Part 36

And d’Artagnan was almost triumphant as he spoke these words. This plan was the salvation of his friends. The blockade lifted, they could embark at once and set sail for England or Spain, without fear of being troubled. While they fled, d’Artagnan would arrive before the king, justify his return by the indignation that Colbert’s suspicions had aroused against him; he would be sent back with full powers, and he would take Belle-Île, that is to say the cage, without catching the birds that had flown.

But, in response to this plan, the officer opposed a second order of the king. It was worded thus:

“From the moment Monsieur d’Artagnan shall have manifested the desire to tender his resignation, he shall no longer count as chief of the expedition, and every officer placed under his orders shall be bound to obey him no longer. Moreover, Monsieur d’Artagnan, having lost the quality of chief of the army sent against Belle-Île, must depart immediately for France, in the company of the officer who shall have delivered the message to him, and who shall regard him as a prisoner for whom he is answerable.”

D’Artagnan grew pale, he who was so brave and so careless. Everything had been calculated with a depth which, for the first time in thirty years, reminded him of the solid foresight and the inflexible logic of the great cardinal.

He leaned his head upon his hand, dreaming, scarcely breathing.

“If I were to put this order in my pocket,” he thought, “who would know it or who would prevent me? Before the king could be informed of it, I should have saved those poor fellows yonder. Audacity, come! My head is not one that a headsman makes fall for disobedience. Let us disobey!”

But, at the very moment he was about to take this resolution, he saw the officers around him reading like orders, which that infernal agent of Colbert’s thought had just distributed to them.

The case of disobedience was provided for like the others.

“Monsieur,” the officer came to say to him, “I await your good pleasure to depart.”

“I am ready, Monsieur,” replied the captain, gnashing his teeth.

The officer at once ordered a shallop, which came to receive d’Artagnan.

He wellnigh went mad with rage at the sight.

“How,” he stammered, “shall things be directed here for the different corps?”

“With you gone, Monsieur,” replied the commander of the ships, “it is to me that the king entrusts his fleet.”

“Then, Monsieur,” retorted Colbert’s man, addressing the new chief, “this is the last order that had been remitted to me for you. Let us see your powers?”

“Here they are,” said the sailor, producing a royal signature.

“Here are your instructions,” replied the officer, handing him the packet.

And, turning toward d’Artagnan:

“Come, Monsieur,” he said in a moved voice, so much despair did he see in that man of iron, “do me the grace to depart.”

“At once,” articulated d’Artagnan weakly, vanquished, overthrown by the implacable impossibility.

And he let himself slide into the small boat, which sailed for France with a favoring wind, borne by the rising tide. The king’s guards had embarked with him.

Meanwhile, the musketeer still preserved the hope of arriving at Nantes quickly enough, and of pleading his friends’ cause eloquently enough to soften the king.

The bark flew like a swallow. D’Artagnan distinctly saw the land of France outlined in black against the white clouds of the night.

“Ah! Monsieur,” he said softly to the officer, to whom he had not spoken for an hour, “how much would I give to know the instructions of the new commander! They are all pacific, are they not?... and...”

He did not finish; a distant cannon shot rumbled over the surface of the waves, then another, and two or three louder ones.

“Fire is opened upon Belle-Île,” replied the officer.

The shallop had just touched the land of France.

Chapter CCLI — The Ancestors of Porthos

When d’Artagnan had left Aramis and Porthos, the two returned to the principal fort to converse with more freedom.

Porthos, ever anxious, was a hindrance to Aramis, whose mind had never been more free.

“Dear Porthos,” said the latter suddenly, “I am going to explain d’Artagnan’s idea to you.”

“What idea, Aramis?”

“An idea to which we shall owe our liberty within twelve hours.”

“Ah! indeed,” said Porthos, astonished. “Let us hear!”

“You noticed, from the scene our friend had with the officer, that certain orders embarrass him in relation to us?”

“I noticed it.”

“Well! d’Artagnan is going to tender his resignation to the king, and during the confusion that will result from his absence, we shall gain the open sea, or rather you shall gain the open sea, you, Porthos, if there is possibility of flight for but one.”

