Twenty Years After

by Alexander Dumas

  “On foot, Monseigneur, on foot—I always served in the infantry. Besides, I intend to lead Your Highness by paths we’ll have to pursue afoot.”

  “Let’s go,” said the prince, “there’s no time to lose.”

  The veteran set off, running ahead of the prince’s horse. A hundred paces outside the village, he took a small path that wound along the bottom of a pretty glen. For half a league they rode through the woods, with cannon fire so close that it seemed after each shot they could hear the whistling of the ball. Finally, they found a path that left the valley to climb the hillside. The peasant turned up this path, inviting the prince to follow him. The latter dismounted, ordered Raoul and one of his aides to do the same, told the others to stay behind but remain on the alert, and began to climb the path.

  After a few minutes they reached the ruins of an old château whose tumbled walls crowned a hilltop with a view of the surrounding region. A quarter-league away they could see Lens, and in front of Lens, the entire enemy army.

  At a single glance the prince surveyed the ground from Lens to Vimy. In an instant, the complete plan of the battle that was to save France the next day formed in his mind. He took a pencil, tore a page from his tablet, and wrote:

  My dear Marshal,

  In an hour Lens will be in the hands of the enemy. Come to me and bring the whole army with you. Meet me at Vendin, where I’ll have orders for the troops’ disposition. By tomorrow night we’ll have retaken Lens and beaten the enemy.

  Then, turning toward Raoul, he said, “Go, Monsieur, at full speed to deliver this letter to Monsieur de Grammont.”

  Raoul bowed, took the paper, ran back down the slope, jumped on his horse, and galloped off. Fifteen minutes later he reached the marshal.

  Some of the summoned troops had already arrived, and the rest were coming in from moment to moment. The Maréchal de Grammont placed himself at the head of all the available infantry and cavalry and took the road to Vendin, leaving the Duc de Châtillon to assemble and bring up the rest. All the artillery had arrived and was added to the march.

  It was seven in the evening when the marshal arrived at the rendezvous. The prince was there and waiting; as he’d foreseen, Lens had fallen into the enemy’s hands shortly after Raoul’s departure. The ending of the cannonade as good as announced this event.

  They waited for nightfall. As the darkness increased, the rest of the troops summoned by the prince gradually arrived. All had been ordered to march without beating drums or sounding trumpets.

  By nine o’clock full night had fallen, though a dim twilight still lit the plain. The French marched forward silently, the prince leading the column. Once they passed Aunay, the army could see Lens ahead: two or three houses were in flames, and distant shouts, denoting the agony of a town taken by assault, reached the soldiers’ ears.

  The prince ordered the units into position. The Maréchal de Grammont was to hold the far left, anchored on Méricourt; the Duc de Châtillon commanded the center; while the prince, commanding the right wing, formed his troops in front of Aunay. The next day’s order of battle was to be based on the positions occupied during the night. Each unit would awaken on the ground from whence it would maneuver.

  The movements were executed in the most profound silence and with the greatest precision. By ten o’clock everyone was in position, and at half past ten the prince inspected the posts and gave the orders for the next day.

  Three instructions in particular were given to each commander, with orders that the troops were to obey them scrupulously. First, each unit in line should stay in contact with the units to its right and left, while maintaining a proper distance. Second, they were to advance at no faster than a walk. And third, they were to let the enemy fire first.

  The prince sent the Comte de Guiche to join his father, keeping Bragelonne for himself—but the two young men asked to spend the night before the battle together, and their request was granted.

  A tent was raised for them near that of the marshal. Though the day had been long and tiring, neither was ready for sleep. The eve of battle is a somber and serious time, even for old soldiers, let alone for two young men who would be seeing the terrible spectacle for the first time.

  On the eve of battle, the mind thinks of a thousand things forgotten or regretted. On the eve of battle, neighbors become friends and friends become brothers. It goes without saying that every feeling is exaggerated to the highest degree. And it seemed the young men had similar feelings, because each sat in his end of the tent and began to write a letter on his knee.

  The letters were long, at least four pages crammed with words, the writing growing successively smaller as the sheets were filled. Occasionally the young men looked up and smiled. Sensitive to each other’s moods, they understood their feelings without saying anything.

