Meanwhile the count’s guests, who had perceived by the faltering of the conversation that the two friends were eager to be left alone, began, with the courtly manners of a former time, to find excuses for their departure—taking one’s leave being a matter to handle with grace and care, important to those graceful and careful enough to handle it properly. But then there came a great clamor of dogs barking in the courtyard, and several people said at the same time, “Ah, Raoul59 has returned.”
Athos, at the name of Raoul, glanced at d’Artagnan, as if to see if it inspired curiosity or attention in him. But d’Artagnan was still recovering from his astonishment and noticed nothing. So, it was without expectation that he turned to see a handsome young man of fifteen enter the room, dressed simply but in perfect taste, gracefully doffing a hat adorned with long red plumes.
But something about this newcomer struck him unexpectedly hard, and his mind awoke to a sudden flood of new ideas that, taking shape, began to provide an explanation for the changes in Athos that until then had seemed so inexplicable. For there was a strong resemblance between the young man and the noble count, a resemblance that might explain the mystery of his regeneration. Suddenly alert, d’Artagnan watched and listened.
“So, you’ve returned, Raoul?” said the count.
“Yes, Monsieur,” replied the young man respectfully, “and the task you assigned me is completed.”
“But what’s wrong, Raoul?” said Athos, suddenly all solicitude. “You’re pale—you’re agitated.”
“It’s just that, Monsieur,” the young man replied, “an accident has happened to our little neighbor.”
“To Mademoiselle de La Vallière?”* Athos said quickly.
“What happened?” asked several voices.
“She was walking with Dame Marceline in the grove where the loggers were trimming their trees, and I was riding by and saw her and stopped. She saw me as well, from the top of a pile of logs, and jumped down to run to me, and—well—her foot came down wrong, and she fell and couldn’t get up again. It looked to me like she sprained her ankle.”
“God save her!” said Athos. “And her mother, Madame de Saint-Rémy, has she been told?”
“No, Monsieur, Madame de Saint-Rémy is in Blois with the Duchesse d’Orléans.60 I’m afraid the first aid measures seemed rather clumsy, and ran to you to ask your advice.”
“Send immediately to Blois, Raoul—or rather, mount up and go yourself.”
Raoul bowed.
“But where is Louise now?” asked the count.
“I brought her here, Monsieur, and left her with Charlot’s wife, who’s bathing her ankle in ice water.”
With this explanation, the guests needed no further excuses, and got up to take their leave of Athos—all but the old Duc de Barbé, who was an ancient friend of the house of La Vallière, and went to see Louise, who was crying but, upon seeing Raoul, immediately wiped her lovely eyes and smiled.
The duke offered to take little Louise to Blois in his carriage. “You are wise, Monsieur,” said Athos, “that’s the fastest way to get her to her mother. As for you, Raoul, I fear you’ve acted foolishly, and this is all your fault.”
“Oh, no! No, Monsieur, I swear!” cried the girl, while the young man grew pale at the thought that he might be responsible for the accident.
“Oh, Monsieur, I assure you . . . ,” Raoul said brokenly.
“You’re going to Blois nonetheless,” the count continued, more kindly. “Make your excuses, and mine, to Madame de Saint-Rémy, and then return.”
The color returned to the young man’s cheeks. After a glance at the count for approval, he lifted in his strong arms the little girl, who smiled and laid her head on his shoulder, and gently bore her to the carriage. Then, jumping onto his horse with the ease and elegance of a born horseman, after saluting Athos and d’Artagnan, he trotted quickly off next to the door of the carriage, looking constantly in through the window.
XVI
The Château de Bragelonne
Throughout this scene, d’Artagnan looked on with a bewildered expression, mouth almost gaping. Almost nothing here had accorded with his expectations, and he was mute with astonishment.
Athos took his arm and led him into the garden. “While they’re preparing our dinner,” he said, smiling, “I imagine you won’t mind if I shed some light on all these perplexing mysteries?”
“True, Monsieur le Comte,” said d’Artagnan, who was gradually falling back under the influence of Athos’s commanding superiority.
