Twenty Years After

by Alexander Dumas

“A paltry payout,” murmured d’Artagnan, putting the bills in two piles.

  “As usual!” said Porthos. “Did he say anything else?”

  “What about?”

  “Oh, well . . . about me?”

  “Ah, right!” said d’Artagnan, afraid of discouraging his friend by telling him the cardinal hadn’t mentioned him. “Right! Uh, he said . . .”

  “He said?” replied Porthos.

  “Wait, I want to remember his exact words: he said, ‘As to your friend, tell him he can sleep soundly.’”

  “Good,” said Porthos. “That tells me clear as day that he still intends to make me a baron.”

  At that moment nine o’clock sounded from the nearby church. D’Artagnan started.

  “Oh!” said Porthos. “There’s nine striking now, and at ten, you remember, we have that rendezvous at the Place Royale.”96

  “Bah! Don’t mention it, Porthos!” snapped d’Artagnan, with an impatient gesture. “Don’t remind me—that’s what I’ve been sulking about since yesterday. I won’t go.”

  “Not go? But why?” asked Porthos.

  “Because it’s too painful to meet with the two men who foiled our mission.”

  “Foiled? It was a draw,” replied Porthos. “Neither side had the advantage—I still had a loaded pistol, and you two were facing each other, sword in hand.”

  “Yes,” said d’Artagnan. “But if there’s a hidden scheme behind this rendezvous . . .”

  “Oh, d’Artagnan, you don’t believe that,” Porthos said.

  It was true—d’Artagnan didn’t believe Athos was capable of anything underhanded, but he was looking for an excuse not to go to the rendezvous.

  “We must go, or they’ll think we’re afraid,” stated the superb Seigneur de Bracieux. “Really, cher ami, we faced fifty enemies on the king’s highway—I think we can face two good friends in the Place Royale.”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” said d’Artagnan, “but they took the side of the princes without warning us, and Athos and Aramis have toyed with me in an alarming manner. Last night we found out the truth; what’s the point of going tonight to learn the same thing over again?”

  “Do you really distrust them?” said Porthos.

  “As to Aramis, ever since he became an abbot: yes. You can’t imagine how changed he is. He sees us as obstacles on the road to his bishopric and could shove us aside without being any too sorry about it.”

  “Oh, well, Aramis, sure,” said Porthos. “That wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “Or Monsieur de Beaufort might lay a trap to take us.”

  “Bah! He had us and let us go. But we’ll be on our guard; we can arm ourselves and take Planchet with his carbine.”

  “Ha! Planchet’s a Frondeur,” said d’Artagnan.

  “Damn all civil wars!” said Porthos. “We can’t count on our friends, or even our lackeys. Ah, if only poor Mousqueton was here! There’s one who will never abandon me.”

  “Yes, so long as you’re still rich! But you know, old friend, it’s not the civil wars that separate us, it’s the fact that we’re all twenty years older. The happy loyalty of youth has given way to the voice of self-interest, the spur of ambition, and the conceit of pride.” He sighed. “Yes, you’re right, we have to go, Porthos—but let’s go well armed. If we don’t go, it’s true, they’ll say we’re afraid. Holà! Planchet!”

  Planchet appeared.

  “Saddle the horses and bring your carbine.”

  “But, Monsieur, who are we going up against?”

  “We’re not going up against anyone,” said d’Artagnan. “It’s just a simple precaution in case we’re attacked.”

  “Do you know, Monsieur, that today they tried to assassinate good Councilor Broussel, the father of the people?”

  “Is that so?” said d’Artagnan.

  “Yes, but the attempt was rebuffed, for he was borne home in the people’s arms. Since yesterday his house is never empty. He was visited by Coadjutor de Gondy, by Monsieur de Longueville, and by the Prince de Conti. Madame de Chevreuse and Madame de Vendôme have signed his visitors’ book, and whenever he gives the word . . .”

  “Well? What happens when he ‘gives the word’?”

  Planchet began to sing:

  The Fronde wind blows

  So, let her in

  I think it goes

  Against Mazarin

  If the Fronde wind blows

  We’ll let her in!

  “Now I understand,” d’Artagnan said quietly to Porthos, “why Mazarin would have preferred it if I’d annihilated that councilor.”

