Twenty Years After

by Alexander Dumas

  “No, but I’d forgotten about Monsieur Grimaud.”

  “Monseigneur knows that we can’t have the dinner without him.”

  “Very well, do as you please.”

  “Come here, garçon,” said La Ramée, “and listen to what I have to tell you.” Grimaud approached, wearing his most sullen expression. La Ramée continued, “Monseigneur does me the honor of dining in private with him tomorrow.”

  Grimaud made a gesture to indicate he didn’t see what that had to do with him.

  “It does, in fact, have to do with you,” said La Ramée, “as you will have the honor of serving us—and no matter how hungry and thirsty we may be, afterward there’s bound to be something left in the dishes and bottles for you.”

  Grimaud bowed gratefully.

  “And now, Monseigneur,” said La Ramée, “I must beg Your Highness’s pardon, but it seems Monsieur de Chavigny is going away for a few days, and before leaving he has some orders to give me.”

  The duke tried to catch Grimaud’s eye, but Grimaud might as well have been blind. “Then go,” the duke said to La Ramée, “but come back as soon as you can.”

  “Monseigneur wants to get revenge for yesterday’s game of tennis?”

  Grimaud gave a near-imperceptible nod.

  “Yes,” said the duke, “and beware, my dear La Ramée, for one day is not like another, and I’ve decided to play to win.”

  La Ramée went out; Grimaud watched him without so much as moving a muscle; then, when he saw the door was closed, he quickly drew a pencil and sheet of paper from his pocket. “Write, Monseigneur,” he said.

  “And what should I write?”

  Grimaud pointed a finger and dictated: “‘Everything is ready for tomorrow night. Be on watch from seven o’clock till nine and have two horses ready; we will come down from over the first window of the gallery.’”

  “And what else?”

  “What else, Monseigneur?” said Grimaud, surprised. “After that, sign it.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “What more needs to be said, Monseigneur?” said Grimaud, who was concise to the point of austerity.

  The duke signed it. “Now,” said Grimaud, “does Monseigneur still have the ball?”

  “What ball?”

  “The one that contained the letter.”

  “Ah, yes—I thought it might come in handy. Here it is.” And the duke took the ball from under his pillow and gave it to Grimaud.

  Grimaud smiled as pleasantly as he could. “Well?” asked the duke.

  “Well, Monseigneur,” said Grimaud, “I’ll sew this letter up into the ball, and then, when playing tennis, you’ll send the ball over into the dry-moat.”

  “But mightn’t it be lost?”

  “Rest assured, Monseigneur, someone will be there to pick it up.”

  “A gardener?” asked the duke.

  Grimaud nodded.

  “The same one as before?”

  Grimaud nodded again.

  “The Comte de Rochefort, then?”

  Grimaud nodded a third time.

  “But see here,” said the duke, “give me at least some details on how we’re going to escape.”

  “I’m not allowed to say,” Grimaud replied, “before the time comes.”

  “Who will be waiting for me on the other side of the moat?”

  “I don’t know, Monseigneur.”

  “But at least tell me what’s going to be in this famous pie, or I’m going to go mad.”

  “Monseigneur,” said Grimaud, “it will contain two poniards,76 a rope ladder, and a choke-pear.”77

  “Well . . . now I understand.”

  “Monseigneur will see that they’ve thought of everything.”

  “We will take the poniards and the rope,” said the duke.

  “And we’ll feed the choke-pear to La Ramée,” said Grimaud.

  “My dear Grimaud,” said the duke, “you don’t speak often, but to be fair, when you do, you speak words of gold.”

  XXII

  An Adventure of Marie Michon

  Around the same time these escape plans were being hatched between the Duc de Beaufort and Grimaud, two men on horseback, followed by a pair of lackeys, entered Paris by the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Marcel. These two men were the Comte de La Fère and the Vicomte de Bragelonne.

  It was the first time the young man had come to Paris. The capital was an old friend to Athos, but he wasn’t showing it off to best advantage by bringing Raoul in by that route. Indeed, the ugliest village in the Touraine was better looking than Paris when entered from the direction of Blois. So, it must be said, to the shame of the great city, that it made a poor first impression on the young man.

