The Modern Library Children's Classics

by Kenneth Grahame

  “Certainly. I have the necessary proofs in hand.”

  “But I must be able to present these proofs.”

  “Undoubtedly. Simply tell him that I can publish the reports submitted by Bois-Robert and by the Marquis de Beautru on the Duke’s meeting with the Queen at the house of Madame la Connêtable on the evening of Madame le Connêtable’s masquerade. To convince him, you will tell him that he attended the fête disguised as the Great Mogul in a costume supposed to be worn by the Chevalier de Guise, purchased from the Chevalier for the sum of three thousand pistoles.”

  “Very well, Monseigneur.”

  “You will tell him that I know every detail of his movements the night he entered the palace disguised as an Italian fortune-teller.” The Cardinal paused, probably to make sure Milady seized each detail she was to communicate to Buckingham. Apparently satisfied, he went on briskly. “To substantiate this, you will remind him that under his cloak he wore a white robe embroidered with black tears, death’s heads and cross-bones.”

  (By this disguise Buckingham had hoped, in case of surprise, to pass for the ghost of the White Lady who, according to legend, returns to the Louvre whenever some great event is impending.)

  “Is that all, Monseigneur?”

  “Tell him that I know every detail of the adventure at Amiens. Tell him that I shall have some writer make a charming little novel out of it, wittily turned, illustrated with a map of the garden and portraits of the principal characters in that nocturnal romance.”

  “I will, Monsieur le Cardinal.”

  Richelieu further instructed Milady to inform Buckingham that Montagu, the English envoy, was being held in the Bastille … that no letters were found upon his person but that torture might easily make him tell what he knew or even what he did not know … that Buckingham, in his flight from the Ile de Ré, had neglected to take along a certain letter from Madame de Chevreuse … and that this letter thoroughly compromised the Queen, because Her Majesty, beyond loving the King’s enemies, had actually plotted with the enemies of France.…

  “You recollect all I have said,” the Cardinal concluded.

  “Your Eminence will judge of that,” Milady answered. “One, the ball given by Madame la Connêtable; two, the night at the Louvre; three, the evening at Amiens; four, the arrest of Montagu; five, the letter from Madame de Chevreuse.”

  “That is correct,” said the Cardinal, “you have an excellent memory, Milady.”

  Milady nodded respectfully at the Cardinal’s flattery. But, she inquired, what if in spite of all these reasons, the Duke refused to give in and continued to threaten France?

  “The Duke is in love with all the ardor of a madman,” His Eminence countered with great bitterness, “or rather with all the ardor of a fool! Like the paladins of old, he undertook this war solely to win one glance from the woman he worships. If ever he can be made to realize that this war may cost the lady of his thoughts, as he calls her, her honor and perhaps her liberty, I assure you he will think twice.”

  “But if he persists?” Milady returned to the charge with a vigor that proved her will to see clearly the end of her mission. “What if he persists?”

  “If he persists,” the Cardinal paused, then: “That is not likely!” he concluded.

  “Yet it is possible, Monseigneur.”

  “Well then, if he persists—” His Eminence paused again. “Well, in that case, I shall hope for one of those events which change the destinies of nations.”

  Milady begged His Eminence to quote some such historical event: it might bring her to share his confidence in the future.

  “There are plenty of such incidents,” the Cardinal replied, “nor have we to look too far back to find them. In 1610, for instance, our own King Henry IV of glorious memory was about to invade both Flanders and Italy in order to attack Austria on both flanks. He was inspired to do so for a cause similar to that which now inspires Buckingham. And what happened?” Milady made no answer. “What saved Austria? One of those historical events!” Still Milady said nothing. “Why should not the present King of France profit as much today by a lucky accident as the Emperor profited in 1610?”

  “Your Eminence refers to the stabbing in the Rue de la Ferronnerie?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But Ravaillac was tortured and mutilated for killing King Henry IV,” Milady argued. “His punishment should deter anyone who might dream of following his example.”

