Monsieur d’Artagnan,
As you know, I’ve quarreled with a certain gentleman, and he’s given me a rendezvous for this evening in the Place Royale. As I’m a member of the Church and it would reflect poorly if it were known I took part in a duel, I can ask only the most loyal and discreet friend to help me, so I’d like you to stand as
my second.
Come in through the Rue Neuve Sainte-Catherine entrance and look for your opponent under the second lamppost on the right. I will be with mine under the third.
Entirely yours,
ARAMIS
This one lacked even a postscript. D’Artagnan remembered the affair: he’d gone to the rendezvous and met his opponent, a man he didn’t know, and had given him a pretty thrust through the arm. Then he turned toward Aramis, who was already approaching, having finished with his man. “All done,” said Aramis. “I think I’ve killed the insolent dog. Thank you, cher ami, and if you need me in the future, I’m entirely at your service.” And Aramis had shaken his hand and disappeared under the arcades.
So, he had no more idea where Aramis was than Athos or Porthos. The embarrassment of it was just turning to irritation when he heard the sound of a window breaking in his bedchamber. He immediately thought of the money bag locked in his desk and ran to his room. He was right: as he came in the door, he could see a man entering through the window.
“Ah ha! Wretch!” snarled d’Artagnan, taking the man for a thief and grabbing his sword.
“Monsieur!” the man cried. “In heaven’s name, leave your sword in its scabbard and hear me out! I’m not a thief, far from it! I’m an honest citizen, a local merchant, and I’m called . . . but wait! Aren’t you Monsieur d’Artagnan?”
“And you—you’re Planchet!” cried the lieutenant.
“At your service, Monsieur,” said Planchet, smiling in delight and relief, “if I still can be.”
“Maybe,” said d’Artagnan, “but what the devil are you doing running over the roofs at seven in the morning in January?”
“Monsieur,” said Planchet, “if you must know—but maybe you don’t have to know.”
“You think not?” said d’Artagnan. “Well, first put a towel over that broken window, and draw the curtains.”
Planchet leapt to obey, and when he was done, d’Artagnan said, “Well?”
“First of all, Monsieur,” said Planchet warily, “how do things stand between you and Monsieur de Rochefort?”
“Very well indeed. Didn’t you know Rochefort’s now one of my best friends?”
“Ah! All the better.”
“But what does Rochefort have to do with the way you got into my room?”
“Ah, well, you see, Monsieur . . . I must inform you that Monsieur de Rochefort is . . .”
“Pardieu!” d’Artagnan said. “I know, he’s in the Bastille.”
“That is to say, he was,” Planchet replied.
“What do you mean, he was?” d’Artagnan gasped. “Has he had the good luck to escape?”
“Ah, Monsieur!” gasped Planchet in his turn. “If you call that good luck, then all is well. You should know that yesterday guards were sent to take him back to the Bastille.”
“Yes, by God! I should know that, since I was the one who’d fetched him out.”
“But it wasn’t you who took him back, fortunately for him. Because if I’d seen you were part of the escort, believe me, Monsieur, I have too much respect for you to—”
“Out with it, you animal! What happened?”
“Well! When the carriage carrying Monsieur de Rochefort got to the Rue de la Ferronnerie, it was blocked by a crowd of citizens, who started muttering at the sight of the guards. The prisoner thought the time was right and started shouting for help. I happened to be in the crowd and recognized the voice of Monsieur de Rochefort; after all, he was the one who got me appointed sergeant in the Piedmont Regiment. I shouted out that the prisoner was a friend of the Duc de Beaufort, and then there was a riot. The crowd surrounded the horses and pulled down the escort. Meanwhile I got to the door and opened it, and Monsieur de Rochefort jumped out and disappeared into the crowd. Unfortunately, just then a patrol came by, reinforced the guards, and charged us.
“I beat a retreat toward Rue Tiquetonne, but they were right behind me, so I ducked into the house next door to this one. They surrounded and then searched it, but in vain, as on the fifth floor I’d found a sympathetic person who hid me under a couple of mattresses. I stayed in my hiding place all night, but when day broke I thought they might resume their search, so I scrambled out across the gutters looking for some unguarded way into another house. That’s my story, Monsieur, upon my honor, and it’ll be terrible if you disapprove of it.”
