Part 29

— I do not promise to be happy, replied the young man; but be certain that I shall not pass an hour without thinking of you; not an hour, I swear it to you, unless I be dead.

Athos could contain himself no longer; he threw his arm around his son's neck, and held him embraced with all the strength of his heart.

The moon had given place to the twilight; a golden band was rising on the horizon, announcing the approach of day.

Athos threw his cloak over Raoul's shoulders and led him toward the town, where baggage and porters were already all astir like a vast ant-hill.

At the extremity of the plateau which Athos and Bragelonne were leaving, they saw a black shadow swaying with indecision and as if ashamed to be seen. It was Grimaud, who, uneasy, had followed his master's trail and was waiting for them.

— Oh! good Grimaud, cried Raoul, what do you want? You have come to tell us we must depart, have you not?

— Alone? said Grimaud, showing Raoul to Athos with a tone of reproach that showed how deeply the old man was moved.

— Oh! you are right! cried the count. No, Raoul shall not depart alone; no, he shall not remain on a foreign land without some friend to console him and remind him of all he loved.

— I? said Grimaud.

— You? yes! yes! cried Raoul, touched to the depths of his heart.

— Alas! said Athos, you are very old, my good Grimaud!

— So much the better, replied the latter, with an inexpressible depth of feeling and intelligence.

— But see, the embarkation is beginning, said Raoul, and you are not prepared.

— Yes I am! said Grimaud, showing the keys of his chests mingled with those of his young master.

— But, Raoul objected again, you cannot leave M. the count thus alone: M. the count whom you have never left?

Grimaud turned his dimmed gaze toward Athos, as if to measure the strength of the one and the other.

The count answered nothing.

— M. the count will prefer it so, said Grimaud.

— Yes, said Athos with his head.

At that moment, the drums rolled all at once and the clarions filled the air with joyful songs.

The regiments that were to take part in the expedition were seen issuing from the town.

They advanced, five in number, each composed of forty companies. Royal marched first, recognizable by its white uniform with blue facings. The ordnance flags, quartered in a cross, violet and dead-leaf, with a sprinkling of golden fleurs-de-lis, allowed the white colonel's flag with the fleurdelisé cross to dominate.

Musketeers on the wings, with their forked staves in hand and muskets on shoulder; pikemen in the center with their fourteen-foot lances, marched gaily toward the transport boats which carried them in detail to the ships.

The regiments of Picardy, Navarre, Normandy and Royal-Vessel came next.

M. de Beaufort had known how to choose. He was seen himself in the distance closing the march with his staff.

Before he could reach the sea, a good hour must elapse.

Raoul directed his steps slowly with Athos toward the shore, so as to take his place at the moment of the prince's passage.

Grimaud, boiling with a young man's ardor, had Raoul's baggage carried to the flagship.

Athos, his arm linked with that of the son he was about to lose, abandoned himself to the most painful meditation, stunning himself with the noise and movement.

Suddenly an officer of M. de Beaufort came to them to tell them that the duke expressed the desire to see Raoul at his side.

— Be so kind as to tell the prince, sir, cried the young man, that I ask him yet for this hour to enjoy the presence of M. the count.

— No, no, interrupted Athos, an aide-de-camp cannot thus leave his general. Be so kind as to tell the prince, sir, that the viscount is coming to him.

The officer departed at a gallop.

— To part here, to part there, added the count, it is still a separation.

He carefully brushed his son's coat, and passed his hand over his hair as they walked.

— Here, Raoul, said he, you need money; M. de Beaufort keeps a great establishment, and I am certain you will take pleasure, over there, in buying horses and arms, which are precious things in that country. Now, as you serve neither the king nor M. de Beaufort, and are answerable only to your own free will, you must count on neither pay nor gratuities. I wish, then, that you should lack nothing at Djidgelli. Here are two hundred pistoles. Spend them, Raoul, if you care to please me.

Raoul pressed his father's hand, and, at the turning of a street, they saw M. de Beaufort mounted on a magnificent white jennet, which replied with graceful curvets to the applause of the women of the town.

