The king looked at the cardinal.
“A written examination attests it,” said the cardinal, replying aloud to the mute interrogation of his Majesty; “and the ill-treated people have drawn up the following, which I have the honor to present to your Majesty.”
“And is the written report of the gownsmen to be placed in comparison with the word of honor of a swordsman?” replied Tréville haughtily.
“Come, come, Tréville, hold your tongue,” said the king.
“If his Eminence entertains any suspicion against one of my Musketeers,” said Tréville, “the justice of Monsieur the Cardinal is so well known that I demand an inquiry.”
“In the house in which the judicial inquiry was made,” continued the impassive cardinal, “there lodges, I believe, a young Béarnais, a friend of the Musketeer.”
“Your Eminence means Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“I mean a young man whom you patronize, Monsieur de Tréville. ”
“Yes, your Eminence, it is the same.”
“Do you not suspect this young man of having given bad counsel?”
“To Athos, to a man double his age?” interrupted Tréville. “No, monseigneur. Besides, D’Artagnan passed the evening with me.”
“Well,” said the cardinal, “everybody seems to have passed the evening with you.”
“Does your Eminence doubt my word?” said Tréville, with a brow flushed with anger.
“No, God forbid,” said the cardinal; “only, at what hour was he with you?”
“Oh, as to that I can speak positively, your Eminence; for as he came in I remarked that it was but half past nine by the clock, although I had believed it to be later.”
“And at what hour did he leave your hôtel?”
“At half past ten—an hour after the event.”
“Well,” replied the cardinal, who could not for an instant suspect the loyalty of Tréville, and who felt that the victory was escaping him, “well, but Athos was taken in the house in the Rue des Fossoyeurs.”
“Is one friend forbidden to visit another, or a Musketeer of my company to fraternize with a Guard of Dessessart’s company?”
“Yes, when the house where he fraternizes is suspected.”
“That house is suspected, Tréville,” said the king; “perhaps you did not know it?”
“Indeed, sire, I did not. The house may be suspected; but I deny that it is so in the part of it inhabited by Monsieur d’Artagnan, for I can affirm, sire, if I can believe what he says, that there does not exist a more devoted servant of your Majesty, or a more profound admirer of Monsieur the Cardinal.”
“Was it not this D’Artagnan who wounded Jussac one day, in that unfortunate encounter which took place near the Convent of the Carmes-Déchaussés?” asked the king, looking at the cardinal, who colored with vexation.
“And the next day Bernajoux. Yes, sire, yes, it is the same; and your Majesty has a good memory.”
“Come, how shall we decide?” said the king.
That concerns your Majesty more than me,” said the cardinal. “I should affirm the culpability.”
“And I deny it,” said Tréville. “But his Majesty has judges, and these judges will decide.”
“That is best,” said the king. “Send the case before the judges; it is their business to judge, and they shall judge.”
“Only,” replied Tréville, “it is a sad thing that in the unfortunate times in which we live, the purest life, the most incontestable virtue, cannot exempt a man from infamy and persecution. The army, I will answer for it, will be but little pleased at being exposed to rigorous treatment on account of police affairs.
The expression was imprudent; but M. de Tréville launched it with knowledge of his cause. He was desirous of an explosion, because in that case the mine throws forth fire, and fire enlightens.
“Police affairs!” cried the king, taking up Tréville’s words, “police affairs! And what do you know about them, Monsieur? Meddle with your Musketeers, and do not annoy me in this way. It appears, according to your account, that if by mischance a Musketeer is arrested, France is in danger. What a noise about a Musketeer! I would arrest ten of them, ventrebleu, a hundred, even, all the company, and I would not allow a whisper.”
“From the moment they are suspected by your Majesty,” said Tréville, “the Musketeers are guilty; therefore, you see me prepared to surrender my sword—for after having accused my soldiers, there can be no doubt that Monsieur the Cardinal will end by accusing me. It is best to constitute myself at once a prisoner with Athos, who is already arrested, and with D’Artagnan, who most probably will be.”
“Gascon-headed man, will you have done?” said the king.
“Sire,” replied Tréville, without lowering his voice in the least, “either order my Musketeer to be restored to me, or let him be tried.”
“He shall be tried,” said the cardinal.
“Well, so much the better; for in that case I shall demand of his Majesty permission to plead for him.”
The king feared an outbreak.
“If his Eminence,” said he, “did not have personal motives—”
The cardinal saw what the king was about to say, and interrupted him:
“Pardon me,” said he; “but the instant your Majesty considers me a prejudiced judge, I withdraw.”
“Come,” said the king, “will you swear, by my father, that Athos was at your residence during the event and that he took no part in it?”
“By your glorious father, and by yourself, whom I love and venerate above all the world, I swear it.”
“Be so kind as to reflect, sire,” said the cardinal. “If we release the prisoner thus, we shall never know the truth.”
“Athos may always be found,” replied Tréville, “ready to answer, when it shall please the gownsmen to interrogate him. He will not desert, Monsieur the Cardinal, be assured of that; I will answer for him.”
