Twenty years after
No sooner had he turned his back than the officer laid himself down in
it, and he had scarcely crossed the threshold before his successor, in
his turn, was snoring immoderately. It was very natural, he being the
only person in the whole assemblage, except the king, the queen, and
the Duke of Orléans, who slept gratuitously.
Chapter LIV.
In which we hear Tidings of Aramis.
D’Artagnan went straight to the stables; day was just dawning. He found
his horse and that of Porthos fastened to the manger, but to an empty
manger. He took pity on these poor animals and went to a corner of the
stable, where he saw a little straw, but in doing so he struck his foot
against a human body, which uttered a cry and arose on its knees,
rubbing its eyes. It was Mousqueton, who, having no straw to lie upon,
had helped himself to that of the horses.
“Mousqueton,” cried D’Artagnan, “let us be off! Let us set off.”
Mousqueton, recognizing the voice of his master’s friend, got up
suddenly, and in doing so let fall some louis which he had appropriated
to himself illegally during the night.
“Ho! ho!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, picking up a louis and displaying it;
“here’s a louis that smells confoundedly of straw.”
Mousqueton blushed so confusedly that the Gascon began to laugh at him
and said:
“Porthos would be angry, my dear Monsieur Mousqueton, but I pardon you,
only let us remember that this gold must serve us as a joke, so be
gay—come along.”
Mousqueton instantly assumed a jovial countenance, saddled the horses
quickly and mounted his own without making faces over it.
Whilst this went on, Porthos arrived with a very cross look on his
face, and was astonished to find the lieutenant resigned and Mousqueton
almost merry.
“Ah, that’s it!” he cried, “you have your promotion and I my barony.”
“We are going to fetch our brevets,” said D’Artagnan, “and when we come
back, Master Mazarin will sign them.”
“And where are we going?” asked Porthos.
“To Paris first; I have affairs to settle.”
And they both set out for Paris.
On arriving at its gates they were astounded to see the threatening
aspect of the capital. Around a broken-down carriage the people were
uttering imprecations, whilst the persons who had attempted to escape
were made prisoners—that is to say, an old man and two women. On the
other hand, as the two friends approached to enter, they showed them
every kind of civility, thinking them deserters from the royal party
and wishing to bind them to their own.
“What is the king doing?” they asked.
“He is asleep.”
“And the Spanish woman?”
“Dreaming.”
“And the cursed Italian?”
“He is awake, so keep on the watch, as they are gone away; it’s for
some purpose, rely on it. But as you are the strongest, after all,”
continued D’Artagnan, “don’t be furious with old men and women, and
keep your wrath for more appropriate occasions.”
The people listened to these words and let go the ladies, who thanked
D’Artagnan with an eloquent look.
“Now! onward!” cried the Gascon.
And they continued their way, crossing the barricades, getting the
chains about their legs, pushed about, questioning and questioned.
In the place of the Palais Royal D’Artagnan saw a sergeant, who was
drilling six or seven hundred citizens. It was Planchet, who brought
into play profitably the recollections of the regiment of Piedmont.
In passing before D’Artagnan he recognized his former master.
“Good-day, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Planchet proudly.
“Good-day, Monsieur Dulaurier,” replied D’Artagnan.
Planchet stopped short, staring at D’Artagnan. The first row, seeing
their sergeant stop, stopped in their turn, and so on to the very last.
“These citizens are dreadfully ridiculous,” observed D’Artagnan to
Porthos and went on his way.
Five minutes afterward he entered the hotel of La Chevrette, where
pretty Madeleine, the hostess, came to him.
“My dear Mistress Turquaine,” said the Gascon, “if you happen to have
any money, lock it up quickly; if you happen to have any jewels, hide
them directly; if you happen to have any debtors, make them pay you, or
any creditors, don’t pay them.”
“Why, prithee?” asked Madeleine.
“Because Paris is going to be reduced to dust and ashes like Babylon,
of which you have no doubt heard tell.”
“And are you going to leave me at such a time?”
“This very instant.”
“And where are you going?”
“Ah, if you could tell me that, you would be doing me a service.”
“Ah, me! ah, me!
“Have you any letters for me?” inquired D’Artagnan, wishing to signify
to the hostess that her lamentations were superfluous and that
therefore she had better spare him demonstrations of her grief.
“There’s one just arrived,” and she handed the letter to D’Artagnan.
“From Athos!” cried D’Artagnan, recognizing the handwriting.
“Ah!” said Porthos, “let us hear what he says.”
D’Artagnan opened the letter and read as follows:
“Dear D’Artagnan, dear Du Vallon, my good friends, perhaps this may be
the last time that you will ever hear from me. Aramis and I are very
unhappy; but God, our courage, and the remembrance of our friendship
sustain us. Think often of Raoul. I intrust to you certain papers which
are at Blois; and in two months and a half, if you do not hear of us,
take possession of them.
“Embrace, with all your heart, the vicomte, for your devoted, friend,
“ATHOS.”
“I believe, by Heaven,” said D’Artagnan, “that I shall embrace him,
since he’s upon our road; and if he is so unfortunate as to lose our
dear Athos, from that very day he becomes my son.”
“And I,” said Porthos, “shall make him my sole heir.”
“Let us see, what more does Athos say?”
“Should you meet on your journey a certain Monsieur Mordaunt, distrust
him, in a letter I cannot say more.”
“Monsieur Mordaunt!” exclaimed the Gascon, surprised.
“Monsieur Mordaunt! ’tis well,” said Porthos, “we shall remember that;
but see, there is a postscript from Aramis.”