The duke called Raoul and held out his hand to the count. He spoke to him a long while, with such gentle expressions, that the heart of the poor father found itself somewhat comforted.

Yet it seemed to both, father and son, that their march led to an execution. There was a terrible moment, that when, to leave the sand of the beach, the soldiers and sailors exchanged, with their families and friends, the last kisses: a supreme moment when, despite the purity of the sky, the warmth of the sun, despite the perfumes of the air and the sweet life that circulates in the veins, all seems black, all seems bitter, all makes one doubt God, speaking even by the very mouth of God.

It was the custom that the admiral should embark last with his suite; the cannon waited, to launch its formidable voice, until the chief had set foot on the deck of his ship.

Athos, forgetting both the admiral, and the fleet, and his own dignity as a strong man, opened his arms to his son and clasped him convulsively to his breast.

— Come aboard with us, said the moved duke; you will gain a good half-hour.

— No, said Athos, no, my farewell is said. I will not say a second.

— Then, viscount, embark, embark quickly! added the prince, wishing to spare the tears of these two men whose hearts were swelling.

And, paternally, tenderly, strong as Porthos would have been, he lifted Raoul in his arms and placed him in the shallop whose oars began to move at once at a sign.

He himself, forgetting the ceremonial, sprang upon the gunwale of the boat, and pushed it, with a vigorous foot, into the sea.

— Farewell! cried Raoul.

Athos replied only with a sign; but he felt something burning on his hand: it was the respectful kiss of Grimaud, the last farewell of the faithful dog.

This kiss given, Grimaud sprang from the step of the mole onto the prow of a two-oared yawl, which came to be towed by a barge served by twelve galley oars.

Athos sat down on the mole, distraught, deaf, abandoned.

Each second took from him one of the features, one of the shades of his son's pale complexion. His arms hanging, his eye fixed, his mouth open, he remained confounded with Raoul in a single gaze, in a single thought, in a single stupor.

The sea bore away, little by little, boats and faces to that distance where men are no more than points, loves no more than memories.

Athos saw his son mount the ladder of the flagship, he saw him lean on the bulwark and place himself so as to be still a mark for his father's eye. In vain the cannon thundered, in vain from the ships arose a long murmur answered on land by immense acclamations, in vain did the noise seek to deafen the father's ear, and the smoke to drown the cherished aim of all his aspirations: Raoul appeared to him to the last moment, and the imperceptible atom, passing from black to pale, from pale to white, from white to nothing, disappeared for Athos, disappeared long after, for all the eyes of the bystanders, the powerful ships and swollen sails had disappeared.

Toward noon, when already the sun devoured the space and scarcely the extremity of the masts dominated the incandescent line of the sea, Athos saw rise a soft, aerial shadow, vanished as soon as seen: it was the smoke of a cannon-shot that M. de Beaufort had just fired to salute for the last time the coast of France.

The point sank in its turn beneath the sky, and Athos re-entered painfully his lodging.

Chapter CCXL — Between Women

D'Artagnan had not been able to hide from his friends as well as he could have wished.

The stoic soldier, the impassive man of arms, vanquished by fear and presentiments, had given a few minutes to human weakness.

So, when he had silenced his heart and calmed the trembling of his muscles, turning toward his lackey, a silent servant ever on the listen to obey the faster:

— Rabaud, said he, you shall know that I must do thirty leagues a day.

— Very well, my captain, replied Rabaud.

And, from that moment, D'Artagnan, accustomed to the pace of the horse, like a true centaur, occupied himself no more with anything, that is to say, he occupied himself with everything.

He asked himself why the king recalled him; why the Iron-Mask had thrown a silver plate at his feet.

As to the first subject, the answer was negative: he knew too well that, the king calling him, it was by necessity; he knew further that Louis XIV must feel the imperious need of a private interview with him whom so great a secret placed on the level of the highest powers of the realm. But, as to specifying the king's desire, D'Artagnan found himself incapable of it.

