Twenty Years After

by Alexander Dumas

  “I’m called the Comte de Guiche,”* continued the cavalier. “My father is the Maréchal de Grammont.* And now that you know my name, will you do me the honor to tell me yours?”

  “I’m the Vicomte de Bragelonne,” said Raoul, blushing because he was unable to name his father, as the Comte de Guiche had.

  “Viscount, your look, your kindness, and your courage all appeal to me—and you have my gratitude. Let’s embrace and be friends.”

  “Monsieur,” said Raoul, hugging the count, “I love you with all my heart already, so I beg you to consider me your devoted friend.”

  “So, where are you off to, Viscount?” asked de Guiche.

  “To the army of Monsieur le Prince, Count.”

  “Why, so am I!” laughed the young man. “All the better! We’ll share our first action under fire together.”

  “Indeed, you should be friends,” said the tutor. “You’re both young, and the same star doubtless shines on you both—you were fated to meet.”

  The two young men smiled with the confidence of youth.

  “And now,” said the tutor, “you must change your clothes. Your lackey, whom I gave orders to when he came off the ferry, has gone ahead to the inn. Dry linen and warmed wine await us there—let’s go.”

  The young men had no objections to this plan—in fact, they found it excellent. So, they immediately mounted, and then paused to admire each other; for a fact, they were both elegant cavaliers, lithe and slender, with broad brows above noble faces, looks gentle but proud, smiles sincere and loyal. De Guiche had to be about eighteen, but he was scarcely taller than Raoul, who was only fifteen.

  They reached out spontaneously and shook hands, and then, spurring their horses, rode along the river path to the nearby inn, one laughing and enjoying the life he’d almost lost, while the other thanked God that he’d lived long enough to do a deed that would make his guardian proud.

  As for Olivain, he was the only one his master’s exploit had left entirely dissatisfied. As he rode along, wringing out his sleeves and cuffs, he was thinking that if they’d stopped in Compiègne, he would have been spared an accident he’d barely survived, as well as the influenza and rheumatism that was bound to follow.

  XXXIII

  Skirmish

  Their stay at Noyon was short, though everyone got a good night’s sleep. Raoul had asked to be awakened if Grimaud arrived, but Grimaud never came.

  The horses, for their part, doubtless appreciated the abundant hay and eight hours of complete rest they got. The Comte de Guiche was awakened at five in the morning by Raoul, who came in to wish him good day. They ate a quick breakfast, and by six o’clock had already ridden two leagues.

  Raoul found the young count’s conversation fascinating, so he mainly listened as de Guiche talked. He’d been raised in Paris, which Raoul had only seen once, and largely at Court, which Raoul had never seen. His youthful follies as a page, and two duels he’d managed to have despite the royal edicts and the injunctions of his tutor, excited Raoul’s admiration. Bragelonne had paid only the one visit to Monsieur Scarron, and he named to de Guiche the people he’d seen there. De Guiche knew everybody: Madame de Neuillan, Mademoiselle d’Aubigné, Mademoiselle de Scudéry, Madamoiselle Paulet, even Madame de Chevreuse. And he made fun of everyone—Raoul trembled, afraid he was going to joke about Madame de Chevreuse, for whom he felt a deep sympathy—but either instinctively or from affection for the duchess, de Guiche spoke only good of her. This made Raoul feel even more friendly toward the count.

  Next, they turned to the subject of love and gallantry—and here again, Bragelonne had more to hear than to say. So, he listened, and it seemed to him that despite the count’s tales of three or four thinly veiled amorous adventures that de Guiche, like himself, was hiding a secret in his heart.

  De Guiche, as we’ve said, had been brought up at Court, and the intrigues of the royal courtiers were all open secrets to him. It was the same French Court of which Raoul had heard so much from the Comte de La Fère—only it had changed quite a bit since the days when Athos had frequented it. The Comte de Guiche’s stories were thus entirely new to his traveling companion. With comments witty and irreverent, the young noble passed everyone in review: he recounted the former affairs of Madame de Longueville with Coligny, and of the latter’s fatal duel over them at the Place Royale, which madame watched secretly from behind window blinds; of her new affair with the Prince de Marcillac, a jealous man who wanted to kill his rivals, even the Abbé d’Herblay, her confessor; and the romance of the Prince of Wales with Prince Gaston’s daughter, “La Grande Mademoiselle,”97 notorious at a later time for her secret marriage with Lauzun. Not even the queen was spared, and Cardinal Mazarin came in for his share of mockery as well.

