Twenty Years After

by Alexander Dumas

  Anne rose, angry and majestic, as if stiffened by a steel spring, and regarded the cardinal with that hauteur and dignity that had made her so admired in the days of her youth. “You insult me, Monsieur!”

  “I want you, at long last,” continued Mazarin, finishing the speech interrupted by the queen, “I want you to do today for your husband what you once did for your lover.”

  “That old slander once again!” cried the queen. “I thought it was finally dead and buried, something you’ve spared me until now . . . but you bring it up at last. Fine! We’ll settle this between us, and it will be over and done, do you hear me?”

  “But, Madame,” said Mazarin, taken aback by this show of strength, “I’m not asking you to tell me everything.”

  “But I want to tell you everything,” said Anne of Austria. “So, listen. I want to tell you, Monsieur, that there were indeed at that time four faithful hearts, four loyal spirits, four devoted swords who saved more than my life—for they saved my honor.”

  “Ah! You admit it,” said Mazarin.

  “Is it only the guilty whose honor may be at stake, Monsieur, and can’t a person, especially a woman, be dishonored by appearances? Yes, appearances were against me, and my honor was at risk—and yet, I swear, I wasn’t guilty. I swear by . . .”

  The queen looked around for something holy she could swear on, pushed aside a tapestry to reveal a cabinet, and drew from it a small, rosewood box chased with silver. Laying it on her altar, she said, “I swear upon these sacred relics that though I loved the Duke of Buckingham, the Duke of Buckingham was not my lover!”

  “And what are these relics upon which you take this oath, Madame?” Mazarin said, smiling. “For I warn you, in my capacity as a Catholic prelate I know when a relic is a relic.”

  The queen detached a small golden key from a necklace and handed it to the cardinal. “Open it, Monsieur, and see for yourself.”

  Mazarin, astonished, took the key and opened the coffer, in which he found a rusted knife and two letters, one of them stained with blood. “What’s this?” he asked.

  “What’s this, Monsieur?” said Anne of Austria with a queenly gesture, taking the coffer in her arms, still beautiful despite the years, and holding it open. “I’ll tell you. These two letters are the only letters I ever wrote to him. And this knife is the one with which Felton killed him. Read these letters, Monsieur, and see if I speak the truth.”

  But despite being given permission, Mazarin hesitated to read the letters, and instead took up the knife that Buckingham, dying, had torn from his wound and sent by La Porte to the queen. The blade was all corroded, for the blood had become rust, and after a moment’s examination, during which the queen turned as white as the altar cloth she was leaning on, he replaced it in the coffer with an involuntary shudder.

  “It is well, Madame,” he said, “and I accept your oath.”

  “No!” frowned the queen. “Read! I insist upon it. I want this settled between us so we never return to it. Do you think,” she added, with a ghastly smile, “that I’m going to open this coffer for you at every accusation?”

  Mazarin, daunted by this outburst, obeyed almost mechanically, and read the two letters. One was that by which the queen had asked Buckingham for the return of her diamond studs, the one d’Artagnan had brought him in the nick of time. The other was the one La Porte had borne to the duke in which the queen had warned him of his assassination, and which had come too late.

  “It . . . is well, Madame,” said Mazarin. “I have nothing more to say about it.”

  “If, Monsieur,” said the queen, closing the coffer and resting her hand upon it, “I have anything still to answer for, it’s that I’ve always been ungrateful to those men who saved me, and did everything they could to save . . . him. I gave nothing to that brave d’Artagnan, of whom you spoke just now, other than my hand to kiss, and this diamond.”

  The queen extended her beautiful hand toward the cardinal and showed him a marvelous stone that sparkled on her finger. “He sold it, it seems,” she said, “in a moment of want; he sold it to save me a second time, because he needed to send a messenger to the duke to warn him of the assassination.”

  “So d’Artagnan knew of that?”

  “He knew everything. How? I never learned. He sold this ring to Monsieur des Essarts,32 on whose finger I saw it, and from whom I bought it back. But this diamond belongs to him, Monsieur, so return it to him for me—and since you’re lucky enough to have such a man near at hand, try to make use of him.”