“So there is,” said D’Artagnan, and he read:
“We conceal the place where we are, dear friends, knowing your
brotherly affection and that you would come and die with us were we to
reveal it.”
“Confound it,” interrupted Porthos, with an explosion of passion which
sent Mousqueton to the other end of the room; “are they in danger of
dying?”
D’Artagnan continued:
“Athos bequeaths to you Raoul, and I bequeath to you my revenge. If by
any good luck you lay your hand on a certain man named Mordaunt, tell
Porthos to take him into a corner and to wring his neck. I dare not say
more in a letter.
“ARAMIS.”
“If that is all, it is easily done,” said Porthos.
“On the contrary,” observed D’Artagnan, with a vexed look; “it would be
impossible.”
“How so?”
“It is precisely this Monsieur Mordaunt whom we are going to join at
Boulogne and with whom we cross to England.”
“Well, suppose instead of joining this Monsieur Mordaunt we were to go
and join our friends?” said Porthos, with a gesture fierce enough to
have frightened an army.
“I did think of it, but this letter has neither date nor postmark.”
“True,” said Porthos. And he began to wander about the room like a man
beside himself, gesticulating and half drawing his sword out of the
scabbard.
As to D’Artagnan, he remained standing like a man in consternation,
with the deepest affliction depicted on his face.
“Ah, this is not right; Athos insults us; he wishes to die alone; it is
bad, bad, bad.”
Mousqueton, witnessing this despair, melted into tears in a corner of
the room.
“Come,” said D’Artagnan, “all this leads to nothing. Let us go on. We
will embrace Raoul, and perhaps he will have news of Athos.”
“Stop—an idea!” cried Porthos; “indeed, my dear D’Artagnan, I don’t
know how you manage, but you are always full of ideas; let us go and
embrace Raoul.”
“Woe to that man who should happen to contradict my master at this
moment,” said Mousqueton to himself; “I wouldn’t give a farthing for
his life.”
They set out. On arriving at the Rue Saint Denis, the friends found a
vast concourse of people. It was the Duc de Beaufort, who was coming
from the Vendomois and whom the coadjutor was showing to the Parisians,
intoxicated with joy. With the duke’s aid they already considered
themselves invincible.
The two friends turned off into a side street to avoid meeting the
prince, and so reached the Saint Denis gate.
“Is it true,” said the guard to the two cavaliers, “that the Duc de
Beaufort has arrived in Paris?”
“Nothing more certain; and the best proof of it is,” said D’Artagnan,
“that he has dispatched us to meet the Duc de Vendôme, his father, who
is coming in his turn.”
“Long live De Beaufort!” cried the guards, and they drew back
respectfully to let the two friends pass. Once across the barriers
these two knew neither fatigue nor fear. Their horses flew, and they
never ceased speaking of Athos and Aramis.
The camp had entered Saint Omer; the friends made a little detour and
went to the camp, and gave the army an exact account of the flight of
the king and queen. They found Raoul near his tent, reclining on a
truss of hay, of which his horse stole some mouthfuls; the young man’s
eyes were red and he seemed dejected. The Maréchal de Grammont and the
Comte de Guiche had returned to Paris and he was quite lonely. And as
soon as he saw the two cavaliers he ran to them with open arms.
“Oh, is it you, dear friends? Did you come here to fetch me? Will you
take me away with you? Do you bring me tidings of my guardian?”
“Have you not received any?” said D’Artagnan to the youth.
“Alas! sir, no, and I do not know what has become of him; so that I am
really so unhappy that I weep.”
In fact, tears rolled down his cheeks.
Porthos turned aside, in order not to show by his honest round face
what was passing in his mind.
“Deuce take it!” cried D’Artagnan, more moved than he had been for a
long time, “don’t despair, my friend, if you have not received any
letters from the count, we have received one.”
“Oh, really!” cried Raoul.
“And a comforting one, too,” added D’Artagnan, seeing the delight that
his intelligence gave the young man.
“Have you it?” asked Raoul
“Yes—that is, I had it,” repined the Gascon, making believe to find it.
“Wait, it ought to be there in my pocket; it speaks of his return, does
it not, Porthos?”
All Gascon as he was, D’Artagnan could not bear alone the weight of
that falsehood.
“Yes,” replied Porthos, coughing.
“Eh, give it to me!” said the young man.
“Eh! I read it a little while since. Can I have lost it? Ah! confound
it! yes, my pocket has a hole in it.”
“Oh, yes, Monsieur Raoul!” said Mousqueton, “the letter was very
consoling. These gentlemen read it to me and I wept for joy.”
“But at any rate, you know where he is, Monsieur d’Artagnan?” asked
Raoul, somewhat comforted.
“Ah! that’s the thing!” replied the Gascon. “Undoubtedly I know it, but
it is a mystery.”
“Not to me, I hope?”
“No, not to you, so I am going to tell you where he is.”
Porthos devoured D’Artagnan with wondering eyes.
“Where the devil shall I say that he is, so that he cannot try to
rejoin him?” thought D’Artagnan.
“Well, where is he, sir?” asked Raoul, in a soft and coaxing voice.
“He is at Constantinople.”
“Among the Turks!” exclaimed Raoul, alarmed. “Good heavens! how can you
tell me that?”
“Does that alarm you?” cried D’Artagnan. “Pooh! what are the Turks to
such men as the Comte de la Fère and the Abbé d’Herblay?”
“Ah, his friend is with him?” said Raoul. “That comforts me a little.”
“Has he wit or not—this demon D’Artagnan?” said Porthos, astonished at
his friend’s deception.
“Now, sir,” said D’Artagnan, wishing to change the conversation, “here
are fifty pistoles that the count has sent you by the same courier. I