This is a modern-English version of The Man in the Iron Mask, originally written by Dumas, Alexandre.
It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling,
and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If
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The Man in the Iron Mask
by Alexandre Dumas, Père
| ORDER | TITLE | DATES | VOLUME | CHAPTERS | |
| 1 | 1257 | 1625–1628 | 1 | ||
| 2 | 1259 | 1648–1649 | 2 | ||
| 3 | 2609 | 1660 | 3 | 1–75 | |
| 4 | 2681 | 1660–1661 | 3 | 76–140 | |
| 5 | 2710 | 1661 | 3 | 141–208 | |
| 6 | The Man in the Iron Mask | 2759 | 1661–1673 | 3 | 209–269 |
| TITLE | DATES | VOLUME | CHAPTERS |
| 1258 | 1660–1661 | 3 | 1–104 |
Contents
Transcriber’s Notes:
***The Vicomte de Bragelonne is the final volume of D’Artagnan Romances: it is usually split into three or four parts, and the final portion is entitled The Man in the Iron Mask. The Man in the Iron Mask we’re familiar with today is the last volume of the four-volume edition. [Not all the editions split them in the same manner, hence some of the confusion...but wait...there’s yet more reason for confusion.]
The Vicomte de Bragelonne is the last book in the D’Artagnan Romances series: it’s typically divided into three or four parts, with the final section titled The Man in the Iron Mask. The version of The Man in the Iron Mask that we know today is the last volume of the four-volume edition. [Not all editions divide them the same way, which explains some of the confusion...but wait...there’s even more reason for confusion.]
We intend to do ALL of The Vicomte de Bragelonne, split into four etexts entitled The Vicomte de Bragelonne, Ten Years Later, Louise de la Valliere, and The Man in the Iron Mask.
We plan to do ALL of The Vicomte de Bragelonne, divided into four e-texts called The Vicomte de Bragelonne, Ten Years Later, Louise de la Valliere, and The Man in the Iron Mask.
One thing that may be causing confusion is that the etext we have now, entitled Ten Years Later, says it’s the sequel to The Three Musketeers. While this is technically true, there’s another book, Twenty Years After, that comes between. The confusion is generated by the two facts that we published Ten Years Later BEFORE we published Twenty Years After, and that many people see those titles as meaning Ten and Twenty Years “After” the original story...however, this is why the different words “After” and “Later”...the Ten Years “After” is ten years after the Twenty Years later...as per history. Also, the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances, while entitled The Vicomte de Bragelonne, has the subtitle Ten Years Later. These two titles are also given to different volumes: The Vicomte de Bragelonne can refer to the whole book, or the first volume of the three or four-volume editions. Ten Years Later can, similarly, refer to the whole book, or the second volume of the four-volume edition. To add to the confusion, in the case of our etexts, it refers to the first 104 chapters of the whole book, covering material in the first and second etexts in the new series. Here is a guide to the series which may prove helpful:
One thing that might be causing confusion is that the e-text we have now, titled Ten Years Later, claims to be the sequel to The Three Musketeers. While that's technically correct, there's another book, Twenty Years After, that comes in between. The confusion arises from the fact that we published Ten Years Later BEFORE we published Twenty Years After, and many people interpret those titles as meaning Ten and Twenty Years “After” the original story. However, this is why the different words “After” and “Later” are used... the Ten Years “After” refers to ten years after the Twenty Years later... according to the timeline. Additionally, the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances, while called The Vicomte de Bragelonne, has the subtitle Ten Years Later. These two titles also correspond to different volumes: The Vicomte de Bragelonne can refer to the entire book or the first volume of the three or four-volume editions. Similarly, Ten Years Later can refer to the whole book or the second volume of the four-volume edition. To complicate things further, in the case of our e-texts, it refers to the first 104 chapters of the whole book, covering content in the first and second e-texts in the new series. Here is a guide to the series that might be helpful:
The Three Musketeers: Etext 1257—First book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1625-1628.
The Three Musketeers: Etext 1257—First book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1625-1628.
Twenty Years After: Etext 1259—Second book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1648-1649. [Third in the order that we published, but second in time sequence!!!]
Twenty Years After: Etext 1259—Second book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1648-1649. [Third in the order that we published, but second in time sequence!!!]
Ten Years Later: Etext 1258—First 104 chapters of the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1660-1661.
Ten Years Later: Etext 1258—First 104 chapters of the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1660-1661.
The Vicomte de Bragelonne: Etext 2609 (first in the new series)—First 75 chapters of the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the year 1660.
The Vicomte de Bragelonne: Etext 2609 (first in the new series)—First 75 chapters of the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the year 1660.
Ten Years Later: Etext 2681 (second in the new series)—Chapters 76-140 of that third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1660-1661. [In this particular editing of it]
Ten Years Later: Etext 2681 (second in the new series)—Chapters 76-140 of that third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1660-1661. [In this particular editing of it]
Louise de la Valliere: Etext 2710 (third in the new series)—Chapters 141-208 of the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the year 1661.
Louise de la Valliere: Etext 2710 (third in the new series)—Chapters 141-208 of the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the year 1661.
The Man in the Iron Mask: Etext 2759 (our next text)—Chapters 209-269 of the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1661-1673.
The Man in the Iron Mask: Etext 2759 (our next text)—Chapters 209-269 of the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1661-1673.
Many thanks to Dr. David Coward, whose editions of the D’Artagnan Romances have proved an invaluable source of information.
Many thanks to Dr. David Coward, whose editions of the D’Artagnan Romances have been an invaluable source of information.
Introduction:
In the months of March-July in 1844, in the magazine Le Siecle, the first portion of a story appeared, penned by the celebrated playwright Alexandre Dumas. It was based, he claimed, on some manuscripts he had found a year earlier in the Bibliotheque Nationale while researching a history he planned to write on Louis XIV. They chronicled the adventures of a young man named D’Artagnan who, upon entering Paris, became almost immediately embroiled in court intrigues, international politics, and ill-fated affairs between royal lovers. Over the next six years, readers would enjoy the adventures of this youth and his three famous friends, Porthos, Athos, and Aramis, as their exploits unraveled behind the scenes of some of the most momentous events in French and even English history.
In the months of March to July in 1844, the magazine Le Siècle published the first part of a story written by the famous playwright Alexandre Dumas. He claimed it was based on some manuscripts he had discovered a year earlier at the Bibliothèque Nationale while researching a history he intended to write about Louis XIV. They detailed the adventures of a young man named D’Artagnan who, upon arriving in Paris, quickly got caught up in court intrigues, international politics, and complicated relationships between royal lovers. Over the next six years, readers would enjoy the adventures of this young man and his three well-known friends, Porthos, Athos, and Aramis, as their exploits unfolded amid some of the most significant events in French and even English history.
Eventually these serialized adventures were published in novel form, and became the three D’Artagnan Romances known today. Here is a brief summary of the first two novels:
Eventually, these serialized adventures were published as novels and became the three D’Artagnan Romances known today. Here is a brief summary of the first two novels:
The Three Musketeers (serialized March—July, 1844): The year is 1625. The young D’Artagnan arrives in Paris at the tender age of 18, and almost immediately offends three musketeers, Porthos, Aramis, and Athos. Instead of dueling, the four are attacked by five of the Cardinal’s guards, and the courage of the youth is made apparent during the battle. The four become fast friends, and, when asked by D’Artagnan’s landlord to find his missing wife, embark upon an adventure that takes them across both France and England in order to thwart the plans of the Cardinal Richelieu. Along the way, they encounter a beautiful young spy, named simply Milady, who will stop at nothing to disgrace Queen Anne of Austria before her husband, Louis XIII, and take her revenge upon the four friends.
The Three Musketeers (serialized March—July, 1844): The year is 1625. The young D’Artagnan arrives in Paris at just 18 years old and quickly ends up offending three musketeers, Porthos, Aramis, and Athos. Instead of dueling, the four of them are attacked by five of the Cardinal’s guards, revealing the youth's bravery during the fight. They become close friends, and when D’Artagnan’s landlord asks them to help find his missing wife, they set out on an adventure that takes them across France and England to foil Cardinal Richelieu’s schemes. Along the way, they meet a beautiful young spy, known simply as Milady, who will do anything to disgrace Queen Anne of Austria in front of her husband, Louis XIII, and get her revenge on the four friends.
Twenty Years After (serialized January—August, 1845): The year is now 1648, twenty years since the close of the last story. Louis XIII has died, as has Cardinal Richelieu, and while the crown of France may sit upon the head of Anne of Austria as Regent for the young Louis XIV, the real power resides with the Cardinal Mazarin, her secret husband. D’Artagnan is now a lieutenant of musketeers, and his three friends have retired to private life. Athos turned out to be a nobleman, the Comte de la Fere, and has retired to his home with his son, Raoul de Bragelonne. Aramis, whose real name is D’Herblay, has followed his intention of shedding the musketeer’s cassock for the priest’s robes, and Porthos has married a wealthy woman, who left him her fortune upon her death. But trouble is stirring in both France and England. Cromwell menaces the institution of royalty itself while marching against Charles I, and at home the Fronde is threatening to tear France apart. D’Artagnan brings his friends out of retirement to save the threatened English monarch, but Mordaunt, the son of Milady, who seeks to avenge his mother’s death at the musketeers’ hands, thwarts their valiant efforts. Undaunted, our heroes return to France just in time to help save the young Louis XIV, quiet the Fronde, and tweak the nose of Cardinal Mazarin.
Twenty Years After (serialized January—August, 1845): The year is now 1648, twenty years since the last story ended. Louis XIII has passed away, as has Cardinal Richelieu, and while the crown of France is now held by Anne of Austria as the Regent for young Louis XIV, the real power lies with Cardinal Mazarin, her secret husband. D’Artagnan is now a lieutenant of musketeers, and his three friends have stepped back into private life. Athos has revealed himself to be a nobleman, the Comte de la Fere, and has retired to his estate with his son, Raoul de Bragelonne. Aramis, whose real name is D’Herblay, has pursued his goal of exchanging the musketeer’s uniform for the priest’s vestments, while Porthos has married a wealthy woman, who left him her fortune upon her death. But trouble is brewing in both France and England. Cromwell threatens the very institution of royalty as he marches against Charles I, and at home, the Fronde is close to ripping France apart. D’Artagnan rallies his friends back from retirement to rescue the endangered English monarch, but Mordaunt, the son of Milady, who aims to avenge his mother’s death at the hands of the musketeers, frustrates their brave efforts. Undeterred, our heroes return to France just in time to help save young Louis XIV, quell the Fronde, and give Cardinal Mazarin a run for his money.
The third novel, The Vicomte de Bragelonne (serialized October, 1847—January, 1850), has enjoyed a strange history in its English translation. It has been split into three, four, or five volumes at various points in its history. The five-volume edition generally does not give titles to the smaller portions, but the others do. In the three-volume edition, the novels are entitled The Vicomte de Bragelonne, Louise de la Valliere, and The Man in the Iron Mask. For the purposes of this etext, I have chosen to split the novel as the four-volume edition does, with these titles: The Vicomte de Bragelonne, Ten Years Later, Louise de la Valliere, and The Man in the Iron Mask. In the first three etexts:
The third novel, The Vicomte de Bragelonne (serialized October, 1847—January, 1850), has a complicated history in its English translation. It has been divided into three, four, or five volumes at different times. The five-volume edition usually doesn’t assign titles to the smaller parts, but the other editions do. In the three-volume edition, the novels are titled The Vicomte de Bragelonne, Louise de la Valliere, and The Man in the Iron Mask. For this etext, I’ve decided to divide the novel like the four-volume edition, with these titles: The Vicomte de Bragelonne, Ten Years Later, Louise de la Valliere, and The Man in the Iron Mask. In the first three etexts:
The Vicomte de Bragelonne (Etext 2609): It is the year 1660, and D’Artagnan, after thirty-five years of loyal service, has become disgusted with serving King Louis XIV while the real power resides with the Cardinal Mazarin, and has tendered his resignation. He embarks on his own project, that of restoring Charles II to the throne of England, and, with the help of Athos, succeeds, earning himself quite a fortune in the process. D’Artagnan returns to Paris to live the life of a rich citizen, and Athos, after negotiating the marriage of Philip, the king’s brother, to Princess Henrietta of England, likewise retires to his own estate, La Fere. Meanwhile, Mazarin has finally died, and left Louis to assume the reigns of power, with the assistance of M. Colbert, formerly Mazarin’s trusted clerk. Colbert has an intense hatred for M. Fouquet, the king’s superintendent of finances, and has resolved to use any means necessary to bring about his fall. With the new rank of intendant bestowed on him by Louis, Colbert succeeds in having two of Fouquet’s loyal friends tried and executed. He then brings to the king’s attention that Fouquet is fortifying the island of Belle-Ile-en-Mer, and could possibly be planning to use it as a base for some military operation against the king. Louis calls D’Artagnan out of retirement and sends him to investigate the island, promising him a tremendous salary and his long-promised promotion to captain of the musketeers upon his return. At Belle-Isle, D’Artagnan discovers that the engineer of the fortifications is, in fact, Porthos, now the Baron du Vallon, and that’s not all. The blueprints for the island, although in Porthos’s handwriting, show evidence of another script that has been erased, that of Aramis. D’Artagnan later discovers that Aramis has become the bishop of Vannes, which is, coincidentally, a parish belonging to M. Fouquet. Suspecting that D’Artagnan has arrived on the king’s behalf to investigate, Aramis tricks D’Artagnan into wandering around Vannes in search of Porthos, and sends Porthos on an heroic ride back to Paris to warn Fouquet of the danger. Fouquet rushes to the king, and gives him Belle-Isle as a present, thus allaying any suspicion, and at the same time humiliating Colbert, just minutes before the usher announces someone else seeking an audience with the king.
The Vicomte de Bragelonne (Etext 2609): It’s 1660, and D’Artagnan, after thirty-five years of loyal service, is fed up with serving King Louis XIV while the real power lies with Cardinal Mazarin, so he resigns. He sets out on his own mission to restore Charles II to the throne of England and, with Athos’s help, succeeds, making himself quite a fortune in the process. D’Artagnan returns to Paris to enjoy life as a wealthy citizen, while Athos, after arranging the marriage of Philip, the king’s brother, to Princess Henrietta of England, also retires to his estate, La Fere. Meanwhile, Mazarin has finally died, leaving Louis to take charge, with help from M. Colbert, who was Mazarin’s trusted clerk. Colbert intensely hates M. Fouquet, the king’s superintendent of finances, and is determined to bring about his downfall. With a new title of intendant given to him by Louis, Colbert manages to have two of Fouquet’s loyal friends tried and executed. He then informs the king that Fouquet is fortifying the island of Belle-Ile-en-Mer, which could potentially be used as a base for some military operation against the king. Louis calls D’Artagnan out of retirement and sends him to check out the island, promising him a huge salary and his long-awaited promotion to captain of the musketeers upon his return. At Belle-Isle, D’Artagnan finds out that the engineer behind the fortifications is actually Porthos, now known as the Baron du Vallon, and that’s not all. The blueprints for the island, while in Porthos’s handwriting, show signs of another script that has been erased, that of Aramis. D’Artagnan later discovers that Aramis has become the bishop of Vannes, which just happens to be a parish belonging to M. Fouquet. Suspecting that D’Artagnan is there on the king’s behalf to investigate, Aramis tricks him into wandering around Vannes looking for Porthos, while sending Porthos on a heroic ride back to Paris to warn Fouquet of the danger. Fouquet hurries to the king and presents him with Belle-Isle as a gift, thereby easing any suspicion and simultaneously humiliating Colbert, just moments before the usher announces someone else seeking an audience with the king.
Ten Years Later (Etext 2681): As 1661 approaches, Princess Henrietta of England arrives for her marriage, and throws the court of France into complete disorder. The jealousy of the Duke of Buckingham, who is in love with her, nearly occasions a war on the streets of Le Havre, thankfully prevented by Raoul’s timely and tactful intervention. After the marriage, though, Monsieur Philip becomes horribly jealous of Buckingham, and has him exiled. Before leaving, however, the duke fights a duel with M. de Wardes at Calais. De Wardes is a malicious and spiteful man, the sworn enemy of D’Artagnan, and, by the same token, that of Athos, Aramis, Porthos, and Raoul as well. Both men are seriously wounded, and the duke is taken back to England to recover. Raoul’s friend, the Comte de Guiche, is the next to succumb to Henrietta’s charms, and Monsieur obtains his exile as well, though De Guiche soon effects a reconciliation. But then the king’s eye falls on Madame Henrietta during the comte’s absence, and this time Monsieur’s jealousy has no recourse. Anne of Austria intervenes, and the king and his sister-in-law decide to pick a young lady with whom the king can pretend to be in love, the better to mask their own affair. They unfortunately select Louise de la Valliere, Raoul’s fiancee. While the court is in residence at Fontainebleau, the king unwitting overhears Louise confessing her love for him while chatting with her friends beneath the royal oak, and the king promptly forgets his affection for Madame. That same night, Henrietta overhears, at the same oak, De Guiche confessing his love for her to Raoul. The two embark on their own affair. A few days later, during a rainstorm, Louis and Louise are trapped alone together, and the whole court begins to talk of the scandal while their love affair blossoms. Aware of Louise’s attachment, the king arranges for Raoul to be sent to England for an indefinite period.
Ten Years Later (Etext 2681): As 1661 approaches, Princess Henrietta of England arrives for her marriage, throwing the court of France into complete chaos. The Duke of Buckingham, who is in love with her, gets so jealous that it almost leads to a street war in Le Havre, which is thankfully stopped by Raoul's quick and clever intervention. After the marriage, Monsieur Philip becomes extremely jealous of Buckingham and has him exiled. Before leaving, the duke has a duel with M. de Wardes in Calais. De Wardes is a nasty and spiteful man, the sworn enemy of D’Artagnan, and by extension, of Athos, Aramis, Porthos, and Raoul as well. Both men end up seriously wounded, and the duke is taken back to England to recover. Raoul’s friend, the Comte de Guiche, soon falls for Henrietta’s charms, and Monsieur arranges for his exile too, although De Guiche manages to smooth things over later. But then the king starts to notice Madame Henrietta while the comte is away, and this time Monsieur's jealousy has no way out. Anne of Austria steps in, and the king and his sister-in-law decide to pick a young lady for the king to pretend to be in love with, to better hide their own affair. Unfortunately, they choose Louise de la Valliere, Raoul’s fiancée. While the court is at Fontainebleau, the king accidentally overhears Louise confessing her love for him while chatting with her friends under the royal oak, and he quickly forgets about Madame. That same night, Henrietta overhears De Guiche confessing his love for her to Raoul under the same oak. The two start their own affair. A few days later, during a rainstorm, Louis and Louise find themselves trapped alone together, and the whole court starts to gossip about the scandal while their romance flourishes. Knowing about Louise's feelings, the king arranges for Raoul to be sent to England for an indefinite time.
Meanwhile, the struggle for power continues between Fouquet and Colbert. Although the Belle-Isle plot backfired, Colbert prompts the king to ask Fouquet for more and more money, and without his two friends to raise it for him, Fouquet is sorely pressed. The situation gets so bad that his new mistress, Madame de Belliere, must resort to selling all her jewels and her gold and silver plate. Aramis, while this is going on, has grown friendly with the governor of the Bastile, M. de Baisemeaux, a fact that Baisemeaux unwittingly reveals to D’Artagnan while inquiring of him as to Aramis’s whereabouts. This further arouses the suspicions of the musketeer, who was made to look ridiculous by Aramis. He had ridden overnight at an insane pace, but arrived a few minutes after Fouquet had already presented Belle-Isle to the king. Aramis learns from the governor the location of a mysterious prisoner, who bears a remarkable resemblance to Louis XIV—in fact, the two are identical. He uses the existence of this secret to persuade a dying Franciscan monk, the general of the society of the Jesuits, to name him, Aramis, the new general of the order. On Aramis’s advice, hoping to use Louise’s influence with the king to counteract Colbert’s influence, Fouquet also writes a love letter to La Valliere, unfortunately undated. It never reaches its destination, however, as the servant ordered to deliver it turns out to be an agent of Colbert’s.
Meanwhile, the power struggle continues between Fouquet and Colbert. Even though the Belle-Isle scheme backfired, Colbert pushes the king to demand more and more money from Fouquet, and without his two friends to help him, Fouquet is in a tough spot. Things get so desperate that his new mistress, Madame de Belliere, has to sell all her jewelry along with her gold and silver tableware. During this time, Aramis has become friendly with the governor of the Bastille, M. de Baisemeaux, which Baisemeaux unknowingly reveals to D’Artagnan while asking him about Aramis’s whereabouts. This only raises the musketeer's suspicions, especially since he was made to look foolish by Aramis. He had ridden all night at breakneck speed but arrived just minutes after Fouquet had already shown Belle-Isle to the king. Aramis learns from the governor about a mysterious prisoner who looks strikingly similar to Louis XIV—in fact, they are identical. He uses this secret to convince a dying Franciscan monk, the head of the Jesuits, to appoint him, Aramis, as the new head of the order. Following Aramis’s advice, in hopes of using Louise’s influence with the king to counteract Colbert's, Fouquet also writes a love letter to La Valliere, which unfortunately has no date. However, it never reaches her because the servant tasked with delivering it turns out to be a Colbert agent.
Louise de la Valliere (Etext 2710): Believing D’Artagnan occupied at Fontainebleau and Porthos safely tucked away at Paris, Aramis holds a funeral for the dead Franciscan—but in fact, Aramis is wrong in both suppositions. D’Artagnan has left Fontainebleau, bored to tears by the fetes, retrieved Porthos, and is visiting the country-house of Planchet, his old lackey. This house happens to be right next door to the graveyard, and upon observing Aramis at this funeral, and his subsequent meeting with a mysterious hooded lady, D’Artagnan, suspicions aroused, resolves to make a little trouble for the bishop. He presents Porthos to the king at the same time as Fouquet presents Aramis, thereby surprising the wily prelate. Aramis’s professions of affection and innocence do only a little to allay D’Artagnan’s concerns, and he continues to regard Aramis’s actions with a curious and wary eye. Meanwhile, much to his delight, Porthos is invited to dine with the king as a result of his presentation, and with D’Artagnan’s guidance, manages to behave in such a manner as to procure the king’s marked favor.
Louise de la Valliere (Etext 2710): Believing D’Artagnan is occupied at Fontainebleau and that Porthos is safely in Paris, Aramis holds a funeral for the deceased Franciscan—but he is mistaken on both counts. D’Artagnan has left Fontainebleau, bored out of his mind by the parties, picked up Porthos, and is now visiting the country house of Planchet, his former servant. This house happens to be right next to the graveyard, and when he sees Aramis at the funeral and then meeting with a mysterious woman in a hood, D’Artagnan, suspicious of what he sees, decides to stir up some trouble for the bishop. He introduces Porthos to the king at the same time that Fouquet presents Aramis, catching the sly bishop off guard. Aramis's claims of love and innocence do little to ease D’Artagnan’s worries, and he continues to watch Aramis's behavior with curiosity and caution. Meanwhile, to his delight, Porthos is invited to dine with the king because of his introduction, and with D’Artagnan’s guidance, he manages to impress the king and gain his favor.
The mysterious woman turns out to be the Duchesse de Chevreuse, a notorious schemer and former friend of Anne of Austria. She comes bearing more bad news for Fouquet, who is already in trouble, as the king has invited himself to a fete at Vaux, Fouquet’s magnificent mansion, that will surely bankrupt the poor superintendent. The Duchesse has letters from Mazarin that prove that Fouquet has received thirteen million francs from the royal coffers, and she wishes to sell these letters to Aramis. Aramis refuses, and the letters are instead sold to Colbert. Fouquet, meanwhile, discovers that the receipt that proves his innocence in the affair has been stolen from him. Even worse, Fouquet, desperate for money, is forced to sell the parliamentary position that renders him untouchable by any court proceedings. As part of her deal with Colbert, though, Chevreuse also obtains a secret audience with the queen-mother, where the two discuss a shocking secret—Louis XIV has a twin brother, long believed, however, to be dead.
The mysterious woman turns out to be the Duchesse de Chevreuse, a notorious schemer and former friend of Anne of Austria. She brings more bad news for Fouquet, who is already in trouble, as the king has invited himself to a fete at Vaux, Fouquet’s magnificent mansion, and this will surely bankrupt the poor superintendent. The Duchesse has letters from Mazarin that prove Fouquet has received thirteen million francs from the royal treasury, and she wants to sell these letters to Aramis. Aramis refuses, and the letters are instead sold to Colbert. Meanwhile, Fouquet discovers that the receipt proving his innocence in the matter has been stolen from him. Even worse, Fouquet, desperate for money, has to sell the parliamentary position that protects him from any court actions. As part of her deal with Colbert, though, Chevreuse also manages to secure a private meeting with the queen-mother, where they discuss a shocking secret—Louis XIV has a twin brother, who was long believed to be dead.
Meanwhile, in other quarters, De Wardes, Raoul’s inveterate enemy, has returned from Calais, barely recovered from his wounds, and no sooner does he return than he begins again to insult people, particularly La Valliere, and this time the comte de Guiche is the one to challenge him. The duel leaves De Guiche horribly wounded, but enables Madame to use her influence to destroy De Wardes’s standing at court. The fetes, however, come to an end, and the court returns to Paris. The king has been more than obvious about his affections for Louise, and Madame, the queen-mother, and the queen join forces to destroy her. She is dishonorably discharged from court, and in despair, she flees to the convent at Chaillot. Along the way, though, she runs into D’Artagnan, who manages to get word back to the king of what has taken place. By literally begging Madame in tears, Louis manages to secure Louise’s return to court—but Madame still places every obstacle possible before the lovers. They have to resort to building a secret staircase and meeting in the apartments of M. de Saint-Aignan, where Louis has a painter create a portrait of Louise. But Madame recalls Raoul from London and shows him these proofs of Louise’s infidelity. Raoul, crushed, challenges Saint-Aignan to a duel, which the king prevents, and Athos, furious, breaks his sword before the king. The king has D’Artagnan arrest Athos, and at the Bastile they encounter Aramis, who is paying Baisemeaux another visit. Raoul learns of Athos’s arrest, and with Porthos in tow, they effect a daring rescue, surprising the carriage containing D’Artagnan and Athos as they leave the Bastile. Although quite impressive, the intrepid raid is in vain, as D’Artagnan has already secured Athos’s pardon from the king. Instead, everybody switches modes of transport; D’Artagnan and Porthos take the horses back to Paris, and Athos and Raoul take the carriage back to La Fere, where they intend to reside permanently, as the king is now their sworn enemy, Raoul cannot bear to see Louise, and they have no more dealings in Paris.
Meanwhile, in other places, De Wardes, Raoul’s longtime enemy, has returned from Calais, still healing from his wounds, and as soon as he gets back, he starts insulting people again, especially La Valliere. This time, the comte de Guiche challenges him. The duel leaves De Guiche severely injured, but it allows Madame to use her influence to ruin De Wardes’s reputation at court. The fetes eventually come to an end, and the court heads back to Paris. The king has been very clear about his feelings for Louise, and Madame, the queen mother, and the queen team up to get rid of her. Louise is dishonorably dismissed from court, and in despair, she escapes to the convent at Chaillot. Along the way, she runs into D’Artagnan, who manages to inform the king about what has happened. By begging Madame in tears, Louis is able to arrange for Louise’s return to court—though Madame throws up every possible barrier in front of the lovers. They have to build a secret staircase and meet in M. de Saint-Aignan's apartments, where Louis has an artist create a portrait of Louise. However, Madame calls Raoul back from London and shows him proof of Louise’s disloyalty. Raoul, heartbroken, challenges Saint-Aignan to a duel, which the king stops, and Athos, furious, breaks his sword in front of the king. The king orders D’Artagnan to arrest Athos, and at the Bastille, they run into Aramis, who is visiting Baisemeaux again. Raoul hears about Athos’s arrest, and with Porthos with him, they pull off a bold rescue, surprising the carriage with D’Artagnan and Athos as they leave the Bastille. Even though the daring raid is quite impressive, it ends up being pointless since D’Artagnan has already secured a pardon for Athos from the king. Instead, everyone changes how they're getting around; D’Artagnan and Porthos ride horses back to Paris, while Athos and Raoul take the carriage back to La Fere, where they plan to stay permanently, as the king is now their sworn enemy, Raoul can’t bear to see Louise, and they have no more business in Paris.
Aramis, left alone with Baisemeaux, inquires the governor of the prison about his loyalties, in particular to the Jesuits. The bishop reveals that he is a confessor of the society, and invokes their regulations in order to obtain access to this mysterious prisoner who bears such a striking resemblance to Louis XIV...
Aramis, alone with Baisemeaux, asks the governor of the prison about his loyalties, especially regarding the Jesuits. The bishop reveals that he is a confessor for the society and cites their rules to gain access to this mysterious prisoner who looks so much like Louis XIV...
And so Baisemeaux is conducting Aramis to the prisoner as the final section of The Vicomte de Bragelonne and this final story of the D’Artagnan Romances opens. I have written a “Cast of Historical Characters,” Etext 2760, that will enable curious readers to compare personages in the novel with their historical counterparts. Also of interest may be an essay Dumas wrote on the possible identity of the real Man in the Iron Mask, which is Etext 2751. Enjoy!
And so Baisemeaux is taking Aramis to see the prisoner as the last part of The Vicomte de Bragelonne and this final story of the D’Artagnan Romances begins. I've put together a “Cast of Historical Characters,” Etext 2760, that will help curious readers compare the characters in the novel with their actual historical counterparts. You might also find an essay Dumas wrote about the potential identity of the real Man in the Iron Mask interesting, which is Etext 2751. Enjoy!
John Bursey
John Bursey
Chapter I. The Prisoner.
Since Aramis’s singular transformation into a confessor of the order, Baisemeaux was no longer the same man. Up to that period, the place which Aramis had held in the worthy governor’s estimation was that of a prelate whom he respected and a friend to whom he owed a debt of gratitude; but now he felt himself an inferior, and that Aramis was his master. He himself lighted a lantern, summoned a turnkey, and said, returning to Aramis, “I am at your orders, monseigneur.” Aramis merely nodded his head, as much as to say, “Very good”; and signed to him with his hand to lead the way. Baisemeaux advanced, and Aramis followed him. It was a calm and lovely starlit night; the steps of three men resounded on the flags of the terraces, and the clinking of the keys hanging from the jailer’s girdle made itself heard up to the stories of the towers, as if to remind the prisoners that the liberty of earth was a luxury beyond their reach. It might have been said that the alteration effected in Baisemeaux extended even to the prisoners. The turnkey, the same who, on Aramis’s first arrival had shown himself so inquisitive and curious, was now not only silent, but impassible. He held his head down, and seemed afraid to keep his ears open. In this wise they reached the basement of the Bertaudiere, the two first stories of which were mounted silently and somewhat slowly; for Baisemeaux, though far from disobeying, was far from exhibiting any eagerness to obey. On arriving at the door, Baisemeaux showed a disposition to enter the prisoner’s chamber; but Aramis, stopping him on the threshold, said, “The rules do not allow the governor to hear the prisoner’s confession.”
Since Aramis's dramatic change into a confessor of the order, Baisemeaux was no longer the same man. Up until that point, Aramis had been a prelate whom the worthy governor respected and a friend to whom he felt grateful; but now, Baisemeaux saw himself as inferior and felt that Aramis was his master. He lit a lantern, called a guard, and said to Aramis, "I'm at your service, monseigneur." Aramis simply nodded, as if to say, "Sounds good," and gestured for him to lead the way. Baisemeaux moved ahead, and Aramis followed him. It was a peaceful and beautiful starlit night; the footsteps of the three men echoed on the stone terrace, and the clinking of the keys hanging from the jailer's belt could be heard up to the tower stories, as if reminding the prisoners that freedom was a luxury they couldn’t afford. It could be said that the change in Baisemeaux even affected the prisoners. The guard, who had been so curious and nosy when Aramis first arrived, was now not only silent but also unexpressive. He kept his head down and seemed afraid to listen. In this way, they reached the basement of the Bertaudiere, the first two stories of which they climbed quietly and somewhat slowly; for Baisemeaux, while not disobeying, showed no eagerness to comply. Upon arriving at the door, Baisemeaux appeared ready to enter the prisoner’s room; but Aramis, stopping him at the threshold, said, “The rules don’t allow the governor to hear the prisoner’s confession.”
Baisemeaux bowed, and made way for Aramis, who took the lantern and entered; and then signed to them to close the door behind him. For an instant he remained standing, listening whether Baisemeaux and the turnkey had retired; but as soon as he was assured by the sound of their descending footsteps that they had left the tower, he put the lantern on the table and gazed around. On a bed of green serge, similar in all respect to the other beds in the Bastile, save that it was newer, and under curtains half-drawn, reposed a young man, to whom we have already once before introduced Aramis. According to custom, the prisoner was without a light. At the hour of curfew, he was bound to extinguish his lamp, and we perceive how much he was favored, in being allowed to keep it burning even till then. Near the bed a large leathern armchair, with twisted legs, sustained his clothes. A little table—without pens, books, paper, or ink—stood neglected in sadness near the window; while several plates, still unemptied, showed that the prisoner had scarcely touched his evening meal. Aramis saw that the young man was stretched upon his bed, his face half concealed by his arms. The arrival of a visitor did not caused any change of position; either he was waiting in expectation, or was asleep. Aramis lighted the candle from the lantern, pushed back the armchair, and approached the bed with an evident mixture of interest and respect. The young man raised his head. “What is it?” said he.
Baisemeaux bowed and let Aramis pass, who grabbed the lantern and went inside; then he signaled for them to close the door behind him. For a moment, he stood still, listening to see if Baisemeaux and the turnkey had left. Once he heard their footsteps going down the stairs, he put the lantern on the table and looked around. On a green serge bed, just like the other beds in the Bastille but newer, lay a young man whom Aramis had introduced before. As was customary, the prisoner had no light. At curfew, he had to put out his lamp, and it was clear he was fortunate to be allowed to keep it lit until then. Next to the bed was a large leather armchair with twisted legs holding his clothes. A small table—without pens, books, paper, or ink—stood forlornly by the window, while several untouched plates indicated that the prisoner had barely eaten his evening meal. Aramis noticed the young man sprawled on his bed, his face half-hidden by his arms. The arrival of a visitor didn’t change his position; he might have been waiting or simply asleep. Aramis lit a candle from the lantern, moved the armchair aside, and approached the bed with a clear mix of interest and respect. The young man raised his head. “What is it?” he asked.
“You desired a confessor?” replied Aramis.
“You wanted a confessor?” replied Aramis.
“Yes.”
“Yep.”
“Because you were ill?”
"Because you were sick?"
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“Very ill?”
"Really sick?"
The young man gave Aramis a piercing glance, and answered, “I thank you.” After a moment’s silence, “I have seen you before,” he continued. Aramis bowed.
The young man shot Aramis a sharp look and replied, “Thank you.” After a moment of silence, he added, “I’ve seen you before.” Aramis nodded.
Doubtless the scrutiny the prisoner had just made of the cold, crafty, and imperious character stamped upon the features of the bishop of Vannes was little reassuring to one in his situation, for he added, “I am better.”
Doubtless, the way the prisoner just observed the cold, cunning, and commanding expression on the bishop of Vannes's face wasn't very reassuring for someone in his position, so he added, "I'm better."
“And so?” said Aramis.
"And so?" Aramis said.
“Why, then—being better, I have no longer the same need of a confessor, I think.”
“Why, then—since I’m better, I feel like I don’t need a confessor anymore, I think.”
“Not even of the hair-cloth, which the note you found in your bread informed you of?”
"Not even the hair shirt that the note you found in your bread told you about?"
The young man started; but before he had either assented or denied, Aramis continued, “Not even of the ecclesiastic from whom you were to hear an important revelation?”
The young man jumped, but before he could agree or disagree, Aramis continued, “Not even from the cleric who was supposed to share an important revelation with you?”
“If it be so,” said the young man, sinking again on his pillow, “it is different; I am listening.”
“If that’s the case,” said the young man, sinking back onto his pillow, “I’m paying attention.”
Aramis then looked at him more closely, and was struck with the easy majesty of his mien, one which can never be acquired unless Heaven has implanted it in the blood or heart. “Sit down, monsieur,” said the prisoner.
Aramis then looked at him more closely and was struck by the effortless authority in his demeanor, a quality that can only come from a divine gift in one's blood or heart. “Sit down, sir,” said the prisoner.
Aramis bowed and obeyed. “How does the Bastile agree with you?” asked the bishop.
Aramis bowed and complied. “How do you like the Bastille?” asked the bishop.
“Very well.”
“Alright.”
“You do not suffer?”
"You don’t suffer?"
“No.”
“Nope.”
“You have nothing to regret?”
"Are you sure you have no regrets?"
“Nothing.”
"Nothing."
“Not even your liberty?”
“Not even your freedom?”
“What do you call liberty, monsieur?” asked the prisoner, with the tone of a man who is preparing for a struggle.
“What do you call freedom, sir?” asked the prisoner, with the tone of someone readying for a fight.
“I call liberty, the flowers, the air, light, the stars, the happiness of going whithersoever the sinewy limbs of one-and-twenty chance to wish to carry you.”
“I call freedom, the flowers, the air, light, the stars, the joy of going wherever your strong twenty-one-year-old self wants to take you.”
The young man smiled, whether in resignation or contempt, it was difficult to tell. “Look,” said he, “I have in that Japanese vase two roses gathered yesterday evening in the bud from the governor’s garden; this morning they have blown and spread their vermilion chalice beneath my gaze; with every opening petal they unfold the treasures of their perfumes, filling my chamber with a fragrance that embalms it. Look now on these two roses; even among roses these are beautiful, and the rose is the most beautiful of flowers. Why, then, do you bid me desire other flowers when I possess the loveliest of all?”
The young man smiled, though it was hard to say if it was out of resignation or contempt. “Look,” he said, “I have two roses in that Japanese vase that I picked from the governor’s garden last night while they were still buds; this morning they’ve bloomed and opened their vibrant petals for me to see. With each petal that unfolds, they release their wonderful scents, filling my room with a fragrance that lingers. Now look at these two roses; even among roses, they are stunning, and the rose is the most beautiful flower. So why should I want other flowers when I have the most beautiful ones right here?”
Aramis gazed at the young man in surprise.
Aramis looked at the young man in amazement.
“If flowers constitute liberty,” sadly resumed the captive, “I am free, for I possess them.”
“If flowers mean freedom,” the captive said sadly, “then I’m free, because I have them.”
“But the air!” cried Aramis; “air is so necessary to life!”
“But the air!” exclaimed Aramis; “air is so essential to life!”
“Well, monsieur,” returned the prisoner; “draw near to the window; it is open. Between high heaven and earth the wind whirls on its waftages of hail and lightning, exhales its torrid mist or breathes in gentle breezes. It caresses my face. When mounted on the back of this armchair, with my arm around the bars of the window to sustain myself, I fancy I am swimming the wide expanse before me.” The countenance of Aramis darkened as the young man continued: “Light I have! what is better than light? I have the sun, a friend who comes to visit me every day without the permission of the governor or the jailer’s company. He comes in at the window, and traces in my room a square the shape of the window, which lights up the hangings of my bed and floods the very floor. This luminous square increases from ten o’clock till midday, and decreases from one till three slowly, as if, having hastened to my presence, it sorrowed at bidding me farewell. When its last ray disappears I have enjoyed its presence for five hours. Is not that sufficient? I have been told that there are unhappy beings who dig in quarries, and laborers who toil in mines, who never behold it at all.” Aramis wiped the drops from his brow. “As to the stars which are so delightful to view,” continued the young man, “they all resemble each other save in size and brilliancy. I am a favored mortal, for if you had not lighted that candle you would have been able to see the beautiful stars which I was gazing at from my couch before your arrival, whose silvery rays were stealing through my brain.”
"Well, sir," replied the prisoner, "come closer to the window; it’s open. The wind is swirling between the sky and the earth, bringing hail and lightning, exhaling its hot mist or blowing in gentle breezes. It brushes against my face. When I’m perched on the back of this armchair, with my arm wrapped around the bars of the window for support, I imagine I’m swimming in the vastness in front of me.” Aramis's expression grew serious as the young man went on: “I have light! What could be better than light? I have the sun, a friend who visits me every day without needing permission from the governor or the jailer. It comes in through the window and creates a square of light in my room that brightens the fabrics of my bed and floods the floor. This bright square grows from ten in the morning until noon, and then slowly shrinks from one until three, as if it rushes to greet me and is sad to leave. By the time its last ray fades, I’ve had its company for five hours. Isn’t that enough? I’ve heard there are wretched souls working in quarries and laborers in mines who never get to see it at all.” Aramis wiped the sweat from his brow. “As for the stars that are so lovely to watch," the young man continued, "they all look alike except for size and brightness. I am fortunate, because if you hadn’t lit that candle, you would have been able to see the beautiful stars I was gazing at from my bed before you arrived, their silvery rays penetrating my thoughts."
Aramis lowered his head; he felt himself overwhelmed with the bitter flow of that sinister philosophy which is the religion of the captive.
Aramis lowered his head; he felt overwhelmed by the bitter reality of that dark philosophy that serves as the religion of the imprisoned.
“So much, then, for the flowers, the air, the daylight, and the stars,” tranquilly continued the young man; “there remains but exercise. Do I not walk all day in the governor’s garden if it is fine—here if it rains? in the fresh air if it is warm; in perfect warmth, thanks to my winter stove, if it be cold? Ah! monsieur, do you fancy,” continued the prisoner, not without bitterness, “that men have not done everything for me that a man can hope for or desire?”
“So much for the flowers, the air, the daylight, and the stars,” the young man continued calmly; “all that’s left is exercise. Don’t I walk all day in the governor’s garden if it’s nice out—here if it rains? In the fresh air if it’s warm; enjoying perfect warmth, thanks to my winter stove, if it’s cold? Ah! Sir, do you really think,” the prisoner continued, not without bitterness, “that people haven’t done everything for me that a person can hope for or wish for?”
“Men!” said Aramis; “be it so; but it seems to me you are forgetting Heaven.”
“Men!” said Aramis; “fine, but it looks like you’re forgetting about Heaven.”
“Indeed I have forgotten Heaven,” murmured the prisoner, with emotion; “but why do you mention it? Of what use is it to talk to a prisoner of Heaven?”
“Honestly, I’ve forgotten about Heaven,” the prisoner said softly, feeling emotional. “But why bring it up? What’s the point of talking to a prisoner about Heaven?”
Aramis looked steadily at this singular youth, who possessed the resignation of a martyr with the smile of an atheist. “Is not Heaven in everything?” he murmured in a reproachful tone.
Aramis looked intently at this unique young man, who had the acceptance of a martyr but the smile of an atheist. “Isn’t there a bit of Heaven in everything?” he said softly, with a hint of reproach.
“Say rather, at the end of everything,” answered the prisoner, firmly.
“Say rather, at the end of everything,” replied the prisoner, firmly.
“Be it so,” said Aramis; “but let us return to our starting-point.”
“Sure,” said Aramis; “but let’s go back to where we started.”
“I ask nothing better,” returned the young man.
“I couldn't ask for anything more,” replied the young man.
“I am your confessor.”
“I’m your confessor.”
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“Well, then, you ought, as a penitent, to tell me the truth.”
"Well, then, as someone trying to make amends, you should tell me the truth."
“My whole desire is to tell it you.”
"My only wish is to tell you."
“Every prisoner has committed some crime for which he has been imprisoned. What crime, then, have you committed?”
“Every prisoner has done something wrong that led to their incarceration. So, what wrong have you done?”
“You asked me the same question the first time you saw me,” returned the prisoner.
“You asked me the same question the first time you saw me,” replied the prisoner.
“And then, as now you evaded giving me an answer.”
“And just like now, you avoided giving me an answer.”
“And what reason have you for thinking that I shall now reply to you?”
“And what makes you think that I’ll respond to you now?”
“Because this time I am your confessor.”
“Because this time I’m your confessor.”
“Then if you wish me to tell what crime I have committed, explain to me in what a crime consists. For as my conscience does not accuse me, I aver that I am not a criminal.”
“Then if you want me to say what crime I’ve committed, explain to me what a crime actually is. Because my conscience doesn't blame me, I firmly state that I am not a criminal.”
“We are often criminals in the sight of the great of the earth, not alone for having ourselves committed crimes, but because we know that crimes have been committed.”
“We are often seen as criminals by the powerful people of the world, not just for committing our own offenses, but because we are aware that crimes have taken place.”
The prisoner manifested the deepest attention.
The inmate displayed intense focus.
“Yes, I understand you,” he said, after a pause; “yes, you are right, monsieur; it is very possible that, in such a light, I am a criminal in the eyes of the great of the earth.”
“Yes, I get what you're saying,” he replied after a moment; “yes, you’re right, sir; it’s very possible that, in that sense, I’m a criminal in the eyes of the powerful.”
“Ah! then you know something,” said Aramis, who thought he had pierced not merely through a defect in the harness, but through the joints of it.
“Ah! so you know something,” said Aramis, who believed he had not only identified a flaw in the harness but had also seen through its connections.
“No, I am not aware of anything,” replied the young man; “but sometimes I think—and I say to myself—”
“No, I'm not aware of anything,” replied the young man; “but sometimes I think—and I tell myself—”
“What do you say to yourself?”
"What do you say to yourself?"
“That if I were to think but a little more deeply I should either go mad or I should divine a great deal.”
"That if I thought just a little more deeply, I would either go crazy or figure out a lot."
“And then—and then?” said Aramis, impatiently.
“And then—what happened next?” said Aramis, feeling impatient.
“Then I leave off.”
"Then I stop."
“You leave off?”
“Are you done?”
“Yes; my head becomes confused and my ideas melancholy; I feel ennui overtaking me; I wish—”
“Yes; my head feels muddled and my thoughts are sad; I feel boredom taking over me; I wish—”
“What?”
"Excuse me?"
“I don’t know; but I do not like to give myself up to longing for things which I do not possess, when I am so happy with what I have.”
“I don’t know; but I don’t want to give in to longing for things I don’t have when I’m so happy with what I do have.”
“You are afraid of death?” said Aramis, with a slight uneasiness.
“You're afraid of death?” said Aramis, slightly uneasy.
“Yes,” said the young man, smiling.
“Yes,” said the young man, smiling.
Aramis felt the chill of that smile, and shuddered. “Oh, as you fear death, you know more about matters than you say,” he cried.
Aramis felt the coldness of that smile and shivered. “Oh, just as you fear death, you understand more about things than you're letting on,” he exclaimed.
“And you,” returned the prisoner, “who bade me to ask to see you; you, who, when I did ask to see you, came here promising a world of confidence; how is it that, nevertheless, it is you who are silent, leaving it for me to speak? Since, then, we both wear masks, either let us both retain them or put them aside together.”
“And you,” replied the prisoner, “who told me to ask to see you; you, who, when I did ask to see you, came here promising complete trust; how is it that it’s you who remains quiet, leaving me to talk? Since we both wear masks, either let’s both keep them on or take them off together.”
Aramis felt the force and justice of the remark, saying to himself, “This is no ordinary man; I must be cautious.—Are you ambitious?” said he suddenly to the prisoner, aloud, without preparing him for the alteration.
Aramis recognized the weight and truth of the comment, thinking to himself, “This is not an ordinary person; I need to be careful.—Are you ambitious?” he suddenly asked the prisoner, speaking out loud without warning him about the change.
“What do you mean by ambitious?” replied the youth.
“What do you mean by ambitious?” the young man replied.
“Ambition,” replied Aramis, “is the feeling which prompts a man to desire more—much more—than he possesses.”
“Ambition,” replied Aramis, “is the feeling that drives a person to want more—much more—than they already have.”
“I said that I was contented, monsieur; but, perhaps, I deceive myself. I am ignorant of the nature of ambition; but it is not impossible I may have some. Tell me your mind; that is all I ask.”
“I said I was satisfied, sir; but maybe I’m just fooling myself. I don't really understand what ambition is, but it's possible I have some. Just tell me what you think; that’s all I want.”
“An ambitious man,” said Aramis, “is one who covets that which is beyond his station.”
“An ambitious man,” said Aramis, “is someone who desires what’s beyond his current position.”
“I covet nothing beyond my station,” said the young man, with an assurance of manner which for the second time made the bishop of Vannes tremble.
“I desire nothing beyond my position,” said the young man, with a confidence that once again made the bishop of Vannes tremble.
He was silent. But to look at the kindling eye, the knitted brow, and the reflective attitude of the captive, it was evident that he expected something more than silence,—a silence which Aramis now broke. “You lied the first time I saw you,” said he.
He was quiet. But looking at the intense gaze, the furrowed brow, and the thoughtful demeanor of the prisoner, it was clear that he was anticipating more than just silence—a silence that Aramis now interrupted. “You lied the first time I met you,” he said.
“Lied!” cried the young man, starting up on his couch, with such a tone in his voice, and such a lightning in his eyes, that Aramis recoiled, in spite of himself.
“Lied!” shouted the young man, springing up from his couch, with a tone in his voice and a spark in his eyes that made Aramis step back, despite himself.
“I should say,” returned Aramis, bowing, “you concealed from me what you knew of your infancy.”
“I should say,” replied Aramis, bowing, “you kept from me what you knew about your childhood.”
“A man’s secrets are his own, monsieur,” retorted the prisoner, “and not at the mercy of the first chance-comer.”
“A man’s secrets are his own, sir,” replied the prisoner, “and not something to be exposed to just anyone who comes along.”
“True,” said Aramis, bowing still lower than before, “‘tis true; pardon me, but to-day do I still occupy the place of a chance-comer? I beseech you to reply, monseigneur.”
“True,” said Aramis, bowing even lower than before, “it’s true; excuse me, but do I still hold the position of a newcomer today? I ask you to please respond, monseigneur.”
This title slightly disturbed the prisoner; but nevertheless he did not appear astonished that it was given him. “I do not know you, monsieur,” said he.
This title slightly unsettled the prisoner; however, he didn’t seem surprised that it was given to him. “I don’t know you, sir,” he said.
“Oh, but if I dared, I would take your hand and kiss it!”
“Oh, but if I had the courage, I would take your hand and kiss it!”
The young man seemed as if he were going to give Aramis his hand; but the light which beamed in his eyes faded away, and he coldly and distrustfully withdrew his hand again. “Kiss the hand of a prisoner,” he said, shaking his head, “to what purpose?”
The young man looked like he was about to offer Aramis his hand, but the spark in his eyes disappeared, and he pulled his hand back coldly and suspiciously. "Kiss the hand of a prisoner?" he said, shaking his head. "What's the point?"
“Why did you tell me,” said Aramis, “that you were happy here? Why, that you aspired to nothing? Why, in a word, by thus speaking, do you prevent me from being frank in my turn?”
“Why did you tell me,” Aramis said, “that you were happy here? Why did you say you didn’t want anything more? Why, by saying all this, are you making it impossible for me to be honest in return?”
The same light shone a third time in the young man’s eyes, but died ineffectually away as before.
The same light flickered a third time in the young man’s eyes, but faded uselessly like before.
“You distrust me,” said Aramis.
"You don't trust me," said Aramis.
“And why say you so, monsieur?”
“And why do you say that, sir?”
“Oh, for a very simple reason; if you know what you ought to know, you ought to mistrust everybody.”
“Oh, for a very simple reason; if you know what you should know, you should mistrust everyone.”
“Then do not be astonished that I am mistrustful, since you suspect me of knowing what I do not know.”
“Then don’t be surprised that I’m distrustful, since you think I know what I don’t know.”
Aramis was struck with admiration at this energetic resistance. “Oh, monseigneur! you drive me to despair,” said he, striking the armchair with his fist.
Aramis was filled with admiration at this fierce resistance. “Oh, my lord! You’re driving me to despair,” he said, hitting the armchair with his fist.
“And, on my part, I do not comprehend you, monsieur.”
“And, to be honest, I don’t understand you, sir.”
“Well, then, try to understand me.” The prisoner looked fixedly at Aramis.
“Well, then, try to understand me.” The prisoner stared intensely at Aramis.
“Sometimes it seems to me,” said the latter, “that I have before me the man whom I seek, and then—”
“Sometimes I feel,” said the latter, “that I have the person I’m looking for right in front of me, and then—”
“And then your man disappears,—is it not so?” said the prisoner, smiling. “So much the better.”
“And then your guy disappears—isn’t that right?” said the prisoner, smiling. “That’s even better.”
Aramis rose. “Certainly,” said he; “I have nothing further to say to a man who mistrusts me as you do.”
Aramis got up. “Of course,” he said; “I have nothing else to say to someone who distrusts me like you do.”
“And I, monsieur,” said the prisoner, in the same tone, “have nothing to say to a man who will not understand that a prisoner ought to be mistrustful of everybody.”
“And I, sir,” said the prisoner, in the same tone, “have nothing to say to someone who doesn’t understand that a prisoner should be wary of everyone.”
“Even of his old friends,” said Aramis. “Oh, monseigneur, you are too prudent!”
“Even of his old friends,” said Aramis. “Oh, sir, you are too cautious!”
“Of my old friends?—you one of my old friends,—you?”
“Are you one of my old friends?”
“Do you no longer remember,” said Aramis, “that you once saw, in the village where your early years were spent—”
“Don't you remember,” said Aramis, “that you once saw, in the village where you spent your early years—”
“Do you know the name of the village?” asked the prisoner.
“Do you know the name of the village?” asked the prisoner.
“Noisy-le-Sec, monseigneur,” answered Aramis, firmly.
“Noisy-le-Sec, sir,” answered Aramis, firmly.
“Go on,” said the young man, with an immovable aspect.
“Go on,” said the young man, with a serious expression.
“Stay, monseigneur,” said Aramis; “if you are positively resolved to carry on this game, let us break off. I am here to tell you many things, ‘tis true; but you must allow me to see that, on your side, you have a desire to know them. Before revealing the important matters I still withhold, be assured I am in need of some encouragement, if not candor; a little sympathy, if not confidence. But you keep yourself intrenched in a pretended which paralyzes me. Oh, not for the reason you think; for, ignorant as you may be, or indifferent as you feign to be, you are none the less what you are, monseigneur, and there is nothing—nothing, mark me! which can cause you not to be so.”
“Wait, sir,” said Aramis. “If you’re really determined to keep playing this game, let’s just stop. I’m here to tell you a lot of things, that’s true; but you need to show me that you want to hear them too. Before I share the important things I’m holding back, I need some sort of encouragement, if not honesty; a bit of sympathy, if not trust. But you’re stuck behind a façade that leaves me paralyzed. Oh, not for the reasons you think; because, no matter how ignorant you might be or how indifferent you pretend to be, you are still who you are, sir, and there is nothing—nothing, mind you!—that can change that.”
“I promise you,” replied the prisoner, “to hear you without impatience. Only it appears to me that I have a right to repeat the question I have already asked, ‘Who are you?’”
“I promise you,” replied the prisoner, “to listen to you without impatience. But it seems to me that I have the right to ask again, ‘Who are you?’”
“Do you remember, fifteen or eighteen years ago, seeing at Noisy-le-Sec a cavalier, accompanied by a lady in black silk, with flame-colored ribbons in her hair?”
“Do you remember, fifteen or eighteen years ago, seeing at Noisy-le-Sec a guy on horseback, with a lady in black silk, wearing red ribbons in her hair?”
“Yes,” said the young man; “I once asked the name of this cavalier, and they told me that he called himself the Abbe d’Herblay. I was astonished that the abbe had so warlike an air, and they replied that there was nothing singular in that, seeing that he was one of Louis XIII.‘s musketeers.”
“Yes,” said the young man; “I once asked who this knight was, and they told me he called himself the Abbe d’Herblay. I was surprised that the abbe had such a martial presence, and they replied that it wasn't unusual since he was one of Louis XIII’s musketeers.”
“Well,” said Aramis, “that musketeer and abbe, afterwards bishop of Vannes, is your confessor now.”
“Well,” said Aramis, “that musketeer and abbe, later bishop of Vannes, is your confessor now.”
“I know it; I recognized you.”
“I know it; I recognized you.”
“Then, monseigneur, if you know that, I must further add a fact of which you are ignorant—that if the king were to know this evening of the presence of this musketeer, this abbe, this bishop, this confessor, here—he, who has risked everything to visit you, to-morrow would behold the steely glitter of the executioner’s axe in a dungeon more gloomy, more obscure than yours.”
“Then, my lord, if you know that, I must also tell you something you don't know—that if the king learns this evening about the presence of this musketeer, this abbe, this bishop, this confessor, here—he, who has risked everything to see you, will tomorrow experience the cold shine of the executioner’s axe in a prison more grim and dark than yours.”
While listening to these words, delivered with emphasis, the young man had raised himself on his couch, and was now gazing more and more eagerly at Aramis.
While listening to these words, spoken with strong emphasis, the young man had propped himself up on his couch and was now staring increasingly intently at Aramis.
The result of his scrutiny was that he appeared to derive some confidence from it. “Yes,” he murmured, “I remember perfectly. The woman of whom you speak came once with you, and twice afterwards with another.” He hesitated.
The result of his scrutiny was that he seemed to gain some confidence from it. “Yeah,” he murmured, “I remember perfectly. The woman you’re talking about came once with you, and then twice after that with someone else.” He paused.
“With another, who came to see you every month—is it not so, monseigneur?”
“With another person who visited you every month—am I right, sir?”
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“Do you know who this lady was?”
“Do you know who this woman was?”
The light seemed ready to flash from the prisoner’s eyes. “I am aware that she was one of the ladies of the court,” he said.
The light looked like it was about to burst from the prisoner’s eyes. “I know she was one of the ladies of the court,” he said.
“You remember that lady well, do you not?”
“You remember that woman well, don’t you?”
“Oh, my recollection can hardly be very confused on this head,” said the young prisoner. “I saw that lady once with a gentleman about forty-five years old. I saw her once with you, and with the lady dressed in black. I have seen her twice since then with the same person. These four people, with my master, and old Perronnette, my jailer, and the governor of the prison, are the only persons with whom I have ever spoken, and, indeed, almost the only persons I have ever seen.”
“Oh, I can hardly be confused about this,” said the young prisoner. “I once saw that lady with a man around forty-five years old. I saw her once with you and with the lady in black. I’ve seen her twice since then with the same man. These four people, along with my master, old Perronnette, my jailer, and the governor of the prison, are the only ones I’ve ever talked to, and really, almost the only ones I’ve ever seen.”
“Then you were in prison?”
"So you were in jail?"
“If I am a prisoner here, then I was comparatively free, although in a very narrow sense—a house I never quitted, a garden surrounded with walls I could not climb, these constituted my residence, but you know it, as you have been there. In a word, being accustomed to live within these bounds, I never cared to leave them. And so you will understand, monsieur, that having never seen anything of the world, I have nothing left to care for; and therefore, if you relate anything, you will be obliged to explain each item to me as you go along.”
“If I'm a prisoner here, then I was relatively free, even though it was in a limited way—a house I never left, a garden surrounded by walls I couldn't climb, these made up my home, but you know that since you've been there. In short, having gotten used to living within these limits, I never wanted to leave them. So you will understand, sir, that since I've never seen anything of the world, I no longer have anything to care about; and therefore, if you share anything with me, you'll have to explain everything as you go.”
“And I will do so,” said Aramis, bowing; “for it is my duty, monseigneur.”
“And I will do that,” said Aramis, bowing; “because it’s my duty, sir.”
“Well, then, begin by telling me who was my tutor.”
“Well, then, start by telling me who my tutor was.”
“A worthy and, above all, an honorable gentleman, monseigneur; fit guide for both body and soul. Had you ever any reason to complain of him?”
“A respectable and, most importantly, an honorable gentleman, sir; a suitable guide for both body and soul. Have you ever had any reason to complain about him?”
“Oh, no; quite the contrary. But this gentleman of yours often used to tell me that my father and mother were dead. Did he deceive me, or did he speak the truth?”
“Oh, no; quite the opposite. But this gentleman of yours often told me that my father and mother were dead. Did he lie to me, or did he tell the truth?”
“He was compelled to comply with the orders given him.”
“He had to follow the orders he was given.”
“Then he lied?”
"Did he lie then?"
“In one respect. Your father is dead.”
“In one way, your father is dead.”
“And my mother?”
“And what about my mom?”
“She is dead for you.”
"She's dead for you."
“But then she lives for others, does she not?”
“But she lives for others, right?”
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“And I—and I, then” (the young man looked sharply at Aramis) “am compelled to live in the obscurity of a prison?”
“And I—and I, then” (the young man looked sharply at Aramis) “am forced to live in the shadows of a prison?”
“Alas! I fear so.”
"Unfortunately, I think so."
“And that because my presence in the world would lead to the revelation of a great secret?”
“And is it because my existence in the world would uncover a big secret?”
“Certainly, a very great secret.”
“Definitely a big secret.”
“My enemy must indeed be powerful, to be able to shut up in the Bastile a child such as I then was.”
“My enemy must really be powerful to be able to lock away a child like I was back then.”
“He is.”
"Yeah, he is."
“More powerful than my mother, then?”
“More powerful than my mom, then?”
“And why do you ask that?”
"And why do you want to know?"
“Because my mother would have taken my part.”
“Because my mom would have supported me.”
Aramis hesitated. “Yes, monseigneur; more powerful than your mother.”
Aramis hesitated. “Yes, sir; more powerful than your mother.”
“Seeing, then, that my nurse and preceptor were carried off, and that I, also, was separated from them—either they were, or I am, very dangerous to my enemy?”
“Seeing that my nurse and teacher were taken away, and that I, too, was separated from them—either they are, or I am, very dangerous to my enemy?”
“Yes; but you are alluding to a peril from which he freed himself, by causing the nurse and preceptor to disappear,” answered Aramis, quietly.
“Yes; but you’re referring to a danger he escaped from by making the nurse and tutor vanish,” Aramis replied calmly.
“Disappear!” cried the prisoner, “how did they disappear?”
“Vanish!” shouted the prisoner, “how did they vanish?”
“In a very sure way,” answered Aramis—“they are dead.”
“In a very certain way,” answered Aramis—“they are dead.”
The young man turned pale, and passed his hand tremblingly over his face. “Poison?” he asked.
The young man turned pale and nervously ran his hand over his face. “Poison?” he asked.
“Poison.”
“Toxin.”
The prisoner reflected a moment. “My enemy must indeed have been very cruel, or hard beset by necessity, to assassinate those two innocent people, my sole support; for the worthy gentleman and the poor nurse had never harmed a living being.”
The prisoner thought for a moment. “My enemy must have been really cruel, or faced with desperate circumstances, to kill those two innocent people, my only support; because the kind gentleman and the poor nurse had never hurt anyone.”
“In your family, monseigneur, necessity is stern. And so it is necessity which compels me, to my great regret, to tell you that this gentleman and the unhappy lady have been assassinated.”
“In your family, sir, necessity is harsh. And so it is necessity that forces me, to my great regret, to inform you that this man and the unfortunate woman have been killed.”
“Oh, you tell me nothing I am not aware of,” said the prisoner, knitting his brows.
“Oh, you’re telling me nothing I don't already know,” said the prisoner, furrowing his brows.
“How?”
“How?”
“I suspected it.”
“I thought so.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“I will tell you.”
"I'll tell you."
At this moment the young man, supporting himself on his two elbows, drew close to Aramis’s face, with such an expression of dignity, of self-command and of defiance even, that the bishop felt the electricity of enthusiasm strike in devouring flashes from that great heart of his, into his brain of adamant.
At that moment, the young man leaned on his elbows and got close to Aramis's face, with such an expression of dignity, self-control, and even defiance that the bishop felt a surge of enthusiasm hit him in powerful flashes from that big heart of his into his rock-solid mind.
“Speak, monseigneur. I have already told you that by conversing with you I endanger my life. Little value as it has, I implore you to accept it as the ransom of your own.”
“Speak, sir. I’ve already told you that talking to you puts my life at risk. As little as my life is worth, I beg you to take it as the price for your own.”
“Well,” resumed the young man, “this is why I suspected they had killed my nurse and my preceptor—”
“Well,” the young man continued, “this is why I thought they had killed my nurse and my tutor—”
“Whom you used to call your father?”
“Who did you used to call your father?”
“Yes; whom I called my father, but whose son I well knew I was not.”
“Yes; I called him my father, but I knew very well that I was not his son.”
“Who caused you to suppose so?”
"Who made you believe that?"
“Just as you, monsieur, are too respectful for a friend, he was also too respectful for a father.”
“Just like you, sir, are too respectful for a friend, he was also too respectful for a father.”
“I, however,” said Aramis, “have no intention to disguise myself.”
“I, however,” Aramis said, “don’t plan on disguising myself.”
The young man nodded assent and continued: “Undoubtedly, I was not destined to perpetual seclusion,” said the prisoner; “and that which makes me believe so, above all, now, is the care that was taken to render me as accomplished a cavalier as possible. The gentleman attached to my person taught me everything he knew himself—mathematics, a little geometry, astronomy, fencing and riding. Every morning I went through military exercises, and practiced on horseback. Well, one morning during the summer, it being very hot, I went to sleep in the hall. Nothing, up to that period, except the respect paid me, had enlightened me, or even roused my suspicions. I lived as children, as birds, as plants, as the air and the sun do. I had just turned my fifteenth year—”
The young man nodded in agreement and continued: “Clearly, I wasn't meant to be in constant isolation,” said the prisoner; “and what makes me believe this, especially now, is the effort that was made to turn me into as skilled a gentleman as possible. The man assigned to me taught me everything he knew—math, a bit of geometry, astronomy, fencing, and horseback riding. Every morning, I went through military drills and practiced riding. One hot summer morning, I fell asleep in the hall. Until that moment, nothing but the respect shown to me had opened my eyes or raised my suspicions. I lived like children, birds, plants, the air, and the sun. I had just turned fifteen—”
“This, then, is eight years ago?”
“Was this eight years ago?”
“Yes, nearly; but I have ceased to reckon time.”
“Yes, almost; but I've stopped keeping track of time.”
“Excuse me; but what did your tutor tell you, to encourage you to work?”
“Excuse me, but what did your teacher say to motivate you to work?”
“He used to say that a man was bound to make for himself, in the world, that fortune which Heaven had refused him at his birth. He added that, being a poor, obscure orphan, I had no one but myself to look to; and that nobody either did, or ever would, take any interest in me. I was, then, in the hall I have spoken of, asleep from fatigue with long fencing. My preceptor was in his room on the first floor, just over me. Suddenly I heard him exclaim, and then he called: ‘Perronnette! Perronnette!’ It was my nurse whom he called.”
“He used to say that a man has to create the fortune for himself that Heaven denied him at birth. He remarked that, as a poor, unknown orphan, I could only rely on myself, and that no one cared about me or ever would. I was, at that moment, in the hall I mentioned, asleep from the exhaustion of long fencing practice. My teacher was in his room on the first floor, right above me. Suddenly, I heard him shout and then call out: ‘Perronnette! Perronnette!’ He was calling my nurse.”
“Yes, I know it,” said Aramis. “Continue, monseigneur.”
“Yes, I know,” Aramis replied. “Go on, sir.”
“Very likely she was in the garden; for my preceptor came hastily downstairs. I rose, anxious at seeing him anxious. He opened the garden-door, still crying out, ‘Perronnette! Perronnette!’ The windows of the hall looked into the court; the shutters were closed; but through a chink in them I saw my tutor draw near a large well, which was almost directly under the windows of his study. He stooped over the brim, looked into the well, and again cried out, and made wild and affrighted gestures. Where I was, I could not only see, but hear—and see and hear I did.”
"She was probably in the garden because my teacher rushed downstairs. I got up, worried because he was worried. He opened the garden door, still calling out, ‘Perronnette! Perronnette!’ The hall windows faced the courtyard; the shutters were closed, but through a crack in them, I saw my tutor approach a large well that was almost directly below the windows of his study. He bent over the edge, looked into the well, and cried out again while making frantic and scared gestures. From where I was, I could not only see but also hear—and I did see and hear."
“Go on, I pray you,” said Aramis.
“Go ahead, please,” said Aramis.
“Dame Perronnette came running up, hearing the governor’s cries. He went to meet her, took her by the arm, and drew her quickly towards the edge; after which, as they both bent over it together, ‘Look, look,’ cried he, ‘what a misfortune!’
“Dame Perronnette came running up, hearing the governor’s cries. He went to meet her, took her by the arm, and quickly pulled her towards the edge; then, as they both leaned over it together, he exclaimed, ‘Look, look, what a disaster!’”
“‘Calm yourself, calm yourself,’ said Perronnette; ‘what is the matter?’
“‘Calm down, calm down,’ said Perronnette; ‘what's going on?’”
“‘The letter!’ he exclaimed; ‘do you see that letter?’ pointing to the bottom of the well.
“‘The letter!’ he shouted; ‘do you see that letter?’ pointing to the bottom of the well.
“‘What letter?’ she cried.
“‘What letter?’ she exclaimed.
“‘The letter you see down there; the last letter from the queen.’
“‘The letter you see down there; the last letter from the queen.’”
“At this word I trembled. My tutor—he who passed for my father, he who was continually recommending me modesty and humility—in correspondence with the queen!
“At this, I trembled. My tutor—who was thought to be my father, who was always advising me to be modest and humble—in correspondence with the queen!”
“‘The queen’s last letter!’ cried Perronnette, without showing more astonishment than at seeing this letter at the bottom of the well; ‘but how came it there?’
“‘The queen’s last letter!’ shouted Perronnette, showing just as much surprise as when she found this letter at the bottom of the well; ‘but how did it end up there?’
“‘A chance, Dame Perronnette—a singular chance. I was entering my room, and on opening the door, the window, too, being open, a puff of air came suddenly and carried off this paper—this letter of her majesty’s; I darted after it, and gained the window just in time to see it flutter a moment in the breeze and disappear down the well.’
“‘A chance, Dame Perronnette—a rare chance. I was entering my room, and when I opened the door, the window was also open, and a gust of air suddenly blew this paper away—this letter from her majesty; I rushed after it and reached the window just in time to see it flutter in the breeze and vanish down the well.’”
“‘Well,’ said Dame Perronnette; ‘and if the letter has fallen into the well, ‘tis all the same as if it was burnt; and as the queen burns all her letters every time she comes—’
“‘Well,’ said Dame Perronnette; ‘and if the letter has fallen into the well, it’s just like it’s been burned; and since the queen burns all her letters every time she comes—’”
“And so you see this lady who came every month was the queen,” said the prisoner.
“And so you see, the lady who came every month was the queen,” said the prisoner.
“‘Doubtless, doubtless,’ continued the old gentleman; ‘but this letter contained instructions—how can I follow them?’
“‘Of course, of course,’ the old man went on; ‘but this letter had instructions—how am I supposed to follow them?’”
“‘Write immediately to her; give her a plain account of the accident, and the queen will no doubt write you another letter in place of this.’
“‘Write to her right away; give her a straightforward explanation of the accident, and the queen will probably send you another letter instead of this one.’”
“‘Oh! the queen would never believe the story,’ said the good gentleman, shaking his head; ‘she will imagine that I want to keep this letter instead of giving it up like the rest, so as to have a hold over her. She is so distrustful, and M. de Mazarin so—Yon devil of an Italian is capable of having us poisoned at the first breath of suspicion.’”
“‘Oh! The queen would never believe that story,’ said the good gentleman, shaking his head. ‘She’ll think I want to keep this letter instead of handing it over like the others, to have some leverage over her. She’s so suspicious, and M. de Mazarin is so—That devil of an Italian could have us poisoned at the first hint of doubt.’”
Aramis almost imperceptibly smiled.
Aramis smiled faintly.
“‘You know, Dame Perronnette, they are both so suspicious in all that concerns Philippe.’
“‘You know, Dame Perronnette, they are both so wary about everything related to Philippe.’”
“Philippe was the name they gave me,” said the prisoner.
“Philippe was the name they gave me,” said the prisoner.
“‘Well, ‘tis no use hesitating,’ said Dame Perronnette, ‘somebody must go down the well.’
“‘Well, there’s no point in hesitating,’ said Dame Perronnette, ‘someone has to go down the well.’”
“‘Of course; so that the person who goes down may read the paper as he is coming up.’
“‘Of course; that way, the person who goes down can read the paper while coming up.’”
“‘But let us choose some villager who cannot read, and then you will be at ease.’
“‘But let’s choose a villager who can’t read, and then you’ll feel relaxed.’”
“‘Granted; but will not any one who descends guess that a paper must be important for which we risk a man’s life? However, you have given me an idea, Dame Perronnette; somebody shall go down the well, but that somebody shall be myself.’
“‘Okay; but won't anyone who goes down there figure that the paper must be important if we're risking a person's life? Anyway, you've inspired me, Dame Perronnette; someone will go down the well, and that someone will be me.’”
“But at this notion Dame Perronnette lamented and cried in such a manner, and so implored the old nobleman, with tears in her eyes, that he promised her to obtain a ladder long enough to reach down, while she went in search of some stout-hearted youth, whom she was to persuade that a jewel had fallen into the well, and that this jewel was wrapped in a paper. ‘And as paper,’ remarked my preceptor, ‘naturally unfolds in water, the young man would not be surprised at finding nothing, after all, but the letter wide open.’
“But at this idea, Dame Perronnette cried and begged in such a way, with tears in her eyes, that he promised her he would find a ladder long enough to reach down, while she looked for a brave young man, whom she would convince that a jewel had fallen into the well, and that this jewel was wrapped in paper. ‘And since paper,’ my teacher noted, ‘naturally unfolds in water, the young man wouldn't be shocked to find nothing, after all, but the letter wide open.’”
“‘But perhaps the writing will be already effaced by that time,’ said Dame Perronnette.
“‘But maybe the writing will be gone by then,’ said Dame Perronnette.”
“‘No consequence, provided we secure the letter. On returning it to the queen, she will see at once that we have not betrayed her; and consequently, as we shall not rouse the distrust of Mazarin, we shall have nothing to fear from him.’
“‘No worries, as long as we get the letter back. Once we return it to the queen, she’ll immediately see that we haven’t let her down; and because we won’t raise Mazarin’s suspicions, we won’t have anything to fear from him.’”
“Having come to this resolution, they parted. I pushed back the shutter, and, seeing that my tutor was about to re-enter, I threw myself on my couch, in a confusion of brain caused by all I had just heard. My governor opened the door a few moments after, and thinking I was asleep gently closed it again. As soon as ever it was shut, I rose, and, listening, heard the sound of retiring footsteps. Then I returned to the shutters, and saw my tutor and Dame Perronnette go out together. I was alone in the house. They had hardly closed the gate before I sprang from the window and ran to the well. Then, just as my governor had leaned over, so leaned I. Something white and luminous glistened in the green and quivering silence of the water. The brilliant disk fascinated and allured me; my eyes became fixed, and I could hardly breathe. The well seemed to draw me downwards with its slimy mouth and icy breath; and I thought I read, at the bottom of the water, characters of fire traced upon the letter the queen had touched. Then, scarcely knowing what I was about, and urged on by one of those instinctive impulses which drive men to destruction, I lowered the cord from the windlass of the well to within about three feet of the water, leaving the bucket dangling, at the same time taking infinite pains not to disturb that coveted letter, which was beginning to change its white tint for the hue of chrysoprase,—proof enough that it was sinking,—and then, with the rope weltering in my hands, slid down into the abyss. When I saw myself hanging over the dark pool, when I saw the sky lessening above my head, a cold shudder came over me, a chill fear got the better of me, I was seized with giddiness, and the hair rose on my head; but my strong will still reigned supreme over all the terror and disquietude. I gained the water, and at once plunged into it, holding on by one hand, while I immersed the other and seized the dear letter, which, alas! came in two in my grasp. I concealed the two fragments in my body-coat, and, helping myself with my feet against the sides of the pit, and clinging on with my hands, agile and vigorous as I was, and, above all, pressed for time, I regained the brink, drenching it as I touched it with the water that streamed off me. I was no sooner out of the well with my prize, than I rushed into the sunlight, and took refuge in a kind of shrubbery at the bottom of the garden. As I entered my hiding-place, the bell which resounded when the great gate was opened, rang. It was my preceptor come back again. I had but just time. I calculated that it would take ten minutes before he would gain my place of concealment, even if, guessing where I was, he came straight to it; and twenty if he were obliged to look for me. But this was time enough to allow me to read the cherished letter, whose fragments I hastened to unite again. The writing was already fading, but I managed to decipher it all.
“After making this decision, they went their separate ways. I pushed the shutter back, and seeing that my tutor was about to come in, I flopped down on my couch, my mind a jumble from everything I had just heard. A few moments later, my governor opened the door, and thinking I was asleep, gently closed it again. As soon as it was shut, I got up, and listening, heard the sound of footsteps leaving. Then I went back to the shutters and saw my tutor and Dame Perronnette leaving together. I was alone in the house. They had barely closed the gate when I jumped from the window and ran to the well. Just like my governor had leaned over, I leaned over too. Something white and shiny shimmered in the green, rippling calm of the water. The brilliant disk captivated and drew me in; my gaze locked onto it and I could barely breathe. The well seemed to pull me down with its slimy mouth and icy breath; I thought I saw glowing letters at the bottom of the water, written in fire, on the letter the queen had touched. Then, hardly aware of my actions, and driven by one of those instinctual urges that lead people to danger, I lowered the rope from the well's windlass to about three feet above the water, leaving the bucket hanging, while being extremely careful not to disturb that prized letter, which was starting to change from its white color to the hue of chrysoprase—clear evidence that it was sinking—and then, with the rope tangled in my hands, I slid into the abyss. When I found myself dangling over the dark pool, when I noticed the sky getting smaller above me, a cold shiver ran through me, a wave of fear washed over me, I felt dizzy, and my hair stood on end; but my strong will still held firm against all the terror and unease. I reached the water and immediately dove in, using one hand for support while I submerged my other hand and grabbed the precious letter, which, unfortunately, came apart in my grasp. I hid the two pieces in my coat, and aiding myself with my feet against the sides of the pit, and clinging on with my hands, agile and strong as I was, and, above all, pressed for time, I climbed back to the edge, soaking it with the water that dripped off me. No sooner had I emerged from the well with my prize than I dashed into the sunlight and took cover in a patch of shrubs at the bottom of the garden. As I entered my hiding spot, the bell rang, signaling the opening of the main gate. It was my teacher back again. I barely had enough time. I calculated that it would take him ten minutes to reach my hiding spot if he guessed where I was, and twenty if he had to search for me. But this was enough time for me to read the treasured letter, whose fragments I hurried to piece back together. The writing was already fading, but I managed to make out everything.”
“And will you tell me what you read therein, monseigneur?” asked Aramis, deeply interested.
"And can you tell me what you read in there, sir?" asked Aramis, very interested.
“Quite enough, monsieur, to see that my tutor was a man of noble rank, and that Perronnette, without being a lady of quality, was far better than a servant; and also to perceived that I must myself be high-born, since the queen, Anne of Austria, and Mazarin, the prime minister, commended me so earnestly to their care.” Here the young man paused, quite overcome.
“That's enough, sir, to see that my tutor was of noble birth, and that Perronnette, while not a lady of high status, was certainly better than a servant; and also to realize that I must come from a noble background, given how earnestly the queen, Anne of Austria, and Mazarin, the prime minister, recommended me to them.” Here the young man paused, completely overwhelmed.
“And what happened?” asked Aramis.
“And what happened?” Aramis asked.
“It happened, monsieur,” answered he, “that the workmen they had summoned found nothing in the well, after the closest search; that my governor perceived that the brink was all watery; that I was not so dried by the sun as to prevent Dame Perronnette spying that my garments were moist; and, lastly, that I was seized with a violent fever, owing to the chill and the excitement of my discovery, an attack of delirium supervening, during which I related the whole adventure; so that, guided by my avowal, my governor found the pieces of the queen’s letter inside the bolster where I had concealed them.”
“It happened, sir,” he replied, “that the workers they called found nothing in the well after the closest search; that my guardian noticed the edge was all wet; that I wasn’t so dried out by the sun that Dame Perronnette didn’t see my clothes were damp; and, finally, that I came down with a severe fever from the chill and the excitement of my discovery, leading to a bout of delirium during which I told the whole story; so that, guided by my confession, my guardian found the pieces of the queen’s letter inside the pillow where I had hidden them.”
“Ah!” said Aramis, “now I understand.”
“Ah!” said Aramis, “now I get it.”
“Beyond this, all is conjecture. Doubtless the unfortunate lady and gentleman, not daring to keep the occurrence secret, wrote of all this to the queen and sent back the torn letter.”
“Beyond this, everything is speculation. Surely the unfortunate lady and gentleman, not daring to keep the incident a secret, wrote to the queen about it and sent back the torn letter.”
“After which,” said Aramis, “you were arrested and removed to the Bastile.”
“After that,” said Aramis, “you were arrested and taken to the Bastille.”
“As you see.”
“As you can see.”
“Your two attendants disappeared?”
"Did your two attendants vanish?"
“Alas!”
"Wow!"
“Let us not take up our time with the dead, but see what can be done with the living. You told me you were resigned.”
“Let’s not waste our time on the past, but focus on what we can do with the present. You said you were ready to accept it.”
“I repeat it.”
“I'll say it again.”
“Without any desire for freedom?”
“Without any desire for freedom?”
“As I told you.”
"As I mentioned."
“Without ambition, sorrow, or thought?”
"Without ambition, sadness, or thought?"
The young man made no answer.
The guy didn’t respond.
“Well,” asked Aramis, “why are you silent?”
“Well,” asked Aramis, “why aren’t you talking?”
“I think I have spoken enough,” answered the prisoner, “and that now it is your turn. I am weary.”
“I think I’ve said enough,” the prisoner replied, “and now it’s your turn. I’m tired.”
Aramis gathered himself up, and a shade of deep solemnity spread itself over his countenance. It was evident that he had reached the crisis in the part he had come to the prison to play. “One question,” said Aramis.
Aramis composed himself, and a serious expression crossed his face. It was clear that he had reached a turning point in the role he had come to the prison to play. “One question,” Aramis said.
“What is it? speak.”
"What is it? Speak."
“In the house you inhabited there were neither looking-glasses nor mirrors?”
“In the house you lived in, were there no mirrors at all?”
“What are those two words, and what is their meaning?” asked the young man; “I have no sort of knowledge of them.”
“What are those two words, and what do they mean?” asked the young man. “I don't know anything about them.”
“They designate two pieces of furniture which reflect objects; so that, for instance, you may see in them your own lineaments, as you see mine now, with the naked eye.”
“They have two pieces of furniture that reflect objects, so you can see your own features in them, just like you can see mine now, with the naked eye.”
“No; there was neither a glass nor a mirror in the house,” answered the young man.
“No, there wasn’t a glass or a mirror in the house,” replied the young man.
Aramis looked round him. “Nor is there anything of the kind here, either,” he said; “they have again taken the same precaution.”
Aramis looked around. “And there's nothing like that here either,” he said; “they've taken the same precaution again.”
“To what end?”
"What's the goal?"
“You will know directly. Now, you have told me that you were instructed in mathematics, astronomy, fencing, and riding; but you have not said a word about history.”
"You'll figure it out for yourself. You mentioned that you were taught mathematics, astronomy, fencing, and riding, but you haven't mentioned anything about history."
“My tutor sometimes related to me the principal deeds of the king, St. Louis, King Francis I., and King Henry IV.”
“My tutor sometimes told me about the main accomplishments of King St. Louis, King Francis I, and King Henry IV.”
“Is that all?”
"Is that it?"
“Very nearly.”
"Almost."
“This also was done by design, then; just as they deprived you of mirrors, which reflect the present, so they left you in ignorance of history, which reflects the past. Since your imprisonment, books have been forbidden you; so that you are unacquainted with a number of facts, by means of which you would be able to reconstruct the shattered mansion of your recollections and your hopes.”
“This was intentional then; just as they took away your mirrors, which show the present, they also kept you unaware of history, which shows the past. Since you’ve been imprisoned, books have been banned for you; so you don't know many facts that could help you piece together the broken mansion of your memories and your dreams.”
“It is true,” said the young man.
“It’s true,” said the young man.
“Listen, then; I will in a few words tell you what has passed in France during the last twenty-three or twenty-four years; that is, from the probable date of your birth; in a word, from the time that interests you.”
“Listen, I’ll summarize what’s happened in France over the last twenty-three or twenty-four years; that is, since around the time you were born; in short, from when it matters to you.”
“Say on.” And the young man resumed his serious and attentive attitude.
“Go ahead.” And the young man took on a serious and focused demeanor again.
“Do you know who was the son of Henry IV.?”
“Do you know who Henry IV's son was?”
“At least I know who his successor was.”
“At least I know who took over after him.”
“How?”
“How so?”
“By means of a coin dated 1610, which bears the effigy of Henry IV.; and another of 1612, bearing that of Louis XIII. So I presumed that, there being only two years between the two dates, Louis was Henry’s successor.”
“Using a coin dated 1610 that features the image of Henry IV and another from 1612 with Louis XIII's image, I figured that since there are only two years between the two dates, Louis must have been Henry's successor.”
“Then,” said Aramis, “you know that the last reigning monarch was Louis XIII.?”
“Then,” said Aramis, “you know that the last reigning monarch was Louis XIII.?”
“I do,” answered the youth, slightly reddening.
“I do,” replied the young man, blushing slightly.
“Well, he was a prince full of noble ideas and great projects, always, alas! deferred by the trouble of the times and the dread struggle that his minister Richelieu had to maintain against the great nobles of France. The king himself was of a feeble character, and died young and unhappy.”
“Well, he was a prince brimming with noble ideas and ambitious plans, which were always, unfortunately, postponed due to the troubles of the times and the challenging conflicts that his minister Richelieu had to face against the powerful nobles of France. The king himself had a weak character and died young and unhappy.”
“I know it.”
“I've got it.”
“He had been long anxious about having a heir; a care which weighs heavily on princes, who desire to leave behind them more than one pledge that their best thoughts and works will be continued.”
"He had been worried for a long time about having an heir; a concern that weighs heavily on princes, who want to leave behind more than one assurance that their best ideas and accomplishments will carry on."
“Did the king, then, die childless?” asked the prisoner, smiling.
“Did the king die without any children?” asked the prisoner, smiling.
“No, but he was long without one, and for a long while thought he should be the last of his race. This idea had reduced him to the depths of despair, when suddenly, his wife, Anne of Austria—”
“No, but he went a long time without one, and for a long time he thought he would be the last of his family. This thought had plunged him into deep despair, when suddenly, his wife, Anne of Austria—”
The prisoner trembled.
The inmate trembled.
“Did you know,” said Aramis, “that Louis XIII.‘s wife was called Anne of Austria?”
“Did you know,” Aramis said, “that Louis XIII’s wife was named Anne of Austria?”
“Continue,” said the young man, without replying to the question.
“Go on,” said the young man, ignoring the question.
“When suddenly,” resumed Aramis, “the queen announced an interesting event. There was great joy at the intelligence, and all prayed for her happy delivery. On the 5th of September, 1638, she gave birth to a son.”
“Then suddenly,” Aramis continued, “the queen announced some exciting news. Everyone was really happy about it, and all prayed for her safe delivery. On September 5th, 1638, she gave birth to a son.”
Here Aramis looked at his companion, and thought he observed him turning pale. “You are about to hear,” said Aramis, “an account which few indeed could now avouch; for it refers to a secret which they imagined buried with the dead, entombed in the abyss of the confessional.”
Here, Aramis glanced at his companion and thought he saw him go pale. “You’re about to hear,” Aramis said, “a story that few could confirm now; it concerns a secret they believed was buried with the dead, locked away in the depths of the confessional.”
“And you will tell me this secret?” broke in the youth.
“And you’re going to share this secret with me?” interrupted the young man.
“Oh!” said Aramis, with unmistakable emphasis, “I do not know that I ought to risk this secret by intrusting it to one who has no desire to quit the Bastile.”
“Oh!” said Aramis, clearly emphasizing, “I’m not sure I should risk this secret by trusting it to someone who doesn’t want to leave the Bastille.”
“I hear you, monsieur.”
“I hear you, sir.”
“The queen, then, gave birth to a son. But while the court was rejoicing over the event, when the king had shown the new-born child to the nobility and people, and was sitting gayly down to table, to celebrate the event, the queen, who was alone in her room, was again taken ill and gave birth to a second son.”
“The queen then gave birth to a son. But while the court was celebrating the event, and the king had introduced the newborn to the nobles and the people, happily sitting down to a feast in celebration, the queen, alone in her room, fell ill again and gave birth to a second son.”
“Oh!” said the prisoner, betraying a better acquaintance with affairs than he had owned to, “I thought that Monsieur was only born in—”
“Oh!” said the prisoner, showing he knew more about things than he let on, “I thought that Monsieur was only born in—”
Aramis raised his finger; “Permit me to continue,” he said.
Aramis raised his finger. “Let me continue,” he said.
The prisoner sighed impatiently, and paused.
The prisoner let out an impatient sigh and stopped.
“Yes,” said Aramis, “the queen had a second son, whom Dame Perronnette, the midwife, received in her arms.”
“Yes,” said Aramis, “the queen had a second son, who was received in the arms of Dame Perronnette, the midwife.”
“Dame Perronnette!” murmured the young man.
“Lady Perronnette!” murmured the young man.
“They ran at once to the banqueting-room, and whispered to the king what had happened; he rose and quitted the table. But this time it was no longer happiness that his face expressed, but something akin to terror. The birth of twins changed into bitterness the joy to which that of an only son had given rise, seeing that in France (a fact you are assuredly ignorant of) it is the oldest of the king’s sons who succeeds his father.”
“They immediately rushed to the banquet hall and whispered to the king what had happened; he got up and left the table. But this time, his expression was no longer one of happiness but something close to terror. The birth of twins turned the joy that came from having an only son into bitterness, considering that in France (a fact you probably don’t know), it is the oldest son of the king who inherits the throne.”
“I know it.”
"I got it."
“And that the doctors and jurists assert that there is ground for doubting whether the son that first makes his appearance is the elder by the law of heaven and of nature.”
“And the doctors and legal experts claim that there is reason to doubt whether the son who appears first is actually the eldest according to the laws of heaven and nature.”
The prisoner uttered a smothered cry, and became whiter than the coverlet under which he hid himself.
The prisoner let out a muffled cry and went pale, even more than the blanket he was hiding under.
“Now you understand,” pursued Aramis, “that the king, who with so much pleasure saw himself repeated in one, was in despair about two; fearing that the second might dispute the first’s claim to seniority, which had been recognized only two hours before; and so this second son, relying on party interests and caprices, might one day sow discord and engender civil war throughout the kingdom; by these means destroying the very dynasty he should have strengthened.”
“Now you get it,” Aramis continued, “the king, who was so happy to see himself reflected in one, was really worried about two; fearing that the second might challenge the first’s claim to being the oldest, which had just been acknowledged two hours ago; and so this second son, counting on political interests and whims, could one day cause conflict and spark civil war across the kingdom; ultimately destroying the very dynasty he should have been supporting.”
“Oh, I understand!—I understand!” murmured the young man.
“Oh, I get it!—I get it!” whispered the young man.
“Well,” continued Aramis; “this is what they relate, what they declare; this is why one of the queen’s two sons, shamefully parted from his brother, shamefully sequestered, is buried in profound obscurity; this is why that second son has disappeared, and so completely, that not a soul in France, save his mother, is aware of his existence.”
"Well," Aramis went on, "this is what they say, what they claim; this is why one of the queen's two sons, shamefully separated from his brother, hidden away, is buried in complete obscurity; this is why that second son has vanished, so thoroughly that not a single person in France, except his mother, knows he exists."
“Yes! his mother, who has cast him off,” cried the prisoner in a tone of despair.
“Yeah! his mother, who has abandoned him,” yelled the prisoner in a voice full of despair.
“Except, also,” Aramis went on, “the lady in the black dress; and, finally, excepting—”
“Except, also,” Aramis continued, “the lady in the black dress; and, finally, excluding—”
“Excepting yourself—is it not? You who come and relate all this; you, who rouse in my soul curiosity, hatred, ambition, and, perhaps, even the thirst of vengeance; except you, monsieur, who, if you are the man to whom I expect, whom the note I have received applies to, whom, in short, Heaven ought to send me, must possess about you—”
“Except for you—isn’t that right? You who come and share all this; you, who stir up in my soul curiosity, hatred, ambition, and maybe even a desire for revenge; except for you, sir, who, if you are the person I’m expecting, the one the note I received refers to, who, in short, Heaven should send me, must have about you—”
“What?” asked Aramis.
“What?” Aramis asked.
“A portrait of the king, Louis XIV., who at this moment reigns upon the throne of France.”
“A portrait of the king, Louis XIV, who is currently reigning on the throne of France.”
“Here is the portrait,” replied the bishop, handing the prisoner a miniature in enamel, on which Louis was depicted life-like, with a handsome, lofty mien. The prisoner eagerly seized the portrait, and gazed at it with devouring eyes.
“Here’s the portrait,” said the bishop, giving the prisoner a miniature in enamel, where Louis was shown realistically, with an attractive, dignified look. The prisoner quickly grabbed the portrait and stared at it eagerly.
“And now, monseigneur,” said Aramis, “here is a mirror.” Aramis left the prisoner time to recover his ideas.
“And now, sir,” said Aramis, “here’s a mirror.” Aramis gave the prisoner a moment to gather his thoughts.
“So high!—so high!” murmured the young man, eagerly comparing the likeness of Louis with his own countenance reflected in the glass.
“So high!—so high!” the young man murmured, eagerly comparing Louis's likeness with his own face reflected in the glass.
“What do you think of it?” at length said Aramis.
“What do you think of it?” Aramis finally asked.
“I think that I am lost,” replied the captive; “the king will never set me free.”
“I think I'm lost,” replied the captive; “the king will never let me go.”
“And I—I demand to know,” added the bishop, fixing his piercing eyes significantly upon the prisoner, “I demand to know which of these two is king; the one this miniature portrays, or whom the glass reflects?”
“And I—I want to know,” the bishop said, locking his intense gaze on the prisoner, “I want to know which of these two is the king; the one in this miniature or the one in the reflection?”
“The king, monsieur,” sadly replied the young man, “is he who is on the throne, who is not in prison; and who, on the other hand, can cause others to be entombed there. Royalty means power; and you behold how powerless I am.”
“The king, sir,” the young man replied sadly, “is the one sitting on the throne, the one who isn’t in prison; and, on the flip side, who can put others in there. Royalty means power; and you can see how powerless I am.”
“Monseigneur,” answered Aramis, with a respect he had not yet manifested, “the king, mark me, will, if you desire it, be the one that, quitting his dungeon, shall maintain himself upon the throne, on which his friends will place him.”
“Your Excellency,” Aramis replied, showing a level of respect he hadn't yet displayed, “the king, believe me, will, if you want, be the one who, leaving his prison, will stay on the throne that his friends will secure for him.”
“Tempt me not, monsieur,” broke in the prisoner bitterly.
“Don't tempt me, sir,” the prisoner interrupted bitterly.
“Be not weak, monseigneur,” persisted Aramis; “I have brought you all the proofs of your birth; consult them; satisfy yourself that you are a king’s son; it is for us to act.”
“Don’t be weak, monseigneur,” Aramis insisted; “I’ve brought you all the evidence of your birth; look them over; convince yourself that you are a king’s son; it’s up to us to take action.”
“No, no; it is impossible.”
“No way; that’s not happening.”
“Unless, indeed,” resumed the bishop ironically, “it be the destiny of your race, that the brothers excluded from the throne should be always princes void of courage and honesty, as was your uncle, M. Gaston d’Orleans, who ten times conspired against his brother Louis XIII.”
“Unless, of course,” the bishop continued sarcastically, “it’s just your family’s fate that the brothers kept from the throne are always lacking in courage and integrity, like your uncle, M. Gaston d’Orleans, who conspired against his brother Louis XIII ten times.”
“What!” cried the prince, astonished; “my uncle Gaston ‘conspired against his brother’; conspired to dethrone him?”
“What!” exclaimed the prince, shocked. “My uncle Gaston ‘plotted against his brother’; plotted to take his throne?”
“Exactly, monseigneur; for no other reason. I tell you the truth.”
“Exactly, sir; for no other reason. I’m telling you the truth.”
“And he had friends—devoted friends?”
“And he had devoted friends?”
“As much so as I am to you.”
“As much as I am to you.”
“And, after all, what did he do?—Failed!”
“And, after all, what did he do?—Failed!”
“He failed, I admit; but always through his own fault; and, for the sake of purchasing—not his life—for the life of the king’s brother is sacred and inviolable—but his liberty, he sacrificed the lives of all his friends, one after another. And so, at this day, he is a very blot on history, the detestation of a hundred noble families in this kingdom.”
“He failed, I confess; but it was always because of his own mistakes; and, in an attempt to buy—not his life—since the life of the king’s brother is sacred and untouchable—but his freedom, he sacrificed the lives of all his friends, one by one. And so, to this day, he is a stain on history, hated by a hundred noble families in this kingdom.”
“I understand, monsieur; either by weakness or treachery, my uncle slew his friends.”
“I get it, sir; whether out of weakness or betrayal, my uncle killed his friends.”
“By weakness; which, in princes, is always treachery.”
"By weakness; which, in rulers, is always betrayal."
“And cannot a man fail, then, from incapacity and ignorance? Do you really believe it possible that a poor captive such as I, brought up, not only at a distance from the court, but even from the world—do you believe it possible that such a one could assist those of his friends who should attempt to serve him?” And as Aramis was about to reply, the young man suddenly cried out, with a violence which betrayed the temper of his blood, “We are speaking of friends; but how can I have any friends—I, whom no one knows; and have neither liberty, money, nor influence, to gain any?”
“And can't a man fail due to lack of ability and knowledge? Do you really think it’s possible for someone like me, a poor captive raised far from the court and even the world—do you think someone like me could help any of my friends who might try to assist me?” Just as Aramis was about to respond, the young man suddenly exclaimed, with a force that revealed his passionate nature, “We’re talking about friends; but how can I have any—I, who am unknown; and have no freedom, money, or influence to make any?”
“I fancy I had the honor to offer myself to your royal highness.”
"I believe I had the privilege to present myself to your royal highness."
“Oh, do not style me so, monsieur; ‘tis either treachery or cruelty. Bid me not think of aught beyond these prison-walls, which so grimly confine me; let me again love, or, at least, submit to my slavery and my obscurity.”
“Oh, don’t call me that, sir; it’s either betrayal or cruelty. Please don’t make me think of anything beyond these prison walls that confine me so harshly; let me love again, or at least accept my captivity and my obscurity.”
“Monseigneur, monseigneur; if you again utter these desperate words—if, after having received proof of your high birth, you still remain poor-spirited in body and soul, I will comply with your desire, I will depart, and renounce forever the service of a master, to whom so eagerly I came to devote my assistance and my life!”
“Your Excellency, Your Excellency; if you say those hopeless words again—if, after you've seen proof of your noble heritage, you continue to remain downcast in both body and spirit, I will do as you wish, I will leave, and I will give up forever the service of a master to whom I was so eager to dedicate my help and my life!”
“Monsieur,” cried the prince, “would it not have been better for you to have reflected, before telling me all that you have done, that you have broken my heart forever?”
“Sir,” said the prince, “wouldn’t it have been better for you to think twice before telling me everything you’ve done, knowing you’ve shattered my heart forever?”
“And so I desire to do, monseigneur.”
“And that's what I want to do, sir.”
“To talk to me about power, grandeur, eye, and to prate of thrones! Is a prison the fit place? You wish to make me believe in splendor, and we are lying lost in night; you boast of glory, and we are smothering our words in the curtains of this miserable bed; you give me glimpses of power absolute whilst I hear the footsteps of the every-watchful jailer in the corridor—that step which, after all, makes you tremble more than it does me. To render me somewhat less incredulous, free me from the Bastile; let me breathe the fresh air; give me my spurs and trusty sword, then we shall begin to understand each other.”
“To talk to me about power, greatness, vision, and to ramble on about thrones! Is a prison the right place for that? You want me to believe in splendor, while we’re lost in darkness; you brag about glory, and we’re stifling our words under the sheets of this wretched bed; you show me glimpses of absolute power while I hear the footsteps of the ever-watchful jailer in the hallway—that step which, ultimately, makes you more nervous than it does me. To make me a bit less skeptical, free me from the Bastille; let me breathe fresh air; give me my spurs and trusty sword, and then we can start to understand each other.”
“It is precisely my intention to give you all this, monseigneur, and more; only, do you desire it?”
“It’s exactly my intention to give you all of this, sir, and more; do you want it?”
“A word more,” said the prince. “I know there are guards in every gallery, bolts to every door, cannon and soldiery at every barrier. How will you overcome the sentries—spike the guns? How will you break through the bolts and bars?”
“A word more,” said the prince. “I know there are guards in every gallery, locks on every door, cannons and soldiers at every checkpoint. How are you planning to deal with the sentries—disable the guns? How will you get through the locks and barriers?”
“Monseigneur,—how did you get the note which announced my arrival to you?”
“Monseigneur, how did you receive the note about my arrival?”
“You can bribe a jailer for such a thing as a note.”
“You can pay off a jailer for something like a note.”
“If we can corrupt one turnkey, we can corrupt ten.”
“If we can corrupt one jailer, we can corrupt ten.”
“Well; I admit that it may be possible to release a poor captive from the Bastile; possible so to conceal him that the king’s people shall not again ensnare him; possible, in some unknown retreat, to sustain the unhappy wretch in some suitable manner.”
“Well, I admit that it might be possible to free a poor captive from the Bastille; possible to hide him so well that the king’s men can’t catch him again; possible, in some hidden place, to support the unfortunate person in a suitable way.”
“Monseigneur!” said Aramis, smiling.
“Sir!” said Aramis, smiling.
“I admit that, whoever would do this much for me, would seem more than mortal in my eyes; but as you tell me I am a prince, brother of the king, how can you restore me the rank and power which my mother and my brother have deprived me of? And as, to effect this, I must pass a life of war and hatred, how can you cause me to prevail in those combats—render me invulnerable by my enemies? Ah! monsieur, reflect on all this; place me, to-morrow, in some dark cavern at a mountain’s base; yield me the delight of hearing in freedom sounds of the river, plain and valley, of beholding in freedom the sun of the blue heavens, or the stormy sky, and it is enough. Promise me no more than this, for, indeed, more you cannot give, and it would be a crime to deceive me, since you call yourself my friend.”
“I admit that anyone who would do this much for me would seem more than human in my eyes; but since you say I’m a prince, a brother of the king, how can you restore the rank and power that my mother and brother have taken from me? And since achieving this would mean living a life of war and hatred, how can you help me win those battles—make me invulnerable to my enemies? Ah! Sir, think about all of this; place me tomorrow in some dark cave at the base of a mountain; let me enjoy the freedom of hearing the sounds of the river, the plain, and the valley, of seeing freely the sun in the blue sky or the stormy sky, and that will be enough. Promise me no more than this, because really, you can’t give more, and it would be wrong to deceive me, especially since you call yourself my friend.”
Aramis waited in silence. “Monseigneur,” he resumed, after a moment’s reflection, “I admire the firm, sound sense which dictates your words; I am happy to have discovered my monarch’s mind.”
Aramis waited quietly. “Your Excellency,” he continued, after a moment of thought, “I admire the solid, clear reasoning behind your words; I’m pleased to have understood my king’s thoughts.”
“Again, again! oh, God! for mercy’s sake,” cried the prince, pressing his icy hands upon his clammy brow, “do not play with me! I have no need to be a king to be the happiest of men.”
“Again, again! Oh, God! For mercy’s sake,” cried the prince, pressing his cold hands against his sweaty forehead, “please don’t toy with me! I don’t need to be a king to be the happiest man alive.”
“But I, monseigneur, wish you to be a king for the good of humanity.”
“But I, your grace, want you to be a king for the benefit of humanity.”
“Ah!” said the prince, with fresh distrust inspired by the word; “ah! with what, then, has humanity to reproach my brother?”
“Ah!” said the prince, feeling a new sense of distrust from the word; “ah! what does humanity have to blame my brother for?”
“I forgot to say, monseigneur, that if you would allow me to guide you, and if you consent to become the most powerful monarch in Christendom, you will have promoted the interests of all the friends whom I devote to the success of your cause, and these friends are numerous.”
“I forgot to mention, sir, that if you let me guide you, and if you agree to become the most powerful ruler in Christendom, you will have advanced the interests of all the supporters I have dedicated to the success of your cause, and these supporters are many.”
“Numerous?”
"Many?"
“Less numerous than powerful, monseigneur.”
"Fewer but stronger, monseigneur."
“Explain yourself.”
“Explain yourself.”
“It is impossible; I will explain, I swear before Heaven, on that day that I see you sitting on the throne of France.”
“It’s impossible; let me explain, I swear to God, on that day when I see you sitting on the throne of France.”
“But my brother?”
"But what about my brother?"
“You shall decree his fate. Do you pity him?”
"You will decide what happens to him. Do you feel sorry for him?"
“Him, who leaves me to perish in a dungeon? No, no. For him I have no pity!”
“Him, who lets me rot in a dungeon? No, no. I feel no pity for him!”
“So much the better.”
“Even better.”
“He might have himself come to this prison, have taken me by the hand, and have said, ‘My brother, Heaven created us to love, not to contend with one another. I come to you. A barbarous prejudice has condemned you to pass your days in obscurity, far from mankind, deprived of every joy. I will make you sit down beside me; I will buckle round your waist our father’s sword. Will you take advantage of this reconciliation to put down or restrain me? Will you employ that sword to spill my blood?’ ‘Oh! never,’ I would have replied to him, ‘I look on you as my preserver, I will respect you as my master. You give me far more than Heaven bestowed; for through you I possess liberty and the privilege of loving and being loved in this world.’”
“He could have come to this prison himself, taken my hand, and said, ‘My brother, Heaven made us to love each other, not to fight. I'm here for you. An unfair prejudice has condemned you to live in isolation, away from people, stripped of all joy. I will have you sit beside me; I will fasten our father's sword around your waist. Will you misuse this reconciliation to harm or control me? Will you use that sword against me?’ ‘Oh! never,’ I would have replied, ‘I see you as my savior, and I will honor you as my leader. You grant me so much more than Heaven ever did; through you, I have liberty and the chance to love and be loved in this world.’”
“And you would have kept your word, monseigneur?”
“And you would have kept your word, my lord?”
“On my life! While now—now that I have guilty ones to punish—”
“Honestly! Now that I have people to punish—”
“In what manner, monseigneur?”
“In what way, sir?”
“What do you say as to the resemblance that Heaven has given me to my brother?”
“What do you think about the resemblance that Heaven has given me to my brother?”
“I say that there was in that likeness a providential instruction which the king ought to have heeded; I say that your mother committed a crime in rendering those different in happiness and fortune whom nature created so startlingly alike, of her own flesh, and I conclude that the object of punishment should be only to restore the equilibrium.”
“I believe that there was an important lesson in that resemblance that the king should have paid attention to; I believe that your mother did wrong by making those who were so strikingly alike in nature, of her own flesh, suffer differently in happiness and fortune, and I conclude that the purpose of punishment should only be to restore balance.”
“By which you mean—”
"Are you saying that—"
“That if I restore you to your place on your brother’s throne, he shall take yours in prison.”
"That if I bring you back to your spot on your brother's throne, he will take your place in prison."
“Alas! there’s such infinity of suffering in prison, especially it would be so for one who has drunk so deeply of the cup of enjoyment.”
“Unfortunately, there’s such an endless amount of suffering in prison, especially for someone who has experienced so much enjoyment.”
“Your royal highness will always be free to act as you may desire; and if it seems good to you, after punishment, you will have it in your power to pardon.”
“Your royal highness will always have the freedom to act as you wish; and if you think it’s right, after punishment, you will have the ability to grant forgiveness.”
“Good. And now, are you aware of one thing, monsieur?”
“Good. So, do you know one thing, sir?”
“Tell me, my prince.”
"Tell me, my prince."
“It is that I will hear nothing further from you till I am clear of the Bastile.”
“It’s that I won’t hear anything more from you until I’m out of the Bastille.”
“I was going to say to your highness that I should only have the pleasure of seeing you once again.”
“I was going to tell you, your highness, that I would only have the pleasure of seeing you one more time.”
“And when?”
"And when will it be?"
“The day when my prince leaves these gloomy walls.”
“The day my prince leaves these dreary walls.”
“Heavens! how will you give me notice of it?”
“Heavens! How will you let me know about it?”
“By myself coming to fetch you.”
“I'm coming to get you myself.”
“Yourself?”
"Yourself?"
“My prince, do not leave this chamber save with me, or if in my absence you are compelled to do so, remember that I am not concerned in it.”
“My prince, don’t leave this room without me, and if you must do so in my absence, remember that I’m not involved in it.”
“And so I am not to speak a word of this to any one whatever, save to you?”
“And so I’m not supposed to tell anyone about this, except for you?”
“Save only to me.” Aramis bowed very low. The prince offered his hand.
“Save only for me.” Aramis bowed deeply. The prince extended his hand.
“Monsieur,” he said, in a tone that issued from his heart, “one word more, my last. If you have sought me for my destruction; if you are only a tool in the hands of my enemies; if from our conference, in which you have sounded the depths of my mind, anything worse than captivity result, that is to say, if death befall me, still receive my blessing, for you will have ended my troubles and given me repose from the tormenting fever that has preyed on me for eight long, weary years.”
“Monsieur,” he said, with sincerity in his voice, “I have one last thing to say. If you’ve come here to ruin me; if you’re just a pawn for my enemies; if our conversation, where you’ve probed my thoughts, leads to anything worse than imprisonment—meaning, if I end up dead—then still, accept my blessing, because you will have put an end to my suffering and given me peace from the tormenting pain that has haunted me for eight long, exhausting years.”
“Monseigneur, wait the results ere you judge me,” said Aramis.
“Monseigneur, wait for the results before you judge me,” said Aramis.
“I say that, in such a case, I bless and forgive you. If, on the other hand, you are come to restore me to that position in the sunshine of fortune and glory to which I was destined by Heaven; if by your means I am enabled to live in the memory of man, and confer luster on my race by deeds of valor, or by solid benefits bestowed upon my people; if, from my present depths of sorrow, aided by your generous hand, I raise myself to the very height of honor, then to you, whom I thank with blessings, to you will I offer half my power and my glory: though you would still be but partly recompensed, and your share must always remain incomplete, since I could not divide with you the happiness received at your hands.”
“I say that, in that case, I bless and forgive you. On the other hand, if you’ve come to help me regain the position in the light of fortune and glory that I was meant to have; if because of you, I can live on in people's memories and bring honor to my family through acts of bravery or by doing real good for my people; if, from my current state of sadness, with your generous help, I rise to the highest levels of honor, then to you, whom I thank with blessings, I will offer half of my power and glory: although you would still only be partially rewarded, and your share will always be incomplete, since I could never share with you the happiness that I receive because of you.”
“Monseigneur,” replied Aramis, moved by the pallor and excitement of the young man, “the nobleness of your heart fills me with joy and admiration. It is not you who will have to thank me, but rather the nation whom you will render happy, the posterity whose name you will make glorious. Yes; I shall indeed have bestowed upon you more than life, I shall have given you immortality.”
“Monseigneur,” Aramis replied, touched by the young man's pale face and excitement, “the greatness of your heart makes me feel joy and admiration. You won’t be the one thanking me; instead, it’s the nation you will make happy, and the future generations whose name you will honor. Yes; I will have given you more than just life; I will have given you immortality.”
The prince offered his hand to Aramis, who sank upon his knee and kissed it.
The prince extended his hand to Aramis, who knelt down and kissed it.
“It is the first act of homage paid to our future king,” said he. “When I see you again, I shall say, ‘Good day, sire.’”
“It’s the first act of respect for our future king,” he said. “When I see you again, I’ll say, ‘Good day, sir.’”
“Till then,” said the young man, pressing his wan and wasted fingers over his heart,—“till then, no more dreams, no more strain on my life—my heart would break! Oh, monsieur, how small is my prison—how low the window—how narrow are the doors! To think that so much pride, splendor, and happiness, should be able to enter in and to remain here!”
“Until then,” said the young man, pressing his pale and frail fingers over his heart, “until then, no more dreams, no more strain on my life—my heart would shatter! Oh, sir, how tiny is my prison—how low the window—how narrow are the doors! To think that so much pride, splendor, and happiness could enter and stay here!”
“Your royal highness makes me proud,” said Aramis, “since you infer it is I who brought all this.” And he rapped immediately on the door. The jailer came to open it with Baisemeaux, who, devoured by fear and uneasiness, was beginning, in spite of himself, to listen at the door. Happily, neither of the speakers had forgotten to smother his voice, even in the most passionate outbreaks.
“Your royal highness makes me proud,” Aramis said, “since you think it was me who brought all this.” And he knocked immediately on the door. The jailer came to open it with Baisemeaux, who, consumed by fear and anxiety, was starting, despite himself, to eavesdrop at the door. Fortunately, neither of the speakers had forgotten to keep their voices down, even in their most intense moments.
“What a confessor!” said the governor, forcing a laugh; “who would believe that a compulsory recluse, a man as though in the very jaws of death, could have committed crimes so numerous, and so long to tell of?”
“What a confessor!” said the governor, forcing a laugh; “who would believe that a mandatory recluse, a man who seems to be in the very jaws of death, could have committed so many crimes, and have such a long list of them?”
Aramis made no reply. He was eager to leave the Bastile, where the secret which overwhelmed him seemed to double the weight of the walls. As soon as they reached Baisemeaux’s quarters, “Let us proceed to business, my dear governor,” said Aramis.
Aramis didn't respond. He was anxious to get out of the Bastille, where the secret that weighed on him felt like it was pressing down on the walls. As soon as they arrived at Baisemeaux’s office, Aramis said, “Let’s get down to business, my dear governor.”
“Alas!” replied Baisemeaux.
“Alas!” replied Baisemeaux.
“You have to ask me for my receipt for one hundred and fifty thousand livres,” said the bishop.
"You need to ask me for my receipt for one hundred and fifty thousand livres," said the bishop.
“And to pay over the first third of the sum,” added the poor governor, with a sigh, taking three steps towards his iron strong-box.
“And to pay over the first third of the amount,” added the poor governor with a sigh, taking three steps toward his iron strongbox.
“Here is the receipt,” said Aramis.
“Here’s your receipt,” said Aramis.
“And here is the money,” returned Baisemeaux, with a threefold sigh.
“And here is the money,” Baisemeaux replied with a heavy sigh.
“The order instructed me only to give a receipt; it said nothing about receiving the money,” rejoined Aramis. “Adieu, monsieur le governeur!”
“The order told me just to give a receipt; it didn’t mention anything about taking the money,” Aramis replied. “Goodbye, monsieur le gouverneur!”
And he departed, leaving Baisemeaux almost more than stifled with joy and surprise at this regal present so liberally bestowed by the confessor extraordinary to the Bastile.
And he left, leaving Baisemeaux feeling almost overwhelmed with joy and surprise at this royal gift so generously given by the extraordinary confessor to the Bastille.
Chapter II. How Mouston Had Become Fatter without Giving Porthos Notice Thereof, and of the Troubles Which Consequently Befell that Worthy Gentleman.
Since the departure of Athos for Blois, Porthos and D’Artagnan were seldom together. One was occupied with harassing duties for the king, the other had been making many purchases of furniture which he intended to forward to his estate, and by aid of which he hoped to establish in his various residences something of the courtly luxury he had witnessed in all its dazzling brightness in his majesty’s society. D’Artagnan, ever faithful, one morning during an interval of service thought about Porthos, and being uneasy at not having heard anything of him for a fortnight, directed his steps towards his hotel, and pounced upon him just as he was getting up. The worthy baron had a pensive—nay, more than pensive—melancholy air. He was sitting on his bed, only half-dressed, and with legs dangling over the edge, contemplating a host of garments, which with their fringes, lace, embroidery, and slashes of ill-assorted hues, were strewed all over the floor. Porthos, sad and reflective as La Fontaine’s hare, did not observe D’Artagnan’s entrance, which was, moreover, screened at this moment by M. Mouston, whose personal corpulency, quite enough at any time to hide one man from another, was effectually doubled by a scarlet coat which the intendant was holding up for his master’s inspection, by the sleeves, that he might the better see it all over. D’Artagnan stopped at the threshold and looked in at the pensive Porthos and then, as the sight of the innumerable garments strewing the floor caused mighty sighs to heave the bosom of that excellent gentleman, D’Artagnan thought it time to put an end to these dismal reflections, and coughed by way of announcing himself.
Since Athos left for Blois, Porthos and D’Artagnan rarely saw each other. One was busy with demanding tasks for the king, while the other was making many furniture purchases that he planned to send to his estate, hoping to bring some of the courtly luxury he had enjoyed in the king’s company into his various homes. One morning, during a break from his duties, D’Artagnan thought about Porthos, and feeling uneasy for not having heard from him in two weeks, headed to his hotel and caught him just as he was getting up. The poor baron had a somber—no, more than somber—melancholy look. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, only partially dressed, with his legs hanging down, staring at a pile of clothes scattered all over the floor, adorned with fringes, lace, embroidery, and mismatched colors. Porthos, looking as sad and contemplative as La Fontaine's hare, didn’t notice D’Artagnan come in, especially since M. Mouston was momentarily blocking the entrance with his substantial frame, exacerbated by a scarlet coat he was holding up for Porthos to see better. D’Artagnan paused at the doorway, observing the gloomy Porthos, and as he noticed the countless garments strewn across the floor causing deep sighs from his friend, he decided it was time to break the heavy atmosphere and cleared his throat to announce himself.
“Ah!” exclaimed Porthos, whose countenance brightened with joy; “ah! ah! Here is D’Artagnan. I shall then get hold of an idea!”
“Ah!” exclaimed Porthos, whose face lit up with joy; “ah! ah! Here comes D’Artagnan. I’ve got an idea now!”
At these words Mouston, doubting what was going on behind him, got out of the way, smiling kindly at the friend of his master, who thus found himself freed from the material obstacle which had prevented his reaching D’Artagnan. Porthos made his sturdy knees crack again in rising, and crossing the room in two strides, found himself face to face with his friend, whom he folded to his breast with a force of affection that seemed to increase with every day. “Ah!” he repeated, “you are always welcome, dear friend; but just now you are more welcome than ever.”
At these words, Mouston, unsure of what was happening behind him, stepped aside, smiling warmly at his master’s friend, who was now free from the physical barrier that had kept him from reaching D’Artagnan. Porthos’s strong knees creaked as he stood up, and in just two strides, he was face to face with his friend, embracing him with a level of affection that seemed to grow stronger every day. “Ah!” he said repeatedly, “you are always welcome, dear friend; but right now, you are more welcome than ever.”
“But you seem to have the megrims here!” exclaimed D’Artagnan.
“But you seem to be in a bad mood here!” exclaimed D’Artagnan.
Porthos replied by a look expressive of dejection. “Well, then, tell me all about it, Porthos, my friend, unless it is a secret.”
Porthos responded with a look that showed his disappointment. “Alright, then, tell me everything about it, Porthos, my friend, unless it’s a secret.”
“In the first place,” returned Porthos, “you know I have no secrets from you. This, then, is what saddens me.”
“In the first place,” Porthos replied, “you know I have no secrets from you. So, this is what makes me sad.”
“Wait a minute, Porthos; let me first get rid of all this litter of satin and velvet!”
“Hold on a second, Porthos; let me clear away all this mess of satin and velvet first!”