  “In all times and in all countries, particularly in countries torn by religious strife, there are always fanatics who ask nothing better than to become martyrs. Just as Ravaillac killed Henry IV, so Jacques Clément, twenty years before, killed Henry III. Surely England today offers another case in point. Are not the Puritans furious against the Duke of Buckingham? Do not their preachers describe him as Antichrist?”

  “Well?”

  “Well!” the Cardinal continued in an indifferent tone, “we need but find some beautiful and clever young woman who has personal reasons to take revenge on the Duke. Such women are legion, for the Duke has had many love affairs. If he has fostered many loves by promises of eternal constancy, he must also have inspired as many hatreds by his eternal infidelities.”

  “Undoubtedly such a woman could be found,” Milady replied coldly.

  “Such a woman, placing the knife of Jacques Clément or that of Ravaillac in the hands of a fanatic, would save France!”

  “Yes, but she would become the accomplice of an assassin.”

  “Has anyone ever discovered the accomplices of Ravaillac or of Jacques Clément?”

  “No, but perhaps they were so high placed that no one dared look for them. It is not everyone who can get the Palais de Justice burned down, Monseigneur.”

  As though the question were of no importance:

  “So you think the fire at the Palais de Justice was not an accident?” Richelieu asked.

  “Monseigneur, I do not think anything. I quote an historical fact, no more. I can only add that were I Mademoiselle de Montpensier or Queen Marie de’ Médicis, I could afford to be less cautious than I am. But I am merely Lady Clark.”

  “True. What do you require, then?”

  “I require an order ratifying beforehand whatever act I may consider proper for the greatest good of France.”

  “Ah, but we must first find some woman who wishes to avenge herself upon the Duke of Buckingham.”

  “She is found,” Milady assured him.

  “Next, we must find a miserable fanatic willing to serve as an instrument of the justice of God.”

  “He will be found.”

  “When that is done, it will be time to write the order you ask for.”

  “Your Eminence is right,” Milady granted, “and I was wrong in seeing in the mission with which you honor me anything but what it actually is. To sum up my instructions, I am to tell His Grace of Buckingham that you know the various disguises he used in order to approach the Queen at the fête given by Madame la Connétable … that you have proofs of the interview at the Louvre granted by the Queen to a certain Italian astrologer who was no other than the Duke of Buckingham … that you have ordered a very satirical little romance to be written on the adventures at Amiens, along with a map of the garden where the affair took place, and portraits of the actors who figured in it … that Montagu is in the Bastille and that torture may make him tell what he remembers and even what he has already forgotten … and finally that you possess a certain letter from Madame de Chevreuse, which not only compromises its sender but also its addressee.… Then, if he still persists in the face of all this, my mission will have been accomplished and I have but to pray to God to perform a miracle for the salvation of France. That is correct, is it not, Monseigneur? I have nothing else to do?”

  “That is correct,” the Cardinal agreed.

  Without appearing to notice the Cardinal’s change of tone and attitude, Milady asked:

  “Now that I have received Your Eminence’s instructions concerni
ng his enemies, will Monseigneur permit me to say a few words about mine?”

  “You have enemies, Milady?”

  “Ay, Monseigneur, enemies against whom you owe me all your support, because I made them while serving you.”

  “Who are they?”

  “In the first place, a meddlesome, intriguing little woman called Bonacieux.”

  “She is in the prison of Mantes.”

  “That is to say she was there,” Milady corrected. “But the Queen obtained an order from the King whereby the Bonacieux woman was transferred to a convent.”

  “To a convent?”

  “Ay, to a convent.”

  “What convent?”

  “That, I do not know. The secret has been well guarded.”

  “But I shall find out.”

  “And Your Eminence will let me know where the woman is?”

  “I do not see why not.”

  “Good! But I have another enemy much more to be dreaded than this little Madame Bonacieux.”

  “Who?”

