Belle-Isle is as much mine for you, as Vaux is mine for the king. Go, D’Herblay, go! as long as I live, not a hair of your head shall be injured.


Thank you,


Go at once, then, and give me your hand, before we both hasten away; you to save your life, I to save my honor.


I had no arms,


We leave immediately.


Ah!


We shall go mounted, and faster than we have ever gone in our lives.


Ah! Dress yourself, my friend.


Have you seen M. Fouquet?


Yes, this very minute, in a carriage.


What did he say to you?


‘Adieu;’ nothing more.


Was that all?


What else do you think he could say? Am I worth anything now, since you have got into such high favor?


Listen, your good times are returning again. You will have no occasion to be jealous of any one.


Ah! bah!


I predict that something will happen to you to-day which will increase your importance more than ever.


Really?


You know that I know all the news?


Oh, yes!


Come, Porthos, come. Come, Porthos, are you ready? Let us go.


I am quite ready, Aramis.


Let us embrace D’Artagnan first.


Most certainly.


But the horses?


Oh! there is no want of them here. Will you have mine?


No; Porthos has his own stud. So adieu! adieu!


On any other occasion, I should say that those gentlemen were making their escape; but in these days politics seem so changed that such an exit is termed going on a mission. I have no objection; let me attend to my own affairs, that is more than enough for me.


What must have been the youth of those extraordinary men, who, even as age is stealing fast upon them, are still able to conceive such gigantic plans, and carry them through without a tremor?


In this way, prisoner or not, I shall have performed the duty that I owe my honor. The orders will not reach them until after my return, if I should return free, and consequently they will not have been unsealed. I shall take them back again. If I am delayed; it will be because some misfortune will have befallen me; and in that case assistance will be sent for me as well as for the king.


Mordieu! you are an absolute set of fools.


Ah! monseigneur, how can I excuse--


Monsieur. I congratulate you. Your watch and ward are admirably kept. There are twenty pistoles for the sentinel, and fifty for the officer. Pray receive my compliments, gentlemen. I will not fail to speak to his majesty about you. And now, M. Baisemeaux, a word with you. You have seen M. d’Herblay this morning?


Yes, monseigneur.


And are you not horrified at the crime of which you have made yourself an accomplice?


Well, good so far; But what crime, monseigneur, do you allude to?


That for which you can be quartered alive, monsieur--do not forget that! But this is not a time to show anger. Conduct me immediately to the prisoner.


To what prisoner?


You pretend to be ignorant? Very good--it is the best plan for you, perhaps; for if, in fact, you were to admit your participation in such a crime, it would be all over with you. I wish, therefore, to seem to believe in your assumption of ignorance.


I entreat you, monseigneur--


That will do. Lead me to the prisoner.


To Marchiali?


Who is Marchiali?


The prisoner who was brought back this morning by M. d’Herblay.


He is called Marchiali?


Yes, monseigneur; that is the name under which he was inscribed here.


It is the prisoner whom M. d’Herblay carried away the day before yesterday?


And whom he brought back this morning?


Precisely, monseigneur.


And his name is Marchiali, you say?


Yes, Marchiali. If monseigneur has come here to remove him, so much the better, for I was going to write about him.


What has he done, then?


Ever since this morning he has annoyed me extremely. He has had such terrible fits of passion, as almost to make me believe that he would bring the Bastile itself down about our ears.


I will soon relieve you of his possession,


Ah! so much the better.


Conduct me to his prison.


Will monseigneur give me the order?


What order?


An order from the king.


Wait until I sign you one.


That will not be sufficient, monseigneur. I must have an order from the king.


As you are so scrupulous, with regard to allowing prisoners to leave, show me the order by which this one was set at liberty. Very good, but Seldon is not Marchiali.


But Marchiali is not at liberty, monseigneur; he is here.


But you said that M. d’Herblay carried him away and brought him back again.


I did not say so.


So surely did you say it, that I almost seem to hear it now.


It was a slip of my tongue, then, monseigneur.


Take care, M. Baisemeaux, take care.


I have nothing to fear, monseigneur; I am acting according to the very strictest regulation.


Do you dare to say so?


I would say so in the presence of one of the apostles. M. d’Herblay brought me an order to set Seldon at liberty. Seldon is free.


I tell you that Marchiali has left the Bastile.


You must prove that, monseigneur.


Let me see him.


You, monseigneur, who govern this kingdom, know very well that no one can see any of the prisoners without an express order from the king.


M. d’Herblay has entered, however.


That remains to be proved, monseigneur.


M. de Baisemeaux, once more I warn you to pay particular attention to what you are saying.


All the documents are there, monseigneur.


M. d’Herblay is overthrown.


Overthrown?--M. d’Herblay! Impossible!


You see that he has undoubtedly influenced you.


No, monseigneur; what does, in fact, influence me, is the king’s service. I am doing my duty. Give me an order from him, and you shall enter.


Stay, M. le gouverneur, I give you my word that if you allow me to see the prisoner, I will give you an order from the king at once.


Give it to me now, monseigneur.


And that, if you refuse me, I will have you and all your officers arrested on the spot.


Before you commit such an act of violence, monseigneur, you will reflect, that we will only obey an order signed by the king; and that it will be just as easy for you to obtain one to see Marchiali as to obtain one to do me so much injury; me, too, who am perfectly innocent.


True. True! perfectly true. M. de Baisemeaux, do you know why I am so anxious to speak to the prisoner?


No, monseigneur; and allow me to observe that you are terrifying me out of my senses; I am trembling all over--in fact, I feel as though I were about to faint.


You will stand a better chance of fainting outright, Monsieur Baisemeaux, when I return here at the head of ten thousand men and thirty pieces of cannon.


Good heavens, monseigneur, you are losing your senses.


When I have roused the whole population of Paris against you and your accursed towers, and have battered open the gates of this place, and hanged you to the topmost tree of yonder pinnacle!


Monseigneur! monseigneur! for pity’s sake!


I give you ten minutes to make up your mind. I will sit down here, in this armchair, and wait for you; if, in ten minutes’ time, you still persist, I leave this place, and you may think me as mad as you like. Then--you shall see! Order for M. le Prevot des Marchands to assemble the municipal guard and to march upon the Bastile on the king’s immediate service. Order for the Duc de Bouillon and M. le Prince de Conde to assume the command of the Swiss guards, of the king’s guards, and to march upon the Bastile on the king’s immediate service. Order for every soldier, citizen, or gentleman to seize and apprehend, wherever he may be found, le Chevalier d’Herblay, Eveque de Vannes, and his accomplices, who are: first, M. de Baisemeaux, governor of the Bastile, suspected of the crimes of high treason and rebellion--


Stop, monseigneur! I do not understand a single jot of the whole matter; but so many misfortunes, even were it madness itself that had set them at their awful work, might happen here in a couple of hours, that the king, by whom I must be judged, will see whether I have been wrong in withdrawing the countersign before this flood of imminent catastrophes. Come with me to the keep, monseigneur, you shall see Marchiali.


What a terrible morning! what a disgrace for me! Walk faster. Let the man remain here; take the keys yourself, and show me the way. Not a single person, do you understand, must hear what is going to take place here.


Ah!


Again!


Ah! say ‘no’ at once, and I will leave the Bastile and will myself carry my own dispatches. What is that? That is your Marchiali, this is the way these madmen scream. Ah!


did not say a word about that. Give me the keys at once! Which is the key of the door I am to open?


That one.


Leave this place,


I ask nothing better. There will be a couple of madmen face to face, and the one will kill the other, I am sure.


Go! If you place your foot on this staircase before I call you, remember that you shall take the place of the meanest prisoner in the Bastile.


This job will kill me, I am sure it will, as he withdrew with tottering steps.


Help, help! I am the king. It was M. Fouquet who brought me here. Help me against M. Fouquet! I am the king! Help the king against M. Fouquet! Death to Fouquet! death to the traitor Fouquet! Have you come to assassinate me, monsieur? The king in this state!


Sire, do you not recognize the most faithful of your friends?


A friend--you!


The most respectful of your servants. My king, my child, how you must have suffered! Come, sire, you are free.


Free? Oh! you set me at liberty, then, after having dared to lift up your hand against me.


You do not believe that! you cannot believe me to be guilty of such an act.


Monsieur, this double birth is a falsehood; it is impossible--you cannot have been the dupe of it. It is impossible, I tell you, that the honor, the virtue of my mother can be suspected, and my first minister has not yet done justice on the criminals!


Reflect, sire, before you are hurried away by anger. The birth of your brother--


I have only one brother--and that is Monsieur. You know it as well as myself. There is a plot, I tell you, beginning with the governor of the Bastile.


Be careful, sire, for this man has been deceived as every one else has by the prince’s likeness to yourself.


Likeness? Absurd!


This Marchiali must be singularly like your majesty, to be able to deceive every one’s eye,


Ridiculous!


Do not say so, sire; those who had prepared everything in order to face and deceive your ministers, your mother, your officers of state, the members of your family, must be quite confident of the resemblance between you.


But where are these persons, then?


At Vaux.


At Vaux! and you suffer them to remain there!


My most instant duty appeared to me to be your majesty’s release. I have accomplished that duty; and now, whatever your majesty may command, shall be done. I await your orders.


Muster all the troops in Paris,


All the necessary orders are given for that purpose,


You have given orders!


For that purpose, yes, sire; your majesty will be at the head of ten thousand men in less than an hour.


And with these troops, we shall go at once and besiege in your house the rebels who by this time will have established and intrenched themselves therein.


I should be surprised if that were the case,


Why?


Because their chief--the very soul of the enterprise--having been unmasked by me, the whole plan seems to me to have miscarried.


You have unmasked this false prince also?


No, I have not seen him.


Whom have you seen, then?


The leader of the enterprise, not that unhappy young man; the latter is merely an instrument, destined through his whole life to wretchedness, I plainly perceive.


Most certainly.


It is M. l’Abbe d’Herblay, Eveque de Vannes.


Your friend?


He was my friend, sire,


An unfortunate circumstance for you,


Such friendships, sire, had nothing dishonorable in them so long as I was ignorant of the crime.


You should have foreseen it.


If I am guilty, I place myself in your majesty’s hands.


Ah! Monsieur Fouquet, it was not that I meant. Well! I assure you that, notwithstanding the mask with which the villain covered his face, I had something like a vague suspicion that he was the very man. But with this chief of the enterprise there was a man of prodigious strength, the one who menaced me with a force almost herculean; what is he?


It must be his friend the Baron du Vallon, formerly one of the musketeers.


