LI
OF AN OFFICER OUT ON A STROLL
Meanwhile the Cardinal was anxiously awaiting news from England; but none came save of the most unpleasant and threatening nature.
La Rochelle was thoroughly invested; every precaution had been taken and the dike, which prevented the entrance of even a skiff into the beleagured city, augured certain success. Yet the blockade might last quite a while, which would prove a great affront to the King’s arms and a great inconvenience for the Cardinal. True, Richelieu need no longer embroil the King with Anne of Austria; he had already accomplished this. But he had still to accommodate matters between Monsieur de Bassompierre and the Duc d’Angoulême who were on very bad terms. As for the Duc d’Orléans, brother to the King, having begun the siege, he left the task of finishing it to the Cardinal.
Notwithstanding the incredible perseverance of their Mayor, the citizens of La Rochelle had attempted a mutiny of sorts to force him to surrender. The Mayor hanged the ringleaders. This show of force quieted the unruly who resolved to die of hunger, a slower and less drastic death than strangulation.
The besiegers, for their part, occasionally intercepted couriers sent by the men of La Rochelle to Buckingham or spies sent by Buckingham to the men of La Rochelle. Justice in either case was swiftly rendered. The Cardinal merely uttered the word “Hanging!” and a man hung. His Majesty was invariably invited to witness the execution. The King arrived languidly, occupied a favored place whence he could observe each detail of the operation, was invariably somewhat entertained and felt the siege to be less of a chore. But he was very bored indeed and spoke constantly of returning to Paris. Thus had there been a lack of La Rochelle messengers and English spies, His Eminence, despite his imagination and resource, would have found himself in an awkward position.
Time passed on and still the city showed no sign of surrendering. The most recent spy captured was the bearer of a letter informing Buckingham that the city was desperate. But instead of saying: “If your succor is not forthcoming within a fortnight we shall surrender,” it read: “If your succor does not arrive within a fortnight we shall all be dead of hunger when it does arrive.”
Buckingham, then, was the sole hope of the citizenry of La Rochelle; he was their Messiah. Obviously if once they learned for certain that they could no longer count on him their courage would collapse with their hopes.
Accordingly His Eminence waited avidly for tidings from England to the effect that Buckingham would not come.
The question of storming the city was frequently debated in the Royal Council and invariably rejected. In the first place, its battlements seemed impregnable. Further whatever His Eminence might have said he realized that he could not set Frenchmen against Frenchmen. The horrors of a bloody civil war would have marked current policy as a retrogression to the savagery of sixty years before. His Eminence was what we of the nineteenth century call a man of progress. Indeed, in 1628, the sack of La Rochelle and the slaughter of three or four thousand Huguenots who would have borne too much resemblance to the Massacres of Saint Bartholemew in 1572. The King, staunch Catholic though he was, would not have objected in the least to such categoric and sanguinary measures. But he always bowed before the argument of the besieging generals; La Rochelle, they all agreed, was impregnable save by famine.
Often the Cardinal thought uncomfortably and with a certain fear of Milady. Her strange dual character … the mixture of beauty and horror in her … the dove, the lion, the snake.… Had she betrayed him? Was she dead? Friend or foe, acting for or against him, he knew that nothing save the greatest obstacles could immobilize a woman of her energy. But who could have set these obstacles in her path?
Fundamentally he felt he could rely on her and with reason. There must be something so ghastly in this woman’s past that only his red mantle could cover it. This woman was his own, his creature, for only in him could she find support stronger than the dangers which threatened her.
The stake he had in her being so tenuous, the Cardinal decided to wage war single-handed; any success from abroad would be a stroke of chance. He would continue to raise the famous dike which was to starve La Rochelle and, as it rose higher, day by day, he stared across at the unhappy city. What profound wretchedness and what heroic virtues it contained! The Cardinal thought of King Louis XI his political predecessor—as akin to himself as his successor Robespierre was to be—and he remembered the words of the King’s minister and toady, Tristan L’Hermite: “Divide in order to rule.”