The musketeer no longer doubted either of the reason that had driven the unfortunate Philippe to unveil his character and his birth. Philippe, buried forever beneath his iron mask, exiled to a country where men seemed to serve the elements; Philippe, deprived even of the society of D'Artagnan, who had overwhelmed him with honors and delicacies, had nothing more to see in this world but specters and sorrows, and despair beginning to bite him, he poured himself out in complaints, believing that revelations would procure him an avenger.

The way in which the musketeer had all but killed his two best friends, the destiny that had so strangely brought Athos into participation of the state secret, Raoul's farewells, the obscurity of that future which was to end in a sad death; all this incessantly sent D'Artagnan back to lamentable forebodings, which the rapidity of the march did not dissipate as of old.

D'Artagnan passed from these considerations to the memory of Porthos and Aramis proscribed. He saw them fugitive, hunted down, ruined one and the other, laborious architects of a fortune they must lose; and, as the king was calling his man of execution at a moment of vengeance and rancor, D'Artagnan trembled to receive some commission that would have made his heart bleed.

Sometimes, mounting the hills, when the breathless horse inflated his nostrils and spread his flanks, the captain, freer to think, mused on that prodigious genius of Aramis, a genius of craft and intrigue, such as the Fronde and the civil war had produced two of. Soldier, priest and diplomat, gallant, greedy and cunning, Aramis had never taken the good things of life but as a stepping-stone to rise to the bad. A generous spirit, if not a choice heart, he had never done evil but to shine a little more. Toward the end of his career, at the moment of seizing the goal, he had done like the patrician Fiesque, a false step on a plank, and had fallen into the sea.

But Porthos, that good and naive Porthos! To see Porthos famished, to see Mousqueton without gilding, imprisoned perhaps; to see Pierrefonds, Bracieux, razed as to their stones, dishonored as to their woods, were so many poignant griefs for D'Artagnan, and, each time one of these griefs struck him, he bounded like his horse at the prick of the gadfly beneath the vaults of foliage.

Never did the man of wit grow weary if his body is occupied by fatigue; never did the man sound of body fail to find life light if something had captivated his spirit. D'Artagnan, ever running, ever dreaming, descended at Paris, fresh and tender of muscle, like the athlete who has prepared himself for the gymnasium.

The king did not expect him so soon and had just departed to hunt toward Meudon. D'Artagnan, instead of running after the king as he would have done in former times, pulled off his boots, got into the bath and waited until His Majesty should have returned well powdered and well weary. He occupied the five hours of interval in taking, as they say, the air of the house, and in armoring himself against all bad chances.

He learned that the king, for a fortnight, had been gloomy; that the queen mother was sick and much afflicted; that Monsieur, the king's brother, was turning to devotion; that Madame had vapors, and that M. de Guiche had departed for one of his estates.

He learned that M. Colbert was radiant; that M. Fouquet consulted every day a new physician, who did not cure him, and that his principal malady was not of those physicians cure, save political physicians.

The king, they said to D'Artagnan, made the tenderest face to M. Fouquet, and did not leave him a finger's breadth; but the superintendent, touched at the heart like those fine trees a worm has pierced, declined despite the royal smile, that sun of court trees.

D'Artagnan learned that Mlle de La Vallière had become indispensable to the king; that the prince, during his hunts, if he did not take her with him, wrote to her several times, no longer verses, but, which was much worse, prose, and by pages.

Thus one saw the _first king of the world_, as the poetic pleiad of that time said, descend from horse _with an ardor without second_, and, on the shape of his hat, pencil phrases in phoebus, which M. de Saint-Aignan, aide-de-camp in perpetuity, carried to La Vallière, at the risk of killing his horses.

During this time the deer and pheasants took their ease, hunted so softly, that, they said, the art of venery ran the risk of degenerating at the Court of France.

D'Artagnan then thought of the poor Raoul's recommendations, of that letter of despair destined to a woman who passed her life in hoping, and, as D'Artagnan liked to philosophize, he resolved to profit from the king's absence to speak a moment with Mlle de La Vallière.