Here Porthos shook his head, and answered:

“We shall escape together, Aramis, or we shall remain here together.”

“You are a generous heart,” said Aramis, “only your gloomy anxiety afflicts me...”

“I am not anxious,” said Porthos.

“Then you are angry with me?”

“I am not angry with you.”

“Well then! dear friend, why this lugubrious face?”

“I am going to tell you: I am making my will.” And, in saying these words, the good Porthos sadly looked at Aramis.

“Your will?” cried the bishop. “Come now! Do you think yourself lost?”

“I feel fatigued. It is the first time, and there is a habit in my family.”

“Which, my friend?”

“My grandfather was a man twice as strong as I.”

“Oh! oh!” said Aramis. “Then Samson was your grandfather?”

“No. He was called Antoine. Well! he was of my age, when, setting out one day for the hunt, he felt his legs weak, he who had never known that ailment.”

“What did that fatigue signify, my friend?”

“Nothing good, as you shall see; for, having set out still complaining of his soft legs, he came upon a boar that faced him, missed it with his arquebus shot, and was torn apart by the beast. He died on the spot.”

“That is no reason for you to be alarmed, dear Porthos.”

“Oh! you shall see. My father was once as strong as I. He was a rough soldier of Henri III and Henri IV, he was not called Antoine, but Gaspard, like M. de Coligny. Always on horseback, he had never known what weariness was. One evening, as he rose from table, his legs failed him.”

“He had perhaps supped well?” said Aramis; “and that is why he staggered.”

“Bah! a friend of M. de Bassompierre? Come now! No, I tell you. He was astonished at this weariness, and said to my mother, who railed at him: ‘Would one not say that I am going to see a boar, like the late M. du Vallon, my father?’”

“Well?” said Aramis.

“Well! braving this weakness, my father wished to go down into the garden instead of going to bed; his foot failed him at the first step; the stair was steep; my father went to fall upon a stone corner in which an iron hinge was set. The hinge opened his temple: he remained dead on the spot.”

Aramis, raising his eyes upon his friend:

“There are two extraordinary circumstances,” said he; “let us not infer that a third may present itself. It does not befit a man of your strength to be superstitious, my brave Porthos; besides, where is it that one sees your legs bend? Never have you been so stiff and so superb; you would carry a house upon your shoulders.”

“At this moment,” said Porthos, “I feel quite well disposed; but, a while ago, I was wavering, I was sinking, and, since this afternoon, this phenomenon, as you call it, has presented itself four times. I will not tell you that it frightened me; but it vexed me; life is a pleasant thing. I have money; I have fine lands; I have horses that I love; I have also friends that I love: d’Artagnan, Athos, Raoul and you.”

The admirable Porthos did not even take the trouble to disguise from Aramis the rank he gave him among his friendships.

Aramis pressed his hand.

“We shall live yet many years,” said he, “to preserve for the world specimens of rare men. Trust in me, dear friend: we have no answer from d’Artagnan, which is a good sign; he must have given orders to mass the fleet and clear the sea. I, just now, ordered that a boat be rolled on cylinders to the outlet of the great subterranean passage of Locmaria, you know, where we have so often lain in wait for foxes.”

“Yes, and which leads to the little cove by a passage we discovered the day that superb fox escaped that way.”

“Precisely. In case of misfortune, they will hide a boat in that passage; it must be there already. We shall await the favorable moment, and, during the night, to sea!”

“That is a good idea; what do we gain by it?”

“We gain that no one knows this grotto, or rather its outlet, save ourselves and two or three hunters of the island; we gain that, if the island is occupied, the scouts, seeing no boat on the shore, will not suspect that one can escape and will cease to watch.”

“I understand.”

“Well then! the legs?”

“Oh! excellent at this moment.”

“You see then plainly, everything conspires to give us rest and hope. D’Artagnan clears the sea and makes us free. No more royal fleet nor descent to fear. Live God! Porthos, we have yet half a century of good adventures, and, if I touch the soil of Spain, I swear to you,” added the bishop with terrible energy, “that your patent of duke is not so venturesome as people would have it.”

“Let us hope,” said Porthos, a little revived by this fresh warmth of his companion.

Suddenly, a cry was heard:

“To arms!”

