Part 12

—Yes, you. There is danger of prison, there is danger of death in knowing me.

—Then I shall never leave you.

—Sir, said the young woman, imploringly and clasping her hands, sir, in the name of Heaven, in the name of a soldier's honor, in the name of a gentleman's courtesy, go away; listen, midnight is striking, it is the hour when I am expected.

—Madame, said the young man, bowing, I can refuse nothing to one who asks me thus; be satisfied, I am going away.

—But you will not follow me, you will not spy on me?

—I am returning home this instant.

—Ah! I knew well that you were a brave young man! cried Mme Bonacieux, holding out a hand to him and placing the other on the knocker of a small door almost lost in the wall.

D'Artagnan seized the hand she offered and kissed it ardently.

—Ah! I would rather never have seen you, cried d'Artagnan, with that naïve brutality which women often prefer to the affectations of politeness, because it reveals the depths of thought and proves that feeling triumphs over reason.

—Well, resumed Mme Bonacieux, in an almost caressing voice, and pressing d'Artagnan's hand, which he had not released; well, I will not say as much as you: what is lost for today is not lost for the future. Who knows, if when I am freed one day, I may not satisfy your curiosity?

—And do you make the same promise to my love? cried d'Artagnan, beside himself with joy.

—Oh! on that side, I do not wish to commit myself; that will depend on the feelings you may inspire in me.

—So today, madame...

—Today, sir, I am only at gratitude.

—Ah! you are too charming, said d'Artagnan sadly, and you abuse my love.

—No, I use your generosity, that is all. But believe me, with certain people everything is returned.

—Oh! you make me the happiest of men. Do not forget this evening, do not forget this promise.

—Be easy; in due time and place I will remember everything. Well, go then, go, in the name of Heaven! I was expected at exactly midnight, and I am late.

—By five minutes.

—Yes; but in certain circumstances, five minutes are five centuries.

—When one loves.

—Well, who tells you that I am not dealing with a lover?

—It is a man who is waiting for you? cried d'Artagnan, a man!

—Come, the argument is going to start again, said Mme Bonacieux, with a half-smile that was not free from a certain tinge of impatience.

—No, no, I am going, I am leaving; I believe in you, I wish to have all the merit of my devotion, even if that devotion were to be a stupidity. Farewell, madame, farewell!

And as if he had only felt the strength to tear himself from the hand he held by a jerk, he ran off, while Mme Bonacieux knocked, as on a shutter, three slow and regular knocks; then, when he reached the corner of the street, he turned around: the door had opened and closed, the pretty mercer had disappeared.

D'Artagnan continued on his way; he had given his word not to spy on Mme Bonacieux, and even if his life had depended on the place where she was going or the person who was to accompany her, d'Artagnan would have returned home, since he had said he was returning. Five minutes later, he was in the Rue des Fossoyeurs.

—Poor Athos, he said, he will not know what it means. He must have fallen asleep waiting for me, or he has returned home, and on going in he will have learned that a woman was there. A woman at Athos's! After all, continued d'Artagnan, there was one at Aramis's as well. All this is very strange, and I would be very curious to know how it will end.

—Badly, sir, badly, replied a voice which the young man recognized as that of Planchet; for while soliloquizing aloud, in the manner of very preoccupied people, he had entered the alley at the end of which was the staircase leading to his room.

—How, badly? what do you mean, imbecile? asked d'Artagnan, what has happened, then?

—All sorts of misfortunes.

—Which ones?

—First, M. Athos has been arrested.

—Arrested! Athos! arrested! Why?

—He was found at your place; they took him for you.

—And by whom was he arrested?

—By the guard that the black men you put to flight went to fetch.

—Why did he not give his name? why did he not say he was a stranger to this affair?

—He took care not to, sir; on the contrary, he came up to me and said: "It is your master who needs his freedom at this moment, not me, since he knows everything and I know nothing. They will think he is arrested, and that will give him time; in three days I will say who I am, and they will have to let me out."

—Bravo, Athos! noble heart, murmured d'Artagnan, I recognize him there! And what did the bailiffs do?

—Four took him away, I don't know where, to the Bastille or the For-l'Évêque; two stayed with the black men, who searched everywhere and took all the papers. Finally the last two, during this expedition, kept guard at the door; then, when everything was finished, they left, leaving the house empty and open.

—And Porthos and Aramis?

—I had not found them, they did not come.

—But they may come any moment, for you told them I was waiting for them?

—Yes, sir.

—Well, don't stir from here; if they come, warn them of what has happened to me, that they should wait for me at the Pomme de Pin tavern; here there would be danger, the house may be spied on. I am running to M. de Tréville to tell him all this, and I will join them there.

