“Monsieur!” exclaimed Bazin in dismay, on seeing his master’s occupation. “Monsieur—you are not writing, surely! Any exertion has been forbidden—and here is the chirurgeon below, and the Cure of Bernay with him—”
“Excellent, my good Bazin, excellent,” said Aramis in a faint voice. “Bring them up at once.”
He laid aside his quill and sank back on his pillows.
A moment later Bazin ushered the two men into the room. The chirurgeon came to the couch and shook his head as he regarded his patient.
“This is bad, very bad!” he declared, without responding to the greetings of Aramis. “You see, M. le Cure, he has been writing!”
“Exactly,” said Aramis, and smiled at the reverend gentleman. “Monsieur, I had an excellent idea last night for the thesis of which we were speaking yesterday—”
The chirurgeon intervened brusquely. “Your pardon, gentlemen—I must demand silence. M. le Cure, look at this poor man! Regard his pallor, regard his eye, regard his weakness; you can see for yourself. He is sinking.”
“God preserve us!” exclaimed the cure’, and crossed himself. “Surely, monsieur, you cannot mean that—that—”
“That this excellent young man is doomed,” said the chirurgeon firmly. “That, monsieur, is precisely my meaning. In ten minutes the reaction from his efforts will take place and will produce fever. With sunset, this fever will die out. By midnight, he will be in a coma of exhaustion. If he lives until sun-rise, he will die tomorrow afternoon. I have no hesitation in making this prediction to his face—for he has disobeyed my most particular commands. He has undone all my work.”
“In the service of God,” added Aramis. “Besides, my friends, there is really nothing to cause you such distraction. If it be the divine will, I am content to die.”
“You are too devilishly content,” said the blunt man of medicine. “You make no effort to recover. Your will is not at work. I’ve bled you and bled you—and what good does it do?”
“It makes me weaker, I can assure you,” said Aramis. “As for the wound—”
“The wound cannot heal when fever comes upon you,” said the other. He produced certain vials and called for water, which the anxious Bazin fetched. When he had mixed a potion, he entrusted it to the lackey. “Give your master a spoonful of this every hour,” he said, and took up his hat. “Gentlemen, I bid you good day. I shall return toward sunset and change the dressings.”
With this he departed, very angry because of his unheeded instructions. On the stairs, Bazin followed and waylayed him.
“Monsieur,” begged the poor fellow, with tears in his eyes, “tell me the truth, in the name of God! Do not make me suffer. My master is not—ah, surely there is some hope for him?”
“My good man, I cannot deceive you,” said the physician, not unkindly. “He has been at work there for an hour or more; the results are evident. He cannot live more than a day.”
“Jesus!” exclaimed Bazin in horror. “Can nothing help him, nothing save him?”
“Nothing but a miracle,” said the other.
“Then I shall pray for the miracle,” said Bazin.
With a shrug, the physician went his way.
The cure, meantime, sat beside Aramis and felt his brow.
“True, there is fever,” he said, compassionately.
“My dear Abbé d’Herblay, I am distressed beyond words—”
“Nonsense!” said Aramis, with a wan smile. “That man was right, my friend. I have no will to live. I have been hurt, wounded, more grievously in spirit than in body. My thoughts are no longer fastened upon things of this earth. Come, let me read you this thesis! I have the idea of confounding the followers of Jansenius, of placing his infamous book, the ‘Angustinus’, in the light of schismatic heresy. To this effect—but hand me those sheets, I beg of you—let me read to you—”
The cure assisted him to sit up a trifle, handed him the written sheets, and watched him anxiously. With his charming smile, Aramis thanked him, and selected his first sheet.
“Here we have it, my father—you will note that I say nothing of Jansenius at the opening: in fact I have given the thesis a distinct general title.”
In his low, clear voice he began to read:
NEW SCHISMS OF THE WEST
Three great schisms have occurred from the establishment of the Christian religion to our day. The schism which separated the Greek Church from the communion of the Roman Church, and which, begun by Photius in 802, was finished by the Patriarch Cerularius in 1053, is called the Eastern Schism. That which took place after the double election of Urbain VI and Clement VII in 1378, is called the Great Western Schism. Last, the Schism of England, which separated the English from the Roman communion under Ilenry VIII in 1534; from this the Anglican Church took its rise.
