Between Two Kings

by Lawrence Ellsworth

  “Oh, my dear, dear friend,” said Athos, who hadn’t failed to catch the note of bitterness in d’Artagnan’s reply, “please pardon me. I didn’t mean to hurt my closest comrade, even unintentionally.”

  “You’re quite mad, Athos, and the proof is I’m going to escort you all the way to the palace door. I need a walk, anyway.”

  “And you’ll come in with me, my friend, for I want to tell His Majesty…”

  “Not at all!” said d’Artagnan, with pride untainted by jealousy. “The only thing worse than begging for oneself is having others beg for you. Çà! Let’s go, my friend, it’s a charming night for a walk. I want, in passing, to show you the home of General Monck, who’s lodging me with him; my faith, it’s a lovely house! Being a general in England pays better than being a marshal in France, it seems.”

  Athos allowed himself to be carried away, saddened though he was by d’Artagnan’s attempts to be cheerful. The whole city was in the streets; the two friends were met at every corner by enthusiasts who demanded they shout, “Long live good King Charles!” D’Artagnan replied with a grunt, and Athos with a smile. They made their way thus toward Monck’s house, which was on the route to the Saint James’s Palace.

  Athos and d’Artagnan spoke very little on their way because if they had spoken they would have had too much to say. Athos thought that if he spoke he would be too joyful, which might hurt d’Artagnan, while the latter feared to express bitterness that might cause Athos discomfort. It was a strange silence that hovered between contentment and discontent.

  D’Artagnan yielded first to the itch to speak, saying, “Do you remember, Athos, that passage in the Memoirs of d’Aubigné80 in which that devoted servant, a Gascon like me, and poor like me, and I was almost going to say brave like me, recounts the stinginess of Henri IV? My father always told me, I remember, that d’Aubigné was a liar. And yet, take a look at all the princes descended from the Great Henri!”

  “Come now, d’Artagnan,” said Athos, “the kings of France, misers? You’re mad, my friend.”

  “Oh, you never see others’ faults, you’re too perfect. But in reality, Henri IV was stingy, as was his son, Louis XIII. We know something about that, don’t we? Gaston took that vice to extremes, and everyone around him hated him for it. Henriette, poor woman, had no choice but to be frugal, when she had nothing to eat some days and nothing to burn for heat in the winters, and that’s the example she gave to her son Charles II, grandson of the great Henri IV, and as miserly as his mother and his grandfather. Come, isn’t that a family tree of the tight-fisted?”

  “D’Artagnan,” said Athos, “how can you be so harsh on that race of eagles called the Bourbons?”

  “And I forgot the finest example, that other grandson of the Béarnaise, Louis XIV, my ex-master. I believe we can fairly call him miserly since he wouldn’t lend a million to his brother Charles! Oh, I see I’m starting to annoy you, but fortunately we’ve arrived at my house, or rather the house of my friend Monck.”

  “Dear d’Artagnan, I’m not annoyed, just saddened. It’s cruel, in fact, to see a man of your merit unrewarded by the position that his services should have brought him. It seems to me that your name, old friend, ought to rank up there with the greatest names of war and diplomacy, as worthy of fortune and honor as Luynes, Bellegarde, and Bassompierre.81 You are right, my friend, a hundred times over.”

  D’Artagnan sighed, and led his friend under the portico of Monck’s house at the edge of town, saying, “Allow me to stop in and leave my purse here, for if, in the crowd, these clever London crooks, who are light-fingered even by Parisian standards, rob me of the rest of my poor crowns, I won’t have enough to buy passage back to France. And I’m eager to get back to France and will be delighted to see it again, now that all my old prejudices against England have been reconfirmed, with new ones added.”

  Athos said nothing. “I’ll just be a moment,” d’Artagnan said to him. “I know you’re in a hurry to get on to receive your reward, but believe me, I’m no less eager than you to enjoy it, albeit from a distance. Wait for me.”

  D’Artagnan was halfway across the vestibule when a man, half footman and half soldier, who served Monck in the capacities of both doorman and guard, stopped our musketeer and said, in English, “Excuse me, Milord d’Artagnan!”