Athos regarded him with a sweet smile. “Then first of all, my dear d’Artagnan,” he said, “we’ll have no more of this ‘Monsieur le Comte.’ If I called you Chevalier, it was only to introduce you to my guests, so they would know your quality. But for you, d’Artagnan, I hope I shall always be Athos, your old friend and companion. Or do you prefer the ceremonial because you love me less than formerly?”
“May God forbid!” said the Gascon, with one of those bursts of youthful loyalty found so rarely in those who’ve matured.
“Then it’s back to our old habits—and for starters, let’s be honest with each other. Any surprises here?”
“Plenty.”
“But what astonishes you most,” smiled Athos, “is me—confess it.”
“I do confess it.”
“I’m still youthful, aren’t I? I still seem much the same, despite my forty-nine years?”
“On the contrary,” said d’Artagnan, ready to be completely honest. “You’re not much like your old self at all.”
“Ah! I understand,” said Athos, coloring slightly. “Everything comes to an end, d’Artagnan, including folly.”
“And your fortunes have improved, it seems to me. You’re admirably housed—this is your estate, I take it.”
“Yes, a very modest domain—you remember, I told you I’d had a small inheritance when I left the service.”
“You have a park, horses, servants . . .”
Athos smiled. “A park of about twenty acres,” he said, “twenty acres that are mostly vegetable gardens and pasture. I have exactly two horses, not counting my valet’s old nag. My servants consist mostly of four farm dogs, two greyhounds, and a retriever. Yet I don’t keep this grand pack for myself,” he smiled.
“Yes, I understand,” said d’Artagnan. “It’s for the young man—for Raoul.” And d’Artagnan looked at Athos with a sudden smile.
“You have guessed it, my friend!” said Athos.
“And this young man is your adopted son—your relative, perhaps? Ah, but you’ve changed, Athos!”
“This young man, d’Artagnan,” Athos replied calmly, “is an orphan abandoned by his mother with a poor country curate. I’ve fed and raised him.”
“Then he must be quite attached to you?”
“I believe he . . . loves me like a father.”
“But is grateful more than anything?”
“Oh, the gratitude is entirely reciprocated,” said Athos. “I owe him quite as much as he owes me—even more, in fact, though I wouldn’t tell him that.”
“What do you mean?” asked the musketeer, astonished.
“I mean that, God be thanked, he is responsible for the changes you see in me. I was wasting away like a poor lonely tree on eroding ground; it took a deep affection to get me to take root in life once more. A mistress? I was too old. Friends? I no longer had you. Well! This child helped me find what I’d lost. If I didn’t have the heart to live for myself, I found it in living for him. Lessons are fine for teaching a child, d’Artagnan, but a good example is better. I had to become his example. What vices I had, I corrected; what virtues I lacked, I pretended to have. I may be mistaken, but I think Raoul will become as complete a gentleman as one can in our degraded times.”
D’Artagnan looked at Athos with increasing admiration. They walked along a cool, shady avenue, through which filtered the slanting rays of the setting sun. One of these golden beams caught Athos in profile, and his face seemed as r
adiant as the calm evening light that played upon it.
Unbidden, the idea of Milady61 came into d’Artagnan’s mind. “And so, you’re happy?” he asked his friend.
The watchful eye of Athos seemed to penetrate d’Artagnan’s heart and read his very thoughts. “As happy as a creature of God is permitted to be on this earth. But finish your thought, d’Artagnan, for I sense there is more.”
“Athos, you’re awful—no one can hide anything from you,” d’Artagnan said. “And, yes . . . I wanted to ask if you’re ever haunted by a feeling of horror, a feeling something like . . .”
“Like remorse?” Athos finished. “Yes—and no. Not remorse, because that woman, I believe, deserved the punishment she suffered. No remorse, because if we’d let her live, she would have undoubtedly continued on her path of destruction. But that doesn’t mean, friend, that I’m convinced we had the right to do what we did. Perhaps all bloodshed requires expiation. She made hers; perhaps it is up to us to accomplish our own.”
