 CHAPTER 1 THE LETTER Towards the middle of the month of May, in the year 1660, at nine o'clock in the morning, when the sun, already high in the heavens, was fast absorbing the dew from the ramparts of the castle of Bla, a little cavalcade, composed of three men and two pages, re-entered the city by the bridge, without producing any other effect upon the passengers of the quay, beyond a first movement of the hand to the head as a salute, and a second movement of the tongue to express in the purest French then spoken in France, There is Monsieur returning from hunting. And that was all. Whilst, however, the horses were climbing this steep aclivity which leads from the river to the castle, several shop-boys approached the last horse, from whose saddle-bow a number of birds were suspended by the beak. On seeing this, the inquisitive youths manifested with rustic freedom their contempt for such paltry sport, and, after a dissertation among themselves upon the disadvantages of hawking, they returned to their occupations, one only of the curious party, a stout, stubby, cheerful lad, having demanded how it was that Monsieur, who from his great revenues had it in his power to amuse himself so much better, could be satisfied with such mean diversions. Do you not know, one of the standards by replied, that Monsieur's principal amusement is to weary himself? The light-hearted boy shrugged his shoulders with a gesture which sat as clear as day. In that case, I would rather be plain jack than a prince, and all resumed their labours. In the meanwhile, Monsieur continued his route, with an air at once so melancholy and so majestic, that he certainly would have attracted the attention of spectators if spectators there had been. But the good citizens of Bla could not pardon Monsieur for having chosen their gay city for an abode, in which to indulge melancholy at his ease, and as often as they caught a glimpse of the illustrious ennui, they stole away gaping, or drew back their heads into the interior of their dwellings to escape the so-porific influence of that long pale face, of those watery eyes, and that languid address, so that the worthy prince was almost certain to find the streets deserted whenever he chanced to pass through them. Now, on the part of the citizens of Bla, this was a culpable piece of disrespect, for Monsieur was, after the king, nay, even perhaps before the king, the greatest noble of the kingdom. In fact, God, who had granted to Louis XIV, then reigning, the honour of being son of Louis XIII, had granted to Monsieur the honour of being son of Henry IV. It was not then, or at least it ought not to have been, a trifling source of pride for the city of Bla, that Gaston of Olyanne had chosen it as his residence, and he his court in the ancient castle of its states. But it was the destiny of his great prince to excite the attention and admiration of the public in a very modified degree wherever he might be. Monsieur had fallen into this situation by habit. It was not, perhaps, this which gave him that air of listlessness. Monsieur had been tolerably busy in the course of his life. A man cannot allow the heads of a dozen of his best friends to be cut off, without feeling a little excitement. And as, since the accession of Mazorine to power, no heads had been cut off, Monsieur's occupation was gone, and his morale suffered from it. The life of the poor prince was then very dull. After his little morning hawking party on the banks of the Bivillon, or in the woods of Chivigny, Monsieur crossed the Loire, went to breakfast at Chambord, with or without an appetite, and the city of Bla heard no more of its sovereign lord and master till the next hawking day. So much for the ennui extramuros. Of the ennui of the interior we will give the reader an idea, if he will with us follow the cavalcade to the majestic porch of the castle of the states. Monsieur rode a little steady-paced horse, equipped with a large saddle of red-flemish velvet, with stirrups in the shape of buskins. The horse was of a bay color. Monsieur's porpoise of crimson velvet corresponded with the cloak of the same shade, and the horse's equipment, and it was only by this red appearance of the whole that the prince could be known from his two companions, the one dressed in violet, the other in green. He on the left in violet was his aquari, he on the right in green was the grand vigneur. One of the pages carried two gear falcons upon a perch, the other a hunting horn, which he blew with a careless note at twenty paces from the castle. Everyone about this listless prince did what he had to do listlessly. At this signal, eight guards, who were lounging in the sun in the square court, ran to their halberts, and Monsieur made his solemn entry into the castle. When he had disappeared under the shades of the porch, three or four idlers who had followed the cavalcade to the castle, after pointing out the suspended birds to each other, dispersed with comments upon what they saw, and when they were gone, the street, the place, and the court all remained deserted alike. Monsieur dismounted without speaking a word, went straight to his apartments, where his valet changed his dress, and as Madame had not yet sent orders respecting breakfast, Monsieur stretched himself upon a chaise lounge, and was soon as fast asleep as if it had been eleven o'clock at night. The eight guards, who concluded their service for the day, was over, laid themselves down very comfortably in the sun upon some stone benches. The grooms disappeared with their horses into the stables, and with the exception of a few joyous birds, startling each other with their sharp chirping in the tufted shrubberies, it might have been thought that the whole castle was as soundly asleep as Monsieur was. All at once, in the midst of this delicious silence, there resounded a clear ringing laugh, which calls several of the albediers in the enjoyment of their siesta to open at least one eye. This burst of laughter proceeded from a window of the castle, visited at this moment by the sun, that embraced it in one of those large angles which the profiles of the chimneys mark out upon the walls before midday. The little balcony of wrought iron, which advanced in front of this window, was furnished with a pot of red gillaflowers, another pot of primroses, and an early rose tree, the foliage of which, beautifully green, was variegated with numerous red specks, announcing future roses. In the chamber lighted by this window was a square table, covered with an old, large flowered Harlem tapestry. In the centre of this table was a long neckstone bottle, in which were irises and lilies of the valley, and each end of this table was a young girl. The position of these two young people was singular. They might have been taken for two borders, escaped from a convent. One of them, with both elbows on the table and a pen in her hand, was tracing characters upon a sheet of fine Dutch paper, the other kneeling upon a chair, which allowed her to advance her head and bust over the back of it to the middle of the table, who was watching her companion as she wrote, or rather, hesitated to write. Thence the thousand cries, the thousand raileries, the thousand laughs, one of which more brilliant than the rest, had startled the birds in the garden and disturbed the slumbers of Monsieur's guards. We are taking portraits now. We shall be allowed, therefore, we hope, to sketch the two last of this chapter. The one who was leaning in the chair, that is to say, the joyous, the laughing one, was a beautiful girl of from eighteen to twenty, with brown complexion and brown hair, splendid, from eyes which sparkled beneath strongly marked brows, and particularly from her teeth, which seemed to shine like pearls between her red coral lips. Her every movement seemed the accent of a sunny nature. She did not walk. She bounded. The other, she who was writing, looked at her turbulent companion with an eye as limpid, as pure and as blue as the azure of the day. Her hair, of a shaded fairness, arranged with exquisite taste, fell in silky curls over her lovely mantling cheeks. She passed across the paper a delicate hand, whose thinness announced her extreme youth. At each burst of laughter that proceeded from her friend, she raised, as if annoyed, her white shoulders in a poetical and mild manner. But they were wanting in that richfulness of mould which was likewise to be wished in her arms and hands. Montelès. Montelès. She said, at length, in a voice soft and caressing as a melody. You laugh too loud. You laugh like a man. You will not only draw the attention of Messieurs the Guards, but you will not hear Madame's bell when Madame rings. This admonition neither made the young girl called Montelès cease to laugh and gesticulate. She only replied, Louis, you do not speak as you think, my dear. You know that Messieurs the Guards, as you call them, have only just commenced their sleep, and that a cannon would not waken them. You know that Madame's bell can be heard at the bridge of Blois, and that consequently I shall hear it when my services are required by Madame. What annoys you, my child, is that I laugh while you are writing, and what you are afraid of is that Madame de Saint-Rémy, your mother, should come up here as she does sometimes when we laugh too loud, that she should surprise us, and that she should see that enormous sheet of paper upon which, in a quarter of an hour, you have only traced the words, Messieurs Raoul. Now you are right, my dear Louise, because after these words, Messieurs Raoul, others may be put so significant and so incendiary as to cause Madame de Saint-Rémy to burst out into fire and flames. Hein is not that true now, say. And Montelet redoubled her laughter and noisy provocations. The fair girl at length became quite angry. She tore the sheet of paper on which, in fact, the words Messieurs Raoul were written in good characters, and crushing the paper in her trembling hands, she threw it out of the window. There, there, said mademoiselle de Montelet, there is our little lamb, our gentle dove, angry. Don't be afraid, Louise. Madame de Saint-Rémy will not come, and if she should, you know I have a quick ear, besides what can be more permissible than to write to an old friend of twelve years standing, particularly when the letter begins with the words, Messieurs Raoul. It is all very well. I will not write to him at all. said the young girl. Ah, ah, in good soothe Montelet is properly punished. cried the jeering brunette, still laughing. Come, come, let us try another sheet of paper and finish our dispatch off-hand. Good, there is the bell ringing now, by my faith, so much the worse. Madame must wait or else do without her first maid of honour this morning. A bell in fact did ring, and announced that Madame had finished her toilet, and waited for Messieurs to give her his hand, and conduct her from the salon to the refactory. This formality being accomplished, with great ceremony, the husband and wife breakfasted, and then separated till the hour of dinner invariably fixed at two o'clock. The sound of this bell caused the door to be opened in the offices on the left hand of the court, from which filed two maitre d'hôtel, followed by eight scullions bearing a kind of handbarrow loaded with dishes under silver covers. One of the maitre d'hôtel, the first in rank, touched one of the guards who was snoring on his bench, slightly with his wand, he even carried his kindness so far as to place the halberd which stood