 CHAPTER XIII of the D'Artagnan Romances, Volume III, Part I, by Alexander Dumas, translated by William Robson, this certainly provokes recordings in the public domain. MARRY DE MANCINI The sun had scarcely shed its first beams on the majestic trees of the park and the lofty turrets of the castle, when the young king, who had been awake more than two hours, possessed by the sleeplessness of love, opened his shutters himself, and cast an inquiring look into the courts of the sleeping palace. He saw that it was the hour agreed upon, the great court, clock, pointed to a quarter-past four. He did not disturb his valet de chambre, who was sleeping soundly at some distance. He dressed himself and the valet in a great fright sprang up, thinking he had been deficient in his duty, but the king sent him back again, commanding him to preserve the most absolute silence. He then descended the little staircase, went out a lateral door, and perceived at the end of the wall a mounted horseman holding another horse by the bridle. This horseman could be recognized in his cloak and slouched hat. As to the horse, saddled like that of a rich citizen, it offered nothing remarkable to the experienced eye. Louis took the bridle. The officer held the stirrup without dismounting and asked his majesty's orders in a low voice. Follow me," replied the king. The officer put his horse to the trot, behind that of his master, and they descended the hill toward the bridge, when they reached the other side of the loire. Sir," said the king, you will please to ride on till you see a carriage coming, then return and inform me. I will wait here. Will your majesty deign to give me some description of the carriage I am charged to discover? A carriage in which you will see two ladies, and probably their attendants likewise. Sir, I should not wish to make a mistake. Is there no other sign by which I may know this carriage? It will bear in all probability the arms of Michel Le Cardinal. That is sufficient, Sir," replied the officer, fully instructed in the object of his search. He put his horse to the trot, and rode sharply on in the direction pointed out by the king, but he had scarcely gone five hundred paces when he saw four mules and then a carriage loom up from behind a little hill. Behind this carriage came another. It required only one glance to assure him that these were the equipages he was in search of. He therefore turned his bridle and rode back to the king. Sir," said he, here are your carriages. The first, as you said, contains two ladies, with their affem de chambre. The second contains the footmen, provisions, and necessaries. That is well," replied the king in an agitated voice. Please, to go and tell those ladies that a cavalier of the court wishes to pay his respects to them alone. The officer set off at a gallop. More dear," said he as he rode on. Here is a new and an honorable employment, I hope. I complained of being nobody. I am the king's coffee-dont. That is enough to make a musketeer burst with pride. He approached the carriage and delivered his message gallantly and intelligently. There were two ladies in the carriage, one of great beauty, although rather thin, and the other less favoured by nature, but lively, graceful, and uniting in the delicate lines of her brow all the signs of a strong will. Her eyes, animated and piercing in particular, spoke more eloquently than all the amorous phrases in fashion in those days of gallantry. It was to her D'Artagnan addressed himself, without fear of being mistaken, although the other was, as we have said, the more handsome of the two. Madame," said he, I am the lieutenant of the musketeers, and there is on the road a horseman who awaits you, and is desirous of paying his respects to you. At these words, the effect of which he watched closely, the lady with the black eyes uttered a cry of joy, lent out of the carriage window and, seeing the cavalier approaching, held out her arms, exclaiming, Ha! my dear sire!" and the tears gushed from her eyes. The coachman stopped his team, the women rose in confusion from the back of the carriage, and the second lady made a slight curtsy, terminated by the most ironical smile that jealousy ever imparted to the lips of woman. Marie! dear Marie! cried the king, taking the hand of the black-eyed lady in both his, and opening the heavy door himself, he drew her out of the carriage with so much ardour that she was in his arms before she touched the ground. The lieutenant, posted on the other side of the carriage, saw and heard all without being observed. The king offered his arm to mademoiselle de Mancini, and made a sign to the coachman and lackeys to proceed. It was nearly six o'clock. The road was fresh and pleasant. Tall trees with their foliage still enclosed in the golden down of their buds let the dew of morning filter from their trembling branches, like liquid diamonds. The grass was bursting at the foot of the hedges. The swallows, having returned since only a few days, described their graceful curves between the heavens and the water. A breeze, laden with the perfumes of the blossoming woods, sighed along the road and wrinkled the surface of the waters of the river. All these beauties of the day, all these perfumes of the plants, all these aspirations of the earth towards heaven intoxicated the two lovers, walking side by side, leaning upon each other, eyes fixed upon eyes, hand clasping hand into lingering as by a common desire, did not dare to speak they had so much to say. The officer saw that the king's horse, in wandering this way and that, annoyed Manruzel de Mancini, he took advantage of the pretext of securing the horse to draw near them, and dismounting walked between the two horses he led. He did not lose a single word or gesture of the lovers. It was Manruzel de Mancini who at length began. Ah! My dear Sire! she said, You do not abandon me then. No, Marie, replied the king. You see I do not. I had so often been told, though, that as soon as we should be separated you would no longer think of me. Dear Marie, is it then today only that you have discovered we are surrounded by people interested in deceiving us? But then, Sire, this journey, this alliance with Spain, they are going to marry you off! Louis hung his head. At the same time the officer could see the eyes of Marie de Mancini shine in the sun with the brilliancy of a dagger starting from its sheath. And you have done nothing in favour of our love? asked the girl after a silence of a moment. Ah! Manruzel, how could you believe that? I threw myself at the feet of my mother. I begged her. I implored her. I told her all my hopes of happiness were in you. I even threatened. Well, asked Marie eagerly, well, the Queen Mother wrote to the Court of Rome and received as answer that a marriage between us would have no validity and would be dissolved by the Holy Father. At length, finding there was no hope for us, I requested to have my marriage with the Infanta at least delayed. And yet that does not prevent your being on the road to meet her. How can I help it? To my prayers, to my supplications, to my tears, I received no answer but reasons of state. Well, well, well, what is to be done, Mademoiselle, when so many wills are leagued against me? It was now Marie's turn to hang her head. Then I must bid you adieu for ever. Said she. You know that I am being exiled. You know that I am going to be buried alive. You know still more that they want to marry me off, too. Louis became very pale and placed his hand upon his heart. If I had thought that my life only had been at stake, I had been so persecuted that I might have yielded, but I thought yours was concerned, my dear Sire, and I stood out for the sake of preserving your happiness. Oh, yes, my happiness, my treasure. murmured the king more gallantly than passionately, perhaps. The cardinal might have yielded, said Marie. If you had addressed yourself to him, if you had pressed him for the cardinal to call the king of France his nephew, do you not perceive, Sire, he would have made war even for that honour. The cardinal, assured of governing alone under the double pretext of having brought up the king and given his niece to him in marriage, the cardinal would have fought all antagonists, overcome all obstacles. Oh, Sire, I can answer for that. I am a woman, and I see clearly into everything where love is concerned. These words produced a strange effect upon the king. Instead of heightening his passion, they called it. He stopped and said hastily, What is to be said, mademoiselle? Everything has failed. Except your will, I trust, my dear, Sire. Alas, said the king, colouring. Have I a will? Oh, said mademoiselle de Mancini, mournfully, wounded by that expression. The king has no will but that which policy dictates, but that which reasons have stayed in pose upon him. Oh, it is because you have no love, cried Mary. If you loved, Sire, you would have a will. On pronouncing these words, Mary raised her eyes to her lover, whom she saw more pale and more cast down than in exile, who was about to quit his native land forever. Accused me, murmured the king, but do not say I do not love you. A long silence followed these words which the young king had pronounced with a perfectly true and profound feeling. I am unable to think that tomorrow and after tomorrow I shall see you no more. I cannot think that I am going to end my sad days at a distance from Paris, that the lips of an old man of an unknown should touch that hand which you hold within yours, no, in truth. I cannot think of all that, my dear Sire, without having my poor heart burst with despair. And Mary de Mancini did shed floods of tears. On his part the king, much affected, carried a tanker-chiff to his mouth and stifled a sob. See, said she, the carriages have