Twenty Years After

by Alexander Dumas

  Now, here’s how the conflict played out:

  On the seventh of January 1648, seven or eight hundred mutinous Parisian merchants had gathered to protest a new tax on business owners, sending ten delegates to talk to Prince Gaston, the Duc d’Orléans,* who had always been popular with them. The duke, receiving them, had been told they were determined not to pay this new tax, and were even willing to take up arms against anyone the king might send to collect it. The Duc d’Orléans listened politely to them, which gave them hope; he promised to speak to the queen about it and dismissed them with the usual response of princes: “We’ll see.”

  For their part, on the ninth the Judges of Requests came before the cardinal, and their designated representative spoke so firmly and fearlessly the cardinal had been astonished. He gave them the same response the Duc d’Orléans had given the merchants: “We’ll see.”

  So, in order to see, the King’s Council had assembled and sent for d’Émery, the superintendent of finances.

  This d’Émery was widely despised by the people, first of all because he was the superintendent of finances, and all superintendents of finances should be despised, and second because, it’s fair to say, he deserved it.

  He was the son of a banker of Lyon named Particelli who had, after filing for bankruptcy, changed his name to d’Émery. Cardinal Richelieu, who recognized his merits as a financier, had presented him to King Louis XIII* under this new name, recommending d’Émery for the position of superintendent of finances, and the king had agreed. “Excellent!” he’d said. “I’m glad to hear about this Monsieur d’Émery, as we need an honest man for the post. I’d thought you were going to sponsor that swindler Particelli for the job and was afraid you’d persuade me to agree.”

  “Sire!” replied the cardinal. “Don’t worry, that Particelli you mentioned has been hanged.”

  “All the better!” said the king. “It’s not for nothing that I’m known as Louis the Just.” And he’d signed the appointment of Monsieur d’Émery.

  It was this same Superintendent d’Émery who’d been sent for by Prime Minister Mazarin. He rushed in pale and frightened, saying his son had been nearly assassinated that day on the Place du Palais; a crowd had confronted him, complaining of the extravagance of his wife, who’d decorated their home with hangings of red velvet trimmed with gold fringe. She was the daughter of Nicolas Le Camus, who’d come to Paris with just twenty livres, but had by 1617 become royal secretary. His salary had been only forty thousand livres, but somehow his children had received an inheritance of nine million. D’Émery’s son had barely avoided violent suffocation at the hands of the mob, which had threatened to squeeze all the stolen gold out of him. So, the council decided to take no action that day, as the superintendent was in no condition to think straight.

  The following day, First President of Parliament Mathieu Molé, whose courage in these affairs, according to Cardinal de Retz, was equal to that of the Duc de Beaufort or of Monsieur le Prince de Condé—the two men who were considered the bravest in France—the next day, we say, the first president was attacked in his turn. The people threatened to take him to task for the ills they were suffering, but the first president, always unflappable and self-possessed, replied with his usual calm that if the malcontents didn’t bend to the king’s will, he would erect enough gallows in the squares to hang the lot of them. To which they replied that they asked nothing better than some new gibbets, as they would serve to hang those judges who bought favor from Court at the cost of the misery of the people.

  There was more: on the eleventh, when the queen went to mass at Notre Dame, as she did every Saturday, she was met by over two hundred women crying out and demanding justice. They had no worse intention than that, wishing only to kneel before her to try to move her to pity, but the guards kept them back, and the queen, haughty and proud, passed without paying any attention to their cries.

  That afternoon, the King’s Council met again; it resolved to maintain the royal authority, and summoned parliament to convene on the following day, the twelfth.

  That day, on the evening of which our story begins, started when King Louis XIV,* then ten years old and just recovered from smallpox, had gone to Notre Dame to give thanks for his deliverance. This gave him a pretext for calling out his troops—guards, Swiss, and musketeers—and posting them around the Palais Royal, on the Pont Neuf, and on his route along the quays. After hearing mass the king had made a surprise call on parliament, where he held an impromptu lit de justice, confirming all his previous tax edicts as well as issuing five or six new ones, each one, according to Cardinal de Retz, more ruinous than the last. The new measures were loudly opposed by President Blancmesnil6 and Councilor Broussel.* Furthermore, the first president, who as we saw had supported the king only the day before, indignantly protested this high-handed method of bringing the king in person to impose the royal will on parliament.