The friend of D’Artagnan? the friend of the Comte de la Fere? Ah! we must not forget the connection that existed between the conspirators and M. de Bragelonne.


Sire, sire, do not go too far. M. de la Fere is the most honorable man in France. Be satisfied with those whom I deliver up to you.


With those whom you deliver up to me, you say? Very good, for you will deliver up those who are guilty to me.


What does your majesty understand by that?


I understand, that we shall soon arrive at Vaux with a large body of troops, that we will lay violent hands upon that nest of vipers, and that not a soul shall escape.


Your majesty will put these men to death!


To the very meanest of them.


Oh! sire.


Let us understand one another, Monsieur Fouquet. We no longer live in times when assassination was the only and the last resource kings held in reservation at extremity. No, Heaven be praised! I have parliaments who sit and judge in my name, and I have scaffolds on which supreme authority is carried out.


I will take the liberty of observing to your majesty, that any proceedings instituted respecting these matters would bring down the greatest scandal upon the dignity of the throne. The august name of Anne of Austria must never be allowed to pass the lips of the people accompanied by a smile.


Justice must be done, however, monsieur.


Good, sire; but royal blood must not be shed upon a scaffold.


The royal blood! you believe that!


This double birth is an invention; and in that invention, particularly, do I see M. d’Herblay’s crime. It is the crime I wish to punish rather than the violence, or the insult.


And punish it with death, sire?


With death; yes, monsieur, I have said it.


Sire, your majesty will take the life, if you please, of your brother Philippe of France; that concerns you alone, and you will doubtless consult the queen-mother upon the subject. Whatever she may command will be perfectly correct. I do not wish to mix myself up in it, not even for the honor of your crown, but I have a favor to ask of you, and I beg to submit it to you.


Speak,


What do you require?


The pardon of M. d’Herblay and of M. du Vallon.


My assassins?


Two rebels, sire, that is all.


Oh! I understand, then, you ask me to forgive your friends.


My friends!


Your friends, certainly; but the safety of the state requires that an exemplary punishment should be inflicted on the guilty.


I will not permit myself to remind your majesty that I have just restored you to liberty, and have saved your life.


Monsieur!


I will not allow myself to remind your majesty that had M. d’Herblay wished to carry out his character of an assassin, he could very easily have assassinated your majesty this morning in the forest of Senart, and all would have been over. A pistol-bullet through the head, and the disfigured features of Louis XIV., which no one could have recognized, would be M. d’Herblay’s complete and entire justification. If M. d’Herblay, had been an assassin, he had no occasion to inform me of his plan in order to succeed. Freed from the real king, it would have been impossible in all futurity to guess the false. And if the usurper had been recognized by Anne of Austria, he would still have been--her son. The usurper, as far as Monsieur d’Herblay’s conscience was concerned, was still a king of the blood of Louis XIII. Moreover, the conspirator, in that course, would have had security, secrecy, impunity. A pistol-bullet would have procured him all that. For the sake of Heaven, sire, grant me his forgiveness.


I really don’t know, monsieur, why you should solicit the pardon of these men. What good is there in asking that which can be obtained without solicitation?


I do not understand you, sire.


It is not difficult, either. Where am I now?


In the Bastile, sire.


Yes; in a dungeon. I am looked upon as a madman, am I not?


Yes, sire.


And no one is known here but Marchiali?


Certainly.


Well; change nothing in the position of affairs. Let the poor madman rot between the slimy walls of the Bastile, and M. d’Herblay and M. du Vallon will stand in no need of my forgiveness. Their new king will absolve them.


Your majesty does me a great injustice, sire; and you are wrong. I am not child enough, nor is M. d’Herblay silly enough, to have omitted to make all these reflections; and if I had wished to make a new king, as you say, I had no occasion to have come here to force open the gates and doors of the Bastile, to free you from this place. That would show a want of even common sense. Your majesty’s mind is disturbed by anger; otherwise you would be far from offending, groundlessly, the very one of your servants who has rendered you the most important service of all.


I did not say that to humiliate you, Heaven knows, monsieur. Only you are addressing yourself to me in order to obtain a pardon, and I answer according to my conscience. And so, judging by my conscience, the criminals we speak of are not worthy of consideration or forgiveness. What I do is as generous, as what you have done, for I am in your power. I will even say it is more generous, inasmuch as you place before me certain conditions upon which my liberty, my life, may depend; and to reject which is to make a sacrifice of both.


I was wrong, certainly. Yes,--I had the appearance of extorting a favor; I regret it, and entreat your majesty’s forgiveness.


And you are forgiven, my dear Monsieur Fouquet,


I have my own forgiveness, but M. d’Herblay, and M. du Vallon?


They will never obtain theirs, as long as I live. Do me the kindness not to speak of it again.


Your majesty shall be obeyed.


And you will bear me no ill-will for it?


Oh! no, sire; for I anticipated the event.


You had ‘anticipated’ that I should refuse to forgive those gentlemen?


Certainly; and all my measures were taken in consequence.


What do you mean to say?


M. d’Herblay came, as may be said, to deliver himself into my hands. M. d’Herblay left to me the happiness of saving my king and my country. I could not condemn M. d’Herblay to death; nor could I, on the other hand, expose him to your majesty’s justifiable wrath; it would have been just the same as if I had killed him myself.


Well! and what have you done?


Sire, I gave M. d’Herblay the best horses in my stables and four hours’ start over all those your majesty might, probably, dispatch after him.


Be it so! But still, the world is wide enough and large enough for those whom I may send to overtake your horses, notwithstanding the ‘four hours’ start’ which you have given to M. d’Herblay.


In giving him these four hours, sire, I knew I was giving him his life, and he will save his life.


In what way?


After having galloped as hard as possible, with the four hours’ start, before your musketeers, he will reach my chateau of Belle-Isle, where I have given him a safe asylum.


That may be! But you forget that you have made me a present of Belle-Isle.


But not for you to arrest my friends.


You take it back again, then?


As far as that goes--yes, sire.


My musketeers shall capture it, and the affair will be at an end.


Neither your musketeers, nor your whole army could take Belle-Isle. Belle-Isle is impregnable.


Are we going to return to Vaux?


I am at your majesty’s orders, but I think that your majesty can hardly dispense with changing your clothes previous to appearing before your court.


We shall pass by the Louvre. Come.


Well, my son, are you convinced with regard to M. Fouquet?


Saint-Aignan, have the goodness to go and inquire after the queen. Madame, I do not like to hear M. Fouquet ill-spoken of, you know I do not--and you have even spoken well of him yourself.


That is true; therefore I only question you on the state of your sentiments with respect to him.


Sire. I, on my part, have always liked M. Fouquet. He is a man of good taste,--a superior man.


A superintendent who is never sordid or niggardly, and who pays in gold all the orders I have on him.


Every one in this thinks too much of himself, and nobody for the state. M. Fouquet, it is a fact, M. Fouquet is ruining the state.


Well, mother! do you likewise constitute yourself the buckler of M. Colbert?


How is that?


Why, in truth, you speak that just as your old friend Madame de Chevreuse would speak.


Why do you mention Madame de Chevreuse to me? and what sort of humor are you in to-day towards me?


Is not Madame de Chevreuse always in league against somebody? Has not Madame de Chevreuse been to pay you a visit, mother?


Monsieur, you speak to me now in such a manner that I can almost fancy I am listening to your father.


My father did not like Madame de Chevreuse, and had good reason for not liking her. For my part, I like her no better than he did, and if she thinks proper to come here as she formerly did, to sow divisions and hatreds under the pretext of begging money--why--


Well! what?


Well! I will drive Madame de Chevreuse out of my kingdom--and with her all who meddle with its secrets and mysteries.


Sire, you are treating your mother very cruelly.


In what respect, madame? I am only speaking of Madame de Chevreuse; does my mother prefer Madame de Chevreuse to the security of the state and of my person? Well, then, madame, I tell you Madame de Chevreuse has returned to France to borrow money, and that she addressed herself to M. Fouquet to sell him a certain secret.


A certain secret!


Concerning pretended robberies that monsieur le surintendant had committed, which is false. M. Fouquet rejected her offers with indignation, preferring the esteem of the king to complicity with such intriguers. Then Madame de Chevreuse sold the secret to M. Colbert, and as she is insatiable, and was not satisfied with having extorted a hundred thousand crowns from a servant of the state, she has taken a still bolder flight, in search of surer sources of supply. Is that true, madame?


You know all, sire,


Now. I have good reason to dislike this fury, who comes to my court to plan the shame of some and the ruin of others. If Heaven has suffered certain crimes to be committed, and has concealed them in the shadow of its clemency, I will not permit Madame de Chevreuse to counteract the just designs of fate. We will not go to-day. I have a plan. Remain where you are, mother. I wish you to make your peace with M. Fouquet.


I bear M. Fouquet no ill-will; I only dreaded his prodigalities.


We will put that to rights, and will take nothing of the superintendent but his good qualities.


What is your majesty looking for?


My sister, my sister, I am expecting a most distinguished man, a most able counselor, whom I wish to present to you all, recommending him to your good graces. Ah! come in, then, D’Artagnan.


What does your majesty wish?


Where is monsieur the bishop of Vannes, your friend?


Why, sire--


I am waiting for him, and he does not come. Let him be sought for.


Sire, does your majesty absolutely require M. d’Herblay to be brought to you?


Absolutely is not the word. I do not want him so particularly as that; but if he can be found--


I thought so,


Is this M. d’Herblay the bishop of Vannes?


Yes, madame.


A friend of M. Fouquet? Yes, madame; an old musketeer. One of the four braves who formerly performed such prodigies. Whatever may be your choice, sire. I have no doubt it will be excellent.


You will find in him, the depth and penetration of M. de Richelieu, without the avarice of M. de Mazarin!


A prime minister, sire?


I will tell you all about that, brother; but it is strange that M. d’Herblay is not here! Let M. Fouquet be informed that I wish to speak to him--oh! before you, before you; do not retire!


Well! what?


What is all that noise?


This way, this way! A few steps more, sire!


The voice of M. Fouquet,


Then M. d’Herblay cannot be far off,


My mother, do you not acknowledge your son, since every one here has forgotten his king!


My mother, do you not acknowledge your son?


A moi! mousquetaire! Look us in the face and say which is the paler, he or I!


Monsieur, you are my prisoner!


If I were not your son, I should curse you, my mother, for having rendered me so unhappy.


Excuse me, monseigneur, I am but a soldier, and my oaths are his who has just left the chamber.


Thank you, M. d’Artagnan.... What has become of M. d’Herblay?


