized, to go and prepare her residence at Rouen; after which, if nothing new occurs, I shall go and bury myself in my convent at Noisy-le-Sec."


"And I," said Athos, "am returning to Bragelonne. You know, dear D'Artagnan, I am nothing more than a good honest country gentleman. Raoul has no fortune other than I possess, poor child! and I must take care of it for him, since I only lend him my name."


"And Raoul—what shall you do with him?"


"I leave him with you, my friend. War has broken out in Flanders. You shall take him with you there. I am afraid that remaining at Blois would be dangerous to his youthful mind. Take him and teach him to be as brave and loyal as you are yourself."


"Then," replied D'Artagnan, "though I shall not have you, Athos, at all events I shall have that dear fair-haired head by me; and though he's but a boy, yet, since your soul lives again in him, dear Athos, I shall always fancy that you are near me, sustaining and encouraging me."


The four friends embraced with tears in their eyes.


Then they departed, without knowing whether they would ever see each other again.


D'Artagnan returned to the Rue Tiquetonne with Porthos, still possessed by the wish to find out who the man was that he had killed. On arriving at the Hôtel de la Chevrette they found the baron's equipage all ready and Mousqueton on his saddle.


"Come, D'Artagnan," said Porthos, "bid adieu to your sword and go with me to Pierrefonds, to Bracieux, or to Du Vallon. We will grow old together and talk of our companions."


"No!" replied D'Artagnan, "deuce take it, the campaign is going to begin; I wish to be there, I expect to get something by it."


"What do you expect to get?"


"Why, I expect to be made Maréchal of France!"


"Ha! ha!" cried Porthos, who was not completely taken in by D'Artagnan's Gasconades.


"Come my brother, go with me," added D'Artagnan, "and I will see that you are made a duke!"


"No," answered Porthos, "Mouston has no desire to fight; besides, they have erected a triumphal arch for me to enter my barony, which will kill my neighbors with envy."


"To that I can say nothing," returned D'Artagnan, who knew the vanity of the new baron. "Then, here's to our next merry meeting!"


"Adieu, dear captain," said Porthos, "I shall always be happy to welcome you to my barony."


"Yes, yes, when the campaign is over," replied the Gascon.


"His honor's equipage is waiting," said Mousqueton.


The two friends, after a cordial pressure of the hands, separated. D'Artagnan was standing at the door looking after Porthos with a mournful gaze, when the baron, after walking scarcely more than twenty paces, returned—stood still—struck his forehead with his finger and exclaimed:


"I recollect!"


"What?" inquired D'Artagnan.


"Who the beggar was that I killed."


"Ah! indeed! and who was he?"


"'Twas that low fellow, Bonacieux."


And Porthos, enchanted at having relieved his mind, rejoined Mousqueton and they disappeared around an angle of the street. D'Artagnan stood for an instant, mute, pensive and motionless; then, as he went in, he saw the fair Madeleine, his hostess, standing on the threshold.


"Madeleine," said the Gascon, "give me your apartment on the first floor; now that I am a captain in the royal musketeers I must make an appearance; nevertheless, reserve my old room on the fifth story for me; one never knows what may happen."


Title: The Yellow Wallpaper


Author: Charlotte Perkins Gilman


Release date: November 1, 1999 [eBook #1952] Most recently updated: August 31, 2024


The Yellow Wallpaper


It is very seldom that mere ordinary people like John and myself secure ancestral halls for the summer.


A colonial mansion, a hereditary estate, I would say a haunted house, and reach the height of romantic felicity—but that would be asking too much of fate!


Still I will proudly declare that there is something queer about it.


Else, why should it be let so cheaply? And why have stood so long untenanted?


John laughs at me, of course, but one expects that in marriage.


John is practical in the extreme. He has no patience with faith, an intense horror of superstition, and he scoffs openly at any talk of things not to be felt and seen and put down in figures.


John is a physician, and perhaps—(I would not say it to a living soul, of course, but this is dead paper and a great relief to my mind)—perhaps that is one reason I do not get well faster.


And what can one do?


If a physician of high standing, and one's own husband, assures friends and relatives that there is really nothing the matter with one but temporary nervous depression—a slight hysterical tendency—what is one to do?


My brother is also a physician, and also of high standing, and he says the same thing.


So I take phosphates or phosphites—whichever it is, and tonics, and journeys, and air, and exercise, and am absolutely forbidden to "work" until I am well again.


Personally, I disagree with their ideas.


Personally, I believe that congenial work, with excitement and change, would do me good.


But what is one to do?


I did write for a while in spite of them; but it does exhaust me a good deal—having to be so sly about it, or else meet with heavy opposition.


I sometimes fancy that in my condition if I had less opposition and more society and stimulus—but John says the very worst thing I can do is to think about my condition, and I confess it always makes me feel bad.


So I will let it alone and talk about the house.


The most beautiful place! It is quite alone, standing well back from the road, quite three miles from the village. It makes me think of English places that you read about, for there are hedges and walls and gates that lock, and lots of separate little houses for the gardeners and people.


There is a delicious garden! I never saw such a garden—large and shady, full of box-bordered paths, and lined with long grape-covered arbors with seats under them.


There were greenhouses, too, but they are all broken now.


There was some legal trouble, I believe, something about the heirs and co-heirs; anyhow, the place has been empty for years.


That spoils my ghostliness, I am afraid; but I don't care—there is something strange about the house—I can feel it.