  “Her lover.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Oh, Your Eminence knows him well,” Milady exclaimed carried away by anger, “he is the evil genius of both of us. It was he who in an encounter with Your Eminence’s guards decided the victory in favor of the Royal Musketeers … who dealt your emissary de Vardes three serious wounds … who caused the affair of the diamond studs to fail … and who, knowing that I had caused Madame Bonacieux’s abduction, has sworn my death.…”

  “Ah! I know whom you—”

  “I mean that scoundrel D’Artagnan.”

  “He is a bold fellow.”

  “That makes him the more dangerous.”

  “I must have a proof of his connection with Buckingham.”

  “A proof!” cried Milady. “I will furnish Your Eminence with ten!”

  “In that case, nothing could be simpler. Give me that proof and I will send him to the Bastille.”

  “Capital, Monseigneur!” Milady beamed. “But afterward?”

  “Once a man is in the Bastille, there is no afterward,” said the Cardinal in a hollow voice. “By my faith, if my enemy were as easy to get rid of as yours are, and if it was against such people that you craved impunity—”

  “Monseigneur,” Milady rejoined, “bargain for bargain, life for life, man for man: give me one, I will give you the other.”

  “I do not know what you mean nor do I even care to know. But I do wish to be of service to you and I see no objection to granting you what you ask with regard to so insignificant a creature, especially since you say that this paltry fellow D’Artagnan is a libertine, a duelist and a traitor.”

  “A scoundrel, Monseigneur, an infamous scoundrel.”

  “Give me paper, a quill and some ink, then.”

  “Here they are, Monseigneur.”

  There was a moment of silence; the Cardinal was perhaps thinking of what terms to use or perhaps actually writing the note. Athos, who had lost no word of the conversation, took his companions by the hand and led them to the far end of the room.

  “What do you want?” Porthos asked. “And why do you not let us hear the end of the conversation?”

  “Hush!” Athos warned. “We have heard all we need to hear. Besides I am not preventing you from listening to the end. But I must be off.”

  “Off where?” Porthos challenged. “And if the Cardinal asks for you, what are we to tell him?”

  “Do not wait until he asks for me. Speak before he does. Tell him I have gone on the lookout because the landlord gave me reason to believe that the road is unsafe. I will tell the Cardinal’s esquire the same thing. As for the rest, that is my business. Leave it to me and do not worry.”

  “Be cautious, Athos!” Aramis counseled.

  “You may rest easy on that score. You know I am a cool customer!”

  Porthos and Aramis returned to their places by the stovepipe.

  Meanwhile Athos went out casually, took his horse, which was tied to the shutter with those of his friends, convinced the esquire in a few words of the necessity of a vanguard for the return journey, pointedly examined the priming of his pistol, drew his sword, and, as though following a forlorn hope, took the road leading to the camp.

  XLV

  HUSBAND AND WIFE

  As Athos had foreseen the Cardinal soon came down. Opening the door, he found Porthos dicing furiously with Aramis. He glanced swiftly around the room and found one of the company missing.

  “Where is Monsieur Athos?” he inquired.

  Porthos explained that Athos, gathering from the landlord’s conversation that the road was not entirely safe, had gone out to reconnoitre.

  “And what have you been doing, Monsieur Porthos?”

  “I have just won five pistoles from Aramis, Monseigneur.”

  “Well, will you return with me now?”

  “We are at your Eminence’s orders.”

  “To the horse then, gentlemen, for it is getting late.”

  The Cardinal’s esquire stood at the door holding His Eminence’s horse by the bridle. A few steps away a group of two men and three horses stood waiting in the shadows; they were to escort Milady to the Fort de La Pointe and see her safely aboard ship. The esquire confirmed what the musketeers had told the Cardinal about Athos; His Eminence nodded in approval and retraced his route with the same precautions he had employed in coming.

  As for Athos, he had ridden off at an even clip until he was out of sight; then, turning to the right, he had described a circle and returned within twenty paces of a tall hedge whence he heard the Cardinal and his little troop make off. He actually caught a glimpse of the gold-laced hats of his companions and of the Cardinal’s gold-fringed coat. When the horsemen had rounded the corner of the road Athos galloped back to the inn.