M. d’Herblay is in safety, monseigneur,


and no one, while I live and am free, shall cause a hair to fall from his head.


Monsieur Fouquet!


Pardon me, monseigneur, but he who is just gone out from hence was my guest.


Here are, brave friends and good hearts. They make me regret the world. On, M. d’Artagnan, I follow you. What is it?


Read, monseigneur,


M. d’Artagnan will conduct the prisoner to the Ile Sainte-Marguerite. He will cover his face with an iron vizor, which the prisoner shall never raise except at peril of his life.


That is just. I am ready.


Aramis was right, this one is every whit as much a king as the other.


More so! He wanted only you and me.


Hush! know only that our fortune depends on our speed.


I shall be made a duke!


That is possible,


I am not traveling. I do not want horses for a whole stage. Find me two horses to go and pay a visit to a nobleman of my acquaintance who resides near this place.


What nobleman? M. le Comte de la Fere. Oh! a very worthy nobleman. But, whatever may be my desire to make myself agreeable to him, I cannot furnish you with horses, for all mine are engaged by M. le Duc de Beaufort.


Indeed!


Only, if you will put up with a little carriage I have, I will harness an old blind horse who has still his legs left, and peradventure will draw you to the house of M. le Comte de la Fere.


It is worth a louis,


No, monsieur, such a ride is worth no more than a crown; that is what M. Grimaud, the comte’s intendant, always pays me when he makes use of that carriage; and I should not wish the Comte de la Fere to have to reproach me with having imposed on one of his friends.


As you please, particularly as regards disobliging the Comte de la Fere; only I think I have a right to give you a louis for your idea.


Oh! doubtless,


I understand.


Aha! and what do you understand, my friend?


We are going, on the part of the king, to make some great proposal to Athos.


Pooh!


You need tell me nothing about it, you need tell me nothing, I shall guess.


Well! do, my friend; guess away.


Ay! ay! I guess how it is! the mission is a secret one.


Gentlemen, we have arrived.


Monsieur, all that you tell me is true; I believe that no one has suffered in the affections of the heart so much as you have; but you are a man too great by reason of intelligence, and too severely tried by adverse fortune not to allow for the weakness of the soldier who suffers for the first time. I am paying a tribute that will not be paid a second time; permit me to plunge myself so deeply in my grief that I may forget myself in it, that I may drown even my reason in it. Raoul! Raoul! Listen, monsieur. Never shall I accustom myself to the idea that Louise, the chastest and most innocent of women, has been able to so basely deceive a man so honest and so true a lover as myself. Never can I persuade myself that I see that sweet and noble mask change into a hypocritical lascivious face. Louise lost! Louise infamous! Ah! monseigneur, that idea is much more cruel to me than Raoul abandoned--Raoul unhappy!


A woman who would have yielded to a king because he is a king, would deserve to be styled infamous; but Louise loves Louis. Young, both, they have forgotten, he his rank, she her vows. Love absolves everything, Raoul. The two young people love each other with sincerity.


My friend, we have not long to remain with you.


Only time to tell you of my good fortune,


Ah! What is the good fortune that has happened to you? Let us hear it,


The king has made me a duke, a duke by brevet.


My dear Athos, you see me overwhelmed with grief and trouble.


With grief and trouble, my dear friend?


In two words. I have conspired against the king; that conspiracy has failed, and, at this moment, I am doubtless pursued.


You are pursued!--a conspiracy! Eh! my friend, what do you tell me?


The saddest truth. I am entirely ruined.


Well, but Porthos--this title of duke--what does all that mean?


That is the subject of my severest pain; that is the deepest of my wounds. I have, believing in infallible success, drawn Porthos into my conspiracy. He threw himself into it, as you know he would do, with all his strength, without knowing what he was about; and now he is as much compromised as myself--as completely ruined as I am.


Good God!


I must make you acquainted with the whole. Listen to me,


It was a great idea, but a great error.


For which I am punished, Athos.


Therefore, I will not tell you my entire thought.


Tell it, nevertheless.


It is a crime.


A capital crime; I know it is. Lese majeste.


Porthos! poor Porthos!


What would you advise me to do? Success, as I have told you, was certain.


M. Fouquet is an honest man.


And I a fool for having so ill-judged him. Oh, the wisdom of man! Oh, millstone that grinds the world! and which is one day stopped by a grain of sand which has fallen, no one knows how, between its wheels.


Say by a diamond, Aramis. But the thing is done. How do you think of acting?


I am taking away Porthos. The king will never believe that that worthy man has acted innocently. He never can believe that Porthos has thought he was serving the king, whilst acting as he has done. His head would pay my fault. It shall not, must not, be so.


You are taking him away, whither?


To Belle-Isle, at first. That is an impregnable place of refuge. Then, I have the sea, and a vessel to pass over into England, where I have many relations.


You? in England?


Yes, or else in Spain, where I have still more.


But, our excellent Porthos! you ruin him, for the king will confiscate all his property.


All is provided for. I know how, when once in Spain, to reconcile myself with Louis XIV., and restore Porthos to favor.


You have credit, seemingly, Aramis!


Much; and at the service of my friends.


Thank you,


you also are a malcontent; you also, Raoul, have griefs to lay to the king. Follow our example; pass over into Belle-Isle. Then we shall see, I guarantee upon my honor, that in a month there will be war between France and Spain on the subject of this son of Louis XIII., who is an Infante likewise, and whom France detains inhumanly. Now, as Louis XIV. would have no inclination for a war on that subject, I will answer for an arrangement, the result of which must bring greatness to Porthos and to me, and a duchy in France to you, who are already a grandee of Spain. Will you join us?


No; for my part I prefer having something to reproach the king with; it is a pride natural to my race to pretend to a superiority over royal races. Doing what you propose, I should become the obliged of the king; I should certainly be the gainer on that ground, but I should be a loser in my conscience.--No, thank you!


Oh! I give it you if you really wished to avenge the weak and oppressed against the oppressor.


That is sufficient for me. And now, give me your two best horses to gain the second post, as I have been refused any under the pretext of the Duc de Beaufort being traveling in this country.


You shall have the two best horses, Aramis; and again I recommend poor Porthos strongly to your care.


Oh! I have no fear on that score. One word more: do you think I am maneuvering for him as I ought?


The evil being committed, yes; for the king would not pardon him, and you have, whatever may be said, always a supporter in M. Fouquet, who will not abandon you, he being himself compromised, notwithstanding his heroic action.


You are right. And that is why, instead of gaining the sea at once, which would proclaim my fear and guilt, that is why I remain upon French ground. But Belle-Isle will be for me whatever ground I wish it to be, English, Spanish, or Roman; all will depend, with me, on the standard I shall think proper to unfurl.


How so?


It was I who fortified Belle-Isle; and, so long as I defend it, nobody can take Belle-Isle from me. And then, as you have said just now, M. Fouquet is there. Belle-Isle will not be attacked without the signature of M. Fouquet.


That is true. Nevertheless, be prudent. The king is both cunning and strong.


I again recommend Porthos to you. Whatever becomes of me, count, our brother Porthos will fare as I do--or better.


Raoul, I don’t know what it is that has just told me that I have seen those two for the last time.


It does not astonish me, monsieur, that you should have such a thought, for I have at this moment the same, and think also that I shall never see Messieurs du Vallon and d’Herblay again.


Oh! you, you speak like a man rendered sad by a different cause; you see everything in black; you are young, and if you chance never to see those old friends again, it will because they no longer exist in the world in which you have yet many years to pass. But I--


Is that the young man I have heard M. le Prince speak so highly of? It is, monseigneur. He is quite the soldier; let him stay, count, we cannot spare him.


Remain, Raoul, since monseigneur permits it,


Ma foi! he is tall and handsome! Will you give him to me, monseigneur, if I ask him of you?


How am I to understand you, monseigneur?


Why, I call upon you to bid you farewell.


Farewell!


Yes, in good truth. Have you no idea of what I am about to become?


Why, I suppose, what you have always been, monseigneur,--a valiant prince, and an excellent gentleman.


I am going to become an African prince,--a Bedouin gentleman. The king is sending me to make conquests among the Arabs.


What is this you tell me, monseigneur?


Strange, is it not? I, the Parisian par essence, I who have reigned in the faubourgs, and have been called King of the Halles,--I am going to pass from the Place Maubert to the minarets of Gigelli; from a Frondeur I am becoming an adventurer!


Oh, monseigneur, if you did not yourself tell me that--


It would not be credible, would it? Believe me, nevertheless, and we have but to bid each other farewell. This is what comes of getting into favor again. Into favor? Because your highness loves glory above--everything. Oh! no; there is no glory in firing muskets at savages. I see no glory in that, for my part, and it is more probable that I shall there meet with something else. But I have wished, and still wish earnestly, my dear count, that my life should have that last facet, after all the whimsical exhibitions I have seen myself make during fifty years. For, in short, you must admit that it is sufficiently strange to be born the grandson of a king, to have made war against kings, to have been reckoned among the powers of the age, to have maintained my rank, to feel Henry IV. within me, to be great admiral of France--and then to go and get killed at Gigelli, among all those Turks, Saracens, and Moors.


Monseigneur, you harp with strange persistence on that theme. How can you suppose that so brilliant a destiny will be extinguished in that remote and miserable scene?


And can you believe, upright and simple as you are, that if I go into Africa for this ridiculous motive, I will not endeavor to come out of it without ridicule? Shall I not give the world cause to speak of me? And to be spoken of, nowadays, when there are Monsieur le Prince, M. de Turenne, and many others, my contemporaries, I, admiral of France, grandson of Henry IV., king of Paris, have I anything left but to get myself killed? Cordieu! I will be talked of, I tell you; I shall be killed whether or not; if not there, somewhere else.


Why, monseigneur, this is mere exaggeration; and hitherto you have shown nothing exaggerated save in bravery.


Peste! my dear friend, there is bravery in facing scurvy, dysentery, locusts, poisoned arrows, as my ancestor St. Louis did. Do you know those fellows still use poisoned arrows? And then, you know me of old, I fancy, and you know that when I once make up my mind to a thing, I perform it in grim earnest.


Yes, you made up your mind to escape from Vincennes.


Ay, but you aided me in that, my master; and, a propos, I turn this way and that, without seeing my old friend, M. Vaugrimaud. How is he?


M. Vaugrimaud is still your highness’s most respectful servant,


I have a hundred pistoles here for him, which I bring as a legacy. My will is made, count. Ah! monseigneur! monseigneur! And you may understand that if Grimaud’s name were to appear in my will-- Young man, I know there is to be found here a certain De Vouvray wine, and I believe-- What do you mean to do with him?


