“And Monsieur d’Artagnan was victorious?” asked the young man, whose shining eyes begged for more details.
“I might have killed one,” said d’Artagnan, to Athos’s inquiring look. “As to the other, I either disarmed or wounded him, I can’t remember which.”
“You wounded him. Oh, you were a tough customer.”
“Eh, I haven’t lost it,” said d’Artagnan, with his smug Gascon laugh. “The other day, in fact . . .”
But a look from Athos silenced him.
“You know, Raoul,” said Athos, “you may think yourself a fine swordsman, but such vanity can lead to a cruel disappointment. I want you to understand how dangerous a man is when he unites coolness and agility, and I can never offer you a more striking example than this. Tomorrow, if you ask Monsieur d’Artagnan very politely for a fencing lesson, and if he’s not too tired, he might oblige you.”
“Peste, Athos, you’re a fine teacher yourself, especially regarding the qualities you attribute to me. Just today, Planchet mentioned that famous duel in the stable yard of the Luxembourg, versus Lord de Winter and his companions. Ah, young man,” continued d’Artagnan, “somewhere around here must be the sword that I often called the finest blade in the realm.”
“Bah! I’ve lost my touch while raising this child,” said Athos.
“There are hands that never lose their touch,” said d’Artagnan, “and just convey that touch to others.”
The young man would have liked to draw out this conversation all evening long, but Athos told him their guest had traveled far and needed rest. D’Artagnan protested, but Athos insisted that Raoul show him to his room. Athos followed, to make sure the stories of their younger days didn’t continue, and brought the pleasant evening to a close with a friendly hand shake and a wish that the musketeer should have a good night.
XVII
The Diplomacy of Athos
D’Artagnan went to bed, not so much to sleep as to be alone, and think about what he’d seen and heard that evening.
As he was good-natured and had had from first acquaintance with Athos an immediate liking that had ripened into sincere friendship, he was delighted to find him a strong man of acute intelligence rather than the drunken brute he’d expected to see, sleeping off some binge on a dunghill. He accepted without resentment Athos’s superior qualities where they exceeded his own, instead of feeling the jealousy and pique that would have tainted a less generous nature, and in short felt a sincere and loyal joy that gave him hope for the outcome of his plans and proposals.
However, it seemed to him that Athos had been less than frank and forthcoming with him on several points. Who was this young man who so resembled him, whom he claimed to have adopted? What was behind his return to the life of the world, and the exaggerated sobriety d’Artagnan had noticed at supper? And though it might seem insignificant, the absence of his servant Grimaud, whom Athos previously couldn’t do without, had been left unexplained despite several opportunities, a lapse that worried d’Artagnan. It seemed he didn’t have his friend’s full confidence, or that Athos was bound by some secret obligation, and might even have been warned in advance about his visit.
He couldn’t help thinking of Rochefort, and what he’d told him at Notre Dame. Could Rochefort have warned Athos that d’Artagnan was coming?
D’Artagnan had no time to waste on puzzling this all out. He resolved to find the answers to these questions on the following day.
However, he also thought that it’s best to ride cautiously over unknown terrain, and he probably should take several days in scouting out this new Athos to account for his changed ways and habits. If he could gain the confidence of the naïve young Raoul, perhaps by fencing or going hunting with him, he might be able to find out what he needed to know to connect the new Athos with the Athos of times past. It ought to be easy, if the trusting frankness of his teacher was reflected in the heart and mind of the student. But d’Artagnan was wary of overplaying his hand with the young man by making an awkward interrogation, as he knew that one false move would be enough to uncover his maneuvers to the eyes of Athos.
Further, it must be said that d’Artagnan, though ready to employ finesse against sly Aramis, or take advantage of Porthos’s vanity, was unwilling to try deceit on the noble and forthright Athos. It seemed to him that, while he might be able to outfox Aramis and Porthos in matters of diplomacy, he had no such chance with Athos.
“Ah, why isn’t silent old Grimaud here?” d’Artagnan mused. “His silence would have told me a lot, for never was anyone so eloquent in his silence as Grimaud!”