“I have sometimes had the same thought, Athos.”
“That woman—she had a son, did she not?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever heard anything about him?”
“Never.”
“He must be around twenty-three now,” Athos mused. “I often think of that young man, d’Artagnan.”
“How strange! I’d forgotten all about him.”
Athos smiled sadly. “And Lord de Winter, have you had any news of him?”
“I’d heard he was greatly in favor with King Charles I.”
“He’s followed the royal fortune, which goes ill these days. See, d’Artagnan?” continued Athos. “It all comes back to what I was just speaking of. That king has spilled Strafford’s blood,62 and bloodshed calls for more. And the queen?”
“Which queen?”
“Madame Henriette of England, the daughter of Henri IV.”
“She’s lodged in the Louvre, as you know.”
“Where she’s given almost nothing, isn’t she? During last winter’s storms, her daughter was ill, it was said, and forced to shiver in bed for lack of firewood. Can you imagine that?” Athos huffed. “The daughter of Henri IV freezing for lack of a few sticks of wood! If only she’d asked one of us for hospitality when first she came, instead of Mazarin. She’d have wanted for nothing.”
“Do you know her, then, Athos?”
“No, but my mother saw her as an infant. Have I ever mentioned that my mother was maid of honor to Marie de Médicis?”
“No. You never spoke of such things, Athos.”
“Ah, mon Dieu—well, you see,” said Athos, “the right opportunity never presented itself.”
“Porthos never waited for the right opportunity,” said d’Artagnan with a smile.
“Each to his nature, d’Artagnan. Porthos has excellent qualities, despite a touch of vanity. Have you seen him?”
“I left him five days ago,” said d’Artagnan. He then recounted, with all the verve of his Gascon sense of humor, the magnificence of Porthos in his Château de Pierrefonds—and while lampooning his friend, he worked in two or three jests at the expense of Monsieur Mouston.
“I sometimes wonder,” replied Athos, smiling with a gaiety that recalled their good old days, “how it was that we four random souls formed a friendship so loyal it still binds us after twenty years of separation. Friendship grows deep roots in honest hearts, d’Artagnan. It’s only the wicked who deny the bonds of friendship, because they can’t understand it. And Aramis?”
“I saw him, too,” said d’Artagnan, “but he seemed . . . cold.”
“So, you’ve seen Aramis as well,” said Athos, giving d’Artagnan a penetrating look. “But this is practically a pilgrimage, friend—you’re visiting the Stations of Friendship, as the poets would say.”
“I guess so,” said d’Artagnan, embarrassed.
“Aramis, you know, is naturally cold,” continued Athos, “and is always caught up in the intrigues of the ladies.”
“I believe he’s involved in a very complicated one at the moment,” said d’Artagnan.
Athos made no reply.
He’s not even curious about it, thought d’Artagnan.
Athos suddenly changed the subject. “There, you see?” he said, pointing out to d’Artagnan that they were almost back at the château. “An hour’s walk, and you’ve seen my entire domain.”
“Everything is charming, and shows the touch of a real gentleman,” replied d’Artagnan.
Just then came the sound of a horse’s hooves. “That will be Raoul returning,” said Athos. “We’ll hear the news about that poor little girl.”
Indeed, the young man appeared at the gate and rode into the courtyard, covered with dust. He leapt from his horse and handed the reins to a groom, then came and bowed to the count and d’Artagnan.
“Lad,” Athos said, resting his hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, “this is the Chevalier d’Artagnan, of whom you’ve often heard me speak, Raoul.”
“Monsieur,” said the young man, bowing to him even more deeply, “Monsieur le Comte mentions your name whenever he wants an example of a generous and intrepid gentleman.”
This little compliment didn’t fail to move d’Artagnan, who felt his heart gently stirred. He held out a hand to Raoul, saying, “My young friend, every virtue attributed to me really derives from the count, as he was my education in all things. It’s not his fault if I took so little advantage of his lessons, but it looks to me like you won’t miss a thing. I like your look, Raoul, and your words have touched me.”
