o author is less capable of being illustrated by extracts than
Alexandre Dumas. Writers like Prosper Mérimée or Mr. Robert Louis
Stevenson can be not inadequately represented by a short story or a
brief scene. Even from Scott's work we can detach 'Wandering Willie's
Tale,' or 'The Tapestried Chamber,' or the study of Effie Deans in
prison, or of Jeanie Deans before the Queen. But Dumas is invariably
diffuse; though, unlike other diffuse talkers and writers, he is
seldom tedious. He is long without longueurs. A single example will
explain this better than a page of disquisition. The present selector
had meant to extract Dumas's first meeting with Charles Nodier at the
theatre. In memory, that amusing scene appeared to occupy some six
pages. In fact, it covers nearly a hundred and thirty pages of the
Brussels edition of the 'Memoirs' of Dumas. One reads it with such
pleasure that looked back upon, it seems short, while it is infinitely
too long to be extracted. In dialogue Dumas is both excellent and
copious, so that he cannot well be abbreviated. He is the Porthos of
novelists, gigantic, yet (at his best) muscular and not overgrown. For
these reasons, extracts out of his romances do no justice to Dumas. To
read one of his novels, say 'The Three Musketeers,' even in a slovenly
translation, is to know more of him than a world of critics and
essayists can teach. It is also to forget the world, and to dwell in a
careless Paradise. Our object therefore is not to give an "essence of
Dumas," but to make readers peruse him in his own books, and to save
them trouble by indicating, among these books, the best.
It is notorious that Dumas was at the head of a "Company" like that
which Scott laughingly proposed to form "for writing and publishing
the class of books called Waverley Novels." In legal phrase, Dumas
"deviled" his work; he had assistants, "researchers," collaborators.
He would briefly sketch a plot, indicate the authorities to be
consulted, hand his notes to Maquet or Fiorentino, receive their
draught, and expand that into a romance. Work thus executed cannot be
equal to itself. Many books signed by Dumas may be neglected without
loss. Even to his best works, one or other of his assistants was apt
to assert a claim. The answer is convincing. Not one of
these ingenious men ever produced, by himself, anything that could be
mistaken for the work of the master. All his good things have the same
stamp and the same spirit, which we find nowhere else. Again, nobody
contests his authorship of his own 'Memoirs,' or of his book about his
dogs, birds, and other beasts—'The Story of My Pets.' Now, the merit
of these productions is, in kind, identical with many of the merits of
his best novels. There is the same good-humor, gayety, and fullness of
life. We may therefore read Dumas's central romances without much fear
of being grateful to the wrong person. Against the modern theory that
the Iliad and Odyssey are the work of many hands in many ages, we can
urge that these supposed "hands" never did anything nearly so good for
themselves; and the same argument applies in the case of Alexandre
Dumas.
A brief sketch of his life must now be given. "No man has had
so many of his possessions disputed as myself," says Dumas. Not
only his right to his novels, but his right to his name and to legitimate
birth, was contested. Here we shall follow his own account of
himself in his 'Memoirs,' which do not cover nearly the whole of his
life. Alexandre Dumas was born at Villers-Cotterets-sur-Aisne, on
July 24th, 1803(?). He lived to almost exactly the threescore and ten
years of the Psalmist. He saw the fall of Napoleon, the restoration
of the rightful king, the expulsion of the Legitimate monarch in
1830, the Orleans rule, its overthrow in 1848, the Republic, the
Empire, and the Terrible Year, 1870-1871. Then he died, in the
hour of the sorrow of his
"Immortal and indomitable France."
ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
Dumas's full name was noble: he was Alexandre Dumas-Davy de la
Pailleterie. His family estate, La Pailleterie, was made a marquisate
by Louis XIV. in 1707. About 1760 the grandfather of Dumas sold his
lands in France, and went to Hayti. There in 1762 was born his father,
son of Louise Cossette Dumas and of the Marquis de la Pailleterie. The
mother must have been a woman of color; Dumas talks of his father's
"mulatto hue," and he himself had undoubted traces of African blood.
Yet it appears that the grandparents were duly married. In 1772, his
wife having died, the old marquis returned to France. The Revolution
broke out, and the father of Alexandre Dumas fought in the armies of
the Republic. The cruel mob called him by way of mockery, "Monsieur
Humanity," because he endeavored to rescue the victims of their
ferocity. He was a man of great courage and enormous physical strength.
Napoleon, in honor of one of his feats of arms, called him in a dispatch
"The Horatius Cocles of the Republic." He was with Napoleon in
Egypt, where a quarrel arose, as he suspected and opposed
the ambition of the future emperor. Though Dumas found a treasure in a
bey's house, he honorably presented it to his government. He died in
France, a poor man, in 1806.
Dumas was not at home when his father died. He was staying, a
child of four, with his cousin Marianne.
"At midnight I was awakened, or rather my cousin and I were awakened,
by a great blow struck on the door of our room. By the light of a night
lamp I saw my cousin start up, much alarmed. No mortal could have
knocked at our chamber door, for the outer doors were locked. [He gives a
plan of the house.] I got out of bed to open the door. 'Where are you
going, Alexandre?' cried my cousin.
"'To let in papa, who is coming to say adieu.'
"The girl dragged me back to bed; I cried, 'Adieu, papa, adieu!' Something
like a sighing breath passed over my face.... My father had died
at the hour when we heard the knock!"
This anecdote may remind the reader of what occurred at Abbotsford
on the night when Mr. Bullock died in London. Dumas tells
another tale of the same kind ('Memoirs,' Vol. xi., page 255: Brussels,
1852). On the night of his mother's death he in vain sought a
similar experience. These things "come not by observation"; but
Dumas, like Scott, had a mind not untuned to such themes, though
not superstitious.
Young Dumas, like most men of literary genius, taught himself to
read. A Buffon with plates was the treasure of the child, already a
lover of animals. To know more about the beasts he learned to read
for his own pleasure. Of mythology he was as fond as Keats. His
intellectual life began (like the imaginative life of our race) in legends
of beasts and gods. For Dumas was born un primitif, as the French
say; his taste was the old immortal human taste for romance, for
tales of adventure, love, and war. This predilection is now of course
often scouted by critics who are over-civilized and under-educated.
Superior persons will never share the love of Dumas which was common
to Thackeray and Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson. From Buffon he
went on to the 'Letters to Émil' (letters on mythology), and to the
'Arabian Nights.' An imaginative child, he knew the "pains of
sleep" as Coleridge did, and the terrors of vain imagination. Many
children whose manhood is not marked by genius are visionaries. A
visionary too was little Dumas, like Scott, Coleridge, and George
Sand in childhood. To the material world he ever showed a bold
face. "I have never known doubt or despair," he says; his faith in
God was always unshaken; the doctrine of immortality he regarded
rather with hope than absolute belief. Yet surely it is a corollary to
the main article of his creed.
At ten, Dumas went to a private school kept by an Abbé Grégoire.
At the Restoration, a boy of twelve, he made and he adhered to an
important resolution. He chose to keep his grandmaternal name of
Dumas, like his father, and to drop the name and arms of De la
Pailleterie, with all the hopes of boons from the restored Royalists.
Dumas remained a man of the popular party, though he had certain
relations of friendship with the house of Orléans. But he entertained
no posthumous hatred of the old monarchy and the old times. His
kings are nearly as good, in his romances, as Sir Walter's own, and
his Henri III. and Henri IV. may be named with Scott's Gentle King
Jamie and Louis XI.
Madame Dumas, marquise as she was by marriage, kept a tobacconist's
shop; and in education, Dumas was mainly noted for his calligraphy.
Poaching was now the boy's favorite amusement; all through his life he
was very fond of sport. Napoleon returned from Elba; Dumas saw him
drive through Villers-Cotterets on his way to Waterloo. Soon
afterwards came in stragglers; the English, they said, had been
defeated at five o'clock on June 18th, but the Prussians arrived at
six o'clock and won the battle. What the English were doing between
five and six does not appear; it hardly seems that they quitted the
field. The theory of that British defeat at Waterloo was never
abandoned by Dumas. He saw Napoleon return through Villers-Cotterets.
"Wellington, Bülow, Blücher, were but masks of men; really they were
spirits sent by the Most High to defeat Napoleon." It is a pious
opinion!
At the age of fifteen Dumas, like Scott, became a notary's clerk.
About this time he saw 'Hamlet' played, in the version of Ducis.
Corneille and Racine had always been disliked by this born romanticist.
'Hamlet' carried him off his feet. Soon afterwards he read
Bürger's 'Lenore,' the ballad which Scott translated at the very
beginning of his career as an author.
"Tramp! tramp! along the land they rode,
Splash! splash! along the sea;
The scourge is red, the spur drops blood,
The flashing pebbles flee."
This German ballad, says Scott, "struck him as the kind of thing
he could do himself." And Dumas found that the refrain
"Hurrah, fantôme, les morts vont vite,"
was more to his taste than the French poetry of the eighteenth century.
He tried to translate 'Lenore.' Scott finished it in a night;
Dumas gave up in despair. But this, he says, was the beginning of
his authorship. He had not yet opened a volume of Scott or Cooper,
"ces deux grands romanciers." With a friend named Leuven he
began to try to write plays (1820-1821). He now poached his way to
Paris, defraying his expenses with the game he shot on the road.
Shakespeare too was a poacher; let us excuse the eccentricities of
genius. He made Talma's acquaintance; he went to the play; he
resigned his clerkship: "Paris was my future." Thither he went; his
father's name served him with General Foy, and he obtained a little
post in the household of the Duc D'Orléans—a supernumerary secretaryship
at £60 a year. At the play he met Charles Nodier, reading
the rarest of Elzevirs, and at intervals (like Charles Lamb) hissing
his own piece! This delightful scene, with its consequences, occupies
one hundred and thirty pages!
Dumas now made the acquaintance of Frederic Soulié, and became
a pillar of theatres. He began to read with a purpose: first he read
Scott; "The clouds lifted, and I beheld new horizons." Then he
turned to Cooper; then to Byron. One day he entered his office, crying
aloud, "Byron is dead!" "Who is Byron?" said one of his chiefs.
Here Dumas breaks off in his 'Memoirs' to give a life of Byron! He
fought his first duel in the snow, and won an easy, almost a bloodless
victory. For years he and Leuven wrote plays together,—plays
which were never accepted.
