The three musketeers
The siege of La Rochelle is about to be resumed, monseigneur. I shall
serve under the eye of your Eminence, and if I have the good fortune to
conduct myself at the siege in such a manner as merits your attention,
then I shall at least leave behind me some brilliant action to justify
the protection with which you honor me. Everything is best in its time,
monseigneur. Hereafter, perhaps, I shall have the right of _giving_
myself; at present I shall appear to sell myself.”
“That is to say, you refuse to serve me, monsieur,” said the cardinal,
with a tone of vexation, through which, however, might be seen a sort
of esteem; “remain free, then, and guard your hatreds and your
sympathies.”
“Monseigneur—”
“Well, well,” said the cardinal, “I don’t wish you any ill; but you
must be aware that it is quite trouble enough to defend and recompense
our friends. We owe nothing to our enemies; and let me give you a piece
of advice; take care of yourself, Monsieur d’Artagnan, for from the
moment I withdraw my hand from behind you, I would not give an _obolus_
for your life.”
“I will try to do so, monseigneur,” replied the Gascon, with a noble
confidence.
“Remember at a later period and at a certain moment, if any mischance
should happen to you,” said Richelieu, significantly, “that it was I
who came to seek you, and that I did all in my power to prevent this
misfortune befalling you.”
“I shall entertain, whatever may happen,” said D’Artagnan, placing his
hand upon his breast and bowing, “an eternal gratitude toward your
Eminence for that which you now do for me.”
“Well, let it be, then, as you have said, Monsieur d’Artagnan; we shall
see each other again after the campaign. I will have my eye upon you,
for I shall be there,” replied the cardinal, pointing with his finger
to a magnificent suit of armor he was to wear, “and on our return,
well—we will settle our account!”
“Ah, monseigneur,” cried D’Artagnan, “spare me the weight of your
displeasure. Remain neutral monseigneur, if you find that I act as
becomes a gallant man.”
“Young man,” said Richelieu, “if I shall be able to say to you at
another time what I have said to you today, I promise you to do so.”
This last expression of Richelieu’s conveyed a terrible doubt; it
alarmed D’Artagnan more than a menace would have done, for it was a
warning. The cardinal, then, was seeking to preserve him from some
misfortune which threatened him. He opened his mouth to reply, but with
a haughty gesture the cardinal dismissed him.
D’Artagnan went out, but at the door his heart almost failed him, and
he felt inclined to return. Then the noble and severe countenance of
Athos crossed his mind; if he made the compact with the cardinal which
he required, Athos would no more give him his hand—Athos would renounce
him.
It was this fear that restrained him, so powerful is the influence of a
truly great character on all that surrounds it.
D’Artagnan descended by the staircase at which he had entered, and
found Athos and the four Musketeers waiting his appearance, and
beginning to grow uneasy. With a word, D’Artagnan reassured them; and
Planchet ran to inform the other sentinels that it was useless to keep
guard longer, as his master had come out safe from the Palais-Cardinal.
Returned home with Athos, Aramis and Porthos inquired eagerly the cause
of the strange interview; but D’Artagnan confined himself to telling
them that M. de Richelieu had sent for him to propose to him to enter
into his guards with the rank of ensign, and that he had refused.
“And you were right,” cried Aramis and Porthos, with one voice.
Athos fell into a profound reverie and answered nothing. But when they
were alone he said, “You have done that which you ought to have done,
D’Artagnan; but perhaps you have been wrong.”
D’Artagnan sighed deeply, for this voice responded to a secret voice of
his soul, which told him that great misfortunes awaited him.
The whole of the next day was spent in preparations for departure.
D’Artagnan went to take leave of M. de Tréville. At that time it was
believed that the separation of the Musketeers and the Guards would be
but momentary, the king holding his Parliament that very day and
proposing to set out the day after. M. de Tréville contented himself
with asking D’Artagnan if he could do anything for him, but D’Artagnan
answered that he was supplied with all he wanted.
That night brought together all those comrades of the Guards of M.
Dessessart and the company of Musketeers of M. de Tréville who had been
accustomed to associate together. They were parting to meet again when
it pleased God, and if it pleased God. That night, then, was somewhat
riotous, as may be imagined. In such cases extreme preoccupation is
only to be combated by extreme carelessness.
At the first sound of the morning trumpet the friends separated; the
Musketeers hastening to the hôtel of M. de Tréville, the Guards to that
of M. Dessessart. Each of the captains then led his company to the
Louvre, where the king held his review.
The king was dull and appeared ill, which detracted a little from his
usual lofty bearing. In fact, the evening before, a fever had seized
him in the midst of the Parliament, while he was holding his Bed of
Justice. He had, not the less, decided upon setting out that same
evening; and in spite of the remonstrances that had been offered to
him, he persisted in having the review, hoping by setting it at
defiance to conquer the disease which began to lay hold upon him.
The review over, the Guards set forward alone on their march, the
Musketeers waiting for the king, which allowed Porthos time to go and
take a turn in his superb equipment in the Rue aux Ours.
The procurator’s wife saw him pass in his new uniform and on his fine
horse. She loved Porthos too dearly to allow him to part thus; she made
him a sign to dismount and come to her. Porthos was magnificent; his
spurs jingled, his cuirass glittered, his sword knocked proudly against
his ample limbs. This time the clerks evinced no inclination to laugh,
such a real ear clipper did Porthos appear.
The Musketeer was introduced to M. Coquenard, whose little gray eyes
sparkled with anger at seeing his cousin all blazing new. Nevertheless,
one thing afforded him inward consolation; it was expected by everybody
that the campaign would be a severe one. He whispered a hope to himself
that this beloved relative might be killed in the field.
Porthos paid his compliments to M. Coquenard and bade him farewell. M.
Coquenard wished him all sorts of prosperities. As to Mme. Coquenard,
she could not restrain her tears; but no evil impressions were taken
from her grief as she was known to be very much attached to her
relatives, about whom she was constantly having serious disputes with
her husband.
But the real adieux were made in Mme. Coquenard’s chamber; they were
heartrending.
As long as the procurator’s wife could follow him with her eyes, she
waved her handkerchief to him, leaning so far out of the window as to
lead people to believe she wished to precipitate herself. Porthos
received all these attentions like a man accustomed to such
demonstrations, only on turning the corner of the street he lifted his
hat gracefully, and waved it to her as a sign of adieu.
On his part Aramis wrote a long letter. To whom? Nobody knew. Kitty,
who was to set out that evening for Tours, was waiting in the next
chamber.
Athos sipped the last bottle of his Spanish wine.
In the meantime D’Artagnan was defiling with his company. Arriving at
the Faubourg St. Antoine, he turned round to look gaily at the
Bastille; but as it was the Bastille alone he looked at, he did not
observe Milady, who, mounted upon a light chestnut horse, designated
him with her finger to two ill-looking men who came close up to the
ranks to take notice of him. To a look of interrogation which they
made, Milady replied by a sign that it was he. Then, certain that there
could be no mistake in the execution of her orders, she started her
horse and disappeared.
The two men followed the company, and on leaving the Faubourg St.
Antoine, mounted two horses properly equipped, which a servant without
livery had waiting for them.
Chapter XLI.
THE SIEGE OF LA ROCHELLE
The Siege of La Rochelle was one of the great political events of the
reign of Louis XIII., and one of the great military enterprises of the
cardinal. It is, then, interesting and even necessary that we should
say a few words about it, particularly as many details of this siege
are connected in too important a manner with the story we have
undertaken to relate to allow us to pass it over in silence.
The political plans of the cardinal when he undertook this siege were
extensive. Let us unfold them first, and then pass on to the private
plans which perhaps had not less influence upon his Eminence than the
others.
Of the important cities given up by Henry IV. to the Huguenots as places
of safety, there only remained La Rochelle. It became necessary,
therefore, to destroy this last bulwark of Calvinism—a dangerous leaven
with which the ferments of civil revolt and foreign war were constantly
mingling.
Spaniards, Englishmen, and Italian malcontents, adventurers of all
nations, and soldiers of fortune of every sect, flocked at the first
summons under the standard of the Protestants, and organized themselves
like a vast association, whose branches diverged freely over all parts
of Europe.
La Rochelle, which had derived a new importance from the ruin of the
other Calvinist cities, was, then, the focus of dissensions and
ambition. Moreover, its port was the last in the kingdom of France open
to the English, and by closing it against England, our eternal enemy,
the cardinal completed the work of Joan of Arc and the Duc de Guise.
Thus Bassompierre, who was at once Protestant and Catholic—Protestant
by conviction and Catholic as commander of the order of the Holy Ghost;
Bassompierre, who was a German by birth and a Frenchman at heart—in
short, Bassompierre, who had a distinguished command at the siege of La
Rochelle, said, in charging at the head of several other Protestant
nobles like himself, “You will see, gentlemen, that we shall be fools
enough to take La Rochelle.”
And Bassompierre was right. The cannonade of the Isle of Ré presaged to
him the dragonnades of the Cévennes; the taking of La Rochelle was the
preface to the revocation of the Edict of Nantes.
We have hinted that by the side of these views of the leveling and
simplifying minister, which belong to history, the chronicler is forced
to recognize the lesser motives of the amorous man and jealous rival.
Richelieu, as everyone knows, had loved the queen. Was this love a
simple political affair, or was it naturally one of those profound
passions which Anne of Austria inspired in those who approached her?
That we are not able to say; but at all events, we have seen, by the
anterior developments of this story, that Buckingham had the advantage
over him, and in two or three circumstances, particularly that of the
diamond studs, had, thanks to the devotedness of the three Musketeers
and the courage and conduct of D’Artagnan, cruelly mystified him.
It was, then, Richelieu’s object, not only to get rid of an enemy of
France, but to avenge himself on a rival; but this vengeance must be
grand and striking and worthy in every way of a man who held in his
hand, as his weapon for combat, the forces of a kingdom.
Richelieu knew that in combating England he combated Buckingham; that
in triumphing over England he triumphed over Buckingham—in short, that
in humiliating England in the eyes of Europe he humiliated Buckingham
in the eyes of the queen.