Twenty Years After

by Alexander Dumas

  “So?”

  “So last week he sold his bakery to a chef from Paris, one to whom the doctors, it seems, recommended he take country air.”

  “Well? What does that matter to me?”

  “Listen, Monseigneur—this new baker had in front of his shop such delights as would make your mouth water.”

  “Oh, you glutton.”

  “Eh? Mon Dieu, Monseigneur,” replied La Ramée, “one isn’t a glutton just because one likes to eat well. It’s the nature of Man to seek perfection in all things, including pies. Now, this beggar of a baker, when he saw me browsing his stall, came out all covered in flour and said, ‘Monsieur La Ramée, you must help me find customers among the prisoners. I bought this establishment from my predecessor because he assured me that he supplied the château, but upon my honor, in the week since I’ve been here Monsieur de Chavigny hasn’t purchased so much as a tartelette.’

  “‘Well,’ I told him, ‘probably Monsieur de Chavigny is afraid your pastry isn’t any good.’ ‘My pastry, no good? Well, then, Monsieur La Ramée, you shall be the judge of that, and this very minute.’ ‘I can’t,’ I said to him, ‘I have to get back to the dungeon.’ ‘Well, go on about your business,’ he said, ‘as you seem to be in a hurry, but come back in half an hour.’ ‘In half an hour?’ ‘Yes. Have you had lunch?’ ‘Ma foi, no.’ ‘Well, there’ll be a pie here waiting for you, along with a bottle of old Burgundy . . .’

  “So, you see, Monseigneur, inasmuch as I’m starving, I would like, with Your Highness’s permission . . .” La Ramée bowed.

  “Go on, then, you animal,” said the duke, “but take note that I, too, give you only half an hour.”

  “Can I promise your business to Père Marteau’s successor, Monseigneur?”

  “Yes, so long as he doesn’t put mushrooms in his meat pies. For you know,” added the prince, “the mushrooms of Vincennes forest are fatal to my family.”75

  La Ramée nodded, though he didn’t understand the prince’s allusion, and went out. Within five minutes the duty officer came in, on the pretext of paying his respects to the prince and keeping him company, but actually in accordance with the orders of the cardinal, who, as we’ve seen, had commanded that the prisoner be kept under close watch.

  But during the five minutes he’d had alone, the duke had reread the letter from Madame de Montbazon, which assured him his friends had not forgotten him and were planning his escape. How? That he didn’t know yet, but he promised himself he’d find out from Grimaud, despite his habitual silence. He admired him all the more now that he understood his conduct and realized that all the little persecutions he’d inflicted on the duke were to persuade the other guards of his hostility. This ruse had given the duke a high opinion of Grimaud’s intellect, and he decided to trust in him completely.

  XXI

  What Was Hidden in the Pies of Père Marteau’s Successor

  Half an hour later La Ramée returned, glowing with the good cheer of a man who’s both eaten well and drunk well. He had found the pie delicious and the wine excellent.

  The weather was perfect for a tennis party. The Vincennes tennis court was a “long palm” green, that is, open rather than enclosed, so it would be easy for the duke to do what Grimaud had proposed and send a few balls over the edge and down into the dry-moat.

  However, as two o’clock—the designated time—had yet to strike, the duke wasn’t too awkward at first. But he arranged to lose the first few games, which allowed him to get angry and behave as we do when that happens, making mistake after mistake.

  Then, once two o’clock struck, the prince’s balls began to go over the side and into the moat—to the delight of La Ramée, who scored fifteen points with each fault.

  Soon enough balls had gone over that they had too few to continue. La Ramée proposed to send someone down to the moat to collect them, but the duke nonchalantly observed that that would be a waste of time, and approached the ramparts, which were, as the officer had noted, over fifty feet high. Looking down, he saw a man working in the little gardens kept by the peasants on the far side of the moat.

  “Hey there, friend!” cried the duke.

  The man looked up, and the duke suppressed a gasp of surprise. This peasant, this supposed gardener, was Rochefort, whom the prince thought was still in the Bastille.

  “Hey, up there,” the man called. “What can I do for you?”

