Twenty Years After

by Alexander Dumas

  “Monsieur le Vicomte knows I never joke.”

  “Yes, but I also know that the Comte de La Fère said you would stay with me while Olivain went back to Paris. We will follow the orders of Monsieur le Comte.”

  “Not in this circumstance, Monsieur.”

  “Are you disobeying me, by any chance?”

  “Yes, Monsieur—because I must.”

  “You persist, then?”

  “Yes, because I must. I’m going. Good luck, Monsieur le Vicomte.” Grimaud bowed and turned toward the door to leave.

  Raoul, angry and anxious at the same time, followed and grabbed him by the arm. “Grimaud!” Raoul cried. “I said you’re staying!”

  Grimaud faced him. “To do that would mean the death of Monsieur le Comte.” And again, he bowed and turned to leave.

  “Grimaud, my friend,” said the viscount, “you can’t go this way, leaving me dying of worry. Grimaud, speak, speak, in heaven’s name!”

  And Raoul, staggering, fell into a chair.

  “I can tell you only one thing, Monsieur, for the secret you demand isn’t mine to share. You met a monk, didn’t you?”

  The two young men exchanged fearful glances. “Yes.”

  “You led him back to the wounded man?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you get a good look at him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Enough that you’d recognize him if you met him again?”

  “Yes, I swear it,” said Raoul.

  “And I, as well,” said de Guiche.

  “Well, if you ever meet him again,” said Grimaud, “whether on the highway, on the street, in church, wherever—put your boot on him and crush him without pity or mercy, as you would a viper, a serpent, or a cobra. Crush him, and don’t stop until you’re sure he’s dead; the lives of five men are in jeopardy so long as he lives.”

  And without adding another word, Grimaud took advantage of his audience’s shock and terror to leave the premises.

  “Well, Count!” said Raoul, turning to de Guiche. “Didn’t I tell you that monk reminded me of a snake?”

  A moment later they heard a horse gallop past in the street. Raoul ran to the window; it was Grimaud, returning down the road to Paris. He saluted the viscount, waved his hat, and disappeared around the corner.

  As he galloped Grimaud had two thoughts. The first was that, at the rate he was going, his horse wouldn’t last ten leagues. The second was that he was out of money. But Grimaud’s wits had been sharpened by his habitual silence: at the first relay he sold his horse and used the money to hire post-horses for the rest of the journey.

  XXXVII

  The Eve of Battle

  Raoul was roused from these somber reflections by the innkeeper, who rushed into the common room shouting, “The Spaniards! The Spaniards!”

  If true, this was serious enough to drive all other thoughts from their minds. The young men asked for confirmation and were told that the enemy was advancing by way of Houdin and Béthune.

  While Monsieur d’Arminges called for the horses, which were feeding in preparation for departure, the young cavaliers went up to the inn’s highest windows, from which they could see a full corps of infantry and cavalry on the horizon toward Hersin and Lens. This wasn’t just a band of irregulars, this was a whole army. It seemed like a good idea to obey the wisdom of Monsieur d’Arminges this time and retreat.

  The young men ran back downstairs. Monsieur d’Arminges was already mounted, Olivain held the young men’s horses, while the Comte de Guiche’s lackeys guarded the Spanish prisoner between them, mounted on a nag they’d bought to bear him. As an added precaution, his hands had been tied.

  The little troop left at a trot on the road to Cambrin, where they expected to find the prince. But he’d moved the evening before, drawing back toward La Bassée in response to a false report that the enemy was crossing the Lys at Estaires. In fact, misled by this information, the prince had withdrawn his troops from Béthune and concentrated all his forces between Vieille-Chapelle and La Venthie, while he himself, after a reconnaissance ride along the line with the Maréchal de Grammont, had just returned to his headquarters, where he interrogated the officers of his commands as to their situations. But no one had any positive news: for forty-eight hours there had been no contact with the enemy, who seemed to have vanished.

