 Chapter 23 of the Dartanian Romances, Volume 3, Part 1 by Alexander Dumas, translated by William Robson, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain, in which the author, very unwillingly, is forced to write a little history. While kings and men were thus occupied with England, which governed itself quite alone, and which, it must be said, in its praise, had never been so badly governed, a man upon whom God had fixed his eye and placed his finger, a man predestined to write his name in brilliant letters upon the page of history, was pursuing in the face of the world, a work full of mystery and audacity. He went on, and no one knew whether he meant to go, although not only England, but France and Europe watched him marching with a firm step, and had held high. All that was known of this man we are about to tell. Monk had just declared himself in favour of the liberty of the Rump Parliament, a parliament which General Lambert, imitating Cromwell, whose lieutenant he had been, had just blocked up so closely, in order to bring it to his will, that no member during all the blockade was able to go out, and only one, Peter Wentworth, had been able to get in. Lambert and Monk. Everything was summed up in these two men, the first representing military despotism, the second pure republicanism. These men were the two sole political representatives of that revolution in which Charles I had first lost his crown, and afterward his head. As regarded Lambert, he did not dissemble his views. He sought to establish a military government, and to be himself the head of that government. Monk, a rigid Republican, some said, wished to maintain the Rump Parliament, that invisible though degenerated representative of the Republic. Monk, artful and ambitious, said others, wished simply to make of this parliament, which he affected to protect, a solid step by which to mount the throne which Cromwell had left empty, but upon which he had never dared to take his seat. Thus, Lambert, by persecuting the parliament, and Monk by declaring for it, had mutually proclaimed themselves enemies of each other. Monk and Lambert, therefore, had at first thought of creating an army each for himself. Monk and Scotland, where were the Presbyterians and the Royalists, that is to say, the Malcontents? Lambert and London, where was found, as is always the case, the strongest opposition to the existing power which it had beneath its eyes. Monk had pacified Scotland. He had there formed for himself an army and found an asylum, for the one watched the other. Monk knew that the day was not yet come, the day marked by the Lord for a great change. His sword, therefore, appeared glued to the sheath. Inexpungible in his wild and mountainous Scotland, an absolute general, king of an army of eleven thousand old soldiers, whom he had more than once led onto victory, as well informed, nay, even better of the affairs of London than Lambert, who held Garrison in the city. Such was the position of Monk, when, at a hundred leagues from London, he declared himself for the Parliament. Lambert on the contrary, as we have said, lived in the capital. That was the centre of all his operations, and he there collected around him all his friends, and all the people of the lower class, eternally inclined to cherish the enemies of constituted power. It was then in London that Lambert learnt the support that, from the frontiers of Scotland, Monk lent to the Parliament. He judged there was no time to be lost, and that the tweed was not so far distant from the Thames that an army could not march from one river to the other, particularly when it was well commanded. He knew besides that, as fast as the soldiers of Monk penetrated into England, they would form on their route that ball of snow, the emblem of the globe of fortune, which is, for the ambitious nothing but a step growing unceasingly higher to conduct him to his object. He got together therefore his army, formidable at the same time for its composition in its numbers, and hastened to meet Monk, who on his part, like a prudent navigator sailing amidst rocks, advanced by very short marches, listening to the reports and sending the air which came from London. The two armies came inside of each other near Newcastle. They were arriving first, encamped in the city itself. Monk, always circumspect, stopped where he was and placed his general quarters at cold stream on the tweed. The sight of Lambert spread joy through Monk's army, whilst on the contrary the sight of Monk threw disorder into Lambert's army. It might have been thought that these intrepid warriors who made such a noise in the streets of London had set out with the hopes of meeting no one, and that now seeing that they had met in army, and that that army hoisted before them not only a standard but still further a cause and a principle. It might have been believed, we say, that these intrepid warriors had begun to reflect, that they were less good Republicans than the soldiers of Monk since the latter supported the Parliament whilst Lambert supported nothing, not even himself. As to Monk, if he had had to reflect, or if he did reflect it must have been after a sad fashion, for history relates, and that modest aim it is well known never lies. History relates that the day of his arrival at cold stream, search was made in vain throughout the place for a single sheep. If Monk had commanded an English army, that was enough to have brought about a general desertion. But it is not with the Scotch as it is with the English, to whom that fluid flesh which is called blood is a paramount necessity, the Scotch, a poor and sober race, live upon a little barley crushed between two stones, diluted with the water of the fountain and cooked upon another stone, heated. The Scotch, the distribution of barley being made cared very little whether there was or was not any meat in cold stream. Monk, little accustomed to barley cakes, was hungry, and his staff, at least as hungry as himself, looked with anxiety right and left to know what was being prepared for supper. Monk ordered search to be made, his Scouts had on arriving in the place found it deserted, and the cupboards empty. Upon butchers and bakers it was of no use depending in cold stream. The smallest morsel of bread then could not be found for the general's table. As accounts succeeded each other, all equally unsatisfactory, Monk, seeing terror and discouragement upon every face, declared that he was not hungry. Besides, they should eat on the morrow since Lambert was there probably with the intention of giving battle, and consequently would give up his provisions if he were forced from Newcastle, or forever to relieve Monk's soldiers from hunger if he conquered. This consolation was only efficacious upon a very small number, but of what importance was it to Monk? For Monk was very absolute, under the appearance of the most perfect mildness. Everyone therefore was obliged to be satisfied, or at least to appear so. Monk, quite as hungry as his people, but affecting perfect indifference for the absent mutton, cut a fragment of tobacco half an inch long from the carrot of a sergeant who formed part of his suite, and began to masticate the said fragment, assuring his lieutenants that hunger was a chimera, and that besides, people were never hungry when they had anything to chew. This joke satisfied some of those who had resisted Monk's first deduction drawn from the neighborhood of Lambert's army. The number of the dissentience diminished greatly. The guard took their post, the patrols began, and the general continued his frugal repast under his open tent. Between his camp and that of the enemy stood an old abbey, of which at the present day there only remain some ruins, but which then was in existence and was called Newcastle Abbey. It was built upon a vast site, independent at once of the plain and of the river, because it was almost a marsh fed by springs and kept up by rains. Nevertheless, in the midst of these pools of water, covered with long grass, rushes and reeds were seen solid spots of ground, formerly used as the kitchen garden, the park, the pleasure gardens, and other dependencies of the abbey, looking like one of those great sea spiders whose body is round whilst the claws go diverging round from this circumference. The kitchen garden, one of the longest claws of the abbey, extended to Monk's camp. Unfortunately, it was as we have said, early in June, and the kitchen garden being abandoned offered no resources. Monk had ordered this spot to be guarded, as most subject to surprises. The fires of the enemy's general were plainly to be perceived on the other side of the abbey, but between these fires and the abbey extended the tweed, unfolding its luminous scales beneath the thick shade of tall green oaks. Monk was perfectly well acquainted with this position, new castle and its environs having already more than once been his headquarters. He knew that by day his enemy might without doubt throw a few scouts into these ruins and promote a skirmish, but that by night he would take care to abstain from such a risk. He felt himself therefore in security. Thus his soldiers saw him, after what he boastingly called his supper, that is to say, after the exercise of mastication reported by us at the commencement of this chapter, like Napoleon on the eve of Austerlitz, seated asleep in his rush chair, half beneath the light of his lamp, half beneath the reflection of the moon, commencing its assent in the heavens, which denoted that it was nearly half past nine in the evening. All at once Monk was roused from his half sleep, fictitious, perhaps, by a troop of soldiers who came with joyous cries and kicked the poles of his tent with the humming noise as if on purpose to wake him. There was no need of so much noise, the general opened his eyes quickly. Well, my children, what is going on now? asked the general. General replied several voices at once. General, you shall have some supper. I have had my supper, gentlemen, replied he quietly, and was comfortably digesting it as you see. But come in and tell me what brings you hither. Good news, general. Bah, has Lambert sent us word that he will fight tomorrow? No, but we have just captured a fishing boat conveying fish to Newcastle. And you have done very wrong, my friends. These gentlemen from London are delicate, must have their first course. You will put them sadly out of humor this evening, and tomorrow they will be pitiless. It would really be in good taste to send back to Lambert both his fish and his fishermen, none less. And the general reflected in instant. Tell me, continued he, what are these fishermen, if you please? Some Pickard seamen who were fishing on the coasts of France or Holland, and who have been thrown upon ours by a gale of wind. Do any among them speak our language? The leader spoke some few words of English. The mistrust of the general was awakened in proportion as fresh information reached him. That is well, said he. I wish to see these