“God’s justice and will and mercy be done!” he cried in a loud voice.
Then he dropped the cloak overboard and the waters closed up about it.
Three days later, the musketeers returned to Paris. They had not overstayed their leave of absence and, on the evening of their arrival, they paid their customary call on Monsieur de Tréville.
“Well, gentlemen,” the good Captain inquired, “did you enjoy yourselves on your excursion?”
“Prodigiously!” Athos replied, speaking for one and all.
LXVII
OF THE CARDINAL, HIS AGENT AND A LIEUTENANT’S COMMISSION
On the sixth day of the following month the King, true to the promise he had made to My Lord Cardinal, left his capital, still stunned by the news—which was spreading like wildfire—of Buckingham’s assassination.
The Queen of course had frequently been warned that the man she loved so passionately was in great danger, but when she heard of his death she refused to believe it. Rashly she exclaimed:
“It cannot be true, he has just written to me!”
On the morrow, however, she was forced to credit the fatal tidings, for La Porte arrived from London to confirm them. Like everyone else, he had been detained by order of King Charles I; now he came back bearing the Duke’s dying gift to the Queen.
King Louis, overcome with joy, did not even trouble to dissemble; indeed he paraded his delight before the Queen with immense affectation. Like all weak-spirited men, Louis XIII was wanting in generosity.
Soon, however, he relapsed into boredom and ill-health, for he was the least cheerful and sanguine of men. He knew that, returning to the Army, he would be returning to slavery. Nevertheless that is exactly what he did. The Cardinal was for him the fascinating serpent, himself was the fascinated bird which hops from branch to branch without power to escape.
Thus the journey to La Rochelle was full of melancholy. Our four friends, in particular, amazed their comrades by their unwonted dejection, as they advanced, side by side as usual but with heads bowed and eyes averted. Athos alone looked up from time to time, his eyes flashing and his lips curled in a wry smile. Then, like his comrades, he sank back again into deep meditation.
Arriving at a city, as soon as the escort had conducted the King to his quarters, the four friends either retired directly to their bullets or sought out some secluded tavern where they neither gambled nor drank but merely conversed in hushed tones, looking carefully about them to make sure no one was listening.
One day the King stopped off for some shooting, the magpies being particularly tempting. Our four friends as usual preferred a quiet tavern on the main road to a few hours of sport.
As they sat talking, a man came galloping up from La Rochelle, stopped at the door to order a glass of wine and as he did so stared into the room where the four friends were seated.
“Ho, there, Monsieur,” he cried. “You are Monsieur d’Artagnan, are you not?”
Glancing up, D’Artagnan uttered a cry of joy. Here was the man he called his phantom, the stranger he had encountered first at Meung, next in the Rue des Fossoyeurs in Paris, then in Arras, and now, at long last, on the road to La Rochelle.
D’Artagnan drew his sword and sprang toward the door. But this time, instead of taking to his heels, the stranger leaped from his horse and strode forward.
“So, Monsieur, we meet at last,” said the Gascon. “But this time you shall not escape me!”
“I have no intention of doing so, Monsieur,” the stranger replied. “This time, I am after you! In the name of His Majesty the King, I have the honor to put you under arrest. I order you to yield your sword, Monsieur, without resistance. I also warn you that your head is at stake.”
“And who may you be, Monsieur?” D’Artagnan inquired, lowering his sword but still holding it firmly in his grasp.
“I am the Chevalier de Rochefort, the equerry of Monseigneur le Cardinal de Richelieu. I have orders to conduct you to His Eminence forthwith.”
Suddenly Athos stepped forward, and:
“We are on our way to the Cardinal’s,” he explained. “You will please take Monsieur d’Artagnan’s word for it that he will proceed immediately to La Rochelle.”
“I am in duty bound to hand him over to the guards. They will take him into camp.”
“I pledge our word as gentlemen that we will be his guards,” Athos countered. “But, by the same token—our gentleman’s word—we and Monsieur d’Artagnan shall not part company.”
