Vingt ans après. English

by Alexandre Dumas

  64. Whitehall.

  The parliament condemned Charles to death, as might have been foreseen.Political judgments are generally vain formalities, for the samepassions which give rise to the accusation ordain to the condemnation.Such is the atrocious logic of revolutions.

  Although our friends were expecting that condemnation, it filled themwith grief. D'Artagnan, whose mind was never more fertile in resourcesthan in critical emergencies, swore again that he would try allconceivable means to prevent the denouement of the bloody tragedy. Butby what means? As yet he could form no definite plan; all must depend oncircumstances. Meanwhile, it was necessary at all hazards, in order togain time, to put some obstacle in the way of the execution on thefollowing day--the day appointed by the judges. The only way of doingthat was to cause the disappearance of the London executioner. Theheadsman out of the way, the sentence could not be executed. True, theycould send for the headsman of the nearest town, but at least a daywould be gained, and a day might be sufficient for the rescue.D'Artagnan took upon himself that more than difficult task.

  Another thing, not less essential, was to warn Charles Stuart of theattempt to be made, so that he might assist his rescuers as much aspossible, or at least do nothing to thwart their efforts. Aramis assumedthat perilous charge. Charles Stuart had asked that Bishop Juxon mightbe permitted to visit him. Mordaunt had called on the bishop that veryevening to apprise him of the religious desire expressed by the king andalso of Cromwell's permission. Aramis determined to obtain from thebishop, through fear or by persuasion, consent that he should enter inthe bishop's place, and clad in his sacerdotal robes, the prison atWhitehall.

  Finally, Athos undertook to provide, in any event, the means of leavingEngland--in case either of failure or of success.

  The night having come they made an appointment to meet at eleven o'clockat the hotel, and each started out to fulfill his dangerous mission.

  The palace of Whitehall was guarded by three regiments of cavalry and bythe fierce anxiety of Cromwell, who came and went or sent his generalsor his agents continually. Alone in his usual room, lighted by twocandles, the condemned monarch gazed sadly on the luxury of his pastgreatness, just as at the last hour one sees the images of life moremildly brilliant than of yore.

  Parry had not quitted his master, and since his condemnation had notceased to weep. Charles, leaning on a table, was gazing at a medallionof his wife and daughter; he was waiting first for Juxon, then formartyrdom.

  At times he thought of those brave French gentlemen who had appeared tohim from a distance of a hundred leagues fabulous and unreal, like theforms that appear in dreams. In fact, he sometimes asked himself if allthat was happening to him was not a dream, or at least the delirium of afever. He rose and took a few steps as if to rouse himself from historpor and went as far as the window; he saw glittering below him themuskets of the guards. He was thereupon constrained to admit that he wasindeed awake and that his bloody dream was real.

  Charles returned in silence to his chair, rested his elbow on the table,bowed his head upon his hand and reflected.

  "Alas!" he said to himself, "if I only had for a confessor one of thoselights of the church, whose soul has sounded all the mysteries of life,all the littlenesses of greatness, perhaps his utterance would overawethe voice that wails within my soul. But I shall have a priest of vulgarmind, whose career and fortune I have ruined by my misfortune. He willspeak to me of God and death, as he has spoken to many another dyingman, not understanding that this one leaves his throne to an usurper,his children to the cold contempt of public charity."

  And he raised the medallion to his lips.

  It was a dull, foggy night. A neighboring church clock slowly struck thehour. The flickering light of the two candles showed fitful phantomshadows in the lofty room. These were the ancestors of Charles, standingback dimly in their tarnished frames.

  An awful sadness enveloped the heart of Charles. He buried his brow inhis hands and thought of the world, so beautiful when one is about toleave it; of the caresses of children, so pleasing and so sweet,especially when one is parting from his children never to see themagain; then of his wife, the noble and courageous woman who hadsustained him to the last moment. He drew from his breast the diamondcross and the star of the Garter which she had sent him by thosegenerous Frenchmen; he kissed it, and then, as he reflected, that shewould never again see those things till he lay cold and mutilated in thetomb, there passed over him one of those icy shivers which may be calledforerunners of death.

  Then, in that chamber which recalled to him so many royal souvenirs,whither had come so many courtiers, the scene of so much flatteringhomage, alone with a despairing servant, whose feeble soul could affordno support to his own, the king at last yielded to sorrow, and hiscourage sank to a level with that feebleness, those shadows, and thatwintry cold. That king, who was so grand, so sublime in the hour ofdeath, meeting his fate with a smile of resignation on his lips, now inthat gloomy hour wiped away a tear which had fallen on the table andquivered on the gold embroidered cloth.

