“Well, well,” replied D’Artagnan, “I know only too well that, when you have once said, ‘no,’ you mean ‘no.’ I do not insist any longer; you wish to go to the Bastile?”
“I do wish to go there.”
“Let us go, then! To the Bastile!” cried D’Artagnan to the coachman. And throwing himself back in the carriage, he gnawed the ends of his mustache with a fury which, for Athos, who knew him well, signified a resolution either already taken or in course of formation. A profound silence ensued in the carriage, which continued to roll on, but neither faster nor slower than before. Athos took the musketeer by the hand.
“You are not angry with me, D’Artagnan?” he said.
“I! – oh, no! certainly not; of course not. What you do for heroism, I should have done from obstinacy.”
“But you are quite of opinion, are you not, that Heaven will avenge me, D’Artagnan?”
“And I know one or two on earth who will not fail to lend a helping hand,” said the captain.
Chapter LXIII. Three Guests Astonished to Find Themselves at Supper Together
The carriage arrived at the outside of the gate of the Bastile. A soldier on guard stopped it, but D’Artagnan had only to utter a single word to procure admittance, and the carriage passed on without further difficulty. Whilst they were proceeding along the covered way which led to the courtyard of the governor’s residence, D’Artagnan, whose lynx eyes saw everything, even through the walls, suddenly cried out, “What is that out yonder?”
“Well,” said Athos, quietly; “what is it?”
“Look yonder, Athos.”
“In the courtyard?”
“Yes, yes; make haste!”
“Well, a carriage; very likely conveying a prisoner like myself.”
“That would be too droll.”
“I do not understand you.”
“Make haste and look again, and look at the man who is just getting out of that carriage.”
At that very moment a second sentinel stopped D’Artagnan, and while the formalities were being gone through, Athos could see at a hundred paces from him the man whom his friend had pointed out to him. He was, in fact, getting out of the carriage at the door of the governor’s house. “Well,” inquired D’Artagnan, “do you see him?”
“Yes; he is a man in a gray suit.”
“What do you say of him?”
“I cannot very well tell; he is, as I have just now told you, a man in a gray suit, who is getting out of a carriage; that is all.”
“Athos, I will wager anything that it is he.”
“He, who?”
“Aramis.”
“Aramis arrested? Impossible!”
“I do not say he is arrested, since we see him alone in his carriage.”
“Well, then, what is he doing here?”
“Oh! he knows Baisemeaux, the governor,” replied the musketeer, slyly; “so we have arrived just in time.”
“What for?”
“In order to see what we can see.”
“I regret this meeting exceedingly. When Aramis sees me, he will be very much annoyed, in the first place, at seeing me, and in the next at being seen.”
“Very well reasoned.”
“Unfortunately, there is no remedy for it; whenever any one meets another in the Bastile, even if he wished to draw back to avoid him, it would be impossible.”
“Athos, I have an idea; the question is, to spare Aramis the annoyance you were speaking of, is it not?”
“What is to be done?”
“I will tell you; or in order to explain myself in the best possible way, let me relate the affair in my own manner; I will not recommend you to tell a falsehood, for that would be impossible for you to do; but I will tell falsehoods enough for both; it is easy to do that when one is born to the nature and habits of a Gascon.”
Athos smiled. The carriage stopped where the one we have just now pointed out had stopped; namely, at the door of the governor’s house. “It is understood, then?” said D’Artagnan, in a low voice to his friend. Athos consented by a gesture. They ascended the staircase. There will be no occasion for surprise at the facility with which they had entered into the Bastile, if it be remembered that, before passing the first gate, in fact, the most difficult of all, D’Artagnan had announced that he had brought a prisoner of state. At the third gate, on the contrary, that is to say, when he had once fairly entered the prison, he merely said to the sentinel, “To M. Baisemeaux;” and they both passed on. In a few minutes they were in the governor’s dining-room, and the first face which attracted D’Artagnan’s observation was that of Aramis, who was seated side by side with Baisemeaux, awaiting the announcement of a meal whose odor impregnated the whole apartment. If D’Artagnan pretended surprise, Aramis did not pretend at all; he started when he saw his two friends, and his emotion was very apparent. Athos and D’Artagnan, however, complimented him as usual, and Baisemeaux, amazed, completely stupefied by the presence of his three guests, began to perform a few evolutions around them.