Photius was born at Constantinople. He had been ambassador to Persia, and First Secretary of the Emperor Michael, when he was exalted to even greater height—to the Patriarchate of Constantinople in place of Ignace, recently deposed. Pope Nicholas I was opposed to his intrusion and anathematised him in his councils; on his side, Photius gathered his bishops and anathematised the Pope. The Greek Emperor, Basil the Macedonian, re-established Ignace and Photius did not resume the functions of the Patriarchate until after—”
M. le Curé intervened.
“Enough, enough, my dear Abbé,” he said gently though firmly. “I perceive the scholarly trend of this thesis, and can well imagine how you will turn it to present-day value—I beg of you, read no more! Let me peruse the work at my leisure. Linguam compescere, virtus non minima est—it is not the least of virtues, to restrain the tongue—”
“Ah!” exclaimed Aramis. “That reminds me the text I have chosen for this thesis, my dear cure! I really must have your opinion in the matter—”
There was a knock at the door. To the impatient word of Aramis, in came Bazin, looking extremely agitated, and holding a letter in his hand.
“Well?”
“Monsieur!” implored Bazin, desperate. “I swore that you were not here, that you were ill, that you were dying—but they had already learned you were here. Two confounded cavaliers—I mean, two gentlemen—they asked me to bring you this letter—”
“Very well, give it to me,” said Aramis. He sighed and fell back upon the pillows. “What are letters?” he said, after looking at the superscription. “I have nothing to do with the things of this world.”
None the less, he tore open the missive, and a little color came into his face as he read it. The letter was one of the four sent by Lord de Winter; in all respects it was a duplicate of that which Athos had received.
“Singular!” murmured Aramis, and looked up.
“Bazin, you say this was brought by hand?”
“One of the gentlemen said he had fetched it from your former lodgings in Paris, monsieur,” said Bazin, in terror at this new contact with the oldlife. “He is most anxious to have speech with you.”
“Who is he?” said Aramis.
“A stranger, monsieur, masked.”
Aramis handed him the letter, with a gesture of resignation.
“Take this, burn it, destroy it, eat it—what you will. It is nothing to me.”
The cure rose. “My dear friend,” he said, “let me have these sheets you have written—let me read this admirable thesis at my leisure! I shall make place—if you have a visitor, then see him by all means. You should not be here, alone and friendless, desperately ill—”
“I have more than I deserve,” said Aramis in a gloomy voice. “What is the world, after all? A place where anger breeds anger, where wrong begets wrong—litem paret lis, noxa item noxam parit! And have I not brought all my misfortune upon myself by forgetting the first maxim of a devout man—nemo militans De—no servant of God should mix in secular affairs? Take the thesis if you like, my friend. Return soon to me. Bazin! Show M. le Curé out and fetch in this cavalier who seeks me—”
Bazin had been holding the l
etter over a candle. His sharp eyes did not fail to sight the hidden writing, and a subdued groan broke from him as he comprehended its import and read the signature of Lord de Winter. He said nothing of this to Aramis, however; the last scrap of the letter curling up, he pinched out the candle and showed the good cure to the door.
“Winter!” murmured Aramis, left alone, and stared out of the window at the trees. “That Englishman! Well, it has nothing to do with me. I am finished—everything is finished. Let the dead bury their dead. When she—”
Two tears gathered in his eyes and slowly rolled upon his cheeks.
The door opened. A cavalier entered, turned, calmly pushed Bazin outside, then closed the door and turned the key. He approached the couch. Aramis was astonished to see that he was masked. He had fair hair, a mustache and goatee of the same; his hands were as beautiful and as elegantly tended as those of Aramis himself. Blue eyes glittered through the mask. His garments were of blue velvet, and a magnificent diamond sparkled on his right hand.