against the wall in the hands of the man, stupid with sleep, after which the soldier, without explanation, escorted the beyond of Messieurs to the refactory, preceded by a page and the two maitre d'hôtel. Wherever the beyond passed, the soldiers ported arms. Man was El de Montelet, and her companion had watched from their window the details of this ceremony, to which, by the by, they must have been pretty well accustomed. But they did not look so much from curiosity as to be assured they should not be disturbed. So guards, scullions, maitre d'hôtel, and pages having passed, they resumed their places at the table. And the sun, which through the window frame had for an instant fallen upon those two charming countenances, now only shed its light upon the ghillie-flowers, primroses, and rosetree. Said mademoiselle de Montelet, taking her place again. Madame would breakfast very well without me. Oh, Montelet, you will be punished! replied the other girl, sitting down quietly in hers. Punished, indeed! That is to say deprived of a ride. That is just the way in which I wish to be punished. To go out in the grand coach, perched upon a doorstep, to turn to the left, twist round to the right, over roads full of ruts, where we cannot exceed a league in two hours, and then to come back straight towards the wing of the castle, in which is the window of Mary de Medici, so that madame never fails to say, could one believe it possible that Mary de Medici should have escaped from that window, forty-seven feet high, the mother of two princes and three princesses. If you call that relaxation, Louise, all I ask is to be punished every day, particularly when my punishment is to remain with you, and write such interesting letters as we write. Montelet, Montelet, there are duties to be performed. You talk of them very much at your ease, dear child. You, who are left quite free amidst the tedious court. You are the only person that reaps the advantages of them without incurring the trouble. You, who are really more one of madame's maids of honors than I am, because madame makes her affection for your father-in-law glance off upon you, so that you enter this dull house as the birds fly into yonder court, inhaling the air, pecking the flowers, picking up the grain without having the least service to perform, or the least annoyance to undergo. And you talk to me of duties to be performed. Insooth, my pretty idler, what are your own proper duties, unless to write to the handsome Raoul, and even that you don't do, so that it looks to me as if you likewise were rather negligent of your duties? Louise assumed a serious air, lent her chin upon her hand, and in a tone full of candid remonstrance. And do you reproach me with my good fortune? She said. Can you have the heart to do it? You have a future. You belong to the court, the king. If he should marry, well, require misure to be near his person. You will see splendid vets. You will see the king, who they say is so handsome, so agreeable. I, and still more, I shall see Raoul, who attends upon M. Le Prance. Added Montelet maliciously. Poor Raoul! sighed Louise. Now is the time to write him, my pretty dear. Come, begin again with that famous M. Raoul, which figures at the top of the poor torn sheet. She then held the pen toward her, and with a charming smile encouraged her hand, which quickly traced the words she named. What next? asked the younger of the two girls. Why, now write what you think, Louise? replied Montelet. Are you quite sure I think of anything? You think of somebody, and that amounts to the same thing, or rather, even more. Do you think so, Montelet's? Louise, Louise, your blue eyes are as deep as the sea I saw up alone last year. No, no, I mistake. The sea is perfidious. Your eyes are as deep as the azure yonder. Look over our heads. Well, since you can read so well in my eyes, tell me, what am I thinking about, Montelet's? In the first place, you don't think, M. Raoul, you think, my dear Raoul. Oh! never blush for such a trifle as that. My dear Raoul, we will say, you implore me to write you at Paris, where you are detained by your attendance on M. Le Prance, as you must be very dull there to seek for amusement in the remembrance of a provincial. Louise rose up suddenly. No, Montelet's, said she with a smile. I don't think a word of that. Look, this is what I think. And she seized the pen boldly, and traced with a firm hand the following words. I should have been very unhappy if your entreaties to obtain a remembrance of me had been less warm. Everything here reminds me of our early days, which so quickly passed away, which so delightfully flew by, that no others will ever replace the charm of them in my heart. Montelet's, who watched the flying pen in red, the wrong way upwards as fast as her friend wrote, here interrupted by clapping her hands. Capital, cried she, there is frankness, there is heart, there is style. Show the Parisians, my dear, that Bla is the city for fine language. He knows very well that Bla was a paradise to me. Reply at the girl. That is exactly what you mean to say, and you speak like an angel. I will finish Montelet's. And she continued as follows. You often think of me. You say, Mr. Rahul, I thank you, but that does not surprise me when I recollect how often our hearts have beaten close to each other. Oh, oh, said Montelet's, beware, my lamb, you are scattering your wool, and there are wolves about. Louise was about to reply when the gallop of a horse resounded under the porch of the castle. What is that? said Montelet, approaching the window. A handsome cavalier by my faith. Oh, Rahul exclaimed Louise, who had made the same movement as her friend and becoming pale as death, sunk back beside her unfinished letter. Now, he is a clever lover upon my word, cried Montelet. He arrives just at the proper moment. Come in. Come in. I implore you. murmured Louise. Bah, he does not know me. Let me see what he has come here for. End of chapter one, recording by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia. Chapter two of the D'Artagnan Romance is volume three, part one, by Alexander Dumas, translated by William Robson. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. The Messenger Manuel de Montelet was right. The young cavalier was goodly to look upon. He was a young man from twenty-four to twenty-five years of age, tall and slender, wearing gracefully the picturesque military costume of that period. His large boots contained a foot which Manuel de Montelet might not have disowned if she had been transformed into a man. With one of his delicate but nervous hands, he checked his horse in the middle of the court, and with the other raised his hat, whose long plumes shaded his, at once, serious and ingenuous countenance. The guards roused by the steps of the horse awoke and were on foot in a minute. The young man waited till one of them was close to his saddle-vowl, then stooping towards him in a clear, distinct voice, which was perfectly audible at the window where the two girls were concealed. A message for his royal highness, he said. A-ha! cried the soldier. Officer! A Messenger! But this brave guard knew very well that no officer would appear, seeing that the only one who could have appeared dwelt at the other side of the castle in an apartment looking into the gardens. So he hastened to add, The officer of Miser is on his rounds, but in his absence, Miser de Saint-Remy, the major d'hôtel, shall be informed. Miser de Saint-Remy repeated the cavalier slightly blushing. Do you know him? Why, yes, but request him, if you please, that my visit be announced to his royal highness as soon as possible. It appears to be pressing, said the guard, as if speaking to himself, but really in the hope of obtaining an answer. The Messenger made an affirmative sign with his head. In that case, said the guard, I will go and seek the major d'hôtel myself. The young man, in the meantime, dismounted, and whilst the others were making their remarks upon the fine horse, the cavalier rode, the soldier returned. Your pardon, young gentleman, but your name, if you please. The vicomte de Bragalon. On the part of his highness, Miser de Prince de Cond. The soldier made a profound bow, and as if the name of the conqueror of Rocroy and Zens had given him wings, he stepped lightly up the steps leading to the anti-chamber. Miser de Bragalon had not had time to fasten his horse to the iron bars of the Perron. When Miser de Saint-Remy came running, out of breath, supporting his capacious body with one hand, whilst with the other, he cut the air as a fisherman cleaves the waves with his oar. Ah, Miser de Vicomte, you at blois! cried he. Well, that is a wonder. Good day to you. Good day, Miser de Raoul. I offer you a thousand respects, Miser de Saint-Remy. How madame de Laval, I mean, how delighted madame de Saint-Remy will be to see you, but come in. His royal highness is at breakfast. Must he be interrupted? Is the matter serious? Yes, and no, Miser de Saint-Remy. The moments delay, however, would be disagreeable to his royal highness. If that is the case, we will force the consign, Miser de Vicomte. Come in, besides. Miser is in excellent humour today, and then you bring news, do you not? Great news, Miser de Saint-Remy. And good, I presume. Excellent. Come quickly, come quickly, then, cried the worthy man, putting his dress to rights, as he went along. Raoul followed him, had in hand, and a little disconcerted at the noise made by his spurs in these immense salons. As soon as he had disappeared in the interior of the palace, the window of the court was re-opeled, and an animated whispering betrayed the emotion of the two girls. They soon appeared to have formed a resolution, for one of the two faces disappeared from the window. This was the brunette, the other remained behind the balcony, concealed by the flowers, watching attentively through the branches, the parons by which Miser de Braguelon had entered the castle. In the meantime, the object of so much laudable curiosity continued his route, following the steps of the maître d'hôtel, the noise of quick steps, an odor of wine and violins, a clinking of crystal and plates warned them that they were coming to the end of their course. The pages, valets, and officers assembled in the office which led up to the refractory, welcomed the newcomer with a proverbial politeness of the country. Some of them were acquainted with Raoul and all knew that he came from Paris. It might be said that his arrival for a moment suspended their surface. In fact, a page, who was pouring out wine for his royal highness, on hearing the jingling of spurs in the next chamber turned around like a child, without perceiving that he was continuing to pour out, not into the glass, but upon the tablecloth. Madame, who was not so preoccupied as her glorious spouse was, remarked this distraction of the page. Well, exclaimed she. Well, repeated monsieur, what is going on then? Monsieur de Saint-Remy, who had just introduced his head through the doorway, took advantage of the moment. Why am I to be disturbed? said Gaston, helping himself to a thick slice of one of the largest salmon that had ever ascended a l'horre to be captured between Paine-Burth and Saint-Nazar. There is a messenger from Paris. Oh, but after Monsignor has breakfasted, will do, there is plenty of time. From Paris? cried the prince, letting his fork fall. A messenger from Paris, you say? And on whose part does this messenger come? On the part of M. de France, said the