Twenty Years After

by Alexander Dumas

  “That will do for the moment,” replied La Ramée. “New circumstances, if any, will bring new orders.”

  “Good,” replied Grimaud. And he went in to join the Duc de Beaufort.

  The duke was trying to comb out his hair and beard that he’d been growing out wild and untamed, to dismay Mazarin with reports of his general deterioration—but a few days earlier he thought he’d recognized, from the walls of the keep, the carriage of the lovely Madame de Montbazon, whose memory was so dear to him, and the thought of her carried more weight than thoughts of Mazarin. In hopes of seeing her again he’d decided to groom himself and had asked for a leaden comb, which had been granted him. Beaufort had asked for a leaden comb because, like all blonds, his beard was a bit red, and he darkened it by passing a lead comb through it.

  Grimaud came in, saw the comb the prince had just set down on a table, bowed politely, and took it.

  The duke looked at this strange intruder with astonishment as the newcomer put the comb into his pocket. “What the hell?” cried the duke. “What are you doing, you clown?”

  For an answer, Grimaud just bowed a second time.

  “Are you a mute?” the duke shouted. Grimaud shook his head. “What are you, then? Answer, I command you!”

  “Guard,” replied Grimaud.

  “A guard!” cried the duke. “Great. The only thing my situation lacked was this sinister lout. Holà! La Ramée! Anyone!”

  At this call, La Ramée came running—but unfortunately for the prince, La Ramée, counting on Grimaud to take his place, had been already halfway across the courtyard, and had to climb, wheezing, back up to the cell. “What is it, my Prince?” he asked.

  “Who is this bandit who comes in, takes my comb, and puts it in his pocket?” Beaufort demanded.

  “This is one of your guards, Monseigneur. He has many fine qualities that I’m sure you’ll come to appreciate as much as Monsieur de Chavigny and I do.”

  “But why did he take my comb?”

  “In fact,” said La Ramée, “why did you take Monseigneur’s comb?”

  Grimaud took the comb from his pocket, pressed its teeth into his finger, showed the marks it made, and said a single word: “Sharp.”

  “That’s . . . true,” said La Ramée.

  “What does this animal say?” demanded the duke.

  “By royal order, Monseigneur may have no sharp implements.”

  “Ah çà?” said the duke. “Are you crazy, La Ramée? But you gave me this comb yourself.”

  “And I was wrong to do so, Monseigneur, because it was in contravention of my orders.”

  The duke glared furiously at Grimaud, who gave the comb to La Ramée. “I think I’m going to hate this clown,” the prince murmured.

  Indeed, there are no neutral feelings in prison: everything, people or practices, are loved or hated, sometimes with reason, but more often by instinct. Now, for the simple reason that Grimaud at first blush had pleased Chavigny and La Ramée, his virtues in the eyes of the governor and the officer had become vices to Beaufort, and hated by him.

  On his side, Grimaud didn’t want to drive the prisoner into a fury on the very first day—for his purposes he needed, not an outburst of temper, but a good, reliable, ongoing hatred. So, he withdrew when the four guards came in with the prince’s dinner.

  Meanwhile, the prince was eagerly contriving a new joke: he’d asked for crawfish for lunch the following day and had spent this day building a cute little gallows in the middle of his room upon which to hang them. The red color of the boiled crawfish would leave no doubt about the target of this allusion; he would thus have the pleasure of hanging the cardinal in effigy, while imagining he was hanging him in reality—and nobody could reasonably complain about the hanging of a crawfish.

  The day was spent in happy preparation for the execution. One returns to childhood when imprisoned, and Beaufort had become more juvenile than ever. On his usual walk, he collected two or three small branches destined to play a role in his comedy, and after much searching, found a piece of broken glass, a discovery that pleased him no end. When he returned to his room, he began unraveling the threads of his handkerchief.

  None of these details escaped the sharp eyes of Officer Grimaud.

  The next morning the little gallows was complete, and set up in the middle of the room, where Monsieur de Beaufort finished trimming its wooden legs with his shard of glass. La Ramée watched with the curiosity of a father who’s always on the lookout for a new toy for his children, while the four guards slumped idly nearby with the bored air that, then as now, is the principal hallmark of the professional soldier.