—Very well, sir, said Planchet.

—But you will stay, you will not be afraid! said d'Artagnan, turning back to recommend courage to his lackey.

—Be easy, sir, said Planchet, you do not know me yet; I am brave when I set myself to it, I assure you; it's all a matter of setting myself to it; besides, I am a Picard.

—Then, it's settled, said d'Artagnan, you would rather be killed than leave your post.

—Yes, sir, and there is nothing I would not do to prove to you that I am attached to you.

—Good, said d'Artagnan to himself, it appears that the method I used with this lad is decidedly the right one; I will use it when the occasion arises.

And with all the speed of his legs, already somewhat tired by the day's running, d'Artagnan directed himself towards the Rue du Colombier.

M. de Tréville was not at his hotel; his company was on guard at the Louvre; he was at the Louvre with his company.

He had to get to M. de Tréville; it was important that he be informed of what was happening. D'Artagnan resolved to try to enter the Louvre. His uniform as a guard in M. des Essarts' company should be a passport for him.

So he went down the Rue des Petits-Augustins, and went up the quay to take the Pont-Neuf. For a moment he had thought of taking the ferry; but on reaching the water's edge, he had mechanically put his hand in his pocket and noticed that he did not have enough to pay the ferryman.

As he reached the height of the Rue Guénégaud, he saw a group of two people emerging from the Rue Dauphine, whose gait struck him.

The two people composing the group were: one, a man; the other, a woman.

The woman had the figure of Mme Bonacieux, and the man resembled Aramis so closely it was impossible to mistake.

Moreover, the woman had that black cloak which d'Artagnan still saw outlined on the shutter in the Rue de Vaugirard and on the door in the Rue de La Harpe.

In addition, the man wore the uniform of the musketeers.

The woman's hood was lowered, the man held his handkerchief to his face; both, as this double precaution indicated, therefore had an interest in not being recognized.

They took the bridge: it was d'Artagnan's way, since d'Artagnan was going to the Louvre; d'Artagnan followed them.

D'Artagnan had not taken twenty steps before he was convinced that this woman was Mme Bonacieux, and that this man was Aramis.

He instantly felt all the suspicions of jealousy stirring in his heart.

He was doubly betrayed, both by his friend and by the woman he already loved as a mistress. Mme Bonacieux had sworn by all her gods that she did not know Aramis, and a quarter of an hour after she had made that vow, he found her on Aramis's arm.

D'Artagnan did not reflect that he had known the pretty mercer for only three hours, that she owed him nothing but a little gratitude for having delivered her from the black men who wanted to abduct her, and that she had promised him nothing. He considered himself an outraged lover, betrayed, mocked; blood and anger rose to his face, he resolved to clear everything up.

The young woman and the young man noticed they were being followed, and they quickened their pace. D'Artagnan broke into a run, overtook them, then turned back on them at the moment when they were in front of the Samaritaine, lit by a streetlamp that cast its light over that entire part of the bridge.

D'Artagnan stopped in front of them, and they stopped in front of him.

—What do you want, sir? asked the musketeer, stepping back a pace and with a foreign accent that proved to d'Artagnan that he had been mistaken in one part of his conjectures.

—It is not Aramis! he cried.

—No, sir, it is not Aramis, and by your exclamation I see that you have taken me for someone else, and I forgive you.

—You forgive me! cried d'Artagnan.

—Yes, replied the stranger. Let me pass, then, since it is not with me that you have business.

—You are right, sir, said d'Artagnan, it is not with you that I have business, it is with madame.

—With madame! you do not know her, said the stranger.

—You are mistaken, sir, I know her.

—Ah! said Mme Bonacieux, in a tone of reproach, ah, sir! I had your word as a soldier and your faith as a gentleman; I hoped I could count on them.

—And I, madame, said d'Artagnan, embarrassed, you had promised me...

—Take my arm, madame, said the stranger, and let us continue on our way.

However, d'Artagnan, stunned, crushed, annihilated by everything that was happening to him, remained standing with folded arms before the musketeer and Mme Bonacieux.

The musketeer took two steps forward and pushed d'Artagnan aside with his hand.

D'Artagnan leaped back and drew his sword.

At the same time, and with the speed of lightning, the stranger drew his.

—In the name of Heaven, Milord! cried Mme Bonacieux, throwing herself between the combatants and grabbing the swords with both hands.

—Milord! cried d'Artagnan, illuminated by a sudden idea, Milord! pardon, sir; but could you be...

—Milord Duke of Buckingham, said Mme Bonacieux in a half-voice; and now you can ruin us all.