“Be seated, monsieur,” said Aramis. “I am, as you see, too weak to rise—”
“You are the Abbé d’Herblay?” asked the stranger.
“I am. And you?”
“I am the Chevalier Nemo,” and white, beautiful teeth showed as the stranger smiled and sat down.
“No One!” repeated Aramis, frowning slightly. “I do not like this, monsieur—”
“Your pardon; a few questions, monsieur, and I give you my true name,” said the other. His voice seemed touched with emotion. “Your lackey has told me of your condition—have I your permission to speak frankly?”
The head of Aramis sank back. “What you like, what you like,” he said. “I have no secrets. I have no will to live. I have—nothing.”
“My poor—” began the other, then checked himself. “Two days ago, monsieur, I was in Paris. I was speaking with Mlle. de Sirle.”
Aramis started slightly, then essayed a feeble shrug.
“What of it?” he murmured. “She is a beautiful woman, monsieur, and wicked as she is beautiful. Everyone who knows her, loves her instantly; she lives by love, in fact.”
“And you, monsieur?”
“I? I am impervious to love,” said Aramis with a trace of hauteur. “I have eschewed the vanities of this world. All is vanity, folly, crackling of thorns under a pot!”
“Precisely,” said the other. “Monsieur, you are ill—”
“No,” said Aramis. “I am dying.”
The visitor was silent for a moment, as though in restraint of some deep emotion.
“Then allow me to mention private matters, for which I promise you entire justification,” he rejoined. “You are, I believe, a friend of Mlle. de Sirle.”
“Of that woman!” The lip of Aramis curled slightly. “You do not know me, my friend. She is the most dangerous person in Paris.”
“As you warned M. de Bassompierre.”
Aramis turned, if it were possible, even paler than before.
“How do you know these things?”
“I am coming to that. First tell me—you sent a friend to render Mlle. de Sirle a certain service?”
Aramis hesitated. “Yes. I could not go myself; I had just received a letter which wrecked my entire life. So I sent a friend, for reasons of my own. Three hours afterward I was wounded and robbed, and was brought here. Are you content?”
His voice had become very weak. His eyes closed.
“And where is your friend?”
“I know not,” murmured Aramis. “What matter? Porthos can take care of himself. I sent him—she would make use of him—he would tell me everything. Such was my intent. Then—the letter. Then—the wound. I came this far from Paris—and I am dying. What matter?”
“Ah! I understand now,” said the visitor. “I should have known that La Sirle could never entangle you. This letter you received—it was, perhaps, from a lady named Marie?”
Aramis looked up, started slightly, and regarded the stranger fixedly.
“You—you come from her?”
“No.”
Aramis turned his face away.
“No matter,” he said. “Nothing matters. I am a dead man, and have no hope in this world; say your say and get you gone, for I feel weakness upon me, and all these things have passed out of my life forever.”
Again his eyes closed. It was, indeed, symptomatic of his utter weakness and dejection that he should consent to thus mention names with a stranger. Nothing could have been farther from the usual discreet, even secretive, nature of Aramis, who never let his right hand know what his left hand was about.
Now occurred one of those strange things which never happen for the world to see—those queerly silent things which pass unknown and unvisualized.
Two tears escaped from beneath the vizard of the stranger, as he looked down upon the changed form of the man upon the couch.
“My poor Aramis!” he said in a new voice—a low, rich, ringing voice that broke upon the silence like a chord of music. With a swift gesture, the stranger removed his mask, plucked hard at false goatee and mustache, pulled them away—revealed himself smiling, blue-eyed, soft and dimpled of face as any woman.
Aramis had turned at that voice. One low cry burst from his lips. His eyes widened, and he came to one elbow, staring terribly, the pallor of death in his face.
“You!” he cried in a strangled tone. “You Marie—”
“I, Marie—Marie of Tours—Marie de Rohan—Marie de Chevreuse—Marie who loves you—ah, my poor, poor Aramis! Could you not have guessed that my frightful letter was only a blind for the eyes of others?”
