Twenty years after
The Duc de Bouillon received domains of a value equal to that of his
principality of Sedan, and the title of prince, granted to him and to
those belonging to his house.
The Duc de Longueville gained the government of Pont-de-l’Arche, five
hundred thousand francs for his wife and the honor of seeing her son
held at the baptismal font by the young king and Henrietta of England.
Aramis stipulated that Bazin should officiate at that ceremony and that
Planchet should furnish the christening sugar plums.
The Duc d’Elbeuf obtained payment of certain sums due to his wife, one
hundred thousand francs for his eldest son and twenty-five thousand for
each of the three others.
The coadjutor alone obtained nothing. They promised, indeed, to
negotiate with the pope for a cardinal’s hat for him; but he knew how
little reliance should be placed on such promises, made by the queen
and Mazarin. Quite contrary to the lot of Monsieur de Conti, unable to
be cardinal, he was obliged to remain a soldier.
And therefore, when all Paris was rejoicing in the expected return of
the king, appointed for the next day, Gondy alone, in the midst of the
general happiness, was dissatisfied; he sent for the two men whom he
was wont to summon when in especially bad humor. Those two men were the
Count de Rochefort and the mendicant of Saint Eustache. They came with
their usual promptness, and the coadjutor spent with them a part of the
night.
Chapter LXXXIX.
Difficult for Kings to return to the Capitals of their Kingdoms.
Whilst D’Artagnan and Porthos were engaged in conducting the cardinal
to Saint Germain, Athos and Aramis returned to Paris.
Each had his own particular visit to make.
Aramis rushed to the Hôtel de Ville, where Madame de Longueville was
sojourning. The duchess loudly lamented the announcement of peace. War
had made her a queen; peace brought her abdication. She declared that
she would never assent to the treaty and that she wished eternal war.
But when Aramis had presented that peace to her in a true light—that is
to say, with all its advantages; when he had pointed out to her, in
exchange for the precarious and contested royalty of Paris, the
viceroyalty of Font-de-l’Arche, in other words, of all Normandy; when
he had rung in her ears the five hundred thousand francs promised by
the cardinal; when he had dazzled her eyes with the honor bestowed on
her by the king in holding her child at the baptismal font, Madame de
Longueville contended no longer, except as is the custom with pretty
women to contend, and defended herself only to surrender at last.
Aramis made a presence of believing in the reality of her opposition
and was unwilling to deprive himself in his own view of the credit of
her conversion.
“Madame,” he said, “you have wished to conquer the prince your
brother—that is to say, the greatest captain of the age; and when women
of genius wish anything they always succeed in attaining it. You have
succeeded; the prince is beaten, since he can no longer fight. Now
attach him to our party. Withdraw him gently from the queen, whom he
does not like, from Mazarin, whom he despises. The Fronde is a comedy,
of which the first act only is played. Let us wait for a
_dénouement_—for the day when the prince, thanks to you, shall have
turned against the court.”
Madame de Longueville was persuaded. This Frondist duchess trusted so
confidently to the power of her fine eyes, that she could not doubt
their influence even over Monsieur de Condé; and the chronicles of the
time aver that her confidence was justified.
Athos, on quitting Aramis, went to Madame de Chevreuse. Here was
another _frondeuse_ to persuade, and she was even less open to
conviction than her younger rival. There had been no stipulation in her
favor. Monsieur de Chevreuse had not been appointed governor of a
province, and if the queen should consent to be godmother it could be
only of her grandson or granddaughter. At the first announcement of
peace Madame de Chevreuse frowned, and in spite of all the logic of
Athos to show her that a prolonged war would have been impracticable,
contended in favor of hostilities.
“My fair friend,” said Athos, “allow me to tell you that everybody is
tired of war. You will get yourself exiled, as you did in the time of
Louis XIII. Believe me, we have passed the time of success in intrigue,
and your fine eyes are not destined to be eclipsed by regretting Paris,
where there will always be two queens as long as you are there.”
“Oh,” cried the duchess, “I cannot make war alone, but I can avenge
myself on that ungrateful queen and most ambitious favorite-on the
honor of a duchess, I will avenge myself.”
“Madame,” replied Athos, “do not injure the Vicomte de Bragelonne—do
not ruin his prospects. Alas! excuse my weakness! There are moments
when a man grows young again in his children.”
The duchess smiled, half tenderly, half ironically.
“Count,” she said, “you are, I fear, gained over to the court. I
suppose you have a blue ribbon in your pocket?”
“Yes, madame; I have that of the Garter, which King Charles I. gave me
some days before he died.”
“Come, I am growing an old woman!” said the duchess, pensively.
Athos took her hand and kissed it. She sighed, as she looked at him.
“Count,” she said, “Bragelonne must be a charming place. You are a man
of taste. You have water—woods—flowers there?”
She sighed again and leaned her charming head, gracefully reclined, on
her hand, still beautiful in form and color.
“Madame!” exclaimed Athos, “what were you saying just now about growing
old? Never have I seen you look so young, so beautiful!”
The duchess shook her head.
“Does Monsieur de Bragelonne remain in Paris?” she inquired.
“What think you of it?” inquired Athos.
“Leave him with me,” replied the duchess.
“No, madame; if you have forgotten the history of Œdipus, I, at least,
remember it.”