—Milord, madame, pardon, a thousand pardons; but I loved her, Milord, and I was jealous; you know what it is to love, Milord; forgive me, and tell me how I may have myself killed for Your Grace.

—You are a brave young man, said Buckingham, holding out to d'Artagnan a hand which he respectfully pressed; you offer me your services, I accept them; follow us at twenty paces to the Louvre; and if anyone spies on us, kill him!

D'Artagnan put his naked sword under his arm, let Mme Bonacieux and the duke get twenty paces ahead, and followed them, ready to carry out to the letter the instructions of the noble and elegant minister of Charles I.

But fortunately the young follower had no opportunity to give the duke this proof of his devotion, and the young woman and the handsome musketeer entered the Louvre through the wicket of the Echelle without being molested...

As for d'Artagnan, he immediately went to the Pomme de Pin tavern, where he found Porthos and Aramis waiting for him.

But, without giving them any other explanation for the trouble he had caused them, he told them that he had finished alone the affair for which he had for a moment believed he needed their intervention. And now, carried along as we are by our story, let us leave our three friends to return each to his own home, and follow, in the winding passages of the Louvre, the Duke of Buckingham and his guide.

CHAPTER XII. GEORGE VILLIERS, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM

Madame Bonacieux and the duke entered the Louvre without difficulty; Mme Bonacieux was known to belong to the queen; the duke wore the uniform of M. de Tréville's musketeers, who, as we have said, was on guard that evening. Besides, Germain was in the queen's interests, and if anything happened, Mme Bonacieux would be accused of having introduced her lover into the Louvre, that was all; she took the crime upon herself: her reputation was lost, it is true, but what value was the reputation of a little mercer in the world?

Once inside the courtyard, the duke and the young woman followed the base of the wall for about twenty-five paces; having covered this space, Mme Bonacieux pushed a small service door, open during the day but usually closed at night; the door yielded; both entered and found themselves in darkness, but Mme Bonacieux knew all the twists and turns of this part of the Louvre, intended for the attendants. She closed the doors behind her, took the duke by the hand, took a few steps gropingly, seized a railing, touched a step with her foot, and began to climb a staircase: the duke counted two floors. Then she turned right, followed a long corridor, went down one floor, took a few more steps, inserted a key into a lock, opened a door, and pushed the duke into a room lit only by a night lamp, saying: "Stay here, Milord Duke, someone will come." Then she went out by the same door, which she locked, so that the duke found himself literally a prisoner.

However, isolated as he found himself, it must be said, the Duke of Buckingham did not feel a moment's fear; one of the salient sides of his character was the pursuit of adventure and the love of the romantic. Brave, bold, enterprising, this was not the first time he had risked his life in such attempts; he had learned that this pretended message from Anne of Austria, on the faith of which he had come to Paris, was a trap, and instead of returning to England, he had, abusing the position accorded him, declared to the queen that he would not leave without seeing her. The queen had first positively refused, then finally she had feared that the duke, exasperated, might do something foolish. She was already decided to receive him and to beg him to leave immediately, when, on the very evening of this decision, Mme Bonacieux, who was charged with fetching the duke and leading him to the Louvre, was abducted. For two days they were completely ignorant of what had become of her, and everything remained in suspense. But once free, once back in contact with La Porte, things had resumed their course, and she had just accomplished the perilous enterprise which, without her arrest, she would have executed three days earlier.

Buckingham, left alone, approached a mirror. This musketeer's uniform suited him marvelously.

At thirty-five years of age, which he was then, he was rightly considered the handsomest gentleman and the most elegant cavalier in France and England.

Favorite of two kings, millionaire, all-powerful in a kingdom which he overturned at his fancy and calmed at his whim, George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, had undertaken one of those fabulous existences which remain in the course of centuries as a wonder for posterity.

Thus, sure of himself, convinced of his power, certain that the laws which governed other men could not reach him, he went straight to the goal he had set for himself, even if that goal were so high and so dazzling that it would have been folly for another even to contemplate it. It was thus that he had managed to approach several times the beautiful and proud Anne of Austria and to make himself loved by her, through sheer dazzling.

George Villiers therefore placed himself before a mirror, as we have said, restored to his beautiful blonde hair the waves that the weight of his hat had made it lose, twirled his mustache, and with his heart swelling with joy, happy and proud to have reached the moment he had so long desired, he smiled to himself with pride and hope.

At that moment, a door hidden in the tapestry opened and a woman appeared. Buckingham saw this apparition in the mirror; he uttered a cry, it was the queen!

Anne of Austria was then twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, that is, she was in the full bloom of her beauty.

Her bearing was that of a queen or a goddess; her eyes, which cast emerald reflections, were perfectly beautiful, and at once full of sweetness and majesty.

