Between Two Kings

by Lawrence Ellsworth

  “Oh!” said Monck. “Rest assured that I know you well, Monsieur d’Artagnan, and appreciate your virtues.”

  D’Artagnan kept a close eye on Monck, detecting all that was passing through the general’s mind as he spoke. “But this isn’t about me,” he said.

  “Well, who’s it about, then?” asked Monck, beginning to be impatient.

  “It’s about the king, who’s too merry to hold his tongue.”

  “Well, if he tells all he knows, so what?” said Monck, nervously.

  “Milord,” replied d’Artagnan, “don’t pretend, I beg, with one who speaks as honestly as I do. You have a right to be concerned, no matter how blameless you are. What the devil! It’s not proper for a serious man like you, a man who plays with thrones and scepters like an acrobat juggles balls, to be displayed in a box like a curiosity of natural history; if you have enemies—and you’re so great, so noble, and so generous that you must have many—and they heard of this, they would make you a laughingstock. A picture circulated of you locked in that box would set half the human race to laughter. Now, it’s neither decent nor proper for others to laugh like that at the second personage of the realm.”

  Monck was beside himself at the idea of being depicted inside the box. The idea of ridicule, as d’Artagnan had wisely foreseen, had gotten to him in a way that neither the hazards of war, the desires of ambition, nor the fear of death could.

  Good, thought the Gascon, he’s afraid, and I am saved.

  “Oh, as to the king,” said Monck, “don’t worry about him, dear Monsieur d’Artagnan—the king won’t make fun of Monck, I assure you!” But d’Artagnan saw how his eyes flashed. Monck softened his tone immediately. “The king,” he continued, “has too noble a nature, too generous a heart to wish to injure those who mean him good.”

  “Absolutely!” said d’Artagnan. “I’m entirely of your opinion as regards his heart, but not his head; he means well, but lets his wit carry him away.”

  “The king’s wit won’t carry him away from me, I assure you.”

  “So, you’re not at all worried, Milord?”

  “On that flank at least I’m unconcerned, yes.”

  “Got it, I understand, you’re unconcerned about the king.”

  “As I said.”

  “But you’re not as unconcerned about me?”

  “I thought I told you that I believe in your loyalty and discretion.”

  “No doubt, no doubt, but you’re overlooking one thing…”

  “Which is?”

  “That I wasn’t alone, that I had companions—and such companions!”

  “Oh! Yes, I remember them.”

  “Unfortunately, Milord, they remember you too.”

  “Well?”

  “Well! They’re over there at Boulogne, waiting for me.”

  “And you fear…?”

  “Yes, I fear that in my absence… parbleu! If only I were near them, I could answer for their silence.”

  “Then I was right to say that the danger, if there was any, would come not from His Majesty, despite his tendency to jest, but from such as your companions, as you say. To be mocked by a king may be tolerated, but by mercenary rabble… Goddamn!”

  “Yes, I understand, that would be unbearable—which is why, Milord, I came to you to say, ‘Don’t you think I ought to depart for France as soon as possible?’ ”

  “Certainly, if you believe your presence…”

  “Would impose discipline on those rogues? I’m certain of it, Milord.”

  “Your presence won’t prevent the rumor from spreading if it’s already begun.”

  “Oh, it hasn’t yet begun, Milord, I can guarantee that. In any event, you can be sure I’m determined on one thing.”

  “And that is?”

  “To blow the head off the first one to spread such a rumor, and follow with whoever might have heard it. After which, I’ll return to England to seek asylum and perhaps employment with Your Grace.”

  “What, return? Return?”

  “Unfortunately, Milord, I know no one here but you, and if I find you again, you may have forgotten me in your new grandeurs.”

  “Listen, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” Monck replied, “you’re a charming gentleman, full of wit and courage, and deserve all the rewards the world can offer. Come with me to Scotland and I swear to you, within my viceroyalty you’ll find a place that others will envy.”

  “Ah, Milord, that’s impossible right now! At the moment I have a sacred duty to fulfill: I must guard your glory and make sure no mean-spirited jest tarnishes you in the eyes of your peers, and who knows? Perhaps dims the luster of your name in posterity.”

