"You desire to fathom this horrible secret?" said De Winter; "well, then, so be it. Know, then, what manner of woman it was for whom to-day you call me to account. That woman had, in all probability, poisoned my brother, and in order to inherit from me she was about to assassinate me in my turn. I have proof of it. What say you to that?"


"I say that she was my mother."


"She caused the unfortunate Duke of Buckingham to be stabbed by a man who was, ere that, honest, good and pure. What say you to that crime, of which I have the proof?"


"She was my mother."


"On our return to France she had a young woman who was attached to one of her opponents poisoned in the convent of the Augustines at Bethune. Will this crime persuade you of the justice of her punishment—for of all this I have the proofs?"


"She was my mother!" cried the young man, who uttered these three successive exclamations with constantly increasing force.


"At last, charged with murders, with debauchery, hated by every one and yet threatening still, like a panther thirsting for blood, she fell under the blows of men whom she had rendered desperate, though they had never done her the least injury; she met with judges whom her hideous crimes had evoked; and that executioner you saw—that executioner who you say told you everything—that executioner, if he told you everything, told you that he leaped with joy in avenging on her his brother's shame and suicide. Depraved as a girl, adulterous as a wife, an unnatural sister, homicide, poisoner, execrated by all who knew her, by every nation that had been visited by her, she died accursed by Heaven and earth."


A sob which Mordaunt could not repress burst from his throat and his livid face became suffused with blood; he clenched his fists, sweat covered his face, his hair, like Hamlet's, stood on end, and racked with fury he cried out:


"Silence, sir! she was my mother! Her crimes, I know them not; her disorders, I know them not; her vices, I know them not. But this I know, that I had a mother, that five men leagued against one woman, murdered her clandestinely by night—silently—like cowards. I know that you were one of them, my uncle, and that you cried louder than the others: 'She must die.' Therefore I warn you, and listen well to my words, that they may be engraved upon your memory, never to be forgotten: this murder, which has robbed me of everything—this murder, which has deprived me of my name—this murder, which has impoverished me—this murder, which has made me corrupt, wicked, implacable—I shall summon you to account for it first and then those who were your accomplices, when I discover them!"


With hatred in his eyes, foaming at his mouth, and his fist extended, Mordaunt had advanced one more step, a threatening, terrible step, toward De Winter. The latter put his hand to his sword, and said, with the smile of a man who for thirty years has jested with death:


"Would you assassinate me, sir? Then I shall recognize you as my nephew, for you would be a worthy son of such a mother."


"No," replied Mordaunt, forcing his features and the muscles of his body to resume their usual places and be calm; "no, I shall not kill you; at least not at this moment, for without you I could not discover the others. But when I have found them, then tremble, sir. I stabbed to the heart the headsman of Bethune, without mercy or pity, and he was the least guilty of you all."


With these words the young man went out and descended the stairs with sufficient calmness to pass unobserved; then upon the lowest landing place he passed Tony, leaning over the balustrade, waiting only for a call from his master to mount to his room.


But De Winter did not call; crushed, enfeebled, he remained standing and with listening ear; then only when he had heard the step of the horse going away he fell back on a chair, saying:


"My God, I thank Thee that he knows me only."


Chapter XLI. Paternal Affection.


Whilst this terrible scene was passing at Lord de Winter's, Athos, seated near his window, his elbow on the table and his head supported on his hand, was listening intently to Raoul's account of the adventures he met with on his journey and the details of the battle.


Listening to the relation of those emotions so fresh and pure, the fine, noble face of Athos betrayed indescribable pleasure; he inhaled the tones of that young voice, as harmonious music. He forgot all that was dark in the past and that was cloudy in the future. It almost seemed as if the return of this much loved boy had changed his fears to hopes. Athos was happy—happy as he had never been before.


"And you assisted and took part in this great battle, Bragelonne!" cried the former musketeer.


"And it was a fierce one?"


"His highness the prince charged eleven times in person."


"He is a great commander, Bragelonne."


"He is a hero, sir. I did not lose sight of him for an instant. Oh! how fine it is to be called Condé and to be so worthy of such a name!"


"He was calm and radiant, was he not?"


"As calm as at parade, radiant as at a fête. When we went up to the enemy it was slowly; we were forbidden to draw first and we were marching toward the Spaniards, who were on a height with lowered muskets. When we arrived about thirty paces from them the prince turned around to the soldiers: 'Comrades,' he said, 'you are about to suffer a furious discharge; but after that you will make short work with those fellows.' There was such dead silence that friends and enemies could have heard these words; then raising his sword, 'Sound trumpets!' he cried."


"Well, very good; you will do as much when the opportunity occurs, will you, Raoul?"


"I know not, sir, but I thought it really very fine and grand!"


"Were you afraid, Raoul?" asked the count.


"Yes, sir," replied the young man naïvely; "I felt a great chill at my heart, and at the word 'fire,' which resounded in Spanish from the enemy's ranks, I closed my eyes and thought of you."


"In honest truth, Raoul?" said Athos, pressing his hand.


"Yes, sir; at that instant there was such a rataplan of musketry that one might have imagined the infernal regions had opened. Those who were not killed felt the heat of the flames. I opened my eyes, astonished to find myself alive and even unhurt; a third of the squadron were lying on the ground, wounded, dead or dying. At that moment I encountered the eye of the prince. I had but one thought and that was that he was observing me. I spurred on and found myself in the enemy's ranks."


"And the prince was pleased with you?"


"He told me so, at least, sir, when he desired me to return to Paris with Monsieur de Châtillon, who was charged to carry the news to the queen and to bring the colors we had taken. 'Go,' said he; 'the enemy will not rally for fifteen days and until that time I have no need of your service. Go and see those whom you love and who love you, and tell my sister De Longueville that I thank her for the present that she made me of you.' And I came, sir," added Raoul, gazing at the count with a smile of real affection, "for I thought you would be glad to see me again."


Athos drew the young man toward him and pressed his lips to his brow, as he would have done to a young daughter.


"And now, Raoul," said he, "you are launched; you have dukes for friends, a marshal of France for godfather, a prince of the blood as commander, and on the day of your return you have been received by two queens; it is not so bad for a novice."


"Oh sir," said Raoul, suddenly, "you recall something, which, in my haste to relate my exploits, I had forgotten; it is that there was with Her Majesty the Queen of England, a gentleman who, when I pronounced your name, uttered a cry of surprise and joy; he said he was a friend of yours, asked your address, and is coming to see you."


"I did not venture to ask, sir; he spoke elegantly, although I thought from his accent he was an Englishman."


"Ah!" said Athos, leaning down his head as if to remember who it could be. Then, when he raised it again, he was struck by the presence of a man who was standing at the open door and was gazing at him with a compassionate air.


"Lord de Winter!" exclaimed the count.


"Athos, my friend!"


And the two gentlemen were for an instant locked in each other's arms; then Athos, looking into his friend's face and taking him by both hands, said:


"What ails you, my lord? you appear as unhappy as I am the reverse."


"Yes, truly, dear friend; and I may even say the sight of you increases my dismay."


And De Winter glancing around him, Raoul quickly understood that the two friends wished to be alone and he therefore left the room unaffectedly.


"Come, now that we are alone," said Athos, "let us talk of yourself."


"Whilst we are alone let us speak of ourselves," replied De Winter. "He is here."


"Milady's son."


Athos, again struck by this name, which seemed to pursue him like an echo, hesitated for a moment, then slightly knitting his brows, he calmly said:


"I know it, Grimaud met him between Bethune and Arras and then came here to warn me of his presence."


"Does Grimaud know him, then?"


"No; but he was present at the deathbed of a man who knew him."


"The headsman of Bethune?" exclaimed De Winter.


"You know about that?" cried Athos, astonished.


"He has just left me," replied De Winter, "after telling me all. Ah! my friend! what a horrible scene! Why did we not destroy the child with the mother?"


"What need you fear?" said Athos, recovering from the instinctive fear he had at first experienced, by the aid of reason; "are we not men accustomed to defend ourselves? Is this young man an assassin by profession—a murderer in cold blood? He has killed the executioner of Bethune in an access of passion, but now his fury is assuaged."


De Winter smiled sorrowfully and shook his head.


"Do you not know the race?" said he.


"Pooh!" said Athos, trying to smile in his turn. "It must have lost its ferocity in the second generation. Besides, my friend, Providence has warned us, that we may be on our guard. All we can now do is to wait. Let us wait; and, as I said before, let us speak of yourself. What brings you to Paris?"


"Affairs of importance which you shall know later. But what is this that I hear from Her Majesty the Queen of England? Monsieur d'Artagnan sides with Mazarin! Pardon my frankness, dear friend. I neither hate nor blame the cardinal, and your opinions will be held ever sacred by me. But do you happen to belong to him?"


"Monsieur d'Artagnan," replied Athos, "is in the service; he is a soldier and obeys all constitutional authority. Monsieur d'Artagnan is not rich and has need of his position as lieutenant to enable him to live. Millionaires like yourself, my lord, are rare in France."


"Alas!" said De Winter, "I am at this moment as poor as he is, if not poorer. But to return to our subject."


"Well, then, you wish to know if I am of Mazarin's party? No. Pardon my frankness, too, my lord."


"I am obliged to you, count, for this pleasing intelligence! You make me young and happy again by it. Ah! so you are not a Mazarinist? Delightful! Indeed, you could not belong to him. But pardon me, are you free? I mean to ask if you are married?"


"Ah! as to that, no," replied Athos, laughing.


"Because that young man, so handsome, so elegant, so polished——"


"Is a child I have adopted and who does not even know who was his father."


"Very well; you are always the same, Athos, great and generous. Are you still friends with Monsieur Porthos and Monsieur Aramis?"


"Add Monsieur d'Artagnan, my lord. We still remain four friends devoted to each other; but when it becomes a question of serving the cardinal or of fighting him, of being Mazarinists or Frondists, then we are only two."


"Is Monsieur Aramis with D'Artagnan?" asked Lord de Winter.


"No," said Athos; "Monsieur Aramis does me the honor to share my opinions."


"Could you put me in communication with your witty and agreeable friend? Is he much changed?"


"He has become an abbé, that is all."


"You alarm me; his profession must have made him renounce any great undertakings."


"On the contrary," said Athos, smiling, "he has never been so much a musketeer as since he became an abbé, and you will find him a veritable soldier."


"Could you engage to bring him to me to-morrow morning at ten o'clock, on the Pont du Louvre?"


"Oh, oh!" exclaimed Athos, smiling, "you have a duel in prospect."


