The horses went like the wind, and in what seemed like only a few minutes they found themselves in London. D’Artagnan had thought that on arriving in the city the duke would slacken his pace, but no: he raced through the streets at full speed, with little regard for those unlucky enough to find themselves in his path. There were two or three minor collisions, but Buckingham didn’t even turn his head to see what had become of those he’d knocked over. D’Artagnan followed him amid cries that sounded a lot like curses.
On entering the courtyard of his town house, Buckingham leaped down from his horse and, paying no more attention to it, threw the bridle on its neck and sprang up the steps to the door. D’Artagnan followed, but with a little more concern for his mount, a noble creature whose virtues he appreciated. As he went in, he was consoled by seeing three or four grooms run from the stables to take charge of their horses.
The duke marched so rapidly through his mansion that d’Artagnan could hardly keep up with him. They passed through a number of chambers more elegant than anything the grandest nobles of France could conceive of and arrived at last in a bedchamber that was a miracle of taste and splendor. In the alcove of this chamber they found a door hidden behind a tapestry, which the duke opened with a small golden key that hung from his neck by a chain of the same metal. D’Artagnan discreetly held back, but Buckingham, seeing the young man’s hesitation, said, “Come with me. And if you have the good fortune to be admitted to Her Majesty’s presence, tell her what you’ve seen here.” Encouraged, d’Artagnan followed the duke through the door, who shut it behind them.
They found themselves in a small chapel hung with Persian silk tapestries and gold brocade, brightly lit by a vast number of candles. Above a sort of altar, and beneath a canopy of blue velour trimmed with white and red plumes, was a full-length portrait of Anne of Austria, so lifelike that d’Artagnan gasped in surprise: one could almost believe the queen was present and about to speak.
Upon the altar, beneath the portrait, was the coffer that contained the diamond studs. The duke approached the altar, knelt like a priest before the cross and opened the coffer. “Look,” he said, drawing forth a deep blue neck-ribbon sparkling with diamonds. “Here are those precious studs. I’d sworn an oath to be buried in them. But the queen giveth, and the queen taketh away: her will be done, like that of God, in everything.”
Then, one by one, he began to kiss the glittering diamonds he was about to part with. Suddenly he gave a terrible cry.
“What is it?” d’Artagnan asked anxiously. “What is it, Milord?”
“All is lost!” Buckingham cried, turning pale as death. “There are only ten! Two of the studs are missing!”
“Could you have lost them, Milord, or do you think they were stolen?”
“Stolen!” said the Duke. “And the cardinal is behind it. Here, look: the ribbons that held them have been cut with scissors.”
“If Milord has an idea who stole them, they may still be in that person’s hands.”
“Wait; let me think,” said the duke. “The only time I wore the studs was at a royal ball at Windsor Castle, about eight days ago. I’d quarreled with Countess Winter, but she made up with me at that ball. I was surprised at how affectionate she was, but it was nothing more than a jealous woman’s revenge! I haven’t seen her since that night. I’m convinced that woman is an agent of the cardinal.”
“He must have agents all over the world!” said d’Artagnan.
“Oh, he does,” said Buckingham, grinding his teeth in anger. “He’s a terrible enemy! Tell me, when is this ball in Paris supposed to take place?”
“On Monday next.”
“Monday next! We still have five days—more time than we need. Patrick!” the duke shouted, opening the door of his secret chapel. “Patrick!”
The confidential valet appeared. “My jeweler and my secretary,” the duke said. The valet left with a speed that showed he was accustomed to obey blindly and without question.
Though the jeweler had been mentioned first, the secretary arrived more quickly, since he resided in the house. He found Buckingham seated before a table in his bedchamber, writing orders in his own hand.
“Mister Jackson,” the duke said, “go see the Lord Chancellor and tell him that I charge him with the execution of these orders. I would like them promulgated immediately.”
Jackson glanced over the memo. “But, Milord,” he said, “if the Lord Chancellor questions me as to Your Grace’s reasons for taking such an extraordinary measure, what shall I tell him?”
“That such is my good pleasure, and that I account for my orders to no one.”
“Is that what he should tell His Majesty,” said the secretary, smiling, “if by chance His Majesty is curious to know exactly why no vessel may leave any port in Great Britain?”
“You’re right,” replied Buckingham. “If the king asks, he should say that I’ve decided on war, and this measure is my first act of hostility against France.”
The secretary bowed and retired.
“We’re covered on that side,” said Buckingham, turning toward d’Artagnan. “If the studs have not yet left for France, they won’t arrive there until after you do.”
“How is that?”
“I’ve just placed an embargo on all ships currently in His Majesty’s ports. Without specific permission, none of them can raise anchor.”
Now it was d’Artagnan’s turn to be astonished. Here was a man so elevated by the confidence of his king that he could exercise virtually unlimited power in pursuit of his personal love affairs.
Buckingham saw, by the expression on the young man’s face, what was passing in his mind, and smiled. “Yes,” he said, “Anne of Austria is my true queen. On a word from her, I’d betray my country, I’d betray my king, I’d betray even my God. She asked me not to send the Protestants of La Rochelle the help I’d promised them, and I’ve withheld it. I broke my word, but what does that matter? I obeyed her desire, and haven’t I been richly paid for my obedience? It’s thanks to that obedience that she sent me her portrait.”