  “In posterity, Monsieur d’Artagnan?”

  “Why, of course! For the sake of posterity all the details of this affair must remain hidden—because, if the ugly story of the wooden box were to spread, everyone would say that you didn’t restore the king out of loyalty and your own free will, but because the two of you made a bargain at Scheveningen. Then it would be useless for me to say what had really happened, because people would say I was part of the deal and had gotten my piece of the pie.”

  Monck frowned darkly. “Glory, honor, integrity,” he said, “nothing but empty words!”

  “Mist and smoke,” d’Artagnan nodded, “through which no one can ever see clearly.”

  “Well, then! Go to France, my dear Monsieur,” said Monck. “Go, and to make England more accessible and receptive to you, accept a gift from me.”

  What now? thought d’Artagnan.

  “On the banks of the Clyde, in a little grove,” continued Monck, “I own a house, a cottage as we say, and with this house go a hundred acres of land. Accept this from me.”

  “Oh, Milord…!”

  “And by Our Lady, there you will have a secure home, that refuge of which you spoke to me just now.”

  “I’m so very obliged to you, Milord! In truth, I’m unworthy!”

  “Not at all, Monsieur,” replied Monck with a wry smile, “not at all, it’s I who am obliged to you.” He shook the musketeer’s hand and said, “I’ll go have the deed of transfer drawn up right now.” And he left.

  D’Artagnan watched him leave the room, pensive and even moved. “At last,” he said to himself, “I’ve found a good man. It’s sad to feel that it’s out of fear that he does this rather than affection, but never mind! I’ll just have to make sure the affection continues.”

  Then, after a moment of further reflection, he said, “But why bother? He’s an Englishman!”

  And he went out in his turn, a bit dazed by the effort of the contest. “So,” he said, “now I’m a landowner. But how the devil will I divide the cottage with Planchet? Unless I give him the land while I keep the house, or I give him the house while I… Bah! Mister Monck would never approve of my sharing his house with a grocer! He’s far too proud for that. Besides, why mention it at all? I didn’t acquire this property with our company’s funds, I did it with my own wits, and thus it’s entirely mine. Let’s go find Athos.”

  And he made his way toward the lodgings of the Comte de La Fère.

  XXXVII How d’Artagnan Settled the Company’s Liabilities before Reckoning Its Assets

  “I’m on a winning streak and no doubt about it,” d’Artagnan said to himself. “That star that shines once in the life of every man, even for Job and for Irus,92 the most unfortunate of the Jews and the poorest of the Greeks, finally shines on me. But I won’t be reckless as I take advantage of it, because I’m mature enough to be sensible.”

  He supped cheerfully that evening with his friend Athos, and though he didn’t mention Monck’s gift, as they ate he couldn’t help asking his friend about sowing, planting, and farm production. Athos replied agreeably, as always. He assumed d’Artagnan was considering becoming a landowner, but more than once he missed his old companion’s lively mood and witty sallies. D’Artagnan, preoccupied, took advantage of the greasy remains on his plate to draw figures and make calculations that am
ounted to pleasantly round sums.

  The order, or rather permit, for their embarkation arrived later that evening. While the visa was being handed over to the count, another messenger arrived and gave d’Artagnan a bundle of parchment pages fluttering with all the colorful seals that adorn real estate deeds in England. Athos surprised him skimming through these documents that established the transfer of property. The prudent Monck, or one might say the generous Monck, had converted the gift into a sale with a receipt that acknowledged having been paid the sum of fifteen thousand livres for the transaction.

  D’Artagnan had begun reading the deeds before the messenger had even disappeared. Athos watched him and smiled. D’Artagnan, catching one of these smiles over his shoulder, folded up the parchments and thrust them back into their packet.

  “Pardon me,” said Athos.

  “No problem, there are no secrets here, old friend,” replied the lieutenant. “I’d just like…”

  “No, don’t tell me anything, I beg. Orders are sacred things, and the person charged with them shouldn’t reveal a single word even to his brother or father. Even I, who loves you more tenderly than a brother, a father, or anyone…”

  “Outside of Raoul?”