  Never does an enemy army seem so near and therefore so threatening as when it disappears completely. So, the prince’s mood, unlike his usual habit, was sullen and anxious, when a duty officer entered and announced to the Maréchal de Grammont that someone wanted to speak to him. The Duc de Grammont glanced at the prince, who nodded, and the marshal went out. The prince followed him with his eyes, his gaze fixed on the door, and no one dared to speak for fear of interrupting his thoughts.

  Suddenly a distant thud trembled the air. The prince leapt up, extending his hand in the direction whence the sound came. He knew quite well what it was: cannon fire.

  Everyone else had risen as well. At that moment the door opened: “Monseigneur,” said the Maréchal de Grammont, radiant, “if Your Highness will permit, my son, the Comte de Guiche, and his traveling companion, the Vicomte de Bragelonne, can give him news of the enemy—for they’ve seen them.”

  “How’s that?” the prince said eagerly. “If I’ll permit it? I don’t just permit it, I require it! Have them enter.”

  The marshal pushed in the two young men, who found themselves in front of the prince. “Speak, Messieurs,” said the prince, saluting them. “Talk first, and we’ll exchange the usual compliments later. The most urgent thing now is to know where the enemy is and what he’s doing.”

  It fell naturally to the Comte de Guiche to do the talking—not only was he the older of the two youths, but he’d already been presented to the prince by his father. Raoul had never seen the prince before, but de Guiche had known him quite a while, so he was the one who told the prince what they’d observed from the inn at Mazingarbe.

  Meanwhile, Raoul was studying this young general, already so famous from the battles of Rocroi, Fribourg, and Nördlingen. Since the death of his father, Henri de Bourbon,99 Louis de Bourbon was Prince de Condé, and was nicknamed, according to the custom of the time, “Monsieur le Prince.” He was a young man aged twenty-six or twenty-seven, eagle-eyed and hook-nosed—an agl’ occhi grifani,100 as Dante put it. He was of middle height, with long, flowing hair, and had all the qualities of a great general, being decisive, courageous, and quick-witted. This didn’t prevent him from being at the same time a gentleman of elegance and spirit, so that besides the revolution he brought to warfare due to the new ideas that he embodied, he also led a social revolution in Paris among the young nobles of the Court, of whom he was the natural leader. These young courtiers were called the petit-maîtres by the aging social lions of the previous reign, for whom Bassompierre, Bellegarde, and the Duc d’Angoulême had been the models.

  A few words from the Comte de Guiche, along with the sound of the guns, enabled the prince to grasp the situation. The enemy had crossed the Lys at Saint-Venant was marching on Lens, doubtless intending to take the city and cut off the French army from France. They could hear closer cannon fire now, louder thumps drowning out the farther thunder, as French heavy guns began to reply to the Spanish and Lorrainer artillery.

  But how strong was this attack? Was it just a corps intended to create a diversion, or was it the entire army? That was the prince’s next question, to which de Guiche was unable to give a definitive response. It was the critical issue, the one for which the prince needed an exact and positive answer.

  By this time Raoul had gotten over his initial timidity, and approached the prince to say, “If Monseigneur will allow me to hazard a few words on the subject, I might be able to help.”

  The prince turned, looked the young man over, and seemed to size him up at a glance. Seeing the youth was no more than fifteen, he smiled reassuringly. “Of course, Monsieur—speak,” he said, softening his commandin
g voice, as if addressing a woman.

  Raoul said, blushing, “Monseigneur might want to interrogate our Spanish prisoner.”

  “You took a Spanish prisoner?” the prince cried.

  “Yes, Monseigneur.”

  “Why, so we did,” added de Guiche. “I’d quite forgotten.”

  “Don’t be so modest—you’re the one who took him,” Raoul said, smiling.

  The old marshal turned toward the viscount, grateful for this praise of his son, while the prince called out, “This young man is right—bring in the prisoner.”

  While they were marching him in, the prince took de Guiche aside and asked him how the prisoner had been taken, and who this young man was.

  The prince, returning to Raoul, said, “Monsieur, I know you have a letter of recommendation from my sister, Madame de Longueville, but I see you prefer to recommend yourself by giving such good advice.”

  “Monseigneur,” said Raoul, blushing, “I didn’t wish to interrupt Your Highness’s important conversations with my small affairs—but here’s the letter.”