maître d'hôtel promptly. Everyone knows that the prince de Cannes was so-called. A messenger from M. de France? said Gaston with an inquiritude that escaped none of the assistance, and consequently redoubled the general curiosity. Monsieur perhaps fancied himself brought back again to the happy times, when the opening of a door gave him an emotion in which every letter might contain a state secret, in which every message was connected with a dark and complicated intrigue. Perhaps, likewise, that great name of M. de France expanded itself beneath the roofs of Blois to the proportions of a phantom. M. de France pushed away his plate. Shall I tell the envoy to wait? asked M. de Saint-Remy. A glance from the dam in Bolden, Gaston, who replied, No, no. Let him come in at once, on the contrary. Apropos, who is he? A gentleman of this country, M. de Comte de Bragalon? Ah, very well. Introduce him, Saint-Remy. Introduce him. And when he had let fall these words, with his accustomed gravity, M. de Saint-Remy turned his eyes in a certain manner upon the people of his suite, so that all pages, officers, and equaries quitted the surface, knives, and goblets, and made toward the second chamber a retreat as rapid as it was disorderly. This little army had dispersed in two files when Rahul de Bragalon, preceded by M. de Saint-Remy, entered the refectory. The short interval of solitude which this retreat had left him, permitted M. de Time to assume a diplomatic countenance. He did not turn round, but waited till the matred hotel should bring the messenger face to face with him. Rahul stopped even with the lower end of the table, so as to be exactly between Monsieur and Madame. From this place he made a profound bow to Monsieur, and a very humble one to Madame. Then, drawing himself up into military pose, he waited for Monsieur to address him. On his part the prince waited until the doors were hermetically closed. He would not turn round to ascertain the fact, as that would have been derogatory to his dignity. But he listened with all his ears for the noise of the lock, which would promise him at least an appearance of secrecy. The doors being closed, Monsieur raised his eyes toward the vicompte and said, It appears that you come from Paris, Monsieur. This minute, M. de Saint-Remy. How is the king? His Majesty is in perfect health, M. de Saint-Remy. And my sister-in-law? Her Majesty the Queen Mother still suffers from the complaint in her chest, but for the last month she has been rather better. M. de Saint-Remy. Somebody told me you came on the part of M. de Saint-Remy. They must have been mistaken, surely? M. de Saint-Remy. No, M. de Saint-Remy. M. de Saint-Remy has charged me to convey this letter to your royal highness, and I am to wait for an answer to it. Raoul had been a little annoyed by this cold and cautious reception, and his voice insensibly sank to a lower key. The prince forgot that he was the cause of this apparent mystery, and his fears returned. He received the letter from the Prince de Cond with a haggard look, unsealed it as he would have unsealed a suspicious packet, and in order to read it so that no one should remark the effects of it upon his countenance, he turned round. Madame followed with an anxiety almost equal to that of the prince, every maneuver of her august husband. Raoul, impassable and a little disengaged by the attention of his hosts, looked from his place through the open window at the gardens and the statues which peopled them. Well, cried M. all at once with a cheerful smile, here is an agreeable surprise, and a charming letter from M. de France. Look, madame! The table was too large to allow the arm of the prince to reach the hand of madame. Raoul sprang forward to be their intermediary, and did it with so good a grace as to procure a flattering acknowledgement from the princess. You know the contents of this letter, no doubt. Said Gaston to Raoul. Yes, Monsignor, M. de France at first gave me the message verbally, but upon reflection his highness took up his pen. It is beautiful writing, said madame, but I cannot read it. Will you read it to madame, M. de Bragalone? said the duke. Yes, read it, if you please, M. de France. Raoul began to read, M. giving again all his attention, but the letter was conceived in these terms. Monsignor, the king is about to set out for the frontiers. You are aware that the marriage of his majesty is concluded upon. The king has done me the honor to appoint me his mara-chow delogues for this journey, and as I knew with what joy his majesty would pass a day at Blois, I ventured to ask your royal highness's permission to mark the house you inhabit as our quarters. If, however, the suddenness of this request should create to your royal highness any embarrassment, I entreat you to say so by the messenger I send, a gentleman of my suite, M. de Bragalone. My itinerary will depend upon your royal highness's determination, and instead of passing through Blois, we shall come through Vendome and Remorantan. I ventured to hope that your royal highness will be pleased with my arrangement, it being the expression of my boundless desire to make myself agreeable to you. Nothing can be more gracious towards us, said madame, who had more than once consulted the looks of her husband during the reading of the letter. The king, here! exclaimed she in a rather louder tone than would have been necessary to preserve secrecy. Monsieur, said his royal highness in his turn, you will offer my thanks to M. de Conde, and express to him my gratitude for the honor he has done me. Raoul bowed. On what day will his majesty arrive? continued the prince. The king, Monsignor, will in all probability arrive this evening. But how then could he have known my reply if it had been in the negative? I was desired, Monsignor, to return in all haste to Bojansi, to give counter-orders to the courier, who was himself to go back immediately with counter-orders to Monsieur Le Prance. His majesty is at Orléans, then. Much nearer, Monsignor, his majesty must by this time have arrived at Meillon. Does the court accompany him? Yes, Monsignor. Apropos, I forgot to ask you after, M. Le Cardinal. His eminence appears to enjoy good health, Monsignor. His nieces accompany him, no doubt. No, Monsignor, his eminence has ordered the Manwazels de Mancini to set out for Bruage. They will follow the left bank of the Loire, while the court will come by the right. What? Manwazel, Mary de Mancini, quit the court in that manner? Asked Monsieur, his reserve beginning to diminish. Manwazel, Mary de Mancini, in particular, replied Raoul discreetly. A fugitive smile, an imperceptible vestige of his ancient spirit of intrigue, shot across the pale face of the Prince. Thanks. Monsieur de Bruage alone. Who then said, Monsieur? You would perhaps not be willing to carry Monsieur Le Prance to commission, with which I would charge you, and that is, that his messenger has been very agreeable to me, but I will tell him so myself. Raoul bowed his thanks to Monsieur for the honour he had done him. Monsieur made a sign to Madame, who struck a bell which was placed at her right hand. Monsieur de Saint Remy entered, and the room was soon filled with people. Monsieur's. Said the Prince. His Majesty is about to pay me the honour of passing a day at Blois. I depend upon the King, my nephew, not having to repent of the favour he does my house. Vive Le Roi! cried all the officers of the household, with frantic enthusiasm, and Monsieur de Saint Remy louder than the rest. Gaston hung down his head with evident chagrin. He had all his life been obliged to hear, or rather to undergo, this cry of Vive Le Roi, which passed over him. For a long time, being unaccustomed to hear it, his ear had had rest, and now a younger, more vivacious, and more brilliant royalty rose up before him, like a new and more painful provocation. Madame perfectly understood the sufferings of that timid gloomy heart. She rose from the table, Monsieur imitated her mechanically, and all the domestics with a buzzing like that of several beehives, surrounded Raoul for the purpose of questioning him. Madame saw this movement and called Monsieur de Saint Remy. This is not the time for gossiping, but working, said she with the tone of an angry housekeeper. Monsieur de Saint Remy hastened to break the circle formed by the officers round Raoul, so that the latter was able to gain the antechamber. Care will be taken of that gentleman, I hope, added Madame, addressing Monsieur de Saint Remy. The worthy man immediately hastened after Raoul. Madame desires refreshments to be offered to you, said he. And there is, besides, a lodging for you in the castle. Thanks, Monsieur de Saint Remy, replied Raoul. But you know how anxious I must be to pay my duty to Monsieur Le Comte, my father. That is true, that is true. Monsieur Raoul, present him at the same time my humble respects, if you please. Raoul thus once more got rid of the old gentleman and pursued his way. As he was passing under the porch leading his horse by the bridle, a soft voice called him from the depths of an obscure path. Monsieur Raoul said the voice. The young man turned round, surprised, and saw a dark, complexioned girl who, with a finger on her lip, held out her other hand to him. This young lady was an utter stranger. End of Chapter 2 Recording by John Van Stan Savannah, Georgia Chapter 3 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 interview. Raoul made one step towards the girl who thus called him. But my horse, Madame, said he. Oh, you are terribly embarrassed. Go yonder way there was a shed in the outer court. Fasten your horse and return quickly. I obey, Madame. Raoul was not four minutes in performing what he had been directed to do. He returned to the little door where in the gloom he found his mysterious conductress waiting for him on the first steps of a winding staircase. Are you brave enough to follow me, Mr. Knight-Arent? Asked the girl, laughing at the momentary hesitation Raoul had manifested. The latter replied by springing up the dark staircase after her. They thus climbed up three stories. He behind her, touching with his hands when he felt for the banister, a silk dress which rubbed against each side of the staircase, and every false step made by Raoul, his conductor scryed, hush, and held out to him a soft and perfumed hand. One would mount thus to the pelfry of the castle without being conscious of fatigue, said Raoul, all of which means, monsieur, that you are very much perplexed, very tired, and very uneasy. But be of good cheer, monsieur. Here we are at our destination. The girl threw open a door which immediately, without any transition, filled with a flood of light the landing of the staircase, at the top of which Raoul appeared, holding fast by the balistrade. The girl continued to walk on. He followed her. She entered a chamber. He did the same. As soon as he was fairly in the net, he heard a loud cry, and turning round saw at two paces from him, with her hands clasped and her eyes closed, that beautiful, fair girl with blue eyes and white shoulders, who, recognizing him, called him Raoul. He saw her and divined at once so much love, and so much joy in the expression of her countenance that he sank on his knees in the middle of the chamber, murmuring on his part the name of Louise. Ha! Monteletes! Monteletes! she sighed. It is very wicked to deceive me so. Who, I? I have deceived you. Yes, you told me you would go down to inquire the news, and you have brought up, monsieur. Well, I