  “I will love Raoul even more when he is a man, fully formed in all phases of character and behavior… in other words, when he’s like you, my friend.”

  “You said that you’d received orders as well; don’t you intend to share them with me?”

  “No, friend d’Artagnan.”

  The Gascon sighed. “There was a time,” he said, “when you would have laid that order open on the table and said, ‘D’Artagnan, read this gibberish to Porthos, Aramis, and myself and tell us what it means.’ ”

  “You’re right. We shared the confidence of youth, that generous season when we’re ruled by the hot blood of passion!”

  “Well, Athos, can I tell you something?”

  “Speak, my friend.”

  “That wonderful time, that generous season, that reign of hot blood, those are all beautiful things beyond doubt, but I wouldn’t go back to them. It’s just like thinking about your school days—I’m always meeting some fool nostalgic for copying tasks, canings, and crusts of dry bread. It’s bizarre, because I never enjoyed that. The old days? No matter how serious and active I was (and you can confirm this, Athos), no matter how simple my everyday clothes, I still would have preferred Porthos’s embroidered finery to my threadbare doublet, which was protection from neither the cold winds of winter nor the hot sun of summer. My friend, I can’t help but mistrust anyone who says he prefers bad over good. Now, in the good old days, when everything was terrible, every month saw another hole in my coat and my skin, and a gold crown less in my sagging purse; from that awful time of watered wine and constant worry I absolutely regret nothing, nothing, nothing but our friendship. For I still have within me a heart, and by some miracle, that heart wasn’t withered by the wind of misery that howled through the holes in my cloak or impaled by the swords of all sorts that made holes in my poor flesh.”

  “Never regret our friendship,” said Athos. “It will die only when we do. Friendship is mainly made up of memories and shared habits, and if you had to make a small satire on mine because I wouldn’t reveal my mission to France…”

  “Me? By heaven, my old and dear friend, if you only knew how little all the world’s missions will mean to me from here on out!” And he folded his packet of parchments and shoved it into his travel bag.

  Athos rose from the table and called over the host to settle the bill. “As long as I’ve been your friend,” said d’Artagnan, “I’ve never once paid the bill. Porthos did it often, Aramis occasionally, and you nearly always drew out your purse upon the arrival of dessert. Now that I’m rich, I’d like to see just how heroic it is to pay the bill.”

  “Go ahead,” said Athos, returning his purse to his belt pouch.

  The two friends then made their way to the port, not without d’Artagnan frequently looking behind him to check on the transport of his beloved money. Night had spread its thick veil over the muddy waters of the Thames; they could hear the sounds of rolling casks and creaking pullies, the preliminaries to setting sail that had so often quickened the musketeers’ hearts when the dangers of the sea were the least of the perils they would face.

  This time they were to embark on a large vessel that awaited them at Gravesend, and Charles II, always thoughtful of the little things, had sent one of his river yachts with twelve of his Scots Guards to do honor to the ambassador he was sending to France. By midnight the yacht had seen its passengers onto the larger vessel, and at eight o’clock the next morning that vessel disembarked the ambassador and his friend onto the jetty at Boulogne.

  While the count, helped by Grimaud, went to hire some horses for the ride to Paris, d’Artagnan went to the inn where, according to his orders, his little army was to wait for him. These gentlemen were breakfasting on oysters, fish, and spiced eau-de-vie when d’Artagnan entered. They were all in a good mood, and none were yet drunk beyond the ability to reason. They raised a cheer when they saw their commander.

  “Here I am,” said d’Artagnan. “The campaign is over, and I’ve come to bring you your promised bonus.” Their eyes shone. “I’d wager there’s no more than a hundred livres left in the purse of the richest of you!”

  “It’s true!” they cried in chorus.

  “Gentlemen,” said d’Artagnan, “these are your final orders. Your mercenary contracts are fulfilled, thanks to that master stroke that made us the master of the England’s leading financier. Now I can reveal that the man we had to transport was none other than General Monck’s treasurer.”

  The word treasurer was met with obvious approval by his army. D’Artagnan noted that only Menneville’s gaze conveyed a certain doubt.