  Grimaud came in just as the prince put down his shard of glass, interrupting his work of miniature carpentry to tie his handkerchief-threads into a noose. He gave Grimaud a dirty look that showed he hadn’t forgiven him for the day before, but he was so preoccupied with his current project he paid him no further attention.

  But when he’d finished tying a sailor’s knot in one end of his string and a noose in the other, and examined the dish of crawfish in order to choose the most majestic, he turned back to pick up his piece of glass—and the shard of glass was gone.

  “Who took my piece of glass?” huffed the prince.

  Grimaud made a sign to show that he had.

  “What? You again! And why did you take it?”

  “Yes,” asked La Ramée, “why did you take His Highness’s piece of glass?”

  Grimaud, who was holding the fragment of glass, passed his fingertip across its edge, and said, “Sharp.”

  “He’s quite right, Monseigneur,” said La Ramée. “The devil! This lad is as sharp as that glass.”

  “Monsieur Grimaud,” said the prince, “I warn you, for your own good, keep well out of reach of my hands.”

  Grimaud bowed and withdrew to the far side of the room.

  “Tut tut, Monseigneur, I’ll do it,” said La Ramée. “I’ll finish trimming your little gallows with my knife.”

  “You?” said the duke, laughing.

  “Yes, me. Don’t you want it to be finished properly?”

  “I do!” said the duke. “Go to it, my dear La Ramée. In fact, it will be even funnier if you do it.”

  La Ramée, though not quite sure what the duke meant by that remark, went to work with his knife, trimming the gallows’s legs to a nicety. “There,” said the duke. “Now, scoop out a little hole in the sand of the floor under it, while I fetch the victim.”

  La Ramée knelt and dug a shallow depression.

  Meanwhile, the prince fitted the noose around his crawfish. Then, with a laugh, he set it swinging.

  La Ramée also laughed heartily, without quite knowing why, and the guards joined in with the chorus.

  Only Grimaud failed to laugh. He approached La Ramée, pointed to the crimson crawfish twisting on its thread, and said, “Cardinal!”

  “Hanged by His Highness the Duc de Beaufort,” declared the prince, laughing louder than ever, “with the aid and assistance of Master Jacques-Chrysostome La Ramée, Officer Royal!”

  La Ramée cried out in terror, rushed to the gallows, smashed it to bits, and threw the pieces out the window. In a frenzy, he was about to do the same to the crawfish, when Grimaud snatched it from him. “Good food,” he said, and put it in his pocket.

  This so delighted the duke that he almost forgave Grimaud for the part he’d played in the scene. But over the course of the day, as he reflected on his new guard’s behavior and the problems it had caused him, his hatred returned.

  The story of the cardinal-crawfish hanging spread rapidly, to La Ramée’s dismay—it was the talk of everyone within the dungeon, and even outside it. Chavigny, who in his heart hated the cardinal, shared the story with two or three of his closest friends, and they told it everywhere in town. Thus, Monsieur de Beaufort got two or three happy days out of the affair.

  Meanwhile, the duke had noticed that one of his guards had an amiable demeanor, compared to which the dour Grimau
d only displeased him all the more. One morning he took the man aside and was having a pleasant private conversation with him when Grimaud came in. He saw what was going on, and then, respectfully approaching the guard and the prince, he took the guard by the arm.

  “What do you want now?” the duke asked sharply.

  Grimaud walked the guard four paces away and showed him the door. “Let’s go,” he said.

  The guard obeyed. “Agh!” cried the duke. “You’re insufferable! You’ll pay for this.”

  Grimaud bowed politely.

  “I’ll crack your bones, Monsieur Spy!” cried the exasperated prince.

  Grimaud backed away, still bowing.

  “I’ll strangle you with my own hands!” continued the duke.

  Grimaud retreated further, bowing again.

  “And I’ll do it,” said the prince, “no later than now!”—thinking that if it was worth doing, it might as well be done quickly. So, he reached out for Grimaud, who merely pushed the guard outside and shut the door behind him.