“By what lucky accident – ”
“We were just going to ask you,” retorted D’Artagnan.
“Are we going to give ourselves up as prisoners?” cried Aramis, with an affection of hilarity.
“Ah! ah!” said D’Artagnan; “it is true the walls smell deucedly like a prison. Monsieur de Baisemeaux, you know you invited me to sup with you the other day.”
“I?” cried Baisemeaux.
“Yes, of course you did, although you now seem so struck with amazement. Don’t you remember it?”
Baisemeaux turned pale and then red, looked at Aramis, who looked at him, and finished by stammering out, “Certainly – I am delighted – but, upon my honor – I have not the slightest – Ah! I have such a wretched memory.”
“Well! I am wrong, I see,” said D’Artagnan, as if he were offended.
“Wrong, what for?”
“Wrong to remember anything about it, it seems.”
Baisemeaux hurried towards him. “Do not stand on ceremony, my dear captain,” he said; “I have the worst memory in the world. I no sooner leave off thinking of my pigeons and their pigeon-house, than I am no better than the rawest recruit.”
“At all events, you remember it now,” said D’Artagnan, boldly.
“Yes, yes,” replied the governor, hesitating; “I think I do remember.”
“It was when you came to the palace to see me; you told me some story or other about your accounts with M. de Louviere and M. de Tremblay.”
“Oh, yes! perfectly.”
“And about M. d’Herblay’s kindness towards you.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Aramis, looking at the unhappy governor full in the face, “and yet you just now said you had no memory, Monsieur de Baisemeaux.”
Baisemeaux interrupted the musketeer in the middle of his revelations. “Yes, yes; you’re quite right; how could I have forgotten; I remember it now as well as possible; I beg you a thousand pardons. But now, once for all, my dear M. d’Artagnan, be sure that at this present time, as at any other, whether invited or not, you are perfectly at home here, you and M. d’Herblay, your friend,” he said, turning towards Aramis; “and this gentleman, too,” he added, bowing to Athos.
“Well, I thought it would be sure to turn out so,” replied D’Artagnan, “and that is the reason I came. Having nothing to do this evening at the Palais Royal, I wished to judge for myself what your ordinary style of living was like; and as I was coming along, I met the Comte de la Fere.”
Athos bowed. “The comte, who had just left his majesty, handed me an order which required immediate attention. We were close by here; I wished to call in, even if it were for no other object than that of shaking hands with you and of presenting the comte to you, of whom you spoke so highly that evening at the palace when – ”
“Certainly, certainly – M. le Comte de la Fere?”
“Precisely.”
“The comte is welcome, I am sure.”
“And he will sup with you two, I suppose, whilst I, unfortunate dog that I am, must run off on a matter of duty. Oh! what happy beings you are, compared to myself,” he added, sighing as loud as Porthos might have done.
“And so you are going away, then?” said Aramis and Baisemeaux together, with the same expression of delighted surprise, the tone of which was immediately noticed by D’Artagnan.
“I leave you in my place,” he said, “a noble and excellent guest.” And he touched Athos gently on the shoulder, who, astonished also, could not help exhibiting his surprise a little; which was noticed by Aramis only, for M. de Baisemeaux was not quite equal to the three friends in point of intelligence.
“What, are you going to leave us?” resumed the governor.
“I shall only be about an hour, or an hour and a half. I will return in time for dessert.”
“Oh! we will wait for you,” said Baisemeaux.
“No, no; that would be really disobliging me.”
“You will be sure to return, though?” said Athos, with an expression of doubt.
