The Modern Library Children's Classics

by Kenneth Grahame

  “You would rather be killed than quit your post?”

  “Yes, Monsieur. There is nothing I would not do to prove my attachment to my master.”

  “Capital!” D’Artagnan mused. “Apparently I adopted the best possible method with this lad. I shall use it again on occasion.”

  Then, fast as his legs could carry him—they were by now somewhat weary from their labors that day—D’Artagnan sped away toward the Rue du Vieux-Colombier. Monsieur de Tréville was not at his mansion; his company was on guard at the Louvre and he was with his company.

  D’Artagnan knew he must see the Captain of Musketeers in order to inform him of developments; he must somehow try to enter the Louvre. Surely his uniform, identifying him as a guardsman in Monsieur des Essart’s company would serve him as passport?

  Following the Rue des Petits-Augustins, he reached the quay and turned to the right in order to cross the Seine over the Pont Neuf. For a moment he had thought of taking the ferry but, as he put his hand mechanically into his pocket, he noticed that he had not the wherewithal to pay his fare.

  As he reached the corner of the Rue Guénegand, he saw two persons coming out of the Rue Dauphine, a man and a woman. Their appearance struck him and, as he looked carefully at them, he realized that the woman looked very much like Madame Bonacieux and her cavalier like Aramis. The woman still wore that black mantle which D’Artagnan could visualize outlined on the shutter of the Rue de Vaugirard and on the door of the Rue de La Harpe. The man wore the uniform of a musketeer. The woman’s hood was pulled down over her ears and the man held a handkerchief up to his face.

  They took the bridge, which was also D’Artagnan’s road since he was bound for the Louvre, he several paces behind them. D’Artagnan had not gone thirty feet before he was convinced that the woman was Madame Bonacieux and the man Aramis. And, as his suspicions increased, a wave of jealousy swept across his heart. So he was betrayed both by his friend and by the woman whom he already cherished as a mistress! Madame Bonacieux had sworn to him by all the gods that she did not know Aramis, and a quarter of an hour later he found her arm in arm with the musketeer!

  D’Artagnan did not reflect that he had known the haberdasher’s pretty wife for just three hours, that she owed him nothing more than a modicum of gratitude for saving her from the men in black, and that she had promised him nothing. He considered himself an outraged, betrayed and ridiculed lover; the blood rushed to his face, anger possessed him and he determined to unravel the mystery.

  The couple, noticing they were being followed, redoubled their speed. D’Artagnan sped forward, passed them and then turned round so as to meet them squarely in front of the Samaritaine in the lamplight. D’Artagnan stopped dead and they too halted before him. Then the musketeer stepped back and:

  “What do you want, Monsieur?” he asked in a voice and with a foreign accent which immediately proved that D’Artagnan had been mistaken in one part of his conjectures.

  “It is not Aramis!” he blurted.

  “No, Monsieur, it is not Aramis. By your exclamation, I see you have mistaken me for someone else, and so I excuse you.”

  “You excuse me?”

  “Yes,” replied the stranger. “And since you have no business with me, kindly step aside and let me pass.”

  “You are right, Monsieur, my business is not with you but with Madame.”

  “With Madame? But you do not know her.”

  “I beg your pardon, Monsieur, I know her very well.”

  “Ah,” Madame Bonacieux sighed reproachfully. “I had your promise as a soldier and your word as a gentleman. I hoped I could rely on that!”

  “And I, Madame,” said D’Artagnan somewhat embarrassed, “you had promised me—”

  “Please take my arm, Madame,” said the stranger, “and let us go on.”

  Meanwhile D’Artagnan, dazed, downcast and shocked, stood his ground. The musketeer advanced two steps and pushed D’Artagnan aside. D’Artagnan sprang backward and drew his sword. At the same time, swift as lightning, the stranger drew his.

  “In the name of Heaven, Milord!” cried Madame Bonacieux throwing herself between the combatants and seizing their swords.

  “Milord!” cried D’Artagnan, suddenly enlightened. “Milord! I beg your pardon, Monsieur, but can you possibly be—?”

  “My Lord Duke of Buckingham,” said Madame Bonacieux in an undertone. “And now you may ruin us all.”