men bring them to me. An officer immediately went to fetch them. How many are there of them, continued Monk, and what is their vessel? There are 10 or 12 of them, General, and they were aboard of a kind of chasse-narré, as it is called, Dutch built apparently. And you say they were carrying fish to Lambert's camp? Yes, General, and they seem to have had good luck in their fishing. We shall see that, said Monk. At this moment, the officer returned, bringing the leader of the fishermen with him. He was a man from 50 to 55 years old, but good looking for his age. He was of middle height and wore a just-out core of coarse wool, a cap pulled down over his eyes, a cutlass hang from his belt, and he walked with the hesitation peculiar to sailors who, never knowing, thanks to the movement of the vessel, whether their foot will be placed upon the plank or upon nothing, give to every one of their steps to fall as firm as if they were driving a pile. Monk, with an acute and penetrating look, examined the fishermen for some time, while the latter smiled with that smile half-cunning, half-silly, peculiar to French peasants. Do you speak English? asked Monk in excellent French. Ah, but badly, my lord, replied the fishermen. This reply was made much more with the lively and sharp accentuation of the people beyond the Loire, then with the slightly drawing accent of the countries of the west and north of France. But you do speak it, persisted Monk in order to examine his accent once more. Hey, we men of the sea, replied the fishermen, speak a little of all languages. Then you are a sea fisherman. I am at present, my lord, a fisherman and a famous fisherman, too. I have taken a barbell that weighs at least 30 pounds and more than 50 mullets. I have also some little whitings that will fry beautifully. You appear to me to have fished more frequently in the Gulf of Gaskinny than in the Channel, said Monk, smiling. Well, I am from the south, but does that prevent me from being a good fisherman, my lord? Oh, not at all. I shall buy your fish. And now speak frankly, for whom did you destine them? My lord, I will conceal nothing from you. I was going to Newcastle following the coast when a party of horsemen who were passing along in an opposite direction made a sign to my bark to turn back to your honor's camp under penalty of a discharge of musketry. As I was not armed for fighting, added the fishermen smiling, I was forced to submit. And why did you go to Lambert's camp in preference to mine? My lord, I will be frank. Will your lordship permit me? Yes. And even if need be shall command you to be so. Well, my lord, I was going to Mr. Lambert's camp because those gentlemen from the city pay well, whilst your scotchmen, puritans, presbyterians, coven-enters, or whatever you choose to call them, eat but little and pay for nothing. Monk shrugged his shoulders without, however, being able to refrain from smiling at the same time. How is it that, being from the south, you come to fish on our coasts? Because I have been full enough to marry in Pickarty. Yes, but even Pickarty is not England. My lord, man shoves his boat into the sea, but God and the wind do the rest and drive the boat where they please. You had, then, no intention of landing on our coasts. Never. And what route were you steering? We were returning from Austin, where some mackerel had already been seen, when a sharp wind from the south drove us from our course, then seeing that it was useless to struggle against it, we let it drive us, it then became necessary not to lose our fish, which were good, to go and sell them at the nearest English port, and that was Newcastle. We were told the opportunity was good, as there was an increase of population in the camp, an increase of population in the city. Both we were told were full of gentlemen, very rich and very hungry. So we steered our course toward Newcastle. And your companions, where are they? Oh, my companions have remained on board. They are sailors, without the least instruction. Whilst you, said Monk. Oh, I, said the patron laughing, I have sailed about with my father, and I know what is called a Sue, a crown, a pistole, a Louis, and a double Louis in all the languages of Europe. My crew therefore listened to me as they would to an oracle, and obey me as if I were an admiral. Then it was you who preferred Mr. Lambert as the best customer. Yes, certainly. And to be frank, my lord, was I wrong? You will see that by and by. At all events, my lord, if there is a fault, the fault is mine, and my comrades should not be dealt hardly with on that account. This is decidedly an intelligent, sharp fellow. Thought Monk, then after a few minutes silence employed and scrutinizing the fishermen. You come from Austin, did you not say? Asked the general. Yes, my lord, in a straight line. You have then heard of the affairs of the day, for I have no doubt that both in France and Holland, they excite interest. What is he doing who calls himself King of England? Oh, my lord, cried the fisherman with loud and expansive frankness. That is a lucky question, and you could not put it to anybody better than to me. For in truth, I can make you a famous reply. Imagine, my lord, that when putting into Austin to sell the few mackerel we had caught, I saw the X King walking on the downs, waiting for his horses, which were to take him to the Hague. He is a rather tall, pale man with black hair and somewhat hard featured. He looks ill, and I don't think the air of Holland agrees with him. Monk followed with the greatest attention, the rapid, heightened and diffuse conversation of the fishermen in a language which was not his own, but which, as we have said, he spoke with great facility. The fisherman on his part employed sometimes a French word, sometimes an English word, and sometimes a word which appeared not to belong to any language, but was in truth pure guess gone. Fortunately, his eyes spoke for him, and that's so eloquently that it was possible to lose a word from his mouth, but not a single intention from his eyes. The general appeared more and more satisfied with his examination. You must have heard that this X King, as you call him, was going to the Hague for some purpose. Oh, yes, said the fisherman. I heard that. And what was his purpose? Always the same, said the fisherman, must he not always entertain the fixed idea of returning to England? That is true, said Monk pensively. Without reckoning, added the fishermen, that the startholder, you know my Lord William II. Well, he will assist him with all his power. Ha, did you hear that said? No, but I think so. You are quite a politician, apparently, said Monk. Why, we sailors, my Lord, who are accustomed to study the water and the air, that is to say, the two most changeable things in the world are seldom deceived as to the rest. Now, then, said Monk, changing the conversation, I am told you are going to provision us. I shall do my best, my Lord. How much do you ask for your fish in the first place? Not such a fool as to name a price, my Lord. Why not? Because my fish is yours. By what right? By that of the strongest. But my intention is to pay you for it. That is very generous of you, my Lord. And the worth of it? My Lord, I fix no price. What do you ask then? I only ask to be permitted to go away. Where to General Lambert's camp? I cried the fisherman. What should I go to Newcastle for? Now I have no longer any fish. At all events, listen to me. I do so, my Lord. I shall give you some advice. How, my Lord, pay me and give me good advice likewise. You overwhelm me, my Lord. Monk looked more earnestly than ever at the fisherman, about whom he still appeared to entertain some suspicion. Yes, I shall pay you and give you a piece of advice, for the two things are connected. If you return, then to General Lambert. The fisherman made a movement of his head and shoulders, which signified, if he persists in it, I won't contradict him. Do not cross the marsh. Continued Monk, you will have money in your pocket, and there are in the marsh some scotch ambascadders I have placed there. Those people are very intractable. They understand but very little of the language which you speak. Although it appears to me to be composed of three languages, they might take from you what I had given you and on your return to your country. You would not fail to say that General Monk has two hands. The one scotch and the other English, and then he takes back with the scotch hand what he has given with the English hand. Oh, General, I shall go where you like, be sure of that. Said the fisherman with a fear too expressive, not to be exaggerated. I only wish to remain here if you will allow me to remain. I readily believe you, said Monk, with an imperceptible smile. But I cannot nevertheless keep you in my tent. I have no such wish, my lord, and desire only that your lordship should point out where you will have me posted. Do not trouble yourself about us. With us a night soon passes away. You shall be conducted to your bark. As your lordship pleases, only if your lordship would allow me to be taken back by a carpenter, I should be extremely grateful. Why so? Because the gentleman of your army in dragging my boat up the river with a cable pulled by their horses have battered it a little upon the rocks of the shore, so that I have at least two feet of water in my hold, my lord. The greater reason why you should watch your boat, I think. My lord, I am quite at your orders, said the fisherman. I shall empty my baskets where you wish, then you will pay me if you please to do so, and you will send me away if it appears right to you. You see, I am very easily managed and pleased, my lord. Come, come, you are a very good sort of a fellow, said Monk, who scrutinizing glance had not been able to find a single shade in the clear eye of the fisherman. Loa, dig me. In aid to camp appeared, you will conduct this good fellow and his companions to the little tent of the canteens in front of the marshes, so that they will be near their bark, and yet will not sleep on board tonight. What is the matter, Spithead? Spithead was the sergeant from whom Monk had borrowed a piece of tobacco for his supper. Spithead, having entered the general's tent without being sent for, had drawn this question from Monk. My lord, said he, a French gentleman has just presented himself at the outposts and wishes to speak to your honour. All this was said, be it understood in English, but not withstanding, it produced a slight emotion in the fisherman, which Monk occupied with his sergeant did not remark. Who is this gentleman? asked Monk. My lord, replied Spithead. He told it me, but those devils of French names are so difficult to pronounce for a scotch throat that I could not retain it. I believe, however, from what the gods say, that it is the same gentleman who presented himself yesterday at the halt in whom your honour would not receive. That is true. I was holding a council of officers. Will your honour give any orders respecting this