Between Two Kings

by Lawrence Ellsworth

  “I assure you I know absolutely nothing, Monsieur d’Artagnan, and your every word is to me an article of faith.”

  “I always knew you had brains,” said the musketeer. “Knew it from the first time I met you. These fifty gold crowns I give you as a bonus should show you what I think of you. Take them.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Menneville.

  “That ought to be enough to enable you to live as an honest man,” replied d’Artagnan in a serious tone. “It would be a shame if a mind like yours and the name you no longer dare to use were to disappear into a wasted life. Wipe the slate clean, Menneville, and live for a year as an honest man—you can do it, I just gave you twice the pay of a ranking officer. After a year, come see me, and, mordioux! We’ll make something of you yet.”

  Menneville swore, as his comrades had, to be as quiet as the grave. And yet, somebody must have talked eventually, and if it wasn’t Menneville or one of the other nine mercenaries, it must have been d’Artagnan, who, as a Gascon, always had a tongue ready to wag. After all, if it wasn’t him, who else could it have been? How else could the story of the wooden box bored with breathing-holes have come down to us complete in every detail? Details which, moreover, clear up an unexplained episode in the history of England, left until today out of the accounts of the historians.

  XXXVIII In Which We See that the French Grocer Was Already Well Established in the 17th Century

  Once his accounts had been settled and his warnings communicated, d’Artagnan thought of nothing but getting back to Paris as soon as possible. Athos, for his part, was eager to return to the repose of his house. After the fatigues of a journey, whether a man feels well or exhausted, even if the day has been pleasant, he looks forward to its end, for the night will allow him to sleep.

  So, from Boulogne to Paris, riding side by side, the two friends, each preoccupied with his own thoughts, encountered nothing interesting enough to relate to the reader: the cavaliers, while considering the future each in his own way, devoted themselves to speed. On the evening of the fourth day after their departure from Boulogne, Athos and d’Artagnan arrived at the gates of Paris.

  “Where are you bound for, dear friend?” asked Athos. “I am going straight to my town house.”

  “And I, straight to my partner.”

  “Planchet’s place?”

  “The Golden Pestle? Mon Dieu, yes.”

  “Shall we find a way to meet again?”

  “If you stay in Paris, yes, because the city is where I’m staying.”

  “No. After embracing Raoul, whom I expect to find at my house, I leave immediately for La Fère.”

  “Well, then! Adieu, my dear and perfect friend.”

  “Au revoir, rather, because I hope you will come and visit, or even live with me at Blois. You are free, you are rich, I can help you buy, if you like, a property near Cheverny or Bracieux. On one side you’d have the most beautiful woods in the world, backing up on Chambord, while on the other, a lovely marsh. You who love hunting, and who has the soul of a poet, though you won’t admit it, will find pheasant, rail, and teal, not to mention long sunsets and such boating that you’ll feel like Nimrod and Apollo themselves. While waiting for the sale to close, you’ll live at La Fère, and we’ll go fly our hawks among the vineyards, as King Louis XIII used to do. It’s a suitable life for old soldiers like us.”

  D’Artagnan took hold of Athos’s hands. “Dear Count,” he said, “I won’t say yes or no. Let me spend the time I need in Paris to order my affairs and little by little get used to the great and growing idea that’s shining in my mind. I am rich, as you say, but until I’ve taken enough time to get used to riches, I’m going to be an insufferable monster, I just know it. Now, at least I’ve got the sense not to behave like a lackwit in front of a friend like you, Athos. My cloak of wealth is handsome, it’s richly embroidered, but it’s new, it isn’t broken in, and it itches.”

  Athos smiled. “So be it,” he said. “But about this new cloak, dear d’Artagnan, would you like to hear some advice?”

  “Indeed, I would!”

  “You won’t be upset?”

  “Speak freely.”

  “When wealth comes to a person late, that person, to keep from changing, must become either a miser, that is, spend no more than he did before, or a spendthrift, going into debt so quickly that he becomes poor again.”

  “Hmph. That sounds like sophistry to me, O wise philosopher.”

  “I don’t think so. Will you become a miser, then?”