stopped. My sister waits for me. The time has come. A what are you about to decide upon will be decided for life. Oh, Sire, you are willing, then, that I should lose you. You are willing, then, Louis, that she to whom you have said I love you should belong to another than to her king, to her master, to her lover. Oh, courage, Louis, courage, one word, a single word, say I will, and all my life is in chain to yours, and all my heart is yours for ever. The king made no reply. Mary then looked at him as Dido looked at Aeneas, in the Elysian fields, fierce and disdainful. Farewell, then, said she. Farewell, life, love, heaven. And she took a step away. The king detained her, seized her hand, which he pressed to his lips, and despair prevailing over the resolution he appeared to have inwardly formed, he let fall upon that beautiful hand a burning tear of regret, which made Mary start, so really had that tear burnt her. She saw the humid eyes of the king, his pale brow, his convulsed lips and cried, with an accent that cannot be described. Oh, Sire, you are a king, you weep, and yet I depart. As his soul replied, the king hit his face in his handkerchief. The officer uttered something so like a roar that it frightened the horses. Man was held a manchini quite indignant, quitted the king's arm, hastily entered the carriage, crying to the coachman, go on, go on, and quick. The coachman obeyed, flogged his mules and the heavy carriage rocked upon its creaking axle, whilst the king of France, alone, cast down, annihilated, did not dare to look either behind or before him. End of Chapter 13. Recording by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia. Chapter 14 of the D'Artagnan Romances, Volume 3, Part 1, by Alexander Dumas, translated by William Robson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, in which the king and the lieutenant each give proofs of memory. When the king, like all the people in the world who are in love, had long and attentively watched disappear in the distance, the carriage which bore away his mistress. When he had turned and turned again a hundred times to the same side, and had at length succeeded in somewhat calming the agitation of his heart and thoughts, he recollected that he was not alone. The officer still held the horse by the bridle, and had not lost all hope of seeing the king recover his resolution. He had still the resource of mounting and riding after the carriage. They would have lost nothing by waiting a little, but the imagination of the lieutenant of the musketeers was too rich and too brilliant. He left far behind at that of the king, who took care not to allow himself to be carried away to any such access. He contented himself with approaching the officer and an idolful voice. Come, said he, let us be gone. All is ended. Two horse. The officer imitated this carriage, this slowness, this sadness, and leisurely mounted his horse. The king pushed on sharply. The lieutenant followed him. At the bridge Louis turned around for the last time. The lieutenant, patient as a god who has eternity behind and before him, still hoped for a return of energy, but it was groundless. Nothing appeared. Louis gained the street which led to the castle, and entered as seven was striking. When the king had returned and the musketeer who saw everything had seen a corner of the tapestry over the cardinal's window lifted up, he breathed a profound sigh, like a man unloosed from the tightest bounds and said in a low voice, Now then, my officer, I hope that it is over. The king summoned his gentleman. Pleased to understand, I shall receive nobody before two o'clock, said he. Sire, replied the gentleman, There is, however, someone who requests admittance. Who is that? Your lieutenant of musketeers. He who accompanied me. Yes, Sire. Ah, said the king. Let him come in. The officer entered. The king made a sign, and the gentleman and the valet retired. Louis followed them with his eyes until they had shut the door and when the tapestry said fallen behind them. You remind me by your presence, monsieur, of something I had forgotten to recommend to you. That is to say, the most absolute discretion. Ah, Sire, why does your majesty give yourself the trouble of making me such a recommendation? It is plain you don't know me. Yes, monsieur, that is true. I know that you are discreet, but as I had prescribed nothing. The officer bowed. Has your majesty nothing else to say to me? No, monsieur, you may retire. Shall I obtain permission not to do so till I have spoken to the king, Sire? What have you to say to me? Explain yourself, monsieur. Sire, a thing without importance to you but which interests me greatly. Pardon me, then, for speaking of it, without urgency, without necessity, I never would have done it, and I would have disappeared mute and insignificant as I always have been. How? Disappeared? I do not understand you, monsieur. Sire, in a word, said the officer, I am come to ask for my discharge from your majesty's service. The king made a movement of surprise, but the officer remained as motionless as a statue. Your discharge? Yours, monsieur. And for how long a time I pray? Why, forever, Sire. What? You are desirous of quitting my service, monsieur? Said Louis with an expression that revealed something more than surprise. Sire, I regret to say that I am. Impossible. It is so, however, Sire. I am getting old. I have worn harness now 35 years. My poor shoulders are tired. I feel that I must give place to the young. I don't belong to this age. I have still one foot in the old one. It results that everything is strange to my eyes. Everything astonishes and bewilders me. In short, I have the honor to ask your majesty for my discharge. Monsieur, said the king, looking at the officer who wore his uniform with an ease that would have caused envy in a young man. You are stronger and more vigorous than I am. Oh, replied the officer with an air of false modesty. Your majesty says so because I still have a good eye and a tolerably firm foot, because I can still ride a horse and my mustache is black. But, Sire, vanity of vanities, all that, illusions, all that, appearance, smoke, Sire. I have still a youthful air, it is true. But I feel old, and within six months I am certain I shall be broken down, gouty, impotent. Therefore, then, Sire. Monsieur, interrupted the king. Remember your words of yesterday. You said to me in this very place where you are now, that you were endowed with the best health of any man in France, that fatigue was unknown to you, that you did not mind spending whole days and nights at your post. Did you tell me that, Monsieur, or not? Try and recall, Monsieur. The officer sighed. Sire, said he, old age is boastful, and it is pardonable for old men to praise themselves when others no longer do it. It is very possible, I said that, but the fact is, Sire, I am very much fatigued, and request permission to retire. Monsieur, said the king, advancing toward the officer with a gesture full of majesty. You are not assigning me the true reason. You wish to quit my service, it may be true. But you disguise for me the motive of your retreat. Sire, believe that. I believe what I see, monsieur. I see a vigorous energetic man, full of presence of mind, the best soldier in France, perhaps, and this personage cannot persuade me the least in the world that you stand in need of rest. Ah, Sire, said the lieutenant with bitterness. What praise! Indeed, your majesty confounds me. Energetic, vigorous, brave, intelligent, the best soldier in the army. But, Sire, your majesty exaggerates my small portion of merit to such a point that, however good an opinion I may have of myself, I do not recognize myself, and truth I do not. If I were vain enough to believe only half of your majesty's words, I should consider myself a valuable, indispensable man. I should say that a servant possessed of such brilliant qualities was a treasure beyond all price. Now, Sire, I have been all my life. I feel bound to say it. Except at the present time, appreciated in my opinion much below my value, I therefore repeat, your majesty exaggerates. The king knitted his brow, for he saw a bitter railery beneath the words of the officer. Come, monsieur, said he. Let us meet the question frankly. Are you dissatisfied with my service? Say, no evasions. Speak boldly. Frankly, I command you to do so. The officer who had been twisting his hat about in his hands, with an embarrassed air, for several minutes, raised his head at these words. Oh, Sire, said he. That puts me a little more at my ease. To a question put so frankly, I will reply frankly. To tell the truth is a good thing, as much from the pleasure one feels in relieving one's heart, as on the count of the rarity of the fact. I will speak the truth then to my king at the same time imploring him to excuse the frankness of an old soldier. Louis looked at his officer with anxiety, which he manifested by the agitation of his gesture. Well, then speak, said he. For I am impatient to hear the truths you have to tell me. The officer threw his hat upon a table, and his countenance always so intelligent and martial, assumed all at once a strange character of grandeur and solemnity. Sire, said he. I quit the king's service because I am dissatisfied. The valet in these times can approach his master as respectfully as I do, can give him an account of his labor, bring back his tools, return the funds that have been entrusted to him, and say, Master, my day's work is done. Pay me if you please and let us part. Mr., Mr., exclaimed the king, crimson with rage. Ah, Sire, replied the officer, bending his knee for a moment, never was a servant more respectful than I am before your majesty. Only you commanded me to tell the truth. Now I have begun to tell it. It must come out, even if