Twenty Years After

by Alexander Dumas

  “As I love God, Monsieur,” said Raoul, “I will respect the monarchy. I will serve the king, and I will try, even unto death, to live for the king, the monarchy, and God. Have I understood you correctly?”

  Athos smiled. “You have a noble nature,” he said. “Take, now, your sword.”

  Raoul went down on one knee.

  “This sword was borne by my father, a gentleman loyal to the crown. I bore it in my turn, and did honor to him sometimes when the hilt was in my hand and the scabbard hung at my side. If your hand is not yet strong enough to wield it,91 Raoul, so much the better, as you will have more time to learn what to do when the time comes to draw it.”

  “Monsieur,” said Raoul, receiving the sword from the hands of the count, “I owe everything to you—but this sword is the most precious gift you have given me. I shall bear it, I swear, as a grateful man.”

  And he put his lips to the hilt and kissed it respectfully.

  “It is well,” said Athos. “Rise, Viscount, and embrace me.”

  Raoul rose and fell with emotion into the arms of Athos.

  “Adieu,” murmured the count, his heart melting. “Adieu, and think sometimes of me.”

  “Oh, forever and always!” cried the young man. “I swear to you, Monsieur, that at my end, your name will be the last name I speak, and my final thought will be the memory of you.”

  To hide his feelings, Athos climbed quickly back up the stairs, gave a gold coin to the tomb guardian, bowed before the altar, and went back out the entrance of the church, where he found Olivain waiting with the horses.

  “Olivain,” he said, pointing to Raoul’s baldric, “tighten that belt’s buckle, as the sword is hanging a bit low on it. Good. Now, you will accompany Monsieur le Vicomte until Grimaud joins you, at which time you’ll leave the viscount. Do you hear, Raoul? Grimaud is a wise old servant full of courage and prudence; Grimaud will do well for you.”

  “Yes, Monsieur,” said Raoul.

  “Now to horse! I want to see how you ride.”

  Raoul obeyed.

  “Goodbye, Raoul!” said the count. “And fare you well, my dear child.”

  “Goodbye, Monsieur,” said Raoul, “and farewell, my beloved protector!”

  Athos waved his hand, because he dared not speak, and Raoul rode away, his head uncovered in respect.

  Athos stood, motionless, watching him go until he disappeared around the corner of the street. Then the count tossed his horse’s bridle to a peasant, slowly went back up the stairs, entered the church, knelt down in the darkest corner, and prayed.

  XXV

  One of the Duc de Beaufort’s Forty Methods of Escape

  The same time passed for the prisoner as for those working on his escape—but for the prisoner, it passed far more slowly. Unlike those men who eagerly commit to a dangerous enterprise and grow cooler and calmer as the time for action approaches, the Duc de Beaufort, whose fiery courage was proverbial, but who had been chained up for five years, now seemed to want to hurry the very hours themselves toward the designated time to break out. There was nothing for him now but the escape, other than those projects he planned for afterward—projects, it must be admitted, that in comparison had grown vague and uncertain, though the desire for revenge still choked his heart. Beaufort’s escape would be a terrible blow to Monsieur de Chavigny, whom he hated due to the petty persecutions he’d suffered at his hands, and an even worse disaster for Mazarin, whom he loathed for the unforgivable insult of his imprisonment. (We note that Monsieur de Beaufort maintained a due proportion in his hatred of the governor and the minister, placing the master over his subordinate.)

  Seething in his prison, Beaufort, who knew so well the court of the Palais Royal, and the relationship between queen and cardinal, imagined to himself the dramatic reaction to the news, the cries that would echo from the minister’s office to Anne of Austria’s chambers: Beaufort has escaped! Repeating this to himself, Beaufort smiled softly, as though already out and breathing the open air of fields and forests, with a powerful horse galloping beneath him as he shouted aloud, “I’m free!”

  But when he came out of his reverie he was still between four walls, no more than ten paces from where La Ramée sat twiddling his thumbs, while outside in the antechamber the guards drank and laughed.