“Oh, never mind,” said Porthos, contemptuously; “it is all trash.”
“Oh, forget it,” said Porthos, dismissively; “it’s all nonsense.”
“Trash, Porthos! Cloth at twenty-five livres an ell! gorgeous satin! regal velvet!”
“Trash, Porthos! Fabric at twenty-five livres per ell! beautiful satin! luxurious velvet!”
“Then you think these clothes are—”
“Then you think these clothes are—”
“Splendid, Porthos, splendid! I’ll wager that you alone in France have so many; and suppose you never had any more made, and were to live to be a hundred years of age, which wouldn’t astonish me in the very least, you could still wear a new dress the day of your death, without being obliged to see the nose of a single tailor from now till then.”
“Awesome, Porthos, awesome! I bet you're the only one in France with so many; and even if you never had any more made and lived to be a hundred, which honestly wouldn’t surprise me at all, you could still wear a new outfit on the day you die, without having to see the face of a single tailor from now until then.”
Porthos shook his head.
Porthos shook his head.
“Come, my friend,” said D’Artagnan, “this unnatural melancholy in you frightens me. My dear Porthos, pray get it out, then. And the sooner the better.”
“Come on, my friend,” said D’Artagnan, “this strange sadness you have is scaring me. My dear Porthos, please let it go, and the sooner the better.”
“Yes, my friend, so I will: if, indeed, it is possible.”
“Yes, my friend, I will do that: if it’s actually possible.”
“Perhaps you have received bad news from Bracieux?”
“Maybe you’ve gotten bad news from Bracieux?”
“No: they have felled the wood, and it has yielded a third more than the estimate.”
“No: they have cut down the forest, and it has produced a third more than expected.”
“Then there has been a falling-off in the pools of Pierrefonds?”
“Has there been a decline in the pools of Pierrefonds?”
“No, my friend: they have been fished, and there is enough left to stock all the pools in the neighborhood.”
“No, my friend: they have been caught, and there’s enough left to stock all the ponds in the area.”
“Perhaps your estate at Vallon has been destroyed by an earthquake?”
"Maybe your property at Vallon was destroyed by an earthquake?"
“No, my friend; on the contrary, the ground was struck with lightning a hundred paces from the chateau, and a fountain sprung up in a place entirely destitute of water.”
“No, my friend; on the contrary, lightning hit the ground a hundred paces from the chateau, and a fountain sprang up in a spot that had no water at all.”
“What in the world is the matter, then?”
“What in the world is the matter, then?”
“The fact is, I have received an invitation for the fete at Vaux,” said Porthos, with a lugubrious expression.
“The truth is, I got an invitation for the fete at Vaux,” said Porthos, looking very gloomy.
“Well! do you complain of that? The king has caused a hundred mortal heart-burnings among the courtiers by refusing invitations. And so, my dear friend, you are really going to Vaux?”
“Well! Are you really upset about that? The king has caused a hundred heartaches among the courtiers by turning down invites. So, my dear friend, you’re actually going to Vaux?”
“Indeed I am!”
“Absolutely, I am!”
“You will see a magnificent sight.”
“You're going to see an amazing sight.”
“Alas! I doubt it, though.”
"Unfortunately, I doubt it."
“Everything that is grand in France will be brought together there!”
“Everything that’s amazing in France will be gathered there!”
“Ah!” cried Porthos, tearing out a lock of hair in his despair.
“Ah!” shouted Porthos, ripping out a handful of his hair in his despair.
“Eh! good heavens, are you ill?” cried D’Artagnan.
“Hey! Good heavens, are you okay?” cried D’Artagnan.
“I am as firm as the Pont-Neuf! It isn’t that.”
“I’m as solid as the Pont-Neuf! That’s not it.”
“But what is it, then?”
“But what is it?”
“‘Tis that I have no clothes!”
“It's that I have no clothes!”
D’Artagnan stood petrified. “No clothes! Porthos, no clothes!” he cried, “when I see at least fifty suits on the floor.”
D’Artagnan stood frozen. “No clothes! Porthos, no clothes!” he exclaimed, “when I see at least fifty outfits on the floor.”
“Fifty, truly; but not one which fits me!”
“Fifty, for sure; but not a single one that suits me!”
“What? not one that fits you? But are you not measured, then, when you give an order?”
“What? Not one that fits you? But aren’t you measured when you place an order?”
“To be sure he is,” answered Mouston; “but unfortunately I have gotten stouter!”
“To be sure he is,” answered Mouston; “but unfortunately I have gotten thicker!”
“What! you stouter!”
“What! you heavier!”
“So much so that I am now bigger than the baron. Would you believe it, monsieur?”
“So much so that I’m now taller than the baron. Can you believe it, sir?”
“Parbleu! it seems to me that is quite evident.”
“Wow! it seems to me that is quite obvious.”
“Do you see, stupid?” said Porthos, “that is quite evident!”
“Do you see, you idiot?” said Porthos, “that is pretty obvious!”
“Be still, my dear Porthos,” resumed D’Artagnan, becoming slightly impatient, “I don’t understand why your clothes should not fit you, because Mouston has grown stouter.”
“Calm down, my dear Porthos,” D’Artagnan continued, becoming a bit impatient, “I don’t understand why your clothes shouldn’t fit you just because Mouston has gotten heavier.”
“I am going to explain it,” said Porthos. “You remember having related to me the story of the Roman general Antony, who had always seven wild boars kept roasting, each cooked up to a different point; so that he might be able to have his dinner at any time of the day he chose to ask for it. Well, then, I resolved, as at any time I might be invited to court to spend a week, I resolved to have always seven suits ready for the occasion.”
“I’m going to explain it,” said Porthos. “You remember telling me the story about the Roman general Antony, who always had seven wild boars roasting, each cooked to a different level, so he could have dinner whenever he wanted. Well, I decided that since I could be called to court at any time to spend a week there, I would always have seven suits ready for the occasion.”
“Capitally reasoned, Porthos—only a man must have a fortune like yours to gratify such whims. Without counting the time lost in being measured, the fashions are always changing.”
“Absolutely right, Porthos—only someone with a fortune like yours can afford such indulgences. Not to mention the time wasted getting fitted, styles are always changing.”
“That is exactly the point,” said Porthos, “in regard to which I flattered myself I had hit on a very ingenious device.”
“That’s exactly it,” said Porthos, “and I thought I had come up with a really clever idea.”
“Tell me what it is; for I don’t doubt your genius.”
“Tell me what it is; I have no doubt about your talent.”
“You remember what Mouston once was, then?”
“You remember what Mouston used to be like, right?”
“Yes; when he used to call himself Mousqueton.”
“Yes; when he used to call himself Mousqueton.”
“And you remember, too, the period when he began to grow fatter?”
“And you remember, too, the time when he started getting fatter?”
“No, not exactly. I beg your pardon, my good Mouston.”
“No, not really. I’m sorry, my good Mouston.”
“Oh! you are not in fault, monsieur,” said Mouston, graciously. “You were in Paris, and as for us, we were at Pierrefonds.”
“Oh! You're not at fault, sir,” said Mouston, graciously. “You were in Paris, and as for us, we were at Pierrefonds.”
“Well, well, my dear Porthos; there was a time when Mouston began to grow fat. Is that what you wished to say?”
“Well, well, my dear Porthos; there was a time when Mouston started to get chubby. Is that what you meant to say?”
“Yes, my friend; and I greatly rejoice over the period.”
“Yes, my friend; and I’m really happy about this time.”
“Indeed, I believe you do,” exclaimed D’Artagnan.
“Yeah, I really think you do,” D’Artagnan said.
“You understand,” continued Porthos, “what a world of trouble it spared for me.”
“You see,” Porthos continued, “how much trouble it saved me.”
“No, I don’t—by any means.”
“No, I definitely don’t.”
“Look here, my friend. In the first place, as you have said, to be measured is a loss of time, even though it occur only once a fortnight. And then, one may be travelling; and then you wish to have seven suits always with you. In short, I have a horror of letting any one take my measure. Confound it! either one is a nobleman or not. To be scrutinized and scanned by a fellow who completely analyzes you, by inch and line—‘tis degrading! Here, they find you too hollow; there, too prominent. They recognize your strong and weak points. See, now, when we leave the measurer’s hands, we are like those strongholds whose angles and different thicknesses have been ascertained by a spy.”
“Listen up, my friend. First of all, as you mentioned, getting measured is a waste of time, even if it only happens every two weeks. Plus, what if you’re traveling? You’d want to have seven suits with you at all times. Honestly, I can’t stand the thought of someone taking my measurements. It’s ridiculous! Either you’re a nobleman or you’re not. Being examined and scrutinized by someone who analyzes you down to the inch—it's humiliating! Here, they say you’re too hollow; there, they note you’re too prominent. They see your strengths and weaknesses. Look, when we leave the measurer, we’re like those fortresses whose angles and thicknesses have been mapped out by a spy.”
“In truth, my dear Porthos, you possess ideas entirely original.”
“In truth, my dear Porthos, you have completely original ideas.”
“Ah! you see when a man is an engineer—”
“Ah! you see when a guy is an engineer—”
“And has fortified Belle-Isle—‘tis natural, my friend.”
“And has strengthened Belle-Isle—it's only natural, my friend.”
“Well, I had an idea, which would doubtless have proved a good one, but for Mouston’s carelessness.”
“Well, I had an idea that would definitely have turned out to be a good one, if it weren’t for Mouston’s carelessness.”
D’Artagnan glanced at Mouston, who replied by a slight movement of his body, as if to say, “You will see whether I am at all to blame in all this.”
D’Artagnan looked over at Mouston, who responded with a small shift of his body, as if to say, “You’ll see if I’m to blame for any of this.”
“I congratulated myself, then,” resumed Porthos, “at seeing Mouston get fat; and I did all I could, by means of substantial feeding, to make him stout—always in the hope that he would come to equal myself in girth, and could then be measured in my stead.”
“I congratulated myself, then,” Porthos continued, “on seeing Mouston get fat; and I did everything I could, through generous feeding, to make him overweight—always hoping he would match my size, so he could be measured in my place.”
“Ah!” cried D’Artagnan. “I see—that spared you both time and humiliation.”
“Ah!” cried D’Artagnan. “I see—that saved you both time and embarrassment.”
“Consider my joy when, after a year and a half’s judicious feeding—for I used to feed him up myself—the fellow—”
“Think about my joy when, after a year and a half of careful feeding—since I used to feed him myself—the guy—”
“Oh! I lent a good hand myself, monsieur,” said Mouston, humbly.
“Oh! I helped a lot myself, sir,” said Mouston, modestly.
“That’s true. Consider my joy when, one morning, I perceived Mouston was obliged to squeeze in, as I once did myself, to get through the little secret door that those fools of architects had made in the chamber of the late Madame du Vallon, in the chateau of Pierrefonds. And, by the way, about that door, my friend, I should like to ask you, who know everything, why these wretches of architects, who ought to have the compasses run into them, just to remind them, came to make doorways through which nobody but thin people can pass?”
"That's true. Just think about my happiness when, one morning, I saw that Mouston had to squeeze through, just like I once did, to get through the little secret door that those foolish architects made in the room of the late Madame du Vallon at the chateau of Pierrefonds. And by the way, my friend, since you know everything, I want to ask you about that door: why did those terrible architects, who really should have compasses stuck in them as a reminder, create doorways that only skinny people can fit through?"
“Oh, those doors,” answered D’Artagnan, “were meant for gallants, and they have generally slight and slender figures.”
“Oh, those doors,” replied D’Artagnan, “were made for gentlemen, and they usually have slender and graceful figures.”
“Madame du Vallon had no gallant!” answered Porthos, majestically.
“Madame du Vallon had no suitor!” replied Porthos, grandly.
“Perfectly true, my friend,” resumed D’Artagnan; “but the architects were probably making their calculations on a basis of the probability of your marrying again.”
“Exactly right, my friend,” D’Artagnan continued; “but the architects were probably basing their calculations on the likelihood of you getting married again.”
“Ah! that is possible,” said Porthos. “And now I have received an explanation of how it is that doorways are made too narrow, let us return to the subject of Mouston’s fatness. But see how the two things apply to each other. I have always noticed that people’s ideas run parallel. And so, observe this phenomenon, D’Artagnan. I was talking to you of Mouston, who is fat, and it led us on to Madame du Vallon—”
“Ah! that makes sense,” said Porthos. “Now that I understand why doorways are too narrow, let’s get back to the topic of Mouston’s weight. But look at how these two things are connected. I've always noticed that people’s thoughts run in parallel. So, check this out, D’Artagnan. I was just telling you about Mouston, who is overweight, and that brought us to Madame du Vallon—”
“Who was thin?”
"Who was slim?"
“Hum! Is it not marvelous?”
"Wow! Isn't it marvelous?"
“My dear friend, a savant of my acquaintance, M. Costar, has made the same observation as you have, and he calls the process by some Greek name which I forget.”
"My dear friend, a genius I know, M. Costar, has noticed the same thing you have, and he refers to the process using some Greek term that I can’t remember."
“What! my remark is not then original?” cried Porthos, astounded. “I thought I was the discoverer.”
“What! My comment isn't original?” Porthos exclaimed, shocked. “I thought I was the one who discovered it.”
“My friend, the fact was known before Aristotle’s days—that is to say, nearly two thousand years ago.”
“My friend, this fact was known long before Aristotle’s time—that is to say, nearly two thousand years ago.”
“Well, well, ‘tis no less true,” said Porthos, delighted at the idea of having jumped to a conclusion so closely in agreement with the greatest sages of antiquity.
“Well, well, it’s still true,” said Porthos, thrilled at the thought of having reached a conclusion so closely aligned with the greatest thinkers of the past.
“Wonderfully—but suppose we return to Mouston. It seems to me, we have left him fattening under our very eyes.”
“Wonderfully—but let’s go back to Mouston. It seems to me that we’ve left him getting fat right before our eyes.”
“Yes, monsieur,” said Mouston.
“Yes, sir,” said Mouston.
“Well,” said Porthos, “Mouston fattened so well, that he gratified all my hopes, by reaching my standard; a fact of which I was well able to convince myself, by seeing the rascal, one day, in a waistcoat of mine, which he had turned into a coat—a waistcoat, the mere embroidery of which was worth a hundred pistoles.”
“Well,” said Porthos, “Mouston got so plump that he met all my expectations by reaching my size; I realized this for myself when I saw the scoundrel one day wearing one of my waistcoats, which he had turned into a coat—a waistcoat whose embroidery alone was worth a hundred pistoles.”
“‘Twas only to try it on, monsieur,” said Mouston.
“Just trying it on, sir,” said Mouston.
“From that moment I determined to put Mouston in communication with my tailors, and to have him measured instead of myself.”
“From that moment, I decided to connect Mouston with my tailors and have him measured instead of me.”
“A capital idea, Porthos; but Mouston is a foot and a half shorter than you.”
“A great idea, Porthos; but Mouston is a foot and a half shorter than you.”
“Exactly! They measured him down to the ground, and the end of the skirt came just below my knee.”
“Totally! They measured him right to the ground, and the end of the skirt hit just below my knee.”
“What a marvelous man you are, Porthos! Such a thing could happen only to you.”
“What an amazing guy you are, Porthos! Something like that could only happen to you.”
“Ah! yes; pay your compliments; you have ample grounds to go upon. It was exactly at that time—that is to say, nearly two years and a half ago—that I set out for Belle-Isle, instructing Mouston (so as always to have, in every event, a pattern of every fashion) to have a coat made for himself every month.”
“Ah! yes; give your compliments; you have plenty of reasons to do so. It was exactly around that time—almost two and a half years ago—that I left for Belle-Isle, telling Mouston (so I would always have, no matter what, a sample of every style) to get a coat made for himself every month.”
“And did Mouston neglect complying with your instructions? Ah! that was anything but right, Mouston.”
“And did Mouston ignore your instructions? Ah! that was definitely not right, Mouston.”
“No, monsieur, quite the contrary; quite the contrary!”
“No, sir, just the opposite; just the opposite!”
“No, he never forgot to have his coats made; but he forgot to inform me that he had got stouter!”
“No, he always made sure to get his coats tailored; but he forgot to tell me that he had gotten a bit heavier!”
“But it was not my fault, monsieur! your tailor never told me.”
“But it wasn’t my fault, sir! Your tailor never informed me.”
“And this to such an extent, monsieur,” continued Porthos, “that the fellow in two years has gained eighteen inches in girth, and so my last dozen coats are all too large, from a foot to a foot and a half.”
“And this to such an extent, man,” continued Porthos, “that the guy in two years has gained eighteen inches in girth, and so my last dozen coats are all too large, from a foot to a foot and a half.”
“But the rest; those which were made when you were of the same size?”
“But what about the others; the ones made when you were the same size?”
“They are no longer the fashion, my dear friend. Were I to put them on, I should look like a fresh arrival from Siam; and as though I had been two years away from court.”
“They're out of style now, my dear friend. If I were to wear them, I would look like I just arrived from Siam and had been away from court for two years.”
“I understand your difficulty. You have how many new suits? nine? thirty-six? and yet not one to wear. Well, you must have a thirty-seventh made, and give the thirty-six to Mouston.”
“I get your struggle. You have how many new suits? Nine? Thirty-six? And yet not one to wear. Well, you need to get a thirty-seventh made, and give the thirty-six to Mouston.”
“Ah! monsieur!” said Mouston, with a gratified air. “The truth is, that monsieur has always been very generous to me.”
“Ah! sir!” said Mouston, looking pleased. “The truth is, you have always been very generous to me.”
“Do you mean to insinuate that I hadn’t that idea, or that I was deterred by the expense? But it wants only two days to the fete; I received the invitation yesterday; made Mouston post hither with my wardrobe, and only this morning discovered my misfortune; and from now till the day after to-morrow, there isn’t a single fashionable tailor who will undertake to make me a suit.”
“Are you suggesting that I didn't have that idea, or that I was put off by the cost? But there are only two days left until the fete; I got the invitation yesterday; I had Mouston rush over with my wardrobe, and just this morning I realized my problem; and from now until the day after tomorrow, there isn’t a single trendy tailor who will agree to make me a suit.”
“That is to say, one covered all over with gold, isn’t it?”
"That means someone who is completely covered in gold, right?"
“I wish it so! undoubtedly, all over.”
“I want it to be that way! Definitely, everywhere.”
“Oh, we shall manage it. You won’t leave for three days. The invitations are for Wednesday, and this is only Sunday morning.”
“Oh, we’ll handle it. You’re not leaving for three days. The invitations are for Wednesday, and it’s only Sunday morning.”
“‘Tis true; but Aramis has strongly advised me to be at Vaux twenty-four hours beforehand.”
“It's true; but Aramis has strongly advised me to be at Vaux twenty-four hours early.”
“How, Aramis?”
"How, Aramis?"
“Yes, it was Aramis who brought me the invitation.”
“Yes, it was Aramis who brought me the invite.”
“Ah! to be sure, I see. You are invited on the part of M. Fouquet?”
“Ah! I see. You’re here on behalf of M. Fouquet?”
“By no means! by the king, dear friend. The letter bears the following as large as life: ‘M. le Baron du Vallon is informed that the king has condescended to place him on the invitation list—‘”
“Absolutely not! by the king, my dear friend. The letter clearly states: ‘M. le Baron du Vallon is informed that the king has graciously added him to the invitation list—‘”
“Very good; but you leave with M. Fouquet?”
"Very good; but are you leaving with M. Fouquet?"
“And when I think,” cried Porthos, stamping on the floor, “when I think I shall have no clothes, I am ready to burst with rage! I should like to strangle somebody or smash something!”
“And when I think,” yelled Porthos, stomping on the floor, “when I think I won’t have any clothes, I’m about to explode with anger! I want to strangle someone or break something!”
“Neither strangle anybody nor smash anything, Porthos; I will manage it all; put on one of your thirty-six suits, and come with me to a tailor.”
“Don’t strangle anyone or break anything, Porthos; I’ll take care of everything. Put on one of your thirty-six outfits and come with me to a tailor.”
“Pooh! my agent has seen them all this morning.”
“Pooh! My agent saw them all this morning.”
“Even M. Percerin?”
"Even Mr. Percerin?"
“Who is M. Percerin?”
"Who is M. Percerin?"
“Oh! only the king’s tailor!”
“Oh! just the king’s tailor!”
“Oh, ah, yes,” said Porthos, who wished to appear to know the king’s tailor, but now heard his name mentioned for the first time; “to M. Percerin’s, by Jove! I was afraid he would be too busy.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Porthos, trying to sound like he knew the king’s tailor, but hearing his name for the first time; “to M. Percerin’s, wow! I was worried he’d be too busy.”
“Doubtless he will be; but be at ease, Porthos; he will do for me what he wouldn’t do for another. Only you must allow yourself to be measured!”
“Of course he will be; but don’t worry, Porthos; he’ll do for me what he wouldn’t do for anyone else. Just make sure you let yourself be measured!”
“Ah!” said Porthos, with a sigh, “‘tis vexatious, but what would you have me do?”
“Ah!” said Porthos with a sigh, “It’s annoying, but what do you want me to do?”
“Do? As others do; as the king does.”
“Do? Like everyone else; like the king does.”
“What! do they measure the king, too? does he put up with it?”
“What! Do they measure the king, too? Does he put up with it?”
“The king is a beau, my good friend, and so are you, too, whatever you may say about it.”
"The king is a charmer, my good friend, and so are you, no matter what you say."
Porthos smiled triumphantly. “Let us go to the king’s tailor,” he said; “and since he measures the king, I think, by my faith, I may do worse than allow him to measure me!”
Porthos smiled with satisfaction. “Let’s go to the king’s tailor,” he said; “and since he measures the king, I believe, honestly, that I could do worse than let him measure me!”
Chapter III. Who Messire Jean Percerin Was.
The king’s tailor, Messire Jean Percerin, occupied a rather large house in the Rue St. Honore, near the Rue de l’Arbre Sec. He was a man of great taste in elegant stuffs, embroideries, and velvets, being hereditary tailor to the king. The preferment of his house reached as far back as the time of Charles IX.; from whose reign dated, as we know, fancy in bravery difficult enough to gratify. The Percerin of that period was a Huguenot, like Ambrose Pare, and had been spared by the Queen of Navarre, the beautiful Margot, as they used to write and say, too, in those days; because, in sooth, he was the only one who could make for her those wonderful riding-habits which she so loved to wear, seeing that they were marvelously well suited to hide certain anatomical defects, which the Queen of Navarre used very studiously to conceal. Percerin being saved, made, out of gratitude, some beautiful black bodices, very inexpensively indeed, for Queen Catherine, who ended by being pleased at the preservation of a Huguenot people, on whom she had long looked with detestation. But Percerin was a very prudent man; and having heard it said that there was no more dangerous sign for a Protestant than to be smiled up on by Catherine, and having observed that her smiles were more frequent than usual, he speedily turned Catholic with all his family; and having thus become irreproachable, attained the lofty position of master tailor to the Crown of France. Under Henry III., gay king as he was, this position was as grand as the height of one of the loftiest peaks of the Cordilleras. Now Percerin had been a clever man all his life, and by way of keeping up his reputation beyond the grave, took very good care not to make a bad death of it, and so contrived to die very skillfully; and that at the very moment he felt his powers of invention declining. He left a son and a daughter, both worthy of the name they were called upon to bear; the son, a cutter as unerring and exact as the square rule; the daughter, apt at embroidery, and at designing ornaments. The marriage of Henry IV. and Marie de Medici, and the exquisite court-mourning for the afore-mentioned queen, together with a few words let fall by M. de Bassompiere, king of the beaux of the period, made the fortune of the second generation of Percerins. M. Concino Concini, and his wife Galligai, who subsequently shone at the French court, sought to Italianize the fashion, and introduced some Florentine tailors; but Percerin, touched to the quick in his patriotism and his self-esteem, entirely defeated these foreigners, and that so well that Concino was the first to give up his compatriots, and held the French tailor in such esteem that he would never employ any other, and thus wore a doublet of his on the very day that Vitry blew out his brains with a pistol at the Pont du Louvre.
The king’s tailor, Messire Jean Percerin, lived in a pretty big house on Rue St. Honore, close to Rue de l’Arbre Sec. He had a great sense of style when it came to fabrics, embroideries, and velvets, being the hereditary tailor to the king. His family's connection to the crown went back to the reign of Charles IX.; which, as we know, sparked a taste for elaborate fashion that was hard to satisfy. The Percerin from that time was a Huguenot, like Ambrose Pare, and had been spared by the Queen of Navarre, the lovely Margot, as they used to say back then; because, truthfully, he was the only one who could make those amazing riding outfits she loved to wear, as they cleverly concealed certain physical flaws that the Queen of Navarre was very keen on hiding. In gratitude for his rescue, Percerin made some beautiful black bodices for Queen Catherine at a very low cost, which pleased her since she had long held a disdain for the Huguenot people. But Percerin was quite wise; he had heard that it was dangerous for a Protestant to be favored by Catherine and noticed that her smiles were becoming more frequent, so he quickly converted to Catholicism with his entire family; thus becoming irreproachable and securing a prestigious position as master tailor to the Crown of France. Under Henry III, who was quite the lively king, this role was as prestigious as the highest peaks of the Cordilleras. Percerin had been a clever man throughout his life, and to maintain his good name after death, he made sure to leave this world skillfully, timing his death just as he sensed his creative abilities waning. He left behind a son and a daughter, both living up to the family name; the son was a precise cutter, sharp as a ruler, while the daughter excelled at embroidery and design. The marriage of Henry IV and Marie de Medici, along with the beautiful court mourning for the aforementioned queen, along with a few comments from M. de Bassompiere, the king of style at that time, helped the second generation of Percerins thrive. M. Concino Concini and his wife Galligai, who later stood out at the French court, aimed to introduce Italian fashion and brought in some Florentine tailors; however, Percerin, feeling challenged in his pride and patriotism, outperformed these foreigners so well that Concino was the first to abandon his fellow countrymen. He held the French tailor in such high regard that he would never hire anyone else and even wore one of his doublets on the day that Vitry shot him at the Pont du Louvre.
And so it was a doublet issuing from M. Percerin’s workshop, which the Parisians rejoiced in hacking into so many pieces with the living human body it contained. Notwithstanding the favor Concino Concini had shown Percerin, the king, Louis XIII., had the generosity to bear no malice to his tailor, and to retain him in his service. At the time that Louis the Just afforded this great example of equity, Percerin had brought up two sons, one of whom made his debut at the marriage of Anne of Austria, invented that admirable Spanish costume, in which Richelieu danced a saraband, made the costumes for the tragedy of “Mirame,” and stitched on to Buckingham’s mantle those famous pearls which were destined to be scattered about the pavements of the Louvre. A man becomes easily notable who has made the dresses of a Duke of Buckingham, a M. de Cinq-Mars, a Mademoiselle Ninon, a M. de Beaufort, and a Marion de Lorme. And thus Percerin the third had attained the summit of his glory when his father died. This same Percerin III., old, famous and wealthy, yet further dressed Louis XIV.; and having no son, which was a great cause of sorrow to him, seeing that with himself his dynasty would end, he had brought up several hopeful pupils. He possessed a carriage, a country house, men-servants the tallest in Paris; and by special authority from Louis XIV., a pack of hounds. He worked for MM. de Lyonne and Letellier, under a sort of patronage; but politic man as he was, and versed in state secrets, he never succeeded in fitting M. Colbert. This is beyond explanation; it is a matter for guessing or for intuition. Great geniuses of every kind live on unseen, intangible ideas; they act without themselves knowing why. The great Percerin (for, contrary to the rule of dynasties, it was, above all, the last of the Percerins who deserved the name of Great), the great Percerin was inspired when he cut a robe for the queen, or a coat for the king; he could mount a mantle for Monsieur, the clock of a stocking for Madame; but, in spite of his supreme talent, he could never hit off anything approaching a creditable fit for M. Colbert. “That man,” he used often to say, “is beyond my art; my needle can never dot him down.” We need scarcely say that Percerin was M. Fouquet’s tailor, and that the superintendent highly esteemed him. M. Percerin was nearly eighty years old, nevertheless still fresh, and at the same time so dry, the courtiers used to say, that he was positively brittle. His renown and his fortune were great enough for M. le Prince, that king of fops, to take his arm when talking over the fashions; and for those least eager to pay never to dare to leave their accounts in arrear with him; for Master Percerin would for the first time make clothes upon credit, but the second never, unless paid for the former order.
So, it was a doublet from M. Percerin’s workshop that the Parisians joyfully tore apart along with the living human body it was made for. Despite the favor Concino Concini had shown Percerin, King Louis XIII. generously held no grudge against his tailor and kept him in his service. At the time that Louis the Just set this great example of fairness, Percerin had raised two sons, one of whom made his debut at the marriage of Anne of Austria, created that remarkable Spanish outfit in which Richelieu danced a saraband, designed the costumes for the tragedy of “Mirame,” and added those famous pearls to Buckingham’s mantle that ended up scattered on the Louvre's pavements. A person becomes quite noteworthy when they’ve dressed a Duke of Buckingham, a M. de Cinq-Mars, a Mademoiselle Ninon, a M. de Beaufort, and a Marion de Lorme. Thus, Percerin the Third reached the peak of his fame when his father passed away. This same Percerin III, now old, famous, and wealthy, continued to dress Louis XIV.; and since he had no son—a great source of sadness for him, knowing his lineage would die with him—he raised several promising apprentices. He owned a carriage, a country house, the tallest male servants in Paris, and a pack of hounds by special permission from Louis XIV. He worked for MM. de Lyonne and Letellier, under a sort of patronage; yet, being a shrewd man familiar with state secrets, he never managed to fit M. Colbert. This is hard to explain; it’s something to guess or intuit. Great geniuses of every sort thrive on unseen, intangible ideas; they act without fully understanding why. The magnificent Percerin (for, breaking the usual dynasty rules, it was mainly the last of the Percerins who truly deserved the title of Great) was inspired when he crafted a gown for the queen or a coat for the king; he could design a mantle for Monsieur, the clock for a stocking for Madame; yet, despite his exceptional talent, he could never get anywhere near a decent fit for M. Colbert. “That man,” he often said, “is beyond my skills; my needle cannot capture him.” It goes without saying that Percerin was M. Fouquet’s tailor, and the superintendent held him in high regard. M. Percerin was nearly eighty years old but still vibrant, and the courtiers would say he was positively fragile. His fame and wealth were significant enough for M. le Prince, the ultimate trendsetter, to take his arm while discussing fashion; and those least keen to pay would never dare to fall behind on their bills with him because Master Percerin might make clothes on credit the first time, but never again without payment for the previous order.
It is easy to see at once that a tailor of such renown, instead of running after customers, made difficulties about obliging any fresh ones. And so Percerin declined to fit bourgeois, or those who had but recently obtained patents of nobility. A story used to circulate that even M. de Mazarin, in exchange for Percerin supplying him with a full suit of ceremonial vestments as cardinal, one fine day slipped letters of nobility into his pocket.
It's clear that a tailor of such fame, instead of chasing after new clients, created obstacles to avoid serving any newcomers. So, Percerin refused to fit in bourgeois or those who had only recently received noble titles. There was a story that even M. de Mazarin, in return for Percerin making him a complete set of ceremonial robes as a cardinal, one day secretly slipped nobility papers into his pocket.
It was to the house of this grand llama of tailors that D’Artagnan took the despairing Porthos; who, as they were going along, said to his friend, “Take care, my good D’Artagnan, not to compromise the dignity of a man such as I am with the arrogance of this Percerin, who will, I expect, be very impertinent; for I give you notice, my friend, that if he is wanting in respect I will infallibly chastise him.”
It was to the house of this famous tailor that D’Artagnan brought the upset Porthos; who, as they walked, said to his friend, “Watch out, my good D’Artagnan, don’t let this Percerin undermine the dignity of a man like me with his arrogance, because I expect he’ll be quite rude; just so you know, my friend, if he disrespects me, I will definitely take action.”
“Presented by me,” replied D’Artagnan, “you have nothing to fear, even though you were what you are not.”
“Presented by me,” replied D’Artagnan, “you have nothing to worry about, even if you were what you’re not.”
“Ah! ‘tis because—”
“Ah! It’s because—”
“What? Have you anything against Percerin, Porthos?”
“What? Do you have a problem with Percerin, Porthos?”
“I think that I once sent Mouston to a fellow of that name.”
“I think I once sent Mouston to a guy by that name.”
“And then?”
"What's next?"
“The fellow refused to supply me.”
“The guy refused to help me.”
“Oh, a misunderstanding, no doubt, which it will be now exceedingly easy to set right. Mouston must have made a mistake.”
“Oh, a misunderstanding for sure, which will be really easy to fix now. Mouston must have messed up.”
“Perhaps.”
"Maybe."
“He has confused the names.”
“He mixed up the names.”
“Possibly. That rascal Mouston never can remember names.”
“Maybe. That troublemaker Mouston can never remember names.”
“I will take it all upon myself.”
"I'll take care of it."
“Very good.”
“Awesome.”
“Stop the carriage, Porthos; here we are.”
“Stop the carriage, Porthos; we’re here.”
“Here! how here? We are at the Halles; and you told me the house was at the corner of the Rue de l’Arbre Sec.”
"Here! How are we here? We're at the Halles, and you told me the house was at the corner of Rue de l’Arbre Sec."
“‘Tis true, but look.”
"That's true, but look."
“Well, I do look, and I see—”
“Well, I do look, and I see—”
“What?”
"What?"
“Pardieu! that we are at the Halles!”
Wow! we’re at the Halles!
“You do not, I suppose, want our horses to clamber up on the roof of the carriage in front of us?”
“You don’t, I assume, want our horses to climb up on the roof of the carriage in front of us?”
“No.”
“Nope.”
“Nor the carriage in front of us to mount on top of the one in front of it. Nor that the second should be driven over the roofs of the thirty or forty others which have arrived before us.”
“Nor should the carriage in front of us be allowed to climb on top of the one ahead of it. Nor should the second be driven over the roofs of the thirty or forty others that arrived before us.”
“No, you are right, indeed. What a number of people! And what are they all about?”
“No, you’re right. Look at all these people! What’s going on with them?”
“‘Tis very simple. They are waiting their turn.”
“It's very simple. They are waiting for their turn.”
“Bah! Have the comedians of the Hotel de Bourgogne shifted their quarters?”
“Bah! Have the comedians from the Hotel de Bourgogne moved their location?”
“No; their turn to obtain an entrance to M. Percerin’s house.”
“No; it’s their turn to get into M. Percerin’s house.”
“And we are going to wait too?”
“And we’re going to wait as well?”
“Oh, we shall show ourselves prompter and not so proud.”
“Oh, we’ll be quicker to act and not act so high and mighty.”
“What are we to do, then?”
“What should we do now?”
“Get down, pass through the footmen and lackeys, and enter the tailor’s house, which I will answer for our doing, if you go first.”
“Get down, walk past the footmen and servants, and go into the tailor’s house, which I’ll take responsibility for if you go in first.”
“Come along, then,” said Porthos.
“Let’s go,” said Porthos.
They accordingly alighted and made their way on foot towards the establishment. The cause of the confusion was that M. Percerin’s doors were closed, while a servant, standing before them, was explaining to the illustrious customers of the illustrious tailor that just then M. Percerin could not receive anybody. It was bruited about outside still, on the authority of what the great lackey had told some great noble whom he favored, in confidence, that M. Percerin was engaged on five costumes for the king, and that, owing to the urgency of the case, he was meditating in his office on the ornaments, colors, and cut of these five suits. Some, contented with this reason, went away again, contented to repeat the tale to others, but others, more tenacious, insisted on having the doors opened, and among these last three Blue Ribbons, intended to take parts in a ballet, which would inevitably fail unless the said three had their costumes shaped by the very hand of the great Percerin himself. D’Artagnan, pushing on Porthos, who scattered the groups of people right and left, succeeded in gaining the counter, behind which the journeyman tailors were doing their best to answer queries. (We forgot to mention that at the door they wanted to put off Porthos like the rest, but D’Artagnan, showing himself, pronounced merely these words, “The king’s order,” and was let in with his friend.) The poor fellows had enough to do, and did their best, to reply to the demands of the customers in the absence of their master, leaving off drawing a stitch to knit a sentence; and when wounded pride, or disappointed expectation, brought down upon them too cutting a rebuke, he who was attacked made a dive and disappeared under the counter. The line of discontented lords formed a truly remarkable picture. Our captain of musketeers, a man of sure and rapid observation, took it all in at a glance; and having run over the groups, his eye rested on a man in front of him. This man, seated upon a stool, scarcely showed his head above the counter that sheltered him. He was about forty years of age, with a melancholy aspect, pale face, and soft luminous eyes. He was looking at D’Artagnan and the rest, with his chin resting upon his hand, like a calm and inquiring amateur. Only on perceiving, and doubtless recognizing, our captain, he pulled his hat down over his eyes. It was this action, perhaps, that attracted D’Artagnan’s attention. If so, the gentleman who had pulled down his hat produced an effect entirely different from what he had desired. In other respects his costume was plain, and his hair evenly cut enough for customers, who were not close observers, to take him for a mere tailor’s apprentice, perched behind the board, and carefully stitching cloth or velvet. Nevertheless, this man held up his head too often to be very productively employed with his fingers. D’Artagnan was not deceived,—not he; and he saw at once that if this man was working at anything, it certainly was not at velvet.
They got out and walked toward the shop on foot. The confusion was because M. Percerin’s doors were closed, and a servant was explaining to the important customers of the famous tailor that M. Percerin couldn’t see anyone right now. It was rumored outside, based on what the head servant had privately told a noble he favored, that M. Percerin was busy working on five costumes for the king and, because of the urgency, was focusing in his office on the details like the ornaments, colors, and designs of these suits. Some people, satisfied with this explanation, left happily to share the news with others, but others, more persistent, insisted on having the doors opened. Among them were three Blue Ribbons, who needed their costumes made by the great Percerin himself for a ballet that would inevitably fail without them. D’Artagnan, nudging Porthos, who pushed through the crowd, made it to the counter where the apprentice tailors were doing their best to answer inquiries. (We forgot to mention that at the entrance they tried to turn Porthos away like the others, but D’Artagnan simply said, “The king’s order,” and they were let in.) The poor guys had their hands full, trying to meet the customers' demands in their master’s absence, switching from sewing to crafting sentences, and whenever their wounded pride or disappointed hopes led to a sharp complaint, the attacked one would duck down and hide under the counter. The line of unhappy nobles created quite a scene. Our musketeer captain, sharp and quick to observe, took it all in at a glance; after scanning the groups, his gaze landed on a man in front of him. This man, seated on a stool, barely showed his head above the counter. He looked to be about forty, with a melancholic air, pale skin, and soft, luminous eyes. He was watching D’Artagnan and the others, resting his chin on his hand, like a calm and curious amateur. But when he noticed, and probably recognized, D’Artagnan, he pulled his hat down over his eyes. This action might have caught D’Artagnan’s attention. If so, the man’s attempt to hide achieved the opposite effect. In other respects, the man’s clothing was plain, and his hair cut just enough that casual onlookers could mistake him for a tailor's apprentice, carefully stitching cloth or velvet behind the counter. However, he raised his head too often to be actually focused on working with his hands. D’Artagnan wasn’t fooled—not at all; he recognized that if this man was working on anything, it certainly wasn’t velvet.
“Eh!” said he, addressing this man, “and so you have become a tailor’s boy, Monsieur Moliere!”
“Eh!” he said, speaking to the man, “so you’ve become a tailor’s boy, Monsieur Moliere!”
“Hush, M. d’Artagnan!” replied the man, softly, “you will make them recognize me.”
“Hush, M. d’Artagnan!” the man replied quietly, “you’ll make them recognize me.”
“Well, and what harm?”
"Well, what's the harm?"
“The fact is, there is no harm, but—”
“The fact is, there’s no harm, but—”
“You were going to say there is no good in doing it either, is it not so?”
“You were going to say there’s no point in doing it either, right?”
“Alas! no; for I was occupied in examining some excellent figures.”
“Unfortunately, no; because I was busy looking at some great figures.”
“Go on—go on, Monsieur Moliere. I quite understand the interest you take in the plates—I will not disturb your studies.”
“Go ahead—go ahead, Mr. Moliere. I completely understand your interest in the plates—I won’t interrupt your work.”
“Thank you.”
"Thanks."
“But on one condition; that you tell me where M. Percerin really is.”
“But only if you tell me where M. Percerin actually is.”
“Oh! willingly; in his own room. Only—”
“Oh! sure; in his own room. But—”
“Only that one can’t enter it?”
“Only that you can’t go in there?”
“Unapproachable.”
"Unfriendly."
“For everybody?”
"For everyone?"
“Everybody. He brought me here so that I might be at my ease to make my observations, and then he went away.”
“Everyone. He brought me here so I could relax and make my observations, and then he left.”
“Well, my dear Monsieur Moliere, but you will go and tell him I am here.”
“Well, my dear Monsieur Molière, you should go tell him I’m here.”
“I!” exclaimed Moliere, in the tone of a courageous dog, from which you snatch the bone it has legitimately gained; “I disturb myself! Ah! Monsieur d’Artagnan, how hard you are upon me!”
“I!” exclaimed Moliere, in the tone of a brave dog, from which you take away the bone it has rightfully earned; “I’m upset! Ah! Monsieur d’Artagnan, how harsh you are with me!”
“If you don’t go directly and tell M. Percerin that I am here, my dear Moliere,” said D’Artagnan, in a low tone, “I warn you of one thing: that I won’t exhibit to you the friend I have brought with me.”
“If you don’t go straight and tell M. Percerin that I’m here, my dear Moliere,” said D’Artagnan quietly, “I need to warn you about one thing: I won’t show you the friend I brought with me.”
Moliere indicated Porthos by an imperceptible gesture, “This gentleman, is it not?”
Moliere subtly gestured towards Porthos, "This guy, right?"
“Yes.”
"Yep."
Moliere fixed upon Porthos one of those looks which penetrate the minds and hearts of men. The subject doubtless appeared a very promising one, for he immediately rose and led the way into the adjoining chamber.
Moliere locked eyes with Porthos in a way that really gets into the minds and hearts of people. The topic clearly seemed very promising, so he immediately stood up and headed into the next room.
Chapter IV. The Patterns.
During all this time the noble mob was slowly heaving away, leaving at every angle of the counter either a murmur or a menace, as the waves leave foam or scattered seaweed on the sands, when they retire with the ebbing tide. In about ten minutes Moliere reappeared, making another sign to D’Artagnan from under the hangings. The latter hurried after him, with Porthos in the rear, and after threading a labyrinth of corridors, introduced him to M. Percerin’s room. The old man, with his sleeves turned up, was gathering up in folds a piece of gold-flowered brocade, so as the better to exhibit its luster. Perceiving D’Artagnan, he put the silk aside, and came to meet him, by no means radiant with joy, and by no means courteous, but, take it altogether, in a tolerably civil manner.
During all this time, the noble crowd was slowly shifting, leaving behind either whispers or threats at every corner of the counter, just like waves leave foam or scattered seaweed on the shore when they recede with the tide. About ten minutes later, Molière reappeared, signaling to D’Artagnan from behind the curtains. D’Artagnan quickly followed him, with Porthos trailing behind, and after navigating a maze of corridors, they arrived at M. Percerin’s room. The old man, with his sleeves rolled up, was folding a piece of gold-flowered brocade to better showcase its shine. Noticing D’Artagnan, he set the silk aside and approached him, not looking particularly joyful or polite, but overall in a reasonably civil manner.
“The captain of the king’s musketeers will excuse me, I am sure, for I am engaged.”
“The captain of the king’s musketeers will understand, I’m sure, because I’m busy.”
“Eh! yes, on the king’s costumes; I know that, my dear Monsieur Percerin. You are making three, they tell me.”
“Yeah! About the king's outfits; I know that, my dear Monsieur Percerin. I hear you're making three.”
“Five, my dear sir, five.”
"Five, my friend, five."
“Three or five, ‘tis all the same to me, my dear monsieur; and I know that you will make them most exquisitely.”
“Three or five, it’s all the same to me, my dear sir; and I know you’ll make them beautifully.”
“Yes, I know. Once made they will be the most beautiful in the world, I do not deny it; but that they may be the most beautiful in the word, they must first be made; and to do this, captain, I am pressed for time.”
“Yes, I know. Once they're made, they will be the most beautiful in the world, I won't deny it; but for them to be the most beautiful in the world, they first have to be made; and to do that, Captain, I'm in a hurry.”
“Oh, bah! there are two days yet; ‘tis much more than you require, Monsieur Percerin,” said D’Artagnan, in the coolest possible manner.
“Oh, come on! There are two days left; that’s way more than you need, Monsieur Percerin,” said D’Artagnan, in the calmest way possible.
Percerin raised his head with the air of a man little accustomed to be contradicted, even in his whims; but D’Artagnan did not pay the least attention to the airs which the illustrious tailor began to assume.
Percerin lifted his head, acting like someone who isn't used to being contradicted, even in his whims; but D’Artagnan didn't pay any attention to the attitude that the renowned tailor started to display.
“My dear M. Percerin,” he continued, “I bring you a customer.”
“My dear M. Percerin,” he went on, “I have a customer for you.”
“Ah! ah!” exclaimed Percerin, crossly.
“Ugh!” Percerin exclaimed, annoyed.
“M. le Baron du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds,” continued D’Artagnan. Percerin attempted a bow, which found no favor in the eyes of the terrible Porthos, who, from his first entry into the room, had been regarding the tailor askance.
“M. le Baron du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds,” continued D’Artagnan. Percerin tried to bow, but it didn't sit well with the formidable Porthos, who had been eyeing the tailor suspiciously since he walked into the room.
“A very good friend of mine,” concluded D’Artagnan.
“A really good friend of mine,” concluded D’Artagnan.
“I will attend to monsieur,” said Percerin, “but later.”
“I'll take care of him later,” said Percerin.
“Later? but when?”
"Later? But when?"
“When I have time.”
"When I get the chance."
“You have already told my valet as much,” broke in Porthos, discontentedly.
“You’ve already told my servant that,” interrupted Porthos, dissatisfied.
“Very likely,” said Percerin; “I am nearly always pushed for time.”
"Probably," said Percerin; "I'm usually short on time."
“My friend,” returned Porthos, sententiously, “there is always time to be found when one chooses to seek it.”
“My friend,” replied Porthos, wisely, “there’s always time to be found when you choose to look for it.”
Percerin turned crimson; an ominous sign indeed in old men blanched by age.
Percerin turned red; a troubling sign in old men who had lost their color to age.
“Monsieur is quite at liberty to confer his custom elsewhere.”
“Monsieur is free to take his business elsewhere.”
“Come, come, Percerin,” interposed D’Artagnan, “you are not in a good temper to-day. Well, I will say one more word to you, which will bring you on your knees; monsieur is not only a friend of mine, but more, a friend of M. Fouquet’s.”
“Come on, Percerin,” D’Artagnan said, “you’re not in a great mood today. Well, I’ll say one more thing that will get you on your knees; he’s not just a friend of mine, but more importantly, a friend of M. Fouquet’s.”
“Ah! ah!” exclaimed the tailor, “that is another thing.” Then turning to Porthos, “Monsieur le baron is attached to the superintendent?” he inquired.
“Ah! ah!” the tailor exclaimed, “that’s another story.” Then turning to Porthos, he asked, “Is Monsieur le baron connected to the superintendent?”
“I am attached to myself,” shouted Porthos, at the very moment that the tapestry was raised to introduce a new speaker in the dialogue. Moliere was all observation, D’Artagnan laughed, Porthos swore.
“I’m all about myself,” yelled Porthos, just as the tapestry was lifted to reveal a new speaker in the conversation. Moliere took everything in, D’Artagnan chuckled, and Porthos cussed.
“My dear Percerin,” said D’Artagnan, “you will make a dress for the baron. ‘Tis I who ask you.”
"My dear Percerin," said D’Artagnan, "you will make a dress for the baron. It’s me who’s asking you."
“To you I will not say nay, captain.”
“To you, I won’t say no, captain.”
“But that is not all; you will make it for him at once.”
“But that's not all; you’ll make it for him right away.”
“‘Tis impossible within eight days.”
"It's impossible in eight days."
“That, then, is as much as to refuse, because the dress is wanted for the fete at Vaux.”
“That, then, is basically a refusal, because the dress is needed for the fete at Vaux.”
“I repeat that it is impossible,” returned the obstinate old man.
“I’m telling you, it’s impossible,” replied the stubborn old man.
“By no means, dear Monsieur Percerin, above all if I ask you,” said a mild voice at the door, a silvery voice which made D’Artagnan prick up his ears. It was the voice of Aramis.
“Not at all, dear Monsieur Percerin, especially if I ask you,” said a gentle voice at the door, a soothing voice that caught D’Artagnan’s attention. It was Aramis’s voice.
“Monsieur d’Herblay!” cried the tailor.
“Mr. d’Herblay!” cried the tailor.
“Aramis,” murmured D’Artagnan.
“Aramis,” whispered D’Artagnan.
“Ah! our bishop!” said Porthos.
“Ah! Our bishop!” said Porthos.
“Good morning, D’Artagnan; good morning, Porthos; good-morning, my dear friends,” said Aramis. “Come, come, M. Percerin, make the baron’s dress; and I will answer for it you will gratify M. Fouquet.” And he accompanied the words with a sign, which seemed to say, “Agree, and dismiss them.”
“Good morning, D’Artagnan; good morning, Porthos; good morning, my dear friends,” said Aramis. “Come on, Mr. Percerin, make the baron’s outfit; I guarantee you’ll please Mr. Fouquet.” He punctuated his words with a gesture that seemed to say, “Just go along with it and send them away.”
It appeared that Aramis had over Master Percerin an influence superior even to D’Artagnan’s, for the tailor bowed in assent, and turning round upon Porthos, said, “Go and get measured on the other side.”
It seemed that Aramis had even more influence over Master Percerin than D’Artagnan did, as the tailor nodded in agreement and then turned to Porthos, saying, “Go and get measured on the other side.”
Porthos colored in a formidable manner. D’Artagnan saw the storm coming, and addressing Moliere, said to him, in an undertone, “You see before you, my dear monsieur, a man who considers himself disgraced, if you measure the flesh and bones that Heaven has given him; study this type for me, Master Aristophanes, and profit by it.”
Porthos was looking really intense. D’Artagnan noticed trouble on the horizon and, speaking quietly to Moliere, said, “You’re looking at a man who feels ashamed, if you count the flesh and bones that Heaven has given him; take note of this character for me, Master Aristophanes, and learn from it.”
Moliere had no need of encouragement, and his gaze dwelt long and keenly on the Baron Porthos. “Monsieur,” he said, “if you will come with me, I will make them take your measure without touching you.”
Moliere didn’t need any encouragement, and he fixed his gaze intently on Baron Porthos. “Sir,” he said, “if you come with me, I’ll have them take your measurements without laying a hand on you.”
“Oh!” said Porthos, “how do you make that out, my friend?”
“Oh!” said Porthos, “how do you figure that, my friend?”
“I say that they shall apply neither line nor rule to the seams of your dress. It is a new method we have invented for measuring people of quality, who are too sensitive to allow low-born fellows to touch them. We know some susceptible persons who will not put up with being measured, a process which, as I think, wounds the natural dignity of a man; and if perchance monsieur should be one of these—”
“I say that they won’t use any lines or rules to measure the seams of your dress. It’s a new method we’ve come up with for measuring people of high status, who are too delicate to let commoners touch them. We know some sensitive individuals who can’t stand being measured, which I believe undermines a person’s natural dignity; and if by chance you’re one of those people—”
“Corboeuf! I believe I am too!”
“Corboeuf! I think I am too!”
“Well, that is a capital and most consolatory coincidence, and you shall have the benefit of our invention.”
“Well, that’s a great and very reassuring coincidence, and you’ll benefit from our idea.”
“But how in the world can it be done?” asked Porthos, delighted.
“But how in the world can we do it?” asked Porthos, thrilled.
“Monsieur,” said Moliere, bowing, “if you will deign to follow me, you will see.”
“Sir,” said Moliere, bowing, “if you will be so kind as to follow me, you will see.”
Aramis observed this scene with all his eyes. Perhaps he fancied from D’Artagnan’s liveliness that he would leave with Porthos, so as not to lose the conclusion of a scene well begun. But, clear-sighted as he was, Aramis deceived himself. Porthos and Moliere left together: D’Artagnan remained with Percerin. Why? From curiosity, doubtless; probably to enjoy a little longer the society of his good friend Aramis. As Moliere and Porthos disappeared, D’Artagnan drew near the bishop of Vannes, a proceeding which appeared particularly to disconcert him.
Aramis watched the scene intently. Maybe he thought that because of D’Artagnan’s enthusiasm, he would leave with Porthos to not miss the end of a good scene. But, sharp as he was, Aramis was wrong. Porthos and Moliere left together, while D’Artagnan stayed with Percerin. Why? Probably out of curiosity; maybe to enjoy the company of his good friend Aramis a bit longer. As Moliere and Porthos faded away, D’Artagnan moved closer to the bishop of Vannes, which seemed to particularly unsettle him.
“A dress for you, also, is it not, my friend?”
“A dress for you too, right, my friend?”
Aramis smiled. “No,” said he.
Aramis smiled. “No,” he said.
“You will go to Vaux, however?”
"You’re going to Vaux, right?"
“I shall go, but without a new dress. You forget, dear D’Artagnan, that a poor bishop of Vannes is not rich enough to have new dresses for every fete.”
“I'll go, but without a new dress. You forget, dear D’Artagnan, that a poor bishop of Vannes can’t afford new outfits for every fete.”
“Bah!” said the musketeer, laughing, “and do we write no more poems now, either?”
“Bah!” said the musketeer, laughing, “so we don’t write any more poems now, either?”
“Oh! D’Artagnan,” exclaimed Aramis, “I have long ago given up all such tomfoolery.”
“Oh! D’Artagnan,” Aramis exclaimed, “I stopped all that foolishness a long time ago.”
“True,” repeated D’Artagnan, only half convinced. As for Percerin, he was once more absorbed in contemplation of the brocades.
“True,” D’Artagnan repeated, still only half convinced. As for Percerin, he was once again engrossed in pondering the brocades.
“Don’t you perceive,” said Aramis, smiling, “that we are greatly boring this good gentleman, my dear D’Artagnan?”
“Don’t you see,” Aramis said with a smile, “that we’re really boring this good man, my dear D’Artagnan?”
“Ah! ah!” murmured the musketeer, aside; “that is, I am boring you, my friend.” Then aloud, “Well, then, let us leave; I have no further business here, and if you are as disengaged as I, Aramis—”
“Ah! ah!” the musketeer whispered to himself, “I’m boring you, my friend.” Then, speaking up, he said, “Well, let’s go; I have nothing more to do here, and if you’re as free as I am, Aramis—”
“No, not I—I wished—”
“No, not me—I wished—”
“Ah! you had something particular to say to M. Percerin? Why did you not tell me so at once?”
“Ah! You had something specific to say to Mr. Percerin? Why didn't you just tell me right away?”
“Something particular, certainly,” repeated Aramis, “but not for you, D’Artagnan. But, at the same time, I hope you will believe that I can never have anything so particular to say that a friend like you may not hear it.”
“It's definitely something special,” Aramis repeated, “but not for you, D’Artagnan. Still, I hope you understand that I could never have anything so special to say that a friend like you wouldn’t be able to hear it.”
“Oh, no, no! I am going,” said D’Artagnan, imparting to his voice an evident tone of curiosity; for Aramis’s annoyance, well dissembled as it was, had not a whit escaped him; and he knew that, in that impenetrable mind, every thing, even the most apparently trivial, was designed to some end; an unknown one, but an end that, from the knowledge he had of his friend’s character, the musketeer felt must be important.
“Oh, no, no! I’m going,” said D’Artagnan, clearly sounding curious; for Aramis’s annoyance, well hidden as it was, hadn’t escaped him at all; and he understood that, in that complicated mind, everything, even the most seemingly insignificant, was meant for some purpose; an unknown one, but a purpose that, based on what he knew about his friend’s character, the musketeer felt had to be important.
On his part, Aramis saw that D’Artagnan was not without suspicion, and pressed him. “Stay, by all means,” he said, “this is what it is.” Then turning towards the tailor, “My dear Percerin,” said he,—“I am even very happy that you are here, D’Artagnan.”
On his part, Aramis noticed that D’Artagnan had some suspicions and pushed him for answers. “Please, stay,” he said, “this is what it is.” Then turning to the tailor, he said, “My dear Percerin, I’m actually really glad you’re here, D’Artagnan.”
“Oh, indeed,” exclaimed the Gascon, for the third time, even less deceived this time than before.
“Oh, for sure,” the Gascon exclaimed for the third time, even less fooled this time than before.
Percerin never moved. Aramis roused him violently, by snatching from his hands the stuff upon which he was engaged. “My dear Percerin,” said he, “I have, near hand, M. Lebrun, one of M. Fouquet’s painters.”
Percerin never moved. Aramis jolted him awake by grabbing the material he was working on. “My dear Percerin,” he said, “I have M. Lebrun, one of M. Fouquet’s painters, nearby.”
“Ah, very good,” thought D’Artagnan; “but why Lebrun?”
“Ah, very good,” thought D’Artagnan; “but why Lebrun?”
Aramis looked at D’Artagnan, who seemed to be occupied with an engraving of Mark Antony. “And you wish that I should make him a dress, similar to those of the Epicureans?” answered Percerin. And while saying this, in an absent manner, the worthy tailor endeavored to recapture his piece of brocade.
Aramis glanced at D’Artagnan, who appeared to be focused on an engraving of Mark Antony. “So, you want me to make him a outfit like the ones worn by the Epicureans?” Percerin replied. As he spoke, the skilled tailor absentmindedly tried to reclaim his piece of brocade.
“An Epicurean’s dress?” asked D’Artagnan, in a tone of inquiry.
“An Epicurean’s outfit?” asked D’Artagnan, with a curious tone.
“I see,” said Aramis, with a most engaging smile, “it is written that our dear D’Artagnan shall know all our secrets this evening. Yes, friend, you have surely heard speak of M. Fouquet’s Epicureans, have you not?”
“I understand,” said Aramis, with a charming smile, “it says here that our dear D’Artagnan will learn all our secrets this evening. Yes, my friend, you’ve definitely heard about M. Fouquet’s Epicureans, haven’t you?”
“Undoubtedly. Is it not a kind of poetical society, of which La Fontaine, Loret, Pelisson, and Moliere are members, and which holds its sittings at Saint-Mande?”
“Definitely. Isn't it a sort of literary group, with La Fontaine, Loret, Pelisson, and Moliere as members, meeting at Saint-Mande?”
“Exactly so. Well, we are going to put our poets in uniform, and enroll them in a regiment for the king.”
“Exactly. Well, we're going to put our poets in uniforms and enlist them in a regiment for the king.”
“Oh, very well, I understand; a surprise M. Fouquet is getting up for the king. Be at ease; if that is the secret about M. Lebrun, I will not mention it.”
“Oh, okay, I get it; M. Fouquet is planning a surprise for the king. Don't worry; if that's the secret about M. Lebrun, I won't say anything.”
“Always agreeable, my friend. No, Monsieur Lebrun has nothing to do with this part of it; the secret which concerns him is far more important than the other.”
“Always agreeable, my friend. No, Monsieur Lebrun isn’t involved in this part; the secret that concerns him is much more significant than the other.”
“Then, if it is so important as all that, I prefer not to know it,” said D’Artagnan, making a show of departure.
“Then, if it's really that important, I'd rather not know it,” said D’Artagnan, pretending to leave.
“Come in, M. Lebrun, come in,” said Aramis, opening a side-door with his right hand, and holding back D’Artagnan with his left.
“Come in, Mr. Lebrun, come in,” said Aramis, opening a side door with his right hand and holding D’Artagnan back with his left.
“I’faith, I too, am quite in the dark,” quoth Percerin.
“I swear, I’m also completely in the dark,” said Percerin.
Aramis took an “opportunity,” as is said in theatrical matters.
Aramis took an “opportunity,” as is said in theater.
“My dear M. de Percerin,” Aramis continued, “you are making five dresses for the king, are you not? One in brocade; one in hunting-cloth; one in velvet; one in satin; and one in Florentine stuffs.”
“My dear M. de Percerin,” Aramis continued, “you're making five outfits for the king, right? One in brocade; one in hunting fabric; one in velvet; one in satin; and one in Florentine materials.”
“Yes; but how—do you know all that, monseigneur?” said Percerin, astounded.
“Yes; but how do you know all that, sir?” said Percerin, amazed.
“It is all very simple, my dear monsieur; there will be a hunt, a banquet, concert, promenade and reception; these five kinds of dress are required by etiquette.”
“It’s all very simple, my dear sir; there will be a hunt, a banquet, a concert, a walk, and a reception; these five types of outfits are required by etiquette.”
“You know everything, monseigneur!”
“You know everything, my lord!”
“And a thing or two in addition,” muttered D’Artagnan.
“And a thing or two more,” muttered D’Artagnan.
“But,” cried the tailor, in triumph, “what you do not know, monseigneur—prince of the church though you are—what nobody will know—what only the king, Mademoiselle de la Valliere, and myself do know, is the color of the materials and nature of the ornaments, and the cut, the ensemble, the finish of it all!”
“But,” yelled the tailor, triumphantly, “what you don’t know, monseigneur—prince of the church though you may be—what nobody will know—what only the king, Mademoiselle de la Vallière, and I know, is the color of the materials, the nature of the ornaments, and the cut, the ensemble, the finish of it all!”
“Well,” said Aramis, “that is precisely what I have come to ask you, dear Percerin.”
“Well,” said Aramis, “that's exactly what I wanted to ask you, dear Percerin.”
“Ah, bah!” exclaimed the tailor, terrified, though Aramis had pronounced these words in his softest and most honeyed tones. The request appeared, on reflection, so exaggerated, so ridiculous, so monstrous to M. Percerin that first he laughed to himself, then aloud, and finished with a shout. D’Artagnan followed his example, not because he found the matter so “very funny,” but in order not to allow Aramis to cool.
“Ah, come on!” the tailor exclaimed, terrified, even though Aramis had said those words in his softest and sweetest tones. The request seemed, upon reflection, so exaggerated, so ridiculous, so outrageous to Mr. Percerin that at first he laughed to himself, then out loud, and ended with a shout. D’Artagnan joined in, not because he found the situation so “hilarious,” but to keep Aramis from losing his momentum.
“At the outset, I appear to be hazarding an absurd question, do I not?” said Aramis. “But D’Artagnan, who is incarnate wisdom itself, will tell you that I could not do otherwise than ask you this.”
“At the beginning, it seems like I’m asking a ridiculous question, right?” said Aramis. “But D’Artagnan, who is the embodiment of wisdom, will tell you that I couldn’t help but ask you this.”
“Let us see,” said the attentive musketeer; perceiving with his wonderful instinct that they had only been skirmishing till now, and that the hour of battle was approaching.
“Let’s see,” said the observant musketeer, sensing with his keen instinct that they had only been sparring until now and that the moment of battle was drawing near.
“Let us see,” said Percerin, incredulously.
“Let’s see,” said Percerin, doubtfully.
“Why, now,” continued Aramis, “does M. Fouquet give the king a fete?—Is it not to please him?”
“Why, now,” continued Aramis, “is M. Fouquet throwing a fete for the king? Isn’t it to make him happy?”
“Assuredly,” said Percerin. D’Artagnan nodded assent.
“Sure,” said Percerin. D’Artagnan nodded in agreement.
“By delicate attentions? by some happy device? by a succession of surprises, like that of which we were talking?—the enrolment of our Epicureans.”
“Through thoughtful gestures? with some clever trick? with a series of surprises, like the ones we were discussing?—the gathering of our Epicureans.”
“Admirable.”
"Awesome."
“Well, then; this is the surprise we intend. M. Lebrun here is a man who draws most excellently.”
"Well, then; this is the surprise we have in mind. M. Lebrun here is a man who draws extremely well."
“Yes,” said Percerin; “I have seen his pictures, and observed that his dresses were highly elaborated. That is why I at once agreed to make him a costume—whether to agree with those of the Epicureans, or an original one.”
“Yes,” said Percerin; “I’ve seen his pictures and noticed that his outfits are very detailed. That’s why I immediately agreed to make him a costume—whether to match those of the Epicureans or create an original one.”
“My dear monsieur, we accept your offer, and shall presently avail ourselves of it; but just now, M. Lebrun is not in want of the dresses you will make for himself, but of those you are making for the king.”
“My dear sir, we accept your offer and will take advantage of it shortly; however, right now, Mr. Lebrun doesn’t need the outfits you’re making for him, but rather the ones you’re making for the king.”
Percerin made a bound backwards, which D’Artagnan—calmest and most appreciative of men, did not consider overdone, so many strange and startling aspects wore the proposal which Aramis had just hazarded. “The king’s dresses! Give the king’s dresses to any mortal whatever! Oh! for once, monseigneur, your grace is mad!” cried the poor tailor in extremity.
Percerin made a leap backward, which D’Artagnan—being the calmest and most understanding of men—didn’t think was over the top, given how strange and shocking Aramis’s proposal was. “The king’s outfits! Hand the king’s outfits over to anyone? Oh! For once, your grace, you’ve lost your mind!” cried the poor tailor in desperation.
“Help me now, D’Artagnan,” said Aramis, more and more calm and smiling. “Help me now to persuade monsieur, for you understand; do you not?”
“Help me now, D’Artagnan,” said Aramis, becoming increasingly calm and smiling. “Help me now to convince him, because you understand; don’t you?”
“Eh! eh!—not exactly, I declare.”
"Um! Um!—not quite, I swear."
“What! you do not understand that M. Fouquet wishes to afford the king the surprise of finding his portrait on his arrival at Vaux; and that the portrait, which be a striking resemblance, ought to be dressed exactly as the king will be on the day it is shown?”
“What! You don’t get that M. Fouquet wants to surprise the king by having his portrait ready when he arrives at Vaux? And the portrait, which is an exact likeness, needs to be dressed just like the king will be on the day it’s revealed?”
“Oh! yes, yes,” said the musketeer, nearly convinced, so plausible was this reasoning. “Yes, my dear Aramis, you are right; it is a happy idea. I will wager it is one of your own, Aramis.”
“Oh! yes, yes,” said the musketeer, almost convinced, as this reasoning seemed so reasonable. “Yes, my dear Aramis, you’re right; it’s a great idea. I bet it’s one of your own, Aramis.”
“Well, I don’t know,” replied the bishop; “either mine or M. Fouquet’s.” Then scanning Percerin, after noticing D’Artagnan’s hesitation, “Well, Monsieur Percerin,” he asked, “what do you say to this?”
“Well, I’m not sure,” replied the bishop; “either mine or M. Fouquet’s.” Then, looking over at Percerin and noticing D’Artagnan’s hesitation, he asked, “So, Monsieur Percerin, what do you think about this?”
“I say, that—”
"I mean, that—"
“That you are, doubtless, free to refuse. I know well—and I by no means count upon compelling you, my dear monsieur. I will say more, I even understand all the delicacy you feel in taking up with M. Fouquet’s idea; you dread appearing to flatter the king. A noble spirit, M. Percerin, a noble spirit!” The tailor stammered. “It would, indeed, be a very pretty compliment to pay the young prince,” continued Aramis; “but as the surintendant told me, ‘if Percerin refuse, tell him that it will not at all lower him in my opinion, and I shall always esteem him, only—‘”
"Of course, you're completely free to refuse. I totally understand and I’m not trying to pressure you, my dear sir. In fact, I can appreciate how delicate you feel about getting involved with M. Fouquet’s idea; you’re worried about seeming to flatter the king. A noble attitude, M. Percerin, a noble attitude!” The tailor stammered. “It would certainly be a lovely compliment to offer the young prince,” Aramis continued; “but as the superintendent told me, ‘if Percerin declines, tell him it won’t affect my opinion of him at all, and I will always hold him in high regard, only—‘”
“‘Only?’” repeated Percerin, rather troubled.
“‘Only?’” repeated Percerin, somewhat troubled.
“‘Only,’” continued Aramis, “‘I shall be compelled to say to the king,’—you understand, my dear Monsieur Percerin, that these are M. Fouquet’s words,—‘I shall be constrained to say to the king, “Sire, I had intended to present your majesty with your portrait, but owing to a feeling of delicacy, slightly exaggerated perhaps, although creditable, M. Percerin opposed the project.”’”
“‘Only,’” Aramis went on, “‘I will have to tell the king,’—you understand, my dear Monsieur Percerin, that these are M. Fouquet’s words,—‘I will have to say to the king, “Sire, I had planned to present your majesty with your portrait, but due to a sense of delicacy, maybe a bit exaggerated but still commendable, M. Percerin opposed the idea.”’”
“Opposed!” cried the tailor, terrified at the responsibility which would weigh upon him; “I to oppose the desire, the will of M. Fouquet when he is seeking to please the king! Oh, what a hateful word you have uttered, monseigneur. Oppose! Oh, ‘tis not I who said it, Heaven have mercy on me. I call the captain of the musketeers to witness it! Is it not true, Monsieur d’Artagnan, that I have opposed nothing?”
“Opposed!” shouted the tailor, scared of the burden that would fall on him; “Me oppose the wishes, the intentions of M. Fouquet when he’s trying to please the king? Oh, what a terrible word you’ve used, monseigneur. Oppose! Oh, I didn’t say it, God have mercy on me. I’ll call the captain of the musketeers to testify! Isn’t it true, Monsieur d’Artagnan, that I haven’t opposed anything?”
D’Artagnan made a sign indicating that he wished to remain neutral. He felt that there was an intrigue at the bottom of it, whether comedy or tragedy; he was at his wit’s end at not being able to fathom it, but in the meanwhile wished to keep clear.
D’Artagnan gestured that he wanted to stay out of it. He sensed that there was something deeper going on, whether it was a joke or something serious; he was confused and unable to understand it, but for now, he wanted to stay uninvolved.
But already Percerin, goaded by the idea that the king was to be told he stood in the way of a pleasant surprise, had offered Lebrun a chair, and proceeded to bring from a wardrobe four magnificent dresses, the fifth being still in the workmen’s hands; and these masterpieces he successively fitted upon four lay figures, which, imported into France in the time of Concini, had been given to Percerin II. by Marshal d’Onore, after the discomfiture of the Italian tailors ruined in their competition. The painter set to work to draw and then to paint the dresses. But Aramis, who was closely watching all the phases of his toil, suddenly stopped him.
But already Percerin, driven by the thought that the king was going to be told he was blocking a nice surprise, had offered Lebrun a chair and started to get four amazing dresses from a wardrobe, the fifth still being worked on. He carefully fitted these masterpieces onto four lay figures, which had been brought to France during Concini's time and given to Percerin II. by Marshal d’Onore after the Italian tailors lost their competition. The painter began to draw and then paint the dresses. But Aramis, who was closely watching every step of his work, suddenly stopped him.
“I think you have not quite got it, my dear Lebrun,” he said; “your colors will deceive you, and on canvas we shall lack that exact resemblance which is absolutely requisite. Time is necessary for attentively observing the finer shades.”
"I don’t think you fully understand, my dear Lebrun,” he said; “your colors will mislead you, and on canvas, we won’t achieve that exact likeness that is completely necessary. We need time to carefully observe the subtle nuances.”
“Quite true,” said Percerin, “but time is wanting, and on that head, you will agree with me, monseigneur, I can do nothing.”
“That's true,” said Percerin, “but we're short on time, and you’ll agree with me on that, sir, I can’t do anything.”
“Then the affair will fail,” said Aramis, quietly, “and that because of a want of precision in the colors.”
“Then the plan will fail,” Aramis said calmly, “and that's due to a lack of clarity in the colors.”
Nevertheless Lebrun went on copying the materials and ornaments with the closest fidelity—a process which Aramis watched with ill-concealed impatience.
Nevertheless, Lebrun continued to copy the materials and decorations with the utmost accuracy—a process that Aramis observed with barely masked impatience.
“What in the world, now, is the meaning of this imbroglio?” the musketeer kept saying to himself.
“What in the world is going on with this mess?” the musketeer kept saying to himself.
“That will never do,” said Aramis: “M. Lebrun, close your box, and roll up your canvas.”
“That won’t work,” said Aramis. “Mr. Lebrun, shut your box and roll up your canvas.”
“But, monsieur,” cried the vexed painter, “the light is abominable here.”
“But, sir,” exclaimed the frustrated painter, “the lighting is terrible here.”
“An idea, M. Lebrun, an idea! If we had a pattern of the materials, for example, and with time, and a better light—”
“An idea, Mr. Lebrun, an idea! If we had a sample of the materials, for instance, and with time, and better lighting—”
“Oh, then,” cried Lebrun, “I would answer for the effect.”
“Oh, then,” shouted Lebrun, “I would guarantee the outcome.”
“Good!” said D’Artagnan, “this ought to be the knotty point of the whole thing; they want a pattern of each of the materials. Mordioux! Will this Percerin give in now?”
“Good!” said D’Artagnan, “this should be the tricky part of the whole thing; they want a sample of each of the materials. Mordioux! Is Percerin going to give in now?”
Percerin, beaten from his last retreat, and duped, moreover, by the feigned good-nature of Aramis, cut out five patterns and handed them to the bishop of Vannes.
Percerin, having been defeated in his last retreat and tricked by Aramis's fake friendliness, cut out five patterns and gave them to the bishop of Vannes.
“I like this better. That is your opinion, is it not?” said Aramis to D’Artagnan.
“I prefer this. That's your opinion, right?” said Aramis to D’Artagnan.
“My dear Aramis,” said D’Artagnan, “my opinion is that you are always the same.”
“My dear Aramis,” D’Artagnan said, “I think you’re always the same.”
“And, consequently, always your friend,” said the bishop in a charming tone.
“And, so, I’ll always be your friend,” said the bishop in a charming tone.
“Yes, yes,” said D’Artagnan, aloud; then, in a low voice, “If I am your dupe, double Jesuit that you are, I will not be your accomplice; and to prevent it, ‘tis time I left this place.—Adieu, Aramis,” he added aloud, “adieu; I am going to rejoin Porthos.”
“Yes, yes,” D’Artagnan said loudly; then, in a quieter tone, “If I’m being fooled by you, you sneaky trickster, I won’t be your partner in crime; and to avoid that, it’s time for me to leave this place. — Goodbye, Aramis,” he said out loud, “goodbye; I’m going to catch up with Porthos.”
“Then wait for me,” said Aramis, pocketing the patterns, “for I have done, and shall be glad to say a parting word to our dear old friend.”
“Then wait for me,” said Aramis, putting the patterns in his pocket, “because I’m done, and I’d like to say a farewell to our dear old friend.”
Lebrun packed up his paints and brushes, Percerin put back the dresses into the closet, Aramis put his hand on his pocket to assure himself the patterns were secure,—and they all left the study.
Lebrun packed up his paints and brushes, Percerin returned the dresses to the closet, Aramis checked his pocket to make sure the patterns were secure—and they all left the study.
Chapter V. Where, Probably, Moliere Obtained His First Idea of the Bourgeois Gentilhomme.
D’Artagnan found Porthos in the adjoining chamber; but no longer an irritated Porthos, or a disappointed Porthos, but Porthos radiant, blooming, fascinating, and chattering with Moliere, who was looking upon him with a species of idolatry, and as a man would who had not only never seen anything greater, but not even ever anything so great. Aramis went straight up to Porthos and offered him his white hand, which lost itself in the gigantic clasp of his old friend,—an operation which Aramis never hazarded without a certain uneasiness. But the friendly pressure having been performed not too painfully for him, the bishop of Vannes passed over to Moliere.
D’Artagnan found Porthos in the next room; but no longer an annoyed Porthos, or a letdown Porthos, but a Porthos who was radiant, flourishing, captivating, and chatting with Moliere, who was looking at him in awe as if he had never seen anything greater—or even anything close to as great. Aramis walked right up to Porthos and extended his white hand, which disappeared into the massive grip of his old friend—a move Aramis never attempted without some concern. But since the friendly handshake didn’t hurt him too much, the bishop of Vannes went over to Moliere.
“Well, monsieur,” said he, “will you come with me to Saint-Mande?”
“Well, sir,” he said, “are you coming with me to Saint-Mande?”
“I will go anywhere you like, monseigneur,” answered Moliere.
“I'll go wherever you want, sir,” replied Moliere.
“To Saint-Mande!” cried Porthos, surprised at seeing the proud bishop of Vannes fraternizing with a journeyman tailor. “What, Aramis, are you going to take this gentleman to Saint-Mande?”
“To Saint-Mande!” shouted Porthos, surprised to see the arrogant bishop of Vannes hanging out with a journeyman tailor. “What, Aramis, are you really going to take this guy to Saint-Mande?”
“Yes,” said Aramis, smiling, “our work is pressing.”
“Yes,” said Aramis, smiling, “our work is urgent.”
“And besides, my dear Porthos,” continued D’Artagnan, “M. Moliere is not altogether what he seems.”
“And besides, my dear Porthos,” D’Artagnan continued, “M. Moliere isn’t exactly what he appears to be.”
“In what way?” asked Porthos.
“How so?” asked Porthos.
“Why, this gentleman is one of M. Percerin’s chief clerks, and is expected at Saint-Mande to try on the dresses which M. Fouquet has ordered for the Epicureans.”
“Why, this guy is one of M. Percerin’s main clerks, and he’s supposed to be at Saint-Mande to try on the outfits that M. Fouquet has ordered for the Epicureans.”
“‘Tis precisely so,” said Moliere.
"That's exactly right," said Moliere.
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Sure, sir.”
“Come, then, my dear M. Moliere,” said Aramis, “that is, if you have done with M. du Vallon.”
“Come on, my dear M. Moliere,” said Aramis, “if you’re finished with M. du Vallon.”
“We have finished,” replied Porthos.
"We're done," replied Porthos.
“And you are satisfied?” asked D’Artagnan.
"And you're happy?" asked D'Artagnan.
“Completely so,” replied Porthos.
"Totally," replied Porthos.
Moliere took his leave of Porthos with much ceremony, and grasped the hand which the captain of the musketeers furtively offered him.
Moliere said goodbye to Porthos with great formality and took the hand that the captain of the musketeers discreetly offered him.
“Pray, monsieur,” concluded Porthos, mincingly, “above all, be exact.”
“Please, sir,” Porthos finished delicately, “above all, be precise.”
“You will have your dress the day after to-morrow, monsieur le baron,” answered Moliere. And he left with Aramis.
“You'll get your dress the day after tomorrow, sir,” replied Moliere. And he left with Aramis.
Then D’Artagnan, taking Porthos’s arm, “What has this tailor done for you, my dear Porthos,” he asked, “that you are so pleased with him?”
Then D’Artagnan, taking Porthos’s arm, “What has this tailor done for you, my dear Porthos,” he asked, “that you are so happy with him?”
“What has he done for me, my friend! done for me!” cried Porthos, enthusiastically.
“What has he done for me, my friend! Done for me!” cried Porthos, excitedly.
“Yes, I ask you, what has he done for you?”
“Yes, I ask you, what has he done for you?”
“My friend, he has done that which no tailor ever yet accomplished: he has taken my measure without touching me!”
“My friend, he has done what no tailor has ever done: he has figured out my size without even touching me!”
“Ah, bah! tell me how he did it.”
“Ugh, come on! Tell me how he did it.”
“First, then, they went, I don’t know where, for a number of lay figures, of all heights and sizes, hoping there would be one to suit mine, but the largest—that of the drum-major of the Swiss guard—was two inches too short, and a half foot too narrow in the chest.”
“First, they went somewhere to find a bunch of mannequins of all different heights and sizes, hoping one would fit me. But the biggest one, which was the drum major of the Swiss guard, was two inches too short and half a foot too narrow in the chest.”
“Indeed!”
"Absolutely!"
“It is exactly as I tell you, D’Artagnan; but he is a great man, or at the very least a great tailor, is this M. Moliere. He was not at all put at fault by the circumstance.”
“It’s exactly as I’m telling you, D’Artagnan; but he’s a great man, or at least a great tailor, this M. Moliere. He wasn’t at all at fault because of the situation.”
“What did he do, then?”
“What did he do next?”
“Oh! it is a very simple matter. I’faith, ‘tis an unheard-of thing that people should have been so stupid as not to have discovered this method from the first. What annoyance and humiliation they would have spared me!”
“Oh! it’s a very simple thing. Honestly, it’s incredible that people have been so foolish as not to figure out this method from the beginning. Think of all the annoyance and embarrassment they could have saved me!”
“Not to mention of the costumes, my dear Porthos.”
“Not to mention the costumes, my dear Porthos.”
“Yes, thirty dresses.”
"Yes, thirty dresses."
“Well, my dear Porthos, come, tell me M. Moliere’s plan.”
“Well, my dear Porthos, come on, tell me M. Moliere’s plan.”
“Moliere? You call him so, do you? I shall make a point of recollecting his name.”
“Moliere? Is that what you call him? I’ll make sure to remember his name.”
“Yes; or Poquelin, if you prefer that.”
“Yes; or Poquelin, if you like that better.”
“No; I like Moliere best. When I wish to recollect his name, I shall think of voliere [an aviary]; and as I have one at Pierrefonds—”
“No; I like Molière best. When I want to remember his name, I’ll think of volière [an aviary]; and since I have one at Pierrefonds—”
“Capital!” returned D’Artagnan. “And M. Moliere’s plan?”
“Capital!” D’Artagnan replied. “And what about M. Moliere’s plan?”
“‘Tis this: instead of pulling me to pieces, as all these rascals do—of making me bend my back, and double my joints—all of them low and dishonorable practices—” D’Artagnan made a sign of approbation with his head. “‘Monsieur,’ he said to me,” continued Porthos, “‘a gentleman ought to measure himself. Do me the pleasure to draw near this glass;’ and I drew near the glass. I must own I did not exactly understand what this good M. Voliere wanted with me.”
“It's this: instead of tearing me apart like all these scoundrels do—making me strain my back and twist my joints—all those are low and dishonorable practices—” D’Artagnan nodded in agreement. “‘Sir,’ he said to me,” continued Porthos, “‘a gentleman should measure himself. Please come closer to this mirror;’ and I stepped up to the mirror. I have to admit I didn't quite understand what this good Mr. Voliere wanted from me.”
“Moliere!”
"Molière!"
“Ah! yes, Moliere—Moliere. And as the fear of being measured still possessed me, ‘Take care,’ said I to him, ‘what you are going to do with me; I am very ticklish, I warn you.’ But he, with his soft voice (for he is a courteous fellow, we must admit, my friend), he with his soft voice, ‘Monsieur,’ said he, ‘that your dress may fit you well, it must be made according to your figure. Your figure is exactly reflected in this mirror. We shall take the measure of this reflection.’”
“Ah! yes, Moliere—Moliere. And since I was still afraid of being measured, I said to him, ‘Be careful with what you do; I’m very ticklish, just so you know.’ But he, with his gentle voice (after all, he is a polite guy, we must agree, my friend), said, ‘Sir, in order for your outfit to fit you well, it needs to be made according to your shape. Your shape is perfectly reflected in this mirror. We’ll use this reflection to take your measurements.’”
“In fact,” said D’Artagnan, “you saw yourself in the glass; but where did they find one in which you could see your whole figure?”
“In fact,” said D’Artagnan, “you saw yourself in the mirror; but where did they find one that showed your entire figure?”
“My good friend, it is the very glass in which the king is used to look to see himself.”
“My good friend, it’s the same mirror the king uses to see his reflection.”
“Yes; but the king is a foot and a half shorter than you are.”
"Yeah, but the king is a foot and a half shorter than you."
“Ah! well, I know not how that may be; it is, no doubt, a cunning way of flattering the king; but the looking-glass was too large for me. ‘Tis true that its height was made up of three Venetian plates of glass, placed one above another, and its breadth of three similar parallelograms in juxtaposition.”
“Ah! well, I don't know how that might be; it’s definitely a clever way of flattering the king, but the mirror was too big for me. It’s true that its height was made up of three Venetian glass panels, stacked one on top of the other, and its width consisted of three similar rectangles placed side by side.”
“Oh, Porthos! what excellent words you have command of. Where in the word did you acquire such a voluminous vocabulary?”
“Oh, Porthos! You have such a great command of words. Where in the world did you pick up such an extensive vocabulary?”
“At Belle-Isle. Aramis and I had to use such words in our strategic studies and castramentative experiments.”
“At Belle-Isle, Aramis and I had to use terms like that in our strategic studies and military experiments.”
D’Artagnan recoiled, as though the sesquipedalian syllables had knocked the breath out of his body.
D’Artagnan stepped back, as if the long and complicated words had knocked the wind out of him.
“Ah! very good. Let us return to the looking-glass, my friend.”
“Ah! great. Let’s head back to the mirror, my friend.”
“Then, this good M. Voliere—”
“Then, this good Mr. Voliere—”
“Moliere.”
“Molière.”
“Yes—Moliere—you are right. You will see now, my dear friend, that I shall recollect his name quite well. This excellent M. Moliere set to work tracing out lines on the mirror, with a piece of Spanish chalk, following in all the make of my arms and my shoulders, all the while expounding this maxim, which I thought admirable: ‘It is advisable that a dress should not incommode its wearer.’”
“Yes—Moliere—you’re right. You’ll see now, my dear friend, that I’ll remember his name quite well. This excellent M. Moliere started drawing lines on the mirror with a piece of Spanish chalk, outlining my arms and shoulders while mentioning this maxim, which I found impressive: ‘A dress should not be uncomfortable for the one wearing it.’”
“In reality,” said D’Artagnan, “that is an excellent maxim, which is, unfortunately, seldom carried out in practice.”
“In reality,” said D’Artagnan, “that is an excellent saying, which is, unfortunately, rarely put into practice.”
“That is why I found it all the more astonishing, when he expatiated upon it.”
"That's why I found it even more surprising when he went on about it."
“Ah! he expatiated?”
“Ah! did he elaborate?”
“Parbleu!”
“Wow!”
“Let me hear his theory.”
"Let me hear his idea."
“‘Seeing that,’ he continued, ‘one may, in awkward circumstances, or in a troublesome position, have one’s doublet on one’s shoulder, and not desire to take one’s doublet off—‘”
“‘Seeing that,’ he continued, ‘sometimes, when you’re in a difficult situation or stuck in a tough spot, you might have your jacket over your shoulder but not want to take it off—’”
“True,” said D’Artagnan.
"True," D’Artagnan said.
“‘And so,’ continued M. Voliere—”
“‘And so,’ continued Mr. Voliere—”
“Moliere.”
"Molière."
“Moliere, yes. ‘And so,’ went on M. Moliere, ‘you want to draw your sword, monsieur, and you have your doublet on your back. What do you do?’
“Molière, yes. ‘So,’ M. Molière continued, ‘you want to draw your sword, sir, but you have your doublet on your back. What do you do?’”
“‘I take it off,’ I answered.
"I'll take it off," I replied.
“‘Well, no,’ he replied.
"‘Well, no,’ he said."
“‘How no?’
“‘How come?’”
“‘I say that the dress should be so well made, that it will in no way encumber you, even in drawing your sword.’
“I believe the dress should be made so well that it won’t hinder you at all, even when you’re drawing your sword.”
“‘Ah, ah!’
“‘Oh, oh!’”
“‘Throw yourself on guard,’ pursued he.
“‘Put yourself on alert,’ he continued.
“I did it with such wondrous firmness, that two panes of glass burst out of the window.
“I did it with such amazing force that two panes of glass shattered out of the window.
“‘’Tis nothing, nothing,’ said he. ‘Keep your position.’
“It's nothing, nothing,” he said. “Stay where you are.”
“I raised my left arm in the air, the forearm gracefully bent, the ruffle drooping, and my wrist curved, while my right arm, half extended, securely covered my wrist with the elbow, and my breast with the wrist.”
“I raised my left arm in the air, my forearm elegantly bent, the ruffle hanging down, and my wrist curved, while my right arm, partially extended, firmly covered my wrist with my elbow and my chest with my wrist.”
“Yes,” said D’Artagnan, “‘tis the true guard—the academic guard.”
“Yes,” said D’Artagnan, “it’s the real guard—the academic guard.”
“You have said the very word, dear friend. In the meanwhile, Voliere—”
“You said it perfectly, dear friend. In the meantime, Voliere—”
“Moliere.”
“Molière.”
“Hold! I should certainly, after all, prefer to call him—what did you say his other name was?”
“Wait! I should definitely, after all, prefer to call him—what did you say his other name was?”
“Poquelin.”
“Poquelin.”
“I prefer to call him Poquelin.”
“I prefer to call him Poquelin.”
“And how will you remember this name better than the other?”
“And how will you remember this name better than the others?”
“You understand, he calls himself Poquelin, does he not?”
“You get it, he calls himself Poquelin, right?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah.”
“If I were to call to mind Madame Coquenard.”
“If I were to think of Madame Coquenard.”
“Good.”
“Great.”
“And change Coc into Poc, nard into lin; and instead of Coquenard I shall have Poquelin.”
“And change Coc into Poc, nard into lin; and instead of Coquenard I shall have Poquelin.”
“‘Tis wonderful,” cried D’Artagnan, astounded. “Go on, my friend, I am listening to you with admiration.”
“It's amazing,” D’Artagnan exclaimed, astonished. “Go on, my friend, I'm listening to you with admiration.”
“This Coquelin sketched my arm on the glass.”
“This Coquelin drew my arm on the glass.”
“I beg your pardon—Poquelin.”
“Excuse me—Poquelin.”
“What did I say, then?”
“What did I say?”
“You said Coquelin.”
"You mentioned Coquelin."
“Ah! true. This Poquelin, then, sketched my arm on the glass; but he took his time over it; he kept looking at me a good deal. The fact is, that I must have been looking particularly handsome.”
“Ah! true. This Poquelin, then, sketched my arm on the glass; but he took his time with it; he kept looking at me a lot. The truth is, I must have been looking really good.”
“‘Does it weary you?’ he asked.
“‘Does it tire you?’ he asked.
“‘A little,’ I replied, bending a little in my hands, ‘but I could hold out for an hour or so longer.’
“‘A little,’ I replied, adjusting my hands slightly, ‘but I could last for another hour or so.’”
“‘No, no, I will not allow it; the willing fellows will make it a duty to support your arms, as of old, men supported those of the prophet.’
“No, no, I won’t allow it; the willing ones will take it as their duty to support your cause, just like in the past, when men supported the prophet.”
“‘Very good,’ I answered.
“‘Sounds great,’ I replied.”
“‘That will not be humiliating to you?’
“‘Will that not be embarrassing for you?’”
“‘My friend,’ said I, ‘there is, I think, a great difference between being supported and being measured.’”
“‘My friend,’ I said, ‘I believe there’s a big difference between being supported and being judged.’”
“The distinction is full of the soundest sense,” interrupted D’Artagnan.
“The distinction makes perfect sense,” interrupted D’Artagnan.
“Then,” continued Porthos, “he made a sign: two lads approached; one supported my left arm, while the other, with infinite address, supported my right.”
“Then,” Porthos continued, “he gestured for two young men to come over; one helped my left arm, while the other skillfully helped my right.”
“‘Another, my man,’ cried he. A third approached. ‘Support monsieur by the waist,’ said he. The garcon complied.”
“‘Another one, my man,’ he shouted. A third person came over. ‘Support the gentleman by the waist,’ he instructed. The garcon agreed.”
“So that you were at rest?” asked D’Artagnan.
"So you were at rest?" asked D'Artagnan.
“Perfectly; and Pocquenard drew me on the glass.”
“Exactly; and Pocquenard pulled me onto the glass.”
“Poquelin, my friend.”
"Poquelin, my buddy."
“Poquelin—you are right. Stay, decidedly I prefer calling him Voliere.”
“Poquelin—you’re right. I definitely prefer calling him Voliere.”
“Yes; and then it was over, wasn’t it?”
“Yes; and then it was over, wasn’t it?”
“During that time Voliere drew me as I appeared in the mirror.”
“During that time, Voliere drew me as I looked in the mirror.”
“‘Twas delicate in him.”
“He was delicate.”
“I much like the plan; it is respectful, and keeps every one in his place.”
“I really like the plan; it’s respectful and keeps everyone in their place.”
“And there it ended?”
“And that’s where it ended?”
“Without a soul having touched me, my friend.”
“Without anyone having touched me, my friend.”
“Except the three garcons who supported you.”
“Except for the three guys who supported you.”
“Doubtless; but I have, I think, already explained to you the difference there is between supporting and measuring.”
“Sure, but I believe I've already explained the difference between supporting and measuring.”
“‘Tis true,” answered D’Artagnan; who said afterwards to himself, “I’faith, I greatly deceive myself, or I have been the means of a good windfall to that rascal Moliere, and we shall assuredly see the scene hit off to the life in some comedy or other.” Porthos smiled.
“It's true,” D’Artagnan replied; then he thought to himself, “I swear, I must be mistaken, or I’ve just helped that scoundrel Moliere score a nice bit of luck, and we’re definitely going to see this situation play out in one of his comedies.” Porthos smiled.
“What are you laughing at?” asked D’Artagnan.
“What are you laughing at?” D’Artagnan asked.
“Must I confess? Well, I was laughing over my good fortune.”
"Do I really have to confess? Honestly, I was just chuckling about my luck."
“Oh, that is true; I don’t know a happier man than you. But what is this last piece of luck that has befallen you?’
“Oh, that’s true; I don’t know a happier man than you. But what’s this latest stroke of luck that’s come your way?”
“Well, my dear fellow, congratulate me.”
"Well, my friend, celebrate with me."
“I desire nothing better.”
“I want nothing more.”
“It seems that I am the first who has had his measure taken in that manner.”
“It looks like I’m the first one who’s had their measurements taken like that.”
“Are you so sure of it?’
“Are you that sure of it?”
“Nearly so. Certain signs of intelligence which passed between Voliere and the other garcons showed me the fact.”
“Pretty much. Some signs of intelligence that passed between Voliere and the other garcons made it clear to me.”
“Well, my friend, that does not surprise me from Moliere,” said D’Artagnan.
“Well, my friend, that doesn't surprise me coming from Moliere,” said D’Artagnan.
“Voliere, my friend.”
"Birdcage, my friend."
“Oh, no, no, indeed! I am very willing to leave you to go on saying Voliere; but, as for me, I shall continued to say Moliere. Well, this, I was saying, does not surprise me, coming from Moliere, who is a very ingenious fellow, and inspired you with this grand idea.”
“Oh, no, not at all! I'm happy to let you keep saying Voliere; but as for me, I'm going to keep saying Moliere. Well, this, I was saying, doesn’t surprise me coming from Moliere, who is a very clever guy and inspired you with this great idea.”
“It will be of great use to him by and by, I am sure.”
"It will definitely be useful for him eventually, I'm sure."
“Won’t it be of use to him, indeed? I believe you, it will, and that in the highest degree;—for you see my friend Moliere is of all known tailors the man who best clothes our barons, comtes, and marquises—according to their measure.”
“Will it really be helpful for him? I believe it will, and in the best way possible;—because you see, my friend Moliere is the best tailor for our barons, counts, and marquises—he fits them perfectly.”
On this observation, neither the application nor depth of which we shall discuss, D’Artagnan and Porthos quitted M. de Percerin’s house and rejoined their carriages, wherein we will leave them, in order to look after Moliere and Aramis at Saint-Mande.
On this note, without discussing the details or implications, D’Artagnan and Porthos left M. de Percerin’s house and returned to their carriages, where we will leave them to check on Moliere and Aramis at Saint-Mande.
Chapter VI. The Bee-Hive, the Bees, and the Honey.
The bishop of Vannes, much annoyed at having met D’Artagnan at M. Percerin’s, returned to Saint-Mande in no very good humor. Moliere, on the other hand, quite delighted at having made such a capital rough sketch, and at knowing where to find his original again, whenever he should desire to convert his sketch into a picture, Moliere arrived in the merriest of moods. All the first story of the left wing was occupied by the most celebrated Epicureans in Paris, and those on the freest footing in the house—every one in his compartment, like the bees in their cells, employed in producing the honey intended for that royal cake which M. Fouquet proposed to offer his majesty Louis XIV. during the fete at Vaux. Pelisson, his head leaning on his hand, was engaged in drawing out the plan of the prologue to the “Facheux,” a comedy in three acts, which was to be put on the stage by Poquelin de Moliere, as D’Artagnan called him, or Coquelin de Voliere, as Porthos styled him. Loret, with all the charming innocence of a gazetteer,—the gazetteers of all ages have always been so artless!—Loret was composing an account of the fetes at Vaux, before those fetes had taken place. La Fontaine sauntered about from one to the other, a peripatetic, absent-minded, boring, unbearable dreamer, who kept buzzing and humming at everybody’s elbow a thousand poetic abstractions. He so often disturbed Pelisson, that the latter, raising his head, crossly said, “At least, La Fontaine, supply me with a rhyme, since you have the run of the gardens at Parnassus.”
The bishop of Vannes, quite irritated after running into D’Artagnan at M. Percerin’s, returned to Saint-Mande in a bad mood. Moliere, on the other hand, was thrilled to have created such a great rough sketch and knowing where to find his original whenever he wanted to turn his sketch into a full-blown piece, arrived in the happiest of spirits. The entire first floor of the left wing was filled with the most famous Epicureans in Paris, those who had the most freedom in the house—each in their own space, like bees in their hives, busy producing the honey meant for the royal cake that M. Fouquet planned to present to King Louis XIV during the fete at Vaux. Pelisson, his head resting on his hand, was working on the plan for the prologue to the “Facheux,” a comedy in three acts, which was going to be staged by Poquelin de Moliere, as D’Artagnan called him, or Coquelin de Voliere, as Porthos referred to him. Loret, with all the charming innocence of a journalist—journalists throughout the ages have always been so naive!—was writing a piece about the fetes at Vaux, before they had even happened. La Fontaine wandered from one person to another, a wandering, absent-minded, tedious, unbearable dreamer, buzzing around everyone’s ear with a thousand poetic thoughts. He interrupted Pelisson so frequently that Pelisson lifted his head and irritably said, “At least, La Fontaine, give me a rhyme, since you have access to the gardens at Parnassus.”
“What rhyme do you want?” asked the Fabler as Madame de Sevigne used to call him.
“What rhyme do you want?” asked the Fabler as Madame de Sevigne used to call him.
“I want a rhyme to lumiere.”
“I want a rhyme for lumiere.”
“Orniere,” answered La Fontaine.
“Orniere,” answered La Fontaine.
“Ah, but, my good friend, one cannot talk of wheel-ruts when celebrating the delights of Vaux,” said Loret.
“Ah, but, my good friend, you can't talk about wheel-ruts when celebrating the joys of Vaux,” said Loret.
“Besides, it doesn’t rhyme,” answered Pelisson.
“Besides, it doesn’t rhyme,” Pelisson replied.
“What! doesn’t rhyme!” cried La Fontaine, in surprise.
“What! doesn’t rhyme!” exclaimed La Fontaine, in shock.
“Yes; you have an abominable habit, my friend,—a habit which will ever prevent your becoming a poet of the first order. You rhyme in a slovenly manner.”
“Yes; you have a terrible habit, my friend—a habit that will always stop you from becoming a top-tier poet. You rhyme carelessly.”
“Oh, oh, you think so, do you, Pelisson?”
“Oh, really, you think that, Pelisson?”
“Yes, I do, indeed. Remember that a rhyme is never good so long as one can find a better.”
“Yes, I really do. Keep in mind that a rhyme is never great as long as there's a better one out there.”
“Then I will never write anything again save in prose,” said La Fontaine, who had taken up Pelisson’s reproach in earnest. “Ah! I often suspected I was nothing but a rascally poet! Yes, ‘tis the very truth.”
“Then I will never write anything again except in prose,” said La Fontaine, who had taken Pelisson’s criticism to heart. “Ah! I often suspected I was nothing but a sneaky poet! Yes, that’s the absolute truth.”
“Do not say so; your remark is too sweeping, and there is much that is good in your ‘Fables.’”
“Don’t say that; your comment is too broad, and there’s a lot of good in your ‘Fables.’”
“And to begin,” continued La Fontaine, following up his idea, “I will go and burn a hundred verses I have just made.”
“And to start,” La Fontaine continued, building on his thought, “I’m going to go burn a hundred verses I just wrote.”
“Where are your verses?”
"Where are your poems?"
“In my head.”
"In my mind."
“Well, if they are in your head you cannot burn them.”
“Well, if they’re in your head, you can’t burn them.”
“True,” said La Fontaine; “but if I do not burn them—”
“True,” said La Fontaine; “but if I don’t burn them—”
“Well, what will happen if you do not burn them?”
“Well, what will happen if you don’t burn them?”
“They will remain in my mind, and I shall never forget them!”
“They will stay in my mind, and I’ll never forget them!”
“The deuce!” cried Loret; “what a dangerous thing! One would go mad with it!”
“The heck!” shouted Loret; “what a risky thing! One could go crazy with it!”
“The deuce! the deuce!” repeated La Fontaine; “what can I do?”
“The heck! The heck!” La Fontaine repeated; “what can I do?”
“I have discovered the way,” said Moliere, who had entered just at this point of the conversation.
“I’ve found the way,” said Moliere, who had just entered the conversation.
“What way?”
“Which way?”
“Write them first and burn them afterwards.”
“Write them down first and then get rid of them.”
“How simple! Well, I should never have discovered that. What a mind that devil of a Moliere has!” said La Fontaine. Then, striking his forehead, “Oh, thou wilt never be aught but an ass, Jean La Fontaine!” he added.
“How simple! I would have never figured that out. What a genius that devil Molière is!” said La Fontaine. Then, hitting his forehead, “Oh, you'll never be anything but a fool, Jean La Fontaine!” he added.
“What are you saying there, my friend?” broke in Moliere, approaching the poet, whose aside he had heard.
What are you talking about, my friend?” interrupted Moliere, walking up to the poet, who he had overheard.
“I say I shall never be aught but an ass,” answered La Fontaine, with a heavy sigh and swimming eyes. “Yes, my friend,” he added, with increasing grief, “it seems that I rhyme in a slovenly manner.”
“I say I’ll never be anything but a fool,” replied La Fontaine, with a deep sigh and watery eyes. “Yes, my friend,” he added, with growing sadness, “it seems that I write in a careless way.”
“Oh, ‘tis wrong to say so.”
"Oh, it's wrong to say that."
“Nay, I am a poor creature!”
“Nah, I'm a broke creature!”
“Who said so?”
"Who said that?"
“Parbleu! ‘twas Pelisson; did you not, Pelisson?”
“Wow! It was Pelisson; wasn’t it, Pelisson?”
Pelisson, again absorbed in his work, took good care not to answer.
Pelisson, once again focused on his work, made sure not to respond.
“But if Pelisson said you were so,” cried Moliere, “Pelisson has seriously offended you.”
“But if Pelisson said that about you,” Moliere exclaimed, “then Pelisson has really upset you.”
“Do you think so?”
"Do you really think that?"
“Ah! I advise you, as you are a gentleman, not to leave an insult like that unpunished.”
“Hey! I suggest you, as a gentleman, not to let an insult like that go unpunished.”
“What!” exclaimed La Fontaine.
“What!” La Fontaine exclaimed.
“Did you ever fight?”
"Have you ever fought?"
“Once only, with a lieutenant in the light horse.”
“Only once, with a lieutenant in the cavalry.”
“What wrong had he done you?”
“What did he do to you?”
“It seems he ran away with my wife.”
"It looks like he left with my wife."
“Ah, ah!” said Moliere, becoming slightly pale; but as, at La Fontaine’s declaration, the others had turned round, Moliere kept upon his lips the rallying smile which had so nearly died away, and continuing to make La Fontaine speak—
“Ah, ah!” said Moliere, growing a bit pale; but since the others turned around at La Fontaine’s comment, Moliere maintained the cheerful smile that had almost faded away, and kept prompting La Fontaine to keep speaking—
“And what was the result of the duel?”
“And what happened in the duel?”
“The result was, that on the ground my opponent disarmed me, and then made an apology, promising never again to set foot in my house.”
“The outcome was that my opponent disarmed me, and then apologized, promising to never return to my house again.”
“And you considered yourself satisfied?” said Moliere.
“And you thought you were satisfied?” said Molière.
“Not at all! on the contrary, I picked up my sword. ‘I beg your pardon, monsieur,’ I said, ‘I have not fought you because you were my wife’s friend, but because I was told I ought to fight. So, as I have never known any peace save since you made her acquaintance, do me the pleasure to continue your visits as heretofore, or morbleu! let us set to again.’ And so,” continued La Fontaine, “he was compelled to resume his friendship with madame, and I continue to be the happiest of husbands.”
“Not at all! On the contrary, I picked up my sword. ‘I apologize, sir,’ I said, ‘I didn’t fight you because you were my wife’s friend, but because I was told I should. So, since I’ve only known peace since you met her, please keep visiting her as you have been, or morbleu! let’s start fighting again.’ And so,” La Fontaine continued, “he had to keep being friends with madame, and I remain the happiest of husbands.”
All burst out laughing. Moliere alone passed his hand across his eyes. Why? Perhaps to wipe away a tear, perhaps to smother a sigh. Alas! we know that Moliere was a moralist, but he was not a philosopher. “‘Tis all one,” he said, returning to the topic of the conversation, “Pelisson has insulted you.”
Everyone erupted in laughter. Moliere alone wiped his eyes. Why? Maybe to wipe away a tear, maybe to hold back a sigh. Unfortunately, we know that Moliere was a moralist, but he wasn’t a philosopher. “It’s all the same,” he said, going back to the conversation, “Pelisson has insulted you.”
“Ah, truly! I had already forgotten it.”
“Ah, really! I had totally forgotten about it.”
“And I am going to challenge him on your behalf.”
“And I'm going to take him on for you.”
“Well, you can do so, if you think it indispensable.”
"Well, you can go ahead and do that if you think it's absolutely necessary."
“I do think it indispensable, and I am going to—”
“I really think it’s essential, and I’m going to—”
“Stay,” exclaimed La Fontaine, “I want your advice.”
“Wait,” La Fontaine said, “I need your advice.”
“Upon what? this insult?”
"On what basis? This insult?"
“No; tell me really now whether lumiere does not rhyme with orniere.”
“No; tell me honestly now if lumiere doesn’t rhyme with orniere.”
“I should make them rhyme.”
“I should get them to rhyme.”
“Ah! I knew you would.”
"Ah! I knew you would!"
“And I have made a hundred thousand such rhymes in my time.”
“And I have written a hundred thousand of those rhymes in my time.”
“A hundred thousand!” cried La Fontaine. “Four times as many as ‘La Pucelle,’ which M. Chaplain is meditating. Is it also on this subject, too, that you have composed a hundred thousand verses?”
“A hundred thousand!” exclaimed La Fontaine. “That’s four times as many as ‘La Pucelle,’ which M. Chaplain is working on. Is it also about this topic that you’ve written a hundred thousand verses?”
“Listen to me, you eternally absent-minded creature,” said Moliere.
“Listen to me, you hopelessly forgetful person,” said Moliere.
“It is certain,” continued La Fontaine, “that legume, for instance, rhymes with posthume.”
“It’s certain,” La Fontaine continued, “that legume, for example, rhymes with posthume.”
“In the plural, above all.”
"In the plural, above all."
“Yes, above all in the plural, seeing that then it rhymes not with three letters, but with four; as orniere does with lumiere.”
“Yes, especially in the plural, since then it rhymes not with three letters, but with four; just like orniere does with lumiere.”
“But give me ornieres and lumieres in the plural, my dear Pelisson,” said La Fontaine, clapping his hand on the shoulder of his friend, whose insult he had quite forgotten, “and they will rhyme.”
“But give me ornieres and lumieres in the plural, my dear Pelisson,” said La Fontaine, patting his friend on the shoulder, whose insult he had completely forgotten, “and they will rhyme.”
“Hem!” coughed Pelisson.
“Um!” coughed Pelisson.
“Moliere says so, and Moliere is a judge of such things; he declares he has himself made a hundred thousand verses.”
“Molière says so, and Molière knows about these things; he claims he has written a hundred thousand verses himself.”
“Come,” said Moliere, laughing, “he is off now.”
“Come on,” Moliere said with a laugh, “he's off now.”
“It is like rivage, which rhymes admirably with herbage. I would take my oath of it.”
“It’s like rivage, which rhymes perfectly with herbage. I would swear by it.”
“But—” said Moliere.
“But—” said Molière.
“I tell you all this,” continued La Fontaine, “because you are preparing a divertissement for Vaux, are you not?”
“I’m sharing all this with you,” La Fontaine continued, “because you’re getting a divertissement ready for Vaux, right?”
“Yes, the ‘Facheux.’”
“Yes, the ‘Facheux.’”
“Ah, yes, the ‘Facheux;’ yes, I recollect. Well, I was thinking a prologue would admirably suit your divertissement.”
“Ah, yes, the ‘Facheux;’ yes, I remember. Well, I was thinking a prologue would fit your divertissement perfectly.”
“Doubtless it would suit capitally.”
“I'm sure it would work great.”
“Ah! you are of my opinion?”
"Ah! You agree?"
“So much so, that I have asked you to write this very prologue.”
“So much so that I asked you to write this very prologue.”
“You asked me to write it?”
"You asked me to write this?"
“Yes, you, and on your refusal begged you to ask Pelisson, who is engaged upon it at this moment.”
“Yes, you, and when you refused, I urged you to ask Pelisson, who is working on it right now.”
“Ah! that is what Pelisson is doing, then? I’faith, my dear Moliere, you are indeed often right.”
“Ah! So that’s what Pelisson is up to, huh? Honestly, my dear Moliere, you’re often spot on.”
“When?”
“When?”
“When you call me absent-minded. It is a monstrous defect; I will cure myself of it, and do your prologue for you.”
“When you call me forgetful, it's a serious flaw; I’ll fix it and take care of your introduction for you.”
“But inasmuch as Pelisson is about it!—”
“But since Pelisson is in!—”
“Ah, true, miserable rascal that I am! Loret was indeed right in saying I was a poor creature.”
“Ah, it’s true, what a miserable fool I am! Loret was definitely right in saying I was a pathetic person.”
“It was not Loret who said so, my friend.”
“It wasn't Loret who said that, my friend.”
“Well, then, whoever said so, ‘tis the same to me! And so your divertissement is called the ‘Facheux?’ Well, can you make heureux rhyme with facheux?”
“Well, whoever said that doesn’t matter to me! So, your divertissement is called the ‘Facheux?’ Can you make heureux rhyme with facheux?”
“If obliged, yes.”
"If necessary, yes."
“And even with capriceux.”
"And even with caprice."
“Oh, no, no.”
“Oh, no way.”
“It would be hazardous, and yet why so?”
“It would be risky, but why is that?”
“There is too great a difference in the cadences.”
“There is too much of a difference in the rhythms.”
“I was fancying,” said La Fontaine, leaving Moliere for Loret—“I was fancying—”
“I was thinking,” said La Fontaine, leaving Molière for Loret—“I was thinking—”
“What were you fancying?” said Loret, in the middle of a sentence. “Make haste.”
“What were you thinking?” Loret asked, interrupting in the middle of a sentence. “Hurry up.”
“You are writing the prologue to the ‘Facheux,’ are you not?”
“You're writing the prologue to the ‘Facheux,’ right?”
“No! mordieu! it is Pelisson.”
“No! mordieu! it’s Pelisson.”
“Ah, Pelisson,” cried La Fontaine, going over to him, “I was fancying,” he continued, “that the nymph of Vaux—”
“Ah, Pelisson,” cried La Fontaine, walking over to him, “I was imagining,” he continued, “that the nymph of Vaux—”
“Ah, beautiful!” cried Loret. “The nymph of Vaux! thank you, La Fontaine; you have just given me the two concluding verses of my paper.”
“Ah, beautiful!” exclaimed Loret. “The nymph of Vaux! Thank you, La Fontaine; you’ve just given me the last two lines of my essay.”
“Well, if you can rhyme so well, La Fontaine,” said Pelisson, “tell me now in what way you would begin my prologue?”
"Well, if you can rhyme so well, La Fontaine," Pelisson said, "tell me how you would start my prologue?"
“I should say, for instance, ‘Oh! nymph, who—’ After ‘who’ I should place a verb in the second person singular of the present indicative; and should go on thus: ‘this grot profound.’”
“I should say, for example, ‘Oh! nymph, who—’ After ‘who’ I should add a verb in the second person singular of the present tense; and would continue like this: ‘this deep grotto.’”
“But the verb, the verb?” asked Pelisson.
“But the verb, the verb?” Pelisson asked.
“To admire the greatest king of all kings round,” continued La Fontaine.
“To admire the greatest king of all kings,” continued La Fontaine.
“But the verb, the verb,” obstinately insisted Pelisson. “This second person singular of the present indicative?”
“But the verb, the verb,” Pelisson stubbornly insisted. “This second person singular of the present indicative?”
“Well, then; quittest:
“Well, then; shut up:
“Oh, nymph, who quittest now this grot profound, To admire the greatest king of all kings round.”
“Oh, nymph, who now leaves this deep grotto to admire the greatest king of all kings around.”
“You would not put ‘who quittest,’ would you?”
“You wouldn’t say ‘who quit,’ would you?”
“Why not?”
"Why not?"
“‘Quittest,’ after ‘you who’?”
“‘Quitter,’ after ‘you who’?”
“Ah! my dear fellow,” exclaimed La Fontaine, “you are a shocking pedant!”
“Ah! my dear friend,” exclaimed La Fontaine, “you are such a pretentious know-it-all!”
“Without counting,” said Moliere, “that the second verse, ‘king of all kings round,’ is very weak, my dear La Fontaine.”
“Not to mention,” said Moliere, “that the second line, ‘king of all kings round,’ is pretty weak, my dear La Fontaine.”
“Then you see clearly I am nothing but a poor creature,—a shuffler, as you said.”
“Then you can see clearly that I’m nothing but a poor soul—a mess, like you said.”
“I never said so.”
"I never said that."
“Then, as Loret said.”
“Then, as Loret mentioned.”
“And it was not Loret either; it was Pelisson.”
“And it wasn't Loret either; it was Pelisson.”
“Well, Pelisson was right a hundred times over. But what annoys me more than anything, my dear Moliere, is, that I fear we shall not have our Epicurean dresses.”
“Well, Pelisson was right a hundred times over. But what annoys me more than anything, my dear Moliere, is that I'm worried we won’t get our Epicurean outfits.”
“You expected yours, then, for the fete?”
“You expected yours, then, for the party?”
“Yes, for the fete, and then for after the fete. My housekeeper told me that my own is rather faded.”
“Yes, for the party, and then for after the party. My housekeeper told me that mine is a bit worn out.”
“Diable! your housekeeper is right; rather more than faded.”
“Wow! your housekeeper is right; it's more than just faded.”
“Ah, you see,” resumed La Fontaine, “the fact is, I left it on the floor in my room, and my cat—”
“Ah, you see,” La Fontaine continued, “the thing is, I left it on the floor in my room, and my cat—”
“Well, your cat—”
“Well, your cat—”
“She made her nest upon it, which has rather changed its color.”
“She built her nest on it, which has changed its color a bit.”
Moliere burst out laughing; Pelisson and Loret followed his example. At this juncture, the bishop of Vannes appeared, with a roll of plans and parchments under his arm. As if the angel of death had chilled all gay and sprightly fancies—as if that wan form had scared away the Graces to whom Xenocrates sacrificed—silence immediately reigned through the study, and every one resumed his self-possession and his pen. Aramis distributed the notes of invitation, and thanked them in the name of M. Fouquet. “The superintendent,” he said, “being kept to his room by business, could not come and see them, but begged them to send him some of the fruits of their day’s work, to enable him to forget the fatigue of his labor in the night.”
Moliere burst out laughing, and Pelisson and Loret joined in. At that moment, the bishop of Vannes showed up, carrying a roll of plans and documents under his arm. As if the angel of death had cast a chill over all cheerful and lively thoughts—as if that pale figure had frightened away the Graces that Xenocrates honored—silence fell over the study, and everyone regained their composure and picked up their pens. Aramis handed out the invitation notes and thanked them on behalf of M. Fouquet. “The superintendent,” he said, “is stuck in his room with work and couldn’t come to see you, but he asked you to send him some of the results of your day’s efforts so he could forget the fatigue of his late-night labor.”
At these words, all settled down to work. La Fontaine placed himself at a table, and set his rapid pen an endless dance across the smooth white vellum; Pelisson made a fair copy of his prologue; Moliere contributed fifty fresh verses, with which his visit to Percerin had inspired him; Loret, an article on the marvelous fetes he predicted; and Aramis, laden with his booty like the king of the bees, that great black drone, decked with purple and gold, re-entered his apartment, silent and busy. But before departing, “Remember, gentlemen,” said he, “we leave to-morrow evening.”
At these words, everyone got down to work. La Fontaine sat at a table and let his quick pen dance endlessly across the smooth white vellum; Pelisson copied his prologue neatly; Moliere added fifty new verses inspired by his visit to Percerin; Loret wrote an article about the amazing fetes he predicted; and Aramis, weighed down with his haul like a king bee, that big black drone adorned with purple and gold, quietly returned to his room, focused and working hard. But before leaving, he said, “Remember, gentlemen, we’re leaving tomorrow evening.”
“In that case, I must give notice at home,” said Moliere.
“In that case, I need to let my family know,” said Moliere.
“Yes; poor Moliere!” said Loret, smiling; “he loves his home.”
“Yes; poor Molière!” said Loret, smiling; “he loves his home.”
“‘He loves,’ yes,” replied Moliere, with his sad, sweet smile. “‘He loves,’ that does not mean, they love him.”
“‘He loves,’ yes,” replied Moliere, with his sad, sweet smile. “‘He loves,’ that doesn’t mean they love him.”
“As for me,” said La Fontaine, “they love me at Chateau Thierry, I am very sure.”
“As for me,” said La Fontaine, “I’m pretty sure they love me at Chateau Thierry.”
Aramis here re-entered after a brief disappearance.
Aramis re-entered after a short absence.
“Will any one go with me?” he asked. “I am going by Paris, after having passed a quarter of an hour with M. Fouquet. I offer my carriage.”
“Will anyone go with me?” he asked. “I’m going to Paris after spending a little time with M. Fouquet. I’ll provide my carriage.”
“Good,” said Moliere, “I accept it. I am in a hurry.”
“Great,” said Moliere, “I’ll take it. I’m in a rush.”
“I shall dine here,” said Loret. “M. de Gourville has promised me some craw-fish.”
“I'll have dinner here,” said Loret. “M. de Gourville promised me some crawfish.”
“He has promised me some whitings. Find a rhyme for that, La Fontaine.”
“He promised me some whitings. Find a rhyme for that, La Fontaine.”
Aramis went out laughing, as only he could laugh, and Moliere followed him. They were at the bottom of the stairs, when La Fontaine opened the door, and shouted out:
Aramis stepped out laughing, in his unique way, and Moliere followed him. They had just reached the bottom of the stairs when La Fontaine opened the door and shouted out:
“He has promised us some whitings, In return for these our writings.”
“He promised us some whitings in exchange for our writings.”
The shouts of laughter reached the ears of Fouquet at the moment Aramis opened the door of the study. As to Moliere, he had undertaken to order the horses, while Aramis went to exchange a parting word with the superintendent. “Oh, how they are laughing there!” said Fouquet, with a sigh.
The sounds of laughter filled Fouquet's ears just as Aramis opened the study door. Meanwhile, Moliere had taken it upon himself to arrange for the horses, while Aramis stepped out to say goodbye to the superintendent. “Wow, they're having quite the laugh over there!” said Fouquet, letting out a sigh.