Nothing at present, monseigneur.


Ah! yes, I know; since the passion of the king for La Vallière.


Yes, monseigneur.


That is all true, then, is it? I think I know her, that little La Vallière. She is not particularly handsome, if I remember right?


No, monseigneur,


Do you know whom she reminds me of?


Does she remind your highness of any one?


She reminds me of a very agreeable girl, whose mother lived in the Halles.


Ah! ah!


Oh! the good old times. Yes, La Vallière reminds me of that girl.


Who had a son, had she not?


I believe she had. Now, here is poor Raoul, who is your son, I believe.


Yes, he is my son, monseigneur.


And the poor lad has been cut out by the king, and he frets.


Still better, monseigneur, he abstains.


You are going to let the boy rust in idleness; it is a mistake. Come, give him to me.


My wish is to keep him at home, monseigneur. I have no longer anything in the world but him, and as long as he likes to remain--


Well, well. I could, nevertheless, have soon put matters to rights again. I assure you, I think he has in him the stuff of which marechals of France are made; I have seen more than one produced from less likely rough material.


That is very possible, monseigneur; but it is the king who makes marechals of France, and Raoul will never accept anything of the king.


Grimaud! Good evening, Grimaud! how goes it? Two old friends!


I should not think of drinking with your highness, unless your highness permitted me,


Cordieu! you were right to bring only one glass, we will both drink out of it, like two brothers in arms. Begin, count.


Do me the honor,


You are a charming friend. But that is not all. I am still thirsty, and I wish to do honor to this handsome young man who stands here. I carry good luck with me, vicomte, wish for something while drinking out of my glass, and may the black plague grab me if what you wish does not come to pass!


I have wished for something, monseigneur.


And what have you wished for?


Will you promise me, monseigneur, to grant me what I wish for?


Pardieu! That is agreed upon.


I wished, monsieur le duc, to go with you to Gigelli.


That is difficult, my dear vicomte, very difficult,


Pardon me, monseigneur, I have been indiscreet, but as you yourself invited me to wish--


To wish to leave me?


Well, mordieu! the young vicomte is right! What can he do here? He will go moldy with grief.


That is to say, memory, and that is to say, so much the better!


let us see! Shall he go, or shall he not? If he goes, comte, he shall be my aide-de-camp, my son.


Monseigneur!


Monseigneur! Raoul shall do just as he likes.


Oh! no, monsieur, just as you like,


Par la corbleu! it is neither the comte nor the vicomte that shall have his way, it is I. I will take him away. The marine offers a superb fortune, my friend. I am in great haste, but if I am told I have lost time in talking with a friend, I will reply I have gained--on the balance--a most excellent recruit.


Pardon me, monsieur le duc, do not tell the king so, for it is not the king I wish to serve.


Eh! my friend, whom, then, will you serve? The times are past when you might have said, ‘I belong to M. de Beaufort.’ No, nowadays, we all belong to the king, great or small. Therefore, if you serve on board my vessels, there can be nothing equivocal about it, my dear vicomte; it will be the king you will serve.


Monsieur le duc, the objection you make I have already considered in my mind. I will serve on board your vessels, because you do me the honor to take me with you; but I shall there serve a more powerful master than the king: I shall serve God!


God! how so?


My intention is to make profession, and become a knight of Malta,


Comte, I shall set off in two days for Toulon. Will you meet me at Paris, in order that I may know your determination?


I will have the honor of thanking you there, mon prince, for all your kindness,


And be sure to bring the vicomte with you, whether he follows me or does not follow me, he has my word, and I only ask yours.


it is late, then.... Till to-morrow. In two days, you will have left me, my son--left me forever, Raoul!


Monsieur. I had formed a determination, that of piercing my heart with my sword; but you would have thought that cowardly. I have renounced that determination, and therefore we must part.


You leave me desolate by going, Raoul.


Listen to me again, monsieur, I implore you. If I do not go, I shall die here of grief and love. I know how long a time I have to live thus. Send me away quickly, monsieur, or you will see me basely die before your eyes--in your house--this is stronger than my will--stronger than my strength--you may plainly see that within one month I have lived thirty years, and that I approach the end of my life.


Then, you go with the intention of getting killed in Africa? Oh, tell me! do not lie!


Monsieur. I have promised to devote myself to God. In exchange for the sacrifice I make of my youth and liberty, I will only ask of Him one thing, and that is, to preserve me for you, because you are the only tie which attaches me to this world. God alone can give me the strength not to forget that I owe you everything, and that nothing ought to stand in my esteem before you.


You have just replied to me on the word of honor of an honest man; in two days we shall be with M. de Beaufort at Paris, and you will then do what will be proper for you to do. You are free, Raoul; adieu.


Make your escape, Malicorne. I did not think there was any one here. I shall curse you, if they have either heard or seen us! Monsieur is a gallant man, and no doubt-- Raoul!


Mademoiselle de Montalais!


Ah! monsieur, what you are doing is very unworthy of a gentleman. My heart inclines me to speak to you; you compromise me by a reception almost uncivil; you are wrong, monsieur; and you confound your friends with enemies. Farewell!


Pardon me, mademoiselle; it enters not, it cannot enter into my thoughts to be uncivil.


Do you wish to speak to me?


Yes, mademoiselle.


I will go and ask him to come up here, presently, after I have spoken to you.


Do so, mademoiselle.


Are you angry with me?


Yes. You think I was concerned in the plot which brought about the rupture, do you not? Rupture! Oh! mademoiselle, there can be no rupture where there has been no love.


Louise did love you.


Not with love, I know; but she liked you, and you ought to have married her before you set out for London.


Listen, you were wrong in every way; a man of your age ought never to leave a woman of hers alone.


There is no longer any faith in the world, then,


No, vicomte. Nevertheless, let me tell you that, if, instead of loving Louise coldly and philosophically, you had endeavored to awaken her to love--


Enough, I pray you, mademoiselle. I feel as though you are all, of both sexes, of a different age from me. You can laugh, and you can banter agreeably. I, mademoiselle, I loved Mademoiselle de-- I loved her well! I put my faith in her--now I am quits by loving her no longer.


Oh, vicomte!


I know what you mean, mademoiselle; I am much altered, am I not? Well! Do you know why? Because my face is the mirror of my heart, the outer surface changed to match the mind within.


You are consoled, then?


No, I shall never be consoled.


I don’t understand you, M. de Bragelonne.


I care but little for that. I do not quite understand myself.


You have not even tried to speak to Louise?


Who! I? I!--Why do you not advise me to marry her? Perhaps the king would consent now.


I see, that you are not cured, and that Louise has one enemy the more.


One enemy the more!


Yes; favorites are but little beloved at the court of France. Oh! while she has her lover to protect her, is not that enough? She has chosen him of such a quality that her enemies cannot prevail against her. And then she has you for a friend, mademoiselle. Who! I?--Oh, no! I am no longer one of those whom Mademoiselle de la Vallière condescends to look upon; but--


Madame!


Stupid wretch! I have been mistaken in an hour! M. de Bragelonne, Madame. Your royal highness, is kind enough to think of this lottery, and--


Dear count, tell Madame I am too unhappy not to merit pardon; tell her also that I have loved in the course of my life, and that the horror of the treachery that has been practiced on me renders me inexorable towards all other treachery that may be committed around me. This is why, mademoiselle. I never would divulge the secret of the visits of my friend to your apartment. Obtain from Madame--from Madame, who is so clement and so generous,--obtain her pardon for you whom she has just surprised also. You are both free, love each other, be happy!


Madame! in two days I shall be far from Paris; in a fortnight I shall be far from France, where I shall never be seen again.


Are you going away, then?


With M. de Beaufort.


Into Africa! You, Raoul--oh! my friend--into Africa, where everybody dies! Ingrate! and you have not even consulted me!


I have been dreaming! My friend. I conceal nothing from you, who are the elected of my heart. I am going to seek death in yonder country; your secret will not remain in my breast more than a year.


Oh, Raoul! a man!


Do you know what is my thought, count? This is it--I shall live more vividly, being buried beneath the earth, than I have lived for this month past. We are Christians, my friend, and if such sufferings were to continue, I would not be answerable for the safety of my soul. Not one word more on my account, but advice to you, dear friend; what I am going to say to you is of much greater importance.


What is that?


Without doubt you risk much more than I do, because you love.


Oh!


It is a joy so sweet to me to be able to speak to you thus! Well, then, De Guiche, beware of Montalais.


What! of that kind friend?


She was the friend of--her you know of. She ruined her by pride.


You are mistaken.


And now, when she has ruined her, she would ravish from her the only thing that renders that woman excusable in my eyes.


Her love.


What do you mean by that?


I mean that there is a plot formed against her who is the mistress of the king--a plot formed in the very house of Madame.


Can you think so?


I am certain of it.


By Montalais?


Take her as the least dangerous of the enemies I dread for--the other!


Explain yourself clearly, my friend; and if I can understand you--


In two words. Madame has been long jealous of the king.


I know she has--


Oh! fear nothing--you are beloved--you are beloved, count; do you feel the value of these three words? They signify that you can raise your head, that you can sleep tranquilly, that you can thank God every minute of you life. You are beloved; that signifies that you may hear everything, even the counsel of a friend who wishes to preserve your happiness. You are beloved, De Guiche, you are beloved! You do not endure those atrocious nights, those nights without end, which, with arid eye and fainting heart, others pass through who are destined to die. You will live long, if you act like the miser who, bit by bit, crumb by crumb, collects and heaps up diamonds and gold. You are beloved!--allow me to tell you what you must do that you may be beloved forever. They will make her, whose name I should wish still to be able to pronounce--they will make her suffer. Swear to me that you will not second them in anything--but that you will defend her when possible, as I would have done myself.


I swear I will,


And, some day, when you shall have rendered her a great service--some day when she shall thank you, promise me to say these words to her--‘I have done you this kindness, madame, at the warm request of M. de Bragelonne, whom you so deeply injured.’


That is all. Adieu! I set out to-morrow, or the day after, for Toulon. If you have a few hours to spare, give them to me.


All! all!


Thank you! And what are you going to do now? I am going to meet M. le comte at Planchet’s residence, where we hope to find M. d’Artagnan. M. d’Artagnan? Yes, I wish to embrace him before my departure. He is a brave man, who loves me dearly. Farewell, my friend; you are expected, no doubt; you will find me, when you wish, at the lodgings of the comte. Farewell!


What! his trunks? is M. Planchet going away?


Yes, monsieur, directly.


