“I utter only the truth, here written, Your Eminence; I leave conjectures to you alone!: Imprimis, Dom Lawrence is prior of St. Saforin, at which place is a school for the children of the provincial nobility. In this school is a boy of about four years. This boy was left with the prior last year by a lackey, whose master also left a sum of money for his care, and who promised to send from time to time to ask after him. Any communication regarding the boy is to be sent to M. Betstein, in care of a jeweler in Rue Gros, at Paris.”
A smile touched the lips of the cardinal.
“One must admit,” he said ironically, “that M. de Bassompierre provides well for the gages of devotion—”
“I have not said that M. de Bassompierre was providing for anyone,” said the Capuchin. “I am stating only facts, Monseigneur; and now I must remind you of another fact for some time overlooked. On the night of October 8, 1626, while M. de Bassompierre was in London as ambassador, he paid a secret visit to York House, where the Duke of Buckingham then lived. He went unaccompanied, without lights, and remained for a long time closeted with the duke.”
Richelieu was silent for some moments, as though searching the meaning behind these words.
“Your catalogue of facts, my dear Pete Joseph, seems very unconnected,” he said.
The Capuchin bowed his head in assent. “Undoubtedly, Your Eminence. Let us return to the boy. His name is inscribed on the abbey rolls as Raoul d’Aram. His family is unknown. I found there were certain marks on the clothing he wore when he came to St. Saforin. By means of these marks, commonly placed on garments by the makers, we found that the boy came from Aubain, a village near the royal forest of Verrieres, on the southern road to Versailles.”
“You appear to have extraordinary interest in this boy,” said the minister drily.
“The interest, Monseigneur, would appear to have extraordinary justification.”
“Expound.”
“At Aubain the name of d’Aram was unknown,” continued the Capuchin. “I found, however, that such a boy had been in care of the curate of Aubain, who died a year ago. His housekeeper, who had taken charge of the boy, died about the same time. The boy was then taken to St. Saforin. The curate was a distant relative of Mme. de Chevreuse—a man named Thounenin, of Dompt.”
“Ah!” The gaze of the Cardinal at once became alert, attentive. He had no more bitter enemy than Marie de Rohan, Duchesse de Chevreuse, now exiled to her estates.
“Your Eminence may recall,” pursued the Capuchin, slowly choosing his words, “that some four years ago Her Majesty the Queen was very ill of a fever at the Chateau of Versailles.”
“I recall the fact perfectly.” Richelieu was now all attention. “She caught this fever from Chevreuse, whose life was despaired of, but whom it pleased God to spare.
“For further mischief,” added the Capuchin. “Good. I have only one more fact to present rather. I allow you to present it to yourself, and if there are any conjectures to be drawn, I leave them to you. I beg you to recall the precise date of the secret interview which took place in the gardens of Amiens between Her Majesty and the Duke of Buckingham. That is all, Monseigneur.”
The pallor of Richelieu’s thin features became accentuated. For a moment he sat absolutely motionless, then a deep and angry rush of color swept into his face. Step by step he had followed the exposition of fact—and now that he had the clue, he was speechless. He rose from his chair, paced up and down the room with quick and nervous tread, then swung on his secretary.
“Monsieur, this is absolutely incredible!” he exclaimed. “It is an impossibility!”
“I am not aware to what Your Eminence refers,” came the cool response. “However, I assure you that when a man—or woman—is well served, nothing is incredible or impossible.”
Richelieu made a brusque, impatient gesture.
“This is important—no rhetoric, if you please!” The harsh and bitter ring in his words told how deeply he was stirred. “I remember now—Madame de Chevreuse was the devoted nurse of Her Majesty at the time! She herself, barely recovered from illnes—ah! If this be true—if this be true—”
He stood silent, staring at the tapestried wall, his long fingers intertwined in a grip that whitened the knuckles. His face was tortured by a thousand emotions. Suddenly he turned.
“Look you,” he said crisply. “The intimation that this is the child of Her Majesty—it is blasphemy! Worse, it is impossible. The child could not have been carried unobserved—it could not have been born unobserved! It could not have been disposed of—”
Upon his agitated words struck the inexorable voice of the Capuchin, like a bell of steel.