Meanwhile, the daytime activity of the estate gradually wound down: he heard doors and shutters being closed, movement ceased, and the sound of dogs barking to each other across the fields slowed and then stopped. Finally, around midnight a nightingale that had been singing in a nearby grove trailed off and fell asleep. The only noise remaining in the château was a monotonous pacing from the room below his own, which he supposed must be the bedchamber of Athos.
“He’s walking and thinking,” d’Artagnan thought, “but about what? It’s impossible to know. All one can guess is that it must be important to him.”
Eventually even this sound ceased, and he assumed Athos had gone to bed. In the silence, fatigue crept up on d’Artagnan; he closed his eyes in his turn, and almost immediately fell asleep.
D’Artagnan never needed much sleep. Dawn had scarcely gilded his curtains before he jumped out of bed and opened the windows. Through them he thought he saw someone prowling furtively and quietly across the stable yard. D’Artagnan had a habit of paying attention to everything that might be useful, so he silently watched the prowler until he recognized the garnet coat and dark hair of Raoul.
The young man, for it was indeed Raoul, opened the stable door and brought out the bay horse he’d ridden the day before, and saddled and bridled it with as much speed and skill as an expert groom. Then he led the beast down the path to the garden, opened a small side gate that let out onto a trail, drew the horse outside, closed the gate behind, and mounted and rode off. Over the top of the wall d’Artagnan saw him fly by like an arrow, bending down under the overhanging branches of the maples and flowering acacias.
D’Artagnan had noted the day before that that was the road to Blois. “Ah ha!” said the Gascon. “Here’s a young gallant who doesn’t share Athos’s disdain for the fair sex. He’s not going hunting, as he took neither arms nor dogs; he’s not been sent with a message, because he’s sneaking away. Is it me he’s hiding from, or his father? . . . Because I’m sure the count must be his father. Parbleu! I’ll learn the answer, because I’ll bring it up with Athos himself.”
The sun rose, and all the sounds d’Artagnan had heard grow silent the night before began successively to return, one after another: the birds in the branches, the dogs in the barn, the sheep in the field, even the boats on the Loire seemed to come alive, rocking at their moorings or bearing away with the current. To avoid disturbing anyone, d’Artagnan remained quietly at his window until he heard all the château’s doors and shutters being thrown open. Then he combed back his hair, gave his mustache a final twist, brushed the edge of his hat against the sleeve of his coat, and went downstairs. He was on the last step of the bottom flight when he saw Athos outside in the garden, bent over the ground like a man looking for a lost coin.
“Bonjour,” said d’Artagnan.
“Bonjour, friend. Did you have a good night?”
“Very good, just like the supper that sent me there, and your reception before that. But what are you looking at with such care? Have you become a tulip fancier?”
“Don’t mock, my friend. Living in the country, our tastes change, and we come to love all the beautiful things that God’s gaze draws forth from the earth, and which we disdain in the cities. I was just looking at these irises planted by the pond, which are bent and broken. I have the clumsiest gardeners in the world—they bring the horses out to water them, and walk them acro
ss the flowerbed.”
D’Artagnan smiled. “Really? Is that what you think?” And he led his friend along the path, where other plants were similarly crushed. “Looks like there are more this way, Athos.”
“But yes! Also freshly broken?”
“Just as fresh.” said d’Artagnan.
“Who went this way this morning?” Athos wondered anxiously. “Has a horse escaped the stable?”
“Unlikely,” said d’Artagnan, “since the hoof-prints are equal and regular.”
“Where’s Raoul?” cried Athos. “Why haven’t I seen him?”
“Easy, now!” said d’Artagnan, putting a finger to his smiling lips.
“What’s he done?” asked Athos.
D’Artagnan related what he’d seen, while carefully watching his host’s expression.
“Ah! I guess it all now,” said Athos, with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “The poor boy has gone to Blois.”
“To do what?”
“Eh, mon Dieu! To ask after the little girl, La Vallière. You recall, the child who sprained her ankle yesterday.”