The Chevalier de Rochefort, turning, saw that Porthos and Aramis had moved up behind him and cut off his retreat. He understood that he was completely at the mercy of the four comrades.
“Very well, gentlemen,” he conceded. “If Monsieur d’Artagnan will surrender his sword and add his word of honor to yours, I shall be satisfied with your promise to convey Monsieur d’Artagnan to the quarters of Monseigneur the Cardinal.”
“I give you my word, Monsieur,” said D’Artagnan. “Here is my sword!”
“So much the better,” Rochefort exclaimed, “because I must continue my journey.”
“If you propose to join Milady, yours is a sleeveless errand,” said Athos, coolly. “You will not find her.”
“What has become of her?” Rochefort asked eagerly.
“Come back to camp with us and you will find out.”
Rochefort made no immediate reply. Obviously he was turning the matter over in his mind. As Surgières, where the Cardinal awaited His Majesty, was only a day’s journey distant, Rochefort decided to accept the advice Athos proffered. Besides, to return with our friends gave him the advantage of keeping an eye on his prisoner. So the five took to the road again.
They reached Surgières next day at three o’clock in the afternoon. The Cardinal had made elaborate preparations to greet his sovereign; their meeting was most cordial. They embraced each other, they exchanged numerous compliments, salutes, blandishments, and congratulations on the lucky accident which had rid the realm of France of an inveterate enemy who had roused all Europe against her. Whereupon the Cardinal, aware that D’Artagnan was under arrest and anxious to see him, took ceremonious leave of the King. As they parted, it was decided that His Majesty would inspect and dedicate the dyke, the works of which were now completed.
Returning in the evening to his headquarters close to the bridge of La Pierre, the Cardinal found D’Artagnan standing swordless in front of the house, the three musketeers, fully armed, beside him. This time, well attended by a bodyguard, His Eminence stared sternly at them and, with eye and hand, beckoned D’Artagnan to follow him. As the young Gascon obeyed:
“We shall wait for you, D’Artagnan,” Athos said loudly enough for the Cardinal to hear him.
Richelieu frowned, stopped for a moment, then went on his way. D’Artagnan followed and as he disappeared four guards took their stand by the door. Richelieu entered the room that served him for a study, walked over to the mantelpiece, and, leaning against it, motioned to Rochefort to usher D’Artagnan in. Our Gascon appeared, bowed courteously and faced the great Cardinal for his second interview, which, years later, D’Artagnan was to confess he was sure was to be his last. Richelieu, without moving, declared:
“You have been arrested by my orders, Monsieur.”
“So I have been told, Monseigneur.”
“Do you know why?”
“No, Monseigneur, I do not. Certainly there are grounds for my arrest, but Your Eminence has not yet learned them.”
Richelieu looked steadily at the young man.
“What, Monsieur?” he asked. “What do you mean?”
“If Monseigneur will be kind enough to tell me in the first place what crimes I am charged with, I shall then inform him of what I have already done.”
“You are charged with crimes which have brought down far loftier heads than yours, Monsieur.”
“What crimes, Monseigneur?” D’Artagnan asked with a calmness that amazed the Cardinal.
“You are
indicted for correspondence and intelligence with the enemies of the Kingdom, for violation of secrets of State, and for attempting to thwart the plans of your Commanding General.”
“But by whom were these charges preferred, Monseigneur?” D’Artagnan asked, knowing that it was certainly Milady.
And before the Cardinal could speak, he was answering his own question:
“By a woman whom the justice of our country has branded: by a woman who espoused one man in France and another in England; by a woman who poisoned her second husband and who attempted both to poison and to slay me.”
“What in the world are you saying, Monsieur? What woman are you talking about?”
“I am talking about Lady Clark. Since you have honored me with your confidence, Monseigneur, I have no doubt you are ignorant of Milady’s crimes.”
“If Lady Clark has committed these crimes, Monsieur, you may be sure she will be duly punished.”
“Monseigneur, she has already been punished.”
“By whom, pray?”
“By my three friends and myself.”
