“Madame!” exclaimed Raoul, on recognising the sister-in-law of the King.
“Stupid wretch!” murmured Montalais, throwing herself, but too late, before the Princess; “I have been mistaken in an hour!” She had, however, time to warn the Princess, who was walking towards Raoul.
“M. de Bragelonne, madame.” And at these words, the Princess drew back, uttering a cry in her turn.
“Your Royal Highness,” said Montalais, with volubility, “is kind enough to think of this lottery, and—”
The Princess began to lose countenance. Raoul hastened his departure, without yet divining all; but he felt that he was in the way. Madame was preparing a word of transition to recover herself, when a closet opened in front of the alcove, and M. de Guiche issued, all radiant, also from that closet. The most pale of the four, we must admit, was still Raoul. The Princess, however, was near fainting, and was obliged to lean upon the foot of the bed for support. No one ventured to support her. This scene occupied several minutes of terrible silence. But Raoul broke it. He went up to the Comte, whose inexpressible emotion made his knees tremble, and taking his hand, “Dear Comte,” said he, “tell Madame I am too unhappy not to merit my pardon; tell her also that I have loved in the course of my life, and that the horror of the treachery that has been practised on me renders me inexorable for all other treachery that may be committed around me. This is why, mademoiselle,” said he, smiling, to Montalais, “I never would divulge the secret of the visits of my friend to your apartment. Obtain from Madame—from Madame who is so clement and so generous—obtain her pardon for you whom she has just surprised also. You are both free, love each other, be happy!”
The Princess felt for a moment the despair which cannot be described; it was repugnant to her, notwithstanding the exquisite delicacy which Raoul had exhibited, to feel herself at the mercy of an indiscretion. It was equally repugnant to her to accept the evasion offered by this delicate deception. Agitated, nervous, she struggled against the double stings of the two troubles. Raoul comprehended her position, and came once more to her aid. Bending his knee before her: “Madame,” said he in a low voice, “in two days I shall be far from Paris; in a fortnight I shall be far from France, where I shall never be seen again.”
“Are you going away, then?” said she, with great delight.
“With M. de Beaufort.”
“Into Africa!” cried Guiche, in his turn. “You, Raoul—oh! my friend—into Africa, where everybody dies!” And forgetting everything, forgetting that that forgetfulness itself compromised the Princess more eloquently than his presence, “In-grate! said he, ”and you have not even consulted me!” And he embraced him; during which time Montalais had led away Madame, and disappeared herself.
Raoul passed his hand over his brow, and said with a smile, “I have been dreaming!” Then warmly to Guiche, who, by degrees, absorbed him: “My friend,” said he, “I conceal nothing from you, who are the elected of my heart. I am going to seek death in yonder country; your secret will not remain in my breast more than a year.”
“Oh, Raoul! a man!”
“Do you know what is my thought, Guiche? This is it: ‘I shall live more, being buried beneath the earth, than I have lived for this month past. We are Christians, my friend, and if such suffering were to continue, I would not be answerable for the safety of my soul.”
Guiche was anxious to raise objections.
“Not one word more on my account,” said Raoul; “but advice to you, dear friend; what I am going to say to you is of much greater importance.”
“What is that?”
“Without doubt, you risk much more than I do, because you love.”
“Oh!”
“It is a joy so sweet to me to be able to speak to you thus! Well, then, Guiche, beware of Montalais.”
“What! of that kind friend?”
“She was the friend of—her you know of. She ruined her by pride.”
“You are mistaken.”
“And now, when she has ruined her, she would ravish from her the only thing that renders that woman excusable in my eyes”.
“What is that?”
“Her love.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that there is a plot formed against her who is the mistress of the King—a plot formed in the very house of Madame.”
“Can you think so?”
“I am certain of it.”
“By Montalais?”
“Take her as the least dangerous of the enemies I dread for—the other!”
“Explain yourself clearly, my friend; and, if I can understand you—”
“In two words. Madame has been jealous of the King.”