  Suddenly the door opened, an ecclesiastic in episcopal robes entered,followed by two guards, to whom the king waved an imperious gesture. Theguards retired; the room resumed its obscurity.

  "Juxon!" cried Charles, "Juxon, thank you, my last friend; you come at afitting moment."

  The bishop looked anxiously at the man sobbing in the ingle-nook.

  "Come, Parry," said the king, "cease your tears."

  "If it's Parry," said the bishop, "I have nothing to fear; so allow meto salute your majesty and to tell you who I am and for what I am come."

  At this sight and this voice Charles was about to cry out, when Aramisplaced his finger on his lips and bowed low to the king of England.

  "The chevalier!" murmured Charles.

  "Yes, sire," interrupted Aramis, raising his voice, "Bishop Juxon, thefaithful knight of Christ, obedient to your majesty's wishes."

  Charles clasped his hands, amazed and stupefied to find that theseforeigners, without other motive than that which their conscienceimposed on them, thus combated the will of a people and the destiny of aking.

  "You!" he said, "you! how did you penetrate hither? If they recognizeyou, you are lost."

  "Care not for me, sire; think only of yourself. You see, your friendsare wakeful. I know not what we shall do yet, but four determined mencan do much. Meanwhile, do not be surprised at anything that happens;prepare yourself for every emergency."

  Charles shook his head.

  "Do you know that I die to-morrow at ten o'clock?"

  "Something, your majesty, will happen between now and then to make theexecution impossible."

  The king looked at Aramis with astonishment.

  At this moment a strange noise, like the unloading of a cart, andfollowed by a cry of pain, was heard beneath the window.

  "Do you hear?" said the king.

  "I hear," said Aramis, "but I understand neither the noise nor the cryof pain."

  "I know not who can have uttered the cry," said the king, "but the noiseis easily understood. Do you know that I am to be beheaded outside thiswindow? Well, these boards you hear unloaded are the posts and planks tobuild my scaffold. Some workmen must have fallen underneath them andbeen hurt."

  Aramis shuddered in spite of himself.

  "You see," said the king, "that it is useless for you to resist. I amcondemned; leave me to my death."

  "My king," said Aramis, "they well may raise a scaffold, but they cannotmake an executioner."

  "What do you mean?" asked the king.

  "I mean that at this hour the headsman has been got out of the way byforce or persuasion. The scaffold will be ready by to-morrow, but theheadsman will be wanting and they will put it off till the day afterto-morrow."

  "What then?" said the king.

  "To-morrow night we shall rescue you."

  "How can that be?" cried the king, whose face was lighted up, in spiteof himself, by a flash of joy.

&
nbsp; "Oh! sir," cried Parry, "may you and yours be blessed!"

  "How can it be?" repeated the king. "I must know, so that I may assistyou if there is any chance."

  "I know nothing about it," continued Aramis, "but the cleverest, thebravest, the most devoted of us four said to me when I left him, 'Tellthe king that to-morrow at ten o'clock at night, we shall carry himoff.' He has said it and will do it."

  "Tell me the name of that generous friend," said the king, "that I maycherish for him an eternal gratitude, whether he succeeds or not."

  "D'Artagnan, sire, the same who had so nearly rescued you when ColonelHarrison made his untimely entrance."

  "You are, indeed, wonderful men," said the king; "if such things hadbeen related to me I should not have believed them."

  "Now, sire," resumed Aramis, "listen to me. Do not forget for a singleinstant that we are watching over your safety; observe the smallestgesture, the least bit of song, the least sign from any one near you;watch everything, hear everything, interpret everything."

  "Oh, chevalier!" cried the king, "what can I say to you? There is noword, though it should come from the profoundest depth of my heart, thatcan express my gratitude. If you succeed I do not say that you will savea king; no, in presence of the scaffold as I am, royalty, I assure you,is a very small affair; but you will save a husband to his wife, afather to his children. Chevalier, take my hand; it is that of a friendwho will love you to his last sigh."

  Aramis stooped to kiss the king's hand, but Charles clasped his andpressed it to his heart.

  At this moment a man entered, without even knocking at the door. Aramistried to withdraw his hand, but the king still held it. The man was oneof those Puritans, half preacher and half soldier, who swarmed aroundCromwell.

  "What do you want, sir?" said the king.

  "I desire to know if the confession of Charles Stuart is at an end?"said the stranger.

  "And what is it to you?" replied the king; "we are not of the samereligion."

  "All men are brothers," said the Puritan. "One of my brothers is aboutto die and I come to prepare him."

  "Bear with him," whispered Aramis; "it is doubtless some spy."