gentleman? Yes, let him be brought here. Must we take any precautions? Such as what? Binding his eyes, for instance. To what purpose? He can only see what I desire should be seen. That is to say that I have around me eleven thousand brave men who ask no better than to have their throats cut in honour of the Parliament of Scotland and England. And this man, my lord, said Spithead, pointing to the fisherman who during his conversation had remained standing and motionless like a man who sees but does not understand. Ah, that is true, said Monk, then turning toward the fisherman. I shall see you again, my brave fellow, said he. I have selected a lodging for you. Dig me, take him to it. Fear nothing, your money shall be sent to you presently. Thank you, my lord, said the fisherman. And after having bowed, he left the tent accompanied by Digby. Before he had gone a hundred paces, he found his companions who were whispering with a volubility which did not appear exempt from uneasiness, but he made them a sign which seemed to reassure them. Hello, you fellows, said the patron. Come this way. His lordship, General Monk, has the generosity to pay us for our fish and the goodness to give us hospitality for tonight. The fisherman gathered round their leader and conducted by Digby the little troop proceeded toward the canteens. The post, as may be remembered, which had been assigned to them. As they went along in the darkness, the fisherman passed close to the guards who were conducting the French gentleman to General Monk. This gentleman was on horseback and enveloped in a large cloak which prevented the patron from seeing him, however great his curiosity might be. As to the gentleman, ignorant that he was elbowing compatriots, he did not pay any attention to the little troop. The aid to camp settled his guests in a tolerably comfortable tent from which was dislodged an Irish canteen woman who went with her six children to sleep where she could. A large fire was burning in front of this tent and through its purple light over the grassy pools of the marsh, rippled by a fresh breeze. The arrangements made, the aid to camp wished the fisherman good night, calling to their notice that they might see from the door of the tent the masks of their bark which was tossing gently on the tweed a proof that it had not yet sunk. The sight of this appeared to delight the leader of the fisherman infinitely. End of chapter 23, recording by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia. Chapter 24 of the D'Artagnan Romances, volume three part one by Alexander Dumas translated by William Robson. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. The treasure. The French gentleman whom Spit had had announced to Monk and who closely wrapped in his cloak had passed by the fisherman who left the general's tent five minutes before he entered it. The French gentleman went through the various posts without even casting his eyes around him for fear of appearing indiscreet. As the order had been given, he was conducted to the tent of the general. The gentleman was left alone in the sword of antechamber in front of the principal body of the tent where he awaited Monk, who only delayed till he had heard the report of his people and observed through the opening of the canvas the countenance of the person who solicited in audience. Without doubt, the report of those who had accompanied the French gentleman established the discretion with which he had behaved for the first impression the stranger received of the welcome made him by the general was more favorable than he could have expected at such a moment and on the part of so suspicious a man. Nevertheless, according to his custom, when Monk found himself in the presence of a stranger, he fixed upon him his penetrating eyes, which scrutiny the stranger on his part sustained without embarrassment or notice. At the end of a few seconds, the general made a gesture with his hand and head and sign of attention. "'My Lord,' said the gentleman in excellent English, "'I have requested an interview with your honor "'for an affair of importance.' "'Mr.' replied Monk in French. "'You speak our language well for a son of the continent. "'I ask your pardon. "'For doubtless the question is indiscreet. "'Do you speak French with the same purity?' "'There is nothing surprising, my Lord, "'in my speaking English tolerably. "'I resided for some time in England and my youth, "'and since then I have made two voyages to this country.' "'These words were spoken in French "'and with a purity of accent that bespoke "'not only a Frenchman, but a Frenchman "'from the vicinity of Tore.' "'And what part of England have you resided in, Mr.' "'In my youth, London, my Lord, then about 1635, "'I made a pleasure trip to Scotland, "'and lastly in 1648, I lived for some time at Newcastle, "'particularly in the convent, "'the gardens of which are now occupied by your army. "'Excuse me, Mr., but you must comprehend "'that these questions are necessary on my part. "'Do you not?' "'It would astonish me, my Lord, if they were not asked. "'Now, then, Mr., what can I do to serve you? "'What do you wish?' "'This, my Lord, but in the first place, "'are we alone?' "'Perfectly so, Mr., except, of course, the post which guards us.' "'So, saying, Monk pulled open the canvas with his hand "'and pointed to the soldier placed at ten paces from the tent, "'and who at the first call could have rendered assistance "'in a second?' "'In that case, my Lord,' said the gentleman, "'in as calm a tone as if he had been for a length of time "'in habits of intimacy with his interlocutor, "'I have made up my mind to address myself to you, "'because I believe you to be an honest man. "'Indeed, the communication I am about to make to you "'will prove to you the esteem in which I hold you.'" Monk, astonished at this language, which established between him and the French gentleman equality at least, raised his piercing eye to the stranger's face and with a sensible irony conveyed by the inflection of his voice alone for not a muscle of his face moved. "'I thank you, Monsieur,' said he. "'But in the first place, to whom have I the honor of speaking?' "'I sent you my name by your sergeant, my Lord.' "'Excuse him, Monsieur, he is a scotchman. "'He could not retain it.' "'I am called the Compt de la Faire, Monsieur,' said Athos, bowing. "'The Compt de la Faire,' said Monk, "'endevering to recollect the name.' "'Pardon me, Monsieur, but this appears to be the first time "'I have ever heard that name. "'Do you fill any post at the court of France?' "'None. I am a simple gentleman.' "'What dignity!' "'King Charles I made me a knight of the garter "'and Queen Anne of Austria has given me the cordon "'of the Holy Ghost. "'These are my only dignities.' "'The garter, the Holy Ghost, "'are you a knight of those two orders, Monsieur?' "'Yes.' "'And on what occasions have such favors "'been bestowed upon you?' "'For services rendered to their majesties.' "'Monk looked with astonishment at this man "'who appeared to him so simple and so great at the same time. "'Then, as if he had renounced endeavouring "'to penetrate this mystery of a simplicity and grandeur, "'upon which the stranger did not seem disposed "'to give him any other information than that "'which he had already received.' "'Did you present yourself yesterday "'at our advanced posts?' "'And was sent back? "'Yes, my lord.' "'Many officers, Monsieur, "'would permit no one to enter their camp, "'particularly on the eve of a probable battle. "'But I differ from my colleagues "'and like to leave nothing behind me. "'Every advice is good to me. "'All danger is sent to me by God, "'and I weigh it in my hand "'with the energy he has given me. "'So, yesterday, you were only sent back "'on account of the counsel I was holding. "'Today I am at liberty. Speak!' "'My lord, you have done much better in receiving me. "'For what I have to say has nothing to do with the battle "'you are about to fight with General Lambert, "'or with your camp, "'and the proof is that I turned away my head "'that I might not see your men "'and closed my eyes that I might not count your tents. "'No, I come to speak to you, my lord, "'on my own account.' "'Speak that, monsieur,' said Monk. "'Just now,' continued Athos, "'I had the honour of telling your lordship "'that for a long time I lived in Newcastle. "'It was in the time of Charles I, "'and when the king was given up to Cromwell by the Scots.' "'I know,' said Monk coldly. "'I had at that time a large sum in gold "'and on the eve of the battle from a presentiment, "'perhaps of the turn which things would take on the morrow, "'I concealed it in the principal vault of the convent of Newcastle, "'in the tower whose summits you now see "'silvered by the moon-beams. "'My treasure has then remained interred there, "'and I have come to entreat your honour "'to permit me to withdraw it before, "'perhaps the battle turning that way, "'a mine or some other war-engine "'has destroyed the building and scattered my gold, "'or rendered it so apparent that the soldiers "'will take possession of it.' Monk was well acquainted with mankind. He saw in the physiognomy of this gentleman all the energy, all the reason, all the circumspection possible. He could therefore only attribute to the magnanimous confidence the revelation the Frenchman had made him, and he showed himself profoundly touched by it. "'Nissure,' said he. "'You have argued well of me, "'but is the sum worth the trouble to which you expose yourself? "'Do you even believe that it can be in the place "'where you left it?' "'It is there, monsieur. I do not doubt it.' "'That is a reply to one question, but to the other, "'I asked you if the sum was so large as to warrant "'your exposing yourself, bus.' "'It is really large, yes, my lord. "'For it is a million I enclosed in two barrels.' "'A million!' cried Monk, "'at whom this time in turn, Athos looked earnestly and long. Monk perceived this, and his mistrust returned. "'Here is a man,' said he. "'Who is laying a snare for me? "'So you wish to withdraw this money, monsieur?' replied he. "'As I understand.' "'If you please, my lord.' "'Today?' "'This very evening, and that on account of the circumstances "'I have named.' "'But, monsieur,' objected Monk, "'General Lambert is as near the abbey where you have to act "'as I am. "'Why then have you not addressed yourself to him?' "'Because, my lord, when one acts in important matters, "'it is best to consult one's instinct before everything. "'Well, General Lambert does not inspire me with so much confidence "'as you do.' "'Be it so, monsieur, I shall assist you in recovering your money, "'if, however, it can still be there. "'For that is far from likely. "'Since 1648, twelve years have rolled away, "'and many events have taken place.'" Monk dwelt upon this point to see if the French gentleman would seize the evasions that were open to him, but Athos did not hesitate. "'I assure you, my lord,' he said firmly, "'that my conviction is that the