  Their letters completed, each put his in a double envelope, so no one could see to whom the inner envelope was addressed until the outer was unsealed. Then they approached each other and exchanged their letters, smiling.

  “If I should suffer a mischance,” said Bragelonne.

  “If I should be killed,” said de Guiche.

  “Rest easy,” they told each other.

  They embraced like brothers, and then each wrapped himself in his cloak, lay down, and slept the deep and graceful sleep enjoyed by birds, flowers, and the young.

  XXXVIII

  A Dinner as of Old

  The second rendezvous of the former musketeers was not as tense and threatening as the first. With his usual clarity and perception, Athos had recognized that meeting around a dinner table would make everyone more amenable to agreement. His friends, sensitive to his current dignity and sobriety, hadn’t dared to suggest a repeat of the revelry of former days at the Pomme-de-Pin or the Heretic, so he was first to propose that they meet around some well-provisioned table, where each could set aside reserve and be true to his own character, resuming that easy camaraderie they’d had when they were known as the Inseparables.

  This proposal was welcomed by everyone, especially d’Artagnan, who was eager to revisit the happy conviviality of his youth, as he felt that for far too long he’d had nothing but bad food and worse companionship. Porthos, on the verge of being made a baron, was delighted to have an opportunity to study the aristocratic manners of Athos and Aramis. Aramis wanted to hear the gossip from the Palais Royal from d’Artagnan and Porthos, and to stay on a good footing with friends as devoted as they, who formerly had supported his disputes with swords both ready and resolute. As for Athos, he was the only one who had nothing to gain from the others and was motivated solely by pure friendship and grandeur of soul.

  They’d all agreed to exchange addresses, and that when they needed to meet it would be at the sign of the Hermitage, a famous caterer in the Rue de la Monnaie. The first rendezvous was set for the following Wednesday, at eight in the evening.

  And so, on that day the four friends met at the appointed hour, each arriving on his own. Porthos came from trying out a new horse, d’Artagnan from his guard duty at the Louvre, Aramis from visiting one of his penitents in the neighborhood, while Athos, who had taken up lodgings in Rue Guénégaud, was already nearby. Unexpectedly, they all arrived at the door of the Hermitage at the same time, Athos coming by way of the Pont Neuf, Porthos by the Rue du Roule, d’Artagnan by the Rue des Fossés-Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois, and Aramis by the Rue de Béthisy.

  The first words exchanged between the four friends, whose manners were somewhat reserved, were rather stiff and formal. As the meal began it was apparent that d’Artagnan was forcing himself to laugh, Athos to drink, Aramis to talk, and Porthos to stay silent. Athos, noticing this mutual embarrassment, adopted the speedy remedy of ordering four bottles of champagne. Hearing this order, delivered with Athos’s usual calm command, the Gascon’s face brightened, and Porthos looked pleased. Aramis was astounded: he knew that not only did Athos no longer drink, but he even evinced a certain distaste for wine.

  T
his astonishment redoubled when Aramis saw Athos pour himself a glass and drink it down with all his former enthusiasm. D’Artagnan immediately filled and emptied his glass, while Porthos and Aramis clinked their goblets together. In what seemed like no time, the four bottles were empty. Conviviality reigned, and the four guests seemed ready to renounce all their private agendas. Athos’s excellent prescription had dissolved all the clouds that darkened their hearts. The four friends began to rattle on like old times, finishing each other’s sentences and leaning casually on the table in their favorite postures. It wasn’t long before the dapper Aramis actually undid the top two buttons of his doublet, which was Porthos’s cue to open his entirely.

  Old battles, desperate journeys, and blows given and received were the early topics of conversation, followed by memories of the grim conflicts waged against the man who was now called the Great Cardinal. “Ma foi,” said Aramis, laughing, “after these eulogies for the dead, shall we talk a bit about the living? I’d like to share some gossip about Mazarin. Is that allowed?”

  “Always,” said d’Artagnan, laughing in his turn. “Tell us your story, and we’ll applaud it if it’s good.”

