Athos, still in the window embrasure, surveyed the entire scene with a disdainful smile on his lips. “Call over the Comte de La Fère,” Madame de Chevreuse said to the coadjutor. “I need to speak with him.”
“Whereas I,” said the coadjutor, “need it to be thought that I don’t speak with him. I like and admire him, as I know at least something of his former adventures—but I shouldn’t seem to know him until after tomorrow morning.”
“Why after tomorrow morning?” asked Madame de Chevreuse.
“You’ll know that tomorrow night!” said the coadjutor, laughing.
“Faith, my dear Gondy,” said the duchess, “you always talk like it’s the Apocalypse. Monsieur d’Herblay,” she added, turning toward Aramis, “will you be my servant this evening?”
“Tonight, tomorrow, and forever, Duchess,” said Aramis. “Command me.”
“Well, then, fetch me the Comte de La Fère. I want to talk to him.”
Aramis went and brought back Athos.
“Monsieur le Comte,” said the duchess, giving Athos a letter, “here is that which I promised you. Our protégé will be well received.”
“Madame,” said Athos, “he is happy to be in your debt.”
“You have nothing to envy him in that regard, for without you, I would never have known him,” replied the wayward lady, with an impish smile that recalled Marie Michon to both Aramis and Athos.
And with that, she rose and called for her carriage. Mademoiselle Paulet had already gone, and Mademoiselle de Scudéry was leaving.
“Viscount,” said Athos to Raoul, “follow Madame la Duchesse, and beg the favor of escorting her out—and as you do, be sure to thank her.”
Meanwhile, the Beautiful Indian approached Scarron to take her leave of him. “What? Leaving already?” he said.
“But one of the last to go, as you see. If you hear news of Monsieur Voiture, and if it’s good, please do me the favor of letting me know tomorrow.”
“Oh, but you know,” said Scarron, “he may die.”
“Do you mean it?” said the girl with violet eyes.
“Certainly, now that his panegyric is complete.”
And they parted, laughing, the girl turning to give the poor paralytic a fond look, while the poor paralytic followed her out with a look of love.
Gradually the groups broke up. Scarron pretended not to notice that some of his guests had had mysterious discussions, that letters had arrived for others, and that his party seemed to have an undercurrent that had nothing to do with literature, despite all the noise devoted thereto. But what did that matter to Scarron? He was already out of favor—as he’d said, as of that morning he was no longer “The Queen’s Patient.”
As to Raoul, he had indeed escorted the duchess to her carriage, where she gave him her hand to kiss—and then, in one of those wild caprices that made her so adorable, and so dangerous, she suddenly took him by his ears and kissed him on the forehead, intoning, “Viscount, by this kiss, and by my wishes, may you find happiness!”
Then she pushed him away and ordered the coachman to take her to the Hôtel de Luynes. The duchess favored the young man with a final wave, the carriage rolled away, and Raoul went back inside, dazed.
Athos understood what had happened and smiled. “Come, Viscount,” he said, “it’s time we retired. You leave tomorrow for the army of Monsieur le Prince, so sleep well on your last night in the city.”
“I’m going to be a soldier?” said the young man. “Oh, Monsieur! I thank you with all my heart!”
“Adieu, Count,” said the Abbé d’Herblay. “I must return to my monastery.”
“Adieu, Abbot,” said the coadjutor. “I preach tomorrow, and still have twenty texts to consult this evening.”
“Adieu, Messieurs,” said the count. “I’m so tired, I’m sure I’ll spend the next twenty-four hours asleep.”
The three men bowed, after exchanging a final look.
Scarron watched them from the corner of his eye as they went out the doors of his salon. “And not a one of them will do what he said,” he whispered with his simian smile. “But there they go, the brave gentlemen! And who knows? Perhaps they’ll find a way to restore my pension . . . ! At least they can move their limbs, and that’s more than enough. As for me, I have only language—but I’ll try to show the world yet that that’s something. Holà! Champenois! It’s striking eleven already; come and roll me to my bed. . . . Ah, but in truth, that Demoiselle d’Aubigné is quite charming . . . !”