“Your Eminence, consider. You have surmised a certain conclusion from my facts. It is not at all impossible. Chevreuse is a very able woman. Surely she could contrive what any fish-merchant’s daughter could contrive?”
“Bah! The Queen is the center of a thousand eyes—”
“For which Chevreuse could manufacture thousand blindfolds. Besides, this cure received the child from her own hands; his silence was bought. On his deathbed he added a codicil to his will which stated these facts.”
“What!” The cardinal bent a sharp, astounded gaze upon him. “Does such a will exist?”
“It does; so, at least, I have been informed. The will was abstracted from the archives; the loss was discovered—it was sent to England for safety. It is now on the way here—is possibly in Paris at this moment. Provided Your Eminence is sufficiently interested to hear the steps I have taken, I may place all the threads of this affair in your hands—”
Richelieu resumed his chair with a nod of assent. The slightly satirical accent of Pere Joseph delighted him; this secretary was by no means humble except in public, for Pere Joseph knew his worth and stood firmly upon it. Richelieu liked this sort of man—in private.
“There is a woman named Helene de Sirle, daughter of a gentleman killed at La Rochelle; a most able woman, devoted to Your Eminence. You may have heard of her?”
The Cardinal’s brows lifted slightly. “I have heard something of such a person. What was it—she lives alone—hm! I have forgotten.”
To Pere Joseph, it was perhaps obvious that His Eminence had forgotten nothing.
“Who lives alone in a small chateau in the Parc du Montmorenci outside Passy—quite so. She has means. She has relatives in Lorraine. She is never in the public eye, yet she has an extensive acquaintance.”
“Indeed!” said Richelieu, veiling the bright flash of his eye. “Such a woman should be of use, upon occasion.
“She is,” said Pere Joseph drily. “We dare not employ the usual channels in regard to that document; it is to be delivered to her upon reaching Paris. Further, she has undertaken to gain information about the child at St. Saforin.”
“For what purpose, and from whom?” demanded Richelieu.
“In the event that we desire to take possession of the child. From a gentleman who has twice visited St. Saforin and spoken with the child, who is suspected of being in constant correspondence with Chevreuse, and who is known to be a friend of Bassompierre. One Abbe d’Herblay, at one time, I believe, a Musketeer.”
“Ah!” said Richelieu. “D’Herblay—one of the Inseparables, they were termed! I remember the man. When will you have more definite information?”
“A messenger from Mlle. de Sirle should have arrived today; he will certainly arrive tonight,” said Pere Joseph. “He will bear full details verbally, and any documentary evidence that has been procured.”
Richelieu nodded thoughtfully. “After all, it is not impossible,” he said. “Bassompierre and Buckingham were warm friends. He, acting for Buckingham; Chevreuse, acting for her—hm! No, you are right; where one is well served, anything is possible. Ah—someone is arriving below—”
“Our messenger, no doubt.”
From the courtyard rose the sounds of a rider being admitted, greeted, welcomed. The minister struck a bell, and a lackey entered.
“Find out who has just arrived. Bring him here.”
In two minutes the lackey returned.
“Your Eminence, M. d’Artagnan, Lieutenant of Musketeers, has just arrived with despatches from the court at Lyon. He will be brought here immediately.”
The lackey withdrew. Richelieu waited, a slight frown upon his brow. A knock, and d’Artagnan entered, saluted, stood at attention.
“Ah, M. d’Artagnan! We are happy to have you with us again!” said the Cardinal affably.
The musketeer bowed. “Your Eminence does me too much honor. It is I who am proud to find myself again near the person of Your Eminence.”
“I think, Pere Joseph,” and Richelieu turned, “you desired to ask M. d’Artagnan something?”
“Ah, yes! Perhaps, monsieur, on your way from Lyon you encountered a gentleman named M. Connetans?”
“I have never heard the name,” said d’Artagnan, and I encountered no one upon the road except a dead man, some leagues from here.”
“A dead man?” The Capuchin was suddenly agitated. “Describe him, if you please—”
“Gladly, monsieur. He was unknown to me, and had not long before been attacked and shot by robbers, evidently. His horse was close by, mine was dying. I took his animal and came on—”
“His description?” interrupted the Capuchin anxiously.