you command me to hold my tongue. There was so much resolution expressed in the deep sunk muscles of the officer's countenance, that Louis XIV had no occasion to tell him to continue. He continued, therefore, whilst the king looked at him with a curiosity mingled with admiration. Sire, I have, as I have said, now served the house of France thirty-five years. Few people have worn out so many swords in that service as I have, and the swords I speak of were good swords, too, Sire. I was a boy, ignorant of everything except courage, when the king, your father, guessed that there was a man in me. I was a man, Sire, when the Cardinal de Richelieu, who was a judge of manhood, discovered an enemy in me. Sire, the history of that enmity between the aunt and the lion may be read from the first to the last line in the secret archives of your family. If ever you feel an inclination to know it, do so, Sire. The history is worth the trouble. It is I who tell you so. You will there read that the lion, fatigued, harassed, out of breath, at length cried for quarter, and the justice must be rendered to him to say that he gave as much as he required. Oh, those were glorious times, Sire, strewn over with battles like one of Tasso's or Oriosto's epics, the wonders of those times to which the people of ours would refuse belief were every day occurrences. For five years together, I was a hero every day, at least so I was told by persons of judgment, and that is a long period for heroism. Trust me, Sire, a period of five years. Nevertheless, I have faith in what these people told me, for they were good judges. They were named Monsieur de Richelieu, Monsieur de Buckingham, Monsieur de Beaufort, Monsieur de Retz, a mighty genius himself in street warfare. In short, the king Louis XIII, and even the queen, your noble mother, who one day condescended to say, Thank you. I don't know what service I had had the good fortune to render her, and pardon me, Sire, for speaking so boldly, but what I relate to you, as I have already had the honor to tell your majesty, is history. The king bit his lips, and threw himself violently on a chair. I appear important to your majesty, said the lieutenant. Sire, that is the fate of truth. She is a stern companion. She bristles all over with steel. She wounds those whom she attacks, and sometimes him who speaks her. No, monsieur, replied the king. I bid you speak. Speak, then. After the service of the king and the cardinal came the service of the regents, see, Sire. I fought pretty well in the frond, much less, though, than the first time. The man began to diminish in stature. I have nevertheless led your majesty's musketeers on some perilous occasions, which stand upon the orders of the day of the company. Mine was a beautiful luck at that time. I was the favorite of monsieur de Mazarin. Lieutenant here, lieutenant there, lieutenant to the right, lieutenant to the left. There was not a buffet dealt in France, of which your humble servant did not have the dealing. But soon, France was not enough. The cardinal sent me to England on Cromwell's account, another gentleman who was not over gentle. I assure you, Sire, I had the honor of knowing him, and I was well able to appreciate him. A great deal was promised me on account of that mission, so as I did much more than I had been bidden to do, I was generously paid, for I was at length appointed captain of the musketeers, that is to say, the most envied position in court, which takes precedent over the marshals of France, and justly, for who says captain of the musketeers says the flower of chivalry and king of the brave. Captain, monsieur, interrupted the king. You make a mistake, lieutenant, you mean. Not at all, Sire. I made no mistake. Your Majesty may rely upon me in that respect. Monsieur Lecarde no gave me the commission himself. Well, but monsieur de Mazarin, as you know better than anybody, does not often give, and sometimes takes back what he has given. He took it back again as soon as peace was made, and he was no longer in want of me. Certainly I was not worthy to replace monsieur de Treville of illustrious memory, but they had promised me, and they had given me, they ought to have stopped there. Is that what dissatisfies you, monsieur? Well, I shall make inquiries. I love justice, and your claim, though made in military fashion, does not displease me. Oh, Sire, said the officer, your Majesty has ill understood me. I no longer claim anything now. Excess of delicacy, monsieur, but I will keep my eye upon your affairs, and later. Ah, Sire, what a word. Later. Thirty years I have lived upon that promising word, which has been pronounced by so many great personages, and which your mouth has in its turn just pronounced. Later. That is how I have received a score of wounds, and how I have received fifty-four years of age without ever having had a Louis in my purse, and without ever having met with a protector on my way. I, who have protected so many people, so I change my formula, Sire, and when anyone says to me, later, I reply, now. It is rest that I solicit, Sire. That may be easily granted me. That will cost nobody anything. I did not look for this language, monsieur, particularly from a man who has always lived among the great. You forget you are speaking to the King, to a gentleman who is, I suppose, of as good a house as yourself, when I say later, I mean a certainty. I do not at all doubt it, Sire, but this is the end of the terrible truth I had to tell you. If I were to see upon that table a martial stick, the sword of Constable, the crown of Poland, instead of later, I swear to you, Sire, that I should still say now. Oh, excuse me, Sire. I am from the country of your grandfather, Henry IV. I do not speak often, but when I do speak, I speak all. The future of my reign has little temptation for you, monsieur, it appears, said Louis Hortley. Forgetfulness. Forgetfulness everywhere! cried the officer with a noble air. The master has forgotten the servant, so that the servant has reduced to forget his master. I live in unfortunate times, Sire. I see youth full of discouragement and fear. I see it timid and despoiled, when it ought to be rich and powerful. I, yesterday evening, for example, opened the door to a king of England, whose father, humble as I am, I was near saving, if God had not been against me. God, who inspired his elect Cromwell, I opened, I said, the door, that is to say the palace of one brother to another brother, and I see, stop, Sire, that is a load on my heart, I see the minister of that king drive away the proscribed prince and humiliate his master by condemning to want another king his equal. Then I see my prince, who is young, handsome, and brave, who has courage in his heart and lightning in his eye. I see him tremble before a priest, who laughs at him behind the curtain of his alcove, where he digests all the gold of France, which he afterwards stuffs into secret coffers. Yes, I understand your looks, Sire. I am bold to madness, but what is to be said? I am an old man, and I tell you here, Sire, to you, my king, things which I would cram down the throat of anyone who should dare to pronounce them before me. You have commanded me to pour out the bottom of my heart before you, Sire, and I cast at the feet of your majesty to pent up indignation of thirty years, as I would pour out all my blood if your majesty commanded me to do so. The king, without speaking a word, wiped the drops of cold and abundant perspiration which trickled from his temples. The moment of silence which followed this vehement outbreak represented for him who had spoken and for him who had listened ages of suffering. Mr. said the king at length. You spoke the word forgetfulness. I have heard nothing but that word. I will reply then to it alone. Others have perhaps been able to forget, but I have not. And the proof is that I remember that one day of riot, that one day when the furious people, raging and roaring as the sea, invaded the royal palace, that one day when I feigned sleep in my bed, one man alone, naked sword and hand concealed behind my curtain, watched over my life, ready to risk his own for me, as he had risked before at twenty times for the lives of my family, was not that gentleman whose name I then demanded, called Monsieur d'Artagnan. Say, Monsieur. Your Majesty has a good memory. Replied the officer coldly. You see, then. Continued the king. If I have such remembrances of my childhood, what an amount I may gather in the age of reason. Your Majesty has been richly endowed by God. Said the officer in the same tone. Come, Monsieur d'Artagnan. Continued Louis with feverish agitation. Ought you not to be as patient as I am? Ought you not to do as I do? Come. And what do you do, Sire? I wait. Your Majesty may do so because you are young. But I, Sire, have not time to wait. Old age is at my door, and death is behind it, looking into the very depths of my house. Your Majesty is beginning life. Its future is full of hope and fortune. But I, Sire, I am on the other side of the horizon. And we are so far from each other, that I should never have time to wait till your Majesty came up to me. Louis made another turn in his apartment, still wiping the moisture from his brow in a manner that would have terrified his physicians if his physicians had witnessed the state his Majesty was in. It is very well, Monsieur, said Louis XIV in a sharp voice. You are desirous of having your discharge, and you shall have it. You offer me your resignation of the rank of Lieutenant of the Musketeers. I deposited humbly at your Majesty's feet, Sire. That is sufficient. I will order your pension. I shall have a thousand obligations to your Majesty. Monsieur, said the King with a violent effort, I think you are losing a good master. And I am sure of