Twenty years after
“Now to horse, that I may see you depart!”
Raoul obeyed.
“Adieu, Raoul,” said the count; “adieu, my dearest boy!”
“Adieu, sir, adieu, my beloved protector.”
Athos waved his hand—he dared not trust himself to speak: and Raoul
went away, his head uncovered. Athos remained motionless, looking after
him until he turned the corner of the street.
Then the count threw the bridle of his horse into the hands of a
peasant, remounted the steps, went into the cathedral, there to kneel
down in the darkest corner and pray.
Chapter XXIII.
One of the Forty Methods of Escape of the Duc de Beaufort.
Meanwhile time was passing on for the prisoner, as well as for those
who were preparing his escape; only for him it passed more slowly.
Unlike other men, who enter with ardor upon a perilous resolution and
grow cold as the moment of execution approaches, the Duc de Beaufort,
whose buoyant courage had become a proverb, seemed to push time before
him and sought most eagerly to hasten the hour of action. In his escape
alone, apart from his plans for the future, which, it must be admitted,
were for the present sufficiently vague and uncertain, there was a
beginning of vengeance which filled his heart. In the first place his
escape would be a serious misfortune to Monsieur de Chavigny, whom he
hated for the petty persecutions he owed to him. It would be a still
worse affair for Mazarin, whom he execrated for the greater offences he
had committed. It may be observed that there was a proper proportion in
his sentiments toward the governor of the prison and the
minister—toward the subordinate and the master.
Then Monsieur de Beaufort, who was so familiar with the interior of the
Palais Royal, though he did not know the relations existing between the
queen and the cardinal, pictured to himself, in his prison, all that
dramatic excitement which would ensue when the rumor should run from
the minister’s cabinet to the chamber of Anne of Austria: “Monsieur de
Beaufort has escaped!” Whilst saying that to himself, Monsieur de
Beaufort smiled pleasantly and imagined himself already outside,
breathing the air of the plains and the forests, pressing a strong
horse between his knees and crying out in a loud voice, “I am free!”
It is true that on coming to himself he found that he was still within
four walls; he saw La Ramee twirling his thumbs ten feet from him, and
his guards laughing and drinking in the ante-chamber. The only thing
that was pleasant to him in that odious tableau—such is the instability
of the human mind—was the sullen face of Grimaud, for whom he had at
first conceived such a hatred and who now was all his hope. Grimaud
seemed to him an Antinous. It is needless to say that this
transformation was visible only to the prisoner’s feverish imagination.
Grimaud was still the same, and therefore he retained the entire
confidence of his superior, La Ramee, who now relied upon him more than
he did upon himself, for, as we have said, La Ramee felt at the bottom
of his heart a certain weakness for Monsieur de Beaufort.
And so the good La Ramee made a festivity of the little supper with his
prisoner. He had but one fault—he was a gourmand; he had found the
pâtés good, the wine excellent. Now the successor of Père Marteau had
promised him a pâté of pheasant instead of a pâté of fowl, and
Chambertin wine instead of Macon. All this, set off by the presence of
that excellent prince, who was so good-natured, who invented so droll
tricks against Monsieur de Chavigny and so fine jokes against Mazarin,
made for La Ramee the approaching Pentecost one of the four great
feasts of the year. He therefore looked forward to six o’clock with as
much impatience as the duke himself.
Since daybreak La Ramee had been occupied with the preparations, and
trusting no one but himself, he had visited personally the successor of
Père Marteau. The latter had surpassed himself; he showed La Ramee a
monstrous pâté, ornamented with Monsieur de Beaufort’s coat-of-arms. It
was empty as yet, but a pheasant and two partridges were lying near it.
La Ramee’s mouth watered and he returned to the duke’s chamber rubbing
his hands. To crown his happiness, Monsieur de Chavigny had started on
a journey that morning and in his absence La Ramee was deputy-governor
of the château.
As for Grimaud, he seemed more sullen than ever.
In the course of the forenoon Monsieur de Beaufort had a game of tennis
with La Ramee; a sign from Grimaud put him on the alert. Grimaud, going
in advance, followed the course which they were to take in the evening.
The game was played in an inclosure called the little court of the
château, a place quite deserted except when Monsieur de Beaufort was
playing; and even then the precaution seemed superfluous, the wall was
so high.
There were three gates to open before reaching the inclosure, each by a
different key. When they arrived Grimaud went carelessly and sat down
by a loophole in the wall, letting his legs dangle outside. It was
evident that there the rope ladder was to be attached.
This manœuvre, transparent to the Duc de Beaufort, was quite
unintelligible to La Ramee.
The game at tennis, which, upon a sign from Grimaud, Monsieur de
Beaufort had consented to play, began in the afternoon. The duke was in
full strength and beat La Ramee completely.
Four of the guards, who were constantly near the prisoner, assisted in
picking up the tennis balls. When the game was over, the duke, laughing
at La Ramee for his bad play, offered these men two louis d’or to go
and drink his health, with their four other comrades.
The guards asked permission of La Ramee, who gave it to them, but not
till the evening, however; until then he had business and the prisoner
was not to be left alone.
Six o’clock came and, although they were not to sit down to table until
seven o’clock, dinner was ready and served up. Upon a sideboard
appeared the colossal pie with the duke’s arms on it, and seemingly
cooked to a turn, as far as one could judge by the golden color which
illuminated the crust.