“You think so?” said d’Artagnan, incredulous.
“I not only think so, I’m sure of it,” said Athos. “Haven’t you noticed that Raoul is in love?”
“With whom? That seven-year-old child?”
“Friend, at Raoul’s age, the heart is so full, it must overflow upon something, whether dream or reality. Well, his love for her is half of one and half the other.”
“You’re kidding me. That little girl?”
“Didn’t you see her? She’s the prettiest little thing in all the world: silver-blond hair, blue eyes adoring and mischievous at the same time.”
“But what do you think of this feeling?”
“I don’t oppose it, though I smile and gently make fun of Raoul. But a young heart’s needs are so urgent, their feelings of yearning and melancholy so sweet and so sad, it often seems very much like true love. I remember when I was Raoul’s age I fell in love with a Greek statue that good King Henri IV had given my father, and thought I’d go mad with grief when I was told that the story of Pygmalion was only a fable.”
“A folly of idleness. You don’t keep Raoul busy enough, so he fills the time in his own way.”
“True enough. I’ve thought of moving away.”
“Good idea.”
“No doubt—but it would break his heart, and he’d suffer as much as if it were true love. For three or four years, since he himself was a child, he’s admired and then adored this little doll, and if we stay here, it will ripen into true love. These youngsters share their dreams all day long and make plans as if they were lovers who were twenty years old. For a while, this made La Vallière’s parents smile, but now I think they’re beginning to frown.”
“Childishness! Raoul just needs something to distract him. Get him away from here soon, or, morbleu, you’ll never make a man of him!”
“I think,” said Athos, “I’ll send him to Paris.”
“Ah!” said d’Artagnan. He thought this was his cue to begin his attack. “If you want,” he said, “I think we could make a career for this young man.”
“Ah!” said Athos in his turn.
“I want to consult you on a certain matter I’ve been thinking about.”
“Say on.”
“Do you think it might be time to rejoin the service?”
“But haven’t you been in the service all along, d’Artagnan?”
“No, but listen: I mean active service. Aren’t you tempted sometimes to return to our old life? I believe there are serious rewards to be gained, and you could relive the exploits of our youth along with me and Porthos.”
“So, you’re making me an actual proposition!” said Athos.
“Honest and true.”
“To take the field again?”
“Yes.”
“Who for and who against?” asked Athos, fixing his clear and benevolent gaze on the Gascon.
“The devil! You come right to the point.”
“And I hit what I aim at. Listen carefully, d’Artagnan. There is only one person, or rather one cause, that a man like me can serve: that of the king.”
“But of course,” said the musketeer.
“Yes—but hear this,” Athos said seriously. “If by the king’s cause you mean that of Monsieur de Mazarin, we cease to understand each other.”
“I didn’t exactly say that,” replied the Gascon, embarrassed.
“Come, d’Artagnan,” said Athos, “no games. These little evasions tell me everything. Nobody likes to admit it when they’re recruiting for Mazarin—they act sad and uncomfortable and won’t look one in the eye.”
“Oh, Athos!” said d’Artagnan.
“Oh, you know I don’t mean you, who are a gem of courage and honesty,” said Athos. “I’m talking about the cronies of this petty Italian intriguer who tries to wear a crown he stole off a pillow, this knave who calls his party the king’s party, while daring to imprison royal princes—though he doesn’t dare to execute them, as did our cardinal, the great cardinal. This skinflint, who weighs his golden crowns and pays only with the clipped coins, keeping the whole ones for himself. This buffoon, whom we hear mistreats the queen, and prepares for civil war just to protect his stolen sources of income. Is this the master you propose I should serve? No, thank you!”
“You’re more fiery than you used to be, by God!” said d’Artagnan. “The years have warmed your blood instead of cooling it. So, you think this is the master I want you to serve?” And he thought: Devil take me if I’ll spill our secrets to someone so set against us.
“If not that, friend,” said Athos, “then what do you propose?”
