Baisemeaux uttered an exclamation of surprise, and almost of delight; for he was exceedingly proud and vain of his fortress; and, for his own individual profit, the more prisoners he had, the happier he was; and the higher the prisoners were in rank, the prouder he felt. Aramis assumed an expression of countenance which he thought the position justified, and said, “Well, dear Athos, forgive me; but I almost suspected what has happened. Some prank of Raoul and La Vallière, I suppose?”
“Alas!” said Baisemeaux.
“And,” continued Aramis, “you, a high and powerful nobleman as you are, forgetful that courtiers now exist,—you have been to the King, I suppose, and told him what you thought of his conduct.”
“Yes, you have guessed right.”
“So that,” said Baisemeaux, trembling at having supped so familiarly with a man who had fallen into disgrace with the King; “so that, Monsieur le Comte—”
“So that, my dear governor,” said Athos, “my friend d’Artagnan will communicate to you the contents of the paper which I perceive just peeping out of his belt, and which assuredly can be nothing else than the order for my incarceration.”
Baisemeaux held out his hand with his accustomed eagerness. D‘Artagnan drew two papers from his belt, and presented one of them to the governor, who unfolded it, and then read, in a low tone of voice, looking at Athos over the paper, as he did so, and pausing from time to time: “ ‘Order to detain in my château of the Bastille, Monsieur le Comte de la Fère.’ Oh! monsieur! this is indeed a very melancholy honour for me.”
“You will have a patient prisoner, monsieur,” said Athos, in his calm, soft voice.
“A prisoner, too, who will not remain a month with you, my dear governor,” said Aramis; while Baisemeaux, still holding the order in his hand, transcribed it upon the prison registry.
“Not a day, or rather not even a night,” said d’Artagnan, displaying the second order of the King, “for now, dear M. de Baisemeaux, you will have the goodness to transcribe also this order for setting the Comte immediately at liberty.”
“Ah!” said Aramis, “it is a labour that you have deprived me of, d’Artagnan;” and he pressed the musketeer’s hand in a significant manner, at the same moment as that of Athos.
“What!” said the latter, in astonishment, “the King sets me at liberty! ”
“Read, my dear friend,” returned d’Artagnan.
Athos took the order and read it. “It is quite true,” he said.
“Are you sorry for it?” asked d’Artagnan.
“Oh, no, on the contrary; I wish the King no harm; and the greatest evil or misfortune that any one can wish Kings, is that they should commit an act of injustice. But you have had a difficult and painful task, I know. Tell me, have you not, d’Artagnan?”
“I? not at all,” said the musketeer, laughing; “the king does everything I wish him to do.”
Aramis looked fixedly at d‘Artagnan, and saw that he was not speaking the truth. But Baisemeaux had eyes for nothing but d’Artagnan, so great was his admiration for a man who seemed to make the King do all he wished. “And does the King exile Athos?” inquired Aramis.
“No, not precisely; the King did not explain himself upon that subject,” replied d’Artagnan; “but I think the Comte could not well do better, unless, indeed, he wishes particularly to thank the King—”
“No, indeed,” replied Athos, smiling.
“Well, then, I think,” resumed d’Artagnan, “that the Comte cannot do better than return to his own chateau. However, my dear Athos, you have only to speak, to tell me what you want. If any particular place of residence is more agreeable to you than another, I am influential enough, perhaps, to obtain it for you.”
“No, thank you,” said Athos; “nothing can be more agreeable to me, my dear friend, than to return to my solitude beneath my noble trees, on the banks of the Loire. If Heaven be the over-ruling physician of the evils of the mind, nature is the sovereign remedy. And so, monsieur,” continued Athos, turning again towards Baisemeaux, “I am now free, I suppose?”
“Yes, Monsieur le Comte, I think so—at least, I hope so,” said the governor, turning over and over the two papers in question, “unless, however, M. d’Artagnan has a third order to give me.”
“No, my dear Monsieur Baisemeaux, no,” said the musketeer; “the second is quite enough; we can stop there.”