  “Very well,” said the prince. “You can give it to me later. Here comes the prisoner, and right now that’s the urgent thing.”

  They brought in the Spanish irregular. He was a condottiere, one of those mercenaries who at that time were still selling themselves to anyone who could pay and give them free reign to pillage. Since his capture he hadn’t said a word, so that even his captors didn’t know his nationality.

  The prince regarded him with an air of disgust. “What country do you come from?” he asked.

  The prisoner replied with a few words in a foreign language.

  “Hmm. Apparently, he’s Spanish,” said the prince. “Do you speak Spanish, Grammont?”

  “Not much, Monseigneur.”

  “And I, not at all,” said the prince, laughing. “Messieurs,” he said to his gathered staff, “does anyone speak Spanish who can act as an interpreter?”

  “I do, Monseigneur,” said Raoul.

  “Ah! So, you speak Spanish?”

  “Well enough, I think, to serve Your Highness’s purpose in this matter.”

  All the while, the prisoner stood impassively, as if he had no idea what was being said.

  “Monseigneur desires to know your nationality,” Raoul said in the purest Castilian.

  “Ich bin ein Deutscher,” replied the prisoner.

  “What the devil did he say?” asked the prince. “What fresh gibberish is this?”

  “He says he’s a German, Monseigneur,” said Raoul. “But I don’t believe it, because his accent is bad, and his pronunciation is terrible.”

  “So, you speak German, too?” asked the prince.

  “Yes, Monseigneur,” Raoul said.

  “Well enough to interrogate him in that language?”

  “Yes, Monseigneur.”

  “Question him, then.”

  Raoul began the interrogation, and the results supported his first opinion. The prisoner couldn’t or wouldn’t understand what Raoul was saying, and Raoul, in return, only poorly understood his responses, which came in a mix of Flemish and Alsatian. But despite the prisoner’s efforts to avoid being understood, Raoul identified the man’s native accent.

  “Non siete Spagnuolo, non siete Tedesco, siete Italiano,” Raoul said. “You’re neither Spanish nor German, you’re Italian.”

  The prisoner started and bit his lip.

  “Ah! I understood that perfectly,” said the Prince de Condé, “and since he’s Italian, I’ll continue the interrogation. Thank you, Viscount,” continued the prince, laughing. “I appoint you from this moment to be my interpreter.”

  But the prisoner was no more disposed to answer in Italian than in any other language; what he wanted was to evade giving answers. Thus, he knew nothing—not the number of the enemy, nor who commanded them, nor the direction of their movements.

  “Very well,” said the prince, who understood what was behind this pretended ignorance. “This man was caught plundering and murdering, and could have purchased his life by answering—but since he won’t talk, take him out and shoot him.”

  The prisoner turned pale, and the two soldiers who’d brought him each took an arm and led him to the door, while the prince, turning to the Maréchal de Grammont, seemed already to have dismissed the matter from his mind.

  At the door, the prisoner tried to stop the soldiers, who, following their orders, tried to force him to continue. “Hold on,” said the prisoner in French. “I’m ready to talk, Monseigneur.”

  “Oh ho!” said the prince, laughing. “I thought you might. I have a secret method for loosening tongues; young men, profit by my example for when your time comes to command.”

  “But only on condition,” continued the prisoner, “that Your Highness swears to let me live.”

  “By my faith as a gentleman,” said the prince.

  “In that case, ask away, Monseigneur.”

  “Where is the army crossing the Lys?”

  “Between Saint-Venant and Aire.”

  “Who is in command?”

  “Count Fuensaldagna, General Beck, and the archduke101 in person.”

  “How many men do they have?”

  “Eighteen thousand men and thirty-six guns.”

  “And their goal?”

  “They march on Lens.”

  “You see, Messieurs!” said the prince, turning in triumph toward the Maréchal de Grammont and the other officers.

  “Yes, Monseigneur,” said the marshal. “You’ve gained all that human intelligence could learn.”