“I know she has—”
“Oh! fear nothing; you are beloved, you are beloved, Guiche; do you feel the value of these three words? They signify that you can raise your head, that you can sleep tranquilly, that you can thank God every minute of your life. You are beloved; that signifies that you may hear everything, even the counsel of a friend who wishes to preserve your happiness. You are beloved, Guiche, you are beloved! You do not endure those atrocious nights, those nights without end, which, with the arid eye and devoured heart, others pass through who are destined to die. You will live long, if you act like the miser who, bit by bit, crumb by crumb, collects and heaps up diamonds and gold. You are beloved; allow me to tell you what you must do that you may be beloved for ever.”
Guiche contemplated for some time this unfortunate young man half mad with despair, till there passed through his heart something like remorse at his own happiness. Raoul suppressed his feverish excitement to assume the voice and countenance of an impassible man. “They will make her, whose name I should wish to still be able to pronounce—they will make her suffer. Swear to me that you will not second them in anything, but that you will defend her when possible, as I would have done myself.”
“I swear I will,” replied Guiche.
“And,” continued Raoul, “some day, when you shall have rendered her a great service, some day when she shall thank you, promise me to say these words to her: ‘I have done you this kindness, madame, by the warm desire of M. de Bragelonne, whom you so deeply injured.’ ”
“I swear I will,” murmured Guiche.
“That is all. Adieu! I set out to-morrow or the day after, for Toulon. If you have a few hours to spare, give them to me.”
“All! all!” cried the young man.
“Thank you.”
“And what are you going to do now?”
“I am going to meet M. le Comte at the house of Planchet, where we hope to find M. d’Artagnan.”
“M. d’Artagnan!”
“Yes, I wish to embrace him before my departure. He is a brave man, who loves me dearly. Farewell, my friend; you are expected, no doubt; you will find me, when you wish, at the lodgings of the Comte. Farewell!”
The two young men embraced. They who might have seen them both thus, would not have hesitated to say, pointing to Raoul: “That is the happy man!”
57
Planchet’s Inventory
ATHOS, DURING THE VISIT made to the Luxembourg by Raoul, had gone to Planchet’s residence to inquire after d’Artagnan. The gentleman, on arriving at the Rue des Lombards, found the shop of the grocer in great confusion; but it was not the encumberment of a lucky sale, or that of an arrival of goods. Planchet was not throned, as usual, upon sacks and barrels. No. A young man with a pen behind his ear, and another with an account book in his hand, were setting down a number of figures, whilst a third counted and weighed. An inventory was being taken. Athos, who had no knowledge of commercial matters, felt himself a little embarrassed by the material obstacles and the majesty of those who were thus employed. He saw several customers sent away, and asked himself whether he, who came to buy nothing, would not be more properly deemed importunate. He therefore asked very politely if he could see M. Planchet. The reply, pretty carelessly given, was that M. Planchet was packing his trunk
s. These words surprised Athos. “What! his trunks!” said he, “is M. Planchet going away?”
“Yes, monsieur, directly.”
“Then, if you please, inform him that M. le Comte de la Fère desires to speak to him for a moment.”
At mention of the Comte’s name, one of the young men, no doubt accustomed to hear it pronounced with respect, immediately went to inform Planchet. It was at this moment that Raoul, after his painful scene with Montalais and Guiche, arrived at the grocer’s house. Planchet left his job directly he received the Comte’s message.
“Ah! Monsieur le Comte!” exclaimed he, “how glad I am to see you! What good star brings you here?”
“My dear Planchet,” said Athos, pressing the hand of his son, whose sad look he silently observed,—“we are come to learn of you—But in what confusion do I find you! You are as white as a miller; where have you been rummaging?”
“Ah, diable! take care, monsieur; don’t come near me till I have well shaken myself.”
“What for? Flour or dust only whiten.”
“No, no; what you see on my arms is arsenic.”
“Arsenic?”
“Yes; I am making my provision for the rats.”
“Ay, I suppose in an establishment like this the rats play a conspicuous part.”
“It is not with this establishment I concern myself, M. le Comte. The rats have robbed me of more here than they will ever rob me again.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, you may have observed, monsieur, my inventory is being taken.”
“Are you leaving trade, then?”
“Eh! mon Dieu! yes. I have disposed of my business to one of my young men.
“Bah! you are rich, then, I suppose?”