  The only thing that made this odious tableau bearable, so strange is the human mind, was the sullen face of Grimaud, whose features he had so hated at first, but which now embodied all his hopes. To him, Grimaud was as handsome as Antinous.92

  Needless to say, this was all a fancy of the prisoner’s feverish imagination. Grimaud was the same as he’d always been. That was how he maintained the confidence of his superior, La Ramée, who now relied on him more than he did on himself, since, as we’ve said, La Ramée felt at heart a certain sympathy for Monsieur de Beaufort.

  Also, the good La Ramée was looking forward to his private supper party with the prisoner. La Ramée had only one fault: he was a gourmand who loved a good pastry and adored an excellent wine. And the successor to Père Marteau had promised him a pie of pheasant instead of chicken, and Chambertin instead of the usual Macon vintage. All this, plus the company of this excellent prince of whom he’d grown fond, who played such clever tricks on Chavigny and made such droll jests about Mazarin, all this made Pentecost for La Ramée the most anticipated festival of the year.

  So, La Ramée awaited the hour of six o’clock with nearly as much impatience as the duke.

  In the morning he had occupied himself by double-checking the details, and, trusting only himself, had made a personal visit to Père Marteau’s successor. His expectations were surpassed: he was shown a true colossus of a pie, its upper crust adorned with the Beaufort coat of arms—and though it was as yet empty, nearby were a prime pheasant and two partridges, neatly larded and perforated like pincushions. Then La Ramée’s mouth had begun to water, and he returned to the duke’s cell rubbing his hands together.

  To crown it all, as we said, Chavigny, trusting in La Ramée, had taken a little trip, leaving that morning after appointing La Ramée Deputy Governor of Vincennes Château.

  As for Grimaud, he just seemed more sullen than ever.

  In the morning, Beaufort had challenged La Ramée to a game of tennis, and at a sign from Grimaud recognized that he needed to pay close attention to everything that followed.

  Grimaud, leading the way, traced the path they were to follow that evening. The tennis court was in what was called the small courtyard of the château. It was usually deserted, only guarded by sentries when Beaufort was playing there, though given the height of the drop over the outside walls this seemed unnecessary.

  There were three doors to open before reaching the small courtyard. Each opened with a different key.

  Once they were in the small courtyard, Grimaud marched stiffly over to sit in a crenellation, his legs dangling outside the wall. It was clear that this was where he intended to tie the rope ladder.

  All of this pantomime, though quite clear to the Duc de Beaufort, was of course unintelligible to La Ramée.

  The contest began. This time, Beaufort was on his game, and it seemed as if he could put the ball wherever he wanted. La Ramée was completely routed.

  Four of Beaufort’s guards assisted in collecting the balls. When the game was over, Beaufort, after lightly mocking La Ramée for his clumsiness, offered the guards two louis d’or to go and drink his health with their other comrades.

  The guards asked permission of La Ramée, and he granted it, but only for the evening. Till then La Ramée had important details to take care of, and he wanted to make sure the prisoner didn’t disappear while he ran his errands. Monsieur de Beaufort could hardly have arranged matters better if he’d done it himself.

  Finally, the clock struck six, and though seven was the hour set for dinner, the food was prepared and served. There on a sideboard stood the colossal pie bearing the arms of the duke, seemingly cooked to perfection, if one could judge by th
e golden color of its flaky crust. The rest of the dinner matched its quality in every way.

  Everyone was impatient: the guards to go and drink, La Ramée to sit down and dine, and Monsieur de Beaufort to escape.

  Only Grimaud was unmoved; Athos had trained him well for this. There were moments when, looking at him, the Duc de Beaufort wondered if he were not in a dream, if this marble figure was actually in his service, and would animate when the time came.

  La Ramée sent away the guards, commending them to drink the prince’s health; then, when they were gone, he closed the doors, put the keys in his pocket, and beckoned the prince to the table with a look that said: Whenever Monseigneur desires.

  The prince looked at Grimaud, and Grimaud looked at the clock; it was barely a quarter after six, and the escape was fixed for seven, so there were still three-quarters of an hour to pass.