  “Be so kind as to throw back our tennis balls,” said the duke.

  The gardener nodded, scrambled down into the moat, and began to toss back the lost balls, which were picked up by La Ramée and the guards. One fell right at the feet of the duke, and as it was obviously intended for him, he put that one in his pocket. And then, giving the gardener a grateful wave, he returned to his game.

  But the duke continued to have a bad day, and his balls went every which way, instead of confining themselves to the court; a few even went back into the moat, but as the gardener had gone, those weren’t returned. The duke declared himself ashamed of his clumsiness and declined to continue.

  La Ramée was delighted at having won such a victory over a prince of the blood. The prince returned to his cell and went to bed, which is what he did nearly every day since they’d taken away his books.

  La Ramée gathered up the prince’s discarded clothes, under the pretext that they were dusty and could use a good brushing, but actually to make sure the prince wouldn’t go anywhere. He was a cautious man, that La Ramée.

  Fortunately, the prince had had time to hide the tennis ball under his pillow. As soon as the door was closed, the duke tore open the ball’s outer covering, using his teeth since they’d taken away every sharp implement, except for silver knives that bent rather than cut.

  Under the skin of the ball was a letter that read as follows:

  Monseigneur, your friends watch over you, and the time of your liberation draws near. Order a pie for the day after tomorrow from the new pastry chef who has purchased the bake shop, and who is none other than Noirmont, your steward. Be careful to open the pie only when you are alone. I think you’ll be pleased with what it contains.

  The ever-devoted servant of Your Highness, in the Bastille or out,

  Comte de ROCHEFORT

  P.S.: Your Highness can rely on Grimaud for everything—he’s intelligent and utterly dedicated.

  Beaufort, who’d been allowed to have a fire again since he’d given up painting, burned the letter—as he did, though more regretfully, with the letter from Madame de Montabazon. He was going to do the same to the ball when it occurred to him that it might be useful for sending Rochefort a reply.

  He was alert, which was just as well, because all this activity drew the attention of La Ramée, who came into the cell. “Monseigneur needs something?” he asked.

  “I felt a chill,” replied the duke, “and lit a fire so I could warm up. The dungeons of Vincennes, you know, are renowned for their frigidity. We could keep ice in here, and even harvest saltpeter. As Madame de Rambouillet said, the cells where Puylaurens, Ornano, and my uncle the Grand Prior of Vendôme died are worth their weight in arsenic.”

  And the duke lay down again, covertly stuffing the ball under his pillow. La Ramée smiled sadly. He was a good man at heart, had become fond of his illustrious prisoner, and would have been sorry if anything unfortunate happened to him. And the terrible fates of the duke’s three predecessors were incontestable. “Monseigneur,” he said, “please don’t indulge in such thoughts. Ideas like those are far more fatal than saltpeter.”

  “You, at least, are a charming fellow,” said the duke. “If I could eat pies and drink Burgundy, like you do, at the shop of Père Marteau’s successor, I’d be happier.”

  “In fact, Monseigneur,” said La Ramée, “he stocks a proud wine, and his pastries should be famous.”

  “It certainly wouldn’t be hard for his cellar and kitchen to be better than those of Monsieur de Chavigny,” said the duke.

  “Well, Monseigneur,”
said La Ramée, falling into the trap, “what prevents you from trying them? Besides, I promised you a sample.”

  “You’re right,” said the duke. “If I have to stay here forever, as Mazarin was kind enough to let me hear he intends, I’ll need a distraction for my old age, and might as well become a gourmand.”

  “Monseigneur,” said La Ramée, “take my advice, and don’t wait for old age to begin.”

  “Good,” Beaufort said to himself. “Every man, to tempt his heart and soul from heavenly grace, must be susceptible to one of the seven deadly sins—if not two. It seems that La Ramée’s temptation is gluttony. We’ll take advantage of that.” Then, aloud: “Well, my dear La Ramée, shall we make a party of it then, the day after tomorrow?”

  “Yes, Monseigneur—that’s the day of Pentecost.”

  “Then will you read me a lesson on that day?”