"Yes, count, and a splendid duel, too; a duel in which I hope you will take your part."


"Where are we to go, my lord?"


"To Her Majesty the Queen of England, who has desired me to present you to her."


"This is an enigma," said Athos, "but it matters not; since you know the solution of it I ask no further. Will your lordship do me the honor to sup with me?"


"Thanks, count, no," replied De Winter. "I own to you that that young man's visit has subdued my appetite and probably will rob me of my sleep. What undertaking can have brought him to Paris? It was not to meet me that he came, for he was ignorant of my journey. This young man terrifies me, my lord; there lies in him a sanguinary predisposition."


"What occupies him in England?"


"He is one of Cromwell's most enthusiastic disciples."


"But what attached him to the cause? His father and mother were Catholics, I believe?"


"His hatred of the king, who deprived him of his estates and forbade him to bear the name of De Winter."


"And what name does he now bear?"


"A Puritan, yet disguised as a monk he travels alone in France."


"It was thus, and by mere accident—may God pardon me if I blaspheme—that he heard the confession of the executioner of Bethune."


"Then I understand it all! he has been sent by Cromwell to Mazarin, and the queen guessed rightly; we have been forestalled. Everything is clear to me now. Adieu, count, till to-morrow."


"But the night is dark," said Athos, perceiving that Lord de Winter seemed more uneasy than he wished to appear; "and you have no servant."


"I have Tony, a safe if simple youth."


"Halloo, there, Grimaud, Olivain, and Blaisois! call the viscount and take the musket with you."


Blaisois was the tall youth, half groom, half peasant, whom we saw at the Château de Bragelonne, whom Athos had christened by the name of his province.


"Viscount," said Athos to Raoul, as he entered, "you will conduct my lord as far as his hotel and permit no one to approach him."


"Oh! count," said De Winter, "for whom do you take me?"


"For a stranger who does not know Paris," said Athos, "and to whom the viscount will show the way."


De Winter shook him by the hand.


"Grimaud," said Athos, "put yourself at the head of the troop and beware of the monk."


Grimaud shuddered, and nodding, awaited the departure, regarding the butt of his musket with silent eloquence. Then obeying the orders given him by Athos, he headed the small procession, bearing the torch in one hand and the musket in the other, until it reached De Winter's inn, when pounding on the portal with his fist, he bowed to my lord and faced about without a word.


The same order was followed in returning, nor did Grimaud's searching glance discover anything of a suspicious appearance, save a dark shadow, as it were, in ambuscade, at the corner of the Rue Guénégaud and of the Quai. He fancied, also, that in going he had already observed the street watcher who had attracted his attention. He pushed on toward him, but before he could reach it the shadow had disappeared into an alley, into which Grimaud deemed it scarcely prudent to pursue it.


The next day, on awaking, the count perceived Raoul by his bedside. The young man was already dressed and was reading a new book by M. Chapelain.


"Already up, Raoul?" exclaimed the count.


"Yes, sir," replied Raoul, with slight hesitation; "I did not sleep well."


"You, Raoul, not sleep well! then you must have something on your mind!" said Athos.


"Sir, you will perhaps think that I am in a great hurry to leave you when I have only just arrived, but——"


"Have you only two days of leave, Raoul?"


"On the contrary, sir, I have ten; nor is it to the camp I wish to go."


"Where, then?" said Athos, smiling, "if it be not a secret. You are now almost a man, since you have made your first passage of arms, and have acquired the right to go where you will without consulting me."


"Never, sir," said Raoul, "as long as I possess the happiness of having you for a protector, shall I deem I have the right of freeing myself from a guardianship so valuable to me. I have, however, a wish to go and pass a day at Blois. You look at me and you are going to laugh at me."


"No, on the contrary, I am not inclined to laugh," said Athos, suppressing a sigh. "You wish to see Blois again; it is but natural."


"Then you permit me to go, you are not angry in your heart?" exclaimed Raoul, joyously.


"Certainly; and why should I regret what gives you pleasure?"


"Oh! how kind you are," exclaimed the young man, pressing his guardian's hand; "and I can set out immediately?"


"Sir," said Raoul, as he turned to leave the room, "I have thought of one thing, and that is about the Duchess of Chevreuse, who was so kind to me and to whom I owe my introduction to the prince."


"And you ought to thank her, Raoul. Well, try the Hotel de Luynes, Raoul, and ask if the duchess can receive you. I am glad to see you pay attention to the usages of the world. You must take Grimaud and Olivain."


"Both, sir?" asked Raoul, astonished.


"Both."


Raoul went out, and when Athos heard his young, joyous voice calling to Grimaud and Olivain, he sighed.


"It is very soon to leave me," he thought, "but he follows the common custom. Nature has made us thus; she makes the young look ever forward, not behind. He certainly likes the child, but will he love me less as his affection grows for her?"


And Athos confessed to himself that, he was unprepared for so prompt a departure; but Raoul was so happy that this reflection effaced everything else from the consideration of his guardian.


Everything was ready at ten o'clock for the departure, and as Athos was watching Raoul mount, a groom rode up from the Duchess de Chevreuse. He was charged to tell the Comte de la Fère, that she had learned of the return of her youthful protégé, and also the manner he had conducted himself on the field, and she added that she should be very glad to offer him her congratulations.


"Tell her grace," replied Athos, "that the viscount has just mounted his horse to proceed to the Hotel de Luynes."


Then, with renewed instructions to Grimaud, Athos signified to Raoul that he could set out, and ended by reflecting that it was perhaps better that Raoul should be away from Paris at that moment.


Chapter XLII. Another Queen in Want of Help.


Athos had not failed to send early to Aramis and had given his letter to Blaisois, the only serving-man whom he had left. Blaisois found Bazin donning his beadle's gown, his services being required that day at Notre Dame.


Athos had desired Blaisois to try to speak to Aramis himself. Blaisois, a tall, simple youth, who understood nothing but what he was expressly told, asked, therefore for the Abbé d'Herblay, and in spite of Bazin's assurances that his master was not at home, he persisted in such a manner as to put Bazin into a passion. Blaisois seeing Bazin in clerical guise, was a little discomposed at his denials and wanted to pass at all risks, believing too, that the man with whom he had to do was endowed with the virtues of his cloth, namely, patience and Christian charity.


But Bazin, still the servant of a musketeer, when once the blood mounted to his fat cheeks, seized a broomstick and began belaboring Blaisois, saying:


"You have insulted the church, my friend, you have insulted the church!"


At this moment Aramis, aroused by this unusual disturbance, cautiously opened the door of his room; and Blaisois, looking reproachfully at the Cerberus, drew the letter from his pocket and presented it to Aramis.


"From the Comte de la Fère," said Aramis. "All right." And he retired into his room without even asking the cause of so much noise.


Blaisois returned disconsolate to the Hotel of the Grand Roi Charlemagne and when Athos inquired if his commission was executed, he related his adventure.


"You foolish fellow!" said Athos, laughing. "And you did not tell him that you came from me?"


At ten o'clock Athos, with his habitual exactitude, was waiting on the Pont du Louvre and was almost immediately joined by Lord de Winter.


They waited ten minutes and then his lordship began to fear Aramis was not coming to join them.


"Patience," said Athos, whose eyes were fixed in the direction of the Rue du Bac, "patience; I see an abbé cuffing a man, then bowing to a woman; it must be Aramis."


It was indeed Aramis. Having run against a young shopkeeper who was gaping at the crows and who had splashed him, Aramis with one blow of his fist had distanced him ten paces.


At this moment one of his penitents passed, and as she was young and pretty Aramis took off his cap to her with his most gracious smile.


A most affectionate greeting, as one can well believe took place between him and Lord de Winter.


"Where are we going?" inquired Aramis; "are we going to fight, perchance? I carry no sword this morning and cannot return home to procure one."


"No," said Lord de Winter, "we are going to pay a visit to Her Majesty the Queen of England."


"Oh, very well," replied Aramis; then bending his face down to Athos's ear, "what is the object of this visit?" continued he.


"Nay, I know not; some evidence required from us, perhaps."


"May it not be about that cursed affair?" asked Aramis, "in which case I do not greatly care to go, for it will be to pocket a lecture; and since it is my function to give them to others I am rather averse to receiving them myself."


"If it were so," answered Athos, "we should not be taken there by Lord de Winter, for he would come in for his share; he was one of us."


On arriving at the Louvre Lord de Winter entered first; indeed, there was but one porter there to receive them at the gate.


It was impossible in daylight for the impoverished state of the habitation grudging charity had conceded to an unfortunate queen to pass unnoticed by Athos, Aramis, and even the Englishman. Large rooms, completely stripped of furniture, bare walls upon which, here and there, shone the old gold moldings which had resisted time and neglect, windows with broken panes (impossible to close), no carpets, neither guards nor servants: this is what first met the eyes of Athos, to which he, touching his companion's elbow, directed his attention by his glances.


"Mazarin is better lodged," said Aramis.


"Mazarin is almost king," answered Athos; "Madame Henrietta is almost no longer queen."


"If you would condescend to be clever, Athos," observed Aramis, "I really do think you would be wittier than poor Monsieur de Voiture."


The queen appeared to be impatiently expecting them, for at the first slight noise she heard in the hall leading to her room she came herself to the door to receive these courtiers in the corridors of Misfortune.


"Enter. You are welcome, gentlemen," she said.


The gentlemen entered and remained standing, but at a motion from the queen they seated themselves. Athos was calm and grave, but Aramis was furious; the sight of such royal misery exasperated him and his eyes examined every new trace of poverty that presented itself.


"You are examining the luxury I enjoy," said the queen, glancing sadly around her.


"Madame," replied Aramis, "I must ask your pardon, but I know not how to hide my indignation at seeing how a daughter of Henry IV. is treated at the court of France."


"Monsieur Aramis is not an officer?" asked the queen of Lord de Winter.


"That gentleman is the Abbé d'Herblay," replied he.


Aramis blushed. "Madame," he said, "I am an abbé, it is true, but I am so against my will. I never had a vocation for the bands; my cassock is fastened by one button only, and I am always ready to become a musketeer once more. This morning, being ignorant that I should have the honor of seeing your majesty, I encumbered myself with this dress, but you will find me none the less a man devoted to your majesty's service, in whatever way you may see fit to use me."


"The Abbé d'Herblay," resumed De Winter, "is one of those gallant musketeers formerly belonging to His Majesty King Louis XIII., of whom I have spoken to you, madame." Then turning to Athos, he continued, "And this gentleman is that noble Comte de la Fère, whose high reputation is so well known to your majesty."


