Twenty years after
“Oh, go on, monsieur, go on!” said Madame de Chevreuse eagerly; “you
can’t imagine how much this conversation interests me.”
“You encourage me,” said Athos, “I will continue, then. That cousin of
Aramis, that Marie Michon, that needlewoman, notwithstanding her low
condition, had acquaintances in the highest rank; she called the
grandest ladies of the court her friend, and the queen—proud as she is,
in her double character as Austrian and as Spaniard—called her her
sister.”
“Alas!” said Madame de Chevreuse, with a slight sigh and a little
movement of her eyebrows that was peculiarly her own, “since that time
everything has changed.”
“And the queen had reason for her affection, for Marie was devoted to
her—devoted to that degree that she served her as medium of intercourse
with her brother, the king of Spain.”
“Which,” interrupted the duchess, “is now brought up against her as a
great crime.”
“And therefore,” continued Athos, “the cardinal—the true cardinal, the
other one—determined one fine morning to arrest poor Marie Michon and
send her to the Château de Loches. Fortunately the affair was not
managed so secretly but that it became known to the queen. The case had
been provided for: if Marie Michon should be threatened with any danger
the queen was to send her a prayer-book bound in green velvet.”
“That is true, monsieur, you are well informed.”
“One morning the green book was brought to her by the Prince de
Marsillac. There was no time to lose. Happily Marie and a follower of
hers named Kitty could disguise themselves admirably in men’s clothes.
The prince procured for Marie Michon the dress of a cavalier and for
Kitty that of a lackey; he sent them two excellent horses, and the
fugitives went out hastily from Tours, shaping their course toward
Spain, trembling at the least noise, following unfrequented roads, and
asking for hospitality when they found themselves where there was no
inn.”
“Why, really, it was all exactly as you say!” cried Madame de
Chevreuse, clapping her hands. “It would indeed be strange if——” she
checked herself.
“If I should follow the two fugitives to the end of their journey?”
said Athos. “No, madame, I will not thus waste your time. We will
accompany them only to a little village in Limousin, lying between
Tulle and Angouleme—a little village called Roche-l’Abeille.”
Madame de Chevreuse uttered a cry of surprise, and looked at Athos with
an expression of astonishment that made the old musketeer smile.
“Wait, madame,” continued Athos, “what remains for me to tell you is
even more strange than what I have narrated.”
“Monsieur,” said Madame de Chevreuse, “I believe you are a sorcerer; I
am prepared for anything. But really—No matter, go on.”
“The journey of that day had been long and wearing; it was a cold day,
the eleventh of October, there was no inn or château in the village and
the homes of the peasants were poor and unattractive. Marie Michon was
a very aristocratic person; like her sister the queen, she had been
accustomed to pleasing perfumes and fine linen; she resolved,
therefore, to seek hospitality of the priest.”
Athos paused.
“Oh, continue!” said the duchess. “I have told you that I am prepared
for anything.”
“The two travelers knocked at the door. It was late; the priest, who
had gone to bed, cried out to them to come in. They entered, for the
door was not locked—there is much confidence among villagers. A lamp
burned in the chamber occupied by the priest. Marie Michon, who made
the most charming cavalier in the world, pushed open the door, put her
head in and asked for hospitality. ‘Willingly, my young cavalier,’ said
the priest, ‘if you will be content with the remains of my supper and
with half my chamber.’
“The two travelers consulted for a moment. The priest heard a burst of
laughter and then the master, or rather, the mistress, replied: ‘Thank
you, monsieur le curé, I accept.’ ‘Sup, then, and make as little noise
as possible,’ said the priest, ‘for I, too, have been on the go all day
and shall not be sorry to sleep to-night.’”
Madame de Chevreuse evidently went from surprise to astonishment, and
from astonishment to stupefaction. Her face, as she looked at Athos,
had taken on an expression that cannot be described. It could be seen
that she had wished to speak, but she had remained silent through fear
of losing one of her companion’s words.
“What happened then?” she asked.
“Then?” said Athos. “Ah, I have come now to what is most difficult.”
“Speak, speak! One can say anything to me. Besides, it doesn’t concern
me; it relates to Mademoiselle Marie Michon.”
“Ah, that is true,” said Athos. “Well, then, Marie Michon had supper
with her follower, and then, in accordance with the permission given
her, she entered the chamber of her host, Kitty meanwhile taking
possession of an armchair in the room first entered, where they had
taken their supper.”
“Really, monsieur,” said Madame de Chevreuse, “unless you are the devil
in person I don’t know how you could become acquainted with all these
details.”
“A charming woman was that Marie Michon,” resumed Athos, “one of those
wild creatures who are constantly conceiving the strangest ideas. Now,
thinking that her host was a priest, that coquette took it into her
head that it would be a happy souvenir for her old age, among the many
happy souvenirs she already possessed, if she could win that of having
damned an abbé.”
“Count,” said the duchess, “upon my word, you frighten me.”
“Alas!” continued Athos, “the poor abbé was not a St. Ambroise, and I
repeat, Marie Michon was an adorable creature.”
“Monsieur!” cried the duchess, seizing Athos’s hands, “tell me this
moment how you know all these details, or I will send to the convent of
the Vieux Augustins for a monk to come and exorcise you.”
