The three musketeers
kingdom; you are charged with having surprised state secrets; you are
charged with having tried to thwart the plans of your general.”
“And who charges me with this, monseigneur?” said D’Artagnan, who had
no doubt the accusation came from Milady, “a woman branded by the
justice of the country; a woman who has espoused one man in France and
another in England; a woman who poisoned her second husband and who
attempted both to poison and assassinate me!”
“What do you say, monsieur?” cried the cardinal, astonished; “and of
what woman are you speaking thus?”
“Of Milady de Winter,” replied D’Artagnan, “yes, of Milady de Winter,
of whose crimes your Eminence is doubtless ignorant, since you have
honored her with your confidence.”
“Monsieur,” said the cardinal, “if Milady de Winter has committed the
crimes you lay to her charge, she shall be punished.”
“She has been punished, monseigneur.”
“And who has punished her?”
“We.”
“She is in prison?”
“She is dead.”
“Dead!” repeated the cardinal, who could not believe what he heard,
“dead! Did you not say she was dead?”
“Three times she attempted to kill me, and I pardoned her; but she
murdered the woman I loved. Then my friends and I took her, tried her,
and condemned her.”
D’Artagnan then related the poisoning of Mme. Bonacieux in the convent
of the Carmelites at Béthune, the trial in the isolated house, and the
execution on the banks of the Lys.
A shudder crept through the body of the cardinal, who did not shudder
readily.
But all at once, as if undergoing the influence of an unspoken thought,
the countenance of the cardinal, till then gloomy, cleared up by
degrees, and recovered perfect serenity.
“So,” said the cardinal, in a tone that contrasted strongly with the
severity of his words, “you have constituted yourselves judges, without
remembering that they who punish without license to punish are
assassins?”
“Monseigneur, I swear to you that I never for an instant had the
intention of defending my head against you. I willingly submit to any
punishment your Eminence may please to inflict upon me. I do not hold
life dear enough to be afraid of death.”
“Yes, I know you are a man of a stout heart, monsieur,” said the
cardinal, with a voice almost affectionate; “I can therefore tell you
beforehand you shall be tried, and even condemned.”
“Another might reply to your Eminence that he had his pardon in his
pocket. I content myself with saying: Command, monseigneur; I am
ready.”
“Your pardon?” said Richelieu, surprised.
“Yes, monseigneur,” said D’Artagnan.
“And signed by whom—by the king?” And the cardinal pronounced these
words with a singular expression of contempt.
“No, by your Eminence.”
“By me? You are insane, monsieur.”
“Monseigneur will doubtless recognize his own handwriting.”
And D’Artagnan presented to the cardinal the precious piece of paper
which Athos had forced from Milady, and which he had given to
D’Artagnan to serve him as a safeguard.
His Eminence took the paper, and read in a slow voice, dwelling upon
every syllable:
“Dec. 3, 1627
“It is by my order and for the good of the state that the bearer of
this has done what he has done.
“RICHELIEU”
The cardinal, after having read these two lines, sank into a profound
reverie; but he did not return the paper to D’Artagnan.
“He is meditating by what sort of punishment he shall cause me to die,”
said the Gascon to himself. “Well, my faith! he shall see how a
gentleman can die.”
The young Musketeer was in excellent disposition to die heroically.
Richelieu still continued thinking, rolling and unrolling the paper in
his hands.
At length he raised his head, fixed his eagle look upon that loyal,
open, and intelligent countenance, read upon that face, furrowed with
tears, all the sufferings its possessor had endured in the course of a
month, and reflected for the third or fourth time how much there was in
that youth of twenty-one years before him, and what resources his
activity, his courage, and his shrewdness might offer to a good master.
On the other side, the crimes, the power, and the infernal genius of
Milady had more than once terrified him. He felt something like a
secret joy at being forever relieved of this dangerous accomplice.
Richelieu slowly tore the paper which D’Artagnan had generously
relinquished.
“I am lost!” said D’Artagnan to himself. And he bowed profoundly before
the cardinal, like a man who says, “Lord, Thy will be done!”
The cardinal approached the table, and without sitting down, wrote a
few lines upon a parchment of which two-thirds were already filled, and
affixed his seal.
“That is my condemnation,” thought D’Artagnan; “he will spare me the
_ennui_ of the Bastille, or the tediousness of a trial. That’s very
kind of him.”
“Here, monsieur,” said the cardinal to the young man. “I have taken
from you one _carte blanche_ to give you another. The name is wanting
in this commission; you can write it yourself.”
D’Artagnan took the paper hesitatingly and cast his eyes over it; it
was a lieutenant’s commission in the Musketeers.
D’Artagnan fell at the feet of the cardinal.
“Monseigneur,” said he, “my life is yours; henceforth dispose of it.
But this favor which you bestow upon me I do not merit. I have three
friends who are more meritorious and more worthy—”
“You are a brave youth, D’Artagnan,” interrupted the cardinal, tapping
him familiarly on the shoulder, charmed at having vanquished this
rebellious nature. “Do with this commission what you will; only
remember, though the name be blank, it is to you I give it.”
“I shall never forget it,” replied D’Artagnan. “Your Eminence may be
certain of that.”
The cardinal turned and said in a loud voice, “Rochefort!” The
chevalier, who no doubt was near the door, entered immediately.