“She is in prison?”
“She is dead.”
“Dead!” the Cardinal exclaimed incredulously. “Dead! You say she is dead?”
“Thrice she attempted to kill me and I pardoned her,” D’Artagnan said. “But when she murdered the woman I loved, my friends and I seized, tried and sentenced her.”
D’Artagnan then related how Madame Bonacieux was poisoned in the Carmelite convent at Béthune, how the trial was held in the lonely house and how Milady was executed on the banks of the Lys.
The Cardinal, a man renowned for his phlegm, shuddered at the recital. Then, perhaps reacting to some secret thought, he seemed to change completely. His gloomy expression gradually cleared and, perfectly serene:
“So you and your friends dared to sit as judges!” he declared in a tone that contrasted strangely with the severity of his words. “Do you realize that those who punish without license to punish are guilty of murder?”
“I swear to you, Monseigneur, that it never for a moment occurs to me to defend my life against you,” D’Artagnan answered. “I shall willingly submit to any punishment Your Eminence may please to order. I have never held life so precious as to be afraid of death.”
“Monsieur, I know you to be a brave man,” the Cardinal said almost affectionately. “I can therefore tell you immediately that you will be tried and probably convicted.”
“Another might assure Your Eminence that he had his pardon in his pocket. For my part, I am content to say: ‘Command as you see fit, Monseigneur, I shall obey.’ ”
“Your pardon in your pocket?” said Richelieu, surprised.
“Ay, Monseigneur!”
“A pardon signed by whom?” Richelieu asked, adding with a singular tone of contempt: “By the King?”
“No, by Your Eminence.”
“By me? You are insane, Monsieur.”
“Surely Monseigneur will recognize his own handwriting?” D’Artagnan said. And he handed over the precious note which Athos had seized from Milady and had given him to serve for a safeguard. His Eminence accepted the paper, scanned it carefully, and read the text slowly, syllable by syllable:
December third, 1627
It is by my order and for the service of the State that the bearer of this note has done what he has done.
Signed by my hand at the Camp of La Rochelle
Richelieu
Having read this document, the Cardinal sank into a profound reverie, paper in hand. D’Artagnan felt sure that His Eminence was meditating by what sort of punishment he should kill him.
“Well,” mused the young musketeer, who was excellently disposed to meet his end heroically, “he shall see how a gentleman goes to his death.”
Richelieu remained plunged in thought, rolling and unrolling the paper in his hands. At length he raised his head, fastened his eagle glance upon the other’s loyal, open, intelligent countenance, and on that countenance, furrowed by tears, read all the sufferings D’Artagnan had endured for the last month. For the third or fourth time the Cardinal reflected what a brilliant future lay before this youth of twenty-one and what resources his activity, courage and shrewdness might offer to a good master. Recalling too how the crimes, power and infernal genius of Milady had more than once terrified him, he felt a kind of secret joy at being relieved forever of so dangerous an accomplice. Slowly, the Cardinal tore up the paper which D’Artagnan had generously relinquished.
“This is the end!” D’Artagnan thought. And he bowed deeply to the Cardinal, as who might say: “Lord, Thy will be done!”
His Eminence moved over to his desk and without sitting down wrote a few lines on a parchment two-thirds of which were already filled and affixed his seal to it.
“This is the order for my execution,” D’Artagnan thought. “Monseigneur is sparing me the tedium of the Bastille or the protracted formalities of a trial. That is very gracious of him.”
“Here, Monsieur,” the Cardinal told him, “I have taken a carte blanche document from you, so I shall give you another. The name is wanting on this commission; you can write it in yourself.”
D’Artagnan took the paper hesitantly and looked it over; it was a Lieutenant’s commission in the Musketeers. He fell to one knee before His Eminence.
“Monseigneur, my life is yours,” he declared, “do with it henceforth what you will. But I do not deserve the favor you have bestowed upon me. I have three friends all of whom are worthier and more deserving—”
“You are a gallant lad, D’Artagnan,” the Cardinal interrupted, tapping him on the shoulder and savoring the pleasure of having at last overcome this rebellious nature. “Do with the commission what you will. But remember, though the bearer’s name is blank, it is to you I give it.”