two barrels have neither changed place nor master.' This reply had removed one suspicion from the mind of Monk, but it had suggested another. Without doubt this Frenchman was some emissary sent to entice into error the protector of the parliament. The gold was nothing but a lure, and by the help of this lure they thought to excite the cupidity of the general. This gold might not exist. It was Monk's business then to seize the Frenchman in the act of falsehood and trick, and to draw from the false step itself in which his enemies wished to entrap him a triumph for his renown. When Monk was determined how to act, "'Missure,' said he to Athos, "'without doubt you will do me the honor to share my supper this evening.' "'Yes, my lord,' replied Athos, bowing, "'for you do me an honor of which I feel myself worthy by the inclination which drew me towards you.' "'It is so much the more gracious on your part to accept my invitation with such frankness, as my cooks are but few and inexperienced, and my providers have returned this evening empty-handed. So that if it had not been for a fisherman of your nation who strayed into our camp, General Monk would have gone to bed without his supper today. I have then some fresh fish to offer you, as the vendor assures me.' "'My lord, it is principally for the sake of having the honor to pass another hour with you.' After this exchange of civilities, during which Monk had lost nothing of his circumspection, the supper, or what was to serve for one, had been laid upon a deal-table. Monk invited the Comptil Affair to be seated at this table and took his place opposite to him. A single dish of boiled fish, set before the two illustrious guests, was more tempting to hungry stomachs than to delicate palates. While supping, that is, while eating the fish, washed down with bad ale, Monk got Athos to relate to him the last events of the frond, the reconciliation of Monsieur Dekond with the king, and the probable marriage of the Infanta of Spain. But he avoided, as Athos himself avoided it, all allusion to the political interests which united, or rather which disunited at this time, England, France, and Holland. Monk in this conversation convinced himself of one thing, which he must have remarked after the first words exchanged, that was, that he had to deal with a man of high distinction. He could not be an assassin, and it was repugnant to Monk to believe him to be a spy, but there was sufficient finesse, and at the same time firmness in Athos to lead Monk to fancy, he was a conspirator. When they had quitted the table, you still believe in your treasure then, Monsieur, asked Monk. Yes, my lord. Quite seriously? Seriously. And you think you can find the place again where it was buried? At the first inspection. Well, Monsieur, from curiosity I shall accompany you, and it is so much the more necessary than I should accompany you that you would find great difficulties in passing through the camp without me, or one of my lieutenants. General, I would not suffer you to inconvenience yourself if I did not. In fact, stand in need of your company. But as I recognize that this company is not only honorable, but necessary, I accept it. Do you desire we should take any people with us? asked Monk. General, I believe that would be useless if you yourself did not see the necessity for it. Two men and a horse were suffice to transport the two casts on board the Faluka, which brought me hither. But it will be necessary to pick, dig, and remove the earth, and split stones. You don't intend doing this work yourself, Monsieur. Do you? General, there is no picking or digging required. The treasure is buried in the sepulchre vault of the convent, under a stone in which is fixed a large iron ring, and under which are four steps leading down. The two casts are there, placed end to end, covered with a coat of plaster in the form of a bear. There is, besides, an inscription, which will enable me to recognize the stone, and, as I am not willing in an affair of delicacy and confidence, to keep the secret from your honour, here is the inscription. Pick, yacet, venerable lease. Petrus, gilliamelus, scott, cannon on a rob, conventus novi castelli, obit quarta et decima, february, year of our lord, 1208, requiesat in pacce. Monk did not lose a single word. He was astonished, neither at the marvellous duplicity of this man, and the superior style in which he played his part, or at the good loyal faith with which he presented his request, in a situation in which concerning a million of money, risked against the blow from a dagger amidst an army that would have looked upon the theft as a restitution. Very well, said he, I shall accompany you, and the adventure appears to me so wonderful that I shall carry the torch myself. And, saying these words, he girded on a short sword, placed a pistol in his belt, disclosing in this movement, which opened his doublet a little, the fine rings of a coat of mail, destined to protect him from the first dagger thrust of an assassin, after which he took a scotch-dirk in his left hand, and then turning to Athos, Are you ready, monsieur? said he. I am. Athos, as if in opposition to what Monk had done, unfastened his pinyard which he placed upon the table, unhooked his sword-belt, which he laid close to his pinyard, and without affectation, opening his doublet as if to look for his handkerchief showed beneath his fine cambrick shirt, his naked breast, without weapons either offensive or defensive. That is truly a singular man, said Monk. He is without any arms. He has an ambush guard placed somewhere yonder. General, said he as if he had divined Monk's thought, you wish we should be alone, that is very right. But a great captain ought never to expose himself with temerity. It is night. The passage of the marsh may present dangers. Be accompanied. You are right, replied he, calling Digby. The aid to camp appeared. Fifty men with swords and muskets, said he, looking at Athos. That is too few if there is danger. Too many if there is not. I will go alone, said Monk. I want nobody. Come, monsieur. End of Chapter 24. Recording by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia. Chapter 25 of the D'Artagnan Romance's Volume 3 Part 1 by Alexander Dumas, translated by William Robson. The March. Athos and Monk passed over, in going from the camp toward the tweed, that part of the ground which Digby had traversed with the fishermen coming from the tweed to the camp. The aspect of this place, the aspect of the changes man had wrought in it, was of a nature to produce a great effect upon a lively and delicate imagination like that of Athos. Athos looked at nothing but these desolate spots. Monk looked at nothing but Athos. At Athos, who, with his eyes, sometimes directed toward heaven and sometimes toward the earth, sought, thought, and sighed. Digby, whom the last orders of the general, and particularly the accent with which he had given them, had at first a little excited, followed the pair at about twenty paces, but the general having turned round as if astonished to find his orders had not been obeyed, the aid to camp perceived as in discretion, and returned to his tent. He supposed that the general wished to make incognito one of those reviews of vigilance which every experienced captain never fails to make on the eve of a decisive engagement. He explained to himself the presence of Athos in this case as an inferior explains all that is mysterious on the part of his leader. Athos might be, and indeed in the eyes of Digby, must be, a spy whose information was to enlighten the general. At the end of a walk of about ten minutes among the tents and posts which were closer together near the headquarters, Monk entered upon a little causeway which diverged into three branches. That on the left led to the river, that in the middle to Newcastle Abbey on the marsh, that on the right crossed the first lines of Monk's camp. That is to say the lines nearest to Lambert's army. Beyond the river was an advanced post belonging to Monk's army, which watched the enemy. It was composed of one hundred and fifty scots. They had swum across the tweed and in case of attack were to recross it in the same manner, giving the alarm, but as there was no post at that spot, and as Lambert's soldiers were not so prompt at taking to the water as Monk's were, the latter appeared not to have much uneasiness on that side. On this side of the river, at about five hundred paces from the old Abbey, the fishermen had taken up their abode amidst the crowd of small tents raised by the soldiers of the neighbouring clans who had with them their wives and children. All this confusion, seen by the moon's light, presented a striking coup d'oeuvre. The half-shadow enlarged every detail, and the light, that flatterer which only attaches itself to the polished side of things, courted upon each rusty musket the point still left intact, and upon every rag of canvas the whitest and least sullied part. Monk arrived then with Athos, crossing this spot, illumined with a double light, the silver splendour of the moon, and the red blaze of the fires at the meeting of the three causeways. There he stopped, and addressing his companion, the sure, said he. Do you know your road? General, if I am not mistaken, the middle causeway leads straight to the Abbey. That is right, but we shall want lights to guide us in the vaults. Monk turned round. Ah, I thought Didby was following us, said he. So much the better. He will procure us what we want. Yes, General, there is a man yonder who has been walking behind us for some time. Digby! cried Monk. Digby, come here, if you please. But instead of obeying, the shadow made a motion of surprise, and retreating instead of advancing, it bent down and disappeared along the jetty on the left, directing its course toward the lodging of the fisherman. It appears not to be Digby! said Monk. Both had followed the shadow which had vanished, but it was not so rare a thing for a man to be wandering about at eleven o'clock at night, in a camp in which are reposing ten or eleven thousand men, as to give Monk and Athos any alarm at his disappearance. Ah, it is so, said Monk. And we must have a light, a lantern, a torch, or something by which we may see where to set our feet. Let us seek this light. General, the first soldier we meet will light us. No, said Monk, in order to discover if there were not any connivance between the Comptail Affair and the fisherman. No, I shall prefer one of these French sailors who came this evening to sell me their fish. They leave tomorrow, and the secret will be better kept by them, whereas if a report should be spread in the scotch army that treasures are to be found in the Abbey of Newcastle, my Highlanders will believe there is a million concealed beneath every slab, and they will not leave stone upon stone in the building. Do as you think best, General. Replied Athos in a natural tone of voice, making evident that soldier or fisherman was the same to him, and that he had no