Then, if you please, inform him that M. le Comte de la Fere desires to speak to him for a moment.


Ah! monsieur le comte! how glad I am to see you! What good star brings you here?


My dear Planchet, we are come to learn of you--But in what confusion do I find you! You are as white as a miller; where have you been rummaging?


Ah, diable! take care, monsieur; don’t come near me till I have well shaken myself.


What for? Flour or dust only whiten.


No, no; what you see on my arms is arsenic.


Arsenic?


Yes; I am taking my precautions against rats.


Ay, I suppose in an establishment like this, rats play a conspicuous part.


It is not with this establishment I concern myself, monsieur le comte. The rats have robbed me of more here than they will ever rob me of again.


What do you mean?


Why, you may have observed, monsieur, my inventory is being taken.


Are you leaving trade, then?


Eh! mon Dieu! yes. I have disposed of my business to one of my young men.


Bah! you are rich, then, I suppose?


Monsieur, I have taken a dislike to the city; I don’t know whether it is because I am growing old, and as M. d’Artagnan one day said, when we grow old we more often think of the adventures of our youth; but for some time past I have felt myself attracted towards the country and gardening. I was a countryman formerly.


You are going to buy an estate, then?


I have bought one, monsieur.


Ah! that is still better.


A little house at Fontainebleau, with something like twenty acres of land round it.


Very well, Planchet! Accept my compliments on your acquisition.


But, monsieur, we are not comfortable here; the cursed dust makes you cough. Corbleu! I do not wish to poison the most worthy gentleman in the kingdom.


Yes, let us have a little talk by ourselves--in your own room, for example. You have a room, have you not?


Certainly, monsieur le comte.


Upstairs, perhaps?


It is--but--


Never mind, never mind, the dwelling of a tradesman in this quarter is not expected to be a palace. Come on.


I ask your pardon! madame is dressing.


Madame-- Oh! pardon me, Planchet, I did not know that you had upstairs--


It is Truchen,


It is whoever you please, my good Planchet; but pardon my rudeness.


No, no; go up now, gentlemen.


We will do no such thing,


Oh! madame, having notice, has had time--


No, Planchet; farewell!


Eh, gentlemen! you would not disoblige me by thus standing on the staircase, or by going away without having sat down.


If we had known you had a lady upstairs, we would have asked permission to pay our respects to her.


You want nothing now, then, but heirs to your property.


If I had one he would have three hundred thousand livres,


Humph! you must have one, then, if only to prevent your little fortune being lost. What is M. d’Artagnan about? he is not at the Louvre.


Ah! monsieur le comte, Monsieur d’Artagnan has disappeared.


Disappeared!


Oh! monsieur, we know what that means.


But I do not know.


Whenever M. d’Artagnan disappears it is always for some mission or some great affair.


Has he said anything to you about it?


Never.


You were acquainted with his departure for England formerly, were you not?


On account of the speculation.


The speculation!


I mean--


Well, well; neither your affairs nor those of your master are in question; the interest we take in him alone has induced me to apply to you. Since the captain of the musketeers is not here, and as we cannot learn from you where we are likely to find M. d’Artagnan, we will take our leave of you. Au revoir, Planchet, au revoir. Let us be gone, Raoul.


Monsieur le comte, I wish I were able to tell you--


Oh, not at all; I am not the man to reproach a servant with discretion.


There is nothing indiscreet in telling you, monsieur le comte, M. d’Artagnan came here the other day--


Aha?


And remained several hours consulting a geographical chart.


You are right, then, my friend; say no more about it.


And the chart is there as a proof,


Never mind, we must confess that there is a Providence always occupied in connecting our destiny with that of M. d’Artagnan. There he is on the coast of Cannes, and you, monsieur, will, at least, conduct me as far as Toulon. Be assured that we shall meet with him more easily upon our route than on this map. Every one journeys towards happiness by the route he chooses,


Road to Fontainebleau!


I wish I had what you have; I would give it you. I have but this silver ewer; it is worth at least five hundred livres,--take it.


There is my aide-de-camp being brought to me! Come hither, comte; come hither, vicomte. Ah! step over, step over! Here is your commission. I had prepared it, reckoning upon you. You will go before me as far as Antibes.


Yes, monseigneur.


Here is the order. Do you know anything of the sea?


Yes, monseigneur; I have traveled with M. le Prince.


That is well. All these barges and lighters must be in attendance to form an escort and carry my provisions. The army must be prepared to embark in a fortnight at the very latest.


That shall be done, monseigneur.


The present order gives you the right to visit and search all the isles along the coast; you will there make the enrolments and levies you may want for me.


Yes, monsieur le duc.


And you are an active man, and will work freely, you will spend much money.


I hope not, monseigneur.


But I am sure you will. My intendant has prepared the orders of a thousand livres, drawn upon the cities of the south; he will give you a hundred of them. Now, dear vicomte, be gone.


Keep your money, monseigneur; war is to be waged among the Arabs with gold as well as lead.


I wish to try the contrary, and then you are acquainted with my ideas upon the expedition--plenty of noise, plenty of fire, and, if so it must be, I shall disappear in the smoke. Ah, you are such people as a man should not see after dinner; you are cold, stiff, and dry when I am all fire, suppleness, and wine. No, devil take me! I should always see you fasting, vicomte, and you, comte, if you wear such a face as that, you shall see me no more.


Monseigneur, do not talk so grandly because you happen to have plenty of money. I predict that within a month you will be dry, stiff, and cold, in presence of your strong-box, and that then, having Raoul at your elbow, fasting, you will be surprised to see him gay, animated, and generous, because he will have some new crowns to offer you.


God grant it may be so! Comte, stay with me!


No, I shall go with Raoul; the mission with which you charge him is a troublesome and difficult one. Alone it would be too much for him to execute. You do not observe, monseigneur, you have given him command of the first order.


Bah!


And in your naval arrangements, too.


That may be true. But one finds that such fine young fellows as your son generally do all that is required of them.


Monseigneur, I believe you will find nowhere so much zeal and intelligence, so much real bravery, as in Raoul; but if he failed to arrange your embarkation, you would only meet the fate that you deserve.


Humph! you are scolding me, then.


Monseigneur, to provision a fleet, to assemble a flotilla, to enroll your maritime force, would take an admiral a year. Raoul is a cavalry officer, and you allow him a fortnight!


I tell you he will do it.


He may; but I will go and help him.


To be sure you will; I reckoned upon you, and still further believe that when we are once at Toulon you will not let him depart alone.


Oh!


Patience! patience!


Monseigneur, permit us to take our leave.


Begone, then, and may my good luck attend you.


Adieu! monseigneur; and may your own good luck attend you likewise. Here is an expedition admirably commenced! No provisions--no store flotilla! What can be done, thus?


Humph! if all are going to do as I am, provisions will not be wanted.


Monsieur, do not be unjust and senseless in your egotism, or your grief, whichever you please to call it. If you set out for this war solely with the intention of getting killed therein, you stand in need of nobody, and it was scarcely worth while to recommend you to M. de Beaufort. But when you have been introduced to the prime commandant--when you have accepted the responsibility of a post in his army, the question is no longer about you, but about all those poor soldiers, who, as well as you, have hearts and bodies, who will weep for their country and endure all the necessities of their condition. Remember, Raoul, that officers are ministers as useful to the world as priests, and that they ought to have more charity.


Monsieur, I know it and have practiced it; I would have continued to do so still, but--


You forget also that you are of a country that is proud of its military glory; go and die if you like, but do not die without honor and without advantage to France. Cheer up, Raoul! do not let my words grieve you; I love you, and wish to see you perfect.


I love your reproaches, monsieur, they alone may cure me, because they prove to me that some one loves me still.


And now, Raoul, let us be off; the weather is so fine, the heavens so clear, those heavens which we always find above our heads, which you will see more clear still at Gigelli, and which will speak to you of me there, as they speak to me here of God.


But all this does not tell us, how you injured your boat.


This is the way. I was steering towards St. Honnorat as the gentleman desired me; but he changed his mind, and pretended that I could not pass to the south of the abbey.


And why not?


Because, monsieur, there is in front of the square tower of the Benedictines, towards the southern point, the bank of the Moines.


A rock?


Level with the water, but below water; a dangerous passage, yet one I have cleared a thousand times; the gentleman required me to land him at Sainte-Marguerite’s.


Well?


Well, monsieur! a man is a sailor, or he is not; he knows his course, or he is nothing but a fresh-water lubber. I was obstinate, and wished to try the channel. The gentleman took me by the collar, and told me quietly he would strangle me. My mate armed himself with a hatchet, and so did I. We had the affront of the night before to pay him out for. But the gentleman drew his sword, and used it in such an astonishingly rapid manner, that we neither of us could get near him. I was about to hurl my hatchet at his head, and I had a right to do so, hadn’t I, monsieur? for a sailor aboard is master, as a citizen is in his chamber; I was going, then, in self-defense, to cut the gentleman in two, when, all at once--believe me or not, monsieur--the great carriage case opened of itself, I don’t know how, and there came out of it a sort of a phantom, his head covered with a black helmet and a black mask, something terrible to look upon, which came towards me threatening with its fist.


And that was--


That was the devil, monsieur; for the gentleman, with great glee, cried out, on seeing him: ‘Ah! thank you, monseigneur!’ Ah! thank you, monseigneur!


A most strange story!


And what did you do?


You must know, monsieur, that two poor men, such as we are, could be no match for two gentlemen; but when one of them turned out to be the devil, we had no earthly chance! My companion and I did not stop to consult one another; we made but one jump into the sea, for we were within seven or eight hundred feet of the shore.


Well, and then?


Why, and then, monseigneur, as there was a little wind from the southwest, the boat drifted into the sands of Sainte-Marguerite’s.


Oh!--but the travelers?


Bah! you need not be uneasy about them! It was pretty plain that one was the devil, and protected the other; for when we recovered the boat, after she got afloat again, instead of finding these two creatures injured by the shock, we found nothing, not even the carriage or the case.


Very strange! very strange! But after that, what did you do, my friend?


I made my complaint to the governor of Sainte-Marguerite’s, who brought my finger under my nose by telling me if I plagued him with such silly stories he would have me flogged.


What! did the governor himself say so?


Yes, monsieur; and yet my boat was injured, seriously injured, for the prow is left upon the point of Sainte-Marguerite’s, and the carpenter asks a hundred and twenty livres to repair it.


Very well, you will be exempted from the service. Go.


We will go to Sainte-Marguerite’s, shall we? Yes, monsieur, for there is something to be cleared up; that man does not seem to me to have told the truth.