was obliged to do so. How else could he have received the letter you wrote him? And she pointed with her finger to the letter which was still upon the table. Raoul made a step to take it, Louise more rapid, although she had sprung forward with a sufficiently remarkable physical hesitation, reached out her hand to stop him. Raoul came in contact with that trembling hand, took it within his own, and carried it so respectfully to his lips, that he might be said to have deposited a sigh upon it rather than a kiss. In the meantime, Manuel de Monteletes had taken the letter, folded it carefully, as women do in three folds, and slipped it into her bosom. Don't be afraid, Louise, she said. Monsieur will no more venture to take it hence than the defunct King Louis XIII ventured to take billets from the corsage of Mademoiselle de Hote Four. Raoul blushed at seeing the smile of the two girls, and he did not remark that the hand of Louise remained in his. There, said Monteletes, you have pardoned me, Louise, for having brought Monsieur to you, and you, Monsieur, bear me no malice for having followed me to see Mademoiselle. Now, then, peace being made, let us chat like old friends, present me, Louise, to Monsieur de Bragolone. Monsieur Le Vicomte, said Louise with her quiet grace and ingenuous smile, I have the honour to present to you Mademoiselle or de Monteletes, made of honour to her Royal Highness Madame, and moreover my friend, my excellent friend. Raoul bowed ceremoniously. And me, Louise, said he, will you not present me also to Mademoiselle? Oh, she knows you, she knows all. This unguarded expression made Montelet laugh and Raoul sigh with happiness, for he interpreted it thus. She knows all our love. The ceremony is being over, Monsieur Le Vicomte, said Monteletes. Take a chair, and tell us quickly the news you bring flying thus. Mademoiselle, it is no longer a secret, the king on his way to Poitiers will stop at Blois to visit his Royal Highness. The king, here, exclaimed Montelet, clapping her hands. What, are we going to see the court? Only think, Louise, the real court from Paris, oh good heavens, but when will this happen, Monsieur? Perhaps this evening, Mademoiselle, at latest, tomorrow. Monteletes lifted her shoulders and signed a vexation. No time to get ready, no time to prepare a single dress. We are as far behind the fashions as the Poles. We shall look like portraits of the time of Henry IV. Monsieur, this is sad news you bring us. But, Mademoiselle, you will be still beautiful. That's no news. Yes, we shall always be beautiful, because nature has made us passable, but we shall be ridiculous, because the fashion will have forgotten us. Alas, ridiculous, I shall be thought ridiculous, I! And by whom, said Louise innocently, by whom? You are a strange girl, my dear. Is that a question to put to me? I mean everybody. I mean the courtiers, the nobles. I mean the king. Pardon me, my good friend, but as here everyone is accustomed to see us as we are. Granted, but that is about the change, and we shall be ridiculous, even for bois. For close to us will be seen the fashions from Paris, and they will perceive that we are in the fashion of bois. It is enough to make one despair. Consol yourself, Mademoiselle. Well, so let it be. After all, so much the worse for those who do not find me to their taste. said Montelet philosophically. They would be very difficult to please, replied Raoul, faithful to his regular system of gallantry. Thank you, Monsieur Le Vicont. We were saying, then, that the king is coming to Blois. With all the court. Mademoiselle's the Macchini. Will they be with them? No, certainly not. But as the king it is said cannot do without Mademoiselle, Mary. Mademoiselle, the king must do without her. Monsieur Le Cardinal will have it, if so. He has exiled his nieces to Bruage. He, the hypocrite. Hush! said Louise, pressing a finger on her friend's rosy lips. Bah! Nobody can hear me. I say that old Masarino Masarini is a hypocrite who burns impatiently to make his niece queen of France. That cannot be, Mademoiselle, since Monsieur Le Cardinal, on the contrary, has brought about the marriage of his majesty with the Infante Maria Theresa. Montelet looked rowlful in the face and said, And do you Parisians believe in these tales? Well, we are a little more knowing than you at Blois. Mademoiselle, if the king goes beyond Poitiers and sets out for Spain, if the articles of the marriage contract are agreed upon by Don Louis de Haro and his eminence, you must plainly perceive that it is not child's play. All very fine, but the king is king, I suppose. No doubt, Mademoiselle, but the cardinal is the cardinal. The king is not a man, then, and he does not love Mary Mancini. He adores her. Well, he will marry her, then. We shall have war with Spain. Monsieur Masarine will spend a few of the millions he has put away. Our gentlemen will perform prodigies of valor in their encounters with the proud Castilians, and many of them will return crowned with laurels to be re-crowned by us with myrtles. Now, that is my view of politics. Montelet, you are wild, said Louise, and every exaggeration attracts you as light does a moth. Louise, you are so extremely reasonable that you will never know how to love. Oh, said Louise, in a tone of tender reproach, don't you see, Montelet's, the queen mother desires to marry her son to the Infanta. Would you wish him to disobey his mother? Is it for a royal heart like his to set such a bad example, when parents forbid love, love must be banished? And Louise sighed. Raoul cast down his eyes with an expression of constraint. Montelet, on her part, laughed aloud. Well, I have no parents, said she. You are acquainted, without doubt, with the state of health of Monsieur the Compte de l'affaire. Said Louise after breathing that sigh which had revealed so many griefs in its eloquent utterance. No, mademoiselle, replied Raoul. I have not yet paid my respects to my father. I was going to his house when mademoiselle de Montelet so kindly stopped me. I hope the Compte is well. You have heard nothing to the contrary, have you? No, Monsieur Raoul, nothing, thank God. Here, for several instance, ensued a silence, during which two spirits, which followed the same idea, communicated perfectly, without even the assistance of a single glance. Oh, heavens! exclaimed Montelet in a fright. There is somebody coming up. Who can it be? said Louise, rising in great agitation. Mademoiselles, I inconvenience you very much. I have, without doubt, been very indiscreet. Stammered Raoul, very ill at ease. It is a heavy step, said Louise. Ah, if it is only Monsieur Malicorn, added Montelet, do not disturb yourselves. Louise and Raoul looked at each other to inquire who Monsieur Malicorn could be. There is no occasion to mind him, continued Montelet. He is not jealous. But, Manoiselles, said Raoul. Yes, I understand. Well, he is as discreet as I am. Good heavens! cried Louise, who had applied her ear to the door, which had been left ajar. It is my mother's step. Madame de Saint-Rémy, where shall I hide myself? exclaimed Raoul, catching at the dress of Montelet, who looked quite bewildered. Yes, said she. Yes, I know the clicking of those patterns. It is our excellent mother, Monsieur Levecomte. What a pity it is the window looks upon a stone pavement, and that fifty paces below it. Raoul glanced at the balcony in despair. Louise seized his arm and held it tight. Oh, how silly I am! said Montelet. Have I not the robe of ceremony-closet? It looks as if it were made on purpose. It was quite time to act. Madame de Saint-Rémy was coming up at a quicker pace than usual. She gained the landing at the moment when Montelet, as in all scenes of surprises, shut the closet by leaning with her back against the door. Ah! cried Madame de Saint-Rémy. You are here, are you, Louise? Yes, Madame. replied she, more pale than if she had committed a great crime. Well, well. Pray be seated, madame. said Montelet, offering her a chair which she placed so that the back was toward the closet. Thank you, mademoiselle orre. Thank you. Come, my child, be quick. Where do you wish me to go, madame? Why, home, to be sure, have you not to prepare your toilet? What did you say? cried Montelet's, hastening to affect surprise, so fearful was she that Louise would in some way commit herself. You don't know the news, then? said madame de Saint-Rémy. What news, madame? Is it possible for two girls to learn up in this dove-coat? What? Have you seen nobody? Madame, you talk in enigmas, and you torment us at a slow fire! cried Montelet, who, terrified at seeing Louise become paler and paler, did not know to what saint to put up her vows. At length she caught an eloquent look of her companions, one of those looks which would convey intelligence to a brick wall. Louise directed her attention to a hat, Raoul's unlucky hat, which was set out in all its feathery splendor upon the table. Montelet sprang towards it and seizing it with her left hand, passed it behind her into the right, concealing it as she was speaking. Well, said madame de Saint-Rémy, Courier has arrived, announcing the approach of the king. There, mademoiselles, there is something to make you put on your best looks. Quick, quick, cried Montelet, follow madame your mother, Louise, and leave me to get ready my dress of ceremony. Louise arose, her mother took her by the hand and led her out onto the landing. Come along, said she, then adding in a low voice, when I forbid you to come to the apartment of Montelet, why do you do so? Madame, she is my friend. Besides, I had but just come. Did you see nobody concealed while you were there? Madame, I saw a man's hat, I tell you, the hat of that fellow, that good for nothing. Madame, repeated Louise, of that do-nothing de Malicorn, a maid of honour to have such company. And their voices were lost in the depths of the narrow staircase. Montelet had not missed a word of this conversation, which Echo conveyed to her as if through a tunnel. She shrugged her shoulders on seeing Raoul, who had listened likewise, issue from the closet. Poor Montelet, said she, the victim of friendship, poor Malicorn, the victim of love. She stopped on viewing the tragic comic face of Raoul, who was vexed at having, in one day, surprised so many secrets. Oh, mademoiselle, said he, how can we repay your kindness? Oh, we will balance accounts some day, said she, for the present be gone, monsieur de Braguelon, for Madame de Saint-Rémy is not overindulgent, and any indiscretion on her part might bring hither a dumbissiliary visit, which would be disagreeable to all parties. But, Louise, how shall I know? Be gone, be gone! King Louis XI knew very well what he was about when he invented the post. Alas! sighed Raoul. And I am not here. I, who am worth all the posts in the kingdom, quick, I say, to horse, so that if Madame de Saint-Rémy should return for the purpose of preaching me a lesson on morality, she may not find you here. She would tell my father, would she not? murmured Raoul. And you would be scolded. Ha! they come't. It is very plain you come from court. You are as timid as the king. Piste! et blas! we can try better than to do without papa's consent. Ask Malicorn else. And at these words the girl pushed Raoul out of the room by the shoulders. He glided swiftly down the porch, regained his horse, mounted, and set off as if he had misures-guards at his heels. End of Chapter 3 Recording by John Van Stan Savanna, Georgia Chapter 4 of the D'Artagnan Romance