  “No, by God! I’ve already done that, and more than enough. We must change.”

  “Then, it’s spendthrift?”

  “Even less likely, mordioux! Debt terrifies me. Creditors remind me of those devils who roast the damned on spits, and as patience isn’t my chief virtue, I’m always tempted to send them to hell early.”

  “You are the wisest man I know and need no advice from anyone. One would be a great fool to think he had anything to teach you. But isn’t this Rue Saint-Honoré?”

  “Yes, dear Athos.”

  “And here, on the left, this long, white house is the hôtel where I’m lodging. You’ll notice it has only two floors; I occupy the lower, while the other is rented to an officer whose service keeps him far away eight or nine months of the year, so I have the house as much to myself as if I was at home, but without the expense.”

  “You manage things so well, Athos, in both order and economy! That’s what I want to copy. But what can I do? You were born to rank, while I just do the best I can.”

  “Such flattery! Come, say farewell, dear friend. By the way, give my regards to Planchet; he’s a lad of wits, isn’t he?”

  “And of heart, Athos. Adieu!”

  They separated. During this long conversation, d’Artagnan had never for a second lost sight of the packhorse carrying the paniers in which, under a layer of hay, the money sacks were hidden among the other luggage. Nine in the evening was sounding from the belfry of Saint-Merri, and Planchet’s shop boys were shuttering the store. Under an awning on the corner of the Rue des Lombards d’Artagnan stopped the postilion93 who rode the packhorse, and, calling over one of Planchet’s lads, told him to watch the horses as well as the postilion. Then he entered the house of the grocer, who’d just finished his supper, and who, on the landing, was anxiously consulting the calendar on which every evening he scratched off the day that had just passed. At that moment when, with a sigh, Planchet drew a line through another day, d’Artagnan kicked firmly at his open side door, the blows setting his iron spurs jingling.

  “Good Lord!” cried Planchet. Having taken one look at his partner, the worthy grocer could say no more. D’Artagnan, who couldn’t resist the idea of stringing Planchet along, entered with his shoulders slumped and his eyes averted.

  My God! thought the grocer, staring at the traveler. He’s destroyed.

  “My dear Monsieur d’Artagnan!” said Planchet, his heart skipping a beat. “You’re back! Are you all right?”

  “Well enough, Planchet, I suppose,” said d’Artagnan with a sigh.

  “You aren’t wounded, are you?”

  “Eh!”

  “I see,” continued Planchet, more and more alarmed. “The expedition was a rough one?”

  “Yes,” said d’Artagnan.

  A shiver shook Planchet from head to toe.

  “I need… a drink,” said the musketeer, with a pitiful look.

  Planchet ran to the sideboard and poured d’Artagnan a large glass of wine. D’Artagnan looked at the bottle. “What wine is this?” he asked.

  “Why, it’s your favorite, Monsieur,” said Planchet, “that good old wine of Anjou that one day nearly cost us so dearly.”94

  “Ah!” replied d’Artagnan with a melancholy smile. “And should I be drinking so expensive a wine, my poor Planchet?”

  “Come, dear Master,” said Planchet, making a superhuman effort, though his trembling and pallor revealed deep anguish. “I was a soldie
r, you know, so I’m brave enough to hear it. Don’t keep me guessing, Monsieur d’Artagnan. Our money: it’s all gone, isn’t it?”

  D’Artagnan hesitated before answering, a delay that seemed like a century to the poor grocer. Finally, he turned in his chair, head held low, and said slowly, “And if that were so, what would you say to me, my poor friend?”

  Planchet, already pale, turned yellow. His eyes twitched, his throat swelled, and he felt as if he was going to swallow his tongue. “Twenty thousand livres!” he murmured. “Twenty… thousand…!”

  D’Artagnan, his head slumping on his neck, his limbs lax, hands drooping, was the very image of discouragement.

  Planchet tore a heavy sigh from the very depths of his chest. “Come,” he said. “I see how it is. Let’s be men. It’s over, isn’t it? At least, Monsieur, you survived, and that’s the important thing.”