Her mouth was small and vermilion, and although her lower lip, like that of the princes of the House of Austria, protruded slightly over the other, it was eminently gracious in smiling, but also profoundly disdainful in contempt.

Her skin was noted for its softness and velvety texture, her hands and arms were of surprising beauty, and all the poets of the time sang of them as incomparable.

Finally, her hair, which from blonde in her youth had become chestnut, and which she wore very thinly curled and heavily powdered, admirably framed her face, from which the most rigid censor could have wished only a little less rouge, and the most exacting sculptor only a little more fineness in the nose.

Buckingham remained dazzled for a moment; never had Anne of Austria appeared to him so beautiful, amid balls, festivities, carrousels, as she appeared to him at this moment, dressed in a simple white satin robe and accompanied by Doña Estefania, the only one of her Spanish women who had not been driven away by the king's jealousy and Richelieu's persecutions.

Anne of Austria took two steps forward; Buckingham threw himself at her knees, and before the queen could prevent him, he kissed the hem of her robe.

—Duke, you already know that it was not I who had you written to.

—Oh! yes, madame, yes, Your Majesty, cried the duke; I know that I was a fool, a madman to believe that snow would come to life, that marble would warm; but, what would you have, when one loves, one easily believes in love; moreover, I have not lost everything on this journey, since I see you.

—Yes, replied Anne, but you know why and how I see you, Milord. I see you out of pity for yourself; I see you because, insensible to all my sufferings, you have obstinately remained in a city where, in staying, you run the risk of your life and make me run the risk of my honor; I see you to tell you that everything separates us, the depths of the sea, the enmity of kingdoms, the sanctity of vows. It is sacrilege to fight against so many things, Milord. I see you finally to tell you that we must no longer see each other.

—Speak, madame; speak, queen, said Buckingham; the sweetness of your voice covers the harshness of your words. You speak of sacrilege! but the sacrilege is in the separation of hearts that God had formed for each other.

—Milord, cried the queen, you forget that I never told you that I loved you.

—But you never told me either that you did not love me; and truly, to say such words to me would be from Your Majesty too great an ingratitude. For tell me, where will you find a love like mine, a love that neither time, nor absence, nor despair can extinguish; a love that is content with a stray ribbon, a lost glance, an escaped word?

"It is three years, madame, since I saw you for the first time, and for three years I have loved you thus.

"Do you want me to tell you how you were dressed the first time I saw you? Do you want me to detail every ornament of your attire? Look, I see you still: you were seated on cushions, in the Spanish fashion; you had a green satin robe with embroidery of gold and silver; hanging sleeves, tied back on your beautiful arms, on those admirable arms, with large diamonds; you wore a closed ruff, a little bonnet on your head, the color of your robe, and on that bonnet a heron's feather.

"Oh! look, look, I close my eyes, and I see you as you were then; I open them, and I see you as you are now, that is to say a hundred times more beautiful still!

—What madness! murmured Anne of Austria, who did not have the courage to be angry with the duke for having so well preserved her portrait in his heart; what madness to nourish a useless passion with such memories!

—And with what then would you have me live? I have only memories, I. That is my happiness, my treasure, my hope. Each time I see you, it is one more diamond that I enclose in the casket of my heart. This one is the fourth that you have let fall and that I pick up; for in three years, madame, I have only seen you four times: that first one I just told you about, the second at Mme de Chevreuse's, the third in the gardens of Amiens.

—Duke, said the queen, blushing, do not speak of that evening.

—Oh! let us speak of it, on the contrary, madame, let us speak of it: it is the happy and radiant evening of my life. Do you remember the beautiful night it was? How the air was soft and perfumed, how the sky was blue and all studded with stars! Ah! that time, madame, I had been able to be alone with you for a moment; that time, you were ready to tell me everything, the isolation of your life, the sorrows of your heart. You were leaning on my arm, look, on this one. I felt, by inclining my head to your side, your beautiful hair brush my face, and each time it brushed me I shuddered from head to foot. Oh! queen, queen! oh! you do not know all the felicities of heaven, all the joys of paradise contained in such a moment. Look, my possessions, my fortune, my glory, all the days I have left to live, for a like moment and a like night! for that night, madame, that night you loved me, I swear it.

—Milord, it is possible, yes, that the influence of the place, the charm of that beautiful evening, the fascination of your gaze, those thousand circumstances finally that sometimes come together to ruin a woman, may have gathered around me on that fateful evening; but you saw, Milord, the queen came to the aid of the woman who was faltering: at the first word you dared to say, at the first boldness to which I had to respond, I called out.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”