“I shall never forget it, Your Eminence may be certain of that!”
The Cardinal turned and called in a loud voice: “Rochefort!” The Chevalier, who was doubtless close to the door, entered immediately.
“Rochefort,” said His Eminence, “here you see Monsieur d’Artagnan. I number him among my friends. Pray greet each other and behave yourselves if you hope to keep a head on your shoulders!”
Rochefort and D’Artagnan embraced each other somewhat coldly as the Cardinal stood over them, his vigilant eye observing all that occurred. But when they had left the room together:
“We shall meet again, Monsieur, shall we not?” Rochefort demanded.
“Whenever you please.”
“The opportunity will surely arise,” Rochefort asserted.
“Eh, what’s that?” asked the Cardinal, pushing the door ajar.
The two exchanged smiles, shook hands and saluted His Eminence. D’Artagnan sped down the stairs and rushed up to his friends.
“We were growing rather impatient,” Athos remarked.
“Well, here I am, friends, not only free as air but in high favor, too!”
“Tell us about it.”
“I will this evening,” D’Artagnan replied. “But for the moment let us separate.”
Accordingly that evening D’Artagnan sought out Athos whom he found well on the way to emptying a bottle of Spanish wine, an occupation which he accomplished religiously every night. D’Artagnan related what had passed between the Cardinal and himself and, drawing the commission from his pocket, said:
“Here, my dear Athos, this naturally belongs to you!”
Athos smiled—a proud, gracious smile—answering:
“My friend, for Athos this is too much; for the Comte de La Fère, it is too little. Keep the commission, it is yours. God knows you have bought it all too dearly.”
Taking his leave of Athos, the young Gascon called upon Porthos. He found this worthy clothed in a magnificent costume, covered with splendent embroidery. Porthos was busy gazing at his reflection in the mirror.
“Ah, so it’s you, is it?” Porthos exclaimed. “Tell me, my friend, do these garments fit me?”
“They fit you to perfection,” D’Artagnan assured him. “But I have come to offer you a costume that will suit you even better.”
“What costume?”
“The uniform of a Lieutenant of Musketeers,” D’Artagnan said proudly. Then, having given Porthos a summary of his interview with the Cardinal, he drew the commission from his pocket and:
“Here, my friend,” he urged. “Write your name on this and please be a good chief to me!”
Porthos glanced over the parchment and to D’Artagnan’s immense surprise handed it back to him.
“Thank you,” Porthos said. “This is very flattering, of course. But I would not have time enough to enjoy this distinction. During our expedition to Béthune, the husband of my duchess passed away. The coffers of the dear departed beckon me with open arms—or rather doors! I shall marry the widow. As you see, I was trying on my wedding clothes when you came in. So keep the lieutenancy, my friend, keep it for yourself.”
D’Artagnan then hastened to offer the commission to Aramis. He found him kneeling before a prie-Dieu, his head bowed over an open prayer book. For the third time, D’Artagnan gave an account of his interview with the Cardinal and, drawing his commission from his pocket for the third time, said:
“Aramis, you are our friend, our guiding light, our invisible protector; pray accept this commission. By your wisdom and by your advice which has invariably led to the happiest results, you have proved yourself the best qualified to do so.”
“I am sorry, my friend,” Aramis said, “I must decline. Our recent adventures have disgusted me with both secular and military life. This time my mind is irrevocably set. The siege ended, I shall join the Lazarists. Keep the commission, D’Artagnan; the profession of arms suits you admirably, you will make a brave and resourceful captain.”
D’Artagnan went back to visit Athos again. His eyes were moist with gratitude but he was beaming with joy. He found Athos still at table, contemplating his last glass of Malaga admiringly by the light of his lamp.
“Well,” D’Artagnan announced, “the others refused too.”
The Modern Library Children's Classics Page 131