  “No doubt, no doubt. Life is something, I suppose… but in the meantime, I’m ruined.”

  “Cordieu!” said Planchet. “If that’s so, Monsieur, there’s no need to despair. You can be a grocer with me! I’ll make you a partner in my business, we’ll share the profits, and when there are no profits, well! We’ll share the almonds, raisins, and prunes, and nibble on our last quarter of Dutch cheese.”

  D’Artagnan could sustain it no longer. “Mordioux!” he brightly cried. “You’re a brave lad, upon my honor, Planchet! Did you like my little comedy? Look, out there in the street, under that awning—do you see that horse with the paniers?”

  “Awning? Horse? Paniers?” said Planchet, his heart sinking at the idea that d’Artagnan had gone mad.

  “God’s death, yes, those English paniers!” said d’Artagnan, radiant and transfigured.

  “Good Lord!” cried Planchet, recoiling before his partner’s burning gaze.

  “Fool!” laughed d’Artagnan. “You think I’m crazy. Mordioux! On the contrary, I’ve never had a sharper head and a happier heart. To the packhorse, Planchet—to the paniers!”

  “But what paniers, where, for the love of God?”

  D’Artagnan pushed Planchet toward the window. “Under the awning over there,” he said, “do you see a horse?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you see how his back bends?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Do you see one of your lads talking to the postilion?”

  “Yes, yes, yes.”

  “Well, then! You know that lad’s name, since he’s one of yours. Call to him.”

  “Abdon! Abdon!” shouted Planchet from the window.

  “Bring the horse,” whispered d’Artagnan.

  “Bring the horse!” shouted Planchet.

  “Now, ten livres for the postilion,” said d’Artagnan in the tone used to command a maneuver. “Two lads to bring up the first two bags, two more for the last two, and lively, now! Move it!”

  Planchet threw himself down the stairs as if the devil was at his heels. A few moments later the shop boys came up the stairs, bent beneath their burdens. D’Artagnan sent them off to their garrets, shut the door carefully and turned to Planchet, who himself was looking a little wild. “Now,” d’Artagnan said, “it’s just us.” And he spread a large blanket on the floor and emptied onto it the first bag. Planchet did the same with the second, then d’Artagnan, his hand trembling a bit, cut open the third with his knife.

  When Planchet heard the thrilling clink of silver and gold, when he saw the shining crowns that glittered like fish swept out of the sea, when he felt his arms plunge up to the elbows into this rising tide of silver and gold coins, the shock hit him all at once, and, as if struck by lightning, he fell down heavily on the enormous heap with a metallic crash. Planchet, overcome by joy, had passed out.

  D’Artagnan threw a glass of white wine into his face, which brought Planchet back to life. “Ah! My God! My God!” he repeated as he wiped his mustache and beard. At that time, as now, a grocer wore a cavalier’s mustache and a soldier’s beard, but bathing in silver and gold, already a rare thing then, is today almost unknown.

  “Mordioux!” said d’Artagnan. “A hundred thousand livres of this is yours, Monsieur Partner. Count out your share, if you will, and then I’ll take mine.”

  “Oh, the lovely silver, Monsieur d’Artagnan! The beautiful gold!”

  “Half an hour ago I confess I was regretting the part that belongs to you,” said d’Artagnan, “but now, I regret nothing. You’re a fine grocer, Planchet, who keeps good accounts, and good accounts, they say, keep good friends.”

  “Oh! But first tell me the whole story,” said Planchet. “It must be even prettier than the money.”

  “My faith,” replied d’Artagnan, stroking his mustache, “I won’t say you’re wrong, and if ever a historian demands the whole tale, he’ll hear more than he thought he would. Listen, then, Planchet, and I’ll tell you.”

  “And I’ll start counting this into stacks,” said Planchet. “Please begin, my dear partner.”

  “It starts like this,” said d’Artagnan, drawing a breath.

  “And ends like this,” said Planchet, picking up his first handful of coins.