  “Milord, Madame, I ask a hundred pardons. But I love her, Milord, and I was jealous. You know what it is to love, Milord. Pray forgive me and tell me how I may risk my life to serve Your Grace?”

  “You are a worthy young man,” said Buckingham extending a hand which D’Artagnan pressed respectfully. “You offer me your services and I accept them gladly. Follow us at a distance of twenty paces. If any one shadows us, kill him.”

  D’Artagnan allowed the Duke and Madame Bonacieux to take twenty steps ahead; then he followed, fully prepared to execute the orders given him by Charles the First’s minister. Happily, he found no opportunity to offer the Duke this proof of his devotion, for the young woman and the handsome musketeer entered the Louvre by the wicket near the Rue de l’Echelle without any interference.

  D’Artagnan immediately repaired to the Sign of the Fir Cone where he found Porthos and Aramis waiting for him. As for the evening’s adventures, he gave his friends no explanation other than that he had himself managed the affair for which he had summoned them.

  And now, carried away as we are by our narrative, we must leave our three friends to themselves and follow the Duke of Buckingham and his guide through the labyrinths of the Louvre.

  XII

  GEORGE VILLIERS, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM

  Madame Bonacieux and the Duke entered the Louvre without difficulty, for she was known to be a servant of the Queen’s household and he wore the uniform of Monsieur de Tréville’s Musketeers, who were on guard that evening. Moreover Germain, the porter, was devoted to Her Majesty’s interests. Were anything to go wrong, Madame Bonacieux would have to take the blame for introducing her lover into the Louvre. That was all: she assumed every risk, her reputation would be ruined of course, but what does the reputation of a haberdasher’s wife amount to in a world inhabited by great personages?

  Once inside the courtyard, they followed the wall for about twenty-five paces until they came to a small door in the servants’ quarters, open by day but usually closed at night. It yielded to Madame Bonacieux’s pressure and they passed into utter darkness; fortunately the Ariadne of the moment knew all the turnings and windings of this part of the Louvre, assigned to servants of Her Majesty’s Household. Her hand in the Duke’s hand, she tiptoed down passages, closed door after door behind her, groped her way through the dark, grasped a banister, felt with her foot for the bottom step and began to walk up a staircase. The Duke counted two stories, then Madame Bonacieux turned to the right, followed a long corridor, descended a flight of stairs, went a few steps farther, introduced a key into a lock, opened a door, and pushed His Grace into an apartment lighted only by a nightlight.

  “You must wait here, My Lord Duke,” she whispered.

  Then she went out by the same door which she locked from the outside, leaving her companion literally a prisoner.

  Alone as he was, Buckingham did not experience an instant of fear; indeed one of his most salient characteristics was his search for adventure, his love of romance. A brave, rash, enterprising man, he was not risking his life in this sort of affair for the first time. He had learned that the message from Anne of Austria, on the strength of which he had come to Paris, was a snare; but instead of returning to England, he had, abusing his present plight, warned the Queen that he refused to depart without seeing her. At first the Queen would have none of it; presently, fearing that the Duke, exasperated, might commit some folly, she had consented reluctantly. In fact she had planned to meet him and to urge his immediate departure on the evening of Madame Bonacieux’s abduction; but since
Madame Bonacieux was to fetch the Duke and lead him into the royal presence, the interview had perforce to be postponed.

  For two days, as nobody knew what had become of the haberdasher’s wife, everything remained in suspense; but once free again and in touch with La Porte, Madame Bonacieux was available to serve her royal mistress.

  Left alone in the small boudoir, Buckingham walked toward a mirror; his musketeer’s uniform, fitting him perfectly, was most becoming to him. Now thirty-five years old, he passed rightfully for the handsomest gentleman and most gallant cavalier in France or England. The favorite of two kings, immensely rich, all-powerful in a realm with which he played merry havoc to gratify a whim and then pacified to indulge a fancy, George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, led one of those fabulous existences which have remained through the centuries to astound posterity.