At last he, Rousseau (not Jean Jacques!), and Leuven composed a
piece together. Refused at one house, it was accepted at another:
'La Chasse et l'Amour' (The Chase and Love) was presented on
September 22d, 1823. It succeeded. A volume of three short stories
sold to the extent of four copies. Dumas saw that he must "make a
name" before he could make a livelihood. "I do not believe in neglected
talent and unappreciated genius," says he. Like Mr. Arthur
Pendennis, he wrote verses "up to" pictures. Thackeray did the
same. "Lady Blessington once sent him an album print of a boy and
girl fishing, with a request that he would make some verses for it.
'And,' he said, 'I liked the idea, and set about it at once. I was
two entire days at it,—was so occupied with it, so engrossed by it,
that I did not shave during the whole time.'" So says Mr. Locker-Lampson.
We cannot all be Dumas or Thackeray. But if any literary beginner
reads these lines, let him take Dumas's advice; let him disbelieve
in neglected genius, and do the work that comes in his way, as best
he can. Dumas had a little anonymous success in 1826, a vaudeville
at the Porte-Saint-Martin. At last he achieved a serious tragedy, or
melodrama, in verse, 'Christine.' He wrote to Nodier, reminding him
of their meeting at the play. The author of 'Trilby' introduced him
to Taylor; Taylor took him to the Théâtre Français; 'Christine' was
read and accepted unanimously.
Dumas now struck the vein of his fortune. By chance he opened
a volume of Anquetil, and read an anecdote of the court of Henri III.
This led him to study the history of Saint Megrin, in the Memoirs
of L'Estoile, where he met Quelus, and Maugiron, and Bussy d'Amboise,
with the stirring tale of his last fight against twelve men.
Out of these facts he made his play 'Henri III.,' and the same
studies inspired that trilogy of romances 'La Reine Margot' (Queen
Margot), 'La Dame de Monsoreau' (The Lady of Monsoreau), and
'Les Quarante-Cinq' (The Forty-Five). These are, with the trilogy
of the 'Mousquetaires,' his central works as a romancer, and he was
twenty-five when he began to deal with the romance of history. His
habit was to narrate his play or novel, to his friends, to invent as he
talked, and so to arrive at his general plan. The mere writing gave
him no trouble. We shall later show his method in the composition
of 'The Three Musketeers.'
'Christine' had been wrecked among the cross-currents of theatrical
life. 'Henri III.' was more fortunate. Dumas was indeed
obliged to choose between his little office and the stage; he abandoned
his secretaryship. In 1829 occurred this "duel between his
past and his future." Just before the first night of the drama,
Dumas's mother, whom he tenderly loved, was stricken down by
paralysis. He tended her, he watched over his piece, he almost
dragged the Duc d'Orléans to the theatre. On that night he made
the acquaintance of Hugo and Alfred de Vigny. Dumas passed the
evening between the theatre and his mother's bedside. When the
curtain fell, he was "called on"; the audience stood up uncovered,
the Duc d'Orléans and all!
Next morning Dumas, like Byron, "woke to find himself famous." He had
"made his name" in the only legitimate way,—by his work. Troubles
followed, difficulties with the Censorship, duels and rumors of duels,
and the whole romantic upheaval which accompanied the Revolution of
1830. Dumas was attached again to the Orléans household. He dabbled in
animal magnetism, which had been called mesmerism, and now is known as
hypnotism. The phenomena are the same; only the explanations vary.
About 1830 there was a mania for animal magnetism in Paris; Lady
Louisa Stuart recounted some of the marvels to Sir Walter Scott, who
treated the reports with disdain. When writing his romance 'Joseph
Balsamo' (a tale of the French Revolution), Dumas made studies of
animal magnetism, and was, or believed himself to be, an adept. The
orthodox party of modern hypnotists merely hold that by certain
physical means, a state of somnambulism can be produced in certain
people. Once in that state, the patients are subject, to "suggestion,"
and are obedient to the will of the hypnotizer. He for his part exerts
no "magnetic current," no novel unexplained force or fluid. Some recent
French and English experiments are not easily to be reconciled with this
hypothesis. Dumas himself believed that he exerted a magnetic force, and
without any "passes" or other mechanical means, could hypnotize persons who
did not know what he was about, and so were not influenced by "suggestion."
In a few cases he held that his patients became clairvoyant; one of
them made many political prophecies,—all unfulfilled. Another,
in trance, improved vastly as a singer; "her normal voice stopped at
contre-si. I bade her rise to contre-re, which she did; though
incapable of it when awake." So far, this justifies the plot of Mr. Du
Maurier's novel 'Trilby.' Dumas offers no theory; he states facts, as
he says, including "post-hypnotic suggestion."
These experiments were made by Dumas merely as part of his studies for
'Joseph Balsamo' (Cagliostro); his conclusion was that hypnotism is
not yet reduced to a scientific formula. In fiction it is already
overworked. Dumas got his 'Christine' acted at last. Then broke out
the Revolution of 1830. Dumas's description of his activity is "as
good as a novel," but too long and varied for condensation. It seems
better to give this extract about his life of poverty before his
mother died, before fame visited him. (I quote Miss Cheape's
translation of the passage included in her 'Stories of Beasts,'
published by Longmans, Green and Company.)
He had, in later years, named a cat Mysouff II.
"If you won't think me impertinent, sir," said Madame Lamarque, "I should
so like to know what Mysouff means."
"Mysouff just means Mysouff, Madame Lamarque."
"It is a cat's name, then?"
"Certainly, since Mysouff the First was so-called. It is true, Madame
Lamarque, you never knew Mysouff." And I became so thoughtful that
Madame Lamarque was kind enough to withdraw quietly, without asking
any questions about Mysouff the First.
That name had taken me back to fifteen years ago, when my mother was
still living. I had then the great happiness of having a mother to
scold me sometimes. At the time I speak of, I held a situation in the
service of the Duc d'Orléans, with a salary of 1500 francs. My work
occupied me from ten in the morning until five in the afternoon. We
had a cat in those days, whose name was Mysouff. This cat had missed
his vocation; he ought to have been a dog. Every morning I started for
my office at half-past nine, and came back every evening at half-past
five. Every morning Mysouff followed me to the corner of a particular
street, and every evening I found him in the same street, at the same
corner, waiting for me. Now the curious thing was that on the days
when I had found some amusement elsewhere, and was not coming home to
dinner, it was of no use to open the door for Mysouff to go and meet
me. Mysouff, in the attitude of the serpent with its tail in its
mouth, refused to stir from his cushion. On the other hand, on the
days I did come, Mysouff would scratch at the door until some one
opened it for him. My mother was very fond of Mysouff; she used to
call him her barometer.
"Mysouff marks my good and my bad weather," my dear mother would
say: "the days you come in are my days of sunshine; my rainy days are
when you stay away."
When I came home I used to see Mysouff at the street corner, sitting
quite still and gazing into the distance. As soon as he caught sight
of me, he began to move his tail; then as I drew nearer, he rose and
walked backward and forward across the pavement with his back arched
and his tail in the air. When I reached him, he jumped up upon me as a
dog would have done, and bounded and played round me as I walked
towards the house; but when I was close to it he dashed in at full
speed. Two seconds after, I used to see my mother at the door.
Never again in this world, but perhaps in the next, I shall see her
standing waiting for me at the door.
That is what I was thinking of, dear readers, when the name of Mysouff
brought back all these recollections; so you understand why I did not
answer Madame Lamarque's question.
The life of Dumas after 1830 need not be followed step by step;
indeed, for lack of memoirs, to follow it is by no means easy.
Dumas, by dint of successful plays, and later of successful novels,
earned large sums of money—£40,000 in one year, it is said. He
traveled far and wide, and compiled books of travel. In the forties,
before the Revolution of 1848, he built a kind of Abbotsford of his
own, named "Monte Cristo," near St. Germains, and joyously ruined
himself. "Monte Cristo," like Abbotsford, has been described as a
palace. Now, Abbotsford is so far from being a palace that Mr.
Hope Scott, when his wife, Scott's granddaughter, inherited the place,
was obliged to build an additional wing.
At Monte Cristo Dumas kept but one man-servant, Michel (his "Tom
Purdie"), who was groom, keeper, porter, gardener, and everything. Nor
did Dumas ruin himself by paying exorbitant prices for poor lands, as
Scott did. His collection of books and curios was no rival for that of
Abbotsford. But like Scott, he gave away money to right and left, and
he kept open house. He was eaten up by parasites,—beggars, poor
greedy hangers-on of letters, secretaries, above all by tribes of
musical people. On every side money flowed from him; hard as he
worked, largely as he earned, he spent more. His very dog brought in
thirteen other dogs to bed and board. He kept monkeys, cats, eagles, a
vulture, a perfect menagerie. His own account of these guests may be
read in "My Pets"; perhaps the most humorous, good-humored, and
amusing of all his works.
The Revolution of 1848 impoverished him and drove him from
Monte Cristo; not out of debt to his neighbors. Dumas was a cheerful
giver, but did not love to "fritter away his money in paying
bills." He started newspapers, such as The Musketeer, and rather
lost than gained by a careless editorship. A successful play would
enrich him, and he would throw away his gains. He went with
Garibaldi on his expedition against the King of Naples, and was
received with ingratitude by the Neapolitans.
A friend of Daniel Dunglas Home, the "medium," he accompanied
him to Russia, where Home married a lady of a noble and wealthy
family. Returned to France, Dumas found his popularity waning.
His plays often failed; he had outlived his success and his generation;
he had saved nothing; he had to turn in need to his son
Alexandre, the famous dramatist. Finally he died, doubting the
security of his own fame, in the year of the sorrows of France.
Dumas is described by Michelet as "a force of nature." Never
was there in modern literature a force more puissant, more capricious,
or more genial. His quantity of mind was out of all proportion
to its quality. He could learn everything with ease; he was a
skilled cook, a fencer; he knew almost as if by intuition the technique
and terminology of all arts and crafts. Ignorant of Greek, he
criticized and appreciated Homer with an unmatched zest and appreciation.
Into the dry bones of history he breathed life, mere names
becoming full-blooded fellow-creatures under his spell. His inspiration
was derived from Scott, a man far more learned than he, but
scarcely better gifted with creative energy. Like Scott he is long,
perhaps prolix; like him he is indifferent to niceties of style, does
not linger over the choice of words, but serves himself with the first
that comes to hand. Scott's wide science of human nature is not his;
but his heroes, often rather ruffianly, are seldom mere exemplary
young men of no particular mark. More brilliantly and rapidly than
Scott, he indicates action in dialogue. He does not aim at the construction
of rounded plots; his novels are chronicles which need never
stop while his heroes are alive. His plan is to take a canvas of fact,
in memoir or history, and to embroider his fantasies on that. Occasionally
the canvas (as Mr. Saintsbury says) shows through, and we
have blocks of actual history. His 'Joan of Arc' begins as a romance,
and ends with a comparatively plain statement of facts too
great for any art but Shakespeare's. But as a rule it is not historical
facts, it is the fictitious adventures of characters living in an
historical atmosphere, that entertain us in Dumas.
