“The ride that day had been long and tiring; it was October eleventh, getting cold, the village had neither inn nor château, and the peasants’ houses looked poor and dirty. Marie Michon had the tastes of the highborn, she was accustomed to fine linen and clean lodging, so she decided to ask for hospitality from the village priest.” Athos paused.
“Oh, continue!” said the duchess. “I warn you that now I expect to hear everything.”
“The travelers knocked at the door; it was late; the priest, already in bed, called out for them to enter. They found the door unlocked and opened it—they don’t lock their doors out in the villages. A lamp was burning in the priest’s house. Marie Michon, the most charming cavalier in the world, opened the door, put in her head, and requested hospitality for the night. ‘Willingly, my young cavalier,’ said the priest. ‘You can have half the bedchamber and whatever’s left of my supper.’ The two travelers consulted for a moment; the priest heard them laugh, and then the master—or rather the mistress—replied, ‘Thank you, Monsieur Curate, we accept.’ ‘Then come in,’ he said, ‘eat up, and make as little noise as you can, because I also traveled all day and won’t be sorry to get a good night’s sleep.’”
Madame de Chevreuse went from surprise to astonishment and on to stupefaction, gaping at Athos, who wore an expression impossible to describe; she seemed to want to say something, but held her tongue, for fear of missing a single word. Finally, she said, “And . . . after?”
“After?” said Athos. “Ah! That’s the hardest part to tell.”
“Tell it! Tell it! I’m the kind of person you can say anything to. Besides, it’s not about me, it’s about this Mademoiselle Michon.”
“Ah! Just so,” said Athos. “Well! Marie Michon had supper with her servant, and afterward, in accordance with the permission she’d been granted, she went into her host’s bedroom, while Kitty made herself comfortable on a chair in the room where they’d eaten.”
“Really, Monsieur,” said Madame de Chevreuse, “unless you’re the Devil himself, I don’t know how you can know all these details.”
“She was a charming woman, Marie Michon,” said Athos, “one of those wild creatures that recognizes no limits, a being born to damn those of us who do. It occurred to her that, since her host was a priest, it would be amusing to give him a happy memory to cherish in his old age—and on her part, she would have the droll recollection of having tempted a curate to perdition.”
“Count,” said the duchess, “on my word of honor, you give me chills.”
“Alas for the chastity of the poor curate, he was no St. Ambrose,” said Athos, “and as I said, Marie Michon was an adorable creature.”
“Monsieur,” cried the duchess, seizing Athos’s hands, “tell me immediately how you come to know all these details, or I will call for a monk from the Augustinian convent and have you exorcised!”
Athos laughed. “It’s easily explained, Madame. A cavalier, himself charged with an important mission, had stopped at the rectory just an hour earlier to beg hospitality of the priest, who had just been called away to attend to a dying congregant, leaving his house and village overnight. The man of God, who trusted his guest, as he was clearly a gentleman, had left him his house, dinner, and bed. So, it was this guest of the curate whom Marie Michon had asked for hospitality.”
“And this cavalier, this guest, this gentleman who came before was . . . ?”
“Myself, the Comte de La Fère,” said Athos, rising and bowing respectfully to the duchess.
The duchess was stunned for a moment, and then burst into laughter. “Oh, my faith!” she said. “That’s hilarious! For once, little Marie Michon got more than she expected. Sit down, dear Count, and finish your story.”
“Now I become the villain of the piece, Madame. As I told you, I was traveling on an important mission; early the next morning I silently left the bedroom, leaving my charming companion asleep. In the front room her servant rested her head in an armchair, still slumbering like her mistress. I was struck by her pretty face; I approached and recognized her as that little Kitty whom our friend Aramis had found a place for. Then I realized the charming cavalier must be . . .”
“Marie Michon!” the duchess quickly interrupted.
“. . . Marie Michon,” said Athos. “So, I left the house and went to the barn, where I found my horse saddled and my lackey ready, and we rode away.”
“And you never returned to this village?” asked Madame de Chevreuse pointedly.