  “Well, what is it?” replied the latter. “Is the general ready to dismiss me? All that was missing was for me to be sent away!”

  These words, spoken in French, made no impression on the guard, as he spoke only English mixed with Scots. But Athos was sad because it was beginning to look like d’Artagnan was right.

  The Englishman gave a letter to d’Artagnan. “From the general,” he said.

  “Well, there it is: my dismissal,” said the Gascon. “Should I read it, Athos?”

  “You must be mistaken,” said Athos, “or the only honest people left are you and me.”

  D’Artagnan shrugged his shoulders and tore open the letter, while the Englishman held up a lantern to help him read it.

  “Well! What does it say?” said Athos, seeing the reader’s expression change.

  “Here, read it yourself,” said the musketeer.

  Athos took the paper and read:

  Monsieur d’Artagnan, the king very much regretted that you didn’t come to Saint Paul with his cortège. His Majesty says he missed you, and I missed you as well, dear Captain. There is only one way to repair this: His Majesty expects me at nine o’clock at the palace of Saint James; will you join me there? His Most Gracious Majesty appoints that hour for the audience he grants you.

  The letter was signed Monck.

  XXXIII The Audience

  “Well?” said Athos in a voice of gentle reproach, when he’d read Monck’s letter to d’Artagnan.

  “Well!” said d’Artagnan, red with pleasure and a little shame at having been so quick to accuse the king and Monck. “It’s a very polite gesture… and amounts to nothing, of course… but it is polite, nonetheless.”

  “I found it hard to believe the young prince would be ungrateful,” said Athos.

  “The fact is that his present is still very near his past,” replied d’Artagnan. “After all, everything prior to this indicated I was right.”

  “I admit it, dear friend, I admit it. Ah! Now we’ll see your well-earned recompense. You can’t believe how happy this makes me.”

  “So, then,” said d’Artagnan, “Charles II receives General Monck at nine o’clock, and will receive me at ten; and a fine audience it is, the kind they call at the Louvre the ‘bestowal of Court Holy Water.’ Let’s go, old friend, and place ourselves under the spout.”

  Athos made no reply, so the two of them went on their way toward Saint James’s Palace, which was surrounded by a crowd there to see the silhouettes of the courtiers through the windows, and perhaps a glimpse of the royal personage. Eight o’clock was striking as the two took their places in a gallery full of courtiers and hopeful petitioners. Everyone noticed their modest foreign attire and proud profiles, so noble and full of character.

  For their part, Athos and d’Artagnan, having taken the measure of the assemblage at a glance, resumed chatting together. A great noise suddenly came from one end of the gallery: it was General Monck making his entrance, followed by more than twenty officers all hoping for one of his smiles, for the day before he’d been master of England, and they imagined a fine tomorrow for he who’d restored the family Stuart.

  “Gentlemen,” said Monck, turning toward them, “I pray you, remember that now I am no one. Not long ago I commanded the principal army of the republic, but now that army is the king’s, into whose hands I commit, at his order, my power of yesterday.”

  Dismayed surprise showed on all the officers’ faces, and the circle of admirers and supplicants that had ringed Monck a moment before gradually widened and dispersed itself into the general surge of the crowd. Monck simply waited in the antechamber like everyone else. D’Artagnan couldn’t keep from remarkin
g upon this to the Comte de La Fère, who frowned.

  Suddenly the door to Charles’s audience chamber opened and the young king appeared, preceded by two of his household officers. “Good evening, Gentlemen,” he said. “Is General Monck here?”

  “Here I am, Sire,” the old general replied.

  Charles strode up to him and took his hands in a friendly grip. “General,” the king announced, “I have just signed the patent making you Duke of Albemarle, and my intention is that no one in this kingdom should equal you in power and in fortune, because, except for Montrose,82 no one has equaled you in loyalty, courage, and talent. Gentlemen, the duke is commander in chief of our armies on land and at sea, and in that capacity, honor him and pay him your respects.”

  While everyone hastened to gather around the general, who received their congratulations with his usual impassivity, d’Artagnan said to Athos, “To think that this duchy, this command of the armies on land and at sea, all these grandeurs, in short, were contained in a box six feet long by three feet wide!”