It was an easy thing: Louise, during the royal hunt, walked with some ladies in a gallery of the Palais-Royal, where precisely the captain of the musketeers had some guards to inspect.

D'Artagnan did not doubt that, if he could open the conversation on Raoul, Louise would give him some subject to write a good letter to the poor exile; now, hope, or at least consolation for Raoul, in a disposition of heart such as we have seen him in, that was the sun, that was the life of two men who were very dear to our captain.

He therefore directed his steps toward the place where he knew he would find Mlle de La Vallière.

D'Artagnan found La Vallière much surrounded. In her apparent solitude, the king's favorite received, like a queen, more than the queen perhaps, a homage of which Madame had been so proud, when all the king's glances were for her and commanded all the courtiers' glances.

D'Artagnan, who was no fop, yet received only caresses and pretty speeches from the ladies; he was polite like a brave man, and his terrible reputation had conciliated him as much friendship among men as admiration among women.

So, on seeing him enter, the maids of honor addressed him. They began with questions.

Where had he been? What had become of him? Why had he not been seen to do, with his fine horse, all those fine voltes that amazed the curious at the king's balcony?

He replied that he came from the land of oranges.

These young ladies began to laugh. It was the time when everyone traveled, and yet, a journey of a hundred leagues was a problem often resolved by death.

— From the land of oranges? cried Mlle de Tonnay-Charente; from Spain?

— Eh! eh! said the musketeer.

— From Malta? said Montalais.

— My faith! you are near, mesdemoiselles.

— It is from an island? asked La Vallière.

— Mademoiselle, said D'Artagnan, I will not have you guess: it is from the country where M. de Beaufort is embarking at this hour to cross to Algiers.

— Have you seen the army? asked several warlike ones.

— As I see you, replied D'Artagnan.

— And the fleet?

— I have seen all.

— Have we friends that way? said Mlle de Tonnay-Charente coldly, but in a way to draw attention to that word, of calculated import.

— But, replied D'Artagnan, we have M. de La Guillotière, M. de Mouchy, M. de Bragelonne.

La Vallière grew pale.

— M. de Bragelonne? cried the perfidious Athénaïs. What! he has gone to war... he?

Montalais trod on her foot, but in vain.

— Do you know my idea? continued she without pity, addressing D'Artagnan.

— No, mademoiselle, and I should much like to know it.

— My idea is that all the men who go to make this war are desperate ones whom love has treated ill, and who go to seek Black women less cruel than the White ones were.

Some ladies began to laugh; La Vallière lost her composure; Montalais coughed enough to wake the dead.

— Mademoiselle, interrupted D'Artagnan, you are mistaken when you speak of the black women of Djidgelli; the women there are not black; true they are not white: they are yellow.

— Yellow!

— Eh! say no ill of it; I have never seen a finer color to marry with black eyes and a coral mouth.

— So much the better for M. de Bragelonne! said Mlle de Tonnay-Charente with insistence; he will be compensated, the poor boy.

A deep silence fell on these words.

D'Artagnan had time to reflect that women, those gentle doves, treat each other much more cruelly than tigers and bears.

It was not enough for Athénaïs to have made La Vallière pale; she wished to make her blush.

Resuming the conversation without measure:

— Do you know, Louise, said she, that you have a great sin on your conscience!

— What sin, mademoiselle? stammered the unfortunate, seeking support around her without finding it.

— Eh! but, pursued Athénaïs, that boy was betrothed to you. He loved you. You repulsed him.

— It is a right one has when one is an honest woman, resumed Montalais with a precious air. When one knows one cannot make a man happy, better to repulse him.

Louise could not understand whether she owed blame or thanks to her who thus defended her.

— Repulse! repulse! that is all very well, said Athénaïs, but there is not the sin Mlle de La Vallière would have to reproach herself with. The true sin is to send that poor Bragelonne to war; to war, where one finds death.

Louise passed a hand over her icy brow.

— And if he dies, continued the pitiless one, you will have killed him: there is the sin.

Louise, half dead herself, came staggering to take the arm of the captain of the musketeers, whose face betrayed an unwonted emotion.