  Athos was nonchalant and serene, as always. Arriving in the Saint-Médard district, the count, who served as his companion’s guide through the great maze, took the Rue des Postes to l’Estrapade, the Fossés Saint-Michel, and finally Vaugirard. At the corner of the Rue Férou, they turned down that short street. In the middle of the block, Athos looked up, smiling, and pointed out a common row house to the young man. “There, Raoul,” he said, “is a house where I passed seven of the sweetest—and cruelest—years of my life.”

  The young man smiled back and gave the house a respectful salute. The admiration he had for his guardian showed itself in everything he did.

  As for Athos, Raoul was not only the center of his life, but other than his memories of his old regiment, the single object of his affection, so deep and profound was the count’s love for him.

  The travelers stopped in the Rue du Vieux-Colombier at the sign of the Green Fox. Athos was an old customer of this inn, having gone there a hundred times with his friends, but twenty years had made many changes in the establishment, starting with the hosts.

  The travelers turned their horses over to the stable boys, and as they were animals of a noble race, they ordered the steeds be treated with the greatest of care: fed with the finest straw and oats, after which their chests and legs were to be rubbed down with warm wine. After all, they’d ridden twenty leagues that day.

  Having first attended to their mounts, as all true horsemen must, they then asked for two rooms for themselves. “Wash up, and dress to look your best, Raoul,” said Athos. “I’m going to present you to someone.”

  “Today, Monsieur?” asked the young man.

  “In half an hour.”

  The young man bowed. More tired than Athos, who seemed a man of iron, he might have preferred a dip in that River Seine of which he’d heard so much, though he was certain it couldn’t compare to his Loire, followed by a fall into bed—but the Comte de La Fère had spoken, so his only thought was to obey.

  “Be thorough, Raoul,” added Athos. “I would like you to look handsome.”

  “I hope, Monsieur,” said the young man with a smile, “that you’re not introducing me to a prospective bride. You know my commitments to Louise.”

  Athos smiled back. “No, don’t worry,” he said, “though I am presenting you to a lady.”

  “A lady?” asked Raoul.

  “Yes, and I hope you’ll like her.”

  The young man looked uneasily at the count, but seeing Athos’s smile he was reassured. “And how old is she?” asked the Vicomte de Bragelonne.

  “My dear Raoul, learn once and for all that that is a question you never ask,” said Athos. “If you can tell a lady’s age from her face, there’s no point in asking, and if you can’t, to ask is indiscreet.”

  “Is she beautiful?”

  “Sixteen years ago, she was considered not only the prettiest but the most graceful woman in France.”

  This response completely reassured the viscount. Athos couldn’t have any intentions for him toward a woman considered the prettiest and most graceful in France in the year before he was born.

  He retired to his room, and with the vanity that comes with youth, applied himself to Athos’s instructions to look as well as he could. With what nature had given him, this was
no hard thing.

  When he returned, Athos received him with that fatherly smile he used to bestow on d’Artagnan, but which was now reserved for Raoul with an even deeper tenderness. Athos inspected his feet, hands, and hair, those three signs of class. His black hair was parted and long, as was worn at the time, and fell in curls framing his tanned face. Gray suede gloves that matched his hat covered his fine and elegant hands, while his boots, which matched both hat and gloves, were tapered and as petite as those of a child of ten. “Well,” he murmured, “if she’s not proud of him, she’s a hard woman to please.”

  It was three in the afternoon, a suitable time to pay a visit. The two travelers followed the Rue de Grenelle to the Rue des Rosiers, turned onto Rue Saint-Dominique, and stopped at a majestic mansion facing the Jacobins, its gate surmounted by the arms of de Luynes.

  “This is it,” said Athos. He entered the hôtel with the assurance that persuaded the Swiss Guard that he had the right to do so. He climbed the main staircase, and, addressing a footman in full livery, asked if the Duchesse de Chevreuse was receiving, and if so, would she receive the Comte de La Fère?