“I did, Madame—a year later.”
“Well?”
“Well! I stopped to visit that good curate. I found him very concerned about something that greatly mystified him. A week before he’d been left a small cradle bearing a charming little boy three months old, along with a purse of gold and a note that said only: 11 October 1633.”80
“That was the date of this strange adventure,” said Madame de Chevreuse.
“Yes, but that told the curate nothing, other than reminding him he’d spent that night with a dying congregant, for Marie Michon had left the rectory before he returned.”
“You should know, Monsieur, that when Marie Michon returned to France in 1643, she sought news of this child, which, as a fugitive, she hadn’t been able to keep—but which, finally having returned to Paris, she wanted to raise as her own.”
“And what did the curate say?” asked Athos.
“That a nobleman he didn’t know had volunteered to raise the child, had guaranteed his future, and taken him when he went.”
“And that was true.”
“Ah, I understand now! You were that nobleman—you are his father!”
“Hush! Not so loud, Madame—he’s waiting outside.”
“He’s here!” cried Madame de Chevreuse, jumping up eagerly. “He’s here, my son—I mean the son of Marie Michon—here! I must see him this instant!”
“Take care, Madame,” Athos interrupted. “He knows the identity of neither his father nor his mother.”
“You kept the secret, and then you brought him to me, thinking how happy I’d be. Oh! Thank you, Monsieur! Thank you!” cried the duchess, seizing his hand and carrying it to her lips. “Thank you! You have a noble heart.”
“I brought him to you,” said Athos, gently withdrawing his hand, “so that you in your turn can do something for him, Madame. So far, I’ve watched over his education, and I think I’ve made a proper gentleman of him—but the time has come when I’m forced to take up arms again and resume the dangerous career of partisan. Tomorrow I join an adventurous exploit in which I may be killed—and then he will no longer be able to depend on me to see that he finds his proper place in the world.”
“Rest easy as to that!” said the duchess. “Unfortunately, I don’t have much political leverage at the moment, but what I have is at his disposal. As to his title and fortune . . .”
“I have provided for that, Madame, never fear; I’ve given him the domain of Bragelonne as inheritance, which grants him the title of viscount and an income of ten thousand livres.”
“Upon my soul, Monsieur,” said the duchess, “you are a true gentleman! But I’m eager to see our young viscount. Where is he?”
“Outside, in the parlor; I’ll bring him in, if you wish.”
Athos started toward the door, but Madame de Chevreuse stopped him. “Is he handsome?” she asked.
Athos smiled. “He resembles his mother,” he said. Then he opened the door and beckoned to the young man, who appeared in the doorway.
Madame de Chevreuse couldn’t contain her cry of joy at the sight of such a charming young cavalier, who exceeded all the expectations even her pride had conceived.
“Come in, Viscount,” said Athos. “Madame la Duchesse de Chevreuse permits you to kiss her hand.”
The young man approached with uncovered head and a shy smile, dropped to one knee, and kissed the hand of the duchess. “Monsieur le Comte,” he said, turning to Athos, “were you hoping not to unnerve me by telling me
madame was a duchess? Surely this is the queen!”
“No, Viscount,” said Madame de Chevreuse, taking his hand in turn and making him sit beside her, and then looking at him with eyes sparkling with joy. “No, unfortunately, I’m not the queen—for if I were, I’d be able to give you what you deserve right away. But never mind, such as I am, I’ll do what I can. Now,” she added, scarcely able to keep from embracing him, “what career do you hope to pursue?”
Athos, still standing, regarded them both with an expression of unspeakable happiness.
“Well, Madame,” said the young man, in a voice both sweet and resonant, “it seems to me the only career for a gentleman is that of arms. Monsieur le Comte raised me, I believe, with the intention that I’d be a soldier, and allowed me to hope that in Paris he would introduce me to someone who could give me a recommendation, perhaps even to the Prince de Condé.”