“Mon Dieu! A simple alliance! You while away the time on your estate and seem happy in your golden daydream. Porthos has maybe fifty or sixty thousand livres of income, while Aramis has fifteen duchesses who vie for the attention of the prelate, as they once did for the musketeer, and lives like a spoiled child. But me—what am I in this world? I’ve worn my breastplate and buff coat for twenty years, clinging to my paltry rank, without advance, retreat, or risk. In short, I’m dead. Well! When I think the time has come to resurrect myself, you all tell me, ‘Don’t serve that man! He’s a knave! A buffoon! A petty tyrant! An Italian!’ And I agree with you, but so what? Find me a better master or show me where I can make a real living.”
Athos reflected for a few seconds and understood d’Artagnan’s position—he’d pressed too far too fast, and now tried to draw back to hide his hand. But he saw clearly that the musketeer’s initial proposals were in earnest and would have been developed further if he’d lent them a sympathetic ear. “Very well, then,” he said to himself, “d’Artagnan is for Mazarin.”
From that moment, he conducted himself with extreme caution.
On his side, d’Artagnan played a closer game as well.
“But it seems to me you have a definite plan,” Athos continued.
“Certainly. I wanted to take counsel of all three of you in order to find a common approach, since if we act on our own we’ll always be incomplete.”
“True enough. You spoke of Porthos—has he decided to seek for his fortune? It seems to me he has fortune enough.”
“No doubt about it, but man is so constituted that whatever he has, he wants something more.”
“And what does Porthos want?”
“To be a baron.”
“Oh, right, I’d forgotten,” said Athos, laughing.
You’d forgotten? thought d’Artagnan. And when had you learned it? Are you in contact with Aramis? Ah, if I knew that, it would explain everything.
The conversation ended there, for just then Raoul came in. Athos had intended to scold him, but the young man looked so stricken he didn’t have the heart, and just asked him what had happened.
“Has your little neighbor grown worse?” d’Artagnan said.
“Ah, Monsieur!” said Raoul, almost choking with grief. “The fall
was serious, and though there may be no deformity, the doctor fears she’ll limp for the rest of her life.”
“Oh! How terrible!” said Athos.
D’Artagnan had had a joke on the tip of his tongue, but seeing how hard Athos took this news, he swallowed it.
“Ah, Monsieur, I’m so wretched!” replied Raoul. “This terrible event is all my fault.”
“Yours, Raoul? How?” asked Athos.
“But yes! Wasn’t she coming to me when she jumped off the top of that woodpile?”
“There’s only one recourse, Raoul: you’ll have to marry her in expiation,” said d’Artagnan.
“Oh, Monsieur, you’re joking about genuine pain,” said Raoul. “It isn’t right.” And Raoul, who wanted to be alone with his tears, returned to his room, where he remained until dinnertime.
The mutual admiration of the two friends wasn’t injured in the least by the morning’s skirmish, and they dined with good appetite, glancing from time to time at poor Raoul who, with moist eyes and a heavy heart, ate hardly anything.
As they were finishing their meal, two letters arrived, which Athos read with close attention, starting several times despite himself. D’Artagnan, who watched him reading these letters from across the table, and whose eyesight was keen, swore to himself that he recognized on one the compact handwriting of Aramis, and on the other the long, looping hand of a woman.
“Come,” said d’Artagnan to Raoul, seeing that Athos wished to be alone to think about these letters or respond to them, “let’s go spar a bit in the armory. It will distract you.”
The young man looked at Athos, who replied with a nod of assent.
They went to the salle on the ground floor, where they found foils, masks, gloves, plastrons, and all the other accessories of fencing.
Fifteen minutes later Athos came in. “Well?” he said.
“He has your moves down already, Athos,” said d’Artagnan. “If he only had your cool, I’d have nothing but praise for him . . .”
As for the young man, he was a trifle ashamed. He’d managed to touch d’Artagnan no more than a couple of times, on the arm and thigh, while the musketeer had buttoned him twenty times full on the body.
Twenty Years After Page 16
