Twenty Years After

by Alexander Dumas

  “Broussel!” they cried. “Broussel, our dear father! He who defended our rights against Mazarin! Broussel, the friend of the people—trampled, nearly killed by those Cardinalist scoundrels! To arms! To arms!”

  Within moments the crowd became an immense mob. They commandeered a passing carriage to convey the little councilor home, but an outraged citizen said that, in the wounded man’s state, the movement of the coach would make him worse. The zealot proposed that the crowd carry him by hand, a proposal that was enthusiastically and unanimously accepted. No sooner said than done: the people lifted him, with gentle menace, and bore him away, the crowd like a grumbling giant in a fable lumbering along while cradling a dwarf in its arms.

  Broussel must have had some idea how attached the Parisians had become to him—after all, he hadn’t spent three years sowing the seeds of opposition to the cardinal without hoping to someday reap rewards in popularity. So, this demonstration made him pleased and proud, but though it showed the extent of his power, the triumph was shadowed by anxiety. Already suffering from wounds and bruises, he feared at every corner to see the crowd confronted by a troop of guards or musketeers, who might charge his mob—and who then would be triumphant?

  He couldn’t help recalling that whirlwind of cavaliers, that iron-hooved hurricane that had thrown him down so pitilessly. And so, he kept repeating, in a voice growing ever fainter, “Hurry, my children, make haste, for truly I am suffering.” But at each of these complaints, the cries and curses of those who bore him redoubled.

  They finally brought him, though not without further bumps and bruises, to Broussel’s own house. Those who had surged on ahead already filled the street, and his neighbors thronged their windows and doorways. At the window of his own house, above a narrow door, could be seen an old servant woman who cried out in dismay, beside another woman, also elderly, who wept copiously. These two, clearly upset, kept asking the crowd what had happened, but received only confused and contradictory responses.

  But when the councilor, carried between eight men, was brought pale and apparently dying to the steps of his house, his lady, Goodwife Broussel, and her maid disappeared from the window to reappear at the door. There the maid, raising her arms to the sky, rushed down the stairs to her master, crying out, “Oh, mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! If Friquet is here, send him for a surgeon!”

  And Friquet, of course, was there. What gamin of Paris wouldn’t be?

  Friquet had naturally taken advantage of the Pentecost holiday to ask his innkeeper for the day off, a request that couldn’t be refused, as it had been a condition of his employment that he needn’t work during the year’s four chief holidays.

  So Friquet was already at the head of the mob. It had occurred to him that probably he ought to fetch a surgeon, but he found it more amusing to shout his head off, crying, “They’ve killed Monsieur Broussel! Broussel, the father of the people! Vive Monsieur Broussel!” This was much more fun than scouring the streets for a doctor just so he could say, “Come, Monsieur Surgeon, good Councilor Broussel needs you.”

  Unfortunately for Friquet, who’d assumed a leading role in the procession, he had the imprudence to jump on the sill of the house’s ground floor window to exhort the crowd to greater outrage—and there his mother saw him and sent him to find a doctor.

  Then she took the councilor in her arms and tried to carry him inside, but at the bottom of the stairs Broussel stood up and said he felt strong enough to make it on his own. He also asked Gervaise, which was the name of his maid, to try to dismiss the crowd, but Gervaise wasn’t listening. “Oh, my poor master!” she cried. “My dear master!”

  “Yes, yes, Gervaise,” said Broussel, trying to calm her. “It’s nothing, really.”

  “Nothing, when you are crushed, annihilated, destroyed!”

  “No, no, really, it’s nothing,” said Broussel, “or almost nothing, anyway.”

  “Nothing, and you covered in mud! Nothing, and you with blood in your hair! Ah, my God, my God, my poor master!”

  “Hush, now!” said Broussel. “Hush!”

  “But the blood, my God, the blood!” cried Gervaise. “A doctor! A doctor!”

  “A doctor!” the crowd howled. “A surgeon! Councilor Broussel is dying! Mazarin has killed him!”

  “Oh my God!” cried Broussel. “This is awful! This mob is going to burn down the house!”

  “Then go up to the window to show them you’re all right, master!”