“No, he will not desert,” said the king; “he can always be found, as Tréville says. Besides,” added he, lowering his voice and looking with a suppliant air at the cardinal, “let us give them apparent security; that is policy.”
This policy of Louis XIII made Richelieu smile.
“Order it as you please, sire; you possess the right of pardon.”
“The right of pardoning only applies to the guilty,” said Tréville, who was determined to have the last word, “and my Musketeer is innocent. It is not mercy, then, that you are about to accord, sire, it is justice.”
“And he is in the Fort l’Evêque?” said the king.
“Yes, sire, in solitary confinement, in a dungeon, like the lowest criminal.”
“The devil!” murmured the king; “what must be done?”
“Sign an order for his release, and all will be said,” replied the cardinal. “I believe with your Majesty that Monsieur de Tréville’s guarantee is more than sufficient.”
Tréville bowed very respectfully, with a joy that was not unmixed with fear; he would have preferred an obstinate resistance on the part of the cardinal to this sudden yielding.
The king signed the order for release, and Tréville carried it away without delay. As he was about to leave the presence, the cardinal gave him a friendly smile, and said, “A perfect harmony reigns, sire, between the leader and the soldiers of your Musketeers, which must be profitable for the service and honorable to all.”
“He will play me some dog’s trick or other, and that immediately,” said Tréville. “One has never the last word with such a man. But let us be quick—the king may change his mind in an hour; and at all events it is more difficult to replace a man in the Fort l’Evêque or the Bastille who has got out, than to keep a prisoner there who is in.”
M. de Tréville made his entrance triumphantly into the Fort l’Evêque, whence he delivered the Musketeer, whose peaceful indifference had not for a moment abandoned him.
The first time he saw D’Artagnan, “You have come off well,” said he to him; �
��there is your Jussac thrust paid for. There still remains that of Bernajoux, but you must not be too confident.”
As to the rest, M. de Tréville had good reason to mistrust the cardinal and to think that all was not over, for scarcely had the captain of the Musketeers closed the door after him, than his Eminence said to the king, “Now that we are at length by ourselves, we will, if your Majesty pleases, converse seriously. Sire, Buckingham has been in Paris five days, and only left this morning.”
16
IN WHICH M. SÉGUIER, KEEPER OF THE SEALS, LOOKS MORE THAN ONCE FOR THE BELL, IN ORDER TO RING IT, AS HE DID BEFORE
It is impossible to form an idea of the impression these few words made upon Louis XIII. He grew pale and red alternately ; and the cardinal saw at once that he had recovered by a single blow all the ground he had lost.
“Buckingham in Paris!” cried he, “and why does he come?”
“To conspire, no doubt, with your enemies, the Huguenots and the Spaniards.”
“No, pardieu, no! To conspire against my honor with Madame de Chevreuse, Madame de Longueville, and the Condés.”
“Oh, sire, what an idea! The queen is too virtuous; and besides, loves your Majesty too well.”
“Woman is weak, Monsieur Cardinal,” said the king; “and as to loving me much, I have my own opinion as to that love.”
“I not the less maintain,” said the cardinal, “that the Duke of Buckingham came to Paris for a project wholly political.”
“And I am sure that he came for quite another purpose, Monsieur Cardinal; but if the queen be guilty, let her tremble!”
“Indeed,” said the cardinal, “whatever repugnance I may have to directing my mind to such a treason, your Majesty compels me to think of it. Madame de Lannoy, whom, according to your Majesty’s command, I have frequently interrogated, told me this morning that the night before last her Majesty sat up very late, that this morning she wept much, and that she was writing all day.”
“That’s it!” cried the king; “to him, no doubt. Cardinal, I must have the queen’s papers.”
“But how to take them, sire? It seems to me that it is neither your Majesty nor myself who can charge himself with such a mission.”
“How did they act with regard to the Maréchale d’Ancre?” cried the king, in the highest state of choler; “first her closets were thoroughly searched, and then she herself.”
“The Maréchale d‘Ancre was no more than the Maréchale d’Ancre, a Florentine adventurer, sire, and that was all; while the august spouse of your Majesty is Anne of Austria, Queen of France—that is to say, one of the greatest princesses in the world.”
“She is not the less guilty, Monsieur Duke! The more she has forgotten the high position in which she was placed, the more degrading is her fall. Besides, I long ago determined to put an end to all these petty intrigues of policy and love. She has near her a certain Laporte.”
“Who, I believe, is the mainspring of all this, I confess,” said the cardinal.
“You think, then, as I do, that she deceives me?” said the king.
“I believe, and I repeat it to your Majesty, that the queen conspires against the power of the king, but I have not said against his honor.”
“And I—I tell you against both. I tell you the queen does not love me; I tell you she loves another; I tell you she loves that infamous Buckingham! Why did you not have him arrested while in Paris?”
“Arrest the duke! Arrest the prime minister of King Charles I! Think of it, sire! What a scandal! And if the suspicions of your Majesty, which I still continue to doubt, should prove to have any foundation, what a terrible disclosure, what a fearful scandal!”
“But as he exposed himself like a vagabond or a thief, he should have been—”
Louis XIII stopped, terrified at what he was about to say, while Richelieu, stretching out his neck, waited uselessly for the word which had died on the lips of the king.