  “There was a great prince with whom Mazarin sought an alliance,” said Aramis. “The prince was invited by Mazarin to send him a list of the conditions under which he would honor the minister by allying with him. The prince, who was somewhat reluctant to deal with such an upstart, nonetheless compiled his list and sent it along. The list contained three provisions that Mazarin didn’t like, so he offered the prince ten thousand crowns to drop them.”

  “Oh ho! The miser!” cried his three friends. “There wasn’t much risk an offer that low would be accepted. What did the prince do?”

  “The prince immediately sent Mazarin fifty thousand livres, begging him never to write to him again, and promising twenty thousand livres more if he’d agree never to speak with him as well. And what do you think Mazarin did?”

  “He got angry?” said Athos.

  “He beat the messenger?” said Porthos.

  “He took the money?” said d’Artagnan.

  “You guessed it, d’Artagnan,” said Aramis.

  And they all laughed so loudly that the host came over to see if they needed anything. He was afraid a fight was about to break out, but eventually their hilarity died down.

  “Can we poke some fun at Monsieur de Beaufort?” asked d’Artagnan. “I’m in just the mood.”

  “As you will,” said Aramis, familiar enough with the Gascon’s spirit to know he’d never give up on something he was determined to do.

  “All right with you, Athos?” asked d’Artagnan.

  “I vow, faith of a gentleman, that if it’s funny, I’ll laugh,” said Athos.

  “Then I’ll begin,” said d’Artagnan. “Monsieur de Beaufort, talking one day with one of the friends of Monsieur le Prince, told him that during the early quarrels between Mazarin and the Parliament he’d found himself in a dispute with Monsieur de Chavigny, who’d attached himself to the new cardinal—so Beaufort, who held to the old ways, had cudgeled him soundly. This friend, who knew Monsieur de Beaufort was rather free with his fists, wasn’t a bit surprised, and related the tale to Monsieur le Prince. The story spread rapidly, and soon everyone was snubbing Chavigny, who wanted to know the reason for such coldness, but no one would tell him. Finally, someone dared to say that everyone was surprised that a gentleman would allow himself to be cudgeled, even if Monsieur de Beaufort was a prince.

  “‘And who said the prince had cudgeled me?’ asked Chavigny.

  “‘The prince himself,’ the friend replied.

  “Chavigny went back to the source and found the person to whom the prince made the remarks, who swore on his honor that’s what he’d heard. In despair at this defamation, Chavigny, who couldn’t understand it, declared he’d rather die than put up with it. So, he sent two emissaries to the prince to inquire if he really had said that he’d cudgeled Monsieur de Chavigny. ‘I said it, and I repeat it,’ said the prince, ‘because it’s the truth.’

  “‘Monseigneur,’ said one of Chavigny’s emissaries, ‘permit me to say to Your Highness that blows from a gentleman degrade the giver more than the receiver. King Louis XIII was unwilling to have gentlemen as his valets de chambre because he wanted the right to beat his valets.’

  “‘Wait,’ asked Monsieur de Beaufort, surprised, ‘what’s all this talk of beating, and who was beaten?’

  “‘But it was you, Monseigneur, who boasted of having beaten . . .’

  “‘Who?’

  “‘Monsieur de Chavigny.’

  “‘Me?’

  “‘Did you not cudgel Monsieur de Chavigny, or so at least you said, Monseigneur?’

  “‘Yes.’

  “‘Well, he denies it.’

  “‘Ha!’ said the prince. ‘I cudgeled him so well, I can give you the exact words,’ said Monsieur de Beaufort with all the majesty he could muster. ‘I said, “My dear Chavigny, I implore you not to heed this clown of a Mazarin.”’

  “‘Oh, no, Monseigneur—now I get it,’ said the second emissary. ‘You meant you were cajoling him.’

  “‘Cudgeling, cajoling, what’s the difference?’ said the prince. ‘Really, our wordsmiths are such peasants! Or is that pedants?’”

  Everyone laughed at the blundering speech of Monsieur de Beaufort, whose malapropisms were becoming proverbial, and all agreed that factionalism should be banished from their friendly rendezvouses: d’Artagnan and Porthos could mock the princes, and Athos and Aramis could cudgel Mazarin. “Ma foi,” said d’Artagnan to his two friends, “I assure you, you’ve got good reason to want to hammer Mazarin, as he certainly has it in for you.”