it, Sire. Shall you ever find such another? Oh, Sire, I know that your Majesty is alone in the world. Therefore will I never again take service with any King upon this earth, and will never again have other master than myself. You say so? I swear so, your Majesty. I shall remember that word, Monsieur. D'Artagnan bowed. And you know I have a good memory, said the King. Yes, Sire, and yet I should desire that that memory should fail your Majesty in this instant, in order that you might forget all the miseries I have been forced to spread before your eyes. Your Majesty is so much above the poor and the mean that I hope. My Majesty, Monsieur, will act like the sun which looks upon all great and small, rich and poor, giving luster to some warmth to others and life to all. Adieu, Monsieur D'Artagnan. Adieu. You are free. And the King, with a hoarse sob, which was lost in his throat, passed quickly into the next room. D'Artagnan took up his hat from the table upon which he had thrown it, and went out. End of Chapter 14, Recording by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia Chapter 15 of the D'Artagnan Romances, Volume 3, Part 1 by Alexander Dumas, translated by William Robson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The proscribed. D'Artagnan had not reached the bottom of the staircase, when the King called his gentleman. I have a commission to give you, Monsieur, said he. I am at your Majesty's commands. Wait, then! And the young King began to write the following letter, which cost him more than one sigh, although, at the same time, something like a feeling of triumph glittered in his eyes. My Lord Cardinal, thanks to your good counsels and above all, thanks to your firmness, I have succeeded in overcoming a weakness unworthy of a King. You have too ably arranged my destiny to allow gratitude not to stop me at the moment when I was about to destroy your work. I felt I was wrong to wish to make my life turn from the course you had marked out for it. Certainly, it would have been a misfortune to France and my family, if a misunderstanding had taken place between me and my minister. This, however, would certainly have happened if I had made your niece my wife. I am perfectly aware of this, and will henceforth oppose nothing to the accomplishment of my destiny. I am prepared, then, to wed the Infanta Maria Teresa. You may at once open the conference, your affectionate Louis. The King, after re-perusing the letter, sealed it himself. This letter is for my Lord Cardinal, said he. The gentleman took it. At Mazurine's door he found Bannouan waiting with anxiety. Well, asked the ministers of Allée de Chambre. Monsieur, said the gentleman, here is a letter for his Eminence. Ah, letter! Ah, we expected one after the little journey of the morning. Oh, you know, then, that his Majesty… As First Minister, it belongs to the duties of our charge to know everything, and his Majesty prays and implores, I presume. I don't know, but he sighed frequently whilst he was writing. Yes, yes, yes, we understand all that. People sigh sometimes from happiness as well as from grief, Monsieur. And yet the King did not look very happy when he returned, Monsieur. You did not see clearly. Besides, you only saw his Majesty on his return, for he was only accompanied by the Lieutenant of the Guards. But I had his Eminence's telescope, I looked through it when he was tired, and I am sure they both wept. Well, was it for happiness they wept? No, but for love, and they vowed to each other a thousand tendernesses, which the King asked no better than to keep. Now, this letter is a beginning of the execution. And what does his Eminence think of this love, which is, by the by, no secret to anybody? Banner Wann took the gentleman by the arm, and whilst ascending the staircase. In confidence, said he in a low voice, his Eminence looks for success in the affair. I know very well we shall have war with Spain, but war will please the nobles. My Lord Cardinal, besides, can endow his niece royally, nay, more than royalty. There will be money, festivities, and fireworks. Everybody will be delighted. Well, for my part, replied the gentleman shaking his head, it appears to me that this letter is very light to contain all that. My friend, replied Banner Wann, I am certain of what I tell you. Mr. D'Artagnan related all that past to me. Aye, aye, and what did he tell you? Let us hear. I accosted him by asking him on the part of the Cardinal if there were any news without discovering my designs. Observe, for Mr. D'Artagnan is a cunning hand. My dear Mr. Banner Wann, he replied, the king is madly in love with madmoselle de Mancini. That is all I have to tell you. And then I asked him, do you think to such a degree that it will urge him to act contrary to the designs of his eminence? Ah, don't ask me, said he. I think the king capable of anything. He has a will of iron, and what he wills, he wills in earnest. If he takes it into his head to marry madmoselle de Mancini, he will marry her, depend upon it. And thereupon he left me, and went straight to the staples, took a horse, saddled it himself, jumped on its back, and set off as if the devil were at his heels. So, that you believe, then, I believe that Mr. the Lieutenant of the Guards knew more than he was willing to say. In your opinion, then, Mr. D'Artagnan is gone according to all probability, after the exiles, to carry out all that can facilitate the success of the king's love. Chatting thus, the two confidants arrived at the door of his eminence's apartment. His eminence's gout had left him. He was walking about his chamber in a state of great anxiety, listening at doors and looking out of windows. Manuann entered, followed by the gentleman, who had orders from the king to place the letter in the hands of the cardinal himself. Mazarin took the letter, but before opening it, he got up a ready smile, a smile of circumstance, able to throw a veil over emotions of whatever sort they may be, so prepared whatever was the impression received from the letter. No reflection of that impression was allowed to transpire upon his countenance. Well, said he, when he had read and reread the letter. Very well, monsieur, inform the king that I thank him for his obedience to the wishes of the queen mother, and that I will do everything for the accomplishment of his will. The gentleman left the room. The door had scarcely closed before the cardinal, who had no mask for Banuann, took off that which had so recently covered his face, and with a most dismal expression. Call Monsieur de Prienne, said he, five minutes afterward the secretary entered. Monsieur, said Mazarin, I have just rendered a great service to the monarchy, the greatest I have ever rendered it. You will carry this letter, which proves it to Her Majesty the queen mother, and when she shall have returned it to you, you will lodge it in Portofoglio B, which is filled with documents and papers relative to my ministry. Prienne went as desired, and as the letter was unsealed, did not fail to read it on his way. There is likewise no doubt that Banuann, who was on good terms with everybody, approached so near to the secretary as to be able to read the letter over his shoulder, so that the news spread with such activity through the castle, that Mazarin might have feared it would reach the ears of the queen mother before Monsieur de Prienne could convey Louis XIV's letter to her. A moment after orders were given for departure, and Monsieur de Conde, having been to pay his respects to the king on his pretended rising, inscribed the city of Poitiers upon his tablets as the place of sojourn and rest for their majesties. Thus, in a few instances was unraveled an intrigue which had covertly occupied all the diplomacy of Europe. It had nothing, however, very clear as a result, but to make a poor lieutenant of Musketeers lose his commission, and his fortune. It is true that in exchange he gained his liberty. We shall soon know how Monsieur d'Artagnan profited by this, for the moment, if the reader will permit us, we shall return to the hostelry of Lamedici, of which one of the windows opened at the very moment the orders were given for the departure of the king. The window that opened was that of one of the rooms of Charles II. The unfortunate prince had passed the night in bitter reflections, his head resting on his hands and his elbows on the table, whilst Perry, in firm and old, wearied in body and in mind, had fallen asleep in a corner. A singular fortune was that of this faithful servant who saw beginning for the second generation the fearful series of misfortunes which had weighed so heavily on the first. When Charles II had well thought over the fresh defeat he had experienced, when he perfectly comprehended the complete isolation into which he had just fallen, on seeing as fresh hope left behind him he was seized as with a vertigo, and sank back in the large armchair in which he was seated. Then God took pity on the unhappy prince, and sent to console him sleep, the innocent brother of death. He did not wake till half past six, that is to say till the sun shone brightly into his chamber, and Perry, motionless with fear of waking him, was observing with profound grief the eyes of the young man already read with wakefulness, and his cheeks pale with suffering and privations. At length the noise of some heavy carts descending toward the Loire awakened Charles. He arose, looked around him like a man who has forgotten everything. Perceived Perry, shook him by the hand, and commanded him to settle the reckoning with Master Cropola. Master Cropola, being called upon to settle his account with Perry, acquitted himself, it must be allowed, like an honest man. He only made his customary remark that the two travellers had eaten nothing, which had the