"Gentlemen," said the queen, "a few years ago I had around me ushers, treasures, armies; and by the lifting of a finger all these were busied in my service. To-day, look around you, and it may astonish you, that in order to accomplish a plan which is dearer to me than life I have only Lord de Winter, the friend of twenty years, and you, gentlemen, whom I see for the first time and whom I know but as my countrymen."


"It is enough," said Athos, bowing low, "if the lives of three men can purchase yours, madame."


"I thank you, gentlemen. But hear me," continued she. "I am not only the most miserable of queens, but the most unhappy of mothers, the most wretched of wives. My children, two of them, at least, the Duke of York and the Princess Elizabeth, are far away from me, exposed to the blows of the ambitious and our foes; my husband, the king, is leading in England so wretched an existence that it is no exaggeration to aver that he seeks death as a thing to be desired. Hold! gentlemen, here is the letter conveyed to me by Lord de Winter. Read it."


Obeying the queen, Athos read aloud the letter which we have already seen, in which King Charles demanded to know whether the hospitality of France would be accorded him.


"Well?" asked Athos, when he had closed the letter.


"Well," said the queen, "it has been refused."


The two friends exchanged a smile of contempt.


"And now," said Athos, "what is to be done? I have the honor to inquire from your majesty what you desire Monsieur d'Herblay and myself to do in your service. We are ready."


"Ah, sir, you have a noble heart!" exclaimed the queen, with a burst of gratitude; whilst Lord de Winter turned to her with a glance which said, "Did I not answer for them?"


"But you, sir?" said the queen to Aramis.


"I, madame," replied he, "follow Monsieur de la Fère wherever he leads, even were it on to death, without demanding wherefore; but when it concerns your majesty's service, then," added he, looking at the queen with all the grace of former days, "I precede the count."


"Well, then, gentlemen," said the queen, "since it is thus, and since you are willing to devote yourselves to the service of a poor princess whom the whole world has abandoned, this is what is required to be done for me. The king is alone with a few gentlemen, whom he fears to lose every day; surrounded by the Scotch, whom he distrusts, although he be himself a Scotchman. Since Lord de Winter left him I am distracted, sirs. I ask much, too much, perhaps, for I have no title to request it. Go to England, join the king, be his friends, protectors, march to battle at his side, and be near him in his house, where conspiracies, more dangerous than the perils of war, are hatching every day. And in exchange for the sacrifice that you make, gentlemen, I promise—not to reward you, I believe that word would offend you—but to love you as a sister, to prefer you, next to my husband and my children, to every one. I swear it before Heaven."


And the queen raised her eyes solemnly upward.


"Madame," said Athos, "when must we set out?"


"You consent then?" exclaimed the queen, joyfully.


"Yes, madame; only it seems to me that your majesty goes too far in engaging to load us with a friendship so far above our merit. We render service to God, madame, in serving a prince so unfortunate, a queen so virtuous. Madame, we are yours, body and soul."


"Oh, sirs," said the queen, moved even to tears, "this is the first time for five years I have felt the least approach to joy or hope. God, who can read my heart, all the gratitude I feel, will reward you! Save my husband! Save the king, and although you care not for the price that is placed upon a good action in this world, leave me the hope that we shall meet again, when I may be able to thank you myself. In the meantime, I remain here. Have you anything to ask of me? From this moment I become your friend, and since you are engaged in my affairs I ought to occupy myself in yours."


"Madame," replied Athos, "I have only to ask your majesty's prayers."


"And I," said Aramis, "I am alone in the world and have only your majesty to serve."


The queen held out her hand, which they kissed, and she said in a low tone to De Winter:


"If you need money, my lord, separate the jewels I have given you; detach the diamonds and sell them to some Jew. You will receive for them fifty or sixty thousand francs; spend them if necessary, but let these gentlemen be treated as they deserve, that is to say, like kings."


The queen had two letters ready, one written by herself, the other by her daughter, the Princess Henrietta. Both were addressed to King Charles. She gave the first to Athos and the other to Aramis, so that should they be separated by chance they might make themselves known to the king; after which they withdrew.


At the foot of the staircase De Winter stopped.


"Not to arouse suspicions, gentlemen," said he, "go your way and I will go mine, and this evening at nine o'clock we will assemble again at the Gate Saint Denis. We will travel on horseback as far as our horses can go and afterward we can take the post. Once more, let me thank you, my good friends, both in my own name and the queen's."


The three gentlemen then shook hands, Lord de Winter taking the Rue Saint Honoré, and Athos and Aramis remaining together.


"Well," said Aramis, when they were alone, "what do you think of this business, my dear count?"


"Bad," replied Athos, "very bad."


"But you received it with enthusiasm."


"As I shall ever receive the defense of a great principle, my dear D'Herblay. Monarchs are only strong by the assistance of the aristocracy, but aristocracy cannot survive without the countenance of monarchs. Let us, then, support monarchy, in order to support ourselves.


"We shall be murdered there," said Aramis. "I hate the English—they are coarse, like every nation that swills beer."


"Would it be better to remain here," said Athos, "and take a turn in the Bastile or the dungeon of Vincennes for having favored the escape of Monsieur de Beaufort? I'faith, Aramis, believe me, there is little left to regret. We avoid imprisonment and we play the part of heroes; the choice is easy."


"It is true; but in everything, friend, one must always return to the same question—a stupid one, I admit, but very necessary—have you any money?"


"Something like a hundred pistoles, that my farmer sent to me the day before I left Bragelonne; but out of that sum I ought to leave fifty for Raoul—a young man must live respectably. I have then about fifty pistoles. And you?"


"As for me, I am quite sure that after turning out all my pockets and emptying my drawers I shall not find ten louis at home. Fortunately Lord de Winter is rich."


"Lord de Winter is ruined for the moment; Oliver Cromwell has annexed his income resources."


"Now is the time when Baron Porthos would be useful."


"Now it is that I regret D'Artagnan."


"Let us entice them away."


"This secret, Aramis, does not belong to us; take my advice, then, and let no one into our confidence. And moreover, in taking such a step we should appear to be doubtful of ourselves. Let us regret their absence to ourselves for our own sakes, but not speak of it."


"You are right; but what are you going to do until this evening? I have two things to postpone."


"First, a thrust with the coadjutor, whom I met last night at Madame de Rambouillet's and whom I found particular in his remarks respecting me."


"Oh, fie—a quarrel between priests, a duel between allies!"


"What can I do, friend? he is a bully and so am I; his cassock is a burden to him and I imagine I have had enough of mine; in fact, there is so much resemblance between us that I sometimes believe he is Aramis and I am the coadjutor. This kind of life fatigues and oppresses me; besides, he is a turbulent fellow, who will ruin our party. I am convinced that if I gave him a box on the ear, such as I gave this morning to the little citizen who splashed me, it would change the appearance of things."


"And I, my dear Aramis," quietly replied Athos, "I think it would only change Monsieur de Retz's appearance. Take my advice, leave things just as they are; besides, you are neither of you now your own masters; he belongs to the Fronde and you to the queen of England. So, if the second matter which you regret being unable to attend to is not more important than the first——"


"Oh! that is of the first importance."


"Attend to it, then, at once."


"Unfortunately, it is a thing that I can't perform at any time I choose. It was arranged for the evening and no other time will serve."


"I understand," said Athos smiling, "midnight."


"About that time."


"But, my dear fellow, those are things that bear postponement and you must put it off, especially with so good an excuse to give on your return——"


"Yes, if I return."


"If you do not return, how does it concern you? Be reasonable. Come, you are no longer twenty years old."


"To my great regret, mordieu! Ah, if I were but twenty years old!"


"Yes," said Athos, "doubtless you would commit great follies! But now we must part. I have one or two visits to make and a letter yet to write. Call for me at eight o'clock or shall I wait supper for you at seven?"


"That will do very well," said Aramis. "I have twenty visits to make and as many letters to write."


They then separated. Athos went to pay a visit to Madame de Vendôme, left his name at Madame de Chevreuse's and wrote the following letter to D'Artagnan:


"Dear Friend,—I am about to set off with Aramis on important business. I wished to make my adieux to you, but time does not permit. Remember that I write to you now to repeat how much affection for you I still cherish.


"Raoul is gone to Blois and is ignorant of my departure; watch over him in my absence as much as you possibly can; and if by chance you receive no news of me three months hence, tell him to open a packet which he will find addressed to him in my bronze casket at Blois, of which I send you now the key.


"Embrace Porthos from Aramis and myself. Adieu, perhaps farewell."


At the hour agreed upon Aramis arrived; he was dressed as an officer and had the old sword at his side which he had drawn so often and which he was more than ever ready to draw.


"By-the-bye," he said, "I think that we are decidedly wrong to depart thus, without leaving a line for Porthos and D'Artagnan."


"The thing is done, dear friend," said Athos; "I foresaw that and have embraced them both from you and myself."


"You are a wonderful man, my dear count," said Aramis; "you think of everything."


"Well, have you made up your mind to this journey?"


"Quite; and now that I reflect about it, I am glad to leave Paris at this moment."


"And so am I," replied Athos; "my only regret is not having seen D'Artagnan; but the rascal is so cunning, he might have guessed our project."


When supper was over Blaisois entered. "Sir," said he, "here is Monsieur d'Artagnan's answer."


"But I did not tell you there would be an answer, stupid!" said Athos.


"And I set off without waiting for one, but he called me back and gave me this;" and he presented a little leather bag, plump and giving out a golden jingle.


Athos opened it and began by drawing forth a little note, written in these terms:


"My dear Count,—When one travels, and especially for three months, one never has a superfluity of money. Now, recalling former times of mutual distress, I send you half my purse; it is money to obtain which I made Mazarin sweat. Don't make a bad use of it, I entreat you.


"As to what you say about not seeing you again, I believe not a word of it; with such a heart as yours—and such a sword—one passes through the valley of the shadow of death a dozen times, unscathed and unalarmed. Au revoir, not farewell.


"It is unnecessary to say that from the day I saw Raoul I loved him; nevertheless, believe that I heartily pray that I may not become to him a father, however much I might be proud of such a son.


"P.S.—Be it well understood that the fifty louis which I send are equally for Aramis as for you—for you as Aramis."


Athos smiled, and his fine eye was dimmed by a tear. D'Artagnan, who had loved him so tenderly, loved him still, although a Mazarinist.


"There are the fifty louis, i'faith," said Aramis, emptying the purse on the table, all bearing the effigy of Louis XIII. "Well, what shall you do with this money, count? Shall you keep it or send it back?"