  These edicts decreed, the king returned to the Palais Royal. Crowds of people lined his way, but though they knew he came from parliament, they didn’t know whether he’d gone to demand justice for the people or to oppress them further, so no cheers greeted his passing, and there were no felicitations on his return to health. Every face was anxious or gloomy, and some were even threatening.

  Though the king had passed, the troops remained in position; it was feared there would be riots once word of the decrees at parliament got around—and indeed, at the merest rumor that, instead of rolling taxes back, the king had increased them, crowds began to gather. Soon a great clamor filled the streets, with shouts of “Down with Mazarin!” as well as “Long live Broussel” and “Long live Blancmesnil.” The people knew that Broussel and Blancmesnil had spoken out on their behalf, and though their eloquence had been to no avail, it had won them the citizens’ goodwill.

  Attempts were made to dispel these crowds and silence their shouts, but as often happens, that served only to increase the throngs and redouble their cries. The Royal Guards and the Swiss were first ordered to stand firm, and then sent to patrol Rue Saint-Denis and Rue Saint-Martin, where the crowds seemed thickest and most animated.

  At this point the merchants’ provost appeared at the gates of the Palais Royal, and was immediately admitted. He came to say that if the troops weren’t ordered to stand down, all of Paris would be under arms within two hours.

  While the options were being debated, Lieutenant of the Guards Comminges* came in from the street, his clothes torn and his face bloodied. Seeing him, the queen cried out in surprise and asked what had happened. As the provost had predicted, the sight of the guards had inflamed the crowds. They had swarmed the belfries and rung the tocsin. Comminges had stood firm and arrested a man who appeared to be one of the leading agitators, and then, in order to make an example of him, ordered the man hanged from the Croix du Trahoir. The soldiers had moved to carry out this order but were attacked with stones and halberds by rioters from Les Halles. The rebel had taken advantage of the chaos to escape, reaching the Rue des Lombards, where he’d disappeared into a house.

  Despite an aggressive search, they couldn’t catch the culprit. Comminges had posted sentries in the street and then, with the rest of his detachment, returned to the Palais Royal to report these events to the queen. They were followed all the way back by threats and curses, several of his men were wounded by pikes and halberds, and he himself had been cracked over the eyebrow by a stone.

  Comminges’s report only confirmed the advice of the merchant’s provost. The authorities were unprepared to withstand a serious revolt; the cardinal had the rumor spread among the people that the troops stationed along the quays and the Pont Neuf were there only for the ceremony and were being withdrawn. Indeed, by four in the afternoon they were all concentrated around the Palais Royal, with a detachment at the Barrière des Sergents, another at the Quinze-Vingts, and a third at the Butte Saint-Roch.7 They filled the courtyards with Swiss Guards8 and musketeers, and they waited.

  This is where thin
gs stood when we introduced our readers to Cardinal Mazarin’s study, which had once belonged to Cardinal Richelieu. We saw in what state of mind he heard the crowd noises and gunshots that echoed into his windows.

  Suddenly he looked up with a determined expression, like a man who has made up his mind. He stared at a huge clock that was on the verge of striking ten, reached for a silvered whistle placed on the table within reach of his hand, and trilled on it twice.

  A hidden door in a tapestry opened soundlessly, and a man dressed in black emerged and moved silently to stand behind the cardinal’s chair.

  “Bernouin,”* said the cardinal without turning, for having whistled twice he knew it was his valet, “which King’s Musketeers9 are guarding the palace?”

  “The Black Musketeers, Monseigneur.”

  “Which company?”

  “Tréville’s.”10

  “Is there an officer of that company in the antechamber?”

