“I have nothing to ask of Her Majesty but her prayers,” said Athos.
“And I,” said Aramis, “am alone in the world, and have no one to serve but Your Majesty.”
The queen offered them her hand, which they kissed, and then whispered to Winter, “If you’re short of money, Milord, don’t hesitate for a moment to break up that jewelry I gave you, and sell some of those diamonds to a moneylender—they ought to be worth fifty or sixty thousand livres. Sell them if necessary, but make sure these gentlemen are treated as they should be, in other words, like kings.”
The queen had two letters ready, one she’d written herself, and one written by her daughter Princess Henrietta. Both were addressed to King Charles. She gave one to Athos and one to Aramis, so that if they became separated, each would still have an introduction to the king; then they withdrew.
At the base of the stairs, Winter paused. “Let’s each of us go to our own lodgings, Messieurs, so as not to arouse suspicion,” he said, “and then meet tonight at nine at the Saint-Denis gate. We’ll ride on my horses as far as they’ll take us, and thereafter travel by post-horse. Once again, I thank you, my dear friends, both in my name and in the name of the queen.”
The three gentlemen shook hands, then Baron Winter went down Rue Saint-Honoré, leaving Athos and Aramis, who remained together. “Well!” said Aramis, once they were alone. “What do you think of this affair, my dear Count?”
“It’s bad,” replied Athos, “very bad.”
“But you took to it with such enthusiasm!”
“As I will always come to the defense of such an important principle, my dear d’Herblay. Kings aren’t great without their nobility, and the noblesse is only as great as its kings. In supporting the monarchies, we support ourselves.”
“We’re going to get murdered over there,” said Aramis. “I hate the English—they’re coarse, like all folk who drink beer.”
“Would it be better to stay here and serve a sentence in the Bastille or the dungeon of Vincennes, since we helped Monsieur de Beaufort to escape?” said Athos. “Ma foi, Aramis, believe me, there’s nothing to regret about this. We stay out of prison and get to be heroes—it’s an easy choice.”
“True enough, mon ami. But at the beginning of every affair, we face the same question, vulgar though it may be: do you have any money?”
“Around a hundred pistoles, which my tenants had sent me before leaving Bragelonne, but I must leave fifty for Raoul, as a young noble must live with dignity. That leaves about fifty for me. And you?”
“If I go home and turn out all my pockets and search in all my drawers, I’m sure I can turn up ten louis d’or. Fortunately, Lord de Winter is rich.”
“Lord de Winter is ruined, for the moment, because Cromwell has confiscated his revenue.”
“This is where having Baron Porthos with us would be handy,” said Aramis.
“I also regret not having d’Artagnan,” said Athos.
“What a bulging purse!”
“What a proud sword!”
“Let’s recruit them.”
“This secret isn’t ours to share, Aramis. I don’t think we should take anyone into our confidence. Besides, recruiting our friends would seem like we doubted ourselves. Let’s regret their absence, but privately, and say nothing.”
“You’re right. What are you doing for the rest of the day? I must postpone a couple of matters.”
“Are they matters that can be postponed?”
“Dame! They have to be.”
“What are these matters?”
“First, I owe a sword-thrust to the coadjutor, whom I saw last night at Madame de Rambouillet’s, where he made some remarks about me in an offensive tone.”
“What? A duel between priests! A fight between allies!”
“What would you have, mon cher? He’s a swordsman, and so am I; he’s a rabble-rouser, as I am; his cassock weighs on him, as mine does on me; I sometimes wonder which of us is Aramis and which the coadjutor, we’re so alike. This doppelganger business vexes me and makes me feel like a shadow. Besides, he’s a bungler who will ruin our faction. I’m convinced that if I hit him hard enough, as I did with that lad who splashed me this morning, it would change the face of affairs.”
“And I, my dear Aramis,” Athos replied calmly, “think it would just change the face of Monsieur de Retz. Besides, it’s best to leave things as they stand; he belongs to the Fronde as you now do to the Queen of England. Now, if the second matter you must postpone is no more important than the first . . .”