  “Thank you, Madame!” said Mazarin. “I’ll follow your advice.”

  “And now,” said the queen, brittle with emotion, “do you have anything else to ask of me?”

  “Not a thing, Madame,” said the cardinal, in his most soothing voice, “except to beg you to forgive my unworthy suspicions. It’s just that I love you so dearly, is it any wonder I’m jealous even of the past?”

  An indescribable smile passed over the queen’s lips. “Well, then, Monsieur,” she said, “if you have nothing else to ask of me, you may go. You must understand that you’ve upset me, and I need some time to myself.”

  Mazarin bowed. “Then I retire, Madame,” he said. “Will you allow me to return?”

  “Yes, but tomorrow. That should give me enough time.”

  The cardinal took the hand of the queen and kissed it gallantly, and then withdrew.

  He’d scarcely left before the queen went into her son’s apartments, where she asked La Porte if the king had gone to bed. La Porte just pointed toward the sleeping child.

  Anne of Austria went up the bed’s steps, put her lips to her son’s furrowed brow and gently kissed it. Then she retired as quietly as she’d come, only saying to the valet, “Try, my dear La Porte, to help the king appreciate Monsieur le Cardinal, whom he and I owe so much.”

  V

  Gascon and Italian

  Meanwhile the cardinal had returned to his study, where Bernouin waited at the door. Mazarin asked him if anything had happened, and if there was any news from outside; the valet shook his head, and the cardinal motioned him away.

  Left alone, he went through the door to the corridor, then the one to the antechamber, where he found d’Artagnan on a bench, exhausted and asleep.

  “Monsieur d’Artagnan!” he said softly.

  D’Artagnan didn’t flinch.

  “Monsieur d’Artagnan!” he said louder.

  D’Artagnan continued sleeping.

  The cardinal approached him and touched a finger to his shoulder.

  This time d’Artagnan started, awoke, and instantly stood like a soldier under arms. “I’m here,” he said. “Who calls?”

  “Me,” said Mazarin, with his broadest smile.

  “I beg Your Eminence’s pardon,” said d’Artagnan. “I was so tired . . .”

  “Ask for no pardon, Monsieur,” said Mazarin, “when you tire yourself in my service.”

  D’Artagnan had to admire the minister’s gracious manner. “Oh ho,” he said to himself. “What’s that proverb about good things coming while one sleeps?”

  “Come with me, Monsieur!” Mazarin said, returning to his study.

  “Well, well,” murmured d’Artagnan. “It looks like Rochefort kept his word. Only where the devil has he gotten to?” And he looked into every corner of the study without finding Rochefort.

  “Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Mazarin, sitting comfortably in an armchair, “you’ve always seemed to me a brave and gallant man.”

  Perhaps so, thought d’Artagnan, but he took his time in telling me. That didn’t stop him from bowing to the ground to acknowledge the compliment.

  “Well,” continued Mazarin, “now is the time to profit from your talents and worth!”

  The officer’s eyes flashed with a joy he immediately covered, for he didn’t know where Mazarin was leading him. “Command me, Monseigneur,” he said. “I’m at Your Eminence’s orders.”

  “Monsieur d’Artagnan,” Mazarin continu
ed, “in the previous reign you distinguished yourself in several exploits.”

  “It’s kind of Your Eminence to remember that. In fact, I think I fought with some success.”

  “I’m not speaking of your exploits in war,” said Mazarin, “because, though commendable enough, there were others who did more.”

  D’Artagnan was astonished. “Well?” said Mazarin. “Have you nothing to say?”

  “I’m waiting,” d’Artagnan said, “for Monseigneur to tell me what exploits he’s referring to.”

  “I speak of a certain adventure . . . you know which one I mean.”

  “Alas, Monseigneur, I don’t,” d’Artagnan replied, perplexed.

  “I see you’re discreet. Fine. I speak of the adventure of the queen’s diamond studs, and that journey you made with your three friends.”

  Hello, thought the Gascon, is this some kind of trap? Better play dumb. And he adopted an expression so bewildered it would have been the envy of Mondori or Bellerose, the greatest comedians of the time.

  “Very good!” said Mazarin, laughing. “Bravo! I knew you were the man I needed. So, how far are you willing to go for me?”