  “A plague on that!” said Broussel. “That’s what kings do. Tell them I’m getting better, Gervaise—tell them I’m going to go, not to the window, but to bed, and to please go away!”

  “But why should they go away? They’re here to honor you!”

  “Oh, can’t you see?” said Broussel, desperate. “They’ll honor me by getting me hanged! Now come on! My wife’s fainting dead away.”

  “Broussel! Broussel!” cried the crowd. “Vive Broussel! A surgeon for Broussel!”

  They made such a clamor that what Broussel feared came to pass: a platoon of guards appeared and began to clear the crowd from the street with their musket butts. At the first cry of “The guard! The guard!” Broussel, trembling for fear they’d take him for the instigator of the riot, sought refuge by hiding under his bed.

  At the guards’ assault, the crowd crying for Broussel was forced to fall back, and old Gervaise was finally able to shut the front door. But the door was scarcely shut, with Gervaise on her way up to find her master, when it began to resound with knocking. Madame Broussel, ahead of Gervaise, found her husband by his shoes sticking out from under their bed, where he was shaking like a leaf.

  “Go see who’s knocking, Gervaise,” called Broussel, “and don’t open the door unless you have to.”

  Gervaise took a look. “It’s Monsieur Blancmesnil, the president of parliament,” she said.

  “Oh, no problem, then,” said Broussel. “Open up.”

  “Well!” said the president, coming in. “What have they done to you, my dear Broussel? I hear you were nearly assassinated!”

  “In fact, it seems likely they were trying to kill me,” said Broussel, so firmly it almost seemed stoic.

  “My poor friend! Yes, though they started with you, they have to destroy all of us, and since they can’t defeat us en masse, they’ll try to take us one by one.”

  “If I survive,” said Broussel, “I shall crush them, all of them, under the weight of my words!”

  “You’ll recover,” said Blancmesnil, “and I don’t doubt you’ll make them pay dearly for this attack.”

  Meanwhile Madame Broussel was crying, and Gervaise was in despair. “What’s this?” cried a handsome and burly young man as he rushed into the room. “My father, wounded?”

  “He’s a victim of tyranny,” said Blancmesnil, “and yet a true Spartan.”

  “Oh!” cried the young man, turning toward the door. “They’ll pay, whoever dared to touch you!”

  “Jacques,” said the councilor, getting up, “for now, just go get a doctor.”

  “I hear more cries from the people,” said the old woman. “Friquet has probably found one—no, wait, it’s a carriage.”

  Blancmesnil looked out the window. “It’s the coadjutor!” he said.

  “The coadjutor!” repeated Broussel. “My God! I must go down to meet him!” And the councilor, forgetting his wounds, started to rush downstairs to meet Monsieur de Gondy, but Blancmesnil stopped him.

  “Well, my dear Broussel,” said the coadjutor, coming in, “what’s this we hear? Tales of ambushes and assassinations! My doctor’s house was on the way, so I brought him with me. Ah, bonjour, Monsieur Blancmesnil!”

  “Oh, Monsieur,” said Broussel, “what thanks I owe you! It’s true, I was cruelly knocked down and trampled by the King’s Musketeers.”

  “Say, rather, the musketeers of Cardinal Mazarin,” said the coadjutor. “But we’ll make him pay for this, never fear. Won’t we, Monsieur de Blancmesnil?”

  Blancmesnil was
still bowing when the door was thrust open by the hands of a porter. He was followed by a footman in full livery, who loudly announced, “Monsieur le Duc de Longueville!”95

  “What?” cried Broussel. “The duke, here? What an honor for me! Ah, Monseigneur!”

  “I come to decry the terrible fate suffered by our brave defender,” said the duke. “Are you wounded, my dear Councilor?”

  “If I were, your visit would heal me, Monseigneur.”

  “But you suffer, though?”

  “A great deal,” said Broussel.

  “I brought along my personal doctor,” said the duke. “May he come in?”

  “How’s that?” said Broussel.

  The duke motioned to his footman, who ushered in a man in black. “We both had the same idea, Monseigneur,” the coadjutor said.

  The two doctors looked each other over. “Ah, is that you, Monsieur le Coadjuteur?” said the duke. “The friends of the people all share the same goal.”