I even said so to John one moonlight evening, but he said what I felt was a draught, and shut the window.


I get unreasonably angry with John sometimes. I'm sure I never used to be so sensitive. I think it is due to this nervous condition.


But John says if I feel so I shall neglect proper self-control; so I take pains to control myself,—before him, at least,—and that makes me very tired.


I don't like our room a bit. I wanted one downstairs that opened on the piazza and had roses all over the window, and such pretty old-fashioned chintz hangings! but John would not hear of it.


He said there was only one window and not room for two beds, and no near room for him if he took another.


He is very careful and loving, and hardly lets me stir without special direction.


I have a schedule prescription for each hour in the day; he takes all care from me, and so I feel basely ungrateful not to value it more.


He said we came here solely on my account, that I was to have perfect rest and all the air I could get. "Your exercise depends on your strength, my dear," said he, "and your food somewhat on your appetite; but air you can absorb all the time." So we took the nursery, at the top of the house.


It is a big, airy room, the whole floor nearly, with windows that look all ways, and air and sunshine galore. It was nursery first and then playground and gymnasium, I should judge; for the windows are barred for little children, and there are rings and things in the walls.


The paint and paper look as if a boys' school had used it. It is stripped off—the paper—in great patches all around the head of my bed, about as far as I can reach, and in a great place on the other side of the room low down. I never saw a worse paper in my life.


One of those sprawling flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin.


It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough to constantly irritate, and provoke study, and when you follow the lame, uncertain curves for a little distance they suddenly commit suicide—plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard-of contradictions.


The color is repellant, almost revolting; a smouldering, unclean yellow, strangely faded by the slow-turning sunlight.


It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a sickly sulphur tint in others.


No wonder the children hated it! I should hate it myself if I had to live in this room long.


There comes John, and I must put this away,—he hates to have me write a word.


We have been here two weeks, and I haven't felt like writing before, since that first day.


I am sitting by the window now, up in this atrocious nursery, and there is nothing to hinder my writing as much as I please, save lack of strength.


John is away all day, and even some nights when his cases are serious.


I am glad my case is not serious!


But these nervous troubles are dreadfully depressing.


John does not know how much I really suffer. He knows there is no reason to suffer, and that satisfies him.


Of course it is only nervousness. It does weigh on me so not to do my duty in any way!


I meant to be such a help to John, such a real rest and comfort, and here I am a comparative burden already!


Nobody would believe what an effort it is to do what little I am able—to dress and entertain, and order things.


It is fortunate Mary is so good with the baby. Such a dear baby!


And yet I cannot be with him, it makes me so nervous.


I suppose John never was nervous in his life. He laughs at me so about this wallpaper!


At first he meant to repaper the room, but afterwards he said that I was letting it get the better of me, and that nothing was worse for a nervous patient than to give way to such fancies.


He said that after the wallpaper was changed it would be the heavy bedstead, and then the barred windows, and then that gate at the head of the stairs, and so on.


"You know the place is doing you good," he said, "and really, dear, I don't care to renovate the house just for a three months' rental."


"Then do let us go downstairs," I said, "there are such pretty rooms there."


Then he took me in his arms and called me a blessed little goose, and said he would go down cellar if I wished, and have it whitewashed into the bargain.


But he is right enough about the beds and windows and things.


It is as airy and comfortable a room as any one need wish, and, of course, I would not be so silly as to make him uncomfortable just for a whim.


I'm really getting quite fond of the big room, all but that horrid paper.


Out of one window I can see the garden, those mysterious deep-shaded arbors, the riotous old-fashioned flowers, and bushes and gnarly trees.


Out of another I get a lovely view of the bay and a little private wharf belonging to the estate. There is a beautiful shaded lane that runs down there from the house. I always fancy I see people walking in these numerous paths and arbors, but John has cautioned me not to give way to fancy in the least. He says that with my imaginative power and habit of story-making a nervous weakness like mine is sure to lead to all manner of excited fancies, and that I ought to use my will and good sense to check the tendency. So I try.


I think sometimes that if I were only well enough to write a little it would relieve the press of ideas and rest me.


But I find I get pretty tired when I try.


It is so discouraging not to have any advice and companionship about my work. When I get really well John says we will ask Cousin Henry and Julia down for a long visit; but he says he would as soon put fire-works in my pillow-case as to let me have those stimulating people about now.


I wish I could get well faster.


But I must not think about that. This paper looks to me as if it knew what a vicious influence it had!


There is a recurrent spot where the pattern lolls like a broken neck and two bulbous eyes stare at you upside-down.


I get positively angry with the impertinence of it and the everlastingness. Up and down and sideways they crawl, and those absurd, unblinking eyes are everywhere. There is one place where two breadths didn't match, and the eyes go all up and down the line, one a little higher than the other.


I never saw so much expression in an inanimate thing before, and we all know how much expression they have! I used to lie awake as a child and get more entertainment and terror out of blank walls and plain furniture than most children could find in a toy-store.


I remember what a kindly wink the knobs of our big old bureau used to have, and there was one chair that always seemed like a strong friend.


I used to feel that if any of the other things looked too fierce I could always hop into that chair and be safe.


The furniture in this room is no worse than inharmonious, however, for we had to bring it all from downstairs. I suppose when this was used as a playroom they had to take the nursery things out, and no wonder! I never saw such ravages as the children have made here.