“Do you not laugh, monseigneur?”
“Don't you laugh, monseigneur?”
“I laugh no longer now, M. d’Herblay. The fete is approaching; money is departing.”
“I no longer laugh now, M. d’Herblay. The fete is coming; money is leaving.”
“Have I not told you that was my business?”
“Have I not told you that it was my responsibility?”
“Yes, you promised me millions.”
"Yes, you promised me millions."
“You shall have them the day after the king’s entree into Vaux.”
“You will have them the day after the king’s entrance into Vaux.”
Fouquet looked closely at Aramis, and passed the back of his icy hand across his moistened brow. Aramis perceived that the superintendent either doubted him, or felt he was powerless to obtain the money. How could Fouquet suppose that a poor bishop, ex-abbe, ex-musketeer, could find any?
Fouquet studied Aramis intently and wiped his damp forehead with the back of his cold hand. Aramis sensed that the superintendent either doubted him or realized he was unable to secure the funds. How could Fouquet think that a broke bishop, former abbe, former musketeer, could come up with any money?
“Why doubt me?” said Aramis. Fouquet smiled and shook his head.
“Why doubt me?” Aramis asked. Fouquet smiled and shook his head.
“Man of little faith!” added the bishop.
“Man of little faith!” the bishop added.
“My dear M. d’Herblay,” answered Fouquet, “if I fall—”
“My dear M. d’Herblay,” replied Fouquet, “if I fall—”
“Well; if you ‘fall’?”
"Well, what if you 'fall'?"
“I shall, at least, fall from such a height, that I shall shatter myself in falling.” Then giving himself a shake, as though to escape from himself, “Whence came you,” said he, “my friend?”
“I will at least fall from such a height that I’ll break apart when I do.” Then shaking himself, as if trying to shake off his own thoughts, he said, “Where did you come from, my friend?”
“From Paris—from Percerin.”
"From Paris—from Percerin."
“And what have you been doing at Percerin’s, for I suppose you attach no great importance to our poets’ dresses?”
“And what have you been doing at Percerin’s? I assume you don’t think our poets’ outfits are that important?”
“No; I went to prepare a surprise.”
“No, I went to set up a surprise.”
“Surprise?”
"Surprised?"
“Yes; which you are going to give to the king.”
“Yes; that you’re going to give to the king.”
“And will it cost much?”
"Is it going to be expensive?"
“Oh! a hundred pistoles you will give Lebrun.”
“Oh! one hundred pistoles you will give Lebrun.”
“A painting?—Ah! all the better! And what is this painting to represent?”
“A painting?—Oh, that's even better! And what is this painting going to show?”
“I will tell you; then at the same time, whatever you may say or think of it, I went to see the dresses for our poets.”
“I’ll tell you; and at the same time, no matter what you think about it, I went to check out the dresses for our poets.”
“Bah! and they will be rich and elegant?”
“Bah! and they will be wealthy and sophisticated?”
“Splendid! There will be few great monseigneurs with so good. People will see the difference there is between the courtiers of wealth and those of friendship.”
“Awesome! There won’t be many great nobles like him. People will notice the difference between the rich courtiers and those who are true friends.”
“Ever generous and grateful, dear prelate.”
"Always generous and appreciative, dear bishop."
“In your school.”
“At your school.”
Fouquet grasped his hand. “And where are you going?” he said.
Fouquet grabbed his hand. “So, where are you headed?” he asked.
“I am off to Paris, when you shall have given a certain letter.”
“I’m heading to Paris, when you’ve delivered a specific letter.”
“For whom?”
"For who?"
“M. de Lyonne.”
“M. de Lyonne.”
“And what do you want with Lyonne?”
“And what do you want with Lyonne?”
“I wish to make him sign a lettre de cachet.”
“I want him to sign a lettre de cachet.”
“‘Lettre de cachet!’ Do you desire to put somebody in the Bastile?”
“‘Letter of cachet!’ Do you want to imprison someone in the Bastille?”
“On the contrary—to let somebody out.”
"On the contrary—to free someone."
“And who?”
"Who?"
“A poor devil—a youth, a lad who has been Bastiled these ten years, for two Latin verses he made against the Jesuits.”
“A poor guy—a young man, a kid who has been stuck in prison for ten years, for two Latin lines he wrote against the Jesuits.”
“‘Two Latin verses!’ and, for ‘two Latin verses,’ the miserable being has been in prison for ten years!”
“‘Two Latin lines!’ and for those ‘two Latin lines,’ the unfortunate person has been in prison for ten years!”
“Yes!”
“Absolutely!”
“And has committed no other crime?”
“And hasn’t committed any other crime?”
“Beyond this, he is as innocent as you or I.”
“Besides that, he’s just as innocent as you or me.”
“On your word?”
"Are you sure?"
“On my honor!”
"On my word!"
“And his name is—”
"And his name is—"
“Seldon.”
“Seldon.”
“Yes.—But it is too bad. You knew this, and you never told me!”
“Yes. But that’s unfortunate. You knew this, and you never told me!”
“‘Twas only yesterday his mother applied to me, monseigneur.”
"Just yesterday, his mother came to me, sir."
“And the woman is poor!”
“And the woman is broke!”
“In the deepest misery.”
"In complete despair."
“Heaven,” said Fouquet, “sometimes bears with such injustice on earth, that I hardly wonder there are wretches who doubt of its existence. Stay, M. d’Herblay.” And Fouquet, taking a pen, wrote a few rapid lines to his colleague Lyonne. Aramis took the letter and made ready to go.
“Heaven,” said Fouquet, “sometimes puts up with so much injustice on earth that I can’t blame those miserable people who question whether it really exists. Wait, M. d’Herblay.” And Fouquet, grabbing a pen, quickly jotted down a few lines to his colleague Lyonne. Aramis took the letter and prepared to leave.
“Wait,” said Fouquet. He opened his drawer, and took out ten government notes which were there, each for a thousand francs. “Stay,” he said; “set the son at liberty, and give this to the mother; but, above all, do not tell her—”
“Wait,” said Fouquet. He opened his drawer and pulled out ten government notes, each worth a thousand francs. “Here,” he said; “release the son and give this to the mother; but above all, don’t tell her—”
“What, monseigneur?”
“What, sir?”
“That she is ten thousand livres richer than I. She would say I am but a poor superintendent! Go! and I pray that God will bless those who are mindful of his poor!”
“That she is ten thousand livres richer than I am. She would say I’m just a poor superintendent! Go! and I hope that God blesses those who care for the less fortunate!”
“So also do I pray,” replied Aramis, kissing Fouquet’s hand.
“Me too,” replied Aramis, kissing Fouquet’s hand.
And he went out quickly, carrying off the letter for Lyonne and the notes for Seldon’s mother, and taking up Moliere, who was beginning to lose patience.
And he went out quickly, grabbing the letter for Lyonne and the notes for Seldon’s mom, while picking up Moliere, who was starting to lose patience.
Chapter VII. Another Supper at the Bastile.
Seven o’clock sounded from the great clock of the Bastile, that famous clock, which, like all the accessories of the state prison, the very use of which is a torture, recalled to the prisoners’ minds the destination of every hour of their punishment. The time-piece of the Bastile, adorned with figures, like most of the clocks of the period, represented St. Peter in bonds. It was the supper hour of the unfortunate captives. The doors, grating on their enormous hinges, opened for the passage of the baskets and trays of provisions, the abundance and the delicacy of which, as M. de Baisemeaux has himself taught us, was regulated by the condition in life of the prisoner. We understand on this head the theories of M. de Baisemeaux, sovereign dispenser of gastronomic delicacies, head cook of the royal fortress, whose trays, full-laden, were ascending the steep staircases, carrying some consolation to the prisoners in the shape of honestly filled bottles of good vintages. This same hour was that of M. le gouverneur’s supper also. He had a guest to-day, and the spit turned more heavily than usual. Roast partridges, flanked with quails and flanking a larded leveret; boiled fowls; hams, fried and sprinkled with white wine, cardons of Guipuzcoa and la bisque ecrevisses: these, together with soups and hors d’oeuvres, constituted the governor’s bill of fare. Baisemeaux, seated at table, was rubbing his hands and looking at the bishop of Vannes, who, booted like a cavalier, dressed in gray and sword at side, kept talking of his hunger and testifying the liveliest impatience. M. de Baisemeaux de Montlezun was not accustomed to the unbending movements of his greatness my lord of Vannes, and this evening Aramis, becoming sprightly, volunteered confidence on confidence. The prelate had again a little touch of the musketeer about him. The bishop just trenched on the borders only of license in his style of conversation. As for M. de Baisemeaux, with the facility of vulgar people, he gave himself up entirely upon this point of his guest’s freedom. “Monsieur,” said he, “for indeed to-night I dare not call you monseigneur.”
Seven o’clock rang out from the big clock of the Bastille, that famous clock, which, like everything in the state prison, was a reminder of the prisoners’ suffering, marking every hour of their punishment. The timepiece, decorated with figures like most clocks at the time, depicted St. Peter in chains. It was the supper hour for the unfortunate captives. The doors, creaking on their massive hinges, swung open to allow baskets and trays of food to pass through, the quantity and quality of which, as M. de Baisemeaux has taught us, depended on the prisoner’s status. We note here the theories of M. de Baisemeaux, the chief provider of culinary delights and head cook of the royal fortress, whose well-stocked trays were climbing the steep staircases, bringing some comfort to the prisoners in the form of generously filled bottles of fine wine. This hour also marked M. le gouverneur’s supper. He had a guest today, and the spit was turning more heavily than usual. Roast partridges, with quails and a larded leveret alongside; boiled chickens; hams fried and sprinkled with white wine; Guipuzcoa cardoons and lobster bisque: these, along with soups and appetizers, made up the governor’s menu. Baisemeaux, sitting at the table, was rubbing his hands and looking at the bishop of Vannes, who, dressed like a cavalier in gray with boots and a sword, kept talking about his hunger and showing great impatience. M. de Baisemeaux de Montlezun wasn't used to the unyielding manner of his lordship of Vannes, but this evening Aramis, becoming lively, offered one confidence after another. The prelate had a hint of the musketeer about him. The bishop only slightly brushed the edges of impropriety in his conversation. As for M. de Baisemeaux, like many people, he completely indulged in his guest’s openness. “Monsieur,” he said, “tonight I can’t bring myself to call you monseigneur.”
“By no means,” said Aramis; “call me monsieur; I am booted.”
“Not at all,” said Aramis; “just call me sir; I'm wearing boots.”
“Do you know, monsieur, of whom you remind me this evening?”
“Do you know, sir, who you remind me of this evening?”
“No! faith,” said Aramis, taking up his glass; “but I hope I remind you of a capital guest.”
“No way! Honestly,” said Aramis, picking up his glass, “but I hope I remind you of a great guest.”
“You remind me of two, monsieur. Francois, shut the window; the wind may annoy his greatness.”
“You remind me of two, sir. Francois, close the window; the wind might disturb his greatness.”
“And let him go,” added Aramis. “The supper is completely served, and we shall eat it very well without waiters. I like exceedingly to be tete-a-tete when I am with a friend.” Baisemeaux bowed respectfully.
“And let him go,” added Aramis. “Dinner is all set, and we can enjoy it just fine without waiters. I really like to be tete-a-tete when I’m with a friend.” Baisemeaux bowed respectfully.
“I like exceedingly,” continued Aramis, “to help myself.”
“I really enjoy,” continued Aramis, “looking out for myself.”
“Retire, Francois,” cried Baisemeaux. “I was saying that your greatness puts me in mind of two persons; one very illustrious, the late cardinal, the great Cardinal de la Rochelle, who wore boots like you.”
“Retire, Francois,” shouted Baisemeaux. “I was saying that your status reminds me of two people; one very notable, the late cardinal, the great Cardinal de la Rochelle, who wore boots just like you.”
“Indeed,” said Aramis; “and the other?”
“Yeah,” said Aramis; “and what about the other one?”
“The other was a certain musketeer, very handsome, very brave, very adventurous, very fortunate, who, from being abbe, turned musketeer, and from musketeer turned abbe.” Aramis condescended to smile. “From abbe,” continued Baisemeaux, encouraged by Aramis’s smile—“from abbe, bishop—and from bishop—”
“The other was a handsome musketeer, very brave, very adventurous, and very lucky, who went from being an abbe to a musketeer, and then from a musketeer to an abbe.” Aramis smiled down at him. “From abbe,” Baisemeaux continued, encouraged by Aramis’s smile—“from abbe, to bishop—and from bishop—”
“Ah! stay there, I beg,” exclaimed Aramis.
“Ah! please stay there,” Aramis exclaimed.
“I have just said, monsieur, that you gave me the idea of a cardinal.”
"I just mentioned, sir, that you inspired me to think of a cardinal."
“Enough, dear M. Baisemeaux. As you said, I have on the boots of a cavalier, but I do not intend, for all that, to embroil myself with the church this evening.”
“Enough, dear M. Baisemeaux. As you said, I’m wearing the boots of a knight, but I don’t plan to get into trouble with the church this evening.”
“But you have wicked intentions, nevertheless, monseigneur.”
"But you still have bad intentions, nonetheless, sir."
“Oh, yes, wicked, I own, as everything mundane is.”
“Oh, yes, I admit it's wicked, just like everything else that's ordinary.”
“You traverse the town and the streets in disguise?”
“You walk around the town and the streets in disguise?”
“In disguise, as you say.”
"In disguise, as you put it."
“And you still make use of your sword?”
“And you still use your sword?”
“Yes, I should think so; but only when I am compelled. Do me the pleasure to summon Francois.”
“Yeah, I think so; but only when I have to. Please do me the favor of calling Francois.”
“Have you no wine there?”
“Do you have no wine?”
“‘Tis not for wine, but because it is hot here, and the window is shut.”
“It's not because of the wine, but because it's hot here, and the window is closed.”
“I shut the windows at supper-time so as not to hear the sounds or the arrival of couriers.”
"I closed the windows at dinner time to avoid hearing the sounds or the arrival of messengers."
“Ah, yes. You hear them when the window is open?”
“Ah, yes. Can you hear them when the window is open?”
“But too well, and that disturbs me. You understand?”
“But too well, and that bothers me. Do you get it?”
“Nevertheless I am suffocated. Francois.” Francois entered. “Open the windows, I pray you, Master Francois,” said Aramis. “You will allow him, dear M. Baisemeaux?”
“Still, I feel suffocated. Francois.” Francois came in. “Please open the windows, Master Francois,” said Aramis. “Will you allow him, dear M. Baisemeaux?”
“You are at home here,” answered the governor. The window was opened. “Do you not think,” said M. de Baisemeaux, “that you will find yourself very lonely, now M. de la Fere has returned to his household gods at Blois? He is a very old friend, is he not?”
“You're at home here,” the governor replied. The window was opened. “Don’t you think,” said M. de Baisemeaux, “that you’ll feel quite lonely now that M. de la Fere has gone back to his home in Blois? He’s a really old friend, isn’t he?”
“You know it as I do, Baisemeaux, seeing that you were in the musketeers with us.”
“You know it like I do, Baisemeaux, since you were a musketeer with us.”
“Bah! with my friends I reckon neither bottles of wine nor years.”
“Bah! With my friends, I don’t care about bottles of wine or the years.”
“And you are right. But I do more than love M. de la Fere, dear Baisemeaux; I venerate him.”
"And you’re right. But I do more than love M. de la Fere, dear Baisemeaux; I idolize him."
“Well, for my part, though ‘tis singular,” said the governor, “I prefer M. d’Artagnan to him. There is a man for you, who drinks long and well! That kind of people allow you at least to penetrate their thoughts.”
“Well, for my part, even though it’s unusual,” said the governor, “I prefer M. d’Artagnan to him. There’s a guy for you, who drinks a lot and enjoys it! People like that at least let you get a glimpse into their thoughts.”
“Baisemeaux, make me tipsy to-night; let us have a merry time of it as of old, and if I have a trouble at the bottom of my heart, I promise you, you shall see it as you would a diamond at the bottom of your glass.”
“Baisemeaux, get me a little drunk tonight; let’s have a great time like we used to, and if there’s something weighing on my heart, I promise you’ll see it as clearly as a diamond at the bottom of your glass.”
“Bravo!” said Baisemeaux, and he poured out a great glass of wine and drank it off at a draught, trembling with joy at the idea of being, by hook or by crook, in the secret of some high archiepiscopal misdemeanor. While he was drinking he did not see with what attention Aramis was noting the sounds in the great court. A courier came in about eight o’clock as Francois brought in the fifth bottle, and, although the courier made a great noise, Baisemeaux heard nothing.
“Awesome!” said Baisemeaux, as he poured a big glass of wine and gulped it down, shaking with excitement at the thought of being, by any means necessary, in on some high archbishop’s wrongdoing. While he was drinking, he didn’t notice how closely Aramis was listening to the sounds in the large courtyard. A courier arrived around eight o’clock, just as Francois brought in the fifth bottle, and even though the courier was making a lot of noise, Baisemeaux didn't hear a thing.
“The devil take him,” said Aramis.
“The devil take him,” said Aramis.
“What! who?” asked Baisemeaux. “I hope ‘tis neither the wine you drank nor he who is the cause of your drinking it.”
“What! Who?” asked Baisemeaux. “I hope it’s not the wine you drank or the person who made you drink it.”
“No; it is a horse, who is making noise enough in the court for a whole squadron.”
“No; it’s a horse making enough noise in the yard for an entire squadron.”
“Pooh! some courier or other,” replied the governor, redoubling his attention to the passing bottle. “Yes; and may the devil take him, and so quickly that we shall never hear him speak more. Hurrah! hurrah!”
“Ugh! some courier or something,” replied the governor, focusing even more on the bottle that was passing by. “Yeah; and may the devil take him, and so fast that we’ll never hear him talk again. Hooray! hooray!”
“You forget me, Baisemeaux! my glass is empty,” said Aramis, lifting his dazzling Venetian goblet.
“You're forgetting me, Baisemeaux! My glass is empty,” said Aramis, raising his beautiful Venetian goblet.
“Upon my honor, you delight me. Francois, wine!” Francois entered. “Wine, fellow! and better.”
“Honestly, you make me so happy. Francois, bring the wine!” Francois walked in. “Wine, my friend! And something better.”
“Yes, monsieur, yes; but a courier has just arrived.”
“Yes, sir, yes; but a courier has just arrived.”
“Let him go to the devil, I say.”
“Let him go to hell, I say.”
“Yes, monsieur, but—”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“Let him leave his news at the office; we will see to it to-morrow. To-morrow, there will be time to-morrow; there will be daylight,” said Baisemeaux, chanting the words.
“Let him leave his news at the office; we’ll take care of it tomorrow. Tomorrow, there will be time tomorrow; there will be daylight,” said Baisemeaux, chanting the words.
“Ah, monsieur,” grumbled the soldier Francois, in spite of himself, “monsieur.”
“Ah, sir,” grumbled the soldier Francois, despite himself, “sir.”
“Take care,” said Aramis, “take care!”
“Take care,” Aramis said, “take care!”
“Of what? dear M. d’Herblay,” said Baisemeaux, half intoxicated.
“Of what? dear M. d’Herblay,” said Baisemeaux, half drunk.
“The letter which the courier brings to the governor of a fortress is sometimes an order.”
“The letter that the courier delivers to the governor of a fortress is sometimes a command.”
“Nearly always.”
“Almost always.”
“Do not orders issue from the ministers?”
“Don’t orders come from the ministers?”
“Yes, undoubtedly; but—”
"Yes, definitely; but—"
“And what to these ministers do but countersign the signature of the king?”
“And what do these ministers do but sign off on the king’s signature?”
“Perhaps you are right. Nevertheless, ‘tis very tiresome when you are sitting before a good table, tete-a-tete with a friend—Ah! I beg your pardon, monsieur; I forgot it is I who engage you at supper, and that I speak to a future cardinal.”
“Maybe you’re right. Still, it’s really exhausting when you’re sitting at a nice table, tete-a-tete with a friend—Ah! I’m sorry, sir; I forgot that I’m the one hosting you for dinner, and that I’m talking to a future cardinal.”
“Let us pass over that, dear Baisemeaux, and return to our soldier, to Francois.”
“Let’s move on from that, dear Baisemeaux, and go back to our soldier, to Francois.”
“Well, and what has Francois done?”
“Well, what did Francois do?”
“He has demurred!”
"He's declined!"
“He was wrong, then?”
“Was he wrong, then?”
“However, he has demurred, you see; ‘tis because there is something extraordinary in this matter. It is very possible that it was not Francois who was wrong in demurring, but you, who are in the wrong in not listening to him.”
“However, he has hesitated, you see; it’s because there’s something unusual about this situation. It’s very possible that it wasn’t Francois who was wrong to hesitate, but you, who are wrong for not listening to him.”
“Wrong? I to be wrong before Francois? that seems rather hard.”
"Wrong? Me being wrong in front of Francois? That seems pretty tough."
“Pardon me, merely an irregularity. But I thought it my duty to make an observation which I deem important.”
“Excuse me, just a minor issue. But I felt it was my responsibility to point out something I believe is important.”
“Oh! perhaps you are right,” stammered Baisemeaux. “The king’s order is sacred; but as to orders that arrive when one is at supper, I repeat that the devil—”
“Oh! maybe you’re right,” Baisemeaux stammered. “The king’s orders are absolute; but when it comes to orders that come through while one is having dinner, I say that the devil—”
“If you had said as much to the great cardinal—hem! my dear Baisemeaux, and if his order had any importance.”
“If you had mentioned that to the great cardinal—hem! my dear Baisemeaux, and if his order actually mattered.”
“I do it that I may not disturb a bishop. Mordioux! am I not, then, excusable?”
“I do it so I won’t disturb a bishop. Mordioux! Am I not, then, excused?”
“Do not forget, Baisemeaux, that I have worn the soldier’s coat, and I am accustomed to obedience everywhere.”
“Don’t forget, Baisemeaux, that I’ve worn the soldier’s uniform, and I’m used to being obeyed everywhere.”
“You wish, then—”
"Are you wishing, then—"
“I wish that you would do your duty, my friend; yes, at least before this soldier.”
“I hope you’ll do your duty, my friend; yes, at least in front of this soldier.”
“‘Tis mathematically true,” exclaimed Baisemeaux. Francois still waited: “Let them send this order of the king’s up to me,” he repeated, recovering himself. And he added in a low tone, “Do you know what it is? I will tell you something about as interesting as this. ‘Beware of fire near the powder magazine;’ or, ‘Look close after such and such a one, who is clever at escaping,’ Ah! if you only knew, monseigneur, how many times I have been suddenly awakened from the very sweetest, deepest slumber, by messengers arriving at full gallop to tell me, or rather, bring me a slip of paper containing these words: ‘Monsieur de Baisemeaux, what news?’ ‘Tis clear enough that those who waste their time writing such orders have never slept in the Bastile. They would know better; they have never considered the thickness of my walls, the vigilance of my officers, the number of rounds we go. But, indeed, what can you expect, monseigneur? It is their business to write and torment me when I am at rest, and to trouble me when I am happy,” added Baisemeaux, bowing to Aramis. “Then let them do their business.”
“It's mathematically true,” exclaimed Baisemeaux. Francois still waited: “Let them send this king's order up to me,” he repeated, regaining his composure. And he added in a low tone, “Do you know what it is? I’ll tell you something just as interesting as this. ‘Beware of fire near the gunpowder storage;’ or, ‘Keep an eye on such and such a person, who is good at escaping.’ Ah! if you only knew, monseigneur, how many times I've been suddenly jolted awake from the sweetest, deepest sleep by messengers arriving at full gallop to inform me, or rather, to hand me a slip of paper with these words: ‘Monsieur de Baisemeaux, what news?’ It’s clear enough that those who waste their time writing such orders have never slept in the Bastille. They would know better; they’ve never considered the thickness of my walls, the vigilance of my officers, the number of rounds we go. But really, what can you expect, monseigneur? It’s their job to write and disturb me when I’m at rest, and to trouble me when I’m happy,” added Baisemeaux, bowing to Aramis. “Then let them do their job.”
“And do you do yours,” added the bishop, smiling.
“And do you take care of yours,” added the bishop, smiling.
Francois re-entered; Baisemeaux took from his hands the minister’s order. He slowly undid it, and as slowly read it. Aramis pretended to be drinking, so as to be able to watch his host through the glass. Then, Baisemeaux, having read it: “What was I just saying?” he exclaimed.
Francois walked back in; Baisemeaux took the minister's order from his hands. He carefully unfolded it and read it just as slowly. Aramis pretended to sip his drink, so he could keep an eye on his host through the glass. Then, after reading it, Baisemeaux said, “What was I just saying?”
“What is it?” asked the bishop.
“What is it?” asked the bishop.
“An order of release! There, now; excellent news indeed to disturb us!”
“An order of release! There you go; that’s certainly great news to surprise us!”
“Excellent news for him whom it concerns, you will at least agree, my dear governor!”
“Great news for the person it affects, you have to agree, my dear governor!”
“And at eight o’clock in the evening!”
“And at eight o’clock at night!”
“It is charitable!”
"It's generous!"
“Oh! charity is all very well, but it is for that fellow who says he is so weary and tired, but not for me who am amusing myself,” said Baisemeaux, exasperated.
“Oh! charity is nice and all, but it’s meant for that guy who says he’s so worn out and tired, not for me who’s just having a good time,” said Baisemeaux, annoyed.
“Will you lose by him, then? And is the prisoner who is to be set at liberty a good payer?”
“Are you going to lose to him, then? And is the prisoner being released a good payer?”
“Oh, yes, indeed! a miserable, five-franc rat!”
“Oh, yes, definitely! a pathetic five-franc rat!”
“Let me see it,” asked M. d’Herblay. “It is no indiscretion?”
“Let me see it,” M. d’Herblay asked. “Is it not an indiscretion?”
“By no means; read it.”
“Definitely read it.”
“There is ‘Urgent,’ on the paper; you have seen that, I suppose?”
“There’s ‘Urgent’ written on the paper; I assume you’ve seen that?”
“Oh, admirable! ‘Urgent!’—a man who has been there ten years! It is urgent to set him free to-day, this very evening, at eight o’clock!—urgent!” And Baisemeaux, shrugging his shoulders with an air of supreme disdain, flung the order on the table and began eating again.
“Oh, impressive! ‘Urgent!’—a man who's been there for ten years! It’s urgent to set him free today, this very evening, at eight o’clock!—urgent!” And Baisemeaux, rolling his eyes in total disdain, tossed the order onto the table and went back to eating.
“They are fond of these tricks!” he said, with his mouth full; “they seize a man, some fine day, keep him under lock and key for ten years, and write to you, ‘Watch this fellow well,’ or ‘Keep him very strictly.’ And then, as soon as you are accustomed to look upon the prisoner as a dangerous man, all of a sudden, without rhyme or reason they write—‘Set him at liberty,’ and actually add to their missive—‘urgent.’ You will own, my lord, ‘tis enough to make a man at dinner shrug his shoulders!”
“They really love these tricks!” he said, with his mouth full. “They grab a guy one day, keep him locked up for ten years, and then write to you, ‘Watch this guy closely,’ or ‘Keep him under strict control.’ And just when you start to see the prisoner as a dangerous guy, out of nowhere, they suddenly write—‘Let him go,’ and even add to their message—‘urgent.’ You have to admit, my lord, that’s enough to make a man at dinner shrug his shoulders!”
“What do you expect? It is for them to write,” said Aramis, “for you to execute the order.”
“What do you expect? They’re the ones who write it,” said Aramis, “and you’re the one who needs to carry out the orders.”
“Good! good! execute it! Oh, patience! You must not imagine that I am a slave.”
“Good! Good! Just do it! Oh, come on! You can't think that I'm a slave.”
“Gracious Heaven! my very good M. Baisemeaux, who ever said so? Your independence is well known.”
“Good heavens! My dear M. Baisemeaux, who ever said that? Everyone knows you’re independent.”
“Thank Heaven!”
“Thank goodness!”
“But your goodness of heart is also known.”
“But everyone knows how kind-hearted you are.”
“Ah! don’t speak of it!”
“Ew! don’t talk about it!”
“And your obedience to your superiors. Once a soldier, you see, Baisemeaux, always a soldier.”
“And your obedience to your superiors. Once a soldier, you see, Baisemeaux, always a soldier.”
“And I shall directly obey; and to-morrow morning, at daybreak, the prisoner referred to shall be set free.”
“And I will obey immediately; and tomorrow morning, at dawn, the prisoner mentioned will be released.”
“To-morrow?”
“Tomorrow?”
“At dawn.”
"At dawn."
“Why not this evening, seeing that the lettre de cachet bears, both on the direction and inside, ‘urgent’?”
“Why not tonight, since the lettre de cachet says ‘urgent’ both on the outside and inside?”
“Because this evening we are at supper, and our affairs are urgent, too!”
“Because we’re having dinner tonight, and our matters are urgent too!”
“Dear Baisemeaux, booted though I be, I feel myself a priest, and charity has higher claims upon me than hunger and thirst. This unfortunate man has suffered long enough, since you have just told me that he has been your prisoner these ten years. Abridge his suffering. His good time has come; give him the benefit quickly. God will repay you in Paradise with years of felicity.”
“Dear Baisemeaux, even though I’m wearing boots, I feel like a priest, and my duty to help others is more important than my own hunger and thirst. This unfortunate man has endured enough, especially since you just told me he’s been your prisoner for ten years. Reduce his suffering. His good time has arrived; grant him mercy quickly. God will reward you in Paradise with years of happiness.”
“You wish it?”
“Do you want it?”
“I entreat you.”
“I urge you.”
“What! in the very middle of our repast?”
“What! Right in the middle of our meal?”
“I implore you; such an action is worth ten Benedicites.”
“I beg you; doing that is worth ten blessings.”
“It shall be as you desire, only our supper will get cold.”
“It will be as you wish, but our dinner is going to get cold.”
“Oh! never heed that.”
“Oh! don’t worry about that.”
Baisemeaux leaned back to ring for Francois, and by a very natural motion turned round towards the door. The order had remained on the table; Aramis seized the opportunity when Baisemeaux was not looking to change the paper for another, folded in the same manner, which he drew swiftly from his pocket. “Francois,” said the governor, “let the major come up here with the turnkeys of the Bertaudiere.” Francois bowed and quitted the room, leaving the two companions alone.
Baisemeaux leaned back to call for Francois, and, in a natural motion, turned toward the door. The order had been left on the table; Aramis took advantage of the moment when Baisemeaux wasn’t paying attention to swap the paper for another, folded the same way, which he quickly pulled from his pocket. “Francois,” said the governor, “have the major come up here with the guards from the Bertaudiere.” Francois nodded and left the room, leaving the two men alone.
Chapter VIII. The General of the Order.
There was now a brief silence, during which Aramis never removed his eyes from Baisemeaux for a moment. The latter seemed only half decided to disturb himself thus in the middle of supper, and it was clear he was trying to invent some pretext, whether good or bad, for delay, at any rate till after dessert. And it appeared also that he had hit upon an excuse at last.
There was a brief silence, during which Aramis kept his eyes fixed on Baisemeaux. The latter seemed only half willing to interrupt his dinner like this, and it was clear he was trying to come up with some excuse, whether reasonable or not, to postpone things until after dessert. It also looked like he finally found a reason.
“Eh! but it is impossible!” he cried.
“Hey! But that's impossible!” he shouted.
“How impossible?” said Aramis. “Give me a glimpse of this impossibility.”
“How impossible?” said Aramis. “Show me this impossibility."
“‘Tis impossible to set a prisoner at liberty at such an hour. Where can he go to, a man so unacquainted with Paris?”
“It’s impossible to release a prisoner at this hour. Where could he go, a man who knows nothing of Paris?”
“He will find a place wherever he can.”
“He will find a spot wherever he can.”
“You see, now, one might as well set a blind man free!”
"You see, it's like setting a blind person free!"
“I have a carriage, and will take him wherever he wishes.”
“I have a carriage and can take him wherever he wants.”
“You have an answer for everything. Francois, tell monsieur le major to go and open the cell of M. Seldon, No. 3, Bertaudiere.”
“You have a reply for everything. Francois, tell the major to go and open the cell of M. Seldon, No. 3, Bertaudiere.”
“Seldon!” exclaimed Aramis, very naturally. “You said Seldon, I think?”
“Seldon!” Aramis exclaimed, sounding completely natural. “You said Seldon, right?”
“I said Seldon, of course. ‘Tis the name of the man they set free.”
“I said Seldon, of course. That’s the name of the man they released.”
“Oh! you mean to say Marchiali?” said Aramis.
“Oh! You’re talking about Marchiali?” said Aramis.
“Marchiali? oh! yes, indeed. No, no, Seldon.”
“Marchiali? Oh! Yes, definitely. No, no, Seldon.”
“I think you are making a mistake, Monsieur Baisemeaux.”
“I think you're making a mistake, Mr. Baisemeaux.”
“I have read the order.”
“I've read the order.”
“And I also.”
“Me too.”
“And I saw ‘Seldon’ in letters as large as that,” and Baisemeaux held up his finger.
“And I saw ‘Seldon’ in letters this big,” and Baisemeaux held up his finger.
“And I read ‘Marchiali’ in characters as large as this,” said Aramis, also holding up two fingers.
“And I read 'Marchiali' in letters as big as this,” said Aramis, also holding up two fingers.
“To the proof; let us throw a light on the matter,” said Baisemeaux, confident he was right. “There is the paper, you have only to read it.”
“Let’s get to the proof; let’s clarify this,” said Baisemeaux, confident he was correct. “Here’s the paper, just read it.”
“I read ‘Marchiali,’” returned Aramis, spreading out the paper. “Look.”
“I read ‘Marchiali,’” Aramis said, unfolding the paper. “Check this out.”
Baisemeaux looked, and his arms dropped suddenly. “Yes, yes,” he said, quite overwhelmed; “yes, Marchiali. ‘Tis plainly written Marchiali! Quite true!”
Baisemeaux looked, and his arms fell suddenly. “Yes, yes,” he said, completely stunned; “yes, Marchiali. It’s clearly written Marchiali! Absolutely true!”
“Ah!—”
“Wow!”
“How? the man of whom we have talked so much? The man whom they are every day telling me to take such care of?”
“How? The man we've talked about so much? The one they keep telling me to be so careful with?”
“There is ‘Marchiali,’” repeated the inflexible Aramis.
“There is ‘Marchiali,’” Aramis said firmly.
“I must own it, monseigneur. But I understand nothing about it.”
“I have to admit it, sir. But I don’t understand anything about it.”
“You believe your eyes, at any rate.”
"You can trust what you see, at least."
“To tell me very plainly there is ‘Marchiali.’”
“To tell me very clearly, there is ‘Marchiali.’”
“And in a good handwriting, too.”
“And in beautiful handwriting, too.”
“‘Tis a wonder! I still see this order and the name of Seldon, Irishman. I see it. Ah! I even recollect that under this name there was a blot of ink.”
“It's a wonder! I still see this order and the name Seldon, Irishman. I can see it. Ah! I even remember that there was a blot of ink under this name.”
“No, there is no ink; no, there is no blot.”
“No, there’s no ink; no, there’s no blot.”
“Oh! but there was, though; I know it, because I rubbed my finger—this very one—in the powder that was over the blot.”
“Oh! but there was, I know it, because I rubbed my finger—this very one—in the powder that was on the stain.”
“In a word, be it how it may, dear M. Baisemeaux,” said Aramis, “and whatever you may have seen, the order is signed to release Marchiali, blot or no blot.”
“In short, no matter the circumstances, dear M. Baisemeaux,” said Aramis, “and regardless of what you may have witnessed, the order is signed to release Marchiali, whether there's a mistake or not.”
“The order is signed to release Marchiali,” replied Baisemeaux, mechanically, endeavoring to regain his courage.
“The order is signed to release Marchiali,” Baisemeaux replied absentmindedly, trying to pull himself together.
“And you are going to release this prisoner. If your heart dictates you to deliver Seldon also, I declare to you I will not oppose it the least in the world.” Aramis accompanied this remark with a smile, the irony of which effectually dispelled Baisemeaux’s confusion of mind, and restored his courage.
“And you are going to release this prisoner. If you feel compelled to let Seldon go as well, I want you to know that I won’t stand in your way at all.” Aramis said this with a smile, and the irony of it cleared up Baisemeaux’s confusion and boosted his confidence.
“Monseigneur,” he said, “this Marchiali is the very same prisoner whom the other day a priest confessor of our order came to visit in so imperious and so secret a manner.”
“Monseigneur,” he said, “this Marchiali is the exact same prisoner that a priest confessor from our order came to visit the other day in such an urgent and secretive way.”
“I don’t know that, monsieur,” replied the bishop.
“I don’t know that, sir,” replied the bishop.
“‘Tis no such long time ago, dear Monsieur d’Herblay.”
“It's not that long ago, dear Monsieur d’Herblay.”
“It is true. But with us, monsieur, it is good that the man of to-day should no longer know what the man of yesterday did.”
“It’s true. But for us, sir, it’s better that today’s man no longer knows what yesterday’s man did.”
“In any case,” said Baisemeaux, “the visit of the Jesuit confessor must have given happiness to this man.”
“In any case,” said Baisemeaux, “the visit from the Jesuit confessor must have made this guy happy.”
Aramis made no reply, but recommenced eating and drinking. As for Baisemeaux, no longer touching anything that was on the table, he again took up the order and examined it every way. This investigation, under ordinary circumstances, would have made the ears of the impatient Aramis burn with anger; but the bishop of Vannes did not become incensed for so little, above all, when he had murmured to himself that to do so was dangerous. “Are you going to release Marchiali?” he said. “What mellow, fragrant and delicious sherry this is, my dear governor.”
Aramis didn't respond but continued eating and drinking. As for Baisemeaux, he no longer touched anything on the table and picked up the order again, examining it from every angle. Usually, this kind of probing would have made the impatient Aramis fume with anger, but the bishop of Vannes stayed calm, especially after reminding himself that getting upset was risky. “Are you going to let Marchiali go?” he asked. “This sherry is rich, aromatic, and absolutely delicious, my dear governor.”
“Monseigneur,” replied Baisemeaux, “I shall release the prisoner Marchiali when I have summoned the courier who brought the order, and above all, when, by interrogating him, I have satisfied myself.”
“Monseigneur,” replied Baisemeaux, “I will release the prisoner Marchiali after I call in the courier who delivered the order, and first and foremost, once I’ve questioned him and I’m satisfied with his answers.”
“The order is sealed, and the courier is ignorant of the contents. What do you want to satisfy yourself about?”
“The order is sealed, and the courier doesn’t know what’s inside. What do you need to feel satisfied about?”
“Be it so, monseigneur; but I shall send to the ministry, and M. de Lyonne will either confirm or withdraw the order.”
“Okay, sir; but I will contact the ministry, and Mr. de Lyonne will either confirm or cancel the order.”
“What is the good of all that?” asked Aramis, coldly.
“What’s the point of all that?” asked Aramis, coolly.
“What good?”
"What’s the point?"
“Yes; what is your object, I ask?”
“Yes; what is your goal, I’m asking?”
“The object of never deceiving oneself, monseigneur; nor being wanting in the respect which a subaltern owes to his superior officers, nor infringing the duties of a service one has accepted of one’s own free will.”
"The goal is to never deceive oneself, sir; to always show the respect that a subordinate owes to their superior officers, and to uphold the responsibilities of a service one has willingly accepted."
“Very good; you have just spoken so eloquently, that I cannot but admire you. It is true that a subaltern owes respect to his superiors; he is guilty when he deceives himself, and he should be punished if he infringed either the duties or laws of his office.”
“Very good; you just spoke so eloquently that I can’t help but admire you. It’s true that a subordinate owes respect to their superiors; they are at fault if they deceive themselves, and they should be punished if they break the duties or laws of their position.”
Baisemeaux looked at the bishop with astonishment.
Baisemeaux stared at the bishop in disbelief.
“It follows,” pursued Aramis, “that you are going to ask advice, to put your conscience at ease in the matter?”
“It follows,” continued Aramis, “that you’re going to seek advice to clear your conscience about this?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“Sure, sir.”
“And if a superior officer gives you orders, you will obey?”
“And if a higher-ranking officer tells you what to do, you will follow their orders?”
“Never doubt it, monseigneur.”
"Never doubt it, sir."
“You know the king’s signature well, M. de Baisemeaux?”
“You're familiar with the king's signature, right, M. de Baisemeaux?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is it not on this order of release?”
“Isn’t it about this type of release?”
“It is true, but it may—”
“It is true, but it might—”
“Be forged, you mean?”
“Do you mean be forged?”
“That is evident, monseigneur.”
"That's clear, sir."
“You are right. And that of M. de Lyonne?”
"You’re right. And what about M. de Lyonne?"
“I see it plain enough on the order; but for the same reason that the king’s signature may have been forged, so also, and with even greater probability, may M. de Lyonne’s.”
“I see it clearly on the order; but just as the king’s signature might have been forged, so too, and with even greater likelihood, could M. de Lyonne’s.”
“Your logic has the stride of a giant, M. de Baisemeaux,” said Aramis; “and your reasoning is irresistible. But on what special grounds do you base your idea that these signatures are false?”
“Your logic is impressive, M. de Baisemeaux,” said Aramis; “and your reasoning is compelling. But what specifically makes you believe that these signatures are fake?”
“On this: the absence of counter-signatures. Nothing checks his majesty’s signature; and M. de Lyonne is not there to tell me he has signed.”
“About this: the lack of counter-signatures. There’s nothing verifying his majesty’s signature, and M. de Lyonne isn’t here to confirm that he has signed.”
“Well, Monsieur de Baisemeaux,” said Aramis, bending an eagle glance on the governor, “I adopt so frankly your doubts, and your mode of clearing them up, that I will take a pen, if you will give me one.”
“Well, Monsieur de Baisemeaux,” said Aramis, giving the governor a sharp look, “I completely understand your doubts and your way of addressing them, so I’ll take a pen if you have one.”
Baisemeaux gave him a pen.
Baisemeaux gave him a pen.
“And a sheet of white paper,” added Aramis.
“And a sheet of white paper,” Aramis added.
Baisemeaux handed him some paper.
Baisemeaux gave him some paper.
“Now, I—I, also—I, here present—incontestably, I—am going to write an order to which I am certain you will give credence, incredulous as you are!”
“Now, I—I, also—I, right here—without a doubt, I—am going to write an order that I know you will believe, even though you find it hard to!”
Baisemeaux turned pale at this icy assurance of manner. It seemed to him that the voice of the bishop’s, but just now so playful and gay, had become funereal and sad; that the wax lights changed into the tapers of a mortuary chapel, the very glasses of wine into chalices of blood.
Baisemeaux went pale at this cold assurance. It felt to him like the bishop's voice, which had just been so playful and cheerful, had turned grave and sorrowful; that the wax candles turned into the lights of a funeral chapel, and even the wine glasses became chalices of blood.
Aramis took a pen and wrote. Baisemeaux, in terror, read over his shoulder.
Aramis grabbed a pen and started writing. Baisemeaux, terrified, leaned in to read over his shoulder.
“A. M. D. G.,” wrote the bishop; and he drew a cross under these four letters, which signify ad majorem Dei gloriam, “to the greater glory of God;” and thus he continued: “It is our pleasure that the order brought to M. de Baisemeaux de Montlezun, governor, for the king, of the castle of the Bastile, be held by him good and effectual, and be immediately carried into operation.”
“A. M. D. G.,” wrote the bishop, and he drew a cross under these four letters, which mean ad majorem Dei gloriam, “to the greater glory of God;” and he continued: “We are pleased that the order given to M. de Baisemeaux de Montlezun, the governor for the king of the Bastille, is to be accepted by him as valid and effective, and that it is to be put into action immediately.”
(Signed) D’HERBLAY
(Signed) D'HERBLAY
“General of the Order, by the grace of God.”
“General of the Order, by the grace of God.”
Baisemeaux was so profoundly astonished, that his features remained contracted, his lips parted, and his eyes fixed. He did not move an inch, nor articulate a sound. Nothing could be heard in that large chamber but the wing-whisper of a little moth, which was fluttering to its death about the candles. Aramis, without even deigning to look at the man whom he had reduced to so miserable a condition, drew from his pocket a small case of black wax; he sealed the letter, and stamped it with a seal suspended at his breast, beneath his doublet, and when the operation was concluded, presented—still in silence—the missive to M. de Baisemeaux. The latter, whose hands trembled in a manner to excite pity, turned a dull and meaningless gaze upon the letter. A last gleam of feeling played over his features, and he fell, as if thunder-struck, on a chair.
Baisemeaux was so shocked that his face stayed tight, his lips were parted, and his eyes were fixed. He didn’t move at all or make a sound. In that large room, the only noise was the soft fluttering of a little moth, swirling to its end around the candles. Aramis, without even bothering to look at the man he had brought to such a pitiful state, took a small black wax case from his pocket; he sealed the letter and stamped it with a seal hanging at his chest, under his doublet. When he was done, he silently handed the letter to M. de Baisemeaux. The latter, whose hands trembled in a way that was almost pitiable, stared at the letter with a blank and vacant gaze. A final flicker of emotion crossed his face, and he slumped into a chair, as if struck by lightning.
“Come, come,” said Aramis, after a long silence, during which the governor of the Bastile had slowly recovered his senses, “do not lead me to believe, dear Baisemeaux, that the presence of the general of the order is as terrible as His, and that men die merely from having seen Him. Take courage, rouse yourself; give me your hand—obey.”
“Come on,” said Aramis, after a long silence, during which the governor of the Bastille had slowly regained his composure, “don’t make me think, dear Baisemeaux, that the presence of the general of the order is as frightening as His, and that people just die from having seen Him. Be brave, pull yourself together; give me your hand—do as I say.”
Baisemeaux, reassured, if not satisfied, obeyed, kissed Aramis’s hand, and rose. “Immediately?” he murmured.
Baisemeaux, feeling more at ease though not fully satisfied, complied, kissed Aramis's hand, and stood up. “Right away?” he whispered.
“Oh, there is no pressing haste, my host; take your place again, and do the honors over this beautiful dessert.”
“Oh, there’s no rush, my friend; come back to your seat and enjoy serving this lovely dessert.”
“Monseigneur, I shall never recover such a shock as this; I who have laughed, who have jested with you! I who have dared to treat you on a footing of equality!”
“Sir, I will never get over a shock like this; I who have laughed, who have joked with you! I who have dared to treat you as an equal!”
“Say nothing about it, old comrade,” replied the bishop, who perceived how strained the cord was and how dangerous it would have been to break it; “say nothing about it. Let us each live in our own way; to you, my protection and my friendship; to me, your obedience. Having exactly fulfilled these two requirements, let us live happily.”
“Don’t mention it, old friend,” responded the bishop, who saw how tense the situation was and how risky it could be to disrupt it; “don’t say a word. Let’s each go about our lives; for you, it’s my protection and friendship; for me, it’s your compliance. If we both stick to these two things, let’s live happily.”
Baisemeaux reflected; he perceived, at a glance, the consequence of this withdrawal of a prisoner by means of a forged order; and, putting in the scale the guarantee offered him by the official order of the general, did not consider it of any value.
Baisemeaux thought about it; he quickly realized the implications of releasing a prisoner with a fake order, and when he weighed that against the assurance provided by the general's official order, he found it worthless.
Aramis divined this. “My dear Baisemeaux,” said he, “you are a simpleton. Lose this habit of reflection when I give myself the trouble to think for you.”
Aramis figured this out. “My dear Baisemeaux,” he said, “you’re being foolish. Stop overthinking things when I’m already putting in the effort to think for you.”
And at another gesture he made, Baisemeaux bowed again. “How shall I set about it?” he said.
And at another gesture he made, Baisemeaux bowed again. “How should I go about it?” he said.
“What is the process for releasing a prisoner?”
“What is the process for freeing a prisoner?”
“I have the regulations.”
“I have the rules.”
“Well, then, follow the regulations, my friend.”
“Well, then, stick to the rules, my friend.”
“I go with my major to the prisoner’s room, and conduct him, if he is a personage of importance.”
“I go with my boss to the prisoner’s room and escort him if he’s an important person.”
“But this Marchiali is not an important personage,” said Aramis carelessly.
“But this Marchiali isn’t an important person,” Aramis said casually.
“I don’t know,” answered the governor, as if he would have said, “It is for you to instruct me.”
"I don't know," replied the governor, as if he meant to say, "It's up to you to guide me."
“Then if you don’t know it, I am right; so act towards Marchiali as you act towards one of obscure station.”
“Then if you don’t know it, I’m right; so treat Marchiali like you would someone of low status.”
“Good; the regulations so provide. They are to the effect that the turnkey, or one of the lower officials, shall bring the prisoner before the governor, in the office.”
“Good; the regulations state this. They say that the jailer, or one of the lower officials, will bring the prisoner to the governor's office.”
“Well, ‘tis very wise, that; and then?”
“Well, that’s very wise, and then?”
“Then we return to the prisoner the valuables he wore at the time of his imprisonment, his clothes and papers, if the minister’s orders have not otherwise dictated.”
“Then we give the prisoner back the valuables he had when he was imprisoned, along with his clothes and papers, unless the minister's orders say otherwise.”
“What was the minister’s order as to this Marchiali?”
“What did the minister say about this Marchiali?”
“Nothing; for the unhappy man arrived here without jewels, without papers, and almost without clothes.”
“Nothing; because the unfortunate man got here without any jewels, without any papers, and barely any clothes.”
“See how simple, then, all is. Indeed, Baisemeaux, you make a mountain of everything. Remain here, and make them bring the prisoner to the governor’s house.”
“Look how simple it is, then. Honestly, Baisemeaux, you're overcomplicating everything. Stay here and have them bring the prisoner to the governor’s house.”
Baisemeaux obeyed. He summoned his lieutenant, and gave him an order, which the latter passed on, without disturbing himself about it, to the next whom it concerned.
Baisemeaux complied. He called in his lieutenant and issued an order, which the lieutenant relayed to the next person involved without any concern.
Half an hour afterwards they heard a gate shut in the court; it was the door to the dungeon, which had just rendered up its prey to the free air. Aramis blew out all the candles which lighted the room but one, which he left burning behind the door. This flickering glare prevented the sight from resting steadily on any object. It multiplied tenfold the changing forms and shadows of the place, by its wavering uncertainty. Steps drew near.
Half an hour later, they heard a gate close in the courtyard; it was the door to the dungeon, which had just released its captive into the open air. Aramis extinguished all the candles in the room except for one, which he left burning behind the door. This flickering light made it hard to focus on anything clearly. It multiplied the shifting shapes and shadows in the room with its unsteady glow. Footsteps approached.
“Go and meet your men,” said Aramis to Baisemeaux.
“Go meet your guys,” Aramis said to Baisemeaux.
The governor obeyed. The sergeant and turnkeys disappeared. Baisemeaux re-entered, followed by a prisoner. Aramis had placed himself in the shade; he saw without being seen. Baisemeaux, in an agitated tone of voice, made the young man acquainted with the order which set him at liberty. The prisoner listened, without making a single gesture or saying a word.
The governor complied. The sergeant and guards left. Baisemeaux came back in, followed by a prisoner. Aramis positioned himself in the shade; he observed without being noticed. Baisemeaux, speaking in a shaky voice, informed the young man about the order that granted him freedom. The prisoner listened, not moving a muscle or saying a word.
“You will swear (‘tis the regulation that requires it),” added the governor, “never to reveal anything that you have seen or heard in the Bastile.”
“You will swear (it’s the rule that demands it),” added the governor, “never to reveal anything that you have seen or heard in the Bastille.”
The prisoner perceived a crucifix; he stretched out his hands and swore with his lips. “And now, monsieur, you are free. Whither do you intend going?”
The prisoner saw a crucifix; he reached out his hands and swore with his lips. “And now, sir, you are free. Where do you plan to go?”
The prisoner turned his head, as if looking behind him for some protection, on which he ought to rely. Then was it that Aramis came out of the shade: “I am here,” he said, “to render the gentleman whatever service he may please to ask.”
The prisoner turned his head, as if looking behind him for some protection he could rely on. That’s when Aramis stepped out of the shadows: “I’m here,” he said, “to offer the gentleman any assistance he might need.”
The prisoner slightly reddened, and, without hesitation, passed his arm through that of Aramis. “God have you in his holy keeping,” he said, in a voice the firmness of which made the governor tremble as much as the form of the blessing astonished him.
The prisoner blushed a little and, without thinking twice, linked his arm with Aramis's. “May God keep you safe,” he said, his voice so strong that it made the governor tremble as much as the unusual blessing surprised him.
Aramis, on shaking hands with Baisemeaux, said to him; “Does my order trouble you? Do you fear their finding it here, should they come to search?”
Aramis, while shaking hands with Baisemeaux, asked him, “Is my order causing you any trouble? Are you worried they might find it here if they come to search?”
“I desire to keep it, monseigneur,” said Baisemeaux. “If they found it here, it would be a certain indication I should be lost, and in that case you would be a powerful and a last auxiliary for me.”
“I want to keep it, sir,” said Baisemeaux. “If they find it here, it would definitely mean I’m finished, and in that case, you would be a strong and final ally for me.”
“Being your accomplice, you mean?” answered Aramis, shrugging his shoulders. “Adieu, Baisemeaux,” said he.
“Being your partner in crime, you mean?” replied Aramis, shrugging his shoulders. “Goodbye, Baisemeaux,” he said.
The horses were in waiting, making each rusty spring reverberate the carriage again with their impatience. Baisemeaux accompanied the bishop to the bottom of the steps. Aramis caused his companion to mount before him, then followed, and without giving the driver any further order, “Go on,” said he. The carriage rattled over the pavement of the courtyard. An officer with a torch went before the horses, and gave orders at every post to let them pass. During the time taken in opening all the barriers, Aramis barely breathed, and you might have heard his “sealed heart knock against his ribs.” The prisoner, buried in a corner of the carriage, made no more sign of life than his companion. At length, a jolt more sever than the others announced to them that they had cleared the last watercourse. Behind the carriage closed the last gate, that in the Rue St. Antoine. No more walls either on the right or the left; heaven everywhere, liberty everywhere, and life everywhere. The horses, kept in check by a vigorous hand, went quietly as far as the middle of the faubourg. There they began to trot. Little by little, whether they were warming to their work, or whether they were urged, they gained in swiftness, and once past Bercy, the carriage seemed to fly, so great was the ardor of the coursers. The horses galloped thus as far as Villeneuve St. George’s, where relays were waiting. Then four instead of two whirled the carriage away in the direction of Melun, and pulled up for a moment in the middle of the forest of Senart. No doubt the order had been given the postilion beforehand, for Aramis had no occasion even to make a sign.
The horses were ready, their impatience making the carriage creak with every rusty spring. Baisemeaux walked the bishop down to the bottom of the steps. Aramis helped his companion get on the carriage first, then climbed in himself, and without giving the driver any more instructions, just said, “Go on.” The carriage rattled over the courtyard pavement. An officer with a torch led the way for the horses, giving orders at every post to let them through. While they took the time to open all the barriers, Aramis barely breathed, and you could hear his “sealed heart pounding against his ribs.” The prisoner, slumped in a corner of the carriage, showed no more sign of life than his companion. Finally, a jolt more intense than the others indicated they had crossed the last watercourse. The last gate, on Rue St. Antoine, closed behind them. There were no more walls on either side; only the sky, freedom, and life all around. The horses, controlled by a firm hand, moved steadily until they reached the middle of the suburb. There, they began to trot. Gradually, whether they were warming up or being urged on, they picked up speed, and once they passed Bercy, the carriage seemed to take off, so eager were the horses. They galloped all the way to Villeneuve St. George's, where fresh horses were waiting. Then four horses instead of two took off with the carriage heading towards Melun, stopping briefly in the middle of the Senart forest. Clearly, the postilion had received instructions in advance, as Aramis didn’t need to make a gesture.
“What is the matter?” asked the prisoner, as if waking from a long dream.
"What’s wrong?" asked the prisoner, as if waking from a long sleep.
“The matter is, monseigneur,” said Aramis, “that before going further, it is necessary your royal highness and I should converse.”
“The thing is, your highness,” said Aramis, “that before we go any further, it’s necessary for us to have a conversation.”
“I will await an opportunity, monsieur,” answered the young prince.
“I'll wait for a chance, sir,” replied the young prince.
“We could not have a better, monseigneur. We are in the middle of a forest, and no one can hear us.”
“We couldn't ask for a better situation, my lord. We're in the heart of a forest, and no one can hear us.”
“The postilion?”
"The driver?"
“The postilion of this relay is deaf and dumb, monseigneur.”
“The postilion at this relay is deaf and mute, sir.”
“I am at your service, M. d’Herblay.”
“I’m here to help you, M. d’Herblay.”
“Is it your pleasure to remain in the carriage?”
“Do you want to stay in the carriage?”
“Yes; we are comfortably seated, and I like this carriage, for it has restored me to liberty.”
"Yes, we’re comfortably seated, and I like this car because it has set me free."
“Wait, monseigneur; there is yet a precaution to be taken.”
“Hold on, sir; there's still a precaution we need to take.”
“What?”
"What?"
“We are here on the highway; cavaliers or carriages traveling like ourselves might pass, and seeing us stopping, deem us in some difficulty. Let us avoid offers of assistance, which would embarrass us.”
“We're here on the highway; other riders or travelers in carriages like ours might pass by and, seeing us stopped, think we’re in some trouble. Let’s avoid any offers of help, as it would make us uncomfortable.”
“Give the postilion orders to conceal the carriage in one of the side avenues.”
“Tell the driver to hide the carriage in one of the side streets.”
“‘Tis exactly what I wished to do, monseigneur.”
“It's exactly what I wanted to do, sir.”
Aramis made a sign to the deaf and dumb driver of the carriage, whom he touched on the arm. The latter dismounted, took the leaders by the bridle, and led them over the velvet sward and the mossy grass of a winding alley, at the bottom of which, on this moonless night, the deep shades formed a curtain blacker than ink. This done, the man lay down on a slope near his horses, who, on either side, kept nibbling the young oak shoots.
Aramis gestured to the mute carriage driver, tapping him on the arm. The driver got off, took the reins, and guided the horses over the soft grass and moss of a winding path, where, on this moonless night, the darkness was denser than ink. Once that was taken care of, the man lay down on a slope beside his horses, who were munching on the young oak shoots on either side.
“I am listening,” said the young prince to Aramis; “but what are you doing there?”
“I’m listening,” said the young prince to Aramis; “but what are you doing over there?”
“I am disarming myself of my pistols, of which we have no further need, monseigneur.”
“I’m taking off my guns, which we don’t need anymore, sir.”
Chapter IX. The Tempter.
“My prince,” said Aramis, turning in the carriage towards his companion, “weak creature as I am, so unpretending in genius, so low in the scale of intelligent beings, it has never yet happened to me to converse with a man without penetrating his thoughts through that living mask which has been thrown over our mind, in order to retain its expression. But to-night, in this darkness, in the reserve which you maintain, I can read nothing on your features, and something tells me that I shall have great difficulty in wresting from you a sincere declaration. I beseech you, then, not for love of me, for subjects should never weigh as anything in the balance which princes hold, but for love of yourself, to retain every syllable, every inflexion which, under the present most grave circumstances, will all have a sense and value as important as any every uttered in the world.”
“My prince,” said Aramis, turning in the carriage towards his companion, “as weak as I am, so unassuming in talent, so low on the scale of intelligent beings, I have never talked to a man without being able to see through the mask that covers our minds to keep our true thoughts hidden. But tonight, in this darkness, with the way you're holding back, I can't read anything on your face, and I sense that it will be very hard to get an honest answer out of you. So I ask you, not for my sake—because a subject's feelings should never be a consideration in a prince’s judgment—but for your own sake, to hang on to every word, every nuance, because under these very serious circumstances, they will carry just as much meaning and importance as anything ever spoken in the world.”
“I listen,” replied the young prince, “decidedly, without either eagerly seeking or fearing anything you are about to say to me.” And he buried himself still deeper in the thick cushions of the carriage, trying to deprive his companion not only of the sight of him, but even of the very idea of his presence.
“I’m listening,” replied the young prince, “definitely, without eagerly searching for or fearing anything you’re about to say to me.” And he sank even deeper into the plush cushions of the carriage, trying to take away from his companion not just the sight of him, but even the thought of his presence.
Black was the darkness which fell wide and dense from the summits of the intertwining trees. The carriage, covered in by this prodigious roof, would not have received a particle of light, not even if a ray could have struggled through the wreaths of mist that were already rising in the avenue.
Black was the thick darkness that spread wide and heavy from the tops of the intertwining trees. The carriage, sheltered by this immense canopy, wouldn’t have let in a single beam of light, not even if a ray could have fought its way through the layers of mist that were already rising in the path.
“Monseigneur,” resumed Aramis, “you know the history of the government which to-day controls France. The king issued from an infancy imprisoned like yours, obscure as yours, and confined as yours; only, instead of ending, like yourself, this slavery in a prison, this obscurity in solitude, these straightened circumstances in concealment, he was fain to bear all these miseries, humiliations, and distresses, in full daylight, under the pitiless sun of royalty; on an elevation flooded with light, where every stain appears a blemish, every glory a stain. The king has suffered; it rankles in his mind; and he will avenge himself. He will be a bad king. I say not that he will pour out his people’s blood, like Louis XI., or Charles IX.; for he has no mortal injuries to avenge; but he will devour the means and substance of his people; for he has himself undergone wrongs in his own interest and money. In the first place, then, I acquit my conscience, when I consider openly the merits and the faults of this great prince; and if I condemn him, my conscience absolves me.”
“Monseigneur,” Aramis continued, “you know the story of the government that controls France today. The king came from a childhood that was as imprisoned, obscure, and confined as yours. However, instead of ending this slavery in a prison, this obscurity in solitude, and these tough circumstances in secrecy like you did, he had to endure all these hardships, humiliations, and struggles in the spotlight, under the harsh glare of royalty; on a stage illuminated so brightly that every flaw looks like a blemish and every achievement seems like a flaw. The king has suffered; it weighs on his mind, and he will seek revenge. He will be a bad king. I’m not saying he will spill his people's blood like Louis XI or Charles IX; he has no personal vendettas to settle. But he will consume the resources and wealth of his people because he has experienced wrongs concerning his own interests and finances. So, I clear my conscience when I openly consider the merits and faults of this great prince; and if I find him wanting, my conscience allows me to do so.”
Aramis paused. It was not to listen if the silence of the forest remained undisturbed, but it was to gather up his thoughts from the very bottom of his soul—to leave the thoughts he had uttered sufficient time to eat deeply into the mind of his companion.
Aramis paused. It wasn't to see if the silence of the forest stayed undisturbed, but to collect his thoughts from the very depths of his soul—to give the thoughts he had expressed enough time to sink deeply into his companion's mind.
“All that Heaven does, Heaven does well,” continued the bishop of Vannes; “and I am so persuaded of it that I have long been thankful to have been chosen depositary of the secret which I have aided you to discover. To a just Providence was necessary an instrument, at once penetrating, persevering, and convinced, to accomplish a great work. I am this instrument. I possess penetration, perseverance, conviction; I govern a mysterious people, who has taken for its motto, the motto of God, ‘Patiens quia oeternus.’” The prince moved. “I divine, monseigneur, why you are raising your head, and are surprised at the people I have under my command. You did not know you were dealing with a king—oh! monseigneur, king of a people very humble, much disinherited; humble because they have no force save when creeping; disinherited, because never, almost never in this world, do my people reap the harvest they sow, nor eat the fruit they cultivate. They labor for an abstract idea; they heap together all the atoms of their power, so from a single man; and round this man, with the sweat of their labor, they create a misty halo, which his genius shall, in turn, render a glory gilded with the rays of all the crowns in Christendom. Such is the man you have beside you, monseigneur. It is to tell you that he has drawn you from the abyss for a great purpose, to raise you above the powers of the earth—above himself.” 1
“All that Heaven does, Heaven does well,” continued the bishop of Vannes; “and I believe this so strongly that I have been grateful for a long time to be the keeper of the secret I’ve helped you uncover. A just Providence needed an instrument that is insightful, persistent, and convinced to achieve a great purpose. I am that instrument. I have insight, perseverance, and conviction; I lead a mysterious people who have adopted God’s motto: ‘Patiens quia oeternus.’” The prince shifted. “I can guess, monseigneur, why you’re raising your head in surprise at the people I command. You didn’t know you were dealing with a king—oh! monseigneur, a king of a very humble people, deeply disadvantaged; humble because they only have strength when they are on their knees; disadvantaged because they almost never get to enjoy the fruits of their labor or reap what they sow. They work for a great idea; they gather all their strength into a single individual, and around this person, with the sweat of their labor, they create a hazy halo, which his brilliance will turn into glory lit by the rays of all the crowns in Christendom. Such is the man beside you, monseigneur. I’m here to tell you that he has pulled you from the abyss for a significant purpose, to elevate you above the powers of the earth—above himself.” 1
The prince lightly touched Aramis’s arm. “You speak to me,” he said, “of that religious order whose chief you are. For me, the result of your words is, that the day you desire to hurl down the man you shall have raised, the event will be accomplished; and that you will keep under your hand your creation of yesterday.”
The prince gently touched Aramis's arm. “You’re talking to me,” he said, “about that religious order you lead. Essentially, what you’re saying is that when you decide to bring down the man you’ve lifted up, it will happen; and you will maintain control over what you created just yesterday.”
“Undeceive yourself, monseigneur,” replied the bishop. “I should not take the trouble to play this terrible game with your royal highness, if I had not a double interest in gaining it. The day you are elevated, you are elevated forever; you will overturn the footstool, as you rise, and will send it rolling so far, that not even the sight of it will ever again recall to you its right to simple gratitude.”
“Wake up, Your Highness,” replied the bishop. “I wouldn’t bother to engage in this brutal game with you if I didn’t have two reasons for wanting to win. The moment you’re elevated, you’re elevated for good; you’ll kick the footstool away as you rise, sending it so far that you won’t even see it again to remember that it ever deserved your gratitude.”
“Oh, monsieur!”
“Oh, sir!”
“Your movement, monseigneur, arises from an excellent disposition. I thank you. Be well assured, I aspire to more than gratitude! I am convinced that, when arrived at the summit, you will judge me still more worthy to be your friend; and then, monseigneur, we two will do such great deeds, that ages hereafter shall long speak of them.”
“Your progress, my lord, comes from a great attitude. Thank you. Rest assured, I want more than just gratitude! I believe that when you reach the top, you will see me as even more deserving of your friendship; and then, my lord, we two will accomplish such amazing things that future generations will talk about them for a long time.”
“Tell me plainly, monsieur—tell me without disguise—what I am to-day, and what you aim at my being to-morrow.”
“Tell me straight, sir—tell me without any pretense—what I am today, and what you want me to be tomorrow.”
“You are the son of King Louis XIII., brother of Louis XIV., natural and legitimate heir to the throne of France. In keeping you near him, as Monsieur has been kept—Monsieur, your younger brother—the king reserved to himself the right of being legitimate sovereign. The doctors only could dispute his legitimacy. But the doctors always prefer the king who is to the king who is not. Providence has willed that you should be persecuted; this persecution to-day consecrates you king of France. You had, then, a right to reign, seeing that it is disputed; you had a right to be proclaimed seeing that you have been concealed; and you possess royal blood, since no one has dared to shed yours, as that of your servants has been shed. Now see, then, what this Providence, which you have so often accused of having in every way thwarted you, has done for you. It has given you the features, figure, age, and voice of your brother; and the very causes of your persecution are about to become those of your triumphant restoration. To-morrow, after to-morrow—from the very first, regal phantom, living shade of Louis XIV., you will sit upon his throne, whence the will of Heaven, confided in execution to the arm of man, will have hurled him, without hope of return.”
“You are the son of King Louis XIII, the brother of Louis XIV, the natural and legitimate heir to the throne of France. By keeping you close to him, as he has done with Monsieur—your younger brother—the king has claimed his right to be the legitimate sovereign. Only the doctors could question his legitimacy. But the doctors always prefer the reigning king over the one who isn’t. Providence has willed that you be persecuted; this persecution today crowns you king of France. You had a right to reign, especially since your legitimacy is debated; you had a right to be proclaimed, as you have been hidden away; and you have royal blood, since no one has dared to harm you, while that of your servants has been shed. Now see what this Providence, which you have often blamed for thwarting you, has done for you. It has given you the looks, stature, age, and voice of your brother; and the very reasons for your persecution are about to become the reasons for your triumphant return. Tomorrow, or the day after—right from the very first regal ghost, the living shadow of Louis XIV—you will sit on his throne, from which the will of Heaven, entrusted to the hands of man, will have thrown him, with no hope of return.”
“I understand,” said the prince, “my brother’s blood will not be shed, then.”
“I get it,” said the prince, “my brother won't be harmed, then.”
“You will be sole arbiter of his fate.”
“You will be the only judge of his fate.”
“The secret of which they made an evil use against me?”
“The secret they used against me in a harmful way?”
“You will employ it against him. What did he do to conceal it? He concealed you. Living image of himself, you will defeat the conspiracy of Mazarin and Anne of Austria. You, my prince, will have the same interest in concealing him, who will, as a prisoner, resemble you, as you will resemble him as a king.”
“You will use it against him. What did he do to hide it? He hid you. A living image of himself, you will outsmart the plot of Mazarin and Anne of Austria. You, my prince, will have the same reason to hide him, who, as a prisoner, will look like you, just as you will look like him as a king.”
“I fall back on what I was saying to you. Who will guard him?”
“I go back to what I was saying to you. Who's going to protect him?”
“Who guarded you?”
“Who had your back?”
“You know this secret—you have made use of it with regard to myself. Who else knows it?”
“You know this secret—you’ve used it about me. Who else knows it?”
“The queen-mother and Madame de Chevreuse.”
“The queen mother and Madame de Chevreuse.”
“What will they do?”
“What are they going to do?”
“Nothing, if you choose.”
"Nothing, if you want."
“How is that?”
"How's that?"
“How can they recognize you, if you act in such a manner that no one can recognize you?”
“How can they recognize you if you behave in a way that makes it impossible for anyone to recognize you?”
“‘Tis true; but there are grave difficulties.”
“It's true; but there are serious difficulties.”
“State them, prince.”
"Say them, prince."
“My brother is married; I cannot take my brother’s wife.”
“My brother is married; I can’t take my brother’s wife.”
“I will cause Spain to consent to a divorce; it is in the interest of your new policy; it is human morality. All that is really noble and really useful in this world will find its account therein.”
“I will get Spain to agree to a divorce; it’s in line with your new policy; it’s about human ethics. Everything that is truly noble and genuinely beneficial in this world will benefit from it.”
“The imprisoned king will speak.”
“The imprisoned king will talk.”
“To whom do you think he will speak—to the walls?”
“To whom do you think he will talk—to the walls?”
“You mean, by walls, the men in whom you put confidence.”
“You mean the people you trust, those who are like walls to you.”
“If need be, yes. And besides, your royal highness—”
“If necessary, yes. And besides, your royal highness—”
“Besides?”
"What's more?"
“I was going to say, that the designs of Providence do not stop on such a fair road. Every scheme of this caliber is completed by its results, like a geometrical calculation. The king, in prison, will not be for you the cause of embarrassment that you have been for the king enthroned. His soul is naturally proud and impatient; it is, moreover, disarmed and enfeebled, by being accustomed to honors, and by the license of supreme power. The same Providence which has willed that the concluding step in the geometrical calculation I have had the honor of describing to your royal highness should be your ascension to the throne, and the destruction of him who is hurtful to you, has also determined that the conquered one shall soon end both his own and your sufferings. Therefore, his soul and body have been adapted for but a brief agony. Put into prison as a private individual, left alone with your doubts, deprived of everything, you have exhibited the most sublime, enduring principle of life in withstanding all this. But your brother, a captive, forgotten, and in bonds, will not long endure the calamity; and Heaven will resume his soul at the appointed time—that is to say, soon.”
“I was going to say that Providence's plans don’t just end on such a smooth path. Every scheme like this reaches its conclusion through its outcomes, just like a mathematical calculation. The king in prison won’t cause you the same embarrassment that you caused the king on the throne. His spirit is naturally proud and restless; it's also weakened and disarmed by being used to honors and the freedom that comes with absolute power. The same Providence that has determined that the final step in the mathematical calculation I’ve had the honor of describing to your royal highness should be your rise to the throne and the downfall of the one who threatens you, has also decided that the defeated one will soon put an end to both his own suffering and yours. Thus, his mind and body are made for just a short agony. Imprisoned as a private citizen, left alone with your doubts, stripped of everything, you’ve shown the most remarkable and lasting strength of life by enduring all this. But your brother, forgotten and bound in captivity, will not last long in his misfortune; and Heaven will take his soul at the right moment—that is to say, soon.”
At this point in Aramis’s gloomy analysis, a bird of night uttered from the depths of the forest that prolonged and plaintive cry which makes every creature tremble.
At this moment in Aramis’s dark analysis, a night bird let out from the depths of the forest a long and haunting cry that sends shivers through every creature.
“I will exile the deposed king,” said Philippe, shuddering; “‘twill be more human.”
“I will exile the deposed king,” said Philippe, shuddering; “it will be more humane.”
“The king’s good pleasure will decide the point,” said Aramis. “But has the problem been well put? Have I brought out of the solution according to the wishes or the foresight of your royal highness?”
“The king’s wishes will determine the outcome,” said Aramis. “But is the question framed correctly? Have I addressed the solution according to your royal highness's desires or insights?”
“Yes, monsieur, yes; you have forgotten nothing—except, indeed, two things.”
“Yeah, sir, yeah; you haven’t forgotten anything—except, actually, two things.”
“The first?”
"Is this the first?"
“Let us speak of it at once, with the same frankness we have already conversed in. Let us speak of the causes which may bring about the ruin of all the hopes we have conceived. Let us speak of the risks we are running.”
“Let’s talk about it right away, with the same honesty we’ve already used. Let’s discuss the reasons that could lead to the destruction of all the hopes we’ve built. Let’s address the risks we’re facing.”
“They would be immense, infinite, terrific, insurmountable, if, as I have said, all things did not concur to render them of absolutely no account. There is no danger either for you or for me, if the constancy and intrepidity of your royal highness are equal to that perfection of resemblance to your brother which nature has bestowed upon you. I repeat it, there are no dangers, only obstacles; a word, indeed, which I find in all languages, but have always ill-understood, and, were I king, would have obliterated as useless and absurd.”
“They would be huge, endless, overwhelming, and impossible to overcome if, as I mentioned, everything didn’t work together to make them completely insignificant. There’s no danger for you or me if your royal highness's unwavering courage matches the perfect likeness to your brother that nature has given you. I’ll say it again, there are no dangers, just obstacles; a term that I find in every language, but have always misunderstood, and if I were king, I would have eliminated it as pointless and ridiculous.”
“Yes, indeed, monsieur; there is a very serious obstacle, an insurmountable danger, which you are forgetting.”
“Yes, absolutely, sir; there is a very serious obstacle, an insurmountable danger, that you're overlooking.”
“Ah!” said Aramis.
“Ah!” Aramis exclaimed.
“There is conscience, which cries aloud; remorse, that never dies.”
“There’s conscience, which speaks loudly; remorse, that never fades.”
“True, true,” said the bishop; “there is a weakness of heart of which you remind me. You are right, too, for that, indeed, is an immense obstacle. The horse afraid of the ditch, leaps into the middle of it, and is killed! The man who trembling crosses his sword with that of another leaves loopholes whereby his enemy has him in his power.”
“That's true,” said the bishop; “you remind me of a weakness of heart. You're right, because that really is a huge obstacle. The horse, scared of the ditch, jumps right into it and ends up getting killed! The man who nervously crosses his sword with another leaves openings that allow his enemy to dominate him.”
“Have you a brother?” said the young man to Aramis.
“Do you have a brother?” the young man asked Aramis.
“I am alone in the world,” said the latter, with a hard, dry voice.
“I’m all alone in the world,” said the latter, in a harsh, dry voice.
“But, surely, there is some one in the world whom you love?” added Philippe.
“But, surely, there’s someone in the world that you love?” added Philippe.
“No one!—Yes, I love you.”
"No one!—Yeah, I love you."
The young man sank into so profound a silence, that the mere sound of his respiration seemed like a roaring tumult for Aramis. “Monseigneur,” he resumed, “I have not said all I had to say to your royal highness; I have not offered you all the salutary counsels and useful resources which I have at my disposal. It is useless to flash bright visions before the eyes of one who seeks and loves darkness: useless, too, is it to let the magnificence of the cannon’s roar make itself heard in the ears of one who loves repose and the quiet of the country. Monseigneur, I have your happiness spread out before me in my thoughts; listen to my words; precious they indeed are, in their import and their sense, for you who look with such tender regard upon the bright heavens, the verdant meadows, the pure air. I know a country instinct with delights of every kind, an unknown paradise, a secluded corner of the world—where alone, unfettered and unknown, in the thick covert of the woods, amidst flowers, and streams of rippling water, you will forget all the misery that human folly has so recently allotted you. Oh! listen to me, my prince. I do not jest. I have a heart, and mind, and soul, and can read your own,—aye, even to its depths. I will not take you unready for your task, in order to cast you into the crucible of my own desires, of my caprice, or my ambition. Let it be all or nothing. You are chilled and galled, sick at heart, overcome by excess of the emotions which but one hour’s liberty has produced in you. For me, that is a certain and unmistakable sign that you do not wish to continue at liberty. Would you prefer a more humble life, a life more suited to your strength? Heaven is my witness, that I wish your happiness to be the result of the trial to which I have exposed you.”
The young man fell into such a deep silence that the sound of his breathing felt like a loud roar to Aramis. “Your Highness,” he continued, “I haven’t shared everything I want to say to you; I haven’t offered all the helpful advice and resources I have available. It’s pointless to present bright visions to someone who seeks and loves darkness; similarly, it doesn’t help to let the grandeur of cannon fire reach the ears of someone who enjoys peace and the tranquility of the countryside. Your Highness, I see your happiness laid out before me; please listen to my words; they are truly valuable in their meaning and significance, especially for you, who gazes so fondly at the bright skies, lush meadows, and clean air. I know of a place filled with every kind of delight, an unknown paradise, a hidden corner of the world—where alone, free and undisturbed, in the thick cover of the woods, among flowers and flowing streams, you can forget all the suffering that human foolishness has recently brought you. Oh! Please listen to me, my prince. I’m not joking. I have a heart, a mind, and a soul, and I can understand yours—even to its depths. I won’t catch you off guard for my own desires, whims, or ambitions. It’s all or nothing. You are weary and troubled, heartbroken, overwhelmed by the intense emotions that just one hour of freedom has awakened in you. To me, that is a clear sign that you don’t want to continue being free. Would you prefer a simpler life, one that suits your strengths better? I swear it’s my wish for your happiness to come from the challenge I have put you through.”
“Speak, speak,” said the prince, with a vivacity which did not escape Aramis.
“Speak, speak,” said the prince, with an energy that didn’t go unnoticed by Aramis.
“I know,” resumed the prelate, “in the Bas-Poitou, a canton, of which no one in France suspects the existence. Twenty leagues of country is immense, is it not? Twenty leagues, monseigneur, all covered with water and herbage, and reeds of the most luxuriant nature; the whole studded with islands covered with woods of the densest foliage. These large marshes, covered with reeds as with a thick mantle, sleep silently and calmly beneath the sun’s soft and genial rays. A few fishermen with their families indolently pass their lives away there, with their great living-rafts of poplar and alder, the flooring formed of reeds, and the roof woven out of thick rushes. These barks, these floating-houses, are wafted to and fro by the changing winds. Whenever they touch a bank, it is but by chance; and so gently, too, that the sleeping fisherman is not awakened by the shock. Should he wish to land, it is merely because he has seen a large flight of landrails or plovers, of wild ducks, teal, widgeon, or woodchucks, which fall an easy pray to net or gun. Silver shad, eels, greedy pike, red and gray mullet, swim in shoals into his nets; he has but to choose the finest and largest, and return the others to the waters. Never yet has the food of the stranger, be he soldier or simple citizen, never has any one, indeed, penetrated into that district. The sun’s rays there are soft and tempered: in plots of solid earth, whose soil is swart and fertile, grows the vine, nourishing with generous juice its purple, white, and golden grapes. Once a week, a boat is sent to deliver the bread which has been baked at an oven—the common property of all. There—like the seigneurs of early days—powerful in virtue of your dogs, your fishing-lines, your guns, and your beautiful reed-built house, would you live, rich in the produce of the chase, in plentitude of absolute secrecy. There would years of your life roll away, at the end of which, no longer recognizable, for you would have been perfectly transformed, you would have succeeded in acquiring a destiny accorded to you by Heaven. There are a thousand pistoles in this bag, monseigneur—more, far more, than sufficient to purchase the whole marsh of which I have spoken; more than enough to live there as many years as you have days to live; more than enough to constitute you the richest, the freest, and the happiest man in the country. Accept it, as I offer it you—sincerely, cheerfully. Forthwith, without a moment’s pause, I will unharness two of my horses, which are attached to the carriage yonder, and they, accompanied by my servant—my deaf and dumb attendant—shall conduct you—traveling throughout the night, sleeping during the day—to the locality I have described; and I shall, at least, have the satisfaction of knowing that I have rendered to my prince the major service he himself preferred. I shall have made one human being happy; and Heaven for that will hold me in better account than if I had made one man powerful; the former task is far more difficult. And now, monseigneur, your answer to this proposition? Here is the money. Nay, do not hesitate. At Poitou, you can risk nothing, except the chance of catching the fevers prevalent there; and even of them, the so-called wizards of the country will cure you, for the sake of your pistoles. If you play the other game, you run the chance of being assassinated on a throne, strangled in a prison-cell. Upon my soul, I assure you, now I begin to compare them together, I myself should hesitate which lot I should accept.”
“I know,” the prelate continued, “in Bas-Poitou, a region that no one in France seems to know exists. Twenty leagues of land is vast, isn't it? Twenty leagues, monseigneur, all covered in water, grass, and the most lush reeds; the entire area dotted with islands cloaked in dense forests. These large marshlands, blanketed with reeds like a thick quilt, lie quietly and peacefully under the sun’s gentle and warm rays. A few fishermen and their families leisurely spend their lives there, living on large floating rafts made from poplar and alder, with reed flooring and roofs made from thick rushes. These boats, these floating homes, drift back and forth with the changing winds. Whenever they brush against the shore, it’s purely by chance; and so softly that the sleeping fisherman isn’t disturbed. If he ever wants to land, it’s only because he’s spotted a flock of landrails or plovers, or wild ducks, teal, widgeon, or woodchucks, which are easy prey for his nets or gun. Silver shad, eels, greedy pike, red and gray mullet swim in schools into his nets; he just has to pick the finest and biggest ones, returning the rest to the water. No stranger’s food—be they soldier or ordinary citizen—has ever reached that area. The sun shines softly there; in patches of solid ground, with dark and fertile soil, grapes thrive, nourished with rich juices, producing purple, white, and golden varieties. Once a week, a boat delivers bread baked in a communal oven. There—like the noblemen of old—richer for your dogs, your fishing lines, your guns, and your lovely reed-built home, you would live, abundant in game, in complete secrecy. Years of your life would pass, and by the end, you wouldn’t even be recognizable, perfectly transformed; you would have achieved a destiny that Heaven had in store for you. There are a thousand pistoles in this bag, monseigneur—far more than enough to buy the whole marsh I’ve mentioned; more than enough to sustain you there as many years as you have days to live; more than enough to make you the richest, freest, and happiest person in the area. Accept it, as I offer it—sincerely, happily. Without delay, I will unharness two of my horses from the carriage over there, and they, along with my servant—my deaf and mute assistant—will take you—traveling all night, resting during the day—to the place I’ve described; and I will have the satisfaction of knowing that I’ve done my prince the great service he wanted. I will have made one person happy; and for that, Heaven will look upon me more favorably than if I had made one man powerful; the former task is much harder. Now, monseigneur, what’s your answer to this proposal? Here’s the money. Please, don’t hesitate. In Poitou, you risk nothing, except for the possibility of catching the local fevers; and even those will be cured by the so-called wizards of the area, for the sake of your pistoles. If you choose the other path, you face the possibility of being assassinated on a throne, or strangled in a prison cell. Upon my word, as I start to weigh the options, I too would hesitate which fate to accept.”
“Monsieur,” replied the young prince, “before I determine, let me alight from this carriage, walk on the ground, and consult that still voice within me, which Heaven bids us all to hearken to. Ten minutes is all I ask, and then you shall have your answer.”
“Mister,” replied the young prince, “before I decide, let me get out of this carriage, walk on the ground, and listen to that inner voice that Heaven encourages us all to pay attention to. Just ten minutes is all I need, and then you'll have your answer.”
“As you please, monseigneur,” said Aramis, bending before him with respect, so solemn and august in tone and address had sounded these strange words.
“As you wish, sir,” said Aramis, bowing before him with respect, so serious and grand in tone and manner had sounded these strange words.
Chapter X. Crown and Tiara.
Aramis was the first to descend from the carriage; he held the door open for the young man. He saw him place his foot on the mossy ground with a trembling of the whole body, and walk round the carriage with an unsteady and almost tottering step. It seemed as if the poor prisoner was unaccustomed to walk on God’s earth. It was the 15th of August, about eleven o’clock at night; thick clouds, portending a tempest, overspread the heavens, and shrouded every light and prospect underneath their heavy folds. The extremities of the avenues were imperceptibly detached from the copse, by a lighter shadow of opaque gray, which, upon closer examination, became visible in the midst of the obscurity. But the fragrance which ascended from the grass, fresher and more penetrating than that which exhaled from the trees around him; the warm and balmy air which enveloped him for the first time for many years past; the ineffable enjoyment of liberty in an open country, spoke to the prince in so seductive a language, that notwithstanding the preternatural caution, we would almost say dissimulation of his character, of which we have tried to give an idea, he could not restrain his emotion, and breathed a sigh of ecstasy. Then, by degrees, he raised his aching head and inhaled the softly scented air, as it was wafted in gentle gusts to his uplifted face. Crossing his arms on his chest, as if to control this new sensation of delight, he drank in delicious draughts of that mysterious air which interpenetrates at night the loftiest forests. The sky he was contemplating, the murmuring waters, the universal freshness—was not all this reality? Was not Aramis a madman to suppose that he had aught else to dream of in this world? Those exciting pictures of country life, so free from fears and troubles, the ocean of happy days that glitters incessantly before all young imaginations, are real allurements wherewith to fascinate a poor, unhappy prisoner, worn out by prison cares, emaciated by the stifling air of the Bastile. It was the picture, it will be remembered, drawn by Aramis, when he offered the thousand pistoles he had with him in the carriage to the prince, and the enchanted Eden which the deserts of Bas-Poitou hid from the eyes of the world. Such were the reflections of Aramis as he watched, with an anxiety impossible to describe, the silent progress of the emotions of Philippe, whom he perceived gradually becoming more and more absorbed in his meditations. The young prince was offering up an inward prayer to Heaven, to be divinely guided in this trying moment, upon which his life or death depended. It was an anxious time for the bishop of Vannes, who had never before been so perplexed. His iron will, accustomed to overcome all obstacles, never finding itself inferior or vanquished on any occasion, to be foiled in so vast a project from not having foreseen the influence which a view of nature in all its luxuriance would have on the human mind! Aramis, overwhelmed by anxiety, contemplated with emotion the painful struggle that was taking place in Philippe’s mind. This suspense lasted the whole ten minutes which the young man had requested. During this space of time, which appeared an eternity, Philippe continued gazing with an imploring and sorrowful look towards the heavens; Aramis did not remove the piercing glance he had fixed on Philippe. Suddenly the young man bowed his head. His thought returned to the earth, his looks perceptibly hardened, his brow contracted, his mouth assuming an expression of undaunted courage; again his looks became fixed, but this time they wore a worldly expression, hardened by covetousness, pride, and strong desire. Aramis’s look immediately became as soft as it had before been gloomy. Philippe, seizing his hand in a quick, agitated manner, exclaimed:
Aramis was the first to get out of the carriage, holding the door open for the young man. He watched him place his foot on the mossy ground, trembling all over, and walk around the carriage with an unsteady, almost wobbly step. It seemed like the poor prisoner wasn't used to walking on solid ground. It was August 15th, around eleven at night; thick clouds loomed overhead, hinting at a storm, obscuring every light and view beneath their heavy cover. The edges of the paths were barely separated from the thicket by a lighter shade of opaque gray, which, upon closer look, became visible in the middle of the darkness. But the fragrance rising from the grass was fresher and stronger than that from the surrounding trees; the warm, balmy air that wrapped around him for the first time in many years; the indescribable joy of freedom in the open countryside spoke to the prince in such an alluring way that, despite his unnatural caution—almost deceitfulness—he couldn't hold back his emotions and let out a sigh of ecstasy. Gradually, he lifted his aching head and breathed in the softly scented air as it wafted gently toward his upturned face. Crossing his arms over his chest as if to control this new feeling of delight, he took deep breaths of that mysterious air that fills the highest forests at night. The sky he was observing, the murmuring waters, the universal freshness—was all of this real? Was Aramis mad to think there was anything else to dream of in this world? Those thrilling images of rural life, so free from fears and worries, the endless sea of joyful days that constantly sparkles before all young imaginations, are real temptations for a poor, miserable prisoner, worn out by prison worries and weakened by the suffocating air of the Bastille. It was the picture, as remember, painted by Aramis when he offered the thousand pistoles he had in the carriage to the prince, and the enchanted Eden that the deserts of Bas-Poitou concealed from the world. These were Aramis's thoughts as he anxiously observed the silent evolution of Philippe's feelings, noticing him becoming increasingly lost in thought. The young prince was silently praying to Heaven to be guided through this crucial moment that could determine his life or death. It was a tense time for the bishop of Vannes, who had never faced such confusion before. His strong will, used to overcoming any obstacles, had never found itself at a loss or defeated, only to be thwarted in such a grand scheme for not anticipating the effect that a view of nature at its most lush would have on the human mind! Overwhelmed with concern, Aramis watched with emotion the painful struggle taking place in Philippe's mind. This tension lasted the full ten minutes that the young man had asked for. During this seemingly endless time, Philippe kept gazing up towards the heavens with a pleading, sorrowful expression; Aramis did not take his intense gaze off Philippe. Suddenly, the young man bowed his head. His thoughts returned to the ground, his expression visibly hardened, his brow furrowed, and his mouth took on an air of unwavering courage; his gaze became fixed again, but this time it bore a worldly look, hardened by greed, pride, and intense desire. Aramis's expression instantly softened from its previous gloom. Philippe, grabbing his hand quickly and anxiously, exclaimed:
“Lead me to where the crown of France is to be found.”
“Take me to where the crown of France is located.”
“Is this your decision, monseigneur?” asked Aramis.
“Is this your decision, sir?” asked Aramis.
“It is.”
"It is."
“Irrevocably so?”
"Really, though?"
Philippe did not even deign to reply. He gazed earnestly at the bishop, as if to ask him if it were possible for a man to waver after having once made up his mind.
Philippe didn't even bother to respond. He looked intently at the bishop, as if asking him whether it was possible for someone to doubt after having made a decision.
“Such looks are flashes of the hidden fire that betrays men’s character,” said Aramis, bowing over Philippe’s hand; “you will be great, monseigneur, I will answer for that.”
“Those looks are glimpses of the hidden fire that reveal a person's character,” said Aramis, bowing over Philippe’s hand; “you will be great, my lord, I can promise you that.”
“Let us resume our conversation. I wished to discuss two points with you; in the first place the dangers, or the obstacles we may meet with. That point is decided. The other is the conditions you intend imposing on me. It is your turn to speak, M. d’Herblay.”
“Let’s continue our conversation. I wanted to talk about two things with you; first, the dangers or obstacles we might encounter. That point is settled. The other is the conditions you plan to impose on me. It’s your turn to speak, M. d’Herblay.”
“The conditions, monseigneur?”
"What are the terms, sir?"
“Doubtless. You will not allow so mere a trifle to stop me, and you will not do me the injustice to suppose that I think you have no interest in this affair. Therefore, without subterfuge or hesitation, tell me the truth—”
“Of course. You won't let something so trivial hold me back, and you won't be unfair enough to think that I believe you aren't interested in this matter. So, without any tricks or delay, just tell me the truth—”
“I will do so, monseigneur. Once a king—”
“I will do that, sir. Once a king—”
“When will that be?”
"When's that going to be?"
“To-morrow evening—I mean in the night.”
"Tomorrow night."
“Explain yourself.”
"Explain yourself."
“When I shall have asked your highness a question.”
“When I have asked you a question, your highness.”
“Do so.”
"Go for it."
“I sent to your highness a man in my confidence with instructions to deliver some closely written notes, carefully drawn up, which will thoroughly acquaint your highness with the different persons who compose and will compose your court.”
“I sent a trusted man to you with instructions to deliver some detailed notes that will fully inform you about the different people who make up and will make up your court.”
“I perused those notes.”
“I read those notes.”
“Attentively?”
“Seriously?”
“I know them by heart.”
“I know them by memory.”
“And understand them? Pardon me, but I may venture to ask that question of a poor, abandoned captive of the Bastile? In a week’s time it will not be requisite to further question a mind like yours. You will then be in full possession of liberty and power.”
“And understand them? Excuse me, but I think I can ask that question of a poor, abandoned prisoner of the Bastille? In a week’s time, it won’t be necessary to question a mind like yours any further. You will then have complete freedom and control.”
“Interrogate me, then, and I will be a scholar representing his lesson to his master.”
“Go ahead and question me, and I’ll be a student sharing what I've learned with my teacher.”
“We will begin with your family, monseigneur.”
“We’ll start with your family, sir.”
“My mother, Anne of Austria! all her sorrows, her painful malady. Oh! I know her—I know her.”
“My mother, Anne of Austria! all her troubles, her painful illness. Oh! I know her—I know her.”
“Your second brother?” asked Aramis, bowing.
“Your second brother?” asked Aramis, bowing.
“To these notes,” replied the prince, “you have added portraits so faithfully painted, that I am able to recognize the persons whose characters, manners, and history you have so carefully portrayed. Monsieur, my brother, is a fine, dark young man, with a pale face; he does not love his wife, Henrietta, whom I, Louis XIV., loved a little, and still flirt with, even although she made me weep on the day she wished to dismiss Mademoiselle de la Valliere from her service in disgrace.”
“To these notes,” replied the prince, “you’ve added portraits so well done that I can recognize the people whose personalities, behaviors, and histories you’ve captured so accurately. My brother, Monsieur, is a handsome, dark-haired young man with a pale complexion; he doesn’t love his wife, Henrietta, whom I, Louis XIV., cared for a bit and still flirt with, even though she made me cry on the day she tried to dismiss Mademoiselle de la Valliere from her service in disgrace.”
“You will have to be careful with regard to the watchfulness of the latter,” said Aramis; “she is sincerely attached to the actual king. The eyes of a woman who loves are not easily deceived.”
“You need to be careful about the vigilance of the latter,” said Aramis; “she is genuinely devoted to the real king. The eyes of a woman in love are not easily fooled.”
“She is fair, has blue eyes, whose affectionate gaze reveals her identity. She halts slightly in her gait; she writes a letter every day, to which I have to send an answer by M. de Saint-Aignan.”
“She is beautiful, has blue eyes, and her loving gaze shows who she is. She pauses a bit in her walk; she writes a letter every day, and I have to reply to it through M. de Saint-Aignan.”
“Do you know the latter?”
“Do you know the latter?”
“As if I saw him, and I know the last verses he composed for me, as well as those I composed in answer to his.”
“As if I could see him, and I remember the last verses he wrote for me, just like the ones I wrote in response to him.”
“Very good. Do you know your ministers?”
“Great! Do you know your ministers?”
“Colbert, an ugly, dark-browed man, but intelligent enough, his hair covering his forehead, a large, heavy, full head; the mortal enemy of M. Fouquet.”
“Colbert, an unattractive man with dark brows, but smart enough, his hair falling over his forehead, a large, heavy head; the sworn enemy of M. Fouquet.”
“As for the latter, we need not disturb ourselves about him.”
“As for the latter, we don’t need to worry about him.”
“No; because necessarily you will not require me to exile him, I suppose?”
"No; because you definitely won't expect me to banish him, right?"
Aramis, struck with admiration at the remark, said, “You will become very great, monseigneur.”
Aramis, impressed by the comment, said, “You’re going to be very important, my lord.”
“You see,” added the prince, “that I know my lesson by heart, and with Heaven’s assistance, and yours afterwards, I shall seldom go wrong.”
“You see,” the prince added, “I know my lesson by heart, and with Heaven’s help, and yours too, I won’t often make mistakes.”
“You have still an awkward pair of eyes to deal with, monseigneur.”
“You still have an awkward pair of eyes to deal with, sir.”
“Yes, the captain of the musketeers, M. d’Artagnan, your friend.”
“Yes, the captain of the musketeers, M. d’Artagnan, your friend.”
“Yes; I can well say ‘my friend.’”
“Yes; I can definitely say ‘my friend.’”
“He who escorted La Valliere to Le Chaillot; he who delivered up Monk, cooped in an iron box, to Charles II.; he who so faithfully served my mother; he to whom the crown of France owes so much that it owes everything. Do you intend to ask me to exile him also?”
“He who took La Valliere to Le Chaillot; he who handed over Monk, locked in an iron box, to Charles II.; he who served my mother so loyally; he to whom the crown of France owes so much that it owes everything. Are you planning to ask me to send him into exile too?”
“Never, sire. D’Artagnan is a man to whom, at a certain given time, I will undertake to reveal everything; but be on your guard with him, for if he discovers our plot before it is revealed to him, you or I will certainly be killed or taken. He is a bold and enterprising man.”
“Never, sire. D’Artagnan is someone I will share everything with at the right moment; but be careful with him, because if he finds out our plan before we tell him, either you or I will definitely be killed or caught. He is a daring and resourceful man.”
“I will think it over. Now tell me about M. Fouquet; what do you wish to be done with regard to him?”
“I'll think about it. Now tell me about M. Fouquet; what do you want to do about him?”
“One moment more, I entreat you, monseigneur; and forgive me, if I seem to fail in respect to questioning you further.”
“One more moment, I beg you, sir; and I apologize if it seems like I’m not being respectful by asking you more questions.”
“It is your duty to do so, nay, more than that, your right.”
“It’s your duty to do this, and even more than that, it’s your right.”
“Before we pass to M. Fouquet, I should very much regret forgetting another friend of mine.”
“Before we get to M. Fouquet, I would really hate to forget another friend of mine.”
“M. du Vallon, the Hercules of France, you mean; oh! as far as he is concerned, his interests are more than safe.”
“M. du Vallon, the Hercules of France, you mean; oh! as far as he is concerned, his interests are more than safe.”
“No; it is not he whom I intended to refer to.”
“No; that’s not who I meant to refer to.”
“The Comte de la Fere, then?”
“The Count de la Fere, then?”
“And his son, the son of all four of us.”
“And his son, the son of all four of us.”
“That poor boy who is dying of love for La Valliere, whom my brother so disloyally bereft him of? Be easy on that score. I shall know how to rehabilitate his happiness. Tell me only one thing, Monsieur d’Herblay; do men, when they love, forget the treachery that has been shown them? Can a man ever forgive the woman who has betrayed him? Is that a French custom, or is it one of the laws of the human heart?”
“That poor boy who is dying of love for La Valliere, whom my brother so disloyally took from him? Don’t worry about that. I’ll find a way to restore his happiness. Just tell me one thing, Monsieur d’Herblay; do men, when they love, forget the betrayal they’ve experienced? Can a man ever forgive the woman who has deceived him? Is that a French thing, or is it just one of the rules of the human heart?”
“A man who loves deeply, as deeply as Raoul loves Mademoiselle de la Valliere, finishes by forgetting the fault or crime of the woman he loves; but I do not yet know whether Raoul will be able to forget.”
“A man who loves deeply, as deeply as Raoul loves Mademoiselle de la Valliere, eventually forgets the mistakes or wrongs of the woman he loves; but I still don't know if Raoul will be able to forget.”
“I will see after that. Have you anything further to say about your friend?”
“I'll take care of that later. Do you have anything else to say about your friend?”
“No; that is all.”
"No, that's everything."
“Well, then, now for M. Fouquet. What do you wish me to do for him?”
“Well, then, what do you want me to do for M. Fouquet?”
“To keep him on as surintendant, in the capacity in which he has hitherto acted, I entreat you.”
"Please let him continue as superintendent, in the role he has been doing so far, I urge you."
“Be it so; but he is the first minister at present.”
“That's true; but he is the first minister right now.”
“Not quite so.”
"Not quite."
“A king, ignorant and embarrassed as I shall be, will, as a matter of course, require a first minister of state.”
“A king, clueless and awkward as I might be, will naturally need a chief advisor.”
“Your majesty will require a friend.”
“Your majesty will need a friend.”
“I have only one, and that is yourself.”
“I have just one, and that is you.”
“You will have many others by and by, but none so devoted, none so zealous for your glory.”
"You'll have many more later on, but none as devoted, none as passionate about your success."
“You shall be my first minister of state.”
"You will be my first minister of state."
“Not immediately, monseigneur, for that would give rise to too much suspicion and astonishment.”
“Not right away, sir, because that would raise too much suspicion and surprise.”
“M. de Richelieu, the first minister of my grandmother, Marie de Medici, was simply bishop of Lucon, as you are bishop of Vannes.”
“M. de Richelieu, my grandmother Marie de Medici’s first minister, was just the bishop of Lucon, like you are the bishop of Vannes.”
“I perceive that your royal highness has studied my notes to great advantage; your amazing perspicacity overpowers me with delight.”
"I can see that you’ve gained a lot from my notes; your incredible insight truly overwhelms me with joy."
“I am perfectly aware that M. de Richelieu, by means of the queen’s protection, soon became cardinal.”
“I know very well that M. de Richelieu, with the queen’s support, quickly became a cardinal.”
“It would be better,” said Aramis, bowing, “that I should not be appointed first minister until your royal highness has procured my nomination as cardinal.”
“It would be better,” said Aramis, bowing, “if I’m not appointed as first minister until your royal highness has ensured my nomination as cardinal.”
“You shall be nominated before two months are past, Monsieur d’Herblay. But that is a matter of very trifling moment; you would not offend me if you were to ask more than that, and you would cause me serious regret if you were to limit yourself to that.”
“You should be nominated within the next two months, Monsieur d’Herblay. But that’s really not a big deal; you wouldn’t upset me if you asked for more than that, and I would feel quite sorry if you only settled for that.”
“In that case, I have something still further to hope for, monseigneur.”
“In that case, I have something else to hope for, Your Excellency.”
“Speak! speak!”
"Talk! Talk!"
“M. Fouquet will not keep long at the head of affairs, he will soon get old. He is fond of pleasure, consistently, I mean, with all his labors, thanks to the youthfulness he still retains; but this protracted youth will disappear at the approach of the first serious annoyance, or at the first illness he may experience. We will spare him the annoyance, because he is an agreeable and noble-hearted man; but we cannot save him from ill-health. So it is determined. When you shall have paid all M. Fouquet’s debts, and restored the finances to a sound condition, M. Fouquet will be able to remain the sovereign ruler in his little court of poets and painters,—we shall have made him rich. When that has been done, and I have become your royal highness’s prime minister, I shall be able to think of my own interests and yours.”
“M. Fouquet won't stay in power for long; he’s going to grow old soon. He enjoys life, which he balances with all his hard work, thanks to the youthfulness he still has; but this extended youth will fade away when he faces his first serious setback or gets sick. We’ll spare him the trouble because he’s a charming and kind-hearted man; however, we can't protect him from health issues. That’s how it is. Once you’ve paid off all of M. Fouquet’s debts and brought the finances back to stability, he’ll be able to stay in charge of his little circle of poets and painters—we’ll have made him wealthy. Once that’s done, and I become your royal highness’s prime minister, I’ll be able to focus on my own interests and yours.”
The young man looked at his interrogator.
The young man stared at his questioner.
“M. de Richelieu, of whom we were speaking just now, was very much to blame in the fixed idea he had of governing France alone, unaided. He allowed two kings, King Louis XIII. and himself, to be seated on the self-same throne, whilst he might have installed them more conveniently upon two separate and distinct thrones.”
“M. de Richelieu, whom we were just talking about, was largely to blame for his stubborn belief that he could govern France all by himself. He let two kings, King Louis XIII. and himself, sit on the same throne, even though he could have placed them more appropriately on two separate and distinct thrones.”
“Upon two thrones?” said the young man, thoughtfully.
“On two thrones?” said the young man, pondering.
“In fact,” pursued Aramis, quietly, “a cardinal, prime minister of France, assisted by the favor and by the countenance of his Most Christian Majesty the King of France, a cardinal to whom the king his master lends the treasures of the state, his army, his counsel, such a man would be acting with twofold injustice in applying these mighty resources to France alone. Besides,” added Aramis, “you will not be a king such as your father was, delicate in health, slow in judgment, whom all things wearied; you will be a king governing by your brain and by your sword; you will have in the government of the state no more than you will be able to manage unaided; I should only interfere with you. Besides, our friendship ought never to be, I do not say impaired, but in any degree affected, by a secret thought. I shall have given you the throne of France, you will confer on me the throne of St. Peter. Whenever your loyal, firm, and mailed hand should joined in ties of intimate association the hand of a pope such as I shall be, neither Charles V., who owned two-thirds of the habitable globe, nor Charlemagne, who possessed it entirely, will be able to reach to half your stature. I have no alliances, I have no predilections; I will not throw you into persecutions of heretics, nor will I cast you into the troubled waters of family dissension; I will simply say to you: The whole universe is our own; for me the minds of men, for you their bodies. And as I shall be the first to die, you will have my inheritance. What do you say of my plan, monseigneur?”
“In fact,” Aramis continued quietly, “a cardinal, the prime minister of France, supported by the favor and approval of his Most Christian Majesty, the King of France, a cardinal to whom the king lends the state’s treasures, army, and counsel, such a man would be committing a double injustice by using these vast resources solely for France. Besides,” Aramis added, “you won't be a king like your father, who was delicate in health, slow to judge, and easily fatigued; you will be a king who governs with both your mind and your sword. You will only have as much power as you can handle on your own; I would only interfere with you. Also, our friendship should never be, I don't mean weakened, but in any way influenced, by any hidden thoughts. I will have given you the throne of France, and you will grant me the throne of St. Peter. When your loyal, strong, armored hand is joined with the hand of a pope like I will be, neither Charles V, who ruled over two-thirds of the known world, nor Charlemagne, who owned it all, could measure up to your greatness. I have no alliances, no biases; I won’t expose you to heretic persecutions, nor pull you into family feuds; I will simply tell you: The entire universe is ours; for me, the thoughts of men, for you, their bodies. And since I will be the first to die, you will inherit my legacy. What do you think of my plan, monseigneur?”
“I say that you render me happy and proud, for no other reason than that of having comprehended you thoroughly. Monsieur d’Herblay, you shall be cardinal, and when cardinal, my prime minister; and then you will point out to me the necessary steps to be taken to secure your election as pope, and I will take them. You can ask what guarantees from me you please.”
“I say that you make me happy and proud, simply because you understand me completely. Monsieur d’Herblay, you will be a cardinal, and when you are a cardinal, my prime minister; then you will guide me on the necessary steps to ensure your election as pope, and I will follow them. You can ask for any guarantees from me that you want.”
“It is useless. Never shall I act except in such a manner that you will be the gainer; I shall never ascend the ladder of fortune, fame, or position, until I have first seen you placed upon the round of the ladder immediately above me; I shall always hold myself sufficiently aloof from you to escape incurring your jealousy, sufficiently near to sustain your personal advantage and to watch over your friendship. All the contracts in the world are easily violated because the interests included in them incline more to one side than to another. With us, however, this will never be the case; I have no need of any guarantees.”
“It’s pointless. I will never act in a way that doesn’t benefit you first; I won’t pursue wealth, fame, or status until I’ve made sure you’re a step above me on the ladder. I’ll always keep my distance enough to avoid your jealousy, but close enough to support you and look out for our friendship. Any agreements can be broken easily when one side benefits more than the other. But that won’t ever happen between us; I don’t need any guarantees.”
“And so—my dear brother—will disappear?”
“And so—my dear brother—will it disappear?”
“Simply. We will remove him from his bed by means of a plank which yields to the pressure of the finger. Having retired to rest a crowned sovereign, he will awake a captive. Alone you will rule from that moment, and you will have no interest dearer and better than that of keeping me near you.”
“Easily. We’ll get him out of his bed using a board that gives way to the touch of a finger. After going to sleep as a crowned monarch, he’ll wake up a prisoner. From that point on, you will rule alone, and your greatest concern will be keeping me close to you.”
“I believe it. There is my hand on it, Monsieur d’Herblay.”
“I believe it. Here’s my hand on it, Mister d’Herblay.”
“Allow me to kneel before you, sire, most respectfully. We will embrace each other on the day we shall have upon our temples, you the crown, I the tiara.”
“Let me kneel before you, your majesty, with the utmost respect. We will embrace each other on the day when you wear the crown and I wear the tiara.”
“Still embrace me this very day also, and be, for and towards me, more than great, more than skillful, more than sublime in genius; be kind and indulgent—be my father!”
“Still hold me close today, and be, for me, more than great, more than skilled, more than brilliant; be kind and understanding—be my father!”
Aramis was almost overcome as he listened to his voice; he fancied he detected in his own heart an emotion hitherto unknown; but this impression was speedily removed. “His father!” he thought; “yes, his Holy Father.”
Aramis was nearly overwhelmed as he listened to his voice; he thought he felt an emotion in his heart that he had never experienced before, but that feeling quickly faded. “His father!” he thought; “yes, his Holy Father.”
And they resumed their places in the carriage, which sped rapidly along the road leading to Vaux-le-Vicomte.
And they took their seats in the carriage, which quickly raced down the road to Vaux-le-Vicomte.
Chapter XI. The Chateau de Vaux-le-Vicomte.
The chateau of Vaux-le-Vicomte, situated about a league from Melun, had been built by Fouquet in 1655, at a time when there was a scarcity of money in France; Mazarin had taken all that there was, and Fouquet expended the remainder. However, as certain men have fertile, false, and useful vices, Fouquet, in scattering broadcast millions of money in the construction of this palace, had found a means of gathering, as the result of his generous profusion, three illustrious men together: Levau, the architect of the building; Lenotre, the designer of the gardens; and Lebrun, the decorator of the apartments. If the Chateau de Vaux possessed a single fault with which it could be reproached, it was its grand, pretentious character. It is even at the present day proverbial to calculate the number of acres of roofing, the restoration of which would, in our age, be the ruin of fortunes cramped and narrowed as the epoch itself. Vaux-le-Vicomte, when its magnificent gates, supported by caryatides, have been passed through, has the principal front of the main building opening upon a vast, so-called, court of honor, inclosed by deep ditches, bordered by a magnificent stone balustrade. Nothing could be more noble in appearance than the central forecourt raised upon the flight of steps, like a king upon his throne, having around it four pavilions at the angles, the immense Ionic columns of which rose majestically to the whole height of the building. The friezes ornamented with arabesques, and the pediments which crowned the pilasters, conferred richness and grace on every part of the building, while the domes which surmounted the whole added proportion and majesty. This mansion, built by a subject, bore a far greater resemblance to those royal residences which Wolsey fancied he was called upon to construct, in order to present them to his master from the fear of rendering him jealous. But if magnificence and splendor were displayed in any one particular part of this palace more than another,—if anything could be preferred to the wonderful arrangement of the interior, to the sumptuousness of the gilding, and to the profusion of the paintings and statues, it would be the park and gardens of Vaux. The jets d’eau, which were regarded as wonderful in 1653, are still so, even at the present time; the cascades awakened the admiration of kings and princes; and as for the famous grotto, the theme of so many poetical effusions, the residence of that illustrious nymph of Vaux, whom Pelisson made converse with La Fontaine, we must be spared the description of all its beauties. We will do as Despreaux did,—we will enter the park, the trees of which are of eight years’ growth only—that is to say, in their present position—and whose summits even yet, as they proudly tower aloft, blushingly unfold their leaves to the earliest rays of the rising sun. Lenotre had hastened the pleasure of the Maecenas of his period; all the nursery-grounds had furnished trees whose growth had been accelerated by careful culture and the richest plant-food. Every tree in the neighborhood which presented a fair appearance of beauty or stature had been taken up by its roots and transplanted to the park. Fouquet could well afford to purchase trees to ornament his park, since he had bought up three villages and their appurtenances (to use a legal word) to increase its extent. M. de Scudery said of this palace, that, for the purpose of keeping the grounds and gardens well watered, M. Fouquet had divided a river into a thousand fountains, and gathered the waters of a thousand fountains into torrents. This same Monsieur de Scudery said a great many other things in his “Clelie,” about this palace of Valterre, the charms of which he describes most minutely. We should be far wiser to send our curious readers to Vaux to judge for themselves, than to refer them to “Clelie;” and yet there are as many leagues from Paris to Vaux, as there are volumes of the “Clelie.”
The chateau of Vaux-le-Vicomte, located about a league from Melun, was built by Fouquet in 1655, during a time when money was scarce in France; Mazarin had taken all that existed, leaving Fouquet to spend the rest. However, some people have fertile, deceptive, and useful vices, and by pouring millions into building this palace, Fouquet managed to bring together three illustrious men: Levau, the architect; Lenotre, the garden designer; and Lebrun, the decorator of the interiors. If Vaux had one flaw to be criticized, it was its grand, pretentious nature. Even today, it’s still common to measure the acres of roof that would ruin fortunes constrained and narrowed like the era itself. Once you pass through its magnificent gates, held up by caryatids, the main building opens onto a vast so-called court of honor, enclosed by deep ditches and bordered by an impressive stone balustrade. The central forecourt, raised upon a flight of steps like a king on his throne, is surrounded by four pavilions at the corners, their immense Ionic columns towering majestically to the full height of the building. The friezes decorated with arabesques and the pediments topping the pilasters give richness and elegance to every part of the structure, while the domes above contribute to its proportion and majesty. This mansion, built by a subject, resembled far more those royal residences that Wolsey imagined he needed to create to present to his master out of fear of making him jealous. Yet if magnificence and splendor were especially evident in any particular area of this palace more than another—if anything could compete with the wonderful arrangement of the interior, the lavish gold decoration, and the abundance of paintings and sculptures—it would be the park and gardens of Vaux. The jets d’eau, considered amazing in 1653, still are today; the cascades drew the admiration of kings and princes. As for the famous grotto, the subject of countless poetic works, and the home of the illustrious nymph of Vaux, whom Pelisson had converse with La Fontaine, we’ll spare ourselves the details of all its beauties. We’ll follow Despreaux's lead and enter the park, where the trees are only eight years old—meaning in their current position—and whose tops, still proudly reaching high, shyly open their leaves to the first rays of the morning sun. Lenotre hastened the pleasure of the Maecenas of his time; all the nursery grounds supplied trees that had been nurtured for faster growth with the best plant food. Every tree in the area that had an appealing beauty or height was uprooted and moved to the park. Fouquet could afford to buy trees to decorate his park since he purchased three villages and their surrounding areas (to use a legal term) to expand it. M. de Scudery mentioned that, to keep the grounds and gardens well-watered, M. Fouquet had divided a river into a thousand fountains and gathered the waters of a thousand fountains into torrents. This same Monsieur de Scudery wrote many other things about this palace in his “Clelie,” describing its charms in great detail. It would be wiser to send our curious readers to Vaux to see for themselves rather than refer them to “Clelie;” and yet, there are as many leagues from Paris to Vaux as there are volumes of “Clelie.”
This magnificent palace had been got ready for the reception of the greatest reigning sovereign of the time. M. Fouquet’s friends had transported thither, some their actors and their dresses, others their troops of sculptors and artists; not forgetting others with their ready-mended pens,—floods of impromptus were contemplated. The cascades, somewhat rebellious nymphs though they were, poured forth their waters brighter and clearer than crystal: they scattered over the bronze triton and nereids their waves of foam, which glistened like fire in the rays of the sun. An army of servants were hurrying to and fro in squadrons in the courtyard and corridors; while Fouquet, who had only that morning arrived, walked all through the palace with a calm, observant glance, in order to give his last orders, after his intendants had inspected everything.
This magnificent palace was all set to welcome the greatest reigning monarch of the time. M. Fouquet’s friends had brought along their actors and costumes, while others had their teams of sculptors and artists; not to mention those with their repaired pens—ready for a flood of spontaneous creativity. The waterfalls, although somewhat unruly nymphs, poured their waters clearer and brighter than crystal: they splashed their foamy waves over the bronze triton and nereids, which sparkled like fire in the sunlight. An army of servants rushed around in squads in the courtyard and hallways, while Fouquet, who had only arrived that morning, walked through the palace with a calm, observant gaze to give his final orders after his managers had checked everything.
It was, as we have said, the 15th of August. The sun poured down its burning rays upon the heathen deities of marble and bronze: it raised the temperature of the water in the conch shells, and ripened, on the walls, those magnificent peaches, of which the king, fifty years later, spoke so regretfully, when, at Marly, on an occasion of a scarcity of the finer sorts of peaches being complained of, in the beautiful gardens there—gardens which had cost France double the amount that had been expended on Vaux—the great king observed to some one: “You are far too young to have eaten any of M. Fouquet’s peaches.”
It was, as we mentioned, August 15th. The sun was blazing down on the heathen deities made of marble and bronze: it heated the water in the conch shells and ripened, on the walls, those beautiful peaches, which the king, fifty years later, regretted when, at Marly, there were complaints about a shortage of the finer types of peaches in the stunning gardens there—gardens that had cost France twice what was spent on Vaux—the great king remarked to someone: “You’re way too young to have tasted any of M. Fouquet’s peaches.”
Oh, fame! Oh, blazon of renown! Oh, glory of this earth! That very man whose judgment was so sound and accurate where merit was concerned—he who had swept into his coffers the inheritance of Nicholas Fouquet, who had robbed him of Lenotre and Lebrun, and had sent him to rot for the remainder of his life in one of the state prisons—merely remembered the peaches of that vanquished, crushed, forgotten enemy! It was to little purpose that Fouquet had squandered thirty millions of francs in the fountains of his gardens, in the crucibles of his sculptors, in the writing-desks of his literary friends, in the portfolios of his painters; vainly had he fancied that thereby he might be remembered. A peach—a blushing, rich-flavored fruit, nestling in the trellis work on the garden-wall, hidden beneath its long, green leaves,—this little vegetable production, that a dormouse would nibble up without a thought, was sufficient to recall to the memory of this great monarch the mournful shade of the last surintendant of France.
Oh, fame! Oh, symbol of recognition! Oh, glory of this world! That very man whose judgment was so sound and accurate when it came to recognizing talent—he who had taken the fortune of Nicholas Fouquet, who had robbed him of Lenotre and Lebrun, and had sent him to waste away for the rest of his life in one of the state prisons—only remembered the peaches of that defeated, crushed, forgotten foe! It was all for nothing that Fouquet had wasted thirty million francs on the fountains in his gardens, on the work of his sculptors, on the writing desks of his literary friends, and on the portfolios of his painters; he vainly believed that this would keep him in people's memories. A peach—a plump, flavorful fruit resting on the trellis of the garden wall, hidden beneath its long, green leaves—this little fruit, which a dormouse would nibble without a second thought, was enough to remind this great monarch of the sorrowful shadow of the last superintendent of France.