“Most certainly,” he said, pressing his friend’s hand confidently; and he added, in a low voice, “Wait for me, Athos; be cheerful and lively as possible, and above all, don’t allude even to business affairs, for Heaven’s sake.”
And with a renewed pressure of the hand, he seemed to warn the comte of the necessity of keeping perfectly discreet and impenetrable. Baisemeaux led D’Artagnan to the gate. Aramis, with many friendly protestations of delight, sat down by Athos, determined to make him speak; but Athos possessed every virtue and quality to the very highest degree. If necessity had required it, he would have been the finest orator in the world, but on other occasions he would rather have died than have opened his lips.
Ten minutes after D’Artagnan’s departure, the three gentlemen sat down to table, which was covered with the most substantial display of gastronomic luxury. Large joints, exquisite dishes, preserves, the greatest variety of wines, appeared successively upon the table, which was served at the king’s expense, and of which expense M. Colbert would have found no difficulty in saving two thirds, without any one in the Bastile being the worse for it. Baisemeaux was the only one who ate and drank with gastronomic resolution. Aramis allowed nothing to pass by him, but merely touched everything he took; Athos, after the soup and three hors d’oeuvres, ate nothing more. The style of conversation was such as might have been anticipated between three men so opposite in temper and ideas. Aramis was incessantly asking himself by what extraordinary chance Athos was there at Baisemeaux’s when D’Artagnan was no longer there, and why D’Artagnan did not remain when Athos was there. Athos sounded all the depths of the mind of Aramis, who lived in the midst of subterfuge, evasion, and intrigue; he studied his man well and thoroughly, and felt convinced that he was engaged upon some important project. And then he too began to think of his own personal affair, and to lose himself in conjectures as to D’Artagnan’s reason for having left the Bastile so abruptly, and for leaving behind him a prisoner so badly introduced and so badly looked after by the prison authorities. But we shall not pause to examine into the thoughts and feelings of these personages, but will leave them to themselves, surrounded by the remains of poultry, game, and fish, which Baisemeaux’s generous knife and fork had so mutilated. We are going to follow D’Artagnan instead, who, getting into the carriage which had brought him, said to the coachman, “Return to the palace, as fast as the horses can gallop.”
Chapter LXIV. What Took Place at the Louvre During the Supper at the Bastile
M. de Saint-Aignan had executed the commission with which the king had intrusted him for La Valliere – as we have already seen in one of the preceding chapters; but, whatever his eloquence, he did not succeed in persuading the young girl that she had in the king a protector powerful enough for her under any combination of circumstances, and that she had no need of any one else in the world when the king was on her side. In point of fact, at the very first word which the favorite mentioned of the discovery of the famous secret, Louise, in a passion of tears, abandoned herself in utter despair to a sorrow which would have been far from flattering for the king, if he had been a witness of it from one of the corners of the room. Saint-Aignan, in his character of ambassador, felt almost as greatly offended at it as his master himself would have been, and returned to inform the king what he had seen and heard; and it is thus we find him, in a state of great agitation, in the presence of the king, who was, if possible, in a state of even greater flurry than himself.
“But,” said the king to the courtier, when the latter had finished his report, “what did she decide to do? Shall I at least see her presently before supper? Will she come to me, or shall I be obliged to go to her room?”
“I believe, sire, that if your majesty wishes to see her, you will not only have to take the first step in advance, but will have to go the whole way.”
“That I do not mind. Do you think she has yet a secret fancy for young Bragelonne?” muttered the king between his teeth.
“Oh! sire, that is not possible; for it is you alone, I am convinced, Mademoiselle de la Valliere loves, and that, too, with all her heart. But you know that De Bragelonne belongs to that proud race who play the part of Roman heroes.”
The king smiled feebly; he knew how true the illustration was, for Athos had just left him.
“As for Mademoiselle de la Valliere,” Saint-Aignan continued, “she was brought up under the care of the Dowager Madame, that is to say, in the greatest austerity and formality. This young engaged couple coldly exchanged their little vows in the prim presence of the moon and stars; and now, when they find they have to break those vows asunder, it plays the very deuce with them.”