And with that, the poor paralytic disappeared into his bedroom, the door closed behind him, and the lights went out one by one in the salon on the Rue des Tournelles.
XXIV
Saint-Denis
Day had barely broken when Athos arose and dressed; it was easy to see, from the pale traces insomnia had left on his face, that he’d gone most of the night without sleep. No matter how firm and decisive he usually was, this morning there was something slow and irresolute about him.
As a way of gaining time, he occupied himself with preparations for Raoul’s departure. First, he inspected a sword that he drew from its oiled leather sheath and checked the grip to make sure it was well wrapped and the blade’s tang was fixed firmly in the hilt.
Then he threw into the bottom of the young man’s luggage a small bag full of louis d’or, called Olivain, the lackey who’d come with him from Blois, placed the portmanteau before him, and made sure that it held everything a young man needs on campaign.
Finally, after expending nearly an hour on these preparations, he opened the door to the viscount’s room and quietly entered.
The sun, already high, shone in through the wide-framed windows, because Raoul, returning late the night before, had neglected to close the curtains. He was still asleep, head resting gracefully on his arm, his long black hair half-covering his charming face, bedewed in the warmth with pearls of moisture that rolled down the dreaming youth’s cheeks.
Athos approached and, bent in an attitude of tender melancholy, watched for a time the sleeping young man with his smiling mouth and half-closed eyes, whose dreams should be sweet and his slumbers light, given the silent guardian angel who watched over him with care and affection. Gradually, in the presence of youth so rich and so pure, Athos was drawn into a reverie of his own youth, of half-formed memories that were more phantasms than thoughts. Between that past and this present stretched an abyss. But imagination is an angel’s flight that darts back over the dark seas where our illusions were shipwrecked, past the rocks that shattered our happiness. He recalled how the first part of his own life had been destroyed by a woman; and thought with dread what an influence love can have over even the finest and strongest.
Recalling all that he’d suffered, he foresaw all that Raoul might yet suffer, and the deep and tender compassion in his heart distilled itself into a single tear that dropped upon the young man.
At that moment Raoul awoke from his cloudless dreams, showing none of the sadness or grief that afflicts some of those of sensitive spirit. His eyes rose to meet those of Athos, and he felt some of what was passing in the heart of this man who awaited his awakening, much as a lover awaits the awakening of his mistress, with a gaze expressing an infinite love.
“You’ve been here, Monsieur?” he said with respect.
“Yes, Raoul, right here,” said the count.
“And you didn’t wake me?”
“I wanted to let you enjoy your last moments of sound sleep, mon ami; you must be still weary from yesterday, which extended so far into the night.”
“Ah, Monsieur, you’re so good to me!” said Raoul.
Athos smiled. “How do you feel?” he asked.
“Fine, Monsieur—fully recovered and refreshed.”
“You’re still growing,” continued Athos, with a fatherly interest charming in such a mature man, “and at your age fatigue is doubly felt.”
“Oh, please, Monsieur,” said Raoul, shy at receiving so much attention. “Just give me
a moment and I’ll get dressed.”
Athos called Olivain to assist, and in only ten minutes, with the military punctuality that Athos had passed on to his pupil, the young man was ready.
“Now,” the youth said to the servant, “let’s prepare my luggage.”
“Your luggage is already prepared,” said Athos. “It was packed under my supervision and should lack for nothing. If the lackeys have followed my orders, your bags should already be placed on the horses.”
“Everything has been done as Monsieur le Comte desired,” said Olivain, “and the horses are ready.”
“And I slept on,” cried Raoul, “while you, Monsieur, attended to all these details! Oh, truly, you overwhelm me with kindness.”
“So, you love me just a little? I hope so, at least,” Athos replied in an almost tender tone.
“Oh, Monsieur!” cried Raoul, struggling to keep control of his emotions. “As God is my witness, I love and revere you.”
“Make sure you don’t forget anything,” said Athos, pretending to look around to conceal his feelings.