The minute inquirer may now compare the sixteenth-century 'Memoirs of
Monsieur D'Artagnan' (fictitious memoirs, no doubt) with the use made
of them by Dumas in 'The Three Musketeers' and 'Twenty Years After.'
The 'Memoirs' (reprinted by the Librairie Illustrée, Paris) gave Dumas
his opening scenes; gave him young D'Artagnan, Porthos, Athos, Aramis, Rosnay,
De Treville, Milady, the whole complicated intrigue of Milady, D'Artagnan,
and De Vardes. They gave him several incidents, duels, and "local color." By
making Milady the wife of Athos, Dumas knotted his plot;
he added the journey to England, after the Queen's diamonds;
from a subordinate character he borrowed the clerical character
of Aramis; a mere hint in the 'Memoirs' suggested the Bastion
Saint-Gervais. The discrimination of character, the dialogue, and many
adventures, are Dumas's own; he was aided by Maquet in the actual
writing. In a similar way, Brantôme and L'Estoile, in their 'Memoirs,'
supply the canvas of the tales of the Valois cycle.
The beginner in Dumas will assuredly find the following his best
works. For the Valois period, 'The Horoscope' (a good deal neglected),
'Queen Margot,' 'The Lady of Monsoreau,' 'The Forty-Five.'
'Isabeau of Bavière,' an early novel, deals with the anarchy and
misery before the coming of Jeanne d'Arc. For Henri II., 'The Two
Dianas' is indicated. For the times of Richelieu, Mazarin, Louis
XIV., we have 'The Three Musketeers,' 'Twenty Years After,' and
'The Viscount of Bragelonne.' These deal with the youth, middle
age, old age, and death of D'Artagnan, Porthos, Athos, and Aramis.
The Revolutionary novels, 'Joseph Balsamo,' 'The Queen's Necklace,'
and others, are much less excellent. The Regency is not ill done in
'The Regent's Daughter'; and 'The Chevalier of Harmenthal,' with
'Olympe of Cleves,' has many admirers. Quite apart from these is
the immense modern fantasy of 'The Count of Monte Cristo'; the
opening part alone is worthy of the master. 'The Black Tulip,' so
warmly praised by Thackeray, is an innocent little romance of the
days of Dutch William. Les jeunes filles may read 'The Black Tulip':
indeed, Dumas does not sacrifice at all to "the Goddess of Lubricity,"
even when he describes very lax moralities.
With a knowledge of these books, and of 'My Pets' and the
'Memoirs,' any student will find himself at home in Dumas, and can
make wider ranges in that great wilderness of fancy. Some autobiographical
details will be found in the novel called 'Ange Pithou.'
'Isaac Laquedem' was meant to be a romance of the Wandering
Jew; only two volumes are published. Philosophy a reader will not
find, nor delicate analysis, nor "chiseled style"; but he will be in
touch with a great sunny life, rejoicing in all the accidents of existence.
Not on the same night he had intended, but the next morning, the Count
of Monte Cristo went out on the road to Orléans. Leaving the village
of Linas, without stopping at the telegraph, which at the moment the
count passed threw out its long bony arms, he reached the tower of
Montlhéry, situated, as every one knows, upon the highest point of the
plain of that name. At the foot of the hill the count dismounted, and
began to ascend the mountain by a little winding path about eighteen
inches wide; when he reached the summit he found himself stopped by a
hedge, upon which green fruit had succeeded to red and white flowers.
Monte Cristo looked for the door of the inclosure, and was
not long in finding it. It was a little wooden gate, working on
willow hinges, and fastened with a nail and string. The count
soon understood its mechanism, and the door opened. He then
found himself in a little marvelously well-kept garden, about
twenty feet long by twelve wide, bounded on one side by part
of the hedge, in which was formed the ingenious machine we
have named a door; and on the other by the old tower, covered
with ivy and studded with wild flowers. Monte Cristo stopped,
after having closed the door and fastened the string to the nail,
and cast a look around.
"The man at the telegraph," said he, "must either keep a gardener
or devote himself passionately to horticulture." Suddenly
he struck himself against something crouching behind a wheelbarrow
filled with leaves; the something rose, uttered an exclamation
of astonishment, and Monte Cristo found himself facing a
man about fifty years old, who was plucking strawberries, which
he was placing upon vine-leaves. He had twelve leaves and
about as many strawberries, which, on rising suddenly, he let
fall from his hand. "You are gathering your crop, sir?" said
Monte Cristo, smiling.
"Excuse me, sir," replied the man, raising his hand to his
cap; "I am not up there, I know, but I have only just come
down."
"Do not let me interfere with you in anything, my friend,"
said the count; "gather your strawberries, if indeed there are
any left."
"I have ten left," said the man, "for here are eleven, and I
had twenty-one, five more than last year. But I am not surprised;
the spring has been warm this year, and strawberries require
heat, sir. This is the reason that, instead of the sixteen I
had last year, I have this year, you see, eleven already plucked—twelve,
thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.
Ah, I miss three! they were here last night, sir—I am sure
they were here—I counted them. It must be the son of Mother
Simon who has stolen them; I saw him strolling about here this
morning. Ah! the young rascal! stealing in a garden; he does
not know where that may lead him to."
"Certainly, it is wrong," said Monte Cristo, "but you should
take into consideration the youth and greediness of the delinquent."
"Of course," said the gardener, "but that does not make it
the less unpleasant. But, sir, once more I beg pardon; perhaps
you are an official that I am detaining here?" And he glanced
timidly at the count's blue coat.
"Calm yourself, my friend," said the count, with that smile
which at his will became so terrible or benevolent, and which
this time beamed only with the latter expression; "I am not an
inspector, but a traveler, conducted here by curiosity he half repents
of, since he causes you to lose your time."
"Ah! my time is not valuable," replied the man, with a melancholy
smile. "Still, it belongs to the government, and I ought not to
waste it; but having received the signal that I might rest for an
hour" (here he glanced at a sun-dial, for there was everything in
the inclosure of Montlhéry, even a sun-dial), "and having ten
minutes before me, and my strawberries being ripe, when a day
longer—by-the-by, sir, do you think dormice eat them?"
"Indeed, I should think not," replied Monte Cristo: "dormice
are bad neighbors for us who do not eat them preserved, as the
Romans did."
"What! did the Romans eat them?" said the gardener; "eat
dormice?"
"I have read so," said the count.
"Really! They can't be nice, though they do say 'as fat as
a dormouse.' It is not a wonder they are fat, sleeping all day,
and only waking to eat all night. Listen: last year I had four
apricots—they stole one; I had one nectarine, only one—well,
sir, they ate half of it on the wall; a splendid nectarine—I
never ate a better."
"You ate it?"
"That is to say, the half that was left—you understand; it was
exquisite, sir. Ah, those gentlemen never choose the worst morsels;
like Mother Simon's son, who has not chosen the worst strawberries.
But this year," continued the horticulturist, "I'll take care it shall
not happen, even if I should be forced to sit up the whole night to
watch when the strawberries are ripe." Monte Cristo had seen enough.
Every man has a devouring passion in his heart, as every fruit has its
worm; that of the man at the telegraph was horticulture. He began
gathering the vine-leaves which screened the sun from the grapes, and
won the heart of the gardener. "Did you come here, sir, to see the
telegraph?" he said.
"Yes, if not contrary to the rules."
"Oh no," said the gardener; "there are no orders against
doing so, providing there is nothing dangerous, and that no one
knows what we are saying."
"I have been told," said the count, "that you do not always
yourselves understand the signals you repeat."
"Certainly, sir; and that is what I like best," said the man,
smiling.
"Why do you like that best?"
"Because then I have no responsibility. I am a machine
then, and nothing else; and so long as I work, nothing more is
required of me."
"Is it possible," said Monte Cristo to himself, "that I can
have met with a man that has no ambition? That would spoil
my plans."
"Sir," said the gardener, glancing at the sun-dial, "the ten
minutes are nearly expired; I must return to my post. Will you
go up with me?"
"I follow you." Monte Cristo entered the tower, which was divided into
three stages. The lowest contained gardening implements, such as
spades, rakes, watering-pots, hung against the wall; this was all the
furniture. The second was the usual dwelling or rather sleeping-place
of the man; it contained a few poor articles of household furniture, a
bed, a table, two chairs, a stone pitcher, and some dry herbs hung up
to the ceiling, which the count recognized as sweet-peas, and of which the good
man was preserving the seeds, having labeled them with as much care as if he had been a botanist.
"Does it require much study to learn the art of telegraphing,
sir?" asked Monte Cristo.
"The study does not take long; it was acting as a supernumerary
that was so tedious."
"And what is the pay?"
"A thousand francs, sir."
"It is nothing."
"No; but then we are lodged, as you perceive."
Monte Cristo looked at the room. They passed on to the
third stage; it was the room of the telegraph. Monte Cristo
looked in turns at the two iron handles by which the machine
was worked. "It is very interesting," he said; "but it must be
very tedious for a lifetime."
"Yes. At first my neck was cramped with looking at it, but
at the end of a year I became used to it; and then we have our
hours of recreation, and our holidays when we have a fog."
"Ah, to be sure."
"Those are indeed holidays to me; I go into the garden, I
plant, prune, trim, and kill the insects all day long."
"How long have you been here?"
"Ten years, and five as a supernumerary make fifteen."
"You are—"
"Fifty-five years old."
"How long must you serve to claim the pension?"
"Oh, sir, twenty-five years."
"And how much is the pension?"
"A hundred crowns."
"Poor humanity!" murmured Monte Cristo.
"What did you say, sir?" asked the man.
"I was saying it was very interesting."
"What was?"
"All you were showing me. And you really understand none
of these signals?"
"None at all."
"And have you never tried to understand them?"
"Never. Why should I?"
"But still there are some signals only addressed to you."
"Certainly."
"And do you understand them?"
"They are always the same."
"And they mean—"
"Nothing new; You have an hour; or To-morrow."
"This is simple enough," said the count; "but look! is not
your correspondent putting himself in motion?"
"Ah yes; thank you, sir."
"And what is it saying—anything you understand?"
