Twenty Years After

by Alexander Dumas

  And, with a salute to Comminges, he rejoined d’Artagnan, who assumed the lead of the little troop, followed immediately by Guitaut and the cardinal, with the rest as rear guard.

  “That figures,” Comminges muttered, watching them ride away. “I forgot that he’s satisfied so long as everyone pays.”

  Along Rue Saint-Honoré the people were gathered in small groups discussing the new edicts. They pitied the young king, used as a tool to plunder the people unknowingly, and blamed Mazarin for everything. They talked of appealing to the Duc d’Orléans and Monsieur le Prince, and applauded Blancmesnil and Broussel.

  D’Artagnan passed through these groups as inflexibly as if he and his horse were iron. Mazarin and Guitaut talked softly together, while the musketeers, who had finally recognized the cardinal, rode in silence.

  They reached Rue Saint-Thomas-du-Louvre and the post at the Quinze-Vingts. Guitaut beckoned to a junior officer, who advanced to report.

  “Well?” Guitaut asked.

  “Ah! All is well on this side, mon Capitaine, but I think something is going on over there.” And he pointed toward a beautiful hôtel, or mansion, on the spot where the Vaudeville Theater now stands.

  “That’s not just any mansion,” said Guitaut. “That’s the Hôtel de Rambouillet.”15

  “I don’t know about any Rambouillet,” said the officer. “All I know is I saw some pretty shady characters go in there.”

  “Bah!” said Guitaut, laughing. “Those are just poets.”

  “Bah yourself, Guitaut,” said Mazarin. “I’ll thank you not to speak of those gentlemen with such irreverence! Didn’t you know I was a poet myself in my youth? I wrote verses in the style of Monsieur de Benserade.”

  “You, Monseigneur?”

  “Yes, me. Shall I recite some of it?”

  “Not on my account, Monseigneur! I don’t know Italian.”

  “Yes, but you know French, don’t you, my brave Guitaut?” replied Mazarin, laying his hand in a friendly way on the officer’s shoulder. “And whatever order you’re given in that language, you’ll follow?”

  “Of course, Monseigneur, as I always have—provided it comes from the queen.”

  “Ah, yes!” said Mazarin, biting his lips. “You’re absolutely devoted to her.”

  “Well, I have been captain of her guards for more than twenty years.”

  “Onward, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” the cardinal said. “All is well here.”

  D’Artagnan resumed the lead of the column without saying a word, displaying the unquestioning obedience that is the hallmark of an old soldier.

  Passing through Rue de Richelieu and Rue Villedo, they arrived at Butte Saint-Roch, the third post. It was the most isolated, for it was just inside the walls, and the city was sparsely populated in this neighborhood. “Who is in command here?” asked the cardinal.

  “Villequier,” replied Guitaut.

  “The devil!” said Mazarin. “You speak with him—you know I’m at odds with him since I charged you with the arrest of the Duc de Beaufort. He complained that he, as captain of the Royal Guard, should have had that honor.”

  “I know it, and I’ve told him a hundred times he was wrong. The king couldn’t have given him that order, as he was barely four years old at the time.”

  “Yes, Guitaut, but I could have ordered him on the king’s behalf, and I chose you instead.”

  Guitaut didn’t reply, just urged his horse forward, and after being recognized by the sentry, called for Monsieur de Villequier.

  He came out. “Ah! It’s you, Guitaut. What the devil are you doing here?” he said, in his usual ill-humored tone.

  “Just checking the situation in this direction.”

  “Why bother? There were shouts earlier of ‘Long live the king!’ and ‘Down with Mazarin!’—but there’s nothing new in that. We’re used to it by now.”

  “And do you join in?” Guitaut replied, laughing.

  “My faith, sometimes I’d like to! I think they’re right, Guitaut. I’d give five years of my pay, which they don’t pay me, if it would only make the king five years older.”

  “Really? And what would happen if the king were five years older?”

  “He’d be at the age of majority and could give his orders himself. I’d much rather obey the grandson of King Henri IV than the son of Pietro Mazarini. Death of the devil! I’d kill for the king. But if I got killed on account of Mazarin, like your nephew nearly was today, there’s nothing in heaven worthwhile enough to console me for it.”