The wallpaper, as I said before, is torn off in spots, and it sticketh closer than a brother—they must have had perseverance as well as hatred.


Then the floor is scratched and gouged and splintered, the plaster itself is dug out here and there, and this great heavy bed, which is all we found in the room, looks as if it had been through the wars.


But I don't mind it a bit—only the paper.


There comes John's sister. Such a dear girl as she is, and so careful of me! I must not let her find me writing.


She is a perfect, and enthusiastic housekeeper, and hopes for no better profession. I verily believe she thinks it is the writing which made me sick!


But I can write when she is out, and see her a long way off from these windows.


There is one that commands the road, a lovely, shaded, winding road, and one that just looks off over the country. A lovely country, too, full of great elms and velvet meadows.


This wallpaper has a kind of sub-pattern in a different shade, a particularly irritating one, for you can only see it in certain lights, and not clearly then.


But in the places where it isn't faded, and where the sun is just so, I can see a strange, provoking, formless sort of figure, that seems to sulk about behind that silly and conspicuous front design.


There's sister on the stairs!


Well, the Fourth of July is over! The people are gone and I am tired out. John thought it might do me good to see a little company, so we just had mother and Nellie and the children down for a week.


Of course I didn't do a thing. Jennie sees to everything now.


But it tired me all the same.


John says if I don't pick up faster he shall send me to Weir Mitchell in the fall.


But I don't want to go there at all. I had a friend who was in his hands once, and she says he is just like John and my brother, only more so!


Besides, it is such an undertaking to go so far.


I don't feel as if it was worth while to turn my hand over for anything, and I'm getting dreadfully fretful and querulous.


I cry at nothing, and cry most of the time.


Of course I don't when John is here, or anybody else, but when I am alone.


And I am alone a good deal just now. John is kept in town very often by serious cases, and Jennie is good and lets me alone when I want her to.


So I walk a little in the garden or down that lovely lane, sit on the porch under the roses, and lie down up here a good deal.


I'm getting really fond of the room in spite of the wallpaper. Perhaps because of the wallpaper.


It dwells in my mind so!


I lie here on this great immovable bed—it is nailed down, I believe—and follow that pattern about by the hour. It is as good as gymnastics, I assure you. I start, we'll say, at the bottom, down in the corner over there where it has not been touched, and I determine for the thousandth time that I will follow that pointless pattern to some sort of a conclusion.


I know a little of the principle of design, and I know this thing was not arranged on any laws of radiation, or alternation, or repetition, or symmetry, or anything else that I ever heard of.


It is repeated, of course, by the breadths, but not otherwise.


Looked at in one way each breadth stands alone, the bloated curves and flourishes—a kind of "debased Romanesque" with delirium tremens—go waddling up and down in isolated columns of fatuity.


But, on the other hand, they connect diagonally, and the sprawling outlines run off in great slanting waves of optic horror, like a lot of wallowing seaweeds in full chase.


The whole thing goes horizontally, too, at least it seems so, and I exhaust myself in trying to distinguish the order of its going in that direction.


They have used a horizontal breadth for a frieze, and that adds wonderfully to the confusion.


There is one end of the room where it is almost intact, and there, when the cross-lights fade and the low sun shines directly upon it, I can almost fancy radiation after all,—the interminable grotesques seem to form around a common centre and rush off in headlong plunges of equal distraction.


It makes me tired to follow it. I will take a nap, I guess.


I don't know why I should write this.


I don't want to.


And I know John would think it absurd. But I must say what I feel and think in some way—it is such a relief!


But the effort is getting to be greater than the relief.


Half the time now I am awfully lazy, and lie down ever so much.


John says I mustn't lose my strength, and has me take cod-liver oil and lots of tonics and things, to say nothing of ale and wine and rare meat.


Dear John! He loves me very dearly, and hates to have me sick. I tried to have a real earnest reasonable talk with him the other day, and tell him how I wish he would let me go and make a visit to Cousin Henry and Julia.


But he said I wasn't able to go, nor able to stand it after I got there; and I did not make out a very good case for myself, for I was crying before I had finished.


It is getting to be a great effort for me to think straight. Just this nervous weakness, I suppose.


And dear John gathered me up in his arms, and just carried me upstairs and laid me on the bed, and sat by me and read to me till it tired my head.


He said I was his darling and his comfort and all he had, and that I must take care of myself for his sake, and keep well.


He says no one but myself can help me out of it, that I must use my will and self-control and not let any silly fancies run away with me.


There's one comfort, the baby is well and happy, and does not have to occupy this nursery with the horrid wallpaper.


If we had not used it that blessed child would have! What a fortunate escape! Why, I wouldn't have a child of mine, an impressionable little thing, live in such a room for worlds.


I never thought of it before, but it is lucky that John kept me here after all. I can stand it so much easier than a baby, you see.


Of course I never mention it to them any more,—I am too wise,—but I keep watch of it all the same.


There are things in that paper that nobody knows but me, or ever will.


Behind that outside pattern the dim shapes get clearer every day.


It is always the same shape, only very numerous.


And it is like a woman stooping down and creeping about behind that pattern. I don't like it a bit. I wonder—I begin to think—I wish John would take me away from here!


It is so hard to talk with John about my case, because he is so wise, and because he loves me so.


But I tried it last night.


It was moonlight. The moon shines in all around, just as the sun does.


I hate to see it sometimes, it creeps so slowly, and always comes in by one window or another.