This cry, repeated by a hundred voices, came, into the chamber where the two friends were, bringing surprise to one and anxiety to the other.

Aramis opened the window; he saw a crowd of people running with torches. The women fled, the armed men took their posts.

“The fleet! the fleet!” cried a soldier who recognized Aramis.

“The fleet?” repeated the latter.

“At half cannon-shot,” continued the soldier.

“To arms!” cried Aramis.

“To arms!” repeated Porthos formidably.

And both dashed toward the mole, to take shelter behind the batteries.

One saw approach shallops charged with soldiers; they took three directions to land at three points at once.

“What is to be done?” asked an officer of the guard.

“Stop them; and, if they persist, fire!” said Aramis.

Five minutes later, the cannonade began.

Those were the gunshots that d’Artagnan had heard as he landed in France.

But the shallops were too near the mole for the cannon to fire true; they boarded; the fight began almost hand to hand.

“What ails you, Porthos?” said Aramis to his friend.

“Nothing... the legs... it is truly incomprehensible... they will recover on the charge.”

Indeed, Porthos and Aramis set to charging with such vigor, they so animated their men, that the royals re-embarked precipitately without having had aught but wounded whom they carried off.

“Why, Porthos,” cried Aramis, “we need a prisoner, quick, quick.”

Porthos bent down upon the stair of the mole, seized by the nape one of the officers of the royal army who, waiting to embark until all his men were in the shallop, was taken by the giant’s arm as prey, which served him as a shield to remount without a shot being fired at him.

“Here is a prisoner,” said Porthos to Aramis.

“Well!” cried the latter laughing, “then calumniate your legs!”

“It is not with my legs that I took him,” replied Porthos sadly, “it is with my arm.”

Chapter CCLII — The Son of Biscarrat

The Bretons of the island were all proud of this victory; Aramis did not encourage them.

“What will happen,” said he to Porthos, when everyone had come back in, “is that the king’s anger will awaken with the tale of the resistance, and that these brave fellows will be decimated or burned when the island is taken; which cannot fail to come about.”

“It follows,” said Porthos, “that we have done nothing useful?”

“For the moment, yes indeed,” replied the bishop; “for we have a prisoner from whom we shall learn what our enemies are preparing.”

“Yes, let us question this prisoner,” said Porthos, “and the means to make him speak is simple: we shall sup, we shall invite him; in drinking, he will talk.”

Which was done. The officer, a little uneasy at first, reassured himself on seeing the men he had to deal with.

He gave, having no fear of compromising himself, all imaginable details upon the resignation and departure of d’Artagnan.

He explained how, after that departure, the new chief of the expedition had ordered a surprise upon Belle-Île. There his explanations stopped.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a glance that testified to their despair.

No more reliance upon that brave imagination of d’Artagnan, no more resource, consequently, in case of defeat.

Aramis, continuing his interrogation, asked the prisoner what the royals counted on doing with the chiefs of Belle-Île.

“Order,” replied he, “to kill during combat and to hang afterward.”

Aramis and Porthos looked at each other again.

The red mounted to both their faces.

“I am too light for the gallows,” answered Aramis; “people like me do not hang themselves.”

“And I, I am too heavy,” said Porthos; “people like me break the rope.”

“I am sure,” said the prisoner gallantly, “that we should have procured you the favor of a death of your choosing.”

“A thousand thanks,” said Aramis seriously.

Porthos bowed.

“Another cup of wine to your health,” said he, drinking himself.

From talk to talk, the supper lengthened; the officer, who was a witty gentleman, let himself gently yield to the charm of Aramis’s wit and Porthos’s cordial goodness.

“Forgive me,” said he, “if I address you a question; but people who are at their sixth bottle well have the right to forget themselves a little.”

“Address it,” said Porthos, “address it.”

“Speak,” said Aramis.

“Were you not, gentlemen, you two, in the musketeers of the late king?”

“Yes, Monsieur, and among the best, if you please,” replied Porthos.

“That is true: I should even say the best of all soldiers, gentlemen, did I not fear to offend the memory of my father.”

“Your father?” cried Aramis.

“Do you know how I am named?”

“Faith! no, Monsieur; but you will tell me, and...”