  “So, you see, Monsieur,” said Planchet, “that if it was for some mission like the one that injured Monsieur Broussel that you wanted me to bring my carbine . . .”

  “No, nothing like that, don’t worry. But where did you hear all these details?”

  “Oh, from a good source, Monsieur—from Friquet.”

  “From Friquet?” said d’Artagnan. “I know that name.”

  “He’s the son of Monsieur Broussel’s maid, and one who, in a riot, I wouldn’t mind having at my side.”

  “Isn’t he also a choirboy at Notre Dame?” asked d’Artagnan.

  “Yes, that’s right—he’s a protégé of Bazin.”

  “Of course,” said d’Artagnan. “And he’s pot boy at a tavern in Rue de la Calandre?”

  “That’s him. What business could you have with a street urchin?”

  “He’s already given me good information,” said d’Artagnan, “and may give me better yet.”

  “What, to someone who nearly crushed his master?” said Porthos, in what was for him a low voice.

  “And who will tell him that?”

  “Good point.”

  At that very moment, Athos and Aramis were entering Paris through the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. They had rested on the road and were hurrying so as not to miss the rendezvous. Bazin was their only follower, since Grimaud, as may be recalled, had stayed behind to care for Mousqueton, and was then supposed to leave to rejoin the young Vicomte de Bragelonne with the army in Flanders.

  “Now,” said Athos, “we need to find an inn where we can change into our city clothes, store our pistols and rapiers, and disarm our lackey.”

  “Disarm? By no means, my dear Count—in this, you must allow me not only to disagree with you, but to try to persuade you to my opinion.”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “Because we’re going to a rendezvous of war.”

  “What do you mean, Aramis?”

  “I mean that the meeting in the Place Royale is nothing but the sequel to the encounter on the king’s highway.”

  “What? But our friends . . .”

  “Have become our most dangerous enemies, Athos. Believe me, they can’t be trusted—especially by you.”

  “Oh, but my dear d’Herblay . . . !”

  “How do you know d’Artagnan hasn’t blamed his defeat on us, and warned the cardinal? How do you know the cardinal won’t take advantage of this rendezvous to arrest us?”

  “Oh, really, Aramis! Do you think d’Artagnan and Porthos would lend their hands to such treachery?”

  “You’re right, mon cher Athos—between friends. But between enemies, it’s a legitimate ruse.”

  Athos crossed his arms and bowed his handsome head on his chest.

  “What do you expect, Athos?” said Aramis. “Men are like that, and they can’t stay twenty years old forever. We’ve wounded d’Aragnan in the pride that spurs him on—you know it’s true. He was defeated. Didn’t you hear his despair on the highway? As for Porthos, his barony probably depended on the outcome of this affair. Well, he ran into us along the way, and won’t be a baron anytime soon—unless his barony depends on what happens at tonight’s meeting. We must take proper precautions, Athos.”

  “But what if they show up unarmed? How that will shame us, Aramis!”

  “Oh, rest easy, mon cher, that’s not going to happen. Besides, we have an excuse: we had to tra
vel, and we’re outlawed rebels!”

  “Us, to need an excuse! An excuse with d’Artagnan! An excuse with Porthos! Oh, Aramis, Aramis,” said Athos, shaking his head sadly, “upon my soul, you make me the most wretched of men. You are disenchanting a heart that was not yet dead to friendship. I’d almost prefer you just wrench it from my chest. You do as you please, Aramis. As to me, I’ll go unarmed.”

  “You’ll do no such thing, because I won’t let you. It’s not just one man, not even Athos, not even the Comte de La Fère you betray by such weakness—it’s an entire faction to which you belong, and that relies on you.”

  “Have it your way, then,” replied Athos sadly.

  And so, it was settled.

  They had scarcely reached Rue du Pas-de-la-Mule, at the gates of the deserted square, when they saw three horsemen under the Place Royale’s outer arcade at the entrance of Rue Sainte-Catherine. In front were d’Artagnan and Porthos, wrapped in cloaks bulged out by their swords. Behind them came Planchet, carbine at his knee.