Athos laughed. “Nothing is easier, madame. A cavalier, charged with an
important mission, had come an hour before your arrival, seeking
hospitality, at the very moment that the curé, summoned to the bedside
of a dying person, left not only his house but the village, for the
entire night. The priest having all confidence in his guest, who,
besides, was a nobleman, had left to him his house, his supper and his
chamber. And therefore Marie came seeking hospitality from the guest of
the good abbé and not from the good abbé himself.”
“And that cavalier, that guest, that nobleman who arrived before she
came?”
“It was I, the Comte de la Fère,” said Athos, rising and bowing
respectfully to the Duchess de Chevreuse.
The duchess remained a moment stupefied; then, suddenly bursting into
laughter:
“Ah! upon my word,” said she, “it is very droll, and that mad Marie
Michon fared better than she expected. Sit down, dear count, and go on
with your story.”
“At this point I have to accuse myself of a fault, madame. I have told
you that I was traveling on an important mission. At daybreak I left
the chamber without noise, leaving my charming companion asleep. In the
front room the follower was also still asleep, her head leaning back on
the chair, in all respects worthy of her mistress. Her pretty face
arrested my attention; I approached and recognized that little Kitty
whom our friend Aramis had placed with her. In that way I discovered
that the charming traveler was——”
“Marie Michon!” said Madame de Chevreuse, hastily.
“Marie Michon,” continued Athos. “Then I went out of the house; I
proceeded to the stable and found my horse saddled and my lackey ready.
We set forth on our journey.”
“And have you never revisited that village?” eagerly asked Madame de
Chevreuse.
“A year after, madame.”
“Well?”
“I wanted to see the good curé again. I found him much preoccupied with
an event that he could not at all comprehend. A week before he had
received, in a cradle, a beautiful little boy three months old, with a
purse filled with gold and a note containing these simple words: ‘11
October, 1633.’”
“It was the date of that strange adventure,” interrupted Madame de
Chevreuse.
“Yes, but he couldn’t understand what it meant, for he had spent that
night with a dying person and Marie Michon had left his house before
his return.”
“You must know, monsieur, that Marie Michon, when she returned to
France in 1643, immediately sought for information about that child; as
a fugitive she could not take care of it, but on her return she wished
to have it near her.”
“And what said the abbé?” asked Athos.
“That a nobleman whom he did not know had wished to take charge of it,
had answered for its future, and had taken it away.”
“That was true.”
“Ah! I see! That nobleman was you; it was his father!”
“Hush! do not speak so loud, madame; he is there.”
“He is there! my son! the son of Marie Michon! But I must see him
instantly.”
“Take care, madame,” said Athos, “for he knows neither his father nor
his mother.”
“You have kept the secret! you have brought him to see me, thinking to
make me happy. Oh, thanks! sir, thanks!” cried Madame de Chevreuse,
seizing his hand and trying to put it to her lips; “you have a noble
heart.”
“I bring him to you, madame,” said Athos, withdrawing his hand, “hoping
that in your turn you will do something for him; till now I have
watched over his education and I have made him, I hope, an accomplished
gentleman; but I am now obliged to return to the dangerous and
wandering life of party faction. To-morrow I plunge into an adventurous
affair in which I may be killed. Then it will devolve on you to push
him on in that world where he is called on to occupy a place.”
“Rest assured,” cried the duchess, “I shall do what I can. I have but
little influence now, but all that I have shall most assuredly be his.
As to his title and fortune——”
“As to that, madame, I have made over to him the estate of Bragelonne,
my inheritance, which will give him ten thousand francs a year and the
title of vicomte.”
“Upon my soul, monsieur,” said the duchess, “you are a true nobleman!
But I am eager to see our young vicomte. Where is he?”
“There, in the _salon_. I will have him come in, if you really wish
it.”
Athos moved toward the door; the duchess held him back.
“Is he handsome?” she asked.
Athos smiled.
“He resembles his mother.”
So he opened the door and beckoned the young man in.
The duchess could not restrain a cry of joy on seeing so handsome a
young cavalier, so far surpassing all that her maternal pride had been
able to conceive.
“Vicomte, come here,” said Athos; “the duchess permits you to kiss her
hand.”
The youth approached with his charming smile and his head bare, and
kneeling down, kissed the hand of the Duchess de Chevreuse.
“Sir,” he said, turning to Athos, “was it not in compassion to my
timidity that you told me that this lady was the Duchess de Chevreuse,
and is she not the queen?”
“No, vicomte,” said Madame de Chevreuse, taking his hand and making him
sit near her, while she looked at him with eyes sparkling with
pleasure; “no, unhappily, I am not the queen. If I were I should do for
you at once the most that you deserve. But let us see; whatever I may
be,” she added, hardly restraining herself from kissing that pure brow,
“let us see what profession you wish to follow.”
Athos, standing, looked at them both with indescribable pleasure.
“Madame,” answered the youth in his sweet voice, “it seems to me that
there is only _one_ career for a gentleman—that of the army. I have
been brought up by monsieur le comte with the intention, I believe, of
making me a soldier; and he gave me reason to hope that at Paris he
would present me to some one who would recommend me to the favor of the
prince.”
“Yes, I understand it well. Personally, I am on bad terms with him, on