With a perfect reliance that Aramis had made arrangements fairly to distribute the vast number of guests throughout the palace, and that he had not omitted to attend to any of the internal regulations for their comfort, Fouquet devoted his entire attention to the ensemble alone. In one direction Gourville showed him the preparations which had been made for the fireworks; in another, Moliere led him over the theater; at last, after he had visited the chapel, the salons, and the galleries, and was again going downstairs, exhausted with fatigue, Fouquet saw Aramis on the staircase. The prelate beckoned to him. The surintendant joined his friend, and, with him, paused before a large picture scarcely finished. Applying himself, heart and soul, to his work, the painter Lebrun, covered with perspiration, stained with paint, pale from fatigue and the inspiration of genius, was putting the last finishing touches with his rapid brush. It was the portrait of the king, whom they were expecting, dressed in the court suit which Percerin had condescended to show beforehand to the bishop of Vannes. Fouquet placed himself before this portrait, which seemed to live, as one might say, in the cool freshness of its flesh, and in its warmth of color. He gazed upon it long and fixedly, estimated the prodigious labor that had been bestowed upon it, and, not being able to find any recompense sufficiently great for this Herculean effort, he passed his arm round the painter’s neck and embraced him. The surintendant, by this action, had utterly ruined a suit of clothes worth a thousand pistoles, but he had satisfied, more than satisfied, Lebrun. It was a happy moment for the artist; it was an unhappy moment for M. Percerin, who was walking behind Fouquet, and was engaged in admiring, in Lebrun’s painting, the suit that he had made for his majesty, a perfect objet d’art, as he called it, which was not to be matched except in the wardrobe of the surintendant. His distress and his exclamations were interrupted by a signal which had been given from the summit of the mansion. In the direction of Melun, in the still empty, open plain, the sentinels of Vaux had just perceived the advancing procession of the king and the queens. His majesty was entering Melun with his long train of carriages and cavaliers.
Confident that Aramis had arranged for the guests to be distributed throughout the palace fairly and that he had ensured their comfort, Fouquet focused entirely on the overall experience. In one area, Gourville pointed out the preparations for the fireworks; in another, Molière showed him around the theater. Finally, after visiting the chapel, the salons, and the galleries, and feeling exhausted as he descended the stairs, Fouquet spotted Aramis on the staircase. The prelate gestured for him to come over. The superintendent joined his friend and paused with him in front of a nearly finished large painting. The painter Lebrun, absorbed completely in his work, was covered in sweat, painted with colors, and pale from exhaustion and creative inspiration as he added the last touches with his swift brush. It was a portrait of the king, whom they were expecting, dressed in the court suit that Percerin had graciously shown to the Bishop of Vannes beforehand. Fouquet stood in front of the portrait, which seemed alive in its cool freshness and warm colors. He stared at it for a long time, appreciating the immense effort that had gone into it, and, unable to find a reward grand enough for such a Herculean task, he wrapped his arm around the painter’s neck and embraced him. This gesture ruined a suit worth a thousand pistoles, but it deeply pleased Lebrun. It was a joyful moment for the artist; however, it was an unfortunate moment for M. Percerin, who was trailing behind Fouquet and was admiring the painting for the suit he had made for the king, a perfect piece of art, as he called it, unmatched except in the wardrobe of the superintendent. His distress and exclamations were interrupted by a signal from the top of the mansion. Toward Melun, in the still empty open plain, the sentinels of Vaux had just spotted the approaching procession of the king and queens. His majesty was entering Melun with his long line of carriages and horsemen.
“In an hour—” said Aramis to Fouquet.
“In an hour—” Aramis said to Fouquet.
“In an hour!” replied the latter, sighing.
“In an hour!” said the other, sighing.
“And the people who ask one another what is the good of these royal fetes!” continued the bishop of Vannes, laughing, with his false smile.
“And the people who ask each other what’s the point of these royal fetes!” continued the bishop of Vannes, laughing, with his fake smile.
“Alas! I, too, who am not the people, ask myself the same thing.”
"Unfortunately! I, too, who am not part of the crowd, wonder the same thing."
“I will answer you in four and twenty hours, monseigneur. Assume a cheerful countenance, for it should be a day of true rejoicing.”
“I’ll get back to you in twenty-four hours, sir. Keep a positive attitude, because it should be a day filled with real celebration.”
“Well, believe me or not, as you like, D’Herblay,” said the surintendant, with a swelling heart, pointing at the cortege of Louis, visible in the horizon, “he certainly loves me but very little, and I do not care much more for him; but I cannot tell you how it is, that since he is approaching my house—”
“Well, believe me or not, it's up to you, D’Herblay,” said the surintendant, with a full heart, pointing at the cortege of Louis, visible on the horizon, “he really doesn’t care for me much, and I don’t care for him much either; but I can’t explain why, now that he’s getting closer to my house—”
“Well, what?”
"Well, what’s up?"
“Well, since I know he is on his way here, as my guest, he is more sacred than ever for me; he is my acknowledged sovereign, and as such is very dear to me.”
“Well, since I know he’s on his way here, as my guest, he means more to me than ever; he’s my recognized leader, and because of that, he’s very important to me.”
“Dear? yes,” said Aramis, playing upon the word, as the Abbe Terray did, at a later period, with Louis XV.
“Dear? yes,” said Aramis, playing with the word, just like Abbe Terray did later with Louis XV.
“Do not laugh, D’Herblay; I feel that, if he really seemed to wish it, I could love that young man.”
“Don’t laugh, D’Herblay; I can tell that if he genuinely wanted it, I could love that young man.”
“You should not say that to me,” returned Aramis, “but rather to M. Colbert.”
"You shouldn't say that to me," Aramis replied, "but rather to M. Colbert."
“To M. Colbert!” exclaimed Fouquet. “Why so?”
“To M. Colbert!” exclaimed Fouquet. “Why is that?”
“Because he would allow you a pension out of the king’s privy purse, as soon as he becomes surintendant,” said Aramis, preparing to leave as soon as he had dealt this last blow.
“Because he would give you a pension from the king’s private funds as soon as he becomes superintendent,” said Aramis, getting ready to leave after delivering this final remark.
“Where are you going?” returned Fouquet, with a gloomy look.
“Where are you headed?” Fouquet replied, looking unhappy.
“To my own apartment, in order to change my costume, monseigneur.”
“To my own place, so I can change my outfit, sir.”
“Whereabouts are you lodging, D’Herblay?”
"Where are you staying, D’Herblay?"
“In the blue room on the second story.”
“In the blue room on the second floor.”
“The room immediately over the king’s room?”
“The room right above the king’s room?”
“Precisely.”
"Exactly."
“You will be subject to very great restraint there. What an idea to condemn yourself to a room where you cannot stir or move about!”
“You will face a lot of restrictions there. What a thought to trap yourself in a room where you can’t move or do anything!”
“During the night, monseigneur, I sleep or read in my bed.”
“During the night, sir, I either sleep or read in my bed.”
“And your servants?”
"And your team?"
“I have but one attendant with me. I find my reader quite sufficient. Adieu, monseigneur; do not overfatigue yourself; keep yourself fresh for the arrival of the king.”
“I have just one attendant with me. I think my reader is more than enough. Goodbye, sir; don’t overexert yourself; save your energy for the king's arrival.”
“We shall see you by and by, I suppose, and shall see your friend Du Vallon also?”
“We'll see you soon, I guess, and we'll see your friend Du Vallon too?”
“He is lodging next to me, and is at this moment dressing.”
“He's staying next door to me and is currently getting dressed.”
Chapter XII. The Wine of Melun.
The king had, in point of fact, entered Melun with the intention of merely passing through the city. The youthful monarch was most eagerly anxious for amusements; only twice during the journey had he been able to catch a glimpse of La Valliere, and, suspecting that his only opportunity of speaking to her would be after nightfall, in the gardens, and after the ceremonial of reception had been gone through, he had been very desirous to arrive at Vaux as early as possible. But he reckoned without his captain of the musketeers, and without M. Colbert. Like Calypso, who could not be consoled at the departure of Ulysses, our Gascon could not console himself for not having guessed why Aramis had asked Percerin to show him the king’s new costumes. “There is not a doubt,” he said to himself, “that my friend the bishop of Vannes had some motive in that;” and then he began to rack his brains most uselessly. D’Artagnan, so intimately acquainted with all the court intrigues, who knew the position of Fouquet better than even Fouquet himself did, had conceived the strangest fancies and suspicions at the announcement of the fete, which would have ruined a wealthy man, and which became impossible, utter madness even, for a man so poor as he was. And then, the presence of Aramis, who had returned from Belle-Isle, and been nominated by Monsieur Fouquet inspector-general of all the arrangements; his perseverance in mixing himself up with all the surintendant’s affairs; his visits to Baisemeaux; all this suspicious singularity of conduct had excessively troubled and tormented D’Artagnan during the last two weeks.
The king had actually entered Melun intending just to pass through the city. The young monarch was very eager for entertainment; he had only caught a glimpse of La Valliere twice during the journey, and suspecting that his only chance to talk to her would be after dark in the gardens, once the reception ceremony was over, he wanted to get to Vaux as early as possible. But he didn’t account for his captain of the musketeers and M. Colbert. Like Calypso, who couldn’t find solace after Ulysses left, our Gascon couldn’t figure out why Aramis had asked Percerin to show him the king’s new outfits. “There’s no doubt,” he thought, “that my friend the bishop of Vannes had some reason for that;” and then he began to overthink it uselessly. D’Artagnan, who was closely familiar with all the court intrigues and understood Fouquet’s situation better than Fouquet himself, had developed the strangest notions and suspicions when he heard about the fete, which could have ruined a wealthy man and was utterly impossible, even crazy, for someone as poor as he was. And then there was Aramis’s presence, having just returned from Belle-Isle and been appointed by Monsieur Fouquet as inspector-general of all the arrangements; his persistence in involving himself in all of the superintendent’s business; his visits to Baisemeaux; all this peculiar behavior had greatly troubled and tormented D’Artagnan for the past two weeks.
“With men of Aramis’s stamp,” he said, “one is never the stronger except sword in hand. So long as Aramis continued a soldier, there was hope of getting the better of him; but since he has covered his cuirass with a stole, we are lost. But what can Aramis’s object possibly be?” And D’Artagnan plunged again into deep thought. “What does it matter to me, after all,” he continued, “if his only object is to overthrow M. Colbert? And what else can he be after?” And D’Artagnan rubbed his forehead—that fertile land, whence the plowshare of his nails had turned up so many and such admirable ideas in his time. He, at first, thought of talking the matter over with Colbert, but his friendship for Aramis, the oath of earlier days, bound him too strictly. He revolted at the bare idea of such a thing, and, besides, he hated the financier too cordially. Then, again, he wished to unburden his mind to the king; but yet the king would not be able to understand the suspicions which had not even a shadow of reality at their base. He resolved to address himself to Aramis, direct, the first time he met him. “I will get him,” said the musketeer, “between a couple of candles, suddenly, and when he least expects it, I will place my hand upon his heart, and he will tell me—What will he tell me? Yes, he will tell me something, for mordioux! there is something in it, I know.”
“With guys like Aramis,” he said, “you can only come out on top if you’re ready to fight. As long as Aramis was still a soldier, there was a chance to outsmart him; but now that he’s swapped his armor for a stole, we’re doomed. But what could Aramis be after?” D’Artagnan fell back into deep thought. “Does it even matter to me if his only goal is to take down M. Colbert? What else could he want?” He rubbed his forehead—his fertile mind, which had produced so many brilliant ideas before. At first, he considered talking things over with Colbert, but his loyalty to Aramis and the oath they took together held him back. The mere thought of that made him cringe, and he really couldn't stand Colbert anyway. Then he thought about confiding in the king, but the king wouldn’t grasp the suspicions that didn’t even have a kernel of truth. He decided to confront Aramis directly the next time they met. “I’ll catch him,” said the musketeer, “between a couple of candles, when he least expects it, and I’ll place my hand on his heart, and he’ll tell me—what will he tell me? Yes, he’ll tell me something, because mordioux! something is definitely going on.”
Somewhat calmer, D’Artagnan made every preparation for the journey, and took the greatest care that the military household of the king, as yet very inconsiderable in numbers, should be well officered and well disciplined in its meager and limited proportions. The result was that, through the captain’s arrangements, the king, on arriving at Melun, saw himself at the head of both the musketeers and Swiss guards, as well as a picket of the French guards. It might almost have been called a small army. M. Colbert looked at the troops with great delight: he even wished they had been a third more in number.
Somewhat calmer, D’Artagnan prepared for the journey and took great care to ensure that the king's military household, still quite small in numbers, was well organized and disciplined despite its limited size. As a result of the captain’s arrangements, when the king arrived in Melun, he found himself at the head of both the musketeers and Swiss guards, along with a small detachment of the French guards. It could almost be considered a small army. M. Colbert looked at the troops with great satisfaction; he even wished they had a third more men.
“But why?” said the king.
"But why?" the king asked.
“In order to show greater honor to M. Fouquet,” replied Colbert.
“To show more respect to M. Fouquet,” Colbert replied.
“In order to ruin him the sooner,” thought D’Artagnan.
“In order to ruin him faster,” thought D’Artagnan.
When this little army appeared before Melun, the chief magistrates came out to meet the king, and to present him with the keys of the city, and invited him to enter the Hotel de Ville, in order to partake of the wine of honor. The king, who expected to pass through the city and to proceed to Vaux without delay, became quite red in the face from vexation.
When this small army showed up outside Melun, the chief officials came out to greet the king, presented him with the keys to the city, and invited him to enter the Town Hall to enjoy some ceremonial wine. The king, who had planned to go straight through the city and head to Vaux without any stops, turned red with irritation.
“Who was fool enough to occasion this delay?” muttered the king, between his teeth, as the chief magistrate was in the middle of a long address.
“Who was stupid enough to cause this delay?” muttered the king, through gritted teeth, as the chief magistrate was delivering a lengthy speech.
“Not I, certainly,” replied D’Artagnan, “but I believe it was M. Colbert.”
“Not me, definitely,” replied D’Artagnan, “but I think it was Mr. Colbert.”
Colbert, having heard his name pronounced, said, “What was M. d’Artagnan good enough to say?”
Colbert, hearing his name mentioned, said, “What did M. d’Artagnan say?”
“I was good enough to remark that it was you who stopped the king’s progress, so that he might taste the vin de Brie. Was I right?”
“I noticed that it was you who held up the king so he could enjoy the vin de Brie. Am I correct?”
“Quite so, monsieur.”
"Exactly, sir."
“In that case, then, it was you whom the king called some name or other.”
“In that case, it was you that the king called some name or another.”
“What name?”
“What’s your name?”
“I hardly know; but wait a moment—idiot, I think it was—no, no, it was fool or dolt. Yes; his majesty said that the man who had thought of the vin de Melun was something of the sort.”
“I hardly know; but wait a moment—idiot, I think it was—no, no, it was fool or dolt. Yes; his majesty said that the man who had thought of the vin de Melun was something like that.”
D’Artagnan, after this broadside, quietly caressed his mustache; M. Colbert’s large head seemed to become larger and larger than ever. D’Artagnan, seeing how ugly anger made him, did not stop half-way. The orator still went on with his speech, while the king’s color was visibly increasing.
D’Artagnan, after this outburst, casually stroked his mustache; M. Colbert’s large head appeared to grow even larger. D’Artagnan, noticing how unattractive anger made him, didn't hold back. The speaker continued with his speech, while the king’s face visibly reddened.
“Mordioux!” said the musketeer, coolly, “the king is going to have an attack of determination of blood to the head. Where the deuce did you get hold of that idea, Monsieur Colbert? You have no luck.”
Mordioux! the musketeer said coolly, “the king is about to have a serious fit of anger. Where on earth did you get that idea, Monsieur Colbert? You have no luck.”
“Monsieur,” said the financier, drawing himself up, “my zeal for the king’s service inspired me with the idea.”
“Mister,” said the financier, straightening up, “my passion for serving the king inspired me with the idea.”
“Bah!”
"Ugh!"
“Monsieur, Melun is a city, an excellent city, which pays well, and which it would be imprudent to displease.”
“Sir, Melun is a city, a great city, that pays well, and it would be unwise to offend it.”
“There, now! I, who do not pretend to be a financier, saw only one idea in your idea.”
“There, see! I, who don’t claim to be a financier, noticed just one concept in your idea.”
“What was that, monsieur?”
"What was that, sir?"
“That of causing a little annoyance to M. Fouquet, who is making himself quite giddy on his donjons yonder, in waiting for us.”
“Just to give M. Fouquet a little annoyance, who's getting a bit dizzy over there in his towers, waiting for us.”
This was a home-stroke, hard enough in all conscience. Colbert was completely thrown out of the saddle by it, and retired, thoroughly discomfited. Fortunately, the speech was now at an end; the king drank the wine which was presented to him, and then every one resumed the progress through the city. The king bit his lips in anger, for the evening was closing in, and all hope of a walk with La Valliere was at an end. In order that the whole of the king’s household should enter Vaux, four hours at least were necessary, owing to the different arrangements. The king, therefore, who was boiling with impatience, hurried forward as much as possible, in order to reach it before nightfall. But, at the moment he was setting off again, other and fresh difficulties arose.
This was a tough blow, enough to shake anyone. Colbert was completely thrown off balance by it and stepped back, thoroughly embarrassed. Luckily, the speech was finally over; the king drank the wine that was offered to him, and then everyone continued their journey through the city. The king bit his lips in frustration, as the evening was approaching, and any chance for a walk with La Valliere was lost. It would take at least four hours for the entire royal household to enter Vaux due to the various arrangements. So, the king, bubbling with impatience, rushed forward as much as he could to get there before dark. But just as he was about to set off again, new and unexpected difficulties came up.
“Is not the king going to sleep at Melun?” said Colbert, in a low tone of voice, to D’Artagnan.
“Isn’t the king going to sleep at Melun?” Colbert said quietly to D’Artagnan.
M. Colbert must have been badly inspired that day, to address himself in that manner to the chief of the musketeers; for the latter guessed that the king’s intention was very far from that of remaining where he was. D’Artagnan would not allow him to enter Vaux except he were well and strongly accompanied; and desired that his majesty would not enter except with all the escort. On the other hand, he felt that these delays would irritate that impatient monarch beyond measure. In what way could he possibly reconcile these difficulties? D’Artagnan took up Colbert’s remark, and determined to repeated it to the king.
M. Colbert must have been really misled that day to speak to the chief of the musketeers like that, because the musketeer suspected that the king didn’t want to stay where he was. D’Artagnan wouldn’t let him enter Vaux unless he was well and strongly accompanied and insisted that the king should only enter with a full escort. On the other hand, he knew that these delays would drive the impatient monarch crazy. How could he possibly resolve these issues? D’Artagnan picked up on Colbert’s comment and decided to repeat it to the king.
“Sire,” he said, “M. Colbert has been asking me if your majesty does not intend to sleep at Melun.”
“Sire,” he said, “M. Colbert has been asking me if Your Majesty plans to sleep in Melun.”
“Sleep at Melun! What for?” exclaimed Louis XIV. “Sleep at Melun! Who, in Heaven’s name, can have thought of such a thing, when M. Fouquet is expecting us this evening?”
“Sleep at Melun! What for?” exclaimed Louis XIV. “Sleep at Melun! Who on Earth could have thought of such a thing when Mr. Fouquet is expecting us this evening?”
“It was simply,” replied Colbert, quickly, “the fear of causing your majesty the least delay; for, according to established etiquette, you cannot enter any place, with the exception of your own royal residences, until the soldiers’ quarters have been marked out by the quartermaster, and the garrison properly distributed.”
“It was just,” Colbert replied quickly, “the fear of causing Your Majesty even the slightest delay; because, according to established protocol, you can’t enter any place, except for your own royal residences, until the quartermaster has marked out the soldiers’ quarters and the garrison has been properly allocated.”
D’Artagnan listened with the greatest attention, biting his mustache to conceal his vexation; and the queens were not less interested. They were fatigued, and would have preferred to go to rest without proceeding any farther; more especially, in order to prevent the king walking about in the evening with M. de Saint-Aignan and the ladies of the court, for, if etiquette required the princesses to remain within their own rooms, the ladies of honor, as soon as they had performed the services required of them, had no restrictions placed upon them, but were at liberty to walk about as they pleased. It will easily be conjectured that all these rival interests, gathering together in vapors, necessarily produced clouds, and that the clouds were likely to be followed by a tempest. The king had no mustache to gnaw, and therefore kept biting the handle of his whip instead, with ill-concealed impatience. How could he get out of it? D’Artagnan looked as agreeable as possible, and Colbert as sulky as he could. Who was there he could get in a passion with?
D’Artagnan listened intently, biting his mustache to hide his annoyance, and the queens were equally intrigued. They were tired and would have preferred to rest instead of continuing; especially to avoid the king wandering around in the evening with M. de Saint-Aignan and the ladies of the court. While the princesses had to stay in their rooms due to etiquette, the ladies-in-waiting had no restrictions once they completed their duties and could freely move about. It’s easy to guess that all these competing interests, building up like steam, were bound to create tension, and that tension was likely to lead to a storm. The king, having no mustache to gnaw on, resorted to biting the handle of his whip in frustration. How could he escape this situation? D’Artagnan looked as friendly as possible, while Colbert looked as grumpy as ever. Who could he take out his anger on?
“We will consult the queen,” said Louis XIV., bowing to the royal ladies. And this kindness of consideration softened Maria Theresa’s heart, who, being of a kind and generous disposition, when left to her own free-will, replied:
“We will consult the queen,” Louis XIV. said, bowing to the royal ladies. This thoughtful gesture warmed Maria Theresa’s heart, and being kind and generous by nature, when given the choice, she replied:
“I shall be delighted to do whatever your majesty wishes.”
“I would be happy to do whatever you want, your majesty.”
“How long will it take us to get to Vaux?” inquired Anne of Austria, in slow and measured accents, placing her hand upon her bosom, where the seat of her pain lay.
“How long will it take us to get to Vaux?” Anne of Austria asked slowly and carefully, resting her hand on her chest, where her discomfort was.
“An hour for your majesty’s carriages,” said D’Artagnan; “the roads are tolerably good.”
“An hour for your majesty’s carriages,” D’Artagnan said; “the roads are pretty good.”
The king looked at him. “And a quarter of an hour for the king,” he hastened to add.
The king looked at him. “And an additional fifteen minutes for the king,” he quickly added.
“We should arrive by daylight?” said Louis XIV.
“We should get there by daylight?” said Louis XIV.
“But the billeting of the king’s military escort,” objected Colbert, softly, “will make his majesty lose all the advantage of his speed, however quick he may be.”
“But the placement of the king's military escort,” Colbert gently protested, “will cause his majesty to lose all the benefit of his speed, no matter how fast he is.”
“Double ass that you are!” thought D’Artagnan; “if I had any interest or motive in demolishing your credit with the king, I could do it in ten minutes. If I were in the king’s place,” he added aloud, “I should, in going to M. Fouquet, leave my escort behind me; I should go to him as a friend; I should enter accompanied only by my captain of the guards; I should consider that I was acting more nobly, and should be invested with a still more sacred character by doing so.”
“Fool that you are!” thought D’Artagnan; “if I wanted to ruin your reputation with the king, I could do it in ten minutes. If I were the king,” he said out loud, “I would leave my escort behind when I went to see M. Fouquet; I would approach him as a friend; I would only take my captain of the guards with me; I would feel like I was acting more nobly, and it would give me an even more honorable status.”
Delight sparkled in the king’s eyes. “That is indeed a very sensible suggestion. We will go to see a friend as friends; the gentlemen who are with the carriages can go slowly: but we who are mounted will ride on.” And he rode off, accompanied by all those who were mounted. Colbert hid his ugly head behind his horse’s neck.
Delight sparkled in the king's eyes. "That’s actually a great suggestion. We'll visit a friend as friends; the guys with the carriages can take their time, but we'll ride on." And he rode off, joined by everyone else who was mounted. Colbert hid his unattractive face behind his horse’s neck.
“I shall be quits,” said D’Artagnan, as he galloped along, “by getting a little talk with Aramis this evening. And then, M. Fouquet is a man of honor. Mordioux! I have said so, and it must be so.”
“I’ll settle this,” said D’Artagnan, as he rode fast, “by having a little chat with Aramis tonight. And then, M. Fouquet is a man of honor. Mordioux! I’ve said it, and it’s true.”
And this was the way how, towards seven o’clock in the evening, without announcing his arrival by the din of trumpets, and without even his advanced guard, without out-riders or musketeers, the king presented himself before the gate of Vaux, where Fouquet, who had been informed of his royal guest’s approach, had been waiting for the last half-hour, with his head uncovered, surrounded by his household and his friends.
And this was how, around seven o’clock in the evening, without announcing his arrival with trumpets, and without even his advance guard, out-riders, or musketeers, the king showed up at the gate of Vaux. Fouquet, who had been informed about his royal guest’s arrival, had been waiting there for the last half-hour, with his head uncovered, surrounded by his household and friends.
Chapter XIII. Nectar and Ambrosia.
M. Fouquet held the stirrup of the king, who, having dismounted, bowed most graciously, and more graciously still held out his hand to him, which Fouquet, in spite of a slight resistance on the king’s part, carried respectfully to his lips. The king wished to wait in the first courtyard for the arrival of the carriages, nor had he long to wait, for the roads had been put into excellent order by the superintendent, and a stone would hardly have been found of the size of an egg the whole way from Melun to Vaux; so that the carriages, rolling along as though on a carpet, brought the ladies to Vaux, without jolting or fatigue, by eight o’clock. They were received by Madame Fouquet, and at the moment they made their appearance, a light as bright as day burst forth from every quarter, trees, vases, and marble statues. This species of enchantment lasted until their majesties had retired into the palace. All these wonders and magical effects which the chronicler has heaped up, or rather embalmed, in his recital, at the risk of rivaling the brain-born scenes of romancers; these splendors whereby night seemed vanquished and nature corrected, together with every delight and luxury combined for the satisfaction of all the senses, as well as the imagination, Fouquet did in real truth offer to his sovereign in that enchanting retreat of which no monarch could at that time boast of possessing an equal. We do not intend to describe the grand banquet, at which the royal guests were present, nor the concerts, nor the fairy-like and more than magic transformations and metamorphoses; it will be enough for our purpose to depict the countenance the king assumed, which, from being gay, soon wore a very gloomy, constrained, and irritated expression. He remembered his own residence, royal though it was, and the mean and indifferent style of luxury that prevailed there, which comprised but little more than what was merely useful for the royal wants, without being his own personal property. The large vases of the Louvre, the older furniture and plate of Henry II., of Francis I., and of Louis XI., were but historic monuments of earlier days; nothing but specimens of art, the relics of his predecessors; while with Fouquet, the value of the article was as much in the workmanship as in the article itself. Fouquet ate from a gold service, which artists in his own employ had modeled and cast for him alone. Fouquet drank wines of which the king of France did not even know the name, and drank them out of goblets each more valuable than the entire royal cellar.
M. Fouquet held the king's stirrup as he dismounted, bowing graciously and extending his hand to Fouquet, who, despite a slight hesitation from the king, brought it respectfully to his lips. The king wanted to wait in the first courtyard for the carriages, and he didn't have to wait long, as the superintendent had done an excellent job on the roads, almost ensuring that not a single stone the size of an egg could be found from Melun to Vaux. The carriages glided along as if on a carpet, bringing the ladies to Vaux, without any jolting or fatigue, by eight o’clock. They were welcomed by Madame Fouquet, and right as they arrived, a light as bright as day burst forth from every direction—trees, vases, and marble statues. This kind of enchantment lasted until the royal guests retreated into the palace. All these wonders and magical effects that the chronicler has detailed, risking the comparison to the fanciful scenes created by novelists; these splendors where night seemed defeated and nature improved, along with every pleasure and luxury combined for the enjoyment of all the senses and the imagination, were truly what Fouquet offered to his sovereign in that charming retreat that no other monarch at the time could claim to match. We won't describe the grand banquet with the royal guests, nor the concerts, nor the fairy-like and more than magical transformations and changes; it suffices for us to note the expression on the king's face, which shifted from cheerful to quite gloomy, forced, and irritated. He recalled his own residence, royal though it was, and the modest and indifferent style of luxury there, which consisted of little more than what was merely necessary for royal needs, without being truly his. The large vases of the Louvre and the older furniture and silverware from Henry II, Francis I, and Louis XI were just historical artifacts; merely artistic relics of his predecessors; while with Fouquet, the worth of the item lay as much in the craftsmanship as in the item itself. Fouquet dined from a gold service crafted specifically for him by artists he employed. He drank wines that the king of France hadn't even heard of, from goblets each more valuable than the entire royal cellar.
What, too, was to be said of the apartments, the hangings, the pictures, the servants and officers, of every description, of his household? What of the mode of service in which etiquette was replaced by order; stiff formality by personal, unrestrained comfort; the happiness and contentment of the guest became the supreme law of all who obeyed the host? The perfect swarm of busily engaged persons moving about noiselessly; the multitude of guests,—who were, however, even less numerous than the servants who waited on them,—the myriad of exquisitely prepared dishes, of gold and silver vases; the floods of dazzling light, the masses of unknown flowers of which the hot-houses had been despoiled, redundant with luxuriance of unequaled scent and beauty; the perfect harmony of the surroundings, which, indeed, was no more than the prelude of the promised fete, charmed all who were there; and they testified their admiration over and over again, not by voice or gesture, but by deep silence and rapt attention, those two languages of the courtier which acknowledge the hand of no master powerful enough to restrain them.
What can be said about the apartments, the decorations, the artwork, the servants and staff of every kind in his household? What about the way things were served, where etiquette was swapped for order, and stiff formality was replaced by personal, relaxed comfort? The happiness and satisfaction of the guest became the ultimate rule for everyone who served the host. A perfect swarm of busy people moved around quietly; the crowd of guests was actually smaller than the number of servants attending to them. There was a multitude of beautifully prepared dishes, gold and silver vases; floods of brilliant light and masses of exotic flowers that had been taken from the greenhouses, overflowing with unmatched fragrance and beauty. The perfect harmony of the surroundings, which was merely the prelude to the upcoming fete, captivated everyone present, and they expressed their admiration repeatedly, not through voice or movement, but through deep silence and rapt attention, the two languages of the courtier that acknowledge no master powerful enough to restrain them.
As for the king, his eyes filled with tears; he dared not look at the queen. Anne of Austria, whose pride was superior to that of any creature breathing, overwhelmed her host by the contempt with which she treated everything handed to her. The young queen, kind-hearted by nature and curious by disposition, praised Fouquet, ate with an exceedingly good appetite, and asked the names of the strange fruits as they were placed upon the table. Fouquet replied that he was not aware of their names. The fruits came from his own stores; he had often cultivated them himself, having an intimate acquaintance with the cultivation of exotic fruits and plants. The king felt and appreciated the delicacy of the replies, but was only the more humiliated; he thought the queen a little too familiar in her manners, and that Anne of Austria resembled Juno a little too much, in being too proud and haughty; his chief anxiety, however, was himself, that he might remain cold and distant in his behavior, bordering lightly the limits of supreme disdain or simple admiration.
As for the king, his eyes filled with tears; he couldn't bring himself to look at the queen. Anne of Austria, whose pride was greater than that of anyone alive, overwhelmed her host with the contempt she showed for everything offered to her. The young queen, naturally kind-hearted and curious by nature, praised Fouquet, ate with a really good appetite, and asked about the names of the strange fruits as they were placed on the table. Fouquet admitted that he didn't know their names. The fruits came from his own collection; he had often grown them himself, being well-versed in cultivating exotic fruits and plants. The king recognized the subtlety of the replies but felt even more humiliated; he thought the queen was a bit too familiar in her manners and that Anne of Austria resembled Juno a bit too much, being too proud and haughty. His main concern, however, was himself, wanting to remain cool and distant in his behavior, walking a fine line between supreme disdain and simple admiration.
But Fouquet had foreseen all this; he was, in fact, one of those men who foresee everything. The king had expressly declared that, so long as he remained under Fouquet’s roof, he did not wish his own different repasts to be served in accordance with the usual etiquette, and that he would, consequently, dine with the rest of society; but by the thoughtful attention of the surintendant, the king’s dinner was served up separately, if one may so express it, in the middle of the general table; the dinner, wonderful in every respect, from the dishes of which was composed, comprised everything the king liked and generally preferred to anything else. Louis had no excuse—he, indeed, who had the keenest appetite in his kingdom—for saying that he was not hungry. Nay, M. Fouquet did even better still; he certainly, in obedience to the king’s expressed desire, seated himself at the table, but as soon as the soups were served, he arose and personally waited on the king, while Madame Fouquet stood behind the queen-mother’s armchair. The disdain of Juno and the sulky fits of temper of Jupiter could not resist this excess of kindly feeling and polite attention. The queen ate a biscuit dipped in a glass of San-Lucar wine; and the king ate of everything, saying to M. Fouquet: “It is impossible, monsieur le surintendant, to dine better anywhere.” Whereupon the whole court began, on all sides, to devour the dishes spread before them with such enthusiasm that it looked as though a cloud of Egyptian locusts was settling down on green and growing crops.
But Fouquet had anticipated all of this; he was, in fact, one of those people who can see everything coming. The king had specifically stated that, as long as he was staying under Fouquet's roof, he didn't want his meals served according to the usual etiquette and that he would, therefore, dine with the rest of the guests; however, through the thoughtful consideration of the surintendant, the king's dinner was served separately, if you can call it that, in the center of the communal table. The meal, incredible in every way, consisted of all the dishes the king liked and generally preferred over all others. Louis had no excuse—he, after all, had the sharpest appetite in his kingdom—for saying he wasn't hungry. Moreover, M. Fouquet did even better; he did indeed sit at the table in deference to the king’s explicit request, but as soon as the soups were served, he stood up and personally attended to the king, while Madame Fouquet stood behind the queen-mother’s chair. The disdain of Juno and the sulky moods of Jupiter couldn't withstand this overwhelming kindness and polite attention. The queen had a biscuit dipped in a glass of San-Lucar wine; and the king enjoyed everything, telling M. Fouquet: “It’s impossible, monsieur le surintendant, to have a better dinner anywhere.” At that, the entire court began to devour the dishes in front of them with such enthusiasm that it looked like a swarm of Egyptian locusts descending on lush, green crops.
As soon, however, as his hunger was appeased, the king became morose and overgloomed again; the more so in proportion to the satisfaction he fancied he had previously manifested, and particularly on account of the deferential manner which his courtiers had shown towards Fouquet. D’Artagnan, who ate a good deal and drank but little, without allowing it to be noticed, did not lose a single opportunity, but made a great number of observations which he turned to good profit.
As soon as his hunger was satisfied, the king grew sullen and gloomy once more; his mood darkened even more based on the satisfaction he thought he had shown earlier, especially because of the respectful way his courtiers had treated Fouquet. D’Artagnan, who ate a lot and drank just a little, while keeping it under wraps, seized every opportunity and made many observations that he turned to his advantage.
When the supper was finished, the king expressed a wish not to lose the promenade. The park was illuminated; the moon, too, as if she had placed herself at the orders of the lord of Vaux, silvered the trees and lake with her own bright and quasi-phosphorescent light. The air was strangely soft and balmy; the daintily shell-gravelled walks through the thickly set avenues yielded luxuriously to the feet. The fete was complete in every respect, for the king, having met La Valliere in one of the winding paths of the wood, was able to press her hand and say, “I love you,” without any one overhearing him except M. d’Artagnan, who followed, and M. Fouquet, who preceded him.
When dinner was over, the king expressed a desire not to miss the walk. The park was lit up; the moon, as if she had decided to serve the lord of Vaux, cast her bright and almost glowing light over the trees and the lake. The air felt strangely soft and warm; the finely gravelled paths through the densely planted avenues welcomed the feet comfortably. The celebration was perfect in every way, as the king, having encountered La Valliere in one of the winding paths of the woods, was able to hold her hand and say, “I love you,” without anyone else hearing him except M. d’Artagnan, who was following, and M. Fouquet, who was ahead of him.
The dreamy night of magical enchantments stole smoothly on. The king having requested to be shown to his room, there was immediately a movement in every direction. The queens passed to their own apartments, accompanied by them music of theorbos and lutes; the king found his musketeers awaiting him on the grand flight of steps, for M. Fouquet had brought them on from Melun and had invited them to supper. D’Artagnan’s suspicions at once disappeared. He was weary, he had supped well, and wished, for once in his life, thoroughly to enjoy a fete given by a man who was in every sense of the word a king. “M. Fouquet,” he said, “is the man for me.”
The enchanting night unfolded smoothly. The king, having asked to be shown to his room, prompted immediate activity all around. The queens made their way to their own quarters, accompanied by the music of theorbos and lutes. The king discovered his musketeers waiting for him on the grand staircase, as M. Fouquet had brought them from Melun and invited them to dinner. D’Artagnan’s suspicions faded away. He was tired, had enjoyed a good meal, and wanted, for once in his life, to fully enjoy a celebration hosted by a man who truly was a king. “M. Fouquet,” he said, “is exactly the kind of person I like.”
The king was conducted with the greatest ceremony to the chamber of Morpheus, of which we owe some cursory description to our readers. It was the handsomest and largest in the palace. Lebrun had painted on the vaulted ceiling the happy as well as the unhappy dreams which Morpheus inflicts on kings as well as on other men. Everything that sleep gives birth to that is lovely, its fairy scenes, its flowers and nectar, the wild voluptuousness or profound repose of the senses, had the painter elaborated on his frescoes. It was a composition as soft and pleasing in one part as dark and gloomy and terrible in another. The poisoned chalice, the glittering dagger suspended over the head of the sleeper; wizards and phantoms with terrific masks, those half-dim shadows more alarming than the approach of fire or the somber face of midnight, these, and such as these, he had made the companions of his more pleasing pictures. No sooner had the king entered his room than a cold shiver seemed to pass through him, and on Fouquet asking him the cause of it, the king replied, as pale as death:
The king was taken with great ceremony to Morpheus’s chamber, which we should briefly describe for our readers. It was the most beautiful and largest room in the palace. Lebrun had painted on the vaulted ceiling both the joyful and painful dreams that Morpheus brings to kings and ordinary people alike. Everything that sleep creates that is lovely—its fairy scenes, flowers, and nectar, as well as the wild pleasure or deep calm of the senses—was captured by the painter in his frescoes. The artwork was a mix of soft and pleasing scenes alongside dark, gloomy, and terrifying ones. The poisoned chalice, the glittering dagger hanging above the sleeper’s head, wizards and phantoms with frightening masks, and those dim shadows more frightening than fire or the dark of night; these were made companions to his more beautiful images. As soon as the king entered his room, a cold shiver seemed to pass through him, and when Fouquet asked him what was wrong, the king replied, pale as death:
“I am sleepy, that is all.”
“I’m just tired, that’s all.”
“Does your majesty wish for your attendants at once?”
“Do you want your attendants right away, your majesty?”
“No; I have to talk with a few persons first,” said the king. “Will you have the goodness to tell M. Colbert I wish to see him.”
“No; I need to talk to a few people first,” said the king. “Could you please let M. Colbert know that I want to see him?”
Fouquet bowed and left the room.
Fouquet bowed and exited the room.
Chapter XIV. A Gascon, and a Gascon and a Half.
D’Artagnan had determined to lose no time, and in fact he never was in the habit of doing so. After having inquired for Aramis, he had looked for him in every direction until he had succeeded in finding him. Besides, no sooner had the king entered Vaux, than Aramis had retired to his own room, meditating, doubtless, some new piece of gallant attention for his majesty’s amusement. D’Artagnan desired the servants to announce him, and found on the second story (in a beautiful room called the Blue Chamber, on account of the color of its hangings) the bishop of Vannes in company with Porthos and several of the modern Epicureans. Aramis came forward to embrace his friend, and offered him the best seat. As it was after awhile generally remarked among those present that the musketeer was reserved, and wished for an opportunity for conversing secretly with Aramis, the Epicureans took their leave. Porthos, however, did not stir; for true it is that, having dined exceedingly well, he was fast asleep in his armchair; and the freedom of conversation therefore was not interrupted by a third person. Porthos had a deep, harmonious snore, and people might talk in the midst of its loud bass without fear of disturbing him. D’Artagnan felt that he was called upon to open the conversation.
D’Artagnan was determined to waste no time, and he wasn’t one to do so anyway. After asking about Aramis, he searched everywhere until he finally found him. Moreover, as soon as the king arrived at Vaux, Aramis had retreated to his own room, likely thinking about some new way to entertain the king. D’Artagnan asked the servants to announce him and discovered on the second floor (in a lovely room known as the Blue Chamber due to its blue drapes) the bishop of Vannes, along with Porthos and several modern Epicureans. Aramis stepped forward to hug his friend and offered him the best seat. It was soon noted among those present that the musketeer seemed reserved and wanted a chance to talk privately with Aramis, so the Epicureans decided to leave. Porthos, however, didn’t budge; after having a really good dinner, he was fast asleep in his armchair, which meant their conversation wouldn’t be interrupted by a third person. Porthos had a deep, rich snore, and people could chat amid its loud bass without worrying about waking him. D’Artagnan felt it was time to start the conversation.
“Well, and so we have come to Vaux,” he said.
“Well, we’ve arrived at Vaux,” he said.
“Why, yes, D’Artagnan. And how do you like the place?”
“Of course, D’Artagnan. What do you think of the place?”
“Very much, and I like M. Fouquet, also.”
“Absolutely, and I like M. Fouquet too.”
“Is he not a charming host?”
"Isn't he a great host?"
“No one could be more so.”
“No one could be more so.”
“I am told that the king began by showing great distance of manner towards M. Fouquet, but that his majesty grew much more cordial afterwards.”
“I’ve heard that the king initially acted very distant towards M. Fouquet, but that he became much friendlier later on.”
“You did not notice it, then, since you say you have been told so?”
“You didn't notice it, then, since you say you've been told that?”
“No; I was engaged with the gentlemen who have just left the room about the theatrical performances and the tournaments which are to take place to-morrow.”
“No; I was talking with the gentlemen who just left the room about the theater shows and the tournaments that are happening tomorrow.”
“Ah, indeed! you are the comptroller-general of the fetes here, then?”
“Ah, really! So you’re the general manager of the fetes here, right?”
“You know I am a friend of all kinds of amusement where the exercise of the imagination is called into activity; I have always been a poet in one way or another.”
"You know I'm a fan of all sorts of entertainment that gets the imagination going; I've always been a poet in one way or another."
“Yes, I remember the verses you used to write, they were charming.”
“Yes, I remember the poems you used to write; they were lovely.”
“I have forgotten them, but I am delighted to read the verses of others, when those others are known by the names of Moliere, Pelisson, La Fontaine, etc.”
"I may have forgotten them, but I enjoy reading the verses of others, especially when those others go by names like Molière, Pellisson, La Fontaine, and so on."
“Do you know what idea occurred to me this evening, Aramis?”
“Do you know what thought came to me this evening, Aramis?”
“No; tell me what it was, for I should never be able to guess it, you have so many.”
“No; just tell me what it was, because I could never guess it. You have too many.”
“Well, the idea occurred to me, that the true king of France is not Louis XIV.”
“Well, it occurred to me that the true king of France isn’t Louis XIV.”
“What!” said Aramis, involuntarily, looking the musketeer full in the eyes.
“What!” Aramis exclaimed, unable to help himself, looking the musketeer directly in the eyes.
“No, it is Monsieur Fouquet.”
“No, it’s Mr. Fouquet.”
Aramis breathed again, and smiled. “Ah! you are like all the rest, jealous,” he said. “I would wager that it was M. Colbert who turned that pretty phrase.” D’Artagnan, in order to throw Aramis off his guard, related Colbert’s misadventures with regard to the vin de Melun.
Aramis took a breath and smiled. “Ah! You’re just like everyone else, jealous,” he said. “I bet it was M. Colbert who created that charming phrase.” D’Artagnan, trying to catch Aramis off guard, shared Colbert’s mishaps concerning the vin de Melun.
“He comes of a mean race, does Colbert,” said Aramis.
“He comes from a lowly background, does Colbert,” said Aramis.
“Quite true.”
"Totally true."
“When I think, too,” added the bishop, “that that fellow will be your minister within four months, and that you will serve him as blindly as you did Richelieu or Mazarin—”
“When I think, too,” added the bishop, “that guy will be your minister in just four months, and you’ll follow him as blindly as you did Richelieu or Mazarin—”
“And as you serve M. Fouquet,” said D’Artagnan.
“And as you serve Mr. Fouquet,” said D’Artagnan.
“With this difference, though, that M. Fouquet is not M. Colbert.”
“With this difference, though, that Mr. Fouquet is not Mr. Colbert.”
“True, true,” said D’Artagnan, as he pretended to become sad and full of reflection; and then, a moment after, he added, “Why do you tell me that M. Colbert will be minister in four months?”
“Yeah, yeah,” D’Artagnan said, acting like he was getting sad and deep in thought; then, a moment later, he added, “Why do you say that M. Colbert will be minister in four months?”
“Because M. Fouquet will have ceased to be so,” replied Aramis.
"Because M. Fouquet will no longer be that way," replied Aramis.
“He will be ruined, you mean?” said D’Artagnan.
“He’s going to be ruined, you mean?” said D’Artagnan.
“Completely so.”
"Totally agree."
“Why does he give these fetes, then?” said the musketeer, in a tone so full of thoughtful consideration, and so well assumed, that the bishop was for the moment deceived by it. “Why did you not dissuade him from it?”
“Why does he throw these fetes, then?” the musketeer asked, his tone filled with deep thought and so convincing that the bishop was momentarily fooled by it. “Why didn’t you talk him out of it?”
The latter part of the phrase was just a little too much, and Aramis’s former suspicions were again aroused. “It is done with the object of humoring the king.”
The latter part of the phrase was just a bit too much, and Aramis's earlier suspicions were stirred up again. "It's done to please the king."
“By ruining himself?”
“By sabotaging himself?”
“Yes, by ruining himself for the king.”
“Yes, by destroying himself for the king.”
“A most eccentric, one might say, sinister calculation, that.”
"That’s a pretty strange, not to mention unsettling, calculation."
“Necessity, necessity, my friend.”
"Need, need, my friend."
“I don’t see that, dear Aramis.”
“I don’t see that, dear Aramis.”
“Do you not? Have you not remarked M. Colbert’s daily increasing antagonism, and that he is doing his utmost to drive the king to get rid of the superintendent?”
“Don’t you? Haven’t you noticed M. Colbert’s growing opposition and that he’s doing everything he can to push the king to remove the superintendent?”
“One must be blind not to see it.”
"One has to be blind not to see it."
“And that a cabal is already armed against M. Fouquet?”
“And that a group is already gathered against M. Fouquet?”
“That is well known.”
"That's well known."
“What likelihood is there that the king would join a party formed against a man who will have spent everything he had to please him?”
“What are the chances that the king would join a group formed against a man who has given everything he had to make him happy?”
“True, true,” said D’Artagnan, slowly, hardly convinced, yet curious to broach another phase of the conversation. “There are follies, and follies,” he resumed, “and I do not like those you are committing.”
“True, true,” said D’Artagnan, slowly, barely convinced, but curious to bring up another part of the conversation. “There are foolish things, and foolish things,” he continued, “and I don’t like the ones you’re making.”
“What do you allude to?”
"What are you referring to?"
“As for the banquet, the ball, the concert, the theatricals, the tournaments, the cascades, the fireworks, the illuminations, and the presents—these are well and good, I grant; but why were not these expenses sufficient? Why was it necessary to have new liveries and costumes for your whole household?”
“As for the banquet, the ball, the concert, the shows, the tournaments, the fountains, the fireworks, the lights, and the gifts—these are all nice, I admit; but why weren’t these expenses enough? Why did you need new uniforms and outfits for everyone in your household?”
“You are quite right. I told M. Fouquet that myself; he replied, that if he were rich enough he would offer the king a newly erected chateau, from the vanes at the houses to the very sub-cellars; completely new inside and out; and that, as soon as the king had left, he would burn the whole building and its contents, in order that it might not be made use of by any one else.”
“You're absolutely right. I told M. Fouquet that myself; he replied that if he were rich enough, he would offer the king a brand-new château, from the weather vanes on the rooftops to the sub-cellars; completely new inside and out; and that as soon as the king left, he would burn the entire building and its contents so that no one else could use it.”
“How completely Spanish!”
“So very Spanish!”
“I told him so, and he then added this: ‘Whoever advises me to spare expense, I shall look upon as my enemy.’”
“I told him that, and he then added this: ‘Anyone who advises me to cut costs will be seen as my enemy.’”
“It is positive madness; and that portrait, too!”
“It’s complete madness; and that portrait, too!”
“What portrait?” said Aramis.
"What portrait?" Aramis asked.
“That of the king, and the surprise as well.”
“That of the king, and the surprise too.”
“What surprise?”
“What surprise is this?”
“The surprise you seem to have in view, and on account of which you took some specimens away, when I met you at Percerin’s.” D’Artagnan paused. The shaft was discharged, and all he had to do was to wait and watch its effect.
“The surprise you seem to have in mind, and for which you took some samples, when I ran into you at Percerin’s.” D’Artagnan paused. The arrow was released, and all he had to do was wait and see the outcome.
“That is merely an act of graceful attention,” replied Aramis.
"That's just a display of charming consideration," replied Aramis.
D’Artagnan went up to his friend, took hold of both his hands, and looking him full in the eyes, said, “Aramis, do you still care for me a very little?”
D’Artagnan approached his friend, grabbed both of his hands, and looking him straight in the eyes, said, “Aramis, do you still care about me even a little?”
“What a question to ask!”
“What a question!”
“Very good. One favor, then. Why did you take some patterns of the king’s costumes at Percerin’s?”
“Sure, I have one request. Why did you take some designs of the king’s outfits at Percerin’s?”
“Come with me and ask poor Lebrun, who has been working upon them for the last two days and nights.”
“Come with me and ask poor Lebrun, who has been working on them for the last two days and nights.”
“Aramis, that may be truth for everybody else, but for me—”
“Aramis, that might be true for everyone else, but for me—”
“Upon my word, D’Artagnan, you astonish me.”
"Honestly, D’Artagnan, you amaze me."
“Be a little considerate. Tell me the exact truth; you would not like anything disagreeable to happen to me, would you?”
“Be a bit thoughtful. Just tell me the honest truth; you wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to me, would you?”
“My dear friend, you are becoming quite incomprehensible. What suspicion can you have possibly got hold of?”
“My dear friend, you’re becoming quite confusing. What suspicion could you possibly have?”
“Do you believe in my instinctive feelings? Formerly you used to have faith in them. Well, then, an instinct tells me that you have some concealed project on foot.”
“Do you believe in my gut feelings? You used to trust them. Well, something tells me you have a hidden plan going on.”
“I—a project?”
“I—a project?”
“I am convinced of it.”
"I’m sure of it."
“What nonsense!”
"That's ridiculous!"
“I am not only sure of it, but I would even swear it.”
“I’m not just sure of it, I’d swear by it.”
“Indeed, D’Artagnan, you cause me the greatest pain. Is it likely, if I have any project in hand that I ought to keep secret from you, I should tell you about it? If I had one that I could and ought to have revealed, should I not have long ago divulged it?”
“Honestly, D’Artagnan, you give me the most pain. Do you really think that if I have something I need to keep secret from you, I would share it? If I had something I could and should have told you, wouldn’t I have done that a long time ago?”
“No, Aramis, no. There are certain projects which are never revealed until the favorable opportunity arrives.”
“No, Aramis, no. There are certain plans that are never shared until the right moment comes.”
“In that case, my dear fellow,” returned the bishop, laughing, “the only thing now is, that the ‘opportunity’ has not yet arrived.”
“In that case, my dear friend,” replied the bishop, laughing, “the only thing left is that the ‘opportunity’ hasn’t come yet.”
D’Artagnan shook his head with a sorrowful expression. “Oh, friendship, friendship!” he said, “what an idle word you are! Here is a man who, if I were but to ask it, would suffer himself to be cut in pieces for my sake.”
D’Artagnan shook his head with a sad look. “Oh, friendship, friendship!” he said, “what a meaningless word you are! Here is a man who, if I were just to ask, would let himself be torn apart for me.”
“You are right,” said Aramis, nobly.
"You’re right," Aramis said, proudly.
“And this man, who would shed every drop of blood in his veins for me, will not open up before me the least corner in his heart. Friendship, I repeat, is nothing but an unsubstantial shadow—a lure, like everything else in this bright, dazzling world.”
“And this man, who would give every drop of blood in his veins for me, won’t reveal even the slightest part of his heart to me. Friendship, I'm saying again, is just an insubstantial shadow—a temptation, like everything else in this bright, dazzling world.”
“It is not thus you should speak of our friendship,” replied the bishop, in a firm, assured voice; “for ours is not of the same nature as those of which you have been speaking.”
“It’s not how you should talk about our friendship,” the bishop replied confidently; “because ours isn’t like the ones you’ve been talking about.”
“Look at us, Aramis; three out of the old ‘four.’ You are deceiving me; I suspect you; and Porthos is fast asleep. An admirable trio of friends, don’t you think so? What an affecting relic of the former dear old times!”
“Look at us, Aramis; three out of the old ‘four.’ You’re fooling me; I’m onto you; and Porthos is fast asleep. Quite a remarkable trio of friends, wouldn’t you agree? What a touching reminder of the good old days!”
“I can only tell you one thing, D’Artagnan, and I swear it on the Bible: I love you just as I used to do. If I ever suspect you, it is on account of others, and not on account of either of us. In everything I may do, and should happen to succeed in, you will find your fourth. Will you promise me the same favor?”
“I can only tell you one thing, D’Artagnan, and I swear it on the Bible: I love you just like I always have. If I ever doubt you, it’s because of others, not because of us. In everything I do, and if I happen to succeed, you will find your share. Will you promise me the same in return?”
“If I am not mistaken, Aramis, your words—at the moment you pronounce them—are full of generous feeling.”
“If I’m not mistaken, Aramis, your words—when you say them—are full of good intentions.”
“Such a thing is very possible.”
“Such a thing is very possible.”
“You are conspiring against M. Colbert. If that be all, mordioux, tell me so at once. I have the instrument in my own hand, and will pull out the tooth easily enough.”
"You are plotting against M. Colbert. If that's all, mordioux, just tell me right away. I have the tool in my own hand, and I'll remove the tooth easily enough."
Aramis could not conceal a smile of disdain that flitted over his haughty features. “And supposing that I were conspiring against Colbert, what harm would there be in that?”
Aramis couldn't hide a disdainful smile that crossed his proud face. “And what if I were plotting against Colbert? What would be so wrong with that?”
“No, no; that would be too trifling a matter for you to take in hand, and it was not on that account you asked Percerin for those patterns of the king’s costumes. Oh! Aramis, we are not enemies, remember—we are brothers. Tell me what you wish to undertake, and, upon the word of a D’Artagnan, if I cannot help you, I will swear to remain neuter.”
“No, no; that would be too trivial a matter for you to handle, and that’s not why you asked Percerin for those patterns of the king’s costumes. Oh! Aramis, we’re not enemies, remember—we’re brothers. Tell me what you want to do, and, on my word as a D’Artagnan, if I can’t help you, I swear I’ll stay neutral.”
“I am undertaking nothing,” said Aramis.
“I’m not doing anything,” said Aramis.
“Aramis, a voice within me speaks and seems to trickle forth a rill of light within my darkness: it is a voice that has never yet deceived me. It is the king you are conspiring against.”
“Aramis, a voice inside me speaks and seems to flow like a stream of light in my darkness: it’s a voice that has never misled me. It’s the king you’re plotting against.”
“The king?” exclaimed the bishop, pretending to be annoyed.
“The king?” the bishop exclaimed, feigning annoyance.
“Your face will not convince me; the king, I repeat.”
“Your face won't change my mind; the king, I say again.”
“Will you help me?” said Aramis, smiling ironically.
“Will you help me?” Aramis said with an ironic smile.
“Aramis, I will do more than help you—I will do more than remain neuter—I will save you.”
“Aramis, I’ll do more than just help you—I won’t just stay neutral—I’ll save you.”
“You are mad, D’Artagnan.”
"You’re crazy, D’Artagnan."
“I am the wiser of the two, in this matter.”
“I know more about this than you do.”
“You to suspect me of wishing to assassinate the king!”
"You suspect me of wanting to assassinate the king!"
“Who spoke of such a thing?” smiled the musketeer.
“Who talked about that?” smiled the musketeer.
“Well, let us understand one another. I do not see what any one can do to a legitimate king as ours is, if he does not assassinate him.” D’Artagnan did not say a word. “Besides, you have your guards and your musketeers here,” said the bishop.
“Well, let's come to an understanding. I don’t see what anyone could do to a legitimate king like ours unless they were to assassinate him.” D’Artagnan remained silent. “Besides, you have your guards and your musketeers here,” the bishop added.
“True.”
"True."
“You are not in M. Fouquet’s house, but in your own.”
“You're not at M. Fouquet's place; you're at your own.”
“True; but in spite of that, Aramis, grant me, for pity’s sake, one single word of a true friend.”
“True; but even so, Aramis, please, for the sake of compassion, give me just one word from a true friend.”
“A true friend’s word is ever truth itself. If I think of touching, even with my finger, the son of Anne of Austria, the true king of this realm of France—if I have not the firm intention of prostrating myself before his throne—if in every idea I may entertain to-morrow, here at Vaux, will not be the most glorious day my king ever enjoyed—may Heaven’s lightning blast me where I stand!” Aramis had pronounced these words with his face turned towards the alcove of his own bedroom, where D’Artagnan, seated with his back towards the alcove, could not suspect that any one was lying concealed. The earnestness of his words, the studied slowness with which he pronounced them, the solemnity of his oath, gave the musketeer the most complete satisfaction. He took hold of both Aramis’s hands, and shook them cordially. Aramis had endured reproaches without turning pale, and had blushed as he listened to words of praise. D’Artagnan, deceived, did him honor; but D’Artagnan, trustful and reliant, made him feel ashamed. “Are you going away?” he said, as he embraced him, in order to conceal the flush on his face.
“A true friend’s word is always the truth itself. If I even think about touching, even with my finger, the son of Anne of Austria, the true king of this realm of France—if I don’t have the firm intention of bowing down before his throne—if in every thought I might have tomorrow, here at Vaux, it’s not going to be the most glorious day my king has ever known—may Heaven’s lightning strike me where I stand!” Aramis said these words while facing the alcove of his bedroom, where D’Artagnan, sitting with his back to the alcove, couldn’t suspect that anyone was hidden. The seriousness of his words, the careful slowness with which he spoke, and the solemnity of his oath gave the musketeer complete satisfaction. He took hold of both Aramis’s hands and shook them warmly. Aramis had taken reproaches without turning pale and had blushed when he heard words of praise. D’Artagnan, misled, honored him; but D’Artagnan, trusting and dependable, made him feel ashamed. “Are you leaving?” he asked as he embraced him, trying to hide the flush on his face.
“Yes. Duty summons me. I have to get the watch-word. It seems I am to be lodged in the king’s ante-room. Where does Porthos sleep?”
“Yeah. Duty calls me. I need to get the password. It looks like I'm going to be staying in the king’s anteroom. Where does Porthos sleep?”
“Take him away with you, if you like, for he rumbles through his sleepy nose like a park of artillery.”
“Take him with you if you want, because he snores through his nose like a thunderous cannon.”
“Ah! he does not stay with you, then?” said D’Artagnan.
“Ah! He’s not staying with you, then?” said D’Artagnan.
“Not the least in the world. He has a chamber to himself, but I don’t know where.”
“Not at all in the world. He has a room to himself, but I don’t know where it is.”
“Very good!” said the musketeer; from whom this separation of the two associates removed his last suspicion, and he touched Porthos lightly on the shoulder; the latter replied by a loud yawn. “Come,” said D’Artagnan.
“Very good!” said the musketeer; this separation of the two friends cleared up any doubts he had, and he tapped Porthos lightly on the shoulder. Porthos responded with a loud yawn. “Come on,” said D’Artagnan.
“What, D’Artagnan, my dear fellow, is that you? What a lucky chance! Oh, yes—true; I have forgotten; I am at the fete at Vaux.”
“What, D’Artagnan, my dear friend, is that you? What a lucky coincidence! Oh, right—I forgot; I’m at the fete at Vaux.”
“Yes; and your beautiful dress, too.”
“Yes, and your beautiful dress, too.”
“Yes, it was very attentive on the part of Monsieur Coquelin de Voliere, was it not?”
“Yes, it was very thoughtful of Monsieur Coquelin de Voliere, wasn’t it?”
“Hush!” said Aramis. “You are walking so heavily you will make the flooring give way.”
“Hush!” said Aramis. “You’re walking so heavily you’re going to mess up the flooring.”
“True,” said the musketeer; “this room is above the dome, I think.”
“True,” said the musketeer; “I believe this room is above the dome.”
“And I did not choose it for a fencing-room, I assure you,” added the bishop. “The ceiling of the king’s room has all the lightness and calm of wholesome sleep. Do not forget, therefore, that my flooring is merely the covering of his ceiling. Good night, my friends, and in ten minutes I shall be asleep myself.” And Aramis accompanied them to the door, laughing quietly all the while. As soon as they were outside, he bolted the door, hurriedly; closed up the chinks of the windows, and then called out, “Monseigneur!—monseigneur!” Philippe made his appearance from the alcove, as he pushed aside a sliding panel placed behind the bed.
“And I didn't choose it for a fencing room, I promise you,” the bishop added. “The ceiling of the king’s room has all the lightness and calm of a good night’s sleep. So, don’t forget that my floor is just the cover of his ceiling. Good night, my friends, and in ten minutes, I’ll be asleep myself.” Aramis laughed quietly as he walked them to the door. Once they were outside, he quickly bolted the door, sealed up the gaps in the windows, and then called out, “Monseigneur!—monseigneur!” Philippe appeared from the alcove, pushing aside a sliding panel hidden behind the bed.
“M. d’Artagnan entertains a great many suspicions, it seems,” he said.
“M. d’Artagnan seems to have a lot of suspicions,” he said.
“Ah!—you recognized M. d’Artagnan, then?”
“Ah!—you recognized d’Artagnan, then?”
“Before you called him by his name, even.”
“Before you even called him by his name.”
“He is your captain of musketeers.”
"He's your musketeers' captain."
“He is very devoted to me,” replied Philippe, laying a stress upon the personal pronoun.
“He is really devoted to me,” replied Philippe, emphasizing the personal pronoun.
“As faithful as a dog; but he bites sometimes. If D’Artagnan does not recognize you before the other has disappeared, rely upon D’Artagnan to the end of the world; for in that case, if he has seen nothing, he will keep his fidelity. If he sees, when it is too late, he is a Gascon, and will never admit that he has been deceived.”
“As loyal as a dog; but he bites sometimes. If D’Artagnan doesn’t recognize you before the other has vanished, you can count on D’Artagnan to the ends of the earth; because in that case, if he hasn’t seen anything, he will remain faithful. If he sees it when it’s too late, he’s a Gascon and will never admit that he’s been tricked.”
“I thought so. What are we to do, now?”
“I thought so. What are we supposed to do now?”
“Sit in this folding-chair. I am going to push aside a portion of the flooring; you will look through the opening, which answers to one of the false windows made in the dome of the king’s apartment. Can you see?”
“Sit in this folding chair. I’m going to move aside part of the floor; you’ll look through the opening, which corresponds to one of the fake windows in the dome of the king’s apartment. Can you see?”
“Yes,” said Philippe, starting as at the sight of an enemy; “I see the king!”
“Yes,” said Philippe, jumping like he just spotted an enemy; “I see the king!”
“What is he doing?”
“What’s he doing?”
“He seems to wish some man to sit down close to him.”
“He seems to want someone to sit down next to him.”
“M. Fouquet?”
“Mr. Fouquet?”
“No, no; wait a moment—”
"Wait a sec—"
“Look at the notes and the portraits, my prince.”
“Check out the notes and the portraits, my prince.”
“The man whom the king wishes to sit down in his presence is M. Colbert.”
“The man that the king wants to have sit down in his presence is M. Colbert.”
“Colbert sit down in the king’s presence!” exclaimed Aramis. “It is impossible.”
“Colbert, sit down in the king’s presence!” exclaimed Aramis. “It’s not possible.”
“Look.”
"Check it out."
Aramis looked through the opening in the flooring. “Yes,” he said. “Colbert himself. Oh, monseigneur! what can we be going to hear—and what can result from this intimacy?”
Aramis peered through the gap in the floor. “Yes,” he said. “Colbert himself. Oh, my lord! What are we about to hear—and what could come from this closeness?”
“Nothing good for M. Fouquet, at all events.”
"Nothing good for M. Fouquet, anyway."
The prince did not deceive himself.
The prince was honest with himself.
We have seen that Louis XIV. had sent for Colbert, and Colbert had arrived. The conversation began between them by the king according to him one of the highest favors that he had ever done; it was true the king was alone with his subject. “Colbert,” said he, “sit down.”
We saw that Louis XIV had called for Colbert, and Colbert had arrived. Their conversation started with the king granting him one of the highest favors he had ever given; it was true the king was alone with his subject. “Colbert,” he said, “sit down.”
The intendant, overcome with delight, for he feared he was about to be dismissed, refused this unprecedented honor.
The intendant, filled with joy because he thought he was about to be let go, declined this extraordinary honor.
“Does he accept?” said Aramis.
“Is he in?” said Aramis.
“No, he remains standing.”
“No, he’s still standing.”
“Let us listen, then.” And the future king and the future pope listened eagerly to the simple mortals they held under their feet, ready to crush them when they liked.
“Let’s listen, then.” And the future king and the future pope listened eagerly to the ordinary people they held beneath them, ready to crush them whenever they wanted.
“Colbert,” said the king, “you have annoyed me exceedingly to-day.”
“Colbert,” the king said, “you've really annoyed me today.”
“I know it, sire.”
"I know it, Your Majesty."
“Very good; I like that answer. Yes, you knew it, and there was courage in the doing of it.”
“Very good; I like that answer. Yes, you knew it, and it took courage to do it.”
“I ran the risk of displeasing your majesty, but I risked, also, the concealment of your best interests.”
“I risked upsetting you, but I also risked hiding what’s best for you.”
“What! you were afraid of something on my account?”
“What! You were worried about something because of me?”
“I was, sire, even if it were nothing more than an indigestion,” said Colbert; “for people do not give their sovereigns such banquets as the one of to-day, unless it be to stifle them beneath the burden of good living.” Colbert awaited the effect this coarse jest would produce upon the king; and Louis XIV., who was the vainest and the most fastidiously delicate man in his kingdom, forgave Colbert the joke.
“I was, sir, even if it was just an upset stomach,” said Colbert; “because people don’t throw their rulers lavish banquets like today’s unless it’s to overwhelm them with excess.” Colbert waited to see how this blunt joke would land with the king, and Louis XIV., who was the most vain and finicky man in his realm, forgave Colbert for the joke.
“The truth is,” he said, “that M. Fouquet has given me too good a meal. Tell me, Colbert, where does he get all the money required for this enormous expenditure,—can you tell?”
“The truth is,” he said, “that M. Fouquet has treated me to an incredible meal. Tell me, Colbert, where does he get all the money for this massive spending—can you tell?”
“Yes, I do know, sire.”
"Yes, I know, sir."
“Will you be able to prove it with tolerable certainty?”
“Are you able to prove it with reasonable certainty?”
“Easily; and to the utmost farthing.”
“Easily; and to the very last penny.”
“I know you are very exact.”
"I know you're very detail-oriented."
“Exactitude is the principal qualification required in an intendant of finances.”
“Accuracy is the main quality needed in a finance manager.”
“But all are not so.”
“But not everyone is like that.”
“I thank you majesty for so flattering a compliment from your own lips.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty, for such a flattering compliment coming from you.”
“M. Fouquet, therefore, is rich—very rich, and I suppose every man knows he is so.”
“M. Fouquet is rich—very rich, and I guess everyone knows it.”
“Every one, sire; the living as well as the dead.”
“Everyone, sir; both the living and the dead.”
“What does that mean, Monsieur Colbert?”
“What does that mean, Mr. Colbert?”
“The living are witnesses of M. Fouquet’s wealth,—they admire and applaud the result produced; but the dead, wiser and better informed than we are, know how that wealth was obtained—and they rise up in accusation.”
“The living see M. Fouquet’s wealth and admire and applaud the outcome; but the dead, wiser and better informed than us, know how that wealth was acquired—and they rise up in accusation.”
“So that M. Fouquet owes his wealth to some cause or other.”
“So M. Fouquet’s wealth comes from some reason or another.”
“The occupation of an intendant very often favors those who practice it.”
“The role of an intendant often benefits those who take it on.”
“You have something to say to me more confidentially, I perceive; do not be afraid, we are quite alone.”
“You have something to tell me privately, I can see that; don’t worry, we’re completely alone.”
“I am never afraid of anything under the shelter of my own conscience, and under the protection of your majesty,” said Colbert, bowing.
“I’m never afraid of anything when I have my own conscience to guide me, and with your majesty’s protection,” said Colbert, bowing.
“If the dead, therefore, were to speak—”
"If the dead could speak—"
“They do speak sometimes, sire,—read.”
"They do talk sometimes, sire,—read."
“Ah!” murmured Aramis, in the prince’s ear, who, close beside him, listened without losing a syllable, “since you are placed here, monseigneur, in order to learn your vocation of a king, listen to a piece of infamy—of a nature truly royal. You are about to be a witness of one of those scenes which the foul fiend alone conceives and executes. Listen attentively,—you will find your advantage in it.”
“Ah!” Aramis whispered to the prince next to him, who was listening intently, “Now that you’re in this position, my lord, to learn what it means to be a king, pay attention to something truly disgusting—something that’s fit for royalty. You’re about to witness one of those scenes that only a wicked devil could come up with and carry out. Listen closely—you’ll benefit from it.”
The prince redoubled his attention, and saw Louis XIV. take from Colbert’s hands a letter the latter held out to him.
The prince focused even harder and saw Louis XIV. take a letter that Colbert was handing to him.
“The late cardinal’s handwriting,” said the king.
"The late cardinal's handwriting," the king said.
“Your majesty has an excellent memory,” replied Colbert, bowing; “it is an immense advantage for a king who is destined for hard work to recognize handwritings at the first glance.”
“Your majesty has a fantastic memory,” replied Colbert, bowing; “it’s a huge advantage for a king who is meant for hard work to recognize handwriting at first glance.”
The king read Mazarin’s letter, and, as its contents are already known to the reader, in consequence of the misunderstanding between Madame de Chevreuse and Aramis, nothing further would be learned if we stated them here again.
The king read Mazarin’s letter, and since its contents are already known to the reader due to the misunderstanding between Madame de Chevreuse and Aramis, there’s no point in repeating them here.
“I do not quite understand,” said the king, greatly interested.
"I don't quite get it," said the king, really interested.
“Your majesty has not acquired the utilitarian habit of checking the public accounts.”
“Your majesty hasn’t developed the practical habit of reviewing the public accounts.”
“I see that it refers to money that had been given to M. Fouquet.”
“I see that it refers to money that was given to M. Fouquet.”
“Thirteen millions. A tolerably good sum.”
"Thirteen million. That's a pretty decent amount."
“Yes. Well, these thirteen millions are wanting to balance the total of the account. That is what I do not very well understand. How was this deficit possible?”
“Yes. Well, these thirteen million are trying to balance the total of the account. That’s what I don’t quite understand. How was this deficit possible?”
“Possible I do not say; but there is no doubt about fact that it is really so.”
"Maybe I'm not saying it, but there's no doubt that it's true."
“You say that these thirteen millions are found to be wanting in the accounts?”
“You're saying that these thirteen million are missing from the accounts?”
“I do not say so, but the registry does.”
“I don’t say that, but the registry does.”
“And this letter of M. Mazarin indicates the employment of that sum and the name of the person with whom it was deposited?”
“And this letter from M. Mazarin shows how that amount was used and the name of the person it was deposited with?”
“As your majesty can judge for yourself.”
"As you can see for yourself, Your Majesty."
“Yes; and the result is, then, that M. Fouquet has not yet restored the thirteen millions.”
“Yes; and the result is that M. Fouquet hasn't restored the thirteen million yet.”
“That results from the accounts, certainly, sire.”
"That comes from the accounts, for sure, your majesty."
“Well, and, consequently—”
“Well, and then—”
“Well, sire, in that case, inasmuch as M. Fouquet has not yet given back the thirteen millions, he must have appropriated them to his own purpose; and with those thirteen millions one could incur four times and a little more as much expense, and make four times as great a display, as your majesty was able to do at Fontainebleau, where we only spent three millions altogether, if you remember.”
“Well, Your Majesty, since Mr. Fouquet hasn't returned the thirteen million yet, he must have used it for his own purposes. With those thirteen million, one could spend four times—and a bit more—what you spent at Fontainebleau, where we only used three million total, if you recall.”
For a blunderer, the souvenir he had evoked was a rather skillfully contrived piece of baseness; for by the remembrance of his own fete he, for the first time, perceived its inferiority compared with that of Fouquet. Colbert received back again at Vaux what Fouquet had given him at Fontainebleau, and, as a good financier, returned it with the best possible interest. Having once disposed the king’s mind in this artful way, Colbert had nothing of much importance to detain him. He felt that such was the case, for the king, too, had again sunk into a dull and gloomy state. Colbert awaited the first words from the king’s lips with as much impatience as Philippe and Aramis did from their place of observation.
For a clumsy person, the souvenir he had brought up was a pretty cleverly crafted act of meanness; because of his own fete, he finally recognized how inferior it was compared to Fouquet's. Colbert reclaimed at Vaux what Fouquet had given him at Fontainebleau, and, as a savvy financier, returned it with the best possible interest. Once he had influenced the king’s mind in such a clever way, Colbert didn’t have much of importance to keep him occupied. He sensed this was true, as the king had also fallen back into a dull and gloomy mood. Colbert waited for the first words from the king’s lips with as much impatience as Philippe and Aramis did from their vantage point.
“Are you aware what is the usual and natural consequence of all this, Monsieur Colbert?” said the king, after a few moments’ reflection.
“Do you know what the usual and natural consequence of all this is, Monsieur Colbert?” the king said after a moment of thought.
“No, sire, I do not know.”
“No, I don’t know, sir.”
“Well, then, the fact of the appropriation of the thirteen millions, if it can be proved—”
“Well, then, if we can prove that the thirteen million was appropriated—”
“But it is so already.”
“But it already is.”
“I mean if it were to be declared and certified, M. Colbert.”
“I mean if it were to be officially announced and confirmed, Mr. Colbert.”
“I think it will be to-morrow, if your majesty—”
“I think it will be tomorrow, if your majesty—”
“Were we not under M. Fouquet’s roof, you were going to say, perhaps,” replied the king, with something of nobility in his demeanor.
“Were we not under M. Fouquet’s roof, you were about to say, maybe,” replied the king, showing a hint of nobility in his demeanor.
“The king is in his own palace wherever he may be—especially in houses which the royal money has constructed.”
“The king is at home wherever he is—especially in houses built with royal funds.”
“I think,” said Philippe in a low tone to Aramis, “that the architect who planned this dome ought, anticipating the use it could be put to at a future opportunity, so to have contrived that it might be made to fall upon the heads of scoundrels such as M. Colbert.”
“I think,” said Philippe in a quiet voice to Aramis, “that the architect who designed this dome should have arranged it in a way that it could potentially collapse on the heads of scoundrels like M. Colbert.”
“I think so too,” replied Aramis; “but M. Colbert is so very near the king at this moment.”
“I think so too,” replied Aramis; “but M. Colbert is really close to the king right now.”
“That is true, and that would open the succession.”
"That's true, and that would open up the succession."
“Of which your younger brother would reap all the advantage, monseigneur. But stay, let us keep quiet, and go on listening.”
“Your younger brother would get all the benefits, sir. But hold on, let's stay quiet and keep listening.”
“We shall not have long to listen,” said the young prince.
“We won’t have to listen for long,” said the young prince.
“Why not, monseigneur?”
"Why not, sir?"
“Because, if I were king, I should make no further reply.”
“Because if I were king, I wouldn’t say anything more.”
“And what would you do?”
"And what would you say?"
“I should wait until to-morrow morning to give myself time for reflection.”
“I should wait until tomorrow morning to give myself time to think.”
Louis XIV. at last raised his eyes, and finding Colbert attentively waiting for his next remarks, said, hastily, changing the conversation, “M. Colbert, I perceive it is getting very late, and I shall now retire to bed. By to-morrow morning I shall have made up my mind.”
Louis XIV finally lifted his gaze and saw Colbert patiently waiting for his next words. He quickly shifted the conversation, saying, “M. Colbert, I notice it’s getting quite late, and I’ll be going to bed now. By tomorrow morning, I’ll have made my decision.”
“Very good, sire,” returned Colbert, greatly incensed, although he restrained himself in the presence of the king.
“Very good, your majesty,” Colbert replied, extremely upset, though he kept his composure in front of the king.
The king made a gesture of adieu, and Colbert withdrew with a respectful bow. “My attendants!” cried the king; and, as they entered the apartment, Philippe was about to quit his post of observation.
The king waved goodbye, and Colbert left with a polite bow. "My attendants!" shouted the king; and as they came into the room, Philippe was about to leave his spot of observation.
“A moment longer,” said Aramis to him, with his accustomed gentleness of manner; “what has just now taken place is only a detail, and to-morrow we shall have no occasion to think anything more about it; but the ceremony of the king’s retiring to rest, the etiquette observed in addressing the king, that indeed is of the greatest importance. Learn, sire, and study well how you ought to go to bed of a night. Look! look!”
“A moment longer,” Aramis said to him, with his usual kindness; “what just happened is just a small thing, and tomorrow we won’t need to think about it any further; but the ceremony of the king going to bed, the etiquette for addressing the king, that is truly important. Learn, sire, and pay close attention to how you should go to bed at night. Look! Look!”
Chapter XV. Colbert.
History will tell us, or rather history has told us, of the various events of the following day, of the splendid fetes given by the surintendant to his sovereign. Nothing but amusement and delight was allowed to prevail throughout the whole of the following day; there was a promenade, a banquet, a comedy to be acted, and a comedy, too, in which, to his great amazement, Porthos recognized “M. Coquelin de Voliere” as one of the actors, in the piece called “Les Facheux.” Full of preoccupation, however, from the scene of the previous evening, and hardly recovered from the effects of the poison which Colbert had then administered to him, the king, during the whole of the day, so brilliant in its effects, so full of unexpected and startling novelties, in which all the wonders of the “Arabian Night’s Entertainments” seemed to be reproduced for his especial amusement—the king, we say, showed himself cold, reserved, and taciturn. Nothing could smooth the frowns upon his face; every one who observed him noticed that a deep feeling of resentment, of remote origin, increased by slow degrees, as the source becomes a river, thanks to the thousand threads of water that increase its body, was keenly alive in the depths of the king’s heart. Towards the middle of the day only did he begin to resume a little serenity of manner, and by that time he had, in all probability, made up his mind. Aramis, who followed him step by step in his thoughts, as in his walk, concluded that the event he was expecting would not be long before it was announced. This time Colbert seemed to walk in concert with the bishop of Vannes, and had he received for every annoyance which he inflicted on the king a word of direction from Aramis, he could not have done better. During the whole of the day the king, who, in all probability, wished to free himself from some of the thoughts which disturbed his mind, seemed to seek La Valliere’s society as actively as he seemed to show his anxiety to flee that of M. Colbert or M. Fouquet. The evening came. The king had expressed a wish not to walk in the park until after cards in the evening. In the interval between supper and the promenade, cards and dice were introduced. The king won a thousand pistoles, and, having won them, put them in his pocket, and then rose, saying, “And now, gentlemen, to the park.” He found the ladies of the court were already there. The king, we have before observed, had won a thousand pistoles, and had put them in his pocket; but M. Fouquet had somehow contrived to lose ten thousand, so that among the courtiers there was still left a hundred and ninety thousand francs’ profit to divide, a circumstance which made the countenances of the courtiers and the officers of the king’s household the most joyous countenances in the world. It was not the same, however, with the king’s face; for, notwithstanding his success at play, to which he was by no means insensible, there still remained a slight shade of dissatisfaction. Colbert was waiting for or upon him at the corner of one of the avenues; he was most probably waiting there in consequence of a rendezvous which had been given him by the king, as Louis XIV., who had avoided him, or who had seemed to avoid him, suddenly made him a sign, and they then struck into the depths of the park together. But La Valliere, too, had observed the king’s gloomy aspect and kindling glances; she had remarked this—and as nothing which lay hidden or smoldering in his heart was hidden from the gaze of her affection, she understood that this repressed wrath menaced some one; she prepared to withstand the current of his vengeance, and intercede like an angel of mercy. Overcome by sadness, nervously agitated, deeply distressed at having been so long separated from her lover, disturbed at the sight of the emotion she had divined, she accordingly presented herself to the king with an embarrassed aspect, which in his then disposition of mind the king interpreted unfavorably. Then, as they were alone—nearly alone, inasmuch as Colbert, as soon as he perceived the young girl approaching, had stopped and drawn back a dozen paces—the king advanced towards La Valliere and took her by the hand. “Mademoiselle,” he said to her, “should I be guilty of an indiscretion if I were to inquire if you were indisposed? for you seem to breathe as if you were oppressed by some secret cause of uneasiness, and your eyes are filled with tears.”
History tells us, or rather has told us, about the events of the following day and the wonderful fetes that the superintendent threw for his monarch. The whole day was meant for fun and enjoyment; there was a promenade, a banquet, a play to perform, and in that play, to his great surprise, Porthos recognized “M. Coquelin de Voliere” among the actors in the piece called “Les Facheux.” However, the king, still troubled by what had happened the night before and not fully recovered from the poison Colbert had given him, remained cold, reserved, and distant throughout that brilliant day packed with unexpected and astonishing celebrations, reminiscent of the wonders of the “Arabian Night’s Entertainments” created for his amusement. No matter the joys around him, his frowns didn’t leave his face, and anyone who observed him could see that a deep-seated resentment, growing slowly like a river fed by countless streams, was alive in his heart. Only around midday did he begin to regain a bit of composure, likely having made up his mind by then. Aramis, who followed the king’s thoughts as closely as his steps, figured that the event he anticipated wouldn’t take long to announce. This time, Colbert seemed to move in sync with the bishop of Vannes, and if he had received any direction from Aramis for each annoyance he inflicted on the king, he couldn’t have done better. Throughout the day, the king, likely wanting to distract himself from unsettling thoughts, actively sought La Valliere's company while showing a clear desire to avoid M. Colbert or M. Fouquet. Evening arrived. The king had stated he didn’t want to walk in the park until after playing cards. In the break between dinner and the walk, they played cards and rolled dice. The king won a thousand pistoles, pocketed the winnings, and then stood up, saying, “And now, gentlemen, to the park.” He found the ladies of the court were already there. The king, as we noted before, had won a thousand pistoles, while M. Fouquet had somehow managed to lose ten thousand, which meant the courtiers and the king’s officers still had a total profit of a hundred and ninety thousand francs to share, making their faces the happiest in the world. However, the king's expression was different; despite his luck at cards—which he certainly appreciated—a slight cloud of dissatisfaction lingered. Colbert was waiting for him at the corner of one of the pathways, likely because the king had called for him. Louis XIV, who had been avoiding Colbert, suddenly signaled him, and together they ventured deeper into the park. La Valliere, however, had noticed the king’s gloomy expression and fiery glances; she registered this—and since nothing hidden in his heart escaped her affectionate gaze, she understood that this suppressed anger posed a threat to someone. She prepared to withstand the tide of his revenge and intervene like an angel of mercy. Overwhelmed with sadness, nervously restless, and deeply troubled by their long separation, she became anxious upon witnessing the emotion she sensed in him. When she approached the king, her awkward demeanor, in light of his current state of mind, led him to interpret her behavior negatively. Then, as they were almost alone—Colbert having stepped back a dozen paces as soon as he saw her coming—the king moved toward La Valliere and took her hand. “Mademoiselle,” he said, “would I be indiscreet if I asked whether you feel unwell? You seem to be breathing as if weighed down by some hidden concern, and your eyes are filled with tears.”
“Oh! sire, if I be indeed so, and if my eyes are indeed full of tears, I am sorrowful only at the sadness which seems to oppress your majesty.”
“Oh! sir, if that's truly the case, and if my eyes are really filled with tears, I am sad only because of the sorrow that seems to weigh down your majesty.”
“My sadness? You are mistaken, mademoiselle; no, it is not sadness I experience.”
“My sadness? You're mistaken, miss; no, it’s not sadness I feel.”
“What is it, then, sire?”
“What is it, then, sir?”
“Humiliation.”
"Embarrassment."
“Humiliation? oh! sire, what a word for you to use!”
“Humiliation? Oh! Sir, what a word for you to use!”
“I mean, mademoiselle, that wherever I may happen to be, no one else ought to be the master. Well, then, look round you on every side, and judge whether I am not eclipsed—I, the king of France—before the monarch of these wide domains. Oh!” he continued, clenching his hands and teeth, “when I think that this king—”
“I mean, miss, that no matter where I am, no one else should be in charge. So, take a look around you and see if I’m not overshadowed—I, the king of France—by the ruler of these vast lands. Oh!” he went on, clenching his hands and teeth, “when I think about that king—”
“Well, sire?” said Louise, terrified.
"Well, sir?" said Louise, terrified.
“—That this king is a faithless, unworthy servant, who grows proud and self-sufficient upon the strength of property that belongs to me, and which he has stolen. And therefore I am about to change this impudent minister’s fete into sorrow and mourning, of which the nymph of Vaux, as the poets say, shall not soon lose the remembrance.”
“—This king is a treacherous, undeserving servant who becomes arrogant and self-reliant based on the wealth that rightfully belongs to me and which he has taken. Therefore, I am about to turn this insolent minister’s fete into grief and mourning, which the nymph of Vaux, as the poets say, will not forget anytime soon.”
“Oh! your majesty—”
“Oh! Your Majesty—”
“Well, mademoiselle, are you about to take M. Fouquet’s part?” said Louis, impatiently.
“Well, miss, are you about to take M. Fouquet’s side?” Louis said impatiently.
“No, sire; I will only ask whether you are well informed. Your majesty has more than once learned the value of accusations made at court.”
“No, sir; I just want to know if you’re well informed. Your majesty has learned more than once how valuable accusations made at court can be.”
Louis XIV. made a sign for Colbert to approach. “Speak, Monsieur Colbert,” said the young prince, “for I almost believe that Mademoiselle de la Valliere has need of your assistance before she can put any faith in the king’s word. Tell mademoiselle what M. Fouquet has done; and you, mademoiselle, will perhaps have the kindness to listen. It will not be long.”
Louis XIV made a gesture for Colbert to come closer. “Go ahead, Monsieur Colbert,” said the young king, “because I think Mademoiselle de la Valliere might need your help before she can trust the king’s word. Inform mademoiselle about what M. Fouquet has done, and you, mademoiselle, maybe you could kindly listen. It won’t take long.”
Why did Louis XIV. insist upon it in such a manner? A very simple reason—his heart was not at rest, his mind was not thoroughly convinced; he imagined there lay some dark, hidden, tortuous intrigue behind these thirteen millions of francs; and he wished that the pure heart of La Valliere, which had revolted at the idea of theft or robbery, should approve—even were it only by a single word—the resolution he had taken, and which, nevertheless, he hesitated before carrying into execution.
Why did Louis XIV insist on it so strongly? A very simple reason—he wasn't at peace, and he wasn't fully convinced; he suspected there was some dark, hidden, complicated scheme behind these thirteen million francs. He wanted the pure heart of La Valliere, which had been outraged by the idea of theft or robbery, to approve—even if it was just with a single word—the decision he had made, and yet he hesitated before going through with it.
“Speak, monsieur,” said La Valliere to Colbert, who had advanced; “speak, since the king wishes me to listen to you. Tell me, what is the crime with which M. Fouquet is charged?”
“Speak, sir,” La Valliere said to Colbert, who had stepped forward; “speak, since the king wants me to hear you. Tell me, what is the crime that M. Fouquet is accused of?”
“Oh! not very heinous, mademoiselle,” he returned, “a mere abuse of confidence.”
“Oh! it’s not that bad, miss,” he replied, “just a simple breach of trust.”
“Speak, speak, Colbert; and when you have related it, leave us, and go and inform M. d’Artagnan that I have certain orders to give him.”
“Talk, talk, Colbert; and once you’ve shared it, please leave us and go tell M. d’Artagnan that I have some instructions for him.”
“M. d’Artagnan, sire!” exclaimed La Valliere; “but why send for M. d’Artagnan? I entreat you to tell me.”
“M. d’Artagnan, sir!” exclaimed La Valliere; “but why call for M. d’Artagnan? I urge you to tell me.”
“Pardieu! in order to arrest this haughty, arrogant Titan who, true to his menace, threatens to scale my heaven.”
“Pardieu! to stop this proud, arrogant giant who, true to his word, threatens to reach my heaven.”
“Arrest M. Fouquet, do you say?”
“Arrest M. Fouquet, you say?”
“Ah! does that surprise you?”
"Wow! Does that surprise you?"
“In his own house!”
“In his own home!”
“Why not? If he be guilty, he is as guilty in his own house as anywhere else.”
“Why not? If he’s guilty, he’s just as guilty at home as he is anywhere else.”
“M. Fouquet, who at this moment is ruining himself for his sovereign.”
“M. Fouquet, who right now is destroying himself for his ruler.”
“In plain truth, mademoiselle, it seems as if you were defending this traitor.”
"In all honesty, miss, it feels like you’re defending this traitor."
Colbert began to chuckle silently. The king turned round at the sound of this suppressed mirth.
Colbert started to laugh quietly. The king turned around at the sound of this stifled laughter.
“Sire,” said La Valliere, “it is not M. Fouquet I am defending; it is yourself.”
“Sire,” La Valliere said, “I’m not defending M. Fouquet; I’m defending you.”
“Me! you are defending me?”
"Me? You're defending me?"
“Sire, you would dishonor yourself if you were to give such an order.”
“Sire, you would bring shame upon yourself if you were to give such an order.”
“Dishonor myself!” murmured the king, turning pale with anger. “In plain truth, mademoiselle, you show a strange persistence in what you say.”
“Dishonor myself!” the king whispered, turning pale with anger. “Honestly, mademoiselle, you have a strange stubbornness in what you’re saying.”
“If I do, sire, my only motive is that of serving your majesty,” replied the noble-hearted girl: “for that I would risk, I would sacrifice my very life, without the least reserve.”
“If I do, my lord, my only reason is to serve you,” replied the noble-hearted girl. “For that, I would risk and sacrifice my life without any hesitation.”
Colbert seemed inclined to grumble and complain. La Valliere, that timid, gentle lamb, turned round upon him, and with a glance like lightning imposed silence upon him. “Monsieur,” she said, “when the king acts well, whether, in doing so, he does either myself or those who belong to me an injury, I have nothing to say; but were the king to confer a benefit either upon me or mine, and if he acted badly, I should tell him so.”
Colbert looked like he wanted to grumble and complain. La Valliere, that shy, gentle soul, turned to him and shot him a look that demanded silence. “Sir,” she said, “if the king does well, even if it harms me or those close to me, I have nothing to say; but if the king were to do something good for me or my family, and if he did it poorly, I would definitely let him know.”
“But it appears to me, mademoiselle,” Colbert ventured to say, “that I too love the king.”
“But it seems to me, miss,” Colbert dared to say, “that I also love the king.”
“Yes, monseigneur, we both love him, but each in a different manner,” replied La Valliere, with such an accent that the heart of the young king was powerfully affected by it. “I love him so deeply, that the whole world is aware of it; so purely, that the king himself does not doubt my affection. He is my king and my master; I am the least of all his servants. But whoso touches his honor assails my life. Therefore, I repeat, that they dishonor the king who advise him to arrest M. Fouquet under his own roof.”
“Yes, Your Highness, we both love him, but in different ways,” La Valliere replied, her tone so heartfelt that it deeply moved the young king. “I love him so much that everyone knows it; so sincerely that even the king himself doesn't doubt my feelings. He is my king and my master; I am the least of his servants. But anyone who threatens his honor threatens my very existence. So, I say again, those who suggest that he arrest M. Fouquet in his own home are dishonoring the king.”
Colbert hung down his head, for he felt that the king had abandoned him. However, as he bent his head, he murmured, “Mademoiselle, I have only one word to say.”
Colbert hung his head, feeling that the king had deserted him. However, as he lowered his head, he murmured, "Mademoiselle, I have just one thing to say."
“Do not say it, then, monsieur; for I would not listen to it. Besides, what could you have to tell me? That M. Fouquet has been guilty of certain crimes? I believe he has, because the king has said so; and, from the moment the king said, ‘I think so,’ I have no occasion for other lips to say, ‘I affirm it.’ But, were M. Fouquet the vilest of men, I should say aloud, ‘M. Fouquet’s person is sacred to the king because he is the guest of M. Fouquet. Were his house a den of thieves, were Vaux a cave of coiners or robbers, his home is sacred, his palace is inviolable, since his wife is living in it; and that is an asylum which even executioners would not dare to violate.’”
“Don’t say it, then, sir; I wouldn’t want to hear it. Besides, what could you possibly tell me? That M. Fouquet has committed certain crimes? I believe he has, because the king said so; and once the king stated, ‘I think so,’ I don’t need anyone else to say, ‘I confirm it.’ But even if M. Fouquet were the worst of men, I would still declare, ‘M. Fouquet’s person is sacred to the king because he is the guest of M. Fouquet. Even if his house were a den of thieves, even if Vaux were a hideout for counterfeiters or robbers, his home is sacred, his palace is inviolable, since his wife is living in it; and that is an asylum that even executioners wouldn’t dare to violate.’”
La Valliere paused, and was silent. In spite of himself the king could not but admire her; he was overpowered by the passionate energy of her voice; by the nobleness of the cause she advocated. Colbert yielded, overcome by the inequality of the struggle. At last the king breathed again more freely, shook his head, and held out his hand to La Valliere. “Mademoiselle,” he said, gently, “why do you decide against me? Do you know what this wretched fellow will do, if I give him time to breathe again?”
La Valliere paused and fell silent. Despite himself, the king couldn't help but admire her; he was struck by the passionate intensity of her voice and the nobility of the cause she championed. Colbert gave in, defeated by the imbalance of the confrontation. Finally, the king exhaled more freely, shook his head, and extended his hand to La Valliere. “Mademoiselle,” he said gently, “why are you choosing to oppose me? Do you realize what this miserable man will do if I give him a moment to catch his breath?”
“Is he not a prey which will always be within your grasp?”
“Isn’t he someone you can always hold onto?”
“Should he escape, and take to flight?” exclaimed Colbert.
“Should he escape and run away?” shouted Colbert.
“Well, monsieur, it will always remain on record, to the king’s eternal honor, that he allowed M. Fouquet to flee; and the more guilty he may have been, the greater will the king’s honor and glory appear, compared with such unnecessary misery and shame.”
“Well, sir, it will always be known, to the king’s lasting honor, that he let M. Fouquet escape; and the more guilty he may have been, the greater the king’s honor and glory will seem, especially in light of such unnecessary suffering and disgrace.”
Louis kissed La Valliere’s hand, as he knelt before her.
Louis kissed La Valliere's hand as he knelt in front of her.
“I am lost,” thought Colbert; then suddenly his face brightened up again. “Oh! no, no, aha, old fox!—not yet,” he said to himself.
“I’m lost,” Colbert thought; then suddenly his face lit up again. “Oh! No, no, ha, old trickster!—not yet,” he said to himself.
And while the king, protected from observation by the thick covert of an enormous lime, pressed La Valliere to his breast, with all the ardor of ineffable affection, Colbert tranquilly fumbled among the papers in his pocket-book and drew out of it a paper folded in the form of a letter, somewhat yellow, perhaps, but one that must have been most precious, since the intendant smiled as he looked at it; he then bent a look, full of hatred, upon the charming group which the young girl and the king formed together—a group revealed but for a moment, as the light of the approaching torches shone upon it. Louis noticed the light reflected upon La Valliere’s white dress. “Leave me, Louise,” he said, “for some one is coming.”
And while the king, hidden from view by the thick cover of a huge lime tree, pulled La Valliere close to him with all the passion of deep affection, Colbert calmly rummaged through the papers in his wallet and took out a piece of paper folded like a letter, slightly yellowed, but it must have been very valuable since he smiled as he looked at it. He then cast a look full of contempt at the lovely scene formed by the young girl and the king together—a scene revealed only for a moment as the light from the approaching torches illuminated it. Louis noticed the light reflecting off La Valliere’s white dress. “Leave me, Louise,” he said, “because someone is coming.”
“Mademoiselle, mademoiselle, some one is coming,” cried Colbert, to expedite the young girl’s departure.
“Mademoiselle, mademoiselle, someone is coming,” shouted Colbert, to hurry the young girl along.
Louise disappeared rapidly among the trees; and then, as the king, who had been on his knees before the young girl, was rising from his humble posture, Colbert exclaimed, “Ah! Mademoiselle de la Valliere has let something fall.”
Louise quickly vanished among the trees; and then, as the king, who had been kneeling before the young woman, was getting back up from his humble position, Colbert exclaimed, “Ah! Mademoiselle de la Valliere has dropped something.”
“What is it?” inquired the king.
“What is it?” the king asked.
“A paper—a letter—something white; look there, sire.”
“A piece of paper—a letter—something white; look over there, sir.”
The king stooped down immediately and picked up the letter, crumpling it in his hand, as he did so; and at the same moment the torches arrived, inundating the blackness of the scene with a flood of light as bight as day.
The king quickly bent down and grabbed the letter, crumpling it in his hand. At the same time, the torches came, flooding the darkness of the scene with bright light, as if it were daytime.
Chapter XVI. Jealousy.
The torches we have just referred to, the eager attention every one displayed, and the new ovation paid to the king by Fouquet, arrived in time to suspend the effect of a resolution which La Valliere had already considerably shaken in Louis XIV.‘s heart. He looked at Fouquet with a feeling almost of gratitude for having given La Valliere an opportunity of showing herself so generously disposed, so powerful in the influence she exercised over his heart. The moment of the last and greatest display had arrived. Hardly had Fouquet conducted the king towards the chateau, when a mass of fire burst from the dome of Vaux, with a prodigious uproar, pouring a flood of dazzling cataracts of rays on every side, and illumining the remotest corners of the gardens. The fireworks began. Colbert, at twenty paces from the king, who was surrounded and feted by the owner of Vaux, seemed, by the obstinate persistence of his gloomy thoughts, to do his utmost to recall Louis’s attention, which the magnificence of the spectacle was already, in his opinion, too easily diverting. Suddenly, just as Louis was on the point of holding it out to Fouquet, he perceived in his hand the paper which, as he believed, La Valliere had dropped at his feet as she hurried away. The still stronger magnet of love drew the young prince’s attention towards the souvenir of his idol; and, by the brilliant light, which increased momentarily in beauty, and drew from the neighboring villages loud cheers of admiration, the king read the letter, which he supposed was a loving and tender epistle La Valliere had destined for him. But as he read it, a death-like pallor stole over his face, and an expression of deep-seated wrath, illumined by the many-colored fire which gleamed so brightly, soaringly around the scene, produced a terrible spectacle, which every one would have shuddered at, could they only have read into his heart, now torn by the most stormy and most bitter passions. There was no truce for him now, influenced as he was by jealousy and mad passion. From the very moment when the dark truth was revealed to him, every gentler feeling seemed to disappear; pity, kindness of consideration, the religion of hospitality, all were forgotten. In the bitter pang which wrung his heart, he, still too weak to hide his sufferings, was almost on the point of uttering a cry of alarm, and calling his guards to gather round him. This letter which Colbert had thrown down at the king’s feet, the reader has doubtlessly guessed, was the same that had disappeared with the porter Toby at Fontainebleau, after the attempt which Fouquet had made upon La Valliere’s heart. Fouquet saw the king’s pallor, and was far from guessing the evil; Colbert saw the king’s anger, and rejoiced inwardly at the approach of the storm. Fouquet’s voice drew the young prince from his wrathful reverie.
The torches we just mentioned, the eager attention everyone showed, and the new round of applause for the king from Fouquet arrived just in time to delay a decision that La Valliere had already significantly shaken in Louis XIV's heart. He looked at Fouquet with an almost grateful feeling for giving La Valliere a chance to show how generous and influential she was over his heart. The moment of the grandest display had come. Hardly had Fouquet led the king toward the chateau when a massive burst of fire erupted from the dome of Vaux, with an enormous roar, filling the air with bright streams of light in every direction, lighting up even the farthest corners of the gardens. The fireworks started. Colbert, twenty paces from the king, who was surrounded and celebrated by the owner of Vaux, seemed determined to bring Louis back to his gloomy thoughts, which he felt were already too easily distracted by the spectacle's magnificence. Suddenly, just as Louis was about to extend his hand to Fouquet, he noticed the paper he believed La Valliere had dropped at his feet as she hurried away. The stronger pull of love drew the young prince's attention to the memory of his idol; and with the brilliant light, which grew more beautiful moment by moment, drawing loud cheers of admiration from the nearby villages, the king read the letter he thought was a loving and tender note La Valliere had meant for him. But as he read it, a deathly pallor washed over his face, and a deep-seated anger, illuminated by the many-colored flames gleaming brightly around the scene, created a frightening spectacle that would have made anyone shudder if they could have seen into his heart, now torn by the most turbulent and bitter emotions. There was no peace for him now, consumed as he was by jealousy and wild passion. From the moment the dark truth hit him, every gentler feeling seemed to vanish; pity, kindness, the spirit of hospitality—all forgotten. In the painful twist in his heart, he, still too weak to hide his pain, was almost ready to cry out in alarm and call his guards to come around him. This letter that Colbert had thrown down at the king's feet was undoubtedly the same one that had vanished with the porter Toby at Fontainebleau, after Fouquet had tried to win La Valliere’s heart. Fouquet noticed the king's pallor but had no idea of the trouble; Colbert saw the king's anger and inwardly rejoiced at the storm approaching. Fouquet’s voice pulled the young prince from his furious thoughts.
“What is the matter, sire?” inquired the superintendent, with an expression of graceful interest.
“What’s the matter, sir?” asked the superintendent, looking genuinely interested.
Louis made a violent effort over himself, as he replied, “Nothing.”
Louis struggled fiercely to control himself as he answered, “Nothing.”
“I am afraid your majesty is suffering?”
“I’m afraid you’re not feeling well, Your Majesty?”
“I am suffering, and have already told you so, monsieur; but it is nothing.”
“I’m in pain, and I’ve already told you that, sir; but it’s nothing.”
And the king, without waiting for the termination of the fireworks, turned towards the chateau. Fouquet accompanied him, and the whole court followed, leaving the remains of the fireworks consuming for their own amusement. The superintendent endeavored again to question Louis XIV., but did not succeed in obtaining a reply. He imagined there had been some misunderstanding between Louis and La Valliere in the park, which had resulted in a slight quarrel; and that the king, who was not ordinarily sulky by disposition, but completely absorbed by his passion for La Valliere, had taken a dislike to every one because his mistress had shown herself offended with him. This idea was sufficient to console him; he had even a friendly and kindly smile for the young king, when the latter wished him good night. This, however, was not all the king had to submit to; he was obliged to undergo the usual ceremony, which on that evening was marked by close adherence to the strictest etiquette. The next day was the one fixed for the departure; it was but proper that the guests should thank their host, and show him a little attention in return for the expenditure of his twelve millions. The only remark, approaching to amiability, which the king could find to say to M. Fouquet, as he took leave of him, were in these words, “M. Fouquet, you shall hear from me. Be good enough to desire M. d’Artagnan to come here.”
And the king, not waiting for the fireworks to finish, turned towards the chateau. Fouquet went with him, and the whole court followed, leaving the remnants of the fireworks to enjoy themselves. The superintendent tried again to ask Louis XIV. a question, but couldn’t get a response. He thought there might have been some misunderstanding between Louis and La Valliere in the park that led to a small argument; and that the king, who usually wasn’t moody, but was completely wrapped up in his feelings for La Valliere, had become annoyed with everyone because his mistress seemed upset with him. This idea was enough to comfort him; he even gave a friendly smile to the young king when the latter said goodnight. However, that wasn't all the king had to deal with; he had to go through the usual ceremony, which that evening was strictly based on the rules of etiquette. The next day was the set day for departure; it was only right that the guests should thank their host and show him some appreciation for spending twelve million. The only somewhat friendly remark the king could find to say to M. Fouquet as he was leaving was, “M. Fouquet, you’ll hear from me. Please ask M. d’Artagnan to come here.”
But the blood of Louis XIV., who had so profoundly dissimulated his feelings, boiled in his veins; and he was perfectly willing to order M. Fouquet to be put an end to with the same readiness, indeed, as his predecessor had caused the assassination of le Marechal d’Ancre; and so he disguised the terrible resolution he had formed beneath one of those royal smiles which, like lightning-flashes, indicated coups d’etat. Fouquet took the king’s hand and kissed it; Louis shuddered throughout his whole frame, but allowed M. Fouquet to touch his hand with his lips. Five minutes afterwards, D’Artagnan, to whom the royal order had been communicated, entered Louis XIV.‘s apartment. Aramis and Philippe were in theirs, still eagerly attentive, and still listening with all their ears. The king did not even give the captain of the musketeers time to approach his armchair, but ran forward to meet him. “Take care,” he exclaimed, “that no one enters here.”
But the blood of Louis XIV, who had so carefully hidden his feelings, boiled in his veins; and he was more than ready to order M. Fouquet's execution, just as his predecessor had caused the assassination of le Marechal d’Ancre. He masked the terrible decision he had made with one of those royal smiles that, like flashes of lightning, hinted at coups d’etat. Fouquet took the king’s hand and kissed it; Louis shuddered all over but let M. Fouquet press his lips against his hand. Five minutes later, D’Artagnan, to whom the royal order had been relayed, entered Louis XIV’s room. Aramis and Philippe were in theirs, still eagerly listening. The king didn’t even let the captain of the musketeers get close to his armchair before he rushed to meet him. “Make sure,” he exclaimed, “that no one comes in here.”
“Very good, sire,” replied the captain, whose glance had for a long time past analyzed the stormy indications on the royal countenance. He gave the necessary order at the door; but, returning to the king, he said, “Is there something fresh the matter, your majesty?”
“Very good, Your Majesty,” replied the captain, whose gaze had for a while now been assessing the stormy signs on the royal face. He gave the necessary order at the door; but, returning to the king, he said, “Is there something new going on, Your Majesty?”
“How many men have you here?” inquired the king, without making any other reply to the question addressed to him.
“How many men do you have here?” the king asked, without responding to the question directed at him.
“What for, sire?”
"What for, sir?"
“How many men have you, I say?” repeated the king, stamping upon the ground with his foot.
"How many men do you have, I ask?" the king repeated, stomping his foot on the ground.
“I have the musketeers.”
"I have the Musketeers."
“Well; and what others?”
“Well, what about the others?”
“Twenty guards and thirteen Swiss.”
"20 guards and 13 Swiss."
“How many men will be required to—”
“How many men will be needed to—”
“To do what, sire?” replied the musketeer, opening his large, calm eyes.
“To do what, sir?” replied the musketeer, opening his big, calm eyes.
“To arrest M. Fouquet.”
"To arrest M. Fouquet."
D’Artagnan fell back a step.
D’Artagnan took a step back.
“To arrest M. Fouquet!” he burst forth.
"To arrest M. Fouquet!" he exclaimed.
“Are you going to tell me that it is impossible?” exclaimed the king, in tones of cold, vindictive passion.
“Are you really going to tell me that it's impossible?” the king exclaimed, with a cold, vengeful intensity.
“I never say that anything is impossible,” replied D’Artagnan, wounded to the quick.
“I never say that anything is impossible,” replied D’Artagnan, deeply hurt.
“Very well; do it, then.”
"Alright; go ahead, then."
D’Artagnan turned on his heel, and made his way towards the door; it was but a short distance, and he cleared it in half a dozen paces; when he reached it he suddenly paused, and said, “Your majesty will forgive me, but, in order to effect this arrest, I should like written directions.”
D’Artagnan turned on his heel and walked toward the door; it was only a short distance, and he crossed it in a few quick steps; when he got there, he suddenly stopped and said, “Your majesty will forgive me, but, to carry out this arrest, I would like written instructions.”
“For what purpose—and since when has the king’s word been insufficient for you?”
“For what reason—and since when has the king’s word not been enough for you?”
“Because the word of a king, when it springs from a feeling of anger, may possibly change when the feeling changes.”
“Because a king’s words, when they come from anger, might change when that feeling changes.”
“A truce to set phrases, monsieur; you have another thought besides that?”
“A break from clichés, sir; do you have another idea in mind?”
“Oh, I, at least, have certain thoughts and ideas, which, unfortunately, others have not,” D’Artagnan replied, impertinently.
“Oh, I, at least, have my own thoughts and ideas, which, unfortunately, others don’t,” D’Artagnan replied, cheekily.
The king, in the tempest of his wrath, hesitated, and drew back in the face of D’Artagnan’s frank courage, just as a horse crouches on his haunches under the strong hand of a bold and experienced rider. “What is your thought?” he exclaimed.
The king, caught up in his anger, paused and pulled back at D’Artagnan’s straightforward bravery, just like a horse crouches on its haunches under the firm grip of a confident and skilled rider. “What’s on your mind?” he shouted.
“This, sire,” replied D’Artagnan: “you cause a man to be arrested when you are still under his roof; and passion is alone the cause of that. When your anger shall have passed, you will regret what you have done; and then I wish to be in a position to show you your signature. If that, however, should fail to be a reparation, it will at least show us that the king was wrong to lose his temper.”
“This, sir,” replied D’Artagnan, “you have someone arrested while he is still under your roof, and that is purely out of passion. Once your anger subsides, you’ll regret what you’ve done; and then I want to be in a position to show you your signature. If that doesn’t provide restitution, at least it will demonstrate that the king was wrong to lose his cool.”
“Wrong to lose his temper!” cried the king, in a loud, passionate voice. “Did not my father, my grandfathers, too, before me, lose their temper at times, in Heaven’s name?”
“It's ridiculous to lose his temper!” yelled the king, in a loud, passionate voice. “Didn’t my father and my grandfathers before me lose their temper at times, for goodness' sake?”
“The king your father and the king your grandfather never lost their temper except when under the protection of their own palace.”
“The king your father and the king your grandfather never lost their cool except when they were in the safety of their own palace.”
“The king is master wherever he may be.”
“The king is in charge no matter where he is.”
“That is a flattering, complimentary phrase which cannot proceed from any one but M. Colbert; but it happens not to be the truth. The king is at home in every man’s house when he has driven its owner out of it.”
“That is a flattering, complimentary phrase that can only come from M. Colbert; however, it’s not the truth. The king is at home in every man’s house when he has chased the owner out of it.”
The king bit his lips, but said nothing.
The king bit his lips but said nothing.
“Can it be possible?” said D’Artagnan; “here is a man who is positively ruining himself in order to please you, and you wish to have him arrested! Mordioux! Sire, if my name was Fouquet, and people treated me in that manner, I would swallow at a single gulp all sorts of fireworks and other things, and I would set fire to them, and send myself and everybody else in blown-up atoms to the sky. But it is all the same; it is your wish, and it shall be done.”
“Is it really possible?” said D’Artagnan. “Here’s a guy who is seriously ruining himself just to make you happy, and you want him arrested! Mordioux! Sire, if my name were Fouquet and people treated me like that, I’d down all kinds of fireworks and other stuff in one go, set them on fire, and blow myself and everyone else to bits up into the sky. But it doesn’t matter; it’s what you want, and it will be done.”
“Go,” said the king; “but have you men enough?”
“Go,” said the king; “but do you have enough men?”
“Do you suppose I am going to take a whole host to help me? Arrest M. Fouquet! why, that is so easy that a very child might do it! It is like drinking a glass of wormwood; one makes an ugly face, and that is all.”
“Do you really think I'm going to gather a whole crowd to help me? Arrest M. Fouquet! That's so simple that even a kid could do it! It's like drinking a glass of wormwood; you make a grimace, and that's it.”
“If he defends himself?”
“What if he defends himself?”
“He! it is not at all likely. Defend himself when such extreme harshness as you are going to practice makes the man a very martyr! Nay, I am sure that if he has a million of francs left, which I very much doubt, he would be willing enough to give it in order to have such a termination as this. But what does that matter? it shall be done at once.”
“He! That's not likely at all. Defend himself when such extreme harshness as you’re about to impose turns the man into a martyr? No, I’m sure that if he has a million francs left, which I seriously doubt, he’d gladly give it up to avoid such an ending. But what does that matter? It will be done right away.”
“Stay,” said the king; “do not make his arrest a public affair.”
“Stay,” said the king; “let's keep his arrest private.”
“That will be more difficult.”
“That will be tougher.”
“Why so?”
"Why is that?"
“Because nothing is easier than to go up to M. Fouquet in the midst of a thousand enthusiastic guests who surround him, and say, ‘In the king’s name, I arrest you.’ But to go up to him, to turn him first one way and then another, to drive him up into one of the corners of the chess-board, in such a way that he cannot escape; to take him away from his guests, and keep him a prisoner for you, without one of them, alas! having heard anything about it; that, indeed, is a genuine difficulty, the greatest of all, in truth; and I hardly see how it is to be done.”
"Because nothing is easier than to approach M. Fouquet among a thousand excited guests surrounding him and say, 'In the king's name, I arrest you.' But to actually approach him, to maneuver him this way and that, to drive him into a corner of the chessboard where he can't escape; to take him away from his guests and keep him locked away without anyone, unfortunately, being aware of it—that's the real challenge, the hardest part, and honestly, I can hardly see how it's possible."
“You had better say it is impossible, and you will have finished much sooner. Heaven help me, but I seem to be surrounded by people who prevent me doing what I wish.”
“You might as well say it’s impossible, and you’ll get it done a lot quicker. Honestly, it feels like I’m surrounded by people who keep me from doing what I want.”
“I do not prevent your doing anything. Have you indeed decided?”
"I’m not stopping you from doing anything. Have you really made up your mind?"
“Take care of M. Fouquet, until I shall have made up my mind by to-morrow morning.”
“Take care of M. Fouquet until I decide by tomorrow morning.”
“That shall be done, sire.”
"That will be done, sir."
“And return, when I rise in the morning, for further orders; and now leave me to myself.”
“And come back in the morning when I wake up for more instructions; and now leave me alone.”
“You do not even want M. Colbert, then?” said the musketeer, firing his last shot as he was leaving the room. The king started. With his whole mind fixed on the thought of revenge, he had forgotten the cause and substance of the offense.
“You don’t even want M. Colbert, then?” said the musketeer, taking his last shot as he left the room. The king flinched. Completely consumed by thoughts of revenge, he had forgotten the reason and significance of the offense.
“No, no one,” he said; “no one here! Leave me.”
“No, no one,” he said. “No one here! Just leave me.”
D’Artagnan quitted the room. The king closed the door with his own hands, and began to walk up and down his apartment at a furious pace, like a wounded bull in an arena, trailing from his horn the colored streamers and the iron darts. At last he began to take comfort in the expression of his violent feelings.
D’Artagnan left the room. The king shut the door himself and started pacing back and forth in his apartment like an injured bull in a ring, dragging colorful streamers and iron darts from his horns. Eventually, he began to find some comfort in expressing his intense emotions.
“Miserable wretch that he is! not only does he squander my finances, but with his ill-gotten plunder he corrupts secretaries, friends, generals, artists, and all, and tries to rob me of the one to whom I am most attached. This is the reason that perfidious girl so boldly took his part! Gratitude! and who can tell whether it was not a stronger feeling—love itself?” He gave himself up for a moment to the bitterest reflections. “A satyr!” he thought, with that abhorrent hate with which young men regard those more advanced in life, who still think of love. “A man who has never found opposition or resistance in any one, who lavishes his gold and jewels in every direction, and who retains his staff of painters in order to take the portraits of his mistresses in the costume of goddesses.” The king trembled with passion as he continued, “He pollutes and profanes everything that belongs to me! He destroys everything that is mine. He will be my death at last, I know. That man is too much for me; he is my mortal enemy, but he shall forthwith fall! I hate him—I hate him—I hate him!” and as he pronounced these words, he struck the arm of the chair in which he was sitting violently, over and over again, and then rose like one in an epileptic fit. “To-morrow! to-morrow! oh, happy day!” he murmured, “when the sun rises, no other rival shall that brilliant king of space possess but me. That man shall fall so low that when people look at the abject ruin my anger shall have wrought, they will be forced to confess at last and at least that I am indeed greater than he.” The king, who was incapable of mastering his emotions any longer, knocked over with a blow of his fist a small table placed close to his bedside, and in the very bitterness of anger, almost weeping, and half-suffocated, he threw himself on his bed, dressed as he was, and bit the sheets in his extremity of passion, trying to find repose of body at least there. The bed creaked beneath his weight, and with the exception of a few broken sounds, emerging, or, one might say, exploding, from his overburdened chest, absolute silence soon reigned in the chamber of Morpheus.
“Miserable wretch! Not only does he waste my money, but with his ill-gotten gains, he corrupts secretaries, friends, generals, artists, everyone, and tries to steal away the one I care about the most. That’s why that deceitful girl so boldly supported him! Gratitude! And who knows if it’s not even a stronger feeling—love itself?” He briefly surrendered to his darkest thoughts. “A satyr!” he thought, with the intense disgust young men have towards those older who still think about love. “A man who has never faced opposition from anyone, who throws his gold and jewels around, and who keeps a team of painters to create portraits of his mistresses dressed as goddesses.” The king shook with rage as he continued, “He taints and defiles everything that’s mine! He is ruining everything that belongs to me. I know he will eventually be my downfall. That man is too much for me; he is my sworn enemy, but he will fall! I hate him—I hate him—I hate him!” As he spoke these words, he slammed his fist on the arm of the chair he was sitting in, repeatedly, and then stood up as if in a fit. “Tomorrow! Tomorrow! Oh, what a wonderful day!” he whispered, “When the sun rises, that brilliant king of the sky shall have no other rival but me. That man will fall so low that when people see the pathetic wreckage my anger has created, they will have no choice but to admit that I am indeed greater than he.” Unable to control his emotions any longer, the king knocked over a small table beside his bed with his fist, and in the heat of his anger, almost in tears and struggling to breathe, he threw himself onto his bed, fully dressed, biting the sheets in his extreme rage, trying to at least find some physical comfort there. The bed creaked under his weight, and aside from a few broken sounds escaping from his burdened chest, soon absolute silence filled the room of Morpheus.
Chapter XVII. High Treason.