  “All right, all right, Monsieur de Villequier,” said Mazarin, coming up. “Rest assured, I’ll report your devotion to the king.” Then, turning to the escort: “Let’s go, Messieurs—all is well here.”

  “So, Mazarin was there all along!” said Villequier. “So much the better, Guitaut—I’ve wanted to tell him that for a long time. You gave me the opportunity, and though I don’t imagine you did it as a favor, I thank you.” And turning on his heel, he returned to the guardhouse, whistling that tune of the Frondeurs.

  Mazarin was thoughtful on their return. What he’d heard in succession from Comminges, Guitaut, and Villequier just confirmed his suspicion that, if it came to a crisis, he’d have nobody on his side but the queen. And yet the queen had so often abandoned her friends, it seemed to the minister that, despite his precautions, her support couldn’t be counted upon.

  During the whole of their nocturnal ride, that is, for an hour or so, the cardinal, while studying in turn Comminges, Guitaut, and Villequier, was keeping his eye on another man. This man, self-assured despite the angry populace, responding neither to Mazarin’s wry remarks nor to the catcalls of the crowd—this man seemed to him above and beyond, a person well adapted to the events taking place, and even more suited for events yet to come.

  The name of d’Artagnan wasn’t completely unknown to Mazarin, although he hadn’t come to France until around 1635—that is, seven or eight years after the events we related in The Three Musketeers. It seemed to the cardinal that he associated that name with a person said to be a model of courage, skill, and dedication.

  He was so taken by this idea that he immediately wanted to learn all he could about d’Artagnan—but he couldn’t exactly ask d’Artagnan about himself. From the few words he’d heard the lieutenant of musketeers say, he’d recognized the accent of Gascony, and the Italians and Gascons are too much alike, and know each other too well, to ever trust what any of them would say of themselves.

  As they arrived at the walls that enclosed the Palais Royal gardens, the cardinal knocked at a small door right about where the Café de Foy stands now, and after thanking d’Artagnan and asking him to wait in the courtyard, he gestured to Guitaut to follow him. Both dismounted, handed the bridles of their horses to the lackey who’d opened the little door, and disappeared into the garden.

  “My dear Guitaut,” said the cardinal, leaning on the arm of the old captain of the guards, “you told me just now that you’ve been in the queen’s service for twenty years?”

  “Yes, that’s the truth,” Guitaut replied.

  “Now, mon cher Guitaut,” the cardinal continued, “I know that in addition to your courage, which is proven, and your loyalty, which is beyond question, that you have an excellent memory.”

  “You’ve noticed that, Monseigneur?” said the guard captain. “The devil! Too bad for me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Beyond all doubt, the most important quality of a courtier is to know how to forget.”

  “But you’re no courtier, Guitaut, you’re a brave soldier, a veteran captain from the time of King Henri IV, one of the few who are still among us.”

  “Peste, Monseigneur! Did you ask me to come with you so you could cast my horoscope?”

  “No,” said Mazarin, laughing, “I brought you here to ask whether you noticed our lieutenant of musketeers.”

  “Monsieur d’Artagnan?”

  “Yes.”

  “No need for me to notice hi
m, Monseigneur—I’ve known him for a long time.”

  “What kind of man is he, then?”

  “What kind?” said Guitaut, surprised. “Why, he’s a Gascon!”

  “Yes, I know that; what I want to know is if he’s a man one could trust.”

  “Monsieur de Tréville holds him in high esteem—and Tréville, as you know, is a good friend of the queen.”

  “I need to know if this is a man who’s proven his worth.”

  “If you’re asking if he’s a brave soldier, then yes. At the Siege of La Rochelle, at Susa Pass, at Perpignan,16 it’s said he did more than his duty.”

  “But you know, Guitaut, we poor ministers often need men who are more than just brave. We need people who are quick and capable. Wasn’t this d’Artagnan, according to rumor, involved in some intrigue in Cardinal Richelieu’s time that he managed to conclude quite cleverly?”

  “As to that affair, Monseigneur,” said Guitaut, who saw what the cardinal was getting at, “I have to tell Your Eminence that I don’t know any more than what everyone knows. I never meddle in intrigues, and if I’m sometimes told things in confidence, since those secrets aren’t mine to share, I’m sure Monseigneur won’t mind if I keep them to myself.”