  The entire day passed as if it were no more than an hour. The count’s tutor, a gentleman, bon vivant, and “a scholar to his teeth,” as the saying has it, often reminded Raoul of the erudition, wit, and soaring disdain of Athos—but without his grace, delicacy, and innate nobility. In those regards, no one compared to the Comte de La Fère.

  The horses, managed more carefully than the day before, brought them by four o’clock to Arras. They were now approaching the theater of war, and decided to spend the night in the town, as the Spaniards sometimes took advantage of darkness to mount raids to the very outskirts of Arras.

  The French army held a line from Pont-à-Marcq to Valenciennes, centering on Douai. It was said Monsieur le Prince himself was at Béthune.

  The enemy’s line extended from Cassel to Courtray, and as there was no sort of rapine and pillage they wouldn’t commit, the poor folk of the border counties had left their rural homes and taken refuge in the nearby walled cities. Arras was teeming with refugees.

  There was talk that a decisive battle was imminent, the prince having only maneuvered till then while waiting for reinforcements, which had finally arrived. The young men congratulated themselves on coming at the right time.

  They supped together, and then shared a room. They were at the age of sudden friendships, and it seemed to them that they’d known each other since birth and would never find it possible to part.

  The evening was spent talking about war; the lackeys polished their weapons, while the young men loaded their pistols in case of a skirmish on the morrow. They awoke feeling apprehensive, both having dreamed they’d arrived at the army too late to take part in the battle.

  In the morning the rumor spread that the Prince de Condé had evacuated Béthune to fall back upon Carvin, while leaving a garrison in the former town. But this news couldn’t be confirmed, so the young men decided to continue making their way toward Béthune, leaving the road, if necessary, to veer right toward Carvin.

  De Guiche’s tutor was familiar with the area and proposed that they take a byway that crossed the country midway between the road to Lens and the road to Béthune. At Ablain they stopped to make inquiries and leave directions for Grimaud. They set off again at about seven o’clock.

  De Guiche, who was young and hot-blooded, said to Raoul, “Here we are then, three masters and three servants. Our valets are well armed, and your lackey seems stubborn enough.”

  “I’ve never seen him in a fight,” said Raoul, “but he is a Breton, and that’s something.”

  “Yes, indeed,” de Guiche replied. “I’m sure he’s fired a musket or two in his time. As for me, I have two reliable men who’ve been to war with my father, so we’re six fighters in total. If we encounter a small troop of the enemy equal in number to ourselves, Raoul, or even superior—don’t you think we should charge them?”

  “By all means,” the viscount replied.

  “Whoa, young gentlemen! Hold on, there!” said the tutor, joining the conversation. “Vertudieu! And what of my instructions, Monsieur le Comte? Do you forget that I have orders to conduct you safely to Monsieur le Prince? Once you reach the army, go get killed all you like—but I’m warning you that until then, in my capacity as superior officer, I’l
l order a retreat at the first sight of an enemy’s plume.”

  De Guiche and Raoul glanced at each other from the corners of their eyes and smiled.

  The country became more wooded, and from time to time they met small fleeing groups of farmers, driving their cattle before them and carrying their most valuable goods on their backs or behind them in carts.

  They arrived at Ablain without any trouble. There they made inquiries and learned that Monsieur le Prince had, in fact, left Béthune and was now between Cambrin and La Venthie. After leaving word for Grimaud, they continued on their way, taking a side road that led the little band after half an hour to the banks of a small stream that flowed into the Lys.

  It was lovely country, crossed by small wooded valleys as green as emeralds. Occasionally the trail they were following led through small woodlands; as they approached each wood, in case of ambush, the tutor sent the count’s two servants ahead as a vanguard. The tutor and the two young men formed the corps of the army, with Olivain, alert and with his carbine on his knee, as the rear guard.