  “In what?”

  “In gourmandizing!”

  “Willingly, Monseigneur.”

  “But let’s make it a private lesson. We’ll send the guards to eat in Chavigny’s mess hall while we dine here, at your direction.”

  “Hmm!” said La Ramée. It was an attractive prospect—but La Ramée, who was as canny as the cardinal had surmised, was an old hand at spotting prisoners’ tricks. Beaufort had said he had forty ways to escape from prison—might not this tempting dinner be concealing one of them?

  So, he thought about it for a moment, but considered that as he would be ordering the food and wine, no powder would taint the food, and no drug could be mixed in the wine. As to getting him drunk, the duke ought to know better than that. And then an idea occurred to him that settled the matter.

  The duke had followed La Ramée’s internal monologue by the worried expression on his guardian’s face—but then that expression cleared. “Well,” asked the duke, “shall we do it?”

  “Yes, Monseigneur—on one condition.”

  “Which is?”

  “That Grimaud shall serve at our table.”

  Nothing could suit the prince better, but he had enough self-control to frown and grimace. “To the devil with your Grimaud!” he cried. “He’ll spoil all our fun.”

  “I’ll order him to stand behind Your Highness and not say a word, so that, with a little imagination, it will seem like he’s leagues away.”

  “I see very clearly how it is,” said the duke. “You don’t trust me.”

  “Monseigneur, the day after tomorrow is Pentecost.”

  “Well, what’s that to me? Do you think the Holy Spirit is going to descend like a tongue of fire to blast open the doors of my prison?”

  “No, Monseigneur—but I remember what that damned magician predicted.”

  “What did he predict?”

  “That Your Highness would be free from Vincennes by the day of Pentecost.”

  “And you believe what such charlatans say? Folly!”

  “Me, I care no more than this,” said La Ramée, snapping his fingers. “It’s Monseigneur Mazarin who cares—he’s an Italian, and superstitious.”

  The duke shrugged. “Well,” he said, pretending to a resigned good humor, “I can accept your Grimaud, for the sake of the thing, but nobody other than him. I put you in charge of everything: you order the entire dinner, but it must include one of those divine meat pies you mentioned. You can tell Père Marteau’s successor that if he does well, he can depend on me as a customer for the rest of my stay in prison, and even after I’m released.”

  “You still think you’re going to get out?” said La Ramée.

  “Dame, yes!” replied the prince. “If only at the death of Mazarin, who’s fifteen years older than I. Though it’s true,” he added with a smile, “that in Vincennes we age faster than those outside.”

  “Monseigneur,” said La Ramée, “consider your dinner ordered.”

  “And do you think I’ll be an apt pupil?”

  “If you’re willing to learn, Monseigneur,” replied La Ramée.

  “And if you have enough time to teach me,” muttered the duke.

  “What was that, Monseigneur?” asked La Ramée.

  “Monseigneur says don’t spare the cardinal’s purse, since he seems determined to continue to board and lodge me.”

  On his way out, La Ramée paused at the door. “Who should Monseigneur like me to send in?”

  “Anyone you like, except that Grimaud.”

  “The Officer of the Guard, then?”

  “With his chessboard.”

  “Done.” And La Ramée went out.

  The Officer of the Guard came in, and five minutes later Beaufort seemed deeply engrossed in the sublime combinations that lead to checkmate.

  What a singular thing is the mind, and what profound alterations a sign, a word, or a hope can cause in it! The duke had been five years in prison, but a look back made those five years, however slowly they’d passed, seem shorter than the forty-eight hours that now separated him from the time set for his escape.

  It was the details that worried him. How would this escape be effected? What would be hidden in the mysterious pie? Which friends were waiting for him? How could he still have allies after five years in prison? It seemed he was a very privileged prince indeed.

  To his astonishment, it seemed that his former friends—and most extraordinarily, his mistress—still remembered him. It’s true she might not have been scrupulously faithful to him the entire time, but she hadn’t forgotten him, and that was a lot.