  “Upon my word,” Mazarin said, shaking his head, “I’ve heard some ministers are actually lucky enough to get told what they need to know.”

  “Monseigneur,” Guitaut replied, “those ministers don’t weigh all men in the same balance. They ask men of war what they need to know about war, and intriguers about intrigue. Ask your questions of some intriguer of that period, and you’ll find out what you want to know—for the right price, of course.”

  “Pay, by God!” said Mazarin, with the grimace he always made at the subject of payment. “Then we’ll pay . . . if we must.”

  “Does Monseigneur seriously wish to know the name of a man who was involved in all the conspiracies of that time?”

  “Per Bacco!” Mazarin swore, as he was growing impatient. “It takes an hour to get something through that iron head of yours.”

  “There’s one man who can tell you everything you want to know—if he’ll talk.”

  “That’s my problem.”

  “Ah, Monseigneur! It’s not always easy to get someone to tell you what they don’t wish to say.”

  “Bah! With patience, I find, one gets results. And this man is . . . ?”

  “The Comte de Rochefort.”*

  “The Comte de Rochefort!”

  “Unfortunately, he disappeared four or five years ago, and I don’t know what became of him.”

  “Ah, but I do, Guitaut,” said Mazarin.

  “Then why is Your Eminence complaining that he doesn’t know anything?”

  “So,” Mazarin said, “you think that Rochefort . . .”

  “He was Richelieu’s demon twin, Monseigneur—but I warn you, this will cost you dearly. The old cardinal paid his creatures well.”

  “Yes, Guitaut,” said Mazarin, “Richelieu was a great man, but he did have that tragic flaw. Thank you, Guitaut—I’ll try to take advantage of your advice this very evening.”

  As they had arrived at the courtyard of the Palais Royal, the cardinal dismissed Guitaut with a salute; then, seeing an officer walking up and down the yard, he approached him.

  It was d’Artagnan, who was awaiting the return of the cardinal, as ordered. “Come, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Mazarin in his friendliest tone. “I have an order to give you.”

  D’Artagnan bowed, followed the cardinal up the secret staircase, and a moment later found himself in the office from which they’d departed. The cardinal sat down at his desk and wrote a few lines on a sheet of paper.

  D’Artagnan stood, impassive, waiting with neither impatience nor curiosity. He seemed like a military automaton, a clockwork soldier.

  The cardinal folded the letter and sealed it with his ring. “Monsieur d’Artagnan,” he said, “you will carry this dispatch to the Bastille17 and return with the person who’s named in it. Take a carriage and escort, and guard the prisoner carefully.”

  D’Artagnan took the letter, touched his hand to his hat, turned on his heel like a drill sergeant, and a moment later could be heard ordering in his curt monotone: “An escort of four men, a carriage, and my horse.”

  Five minutes later came the sound of carriage wheels and the ringing of horseshoes on the pavement of the courtyard.

  III

  Two Old Enemies

  D’Artagnan arrived at the Bastille just as the clocks were striking half past eight. He was announced to the governor who, when he heard the visitor came with an order from the cardinal, came out to meet him on the steps.

  At that time the governor of the Bastille was Monsieur du Tremblay,* brother of the famous Capuchin monk known as Father Joseph,18 that terrible servant of Richelieu who had been called His Gray Eminence.

  When Marshal Bassompierre19 was in the Bastille, where he stayed for twelve years all told, and heard his fellow prisoners say, when dreaming of liberty, “I’ll be released at such-and-such a time,” or “I’ll soon be free of this place,” Bassompierre would say, “As for me, Messieurs, I’ll leave when Monsieur du Tremblay leaves”—by which he meant that when the old cardinal died, du Tremblay would lose his post as governor, and Bassompierre would be freed to resume his place at Court.

  But his prediction failed to come true, because to Bassompierre’s surprise, when the cardinal died things just went on as before: Monsieur du Tremblay didn’t leave, and neither did Bassompierre.

  Du Tremblay was therefore still governor of the Bastille when d’Artagnan presented himself with the minister’s order. He was received with great courtesy, and as the governor was about to dine, he invited d’Artagnan to join him.

