Twenty Years After

by Alexander Dumas

  “Indeed, whenever you like.”

  “Has he changed?”

  “He’s become an abbot, that’s all.”

  “Now that worries me—for surely that’s made him give up on adventures.”

  “On the contrary,” said Athos with a smile, “he was never more of a musketeer than he is since becoming an abbot—you’ll find him a veritable Galaor.110 Do you want me to send Raoul for him?”

  “Thank you, Count, but he might not be instantly available. But if you think you can answer for him . . .”

  “As much as for myself.”

  “Then would you engage to bring him at ten o’clock tomorrow morning to the Louvre drawbridge?”

  “Oh ho!” said Athos, smiling. “Do you have a duel arranged?”

  “Yes, Count, a fine duel, a duel of which you’ll approve, I hope.”

  “Where shall we go, Milord?”

  “To see Her Majesty the Queen of England, who has charged me with bringing you to her.”

  “Her Majesty knows of me, then?”

  “No, but I know you.”

  “A conundrum!” said Athos. “But I agree nevertheless, and you have my word on it—I don’t need to know more. Will you do me the honor of dining with me, Milord?”

  “Thank you, Count,” Winter said, “but that young man’s visit, I must confess, has robbed me of my appetite, and will probably rob me of my sleep. Why did he come to Paris? It wasn’t to track me down, because he didn’t know I was here. That young man terrifies me, Count; he has a future of blood ahead of him.”

  “What has he been doing in England?”

  “He’s one of the most ardent followers of Oliver Cromwell.”

  “What brought him to that cause? His mother and father were Catholics, I believe.”

  “The hatred he bears for the king.”

  “He opposes the king?”

  “Yes, the king declared him a bastard, deprived him of his property, and forbade him to use the name of Winter.”

  “What name does he go by now?”

  “Mordaunt.”

  “A Puritan, disguised as a monk, traveling alone on the roads of France.”

  “A monk, you say?”

  “Yes, didn’t you know?”

  “I know only what he told me.”

  “It’s true, and by that imposture—may God pardon me if I blaspheme—he was able to hear the confession of the executioner of Béthune.”

  “Then I think I understand at last. He’s an envoy sent by Cromwell.”

  “To whom?”

  “To Mazarin. And the queen had guessed rightly: we were forestalled. Everything is clear to me now. Adieu, Count, until tomorrow.”

  “But the night is pitch black,” said Athos, seeing Lord Winter anxious and trying to hide it. “Have you any lackeys with you?”

  “I have Tony—a good lad, but green.”

  “Holà! Olivain, Grimaud, Blaisois—get your musketoons and go with Monsieur le Vicomte.”

  Blaisois was a big fellow, half servant, half peasant, whom we glimpsed at the Château de Bragelonne announcing that dinner was served, and whom Athos had baptized with the name of his province.

  Hearing these orders, Raoul came in. “Viscount,” said Athos, “you will escort milord to his inn, and not allow anyone else to approach him.”

  “Really, Count,” Winter said, “what do you take me for?”

  “For a stranger who doesn’t know his way around Paris,” said Athos, “so let the viscount lead the way.”

  Winter shook his hand. “Grimaud,” said Athos, “place yourself in the vanguard of the troop, and watch out for the monk.” Grimaud started and then nodded, caressing the stock of his musketoon with eloquent silence.

  “Until tomorrow, Count,” said Winter.

  “Yes, Milord.”

  The little troop made its way toward Rue Saint-Louis, Olivain trembling like Sosia111 at every shadow, Blaisois confident because he was unaware of what risks they were running, and Tony looking left and right without saying a word, since he didn’t speak French. Winter and Raoul marched side by side and spoke together. Grimaud, at Athos’s orders, preceded the band with a torch in one hand and his musketoon in the other, leading the way to Winter’s inn, where he knocked on the door with his fist. When they came to open it, he bowed to the lord without a word.

  They followed the same routine for the return. Grimaud’s piercing gaze saw nothing suspicious until he spotted a strange shadow at the corner of the quay and Rue Guénégaud. It seemed to Grimaud that he’d seen this shadow before, and he darted toward it, but before he could reach it the shadow disappeared into a dark alley where Grimaud didn’t think it would be prudent to pursue.