  He turned back around just as the prince’s hands closed around his neck like two iron tongs. But instead of crying out or defending himself, he simply smiled, brought his index finger slowly to his lips, and said a single word: “Hush!”

  It was so strange to see Grimaud gesture, smile, and speak, that His Highness stopped short, astonished.

  Grimaud took advantage of the moment to reach into his vest and draw out a small envelope that wafted a charming perfume, which it retained despite its long residence in Grimaud’s pocket, and which he presented to the duke without a word.

  The duke, more and more astonished, let go of Grimaud, took the note, and seemed to recognize the handwriting. “From Madame de Montbazon?” he gasped.

  Grimaud nodded yes.

  The duke quickly tore open the envelope, gaping in amazement, and read the following:

  My dear Duke,

  You can rely entirely on the brave fellow who brings you this, as he’s the servant of a gentleman who’s on our side, as proven by twenty years of loyalty. This fellow agreed to enter the service of your warden and be locked up with you in Vincennes to help you get ready for your escape, which we’re preparing now.

  Your time of deliverance approaches! Have patience and fortitude, and remember that, no matter how much time has passed, your friends and allies still stand by you.

  Ever yours, your affectionate,

  MARIE DE MONTBAZON

  P.S.: I sign my full name, because it would be the height of vanity to think that, after five years, you’d still recognize my initials.

  The duke stood stunned for a moment. What he’d sought for in vain for five years—an aide and ally—had fallen suddenly from heaven when he least expected it. He looked at Grimaud in astonishment, and then returned to his letter and read it again.

  “Oh! My dear Marie,” he murmured, when he’d finished. “So that was her I saw passing in her carriage! And somehow, she still thinks of me after five years of separation! Morbleu! Who’d have thought to find in her the consistency of Astraea?”74 Then, turning to Grimaud: “And you, my good fellow—so you’ve agreed to help us?”

  Grimaud nodded.

  “And that’s why you’re here?”

  Grimaud nodded again.

  “And to think I wanted to strangle you!” the duke cried.

  Grimaud smiled reassuringly.

  “But wait,” said the duke. And he reached into his pocket. “No one shall say that such devotion to the grandson of Henri IV shall go unrewarded.”

  The Duc de Beaufort searched his pockets with the best of intentions—but one of the precautions taken at Vincennes was to leave the prisoners no money.

  Grimaud, however, seeing the duke’s disappointment, took from his own pocket a purse full of gold and presented it to him. “This is what you’re looking for,” he said.

  The duke opened the purse and went to pour its contents into Grimaud’s hands, but Grimaud shook his head. “Thank you, Monseigneur,” he said, drawing back, “but I’ve been paid.”

  The duke was surprised yet again. He held out his hand; Grimaud leaned forward and kissed it respectfully. The courtly manners of Athos had rubbed off on Grimaud.

  “And now,” asked the duke, “what do we do next?”

  “It’s eleven in the morning,” Grimaud replied. “Monseigneur will please arrange a game of tennis with La Ramée for two o’clock. During the game knock two or three balls over the parapet and off the walls.”

  “Well, what then?”

  “Then, Monseigneur will approach the wall and call down to a man working in the dry-moat to return them.”

  “Understood,” said the duke.

  Grimaud’s face showed relief and satisfaction; he spoke so infrequently that so much conversation was difficult for him. He began to take his leave.

  “Ah çà!” said the duke. “Is there nothing I can give you?”

  “Monseigneur can make me a promise.”

  “Whatever you ask.”

  “It’s that, when we escape, allow me to always lead the way—first of all because if Monseigneur is caught, the worst that can happen is a return to prison, whereas if I’m caught, the best that can happen is I’ll be hanged.”

  “That’s only fair,” said the duke. “I’ll do just as you say—faith of a gentleman.”

  “Now,” said Grimaud, “I have one more thing to ask of Monseigneur: that he shall continue to detest me as before.”

  “I’ll try,” said the duke.

  There was a knock on the door.