  Self-confident, convinced of his own power, certain that the laws which bound other men could not possibly hamper him, he made straight for whatever goal he had set himself, even were it so lofty and splendent that another man must be insane even to contemplate it. Thus, having succeeded in approaching the beautiful and haughty Anne of Austria several times, he had won her love by dazzling her.

  George Villiers stood before the glass, running his fingers through his long fair hair to restore the curls which his hat had disordered. Then he twirled his mustache and, his heart swelling with joy and happiness and pride at being so close to the moment he had yearned for so long, he smiled with hope and confidence.

  Suddenly a door concealed in the tapestry opened and a woman appeared. Seeing this apparition in the mirror, Buckingham uttered a cry. It was the Queen.

  Anne of Austria, then twenty-six or twenty-seven years of age, was at the height of her beauty. Her bearing was that of a queen or a goddess; her eyes, sparkling like emeralds, were of matchless splendor yet filled with sweetness and majesty. Her mouth was small and rosy, and though her under-lip, like that of all the princes of the House of Austria, protruded slightly, it was eminently gracious in her smile and profoundly haughty in her scorn. Her skin was much admired for its velvety softness; her hands and arms, surprisingly white and delicate of texture, were celebrated by all the poets of the age. And her hair, very blond in her youth, had turned to a warm chestnut; curled very simply and amply powdered, it framed her face so admirably that the most rigid critic could only have desired a little more rouge and the most exacting sculptor a nose somewhat more delicately chiseled.

  Buckingham stood before her, lost in awe of her beauty. Never had the Queen appeared to him so lovely at Court balls, fêtes and entertainments as she did in this moment clad in a simple gown of white satin and accompanied by Dona Estefana, the only one of her Spanish duennas whom the King’s jealousy or the Cardinal’s persecution had not banished from her side.

  The Queen took two steps forward, Buckingham threw himself at her feet; before she could prevent him, he had kissed the hem of her gown.

  “My Lord Duke,” said the Queen, “you must already know that I did not write to you.”

  “I do. Alas! a madman I, to dream that snow might melt and kmarble thaw. But what will you, Madame, a lover believes in love. My journey has not been in vain; at least I have seen you.”

  “You know very well, My Lord, how and why I am here now. Indifferent to my anguish, you insisted on staying here at the risk of your life and the peril of my honor. I am here now to tell you that everything parts us: the depths of the seas, the enmity of kingdoms, the sanctity of oaths sworn. To struggle against such obstacles is sacrilege, My Lord. I tell you we must never meet again.”

  “Speak on, Madame, speak on: the warmth of Your Majesty’s voice defeats the harshness of your words. You spoke of sacrilege, but surely such sacrilege lies solely in the separation of two hearts that were made for each other.”

  “My Lord Duke, you forget I never told you I loved you.”

  “But Your Majesty never told me that you did not love me. To tell me this now would be an ingratitude too great on Your Majesty’s part. Oh, tell me, Madame, where shall you, queen as you are, ever find a love like mine … a love which neither time nor absence nor despair can quench … a love content to thrive upon a lost ribbon, a stray glance, a random word.…

  “I first set eyes upon you, Madame, three years ago, and ever since I have loved you nobly and ardently as I did that day. Shall I describe the gown you wore, shall I cite each article of apparel that I remember? I see Your Majesty as clearly now as I did then. You were seated, Spanish-fashion, upon square cushions … you wore a green satin dress stitched with silver and gold … your sleeves hung down caught by diamond clasps, over your arms—your beautiful arms!… You wore a close ruff, a cap of the same color as your dress, and athwart your cap, a heron’s feather.…

  “Ah, Madame, I have but to close my eyes in order to see you just as you were then, and to open them again in order to find you as you are now, one hundred times more beautiful.”

  “Foolish man!” the Queen murmured, too weak to find fault with a lover who had cherished her image so faithfully in his heart. “Do not feed the flame of a vain passion with such memories.”

  “By what else shall I live, Madame? What else have I but memories, which are my happiness, my treasure and my hope. Each time I have beheld Your Majesty, it was as a new diamond which I enclosed in the casket of my heart. Here is the fourth jewel Your Majesty has let fall from the heights where you dwell and how avidly I gather it! Only four times, Madame: the first which I have described … the second at the Hôtel de Chevreuse … the third in the gardens at Amiens—”

  “I beg you, My Lord Duke, never to speak of that evening,” said the Queen, blushing.

