Twenty years after
When he reached the threshold of the door the prisoner stopped. The
soldiers, who knew only their orders, attempted to force him along.
“One moment,” said the prisoner, in French. “I am ready to speak, my
lord.”
“Ah! ah!” said the prince, laughing, “I thought we should come to that.
I have a sure method of limbering tongues. Young men, take advantage of
it against the time when you may be in command.”
“But on condition,” continued the prisoner, “that your highness will
swear that my life shall be safe.”
“Upon my honor,” said the prince.
“Question, then, my lord.”
“Where did the army cross the Lys?”
“Between Saint-Venant and Aire.”
“By whom is it commanded?”
“By Count de Fuonsaldagna, General Beck and the archduke.”
“Of how many does it consist?”
“Eighteen thousand men and thirty-six cannon.”
“And its aim is?”
“Lens.”
“You see; gentlemen!” said the prince, turning with a triumphant air
toward Marshal de Grammont and the other officers.
“Yes, my lord,” said the marshal, “you have divined all that was
possible to human genius.”
“Recall Le Plessis, Bellièvre, Villequier and D’Erlac,” said the
prince, “recall all the troops that are on this side of the Lys. Let
them hold themselves in readiness to march to-night. To-morrow,
according to all probability, we shall attack the enemy.”
“But, my lord,” said Marshal de Grammont, “consider that when we have
collected all our forces we shall have hardly thirteen thousand men.”
“Monsieur le maréchal,” said the prince, with that wonderful glance
that was peculiar to him, “it is with small armies that great battles
are won.”
Then turning toward the prisoner, “Take away that man,” he said, “and
keep him carefully in sight. His life is dependent on the information
he has given us; if it is true, he shall be free; if false, let him be
shot.”
The prisoner was led away.
“Count de Guiche,” said the prince, “it is a long time since you saw
your father, remain here with him. Monsieur,” he continued, addressing
Raoul, “if you are not too tired, follow me.”
“To the end of the world, my lord!” cried Raoul, feeling an unknown
enthusiasm for that young general, who seemed to him so worthy of his
renown.
The prince smiled; he despised flatterers, but he appreciated
enthusiasts.
“Come, monsieur,” he said, “you are good in council, as we have already
discovered; to-morrow we shall know if you are good in action.”
“And I,” said the marshal, “what am I to do?”
“Wait here to receive the troops. I shall either return for them myself
or shall send a courier directing you to bring them to me. Twenty
guards, well mounted, are all that I shall need for my escort.”
“That is very few,” said the marshal.
“It is enough,” replied the prince. “Have you a good horse, Monsieur de
Bragelonne?”
“My horse was killed this morning, my lord, and I am mounted
provisionally on my lackey’s.”
“Choose for yourself in my stables the horse you like best. No false
modesty; take the best horse you can find. You will need it this
evening, perhaps; you will certainly need it to-morrow.”
Raoul didn’t wait to be told twice; he knew that with superiors,
especially when those superiors are princes, the highest politeness is
to obey without delay or argument; he went down to the stables, picked
out a pie-bald Andalusian horse, saddled and bridled it himself, for
Athos had advised him to trust no one with those important offices at a
time of danger, and went to rejoin the prince, who at that moment
mounted his horse.
“Now, monsieur,” he said to Raoul, “will you give me the letter you
have brought?”
Raoul handed the letter to the prince.
“Keep near me,” said the latter.
The prince threw his bridle over the pommel of the saddle, as he was
wont to do when he wished to have both hands free, unsealed the letter
of Madame de Longueville and started at a gallop on the road to Lens,
attended by Raoul and his small escort, whilst messengers sent to
recall the troops set out with a loose rein in other directions. The
prince read as he hastened on.
“Monsieur,” he said, after a moment, “they tell me great things of you.
I have only to say, after the little that I have seen and heard, that I
think even better of you than I have been told.”
Raoul bowed.
Meanwhile, as the little troop drew nearer to Lens, the noise of the
cannon sounded louder. The prince kept his gaze fixed in the direction
of the sound with the steadfastness of a bird of prey. One would have
said that his gaze could pierce the branches of trees which limited his
horizon. From time to time his nostrils dilated as if eager for the
smell of powder, and he panted like a horse.
At length they heard the cannon so near that it was evident they were
within a league of the field of battle, and at a turn of the road they
perceived the little village of Aunay.
The peasants were in great commotion. The report of Spanish cruelty had
gone out and every one was frightened. The women had already fled,
taking refuge in Vitry; only a few men remained. On seeing the prince
they hastened to meet him. One of them recognized him.
“Ah, my lord,” he said, “have you come to drive away those rascal
Spaniards and those Lorraine robbers?”
“Yes,” said the prince, “if you will serve me as guide.”
“Willingly, my lord. Where does your highness wish to go?”
“To some elevated spot whence I can look down on Lens and the
surrounding country——”
“In that case, I’m your man.”
“I can trust you—you are a true Frenchman?”
“I am an old soldier of Rocroy, my lord.”