  “This treasurer,” continued d’Artagnan, “I brought to the neutral territory of Holland, where I persuaded him to sign a certain declaration. Then I took him back to Newcastle, and as he must have been satisfied with our treatment of him, his wooden coffin having been padded so softly and carried so carefully, I asked him for a gratuity for you. Here it is.” He dropped a bulging and rather heavy bag onto the tablecloth. All hands reflexively reached for it. “Not so fast, my lambs,” said d’Artagnan. “If there are profits, there are also prices.”

  “Oh?” murmured the assembled rogues.

  “We now find ourselves, my friends, in a position that could be dangerous for those who lack brains. To be plain: we stand between the gallows and the Bastille.”

  “Uh-oh!” gasped the chorus.

  “It’s not hard to understand. I had to explain the disappearance of his treasurer to General Monck. I waited to do so until the moment of the unexpected restoration of King Charles II, who is one of my friends…”

  The little army exchanged looks of satisfaction that were smug compared to d’Artagnan’s, which was rather proud. “Once the king was restored, I restored General Monck his man of business—slightly the worse for wear, perhaps, but at least I returned him. Now, General Monck, when he pardoned me, for that was part of the bargain, couldn’t refrain from telling me the words I’m about to repeat to you, and which I urge each of you to engrave into your memory: ‘Monsieur, that was a good joke, but I don’t care much for jokes. If a single word of what you’ve done ever escapes your lips’—do you hear me, Monsieur Menneville?—‘or the lips of your companions, I have in my viceroyalty of Scotland 741 oaken gallows, with hooks of iron and trapdoors greased every week. I would present one of these gallows to each of you, and take note, Monsieur d’Artagnan’—take note as well, Monsieur Menneville—‘I would still have seven hundred and thirty gallows left for others. Moreover…’ ”

  “Oh!” said the mercenaries. “There’s more?”

  “One threat more: ‘Monsieur d’Artagnan, I am writing to the King of France to report this bargain, with the request that a cell in the Bastille be prepared for each member of your troo
p who falls into his hands, the lot to be turned back over to me, a request he will certainly comply with.”

  A gasp of fear was heard all around the table.

  “Now, now,” said d’Artagnan. “The noble Monck had forgotten one thing, which is that he doesn’t know any of your names; only I know you, and as you can well believe, I’m not about to betray you. Why would I? And as to you, none of you are foolish enough to betray yourselves, for then the king, to save himself the expense of keeping you in the Bastille, would send you to Scotland to grace one of the 741 gallows. So, there you have it, Messieurs: I have not another word to add to what I’ve had the honor to tell you. I’m sure I was understood perfectly—was I not, Monsieur Menneville?”

  “Perfectly,” the latter replied.

  “And now, the beautiful crowns!” said d’Artagnan. “Shut the doors.”

  And he emptied the shiny new gold coins on the table, a few rolling off the edge. Everyone grabbed at the floor. “How pretty!” said d’Artagnan. “Put the loose ones back in the pile so it doesn’t throw off my count.”

  He then doled out fifty gleaming crowns to each of them, receiving nearly as many blessings as coins he allotted.

  “Now,” he said, “if you could just clean yourselves up a bit and become good and honest citizens…”

  “But that’s so very difficult,” said one of the rogues.

  “Why would we do that, Captain?” said another.

  “Because then I might be able to find you again, and who knows? By then you might need me.”

  D’Artagnan made a sign to Menneville, who’d been listening to all this coolly and calmly. “Menneville,” he said, “come with me. Adieu, mes Braves! I needn’t warn you to be discreet.” Menneville followed him, while the sound of the mercenaries’ farewells mingled with the sweet jingle of gold in their pouches.

  “Menneville,” d’Artagnan said when they were in the street, “you’re no fool, so take care not to act like one. You don’t impress me as one who fears either the gallows of Monck or the Bastille of His Majesty King Louis XIV, so you will do me the favor to be afraid of me. Now, listen: you say a single word about what you know to anybody, and I’ll find you and wring your neck like a chicken’s. I already have in my pocket the permission and absolution of our Holy Father the Pope.”