Twenty years after
nobility, a flower of chivalry. He has taken part against his queen, or
rather, against her minister. He has not been unreasonably exacting, it
seems to me. Look at Monsieur du Vallon, that faithful soul, that arm
of steel, who for twenty years has awaited the word from your lips
which will make him in rank what he is in sentiment and in courage.
Consider, in short, your people who love you and who yet are famished,
who have no other wish than to bless you, and who, nevertheless—no, I
am wrong, your subjects, madame, will never curse you; say one word to
them and all will be ended—peace succeed war, joy tears, and happiness
to misfortune!”
Anne of Austria looked with wonderment on the warlike countenance of
D’Artagnan, which betrayed a singular expression of deep feeling.
“Why did you not say all this before you took action, sir?” she said.
“Because, madame, it was necessary to prove to your majesty one thing
of which you doubted—-that is, that we still possess amongst us some
valor and are worthy of some consideration at your hands.”
“And that valor would shrink from no undertaking, according to what I
see.”
“It has hesitated at nothing in the past; why, then, should it be less
daring in the future?”
“Then, in case of my refusal, this valor, should a struggle occur, will
even go the length of carrying me off in the midst of my court, to
deliver me into the hands of the Fronde, as you propose to deliver my
minister?”
“We have not thought about it _yet_, madame,” answered D’Artagnan, with
that Gascon effrontery which had in him the appearance of _naïveté;_
“but if we four had resolved upon it we should do it most certainly.”
“I ought,” muttered Anne to herself, “by this time to remember that
these men are giants.”
“Alas, madame!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, “this proves to me that not till
to-day has your majesty had a just idea of us.”
“Perhaps,” said Anne; “but that idea, if at last I have it——”
“Your majesty will do us justice. In doing us justice you will no
longer treat us as men of vulgar stamp. You will see in me an
ambassador worthy of the high interests he is authorized to discuss
with his sovereign.”
“Where is the treaty?”
“Here it is.”
Anne of Austria cast her eyes upon the treaty that D’Artagnan presented
to her.
“I do not see here,” she said, “anything but general conditions; the
interests of the Prince de Conti or of the Ducs de Beaufort, de
Bouillon and d’Elbeuf and of the coadjutor, are herein consulted; but
with regard to yours?”
“We do ourselves justice, madame, even in assuming the high position
that we have. We do not think ourselves worthy to stand near such great
names.”
“But you, I presume, have decided to assert your pretensions _viva
voce?_”
“I believe you, madame, to be a great and powerful queen, and that it
will be unworthy of your power and greatness if you do not recompense
the arms which will bring back his eminence to Saint Germain.”
“It is my intention so to do; come, let us hear you. Speak.”
“He who has negotiated these matters (forgive me if I begin by speaking
of myself, but I must claim that importance which has been given to me,
not assumed by me) he who has arranged matters for the return of the
cardinal, ought, it appears to me, in order that his reward may not be
unworthy of your majesty, to be made commandant of the guards—an
appointment something like that of captain of the musketeers.”
“’Tis the appointment Monsieur de Tréville held, you ask of me.”
“The place, madame, is vacant, and although ’tis a year since Monsieur
de Tréville has left it, it has not been filled.”
“But it is one of the principal military appointments in the king’s
household.”
“Monsieur de Tréville was but a younger son of a simple Gascon family,
like me, madame; he occupied that post for twenty years.”
“You have an answer ready for everything,” replied the queen, and she
took from her bureau a document, which she filled up and signed.
“Undoubtedly, madame,” said D’Artagnan, taking the document and bowing,
“this is a noble reward; but everything in the world is unstable, and
the man who happened to fall into disgrace with your majesty might lose
this office to-morrow.”
“What more do you want?” asked the queen, coloring, as she found that
she had to deal with a mind as subtle as her own.
“A hundred thousand francs for this poor captain of musketeers, to be
paid whenever his services shall no longer be acceptable to your
majesty.”
Anne hesitated.
“To think of the Parisians,” soliloquized D’Artagnan, “offering only
the other day, by an edict of the parliament, six hundred thousand
francs to any man soever who would deliver up the cardinal to them,
dead or alive—if alive, in order to hang him; if dead, to deny him the
rites of Christian burial!”
“Come,” said Anne, “’tis reasonable, since you only ask from a queen
the sixth of what the parliament has proposed;” and she signed an order
for a hundred thousand francs.
“Now, then,” she said, “what next?”
“Madame, my friend Du Vallon is rich and has therefore nothing in the
way of fortune to desire; but I think I remember that there was a
question between him and Monsieur Mazarin as to making his estate a
barony. Nay, it must have been a promise.”
“A country clown,” said Anne of Austria, “people will laugh.”
“Let them,” answered D’Artagnan. “But I am sure of _one_ thing—that
those who laugh at him in his presence will never laugh a second time.”
“Here goes the barony.” said the queen; she signed a patent.
“Now there remains the chevalier, or the Abbé d’Herblay, as your
majesty pleases.”
“Does he wish to be a bishop?”
“No, madame, something easier to grant.”
“What?”
“It is that the king should deign to stand godfather to the son of
Madame de Longueville.”
The queen smiled.
“Monsieur de Longueville is of royal blood, madame,” said D’Artagnan.