“Oh, it’s much more important.”
“Then get it over with quickly.”
“Unfortunately, it’s not something I can do whenever I please; it must be done at night, late at night.”
“I see,” said Athos, smiling. “At midnight?”
“Thereabouts.”
“Well, my friend, these affairs must be postponed, all the more because you’ll return with such a good excuse for having postponed them.”
“Yes—if I return.”
“If you don’t return, what does it matter? Be reasonable. Come, Aramis, you’re no longer twenty years old.”
“To my great regret, mordieu! Ah, if only I were!”
“Indeed, I think you’d involve yourself in some grand follies!” said Athos. “But we must part; I have one or two visits to make myself and a letter to write. Come to my place at eight o’clock—unless you’d rather dine with me first at seven.”
“All right,” said Aramis. “Though I have to make about twenty visits and write about that many letters.”
They took their leave of each other. Athos went to visit Madame de Vendôme, had a word with Madame de Chevreuse, and wrote the following letter to d’Artagnan:
Old friend, I’m going off with Aramis on a matter of importance. I’d prefer to bid you farewell personally, but don’t have time for it, so I’m writing to remind you of how fond I am of you.
Raoul has gone to Blois and doesn’t know of my departure. Watch over him in my absence as best you can, and if you haven’t heard from me in three months, tell him to open a sealed packet he’ll find in my bronze coffer there, the key to which I’ll enclose with this letter.
Embrace Porthos for Aramis and for me. Farewell, and perhaps goodbye.
And he sent Blaisois off with the letter.
Aramis arrived at the appointed hour. He was on horseback and had at his side that trusted sword that he’d drawn so often, more often now than ever. “Ah çà!” he said. “I think it’s a mistake to go off like this without notifying Porthos and d’Artagnan.”
“I took care of it, my friend,” said Athos, “and sent them both our embraces.”
“You’re an admirable man, my dear Count,” said Aramis, “and you think of everything.”
“Well, then! Are you ready to set off on our journey?”
“Absolutely—and the more I think about it, the happier I am to be away from Paris at this time.”
“And I, as well,” replied Athos. “I regret not saying goodbye to d’Artagnan in person, but he’s such a clever devil he’d have guessed what we’re up to.”
As they were finishing supper, Blaisois returned. “Monsieur, here’s the reply from Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“But I didn’t tell you to wait for a reply, you imbecile!” said Athos.
“Well, I started to leave without waiting for one, but then he called me back and gave me this.” And he held out a little leather purse, round and jingling.
Athos opened the brief note, which read as follows:
My dear Count,
When one travels, especially for three months, one never has enough money. Now, I remember our times of hardship, so I’m sending you half my money in this purse. It’s cash that I managed to sweat out of Mazarin, but don’t use it poorly on that account.
As for the idea that I might not see you again, I don’t believe a word of it. A man with your heart—and your sword—can pass through anything.
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Farewell and not goodbye.
It goes without saying that from the day I met Raoul I’ve loved him as if he were my own; but believe me when I say I sincerely pray to God to keep me from becoming his father, no matter how proud I’d be of a son like him.
Your D’ARTAGNAN
P.S.: Of course, the fifty louis I’m sending you are as much Aramis’s as they are yours.
Athos smiled, and tears welled up in his eyes. D’Artagnan, whom he’d always loved, still loved him, even if he was allied with Mazarin.
“And, my faith, here they are—fifty louis,” said Aramis, emptying the purse on the table, “each one with Louis XIII’s face on it. Well, what shall we do with this money, Count—keep it, or send it back?”
“We keep it, Aramis, though we won’t have it for long. What is offered so nobly should be nobly accepted. You take twenty-five, Aramis, and give the other twenty-five to me.”
“It’s a timely gift, and I must say I agree with you. Now, then, shall we be off?”