  Seeing d’Artagnan and Porthos, Athos and Aramis dismounted. D’Artagnan and Porthos did the same. D’Artagnan saw that Bazin, instead of holding the others’ three horses, had tied them to rings on the arcades. He ordered Planchet to do the same.

  Then they advanced, two against two, followed by their lackeys, and met with polite bows.

  “Where shall we have our discussion, Messieurs?” asked Athos, who saw that several people had stopped to look at them, as if expecting one of those famous duels still remembered by the people of Paris, and especially those living on the Place Royale.

  “The gates are shut,” said Aramis, “but if you gentlemen don’t mind waiting a moment here under these trees, I’ll get the keys to go in through the Hôtel de Rohan, which should suit us perfectly.”

  D’Artagnan peered into the shadows of the Place, while Porthos considered the mansion’s gates, and what might be behind them. “If you prefer somewhere else, Messieurs,” said Athos, in his refined and persuasive voice, “just name it.”

  “This place, if Monsieur d’Herblay can get the key, will do just fine, I think.”

  Aramis went off, after warning Athos to stay out of range of d’Artagnan and Porthos, but Athos only smiled disdainfully and moved closer to his old friends, who remained where they were.

  Meanwhile Aramis was knocking at the Hôtel de Rohan, and talking with a footman who said, “You swear it’s no duel, Monsieur?”

  “Upon this,” said Aramis, offering him a louis d’or.

  “So, you won’t swear, good Gentleman?” said the footman, shaking his head.

  “Oh, who can be sure of anything?” said Aramis. “I tell you only that, at the moment, these gentlemen are our friends.”

  “He’s right,” intoned Athos, d’Artagnan, and Porthos.

  D’Artagnan had overheard the entire conversation. “You see?” he whispered to Porthos.

  “See what?”

  “He wouldn’t swear.”

  “Swear about what?”

  “That man wanted Aramis to swear that we hadn’t come to the Place Royale to fight.”

  “And Aramis wouldn’t swear?”

  “No.”

  “Then be on your guard.”

  Athos observed this whispered exchange. Aramis opened the gate and stepped back so d’Artagnan and Porthos could enter. The hilt of d’Artagnan’s sword caught on the gate and pulled back his cloak, exposing his brace of pistols, which gleamed in the moonlight.

  “You see?” said Aramis, touching Athos’s shoulder with one hand and pointing with the other at the arsenal in d’Artagnan’s belt.

  “Alas, yes!” said Athos, with a deep sigh.

  He went in third. Aramis entered last and closed the gate behind him. The two lackeys remained outside, but they were suspicious of each other, and kept their distance.

  XXXI

  The Place Royale

  They walked silently toward the center of the square, but as they did the moon emerged from the clouds; this made them feel exposed, so they went under the lime trees, where the shade concealed them.

  Benches were placed here and there, and the four stopped before one of them. Athos gestured, and d’Artagnan and Porthos sat. Athos and Aramis remained standing.

  After a silent moment, during which they all began to feel embarrassed, Athos decided to begin the discussion. “Messieurs,” he said, “our presence at this rendezvous is proof of the power of our old friendship. No one is missing, so no one needs reproach himself.”

  “Listen, Count,” said d’Artagnan, “instead of paying compliments we may or may not deserve, let’s be open and forthright.”

  “I ask nothing better,” said Athos. “I will be candid, so you may speak with all honesty. Do you have any issue to take with myself or the Abbé d’Herblay?”

  “Yes,” said d’Artagnan. “When I had the honor to speak with you at the Château de Bragelonne, I made proposals to you that you couldn’t fail to understand—but instead of answering me as a friend, you treated me like a child. This friendship you boast about wasn’t broken yesterday by our clash of swords, but by your dissembling at your château.”

  “D’Artagnan!” said Athos, in a tone of gentle reproach.

  “You asked me to be frank,” said d’Artagnan, “so there it is. Whenever you want to know what I think, I tell you. And I have the same complaint to make of you, Monsieur l’Abbé d’Herblay, as you abused me in the same fashion.”