  “Friend,” said Athos, “greater grandeurs than those are enclosed in smaller boxes—forever.”

  Suddenly Monck noticed the two gentlemen where they stood apart, waiting for the crowd to thin out. He made his way to them through the throng, surprising them in the middle of their philosophical reflections. “You were talking about me,” he said with a smile.

  “Milord,” replied Athos, “we were also talking of God.”

  Monck thought for a moment and then responded cheerfully, “Gentlemen, let us also speak of the king, if you will; for you have, I believe, an audience with His Majesty.”

  “At nine o’clock,” said Athos.

  “Or ten,” said d’Artagnan.

  “Let’s go to his audience chamber right now,” Monck replied, making a gesture for his two companions to precede him, to which neither of them would consent.

  During this debate, conducted in French, the king had returned to the center of the gallery. “Ah, my Frenchmen!” he said, in that tone of carefree cheer that he was still able to summon despite his many troubles and sorrows. “The Frenchmen, my consolation!”

  Athos and d’Artagnan bowed.

  “Duke, bring these gentlemen into my chamber,” said the king, adding in French, “I am all yours, Messieurs.”

  And he promptly dismissed his Court so he could attend to his Frenchmen, as he called them. “Monsieur d’Artagnan,” he said, entering his audience chamber, “I’m pleased to see you again.”

  “Sire, having the honor to salute Your Majesty in his own palace of Saint James’s, my joy could not be greater.”

  “Monsieur, you have done me a great service, and I owe you a debt of gratitude. Though I don’t want to encroach on the rights of our commander in chief, I wish to offer you a post worthy of you near to our person.”

  “Sire,” replied d’Artagnan, “when I left the service of the King of France, I promised my prince it was not to serve another king.”

  “Come,” said Charles, “that displeases me greatly, for I like you, and I’d hoped to do a lot for you.”

  “Sire…”

  “Here, now,” said Charles with a smile, “is there no way I can persuade you to set that aside? Duke, help me here. What if you were offered—if I offered you—the command of all my musketeers?”

  D’Artagnan bowed even lower than before, and said, “I should always regret refusing what Your Gracious Majesty offers me, but a gentleman has only his word, and that word, as I had the honor to tell Your Majesty, is pledged to the King of France.”

  “Then we’ll say no more about it,” said the king, turning to Athos—and leaving d’Artagnan plunged into the deepest pit of disappointment.

  “Ah! It’s just like I said,” murmured the musketeer. “Words! Court Holy Water! Kings have the amazing talent of offering what they know can’t be accepted and thus appear generous without risk. Fool! Oh, triple fool for hoping even for a moment!”

  Meanwhile, Charles took Athos by the hand. “Count,” he said, “you’ve been a second father to me, and the service you’ve rendered can never be repaid. You were made by my father a Knight of the Garter,83 an order to which not even the kings of Europe are invited, and by the queen regent you were made a Chevalier du Saint-Esprit,84 an order no less illustrious. Now I award you the ribbon of the Order of the Golden Fleece85—it was sent to me by the King of France who had been given two by the King of Spain, his father-in-law, on the occasion of his recent marriage.86 But I, in return, have a further service to ask of you.”

  “Sire!” said Athos, flustered. “The Golden Fleece, for me! When the King of France is the only other person in my country who shares that distinction!”

  “I want you to be, in your country and everywhere, the equal of all those whom sovereigns have honored with their favor,” said Charles, lifting the chain from around his neck. “And I am certain, Count, that my father smiles on this from the depths of his tomb.”

  “How strange it is,” said d’Artagnan to himself, as his friend received on his knees the eminent order conferred upon him by the king, “how incredible that I always see the rain of prosperity fall on those around me, while not a drop reaches me! If one were the jealous type, it would be enough to make him tear out his hair, word of honor!”

  Athos rose, and Charles embraced him tenderly. “General,” he said to Monck, then, stopping himself with a smile, “excuse me, I meant to say Duke. And if I made that mistake, it’s because duke just seems too short to me. I need to find a longer title, one that brings you close enough to the throne that I could say to you, ‘My Brother,’ as I do to Louis XIV. But I have it! To make you almost my brother, my dear Duke, I name you Viceroy of Ireland and Scotland.87 That way I won’t again call you by too short a title.”