Athos was thoroughly delighted; he regarded d’Artagnan with real affection, and gave Raoul one of those rare, heartfelt smiles that children are so proud to receive, when they get them.
“Now,” said d’Artagnan to himself, who’d missed nothing of this exchange, “now I’m certain of it.”
“Well!” said Athos. “I hope that accident will have no ill results.”
“We don’t know anything yet, Monsieur—the doctor can’t tell due to the swelling. But he’s afraid there might be a damaged nerve.”
“And you didn’t think you ought to remain longer with Madame de Saint-Rémy?”
“I was afraid I wouldn’t be back in time for your supper, Monsieur,” said Raoul, “and you might be kept waiting.”
At that moment a little boy, half peasant, half servant, appeared to announce that supper was served.
Athos led his guest into a simple dining room, but with doors that opened on one side out into the garden, and on the other into a greenhouse blooming with flowers.
D’Artagnan glanced at the table setting; the dishes were splendid, and he knew they must be family heirlooms. On the sideboard was a superb silver ewer, so fine that d’Artagnan stopped to look at it. “Ah, but this is divinely made!” he said.
“Yes,” replied Athos. “It’s a masterpiece by a great Florentine artist named Benvenuto Cellini.”63
“And what battle is represented on it?”
“The Battle of Marignano.64 It shows the moment when one of my ancestors gave his sword to King François I, who had just broken his. That was the occasion for which Enguerrand de La Fère, my grandfather, was made a Knight of Saint Michael. Fifteen years later, the king—who hadn’t forgotten that he’d fought for three more hours with the unbreakable sword of his friend Enguerrand—made him a gift of this ewer, and another sword that you might have seen in my home, a nice example of the jeweler’s art. That was a time of giants,” said Athos. “We are dwarfs, these days, beside those men. Let’s sit down, d’Artagnan, and dine. As to that,” said Athos to the small servant who’d just served the soup, “please call for Charlot.”
The child went out, and a moment later, the servant who had met the two travelers at the gate came in. “My dear Charlot,” said Athos, “so long as he’s here, I commend to your care Monsieur d’Artagnan’s servant, the good Planchet. He is fond of good wine, and you have the key to the cellars. Moreover, as he’s slept
often on the hard ground, he’ll appreciate a good bed. See to it, please.”
Charlot bowed and left.
“Charlot is a good man,” said the count, “who’s served me for eighteen years.”
“You think of everything,” said d’Artagnan, “and I thank you on Planchet’s behalf, friend Athos.”
The young man blinked at this name, and looked carefully at the count to make sure it was he whom d’Artagnan addressed with it.
“A strange-sounding name, isn’t it, Raoul?” said Athos, smiling. “It was my nom de guerre while Monsieur d’Artagnan, two brave friends, and I were fighting at the Siege of La Rochelle under the late cardinal and under Monsieur de Bassompierre, who has also passed on. Monsieur here still calls me that in the name of friendship, and every time I hear it, it gladdens my heart.”
“It was a famous name indeed,” said d’Artagnan, “and one day received triumphal honors.”
“What do you mean, Monsieur?” asked Raoul, with youthful curiosity.
“I have no idea what he’s talking about,” said Athos.
“Have you forgotten the Saint-Gervais bastion, Athos, and the napkin that three bullet holes made a battle flag? My memory is better than yours—I recall every detail, and I’ll tell you about it, young man.”
And he told Raoul the story of the battle of the bastion, just as Athos had told him the tale of his grandfather.
Listening to this story, the young man thought he heard unfolding one of the exploits recounted by Tasso or Ariosto,65 a tale of the glorious age of chivalry.
“But what d’Artagnan hasn’t told you, Raoul,” said Athos in his turn, “is that he was one of the finest swordsmen of his time: arm of iron, wrist of steel, with eyes of flame that missed nothing his opponent might try. He was but eighteen years old—three years older than you, Raoul—when I first saw him in action, and that against proven fighters.”
Twenty Years After Page 15