double disadvantage of being humiliating for his kitchen and of forcing him to ask payment for a repast not consumed, but not the less lost. Perry had nothing to say to the contrary, and paid. I hope, said the King, it has not been the same with the horses. I don't see that they have eaten at your expense, and it would be a misfortune for travellers like us who have a long journey to make, to have our horses fail us. But Cropola, at this doubt, assumed his majestic air and replied that the stables of Lamedici were not less hospitable than its refectory. The King mounted his horse, his old servant did the same, and both set out toward Paris, without meeting a single person on their road in the streets or the foul-bugs of the city. For the Prince, the blow was the more severe, as it was a fresh exile. The unfortunates cling to the smallest hopes as the happy do to the greatest good, and when they are obliged to quit the place where that hope has soothed their hearts, they experience the mortal regret which the banished man feels when he places his foot upon the vessel, which is to bear him into exile. It appears that the heart already wounded so many times suffers from the least scratch. It appears that it considers as a good the momentary absence of evil which is nothing but the absence of pain, and that God, into the most terrible misfortunes, has thrown hope as the drop of water which the rich bad man inhaled and treated of Lazarus. For one instant even the hope of Charles II had been more than a fugitive joy. That was when he found himself so kindly welcomed by his brother King. Then it had taken a form that had become a reality. Then all at once the refusal of Mazarin had reduced the fictitious reality to the state of a dream. This promise of Louis XIV, so soon retracted, had been nothing but a mockery. A mockery like his crown, like his scepter, like his friends, like all that had surrounded his royal childhood and which had abandoned his proscribed youth. Mockery! Everything was a mockery for Charles II except the cold black repose promised by death. Such were the ideas of the unfortunate prince while sitting listlessly upon his horse. To which he abandoned the reins he rode slowly along beneath the warm May sun in which the somber misanthropy of the exile perceived the last insult to his grief. A horseman was going rapidly along the road leading toward Blois, which he had left nearly half an hour before. Past the two travellers and though apparently in haste, raised his hat as he passed them. The king scarcely observed this young man who was about twenty-five years of age and who, turning round several times, made friendly signals to a man standing before the gate of a handsome white and red house. That is to say, built of brick and stone with a slated roof situated on the left hand of the road the prince was travelling. This man, old, tall, and thin, with white hair, we speak of the one standing by the gate. This man replied to the farewell signals of the young one by signs of parting as tender as could have been made by a father. The young man disappeared at the first turn of the road bordered by fine trees, and the old man was preparing to return to the house when the two travellers arriving in front of the gate attracted his attention. The king, we have said, was riding with his head cast down, his arms inert, leaving his horse to go what pace he liked, whilst Perry behind him, the better to imbibe the genial influence of the sun, had taken off his hat and was looking about right and left. His eyes encountered those of the old man leaning against the gate. The latter, as if struck by some strange spectacle, uttered an exclamation and made one step toward the two travellers. From Perry his eyes immediately turned toward the king, upon whom they rested for an instant. This exclamation, however rapid, was instantly reflected in a visible manner upon the features of the tall old man. For scarcely had he recognised the younger of the travellers, and we say recognised, for nothing but a perfect recognition could have explained such an act. Scarcely, we say, had he recognised the younger of the two travellers, of then he clapped his hands together with respectful surprise, and raising his hat from his head, bowed so profoundly that it might have been said he was kneeling. This demonstration, however, absent or rather, however absorbed was the king in his reflections, attracted his attention instantly, and checking his horse and turning towards Perry he exclaimed, Good God, Perry! Who is that man who salutes me in such a mocked manner? Can he know me, thank you? Perry, much agitated and very pale, had already turned his horse toward the gate. Ah, Sire! said he, stopping suddenly at five of six paces distance from the stillbending man. Sire, I am seized with astonishment, for I think I recognise that brave man. Yes, it must be he. Will your majesty permit me to speak to him? Certainly. Can it be you, Miss Char Grimald? asked Perry. Yes, it is I. Replied the tall old man, drawing himself up but without losing his respectful demeanour. Sire, then said Perry, I was not deceived. This good man is the servant of the comptile affair, and the comptile affair, if you remember, is the worthy gentleman of whom I have so often spoken to your majesty, that the remembrance of him must remain, not only in your mind, but in your heart. He who assisted my father at his last moments, asked Charles, evidently affected at the remembrance. The same, Sire! Alas! said Charles, and then addressing Grimald, whose penetrating and intelligent eyes seemed to search and divine his thoughts. My friend, said he, does your master, Miss Char Le Comptile Affair, live in this neighbourhood? There, replied Grimald, pointing with his outstretched arm to the white and red house behind the gate. And is Miss Char Le Comptile Affair at home at present? At the back, under the chestnut trees. Perry, said the king, I will not miss this opportunity so precious for me to thank the gentleman to whom our house is indebted for such a noble example of devotedness and generosity. Hold my horse, my friend, if you please. And throwing the bridle to Grimald, the king entered the abode of Athos quite alone, as one equal enters the dwelling of another. Charles had been informed by the concise explanation of Grimald at the back, under the chestnut trees. He left, therefore, the house on the left, and went straight down the path indicated. The thing was easy, the tops of those noble trees already covered with leaves and flowers rose above all the rest. On arriving under the lozenges, by turns luminous and dark, which checkered the ground of this path according as the trees were more or less in leaf, the young prince perceived the gentleman walking with his arms behind him apparently plunged in a deep meditation. Without doubt, he had often had this gentleman described to him, for without hesitating, Charles II walked straight up to him. At the sound of his footsteps, the comp de l'affaire raised his head, and seeing an unknown man of noble and elegant carriage coming toward him, he raised his hat and waited. At some paces from him, Charles II likewise took off his hat, then as if in reply to the comp's mute interrogation. Michel accompt, said he, I come to discourage a duty toward you. I have for a long time had the expression of a profound gratitude to bring you. I am Charles II, son of Charles Stewart, who reigned in England, and died on the scaffold. On hearing this illustrious name, Athos felt a kind of shutter creep through his veins, but at the sight of the young prince standing uncovered before him, and stretching out his hand toward him, two tears for an instant dimmed his brilliant eyes. He bent respectfully, but the prince took him by the hand. See how unfortunate I am, my Lord Count. It is only due to chance that I have met with you, alas, I ought to have people around me whom I love and honour. Whereas I am reduced to preserve their services in my heart, and their names in my memory, so that if your servant had not recognised mine, I should have passed by your door as by that of a stranger. It is but too true, said Athos, replying with his voice to the first part of the king's speech, and with a bow to the second. It is but too true indeed that your majesty has seen many evil days. And the worst alas, replied Charles, are perhaps still to come. Sire, let us hope. Count, count, continued Charles shaking his head, I entertained hope till last night, and that of a good Christian, I swear. Athos looked at the king as if to interrogate him. Oh, the history is soon related, said Charles, proscribed, dispoiled, disdained. I resolved, in spite of all my repugnance, to tempt fortune one last time. Is it not written above that, for our family, all good fortune and all bad fortune shall eternally come from France? You know something of that, monsieur. You who are one of the Frenchmen whom my unfortunate father found at the foot of his scaffold on the day of his death, after having found them at his right hand on the day of battle. Sire, said Athos modestly, I was not alone. My companions and I did, under the circumstances, how duty as gentleman. And that was all. Your majesty was about to do me the honor to relate. That is true. I had the protection, pardon my hesitation count, but for a steward, you who understand everything, you will comprehend that the word is hard to pronounce. I had, I say, the protection of my cousin, the startholder of Holland, but without the intervention, or at least without the authorization of France, the startholder would not take the initiative. I came then to ask this authorization of the king of France, who has refused me. The king has refused you, Sire. Oh, not he. All justice must be rendered to my younger