Nor to me either, Raoul. The story of the masked man and the carriage having disappeared, may be told to conceal some violence these fellows have committed upon their passengers in the open sea, to punish him for his persistence in embarking.


I formed the same suspicion; the carriage was more likely to contain property than a man.


We shall see to that, Raoul. The gentleman very much resembles D’Artagnan; I recognize his methods of proceeding. Alas! we are no longer the young invincibles of former days. Who knows whether the hatchet or the iron bar of this miserable coaster has not succeeded in doing that which the best blades of Europe, balls, and bullets have not been able to do in forty years?


I am the brother of the king of France--a prisoner to-day--a madman to-morrow. French gentlemen and Christians, pray to God for the soul and the reason of the son of your old rulers. To-morrow.


Cordieu! What, are people assassinated here? Come down, cowards as you are!


Yes, come down!


We are going to be shot! but, sword in hand, at least, let us leap the ditch! We shall kill at least two of these scoundrels, when their muskets are empty.


Athos! Raoul!


D’Artagnan!


Recover arms! Mordioux! I was sure I could not be mistaken!


What is the meaning of this? What! were we to be shot without warning?


It was I who was going to shoot you, and if the governor missed you, I should not have missed you, my dear friends. How fortunate it is that I am accustomed to take a long aim, instead of firing at the instant I raise my weapon! I thought I recognized you. Ah! my dear friends, how fortunate!


How! And is the gentleman who fired at us the governor of the fortress?


In person.


And why did he fire at us? What have we done to him?


Pardieu! You received what the prisoner threw to you?


That is true.


That plate--the prisoner has written something on it, has he not?


Yes.


Good heavens! I was afraid he had. Oh! good heavens! Silence!--Here is the governor.


And what will he do to us? Is it our fault?


It is true, then? It is true?


Silence! I tell you--silence! If he only believes you can read; if he only suspects you have understood; I love you, my dear friends, I would willingly be killed for you, but--


But--


But I could not save you from perpetual imprisonment if I saved you from death. Silence, then! Silence again!


Well! what stops us?


You are Spaniards--you do not understand a word of French. Well! I was right; these gentlemen are two Spanish captains with whom I was acquainted at Ypres, last year; they don’t know a word of French.


Ah! And yet they were trying to read the inscription on the plate. How! what are you doing? I cannot read them now!


It is a state secret, and as you know that, according to the king’s orders, it is under the penalty of death any one should penetrate it, I will, if you like, allow you to read it, and have you shot immediately afterwards.


But, is it possible, that these gentlemen do not comprehend at least some words?


Suppose they do! If they do understand a few spoken words, it does not follow that they should understand what is written. They cannot even read Spanish. A noble Spaniard, remember, ought never to know how to read.


Invite these gentlemen to come to the fortress,


That I will willingly do. I was about to propose it to you.


Come, let us have a word of explanation whilst we are alone.


It is simply this. I have conducted hither a prisoner, who the king commands shall not be seen. You came here, he has thrown something to you through the lattice of his window; I was at dinner with the governor, I saw the object thrown, and I saw Raoul pick it up. It does not take long to understand this. I understood it, and I thought you in intelligence with my prisoner. And then--


And then--you commanded us to be shot.


Ma foi! I admit it; but, if I was the first to seize a musket, fortunately, I was the last to take aim at you.


If you had killed me, D’Artagnan, I should have had the good fortune to die for the royal house of France, and it would be an honor to die by your hand--you, its noblest and most loyal defender.


What the devil, Athos, do you mean by the royal house? You don’t mean that you, a well-informed and sensible man, can place any faith in the nonsense written by an idiot?


I do believe in it.


With so much the more reason, my dear chevalier, from your having orders to kill all those who do believe in it,


That is because, because every calumny, however absurd it may be, has the almost certain chance of becoming popular.


No, D’Artagnan, but because the king is not willing that the secret of his family should transpire among the people, and cover with shame the executioners of the son of Louis XIII.


Do not talk in such a childish manner, Athos, or I shall begin to think you have lost your senses. Besides, explain to me how it is possible Louis XIII. should have a son in the Isle of Sainte-Marguerite.


A son whom you have brought hither masked, in a fishing-boat. Why not?


Oh! whence do you know that a fishing-boat--?


Brought you to Sainte-Marguerite’s with the carriage containing the prisoner--with a prisoner whom you styled monseigneur. Oh! I am acquainted with all that,


If it were true, that I had brought hither in a boat and with a carriage a masked prisoner, nothing proves that this prisoner must be a prince--a prince of the house of France.


Ask Aramis such riddles. Aramis


Aramis. Have you seen Aramis?


After his discomfiture at Vaux, yes; I have seen Aramis, a fugitive, pursued, bewildered, ruined; and Aramis has told me enough to make me believe in the complaints this unfortunate young prince cut upon the bottom of the plate.


This is the way, in which God turns to nothing that which men call wisdom! A fine secret must that be of which twelve or fifteen persons hold the tattered fragments! Athos, cursed be the chance which has brought you face to face with me in this affair! for now--


Well, is your secret lost because I know it? Consult your memory, my friend. Have I not borne secrets heavier than this?


You have never borne one so dangerous. I have something like a sinister idea that all who are concerned with this secret will die, and die unhappily.


The will of God be done! but here is your governor.


What is this man’s name? I don’t like the looks of him,


De Saint-Mars,


He is, then, I suppose, the prince’s jailer?


Eh! how can I tell? I may be kept at Sainte-Marguerite forever.


Oh! no, not you!


My friend, I am in the situation of a man who finds a treasure in the midst of a desert. He would like to carry it away, but he cannot; he would like to leave it, but he dares not. The king will not dare to recall me, for no one else would serve him as faithfully as I do; he regrets not having me near him, from being aware that no one would be of so much service near his person as myself. But it will happen as it may please God.


But, your not being certain proves that your situation here is provisional, and you will return to Paris?


Ask these gentlemen, what was their purpose in coming to Saint-Marguerite?


They came from learning there was a convent of Benedictines at Sainte-Honnorat which is considered curious; and from being told there was excellent shooting in the island.


That is quite at their service, as well as yours,


When will they depart?


To-morrow. Oh! here is a life and a society that suits me very little. I command this man, and he bores me, mordioux! Come, let us have a shot or two at the rabbits; the walk will be beautiful, and not fatiguing. The whole island is but a league and a half in length, with the breadth of a league; a real park. Let us try to amuse ourselves.


As you please, D’Artagnan; not for the sake of amusing ourselves, but to gain an opportunity for talking freely.


And now, answer me the question put to you by that black-looking Saint-Mars: what did you come to do at the Lerin Isles?


To bid you farewell.


Bid me farewell! What do you mean by that? Is Raoul going anywhere?


Yes.


Then I will lay a wager it is with M. de Beaufort.


With M. de Beaufort it is, my dear friend. You always guess correctly.


From habit. He has not recovered the blow?


He is struck to death.


Oh! your fears exaggerate, I hope. Raoul is of a tempered nature. Around all hearts as noble as his, there is a second envelope that forms a cuirass. The first bleeds, the second resists.


No. Raoul will die of it.


Mordioux! Why do you let him go?


Because he insists on going.


And why do you not go with him?


Because I could not bear to see him die. You know one thing, you know that in the course of my life I have been afraid of but few things. Well! I have an incessant gnawing, insurmountable fear that an hour will come in which I shall hold the dead body of that boy in my arms.


Oh! oh!


He will die, I know, I have a perfect conviction of that; but I would not see him die.


How is this, Athos? you come and place yourself in the presence of the bravest man, you say you have ever seen, of your own D’Artagnan, of that man without an equal, as you formerly called him, and you come and tell him, with your arms folded, that you are afraid of witnessing the death of your son, you who have seen all that can be seen in this world! Why have you this fear, Athos? Man upon this earth must expect everything, and ought to face everything.


Listen to me, my friend. After having worn myself out upon this earth of which you speak, I have preserved but two religions: that of life, friendship, my duty as a father--that of eternity, love, and respect for God. Now, I have within me the revelation that if God should decree that my friend or my son should render up his last sigh in my presence--oh! no, I cannot even tell you, D’Artagnan!


Speak, speak, tell me!


I am strong against everything, except against the death of those I love. For that only there is no remedy. He who dies, gains; he who sees others die, loses. No, this is it--to know that I should no more meet on earth him whom I now behold with joy; to know that there would nowhere be a D’Artagnan any more, nowhere again be a Raoul, oh! I am old, look you, I have no longer courage; I pray God to spare me in my weakness; but if he struck me so plainly and in that fashion, I should curse him. A Christian gentleman ought not to curse his God, D’Artagnan; it is enough to once have cursed a king!


Humph!


Let me speak to him, Athos. Who knows?


Try, if you please, but I am convinced you will not succeed.


I will not attempt to console him. I will serve him.


You will?


Doubtless, I will. Do you think this would be the first time a woman had repented of an infidelity? I will go to him, I tell you.


Well, Raoul! You have something to say to me?


I have a kindness to ask of you,


Ask it, then.


You will some day return to France?


I hope so.


Ought I to write to Mademoiselle de la Vallière?


No, you must not.


But I have many things to say to her.


Go and say them to her, then.


Never!


Pray, what virtue do you attribute to a letter, which your speech might not possess?


Perhaps you are right.


She loves the king, and she is an honest girl. And you, you whom she abandons, she, perhaps, loves better than she does the king, but after another fashion. D’Artagnan, do you believe she loves the king? To idolatry. Her heart is inaccessible to any other feeling. You might continue to live near her, and would be her best friend.


Ah!


Will you do so?


It would be base.


That is a very absurd word, which would lead me to think slightly of your understanding. Please to understand, Raoul, that it is never base to do that which is imposed upon us by a superior force. If your heart says to you, ‘Go there, or die,’ why go, Raoul. Was she base or brave, she whom you loved, in preferring the king to you, the king whom her heart commanded her imperiously to prefer to you? No, she was the bravest of women. Do, then, as she has done. Oblige yourself. Do you know one thing of which I am sure, Raoul?


What is that?


Why, that by seeing her closely with the eyes of a jealous man--


Well?


Well! you would cease to love her.


Then I am decided, my dear D’Artagnan.


To set off to see her again?


No; to set off that I may never see her again. I wish to love her forever.


Ha! I must confess, that is a conclusion which I was far from expecting.