  “I was alarmed by the clamor and came running—but I think the most important thing is for our doctors tend to our brave councilor.”

  “What, in front of everyone?” said Broussel, intimidated.

  “Why not? You’re a victim of tyranny, and in the name of justice, we must bear witness to your injuries.”

  “Dear God, is that more shouting?” cried Madame Broussel.

  “No, it’s applause,” said Blancmesnil, dashing to the window.

  “What?” cried Broussel, pale as death. “What is it now?”

  “It’s the livery of the Prince de Conti!”* cried Blancmesnil. “The Prince de Conti himself!”

  The coadjutor and the Duc de Longueville shared a look and tried not to laugh. The doctors had started to unbutton Broussel’s clothes, but the councilor stopped them. At that moment the Prince de Conti came in.

  “Ah, Messieurs!” the prince said, seeing the duke and the coadjutor. “You have anticipated me! But don’t blame me for being late, my dear Monsieur Broussel. When I heard about your accident, I thought you might need a doctor, so I went to get mine. How are you, and what’s the story of this assassination everyone’s talking about?”

  Broussel tried to talk, but words failed him; he was crushed by the weight of the honor done to him. “Come in, then, Doctor, and take a look,” said the Prince de Conti to a man in black who entered after him.

  “Messieurs,” said one of the first two doctors, “This isn’t an examination, it’s a consultation.”

  “If you like,” said the prince. “Just reassure us about the condition of our dear councilor.”

  The three doctors approached the bed, into which Broussel had retreated and pulled up the covers, but despite his best efforts he was stripped and examined.

  They found no wounds but a bruise on the arm, and another on the thigh.

  The three doctors shared a significant look—never had three of the most learned physicians of the faculty of Paris been convened over such a trifle.

  “Well?” said the coadjutor.

  “Well?” said the duke.

  “Well?” said the prince.

  “We hope that monsieur will never suffer an actual accident,” said one of the doctors. “We’ll be in the next room until you need us.”

  “Broussel! How is Broussel?” shouted the people. “What’s the news about Broussel?”

  The coadjutor stepped to the window. At the sight of him, the people fell silent.

  “My friends,” he said, “have no fear: Monsieur Broussel is out of danger. However, his wounds are serious, and rest is required.”

  Shouts of “Long live Broussel! Long live the coadjutor!” echoed down the street.

  Monsieur de Longueville was jealous and went to show himself at the window next. “Long live Monsieur de Longueville!” someone obligingly cried.

  “My friends,” said the duke, waving, “go home in peace, and don’t give our enemies the pleasure of suppressing a riot.”

  “Well said, Monsieur le Duc!” said Broussel from his bed. “Now that was good, plain speaking.”

  “Friends and gentlemen of Paris!” said the Prince de Conti, taking his turn at the window to get his share of applause. “Monsieur Broussel has heard you! But he is in need of rest, and the clamor disturbs him.”

  “Long live the Prince de Conti!” shouted the crowd, as the prince saluted them.

  The three lords then took leave of the councilor, and the crowd that had gathered on Broussel’s behalf became their escort. They all moved off toward the docks, still calling Broussel’s name.

  The old maid, stupefied, regarded her master with admiration. The councilor had grown at least a foot in her eyes.

  “That’s what it’s like when a man serves his country with good conscience,” said Broussel with satisfaction.

  After an hour of deliberation, the doctors came out and bathed his bruises with salt and water.

  Meanwhile, the procession of carriages of the important and self-important kept coming. All day long the luminaries of the Fronde came to call on Broussel.

  “What a great triumph, Father!” said the young son, who didn’t quite grasp the real motive all these churchmen, lords, and princes had for visiting his injured parent.

  “Alas, my dear Jacques!” said Broussel. “I fear this will be an expensive triumph, and unless I’m wrong, even now Monsieur Mazarin is figuring out how to make us pay for it.”

  Friquet finally returned at midnight, never having found a doctor.

  XXX

  Four Old Friends Prepare for a Council

  “Well!” said Porthos, sitting in the courtyard of the Hôtel de La Chevrette, as d’Artagnan returned from the Palais Royal with a grim expression. “So, he took it badly, my brave friend?”