“Here,” said the prince, handing him a purse, “here is for Rocroy. Now,
do you want a horse, or will you go afoot?”
“Afoot, my lord; I have served always in the infantry. Besides, I
expect to lead your highness into places where you will have to walk.”
“Come, then,” said the prince; “let us lose no time.”
The peasant started off, running before the prince’s horse; then, a
hundred steps from the village, he took a narrow road hidden at the
bottom of the valley. For a half league they proceeded thus, the
cannon-shot sounding so near that they expected at each discharge to
hear the hum of the balls. At length they entered a path which, going
out from the road, skirted the mountainside. The prince dismounted,
ordered one of his aids and Raoul to follow his example, and directed
the others to await his orders, keeping themselves meanwhile on the
alert. He then began to ascend the path.
In about ten minutes they reached the ruins of an old château; those
ruins crowned the summit of a hill which overlooked the surrounding
country. At a distance of hardly a quarter of a league they looked down
on Lens, at bay, and before Lens the enemy’s entire army.
With a single glance the prince took in the extent of country that lay
before him, from Lens as far as Vimy. In a moment the plan of the
battle which on the following day was to save France the second time
from invasion was unrolled in his mind. He took a pencil, tore a page
from his tablets and wrote:
“My Dear Marshal,—In an hour Lens will be in the enemy’s possession.
Come and rejoin me; bring with you the whole army. I shall be at Vendin
to place it in position. To-morrow we shall retake Lens and beat the
enemy.”
Then, turning toward Raoul: “Go, monsieur,” he said; “ride fast and
give this letter to Monsieur de Grammont.”
Raoul bowed, took the letter, went hastily down the mountain, leaped on
his horse and set out at a gallop. A quarter of an hour later he was
with the marshal.
A portion of the troops had already arrived and the remainder was
expected from moment to moment. Marshal de Grammont put himself at the
head of all the available cavalry and infantry and took the road to
Vendin, leaving the Duc de Châtillon to await and bring on the rest.
All the artillery was ready to move, and started off at a moment’s
notice.
It was seven o’clock in the evening when the marshal arrived at the
appointed place. The prince awaited him there. As he had foreseen, Lens
had fallen into the hands of the enemy immediately after Raoul’s
departure. The event was announced by the cessation of the firing.
As the shadows of night deepened the troops summoned by the prince
arrived in successive detachments. Orders were given that no drum
should be beaten, no trumpet sounded.
At nine o’clock the night had fully come. Still a last ray of twilight
lighted the plain. The army marched silently, the prince at the head of
the column. Presently the army came in sight of Lens; two or three
houses were in flames and a dull noise was heard which indicated what
suffering was endured by a town taken by assault.
The prince assigned to every one his post. Marshal de Grammont was to
hold the extreme left, resting on Mericourt. The Duc de Châtillon
commanded the centre. Finally, the prince led the right wing, resting
on Aunay. The order of battle on the morrow was to be that of the
positions taken in the evening. Each one, on awaking, would find
himself on the field of battle.
The movement was executed in silence and with precision. At ten o’clock
every one was in his appointed position; at half-past ten the prince
visited the posts and gave his final orders for the following day.
Three things were especially urged upon the officers, who were to see
that the soldiers observed them scrupulously: the first, that the
different corps should so march that cavalry and infantry should be on
the same line and that each body should protect its gaps; the second,
to go to the charge no faster than a walk; the third, to let the enemy
fire first.
The prince assigned the Count de Guiche to his father and kept
Bragelonne near his own person; but the two young men sought the
privilege of passing the night together and it was accorded them. A
tent was erected for them near that of the marshal.
Although the day had been fatiguing, neither of them was inclined to
sleep. And besides, even for old soldiers the evening before a battle
is a serious time; it was so with greater reason to two young men who
were about to witness for the first time that terrible spectacle. On
the evening before a battle one thinks of a thousand things forgotten
till then; those who are indifferent to one another become friends and
those who are friends become brothers. It need not be said that if in
the depths of the heart there is a sentiment more tender, it reaches
then, quite naturally, the highest exaltation of which it is capable.
Some sentiment of this kind must have been cherished by each one of
these two friends, for each of them almost immediately sat down by
himself at an end of the tent and began to write.
The letters were long—the four pages were covered with closely written
words. The writers sometimes looked up at each other and smiled; they
understood without speaking, their organizations were so delicate and
sympathetic. The letters being finished, each put his own into two
envelopes, so that no one, without tearing the first envelope, could
discover to whom the second was addressed; then they drew near to each
other and smilingly exchanged their letters.
“In case any evil should happen to me,” said Bragelonne.
“In case I should be killed,” said De Guiche.
They then embraced each other like two brothers, and each wrapping
himself in his cloak they soon passed into that kindly sleep of youth
which is the prerogative of birds, flowers and infants.
Chapter XXXV.
A Dinner in the Old Style.
The second interview between the former musketeers was not so formal
and threatening as the first. Athos, with his superior understanding,
wisely deemed that the supper table would be the most complete and
satisfactory point of reunion, and at the moment when his friends, in