  Athos was informed of the expedition’s success, and as it was ten in the evening, everyone retired to their rooms.

  The next morning, upon opening his eyes, the count found Raoul waiting at his bedside. The young man was fully dressed and was reading a new book by Monsieur Chapelain.112 “Up already, Raoul?” said the count.

  “Yes, Monsieur,” replied the young man, after a slight hesitation. “I slept poorly.”

  “You slept poorly—you, Raoul? Was something bothering you?” asked Athos.

  “Monsieur, you’ll say I’m too eager to leave you again when I’ve only just arrived, but . . .”

  “So, you had only two days’ leave, Raoul?”

  “On the contrary, Monsieur, I had ten; I wasn’t planning to go back to camp yet.”

  Athos smiled. “To where, then, if it’s not a secret, Viscount? Having fought your first battle, you’re almost a man, and have earned the right to go where you like without telling me about it.”

  “Never, Monsieur,” said Raoul. “So long as I have you as my guardian, I wouldn’t think of it. I was just thinking I’d pass a day or two at Blois. Wait, are you laughing at me?”

  “No, not at all,” said Athos, suppressing a sigh. “No, I’m not laughing at you, Viscount. If you want to visit Blois, that’s entirely natural.”

  “Then, you’ll let me go?” Raoul said happily.

  “Certainly, Raoul.”

  “And in your heart, Monsieur, you have no qualms?”

  “Not at all. Why should I be concerned by what pleases you?”

  “Oh, Monsieur, how good you are,” cried the young man, who went to embrace Athos, then stopped out of respect. But Athos opened his arms to him.

  “Then I can leave right away?”

  “Whenever you like, Raoul.”

  Raoul took three steps toward the door, then stopped and said, “Monsieur, there is one thing: it was thanks to the Duchesse de Chevreuse, who was so good to me, that I owe my introduction to Monsieur le Prince.”

  “And you owe her some gratitude—is that it, Raoul?”

  “So, it seems to me, Monsieur . . . but it’s up to you to decide.”

  “Send to the Hôtel de Luynes, Raoul, and ask if the duchess can receive you. I’m very pleased that you remember your manners. Take Grimaud and Olivain with you.”

  “Both of them, Monsieur?” asked Raoul, astonished. Athos nodded, so Raoul bowed and went out.

  Watching him close the door and hearing him call out in a joyful voice to Grimaud and Olivain, Athos sighed. All too soon he leaves me, he thought, shaking his head, but it’s only to be expected, for it’s Nature’s law to look forward. He certainly loves that child in Blois; but must he love me less for loving others? Athos admitted to himself that he hadn’t expected such a speedy departure, but Raoul was so happy about it, that swept away any concerns.

  By nine o’clock everything was prepared for the departure. As Athos watched Raoul mount his horse, a footman arrived for him from Madame de Chevreuse. He’d been sent to tell the Comte de La Fère that she’d heard of the return of his young protégé, as well as of his conduct at the battle, and that she’d be very glad to congratulate him in person. “Tell Madame la Duchesse,” replied Athos, “that the Vicomte de Bragelonne is mounted and on his way to
the Hôtel de Luynes.”

  Then, after giving Grimaud some instructions, Athos made a sign to Raoul that he could depart.

  It occurs to me, Athos thought, remembering his own appointment, that maybe it’s best for Raoul to be away from Paris at just this moment.

  XLV

  Once More the Queen Asks for Aid

  In the morning, Athos had sent a message to Aramis by way of Blaisois, his only remaining servant. Blaisois found Bazin donning his beadle’s robe; it was his day of service at Notre Dame.

  Athos had ordered Blaisois to try to speak to Aramis personally. Blaisois, a brawny but simple lad, who knew only what he’d been told, had asked for the Abbé d’Herblay, and despite Bazin’s telling him he wasn’t at home, had insisted so persistently that Bazin had lost his temper. Blaisois, seeing Bazin dressed as a man of the Church, wasn’t bothered by his anger and tried to go around him, assuming the man he was dealing with possessed the virtues of the cloth, that is, patience and Christian charity.

  But Bazin, still the valet of a musketeer when the blood rose to his round face, grabbed a broomstick and struck at Blaisois, saying, “You’ve insulted the Church, you lout—you’ve insulted the Church!”