  The servant returned a moment later and said that, though the Duchesse de Chevreuse did not have the honor of knowing the Comte de La Fère, she invited him to please come in.

  Athos followed the footman, who led him through a long series of apartments to a parlor, where he stopped before a closed door. Athos gestured to the Vicomte de Bragelonne to wait where he was. The footman opened the door and announced the Comte de La Fère.

  Madame de Chevreuse, so often mentioned in The Three Musketeers without actually having been brought on stage, was still a very beautiful woman. Indeed, though she was at this time forty-four or forty-five, she seemed still in the prime of her thirties, with lovely blond hair, and large, bright, intelligent eyes that had so often been opened in intrigue and closed in love. She retained her nymph-like figure, and from behind still seemed to be the young woman of 1623 who had jumped the moat of the Tuileries with Anne of Austria, a folly that had deprived the crown of an heir.78 In most ways, she was still the same wild creature who’d thrown herself into love affairs with such passion and originality that it became a hallmark of her descendants.

  She was in a little boudoir with a window overlooking a garden. This room, decorated in the mode made fashionable by Madame de Rambouillet in her famous hôtel, was hung in blue damask with pink flowers and golden trim. It was daring for a lady of the duchess’s age to receive visitors in such a boudoir, especially in her current posture, stretched out on a chaise longue with her head against the tapestry. She was holding a book half-open, her arm resting on a cushion. At the footman’s announcement, she rose on one arm and cocked her head curiously.

  Athos appeared. He was dressed in dark purple velvet with similar trim, embellished with silver aiguillettes. His simple cloak bore no gold trim, and a single violet feather adorned his black felt hat. He wore tall boots of black leather, and at his belt hung that sword with a magnificent hilt so often admired by Porthos when Athos lived in Rue Férou, but which he’d never consented to lend to him. Splendid white lace erupted from the collar of his shirt and bedecked the tops of his boots.

  There was in this man, though completely unknown to Madame de Chevreuse, such an air of high nobility, that she half rose and graciously beckoned him to take a seat beside her.

  Athos bowed and obeyed. The footman was about to withdraw, but Athos made a gesture that restrained him. “Madame,” he said to the duchess, “I had the audacity to present myself at your hôtel without having been introduced to you—successfully, since you deigned to receive me. I now ask the favor of a half hour’s interview.”

  “Granted, Monsieur,” said the duchess, with her most gracious smile.

  “But that’s not all, Madame. It’s presumptuous, I know, but I further request that our interview be a private one, as I keenly desire not to be interrupted.”

  “I am at home to no one,” the duchess told the footman. “You may go.”

  The footman went out.

  There was a moment of silence, during which these two embodiments of the nobility sized each other up, without embarrassment on either side. The duchess was the first to break the silence. “Well, Monsieur,” she said with a smile, “can’t you see I await you with impatience?”

  “While I, Madame,” replied Athos, “regard you with admiration.”

  “Monsieur,” said the duchess, “you must excuse me, but I long to learn with whom I’m speaking. You have the undeniable air of a courtier, yet I’ve never seen you at Court. Have you been in the Bastille, and just been released?”

  “No, Madame,” Athos replied with a smile, “though I may be on my way there.”

  “Ah! In that case, introduce yourself quickly, and then go away,” the duchess said playfully, in a charming tone. “I am already quite compromised enough without you making it worse.”

  “Who am I, Madame? They announced my name: the Comte de La Fère, a name unknown to you. I once bore another that you might have heard, though you’ve certainly forgotten it by now.”

  “Tell me, Monsieur.”

  “In former times,” said the Comte de La Fère, “I was known as Athos.”

  The duchess’s eyes widened in astonishment. It was obvious that name still meant something to her, though it wasn’t clear what. “Athos?” she said. “Wait, wait . . . !” She pressed both hands to her forehead as if to marshal in her memories a colorful crowd of people and events.

  “Shall I give you a hint, Madame?” smiled Athos.

  “But yes,” said the duchess, head in a whirl, “please do.”

  “This Athos was affiliated with three young King’s Musketeers who went by the names of d’Artagnan, Porthos, and . . .” Athos paused.

