For a moment there was a heavy silence, which was broken by Aramis. “I swear,” he said, with a calm brow and steady look, but in a voice that trembled with emotion, “I swear I have no hatred against those who were my friends. Porthos, I regret having crossed swords with you. I swear for good and all that my blade will never threaten you again, and moreover, that even deep in my secret thoughts, I will bear you no hostility. Now come, Athos.”
Athos made a move as if to withdraw. “Oh, no you don’t! You’re not going anywhere!” cried d’Artagnan, led by one of those irresistible impulses that betrayed the warmth of his heart and the honesty of his soul. “You’re going nowhere, because I, too, have an oath to swear. I swear I would give the last drop of my blood, the last beat of my heart to keep the esteem of a man like you, Athos, and the friendship of a man like you, Aramis.”
And he leapt into the embrace of Athos. “My son!” said Athos, pressing him to his heart.
“And I,” said Porthos, “I swear nothing, because I’m choking. Sacre bleu! If I had to fight you, I think I’d let you stab me through and through, because I never loved anyone so much in this world!” And honest Porthos, bursting into tears, threw himself into Aramis’s arms.
“My friends,” said Athos, “that’s what I was hoping for, that’s what I was expecting from two hearts like yours. I’ve said it and I repeat, our destinies are inextricably twined, even when we go by different routes. I respect your judgment, d’Artagnan; I respect your conviction, Porthos; but though we fight for opposing sides, we must remain friends. Ministers, princes, even kings may pass by like storms, and civil war may drown everything in flames, but will we withstand all that? I believe we will.”
“Yes,” said d’Artagnan, “we’re fellow musketeers to the end, our single flag that famous bullet-riddled napkin of the Saint-Gervais bastion, which the great cardinal had embroidered with three fleur-de-lys.”
“Yes,” said Aramis, “Cardinalist or Frondeur means nothing! In duels we are each other’s seconds, in dangerous affairs we’re devoted friends, and in revelry we’re joyous companions!”
“And every time we meet in the fray,” said Athos, “recall these words: the Place Royale! Then let us shift our swords to our left hands and reach out with our right, even in the midst of slaughter!”
“I just love the way you talk,” said Porthos.
“You are the greatest of men,” said d’Artagnan. “Next to us, you are a true giant.”
Athos smiled with ineffable joy. “Then it is settled,” he said. “Come, Messieurs, your hands. Do you consider yourself Christians?”
“Pardieu!” said d’Artagnan.
“We will be so, at least on this occasion, to remain faithful to our oath,” said Aramis.
“Ah, I’ll swear by whatever you like,” said Porthos, “even Mahomet! Devil take me if I’ve ever been as happy as I am now.” And the good Porthos wiped his still-moist eyes.
“Does anyone have a cross?” asked Athos.
Porthos and d’Artagnan winced and shook their heads, like men embarrassed by the amount of a tavern bill. But Aramis smiled and drew from his breast a cross glittering with diamonds, hanging from his neck by a string of pearls. “I’ve got one,” he said.
“Good!” said Athos. “Now swear on this cross, which, bejeweled though it is, is still a cross—swear we shall be united, forever and always. And may this oath bind not just ourselves, but even our descendants. Does this oath suit you?”
“Yes!” they said with one voice.
“You dog!” d’Artagnan whispered to Aramis. “You’ve made us swear on the crucifix of a lady Frondeur!”
XXXII
The Oise Ferry
We hope that the reader has not forgotten the young traveler we left on the road to Flanders.
As Raoul, looking behind him, finally lost sight of his guardian, whom he’d left in front of the royal basilica, he spurred his horse onward to escape his sad thoughts, and to hide from Olivain their traces on his face.
An hour’s brisk ride soon dissipated the dark clouds that shadowed the young man’s imagination. For Raoul, the unwonted pleasures of freedom—pleasures so sweet, even to those who have never known constraint—turned to gold heaven, earth, and especially that far horizon of life called the future.