brother, but, Monsieur de Mazorine, Athos bit his lips. You perhaps think I should have expected this refusal, said the king who had noticed the movement. That was in truth my thoughts, Sire, replied Athos respectfully. I know that Italian of old. Then I determined to come to the test, and to know at once the last word of my destiny. I told my brother Louis that not to compromise either France or Holland, I would tempt fortune myself in person, as I had already done, with two hundred gentlemen, if he would give them to me, and a million if he would lend it to me. Well, Sire? Well, Monsieur, I am suffering at this moment something strange, and that is the satisfaction of despair. There is in certain souls, and I have just discovered that mine is of the number, a real satisfaction in the assurance that all is lost, and the time is come to yield. Oh, I hope, said Athos, that your majesty has not come to that extremity. To say so, my lord count, to endeavor to revive hope in my heart, you must have ill understood what I have just told you. I came to Blois to ask of my brother Louis the alms of a million, with which I had the hopes of re-establishing my affairs, and my brother Louis has refused me. You see then plainly that all is lost. Will your majesty permit me to express a contrary opinion? How is that count? Do you think my heart is so low in order that I do not know how to face my position? Sire, I have always seen that it was in desperate positions that suddenly the great turns of fortune have taken place. Thank you, count. It is some comfort to meet with a heart like yours, that is to say, sufficiently trustful in God, and in monarchy, never to despair of a royal fortune, however low it may be fallen. Unfortunately, my dear count, your words are like those remedies they call sovereign, and which, though able to cure curable wounds or diseases, fail against death. Thank you for your perseverance in consoling me, count. Thanks for your devoted remembrance, but I know in what I must trust. Nothing will save me now. And see, my friend, I was so convinced that I was taking the route of exile with my old Perry, I was returning to devour my poignant griefs in a little hermitage offered me by Holland. There, believe me, count, all will soon be over, and death will come quickly. It is called so often by this body, eaten up by its soul, and by this soul which aspires to heaven. Your Majesty has a mother, a sister, and brothers. Your Majesty is the head of the family and ought, therefore to ask a long life of God, instead of imploring him for a prompt death. Your Majesty is an exile, a fugitive, but you have right on your side. You ought to aspire to combats, dangers, business, and not to rest in heavens. Count, said Charles II, with a smile of indescribable sadness. Have you ever heard of a king who reconquered his kingdom with one servant of the age of Perry, and with three hundred crowns which that servant carried in his purse? No, Sire, but I have heard, and that more than once, that a dethroned king has recovered his kingdom with a firm will, perseverance, some friends, and a million skillfully employed. But you cannot have understood me. The million I asked of my brother, Louis, was refused me. Sire, said Athos, will your Majesty grant me a few minutes, and listen attentively to what remains for me to say to you? Charles II looked earnestly at Athos. Willingly, monsieur, said he, then I will show your Majesty the way. Resumed the count, directing his steps toward the house. He then conducted the king to his study and begged him to be seated. Sire, said he, your Majesty just now told me, that in the present state of England a million would suffice for the recovery of your kingdom. To attempt it, at least, monsieur, and to die as a king if I should not succeed. Well, then, Sire, let your Majesty, according to the promise you have made me, have the goodness to listen to what I have to say. Charles made an affirmative sign with his head. Athos walked straight up to the door, the bolts of which he drew after looking to see if anybody was near, and then returned. Sire, said he, your Majesty has kindly remembered that I lent assistance to the very noble and very unfortunate, Charles I, when his executioners conducted him from St. James's to Whitehall. Yes, certainly. I do remember it, and always shall remember it. Sire, it is a dismal history to be heard by a son, who no doubt has had it related to him many times, and yet I ought to repeat it to your Majesty without omitting one detail. Speak odd, monsieur. When the king your father ascended the scaffold, or rather when he passed from his chamber to the scaffold on a level with his window, everything was prepared for his escape. The executioner was got out of the way, a hole contrived under the floor of his apartment. I myself was beneath the funeral vault, which I heard all at once creak beneath his feet. Harry has related to me all these terrible details, monsieur. Athos bowed and resumed. But here is something he has not related to you, Sire, for what follows past between God, your father and myself, and never has the revelation of it been made even to my dearest friends. Go a little further off, said the august patient to the executioner. It is but for an instant, and I know that I belong to you, but remember not to strike till I give the signal. I wish to offer up my prayers and freedom. Pardon me, said Charles a second turning very pale. But you count, who knows so many details of this melancholy event, details which, as you said just now, have never been revealed to anyone? Do you know the name of that infernal executioner, of that base wretch who concealed his face that he might assassinate a king with impunity? Athos became slightly pale. His name, said he. Yes, I know it, but cannot tell it. And what has become of him? For nobody in England knows his destiny. He is dead. But he did not die in his bed. He did not die a calm and peaceful death. He did not die the death of the good. He died a violent death in a terrible night, rendered so by the passions of man, and a tempest from God. His body pierced by a dagger sank to the depths of the ocean. God pardon his murderer. Proceed, then, said Charles a second, seeing that the count was unwilling to say more. The King of England, after having, as I have said, spoken thus to the masked executioner, added, Observe, you will not strike till I shall stretch out my arms, saying, Remember. I was aware, said Charles, in an agitated voice, that that was the last word pronounced by my unfortunate father. But why? And for whom? For the French gentleman placed beneath his scaffold. For you, then, monsieur? Yes, Sire, and every one of the words which he spoke to me through the planks of the scaffold covered with a black cloth still sounds in my ears. The King knelt down on one knee. Compte l'affaire, said he, Are you there? Yes, Sire, replied I. Then the King stooped toward the boards. Charles a second, also palpitating with interest, burning with grief, stooped towards Athos to catch one by one every word that escaped from him. His head touched that of the count. Then continued Athos, The King stooped. Compte l'affaire, said he, I could not be saved by you. It was not to be. Now, even though I commit a sacrilege, I must speak to you. Yes, I have spoken to men. Yes, I have spoken to God. And I speak to you the last, to sustain a cause which I thought sacred. I have lost the throne of my fathers and the heritage of my children. Charles a second, concealed his face in his hands, and a bitter tear glided between his white and slender fingers. I have still a million in gold, continued the King. I buried it in the vaults of the Castle of Newcastle, a moment before I left that city. Charles raised his head with an expression of such painful joy that it would have drawn tears from anyone acquainted with his misfortunes. A million! murmured he. Oh, count! You alone know that this money exists. Employ it when you think it can be of the greatest surface to my eldest son. And now, Compte l'affaire, bid me adieu. Adieu. Adieu, Sire, cried I. Charles arose and went and lent his burning brow against the window. It was then, continued Athos, that the King pronounced the word Remember, addressed to me, you see, Sire, that I have remembered. The King could not resist or conceal his emotion. Athos beheld the movement of his shoulders which undulated convulsively. He heard the sobs which burst from his overcharged breast. He was silent himself, suffocated by the flood of bitter remembrances he had just poured upon that royal head. Charles a second with a violent effort left the window, devoured his tears, and came and sat by Athos. Sire, said the latter, I thought till today that the time had not yet arrived for the employment of the last resource. But with my eyes fixed upon England, I felt it was approaching. Tomorrow I meant to go and inquire about what part of the world your Majesty was, and then I proposed going to you. You come to me, Sire. That is an indication that God is with us. My Lord, said Charles in a voice choked by emotion, you are, for me, what an angel sent from heaven would be. You are a preserver sent to me from the tomb of my father himself. But, believe me, for ten years civil war has passed over my country, striking down men, tearing up the soil. It is no more probable that gold should remain in the entrails of the earth than love in the hearts of my subjects. Sire, the spot in which His Majesty buried the million is well known to me, and no one I am sure has been able to discover it. Besides, is the castle of Newcastle quite destroyed? Have they demolished it stone by stone and uprooted the soil to the last tree? No. It is still standing, but at this moment General Monk occupies it and is encamped