Twenty years after
“And as for me,” said Porthos, “I swear nothing, but I’m choked.
Forsooth! If I were obliged to fight against you, I think I should
allow myself to be pierced through and through, for I never loved any
one but you in the wide world;” and honest Porthos burst into tears as
he embraced Athos.
“My friends,” said Athos, “this is what I expected from such hearts as
yours. Yes, I have said it and I now repeat it: our destinies are
irrevocably united, although we now pursue divergent roads. I respect
your convictions, and whilst we fight for opposite sides, let us remain
friends. Ministers, princes, kings, will pass away like mountain
torrents; civil war, like a forest flame; but we—we shall remain; I
have a presentiment that we shall.”
“Yes,” replied D’Artagnan, “let us still be musketeers, and let us
retain as our battle-standard that famous napkin of the bastion St.
Gervais, on which the great cardinal had three fleurs-de-lis
embroidered.”
“Be it so,” cried Aramis. “Cardinalists or Frondeurs, what matters it?
Let us meet again as capital seconds in a duel, devoted friends in
business, merry companions in our ancient pleasures.”
“And whenever,” added Athos, “we meet in battle, at this word, ‘Place
Royale!’ let us put our swords into our left hands and shake hands with
the right, even in the very lust and music of the hottest carnage.”
“You speak charmingly,” said Porthos.
“And are the first of men!” added D’Artagnan. “You excel us all.”
Athos smiled with ineffable pleasure.
“’Tis then all settled. Gentlemen, your hands; are we not pretty good
Christians?”
“Egad!” said D’Artagnan, “by Heaven! yes.”
“We should be so on this occasion, if only to be faithful to our oath,”
said Aramis.
“Ah, I’m ready to do what you will,” cried Porthos; “even to swear by
Mahomet. Devil take me if I’ve ever been so happy as at this moment.”
And he wiped his eyes, still moist.
“Has not one of you a cross?” asked Athos.
Aramis smiled and drew from his vest a cross of diamonds, which was
hung around his neck by a chain of pearls. “Here is one,” he said.
“Well,” resumed Athos, “swear on this cross, which, in spite of its
magnificent material, is still a cross; swear to be united in spite of
everything, and forever, and may this oath bind us to each other, and
even, also, our descendants! Does this oath satisfy you?”
“Yes,” said they all, with one accord.
“Ah, traitor!” muttered D’Artagnan, leaning toward Aramis and
whispering in his ear, “you have made us swear on the crucifix of a
Frondeuse.”
Chapter XXIX.
The Ferry across the Oise.
We hope that the reader has not quite forgotten the young traveler whom
we left on the road to Flanders.
In losing sight of his guardian, whom he had quitted, gazing after him
in front of the royal basilican, Raoul spurred on his horse, in order
not only to escape from his own melancholy reflections, but also to
hide from Olivain the emotion his face might betray.
One hour’s rapid progress, however, sufficed to disperse the gloomy
fancies that had clouded the young man’s bright anticipations; and the
hitherto unfelt pleasure of freedom—a pleasure which is sweet even to
those who have never known dependence—seemed to Raoul to gild not only
Heaven and earth, but especially that blue but dim horizon of life we
call the future.
Nevertheless, after several attempts at conversation with Olivain he
foresaw that many days passed thus would prove exceedingly dull; and
the count’s agreeable voice, his gentle and persuasive eloquence,
recurred to his mind at the various towns through which they journeyed
and about which he had no longer any one to give him those interesting
details which he would have drawn from Athos, the most amusing and the
best informed of guides. Another recollection contributed also to
sadden Raoul: on their arrival at Sonores he had perceived, hidden
behind a screen of poplars, a little château which so vividly recalled
that of La Vallière to his mind that he halted for nearly ten minutes
to gaze at it, and resumed his journey with a sigh too abstracted even
to reply to Olivain’s respectful inquiry about the cause of so much
fixed attention. The aspect of external objects is often a mysterious
guide communicating with the fibres of memory, which in spite of us
will arouse them at times; this thread, like that of Ariadne, when once
unraveled will conduct one through a labyrinth of thought, in which one
loses one’s self in endeavoring to follow that phantom of the past
which is called recollection.
Now the sight of this château had taken Raoul back fifty leagues
westward and had caused him to review his life from the moment when he
had taken leave of little Louise to that in which he had seen her for
the first time; and every branch of oak, every gilded weathercock on
roof of slates, reminded him that, instead of returning to the friends
of his childhood, every instant estranged him further and that perhaps
he had even left them forever.
With a full heart and burning head he desired Olivain to lead on the
horses to a wayside inn, which he observed within gunshot range, a
little in advance of the place they had reached.
As for himself, he dismounted and remained under a beautiful group of
chestnuts in flower, amidst which were murmuring a multitude of happy
bees, and bade Olivain send the host to him with writing paper and ink,
to be placed on a table which he found there, conveniently ready.