"I shall keep it, Aramis, and even though I had no need of it I still should keep it. What is offered from a generous heart should be accepted generously. Take twenty-five of them, Aramis, and give me the remaining twenty-five."


"All right; I am glad to see you are of my opinion. There now, shall we start?"


"When you like; but have you no groom?"


"No; that idiot Bazin had the folly to make himself verger, as you know, and therefore cannot leave Notre Dame.


"Very well, take Blaisois, with whom I know not what to do, since I already have Grimaud."


At this moment Grimaud appeared at the door. "Ready," said he, with his usual curtness.


"Let us go, then," said Athos.


The two friends mounted, as did their servants. At the corner of the Quai they encountered Bazin, who was running breathlessly.


"Oh, sir!" exclaimed he, "thank Heaven I have arrived in time. Monsieur Porthos has just been to your house and has left this for you, saying that the letter was important and must be given to you before you left."


"Good," said Aramis, taking a purse which Bazin presented to him. "What is this?"


"Wait, your reverence, there is a letter."


"You know I have already told you that if you ever call me anything but chevalier I will break every bone in your body. Give me the letter."


"How can you read?" asked Athos, "it is as dark as a cold oven."


"Wait," said Bazin, striking a flint, and setting afire a twisted wax-light, with which he started the church candles. Thus illumined, Aramis read the following epistle:


"My dear D'Herblay,—I learned from D'Artagnan who has embraced me on the part of the Comte de la Fère and yourself, that you are setting out on a journey which may perhaps last two or three months; as I know that you do not like to ask money of your friends I offer you some of my own accord. Here are two hundred pistoles, which you can dispose of as you wish and return to me when opportunity occurs. Do not fear that you put me to inconvenience; if I want money I can send for some to any of my châteaux; at Bracieux alone, I have twenty thousand francs in gold. So, if I do not send you more it is because I fear you would not accept a larger sum.


"I address you, because you know, that although I esteem him from my heart I am a little awed by the Comte de la Fère; but it is understood that what I offer you I offer him at the same time.


"Well," said Aramis, "what do you say to that?"


"I say, my dear D'Herblay, that it is almost sacrilege to distrust Providence when one has such friends, and therefore we will divide the pistoles from Porthos, as we divided the louis sent by D'Artagnan."


The division being made by the light of Bazin's taper, the two friends continued their road and a quarter of an hour later they had joined De Winter at the Porte Saint Denis.


Chapter XLIII. In which it is proved that first Impulses are oftentimes the best.


The three gentlemen took the road to Picardy, a road so well known to them and which recalled to Athos and Aramis some of the most picturesque adventures of their youth.


"If Mousqueton were with us," observed Athos, on reaching the spot where they had had a dispute with the paviers, "how he would tremble at passing this! Do you remember, Aramis, that it was here he received that famous bullet wound?"


"By my faith, 'twould be excusable in him to tremble," replied Aramis, "for even I feel a shudder at the recollection; hold, just above that tree is the little spot where I thought I was killed."


It was soon time for Grimaud to recall the past. Arriving before the inn at which his master and himself had made such an enormous repast, he approached Athos and said, showing him the airhole of the cellar:


Athos began to laugh, for this juvenile escapade of his appeared to be as amusing as if some one had related it of another person.


At last, after traveling two days and a night, they arrived at Boulogne toward the evening, favored by magnificent weather. Boulogne was a strong position, then almost a deserted town, built entirely on the heights; what is now called the lower town did not then exist.


"Gentlemen," said De Winter, on reaching the gate of the town, "let us do here as at Paris—let us separate to avoid suspicion. I know an inn, little frequented, but of which the host is entirely devoted to me. I will go there, where I expect to find letters, and you go to the first tavern in the town, to L'Epée du Grand Henri for instance, refresh yourselves, and in two hours be upon the jetty; our boat is waiting for us there."


The matter being thus decided, the two friends found, about two hundred paces further, the tavern indicated. Their horses were fed, but not unsaddled; the grooms supped, for it was already late, and their two masters, impatient to return, appointed a place of meeting with them on the jetty and desired them on no account to exchange a word with any one. It is needless to say that this caution concerned Blaisois alone—long enough since it had been a useless one to Grimaud.


Athos and Aramis walked down toward the port. From their dress, covered with dust, and from a certain easy manner by means of which a man accustomed to travel is always recognizable, the two friends excited the attention of a few promenaders. There was more especially one upon whom their arrival had produced a decided impression. This man, whom they had noticed from the first for the same reason they had themselves been remarked by others, was walking in a listless way up and down the jetty. From the moment he perceived them he did not cease to look at them and seemed to burn with the wish to speak to them.


On reaching the jetty Athos and Aramis stopped to look at a little boat made fast to a pile and ready rigged as if waiting to start.


"That is doubtless our boat," said Athos.


"Yes," replied Aramis, "and the sloop out there making ready to sail must be that which is to take us to our destination; now," continued he, "if only De Winter does not keep us waiting. It is not at all amusing here; there is not a single woman passing."


"Hush!" said Athos, "we are overheard."


In truth, the walker, who, during the observations of the two friends, had passed and repassed behind them several times, stopped at the name of De Winter; but as his face betrayed no emotion at mention of this name, it might have been by chance he stood so still.


"Gentlemen," said the man, who was young and pale, bowing with ease and courtesy, "pardon my curiosity, but I see you come from Paris, or at least that you are strangers at Boulogne."


"We come from Paris, yes," replied Athos, with the same courtesy; "what is there we can do for you?"


"Sir," said the young man, "will you be so good as to tell me if it be true that Cardinal Mazarin is no longer minister?"


"That is a strange question," said Aramis.


"He is and he is not," replied Athos; "that is to say, he is dismissed by one-half of France, but by intrigues and promises he makes the other half sustain him; you will perceive that this may last a long time."


"However, sir," said the stranger, "he has neither fled nor is in prison?"


"No, sir, not at this moment at least."


"Sirs, accept my thanks for your politeness," said the young man, retreating.


"What do you think of that interrogator?" asked Aramis.


"I think he is either a dull provincial person or a spy in search of information."


"And you replied to him with that notion?"


"Nothing warranted me to answer him otherwise; he was polite to me and I was so to him."


"But if he be a spy——"


"What do you think a spy would be about here? We are not living in the time of Cardinal Richelieu, who would have closed the ports on bare suspicion."


"It matters not; you were wrong to reply to him as you did," continued Aramis, following with his eyes the young man, now vanishing behind the cliffs.


"And you," said Athos, "you forget that you committed a very different kind of imprudence in pronouncing Lord de Winter's name. Did you not see that at that name the young man stopped?"


"More reason, then, when he spoke to you, for sending him about his business."


"A quarrel?" asked Athos.


"And since when have you become afraid of a quarrel?"


"I am always afraid of a quarrel when I am expected at any place and when such a quarrel might possibly prevent my reaching it. Besides, let me own something to you. I am anxious to see that young man nearer."


"And wherefore?"


"Aramis, you will certainly laugh at me, you will say that I am always repeating the same thing, you will call me the most timorous of visionaries; but to whom do you see a resemblance in that young man?"


"In beauty or on the contrary?" asked Aramis, laughing.


"In ugliness, in so far as a man can resemble a woman."


"Ah! Egad!" cried Aramis, "you set me thinking. No, in truth you are no visionary, my dear friend, and now I think of it—you—yes, i'faith, you're right—those delicate, yet firm-set lips, those eyes which seem always at the command of the intellect and never of the heart! Yes, it is one of Milady's bastards!"


"You laugh Aramis."


"From habit, that is all. I swear to you, I like no better than yourself to meet that viper in my path."


"Ah! here is De Winter coming," said Athos.


"Good! one thing now is only awanting and that is, that our grooms should not keep us waiting."


"No," said Athos. "I see them about twenty paces behind my lord. I recognize Grimaud by his long legs and his determined slouch. Tony carries our muskets."


"Then we set sail to-night?" asked Aramis, glancing toward the west, where the sun had left a single golden cloud, which, dipping into the ocean, appeared by degrees to be extinguished.


"Diable!" resumed Aramis, "I have little fancy for the sea by day, still less at night; the sounds of wind and wave, the frightful movements of the vessel; I confess I prefer the convent of Noisy."


Athos smiled sadly, for it was evident that he was thinking of other things as he listened to his friend and moved toward De Winter.


"What ails our friend?" said Aramis, "he resembles one of Dante's damned, whose neck Apollyon has dislocated and who are ever looking at their heels. What the devil makes him glower thus behind him?"


When De Winter perceived them, in his turn he advanced toward them with surprising rapidity.


"What is the matter, my lord?" said Athos, "and what puts you out of breath thus?"


"Nothing," replied De Winter; "nothing; and yet in passing the heights it seemed to me——" and he again turned round.


Athos glanced at Aramis.


"But let us go," continued De Winter; "let us be off; the boat must be waiting for us and there is our sloop at anchor—do you see it there? I wish I were on board already," and he looked back again.


"He has seen him," said Athos, in a low tone, to Aramis.


They had reached the ladder which led to the boat. De Winter made the grooms who carried the arms and the porters with the luggage descend first and was about to follow them.


At this moment Athos perceived a man walking on the seashore parallel to the jetty, and hastening his steps, as if to reach the other side of the port, scarcely twenty steps from the place of embarking. He fancied in the darkness that he recognized the young man who had questioned him. Athos now descended the ladder in his turn, without losing sight of the young man. The latter, to make a short cut, had appeared on a sluice.


"He certainly bodes us no good," said Athos; "but let us embark; once out at sea, let him come."


And Athos sprang into the boat, which was immediately pushed off and which soon sped seawards under the efforts of four stalwart rowers.


But the young man had begun to follow, or rather to advance before the boat. She was obliged to pass between the point of the jetty, surmounted by a beacon just lighted, and a rock which jutted out. They saw him in the distance climbing the rock in order to look down upon the boat as it passed.


"Ay, but," said Aramis, "that young fellow is decidedly a spy."


"Which is the young man?" asked De Winter, turning around.


"He who followed us and spoke to us awaits us there; behold!"


De Winter turned and followed the direction of Aramis's finger. The beacon bathed with light the little strait through which they were about to pass and the rock where the young man stood with bare head and crossed arms.


"It is he!" exclaimed De Winter, seizing the arm of Athos; "it is he! I thought I recognized him and I was not mistaken."


"Whom do you mean?" asked Aramis.


"Milady's son," replied Athos.


"The monk!" exclaimed Grimaud.