  The duke thrust the letter into his pocket and threw himself onto his bed. Everyone knew that was his retreat when lost in the depths of boredom. Grimaud went to open the door; it was La Ramée returning from having visited the cardinal, in the scene previously described.

  La Ramée looked around inquiringly, but seeing only the expected antipathy between the prisoner and his guardian, he smiled in satisfaction. Then, turning to Grimaud, he said, “Good, mon ami—well done. I just put in a good word for you where it counts, and I hope that soon you’ll be getting some good news.”

  Grimaud bowed in a grateful manner, and withdrew, as he usually did when his superior came in. “Well, Monseigneur!” La Ramée said with a jolly laugh. “Are you still sulking around that poor fellow?”

  “Ah, it’s you, La Ramée,” said the duke. “My faith, it’s about time you arrived. I’d thrown myself on the bed and turned my nose to the wall so as not to yield to the temptation to strangle that wretch Grimaud.”

  “I hardly think it was because he said something to offend Your Highness,” chuckled La Ramée, trying to make a joke out of his subordinate’s habitual silence.

  “Pardieu, I should think not! He’s like some mute Eastern monk. But I’m glad you’re back, La Ramée, for I’m eager to see you.”

  “Monseigneur is too good,” said La Ramée, flattered by the compliment.

  “You see,” continued the duke, “I’m feeling especially stiff and clumsy today, and thought you should have a chance to take advantage of it.”

  “Then perhaps a game of tennis?” said La Ramée, taking the hint.

  “If you would be so good.”

  “I am Monseigneur’s humble servant.”

  “My dear La Ramée,” said the duke, “you’re a most congenial fellow, and I’d almost stay here in Vincennes just for the pleasure of your company.”

  “Monseigneur,” said La Ramée, “I think that wish would be fulfilled, if it were up to the cardinal.”

  “What do you mean? Have you seen him recently?”

  “He sent for me this morning.”

  “Really! Did you talk about me?”

  “What do you think I would talk to him about? You know, Monseigneur, you’re his worst nightmare.”

  The duke smiled bitterly. “Ah, if only you’d accept my offers, La Ramée!”

  “Monseigneur, we can talk all you like, but in the end I must disappoint you.”

&nbs
p; “La Ramée, I’ve told you, and I repeat it, that I can make your fortune.”

  “With what? The moment you escape from prison, all your property will be confiscated.”

  “The moment I escape from prison, I’ll be the master of Paris.”

  “Hush, please! You know I can’t listen to that kind of talk. That’s a fine thing to say to an officer of the king! I can see I’m going to need another Grimaud.”

  “All right, then, we’ll drop it. So, you had a talk with the cardinal! You know what, La Ramée? The next time he invites you for a visit, let me dress up in your clothes and go in your place. I’ll strangle him, and then give up and meekly return to prison—faith of a gentleman!”

  “Monseigneur, I can see that I must call for Grimaud.”

  “No, I’m done. So, what did he talk about, that liar?”

  “I’ll pretend I heard ‘friar’ and ignore that, Monseigneur,” La Ramée said slyly. “What did he tell me? He told me to keep an eye on you.”

  “Keep an eye on me? Why?” asked the duke, anxiously.

  “Because an astrologer has predicted that you’ll escape.”

  “Really? An astrologer spoke of me?” Superstitious, the duke shuddered in spite of himself.

  “Mon Dieu, yes! But these wretched magicians only say such things to disturb people, you know—word of honor.”

  “And what did you say about this to His Illustrious Eminence?”

  “That if the astrologer in question was selling almanacs of his predictions, I wouldn’t advise him to buy one.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the only way you could escape would be to change into a finch or a wren and fly away.”

  “Isn’t that the unfortunate truth. Let’s go play a game of tennis, La Ramée.”

  “Monseigneur, I beg Your Highness’s pardon, but I must ask for a half an hour’s delay.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because, though his birth isn’t nearly as good as Your Highness’s, Monseigneur Mazarin is so proud that he didn’t invite me to stay to lunch.”

  “Well, then! Would you like to join me for lunch?”

  “Not this time, Monseigneur! I must tell you there’s a baker named Père Marteau whose shop is just across from the castle . . .”