Saint-Aignan thought to have made the king laugh; but on the contrary, from a mere smile Louis passed to the greatest seriousness of manner. He already began to experience that remorse which the comte had promised D’Artagnan he would inflict upon him. He reflected that, in fact, these young persons had loved and sworn fidelity to each other; that one of the two had kept his word, and that the other was too conscientious not to feel her perjury most bitterly. And his remorse was not unaccompanied; for bitter pangs of jealousy began to beset the king’s heart. He did not say another word, and instead of going to pay a visit to his mother, or the queen, or Madame, in order to amuse himself a little, and make the ladies laugh, as he himself used to say, he threw himself into the huge armchair in which his august father Louis XIII. had passed so many weary days and years in company with Barradat and Cinq-Mars. Saint-Aignan perceived the king was not to be amused at that moment; he tried a last resource, and pronounced Louise’s name, which made the king look up immediately. “What does your majesty intend to do this evening – shall Mademoiselle de la Valliere be informed of your intention to see her?”
“It seems she is already aware of that,” replied the king. “No, no, Saint-Aignan,” he continued, after a moment’s pause, “we will both of us pass our time in thinking, and musing, and dreaming; when Mademoiselle de la Valliere shall have sufficiently regretted what she now regrets, she will deign, perhaps, to give us some news of herself.”
“Ah! sire, is it possible you can so misunderstand her heart, which is so full of devotion?”
The king rose, flushed from vexation and annoyance; he was a prey to jealousy as well as to remorse. Saint-Aignan was just beginning to feel that his position was becoming awkward, when the curtain before the door was raised. The king turned hastily round; his first idea was that a letter from Louise had arrived; but, instead of a letter of love, he only saw his captain of musketeers, standing upright, and perfectly silent in the doorway. “M. d’Artagnan,” he said, “ah! Well, monsieur?”
D’Artagnan looked at Saint-Aignan; the king’s eyes took the same direction as those of his captain; these looks would have been clear to any one, and for a still greater reason they were so for Saint-Aignan. The courtier bowed and quitted the room, leaving the king and D’Artagnan alone.
“Is it done?” inquired the king.
“Yes, sire,” replied the captain of the musketeers, in a grave voice, “it is done.”
The king was unable to say another word. Pride, however, obliged him not to pause at what he had done; whenever a sovereign has adopted a decisive course, even though it be unjust, he is compelled to prove to all witnesses, and particularly to prove it to himself, that he was quite right all through. A good means for effecting that – an almost infallible means, indeed – is, to try and prove his victim to be in the wrong. Louis, brought up by Mazarin and Anne of Austria, knew better than any one else his vocation as a monarch; he therefore endeavored to prove it on the present occasion. After a few moment’s pause, which he had employed in making silently to himself the same reflections which we have just expressed aloud, he said, in an indifferent tone: “What did the comte say?”
“Nothing at all, sire.”
“Surely he did not allow himself to be arrested without saying something?”
“He said he expected to be arrested, sire.”
The king raised his head haughtily. “I presume,” he said, “that M. le Comte de la Fere has not continued to play his obstinate and rebellious part.”
“In the first place, sire, what do you wish to signify by rebellious?” quietly asked the musketeer. “A rebel, in the eyes of the king, is a man who not only allows himself to be shut up in the Bastile, but still more, who opposes those who do not wish to take him there.”
“Who do not wish to take him there!” exclaimed the king. “What do you say, captain! Are you mad?”
“I believe not, sire.”
“You speak of persons who did not wish to arrest M. de la Fere! Who are those persons, may I ask?”
“I should say those whom your majesty intrusted with that duty.”
“But it was you whom I intrusted with it,” exclaimed the king.
“Yes, sire; it was I.”
“And yet you say that, despite my orders, you had the intention of not arresting the man who had insulted me!”