there. The only spot from which I could look for succor, where I possess a single resource, you see, is invaded by my enemies. General Monk, Sire, cannot have discovered the treasure which I speak of. Yes. But can I go and deliver myself up to Monk, in order to recover this treasure? Ah, count. You see, plainly I must yield to destiny, since it strikes me to the earth every time I rise. What can I do with Perry as my only servant, with Perry whom Monk has already driven from his presence? No. No. No, count. We must yield to this last blow. But what your Majesty cannot do, and what Perry can no more attempt, do you not believe that I could succeed in accomplishing? You. You, count. You would go. If it please your Majesty, said Athos bowing to the King. Yes. I will go, Sire. What? You so happy here, count? I am never happy when I have a duty left to accomplish, and it is an imperative duty which the King your Father left me to watch over your fortunes, and make a royal use of his money. So, if your Majesty honours me with a sign, I will go with you. Ah, monsieur, said the King, forgetting all royal etiquette, and throwing his arms around the neck of Athos. You proved to me that there is a God in heaven, and that this God sometimes sends messengers to the unfortunate who groan on the earth. Athos, exceedingly moved by this burst of feeling of the young man, thanked him with profound respect, and approached the window. Grimaud, cried he, bring out my horses. What? Now, immediately, said the King. Ah, monsieur, you are indeed a wonderful man. Sire, said Athos, I know nothing more pressing than your Majesty's service. Besides, added he, smiling, it is a habit contracted long since, in the service of the Queen, your Aunt, and of the King, your Father. How is it possible for me to lose it at the moment your Majesty's service calls for it? What a man! murmured the King. Then, after a moment's reflection. But no, count, I cannot expose you to such provisions. I have no means of rewarding such services. But, ha, ha, ha, said Athos, laughing, your Majesty is joking. Have you not a million? Ha, ha, why, am I not possessed of half such a sum? I would already have raised a regiment, but, thank God, I have still a few rolls of gold and some family diamonds left. Your Majesty will, I hope, deign to share with a devoted servant. With a friend? Yes, count, but on a condition that, in his turn, that friend will share with me hereafter. Sire, said Athos, opening a casket from which he drew both gold and jewels. You see, Sire, we are too rich. Fortunately, there are four of us in the event of our meeting with thieves. Joy made the blood rush to the pale cheeks of Charles II, as he saw Athos's two horses, led by Grimald, already booted for the journey, advanced toward the porch. Blaiseois, this letter for the Decombe de Braguelot, for everybody else I am gone to Paris. I confide the house to you, Blaiseois. Blaiseois bowed, shook hands with Grimald, and shut the gate. End of Chapter 16 Recording by John Van Stan Savannah, Georgia Chapter 17 of the D'Artagnan Romances, Volume 3, Part 1, by Alexander Dumas, translated by William Robson. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. In which Aramis is sought, and only Bezan is found. Two hours had scarcely elapsed since the departure of the master of the house, who, in Blaiseois's sight, had taken the road to Paris when a horseman mounted on a good-pied horse, stopped before the gate, and with a sonorous hallouah, called the stable boys, who with the gardeners had formed a circle round Blaiseois, the historian and ordinary to the household of the chateau. This hallouah, doubtless well-known to master Blaiseois, made him turn his head and exclaim, Mr. D'Artagnan, run quickly, you chaps, and open the gate. A swarm of eight brisk lads flew to the gate, which was opened as if it had been made of feathers, and everyone loaded him with attentions, for they knew the welcome this friend was accustomed to receive from their master, and for such remarks the eye of the valet may always be depended upon. Ah, said Mr. D'Artagnan, with an agreeable smile, balancing himself upon his stirrup to jump to the ground. Where is that dear count? Ah, how unfortunate you are, monsieur, said Blaiseois, and how unfortunate will monsieur Lecompt, our master, think himself when he hears of your coming. As ill luck will have it, monsieur Lecompt left home two hours ago. D'Artagnan did not trouble himself about such trifles. Very good, said he. You always speak the best French in the world. You shall give me a lesson in grammar and correct language whilst I wait the return of your master. That is impossible, monsieur, said Blaiseois. You would have to wait too long. Will he not come back to day, then? No, nor tomorrow, nor the day after tomorrow, monsieur Lecompt has gone on a journey. A journey? said D'Artagnan, surprised. That's a fable, master Blaiseois. Monsieur, it is no more than the truth. Monsieur has done me the honor to give me the house in charge, and he added, with his voice so full of authority and kindness, that is all one to me. You will say I have gone to Paris. Well, cried D'Artagnan, since he has gone toward Paris, that is all I wanted to know. You should have told me so at first, booby. He is then two hours in advance. Yes, monsieur. I shall soon overtake him. Is he alone? No, monsieur. Who is with him, then? A gentleman whom I don't know, an old man, and monsieur Grimald. Such a party cannot travel as fast as I can. I will start. Will monsieur listen to me an instant? said Blaiseois, laying his hand gently on the reins of the horse. Yes, if you don't favor me with fine speeches and make haste. Well, then, monsieur, that word, Paris, appears to me to be only an excuse. Oh, oh, said D'Artagnan seriously, an excuse, eh? Yes, monsieur, and Michel Lacombe is not going to Paris. I will swear. What makes you think so? This. Monsieur Grimald always knows where our master is going, and he had promised me that the first time he went to Paris, he would take a little money from me to my wife. What? Have you a wife, then? I had one. She was of this country, but monsieur thought her a noisy scold. So I sent her to Paris. It is sometimes inconvenient, but very agreeable at others. I understand, but go on. You do not believe the count gone to Paris. No, monsieur. For then, monsieur Grimald would have broken his word. He would have perjured himself, and that is impossible. That is impossible, repeated D'Artagnan, quite in a study, because he was quite convinced. Well, my brave Blaiseois, many thanks to you. Blaiseois bowed. Come, you know I am not curious. I have serious business with your master. Could you not, by a little bit of a word, you who speak so well, give me to understand one syllable only, and I will guess the rest. Upon my word, monsieur, I cannot. I am quite ignorant when monsieur Lacombe is gone. As to listening at doors, that is contrary to my nature, and besides, it is forbidden here. My dear fellow, said D'Artagnan, this is a very bad beginning for me. Never mind. You know when monsieur Lacombe will return, at least. As little, monsieur, as the place of his destination. Come, Blaiseois, come, search. Monsieur doubts my sincerity. Ah, monsieur, that grieves me much. The devil-taker's gilded tongue, grumbled D'Artagnan. A clown with a word would be worth a dozen of him, ado. Monsieur, I have the honour to present you my respects. Quistre, said D'Artagnan to himself, the fellow is unbearable. He gave another look up to the house, turned his horse's head and set off like a man who has nothing either annoying or embarrassing in his mind, when he was at the end of the wall and out of sight. Well, now I wonder, said he, breathing quickly, whether Athos was at home. No. All those idlers standing with their arms crossed would have been at work if the eye of the master was near. Athos gone a journey. That is incomprehensible. Bah! It is all devilish mysterious. And then? No. He is not the man I want. I want one of a cunning, patient mind. My business is at Maloune. In a certain presbytery I am acquainted with forty-five leagues, four days and a half. Well, it is fine whether and I am free. Never mind the distance. And he put his horse into a trot, directing his course toward Paris. On the fourth day he had lighted at Maloune, as he had indicated. D'Artagnan was never in the habit of asking anyone on the road for any common information. For these sorts of details, unless in very serious circumstances, he confided in his perspicacity, which was so seldom at fault in his experience of thirty years, and in a great habit of reading the physiognomies of houses as well as those of men. At Maloune, D'Artagnan immediately found the presbytery, a charming house, plastered over red brick, with vines climbing along the gutters and a cross in carved stone, surmounting the ridge of the roof. From the ground floor of this house came a noise, or rather a confusion of voices, like the chirping of young birds when the brood is just hatched under the down. One of these voices was spelling the alphabet distinctly, a voice, thick yet pleasant, at the same time scolded the talkers and corrected the faults of the reader. D'Artagnan recognized that voice, and as the window of the ground floor was open, he leant down from his horse under the branches and read fibres of the vine and cried, Bazan! My dear Bazan! Good day to you! A short, fat man with a flat face, a cranium ornamented with a crown of grey hairs cut short, in imitation of a tonsure, and covered with an old black velvet cap of rose as soon as he heard D'Artagnan, we ought not to say a rose, but bound it up. In fact, Bazan bound it up, carrying with him his little low chair which the children tried to take away, with battles more fierce than