  “Lieutenant d’Artagnan.”*

  “He’s a good one, I believe?”

  “Yes, Monseigneur.”

  “Get me a musketeer’s uniform and help me into it.”

  The valet went out as quietly as he’d entered, and returned a few moments later, carrying the requested outfit.

  Silent and thoughtful, the cardinal began removing the ceremonial robes he’d worn to attend the session of parliament and then donned the military uniform, which he wore with a certain ease thanks to his time in the Italian campaigns. Once he was fully dressed, he said, “Get me Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

  And the valet, silent and mute as ever, went out through the antechamber door like a shadow.

  Left alone, the cardinal regarded himself in the mirror with some satisfaction. He looked young for his forty-six years, and though a bit short, he still cut an elegant figure. His complexion was fair and smooth, his eyes expressive, his nose large but well-shaped, his brow broad and majestic. His chestnut hair curled slightly, and his beard, which was darker, took a curling iron well. He straightened his baldric, then looked complacently at his hands, which were handsome and of which he took great care. He removed the buckskin riding gauntlets from his belt and replaced them with simple gloves of silk.

  At that moment the door opened. “Monsieur d’Artagnan,” announced the valet.

  An officer entered.

  He was a man of thirty-nine or forty years, compact but lean and well made, with a sharp and clever eye, his goatee still black though his hair was touched with gray, as often happens when a man has lived too well or not well enough, especially if he’s of dark complexion.

  D’Artagnan stepped into the study, recalling that he’d come into it once before in Cardinal Richelieu’s time, then stopped when he saw no one within but one of his company’s musketeers. At a glance he recognized the cardinal under the uniform. He remained standing in a respectful but dignified pose, as befits a gentleman who has spent much of his life among the Grands.

  The cardinal fixed him with a gaze more cunning than penetrating, looked him over carefully, and said after a few moments of silence, “You’re Monsieur d’Artagnan?”

  “Himself, Monseigneur,” said the officer.

  The cardinal considered for a moment that intelligent face and mobile expression restrained by years and experience; but d’Artagnan withstood the examination like a man who has been subjected to a far more piercing gaze.

  “Monsieur,” said the cardinal, “come with me—or rather, I’ll go with you.”

  “I’m at your orders, Monseigneur,” d’Artagnan replied.

  “I’d like to personally inspect the guard posts around the Palais Royal. Do you think there’s any danger?”

  “Danger, Monseigneur?” asked d’Artagnan, astonished. “From where?”

  “They say the people are in open revolt.”

  “The uniform of the King’s Musketeers still commands respect,

  Monseigneur—and even if that weren’t the case, I think with four of my men we could chase off a hundred of these clowns.”

  “Didn’t you see what happened to Comminges?”

  “Monsieur de Comminges is an officer of the guards, not the musketeers,” d’Artagnan replied.

  “In other words,” said the cardinal, smiling, “the musketeers are better soldiers than the guards.”11

  “Everyone prefers his own uniform, Monseigneur.”

  “Except me, Monsieur,” the cardinal said, still smiling. “As you see, I prefer yours to my own.”

  “Peste, Monseigneur,” said d’Artagnan, “now that’s modesty. As for me, I confess that, if I had one of Your Eminence’s grand outfits, I wouldn’t need any other.”

  “Perhaps, but to wear one of those out tonight might not be safe. Bernouin, my hat.”

  The valet returned, carrying a musketeer’s broad-brimmed hat. The cardinal put it on, cocked it like a cavalier, and turned to d’Artagnan. “You have horses saddled in the stables, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Monseigneur.”

  “Very well! Let’s go.”

  “With how many men, Monseigneur?”

  “You said that with four men you could chase off a hundred of these rabble; we might meet two hundred, so bring eight.”

  “As Monseigneur wishes.”

  “I’ll follow you. No, wait.” The cardinal paused. “We’ll go this way. Bernouin, a light.”

  The valet brought a candle; the cardinal took a small golden key from his desk and unlocked the door of a secret staircase. A few moments later they found themselves down in the side courtyard of the Palais Royal.