The ungovernable fury which took possession of the king at the sight and at the perusal of Fouquet’s letter to La Valliere by degrees subsided into a feeling of pain and extreme weariness. Youth, invigorated by health and lightness of spirits, requiring soon that what it loses should be immediately restored—youth knows not those endless, sleepless nights which enable us to realize the fable of the vulture unceasingly feeding on Prometheus. In cases where the man of middle life, in his acquired strength of will and purpose, and the old, in their state of natural exhaustion, find incessant augmentation of their bitter sorrow, a young man, surprised by the sudden appearance of misfortune, weakens himself in sighs, and groans, and tears, directly struggling with his grief, and is thereby far sooner overthrown by the inflexible enemy with whom he is engaged. Once overthrown, his struggles cease. Louis could not hold out more than a few minutes, at the end of which he had ceased to clench his hands, and scorch in fancy with his looks the invisible objects of his hatred; he soon ceased to attack with his violent imprecations not M. Fouquet alone, but even La Valliere herself; from fury he subsided into despair, and from despair to prostration. After he had thrown himself for a few minutes to and fro convulsively on his bed, his nerveless arms fell quietly down; his head lay languidly on his pillow; his limbs, exhausted with excessive emotion, still trembled occasionally, agitated by muscular contractions; while from his breast faint and infrequent sighs still issued. Morpheus, the tutelary deity of the apartment, towards whom Louis raised his eyes, wearied by his anger and reconciled by his tears, showered down upon him the sleep-inducing poppies with which his hands are ever filled; so presently the monarch closed his eyes and fell asleep. Then it seemed to him, as it often happens in that first sleep, so light and gentle, which raises the body above the couch, and the soul above the earth—it seemed to him, we say, as if the god Morpheus, painted on the ceiling, looked at him with eyes resembling human eyes; that something shone brightly, and moved to and fro in the dome above the sleeper; that the crowd of terrible dreams which thronged together in his brain, and which were interrupted for a moment, half revealed a human face, with a hand resting against the mouth, and in an attitude of deep and absorbed meditation. And strange enough, too, this man bore so wonderful a resemblance to the king himself, that Louis fancied he was looking at his own face reflected in a mirror; with the exception, however, that the face was saddened by a feeling of the profoundest pity. Then it seemed to him as if the dome gradually retired, escaping from his gaze, and that the figures and attributes painted by Lebrun became darker and darker as the distance became more and more remote. A gentle, easy movement, as regular as that by which a vessel plunges beneath the waves, had succeeded to the immovableness of the bed. Doubtless the king was dreaming, and in this dream the crown of gold, which fastened the curtains together, seemed to recede from his vision, just as the dome, to which it remained suspended, had done, so that the winged genius which, with both its hand, supported the crown, seemed, though vainly so, to call upon the king, who was fast disappearing from it. The bed still sunk. Louis, with his eyes open, could not resist the deception of this cruel hallucination. At last, as the light of the royal chamber faded away into darkness and gloom, something cold, gloomy, and inexplicable in its nature seemed to infect the air. No paintings, nor gold, nor velvet hangings, were visible any longer, nothing but walls of a dull gray color, which the increasing gloom made darker every moment. And yet the bed still continued to descend, and after a minute, which seemed in its duration almost an age to the king, it reached a stratum of air, black and chill as death, and then it stopped. The king could no longer see the light in his room, except as from the bottom of a well we can see the light of day. “I am under the influence of some atrocious dream,” he thought. “It is time to awaken from it. Come! let me wake.”
The uncontrollable rage that overwhelmed the king when he saw and read Fouquet’s letter to La Vallière gradually turned into a feeling of pain and extreme exhaustion. Youth, buoyed by health and a light spirit, quickly demands to regain what it loses—youth doesn’t know those endless sleepless nights that let us experience the story of the vulture endlessly feeding on Prometheus. While middle-aged people, with their developed strength of will and purpose, and the old, in their natural fatigue, find their bitter sorrow multiplying, a young man, caught off guard by sudden misfortune, weakens himself with sighs, groans, and tears. Directly confronting his grief, he is much quicker to be overcome by the relentless enemy he fights against. Once he is defeated, he stops struggling. Louis could only endure for a few minutes; soon, he stopped clenching his hands and imagining burning with his gaze the unseen targets of his hatred. He quickly gave up his violent curses, not just against M. Fouquet, but even La Vallière herself. From anger, he sank into despair, and from despair to exhaustion. After tossing and turning for a few minutes on his bed, his limp arms fell to his sides, his head lay weakly on his pillow, and his limbs, drained from intense emotion, still occasionally trembled from muscular contractions, while faint and infrequent sighs escaped from his chest. Morpheus, the god of sleep watching over the room, to whom Louis raised his weary eyes, reconciled by tears and heated by anger, sprinkled him with the sleep-inducing poppies he always carried. Soon, the monarch closed his eyes and fell asleep. Then it seemed to him, as often happens in that soft and gentle first sleep that lifts the body from the bed and the soul from the earth—it seemed to him, we say, as if the god Morpheus, painted on the ceiling, looked down at him with human-like eyes; something shone brightly and moved above the sleeper; the crowd of terrible dreams that filled his mind, momentarily interrupted, half-revealed a human face with a hand covering its mouth, deeply absorbed in thought. Strangely enough, this man looked so much like the king himself that Louis thought he was seeing his own reflection in a mirror, except the face was marked by deep pity. It then seemed to him as if the dome slowly pulled back from his sight, and the figures and attributes painted by Lebrun grew darker as the distance increased. A gentle, smooth movement, as steady as a ship sinking beneath the waves, replaced the stillness of the bed. The king was undoubtedly dreaming, and in this dream, the golden crown that held the curtains together seemed to fade from view, just as the dome, from which it hung, had done, making the winged figure supporting the crown seem, though in vain, to call out to the king who was vanishing from sight. The bed continued to sink. Louis, with his eyes open, couldn’t escape the trick of this cruel illusion. Finally, as the light in the royal chamber faded into darkness, something cold, gloomy, and inexplicable seemed to fill the air. No paintings, no gold, no velvet hangings were visible anymore, just walls of dull gray, which the increasing darkness made even darker by the moment. Yet the bed still kept descending, and after a minute, which felt like an eternity to the king, it reached a layer of air as black and cold as death, and then it stopped. The king could barely see any light in his room, just like how one might see daylight from the bottom of a well. “I am caught in some horrific dream,” he thought. “It’s time to wake up from it. Come! Let me wake up.”
Every one has experienced the sensation the above remark conveys; there is hardly a person who, in the midst of a nightmare whose influence is suffocating, has not said to himself, by the help of that light which still burns in the brain when every human light is extinguished, “It is nothing but a dream, after all.” This was precisely what Louis XIV. said to himself; but when he said, “Come, come! wake up,” he perceived that not only was he already awake, but still more, that he had his eyes open also. And then he looked all round him. On his right hand and on his left two armed men stood in stolid silence, each wrapped in a huge cloak, and the face covered with a mask; one of them held a small lamp in his hand, whose glimmering light revealed the saddest picture a king could look upon. Louis could not help saying to himself that his dream still lasted, and that all he had to do to cause it to disappear was to move his arms or to say something aloud; he darted from his bed, and found himself upon the damp, moist ground. Then, addressing himself to the man who held the lamp in his hand, he said:
Everyone has felt the sensation the above remark conveys; there’s hardly a person who, in the midst of a suffocating nightmare, hasn’t told themselves, with the help of that spark of understanding that remains even when everything else is dark, “It’s just a dream, after all.” This was exactly what Louis XIV told himself; but when he exclaimed, “Come on! Wake up,” he realized that not only was he already awake, but also that his eyes were wide open. Then he looked around. To his right and left stood two armed men in silent guard, each wrapped in a large cloak, their faces concealed by masks; one of them held a small lamp, and its flickering light revealed the most sorrowful sight a king could see. Louis couldn’t help but think that his dream was still ongoing, and that all he had to do to make it disappear was to move his arms or say something out loud; he sprang from his bed and found himself on the cold, damp ground. Then, addressing the man with the lamp, he said:
“What is this, monsieur, and what is the meaning of this jest?”
“What is this, sir, and what does this joke mean?”
“It is no jest,” replied in a deep voice the masked figure that held the lantern.
“It’s no joke,” replied the masked figure holding the lantern in a deep voice.
“Do you belong to M. Fouquet?” inquired the king, greatly astonished at his situation.
“Do you belong to M. Fouquet?” the king asked, very surprised by his situation.
“It matters very little to whom we belong,” said the phantom; “we are your masters now, that is sufficient.”
“It doesn’t really matter who we belong to,” said the ghost; “we’re in charge now, and that’s all that matters.”
The king, more impatient than intimidated, turned to the other masked figure. “If this is a comedy,” he said, “you will tell M. Fouquet that I find it unseemly and improper, and that I command it should cease.”
The king, more frustrated than scared, faced the other masked figure. “If this is a joke,” he said, “you will tell M. Fouquet that I find it inappropriate and disrespectful, and that I order it to stop.”
The second masked person to whom the king had addressed himself was a man of huge stature and vast circumference. He held himself erect and motionless as any block of marble. “Well!” added the king, stamping his foot, “you do not answer!”
The second masked person the king spoke to was a tall man with a large build. He stood tall and still, just like a block of marble. “Well!” the king exclaimed, stamping his foot, “you’re not answering!”
“We do not answer you, my good monsieur,” said the giant, in a stentorian voice, “because there is nothing to say.”
“We're not answering you, my good sir,” said the giant in a loud voice, “because there’s nothing to say.”
“At least, tell me what you want,” exclaimed Louis, folding his arms with a passionate gesture.
“At least, tell me what you want,” Louis said, crossing his arms with an intense gesture.
“You will know by and by,” replied the man who held the lamp.
“You'll find out soon enough,” replied the man with the lamp.
“In the meantime tell me where I am.”
“In the meantime, tell me where I am.”
“Look.”
"Check this out."
Louis looked all round him; but by the light of the lamp which the masked figure raised for the purpose, he could perceive nothing but the damp walls which glistened here and there with the slimy traces of the snail. “Oh—oh!—a dungeon,” cried the king.
Louis looked around him; but by the light of the lamp that the masked figure held up, he could see nothing but the damp walls, which glistened here and there with the slimy trails of snails. “Oh—oh!—a dungeon,” cried the king.
“No, a subterranean passage.”
“No, an underground passage.”
“Which leads—?”
“Which leads to—?”
“Will you be good enough to follow us?”
"Can you please follow us?"
“I shall not stir from hence!” cried the king.
“I’m not moving from here!” shouted the king.
“If you are obstinate, my dear young friend,” replied the taller of the two, “I will lift you up in my arms, and roll you up in your own cloak, and if you should happen to be stifled, why—so much the worse for you.”
“If you’re being stubborn, my dear young friend,” replied the taller of the two, “I’ll pick you up in my arms and wrap you up in your own cloak, and if you happen to feel suffocated, well—too bad for you.”
As he said this, he disengaged from beneath his cloak a hand of which Milo of Crotona would have envied him the possession, on the day when he had that unhappy idea of rending his last oak. The king dreaded violence, for he could well believe that the two men into whose power he had fallen had not gone so far with any idea of drawing back, and that they would consequently be ready to proceed to extremities, if necessary. He shook his head and said: “It seems I have fallen into the hands of a couple of assassins. Move on, then.”
As he said this, he pulled out a hand from beneath his cloak that even Milo of Crotona would have envied when he made that regrettable choice to cut down his last oak. The king feared for his life, knowing that the two men who had captured him weren’t likely to hold back and would be willing to go to drastic lengths if needed. He shook his head and said, “Looks like I’ve ended up in the hands of a couple of assassins. Let’s go.”
Neither of the men answered a word to this remark. The one who carried the lantern walked first, the king followed him, while the second masked figure closed the procession. In this manner they passed along a winding gallery of some length, with as many staircases leading out of it as are to be found in the mysterious and gloomy palaces of Ann Radcliffe’s creation. All these windings and turnings, during which the king heard the sound of running water over his head, ended at last in a long corridor closed by an iron door. The figure with the lamp opened the door with one of the keys he wore suspended at his girdle, where, during the whole of the brief journey, the king had heard them rattle. As soon as the door was opened and admitted the air, Louis recognized the balmy odors that trees exhale in hot summer nights. He paused, hesitatingly, for a moment or two; but the huge sentinel who followed him thrust him out of the subterranean passage.
Neither of the men said a word in response to this remark. The one holding the lantern walked first, the king followed him, and the second masked figure brought up the rear. They made their way through a long, winding gallery, with staircases leading off in various directions, just like those found in the mysterious and gloomy castles of Ann Radcliffe's stories. All these twists and turns, during which the king heard the sound of running water above him, finally led to a long corridor that ended with an iron door. The figure with the lamp unlocked the door using one of the keys hanging from his belt, which had been rattling throughout their short journey. As soon as the door opened and let in some fresh air, Louis recognized the sweet scents that trees give off on warm summer nights. He paused, hesitating for a moment; but the large guard behind him pushed him out of the underground passage.
“Another blow,” said the king, turning towards the one who had just had the audacity to touch his sovereign; “what do you intend to do with the king of France?”
“Another blow,” said the king, turning towards the person who had just dared to touch him; “what do you plan to do with the king of France?”
“Try to forget that word,” replied the man with the lamp, in a tone which as little admitted of a reply as one of the famous decrees of Minos.
“Try to forget that word,” replied the man with the lamp, in a tone that allowed for no response, much like one of Minos's famous decrees.
“You deserve to be broken on the wheel for the words that you have just made use of,” said the giant, as he extinguished the lamp his companion handed to him; “but the king is too kind-hearted.”
“You should be punished for the words you just used,” said the giant, as he turned off the lamp his companion gave him; “but the king is too compassionate.”
Louis, at that threat, made so sudden a movement that it seemed as if he meditated flight; but the giant’s hand was in a moment placed on his shoulder, and fixed him motionless where he stood. “But tell me, at least, where we are going,” said the king.
Louis, at that threat, made such a quick move that it looked like he was about to run away; but the giant’s hand was instantly on his shoulder, holding him still where he stood. “But tell me, at least, where we are going,” said the king.
“Come,” replied the former of the two men, with a kind of respect in his manner, and leading his prisoner towards a carriage which seemed to be in waiting.
“Come,” replied the first of the two men, showing a hint of respect in his demeanor, as he led his prisoner toward a carriage that appeared to be waiting.
The carriage was completely concealed amid the trees. Two horses, with their feet fettered, were fastened by a halter to the lower branches of a large oak.
The carriage was entirely hidden among the trees. Two horses, with their legs tied, were secured by a halter to the lower branches of a big oak tree.
“Get in,” said the same man, opening the carriage-door and letting down the step. The king obeyed, seated himself at the back of the carriage, the padded door of which was shut and locked immediately upon him and his guide. As for the giant, he cut the fastenings by which the horses were bound, harnessed them himself, and mounted on the box of the carriage, which was unoccupied. The carriage set off immediately at a quick trot, turned into the road to Paris, and in the forest of Senart found a relay of horses fastened to the trees in the same manner the first horses had been, and without a postilion. The man on the box changed the horses, and continued to follow the road towards Paris with the same rapidity, so that they entered the city about three o’clock in the morning. They carriage proceeded along the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, and, after having called out to the sentinel, “By the king’s order,” the driver conducted the horses into the circular inclosure of the Bastile, looking out upon the courtyard, called La Cour du Gouvernement. There the horses drew up, reeking with sweat, at the flight of steps, and a sergeant of the guard ran forward. “Go and wake the governor,” said the coachman in a voice of thunder.
“Get in,” said the same man, opening the carriage door and lowering the step. The king complied, sitting at the back of the carriage, whose padded door was immediately shut and locked behind him and his guide. As for the giant, he cut the ties that held the horses, harnessed them himself, and climbed up onto the empty driver's seat. The carriage took off immediately at a brisk trot, turned onto the road to Paris, and in the Senart forest found a fresh set of horses tied to the trees just like the first ones had been, and without a postilion. The man on the driver's seat swapped the horses and continued along the road to Paris at the same fast pace, so they reached the city around three o’clock in the morning. The carriage rolled through the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, and after calling out to the sentinel, “By the king’s order,” the driver led the horses into the circular area of the Bastille, looking out onto the courtyard known as La Cour du Gouvernement. There, the horses stopped, panting and soaked with sweat, at the bottom of the steps, and a sergeant of the guard rushed forward. “Go and wake the governor,” said the coachman in a booming voice.
With the exception of this voice, which might have been heard at the entrance of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, everything remained as calm in the carriage as in the prison. Ten minutes afterwards, M. de Baisemeaux appeared in his dressing-gown on the threshold of the door. “What is the matter now?” he asked; “and whom have you brought me there?”
Aside from this voice, which could have been heard at the entrance of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, everything stayed just as quiet in the carriage as it was in the prison. Ten minutes later, M. de Baisemeaux showed up in his dressing gown at the door. “What's going on now?” he asked. “Who have you brought me?”
The man with the lantern opened the carriage-door, and said two or three words to the one who acted as driver, who immediately got down from his seat, took up a short musket which he kept under his feet, and placed its muzzle on his prisoner’s chest.
The man with the lantern opened the carriage door and said a few words to the driver, who immediately got down from his seat, grabbed a short musket he kept under his feet, and pointed it at his prisoner’s chest.
“And fire at once if he speaks!” added aloud the man who alighted from the carriage.
“And shoot him immediately if he says anything!” the man who got out of the carriage shouted.
“Very good,” replied his companion, without another remark.
"Sounds good," his friend replied, with no further comment.
With this recommendation, the person who had accompanied the king in the carriage ascended the flight of steps, at the top of which the governor was awaiting him. “Monsieur d’Herblay!” said the latter.
With this recommendation, the person who had been with the king in the carriage climbed the stairs, where the governor was waiting for him. “Monsieur d’Herblay!” said the governor.
“Hush!” said Aramis. “Let us go into your room.”
“Hush!” said Aramis. “Let’s go into your room.”
“Good heavens! what brings you here at this hour?”
“Wow! What are you doing here at this hour?”
“A mistake, my dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux,” Aramis replied, quietly. “It appears that you were quite right the other day.”
“A mistake, my dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux,” Aramis replied softly. “It seems you were completely right the other day.”
“What about?” inquired the governor.
“What’s up?” asked the governor.
“About the order of release, my dear friend.”
“About the order of release, my dear friend.”
“Tell me what you mean, monsieur—no, monseigneur,” said the governor, almost suffocated by surprise and terror.
“Tell me what you mean, sir—no, my lord,” said the governor, nearly overwhelmed by surprise and fear.
“It is a very simple affair: you remember, dear M. de Baisemeaux, that an order of release was sent to you.”
“It’s a pretty straightforward matter: you remember, dear M. de Baisemeaux, that a release order was sent to you.”
“Yes, for Marchiali.”
“Yeah, for Marchiali.”
“Very good! we both thought that it was for Marchiali?”
"Great! Did we both think it was for Marchiali?"
“Certainly; you will recollect, however, that I would not credit it, but that you compelled me to believe it.”
“Sure; you remember, though, that I wouldn’t have believed it if you hadn’t made me.”
“Oh! Baisemeaux, my good fellow, what a word to make use of!—strongly recommended, that was all.”
“Oh! Baisemeaux, my friend, what a term to use!—it was just a strong recommendation, that’s all.”
“Strongly recommended, yes; strongly recommended to give him up to you; and that you carried him off with you in your carriage.”
“Definitely recommended, yes; definitely recommended to hand him over to you; and that you took him away with you in your carriage.”
“Well, my dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux, it was a mistake; it was discovered at the ministry, so that I now bring you an order from the king to set at liberty Seldon,—that poor Seldon fellow, you know.”
“Well, my dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux, it was a mistake; it was found out at the ministry, so I’m bringing you an order from the king to release Seldon—that poor guy, you know.”
“Seldon! are you sure this time?”
“Seldon! Are you sure this time?”
“Well, read it yourself,” added Aramis, handing him the order.
“Well, read it yourself,” Aramis said, giving him the order.
“Why,” said Baisemeaux, “this order is the very same that has already passed through my hands.”
“Why,” said Baisemeaux, “this order is exactly the same one that I've already handled.”
“Indeed?”
"Really?"
“It is the very one I assured you I saw the other evening. Parbleu! I recognize it by the blot of ink.”
“It’s the same one I told you I saw the other evening. Wow! I recognize it because of the ink stain.”
“I do not know whether it is that; but all I know is, that I bring it for you.”
“I don’t know if that’s the case, but all I know is that I brought it for you.”
“But then, what about the other?”
"But then, what about the other one?"
“What other?”
"What else?"
“Marchiali.”
“Marchiali.”
“I have got him here with me.”
"I have him here with me."
“But that is not enough for me. I require a new order to take him back again.”
“But that's not enough for me. I need a new order to get him back again.”
“Don’t talk such nonsense, my dear Baisemeaux; you talk like a child! Where is the order you received respecting Marchiali?”
“Stop talking nonsense, my dear Baisemeaux; you sound like a child! Where is the order you got about Marchiali?”
Baisemeaux ran to his iron chest and took it out. Aramis seized hold of it, coolly tore it in four pieces, held them to the lamp, and burnt them. “Good heavens! what are you doing?” exclaimed Baisemeaux, in an extremity of terror.
Baisemeaux rushed to his iron chest and pulled it out. Aramis grabbed it, calmly ripped it into four pieces, held them up to the lamp, and set them on fire. “Good heavens! What are you doing?” shouted Baisemeaux, in a state of panic.
“Look at your position quietly, my good governor,” said Aramis, with imperturbable self-possession, “and you will see how very simple the whole affair is. You no longer possess any order justifying Marchiali’s release.”
“Take a moment to assess your situation calmly, my good governor,” said Aramis, with unshakeable composure, “and you’ll realize how straightforward the entire matter is. You no longer have any directive that justifies Marchiali’s release.”
“I am a lost man!”
"I'm a lost soul!"
“Far from it, my good fellow, since I have brought Marchiali back to you, and all accordingly is just the same as if he had never left.”
"Not at all, my friend, since I've brought Marchiali back to you, everything is exactly as if he had never left."
“Ah!” said the governor, completely overcome by terror.
“Ah!” said the governor, totally overwhelmed by fear.
“Plain enough, you see; and you will go and shut him up immediately.”
"Clearly, you see; and you will go and lock him up right away."
“I should think so, indeed.”
"I definitely think so."
“And you will hand over this Seldon to me, whose liberation is authorized by this order. Do you understand?”
“And you will give this Seldon to me, whose release is approved by this order. Do you understand?”
“I—I—”
“I—I—”
“You do understand, I see,” said Aramis. “Very good.” Baisemeaux clapped his hands together.
“You get it, I see,” said Aramis. “Great.” Baisemeaux clapped his hands together.
“But why, at all events, after having taken Marchiali away from me, do you bring him back again?” cried the unhappy governor, in a paroxysm of terror, and completely dumbfounded.
“But why, after taking Marchiali away from me, do you bring him back again?” cried the distressed governor, in a fit of terror, completely bewildered.
“For a friend such as you are,” said Aramis—“for so devoted a servant, I have no secrets;” and he put his mouth close to Baisemeaux’s ear, as he said, in a low tone of voice, “you know the resemblance between that unfortunate fellow, and—”
“For a friend like you,” said Aramis, “for such a dedicated servant, I have no secrets;” and he leaned closer to Baisemeaux’s ear and said in a low voice, “you know the resemblance between that unfortunate guy and—”
“And the king?—yes!”
“And the king? Yes!”
“Very good; the first use that Marchiali made of his liberty was to persist—Can you guess what?”
“Very good; the first thing Marchiali did with his freedom was to keep on—Can you guess what?”
“How is it likely I should guess?”
“How am I supposed to guess?”
“To persist in saying that he was king of France; to dress himself up in clothes like those of the king; and then pretend to assume that he was the king himself.”
"To keep claiming that he was the king of France; to put on clothes like those of the king; and then act as if he really was the king himself."
“Gracious heavens!”
"Oh my goodness!"
“That is the reason why I have brought him back again, my dear friend. He is mad and lets every one see how mad he is.”
"That’s why I brought him back again, my dear friend. He’s crazy and shows everyone just how crazy he is."
“What is to be done, then?”
“What should we do now?”
“That is very simple; let no one hold any communication with him. You understand that when his peculiar style of madness came to the king’s ears, the king, who had pitied his terrible affliction, and saw that all his kindness had been repaid by black ingratitude, became perfectly furious; so that, now—and remember this very distinctly, dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux, for it concerns you most closely—so that there is now, I repeat, sentence of death pronounced against all those who may allow him to communicate with any one else but me or the king himself. You understand, Baisemeaux, sentence of death!”
"That's very straightforward; no one is to have any contact with him. You see, when the king heard about his strange madness, he, feeling sorry for his awful condition and realizing that all his kindness was met with complete ingratitude, became absolutely furious. So now—and remember this clearly, dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux, as it directly affects you—now there is, I repeat, a death sentence for anyone who lets him communicate with anyone besides me or the king himself. Do you understand, Baisemeaux? A death sentence!"
“You need not ask me whether I understand.”
“You don’t have to ask me if I understand.”
“And now, let us go down, and conduct this poor devil back to his dungeon again, unless you prefer he should come up here.”
“And now, let’s go down and take this poor guy back to his dungeon again, unless you’d rather he come up here.”
“What would be the good of that?”
“What would be the point of that?”
“It would be better, perhaps, to enter his name in the prison-book at once!”
“It might be best to just go ahead and write his name in the prison log right away!”
“Of course, certainly; not a doubt of it.”
“Of course, definitely; no doubt about it.”
“In that case, have him up.”
“In that case, get him up.”
Baisemeaux ordered the drums to be beaten and the bell to be rung, as a warning to every one to retire, in order to avoid meeting a prisoner, about whom it was desired to observe a certain mystery. Then, when the passages were free, he went to take the prisoner from the carriage, at whose breast Porthos, faithful to the directions which had been given him, still kept his musket leveled. “Ah! is that you, miserable wretch?” cried the governor, as soon as he perceived the king. “Very good, very good.” And immediately, making the king get out of the carriage, he led him, still accompanied by Porthos, who had not taken off his mask, and Aramis, who again resumed his, up the stairs, to the second Bertaudiere, and opened the door of the room in which Philippe for six long years had bemoaned his existence. The king entered the cell without pronouncing a single word: he faltered in as limp and haggard as a rain-struck lily. Baisemeaux shut the door upon him, turned the key twice in the lock, and then returned to Aramis. “It is quite true,” he said, in a low tone, “that he bears a striking resemblance to the king; but less so than you said.”
Baisemeaux ordered the drums to be beaten and the bell to ring as a warning for everyone to clear out to avoid encountering a prisoner, about whom he wanted to maintain a certain level of secrecy. Once the hallways were empty, he went to take the prisoner from the carriage, where Porthos, faithfully following the instructions given to him, still had his musket aimed. “Ah! Is that you, wretched soul?” shouted the governor when he saw the king. “Very good, very good.” Without delay, he had the king get out of the carriage and led him upstairs to the second Bertaudiere, with Porthos, who hadn’t removed his mask, and Aramis, who put his back on. He opened the door to the room where Philippe had lamented his existence for six long years. The king entered the cell without saying a word, moving in like a frail and worn-out lily caught in the rain. Baisemeaux closed the door behind him, turned the key twice in the lock, and then went back to Aramis. “It’s true,” he said quietly, “he really does look a lot like the king, but not as much as you said.”
“So that,” said Aramis, “you would not have been deceived by the substitution of the one for the other?”
“So that,” said Aramis, “you wouldn’t have been fooled by the switch of one for the other?”
“What a question!”
“Great question!”
“You are a most valuable fellow, Baisemeaux,” said Aramis; “and now, set Seldon free.”
“You're a really valuable guy, Baisemeaux,” said Aramis; “and now, let Seldon go.”
“Oh, yes. I was going to forget that. I will go and give orders at once.”
“Oh, right. I almost forgot that. I’ll go and give orders right away.”
“Bah! to-morrow will be time enough.”
“Bah! Tomorrow will be soon enough.”
“To-morrow!—oh, no. This very minute.”
“Tomorrow!—oh, no. Right now.”
“Well; go off to your affairs, I will go away to mine. But it is quite understood, is it not?”
“Well, go take care of your business, and I'll handle mine. But we’re clear on this, right?”
“What ‘is quite understood’?”
“What does ‘is quite understood’ mean?”
“That no one is to enter the prisoner’s cell, expect with an order from the king; an order which I will myself bring.”
"That no one is allowed to enter the prisoner's cell, except with an order from the king; an order that I will personally deliver."
“Quite so. Adieu, monseigneur.”
"Absolutely. Goodbye, my lord."
Aramis returned to his companion. “Now, Porthos, my good fellow, back again to Vaux, and as fast as possible.”
Aramis went back to his friend. “Alright, Porthos, my good man, let’s head back to Vaux, and quickly.”
“A man is light and easy enough, when he has faithfully served his king; and, in serving him, saved his country,” said Porthos. “The horses will be as light as if our tissues were constructed of the wind of heaven. So let us be off.” And the carriage, lightened of a prisoner, who might well be—as he in fact was—very heavy in the sight of Aramis, passed across the drawbridge of the Bastile, which was raised again immediately behind it.
“A man feels light and free when he has faithfully served his king; and by serving him, he has saved his country,” said Porthos. “The horses will feel as light as if our bodies were made of the very air. So let’s get going.” And the carriage, now with one less prisoner, who might as well have been—since he really was—incredibly heavy in Aramis’s eyes, crossed the drawbridge of the Bastille, which was immediately raised behind it.
Chapter XVIII. A Night at the Bastile.
Pain, anguish, and suffering in human life are always in proportion to the strength with which a man is endowed. We will not pretend to say that Heaven always apportions to a man’s capability of endurance the anguish with which he afflicts him; for that, indeed, would not be true, since Heaven permits the existence of death, which is, sometimes, the only refuge open to those who are too closely pressed—too bitterly afflicted, as far as the body is concerned. Suffering is in proportion to the strength which has been accorded; in other words, the weak suffer more, where the trial is the same, than the strong. And what are the elementary principles, we may ask, that compose human strength? Is it not—more than anything else—exercise, habit, experience? We shall not even take the trouble to demonstrate this, for it is an axiom in morals, as in physics. When the young king, stupefied and crushed in every sense and feeling, found himself led to a cell in the Bastile, he fancied death itself is but a sleep; that it, too, has its dreams as well; that the bed had broken through the flooring of his room at Vaux; that death had resulted from the occurrence; and that, still carrying out his dream, the king, Louis XIV., now no longer living, was dreaming one of those horrors, impossible to realize in life, which is termed dethronement, imprisonment, and insult towards a sovereign who formerly wielded unlimited power. To be present at—an actual witness, too—of this bitterness of death; to float, indecisively, in an incomprehensible mystery, between resemblance and reality; to hear everything, to see everything, without interfering in a single detail of agonizing suffering, was—so the king thought within himself—a torture far more terrible, since it might last forever. “Is this what is termed eternity—hell?” he murmured, at the moment the door was closed upon him, which we remember Baisemeaux had shut with his own hands. He did not even look round him; and in the room, leaning with his back against the wall, he allowed himself to be carried away by the terrible supposition that he was already dead, as he closed his eyes, in order to avoid looking upon something even worse still. “How can I have died?” he said to himself, sick with terror. “The bed might have been let down by some artificial means? But no! I do not remember to have felt a bruise, nor any shock either. Would they not rather have poisoned me at my meals, or with the fumes of wax, as they did my ancestress, Jeanne d’Albret?” Suddenly, the chill of the dungeons seemed to fall like a wet cloak upon Louis’s shoulders. “I have seen,” he said, “my father lying dead upon his funeral couch, in his regal robes. That pale face, so calm and worn; those hands, once so skillful, lying nerveless by his side; those limbs stiffened by the icy grasp of death; nothing there betokened a sleep that was disturbed by dreams. And yet, how numerous were the dreams which Heaven might have sent that royal corpse—him whom so many others had preceded, hurried away by him into eternal death! No, that king was still the king: he was enthroned still upon that funeral couch, as upon a velvet armchair; he had not abdicated one title of his majesty. God, who had not punished him, cannot, will not punish me, who have done nothing.” A strange sound attracted the young man’s attention. He looked round him, and saw on the mantel-shelf, just below an enormous crucifix, coarsely painted in fresco on the wall, a rat of enormous size engaged in nibbling a piece of dry bread, but fixing all the time, an intelligent and inquiring look upon the new occupant of the cell. The king could not resist a sudden impulse of fear and disgust: he moved back towards the door, uttering a loud cry; and as if he but needed this cry, which escaped from his breast almost unconsciously, to recognize himself, Louis knew that he was alive and in full possession of his natural senses. “A prisoner!” he cried. “I—I, a prisoner!” He looked round him for a bell to summon some one to him. “There are no bells in the Bastile,” he said, “and it is in the Bastile I am imprisoned. In what way can I have been made a prisoner? It must have been owing to a conspiracy of M. Fouquet. I have been drawn to Vaux, as to a snare. M. Fouquet cannot be acting alone in this affair. His agent—That voice that I but just now heard was M. d’Herblay’s; I recognized it. Colbert was right, then. But what is Fouquet’s object? To reign in my place and stead?—Impossible. Yet who knows!” thought the king, relapsing into gloom again. “Perhaps my brother, the Duc d’Orleans, is doing that which my uncle wished to do during the whole of his life against my father. But the queen?—My mother, too? And La Valliere? Oh! La Valliere, she will have been abandoned to Madame. Dear, dear girl! Yes, it is—it must be so. They have shut her up as they have me. We are separated forever!” And at this idea of separation the poor lover burst into a flood of tears and sobs and groans.
Pain, anguish, and suffering in human life always match a person's strength. We won’t pretend that Heaven always assigns anguish according to one’s ability to endure it; that’s simply not true, since Heaven allows for death, which sometimes is the only escape for those who are too tormented—too painfully afflicted physically. Suffering relates to the strength a person possesses; in other words, the weak suffer more than the strong, even under the same circumstances. And what are the basic principles that make up human strength? Isn’t it—more than anything else—exercise, habit, and experience? We won’t even bother proving this, as it’s an obvious truth, both morally and physically. When the young king, stunned and overwhelmed in every way, found himself led to a cell in the Bastille, he imagined that death itself was just a sleep; that it, too, had its dreams; that the bed had fallen through the floor of his room at Vaux; that this had caused his death; and that, still caught in this dream, King Louis XIV, now deceased, was experiencing one of those nightmarish scenarios—imprisonment, dethronement, and humiliation—that are impossible to live through, which he once wielded unlimited power over. To witness this bitterness of death firsthand; to float uncertainly in an incomprehensible mystery between illusion and reality; to hear and see everything, without being able to intervene in a single detail of his torment, was—so the king thought—a far worse torture, as it might never end. “Is this what they call eternity—hell?” he murmured, just as the door closed behind him, a door he remembered Baisemeaux had shut with his own hands. He didn’t even look around; and in the room, leaning against the wall, he allowed himself to be overwhelmed by the dreadful thought that he was already dead, closing his eyes to avoid seeing something even worse. “How could I have died?” he asked himself, filled with terror. “The bed could’ve been dropped through some trick? But no! I don’t remember feeling a bruise or any jolt. Wouldn’t they have poisoned me during my meals or with the fumes of wax, like they did to my ancestor, Jeanne d’Albret?” Suddenly, a chill from the dungeons felt like a damp cloak draping over Louis’s shoulders. “I’ve seen,” he said, “my father lying dead on his funeral couch, in his royal robes. That pale face, so calm and worn; those hands, once so capable, lying helpless by his side; those limbs stiffened by death’s icy grip; nothing there looked like a sleep disturbed by dreams. And yet, how many dreams might Heaven have sent to that royal corpse—he who had sent so many others ahead into eternal death! No, that king was still the king: he was still enthroned on that funeral couch, like a velvet armchair; he hadn’t given up a single title of his majesty. God, who did not punish him, cannot, will not punish me, who have done nothing.” A strange sound caught the young man’s attention. He looked around and saw on the mantelpiece, just below a huge crucifix, a giant rat nibbling at a piece of dry bread, all while casting an intelligent and curious gaze at the new occupant of the cell. The king couldn’t help but feel a sudden wave of fear and disgust: he retreated toward the door, crying out loudly; and as if this cry, which escaped him almost unconsciously, helped him recognize himself, Louis realized he was alive and fully aware of his senses. “A prisoner!” he shouted. “I—I’m a prisoner!” He searched for a bell to summon someone. “There are no bells in the Bastille,” he said, “and here I am, imprisoned in the Bastille. How did this happen? It must be a conspiracy by M. Fouquet. I’ve been lured to Vaux, like prey to a trap. M. Fouquet can’t be acting alone. His agent—That voice I just heard was M. d’Herblay; I recognized it. Colbert was right, then. But what’s Fouquet’s goal? To rule in my place?—Impossible. Yet who knows!” thought the king, sinking back into despair. “Maybe my brother, the Duc d’Orleans, is doing what my uncle always wanted to do against my father. But the queen?—My mother, too? And La Valliere? Oh! La Valliere, they must have left her to Madame. Poor girl! Yes, it is—it must be so. They’ve locked her up just like me. We’re separated forever!” And at the thought of separation, the poor lover broke down in tears and sobs.
“There is a governor in this place,” the king continued, in a fury of passion; “I will speak to him, I will summon him to me.”
“There’s a governor here,” the king said, filled with anger; “I’ll talk to him, I’ll call him to me.”
He called—no voice replied to his. He seized hold of his chair, and hurled it against the massive oaken door. The wood resounded against the door, and awakened many a mournful echo in the profound depths of the staircase; but from a human creature, none.
He called—no voice answered. He grabbed his chair and threw it against the heavy wooden door. The wood thudded against the door and stirred up many sad echoes in the deep staircase; but from another person, there was nothing.
This was a fresh proof for the king of the slight regard in which he was held at the Bastile. Therefore, when his first fit of anger had passed away, having remarked a barred window through which there passed a stream of light, lozenge-shaped, which must be, he knew, the bright orb of approaching day, Louis began to call out, at first gently enough, then louder and louder still; but no one replied. Twenty other attempts which he made, one after another, obtained no other or better success. His blood began to boil within him, and mount to his head. His nature was such, that, accustomed to command, he trembled at the idea of disobedience. The prisoner broke the chair, which was too heavy for him to lift, and made use of it as a battering ram to strike against the door. He struck so loudly, and so repeatedly, that the perspiration soon began to pour down his face. The sound became tremendous and continuous; certain stifled, smothered cries replied in different directions. This sound produced a strange effect upon the king. He paused to listen; it was the voice of the prisoners, formerly his victims, now his companions. The voices ascended like vapors through the thick ceilings and the massive walls, and rose in accusations against the author of this noise, as doubtless their sighs and tears accused, in whispered tones, the author of their captivity. After having deprived so many people of their liberty, the king came among them to rob them of their rest. This idea almost drove him mad; it redoubled his strength, or rather his will, bent upon obtaining some information, or a conclusion to the affair. With a portion of the broken chair he recommenced the noise. At the end of an hour, Louis heard something in the corridor, behind the door of his cell, and a violent blow, which was returned upon the door itself, made him cease his own.
This was a clear sign to the king of how little respect he was held in at the Bastille. So, once his initial anger faded, and after noticing a barred window letting in a lozenge-shaped stream of light—he knew it was the bright orb of dawn approaching—Louis started calling out. At first, he was gentle, but soon he was shouting louder and louder; yet no one answered. He made twenty other attempts, one after the other, but none were successful. His blood began to boil, rising to his head. He was someone used to commanding, so the thought of disobedience made him anxious. The prisoner broke the chair, which was too heavy for him to lift, and used it like a battering ram against the door. He hit it so loud and so often that sweat soon dripped down his face. The noise became enormous and relentless; muffled cries answered from different directions. This noise had a strange effect on the king. He paused to listen; it was the voices of prisoners who were once his victims, now his fellow captives. The voices rose like steam through the thick ceilings and solid walls, accusing the source of the noise, just as their sighs and tears likely accused the one who had put them in captivity. After taking the freedom of so many, the king now intruded on their rest. This thought nearly drove him insane; it intensified his resolve, or rather his will, to find out what was happening, or to come to some conclusion about the situation. Using a piece of the broken chair, he started making noise again. After about an hour, Louis heard something in the corridor behind his cell door, and a violent blow against the door itself made him stop his own.
“Are you mad?” said a rude, brutal voice. “What is the matter with you this morning?”
“Are you crazy?” said a harsh, brutal voice. “What’s wrong with you this morning?”
“This morning!” thought the king; but he said aloud, politely, “Monsieur, are you the governor of the Bastile?”
“This morning!” thought the king; but he said aloud, politely, “Sir, are you the governor of the Bastille?”
“My good fellow, your head is out of sorts,” replied the voice; “but that is no reason why you should make such a terrible disturbance. Be quiet; mordioux!”
“My good friend, you’re not thinking straight,” replied the voice; “but that’s no reason for you to create such a huge commotion. Please be quiet; mordioux!”
“Are you the governor?” the king inquired again.
“Are you the governor?” the king asked again.
He heard a door on the corridor close; the jailer had just left, not condescending to reply a single word. When the king had assured himself of his departure, his fury knew no longer any bounds. As agile as a tiger, he leaped from the table to the window, and struck the iron bars with all his might. He broke a pane of glass, the pieces of which fell clanking into the courtyard below. He shouted with increasing hoarseness, “The governor, the governor!” This excess lasted fully an hour, during which time he was in a burning fever. With his hair in disorder and matted on his forehead, his dress torn and covered with dust and plaster, his linen in shreds, the king never rested until his strength was utterly exhausted, and it was not until then that he clearly understood the pitiless thickness of the walls, the impenetrable nature of the cement, invincible to every influence but that of time, and that he possessed no other weapon but despair. He leaned his forehead against the door, and let the feverish throbbings of his heart calm by degrees; it had seemed as if one single additional pulsation would have made it burst.
He heard a door close in the corridor; the jailer had just left, not bothering to say a word. Once the king was sure he was gone, his anger knew no limits. Agile as a tiger, he jumped from the table to the window and slammed his fists against the iron bars with all his strength. He broke a pane of glass, and the shards clattered down into the courtyard below. He shouted hoarsely, “The governor, the governor!” This outburst lasted a full hour, during which he was burning with fever. With his hair disheveled and stuck to his forehead, his clothes torn and covered in dust and plaster, his shirt in tatters, the king didn't stop until he was completely drained of energy. It was only then that he fully realized the merciless thickness of the walls, the impenetrability of the cement, which was resistant to everything except time, and that his only weapon was despair. He leaned his forehead against the door and gradually let the feverish pounding of his heart settle; it felt like just one more beat could make it burst.
“A moment will come when the food which is given to the prisoners will be brought to me. I shall then see some one, I shall speak to him, and get an answer.”
“A moment will come when the food meant for the prisoners will be brought to me. At that time, I will see someone, talk to him, and receive an answer.”
And the king tried to remember at what hour the first repast of the prisoners was served at the Bastile; he was ignorant even of this detail. The feeling of remorse at this remembrance smote him like the thrust of a dagger, that he should have lived for five and twenty years a king, and in the enjoyment of every happiness, without having bestowed a moment’s thought on the misery of those who had been unjustly deprived of their liberty. The king blushed for very shame. He felt that Heaven, in permitting this fearful humiliation, did no more than render to the man the same torture as had been inflicted by that man upon so many others. Nothing could be more efficacious for reawakening his mind to religious influences than the prostration of his heart and mind and soul beneath the feeling of such acute wretchedness. But Louis dared not even kneel in prayer to God to entreat him to terminate his bitter trial.
And the king tried to remember what time the prisoners' first meal was served at the Bastille; he didn’t even know that detail. The feeling of guilt at this thought hit him like a dagger, realizing that he had spent twenty-five years as a king, enjoying every happiness, without ever thinking about the suffering of those who were unfairly deprived of their freedom. The king felt ashamed. He understood that Heaven, by allowing this awful humiliation, was giving him the same torment that he had inflicted on so many others. Nothing could better awaken his conscience to spiritual matters than the crushing weight of such intense misery. But Louis didn’t even dare to kneel in prayer to God, asking Him to end his bitter ordeal.
“Heaven is right,” he said; “Heaven acts wisely. It would be cowardly to pray to Heaven for that which I have so often refused my own fellow-creatures.”
“Heaven is right,” he said; “Heaven acts wisely. It would be cowardly to pray to Heaven for what I have so often denied my own fellow humans.”
He had reached this stage of his reflections, that is, of his agony of mind, when a similar noise was again heard behind his door, followed this time by the sound of the key in the lock, and of the bolts being withdrawn from their staples. The king bounded forward to be nearer to the person who was about to enter, but, suddenly reflecting that it was a movement unworthy of a sovereign, he paused, assumed a noble and calm expression, which for him was easy enough, and waited with his back turned towards the window, in order, to some extent, to conceal his agitation from the eyes of the person who was about to enter. It was only a jailer with a basket of provisions. The king looked at the man with restless anxiety, and waited until he spoke.
He had reached this point in his thoughts, filled with inner turmoil, when he heard a similar noise behind his door again, followed this time by the sound of the key turning in the lock and the bolts being pulled back. The king stepped forward to get closer to the person coming in, but suddenly realizing this was not how a sovereign should act, he paused, adopted a dignified and calm expression, which was fairly easy for him, and waited with his back to the window to somewhat hide his anxiety from the person entering. It turned out to be just a jailer with a basket of food. The king looked at the man with restless worry, waiting for him to speak.
“Ah!” said the latter, “you have broken your chair. I said you had done so! Why, you have gone quite mad.”
“Ah!” said the latter, “you’ve broken your chair. I told you that you would! Honestly, you’ve completely lost it.”
“Monsieur,” said the king, “be careful what you say; it will be a very serious affair for you.”
“Monsieur,” said the king, “be careful what you say; this could become a serious matter for you.”
The jailer placed the basket on the table, and looked at his prisoner steadily. “What do you say?” he said.
The jailer set the basket down on the table and stared at his prisoner intently. “What do you have to say?” he asked.
“Desire the governor to come to me,” added the king, in accents full of calm and dignity.
“Ask the governor to come to me,” the king added, his voice calm and dignified.
“Come, my boy,” said the turnkey, “you have always been very quiet and reasonable, but you are getting vicious, it seems, and I wish you to know it in time. You have broken your chair, and made a great disturbance; that is an offense punishable by imprisonment in one of the lower dungeons. Promise me not to begin over again, and I will not say a word about it to the governor.”
“Come here, kid,” said the guard, “you’ve always been calm and reasonable, but it looks like you're starting to act out, and I want you to be aware of it before it's too late. You broke your chair and caused quite a scene; that’s something you could get locked up for in one of the lower dungeons. Promise me you won’t start this again, and I won’t mention it to the governor.”
“I wish to see the governor,” replied the king, still governing his passions.
“I want to see the governor,” replied the king, still controlling his emotions.
“He will send you off to one of the dungeons, I tell you; so take care.”
“He'll send you off to one of the dungeons, I'm telling you; so be careful.”
“I insist upon it, do you hear?”
“I’m insisting on it, do you hear me?”
“Ah! ah! your eyes are becoming wild again. Very good! I shall take away your knife.”
“Ah! ah! your eyes are getting wild again. Alright! I’m going to take your knife away.”
And the jailer did what he said, quitted the prisoner, and closed the door, leaving the king more astounded, more wretched, more isolated than ever. It was useless, though he tried it, to make the same noise again on his door, and equally useless that he threw the plates and dishes out of the window; not a single sound was heard in recognition. Two hours afterwards he could not be recognized as a king, a gentleman, a man, a human being; he might rather be called a madman, tearing the door with his nails, trying to tear up the flooring of his cell, and uttering such wild and fearful cries that the old Bastile seemed to tremble to its very foundations for having revolted against its master. As for the governor, the jailer did not even think of disturbing him; the turnkeys and the sentinels had reported the occurrence to him, but what was the good of it? Were not these madmen common enough in such a prison? and were not the walls still stronger? M. de Baisemeaux, thoroughly impressed with what Aramis had told him, and in perfect conformity with the king’s order, hoped only that one thing might happen; namely, that the madman Marchiali might be mad enough to hang himself to the canopy of his bed, or to one of the bars of the window. In fact, the prisoner was anything but a profitable investment for M. Baisemeaux, and became more annoying than agreeable to him. These complications of Seldon and Marchiali—the complications first of setting at liberty and then imprisoning again, the complications arising from the strong likeness in question—had at last found a very proper denouement. Baisemeaux even thought he had remarked that D’Herblay himself was not altogether dissatisfied with the result.
And the jailer did what he was told, released the prisoner, and locked the door, leaving the king more shocked, more miserable, more isolated than ever. It was pointless, even though he tried, to make noise again on his door, and just as pointless to throw the plates and dishes out of the window; not a single sound came back. Two hours later, he could no longer be recognized as a king, a gentleman, a man, or even a human being; he might as well have been called a madman, clawing at the door with his nails, trying to rip up the floor of his cell, and letting out such wild and terrifying screams that the old Bastille seemed to shudder to its very foundations for having defied its master. As for the governor, the jailer didn't even consider bothering him; the guards and sentinels had reported the incident, but what good was that? Were madmen not common enough in such a prison? And were the walls not even stronger? M. de Baisemeaux, deeply impacted by what Aramis had told him and fully aligned with the king’s order, could only hope for one thing: that the madman Marchiali would be crazy enough to hang himself from the canopy of his bed or from one of the window bars. In fact, the prisoner was anything but a useful asset for M. Baisemeaux, becoming more of a nuisance than a help to him. The complications of Seldon and Marchiali—the complications of first releasing and then re-imprisoning, and the issues arising from the striking resemblance—had finally reached an appropriate denouement. Baisemeaux even thought he noticed that D’Herblay himself was not entirely unhappy with the outcome.
“And then, really,” said Baisemeaux to his next in command, “an ordinary prisoner is already unhappy enough in being a prisoner; he suffers quite enough, indeed, to induce one to hope, charitably enough, that his death may not be far distant. With still greater reason, accordingly, when the prisoner has gone mad, and might bite and make a terrible disturbance in the Bastile; why, in such a case, it is not simply an act of mere charity to wish him dead; it would be almost a good and even commendable action, quietly to have him put out of his misery.”
“And then, really,” said Baisemeaux to his second-in-command, “an ordinary prisoner is already pretty miserable just being locked up; he suffers enough that it makes you hope, out of kindness, that his death isn't too far off. Even more so when the prisoner has gone insane and might lash out and create a huge scene in the Bastille; in that case, it's not just an act of compassion to wish for his death; it might actually be a good and even admirable thing to quietly relieve him of his suffering.”
And the good-natured governor thereupon sat down to his late breakfast.
And the easygoing governor then sat down to his late breakfast.
Chapter XIX. The Shadow of M. Fouquet.
D’Artagnan, still confused and oppressed by the conversation he had just had with the king, could not resist asking himself if he were really in possession of his senses, if he were really and truly at Vaux; if he, D’Artagnan, were really the captain of the musketeers, and M. Fouquet the owner of the chateau in which Louis XIV. was at that moment partaking of his hospitality. These reflections were not those of a drunken man, although everything was in prodigal profusion at Vaux, and the surintendant’s wines had met with a distinguished reception at the fete. The Gascon, however, was a man of calm self-possession; and no sooner did he touch his bright steel blade, than he knew how to adopt morally the cold, keen weapon as his guide of action.
D’Artagnan, still confused and weighed down by his conversation with the king, couldn't help but wonder if he was really in control of his senses, if he was truly at Vaux; if he, D’Artagnan, was actually the captain of the musketeers, and if M. Fouquet was indeed the owner of the chateau where Louis XIV. was currently enjoying his hospitality. These thoughts didn’t come from a drunk person, even though everything at Vaux was lavish, and the superintendent’s wines had been well received at the fete. The Gascon, however, was a man of steady composure; and as soon as he touched his shiny steel blade, he knew how to morally let the cold, sharp weapon guide his actions.
“Well,” he said, as he quitted the royal apartment, “I seem now to be mixed up historically with the destinies of the king and of the minister; it will be written, that M. d’Artagnan, a younger son of a Gascon family, placed his hand on the shoulder of M. Nicolas Fouquet, the surintendant of the finances of France. My descendants, if I have any, will flatter themselves with the distinction which this arrest will confer, just as the members of the De Luynes family have done with regard to the estates of the poor Marechal d’Ancre. But the thing is, how best to execute the king’s directions in a proper manner. Any man would know how to say to M. Fouquet, ‘Your sword, monsieur.’ But it is not every one who would be able to take care of M. Fouquet without others knowing anything about it. How am I to manage, then, so that M. le surintendant pass from the height of favor to the direst disgrace; that Vaux be turned into a dungeon for him; that after having been steeped to his lips, as it were, in all the perfumes and incense of Ahasuerus, he is transferred to the gallows of Haman; in other words, of Enguerrand de Marigny?” And at this reflection, D’Artagnan’s brow became clouded with perplexity. The musketeer had certain scruples on the matter, it must be admitted. To deliver up to death (for not a doubt existed that Louis hated Fouquet mortally) the man who had just shown himself so delightful and charming a host in every way, was a real insult to one’s conscience. “It almost seems,” said D’Artagnan to himself, “that if I am not a poor, mean, miserable fellow, I should let M. Fouquet know the opinion the king has about him. Yet, if I betray my master’s secret, I shall be a false-hearted, treacherous knave, a traitor, too, a crime provided for and punishable by military laws—so much so, indeed, that twenty times, in former days when wars were rife, I have seen many a miserable fellow strung up to a tree for doing, in but a small degree, what my scruples counsel me to undertake upon a great scale now. No, I think that a man of true readiness of wit ought to get out of this difficulty with more skill than that. And now, let us admit that I do possess a little readiness of invention; it is not at all certain, though, for, after having for forty years absorbed so large a quantity, I shall be lucky if there were to be a pistole’s-worth left.” D’Artagnan buried his head in his hands, tore at his mustache in sheer vexation, and added, “What can be the reason of M. Fouquet’s disgrace? There seem to be three good ones: the first, because M. Colbert doesn’t like him; the second, because he wished to fall in love with Mademoiselle de la Valliere; and lastly, because the king likes M. Colbert and loves Mademoiselle de la Valliere. Oh! he is lost! But shall I put my foot on his neck, I, of all men, when he is falling a prey to the intrigues of a pack of women and clerks? For shame! If he be dangerous, I will lay him low enough; if, however, he be only persecuted, I will look on. I have come to such a decisive determination, that neither king nor living man shall change my mind. If Athos were here, he would do as I have done. Therefore, instead of going, in cold blood, up to M. Fouquet, and arresting him off-hand and shutting him up altogether, I will try and conduct myself like a man who understands what good manners are. People will talk about it, of course; but they shall talk well of it, I am determined.” And D’Artagnan, drawing by a gesture peculiar to himself his shoulder-belt over his shoulder, went straight off to M. Fouquet, who, after he had taken leave of his guests, was preparing to retire for the night and to sleep tranquilly after the triumphs of the day. The air was still perfumed, or infected, whichever way it may be considered, with the odors of the torches and the fireworks. The wax-lights were dying away in their sockets, the flowers fell unfastened from the garlands, the groups of dancers and courtiers were separating in the salons. Surrounded by his friends, who complimented him and received his flattering remarks in return, the surintendant half-closed his wearied eyes. He longed for rest and quiet; he sank upon the bed of laurels which had been heaped up for him for so many days past; it might almost have been said that he seemed bowed beneath the weight of the new debts which he had incurred for the purpose of giving the greatest possible honor to this fete. Fouquet had just retired to his room, still smiling, but more than half-asleep. He could listen to nothing more, he could hardly keep his eyes open; his bed seemed to possess a fascinating and irresistible attraction for him. The god Morpheus, the presiding deity of the dome painted by Lebrun, had extended his influence over the adjoining rooms, and showered down his most sleep-inducing poppies upon the master of the house. Fouquet, almost entirely alone, was being assisted by his valet de chambre to undress, when M. d’Artagnan appeared at the entrance of the room. D’Artagnan had never been able to succeed in making himself common at the court; and notwithstanding he was seen everywhere and on all occasions, he never failed to produce an effect wherever and whenever he made his appearance. Such is the happy privilege of certain natures, which in that respect resemble either thunder or lightning; every one recognizes them; but their appearance never fails to arouse surprise and astonishment, and whenever they occur, the impression is always left that the last was the most conspicuous or most important.
“Well,” he said as he left the royal apartment, “I now seem to be historically linked to the fates of the king and the minister; it will be recorded that M. d’Artagnan, a younger son of a Gascon family, placed his hand on the shoulder of M. Nicolas Fouquet, the financial superintendent of France. My descendants, if I have any, will take pride in the distinction that this arrest will bring them, just like the members of the De Luynes family have done regarding the estates of the unfortunate Marechal d’Ancre. But the question is how best to carry out the king’s orders properly. Anyone could easily say to M. Fouquet, ‘Your sword, sir.’ But it’s not everyone who could ensure that M. Fouquet is taken care of without others finding out. How am I supposed to manage it so that M. le surintendant goes from being in high favor to the utmost disgrace; that Vaux becomes a prison for him; that after being surrounded by all the lavish comforts, he is transferred to the gallows of Haman; in other words, Enguerrand de Marigny?” As he reflected on this, D’Artagnan’s brow furrowed in confusion. The musketeer had some scruples regarding the matter, it must be admitted. Turning over to Death (since there was no doubt that Louis hated Fouquet), the man who had just been such a delightful and charming host in every way felt like a real affront to one’s conscience. “It almost seems,” said D’Artagnan to himself, “that if I’m not a poor, mean-spirited worm, I should let M. Fouquet know the king’s opinion of him. Yet if I betray my master’s secret, I’ll be a false-hearted, treacherous scoundrel, a traitor too, which is a crime punishable by military law—so much so that I’ve seen many a miserable soul hanged for doing something but a fraction of what my scruples are telling me to do on a larger scale now. No, I think a truly quick-witted man should be able to navigate this situation with more skill. And let’s admit that I do have a bit of creativity; however, after forty years of soaking up so much, it’s likely that there’s barely a pistole’s worth left.” D’Artagnan buried his head in his hands, tugged at his mustache in frustration, and added, “What could be the reason for M. Fouquet’s disgrace? There seem to be three solid reasons: the first, that M. Colbert dislikes him; the second, that he dared to fall for Mademoiselle de la Vallière; and lastly, that the king likes M. Colbert and loves Mademoiselle de la Vallière. Oh! He’s doomed! But should I, of all people, step on his neck while he’s being swept away by the intrigues of a group of women and clerks? For shame! If he’s dangerous, I’ll take him down; if he’s merely persecuted, I’ll stand back. I’m so set in this decision that neither king nor any living man will change my mind. If Athos were here, he would do exactly what I have decided. So instead of coldly walking up to M. Fouquet and arresting him then and there, I’ll conduct myself like a man who understands the importance of good manners. People will talk about it, of course; but I’m determined that they shall speak well of it.” And D’Artagnan, adjusting his shoulder-belt with a distinctive gesture, headed straight to M. Fouquet, who, after saying goodbye to his guests, was getting ready to retire for the night and rest peacefully after the day’s triumphs. The air was still scented, or perhaps tainted, depending on one’s perspective, with the smells of torches and fireworks. The wax candles were flickering down in their holders, the flowers were falling from the garlands, and the dancers and courtiers were dispersing from the salons. Surrounded by friends who praised him and returned his flattering comments, the superintendent half-closed his tired eyes. He craved rest and quiet; he sank onto the bed of laurels that had been piled up for him for so many days; it could almost be said that he seemed weighed down by the new debts he had incurred to honor this celebration. Fouquet had just retreated to his room, still smiling but more than half-asleep. He could listen to nothing more; he could barely keep his eyes open; his bed had an irresistible allure. The god Morpheus, the deity depicted in the dome painted by Lebrun, had spread his influence into the adjoining rooms, showering his most sleep-inducing poppies upon the master of the house. Fouquet, nearly alone, was being helped by his valet to get undressed when M. d’Artagnan appeared at the doorway. D’Artagnan had never quite managed to make himself ordinary at court; and although he was seen everywhere and at all times, he never failed to make an impression whenever he showed up. Such is the fortunate privilege of certain characters, which in that regard resemble either thunder or lightning; everyone recognizes them, but their arrival always brings about surprise and wonder, and whenever they appear, the impression is always left that the last one was the most memorable or important.
“What! M. d’Artagnan?” said Fouquet, who had already taken his right arm out of the sleeve of his doublet.
“What! M. d’Artagnan?” said Fouquet, who had already taken his right arm out of the sleeve of his jacket.
“At your service,” replied the musketeer.
“At your service,” replied the musketeer.
“Come in, my dear M. d’Artagnan.”
“Come in, my dear M. d’Artagnan.”
“Thank you.”
“Thanks.”
“Have you come to criticise the fete? You are ingenious enough in your criticisms, I know.”
“Have you come to criticize the fete? I know you're clever enough with your critiques.”
“By no means.”
“Not at all.”
“Are not your men looked after properly?”
“Are your men not being taken care of properly?”
“In every way.”
"In every possible way."
“You are not comfortably lodged, perhaps?”
“You're not settling in comfortably, are you?”
“Nothing could be better.”
"Nothing can beat this."
“In that case, I have to thank you for being so amiably disposed, and I must not fail to express my obligations to you for all your flattering kindness.”
“In that case, I have to thank you for being so friendly, and I can’t forget to express my gratitude for all your generous kindness.”
These words were as much as to say, “My dear D’Artagnan, pray go to bed, since you have a bed to lie down on, and let me do the same.”
These words meant, “My dear D’Artagnan, please go to bed since you have a bed to sleep in, and let me do the same.”
D’Artagnan did not seem to understand it.
D’Artagnan didn’t seem to get it.
“Are you going to bed already?” he said to the superintendent.
“Are you heading to bed already?” he asked the superintendent.
“Yes; have you anything to say to me?”
“Yeah; do you have something to say to me?”
“Nothing, monsieur, nothing at all. You sleep in this room, then?”
“Nothing, sir, nothing at all. Do you sleep in this room, then?”
“Yes; as you see.”
“Yes, as you can see.”
“You have given a most charming fete to the king.”
“You have thrown a really lovely party for the king.”
“Do you think so?”
"Do you really think so?"
“Oh! beautiful!”
“Wow! Beautiful!”
“Is the king pleased?”
“Is the king happy?”
“Enchanted.”
"Magical."
“Did he desire you to say as much to me?”
“Did he want you to tell me that?”
“He would not choose so unworthy a messenger, monseigneur.”
“He wouldn’t pick such an unworthy messenger, sir.”
“You do not do yourself justice, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“You're not giving yourself enough credit, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“Is that your bed, there?”
“Is that your bed?”
“Yes; but why do you ask? Are you not satisfied with your own?”
“Yes; but why do you ask? Aren't you happy with your own?”
“My I speak frankly to you?”
“Can I be honest with you?”
“Most assuredly.”
"Definitely."
“Well, then, I am not.”
"Well, I'm not."
Fouquet started; and then replied, “Will you take my room, Monsieur d’Artagnan?”
Fouquet jumped and then answered, “Will you take my room, Monsieur d’Artagnan?”
“What! deprive you of it, monseigneur? never!”
“What! Take that away from you, sir? Never!”
“What am I to do, then?”
"What should I do next?"
“Allow me to share yours with you.”
“Let me share yours with you.”
Fouquet looked at the musketeer fixedly. “Ah! ah!” he said, “you have just left the king.”
Fouquet stared at the musketeer. “Ah! ah!” he said, “you just saw the king.”
“I have, monseigneur.”
"I have, sir."
“And the king wishes you to pass the night in my room?”
“And the king wants you to spend the night in my room?”
“Monseigneur—”
“Your Excellency—”
“Very well, Monsieur d’Artagnan, very well. You are the master here.”
“Alright, Monsieur d’Artagnan, alright. You’re in charge here.”
“I assure you, monseigneur, that I do not wish to abuse—”
“I promise you, my lord, that I don’t intend to misuse—”
Fouquet turned to his valet, and said, “Leave us.” When the man had left, he said to D’Artagnan, “You have something to say to me?”
Fouquet turned to his valet and said, “Leave us.” Once the man was gone, he said to D’Artagnan, “Do you have something to tell me?”
“I?”
“Me?”
“A man of your superior intelligence cannot have come to talk with a man like myself, at such an hour as the present, without grave motives.”
“A man as smart as you wouldn’t come to talk to someone like me at this hour without serious reasons.”
“Do not interrogate me.”
“Don’t interrogate me.”
“On the contrary. What do you want with me?”
“On the contrary. What do you want from me?”
“Nothing more than the pleasure of your society.”
“Just the joy of your company.”
“Come into the garden, then,” said the superintendent suddenly, “or into the park.”
“Come into the garden, then,” the superintendent said suddenly, “or into the park.”
“No,” replied the musketeer, hastily, “no.”
“No,” the musketeer replied quickly, “no.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“The fresh air—”
“Fresh air—”
“Come, admit at once that you arrest me,” said the superintendent to the captain.
“Come on, just admit that you're arresting me,” said the superintendent to the captain.
“Never!” said the latter.
"Never!" said the latter.
“You intend to look after me, then?”
“You plan to take care of me, then?”
“Yes, monseigneur, I do, upon my honor.”
“Yes, sir, I do, I swear.”
“Upon your honor—ah! that is quite another thing! So I am to be arrested in my own house.”
“On your honor—oh! that changes everything! So I’m going to be arrested in my own home.”
“Do not say such a thing.”
"Don't say that."
“On the contrary, I will proclaim it aloud.”
“On the contrary, I will say it out loud.”
“If you do so, I shall be compelled to request you to be silent.”
“If you do that, I’ll have to ask you to be quiet.”
“Very good! Violence towards me, and in my own house, too.”
“That's just great! Violence against me, and right in my own home, too.”
“We do not seem to understand one another at all. Stay a moment; there is a chess-board there; we will have a game, if you have no objections.”
“We don’t seem to understand each other at all. Hold on a minute; there’s a chessboard over there; let’s play a game if you don’t mind.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan, I am in disgrace, then?”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan, so I’m in trouble, then?”
“Not at all; but—”
"Not at all; but—"
“I am prohibited, I suppose, from withdrawing from your sight.”
“I guess I’m not allowed to step out of your sight.”
“I do not understand a word you are saying, monseigneur; and if you wish me to withdraw, tell me so.”
“I don’t understand anything you’re saying, sir; and if you want me to leave, just say so.”
“My dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, your mode of action is enough to drive me mad; I was almost sinking for want of sleep, but you have completely awakened me.”
"My dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, the way you act is enough to drive me crazy; I was nearly drowning in fatigue, but you've fully woken me up."
“I shall never forgive myself, I am sure; and if you wish to reconcile me with myself, why, go to sleep in your bed in my presence; and I shall be delighted.”
“I’m sure I’ll never forgive myself; and if you want to help me come to terms with it, just go to sleep in your bed while I’m here, and I’ll be happy.”
“I am under surveillance, I see.”
"I see that I'm being watched."
“I will leave the room if you say any such thing.”
“I’ll leave the room if you say anything like that.”
“You are beyond my comprehension.”
"I can't understand you."
“Good night, monseigneur,” said D’Artagnan, as he pretended to withdraw.
“Good night, sir,” said D’Artagnan, as he pretended to leave.
Fouquet ran after him. “I will not lie down,” he said. “Seriously, and since you refuse to treat me as a man, and since you finesse with me, I will try and set you at bay, as a hunter does a wild boar.”
Fouquet chased after him. “I won’t back down,” he said. “Honestly, since you refuse to treat me like a person and keep playing games with me, I’ll try to corner you like a hunter does a wild boar.”
“Bah!” cried D’Artagnan, pretending to smile.
“Bah!” D’Artagnan exclaimed, faking a smile.
“I shall order my horses, and set off for Paris,” said Fouquet, sounding the captain of the musketeers.
“I’m going to get my horses ready and head off to Paris,” said Fouquet, addressing the captain of the musketeers.
“If that be the case, monseigneur, it is very difficult.”
“If that's the case, sir, it's really tough.”
“You will arrest me, then?”
“Are you going to arrest me?”
“No, but I shall go along with you.”
“No, but I’ll go with you.”
“That is quite sufficient, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” returned Fouquet, coldly. “It was not for nothing you acquired your reputation as a man of intelligence and resource; but with me all this is quite superfluous. Let us come to the point. Do me a service. Why do you arrest me? What have I done?”
“That’s more than enough, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” Fouquet replied coolly. “You didn’t gain your reputation for being smart and resourceful for nothing; however, with me, all of that is unnecessary. Let’s get to the point. Do me a favor. Why are you arresting me? What have I done?”
“Oh! I know nothing about what you may have done; but I do not arrest you—this evening, at least!”
“Oh! I don’t know anything about what you might have done; but I’m not arresting you—at least not tonight!”
“This evening!” said Fouquet, turning pale, “but to-morrow?”
“This evening!” said Fouquet, going pale, “but tomorrow?”
“It is not to-morrow just yet, monseigneur. Who can ever answer for the morrow?”
“It’s not tomorrow just yet, sir. Who can ever guarantee what tomorrow will bring?”
“Quick, quick, captain! let me speak to M. d’Herblay.”
“Quick, quick, captain! Let me talk to M. d’Herblay.”
“Alas! that is quite impossible, monseigneur. I have strict orders to see that you hold no communication with any one.”
“Unfortunately, that’s not possible, sir. I’ve been given strict orders to make sure you don’t communicate with anyone.”
“With M. d’Herblay, captain—with your friend!”
“With Mr. d’Herblay, the captain—with your friend!”
“Monseigneur, is M. d’Herblay the only person with whom you ought to be prevented holding any communication?”
“Sir, is M. d’Herblay the only person you should be stopped from communicating with?”
Fouquet colored, and then assuming an air of resignation, he said: “You are right, monsieur; you have taught me a lesson I ought not to have evoked. A fallen man cannot assert his right to anything, even from those whose fortunes he may have made; for a still stronger reason, he cannot claim anything from those to whom he may never have had the happiness of doing a service.”
Fouquet blushed, and then with a resigned expression, he said: “You’re right, sir; you’ve taught me a lesson I should never have brought up. A fallen man can't claim any rights, even from those he might have helped; even more so, he can't expect anything from those he’s never had the pleasure of assisting.”
“Monseigneur!”
"Your Excellency!"
“It is perfectly true, Monsieur d’Artagnan; you have always acted in the most admirable manner towards me—in such a manner, indeed, as most becomes the man who is destined to arrest me. You, at least, have never asked me anything.”
“It’s completely true, Monsieur d’Artagnan; you’ve always treated me in the most admirable way—in a way that really suits the man who is meant to capture me. You, at least, have never asked me for anything.”
“Monsieur,” replied the Gascon, touched by his eloquent and noble tone of grief, “will you—I ask it as a favor—pledge me your word as a man of honor that you will not leave this room?”
“Monsieur,” replied the Gascon, moved by his heartfelt and dignified tone of sorrow, “will you—I ask this as a favor—promise me as a person of honor that you won’t leave this room?”
“What is the use of it, dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, since you keep watch and ward over me? Do you suppose I should contend against the most valiant sword in the kingdom?”
“What’s the point of it, dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, since you’re always keeping an eye on me? Do you really think I would stand a chance against the bravest sword in the kingdom?”
“It is not that, at all, monseigneur; but that I am going to look for M. d’Herblay, and, consequently, to leave you alone.”
“It’s not that at all, sir; it’s just that I’m heading out to find Mr. d’Herblay, and that means I’ll be leaving you alone.”
Fouquet uttered a cry of delight and surprise.
Fouquet let out a shout of joy and shock.
“To look for M. d’Herblay! to leave me alone!” he exclaimed, clasping his hands together.
“To search for M. d’Herblay! to leave me by myself!” he shouted, putting his hands together.
“Which is M. d’Herblay’s room? The blue room is it not?”
“Which room belongs to M. d’Herblay? It’s the blue room, right?”
“Yes, my friend, yes.”
“Yes, my friend.”
“Your friend! thank you for that word, monseigneur; you confer it upon me to-day, at least, if you have never done so before.”
“Your friend! Thank you for that compliment, sir; you’re giving it to me today, at least, if you’ve never done so before.”
“Ah! you have saved me.”
“Wow! You saved me.”
“It will take a good ten minutes to go from hence to the blue room, and to return?” said D’Artagnan.
“It'll take about ten minutes to get to the blue room and back?” said D’Artagnan.
“Nearly so.”
"Almost."
“And then to wake Aramis, who sleeps very soundly, when he is asleep, I put that down at another five minutes; making a total of fifteen minutes’ absence. And now, monseigneur, give me your word that you will not in any way attempt to make your escape, and that when I return I shall find you here again.”
“And then to wake Aramis, who sleeps very deeply, when he’s asleep, I’ll add another five minutes; making it a total of fifteen minutes’ absence. And now, sir, promise me that you won’t try to escape in any way, and that when I come back, I’ll find you here again.”
“I give it, monsieur,” replied Fouquet, with an expression of the warmest and deepest gratitude.
“I give it, sir,” replied Fouquet, with a look of the warmest and deepest gratitude.
D’Artagnan disappeared. Fouquet looked at him as he quitted the room, waited with a feverish impatience until the door was closed behind him, and as soon as it was shut, flew to his keys, opened two or three secret doors concealed in various articles of furniture in the room, looked vainly for certain papers, which doubtless he had left at Saint-Mande, and which he seemed to regret not having found in them; then hurriedly seizing hold of letters, contracts, papers, writings, he heaped them up into a pile, which he burnt in the extremest haste upon the marble hearth of the fireplace, not even taking time to draw from the interior of it the vases and pots of flowers with which it was filled. As soon as he had finished, like a man who has just escaped an imminent danger, and whose strength abandons him as soon as the danger is past, he sank down, completely overcome, on a couch. When D’Artagnan returned, he found Fouquet in the same position; the worthy musketeer had not the slightest doubt that Fouquet, having given his word, would not even think of failing to keep it, but he had thought it most likely that Fouquet would turn his (D’Artagnan’s) absence to the best advantage in getting rid of all the papers, memorandums, and contracts, which might possibly render his position, which was even now serious enough, more dangerous than ever. And so, lifting up his head like a dog who has regained the scent, he perceived an odor resembling smoke he had relied on finding in the atmosphere, and having found it, made a movement of his head in token of satisfaction. As D’Artagnan entered, Fouquet, on his side, raised his head, and not one of D’Artagnan’s movements escaped him. And then the looks of the two men met, and they both saw that they had understood each other without exchanging a syllable.
D’Artagnan left the room. Fouquet watched him go, feeling anxious until the door was shut. Once it was closed, he rushed to his keys, opened a few hidden doors in the furniture, and looked for certain papers that he had likely left at Saint-Mande, clearly disappointed that he hadn’t found them. Then, grabbing letters, contracts, and other documents, he quickly piled them up and burned them in a hurry on the marble hearth, not bothering to remove the vases and pots of flowers inside. When he finished, he slumped onto a couch, exhausted, like someone who has just escaped a close call. When D’Artagnan came back, he found Fouquet in the same position. The loyal musketeer had no doubt that Fouquet would keep his word, but he suspected that Fouquet would make the most of D’Artagnan’s absence to dispose of any papers or contracts that could complicate his already precarious situation. So, lifting his head like a dog picking up a scent, he noticed a smoky odor in the air that he had anticipated, and he nodded in satisfaction. As D’Artagnan entered, Fouquet also lifted his head, noticing each of D’Artagnan’s movements. Their eyes met, and they both realized they understood each other without saying a word.
“Well!” asked Fouquet, the first to speak, “and M. d’Herblay?”
“Well!” asked Fouquet, the first to speak, “and Mr. d’Herblay?”
“Upon my word, monseigneur,” replied D’Artagnan, “M. d’Herblay must be desperately fond of walking out at night, and composing verses by moonlight in the park of Vaux, with some of your poets, in all probability, for he is not in his own room.”
“Honestly, sir,” D’Artagnan replied, “M. d’Herblay must really love going out at night and writing poetry under the moonlight in the park of Vaux, probably with some of your poets, since he’s not in his own room.”
“What! not in his own room?” cried Fouquet, whose last hope thus escaped him; for unless he could ascertain in what way the bishop of Vannes could assist him, he perfectly well knew that he could expect assistance from no other quarter.
“What! Not in his own room?” cried Fouquet, whose last hope just slipped away; because unless he could figure out how the bishop of Vannes could help him, he knew he couldn't count on support from anyone else.
“Or, indeed,” continued D’Artagnan, “if he is in his own room, he has very good reasons for not answering.”
“Or, actually,” D’Artagnan continued, “if he’s in his own room, he has pretty good reasons for not answering.”
“But surely you did not call him in such a manner that he could have heard you?”
“But you didn't really call him like that, did you?”
“You can hardly suppose, monseigneur, that having already exceeded my orders, which forbade me leaving you a single moment—you can hardly suppose, I say, that I should have been mad enough to rouse the whole house and allow myself to be seen in the corridor of the bishop of Vannes, in order that M. Colbert might state with positive certainty that I gave you time to burn your papers.”
“You can’t seriously think, my lord, that after already going against my orders, which told me not to leave your side for a second—you can’t really think, I say, that I would be foolish enough to wake up the entire house and let myself be seen in the bishop of Vannes's hallway, just so that M. Colbert could confidently claim that I gave you time to burn your papers.”
“My papers?”
"My documents?"
“Of course; at least that is what I should have done in your place. When any one opens a door for me I always avail myself of it.”
“Of course; that’s exactly what I would have done if I were in your position. Whenever someone opens a door for me, I always take advantage of it.”
“Yes, yes, and I thank you, for I have availed myself of it.”
“Yes, yes, and thank you, because I’ve made good use of it.”
“And you have done perfectly right. Every man has his own peculiar secrets with which others have nothing to do. But let us return to Aramis, monseigneur.”
“And you’ve done absolutely right. Everyone has their own unique secrets that don’t concern others. But let’s get back to Aramis, monseigneur.”
“Well, then, I tell you, you could not have called loud enough, or Aramis would have heard you.”
“Well, I’m telling you, you couldn’t have called any louder, or Aramis would have heard you.”
“However softly any one may call Aramis, monseigneur, Aramis always hears when he has an interest in hearing. I repeat what I said before—Aramis was not in his own room, or Aramis had certain reasons for not recognizing my voice, of which I am ignorant, and of which you may be even ignorant yourself, notwithstanding your liege-man is His Greatness the Lord Bishop of Vannes.”
“However softly anyone might call Aramis, my lord, Aramis always listens when he's interested. I’ll say it again—Aramis was either not in his own room, or he had specific reasons for not recognizing my voice, reasons I don’t know, and which you might not know either, despite your loyalty to His Greatness the Lord Bishop of Vannes.”
Fouquet drew a deep sigh, rose from his seat, took three or four turns in his room, and finished by seating himself, with an expression of extreme dejection, upon his magnificent bed with velvet hangings, and costliest lace. D’Artagnan looked at Fouquet with feelings of the deepest and sincerest pity.
Fouquet let out a deep sigh, got up from his seat, walked around his room a few times, and ended up sitting on his luxurious bed with velvet curtains and expensive lace, looking extremely dejected. D’Artagnan watched Fouquet with genuine and heartfelt sympathy.
“I have seen a good many men arrested in my life,” said the musketeer, sadly; “I have seen both M. de Cinq-Mars and M. de Chalais arrested, though I was very young then. I have seen M. de Conde arrested with the princes; I have seen M. de Retz arrested; I have seen M. Broussel arrested. Stay a moment, monseigneur, it is disagreeable to have to say, but the very one of all those whom you most resemble at this moment was that poor fellow Broussel. You were very near doing as he did, putting your dinner napkin in your portfolio, and wiping your mouth with your papers. Mordioux! Monseigneur Fouquet, a man like you ought not to be dejected in this manner. Suppose your friends saw you?”
“I've seen quite a few men get arrested in my life,” said the musketeer, sadly. “I saw both M. de Cinq-Mars and M. de Chalais get arrested, even though I was very young back then. I saw M. de Conde get arrested along with the princes; I saw M. de Retz get arrested; I saw M. Broussel get arrested. Just a moment, monseigneur, it's uncomfortable to say, but the one you resemble most right now is that poor guy Broussel. You were really close to doing what he did, putting your dinner napkin in your bag and wiping your mouth with your papers. Mordioux! Monseigneur Fouquet, a man like you shouldn't be feeling down like this. What if your friends saw you?”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” returned the surintendant, with a smile full of gentleness, “you do not understand me; it is precisely because my friends are not looking on, that I am as you see me now. I do not live, exist even, isolated from others; I am nothing when left to myself. Understand that throughout my whole life I have passed every moment of my time in making friends, whom I hoped to render my stay and support. In times of prosperity, all these cheerful, happy voices—rendered so through and by my means—formed in my honor a concert of praise and kindly actions. In the least disfavor, these humbler voices accompanied in harmonious accents the murmur of my own heart. Isolation I have never yet known. Poverty (a phantom I have sometimes beheld, clad in rags, awaiting me at the end of my journey through life)—poverty has been the specter with which many of my own friends have trifled for years past, which they poetize and caress, and which has attracted me towards them. Poverty! I accept it, acknowledge it, receive it, as a disinherited sister; for poverty is neither solitude, nor exile, nor imprisonment. Is it likely I shall ever be poor, with such friends as Pelisson, as La Fontaine, as Moliere? with such a mistress as—Oh! if you knew how utterly lonely and desolate I feel at this moment, and how you, who separate me from all I love, seem to resemble the image of solitude, of annihilation—death itself.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” the superintendent replied with a gentle smile, “you don’t get it; it’s exactly because my friends aren’t around that I’m like this. I don’t live, or even exist, on my own; I’m nothing by myself. Understand that throughout my life, I’ve spent every moment trying to make friends who I hoped would be my support. In good times, all those cheerful, happy voices—thanks to me—created a chorus of praise and goodwill in my honor. At the slightest hint of disfavor, those quieter voices echoed my own heart’s murmur with harmony. I’ve never truly known isolation. Poverty (a ghost I’ve sometimes seen, dressed in rags, waiting for me at the end of my life’s journey)—poverty has been the specter my friends have played with for years, romanticizing and embracing it, which has drawn me closer to them. Poverty! I accept it, acknowledge it, welcome it like a disowned sister; for poverty is neither solitude, nor exile, nor imprisonment. Do you think I’ll ever be poor, with friends like Pelisson, La Fontaine, and Moliere? With a mistress like—Oh! if you only knew how completely lonely and desolate I feel right now, and how you, who keep me from everything I love, seem to embody solitude, annihilation—death itself.”
“But I have already told you, Monsieur Fouquet,” replied D’Artagnan, moved to the depths of his soul, “that you are woefully exaggerating. The king likes you.”
“But I’ve already told you, Monsieur Fouquet,” D’Artagnan replied, deeply moved, “that you’re seriously exaggerating. The king likes you.”
“No, no,” said Fouquet, shaking his head.
“No, no,” Fouquet said, shaking his head.
“M. Colbert hates you.”
“M. Colbert dislikes you.”
“M. Colbert! What does that matter to me?”
“M. Colbert! What does that mean to me?”
“He will ruin you.”
“He’s going to ruin you.”
“Ah! I defy him to do that, for I am ruined already.”
“Ah! I challenge him to try, because I’m already ruined.”
At this singular confession of the superintendent, D’Artagnan cast his glance all round the room; and although he did not open his lips, Fouquet understood him so thoroughly, that he added: “What can be done with such wealth of substance as surrounds us, when a man can no longer cultivate his taste for the magnificent? Do you know what good the greater part of the wealth and the possessions which we rich enjoy, confer upon us? merely to disgust us, by their very splendor even, with everything which does not equal it! Vaux! you will say, and the wonders of Vaux! What of it? What boot these wonders? If I am ruined, how shall I fill with water the urns which my Naiads bear in their arms, or force the air into the lungs of my Tritons? To be rich enough, Monsieur d’Artagnan, a man must be too rich.”
At this unexpected confession from the superintendent, D’Artagnan looked around the room; and although he didn’t say anything, Fouquet understood him so well that he added: “What can we do with all this wealth surrounding us, when a man can no longer appreciate the finer things in life? Do you know what most of the wealth and possessions we rich people have do for us? They just make us sick of everything that doesn’t compare! Vaux! you might say, and the wonders of Vaux! But so what? What good are these wonders? If I end up ruined, how will I fill the urns that my Naiads hold, or give breath to the lungs of my Tritons? To truly be wealthy, Monsieur d’Artagnan, a man has to be incredibly rich.”
D’Artagnan shook his head.
D'Artagnan shook his head.
“Oh! I know very well what you think,” replied Fouquet, quickly. “If Vaux were yours, you would sell it, and would purchase an estate in the country; an estate which should have woods, orchards, and land attached, so that the estate should be made to support its master. With forty millions you might—”
“Oh! I know exactly what you’re thinking,” Fouquet replied quickly. “If Vaux were yours, you would sell it and buy a country estate; one that would have woods, orchards, and land, so that the estate could provide for its owner. With forty million, you could—”
“Ten millions,” interrupted D’Artagnan.
"Ten million," interrupted D’Artagnan.
“Not a million, my dear captain. No one in France is rich enough to give two millions for Vaux, and to continue to maintain it as I have done; no one could do it, no one would know how.”
“Not a million, my dear captain. No one in France is wealthy enough to pay two million for Vaux and keep it up like I have; no one could do it, no one would know how.”
“Well,” said D’Artagnan, “in any case, a million is not abject misery.”
“Well,” said D’Artagnan, “either way, a million isn't complete poverty.”
“It is not far from it, my dear monsieur. But you do not understand me. No; I will not sell my residence at Vaux; I will give it to you, if you like;” and Fouquet accompanied these words with a movement of the shoulders to which it would be impossible to do justice.
“It’s not that far off, my dear sir. But you don’t get me. No; I won’t sell my place at Vaux; I’ll give it to you if you want,” and Fouquet emphasized his words with a gesture that’s hard to describe accurately.
“Give it to the king; you will make a better bargain.”
“Give it to the king; you’ll get a better deal.”
“The king does not require me to give it to him,” said Fouquet; “he will take it away from me with the most absolute ease and grace, if it pleases him to do so; and that is the very reason I should prefer to see it perish. Do you know, Monsieur d’Artagnan, that if the king did not happen to be under my roof, I would take this candle, go straight to the dome, and set fire to a couple of huge chests of fusees and fireworks which are in reserve there, and would reduce my palace to ashes.”
“The king doesn’t need me to give it to him,” said Fouquet. “He could easily and gracefully take it from me if he wanted to, and that’s exactly why I’d rather see it destroyed. You know, Monsieur d’Artagnan, if the king weren’t staying under my roof, I would grab this candle, head straight to the dome, and light a couple of huge chests of fireworks stored there, just to turn my palace into ashes.”
“Bah!” said the musketeer, negligently. “At all events, you would not be able to burn the gardens, and that is the finest feature of the place.”
“Bah!” said the musketeer, casually. “Regardless, you wouldn’t be able to set the gardens on fire, and that’s the most beautiful part of the place.”
“And yet,” resumed Fouquet, thoughtfully, “what was I saying? Great heavens! burn Vaux! destroy my palace! But Vaux is not mine; these wonderful creations are, it is true, the property, as far as sense of enjoyment goes, of the man who has paid for them; but as far as duration is concerned, they belong to those who created them. Vaux belongs to Lebrun, to Lenotre, to Pelisson, to Levau, to La Fontaine, to Moliere; Vaux belongs to posterity, in fact. You see, Monsieur d’Artagnan, that my very house has ceased to be my own.”
“And yet,” Fouquet continued, thinking deeply, “what was I saying? Good heavens! Burn Vaux! Destroy my palace! But Vaux isn't actually mine; these amazing creations do belong to the person who paid for them when it comes to enjoyment, but as for how long they last, they belong to those who made them. Vaux belongs to Lebrun, to Lenotre, to Pelisson, to Levau, to La Fontaine, to Moliere; Vaux actually belongs to future generations. You see, Monsieur d’Artagnan, my very own house has stopped being mine.”
“That is all well and good,” said D’Artagnan; “the idea is agreeable enough, and I recognize M. Fouquet himself in it. That idea, indeed, makes me forget that poor fellow Broussel altogether; and I now fail to recognize in you the whining complaints of that old Frondeur. If you are ruined, monsieur, look at the affair manfully, for you too, mordioux! belong to posterity, and have no right to lessen yourself in any way. Stay a moment; look at me, I who seem to exercise in some degree a kind of superiority over you, because I am arresting you; fate, which distributes their different parts to the comedians of this world, accorded me a less agreeable and less advantageous part to fill than yours has been. I am one of those who think that the parts which kings and powerful nobles are called upon to act are infinitely of more worth than the parts of beggars or lackeys. It is far better on the stage—on the stage, I mean, of another theater than the theater of this world—it is far better to wear a fine coat and to talk a fine language, than to walk the boards shod with a pair of old shoes, or to get one’s backbone gently polished by a hearty dressing with a stick. In one word, you have been a prodigal with money, you have ordered and been obeyed—have been steeped to the lips in enjoyment; while I have dragged my tether after me, have been commanded and have obeyed, and have drudged my life away. Well, although I may seem of such trifling importance beside you, monseigneur, I do declare to you, that the recollection of what I have done serves me as a spur, and prevents me from bowing my old head too soon. I shall remain unto the very end a trooper; and when my turn comes, I shall fall perfectly straight, all in a heap, still alive, after having selected my place beforehand. Do as I do, Monsieur Fouquet, you will not find yourself the worse for it; a fall happens only once in a lifetime to men like yourself, and the chief thing is, to take it gracefully when the chance presents itself. There is a Latin proverb—the words have escaped me, but I remember the sense of it very well, for I have thought over it more than once—which says, ‘The end crowns the work!’”
“That’s all well and good,” said D’Artagnan. “The idea is nice enough, and I can see M. Fouquet himself in it. That idea really makes me forget about that poor guy Broussel completely; now I can’t even see the whiny complaints of that old Frondeur in you. If you’re ruined, monsieur, face it with courage, because you too, mordioux! belong to history and shouldn’t diminish yourself in any way. Wait a moment; look at me. I may seem to have a bit of an advantage over you since I’m the one arresting you; but fate, which assigns different roles to the players in this world, gave me a less pleasant and less advantageous role than yours. I’m one of those who believe that the roles kings and powerful nobles play are far more valuable than those of beggars or lackeys. It’s much better on stage—in a different theater than this world—to wear a fine coat and speak finely than to walk around in old shoes or to get your back beaten with a stick. In short, you’ve been extravagant with money; you’ve given orders and been obeyed—you’ve enjoyed life to the fullest—while I’ve dragged my burdens behind me, been commanded, obeyed, and worked my life away. Well, even if I seem less important compared to you, monseigneur, I assure you that my memories spur me on and keep me from bowing my head too soon. I’ll remain a soldier until the end; and when my time comes, I’ll fall straight down, all in a heap, still alive, after having chosen my place beforehand. Do as I do, Monsieur Fouquet, and you won’t regret it; a fall only happens once in a lifetime for men like you, and the key thing is to take it gracefully when the chance comes. There’s a Latin proverb—the words escape me, but I remember the meaning very well since I’ve thought about it more than once—that says, ‘The end crowns the work!’”
Fouquet rose from his seat, passed his arm round D’Artagnan’s neck, and clasped him in a close embrace, whilst with the other hand he pressed his hand. “An excellent homily,” he said, after a moment’s pause.
Fouquet stood up, put his arm around D’Artagnan’s shoulders, and hugged him tightly, while with his other hand he squeezed his hand. “That was a great speech,” he said after a brief pause.
“A soldier’s, monseigneur.”
"A soldier's, sir."
“You have a regard for me, in telling me all that.”
"You care about me to share all of that."
“Perhaps.”
"Maybe."
Fouquet resumed his pensive attitude once more, and then, a moment after, he said: “Where can M. d’Herblay be? I dare not ask you to send for him.”
Fouquet fell back into his thoughtful mood again, and then, a moment later, he said: “Where could M. d’Herblay be? I can't bring myself to ask you to call for him.”
“You would not ask me, because I would not do it, Monsieur Fouquet. People would learn it, and Aramis, who is not mixed up with the affair, might possibly be compromised and included in your disgrace.”
“You wouldn’t ask me to do that, Monsieur Fouquet, because I wouldn't do it. People would find out, and Aramis, who isn’t involved in this, could end up being dragged into your disgrace.”
“I will wait here till daylight,” said Fouquet.
“I’ll wait here until morning,” said Fouquet.
“Yes; that is best.”
"Yes, that's the best."
“What shall we do when daylight comes?”
"What should we do when the sun comes up?"
“I know nothing at all about it, monseigneur.”
“I don’t know anything about it at all, sir.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan, will you do me a favor?”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan, could you do me a favor?”
“Most willingly.”
"Most definitely."
“You guard me, I remain; you are acting in the full discharge of your duty, I suppose?”
“You’re watching over me, I’m staying; I guess you’re doing your job as expected?”
“Certainly.”
“Of course.”
“Very good, then; remain as close to me as my shadow if you like; and I infinitely prefer such a shadow to any one else.”
“Alright, then; stay as close to me as my shadow if you want; I much prefer that kind of shadow to anyone else.”
D’Artagnan bowed to the compliment.
D’Artagnan accepted the compliment.
“But, forget that you are Monsieur d’Artagnan, captain of the musketeers; forget that I am Monsieur Fouquet, surintendant of the finances; and let us talk about my affairs.”
“But forget that you’re Monsieur d’Artagnan, captain of the musketeers; forget that I’m Monsieur Fouquet, superintendent of finances; and let’s talk about my business.”
“That is rather a delicate subject.”
"That's a pretty touchy topic."
“Indeed?”
"Seriously?"
“Yes; but, for your sake, Monsieur Fouquet, I will do what may almost be regarded as an impossibility.”
“Yes; but for your sake, Mr. Fouquet, I will do what can almost be seen as impossible.”
“Thank you. What did the king say to you?”
“Thank you. What did the king tell you?”
“Nothing.”
"Nothing."
“Ah! is that the way you talk?”
“Wow! Is that how you speak?”
“The deuce!”
“What the heck!”
“What do you think of my situation?”
“What do you think about my situation?”
“I do not know.”
"I don't know."
“However, unless you have some ill feeling against me—”
“However, unless you have some bad feelings toward me—”
“Your position is a difficult one.”
“Your situation is challenging.”
“In what respect?”
"In what way?"
“Because you are under your own roof.”
“Because you’re in your own home.”
“However difficult it may be, I understand it very well.”
“Even though it might be tough, I completely understand it.”
“Do you suppose that, with any one else but yourself, I should have shown so much frankness?”
“Do you think that I would have been so open with anyone else but you?”
“What! so much frankness, do you say? you, who refuse to tell me the slightest thing?”
“What! So much honesty, you say? You, who won’t tell me the smallest thing?”
“At all events, then, so much ceremony and consideration.”
“At any rate, that's a lot of fuss and thoughtfulness.”
“Ah! I have nothing to say in that respect.”
“Ah! I have nothing to say about that.”
“One moment, monseigneur: let me tell you how I should have behaved towards any one but yourself. It might be that I happened to arrive at your door just as your guests or your friends had left you—or, if they had not gone yet, I should wait until they were leaving, and should then catch them one after the other, like rabbits; I should lock them up quietly enough, I should steal softly along the carpet of your corridor, and with one hand upon you, before you suspected the slightest thing amiss, I should keep you safely until my master’s breakfast in the morning. In this way, I should just the same have avoided all publicity, all disturbance, all opposition; but there would also have been no warning for M. Fouquet, no consideration for his feelings, none of those delicate concessions which are shown by persons who are essentially courteous in their natures, whenever the decisive moment may arrive. Are you satisfied with the plan?”
“One moment, sir: let me explain how I would have acted toward anyone else but you. It could be that I arrived at your door just as your guests or friends were leaving—or, if they weren’t gone yet, I would wait until they were on their way out, and then I would catch them one by one, like rabbits. I would quietly lock them up, sneak along your hallway, and with one hand on you, before you even sensed something was off, I would keep you safe until my boss’s breakfast in the morning. This way, I would have avoided all publicity, all disturbances, all opposition; but there also wouldn’t have been any warning for M. Fouquet, no consideration for his feelings, none of those thoughtful gestures that polite people show when the critical moment comes. Are you okay with the plan?”
“It makes me shudder.”
“It gives me chills.”
“I thought you would not like it. It would have been very disagreeable to have made my appearance to-morrow, without any preparation, and to have asked you to deliver up your sword.”
“I thought you wouldn’t like it. It would have been really uncomfortable to show up tomorrow without any preparation and to have asked you to hand over your sword.”
“Oh! monsieur, I should have died of shame and anger.”
“Oh! Sir, I would have died of shame and anger.”
“Your gratitude is too eloquently expressed. I have not done enough to deserve it, I assure you.”
“Thank you for your kind words. I really haven’t done enough to earn it, I promise.”
“Most certainly, monsieur, you will never get me to believe that.”
“Most definitely, sir, you will never convince me of that.”
“Well, then, monseigneur, if you are satisfied with what I have done, and have somewhat recovered from the shock which I prepared you for as much as I possibly could, let us allow the few hours that remain to pass away undisturbed. You are harassed, and should arrange your thoughts; I beg you, therefore, go to sleep, or pretend to go to sleep, either on your bed, or in your bed; I will sleep in this armchair; and when I fall asleep, my rest is so sound that a cannon would not wake me.”
“Well, then, your grace, if you're happy with what I've done and have somewhat recovered from the shock I tried to prepare you for as much as I could, let's let the few hours we have left go by peacefully. You’re stressed and need to collect your thoughts; so, please, either get some sleep or at least pretend to sleep, whether it’s on your bed or in your bed. I’ll nap in this armchair; and when I do fall asleep, my rest is so deep that even a cannon wouldn't wake me.”
Fouquet smiled. “I expect, however,” continued the musketeer, “the case of a door being opened, whether a secret door, or any other; or the case of any one going out of, or coming into, the room—for anything like that my ear is as quick and sensitive as the ear of a mouse. Creaking noises make me start. It arises, I suppose, from a natural antipathy to anything of the kind. Move about as much as you like; walk up and down in any part of the room, write, efface, destroy, burn,—nothing like that will prevent me from going to sleep or even prevent me from snoring, but do not touch either the key or the handle of the door, for I should start up in a moment, and that would shake my nerves and make me ill.”
Fouquet smiled. “But I expect,” the musketeer continued, “if a door opens, whether it's a secret door or not; or if someone goes out of or comes into the room—my ears are as sharp and sensitive as a mouse's. Creaking noises make me jump. I guess it comes from a natural dislike for that kind of thing. Feel free to move around as much as you want; walk back and forth in any part of the room, write, erase, destroy, burn—none of that will stop me from falling asleep or even from snoring, but don’t touch the key or the door handle, because I would wake up instantly, and that would rattle my nerves and make me sick.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Fouquet, “you are certainly the most witty and the most courteous man I ever met with; and you will leave me only one regret, that of having made your acquaintance so late.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Fouquet, “you are definitely the wittiest and most courteous person I’ve ever met; and I’ll only have one regret, which is that I got to know you so late.”
D’Artagnan drew a deep sigh, which seemed to say, “Alas! you have perhaps made it too soon.” He then settled himself in his armchair, while Fouquet, half lying on his bed and leaning on his arm, was meditating on his misadventures. In this way, both of them, leaving the candles burning, awaited the first dawn of the day; and when Fouquet happened to sigh too loudly, D’Artagnan only snored the louder. Not a single visit, not even from Aramis, disturbed their quietude: not a sound even was heard throughout the whole vast palace. Outside, however, the guards of honor on duty, and the patrol of musketeers, paced up and down; and the sound of their feet could be heard on the gravel walks. It seemed to act as an additional soporific for the sleepers, while the murmuring of the wind through the trees, and the unceasing music of the fountains whose waters tumbled in the basin, still went on uninterruptedly, without being disturbed at the slight noises and items of little moment that constitute the life and death of human nature.
D’Artagnan let out a deep sigh that seemed to say, “Oh no! Maybe it was too soon for this.” He then settled into his armchair, while Fouquet, half lying on his bed and propped up on his arm, pondered over his troubles. In this way, both of them, leaving the candles burning, waited for the first light of day; and when Fouquet happened to sigh a bit too loudly, D’Artagnan simply snored even louder. Not a single visitor, not even from Aramis, interrupted their peace: there wasn’t a sound in the entire vast palace. Outside, however, the guard on duty and the patrol of musketeers paced back and forth, their footsteps echoing on the gravel paths. This seemed to further lull the sleepers into slumber, while the wind rustled through the trees and the constant sound of the fountains splashing in their basins continued uninterrupted, unnoticed by the small noises and everyday happenings that make up the rhythm of human life.
Chapter XX. The Morning.
In vivid contrast to the sad and terrible destiny of the king imprisoned in the Bastile, and tearing, in sheer despair, the bolts and bars of his dungeon, the rhetoric of the chroniclers of old would not fail to present, as a complete antithesis, the picture of Philippe lying asleep beneath the royal canopy. We do not pretend to say that such rhetoric is always bad, and always scatters, in places where they have no right to grow, the flowers with which it embellishes and enlivens history. But we shall, on the present occasion, carefully avoid polishing the antithesis in question, but shall proceed to draw another picture as minutely as possible, to serve as foil and counterfoil to the one in the preceding chapter. The young prince alighted from Aramis’s room, in the same way the king had descended from the apartment dedicated to Morpheus. The dome gradually and slowly sank down under Aramis’s pressure, and Philippe stood beside the royal bed, which had ascended again after having deposited its prisoner in the secret depths of the subterranean passage. Alone, in the presence of all the luxury which surrounded him; alone, in the presence of his power; alone, with the part he was about to be forced to act, Philippe for the first time felt his heart, and mind, and soul expand beneath the influence of a thousand mutable emotions, which are the vital throbs of a king’s heart. He could not help changing color when he looked upon the empty bed, still tumbled by his brother’s body. This mute accomplice had returned, after having completed the work it had been destined to perform; it returned with the traces of the crime; it spoke to the guilty author of that crime, with the frank and unreserved language which an accomplice never fears to use in the company of his companion in guilt; for it spoke the truth. Philippe bent over the bed, and perceived a pocket-handkerchief lying on it, which was still damp from the cold sweat which had poured from Louis XIV.‘s face. This sweat-bestained handkerchief terrified Philippe, as the gore of Abel frightened Cain.
In stark contrast to the sad and terrible fate of the king trapped in the Bastille, desperately tearing at the bolts and bars of his prison, the old storytellers would surely portray Philippe peacefully asleep beneath the royal canopy as a complete opposite. We don’t claim that such storytelling is always bad or that it unfairly sprinkles flowers in places where they shouldn’t grow, embellishing and enlivening history. But this time, we’ll purposefully avoid perfecting the contrast in question and instead present another scene as vividly as possible to serve as a counterpoint to the one in the previous chapter. The young prince came out of Aramis’s room just as the king had descended from the chamber dedicated to Morpheus. The dome gradually sank down under Aramis’s pressure, and Philippe stood next to the royal bed, which had risen again after having placed its prisoner into the hidden depths of the underground passage. Alone, surrounded by all the luxury around him; alone, in the presence of his power; alone, with the role he was about to be forced to play, Philippe for the first time felt his heart, mind, and soul expand under the weight of a thousand shifting emotions—the vital beats of a king’s heart. He couldn’t help but change color when he looked at the empty bed, still rumpled from his brother’s body. This silent accomplice had returned after fulfilling its intended role; it came back bearing the signs of the crime; it spoke to the guilty perpetrator with the straightforward and candid language that an accomplice never hesitates to use in the presence of their fellow wrongdoer, for it spoke the truth. Philippe leaned over the bed and noticed a handkerchief lying there, still damp from the cold sweat that had dripped from Louis XIV’s face. This sweat-stained handkerchief terrified Philippe, just as Abel’s blood had frightened Cain.
“I am face to face with my destiny,” said Philippe, his eyes on fire, and his face a livid white. “Is it likely to be more terrifying than my captivity has been sad and gloomy? Though I am compelled to follow out, at every moment, the sovereign power and authority I have usurped, shall I cease to listen to the scruples of my heart? Yes! the king has lain on this bed; it is indeed his head that has left its impression on this pillow; his bitter tears that have stained this handkerchief: and yet, I hesitate to throw myself on the bed, or to press in my hand the handkerchief which is embroidered with my brother’s arms. Away with such weakness; let me imitate M. d’Herblay, who asserts that a man’s action should be always one degree above his thoughts; let me imitate M. d’Herblay, whose thoughts are of and for himself alone, who regards himself as a man of honor, so long as he injures or betrays his enemies only. I, I alone, should have occupied this bed, if Louis XIV. had not, owing to my mother’s criminal abandonment, stood in my way; and this handkerchief, embroidered with the arms of France, would in right and justice belong to me alone, if, as M. d’Herblay observes, I had been left my royal cradle. Philippe, son of France, take your place on that bed; Philippe, sole king of France, resume the blazonry that is yours! Philippe, sole heir presumptive to Louis XIII., your father, show yourself without pity or mercy for the usurper who, at this moment, has not even to suffer the agony of the remorse of all that you have had to submit to.”
“I’m staring down my destiny,” said Philippe, his eyes blazing and his face pale. “Can it be more terrifying than the sadness and gloom of my imprisonment? Even though I must always follow the power and authority I’ve taken, will I stop listening to the doubts in my heart? Yes! The king has lay on this bed; it’s truly his head that has left its mark on this pillow; his bitter tears have stained this handkerchief. And yet, I hesitate to throw myself on the bed or to hold this handkerchief that’s embroidered with my brother’s arms. Enough of this weakness; I should follow M. d’Herblay's example, who claims that a person's actions should always be one step ahead of their thoughts; let me imitate M. d’Herblay, whose thoughts are only for himself, who considers himself a man of honor as long as he hurts or betrays his enemies. I alone should have claimed this bed if Louis XIV hadn’t been in my way because of my mother’s cruel abandonment; and this handkerchief, with the arms of France, should rightfully belong to me alone if, as M. d’Herblay says, I had been left in my royal cradle. Philippe, son of France, take your place on that bed; Philippe, sole king of France, reclaim your rightful insignia! Philippe, the only heir presumptive to Louis XIII, your father, show no pity or mercy for the usurper who, right now, doesn’t even have to endure the torment of the remorse you’ve had to bear.”
With these words, Philippe, notwithstanding an instinctive repugnance of feeling, and in spite of the shudder of terror which mastered his will, threw himself on the royal bed, and forced his muscles to press the still warm place where Louis XIV. had lain, while he buried his burning face in the handkerchief still moistened by his brother’s tears. With his head thrown back and buried in the soft down of his pillow, Philippe perceived above him the crown of France, suspended, as we have stated, by angels with outspread golden wings.
With these words, Philippe, despite an instinctive feeling of disgust and the wave of fear that took over his will, threw himself onto the royal bed and made himself press against the still warm spot where Louis XIV. had just been, burying his burning face in the handkerchief still damp from his brother’s tears. With his head thrown back and sunk into the soft down of his pillow, Philippe saw above him the crown of France, hanging as we mentioned, from angels with their golden wings spread wide.
A man may be ambitious of lying in a lion’s den, but can hardly hope to sleep there quietly. Philippe listened attentively to every sound; his heart panted and throbbed at the very suspicion of approaching terror and misfortune; but confident in his own strength, which was confirmed by the force of an overpoweringly resolute determination, he waited until some decisive circumstance should permit him to judge for himself. He hoped that imminent danger might be revealed to him, like those phosphoric lights of the tempest which show the sailors the altitude of the waves against which they have to struggle. But nothing approached. Silence, that mortal enemy of restless hearts, and of ambitious minds, shrouded in the thickness of its gloom during the remainder of the night the future king of France, who lay there sheltered beneath his stolen crown. Towards the morning a shadow, rather than a body, glided into the royal chamber; Philippe expected his approach and neither expressed nor exhibited any surprise.
A man might dream of lying in a lion’s den, but he certainly can’t expect to sleep there peacefully. Philippe listened closely to every sound; his heart raced at the mere thought of impending danger and disaster. Yet, confident in his own strength, reinforced by a powerful determination, he waited for a decisive moment that would allow him to assess the situation himself. He hoped that any imminent danger would be revealed to him, like the phosphorescent lights in a storm that show sailors the height of the waves they have to confront. But nothing came. Silence, the deadly enemy of restless hearts and ambitious minds, enveloped the future king of France in its thick gloom for the rest of the night as he lay there beneath his stolen crown. Toward morning, a shadow, rather than a body, crept into the royal chamber; Philippe anticipated it and showed neither surprise nor reaction.
“Well, M. d’Herblay?”
"Well, M. d’Herblay?"
“Well, sire, all is accomplished.”
“Well, your majesty, all done.”
“How?”
“How?”
“Exactly as we expected.”
“Just as we expected.”
“Did he resist?”
“Did he fight back?”
“Terribly! tears and entreaties.”
"Awful! Tears and pleas."
“And then?”
“What's next?”
“A perfect stupor.”
"A perfect daze."
“But at last?”
"But finally?"
“Oh! at last, a complete victory, and absolute silence.”
“Oh! Finally, a total victory and complete silence.”
“Did the governor of the Bastile suspect anything?”
“Did the governor of the Bastille suspect anything?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing.”
“The resemblance, however—”
“The likeness, however—”
“Was the cause of the success.”
“Was the reason for the success.”
“But the prisoner cannot fail to explain himself. Think well of that. I have myself been able to do as much as that, on former occasion.”
“But the prisoner has to explain himself. Keep that in mind. I've been able to do the same in the past.”
“I have already provided for every chance. In a few days, sooner if necessary, we will take the captive out of his prison, and will send him out of the country, to a place of exile so remote—”
“I have already prepared for every possibility. In a few days, or sooner if needed, we will take the prisoner out of his cell and send him out of the country, to a place of exile so far away—”
“People can return from their exile, Monsieur d’Herblay.”
“People can come back from their exile, Mr. d’Herblay.”
“To a place of exile so distant, I was going to say, that human strength and the duration of human life would not be enough for his return.”
“To a place of exile so far away, I was going to say, that human strength and the length of a human life wouldn’t be enough for his return.”
Once more a cold look of intelligence passed between Aramis and the young king.
Once again, a cold glance of understanding passed between Aramis and the young king.
“And M. du Vallon?” asked Philippe in order to change the conversation.
“And M. du Vallon?” Philippe asked to switch topics.
“He will be presented to you to-day, and confidentially will congratulate you on the danger which that conspirator has made you run.”
“He will be introduced to you today and will privately congratulate you on the risk that the conspirator has put you in.”
“What is to be done with him?”
“What should we do with him?”
“With M. du Vallon?”
"With M. du Vallon?"
“Yes; confer a dukedom on him, I suppose.”
“Yeah; I guess you could give him a dukedom.”
“A dukedom,” replied Aramis, smiling in a significant manner.
“A dukedom,” Aramis replied, smiling meaningfully.
“Why do you laugh, Monsieur d’Herblay?”
“Why are you laughing, Monsieur d’Herblay?”
“I laugh at the extreme caution of your idea.”
“I find your idea's extreme caution amusing.”
“Cautious, why so?”
“Why so cautious?”
“Your majesty is doubtless afraid that poor Porthos may possible become a troublesome witness, and you wish to get rid of him.”
“Your majesty is probably worried that poor Porthos could become a troublesome witness, and you want to get rid of him.”
“What! in making him a duke?”
“What! Making him a duke?”
“Certainly; you would assuredly kill him, for he would die from joy, and the secret would die with him.”
“Of course; you would definitely kill him, because he would die from happiness, and the secret would die with him.”
“Good heavens!”
“Wow!”
“Yes,” said Aramis, phlegmatically; “I should lose a very good friend.”
"Yeah," said Aramis calmly, "I'd be losing a really good friend."
At this moment, and in the middle of this idle conversation, under the light tone of which the two conspirators concealed their joy and pride at their mutual success, Aramis heard something which made him prick up his ears.
At this moment, in the midst of this casual conversation, under the lightheartedness with which the two conspirators hid their joy and pride at their mutual success, Aramis heard something that made him perk up his ears.
“What is that?” said Philippe.
“What’s that?” said Philippe.
“The dawn, sire.”
“The sunrise, sir.”
“Well?”
"What's up?"
“Well, before you retired to bed last night, you probably decided to do something this morning at break of day.”
“Well, before you went to bed last night, you probably planned to do something this morning at daybreak.”
“Yes, I told my captain of the musketeers,” replied the young man hurriedly, “that I should expect him.”
“Yes, I told my captain of the musketeers,” the young man replied quickly, “that I would be waiting for him.”
“If you told him that, he will certainly be here, for he is a most punctual man.”
“If you told him that, he’ll definitely be here, because he’s very punctual.”
“I hear a step in the vestibule.”
“I hear a sound in the entryway.”
“It must be he.”
“It must be him.”
“Come, let us begin the attack,” said the young king resolutely.
“Come on, let’s start the attack,” said the young king with determination.
“Be cautious for Heaven’s sake. To begin the attack, and with D’Artagnan, would be madness. D’Artagnan knows nothing, he has seen nothing; he is a hundred miles from suspecting our mystery in the slightest degree, but if he comes into this room the first this morning, he will be sure to detect something of what has taken place, and which he would imagine it his business to occupy himself about. Before we allow D’Artagnan to penetrate into this room, we must air the room thoroughly, or introduce so many people into it, that the keenest scent in the whole kingdom may be deceived by the traces of twenty different persons.”
“Be careful, for Heaven's sake. Starting the attack with D’Artagnan would be crazy. He knows nothing; he hasn’t seen anything. He’s a hundred miles away from even suspecting our secret. But if he comes into this room first thing this morning, he’s bound to notice something about what happened, and he’ll feel like it’s his responsibility to investigate. Before we let D’Artagnan come into this room, we need to air it out completely or bring in so many people that even the sharpest nose in the kingdom would be thrown off by the scents of twenty different individuals.”
“But how can I send him away, since I have given him a rendezvous?” observed the prince, impatient to measure swords with so redoubtable an antagonist.
“But how can I send him away, since I’ve arranged to meet him?” the prince said, eager to face off against such a formidable opponent.
“I will take care of that,” replied the bishop, “and in order to begin, I am going to strike a blow which will completely stupefy our man.”
“I’ll handle that,” replied the bishop, “and to start, I’m going to make a move that will completely shock our guy.”
“He, too, is striking a blow, for I hear him at the door,” added the prince, hurriedly.
“He’s making a move too, because I can hear him at the door,” the prince added quickly.
And, in fact, a knock at the door was heard at that moment. Aramis was not mistaken; for it was indeed D’Artagnan who adopted that mode of announcing himself.
And, in fact, a knock on the door was heard at that moment. Aramis was not wrong; it was indeed D’Artagnan who chose to announce himself that way.
We have seen how he passed the night in philosophizing with M. Fouquet, but the musketeer was very weary even of feigning to fall asleep, and as soon as earliest dawn illumined with its gloomy gleams of light the sumptuous cornices of the superintendent’s room, D’Artagnan rose from his armchair, arranged his sword, brushed his coat and hat with his sleeve, like a private soldier getting ready for inspection.
We saw how he spent the night talking philosophy with M. Fouquet, but the musketeer was tired even of pretending to sleep. As soon as the first light of dawn cast its dim glow on the lavish details of the superintendent’s room, D’Artagnan got up from his armchair, adjusted his sword, and brushed off his coat and hat with his sleeve, just like a soldier preparing for inspection.
“Are you going out?” said Fouquet.
“Are you heading out?” said Fouquet.
“Yes, monseigneur. And you?”
“Yes, sir. And you?”
“I shall remain.”
"I'm staying."
“You pledge your word?”
“Do you give your word?”
“Certainly.”
"Sure."
“Very good. Besides, my only reason for going out is to try and get that reply,—you know what I mean?”
“Very good. Besides, my only reason for going out is to try and get that reply—you know what I mean?”
“That sentence, you mean—”
"Are you referring to that sentence?"
“Stay, I have something of the old Roman in me. This morning, when I got up, I remarked that my sword had got caught in one of the aiguillettes, and that my shoulder-belt had slipped quite off. That is an infallible sign.”
“Wait, I have a bit of the old Roman spirit in me. This morning, when I woke up, I noticed that my sword had gotten caught in one of the aiguillettes, and that my shoulder belt had completely slipped off. That’s a sure sign.”
“Of prosperity?”
"About prosperity?"
“Yes, be sure of it; for every time that that confounded belt of mine stuck fast to my back, it always signified a punishment from M. de Treville, or a refusal of money by M. de Mazarin. Every time my sword hung fast to my shoulder-belt, it always predicted some disagreeable commission or another for me to execute, and I have had showers of them all my life through. Every time, too, my sword danced about in its sheath, a duel, fortunate in its result, was sure to follow: whenever it dangled about the calves of my legs, it signified a slight wound; every time it fell completely out of the scabbard, I was booked, and made up my mind that I should have to remain on the field of battle, with two or three months under surgical bandages into the bargain.”
“Yes, I'm sure of it; every time that annoying belt of mine got stuck to my back, it always meant a punishment from M. de Treville or a money refusal from M. de Mazarin. Every time my sword got caught in my shoulder-belt, it always meant I had some unpleasant task assigned to me, and I've had a ton of those throughout my life. Also, every time my sword rattled in its sheath, it meant I was sure to get into a duel that would end well; whenever it hung low at my legs, it meant I’d get a minor wound; and every time it completely fell out of the scabbard, I knew I was in for it, and I’d have to prepare to stay on the battlefield for two or three months with bandages.”
“I did not know your sword kept you so well informed,” said Fouquet, with a faint smile, which showed how he was struggling against his own weakness. “Is your sword bewitched, or under the influence of some imperial charm?”
“I didn’t know your sword kept you so well informed,” said Fouquet with a faint smile, revealing how he was fighting against his own weakness. “Is your sword enchanted, or influenced by some imperial charm?”
“Why, you must know that my sword may almost be regarded as part of my own body. I have heard that certain men seem to have warnings given them by feeling something the matter with their legs, or a throbbing of their temples. With me, it is my sword that warns me. Well, it told me of nothing this morning. But, stay a moment—look here, it has just fallen of its own accord into the last hole of the belt. Do you know what that is a warning of?”
“Why, you should know that my sword is almost like a part of me. I've heard that some guys get a sense something's wrong by feeling it in their legs or a pulsing in their temples. For me, it's my sword that gives me the heads up. Well, it didn't warn me of anything this morning. But wait a second—look, it just dropped right into the last hole of my belt on its own. Do you know what that means?”
“No.”
“Nope.”
“Well, that tells me of an arrest that will have to be made this very day.”
“Well, that indicates an arrest that needs to happen today.”
“Well,” said the surintendant, more astonished than annoyed by this frankness, “if there is nothing disagreeable predicted to you by your sword, I am to conclude that it is not disagreeable for you to arrest me.”
“Well,” said the superintendent, more surprised than irritated by this honesty, “if your sword doesn’t foresee anything unpleasant for you, I guess I can assume that it’s not a problem for you to arrest me.”
“You! arrest you!”
“You! arrest you!”
“Of course. The warning—”
“Of course. The alert—”
“Does not concern you, since you have been arrested ever since yesterday. It is not you I shall have to arrest, be assured of that. That is the reason why I am delighted, and also the reason why I said that my day will be a happy one.”
“Doesn’t concern you, since you’ve been arrested since yesterday. It’s not you I’ll have to arrest, just so you know. That’s why I’m pleased, and also why I said my day will be a good one.”
And with these words, pronounced with the most affectionate graciousness of manner, the captain took leave of Fouquet in order to wait upon the king. He was on the point of leaving the room, when Fouquet said to him, “One last mark of kindness.”
And with those words, said with the warmest charm, the captain bid farewell to Fouquet to go see the king. He was about to leave the room when Fouquet called out to him, “Just one last favor.”
“What is it, monseigneur?”
"What is it, sir?"
“M. d’Herblay; let me see Monsieur d’Herblay.”