  “Really, Monsieur, this is beyond strange,” said Aramis. “You say you came to me to make proposals, but did you? No, you sounded me out, that’s all. And what did I tell you? That Mazarin was a buffoon, and that I wouldn’t serve him. But that’s all. Did I say I wouldn’t serve someone else? On the contrary, I gave you to understand, it seems to me, that I favored the party of the princes. We even joked, if I’m not mistaken, that the cardinal might very well send you to arrest me. Were you a man of his party? No doubt about it. Then why couldn’t we be men of a different party? If you could have your secrets, then we could have ours—and if we kept quiet, all the better. It just proves we know how to keep a secret.”

  “I don’t blame you for it, Monsieur,” said d’Artagnan. “It’s only because the Comte de La Fère speaks of friendship that I consider your conduct.”

  “And what do you find?” asked Aramis, haughtily.

  The blood immediately went to d’Artagnan’s head, and he stood and barked, “I find it worthy of a student of the Jesuits.”

  Seeing d’Artagnan stand, Porthos got up as well. All four now stood in threatening postures. Leaning toward d’Artagnan, Aramis dropped his hand toward his sword.

  Athos stopped him. “D’Artagnan,” he said, “you come here tonight still furious about yesterday’s encounter. I thought you had enough heart that a friendship of twenty years’ standing would overcome a quarter-hour’s injury to your pride. Come, tell me truly—do you have something to blame me for? If I’m at fault, d’Artagnan, I’ll own that fault and confess it.”

  The soothing and sonorous voice of Athos had its old effect on d’Artagnan, calming him where the voice of Aramis, which became sharp and shrill when angry, provoked him. He said to Athos, “I think, Count, that you had a confidence to share with me at the Château de Bragelonne, as monsieur here,” he continued, pointing at Aramis, “had in his monastery. I hadn’t yet committed to anything that might pit me against you. But just because I was discreet didn’t mean you should take me for a fool. If I’d wanted to expose the difference between those Monsieur d’Herblay receives by rope and those who come by ladder, I could have.”

  “Where are you going with this?” cried Aramis, pale with anger at the thought that d’Artagnan might have spied him with Madame de Longueville.

  “I go only where my own business takes me. I don’t concern myself with things I shouldn’t see—but I do hate hypocrites, and in that category I put musketeers who play at being abbots, and abbots who play at being musketeers. And m
onsieur here,” he added, turning to Porthos, “agrees with me.”

  Porthos, who hadn’t uttered a word up to this point, just said, “Yes,” and drew his sword. Aramis leapt back and drew his own. D’Artagnan leaned forward, ready to attack or defend.

  But Athos stopped them, extending his hand with that supreme gesture of command that belonged only to him. He slowly drew his own sword with the other hand, and then broke it over his knee and threw the pieces down in front of him.

  Then he turned to Aramis and said, “Aramis, break your sword.”

  Aramis hesitated.

  “Do it,” Athos said. Then, in a softer tone: “I wish it.”

  Aramis grew pale, but overcome by the gesture, overwhelmed by the voice, he bent and broke his sword, and then crossed his arms and stood, quivering with rage.

  At this, d’Artagnan and Porthos stepped back. D’Artagnan kept his hand away from his sword, and Porthos returned his to its sheath.

  “Never,” said Athos, slowly raising his right hand toward heaven, “never, I swear before God who sees and hears us in the solemnity of this night: never will my sword strike yours; never will my eye look upon you in anger; never will my heart beat toward you with hate. We have lived together, hated and loved together, poured out our blood together—and moreover, we are bound by what is perhaps a stronger bond than that of friendship, the bond of a shared crime. For together the four of us judged, condemned, and executed a human being that perhaps we had no right to send from this world, even if the world she seemed to belong to was Hell.

  “D’Artagnan, I have always loved you like a son. Porthos, we slept side by side for ten years; Aramis is your brother as he is mine, for Aramis has loved you as I love you still and will always love you. What can Cardinal Mazarin be to us, who have defied the heart and the hand of a man like Richelieu? Who is this prince or that to us, who have steadied the crown on the head of a queen? D’Artagnan, I ask your pardon for having crossed swords with you yesterday, and Aramis does the same for Porthos. So now, hate me if you must, but I assure you that despite your hatred, I will have nothing but friendship and esteem for you. Now repeat my words, Aramis—and afterward, if it’s what they want, and what you want, part from our old friends forever.”