  Eventually, they found before them the thickest wood yet; a hundred paces from its verge, Monsieur d’Arminges took his usual precautions, sending the count’s servants ahead as scouts. The lackeys had just disappeared under the eaves of the trees, the young men and the tutor laughing and chatting as they followed a hundred paces behind, when suddenly five or six musket shots rang out. The tutor called a halt, and the young men obeyed, reining in their horses. Just then they saw the two lackeys galloping back.

  The two young men, eager to hear about the musketry, spurred toward the lackeys. The tutor followed, lagging behind. “Were you stopped and chased?” shouted the young men.

  “No,” replied one of the lackeys. “We probably weren’t even seen. The gunfire broke out a hundred paces ahead of us, in pretty much the thickest part of the wood, so we came back to ask for advice.”

  “My advice,” said Monsieur d’Arminges, “and my orders, if necessary, are that we retreat. This could conceal an ambush.”

  The other lackey said, “I thought I saw some horsemen in yellow outfits sneaking along the banks of the creek.”

  “That’s it,” said the tutor. “We’ve run afoul of a party of Spaniards. Fall back, Messieurs, fall back!”

  The young men looked at each other inquisitively—and at that moment they heard a pistol shot, followed by two or three cries for help.

  The two young men reassured each other with a nod, and as the tutor turned his horse away, they both spurred forward. Raoul cried, “With me, Olivain!”

  Meanwhile the Comte de Guiche shouted, “Urbain and Blanchet! À moi!” And before the tutor could recover from his surprise, the little troop was already disappearing into the forest.

  As they spurred their horses forward, both young men drew their pistols. Within moments, they arrived near where the sounds had seemed to come from. They slowed their horses and advanced cautiously. “Hush!” said de Guiche. “Horsemen.”

  “Yes, I see three on horseback, and three who’ve dismounted.”

  “What are they doing? Can you see?”

  “They seem to be searching a dead or wounded man.”

  “It’s some cowardly assassination!” said de Guiche.

  “They’re soldiers, though,” said Bragelonne.

  “Yes, but irregulars—in other words, highway robbers.”

  “Let’s get them!” said Raoul.

  “Let’s get them!” repeated de Guiche.

  “Messieurs!” cried the poor tutor. “Messieurs, in the name of heaven . . .”

  But young men don’t listen to such talk. They took off, each vying to get ahead of the other, and the only effect of the tutor’s cries was to alert the Spaniards.

  Immediately the three mounted soldiers charged to meet the young men, while the other three finished looting the travelers—for the young men could now see there were two victims on the ground.

  At ten paces away, de Guiche fired first, and missed his man. The Spaniard charging Raoul fired in his turn, and Raoul felt a sting in his left arm like the stroke of a whip. When they closed to four paces, he fired, and the Spaniard, struck in the center of his chest, threw out his arms and fell backward off his horse, which turned and fled.

  At that moment Raoul saw through the powder smoke the barrel of a musket leveled at him. Athos’s advice came to his mind, and quick as a flash he pulled his mount and reared it back, just as the gun went off. His horse jumped sideways, lost its footing, and fell, trapping Raoul’s leg beneath it. The Spaniard leapt down, grabbing his musket by the barrel to crack Raoul’s skull with its butt.

  Unfortunately, trapped as he was, Raoul could neither draw his sword from its sheath nor reach his other holster. He saw the heavy musket rise above his head and started to shut his eyes, when with a bound de Guiche arrived next to the Spaniard and put a pistol to his head. “Give up!” he said. “Or you’re dead!”

  The musket fell from the soldier’s hands, which he raised in surrender.

  De Guiche called over one of his lackeys, ordered him to guard the prisoner, and blow his brains out if he tried to escape, then leapt from his horse and approached Raoul. “My faith, Monsieur!” said Raoul, laughing, although his pallor betrayed the inevitable reaction to a first combat. “You pay your debts quickly, and no mistake! Without you,” he added, repeating the count’s own words, “I’d have been dead twice over.”

  “My opponent fled,” said de Guiche, “so I was free to come to your aid. But are you seriously hurt? There’s blood all over you.”