“Of course, Monsieur,” said Raoul.
The lackey approached Athos hesitantly, and whispered, “The viscount lacks a sword, as Monsieur le Comte had me take away the one he wore last night.”
“It’s all right,” said Athos. “That’s my business.”
Raoul didn’t seem to notice this exchange. He went toward the front door, glancing at the count every few seconds to see if the moment of parting had come, but Athos seemed unmoved.
Arriving on the steps, Raoul saw three horses. “Oh, Monsieur!” he cried, radiant. “You’re going with me?”
“I’ll ride with you part of the way,” said Athos.
Joy shone in Raoul’s eyes, and he sprang lightly onto his horse.
Athos mounted more slowly, after whispering a few words to the lackey, who, instead of following immediately, went back into the house. Raoul, delighted to be in the count’s company, noticed, or pretended to notice, nothing.
The two gentlemen rode across the Pont Neuf, and then went along the quays, around what was then called Pepin’s Pond, then past the walls of the Grand Châtelet.88 The lackey caught up to them as they turned onto Rue Saint-Denis.
They rode in companionable silence. Raoul felt that the time of separation was approaching; the night before the count had given certain orders respecting the events of the day. He looked at the youth with undisguised tenderness, and from time to time let slip an affectionate remark, or some thoughtful and caring advice.
After passing through the Saint-Denis gate, and climbing the heights past the monastery of the Récollets, Athos looked at the viscount’s mount. “Take care, Raoul,” he said. “Look! Your horse is already tired and foaming, while mine seems like it’s just out of the stable. I’ve told you this often, as it’s a common failure of horsemen: the way you tug on her mouth will harden her jaws, and if you do that too much, she won’t respond as quickly as you might need her to. A rider’s safety depends on his mount’s prompt obedience. Remember, in a week you’ll be riding, not around a track, but on a battlefield.”
Then quickly, to take the sting out of the observation, Athos continued, “Look there, Raoul—what a fine meadow for hunting partridge.”
The young man appreciated the lesson, and even more the delicate way in which it was given.
“I also noticed the other day,” said Athos, “that when aiming a pistol, you extend your arm too far. The extra tension can interfere with your aim, so that out of a dozen shots you might miss three times.”
“Whereas out of twelve shots you, Monsieur, would hit twelve times,” replied Raoul, smiling.
“Because I bend my arm and rest my elbow on my other hand. Do you understand what I’m saying, Raoul?”
“Yes, Monsieur; I tried it myself after the last time you advised me, and it was a complete success.”
“And then,” said Athos, “when fencing, you charge your adversary too often. It’s because you’re young, I’m well aware—but the angle of the body when charging takes your sword out of line, and a level-headed opponent will stop you at the first step with a simple disengage, or even a stop-thrust.”
“Yes, Monsieur, as you’ve done to me often enough—but not everyone has your courage and sangfroid.”
“Now there’s a cool breeze!” said Athos. “A reminder that winter is on its way. By the way, I must say, if you’re going to shoot—and you will, as you’re being sent to a young general who likes the smell of gunpowder—keep in mind that in an engagement, especially against other cavaliers, remember not to be the one who fires first. The first to fire rarely hits his man, and then he’s disarmed himself in the face of an armed adversary. As your opponent fires, make your horse rear up—that maneuver has saved my life two or three times.”
“If I can remember to do that, I will.”
“What?” said Athos. “Are those poachers being placed under arrest over there? It seems so . . . Another important thing, Raoul: if you’re wounded during a charge, and fall from your horse, if you have the strength for it, try to get out of your regiment’s line of advance—for if they fall back, you could get trampled. In any case, if you are injured, write me right away, or get someone to write for you. We veterans know how to deal with wounds,” added Athos, smiling.
“Thank you, Monsieur,” the young man answered with some emotion.
“Ah! And here we are at Saint-Denis,” murmured Athos.
They had just arrived at the town gate, where two sentries stood on guard. One said to the other, “Here’s another young gentleman on his way to join the army.”