preference. Monk approached the causeway behind which had disappeared the person he had taken for Digby, and met a patrol who, making sure the tour of the tents was going toward headquarters. He was stopped with his companion, gave the password, and went on. A soldier roused by the noise, unrolled his plaid, and looked up to see what was going forward. Ask him, said Monk to Athos, where the fishermen are. If I were to speak to him, he would know me. Athos went up to the soldier who pointed out the tent to him. Immediately Monk and Athos turned toward it. Heared to the general that at the moment they came up, a shadow like they had already seen glided into this tent. But on drawing nearer he perceived he must have been mistaken. For all of them were asleep, peyle meyle, and nothing was seen but arms and legs joined, crossed, and mixed. Athos, fearing lest he should be suspected of connivance with some of his compatriots, remained outside the tent. Hola, said Monk in French. Wake up here. Two or three of the sleepers got up. I want a man to light me, continued Monk. Your honor may depend upon us, said a voice which made Athos start. Where do you wish us to go? You shall see. A light. Come quickly. Yes, your honor. Does it please your honor that I should accompany you? You are another. It is a very little consequence. Provided I have a light. It is strange, thought Athos. What a singular voice that man has. Some fire, you fellows, cried the fisherman. Come, make haste. Then addressing his companion nearest to him in a low voice. Get a light, Menoveal, said he, and hold yourself ready for anything. One of the fishermen struck a light from a stone, set fire to some tinder, and by the aid of a match lit a lantern. The light immediately spread all over the tent. Are you ready, monsieur? said Monk to Athos, who had turned away not to expose his face to the light. Yes, general, replied he. Ah, the French gentleman, said the leader of the fisherman to himself. Peste, I have a great mind to charge you with the commission, Menoveal. He may know me. Light, light! This dialogue was pronounced at the back of the tent, and in so low a voice that Monk could not hear a syllable of it, he was besides talking with Athos. Menoveal got himself ready in the meantime, or rather received the orders of his leader. Well, said Monk, I am ready, general, said the fisherman. Monk, Athos, and the fisherman left the tent. It is impossible, thought Athos. What dream could put that into my head? Go forward! Follow the middle causeway, and stretch out your legs, said Monk to the fisherman. They were not twenty paces on their way, when the same shadow that had appeared to enter the tent came out of it again, crawled along as far as the piles, and protected by that sort of parapet placed along the causeway, carefully observed the march of the general. All three disappeared in the night haze. They were walking toward Newcastle, the white stones of which appeared to them like sepulchres. After standing for a few seconds under the porch, they penetrated into the interior. The door had been broken and opened by hatchets, opposed to four men slept in safety in a corner, so certain were they that the attack would not take place on that side. Will not these men be in your way? said Monk to Athos. On the contrary, Misher, they will assist in rolling out the barrels if your honor will permit them. You are right! The post, though fast asleep, roused up at the first steps of the three visitors amongst the briars and grass that invaded the porch. Monk gave the password and penetrated into the interior of the convent preceded by the light. He walked last, watching the least movement of Athos, his naked dirk in his sleeve and ready to plunge it into the back of the gentleman at the first suspicious gesture he should see him make. But Athos, with a firm and sure step, crossed the chambers and courts. Not a door, not a window was left in this building. The doors had been burnt, some on the spot, and the charcoal of them was still jagged with the action of the fire, which had gone out of itself, powerless no doubt to get to the heart of those massive joints of oak fastened together with iron nails. As to the windows, all the pains having been broken, night birds alarmed by the torch flew away through their holes. At the same time, gigantic bats began to trace their vast silence circles around the intruders whilst the light of the torch made their shadows tremble on the high stone walls. Monk concluded there could be no man in the convent, since wild beasts and birds were there still, and fled away at his approach. After having passed the rubbish and torn away more than one branch of ivy that had made itself a guardian of the solitude, Athos arrived at the vault situated beneath the great hall, but the entrance of which was from the chapel. There he stopped. Here we are, General, said he. This, then, is the slab. Yes. Aye, and here is the ring, but the ring is sealed into the stone. We must have a lever. That's a thing very easy to find. Whilst looking round them, Athos and Monk perceived a little ash of about three inches in diameter, which had shot up in an angle of the wall reaching a window concealed by its branches. Have you a knife? said Monk to the fisherman. Yes, Monsieur. Cut down this tree, then. The fisherman obeyed, but not without notching his cutlass. When the ash was cut and fashioned into the shape of a lever, the three men penetrated into the vault. Stop where you are, said Monk to the fisherman. We are going to dig up some powder. Your light might be dangerous. The man drew back in a sort of terror and faithfully kept to the post to sign him, whilst Monk and Athos turned behind a column at the foot of which penetrating through a crack was a moonbeam reflected exactly on the stone which the Comp de La Faire had come so far in search. This is it, said Athos, pointing out to the General the Latin inscription. Yes. Said Monk, then, as if still willing to leave the Frenchman one means of evasion. Do you not observe that this vault has already been broken into? Continued he and that several statues have been knocked down. My Lord, you have without doubt heard that the religious respect of your scots loves to confide to the statues of the dead the valuable objects they have possessed during their lives. Therefore the soldiers had reason to think that under the pedestals of the statues which ornament most of these tombs a treasure was hidden. They have consequently broken down pedestal and statue, but the tomb of the venerable Canon with which we have to do is not distinguished by any monument. It is simple. Therefore it has been protected by the superstitious fear which your Puritans have always had of sacrilege. Not a morsel of the masonry of this tomb has been chipped off. That is true, said Monk. Athos sees the lever. Shall I help you, said Monk? Thank you, my Lord, but I am not willing that your honor should lend your hand to a work of which, perhaps, you would not take the responsibility if you knew the probable consequences of it. Monk raised his head. What do you mean by that, Monsieur? I mean, but that man. Stop, said Monk. I perceive what you are afraid of. I shall make a trial. Monk turned toward the fisherman, the whole of whose profile was thrown upon the wall. Come here, friend, said he in English and in a tone of command. The fisherman did not stir. That is well, continued he. He does not know English. Speak to me then in English if you please, Monsieur. My Lord, replied Athos, I have frequently seen men in certain circumstances have sufficient command over themselves not to reply to a question put to them in a language they understood. The fisherman is perhaps more learned than we believe him to be. Sent him away, my Lord. I beg you. Decidedly. Said Monk, he wishes to have me alone in this vault. Never mind. We shall go through with it. One man is as good as another man and we are alone. My friend, said Monk to the fisherman, go back up the stairs. We have just descended and watched that nobody comes to disturb us. The fisherman made a sign of obedience. Leave your torch, said Monk. It would betray your presence and might procure you a musket-ball. The fisherman appeared to appreciate the council. He laid down the light and disappeared under the vault of the stairs. Monk took up the torch and brought it to the foot of the column. Aha! Said he. Money, then, is concealed under this tomb. Yes, my Lord. And in five minutes you will no longer doubt it. At the same time, Athos struck a violent blow upon the plaster, which split, presenting a chink for the point of the lever. Athos introduced the bar into this crack, and soon large pieces of plaster yielded, rising up like rounded slabs. Then the compt of affair seized the stones and threw them away with a force that, hence so delicate as his, might not have been supposed capable of having. My Lord, said Athos, this is plainly the masonry of which I told your honor. Yes, but I don't see yet the casks, said Monk. If I had a dagger, said Athos, looking round him, you should soon see them, monsieur. Unfortunately, I left mine in your tent. I would willingly offer you mine, said Monk, but the blade is too thin for such work. Athos appeared to look around him for a thing of some kind that might serve as a substitute for the weapon he desired. Monk did not lose one of the movements of his hands or one of the expressions of his eyes. Why do you not ask the fisherman for his cutlass? Said Monk, he has a cutlass. Ah, that is true, said Athos, for he cut down the tree with it. And he advanced toward the stairs. Friend, said he to the fisherman, throw me down your cutlass, if you please. I want it. The noise of the falling weapon sounded on the steps. Take it, said Monk. It is a solid instrument as I have seen and a strong hand might make good use of it. Athos only appeared to give to the words of Monk the natural and simple sense under which they were to be heard and understood. Nor did he remark, or at least appear to remark, that when he returned with the weapon Monk drew back, placing his left hand on the stock of his pistol. In the right he already held his dirk. He went to work then, turning his back to Monk, placing his life in his hands without possible defense. He then struck during several seconds so skillfully and sharply upon the intermediary plaster that it separated into two parts. And Monk was able to discern two barrels, placed end to end, in which their weight maintained motionless in their chalky envelope. My Lord, said Athos, you see that my presentiments have not been disappointed. Yes, Monsieur, said Monk, and I have good reason to believe you are satisfied. Are you not? Doubtless I am. The loss of this money would have been inexpressibly great to me, but I was certain that God who protects the good cause would not have permitted this gold, which should procure its triumph to be diverted to baser purposes. You are upon my honor as mysterious in your words as in your