"Yes; it asks if I am ready."
"And you reply?"
"By the same sign, which at the same time tells my right-hand
correspondent that I am ready, while it gives notice to my
left-hand correspondent to prepare in his turn."
"It is very ingenious," said the count.
"You will see," said the man, proudly; "in five minutes he
will speak."
"I have then five minutes," said Monte Cristo to himself;
"it is more time than I require. My dear sir, will you allow me
to ask you a question?"
"What is it, sir?"
"You are fond of gardening?"
"Passionately."
"And you would be pleased to have, instead of this terrace
of twenty feet, an inclosure of two acres?"
"Sir, I should make a terrestrial paradise of it."
"You live badly on your thousand francs?"
"Badly enough; but yet I do live."
"Yes; but you have only a small garden."
"True, the garden is not large."
"And then, such as it is, it is filled with dormice, who eat
everything."
"Ah! they are my scourges."
"Tell me, should you have the misfortune to turn your head
while your right-hand correspondent was telegraphing—"
"I should not see him."
"Then what would happen?"
"I could not repeat the signals."
"And then?"
"Not having repeated them, through negligence, I should be
fined."
"How much?"
"A hundred francs."
"The tenth of your income—that would be fine work."
"Ah!" said the man.
"Has it ever happened to you?" said Monte Cristo.
"Once, sir, when I was grafting a rose-tree."
"Well, suppose you were to alter a signal, and substitute
another?"
"Ah, that is another case; I should be turned off, and lose
my pension."
"Three hundred francs."
"A hundred crowns; yes, sir; so you see that I am not likely
to do any of these things."
"Not even for fifteen years' wages? Come, it is worth thinking
about?"
"For fifteen thousand francs!"
"Yes."
"Sir, you alarm me."
"Nonsense!"
"Sir, you are tempting me?"
"Just so; fifteen thousand francs, do you understand?"
"Sir, let me see my right-hand correspondent!"
"On the contrary, do not look at him, but on this."
"What is it?"
"What! do you not know these little papers?"
"Bank-notes!"
"Exactly; there are fifteen of them."
"And whose are they?"
"Yours, if you like."
"Mine!" exclaimed the man, half suffocated.
"Yes; yours—your own property."
"Sir, my right-hand correspondent is signaling."
"Let him."
"Sir, you have distracted me; I shall be fined."
"That will cost you a hundred francs; you see it is your
interest to take my bank-notes."
"Sir, my right-hand correspondent redoubles his signals; he is
impatient."
"Never mind—take these;" and the count placed the packet
in the hands of the man. "Now, this is not all," he said; "you
cannot live upon your fifteen thousand francs."
"I shall still have my place."
"No! you will lose it, for you are going to alter the sign of
your correspondent."
"Oh, sir, what are you proposing?"
"A jest!"
"Sir, unless you force me—"
"I think I can effectually force you;" and Monte Cristo drew
another packet from his pocket. "Here are ten thousand more
francs," he said; "with the fifteen thousand already in your
pocket, they will make twenty-five thousand. With five thousand
you can buy a pretty little house with two acres of land;
the remaining twenty thousand will bring you in a thousand
francs a year."
"A garden with two acres of land!"
"And a thousand francs a year."
"Oh heavens!"
"Come, take them!" and Monte Cristo forced the bank-notes
into his hand.
"What am I to do?"
"Nothing very difficult."
"But what is it?"
"To repeat these signs;" Monte Cristo took a paper from his
pocket, upon which were drawn three signs, with numbers to
indicate the order in which they were to be worked.
"There, you see it will not take long."
"Yes; but—"
"Do this, and you will have nectarines and all the rest."
The mark was hit: red with fever, while the large drops fell
from his brow, the man executed, one after the other, the three
signs given by the count; notwithstanding the frightful contortions
of the right-hand correspondent, who, not understanding the
change, began to think the gardener had become mad. As to
the left-hand one, he conscientiously repeated the same signals,
which were definitively carried to the Minister of the Interior.
"Now you are rich," said Monte Cristo.
"Yes," replied the man, "but at what a price!"
"Listen, friend," said Monte Cristo. "I do not wish to cause
you any remorse; believe me, then, when I swear to you that
you have wronged no man, but on the contrary have benefited
mankind." The man looked at the bank-notes, felt them, counted
them; he turned pale, then red; then rushed into his room to
drink a glass of water, but he had no time to reach the water-jug,
and fainted in the midst of his dried herbs. Five minutes
after the new telegram reached the minister, Debray had the
horses put to his carriage, and drove to Danglars's.
"Has your husband any Spanish bonds?" he asked of the baroness.
"I think so, indeed! He has six millions' worth."
"He must sell them at whatever price."
"Why?"
"Because Don Carlos has fled from Bourges, and has returned
to Spain."
"How do you know?"—Debray shrugged his shoulders. "The idea of asking
how I hear the news!" he said. The baroness did not wait for a
repetition; she ran to her husband, who immediately hastened to his
agent and ordered him to sell at any price. When it was seen that
Danglars sold, the Spanish funds fell directly. Danglars lost five
hundred thousand francs; but he rid himself of all his Spanish shares.
The same evening the following was read in Le Messager:—
"Telegraphic dispatch. The King, Don Carlos, has escaped the
vigilance exercised over him at Bourges, and has returned to Spain
by the Catalonian frontier. Barcelona has risen in his favor."
All that evening nothing was spoken of but the foresight of Danglars,
who had sold his shares, and of the luck of the stock-jobber, who only
lost five hundred thousand francs by such a blow. Those who had kept
their shares, or bought those of Danglars, looked upon themselves as
ruined, and passed a very bad night. Next morning Le Moniteur
contained the following:
"It was without any foundation that Le Messager yesterday announced
the flight of Don Carlos and the revolt of Barcelona. The
King (Don Carlos) has not left Bourges, and the peninsula is in the
enjoyment of profound peace. A telegraphic signal, improperly interpreted
owing to the fog, was the cause of this error."
The funds rose one per cent, higher than before they had
fallen. This, reckoning his loss, and what he had missed gaining,
made the difference of a million to Danglars. "Good!" said
Monte Cristo to Morrel, who was at his house when the news
arrived of the strange reverse of fortune of which Danglars had
been the victim. "I have just made a discovery for twenty-five
thousand francs, for which I would have paid a hundred thousand."
"What have you discovered?" asked Morrel.
"I have just discovered the method of ridding a gardener of
the dormice that eat his peaches."
Furious with rage, D'Artagnan crossed the ante-room in three
strides, and began to descend the stairs four steps at a
time, without looking where he was going; when suddenly
he was brought up short by knocking violently against the
shoulder of a musketeer who was leaving the apartments of
M. De Treville. The young man staggered backwards from the
shock, uttering a cry, or rather a yell.
"Excuse me," said D'Artagnan, trying to pass him, "but I
am in a great hurry."
He had hardly placed his foot on the next step, when he was
stopped by the grasp of an iron wrist on his sash.
"You are in a great hurry!" cried the musketeer, whose face
was the color of a shroud; "and you think that is enough apology
for nearly knocking me down? Not so fast, my young man. I
suppose you imagine that because you heard M. De Treville
speaking to us rather brusquely to-day, that everybody may treat
us in the same way? But you are mistaken, and it is as well
you should learn that you are not M. De Treville."
"Upon my honor," replied D'Artagnan, recognizing Athos, who was
returning to his room after having his wound dressed, "upon my honor,
it was an accident, and therefore I begged your pardon. I should have
thought that was all that was necessary. I repeat that I am in a very
great hurry, and I should be much obliged if you would let me go my
way."
"Monsieur," said Athos, loosening his hold, "you are sadly lacking in
courtesy, and one sees that you must have had a rustic upbringing."
D'Artagnan was by this time half-way down another flight; but on
hearing Athos's remark he stopped short.
"My faith, monsieur!" exclaimed he, "however rustic I may be, I shall
not come to you to teach me manners."
"I am not so sure of that," replied Athos.
"Oh, if I was only not in such haste," cried D'Artagnan; "if only I
was not pursuing somebody—"
"Monsieur, you will find me without running after me. Do you
understand?"
"And where, if you please?"
"Near Carmes-Deschaux."
"At what hour?"
"Twelve o'clock."
"Very good. At twelve I will be there."
"And don't be late, for at a quarter past twelve I will cut off your
ears for you."
"All right," called out D'Artagnan, dashing on down-stairs after his
man; "you may expect me at ten minutes before the hour."
But he was not to escape so easily. At the street door stood Porthos,
talking to a sentry, and between the two men there was barely space
for a man to pass. D'Artagnan took it for granted that he could get
through, and darted on, swift as an arrow, but he had not reckoned on
the gale that was blowing. As he passed, a sudden gust wrapped
Porthos's mantle tight round him; and though the owner of the garment
could easily have freed him had he so chosen, for reasons of his own
he preferred to draw the folds still closer.
D'Artagnan, hearing the volley of oaths let fall by the musketeers,
feared he might have damaged the splendor of the belt, and struggled
to unwind himself; but when he at length freed his head, he found that
like most things in this world the belt had two sides, and while the
front bristled with gold, the back was mere leather; which explains
why Porthos always had a cold and could not part from his mantle.
"Confound you!" cried Porthos, struggling in his turn, "have you gone
mad, that you tumble over people like this?"
"Excuse me," answered D'Artagnan, "but I am in a great hurry. I am
pursuing some one, and—"
"And I suppose that on such occasions you leave your eyes behind you?"
asked Porthos.
"No," replied D'Artagnan, rather nettled; "and thanks to my eyes, I
often see things that other people don't."
Possibly Porthos might have understood this allusion, but in any case
he did not attempt to control his anger, and said sharply:—
"Monsieur, we shall have to give you a lesson if you take to tumbling
against the musketeers like this!"
"A lesson, monsieur!" replied D'Artagnan; "that is rather a severe
expression."
"It is the expression of a man who is always accustomed to look his
enemies in the face."
"Oh, if that is all, there is no fear of your turning your back on
anybody," and enchanted at his own wit, the young man walked away in
fits of laughter.
Porthos foamed with rage, and rushed after D'Artagnan.
"By-and-by, by-and-by," cried the latter; "when you have not got your
mantle on."
"At one o'clock then, behind the Luxembourg."
"All right; at one o'clock," replied D'Artagnan as he vanished around
the corner.
But he could see no one either in the street he had passed through, or
in the one his eager gaze was searching; however slowly the stranger
might have walked, he had gone his way, or perhaps into some house.