However, after several attempts at conversation with Olivain, he realized that days passed in that manner would be sadly long and dull, and he missed talking with the count. That voice, so mild, so engaging and persuasive, came back to him as he passed through towns that were new to him, places that would have come alive with the fascinating, and useful, information that would have been conveyed by Athos, that wisest and most amusing of guides.
A different memory saddened Raoul when they reached the town of Louvres and he saw, half-hidden behind a screen of poplars, a small château that strongly reminded him of La Vallière. He stopped to gaze at it for almost ten minutes, and then resumed his journey with a sigh, not even answering Olivain’s respectful question as to what had attracted his attention. The appearance of some objects plucks at the strings of memory, striking a chord can sometimes evoke a thread that, like Ariadne’s, leads through a labyrinth of thoughts where we go astray, following shadows of the past. The sight of that château had sent Raoul fifty leagues to the west, back to the moment when he’d taken his leave of little Louise, and every landmark—a copse of oaks, a wind vane atop a slate roof—reminded him that instead of returning to his childhood friends, each step took him further from them, and that perhaps he had left them forever.
Head hanging, heart heavy, he ordered Olivain to lead the horses to a little inn he saw about a musket-shot up the road. There he alighted, sat at a table under a beautiful stand of flowering chestnuts murmuring with a multitude of bees, and told Olivain to go to the host and get stationery, pen, and ink.
Olivain went on his way, while Raoul sat, elbows on the table, gazing sightlessly across a charming landscape of green fields dotted with stands of trees, his hair slowly frosting as blossoms fluttered down to land unnoticed on his head.
Raoul sat for several minutes, lost in his reveries, before he noticed a ruddy figure had entered his field of vision, white cap on his head, apron around his waist, towel on his arm, while offering him a pen and paper. “Ah ha!” said the apparition. “It’s clear that all young gentlemen think alike, as it isn’t a quarter of an hour since a young lord, well mounted like you, good looking and about your age, stopped before this grove and made me bring out this table and chair. He had dinner here with an older gent I took to be his tutor, and they ate a fine loaf of paté without leaving behind a morsel, and drained a bottle of old Mâcon wine without leaving a drop—but fortunately we have more loaves and more bottles, and if Monsieur would like to order something . . .”
“No, my friend,” said Raoul, smiling, “I thank you, but right now all I need are the things I asked for—but if the ink is black and the pen good, I’m happy to pay the price of a bottle for the pen, and a loaf for the ink.”
“Well, Monsieur, in that case,” said the host, “I’ll give the loaf and bottle to your servant and throw the pen and ink into the bargain.”
“Do as you like,” said Raoul, who was unfamiliar with this ornament of society, the brand of innkeeper who, when there were robbers on the highway, served them as guests, and when there were none, did their best to take their place. The host, satisfied with this response, put paper, ink, and pen on the table. As it happened, the pen was passable, and Raoul began to write.
The host lingered for a moment, struck with involuntary admiration by that charming young face, at once so sweet and so serious. Beauty has power over everyone.
“He’s not like that guest who just left,” the host said to Olivain, who’d come to see if Raoul needed anything. “Your young master has no appetite.”
“Monsieur had appetite enough three days ago, but what can you do? He lost it the day before yesterday.” Olivain and the host walked toward the
inn, with Olivain, as usual with servants who are happy in their service, regaling the innkeeper with all his young master’s virtues.
Meanwhile, Raoul wrote:
Monsieur,
After four hours on the march, I pause to write you because I miss you at every moment—I keep turning my head to speak to you, as if you were still there. I was so dazed when I left, so distracted by the sadness of our separation, that I only feebly expressed all the gratitude and affection I feel for you. Please pardon me, Monsieur, for your heart is so generous, I’m sure you understood all that was happening in mine. Write to me, Monsieur, I beg you, as your advice is food and drink to me—and I admit, if I may, that I’m anxious, as it seemed to me you were preparing yourself for some sort of dangerous venture, something I didn’t dare ask about, since you said nothing about it to me. Now that you’re no longer near I’m afraid every minute of going wrong somehow. You have always been my guide and support, Monsieur, and today, I swear, I feel very alone.