Henry IV when besieging Paris had ordered his soldiers to toss bread and provisions over the walls to the enemy His Eminence arranged for short notes to be tossed over the walls of La Rochelle in which he pointed out to its inhabitants how unjust, selfish and barbarous was the conduct of their leaders. These leaders, said the text, possessed wheat in abundance yet they would not share it with the population. Their slogan—for they had their slogans too—was that women, children and oldsters should die so long as those who manned the walls remained well-fed, healthy and strong.
Thanks to the loyalty of the citizens or to their inability to resist, this principle had not been universally adopted but it was partially observed; it had passed from theory to practice. Richelieu’s propaganda injured it considerably. It reminded the men that the luckless folk they allowed to die were their own wives, children and parents. The evident conclusion was that if all the inhabitants were reduced to a common misery such equal conditions must inevitably result in unanimity of decision.
These broadcasts met with all the effect their writer anticipated, for they determined a large number of inhabitants to open private negotiations with the Royal Army.
The Cardinal had cause to congratulate himself; his methods were bearing fruit and the future looked rosy. But at precisely this juncture a citizen of La Rochelle tossed a figurative bombshell into His Eminence’s real expectations. Despite the vigilance of Bassompierre, of Schomberg and of the Duc d’Angoulême, themselves under the Cardinal’s unflagging surveillance, a man of La Rochelle had regained the city from England with word that he had himself seen a splendid fleet in Portsmouth harbor ready to sail within a week. Lord Buckingham, he added, wished the Mayor of La Rochelle to tell his fellow-citizens that the Great League was about to declare itself and that France was soon to be invaded simultaneously by English, Imperial and Spanish armies. This letter was read publicly in every square of the city, copies were posted on all street corners and even those who had begun negotiations with the Royal Army now desisted, pending the succor so nobly and handsomely promised.
This unexpected circumstance revived Richelieu’s early anxiety and forced him reluctantly to cast his eyes once more across the Channel.
Such high concerns did not affect the Royal Army. Exempt from the worries of its sole and true chief, it led a carefree, joyous life. Provisions and money were plentiful; the various units vied in gaiety and daring. For the citizenry of La Rochelle, a prey to famine and apprehension, the days were interminable; for the Cardinal who had bottled up the city, they were long enough; for the troops, they were a prolonged holiday. To catch a spy and hang him they invented the wildest expeditions and carried them out over the dike or at sea with consummate phlegm.
At times His Eminence, in no wise distinguishable from the humblest trooper in his army, would ride the dunes. As he gazed over the harbor works which kept pace with his wishes so slowly, he marveled that engineers recruited all over France had been so laggard. Whenever he met any musketeers of Monsieur de Tréville’s company, he found himself wondering why none was Athos, Porthos, Aramis or D’Artagnan. Then, shaking his head, he would stare out to sea again, his thoughts on more vital matters. One day, oppressed by intolerable ennui, in despair of negotiating with the city and utterly without news from England, His Eminence set out for a stroll along the beach with no purpose other than to take the air: Cabusac and La Houdinière alone followed him. Pacing his horse at a slow walk, His Eminence stared out across the slate-g
ray sea. Presently his horse brought him to the top of a dune whence he sighted a hedge. From this height His Eminence espied, over the hedge, a group of men reclining in a valley of sand. A last faint light of premature dusk, rare in that season, enabled him to distinguish seven men reclining amid a circle of empty bottles.
(Need I say that the seven were four musketeers, poised to hear one of them read a letter he had just received. Need I add that the letter was so vital that they had tossed their cards and dice onto the drumhead? Must I explain how the other three, evidently lackeys, were engaged in opening a demijohn of Colliure wine?)
His Eminence was in extremely low spirits and when depressed he could not bear to see others happy. Psychologically, too, he fancied somewhat strangely that his melancholy created gaiety in others. Motioning to Cabusac and La Houdinière to halt, His Eminence dismounted and advanced on tiptoe toward these suspect merrymakers. The sand would deaden his footsteps, the hedge conceal his approach; he could doubtless overhear them without fear of detection. He had not taken ten steps before he recognized a rollicking Gascon accent; he knew the men were musketeers; undoubtedly here were the youth he had wondered about and the inseparable Athos, Porthos and Aramis.