John was asleep and I hated to waken him, so I kept still and watched the moonlight on that undulating wallpaper till I felt creepy.


The faint figure behind seemed to shake the pattern, just as if she wanted to get out.


I got up softly and went to feel and see if the paper did move, and when I came back John was awake.


"What is it, little girl?" he said. "Don't go walking about like that—you'll get cold."


I thought it was a good time to talk, so I told him that I really was not gaining here, and that I wished he would take me away.


"Why darling!" said he, "our lease will be up in three weeks, and I can't see how to leave before.


"The repairs are not done at home, and I cannot possibly leave town just now. Of course if you were in any danger I could and would, but you really are better, dear, whether you can see it or not. I am a doctor, dear, and I know. You are gaining flesh and color, your appetite is better. I feel really much easier about you."


"I don't weigh a bit more," said I, "nor as much; and my appetite may be better in the evening, when you are here, but it is worse in the morning when you are away."


"Bless her little heart!" said he with a big hug; "she shall be as sick as she pleases! But now let's improve the shining hours by going to sleep, and talk about it in the morning!"


"Why, how can I, dear? It is only three weeks more and then we will take a nice little trip of a few days while Jennie is getting the house ready. Really, dear, you are better!"


"Better in body perhaps"—I began, and stopped short, for he sat up straight and looked at me with such a stern, reproachful look that I could not say another word.


"My darling," said he, "I beg of you, for my sake and for our child's sake, as well as for your own, that you will never for one instant let that idea enter your mind! There is nothing so dangerous, so fascinating, to a temperament like yours. It is a false and foolish fancy. Can you not trust me as a physician when I tell you so?"


So of course I said no more on that score, and we went to sleep before long. He thought I was asleep first, but I wasn't,—I lay there for hours trying to decide whether that front pattern and the back pattern really did move together or separately.


On a pattern like this, by daylight, there is a lack of sequence, a defiance of law, that is a constant irritant to a normal mind.


The color is hideous enough, and unreliable enough, and infuriating enough, but the pattern is torturing.


You think you have mastered it, but just as you get well under way in following, it turns a back somersault and there you are. It slaps you in the face, knocks you down, and tramples upon you. It is like a bad dream.


The outside pattern is a florid arabesque, reminding one of a fungus. If you can imagine a toadstool in joints, an interminable string of toadstools, budding and sprouting in endless convolutions,—why, that is something like it.


That is, sometimes!


There is one marked peculiarity about this paper, a thing nobody seems to notice but myself, and that is that it changes as the light changes.


When the sun shoots in through the east window—I always watch for that first long, straight ray—it changes so quickly that I never can quite believe it.


That is why I watch it always.


By moonlight—the moon shines in all night when there is a moon—I wouldn't know it was the same paper.


At night in any kind of light, in twilight, candlelight, lamplight, and worst of all by moonlight, it becomes bars! The outside pattern I mean, and the woman behind it is as plain as can be.


I didn't realize for a long time what the thing was that showed behind,—that dim sub-pattern,—but now I am quite sure it is a woman.


By daylight she is subdued, quiet. I fancy it is the pattern that keeps her so still. It is so puzzling. It keeps me quiet by the hour.


I lie down ever so much now. John says it is good for me, and to sleep all I can.


Indeed, he started the habit by making me lie down for an hour after each meal.


It is a very bad habit, I am convinced, for, you see, I don't sleep.


And that cultivates deceit, for I don't tell them I'm awake,—oh, no!


The fact is, I am getting a little afraid of John.


He seems very queer sometimes, and even Jennie has an inexplicable look.


It strikes me occasionally, just as a scientific hypothesis, that perhaps it is the paper!


I have watched John when he did not know I was looking, and come into the room suddenly on the most innocent excuses, and I've caught him several times looking at the paper! And Jennie too. I caught Jennie with her hand on it once.


She didn't know I was in the room, and when I asked her in a quiet, a very quiet voice, with the most restrained manner possible, what she was doing with the paper she turned around as if she had been caught stealing, and looked quite angry—asked me why I should frighten her so!


Then she said that the paper stained everything it touched, that she had found yellow smooches on all my clothes and John's, and she wished we would be more careful!


Did not that sound innocent? But I know she was studying that pattern, and I am determined that nobody shall find it out but myself!


Life is very much more exciting now than it used to be. You see I have something more to expect, to look forward to, to watch. I really do eat better, and am more quiet than I was.


John is so pleased to see me improve! He laughed a little the other day, and said I seemed to be flourishing in spite of my wallpaper.


I turned it off with a laugh. I had no intention of telling him it was because of the wallpaper—he would make fun of me. He might even want to take me away.


I don't want to leave now until I have found it out. There is a week more, and I think that will be enough.


I'm feeling ever so much better! I don't sleep much at night, for it is so interesting to watch developments; but I sleep a good deal in the daytime.


In the daytime it is tiresome and perplexing.


There are always new shoots on the fungus, and new shades of yellow all over it. I cannot keep count of them, though I have tried conscientiously.


It is the strangest yellow, that wallpaper! It makes me think of all the yellow things I ever saw—not beautiful ones like buttercups, but old foul, bad yellow things.


But there is something else about that paper—the smell! I noticed it the moment we came into the room, but with so much air and sun it was not bad. Now we have had a week of fog and rain, and whether the windows are open or not, the smell is here.


It creeps all over the house.


I find it hovering in the dining-room, skulking in the parlor, hiding in the hall, lying in wait for me on the stairs.