actions, Monsieur, said Monk. Just now I did not perfectly understand you when you said that you were not willing to throw upon me the responsibility of the work we were accomplishing. I had reason to say so, my Lord. And now you speak to me of the good cause. What do you mean by the words the good cause? We are defending at this moment in England five or six causes, which does not prevent everyone from considering his own, not only as the good cause, but as the best. What is yours, Monsieur? Speak boldly that we may see if upon this point to which you appear to attach a great importance, we are of the same opinion. Athos fixed upon Monk one of those penetrating looks which seemed to convey to him to whom they are directed a challenge to conceal a single one of his thoughts. Then, taking off his hat, he began in a solemn voice while his interlocutor with one hand upon his visage allowed that long and nervous hand to compress his mustachian beard, while his vague and melancholy eye wandered about the recesses of the vaults. End of Chapter Twenty-Five Recording by John Van Stan Savannah, Georgia Chapter Twenty-Six of the D'Artagnan Romance's Volume Three Part One by Alexander Dumas, translated by William Rubson, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Heart and Mind My Lord, said the Contel Affair, You are a noble Englishman. You are a loyal man. You are speaking to a noble Frenchman, to a man of heart. The gold contained in these two casks before us, I have told you was mine. I was wrong. It is the first lie I have pronounced in my life. A temporary lie, it is true. This gold is the property of King Charles II, exiled from his country, driven from his palaces, the orphan at once of his father and his throne, and deprived of everything, even of the melancholy happiness of kissing on his knees, the stone upon which the hands of his murderers have written that simple epitaph, which will eternally cry out for vengeance upon them. Here lies Charles I. Monk grew slightly pale, and an imperceptible shutter crept over his skin and raised his gray mustache. I, continued Athos, I, Contel Affair, the last only faithful friend the poor abandoned Prince has left. I have offered him to come hither to find the man upon whom now depends the fate of royalty and of England, and I have come and placed myself under the eye of this man, and have placed myself naked and unarmed in his hands, saying, My Lord, here are the last resources of a Prince whom God made your master, whom his birth made your king, upon you and you alone, depend his life and his future. Will you employ this money in consoling England for the evils it must have suffered from anarchy? That is to say, will you aid, and if not aid, will you allow King Charles II to act? You are master, you are king, all-powerful master and king, for chance sometimes defeats the work of time and God. I am here alone with you, my Lord, if divided success alarms you, if my complicity annoys you, you are armed, my Lord, and here is a grave ready dug, if, on the contrary, the enthusiasm of your calls carries you away, if you are what you appear to be, if your hand in what it undertakes obeys your mind and your heart, here are the means of ruining forever the cause of your enemy, Charles Stuart. Kill, then, the man you have before you, for that man will never return to him who has sent him without bearing with him the deposit, which Charles I, his father, confided to him and keep the gold which may assist in carrying on the Civil War. Alas, my Lord, it is the fate of this unfortunate Prince. He must either corrupt or kill, for everything resists him, everything repulses him, everything is hostile to him, and yet he is marked with the divine seal, and he must not, to belie his blood, re-ascend the throne or die upon the sacred soil of his country. My Lord, you have heard me, to any other but the illustrious man who listens to me I would have said, my Lord, you are poor. My Lord, the King offers you this million as an earnest of an immense bargain. Take it and serve Charles a second as I serve Charles the first, and I feel assured that God, who listens to us, who sees us, who alone reads in your heart, shut from all human eyes, I am assured God will give you a happy, eternal life after a happy death. But to General Monk, to the illustrious man of whose standard I believe I have taken measure, I say, my Lord, there is for you in the history of peoples and kings a brilliant place, an immortal, imperishable glory, if alone without any other interest but the good of your country, and the interests of justice, you become the supporter of your King. Many others have been conquerors and glorious usurpers. You, my Lord, you will be content with being the most virtuous, the most honest, and the most incorruptible of men. You will have held a crown in your hand, and instead of placing it upon your brow, you will have deposited upon the head of him for whom it was made. Oh, my Lord, act thus, and you will leave to posterity the most enviable of names in which no human creature can rival you. Athos stopped. During the whole time that the noble gentleman was speaking, Monk had not given one sign of either approbation or disapprobation. Scarcely even during this vehement appeal had his eyes been animated with that fire which bespeaks intelligence. The compte de la Faire looked at him sorrowfully, and on seeing that melancholy countenance felt discouragement penetrate to his very heart. At length Monk appeared to recover and broke the silence. Mr., said he in a mild, calm tone. In reply to you, I will make use of your own words. To any other but yourself I would reply by expulsion. Imprisonment are still worse, for in fact you tempt me, and you force me at the same time. But you are one of those men, Mr., to whom it is impossible to refuse the attention and respect they merit. You are a brave gentleman, Mr., I say so and I am a judge. You just now spoke of a deposit which the late King transmitted through you to his son. Are you then one of those Frenchmen who as I have heard endeavored to carry off Charles the First from Whitehall? Yes, my lord. It was I who was beneath the scaffold during the execution. I, who had not been able to redeem it, received upon my brow the blood of the martyred King. I received at the same time the last word of Charles was first. It was to me he said, Remember, and in saying Remember, he alluded to the money at your feet, my lord. I have heard much of you, Mr., said Monk, but I am happy to have in the first place, appreciated you by my own observations and not by my remembrances. I will give you, then, explanations that I have given to no other, and you will appreciate what a distinction I make between you and the persons who have hitherto been sent to me. Athos bowed and prepared to absorb greedily the words which fell one by one from the mouth of Monk. Those words rare and precious as the dew in the desert. You spoke to me, said Monk, of Charles II. But, pre-missure of what consequence to me is that phantom of a king. I have grown old in war and in a policy which are nowadays so closely linked together that every man of the sword must fight in virtue of his rights or his ambition with a personal interest and not blindly behind an officer as in ordinary wars. For myself, I perhaps desire nothing, but I fear much. In the war of today rests the liberty of England and perhaps that of every Englishman. How can you expect that I, free in the position I have made for myself, should go willingly and hold out my hands to the shackles of a stranger? That is all Charles is to me. He has fought battles here which he has lost. He is therefore a bad captain. He has succeeded in no negotiation. He is therefore a bad diplomatist. He has paraded his wants and his miseries in all the courts of Europe. He has therefore a weak and pusillanimous heart. Nothing noble, nothing great, nothing strong has hitherto emanated from that genius which aspires to govern one of the greatest kingdoms of the earth. I know this Charles then, under none but bad aspects, and you would wish me, a man of good sense, to go and make myself gratuitously the slave of a creature who is inferior to me in military capacity, in politics, and in dignity. No, monsieur, when some great noble action shall have taught me to value Charles, I shall perhaps recognize his rights to a throne from which we have cast the father because he wanted the virtues which his son has hitherto lacked. But in fact of rights, I only recognize my own. The revolution made me in general. My sword will make me protector if I wish it. Let Charles show himself. Let him present himself. Let him enter the competition open to genius. And above all, let him remember that he is of a race from whom more will be expected than from any other. Therefore, monsieur, say no more about him. I neither refuse nor accept. I reserve myself. I wait. Athos knew Monk to be too well informed of all concerning Charles, the venture to urge the discussion further. It was neither the time nor the place. My Lord, then said he, I have nothing to do but to thank you. And why, monsieur? Because you have formed a correct opinion of me or because I have acted according to your judgment. Is that in truth worthy of thanks? This gold which you are about to carry to Charles will serve me as a test for him. By seeing the use he will make of it. I shall have an opinion which now I have not. And yet, does not your honor fear to compromise yourself by allowing such a sum to be carried away for the service of your enemy? My enemy, say you, Monsieur, I have no enemies. I am in the service of the Parliament, which orders me to fight General Lambert and Charles Stewart. It's enemies, not mine. I fight them, if the Parliament on the contrary ordered me to unfurl my standards on the port of London and to assemble my soldiers on the banks to receive Charles II. You would obey? cried Athos joyfully. Pardon me, said Monk Smiling. I was going. I a gray-headed man in truth. How could I forget myself was going to speak like a foolish young man? Then you would not obey, said Athos. I do not say that either, Monsieur, the welfare of my country before everything. God who has given me the power has no doubt willed that I should have that power for the good of all, and he has given me at the same time discernment. If the Parliament were to order such a thing, I should reflect. The brow of Athos became clouded. Then I may positively say that your honour is not inclined to favour King Charles II. You continue to question me, Monsieur Lacompte. Allow me to do so in turn, if you please. Do, Monsieur, and may God inspire you with the idea of replying to me as, frankly, as I shall reply to you. When you shall have taken this money back to your prince, what advice will you give him? Athos fixed upon Monk a proud and resolute look. My lord, said he, with this million which others would perhaps employ in negotiating, I would advise the King to raise two regiments to enter Scotland, which