If you receive news from Blois, Monsieur, would you be so kind as to pass along anything about my little friend Mademoiselle de La Vallière, whose health, you’ll remember, gave me some anxiety? Please understand, my dear Guardian, how precious to me are the memories of the time I spent with you. I hope you’ll also think of me sometimes, and if you miss me and regret my absence, it will fill me with joy to know you appreciate the tiniest part of how I feel about you.
Having finished his missive, Raoul felt better; he checked to make sure neither the host nor Olivain was looking, and then kissed the paper: a mute and touching gesture he hoped Athos would instinctively feel when he opened the letter.
Meanwhile, Olivain emptied his bottle and ate his paté, while the horses were also fed and watered. Raoul waved to the host, threw a crown on the table, mounted his horse, and at Senlis, dropped his letter in the mail.
This brief rest enabled the riders and their horses to continue their journey without stopping. At Verberie, Raoul directed Olivain to ask about the young gentleman who preceded them; he was said to have passed not three-quarters of an hour earlier, but he was well mounted, as the innkeeper had said, and was keeping a good pace.
“Let’s try to catch up to this gentleman,” Raoul said to Olivain. “If he’s going to the army like us, it’ll be pleasant to have company.”
It was four in the afternoon when Raoul arrived at Compiègne; he dined heartily, and again asked about the young gentleman who preceded him. He had also paused there at the Bell and Bottle Inn, the best in Compiègne, but had continued on his way, saying he intended to sleep at Noyon. “Then we’ll sleep in Noyon as well,” said Raoul.
“Monsieur,” said Olivain respectfully, “allow me to point out that we’ve already tired out our horses today. It would be better, I think, to spend the night here, and leave early in the morning tomorrow. Eighteen leagues are enough for a first day’s ride.”
“The Comte de La Fère wants me to make haste and reach Monsieur le Prince by the morning of the fourth day,” Raoul replied. “If we push on to Noyon, that will be no longer a ride than those we made going from Blois to Paris. We’ll arrive by eight, the horses will have all night to rest, and we’ll be on the road again by five tomorrow morning.”
Olivain didn’t dare to oppose such determination, but as he followed, he muttered through his teeth, “Go ahead, burn yourself out on the first day; tomorrow, instead of making twenty leagues, you’ll do only ten, and then five the day after that, and you’ll spend the fourth day in bed. These young folk are all such show-offs.”
We can see that Olivain was not quite of the caliber of Planchet or Grimaud.
Raoul was tired, in fact, but he wished to test his strength, and raised on the principles of Athos, whom he was sure had spoken a thousand times of riding in twenty-five-league stages, he wanted to try to match his model. D’Artagnan as well, that man of iron who seemed made of nothing but nerve and muscle, had fired him with admiration.
So, he kept pushing his horse’s pace, despite Olivain’s muttered commentary, following a charming little road that led to a ferry, which he’d been assured would cut a league-long loop out of his route. Topping a crest, he saw before him the Oise River. A small troop of horsemen stood on the bank, preparing to embark on the ferry. Raoul had no doubt this was the gentleman and his escort; he uttered a cry but was too far away to be heard. Then, despite his horse’s fatigue, he put it into a gallop, but a dip in the terrain caused him to lose sight of the travelers, and when he reached the next crest, the ferry had already left the near bank and was crossing to the other side.
Raoul, seeing he had no chance to catch the travelers in time, paused to wait for Olivain. Just then a cry seemed to come from the direction of the river; Raoul turned back toward it and, shading his eyes from the setting sun with his hand, called out, “Olivain! What’s going on over there?”
A second cry came, more piercing than the first.
“Oh, Monsieur!” Olivain said. “The ferry rope broke, and the boat is drifting. But is someone in the water? I can’t tell.”
“No doubt about it!” cried Raoul, squinting at the river against the glare from the sun. “A horse and its rider.”
“They’re sinking!” cried Olivain.
It was true: Raoul was certain an accident had occurred, and a man was drowning before his eyes. He slapped his horse on the withers, dug in his spurs, and the animal, inspired to move, galloped to the dock, leapt over the guardrail and plunged into the river, splashing waves of foam.
