Twenty years after
“He must be about twenty-three years of age,” said Athos, in a low
tone. “I often think of that young man, D’Artagnan.”
“Strange! for I had forgotten him,” said the lieutenant.
Athos smiled; the smile was melancholy.
“And Lord de Winter—do you know anything about him?”
“I know that he is in high favor with Charles I.”
“The fortunes of that monarch now are at low water. He shed the blood
of Strafford; that confirms what I said just now—blood will have blood.
And the queen?”
“What queen?”
“Madame Henrietta of England, daughter of Henry IV.”
“She is at the Louvre, as you know.”
“Yes, and I hear in bitter poverty. Her daughter, during the severest
cold, was obliged for want of fire to remain in bed. Do you grasp
that?” said Athos, shrugging his shoulders; “the daughter of Henry IV.
shivering for want of a fagot! Why did she not ask from any one of us a
home instead of from Mazarin? She should have wanted nothing.”
“Have you ever seen the queen of England?” inquired D’Artagnan.
“No; but my mother, as a child, saw her. Did I ever tell you that my
mother was lady of honor to Marie de Medici?”
“Never. You know, Athos, you never spoke much of such matters.”
“Ah, _mon Dieu_, yes, you are right,” Athos replied; “but then there
must be some occasion for speaking.”
“Porthos wouldn’t have waited for it so patiently,” said D’Artagnan,
with a smile.
“Every one according to his nature, my dear D’Artagnan. Porthos, in
spite of a touch of vanity, has many excellent qualities. Have you seen
him?”
“I left him five days ago,” said D’Artagnan, and he portrayed with
Gascon wit and sprightliness the magnificence of Porthos in his Château
of Pierrefonds; nor did he neglect to launch a few arrows of wit at the
excellent Monsieur Mouston.
“I sometimes wonder,” replied Athos, smiling at that gayety which
recalled the good old days, “that we could form an association of men
who would be, after twenty years of separation, still so closely bound
together. Friendship throws out deep roots in honest hearts,
D’Artagnan. Believe me, it is only the evil-minded who deny friendship;
they cannot understand it. And Aramis?”
“I have seen him also,” said D’Artagnan; “but he seemed to me cold.”
“Ah, you have seen Aramis?” said Athos, turning on D’Artagnan a
searching look. “Why, it is a veritable pilgrimage, my dear friend,
that you are making to the Temple of Friendship, as the poets would
say.”
“Why, yes,” replied D’Artagnan, with embarrassment.
“Aramis, you know,” continued Athos, “is naturally cold, and then he is
always involved in intrigues with women.”
“I believe he is at this moment in a very complicated one,” said
D’Artagnan.
Athos made no reply.
“He is not curious,” thought D’Artagnan.
Athos not only failed to reply, he even changed the subject of
conversation.
“You see,” said he, calling D’Artagnan’s attention to the fact that
they had come back to the château after an hour’s walk, “we have made a
tour of my domains.”
“All is charming and everything savors of nobility,” replied
D’Artagnan.
At this instant they heard the sound of horses’ feet.
“’Tis Raoul who has come back,” said Athos; “and we can now hear how
the poor child is.”
In fact, the young man appeared at the gate, covered with dust, entered
the courtyard, leaped from his horse, which he consigned to the charge
of a groom, and then went to greet the count and D’Artagnan.
“Monsieur,” said Athos, placing his hand on D’Artagnan’s shoulder,
“monsieur is the Chevalier D’Artagnan of whom you have often heard me
speak, Raoul.”
“Monsieur,” said the young man, saluting again and more profoundly,
“monsieur le comte has pronounced your name before me as an example
whenever he wished to speak of an intrepid and generous gentleman.”
That little compliment could not fail to move D’Artagnan. He extended a
hand to Raoul and said:
“My young friend, all the praises that are given me should be passed on
to the count here; for he has educated me in everything and it is not
his fault that his pupil profited so little from his instructions. But
he will make it up in you I am sure. I like your manner, Raoul, and
your politeness has touched me.”
Athos was more delighted than can be told. He looked at D’Artagnan with
an expression of gratitude and then bestowed on Raoul one of those
strange smiles, of which children are so proud when they receive them.
“Now,” said D’Artagnan to himself, noticing that silent play of
countenance, “I am sure of it.”
“I hope the accident has been of no consequence?”
“They don’t yet know, sir, on account of the swelling; but the doctor
is afraid some tendon has been injured.”
At this moment a little boy, half peasant, half foot-boy, came to
announce supper.
Athos led his guest into a dining-room of moderate size, the windows of
which opened on one side on a garden, on the other on a hot-house full
of magnificent flowers.
D’Artagnan glanced at the dinner service. The plate was magnificent,
old, and appertaining to the family. D’Artagnan stopped to look at a
sideboard on which was a superb ewer of silver.
“That workmanship is divine!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, a _chef d’œuvre_ of the great Florentine sculptor, Benvenuto
Cellini,” replied Athos.
“What battle does it represent?”
“That of Marignan, just at the point where one of my forefathers is
offering his sword to Francis I., who has broken his. It was on that
occasion that my ancestor, Enguerrand de la Fère, was made a knight of
the Order of St. Michael; besides which, the king, fifteen years
afterward, gave him also this ewer and a sword which you may have seen
formerly in my house, also a lovely specimen of workmanship. Men were
giants in those times,” said Athos; “now we are pigmies in comparison.