He was therefore all the more eager to hear what they were saying. His eyes took on a strange air of expectancy and, catlike, His Eminence crept toward the hedge. Crouching behind it he caught only a few meaningless syllables when suddenly a loud cry made him start. The musketeers looked up.
“Attention gentlemen!” Grimaud bawled.
“You spoke, scoundrel?” Athos cried incredulously. He raised himself on one elbow, brushed the sand off his shoulder with his free hand and stared at Grimaud, his eyes flashing. “You dared speak!”
Awed, Grimaud said no more. But he pointed toward the hedge. In a trice the musketeers rose to their feet, stood at attention and saluted with impeccable smartness. His Eminence seemed disgruntled.
“Well, gentlemen,” he observed sourly, “I notice the musketeers post sentinels about them. Can the English be planning to land or do the musketeers consider themselves to be Field Officers?”
Amid the general consternation Athos alone preserved his calm. Cool as a cucumber, self-possessed as ever, he faced the Cardinal as a nobleman, equal to equal.
“Monseigneur,” he said evenly, “when off duty, His Majesty’s musketeers drink and dice. They are not commissioned, but to their lackeys they are the equals of the highest Field Officers.”
“Lackeys, you say,” the Cardinal grumbled, “lackeys ordered to alert their masters when someone passes by are sentries, not lackeys.”
“Yet Your Eminence must see that we have posted no sentries. We were taken by surprise. Indeed we might well have let Your Eminence pass without paying our respects and offering our thanks for past favors.” Athos paused a moment, drew himself up and: “D’Artagnan,” he said, “you have been waiting for a chance to express your gratitude to the Cardinal. Well, here is your chance.”
Athos spoke with all the assurance and imperturbability that distinguished him in times of crisis. Ever calm, he was kingly when danger threatened. D’Artagnan stumbled forward, mumbled a few words of thanks, and relapsed into silence under the Cardinal’s disapproving stare.
Richelieu, apparently in no wise diverted from his original purpose by the incident Athos had created, looked stonily ahead of him and said:
“All this is beyond the point, gentlemen. Because private soldiers happen to be privileged to serve in a crack regiment, they are not to play the part of great noblemen. I do not like it. Discipline is the same for one and all.”
Athos bowed.
“Monseigneur,” he said firmly, “we have not violated military discipline. We are now off duty and being off duty we fancied we could spend our time as we pleased. If Your Eminence sees fit to order us to perform some task in the line of duty we would be much honored.” Athos frowned, for the Cardinal’s specious interrogation was beginning to try his patience. “As Your Eminence may observe, we did not venture forth unarmed.”
Athos looked significantly at the four muskets stacked beside the drum on which lay an assortment of cards and dice.
Recovering his senses, D’Artagnan suggested that the musketeers would not have failed to go to meet His Eminence had they imagined he was coming into their midst so poorly attended. The Cardinal pursed his lips.
“Do you know what you look like? Always together, always armed, always guarded by your lackeys? Why, you look like four conspirators.”
“True, Monseigneur, we do conspire. But as Your Eminence observed the other day, we conspire against the men of La Rochelle.”
“Well, gentlemen politicos—” the Cardinal frowned in his turn, “I dare say many mysteries might be solved if one could read your minds as blithely as you were reading that letter when I drew up. I may add that I was as quick to see you hide it as you were to do so.”
Athos, flushing, stepped forward.
“Judging by this inquisition, it would seem as though Your Eminence really suspected us of conspiracy. If so, we trust Monseigneur will deign to explain so that we may at least know where we stand.”
“Inquisition or no, Monsieur Athos, others have submitted to it and answered in all honesty.”
“We are prepared to answer in all honesty to any question Your Eminence may be pleased to ask.”