The rest of the dinner was to come.
Every one was impatient, La Ramee to sit down to table, the guards to
go and drink, the duke to escape.
Grimaud alone was calm as ever. One might have fancied that Athos had
educated him with the express forethought of such a great event.
There were moments when, looking at Grimaud, the duke asked himself if
he was not dreaming and if that marble figure was really at his service
and would grow animated when the moment came for action.
La Ramee sent away the guards, desiring them to drink to the duke’s
health, and as soon as they were gone shut all the doors, put the keys
in his pocket and showed the table to the prince with an air that
signified:
“Whenever my lord pleases.”
The prince looked at Grimaud, Grimaud looked at the clock; it was
hardly a quarter-past six. The escape was fixed to take place at seven
o’clock; there was therefore three-quarters of an hour to wait.
The duke, in order to pass away another quarter of an hour, pretended
to be reading something that interested him and muttered that he wished
they would allow him to finish his chapter. La Ramee went up to him and
looked over his shoulder to see what sort of a book it was that had so
singular an influence over the prisoner as to make him put off taking
his dinner.
It was “Cæsar’s Commentaries,” which La Ramee had lent him, contrary to
the orders of the governor; and La Ramee resolved never again to
disobey these injunctions.
Meantime he uncorked the bottles and went to smell if the pie was good.
At half-past six the duke arose and said very gravely:
“Certainly, Cæsar was the greatest man of ancient times.”
“You think so, my lord?” answered La Ramee.
“Yes.”
“Well, as for me, I prefer Hannibal.”
“And why, pray, Master La Ramee?” asked the duke.
“Because he left no Commentaries,” replied La Ramee, with his coarse
laugh.
The duke vouchsafed no reply, but sitting down at the table made a sign
that La Ramee should seat himself opposite. There is nothing so
expressive as the face of an epicure who finds himself before a well
spread table, so La Ramee, when receiving his plate of soup from
Grimaud, presented a type of perfect bliss.
The duke smiled.
“Zounds!” he said; “I don’t suppose there is a more contented man at
this moment in all the kingdom than yourself!”
“You are right, my lord duke,” answered the officer; “I don’t know any
pleasanter sight on earth than a well covered table; and when, added to
that, he who does the honors is the grandson of Henry IV., you will, my
lord duke, easily comprehend that the honor fairly doubles the pleasure
one enjoys.”
The duke, in his turn, bowed, and an imperceptible smile appeared on
the face of Grimaud, who kept behind La Ramee.
“My dear La Ramee,” said the duke, “you are the only man to turn such
faultless compliments.”
“No, my lord duke,” replied La Ramee, in the fullness of his heart; “I
say what I think; there is no compliment in what I say to you——”
“Then you are attached to me?” asked the duke.
“To own the truth, I should be inconsolable if you were to leave
Vincennes.”
“A droll way of showing your affliction.” The duke meant to say
“affection.”
“But, my lord,” returned La Ramee, “what would you do if you got out?
Every folly you committed would embroil you with the court and they
would put you into the Bastile, instead of Vincennes. Now, Monsieur de
Chavigny is not amiable, I allow, but Monsieur du Tremblay is
considerably worse.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the duke, who from time to time looked at the
clock, the fingers of which seemed to move with sickening slowness.
“But what can you expect from the brother of a capuchin monk, brought
up in the school of Cardinal Richelieu? Ah, my lord, it is a great
happiness that the queen, who always wished you well, had a fancy to
send you here, where there’s a promenade and a tennis court, good air,
and a good table.”
“In short,” answered the duke, “if I comprehend you aright, La Ramee, I
am ungrateful for having ever thought of leaving this place?”
“Oh! my lord duke, ’tis the height of ingratitude; but your highness
has never seriously thought of it?”
“Yes,” returned the duke, “I must confess I sometimes think of it.”
“Still by one of your forty methods, your highness?”
“Yes, yes, indeed.”
“My lord,” said La Ramee, “now we are quite at our ease and enjoying
ourselves, pray tell me one of those forty ways invented by your
highness.”
“Willingly,” answered the duke, “give me the pie!”
“I am listening,” said La Ramee, leaning back in his armchair and
raising his glass of Madeira to his lips, and winking his eye that he
might see the sun through the rich liquid that he was about to taste.
The duke glanced at the clock. In ten minutes it would strike seven.
Grimaud placed the pie before the duke, who took a knife with a silver
blade to raise the upper crust; but La Ramee, who was afraid of any
harm happening to this fine work of art, passed his knife, which had an
iron blade, to the duke.
“Thank you, La Ramee,” said the prisoner.
“Well, my lord! this famous invention of yours?”
“Must I tell you,” replied the duke, “on what I most reckon and what I
determine to try first?”
“Yes, that’s the thing, my lord!” cried his custodian, gaily.
“Well, I should hope, in the first instance, to have for keeper an
honest fellow like you.”
“And you have me, my lord. Well?”
“Having, then, a keeper like La Ramee, I should try also to have
introduced to him by some friend or other a man who would be devoted to
me, who would assist me in my flight.”
“Come, come,” said La Ramee, “that’s not a bad idea.”
“Capital, isn’t it? for instance, the former servingman of some brave