  “As far as Your Eminence needs me to,” said d’Artagnan.

  “You’ll act for me as you formerly did for a queen?”

  Clearly, d’Artagnan thought, he wants me to speak of it first. Devil take his cunning, but he’s no Richelieu. “For a queen, Monseigneur? I don’t understand you.”

  “You don’t understand that I need you—you and your three friends?”

  “What friends do you mean, Monseigneur?”

  “Your three friends of former days.”

  “In former days, Monseigneur,” replied d’Artagnan, “I didn’t have three friends, I had fifty. When you’re twenty, you call everyone your friend.”

  “Come now, Monsieur Lieutenant,” said Mazarin, “discretion is a fine thing—but you might regret being overly discreet.”

  “Monseigneur, Pythagoras made his students listen quietly for five years to teach them to be silent.”

  “And you’ve been silent for twenty years, Monsieur, which is fifteen years too long, even for a Pythagorean philosopher. Now speak, for the queen herself releases you from your oath.”

  “The queen!” said d’Artagnan, and this time his astonishment was unfeigned.

  “Yes, the queen! And the proof that I speak on her behalf is that she told me to show you this diamond that you’ll recognize, and which she bought from Monsieur des Essarts.”

  And Mazarin extended his hand toward the officer, who sighed as he recognized the ring the queen had given him on the night of the ball at the Hôtel de Ville.

  “So, you see that I speak to you in her name. Answer me without any more comedy—for as I’ve said, and I repeat it, your fortune is at stake.”

  “Ma foi, Monseigneur! My fortune is long overdue—Your Eminence has long forgotten it!”

  “It’s but the work of a week to repair it. Now, here you are—but where are your friends?”

  “I don’t know, Monseigneur.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No. All three have left the service, and it’s been long since we separated.”

  “But you can find them again?”

  “No matter where they are. That’s my affair.”

  “Good! And you require . . . ?”

  “Money, Monseigneur, is what this kind of business needs. I remember too many times when we were thwarted for lack of money. Without that diamond, which I had to sell, we would have failed entirely.”

  “The devil! Money, and in no small amount, I’ll wager,” said Mazarin. “You ask a great deal, Monsieur Lieutenant. Don’t you know the king’s coffers are empty?”

  “Then do as I did, Monseigneur, and sell the crown jewels. Believe me, it does no good to be stingy; one can’t do great things with meager means.”

  “Well!” said Mazarin. “I suppose we can accommodate you.”

  Richelieu, thought d’Artagnan, would already have given me five hundred pistoles33 in advance.

  “So, you’re with me, then?” said Mazarin.

  “Yes, if my friends are.”

  “But if they refuse, I can still count on you?”

  “I’ve never been any good by myself,” said d’Artagnan, shaking his head.

  “Then see that you find them.”

  “What will I say to persuade them to serve Your Eminence?”

  “You know better than I do. Persuade them according to their characters.”

  “What can I promise on your behalf?”

  “If they serve me as they served the queen, the rewards will be lavish.”

  “And what are we to do?”

  “Everything, since it seems you know how to do everything.”

  “Monseigneur, when one has confidence in people and wants them to return your trust, one is more forthcoming with information than Your Eminence is.”

  “When the time for action arrives,” said Mazarin, “I assure you I’ll tell you everything.”

  “But until then?”

  “Await events—and go find your friends.”

  “Monseigneur, they might not be in Paris, in fact they probably aren’t, which means I’ll have to travel. I’m only a poor lieutenant of musketeers, and travel is expensive.”

  “I don’t intend for you to travel with an entourage,” said Mazarin. “My missions are covert and mustn’t draw attention.”

  “Still, Monseigneur, I can’t travel on my pay, which is already three months behind. And I can’t travel on my savings, because after twenty-two years’ service the only thing I’ve saved is debt.”

  Mazarin thought for a moment, as if struggling with himself. Then, going to a cabinet closed with a triple lock, he drew out a purse, weighed it two or three times in his hand, and then gave it d’Artagnan. “Use this,” he said with a sigh, “to fund your travels.”