  “No, Madame, on the contrary, let us speak of it always, for it was the most fortunate and radiant evening of my life. How soft the night, Madame, do you remember? How mild, how balmy the air and how blue the sky, studded with silver stars! That night, Madame, I contrived to be alone with you for one instant … that night you were ready to tell me all the loneliness of your life and the sorrows of your heart … you leaned upon my arm, Madame, ay, upon this very arm … as I bowed my head I could feel your hair grazing my cheek, and each time it touched me, I trembled like a coward … You were a queen, my queen, ah! you cannot know what divine felicity and what paradisical joy fill one such moment! Take my riches, my fortune, take my glory, take all the days I have yet to live, I would gladly exchange them for a moment like that moment, a night like that night. That night, Madame, I dare swear it! that night Your Majesty loved me!”

  “My Lord, the beauty of the gardens … the spell of the evening … the fascination of your glance—oh! the thousand and one circumstances that sometimes unite to destroy a woman!—all these were heavy upon me that fatal evening.… But you saw it, My Lord: the Queen come to the aid of the faltering woman. At the first word you dared speak, with the first word I mustered to answer your temerity, I called for help.”

  “True, Madame, and any love but mine would have perished at this ordeal, but mine emerged more ardent, more eternal! You thought to escape me by returning to Paris; you believed I would not dare quit the treasure over which my master had appointed me to watch. But what did all the treasures of the world mean to me, and all the kings of the universe? A week later I was back again, Madame. That time you had nothing to say to me; I had risked my favor and my life to see you for a fleeting second. I did not even touch your hand, and you forgave me, seeing me so submissive and repentant.”

  “Yes, but as you well know, My Lord, calumny pounced upon all these follies in which I took no part. The King, excited by the Cardinal, made a terrible scene; Madame de Vernet was dismissed, Putange was exiled and Madame de Chevreuse fell into disgrace. And remember, My Lord, when you sought to return as Ambassador to France, His Majesty himself opposed it.”

  “That is why France is now about to pay for her King’s refusal with a war. Now that I may no longer see you, Madame, I can at least arrange to have news of
me reach you day by day. What do you suppose lies behind my plans for the occupation of the Isle of Ré and for our league with the Protestants of La Rochelle? This, no more and no less: the pleasure of my seeing you.

  “I cannot hope to fight my way to Paris, sword in hand; I know this all too well. But a war, Madame, ends in a peace, a peace requires a negotiator, that negotiator might well be myself, Madame. No one would then dare to refuse me. So I shall return to Paris, I shall see you again, I shall savor a moment of ecstasy! Thousands of men, it is true, will lose their lives for my joy, but what matter so but I see Your Majesty again? Is this folly, Madame, is it insanity? I dare not say. But tell me, Madame, when did ever woman find a lover more deeply in love, when did ever queen find a servant more ardent?”

  “My Lord, you call to your defense arguments that accuse you the more strongly. These proofs of love that you invoke are almost crimes.”

  “That is because you do not love me, Madame. If you loved me, how differently you would feel! If you loved me, oh! if but you loved me, I would be too happy, I would perish for very delight.”

  The Queen sighed.

  “Your Majesty mentioned Madame de Chevreuse; alas, she was less cruel than you, for Lord Holland loved her and she responded to his love.”

  “Madame de Chevreuse was not a queen,” Anne of Austria replied, overcome, in spite of herself, by the depths of Buckingham’s love.

  “So you would love me, Madame, were you not queen; ah, tell me that you would love me! Let me believe that only the dignity of your rank makes you so cruel to me … let me believe that were you Madame de Chevreuse, poor Buckingham might have hoped … I thank you Madame, I thank my beauteous sovereign one hundredfold for her most gracious words.”

  “No, My Lord, you misunderstand … you misconstrue my meaning.…”

  “Madame, I find my happiness in illusion and error; I pray you mercifully to leave them me. You have told me I was drawn to Paris as into a trap, which may cost me my life—”