“Yes, I understand, and it would become a young soldier like you to serve under a general like him, but I don’t stand very well with the prince, thanks to the way my stepmother, Madame de Montbazon, has quarreled with his sister Madame de Longueville . . . but maybe the Prince de Marcillac—yes! See here, Count, that’s it! The Prince de Marcillac is an old friend of mine; he will recommend our young soldier to Madame de Longueville, who will give him a letter for her brother Condé. He loves her too tenderly not to grant everything she asks for.”
“Excellent! That would be marvelous,” said the count. “Only dare I request it be done with dispatch? I have reasons for wishing the viscount gone from Paris by tomorrow night.”
“Do you wish it known this is done at your behest, Count?”
“It might be best for the time being if his name were not connected with mine.”
“Oh, Monsieur!” cried the young man.
“You know, Bragelonne,” said the count, “that I never do anything without a reason.”
“Yes, Monsieur,” replied the young man. “I know how wise you are, and I’ll obey you as I always do.”
“Well, then, Count, allow me,” said the duchess. “I’ll send for the Prince de Marcillac, who fortunately is in Paris right now, and I won’t give up until the matter is accomplished.”
“Very good, Madame la Duchesse—a thousand thanks. I myself have several errands to run today, and upon my return at about, say, six o’clock, I’ll expect to meet the viscount at our lodgings.”
“What are your plans for the evening?”
“We go to visit the Abbé Scarron,* for whom I have a letter, and where I expect to meet a friend of mine.”
“Very well,” said the duchess. “This will take only a moment, so don’t leave my parlor until I return.”
Athos bowed to Madame de Chevreuse and prepared to leave the room.
“Really, Monsieur le Comte?” laughed the duchess. “Are we so formal in leaving our old friends?”
“Ah!” murmured Athos, kissing her hand. “If I’d only known sooner that Marie Michon was such a charming creature . . . !”
And he withdrew with a sigh.
XXIII
The Abbé Scarron
There was, in the Rue des Tournelles, an address known to all the coachmen and sedan-chair porters of Paris—and yet that address was the home of neither a nobleman nor a banker. No one went there to dine, to play cards, or to dance.
Nonetheless, it was a magnet for all the high society of Paris. This was the house of little Abbé Scarron.
There, at the house of this witty abbot, everyone went to laugh and to talk. There, everyone heard the latest news, and that news was instantly recounted, dissected, analyzed, and turned into epigrams or satirical verse. Everyone wanted to spend an evening’s hour with little Scarron, to hear what was being said, and what he had to say about it. Everyone longed to get in a word or two of their own—and if those words were clever, they were welcome.
This little Abbé Scarron—who was an abbot because he possessed an abbacy, not because he’d actually taken orders—had once been one of the most fashionable clerics of Le Mans, where he’d resided. One day during Carnival, he’d wanted to bless his city with a jest they’d always remember, so he’d had his valet coat him in honey, and then, having torn open his feather bed, he’d rolled in it, becoming hilariously grotesque. He then went from door to door, visiting all his friends in this bizarre attire; the citizens were first amazed, and then offended; people insulted him, children threw stones, and he was forced to flee to escape the attacks. As soon as he fled, everyone pursued; reviled, harried, and hunted on all sides, Scarron had had no recourse but to jump into the river to escape. He swam like a fish, but the water was icy cold, and when he finally pulled himself out of it, his limbs were crippled for life.
Every known means had been tried to restore the use of his limbs, but he suffered so much pain from the treatments he’d dismissed his doctors, saying he preferred the malady. He relocated to Paris, where his reputation for wit was already established. There he had made an elaborate wheelchair of his own invention—and one day, in that chair, he visited Queen Anne of Austria, and the regent, charmed by his wit and wisdom, asked if she could grant him a title.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Scarron had replied, “in that regard I have a singular ambition.”
“And what is that?” asked Anne of Austria.
“To be known as your patient,” replied the abbé.
And thereafter Scarron had been appointed “The Queen’s Patient,” with an annual income of fifteen hundred livres.
From that moment Scarron, with no fears for the future, had led a joyous life on his carefully spent salary.