“A tall man, since I had to shorten his stirrups. He had a rather brutal face marked by very black brows meeting above his eyes. I could do nothing for him, and did not delay.”
Pere Joseph seemed overcome, and Richelieu intervened.
“Thank you, monsieur,” he said, with the graciousness he could so well summon at command.
“You are, I believe, attached to duty with the court?”
“Yes, Your Eminence. My company has the honor of acting as Her Majesty’s guards at Lyon.”
“Then I shall see you again, I trust. We will not detain you further—good night, monsieur!”
D’Artagnan departed. The Capuchin lifted a suddenly tortured face.
“My man—waylaid by robbers—ah, destiny is unkind!” he exclaimed.
The cardinal affectionately laid his hand on Pere Joseph’s shoulder. “You complain of destiny? I shall make destiny complain of me, I promise you!”
“Then, Monseigneur, you find my facts worthy your interest?”
“All facts are worthy of interest,” said the cardinal. “And they may even make conjectures worthy of interest, my friend and father! By the way, you did not chance to notice the gold ring upon the hand of M. d’Artagnan—graven with the arms of-”
“I noticed nothing,” confessed Pere Joseph. “I was agitated, Monseigneur. The ring—whose arms, did you say?”
Richelieu told him. The two men looked one at another for a long, silent moment.
CHAPTER III
MENTION THE DEVIL, AND HE APPEARS
His despatches delivered, d’Artagnan found himself taken in charge by Comte de Moreau, a gentleman of the king’s household. Moreau carried d’Artagnan to his own quarters, bedded him on a couch in his own room, wakened him in the morning, and insisted on accompanying him to a nearby tavern for the morning draught. At any other time this pressing hospitality would have delighted our lieutenant of musketeers, but at the moment he found it devilish inopportune—he had a letter in his pocket which he was burning to read, and could find no opportunity of perusing it in private.
He did, however, deposit the sealed packet upon the fire in their quarters, and watched it go up in flames. Whatever might be in that packet, was evidently the secret of Aramis alone; the letter was a different matter.
“His Majesty and the Cardinal are quartered in the Hotel des Lesdigue’res,” said Moreau, when they had dispelled the remnants of slumber with good wine of the countryside. “If you wish to attend the king’s levee—”
“Not I,” said d’Artagnan. “With all the thanks in the world, my friend, I beg to decline the honor. I’ve had nothing but risings and beddings for a month past; dressings and undressings, paintings and powderings—plague take it! I hoped our company would go with the army; instead, we dance attendance on two queens and court officials.”
Moreau laughed. “You’re in good company at all events—how Bassompierre would envy you! And seriously, you’re in luck. Fever is widespread in the army, and before the summer’s over we’ll hear more of it. Then you’ll not come?”
“Not for a bit,” said d’Artagnan. “I’ll show myself later. Don’t let me detain you if duty calls, I beg of you!”
Moreau departed. At this instant a group of officers entered, and d’Artagnan sighed in vexation as they came to the next table, close by. He ordered another bottle of wine, resolving to out-drink them; his uniform made him conspicuous in the streets, and he strongly desired the privacy of the tavern in order to read the letter in his pocket—the letter from which he hoped to get some explanation of the strange and tragic words of the dying man.
Then, as he waited, he grew interested in the talk at the next table. One of the officers had come from Lyon to join the king; the other three had come in the suite of the Cardinal from the army, and gossip was rife from both directions.
Listening, d’Artagnan, who never despised current knowledge, learned a large number of things. Bassompierre was expected to arrive here any hour, any day. The marshal was extremely annoyed because he shared the command of the army with Schomberg and Crequy, and had complained hotly to the king, but without result.
Everywhere intrigue was raising its head, against everyone in sight, and was openly discussed. Chiefly it arose from Marie de Medici, who took the part of Savoy. She was furious because Richelieu had conquered practically the entire dukedom, and now it was said she intended to prevent the king from rejoining the army.
“Bah!” exclaimed one of the Cardinalists. “The Italian woman hopes that Casale will fall, then she’ll blame Richelieu and stir up trouble. Ten to one she’ll flatter Bassompierre and try to disaffect him!”