The young man heard these words and bent so forward over the rock that one might have supposed he was about to precipitate himself from it.


"Yes, it is I, my uncle—I, the son of Milady—I, the monk—I, the secretary and friend of Cromwell—I know you now, both you and your companions."


In that boat sat three men, unquestionably brave, whose courage no man would have dared dispute; nevertheless, at that voice, that accent and those gestures, they felt a chill access of terror cramp their veins. As for Grimaud, his hair stood on end and drops of sweat ran down his brow.


"Ah!" exclaimed Aramis, "that is the nephew, the monk, and the son of Milady, as he says himself."


"Alas, yes," murmured De Winter.


"Then wait," said Aramis; and with the terrible coolness which on important occasions he showed, he took one of the muskets from Tony, shouldered and aimed it at the young man, who stood, like the accusing angel, upon the rock.


"Fire!" cried Grimaud, unconsciously.


Athos threw himself on the muzzle of the gun and arrested the shot which was about to be fired.


"The devil take you," said Aramis. "I had him so well at the point of my gun I should have sent a ball into his breast."


"It is enough to have killed the mother," said Athos, hoarsely.


"The mother was a wretch, who struck at us all and at those dear to us."


"Yes, but the son has done us no harm."


Grimaud, who had risen to watch the effect of the shot, fell back hopeless, wringing his hands.


The young man burst into a laugh.


"Ah, it is certainly you!" he cried. "I know you even better now."


His mocking laugh and threatening words passed over their heads, carried by the breeze, until lost in the depths of the horizon. Aramis shuddered.


"Be calm," exclaimed Athos, "for Heaven's sake! have we ceased to be men?"


"No," said Aramis, "but that fellow is a fiend; and ask the uncle whether I was wrong to rid him of his dear nephew."


De Winter only replied by a groan.


"It was all up with him," continued Aramis; "ah I much fear that with all your wisdom such mercy yet will prove supernal folly."


Athos took Lord de Winter's hand and tried to turn the conversation.


"When shall we land in England?" he asked; but De Winter seemed not to hear his words and made no reply.


"Hold, Athos," said Aramis, "perhaps there is yet time. See if he is still in the same place."


Athos turned around with an effort; the sight of the young man was evidently painful to him, and there he still was, in fact, on the rock, the beacon shedding around him, as it were, a doubtful aureole.


"Decidedly, Aramis," said Athos, "I think I was wrong not to let you fire."


"Hold your tongue," replied Aramis; "you would make me weep, if such a thing were possible."


At this moment they were hailed by a voice from the sloop and a few seconds later men, servants and baggage were aboard. The captain was only waiting for his passengers; hardly had they put foot on deck ere her head was turned towards Hastings, where they were to disembark. At this instant the three friends turned, in spite of themselves, a last look on the rock, upon the menacing figure which pursued them and now stood out with a distinctness still. Then a voice reached them once more, sending this threat: "To our next meeting, sirs, in England."


Chapter XLIV. Te Deum for the Victory of Lens.


The bustle which had been observed by Henrietta Maria and for which she had vainly sought to discover a reason, was occasioned by the battle of Lens, announced by the prince's messenger, the Duc de Châtillon, who had taken such a noble part in the engagement; he was, besides, charged to hang five and twenty flags, taken from the Lorraine party, as well as from the Spaniards, upon the arches of Notre Dame.


Such news was decisive; it destroyed, in favor of the court, the struggle commenced with parliament. The motive given for all the taxes summarily imposed and to which the parliament had made opposition, was the necessity of sustaining the honor of France and the uncertain hope of beating the enemy. Now, since the affair of Nordlingen, they had experienced nothing but reverses; the parliament had a plea for calling Mazarin to account for imaginary victories, always promised, ever deferred; but this time there really had been fighting, a triumph and a complete one. And this all knew so well that it was a double victory for the court, a victory at home and abroad; so that even when the young king learned the news he exclaimed, "Ah, gentlemen of the parliament, we shall see what you will say now!" Upon which the queen had pressed the royal child to her heart, whose haughty and unruly sentiments were in such harmony with her own. A council was called on the same evening, but nothing transpired of what had been decided on. It was only known that on the following Sunday a Te Deum would be sung at Notre Dame in honor of the victory of Lens.


The following Sunday, then, the Parisians arose with joy; at that period a Te Deum was a grand affair; this kind of ceremony had not then been abused and it produced a great effect. The shops were deserted, houses closed; every one wished to see the young king with his mother, and the famous Cardinal Mazarin whom they hated so much that no one wished to be deprived of his presence. Moreover, great liberty prevailed throughout the immense crowd; every opinion was openly expressed and chorused, so to speak, of coming insurrection, as the thousand bells of all the Paris churches rang out the Te Deum. The police belonging to the city being formed by the city itself, nothing threatening presented itself to disturb this concert of universal hatred or freeze the frequent scoffs of slanderous lips.


Nevertheless, at eight o'clock in the morning the regiment of the queen's guards, commanded by Guitant, under whom was his nephew Comminges, marched publicly, preceded by drums and trumpets, filing off from the Palais Royal as far as Notre Dame, a manœuvre which the Parisians witnessed tranquilly, delighted as they were with military music and brilliant uniforms.


Friquet had put on his Sunday clothes, under the pretext of having a swollen face which he had managed to simulate by introducing a handful of cherry kernels into one side of his mouth, and had procured a whole holiday from Bazin. On leaving Bazin, Friquet started off to the Palais Royal, where he arrived at the moment of the turning out of the regiment of guards; and as he had only gone there for the enjoyment of seeing it and hearing the music, he took his place at their head, beating the drum on two pieces of slate and passing from that exercise to that of the trumpet, which he counterfeited quite naturally with his mouth in a manner which had more than once called forth the praises of amateurs of imitative harmony.


This amusement lasted from the Barrière des Sergens to the place of Notre Dame, and Friquet found in it very real enjoyment; but when at last the regiment separated, penetrated the heart of the city and placed itself at the extremity of the Rue Saint Christophe, near the Rue Cocatrix, in which Broussel lived, then Friquet remembered that he had not had breakfast; and after thinking in which direction he had better turn his steps in order to accomplish this important act of the day, he reflected deeply and decided that Councillor Broussel should bear the cost of this repast.


In consequence he took to his heels, arrived breathlessly at the councillor's door, and knocked violently.


His mother, the councillor's old servant, opened it.


"What doest thou here, good-for-nothing?" she said, "and why art thou not at Notre Dame?"


"I have been there, mother," said Friquet, "but I saw things happen of which Master Broussel ought to be warned, and so with Monsieur Bazin's permission—you know, mother, Monsieur Bazin, the verger—I came to speak to Monsieur Broussel."


"And what hast thou to say, boy, to Monsieur Broussel?"


"I wish to tell him," replied Friquet, screaming with all his might, "that there is a whole regiment of guards coming this way. And as I hear everywhere that at the court they are ill-disposed to him, I wish to warn him, that he may be on his guard."


Broussel heard the scream of the young oddity, and, enchanted with this excess of zeal, came down to the first floor, for he was, in truth, working in his room on the second.


"Well," said he, "friend, what matters the regiment of guards to us, and art thou not mad to make such a disturbance? Knowest thou not that it is the custom of these soldiers to act thus and that it is usual for the regiment to form themselves into two solid walls when the king goes by?"


Friquet counterfeited surprise, and twisting his new cap around in his fingers, said:


"It is not astonishing for you to know it, Monsieur Broussel, who knows everything; but as for me, by holy truth, I did not know it and I thought I would give you good advice; you must not be angry with me for that, Monsieur Broussel."


"On the contrary, my boy, on the contrary, I am pleased with your zeal. Dame Nanette, look for those apricots which Madame de Longueville sent to us yesterday from Noisy and give half a dozen of them to your son, with a crust of new bread."


"Oh, thank you, sir, thank you, Monsieur Broussel," said Friquet; "I am so fond of apricots!"


Broussel then proceeded to his wife's room and asked for breakfast; it was nine o'clock. The councillor placed himself at the window; the street was completely deserted, but in the distance was heard, like the noise of the tide rushing in, the deep hum of the populous waves increasing now around Notre Dame.


This noise redoubled when D'Artagnan, with a company of musketeers, placed himself at the gates of Notre Dame to secure the service of the church. He had instructed Porthos to profit by this opportunity to see the ceremony; and Porthos, in full dress, mounted his finest horse, taking the part of supernumerary musketeer, as D'Artagnan had so often done formerly. The sergeant of this company, a veteran of the Spanish wars, had recognized Porthos, his old companion, and very soon all those who served under him were placed in possession of startling facts concerning the honor of the ancient musketeers of Tréville. Porthos had not only been well received by the company, but he was moreover looked on with great admiration.


At ten o'clock the guns of the Louvre announced the departure of the king, and then a movement, similar to that of trees in a stormy wind that bend and writhe with agitated tops, ran though the multitude, which was compressed behind the immovable muskets of the guard. At last the king appeared with the queen in a gilded chariot. Ten other carriages followed, containing the ladies of honor, the officers of the royal household, and the court.


"God save the king!" was the cry in every direction; the young monarch gravely put his head out of the window, looked sufficiently grateful and even bowed; at which the cries of the multitude were renewed.


Just as the court was settling down in the cathedral, a carriage, bearing the arms of Comminges, quitted the line of the court carriages and proceeded slowly to the end of the Rue Saint Christophe, now entirely deserted. When it arrived there, four guards and a police officer, who accompanied it, mounted into the heavy machine and closed the shutters; then through an opening cautiously made, the policeman began to watch the length of the Rue Cocatrix, as if he was waiting for some one.


All the world was occupied with the ceremony, so that neither the chariot nor the precautions taken by those who were within it had been observed. Friquet, whose eye, ever on the alert, could alone have discovered them, had gone to devour his apricots upon the entablature of a house in the square of Notre Dame. Thence he saw the king, the queen and Monsieur Mazarin, and heard the mass as well as if he had been on duty.


Toward the end of the service, the queen, seeing Comminges standing near her, waiting for a confirmation of the order she had given him before quitting the Louvre, said in a whisper:


"Go, Comminges, and may God aid you!"


Comminges immediately left the church and entered the Rue Saint Christophe. Friquet, seeing this fine officer thus walk away, followed by two guards, amused himself by pursuing them and did this so much the more gladly as the ceremony ended at that instant and the king remounted his carriage.


Hardly had the police officer observed Comminges at the end of the Rue Cocatrix when he said one word to the coachman, who at once put his vehicle into motion and drove up before Broussel's door. Comminges knocked at the door at the same moment, and Friquet was waiting behind Comminges until the door should be opened.