D'Artagnan inquired of everybody he met, but could find nothing at all
about him. This chase however did him good in one way; for in
proportion as the sweat started out on his forehead, his heart began
to cool.
He began to think over the many unlucky things which had happened. It
was scarcely eleven in the morning, and yet this morning had already
brought him into disgrace with M. Treville, who must think the way
D'Artagnan had left him was rather boorish.
Moreover, he had gotten himself into two fierce duels with two men,
each able to kill three D'Artagnans; in a word, with two
musketeers,—beings he set so high that he placed them above all other
men.
It was a sad lookout. To be sure, as the youth was certain to be
killed by Athos, he was not much disturbed about Porthos. As hope is
the last thing to die in a man's heart, however, he ended by hoping
that he might come out alive from both duels, even if dreadfully
injured; and on that supposition he scored himself in this way for his
conduct:—
"What a rattle-headed dunce I am! That brave and unfortunate Athos was
wounded right on that shoulder I ran against head-foremost, like a
ram. The only thing that surprises me is that he didn't strike me dead
on the spot; he had provocation enough, for I must have hurt him
savagely. As to Porthos—oh! as to Porthos—that's a funny affair!"
And the youth began to laugh aloud in spite of himself; looking round
carefully, however, to see if his laughing alone in public without
apparent cause aroused any suspicion.
"As to Porthos, it is funny enough, to be sure, but I am a crazy
blockhead all the same. Are people to be run into without warning? No!
And have I any right to peep under their cloaks to see what they
haven't got? He would have forgiven me, I am sure, if I had said
nothing to him about that cursed cloak,—with a double meaning, it is
true, but too broad a joke in one of them! Ah! cursed Gascon that I
am, I believe I should crack a joke if I was being roasted over a slow
fire. Friend D'Artagnan," he went on, speaking to himself with the
gentleness he thought fair, "if you get away, which there is not much
chance of, I would advise you to practice entire politeness for the
future. You must henceforth be admired and quoted as a model of it. To
be obliging and civil does not necessarily make a man a coward. Look
at Aramis, now: mildness and grace embodied; and did anybody ever
dream of calling Aramis a coward? No indeed, and from this instant I
will try to model myself after him. And luckily, here he is."
D'Artagnan, walking and soliloquizing, had come within a few steps of
the Aiguillon House, and in front of it saw Aramis chatting gayly with
three of the King's Guards. Aramis also saw D'Artagnan; but not having
forgotten that it was in his presence M. de Treville had got so angry
in the morning, and as a witness of the rebuke was not at all
pleasant, he pretended not to see him. D'Artagnan, on the other hand,
full of his plans of conciliation and politeness, approached the young
man with a profound bow accompanied by a most gracious smile. Aramis
bowed slightly but did not smile. Moreover, all four immediately broke
off their conversation.
D'Artagnan was not so dull as not to see he was not wanted; but he was
not yet used enough to social customs to know how to extricate himself
dexterously from his false position, which his generally is who
accosts people he is little acquainted with, and mingles in a
conversation which does not concern him. He was mentally casting about
for the least awkward manner of retreat, when he noticed that Aramis
had let his handkerchief fall, and (doubtless by mistake) put his foot
on it. This seemed a favorable chance to repair his mistake of
intrusion: he stooped down, and with the most gracious air he could
assume, drew the handkerchief from under the foot in spite of the
efforts made to detain it, and holding it out to Aramis, said:—
"I believe, sir, this is a handkerchief you would be sorry to lose?"
The handkerchief was in truth richly embroidered, and had a cornet and
a coat of arms at one corner. Aramis blushed excessively, and snatched
rather than took the handkerchief.
"Ha! ha!" exclaimed one of the guards, "will you go on saying now,
most discreet Aramis, that you are not on good terms with Madame de
Bois-Tracy, when that gracious lady does you the favor of lending you
her handkerchief!"
Aramis darted at D'Artagnan one of those looks which tell a man that
he has made a mortal enemy; then assuming his mild air he said:—
"You are mistaken, gentlemen: this handkerchief is not mine, and I
cannot understand why this gentleman has taken it into his head to
offer it to me rather than to one of you. And as a proof of what I
say, here is mine in my pocket."
So saying, he pulled out his handkerchief, which was also not only a
very dainty one, and of fine linen (though linen was then costly), but
was embroidered and without arms, bearing only a single cipher, the
owner's.
This time D'Artagnan saw his mistake; but Aramis's friends were by no
means convinced, and one of them, addressing the young musketeer with
pretended gravity, said:—
"If things were as you make out, I should feel obliged, my dear
Aramis, to reclaim it myself; for as you very well know, Bois-Tracy is
an intimate friend of mine, and I cannot allow one of his wife's
belongings to be exhibited as a trophy."
"You make the demand clumsily," replied Aramis; "and while I
acknowledge the justice of your reclamation, I refuse it on account of
the form."
"The fact is," D'Artagnan put in hesitatingly, "I did not actually see
the handkerchief fall from M. Aramis's pocket. He had his foot on it,
that's all, and I thought it was his."
"And you were deceived, my dear sir," replied Aramis coldly, very
little obliged for the explanation; then turning to the guard who had
professed himself Bois-Tracy's friend—"Besides," he went on, "I have
reflected, my dear intimate friend of Bois-Tracy, that I am not less
devotedly his friend than you can possibly be, so that this
handkerchief is quite as likely to have fallen from your pocket as
from mine!"
"On my honor, no!"
"You are about to swear on your honor, and I on my word; and
then it will be pretty evident that one of us will have lied.
Now here, Montaran, we will do better than that: let each take a half."
"Perfectly fair," cried the other two guardsmen; "the judgment of
Solomon! Aramis, you are certainly full of wisdom!"
They burst into a loud laugh, and as may be supposed, the incident
bore no other fruit. In a minute or two the conversation stopped, and
the three guards and the musketeer, after heartily shaking hands,
separated, the guards going one way and Aramis another.
"Now is the time to make my peace with this gentleman," said
D'Artagnan to himself, having stood on one side during all the latter
part of the conversation; and in this good spirit drawing near to
Aramis, who was going off without paying any attention to him, he
said:—
"You will excuse me, I hope."
"Ah!" interrupted Aramis, "permit me to observe to you, sir, that you
have not acted in this affair as a man of good breeding ought."
"What!" cried D'Artagnan, "do you suppose—"
"I suppose that you are not a fool, and that you knew very well, even
though you come from Gascony, that people do not stand on
handkerchiefs for nothing. What the devil! Paris is not paved with
linen!"
"Sir, you do wrong in trying to humiliate me," said D'Artagnan, in
whom his native pugnacity began to speak louder than his peaceful
resolutions. "I come from Gascony, it is true; and since you know it,
there is no need to tell you that Gascons are not very patient, so
that when they have asked pardon once, even for a folly, they think
they have done at least as much again as they ought to have done."
"Sir, what I say to you about this matter," said Aramis, "is not for
the sake of hunting a quarrel. Thank Heaven, I am not a swashbuckler,
and being a musketeer only for a while, I only fight when I am forced
to do so, and always with great reluctance; but this time the affair
is serious, for here is a lady compromised by you."
"By us, you mean," cried D'Artagnan.
"Why did you give me back the handkerchief so awkwardly?"
"Why did you let it fall so awkwardly?"
"I have said that the handkerchief did not fall from my pocket."
"Well, by saying that you have told two lies, sir; for I saw it fall."
"Oh ho! you take it up that way, do you, Master Gascon? Well, I will
teach you how to behave yourself."
"And I will send you back to your pulpit, Master Priest. Draw, if you
please, and instantly—"
"Not so, if you please, my good friend; not here, at least. Do you not
see that we are opposite Aiguillon House, full of the Cardinal's
creatures? How do I know that it is not his Eminence who has honored
you with the commission to bring him in my head? Now, I entertain an
absurd partiality for my head, it seems to suit my shoulders so
finely. I have no objection to killing you, you may be sure, but
quietly, in a snug, distant spot, where you will not be able to boast
of your death to anybody."
"I agree, but don't be too confident; and take away your
handkerchief—whether it belongs to you or somebody else, perhaps you
may stand in need of it to bandage up a wound. As a Gascon, I don't
put off engagements for prudence's sake."
"Prudence is a virtue useless enough to musketeers, I know, but
indispensable to churchmen; and as I am only a temporary musketeer, I
hold it best to be prudent. At two o'clock I shall have the honor of
expecting you at Treville's. There I will point out the best place and
time to you."
The two bowed and separated. Aramis went up the street which led to
the Luxembourg; while D'Artagnan, seeing that the appointed hour was
coming near, took the road to the Carmes-Deschaux, saying to himself,
"I certainly cannot hope to come out of these scrapes alive; but if I
am doomed to be killed, it will be by a royal musketeer."
When D'Artagnan arrived, he found his three friends all together.
Athos was thinking deeply, Porthos was twirling his mustache, and
Aramis was reading his prayers out of a beautiful little book bound in
blue velvet.
"My faith, gentlemen!" exclaimed he, "I hope that what you
have to tell me is very important, or I shall owe you a grudge
for dragging me here, out of my bed, after a whole night passed in taking and
dismantling a bastion! Ah, it is a thousand pities you were not there!
It was warm work!"
"We were somewhere else, where it was not very cold either," replied
Porthos, giving his mustache another twist....
"Aramis," said Athos, "didn't you breakfast the other day at
Parpaillot's?"
"Yes."
"Were you comfortable there?"
"No, I did not like it at all. It was a fast day, and they had nothing
but meat."
"What, no fish to be had in a seaport town?"
"They say," replied Aramis, taking up his book, "that they have all
taken to the deep sea, since the Cardinal built that dike."
"That is not what I was asking," replied Athos. "Were you quite free
and at your ease, or did any one pay attention to you?"
"Oh, nobody paid any attention to me. And if that is your object,
Athos, Parpaillot's will suit us very well."
"Let us go at once then," said Athos, "for these walls are like
paper."
On the way they met Grimaud [the valet of Athos], whom Athos beckoned
silently to follow them. Grimaud, according to his custom, obeyed
without a word. The poor fellow had almost forgotten how to speak!
It did not take them long to reach Parpaillot's, but unluckily the
hour was ill chosen for a private conference. The réveille had just
been sounded, and the sleepy soldiers were all pouring into the inn.
This state of matters delighted the landlord, but was hardly so
agreeable to the four friends, who merely nodded sulkily at the
salutations of the crowd.
"If we are not careful," said Athos, rousing himself, "we shall find
ourselves landed in some quarrel, which would be highly inconvenient
at this moment. D'Artagnan, tell us about your night's work, and then
we will tell you about ours."
