Twenty years after
On beholding this house, D’Artagnan, calm as he was in general, felt an
unusual disturbance within his heart—so powerful during the whole
course of life are the recollections of youth. He proceeded,
nevertheless, and came opposite to an iron gate, ornamented in the
taste of the period.
Through the gate was seen kitchen-gardens, carefully attended to, a
spacious courtyard, in which neighed several horses held by valets in
various liveries, and a carriage, drawn by two horses of the country.
“We are mistaken,” said D’Artagnan. “This cannot be the establishment
of Athos. Good heavens! suppose he is dead and that this property now
belongs to some one who bears his name. Alight, Planchet, and inquire,
for I confess that I have scarcely courage so to do.”
Planchet alighted.
“Thou must add,” said D’Artagnan, “that a gentleman who is passing by
wishes to have the honor of paying his respects to the Comte de la
Fère, and if thou art satisfied with what thou hearest, then mention my
name!”
Planchet, leading his horse by the bridle, drew near to the gate and
rang the bell, and immediately a servant-man with white hair and of
erect stature, notwithstanding his age, presented himself.
“Does Monsieur le Comte de la Fère live here?” asked Planchet.
“Yes, monsieur, it is here he lives,” the servant replied to Planchet,
who was not in livery.
“A nobleman retired from service, is he not?”
“Yes.”
“And who had a lackey named Grimaud?” persisted Planchet, who had
prudently considered that he couldn’t have too much information.
“Monsieur Grimaud is absent from the château for the time being,” said
the servitor, who, little used as he was to such inquiries, began to
examine Planchet from head to foot.
“Then,” cried Planchet joyously, “I see well that it is the same Comte
de la Fère whom we seek. Be good enough to open to me, for I wish to
announce to monsieur le comte that my master, one of his friends, is
here, and wishes to greet him.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” said the servitor, opening the gate. “But
where is your master?”
“He is following me.”
The servitor opened the gate and walked before Planchet, who made a
sign to D’Artagnan. The latter, his heart palpitating more than ever,
entered the courtyard without dismounting.
Whilst Planchet was standing on the steps before the house he heard a
voice say:
“Well, where is this gentleman and why do they not bring him here?”
This voice, the sound of which reached D’Artagnan, reawakened in his
heart a thousand sentiments, a thousand recollections that he had
forgotten. He vaulted hastily from his horse, whilst Planchet, with a
smile on his lips, advanced toward the master of the house.
“But I know you, my lad,” said Athos, appearing on the threshold.
“Oh, yes, monsieur le comte, you know me and I know you. I am
Planchet—Planchet, whom you know well.” But the honest servant could
say no more, so much was he overcome by this unexpected interview.
“What, Planchet, is Monsieur d’Artagnan here?”
“Here I am, my friend, dear Athos!” cried D’Artagnan, in a faltering
voice and almost staggering from agitation.
At these words a visible emotion was expressed on the beautiful
countenance and calm features of Athos. He rushed toward D’Artagnan
with eyes fixed upon him and clasped him in his arms. D’Artagnan,
equally moved, pressed him also closely to him, whilst tears stood in
his eyes. Athos then took him by the hand and led him into the
drawing-room, where there were several people. Every one arose.
“I present to you,” he said, “Monsieur le Chevalier D’Artagnan,
lieutenant of his majesty’s musketeers, a devoted friend and one of the
most excellent, brave gentlemen that I have ever known.”
D’Artagnan received the compliments of those who were present in his
own way, and whilst the conversation became general he looked earnestly
at Athos.
Strange! Athos was scarcely aged at all! His fine eyes, no longer
surrounded by that dark line which nights of dissipation pencil too
infallibly, seemed larger, more liquid than ever. His face, a little
elongated, had gained in calm dignity what it had lost in feverish
excitement. His hand, always wonderfully beautiful and strong, was set
off by a ruffle of lace, like certain hands by Titian and Vandyck. He
was less stiff than formerly. His long, dark hair, softly powdered here
and there with silver tendrils, fell elegantly over his shoulders in
wavy curls; his voice was still youthful, as if belonging to a Hercules
of twenty-five, and his magnificent teeth, which he had preserved white
and sound, gave an indescribable charm to his smile.
Meanwhile the guests, seeing that the two friends were longing to be
alone, prepared to depart, when a noise of dogs barking resounded
through the courtyard and many persons said at the same moment:
“Ah! ’tis Raoul, who is come home.”
Athos, as the name of Raoul was pronounced, looked inquisitively at
D’Artagnan, in order to see if any curiosity was painted on his face.
But D’Artagnan was still in confusion and turned around almost
mechanically when a fine young man of fifteen years of age, dressed
simply, but in perfect taste, entered the room, raising, as he came,
his hat, adorned with a long plume of scarlet feathers.
Nevertheless, D’Artagnan was struck by the appearance of this new
personage. It seemed to explain to him the change in Athos; a
resemblance between the boy and the man explained the mystery of this
regenerated existence. He remained listening and gazing.
“Here you are, home again, Raoul,” said the comte.
“Yes, sir,” replied the youth, with deep respect, “and I have performed
the commission that you gave me.”
“But what’s the matter, Raoul?” said Athos, very anxiously. “You are
pale and agitated.”
“Sir,” replied the young man, “it is on account of an accident which
has happened to our little neighbor.”