It gets into my hair.


Even when I go to ride, if I turn my head suddenly and surprise it—there is that smell!


Such a peculiar odor, too! I have spent hours in trying to analyze it, to find what it smelled like.


It is not bad—at first, and very gentle, but quite the subtlest, most enduring odor I ever met.


In this damp weather it is awful. I wake up in the night and find it hanging over me.


It used to disturb me at first. I thought seriously of burning the house—to reach the smell.


But now I am used to it. The only thing I can think of that it is like is the color of the paper! A yellow smell.


There is a very funny mark on this wall, low down, near the mopboard. A streak that runs round the room. It goes behind every piece of furniture, except the bed, a long, straight, even smooch, as if it had been rubbed over and over.


I wonder how it was done and who did it, and what they did it for. Round and round and round—round and round and round—it makes me dizzy!


I really have discovered something at last.


Through watching so much at night, when it changes so, I have finally found out.


The front pattern does move—and no wonder! The woman behind shakes it!


Sometimes I think there are a great many women behind, and sometimes only one, and she crawls around fast, and her crawling shakes it all over.


Then in the very bright spots she keeps still, and in the very shady spots she just takes hold of the bars and shakes them hard.


And she is all the time trying to climb through. But nobody could climb through that pattern—it strangles so; I think that is why it has so many heads.


They get through, and then the pattern strangles them off and turns them upside-down, and makes their eyes white!


If those heads were covered or taken off it would not be half so bad.


I think that woman gets out in the daytime!


And I'll tell you why—privately—I've seen her!


I can see her out of every one of my windows!


It is the same woman, I know, for she is always creeping, and most women do not creep by daylight.


I see her on that long shaded lane, creeping up and down. I see her in those dark grape arbors, creeping all around the garden.


I see her on that long road under the trees, creeping along, and when a carriage comes she hides under the blackberry vines.


I don't blame her a bit. It must be very humiliating to be caught creeping by daylight!


I always lock the door when I creep by daylight. I can't do it at night, for I know John would suspect something at once.


And John is so queer now, that I don't want to irritate him. I wish he would take another room! Besides, I don't want anybody to get that woman out at night but myself.


I often wonder if I could see her out of all the windows at once.


But, turn as fast as I can, I can only see out of one at one time.


And though I always see her she may be able to creep faster than I can turn!


I have watched her sometimes away off in the open country, creeping as fast as a cloud shadow in a high wind.


If only that top pattern could be gotten off from the under one! I mean to try it, little by little.


I have found out another funny thing, but I shan't tell it this time! It does not do to trust people too much.


There are only two more days to get this paper off, and I believe John is beginning to notice. I don't like the look in his eyes.


And I heard him ask Jennie a lot of professional questions about me. She had a very good report to give.


She said I slept a good deal in the daytime.


John knows I don't sleep very well at night, for all I'm so quiet!


He asked me all sorts of questions, too, and pretended to be very loving and kind.


As if I couldn't see through him!


Still, I don't wonder he acts so, sleeping under this paper for three months.


It only interests me, but I feel sure John and Jennie are secretly affected by it.


Hurrah! This is the last day, but it is enough. John is to stay in town over night, and won't be out until this evening.


Jennie wanted to sleep with me—the sly thing! but I told her I should undoubtedly rest better for a night all alone.


That was clever, for really I wasn't alone a bit! As soon as it was moonlight, and that poor thing began to crawl and shake the pattern, I got up and ran to help her.


I pulled and she shook, I shook and she pulled, and before morning we had peeled off yards of that paper.


A strip about as high as my head and half around the room.


And then when the sun came and that awful pattern began to laugh at me I declared I would finish it to-day!


We go away to-morrow, and they are moving all my furniture down again to leave things as they were before.


Jennie looked at the wall in amazement, but I told her merrily that I did it out of pure spite at the vicious thing.


She laughed and said she wouldn't mind doing it herself, but I must not get tired.


How she betrayed herself that time!


But I am here, and no person touches this paper but me—not alive!


She tried to get me out of the room—it was too patent! But I said it was so quiet and empty and clean now that I believed I would lie down again and sleep all I could; and not to wake me even for dinner—I would call when I woke.


So now she is gone, and the servants are gone, and the things are gone, and there is nothing left but that great bedstead nailed down, with the canvas mattress we found on it.


We shall sleep downstairs to-night, and take the boat home to-morrow.


I quite enjoy the room, now it is bare again.


How those children did tear about here!


This bedstead is fairly gnawed!


But I must get to work.


I have locked the door and thrown the key down into the front path.


I don't want to go out, and I don't want to have anybody come in, till John comes.


I want to astonish him.


I've got a rope up here that even Jennie did not find. If that woman does get out, and tries to get away, I can tie her!


But I forgot I could not reach far without anything to stand on!


This bed will not move!


I tried to lift and push it until I was lame, and then I got so angry I bit off a little piece at one corner—but it hurt my teeth.


Then I peeled off all the paper I could reach standing on the floor. It sticks horribly and the pattern just enjoys it! All those strangled heads and bulbous eyes and waddling fungus growths just shriek with derision!


I am getting angry enough to do something desperate. To jump out of the window would be admirable exercise, but the bars are too strong even to try.


Besides I wouldn't do it. Of course not. I know well enough that a step like that is improper and might be misconstrued.


I don't like to look out of the windows even—there are so many of those creeping women, and they creep so fast.