"What dost thou there, rascal?" asked Comminges.


"I want to go into Master Broussel's house, captain," replied Friquet, in that wheedling way the "gamins" of Paris know so well how to assume when necessary.


"And on what floor does he live?" asked Comminges.


"In the whole house," said Friquet; "the house belongs to him; he occupies the second floor when he works and descends to the first to take his meals; he must be at dinner now; it is noon."


"Good," said Comminges.


At this moment the door was opened, and having questioned the servant the officer learned that Master Broussel was at home and at dinner.


Broussel was seated at the table with his family, having his wife opposite to him, his two daughters by his side, and his son, Louvières, whom we have already seen when the accident happened to the councillor—an accident from which he had quite recovered—at the bottom of the table. The worthy man, restored to perfect health, was tasting the fine fruit which Madame de Longueville had sent to him.


At sight of the officer Broussel was somewhat moved, but seeing him bow politely he rose and bowed also. Still, in spite of this reciprocal politeness, the countenances of the women betrayed a certain amount of uneasiness; Louvières became very pale and waited impatiently for the officer to explain himself.


"Sir," said Comminges, "I am the bearer of an order from the king."


"Very well, sir," replied Broussel, "what is this order?" And he held out his hand.


"I am commissioned to seize your person, sir," said Comminges, in the same tone and with the same politeness; "and if you will believe me you had better spare yourself the trouble of reading that long letter and follow me."


A thunderbolt falling in the midst of these good people, so peacefully assembled there, would not have produced a more appalling effect. It was a horrible thing at that period to be imprisoned by the enmity of the king. Louvières sprang forward to snatch his sword, which stood against a chair in a corner of the room; but a glance from the worthy Broussel, who in the midst of it all did not lose his presence of mind, checked this foolhardy action of despair. Madame Broussel, separated by the width of the table from her husband, burst into tears, and the young girls clung to their father's arms.


"Come, sir," said Comminges, "make haste; you must obey the king."


"Sir," said Broussel, "I am in bad health and cannot give myself up a prisoner in this state; I must have time."


"It is impossible," said Comminges; "the order is strict and must be put into execution this instant."


"Impossible!" said Louvières; "sir, beware of driving us to despair."


"Impossible!" cried a shrill voice from the end of the room.


Comminges turned and saw Dame Nanette, her eyes flashing with anger and a broom in her hand.


"My good Nanette, be quiet, I beseech you," said Broussel.


"Me! keep quiet while my master is being arrested! he, the support, the liberator, the father of the people! Ah! well, yes; you have to know me yet. Are you going?" added she to Comminges.


The latter smiled.


"Come, sir," said he, addressing Broussel, "silence that woman and follow me."


"Silence me! me! me!" said Nanette. "Ah! yet one wants some one besides you for that, my fine king's cockatoo! You shall see." And Dame Nanette sprang to the window, threw it open, and in such a piercing voice that it might have been heard in the square of Notre Dame:


"Help!" she screamed, "my master is being arrested; the Councillor Broussel is being arrested! Help!"


"Sir," said Comminges, "declare yourself at once; will you obey or do you intend to rebel against the king?"


"I obey, I obey, sir!" cried Broussel, trying to disengage himself from the grasp of his two daughters and by a look restrain his son, who seemed determined to dispute authority.


"In that case," commanded Comminges, "silence that old woman."


"Ah! old woman!" screamed Nanette.


And she began to shriek more loudly, clinging to the bars of the window:


"Help! help! for Master Broussel, who is arrested because he has defended the people! Help!"


Comminges seized the servant around the waist and would have dragged her from her post; but at that instant a treble voice, proceeding from a kind of entresol, was heard screeching:


"Murder! fire! assassins! Master Broussel is being killed! Master Broussel is being strangled."


It was Friquet's voice; and Dame Nanette, feeling herself supported, recommenced with all her strength to sound her shrilly squawk.


Many curious faces had already appeared at the windows and the people attracted to the end of the street began to run, first men, then groups, and then a crowd of people; hearing cries and seeing a chariot they could not understand it; but Friquet sprang from the entresol on to the top of the carriage.


"They want to arrest Master Broussel!" he cried; "the guards are in the carriage and the officer is upstairs!"


The crowd began to murmur and approached the house. The two guards who had remained in the lane mounted to the aid of Comminges; those who were in the chariot opened the doors and presented arms.


"Don't you see them?" cried Friquet, "don't you see? there they are!"


The coachman turning around, gave Friquet a slash with his whip which made him scream with pain.


"Ah! devil's coachman!" cried Friquet, "you're meddling too! Wait!"


And regaining his entresol he overwhelmed the coachman with every projectile he could lay hands on.


The tumult now began to increase; the street was not able to contain the spectators who assembled from every direction; the crowd invaded the space which the dreaded pikes of the guards had till then kept clear between them and the carriage. The soldiers, pushed back by these living walls, were in danger of being crushed against the spokes of the wheels and the panels of the carriages. The cries which the police officer repeated twenty times: "In the king's name," were powerless against this formidable multitude—seemed, on the contrary, to exasperate it still more; when, at the shout, "In the name of the king," an officer ran up, and seeing the uniforms ill-treated, he sprang into the scuffle sword in hand, and brought unexpected help to the guards. This gentleman was a young man, scarcely sixteen years of age, now white with anger. He leaped from his charger, placed his back against the shaft of the carriage, making a rampart of his horse, drew his pistols from their holsters and fastened them to his belt, and began to fight with the back sword, like a man accustomed to the handling of his weapon.


During ten minutes he alone kept the crowd at bay; at last Comminges appeared, pushing Broussel before him.


"Let us break the carriage!" cried the people.


"In the king's name!" cried Comminges.


"The first who advances is a dead man!" cried Raoul, for it was in fact he, who, feeling himself pressed and almost crushed by a gigantic citizen, pricked him with the point of his sword and sent him howling back.


Comminges, so to speak, threw Broussel into the carriage and sprang in after him. At this moment a shot was fired and a ball passed through the hat of Comminges and broke the arm of one of the guards. Comminges looked up and saw amidst the smoke the threatening face of Louvières appearing at the window of the second floor.


"Very well, sir," said Comminges, "you shall hear of this anon."


"And you of me, sir," said Louvières; "and we shall see then who can speak the loudest."


Friquet and Nanette continued to shout; the cries, the noise of the shot and the intoxicating smell of powder produced their usual maddening effects.


"Down with the officer! down with him!" was the cry.


"One step nearer," said Comminges, putting down the sashes, that the interior of the carriage might be well seen, and placing his sword on his prisoner's breast, "one step nearer, and I kill the prisoner; my orders were to carry him off alive or dead. I will take him dead, that's all."


A terrible cry was heard, and the wife and daughters of Broussel held up their hands in supplication to the people; the latter knew that this officer, who was so pale, but who appeared so determined, would keep his word; they continued to threaten, but they began to disperse.


"Drive to the palace," said Comminges to the coachman, who was by then more dead than alive.


The man whipped his animals, which cleared a way through the crowd; but on arriving on the Quai they were obliged to stop; the carriage was upset, the horses carried off, stifled, mangled by the crowd. Raoul, on foot, for he had not time to mount his horse again, tired, like the guards, of distributing blows with the flat of his sword, had recourse to its point. But this last and dreaded resource served only to exasperate the multitude. From time to time a shot from a musket or the blade of a rapier flashed among the crowd; projectiles continued to hail down from the windows and some shots were heard, the echo of which, though they were probably fired in the air, made all hearts vibrate. Voices, unheard except on days of revolution, were distinguished; faces were seen that only appeared on days of bloodshed. Cries of "Death! death to the guards! to the Seine with the officer!" were heard above all the noise, deafening as it was. Raoul, his hat in ribbons, his face bleeding, felt not only his strength but also his reason going; a red mist covered his sight, and through this mist he saw a hundred threatening arms stretched over him, ready to seize upon him when he fell. The guards were unable to help any one—each one was occupied with his self-preservation. All was over; carriages, horses, guards, and perhaps even the prisoner were about to be torn to shreds, when all at once a voice well known to Raoul was heard, and suddenly a great sword glittered in the air; at the same time the crowd opened, upset, trodden down, and an officer of the musketeers, striking and cutting right and left, rushed up to Raoul and took him in his arms just as he was about to fall.


"God's blood!" cried the officer, "have they killed him? Woe to them if it be so!"


And he turned around, so stern with anger, strength and threat, that the most excited rebels hustled back on one another, in order to escape, and some of them even rolled into the Seine.


"Yes, 'sdeath! in person, and fortunately it seems for you, my young friend. Come on, here, you others," he continued, rising in his stirrups, raising his sword, and addressing those musketeers who had not been able to follow his rapid onslaught. "Come, sweep away all that for me! Shoulder muskets! Present arms! Aim——"


At this command the mountain of populace thinned so suddenly that D'Artagnan could not repress a burst of Homeric laughter.


"Thank you, D'Artagnan," said Comminges, showing half of his body through the window of the broken vehicle, "thanks, my young friend; your name—that I may mention it to the queen."


Raoul was about to reply when D'Artagnan bent down to his ear.


"Hold your tongue," said he, "and let me answer. Do not lose time, Comminges," he continued; "get out of the carriage if you can and make another draw up; be quick, or in five minutes the mob will be on us again with swords and muskets and you will be killed. Hold! there's a carriage coming over yonder."


Then bending again to Raoul, he whispered: "Above all things do not divulge your name."


"That's right. I will go," said Comminges; "and if they come back, fire!"


"Not at all—not at all," replied D'Artagnan; "let no one move. On the contrary, one shot at this moment would be paid for dearly to-morrow."


Comminges took his four guards and as many musketeers and ran to the carriage, from which he made the people inside dismount, and brought them to the vehicle which had upset. But when it was necessary to convey the prisoner from one carriage to the other, the people, catching sight of him whom they called their liberator, uttered every imaginable cry and knotted themselves once more around the vehicle.


"Start, start!" said D'Artagnan. "There are ten men to accompany you. I will keep twenty to hold in check the mob; go, and lose not a moment. Ten men for Monsieur de Comminges."


As the carriage started off the cries were redoubled and more than ten thousand people thronged the Quai and overflowed the Pont Neuf and adjacent streets. A few shots were fired and one musketeer was wounded.


"Forward!" cried D'Artagnan, driven to extremities, biting his moustache; and then he charged with his twenty men and dispersed them in fear. One man alone remained in his place, gun in hand.