D’Artagnan was amazed by what fragile and unknown threads the destinies of people and the lives of men are sometimes suspended. He was still deep in these reflections when the goldsmith entered. He was an Irishman, one of the most able of his art, and he openly boasted that he earned a hundred thousand livres per year from the Duke of Buckingham’s commissions.
“Mister O’Reilly,” said the duke, leading him to the chapel, “look at these diamond studs and tell me what they’re worth apiece.”
The goldsmith glanced at their elegant settings, calculated together what the diamonds were worth, and said without hesitation, “Fifteen hundred pistoles each, Milord.”
“How many days would it take to make two studs like these others? You see that two of them are missing.”
“Eight days, Milord.”
“I’ll pay you three thousand pistoles apiece if I can have them the day after tomorrow.”
“Done, Milord!”
“You’re a gem yourself, O’Reilly—but there’s more. This work cannot be entrusted to anyone else and must be completed here in my mansion.”
“Impossible, Milord. I’m the only one who can cut them so no one can tell the difference between the new and the old.”
“Then, my dear Mister O’Reilly, you are my prisoner. You couldn’t leave my house now if you wanted to—so make the best of it. Name me the assistants you need, and what tools they should bring.”
The goldsmith knew the duke, and knew it was useless to object, so he made up his mind to comply. “Am I permitted to inform my wife?” he asked.
“You may even see her, my dear Mister O’Reilly. Believe me, your captivity will be a mild one. And, since every inconvenience should have its compensation, here, over and above the price of the studs, is an order for a thousand pistoles, to help you forget the trouble I put you to.”
D’Artagnan couldn’t get over his surprise at this minister, who so op
enhandedly juggled men and millions. As for the goldsmith, he wrote to his wife, sending her the order for a thousand pistoles, requesting that in return she send him his most able apprentice, the necessary tools, and an assortment of diamonds, of which he gave the names and weights.
Buckingham led the goldsmith to the chamber he was to use, which was transformed into a workshop inside of half an hour. A guard was placed at each door and ordered to admit no one, with the exception of the confidential valet, Patrick. Needless to say, O’Reilly and his assistant were forbidden to leave for any reason.
This matter arranged, the duke returned to d’Artagnan. “Now, my young friend, all England is ours. What would you like? What is your desire?”
“A bed,” replied d’Artagnan. “Right now, that’s what I need most.”
Buckingham gave d’Artagnan a chamber adjacent to his own. He wanted to have the young man near at hand—not from mistrust, but so he could have someone to talk to constantly about the queen.
One hour later, it was announced from London that no ship could leave the ports of England for France, not even the packet-boat with the international mail. To everyone, this was tantamount to a declaration of war between the two realms.
By eleven the following morning the two diamond studs were finished: such exact imitations, so perfectly alike, that Buckingham couldn’t tell the new ones from the old, and even experts in such matters would have done no better.
He immediately called d’Artagnan. “Here are the diamond studs you came for,” he said, “and you are my witness that I’ve done everything in human power that could be done.”
“Milord, you can be sure I’ll report what I’ve seen. But is Your Grace giving me the studs without their box?”
“The box would just be an encumbrance. Besides, the box is precious to me—it’s all I have left. Tell her I’ve kept it.”
“I’ll repeat your message word for word, Milord.”
“And now,” said Buckingham, looking earnestly at the young man, “how can I ever repay what I owe you?”
D’Artagnan colored up to his eyes. He saw that the duke was looking for a way to give him something, and the idea that his blood, and that of his companions, was to be paid for in English gold was strangely repugnant to him.
“Let’s understand each other, Milord,” said d’Artagnan, “and let’s be clear up front, to avoid any mistake. I’m in the service of the King and Queen of France, and a member of the French Guards in the company of Monsieur des Essarts, who like Monsieur de Tréville is particularly attached to Their Majesties. Everything I’ve done has been done solely for the queen and not for Your Grace. Moreover, I might not have done any of it except to please someone who is my lady, as the queen is yours.”
“Ah!” The duke smiled. “I think I know this other person. She’s . . .”
“Milord, I have not named her,” the young man interrupted sharply.
“Quite so,” said the duke. “So it’s to this other person whom I must be grateful for your devotion.”
“As you say, Milord. In fact, right now, with war probable, I confess I see in Your Grace nothing but an Englishman—in other words, an enemy, whom I’d much rather encounter on the battlefield than in the park at Windsor or the corridors of the Louvre. Not that that will prevent me from completing my mission—even dying to accomplish it, if necessary. But I repeat to Your Grace, you owe me nothing more at this second meeting in London than you did at our first in Paris.”
Buckingham nodded. “Here we say, ‘proud as a Scotsman.’”
“As we say, ‘proud as a Gascon,’” replied d’Artagnan. “The Gascons are the Scots of France.”