“Well, if she has a pretty maid of honor to do the flattering, she may succeed!” observed another, and there was a laugh. “What’s this about the queen-mother coming here, eh?”
“Rumor,” and another shrugged. “I hear that His Majesty has sent for her, hoping she’ll come and patch up matters with His Eminence. Not likely, with Marillac at Lyon! That rascal hates everything red—”
“Your pardon, gentlemen,” spoke up the king’s officer with dignity. “M. de Marillac is the Keeper of the Seals and a high official of France. I do not care to sit and hear him thus miscalled; what is more to the point, he is a relative of my family.”
“Your pardon, M. Constant—we did not know that,” came the response in chorus, for everyone was in too good humor to stand on punctilio. One of the officers lifted his flagon. “A health to all the royal family, ministers, officials and what not in France! And damnation to the enemy Austrian!”
“Which Austrian?” cried another, laughing. “The enemy in France or the enemy in Austria?”
The mustaches of d’Artagnan began to quiver.
“Whichever you like!” returned the officer. “Peste, gentlemen—where’s the difference?”
“Difference enough, Montforge!” came the laughing response. “Confidant of our good Pere Joseph, conducting private campaigns in Paris while we’re conducting public ones with the army—, faith, you may not know there’s a difference, but we do! Ill talk, my friend, ill talk! I don’t believe half this gossip about Imperialist intrigue going on court—
“The devil you don’t!” exclaimed Montforge.
He was a large and powerful man, very handsomely dressed and armed. “I’ll wager M. Constant here can bear me out—he’s fresh from Lyon! Eh, my friend? Isn’t it true that the Austrian in France is more to be feared than all the Austrians in Italy and the Empire put together?”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite get the point, gentlemen,” said the king’s officer, with an air of embarrassment. “Ther
e are no Austrians in France.”
D’Artagnan’s eyes were very bright and gleaming now.
Peste!” said Montforge, with a guffaw. “Come, come, talk’s free on campaign! You know well enough that the Austrian in the Louvre fights against us—”
A sudden deluge of wine stopped his words, choked his voice, filled his eyes and face and dribbled down over his fine apparel. With an amazed and angry oath, he leaped to his feet and wiped his eyes.
D’Artagnan bowed profoundly.
“My compliments, gentlemen, my compliments!” he exclaimed gravely. “Upon my word, this is a most unfortunate occurrence! You see, gentlemen, I was sound asleep, and thinking that I heard someone traduce Her Gracious Majesty—”
“Devil take you!” roared out Montforge, “Enough of this pleasantry! You confounded little rogue of a Gascon, is this some jest?”
D’Artagnan twirled his mustache and inspected the cavalier critically.
“Just what I was asking, indeed! Do you know, monsieur, I begin to believe that it was?”
In the eyes of the Gascon, in the steady, implacable gaze, Montforge read the truth. He became deadly pale, and bowed slightly.
“Very well, monsieur. I perceive that you belong to the Musketeers; you will, therefore, have no compunction in rendering me satisfaction?”
“With all my heart, monsieur!” replied d’Artagnan. “I am M. d’Artagnan, lieutenant in the company of M. Rambure’s. May I have the honor of knowing with whom I speak?”
He perceived instantly that his name had created an impression.
“This is M. le Comte de Montforge,” said another officer, and introduced the group. “You have friends here, monsieur?”
“Undoubtedly,” said d’Artagnan, “but since I arrived only last night, I’m somewhat at a loss whither to direct you. I—I—I—”
A species of stupefaction descended upon him. His voice failed. He staggered back a step and remained staring, his jaw fallen.
Into the inn room had just entered a man of large build. His boots, cloak, garb, all bespoke recent arrival—he was covered with dust from head to foot. He flung hat and cloak upon a settle, raising a cloud of dust, and showed that he bore his left arm in a sling. “Wine!” he cried out, in a voice that reverberated under the rafters and rang back from the copper kettles about the fireplace. “Wine! Food! Name of a name of a name—must I die of thirst and hunger and fatigue because you lazy dogs of scullions can’t—for the love of the good God! Am I dreaming or—or—”
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