“M. d’Herblay; let me see Mr. d’Herblay.”
“I am going to try and get him to come to you.”
“I’m going to try to get him to come to you.”
D’Artagnan did not think himself so good a prophet. It was written that the day would pass away and realize all the predictions that had been made in the morning. He had accordingly knocked, as we have seen, at the king’s door. The door opened. The captain thought that it was the king who had just opened it himself; and this supposition was not altogether inadmissible, considering the state of agitation in which he had left Louis XIV. the previous evening; but instead of his royal master, whom he was on the point of saluting with the greatest respect, he perceived the long, calm features of Aramis. So extreme was his surprise that he could hardly refrain from uttering a loud exclamation. “Aramis!” he said.
D’Artagnan didn’t consider himself to be that good at predicting the future. It was said that the day would end up fulfilling all the predictions made that morning. As we’ve seen, he had knocked on the king’s door. The door opened. The captain thought it was the king who had just opened it himself, which wasn’t a crazy assumption given the state of agitation he had seen Louis XIV in the night before; but instead of his royal master, whom he was about to greet with great respect, he saw the long, calm face of Aramis. He was so shocked that he could barely hold back a loud exclamation. “Aramis!” he said.
“Good morning, dear D’Artagnan,” replied the prelate, coldly.
“Good morning, dear D’Artagnan,” the prelate replied, coldly.
“You here!” stammered out the musketeer.
“You're here!” stuttered the musketeer.
“His majesty desires you to report that he is still sleeping, after having been greatly fatigued during the whole night.”
“His majesty wants you to report that he is still sleeping, after being very tired all night.”
“Ah!” said D’Artagnan, who could not understand how the bishop of Vannes, who had been so indifferent a favorite the previous evening, had become in half a dozen hours the most magnificent mushroom of fortune that had ever sprung up in a sovereign’s bedroom. In fact, to transmit the orders of the king even to the mere threshold of that monarch’s room, to serve as an intermediary of Louis XIV. so as to be able to give a single order in his name at a couple paces from him, he must have become more than Richelieu had ever been to Louis XIII. D’Artagnan’s expressive eye, half-opened lips, his curling mustache, said as much indeed in the plainest language to the chief favorite, who remained calm and perfectly unmoved.
“Ah!” said D’Artagnan, who couldn't believe how the bishop of Vannes, who had seemed like such a minor favorite the night before, had turned into the most remarkable stroke of luck that had ever appeared in a monarch’s bedroom in just a few hours. To convey the king's orders even to the very entrance of the monarch’s room, to act as Louis XIV.'s intermediary so that he could give just one command in his name just a few steps away, the bishop must have become more important than Richelieu ever was to Louis XIII. D’Artagnan's expressive eyes, slightly parted lips, and curled mustache conveyed this quite clearly to the chief favorite, who stayed calm and completely unaffected.
“Moreover,” continued the bishop, “you will be good enough, monsieur le capitaine des mousquetaires, to allow those only to pass into the king’s room this morning who have special permission. His majesty does not wish to be disturbed just yet.”
“Also,” the bishop continued, “you will kindly allow only those with special permission to enter the king’s room this morning, Captain of the Musketeers. His majesty doesn't want to be disturbed just yet.”
“But,” objected D’Artagnan, almost on the point of refusing to obey this order, and particularly of giving unrestrained passage to the suspicions which the king’s silence had aroused—“but, monsieur l’eveque, his majesty gave me a rendezvous for this morning.”
“But,” D’Artagnan protested, nearly refusing to follow this order, especially since the king’s silence had raised so many suspicions—“but, sir, the king set up a meeting for me this morning.”
“Later, later,” said the king’s voice, from the bottom of the alcove; a voice which made a cold shudder pass through the musketeer’s veins. He bowed, amazed, confused, and stupefied by the smile with which Aramis seemed to overwhelm him, as soon as these words had been pronounced.
“Later, later,” said the king's voice from the bottom of the alcove; a voice that sent a cold shiver through the musketeer’s veins. He bowed, amazed, confused, and stunned by the smile that Aramis seemed to flood him with as soon as those words were spoken.
“And then,” continued the bishop, “as an answer to what you were coming to ask the king, my dear D’Artagnan, here is an order of his majesty, which you will be good enough to attend to forthwith, for it concerns M. Fouquet.”
“And then,” the bishop continued, “in response to what you were going to ask the king, my dear D’Artagnan, here is an order from his majesty, which I’d like you to attend to immediately, since it involves M. Fouquet.”
D’Artagnan took the order which was held out to him. “To be set at liberty!” he murmured. “Ah!” and he uttered a second “ah!” still more full of intelligence than the former; for this order explained Aramis’s presence with the king, and that Aramis, in order to have obtained Fouquet’s pardon, must have made considerable progress in the royal favor, and that this favor explained, in its tenor, the hardly conceivable assurance with which M. d’Herblay issued the order in the king’s name. For D’Artagnan it was quite sufficient to have understood something of the matter in hand to order to understand the rest. He bowed and withdrew a couple of paces, as though he were about to leave.
D’Artagnan took the order that was handed to him. “To be set free!” he murmured. “Ah!” Then he let out another “ah!” even more insightful than the first; this order clarified Aramis’s presence with the king, and that Aramis, to have secured Fouquet’s pardon, must have gained significant favor with the king, which in turn explained the astonishing confidence with which M. d’Herblay delivered the order in the king’s name. For D’Artagnan, grasping part of the situation was enough to understand the rest. He bowed and stepped back a couple of paces, as if he were about to leave.
“I am going with you,” said the bishop.
“I’m going with you,” said the bishop.
“Where to?”
“Where to now?”
“To M. Fouquet; I wish to be a witness of his delight.”
“To M. Fouquet; I want to see him happy.”
“Ah! Aramis, how you puzzled me just now!” said D’Artagnan again.
“Wow! Aramis, you really confused me just now!” said D’Artagnan again.
“But you understand now, I suppose?”
"But you get it now, right?"
“Of course I understand,” he said aloud; but added in a low tone to himself, almost hissing the words between his teeth, “No, no, I do not understand yet. But it is all the same, for here is the order for it.” And then he added, “I will lead the way, monseigneur,” and he conducted Aramis to Fouquet’s apartments.
“Of course I get it,” he said out loud; but then added in a low voice to himself, almost hissing the words between his teeth, “No, no, I don’t get it yet. But it doesn’t matter, because here’s the order for it.” And then he said, “I’ll lead the way, sir,” and he took Aramis to Fouquet’s apartments.
Chapter XXI. The King’s Friend.
Fouquet was waiting with anxiety; he had already sent away many of his servants and friends, who, anticipating the usual hour of his ordinary receptions, had called at his door to inquire after him. Preserving the utmost silence respecting the danger which hung suspended by a hair above his head, he only asked them, as he did every one, indeed, who came to the door, where Aramis was. When he saw D’Artagnan return, and when he perceived the bishop of Vannes behind him, he could hardly restrain his delight; it was fully equal to his previous uneasiness. The mere sight of Aramis was a complete compensation to the surintendant for the unhappiness he had undergone in his arrest. The prelate was silent and grave; D’Artagnan completely bewildered by such an accumulation of events.
Fouquet was anxiously waiting; he had already sent away many of his servants and friends, who, expecting the usual time for his regular receptions, had stopped by his place to check on him. Keeping silent about the danger that loomed over him, he asked everyone who came to the door where Aramis was. When he saw D’Artagnan return, and noticed the bishop of Vannes behind him, he could hardly hide his joy; it matched his earlier anxiety. Just seeing Aramis made up for all the distress he had felt during his arrest. The bishop was quiet and serious; D’Artagnan was completely stunned by the turn of events.
“Well, captain, so you have brought M. d’Herblay to me.”
“Well, captain, so you’ve brought M. d’Herblay to me.”
“And something better still, monseigneur.”
"And something even better, sir."
“What is that?”
"What’s that?"
“Liberty.”
"Freedom."
“I am free!”
“I’m free!”
“Yes; by the king’s order.”
“Yep; by the king’s order.”
Fouquet resumed his usual serenity, that he might interrogate Aramis with a look.
Fouquet settled back into his usual calm so he could question Aramis with a glance.
“Oh! yes, you can thank M. l’eveque de Vannes,” pursued D’Artagnan, “for it is indeed to him that you owe the change that has taken place in the king.”
“Oh! yes, you can thank M. l’eveque de Vannes,” D’Artagnan continued, “because it’s really him that you should credit for the change in the king.”
“Oh!” said Fouquet, more humiliated at the service than grateful at its success.
“Oh!” said Fouquet, feeling more embarrassed by the service than thankful for its success.
“But you,” continued D’Artagnan, addressing Aramis—“you, who have become M. Fouquet’s protector and patron, can you not do something for me?”
“But you,” D’Artagnan continued, speaking to Aramis—“you, who have become M. Fouquet’s protector and supporter, can’t you do something for me?”
“Anything in the wide world you like, my friend,” replied the bishop, in his calmest tones.
“Anything in the whole world you want, my friend,” replied the bishop, in his calmest voice.
“One thing only, then, and I shall be perfectly satisfied. How on earth did you manage to become the favorite of the king, you who have never spoken to him more than twice in your life?”
“One thing only, then, and I will be completely satisfied. How in the world did you manage to become the king’s favorite when you’ve only spoken to him twice in your life?”
“From a friend such as you are,” said Aramis, “I cannot conceal anything.”
“From a friend like you,” said Aramis, “I can’t hide anything.”
“Ah! very good, tell me, then.”
“Ah! very good, tell me, then.”
“Very well. You think that I have seen the king only twice, whilst the fact is I have seen him more than a hundred times; only we have kept it very secret, that is all.” And without trying to remove the color which at this revelation made D’Artagnan’s face flush scarlet, Aramis turned towards M. Fouquet, who was as much surprised as the musketeer. “Monseigneur,” he resumed, “the king desires me to inform you that he is more than ever your friend, and that your beautiful fete, so generously offered by you on his behalf, has touched him to the very heart.”
“Alright. You think I’ve only seen the king twice, but the truth is I’ve seen him over a hundred times; we’ve just kept it very secret, that’s all.” Without trying to hide the fact that D’Artagnan’s face turned bright red at this revelation, Aramis turned to M. Fouquet, who looked just as shocked as the musketeer. “Monseigneur,” he continued, “the king wants me to let you know that he is more than ever your friend, and that your beautiful fete, so generously offered by you on his behalf, has truly touched his heart.”
And thereupon he saluted M. Fouquet with so much reverence of manner, that the latter, incapable of understanding a man whose diplomacy was of so prodigious a character, remained incapable of uttering a single syllable, and equally incapable of thought or movement. D’Artagnan fancied he perceived that these two men had something to say to each other, and he was about to yield to that feeling of instinctive politeness which in such a case hurries a man towards the door, when he feels his presence is an inconvenience for others; but his eager curiosity, spurred on by so many mysteries, counseled him to remain.
And then he greeted M. Fouquet with such deep respect that Fouquet, unable to understand a man with such extraordinary diplomacy, couldn’t manage to say a single word, nor could he think or move. D’Artagnan thought he saw that these two men needed to talk to each other, and he was about to follow that instinctive politeness that makes you want to leave when you sense you’re in the way of others; but his intense curiosity, fueled by so many mysteries, urged him to stay.
Aramis thereupon turned towards him, and said, in a quiet tone, “You will not forget, my friend, the king’s order respecting those whom he intends to receive this morning on rising.” These words were clear enough, and the musketeer understood them; he therefore bowed to Fouquet, and then to Aramis,—to the latter with a slight admixture of ironical respect,—and disappeared.
Aramis then turned to him and said in a low voice, “Don’t forget, my friend, the king’s orders about those he plans to see this morning when he gets up.” The message was straightforward, and the musketeer got it; so he nodded to Fouquet and then to Aramis—with a hint of sarcastic respect—and left.
No sooner had he left, than Fouquet, whose impatience had hardly been able to wait for that moment, darted towards the door to close it, and then returning to the bishop, he said, “My dear D’Herblay, I think it now high time you should explain all that has passed, for, in plain and honest truth, I do not understand anything.”
No sooner had he left than Fouquet, whose impatience could barely wait for that moment, rushed to the door to close it. Then, returning to the bishop, he said, “My dear D’Herblay, I think it’s time you explain everything that’s happened because, honestly, I don't understand anything.”
“We will explain all that to you,” said Aramis, sitting down, and making Fouquet sit down also. “Where shall I begin?”
“We'll explain everything to you,” Aramis said, taking a seat and motioning for Fouquet to sit down as well. “Where should I start?”
“With this first of all. Why does the king set me at liberty?”
“With this first of all. Why does the king set me free?”
“You ought rather to ask me what his reason was for having you arrested.”
“You should really ask me why he had you arrested.”
“Since my arrest, I have had time to think over it, and my idea is that it arises out of some slight feeling of jealousy. My fete put M. Colbert out of temper, and M. Colbert discovered some cause of complaint against me; Belle-Isle, for instance.”
“Since my arrest, I've had time to think about it, and I believe it stems from a bit of jealousy. My fete upset M. Colbert, and he found some reason to be annoyed with me; Belle-Isle, for example.”
“No; there is no question at all just now of Belle-Isle.”
“No, there’s no question about Belle-Isle right now.”
“What is it, then?”
"What is it?"
“Do you remember those receipts for thirteen millions which M. de Mazarin contrived to steal from you?”
“Do you remember those receipts for thirteen million that M. de Mazarin managed to steal from you?”
“Yes, of course!”
"Absolutely!"
“Well, you are pronounced a public robber.”
“Well, you are declared a public thief.”
“Good heavens!”
“Oh my gosh!”
“Oh! that is not all. Do you also remember that letter you wrote to La Valliere?”
“Oh! That's not all. Do you also remember that letter you wrote to La Valliere?”
“Alas! yes.”
"Yes, indeed."
“And that proclaims you a traitor and a suborner.”
“And that makes you a traitor and a conspirator.”
“Why should he have pardoned me, then?”
“Why should he have forgiven me, then?”
“We have not yet arrived at that part of our argument. I wish you to be quite convinced of the fact itself. Observe this well: the king knows you to be guilty of an appropriation of public funds. Oh! of course I know that you have done nothing of the kind; but, at all events, the king has seen the receipts, and he can do no other than believe you are incriminated.”
“We haven’t reached that part of our argument yet. I want you to be completely convinced of the fact. Pay close attention: the king knows you’re guilty of misusing public funds. Oh, I know you haven't actually done anything like that; but still, the king has seen the receipts, and he has no choice but to believe you’re involved.”
“I beg your pardon, I do not see—”
“Sorry, I don’t see—”
“You will see presently, though. The king, moreover, having read your love-letter to La Valliere, and the offers you there made her, cannot retain any doubt of your intentions with regard to that young lady; you will admit that, I suppose?”
“You’ll see soon enough. The king, having read your love letter to La Valliere and the proposals you made to her, can no longer doubt your intentions toward that young lady; you’ll agree with that, right?”
“Certainly. Pray conclude.”
"Sure. Please finish."
“In the fewest words. The king, we may henceforth assume, is your powerful, implacable, and eternal enemy.”
“In the fewest words. The king, we can now assume, is your powerful, relentless, and everlasting enemy.”
“Agreed. But am I, then, so powerful, that he has not dared to sacrifice me, notwithstanding his hatred, with all the means which my weakness, or my misfortunes, may have given him as a hold upon me?”
“Agreed. But am I really so powerful that he hasn't dared to sacrifice me, despite his hatred, with all the ways my weakness or misfortunes might give him an advantage over me?”
“It is clear, beyond all doubt,” pursued Aramis, coldly, “that the king has quarreled with you—irreconcilably.”
“It’s obvious, without a doubt,” continued Aramis,冷淡地, “that the king has had an irreconcilable falling out with you.”
“But, since he has absolved me—”
“But, since he has cleared me—”
“Do you believe it likely?” asked the bishop, with a searching look.
“Do you think it's likely?” asked the bishop, with a probing look.
“Without believing in his sincerity, I believe it in the accomplished fact.”
“Even if I don’t believe in his sincerity, I believe in the outcome.”
Aramis slightly shrugged his shoulders.
Aramis gave a small shrug.
“But why, then, should Louis XIV. have commissioned you to tell me what you have just stated?”
“But then, why would Louis XIV have asked you to tell me what you just said?”
“The king charged me with no message for you.”
“The king didn’t give me any message for you.”
“With nothing!” said the superintendent, stupefied. “But, that order—”
“With nothing!” said the superintendent, shocked. “But, that order—”
“Oh! yes. You are quite right. There is an order, certainly;” and these words were pronounced by Aramis in so strange a tone, that Fouquet could not resist starting.
“Oh! yes. You’re absolutely right. There is an order, for sure;” and Aramis said this in such a strange tone that Fouquet couldn’t help but jump.
“You are concealing something from me, I see. What is it?”
“You're hiding something from me, I can tell. What is it?”
Aramis softly rubbed his white fingers over his chin, but said nothing.
Aramis gently stroked his pale fingers along his chin, but said nothing.
“Does the king exile me?”
"Is the king exiling me?"
“Do not act as if you were playing at the game children play at when they have to try and guess where a thing has been hidden, and are informed, by a bell being rung, when they are approaching near to it, or going away from it.”
“Don’t pretend you’re playing a game like kids do when they have to figure out where something is hidden, and they get a bell ringing to tell them when they’re getting closer to it or moving away from it.”
“Speak, then.”
"Go ahead and speak."
“Guess.”
"Take a guess."
“You alarm me.”
“You're alarming me.”
“Bah! that is because you have not guessed, then.”
“Ugh! That's because you haven't figured it out, then.”
“What did the king say to you? In the name of our friendship, do not deceive me.”
“What did the king say to you? For the sake of our friendship, please don’t lie to me.”
“The king has not said one word to me.”
“The king hasn't said a single word to me.”
“You are killing me with impatience, D’Herblay. Am I still superintendent?”
“You're driving me crazy with your impatience, D’Herblay. Am I still in charge?”
“As long as you like.”
"As long as you want."
“But what extraordinary empire have you so suddenly acquired over his majesty’s mind?”
“But what incredible control have you so suddenly gained over the king’s mind?”
“Ah! that’s the point.”
"Ah! That's the key."
“He does your bidding?”
"He's doing your bidding?"
“I believe so.”
"I think so."
“It is hardly credible.”
“It’s hard to believe.”
“So any one would say.”
“Anyone would say that.”
“D’Herblay, by our alliance, by our friendship, by everything you hold dearest in the world, speak openly, I implore you. By what means have you succeeded in overcoming Louis XIV.‘s prejudices, for he did not like you, I am certain.”
“D’Herblay, by our bond, by our friendship, by everything you cherish most in the world, please speak frankly, I beg you. How did you manage to change Louis XIV's views, since I know he didn’t like you?”
“The king will like me now,” said Aramis, laying stress upon the last word.
“The king will like me now,” said Aramis, emphasizing the last word.
“You have something particular, then, between you?”
“You have something special, then, between you?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah.”
“A secret, perhaps?”
"Is it a secret?"
“A secret.”
“A secret.”
“A secret of such a nature as to change his majesty’s interests?”
“A secret that could change his majesty’s interests?”
“You are, indeed, a man of superior intelligence, monseigneur, and have made a particularly accurate guess. I have, in fact, discovered a secret, of a nature to change the interests of the king of France.”
“You’re definitely a man of exceptional intelligence, sir, and you’ve made a very accurate guess. I have, in fact, uncovered a secret that could change the interests of the king of France.”
“Ah!” said Fouquet, with the reserve of a man who does not wish to ask any more questions.
“Ah!” said Fouquet, holding back like someone who doesn’t want to ask any more questions.
“And you shall judge of it yourself,” pursued Aramis; “and you shall tell me if I am mistaken with regard to the importance of this secret.”
“And you can judge for yourself,” Aramis continued, “and you can let me know if I’m wrong about how important this secret is.”
“I am listening, since you are good enough to unbosom yourself to me; only do not forget that I have asked you about nothing which it may be indiscreet in you to communicate.”
“I’m listening, since you’re kind enough to open up to me; just don’t forget that I haven’t asked you anything that might be inappropriate for you to share.”
Aramis seemed, for a moment, as if he were collecting himself.
Aramis appeared to be gathering his thoughts for a moment.
“Do not speak!” said Fouquet: “there is still time enough.”
“Don’t talk!” said Fouquet. “There’s still plenty of time.”
“Do you remember,” said the bishop, casting down his eyes, “the birth of Louis XIV.?”
“Do you remember,” said the bishop, looking down, “the birth of Louis XIV.?”
“As if it were yesterday.”
"Like it was yesterday."
“Have you ever heard anything particular respecting his birth?”
“Have you ever heard anything specific about his birth?”
“Nothing; except that the king was not really the son of Louis XIII.”
“Nothing, except that the king wasn’t actually the son of Louis XIII.”
“That does not matter to us, or the kingdom either; he is the son of his father, says the French law, whose father is recognized by law.”
"That doesn't matter to us, or to the kingdom; he is his father's son, according to French law, which legally recognizes his father."
“True; but it is a grave matter, when the quality of races is called into question.”
"True; but it's serious when the quality of races is questioned."
“A merely secondary question, after all. So that, in fact, you have never learned or heard anything in particular?”
“A simply secondary question, after all. So, in reality, you’ve never learned or heard anything specific?”
“Nothing.”
"Nothing."
“That is where my secret begins. The queen, you must know, instead of being delivered of a son, was delivered of twins.”
“That’s where my secret starts. You should know that the queen, instead of giving birth to a son, had twins.”
Fouquet looked up suddenly as he replied:
Fouquet suddenly looked up as he replied:
“And the second is dead?”
“And the second is gone?”
“You will see. These twins seemed likely to be regarded as the pride of their mother, and the hope of France; but the weak nature of the king, his superstitious feelings, made him apprehend a series of conflicts between two children whose rights were equal; so he put out of the way—he suppressed—one of the twins.”
“You'll see. These twins seemed to be seen as the pride of their mother and the hope of France; however, the king's weak character and superstitious beliefs made him fear a series of conflicts between two children with equal rights. So he got rid of one of the twins.”
“Suppressed, do you say?”
"Suppressed, you say?"
“Have patience. Both the children grew up; the one on the throne, whose minister you are—the other, who is my friend, in gloom and isolation.”
“Be patient. Both children grew up; one is on the throne, whose minister you are—the other, who is my friend, in darkness and solitude.”
“Good heavens! What are you saying, Monsieur d’Herblay? And what is this poor prince doing?”
“Good heavens! What are you talking about, Monsieur d’Herblay? And what’s this poor prince doing?”
“Ask me, rather, what has he done.”
“Ask me, instead, what he has done.”
“Yes, yes.”
"Yeah, yeah."
“He was brought up in the country, and then thrown into a fortress which goes by the name of the Bastile.”
“He was raised in the countryside and then thrown into a fortress called the Bastille.”
“Is it possible?” cried the surintendant, clasping his hands.
“Is it possible?” cried the superintendent, clasping his hands.
“The one was the most fortunate of men: the other the most unhappy and miserable of all living beings.”
“The one was the luckiest person around; the other was the most unhappy and miserable of all living beings.”
“Does his mother not know this?”
“Doesn't his mom know this?”
“Anne of Austria knows it all.”
“Anne of Austria knows it all.”
“And the king?”
"And what about the king?"
“Knows absolutely nothing.”
"Knows nothing at all."
“So much the better,” said Fouquet.
"So much the better," Fouquet said.
This remark seemed to make a great impression on Aramis; he looked at Fouquet with the most anxious expression of countenance.
This comment seemed to really affect Aramis; he looked at Fouquet with a very worried expression.
“I beg your pardon; I interrupted you,” said Fouquet.
“I’m sorry; I interrupted you,” said Fouquet.
“I was saying,” resumed Aramis, “that this poor prince was the unhappiest of human beings, when Heaven, whose thoughts are over all His creatures, undertook to come to his assistance.”
“I was saying,” continued Aramis, “that this poor prince was the most miserable person alive, when Heaven, which is aware of all His creations, decided to help him.”
“Oh! in what way? Tell me.”
"Oh! How? Please tell me."
“You will see. The reigning king—I say the reigning king—you can guess very well why?”
"You'll see. The current king—I mean the current king—you can easily guess why?"
“No. Why?”
“No. Why not?”
“Because both of them, being legitimate princes, ought to have been kings. Is not that your opinion?”
“Because both of them, being legitimate princes, should have been kings. Don’t you think so?”
“It is, certainly.”
“Definitely.”
“Unreservedly?”
"Without reservations?"
“Most unreservedly; twins are one person in two bodies.”
“Absolutely; twins are one person in two bodies.”
“I am pleased that a legist of your learning and authority should have pronounced such an opinion. It is agreed, then, that each of them possessed equal rights, is it not?”
“I’m glad that someone with your knowledge and authority has expressed such an opinion. So, it’s agreed that each of them had equal rights, right?”
“Incontestably! but, gracious heavens, what an extraordinary circumstance!”
“Incontestably! But, oh my goodness, what an extraordinary situation!”
“We are not at the end of it yet.—Patience.”
“We're not done with it yet.—Patience.”
“Oh! I shall find ‘patience’ enough.”
“Oh! I will find plenty of ‘patience.’”
“Heaven wished to raise up for that oppressed child an avenger, or a supporter, or vindicator, if you prefer it. It happened that the reigning king, the usurper—you are quite of my opinion, I believe, that it is an act of usurpation quietly to enjoy, and selfishly to assume the right over, an inheritance to which a man has only half a right?”
“Heaven wanted to provide that oppressed child with an avenger, or a supporter, or a defender, if you prefer. It just so happened that the current king, the usurper—you share my view on this, right?—that it's an act of usurpation to quietly enjoy and selfishly claim the right to an inheritance that someone only partially deserves?”
“Yes, usurpation is the word.”
"Yes, usurpation is the term."
“In that case, I continue. It was Heaven’s will that the usurper should possess, in the person of his first minister, a man of great talent, of large and generous nature.”
“In that case, I’ll keep going. It was Heaven’s will that the usurper should have, in the person of his first minister, a man of great talent and a big-hearted nature.”
“Well, well,” said Fouquet, “I understand you; you have relied upon me to repair the wrong which has been done to this unhappy brother of Louis XIV. You have thought well; I will help you. I thank you, D’Herblay, I thank you.”
“Well, well,” said Fouquet, “I get it; you’ve counted on me to right the wrongs done to this unfortunate brother of Louis XIV. You’re right to think so; I’ll help you. Thank you, D’Herblay, thank you.”
“Oh, no, it is not that at all; you have not allowed me to finish,” said Aramis, perfectly unmoved.
“Oh, no, that's not it at all; you didn't let me finish,” said Aramis, completely unfazed.
“I will not say another word, then.”
“I won't say another word, then.”
“M. Fouquet, I was observing, the minister of the reigning sovereign, was suddenly taken into the greatest aversion, and menaced with the ruin of his fortune, loss of liberty, loss of life even, by intrigue and personal hatred, to which the king gave too readily an attentive ear. But Heaven permits (still, however, out of consideration for the unhappy prince who had been sacrificed) that M. Fouquet should in his turn have a devoted friend who knew this state secret, and felt that he possessed strength and courage enough to divulge this secret, after having had the strength to carry it locked up in his own heart for twenty years.
“M. Fouquet, I observed, the minister of the current king, suddenly became the target of intense dislike and was threatened with losing his wealth, his freedom, and even his life due to scheming and personal animosity, which the king listened to too readily. But Heaven allows (still, out of regard for the unfortunate prince who was sacrificed) that M. Fouquet should, in turn, have a loyal friend who was aware of this secret and believed he had the strength and courage to reveal it, after having kept it locked away in his heart for twenty years.”
“Go no farther,” said Fouquet, full of generous feelings. “I understand you, and can guess everything now. You went to see the king when the intelligence of my arrest reached you; you implored him, he refused to listen to you; then you threatened him with that secret, threatened to reveal it, and Louis XIV., alarmed at the risk of its betrayal, granted to the terror of your indiscretion what he refused to your generous intercession. I understand, I understand; you have the king in your power; I understand.”
“Don't go any further,” said Fouquet, filled with generous emotions. “I get it, and I can piece everything together now. You went to see the king as soon as you heard about my arrest; you begged him, but he wouldn’t listen. Then you threatened him with that secret, saying you would expose it, and Louis XIV, frightened by the potential fallout, gave in to your threat even though he wouldn’t grant what you asked for out of your selfless plea. I see it now, I understand; you have the king under your control; I get it.”
“You understand nothing—as yet,” replied Aramis, “and again you interrupt me. Then, too, allow me to observe that you pay no attention to logical reasoning, and seem to forget what you ought most to remember.”
“You understand nothing—not yet,” Aramis replied, “and you interrupt me again. Also, let me point out that you’re not really paying attention to logical reasoning and seem to forget what you should remember most.”
“What do you mean?”
"What do you mean?"
“You know upon what I laid the greatest stress at the beginning of our conversation?”
“You know what I emphasized the most at the start of our conversation?”
“Yes, his majesty’s hate, invincible hate for me; yes, but what feeling of hate could resist the threat of such a revelation?”
“Yes, his majesty’s hate, unyielding hate for me; yes, but what kind of hate could withstand the possibility of such a revelation?”
“Such a revelation, do you say? that is the very point where your logic fails you. What! do you suppose that if I had made such a revelation to the king, I should have been alive now?”
“Such a revelation, you say? That’s exactly where your reasoning falls apart. What! Do you really think that if I had revealed something like that to the king, I would still be alive now?”
“It is not ten minutes ago that you were with the king.”
“It was only ten minutes ago that you were with the king.”
“That may be. He might not have had the time to get me killed outright, but he would have had the time to get me gagged and thrown in a dungeon. Come, come, show a little consistency in your reasoning, mordieu!”
"That might be true. He might not have had the chance to kill me right away, but he definitely would have had time to get me silenced and thrown in a dungeon. Come on, show some consistency in your logic, mordieu!"
And by the mere use of this word, which was so thoroughly his old musketeer’s expression, forgotten by one who never seemed to forget anything, Fouquet could not but understand to what a pitch of exaltation the calm, impenetrable bishop of Vannes had wrought himself. He shuddered.
And just by using this word, which was so clearly his old musketeer's expression, forgotten by someone who never seemed to forget anything, Fouquet immediately understood how much excitement the calm, inscrutable bishop of Vannes had worked himself up to. He shuddered.
“And then,” replied the latter, after having mastered his feelings, “should I be the man I really am, should I be the true friend you believe me, if I were to expose you, whom the king already hates so bitterly, to a feeling more than ever to be dreaded in that young man? To have robbed him, is nothing; to have addressed the woman he loves, is not much; but to hold in your keeping both his crown and his honor, why, he would pluck out your heart with his own hands.”
“And then,” replied the other, after getting his emotions under control, “should I be the person I truly am, should I be the true friend you think I am, if I were to expose you, whom the king already despises so much, to an even more feared emotion in that young man? To have stolen from him is one thing; to have spoken to the woman he loves is another; but to have both his crown and his honor in your grasp, well, he would tear out your heart with his own hands.”
“You have not allowed him to penetrate your secret, then?”
“You haven't let him discover your secret, then?”
“I would sooner, far sooner, have swallowed at one draught all the poisons that Mithridates drank in twenty years, in order to try and avoid death, than have betrayed my secret to the king.”
“I would much rather have swallowed all the poisons that Mithridates took over twenty years, just to try to avoid death, than betray my secret to the king.”
“What have you done, then?”
“What have you done now?”
“Ah! now we are coming to the point, monseigneur. I think I shall not fail to excite in you a little interest. You are listening, I hope.”
“Ah! Now we’re getting to the main point, sir. I believe I’ll manage to spark some interest in you. I hope you’re paying attention.”
“How can you ask me if I am listening? Go on.”
“How can you ask me if I’m listening? Go ahead.”
Aramis walked softly all round the room, satisfied himself that they were alone, and that all was silent, and then returned and placed himself close to the armchair in which Fouquet was seated, awaiting with the deepest anxiety the revelation he had to make.
Aramis quietly walked around the room, confirmed they were alone and it was silent, then returned and positioned himself next to the armchair where Fouquet was sitting, waiting with intense anxiety for the revelation he had to share.
“I forgot to tell you,” resumed Aramis, addressing himself to Fouquet, who listened to him with the most absorbed attention—“I forgot to mention a most remarkable circumstance respecting these twins, namely, that God had formed them so startlingly, so miraculously, like each other, that it would be utterly impossible to distinguish the one from the other. Their own mother would not be able to distinguish them.”
“I forgot to tell you,” Aramis continued, speaking to Fouquet, who listened intently—“I forgot to mention something really remarkable about these twins: God made them so strikingly, so miraculously alike, that it would be completely impossible to tell them apart. Even their own mother wouldn’t be able to recognize them.”
“Is it possible?” exclaimed Fouquet.
“Is it possible?” said Fouquet.
“The same noble character in their features, the same carriage, the same stature, the same voice.”
"The same noble qualities in their features, the same posture, the same height, the same voice."
“But their thoughts? degree of intelligence? their knowledge of human life?”
“But what about their thoughts? Level of intelligence? Their understanding of human life?”
“There is inequality there, I admit, monseigneur. Yes; for the prisoner of the Bastile is, most incontestably, superior in every way to his brother; and if, from his prison, this unhappy victim were to pass to the throne, France would not, from the earliest period of its history, perhaps, have had a master more powerful in genius and nobility of character.”
“There is inequality there, I admit, sir. Yes; because the prisoner in the Bastille is clearly superior in every way to his brother; and if this unfortunate victim were to go from his prison to the throne, France would not have had a ruler more powerful in talent and nobility of character, perhaps, since the beginning of its history.”
Fouquet buried his face in his hands, as if he were overwhelmed by the weight of this immense secret. Aramis approached him.
Fouquet buried his face in his hands, as if he were crushed by the weight of this huge secret. Aramis walked over to him.
“There is a further inequality,” he said, continuing his work of temptation, “an inequality which concerns yourself, monseigneur, between the twins, both sons of Louis XIII., namely, the last comer does not know M. Colbert.”
“There’s another inequality,” he said, continuing his tempting work, “an inequality that concerns you, monseigneur, between the twins, both sons of Louis XIII., namely, the younger one doesn’t know M. Colbert.”
Fouquet raised his head immediately—his features were pale and distorted. The bolt had hit its mark—not his heart, but his mind and comprehension.
Fouquet lifted his head right away—his face was pale and contorted. The blow had struck home—not his heart, but his mind and understanding.
“I understand you,” he said to Aramis; “you are proposing a conspiracy to me?”
“I get you,” he said to Aramis; “are you suggesting a conspiracy to me?”
“Something like it.”
“Something like that.”
“One of those attempts which, as you said at the beginning of this conversation, alters the fate of empires?”
“One of those attempts that, as you mentioned at the start of this conversation, changes the fate of empires?”
“And of superintendents, too; yes, monseigneur.”
“And about superintendents as well; yes, sir.”
“In a word, you propose that I should agree to the substitution of the son of Louis XIII., who is now a prisoner in the Bastile, for the son of Louis XIII., who is at this moment asleep in the Chamber of Morpheus?”
"In short, you’re suggesting that I should accept replacing the son of Louis XIII., who is currently a prisoner in the Bastille, with the son of Louis XIII., who is right now sleeping in the land of dreams?"
Aramis smiled with the sinister expression of the sinister thought which was passing through his brain. “Exactly,” he said.
Aramis smiled with a sly look that reflected the dark thought running through his mind. “Exactly,” he said.
“Have you thought,” continued Fouquet, becoming animated with that strength of talent which in a few seconds originates, and matures the conception of a plan, and with that largeness of view which foresees all consequences, and embraces every result at a glance—“have you thought that we must assemble the nobility, the clergy, and the third estate of the realm; that we shall have to depose the reigning sovereign, to disturb by so frightful a scandal the tomb of their dead father, to sacrifice the life, the honor of a woman, Anne of Austria, the life and peace of mind and heart of another woman, Maria Theresa; and suppose that it were all done, if we were to succeed in doing it—”
“Have you considered,” continued Fouquet, getting more animated with that burst of creativity that can quickly come up with and develop a plan, and with that broad perspective that anticipates all consequences and grasps every outcome at once—“have you thought that we need to gather the nobility, the clergy, and the common people of the realm; that we would have to remove the current ruler, to disturb with such a shocking scandal the grave of their deceased father, to sacrifice the life, the honor of a woman, Anne of Austria, the life and peace of mind and heart of another woman, Maria Theresa; and let’s say we went through with it, if we actually managed to pull it off—”
“I do not understand you,” continued Aramis, coldly. “There is not a single syllable of sense in all you have just said.”
“I don’t understand you,” Aramis said coldly. “There isn’t a single word of sense in everything you just said.”
“What!” said the superintendent, surprised, “a man like you refuse to view the practical bearing of the case! Do you confine yourself to the childish delight of a political illusion, and neglect the chances of its being carried into execution; in other words, the reality itself, is it possible?”
“What!” said the superintendent, surprised, “a man like you would refuse to see the practical implications of the case! Are you stuck in the naive joy of a political fantasy and ignoring the chances of it actually being implemented; in other words, the reality itself, is that really possible?”
“My friend,” said Aramis, emphasizing the word with a kind of disdainful familiarity, “what does Heaven do in order to substitute one king for another?”
“My friend,” said Aramis, stressing the word with a hint of contemptuous familiarity, “what does Heaven do to replace one king with another?”
“Heaven!” exclaimed Fouquet—“Heaven gives directions to its agent, who seizes upon the doomed victim, hurries him away, and seats the triumphant rival on the empty throne. But you forget that this agent is called death. Oh! Monsieur d’Herblay, in Heaven’s name, tell me if you have had the idea—”
“Heaven!” exclaimed Fouquet—“Heaven guides its agent, who grabs the doomed victim, rushes him away, and places the triumphant rival on the empty throne. But you forget that this agent is called death. Oh! Monsieur d’Herblay, for Heaven’s sake, tell me if you’ve had the idea—”
“There is no question of that, monseigneur; you are going beyond the object in view. Who spoke of Louis XIV.‘s death? who spoke of adopting the example which Heaven sets in following out the strict execution of its decrees? No, I wish you to understand that Heaven effects its purposes without confusion or disturbance, without exciting comment or remark, without difficulty or exertion; and that men, inspired by Heaven, succeed like Heaven itself, in all their undertakings, in all they attempt, in all they do.”
“There’s no doubt about that, sir; you’re missing the point. Who mentioned the death of Louis XIV? Who suggested following the example that Heaven sets in carrying out its decrees? No, I want you to realize that Heaven achieves its goals without chaos or disruption, without drawing attention or comment, without struggle or effort; and that those inspired by Heaven succeed like Heaven itself in everything they undertake, in all their attempts, in all their actions.”
“What do you mean?”
"What do you mean?"
“I mean, my friend,” returned Aramis, with the same intonation on the word friend that he had applied to it the first time—“I mean that if there has been any confusion, scandal, and even effort in the substitution of the prisoner for the king, I defy you to prove it.”
“I mean, my friend,” Aramis replied, stressing the word friend just like he did the first time—“I mean that if there’s been any mix-up, scandal, or even effort in swapping the prisoner for the king, I challenge you to prove it.”
“What!” cried Fouquet, whiter than the handkerchief with which he wiped his temples, “what do you say?”
“What!” yelled Fouquet, looking paler than the handkerchief he used to wipe his forehead, “what did you say?”
“Go to the king’s apartment,” continued Aramis, tranquilly, “and you who know the mystery, I defy even you to perceive that the prisoner of the Bastile is lying in his brother’s bed.”
“Go to the king’s apartment,” Aramis continued calmly, “and you, who know the secret, I challenge even you to notice that the Bastille prisoner is lying in his brother’s bed.”
“But the king,” stammered Fouquet, seized with horror at the intelligence.
“But the king,” stammered Fouquet, filled with dread at the news.
“What king?” said Aramis, in his gentlest tone; “the one who hates you, or the one who likes you?”
“What king?” Aramis said in his softest tone. “The one who hates you or the one who likes you?”
“The king—of—yesterday.”
"The King of Yesterday."
“The king of yesterday! be quite easy on that score; he has gone to take the place in the Bastile which his victim occupied for so many years.”
“The king of yesterday! Don’t worry about that; he has gone to take the spot in the Bastille that his victim held for so many years.”
“Great God! And who took him there?”
“Great God! Who took him there?”
“I.”
"I."
“You?”
"You?"
“Yes, and in the simplest way. I carried him away last night. While he was descending into midnight, the other was ascending into day. I do not think there has been any disturbance whatever. A flash of lightning without thunder awakens nobody.”
“Yes, and in the easiest way. I took him away last night. While he was sinking into midnight, the other was rising into daylight. I don't think there was any disturbance at all. A flash of lightning without thunder doesn’t wake anyone.”
Fouquet uttered a thick, smothered cry, as if he had been struck by some invisible blow, and clasping his head between his clenched hands, he murmured: “You did that?”
Fouquet let out a muffled cry, as if he had been hit by an unseen force, and gripping his head with his clenched hands, he murmured, “You did that?”
“Cleverly enough, too; what do you think of it?”
“Smartly done, right? What do you think about it?”
“You dethroned the king? imprisoned him, too?”
“You took down the king? You locked him up, as well?”
“Yes, that has been done.”
"Yep, that's been done."
“And such an action was committed here, at Vaux?”
“And this happened here, at Vaux?”
“Yes, here, at Vaux, in the Chamber of Morpheus. It would almost seem that it had been built in anticipation of such an act.”
“Yes, here at Vaux, in the Chamber of Morpheus. It almost feels like it was designed for such a purpose.”
“And at what time did it occur?”
“When did it happen?”
“Last night, between twelve and one o’clock.”
“Last night, between midnight and one o’clock.”
Fouquet made a movement as if he were on the point of springing upon Aramis; he restrained himself. “At Vaux; under my roof!” he said, in a half-strangled voice.
Fouquet moved as if he were about to leap at Aramis, but he held himself back. “At Vaux; under my roof!” he said, in a choked voice.
“I believe so! for it is still your house, and it is likely to continue so, since M. Colbert cannot rob you of it now.”
“I believe that! It’s still your house, and it’s probably going to stay that way, since M. Colbert can’t take it from you now.”
“It was under my roof, then, monsieur, that you committed this crime?”
“It was in my home, then, sir, that you committed this crime?”
“This crime?” said Aramis, stupefied.
“This crime?” said Aramis, shocked.
“This abominable crime!” pursued Fouquet, becoming more and more excited; “this crime more execrable than an assassination! this crime which dishonors my name forever, and entails upon me the horror of posterity.”
“This terrible crime!” Fouquet exclaimed, getting more and more worked up; “this crime worse than murder! this crime that will disgrace my name forever and bring me the shame of future generations.”
“You are not in your senses, monsieur,” replied Aramis, in an irresolute tone of voice; “you are speaking too loudly; take care!”
“You're not thinking clearly, sir,” Aramis replied uncertainly; “you're speaking too loudly; watch out!”
“I will call out so loudly, that the whole world shall hear me.”
“I will shout so loudly that the entire world will hear me.”
“Monsieur Fouquet, take care!”
“Mister Fouquet, watch out!”
Fouquet turned round towards the prelate, whom he looked at full in the face. “You have dishonored me,” he said, “in committing so foul an act of treason, so heinous a crime upon my guest, upon one who was peacefully reposing beneath my roof. Oh! woe, woe is me!”
Fouquet turned to the clergyman and looked him straight in the eye. “You have shamed me,” he said, “by committing such a disgraceful act of betrayal, such a terrible crime against my guest, someone who was peacefully resting under my roof. Oh! What misery, what misery I feel!”
“Woe to the man, rather, who beneath your roof meditated the ruin of your fortune, your life. Do you forget that?”
“Woe to the man, rather, who under your roof plotted the downfall of your fortune, your life. Do you forget that?”
“He was my guest, my sovereign.”
“He was my guest, my ruler.”
Aramis rose, his eyes literally bloodshot, his mouth trembling convulsively. “Have I a man out of his senses to deal with?” he said.
Aramis stood up, his eyes bloodshot, his mouth shaking uncontrollably. “Am I dealing with someone who’s lost their mind?” he said.
“You have an honorable man to deal with.”
“You’re dealing with an honorable man.”
“You are mad.”
"You're crazy."
“A man who will prevent you consummating your crime.”
“A guy who will stop you from going through with your crime.”
“You are mad, I say.”
"You’re crazy, I tell you."
“A man who would sooner, oh! far sooner, die; who would kill you even, rather than allow you to complete his dishonor.”
“A man who would rather die, seriously, much rather die; who would even kill you, instead of letting you complete his dishonor.”
And Fouquet snatched up his sword, which D’Artagnan had placed at the head of his bed, and clenched it resolutely in his hand. Aramis frowned, and thrust his hand into his breast as if in search of a weapon. This movement did not escape Fouquet, who, full of nobleness and pride in his magnanimity, threw his sword to a distance from him, and approached Aramis so close as to touch his shoulder with his disarmed hand. “Monsieur,” he said, “I would sooner die here on the spot than survive this terrible disgrace; and if you have any pity left for me, I entreat you to take my life.”
And Fouquet grabbed his sword, which D’Artagnan had set at the head of his bed, and held it tightly in his hand. Aramis frowned and slipped his hand into his chest, seemingly searching for a weapon. Fouquet noticed this movement, and, filled with nobility and pride in his generosity, threw his sword away from him and stepped close to Aramis, almost touching his shoulder with his unarmed hand. “Monsieur,” he said, “I would rather die right here than live with this awful disgrace; and if you have any compassion for me left, I beg you to take my life.”
Aramis remained silent and motionless.
Aramis stayed quiet and still.
“You do not reply?” said Fouquet.
“You're not going to respond?” said Fouquet.
Aramis raised his head gently, and a glimmer of hope might be seen once more to animate his eyes. “Reflect, monseigneur,” he said, “upon everything we have to expect. As the matter now stands, the king is still alive, and his imprisonment saves your life.”
Aramis lifted his head slowly, and a spark of hope could be seen rekindling in his eyes. “Think about it, my lord,” he said, “consider everything we have to look forward to. Right now, the king is still alive, and his imprisonment is what keeps you safe.”
“Yes,” replied Fouquet, “you may have been acting on my behalf, but I will not, do not, accept your services. But, first of all, I do not wish your ruin. You will leave this house.”
“Yes,” replied Fouquet, “you may have been acting for me, but I won’t, and I don’t want to, accept your help. But first of all, I don’t want to see you destroyed. You will leave this house.”
Aramis stifled the exclamation which almost escaped his broken heart.
Aramis held back the cry that almost slipped out of his shattered heart.
“I am hospitable towards all who are dwellers beneath my roof,” continued Fouquet, with an air of inexpressible majesty; “you will not be more fatally lost than he whose ruin you have consummated.”
“I welcome everyone who stays under my roof,” continued Fouquet, with an air of unmatched authority; “you won’t be any more doomed than the one whose downfall you have brought about.”
“You will be so,” said Aramis, in a hoarse, prophetic voice, “you will be so, believe me.”
"You will be," said Aramis in a raspy, prophetic tone, "you will be, trust me."
“I accept the augury, Monsieur d’Herblay; but nothing shall prevent me, nothing shall stop me. You will leave Vaux—you must leave France; I give you four hours to place yourself out of the king’s reach.”
“I accept the omen, Monsieur d’Herblay; but nothing will stop me, nothing will hold me back. You will leave Vaux—you have to leave France; I give you four hours to get out of the king’s reach.”
“Four hours?” said Aramis, scornfully and incredulously.
"Four hours?" Aramis said, scoffing and in disbelief.
“Upon the word of Fouquet, no one shall follow you before the expiration of that time. You will therefore have four hours’ advance of those whom the king may wish to dispatch after you.”
“According to Fouquet, no one will follow you until that time is up. So, you’ll have a four-hour head start before anyone the king might send after you.”
“Four hours!” repeated Aramis, in a thick, smothered voice.
“Four hours!” Aramis repeated, his voice thick and muffled.
“It is more than you will need to get on board a vessel and flee to Belle-Isle, which I give you as a place of refuge.”
“It’s more than enough to get on a ship and escape to Belle-Isle, which I’m suggesting as a safe place for you.”
“Ah!” murmured Aramis.
"Wow!" murmured Aramis.
“Belle-Isle is as much mine for you, as Vaux is mine for the king. Go, D’Herblay, go! as long as I live, not a hair of your head shall be injured.”
“Belle-Isle is as much mine for you as Vaux is mine for the king. Go, D’Herblay, go! As long as I live, not a single hair on your head will be touched.”
“Thank you,” said Aramis, with a cold irony of manner.
“Thanks,” said Aramis, with a touch of cold irony.
“Go at once, then, and give me your hand, before we both hasten away; you to save your life, I to save my honor.”
“Go right now and give me your hand, before we both hurry off; you to save your life, and I to save my honor.”
Aramis withdrew from his breast the hand he had concealed there; it was stained with his blood. He had dug his nails into his flesh, as if in punishment for having nursed so many projects, more vain, insensate, and fleeting than the life of the man himself. Fouquet was horror-stricken, and then his heart smote him with pity. He threw open his arms as if to embrace him.
Aramis pulled out the hand he had hidden in his chest; it was stained with his blood. He had dug his nails into his skin, as if punishing himself for chasing so many plans, more foolish, senseless, and temporary than life itself. Fouquet was horrified, and then his heart ached with pity. He opened his arms as if to embrace him.
“I had no arms,” murmured Aramis, as wild and terrible in his wrath as the shade of Dido. And then, without touching Fouquet’s hand, he turned his head aside, and stepped back a pace or two. His last word was an imprecation, his last gesture a curse, which his blood-stained hand seemed to invoke, as it sprinkled on Fouquet’s face a few drops of blood which flowed from his breast. And both of them darted out of the room by the secret staircase which led down to the inner courtyard. Fouquet ordered his best horses, while Aramis paused at the foot of the staircase which led to Porthos’s apartment. He reflected profoundly and for some time, while Fouquet’s carriage left the courtyard at full gallop.
“I had no arms,” Aramis muttered, his fury as fierce and awful as Dido's ghost. Then, without touching Fouquet’s hand, he turned his head to the side and stepped back a couple of paces. His last words were a curse, his final gesture a curse as well, which his blood-stained hand seemed to summon as it splattered a few drops of blood from his chest onto Fouquet’s face. Both of them hurried out of the room through the secret staircase that led down to the inner courtyard. Fouquet called for his best horses, while Aramis stopped at the bottom of the staircase leading to Porthos’s room. He reflected deeply for a moment as Fouquet’s carriage sped out of the courtyard at full gallop.
“Shall I go alone?” said Aramis to himself, “or warn the prince? Oh! fury! Warn the prince, and then—do what? Take him with me? To carry this accusing witness about with me everywhere? War, too, would follow—civil war, implacable in its nature! And without any resource save myself—it is impossible! What could he do without me? Oh! without me he will be utterly destroyed. Yet who knows—let destiny be fulfilled—condemned he was, let him remain so then! Good or evil Spirit—gloomy and scornful Power, whom men call the genius of humanity, thou art a power more restlessly uncertain, more baselessly useless, than wild mountain wind! Chance, thou term’st thyself, but thou art nothing; thou inflamest everything with thy breath, crumblest mountains at thy approach, and suddenly art thyself destroyed at the presence of the Cross of dead wood behind which stand another Power invisible like thyself—whom thou deniest, perhaps, but whose avenging hand is on thee, and hurls thee in the dust dishonored and unnamed! Lost!—I am lost! What can be done? Flee to Belle-Isle? Yes, and leave Porthos behind me, to talk and relate the whole affair to every one! Porthos, too, who will have to suffer for what he has done. I will not let poor Porthos suffer. He seems like one of the members of my own frame; and his grief or misfortune would be mine as well. Porthos shall leave with me, and shall follow my destiny. It must be so.”
“Should I go alone?” Aramis asked himself. “Or should I warn the prince? Oh, what a dilemma! Warn the prince, and then—what? Bring him with me? To drag this accusing witness around with me everywhere? War would inevitably follow—civil war, relentless in its nature! And with no resources except for myself—it’s impossible! What could he do without me? Without me, he would be completely lost. But who knows—let fate take its course—he’s already condemned, so let him stay that way! Good or evil Spirit—gloomy and disdainful Power, which people call the genius of humanity, you’re a force more unpredictably chaotic, more utterly useless than a wild mountain wind! You call yourself Chance, but you’re nothing; you ignite everything with your breath, crumble mountains in your path, and then suddenly disappear at the sight of the Cross of dead wood behind which stands another Power, invisible like you—whom you deny, perhaps, but whose vengeful hand is on you, throwing you into the dust, dishonored and nameless! Lost!—I am lost! What can I do? Flee to Belle-Isle? Yes, and leave Porthos behind to talk and tell everyone everything! Porthos, too, who will have to pay for what he’s done. I won’t let poor Porthos suffer. He feels like a part of me; his pain or misfortune would be mine as well. Porthos will come with me and follow my fate. It has to be that way.”
And Aramis, apprehensive of meeting any one to whom his hurried movements might appear suspicious, ascended the staircase without being perceived. Porthos, so recently returned from Paris, was already in a profound sleep; his huge body forgot its fatigue, as his mind forgot its thoughts. Aramis entered, light as a shadow, and placed his nervous grasp on the giant’s shoulder. “Come, Porthos,” he cried, “come.”
And Aramis, worried about running into anyone who might find his rushed movements suspicious, quietly went up the stairs without being noticed. Porthos, just back from Paris, was already in a deep sleep; his large body had forgotten its fatigue, just like his mind had forgotten its thoughts. Aramis entered, as quiet as a shadow, and put his tense hand on the giant’s shoulder. “Wake up, Porthos,” he called, “let’s go.”
Porthos obeyed, rose from his bed, opened his eyes, even before his intelligence seemed to be aroused.
Porthos obeyed, got up from his bed, opened his eyes, even before his mind seemed to wake up.
“We leave immediately,” said Aramis.
"We're leaving right now," said Aramis.
“Ah!” returned Porthos.
“Ah!” replied Porthos.
“We shall go mounted, and faster than we have ever gone in our lives.”
“We'll ride and go faster than we ever have in our lives.”
“Ah!” repeated Porthos.
“Ah!” Porthos echoed.
“Dress yourself, my friend.”
"Get dressed, my friend."
And he helped the giant to dress himself, and thrust his gold and diamonds into his pocket. Whilst he was thus engaged, a slight noise attracted his attention, and on looking up, he saw D’Artagnan watching them through the half-opened door. Aramis started.
And he helped the giant get dressed and stuffed his gold and diamonds into his pocket. While he was doing that, a faint noise caught his attention, and when he looked up, he saw D’Artagnan watching them through the half-open door. Aramis was startled.
“What the devil are you doing there in such an agitated manner?” said the musketeer.
“What on earth are you doing there so worked up?” said the musketeer.
“Hush!” said Porthos.
"Quiet!" said Porthos.
“We are going off on a mission of great importance,” added the bishop.
"We're going on a mission of great importance," the bishop added.
“You are very fortunate,” said the musketeer.
“You're really lucky,” said the musketeer.
“Oh, dear me!” said Porthos, “I feel so wearied; I would far sooner have been fast asleep. But the service of the king....”
“Oh, dear!” said Porthos, “I feel so tired; I would much rather be fast asleep. But the king's service....”
“Have you seen M. Fouquet?” said Aramis to D’Artagnan.
“Have you seen M. Fouquet?” Aramis asked D’Artagnan.
“Yes, this very minute, in a carriage.”
“Yes, right this minute, in a carriage.”
“What did he say to you?”
“What did he say to you?”
“‘Adieu;’ nothing more.”
“‘Goodbye;’ nothing more.”
“Was that all?”
"Is that it?"
“What else do you think he could say? Am I worth anything now, since you have got into such high favor?”
“What else do you think he could say? Am I worth anything now that you've gained such high favor?”
“Listen,” said Aramis, embracing the musketeer; “your good times are returning again. You will have no occasion to be jealous of any one.”
“Listen,” said Aramis, hugging the musketeer; “your good times are coming back. You won't have to be jealous of anyone.”
“Ah! bah!”
“Ugh! no way!”
“I predict that something will happen to you to-day which will increase your importance more than ever.”
“I predict that something will happen to you today that will make you more important than ever.”
“Really?”
"Seriously?"
“You know that I know all the news?”
“You know I know all the news?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Absolutely!”
“Come, Porthos, are you ready? Let us go.”
"Come on, Porthos, are you ready? Let's go."
“I am quite ready, Aramis.”
"I'm all set, Aramis."
“Let us embrace D’Artagnan first.”
“Let’s embrace D’Artagnan first.”
“Most certainly.”
"Definitely."
“But the horses?”
“But what about the horses?”
“Oh! there is no want of them here. Will you have mine?”
“Oh! There are plenty of them here. Do you want mine?”
“No; Porthos has his own stud. So adieu! adieu!”
“No; Porthos has his own horse stable. So goodbye! Goodbye!”
The fugitives mounted their horses beneath the very eyes of the captain of the musketeers, who held Porthos’s stirrup for him, and gazed after them until they were out of sight.
The fugitives got on their horses right in front of the captain of the musketeers, who held Porthos’s stirrup for him, and watched them until they disappeared from view.
“On any other occasion,” thought the Gascon, “I should say that those gentlemen were making their escape; but in these days politics seem so changed that such an exit is termed going on a mission. I have no objection; let me attend to my own affairs, that is more than enough for me,”—and he philosophically entered his apartments.
“On any other occasion,” thought the Gascon, “I would say those guys were making a run for it; but these days, politics seem so different that such an exit is called going on a mission. I have no issue with that; I’ll just focus on my own business, that’s more than enough for me,”—and he calmly went into his apartment.
Chapter XXII. Showing How the Countersign Was Respected at the Bastile.
Fouquet tore along as fast as his horses could drag him. On his way he trembled with horror at the idea of what had just been revealed to him.
Fouquet raced ahead as fast as his horses could carry him. Along the way, he shook with fear at the thought of what had just been revealed to him.
“What must have been,” he thought, “the youth of those extraordinary men, who, even as age is stealing fast upon them, are still able to conceive such gigantic plans, and carry them through without a tremor?”
“What must it have been like,” he thought, “for the young versions of those extraordinary men, who, even as age quickly approaches, are still able to dream up such massive plans and execute them without a hint of hesitation?”
At one moment he could not resist the idea that all Aramis had just been recounting to him was nothing more than a dream, and whether the fable itself was not the snare; so that when Fouquet arrived at the Bastile, he might possibly find an order of arrest, which would send him to join the dethroned king. Strongly impressed with this idea, he gave certain sealed orders on his route, while fresh horses were being harnessed to his carriage. These orders were addressed to M. d’Artagnan and to certain others whose fidelity to the king was far above suspicion.
At one point, he couldn't shake the thought that everything Aramis had just told him was just a dream, and that the story itself might be the trap. So when Fouquet arrived at the Bastille, he might discover an arrest order waiting for him, which would send him to join the deposed king. Deeply affected by this idea, he issued some sealed orders along his journey while fresh horses were being hitched to his carriage. These orders were directed to M. d’Artagnan and a few others whose loyalty to the king was completely unquestionable.
“In this way,” said Fouquet to himself, “prisoner or not, I shall have performed the duty that I owe my honor. The orders will not reach them until after my return, if I should return free, and consequently they will not have been unsealed. I shall take them back again. If I am delayed; it will be because some misfortune will have befallen me; and in that case assistance will be sent for me as well as for the king.”
“In this way,” Fouquet thought to himself, “whether I’m a prisoner or not, I will have fulfilled my duty to my honor. The orders won’t reach them until after I come back, if I come back free, and so they won’t have been unsealed. I’ll take them back with me. If I’m delayed, it will be because something unfortunate happened to me; and in that case, help will be sent for me as well as for the king.”
Prepared in this manner, the superintendent arrived at the Bastile; he had traveled at the rate of five leagues and a half the hour. Every circumstance of delay which Aramis had escaped in his visit to the Bastile befell Fouquet. It was useless giving his name, equally useless his being recognized; he could not succeed in obtaining an entrance. By dint of entreaties, threats, commands, he succeeded in inducing a sentinel to speak to one of the subalterns, who went and told the major. As for the governor they did not even dare disturb him. Fouquet sat in his carriage, at the outer gate of the fortress, chafing with rage and impatience, awaiting the return of the officers, who at last re-appeared with a sufficiently sulky air.
Prepared this way, the superintendent arrived at the Bastille; he had traveled at a speed of five and a half leagues per hour. Every delay that Aramis avoided during his visit to the Bastille happened to Fouquet. It was useless to give his name, just as it was pointless for him to be recognized; he couldn't manage to get inside. After many pleas, threats, and commands, he managed to persuade a guard to talk to one of the junior officers, who then went to inform the major. They didn’t even dare to disturb the governor. Fouquet waited in his carriage at the outer gate of the fortress, boiling with rage and impatience, waiting for the officers, who finally returned looking quite sullen.
“Well,” said Fouquet, impatiently, “what did the major say?”
“Well,” said Fouquet, impatiently, “what did the major say?”
“Well, monsieur,” replied the soldier, “the major laughed in my face. He told me that M. Fouquet was at Vaux, and that even were he at Paris, M. Fouquet would not get up at so early an hour as the present.”
“Well, sir,” replied the soldier, “the major laughed right in my face. He told me that Mr. Fouquet was at Vaux, and that even if he were in Paris, Mr. Fouquet wouldn't get up this early in the morning.”
“Mordieu! you are an absolute set of fools,” cried the minister, darting out of the carriage; and before the subaltern had time to shut the gate, Fouquet sprang through it, and ran forward in spite of the soldier, who cried out for assistance. Fouquet gained ground, regardless of the cries of the man, who, however, having at last come up with Fouquet, called out to the sentinel of the second gate, “Look out, look out, sentinel!” The man crossed his pike before the minister; but the latter, robust and active, and hurried away, too, by his passion, wrested the pike from the soldier and struck him a violent blow on the shoulder with it. The subaltern, who approached too closely, received a share of the blows as well. Both of them uttered loud and furious cries, at the sound of which the whole of the first body of the advanced guard poured out of the guardhouse. Among them there was one, however, who recognized the superintendent, and who called, “Monseigneur, ah! monseigneur. Stop, stop, you fellows!” And he effectually checked the soldiers, who were on the point of revenging their companions. Fouquet desired them to open the gate, but they refused to do so without the countersign; he desired them to inform the governor of his presence; but the latter had already heard the disturbance at the gate. He ran forward, followed by his major, and accompanied by a picket of twenty men, persuaded that an attack was being made on the Bastile. Baisemeaux also recognized Fouquet immediately, and dropped the sword he bravely had been brandishing.
"Dammit! you’re a bunch of absolute fools,” shouted the minister, leaping out of the carriage; and before the officer had a chance to close the gate, Fouquet dashed through it and ran ahead, ignoring the soldier who called out for help. Fouquet gained distance, despite the man’s shouts, but when the soldier finally reached him, he yelled to the sentinel at the second gate, “Watch out, watch out, sentinel!” The man raised his pike in front of the minister, but Fouquet, strong and quick, driven by his anger, snatched the pike from the soldier and hit him hard on the shoulder with it. The officer, getting too close, also took a hit. Both of them shouted out in pain, prompting the entire first line of the advanced guard to rush out of the guardhouse. However, one soldier recognized the superintendent and yelled, “Monseigneur, oh! monseigneur. Stop, stop, you guys!” He successfully halted the soldiers, who were ready to retaliate against their friends. Fouquet asked them to open the gate, but they refused without the counter-sign; he requested they notify the governor of his presence, but the governor had already heard the commotion at the gate. He hurried over, followed by his major and accompanied by a squad of twenty men, convinced that an attack was being made on the Bastille. Baisemeaux also recognized Fouquet immediately and dropped the sword he had been bravely wielding.
“Ah! monseigneur,” he stammered, “how can I excuse—”
“Ah! my lord,” he stammered, “how can I excuse—”
“Monsieur,” said the superintendent, flushed with anger, and heated by his exertions, “I congratulate you. Your watch and ward are admirably kept.”
“Monsieur,” said the superintendent, red with anger and out of breath from his efforts, “I congratulate you. Your watch and ward are excellently maintained.”
Baisemeaux turned pale, thinking that this remark was made ironically, and portended a furious burst of anger. But Fouquet had recovered his breath, and, beckoning the sentinel and the subaltern, who were rubbing their shoulders, towards him, he said, “There are twenty pistoles for the sentinel, and fifty for the officer. Pray receive my compliments, gentlemen. I will not fail to speak to his majesty about you. And now, M. Baisemeaux, a word with you.”
Baisemeaux turned pale, thinking that this comment was meant ironically and signaled an imminent outburst of anger. But Fouquet had caught his breath, and, signaling for the sentinel and the junior officer, who were rubbing their shoulders, he said, “There are twenty pistoles for the sentinel and fifty for the officer. Please accept my compliments, gentlemen. I will definitely mention you to his majesty. And now, Mr. Baisemeaux, a word with you.”
And he followed the governor to his official residence, accompanied by a murmur of general satisfaction. Baisemeaux was already trembling with shame and uneasiness. Aramis’s early visit, from that moment, seemed to possess consequences, which a functionary such as he (Baisemeaux) was, was perfectly justified in apprehending. It was quite another thing, however, when Fouquet in a sharp tone of voice, and with an imperious look, said, “You have seen M. d’Herblay this morning?”
And he followed the governor to his official residence, accompanied by a murmur of general approval. Baisemeaux was already shaking with shame and anxiety. Aramis’s early visit suddenly seemed to have consequences that a government official like him (Baisemeaux) was completely right to worry about. However, it was a different matter when Fouquet, in a sharp tone and with a commanding look, said, “Did you see M. d’Herblay this morning?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
"Yes, my lord."
“And are you not horrified at the crime of which you have made yourself an accomplice?”
“And aren’t you horrified by the crime you’ve helped commit?”
“Well,” thought Baisemeaux, “good so far;” and then he added, aloud, “But what crime, monseigneur, do you allude to?”
“Well,” thought Baisemeaux, “this is going well;” and then he said out loud, “But what crime, sir, are you referring to?”
“That for which you can be quartered alive, monsieur—do not forget that! But this is not a time to show anger. Conduct me immediately to the prisoner.”
"That for which you can be quartered alive, sir—don't forget that! But now is not the time to get angry. Please take me to the prisoner right away."
“To what prisoner?” said Baisemeaux, trembling.
“To which prisoner?” Baisemeaux asked, trembling.
“You pretend to be ignorant? Very good—it is the best plan for you, perhaps; for if, in fact, you were to admit your participation in such a crime, it would be all over with you. I wish, therefore, to seem to believe in your assumption of ignorance.”
“You're pretending to be clueless? That's smart—it might be your best strategy; because if you were to confess to being involved in that crime, it would be the end for you. So, I’ll play along and pretend to believe you really don’t know anything.”
“I entreat you, monseigneur—”
“I beg you, sir—”
“That will do. Lead me to the prisoner.”
"That's enough. Take me to the prisoner."
“To Marchiali?”
"To Marchiali?"
“Who is Marchiali?”
"Who is Marchiali?"
“The prisoner who was brought back this morning by M. d’Herblay.”
“The prisoner who was brought back this morning by M. d’Herblay.”
“He is called Marchiali?” said the superintendent, his conviction somewhat shaken by Baisemeaux’s cool manner.
“He's called Marchiali?” asked the superintendent, his confidence slightly rattled by Baisemeaux’s calm demeanor.
“Yes, monseigneur; that is the name under which he was inscribed here.”
“Yes, sir; that’s the name he was registered under here.”
Fouquet looked steadily at Baisemeaux, as if he would read his very heart; and perceived, with that clear-sightedness most men possess who are accustomed to the exercise of power, that the man was speaking with perfect sincerity. Besides, in observing his face for a few moments, he could not believe that Aramis would have chosen such a confidant.
Fouquet stared directly at Baisemeaux, as if trying to see into his very soul; and with the sharp insight that many people who hold power often have, he realized that the man was being completely honest. Additionally, after watching his face for a bit, he couldn't believe that Aramis would have picked such a confidant.
“It is the prisoner,” said the superintendent to him, “whom M. d’Herblay carried away the day before yesterday?”
“It’s the prisoner,” the superintendent said to him, “whom M. d’Herblay took away the day before yesterday?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And whom he brought back this morning?” added Fouquet, quickly: for he understood immediately the mechanism of Aramis’s plan.
“Who did he bring back this morning?” added Fouquet, quickly; he immediately understood how Aramis’s plan worked.
“Precisely, monseigneur.”
"Exactly, sir."
“And his name is Marchiali, you say?”
“And his name is Marchiali, you say?”
“Yes, Marchiali. If monseigneur has come here to remove him, so much the better, for I was going to write about him.”
“Yes, Marchiali. If the lord has come here to take him away, that's great, because I was about to write about him.”
“What has he done, then?”
"What has he done now?"
“Ever since this morning he has annoyed me extremely. He has had such terrible fits of passion, as almost to make me believe that he would bring the Bastile itself down about our ears.”
“Ever since this morning, he has really annoyed me. He has had such terrible fits of rage that it almost makes me believe he could bring the Bastille crashing down on us.”
“I will soon relieve you of his possession,” said Fouquet.
“I’ll soon take him off your hands,” said Fouquet.
“Ah! so much the better.”
“Awesome! That’s even better.”
“Conduct me to his prison.”
"Take me to his prison."
“Will monseigneur give me the order?”
“Will Your Excellency give me the order?”
“What order?”
“What do you mean?”
“An order from the king.”
“A command from the king.”
“Wait until I sign you one.”
“Wait until I sign one for you.”
“That will not be sufficient, monseigneur. I must have an order from the king.”
"That won't be enough, sir. I need an order from the king."
Fouquet assumed an irritated expression. “As you are so scrupulous,” he said, “with regard to allowing prisoners to leave, show me the order by which this one was set at liberty.”
Fouquet looked annoyed. “Since you’re so particular,” he said, “about letting prisoners go, show me the order that set this one free.”
Baisemeaux showed him the order to release Seldon.
Baisemeaux showed him the order to free Seldon.
“Very good,” said Fouquet; “but Seldon is not Marchiali.”
“Very good,” said Fouquet; “but Seldon is not Marchiali.”
“But Marchiali is not at liberty, monseigneur; he is here.”
“But Marchiali isn't free, sir; he's here.”
“But you said that M. d’Herblay carried him away and brought him back again.”
"But you said that M. d’Herblay took him away and brought him back again."
“I did not say so.”
"I didn't say that."
“So surely did you say it, that I almost seem to hear it now.”
“So surely did you say it, that I almost seem to hear it now.”
“It was a slip of my tongue, then, monseigneur.”
“It was a slip of my tongue, then, sir.”
“Take care, M. Baisemeaux, take care.”
“Take care, M. Baisemeaux, take care.”
“I have nothing to fear, monseigneur; I am acting according to the very strictest regulation.”
“I have nothing to worry about, sir; I’m following the strictest rules.”
“Do you dare to say so?”
“Do you really want to say that?”
“I would say so in the presence of one of the apostles. M. d’Herblay brought me an order to set Seldon at liberty. Seldon is free.”
"I would definitely say that in front of one of the apostles. M. d’Herblay gave me an order to release Seldon. Seldon is free."
“I tell you that Marchiali has left the Bastile.”
“I’m telling you that Marchiali has left the Bastille.”
“You must prove that, monseigneur.”
“You need to prove that, sir.”
“Let me see him.”
“Let me see him now.”
“You, monseigneur, who govern this kingdom, know very well that no one can see any of the prisoners without an express order from the king.”
“You, sir, who govern this kingdom, know very well that no one can see any of the prisoners without a direct order from the king.”
“M. d’Herblay has entered, however.”
“M. d’Herblay has arrived, though.”
“That remains to be proved, monseigneur.”
"That still needs to be proven, sir."
“M. de Baisemeaux, once more I warn you to pay particular attention to what you are saying.”
“M. de Baisemeaux, I remind you again to really pay attention to what you’re saying.”
“All the documents are there, monseigneur.”
“All the documents are there, sir.”
“M. d’Herblay is overthrown.”
“M. d’Herblay has been overthrown.”
“Overthrown?—M. d’Herblay! Impossible!”
"Overthrown?—M. d’Herblay! No way!”
“You see that he has undoubtedly influenced you.”
“You can see that he has definitely had an impact on you.”
“No, monseigneur; what does, in fact, influence me, is the king’s service. I am doing my duty. Give me an order from him, and you shall enter.”
“No, my lord; what really influences me is serving the king. I’m fulfilling my duty. Give me an order from him, and you can come in.”
“Stay, M. le gouverneur, I give you my word that if you allow me to see the prisoner, I will give you an order from the king at once.”
“Wait, Governor, I promise you that if you let me see the prisoner, I will bring you an order from the king right away.”
“Give it to me now, monseigneur.”
“Give it to me now, sir.”
“And that, if you refuse me, I will have you and all your officers arrested on the spot.”
“And if you refuse me, I’ll have you and all your officers arrested right here.”
“Before you commit such an act of violence, monseigneur, you will reflect,” said Baisemeaux, who had turned very pale, “that we will only obey an order signed by the king; and that it will be just as easy for you to obtain one to see Marchiali as to obtain one to do me so much injury; me, too, who am perfectly innocent.”
“Before you go through with such an act of violence, sir, you should think,” said Baisemeaux, looking very pale, “that we will only follow an order signed by the king; and that it will be just as easy for you to get an order to see Marchiali as it would be to get one to harm me; me, who is completely innocent.”
“True. True!” cried Fouquet, furiously; “perfectly true. M. de Baisemeaux,” he added, in a sonorous voice, drawing the unhappy governor towards him, “do you know why I am so anxious to speak to the prisoner?”
“True. True!” yelled Fouquet, angrily; “absolutely true. M. de Baisemeaux,” he continued in a deep voice, pulling the unfortunate governor closer, “do you know why I’m so eager to talk to the prisoner?”
“No, monseigneur; and allow me to observe that you are terrifying me out of my senses; I am trembling all over—in fact, I feel as though I were about to faint.”
“No, sir; and let me point out that you’re scaring me out of my mind; I’m shaking all over—in fact, I feel like I’m about to pass out.”
“You will stand a better chance of fainting outright, Monsieur Baisemeaux, when I return here at the head of ten thousand men and thirty pieces of cannon.”
“You're more likely to faint on the spot, Monsieur Baisemeaux, when I come back here leading ten thousand men and thirty cannons.”
“Good heavens, monseigneur, you are losing your senses.”
“Good heavens, sir, you’re losing your mind.”
“When I have roused the whole population of Paris against you and your accursed towers, and have battered open the gates of this place, and hanged you to the topmost tree of yonder pinnacle!”
“When I have stirred up the entire population of Paris against you and your cursed towers, and have smashed open the gates of this place, and hanged you from the highest tree on that peak!”
“Monseigneur! monseigneur! for pity’s sake!”
“Monseigneur! Please, for pity’s sake!”
“I give you ten minutes to make up your mind,” added Fouquet, in a calm voice. “I will sit down here, in this armchair, and wait for you; if, in ten minutes’ time, you still persist, I leave this place, and you may think me as mad as you like. Then—you shall see!”
“I’ll give you ten minutes to decide,” Fouquet said calmly. “I’ll sit right here in this armchair and wait for you; if, in ten minutes, you still insist, I’ll leave this place, and you can think I’m as crazy as you want. Then—you’ll see!”
Baisemeaux stamped his foot on the ground like a man in a state of despair, but he did not reply a single syllable; whereupon Fouquet seized a pen and ink, and wrote:
Baisemeaux stamped his foot on the ground like a man in despair, but he didn't say a word; then Fouquet grabbed a pen and ink, and wrote:
“Order for M. le Prevot des Marchands to assemble the municipal guard and to march upon the Bastile on the king’s immediate service.”
“Order for M. le Prevot des Marchands to gather the municipal guard and to head towards the Bastille on the king’s urgent request.”
Baisemeaux shrugged his shoulders. Fouquet wrote:
Baisemeaux shrugged. Fouquet typed:
“Order for the Duc de Bouillon and M. le Prince de Conde to assume the command of the Swiss guards, of the king’s guards, and to march upon the Bastile on the king’s immediate service.”
“Order for the Duke of Bouillon and Mr. Prince of Conde to take command of the Swiss guards, the king’s guards, and to proceed to the Bastille on the king’s urgent business.”
Baisemeaux reflected. Fouquet still wrote:
Baisemeaux thought. Fouquet still wrote:
“Order for every soldier, citizen, or gentleman to seize and apprehend, wherever he may be found, le Chevalier d’Herblay, Eveque de Vannes, and his accomplices, who are: first, M. de Baisemeaux, governor of the Bastile, suspected of the crimes of high treason and rebellion—”
“Order for every soldier, citizen, or gentleman to capture and arrest, wherever he may be found, le Chevalier d’Herblay, Bishop of Vannes, and his accomplices, who are: first, M. de Baisemeaux, governor of the Bastille, suspected of high treason and rebellion—”
“Stop, monseigneur!” cried Baisemeaux; “I do not understand a single jot of the whole matter; but so many misfortunes, even were it madness itself that had set them at their awful work, might happen here in a couple of hours, that the king, by whom I must be judged, will see whether I have been wrong in withdrawing the countersign before this flood of imminent catastrophes. Come with me to the keep, monseigneur, you shall see Marchiali.”
“Stop, sir!” cried Baisemeaux; “I don’t understand anything about this whole situation; but so many disasters, even if it were pure madness that had caused them, could happen here in just a couple of hours, that the king, who will judge me, will see whether I made a mistake in withdrawing the countersign before this wave of impending disasters. Come with me to the keep, sir, you’ll see Marchiali.”
Fouquet darted out of the room, followed by Baisemeaux as he wiped the perspiration from his face. “What a terrible morning!” he said; “what a disgrace for me!”
Fouquet rushed out of the room, with Baisemeaux following him as he wiped the sweat from his face. “What a terrible morning!” he exclaimed; “what a disgrace for me!”
“Walk faster,” replied Fouquet.
“Walk faster,” Fouquet replied.
Baisemeaux made a sign to the jailer to precede them. He was afraid of his companion, which the latter could not fail to perceive.
Baisemeaux signaled to the jailer to go ahead of them. He was intimidated by his companion, which the other couldn’t help but notice.
“A truce to this child’s play,” he said, roughly. “Let the man remain here; take the keys yourself, and show me the way. Not a single person, do you understand, must hear what is going to take place here.”
“A break from this childish nonsense,” he said harshly. “Leave the man here; take the keys yourself, and lead me the way. Not a single person, do you understand, can hear what’s about to happen here.”
“Ah!” said Baisemeaux, undecided.
“Ah!” said Baisemeaux, unsure.
“Again!” cried M. Fouquet. “Ah! say ‘no’ at once, and I will leave the Bastile and will myself carry my own dispatches.”
“Again!” exclaimed M. Fouquet. “Oh! just say ‘no’ right now, and I’ll leave the Bastille and personally deliver my own messages.”
Baisemeaux bowed his head, took the keys, and unaccompanied, except by the minister, ascended the staircase. The higher they advanced up the spiral staircase, the more clearly did certain muffled murmurs become distinct appeals and fearful imprecations.
Baisemeaux lowered his head, grabbed the keys, and alone, aside from the minister, climbed the staircase. The higher they went up the spiral staircase, the more the muted murmurs turned into clear pleas and terrified curses.
“What is that?” asked Fouquet.
“What’s that?” asked Fouquet.
“That is your Marchiali,” said the governor; “this is the way these madmen scream.”
"That's your Marchiali," said the governor; "this is how these crazy people scream."
And he accompanied that reply with a glance more pregnant with injurious allusion, as far as Fouquet was concerned, than politeness. The latter trembled; he had just recognized in one cry more terrible than any that had preceded it, the king’s voice. He paused on the staircase, snatching the bunch of keys from Baisemeaux, who thought this new madman was going to dash out his brains with one of them. “Ah!” he cried, “M. d’Herblay did not say a word about that.”
And he paired that response with a look that was loaded with offensive implications for Fouquet rather than courtesy. Fouquet shuddered; he had just identified the king's voice in a scream more terrifying than any that had come before. He stopped on the stairs, grabbing the bunch of keys from Baisemeaux, who feared this new crazy person was about to smash his head with one of them. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “Mr. d’Herblay didn't mention anything about that.”
“Give me the keys at once!” cried Fouquet, tearing them from his hand. “Which is the key of the door I am to open?”
“Give me the keys right now!” shouted Fouquet, snatching them from his hand. “Which key is for the door I need to open?”
“That one.”
“That one.”
A fearful cry, followed by a violent blow against the door, made the whole staircase resound with the echo.
A terrified shout, followed by a loud bang on the door, made the entire staircase vibrate with the sound.
“Leave this place,” said Fouquet to Baisemeaux, in a threatening tone.
“Get out of here,” Fouquet told Baisemeaux, sounding threatening.
“I ask nothing better,” murmured the latter, to himself. “There will be a couple of madmen face to face, and the one will kill the other, I am sure.”
"I couldn't ask for anything more," the latter murmured to himself. "There will be a couple of crazies facing off, and I'm sure one will end up killing the other."
“Go!” repeated Fouquet. “If you place your foot on this staircase before I call you, remember that you shall take the place of the meanest prisoner in the Bastile.”
“Go!” Fouquet repeated. “If you set foot on this staircase before I call you, keep in mind that you will take the place of the lowliest prisoner in the Bastille.”
“This job will kill me, I am sure it will,” muttered Baisemeaux, as he withdrew with tottering steps.
“This job is going to kill me, I’m sure of it,” muttered Baisemeaux, as he staggered away.
The prisoner’s cries became more and more terrible. When Fouquet had satisfied himself that Baisemeaux had reached the bottom of the staircase, he inserted the key in the first lock. It was then that he heard the hoarse, choking voice of the king, crying out, in a frenzy of rage, “Help, help! I am the king.” The key of the second door was not the same as the first, and Fouquet was obliged to look for it on the bunch. The king, however, furious and almost mad with rage and passion, shouted at the top of his voice, “It was M. Fouquet who brought me here. Help me against M. Fouquet! I am the king! Help the king against M. Fouquet!” These cries filled the minister’s heart with terrible emotions. They were followed by a shower of blows leveled against the door with a part of the broken chair with which the king had armed himself. Fouquet at last succeeded in finding the key. The king was almost exhausted; he could hardly articulate distinctly as he shouted, “Death to Fouquet! death to the traitor Fouquet!” The door flew open.
The prisoner’s cries grew more and more horrifying. When Fouquet confirmed that Baisemeaux had reached the bottom of the staircase, he put the key in the first lock. That’s when he heard the hoarse, choking voice of the king, shouting in a frenzy of rage, “Help, help! I am the king.” The key for the second door wasn’t the same as the first, so Fouquet had to search for it on the keyring. Meanwhile, the king, furious and almost out of his mind with rage and passion, yelled at the top of his lungs, “It was M. Fouquet who brought me here. Help me against M. Fouquet! I am the king! Help the king against M. Fouquet!” These cries stirred terrible emotions in the minister. They were followed by a flurry of blows against the door with a piece of the broken chair that the king had used as a weapon. Fouquet finally managed to find the key. The king was nearly exhausted; he could barely speak clearly as he shouted, “Death to Fouquet! Death to the traitor Fouquet!” The door burst open.
Chapter XXIII. The King’s Gratitude.
The two men were on the point of darting towards each other when they suddenly and abruptly stopped, as a mutual recognition took place, and each uttered a cry of horror.
The two men were about to rush towards each other when they suddenly stopped, both recognizing one another and letting out a cry of horror.
“Have you come to assassinate me, monsieur?” said the king, when he recognized Fouquet.
“Are you here to kill me, sir?” said the king when he recognized Fouquet.
“The king in this state!” murmured the minister.
“The king in this situation!” murmured the minister.
Nothing could be more terrible indeed than the appearance of the young prince at the moment Fouquet had surprised him; his clothes were in tatters; his shirt, open and torn to rags, was stained with sweat and with the blood which streamed from his lacerated breast and arms. Haggard, ghastly pale, his hair in disheveled masses, Louis XIV. presented the most perfect picture of despair, distress, anger and fear combined that could possibly be united in one figure. Fouquet was so touched, so affected and disturbed by it, that he ran towards him with his arms stretched out and his eyes filled with tears. Louis held up the massive piece of wood of which he had made such a furious use.
Nothing could be more terrible than the sight of the young prince at the moment Fouquet found him; his clothes were in tatters; his shirt, open and torn to shreds, was stained with sweat and the blood that streamed from his lacerated chest and arms. Haggard and ghostly pale, his hair a chaotic mess, Louis XIV. was the perfect picture of despair, distress, anger, and fear all combined in one figure. Fouquet was so moved, so affected and disturbed by it, that he ran toward him with his arms outstretched and tears in his eyes. Louis raised the massive piece of wood he had used so violently.
“Sire,” said Fouquet, in a voice trembling with emotion, “do you not recognize the most faithful of your friends?”
“Sire,” said Fouquet, his voice shaking with emotion, “don’t you recognize the most loyal of your friends?”
“A friend—you!” repeated Louis, gnashing his teeth in a manner which betrayed his hate and desire for speedy vengeance.
“A friend—you!” Louis repeated, gritting his teeth in a way that revealed his hatred and craving for quick revenge.
“The most respectful of your servants,” added Fouquet, throwing himself on his knees. The king let the rude weapon fall from his grasp. Fouquet approached him, kissed his knees, and took him in his arms with inconceivable tenderness.
“The most respectful of your servants,” added Fouquet, dropping to his knees. The king let the rough weapon slip from his hand. Fouquet moved closer, kissed his knees, and embraced him with unimaginable tenderness.
“My king, my child,” he said, “how you must have suffered!”
“My king, my child,” he said, “you must have gone through so much!”
Louis, recalled to himself by the change of situation, looked at himself, and ashamed of the disordered state of his apparel, ashamed of his conduct, and ashamed of the air of pity and protection that was shown towards him, drew back. Fouquet did not understand this movement; he did not perceive that the king’s feeling of pride would never forgive him for having been a witness of such an exhibition of weakness.
Louis, brought back to reality by the situation, looked at himself and felt embarrassed by his messy clothes, his behavior, and the pitying and protective attitude directed at him, so he stepped back. Fouquet didn't grasp this reaction; he failed to realize that the king's pride would never let him forget having seen such a display of weakness.
“Come, sire,” he said, “you are free.”
“Come on, sir,” he said, “you’re free.”
“Free?” repeated the king. “Oh! you set me at liberty, then, after having dared to lift up your hand against me.”
“Free?” the king repeated. “Oh! so you’re letting me go now, after having had the nerve to raise your hand against me.”
“You do not believe that!” exclaimed Fouquet, indignantly; “you cannot believe me to be guilty of such an act.”
"You can't be serious!" Fouquet shouted, outraged. "There's no way you think I'm capable of something like that."
And rapidly, warmly even, he related the whole particulars of the intrigue, the details of which are already known to the reader. While the recital continued, Louis suffered the most horrible anguish of mind; and when it was finished, the magnitude of the danger he had run struck him far more than the importance of the secret relative to his twin brother.
And quickly, even with warmth, he shared all the details of the plot, which the reader already knows. As he spoke, Louis experienced terrible mental anguish, and when it was over, the seriousness of the risk he had faced hit him much harder than the significance of the secret about his twin brother.
“Monsieur,” he said, suddenly to Fouquet, “this double birth is a falsehood; it is impossible—you cannot have been the dupe of it.”
“Monsieur,” he said suddenly to Fouquet, “this double birth is a lie; it's impossible—you can't have fallen for it.”
“Sire!”
"Your Majesty!"
“It is impossible, I tell you, that the honor, the virtue of my mother can be suspected, and my first minister has not yet done justice on the criminals!”
“It’s impossible, I tell you, that anyone could doubt my mother’s honor and virtue, and my chief minister hasn’t yet brought the criminals to justice!”
“Reflect, sire, before you are hurried away by anger,” replied Fouquet. “The birth of your brother—”
“Think about it, sir, before you let anger take over,” replied Fouquet. “Your brother’s birth—”
“I have only one brother—and that is Monsieur. You know it as well as myself. There is a plot, I tell you, beginning with the governor of the Bastile.”
“I have only one brother—and that’s Monsieur. You know this as well as I do. There’s a scheme, I’m telling you, starting with the governor of the Bastille.”
“Be careful, sire, for this man has been deceived as every one else has by the prince’s likeness to yourself.”
“Be careful, Your Highness, because this man has been fooled just like everyone else by the prince's resemblance to you.”
“Likeness? Absurd!”
"Looks? Ridiculous!"
“This Marchiali must be singularly like your majesty, to be able to deceive every one’s eye,” Fouquet persisted.
“This Marchiali must be uniquely like you, your majesty, to be able to fool everyone,” Fouquet insisted.
“Ridiculous!”
“Unbelievable!”
“Do not say so, sire; those who had prepared everything in order to face and deceive your ministers, your mother, your officers of state, the members of your family, must be quite confident of the resemblance between you.”
“Don’t say that, sir; those who set everything up to trick your ministers, your mother, your officials, and your family must be very sure of how much you look alike.”
“But where are these persons, then?” murmured the king.
“But where are these people, then?” murmured the king.
“At Vaux.”
"At Vaux."
“At Vaux! and you suffer them to remain there!”
“At Vaux! And you let them stay there!”
“My most instant duty appeared to me to be your majesty’s release. I have accomplished that duty; and now, whatever your majesty may command, shall be done. I await your orders.”
“My immediate duty seemed to be your majesty’s freedom. I have fulfilled that duty; and now, whatever your majesty wishes, will be done. I await your instructions.”
Louis reflected for a few moments.
Louis paused to think.
“Muster all the troops in Paris,” he said.
"Muster all the troops in Paris," he said.
“All the necessary orders are given for that purpose,” replied Fouquet.
"All the necessary orders have been given for that purpose," replied Fouquet.
“You have given orders!” exclaimed the king.
“You've given orders!” the king exclaimed.
“For that purpose, yes, sire; your majesty will be at the head of ten thousand men in less than an hour.”
“For that purpose, yes, sir; your majesty will command ten thousand men in less than an hour.”
The only reply the king made was to take hold of Fouquet’s hand with such an expression of feeling, that it was very easy to perceive how strongly he had, until that remark, maintained his suspicions of the minister, notwithstanding the latter’s intervention.
The only response the king gave was to grasp Fouquet’s hand with such emotion that it was clear how intensely he had, until that comment, held onto his doubts about the minister, despite the minister's efforts to intervene.
“And with these troops,” he said, “we shall go at once and besiege in your house the rebels who by this time will have established and intrenched themselves therein.”
“And with these troops,” he said, “we’ll head over right now and lay siege to the rebels who by now will have set themselves up and fortified their position in your house.”
“I should be surprised if that were the case,” replied Fouquet.
"I would be surprised if that were true," replied Fouquet.
“Why?”
"Why?"
“Because their chief—the very soul of the enterprise—having been unmasked by me, the whole plan seems to me to have miscarried.”
“Since their leader—the very heart of the operation—has been revealed by me, the entire plan appears to have failed.”
“You have unmasked this false prince also?”
“You’ve revealed this fake prince too?”
“No, I have not seen him.”
“No, I haven't seen him.”
“Whom have you seen, then?”
“Who have you seen, then?”
“The leader of the enterprise, not that unhappy young man; the latter is merely an instrument, destined through his whole life to wretchedness, I plainly perceive.”
“The leader of the company, not that unhappy young man; the latter is just a tool, meant to face misery throughout his entire life, I clearly see.”
“Most certainly.”
“Definitely.”
“It is M. l’Abbe d’Herblay, Eveque de Vannes.”
“It is M. l'Abbé d'Herblay, Bishop of Vannes.”
“Your friend?”
“Is that your friend?”
“He was my friend, sire,” replied Fouquet, nobly.
“He was my friend, sir,” replied Fouquet, proudly.
“An unfortunate circumstance for you,” said the king, in a less generous tone of voice.
“That's a tough break for you,” said the king, in a less forgiving tone.
“Such friendships, sire, had nothing dishonorable in them so long as I was ignorant of the crime.”
“Those friendships, sire, were perfectly fine as long as I didn’t know about the crime.”
“You should have foreseen it.”
"You should have seen it coming."
“If I am guilty, I place myself in your majesty’s hands.”
“If I’m guilty, I submit myself to your majesty’s judgment.”
“Ah! Monsieur Fouquet, it was not that I meant,” returned the king, sorry to have shown the bitterness of his thought in such a manner. “Well! I assure you that, notwithstanding the mask with which the villain covered his face, I had something like a vague suspicion that he was the very man. But with this chief of the enterprise there was a man of prodigious strength, the one who menaced me with a force almost herculean; what is he?”
“Ah! Monsieur Fouquet, that’s not what I meant,” the king replied, regretting that he had revealed the bitterness of his thoughts in that way. “Well! I assure you that, despite the mask the villain wore, I had a vague suspicion that he was the one. But with this mastermind, there was a man of incredible strength, the one who threatened me with almost superhuman power; who is he?”
“It must be his friend the Baron du Vallon, formerly one of the musketeers.”
“It has to be his friend, the Baron du Vallon, who used to be one of the musketeers.”
“The friend of D’Artagnan? the friend of the Comte de la Fere? Ah!” exclaimed the king, as he paused at the name of the latter, “we must not forget the connection that existed between the conspirators and M. de Bragelonne.”
“The friend of D’Artagnan? The friend of the Comte de la Fere? Ah!” the king exclaimed, stopping at the name of the latter, “We must not forget the link that existed between the conspirators and M. de Bragelonne.”
“Sire, sire, do not go too far. M. de la Fere is the most honorable man in France. Be satisfied with those whom I deliver up to you.”
“Sire, sire, don’t go too far. M. de la Fere is the most honorable man in France. Please be satisfied with those I’m handing over to you.”
“With those whom you deliver up to me, you say? Very good, for you will deliver up those who are guilty to me.”
“With those you hand over to me, you say? Alright, because you will hand over those who are guilty to me.”
“What does your majesty understand by that?” inquired Fouquet.
“What does your majesty mean by that?” asked Fouquet.
“I understand,” replied the king, “that we shall soon arrive at Vaux with a large body of troops, that we will lay violent hands upon that nest of vipers, and that not a soul shall escape.”
“I get it,” replied the king, “that we’ll soon reach Vaux with a large group of troops, that we will take forceful action against that nest of vipers, and that no one will get away.”
“Your majesty will put these men to death!” cried Fouquet.
“Your majesty will execute these men!” cried Fouquet.
“To the very meanest of them.”
“To the very least of them.”
“Oh! sire.”
“Oh! dude.”
“Let us understand one another, Monsieur Fouquet,” said the king, haughtily. “We no longer live in times when assassination was the only and the last resource kings held in reservation at extremity. No, Heaven be praised! I have parliaments who sit and judge in my name, and I have scaffolds on which supreme authority is carried out.”
“Let’s get one thing clear, Monsieur Fouquet,” said the king, arrogantly. “We don’t live in an age where assassination is the only option left for kings in desperate situations. No, thank goodness! I have parliaments that meet and make decisions in my name, and I have gallows where supreme authority is enforced.”
Fouquet turned pale. “I will take the liberty of observing to your majesty, that any proceedings instituted respecting these matters would bring down the greatest scandal upon the dignity of the throne. The august name of Anne of Austria must never be allowed to pass the lips of the people accompanied by a smile.”
Fouquet turned pale. “I would like to point out to Your Majesty that any actions taken regarding these issues would cause a huge scandal for the dignity of the throne. The respected name of Anne of Austria should never be spoken by the public with a smile.”
“Justice must be done, however, monsieur.”
“Justice has to be served, though, sir.”
“Good, sire; but royal blood must not be shed upon a scaffold.”
“Good, your majesty; but royal blood shouldn't be spilled on a scaffold.”
“The royal blood! you believe that!” cried the king with fury in his voice, stamping his foot on the ground. “This double birth is an invention; and in that invention, particularly, do I see M. d’Herblay’s crime. It is the crime I wish to punish rather than the violence, or the insult.”
“The royal blood! You actually believe that!” the king shouted angrily, stomping his foot on the ground. “This double birth is a fabrication, and it’s in that fabrication that I see M. d’Herblay’s wrongdoing. It’s the wrongdoing I want to punish, not the violence or the insult.”
“And punish it with death, sire?”
"And punish it with death, Your Majesty?"
“With death; yes, monsieur, I have said it.”
“With death; yes, sir, I have said it.”
“Sire,” said the surintendant, with firmness, as he raised his head proudly, “your majesty will take the life, if you please, of your brother Philippe of France; that concerns you alone, and you will doubtless consult the queen-mother upon the subject. Whatever she may command will be perfectly correct. I do not wish to mix myself up in it, not even for the honor of your crown, but I have a favor to ask of you, and I beg to submit it to you.”
“Sir,” said the superintendent firmly, as he lifted his head proudly, “you have the right to take the life of your brother Philippe of France; that’s entirely your decision, and I’m sure you’ll discuss it with the queen mother. Whatever she decides will be perfectly valid. I don’t want to get involved at all, not even for the sake of your crown, but I do have a favor to ask, and I’d like to present it to you.”
“Speak,” said the king, in no little degree agitated by his minister’s last words. “What do you require?”
“Speak,” said the king, clearly shaken by his minister’s last words. “What do you need?”
“The pardon of M. d’Herblay and of M. du Vallon.”
“The pardon of M. d’Herblay and M. du Vallon.”
“My assassins?”
"My hitmen?"
“Two rebels, sire, that is all.”
“Just two rebels, sir, that’s all.”
“Oh! I understand, then, you ask me to forgive your friends.”
“Oh! I see now, you want me to forgive your friends.”
“My friends!” said Fouquet, deeply wounded.
“My friends!” said Fouquet, clearly hurt.
“Your friends, certainly; but the safety of the state requires that an exemplary punishment should be inflicted on the guilty.”
“Your friends, for sure; but the safety of the state demands that a proper punishment be given to those who are guilty.”
“I will not permit myself to remind your majesty that I have just restored you to liberty, and have saved your life.”
“I won’t remind you, Your Majesty, that I just set you free and saved your life.”
“Monsieur!”
"Sir!"
“I will not allow myself to remind your majesty that had M. d’Herblay wished to carry out his character of an assassin, he could very easily have assassinated your majesty this morning in the forest of Senart, and all would have been over.” The king started.
“I won’t remind you, your majesty, that if M. d’Herblay really wanted to play the role of an assassin, he could have easily killed you this morning in the forest of Senart, and that would have been the end of it.” The king flinched.
“A pistol-bullet through the head,” pursued Fouquet, “and the disfigured features of Louis XIV., which no one could have recognized, would be M. d’Herblay’s complete and entire justification.”
“A bullet to the head,” continued Fouquet, “and the altered face of Louis XIV., which no one would have been able to recognize, would be M. d’Herblay’s full and total justification.”
The king turned pale and giddy at the bare idea of the danger he had escaped.
The king turned pale and dizzy at the thought of the danger he had just avoided.
“If M. d’Herblay,” continued Fouquet, “had been an assassin, he had no occasion to inform me of his plan in order to succeed. Freed from the real king, it would have been impossible in all futurity to guess the false. And if the usurper had been recognized by Anne of Austria, he would still have been—her son. The usurper, as far as Monsieur d’Herblay’s conscience was concerned, was still a king of the blood of Louis XIII. Moreover, the conspirator, in that course, would have had security, secrecy, impunity. A pistol-bullet would have procured him all that. For the sake of Heaven, sire, grant me his forgiveness.”
“If M. d’Herblay,” continued Fouquet, “had been an assassin, he wouldn’t have needed to tell me his plan to succeed. Once the real king was gone, it would have been impossible to identify the impostor. And if the usurper had been recognized by Anne of Austria, he would still have been considered her son. To Monsieur d’Herblay’s conscience, the usurper was still part of the bloodline of Louis XIII. Furthermore, the conspirator would have had safety, secrecy, and freedom from punishment. A bullet would have given him all that. For Heaven’s sake, sire, please grant me his forgiveness.”
The king, instead of being touched by the picture, so faithfully drawn in all details, of Aramis’s generosity, felt himself most painfully and cruelly humiliated. His unconquerable pride revolted at the idea that a man had held suspended at the end of his finger the thread of his royal life. Every word that fell from Fouquet’s lips, and which he thought most efficacious in procuring his friend’s pardon, seemed to pour another drop of poison into the already ulcerated heart of Louis XIV. Nothing could bend or soften him. Addressing himself to Fouquet, he said, “I really don’t know, monsieur, why you should solicit the pardon of these men. What good is there in asking that which can be obtained without solicitation?”
The king, instead of being moved by the picture, so accurately portrayed in every detail, of Aramis’s generosity, felt intensely and harshly humiliated. His unyielding pride revolted at the thought that a man had the fate of his royal life dangling at the tip of his finger. Every word that came from Fouquet’s mouth, which he believed would help secure his friend’s pardon, seemed to add another drop of poison to the already wounded heart of Louis XIV. Nothing could change or soften him. Speaking to Fouquet, he said, “I honestly don’t understand, sir, why you would ask for the pardon of these men. What’s the point in requesting what can be obtained without asking?”
“I do not understand you, sire.”
“I don't get you, dude.”
“It is not difficult, either. Where am I now?”
“It’s not hard, either. Where am I now?”
“In the Bastile, sire.”
“In the Bastille, sir.”
“Yes; in a dungeon. I am looked upon as a madman, am I not?”
“Yes; in a dungeon. People see me as a madman, don’t they?”
“Yes, sire.”
"Yes, sir."
“And no one is known here but Marchiali?”
"And no one here is known except for Marchiali?"
“Certainly.”
"Definitely."
“Well; change nothing in the position of affairs. Let the poor madman rot between the slimy walls of the Bastile, and M. d’Herblay and M. du Vallon will stand in no need of my forgiveness. Their new king will absolve them.”
"Well, let's not change anything about the situation. Let the poor madman rot between the slimy walls of the Bastille, and M. d’Herblay and M. du Vallon won't need my forgiveness. Their new king will take care of that."
“Your majesty does me a great injustice, sire; and you are wrong,” replied Fouquet, dryly; “I am not child enough, nor is M. d’Herblay silly enough, to have omitted to make all these reflections; and if I had wished to make a new king, as you say, I had no occasion to have come here to force open the gates and doors of the Bastile, to free you from this place. That would show a want of even common sense. Your majesty’s mind is disturbed by anger; otherwise you would be far from offending, groundlessly, the very one of your servants who has rendered you the most important service of all.”
“Your majesty is being very unfair to me, sire; you’re mistaken,” replied Fouquet, tersely. “I’m not naive, and neither is M. d’Herblay foolish enough to have missed these considerations. If I wanted to create a new king, as you suggest, I wouldn’t have needed to come here to break open the gates and doors of the Bastille to get you out. That would show a lack of basic sense. Your majesty is letting anger cloud your judgment; otherwise, you wouldn’t be unfairly accusing the very servant who has done the most important service for you.”
Louis perceived that he had gone too far; that the gates of the Bastile were still closed upon him, whilst, by degrees, the floodgates were gradually being opened, behind which the generous-hearted Fouquet had restrained his anger. “I did not say that to humiliate you, Heaven knows, monsieur,” he replied. “Only you are addressing yourself to me in order to obtain a pardon, and I answer according to my conscience. And so, judging by my conscience, the criminals we speak of are not worthy of consideration or forgiveness.”
Louis realized he had crossed a line; the gates of the Bastille were still shut against him, while gradually, the floodgates were being opened, behind which the kind-hearted Fouquet had been holding back his anger. “I didn’t say that to humiliate you, I swear, sir,” he responded. “You’re trying to speak to me to get a pardon, and I’m answering based on my conscience. So, based on my conscience, the criminals we’re talking about don’t deserve consideration or forgiveness.”
Fouquet was silent.
Fouquet was quiet.
“What I do is as generous,” added the king, “as what you have done, for I am in your power. I will even say it is more generous, inasmuch as you place before me certain conditions upon which my liberty, my life, may depend; and to reject which is to make a sacrifice of both.”
“What I do is as generous,” added the king, “as what you have done, for I am in your power. I will even say it is more generous, since you put certain conditions in front of me that could determine my freedom, my life; and to refuse those is to sacrifice both.”
“I was wrong, certainly,” replied Fouquet. “Yes,—I had the appearance of extorting a favor; I regret it, and entreat your majesty’s forgiveness.”
“I was wrong, for sure,” replied Fouquet. “Yes, I seemed to be trying to get a favor; I’m sorry about that, and I ask for your majesty’s forgiveness.”
“And you are forgiven, my dear Monsieur Fouquet,” said the king, with a smile, which restored the serene expression of his features, which so many circumstances had altered since the preceding evening.
“And you are forgiven, my dear Monsieur Fouquet,” said the king, with a smile that brought back the calm look to his face, which had changed so much due to recent events since the night before.
“I have my own forgiveness,” replied the minister, with some degree of persistence; “but M. d’Herblay, and M. du Vallon?”
“I have my own forgiveness,” the minister replied, with some determination; “but what about M. d’Herblay and M. du Vallon?”
“They will never obtain theirs, as long as I live,” replied the inflexible king. “Do me the kindness not to speak of it again.”
“They'll never get theirs while I'm alive,” replied the unyielding king. “Please do me a favor and stop bringing it up.”
“Your majesty shall be obeyed.”
"Your majesty will be obeyed."
“And you will bear me no ill-will for it?”
“And you won’t hold it against me, right?”
“Oh! no, sire; for I anticipated the event.”
“Oh! No, sir; I saw this coming.”
“You had ‘anticipated’ that I should refuse to forgive those gentlemen?”
“You thought I would refuse to forgive those men?”
“Certainly; and all my measures were taken in consequence.”
“Definitely; and everything I planned was done because of that.”
“What do you mean to say?” cried the king, surprised.
“What do you mean?” shouted the king, taken aback.
“M. d’Herblay came, as may be said, to deliver himself into my hands. M. d’Herblay left to me the happiness of saving my king and my country. I could not condemn M. d’Herblay to death; nor could I, on the other hand, expose him to your majesty’s justifiable wrath; it would have been just the same as if I had killed him myself.”
“M. d’Herblay came, so to speak, to put himself in my care. M. d’Herblay allowed me the chance to save my king and my country. I couldn’t sentence M. d’Herblay to death; nor could I, on the other hand, put him at risk of your majesty’s rightful anger; that would have been the same as if I had killed him myself.”
“Well! and what have you done?”
"Wow! What did you do?"
“Sire, I gave M. d’Herblay the best horses in my stables and four hours’ start over all those your majesty might, probably, dispatch after him.”
“Sire, I gave M. d’Herblay the best horses in my stables and a four-hour head start over anyone your majesty might send after him.”
“Be it so!” murmured the king. “But still, the world is wide enough and large enough for those whom I may send to overtake your horses, notwithstanding the ‘four hours’ start’ which you have given to M. d’Herblay.”
“Fine then!” the king murmured. “But still, the world is big enough for those I send to catch up with your horses, despite the ‘four-hour head start’ you gave to M. d’Herblay.”
“In giving him these four hours, sire, I knew I was giving him his life, and he will save his life.”
“In giving him these four hours, sir, I knew I was giving him his life, and he will save his life.”
“In what way?”
“How so?”
“After having galloped as hard as possible, with the four hours’ start, before your musketeers, he will reach my chateau of Belle-Isle, where I have given him a safe asylum.”
“After riding as fast as he could, with the four-hour head start, ahead of your musketeers, he will reach my chateau of Belle-Isle, where I have provided him with a safe refuge.”
“That may be! But you forget that you have made me a present of Belle-Isle.”
“That might be true! But don't forget that you gave me Belle-Isle as a gift.”
“But not for you to arrest my friends.”
“But you can't arrest my friends.”
“You take it back again, then?”
“You taking it back again, then?”
“As far as that goes—yes, sire.”
"As far as that goes—yeah, sir."
“My musketeers shall capture it, and the affair will be at an end.”
“My musketeers will take it, and that’ll be the end of it.”
“Neither your musketeers, nor your whole army could take Belle-Isle,” said Fouquet, coldly. “Belle-Isle is impregnable.”
“Neither your musketeers nor your entire army can take Belle-Isle,” Fouquet said coldly. “Belle-Isle is unbeatable.”
The king became perfectly livid; a lightning flash seemed to dart from his eyes. Fouquet felt that he was lost, but he as not one to shrink when the voice of honor spoke loudly within him. He bore the king’s wrathful gaze; the latter swallowed his rage, and after a few moments’ silence, said, “Are we going to return to Vaux?”
The king was absolutely furious; a flash of lightning appeared to shoot from his eyes. Fouquet realized he was doomed, but he wasn’t the type to back down when the voice of honor called out strongly inside him. He held the king’s furious stare; the king reined in his anger, and after a few moments of silence, asked, “Are we going back to Vaux?”
“I am at your majesty’s orders,” replied Fouquet, with a low bow; “but I think that your majesty can hardly dispense with changing your clothes previous to appearing before your court.”
“I am at your majesty’s service,” replied Fouquet, with a slight bow; “but I believe that your majesty should really change your clothes before appearing before your court.”
“We shall pass by the Louvre,” said the king. “Come.” And they left the prison, passing before Baisemeaux, who looked completely bewildered as he saw Marchiali once more leave; and, in his helplessness, tore out the major portion of his few remaining hairs. It was perfectly true, however, that Fouquet wrote and gave him an authority for the prisoner’s release, and that the king wrote beneath it, “Seen and approved, Louis”; a piece of madness that Baisemeaux, incapable of putting two ideas together, acknowledged by giving himself a terrible blow on the forehead with his own fist.
“We're going to pass by the Louvre,” the king said. “Let’s go.” They left the prison, walking past Baisemeaux, who looked totally confused as he saw Marchiali leave again; in his desperation, he pulled out most of his remaining hair. It was true, though, that Fouquet wrote and gave him the authority for the prisoner’s release, and that the king wrote underneath it, “Seen and approved, Louis”; a crazy move that Baisemeaux, unable to connect the dots, acknowledged by hitting himself hard on the forehead with his own fist.
Chapter XXIV. The False King.
In the meantime, usurped royalty was playing out its part bravely at Vaux. Philippe gave orders that for his petit lever the grandes entrees, already prepared to appear before the king, should be introduced. He determined to give this order notwithstanding the absence of M. d’Herblay, who did not return—our readers know the reason. But the prince, not believing that absence could be prolonged, wished, as all rash spirits do, to try his valor and his fortune far from all protection and instruction. Another reason urged him to this—Anne of Austria was about to appear; the guilty mother was about to stand in the presence of her sacrificed son. Philippe was not willing, if he had a weakness, to render the man a witness of it before whom he was bound thenceforth to display so much strength. Philippe opened his folding doors, and several persons entered silently. Philippe did not stir whilst his valets de chambre dressed him. He had watched, the evening before, all the habits of his brother, and played the king in such a manner as to awaken no suspicion. He was thus completely dressed in hunting costume when he received his visitors. His own memory and the notes of Aramis announced everybody to him, first of all Anne of Austria, to whom Monsieur gave his hand, and then Madame with M. de Saint-Aignan. He smiled at seeing these countenances, but trembled on recognizing his mother. That still so noble and imposing figure, ravaged by pain, pleaded in his heart the cause of the famous queen who had immolated a child to reasons of state. He found his mother still handsome. He knew that Louis XIV. loved her, and he promised himself to love her likewise, and not to prove a scourge to her old age. He contemplated his brother with a tenderness easily to be understood. The latter had usurped nothing, had cast no shades athwart his life. A separate tree, he allowed the stem to rise without heeding its elevation or majestic life. Philippe promised himself to be a kind brother to this prince, who required nothing but gold to minister to his pleasures. He bowed with a friendly air to Saint-Aignan, who was all reverences and smiles, and trembling held out his hand to Henrietta, his sister-in-law, whose beauty struck him; but he saw in the eyes of that princess an expression of coldness which would facilitate, as he thought, their future relations.
In the meantime, usurped royalty was playing its part bravely at Vaux. Philippe gave orders that for his *petit lever*, the *grandes entres*, which had already been prepared to appear before the king, should be introduced. He decided to give this order despite the absence of M. d’Herblay, who did not return—our readers know the reason. But the prince, not believing that the absence would last long, wanted, as all impulsive individuals do, to test his courage and luck far from any protection and guidance. Another reason pushed him to this—Anne of Austria was about to appear; the guilty mother was about to stand in the presence of her sacrificed son. Philippe didn’t want, if he had a weakness, to show it in front of the man he was now bound to display so much strength to. Philippe opened his folding doors, and several people entered quietly. Philippe remained still while his *valets de chambre* dressed him. He had observed his brother’s habits the evening before and played the king in such a way as to raise no suspicions. He was fully dressed in hunting gear when he received his guests. His own memory and Aramis's notes kept track of everyone, starting with Anne of Austria, to whom Monsieur offered his hand, then Madame with M. de Saint-Aignan. He smiled at seeing these faces but felt a tremor upon recognizing his mother. That still so noble and imposing figure, ravaged by pain, stirred his heart for the famous queen who had sacrificed a child for reasons of state. He found his mother still beautiful. He knew that Louis XIV. loved her, and he promised himself to love her too, and not to become a burden in her old age. He looked at his brother with a tenderness that was easy to understand. The latter had usurped nothing, cast no shadows over his life. Like a separate tree, he allowed the trunk to rise without noticing its height or majestic growth. Philippe promised to be a kind brother to this prince, who needed nothing but gold to enjoy himself. He greeted Saint-Aignan warmly, who was bowing and smiling, and nervously held out his hand to Henrietta, his sister-in-law, whose beauty captivated him; but he noticed a coldness in her eyes that he thought would make their future relations easier.
“How much more easy,” thought he, “it will be to be the brother of that woman than her gallant, if she evinces towards me a coldness that my brother could not have for her, but which is imposed upon me as a duty.” The only visit he dreaded at this moment was that of the queen; his heart—his mind—had just been shaken by so violent a trial, that, in spite of their firm temperament, they would not, perhaps, support another shock. Happily the queen did not come. Then commenced, on the part of Anne of Austria, a political dissertation upon the welcome M. Fouquet had given to the house of France. She mixed up hostilities with compliments addressed to the king, and questions as to his health, with little maternal flatteries and diplomatic artifices.
“How much easier,” he thought, “it will be to be the brother of that woman than her lover, if she shows me a coldness that my brother could never have for her, but which is placed on me as a duty.” The only visit he dreaded at that moment was from the queen; his heart—his mind—had just been shaken by such a severe trial that, despite their strong nature, they might not withstand another blow. Luckily, the queen did not come. Then began a political lecture from Anne of Austria about the warm welcome M. Fouquet had given to the French court. She mixed criticisms with compliments aimed at the king, questions about his health, and little maternal flattery with diplomatic tricks.
“Well, my son,” said she, “are you convinced with regard to M. Fouquet?”
“Well, my son,” she said, “are you convinced about M. Fouquet?”
“Saint-Aignan,” said Philippe, “have the goodness to go and inquire after the queen.”
“Saint-Aignan,” Philippe said, “please go and check on the queen.”
At these words, the first Philippe had pronounced aloud, the slight difference that there was between his voice and that of the king was sensible to maternal ears, and Anne of Austria looked earnestly at her son. Saint-Aignan left the room, and Philippe continued:
At these words, the first Philippe had spoken out loud, the slight difference between his voice and the king's was noticeable to a mother's ears, and Anne of Austria watched her son intently. Saint-Aignan left the room, and Philippe continued:
“Madame, I do not like to hear M. Fouquet ill-spoken of, you know I do not—and you have even spoken well of him yourself.”
“Madam, I don’t like hearing bad things said about M. Fouquet, you know that—and you’ve even spoken well of him yourself.”
“That is true; therefore I only question you on the state of your sentiments with respect to him.”
"That's true; so I just want to ask you how you feel about him."
“Sire,” said Henrietta, “I, on my part, have always liked M. Fouquet. He is a man of good taste,—a superior man.”
“Sire,” Henrietta said, “I’ve always liked M. Fouquet. He has great taste—he’s an impressive man.”
“A superintendent who is never sordid or niggardly,” added Monsieur; “and who pays in gold all the orders I have on him.”
“A superintendent who is never dirty or greedy,” added Monsieur; “and who pays in gold for all the orders I have on him.”
“Every one in this thinks too much of himself, and nobody for the state,” said the old queen. “M. Fouquet, it is a fact, M. Fouquet is ruining the state.”
“Everyone here thinks too highly of themselves, and no one cares about the state,” said the old queen. “M. Fouquet, it's true, M. Fouquet is ruining the state.”
“Well, mother!” replied Philippe, in rather a lower key, “do you likewise constitute yourself the buckler of M. Colbert?”
“Well, Mom!” replied Philippe, in a much quieter tone, “do you also make yourself the shield of Mr. Colbert?”
“How is that?” replied the old queen, rather surprised.
"How is that?" replied the old queen, somewhat surprised.
“Why, in truth,” replied Philippe, “you speak that just as your old friend Madame de Chevreuse would speak.”
“Honestly,” replied Philippe, “you say that exactly how your old friend Madame de Chevreuse would say it.”
“Why do you mention Madame de Chevreuse to me?” said she, “and what sort of humor are you in to-day towards me?”
“Why are you bringing up Madame de Chevreuse?” she said, “and what kind of mood are you in today with me?”
Philippe continued: “Is not Madame de Chevreuse always in league against somebody? Has not Madame de Chevreuse been to pay you a visit, mother?”
Philippe continued, "Isn't Madame de Chevreuse always scheming against someone? Hasn't she come to visit you, mom?"
“Monsieur, you speak to me now in such a manner that I can almost fancy I am listening to your father.”
“Monsieur, the way you’re speaking to me right now makes me feel like I’m hearing your father.”
“My father did not like Madame de Chevreuse, and had good reason for not liking her,” said the prince. “For my part, I like her no better than he did, and if she thinks proper to come here as she formerly did, to sow divisions and hatreds under the pretext of begging money—why—”
“My father didn't like Madame de Chevreuse, and he had good reasons for that,” said the prince. “As for me, I don't like her any more than he did, and if she decides to come here again like she used to, to create divisions and animosity under the guise of asking for money—well—”
“Well! what?” said Anne of Austria, proudly, herself provoking the storm.
“Well! What?” said Anne of Austria, with pride, stirring up the storm herself.
“Well!” replied the young man firmly, “I will drive Madame de Chevreuse out of my kingdom—and with her all who meddle with its secrets and mysteries.”
“Well!” replied the young man confidently, “I will expel Madame de Chevreuse from my kingdom—and everyone else who interferes with its secrets and mysteries.”
He had not calculated the effect of this terrible speech, or perhaps he wished to judge the effect of it, like those who, suffering from a chronic pain, and seeking to break the monotony of that suffering, touch their wound to procure a sharper pang. Anne of Austria was nearly fainting; her eyes, open but meaningless, ceased to see for several seconds; she stretched out her arms towards her other son, who supported and embraced her without fear of irritating the king.
He hadn't thought about the impact of this awful speech, or maybe he wanted to see how it affected others, like those who, dealing with ongoing pain, try to shake things up by poking at their injury to feel a stronger ache. Anne of Austria was close to passing out; her eyes, wide but empty, stopped seeing for a few seconds; she reached out her arms to her other son, who held and comforted her without worrying about upsetting the king.
“Sire,” murmured she, “you are treating your mother very cruelly.”
"Sire," she whispered, "you are being very cruel to your mother."