“Ah! Monsieur le Comte,” said Baisemeaux, addressing Athos, “you do not know what you are losing. I should have placed you among the thirty-franc prisoners, like the generals—what am I saying?—I mean among the fifty-francs, like the princes; and you would have supped every evening as you have done to-night.”
“Allow me, monsieur,” said Athos, “to prefer my own simpler fare.” And then, turning to d’Artagnan, he said, “Let us go, my dear friend. Shall I have that greatest of all pleasures for me—that of having you as my companion?”
“To the city gate only,” replied d’Artagnan, “after which I will tell you what I told the King. I am on duty.”
“And you, my dear Aramis,” said Athos, smiling; “will you accompany me? La Fère is on the road to Vannes.”
“Thank you, my dear friend,” said Aramis, “but I have an appointment in Paris this evening, and I cannot leave without very serious interests suffering by my absence.”
“In that case,” said Athos, “I must say adieu, and take my leave of you. My dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux, I have to thank you exceedingly for your kind and friendly disposition towards me, and particularly for the specimen you have given me of the usual fare of the Bastille.” And, having embraced Aramis, and shaken hands with M. de Baisemeaux, and having received their wishes for an agreeable journey from them both, Athos set off with d’Artagnan.
Whilst the dénouement of the scene of the Palais-Royal was taking place at the Bastille, let us relate what was going on at the lodgings of Athos and Bragelonne. Grimaud, as we have seen, had accompanied his master to Paris; and, as we have said, he was present when Athos went out; he had observed d’Artagnan gnaw the corners of his moustache; he had seen his master get into the carriage; he had narrowly examined both their countenances, and he had known them both for a sufficiently long period to read and understand, through the mask of their impassibility, that something serious was the matter. As soon as Athos had gone, he began to reflect; he then, and then only, remembered the strange manner in which Athos had taken leave of him, the embarrassment—imperceptible for any one else but himself—of the master whose ideas were, to him, so clear and defined, and the expression of whose wishes was so precise. He knew that Athos had taken nothing with him but the clothes he had on him at the time; and yet he seemed to fancy that Athos had not left for an hour merely, or even for a day. A long absence was signified by the manner in which he pronounced the word “Adieu.” All these circumstances recurred to his mind, with feelings of deep affection for Athos, with that horror of isolation and solitude which invariably besets the minds of those who love; and all these combined, rendered poor Grimaud very melancholy, and particularly very uneasy. Without being able to account to himself for what he did, since his master’s departure he wandered about the room, seeking as it were, for some traces of him, like a faithful dog, who is not exactly uneasy about his absent master, but at least is restless. Only as, in addition to the instinct of the animal, Grimaud subjoined the reasoning faculties of the man, Grimaud therefore felt uneasy and restless too. Not having found any indication which could serve as a guide, and having neither seen nor discovered anything which could satisfy his doubts, Grimaud began to imagine what could possibly have happened. Besides, the imagination is the resource, or rather the punishment of good and affectionate hearts. In fact, never does a good heart represent its absent friend to itself as being happy or cheerful. Never does the pigeon who travels in search of adventures inspire anything but terror to the pigeon who remains at home.
Grimaud soon passed from uneasiness to terror; he carefully went over, in his ow
n mind, everything that had taken place; d‘Artagnan’s letter to Athos, the letter which had seemed to distress Athos so much after he had read it; then Raoul’s visit to Athos, which resulted in Athos desiring him (Grimaud) to get his various orders and his court dress ready to put on; then his interview with the King, at the end of which Athos had returned home so unusually gloomy; then the explanation between the father and the son, at the termination of which Athos had embraced Raoul with such sadness of expression, while Raoul himself went away equally sad and melancholy; and, finally, d’Artagnan’s arrival, biting, as if he were vexed, the end of his moustache, and his leaving again in the carriage, accompanied by the Comte de la Fère. All that composed a drama in five acts very clearly, particularly for so analytical an examiner as Grimaud.