  This was more than enough for the duke to think about, and even distracted him on the tennis court, and as La Ramée had schooled him before, the next time he schooled him again. But at least these defeats kept him busy, and soon enough it was evening, with only three hours to go until bed. Then the night would come, and with it sleep.

  Or so the duke thought. But sleep is a capricious deity that stays away just when it’s most devoutly desired. The duke was awake well into the middle of the night, tossing and turning on his mattress like Saint Lawrence on his martyr’s grille. Finally, he fell asleep.

  And then, before the arrival of day, he had fantastic dreams: he grew wings, and naturally wanted to fly, and at first his wings fully supported him. But when he reached a certain height, this support suddenly failed, his wings were broken, and he plummeted toward a bottomless abyss. He awoke in a sweat, trembling as if he really had tumbled from the sky.

  Then he fell asleep again to wander into a maze of dreams, each wilder than the last, and though his eyes were closed, his mind was turned toward a single goal: escape, always escape. He found an underground passage that would take him out of Vincennes, and followed it, Grimaud marching before him lantern in hand . . . but gradually the passage narrowed, and though the duke persevered, it finally became so narrow he could go no farther, no matter how he tried to squeeze through. The walls seemed to close in and press on him, yet he could still see in the distance Grimaud with his lantern, who continued to walk forward, and though he tried to call for help, he was gripped so tightly he couldn’t utter a single word.

  Then, from behind him, he could hear the footsteps of his pursuers, growing ever closer, and he knew that if they caught him, he would never escape. The enveloping walls seemed in league with his enemies, holding him when he needed to flee. He heard the voice of La Ramée, and then saw him, laughing, stretching out a hand to shake his shoulder, awakening him in the low, vaulted room where Marshal Ornano, and Puylaurens, and his uncle Vendôme had all perished. There, in the floor, were their three graves, with a fourth yawning open, awaiting his own corpse.

  That woke him, and thereafter the duke tried as hard to stay awake as he had to fall asleep, so that when La Ramée entered in the morning, he found him so pale and tired that he asked if he were sick. “Indeed,” said one of the guards who had stayed in the prince’s room but had been unable to sleep due to a toothache, “Monseigneur had a restless night, and in his dreams called out for help two or three times.”

  “What’s wrong, Monseigneur?�
�� asked La Ramée.

  “What’s wrong, fool,” said the duke, “is that all your silly talk about escape turned my brain, so that I dreamed about escaping, only in doing so I fell and broke my neck.”

  La Ramée laughed. “You see, Monseigneur,” he said, “this is a warning from heaven, and I hope Monseigneur will never be so reckless as to act out his dream.”

  “You’re right, my dear La Ramée,” said the duke, wiping the sweat from his brow. “From now on, I’ll dream of nothing but food and drink.”

  “Hush!” said La Ramée. He then sent the guards away, one by one, on various pretexts, until they were alone.

  “Well?” asked the duke.

  “Well!” said La Ramée. “Your dinner’s been ordered.”

  “Ah!” said the prince. “And what will it consist of, Monsieur Majordomo?”

  “Monseigneur promised to trust me on that.”

  “Will there be a pie?”

  “As tall as a tower!”

  “Baked by Père Marteau’s successor?”

  “It’s all arranged.”

  “And you told him it was for me?”

  “I told him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That he would do his best to please Your Highness.”

  “The time is coming!” said the duke, rubbing his hands.

  “Peste, Monseigneur!” said La Ramée. “You are tending toward gluttony! In five years, I haven’t seen you look so cheerful as you do now.”

  The duke saw he’d been careless—but suddenly, as if he’d been listening at the door and realized it was time for a diversion, Grimaud came in and gestured to La Ramée that he had something to tell him.

  La Ramée approached Grimaud, who spoke to him in a low voice. This gave the duke time to get hold of himself. “I have forbidden this man,” he said, “to come in here without my permission.”

  “Monseigneur,” said La Ramée, “you must forgive him, as I’m the one who summoned him.”

  “And why did you do that, since you know it displeases me?”

  “Monseigneur should remember what we agreed about who will serve us this famous dinner,” said La Ramée. “Did Monseigneur forget about the dinner?”