And with a magnificent, impulsive gesture, the speaker was upon her knees and holding the head of Aramis in her arms, against her breast, as she might have held that of a child.
This woman, in whose person were united the most princely names of France, was the sole enemy of Richelieu who could meet him on equal ground, word for word, act for act, genius for genius—and defy him. Against this woman all the power of the great minister was as naught. He might humble her, he might exile her, he might treat with her as with an equal, but he could never outwit or destroy her.
At this moment, in this room, her effulgent beauty was at its zenith. Those dazzling charms which, five years later, were to seduce an emperor, and after another five years a viceroy, were in this moment at the height of their perfection. Only supreme beauty can indulge in passionate tears and yet remain undimmed. As Marie de Chevreuse knelt beside the couch, her tears of pity warm upon the face of him she believed dying, this most beautiful woman of France had never appeared so resplendent, of such sublime loveliness. Marie de Chevreuse, who could swear like a trooper, could weep like an angel.
Outside in the corridor, listening at the locked door, was Bazin. When he heard this cry and this name burst from the lips of Aramis, he straightened up, he staggered, he put out one hand to the wall for support and with the other he crossed himself rapidly.
Then, with a wild and stricken air, he hastened down the corridor with trembling steps, and presently was in the courtyard. A dust-covered coach stood there, a coach bearing no arms nor insignia. Beside it was the horse of the physician, who had stayed his departure in order to cleanse and bind up the hurt of an hostler kicked by a horse. The chirurgeon was washing his hands when Bazin approached him, and he turned in sharp alarm.
“What?” he exclaimed, startled by the lackey’s air. “Your master is not dead already?”
Bazin groaned. “Ah, monsieur, you are a terrible man!” he responded. “You bade me pray for a miracle, and I prayed and—and—”
The physician surveyed him in puzzled wonder.
“And what, my good man?”
“And the miracle happened, monsieur!” exclaimed Bazin in a hollow voice.
“The devil! You do not appear to be very happy about it.”
The casement of the upper room was flung open. The voice of Aramis floated down.
“Bazin! Name of the de
vil, where are you? Come and pack! We are leaving at once!”
From the inn-room came the companion of Mme. de Chevreus—an elderly, shrewd man in the attire of a valet. The host, whose account had evidently just been paid, brought him to the physician.
“Monsieur,” said the valet, “will you have the goodness to inform me of the amount of your fee in the case of the sick man above?”
The physician did so, and then followed Bazin up the stairs, jingling the money in his pouch. The door of the upper room was standing open. The stranger, again masked, mustache and goatee again in place, was supporting Aramis and helping him dress. The physician paused at sight of his patient’s changed aspect.
“I see you are right,” he said to Bazin. “The age of miracles has returned.”
Aramis looked at him and laughed. “Monsieur, I grieve to disappoint you! But devil take me if I intend to die today or tomorrow either!”
“Obviously.” The physician looked at the sparkling eye, the heightened color, the sudden animation and laughing eagerness of his late patient.
“Well, monsieur, at least take the potion I left for you—and if your wound reopens, bid your lackey pray once more but don’t waste the time of a chirurgeon, for your case will be hopeless. Bon voyage, monsieur.”
And, with a bow, he departed.
Bazin, now aiding Aramis into his shirt, murmured a low and despairing word.
“But the thesis, monsieur—the thesis on the Great Schisms! M. le Cure has those precious sheets and he is departed—”
“To the devil with him and the thesis!” said Aramis. “Get my things packed and stowed, saddle the horses, ride mine yourself. I go in the coach.”
“To Paris, monsieur?” queried the unhappy lackey.
“Name of the devil, no!” and the masked stranger broke into a ringing, merry laugh. “In the other direction, my good Bazin—you don’t remember me, eh? Very well, then. At least you’ll remember the place whither we go! To Dampierre.”
Bazin uttered a strangled sound-a combined response and groan. And, furtively, he crossed him self and rolled his eyes to heaven. Monsieur Bazin was a devout man yet he did not congratulate himself on having brought a miracle to pass.
The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack Page 105