“I am called Georges de Biscarrat.”

“Oh!” cried Porthos in his turn, “Biscarrat! do you recall that name, Aramis?”

“Biscarrat?...” dreamed the bishop. “It seems to me...”

“Search well, Monsieur,” said the officer.

“Pardieu! it will not be long,” said Porthos. “Biscarrat, said Cardinal... one of the four who came to interrupt us the day we entered into the friendship of d’Artagnan, sword in hand.”

“Precisely, gentlemen.”

“The only one,” said Aramis vividly, “whom we did not wound.”

“A sturdy blade, consequently,” said the prisoner.

“That is true, oh! very true,” said the two friends together. “My faith! Monsieur de Biscarrat, delighted to make the acquaintance of so brave a man.”

Biscarrat clasped the two hands the two former musketeers held out to him.

Aramis looked at Porthos, as if to say to him: “Here is a man who will help us.” And, forthwith:

“Confess,” said he, “Monsieur, that it is good to have been an honest man.”

“My father always told me so, Monsieur.”

“Confess, moreover, that it is a sad circumstance in which you find yourself, to meet men destined to be shot or hanged, and to perceive that these men are old acquaintances, hereditary old acquaintances.”

“Oh! you are not reserved for that dreadful fate, gentlemen and friends,” said the young man quickly.

“Bah! you said it.”

“I said it just now, when I did not know you; but, now that I know you, I say: You shall avoid that fatal destiny, if you will.”

“How, if we will?” cried Aramis, whose eyes shone with intelligence as he looked alternately at his prisoner and at Porthos.

“Provided,” continued Porthos, looking in his turn, with a noble intrepidity, at M. de Biscarrat and the bishop, “provided they ask us no cowardices.”

“They will ask you nothing at all, gentlemen,” resumed the gentleman of the royal army; “what would you have them ask you? If they find you, they kill you, that is settled; try then, gentlemen, that they do not find you.”

“I believe I am not mistaken,” said Porthos with dignity, “but it seems to me quite plain that, to find us, they must come seek us here.”

“In that you are perfectly right, my worthy friend,” resumed Aramis, still interrogating with his gaze the countenance of Biscarrat, silent and constrained. “You wish, Monsieur de Biscarrat, to tell us something, to make us some opening and you dare not, is it not true?”

“Ah! gentlemen and friends, it is that in speaking I betray the order; but, see, I hear a voice that releases mine by dominating it.”

“The cannon!” said Porthos.

“The cannon and the musket fire!” cried the bishop.

One heard rumbling afar, among the rocks, those sinister noises of a combat which did not last.

“What is that?” asked Porthos.

“Why! pardieu!” cried Aramis, “it is what I suspected.”

“What?”

“The attack made by you was but a feint, was it not, Monsieur? and, while your companies let themselves be repulsed, you had the certainty of effecting a landing on the other side of the island.”

“Oh! several, Monsieur.”

“We are lost then,” said the bishop of Vannes peaceably.

“Lost! that is possible,” replied the lord of Pierrefonds; “but we are not taken nor hanged.”

And, in saying these words, he rose from the table, approached the wall and coldly detached from it his sword and his pistols, which he examined with the care of the old soldier who prepares to fight, and who feels that his life rests in great part upon the excellence and good condition of his arms.

At the noise of the cannon, at the news of the surprise which might deliver the island to the royal troops, the distracted crowd precipitated itself into the fort. It came to ask assistance and counsel of its chiefs.

Aramis, pale and vanquished, showed himself between two torches at the window overlooking the great court, full of soldiers awaiting orders, and of distracted inhabitants imploring help.

“My friends,” said d’Herblay in a grave and sonorous voice, “M. Fouquet, your protector, your friend, your father, has been arrested by order of the king and cast into the Bastille.”

A long cry of fury and menace rose to the window where the bishop stood, and enveloped him in a vibrating fluid.

“Let us avenge M. Fouquet!” cried the most exalted. “Death to the royals!”