is Vol. 3 Part 1 by Alexandre Dumas, translated by William Robson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Father and Son Raoul followed the well-known road so dear to his memory, which led from Lois to the residence of the Comte l'affaire. The reader will dispense with a second description of that habitation, he perhaps has been with us there before, and knows it. Only, since our last journey tither, the walls had taken a grayer tint, and the brickwork assumed a more harmonious copper tone. The trees had grown, and many that then only stretched their slender branches along the tops of the hedges, now bushy, strong, and luxuriant, cast around, beneath boughs swollen with sap, great shadows of blossoms of fruit for the benefit of the traveller. Raoul perceived from a distance the two little turrets, the dove-coat and the elms, and the flights of pigeons, which wheeled incessantly around that brick cone, seemingly without power to quit it, like the sweet memories which hover round a spirit at peace. As he approached, he heard the noise of the poolies which grated under the weight of the massy pails. He also fancied he heard the melancholy moaning of the water which falls back again into the wells. A sad, funerial, solemn sound, which strikes the ear of the child and the poet, both dreamers, which the English call Splash. Arabian poets, gascochow, and which we Frenchmen, who would be poets, can only translate by a paraphrase. The noise of water falling into water. It was more than a year since Raoul had been to visit his father. He had passed the whole time in the household of Michel le Pras. In fact, after all the commotions of the frond of the early period of which reformally attempted to give a sketch, Louis de Cond had made a public solemn and frank reconciliation with the court. During all the time that the rupture between the king and the prince had lasted, the prince, who had long entertained a great regard for Bragalon, had in vain offered him advantages of the most dazzling kind for the young man. The Compte l'affaire, still faithful to his principles of loyalty and royalty, one day developed before his son in the vaults of Saint Denis, the Compte l'affaire, in the name of his son, had always declined them. Moreover, instead of following Michel de Cond in his rebellion, the Compte had followed Michel de Touraine, fighting for the king. Then, when Michel de Touraine in his turn had appeared to abandon the royal calls, he had quitted Michel de Touraine, as he had quitted Michel de Cond. It resulted from this invariable line of conduct, that, as Cond and Touraine had never been conquerors of each other but under the standard of the king, Raoul, however young, had ten victories inscribed on his list of services and not one defeat from which his bravery or conscience had to suffer. Raoul, therefore, had in compliance with the wish of his father, served obstinately and passively the fortunes of Louis XIV, in spite of the ategravations which were endemic, and it might be said inevitable at that period. Michel de Cond, on being restored to favor, had at once availed himself of all the privileges of the amnesty to ask for many things back again, which had been granted him before, and, among others, Raoul, Michel de La Faire, with his invariable good sense, had immediately sent him again to the prince. A year then had passed away since the separation of the father and son. A few letters had softened but not removed the pains of absence. We have seen that Raoul had left that blah another love in addition to filial love, but let us do him this justice. If it had not been for chance, and man was El de Montelet, two great temptations. Raoul, after delivering his message, would have galloped off toward his father's house, turning his head round, perhaps, but without stopping for a single instant, even if Louise had held out her arms to him. So the first part of the journey was given by Raoul to regretting the past which he had been forced to quit so quickly, that is to say, his lady-love, and the other part to the friend he was about to join, so much too slowly for his wishes. Raoul found the garden gate open and rode straight in, without regarding the long arms raised in anger of an old man dressed in a jacket of violet-colored wool, and a large cap of faded velvet. The old man, who was weeding with his hands a bed of dwarf roses and margarites, was indignant at seeing a horse thus traversing his sanded and nicely raked walks. He even ventured a vigorous humph, which made the Cavalier turn round. Then there was a change of scene, for no sooner had he caught sight of Raoul's face than the old man sprang up and set off in the direction of the house, amidst interrupted growlings which appeared to be paroxysms of wild delight. When arrived at the stables, Raoul gave his horse to a little lackey, and sprang up the paron with an ardor that would have delighted the heart of his father. He crossed the anti-chamber, the dining-room, and the salon, without meeting with any one. At length, on reaching the door of Monsieur de la Faire's apartment, he rapped impatiently, and entered almost without waiting for the word enter, which was vouchsafed to him by a voice at once sweet and serious. The compt was seated at a table covered with papers and books. He was still the noble, handsome gentleman of former days. The time had given to this nobleness and beauty a more solemn and distinct character. A brow white, and void of wrinkles, beneath his long hair, now more white than black, an eye piercing and mild under the lids of a young man, his mustache, fine but slightly grizzled, waved over lips of a pure and delicate model, as if they had never been curled by mortal passions, a form straight and supple, an irreproachable but thin hand. This was what remained of the illustrious gentleman whom so many illustrious mouths had praised under the name of Athos. He was engaged in correcting the pages of a manuscript book endirely filled by his own hand. Raoul seized his father by the shoulders, by the neck, as he could, and embraced him so tenderly and so rapidly that the content neither strength nor time to disengage himself or to overcome his paternal emotions. What? You hear, Raoul. You? Is it possible?" said he. Oh, Mr.—Mr.—what joy to see you once again! But you don't answer me, Vicomte. Have you leave of absence, or has some misfortune happened at Paris? Thank God, Mr.—replied Raoul, calming himself by degrees. Nothing has happened, but what is fortunate. The king is going to be married, as I had the honor of informing you in my last letter, and on his way to Spain he will pass through Ploix. To pay a visit to Monsieur? Yes, Mr. Le Comte. So, fearing to find him unprepared or wishing to be particularly polite to him, Mr. Le Frans sent me forward to have the lodgings ready. You have seen, Monsieur? asked the Vicomte eagerly. I have had that honor. At the castle? Yes, Monsieur, replied Raoul, casting down his eyes, because, no doubt, he had felt there was something more than curiosity in the Comte's inquiries. Indeed, Vicomte, accept my compliments thereupon. Raoul bowed. But have you seen someone else at Blois? Monsieur, I saw her royal highness, Madame. That's very well, but it is not Madame that I mean. Raoul colored deeply, but made no reply. You do not appear to understand me, Monsieur Le Comte? Persistent, Monsieur de La Faire, without accenting his words more strongly, but with a rather severer look. I understand you quite plainly, Monsieur, replied Raoul, and if I hesitate a little in my reply, you are well assured I am not seeking for a falsehood. No, you cannot tell a lie, and that makes me so astonished you should be so long in saying yes or no. I cannot answer you without understanding you very well, and if I have understood you, you will take my first words in ill part. You will be displeased, no doubt, Monsieur Le Comte, because I have seen— Madame Waselle de la Valière, have you not? It was of her you meant to speak. I know very well, Monsieur, said Raoul with inexpressible sweetness. And I asked you if you have seen her. Monsieur, I was ignorant when I entered the castle that Madame Waselle de la Valière was there. It was only on my return, after I had performed by mission, that chance brought us together. I have had the honour of paying my respects to her. But what do you call the chance that led you into the presence of Madame Waselle de la Valière? Madame Waselle de la Valière, Monsieur. And who is Madame Waselle de la Valière? A young lady I did not know before, whom I had never seen. She is made of honour to Madame. Monsieur Le Comte, I will push my interrogatory no further, and reproach myself with having carried it so far. I had desired you to avoid Madame Waselle de la Valière, and not to see her without my permission. I am quite sure you have told me the truth, and that you took no measures to approach her. Chance has done me this injury. I do not accuse you of it. I will be content then with what I formerly said to you concerning this young lady. I do not reproach her with anything. God is my witness. Only it is not my intention or wish that you should frequent her place of residence. I beg you once more, my dear Raoul, to understand that. It was plain the limpid eyes of Raoul were troubled at this speech. Now, my friend, said the Comte, with his soft smile and his customary tone, let us talk of other matters. You are returning, perhaps, to your duty? No, Monsieur. I have no duty for today, except the pleasure of remaining with you. The Prince kindly appointed me no other, which was so much in accord with my wish. Is the King well? Perfectly. And Monsieur Le Pras also? As usual, Monsieur. The Comte forgot to inquire after Mazarin. That was an old habit. Well, Raoul, since you are entirely mine, I will give up my whole day to you. Embrace me again, again. You are at home, Becomte. Ah, there is our old Grimaud. Come in, Grimaud. Monsieur Le Becomte is desirous of embracing you likewise. The good old man did not require to be told twice. He rushed in with open arms, Raoul meeting him halfway. Now, if you please, we will go into the garden, Raoul. I will show you the new lodging I have prepared for you during your leave of absence, and whilst examining the last winter's plantations and two saddle horses I have just acquired, you will give me all the news of our friends in Paris. The Comte closed his manuscript, took the young man's arm, and went out into the garden with him. Grimaud looked at Raoul with a melancholy air as the young man passed out, observing that his head nearly touched the traverse of the doorway, stroking his white or hal, he slowly murmured, How he has grown. Chapter 5 of the D'Artagnan Romances, Volume 3, Part 1, by Alexander Dumas, translated by William Robson. This lipovox recording is in the public domain, in which something will be said of croppily, of croppily and of a great unknown painter. Whilst the Comte de la Faire with Raoul visits the new buildings he has erected, and the new horses he has bought, with the reader's permission we will lead him back to the city of Blois, and make him a witness of the unaccustomed activity which pervades that city. It was in the hotels that the surprise of the news brought by Raoul was most sensibly felt. In fact, the king and the court at Blois, that is to say, a hundred horsemen, ten carriages, two hundred horses, as many lackeys as masters, where was this crowd to be housed? Where were to be lodged all the gentry of the neighbourhood who would gather in two or three hours after the news had enlarged the circle of its report, like the increasing circumference produced by a stone thrown into a placid lake? Blois, as peaceful in the morning as we have seen, as the calmest lake in the world at the announcement of the royal arrival, was suddenly filled with the tumult and buzzing of a swarm of bees. All the servants of the castle, under the inspection of the officers, were sent into the city in quest of provisions, and ten horsemen were dispatched to the preserves of Chambord to seek for game, to the fisheries of Bouviant for fish, and to the gardens of Chavrigny for fruits and flowers. Precious tapestries and lusters with great gilt chains were drawn from the cupboards. An army of the poor were engaged in sweeping the courts and washing the stone fronts, whilst their wives went and drove to the meadows beyond the Loire to gather green boughs and field-flowers. The whole city, not to be behind in this luxury of cleanliness, assumed its best toilet with the help of brushes, brooms, and water. The kennels of the upper town, swollen by these continued lotions, became rivers at the bottom of the city and the pavement, generally very muddy, it must be allowed, took a clean face, and absolutely shown in the friendly rays of the sun. Next, the music was to be provided, drawers were emptied, the shopkeepers did a glorious trade in wax, ribbons and sword-nuts, housekeepers laid in stores of bread, meat, and spices. Already, numbers of the citizens whose houses were furnished as if for a siege, having nothing more to do, donned their festive clothes and directed their course toward the city gates, in order to be the first to signal or see the courtage. They knew very well that the king would not arrive before night, perhaps not before the next morning. Yet, what is expectation but a kind of folly? And what is that folly but an excess of hope? In the lower city, at scarcely a hundred paces from the castle of the States, between the mall and the castle, in a sufficiently handsome street then called Rue Valle, and which must in fact have been very old, stood a venerable edifice with pointed gables of squat but large dimensions, ornamented with three windows looking into the street on the first floor, with two in the second and with a little oya deburf in the third. On the sides of this triangle had recently been constructed a parallelogram of considerable size, which encroached upon the street remorselessly, according to the familiar uses of the building of that period. The street was narrowed by a quarter by it, but then the house was enlarged by a half, and was not that a sufficient compensation. Tradition said that this house with the pointed gables was inhabited in the time of Henry III by a counselor of state whom Queen Catherine came, some say, to visit and others to strangle. However, that may be the good lady must have stepped with a circumspect foot over the threshold of this building. After the counselor had died, whether by strangulation or naturally as of no consequence, the house had been sold, then abandoned, and lastly isolated from the other houses of the street. Toward the middle of the reign of Louis XIII, only, an Italian named Croppoli escaped from the kitchens of the Marquis Donca came and took possession of this house. There he established a little hostelry in which was fabricated a macaroni so delicious that people came from miles round to fetch it or eat it. So famous had the house become for it that when Mary de Medici was a prisoner, as we know in the castle of Blois, she once sent for some. It was precisely on the day she had escaped by the famous window. The dish of macaroni was left upon the table only just tasted by the royal mouth. This double favour of a strangulation and a macaroni conferred upon the triangular house gave poor Croppoli a fancy to grace's hostelry with a pompous title, but his quality of an Italian was no recommendation in these times, and his small well-concealed fortune forbade attracting too much attention. When he found himself about to die, which happened in 1643 just after the death of Louis XIII, he called to him his son, a young cook of great promise, and with tears in his eyes, he recommended him to preserve carefully the secret of the macaroni to Frenchify his name, and at length, when the political horizon should be cleared from the clouds which obscured it, this was practice then, as in our day, to order of the nearest smith a handsome sign upon which a famous painter whom he named should design two queens' portraits with these words as legend, to the Medici. The worthy Croppoli, after these recommendations, had only sufficient time to point out to his young successor a chimney, under the slab of which he had hidden a thousand ten franc pieces, and then expired. Croppoli, the younger, like a man of good heart, supported the loss with resignation and the gain without insolence. He began by accustoming the public to sound the final eye of his name so little that, by the aid of general complacence, he was soon called nothing but Monsieur Croppoli, which is quite a French name. He then married, having had in his eye a little French girl from whose parents he exhorted a reasonable dowry by showing them what there was beneath the slab of the chimney. These two points accomplished. He went in search of the painter who was to paint the sign, and he was soon found. He was an old Italian, a rival of the Raphaels and the Caracci, but an unfortunate rival. He said he was of the Venetian school, doubtless from his fondness for colour, his works, of which he had never sold one, attracted the eye at a distance of a hundred paces, but they so formidably displeased the citizens that he had finished by painting no more. He boasted of having painted a bathroom for madame la Maréchal d'Ancre, and mourned over this chamber having been burnt at the time of the Maréchal's disaster. Croppoli, in his character of a compatriot, was indulgent towards Petrino, which was the name of the artist. Perhaps he had seen the famous pictures of the bathroom. Be this as it may. He held in such esteem, we may say in such friendship, the famous Petrino that he took him in his own house. Petrino, grateful and fed with macaroni, set about propagating the reputation of this national dish, and from the time of its founder he had rendered, with his indefatigable tongue, signal services to the house of Croppoli. As he grew old he attached himself to the son as he had done to the father, and by degrees became a kind of overlooker of a house in which his remarkable integrity, his acknowledged sobriety, and a thousand other virtues useless to enumerate, gave him an eternal place by the fireside, with a rite of inspection over the domestics. Besides this, it was he who tasted the macaroni, to maintain the pure flavor of the ancient tradition, and it must be allowed that he never permitted a grain of pepper too much, or an atom of Parmesan too little. His joy was at its height on that day, when called upon to share the secret of Croppoli the Younger, and to paint the famous sign. He was seen at once rummaging with ardor in an old box, in which he found some brushes, a little gnawed by the rats, but still passable, some colors and bladders almost dried up, some linseed oil in a bottle, and a palette which had formerly belonged to Bronzino, that due de la pouture as the ultra-montain artist in his ever-young enthusiasm always called him. Petrino was puffed up with all the joy of a rehabilitation. He did as Raphael had done, he changed his style, and painted in the fashion of the Albanian, two goddesses rather than two queens. These illustrious ladies appeared so lovely on the sign, they presented to the astonished eyes such an assemblage of lilies and roses, the enchanting result of the change of style in Petrino. They assumed at the poses of sirens so anachronically, that the principal Eschevan, when admitted to view this capital piece in the Salla of Croppoli, and once declared that these ladies were too handsome, of too animated a beauty to figure as a sign in the eyes of passers-by. To Petrino he added, His royal Highless Monsieur, who often comes into our city, will not be much pleased to see his illustrious mother so slightly clothed, and he will send you to the obliets of the state, for remember the heart of that glorious prince is not always tender. You must efface either the two sirens, or the legend, without which I forbid the exhibition of the sign. I say this for your sake, Master Croppoli, as well as for your senior Petrino. What answer could be made to this? It was necessary to thank the Eschevan for his kindness, which Croppoli did, but Petrino remained downcast, and said he felt assured of what was about to happen. The visitor was scarcely gone when Croppoli, crossing his arms, said, Well, Master, what is to be done? We must efface the legend, said Petrino in a melancholy tone. I have some excellent ivory black. It will be done in a moment, and we will replace the Medici by the nymphs or the sirens, whichever you prefer. No, said Croppoli, the will of my father must be carried out. My father considered, he considered the figures of the most importance, said Petrino. He thought most of the legend, said Croppoli, the proof of the importance in which he held the figures, said Petrino, is that he desired they should be likenesses, and they are so. Yes, but if they had not been so, who would have recognized them without that legend? At the present day even, when the memory of the blazoa begins to be faint with regard to these two celebrated persons, who would recognize Catherine and Mary without the words to the Medici. But the figures, said Petrino in despair, for he felt that young Croppoli was right. I should not like to lose the fruit of my labor, and I should not wish you to be thrown into prison and myself into the oobliette. Let us face Medici, said Petrino supplicatingly. No, replied Croppoli, firmly. I have got an idea, a sublime idea. Your picture shall appear, and my legend likewise. It does not Medici mean doctor or physician in Italian. Yes, in the plural. Well then, you shall order another sign frame of the smith. You shall paint six physicians and write underneath, al Medici, which makes a very pretty play upon words. Six physicians? Impossible, and the composition, cried Petrino. That is your business, but so it shall be. I insist upon it. It must be so. My macaroni is burning. This reasoning was peremptory, Petrino obeyed. He composed the sign of six physicians with the legend. The Estevan applauded and authorized it. The sign produced an extravagant success in the city which proves that poetry has always been in the wrong before citizens, as Petrino said. Croppoli, to make amends to his painter and ordinary, hung up the nymphs of the preceding sign in his bedroom, which made Madame Croppoli blush every time she looked at it when she was on dressing at night. This is the way in which the pointed Gablehouse got a sign, and this is how the hostelry of the Medici, making a fortune, was found to be enlarged by a quarter as we have described, and this is how there was at Blois a hostelry of that name, and had, for painter and ordinary, Master Petrino. End of Chapter 5 Recording by John Van Stan Savannah, Georgia Chapter 6 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 Unknown Thus founded and recommended by its sign, the hostelry of Master Croppoli held its way steadily on towards a solid prosperity. It was not an immense fortune that Croppoli had in perspective, but he might hope to double the Thousand Louis door left by his father, to make another Thousand Louis by the sale of his house and stock, and at length to live happily like a retired citizen. Croppoli was anxious for gain, and was half crazy with joy at the news of the arrival of Louis XIV. Himself, his wife, Petrino and two cooks, immediately laid hands upon all the inhabitants of the dove-coat, the paltry-yard, and the rabbit-hutches, so that as many lamentations and cries resounded in the yards of the hostelry of the Medici, as were formerly heard in Rama. Croppoli had, at the time, but one single traveller in his house. This was a man of scarcely thirty years of age, handsome, tall, all stale, or rather melancholy in all his gestures and looks. He was dressed in black velvet with jet trimmings, a white collar as plain as that of the severest Puritan. Set off the whiteness of his youthful neck, a small dark-colored mustache scarcely covered his curled, disdainful lip. He spoke to people looking them full in the face without affectation—it is true, but without scruple—so that the brilliancy of his black eyes became so insupportable that more than one look had sunk beneath his, like the weaker sword in a single combat. At this time, in which men, all created equal by God, were divided, thanks to prejudices and to two distinct casts, the gentleman and the commoner, as they are really divided into two races, the black and the white, at this time we say, he whose portrait we have just sketched could not fail of being taken for a gentleman and of the best class. To ascertain this, there was no necessity to consult anything but his hands, long, slender, and white, of which every muscle, every vein, became apparent through the skin at the least movement and eloquently spoke of good descent. This gentleman then had arrived alone at Croppala's house. He had taken without hesitation, without reflection even, the principal apartment which the hotelier had pointed out to him with a rapacious aim, very praiseworthy. Some will say very reprehensible, others say, if they admit that Croppala was a physiognomist and judged people at first sight. This apartment was that which composed the whole front of the ancient triangular house, a large salon, lighted by two windows on the first stage, a small chamber by the side of it and another above it. Now, from the time he had arrived, this gentleman had scarcely touched any repass that had been served up to him in his chamber. He had spoken but two words to the host, to warn him that a traveller of the name of Perry would arrive, and to desire that, when he did, he should be shown up to him immediately. He afterwards preserved so profound a silence that Croppala was almost offended so much that he preferred people who were good company. This gentleman had risen early the morning of the day on which this history begins, and had placed himself at the window of his salon, seated upon the ledge and leaning upon the rail of the balcony, gazing sadly but persistently on both sides of the street, watching no doubt for the arrival of the traveller he had mentioned to the host. In this way he had seen the little courtage of Monsieur returning from hunting, then had again partaken of the profound tranquillity of the street, absorbed in his own expectations. All at once, the movement of the crowd going to the meadows, couriers setting out, washers of pavement, purveyors of the royal household, gambling, scampering, shop boys, chariots in motion, hairdressers on the run, and pages toiling along. This tumult and bustle had surprised him, but without losing any of that impassable and supreme majesty which gives to the eagle and the lion that serene and contemptuous glance amidst the hurrahs and shouts of hunters or the curious. Soon the cries of the victims slaughtered in the paltry-yard, the hasty steps of Madame Croppala up that little wooden staircase so narrow and so echoing, the bounding pace of Petrino, who only that morning was smoking at the door with all the phlegm of a Dutchman, all this communicated something like surprise and agitation to the traveller. As he was rising to make inquiries, the door of his chamber opened. The unknown concluded they were about to introduce the impatiently expected traveller, and made three precipitous steps to meet him. But instead of the person he expected, it was Master Croppala who appeared, and behind him, in the half-dark staircase, the pleasant face of Madame Croppala, rendered trivial by curiosity. She only gave one furtive glance at the handsome gentleman and disappeared. Croppala advanced cap in hand, rather bent than bowing. A gesture of the unknown interrogated him without a word being pronounced. Monsieur, said Croppala, I come to ask how, what I ought to say, your lordship, Monsieur Lecombe, or Monsieur Le Marquis, say Monsieur and speak quickly, replied the unknown with that haughty accent which admits of neither discussion nor reply. I came, then, to inquire how Monsieur had passed the night, and if Monsieur intended to keep this apartment. Yes. Monsieur, something has happened upon which we could not reckon. What? His Majesty Louis XIV will enter our city today, and will remain here one day, perhaps two. Great astonishment was painted on the countenance of the unknown. The King of France, coming to Blois. He is on the road, Monsieur. Then there is the stronger reason for my remaining, said the unknown. Very well, but will Monsieur keep all of the apartments? I do not understand you. Why should I require less today than yesterday? Because, Monsieur, your lordship will permit me to say, yesterday I did not think proper when you chose your lodging to fix any price that might have made your lordship believe that I prejudged your resources, whilst today, the unknown colored, the idea at once struck him that he was supposed to be poor and was being insulted. Whilst today, replied he coldly, you do prejudge. Monsieur, I am a well-meaning man, thank God! And simple hotelier as I am, there is in me the blood of a gentleman. My father was a servant and officer of the late Maréchal Donker. God rest his soul. I do not contest that point with you. I only wish to know, and that quickly, to what your questions tend. You are too reasonable, Monsieur, not to comprehend that our city is small, that the court is about to invade it, that the houses will be overflowing with inhabitants and that lodgings will consequently obtain considerable prices. Again the unknown colored. Name your terms, said he. I named them with scruple, Monsieur, because I seek an honest gain, and that I wish to carry on my business without being uncivil or extravagant in my demands. Now the room you occupy is considerable, and you are alone. That is my business. Oh, certainly, I do not mean to turn, Monsieur, out. The blood rushed to the temples of the unknown. He darted at poor Acropolis, the descendant of one of the officers of the Maréchal Donker, a glance that would have crushed him down to beneath that famous chimney slab if Acropolis had not been nailed to the spot by the question of his own proper interests. Do you desire me to go? said he. Explain yourself, but quickly. Monsieur, Monsieur, you do not understand me. It is very critical. I know that which I am doing, I express myself badly, or perhaps, as Monsieur is a foreigner which I perceive by his accent. In fact, the unknown spoke with that impetuosity which is the principal character of English accentuation, even among men who speak the French language with the neatest purity. As Monsieur is a foreigner, I say, it is perhaps he who does not catch my exact meaning. I wish for Monsieur to give up one or two of the apartments he occupies, which would diminish his expenses and ease my conscience. Indeed, it is hard to increase unreasonably the price of the chambers when one has had the honour to let them at a reasonable price. How much does the higher amount to since yesterday? Monsieur to one Louis, with refreshments and the charge for the horse? Very well, and that of today. Ah, there is the difficulty. This is the day of the king's arrival. If the court comes to sleep here, the charge of the day is reckoned. From that it results that three chambers at two Louis each make six Louis. Two Louis, Monsieur, are not much, but six Louis make a great deal. The unknown, from red as we have seen him, became very pale. He drew from his pocket with heroic bravery, a purse embroidered with a coat of arms, which he carefully concealed in the hollow of his hand. This purse was of a thinness, a flabbiness, a hollowness, which did not escape the eye of Croppala. The unknown emptied the purse into his hand. It contained three double Louis, which amounted to the six Louis demanded by the host. But it was seven that Croppala had required. He looked therefore at the unknown as much as to say, and then There remains one Louis. Does there not, Master Hotelier? Yes, Monsieur, but the unknown plunged his hand into the pocket of his haute-de-chaus and emptied it. It contained a small pocketbook, a gold key, and some silver. With this change he made up a Louis. Thank you, Monsieur, said Croppala. It now only remains for me to ask whether Monsieur intends to occupy his apartments tomorrow, in which case I will reserve them for him, whereas if Monsieur does not mean to do so, I will promise them to some of the king's people who are coming. That is but right, said the unknown after a long silence. But as I have no more money as you have seen, and as I yet must retain the apartments, you must either sell this diamond in the city or hold it in pledge. Croppala looked at the diamond so long that the unknown said hastily, I prefer you're selling it, Monsieur, for it is worth three hundred pistolets. A Jew, are there any Jews in Blois, would give you two hundred or a hundred and fifty for it? Take whatever may be offered for it. If it be no more than the price of your lodging, be gone. Oh, Monsieur, replied Croppala, ashamed of the sudden inferiority which the unknown reflected upon him by this noble and disinterested confidence, as well as by the unalterable patience supposed to so many suspicions and evasions. Oh, Monsieur, I hope people are not so dishonest at Blois, you may seem to think, in that the diamond being worth what you say, the unknown here again darted at Croppala one of his withering glances. I really do not understand diamonds, Monsieur, I assure you, cried he. But the jewelers do ask them, said the unknown. Now, I believe our council settled. Are they not, Monsieur Lord? Yes, Monsieur, to my profound regret for I fear I have offended, Monsieur. Not at all, replied the unknown with ineffable majesty. Or have appeared to be exortionate with a noble traveller, consider, Monsieur, the peculiarity of the case. Say no more about it, I desire, and leave me to myself. Croppala bowed profoundly and left the room with a stupefied air which announced that he had a good heart and felt genuine remorse. The unknown himself shut the door after him and, when left alone, looked mournfully at the bottom of the purse, from which he had taken a small silken bag containing the diamond, his last resource. He dwelt likewise upon the emptiness of his pockets, turned over the papers in his pocketbook and convinced himself of the state of absolute destitution in which he was about to be plunged. He raised his eyes toward heaven, with a sublime emotion of despairing calmness, brushed