  “I would accept with pleasure,” said d’Artagnan, “but unless I’m mistaken, the envelope of this letter is marked Urgent.”

  “Quite so,” said Monsieur du Tremblay. “Ho there, Major! Send down Number 256.”

  Upon entering the Bastille, one ceased to be a man and became nothing more than a number.

  D’Artagnan shuddered at the sound of the keys. Still in the saddle, he looked around at the ironbound doors and barred windows; he had no desire to dismount inside these thick walls that he’d always seen from the other side of the moat, and which he’d learned to fear twenty years before.

  A bell rang. “I must go,” said Monsieur du Tremblay. “They’re calling for me to sign the release of the prisoner. I hope to see you again, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

  “Devil take me if I share that hope,” d’Artagnan murmured from behind a gracious smile. “Only five minutes in here, and I’m sick of it already. Let’s go—I’d rather die penniless in a shack than be a rich governor of the Bastille, even if it paid ten thousand a year.”

  He’d scarcely finished this monologue when the prisoner appeared. Seeing him, d’Artagnan started with surprise, a movement he quickly suppressed. The prisoner entered the carriage without appearing to recognize d’Artagnan.

  “Messieurs,” d’Artagnan said to his four musketeers, “I was ordered to keep an eye on the prisoner, and since the carriage doors have no locks, I’m going to ride with him. Monsieur de Lillebonne, be so kind as to lead my horse by the bridle.”

  “Of course, Lieutenant.”

  D’Artagnan dismounted, handed his horse’s bridle to the musketeer, and entered the carriage. He sat next to the prisoner, then ordered, in a voice that showed no emotion, “To the Palais Royal, at the trot.”

  The carriage moved, and as it passed under the gatehouse, d’Artagnan took advantage of the shadow it cast to grip the prisoner in an embrace. “Rochefort!” he cried. “It’s really you!”

  “D’Artagnan!” cried Rochefort, astonished.

  “Ah, my poor friend!” d’Artagnan said. “I haven’t seen you for four or five years, and feared you were dead.”

  “Ma foi,” said Rochefort, “there’s not much difference between being dead an
d being buried—and they buried me deep.”

  “And for what crime were you in the Bastille?”

  “Do you want to know the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then—I have no idea.”

  “Are you serious, Rochefort?”

  “I’m serious, faith of a gentleman! At any rate, it can’t be for the crime they accused me of.”

  “What was that?”

  “Petty theft.”

  “You, a petty thief? Are you kidding me?”

  “I wish I was. You want the whole story?”

  “I’ll say I do.”

  “Well, here’s what happened. One evening, after roistering at Reinard’s in the Tuileries with the Duc d’Harcourt, Fontrailles, de Rieux, and some others, d’Harcourt proposed we go cloak-snatching on the Pont Neuf.20 As you know, that sort of prank had been made quite fashionable by the Duc d’Orléans.”

  “What, at your age? Were you crazy, Rochefort?”

  “No, just drunk. But it didn’t sound like fun, so I told the Chevalier de Rieux we should just watch rather than take part—and to get the best view, we should climb onto King Henri’s bronze horse.21 No sooner said than done! We used the royal spurs as stirrups and sat on the king’s crupper. Perched there, we could see everything. Already four or five cloaks had been snatched with great flair, from victims who hadn’t dared say a word in protest, until one fool, less patient than the others, called out, “Guards! Guards!” which got the attention of a patrol of archers. D’Harcourt, Fontrailles, and the others ran for it, and de Rieux wanted to do the same, but I remember telling him they’d never see us where we were.

  “But he wouldn’t listen to me. He put his foot on the spur to climb down, the spur broke off, he fell, broke his leg, and instead of keeping quiet about it, began to howl like a hanged man. I tried to jump down in my turn, but too late: I jumped right into the arms of the archers. They took me to the Châtelet, where I slept soundly enough, as I was sure I’d be out the next day. But the next day passed, then another, and then a whole week, so I wrote to the cardinal. That same day they came for me and took me to the Bastille, where I spent the next five years. Do you think that was for committing the sacrilege of riding pillion behind Henri IV?”