“Rochefort,” said the cardinal, “you see Monsieur d’Artagnan. I receive
him among the number of my friends. Greet each other, then; and be wise
if you wish to preserve your heads.”
Rochefort and D’Artagnan coolly greeted each other with their lips; but
the cardinal was there, observing them with his vigilant eye.
They left the chamber at the same time.
“We shall meet again, shall we not, monsieur?”
“When you please,” said D’Artagnan.
“An opportunity will come,” replied Rochefort.
“Hey?” said the cardinal, opening the door.
The two men smiled at each other, shook hands, and saluted his
Eminence.
“We were beginning to grow impatient,” said Athos.
“Here I am, my friends,” replied D’Artagnan; “not only free, but in
favor.”
“Tell us about it.”
“This evening; but for the moment, let us separate.”
Accordingly, that same evening D’Artagnan repaired to the quarters of
Athos, whom he found in a fair way to empty a bottle of Spanish wine—an
occupation which he religiously accomplished every night.
D’Artagnan related what had taken place between the cardinal and
himself, and drawing the commission from his pocket, said, “Here, my
dear Athos, this naturally belongs to you.”
Athos smiled with one of his sweet and expressive smiles.
“Friend,” said he, “for Athos this is too much; for the Comte de la
Fère it is too little. Keep the commission; it is yours. Alas! you have
purchased it dearly enough.”
D’Artagnan left Athos’s chamber and went to that of Porthos. He found
him clothed in a magnificent dress covered with splendid embroidery,
admiring himself before a glass.
“Ah, ah! is that you, dear friend?” exclaimed Porthos. “How do you
think these garments fit me?”
“Wonderfully,” said D’Artagnan; “but I come to offer you a dress which
will become you still better.”
“What?” asked Porthos.
“That of a lieutenant of Musketeers.”
D’Artagnan related to Porthos the substance of his interview with the
cardinal, and said, taking the commission from his pocket, “Here, my
friend, write your name upon it and become my chief.”
Porthos cast his eyes over the commission and returned it to
D’Artagnan, to the great astonishment of the young man.
“Yes,” said he, “yes, that would flatter me very much; but I should not
have time enough to enjoy the distinction. During our expedition to
Béthune the husband of my duchess died; so, my dear, the coffer of the
defunct holding out its arms to me, I shall marry the widow. Look here!
I was trying on my wedding suit. Keep the lieutenancy, my dear, keep
it.”
The young man then entered the apartment of Aramis. He found him
kneeling before a _priedieu_, with his head leaning on an open prayer
book.
He described to him his interview with the cardinal, and said, for the
third time drawing his commission from his pocket, “You, our friend,
our intelligence, our invisible protector, accept this commission. You
have merited it more than any of us by your wisdom and your counsels,
always followed by such happy results.”
“Alas, dear friend!” said Aramis, “our late adventures have disgusted
me with military life. This time my determination is irrevocably taken.
After the siege I shall enter the house of the Lazarists. Keep the
commission, D’Artagnan; the profession of arms suits you. You will be a
brave and adventurous captain.”
D’Artagnan, his eye moist with gratitude though beaming with joy, went
back to Athos, whom he found still at table contemplating the charms of
his last glass of Malaga by the light of his lamp.
“Well,” said he, “they likewise have refused me.”
“That, dear friend, is because nobody is more worthy than yourself.”
He took a quill, wrote the name of D’Artagnan in the commission, and
returned it to him.
“I shall then have no more friends,” said the young man. “Alas! nothing
but bitter recollections.”
And he let his head sink upon his hands, while two large tears rolled
down his cheeks.
“You are young,” replied Athos; “and your bitter recollections have
time to change themselves into sweet remembrances.”
EPILOGUE
La Rochelle, deprived of the assistance of the English fleet and of the
diversion promised by Buckingham, surrendered after a siege of a year.
On the twenty-eighth of October, 1628, the capitulation was signed.
The king made his entrance into Paris on the twenty-third of December
of the same year. He was received in triumph, as if he came from
conquering an enemy and not Frenchmen. He entered by the Faubourg St.
Jacques, under verdant arches.
D’Artagnan took possession of his command. Porthos left the service,
and in the course of the following year married Mme. Coquenard; the
coffer so much coveted contained eight hundred thousand livres.
Mousqueton had a magnificent livery, and enjoyed the satisfaction of
which he had been ambitious all his life—that of standing behind a
gilded carriage.
Aramis, after a journey into Lorraine, disappeared all at once, and
ceased to write to his friends; they learned at a later period through
Mme. de Chevreuse, who told it to two or three of her intimates, that,
yielding to his vocation, he had retired into a convent—only into
which, nobody knew.
Bazin became a lay brother.
Athos remained a Musketeer under the command of D’Artagnan till the
year 1633, at which period, after a journey he made to Touraine, he
also quit the service, under the pretext of having inherited a small
property in Roussillon.
Grimaud followed Athos.
D’Artagnan fought three times with Rochefort, and wounded him three
times.
“I shall probably kill you the fourth,” said he to him, holding out his
hand to assist him to rise.
“It is much better both for you and for me to stop where we are,”
answered the wounded man. “_Corbleu!_ I am more your friend than you
think—for after our very first encounter, I could by saying a word to
the cardinal have had your throat cut!”