One day, however, an emissary from Cardinal Mazarin had called to tell him that it was a mistake for him to receive the coadjutor, Monsieur de Gondy, at his salon.
“And why is that?” Scarron had asked. “Isn’t he a man of good birth?”
“Indeed, pardieu!”
“Congenial?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Spiritual?”
“He might, unfortunately, show a bit too much spirit.”
“Even so,” said Scarron, “why do you want me to stop receiving such a man?”
“Because he has improper ideas.”
“Really? And who says so?”
“The cardinal.”
“What?” said Scarron. “I should continue to receive Monsieur Gilles Despréaux, who doesn’t like me, but I should stop receiving Monsieur le Coadjuteur because someone else doesn’t like him? Impossible!”
The conversation ended there, and Scarron, a contrarian at heart, had invited Monsieur de Gondy to visit as often as he liked.
On the morning of the day at which we’ve arrived, which was the first day of the new trimester, Scarron, according to his custom, had sent his servant with his invoice to collect his salary for the quarter—but his servant had been told, “The State has no more money for Monsieur l’Abbé Scarron.”
When the servant brought this reply to Scarron, he was being visited by the Duc de Longueville, who offered to give him twice the salary that Mazarin had denied him, but Scarron was too clever to accept it. Instead he made sure that, by four o’clock that afternoon, the entire city knew of the cardinal’s refusal. As it was Thursday, the day the abbot received everyone, crowds of well-wishers came from across the city, all reviling the name of the cardinal.
In the Rue Saint-Honoré Athos encountered two gentlemen he didn’t know, on horseback and followed by lackeys just as he was, and headed in the same direction. One of them took his hat in his hand and said, “Can you believe, Monsieur, this cowardly Mazarin has cut off poor Scarron’s pension?”
“That is absurd,” said Athos, bowing to both cavaliers.
“We see you are an honest man, Monsieur,” replied the gentleman who had spoken to Athos, “while this Mazarin is a living plague.”
“Alas, Monsieur,” replied Athos, “take care whom you say that to.” And they bowed and separated.
“This event is well-timed for our
visit this evening,” Athos said to the viscount. “We will pay our compliments to this poor fellow.”
“But who is this Monsieur Scarron who puts all Paris in an uproar?” asked Raoul. “Is he some disgraced minister?”
“Mon Dieu, no, Viscount,” replied Athos, “he’s just a petty gentleman of wit and spirit who’s made an enemy of the cardinal by writing some verses about him.”
“Do gentlemen write verses?” Raoul asked naïvely. “I thought that was beneath them.”
“It is, my dear Viscount,” Athos replied, laughing, “when they write bad ones—but when they’re good, it enhances them. Look at Monsieur Rotrou.81 However,” continued Athos, in the tone of one who gives good advice, “on the whole I think it’s better not to do it.”
“But then,” asked Raoul, “is this Monsieur Scarron a poet?”
“He is, Viscount, so beware what you say in his house—or better yet, confine yourself to nods, or just listen.”
“Yes, Monsieur,” Raoul replied.
“You’ll see me talking quite a bit with a gentleman who’s a friend of mine, the Abbé d’Herblay, about whom you’ve heard me speak.”
“I remember, Monsieur.”
“Approach us sometimes as if to speak to us, but say nothing—and likewise, do not listen. This ruse will keep intruders from bothering us.”
“Very well, Monsieur, I’ll obey you to the letter.”
Athos made two stops in Paris, then at seven turned them toward the Rue des Tournelles. The street was crowded with porters, horses, and footmen. Athos made his way through the press to the house that was his goal and entered, followed by the young man. Upon gaining the interior, the first person he noticed was Aramis, loitering near a unique wheelchair, wide and covered with a tapestry canopy, under which, fidgeting and wrapped in an embroidered blanket, was a small figure: a person young and cheerful, yet pale and weak, but whose active eyes were lively, clever, and gracious. This was the Abbé Scarron, ever laughing, joking, complimenting, wincing with pain, and massaging his limbs with a little rod.
Twenty Years After Page 22