Athos turned toward them; everything that concerned Raoul, even indirectly, was important to him. “How do you know that?” he asked.
“By his martial air, Monsieur,” said the sentry. “And he’s the right age. This is the second one today.”
“A young man like me has already passed this morning?” asked Raoul.
“Yes, ma foi, with a haughty look and some fancy equipment—clearly the son of a family of rank.”
“That sounds to me like he could be a companion for the road,” said Raoul, as they continued on their way. “It’s a shame that I missed him.”
“You may yet join up with him, Raoul, after I have a talk with you here. What I have to say won’t take long, and then perhaps you can catch up to your young gentleman.”
“As you wish, Monsieur.”
As they spoke they made their way through streets crowded for the coming festival of Pentecost, and stopped in front of the old basilica,89 within which first mass was being said. “Let’s dismount here, Raoul,” said Athos. “Olivain, give me that sword, and stay here to hold the horses.”
Athos took the sword the lackey held out to him, and the two gentlemen went into the church. Athos offered some holy water to Raoul. In the hearts of some fathers is a tenderness like that for a lover. The young man touched Athos’s hand, genuflected, and crossed himself. Athos spoke a word to one of the guards, who bowed and marched away toward the crypts. “Come, Raoul,” said Athos, “let’s follow this man.”
The guard opened the iron gate to the royal tombs and stood on the top step while Athos and Raoul descended into the crypts. In a sepulcher at the bottom of the stairs burned a silver lamp, and below this lamp rested a catafalque supported by an oaken stand, covered by a large cloak of purple velvet adorned with golden lilies.
The sadness that seemed to pervade this majestic church had prepared the young man for this scene, and he descended, step by solemn step, to the sepulcher, where he uncovered his head and stood before the mortal remains of the last king,90 who would be buried with his ancestors only when his successor came to take his place, and who until then remained here, seemingly to say to human pride, so easily exalted when upon a throne: “Dust of the earth, I await you!”
They stood a moment in silence. Then Athos raised his hand, and pointing at the coffin, he said, “This is the catafalque of a man w
ho was weak and lacked grandeur, and yet whose reign was full of important events. This king was guided by the ever-watchful mind of another man, who enlightened his liege the way this lamp illuminates his coffin. That man was the real king, Raoul; the other was a phantom into which he poured his soul. And yet, so powerful is the majesty of monarchy, that wise man doesn’t have the honor to be buried at the feet of he for whose glory he expended his life. Remember, Raoul, that though that wise man served a little king, he by his devotion made his monarchy great. For there are two things within the palace of the Louvre: a king, who dies—and royalty, which does not.
“That reign is passed, Raoul; that minister, so dreaded, so feared, so hated by his master, has gone to his grave, drawing after himself the king who didn’t dare to survive alone, lest he should destroy his own great work—for a king only builds when he has God, or the spirit of God, near to him. Back then everyone regarded the death of the cardinal as a deliverance—just as I myself, as blind as my contemporaries, sometimes opposed the designs of that great man who held France in his hands, and who, clenching or opening them, choked it or gave it air as he willed. If I wasn’t crushed, me and my friends, by his terrible wrath, then I was probably spared so I could tell you this today: Raoul, do not confuse the king with the monarchy. The king is only a man, but the monarchy is the divine rule of God; if you are ever in doubt about which to serve, abandon the material incarnation in favor of the invisible principle—for the invisible principle is everything. Only God could make this principle tangible by incarnating it in a man.
“Raoul, I feel I can see your future, as if through a cloud. It’s better than ours was, I think. Unlike us, who had a minister without a real king, you will have a king without a minister. You can serve, love, and respect such a king. If this king becomes a tyrant—for omnipotence is dizzying and can drive one to tyranny—then serve, love, and respect the monarchy, the infallible spirit of God upon earth, the celestial spark that makes this dust here so great and so holy that we, gentlemen of high rank as we are, are as nothing before this body at the foot of the staircase, just as this body itself is nothing before the throne of the Lord.”
Twenty Years After Page 24