you have just pacified, to give to the people the franchises which the Revolution promised them, and in which it has not in all cases kept its word. I should advise him to command in person this little army, which would, believe me, increase and to die, standard in hand and sword in its sheath, saying, Englishman, I am the third king of my race you have killed, beware of the justice of God. Monk hung down his head and mused for an instant. If he succeeded, said he, which is very improbable but not impossible, for everything is possible in this world. What would you advise him to do? To think that by the will of God he lost his crown, but by the good will of men he recovered it. An ironical smile passed over the lips of Monk. Unfortunately, Monsieur, said he, Kings do not know how to follow good advice. Ah, my lord, Charles II is not a king. Replied Athos, smiling in his turn, but with a very different expression from Monk. Let us terminate this, Monsieur Lecompt. That is your desire, is it not? Athos bowed. I shall give orders to have these two casks transported wither you please. Where are you lodging, Monsieur? In a little hamlet at the mouth of the river, Your Honor. Ah, I know the hamlet. It consists of five or six houses, does it not? Exactly. Well, I inhabit the first. Two net-makers occupy it with me. It is their bark which brought me ashore. But your own vessel, Monsieur? My vessel is at anchor, a quarter of a mile at sea, and waits for me. You do not think, however, of setting out immediately? My lord, I shall try once more to convince Your Honor. You will not succeed, replied Monk. But it is of consequence that you should depart from Newcastle without leaving of your passage the least suspicion that might prove injurious to me or you. Tomorrow my officers think Lambert will attack me. I, on the contrary, am convinced that he will not stir. It is, in my opinion, impossible. Lambert leads an army devoid of homogeneous principles, and there is no possible army with such elements. I have taught my soldiers to consider my authority subordinate to another. Therefore, after me, round me, and beneath me, they still look for something. It would result that if I were dead, whatever might happen, my army would not be demoralized all at once. It results that if I choose to absent myself, for instance, as it does please me to do sometimes, there would not be in the camp the shadow of uneasiness or disorder. I am the magnet of the sympathetic and natural strength of the English. All those scattered irons that will be sent against me I shall attract to myself. Lambert at this moment commands 18,000 deserters, but I have never mentioned that to my officers. You may easily suppose nothing is more useful to an army than the expectation of a coming battle. Everybody is awake. Everybody is on guard. I tell you this that you may live in perfect security. Do not be in a hurry then to cross the seas. Within a week there will be something fresh, either a battle or an accommodation. Then as you have judged me to be an honorable man and confided your secret to me, I have to thank you for this confidence and I shall come and pay you a visit or send for you. Do not go before I send you word. I repeat the request. I promise you, General, cried Athos with a joy so great that in spite of all his circumspection he could not prevent it sparkling in his eyes. Monks surprised this flash and immediately extinguished it by one of those silent smiles which always caused his interlocutors to know they had made no in-road on his mind. Then, my Lord, it is a week that you desire me to wait. A week? Yes, Monsieur. And during these days what shall I do? If there should be a battle, keep at a distance from it. I beseech you. I know the French delight in such amusements. You might take a fancy to see how we fight and you might receive some chance shot. Our scotchmen are very bad marksmen and I do not wish that a worthy gentleman like you should return to France, wounded. Nor should I like to be obliged myself to send to your Prince's million left here by you. But then it would be said, and with some reason, that I paid the pretender to enable him to make war against the Parliament. Go then, Monsieur, and let it be done as has been agreed upon. Ah, my Lord, said Athos, what joy it would give me to be the first that penetrated to the noble heart which beats beneath that cloak. You think, then, that I have secrets, said Monk, without changing the half-cheerful expression of his countenance. Why, Monsieur, what secret can you expect to find in the hollow head of a soldier? But it is getting late and our torch is almost out. Let us call our man. Holà! cried Monk in French approaching the stairs. Holà, fishermen! the fishermen, benumbed by the cold night air, replied in a hoarse voice asking what they wanted of him. Go to the post, said Monk, and order a sergeant in the name of General Monk to come here immediately. This was a commission easily performed for the sergeant, uneasy yet the General's being in that desolate abbey had drawn nearer by degrees and was not much farther off than the fishermen. The General's order was therefore heard by him and he hastened to obey it. Get a horse and two men, said Monk. A horse and two men, replied the sergeant. Yes, replied Monk. Have you any means of getting a horse with a pack saddle or two panniers? No doubt that a hundred paces off in the scotch camp. Very well. What shall I do with the horse, General? Look here. The sergeant descended the three steps which separated him from Monk and came into the vault. You see, said Monk, that gentleman yonder. Yes, General. And you see these two casks. Perfectly. They are two casks, one containing powder and the other balls. I wish these casks be transported to the little hamlet at the mouth of the river, and which I intend to occupy tomorrow with two hundred muskets. You understand that the commission is a secret one, for it is a movement that may decide the fate of the battle. Oh, General, murmured the sergeant. Mind, then, let these casks be fashioned onto the horse, and let them be escorted by two men and you to the residence of this gentleman, who is my friend, but take care that nobody knows it. I would go by the marsh if I knew the road, said the sergeant. I know one myself, said Athos. It is not wide, but it is solid, having been made upon piles and with care, we shall get over safely enough. Do everything this gentleman shall order you to do. Oh, the casks are heavy, said the sergeant, trying to lift one. They weigh four hundred pounds each. If they contain what they ought to contain, do they not, Monsieur? Thereabouts, said Athos. The sergeant went in search of the two men and the horse. Monk left alone with Athos, affected to speak to him on nothing but indifferent subjects while examining the vault in a cursory manner, then hearing the horse's steps. I leave you with your men, Monsieur, said he, and return to the camp. You are perfectly safe. I shall see you again, then, my lord, asked Athos. That is agreed upon, Monsieur, and with much pleasure. Monk held out his hand to Athos. Ah, my lord, if you would, murmured Athos. Hush, Monsieur, it is agreed that we shall speak no more of that. And bowing to Athos, he went up the stairs, meeting about halfway his men who were coming down. He had not gone twenty paces when a faint but prolonged whistle was heard at a distance. Monk listened, but seeing nothing and hearing nothing, he continued his route. Then he remembered the fisherman and looked about for him, but the fisherman had disappeared. If he had, however, looked with more attention, he might have seen that man bent double, gliding like a serpent along the stones and losing himself in the mist that floated over the surface of the marsh. He might have equally seen had he attempted to pierce that mist, a spectacle that might have attracted his attention, and that was the rigging of the vessel, which had changed place and was now nearer the shore. But Monk saw nothing and, thinking he had nothing to fear, he entered the deserted causeway which led to his camp. It was then that the disappearance of the fisherman appeared strange and that a real suspicion began to take possession of his mind. He had just placed at the orders of Athos the only post that could protect him. He had a mile of causeway to traverse before he could regain his camp. The fog increased with such intensity that he could scarcely distinguish objects at ten paces distance. Monk then thought he heard the sound of an oar over the marsh on the right. Who goes there? Said he. But nobody answered. Then he cocked his pistol, took his sword in his hand and quickened his pace without, however, being willing to call anybody. Such a summons for which there was no absolute necessity appeared unworthy of him. End of chapter twenty-six. Recording by John Van Stan. A Savannah, Georgia. Chapter twenty-seven of the D'Artagnan Romance's volume three part one by Alexandre Dumas translated by William Robson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The next day. It was seven o'clock in the morning, the first rays of day lightened the pools of the marsh in which the sun was reflected like a red ball. When Athos, awaking and opening the window of his bedchamber which looked out upon the banks of the river, perceived at fifteen paces distance from him, the sergeant and the men who had accompanied him the evening before and who, after having deposited the casks at his house, had returned to the camp by the causeway on the right. Why had these men come back after having returned to the camp? That was the question which first presented itself to Athos. The sergeant with his head raised appeared to be watching the moment when the gentleman should appear to address him. Athos, surprised to see these men, whom he had seen depart the night before, could not refrain from expressing his astonishment to them. There is nothing surprising in that, Monsieur, said the sergeant, for yesterday the general commanded me to watch over your safety and I thought it right to obey that order. Is the general at the camp? Asked Athos. No doubt he is, Monsieur, as when he left you he was going back. Well, wait for me a moment. I am going tither to render an account of the fidelity with which you fulfilled your duty and to get my sword, which I left upon the table in the tent. That happens very well, said the sergeant, for we were about to request you to do so. Athos fancied he could detect an air of equivocal bonomy upon the countenance of the sergeant, but the adventure of the vault might have excited the curiosity of the man, and it was not surprising that he allowed some of the feelings which agitated his mind to appear in his face. Athos closed the doors carefully, confiding the keys to Grimaud, who had chosen his domicile beneath the shed itself, which led to the cellar where the castes had been deposited. The sergeant escorted the Comptail Affair to the camp. There a fresh guard awaited him and relieved