off with his hands some drops of sweat with trickled over his noble brow, and then cast down upon the earth a look which just before had been impressed with almost divine majesty. That the storm had passed far from him, perhaps he had prayed in the bottom of his soul. He drew near to the window, resumed his place in the balcony, and remained there, motionless, annihilated, dead, till the moment when the heavens beginning to darken, the first flambeau traversed the enlivened street, and gave the signal for illumination to all the windows of the city. Chapter 7 of the D'Artagnan Romances Volume 3 Part 1 by Alexander Dumas translated by William Robson. This sleeper-box recording is in the public domain. Perry Whilst the unknown was viewing these lights with interest, and lending an ear to the various noises, Master Croppler entered his apartment, followed by two attendants who laid the cloth for his meal. The stranger did not pay them the least attention, but Croppler approaching him respectfully whispered, Mr. the diamond has been valued. Ah! said the traveller. Well? Well, Mr. the jeweler of S.A.R. gives two hundred and eighty pistoles for it. Have you them? I thought it best to take them, monsieur. Nevertheless, I made it a condition of the bargain that if monsieur wished to keep his diamond it should be held till monsieur was again in funds. Oh, no! Not at all! I told you to sell it. Then I have obeyed, or nearly so, since without having definitely sold it I have touched the money. Pay yourself, added the unknown. I will do so, monsieur, since you so positively require it. A sad smile passed over the lips of the gentleman. Place the money on that trunk. Said he, turning round and pointing to the piece of furniture, Croppler deposited a tolerably large bag as directed after having taken from it the amount of his reckoning. Now, said he, I hope monsieur will not give me the pain of not taking any supper. Dinner has already been refused. This is affronting to the house of Le Medici. Look, monsieur, this supper is on the table, and I venture to say that it is not a bad one. The unknown asked for a glass of wine, broke off a morsel of bread, and did not stir from the window whilst he ate and drank. Shortly after was heard a loud flourish of trumpets, cries arose in the distance, a confused buzzing filled the lower part of the city, and the first distinct sound that struck the ears of the stranger was the tramp of advancing horses. The king! The king! repeated a noisy and eager crowd. The king! cried Croppler, abandoning his guests and his ideas of delicacy to satisfy his curiosity. With Croppler were mingled and jostled on the staircase, Madame Croppler, Petrino, and the waiters and scullions. The cortege advanced slowly, lighted by a thousand flambeaux in the streets and from the windows. After a company of musketeers, a closely ranked troop of gentlemen came the litter of Monsieur Le Cardinal, drawn like a carriage by four black horses. The pages and people of the Cardinal marched behind. Next came the carriage of the queen mother with her maids of honour at the doors, her gentlemen on horseback at both sides. The king then appeared, mounted upon a splendid horse of Saxon breed with a flowing mane. The young prince exhibited, when bowing to some windows from which issued the most animated acclamations, a noble and handsome countenance, illumined by the flambeaux of his pages. By the side of the king, though a little in rear, the prince de Conte, Monsieur Dango, and twenty other courtiers followed by their people and their baggage, closed this veritably triumphant march. The pomp was of a military character. Some of the courtiers, the elder ones, for instance, wore travelling dresses, but all the rest were clothed in warlike panoply. Many wore the gorges in buff coat of the times of Henry IV and Louis XIII. When the king passed before him, the unknown, who had lent forward over the balcony to obtain a better view, and who had concealed his face by leaning on his arm, felt his heart swell and overflow with a bitter jealousy. The noise of the trumpets excited him. The popular acclamations deafened him. For a moment he allowed his reason to be absorbed in his flood of lights, tumult and brilliant images. He is a king, murmured he in an accent of despair. Then, before he had recovered from his sombre reverie, all the noise, all the splendour had passed away. At the angle of the street there remained nothing beneath the stranger but a few hoarse, discordant voices shouting at intervals, Viva la Roa! They remained likewise the six candles held by the inhabitants of the hostelry de Medici. That is to say two for Croppala, two for Petrino, and one for each Scullion. Croppala never ceased repeating, How good-looking the king is! How strongly he resembles his illustrious father! A handsome likeness! said Petrino. And what a lofty carriage he has! added Madame Croppala, already in promiscuous commentary with her neighbours of both sexes. Croppala was feeding their gossip with his own personal remarks, without observing that an old man on foot, believing a small Irish horse by the bridle was endeavouring to penetrate the crowd of men and women which blocked up the entrance to the Medici. But at that moment the voice of the stranger was heard from the window. Make way, Michelotelier, to the entrance of your house! Croppala turned around and on seeing the old man, cleared a passage for him. The window was instantly closed. Petrino pointed out the way to the newly arrived guest who entered without uttering a word. The stranger waited for him on the landing. He opened his arms to the old man and led him to a seat. Oh, no, no, my lord! said he. Sit down in your presence! Never! Parry cried the gentleman. I beg you will. You come from England. You come so far. Ah, it is not for your age to undergo the fatigues my service requires. Rest yourself. I have my reply to give your lordship in the first place. Parry, I conjure you to tell me nothing, for if your news had been good you would not have begun in such a manner. You go about, which proves that the news is bad. My lord, said the old man, do not hasten to alarm yourself. All is not lost, I hope. You must employ energy, but more particularly resignation. Parry, said the young man, I have reached this place to a thousand snares, and after a thousand difficulties, can you doubt my energy? I have meditated this journey ten years, in spite of all councils and all obstacles. Have you faith in my perseverance? I have this evening sold the last of my father's diamonds, for I had nothing wherewith to pay for my lodging, and my host was about to turn me out. Parry made a gesture of indignation, to which the young man replied by a pressure of the hand and a smile. I have still two hundred and seventy-four pistoles left, and I feel myself rich. I do not despair, Parry. Have you faith in my resignation? The old man raised his trembling hands toward heaven. Let me know, said the stranger. Disguise nothing from me. What has happened? My recital will be short, my lord, but in the name of heaven do not tremble so. It is impatient, Parry. Come, what did the general say to you? At first the general would not receive me. He took you for a spy? Yes, my lord, but I wrote him a letter. Well? He read it, and received me, my lord. Did that letter thoroughly explain my position and my views? Oh, yes, said Parry with a sad smile. It painted your very thoughts faithfully. Well, then, Parry, then the general sent me back the letter by an aid to come, informing me that if I were found the next day within the circumscription of his command, he would have me arrested. Arrested? murmured the young man. What? Arrest you, my most faithful servant? Yes, my lord. Yes, my lord. And, notwithstanding, you had signed the name Parry. To all my letters, my lord, and the aid the camp had known me at St. James's and at Whitehall, too, added the old man with a sigh. The young man leaned forward, thoughtful and sad. I—that's what he did before his people, said he, endeavouring to cheat himself with hopes. But, privately, between you and him, what did he do? Answer! Alas, my lord, he sent me to four cavaliers who gave me the horse with which you just now saw me come back. These cavaliers conducted me in great haste, to the little port of Tenby, threw me rather than embarked me, into a fishing-boat about to sail for Brittany, and here I am. Oh! sighed the young man, clasping his neck convulsively with his hand and with a sob. Parry, is that all? Is that all? Yes, my lord. That is all. After this brief reply in suit of long interval of silence, broken only by the convulsive beating of the heel of the young man on the floor, the old man endeavored to change the conversation. It was leading to thoughts much too sinister. My lord, said he, what is the meaning of all the noise which preceded me? What are all these people crying, viv la roire, for? What king do they mean, and what are all these lights for? Ah, Parry, replied the young man ironically, don't you know that this is the king of France, visiting his good city of Bois? All those trumpets are his. All those gilded housing are his. All those gentlemen wear swords that are his. His mother precedes him in a carriage magnificently encrusted with silver and gold. Happy mother! His minister heaps up millions, and conducts him to a rich bride. Then all these people rejoice. They love their king. They hail him with their acclamations, and they cry, viv la roire, viv la roire. Well, well, my lord, said Parry, more uneasy at the turn the conversation had taken than at the other. You know, resumed the unknown, that my mother and my sister, whilst all this is going on in honour of the king of France, have neither money nor bread. Do you know that I, myself, shall be poor and degraded within a fortnight? When all Europe will become acquainted with what you have told me, Parry, are there not examples in which a man of my condition should himself my lord in the name of heaven? You are right, Parry. I am a coward, and if I do nothing for myself, what will God do? No. No. I have two arms, Parry, and I have a sword. And he struck his arm violently with his hand, and took down his sword, which hung against the wall. What are you going to do, my lord? What am I going to do, Parry? What every one in my family does. My mother lives on public charity. My sister begs for my mother. I have somewhere or other brothers who equally beg for themselves, and I, the eldest, will go and do as all the rest do. I will go and ask charity. At these words, which he finished sharply with a nervous and terrible laugh, the young man girded on his sword, took his hat from the trunk, fastened to his shoulder a black cloak, which he had worn during all his journey, and pressing the two hands of the old man who watched his proceedings for the look of anxiety. My good Parry, said he, order of fire, drink, eat, sleep, and be happy. Let us both be happy, my faithful friend, my only friend. We are rich, as rich as kings! He struck the bag of pistoles with his clenched hand as he spoke, and it fell heavily to the ground. He resumed that dismal laugh that had so alarmed Parry, and whilst the whole household was screaming, singing, and preparing to install the travellers who had been preceded by their lackeys, he glided out by the principal entrance into the street, where the old man, who had gone to the window, lost sight of him in a moment. End of Chapter 7 Recording by John Van Stan Savannah, Georgia