"Ah!" he exclaimed, "it is thou who wouldst have him assassinated? Wait an instant." And he pointed his gun at D'Artagnan, who was riding toward him at full speed. D'Artagnan bent down to his horse's neck, the young man fired, and the ball severed the feathers from the hat. The horse started, brushed against the imprudent man, who thought by his strength alone to stay the tempest, and he fell against the wall. D'Artagnan pulled up his horse, and whilst his musketeers continued to charge, he returned and bent with drawn sword over the man he had knocked down.


"Oh, sir!" exclaimed Raoul, recognizing the young man as having seen him in the Rue Cocatrix, "spare him! it is his son!"


D'Artagnan's arm dropped to his side. "Ah, you are his son!" he said; "that is a different thing."


"Sir, I surrender," said Louvières, presenting his unloaded musket to the officer.


"Eh, no! do not surrender, egad! On the contrary, be off, and quickly. If I take you, you will be hung!"


The young man did not wait to be told twice, but passing under the horse's head disappeared at the corner of the Rue Guénégaud.


"I'faith!" said D'Artagnan to Raoul, "you were just in time to stay my hand. He was a dead man; and on my honor, if I had discovered that it was his son, I should have regretted having killed him."


"Ah! sir!" said Raoul, "allow me, after thanking you for that poor fellow's life, to thank you on my own account. I too, sir, was almost dead when you arrived."


"Wait, wait, young man; do not fatigue yourself with speaking. We can talk of it afterward."


Then seeing that the musketeers had cleared the Quai from the Pont Neuf to the Quai Saint Michael, he raised his sword for them to double their speed. The musketeers trotted up, and at the same time the ten men whom D'Artagnan had given to Comminges appeared.


"Halloo!" cried D'Artagnan; "has something fresh happened?"


"Eh, sir!" replied the sergeant, "their vehicle has broken down a second time; it really must be doomed."


"They are bad managers," said D'Artagnan, shrugging his shoulders. "When a carriage is chosen, it ought to be strong. The carriage in which a Broussel is to be arrested ought to be able to bear ten thousand men."


"Take the detachment and conduct him to his place."


"But you will be left alone?"


"Certainly. So you suppose I have need of an escort? Go."


The musketeers set off and D'Artagnan was left alone with Raoul.


"Now," he said, "are you in pain?"


"Yes; my head is not only swimming but burning."


"What's the matter with this head?" said D'Artagnan, raising the battered hat. "Ah! ah! a bruise."


"Yes, I think I received a flower-pot upon my head."


"Brutes!" said D'Artagnan. "But were you not on horseback? you have spurs."


"Yes, but I got down to defend Monsieur de Comminges and my horse was taken away. Here it is, I see."


At this very moment Friquet passed, mounted on Raoul's horse, waving his parti-colored cap and crying, "Broussel! Broussel!"


"Halloo! stop, rascal!" cried D'Artagnan. "Bring hither that horse."


Friquet heard perfectly, but he pretended not to do so and tried to continue his road. D'Artagnan felt inclined for an instant to pursue Master Friquet, but not wishing to leave Raoul alone he contented himself with taking a pistol from the holster and cocking it.


Friquet had a quick eye and a fine ear. He saw D'Artagnan's movement, heard the sound of the click, and stopped at once.


"Ah! it is you, your honor," he said, advancing toward D'Artagnan; "and I am truly pleased to meet you."


D'Artagnan looked attentively at Friquet and recognized the little chorister of the Rue de la Calandre.


"Ah! 'tis thou, rascal!" said he, "come here: so thou hast changed thy trade; thou art no longer a choir boy nor a tavern boy; thou hast become a horse stealer?"


"Ah, your honor, how can you say so?" exclaimed Friquet. "I was seeking the gentleman to whom this horse belongs—an officer, brave and handsome as a youthful Cæsar;" then, pretending to see Raoul for the first time:


"Ah! but if I mistake not," continued he, "here he is; you won't forget the boy, sir."


Raoul put his hand in his pocket.


"What are you about?" asked D'Artagnan.


"To give ten francs to this honest fellow," replied Raoul, taking a pistole from his pocket.


"Ten kicks on his back!" said D'Artagnan; "be off, you little villain, and forget not that I have your address."


Friquet, who did not expect to be let off so cheaply, bounded off like a gazelle up the Quai a la Rue Dauphine, and disappeared. Raoul mounted his horse, and both leisurely took their way to the Rue Tiquetonne.


D'Artagnan watched over the youth as if he had been his own son.


They arrived without accident at the Hotel de la Chevrette.


The handsome Madeleine announced to D'Artagnan that Planchet had returned, bringing Mousqueton with him, who had heroically borne the extraction of the ball and was as well as his state would permit.


D'Artagnan desired Planchet to be summoned, but he had disappeared.


"Then bring some wine," said D'Artagnan. "You are much pleased with yourself," said he to Raoul when they were alone, "are you not?"


"Well, yes," replied Raoul. "It seems to me I did my duty. I defended the king."


"And who told you to defend the king?"


"Yes, the king; but to-day you have not fought for the king, you have fought for Mazarin; which is not quite the same thing."


"Oh, for me; that is another matter. I obey my captain's orders. As for you, your captain is the prince, understand that rightly; you have no other. But has one ever seen such a wild fellow," continued he, "making himself a Mazarinist and helping to arrest Broussel! Breathe not a word of that, or the Comte de la Fère will be furious."


"You think the count will be angry with me?"


"Think it? I'm certain of it; were it not for that, I should thank you, for you have worked for us. However, I scold you instead of him, and in his place; the storm will blow over more easily, believe me. And moreover, my dear child," continued D'Artagnan, "I am making use of the privilege conceded to me by your guardian."


D'Artagnan rose, and taking a letter from his writing-desk, presented it to Raoul. The face of the latter became serious when he had cast his eyes upon the paper.


"Oh, mon Dieu!" he said, raising his fine eyes to D'Artagnan, moist with tears, "the count has left Paris without seeing me?"


"But this letter seems to intimate that he is about to incur danger, perhaps death."


"He—he—incur danger of death! No, be not anxious; he is traveling on business and will return ere long. I hope you have no repugnance to accept me as your guardian in the interim."


"Oh, no, Monsieur d'Artagnan," said Raoul, "you are such a brave gentleman and the Comte de la Fère has so much affection for you!"


"Eh! Egad! love me too; I will not torment you much, but only on condition that you become a Frondist, my young friend, and a hearty Frondist, too."


"I should say you could! and the coadjutor and Madame de Longueville; and if the worthy Broussel were there, whom you so stupidly helped arrest, I should tell you to excuse yourself to him at once and kiss him on both cheeks."


"Well, sir, I will obey you, although I do not understand you."


"It is unnecessary for you to understand. Hold," continued D'Artagnan, turning toward the door, which had just opened, "here is Monsieur du Vallon, who comes with his coat torn."


"Yes, but in exchange," said Porthos, covered with perspiration and soiled by dust, "in exchange, I have torn many skins. Those wretches wanted to take away my sword! Deuce take 'em, what a popular commotion!" continued the giant, in his quiet manner; "but I knocked down more than twenty with the hilt of Balizarde. A draught of wine, D'Artagnan."


"Oh, I'll answer for you," said the Gascon, filling Porthos's glass to the brim; "but when you have drunk, give me your opinion."


"Upon what?" asked Porthos.


"Look here," resumed D'Artagnan; "here is Monsieur de Bragelonne, who determined at all risks to aid the arrest of Broussel and whom I had great difficulty to prevent defending Monsieur de Comminges."


"The devil!" said Porthos; "and his guardian, what would he have said to that?"


"Do you hear?" interrupted D'Artagnan; "become a Frondist, my friend, belong to the Fronde, and remember that I fill the count's place in everything;" and he jingled his money.


"Will you come?" said he to Porthos.


"Where?" asked Porthos, filling a second glass of wine.


"To present our respects to the cardinal."


Porthos swallowed the second glass with the same grace with which he had imbibed the first, took his beaver and followed D'Artagnan. As for Raoul, he remained bewildered with what he had seen, having been forbidden by D'Artagnan to leave the room until the tumult was over.


Chapter XLV. The Beggar of St. Eustache.


D'Artagnan had calculated that in not going at once to the Palais Royal he would give Comminges time to arrive before him, and consequently to make the cardinal acquainted with the eminent services which he, D'Artagnan, and his friend had rendered to the queen's party in the morning.


They were indeed admirably received by Mazarin, who paid them numerous compliments, and announced that they were more than half on their way to obtain what they desired, namely, D'Artagnan his captaincy, Porthos his barony.


D'Artagnan would have preferred money in hand to all that fine talk, for he knew well that to Mazarin it was easy to promise and hard to perform. But, though he held the cardinal's promises as of little worth, he affected to be completely satisfied, for he was unwilling to discourage Porthos.


Whilst the two friends were with the cardinal, the queen sent for him. Mazarin, thinking that it would be the means of increasing the zeal of his two defenders if he procured them personal thanks from the queen, motioned them to follow him. D'Artagnan and Porthos pointed to their dusty and torn dresses, but the cardinal shook his head.


"Those costumes," he said, "are of more worth than most of those which you will see on the backs of the queen's courtiers; they are costumes of battle."


D'Artagnan and Porthos obeyed. The court of Anne of Austria was full of gayety and animation; for, after having gained a victory over the Spaniard, it had just gained another over the people. Broussel had been conducted out of Paris without further resistance, and was at this time in the prison of Saint Germain; while Blancmesnil, who was arrested at the same time, but whose arrest had been made without difficulty or noise, was safe in the Castle of Vincennes.


Comminges was near the queen, who was questioning him upon the details of his expedition, and every one was listening to his account, when D'Artagnan and Porthos were perceived at the door, behind the cardinal.


"Ah, madame," said Comminges, hastening to D'Artagnan, "here is one who can tell you better than myself, for he was my protector. Without him I should probably at this moment be a dead fish in the nets at Saint Cloud, for it was a question of nothing less than throwing me into the river. Speak, D'Artagnan, speak."


D'Artagnan had been a hundred times in the same room with the queen since he had become lieutenant of the musketeers, but her majesty had never once spoken to him.


"Well, sir," at last said Anne of Austria, "you are silent, after rendering such a service?"


"Madame," replied D'Artagnan, "I have nought to say, save that my life is ever at your majesty's service, and that I shall only be happy the day I lose it for you."


"I know that, sir; I have known that," said the queen, "a long time; therefore I am delighted to be able thus publicly to mark my gratitude and my esteem."