The first step he took was to search in his master’s coat for M. d’Artagnan’s letter; he found the letter still there, which contained the following:—
“My dear Friend,—
Raoul has been to ask me for some particulars, about the conduct of Mademoiselle de la Vallière, during our young friend’s residence in London. I am a poor captain of musketeers, and am sickened to death every day by hearing all the scandal of the barracks and bedside conversations. If I had told Raoul all I believe I know, the poor fellow would have died from it; but I am in the King’s service, and cannot relate all I hear about the King’s affairs. If your heart tells you to do it, set off at once; the matter concerns you more than myself, and almost as much as Raoul.”
Grimaud tore, not a handful, but a finger-and-thumbful of hair out of his head; he would have done more if his head of hair had been in more flourishing circumstances.
“Yes,” he said, “that is the key of the whole enigma. The young girl has been playing her pranks; what people say about her and the King is true, then; our young master has been deceived; he ought to know it. Monsieur le Comte has been to see the King, and has told him a piece of his mind; and then the King sent M. d’Artagnan to arrange the affair. Ah! gracious goodness!” continued Grimaud, “Monsieur le Comte, I now remember, returned without his sword.”
This discovery made the perspiration break out all over poor Grimaud’s face. He did not waste any more time in useless conjecture, but clapped his hat on his head, and ran to Raoul’s lodgings.
Raoul, after Louise had left him, had mastered his grief, if not his affliction; and, compelled to look forward on that perilous road on which madness and rebellion were hurrying him, he had seen, from the very first glance, his father exposed to the royal obstinacy; since Athos had himself been the first to oppose any resistance to the royal will. At this moment, from a very natural sympathy of feeling, the unhappy young man remembered the mysterious signs which Athos had made, and the unexpected visit of d‘Artagnan; the result of the conflict between a sovereign and a subject revealed itself to his terrified vision. As d’Artagnan was on duty, that is, fixed to his post without possibility of leaving it, it was certainly not likely that he had come to pay Athos a visit merely for the pleasure of seeing him. He must have come to say something to him. This something, in such painful conjectures, was either a misfortune or a danger. Raoul trembled at having been so selfish as to have forgotten his father for his affection; at having, in a word, passed his time in idle dreams, or in an indulgence of despair, at a time when a necessity existed for repelling the imminent attack directed against Athos. The very idea nearly drove him wild; he buckled on his sword and ran towards his father’s lodging. On his way there he encountered Grimaud, who, having set off from the opposite pole, was running with equal eagerness in search of the truth. The two men embraced each other most warmly.
“Grimaud,” exclaimed Raoul, “is the Comte well?”
“Have you seen him?”
“No; where is he?”
“I am trying to find out.”
“And M. d’Artagnan?”
“Went out with him.”
“When?”
“Ten minutes after you had left.”
“In what way did they go out?”
“In a carriage.”
“Where did they go to?”
“I have no idea at all.”
“Did my father take any money with him?”
“No.”
“Or his sword?”
“No.”
“I have an idea, Grimaud, that M. d’Artagnan came in order to—”
“Arrest Monsieur le Comte, do you not think, monsieur?”
“Yes, Grimaud.”
“I could have sworn it.”
“What road did they take?”
“The way leading towards the quays.”
“To the Bastille, then?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Quick, quick; let us run.”
“Yes, let us not lose a moment.”
“But where are we to go to?” said Raoul, overwhelmed.
“We will go to M. d’Artagnan’s first, we may perhaps learn something there.”
“No; if they kept me in ignorance at my father’s, they will do the same everywhere. Let us go to—Oh, good Heavens! why I must be mad to-day, Grimaud; I have forgotten M. du Vallon, who is waiting for and expecting me still.”
“Where is he, then?”
“At the Minimes of Vincennes.”
“Thank goodness, that is on the same side as the Bastille. I will run and saddle the horses, and we will go at once,” said Grimaud.
“Do, my friend, do.”