  At this unaccustomed commotion, Aramis finally appeared, cautiously opening the door of his bedchamber. Bazin respectfully grounded one end of his stick, as he’d seen the Swiss Guards do at Notre Dame, while Blaisois, with a glare at the rotund Cerberus, drew his letter from his lapel and presented it to Aramis. “From the Comte de La Fère?” said Aramis. “Very good.” He took it and went back into his room without even asking the reason for all the noise.

  Blaisois returned sadly to the Grand Charlemagne Inn, where Athos asked him for a report on his mission. Blaisois told his story. “Idiot!” said Athos, laughing. “Didn’t you tell Bazin that you’d come from me?”

  “No, Monsieur.”

  “And what did Bazin say when he learned you were mine?”

  “Ah, Monsieur, he made all kinds of apologies, and forced me to drink two glasses of very good Muscat with him, in which we dipped three or four excellent biscuits. But he’s still a brutal devil. A beadle, acting that way!”

  Well, thought Athos, since Aramis has received my letter, then unless he’s forestalled, he’ll be there.

  At ten o’clock, Athos, with his usual punctuality, stood on the bridge of the Louvre. There he met Lord Winter, who arrived at the same time. They waited about ten minutes, until Winter began to worry that Aramis wasn’t coming. “Patience,” said Athos, who was looking toward the Rue du Bac. “I see an abbot clouting a man and bowing to a woman: that must be Aramis.”

  It was him, in fact. A lad chasing birds had splashed him as he passed, and with a blow of his fist Aramis had sent him reeling. Then he met one of his congregation, and as she was young and pretty, Aramis had bowed to her with a most gracious smile. A moment later he arrived in front of the Louvre.

  At his reunion with Lord Winter, there were several hearty embraces, as one might imagine. “Where are we going?” Aramis asked. “Is it a fight? If so, sacre bleu, I’ll have to run back to my house for my sword.”

  “No,” Winter said, “we’re paying a visit to Her Majesty the Queen of England.”

  “Ah, very good,” said Aramis, and added in an undertone to Athos, “and what’s the purpose of this visit?”

  “My faith, I have no idea. Some evidence needed from us, perhaps?”

  “I hope it’s not about that cursed affair of the son,” said Aramis. “If it is, I’m not eager to be reproached about it. I give reprimands to others, and don’t like receiving them myself.”

  “If that were the case,” said Athos, “we wouldn’t be conducted to Her Majesty by Lord de Winter, as he was one of us, and shares the blame.”

  “Yes, quite so. Let’s go, then.”

  Upon entering the Louvre, Lord Winter went in first. There was just a single usher at the door, and in the cold light of day Athos, Aramis, and the Englishman couldn’t avoid seeing the awful destitution of the lodging a miserly charity afforded the unlucky queen. The grand halls were stripped of furniture; the cracked and faded walls were enlivened only by bits of gold molding that hadn’t fallen yet; windows, which no longer shut properly, were missing panes of glass; and there were no carpets, no guards, and no servants. This sad dilapidation hit Athos hard, and he silently pointed out the worst of it to his companion, nudging him with his elbow and indicating with his eyes.

  “Mazarin lives a good deal more grandly than this,” said Aramis.

  “Mazarin is nearly a king,” said Athos, “and Madame Henriette is almost no longer a queen.”

  “If you’d only made the effort to be witty, Athos,” said Aramis, “I believe you’d have outdone even Monsieur Voiture.”

  Athos smiled.

  It seemed the queen was waiting impatiently, for at the first movement she heard from the hall outside her chamber, she herself came to the doorway to receive the witnesses of her misfortune. “Come in and be welcome, Messieurs,” she said.

  The gentlemen entered, and at first they stood, but at a gesture from the queen, who invited them to be seated, Athos set the example of obedience. He was grave and calm, but Aramis was angry; this insult to distressed royalty infuriated him, and he glared at the signs of misery around him.

  “You’ve noticed my luxurious lodgings?” Queen Henriette said, with a sad look around the room.

  “Madame,” said Aramis, “I beg Your Majesty’s pardon, but I can’t contain my indignation at seeing how the Court of France treats the daughter of Henri IV.”

  “Monsieur is not a cavalier?” asked the queen of Lord Winter.

  “Monsieur is the Abbé d’Herblay,” he replied.