“In what respect, madame?” replied he. “I am only speaking of Madame de Chevreuse; does my mother prefer Madame de Chevreuse to the security of the state and of my person? Well, then, madame, I tell you Madame de Chevreuse has returned to France to borrow money, and that she addressed herself to M. Fouquet to sell him a certain secret.”
“In what way, ma'am?” he replied. “I’m just talking about Madame de Chevreuse; does my mother care more about Madame de Chevreuse than the safety of the state and my own safety? Well, then, ma'am, I’m telling you that Madame de Chevreuse has come back to France to borrow money, and she approached M. Fouquet to sell him a certain secret.”
“A certain secret!” cried Anne of Austria.
“A certain secret!” exclaimed Anne of Austria.
“Concerning pretended robberies that monsieur le surintendant had committed, which is false,” added Philippe. “M. Fouquet rejected her offers with indignation, preferring the esteem of the king to complicity with such intriguers. Then Madame de Chevreuse sold the secret to M. Colbert, and as she is insatiable, and was not satisfied with having extorted a hundred thousand crowns from a servant of the state, she has taken a still bolder flight, in search of surer sources of supply. Is that true, madame?”
“About the fake robberies that Monsieur le Surintendant supposedly committed, which isn’t true,” Philippe added. “M. Fouquet turned down her offers with anger, valuing the king’s respect over getting involved with such schemers. Then Madame de Chevreuse sold the secret to M. Colbert, and since she’s never satisfied, having already extorted a hundred thousand crowns from a government official, she’s gone even bolder in search of more reliable sources of income. Is that true, madame?”
“You know all, sire,” said the queen, more uneasy than irritated.
"You know everything, my lord," said the queen, feeling more anxious than annoyed.
“Now,” continued Philippe, “I have good reason to dislike this fury, who comes to my court to plan the shame of some and the ruin of others. If Heaven has suffered certain crimes to be committed, and has concealed them in the shadow of its clemency, I will not permit Madame de Chevreuse to counteract the just designs of fate.”
“Now,” Philippe went on, “I have plenty of reasons to dislike this rage, who comes to my court to scheme the disgrace of some and the downfall of others. If Heaven has allowed certain crimes to happen and has hidden them in the shade of its mercy, I won't let Madame de Chevreuse disrupt the rightful course of fate.”
The latter part of this speech had so agitated the queen-mother, that her son had pity on her. He took her hand and kissed it tenderly; she did not feel that in that kiss, given in spite of repulsion and bitterness of the heart, there was a pardon for eight years of suffering. Philippe allowed the silence of a moment to swallow the emotions that had just developed themselves. Then, with a cheerful smile:
The latter part of this speech had so upset the queen mother that her son felt sorry for her. He took her hand and kissed it gently; she didn’t realize that in that kiss, given despite the feelings of disgust and bitterness in his heart, there was a forgiveness for eight years of pain. Philippe let a moment of silence absorb the emotions that had just surfaced. Then, with a cheerful smile:
“We will not go to-day,” said he, “I have a plan.” And, turning towards the door, he hoped to see Aramis, whose absence began to alarm him. The queen-mother wished to leave the room.
“We’re not leaving today,” he said, “I have a plan.” And, turning toward the door, he hoped to see Aramis, whose absence was starting to worry him. The queen-mother wanted to leave the room.
“Remain where you are, mother,” said he, “I wish you to make your peace with M. Fouquet.”
“Stay where you are, Mom,” he said, “I want you to make amends with M. Fouquet.”
“I bear M. Fouquet no ill-will; I only dreaded his prodigalities.”
“I have no ill feelings towards M. Fouquet; I just feared his extravagance.”
“We will put that to rights, and will take nothing of the superintendent but his good qualities.”
“We will fix that, and will only take the superintendent's good qualities.”
“What is your majesty looking for?” said Henrietta, seeing the king’s eyes constantly turned towards the door, and wishing to let fly a little poisoned arrow at his heart, supposing he was so anxiously expecting either La Valliere or a letter from her.
“What are you looking for, your Majesty?” Henrietta asked, noticing the king’s eyes glued to the door, hoping to strike a little blow to his heart, thinking he was eagerly waiting for either La Valliere or a letter from her.
“My sister,” said the young man, who had divined her thought, thanks to that marvelous perspicuity of which fortune was from that time about to allow him the exercise, “my sister, I am expecting a most distinguished man, a most able counselor, whom I wish to present to you all, recommending him to your good graces. Ah! come in, then, D’Artagnan.”
“My sister,” said the young man, who had guessed her thoughts, thanks to the amazing insight that fortune was about to let him use, “my sister, I’m expecting a very distinguished man, a highly skilled advisor, whom I want to introduce to all of you, asking for your kindness towards him. Ah! Come in, then, D’Artagnan.”
“What does your majesty wish?” said D’Artagnan, appearing.
“What do you want, your majesty?” said D’Artagnan, stepping forward.
“Where is monsieur the bishop of Vannes, your friend?”
“Where is the bishop of Vannes, your friend?”
“Why, sire—”
"Why, Your Majesty—"
“I am waiting for him, and he does not come. Let him be sought for.”
“I’m waiting for him, and he isn’t coming. Let’s look for him.”
D’Artagnan remained for an instant stupefied; but soon, reflecting that Aramis had left Vaux privately on a mission from the king, he concluded that the king wished to preserve the secret. “Sire,” replied he, “does your majesty absolutely require M. d’Herblay to be brought to you?”
D’Artagnan was momentarily stunned; but quickly realizing that Aramis had left Vaux quietly on a mission from the king, he figured that the king wanted to keep things private. “Sire,” he said, “do you really need M. d’Herblay to come to you?”
“Absolutely is not the word,” said Philippe; “I do not want him so particularly as that; but if he can be found—”
“Absolutely is not the word,” said Philippe; “I don’t want him that much; but if he can be found—”
“I thought so,” said D’Artagnan to himself.
“I thought so,” D’Artagnan said to himself.
“Is this M. d’Herblay the bishop of Vannes?”
“Is this M. d’Herblay, the bishop of Vannes?”
“Yes, madame.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“A friend of M. Fouquet?”
“A friend of Mr. Fouquet?”
“Yes, madame; an old musketeer.”
"Yes, ma'am; an old musketeer."
Anne of Austria blushed.
Anne of Austria blushed.
“One of the four braves who formerly performed such prodigies.”
“One of the four heroes who used to accomplish such amazing feats.”
The old queen repented of having wished to bite; she broke off the conversation, in order to preserve the rest of her teeth. “Whatever may be your choice, sire,” said she, “I have no doubt it will be excellent.”
The old queen regretted having wanted to bite; she ended the conversation to protect the rest of her teeth. “Whatever you decide, sire,” she said, “I’m sure it will be great.”
All bowed in support of that sentiment.
Everyone nodded in agreement with that sentiment.
“You will find in him,” continued Philippe, “the depth and penetration of M. de Richelieu, without the avarice of M. de Mazarin!”
"You will find in him," Philippe continued, "the depth and insight of M. de Richelieu, without the greed of M. de Mazarin!"
“A prime minister, sire?” said Monsieur, in a fright.
“A prime minister, sir?” asked Monsieur, terrified.
“I will tell you all about that, brother; but it is strange that M. d’Herblay is not here!”
“I'll tell you all about that, brother; but it’s odd that M. d’Herblay isn’t here!”
He called out:
He shouted:
“Let M. Fouquet be informed that I wish to speak to him—oh! before you, before you; do not retire!”
“Let M. Fouquet know that I want to talk to him—oh! right in front of you; don’t leave!”
M. de Saint-Aignan returned, bringing satisfactory news of the queen, who only kept her bed from precaution, and to have strength to carry out the king’s wishes. Whilst everybody was seeking M. Fouquet and Aramis, the new king quietly continued his experiments, and everybody, family, officers, servants, had not the least suspicion of his identity, his air, his voice, and manners were so like the king’s. On his side, Philippe, applying to all countenances the accurate descriptions and key-notes of character supplied by his accomplice Aramis, conducted himself so as not to give birth to a doubt in the minds of those who surrounded him. Nothing from that time could disturb the usurper. With what strange facility had Providence just reversed the loftiest fortune of the world to substitute the lowliest in its stead! Philippe admired the goodness of God with regard to himself, and seconded it with all the resources of his admirable nature. But he felt, at times, something like a specter gliding between him and the rays of his new glory. Aramis did not appear. The conversation had languished in the royal family; Philippe, preoccupied, forgot to dismiss his brother and Madame Henrietta. The latter were astonished, and began, by degrees, to lose all patience. Anne of Austria stooped towards her son’s ear and addressed some words to him in Spanish. Philippe was completely ignorant of that language, and grew pale at this unexpected obstacle. But, as if the spirit of the imperturbable Aramis had covered him with his infallibility, instead of appearing disconcerted, Philippe rose. “Well! what?” said Anne of Austria.
M. de Saint-Aignan returned, bringing good news about the queen, who was only staying in bed as a precaution to gather strength for the king’s wishes. While everyone was looking for M. Fouquet and Aramis, the new king quietly continued his experiments, and no one, not family, officers, or servants, suspected who he really was; his demeanor, voice, and manners were so similar to the king’s. Meanwhile, Philippe, using the detailed descriptions and character traits provided by his accomplice Aramis, acted in a way that left no room for doubt in the minds of those around him. From that moment on, nothing could disturb the usurper. How strangely had Providence just swapped the highest fortune in the world for the lowest! Philippe marveled at God’s goodness towards him and matched it with all the strengths of his remarkable nature. But at times, he felt like a specter was lurking between him and the rays of his new glory. Aramis was nowhere to be found. The conversation within the royal family had slowed down; Philippe, lost in thought, forgot to send his brother and Madame Henrietta away. They were puzzled and gradually began to lose patience. Anne of Austria leaned closer to her son and whispered a few words to him in Spanish. Philippe knew nothing of that language and turned pale at this unanticipated hurdle. However, as if the spirit of the unflappable Aramis had cloaked him with his invincibility, instead of seeming flustered, Philippe stood up. “Well! What?” Anne of Austria said.
“What is all that noise?” said Philippe, turning round towards the door of the second staircase.
“What’s all that noise?” Philippe asked, turning toward the door of the second staircase.
And a voice was heard saying, “This way, this way! A few steps more, sire!”
And a voice was heard saying, “This way, this way! Just a few more steps, sir!”
“The voice of M. Fouquet,” said D’Artagnan, who was standing close to the queen-mother.
“The voice of M. Fouquet,” said D’Artagnan, who was standing right next to the queen-mother.
“Then M. d’Herblay cannot be far off,” added Philippe.
“Then M. d’Herblay can't be too far away,” Philippe added.
But he then saw what he little thought to have beheld so near to him. All eyes were turned towards the door at which M. Fouquet was expected to enter; but it was not M. Fouquet who entered. A terrible cry resounded from all corners of the chamber, a painful cry uttered by the king and all present. It is given to but few men, even those whose destiny contains the strangest elements, and accidents the most wonderful, to contemplate such a spectacle similar to that which presented itself in the royal chamber at that moment. The half-closed shutters only admitted the entrance of an uncertain light passing through thick violet velvet curtains lined with silk. In this soft shade, the eyes were by degrees dilated, and every one present saw others rather with imagination than with actual sight. There could not, however, escape, in these circumstances, one of the surrounding details; and the new object which presented itself appeared as luminous as though it shone out in full sunlight. So it happened with Louis XIV., when he showed himself, pale and frowning, in the doorway of the secret stairs. The face of Fouquet appeared behind him, stamped with sorrow and determination. The queen-mother, who perceived Louis XIV., and who held the hand of Philippe, uttered a cry of which we have spoken, as if she beheld a phantom. Monsieur was bewildered, and kept turning his head in astonishment from one to the other. Madame made a step forward, thinking she was looking at the form of her brother-in-law reflected in a mirror. And, in fact, the illusion was possible. The two princes, both pale as death—for we renounce the hope of being able to describe the fearful state of Philippe—trembling, clenching their hands convulsively, measured each other with looks, and darted their glances, sharp as poniards, at each other. Silent, panting, bending forward, they appeared as if about to spring upon an enemy. The unheard-of resemblance of countenance, gesture, shape, height, even to the resemblance of costume, produced by chance—for Louis XIV. had been to the Louvre and put on a violet-colored dress—the perfect analogy of the two princes, completed the consternation of Anne of Austria. And yet she did not at once guess the truth. There are misfortunes in life so truly dreadful that no one will at first accept them; people rather believe in the supernatural and the impossible. Louis had not reckoned on these obstacles. He expected that he had only to appear to be acknowledged. A living sun, he could not endure the suspicion of equality with any one. He did not admit that every torch should not become darkness at the instant he shone out with his conquering ray. At the aspect of Philippe, then, he was perhaps more terrified than any one round him, and his silence, his immobility were, this time, a concentration and a calm which precede the violent explosions of concentrated passion.
But then he saw something he never expected to be so close to him. All eyes were focused on the door where M. Fouquet was supposed to enter, but it wasn’t M. Fouquet who came through. A terrible cry echoed from every corner of the room, a painful sound from the king and everyone present. Only a few people, even those whose lives include the strangest elements and the wildest accidents, get to witness a sight like the one that unfolded in the royal chamber at that moment. The half-closed shutters let in a dim light filtering through thick violet velvet curtains lined with silk. In that gentle glow, people's eyes gradually widened, and everyone seemed to see each other more through imagination than real sight. However, amidst the tension, no detail escaped notice, and the new arrival appeared as bright as if under full sunlight. This was true for Louis XIV., who made his entrance, pale and frowning, in the doorway of the secret stairs. Behind him was Fouquet, looking sorrowful and determined. The queen-mother, spotting Louis XIV. and holding Philippe's hand, let out a cry we mentioned, as if seeing a ghost. Monsieur was confused, turning his head back and forth in surprise between them. Madame stepped forward, mistakenly thinking she was seeing her brother-in-law’s reflection in a mirror. And, indeed, the illusion was possible. The two princes, both as pale as death—since we can’t begin to describe Philippe’s frightening state—trembled and clenched their hands tightly, sizing each other up and shooting glances sharp as daggers. They stood silent, breathless, leaning forward, as if ready to pounce on an enemy. The uncanny resemblance in their faces, movements, shapes, heights, and even clothing—since Louis XIV. had gone to the Louvre and put on a violet outfit—heightened Anne of Austria’s distress. Yet she didn’t immediately grasp the reality. Some misfortunes are so dreadful that people refuse to accept them at first; they prefer to believe in the supernatural and the impossible. Louis hadn’t anticipated these obstacles. He thought all he had to do was show up to be acknowledged. As a living sun, he couldn’t bear the idea of being seen as equal to anyone else. He refused to think that any light should not turn to darkness the moment he shone with his conquering glow. When he saw Philippe, he might have been more frightened than anyone else present, and his silence and stillness were, this time, a tension and calm that precede the explosive outbursts of intense emotion.
But Fouquet! who shall paint his emotion and stupor in presence of this living portrait of his master! Fouquet thought Aramis was right, that this newly-arrived was a king as pure in his race as the other, and that, for having repudiated all participation in this coup d’etat, so skillfully got up by the General of the Jesuits, he must be a mad enthusiast, unworthy of ever dipping his hands in political grand strategy work. And then it was the blood of Louis XIII. which Fouquet was sacrificing to the blood of Louis XIII.; it was to a selfish ambition he was sacrificing a noble ambition; to the right of keeping he sacrificed the right of having. The whole extent of his fault was revealed to him at simple sight of the pretender. All that passed in the mind of Fouquet was lost upon the persons present. He had five minutes to focus meditation on this point of conscience; five minutes, that is to say five ages, during which the two kings and their family scarcely found energy to breathe after so terrible a shock. D’Artagnan, leaning against the wall, in front of Fouquet, with his hand to his brow, asked himself the cause of such a wonderful prodigy. He could not have said at once why he doubted, but he knew assuredly that he had reason to doubt, and that in this meeting of the two Louis XIV.s lay all the doubt and difficulty that during late days had rendered the conduct of Aramis so suspicious to the musketeer. These ideas were, however, enveloped in a haze, a veil of mystery. The actors in this assembly seemed to swim in the vapors of a confused waking. Suddenly Louis XIV., more impatient and more accustomed to command, ran to one of the shutters, which he opened, tearing the curtains in his eagerness. A flood of living light entered the chamber, and made Philippe draw back to the alcove. Louis seized upon this movement with eagerness, and addressing himself to the queen:
But Fouquet! Who can describe his feelings and shock in front of this living likeness of his master? Fouquet believed Aramis was right; this newcomer was a king as pure in lineage as the other, and, by rejecting any involvement in this coup orchestrated by the General of the Jesuits, he must be a reckless idealist, unfit for the complexities of political strategy. Furthermore, Fouquet was sacrificing the blood of Louis XIII. for the blood of Louis XIII.; he was offering up a noble ambition for a selfish one; he sacrificed the right to keep in favor of the right to have. The full extent of his wrongdoing became clear to him at the mere sight of the pretender. Everything happening in Fouquet's mind went unnoticed by those around him. He had five intense minutes to ponder this moral dilemma; five minutes, which felt like ages, during which the two kings and their families barely found the strength to breathe after such a shocking revelation. D’Artagnan, leaning against the wall in front of Fouquet, hand on his forehead, wondered about the cause of such an incredible phenomenon. He couldn't pinpoint why he felt doubt, but he was sure he had a reason to feel it, and that in this encounter of the two Louis XIVs lay all the uncertainty and struggles that had made Aramis's behavior seem so suspicious to the musketeer recently. However, these thoughts lingered in a haze, wrapped in mystery. The participants in this gathering seemed to drift in a fog of confusion. Suddenly, Louis XIV., being more impatient and familiar with commanding, rushed to one of the shutters, flinging it open and tearing the curtains with excitement. A rush of bright light flooded the room, causing Philippe to retreat to the alcove. Louis eagerly seized this moment and turned to the queen:
“My mother,” said he, “do you not acknowledge your son, since every one here has forgotten his king!” Anne of Austria started, and raised her arms towards Heaven, without being able to articulate a single word.
“My mother,” he said, “do you not recognize your son, since everyone here has forgotten their king!” Anne of Austria gasped and lifted her arms to Heaven, unable to say a word.
“My mother,” said Philippe, with a calm voice, “do you not acknowledge your son?” And this time, in his turn, Louis drew back.
“My mother,” said Philippe, in a calm voice, “don’t you recognize your son?” And this time, Louis stepped back.
As to Anne of Austria, struck suddenly in head and heart with fell remorse, she lost her equilibrium. No one aiding her, for all were petrified, she sank back in her fauteuil, breathing a weak, trembling sigh. Louis could not endure the spectacle and the affront. He bounded towards D’Artagnan, over whose brain a vertigo was stealing and who staggered as he caught at the door for support.
As for Anne of Austria, suddenly hit hard in her mind and heart with overwhelming guilt, she lost her composure. No one helped her, as everyone was frozen in shock; she slumped back in her chair, letting out a weak, shaky sigh. Louis couldn't stand the sight and the insult. He rushed towards D’Artagnan, who was feeling dizzy and was staggering as he reached for the door to steady himself.
“A moi! mousquetaire!” said he. “Look us in the face and say which is the paler, he or I!”
“Hey! Musketeer!” he said. “Look us in the face and tell us who’s paler, him or me!”
This cry roused D’Artagnan, and stirred in his heart the fibers of obedience. He shook his head, and, without more hesitation, he walked straight up to Philippe, on whose shoulder he laid his hand, saying, “Monsieur, you are my prisoner!”
This shout woke D’Artagnan and sparked a sense of duty in him. He shook his head and, without further hesitation, walked right up to Philippe, resting his hand on his shoulder, and said, “Sir, you’re my prisoner!”
Philippe did not raise his eyes towards Heaven, nor stir from the spot, where he seemed nailed to the floor, his eye intently fixed upon the king his brother. He reproached him with a sublime silence for all misfortunes past, all tortures to come. Against this language of the soul the king felt he had no power; he cast down his eyes, dragging away precipitately his brother and sister, forgetting his mother, sitting motionless within three paces of the son whom she left a second time to be condemned to death. Philippe approached Anne of Austria, and said to her, in a soft and nobly agitated voice:
Philippe didn't look up at Heaven or move from the spot where he seemed glued to the floor, his gaze fixed intensely on the king, his brother. He silently accused him of all the past misfortunes and the future suffering to come. The king felt powerless against this unspoken expression of the soul; he looked down, hastily pulling away his brother and sister, completely forgetting their mother, who sat motionless just a few steps away from the son she had left to face death once again. Philippe approached Anne of Austria and said to her in a gentle and deeply emotional voice:
“If I were not your son, I should curse you, my mother, for having rendered me so unhappy.”
“If I weren’t your son, I would curse you, Mom, for making me so unhappy.”
D’Artagnan felt a shudder pass through the marrow of his bones. He bowed respectfully to the young prince, and said as he bent, “Excuse me, monseigneur, I am but a soldier, and my oaths are his who has just left the chamber.”
D’Artagnan felt a chill run through him. He bowed respectfully to the young prince and said as he bent, “Excuse me, Your Highness, I am just a soldier, and my loyalty belongs to the one who just left the room.”
“Thank you, M. d’Artagnan.... What has become of M. d’Herblay?”
“Thank you, Mr. d’Artagnan.... What happened to Mr. d’Herblay?”
“M. d’Herblay is in safety, monseigneur,” said a voice behind them; “and no one, while I live and am free, shall cause a hair to fall from his head.”
“M. d’Herblay is safe, my lord,” said a voice behind them; “and as long as I am alive and free, no one will harm him.”
“Monsieur Fouquet!” said the prince, smiling sadly.
“Monsieur Fouquet!” the prince said, smiling sadly.
“Pardon me, monseigneur,” said Fouquet, kneeling, “but he who is just gone out from hence was my guest.”
“Excuse me, sir,” said Fouquet, kneeling, “but the person who just left was my guest.”
“Here are,” murmured Philippe, with a sigh, “brave friends and good hearts. They make me regret the world. On, M. d’Artagnan, I follow you.”
“Here are,” whispered Philippe with a sigh, “brave friends and good hearts. They make me miss the world. Come on, M. d’Artagnan, I’m with you.”
At the moment the captain of the musketeers was about to leave the room with his prisoner, Colbert appeared, and, after remitting an order from the king to D’Artagnan, retired. D’Artagnan read the paper, and then crushed it in his hand with rage.
At that moment, the captain of the musketeers was about to leave the room with his prisoner when Colbert showed up. After delivering a message from the king to D’Artagnan, he left. D’Artagnan read the note and then crumpled it in his fist out of anger.
“What is it?” asked the prince.
"What is it?" asked the prince.
“Read, monseigneur,” replied the musketeer.
"Read, my lord," replied the musketeer.
Philippe read the following words, hastily traced by the hand of the king:
Philippe read the words quickly written by the king's hand:
“M. d’Artagnan will conduct the prisoner to the Ile Sainte-Marguerite. He will cover his face with an iron vizor, which the prisoner shall never raise except at peril of his life.”
“M. d’Artagnan will take the prisoner to the Ile Sainte-Marguerite. He will cover his face with an iron mask, which the prisoner can never lift unless he wants to risk his life.”
“That is just,” said Philippe, with resignation; “I am ready.”
“That’s fair,” Philippe said, with resignation; “I’m ready.”
“Aramis was right,” said Fouquet, in a low voice, to the musketeer, “this one is every whit as much a king as the other.”
“Aramis was right,” said Fouquet, quietly to the musketeer, “this one is just as much a king as the other.”
“More so!” replied D’Artagnan. “He wanted only you and me.”
“Even more!” replied D’Artagnan. “He only wanted you and me.”
Chapter XXV. In Which Porthos Thinks He Is Pursuing a Duchy.
Aramis and Porthos, having profited by the time granted them by Fouquet, did honor to the French cavalry by their speed. Porthos did not clearly understand on what kind of mission he was forced to display so much velocity; but as he saw Aramis spurring on furiously, he, Porthos, spurred on in the same way. They had soon, in this manner, placed twelve leagues between them and Vaux; they were then obliged to change horses, and organize a sort of post arrangement. It was during a relay that Porthos ventured to interrogate Aramis discreetly.
Aramis and Porthos, making the most of the time Fouquet had given them, raced impressively with the French cavalry. Porthos didn’t quite grasp why he had to go so fast, but seeing Aramis charging ahead, he followed suit. Before long, they had covered twelve leagues and left Vaux far behind. They then needed to switch horses and set up a sort of relay system. It was during one of these stops that Porthos cautiously decided to ask Aramis a question.
“Hush!” replied the latter, “know only that our fortune depends on our speed.”
"Hush!" replied the latter, "just know that our success depends on how fast we move."
As if Porthos had still been the musketeer, without a sou or a maille of 1626, he pushed forward. That magic word “fortune” always means something in the human ear. It means enough for those who have nothing; it means too much for those who have enough.
As if Porthos was still a musketeer, with no money or armor from 1626, he pressed on. That magic word “fortune” always carries weight in the human ear. It means enough for those who have nothing; it means too much for those who already have enough.
“I shall be made a duke!” said Porthos, aloud. He was speaking to himself.
“I’m going to be a duke!” said Porthos, out loud. He was talking to himself.
“That is possible,” replied Aramis, smiling after his own fashion, as Porthos’s horse passed him. Aramis felt, notwithstanding, as though his brain were on fire; the activity of the body had not yet succeeded in subduing that of the mind. All there is of raging passion, mental toothache or mortal threat, raged, gnawed and grumbled in the thoughts of the unhappy prelate. His countenance exhibited visible traces of this rude combat. Free on the highway to abandon himself to every impression of the moment, Aramis did not fail to swear at every start of his horse, at every inequality in the road. Pale, at times inundated with boiling sweats, then again dry and icy, he flogged his horses till the blood streamed from their sides. Porthos, whose dominant fault was not sensibility, groaned at this. Thus traveled they on for eight long hours, and then arrived at Orleans. It was four o’clock in the afternoon. Aramis, on observing this, judged that nothing showed pursuit to be a possibility. It would be without example that a troop capable of taking him and Porthos should be furnished with relays sufficient to perform forty leagues in eight hours. Thus, admitting pursuit, which was not at all manifest, the fugitives were five hours in advance of their pursuers.
"That’s possible," Aramis replied, smiling in his own way as Porthos's horse went past him. Yet, Aramis felt like his mind was on fire; the physical activity hadn’t calmed his racing thoughts. Every kind of intense emotion, mental strain, or life-threatening worry churned, gnawed, and grumbled in the mind of the troubled clergyman. His face clearly showed signs of this fierce battle. Free on the road, able to let himself feel every moment, Aramis cursed at every jolt of his horse and every bump in the road. Pale, sometimes drenched in sweat, then dry and cold, he whipped his horses until blood ran from their sides. Porthos, who wasn’t exactly known for his sensitivity, groaned at this. They traveled like this for eight long hours and finally arrived in Orleans. It was four o’clock in the afternoon. Seeing this, Aramis concluded that there was no sign of pursuit. It would be unprecedented for a group capable of capturing him and Porthos to have enough fresh horses to cover forty leagues in eight hours. So, if they were being pursued, which wasn’t at all obvious, the fugitives had a five-hour head start.
Aramis thought that there might be no imprudence in taking a little rest, but that to continue would make the matter more certain. Twenty leagues more, performed with the same rapidity, twenty more leagues devoured, and no one, not even D’Artagnan, could overtake the enemies of the king. Aramis felt obliged, therefore, to inflict upon Porthos the pain of mounting on horseback again. They rode on till seven o’clock in the evening, and had only one post more between them and Blois. But here a diabolical accident alarmed Aramis greatly. There were no horses at the post. The prelate asked himself by what infernal machination his enemies had succeeded in depriving him of the means of going further,—he who never recognized chance as a deity, who found a cause for every accident, preferred believing that the refusal of the postmaster, at such an hour, in such a country, was the consequence of an order emanating from above: an order given with a view of stopping short the king-maker in the midst of his flight. But at the moment he was about to fly into a passion, so as to procure either a horse or an explanation, he was struck with the recollection that the Comte de la Fere lived in the neighborhood.
Aramis thought that it might not be a bad idea to take a short break, but continuing would make things more certain. They had traveled another twenty leagues at the same speed, devouring another twenty leagues, and no one, not even D’Artagnan, could catch up with the king's enemies. Therefore, Aramis felt he had to put Porthos through the trouble of getting back on a horse. They rode on until seven in the evening and had only one post left to Blois. But then a terrible accident worried Aramis greatly. There were no horses at the post. The prelate wondered what kind of evil trick his enemies had pulled to leave him stranded—he who never saw chance as a god, who believed every event had a reason, thought it more likely that the postmaster's refusal, at such an hour in such a place, was due to an order from above: an order intended to halt the king-maker in the middle of his flight. Just as he was about to lose his temper to secure either a horse or an explanation, he suddenly remembered that the Comte de la Fere lived nearby.
“I am not traveling,” said he; “I do not want horses for a whole stage. Find me two horses to go and pay a visit to a nobleman of my acquaintance who resides near this place.”
“I’m not traveling,” he said; “I don’t need horses for a whole trip. Just find me two horses to visit a nobleman I know who lives nearby.”
“What nobleman?” asked the postmaster.
"What nobleman?" asked the postmaster.
“M. le Comte de la Fere.”
“M. le Comte de la Fere.”
“Oh!” replied the postmaster, uncovering with respect, “a very worthy nobleman. But, whatever may be my desire to make myself agreeable to him, I cannot furnish you with horses, for all mine are engaged by M. le Duc de Beaufort.”
“Oh!” replied the postmaster respectfully, “a very reputable nobleman. But no matter how much I want to please him, I can’t provide you with horses, as all of mine are occupied by M. le Duc de Beaufort.”
“Indeed!” said Aramis, much disappointed.
"Really!" said Aramis, very disappointed.
“Only,” continued the postmaster, “if you will put up with a little carriage I have, I will harness an old blind horse who has still his legs left, and peradventure will draw you to the house of M. le Comte de la Fere.”
“Only,” the postmaster continued, “if you don’t mind a little carriage I have, I’ll hitch up an old blind horse that still has some strength left, and maybe he’ll take you to the house of M. le Comte de la Fere.”
“It is worth a louis,” said Aramis.
"It’s worth a louis," Aramis said.
“No, monsieur, such a ride is worth no more than a crown; that is what M. Grimaud, the comte’s intendant, always pays me when he makes use of that carriage; and I should not wish the Comte de la Fere to have to reproach me with having imposed on one of his friends.”
“No, sir, that ride is only worth a crown; that’s what M. Grimaud, the comte’s steward, always pays me when he uses that carriage; and I wouldn’t want the Comte de la Fere to feel like I took advantage of one of his friends.”
“As you please,” said Aramis, “particularly as regards disobliging the Comte de la Fere; only I think I have a right to give you a louis for your idea.”
“As you wish,” said Aramis, “especially when it comes to upsetting the Comte de la Fere; I just believe I should give you a louis for your idea.”
“Oh! doubtless,” replied the postmaster with delight. And he himself harnessed the ancient horse to the creaking carriage. In the meantime Porthos was curious to behold. He imagined he had discovered a clew to the secret, and he felt pleased, because a visit to Athos, in the first place, promised him much satisfaction, and, in the next, gave him the hope of finding at the same time a good bed and good supper. The master, having got the carriage ready, ordered one of his men to drive the strangers to La Fere. Porthos took his seat by the side of Aramis, whispering in his ear, “I understand.”
“Oh! definitely,” replied the postmaster happily. He then harnessed the old horse to the creaking carriage himself. Meanwhile, Porthos was curious to see. He thought he had found a clue to the mystery and felt pleased because visiting Athos, first of all, promised him a lot of enjoyment and, secondly, gave him the hope of finding a good bed and a nice dinner. Once the carriage was ready, the master instructed one of his men to drive the newcomers to La Fere. Porthos took a seat next to Aramis, whispering in his ear, “I get it.”
“Aha!” said Aramis, “and what do you understand, my friend?”
“Aha!” said Aramis, “so what do you get from this, my friend?”
“We are going, on the part of the king, to make some great proposal to Athos.”
“We are going, on behalf of the king, to make a major proposal to Athos.”
“Pooh!” said Aramis.
“Pew!” said Aramis.
“You need tell me nothing about it,” added the worthy Porthos, endeavoring to reseat himself so as to avoid the jolting, “you need tell me nothing, I shall guess.”
“You don’t need to tell me anything about it,” added the good-natured Porthos, trying to adjust himself to avoid the bumping, “you don’t need to tell me, I’ll figure it out.”
“Well! do, my friend; guess away.”
“Well! Go ahead, my friend; take a guess.”
They arrived at Athos’s dwelling about nine o’clock in the evening, favored by a splendid moon. This cheerful light rejoiced Porthos beyond expression; but Aramis appeared annoyed by it in an equal degree. He could not help showing something of this to Porthos, who replied—“Ay! ay! I guess how it is! the mission is a secret one.”
They got to Athos’s place around nine in the evening, blessed by a beautiful moon. This bright light thrilled Porthos to no end; however, Aramis seemed just as bothered by it. He couldn’t help but show a bit of this to Porthos, who replied, “Yeah! Yeah! I see how it is! The mission is a secret one.”
These were his last words in the carriage. The driver interrupted him by saying, “Gentlemen, we have arrived.”
These were his final words in the carriage. The driver cut him off by saying, “Gentlemen, we’ve arrived.”
Porthos and his companion alighted before the gate of the little chateau, where we are about to meet again our old acquaintances Athos and Bragelonne, the latter of whom had disappeared since the discovery of the infidelity of La Valliere. If there be one saying truer than another, it is this: great griefs contain within themselves the germ of consolation. This painful wound, inflicted upon Raoul, had drawn him nearer to his father again; and God knows how sweet were the consolations which flowed from the eloquent mouth and generous heart of Athos. The wound was not cicatrized, but Athos, by dint of conversing with his son and mixing a little more of his life with that of the young man, had brought him to understand that this pang of a first infidelity is necessary to every human existence; and that no one has loved without encountering it. Raoul listened, again and again, but never understood. Nothing replaces in the deeply afflicted heart the remembrance and thought of the beloved object. Raoul then replied to the reasoning of his father:
Porthos and his companion got out in front of the gate of the small chateau, where we're about to see our old friends Athos and Bragelonne again, the latter of whom had been missing since the revelation of La Valliere's betrayal. If there's one saying that's truer than others, it's this: deep sorrows hold the seeds of comfort within them. This painful wound inflicted on Raoul had brought him closer to his father again; and God knows how comforting the words from the eloquent mouth and kind heart of Athos were. The wound hadn't healed, but through their conversations and Athos integrating a bit more of his life with Raoul's, he helped him to realize that the pain of a first betrayal is something everyone faces in life; that nobody has loved without going through it. Raoul listened over and over, but never really understood. Nothing can replace in a deeply hurting heart the memory and thoughts of the one you love. Raoul then responded to his father's reasoning:
“Monsieur, all that you tell me is true; I believe that no one has suffered in the affections of the heart so much as you have; but you are a man too great by reason of intelligence, and too severely tried by adverse fortune not to allow for the weakness of the soldier who suffers for the first time. I am paying a tribute that will not be paid a second time; permit me to plunge myself so deeply in my grief that I may forget myself in it, that I may drown even my reason in it.”
“Sir, everything you’re saying is true; I believe no one has suffered in matters of the heart as much as you have. But you are too intelligent and have faced too much hardship not to understand the weakness of someone who is experiencing this pain for the first time. I’m honoring a feeling that won’t come around again; please let me immerse myself in my sorrow so completely that I can forget everything, even my own reasoning.”
“Raoul! Raoul!”
“Raoul! Raoul!”
“Listen, monsieur. Never shall I accustom myself to the idea that Louise, the chastest and most innocent of women, has been able to so basely deceive a man so honest and so true a lover as myself. Never can I persuade myself that I see that sweet and noble mask change into a hypocritical lascivious face. Louise lost! Louise infamous! Ah! monseigneur, that idea is much more cruel to me than Raoul abandoned—Raoul unhappy!”
“Look, sir. I can never get used to the idea that Louise, the purest and most innocent of women, could so deceitfully betray a man as honest and true a lover as I am. I can’t accept seeing that sweet and noble face turn into a hypocritical, lustful one. Louise lost! Louise disgraceful! Ah! my lord, that thought is so much more painful to me than Raoul being left behind—Raoul being miserable!”
Athos then employed the heroic remedy. He defended Louise against Raoul, and justified her perfidy by her love. “A woman who would have yielded to a king because he is a king,” said he, “would deserve to be styled infamous; but Louise loves Louis. Young, both, they have forgotten, he his rank, she her vows. Love absolves everything, Raoul. The two young people love each other with sincerity.”
Athos then took bold action. He defended Louise against Raoul and explained her betrayal as an act of love. “A woman who would have given in to a king just because he’s a king,” he said, “would rightly be called infamous; but Louise loves Louis. They are both young and have forgotten his status and her promises. Love forgives everything, Raoul. These two young people genuinely care for each other.”
And when he had dealt this severe poniard-thrust, Athos, with a sigh, saw Raoul bound away beneath the rankling wound, and fly to the thickest recesses of the wood, or the solitude of his chamber, whence, an hour after, he would return, pale, trembling, but subdued. Then, coming up to Athos with a smile, he would kiss his hand, like the dog who, having been beaten, caresses a respected master, to redeem his fault. Raoul redeemed nothing but his weakness, and only confessed his grief. Thus passed away the days that followed that scene in which Athos had so violently shaken the indomitable pride of the king. Never, when conversing with his son, did he make any allusion to that scene; never did he give him the details of that vigorous lecture, which might, perhaps, have consoled the young man, by showing him his rival humbled. Athos did not wish that the offended lover should forget the respect due to his king. And when Bragelonne, ardent, angry, and melancholy, spoke with contempt of royal words, of the equivocal faith which certain madmen draw from promises that emanate from thrones, when, passing over two centuries, with that rapidity of a bird that traverses a narrow strait to go from one continent to the other, Raoul ventured to predict the time in which kings would be esteemed as less than other men, Athos said to him, in his serene, persuasive voice, “You are right, Raoul; all that you say will happen; kings will lose their privileges, as stars which have survived their aeons lose their splendor. But when that moment comes, Raoul, we shall be dead. And remember well what I say to you. In this world, all, men, women, and kings, must live for the present. We can only live for the future for God.”
And after he delivered that harsh blow, Athos, with a sigh, watched Raoul run off, wounded and in pain, seeking refuge in the deepest parts of the forest or in the solitude of his room, from which he would return an hour later, pale and trembling but subdued. Then he would approach Athos with a smile and kiss his hand, like a dog that, after being scolded, seeks to win back the affection of its respected owner. Raoul redeemed nothing but his weakness and merely confessed his sorrow. Thus passed the days following that moment when Athos had so forcefully shaken the unwavering pride of the king. Never did he bring up that incident when talking to his son; he never shared the details of that firm lecture, which might have comforted the young man by showing him his rival brought low. Athos did not want the offended lover to forget the respect owed to his king. And when Bragelonne, passionate, angry, and melancholic, spoke disparagingly of royal declarations and the ambiguous faith that some madmen find in promises from thrones, and when, jumping over two centuries as quickly as a bird flies across a narrow strait, Raoul dared to predict a time when kings would be regarded as less than other men, Athos replied in his calm, persuasive voice, “You are right, Raoul; everything you say will come true; kings will lose their privileges, just as stars that have outlived their eras lose their brilliance. But when that moment comes, Raoul, we will be dead. And remember what I’m telling you: in this world, everyone—men, women, and kings—must live for the present. We can only live for the future for God.”
This was the manner in which Athos and Raoul were, as usual, conversing, and walking backwards and forwards in the long alley of limes in the park, when the bell which served to announce to the comte either the hour of dinner or the arrival of a visitor, was rung; and, without attaching any importance to it, he turned towards the house with his son; and at the end of the alley they found themselves in the presence of Aramis and Porthos.
This was how Athos and Raoul were, as usual, chatting and walking back and forth in the long lime alley in the park when the bell rang to signal either dinner time or the arrival of a guest. Without thinking much of it, he turned towards the house with his son, and at the end of the alley, they ran into Aramis and Porthos.
Chapter XXVI. The Last Adieux.
Raoul uttered a cry, and affectionately embraced Porthos. Aramis and Athos embraced like old men; and this embrace itself being a question for Aramis, he immediately said, “My friend, we have not long to remain with you.”
Raoul let out a shout and hugged Porthos warmly. Aramis and Athos hugged like old friends; and since this hug was a question for Aramis, he immediately said, “My friend, we don’t have much time left with you.”
“Ah!” said the comte.
"Ah!" said the count.
“Only time to tell you of my good fortune,” interrupted Porthos.
“Just enough time to share my good fortune,” Porthos interrupted.
“Ah!” said Raoul.
“Wow!” said Raoul.
Athos looked silently at Aramis, whose somber air had already appeared to him very little in harmony with the good news Porthos hinted.
Athos silently looked at Aramis, whose serious demeanor seemed completely out of place with the good news Porthos suggested.
“What is the good fortune that has happened to you? Let us hear it,” said Raoul, with a smile.
“What good luck have you had? Share it with us,” said Raoul, smiling.
“The king has made me a duke,” said the worthy Porthos, with an air of mystery, in the ear of the young man, “a duke by brevet.”
“The king has made me a duke,” said the worthy Porthos, with an air of mystery, in the ear of the young man, “a duke by brevet.”
But the asides of Porthos were always loud enough to be heard by everybody. His murmurs were in the diapason of ordinary roaring. Athos heard him, and uttered an exclamation which made Aramis start. The latter took Athos by the arm, and, after having asked Porthos’s permission to say a word to his friend in private, “My dear Athos,” he began, “you see me overwhelmed with grief and trouble.”
But Porthos's comments were always loud enough for everyone to hear. His murmurs blended right in with the usual noise. Athos heard him and gasped, which made Aramis jump. Aramis took Athos by the arm and, after asking Porthos for a moment to speak with his friend privately, said, “My dear Athos, I’m completely overwhelmed with grief and trouble.”
“With grief and trouble, my dear friend?” cried the comte; “oh, what?”
“With grief and trouble, my dear friend?” yelled the count; “oh, what?”
“In two words. I have conspired against the king; that conspiracy has failed, and, at this moment, I am doubtless pursued.”
“In two words. I plotted against the king; that plot has failed, and right now, I am definitely being hunted.”
“You are pursued!—a conspiracy! Eh! my friend, what do you tell me?”
“You're being hunted!—a plot! Really! my friend, what are you saying?”
“The saddest truth. I am entirely ruined.”
“The saddest truth is that I’m completely ruined.”
“Well, but Porthos—this title of duke—what does all that mean?”
“Well, but Porthos—this duke title—what does that even mean?”
“That is the subject of my severest pain; that is the deepest of my wounds. I have, believing in infallible success, drawn Porthos into my conspiracy. He threw himself into it, as you know he would do, with all his strength, without knowing what he was about; and now he is as much compromised as myself—as completely ruined as I am.”
“That is the source of my greatest pain; that is my deepest wound. I believed in certain success and brought Porthos into my plan. He jumped in, as you know he would, with all his might, not fully understanding what he was getting into; and now he is just as much at risk as I am—just as completely ruined as I am.”
“Good God!” And Athos turned towards Porthos, who was smiling complacently.
“Good God!” Athos exclaimed as he turned to Porthos, who was smiling smugly.
“I must make you acquainted with the whole. Listen to me,” continued Aramis; and he related the history as we know it. Athos, during the recital, several times felt the sweat break from his forehead. “It was a great idea,” said he, “but a great error.”
“I need to fill you in on everything. Listen to me,” continued Aramis; and he shared the story as we know it. Athos, during the telling, felt the sweat bead on his forehead multiple times. “It was a brilliant idea,” he said, “but a major mistake.”
“For which I am punished, Athos.”
“For that, I am getting punished, Athos.”
“Therefore, I will not tell you my entire thought.”
“Therefore, I’m not going to share all my thoughts with you.”
“Tell it, nevertheless.”
"Go ahead and tell it."
“It is a crime.”
"It's a crime."
“A capital crime; I know it is. Lese majeste.”
“A serious crime; I know it is. Lèse-majesté.”
“Porthos! poor Porthos!”
"Porthos! poor Porthos!"
“What would you advise me to do? Success, as I have told you, was certain.”
“What do you think I should do? Like I said, success was guaranteed.”
“M. Fouquet is an honest man.”
“M. Fouquet is a good man.”
“And I a fool for having so ill-judged him,” said Aramis. “Oh, the wisdom of man! Oh, millstone that grinds the world! and which is one day stopped by a grain of sand which has fallen, no one knows how, between its wheels.”
“And I was a fool for misjudging him,” said Aramis. “Oh, the wisdom of man! Oh, the millstone that grinds the world! And yet, one day it can be stopped by a grain of sand that has fallen, no one knows how, between its wheels.”
“Say by a diamond, Aramis. But the thing is done. How do you think of acting?”
“Go ahead and buy a diamond, Aramis. But it's done now. What are you planning to do?”
“I am taking away Porthos. The king will never believe that that worthy man has acted innocently. He never can believe that Porthos has thought he was serving the king, whilst acting as he has done. His head would pay my fault. It shall not, must not, be so.”
“I’m taking Porthos away. The king will never believe that this good man acted innocently. He’ll never believe that Porthos thought he was serving the king while doing what he did. His head would pay for my mistake. It can’t be, it must not be so.”
“You are taking him away, whither?”
“You're taking him away, where to?”
“To Belle-Isle, at first. That is an impregnable place of refuge. Then, I have the sea, and a vessel to pass over into England, where I have many relations.”
“To Belle-Isle, at first. That is a secure place of refuge. Then, I have the sea and a ship to take me over to England, where I have many relatives.”
“You? in England?”
“You? In the UK?”
“Yes, or else in Spain, where I have still more.”
“Yes, or else in Spain, where I have even more.”
“But, our excellent Porthos! you ruin him, for the king will confiscate all his property.”
“But, our amazing Porthos! You're ruining him, because the king will seize all his belongings.”
“All is provided for. I know how, when once in Spain, to reconcile myself with Louis XIV., and restore Porthos to favor.”
"Everything is taken care of. I know how to make peace with Louis XIV. when I'm back in Spain and win Porthos back into his good graces."
“You have credit, seemingly, Aramis!” said Athos, with a discreet air.
“You seem to have some credit, Aramis!” said Athos, with a subtle demeanor.
“Much; and at the service of my friends.”
“Lots; and at the service of my friends.”
These words were accompanied by a warm pressure of the hand.
These words were followed by a warm squeeze of the hand.
“Thank you,” replied the comte.
“Thanks,” replied the comte.
“And while we are on this head,” said Aramis, “you also are a malcontent; you also, Raoul, have griefs to lay to the king. Follow our example; pass over into Belle-Isle. Then we shall see, I guarantee upon my honor, that in a month there will be war between France and Spain on the subject of this son of Louis XIII., who is an Infante likewise, and whom France detains inhumanly. Now, as Louis XIV. would have no inclination for a war on that subject, I will answer for an arrangement, the result of which must bring greatness to Porthos and to me, and a duchy in France to you, who are already a grandee of Spain. Will you join us?”
“And while we're on this topic,” said Aramis, “you’re also unhappy; you too, Raoul, have grievances against the king. Follow our lead and escape to Belle-Isle. Then we’ll see, I promise on my honor, that in a month there will be a war between France and Spain over this son of Louis XIII., who's also an Infante, and whom France is holding unjustly. Now, since Louis XIV. wouldn’t want a war about this, I assure you we’ll come to an arrangement that will bring greatness to Porthos and me, and a duchy in France for you, who are already a grandee of Spain. Will you join us?”
“No; for my part I prefer having something to reproach the king with; it is a pride natural to my race to pretend to a superiority over royal races. Doing what you propose, I should become the obliged of the king; I should certainly be the gainer on that ground, but I should be a loser in my conscience.—No, thank you!”
“No; for me, I’d rather have something to blame the king for; it’s a natural pride for my people to act like we're superior to royal families. By doing what you suggest, I’d end up indebted to the king; I might gain something from it, but I’d lose in my conscience.—No, thank you!”
“Then give me two things, Athos,—your absolution.”
“Then give me two things, Athos—your forgiveness.”
“Oh! I give it you if you really wished to avenge the weak and oppressed against the oppressor.”
“Oh! I’ll give it to you if you truly want to take revenge on the weak and oppressed against the oppressor.”
“That is sufficient for me,” said Aramis, with a blush which was lost in the obscurity of the night. “And now, give me your two best horses to gain the second post, as I have been refused any under the pretext of the Duc de Beaufort being traveling in this country.”
“That’s enough for me,” said Aramis, blushing in the darkness of the night. “Now, please give me your two best horses to reach the second post, as I’ve been denied any under the excuse that the Duc de Beaufort is traveling through this area.”
“You shall have the two best horses, Aramis; and again I recommend poor Porthos strongly to your care.”
“You will get the two best horses, Aramis; and once again, I strongly recommend that you take good care of poor Porthos.”
“Oh! I have no fear on that score. One word more: do you think I am maneuvering for him as I ought?”
“Oh! I’m not worried about that at all. One more thing: do you think I’m handling things with him the right way?”
“The evil being committed, yes; for the king would not pardon him, and you have, whatever may be said, always a supporter in M. Fouquet, who will not abandon you, he being himself compromised, notwithstanding his heroic action.”
“The wrong being done, yes; for the king would not forgive him, and you have, no matter what anyone says, always a supporter in M. Fouquet, who will not leave you, as he is himself involved, despite his brave actions.”
“You are right. And that is why, instead of gaining the sea at once, which would proclaim my fear and guilt, that is why I remain upon French ground. But Belle-Isle will be for me whatever ground I wish it to be, English, Spanish, or Roman; all will depend, with me, on the standard I shall think proper to unfurl.”
“You're right. And that's why, instead of rushing to the sea, which would show my fear and guilt, I’m staying on French soil. But Belle-Isle will be whatever I want it to be—English, Spanish, or Roman; it all depends on the flag I choose to raise.”
“How so?”
"How's that?"
“It was I who fortified Belle-Isle; and, so long as I defend it, nobody can take Belle-Isle from me. And then, as you have said just now, M. Fouquet is there. Belle-Isle will not be attacked without the signature of M. Fouquet.”
“It was me who strengthened Belle-Isle; and as long as I defend it, no one can take Belle-Isle from me. And then, as you just said, Mr. Fouquet is there. Belle-Isle won't be attacked without Mr. Fouquet's signature.”
“That is true. Nevertheless, be prudent. The king is both cunning and strong.” Aramis smiled.
"That's true. But still, be careful. The king is both clever and powerful." Aramis smiled.
“I again recommend Porthos to you,” repeated the count, with a sort of cold persistence.
“I recommend Porthos to you again,” the count repeated, with a kind of cold insistence.
“Whatever becomes of me, count,” replied Aramis, in the same tone, “our brother Porthos will fare as I do—or better.”
“Whatever happens to me, just know,” Aramis replied in the same tone, “our brother Porthos will be in the same situation as I am—or better.”
Athos bowed whilst pressing the hand of Aramis, and turned to embrace Porthos with emotion.
Athos bent down while shaking Aramis's hand and turned to hug Porthos with feeling.
“I was born lucky, was I not?” murmured the latter, transported with happiness, as he folded his cloak round him.
“I was born lucky, wasn’t I?” murmured the latter, filled with happiness, as he wrapped his cloak around him.
“Come, my dear friend,” said Aramis.
“Come on, my dear friend,” said Aramis.
Raoul had gone out to give orders for the saddling of the horses. The group was already divided. Athos saw his two friends on the point of departure, and something like a mist passed before his eyes and weighed upon his heart.
Raoul had gone out to give instructions for saddling the horses. The group was already split up. Athos saw his two friends about to leave, and a sense of sorrow washed over him, heavy on his heart.
“It is strange,” thought he, “whence comes the inclination I feel to embrace Porthos once more?” At that moment Porthos turned round, and he came towards his old friend with open arms. This last endearment was tender as in youth, as in times when hearts were warm—life happy. And then Porthos mounted his horse. Aramis came back once more to throw his arms round the neck of Athos. The latter watched them along the high-road, elongated by the shade, in their white cloaks. Like phantoms they seemed to enlarge on their departure from the earth, and it was not in the mist, but in the declivity of the ground that they disappeared. At the end of the perspective, both seemed to have given a spring with their feet, which made them vanish as if evaporated into cloud-land.
“It’s strange,” he thought, “why do I feel this urge to hug Porthos again?” At that moment, Porthos turned around and came toward his old friend with his arms wide open. This last gesture was as affectionate as in their youth, in the days when hearts were warm and life was happy. Then Porthos got on his horse. Aramis returned once more to wrap his arms around Athos's neck. Athos watched them along the long road, shaded by trees, in their white cloaks. They looked like phantoms as they grew smaller while leaving the earth, and it wasn’t in the mist, but in the slope of the ground that they disappeared. At the end of the path, it seemed like they both jumped with their feet, making them vanish as if they had evaporated into the clouds.
Then Athos, with a very heavy heart, returned towards the house, saying to Bragelonne, “Raoul, I don’t know what it is that has just told me that I have seen those two for the last time.”
Then Athos, feeling very heavy-hearted, walked back toward the house and said to Bragelonne, “Raoul, I have this terrible feeling that I’ve just seen them for the last time.”
“It does not astonish me, monsieur, that you should have such a thought,” replied the young man, “for I have at this moment the same, and think also that I shall never see Messieurs du Vallon and d’Herblay again.”
“It doesn’t surprise me, sir, that you would have such a thought,” replied the young man, “because I have the same thought right now and also believe that I will never see Messieurs du Vallon and d’Herblay again.”
“Oh! you,” replied the count, “you speak like a man rendered sad by a different cause; you see everything in black; you are young, and if you chance never to see those old friends again, it will because they no longer exist in the world in which you have yet many years to pass. But I—”
“Oh! you,” replied the count, “you talk like someone who's upset for a different reason; you see everything as dark; you're young, and if you happen to never see those old friends again, it’ll be because they’re no longer in the world where you still have many years to live. But I—”
Raoul shook his head sadly, and leaned upon the shoulder of the count, without either of them finding another word in their hearts, which were ready to overflow.
Raoul shook his head sadly and leaned on the count's shoulder, with neither of them able to find another word to say, their hearts full and on the verge of overflowing.
All at once a noise of horses and voices, from the extremity of the road to Blois, attracted their attention that way. Flambeaux-bearers shook their torches merrily among the trees of their route, and turned round, from time to time, to avoid distancing the horsemen who followed them. These flames, this noise, this dust of a dozen richly caparisoned horses, formed a strange contrast in the middle of the night with the melancholy and almost funereal disappearance of the two shadows of Aramis and Porthos. Athos went towards the house; but he had hardly reached the parterre, when the entrance gate appeared in a blaze; all the flambeaux stopped and appeared to enflame the road. A cry was heard of “M. le Duc de Beaufort”—and Athos sprang towards the door of his house. But the duke had already alighted from his horse, and was looking around him.
Suddenly, the sounds of horses and voices coming from the end of the road to Blois caught their attention. Torchbearers waved their torches cheerfully among the trees as they walked, occasionally glancing back to avoid losing the horsemen behind them. The flames, the noise, and the dust kicked up by a dozen richly adorned horses created a bizarre contrast against the night, highlighting the somber, almost mournful retreat of Aramis and Porthos. Athos moved toward the house, but as he reached the garden, the entrance gate lit up. All the torches stopped, illuminating the road. A shout of “M. le Duc de Beaufort” was heard, and Athos rushed to the door of his house. But the duke had already dismounted and was scanning his surroundings.
“I am here, monseigneur,” said Athos.
“I’m here, my lord,” said Athos.
“Ah! good evening, dear count,” said the prince, with that frank cordiality which won him so many hearts. “Is it too late for a friend?”
“Ah! Good evening, dear count,” said the prince, with that open warmth that won him so many hearts. “Is it too late for a friend?”
“Ah! my dear prince, come in!” said the count.
“Ah! My dear prince, come in!” said the count.
And, M. de Beaufort leaning on the arm of Athos, they entered the house, followed by Raoul, who walked respectfully and modestly among the officers of the prince, with several of whom he was acquainted.
And M. de Beaufort, leaning on Athos's arm, entered the house, followed by Raoul, who walked respectfully and modestly among the prince's officers, several of whom he knew.
Chapter XXVII. Monsieur de Beaufort.
The prince turned round at the moment when Raoul, in order to leave him alone with Athos, was shutting the door, and preparing to go with the other officers into an adjoining apartment.
The prince turned around just as Raoul was closing the door to leave him alone with Athos, getting ready to head with the other officers into a nearby room.
“Is that the young man I have heard M. le Prince speak so highly of?” asked M. de Beaufort.
“Is that the young man I've heard M. le Prince talk so highly about?” asked M. de Beaufort.
“It is, monseigneur.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“He is quite the soldier; let him stay, count, we cannot spare him.”
“He's a great soldier; let him stay, Count, we can't afford to lose him.”
“Remain, Raoul, since monseigneur permits it,” said Athos.
“Stay, Raoul, since the lord allows it,” said Athos.
“Ma foi! he is tall and handsome!” continued the duke. “Will you give him to me, monseigneur, if I ask him of you?”
“My word! he is tall and handsome!” the duke went on. “Will you give him to me, sir, if I ask you for him?”
“How am I to understand you, monseigneur?” said Athos.
“How am I supposed to understand you, sir?” said Athos.
“Why, I call upon you to bid you farewell.”
“Why, I’m calling on you to say goodbye.”
“Farewell!”
“Goodbye!”
“Yes, in good truth. Have you no idea of what I am about to become?”
“Yes, really. Do you have any idea of what I'm about to become?”
“Why, I suppose, what you have always been, monseigneur,—a valiant prince, and an excellent gentleman.”
“Why, I guess, you’ve always been, your highness—a brave prince and a great gentleman.”
“I am going to become an African prince,—a Bedouin gentleman. The king is sending me to make conquests among the Arabs.”
“I’m going to become an African prince—a Bedouin gentleman. The king is sending me to make conquests among the Arabs.”
“What is this you tell me, monseigneur?”
“What are you telling me, sir?”
“Strange, is it not? I, the Parisian par essence, I who have reigned in the faubourgs, and have been called King of the Halles,—I am going to pass from the Place Maubert to the minarets of Gigelli; from a Frondeur I am becoming an adventurer!”
“Isn't it strange? I, the quintessential Parisian, who have ruled the suburbs and have been called the King of the Halles—I'm transitioning from Place Maubert to the minarets of Gigelli; from a Frondeur, I'm becoming an adventurer!”
“Oh, monseigneur, if you did not yourself tell me that—”
“Oh, sir, if you didn't tell me that yourself—”
“It would not be credible, would it? Believe me, nevertheless, and we have but to bid each other farewell. This is what comes of getting into favor again.”
“It wouldn’t be believable, would it? Trust me, though, and we just have to say goodbye to each other. This is what happens when you get back into someone’s good graces.”
“Into favor?”
"Into favor?"
“Yes. You smile. Ah, my dear count, do you know why I have accepted this enterprise, can you guess?”
“Yes. You smile. Ah, my dear count, do you know why I’ve taken on this venture, can you guess?”
“Because your highness loves glory above—everything.”
“Because you love glory more than anything else.”
“Oh! no; there is no glory in firing muskets at savages. I see no glory in that, for my part, and it is more probable that I shall there meet with something else. But I have wished, and still wish earnestly, my dear count, that my life should have that last facet, after all the whimsical exhibitions I have seen myself make during fifty years. For, in short, you must admit that it is sufficiently strange to be born the grandson of a king, to have made war against kings, to have been reckoned among the powers of the age, to have maintained my rank, to feel Henry IV. within me, to be great admiral of France—and then to go and get killed at Gigelli, among all those Turks, Saracens, and Moors.”
“Oh! No; there's no glory in shooting muskets at savages. I don't see any glory in that, and it's more likely that I'll experience something else instead. But I have wished, and still wish truly, my dear count, that my life would have that final facet, after all the strange displays I've made over the past fifty years. Because, really, you have to agree that it’s quite unusual to be born the grandson of a king, to have fought against kings, to have been considered one of the powerful figures of the time, to have upheld my status, to feel Henry IV. within me, to be the great admiral of France—and then to end up getting killed at Gigelli, among all those Turks, Saracens, and Moors.”
“Monseigneur, you harp with strange persistence on that theme,” said Athos, in an agitated voice. “How can you suppose that so brilliant a destiny will be extinguished in that remote and miserable scene?”
“Monseigneur, you keep going on about that theme,” said Athos, in an agitated voice. “How can you think that such a bright future will be wiped out in that far-off and miserable place?”
“And can you believe, upright and simple as you are, that if I go into Africa for this ridiculous motive, I will not endeavor to come out of it without ridicule? Shall I not give the world cause to speak of me? And to be spoken of, nowadays, when there are Monsieur le Prince, M. de Turenne, and many others, my contemporaries, I, admiral of France, grandson of Henry IV., king of Paris, have I anything left but to get myself killed? Cordieu! I will be talked of, I tell you; I shall be killed whether or not; if not there, somewhere else.”
“And can you believe it, as straightforward and uncomplicated as you are, that if I go to Africa for this ridiculous reason, I won’t come out of it without being ridiculed? Won’t I give people a reason to talk about me? And to be talked about these days, with Monsieur le Prince, M. de Turenne, and many others as my contemporaries, I, admiral of France, grandson of Henry IV., king of Paris, have I got anything left to do but to get myself killed? Cordieu! I will be the topic of conversation, I tell you; I will be killed either way; if not there, then somewhere else.”
“Why, monseigneur, this is mere exaggeration; and hitherto you have shown nothing exaggerated save in bravery.”
“Why, sir, this is just an exaggeration; and until now, the only thing you've shown to be exaggerated is your bravery.”
“Peste! my dear friend, there is bravery in facing scurvy, dysentery, locusts, poisoned arrows, as my ancestor St. Louis did. Do you know those fellows still use poisoned arrows? And then, you know me of old, I fancy, and you know that when I once make up my mind to a thing, I perform it in grim earnest.”
“Plague! my dear friend, there’s courage in dealing with scurvy, dysentery, locusts, and poisoned arrows, just like my ancestor St. Louis did. Do you realize those people still use poisoned arrows? And then, you know me well, I think, and you know that once I set my mind on something, I go after it seriously.”
“Yes, you made up your mind to escape from Vincennes.”
“Yes, you decided to escape from Vincennes.”
“Ay, but you aided me in that, my master; and, a propos, I turn this way and that, without seeing my old friend, M. Vaugrimaud. How is he?”
“Ay, but you helped me with that, my master; and, by the way, I look around and can’t find my old friend, M. Vaugrimaud. How is he?”
“M. Vaugrimaud is still your highness’s most respectful servant,” said Athos, smiling.
“M. Vaugrimaud is still your highness’s most respectful servant,” said Athos, smiling.
“I have a hundred pistoles here for him, which I bring as a legacy. My will is made, count.”
“I have a hundred pistoles for him here, which I’m bringing as a legacy. My will is set, count.”
“Ah! monseigneur! monseigneur!”
“Ah! my lord! my lord!”
“And you may understand that if Grimaud’s name were to appear in my will—” The duke began to laugh; then addressing Raoul, who, from the commencement of this conversation, had sunk into a profound reverie, “Young man,” said he, “I know there is to be found here a certain De Vouvray wine, and I believe—” Raoul left the room precipitately to order the wine. In the meantime M. de Beaufort took the hand of Athos.
“And you might get that if Grimaud’s name showed up in my will—” The duke started laughing; then turning to Raoul, who had fallen into a deep trance since the start of the conversation, he said, “Young man,” “I know there’s a certain De Vouvray wine to be found here, and I believe—” Raoul quickly left the room to order the wine. In the meantime, M. de Beaufort took Athos’s hand.
“What do you mean to do with him?” asked he.
“What are you planning to do with him?” he asked.
“Nothing at present, monseigneur.”
"Nothing right now, sir."
“Ah! yes, I know; since the passion of the king for La Valliere.”
“Ah! yes, I know; since the king's passion for La Valliere.”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“That is all true, then, is it? I think I know her, that little La Valliere. She is not particularly handsome, if I remember right?”
"Is that all true, then? I think I know her, that little La Valliere. She's not exactly pretty, if I remember correctly?"
“No, monseigneur,” said Athos.
“No, sir,” said Athos.
“Do you know whom she reminds me of?”
“Do you know who she reminds me of?”
“Does she remind your highness of any one?”
“Does she remind you of anyone, your highness?”
“She reminds me of a very agreeable girl, whose mother lived in the Halles.”
“She reminds me of a really pleasant girl whose mom lived in the Halles.”
“Ah! ah!” said Athos, smiling.
“Ah! ah!” Athos said, smiling.
“Oh! the good old times,” added M. de Beaufort. “Yes, La Valliere reminds me of that girl.”
“Oh! the good old days,” added M. de Beaufort. “Yeah, La Valliere makes me think of that girl.”
“Who had a son, had she not?” 3
"Who had a son?" __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
“I believe she had,” replied the duke, with careless naivete and a complaisant forgetfulness, of which no words could translate the tone and the vocal expression. “Now, here is poor Raoul, who is your son, I believe.”
“I think she did,” replied the duke, with a casual innocence and a laid-back forgetfulness that words couldn’t capture in tone and voice. “Now, here’s poor Raoul, who I believe is your son.”
“Yes, he is my son, monseigneur.”
“Yes, he is my son, sir.”
“And the poor lad has been cut out by the king, and he frets.”
“And the poor guy has been shut out by the king, and he’s upset.”
“Still better, monseigneur, he abstains.”
“Even better, sir, he abstains.”
“You are going to let the boy rust in idleness; it is a mistake. Come, give him to me.”
“You're going to let the boy waste away doing nothing; that's a mistake. Come on, give him to me.”
“My wish is to keep him at home, monseigneur. I have no longer anything in the world but him, and as long as he likes to remain—”
“My wish is to keep him at home, sir. I no longer have anything else in the world but him, and as long as he wants to stay—”
“Well, well,” replied the duke. “I could, nevertheless, have soon put matters to rights again. I assure you, I think he has in him the stuff of which marechals of France are made; I have seen more than one produced from less likely rough material.”
“Well, well,” replied the duke. “I could have quickly sorted things out again. I assure you, I believe he has the potential to be a marshal of France; I’ve seen more than one come from less promising beginnings.”
“That is very possible, monseigneur; but it is the king who makes marechals of France, and Raoul will never accept anything of the king.”
"That’s very possible, Your Excellency; but it’s the king who makes marshals of France, and Raoul will never accept anything from the king."
Raoul interrupted this conversation by his return. He preceded Grimaud, whose still steady hands carried the plateau with one glass and a bottle of the duke’s favorite wine. On seeing his old protege, the duke uttered an exclamation of pleasure.
Raoul interrupted the conversation by coming back. He was ahead of Grimaud, whose steady hands held a tray with a glass and a bottle of the duke’s favorite wine. When the duke saw his old protege, he exclaimed in delight.
“Grimaud! Good evening, Grimaud!” said he; “how goes it?”
“Grimaud! Good evening, Grimaud!” he said. “How's it going?”
The servant bowed profoundly, as much gratified as his noble interlocutor.
The servant bowed deeply, just as pleased as his noble conversation partner.
“Two old friends!” said the duke, shaking honest Grimaud’s shoulder after a vigorous fashion; which was followed by another still more profound and delighted bow from Grimaud.
“Two old friends!” said the duke, shaking honest Grimaud’s shoulder energetically, which was followed by an even deeper and happier bow from Grimaud.
“But what is this, count, only one glass?”
“But what’s this, Count? Just one glass?”
“I should not think of drinking with your highness, unless your highness permitted me,” replied Athos, with noble humility.
“I wouldn’t consider drinking with you, your highness, unless you allowed me to,” replied Athos, with dignified humility.
“Cordieu! you were right to bring only one glass, we will both drink out of it, like two brothers in arms. Begin, count.”
“Cordieu! you were right to bring just one glass; we'll both drink from it, like two brothers in arms. Go ahead, count.”
“Do me the honor,” said Athos, gently putting back the glass.
“Do me the honor,” Athos said, softly putting the glass back.
“You are a charming friend,” replied the Duc de Beaufort, who drank, and passed the goblet to his companion. “But that is not all,” continued he, “I am still thirsty, and I wish to do honor to this handsome young man who stands here. I carry good luck with me, vicomte,” said he to Raoul; “wish for something while drinking out of my glass, and may the black plague grab me if what you wish does not come to pass!” He held the goblet to Raoul, who hastily moistened his lips, and replied with the same promptitude:
"You’re such a great friend," said the Duc de Beaufort, taking a drink and handing the goblet to his companion. "But that’s not all," he continued, "I’m still thirsty, and I want to honor this handsome young man who's here. I bring good luck with me, vicomte," he said to Raoul; "make a wish while drinking from my glass, and may the black plague take me if your wish doesn’t come true!" He offered the goblet to Raoul, who quickly wet his lips and responded just as quickly:
“I have wished for something, monseigneur.” His eyes sparkled with a gloomy fire, and the blood mounted to his cheeks; he terrified Athos, if only with his smile.
“I have wished for something, sir.” His eyes sparkled with a dark intensity, and the blood rushed to his cheeks; he frightened Athos, even if it was just with his smile.
“And what have you wished for?” replied the duke, sinking back into his fauteuil, whilst with one hand he returned the bottle to Grimaud, and with the other gave him a purse.
“And what did you wish for?” the duke replied, leaning back in his chair as he handed the bottle back to Grimaud with one hand and gave him a purse with the other.
“Will you promise me, monseigneur, to grant me what I wish for?”
“Will you promise me, sir, to give me what I want?”
“Pardieu! That is agreed upon.”
“Pardieu! It's a deal.”
“I wished, monsieur le duc, to go with you to Gigelli.”
“I wanted to go with you to Gigelli, sir.”
Athos became pale, and was unable to conceal his agitation. The duke looked at his friend, as if desirous to assist him to parry this unexpected blow.
Athos turned pale and couldn’t hide his distress. The duke glanced at his friend, as if wanting to help him deal with this unexpected shock.
“That is difficult, my dear vicomte, very difficult,” added he, in a lower tone of voice.
"That's tough, my dear viscount, really tough," he added, in a quieter tone.
“Pardon me, monseigneur, I have been indiscreet,” replied Raoul, in a firm voice; “but as you yourself invited me to wish—”
“Excuse me, sir, I’ve been a bit too forward,” Raoul replied confidently, “but since you encouraged me to express my thoughts—”
“To wish to leave me?” said Athos.
"Do you want to leave me?" said Athos.
“Oh! monsieur—can you imagine—”
“Oh! Sir—can you imagine—”
“Well, mordieu!” cried the duke, “the young vicomte is right! What can he do here? He will go moldy with grief.”
“Well, mordieu!” shouted the duke, “the young viscount is right! What can he do here? He'll just rot away with grief.”
Raoul blushed, and the excitable prince continued: “War is a distraction: we gain everything by it; we can only lose one thing by it—life—then so much the worse!”
Raoul turned red, and the enthusiastic prince kept going: “War is a diversion: we gain everything from it; we can only lose one thing—life—so be it!”
“That is to say, memory,” said Raoul, eagerly; “and that is to say, so much the better!”
“That is to say, memory,” Raoul said eagerly; “and that is to say, all the better!”
He repented of having spoken so warmly when he saw Athos rise and open the window; which was, doubtless, to conceal his emotion. Raoul sprang towards the comte, but the latter had already overcome his emotion, and turned to the lights with a serene and impassible countenance. “Well, come,” said the duke, “let us see! Shall he go, or shall he not? If he goes, comte, he shall be my aide-de-camp, my son.”
He felt regret for having spoken so passionately when he saw Athos get up and open the window, likely to hide his feelings. Raoul rushed toward the comte, but the latter had already managed his emotions and turned to the lights with a calm and expressionless face. “Well, come on,” said the duke, “let's see! Is he going to leave or not? If he does leave, comte, he will be my aide-de-camp, my son.”
“Monseigneur!” cried Raoul, bending his knee.
"Sir!" shouted Raoul, kneeling down.
“Monseigneur!” cried Athos, taking the hand of the duke; “Raoul shall do just as he likes.”
“Your Grace!” exclaimed Athos, taking the duke’s hand; “Raoul can do whatever he wants.”
“Oh! no, monsieur, just as you like,” interrupted the young man.
“Oh! no, sir, however you prefer,” interrupted the young man.
“Par la corbleu!” said the prince in his turn, “it is neither the comte nor the vicomte that shall have his way, it is I. I will take him away. The marine offers a superb fortune, my friend.”
“By God!” said the prince in response, “neither the count nor the viscount will have their way, it’s going to be me. I'm taking him away. The navy offers a fantastic fortune, my friend.”
Raoul smiled again so sadly, that this time Athos felt his heart penetrated by it, and replied to him by a severe look. Raoul comprehended it all; he recovered his calmness, and was so guarded, that not another word escaped him. The duke at length rose, on observing the advanced hour, and said, with animation, “I am in great haste, but if I am told I have lost time in talking with a friend, I will reply I have gained—on the balance—a most excellent recruit.”
Raoul smiled again so sadly that this time Athos felt it deep in his heart and responded with a stern look. Raoul understood everything; he regained his composure and was so cautious that not another word slipped from his lips. The duke finally got up, noticing the late hour, and said with enthusiasm, “I’m in a big hurry, but if someone tells me I wasted time chatting with a friend, I’ll say I’ve gained—on the whole—a really great recruit.”
“Pardon me, monsieur le duc,” interrupted Raoul, “do not tell the king so, for it is not the king I wish to serve.”
“Excuse me, Duke,” interrupted Raoul, “please don’t tell the king that, because it’s not the king I want to serve.”
“Eh! my friend, whom, then, will you serve? The times are past when you might have said, ‘I belong to M. de Beaufort.’ No, nowadays, we all belong to the king, great or small. Therefore, if you serve on board my vessels, there can be nothing equivocal about it, my dear vicomte; it will be the king you will serve.”
“Hey! my friend, who will you serve then? Those days are gone when you could say, ‘I belong to M. de Beaufort.’ No, these days, we all belong to the king, whether we're important or not. So, if you serve on my ships, there will be no doubt about it, my dear viscount; it will be the king you serve.”
Athos waited with a kind of impatient joy for the reply about to be made to this embarrassing question by Raoul, the intractable enemy of the king, his rival. The father hoped that the obstacle would overcome the desire. He was thankful to M. de Beaufort, whose lightness or generous reflection had thrown an impediment in the way of the departure of a son, now his only joy. But Raoul, still firm and tranquil, replied: “Monsieur le duc, the objection you make I have already considered in my mind. I will serve on board your vessels, because you do me the honor to take me with you; but I shall there serve a more powerful master than the king: I shall serve God!”
Athos waited with a kind of impatient joy for Raoul's response to the embarrassing question, knowing Raoul was the king's stubborn enemy and his rival. The father hoped that this obstacle would outweigh the desire. He was grateful to M. de Beaufort, whose lightheartedness or generous thought had created a barrier to his son’s departure, now his only source of happiness. But Raoul, still steady and calm, replied, “Monsieur le duc, I’ve already thought about the objection you mentioned. I will serve on your ships because you honor me by taking me with you; but I will serve a master more powerful than the king: I will serve God!”
“God! how so?” said the duke and Athos together.
“God! How is that possible?” said the duke and Athos together.
“My intention is to make profession, and become a knight of Malta,” added Bragelonne, letting fall, one by one, words more icy than the drops which fall from the bare trees after the tempests of winter. 4
“My goal is to join the order and become a knight of Malta,” Bragelonne added, letting his words drop one by one, colder than the droplets that fall from the bare trees after winter storms. 4
Under this blow Athos staggered and the prince himself was moved. Grimaud uttered a heavy groan, and let fall the bottle, which was broken without anybody paying attention. M. de Beaufort looked the young man in the face, and read plainly, though his eyes were cast down, the fire of resolution before which everything must give way. As to Athos, he was too well acquainted with that tender, but inflexible soul; he could not hope to make it deviate from the fatal road it had just chosen. He could only press the hand the duke held out to him. “Comte, I shall set off in two days for Toulon,” said M. de Beaufort. “Will you meet me at Paris, in order that I may know your determination?”
Under this blow, Athos staggered, and the prince himself was affected. Grimaud let out a heavy groan and dropped the bottle, which shattered without anyone noticing. M. de Beaufort looked the young man in the face and clearly saw, even with his eyes lowered, the fire of determination that would overpower everything. As for Athos, he was too familiar with that tender yet unyielding spirit; he knew he couldn’t hope to make it stray from the dangerous path it had just chosen. He could only grasp the hand that the duke offered him. “Comte, I’ll be leaving for Toulon in two days,” said M. de Beaufort. “Will you meet me in Paris so I can know your decision?”
“I will have the honor of thanking you there, mon prince, for all your kindness,” replied the comte.
“I’ll have the honor of thanking you there, mon prince, for all your kindness,” replied the comte.
“And be sure to bring the vicomte with you, whether he follows me or does not follow me,” added the duke; “he has my word, and I only ask yours.”
“And make sure to bring the viscount with you, whether he chooses to follow me or not,” added the duke; “he has my assurance, and I only ask for yours.”
Having thrown a little balm upon the wound of the paternal heart, he pulled the ear of Grimaud, whose eyes sparkled more than usual, and regained his escort in the parterre. The horses, rested and refreshed, set off with spirit through the lovely night, and soon placed a considerable distance between their master and the chateau.
Having eased the pain of his father's heart a bit, he tugged at Grimaud's ear, whose eyes were shining more than usual, and got back to his escort in the garden. The horses, rested and refreshed, took off energetically into the beautiful night, quickly putting a good distance between their master and the chateau.
Athos and Bragelonne were again face to face. Eleven o’clock was striking. The father and son preserved a profound silence towards each other, where an intelligent observer would have expected cries and tears. But these two men were of such a nature that all emotion following their final resolutions plunged itself so deep into their hearts that it was lost forever. They passed, then, silently and almost breathlessly, the hour that preceded midnight. The clock, by striking, alone pointed out to them how many minutes had lasted the painful journey made by their souls in the immensity of their remembrances of the past and fear of the future. Athos rose first, saying, “it is late, then.... Till to-morrow.”
Athos and Bragelonne faced each other again. The clock struck eleven. The father and son maintained a deep silence, when a keen observer would have expected shouts and tears. But these two men were such that all emotion after their final decisions sank so deep into their hearts that it was lost forever. They passed the hour leading up to midnight silently and almost without breathing. The clock, by striking, was the only thing indicating the minutes that marked the painful journey of their souls through the vastness of their memories and fears about the future. Athos stood up first, saying, “It’s late, then... Until tomorrow.”
Raoul rose, and in his turn embraced his father. The latter held him clasped to his breast, and said, in a tremulous voice, “In two days, you will have left me, my son—left me forever, Raoul!”
Raoul stood up and hugged his dad. His dad held him tight and said, with a shaky voice, “In two days, you'll be leaving me, my son—leaving me forever, Raoul!”
“Monsieur,” replied the young man, “I had formed a determination, that of piercing my heart with my sword; but you would have thought that cowardly. I have renounced that determination, and therefore we must part.”
“Sir,” replied the young man, “I had made up my mind to stab my heart with my sword; but you would think that was cowardly. I’ve changed my mind, and therefore we must go our separate ways.”
“You leave me desolate by going, Raoul.”
“You leave me heartbroken by leaving, Raoul.”
“Listen to me again, monsieur, I implore you. If I do not go, I shall die here of grief and love. I know how long a time I have to live thus. Send me away quickly, monsieur, or you will see me basely die before your eyes—in your house—this is stronger than my will—stronger than my strength—you may plainly see that within one month I have lived thirty years, and that I approach the end of my life.”
“Please listen to me again, sir, I beg you. If I don't leave, I'll die here from heartache and love. I know how long I can manage this. Send me away quickly, sir, or you'll watch me sadly die in front of you—in your home—this is stronger than my will—stronger than my strength—you can clearly see that in just one month I've aged thirty years, and that I'm nearing the end of my life.”
“Then,” said Athos, coldly, “you go with the intention of getting killed in Africa? Oh, tell me! do not lie!”
“Then,” Athos said coldly, “you’re planning to get killed in Africa? Oh, tell me! Don’t lie!”
Raoul grew deadly pale, and remained silent for two seconds, which were to his father two hours of agony. Then, all at once: “Monsieur,” said he, “I have promised to devote myself to God. In exchange for the sacrifice I make of my youth and liberty, I will only ask of Him one thing, and that is, to preserve me for you, because you are the only tie which attaches me to this world. God alone can give me the strength not to forget that I owe you everything, and that nothing ought to stand in my esteem before you.”
Raoul turned completely pale and stayed quiet for two seconds, which felt like two hours of agony for his father. Then, suddenly, he said, “Sir, I’ve promised to dedicate myself to God. In exchange for the sacrifice of my youth and freedom, I only ask one thing from Him: to keep me for you, because you are my only connection to this world. Only God can give me the strength not to forget that I owe you everything, and that nothing should matter to me more than you.”
Athos embraced his son tenderly, and said:
Athos hugged his son warmly and said:
“You have just replied to me on the word of honor of an honest man; in two days we shall be with M. de Beaufort at Paris, and you will then do what will be proper for you to do. You are free, Raoul; adieu.”
“You just responded to me based on the word of honor of an honest man; in two days we’ll be with M. de Beaufort in Paris, and then you’ll do what you need to do. You’re free, Raoul; goodbye.”
And he slowly gained his bedroom. Raoul went down into the garden, and passed the night in the alley of limes.
And he gradually made his way to his bedroom. Raoul went down to the garden and spent the night in the lime alley.
Chapter XXVIII. Preparations for Departure.
Athos lost no more time in combating this immutable resolution. He gave all his attention to preparing, during the two days the duke had granted him, the proper appointments for Raoul. This labor chiefly concerned Grimaud, who immediately applied himself to it with the good-will and intelligence we know he possessed. Athos gave this worthy servant orders to take the route to Paris when the equipments should be ready; and, not to expose himself to the danger of keeping the duke waiting, or delaying Raoul, so that the duke should perceive his absence, he himself, the day after the visit of M. de Beaufort, set off for Paris with his son.
Athos wasted no time in resisting this unchangeable decision. He focused all his attention on getting everything ready for Raoul during the two days the duke had allowed him. This task mainly involved Grimaud, who immediately threw himself into it with the dedication and skill we know he had. Athos instructed this loyal servant to head to Paris as soon as the equipment was prepared; and to avoid the risk of making the duke wait, or delaying Raoul so much that the duke would notice his absence, he himself set off for Paris with his son the day after M. de Beaufort's visit.
For the poor young man it was an emotion easily to be understood, thus to return to Paris amongst all the people who had known and loved him. Every face recalled a pang to him who had suffered so much; to him who had loved so much, some circumstance of his unhappy love. Raoul, on approaching Paris, felt as if he were dying. Once in Paris, he really existed no longer. When he reached Guiche’s residence, he was informed that Guiche was with Monsieur. Raoul took the road to the Luxembourg, and when arrived, without suspecting that he was going to the place where La Valliere had lived, he heard so much music and respired so many perfumes, he heard so much joyous laughter, and saw so many dancing shadows, that if it had not been for a charitable woman, who perceived him so dejected and pale beneath a doorway, he would have remained there a few minutes, and then would have gone away, never to return. But, as we have said, in the first ante-chamber he had stopped, solely for the sake of not mixing himself with all those happy beings he felt were moving around him in the adjacent salons. And as one of Monsieur’s servants, recognizing him, had asked him if he wished to see Monsieur or Madame, Raoul had scarcely answered him, but had sunk down upon a bench near the velvet doorway, looking at a clock, which had stopped for nearly an hour. The servant had passed on, and another, better acquainted with him, had come up, and interrogated Raoul whether he should inform M. de Guiche of his being there. This name did not even arouse the recollections of Raoul. The persistent servant went on to relate that De Guiche had just invented a new game of lottery, and was teaching it to the ladies. Raoul, opening his large eyes, like the absent man in Theophrastus, made no answer, but his sadness increased two shades. With his head hanging down, his limbs relaxed, his mouth half open for the escape of his sighs, Raoul remained, thus forgotten, in the ante-chamber, when all at once a lady’s robe passed, rubbing against the doors of a side salon, which opened on the gallery. A lady, young, pretty, and gay, scolding an officer of the household, entered by that way, and expressed herself with much vivacity. The officer replied in calm but firm sentences; it was rather a little love pet than a quarrel of courtiers, and was terminated by a kiss on the fingers of the lady. Suddenly, on perceiving Raoul, the lady became silent, and pushing away the officer:
For the poor young man, it was an emotion easy to understand—returning to Paris among all the people who had known and loved him. Every face reminded him of the heartache he had endured; for him, who had loved so deeply, each memory was tied to his sorrowful love. As Raoul approached Paris, he felt as if he were dying. Once he was in the city, he truly felt he no longer existed. When he reached Guiche’s house, he learned that Guiche was with Monsieur. Raoul headed toward the Luxembourg, and upon arriving, without realizing he was going to the place where La Valliere had lived, he was surrounded by music and pleasant scents, heard joyful laughter, and saw dancing shadows. If it hadn't been for a kind woman who noticed his dejected and pale state under a doorway, he might have stayed there for a few minutes and then left for good. But as we mentioned, he had paused in the first waiting area, purposely avoiding mingling with all the happy people he sensed around him in the neighboring rooms. When one of Monsieur’s servants recognized him and asked if he wanted to see Monsieur or Madame, Raoul barely responded and sank onto a bench near the velvet doorway, staring at a clock that had stopped nearly an hour ago. The servant moved on, and another, one who knew him better, approached and asked if he should tell M. de Guiche that Raoul was there. The mention of that name didn't even spark a memory in Raoul. The persistent servant continued, explaining that De Guiche had just invented a new lottery game and was teaching it to the ladies. Raoul blinked wide-eyed, like the absent-minded man in Theophrastus, said nothing, and felt his sadness deepen. With his head hanging down, his limbs relaxed, and his mouth half open to let out sighs, Raoul lingered forgotten in the waiting area when suddenly a woman’s gown brushed against the doors of a side parlor that opened onto the gallery. A young, pretty, cheerful lady came in, playfully scolding a household officer, communicating with much enthusiasm. The officer replied with calm but firm remarks; it felt more like a lighthearted exchange than a courtly quarrel, ending with the lady kissing his fingers. When she spotted Raoul, she fell silent and pushed the officer away.
“Make your escape, Malicorne,” said she; “I did not think there was any one here. I shall curse you, if they have either heard or seen us!”
“Get out of here, Malicorne,” she said. “I didn’t think anyone was around. I’ll be really angry with you if they’ve heard or seen us!”
Malicorne hastened away. The young lady advanced behind Raoul, and stretching her joyous face over him as he lay:
Malicorne rushed off. The young lady stepped up behind Raoul, leaning her cheerful face over him as he lay there:
“Monsieur is a gallant man,” said she, “and no doubt—”
“Monsieur is a charming man,” she said, “and no doubt—”
She here interrupted herself by uttering a cry. “Raoul!” said she, blushing.
She interrupted herself with a cry. “Raoul!” she said, blushing.
“Mademoiselle de Montalais!” said Raoul, paler than death.
“Mademoiselle de Montalais!” said Raoul, looking paler than death.
He rose unsteadily, and tried to make his way across the slippery mosaic of the floor; but she had comprehended that savage and cruel grief; she felt that in the flight of Raoul there was an accusation of herself. A woman, ever vigilant, she did not think she ought to let the opportunity slip of making good her justification; but Raoul, though stopped by her in the middle of the gallery, did not seem disposed to surrender without a combat. He took it up in a tone so cold and embarrassed, that if they had been thus surprised, the whole court would have no doubt about the proceedings of Mademoiselle de Montalais.
He got up unsteadily and tried to cross the slippery mosaic floor, but she understood that intense and painful grief; she felt that Raoul’s departure was an accusation against her. A woman always on guard, she didn’t think she should let this chance slip away to prove herself right; however, Raoul, even when she stopped him in the middle of the gallery, didn’t seem ready to back down without a fight. He responded in such a cold and awkward tone that if anyone had witnessed them, the entire court would undoubtedly recognize what was happening between Mademoiselle de Montalais.
“Ah! monsieur,” said she with disdain, “what you are doing is very unworthy of a gentleman. My heart inclines me to speak to you; you compromise me by a reception almost uncivil; you are wrong, monsieur; and you confound your friends with enemies. Farewell!”
“Ah! Sir,” she said with disdain, “what you’re doing is very unworthy of a gentleman. My heart makes me want to talk to you; you’re putting me in a difficult position with such an almost rude reception; you’re wrong, sir, and you’re mixing up your friends with your enemies. Goodbye!”
Raoul had sworn never to speak of Louise, never even to look at those who might have seen Louise; he was going into another world, that he might never meet with anything Louise had seen, or even touched. But after the first shock of his pride, after having had a glimpse of Montalais, the companion of Louise—Montalais, who reminded him of the turret of Blois and the joys of youth—all his reason faded away.
Raoul had vowed never to talk about Louise, not even to look at anyone who might have seen her; he was entering a different world, wanting to avoid anything related to what Louise had experienced or even touched. But after the initial blow to his pride, after catching a glimpse of Montalais, Louise's friend—Montalais, who reminded him of the tower at Blois and the happiness of his youth—all his resolve vanished.
“Pardon me, mademoiselle; it enters not, it cannot enter into my thoughts to be uncivil.”
“Excuse me, miss; I can’t even think of being rude.”
“Do you wish to speak to me?” said she, with the smile of former days. “Well! come somewhere else; for we may be surprised.”
“Do you want to talk to me?” she asked, smiling like she used to. “Alright! Let's go somewhere else; we might be interrupted.”
“Oh!” said he.
“Oh!” he said.
She looked at the clock, doubtingly, then, having reflected:
She looked at the clock, unsure, then, after thinking it over:
“In my apartment,” said she, “we shall have an hour to ourselves.” And taking her course, lighter than a fairy, she ran up to her chamber, followed by Raoul. Shutting the door, and placing in the hands of her cameriste the mantle she had held upon her arm:
“In my apartment,” she said, “we'll have an hour to ourselves.” With a lightness like a fairy, she ran up to her room, followed by Raoul. She shut the door and handed her cameriste the cloak she had been holding on her arm:
“You were seeking M. de Guiche, were you not?” said she to Raoul.
“You were looking for M. de Guiche, right?” she said to Raoul.
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
“Yes, miss.”
“I will go and ask him to come up here, presently, after I have spoken to you.”
“I'll go ask him to come up here soon, after I talk to you.”
“Do so, mademoiselle.”
"Go ahead, mademoiselle."
“Are you angry with me?”
“Are you mad at me?”
Raoul looked at her for a moment, then, casting down his eyes, “Yes,” said he.
Raoul looked at her for a moment, then, lowering his gaze, “Yes,” he said.
“You think I was concerned in the plot which brought about the rupture, do you not?”
"You think I was involved in the plan that caused the breakup, right?"
“Rupture!” said he, with bitterness. “Oh! mademoiselle, there can be no rupture where there has been no love.”
“Breakup!” he said bitterly. “Oh! miss, there can be no breakup where there has been no love.”
“You are in error,” replied Montalais; “Louise did love you.”
"You’re mistaken," Montalais replied; "Louise really did love you."
Raoul started.
Raoul began.
“Not with love, I know; but she liked you, and you ought to have married her before you set out for London.”
“Not out of love, I get that; but she liked you, and you should have married her before you went to London.”
Raoul broke into a sinister laugh, which made Montalais shudder.
Raoul let out a chilling laugh that made Montalais shiver.
“You tell me that very much at your ease, mademoiselle. Do people marry whom they like? You forget that the king then kept for himself as his mistress her of whom we are speaking.”
“You say that so casually, miss. Do people really marry who they want? You forget that the king kept her as his mistress.”
“Listen,” said the young woman, pressing the hands of Raoul in her own, “you were wrong in every way; a man of your age ought never to leave a woman of hers alone.”
“Listen,” said the young woman, holding Raoul's hands in hers, “you were wrong in every way; a man your age should never leave a woman her age alone.”
“There is no longer any faith in the world, then,” said Raoul.
“There’s no faith left in the world, then,” said Raoul.
“No, vicomte,” said Montalais, quietly. “Nevertheless, let me tell you that, if, instead of loving Louise coldly and philosophically, you had endeavored to awaken her to love—”
“No, vicomte,” Montalais replied softly. “Still, I need to tell you that if, instead of loving Louise in such a distant and philosophical way, you had tried to inspire her to love—”
“Enough, I pray you, mademoiselle,” said Raoul. “I feel as though you are all, of both sexes, of a different age from me. You can laugh, and you can banter agreeably. I, mademoiselle, I loved Mademoiselle de—” Raoul could not pronounce her name,—“I loved her well! I put my faith in her—now I am quits by loving her no longer.”
“Enough, please, mademoiselle,” said Raoul. “I feel like everyone here, both men and women, is from a different generation than me. You can laugh, and you can joke easily. I, mademoiselle, I loved Mademoiselle de—” Raoul couldn't say her name—“I loved her deeply! I trusted her—now I’m done because I don’t love her anymore.”
“Oh, vicomte!” said Montalais, pointing to his reflection in a looking-glass.
“Oh, vicomte!” Montalais said, pointing to his reflection in a mirror.
“I know what you mean, mademoiselle; I am much altered, am I not? Well! Do you know why? Because my face is the mirror of my heart, the outer surface changed to match the mind within.”
“I get what you’re saying, miss; I’ve changed a lot, haven’t I? Well! Do you know why? Because my face reflects my heart; the outside has changed to match what’s going on inside.”
“You are consoled, then?” said Montalais, sharply.
"You feel better, then?" Montalais said sharply.
“No, I shall never be consoled.”
“No, I will never be comforted.”
“I don’t understand you, M. de Bragelonne.”
“I don’t understand you, Mr. de Bragelonne.”
“I care but little for that. I do not quite understand myself.”
“I don’t really care about that. I don’t fully understand myself.”
“You have not even tried to speak to Louise?”
“You haven't even tried to talk to Louise?”
“Who! I?” exclaimed the young man, with eyes flashing fire; “I!—Why do you not advise me to marry her? Perhaps the king would consent now.” And he rose from his chair full of anger.
“Who! Me?” the young man exclaimed, his eyes filled with intensity. “Me!—Why aren’t you telling me to marry her? Maybe the king would agree now.” He got up from his chair, full of anger.
“I see,” said Montalais, “that you are not cured, and that Louise has one enemy the more.”
“I see,” said Montalais, “that you’re not better, and that Louise has one more enemy.”
“One enemy the more!”
“One more enemy!”
“Yes; favorites are but little beloved at the court of France.”
“Yes, favorites are just not very loved at the court of France.”
“Oh! while she has her lover to protect her, is not that enough? She has chosen him of such a quality that her enemies cannot prevail against her.” But, stopping all at once, “And then she has you for a friend, mademoiselle,” added he, with a shade of irony which did not glide off the cuirass.
“Oh! as long as she has her lover to protect her, isn’t that enough? She’s chosen someone strong enough that her enemies can’t win against her.” But then, abruptly stopping, he added, “And then she has you as a friend, mademoiselle,” with a hint of irony that didn’t quite fade away.
“Who! I?—Oh, no! I am no longer one of those whom Mademoiselle de la Valliere condescends to look upon; but—”
“Who! Me?—Oh, no! I’m no longer someone that Mademoiselle de la Valliere considers worthy of her attention; but—”
This but, so big with menace and with storm; this but, which made the heart of Raoul beat, such griefs did it presage for her whom lately he loved so dearly; this terrible but, so significant in a woman like Montalais, was interrupted by a moderately loud noise heard by the speakers proceeding from the alcove behind the wainscoting. Montalais turned to listen, and Raoul was already rising, when a lady entered the room quietly by the secret door, which she closed after her.
This but, filled with threat and turbulence; this but, which made Raoul's heart race, signaling such sorrows for the woman he had recently loved so deeply; this daunting but, so meaningful in a woman like Montalais, was interrupted by a moderate sound coming from the alcove behind the paneling. Montalais turned to listen, and Raoul was already getting up when a lady quietly entered the room through the secret door, which she shut after her.
“Madame!” exclaimed Raoul, on recognizing the sister-in-law of the king.
“Ma'am!” exclaimed Raoul, recognizing the king's sister-in-law.
“Stupid wretch!” murmured Montalais, throwing herself, but too late, before the princess, “I have been mistaken in an hour!” She had, however, time to warn the princess, who was walking towards Raoul.
“Stupid fool!” murmured Montalais, throwing herself, but too late, in front of the princess, “I made a mistake about the time!” She had, however, time to warn the princess, who was walking toward Raoul.
“M. de Bragelonne, Madame,” and at these words the princess drew back, uttering a cry in her turn.
“M. de Bragelonne, Madame,” and at these words, the princess stepped back, letting out a cry herself.
“Your royal highness,” said Montalais, with volubility, “is kind enough to think of this lottery, and—”
“Your royal highness,” said Montalais, speaking quickly, “is thoughtful enough to consider this lottery, and—”
The princess began to lose countenance. Raoul hastened his departure, without divining all, but he felt that he was in the way. Madame was preparing a word of transition to recover herself, when a closet opened in front of the alcove, and M. de Guiche issued, all radiant, also from that closet. The palest of the four, we must admit, was still Raoul. The princess, however, was near fainting, and was obliged to lean upon the foot of the bed for support. No one ventured to support her. This scene occupied several minutes of terrible suspense. But Raoul broke it. He went up to the count, whose inexpressible emotion made his knees tremble, and taking his hand, “Dear count,” said he, “tell Madame I am too unhappy not to merit pardon; tell her also that I have loved in the course of my life, and that the horror of the treachery that has been practiced on me renders me inexorable towards all other treachery that may be committed around me. This is why, mademoiselle,” said he, smiling to Montalais, “I never would divulge the secret of the visits of my friend to your apartment. Obtain from Madame—from Madame, who is so clement and so generous,—obtain her pardon for you whom she has just surprised also. You are both free, love each other, be happy!”
The princess started to lose her composure. Raoul hurried to leave, sensing that he was in the way. Madame was about to say something to collect herself when a closet in front of the alcove opened, and M. de Guiche stepped out, looking radiant. Raoul was clearly the most pale of the four. The princess, however, was almost fainting and had to lean against the foot of the bed for support. No one dared to help her. This tense scene lasted several minutes. But Raoul broke the silence. He approached the count, whose overwhelming emotion made his knees shake, and took his hand. “Dear count,” he said, “tell Madame that I am too miserable not to deserve forgiveness; also tell her that I have loved in my life, and the horror of the betrayal I’ve experienced makes me unforgiving towards any betrayal that happens around me. That’s why, mademoiselle,” he said, smiling at Montalais, “I would never reveal the secret of my friend’s visits to your room. Please get Madame—Madame, who is so kind and generous—to grant you forgiveness as well. You are both free; love each other, and be happy!”
The princess felt for a moment a despair that cannot be described; it was repugnant to her, notwithstanding the exquisite delicacy which Raoul had exhibited, to feel herself at the mercy of one who had discovered such an indiscretion. It was equally repugnant to her to accept the evasion offered by this delicate deception. Agitated, nervous, she struggled against the double stings of these two troubles. Raoul comprehended her position, and came once more to her aid. Bending his knee before her: “Madame!” said he, in a low voice, “in two days I shall be far from Paris; in a fortnight I shall be far from France, where I shall never be seen again.”
The princess experienced an indescribable despair for a moment; it was unsettling for her, despite the charming delicacy Raoul had shown, to feel vulnerable to someone who had uncovered such a secret. It was equally distressing for her to accept the escape provided by this subtle trick. Agitated and anxious, she fought against the double pain of these two issues. Raoul understood her situation and came to her rescue once more. Kneeling before her, he said in a low voice, “Madame! In two days, I’ll be far from Paris; in a fortnight, I’ll be far from France, and I will never return.”
“Are you going away, then?” said she, with great delight.
"Are you leaving, then?" she asked, full of excitement.
“With M. de Beaufort.”
"With M. de Beaufort."
“Into Africa!” cried De Guiche, in his turn. “You, Raoul—oh! my friend—into Africa, where everybody dies!”
“Into Africa!” shouted De Guiche, taking his turn. “You, Raoul—oh! my friend—into Africa, where everyone dies!”
And forgetting everything, forgetting that that forgetfulness itself compromised the princess more eloquently than his presence, “Ingrate!” said he, “and you have not even consulted me!” And he embraced him; during which time Montalais had led away Madame, and disappeared herself.
And forgetting everything, including that this forgetfulness had affected the princess even more powerfully than his presence, “Ungrateful!” he exclaimed, “and you didn’t even ask for my opinion!” Then he hugged him; during this time, Montalais had taken Madame away and vanished herself.
Raoul passed his hand over his brow, and said, with a smile, “I have been dreaming!” Then warmly to Guiche, who by degrees absorbed him, “My friend,” said he, “I conceal nothing from you, who are the elected of my heart. I am going to seek death in yonder country; your secret will not remain in my breast more than a year.”
Raoul ran his hand over his forehead and said with a smile, “I’ve been dreaming!” Then, turning to Guiche, who was gradually getting his full attention, he said warmly, “My friend, I’m not hiding anything from you, the one I hold dear. I’m going to seek death in that land over there; your secret won’t stay with me for more than a year.”
“Oh, Raoul! a man!”
“Oh, Raoul! A guy!”
“Do you know what is my thought, count? This is it—I shall live more vividly, being buried beneath the earth, than I have lived for this month past. We are Christians, my friend, and if such sufferings were to continue, I would not be answerable for the safety of my soul.”
“Do you know what I’m thinking, Count? Here it is—I’ll live more fully, being buried underground, than I have this past month. We’re Christians, my friend, and if these kinds of sufferings keep happening, I can’t guarantee the safety of my soul.”
De Guiche was anxious to raise objections.
De Guiche was eager to voice his objections.
“Not one word more on my account,” said Raoul; “but advice to you, dear friend; what I am going to say to you is of much greater importance.”
“Not one more word about me,” said Raoul; “but I have some advice for you, dear friend; what I’m about to say is much more important.”
“What is that?”
"What's that?"
“Without doubt you risk much more than I do, because you love.”
"There's no question that you risk a lot more than I do because you're in love."
“Oh!”
“Oh!”
“It is a joy so sweet to me to be able to speak to you thus! Well, then, De Guiche, beware of Montalais.”
“It’s such a joy for me to be able to talk to you like this! Well, then, De Guiche, watch out for Montalais.”
“What! of that kind friend?”
“What! About that kind friend?”
“She was the friend of—her you know of. She ruined her by pride.”
"She was friends with someone you know. She messed things up for her because of her pride."
“You are mistaken.”
“You're wrong.”
“And now, when she has ruined her, she would ravish from her the only thing that renders that woman excusable in my eyes.”
“And now, after she has destroyed her, she would take away the only thing that makes that woman excusable in my eyes.”
“What is that?”
"What’s that?"
“Her love.”
“Her love.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that there is a plot formed against her who is the mistress of the king—a plot formed in the very house of Madame.”
“I mean that there’s a scheme against her, the king’s mistress—a scheme being hatched right in Madame’s own house.”
“Can you think so?”
"Can you even think that?"
“I am certain of it.”
"I’m sure of it."
“By Montalais?”
"By Montalais?"
“Take her as the least dangerous of the enemies I dread for—the other!”
“Consider her as the least threatening of the enemies I'm afraid of—the other!”
“Explain yourself clearly, my friend; and if I can understand you—”
“Explain yourself clearly, my friend; and if I can understand you—”
“In two words. Madame has been long jealous of the king.”
“In two words: Madame has been jealous of the king for a long time.”
“I know she has—”
“I know she’s got—”
“Oh! fear nothing—you are beloved—you are beloved, count; do you feel the value of these three words? They signify that you can raise your head, that you can sleep tranquilly, that you can thank God every minute of you life. You are beloved; that signifies that you may hear everything, even the counsel of a friend who wishes to preserve your happiness. You are beloved, De Guiche, you are beloved! You do not endure those atrocious nights, those nights without end, which, with arid eye and fainting heart, others pass through who are destined to die. You will live long, if you act like the miser who, bit by bit, crumb by crumb, collects and heaps up diamonds and gold. You are beloved!—allow me to tell you what you must do that you may be beloved forever.”
“Oh! Don’t worry—you are loved—you are loved, Count; do you understand the significance of these three words? They mean you can hold your head high, that you can sleep peacefully, that you can thank God every minute of your life. You are loved; that means you can listen to everything, even the advice of a friend who wants to keep you happy. You are loved, De Guiche, you are loved! You don’t suffer through those awful nights, those endless nights that others, with dry eyes and weary hearts, experience who are meant to perish. You will live a long life if you act like the miser who, little by little, piece by piece, gathers and accumulates diamonds and gold. You are loved!—let me tell you what you need to do so that you will be loved forever.”
De Guiche contemplated for some time this unfortunate young man, half mad with despair, till there passed through his heart something like remorse at his own happiness. Raoul suppressed his feverish excitement, to assume the voice and countenance of an impassible man.
De Guiche watched this unfortunate young man for a while, who was almost driven mad with despair, until he felt a twinge of remorse for his own happiness. Raoul held back his restless excitement and put on the expression and demeanor of someone who was completely unbothered.
“They will make her, whose name I should wish still to be able to pronounce—they will make her suffer. Swear to me that you will not second them in anything—but that you will defend her when possible, as I would have done myself.”
“They will make her, whose name I wish I could still say—they will make her suffer. Promise me that you won’t support them in any way—but that you will defend her when you can, just as I would have done myself.”
“I swear I will,” replied De Guiche.
“I promise I will,” replied De Guiche.
“And,” continued Raoul, “some day, when you shall have rendered her a great service—some day when she shall thank you, promise me to say these words to her—‘I have done you this kindness, madame, at the warm request of M. de Bragelonne, whom you so deeply injured.’”
“And,” Raoul continued, “someday, when you’ve done her a big favor—someday when she thanks you, promise me you’ll say these words to her—‘I did this for you, madame, at the strong request of M. de Bragelonne, whom you have wronged so deeply.’”
“I swear I will,” murmured De Guiche.
"I swear I will," whispered De Guiche.
“That is all. Adieu! I set out to-morrow, or the day after, for Toulon. If you have a few hours to spare, give them to me.”
“That’s it. Goodbye! I’m leaving tomorrow or the day after for Toulon. If you have a few hours to spare, please spend them with me.”
“All! all!” cried the young man.
“All! all!” shouted the young man.
“Thank you!”
"Thanks!"
“And what are you going to do now?”
“And what are you going to do now?”
“I am going to meet M. le comte at Planchet’s residence, where we hope to find M. d’Artagnan.”
“I’m going to meet the Count at Planchet’s place, where we hope to find d’Artagnan.”
“M. d’Artagnan?”
“M. d'Artagnan?”
“Yes, I wish to embrace him before my departure. He is a brave man, who loves me dearly. Farewell, my friend; you are expected, no doubt; you will find me, when you wish, at the lodgings of the comte. Farewell!”
“Yes, I want to hug him before I leave. He’s a brave man who loves me a lot. Goodbye, my friend; I’m sure you’re expected. You’ll find me, whenever you want, at the comte’s place. Goodbye!”
The two young men embraced. Those who chanced to see them both thus, would not have hesitated to say, pointing to Raoul, “That is the happy man!”
The two young men hugged. Anyone who happened to see them like this wouldn’t have hesitated to say, pointing at Raoul, “That’s the happy guy!”
Chapter XXIX. Planchet’s Inventory.
Athos, during the visit made to the Luxembourg by Raoul, had gone to Planchet’s residence to inquire after D’Artagnan. The comte, on arriving at the Rue des Lombards, found the shop of the grocer in great confusion; but it was not the encumberment of a lucky sale, or that of an arrival of goods. Planchet was not enthroned, as usual, on sacks and barrels. No. A young man with a pen behind his ear, and another with an account-book in his hand, were setting down a number of figures, whilst a third counted and weighed. An inventory was being taken. Athos, who had no knowledge of commercial matters, felt himself a little embarrassed by material obstacles and the majesty of those who were thus employed. He saw several customers sent away, and asked himself whether he, who came to buy nothing, would not be more properly deemed importunate. He therefore asked very politely if he could see M. Planchet. The reply, quite carelessly given, was that M. Planchet was packing his trunks. These words surprised Athos. “What! his trunks?” said he; “is M. Planchet going away?”
Athos, during Raoul's visit to Luxembourg, had gone to Planchet’s place to check on D’Artagnan. When the comte arrived at Rue des Lombards, he found the grocer's shop in a big mess, but it wasn’t from a busy sale or new stock coming in. Planchet wasn't sitting on sacks and barrels as usual. Instead, a young guy with a pen behind his ear and another with an account book were jotting down numbers, while a third person was counting and weighing items. They were taking inventory. Athos, who didn't know much about business, felt a bit awkward amidst the chaos and the seriousness of those working. He noticed several customers being turned away and wondered if, since he wasn’t there to buy anything, he might be seen as a nuisance. So, he politely asked if he could see M. Planchet. The casual reply was that M. Planchet was packing his bags. Those words surprised Athos. “What! His bags?” he said; “Is M. Planchet leaving?”
“Yes, monsieur, directly.”
"Yes, sir, directly."
“Then, if you please, inform him that M. le Comte de la Fere desires to speak to him for a moment.”
“Then, if you don’t mind, let him know that Mr. Count de la Fere wants to talk to him for a moment.”
At the mention of the comte’s name, one of the young men, no doubt accustomed to hear it pronounced with respect, immediately went to inform Planchet. It was at this moment that Raoul, after his painful scene with Montalais and De Guiche, arrived at the grocer’s house. Planchet left his job directly he received the comte’s message.
At the mention of the count’s name, one of the young men, clearly used to hearing it with respect, quickly went to tell Planchet. It was at this moment that Raoul, after his awkward encounter with Montalais and De Guiche, arrived at the grocer’s house. Planchet left his work as soon as he got the count’s message.
“Ah! monsieur le comte!” exclaimed he, “how glad I am to see you! What good star brings you here?”
“Ah! Mr. Count!” he exclaimed, “I'm so glad to see you! What brings you here?”
“My dear Planchet,” said Athos, pressing the hand of his son, whose sad look he silently observed,—“we are come to learn of you—But in what confusion do I find you! You are as white as a miller; where have you been rummaging?”
“My dear Planchet,” said Athos, holding his son’s hand, noticing his sad expression—“we’ve come to find out about you. But what a mess you’re in! You look as pale as a ghost; what have you been up to?”
“Ah, diable! take care, monsieur; don’t come near me till I have well shaken myself.”
“Ah, damn! be careful, sir; don’t come near me until I’ve completely recovered.”
“What for? Flour or dust only whiten.”
“What for? Flour or dust only make things white.”
“No, no; what you see on my arms is arsenic.”
“No, no; what you see on my arms is arsenic.”
“Arsenic?”
"Arsenic?"
“Yes; I am taking my precautions against rats.”
“Yeah, I’m taking precautions against rats.”
“Ay, I suppose in an establishment like this, rats play a conspicuous part.”
"Yeah, I guess in a place like this, rats are pretty noticeable."
“It is not with this establishment I concern myself, monsieur le comte. The rats have robbed me of more here than they will ever rob me of again.”
“It’s not this place I’m worried about, Count. The rats have taken more from me here than they’ll ever take again.”
“What do you mean?”
"What do you mean?"
“Why, you may have observed, monsieur, my inventory is being taken.”
“Why, you might have noticed, sir, that my inventory is being taken.”
“Are you leaving trade, then?”
“Are you quitting the trade?”
“Eh! mon Dieu! yes. I have disposed of my business to one of my young men.”
“Hey! my God! yes. I've handed over my business to one of my young guys.”
“Bah! you are rich, then, I suppose?”
“Bah! So you’re rich, I guess?”
“Monsieur, I have taken a dislike to the city; I don’t know whether it is because I am growing old, and as M. d’Artagnan one day said, when we grow old we more often think of the adventures of our youth; but for some time past I have felt myself attracted towards the country and gardening. I was a countryman formerly.” And Planchet marked this confession with a rather pretentious laugh for a man making profession of humility.
“Sir, I've started to dislike the city; I don’t know if it’s because I’m getting older, and as M. d’Artagnan once said, when we age we tend to think more about the adventures of our youth; but lately, I’ve felt drawn to the countryside and gardening. I used to be a countryman.” And Planchet punctuated this confession with a rather pompous laugh for someone claiming to be humble.
Athos made a gesture of approval, and then added: “You are going to buy an estate, then?”
Athos nodded in approval and said, "So, you're planning to buy a property, then?"
“I have bought one, monsieur.”
"I've bought one, sir."
“Ah! that is still better.”
“Ah! That’s even better.”
“A little house at Fontainebleau, with something like twenty acres of land round it.”
“A small house in Fontainebleau, with about twenty acres of land around it.”
“Very well, Planchet! Accept my compliments on your acquisition.”
“Great job, Planchet! Congrats on your achievement.”
“But, monsieur, we are not comfortable here; the cursed dust makes you cough. Corbleu! I do not wish to poison the most worthy gentleman in the kingdom.”
“But, sir, we’re not comfortable here; the damn dust makes you cough. Corbleu! I don’t want to poison the most deserving gentleman in the kingdom.”
Athos did not smile at this little pleasantry which Planchet had aimed at him, in order to try his strength in mundane facetiousness.
Athos didn't smile at the little joke that Planchet had aimed at him, trying to test his ability to be funny in everyday conversation.
“Yes,” said Athos, “let us have a little talk by ourselves—in your own room, for example. You have a room, have you not?”
“Yes,” said Athos, “let’s have a quick chat just the two of us—in your room, for instance. You have a room, right?”
“Certainly, monsieur le comte.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Upstairs, perhaps?” And Athos, seeing Planchet a little embarrassed, wished to relieve him by going first.
“Maybe upstairs?” Athos said, noticing that Planchet seemed a bit awkward, so he decided to ease his discomfort by going first.
“It is—but—” said Planchet, hesitating.
“It is—but—” Planchet hesitated.
Athos was mistaken in the cause of this hesitation, and, attributing it to a fear the grocer might have of offering humble hospitality, “Never mind, never mind,” said he, still going up, “the dwelling of a tradesman in this quarter is not expected to be a palace. Come on.”
Athos misinterpreted the reason for this hesitation, thinking it was due to the grocer’s fear of providing modest hospitality. “It’s fine, it’s fine,” he said, continuing to approach, “a tradesman's home in this area isn’t supposed to be a palace. Let’s go.”
Raoul nimbly preceded him, and entered first. Two cries were heard simultaneously—we may say three. One of these cries dominated the others; it emanated from a woman. Another proceeded from the mouth of Raoul; it was an exclamation of surprise. He had no sooner uttered it than he shut the door sharply. The third was from fright; it came from Planchet.
Raoul quickly moved ahead and went in first. Three cries were heard at the same time. One of these cries stood out; it came from a woman. Another came from Raoul, a shout of surprise. As soon as he said it, he slammed the door shut. The third cry was one of fear, and it came from Planchet.
“I ask your pardon!” added he; “madame is dressing.”
"I apologize!" he added; "ma'am is getting ready."
Raoul had, no doubt, seen that what Planchet said was true, for he turned round to go downstairs again.
Raoul undoubtedly realized that what Planchet said was true, so he turned around to head downstairs again.
“Madame—” said Athos. “Oh! pardon me, Planchet, I did not know that you had upstairs—”
“Madame—” said Athos. “Oh! sorry, Planchet, I didn’t realize you had upstairs—”
“It is Truchen,” added Planchet, blushing a little.
“It’s Truchen,” Planchet added, blushing slightly.
“It is whoever you please, my good Planchet; but pardon my rudeness.”
“It’s whoever you want, my good Planchet; but please forgive my rudeness.”
“No, no; go up now, gentlemen.”
“No, no; go ahead now, guys.”
“We will do no such thing,” said Athos.
“We're not going to do that,” said Athos.
“Oh! madame, having notice, has had time—”
“Oh! Madame, having been informed, has had time—”
“No, Planchet; farewell!”
“No, Planchet; goodbye!”
“Eh, gentlemen! you would not disoblige me by thus standing on the staircase, or by going away without having sat down.”
“Hey, gentlemen! You wouldn’t be doing me a favor by just standing on the staircase or by leaving without sitting down.”
“If we had known you had a lady upstairs,” replied Athos, with his customary coolness, “we would have asked permission to pay our respects to her.”
“If we had known you had a lady upstairs,” replied Athos, with his usual calm, “we would have asked for permission to pay our respects to her.”
Planchet was so disconcerted by this little extravagance, that he forced the passage, and himself opened the door to admit the comte and his son. Truchen was quite dressed: in the costume of the shopkeeper’s wife, rich yet coquettish; German eyes attacking French eyes. She left the apartment after two courtesies, and went down into the shop—but not without having listened at the door, to know what Planchet’s gentlemen visitors would say of her. Athos suspected that, and therefore turned the conversation accordingly. Planchet, on his part, was burning to give explanations, which Athos avoided. But, as certain tenacities are stronger than others, Athos was forced to hear Planchet recite his idyls of felicity, translated into a language more chaste than that of Longus. So Planchet related how Truchen had charmed the years of his advancing age, and brought good luck to his business, as Ruth did to Boaz.
Planchet was so thrown off by this little indulgence that he pushed his way in and opened the door himself to let the count and his son enter. Truchen was fully dressed in the outfit of a shopkeeper's wife, elegant yet flirtatious; her German eyes meeting the French ones. She left the room after a couple of polite bows and headed down to the shop—but not without first eavesdropping at the door to hear what Planchet’s gentleman visitors had to say about her. Athos suspected this and adjusted the conversation accordingly. Planchet, for his part, was eager to share explanations, which Athos tried to steer away from. However, some attachments are more stubborn than others, and Athos had to listen while Planchet recounted his happy tales, expressed in a more refined language than Longus. So, Planchet described how Truchen had enchanted the later years of his life and brought good fortune to his business, just like Ruth did for Boaz.
“You want nothing now, then, but heirs to your property.”
“You just want heirs for your property now, then.”
“If I had one he would have three hundred thousand livres,” said Planchet.
“If I had one, he would have three hundred thousand livres,” said Planchet.
“Humph! you must have one, then,” said Athos, phlegmatically, “if only to prevent your little fortune being lost.”
“Humph! you should definitely have one, then,” said Athos calmly, “if only to stop your little fortune from getting lost.”
This word little fortune placed Planchet in his rank, like the voice of the sergeant when Planchet was but a piqueur in the regiment of Piedmont, in which Rochefort had placed him. Athos perceived that the grocer would marry Truchen, and, in spite of fate, establish a family. This appeared the more evident to him when he learned that the young man to whom Planchet was selling the business was her cousin. Having heard all that was necessary of the happy prospects of the retiring grocer, “What is M. d’Artagnan about?” said he; “he is not at the Louvre.”
This term little fortune put Planchet in his place, just like the sergeant's call when Planchet was just a piqueur in the Piedmont regiment where Rochefort had assigned him. Athos realized that the grocer would marry Truchen and, despite everything, start a family. This became even clearer to him when he found out that the young man to whom Planchet was selling the business was her cousin. After hearing everything he needed to about the retiring grocer's bright future, “What’s M. d’Artagnan up to?” he asked; “he's not at the Louvre.”
“Ah! monsieur le comte, Monsieur d’Artagnan has disappeared.”
“Ah! Count, Mr. d'Artagnan has vanished.”
“Disappeared!” said Athos, in surprise.
"Disappeared!" said Athos, surprised.