"Ah yes," said a light-horse soldier, who was slowly sipping a glass
of brandy, "you were down at the trenches last night, I think, and I
believe you had a brush with the Rochellois."
D'Artagnan looked at Athos, to see if he ought to answer or not.
"My dear fellow," replied Athos, "I don't think you are aware that M.
De Busigny did you the honor to address you! Since these gentlemen are
interested in last night's affair, tell them about it."
"Is it true that you captured a bastion?" asked a Swiss, who
had filled his beer up with rum.
"Yes, monsieur," replied D'Artagnan, "we had that honor.
We also introduced a barrel of powder into a corner, which in
exploding opened a really beautiful breach; and as the bastion
was not built yesterday, the whole building was severely shaken."
"What bastion was it?" said a dragoon, who was holding a
goose on the point of his sword, and cooking it at the fire.
"The Bastion Saint-Gervais," replied D'Artagnan; "the Rochellois
behind it were always annoying our men."
"And there was a good deal of sharp-shooting?"
"A good deal. We lost five men, and the Rochellois eight or
ten."
"But this morning," went on the light-horseman, "they will
probably send down some pioneers to rebuild the bastion."
"Yes, probably," answered D'Artagnan.
"Gentlemen," broke in Athos, "I want to propose a bet."
"What bet?" asked the light-horseman.
"I bet you, M. De Busigny, that I and my three friends
Porthos, Aramis, and D'Artagnan, will breakfast in the Bastion
Saint-Gervais, and will hold it an hour by the clock, against all
comers."
Porthos and Aramis looked at each other. They were beginning
to understand what Athos had in his head.
"But," objected D'Artagnan, leaning over to whisper to
Athos, "we shall be killed without a chance of escape."
"We shall be killed a great deal more certainly if we don't
go," replied Athos.
"Ah!" ejaculated Porthos, twirling his mustache, "that is a
grand bet."
"I take it," said M. De Busigny; "let us fix the stakes."
"That is easily done," replied Athos. "We are four and you
are four. The loser shall give the whole eight a dinner."
"Very well, let us agree to that," said M. De Busigny and the
dragoon.
"Your breakfast is ready, gentlemen," broke in the landlord
at this instant.
"Then bring it here," answered Athos.
The landlord obeyed, and Athos, making a sign to Grimaud,
pointed out a large basket standing in a corner, which he was to
fill with wine and food.
"But where are you going to eat it?" asked the landlord.
"What does that matter to you as long as you are paid?"
replied Athos, throwing two pistoles on the table. Then, turning
to M. De Busigny, he observed:—
"Will you have the kindness, monsieur, to set your watch by
mine, or let me set mine by yours?"
"Certainly, monsieur," said the light-horseman, drawing out
a beautiful watch incrusted with diamonds; "half-past seven."
"Five-and-twenty minutes to eight. So I am five minutes
faster than you;" and bowing to the rest of the company, the
four young men took the road to the Bastion Saint-Gervais,
followed by Grimaud carrying the basket. He had not the faintest
idea where they were going, or what they were to do, but
Athos had given his orders, and he always obeyed without questioning.
As long as they were within the camp, the four friends remained
silent; but once they had passed the wall of circumvallation,
D'Artagnan, who was completely in the dark, thought it was time to ask
for an explanation.
"And now, my dear Athos," said he, "will you be good
enough to tell me where we are bound for?"
"Why, for the bastion, of course."
"And what are we to do when we get there?"
"I told you before. We are going to breakfast."
"But why didn't we do that at Parpaillot's?"
"Because we had some important matters to discuss, and it
was impossible to talk for five minutes at that inn, with all those
people coming and going, and perpetually bowing and speaking
to you. Here at least," continued Athos, pointing to the bastion,
"we shall not be interrupted."
"It seems to me," said D'Artagnan, with the caution which
was as much his characteristic as his foolhardy courage, "it seems
to me that we might have found some secluded place among the
sand-hills on the sea-shore."
"Oh, somebody would have seen, and in a quarter of an hour
spies would have informed the Cardinal that we were holding
council."
"Yes," said Aramis. "Athos is right. Animadvertuntur in desertis."
"A desert would have done very well," replied Porthos; "but
first we should have to find it."
"There is no desert where a bird cannot fly overhead, or a
fish jump out of the water, or a rabbit run out of his hole; and
bird, fish, and rabbit have all become spies of the Cardinal.
Much better to go on with our adventure, which we cannot now
give up without dishonor. We have made a bet, and a bet on the
spur of the moment; a bet of which I defy any one to guess
the true meaning. To win it, we must hold the bastion for an
hour. Either they will attack us, or they won't. If we are left
unmolested, we shall have plenty of time to talk without any
one overhearing us, for I will answer for the walls of this bastion
having no ears. If they try to dislodge us, we can talk all
the same, and in defending our position shall cover ourselves
with glory. You see that from every point of view we have the
whip hand."
"Yes," said D'Artagnan, "but most certainly we shall attract
some stray bullet."
"My good fellow," remarked Athos, "do you really think that
the enemy's bullets are those we have most cause to fear?"
"But surely, if we were embarking on such an expedition, we
ought to have brought our muskets?"
"Porthos, you are a goose! What would be the good of burdening
ourselves with anything so useless?"
"I should hardly think that a heavy musket, a dozen cartridges, and
a powder flask would be useless when one is in the presence of an
enemy."
"Dear me!" said Athos, "didn't you hear what D'Artagnan
was saying?"
"What did D'Artagnan say?" asked Porthos.
"He said that during last night's attack eight or ten Frenchmen
were killed, and as many Rochellois."
"Well?"
"Well, hasn't everybody been too busy ever since to think of
stripping the dead bodies?"
"What then?"
"What then? Why, we shall find their muskets, their flasks,
and their cartridges, all waiting for us; and instead of four muskets
and twelve charges, there will be fifteen pieces and a hundred bullets."
"O Athos," exclaimed Aramis, "you are a great man!"
Porthos nodded approval; only D'Artagnan did not seem to
be convinced; and Grimaud appeared to have his doubts, for
seeing they were still making for the bastion (which up to that
moment he had declined to believe), he plucked his master by
the coat.
"Where are we going?" he asked by a sign.
Athos pointed out the bastion.
"But," objected Grimaud, speaking always in pantomime,
"we shall leave our bodies there."
Athos raised his hands and eyes to heaven. Grimaud placed
his basket on the ground and sat down, shaking his head.
Athos took a pistol from his belt, looked to see if it was well
primed, cocked it, and approached the barrel to Grimaud's ear.
Grimaud was on his legs again, as if by magic. Athos then
signed to him to take up the basket and go on.
Grimaud obeyed.
When they reached the bastion, the four friends turned round
and beheld over three hundred soldiers assembled at the gate of
the camp; M. De Busigny, the dragoon, the Swiss, and their
silent companion forming a group apart.
Athos removed his hat, put it on the edge of his sword, and
waved it in the air.
The spectators returned his salute and gave a great hurrah,
which penetrated to their ears even at that distance. Then all
four disappeared inside the bastion, where Grimaud had preceded
them.
As Athos had assumed, the bastion was only occupied by a
dozen dead men, French and Rochellois.
"Gentlemen," said Athos, to whom the command of the
expedition naturally fell, "while Grimaud lays out breakfast, we
will begin by picking up the muskets and cartridges, and of
course there is nothing in this employment to prevent our talking.
Our friends here," he added, pointing to the dead, "will pay no
attention to us."
"But after we have made sure they have nothing in their
pockets, we had better throw them into the trench," said Porthos.
"Yes," replied Athos, "that is Grimaud's business."
"Well then," said D'Artagnan, "let Grimaud search them,
and after he has done so, throw them over the wall."
"He shall do nothing of the sort," replied Athos; "we may
find them useful yet."
"You are going mad, my good fellow! Of what use can
these dead men be?"
"Don't judge hastily, say the gospel and the Cardinal," replied
Athos. "How many guns have we got?"
"Twelve," said Aramis.
"How many charges?"
"A hundred."
"That will do. Now let us load."
They set to work; and as they finished loading the last gun,
Grimaud made a sign that breakfast was ready.
By a gesture Athos replied that they were ready also, and
then pointed out a pepper-box turret, where Grimaud was to
keep watch. To help him pass the time Athos allowed him to
take some bread, two cutlets, and a bottle of wine....
"Now," said D'Artagnan, "that there is no chance of our
being overheard, I hope you will tell us your secret."
"I trust, gentlemen, to give you both pleasure and glory at
once," replied Athos. "I have made you take a charming walk,
and now here is an excellent breakfast; while below, as you may
see through the loop-holes, are five hundred persons, who consider
us to be either lunatics or heroes,—two classes of idiots
who have much in common...."
"What is the matter, Grimaud? As the circumstances are
grave, I will allow you to speak, but be short, I beg. What
is it?"
"A troop."
"How many?"
"Twenty?"
"What are they?"
"Sixteen pioneers, four soldiers."
"How far off?"
"Five hundred paces."
"Then we have just time to finish this fowl and drink your
health, D'Artagnan."
A few minutes later the troop hove in sight, marching along
a narrow trench that connected the bastion and the town.
"Bah!" said Athos. "It was scarcely worth while disturbing
ourselves for a mere handful of rascals armed with pickaxes,
hoes, and shovels. Grimaud had only got to make them a sign
to return whence they came, and I am sure they would have left
us in peace."
"I doubt it," said D'Artagnan, "for they are advancing steadily.
And besides the sappers, there are four soldiers and a brigadier,
all armed with muskets."
"It is only because they have not seen us," replied Athos.
"Upon my honor," cried Aramis, "I feel quite ashamed to
fire on poor devils like that."
"False priest!" exclaimed Porthos, "to have pity on heretics."
"Aramis is right," said Athos. "I will warn them."
"What on earth are you doing?" said D'Artagnan. "You will
get yourself shot, my good fellow."
But Athos paid no attention to this remark, and mounting the breach,
his hat in one hand and his musket in the other, he addressed the
troop, who were so astonished at this unexpected apparition that they
halted about fifty paces distant. "Gentlemen," he said, bowing
courteously as he spoke, "I am at this moment breakfasting with some
friends in the shelter of this bastion. As you know, there is nothing
so unpleasant as to be disturbed during your meals; therefore we
should be greatly obliged if you would postpone any business you may
have here, till we have finished, or else call again. Unless, indeed,
you have the happy inspiration to quit the side of rebellion, and to
drink, with us, to the health of the King of France."