"Permit me, madame," said D'Artagnan, "to reserve a portion for my friend; like myself" (he laid an emphasis on these words) "an ancient musketeer of the company of Tréville; he has done wonders."


"His name?" asked the queen.


"In the regiment," said D'Artagnan, "he is called Porthos" (the queen started), "but his true name is the Chevalier du Vallon."


"These names are too numerous for me to remember them all, and I will content myself with the first," said the queen, graciously. Porthos bowed. At this moment the coadjutor was announced; a cry of surprise ran through the royal assemblage. Although the coadjutor had preached that same morning it was well known that he leaned much to the side of the Fronde; and Mazarin, in requesting the archbishop of Paris to make his nephew preach, had evidently had the intention of administering to Monsieur de Retz one of those Italian kicks he so much enjoyed giving.


The fact was, in leaving Notre Dame the coadjutor had learned the event of the day. Although almost engaged to the leaders of the Fronde he had not gone so far but that retreat was possible should the court offer him the advantages for which he was ambitious and to which the coadjutorship was but a stepping-stone. Monsieur de Retz wished to become archbishop in his uncle's place, and cardinal, like Mazarin; and the popular party could with difficulty accord him favors so entirely royal. He therefore hastened to the palace to congratulate the queen on the battle of Lens, determined beforehand to act with or against the court, as his congratulations were well or ill received.


The coadjutor possessed, perhaps, as much wit as all those put together who were assembled at the court to laugh at him. His speech, therefore, was so well turned, that in spite of the great wish felt by the courtiers to laugh, they could find no point on which to vent their ridicule. He concluded by saying that he placed his feeble influence at her majesty's command.


During the whole time he was speaking, the queen appeared to be well pleased with the coadjutor's harangue; but terminating as it did with such a phrase, the only one which could be caught at by the jokers, Anne turned around and directed a glance toward her favorites, which announced that she delivered up the coadjutor to their tender mercies. Immediately the wits of the court plunged into satire. Nogent-Beautin, the fool of the court, exclaimed that "the queen was very happy to have the succor of religion at such a moment." This caused a universal burst of laughter. The Count de Villeroy said that "he did not know how any fear could be entertained for a moment, when the court had, to defend itself against the parliament and the citizens of Paris, his holiness the coadjutor, who by a signal could raise an army of curates, church porters and vergers."


The Maréchal de la Meilleraie added that in case the coadjutor should appear on the field of battle it would be a pity that he should not be distinguished in the mêlée by wearing a red hat, as Henry IV. had been distinguished by his white plume at the battle of Ivry.


During this storm, Gondy, who had it in his power to make it most unpleasant for the jesters, remained calm and stern. The queen at last asked him if he had anything to add to the fine discourse he had just made to her.


"Yes, madame," replied the coadjutor; "I have to beg you to reflect twice ere you cause a civil war in the kingdom."


The queen turned her back and the laughing recommenced.


The coadjutor bowed and left the palace, casting upon the cardinal such a glance as is best understood by mortal foes. That glance was so sharp that it penetrated the heart of Mazarin, who, reading in it a declaration of war, seized D'Artagnan by the arm and said:


"If occasion requires, monsieur, you will remember that man who has just gone out, will you not?"


"Yes, my lord," he replied. Then, turning toward Porthos, "The devil!" said he, "this has a bad look. I dislike these quarrels among men of the church."


Gondy withdrew, distributing benedictions on his way, and finding a malicious satisfaction in causing the adherents of his foes to prostrate themselves at his feet.


"Oh!" he murmured, as he left the threshold of the palace: "ungrateful court! faithless court! cowardly court! I will teach you how to laugh to-morrow—but in another manner."


But whilst they were indulging in extravagant joy at the Palais Royal, to increase the hilarity of the queen, Mazarin, a man of sense, and whose fear, moreover, gave him foresight, lost no time in making idle and dangerous jokes; he went out after the coadjutor, settled his account, locked up his gold, and had confidential workmen to contrive hiding places in his walls.


On his return home the coadjutor was informed that a young man had come in after his departure and was waiting for him; he started with delight when, on demanding the name of this young man, he learned that it was Louvières. He hastened to his cabinet. Broussel's son was there, still furious, and still bearing bloody marks of his struggle with the king's officers. The only precaution he had taken in coming to the archbishopric was to leave his arquebuse in the hands of a friend.


The coadjutor went to him and held out his hand. The young man gazed at him as if he would have read the secret of his heart.


"My dear Monsieur Louvières," said the coadjutor, "believe me, I am truly concerned for the misfortune which has happened to you."


"Is that true, and do you speak seriously?" asked Louvières.


"From the depth of my heart," said Gondy.


"In that case, my lord, the time for words has passed and the hour for action is at hand; my lord, in three days, if you wish it, my father will be out of prison and in six months you may be cardinal."


The coadjutor started.


"Oh! let us speak frankly," continued Louvières, "and act in a straightforward manner. Thirty thousand crowns in alms is not given, as you have done for the last six months, out of pure Christian charity; that would be too grand. You are ambitious—it is natural; you are a man of genius and you know your worth. As for me, I hate the court and have but one desire at this moment—vengeance. Give us the clergy and the people, of whom you can dispose, and I will bring you the citizens and the parliament; with these four elements Paris is ours in a week; and believe me, monsieur coadjutor, the court will give from fear what it will not give from good-will."


It was now the coadjutor's turn to fix his piercing eyes on Louvières.


"But, Monsieur Louvières, are you aware that it is simply civil war you are proposing to me?"


"You have been preparing long enough, my lord, for it to be welcome to you now."


"Never mind," said the coadjutor; "you must be well aware that this requires reflection."


"And how many hours of reflection do you ask?"


"Twelve hours, sir; is it too long?"


"It is now noon; at midnight I will be at your house."


"If I should not be in, wait for me."


"Good! at midnight, my lord."


When once more alone Gondy sent to summon all the curates with whom he had any connection to his house. Two hours later, thirty officiating ministers from the most populous, and consequently the most disturbed parishes of Paris had assembled there. Gondy related to them the insults he had received at the Palais Royal and retailed the jests of Beautin, the Count de Villeroy and Maréchal de la Meilleraie. The curates asked him what was to be done.


"Simply this," said the coadjutor. "You are the directors of all consciences. Well, undermine in them the miserable prejudice of respect and fear of kings; teach your flocks that the queen is a tyrant; and repeat often and loudly, so that all may know it, that the misfortunes of France are caused by Mazarin, her lover and her destroyer; begin this work to-day, this instant even, and in three days I shall expect the result. For the rest, if any one of you have further or better counsel to expound, I will listen to him with the greatest pleasure."


Three curates remained—those of St. Merri, St. Sulpice and St. Eustache. The others withdrew.


"You think, then, that you can help me more efficaciously than your brothers?" said Gondy.


"We hope so," answered the curates.


"My lord, I have in my parish a man who might be of the greatest use to you."


"Who and what is this man?"


"A shopkeeper in the Rue des Lombards, who has great influence upon the commerce of his quarter."


"He is named Planchet, who himself also caused a rising about six weeks ago; but as he was searched for after this émeute he disappeared."


"And can you find him?"


"I hope so. I think he has not been arrested, and as I am his wife's confessor, if she knows where he is I shall know it too."


"Very well, sir, find this man, and when you have found him bring him to me."


"We will be with you at six o'clock, my lord."


"Go, my dear curate, and may God assist you!"


"And you, sir?" continued Gondy, turning to the curate of St. Sulpice.


"I, my lord," said the latter, "I know a man who has rendered great services to a very popular prince and who would make an excellent leader of revolt. Him I can place at your disposal; it is Count de Rochefort."


"I know him also, but unfortunately he is not in Paris."


"My lord, he has been for three days at the Rue Cassette."


"And wherefore has he not been to see me?"


"He was told—my lord will pardon me——"


"Certainly, speak."


"That your lordship was about to treat with the court."


Gondy bit his lips.


"They are mistaken; bring him here at eight o'clock, sir, and may Heaven bless you as I bless you!"


"And now 'tis your turn," said the coadjutor, turning to the last that remained; "have you anything as good to offer me as the two gentlemen who have left us?"


"Diable! think what a solemn engagement you are making; one has offered a wealthy shopkeeper, the other a count; you are going, then, to offer a prince, are you?"


"Ah! ah!" said Gondy, reflecting, "you are right, sir; some one who could raise the legion of paupers who choke up the crossings of Paris; some one who would know how to cry aloud to them, that all France might hear it, that it is Mazarin who has reduced them to poverty."


"Exactly your man."


"Bravo! and the man?"


"A plain and simple beggar, as I have said, my lord, who asks for alms, as he gives holy water; a practice he has carried on for six years on the steps of St. Eustache."


"And you say that he has a great influence over his compeers?"


"Are you aware, my lord, that mendacity is an organized body, a kind of association of those who have nothing against those who have everything; an association in which every one takes his share; one that elects a leader?"


"Yes, I have heard it said," replied the coadjutor.


"Well, the man whom I offer you is a general syndic."


"And what do you know of him?"


"Nothing, my lord, except that he is tormented with remorse."


"What makes you think so?"


"On the twenty-eighth of every month he makes me say a mass for the repose of the soul of one who died a violent death; yesterday I said this mass again."


"And his name?"


"Maillard; but I do not think it is his right one."


"And think you that we should find him at this hour at his post?"


"Let us go and see your beggar, sir, and if he is such as you describe him, you are right—it will be you who have discovered the true treasure."


Gondy dressed himself as an officer, put on a felt cap with a red feather, hung on a long sword, buckled spurs to his boots, wrapped himself in an ample cloak and followed the curate.


The coadjutor and his companion passed through all the streets lying between the archbishopric and the St. Eustache Church, watching carefully to ascertain the popular feeling. The people were in an excited mood, but, like a swarm of frightened bees, seemed not to know at what point to concentrate; and it was very evident that if leaders of the people were not provided all this agitation would pass off in idle buzzing.


On arriving at the Rue des Prouvaires, the curate pointed toward the square before the church.


"Stop!" he said, "there he is at his post."


Gondy looked at the spot indicated and perceived a beggar seated in a chair and leaning against one of the moldings; a little basin was near him and he held a holy water brush in his hand.


"Is it by permission that he remains there?" asked Gondy.


"No, my lord; these places are bought. I believe this man paid his predecessor a hundred pistoles for his."


"The rascal is rich, then?"


"Some of those men sometimes die worth twenty thousand and twenty-five and thirty thousand francs and sometimes more."