I wonder if they all come out of that wallpaper as I did?


But I am securely fastened now by my well-hidden rope—you don't get me out in the road there!


I suppose I shall have to get back behind the pattern when it comes night, and that is hard!


It is so pleasant to be out in this great room and creep around as I please!


I don't want to go outside. I won't, even if Jennie asks me to.


For outside you have to creep on the ground, and everything is green instead of yellow.


But here I can creep smoothly on the floor, and my shoulder just fits in that long smooch around the wall, so I cannot lose my way.


Why, there's John at the door!


It is no use, young man, you can't open it!


How he does call and pound!


Now he's crying for an axe.


It would be a shame to break down that beautiful door!


"John dear!" said I in the gentlest voice, "the key is down by the front steps, under a plantain leaf!"


That silenced him for a few moments.


Then he said—very quietly indeed, "Open the door, my darling!"


"I can't," said I. "The key is down by the front door under a plantain leaf!"


And then I said it again, several times, very gently and slowly, and said it so often that he had to go and see, and he got it, of course, and came in. He stopped short by the door.


"What is the matter?" he cried. "For God's sake, what are you doing!"


I kept on creeping just the same, but I looked at him over my shoulder.


"I've got out at last," said I, "in spite of you and Jane! And I've pulled off most of the paper, so you can't put me back!"


Now why should that man have fainted? But he did, and right across my path by the wall, so that I had to creep over him every time!


Title: Treasure Island


Illustrator: Louis Rhead


Release date: February 26, 2006 [eBook #120] Most recently updated: April 1, 2025


To S.L.O., an American gentleman in accordance with whose classic taste the following narrative has been designed, it is now, in return for numerous delightful hours, and with the kindest wishes, dedicated by his affectionate friend, the author.


If sailor tales to sailor tunes, Storm and adventure, heat and cold, If schooners, islands, and maroons, And buccaneers, and buried gold, And all the old romance, retold Exactly in the ancient way, Can please, as me they pleased of old, The wiser youngsters of today:


--So be it, and fall on! If not, If studious youth no longer crave, His ancient appetites forgot, Kingston, or Ballantyne the brave, Or Cooper of the wood and wave: So be it, also! And may I And all my pirates share the grave Where these and their creations lie!


PART ONE The Old Buccaneer


PART TWO The Sea Cook


PART THREE My Shore Adventure


PART FOUR The Stockade


PART FIVE My Sea Adventure


PART SIX Captain Silver


PART ONE--The Old Buccaneer


I The Old Sea-dog at the Admiral Benbow


Squire Trelawney, Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted, I take up my pen in the year of grace 17—, and go back to the time when my father kept the Admiral Benbow inn and the brown old seaman with the sabre cut first took up his lodging under our roof.


I remember him as if it were yesterday, as he came plodding to the inn door, his sea-chest following behind him in a hand-barrow--a tall, strong, heavy, nut-brown man, his tarry pigtail falling over the shoulder of his soiled blue coat, his hands ragged and scarred, with black, broken nails, and the sabre cut across one cheek, a dirty, livid white. I remember him looking round the cove and whistling to himself as he did so, and then breaking out in that old sea-song that he sang so often afterwards:


"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest-- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!"


in the high, old tottering voice that seemed to have been tuned and broken at the capstan bars. Then he rapped on the door with a bit of stick like a handspike that he carried, and when my father appeared, called roughly for a glass of rum. This, when it was brought to him, he drank slowly, like a connoisseur, lingering on the taste and still looking about him at the cliffs and up at our signboard.


"This is a handy cove," says he at length; "and a pleasant sittyated grog-shop. Much company, mate?"


My father told him no, very little company, the more was the pity.


"Well, then," said he, "this is the berth for me. Here you, matey," he cried to the man who trundled the barrow; "bring up alongside and help up my chest. I'll stay here a bit," he continued. "I'm a plain man; rum and bacon and eggs is what I want, and that head up there for to watch ships off. What you mought call me? You mought call me captain. Oh, I see what you're at--there"; and he threw down three or four gold pieces on the threshold. "You can tell me when I've worked through that," says he, looking as fierce as a commander.


And indeed bad as his clothes were and coarsely as he spoke, he had none of the appearance of a man who sailed before the mast, but seemed like a mate or skipper accustomed to be obeyed or to strike. The man who came with the barrow told us the mail had set him down the morning before at the Royal George, that he had inquired what inns there were along the coast, and hearing ours well spoken of, I suppose, and described as lonely, had chosen it from the others for his place of residence. And that was all we could learn of our guest.


He was a very silent man by custom. All day he hung round the cove or upon the cliffs with a brass telescope; all evening he sat in a corner of the parlour next the fire and drank rum and water very strong. Mostly he would not speak when spoken to, only look up sudden and fierce and blow through his nose like a fog-horn; and we and the people who came about our house soon learned to let him be. Every day when he came back from his stroll he would ask if any seafaring men had gone by along the road. At first we thought it was the want of company of his own kind that made him ask this question, but at last we began to see he was desirous to avoid them. When a seaman did put up at the Admiral Benbow (as now and then some did, making by the coast road for Bristol) he would look in at him through the curtained door before he entered the parlour; and he was always sure to be as silent as a mouse when any such was present. For me, at least, there was no secret about the matter, for I was, in a way, a sharer in his alarms. He had taken me aside one day and promised me a silver fourpenny on the first of every month if I would only keep my "weather-eye open for a seafaring man with one leg" and let him know the moment he appeared. Often enough when the first of the month came round and I applied to him for my wage, he would only blow through his nose at me and stare me down, but before the week was out he was sure to think better of it, bring me my four-penny piece, and repeat his orders to look out for "the seafaring man with one leg."