27
In Which Porthos Is Convinced Without Having Understood Anything
THE GOOD AND WORTHY Porthos, faithful to all the laws of ancient chivalry, had determined to wait for M. de Saint-Aignan until sunset; and, as Saint-Aignan did not come, as Raoul had forgotten to communicate with his second, and as he found that waiting so long was very wearisome, Porthos had desired one of the gatekeepers to fetch him a few bottles of good wine and a good joint of meat,—so that he at least might pass away the time with a glass of wine and a mouthful of something to eat. He had just finished when Raoul arrived, escorted by Grimaud, both riding at full speed. As soon as Porthos saw the two cavaliers riding at such a pace along the road, he did not for a moment doubt but that they were the men he was expecting, and he rose from the grass upon which he had been indolently reclining and began to stretch his legs and arms, saying, “See what it is to have good habits. The fellow has finished by coming after all. If I had gone away he would have found no one here, and would have taken an advantage from that.” He then threw himself into a martial attitude, and drew himself up to the full height of his gigantic stature. But instead of Saint-Aignan, he only saw Raoul, who, with the most despairing gestures, accosted him by crying out, “Pray forgive me, my dear friend, I am most wretched.”
“Raoul,” cried Porthos, surprised.
“You have been angry with me?” said Raoul, embracing Porthos.
“I? What for?”
“For having forgotten you. But I assure you my head seems utterly lost. If you only knew!”
“You have killed him?”
“Who.”
“Saint-Aignan; or if that is not the case, what is the matter?”
“The matter is that Monsieur le Comte de la Fère has by this time been arrested.”
Porthos gave a start that would have thrown down a wall.
“Arrested,” he cried out; “by whom?”
“By d’Artagnan.”
“It is impossible,” said Porthos.
“My dear friend; it is perfectly true.”
Porthos turned towards Grimaud, as if he needed a second confirmation of the intelligence. Grimaud nodded his head. “And where have they taken him to?”
“Probably to the Bastille.”
“What makes you think that?”
“As we came along we questioned some persons, who saw the carriage pass; and others who saw it enter the Bastille.”
“Oh, oh!” muttered Porthos.
“What do you intend to do?” inquired Raoul.
<
br /> “I? Nothing; only I will not have Athos remain at the Bastille.”
“Do you know,” said Raoul, advancing nearer to Porthos, “that the arrest was made by order of the King?”
Porthos looked at the young man, as if to say, “What does that matter to me?” This dumb language seemed so eloquent of meaning to Raoul, that he did not ask another question. He mounted his horse again; and Porthos, assisted by Grimaud, had already done the same.
“Let us arrange our plan of action,” said Raoul.
“Yes,” returned Porthos, “that is the best thing we can do.”
Raoul sighed deeply, and then paused suddenly.
“What is the matter?” asked Porthos; “are you faint?”
“No, only I feel how utterly helpless our position is. Can we three pretend to go and take the Bastille?”
“Well, if d’Artagnan were only here,” replied Porthos, “I don’t know about that.”
Raoul could not resist a feeling of admiration at the sight of such a perfect confidence, heroic in its simplicity. These were truly the celebrated men who, by three or four, attacked armies, and assaulted castles! Those men who had terrified death itself, and who survived the wrecks of an age, and were still stronger than the most robust of the young.
“Monsieur,” said he to Porthos, “you have just given me an idea; we absolutely must see M. d’Artagnan.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“He ought by this time to have returned home, after having taken my father to the Bastille. Let us go to his house.”
“First inquire at the Bastille,” said Grimaud, who was in the habit of speaking little, but that to the purpose.
Accordingly, they hastened towards the fortress, when one of those chances which Heaven bestows on men of strong will, caused Grimaud suddenly to perceive the carriage, which was entering by the great gate of the drawbridge. This was at the moment that d’Artagnan was, as we have seen, returning from his visit to the King. In vain was it that Raoul urged on his horse in order to join the carriage, and to see whom it contained. The horses had already gained the other side of the great gate, which again closed, while one of the sentries struck the nose of Raoul’s horse with his musket; Raoul turned about, only too happy to find he had ascertained something respecting the carriage which had contained his father.
Man in the Iron Mask (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 24