  The duke took the king’s hand, though without apparent joy or enthusiasm, as he did everything. Yet his heart had been stirred by this final favor. Charles, skillfully managing his generosity, had given the duke time to form a wish, though he might not have wished for as much as he was awarded.

  “Mordioux!” grumbled d’Artagnan. “Here come the rains again. Oh! It’s enough to drive one mad.” And he turned aside with an air so sad and comically pitiful that the king couldn’t restrain a smile.

  Monck was preparing to take his leave of Charles. “What’s this, my brother?” said the king to the duke. “Are you leaving?”

  “If it please Your Majesty, for in truth, I’m very tired. The emotion of the day has been exhausting, and I need my rest.”

  “But you’re not leaving without Monsieur d’Artagnan, I hope!” said the king.

  “Why, Sire?” said the old warrior.

  “You know perfectly well why,” said the king.

  Monck looked at Charles with astonishment. “I beg Your Majesty’s pardon,” he said, “but I don’t know what he means.”

  “I suppose that’s possible—but if you’ve forgotten, I’m sure Monsieur d’Artagnan has not.”

  Now it was the musketeer’s turn to be astonished.

  “See here, Duke,” said the king, “aren’t you lodging with Monsieur d’Artagnan?”

  “I have the honor to offer lodging to Monsieur d’Artagnan, yes, Sire.”

  “And this idea was yours and yours alone?”

  “Mine and mine alone, yes, Sire.”

  Well, of course it had to be that way… since the prisoner always lodges with his conqueror.”

  Monck flushed. “Ah, that’s true! I am Monsieur d’Artagnan’s prisoner.”

  “Quite so, Monck, since you have yet to ransom yourself—but don’t worry, it was I who took you from Monsieur d’Artagnan, so I will pay your ransom.”

  D’Artagnan’s eyes regained their cheerful sparkle, for the Gascon began to understand. Charles turned toward him. “The general,” he said, “isn’t wealthy and can’t pay you what he’s worth. I am certainly richer, but now that he’s a duke, and nearly a king, he’s worth a sum that perhaps even I
couldn’t pay. Come, Monsieur d’Artagnan, be lenient: how much do I owe you?”

  D’Artagnan, delighted by this turn of events but maintaining his self-possession, said, “Sire, Your Majesty has no cause to be alarmed. When I had the good luck to capture His Grace, Mister Monck was still a general, so only the ransom of a general is due to me. But if the general will give me his sword, I’ll consider myself paid, for there is nothing in the world but a general’s sword that’s worth as much as he is.”

  “Odds fish, as my father used to say,” cried Charles II. “That’s a gallant speech from a gallant man—don’t you agree, Duke?”

  “Upon my honor, Sire, I do!” replied the duke. And he drew his sword. “Monsieur,” he said to d’Artagnan, “here is that which you asked for. Many have owned better blades, but, modest as mine is, I’ve never surrendered it to anyone.”

  D’Artagnan took with pride this sword that had just made a king.

  “Here, now!” said Charles II. “What! Is a sword that placed me on the throne to go out of my kingdom rather than be added one day to the crown jewels? No, upon my soul, I think not! Captain d’Artagnan, I’ll give you two hundred thousand livres for this sword; if that’s not enough, tell me so.”

  “It isn’t enough, Sire,” replied d’Artagnan with grave seriousness. “And moreover, I don’t want to sell it—but Your Majesty wishes it and that is an order. I obey, then—but the respect in which I hold the illustrious warrior listening to us commands me to estimate his worth at half again that assessment. I therefore ask three hundred thousand livres for the sword, or Your Majesty may have it for nothing.”

  And, taking it by the point, he presented the sword to the king. Charles II burst out laughing. “Oh, gallant man and happy companion! Isn’t it so, Duke? Am I right, Count? Odds fish! How that pleases me. Here, Chevalier d’Artagnan,” he said, “take this.”

  And, going to a table, he wrote a voucher on his treasury for three hundred thousand livres.

  D’Artagnan took it, and turning gravely to Monck, he said, “I still asked too little, I know, but believe me, Duke, I would rather die than be ruled by avarice.”