“Really, sir, you are delightful, and I should like to spend a month at
Bragelonne.”
“Are you not afraid of making people envious of me, duchess?” replied
Athos.
“No, I shall go _incognito_, count, under the name of Marie Michon.”
“You are adorable, madame.”
“But do not keep Raoul with you.”
“Why not?”
“Because he is in love.”
“He! he is quite a child!”
“And ’tis a child he loves.”
Athos became thoughtful.
“You are right, duchess. This singular passion for a child of seven may
some day make him very unhappy. There is to be war in Flanders. He
shall go thither.”
“And at his return you will send him to me. I will arm him against
love.”
“Alas, madame!” exclaimed Athos, “to-day love is like war—the
breastplate is becoming useless.”
Raoul entered at this moment; he came to announce that the solemn
entrance of the king, queen, and her ministers was to take place on the
ensuing day.
The next day, in fact, at daybreak, the court made preparations to quit
Saint Germain.
Meanwhile, the queen every hour had been sending for D’Artagnan.
“I hear,” she said, “that Paris is not quiet. I am afraid for the
king’s safety; place yourself close to the coach door on the right.”
“Reassure yourself, madame, I will answer for the king’s safety.”
As he left the queen’s presence Bernouin summoned him to the cardinal.
“Sir,” said Mazarin to him “an _émeute_ is spoken of in Paris. I shall
be on the king’s left and as I am the chief person threatened, remain
at the coach door to the left.”
“Your eminence may be perfectly easy,” replied D’Artagnan; “they will
not touch a hair of your head.”
“Deuce take it!” he thought to himself, “how can I take care of both?
Ah! plague on’t, I will guard the king and Porthos shall guard the
cardinal.”
This arrangement pleased every one. The queen had confidence in the
courage of D’Artagnan, which she knew, and the cardinal in the strength
of Porthos, which he had experienced.
The royal procession set out for Paris. Guitant and Comminges, at the
head of the guards, marched first; then came the royal carriage, with
D’Artagnan on one side, Porthos on the other; then the musketeers, for
two and twenty years staunch friends of D’Artagnan. During twenty he
had been lieutenant, their captain since the night before.
The cortège proceeded to Notre Dame, where a _Te Deum_ was chanted. All
Paris were in the streets. The Swiss were drawn up along the road, but
as the road was long, they were placed at six or eight feet distant
from each other and one deep only. This force was therefore wholly
insufficient, and from time to time the line was broken through by the
people and was formed again with difficulty. Whenever this occurred,
although it proceeded only from goodwill and a desire to see the king
and queen, Anne looked at D’Artagnan anxiously.
Mazarin, who had dispensed a thousand louis to make the people cry
“Long live Mazarin,” and who had accordingly no confidence in
acclamations bought at twenty pistoles each, kept one eye on Porthos;
but that gigantic body-guard replied to the look with his great bass
voice, “Be tranquil, my lord,” and Mazarin became more and more
composed.
At the Palais Royal, the crowd, which had flowed in from the adjacent
street was still greater; like an impetuous mob, a wave of human beings
came to meet the carriage and rolled tumultuously into the Rue Saint
Honoré.
When the procession reached the palace, loud cries of “Long live their
majesties!” resounded. Mazarin leaned out of the window. One or two
shouts of “Long live the cardinal” saluted his shadow; but instantly
hisses and yells stifled them remorselessly. Mazarin turned pale and
shrank back in the coach.
“Low-born fellows!” ejaculated Porthos.
D’Artagnan said nothing, but twirled his mustache with a peculiar
gesture which showed that his fine Gascon humor was awake.
Anne of Austria bent down and whispered in the young king’s ear:
“Say something gracious to Monsieur d’Artagnan, my son.”
The young king leaned toward the door.
“I have not said good-morning to you, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” he said;
“nevertheless, I have remarked you. It was you who were behind my
bed-curtains that night the Parisians wished to see me asleep.”
“And if the king permits me,” returned the Gascon, “I shall be near him
always when there is danger to be encountered.”
“Sir,” said Mazarin to Porthos, “what would you do if the crowd fell
upon us?”
“Kill as many as I could, my lord.”
“Hem! brave as you are and strong as you are, you could not kill them
all.”
“’Tis true,” answered Porthos, rising on his saddle, in order that he
might appraise the immense crowd, “there are a lot of them.”
“I think I should like the other fellow better than this one,” said
Mazarin to himself, and he threw himself back in his carriage.
The queen and her minister, more especially the latter, had reason to
feel anxious. The crowd, whilst preserving an appearance of respect and
even of affection for the king and queen regent, began to be
tumultuous. Reports were whispered about, like certain sounds which
announce, as they whistle from wave to wave, the coming storm—and when
they pass athwart a multitude, presage an _émeute_.
D’Artagnan turned toward the musketeers and made a sign imperceptible
to the crowd, but very easily understood by that chosen regiment, the
flower of the army.
The ranks closed firmly in and a kind of majestic tremor ran from man
to man.
At the Barrière des Sergents the procession was obliged to stop.
Comminges left the head of the escort and went to the queen’s carriage.
Anne questioned D’Artagnan by a look. He answered in the same language.
“Proceed,” she said.
Comminges returned to his post. An effort was made and the living
barrier was violently broken through.
Some complaints arose from the crowd and were addressed this time to