“He should have been—?”
“Nothing,” said the king, “nothing. But all the time he was in Paris, you, of course, did not lose sight of him?”
“No, sire.”
“Where did he lodge?” “Rue de la Harpe, No. 75.”
“Where is that?”
“By the side of the Luxembourg.”
“And you are certain that the queen and he did not see each other?”
“I believe the queen to have too high a sense of her duty, sire.”
“But they have corresponded; it is to him that the queen has been writing all the day. Monsieur Duke, I must have those letters! ”
“Sire, notwithstanding—”
“Monsieur Duke, at whatever price it may be, I will have them.”
“I would, however, beg your Majesty to observe—”
“Do you, then, also join in betraying me, Monsieur Cardinal, by thus always opposing my will? Are you also in accord with Spain and England, with Madame de Chevreuse and the queen?”
“Sire,” replied the cardinal, sighing, “I believed myself secure from such a suspicion.”
“Monsieur Cardinal, you have heard me; I will have those letters.”
“There is but one way.”
“What is that?”
“That would be to charge Monsieur de Séguier, the keeper of the seals, with this mission. The matter enters completely into the duties of his post”
“Let him be sent for instantly.”
“He is most likely at my hotel. I requested him to call, and when I came to the Louvre I left orders if he came, to desire him to wait.”
“Let him be sent for instantly.”
“Your Majesty’s orders shall be executed; but—”
“But what?”
“But the queen will perhaps refuse to obey.”
“My orders?”
“Yes, if she is ignorant that these orders come from the king.”
“Well, that she may have no doubt on that head, I will go and inform her myself.”
“Your Majesty will not forget that I have done everything in my power to prevent a rupture.”
“Yes, Duke, yes, I know you are very indulgent toward the queen, too indulgent, perhaps; we shall have occasion, I warn you, at some future period to speak of that.”
“Whenever it shall please your Majesty; but I shall be always happy and proud, sire, to sacrifice myself to the harmony which I desire to see reign between you and the Queen of France.”
“Very well, Cardinal, very well; but, meantime, send for Monsieur the Keeper of the Seals. I will go to the queen.”
And Louis XIII, opening the door of communication, passed into the corridor which led from his apartments to those of Anne of Austria.
The queen was in the midst of her women—Mme. de Guitaut, Mme. de Sable, Mme. de Montbazon, and Mme. de Guéméne. In a corner was the Spanish companion, Donna Estafania, who had followed her from Madrid. Mme. Guéméne was reading aloud, and everybody was listening to her with attention with the exception of the queen, who had, on the contrary, desired this reading in order that she might be able, while feigning to listen, to pursue the thread of her own thoughts.
These thoughts, gilded as they were by a last reflection of love, were not the less sad. Anne of Austria, deprived of the confidence of her husband, pursued by the hatred of the cardinal, who could not pardon her for having repulsed a more tender feeling, having before her eyes the example of the queen-mother whom that hatred had tormented all her life—though Marie de Medicis, if the memoirs of the time are to be believed, had begun by according to the cardinal that sentiment which Anne of Austria always refused him—Anne of Austria had seen her most devoted servants fall around her, her most intimate confidants, her dearest favorites. Like those unfortunate persons endowed with a fatal gift, she brought misfortune upon everything she touched. Her friendship was a fatal sign which called down persecution. Mme. de Chevreuse and Mme. de Vernet were exiled, and Laporte did not conceal from his mistress that he expected to be arrested every instant.
The reader hushed herself instantly. All the ladies rose, and there was a profound silence. As to the king, he made no demonstration of politeness, only stopping before the queen. “Madame,” said he, “you are about to receive a visit from the chancellor, who will communicate certain matters to you with which I have charged him.”
The unfortunate queen, who was constantly threatened with divorce, exile, and trial even, turned pale under her rouge, and could not refrain from saying, “But why this visit, sire? What can the chancellor have to say to me that your Majesty could not say yourself?”
The king turned upon his heel without reply, and almost at the same instant the captain of the Guards, M. de Guitant, announced the visit of the chancellor.
When the chancellor appeared, the king had already gone out by another door.
The chancellor entered, half smiling, half blushing. As we shall probably meet with him again in the course of our history, it may be well for our readers to be made at once acquainted with him.
This chancellor was a pleasant man. He was Des Roches le Masle, canon of Notre Dame, who had formerly been valet of a bishop, who introduced him to his Eminence as a perfectly devout man. The cardinal trusted him, and therein found his advantage.
There are many stories related of him, and among them this. After a wild youth, he had retired into a convent, there to expiate, at least for some time, the follies of adolescence. On entering this holy place, the poor penitent was unable to shut the door so close as to prevent the passions he fled from entering with him. He was incessantly attacked by them, and the superior, to whom he had confided this misfortune, wishing as much as in him lay to free him from them, had advised him, in order to conjure away the tempting demon, to have recourse to the bell rope, and ring with all his might. At the denunciating sound, the monks would be rendered aware that temptation was besieging a brother, and all the community would go to prayers.
Three Musketeers (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 23