How that personage haunted my dreams, I need scarcely tell you. On stormy nights, when the wind shook the four corners of the house and the surf roared along the cove and up the cliffs, I would see him in a thousand forms, and with a thousand diabolical expressions. Now the leg would be cut off at the knee, now at the hip; now he was a monstrous kind of a creature who had never had but the one leg, and that in the middle of his body. To see him leap and run and pursue me over hedge and ditch was the worst of nightmares. And altogether I paid pretty dear for my monthly fourpenny piece, in the shape of these abominable fancies.


But though I was so terrified by the idea of the seafaring man with one leg, I was far less afraid of the captain himself than anybody else who knew him. There were nights when he took a deal more rum and water than his head would carry; and then he would sometimes sit and sing his wicked, old, wild sea-songs, minding nobody; but sometimes he would call for glasses round and force all the trembling company to listen to his stories or bear a chorus to his singing. Often I have heard the house shaking with "Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum," all the neighbours joining in for dear life, with the fear of death upon them, and each singing louder than the other to avoid remark. For in these fits he was the most overriding companion ever known; he would slap his hand on the table for silence all round; he would fly up in a passion of anger at a question, or sometimes because none was put, and so he judged the company was not following his story. Nor would he allow anyone to leave the inn till he had drunk himself sleepy and reeled off to bed.


His stories were what frightened people worst of all. Dreadful stories they were--about hanging, and walking the plank, and storms at sea, and the Dry Tortugas, and wild deeds and places on the Spanish Main. By his own account he must have lived his life among some of the wickedest men that God ever allowed upon the sea, and the language in which he told these stories shocked our plain country people almost as much as the crimes that he described. My father was always saying the inn would be ruined, for people would soon cease coming there to be tyrannized over and put down, and sent shivering to their beds; but I really believe his presence did us good. People were frightened at the time, but on looking back they rather liked it; it was a fine excitement in a quiet country life, and there was even a party of the younger men who pretended to admire him, calling him a "true sea-dog" and a "real old salt" and such like names, and saying there was the sort of man that made England terrible at sea.


In one way, indeed, he bade fair to ruin us, for he kept on staying week after week, and at last month after month, so that all the money had been long exhausted, and still my father never plucked up the heart to insist on having more. If ever he mentioned it, the captain blew through his nose so loudly that you might say he roared, and stared my poor father out of the room. I have seen him wringing his hands after such a rebuff, and I am sure the annoyance and the terror he lived in must have greatly hastened his early and unhappy death.


All the time he lived with us the captain made no change whatever in his dress but to buy some stockings from a hawker. One of the cocks of his hat having fallen down, he let it hang from that day forth, though it was a great annoyance when it blew. I remember the appearance of his coat, which he patched himself upstairs in his room, and which, before the end, was nothing but patches. He never wrote or received a letter, and he never spoke with any but the neighbours, and with these, for the most part, only when drunk on rum. The great sea-chest none of us had ever seen open.


He was only once crossed, and that was towards the end, when my poor father was far gone in a decline that took him off. Dr. Livesey came late one afternoon to see the patient, took a bit of dinner from my mother, and went into the parlour to smoke a pipe until his horse should come down from the hamlet, for we had no stabling at the old Benbow. I followed him in, and I remember observing the contrast the neat, bright doctor, with his powder as white as snow and his bright, black eyes and pleasant manners, made with the coltish country folk, and above all, with that filthy, heavy, bleared scarecrow of a pirate of ours, sitting, far gone in rum, with his arms on the table. Suddenly he--the captain, that is--began to pipe up his eternal song:


"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest-- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! Drink and the devil had done for the rest-- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!"


At first I had supposed "the dead man's chest" to be that identical big box of his upstairs in the front room, and the thought had been mingled in my nightmares with that of the one-legged seafaring man. But by this time we had all long ceased to pay any particular notice to the song; it was new, that night, to nobody but Dr. Livesey, and on him I observed it did not produce an agreeable effect, for he looked up for a moment quite angrily before he went on with his talk to old Taylor, the gardener, on a new cure for the rheumatics. In the meantime, the captain gradually brightened up at his own music, and at last flapped his hand upon the table before him in a way we all knew to mean silence. The voices stopped at once, all but Dr. Livesey's; he went on as before speaking clear and kind and drawing briskly at his pipe between every word or two. The captain glared at him for a while, flapped his hand again, glared still harder, and at last broke out with a villainous, low oath, "Silence, there, between decks!"


"Were you addressing me, sir?" says the doctor; and when the ruffian had told him, with another oath, that this was so, "I have only one thing to say to you, sir," replies the doctor, "that if you keep on drinking rum, the world will soon be quit of a very dirty scoundrel!"


The old fellow's fury was awful. He sprang to his feet, drew and opened a sailor's clasp-knife, and balancing it open on the palm of his hand, threatened to pin the doctor to the wall.


The doctor never so much as moved. He spoke to him as before, over his shoulder and in the same tone of voice, rather high, so that all the room might hear, but perfectly calm and steady: "If you do not put that knife this instant in your pocket, I promise, upon my honour, you shall hang at the next assizes."