  The prince, to gain fifteen minutes, pretended to be engrossed in reading, and asked to finish his chapter. La Ramée approached and looked over his shoulder to see what book so engaged the prince that he would delay sitting down to table when dinner was ready. It was Caesar’s Commentaries, which he himself, contrary to Chavigny’s orders, had provided to the duke three days earlier.

  La Ramée promised himself not to contravene the dungeon’s regulations again. Meanwhile, he uncorked the bottles, and surreptitiously sniffed the pie.

  At half past six, the duke rose and solemnly declared, “No doubt about it, Caesar was the greatest man of antiquity.”

  “You think so, Monseigneur?” said La Ramée.

  “Yes.”

  “Well! As for me,” said La Ramée, “I prefer Hannibal.”

  “Why’s that, La Ramée?” asked the duke.

  “Because he left behind no Commentaries,” said La Ramée with his big smile.

  The duke took the hint and sat down, gesturing for La Ramée to take the place opposite him. The officer didn’t wait to be asked twice.

  Nothing is so expressive as the figure of a true gourmand sitting down to a fine dinner. As he received his bowl of soup from the hands of Grimaud, La Ramée’s face beamed with an expression of perfect bliss. The duke looked at him with a smile. “Ventre-saint-gris, La Ramée!” he cried. “If you told me that somewhere in France, at this moment, there was a happier man, I wouldn’t believe it!”

  “And you would be right, Monseigneur,” said La Ramée. “As for me, I confess that when I’m hungry, I know of no more pleasant sight than that of a well-laid table. And if on top of that he who presides over the table is the grandson of Henri the Great, then you’ll understand, Monseigneur, that the honor one receives doubles the pleasure one takes.”

  The prince bowed in acknowledgment, while a nearly imperceptible smile touched the face of Grimaud where he stood behind La Ramée. “My dear La Ramée,” said the duke, “truly, you know how to turn a compliment.”

  “No, no, Monseigneur,” said La Ramée, sincere and earnest, “no, truly, I say just what I think—there’s no flattery in it.”

  “So, you really do like me?” asked the prince.

  “So much so,” said La Ramée, “that I’ll be inconsolable on the day Your Highness leaves Vincennes.”

  “Saying that is a strange way of showing your affliction.” (The prince meant affection.)

  “Ah, but Monseigneur, what would you do on the outside?” said La Ramée. “Some exploit that would embroil you with the Court and get you locked up in the Bastille instead of Vincennes. Chavigny is not very friendly, I admit,” continued La Ramée, sipping a glass of Madeira, “but Monsieur de Tremblay is much worse.”

  “True enough!” said the duke, amused at the turn the conversation was taking, and glancing at the clock, whose hands moved painfully slowly.

  “What do you expect from the brother of a Capuchin who studied in the school of Cardinal Richelieu? Ah, Monseigneur, believe me, it’s a good thing that the queen, who’s always favored you, or so I’m told, had the good idea of sending you here instead, where you can promenade, play tennis in the fresh air, and eat well.”

  “Truly,” said the duke, “to hear you, La Ramée, I’d have to be some sort of an ingrate to want to leave here.”

  “In fact, Monseigneur, to leave would be the height of ingratitude,” said La Ramée. “But surely Your Highness isn’t speaking seriously.”

  “Alas, I must confess,” said the duke, “perhaps it’s sheer folly, but I still dream of escape.”

  “By one of your famous forty methods, Monseigneur?”

  “But yes!” replied the duke.

  “Monseigneur,” said La Ramée, “so long as we’re baring our souls, tell me of one of these forty methods Your Highness has concocted.”

  “With pleasure,” said the duke. “Grimaud, bring me the pie.”

  “I’m listening,” said La Ramée, leaning back in his chair, holding up his glass, and squinting at it through one eye, in order to see the sun through its ruby liquid.

  The duke glanced at the clock. In ten more minutes, it would strike seven.

  Grimaud brought the pie and placed it before the prince, who lifted his slim silver knife to slice it open, but La Ramée, who feared the flimsy blade would mar the beautiful pastry, handed the duke his own knife, which had a sturdy blade of iron. “Thanks, La Ramée,” said the duke, taking the utensil.

  “Well, Monseigneur,” said the officer, “what is this famous method?”