those of the Greeks endeavouring to recover the body of Patroclus from the hands of the Trojans. Bazan did more than bound. He let fall both his alphabet and his ferrule. You! said he. You! Mr. D'Artagnan! Yes, myself. Where is Eremus? No, Mr. Le Chevalier de Blay. No, I am still mistaken. Mr. Le Viqueur General? Ah, Mr. said Bazan with dignity. Monsignor is at his diocese. What did you say? Said D'Artagnan, Bazan repeated the sentence. Ha-ha! But has Eremus at diocese? Yes, Mr., why not? Is he a bishop, then? Why, where can you come from? said Bazan rather irreverently, that you don't know that. My dear Bazan, we pagans, we men of the sword know very well when a man is made a colonel, or a maître de camp, or a marshal of France. But if he be made a bishop, arch, bishop, or pope, devil take me if the news reaches us, before the three quarters of the earth have had the advantage of it. Hush, hush! said Bazan, opening his eyes. Do not spoil these poor children, in whom I am endeavouring to inculcate such a good principles. In fact, the children had surrounded D'Artagnan, whose horse, longsword, spurs, and marshal air they very much admired. But above all, they admired his strong voice, so that when he uttered his oath, the whole school cried out, The devil take me! with fearful bursts of laughter, shouts, and bounds, which delighted the musketeer, and bewildered the old pedagogue. There, said he, hold your tongues, you brats! You have come, Mr. D'Artagnan, and all my good principles fly away! With you, as usual, comes disorder! Babel is revived! Ah, good lord! Ah, the wild little wretches! And the worthy Bazan distributed right and left blows, which increased the cries of his scholars by changing the nature of them. At least, said he, you will no longer decoy anyone here. Do you think so? said D'Artagnan with a smile, which made a shudder creep over the shoulders of Bazan. He is capable of it! murmured he. Where is your master's diocese? Monsignor René is bishop of Van. Who had him nominated? Why, Monsieur Le Surintendant, our neighbour. What? Monsieur Fouquet? To be sure he did. Is Aramis on good terms with him, then? Monsignor preached every Sunday at the house of Monsieur Le Surintendant at Vau, then they hunted together. Ah, and Monsignor composed his homilies? No, I mean his sermons with Monsieur Le Surintendant. Bah, he preached in verse, then, this worthy bishop. Monsieur, for the love of heaven, do not just with sacred things. There Bazan, there. So then, Aramis is at Van. At Van, in Bretagne. You are a deceitful old honks, Bazan. That is not true. See, Monsieur, if you please, the apartments of the Presbyteria are empty. He is right there, said D'Artagnan, looking attentively at the house, the aspect of which announced solitude. But Monsignor must have written you an account of his promotion. When did it take place? A month back. Oh, when there is no time lost. Aramis cannot yet have wanted me. But how is it Bazan, you do not follow your master? Monsieur, I cannot. I have occupations. Your alphabet? And my penitence? What do you confess, then? Are you a priest? The same as one. I have such a call. But the orders? Oh, said Bazan, without hesitation, now that Monsignor is a bishop, I shall soon have my orders, or at least my dispensations. And he rubbed his hands. Decidedly, said D'Artagnan to himself, there will be no means of uprooting these people. Get me some supper, Bazan. With pleasure, monsieur. A fowl, a bouillon, and a bottle of wine. This is Saturday, monsieur. It is a day of abstinence. I have a dispensation, said D'Artagnan. Bazan looked at him suspiciously. Master Hippocrite, said the musketeer, for whom do you take me? If you who are the valet hope for dispensation to commit a crime, shall not I, the friend of your bishop, have dispensation for eating meat at the call of my stomach? Make yourself agreeable with me, Bazan, or by heavens, I will complain to the king, and you shall never confess. Now, you know that the nomination of bishops rests with the king. I have the king. I am the stronger. Bazan smiled hypocritically. Ah, but we have, monsieur Le Surintendant. Said he. And you laugh at the king, then? Bazan made no reply. His smile was sufficiently eloquent. My supper, said D'Artagnan. It is getting towards seven o'clock. Bazan turned round and ordered the eldest of the pupils to inform the cook. In the meantime, D'Artagnan surveyed the presbytery. Said he disdainfully. Monsignor lodged his grandeur very meanly here. We have the château de four. Said Bazan. Which is perhaps equal to the Louvre? Said D'Artagnan jeeringly. Which is better? Replied Bazan with the greatest coolness imaginable. Said D'Artagnan. He would perhaps have prolonged the discussion and maintained the superiority of the Louvre, but the lieutenant perceived that his horse remained fastened to the bars of a gate. The devil, said he, get my horse looked after. Your master the bishop has none like him in his stables. Bazan cast a side-long glance at the horse and replied, Monsieur Le Surintendant gave him four from his own stables, and each of the four is worth four of yours. The blood melted the face of D'Artagnan. His hand itched, and his eye glanced over the head of Bazan to select the place upon which he should discharge his anger. But it passed away. Reflection came, and D'Artagnan contented himself with saying, The devil, the devil, I have done well to quit the service of the king. Tell me worthy master Bazan. Added he, how many musketeers does Monsieur Le Surintendant retain in his service? He could have all there are in the kingdom with his money. Replied Bazan, closing his book, and dismissing the boys with some kindly blows of his cane. The devil, the devil! repeated D'Artagnan once more, as if to annoy the pedagogue. But as supper was now announced he followed the cook, who introduced him into the refectory where it awaited him. D'Artagnan placed himself at the table, and began a hearty attack upon his fowl. It appears to me, said D'Artagnan, fighting with all his might at the tough fowl they had served up to him, and which they had evidently forgotten to fatten. It appears that I have done wrong in not seeking service with that master Yonder, a powerful noble this intendant seemingly. In good truth we poor fellows know nothing at the court, and the rays of the sun prevent our seeing the large stars, which are also suns at a little greater distance from our earth. That is all. As D'Artagnan delighted, both from pleasure and system, in making people talk about things which interested him, he fenced in his best style with Master Bazan. But it was pure loss of time. Beyond the tiresome and hyperbolical praises of Monsieur le Sur intendant of the finances, Bazan, who on his side was on his guard afforded nothing but platitudes to the curiosity of D'Artagnan, so that our musketeer in a tolerably bad humour desired to go to bed as soon as he had sucked. D'Artagnan was introduced by Bazan into a mean chamber, in which there was a poor bed. But D'Artagnan was not fastidious in that respect. He had been told that Aramis had taken away the key of his own private apartment, and as he knew Aramis was a very particular man, and had generally many things to conceal in his apartment, he had not been surprised. He therefore, although it appeared comparatively even harder, attacked the bed as bravely as he had done the fowl, and as he had as good an inclination to sleep as he had had to eat, he took scarcely longer time to be snoring harmoniously than he had employed in picking the last bones of the bird. Since he was no longer in the service of any one, D'Artagnan had promised himself to indulge in sleeping as soundly as he had formerly slept lightly, but with whatever good faith D'Artagnan had made himself this promise, and whatever desire he might have to keep it religiously, he was awakened in the middle of the night by a loud noise of carriages, and servants on horseback. A sudden illumination flashed over the walls of his chamber. He jumped out of bed and ran to the window in his shirt. Can the king be coming this way? he thought, rubbing his eyes. In truth, such a suite can only be attached to royalty. Leave Monsieur le Surintendant! cried, or rather vociferated, from a window on the ground floor of voice which he recognized as bezzans, who at the same time waved a handkerchief with one hand and held a large candle in the other. D'Artagnan then saw something like a brilliant human form leaning out of the principal carriage, at the same time loud bursts of laughter, caused no doubt by the strange figure of bezzan, an issuing from the same carriage left, as it were, a train of joy upon the passage of the rapid cortège. I might easily see it was not the king, said D'Artagnan. People don't laugh so hardily when the king passes. Hola, bezzan! cried he to his neighbor, three-quarters of whose body still hung out from the window, to follow the carriage with his eyes as long as he could. What is all that about? It is Monsieur Fouquet, said bezzan in a patronizing tone. And all those people— That is the court of Monsieur Fouquet. Oh, oh, said D'Artagnan. What would Monsieur de Mazarin say to that, if he heard it? And he returned to his bed, asking himself how Aramis always contrived to be protected by the most powerful personages in the kingdom. Is it that he has more luck than I? Or that I am a greater fool than he? That was the concluding word by the aid of which D'Artagnan, having become wise, now terminated every thought and every period of his style. Formerly, he said, Mordyr, which was the prick of the spur, but now he had become older, and he murmured that philosophical which served as a bridle to all the passions. End of Chapter 17, Recording by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia