The three musketeers
“The duke is in love to madness, or rather to folly,” replied
Richelieu, with great bitterness. “Like the ancient paladins, he has
only undertaken this war to obtain a look from his lady love. If he
becomes certain that this war will cost the honor, and perhaps the
liberty, of the lady of his thoughts, as he says, I will answer for it
he will look twice.”
“And yet,” said Milady, with a persistence that proved she wished to
see clearly to the end of the mission with which she was about to be
charged, “if he persists?”
“If he persists?” said the cardinal. “That is not probable.”
“It is possible,” said Milady.
“If he persists—” His Eminence made a pause, and resumed: “If he
persists—well, then I shall hope for one of those events which change
the destinies of states.”
“If your Eminence would quote to me some one of these events in
history,” said Milady, “perhaps I should partake of your confidence as
to the future.”
“Well, here, for example,” said Richelieu: “when, in 1610, for a cause
similar to that which moves the duke, King Henry IV., of glorious
memory, was about, at the same time, to invade Flanders and Italy, in
order to attack Austria on both sides. Well, did there not happen an
event which saved Austria? Why should not the king of France have the
same chance as the emperor?”
“Your Eminence means, I presume, the knife stab in the Rue de la
Feronnerie?”
“Precisely,” said the cardinal.
“Does not your Eminence fear that the punishment inflicted upon
Ravaillac may deter anyone who might entertain the idea of imitating
him?”
“There will be, in all times and in all countries, particularly if
religious divisions exist in those countries, fanatics who ask nothing
better than to become martyrs. Ay, and observe—it just occurs to me
that the Puritans are furious against Buckingham, and their preachers
designate him as the Antichrist.”
“Well?” said Milady.
“Well,” continued the cardinal, in an indifferent tone, “the only thing
to be sought for at this moment is some woman, handsome, young, and
clever, who has cause of quarrel with the duke. The duke has had many
affairs of gallantry; and if he has fostered his amours by promises of
eternal constancy, he must likewise have sown the seeds of hatred by
his eternal infidelities.”
“No doubt,” said Milady, coolly, “such a woman may be found.”
“Well, such a woman, who would place the knife of Jacques Clément or of
Ravaillac in the hands of a fanatic, would save France.”
“Yes; but she would then be the accomplice of an assassination.”
“Were the accomplices of Ravaillac or of Jacques Clément ever known?”
“No; for perhaps they were too high-placed for anyone to dare look for
them where they were. The Palace of Justice would not be burned down
for everybody, monseigneur.”
“You think, then, that the fire at the Palace of Justice was not caused
by chance?” asked Richelieu, in the tone with which he would have put a
question of no importance.
“I, monseigneur?” replied Milady. “I think nothing; I quote a fact,
that is all. Only I say that if I were named Madame de Montpensier, or
the Queen Marie de Médicis, I should use less precautions than I take,
being simply called Milady Clarik.”
“That is just,” said Richelieu. “What do you require, then?”
“I require an order which would ratify beforehand all that I should
think proper to do for the greatest good of France.”
“But in the first place, this woman I have described must be found who
is desirous of avenging herself upon the duke.”
“She is found,” said Milady.
“Then the miserable fanatic must be found who will serve as an
instrument of God’s justice.”
“He will be found.”
“Well,” said the cardinal, “then it will be time to claim the order
which you just now required.”
“Your Eminence is right,” replied Milady; “and I have been wrong in
seeing in the mission with which you honor me anything but that which
it really is—that is, to announce to his Grace, on the part of your
Eminence, that you are acquainted with the different disguises by means
of which he succeeded in approaching the queen during the fête given by
Madame the Constable; that you have proofs of the interview granted at
the Louvre by the queen to a certain Italian astrologer who was no
other than the Duke of Buckingham; that you have ordered a little
romance of a satirical nature to be written upon the adventures of
Amiens, with a plan of the gardens in which those adventures took
place, and portraits of the actors who figured in them; that Montague
is in the Bastille, and that the torture may make him say things he
remembers, and even things he has forgotten; that you possess a certain
letter from Madame de Chevreuse, found in his Grace’s lodging, which
singularly compromises not only her who wrote it, but her in whose name
it was written. Then, if he persists, notwithstanding all this—as that
is, as I have said, the limit of my mission—I shall have nothing to do
but to pray God to work a miracle for the salvation of France. That is
it, is it not, monseigneur, and I shall have nothing else to do?”
“That is it,” replied the cardinal, dryly.
“And now,” said Milady, without appearing to remark the change of the
duke’s tone toward her—“now that I have received the instructions of
your Eminence as concerns your enemies, Monseigneur will permit me to
say a few words to him of mine?”
“Have you enemies, then?” asked Richelieu.
“Yes, monseigneur, enemies against whom you owe me all your support,
for I made them by serving your Eminence.”
“Who are they?” replied the duke.
“In the first place, there is a little _intrigante_ named Bonacieux.”
“She is in the prison of Nantes.”
“That is to say, she was there,” replied Milady; “but the queen has
obtained an order from the king by means of which she has been conveyed
to a convent.”
“To a convent?” said the duke.
“Yes, to a convent.”
“And to which?”
“I don’t know; the secret has been well kept.”
“But _I_ will know!”
“And your Eminence will tell me in what convent that woman is?”
“I can see nothing inconvenient in that,” said the cardinal.
“Well, now I have an enemy much more to be dreaded by me than this
little Madame Bonacieux.”
“Who is that?”
“Her lover.”
“What is his name?”
“Oh, your Eminence knows him well,” cried Milady, carried away by her
anger. “He is the evil genius of both of us. It is he who in an
encounter with your Eminence’s Guards decided the victory in favor of
the king’s Musketeers; it is he who gave three desperate wounds to De
Wardes, your emissary, and who caused the affair of the diamond studs
to fail; it is he who, knowing it was I who had Madame Bonacieux
carried off, has sworn my death.”
“Ah, ah!” said the cardinal, “I know of whom you speak.”
“I mean that miserable D’Artagnan.”
“He is a bold fellow,” said the cardinal.
“And it is exactly because he is a bold fellow that he is the more to
be feared.”
“I must have,” said the duke, “a proof of his connection with
Buckingham.”
“A proof?” cried Milady; “I will have ten.”
“Well, then, it becomes the simplest thing in the world; get me that
proof, and I will send him to the Bastille.”
“So far good, monseigneur; but afterwards?”
“When once in the Bastille, there is no afterward!” said the cardinal,
in a low voice. “Ah, _pardieu!_” continued he, “if it were as easy for
me to get rid of my enemy as it is easy to get rid of yours, and if it
were against such people you require impunity—”
“Monseigneur,” replied Milady, “a fair exchange. Life for life, man for
man; give me one, I will give you the other.”
“I don’t know what you mean, nor do I even desire to know what you
mean,” replied the cardinal; “but I wish to please you, and see nothing
out of the way in giving you what you demand with respect to so
infamous a creature—the more so as you tell me this D’Artagnan is a
libertine, a duelist, and a traitor.”
“An infamous scoundrel, monseigneur, a scoundrel!”
“Give me paper, a quill, and some ink, then,” said the cardinal.
“Here they are, monseigneur.”
There was a moment of silence, which proved that the cardinal was
employed in seeking the terms in which he should write the note, or
else in writing it. Athos, who had not lost a word of the conversation,
took his two companions by the hand, and led them to the other end of
the room.
“Well,” said Porthos, “what do you want, and why do you not let us
listen to the end of the conversation?”
“Hush!” said Athos, speaking in a low voice. “We have heard all it was
necessary we should hear; besides, I don’t prevent you from listening,
but I must be gone.”
“You must be gone!” said Porthos; “and if the cardinal asks for you,
what answer can we make?”
“You will not wait till he asks; you will speak first, and tell him
that I am gone on the lookout, because certain expressions of our host
have given me reason to think the road is not safe. I will say two
words about it to the cardinal’s esquire likewise. The rest concerns
myself; don’t be uneasy about that.”
“Be prudent, Athos,” said Aramis.
“Be easy on that head,” replied Athos; “you know I am cool enough.”
Porthos and Aramis resumed their places by the stovepipe.
As to Athos, he went out without any mystery, took his horse, which was
tied with those of his friends to the fastenings of the shutters, in
four words convinced the attendant of the necessity of a vanguard for
their return, carefully examined the priming of his pistols, drew his
sword, and took, like a forlorn hope, the road to the camp.
Chapter XLV.
A CONJUGAL SCENE
As Athos had foreseen, it was not long before the cardinal came down.
He opened the door of the room in which the Musketeers were, and found
Porthos playing an earnest game of dice with Aramis. He cast a rapid
glance around the room, and perceived that one of his men was missing.
“What has become of Monseigneur Athos?” asked he.
“Monseigneur,” replied Porthos, “he has gone as a scout, on account of
some words of our host, which made him believe the road was not safe.”
“And you, what have you done, Monsieur Porthos?”
“I have won five pistoles of Aramis.”
“Well; now will you return with me?”
“We are at your Eminence’s orders.”
“To horse, then, gentlemen; for it is getting late.”
The attendant was at the door, holding the cardinal’s horse by the
bridle. At a short distance a group of two men and three horses
appeared in the shade. These were the two men who were to conduct
Milady to Fort La Pointe, and superintend her embarkation.
The attendant confirmed to the cardinal what the two Musketeers had
already said with respect to Athos. The cardinal made an approving
gesture, and retraced his route with the same precautions he had used
in coming.
Let us leave him to follow the road to the camp protected by his
esquire and the two Musketeers, and return to Athos.
For a hundred paces he maintained the speed at which he started; but
when out of sight he turned his horse to the right, made a circuit, and
came back within twenty paces of a high hedge to watch the passage of
the little troop. Having recognized the laced hats of his companions
and the golden fringe of the cardinal’s cloak, he waited till the
horsemen had turned the angle of the road, and having lost sight of
them, he returned at a gallop to the inn, which was opened to him
without hesitation.
The host recognized him.
“My officer,” said Athos, “has forgotten to give a piece of very
important information to the lady, and has sent me back to repair his
forgetfulness.”
“Go up,” said the host; “she is still in her chamber.”
Athos availed himself of the permission, ascended the stairs with his
lightest step, gained the landing, and through the open door perceived
Milady putting on her hat.