“No, ma foi,” said d’Artagnan. “On the contrary, I’m very glad to hear Rochefort got away. But you realize, don’t you, that if you fall into the hands of the king’s men, you’ll be hanged without delay?”
“By God, I know it!” said Planchet. “That’s what I’m afraid of, and why I’m so glad I found you—because if you agree to help me escape, no one could do it better.”
“True,” said d’Artagnan, “and I ask nothing better, though I risk being stripped of my rank if anyone found out I’d given asylum to a rebel.”
“Ah, Monsieur! You know I’d risk my life for you.”
“You might even mention that you’ve already done so, Planchet, and more than once. I forget only those things I ought to forget—and that’s something I’d rather remember. Sit down, then, and have a bite to eat, as I can see how you’re making eyes at the remains of last night’s supper.”
“Thanks, Monsieur. Your neighbor’s pantry wasn’t very well stocked, and I haven’t eaten since I had a slice of bread and jam at noon yesterday. I don’t mind sweet things in their place, but that was rather a light meal to serve as both dinner and supper.”
“Poor lad!” said d’Artagnan. “Well, put yourself around that.”
“Ah, Monsieur, you’ve saved my life twice,” said Planchet. And he sat down at the table, as happy with scraps as in the old days in the Rue des Fossoyeurs.
D’Artagnan began to pace up and down, trying to figure out what sort of advantage he could wring out of the unexpected appearance of Planchet. Meanwhile, Planchet worked to make up for lost time. Finally, he gave that sigh of satisfaction that shows when a hungry man is ready to take a break.
“Tell me,” said d’Artagnan, who thought it was time to see what he could learn, “do you know where Athos is?”
“No, Monsieur,” Planchet replied.
“The devil! What about Porthos?”
“Him neither.”
“Two devils! And Aramis?”
“Nor him.”
“Three devils! Curse it all!”
“But,” said Planchet slyly, “I know where Bazin40 is.”
“What! You know how to find Bazin?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“And where is he?”
“At Notre Dame.”
“And what is he doing at Notre Dame?”
“He’s a beadle.”
“Bazin is a beadle at Notre Dame? Are you sure?”
“Absolutely: I saw him and spoke with him.”
“He must know how to find his master.”
“Without a doubt.”
D’Artagnan thought for a moment, then took up his cloak and sword and prepared to go out. “Monsieur,” said Planchet with a lamentable air, “you’re not going to abandon me, are you? You’re my only hope!”
“Oh, they won’t look for you here,” said d’Artagnan.
“Yes, but if you leave,” said the prudent Planchet, “the folk of this house, who didn’t see me come in with you, will think I’m a thief.”
“Good point,” said d’Artagnan. “Let’s see—can you speak like a provincial?”
“I can do better than that, Monsieur,” said Planchet, “I even know another language: I can speak Flemish.”
“Where the devi
l did you learn that?”
“In Artois, where we fought for two years. Listen: Goeden morgen, mynheer! Ith ben begeeray te weeten the gesond bects omstand.”
“What does that mean?”
“Good morning, Monsieur! Be so kind as to tell me how you’re feeling.”
“You call that a language?” said d’Artagnan. “Never mind, that’ll do perfectly.” D’Artagnan went to the door, called for the houseboy, and told him to ask the fair Madeleine to come up.
“What are you doing, Monsieur?” Planchet said. “You’re going to reveal our secret to a woman?”
“Don’t worry, this one won’t tip our hand.”
At that moment the hostess entered. She came in smiling expectantly, thinking to find only d’Artagnan, but upon seeing Planchet, she stopped short, astonished.
“My dear hostess,” said d’Artagnan, “may I present your brother, who’s just arrived from Flanders, here to spend a few days in my service.”
“My brother!” said the hostess, even more astonished.
“Say hello to your sister, Master Peter.”