D’Artagnan bowed to the duke and prepared to take his leave. “So, you’re going away, just like that?” said the duke. “To where? And how?”
“Well . . . I must admit, those are good questions,” said d’Artagnan. “I’d forgotten that England is an island, and you are its king.”
“Damn me! These Frenchmen haven’t a clue! . . . Go to the docks, ask for the brig Sund, and give this letter to the captain. He’ll carry you to a little port in France where no one would expect you, a place ordinarily used only by fishing boats.”
“What is this port called?”
“Saint-Valery. But listen: when you arrive there, you’ll find a wretched little inn, with no name and no sign—a mere fisherman’s shack. There’s only one, so you can’t miss it.”
“What then?”
“Ask for the host, and say to him in English: ‘Forward!’”
“Meaning?”
“The French for it is ‘en avant.’ It’s the password. He’ll give you a horse, saddled and ready to go, and indicate what route you should follow. This will take you to another relay: you’ll find four along your route. Each horse is fully equipped for a campaign. If you like, give your address in Paris at each of these relays, and the four horses will follow you there later. You already know two like them—we rode them to London—and you appeared to appreciate them like a connoisseur. Take my word for it, the others are no worse.” Buckingham smiled. “No matter how proud you are, you can’t refuse to accept one of them, and accept the other three on the behalf of your companions. Anyway, you can use them against us in the war. As you French say, the end justifies the means, what?”
“Yes, Milord—and I accept them,” said d’Artagnan. “And if it please God, we’ll make good use of your gifts.”
“Excellent! And now, young man, your hand. We may meet soon on the battlefield—but in the meantime, I hope we’ll part good friends.”
“Yes, Milord—in hopes of soon becoming enemies.”
“Don’t worry, that I can promise you.”
“I’m counting on your word, Milord.”
D’Artagnan bowed to the duke and took his leave, heading without delay for the port. Opposite the Tower of London he found the designated ship and gave his letter to the captain. It was countersigned by the Governor of the Port and they prepared for immediate departure.
Fifty ships were at the wharfs, waiting permission to leave. While passing alongside one of them, d’Artagnan thought he recognized the woman of Meung, the one the stranger had called “Milady,” and whom d’Artagnan had thought so beautiful. But the current was strong and the wind was favorable—his vessel passed so quickly that he saw her for only an instant.
Around nine o’clock the next morning he disembarked at Saint-Valery. D’Artagnan immediately went looking for the tiny inn, which he found by following the sound of loud voices and singing. The sailors were celebrating the coming of war between England and France.
D’Artagnan pushed his way through the throng, found the host, and said, “Forward!” The host made a sign for d’Artagnan to follow him, left by a door that gave onto the yard, and conducted him to a stable, where a horse, already saddled, awaited him. The host asked if he needed anything else.
“I need to know what route I should follow,” said d’Artagnan.
“Go from here to Blangy, and from Blangy to Neufchâtel. At Neufchâtel, find the Golden Harrow Inn, give the password to the host, and like here, you’ll find a saddled horse ready to go.”
“What do I owe you?” asked d’Artagnan.
“It’s all paid for,” said the host, “and generously too. Now go, and God guide you!”
“Amen!” said the young man, and set off at a gallop.
Four hours later he was at Neufchâtel. He followed his instructions exactly, and as at Saint-Valery, he found a mount saddled and waiting. He was about to transfer the pistols from the saddle of the old horse to the saddle of the new when he found that its holsters were already furnished with similar weapons.
“Your address in Paris?” asked the host.
“Hôtel des Gardes, des Essarts’s company.”
“Fine,” said the man.
“What route should I take?”
“By way of Rouen, but pass the city on your right, then stop at the little village of Ecouis. There�
�s an inn there called the French Crown. Don’t judge it by appearances; you’ll find a horse in its stables that’s as good as this one.”
“Same password?”
“Exactly.”
“Then adieu, master host!”
“Bon voyage, Monsieur. Do you need anything?”
D’Artagnan shook his head in reply, and departed at full speed. At Ecouis, the scene was repeated: he found a host just as genial and a horse just as fresh. As before, he gave the man his address in Paris and left at speed for Pontoise. At Pontoise he changed horses for the final time and at nine o’clock galloped into the courtyard of the Hôtel de Tréville. He’d ridden almost sixty leagues in twelve hours.
Monsieur de Tréville received him as if he’d just seen him that morning, except that he shook the young man’s hand even more warmly than usual. With a smile, he announced that des Essarts’s company was on guard duty at the Louvre—and he thought d’Artagnan might want to report at once to his post.
XXII
The Ballet of La Merlaison
The next day, the only topic of conversation in Paris was the ball the city aldermen were to give that night to the king and queen where Their Majesties were to dance the king’s favorite ballet, La Merlaison.65
For over a week an army of laborers had been working at the Hôtel de Ville66 to prepare for this important event. The city carpenter had overseen the erection of multi-tiered scaffolds to provide seats for the lady guests; the municipal grocer had furnished the halls with two hundred flambeaux of white wax, an unheard-of luxury at the time; and twenty violinists had been engaged, at double the usual rate, on condition that they play all night.
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