“No, my friends,” replied Aramis solemnly, “no, my friends, no resistance. The king is master in his kingdom. The king is the mandatary of God. The king and God have struck M. Fouquet. Humble yourselves before the hand of God. Love God and the king, who have struck M. Fouquet. But avenge not your lord, seek not to avenge him. You would sacrifice yourselves in vain, you, your wives and your children, your goods and your liberty. Down with arms, my friends! down with arms! since the king commands you, and withdraw peacefully to your dwellings. It is I who ask it of you, it is I who pray it of you, it is I who, if need be, command it of you in the name of M. Fouquet.”

The crowd, massed beneath the window, gave forth a long shudder of anger and dread.

“The soldiers of Louis XIV have entered the island,” continued Aramis. “Henceforth, it would no longer be between them and you a combat, but a massacre. Go, go and forget; this time, I command it of you in the name of the Lord.”

The rioters withdrew slowly, subdued and mute.

“Ah now! but what have you just been saying there, my friend?” said Porthos.

“Monsieur,” said Biscarrat to the bishop, “you save all these inhabitants, but you save neither your friend nor yourself.”

“Monsieur de Biscarrat,” said the bishop of Vannes with a singular accent of nobility and courtesy, “Monsieur de Biscarrat, be good enough to resume your liberty.”

“I am willing, Monsieur; but...”

“But that will serve us; for, in announcing to the king’s lieutenant the submission of the islanders, you will perhaps obtain some grace for us, by instructing him of the manner in which this submission was effected.”

“Grace!” replied Porthos with flaming eyes, “grace! what is that word!”

Aramis roughly touched his friend’s elbow, as he used to do in the fine days of their youth, when he wished to warn Porthos that he had done or was about to do some blunder. Porthos understood and fell suddenly silent.

“I shall go, gentlemen,” answered Biscarrat, a little surprised also at this word of grace pronounced by the proud musketeer whose heroic exploits he had, a few moments before, related and vaunted with such enthusiasm.

“Go then, Monsieur de Biscarrat,” said Aramis, saluting him, “and, on departing, receive the expression of all our gratitude.”

“But you, gentlemen, you whom I honor to call my friends, since you have well wished to receive that title, what becomes of you meanwhile?” resumed the officer, all moved, taking leave of the two former adversaries of his father.

“We, we await here.”

“But, my God!... the order is formal!”

“I am bishop of Vannes, Monsieur de Biscarrat, and one no more puts to the sword a bishop than one hangs a gentleman.”

“Ah! yes, Monsieur, yes, my lord,” resumed Biscarrat; “yes, that is true, you are right, there is yet for you that chance. Therefore I depart, I betake myself to the commander of the expedition, the king’s lieutenant. Farewell then, gentlemen; or rather, au revoir!”

Indeed, the worthy officer, leaping upon a horse that Aramis had given him, rode in the direction of the gunshots that had been heard and which, in bringing the crowd into the fort, had interrupted the conversation of the two friends with their prisoner.

Aramis watched him depart, and remained alone with Porthos:

“Well! do you understand?” said he.

“Faith, no.”

“Was not Biscarrat in the way here?”

“No, he is a brave fellow.”

“Yes; but the grotto of Locmaria, is it needful that all the world know it?”

“Ah! that is true, that is true, I understand. We escape by the subterranean passage.”

“If you please,” replied Aramis joyfully. “On the way, friend Porthos! Our boat awaits us, and the king does not hold us yet.”

Chapter CCLIII — The Grotto of Locmaria

The subterranean passage of Locmaria was far enough from the mole that the two friends were obliged to spare their strength before arriving there.

Besides, the night was advancing; midnight had struck at the fort; Porthos and Aramis were laden with money and arms.

They therefore made their way across the heath that separates the mole from that passage, listening to every sound and trying to avoid every ambush.

From time to time, upon the road they had carefully left to their left, passed fugitives coming from the interior of the land, at news of the landing of the royal troops.

Aramis and Porthos, hidden behind some rocky cleft, gathered the words escaping the poor folk who fled all trembling, carrying with them their most precious effects, and tried, in hearing their plaints, to conclude something to their advantage.

At length, after a rapid course, but frequently interrupted by prudent halts, they reached those deep grottoes into which the foreseeing bishop of Vannes had taken care to have rolled upon cylinders a good boat capable of holding the sea in that fine season.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”