Let us sit down to supper. Call Charles,” he added, addressing the boy
who waited.
“My good Charles, I particularly recommend to your care Planchet, the
_laquais_ of Monsieur D’Artagnan. He likes good wine; now you have the
key of the cellar. He has slept a long time on a hard bed, so he won’t
object to a soft one; take every care of him, I beg of you.” Charles
bowed and retired.
“You think of everything,” said D’Artagnan; “and I thank you for
Planchet, my dear Athos.”
Raoul stared on hearing this name and looked at the count to be quite
sure that it was he whom the lieutenant thus addressed.
“That name sounds strange to you,” said Athos, smiling; “it was my _nom
de guerre_ when Monsieur D’Artagnan, two other gallant friends and
myself performed some feats of arms at the siege of La Rochelle, under
the deceased cardinal and Monsieur de Bassompierre. My friend is still
so kind as to address me by that old and well beloved appellation,
which makes my heart glad when I hear it.”
“’Tis an illustrious name,” said the lieutenant, “and had one day
triumphal honors paid to it.”
“What do you mean, sir?” inquired Raoul.
“You have not forgotten St. Gervais, Athos, and the napkin which was
converted into a banner?” and he then related to Raoul the story of the
bastion, and Raoul fancied he was listening to one of those deeds of
arms belonging to days of chivalry, so gloriously recounted by Tasso
and Ariosto.
“D’Artagnan does not tell you, Raoul,” said Athos, in his turn, “that
he was reckoned one of the finest swordsmen of his time—a knuckle of
iron, a wrist of steel, a sure eye and a glance of fire; that’s what
his adversary met with. He was eighteen, only three years older than
you are, Raoul, when I saw him set to work, pitted against tried men.”
“And did Monsieur D’Artagnan come off the conqueror?” asked the young
man, with glistening eye.
“I killed one man, if I recollect rightly,” replied D’Artagnan, with a
look of inquiry directed to Athos; “another I disarmed or wounded, I
don’t remember which.”
“Wounded!” said Athos; “it was a phenomenon of skill.”
The young man would willingly have prolonged this conversation far into
the night, but Athos pointed out to him that his guest must need
repose. D’Artagnan would fain have declared that he was not fatigued,
but Athos insisted on his retiring to his chamber, conducted thither by
Raoul.
Chapter XV.
Athos as a Diplomatist.
D’Artagnan retired to bed—not to sleep, but to think over all he had
heard that evening. Being naturally goodhearted, and having had once a
liking for Athos, which had grown into a sincere friendship, he was
delighted at thus meeting a man full of intelligence and moral
strength, instead of a drunkard. He admitted without annoyance the
continued superiority of Athos over himself, devoid as he was of that
jealousy which might have saddened a less generous disposition; he was
delighted also that the high qualities of Athos appeared to promise
favorably for his mission. Nevertheless, it seemed to him that Athos
was not in all respects sincere and frank. Who was the youth he had
adopted and who bore so striking a resemblance to him? What could
explain Athos’s having re-entered the world and the extreme sobriety he
had observed at table? The absence of Grimaud, whose name had never
once been uttered by Athos, gave D’Artagnan uneasiness. It was evident
either that he no longer possessed the confidence of his friend, or
that Athos was bound by some invisible chain, or that he had been
forewarned of the lieutenant’s visit.
He could not help thinking of M. Rochefort, whom he had seen in Notre
Dame; could De Rochefort have forestalled him with Athos? Again, the
moderate fortune which Athos possessed, concealed as it was, so
skillfully, seemed to show a regard for appearances and to betray a
latent ambition which might be easily aroused. The clear and vigorous
intellect of Athos would render him more open to conviction than a less
able man would be. He would enter into the minister’s schemes with the
more ardor, because his natural activity would be doubled by necessity.
Resolved to seek an explanation on all these points on the following
day, D’Artagnan, in spite of his fatigue, prepared for an attack and
determined that it should take place after breakfast. He determined to
cultivate the good-will of the youth Raoul and, either whilst fencing
with him or when out shooting, to extract from his simplicity some
information which would connect the Athos of old times with the Athos
of the present. But D’Artagnan at the same time, being a man of extreme
caution, was quite aware what injury he should do himself, if by any
indiscretion or awkwardness he should betray has manoeuvering to the
experienced eye of Athos. Besides, to tell truth, whilst D’Artagnan was
quite disposed to adopt a subtle course against the cunning of Aramis
or the vanity of Porthos, he was ashamed to equivocate with Athos,
true-hearted, open Athos. It seemed to him that if Porthos and Aramis
deemed him superior to them in the arts of diplomacy, they would like
him all the better for it; but that Athos, on the contrary, would
despise him.
“Ah! why is not Grimaud, the taciturn Grimaud, here?” thought
D’Artagnan, “there are so many things his silence would have told me;
with Grimaud silence was another form of eloquence!”
There reigned a perfect stillness in the house. D’Artagnan had heard
the door shut and the shutters barred; the dogs became in their turn
silent. At last a nightingale, lost in a thicket of shrubs, in the
midst of its most melodious cadences had fluted low and lower into
stillness and fallen asleep. Not a sound was heard in the castle,
except of a footstep up and down, in the chamber above—as he supposed,
the bedroom of Athos.
“He is walking about and thinking,” thought D’Artagnan; “but of what?
It is impossible to know; everything else might be guessed, but not
that.”
At length Athos went to bed, apparently, for the noise ceased.