  “Should I tell you,” replied the duke, “of the one I think the best of all, the one I’ve decided would actually work?”

  “Yes, that one,” said La Ramée.

  “Very well!” said the duke, holding the pie plate with one hand while carving a circle in the pastry with the knife he held in the other. “First of all, I would have to have as a guardian a brave fellow like you, Monsieur La Ramée.”

  “Good!” said La Ramée. “As you see, you have him. What next, Monseigneur?”

  “I would give him my regards.”

  La Ramée bowed.

  “I said to myself,” continued the prince, “that once I had watching me a good fellow like La Ramée, I would have a friend of mine, whom he doesn’t know is my friend, advise him to hire as a subordinate a man who is secretly devoted to me, and will help prepare for my escape.”

  “Go on!” said La Ramée. “That’s not bad.”

  “It isn’t, is it?” said the prince. “For example, the servant of some brave gentleman who is opposed to Mazarin—as all true gentlemen must be.”

  “Hush, Monseigneur!” said La Ramée. “Don’t bring politics into this.”

  “Once I have this servant near me,” continued the duke, “assuming he’s skillful enough to get and keep my guardian’s confidence—then with his aid, I’ll be able to get news from outside.”

  “Ah, yes!” said La Ramée. “But how would you get this news from outside?”

  “Oh, nothing could be easier,” said the Duc de Beaufort. “For example, I could get it by playing tennis.”

  “By playing tennis?” asked La Ramée, beginning to pay closer attention to the duke’s story.

  “Yes, like this: I send a ball into the dry-moat, where a man collects it. The ball contains a letter; from the ramparts I request the man return it, but in place of my ball he throws me a different one—one that, also, contains a letter. So, we’ve exchanged ideas, and no one’s the wiser.”

  “The devil you say!” La Ramée replied, scratching his ear. “I’m glad you warned me of this—I’ll keep a close eye on your ball collector.”

  The duke smiled.

  “But,” said La Ramée, “that’s really no more than a means of correspondence.”

  “That’s not nothing, it seems to me.”

  “It’s not enough, though.”

  “Ah, but how about this: suppose I tell my friends, ‘Do you think that, at a given hour on a given day, you could be on the other side of the moat with two spare horses?’”

  “What use is that?” said La Ramée, with som
e anxiety. “Unless those horses have wings to fly to the top of the wall to pick you up.”

  “Eh, mon Dieu,” the prince casually said, “the horses don’t need to fly to the top of the wall so long as I have a way to get down.”

  “Such as what?”

  “Such as a rope ladder.”

  “Yes, but,” La Ramée said, trying to laugh, “a rope ladder can’t come up in a tennis ball.”

  “No, it has to enter inside something else.”

  “Inside something else! Such as . . . ?”

  “Oh, perhaps . . . in a pie.”

  “In a pie?” cried La Ramée.

  “Sure. Suppose, for a moment, that my faithful butler, Noirmont, spent enough money to purchase the bakery of Père Marteau . . .”

  “Well, what then?” asked La Ramée, trembling.

  “What then? My La Ramée, a confirmed gourmand, sees his lovely pies, which look so much better than their predecessors, and offers to get me a sample. I accept, provided that La Ramée shares this sample with me. For comfort and privacy, La Ramée dismisses the guards, keeping only Grimaud to serve us. Grimaud, naturally, is the servant recommended by my friend, secretly devoted to me and ready to assist in everything. The time of my escape is fixed for seven o’clock. And, well! As you can see, it’s very nearly seven . . .”

  “And when it’s seven . . . ?” continued La Ramée, sweat beading his forehead.

  “When it’s seven,” replied the duke, suiting his actions to his words, “I cut the crust off the top of this giant pie. Within it I find two poniards, a rope ladder, and a choke-pear. I place the point of one poniard to La Ramée’s chest and I say, ‘Mon ami, I’m very sorry, but if you make a move or cry out, you’re a dead man!’”

  As we said, the duke’s words reflected his actions. The duke ended standing beside La Ramée, pressing the point of a poniard into his chest with such resolve that his threat couldn’t be doubted.