“Monsieur!” cried Olivain. “Good God! What are you doing?”
Raoul guided his swimming horse toward the man in danger. It was a familiar exercise for the mount; raised on the banks of the Loire, it was at home in the water, and had crossed that river a thousand times. Athos, foreseeing the time when the viscount would be a soldier, had trained him in every eventuality.
“Mon Dieu!” sputtered Olivain desperately. “What would the count say if he saw you?”
“The count would do just as I’m doing,” Raoul replied, pressing his horse forward.
“But, but, what about me?” called Olivain, pacing back and forth along the bank. “How am I supposed to get across?”
“Jump in, faint-heart!” cried Raoul, still swimming. Then, addressing the traveler, who was struggling not twenty paces from him, he called, “Courage, Monsieur, courage! We’re coming to help.”
Olivain went forward, then back, made his horse rear, turned it away, and finally, stabbed to the heart by shame, rushed it into the river as Raoul had done, while repeating, “I’m lost, I’m dead, I’m lost, I’m dead!”
Meanwhile the ferry boat drifted away, borne downstream by the current, and shouts were heard from the passengers. A gray-haired man had leapt into the river and was swimming strongly toward the drowning person, but he made slow progress as he was swimming upstream.
Raoul continued his efforts and was visibly gaining ground, but the horse and rider were sinking right before his eyes; the horse had only his nostrils above water, and the rider, who’d dropped the reins, was extending his arms as he slipped deeper. Another moment and he would be gone.
“Courage,” cried Raoul, “courage!”
“Too late,” murmured the young man. “Too . . . late.”
The water closed over his head and his voice was silenced.
Raoul stood and jumped from his horse, which he left to save itself, and in three or four strokes was near the gentleman. He immediately got hold of the horse’s bridle and lifted its head from the water; the animal breathed more freely, and as if it understood that help had arrived, it redoubled its efforts. Raoul meanwhile grabbed one of the young man’s hands and carried it to the horse’s mane, which the man clung to with the tenacity of the drowning. Sure that the cavalier wouldn’t let go, Raoul turned his attention to the horse, which he guided to the opposite bank by swimming alongside and talking to it in an encouraging tone.
At last the animal stumbled into the shoals
and set firm foot on the sand.
“Saved!” cried the gray-haired man, as he arrived on the horse’s other side.
“Saved,” the young gentleman murmured weakly, releasing the mane and slipping from the horse into Raoul’s arms.
Raoul was only a few steps from shore; he carried the unconscious cavalier, laid him on the grass, loosened his collar, and undid the buttons of his doublet. A moment later, the gray-haired man joined him.
Olivain finally managed to reach shore as well, after making the sign of the cross over and over again. The folks on the ferry were headed back upstream as best they could, poling their boat along the shallows.
Gradually, thanks to the care of Raoul and the cavalier’s elder companion, the bloom returned to the victim’s pale cheeks. He opened his eyes and looked around wildly, but soon focused on the one who’d saved him. “Ah, Monsieur, there you are!” he cried. “If not for you, I’d be dead twice over.”
“But you’re recovering, Monsieur, as you see,” said Raoul, “and now we can both forego our next bath.”
“Oh, Monsieur, how much we owe you!” cried the gray-haired man.
“Ah, there you are, good d’Arminges! I gave you a scare, didn’t I? But it’s your own fault: as my tutor, why didn’t you teach me how to swim?”
“Oh, Monsieur le Comte,” said the older man. “If you had a mischance, how could I ever face your father the marshal?”
“But how did the thing happen?” asked Raoul.
“Eh, Monsieur, that’s easy to tell,” said he who’d been addressed as count. “We were a third of the way across when the ferry rope broke. The boatmen shouted and grabbed for it, and my horse took fright and jumped into the water. I swim badly and didn’t dare to let go; I froze, and instead of helping my horse I was hindering it. I was drowning as bravely as I could, when you arrived just in time to pull me from the water. And now, since you saved my life, we must be friends till death.”
“Your servant, Monsieur, I assure you,” said Raoul, bowing.
Twenty Years After Page 31