  “And Aramis,” gasped the duchess.

  “And Aramis, that’s it,” said Athos. “So, you haven’t quite forgotten his name?”

  “No,” she said, “no, my poor Aramis! Such a lovely gentleman—elegant, discreet, a writer of pretty verses. I think he turned out badly,” she added.

  “Very badly: he became an abbot.”

  “Ah! What a shame!” said the duchess, flipping her fan carelessly. “My thanks, Monsieur, truly.”

  “For what, Madame?”

  “For reviving that memory, a pleasant recollection of my youth.”

  “Will you permit me, then,” said Athos, “to revive another one?”

  “Is it connected with the former?”

  “Yes . . . and no.”

  “Well, ma foi,” said Madame de Chevreuse, “for a man like you I’d risk anything.”

  Athos bowed. “Aramis,” he continued, “was connected with a young seamstress of Tours.”

  “A young seamstress of Tours?”

  “Yes, a sort of cousin of his, called Marie Michon.”

  “Ah, I recall her,” said the duchess. “During the Siege of La Rochelle, she was the one who wrote to try to foil that plot against poor Buckingham.”

  “Exactly,” said Athos. “Will you allow me to speak of her?”

  Madame de Chevreuse gave Athos a long look. “Yes,” she said, “so long as you don’t speak ill of her.”

  “That would make me an ingrate,” said Athos, “and I regard ingratitude not as a fault or a crime, but as a sin, which is far worse.”

  “You, ungrateful to Marie Michon, Monsieur?” said the duchess, trying to read Athos’s eyes. “But how could that be? You never knew her personally.”

  “Eh, Madame! Who knows?” said Athos. “There’s a proverb that says it’s only mountains that never meet, and proverbs are often based in truth.”

  “Then go on, Monsieur, go on!” the duchess said brightly. “You can’t imagine how diverting this all is.”

  “Since you encourage me,” said Athos, “I will continue. This cousin of Aramis, this Marie Michon, despite her modest rank, had knowledge of the highest degree, and called the grandest ladies of the Court her fr
iends. Even the queen, proud though she is, in her dual capacity of Austrian and Spaniard—even she called her sister.”

  “Hélas,” said Madame de Chevreuse, with a tiny sigh and a twitch of her eyebrows, “things are much changed since that time.”

  “But at that time the queen was in the right,” continued Athos, “for this seamstress was devoted to her, so much so that she served as an intermediary with the queen’s brother, the King of Spain.”

  “An act that nowadays,” said the duchess, “is considered treason.”

  “And so,” continued Athos, “the cardinal—the true cardinal—resolved one morning to arrest poor Marie Michon and confine her in the Château de Loches. Fortunately, such an act could not be prepared entirely in secrecy, and in any event, Marie Michon was ready: if she was ever menaced with real danger, the queen was to send her a prayer-book bound in green velvet.”

  “Quite so, Monsieur! You are well informed.”

  “One morning that green-bound book was brought to her by the Prince de Marcillac. There was no time to lose. Fortunately, Marie Michon and a servant of hers, named Kitty,79 looked extremely well when dressed in men’s clothes. The prince brought Marie Michon a cavalier’s ensemble, and a lackey’s outfit for Kitty, as well as two excellent horses. Quickly, the two fugitives left Tours, headed for Spain—traveling by back roads to avoid the highways, starting at every sound, and begging for hospitality wherever they couldn’t find an inn.”

  “In truth, that’s just how it happened!” cried the duchess, clapping her hands together. “But it’s very curious . . .” She paused.

  “I need not follow the fugitives to the end of their journey,” said Athos. “No, Madame, for my tale I need take them only as far as a town in Limousin between Tulle and Angoulême, a little village called Roche-l’Abeille.”

  Madame de Chevreuse gasped in surprise and looked at Athos with an expression of such astonishment that it made the old musketeer smile. “Hear me, Madame,” he continued, “for what I have yet to say is even stranger than what has gone before.”

  “Monsieur,” said the duchess, “I think you must be a sorcerer. I’ll listen, but in truth . . . never mind. Go on.”