  The landlord recognized him.

  “My Commanding Officer forgot to give the lady an important piece of news,” he explained. “I mean the lady on the first floor. He sent me back to—”

  “Walk right up, Monsieur, the lady is still here.”

  Availing himself of the permission, Athos climbed the stairs blithely and from the landing, through the open door, saw Milady putting on her hat. Crossing the threshold, he closed the door behind him and bolted it; at the sound, Milady turned back to face him. He stood before her, wrapped in his cloak, his hat pulled over his eyes. Seeing this figure silent and motionless as a statue, Milady was frightened.

  “Who are you,” she demanded, “and what do you want?”

  “Yes, yes!” said Athos and slipping out of his cloak and removing his hat as he strode toward Milady, “You are certainly the woman I am looking for. Do you recognize me, Madame?”

  Milady took one step forward, then drew back as though a snake lay in her path.

  “So far so good!” Athos went on. “I see you know who I am.”

  “The Comte de La Fère!” Milady murmured, turning pale and recoiling step by step to the wall.

  “Yes, Milady, the Comte de La Fère in person. He has come expressly from the other world in order to enjoy the pleasure of seeing you again. Let us sit down and talk, as the Cardinal says.”

  Milady, a prey to indescribable terror, sat down without uttering a word.

  “Truly you are a demon sent to plague this earth!” Athos said calmly. “Your power is great I know; but you know that with God’s help, men have often vanquished the most terrible of demons. Once before, Madame, you crossed my path and I thought I had felled you; but either I was mistaken or Hell has resuscitated you.”

  Milady bowed her head, groaning.

  “Ay, Hell has resuscitated you, Hell has made you rich, Hell has given you another name, Hell has almost lent you another countenance. But it has effaced neither the stains upon your soul nor the brand upon your body.”

  Milady sprang up as though loosed by a powerful spring. Her eyes flashed lightning. Athos did not turn a hair.

  “You thought me dead, did you not, just
as I thought you dead? The name of Athos concealed the Comte de La Fère just as that of Lady Clark concealed that of Anne de Bueil. It was under that name that your honorable brother married us, was it not? Our position is truly a strange one!” Athos laughed wryly. “We have gone on living only because each of us believed the other dead, and because a memory, however torturous, is less oppressive than a living creature.”

  “Tell me, Monsieur,” Milady said in a faint, hollow voice, “what brings you back to me? What do you want?”

  “First, I must inform you that while I have remained out of your sight, I have kept an eye on you.”

  “You know what has happened to me?”

  “I can tell you what you have been doing, day by day ever since you entered the service of the Cardinal.”

  A smile of incredulity fluttered across Milady’s pallid lips.

  “So you doubt me, eh?” Athos smiled ironically. “Well, listen carefully, Milady. I know it was you who cut off the two diamond studs from the shoulder of the Duke of Buckingham … it was you who contrived the abduction of Madame Bonacieux … it was you who, in love with de Vardes and thinking to spend the night with him, opened your door and bed to Monsieur d’Artagnan … it was you who, believing de Vardes had deceived you, tried to have him killed by his rival … when this rival discovered your infamous secret, it was you who sought to have him killed by two murderers you sent in pursuit … when the bullets missed him, it was you who attempted to poison him by means of a case of Anjou wine and a forged letter … and it was you who a few moments ago sat in this chair I now occupy and promised the Cardinal to murder the Duke of Buckingham in exchange for his permission to let you assassinate D’Artagnan.…”

  Milady turned livid.

  “You must be Satan!” she murmured.

  “Possibly I am,” Athos replied jauntily, “but Satan or not, let me tell you this: you may murder Buckingham or have him murdered, it is all one to me. I do not know His Grace and anyhow he is an Englishman. But if you lay one finger on one hair of D’Artagnan’s head, I swear by God and by the memory of my father that it will be your last gesture.”

  “But, Monsieur—”