— You had to speak to me, Monsieur d'Artagnan, said she in a voice altered by anger and grief. What had you to say to me?

D'Artagnan took several steps in the gallery, holding Louise under his arm; then, when they were far enough from the others:

— What I had to say to you, mademoiselle, replied he, Mlle de Tonnay-Charente has just expressed it brutally, but in full.

She uttered a little cry, and, wounded by this new blow, took flight like those poor birds struck to death, who seek the shadow of the thicket to die.

She disappeared by a door, at the moment when the king entered by another.

The prince's first glance was for his mistress's empty seat; not perceiving La Vallière, he frowned; but at once he saw D'Artagnan who saluted him.

— Ah! sir, said he, you have made good diligence and I am content with you.

It was the superlative expression of royal satisfaction. Many men were to get themselves killed to obtain that word from the king.

The maids of honor and courtiers, who had made a respectful circle around the king at his entrance, drew aside on seeing him seek secrecy with his captain of musketeers.

The king took the lead and led D'Artagnan out of the hall, after having once more sought La Vallière with his eyes, whose absence he could not comprehend.

Once out of reach of curious ears:

— Well! said he, Monsieur d'Artagnan, the prisoner?

— In his prison, Sire.

— What said he on the way?

— Nothing, Sire.

— What did he do?

— There was a moment when the fisherman on board whom I was passing at Sainte-Marguerite revolted, and would have killed me. The... the prisoner defended me instead of trying to escape.

The king grew pale.

— Enough, said he.

D'Artagnan bowed.

Louis walked up and down his cabinet.

— You were at Antibes, said he, when M. de Beaufort came there?

— No, Sire, I was departing when the duke arrived.

— Ah!

New silence.

— What did you see there?

— Many people, replied D'Artagnan with coldness.

The king saw that D'Artagnan would not speak.

— I had you come, Monsieur the captain, to tell you to go prepare my lodgings at Nantes.

— At Nantes? cried D'Artagnan.

— In Brittany.

— Yes, Sire, in Brittany. Your Majesty makes this long journey to Nantes?

— The Estates assemble there, replied the king. I have two requests to make them: I wish to be there.

— When shall I depart? said the captain.

— This evening... tomorrow... tomorrow evening, for you need rest.

— I am rested, Sire.

— Admirable... Then, between this evening and tomorrow, at your pleasure.

D'Artagnan saluted as to take leave; then, seeing the king much embarrassed:

— The king, said he, and he took two steps forward, the king is taking the Court with him?

— But yes.

— Then the king will need the musketeers, no doubt?

And the captain's penetrating eye made the king lower his gaze.

— Take a brigade, replied Louis.

— Is that all?... The king has no other orders to give me?

— No... Ah!... Yes indeed!

— I listen.

— At the castle of Nantes, which is ill distributed, they say, you will take the habit of placing musketeers at the door of each of the principal dignitaries whom I shall bring with me.

— Of the principal ones?

— Yes.

— As, for example, at the door of M. de Lyonne?

— Yes.

— Of M. Le Tellier?

— Yes.

— Of M. de Brienne?

— Yes.

— And of M. the superintendent?

— Without doubt.

— Very well, Sire. I shall be gone tomorrow.

— Oh! one more word, Monsieur d'Artagnan. You will meet at Nantes M. the duke of Gesvres, captain of the guards. Take care that your musketeers are placed before his guards arrive.

— Yes, Sire.

— And if M. de Gesvres questions you?

— Come now, Sire! would M. de Gesvres question me?

And cavalierly, the musketeer turned on his heel and disappeared.

"At Nantes!" said he to himself descending the steps. "Why did he not dare say outright to Belle-Île?"

As he reached the great door, a clerk of M. de Brienne ran after him.

— Monsieur d'Artagnan! said he, pardon...

— What is it, Monsieur Ariste?

— It is a draft the king charged me to hand you.

— On your cash? asked the musketeer.

— No, monsieur, on M. Fouquet's cash.

D'Artagnan, surprised, read the draft, which was in the king's hand, and for two hundred pistoles.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”