  “Call back Le Plessis-Bellièvre, Villequier, and d’Erlac,” said the prince. “Recall all the troops that are south of the Lys, and prepare them to march tonight; tomorrow, in all probability, we attack the enemy.”

  “But, Monseigneur,” said the Maréchal de Grammont, “consider that even with all the troops we have available, it’s no more than thirteen thousand men.”

  “Monsieur le Maréchal,” said the prince, with that noble look that belonged only to him, “it’s with small armies that we win the greatest battles.” Then, turning to the prisoner: “Take this man out and guard him carefully. His life depends on the information he’s given us: if it’s wrong, he’s to be shot.”

  The prisoner was led away.

  “Comte de Guiche,” said the prince, “it’s been too long since you saw your father; stay close to him. Monsieur,” he continued, addressing Raoul, “if you’re not too fatigued, follow me.”

  “To the end of the world, Monseigneur!” cried Raoul, feeling for this young general, who seemed to live up to his reputation, a genuine admiration.

  The prince smiled; he despised flatterers but enjoyed being admired. “Well, Monsieur,” he said, “you’re a good advisor—you’ve already proven that. Tomorrow we’ll see how you behave in action.”

  “And I, Monseigneur,” said the marshal, “what shall I do?”

  “Stay here to receive the troops. I’ll either come back to take command myself, or I’ll send a courier to have them led to me. Twenty guards, well mounted, is all I’ll need as escort.”

  “That’s not very many,” said the marshal.

  “It’s enough,” said the prince. “Have you a good horse, Monsieur de Bragelonne?”

  “Mine was killed this morning, Monseigneur, and for the time being I’m mounted on my lackey’s.”

  “Go to my stables and choose for yourself the horse that best suits you. No false modesty, take the horse that seems best to you. You may need it tonight, and you’re sure to need it tomorrow.”

  Raoul didn’t wait to be told twice; he knew that with superiors, and especially when superiors were princes, the height of etiquette is to obey with question or delay. He went to the stables and chose an Andalusian dun, and then put on its saddle and bridle himself—for Athos had warned him that, in times of danger, he should never entrust that important task to anyone else. He then rejoined the prince, who had just that moment mounted his own
horse. “Now, Monsieur,” he said to Raoul, “would you show me that letter of recommendation?”

  Raoul handed the letter to the prince. “Stay with me, Monsieur,” the prince said to him.

  The prince spurred on, wrapped the reins around his saddle’s pommel, as he usually did when he wanted his hands free, unsealed Madame de Longueville’s letter, and galloped up the road to Lens, accompanied by Raoul and followed by his small escort. Meanwhile, the messengers who were to recall the troops were riding off at full speed in all directions.

  The prince read the letter as he rode. “Monsieur,” he said after a moment, “you are described in the best possible terms. The only thing I have to say is, from what little I’ve already seen and heard, I think even better of you than they do.” Raoul bowed.

  However, at every step the little troop took toward Lens, the cannon fire seemed closer. The prince’s gaze turned toward the thunder with the fierce concentration of a bird of prey. It was as if his eyes had the power to see through the barrier of trees that stretched before him toward the horizon. From time to time his nostrils dilated, as if seeking the scent of gun smoke, and he blew like a horse.

  Finally, they heard a gun thump so close that it was obvious they were less than a league from the fighting. As they rounded a bend, they saw ahead the little village of Aunay.

  The peasants were in a panic. The rumors of Spanish cruelty had everyone terrified; the women had already fled, retreating toward Vitry, leaving but few men behind. They ran at the sight of the prince, until one of them recognized him. “Ah, Monseigneur,” he said, “have you come to chase off those wretched Spaniards and thieving Lorrainers?”

  “Yes,” said the prince, “if you’d be willing to serve as my guide.”

  “Willingly, Monseigneur. Where would Your Highness like to go?”

  “To some elevated spot where I can see Lens and its environs.”

  “In that case, I’m your man.”

  “I can trust you? You’re a good Frenchman?”

  “I was a soldier at Rocroi, Monseigneur.”

  “Here,” said the prince, giving him his purse. “That’s for Rocroi. Now, do you want a horse, or would you rather walk?”