Then followed a battle of looks between them, but the captain soon knuckled under, put up his weapon, and resumed his seat, grumbling like a beaten dog.


"And now, sir," continued the doctor, "since I now know there's such a fellow in my district, you may count I'll have an eye upon you day and night. I'm not a doctor only; I'm a magistrate; and if I catch a breath of complaint against you, if it's only for a piece of incivility like tonight's, I'll take effectual means to have you hunted down and routed out of this. Let that suffice."


Soon after, Dr. Livesey's horse came to the door and he rode away, but the captain held his peace that evening, and for many evenings to come.


II Black Dog Appears and Disappears


It was not very long after this that there occurred the first of the mysterious events that rid us at last of the captain, though not, as you will see, of his affairs. It was a bitter cold winter, with long, hard frosts and heavy gales; and it was plain from the first that my poor father was little likely to see the spring. He sank daily, and my mother and I had all the inn upon our hands, and were kept busy enough without paying much regard to our unpleasant guest.


It was one January morning, very early--a pinching, frosty morning--the cove all grey with hoar-frost, the ripple lapping softly on the stones, the sun still low and only touching the hilltops and shining far to seaward. The captain had risen earlier than usual and set out down the beach, his cutlass swinging under the broad skirts of the old blue coat, his brass telescope under his arm, his hat tilted back upon his head. I remember his breath hanging like smoke in his wake as he strode off, and the last sound I heard of him as he turned the big rock was a loud snort of indignation, as though his mind was still running upon Dr. Livesey.


Well, mother was upstairs with father and I was laying the breakfast-table against the captain's return when the parlour door opened and a man stepped in on whom I had never set my eyes before. He was a pale, tallowy creature, wanting two fingers of the left hand, and though he wore a cutlass, he did not look much like a fighter. I had always my eye open for seafaring men, with one leg or two, and I remember this one puzzled me. He was not sailorly, and yet he had a smack of the sea about him too.


I asked him what was for his service, and he said he would take rum; but as I was going out of the room to fetch it, he sat down upon a table and motioned me to draw near. I paused where I was, with my napkin in my hand.


"Come here, sonny," says he. "Come nearer here."


I took a step nearer.


"Is this here table for my mate Bill?" he asked with a kind of leer.


I told him I did not know his mate Bill, and this was for a person who stayed in our house whom we called the captain.


"Well," said he, "my mate Bill would be called the captain, as like as not. He has a cut on one cheek and a mighty pleasant way with him, particularly in drink, has my mate Bill. We'll put it, for argument like, that your captain has a cut on one cheek--and we'll put it, if you like, that that cheek's the right one. Ah, well! I told you. Now, is my mate Bill in this here house?"


I told him he was out walking.


"Which way, sonny? Which way is he gone?"


And when I had pointed out the rock and told him how the captain was likely to return, and how soon, and answered a few other questions, "Ah," said he, "this'll be as good as drink to my mate Bill."


The expression of his face as he said these words was not at all pleasant, and I had my own reasons for thinking that the stranger was mistaken, even supposing he meant what he said. But it was no affair of mine, I thought; and besides, it was difficult to know what to do. The stranger kept hanging about just inside the inn door, peering round the corner like a cat waiting for a mouse. Once I stepped out myself into the road, but he immediately called me back, and as I did not obey quick enough for his fancy, a most horrible change came over his tallowy face, and he ordered me in with an oath that made me jump. As soon as I was back again he returned to his former manner, half fawning, half sneering, patted me on the shoulder, told me I was a good boy and he had taken quite a fancy to me. "I have a son of my own," said he, "as like you as two blocks, and he's all the pride of my 'art. But the great thing for boys is discipline, sonny--discipline. Now, if you had sailed along of Bill, you wouldn't have stood there to be spoke to twice--not you. That was never Bill's way, nor the way of sich as sailed with him. And here, sure enough, is my mate Bill, with a spy-glass under his arm, bless his old 'art, to be sure. You and me'll just go back into the parlour, sonny, and get behind the door, and we'll give Bill a little surprise--bless his 'art, I say again."


So saying, the stranger backed along with me into the parlour and put me behind him in the corner so that we were both hidden by the open door. I was very uneasy and alarmed, as you may fancy, and it rather added to my fears to observe that the stranger was certainly frightened himself. He cleared the hilt of his cutlass and loosened the blade in the sheath; and all the time we were waiting there he kept swallowing as if he felt what we used to call a lump in the throat.


At last in strode the captain, slammed the door behind him, without looking to the right or left, and marched straight across the room to where his breakfast awaited him.


"Bill," said the stranger in a voice that I thought he had tried to make bold and big.


The captain spun round on his heel and fronted us; all the brown had gone out of his face, and even his nose was blue; he had the look of a man who sees a ghost, or the evil one, or something worse, if anything can be; and upon my word, I felt sorry to see him all in a moment turn so old and sick.


"Come, Bill, you know me; you know an old shipmate, Bill, surely," said the stranger.


The captain made a sort of gasp.


"Black Dog!" said he.


"And who else?" returned the other, getting more at his ease. "Black Dog as ever was, come for to see his old shipmate Billy, at the Admiral Benbow inn. Ah, Bill, Bill, we have seen a sight of times, us two, since I lost them two talons," holding up his mutilated hand.


"Now, look here," said the captain; "you've run me down; here I am; well, then, speak up; what is it?"