Olivain obeyed and continued on his way, whilst Raoul remained sitting,
with his elbow leaning on the table, from time to time gently shaking
the flowers from his head, which fell upon him like snow, and gazing
vaguely on the charming landscape spread out before him, dotted over
with green fields and groups of trees. Raoul had been there about ten
minutes, during five of which he was lost in reverie, when there
appeared within the circle comprised in his rolling gaze a man with a
rubicund face, who, with a napkin around his body, another under his
arm, and a white cap upon his head, approached him, holding paper, pen
and ink in hand.
“Ha! ha!” laughed the apparition, “every gentleman seems to have the
same fancy, for not a quarter of an hour ago a young lad, well mounted
like you, as tall as you and of about your age, halted before this
clump of trees and had this table and this chair brought here, and
dined here, with an old gentleman who seemed to be his tutor, upon a
pie, of which they haven’t left a mouthful, and two bottles of Macon
wine, of which they haven’t left a drop, but fortunately we have still
some of the same wine and some of the same pies left, and if your
worship will but give your orders——”
“No, friend,” replied Raoul, smiling, “I am obliged to you, but at this
moment I want nothing but the things for which I have asked—only I
shall be very glad if the ink prove black and the pen good; upon these
conditions I will pay for the pen the price of the bottle, and for the
ink the price of the pie.”
“Very well, sir,” said the host, “I’ll give the pie and the bottle of
wine to your servant, and in this way you will have the pen and ink
into the bargain.”
“Do as you like,” said Raoul, who was beginning his apprenticeship with
that particular class of society, who, when there were robbers on the
highroads, were connected with them, and who, since highwaymen no
longer exist, have advantageously and aptly filled their vacant place.
The host, his mind at ease about his bill, placed pen, ink and paper
upon the table. By a lucky chance the pen was tolerably good and Raoul
began to write. The host remained standing in front of him, looking
with a kind of involuntary admiration at his handsome face, combining
both gravity and sweetness of expression. Beauty has always been and
always will be all-powerful.
“He’s not a guest like the other one here just now,” observed mine host
to Olivain, who had rejoined his master to see if he wanted anything,
“and your young master has no appetite.”
“My master had appetite enough three days ago, but what can one do? he
lost it the day before yesterday.”
And Olivain and the host took their way together toward the inn,
Olivain, according to the custom of serving-men well pleased with their
place, relating to the tavern-keeper all that he could say in favor of
the young gentleman; whilst Raoul wrote on thus:
“Sir,—After a four hours’ march I stop to write to you, for I miss you
every moment, and I am always on the point of turning my head as if to
reply when you speak to me. I was so bewildered by your departure and
so overcome with grief at our separation, that I am sure I was able to
but very feebly express all the affection and gratitude I feel toward
you. You will forgive me, sir, for your heart is of such a generous
nature that you can well understand all that has passed in mine. I
entreat you to write to me, for you form a part of my existence, and,
if I may venture to tell you so, I also feel anxious. It seemed to me
as if you were yourself preparing for some dangerous undertaking, about
which I did not dare to question you, since you told me nothing. I
have, therefore, as you see, great need of hearing from you. Now that
you are no longer beside me I am afraid every moment of erring. You
sustained me powerfully, sir, and I protest to you that to-day I feel
very lonely. Will you have the goodness, sir, should you receive news
from Blois, to send me a few lines about my little friend Mademoiselle
de la Vallière, about whose health, when we left, so much anxiety was
felt? You can understand, honored and dear guardian, how precious and
indispensable to me is the remembrance of the years that I have passed
with you. I hope that you will sometimes, too, think of me, and if at
certain hours you should miss me, if you should feel any slight regret
at my absence, I shall be overwhelmed with joy at the thought that you
appreciate my affection for and my devotion to yourself, and that I
have been able to prove them to you whilst I had the happiness of
living with you.”
After finishing this letter Raoul felt more composed; he looked well
around him to see if Olivain and the host might not be watching him,
whilst he impressed a kiss upon the paper, a mute and touching caress,
which the heart of Athos might well divine on opening the letter.
During this time Olivain had finished his bottle and eaten his pie; the
horses were also refreshed. Raoul motioned to the host to approach,
threw a crown upon the table, mounted his horse, and posted his letter
at Senlis. The rest that had been thus afforded to men and horses
enabled them to continue their journey at a good round pace. At
Verberie, Raoul desired Olivain to make some inquiry about the young
man who was preceding them; he had been observed to pass only
three-quarters of an hour previously, but he was well mounted, as the
tavern-keeper had already said, and rode at a rapid pace.
“Let us try and overtake this gentleman,” said Raoul to Olivain; “like
ourselves he is on his way to join the army and may prove agreeable
company.”
It was about four o’clock in the afternoon when Raoul arrived at
Compiègne; there he dined heartily and again inquired about the young
gentleman who was in advance of them. He had stopped, like Raoul, at
the Hotel of the Bell and Bottle, the best at Compiègne; and had
started again on his journey, saying that he should sleep at Noyon.
“Well, let us sleep at Noyon,” said Raoul.
“Sir,” replied Olivain, respectfully, “allow me to remark that we have
already much fatigued the horses this morning. I think it would be well
to sleep here and to start again very early to-morrow. Eighteen leagues
is enough for the first stage.”
“The Comte de la Fère wished me to hasten on,” replied Raoul, “that I