“Monsieur, I have taken a dislike to the city; I don’t know whether it is because I am growing old, and, as M. d’Artagnan one day said, when we grow old we more often think of the things of our youth; but for some time past I have felt myself attracted towards the country and gardening; I was a country-man formerly.” And Planchet marked this confession with a little rather pretentious laugh for a man making profession of humility.
Athos made a gesture of approval, and then added:—“You are going to buy an estate then?”
“I have bought one, monsieur.”
“Ah! that is still better.”
“A little house at Fontainebleau, with something like twenty acres of land round it.”
“Very well, Planchet! Accept my compliments on your acquisition.”
“But, monsieur, we are not comfortable here; the cursed dust makes you cough. Corbleu! I should not wish to poison the most worthy gentleman in the kingdom.”
Athos did not smile at this little pleasantry which Planchet had aimed at him, in order to try his strength in mundane facetiousness.
“Yes,” said he, “let us have a little talk by ourselves—in your own room, for example. You have a room, have you not?”
“Certainly, Monsieur le Comte.”
“Upstairs, perhaps?” And Athos, seeing Planchet a little embarrassed, wished to relieve him by going first.
“It is—but—” said Planchet, hesitating.
Athos was mistaken in the cause of this hesitation, and, attributing it to a fear the grocer might have of offering humble hospitality—“Never mind, never mind,” said he, still going up, “the dwelling of a tradesman in this quarter is not expected to be a palace. Come on!”
Raoul nimbly preceded him, and entered first. Two cries were heard simultaneously—we may say three. One of these cries dominated over the others; it was uttered by a woman. The other proceeded from the mouth of Raoul; it was an exclamation of surprise. He had no sooner made it than he shut the door sharply. The third was from fright; Planchet had proffered it.
“I ask your pardon!” added he, “madame is dressing.”
Raoul had, no doubt, seen that what Planchet said was true, for he turned round to go down stairs again.
“Madame—” said Athos; “Oh! pardon me, Planchet, I did not know that you had upstairs—”
“It is Trüchen,” added Planchet, blushing a little.
“It is whom you please, my good Planchet; but pardon my rudeness.”
“No, no; go up now, gentlemen.”
“We will do no such thing,” said Athos.
“Oh! madame having notice, has had time—”
“No, Planchet; farewell!”
“Eh, gentlemen! you would not disoblige me by thus standing on the staircase, or by going away without having sat down.”
“If we had known you had a lady upstairs,” replied Athos, with his customary coolness, “we would have asked permission to pay our respects to her.”
Planchet was so disconcerted by this little extravagance, that he forced the passage, and himself opened the door to admit the Comte and his son. Trüchen was quite dressed: costume of the shopkeeper’s wife, rich and coquettish; German eyes attacking French eyes. She ceded the apartment after two curtseys, and went down into the shop—but not without having listened at the door, to know what Planchet’s gentlemen visitors would say of her. Athos suspected that, and therefore turned the conversation accordingly. Planchet, on his part, was burning to give explanations, which Athos avoided. But, as certain tenacities are stronger than all others, Athos was forced to hear Planchet recite his idylls of felicity, translated into a language more chaste than that of Longus. So Planchet related how Trüchen had charmed his ripe age, and brought good luck to his business, as Ruth did to Boaz.
“You want nothing now, then, but heirs to your property.”
“If I had one, he would have three hundred thousand livres,” said Planchet.
“Humph! you must have one then,” said Athos phlegmatically; “if only to prevent your little fortune being lost.”
The words little fortune placed Planchet in his rank, like the voice of the sergeant when Planchet was but a piqueur in the regiment of Piedmont, in which Rochefort had placed him. Athos perceived that the grocer would marry Trüchen, and, in spite of fate, establish a family. This appeared the more evident to him when he learned that the young man to whom Planchet was selling his business was her cousin. Having heard all that was necessary of the happy prospects of the retiring grocer, “What is M. d’Artagnan about,” said he, “he is not at the Louvre?”
“Ah! Monsieur le Comte, Monsieur d’Artagnan has disappeared.”
“Disappeared!” said Athos, with surprise.
“Oh! monsieur, we know what that means.”
“But, I do not know.”
“Whenever M. d’Artagnan disappears it is always for some mission or some great affair.”
“Has he said anything to you about it?”
“Never.”