"Do take care, Athos!" exclaimed D'Artagnan; "don't you see
they are aiming at you?"
"Oh, yes, of course," said Athos; "but they are only civilians,
who don't know how to shoot; and they will never touch me."
He had scarcely uttered the words when four muskets fired
simultaneously. The balls fell round Athos, but not one grazed
him.
Four muskets immediately answered, but these were better
directed than the others. Three of the soldiers fell dead, and
one of the sappers was wounded.
"Grimaud, another musket," said Athos, who was still on
the breach. Grimaud obeyed; a second volley was fired; the
brigadier and two pioneers fell dead, and the rest of the troop
took flight.
"Now we must make a sortie," cried Athos; and the four
comrades dashed out of the fort, picked up the muskets belonging
to the dead soldiers, and retreated to the bastion, carrying
the trophies of their victory....
"To arms!" called Grimaud.
The young men jumped up and ran for their muskets.
This time the advancing troop was composed of twenty or
twenty-five men, but they were no longer sappers, but soldiers
of the garrison.
"Hadn't we better return to the camp?" said Porthos. "The
fight is not equal at all."
"Impossible, for three reasons," said Athos. "First, because
we haven't finished breakfast; second, because we have several
important things to discuss; and third, because there are still ten
minutes before the hour is up."
"Well, anyway," remarked Aramis, "we had better have some
plan of campaign."
"It is very simple," replied Athos. "The moment the enemy
is within reach, we fire. If they still come on, we fire again,
and go on firing as long as our guns are loaded. If any of
them are left, and they try to carry the place by assault, we
will let them get well into the ditch, and then drop on their
heads a piece of the wall, that only keeps poised by a kind of
miracle."
"Bravo," cried Porthos. "Athos, you were born to be a general;
and the Cardinal, who thinks himself a great commander,
is not to be compared to you."
"Gentlemen," replied Athos, "remember, one thing at a time.
Cover your man well."
"I have mine," said D'Artagnan.
"And I," said Porthos and Aramis.
"Then fire;" and as Athos gave the word, the muskets rang
out and four men fell. Then the drum beat, and the little army
advanced to the charge, while all the while the fire was kept up,
irregularly, but with a sure aim. The Rochellois however did
not flinch, but came on steadily.
When they reached the foot of the bastion, the enemy still
numbered twelve or fifteen. A sharp fire received them, but
they never faltered, and leaping the trench, prepared to scale the
breach.
"Now, comrades!" cried Athos. "Let us make an end of
them. To the wall!"
And all four, aided by Grimaud, began to push with their
guns a huge block of wall, which swayed as if with the wind,
and then rolled slowly down into the trench. A horrible cry
was heard, a cloud of dust mounted upwards; and all was silent.
"Have we crushed them all, do you think?" asked Athos.
"It looks like it," answered D'Artagnan.
"No," said Porthos, "for two or three are limping off."
Athos looked at his watch.
"Gentlemen," he said, "an hour has elapsed since we came
here, and we have won our bet." ...
"What is going on in the town?" asked Athos.
"It is a call to arms."
They listened, and the sound of a drum reached their ears.
"They must be sending us an entire regiment," said Athos.
"You don't mean to fight a whole regiment?" said Porthos.
"Why not?" asked the musketeer. "If we had only had the
sense to bring another dozen bottles, I could make head against
an army!"
"As I live, the drum is coming nearer," said D'Artagnan.
"Let it," replied Athos. "It takes a quarter of an hour to get from
here to the town, so it takes a quarter of an hour to get from the
town here. That is more than enough time for us to arrange our plans.
If we leave this, we shall never find such a good position.... But I
must first give Grimaud his orders;" and Athos made a sign to his
servant.
"Grimaud," said he, pointing to the dead who were lying on
the bastion, "you will take these gentlemen and prop them up
against the wall, and put their hats on their heads and their guns
in their hands."
"Great man!" ejaculated D'Artagnan; "I begin to see."
"You do?" asked Porthos.
"Do you understand, Grimaud?" said Aramis.
Grimaud nodded.
"Then we are all right," said Athos....
"On guard!" cried D'Artagnan. "Look at those red and
black points moving down there! A regiment, did you call it,
Athos?—it is a perfect army!"
"My word, yes!" said Athos, "there they come! How cunning
to beat neither drums nor trumpets. Are you ready, Grimaud?"
Grimaud silently nodded, and showed them a dozen dead men,
arranged skillfully in various attitudes, some porting arms, some
taking aim, others drawing their swords.
"Well done!" exclaimed Athos, "it does honor to your imagination."
"If it is all the same to you," said Porthos, "I should like to
understand what is going on."
"Let us get away first," replied D'Artagnan, "and you will
understand after."
"One moment, please! Give Grimaud time to clear away the
breakfast."
"Ah!" said Aramis; "the red and black specks are becoming
more distinct, and I agree with D'Artagnan that we have no time
to lose before we regain the camp."
"Very well," rejoined Athos, "I have nothing to say against
retreating. The wager was for an hour, and we have been here
an hour and a half. Let us be off at once."
The four comrades went out at the back, following Grimaud,
who had already departed with the basket.
"Oh!" cried Athos, stopping suddenly, "what the devil is to
be done?"
"Has anything been forgotten?" asked Aramis.
"Our flag, man, our flag! We can't leave our flag in the
enemy's hands, if it is nothing but a napkin." And Athos dashed
again into the bastion, and bore away the flag unhurt, amid a
volley of balls from the Rochellois.
He waved his flag, while turning his back on the troops of
the town, and saluting those of the camp. From both sides arose
great cries, of anger on the one hand and enthusiasm on the
other, and the napkin, pierced with three bullet-holes, was in
truth transformed into a flag. "Come down, come down!" they
shouted from the camp.
Athos came down, and his friends, who had awaited him
anxiously, received him with joy.
"Be quick, Athos," said D'Artagnan; "now that we have got
everything but money, it would be stupid to get killed."
But Athos would not hurry himself, and they had to keep
pace with him.
By this time Grimaud and his basket were well beyond bullet
range, while in the distance the sounds of rapid firing might be
heard.
"What are they doing?" asked Porthos; "what are they
firing at?"
"At our dead men," replied Athos.
"But they don't fire back."
"Exactly so; therefore the enemy will come to the conclusion
that there is an ambuscade. They will hold a council, and send
an envoy with a flag of truce, and when they at last find out the
joke, we shall be out of reach. So it is no use getting apoplexy
by racing."
"Oh, I understand," said Porthos, full of astonishment.
"That is a mercy!" replied Athos, shrugging his shoulders, as
they approached the camp, which was watching their progress in
a ferment of admiration.
This time a new fusillade was begun, and the balls whistled
close to the heads of the four victors and fell about their ears.
The Rochellois had entered the bastion.
"What bad shooting!" said D'Artagnan. "How many was it
we killed? Twelve?"
"Twelve or fifteen."
"And how many did we crush?"
"Eight or ten."
"And not a scratch to show for it."
"Ah, what is that on your hand, D'Artagnan? It looks to me
like blood."
"It's nothing," replied D'Artagnan.
"A spent ball?"
"Not even that."
"But what is it, then?" As we have said, the silent and resolute
Athos loved D'Artagnan like his own son, and showed every
now and then all the anxiety of a father.
"The skin is rubbed off, that is all," said D'Artagnan. "My
fingers were caught between two stones—the stone of the wall
and the stone of my ring."
"That is what comes of having diamonds," remarked Athos
disdainfully....
"Here we are at the camp, and they are coming to meet us
and bring us in triumphantly."
And he only spoke the truth, for the whole camp was in a
turmoil. More than two thousand people had gazed, as at a play,
at the lucky bit of braggadocio of the four friends,—braggadocio
of which they were far from suspecting the real motive. The
cry of "Long live the musketeers," resounded on all sides, and
M. De Busigny was the first to hold out his hand to Athos and
to declare that he had lost his wager. The dragoon and the
Swiss had followed him, and all the others had followed the
dragoon and the Swiss. There was nothing but congratulations,
hand-shakings, embraces; and the tumult became so great that
the Cardinal thought there must be a revolt, and sent La Houdinière,
his captain of guards, to find out what was the matter.
"Well?" asked the Cardinal, as his messenger returned.
"Well, monseigneur," replied La Houdinière, "it is about
three musketeers and a guardsman who made a bet with M. De
Busigny to go and breakfast at the Bastion Saint-Gervais, and
while breakfasting, held it for two hours against the enemy, and
killed I don't know how many Rochellois."
"You asked the names of these gentlemen?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"What are they?"
"Athos, Porthos, and Aramis."
"Always my three heroes," murmured the Cardinal. "And
the guardsman?"
"M. D'Artagnan."
"Always my young rogue! I must gain over these men."
And the same evening, the Cardinal had a conversation with
M. De Treville about the morning's exploit, with which the whole
camp was still ringing. M. De Treville, who had heard it all
at first hand, gave his Eminence all the details, not forgetting
the episode of the napkin.
"Very good, M. De Treville," said the Cardinal; "but you
must get me that napkin, and I will have three golden lilies embroidered
on it, and give as a banner to your company."
"Monseigneur," replied M. De Treville, "that would be an
injustice to the guards. M. D'Artagnan does not belong to me,
but to M. Des Essarts."
"Then you must take him," said the Cardinal. "As these
four brave soldiers love each other so much, they ought certainly
to be in the same regiment."
That evening M. De Treville announced the good news to the
three musketeers and to D'Artagnan, and invited them all to
breakfast the following day.
D'Artagnan was nearly beside himself with joy. As we know,
it had been the dream of his life to be a musketeer.
[Dumas adopts the theory that the Man in the Iron Mask was the suppressed
twin brother of Louis XIV.]
"What is all this noise?" asked Philippe, turning towards the door of
the concealed staircase. And as he spoke a voice was heard saying,
"This way, this way. Still a few steps, sire."
"It is M. Fouquet's voice," said D'Artagnan, who was standing
near the Queen Mother.
"Then M. D'Herblay will not be far off," added Philippe;
but little did he expect to see the person who actually entered.
All eyes were riveted on the door, from which the voice of
M. Fouquet proceeded; but it was not he who came through.
A cry of anguish rang through the room, breaking forth
simultaneously from the King and the spectators, and surely
never had been seen a stranger sight.
The shutters were half closed, and only a feeble light struggled
through the velvet curtains, with their thick silk linings,
and the eyes of the courtiers had to get accustomed to the darkness
before they could distinguish between the surrounding objects.