“Yes, sire – that was really my intention. I even proposed to the comte to mount a horse that I had prepared for him at the Barriere de la Conference.”
“And what was your object in getting this horse ready?”
“Why, sire, in order that M. le Comte de la Fere might be able to reach Le Havre, and from that place make his escape to England.”
“You betrayed me, then, monsieur?” cried the king, kindling with a wild pride.
“Exactly so.”
There was nothing to say in answer to statements made in such a tone; the king was astounded at such an obstinate and open resistance on the part of D’Artagnan. “At least you had a reason, Monsieur d’Artagnan, for acting as you did?” said the king, proudly.
“I have always a reason for everything, sire.”
“Your reason cannot be your friendship for the comte, at all events, – the only one that can be of any avail, the only one that could possibly excuse you, – for I placed you perfectly at your ease in that respect.”
“Me, sire?”
“Did I not give you the choice to arrest, or not to arrest M. le Comte de la Fere?”
“Yes, sire, but – ”
“But what?” exclaimed the king, impatiently.
“But you warned me, sire, that if I did not arrest him, your captain of the guard should do so.”
“Was I not considerate enough towards you, from the very moment I did not compel you to obey me?”
“To me, sire, you were, but not to my friend, for my friend would be arrested all the same, whether by myself or by the captain of the guards.”
“And this is your devotion, monsieur! a devotion which argues and reasons. You are no soldier, monsieur!”
“I wait for your majesty to tell me what I am.”
“Well, then – you are a Frondeur.”
“And since there is no longer any Fronde, sire, in that case – ”
“But if what you say is true – ”
“What I say is always true, sire.”
“What have you come to say to me, monsieur?”
“I have come to say to your majesty, ‘Sire, M. de la Fere is in the Bastile.’”
“That is not your fault, it would seem.”
“That is true, sire; but at all events he is there; and since he is there, it is important that your majesty should know it.”
“Ah! Monsieur d’Artagnan, so you set your king at defiance.”
“Sire – ”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan! I warn you that you are abusing my patience.”
“On the contrary, sire.”
“What do you mean by ‘on the contrary’?”
“I have come to get myself arrested, too.”
“To get yourself arrested, – you!”
“Of course. My friend will get wearied to death in the Bastile by himself; and I have come to propose to your majesty to permit me to bear him company; if your majesty will but give me the word, I will arrest myself; I shall not need the captain of the guards for that, I assure you.”
The king darted towards the table and seized hold of a pen to write the order for D’Artagnan’s imprisonment. “Pay attention, monsieur, that this is forever,” cried the king, in tones of sternest menace.
“I can quite believe that,” returned the musketeer; “for when you have once done such an act as that, you will never be able to look me in the face again.”
The king dashed down his pen violently. “Leave the room, monsieur!” he said.
“Not so, if it please your majesty.”
“What is that you say?”
“Sire, I came to speak gently and temperately to your majesty; your majesty got into a passion with me; that is a misfortune; but I shall not the less on that account say what I had to say to you.”
“Your resignation, monsieur, – your resignation!” cried the king.
“Sire, you know whether I care about my resignation or not, since at Blois, on the very day when you refused King Charles the million which my friend the Comte de la Fere gave him, I then tendered my resignation to your majesty.”
“Very well, monsieur – do it at once!”
“No, sire; for there is no question of my resignation at the present moment. Your majesty took up your pen just now to send me to the Bastile, – why should you change your intention?”
“D’Artagnan! Gascon that you are! who is king, allow me to ask, – you or myself?”
“You, sire, unfortunately.”
“What do you mean by ‘unfortunately’?”
“Yes, sire; for if it were I – ”
“If it were you, you would approve of M. d’Artagnan’s rebellious conduct, I suppose?”
“Certainly.”
“Really!” said the king, shrugging his shoulders.
“And I should tell my captain of the musketeers,” continued D’Artagnan, “I should tell him, looking at him all the while with human eyes, and not with eyes like coals of fire, ‘M. d’Artagnan, I had forgotten that I was the king, for I descended from my throne in order to insult a gentleman.’”