“Yes,” said the queen; “but his son?”
“His son, madame, must be, since the husband of the son’s mother is.”
“And your friend has nothing more to ask for Madame de Longueville?”
“No, madame, for I presume that the king, standing godfather to him,
could do no less than present him with five hundred thousand francs,
giving his father, also, the government of Normandy.”
“As to the government of Normandy,” replied the queen, “I think I can
promise; but with regard to the present, the cardinal is always telling
me there is no more money in the royal coffers.”
“We shall search for some, madame, and I think we can find a little,
and if your majesty approves, we will seek for some together.”
“What next?”
“What next, madame?”
“Yes.”
“That is all.”
“Haven’t you, then, a fourth companion?”
“Yes, madame, the Comte de la Fère.”
“What does he ask?”
“Nothing.”
“There is in the world, then, one man who, having the power to ask,
asks—_nothing!_”
“There is the Comte de la Fère, madame. The Comte de la Fère is not a
man.”
“What is he, then?”
“The Comte de la Fère is a demi-god.”
“Has he not a son, a young man, a relative, a nephew, of whom Comminges
spoke to me as being a brave boy, and who, with Monsieur de Châtillon,
brought the standards from Lens?”
“He has, as your majesty has said, a ward, who is called the Vicomte de
Bragelonne.”
“If that young man should be appointed to a regiment what would his
guardian say?”
“Perhaps he would accept.”
“Perhaps?”
“Yes, if your majesty herself should beg him to accept.”
“He must be indeed a strange man. Well, we will reflect and perhaps we
will beg him. Are you satisfied, sir?”
“There is one thing the queen has not signed—her assent to the treaty.”
“Of what use to-day? I will sign it to-morrow.”
“I can assure her majesty that if she does not sign to-day she will not
have time to sign to-morrow. Consent, then, I beg you, madame, to write
at the bottom of this schedule, which has been drawn up by Mazarin, as
you see:
“‘I consent to ratify the treaty proposed by the Parisians.’”
Anne was caught, she could not draw back—she signed; but scarcely had
she done so when pride burst forth and she began to weep.
D’Artagnan started on seeing these tears. Since that period of history
queens have shed tears, like other women.
The Gascon shook his head, these tears from royalty melted his heart.
“Madame,” he said, kneeling, “look upon the unhappy man at your feet.
He begs you to believe that at a gesture of your majesty everything
will be possible to him. He has faith in himself; he has faith in his
friends; he wishes also to have faith in his queen. And in proof that
he fears nothing, that he counts on nothing, he will restore Monsieur
de Mazarin to your majesty without conditions. Behold, madame! here are
the august signatures of your majesty’s hand; if you think you are
right in giving them to me, you shall do so, but from this very moment
you are free from any obligation to keep them.”
And D’Artagnan, full of splendid pride and manly intrepidity, placed in
Anne’s hands, in a bundle, the papers that he had one by one won from
her with so much difficulty.
There are moments—for if everything is not good, everything in this
world is not bad—in which the most rigid and the coldest soul is
softened by the tears of strong emotion, heart-arraigning sentiment:
one of these momentary impulses actuated Anne. D’Artagnan, when he gave
way to his own feelings—which were in accordance with those of the
queen—had accomplished more than the most astute diplomacy could have
attempted. He was therefore instantly recompensed, either for his
address or for his sensibility, whichever it might be termed.
“You were right, sir,” said Anne. “I misunderstood you. There are the
acts signed; I deliver them to you without compulsion. Go and bring me
back the cardinal as soon as possible.”
“Madame,” faltered D’Artagnan, “’tis twenty years ago—I have a good
memory—since I had the honor behind a piece of tapestry in the Hotel de
Ville, of kissing one of those lovely hands.”
“There is the other,” replied the queen; “and that the left hand should
not be less liberal than the right,” she drew from her finger a diamond
similar to the one formerly given to him, “take and keep this ring in
remembrance of me.
“Madame,” said D’Artagnan, rising, “I have only one thing more to wish,
which is, that the next thing you ask from me, shall be—_my life_.”
And with this conclusion—a way peculiar to himself—he rose and left the
room.
“I never rightly understood those men,” said the queen, as she watched
him retiring from her presence; “and it is now too late, for in a year
the king will be of age.”
In twenty-four hours D’Artagnan and Porthos conducted Mazarin to the
queen; and the one received his commission, the other his patent of
nobility.
On the same day the Treaty of Paris was signed, and it was everywhere
announced that the cardinal had shut himself up for three days in order
to draw it up with the greatest care.
Here is what each of the parties concerned gained by that treaty:
Monsieur de Conti received Damvilliers, and having made his proofs as
general, he succeeded in remaining a soldier, instead of being made
cardinal. Moreover, something had been said of a marriage with
Mazarin’s niece. The idea was welcomed by the prince, to whom it was of
little importance whom he married, so long as he married some one.
The Duc de Beaufort made his entrance at court, receiving ample
reparation for the wrongs he had suffered, and all the honor due to his
rank. Full pardon was accorded to those who had aided in his escape. He
received also the office of admiral, which had been held by his father,
the Duc de Vendôme and an indemnity for his houses and castles,
demolished by the Parliament of Bretagne.