  “Bah! Really?” said Athos. “If I thought that clown knew me by name, I’d go and get re-baptized. Knows me, does he?”

  “He not only knows you by name, he knows you by your deeds. He knows two gentlemen were particularly responsible for helping Monsieur de Beaufort escape, and I’m warning you, he’s actively looking for you.”

  “For me? Who told him?”

  “I did.”

  “What, you?”

  “Yes, he sent for me this morning specifically to ask if I had any information.”

  “About those two gentlemen?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “That I didn’t know who they were yet, but I was having dinner with two people who might tell me.”

  “That’s what you said!” laughed Porthos, a broad smile spread across his face. “Bravo! But doesn’t that frighten you, Athos?”

  “No,” said Athos, “it’s not Mazarin looking for me that I fear.”

  “Oh?” said Aramis. “Tell me then what you do fear.”

  “Nothing—at the moment, at least.”

  “And in the past?” said Porthos.

  “Ah, as to the past . . . well, that’s another thing,” said Athos, with a sigh. “In the past, and in the future . . .”

  “Are you afraid for young Raoul?” asked Aramis.

  “Bah! No one dies in his first action,” said d’Artagnan.

  “Nor in the second,” said Aramis.

  “Nor in the third,” said Porthos. “At least, none of our kind do, and the proof is that here we are.”

  “No,” said Athos, “it’s not Raoul that most worries me, because he’ll conduct himself, I hope, like a gentleman, and if he is killed, well then! He’ll die bravely. But you know, if anything did happen to him, well . . .” Athos drew a hand across his pale forehead.

  “Well?” asked Aramis.

  “Well! I would regard such a misfortune as . . . an expiation.”

  “Ah!” said d’Artagnan. “I know what you’re saying.”

  “As do I,” said Aramis. “But don’t think about that, Athos—the past is the past.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Porthos.

  “The affair at Armentières,” said d’Artagnan.

  “What
affair at Armentières?” said Porthos.

  “. . . Milady . . .”

  “Oh, right!” said Porthos. “I’d quite forgotten that.”

  Athos gave him a grave look. “You’d forgotten that, Porthos?”

  “My faith, yes,” said Porthos. “It was a long time ago.”

  “So, the matter doesn’t weigh on your conscience?”

  “Well . . . no!” said Porthos.

  “What about you, Aramis?”

  “It does sometimes occur to me,” said Aramis. “It’s a case of conscience that’s not completely unambiguous.”

  “And you, d’Artagnan?”

  “I confess that when my mind dwells on that terrible affair, I think mainly about the icy corpse of poor Madame Bonacieux. Yes, yes,” he murmured, “I have a thousand regrets for the victim, but none for her murderer.”

  Athos shook his head doubtfully.

  “Consider,” said Aramis, “that if you admit divine justice affects the events of this world, then that woman was punished by God. We were His instruments, that’s all.”

  “But what about free will, Aramis?”

  “How does a judge do it? He has free will and condemns without fear. What about the executioner? His arms swing the blade, yet he strikes without remorse.”

  “The executioner . . . ,” murmured Athos. He appeared to start at the recollection.

  “I know it’s dreadful,” said d’Artagnan, “but when I think that we’ve killed English, Spanish, Huguenot rebels, even Frenchmen, whose only crime was to meet us in battle and be too slow coming on guard, I’m not going to apologize for my part in that woman’s murder—word of honor!”

  “As for me,” said Porthos, “now that you bring it to mind, Athos, I can still see the scene as if it were in front of me: Milady was there where you are”—Athos turned pale—“I was standing where d’Artagnan is. I had at my side a sword that cut like a Damascus blade . . . you remember it, Aramis, because you named it Balizarde,102 right? Eh bien! I swear to the three of you that if it hadn’t been for the executioner of Béthune—it was Béthune, wasn’t it? By my faith, if it wasn’t for him, I’d have cut off that monster’s head myself in a heartbeat, or even quicker. She was a wicked woman.”