“Monsieur,” said the king, “do you think you can excuse your friend by exceeding him in insolence?”
“Oh! sire! I should go much further than he did,” said D’Artagnan; “and it would be your own fault. I should tell you what he, a man full of the finest sense of delicacy, did not tell you; I should say – ‘Sire, you have sacrificed his son, and he defended his son – you sacrificed himself; he addressed you in the name of honor, of religion, of virtue – you repulsed, drove him away, imprisoned him.’ I should be harder than he was, for I should say to you – ‘Sire; it is for you to choose. Do you wish to have friends or lackeys – soldiers or slaves – great men or mere puppets? Do you wish men to serve you, or to bend and crouch before you? Do you wish men to love you, or to be afraid of you? If you prefer baseness, intrigue, cowardice, say so at once, sire, and we will leave you, – we who are the only individuals who are left, – nay, I will say more, the only models of the valor of former times; we who have done our duty, and have exceeded, perhaps, in courage and in merit, the men already great for posterity. Choose, sire! and that, too, without delay. Whatever relics remain to you of the great nobility, guard them with a jealous eye; you will never be deficient in courtiers. Delay not – and send me to the Bastile with my friend; for, if you did not know how to listen to the Comte de la Fere, whose voice is the sweetest and noblest in all the world when honor is the theme; if you do not know how to listen to D’Artagnan, the frankest and honestest voice of sincerity, you are a bad king, and to-morrow will be a poor king. And learn from me, sire, that bad kings are hated by their people, and poor kings are driven ignominiously away.’ That is what I had to say to you, sire; you were wrong to drive me to say it.”
The king threw himself back in his chair, cold as death, and as livid as a corpse. Had a thunderbolt fallen at his feet, he could not have been more astonished; he seemed as if his respiration had utterly ceased, and that he was at the point of death. The honest voice of sincerity, as D’Artagnan had called it, had pierced through his heart like a sword-blade.
D’Artagnan had said all he had to say. Comprehending the king’s anger, he drew his sword, and, approaching Louis XIV. respectfully, he placed it on the table. But the king, with a furious gesture, thrust aside the sword, which fell on the ground and rolled to D’Artagnan’s feet. Notwithstanding the perfect mastery which D’Artagnan exercised over himself, he, too, in his turn, became pale, and, trembling with indignation, said: “A king may disgrace a soldier, – he may exile him, and may even condemn him to death; but were he a hundred times a king, he has no right to insult him by casting a dishonor upon his sword! Sire, a king of France has never repulsed with contempt the sword of a man such as I am! Stained with disgrace as this sword now is, it has henceforth no other sheath than either your heart or my own! I choose my own, sire; and you have to thank Heaven and my own patience that I do so.” Then snatching up his sword, he cried, “My blood be upon your head!” and, with a rapid gesture, he placed the hilt upon the floor and directed the point of the blade towards his breast. The king, however, with a movement far more rapid than that of D’Artagnan, threw his right arm around the musketeer’s neck, and with his left hand seized hold of the blade by the middle, and returned it silently to the scabbard. D’Artagnan, upright, pale, and still trembling, let the king do all to the very end. Louis, overcome and softened by gentler feelings, returned to the table, took a pen in his hand, wrote a few lines, signed them, and then held it out to D’Artagnan.
“What is this paper, sire?” inquired the captain.
“An order for M. d’Artagnan to set the Comte de la Fere at liberty immediately.”
D’Artagnan seized the king’s hand, and imprinted a kiss upon it; he then folded the order, placed it in his belt, and quitted the room. Neither the king nor the captain had uttered a syllable.
“Oh, human heart! thou guide and director of kings,” murmured Louis, when alone, “when shall I learn to read in your inmost recesses, as in the leaves of a book! Oh, I am not a bad king – nor am I a poor king; I am but still a child, when all is said and done.”