the four men who had conducted Athos. This fresh guard was commanded by the aide to camp Digby, who on their way fixed upon Athos looked so little encouraging that the Frenchman asked himself whence arose, with regard to him, this vigilance and this severity, when the evening before he had been left perfectly free. He nevertheless continued his way to the headquarters, keeping to himself the observations which men and things forced him to make. He found in the General's tent, to which he had been introduced the evening before, three superior officers. These were Monks Lieutenant and two colonels. Athos perceived his sword. It was still on the table where he left it. Neither of the officers had seen Athos. Consequently, neither of them knew him. Monks Lieutenant asked that the appearance of Athos, if that were the same gentleman with whom the General had left the tent. Yes, Your Honor, said the Sergeant, it is the same. But, said Athos haughtily, I do not deny it, I think, and now, gentlemen, in turn, permit me to ask you to what purpose these questions are asked and particularly some explanation upon the tone in which you ask them. Miss Sher, said the Lieutenant, if we address these questions to you, it is because we have a right to do so, and if we make them in a particular tone, it is because that tone, believe me, agrees with the circumstances. Gentlemen, said Athos, you do not know who I am, but I must tell you I acknowledge no one here but General Monk is my equal. Where is he? Let me be conducted to him, and if he has any questions to put to me, I will answer him and to his satisfaction, I hope. I repeat, gentlemen, where is the General? Good God, you know better than we do where he is, said the Lieutenant. I? Yes, you. Miss Sher, said Athos, I do not understand you. You will understand me, and in the first place, do not speak so loud. Athos smiled disdainfully. We don't ask you to smile, said one of the colonels warmly. We require you to answer. And I, gentlemen, declare to you that I will not reply until I am in the presence of the General. But, replied the same colonel who had already spoken, you know very well that is impossible. This is the second time I have perceived a strange reply to the wish I expressed, said Athos. Is the General absent? This question was made with such apparent good faith, and the gentlemen wore an air of such natural surprise that the three officers exchanged a meaning look. The Lieutenant, by a tacit conversation with the other two, was spokesman. Miss Sher, the General left you last night on the borders of the monastery. Yes, Miss Sher. And you went? It is not for me to answer you, but for those who have accompanied me. They were your soldiers. Ask them. But, if we please the question you, then it will please me to reply, Miss Sher, that I do not recognize anyone here, that I know no one here but the General, and that it is to him alone I will reply. So be it, Miss Sher. But as we are the masters, we constitute ourselves a council of war, and when you are before judges, you must reply. The countenance of Athos expressed nothing but astonishment and disdain. Instead of the terror, the officers expected to read in it at this threat. Scotcher English judges upon me, a subject of the King of France, upon me, placed under the safeguard of British honour. You are mad gentlemen, said Athos, shrugging his shoulders. The officers looked at each other. Then, Miss Sher, said one of them, do you pretend not to know where the General is? To that, Miss Sher, I have already replied. Yes, but you have already replied an incredible thing. It is true, nevertheless, gentlemen, men of my rank are not generally liars. I am a gentleman. I have told you and when I have at my side the sword which, by an excess of delicacy, I left the last night upon the table whereon it still lies. Believe me, no man says that to me which I am unwilling to hear. I am at this moment disarmed. If you pretend to be my judges, try me. If you are but my executioners, kill me. But, Miss Sher. As a Lieutenant in a more courteous voice, struck with the lofty coolness of Athos. Sir, I came to speak confidentially with your General about affairs of importance. It was not an ordinary welcome that he gave me. The accounts your soldiers can give you may convince you of that. If then the General received me in that manner, he knew my titles to his esteem. Now, you do not suspect, I should think, that I should reveal my secrets to you and still less his. But these casks, what did they contain? Have you not put that question to your soldiers? What was their reply? That they contained powder and ball. From whom had they that information? They must have told you that. From the General, but we are not dupes. Beware, gentlemen. It is not to me you are now giving the lie. It is to your leader. The officers again looked at each other. Athos continued, before your soldiers the General told me to wait a week, and at the expiration of that week he would give me the answer he had to make me. Have I fled away? No, I wait. He told you to wait a week? cried the Lieutenant. He told me that so clearly, sir, that I have a sloop at the mouth of the river, which I could with ease have joined yesterday and embarked. Now, if I have remained, it was only in compliance with the desire of your General. His honour having requested me not to depart without a last audience, which fixed at a week hence. I repeat to you, then, I am waiting. The Lieutenant turned toward the other officers and said in a low voice, if this gentleman speaks truth, there may still be some hope. The General may be carrying out some negotiation so secret that he thought it imprudent to inform even us. Then the time limited for his absence would be a week. Then turning toward Athos. Mr. said he, your declaration is of the most serious importance. Are you willing to repeat it under the seal of an oath? Sir replied Athos, I have always lived in a world where my simple word was regarded as the most sacred of oaths. This time, however, Mr. the circumstances more grave than any you may have been placed in, the safety of the whole army is at stake. Reflect, the General has disappeared and our search for him has been vain. Is this disappearance natural? Has a crime been committed? Are we not bound to carry our investigations to extremity? Have we any right to wait within patience? At this moment everything, Monsieur, depends upon the words you are about to pronounce. Thus questioned, gentlemen, I no longer hesitate. Said Athos. Yes, I came hither to converse confidentially with General Monk and ask him for an answer regarding certain interests. Yes, the General being doubtless unable to pronounce before the expected battle, begged me to remain a week in the house I inhabit, promising me that in a week I should see him again. Yes, all this is true, and I swear it by the God who is the absolute master of my life and yours. Athos pronounced these words with so much grandeur and solemnity that the three officers were almost convinced. Nevertheless, one of the colonels made a last attempt. Monsieur, said he, although we may be now persuaded of the truth of what you say, there is yet a strange mystery in all this. The General is too prudent a man to have thus abandoned his army on the eve of a battle without having at least given notice of it to one of us. As for myself, I cannot believe but that some strange event has been the cause of this disappearance. Yesterday some foreign fishermen came to sell their fish here, but they were lodged yonder among the Scots. That is to say on the road the General took with this gentleman to go to the Abbey and to return from it. It was one of those fishermen that accompanied the General with a light and this morning bark and fishermen have all disappeared, carried away by the night's tide. For my part, said the Lieutenant, I see nothing in that that is not quite natural for these people were not prisoners. No, but I repeat it was one of them who lighted the General and this gentleman to the Abbey and Digby assures us that the General had strong suspicions concerning those people. Now who can say whether these people were not connected with this gentleman and that the blow being struck the gentleman who is evidently brave did not remain to reassure us by his presence and to prevent our research is being made in a right direction. This speech made an impression upon the other two officers. Sir, said Athos, permit me to tell you that your reasoning, though specious in appearance, nevertheless wants consistency as regards me. I have remained, you say, to divert suspicion. Well, on the contrary suspicions arise in me as well as in you and I say it is impossible, gentlemen, that the General on the eve of a battle should leave his army without saying anything to at least one of his officers. Yes, there is some strange event connected with this. Instead of being idle and waiting you must display all the activity and all the vigilance possible. I am your prisoner. Gentlemen, upon parole or otherwise, my honor is concerned in ascertaining what has become of General Monk and to such a point that if you were to say to me depart, I should reply no, I will remain. And if you were to ask my opinion I should add, yes, the General is the victim of some conspiracy, for if he had intended to leave the camp he would have told me so. Seek then, search the land, search the sea. The General has not gone of his own good will. The Lieutenant made a sign to the other two officers. No, Monsieur, said he. No, in your turn you go too far. The General has nothing to suffer from these events and no doubt has directed them. What Monk is now doing he is often done before. We are wrong in alarming ourselves. His absence will, doubtless, be of short duration. Therefore, let us be aware, lest by a pusillanimity, which the General would consider a crime, of making his absence public and by that means demoralize the army. The General gives a striking proof of his confidence in us. Let us show ourselves worthy of it. Gentlemen, let the most profound silence cover all this with an impenetrable veil. We will detain this gentleman, not from mistrust of him with regard to the crime, but to assure more effectively the secret of the General's absence by keeping among ourselves. Therefore, until fresh orders, the gentleman will remain at headquarters. Gentlemen, said Athos, you forget that last night the General confided to me a deposit over which I am bound to watch. Give me whatever guard you like, chain me if you like, but leave me the house I inhabit for my prison. The General on his return would reproach you, I swear on the honour of a gentleman for having displeased him in this. So be it, monsieur, said the Lieutenant, return to your abode. Then they placed over Athos a guard of fifty men who surrounded his house without losing sight of him for a minute. The secret remained secure, but hours, days passed away without the General's returning, or without anything being heard of him.