  II

  A Night Patrol

  Ten minutes later, the little troop went out through the Rue des Bons-Enfants, behind the theater built by Cardinal Richelieu for the play Mirame, and in which Cardinal Mazarin, a patron more of music than of literature, had sponsored the production of one of the first operas performed in France.

  The great city showed every evidence of turmoil: large crowds roamed the streets, and despite what d’Artagnan had said, stopped to watch the soldiers pass with a menacing air of mockery that showed the citizens had temporarily traded their usual deference for insulting belligerence. From time to time a commotion was heard from the markets of Les Halles. Gunfire rattled toward Rue Saint-Denis, and occasionally, for no apparent reason, church bells were rung.

  D’Artagnan steered his course with the nonchalance of a man unimpressed by such nonsense. When a crowd blocked the middle of the street he rode his horse straight for them without a word of warning and, whether rebels or not, they seemed to see what manner of man they were dealing with and parted to let the patrol pass. The cardinal envied his composure, which he attributed to familiarity with danger, and he regarded the officer with the esteem the cautious accord to cool courage.

  As they approached the detachment posted at the Barrière des Sergents, the sentry cried, “Who goes there?” D’Artagnan replied and, having asked the cardinal for the passwords, advanced at the order. The countersign was Louis and Rocroi.

  The passwords acknowledged, d’Artagnan asked if Monsieur de Comminges wasn’t commander of the post. The sentry indicated an officer on foot talking to another on a horse. D’Artagnan recognized him and returned to the cardinal, saying, “There is Monsieur de Comminges.”

  The cardinal urged his horse toward them while d’Artagnan held back discreetly. However, from the way the two officers removed their hats, he knew they’d recognized His Eminence.

  “Bravo, Guitaut,”* said the cardinal to the mounted officer, “I see that despite your sixty-four years you’re as alert and devoted as always. What were you telling this young man?”

  “Monseigneur,” replied Guitaut, “I was saying we live in unusual times, and that today looked a lot like things must have during the days of the Catholic League12 I heard so much about as a youth. Do you know there’s even talk of the mob throwing up barricades across Rue Saint-Denis and Rue Saint-Martin?”

  “And what did your nephew Comminges have to
say to that, mon cher Guitaut?”

  “Monseigneur,” Comminges replied, “I said that you can’t make a League without the essential element of a Duc de Guise.13 Besides, they won’t repeat what they did before.”

  “No, this time they’ll make a Fronde,14 as they call it,” said Guitaut.

  “What’s that you said? A Fronde?” asked Mazarin.

  “Monseigneur, that’s the name they’ve given their party.”

  “Where does it come from?”

  “Apparently several days ago Councilor Bachaumont said at the Palais that all these rowdies in the alleys were like schoolboys slinging stones—fronding—ruffians who scatter when they see a constable, only to gather again once he’s passed. The rebels picked up on the word frond, quick as a Brussels beggar, and started calling themselves frondeurs. Since yesterday, everything is the Fronde: Fronde hats, Fronde gloves, Fronde fans, even Fronde bread, and . . . well, just listen to that.”

  A window had opened, and a man stuck out his head and began to sing:

  The Fronde wind blows

  So, let her in

  I think it goes

  Against Mazarin

  If the Fronde wind blows

  We’ll let her in!

  “Insolent wretch!” Guitaut growled.

  “Monseigneur,” said Comminges, whose injury had put him in a bloodthirsty mood, “shall I have that fellow shot to teach him a lesson about what to sing?” And he reached toward the holster on his uncle’s horse.

  “By no means!” cried Mazarin. “Diavolo! You’ll spoil everything, my friend, and just when things are going so well! I know your Frenchmen as well as if I’d made them myself. If they sing the song, they’ll pay the piper. During the days of the League that Guitaut was speaking of, they only sang the mass, and things ended badly for them. Come, Guitaut, let’s see if they keep guard at the Quinze-Vingts as well as they do at the Barrière des Sergents.”