But once discerned, they stood out as clear as day.
So, looking up, they saw Louis XIV. in the doorway of the
private stair, his face pale and his brows bent; and behind him
stood Fouquet.
The Queen Mother, whose hand held that of Philippe, uttered
a shriek at the sight, thinking that she beheld a ghost.
Monsieur staggered for a moment and turned away his head,
looking from the King who was facing him to the King who was
by his side.
Madame on the contrary stepped forward, thinking it must
be her brother-in-law reflected in a mirror. And indeed, this
seemed the only rational explanation of the double image.
Both young men, agitated and trembling, clenching their
hands, darting flames of fury from their eyes, dumb, breathless,
ready to spring at each other's throats, resembled each other so
exactly in feature, figure, and even, by pure accident, in dress,
that Anne of Austria herself stood confounded. For as yet the
truth had not dawned on her. There are some torments that we
all instinctively reject. It is easier far to accept the supernatural,
the impossible.
That he should encounter such obstacles had never for one
moment occurred to Louis. He imagined he had only to show
himself, for the world to fall at his feet. The Sun-king could
have no rival; and where his rays did not fall, there must be
darkness—
As to Fouquet, who could describe his bewilderment at the
sight of the living portrait of his master? Then he thought
that Aramis was right, and that the new-comer was every whit
as much a king as his double, and that after all, perhaps he
had made a mistake when he had declined to share in the coup
d'état so cleverly plotted by the General of the Jesuits.
And then, it was equally the blood royal of Louis XIII. that
Fouquet had determined to sacrifice to blood in all respects identical;
a noble ambition, to one that was selfish. And it was the
mere aspect of the pretender which showed him all these things.
D'Artagnan, leaning against the wall and facing Fouquet, was
debating in his own mind the key to this wonderful riddle. He
felt instinctively, though he could not have told why, that in
the meeting of the two Louis XIV's lay the explanation of all
that had seemed suspicious in the conduct of Aramis during the
last few days.
Suddenly Louis XIV., by nature the most impatient of the
two young men, and with the habit of command that was the
result of training, strode across the room and flung open one of
the shutters. The flood of light that streamed through the window
caused Philippe involuntarily to recoil, and to step back
into the shelter of an alcove.
The movement struck Louis, and turning to the Queen he said:
"Mother, do you not know your own son, although every one
else has denied his King?"
Anne trembled at his voice and raised her arms to heaven,
but could not utter a single word.
"Mother," retorted Philippe in his quietest tones, "do you
not know your own son?"
And this time it was Louis who stepped back.
As for Anne, pierced to the heart with grief and remorse,
she could bear it no longer. She staggered where she stood, and
unaided by her attendants, who seemed turned into stone, she
sank down on a sofa with a sigh.
This spectacle was too much for Louis. He rushed to D'Artagnan, whose
brain was going round with bewilderment, and who clung to the door as
his last hope.
"To me, musketeer! Look us both in the face, and see
which is the paler, he or I."
The cry awoke D'Artagnan from his stupor, and struck the
chord of obedience strong in the bosom of every soldier. He
lifted his head, and striding straight up to Philippe laid his hand
on his shoulder, saying quietly:—
"Monsieur, you are my prisoner."
Philippe remained absolutely still, as if nailed to the floor,
his eyes fixed despairingly on the King who was his brother.
His silence reproached him as no words could have done, with
the bitterness of the past and the tortures of the future.
And the King understood, and his soul sank within him. His
eyes fell, and drawing his brother and sister-in-law with him, he
hastily quitted the room; forgetting in his agitation even his
mother, lying motionless on the couch beside him, not three
paces from the son whom for the second time she was allowing
to be condemned to a death in life.
Philippe drew near to her, and said softly:—
"If you had not been my mother, madame, I must have
cursed you for the misery you have caused me."
D'Artagnan overheard, and a shiver of pity passed through
him. He bowed respectfully to the young prince, and said:—
"Forgive me, monseigneur; I am only a soldier, and my faith
is due to him who has left us."
"Thank you, M. D'Artagnan. But what has become of M.
D'Herblay?"
"M. D'Herblay is safe, monseigneur," answered a voice behind
them; "and while I am alive and free, not a hair of his head
shall be hurt."
"M. Fouquet!" said the prince, smiling sadly.
"Forgive me, monseigneur," cried Fouquet, falling on his
knees; "but he who has left the room was my guest."
"Ah!" murmured Philippe to himself with a sigh, "you are
loyal friends and true hearts. You make me regret the world I
am leaving. M. D'Artagnan, I will follow you."
As he spoke, Colbert entered and handed to the captain of
the musketeers an order from the King; then bowed, and went
out.
D'Artagnan glanced at the paper, and in a sudden burst of
wrath crumpled it in his hand.
"What is the matter?" asked the prince.
"Read it, monseigneur," answered the musketeer.
And Philippe read these words, written hastily by the King
himself:—
"M. D'Artagnan will conduct the prisoner to the Îles
Sainte-Marguerite. He will see that his face is covered with an iron
mask, which must never be lifted on pain of death."
"It is just," said Philippe; "I am ready."
"Aramis was right," whispered Fouquet to D'Artagnan, "this
is as good a king as the other."
"Better," replied D'Artagnan; "he only needed you and me."
The King and Chicot remained quiet and silent for the next ten
minutes. Then suddenly the King sat up, and the noise he made roused
Chicot, who was just dropping off to sleep.
The two looked at each other with sparkling eyes.
"What is it?" asked Chicot in a low voice.
"Do you hear that sighing sound?" replied the King in a
lower voice still. "Listen!"
As he spoke, one of the wax candles in the hand of the
golden satyr went out; then a second, then a third. After a
moment, the fourth went out also.
"Oh, oh!" cried Chicot, "that is more than a sighing sound."
But he had hardly uttered the last word when in its turn the
lamp was extinguished, and the room was in darkness, save for
the flickering glow of the dying embers.
"Look out!" exclaimed Chicot, jumping up.
"He is going to speak," said the King, shrinking back into
his bed.
"Then listen and let us hear what he says," replied Chicot,
and at the same instant a voice which sounded at once both
piercing and hollow, proceeded from the space between the bed
and the wall.
"Hardened sinner, are you there?"
"Yes, yes, Lord." gasped Henri with chattering teeth.
"Dear me!" remarked Chicot, "that is a very hoarse voice
to have come from heaven! I feel dreadfully frightened; but
never mind!"
"Do you hear me?" asked the voice.
"Yes, Lord," stammered Henri; "and I bow before your
anger."
"Do you think you are carrying out my will by performing
all the mummeries you have taken part in to-day, while your
heart is full of the things of this world?"
"Well said!" cried Chicot; "you touched him there!"
The King's hands shook as he clasped them, and Chicot went
up to him.
"Well," murmured Henri, "are you convinced now?"
"Wait a bit," answered Chicot.
"What do you want more?"
"Hush! listen to me. Creep softly out of bed, and let me
take your place."
"Why?"
"Because then the anger of the Lord will fall first upon me."
"And do you think I shall escape?"
"We will try, anyway;" and with affectionate persistence he
pushed the King out of bed, and took his place.
"Now, Henri," he said, "go and lie on my sofa, and leave all
to me."
Henri obeyed; he began to understand Chicot's plan.
"You are silent," continued the voice, "which proves that
your heart is hardened."
"Oh, pardon, pardon, Lord!" exclaimed Chicot, imitating the
King's nasal twang. Then, stretching himself out of bed, he
whispered to the King, "It is very odd, but the heavenly voice
does not seem to know that it is Chicot who is speaking."
"Oh!" replied Henri, "what do you suppose is the meaning
of that?"
"Don't be in a hurry; plenty of strange things will happen
yet!"
"Miserable creature that you are!" went on the voice.
"Yes, Lord, yes!" answered Chicot. "I am a horrible sinner,
hardened in crime."
"Then confess your sins, and repent."
"I acknowledge," said Chicot, "that I dealt wickedly by my
cousin Condé, whose wife I betrayed; and I repent bitterly."
"What is that you are saying?" cried the King. "There
is no good in mentioning that. It has all been forgotten long
ago."
"Oh, has it?" replied Chicot; "then we will pass on to something
else."
"Answer," said the voice.
"I acknowledge," said the false Henri, "that I behaved like a
thief toward the Poles, who had elected me their king, in stealing
away to France one fine night, carrying with me all the
crown jewels; and I repent bitterly."
"Idiot!" exclaimed Henri, "what are you talking about now?
Nobody remembers anything about that."
"Let me alone," answered Chicot, "I must go on pretending
to be the King."
"Speak," said the voice.
"I acknowledge," continued Chicot, "that I snatched the
throne from my brother D'Alençon, who was the rightful heir,
since I had formally renounced my claims when I was elected
King of Poland; I repent bitterly."
"Rascal!" cried the King.
"There is yet something more," said the voice.
"I acknowledge to have plotted with my excellent mother,
Catherine de' Medicis, to hunt from France my brother-in-law
the King of Navarre, after first destroying all his friends, and
my sister Queen Marguerite, after first destroying all her lovers;
and I repent bitterly."
"Scoundrel! Cease!" muttered the King, his teeth clenched
in anger.
"Sire, it is no use trying to hide what Providence knows as
well as we do."
"There is a crime unconfessed that has nothing to do with
politics," said the voice.
"Ah, now we are getting to it," observed Chicot dolefully; "it
is about my conduct, I suppose?"
"It is," answered the voice.
"I cannot deny," continued Chicot, always speaking in the
name of the King, "that I am very effeminate, very lazy; a
hopeless trifler, an incorrigible hypocrite."
"It is true," said the voice.
"I have behaved ill to all women, to my own wife in particular;
and such a good wife too."
"A man should love his wife as himself, and above all the
world," cried the voice angrily.
"Oh dear!" wailed Chicot in despairing tones; "then I certainly
have sinned terribly."
"And by your example you have caused others to sin."
"That is true, sadly true."
"You very nearly sent that poor Saint-Luc to perdition."
"Bah!" said Chicot, "are you sure I did not send him there
quite?"
"No; but such a fate may befall both of you if you do not
let him go back to his family at break of day."
"Dear me!" said Chicot to the King, "the voice seems to
take a great interest in the house of Cossé."
"If you disobey me, you will suffer the same torments as
Sardanapalus, Nabuchodnosor, and the Marshal De Retz."
Henry III. gave a loud groan; at this threat he became more
frightened than ever.
"I am lost," he ejaculated wildly; "I am lost. That voice
from on high will be my death-warrant."