“Whenever you like . . . but aren’t you bringing any lackeys?”
“No, that fool of a Bazin had the bad judgment to become a beadle, and now he can’t leave Notre Dame.”
“Well, you take Blaisois, then, whom I don’t need, since I already have Grimaud.”
“Willingly,” said Aramis.
At that moment, Grimaud appeared on the threshold. “Ready,” he said, laconic as usual.
“Then let’s go,” said Athos.
Indeed, the horses were saddled and waiting, and the lackeys were prepared.
They rode into the night, but at the corner of the quay they encountered Bazin, who ran up to them all out of breath. “Ah, Monsieur!” he huffed. “Thank God I caught you in time.”
“What is it?” said Aramis.
“Monsieur Porthos stopped by the house and left this for you, saying it was very urgent and you had to have it before you left.”
“What’s this?” said Aramis, taking a purse from Bazin.
“Wait, Monsieur l’Abbé, there’s a letter too.”
“You know I warned you that if you called me anything other than chevalier that I’d break your bones. Let’s see the letter.”
“How are you going to read it?” said Athos. “It’s as dark as the bottom of a well.”
“Wait,” said Bazin. He took out a flint and lit a taper of the kind used to light church candles. By its light, Aramis read the following:
My dear d’Herblay,
I hear from d’Artagnan, who embraces me on your behalf and that of the Comte de La Fère, that you’re leaving on an expedition that may last two or three months. Since I know you don’t like to ask aid of your friends, I offer this so you don’t have to: here are two hundred pistoles you can use as you think best, and which you can repay if it’s ever convenient. Don’t worry about putting me in hardship; if I need some money I’ll just send to one of my châteaux: at Bracieux alone I have twenty thousand livres in gold. So, I could have sent more, but I was afraid you wouldn’t take it if I sent too much.
I address this to you because you know the Comte de La Fère always intimidates me a little, although I love him with all my heart. But you understand that what I offer to you, I offer equally to him.
I am, as you should never doubt, your devoted
DU VALLON DE BRACIEUX DE PIERREFONDS
“Well!” said Aramis. “What do you say to that?”
“I say, my dear d’Herblay, that it would be sacrilege to doubt in Providence when one has such friends.”
“And so?”
“And so, let’s share out Porthos’s pistoles as we did d’Artagnan’s louis.”
They split the money by the light of Bazin’s taper, and then resumed their journey. A quarter of an hour later they were at the Saint-Denis gate, where Lord Winter was waiting for them.
XLVI
In Which It Is Shown That the First Impulse Is Always the Right One
The three gentlemen took the road to Picardy, that road so familiar to them, reminding Athos and Aramis of some of the most colorful adventures of their youth. “If Mousqueton were with us,” said Athos, as they arrived at the spot where they’d fought with the road workers, “he’d tremble as we rode past. Do you remember, Aramis? This is where he took that famous musket ball.”
“And I’d let him tremble, by my faith,” said Aramis, “for he’s not the only one to shiver at this place: there, beyond that tree, is a little spot where I thought I was a dead man.”
They went on their way. Soon it was Grimaud who was taken by a memory. As they arrived before an inn where he and his master had dined so long and so well, he approached Athos, pointed at the cellar door, and said, “Sausages!”
Athos began to laugh, as amused by this recollection of his youth as if hearing a mad tale told about someone else.
At last, after riding two days and a night, they arrived, in magnificent weather, at Boulogne. At that time, it was still a small town, lightly populated, and built up on the heights; the district now known as the lower town didn’t yet exist. But behind its walls, Boulogne had a formidable position.
Arriving at the gates of the city, Lord Winter said, “Messieurs, let’s do as we did in Paris, and separate to avoid suspicion. I know an inn that is little frequented, but where the host is entirely devoted to me. I’m going to go there, because that’s where letters will be waiting for me. You should go to one of the city’s leading inns, such as the Épée du Grand Henri, and briefly rest and recuperate. Then meet me on the jetty in two hours, where our boat will be waiting for us.”