  “I think a bullet scratched me on the arm,” said Raoul. “Help me get out from under my horse, and then nothing, I hope, will prevent us from continuing on our way.”

  Monsieur d’Arminges and Olivain had already dismounted, and together they worked to lift the horse, which was struggling in agony. Raoul managed to get his foot out of the stirrup and his leg from under the horse, and a moment later he was standing, free.

  “Nothing broken?” asked de Guiche.

  “Ma foi, no, thank heaven,” replied Raoul. “But what happened to the poor victims waylaid by those wretches?”

  “We arrived too late—they killed them, I think, and got away with their loot. My lackeys are guarding the bodies.”

  “Let’s see if they still live, and need our help,” said Raoul. “Olivain, we’ve inherited two horses, but I’ve lost mine; give me yours, and take the best of the new ones.”

  And they went to where the victims were lying.

  XXXIV

  The Monk

  Two men were lying there. One was facedown, pierced by three bullets and drowned in a pool of his own blood, quite dead. The other, leaned up against a tree by the lackeys, had his eyes shut and his hands clasped in fervent prayer. A bullet had broken his thigh.

  The young men looked first at the corpse, and started, astonished. “He’s a priest,” said Bragelonne. “See his tonsure? Oh, those dogs! Raising their hands against a minister of God!”

  “Come here, Monsieur,” said Urbain, an aging veteran who’d soldiered under Cardinal Richelieu. “Over here. There’s nothing you can do for the priest, but maybe we can still save this one.”

  The wounded man smiled sadly. “Save me?” he said. “No—but you can help me to die.”

  “Are you also a priest?”

  “No, Monsieur.”

  “Your unfortunate companion seemed to be a man of the Church,” said Raoul.

  “He was the Curate of Béthune, Monsieur; he was carrying his church’s treasury and sacred vessels to safety, because Monsieur le Prince abandoned our town yesterday, and the Spanish might occupy it tomorrow. He knew enemy troops were prowling the countryside, and the trip was perilous, so when no one else dared to accompany him, I offered to go.”

  “And those miserable dogs attacked you—those wretches shot a priest!”

  “Messieurs,” said the wounded man, looking around him, “I’m in terrible pain, but I wish you coul
d get me to a house.”

  “Where you could recover?”

  “No, where I can be confessed.”

  “Maybe you’re not hurt as badly as you think,” said Raoul.

  “Trust me, Monsieur, there’s no time to lose,” said the wounded man. “The ball broke my thigh-bone and has lodged in my bowels.”

  “Are you a doctor?” asked de Guiche.

  “No,” said the dying man, “but I know something about wounds—and mine is mortal. So, try to get me somewhere I can find a priest, or get one and bring him here, and God will reward such a holy deed. Help save my soul, for my body is lost.”

  “You were undertaking a holy task. God won’t abandon you.”

  “Messieurs, in the name of heaven!” said the wounded man, gathering all his strength to try to get up. “Don’t waste time in useless talk. Help me to get to the next village, or swear to me as you hope for salvation that you’ll send me the first monk, curate, or priest you encounter. But what if no one dares do it, because they know the Spaniards are coming, and I die without absolution?” he added, in a tone of despair. “My God!” cried the wounded man with a terror that made the young men shudder. “You wouldn’t allow that, would you? It would be too cruel!”

  “Easy, Monsieur, easy,” said de Guiche. “I swear we’ll find you the consolation you need. Just point us toward a house where we can ask for help, or a village from which we can fetch a priest.”

  “Thank you, and may God reward you! There’s an inn half a league along this road, and a league beyond that you’ll find the village of Greney. Look for the curate, but if he’s not home, go to the Augustinian monastery on the far side of the town. Bring me a friar, a monk, or a curate—whoever, so long as he’s received from Holy Church the power of absolution in articulo mortis.”

  “Monsieur d’Arminges,” said de Guiche, “stay here with this poor man, and prepare to move him as gently as possible. Make a stretcher of our coats and some tree branches; two of our lackeys can carry him, with the third ready to switch out when one gets tired. The viscount and I will ride ahead to find a priest.”