“Vilkom, Zuster!” said Planchet.
“Goeden day, Broer!” replied the bewildered hostess.
“Here’s the situation,” said d’Artagnan. “Monsieur is your brother, just come from Amsterdam, whom maybe you don’t know, but I do. Get him dressed properly while I’m out, and when I return in, say, an hour, present him to me. Since I can refuse you nothing, I’ll take him into my service on your recommendation, although he doesn’t speak a word of French. Got that?”
“I’ve got enough of it to see what you’re after, and that’s all I need,” Madeleine said.
“You’re a precious gem, dear hostess, and I leave it to you.”
Whereupon, with a wink to Planchet, d’Artagnan went out to go to Notre Dame.
VIII
The Differing Effects of a Half-Pistole When Bestowed upon a Beadle and a Choirboy
D’Artagnan crossed the Pont Neuf, congratulating himself on having found Planchet, because though it might seem as if he was doing the good fellow a favor, it was really Planchet who was helping him. At the moment, nothing could be more useful than to have a brave and intelligent lackey. It’s true that Planchet probably couldn’t stay in his service for long, but after hiding in his home, which had saved his life, or nearly so, when he returned to his home in Rue des Lombards, Planchet would still be in d’Artagnan’s debt. D’Artagnan wasn’t sorry to have friends among the bourgeoisie when they were preparing to make war on the Court. He would have an agent in the enemy’s camp, and for a man as shrewd as d’Artagnan the smallest advantage could lead to great results.
So, it was in this frame of mind, pleased with his chance and how he’d seized it, that d’Artagnan arrived at Notre Dame. He mounted the steps, entered the church, and, addressing a sacristan who was sweeping the vestibule, asked him if he knew Monsieur Bazin.
“Monsieur Bazin the beadle?” said the sacristan.
“Himself.”
“He’s assisting at mass over there, in the Chapel of the Virgin.”
D’Artagnan sighed with relief, for despite what Planchet had told him, he’d secretly feared he’d never find Bazin. But now he had hold of one end of the string, and just needed to follow it to the other.
He knelt in the front of the chapel so as not to lose sight of his man. Fortunately, it was Low Mass, and ending soon. D’Artagnan, who’d forgotten all his prayers, and had neglected to take up a prayer book, used the time to take a good look at Bazin.
It must be said, Bazin wore his vestments with majesty and beatitude. He had arrived at what was, as we know, the height of his ambitions, and the silver-
chased virge he held up was as honorable to him as the commander’s baton that Condé threw—or didn’t throw—into the enemy’s lines at the Battle of Fribourg.41 His physique had undergone a change perfectly suited to his vestments, in that he was as round as the halo of a saint. Every angle had disappeared from his face: he still had a nose, but his cheeks had expanded to absorb the rest of his features, smoothing his chin into his throat. This swelling had nearly shut his eyes. His forehead, down to the wrinkles just above his eyes, was covered by his hair, which was cropped in ecclesiastical bangs. But Bazin’s forehead, even when visible, had never been more than an inch and a half high.
The officiating priest finished the mass as d’Artagnan completed his survey: he pronounced the sacramental words and withdrew, giving his benediction—which everyone received kneeling, to d’Artagnan’s astonishment. But then he recognized the celebrant as the “coadjutor” himself, the famous Jean-François de Gondy,* who, sensing the political moment, was currying favor with the devout among the populace. It was to feed this popularity that from time to time he led the morning masses, which were usually attended by just a few commoners.
D’Artagnan knelt like the others, received his blessing, and made the sign of the cross—but as Bazin passed humbly by, walking last with his eyes raised to heaven, d’Artagnan tugged at the hem of his robe. Bazin looked down and jumped as if he’d seen a snake. “Monsieur d’Artagnan!” he cried. “Vade retro, Satanas!”
D’Artagnan laughed. “So, my dear Bazin, is that how you receive an old friend?”
“Monsieur,” Bazin replied, “a Christian’s true friends are those who help him to salvation, not those who tempt him away.”
“I don’t understand you, Bazin,” d’Artagnan said. “I fail to see how I can be any bar to your salvation.”