“You were acquainted with his departure for England formerly, were you not?”
“On account of the speculation,” said Planchet heedlessly.
“The speculation!”
“I mean—” interrupted Planchet, quite confused.
‘Well, well; neither your affairs nor those of your master are in question: the interest we take in him alone has induced me to apply to you. Since the captain of the musketeers is not here, and as we cannot learn from you where we are likely to find M. d’Artagnan, we will take our leave of you. Au revoir, Planchet, au revoir. Let us be gone, Raoul.”
“Monsieur le Comte, I wish I were able to tell you—”
“Oh, not at all; I am not the man to reproach a servant with discretion.”
The word “servant” struck rudely on the ears of the demi-millionaire Planchet, but natural respect prevailed over pride. “There is nothing indiscreet in telling you, Monsieur le Comte, M. d’Artagnan came here the other day—”
“Ah! ah!”
“And remained several hours consulting a geographical chart.”
“You are right, then, my friend; say no more about it.”
“And the chart is there as a proof,” added Planchet, who went to fetch fro
m the neighbouring wall—where it was suspended by a twist, forming a triangle with the bar of the window to which it was fastened—the plan consulted by the captain on his last visit to Planchet. This plan, which he brought to the Comte, was a map of France, upon which the practised eye of that gentleman discovered an itinerary, marked out with small pins; wherever a pin was missing, a hole denoted its having been there. Athos, by following with his eye the pins and the holes, saw that d’Artagnan had taken the direction of the south, and gone as far as the Mediterranean, towards Toulon. It was near Cannes that the marks and the punctured places ceased. The Comte de la Fère puzzled his brains for some time, to divine what the musketeer could be going to do at Cannes, and what motive could have led him to examine the banks of the Var. The reflections of Athos suggested nothing. His accustomed perspicacity was at fault. Raoul’s researches were not more successful than his father’s.
“Never mind,” said the young man to the Comte, who, silently and with his fingers, had made him understand the route of d‘Artagnan; “we must confess that there is a Providence always occupied in connecting our destiny with that of M. d’Artagnan. There he is on the coast of Cannes, and you, monsieur, will, at least, conduct me as far as Toulon. Be assured that we shall meet with him more easily upon our route than upon this map.”
Then, taking leave of Planchet, who was scolding his shop-men, even the cousin of Trüchen, his successor, the gentlemen set out to pay a visit to M. de Beaufort. On leaving the grocer’s shop, they saw a coach, the future depository of the charms of Mademoiselle Trüchen and the bags of crowns of Planchet.
“Every one journeys towards happiness by the route he chooses,” said Raoul, in a melancholy tone.
“Road to Fontainebleau!” cried Planchet to his coachman.
58
The Inventory of M. de Beaufort
To HAVE TALKED OF d’Artagnan with Planchet, to have seen Planchet quit Paris to bury himself in his country retreat, had been for Athos and his son like a last farewell to the noise of the capital—to their life of former days. What, in fact, did these men leave behind them—one of whom had exhausted the past age in glory, and the other the present age in misfortune? Evidently, neither of them had anything to ask of his contemporaries. They had only to pay a visit to M. de Beaufort, and arrange with him the particulars of the departure. The Duc was lodged magnificently in Paris. He had one of those superb establishments pertaining to great fortunes, which certain old men remembered to have seen flourish in the times of wasteful liberality in Henry Ill’s reign. Then, really, several great nobles were richer than the King. They knew it, used it, and never deprived themselves of the pleasure of humiliating His Royal Majesty when they had an opportunity. It was this egotistical aristocracy which Richelieu had constrained to contribute, with its blood, its purse, and its duties, to what was from his time styled the King’s service. From Louis XI—that terrible mower down of the great—to Richelieu, how many families had raised their heads! How many from Richelieu to Louis XIV had bowed their heads never to raise them again! But M. de Beaufort was born a prince, and of a blood which is not shed upon scaffolds, unless by the decree of peoples. This Prince had kept up a grand style of living. How did he maintain his horses, his people, and his table? Nobody knew; himself less than others. Only there were then privileges for the sons of kings to whom nobody refused to become a creditor, whether from respect, devotedness, or a persuasion that they would some day be paid.
Man in the Iron Mask (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 53