This is what I wish, my friend. You will see her again, and you will give her a letter which, if you think proper, will explain to her, as to yourself, what is passing in my heart. Read it; I drew it up last night. Something told me I should see you to-day. MADEMOISELLE,--You are not wrong in my eyes in not loving me. You have only been guilty of one fault towards me, that of having left me to believe you loved me. This error will cost me my life. I pardon you, but I cannot pardon myself. It is said that happy lovers are deaf to the sorrows of rejected lovers. It will not be so with you, who did not love me, save with anxiety. I am sure that if I had persisted in endeavoring to change that friendship into love, you would have yielded out of a fear of bringing about my death, or lessening the esteem I had for you. It is much more delightful to me to die, knowing that you are free and satisfied. How much, then, will you love me, when you will no longer fear either my presence or reproaches? You will love me, because, however charming a new love may appear to you, God has not made me in anything inferior to him you have chosen, and because my devotedness, my sacrifice, and my painful end will assure me, in your eyes, a certain superiority over him. I have allowed to escape, in the candid credulity of my heart, the treasure I possessed. Many people tell me that you loved me enough to lead me to hope you would have loved me much. That idea takes from my mind all bitterness, and leads me only to blame myself. You will accept this last farewell, and you will bless me for having taken refuge in the inviolable asylum where hatred is extinguished, and where all love endures forever. Adieu, mademoiselle. If your happiness could be purchased by the last drop of my blood, I would shed that drop. I willingly make the sacrifice of it to my misery! RAOUL, VICOTME DE BRAGELONNE.


The letter reads very well. I have only one fault to find with it.


Tell me what that is!


Why, it is that it tells everything, except the thing which exhales, like a mortal poison from your eyes and from your heart; except the senseless love which still consumes you. Why did you not write simply these words: MADEMOISELLE,--Instead of cursing you, I love you and I die.


That is true. To procure the happiness of once more telling you I love you, I commit the baseness of writing to you; and to punish myself for that baseness, I die. You will give her these tablets, captain, will you not?


When?


On the day, on the day when you can place a date under these words.


What is that? a wrecked boat?


No, it is not a boat,


Pardon me, there is a bark gaining the port rapidly.


Yes, there is a bark in the creek, which is prudently seeking shelter here; but that which Athos points to in the sand is not a boat at all--it has run aground.


Yes, yes, I see it.


It is the carriage, which I threw into the sea after landing the prisoner.


Well! if you take my advice, D’Artagnan, you will burn that carriage, in order that no vestige of it may remain, without which the fishermen of Antibes, who have believed they had to do with the devil, will endeavor to prove that your prisoner was but a man.


Your advice is good, Athos, and I will this night have it carried out, or rather, I will carry it out myself; but let us go in, for the rain falls heavily, and the lightning is terrific.


What is it?


You will see. Look. The prisoner is returning from chapel.


Come on, monsieur. Monsieur, come on!


Say monseigneur!


Who spoke?


It was I. You know that is the order.


Call me neither monsieur nor monseigneur, call me ACCURSED!


There goes a truly unfortunate man!


I should think, you will have completed the execution of my orders, Monsieur d’Artagnan; return, then, immediately to Paris, and join me at the Louvre.


There is the end of my exile! God be praised, I am no longer a jailer!


So, then, you must leave us?


Yes, but to meet again, dear friend, seeing that Raoul is old enough now to go alone with M. de Beaufort, and will prefer his father going back in company with M. d’Artagnan, to forcing him to travel two hundred leagues solitarily to reach home at La Fere; will you not, Raoul?


Certainly,


No, no, my friend. I will never quit Raoul till the day his vessel disappears on the horizon. As long as he remains in France he shall not be separated from me.


As you please, dear friend; but we will, at least, leave Sainte-Marguerite together; take advantage of the bark that will convey me back to Antibes.


With all my heart; we cannot too soon be at a distance from this fort, and from the spectacle that shocked us so just now.


My friends, you bear too much resemblance to two soldiers who are abandoning their post. Something warns me that Raoul will require being supported by you in his rank. Will you allow me to ask permission to go over into Africa with a hundred good muskets? The king will not refuse me, and I will take you with me.


Monsieur d’Artagnan, thanks for that offer, which would give us more than we wish, either monsieur le comte or I. I, who am young, stand in need of labor of mind and fatigue of body; monsieur le comte wants the profoundest repose. You are his best friend. I recommend him to your care. In watching over him, you are holding both our souls in your hands.


I must go; my horse is all in a fret. Come, comte, how many days longer has Raoul to stay here?


Three days at most.


And how long will it take you to reach home?


Oh! a considerable time. I shall not like the idea of being separated too quickly from Raoul. Time will travel too fast of itself to require me to aid it by distance. I shall only make half-stages.


And why so, my friend? Nothing is more dull than traveling slowly; and hostelry life does not become a man like you.


My friend, I came hither on post-horses; but I wish to purchase two animals of a superior kind. Now, to take them home fresh, it would not be prudent to make them travel more than seven or eight leagues a day.


Where is Grimaud?


He arrived yesterday morning with Raoul’s appointments; and I have left him to sleep.


That is, never to come back again. Till we meet again, then, dear Athos--and if you are diligent, I shall embrace you the sooner.


Farewell!


Alas!


alas! alas!


An evil omen! I could not smile upon them. An evil omen!


When the moon had risen to its fullest height, caressing with light the neighboring peaks, when the watery mirror was illumined in its full extent, and the little red fires had made their openings in the black masses of every ship, Athos, collecting all his ideas and all his courage, said: God has made all these things that we see, Raoul; He has made us also,--poor atoms mixed up with this monstrous universe. We shine like those fires and those stars; we sigh like those waves; we suffer like those great ships, which are worn out in plowing the waves, in obeying the wind that urges them towards an end, as the breath of God blows us towards a port. Everything likes to live, Raoul; and everything seems beautiful to living things.


Monsieur, we have before us a beautiful spectacle!


How good D’Artagnan is! and what a rare good fortune it is to be supported during a whole life by such a friend as he is! That is what you have missed, Raoul.


A friend! I have wanted a friend!


M. de Guiche is an agreeable companion, but I believe, in the times in which you live, men are more engaged in their own interests and their own pleasures than they were in ours. You have sought a secluded life; that is a great happiness, but you have lost your strength thereby. We four, more weaned from those delicate abstractions that constitute your joy, furnished much more resistance when misfortune presented itself.


I have not interrupted you, monsieur, to tell you that I had a friend, and that that friend is M. de Guiche. Certes, he is good and generous, and moreover he loves me. But I have lived under the guardianship of another friendship, monsieur, as precious and as strong as that of which you speak, since it is yours.


I have not been a friend for you, Raoul,


Eh! monsieur, and in what respect not?


Because I have given you reason to think that life has but one face, because, sad and severe, alas! I have always cut off for you, without, God knows, wishing to do so, the joyous buds that spring incessantly from the fair tree of youth; so that at this moment I repent of not having made of you a more expansive, dissipated, animated man.


I know why you say that, monsieur. No, it is not you who have made me what I am; it was love, which took me at the time when children only have inclinations; it is the constancy natural to my character, which with other creatures is but habit. I believed that I should always be as I was; I thought God had cast me in a path quite clear, quite straight, bordered with fruits and flowers. I had ever watching over me your vigilance and strength. I believed myself to be vigilant and strong. Nothing prepared me; I fell once, and that once deprived me of courage for the whole of my life. It is quite true that I wrecked myself. Oh, no, monsieur! you are nothing in my past but happiness--in my future but hope! No, I have no reproach to make against life such as you made it for me; I bless you, and I love you ardently.


My dear Raoul, your words do me good. They prove to me that you will act a little for me in the time to come.


I shall only act for you, monsieur.


Raoul, what I have never hitherto done with respect to you, I will henceforward do. I will be your friend, not your father. We will live in expanding ourselves, instead of living and holding ourselves prisoners, when you come back. And that will be soon, will it not?


Certainly, monsieur, for such an expedition cannot last long.


Soon, then, Raoul, soon, instead of living moderately on my income, I will give you the capital of my estates. It will suffice for launching you into the world till my death; and you will give me, I hope, before that time, the consolation of not seeing my race extinct.


I will do all you may command,


It is not necessary, Raoul, that your duty as aide-de-camp should lead you into too hazardous enterprises. You have gone through your ordeal; you are known to be a true man under fire. Remember that war with Arabs is a war of snares, ambuscades, and assassinations.


So it is said, monsieur.


There is never much glory in falling in an ambuscade. It is a death which always implies a little rashness or want of foresight. Often, indeed, he who falls in one meets with but little pity. Those who are not pitied, Raoul, have died to little purpose. Still further, the conqueror laughs, and we Frenchmen ought not to allow stupid infidels to triumph over our faults. Do you clearly understand what I am saying to you, Raoul? God forbid I should encourage you to avoid encounters.


I am naturally prudent, monsieur, and I have very good fortune, for, in twenty combats through which I have been, I have only received one scratch.


There is in addition the climate to be dreaded: that is an ugly end, to die of fever! King Saint-Louis prayed God to send him an arrow or the plague, rather than the fever.


Oh, monsieur! with sobriety, with reasonable exercise--


I have already obtained from M. de Beaufort a promise that his dispatches shall be sent off every fortnight to France. You, as his aide-de-camp, will be charged with expediting them, and will be sure not to forget me.


No, monsieur,


Besides, Raoul, as you are a good Christian, and I am one also, we ought to reckon upon a more special protection of God and His guardian angels. Promise me that if anything evil should happen to you, on any occasion, you will think of me at once.


First and at once! Oh! yes, monsieur.


And will call upon me?


Instantly.


You dream of me sometimes, do you not, Raoul?


Every night, monsieur. During my early youth I saw you in my dreams, calm and mild, with one hand stretched out over my head, and that it was which made me sleep so soundly--formerly.


We love each other too dearly, that from this moment, in which we separate, a portion of both our souls should not travel with one and the other of us, and should not dwell wherever we may dwell. Whenever you may be sad, Raoul, I feel that my heart will be dissolved in sadness; and when you smile on thinking of me, be assured you will send me, from however remote a distance, a vital scintillation of your joy.


I will not promise you to be joyous, but you may be certain that I will never pass an hour without thinking of you, not one hour, I swear, unless I shall be dead.


Oh! my good Grimaud, what do you want? You are come to tell us it is time to be gone, have you not?


Alone?


No, Raoul shall not go alone; no, he shall not be left alone in a strange land without some friendly hand to support him, some friendly heart to recall to him all he loved!


I?


You, yes, you!


Alas! you are very old, my good Grimaud.


So much the better,


and you are not prepared.


Yes,


But, again objected Raoul, you cannot leave monsieur le comte thus alone; monsieur le comte, whom you have never quitted?