  "After my reverend lord bishop," said the king to the man, "I shall hearyou with pleasure, sir."

  The man retired, but not before examining the supposed Juxon with anattention which did not escape the king.

  "Chevalier," said the king, when the door was closed, "I believe you areright and that this man only came here with evil intentions. Take carethat no misfortune befalls you when you leave."

  "I thank your majesty," said Aramis, "but under these robes I have acoat of mail, a pistol and a dagger."

  "Go, then, sir, and God keep you!"

  The king accompanied him to the door, where Aramis pronounced hisbenediction upon him, and passing through the ante-rooms, filled withsoldiers, jumped into his carriage and drove to the bishop's palace.Juxon was waiting for him impatiently.

  "Well?" said he, on perceiving Aramis.

  "Everything has succeeded as I expected; spies, guards, satellites, alltook me for you, and the king blesses you while waiting for you to blesshim."

  "May God protect you, my son; for your example has given me at the sametime hope and courage."

  Aramis resumed his own attire and left Juxon with the assurance that hemight again have recourse to him.

  He had scarcely gone ten yards in the street when he perceived that hewas followed by a man, wrapped in a large cloak. He placed his hand onhis dagger and stopped. The man came straight toward him. It wasPorthos.

  "My dear friend," cried Aramis.

  "You see, we had each our mission," said Porthos; "mine was to guard youand I am doing so. Have you seen the king?"

  "Yes, and all goes well."

  "We are to meet our friends at the hotel at eleven."

  It was then striking half-past ten by St. Paul's.

  Arrived at the hotel it was not long before Athos entered.

  "All's well," he cried, as he entered; "I have hired a cedar wherry, aslight as a canoe, as easy on the wing as any swallow. It is waiting forus at Greenwich, opposite the Isle of Dogs, manned by a captain and fourmen, who for the sum of fifty pounds sterling will keep themselves atour disposition three successive nights. Once on board we drop down theThames and in two hours are on the open sea. In case I am killed, thecaptain's name is Roger and the skiff is called the Lightning. Ahandkerchief, tied at the four corners, is to be the signal."

  Next moment D'Artagnan entered.

  "Empty your pockets," said he; "I want a hundred pounds, and as for myown----" and he emptied them inside out.

  The sum was collected in a minute. D'Artagnan ran out and returneddirectly after.

  "There," said he, "it's done. Ough! and not without a deal of trouble,too."

  "Has the executioner left London?" asked Athos.

  "Ah, you see that plan was not sure enough; he might go out by one gateand return by another."

  "Where is he, then?"

  "In the cellar."

  "The cellar--what cellar?"

  "Our landlord's, to be sure. Mousqueton is propped against the door andhere's the key."

  "Bravo!" said Aramis, "how did you manage it?"

  "Like everything else, with money; but it cost me dear."

  "How much?" asked Athos.

  "Five hundred pounds."

  "And where did you get so much money?" said Athos. "Had you, then, thatsum?"

  "The queen's famous diamond," answered D'Artagnan, with a sigh.

  "Ah, true," said Aramis. "I recognized it on your finger."

  "You bought it back, then, from Monsieur des Essarts?" asked Porthos.

  "Yes, but it was fated that I should not keep it."

  "So, then, we are all right as regards the executioner," said Athos;"but unfortunately every executioner has his assistant, his man, orwhatever you call him."

  "And this one had his," said D'Artagnan; "but, as good luck would haveit, just as I thought I should have two affairs to manage, our friendwas brought home with a broken leg. In the excess of his zeal he hadaccompanied the cart containing the scaffolding as far as the king'swindow, and one of the crossbeams fell on his leg and broke it."

  "Ah!" cried Aramis, "that accounts for the cry I heard."

  "Probably," said D'Artagnan, "but as he is a thoughtful young man hepromised to send four expert workmen in his place to help those alreadyat the scaffold, and wrote the moment he was brought home to Master TomLowe, an assistant carpenter and friend of his, to go down to Whitehall,with three of his friends. Here's the letter he sent by a messenger, forsixpence, who sold it to me for a guinea."

  "And what on earth are you going to do with it?" asked Athos.

  "Can't you guess, my dear Athos? You, who speak English like John Bullhimself, are Master Tom Lowe, we, your three companions. Do youunderstand it now?"

  Athos uttered a cry of joy and admiration, ran to a closet and drewforth workmen's clothes, which the four friends immediately put on; theythen left the hotel, Athos carrying a saw, Porthos a vise, Aramis an axeand D'Artagnan a hammer and some nails.

  The letter from the executioner's assistant satisfied the mastercarpenter that those were the men he expected.