  Aramis flushed. “Madame,” he said, “I am an abbot, it’s true, but it’s not my preference, as I’ve never had a vocation for the cloth. My cassock is held on by a single button, and I’m always on the verge of doffing it and becoming a musketeer once more. This morning, unaware that I was to have the honor of addressing Your Majesty, I donned my clerical outfit, but I’m nevertheless a man Your Majesty will find utterly devoted to her service, should she wish to command me.”

  “Monsieur le Chevalier d’Herblay,” added Winter, “was one of those valiant musketeers of His Majesty King Louis XIII of whom I’ve spoken to Your Majesty.” Then, indicating Athos, he continued, “As for Monsieur here, he’s the noble Comte de La Fère whose reputation is so well known to Madame.”

  “Messieurs,” said the queen, “just a few years ago I was surrounded by wealth, soldiers, and loyal gentlemen who would obey my command at a gesture. Today as you look around me you might be surprised by my situation, for now, to accomplish a plan that will save my life, I have only Lord Winter, a friend of twenty years, and you, Messieurs, whom I’ve just met for the first time, and know only as my compatriots.”

  “That will be enough, Madame,” said Athos, bowing deeply, “if the lives of three men can redeem yours.”

  “Thank you, Messieurs. Now hear me,” she continued, “I’m not only the most wretched of queens, but the unhappiest of mothers and the most desperate of wives. Two of my children, the Duke of York and Princess Elizabeth,113 are far from me, exposed to the attacks from our enemies and ambitious opportunists; my husband the king is trapped in England, enduring a life so painful that death might be better. Here, Messieurs, is the letter he sent me by Lord Winter. Read it.”

  Athos and Aramis tried to decline, but, “Read it,” said the queen.

  Athos read aloud from the letter, the contents of which we know, in which King Charles asked to obtain refuge in France. “Well?” asked Athos, after he’d finished reading.

  “Well!” said the queen. “Mazarin has refused.”

  The two friends exchanged smiles tinged with contempt.

  “And now, Madame, what is to be done?” asked Athos.

  “Then you can have compassion for so much misfortune?” the queen said, moved.

  �
��I have had the honor to ask Your Majesty what Monsieur d’Herblay and I can do in her service; we are ready.”

  “Ah, Monsieur, you truly have a noble heart!” the queen burst out, her voice choked with gratitude, while Lord Winter gave her a look that seemed to say, Didn’t I tell you so?

  “And you, Monsieur?” the queen asked Aramis.

  “Wherever the count goes,” he replied, “I follow without question, Madame, even unto death—but when it comes to the service of Your Majesty,” he added, with a look as ardent as in his youth, “I go before even Monsieur le Comte.”

  “Well, Messieurs!” said the queen. “If that is so, and you’re willing to devote yourself to the service of a poor princess whom the rest of the world abandons, here is what you can do for me. The king is all alone, except for a few remaining gentlemen whom he expects to lose any day, and is among the Scots, whom he mistrusts, though he’s Scottish himself. Since Lord Winter left him, I scarcely dare breathe. Well, Messieurs, though I’m in no position to ask, please: go to England, join the king, be his friends and his guards, march by his side in battle, and stand next to him in his house, where there are dangers even greater than the risks of war; and in exchange for this sacrifice I promise, not to reward you—for I think you would find that insulting—but to love you like a sister, and to regard you above all others but my husband and my children, so swear I before God!”

  And the queen slowly and solemnly raised her eyes toward heaven.

  “Madame,” said Athos, “when shall we depart?”

  “You agree, then?” said the queen with joy.

  “Yes, Madame, though Your Majesty goes too far, it seems to me, in offering a friendship that is beyond our merits. We serve God, Madame, by serving such an unhappy prince and virtuous queen. We are yours, body and soul.”

  “Oh, Messieurs,” said the queen, moved to tears, “this is the first moment of hope and joy I’ve felt in five years. Yes, you serve God, and as I’m too weak to recompense your efforts, it’s from him your reward will come, from him who reads in my heart all the gratitude I feel for you and yours. Save my husband; save the king; and though you may never receive what you deserve for it here on Earth, at least I can hope to live long enough to thank you in person. Until then, I wait. Is there anything I can do for you? For now that you’re my friends, and involved in my affairs, I should do whatever I can.”