“To Mademoiselle de la Vallière?” asked Athos, quickly.
“What is it?” cried many persons present.
“She was walking with her nurse Marceline, in the place where the
woodmen cut the wood, when, passing on horseback, I stopped. She saw me
also and in trying to jump from the end of a pile of wood on which she
had mounted, the poor child fell and was not able to rise again. I fear
that she has badly sprained her ankle.”
“Oh, heavens!” cried Athos. “And her mother, Madame de Saint-Remy, have
they yet told her of it?”
“No, sir, Madame de Saint-Remy is at Blois with the Duchess of Orléans.
I am afraid that what was first done was unskillful, if not worse than
useless. I am come, sir, to ask your advice.”
“Send directly to Blois, Raoul; or, rather, take horse and ride
immediately yourself.”
Raoul bowed.
“But where is Louise?” asked the comte.
“I have brought her here, sir, and I have deposited her in charge of
Charlotte, who, till better advice comes, has bathed the foot in cold
well-water.”
The guests now all took leave of Athos, excepting the old Duc de Barbe,
who, as an old friend of the family of La Vallière, went to see little
Louise and offered to take her to Blois in his carriage.
“You are right, sir,” said Athos. “She will be the sooner with her
mother. As for you, Raoul, I am sure it is your fault, some giddiness
or folly.”
“No, sir, I assure you,” muttered Raoul, “it is not.”
“Oh, no, no, I declare it is not!” cried the young girl, while Raoul
turned pale at the idea of his being perhaps the cause of her disaster.
“Nevertheless, Raoul, you must go to Blois and you must make your
excuses and mine to Madame de Saint-Remy.”
The youth looked pleased. He again took in his strong arms the little
girl, whose pretty golden head and smiling face rested on his shoulder,
and placed her gently in the carriage; then jumping on his horse with
the elegance of a first-rate esquire, after bowing to Athos and
D’Artagnan, he went off close by the door of the carriage, on somebody
inside of which his eyes were riveted.
Chapter XIV.
The Castle of Bragelonne.
Whilst this scene was going on, D’Artagnan remained with open mouth and
a confused gaze. Everything had turned out so differently from what he
expected that he was stupefied with wonder.
Athos, who had been observing him and guessing his thoughts, took his
arm and led him into the garden.
“Whilst supper is being prepared,” he said, smiling, “you will not, my
friend, be sorry to have the mystery which so puzzles you cleared up.”
“True, monsieur le comte,” replied D’Artagnan, who felt that by degrees
Athos was resuming that great influence which aristocracy had over him.
Athos smiled.
“First and foremost, dear D’Artagnan, we have no title such as count
here. When I call you ‘chevalier,’ it is in presenting you to my
guests, that they may know who you are. But to you, D’Artagnan, I am, I
hope, still dear Athos, your comrade, your friend. Do you intend to
stand on ceremony because you are less attached to me than you were?”
“Oh! God forbid!”
“Then let us be as we used to be; let us be open with each other. You
are surprised at what you see here?”
“Extremely.”
“But above all things, I am a marvel to you?”
“I confess it.”
“I am still young, am I not? Should you not have known me again, in
spite of my eight-and-forty years of age?”
“On the contrary, I do not find you the same person at all.”
“I understand,” cried Athos, with a gentle blush. “Everything,
D’Artagnan, even folly, has its limit.”
“Then your means, it appears, are improved; you have a capital
house—your own, I presume? You have a park, and horses, servants.”
Athos smiled.
“Yes, I inherited this little property when I quitted the army, as I
told you. The park is twenty acres—twenty, comprising kitchen-gardens
and a common. I have two horses,—I do not count my servant’s bobtailed
nag. My sporting dogs consist of two pointers, two harriers and two
setters. But then all this extravagance is not for myself,” added
Athos, laughing.
“Yes, I see, for the young man Raoul,” said D’Artagnan.
“You guess aright, my friend; this youth is an orphan, deserted by his
mother, who left him in the house of a poor country priest. I have
brought him up. It is Raoul who has worked in me the change you see; I
was dried up like a miserable tree, isolated, attached to nothing on
earth; it was only a deep affection that could make me take root again
and drag me back to life. This child has caused me to recover what I
had lost. I had no longer any wish to live for myself, I have lived for
him. I have corrected the vices that I had; I have assumed the virtues
that I had not. Precept something, but example more. I may be mistaken,
but I believe that Raoul will be as accomplished a gentleman as our
degenerate age could display.”
The remembrance of Milady recurred to D’Artagnan.
“And you are happy?” he said to his friend.
“As happy as it is allowed to one of God’s creatures to be on this
earth; but say out all you think, D’Artagnan, for you have not yet done
so.”
“You are too bad, Athos; one can hide nothing from you,” answered
D’Artagnan. “I wished to ask you if you ever feel any emotions of
terror resembling——”
“Remorse! I finish your phrase. Yes and no. I do not feel remorse,
because that woman, I profoundly hold, deserved her punishment. Had she
one redeeming trait? I doubt it. I do not feel remorse, because had we
allowed her to live she would have persisted in her work of
destruction. But I do not mean, my friend that we were right in what we
did. Perhaps all blood demands _some_ expiation. Hers had been
accomplished; it remains, possibly, for us to accomplish ours.”
“I have sometimes thought as you do, Athos.”
“She had a son, that unhappy woman?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever heard of him?”
“Never.”