  Well! d’Artagnan thought. If these are Spanish double-pistoles, or even gold crowns, we may be able to do business together. He saluted the cardinal and stuffed the purse into his belt pouch.

  “So, then,” said the cardinal, “you’re off.”

  “Yes, Monseigneur.”

  “Write to me daily to report the progress of your negotiations.”

  “I shall not fail, Monseigneur.”

  “Very good. By the way, what are the names of your friends?”

  “The names of my friends?” said d’Artagnan, with a touch of anxiety.

  “Yes—while you search on your side, I’ll investigate on mine, and maybe I’ll learn something.”

  “The Comte de La Fère, formerly known as Athos; Monsieur du Vallon, known as Porthos; and the Chevalier d’Herblay, now the Abbé d’Herblay, known as Aramis.”

  The cardinal smiled. “Younger sons,” he said, “who joined the King’s Musketeers under assumed names to avoid compromising their families. The usual thing: empty purses but long rapiers.”

  “If God wills these rapiers to join Your Eminence’s service,” d’Artagnan said, “I dare to hope Monseigneur’s purse will become lighter and theirs heavier—because with these three men, and me, Your Eminence shall move all of France, and even Europe, if he so desires.”

  “These Gascons,” Mazarin laughed, “almost match the Italians for bravado.”

  “In words,” said d’Artagnan with a matching smile, “and we’re even better with deeds.”

  And he left, after receiving an indefinite leave order signed by Mazarin himself.

  Once outside in the courtyard, he went to a lantern to take a quick look into the purse. “Silver crowns!” he said with contempt. “I suspected as much. Ah, Mazarin, Mazarin! You still don’t trust me. Too bad—that will bring you misfortune.”

  Meanwhile the cardinal was rubbing his hands. “A hundred pistoles!” he murmured. “For a hundred pistoles I bought a secret for which Monsieur de Richelieu would have paid twenty thousand crowns. And I got this diamond into the bargain,” he said,
looking lovingly at the ring he’d kept, instead of giving it to d’Artagnan. “Why, this diamond must be worth ten thousand livres.”

  And the cardinal retired to his chambers, delighted with an evening in which he’d made such a handsome profit. He placed the ring in a silk-lined jewel box filled with gems of every kind, for the cardinal had a taste for precious stones. Then he called Bernouin to undress him, without another thought for the distant shouts coming in through the windows, or the gunshots resounding across Paris, though it was eleven at night.

  Meanwhile d’Artagnan was making his way toward the Rue Tiquetonne,34 where he lived at the Hôtel de La Chevrette . . .

  But let’s say a few words about d’Artagnan’s home and tell how he came to live there.

  VI

  D’Artagnan at Age Forty

  Alas! In the time since we last saw him in The Three Musketeers, when d’Artagnan lived in the Rue des Fossoyeurs, many years had passed and much had gone with them.

  D’Artagnan hadn’t missed his opportunities, the opportunities had missed d’Artagnan. When his friends had surrounded him, d’Artagnan’s youth and inventiveness had flourished; he had one of those open and ingenious natures that easily assimilate the qualities of others. Athos gave of his grandeur, Porthos his enthusiasm, and Aramis his elegance. If d’Artagnan had continued to abide with these three men, he would have become a truly superior man.

  But Athos had left him first, to retire to the small estate he’d inherited near Blois; Porthos had gone second, to marry the prosecutor’s widow; finally, Aramis, the third, to take his vows and become an abbot. From that moment, d’Artagnan, who seemed to have counted on a future that included his three friends, found himself alone and unsteady, lacking the drive to pursue a career in which he couldn’t quite excel without the spiritual essence contributed by each of his friends.

  Thus, though he continued as a lieutenant of musketeers, d’Artagnan found himself feeling isolated. He was not of sufficiently high rank, like Athos, for the Grands to open their houses to him; he wasn’t vain enough, like Porthos, to feel entitled to mix with high society; and he wasn’t well-bred enough, like Aramis, to get by on sheer elegance and sophistication, drawing on depths from within. For a while the memory of the charming Madame Bonacieux gave the young lieutenant a certain poetic melancholy; but like all things of this world, even this memory gradually faded. Life in a garrison is fatal to delicate sensibilities.