They agreed. Lord Winter followed the road around the walls and entered the city by another gate, while the two friends went in through the gate in front of them. A few hundred paces inside they came upon the large inn Winter had recommended.
The horses were fed and rested, but not unsaddled, and the lackeys were sent to supper. It was beginning to grow late, and the two masters, impatient to embark, told their lackeys to meet them on the jetty, and meanwhile to speak to no one. Of course, this latter instruction applied only to Blaisois; the silent Grimaud needed no such orders.
Athos and Aramis went down to the harbor. By their dust-covered clothes, and by a certain easy manner that always indicates a man accustomed to travel, they attracted the attention of several dockside loiterers. There was one on whom their arrival had made a definite impression. This man, whom they’d noticed for the same reasons others had noticed them, was walking morosely up and down the jetty. However, once he saw Athos and Aramis he stared, and seemed taken with a sudden need to speak with them. This man was young and pale, with eyes of such a light variable blue that they seemed, like a tiger’s, to change to reflect his mood. His walk, though slow and wandering, was stiff and determined; he was dressed all in black and wore a long sword at his side with the ease of familiarity.
Stepping onto the jetty, Athos and Aramis paused to look at a small boat moored to the pier and equipped as if ready to go. “No doubt that’s ours,” said Athos.
“Yes,” Aramis replied, “and that sloop at anchor out there is probably the one intended for us. Now, if only de Winter won’t keep us waiting; there’s no amusement to be had here, and not a woman in sight.”
“Hush!” said Athos. “Someone might be listening.”
In fact, the pale loiterer, who, after staring at the two friends, had resumed walking up and down, paused at the name of de Winter—but as his face showed no emotion upon hearing this name, he might just have paused by chance. Turning, the young man bowed to them and said politely, “Messieurs, pardon my curiosity, but I see that you’ve come from Paris, or are at least newcomers to Boulogne.”
“Yes, we have come from Paris, Monsieur,” Athos replied just as politely. “What can we do for you?”
“Monsieur,” the young man said, “could you please tell me if it’s true that Cardinal Mazarin is no longer prime minister?”
“That’s a strange question,” said Aramis
.
“He is, and he isn’t,” Athos replied. “By which I mean that half of France opposes him, but by balancing intrigue with promises, the other half supports him. That situation might continue for quite a while.”
“Then, Monsieur,” the stranger said, “he’s neither fled nor in prison?”
“No, Monsieur—not for the moment, at least.”
“Messieurs, my thanks for your courtesy,” said the young man as he walked away.
“What do you think of this inquisitive fellow?” said Aramis.
“I think he’s either a bored provincial or a nosy spy.”
“And that’s the answer you give to a spy?”
“I could scarcely have replied otherwise. He was polite to me, as I was to him.”
“But if he’s a spy . . .”
“What’s a spy going to do to us? We’re no longer in the reign of Cardinal Richelieu, who could close the ports on a mere suspicion.”
“Nonetheless, it was a mistake to answer him that way,” said Aramis, watching the young man as he disappeared among the dunes.
“And you,” said Athos, “forget that you committed an imprudence of your own when you mentioned the name of Lord de Winter. Didn’t you notice that that’s what attracted the young man?”
“All the more reason, when he spoke to you, to tell him to move along.”
“And start a quarrel?” said Athos.
“Since when are you afraid of a quarrel?”
“I’m always afraid of a quarrel when I’m on a mission that a quarrel might endanger. Besides, to tell the truth, I wanted a close look at this young man.”
“Why’s that?”
“Aramis, you’re just going to laugh at me, tell me I’m seeing things, and am obsessed with a single idea.”
“Let’s hear it. What, then?”
“Who do you think that man looks like?”
“In ugliness or in beauty?” asked Aramis, laughing.
“In ugliness, insofar as a man can resemble a woman.”
Twenty Years After Page 42