“I see.” There was a long silence. Then, turning on Aramis, the Cardinal barked: “What was in the letter you were reading, Monsieur, and why did you hide it when I appeared?”
“A letter from a lady, Monsieur.”
“Ah, yes, that sort of letter commands discretion!” The Cardinal coughed. “Still, it may well be shown to a confessor; as you know I have been admitted to Holy Orders.”
With a calmness the more terrifying because he knew he might well pay for it with his head, Athos admitted the letter was from a lady but was signed neither by Marion de Lorme nor by Madame d’Aiguillon.
The Cardinal turned very pale, his eyes darted lightning, and he turned as if to give an order to Cahusac and La Houdinière. Athos, seeing the movement, stepped toward the stacked muskets. His companions eyed their weapons like men ill disposed to submit meekly to arrest. The Cardinal’s party numbered three, His Eminence included; the musketeers with their lackeys numbered seven. His Eminence judged very wisely that if Athos and his friends were really plotting, the contest would prove all the more uneven. With one of those sudden reversals by which he so often profited, all his anger faded into a smile.
“Enough!” he said affably, “I know you to be brave young men, proud in the daylight and loyal in the dark. There is no harm in posting men to watch over yourselves when you watch so well over others. I have not forgotten the night when you escorted me to and from the Red Dovecote, gentlemen. Were there any danger on the road I am about to take, I would beg you to accompany me. But since I am quite safe, pray stay where you are and finish your bottles, your gambling and your love letters. Gentlemen, I bid you adieu.”
Cahusac led up the Cardinal’s horse. His Eminence sprang into the saddle, waved his hand in farewell and rode off. The four young men watched him disappear and looked at one another in dismay. To be sure his leave-taking had been friendly but each knew that the Cardinal was in a towering rage. Only Athos smiled, an authoritative and disdainful smile. The Cardinal out of sight, Porthos, venting his ill humor on the nearest butt at hand, growled:
“That fellow Grimaud warned us too late!”
The lackey was about to apologize; but Athos raised his hand, enjoining silence.
“Would you have handed over your letter?” D’Artagnan asked Aramis.
“I?” Aramis asked back in his most melodious voice. The others looked at him curiously. “Yes,” he said. “My mind was made up. I would have given him the letter with one hand and, with the other, plunged my sword through his body.”
“So I thought,” said Athos. “That is why I stepped forward between you and His Em
inence. I must say that cleric is rash to speak to any self-respecting men as he did to us. You might suppose he had dealt all his life with women and children.”
“Heaven knows I admire you, Athos,” D’Artagnan said. “But after all you were in the wrong.”
“I, in the wrong? God help us, whose is this air we breathe, whose this ocean we survey, whose this sand we rest on, whose the letter from your mistress, D’Artagnan? Do any of these belong to the Cardinal? I swear I think that man imagines that he owns the entire world. And there you stood before that man, flustered, stammering, stultified. Anyone might have supposed the Bastille gaped to receive you or the gigantic Medusa had turned you to stone. You are in love; does that make you a conspirator? You are in love with a woman His Eminence clapped into jail and you want to get her back for yourself. There you stand, gambling against His Eminence; the letter is the ace in your hand, why expose it to your opponent? No one ever does that. Let him guess, well and good; we can guess what trumps he holds.”
D’Artagnan conceded that what Athos said was eminently sensible.
“In that case, let us forget this unpleasant interlude. Come, Aramis, read us the letter from your cousin. I must say I have forgotten how it ran, what with all these interruptions.”
Aramis pulled the letter from his pocket, his friends drew together around him, the three lackeys took their stand around the demijohn as though the Cardinal had never appeared.
“You had only read a line or two,” said D’Artagnan. “Start again from the beginning.”
“With pleasure,” said Aramis. “Here you are:
My dear Cousin:
I think I shall decide to leave for Stenay where my sister has entered our little maid in the Carmelite convent. The poor child is quite resigned to this as she knows she cannot live elsewhere without endangering her hopes of sanctity and salvation.
The Modern Library Children's Classics Page 116