  “Ma foi, yes! Really, what an ugly beast that man can be. What are you eating there, Porthos?”

  “As you see, I’m soaking a biscuit in a glass of Spanish wine. Give it a try.”

  “I will. Gimblou! A glass!”

  The lad who enjoyed this euphonious name brought the requested glass, and d’Artagnan sat down next to his friend.

  “How did it go?”

  “Dame! Well, of course, there are two ways to report a failure. I walked in, he looked at me sideways, I shrugged my shoulders and said, ‘Monseigneur, we were outnumbered.’ ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘so I’ve heard—however, give me the details.’ But you know, Porthos, I couldn’t give him the details without naming our friends, which would be a disaster.”

  “Pardieu!”

  “‘Monseigneur,’ I said, ‘they were fifty, and we were two.’ ‘Indeed,’ he said, ‘but nonetheless I hear there was an exchange of pistol shots.’ ‘In fact, both sides burned some powder,’ I said. ‘And your swords saw the light of day?’ ‘Say, rather, the starlight, Monseigneur,’ I replied.

  “‘Ah çà!’ continued the cardinal. ‘And I thought you were a Gascon.’ ‘I’m always a Gascon—when I succeed, Monseigneur.’ That answer pleased him, and he laughed. ‘That will teach me, to give my guards better horses,’ he said, ‘for if they’d been able to keep up with you, and had done as well as you and your friend, you would have kept your promise to bring the duke back dead or alive.’”

  “Well, that’s not so bad,” said Porthos.

  “Eh, well, not so bad, maybe, but not so good,” said d’Artagnan. “My, how these biscuits soak up the wine! They’re like sponges! Gimblou, another bottle.”

  The bottle came with a speed that showed what esteem d’Artagnan was held in the establishment. He continued, “I began to retire, but he called me back. ‘You had three horses killed from under you?’ he asked me. ‘Yes, Monseigneur,’ I said. ‘How much were they worth?’”

  “A fine question, it speaks well of him,” said Porthos.

  “‘A thousand pistoles,’ I said.”

  “A thousand pistoles!” said Porthos. “That’s rather high! If he knows horseflesh, he’d have to haggle.”

  “I could tell he wanted to, the wease
l, because he winced and gave me a look. But then he nodded, reached into a drawer, and pulled out some bearer bonds drawn on the Bank of Lyon.”

  “For a thousand pistoles?”

  “Exactly, and not a sou more, the miser.”

  “And you have them?”

  “Here they are.”

  “My faith! That seems quite proper,” said Porthos.

  “Proper! Is ‘proper’ good enough when lives were at risk, and when I’ve done him a huge favor?”

  “A huge favor? What was that?”

  “By our Lady! It seems I ran over a troublesome councilor of parliament.”

  “Really! Would that be the little man in black at the corner of the Saint-Jean cemetery?”

  “That’s the one. A troublemaker. Unfortunately, I merely knocked him down, and he’ll recover to bedevil us again.”

  “And to think that I swerved to avoid him when I could have squashed him flat,” said Porthos. “Now there’s a lesson for next time.”

  “I should have had a bonus for that!”

  “Well, to be fair, he wasn’t totally crushed.”

  “Bah! Richelieu would have said, ‘Here’s five hundred crowns for running down that councilor!’ But enough about that. What were your horses really worth, Porthos?”

  “Ah, my friend, if poor Mousqueton were here, he could tell you, to the livre, denier, and sou.”

  “Whatever! So long as I was close.”

  “Well, Vulcan and Bayard cost me around two hundred pistoles apiece, while Phoebus was nearly a hundred and fifty, as I recall.”

  “So, we’re four hundred and fifty pistoles to the good,” said d’Artagnan, pleased.

  “Yes,” said Porthos, “but there’s still the saddles and tack.”

  “Pardieu, that’s true. How much was the tack?”

  “Say, a hundred pistoles for all three . . .”

  “All right, a hundred pistoles,” said d’Artagnan. “That still leaves three hundred fifty more.”

  Porthos nodded in agreement.

  “Let’s give fifty pistoles to our hostess for our expenses, and divide the remaining three hundred,” said d’Artagnan.

  “Split it up,” said Porthos.