  XXXIX Monsieur de Mazarin at His Games

  On the evening of the arrival in Paris of our two Frenchmen, in a grand chamber of the Palais Royal,95 its walls draped in dark velvet that showed off the gilded frames of many handsome paintings, one could see the entire Court arrayed before the sleeping alcove of Monsieur le Cardinal de Mazarin, who was hosting an evening at cards for the king and the queen. Low screens separated three tables placed around the chamber. The king and the two queens were seated at one of these tables; Louis XIV sat across from the young queen, his wife, whom he smiled upon with a genuine expression of happiness. Anne of Austria held the cards against the cardinal, and her daughter-in-law advised her when she wasn’t smiling at her husband. Beyond the table, in his bed, lay the cardinal, an emaciated figure, always tired, the Comtesse de Soissons96 holding his cards for him, which he scanned with a look of calculation and avarice.

  The cardinal wore makeup that had been applied by Bernouin, but the rouge glistening on his cheekbones just emphasized the unhealthy pallor of the rest of his face and the sallow yellow flesh of his forehead. Only his eyes glowed brightly, and those feverish eyes, from time to time, attracted worried glances from the king, the queens, and the courtiers. The fact is that Signor Mazarin’s gleaming eyes were the inconstant stars in which 17th-century France read its destiny every night and morning.

  Monseigneur was neither winning nor losing, so he was neither cheerful nor sour. It was a stagnant state in which Anne of Austria would not have left him, if she could help it, but to engage the invalid’s interest through some change of fortune she would have to either win or lose. To win was dangerous, as Mazarin might trade his disinterest for irritation, but to lose she would have had to cheat, and the infanta, who was watching her mother-in-law’s game closely, might spot the misplay, and that would be the end of any chance of a good mood from Monsieur de Mazarin.

  Taking advantage of this calm, the courtiers were talking among themselves. Mazarin, when he wasn’t in an ill temper, was a congenial lord, and he, who never prevented anyone from singing, providing they paid,97 wasn’t tyrant enough to prohibit others’ speech, provided they lost.

  So, everyone talked. At the first table, the king’s younger brother, Philippe, Duc d’Anjou,* admired his handsome face with a mirror-topped box. His favorite, the Chevalier de Lorraine,* though leaning on the prince’s chair, was actually listening with secret envy to the Comte de Guiche,* another of Philippe’s favorites, who was recounting the juicy details of the various turns of fortune of the royal adventurer Charles II. He told the fabulous tale of his dangerous journey across Scotland, and his terror with the enemy pursuers hot on his trail. He told of nights spent in trees, and days spent in hunger and combat. Gradually, the fate of this unfortunate king had interested the listeners to the point where the game languished, even at the royal table, where the young k
ing, distracted and staring sightlessly at his cards, absorbed without seeming to every detail of the picturesque odyssey described by the Comte de Guiche.

  The Comtesse de Soissons interrupted the narrator, saying, “Confess, Count, that you’re exaggerating.”

  “Madame, I repeat like a parrot the stories various Englishmen have told me. I will even admit, to my shame, that I recite an exact copy.”

  “Charles II would be dead if he’d gone through all that.”

  Louis XIV raised his proud and intelligent head. “Madame,” he said, in a low voice that still harked back to the timid child, “Monsieur le Cardinal will tell you that in my minority, the affairs of France were often unsettled, and if I had been older and obliged to take my sword in my hand, I might have had to do so just to get our evening meal.”

  “Thank God,” replied the cardinal, speaking for the first time, “that Your Majesty exaggerates, and your supper was always prepared perfectly along with that of your servants.”

  The king blushed.

  “Oh!” interrupted Philippe, without ceasing to admire himself. “I remember one time at Melun when nobody had supper except the king. He had two-thirds of a heel of bread, leaving the final third to me.”

  The whole assembly, seeing Mazarin smile, began to laugh. One flatters kings with the reminder of past distress and the assurance of future fortune.

  “The fact is, that the Crown of France has always stayed firmly on the heads of its kings,” added Anne of Austria hastily, “and though England’s has fallen from their king, every time some chance event shook ours, for there are realm-quakes as well as earthquakes, each time, I say, that rebellion threatened, a timely victory restored us to peace.”