“You forget, Monsieur,” replied Bazin, “how you almost destroyed that of my master—that thanks to you he was nearly damned forever by staying a musketeer, when his vocation so clearly drew him to the Church.”
“My dear Bazin,” d’Artagnan said, “you can see, by where you’ve met me, that I’m a changed man. Age brings reverence—and as I’m sure your master is well on his way to salvation, just tell me where he is so I can get his advice on how to achieve my own.”
“Say rather to drag him back with you into the world. Fortunately,” Bazin added, “I don’t know where he is, and since we’re in a holy place, I wouldn’t dare tell a lie.”
“What?” cried d’Artagnan, crushed by disappointment. “You don’t know where Aramis is?”
“First of all,” said Bazin, “Aramis was his name of perdition. In Aramis one finds Simara, the name of a demon—but fortunately for him, he’s left that name behind him forever.”
“Right,” said d’Artagnan, determined to show patience, “it’s not Aramis I’m looking for, it’s the Abbé d’Herblay. Come, my dear Bazin, tell me how to find him.”
“Didn’t you hear me say, Monsieur d’Artagnan, that I don’t know?”
“Oh, I heard you say it; it’s just impossible for me to believe it.”
“It’s the truth, Monsieur, the good Lord’s honest truth.”
D’Artagnan could see he wasn’t going to get anything out of Bazin. He was obviously lying but was firm and persistent about sticking to it. “Very well, Bazin!” d’Artagnan said. “Since you don’t know where your master is, we’ll say no more about it. But let’s part friends; here’s a half-pistole to drink to my health.”
“I do not drink, Monsieur,” said Bazin, majestically pushing away the officer’s hand. “Such things are for the laity.”
“Incorruptible too!” murmured d’Artagnan. “Really, I’m off my game.”
And since d’Artagnan, distracted by his thoughts, had let go of Bazin’s hem, the beadle took advantage of his release to retreat to the sacristy, not thinking himself safe until he’d closed the door behind him.
D’Artagnan stayed where he was, thinking, his eyes fixed on the door that had put a barrier between him and Bazin, when he felt a fingertip touch him lightly on the shoulder.
He turned and was about to exclaim in surprise, when the one whose finger had touched him brought that finger to his lips to enjoin silence. So, he lowered his voice and said, “You, here, my dear Roc
hefort!”
“Quiet!” said Rochefort. “Did you know I was free?”
“I heard it firsthand.”
“From who?”
“From Planchet.”
“Planchet? How do you mean?”
“He was the one who freed you.”
“So that was Planchet! I thought he looked familiar. Which just goes to show that no good deed is ever wasted.”
“And what are you doing here?”
“I came to thank God for my joyous deliverance,” said Rochefort.
“I know that can’t be all. What else?”
“And then to ask for orders from the coadjutor, to see if there’s some way we can outrage Mazarin.”
“You’re a bad egg, and you’re going to end up back in the Bastille.”
“Oh, don’t be too sure about that! I’m enjoying this fresh air entirely too much. In fact,” said Rochefort, taking a deep breath, “I’m of a mind to take a walk in the country, a tour of the provinces.”
“Really!” said d’Artagnan. “I’ve had the same thought.”
“Ah. And without prying, can one ask where you’re going?”
“To look for my friends.”
“Which friends?”
“The ones you asked me about yesterday.”
“What, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis?”
“Yes.”
“On your honor?”
“What’s so surprising about that?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s funny, that’s all. And on whose behalf are you looking for them?”
“You can’t have any doubts about that.”
“True enough.”
“Unfortunately, I have no idea where they are.”
“And no way to find out? Just wait a week, and I’ll tell you myself.”
“A week is too long. I must find them within three days.”
“Three days! That isn’t long,” said Rochefort, “and France is large.”
“Never mind, you know the word must. We can do a lot once must is invoked.”
“And how will you start your search?”
“I’m on it.”
“Good luck, then!”
“And you, bon voyage!”
“Maybe we’ll meet each other on the road.”
Twenty Years After Page 8