Monsieur le comte prefers my going,


I do,


Have the kindness to tell the prince, that I request he will allow me this hour to enjoy the company of my father.


No, no, an aide-de-camp ought not thus to quit his general. Please to tell the prince, monsieur, that the vicomte will join him immediately. Whether we part here or part there, it is no less a separation. But, Raoul, you want money. M. de Beaufort’s train will be splendid, and I am certain it will be agreeable to you to purchase horses and arms, which are very dear things in Africa. Now, as you are not actually in the service of the king or M. de Beaufort, and are simply a volunteer, you must not reckon upon either pay or largesse. But I should not like you to want for anything at Gigelli. Here are two hundred pistoles; if you would please me, Raoul, spend them.


Accompany us on board,


you will gain a good half-hour.


No, my farewell has been spoken, I do not wish to voice a second.


Then, vicomte, embark--embark quickly!


Adieu!


Rabaud, mind, we must travel thirty leagues a day.


At your pleasure, captain,


Where had he been? What had become of him so long? Why had they not seen him as usual make his fine horse curvet in such beautiful style, to the delight and astonishment of the curious from the king’s balcony?


I have just come from the land of oranges.


From the land of oranges? From Spain?


Eh! eh!


From Malta?


Ma foi! You are coming very near, ladies.


Is it an island?


Mademoiselle. I will not give you the trouble of seeking any further; I come from the country where M. de Beaufort is, at this moment, embarking for Algiers.


Have you seen the army?


As plainly as I see you,


And the fleet?


Yes, I saw everything.


Have we any of us any friends there?


Why, yes; there were M. de la Guillotiere, M. de Manchy, M. de Bragelonne--


M. de Bragelonne! Eh, what!--is he gone to the wars?--he! Do you know what my opinion is?


No, mademoiselle; but I should like very much to know it.


My opinion is, then, that all the men who go to this war are desperate, desponding men, whom love has treated ill; and who go to try if they cannot find jet-complexioned women more kind than fair ones have been.


Mademoiselle, you are in error when you speak of black women at Gigelli; the women there have not jet faces; it is true they are not white--they are yellow.


Yellow!


Eh! do not disparage it. I have never seen a finer color to match with black eyes and a coral mouth.


So much the better for M. de Bragelonne. He will make amends for his loss. Poor fellow!


Do you know, Louise, that there is a great sin on your conscience?


What sin, mademoiselle?


Eh!--why, the poor young man was affianced to you; he loved you; you cast him off.


Well, that is a right which every honest woman has. When we know we cannot constitute the happiness of a man, it is much better to cast him off.


Cast him off! or refuse him!--that’s all very well, but that is not the sin Mademoiselle de la Vallière has to reproach herself with. The actual sin is sending poor Bragelonne to the wars; and to wars in which death is so very likely to be met with. And if he dies, you will have killed him. That is the sin.


You wished to speak with me, Monsieur d’Artagnan. What had you to say to me?


What I had to say to you, mademoiselle. Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente has just expressed; roughly and unkindly, it is true but still in its entirety.


Ah! monsieur! you have been diligent! I am much pleased with you.


Well! Monsieur d’Artagnan, the prisoner?


Is in his prison, sire.


What did he say on the road?


Nothing, sire.


What did he do?


There was a moment at which the fisherman--who took me in his boat to Sainte-Marguerite--revolted, and did his best to kill me. The--the prisoner defended me instead of attempting to fly.


Enough! Were you at Antibes, when Monsieur de Beaufort came there?


No, sire; I was setting off when monsieur le duc arrived.


Ah! Whom did you see there?


A great many persons,


I have sent for you, monsieur le capitaine, to desire you to go and prepare my lodgings at Nantes.


At Nantes!


In Bretagne.


Yes, sire, it is in Bretagne. Will you majesty make so long a journey as to Nantes?


The States are assembled there. I have two demands to make of them: I wish to be there.


When shall I set out?


This evening--to-morrow--to-morrow evening; for you must stand in need of rest.


I have rested, sire.


That is well. Then between this and to-morrow evening, when you please.


Will you majesty, take the court with you?


Certainly I shall.


Then you majesty will, doubtless, want the musketeers?


Take a brigade of them,


Is that all? Has your majesty no other orders to give me?


No--ah--yes.


I am all attention, sire.


At the castle of Nantes, which I hear is very ill arranged, you will adopt the practice of placing musketeers at the door of each of the principal dignitaries I shall take with me.


Of the principal?


Yes.


For instance, at the door of M. de Lyonne?


And that of M. Letellier?


Of M. de Brienne?


And of monsieur le surintendant?


Without doubt.


Very well, sire. By to-morrow I shall have set out.


Oh, yes; but one more word, Monsieur d’Artagnan. At Nantes you will meet with M. le Duc de Gesvres, captain of the guards. Be sure that your musketeers are placed before his guards arrive. Precedence always belongs to the first comer.


Yes, sire.


And if M. de Gesvres should question you?


Question me, sire! Is it likely that M. de Gesvres should question me? To Nantes! Why did he not dare to say, from thence to Belle-Isle?


Monsieur d’Artagnan! I beg your pardon--


What is the matter, Monsieur Ariste?


The king has desired me to give you this order.


Upon your cash-box?


No, monsieur; on that of M. Fouquet.


What! M. Fouquet is to pay for the journey, then! Mordioux! that is a bit of pure Louis XI. Why was not this order on the chest of M. Colbert? He would have paid it with such joy.


On the king’s service.


that was a very respectable reason, but that the customs of the house were respectable likewise; and that, in consequence, he begged the bearer to call again next day. If monsieur wishes to speak to M. le surintendant, he must go to the ante-chambers; these are the offices, where monseigneur never comes.


Oh! very well! Where are they?


On the other side of the court,


Monseigneur sees nobody at this hour,


Tell him, that I am M. d’Artagnan, captain of his majesty’s musketeers. There is nothing unpleasant, Monsieur Pelisson; only a little order to receive the money for.


Ah!


Pardon me, Monsieur d’Artagnan, if I did not myself receive you when coming in the king’s name.


Monseigneur. I only come to you in the king’s name to demand payment of an order for two hundred pistoles.


Ah! then, perhaps you also are setting out for Nantes?


I do not know whither I am setting out, monseigneur.


But, you are not going so soon, monsieur le capitaine, as not to do us the honor to take a seat with us?


Madame, I should esteem that a great honor done me, but I am so pressed for time, that, you see, I have been obliged to permit myself to interrupt your repast to procure payment of my note.


The reply to which shall be gold, said Fouquet, making a sign to his intendant, who went out with the order D’Artagnan handed him.


Oh! I was not uneasy about the payment; the house is good.


Are you in pain?


Do you feel your attack coming on?


Neither, thank you both,


Your attack? are you unwell, monseigneur?


I have a tertian fever, which seized me after the fete at Vaux.


Caught cold in the grottos, at night, perhaps?


No, no; nothing but agitation, that was all.


The too much heart you displayed in your reception of the king,


We cannot devote too much heart to the reception of our king,


Monsieur meant to say the too great ardor. The fact is, monseigneur, that hospitality was never practiced as at Vaux.


Monsieur, to the health of the king, whatever may happen.


And to your health, monseigneur, whatever may happen,


I, for a moment, thought it was I and not my money he wanted, my dear brothers in Epicurus. I do not wish to make a comparison between the most humble sinner on the earth, and the God we adore, but remember, he gave one day to his friends a repast which is called the Last Supper, and which was nothing but a farewell dinner, like that which we are making at this moment. My friends, what was I formerly? What am I now? Consult among yourselves and reply. A man like me sinks when he does not continue to rise. What shall we say, then, when he really sinks? I have no more money, no more credit; I have no longer anything but powerful enemies, and powerless friends.


Quick! Since you explain yourself with such frankness, it is our duty to be frank, likewise. Yes, you are ruined--yes, you are hastening to your ruin--stop. And, in the first place, what money have we left?


Seven hundred thousand livres,


Bread,


relays, and fly!


If monseigneur flies, it will be said that he was guilty--was afraid.


More than that, it will be said that I have carried away twenty millions with me.


We will draw up memoirs to justify you. Fly!


I will remain. And, besides, does not everything serve me?


You have Belle-Isle,


Patience, then, patience!


Before arriving at Nantes, what a distance!


But what is to be done there? The king summons me to the States. I know well it is for the purpose of ruining me; but to refuse to go would be to evince uneasiness.


Well, I have discovered the means of reconciling everything. You are going to set out for Nantes. But with friends; but in your own carriage as far as Orleans; in your own barge as far as Nantes; always ready to defend yourself, if you are attacked; to escape, if you are threatened. In fact, you will carry your money against all chances; and, whilst flying, you will only have obeyed the king; then, reaching the sea, when you like, you will embark for Belle-Isle, and from Belle-Isle you will shoot out wherever it may please you, like the eagle that leaps into space when it has been driven from its eyrie.


Yes, do so,


Do so,


Do it! do it!


I will do so,


With seven hundred thousand livres you can lay the foundation of another fortune,


And, if necessary, we will go and discover a new world,


A courier from the king,


That is well, monsieur.


Well,


you have received that letter? Received it, yes! What will you do, then? Nothing, since I have received it. If I have received it, Pelisson, I have paid it,


Then we are ruined!


Come, no useless words. Next to money, life. Monseigneur, to horse! to horse!


What, leave us!


Monseigneur! I escorted, as you desired, the king’s courier with the money. Well! when I arrived at the Palais Royal, I saw-- I saw the musketeers mounting on horseback,


There, then! is there an instant to be lost?


Madame, in the name of his safety, do not betray anything, do not manifest alarm.


Humph! the old duchesse is no more inaccessible to friendship than formerly. She paying her court to the mistress of M. Colbert! Poor M. Fouquet! that presages you nothing good!


Why do you yourself hate him?


Madame, in politics, the differences of system oft bring about dissentions between men. M. Fouquet always appeared to me to practice a system opposed to the true interests of the king.


I will say no more to you about M. Fouquet. The journey the king is about to take to Nantes will give a good account of him. M. Fouquet, for me, is a man gone by--and for you also. On his return from Nantes, the king, who is only anxious for a pretext, will find that the States have not behaved well--that they have made too few sacrifices. The States will say that the imposts are too heavy, and that the surintendant has ruined them. The king will lay all the blame on M. Fouquet, and then--


And then?


Oh! he will be disgraced. Is not that your opinion? Your place, M. Colbert, must be a high place. Do you perceive any one between the king and yourself, after the fall of M. Fouquet?