“Oh! monsieur, we know what that means.”
“Oh! Sir, we know what that means.”
“But I do not know.”
“But I don’t know.”
“Whenever M. d’Artagnan disappears it is always for some mission or some great affair.”
“Whenever M. d’Artagnan disappears, it’s always for some mission or important matter.”
“Has he said anything to you about it?”
“Has he mentioned anything to you about it?”
“Never.”
"Never."
“You were acquainted with his departure for England formerly, were you not?”
"You knew about his departure for England before, didn't you?"
“On account of the speculation.” said Planchet, heedlessly.
“Because of the speculation,” said Planchet, carelessly.
“The speculation!”
"Such speculation!"
“I mean—” interrupted Planchet, quite confused.
"I mean—" interrupted Planchet, feeling really confused.
“Well, well; neither your affairs nor those of your master are in question; the interest we take in him alone has induced me to apply to you. Since the captain of the musketeers is not here, and as we cannot learn from you where we are likely to find M. d’Artagnan, we will take our leave of you. Au revoir, Planchet, au revoir. Let us be gone, Raoul.”
“Well, well; neither your situation nor your master's is at stake; our concern for him is the only reason I’m speaking to you. Since the captain of the musketeers isn’t here, and we can’t find out from you where we might locate M. d’Artagnan, we’ll take our leave. Goodbye, Planchet, goodbye. Let’s go, Raoul.”
“Monsieur le comte, I wish I were able to tell you—”
“Mister Count, I wish I could tell you—”
“Oh, not at all; I am not the man to reproach a servant with discretion.”
“Oh, not at all; I’m not the kind of person to blame a servant for being careful.”
This word “servant” struck rudely on the ears of the demi-millionnaire Planchet, but natural respect and bonhomie prevailed over pride. “There is nothing indiscreet in telling you, monsieur le comte, M. d’Artagnan came here the other day—”
This word “servant” sounded harsh to the ears of the demi-millionnaire Planchet, but natural respect and bonhomie won over his pride. “There is nothing inappropriate in telling you, monsieur le comte, that M. d’Artagnan came here the other day—”
“Aha?”
"Really?"
“And remained several hours consulting a geographical chart.”
“And spent several hours looking at a map.”
“You are right, then, my friend; say no more about it.”
"You’re right, then, my friend; don’t say anything more about it."
“And the chart is there as a proof,” added Planchet, who went to fetch from the neighboring wall, where it was suspended by a twist, forming a triangle with the bar of the window to which it was fastened, the plan consulted by the captain on his last visit to Planchet. This plan, which he brought to the comte, was a map of France, upon which the practiced eye of that gentleman discovered an itinerary, marked out with small pins; wherever a pin was missing, a hole denoted its having been there. Athos, by following with his eye the pins and holes, saw that D’Artagnan had taken the direction of the south, and gone as far as the Mediterranean, towards Toulon. It was near Cannes that the marks and the punctured places ceased. The Comte de la Fere puzzled his brains for some time, to divine what the musketeer could be going to do at Cannes, and what motive could have led him to examine the banks of the Var. The reflections of Athos suggested nothing. His accustomed perspicacity was at fault. Raoul’s researches were not more successful than his father’s.
“And the chart is there as proof,” Planchet added, as he went to grab the plan hanging on the wall, which was twisted to form a triangle with the window bar it was attached to. This plan, which he brought to the comte, was a map of France, where the sharp eye of that gentleman spotted an itinerary marked with small pins; wherever a pin was missing, a hole indicated it had been there. By tracking the pins and holes with his gaze, Athos saw that D’Artagnan had headed south and traveled as far as the Mediterranean, toward Toulon. The marks and punctured spots ended near Cannes. The Comte de la Fere puzzled over it for some time, trying to figure out what the musketeer could possibly be doing in Cannes and what reason he might have had to check out the banks of the Var. Athos's reflections yielded nothing. His usual insight was off. Raoul’s investigations were no more fruitful than his father’s.
“Never mind,” said the young man to the comte, who silently, and with his finger, had made him understand the route of D’Artagnan; “we must confess that there is a Providence always occupied in connecting our destiny with that of M. d’Artagnan. There he is on the coast of Cannes, and you, monsieur, will, at least, conduct me as far as Toulon. Be assured that we shall meet with him more easily upon our route than on this map.”
“Never mind,” said the young man to the count, who silently pointed out the route to D’Artagnan; “we have to admit that there’s a higher power always working to link our fate with M. d’Artagnan. There he is on the coast of Cannes, and you, sir, will at least take me as far as Toulon. I’m confident we’ll run into him along the way more easily than we would on this map.”
Then, taking leave of Planchet, who was scolding his shopmen, even the cousin of Truchen, his successor, the gentlemen set out to pay a visit to M. de Beaufort. On leaving the grocer’s shop, they saw a coach, the future depository of the charms of Mademoiselle Truchen and Planchet’s bags of crowns.
Then, saying goodbye to Planchet, who was scolding his workers, even Truchen's cousin, his successor, the gentlemen set off to visit M. de Beaufort. As they left the grocery store, they saw a coach, which would soon hold the charms of Mademoiselle Truchen and Planchet’s bags of gold coins.
“Every one journeys towards happiness by the route he chooses,” said Raoul, in a melancholy tone.
“Everyone travels toward happiness by the path they choose,” said Raoul, in a sad tone.
“Road to Fontainebleau!” cried Planchet to his coachman.
“Road to Fontainebleau!” shouted Planchet to his driver.
Chapter XXX. The Inventory of M. de Beaufort.
To have talked of D’Artagnan with Planchet, to have seen Planchet quit Paris to bury himself in his country retreat, had been for Athos and his son like a last farewell to the noise of the capital—to their life of former days. What, in fact, did these men leave behind them—one of whom had exhausted the past age in glory, and the other, the present age in misfortune? Evidently neither of them had anything to ask of his contemporaries. They had only to pay a visit to M. de Beaufort, and arrange with him the particulars of departure. The duke was lodged magnificently in Paris. He had one of those superb establishments pertaining to great fortunes, the like of which certain old men remembered to have seen in all their glory in the times of wasteful liberality of Henry III.‘s reign. Then, really, several great nobles were richer than the king. They knew it, used it, and never deprived themselves of the pleasure of humiliating his royal majesty when they had an opportunity. It was this egotistical aristocracy Richelieu had constrained to contribute, with its blood, its purse, and its duties, to what was from his time styled the king’s service. From Louis XI.—that terrible mower-down of the great—to Richelieu, how many families had raised their heads! How many, from Richelieu to Louis XIV., had bowed their heads, never to raise them again! But M. de Beaufort was born a prince, and of a blood which is not shed upon scaffolds, unless by the decree of peoples,—a prince who had kept up a grand style of living. How did he maintain his horses, his people, and his table? Nobody knew; himself less than others. Only there were then privileges for the sons of kings, to whom nobody refused to become a creditor, whether from respect or the persuasion that they would some day be paid.
Talking about D’Artagnan with Planchet and watching Planchet leave Paris to retreat to his country home felt for Athos and his son like a final goodbye to the hustle and bustle of the capital and their past lives. What did these men leave behind—one who had spent his life in glory and the other suffering in the present? Clearly, neither had anything to expect from their contemporaries. They only needed to visit M. de Beaufort and discuss the details of their departure. The duke was living in luxury in Paris, in one of those grand residences typical of great fortunes, reminiscent of the extravagant displays seen during the lavish reign of Henry III. Back then, some noble families were indeed wealthier than the king himself. They recognized it, flaunted it, and never missed a chance to humble his royal highness. This selfish aristocracy was what Richelieu had forced to contribute, with their blood, wealth, and obligations, to what became known as the king's service. From Louis XI—the notorious destroyer of the powerful—up to Richelieu, how many families had risen in prominence! And how many, from Richelieu to Louis XIV, had lowered their heads, never to rise again! But M. de Beaufort was born a prince, of a lineage that doesn’t meet its end on the gallows, unless decided by the people—a prince who maintained an extravagant lifestyle. How did he manage his horses, staff, and lavish meals? No one knew, not even him. Yet, there were privileges for the sons of kings; people were always willing to extend credit to them, out of respect or the belief they would eventually be repaid.
Athos and Raoul found the mansion of the duke in as much confusion as that of Planchet. The duke, likewise, was making his inventory; that is to say, he was distributing to his friends everything of value he had in his house. Owing nearly two millions—an enormous amount in those days—M. de Beaufort had calculated that he could not set out for Africa without a good round sum, and, in order to find that sum, he was distributing to his old creditors plate, arms, jewels, and furniture, which was more magnificent in selling it, and brought him back double. In fact, how could a man to whom ten thousand livres were owing, refuse to carry away a present worth six thousand, enhanced in estimation from having belonged to a descendant of Henry IV.? And how, after having carried away that present, could he refuse ten thousand livres more to this generous noble? This, then, was what had happened. The duke had no longer a dwelling-house—that had become useless to an admiral whose place of residence is his ship; he had no longer need of superfluous arms, when he was placed amidst his cannons; no more jewels, which the sea might rob him of; but he had three or four hundred thousand crowns fresh in his coffers. And throughout the house there was a joyous movement of people who believed they were plundering monseigneur. The prince had, in a supreme degree, the art of making happy the creditors most to be pitied. Every distressed man, every empty purse, found in him patience and sympathy for his position. To some he said, “I wish I had what you have; I would give it you.” And to others, “I have but this silver ewer; it is worth at least five hundred livres,—take it.” The effect of which was—so truly is courtesy a current payment—that the prince constantly found means to renew his creditors. This time he used no ceremony; it might be called a general pillage. He gave up everything. The Oriental fable of the poor Arab who carried away from the pillage of palace a kettle at the bottom of which was concealed a bag of gold, and whom everybody allowed to pass without jealousy,—this fable had become a truth in the prince’s mansion. Many contractors paid themselves upon the offices of the duke. Thus, the provision department, who plundered the clothes-presses and the harness-rooms, attached very little value to things which tailors and saddlers set great store by. Anxious to carry home to their wives presents given them by monseigneur, many were seen bounding joyously along, under the weight of earthen jars and bottles, gloriously stamped with the arms of the prince. M. de Beaufort finished by giving away his horses and the hay from his lofts. He made more than thirty happy with kitchen utensils; and thirty more with the contents of his cellar. Still further; all these people went away with the conviction that M. de Beaufort only acted in this manner to prepare for a new fortune concealed beneath the Arabs’ tents. They repeated to each other, while pillaging his hotel, that he was sent to Gigelli by the king to reconstruct his lost fortunes; that the treasures of Africa would be equally divided between the admiral and the king of France; that these treasures consisted in mines of diamonds, or other fabulous stones; the gold and silver mines of Mount Atlas did not even obtain the honor of being named. In addition to the mines to be worked—which could not be begun till after the campaign—there would be the booty made by the army. M. de Beaufort would lay his hands on all the riches pirates had robbed Christendom of since the battle of Lepanto. The number of millions from these sources defied calculation. Why, then, should he, who was going in quest of such treasure, set any store by the poor utensils of his past life? And reciprocally, why should they spare the property of him who spared it so little himself?
Athos and Raoul found the duke's mansion just as chaotic as Planchet's. The duke was also taking stock; in other words, he was giving his friends everything of value he had in his house. Owing nearly two million—a huge amount in those days—M. de Beaufort figured he couldn’t leave for Africa without a decent sum of money. To raise that cash, he was handing out to his old creditors silverware, weapons, jewelry, and furniture, which actually brought him back double what it was worth. After all, how could someone who was owed ten thousand livres refuse a gift worth six thousand, especially knowing it had once belonged to a descendant of Henry IV? And how could he reject ten thousand livres more from this generous noble after receiving that gift? That’s what happened. The duke no longer had a home—as an admiral, his ship was where he lived; he didn’t need extra weapons when surrounded by cannons; and the sea could easily take away any jewels. But he had three or four hundred thousand crowns in cash. Throughout the house, there was a festive hustle and bustle as people believed they were raiding monseigneur's belongings. The prince had an exceptional talent for bringing joy to the most pitiful creditors. Every downtrodden person, every empty wallet, found patience and sympathy in him. To some, he said, “I wish I had what you have; I’d give it to you.” To others, he remarked, “I only have this silver ewer; it’s worth at least five hundred livres—take it.” The effect was that, so true is courtesy a form of payment, the prince always found ways to keep his creditors at bay. This time, there was no formality; it was more like a general looting. He gave away everything. The Oriental tale of the poor Arab who took a kettle from a palace pillage only to find a bag of gold inside—and who was allowed to leave without jealousy—this tale became reality in the prince's mansion. Many contractors settled their debts in the duke’s offices. Thus, the provision department, which rifled through the closets and saddlery, placed little value on things that tailors and saddlers prized. Eager to take home gifts from monseigneur for their wives, many could be seen happily bounding away, weighed down by earthen jars and bottles conspicuously emblazoned with the prince’s arms. M. de Beaufort ended up giving away his horses and the hay from his barns. He made at least thirty people happy with kitchen supplies and thirty more with what was in his cellar. Furthermore, all these people left convinced that M. de Beaufort acted this way in anticipation of new fortunes hidden beneath the Arabs' tents. While pillaging his estate, they told each other he was sent to Gigelli by the king to rebuild his lost wealth; that the treasures of Africa would be split evenly between the admiral and the king of France; that these treasures included diamond mines or other legendary gems; the gold and silver mines of Mount Atlas didn’t even get a mention. Besides the mines yet to be worked—which wouldn’t be started until after the campaign—there would also be the spoils from the army. M. de Beaufort would seize all the riches pirates had stolen from Christendom since the Battle of Lepanto. The number of millions from these sources was impossible to calculate. So why would he, in search of such treasure, value the meager belongings of his past life? And conversely, why would they spare the property of someone who cared so little about it themselves?
Such was the position of affairs. Athos, with his piercing practiced glance, saw what was going on at once. He found the admiral of France a little exalted, for he was rising from a table of fifty covers, at which the guests had drunk long and deeply to the prosperity of the expedition; at the conclusion of which repast, the remains, with the dessert, had been given to the servants, and the empty dishes and plates to the curious. The prince was intoxicated with his ruin and his popularity at one and the same time. He had drunk his old wine to the health of his wine of the future. When he saw Athos and Raoul:
Such was the situation. Athos, with his sharp, trained gaze, quickly noticed what was happening. He found the admiral of France a bit overconfident, as he was getting up from a large feast with fifty guests, where they had all drunk heavily to celebrate the success of the expedition. After the meal, the leftovers and dessert were given to the servants, while the empty dishes and plates were passed around to those who were curious. The prince was intoxicated by both his downfall and his popularity at the same time. He had enjoyed his old wine while toasting to the future of his new wine. When he saw Athos and Raoul:
“There is my aide-de-camp being brought to me!” he cried. “Come hither, comte; come hither, vicomte.”
“There is my aide-de-camp being brought to me!” he shouted. “Come here, count; come here, viscount.”
Athos tried to find a passage through the heaps of linen and plate.
Athos tried to find a way through the piles of linen and dishes.
“Ah! step over, step over!” said the duke, offering a full glass to Athos. The latter drank it; Raoul scarcely moistened his lips.
“Hey! come on over, come on over!” said the duke, handing a full glass to Athos. Athos drank it; Raoul barely wet his lips.
“Here is your commission,” said the prince to Raoul. “I had prepared it, reckoning upon you. You will go before me as far as Antibes.”
“Here is your commission,” said the prince to Raoul. “I had prepared it, counting on you. You will travel ahead of me as far as Antibes.”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Here is the order.” And De Beaufort gave Raoul the order. “Do you know anything of the sea?”
“Here’s the order.” And De Beaufort gave Raoul the order. “Do you know anything about the sea?”
“Yes, monseigneur; I have traveled with M. le Prince.”
“Yes, sir; I have traveled with M. le Prince.”
“That is well. All these barges and lighters must be in attendance to form an escort and carry my provisions. The army must be prepared to embark in a fortnight at the very latest.”
"That sounds good. All these barges and boats need to be ready to provide an escort and transport my supplies. The army must be ready to board in two weeks at the latest."
“That shall be done, monseigneur.”
“Consider it done, sir.”
“The present order gives you the right to visit and search all the isles along the coast; you will there make the enrolments and levies you may want for me.”
“The current order allows you to visit and search all the islands along the coast; you will take care of the enrollments and levies you need for me.”
“Yes, monsieur le duc.”
"Yes, Mr. Duke."
“And you are an active man, and will work freely, you will spend much money.”
“And you’re an energetic person, and you’ll work hard; you’ll spend a lot of money.”
“I hope not, monseigneur.”
“I hope not, my lord.”
“But I am sure you will. My intendant has prepared the orders of a thousand livres, drawn upon the cities of the south; he will give you a hundred of them. Now, dear vicomte, be gone.”
“But I’m sure you will. My manager has prepared orders for a thousand livres, drawn from the towns in the south; he will give you a hundred of them. Now, dear viscount, be gone.”
Athos interrupted the prince. “Keep your money, monseigneur; war is to be waged among the Arabs with gold as well as lead.”
Athos interrupted the prince. “Keep your money, sir; war is fought against the Arabs with both gold and bullets.”
“I wish to try the contrary,” replied the duke; “and then you are acquainted with my ideas upon the expedition—plenty of noise, plenty of fire, and, if so it must be, I shall disappear in the smoke.” Having spoken thus, M. de Beaufort began to laugh; but his mirth was not reciprocated by Athos and Raoul. He perceived this at once. “Ah,” said he, with the courteous egotism of his rank and age, “you are such people as a man should not see after dinner; you are cold, stiff, and dry when I am all fire, suppleness, and wine. No, devil take me! I should always see you fasting, vicomte, and you, comte, if you wear such a face as that, you shall see me no more.”
“I want to try the opposite,” replied the duke; “and you already know my thoughts on the expedition—lots of noise, lots of fire, and if it has to happen, I’ll disappear in the smoke.” After saying this, M. de Beaufort started to laugh; however, Athos and Raoul didn’t join in. He noticed this immediately. “Ah,” he said, with the polite self-importance of his rank and age, “you are the kind of people a man shouldn’t be around after dinner; you’re cold, stiff, and dry while I’m all fire, flexibility, and wine. No, damn it! I should only see you when you’re hungry, vicomte, and you, comte, if you continue to look like that, you won’t see me again.”
He said this, pressing the hand of Athos, who replied with a smile, “Monseigneur, do not talk so grandly because you happen to have plenty of money. I predict that within a month you will be dry, stiff, and cold, in presence of your strong-box, and that then, having Raoul at your elbow, fasting, you will be surprised to see him gay, animated, and generous, because he will have some new crowns to offer you.”
He said this while holding Athos's hand, who responded with a smile, “Monseigneur, don’t act so high and mighty just because you have a lot of money. I predict that in a month you’ll be broke, lifeless, and cold, sitting in front of your safe, and then, with Raoul by your side, starving, you’ll be surprised to see him cheerful, lively, and generous, because he’ll have some new coins to give you.”
“God grant it may be so!” cried the delighted duke. “Comte, stay with me!”
“God, I hope that's true!” exclaimed the excited duke. “Comte, stay with me!”
“No, I shall go with Raoul; the mission with which you charge him is a troublesome and difficult one. Alone it would be too much for him to execute. You do not observe, monseigneur, you have given him command of the first order.”
“No, I’m going with Raoul; the task you’re assigning him is challenging and complicated. It would be too overwhelming for him to handle on his own. You don’t realize, my lord, that you’ve put him in charge of a major responsibility.”
“Bah!”
“Ugh!”
“And in your naval arrangements, too.”
“And in your naval arrangements, as well.”
“That may be true. But one finds that such fine young fellows as your son generally do all that is required of them.”
"That might be true. But you usually find that good young men like your son typically do everything that's expected of them."
“Monseigneur, I believe you will find nowhere so much zeal and intelligence, so much real bravery, as in Raoul; but if he failed to arrange your embarkation, you would only meet the fate that you deserve.”
“Sir, I believe you'll find no one with as much enthusiasm and smarts, and real courage, as Raoul; but if he didn't manage to organize your departure, you would just face the consequences you deserve.”
“Humph! you are scolding me, then.”
“Humph! So you’re scolding me, huh?”
“Monseigneur, to provision a fleet, to assemble a flotilla, to enroll your maritime force, would take an admiral a year. Raoul is a cavalry officer, and you allow him a fortnight!”
“Sir, to supply a fleet, to gather a flotilla, to recruit your naval force, would take an admiral a year. Raoul is a cavalry officer, and you give him just two weeks!”
“I tell you he will do it.”
“I’m telling you he will do it.”
“He may; but I will go and help him.”
“He might; but I’m going to go and help him.”
“To be sure you will; I reckoned upon you, and still further believe that when we are once at Toulon you will not let him depart alone.”
"Of course you will; I counted on you, and I still believe that once we’re in Toulon, you won’t let him leave by himself."
“Oh!” said Athos, shaking his head.
“Oh!” said Athos, shaking his head.
“Patience! patience!”
"Hang in there!"
“Monseigneur, permit us to take our leave.”
“Sir, may we take our leave?”
“Begone, then, and may my good luck attend you.”
"Go away, then, and may good luck be with you."
“Adieu! monseigneur; and may your own good luck attend you likewise.”
"Goodbye, my lord; and may good luck be with you too."
“Here is an expedition admirably commenced!” said Athos to his son. “No provisions—no store flotilla! What can be done, thus?”
“Here’s a mission that started off well!” Athos said to his son. “No supplies—no support ships! What can we do now?”
“Humph!” murmured Raoul; “if all are going to do as I am, provisions will not be wanted.”
“Humph!” Raoul muttered; “if everyone is going to do what I’m doing, we won’t need supplies.”
“Monsieur,” replied Athos, sternly, “do not be unjust and senseless in your egotism, or your grief, whichever you please to call it. If you set out for this war solely with the intention of getting killed therein, you stand in need of nobody, and it was scarcely worth while to recommend you to M. de Beaufort. But when you have been introduced to the prime commandant—when you have accepted the responsibility of a post in his army, the question is no longer about you, but about all those poor soldiers, who, as well as you, have hearts and bodies, who will weep for their country and endure all the necessities of their condition. Remember, Raoul, that officers are ministers as useful to the world as priests, and that they ought to have more charity.”
“Monsieur,” Athos replied sternly, “don’t let your selfishness or your grief—whatever you want to call it—make you unjust and irrational. If you set out for this war just to get yourself killed, then you don’t need anyone else, and it was hardly worth recommending you to M. de Beaufort. But once you've been introduced to the top commander—once you’ve accepted a role in his army—the focus isn’t just on you, but on all those poor soldiers who, like you, have hearts and bodies, who will mourn for their country and face all the challenges they encounter. Remember, Raoul, that officers are as necessary to the world as priests, and they should have even more compassion.”
“Monsieur, I know it and have practiced it; I would have continued to do so still, but—”
“Mister, I know it and have practiced it; I would have kept doing it, but—”
“You forget also that you are of a country that is proud of its military glory; go and die if you like, but do not die without honor and without advantage to France. Cheer up, Raoul! do not let my words grieve you; I love you, and wish to see you perfect.”
“You also forget that you come from a country that's proud of its military glory; you can go and die if you want, but don’t go without honor and without benefiting France. Stay positive, Raoul! Don’t let my words upset you; I care about you and want to see you thrive.”
“I love your reproaches, monsieur,” said the young man, mildly; “they alone may cure me, because they prove to me that some one loves me still.”
“I love your criticisms, sir,” said the young man softly; “they might be the only thing that can heal me, because they show me that someone still cares about me.”
“And now, Raoul, let us be off; the weather is so fine, the heavens so clear, those heavens which we always find above our heads, which you will see more clear still at Gigelli, and which will speak to you of me there, as they speak to me here of God.”
“And now, Raoul, let’s get going; the weather is so nice, the sky so clear, that sky we always have above us, which you will see even clearer at Gigelli, and it will remind you of me there, just like it reminds me here of God.”
The two gentlemen, after having agreed on this point, talked over the wild freaks of the duke, convinced that France would be served in a very incomplete manner, as regarded both spirit and practice, in the ensuing expedition; and having summed up the ducal policy under the one word vanity, they set forward, in obedience rather to their will than destiny. The sacrifice was half accomplished.
The two gentlemen, having reached an agreement on this point, discussed the duke’s wild antics, certain that France would be poorly served, both in spirit and action, during the upcoming mission; and after summarizing the duke's policy with the single word vanity, they proceeded, more out of their own desire than fate. The sacrifice was almost complete.
Chapter XXXI. The Silver Dish.
The journey passed off pretty well. Athos and his son traversed France at the rate of fifteen leagues per day; sometimes more, sometimes less, according to the intensity of Raoul’s grief. It took them a fortnight to reach Toulon, and they lost all traces of D’Artagnan at Antibes. They were forced to believe that the captain of the musketeers was desirous of preserving an incognito on his route, for Athos derived from his inquiries an assurance that such a cavalier as he described had exchanged his horse for a well-closed carriage on quitting Avignon. Raoul was much affected at not meeting with D’Artagnan. His affectionate heart longed to take a farewell and received consolation from that heart of steel. Athos knew from experience that D’Artagnan became impenetrable when engaged in any serious affair, whether on his own account or on the service of the king. He even feared to offend his friend, or thwart him by too pressing inquiries. And yet when Raoul commenced his labor of classing the flotilla, and got together the chalands and lighters to send them to Toulon, one of the fishermen told the comte that his boat had been laid up to refit since a trip he had made on account of a gentleman who was in great haste to embark. Athos, believing that this man was telling a falsehood in order to be left at liberty to fish, and so gain more money when all his companions were gone, insisted upon having the details. The fisherman informed him that six days previously, a man had come in the night to hire his boat, for the purpose of visiting the island of St. Honnorat. The price was agreed upon, but the gentleman had arrived with an immense carriage case, which he insisted upon embarking, in spite of the many difficulties that opposed the operation. The fisherman wished to retract. He had even threatened, but his threats had procured him nothing but a shower of blows from the gentleman’s cane, which fell upon his shoulders sharp and long. Swearing and grumbling, he had recourse to the syndic of his brotherhood at Antibes, who administer justice among themselves and protect each other; but the gentleman had exhibited a certain paper, at sight of which the syndic, bowing to the very ground, enjoined obedience from the fisherman, and abused him for having been refractory. They then departed with the freight.
The journey went pretty well. Athos and his son traveled across France at a pace of about fifteen leagues a day—sometimes more, sometimes less, depending on how much Raoul was grieving. It took them two weeks to get to Toulon, and they lost all trace of D’Artagnan in Antibes. They had to assume that the captain of the musketeers wanted to remain incognito during his trip, as Athos learned from his inquiries that the kind of rider he described had swapped his horse for a well-equipped carriage when leaving Avignon. Raoul was deeply upset about not running into D’Artagnan. His caring heart wanted a farewell, and he found comfort in his father's strong presence. Athos knew from experience that D’Artagnan became unreachable when involved in serious matters, whether for himself or for the king's service. He even worried about offending his friend or disrupting his plans with too many questions. Yet when Raoul began organizing the flotilla and gathered the barges and lighters to send to Toulon, one fisherman told the count that his boat had been out of commission for repairs since a trip he had taken for a gentleman who was in a hurry to leave. Athos, thinking the man was lying to get out of work and make more money while his fellow fishermen were absent, pressed for details. The fisherman told him that six days earlier, a man had come at night to hire his boat to visit the island of St. Honnorat. They agreed on a price, but the gentleman showed up with a huge carriage that he insisted on bringing aboard, despite facing several challenges in doing so. The fisherman wanted to back out and even threatened to do so, but his threats only earned him a severe beating from the gentleman’s cane, which struck his shoulders hard and repeatedly. Cursing and grumbling, he turned to the syndic of his brotherhood in Antibes, who administers justice among them and looks out for each other; however, the gentleman presented a certain document, and upon seeing it, the syndic, bowing deeply, ordered the fisherman to comply and scolded him for being difficult. They then left with the cargo.
“But all this does not tell us,” said Athos, “how you injured your boat.”
“But all of this doesn’t explain,” said Athos, “how you damaged your boat.”
“This is the way. I was steering towards St. Honnorat as the gentleman desired me; but he changed his mind, and pretended that I could not pass to the south of the abbey.”
“This is the way. I was heading towards St. Honnorat as the man requested; but he changed his mind and claimed that I couldn’t go south of the abbey.”
“And why not?”
"Why not?"
“Because, monsieur, there is in front of the square tower of the Benedictines, towards the southern point, the bank of the Moines.”
“Because, sir, there is in front of the square tower of the Benedictines, towards the south, the bank of the Moines.”
“A rock?” asked Athos.
"A rock?" Athos asked.
“Level with the water, but below water; a dangerous passage, yet one I have cleared a thousand times; the gentleman required me to land him at Sainte-Marguerite’s.”
“Level with the water, but below water; a dangerous passage, yet one I have navigated a thousand times; the gentleman asked me to take him to Sainte-Marguerite’s.”
“Well?”
"What's up?"
“Well, monsieur!” cried the fisherman, with his Provencal accent, “a man is a sailor, or he is not; he knows his course, or he is nothing but a fresh-water lubber. I was obstinate, and wished to try the channel. The gentleman took me by the collar, and told me quietly he would strangle me. My mate armed himself with a hatchet, and so did I. We had the affront of the night before to pay him out for. But the gentleman drew his sword, and used it in such an astonishingly rapid manner, that we neither of us could get near him. I was about to hurl my hatchet at his head, and I had a right to do so, hadn’t I, monsieur? for a sailor aboard is master, as a citizen is in his chamber; I was going, then, in self-defense, to cut the gentleman in two, when, all at once—believe me or not, monsieur—the great carriage case opened of itself, I don’t know how, and there came out of it a sort of a phantom, his head covered with a black helmet and a black mask, something terrible to look upon, which came towards me threatening with its fist.”
“Well, sir!” shouted the fisherman, with his Provencal accent, “a man is a sailor, or he isn’t; he knows his course, or he’s just a fresh-water landlubber. I was stubborn and wanted to try the channel. The gentleman grabbed me by the collar and calmly told me he’d strangle me. My mate picked up a hatchet, and so did I. We had the insult from the night before to settle with him. But the gentleman drew his sword and moved it so quickly that we couldn’t get close to him. I was about to throw my hatchet at his head, and I had every right to do so, didn’t I, sir? Because a sailor on board is in charge, just like a citizen in his own home; I was about to, in self-defense, split the gentleman in two when, all of a sudden—believe me or not, sir—the big carriage case opened itself up, I don’t know how, and out came a sort of ghost, with its head covered by a black helmet and a black mask, something terrifying to see, which approached me, threatening with its fist.”
“And that was—” said Athos.
“And that was—” said Athos.
“That was the devil, monsieur; for the gentleman, with great glee, cried out, on seeing him: ‘Ah! thank you, monseigneur!’”
“That was the devil, sir; for the man, filled with joy, shouted out upon seeing him: ‘Ah! thank you, my lord!’”
“A most strange story!” murmured the comte, looking at Raoul.
“A really strange story!” murmured the count, looking at Raoul.
“And what did you do?” asked the latter of the fisherman.
“And what did you do?” asked the latter to the fisherman.
“You must know, monsieur, that two poor men, such as we are, could be no match for two gentlemen; but when one of them turned out to be the devil, we had no earthly chance! My companion and I did not stop to consult one another; we made but one jump into the sea, for we were within seven or eight hundred feet of the shore.”
“You should know, sir, that two poor guys like us couldn't compete with two gentlemen; but when one of them turned out to be the devil, we had no chance at all! My friend and I didn’t even stop to talk; we just jumped into the sea, since we were only seven or eight hundred feet from the shore.”
“Well, and then?”
"What's next?"
“Why, and then, monseigneur, as there was a little wind from the southwest, the boat drifted into the sands of Sainte-Marguerite’s.”
“Why, then, sir, with a light wind coming from the southwest, the boat floated into the sands of Sainte-Marguerite’s.”
“Oh!—but the travelers?”
“Oh!—but the tourists?”
“Bah! you need not be uneasy about them! It was pretty plain that one was the devil, and protected the other; for when we recovered the boat, after she got afloat again, instead of finding these two creatures injured by the shock, we found nothing, not even the carriage or the case.”
“Bah! You don’t need to worry about them! It was pretty obvious that one was the devil and was looking after the other; because when we got the boat back after it floated again, instead of finding these two creatures hurt from the impact, we found nothing, not even the carriage or the case.”
“Very strange! very strange!” repeated the comte. “But after that, what did you do, my friend?”
“Really weird! Really weird!” the count said again. “But after that, what did you do, my friend?”
“I made my complaint to the governor of Sainte-Marguerite’s, who brought my finger under my nose by telling me if I plagued him with such silly stories he would have me flogged.”
“I complained to the governor of Sainte-Marguerite’s, who put my finger close to my face and told me that if I bothered him with such stupid stories, he would have me whipped.”
“What! did the governor himself say so?”
“What! Did the governor really say that?”
“Yes, monsieur; and yet my boat was injured, seriously injured, for the prow is left upon the point of Sainte-Marguerite’s, and the carpenter asks a hundred and twenty livres to repair it.”
“Yes, sir; and yet my boat was damaged, seriously damaged, because the bow is stuck on the point of Sainte-Marguerite’s, and the carpenter is asking for a hundred and twenty livres to fix it.”
“Very well,” replied Raoul; “you will be exempted from the service. Go.”
“Alright,” Raoul said. “You will be excused from the service. Go.”
“We will go to Sainte-Marguerite’s, shall we?” said the comte to Bragelonne, as the man walked away.
“We're heading to Sainte-Marguerite’s, right?” the comte said to Bragelonne as the man walked away.
“Yes, monsieur, for there is something to be cleared up; that man does not seem to me to have told the truth.”
“Yes, sir, because there's something that needs to be clarified; that man doesn’t seem to me to have been honest.”
“Nor to me either, Raoul. The story of the masked man and the carriage having disappeared, may be told to conceal some violence these fellows have committed upon their passengers in the open sea, to punish him for his persistence in embarking.”
“Neither to me, Raoul. The tale of the masked man and the missing carriage might just be a cover-up for some violence these guys inflicted on their passengers out on the open sea, to get back at him for his insistence on boarding.”
“I formed the same suspicion; the carriage was more likely to contain property than a man.”
“I had the same suspicion; the carriage was probably carrying goods rather than a person.”
“We shall see to that, Raoul. The gentleman very much resembles D’Artagnan; I recognize his methods of proceeding. Alas! we are no longer the young invincibles of former days. Who knows whether the hatchet or the iron bar of this miserable coaster has not succeeded in doing that which the best blades of Europe, balls, and bullets have not been able to do in forty years?”
“We'll take care of that, Raoul. The guy looks a lot like D’Artagnan; I can tell by his way of handling things. Sadly, we’re not the unstoppable young warriors we once were. Who knows if this pathetic crook's axe or iron bar has done what the finest swords in Europe, cannonballs, and bullets couldn't accomplish in forty years?”
That same day they set out for Sainte-Marguerite’s, on board a chasse-maree come from Toulon under orders. The impression they experienced on landing was a singularly pleasing one. The island seemed loaded with flowers and fruits. In its cultivated part it served as a garden for the governor. Orange, pomegranate, and fig trees bent beneath the weight of their golden or purple fruits. All round this garden, in the uncultivated parts, red partridges ran about in conveys among the brambles and tufts of junipers, and at every step of the comte and Raoul a terrified rabbit quitted his thyme and heath to scuttle away to the burrow. In fact, this fortunate isle was uninhabited. Flat, offering nothing but a tiny bay for the convenience of embarkation, and under the protection of the governor, who went shares with them, smugglers made use of it as a provisional entrepot, at the expense of not killing the game or devastating the garden. With this compromise, the governor was in a situation to be satisfied with a garrison of eight men to guard his fortress, in which twelve cannons accumulated coats of moldy green. The governor was a sort of happy farmer, harvesting wines, figs, oil, and oranges, preserving his citrons and cedrates in the sun of his casemates. The fortress, encircled by a deep ditch, its only guardian, arose like three heads upon turrets connected with each other by terraces covered with moss.
That same day, they headed to Sainte-Marguerite’s on a chasse-maree that had come from Toulon on orders. When they landed, they were struck by a wonderfully pleasant sight. The island looked full of flowers and fruits. In the cultivated areas, it served as the governor’s garden. Orange, pomegranate, and fig trees bowed under the weight of their golden and purple fruits. All around the garden, in the wild parts, red partridges roamed in groups among the brambles and patches of junipers, and at every step that the comte and Raoul took, a startled rabbit would leave its thyme and heath to dash to its burrow. Actually, this lucky island was uninhabited. Flat, providing just a small bay for easy boarding and protected by the governor, who shared in the profits, it was used by smugglers as a temporary entrepot, as long as they didn’t hunt the game or ruin the garden. With this arrangement, the governor was content with a garrison of eight men to guard his fortress, which housed twelve cannons that were covered in moldy green. The governor was like a happy farmer, reaping wines, figs, oil, and oranges, and drying his citrons and cedrates in the sunlight of his casemates. The fortress, surrounded by a deep ditch and its only protection, rose like three heads on turrets linked by moss-covered terraces.
Athos and Raoul wandered for some time round the fences of the garden without finding any one to introduce them to the governor. They ended by making their own way into the garden. It was at the hottest time of the day. Each living thing sought its shelter under grass or stone. The heavens spread their fiery veils as if to stifle all noises, to envelop all existences; the rabbit under the broom, the fly under the leaf, slept as the wave did beneath the heavens. Athos saw nothing living but a soldier, upon the terrace beneath the second and third court, who was carrying a basket of provisions on his head. This man returned almost immediately without his basket, and disappeared in the shade of his sentry-box. Athos supposed he must have been carrying dinner to some one, and, after having done so, returned to dine himself. All at once they heard some one call out, and raising their heads, perceived in the frame of the bars of the window something of a white color, like a hand that was waved backwards and forwards—something shining, like a polished weapon struck by the rays of the sun. And before they were able to ascertain what it was, a luminous train, accompanied by a hissing sound in the air, called their attention from the donjon to the ground. A second dull noise was heard from the ditch, and Raoul ran to pick up a silver plate which was rolling along the dry sand. The hand that had thrown this plate made a sign to the two gentlemen, and then disappeared. Athos and Raoul, approaching each other, commenced an attentive examination of the dusty plate, and they discovered, in characters traced upon the bottom of it with the point of a knife, this inscription:
Athos and Raoul wandered around the garden's fences for a while, trying to find someone to introduce them to the governor. Eventually, they decided to enter the garden on their own. It was the hottest part of the day, and every living creature was seeking shelter under grass or stones. The sky was covered with fiery hues, as if trying to mute all sounds and surround everything in silence; the rabbit hid under the broom, and the fly rested under a leaf, both as still as the waves beneath the sky. The only living thing Athos noticed was a soldier on the terrace between the second and third courtyard, carrying a basket of food on his head. This man quickly returned without his basket and disappeared into the shadow of his guard post. Athos figured he must have been delivering someone’s dinner and was heading back to eat his own. Suddenly, they heard someone shout, and when they looked up, they saw something white framed by the window bars, like a hand waving back and forth—something shiny, like a polished weapon glinting in the sun. Before they could figure out what it was, a streak of light and a hissing sound drew their attention from the donjon to the ground. They heard a dull thud from the ditch, and Raoul ran to grab a silver plate that was rolling through the dry sand. The hand that had thrown the plate gestured to the two gentlemen and then vanished. Athos and Raoul moved closer together and began to closely examine the dusty plate, discovering an inscription etched on its bottom with the tip of a knife:
“I am the brother of the king of France—a prisoner to-day—a madman to-morrow. French gentlemen and Christians, pray to God for the soul and the reason of the son of your old rulers.”
“I am the brother of the king of France—a prisoner today—a madman tomorrow. French gentlemen and Christians, please pray to God for the soul and sanity of the son of your old rulers.”
The plate fell from the hands of Athos whilst Raoul was endeavoring to make out the meaning of these dismal words. At the same moment they heard a cry from the top of the donjon. Quick as lightning Raoul bent down his head, and forced down that of his father likewise. A musket-barrel glittered from the crest of the wall. A white smoke floated like a plume from the mouth of the musket, and a ball was flattened against a stone within six inches of the two gentlemen.
The plate dropped from Athos's hands while Raoul was trying to figure out the meaning of those grim words. At the same moment, they heard a shout from the top of the tower. In a flash, Raoul ducked his head and pushed his father's down as well. A musket barrel shone from the edge of the wall. White smoke billowed like a plume from the musket's mouth, and a bullet hit a stone just six inches away from the two men.
“Cordieu!” cried Athos. “What, are people assassinated here? Come down, cowards as you are!”
“Cordieu!” yelled Athos. “What, do people get killed here? Come down, you cowards!”
“Yes, come down!” cried Raoul, furiously shaking his fist at the castle.
“Yes, come down!” yelled Raoul, angrily shaking his fist at the castle.
One of the assailants—he who was about to fire—replied to these cries by an exclamation of surprise; and, as his companion, who wished to continue the attack, had re-seized his loaded musket, he who had cried out threw up the weapon, and the ball flew into the air. Athos and Raoul, seeing them disappear from the platform, expected they would come down to them, and waited with a firm demeanor. Five minutes had not elapsed, when a stroke upon a drum called the eight soldiers of the garrison to arms, and they showed themselves on the other side of the ditch with their muskets in hand. At the head of these men was an officer, whom Athos and Raoul recognized as the one who had fired the first musket. The man ordered the soldiers to “make ready.”
One of the attackers—about to shoot—reacted to the cries with a shout of surprise; and as his partner, eager to continue the fight, grabbed his loaded musket again, the one who had yelled threw his weapon up, and the bullet shot into the air. Athos and Raoul, watching them leave the platform, guessed they would come down to them and waited calmly. Not even five minutes had passed when a drumbeat summoned the eight soldiers of the garrison to arms, and they appeared on the other side of the ditch with their muskets ready. Leading these men was an officer whom Athos and Raoul recognized as the one who had fired the first shot. The officer commanded the soldiers to “get ready.”
“We are going to be shot!” cried Raoul; “but, sword in hand, at least, let us leap the ditch! We shall kill at least two of these scoundrels, when their muskets are empty.” And, suiting the action to the word, Raoul was springing forward, followed by Athos, when a well-known voice resounded behind them, “Athos! Raoul!”
“We’re going to get shot!” shouted Raoul; “but, with our swords in hand, let’s jump the ditch! We’ll take down at least two of these scoundrels when their muskets are empty.” And, as he said that, Raoul leaped forward, followed by Athos, when a familiar voice echoed behind them, “Athos! Raoul!”
“D’Artagnan!” replied the two gentlemen.
“D’Artagnan!” the two men replied.
“Recover arms! Mordioux!” cried the captain to the soldiers. “I was sure I could not be mistaken!”
“Recover your weapons! Mordioux!” yelled the captain to the soldiers. “I knew I couldn't be wrong!”
“What is the meaning of this?” asked Athos. “What! were we to be shot without warning?”
“What does this mean?” asked Athos. “What! Were we supposed to be shot without any warning?”
“It was I who was going to shoot you, and if the governor missed you, I should not have missed you, my dear friends. How fortunate it is that I am accustomed to take a long aim, instead of firing at the instant I raise my weapon! I thought I recognized you. Ah! my dear friends, how fortunate!” And D’Artagnan wiped his brow, for he had run fast, and emotion with him was not feigned.
“It was me who was going to shoot you, and if the governor had missed you, I wouldn’t have missed you, my dear friends. How lucky it is that I’m used to taking a long aim instead of firing the moment I lift my weapon! I thought I recognized you. Ah! my dear friends, how lucky!” And D’Artagnan wiped his brow, as he had run quickly, and his emotions were genuine.
“How!” said Athos. “And is the gentleman who fired at us the governor of the fortress?”
“How?” said Athos. “Is the guy who shot at us the governor of the fortress?”
“In person.”
“Face-to-face.”
“And why did he fire at us? What have we done to him?”
“And why did he shoot at us? What did we do to him?”
“Pardieu! You received what the prisoner threw to you?”
“Pardieu! Did you get what the prisoner threw to you?”
“That is true.”
"That's true."
“That plate—the prisoner has written something on it, has he not?”
"That plate—the prisoner has written something on it, right?"
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“Good heavens! I was afraid he had.”
“Wow! I was worried he had.”
And D’Artagnan, with all the marks of mortal disquietude, seized the plate, to read the inscription. When he had read it, a fearful pallor spread across his countenance. “Oh! good heavens!” repeated he. “Silence!—Here is the governor.”
And D’Artagnan, showing all the signs of deep unease, grabbed the plate to read the inscription. After reading it, a terrible paleness spread across his face. “Oh! Good heavens!” he kept repeating. “Quiet!—Here comes the governor.”
“And what will he do to us? Is it our fault?”
“And what will he do to us? Is it our fault?”
“It is true, then?” said Athos, in a subdued voice. “It is true?”
“It’s true, then?” said Athos, in a quiet voice. “Is it true?”
“Silence! I tell you—silence! If he only believes you can read; if he only suspects you have understood; I love you, my dear friends, I would willingly be killed for you, but—”
“Silence! I’m telling you—silence! If he just thinks you can read; if he even suspects you’ve understood; I love you, my dear friends, I would gladly die for you, but—”
“But—” said Athos and Raoul.
“But—” said Athos and Raoul.
“But I could not save you from perpetual imprisonment if I saved you from death. Silence, then! Silence again!”
"But I couldn't rescue you from endless confinement if I saved you from dying. So, be quiet! Quiet again!"
The governor came up, having crossed the ditch upon a plank bridge.
The governor approached, having crossed the ditch on a plank bridge.
“Well!” said he to D’Artagnan, “what stops us?”
“Well!” he said to D’Artagnan, “what's holding us up?”
“You are Spaniards—you do not understand a word of French,” said the captain, eagerly, to his friends in a low voice.
“You're Spaniards—you don't understand a word of French,” said the captain, eagerly, to his friends in a low voice.
“Well!” replied he, addressing the governor, “I was right; these gentlemen are two Spanish captains with whom I was acquainted at Ypres, last year; they don’t know a word of French.”
"Well!" he said, looking at the governor. "I was right; these guys are two Spanish captains I met in Ypres last year; they don't know any French."
“Ah!” said the governor, sharply. “And yet they were trying to read the inscription on the plate.”
“Ah!” the governor said sharply. “And still, they were trying to read the inscription on the plate.”
D’Artagnan took it out of his hands, effacing the characters with the point of his sword.
D’Artagnan took it from his hands, wiping away the letters with the tip of his sword.
“How!” cried the governor, “what are you doing? I cannot read them now!”
“Wow!” shouted the governor, “what are you doing? I can’t read them right now!”
“It is a state secret,” replied D’Artagnan, bluntly; “and as you know that, according to the king’s orders, it is under the penalty of death any one should penetrate it, I will, if you like, allow you to read it, and have you shot immediately afterwards.”
“It’s a state secret,” D’Artagnan said flatly; “and since you know that, according to the king’s orders, anyone who gets involved with it faces execution, I can let you read it, and then have you shot right after.”
During this apostrophe—half serious, half ironical—Athos and Raoul preserved the coolest, most unconcerned silence.
During this moment—part serious, part sarcastic—Athos and Raoul maintained the calmest, most indifferent silence.
“But, is it possible,” said the governor, “that these gentlemen do not comprehend at least some words?”
“But, is it possible,” said the governor, “that these gentlemen don’t understand at least some words?”
“Suppose they do! If they do understand a few spoken words, it does not follow that they should understand what is written. They cannot even read Spanish. A noble Spaniard, remember, ought never to know how to read.”
"Let’s say they do! Even if they understand a few spoken words, that doesn’t mean they should understand what’s written. They can’t even read Spanish. A noble Spaniard, remember, should never know how to read."
The governor was obliged to be satisfied with these explanations, but he was still tenacious. “Invite these gentlemen to come to the fortress,” said he.
The governor had to be satisfied with these explanations, but he was still adamant. “Invite these gentlemen to come to the fortress,” he said.
“That I will willingly do. I was about to propose it to you.” The fact is, the captain had quite another idea, and would have wished his friends a hundred leagues off. But he was obliged to make the best of it. He addressed the two gentlemen in Spanish, giving them a polite invitation, which they accepted. They all turned towards the entrance of the fort, and, the incident being at an end, the eight soldiers returned to their delightful leisure, for a moment disturbed by this unexpected adventure.
“Sure, I’d be happy to do that. I was just about to suggest it.” The truth was, the captain had a different plan in mind and would have preferred his friends to be far away. But he had to make the best of the situation. He spoke to the two gentlemen in Spanish, extending a polite invitation, which they accepted. They all headed toward the entrance of the fort, and with that, the incident came to a close. The eight soldiers went back to their enjoyable downtime, momentarily interrupted by this unexpected event.
Chapter XXXII. Captive and Jailers.
When they had entered the fort, and whilst the governor was making some preparations for the reception of his guests, “Come,” said Athos, “let us have a word of explanation whilst we are alone.”
When they entered the fort and while the governor was getting ready to welcome his guests, “Come,” said Athos, “let’s have a moment to talk while we’re alone.”
“It is simply this,” replied the musketeer. “I have conducted hither a prisoner, who the king commands shall not be seen. You came here, he has thrown something to you through the lattice of his window; I was at dinner with the governor, I saw the object thrown, and I saw Raoul pick it up. It does not take long to understand this. I understood it, and I thought you in intelligence with my prisoner. And then—”
“It’s straightforward,” replied the musketeer. “I brought a prisoner here, whom the king ordered to remain unseen. You came here, he tossed something to you through the window; I was having dinner with the governor, I saw the item thrown, and I saw Raoul pick it up. It doesn’t take much to figure this out. I understood it, and I thought you were in cahoots with my prisoner. And then—”
“And then—you commanded us to be shot.”
“And then—you ordered us to be shot.”
“Ma foi! I admit it; but, if I was the first to seize a musket, fortunately, I was the last to take aim at you.”
“My word! I admit it; but if I was the first to grab a musket, at least I was the last to aim it at you.”
“If you had killed me, D’Artagnan, I should have had the good fortune to die for the royal house of France, and it would be an honor to die by your hand—you, its noblest and most loyal defender.”
“If you had killed me, D’Artagnan, I would have had the good fortune to die for the royal house of France, and it would be an honor to die by your hand—you, its noblest and most loyal defender.”
“What the devil, Athos, do you mean by the royal house?” stammered D’Artagnan. “You don’t mean that you, a well-informed and sensible man, can place any faith in the nonsense written by an idiot?”
“What the heck, Athos, what do you mean by the royal house?” stammered D’Artagnan. “You can’t actually think that you, a smart and reasonable guy, would trust the nonsense written by some fool?”
“I do believe in it.”
“I really believe in it.”
“With so much the more reason, my dear chevalier, from your having orders to kill all those who do believe in it,” said Raoul.
“Even more so, my dear knight, since you have orders to eliminate everyone who believes in it,” said Raoul.
“That is because,” replied the captain of the musketeers—“because every calumny, however absurd it may be, has the almost certain chance of becoming popular.”
“That is because,” replied the captain of the musketeers, “because every lie, no matter how ridiculous, has a good chance of becoming popular.”
“No, D’Artagnan,” replied Athos, promptly; “but because the king is not willing that the secret of his family should transpire among the people, and cover with shame the executioners of the son of Louis XIII.”
“No, D’Artagnan,” Athos replied quickly; “but because the king doesn’t want the secret of his family to get out and bring shame to those who executed the son of Louis XIII.”
“Do not talk in such a childish manner, Athos, or I shall begin to think you have lost your senses. Besides, explain to me how it is possible Louis XIII. should have a son in the Isle of Sainte-Marguerite.”
“Stop talking like a child, Athos, or I’ll start to think you’ve lost your mind. And tell me, how is it even possible for Louis XIII to have a son on the Isle of Sainte-Marguerite?”
“A son whom you have brought hither masked, in a fishing-boat,” said Athos. “Why not?”
“A son that you brought here wearing a mask, in a fishing boat,” said Athos. “Why not?”
D’Artagnan was brought to a pause.
D’Artagnan halted in his tracks.
“Oh!” said he; “whence do you know that a fishing-boat—?”
“Oh!” he said, “how do you know that a fishing boat—?”
“Brought you to Sainte-Marguerite’s with the carriage containing the prisoner—with a prisoner whom you styled monseigneur. Oh! I am acquainted with all that,” resumed the comte. D’Artagnan bit his mustache.
“Brought you to Sainte-Marguerite’s with the carriage carrying the prisoner—one whom you called monseigneur. Oh! I know all about that,” the comte continued. D’Artagnan bit his mustache.
“If it were true,” said he, “that I had brought hither in a boat and with a carriage a masked prisoner, nothing proves that this prisoner must be a prince—a prince of the house of France.”
“If it were true,” he said, “that I brought a masked prisoner here in a boat and with a carriage, that doesn’t prove that this prisoner has to be a prince—a prince from the house of France.”
“Ask Aramis such riddles,” replied Athos, coolly.
"Ask Aramis those riddles," Athos replied calmly.
“Aramis,” cried the musketeer, quite at a stand. “Have you seen Aramis?”
“Aramis,” shouted the musketeer, completely at a loss. “Have you seen Aramis?”
“After his discomfiture at Vaux, yes; I have seen Aramis, a fugitive, pursued, bewildered, ruined; and Aramis has told me enough to make me believe in the complaints this unfortunate young prince cut upon the bottom of the plate.”
“After his defeat at Vaux, yes; I have seen Aramis, on the run, confused, and in ruins; and Aramis has shared enough with me to make me believe in the grievances this unfortunate young prince carved into the bottom of the plate.”
D’Artagnan’s head sunk on his breast in some confusion. “This is the way,” said he, “in which God turns to nothing that which men call wisdom! A fine secret must that be of which twelve or fifteen persons hold the tattered fragments! Athos, cursed be the chance which has brought you face to face with me in this affair! for now—”
D’Artagnan hung his head in confusion. “This is how God turns what people call wisdom into nothing! It must be quite a secret if twelve or fifteen people only have its torn pieces! Athos, damn the luck that brought you into this mess with me! Because now—”
“Well,” said Athos, with his customary mild severity, “is your secret lost because I know it? Consult your memory, my friend. Have I not borne secrets heavier than this?”
“Well,” said Athos, with his usual calm seriousness, “is your secret gone just because I know it? Think back, my friend. Haven’t I carried secrets much heavier than this?”
“You have never borne one so dangerous,” replied D’Artagnan, in a tone of sadness. “I have something like a sinister idea that all who are concerned with this secret will die, and die unhappily.”
“You've never carried one this dangerous,” D’Artagnan replied sadly. “I have a chilling feeling that everyone involved in this secret will end up dead, and they'll die unhappy.”
“The will of God be done!” said Athos, “but here is your governor.”
“Let God’s will be done!” said Athos, “but here’s your governor.”
D’Artagnan and his friends immediately resumed their parts. The governor, suspicious and hard, behaved towards D’Artagnan with a politeness almost amounting to obsequiousness. With respect to the travelers, he contented himself with offering good cheer, and never taking his eye from them. Athos and Raoul observed that he often tried to embarrass them by sudden attacks, or to catch them off their guard; but neither the one nor the other gave him the least advantage. What D’Artagnan had said was probable, if the governor did not believe it to be quite true. They rose from the table to repose awhile.
D’Artagnan and his friends quickly got back to their roles. The governor, suspicious and stern, treated D’Artagnan with a politeness that was almost servile. As for the travelers, he made sure they had plenty to eat while keeping a close watch on them. Athos and Raoul noticed that he often tried to catch them off guard with sudden attacks or tricky questions, but neither of them gave him any leverage. What D’Artagnan had said was believable, even if the governor didn’t completely buy it. They got up from the table to rest for a bit.
“What is this man’s name? I don’t like the looks of him,” said Athos to D’Artagnan in Spanish.
“What’s this guy’s name? I don’t like the way he looks,” Athos said to D’Artagnan in Spanish.
“De Saint-Mars,” replied the captain.
“De Saint-Mars,” the captain replied.
“He is, then, I suppose, the prince’s jailer?”
“Is he, then, I guess, the prince’s jailer?”
“Eh! how can I tell? I may be kept at Sainte-Marguerite forever.”
“Ugh! How can I know? I might be stuck at Sainte-Marguerite forever.”
“Oh! no, not you!”
“Oh! No, not you!”
“My friend, I am in the situation of a man who finds a treasure in the midst of a desert. He would like to carry it away, but he cannot; he would like to leave it, but he dares not. The king will not dare to recall me, for no one else would serve him as faithfully as I do; he regrets not having me near him, from being aware that no one would be of so much service near his person as myself. But it will happen as it may please God.”
“My friend, I'm like a guy who finds a treasure in the middle of a desert. He wants to take it with him, but he can’t; he wants to leave it behind, but he’s afraid to. The king won’t dare to send me away because no one else would serve him as loyally as I do; he wishes I were closer, knowing that no one would be as helpful to him as I am. But whatever happens is in God’s hands.”
“But,” observed Raoul, “your not being certain proves that your situation here is provisional, and you will return to Paris?”
“But,” Raoul said, “your uncertainty shows that your situation here is temporary, and you’ll be going back to Paris?”
“Ask these gentlemen,” interrupted the governor, “what was their purpose in coming to Saint-Marguerite?”
“Ask these guys,” interrupted the governor, “what their reason was for coming to Saint-Marguerite?”
“They came from learning there was a convent of Benedictines at Sainte-Honnorat which is considered curious; and from being told there was excellent shooting in the island.”
“They discovered that there was a Benedictine convent at Sainte-Honnorat, which is considered interesting; and they heard there was great shooting on the island.”
“That is quite at their service, as well as yours,” replied Saint-Mars.
"That's totally at their service, as well as yours," replied Saint-Mars.
D’Artagnan politely thanked him.
D’Artagnan thanked him politely.
“When will they depart?” added the governor.
“When are they leaving?” added the governor.
“To-morrow,” replied D’Artagnan.
"Tomorrow," replied D’Artagnan.
M. de Saint-Mars went to make his rounds, and left D’Artagnan alone with the pretended Spaniards.
M. de Saint-Mars went to do his rounds, leaving D’Artagnan alone with the fake Spaniards.
“Oh!” exclaimed the musketeer, “here is a life and a society that suits me very little. I command this man, and he bores me, mordioux! Come, let us have a shot or two at the rabbits; the walk will be beautiful, and not fatiguing. The whole island is but a league and a half in length, with the breadth of a league; a real park. Let us try to amuse ourselves.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the musketeer, “this life and this society are not for me at all. I command this guy, and he’s so boring, mordioux! Come on, let’s go take a few shots at some rabbits; the walk will be nice and not too tiring. The whole island is only a mile and a half long and a mile wide; it’s like a real park. Let’s try to have some fun.”
“As you please, D’Artagnan; not for the sake of amusing ourselves, but to gain an opportunity for talking freely.”
“As you wish, D’Artagnan; not just to have fun, but to find a chance to speak openly.”
D’Artagnan made a sign to a soldier, who brought the gentlemen some guns, and then returned to the fort.
D’Artagnan signaled to a soldier, who brought the guys some guns and then went back to the fort.
“And now,” said the musketeer, “answer me the question put to you by that black-looking Saint-Mars: what did you come to do at the Lerin Isles?”
“And now,” said the musketeer, “answer the question that black-looking Saint-Mars asked you: what did you come to do at the Lerin Isles?”
“To bid you farewell.”
"To say goodbye."
“Bid me farewell! What do you mean by that? Is Raoul going anywhere?”
“Say goodbye to me! What do you mean by that? Is Raoul leaving somewhere?”
“Yes.”
"Yeah."
“Then I will lay a wager it is with M. de Beaufort.”
“Then I bet it's with M. de Beaufort.”
“With M. de Beaufort it is, my dear friend. You always guess correctly.”
“With M. de Beaufort, that's right, my dear friend. You always guess right.”
“From habit.”
"Out of habit."
Whilst the two friends were commencing their conversation, Raoul, with his head hanging down and his heart oppressed, seated himself on a mossy rock, his gun across his knees, looking at the sea—looking at the heavens, and listening to the voice of his soul; he allowed the sportsmen to attain a considerable distance from him. D’Artagnan remarked his absence.
While the two friends were starting their conversation, Raoul, with his head down and feeling heavy-hearted, sat on a mossy rock, his gun resting on his knees, gazing out at the sea and the sky, listening to the voice of his soul; he let the hunters move a good distance away from him. D’Artagnan noticed that he was missing.
“He has not recovered the blow?” said he to Athos.
“He hasn't recovered from the blow?” he said to Athos.
“He is struck to death.”
“He is killed.”
“Oh! your fears exaggerate, I hope. Raoul is of a tempered nature. Around all hearts as noble as his, there is a second envelope that forms a cuirass. The first bleeds, the second resists.”
“Oh! I hope your fears are exaggerated. Raoul is of a balanced nature. Around every heart as noble as his, there’s a protective layer that acts like armor. The first heart may bleed, but the second one withstands.”
“No,” replied Athos, “Raoul will die of it.”
“No,” Athos replied, “Raoul will die from it.”
“Mordioux!” said D’Artagnan, in a melancholy tone. And he did not add a word to this exclamation. Then, a minute after, “Why do you let him go?”
“Mordioux!” said D’Artagnan, in a sad tone. And he didn’t say anything more after that exclamation. Then, a minute later, “Why are you letting him go?”
“Because he insists on going.”
“Because he keeps wanting to go.”
“And why do you not go with him?”
“And why aren't you going with him?”
“Because I could not bear to see him die.”
"Because I couldn't stand to watch him die."
D’Artagnan looked his friend earnestly in the face. “You know one thing,” continued the comte, leaning upon the arm of the captain; “you know that in the course of my life I have been afraid of but few things. Well! I have an incessant gnawing, insurmountable fear that an hour will come in which I shall hold the dead body of that boy in my arms.”
D’Artagnan looked his friend seriously in the face. “You know one thing,” the comte continued, leaning on the captain's arm; “you know that throughout my life I’ve been scared of very few things. Well! I have this constant, overwhelming fear that there will come a time when I’ll be holding that boy’s lifeless body in my arms.”
“Oh!” murmured D’Artagnan; “oh!”
“Oh!” whispered D’Artagnan; “oh!”
“He will die, I know, I have a perfect conviction of that; but I would not see him die.”
“He will die, I know it, I'm completely sure of that; but I don't want to see him die.”
“How is this, Athos? you come and place yourself in the presence of the bravest man, you say you have ever seen, of your own D’Artagnan, of that man without an equal, as you formerly called him, and you come and tell him, with your arms folded, that you are afraid of witnessing the death of your son, you who have seen all that can be seen in this world! Why have you this fear, Athos? Man upon this earth must expect everything, and ought to face everything.”
“How is this, Athos? You come and stand in front of the bravest man you say you’ve ever met, your own D’Artagnan, that man you once called unmatched, and you tell him, with your arms crossed, that you're afraid to see your son die, you who have witnessed everything that can happen in this world! Why do you fear this, Athos? A man in this life should be prepared for anything and should confront everything.”
“Listen to me, my friend. After having worn myself out upon this earth of which you speak, I have preserved but two religions: that of life, friendship, my duty as a father—that of eternity, love, and respect for God. Now, I have within me the revelation that if God should decree that my friend or my son should render up his last sigh in my presence—oh! no, I cannot even tell you, D’Artagnan!”
“Listen to me, my friend. After exhausting myself in this world you talk about, I've kept just two beliefs: one about life, friendship, and my responsibilities as a father; the other about eternity, love, and respect for God. Now, I realize that if God decides my friend or my son takes his last breath in front of me—oh! I can't even express it, D’Artagnan!”
“Speak, speak, tell me!”
"Talk to me!"
“I am strong against everything, except against the death of those I love. For that only there is no remedy. He who dies, gains; he who sees others die, loses. No, this is it—to know that I should no more meet on earth him whom I now behold with joy; to know that there would nowhere be a D’Artagnan any more, nowhere again be a Raoul, oh! I am old, look you, I have no longer courage; I pray God to spare me in my weakness; but if he struck me so plainly and in that fashion, I should curse him. A Christian gentleman ought not to curse his God, D’Artagnan; it is enough to once have cursed a king!”
“I am strong against everything, except the death of those I love. For that, there is no remedy. He who dies gains; he who sees others die loses. No, this is it—to realize that I will no longer meet on earth the one I now see with joy; to know that there will be no more D’Artagnan, no more Raoul, oh! I am old, you see, I no longer have the courage; I pray God to spare me in my weakness; but if He struck me so plainly and in that way, I would curse Him. A Christian gentleman shouldn’t curse his God, D’Artagnan; it’s enough to have cursed a king just once!”
“Humph!” sighed D’Artagnan, a little confused by this violent tempest of grief.
“Humph!” sighed D’Artagnan, a bit bewildered by this intense storm of sorrow.
“Let me speak to him, Athos. Who knows?”
“Let me talk to him, Athos. Who knows?”
“Try, if you please, but I am convinced you will not succeed.”
“Go ahead and try, but I’m sure you won’t succeed.”
“I will not attempt to console him. I will serve him.”
“I won't try to comfort him. I will take care of him.”
“You will?”
"Are you?"
“Doubtless, I will. Do you think this would be the first time a woman had repented of an infidelity? I will go to him, I tell you.”
“Of course I will. Do you really think this is the first time a woman has regretted being unfaithful? I’m going to see him, I promise you.”
Athos shook his head, and continued his walk alone, D’Artagnan, cutting across the brambles, rejoined Raoul and held out his hand to him. “Well, Raoul! You have something to say to me?”
Athos shook his head and kept walking alone. D’Artagnan, making his way through the brambles, caught up with Raoul and extended his hand to him. “Hey, Raoul! Do you have something to tell me?”
“I have a kindness to ask of you,” replied Bragelonne.
“I have a favor to ask of you,” replied Bragelonne.
“Ask it, then.”
"Go ahead, ask it."
“You will some day return to France?”
“You will return to France someday?”
“I hope so.”
“I hope so.”
“Ought I to write to Mademoiselle de la Valliere?”
“Ought I to write to Mademoiselle de la Valliere?”
“No, you must not.”
“No, you can't.”
“But I have many things to say to her.”
“But I have a lot to tell her.”
“Go and say them to her, then.”
“Go tell her, then.”
“Never!”
"Not a chance!"
“Pray, what virtue do you attribute to a letter, which your speech might not possess?”
"Tell me, what value do you give to a letter that your words don't already have?"
“Perhaps you are right.”
"Maybe you're right."
“She loves the king,” said D’Artagnan, bluntly; “and she is an honest girl.” Raoul started. “And you, you whom she abandons, she, perhaps, loves better than she does the king, but after another fashion.”
“She loves the king,” D’Artagnan said straightforwardly; “and she’s a good person.” Raoul was taken aback. “And you, the one she leaves behind, she might actually love more than she does the king, but in a different way.”
“D’Artagnan, do you believe she loves the king?”
“D’Artagnan, do you think she loves the king?”
“To idolatry. Her heart is inaccessible to any other feeling. You might continue to live near her, and would be her best friend.”
“To idolatry. Her heart is closed off to any other emotion. You could still live close to her and be her closest friend.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Raoul, with a passionate burst of repugnance at such a hideous hope.
“Ah!” Raoul exclaimed, filled with a passionate disgust at such a terrible hope.
“Will you do so?”
"Will you do that?"
“It would be base.”
"It would be low."
“That is a very absurd word, which would lead me to think slightly of your understanding. Please to understand, Raoul, that it is never base to do that which is imposed upon us by a superior force. If your heart says to you, ‘Go there, or die,’ why go, Raoul. Was she base or brave, she whom you loved, in preferring the king to you, the king whom her heart commanded her imperiously to prefer to you? No, she was the bravest of women. Do, then, as she has done. Oblige yourself. Do you know one thing of which I am sure, Raoul?”
"That’s a really ridiculous thing to say, which makes me question your intellect a bit. Please understand, Raoul, that it’s never wrong to do what a higher power requires of us. If your heart tells you, ‘Go there, or die,’ then go, Raoul. Was she cowardly or courageous, the woman you loved, for choosing the king over you, the king whom her heart demanded she choose? No, she was the bravest of women. So, do as she did. Make yourself do it. Do you know one thing I’m sure of, Raoul?"
“What is that?”
"What's that?"
“Why, that by seeing her closely with the eyes of a jealous man—”
“Why, by looking at her closely through the eyes of a jealous man—”
“Well?”
"What's up?"
“Well! you would cease to love her.”
“Well! you would stop loving her.”
“Then I am decided, my dear D’Artagnan.”
“Then I’ve made up my mind, my dear D’Artagnan.”
“To set off to see her again?”
“To head out to see her again?”
“No; to set off that I may never see her again. I wish to love her forever.”
“No; to leave so that I may never see her again. I want to love her forever.”
“Ha! I must confess,” replied the musketeer, “that is a conclusion which I was far from expecting.”
“Ha! I have to admit,” replied the musketeer, “that’s a conclusion I definitely didn’t see coming.”
“This is what I wish, my friend. You will see her again, and you will give her a letter which, if you think proper, will explain to her, as to yourself, what is passing in my heart. Read it; I drew it up last night. Something told me I should see you to-day.” He held the letter out, and D’Artagnan read:
“This is what I want, my friend. You will see her again, and you will give her a letter that, if you think it’s appropriate, will explain to her and to you what’s happening in my heart. Read it; I wrote it last night. Something told me I would see you today.” He held out the letter, and D’Artagnan read:
“MADEMOISELLE,—You are not wrong in my eyes in not loving me. You have only been guilty of one fault towards me, that of having left me to believe you loved me. This error will cost me my life. I pardon you, but I cannot pardon myself. It is said that happy lovers are deaf to the sorrows of rejected lovers. It will not be so with you, who did not love me, save with anxiety. I am sure that if I had persisted in endeavoring to change that friendship into love, you would have yielded out of a fear of bringing about my death, or lessening the esteem I had for you. It is much more delightful to me to die, knowing that you are free and satisfied. How much, then, will you love me, when you will no longer fear either my presence or reproaches? You will love me, because, however charming a new love may appear to you, God has not made me in anything inferior to him you have chosen, and because my devotedness, my sacrifice, and my painful end will assure me, in your eyes, a certain superiority over him. I have allowed to escape, in the candid credulity of my heart, the treasure I possessed. Many people tell me that you loved me enough to lead me to hope you would have loved me much. That idea takes from my mind all bitterness, and leads me only to blame myself. You will accept this last farewell, and you will bless me for having taken refuge in the inviolable asylum where hatred is extinguished, and where all love endures forever. Adieu, mademoiselle. If your happiness could be purchased by the last drop of my blood, I would shed that drop. I willingly make the sacrifice of it to my misery!
“MS.,—You’re not wrong for not loving me. The only fault you've committed is letting me believe you loved me. This mistake is going to cost me my life. I forgive you, but I can’t forgive myself. They say happy lovers don’t hear the pain of those who are rejected. That won’t be true for you, who didn’t love me, except with worry. I’m sure that if I had kept trying to change our friendship into love, you would have given in out of fear of causing my death or tarnishing the esteem I held for you. It brings me more peace to die knowing that you are free and content. How much will you love me when you no longer fear my presence or my complaints? You will love me because, no matter how appealing a new love may seem to you, God hasn’t made me any less worthy than the one you chose, and my devotion, my sacrifice, and my painful end will grant me a certain superiority in your eyes over him. I let go of the treasure I had, believing too naively. Many people tell me you loved me enough to make me hope you would have loved me even more. That thought takes away my bitterness and leaves me only with self-blame. Please accept this final farewell, and bless me for finding refuge in the unbreakable place where hatred is gone, and all love lasts forever. Goodbye, mademoiselle. If your happiness could be bought with the last drop of my blood, I would give that drop. I willingly sacrifice it to my misery!
“RAOUL, VICOTME DE BRAGELONNE.”
“Raoul, Vicomte de Bragelonne.”
“The letter reads very well,” said the captain. “I have only one fault to find with it.”
“The letter is really well-written,” said the captain. “I just have one issue with it.”
“Tell me what that is!” said Raoul.
“Tell me what that is!” Raoul said.
“Why, it is that it tells everything, except the thing which exhales, like a mortal poison from your eyes and from your heart; except the senseless love which still consumes you.” Raoul grew paler, but remained silent.
“Why, it reveals everything, except the thing that radiates, like a deadly poison from your eyes and heart; except the irrational love that still consumes you.” Raoul grew paler but stayed silent.
“Why did you not write simply these words:
“Why didn’t you just write these words:
“‘MADEMOISELLE,—Instead of cursing you, I love you and I die.’”
“‘Miss,—Instead of cursing you, I love you and I’m dying.’”
“That is true,” exclaimed Raoul, with a sinister kind of joy.
"That's true," Raoul exclaimed, with a dark sort of joy.
And tearing the letter he had just taken back, he wrote the following words upon a leaf of his tablets:
And tearing up the letter he had just retrieved, he wrote the following words on a page of his notebook:
“To procure the happiness of once more telling you I love you, I commit the baseness of writing to you; and to punish myself for that baseness, I die.” And he signed it.
“To gain the happiness of telling you I love you again, I stoop to the low act of writing to you; and to punish myself for that act, I die.” And he signed it.
“You will give her these tablets, captain, will you not?”
"You’ll give her these tablets, right, captain?"
“When?” asked the latter.
"When?" asked the second.
“On the day,” said Bragelonne, pointing to the last sentence, “on the day when you can place a date under these words.” And he sprang away quickly to join Athos, who was returning with slow steps.
“On that day,” Bragelonne said, pointing to the last sentence, “on the day when you can put a date under these words.” And he quickly ran off to catch up with Athos, who was walking back slowly.
As they re-entered the fort, the sea rose with that rapid, gusty vehemence which characterizes the Mediterranean; the ill-humor of the element became a tempest. Something shapeless, and tossed about violently by the waves, appeared just off the coast.
As they went back into the fort, the sea surged with that quick, gusty intensity typical of the Mediterranean; the bad mood of the water turned into a storm. Something formless, and thrown around wildly by the waves, appeared just off the coast.
“What is that?” said Athos,—“a wrecked boat?”
“What is that?” said Athos, “a wrecked boat?”
“No, it is not a boat,” said D’Artagnan.
“No, it’s not a boat,” D’Artagnan said.
“Pardon me,” said Raoul, “there is a bark gaining the port rapidly.”
“Excuse me,” Raoul said, “there's a ship approaching the port quickly.”
“Yes, there is a bark in the creek, which is prudently seeking shelter here; but that which Athos points to in the sand is not a boat at all—it has run aground.”
“Yes, there’s a bark in the creek that’s wisely looking for shelter here; but what Athos is pointing to in the sand isn’t a boat at all—it’s run aground.”
“Yes, yes, I see it.”
“Yes, I see it.”
“It is the carriage, which I threw into the sea after landing the prisoner.”
“It’s the carriage that I threw into the sea after we got the prisoner ashore.”
“Well!” said Athos, “if you take my advice, D’Artagnan, you will burn that carriage, in order that no vestige of it may remain, without which the fishermen of Antibes, who have believed they had to do with the devil, will endeavor to prove that your prisoner was but a man.”
"Well!" said Athos, "if you want my advice, D’Artagnan, you should burn that carriage so that there’s nothing left of it. Otherwise, the fishermen of Antibes, who think they’ve dealt with the devil, will try to prove that your prisoner was just a regular guy."
“Your advice is good, Athos, and I will this night have it carried out, or rather, I will carry it out myself; but let us go in, for the rain falls heavily, and the lightning is terrific.”
“Your advice is great, Athos, and I will make sure it gets done tonight, or rather, I’ll take care of it myself; but let’s go inside, because it’s raining heavily, and the lightning is really intense.”
As they were passing over the ramparts to a gallery of which D’Artagnan had the key, they saw M. de Saint-Mars directing his steps towards the chamber inhabited by the prisoner. Upon a sign from D’Artagnan, they concealed themselves in an angle of the staircase.
As they were crossing over the ramparts to a gallery that D’Artagnan had the key to, they noticed M. de Saint-Mars heading towards the room where the prisoner was kept. At a nod from D’Artagnan, they hid in a corner of the staircase.
“What is it?” said Athos.
“What’s going on?” said Athos.
“You will see. Look. The prisoner is returning from chapel.”
“You'll see. Look. The prisoner is coming back from chapel.”
And they saw, by the red flashes of lightning against the violet fog which the wind stamped upon the bank-ward sky, they saw pass gravely, at six paces behind the governor, a man clothed in black and masked by a vizor of polished steel, soldered to a helmet of the same nature, which altogether enveloped the whole of his head. The fire of the heavens cast red reflections on the polished surface, and these reflections, flying off capriciously, seemed to be angry looks launched by the unfortunate, instead of imprecations. In the middle of the gallery, the prisoner stopped for a moment, to contemplate the infinite horizon, to respire the sulphurous perfumes of the tempest, to drink in thirstily the hot rain, and to breathe a sigh resembling a smothered groan.
And they saw, illuminated by the red flashes of lightning against the purple fog that the wind pushed across the sky, a man dressed in black and wearing a polished steel visor, which was attached to a helmet of the same material, completely covering his head. The lightning reflected red hues on the shiny surface, and these reflections, darting around unpredictably, appeared to be fierce glances shot by the unfortunate one instead of curses. In the middle of the gallery, the prisoner paused for a moment to gaze at the endless horizon, to inhale the sulfurous scents of the storm, to drink in the hot rain eagerly, and to let out a sigh that sounded like a suppressed groan.
“Come on, monsieur,” said Saint-Mars, sharply, to the prisoner, for he already became uneasy at seeing him look so long beyond the walls. “Monsieur, come on!”
“Come on, sir,” said Saint-Mars sharply to the prisoner, as he started to feel uneasy seeing him stare so long beyond the walls. “Sir, let’s go!”
“Say monseigneur!” cried Athos, from his corner, with a voice so solemn and terrible, that the governor trembled from head to foot. Athos insisted upon respect being paid to fallen majesty. The prisoner turned round.
“Hey, sir!” shouted Athos from his corner, with a voice so serious and intense that the governor shook all over. Athos demanded that respect be shown to fallen royalty. The prisoner turned around.
“Who spoke?” asked Saint-Mars.
“Who talked?” asked Saint-Mars.
“It was I,” replied D’Artagnan, showing himself promptly. “You know that is the order.”
“It was me,” replied D’Artagnan, stepping forward right away. “You know that’s the rule.”
“Call me neither monsieur nor monseigneur,” said the prisoner in his turn, in a voice that penetrated to the very soul of Raoul; “call me ACCURSED!” He passed on, and the iron door croaked after him.
“Don’t call me sir or lord,” said the prisoner, his voice reaching deep into Raoul’s soul; “call me ACCURSED!” He moved on, and the iron door creaked shut behind him.
“There goes a truly unfortunate man!” murmured the musketeer in a hollow whisper, pointing out to Raoul the chamber inhabited by the prince.
“There goes a really unfortunate guy!” murmured the musketeer in a hollow whisper, pointing out to Raoul the room where the prince lived.
Chapter XXXIII. Promises.
Scarcely had D’Artagnan re-entered his apartment with his two friends, when one of the soldiers of the fort came to inform him that the governor was seeking him. The bark which Raoul had perceived at sea, and which appeared so eager to gain the port, came to Sainte-Marguerite with an important dispatch for the captain of the musketeers. On opening it, D’Artagnan recognized the writing of the king: “I should think,” said Louis XIV., “you will have completed the execution of my orders, Monsieur d’Artagnan; return, then, immediately to Paris, and join me at the Louvre.”
As soon as D’Artagnan walked back into his apartment with his two friends, one of the soldiers from the fort came to let him know that the governor was looking for him. The ship that Raoul had seen out at sea, which seemed so eager to reach the harbor, arrived at Sainte-Marguerite with an important message for the captain of the musketeers. When D’Artagnan opened it, he recognized the king’s handwriting: “I trust,” said Louis XIV., “that you have carried out my orders, Monsieur d’Artagnan; return to Paris right away and meet me at the Louvre.”
“There is the end of my exile!” cried the musketeer with joy; “God be praised, I am no longer a jailer!” And he showed the letter to Athos.
“Finally, my exile is over!” the musketeer exclaimed with joy; “Thank God, I’m not a jailer anymore!” And he showed the letter to Athos.
“So, then, you must leave us?” replied the latter, in a melancholy tone.
“So, you have to leave us?” replied the other, in a sad tone.
“Yes, but to meet again, dear friend, seeing that Raoul is old enough now to go alone with M. de Beaufort, and will prefer his father going back in company with M. d’Artagnan, to forcing him to travel two hundred leagues solitarily to reach home at La Fere; will you not, Raoul?”
“Yes, but to meet again, dear friend, since Raoul is old enough now to go with M. de Beaufort by himself, and would prefer his father to return with M. d’Artagnan, rather than making him travel alone for two hundred leagues to get home at La Fere; won't you, Raoul?”
“Certainly,” stammered the latter, with an expression of tender regret.
“Of course,” the latter stammered, showing a look of gentle regret.
“No, no, my friend,” interrupted Athos, “I will never quit Raoul till the day his vessel disappears on the horizon. As long as he remains in France he shall not be separated from me.”
“No, no, my friend,” interrupted Athos, “I will never leave Raoul until the day his ship vanishes over the horizon. As long as he’s in France, he will not be apart from me.”
“As you please, dear friend; but we will, at least, leave Sainte-Marguerite together; take advantage of the bark that will convey me back to Antibes.”
“As you wish, dear friend; but at the very least, we’ll leave Sainte-Marguerite together; let’s take advantage of the boat that will take me back to Antibes.”
“With all my heart; we cannot too soon be at a distance from this fort, and from the spectacle that shocked us so just now.”
“With all my heart; we need to get away from this fort as soon as possible, and from the sight that just shocked us.”
The three friends quitted the little isle, after paying their respects to the governor, and by the last flashes of the departing tempest they took their farewell of the white walls of the fort. D’Artagnan parted from his friend that same night, after having seen fire set to the carriage upon the shore by the orders of Saint-Mars, according to the advice the captain had given him. Before getting on horseback, and after leaving the arms of Athos: “My friends,” said he, “you bear too much resemblance to two soldiers who are abandoning their post. Something warns me that Raoul will require being supported by you in his rank. Will you allow me to ask permission to go over into Africa with a hundred good muskets? The king will not refuse me, and I will take you with me.”
The three friends left the little island after saying goodbye to the governor, and in the last flashes of the fading storm, they bid farewell to the white walls of the fort. D’Artagnan parted ways with his friend that same night, after witnessing the fire set to the carriage on the shore by Saint-Mars' orders, following the captain's advice. Before getting on his horse, and after leaving Athos' embrace, he said, “My friends, you look too much like two soldiers abandoning their post. I have a feeling that Raoul will need your support in his role. May I ask for permission to go to Africa with a hundred good muskets? The king won’t say no, and I want to take you with me.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” replied Raoul, pressing his hand with emotion, “thanks for that offer, which would give us more than we wish, either monsieur le comte or I. I, who am young, stand in need of labor of mind and fatigue of body; monsieur le comte wants the profoundest repose. You are his best friend. I recommend him to your care. In watching over him, you are holding both our souls in your hands.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” Raoul replied, gripping his hand with emotion, “thank you for that offer, which would give us more than we desire, either for monsieur le comte or myself. I, being young, need mental work and physical activity; monsieur le comte needs the deepest rest. You are his closest friend. I trust him to your care. By looking after him, you are holding both of our souls in your hands.”
“I must go; my horse is all in a fret,” said D’Artagnan, with whom the most manifest sign of a lively emotion was the change of ideas in conversation. “Come, comte, how many days longer has Raoul to stay here?”
“I have to leave; my horse is getting restless,” said D’Artagnan, who showed a clear sign of strong emotion through his change of topics in conversation. “So, comte, how many more days does Raoul have to stay here?”
“Three days at most.”
"At most three days."
“And how long will it take you to reach home?”
“And how long will it take you to get home?”
“Oh! a considerable time,” replied Athos. “I shall not like the idea of being separated too quickly from Raoul. Time will travel too fast of itself to require me to aid it by distance. I shall only make half-stages.”
“Oh! quite a while,” replied Athos. “I won’t like the idea of being separated from Raoul too soon. Time will move fast enough on its own without me helping it along by putting distance between us. I’ll just take shorter breaks.”
“And why so, my friend? Nothing is more dull than traveling slowly; and hostelry life does not become a man like you.”
“And why is that, my friend? There's nothing more boring than traveling slowly, and hotel life doesn’t suit a man like you.”
“My friend, I came hither on post-horses; but I wish to purchase two animals of a superior kind. Now, to take them home fresh, it would not be prudent to make them travel more than seven or eight leagues a day.”
“My friend, I arrived here on rented horses, but I want to buy two better-quality ones. To bring them home in good condition, it wouldn’t be wise to have them travel more than seven or eight leagues a day.”
“Where is Grimaud?”
“Where's Grimaud?”
“He arrived yesterday morning with Raoul’s appointments; and I have left him to sleep.”
“He arrived yesterday morning with Raoul’s appointments, and I let him sleep.”
“That is, never to come back again,” D’Artagnan suffered to escape him. “Till we meet again, then, dear Athos—and if you are diligent, I shall embrace you the sooner.” So saying, he put his foot in the stirrup, which Raoul held.
“That is, never to come back again,” D’Artagnan let slip. “Until we meet again, then, dear Athos—and if you keep working hard, I’ll hug you sooner.” With that, he put his foot in the stirrup that Raoul was holding.
“Farewell!” said the young man, embracing him.
“Goodbye!” said the young man, hugging him.
“Farewell!” said D’Artagnan, as he got into his saddle.
“Goodbye!” said D’Artagnan, as he got on his horse.
His horse made a movement which divided the cavalier from his friends. This scene had taken place in front of the house chosen by Athos, near the gates of Antibes, whither D’Artagnan, after his supper, had ordered his horses to be brought. The road began to branch off there, white and undulating in the vapors of the night. The horse eagerly respired the salt, sharp perfume of the marshes. D’Artagnan put him to a trot; and Athos and Raoul sadly turned towards the house. All at once they heard the rapid approach of a horse’s steps, and first believed it to be one of those singular repercussions which deceive the ear at every turn in a road. But it was really the return of the horseman. They uttered a cry of joyous surprise; and the captain, springing to the ground like a young man, seized within his arms the two beloved heads of Athos and Raoul. He held them long embraced thus, without speaking a word, or suffering the sigh which was bursting his breast to escape him. Then, as rapidly as he had come back, he set off again, with a sharp application of his spurs to the sides of his fiery horse.
His horse moved, separating the cavalier from his friends. This scene happened in front of the house selected by Athos, near the gates of Antibes, where D’Artagnan had instructed for his horses to be brought after dinner. The road started to branch off there, white and rolling in the night mist. The horse eagerly inhaled the sharp, salty scent of the marshes. D’Artagnan urged him into a trot, while Athos and Raoul turned towards the house, looking sad. Suddenly, they heard the fast approach of a horse, initially thinking it was one of those strange echoes that trick the ear around every bend in the road. But it was actually the return of the horseman. They shouted in joyful surprise as the captain jumped off his horse like a young man and embraced the two beloved heads of Athos and Raoul. He held them tightly in a long embrace without saying a word, holding back the sigh that was trying to escape from his chest. Then, just as quickly as he had returned, he took off again, spurring his fiery horse.
“Alas!” said the comte, in a low voice, “alas! alas!”
“Wow!” said the count, in a low voice, “wow! wow!”
“An evil omen!” on his side, said D’Artagnan to himself, making up for lost time. “I could not smile upon them. An evil omen!”
“An evil omen!” D’Artagnan thought to himself, trying to make up for lost time. “I couldn’t show them any kindness. An evil omen!”
The next day Grimaud was on foot again. The service commanded by M. de Beaufort was happily accomplished. The flotilla, sent to Toulon by the exertions of Raoul, had set out, dragging after it in little nutshells, almost invisible, the wives and friends of the fishermen and smugglers put in requisition for the service of the fleet. The time, so short, which remained for father and son to live together, appeared to go by with double rapidity, like some swift stream that flows towards eternity. Athos and Raoul returned to Toulon, which began to be filled with the noise of carriages, with the noise of arms, the noise of neighing horses. The trumpeters sounded their spirited marches; the drummers signalized their strength; the streets were overflowing with soldiers, servants, and tradespeople. The Duc de Beaufort was everywhere, superintending the embarkation with the zeal and interest of a good captain. He encouraged the humblest of his companions; he scolded his lieutenants, even those of the highest rank. Artillery, provisions, baggage, he insisted upon seeing all himself. He examined the equipment of every soldier; assured himself of the health and soundness of every horse. It was plain that, light, boastful, egotistical, in his hotel, the gentleman became the soldier again—the high noble, a captain—in face of the responsibility he had accepted. And yet, it must be admitted that, whatever was the care with which he presided over the preparations for departure, it was easy to perceive careless precipitation, and the absence of all the precaution that make the French soldier the first soldier in the world, because, in that world, he is the one most abandoned to his own physical and moral resources. All things having satisfied, or appearing to have satisfied, the admiral, he paid his compliments to Raoul, and gave the last orders for sailing, which was ordered the next morning at daybreak. He invited the comte had his son to dine with him; but they, under a pretext of service, kept themselves apart. Gaining their hostelry, situated under the trees of the great Place, they took their repast in haste, and Athos led Raoul to the rocks which dominate the city, vast gray mountains, whence the view is infinite and embraces a liquid horizon which appears, so remote is it, on a level with the rocks themselves. The night was fine, as it always is in these happy climes. The moon, rising behind the rocks, unrolled a silver sheet on the cerulean carpet of the sea. In the roadsteads maneuvered silently the vessels which had just taken their rank to facilitate the embarkation. The sea, loaded with phosphoric light, opened beneath the hulls of the barks that transported the baggage and munitions; every dip of the prow plowed up this gulf of white flames; from every oar dropped liquid diamonds. The sailors, rejoicing in the largesses of the admiral, were heard murmuring their slow and artless songs. Sometimes the grinding of the chains was mixed with the dull noise of shot falling into the holds. Such harmonies, such a spectacle, oppress the heart like fear, and dilate it like hope. All this life speaks of death. Athos had seated himself with his son, upon the moss, among the brambles of the promontory. Around their heads passed and repassed large bats, carried along by the fearful whirl of their blind chase. The feet of Raoul were over the edge of the cliff, bathed in that void which is peopled by vertigo, and provokes to self-annihilation. When the moon had risen to its fullest height, caressing with light the neighboring peaks, when the watery mirror was illumined in its full extent, and the little red fires had made their openings in the black masses of every ship, Athos, collecting all his ideas and all his courage, said:
The next day, Grimaud was on foot again. The mission led by M. de Beaufort was successfully completed. The flotilla, sent to Toulon thanks to Raoul's efforts, had set off, dragging behind it in tiny boats, almost invisible, the wives and friends of the fishermen and smugglers who had been recruited for the fleet's service. The short time left for father and son to be together seemed to fly by like a swift river heading towards eternity. Athos and Raoul returned to Toulon, which was starting to fill with the sounds of carriages, weapons, and neighing horses. The trumpeters played lively marches; the drummers showcased their strength; the streets were packed with soldiers, servants, and merchants. The Duc de Beaufort was everywhere, overseeing the embarkation with the enthusiasm and dedication of a good captain. He encouraged even the lowest of his companions and reprimanded his lieutenants, including those of the highest rank. He insisted on inspecting the artillery, supplies, and baggage himself. He checked the gear of every soldier and ensured every horse was healthy and sound. It was clear that, though light-hearted and self-important in his hotel, he transformed into a soldier again—the noble captain—in light of the responsibilities he had taken on. Yet, it must be noted that despite his careful oversight, it was evident that there was a careless urgency and a lack of the precautions that make the French soldier the finest in the world, as he is often left alone to rely on his own physical and mental resources. Once everything seemed satisfactory to the admiral, he complimented Raoul and gave the final orders for sailing, scheduled for the next morning at dawn. He invited the comte and his son to dinner, but they, under the guise of a service-related excuse, kept to themselves. Upon reaching their inn, located under the trees of the main square, they quickly had their meal, and Athos took Raoul to the cliffs overlooking the city, vast gray mountains where the view is limitless and meets the distant horizon at the same level as the rocks. The night was beautiful, as it always is in these lovely regions. The moon, rising behind the cliffs, spread a silver sheen over the blue sea below. In the harbors, ships quietly maneuvered to aid in the embarkation. The sea shimmered with phosphorescent light beneath the hulls of the boats carrying baggage and munitions; each dip of the bow stirred this gulf of white flames, with every stroke of the oars leaving trails of liquid diamonds. The sailors, reveling in the admiral's generosity, could be heard singing their slow, simple songs. Occasionally, the sound of chains grinding mingled with the dull thud of cannonballs being loaded into the holds. Such harmonies and sights can weigh heavily on the heart like fear, yet expand it like hope. All this life speaks of death. Athos had seated himself with his son on the mossy ground among the brambles of the promontory. Large bats fluttered back and forth around them, caught up in their frantic chase. Raoul's feet dangled over the edge of the cliff, immersed in the void that induces vertigo and tempts self-destruction. When the moon reached its peak, illuminating the nearby peaks with its light, when the watery expanse was aglow, and the tiny red lights began to dot the dark silhouettes of the ships, Athos, gathering all his thoughts and courage, said:
“God has made all these things that we see, Raoul; He has made us also,—poor atoms mixed up with this monstrous universe. We shine like those fires and those stars; we sigh like those waves; we suffer like those great ships, which are worn out in plowing the waves, in obeying the wind that urges them towards an end, as the breath of God blows us towards a port. Everything likes to live, Raoul; and everything seems beautiful to living things.”
“God created all the things we see, Raoul; He made us too—small particles caught up in this huge universe. We shine like those flames and stars; we sigh like those waves; we suffer like those massive ships, which get worn out from navigating the waters, following the wind that pushes them toward a destination, just as the breath of God guides us to a harbor. Everything wants to live, Raoul; and everything appears beautiful to those who are alive.”
“Monsieur,” said Raoul, “we have before us a beautiful spectacle!”
“Sir,” said Raoul, “we have a stunning sight in front of us!”
“How good D’Artagnan is!” interrupted Athos, suddenly, “and what a rare good fortune it is to be supported during a whole life by such a friend as he is! That is what you have missed, Raoul.”
“How great D’Artagnan is!” interrupted Athos, suddenly, “and what an amazing stroke of luck it is to have a friend like him to support you throughout your entire life! That’s what you’ve missed, Raoul.”
“A friend!” cried Raoul, “I have wanted a friend!”
“A friend!” shouted Raoul, “I've been wanting a friend!”
“M. de Guiche is an agreeable companion,” resumed the comte, coldly, “but I believe, in the times in which you live, men are more engaged in their own interests and their own pleasures than they were in ours. You have sought a secluded life; that is a great happiness, but you have lost your strength thereby. We four, more weaned from those delicate abstractions that constitute your joy, furnished much more resistance when misfortune presented itself.”
“M. de Guiche is a pleasant companion,” the count continued coldly, “but I think that in your time, people are more focused on their own interests and pleasures than they were in ours. You've chosen a quiet life; that's a great blessing, but it's made you weaker. The four of us, less caught up in those fragile ideas that bring you joy, were much more resilient when faced with hardship.”
“I have not interrupted you, monsieur, to tell you that I had a friend, and that that friend is M. de Guiche. Certes, he is good and generous, and moreover he loves me. But I have lived under the guardianship of another friendship, monsieur, as precious and as strong as that of which you speak, since it is yours.”
“I haven’t interrupted you, sir, to say that I had a friend, and that friend is M. de Guiche. Of course, he is kind and generous, and he loves me. But I have lived under the protection of another friendship, sir, as precious and as strong as the one you’re talking about, since it is yours.”
“I have not been a friend for you, Raoul,” said Athos.
“I haven’t been a friend to you, Raoul,” said Athos.
“Eh! monsieur, and in what respect not?”
“Hey! Sir, in what way not?”
“Because I have given you reason to think that life has but one face, because, sad and severe, alas! I have always cut off for you, without, God knows, wishing to do so, the joyous buds that spring incessantly from the fair tree of youth; so that at this moment I repent of not having made of you a more expansive, dissipated, animated man.”
“Because I’ve made you believe that life has only one side, because, sadly and seriously, I have always, without meaning to, cut off the joyful moments that constantly bloom from the beautiful tree of youth; I regret not having turned you into a more open, carefree, lively person.”
“I know why you say that, monsieur. No, it is not you who have made me what I am; it was love, which took me at the time when children only have inclinations; it is the constancy natural to my character, which with other creatures is but habit. I believed that I should always be as I was; I thought God had cast me in a path quite clear, quite straight, bordered with fruits and flowers. I had ever watching over me your vigilance and strength. I believed myself to be vigilant and strong. Nothing prepared me; I fell once, and that once deprived me of courage for the whole of my life. It is quite true that I wrecked myself. Oh, no, monsieur! you are nothing in my past but happiness—in my future but hope! No, I have no reproach to make against life such as you made it for me; I bless you, and I love you ardently.”
“I understand why you say that, sir. No, it wasn’t you who made me who I am; it was love, which came to me when I was just a child with simple desires. It’s the steady nature of my character, which for others is just routine. I thought I would always be the same; I believed God had set me on a clear, straight path filled with fruits and flowers. I always had your watchful strength protecting me. I thought I was also vigilant and strong. Nothing prepared me; I stumbled once, and that single fall took away my courage for the rest of my life. It’s true I brought this upon myself. Oh, no, sir! You are nothing in my past but happiness—in my future but hope! No, I have no regrets about the life you gave me; I bless you, and I love you deeply.”
“My dear Raoul, your words do me good. They prove to me that you will act a little for me in the time to come.”
“My dear Raoul, your words make me feel better. They show me that you will do something for me in the future.”
“I shall only act for you, monsieur.”
“I will only act for you, sir.”
“Raoul, what I have never hitherto done with respect to you, I will henceforward do. I will be your friend, not your father. We will live in expanding ourselves, instead of living and holding ourselves prisoners, when you come back. And that will be soon, will it not?”
“Raoul, from now on, I will do something I've never done with you before. I will be your friend, not your father. We’ll focus on growing together instead of being trapped in our own lives when you return. And that will be soon, right?”
“Certainly, monsieur, for such an expedition cannot last long.”
“Of course, sir, because such a trip can’t take too much time.”
“Soon, then, Raoul, soon, instead of living moderately on my income, I will give you the capital of my estates. It will suffice for launching you into the world till my death; and you will give me, I hope, before that time, the consolation of not seeing my race extinct.”
“Soon, Raoul, soon, instead of living modestly on my income, I will give you the capital from my estates. It will be enough to help you get started in the world until I die; and I hope that before then, you will give me the reassurance of knowing my legacy will continue.”
“I will do all you may command,” said Raoul, much agitated.
"I will do whatever you ask," said Raoul, feeling very anxious.
“It is not necessary, Raoul, that your duty as aide-de-camp should lead you into too hazardous enterprises. You have gone through your ordeal; you are known to be a true man under fire. Remember that war with Arabs is a war of snares, ambuscades, and assassinations.”
“It’s not necessary, Raoul, for your job as aide-de-camp to put you in overly dangerous situations. You've already been through a lot; everyone knows you’re a true man in a crisis. Keep in mind that fighting against Arabs involves traps, ambushes, and assassinations.”
“So it is said, monsieur.”
"So they say, sir."
“There is never much glory in falling in an ambuscade. It is a death which always implies a little rashness or want of foresight. Often, indeed, he who falls in one meets with but little pity. Those who are not pitied, Raoul, have died to little purpose. Still further, the conqueror laughs, and we Frenchmen ought not to allow stupid infidels to triumph over our faults. Do you clearly understand what I am saying to you, Raoul? God forbid I should encourage you to avoid encounters.”
“There’s never much glory in falling into an ambush. It’s a death that usually suggests some carelessness or lack of foresight. Often, the person who falls in one gets very little sympathy. Those who aren’t pitied, Raoul, have died for little reason. Additionally, the victor laughs, and we Frenchmen shouldn’t let ignorant fools take advantage of our mistakes. Do you understand what I’m saying to you, Raoul? God forbid I should encourage you to shy away from confrontations.”
“I am naturally prudent, monsieur, and I have very good fortune,” said Raoul, with a smile which chilled the heart of his poor father; “for,” the young man hastened to add, “in twenty combats through which I have been, I have only received one scratch.”
“I’m naturally cautious, sir, and I’ve had pretty good luck,” said Raoul, with a smile that froze his poor father’s heart; “because,” the young man quickly added, “in the twenty fights I’ve been in, I’ve only gotten one scratch.”
“There is in addition,” said Athos, “the climate to be dreaded: that is an ugly end, to die of fever! King Saint-Louis prayed God to send him an arrow or the plague, rather than the fever.”
“There’s also,” Athos said, “the climate to worry about: dying of fever is a terrible fate! King Saint-Louis prayed to God to send him an arrow or the plague instead of fever.”
“Oh, monsieur! with sobriety, with reasonable exercise—”
“Oh, sir! with moderation, with regular exercise—”
“I have already obtained from M. de Beaufort a promise that his dispatches shall be sent off every fortnight to France. You, as his aide-de-camp, will be charged with expediting them, and will be sure not to forget me.”
“I've already got M. de Beaufort to promise that his dispatches will be sent to France every two weeks. As his aide-de-camp, you’ll be responsible for speeding them up, and make sure you don’t forget about me.”
“No, monsieur,” said Raoul, almost choked with emotion.
“No, sir,” said Raoul, almost choking up with emotion.
“Besides, Raoul, as you are a good Christian, and I am one also, we ought to reckon upon a more special protection of God and His guardian angels. Promise me that if anything evil should happen to you, on any occasion, you will think of me at once.”
“Besides, Raoul, since you’re a good Christian, and I am one too, we should count on a more special protection from God and His guardian angels. Promise me that if anything bad happens to you at any time, you’ll think of me right away.”
“First and at once! Oh! yes, monsieur.”
“First and right away! Oh! yes, sir.”
“And will call upon me?”
"And will you call me?"
“Instantly.”
"Right now."
“You dream of me sometimes, do you not, Raoul?”
“You dream of me sometimes, don’t you, Raoul?”
“Every night, monsieur. During my early youth I saw you in my dreams, calm and mild, with one hand stretched out over my head, and that it was which made me sleep so soundly—formerly.”
“Every night, sir. In my early youth, I saw you in my dreams, calm and gentle, with one hand stretched out over my head, and that’s what made me sleep so well—before.”
“We love each other too dearly,” said the comte, “that from this moment, in which we separate, a portion of both our souls should not travel with one and the other of us, and should not dwell wherever we may dwell. Whenever you may be sad, Raoul, I feel that my heart will be dissolved in sadness; and when you smile on thinking of me, be assured you will send me, from however remote a distance, a vital scintillation of your joy.”
“We love each other too much,” said the comte, “for a part of both our souls not to go with us when we separate, and to not be present wherever we are. Whenever you feel sad, Raoul, I know my heart will break with sadness; and when you smile while thinking of me, just know that you'll send me a spark of your joy, no matter how far apart we are.”
“I will not promise you to be joyous,” replied the young man; “but you may be certain that I will never pass an hour without thinking of you, not one hour, I swear, unless I shall be dead.”
“I won't promise to be happy,” replied the young man; “but you can be sure that I won’t go an hour without thinking of you, not a single hour, I swear, unless I’m dead.”
Athos could contain himself no longer; he threw his arm round the neck of his son, and held him embraced with all the power of his heart. The moon began to be now eclipsed by twilight; a golden band surrounded the horizon, announcing the approach of the day. Athos threw his cloak over the shoulders of Raoul, and led him back to the city, where burdens and porters were already in motion, like a vast ant-hill. At the extremity of the plateau which Athos and Bragelonne were quitting, they saw a dark shadow moving uneasily backwards and forwards, as if in indecision or ashamed to be seen. It was Grimaud, who in his anxiety had tracked his master, and was there awaiting him.
Athos could no longer hold back; he wrapped his arm around his son’s neck and hugged him with all the love in his heart. The moon was starting to be covered by twilight; a golden band lit up the horizon, signaling the coming day. Athos draped his cloak over Raoul's shoulders and guided him back to the city, where people and deliveries were already bustling about like a huge anthill. At the edge of the plateau that Athos and Bragelonne were leaving, they noticed a dark figure moving nervously back and forth, as if unsure or embarrassed to be seen. It was Grimaud, who, worried about his master, had followed him and was waiting there.
“Oh! my good Grimaud,” cried Raoul, “what do you want? You are come to tell us it is time to be gone, have you not?”
“Oh! my good Grimaud,” Raoul exclaimed, “what do you want? You’ve come to tell us it’s time to leave, right?”
“Alone?” said Grimaud, addressing Athos and pointing to Raoul in a tone of reproach, which showed to what an extent the old man was troubled.
“Alone?” Grimaud said, looking at Athos and gesturing toward Raoul with a tone of disapproval that revealed just how much the old man was upset.
“Oh! you are right!” cried the comte. “No, Raoul shall not go alone; no, he shall not be left alone in a strange land without some friendly hand to support him, some friendly heart to recall to him all he loved!”
“Oh! You’re right!” exclaimed the count. “No, Raoul won’t go alone; no, he shouldn’t be left on his own in a foreign land without a friendly hand to help him, a friendly heart to remind him of everything he loved!”
“I?” said Grimaud.
“I?” Grimaud asked.
“You, yes, you!” cried Raoul, touched to the inmost heart.
“You, yes, you!” shouted Raoul, deeply moved.
“Alas!” said Athos, “you are very old, my good Grimaud.”
“Wow!” said Athos, “you’re really old, my good Grimaud.”
“So much the better,” replied the latter, with an inexpressible depth of feeling and intelligence.
“So much the better,” replied the latter, with a profound depth of emotion and understanding.
“But the embarkation is begun,” said Raoul, “and you are not prepared.”
“But the boarding has started,” said Raoul, “and you’re not ready.”
“Yes,” said Grimaud, showing the keys of his trunks, mixed with those of his young master.
“Yes,” said Grimaud, holding up the keys to his trunks, mixed in with those of his young master.
“But,” again objected Raoul, “you cannot leave monsieur le comte thus alone; monsieur le comte, whom you have never quitted?”
“But,” Raoul objected again, “you can’t leave the Count alone like this; the Count, whom you’ve never left?”
Grimaud turned his diamond eyes upon Athos and Raoul, as if to measure the strength of both. The comte uttered not a word.
Grimaud fixed his piercing gaze on Athos and Raoul, as if trying to gauge their strength. The count said nothing.
“Monsieur le comte prefers my going,” said Grimaud.
“Monsieur le comte prefers that I go,” said Grimaud.
“I do,” said Athos, by an inclination of the head.
“I do,” Athos nodded.
At that moment the drums suddenly rolled, and the clarions filled the air with their inspiring notes. The regiments destined for the expedition began to debouch from the city. They advanced to the number of five, each composed of forty companies. Royals marched first, distinguished by their white uniform, faced with blue. The ordonnance colors, quartered cross-wise, violet and dead leaf, with a sprinkling of golden fleurs-de-lis, left the white-colored flag, with its fleur-de-lised cross, to dominate the whole. Musketeers at the wings, with their forked sticks and their muskets on their shoulders; pikemen in the center, with their lances, fourteen feet in length, marched gayly towards the transports, which carried them in detail to the ships. The regiments of Picardy, Navarre, Normandy, and Royal Vaisseau, followed after. M. de Beaufort had known well how to select his troops. He himself was seen closing the march with his staff—it would take a full hour before he could reach the sea. Raoul with Athos turned his steps slowly towards the beach, in order to take his place when the prince embarked. Grimaud, boiling with the ardor of a young man, superintended the embarkation of Raoul’s baggage in the admiral’s vessel. Athos, with his arm passed through that of the son he was about to lose, absorbed in melancholy meditation, was deaf to every noise around him. An officer came quickly towards them to inform Raoul that M. de Beaufort was anxious to have him by his side.
At that moment, the drums suddenly beat, and the clarions filled the air with their uplifting notes. The regiments set for the expedition began to pour out of the city. Five regiments advanced, each made up of forty companies. The Royals led the way, recognized by their white uniforms trimmed with blue. The ordonnance colors, crossed quarter-wise in violet and dead leaf, sprinkled with golden fleurs-de-lis, allowed the white flag with its fleur-de-lised cross to stand out above all. Musketeers formed the wings, with their forks and muskets slung over their shoulders; pikemen lined the center, wielding their fourteen-foot lances, marching cheerfully towards the transports that would take them in batches to the ships. Following them were the regiments from Picardy, Navarre, Normandy, and Royal Vaisseau. M. de Beaufort had chosen his troops wisely. He was seen bringing up the rear with his staff—it would take him a full hour to reach the sea. Raoul, with Athos, walked slowly toward the beach to take his place for when the prince boarded. Grimaud, filled with youthful excitement, oversaw the loading of Raoul’s baggage onto the admiral’s ship. Athos, with his arm linked through that of his son, whom he was about to lose, was lost in melancholic thought and was oblivious to the noise around him. An officer hurried over to inform Raoul that M. de Beaufort was eager to have him by his side.
“Have the kindness to tell the prince,” said Raoul, “that I request he will allow me this hour to enjoy the company of my father.”
“Please be kind enough to tell the prince,” said Raoul, “that I would like him to allow me this hour to spend time with my father.”
“No, no,” said Athos, “an aide-de-camp ought not thus to quit his general. Please to tell the prince, monsieur, that the vicomte will join him immediately.” The officer set off at a gallop.
“No, no,” said Athos, “an aide-de-camp shouldn’t leave his general like that. Please tell the prince, sir, that the vicomte will join him right away.” The officer took off at a gallop.
“Whether we part here or part there,” added the comte, “it is no less a separation.” He carefully brushed the dust from his son’s coat, and passed his hand over his hair as they walked along. “But, Raoul,” said he, “you want money. M. de Beaufort’s train will be splendid, and I am certain it will be agreeable to you to purchase horses and arms, which are very dear things in Africa. Now, as you are not actually in the service of the king or M. de Beaufort, and are simply a volunteer, you must not reckon upon either pay or largesse. But I should not like you to want for anything at Gigelli. Here are two hundred pistoles; if you would please me, Raoul, spend them.”
“Whether we say goodbye here or there,” the count said, “it’s still a separation.” He carefully brushed the dust off his son’s coat and ran his hand through his hair as they walked. “But, Raoul,” he continued, “you need money. M. de Beaufort’s entourage will be impressive, and I’m sure you’ll want to buy horses and weapons, which are quite expensive in Africa. Since you’re not officially in the service of the king or M. de Beaufort and are just a volunteer, don’t expect any salary or gifts. But I don’t want you to lack anything at Gigelli. Here are two hundred pistoles; if you want to make me happy, Raoul, spend it.”
Raoul pressed the hand of his father, and, at the turning of a street, they saw M. de Beaufort, mounted on a magnificent white genet, which responded by graceful curvets to the applause of the women of the city. The duke called Raoul, and held out his hand to the comte. He spoke to him for some time, with such a kindly expression that the heart of the poor father even felt a little comforted. It was, however, evident to both father and son that their walk amounted to nothing less than a punishment. There was a terrible moment—that at which, on quitting the sands of the shore, the soldiers and sailors exchanged the last kisses with their families and friends; a supreme moment, in which, notwithstanding the clearness of the heavens, the warmth of the sun, of the perfumes of the air, and the rich life that was circulating in their veins, everything appeared black, everything bitter, everything created doubts of Providence, nay, at the most, of God. It was customary for the admiral and his suite to embark last; the cannon waited to announce, with its formidable voice, that the leader had placed his foot on board his vessel. Athos, forgetful of both the admiral and the fleet, and of his own dignity as a strong man, opened his arms to his son, and pressed him convulsively to his heart.
Raoul held his father's hand, and as they turned a corner, they saw M. de Beaufort riding a stunning white genet, which elegantly pranced in response to the cheers of the city's women. The duke called out to Raoul and extended his hand to the comte. He chatted with him for a while, wearing such a warm expression that it even offered a bit of comfort to the poor father. However, both father and son understood very well that their walk felt like nothing less than a punishment. There was a heart-wrenching moment when, after leaving the beach, soldiers and sailors exchanged final embraces with their families and friends; a pivotal moment when, despite the clear skies, the warm sun, the fragrant air, and the vibrant life coursing through their veins, everything felt dark, everything felt bitter, raising doubts about Providence, even about God. It was customary for the admiral and his entourage to board last; the cannon was waiting to fire and announce, with its powerful blast, that the leader had stepped onto his ship. Athos, forgetting both the admiral and the fleet, and even his own dignity as a strong man, opened his arms to his son and pressed him tightly against his heart.
“Accompany us on board,” said the duke, very much affected; “you will gain a good half-hour.”
“Come aboard with us,” said the duke, quite moved; “you’ll save a good half-hour.”
“No,” said Athos, “my farewell has been spoken, I do not wish to voice a second.”
“No,” Athos said, “I’ve already said my goodbye, and I don’t want to say it again.”
“Then, vicomte, embark—embark quickly!” added the prince, wishing to spare the tears of these two men, whose hearts were bursting. And paternally, tenderly, very much as Porthos might have done, he took Raoul in his arms and placed him in the boat, the oars of which, at a signal, immediately were dipped in the waves. He himself, forgetful of ceremony, jumped into his boat, and pushed it off with a vigorous foot. “Adieu!” cried Raoul.
“Then, viscount, get on—get on quickly!” added the prince, wanting to spare the tears of these two men whose hearts were heavy. And in a fatherly, tender way, much like Porthos might have done, he lifted Raoul in his arms and set him in the boat, whose oars immediately dipped into the water at a signal. He himself, forgetting about ceremony, jumped into his own boat and pushed it off with a strong kick. “Goodbye!” cried Raoul.
Athos replied only by a sign, but he felt something burning on his hand: it was the respectful kiss of Grimaud—the last farewell of the faithful dog. This kiss given, Grimaud jumped from the step of the mole upon the stem of a two-oared yawl, which had just been taken in tow by a chaland served by twelve galley-oars. Athos seated himself on the mole, stunned, deaf, abandoned. Every instant took from him one of the features, one of the shades of the pale face of his son. With his arms hanging down, his eyes fixed, his mouth open, he remained confounded with Raoul—in one same look, in one same thought, in one same stupor. The sea, by degrees, carried away boats and faces to that distance at which men become nothing but points,—loves, nothing but remembrances. Athos saw his son ascend the ladder of the admiral’s ship, he saw him lean upon the rail of the deck, and place himself in such a manner as to be always an object in the eye of his father. In vain the cannon thundered, in vain from the ship sounded the long and lordly tumult, responded to by immense acclamations from the shore; in vain did the noise deafen the ear of the father, the smoke obscured the cherished object of his aspirations. Raoul appeared to him to the last moment; and the imperceptible atom, passing from black to pale, from pale to white, from white to nothing, disappeared for Athos—disappeared very long after, to all the eyes of the spectators, had disappeared both gallant ships and swelling sails. Towards midday, when the sun devoured space, and scarcely the tops of the masts dominated the incandescent limit of the sea, Athos perceived a soft aerial shadow rise, and vanish as soon as seen. This was the smoke of a cannon, which M. de Beaufort ordered to be fired as a last salute to the coast of France. The point was buried in its turn beneath the sky, and Athos returned with slow and painful step to his deserted hostelry.
Athos only nodded in response, but he felt something burning on his hand: it was Grimaud's respectful kiss—the final farewell from the loyal dog. After this kiss, Grimaud jumped from the step of the pier onto the bow of a two-oared boat that had just been taken in tow by a barge powered by twelve galley-oars. Athos sat on the pier, stunned, deaf, and abandoned. Every moment stripped away another detail, another shade of his son's pale face. With his arms hanging down, eyes fixed, and mouth open, he remained dazed, sharing a single look, a single thought, a single stupor with Raoul. The sea gradually carried away boats and faces to a distance where people became nothing but dots—loves turned into mere memories. Athos watched his son climb the ladder of the admiral’s ship; he saw him lean against the rail of the deck and position himself so that he remained always in his father's sight. The cannon boomed in vain, the loud commotion from the ship was met with immense cheers from the shore; the noise deafened the father, the smoke hid the object of his hopes. Raoul was visible to him until the last moment; then the tiny figure faded from black to pale, from pale to white, until it vanished from Athos—disappearing long after, to all the spectators, both the gallant ships and their billowing sails had disappeared. Around midday, when the sun blazed in the sky and barely the tops of the masts stood out against the glowing horizon of the sea, Athos noticed a soft shadow rise and vanish as soon as it appeared. It was the smoke from a cannon that M. de Beaufort had ordered to be fired as a final salute to the coast of France. The point disappeared under the sky, and Athos returned to his empty inn with slow, painful steps.
Chapter XXXIV. Among Women.
D’Artagnan had not been able to hide his feelings from his friends so much as he would have wished. The stoical soldier, the impassive man-at-arms, overcome by fear and sad presentiments, had yielded, for a few moments, to human weakness. When, therefore, he had silenced his heart and calmed the agitation of his nerves, turning towards his lackey, a silent servant, always listening, in order to obey the more promptly:
D’Artagnan hadn’t been able to hide his feelings from his friends as much as he wanted to. The stoic soldier, the unflinching fighter, overwhelmed by fear and dark forebodings, had given in, for a brief moment, to human weakness. So, when he had quieted his heart and settled the turmoil in his nerves, he turned to his servant, a silent aide, always listening to obey more quickly:
“Rabaud,” said he, “mind, we must travel thirty leagues a day.”
“Rabaud,” he said, “just remember, we need to cover thirty leagues a day.”
“At your pleasure, captain,” replied Rabaud.
“At your convenience, captain,” replied Rabaud.
And from that moment, D’Artagnan, accommodating his action to the pace of the horse, like a true centaur, gave up his thoughts to nothing—that is to say, to everything. He asked himself why the king had sent for him back; why the Iron Mask had thrown the silver plate at the feet of Raoul. As to the first subject, the reply was negative; he knew right well that the king’s calling him was from necessity. He still further knew that Louis XIV. must experience an imperious desire for a private conversation with one whom the possession of such a secret placed on a level with the highest powers of the kingdom. But as to saying exactly what the king’s wish was, D’Artagnan found himself completely at a loss. The musketeer had no doubts, either, upon the reason which had urged the unfortunate Philippe to reveal his character and birth. Philippe, buried forever beneath a mask of steel, exiled to a country where the men seemed little more than slaves of the elements; Philippe, deprived even of the society of D’Artagnan, who had loaded him with honors and delicate attentions, had nothing more to see than odious specters in this world, and, despair beginning to devour him, he poured himself forth in complaints, in the belief that his revelations would raise up some avenger for him. The manner in which the musketeer had been near killing his two best friends, the destiny which had so strangely brought Athos to participate in the great state secret, the farewell of Raoul, the obscurity of the future which threatened to end in a melancholy death; all this threw D’Artagnan incessantly back on lamentable predictions and forebodings, which the rapidity of his pace did not dissipate, as it used formerly to do. D’Artagnan passed from these considerations to the remembrance of the proscribed Porthos and Aramis. He saw them both, fugitives, tracked, ruined—laborious architects of fortunes they had lost; and as the king called for his man of execution in hours of vengeance and malice, D’Artagnan trembled at the very idea of receiving some commission that would make his very soul bleed. Sometimes, ascending hills, when the winded horse breathed hard from his red nostrils, and heaved his flanks, the captain, left to more freedom of thought, reflected on the prodigious genius of Aramis, a genius of acumen and intrigue, a match to which the Fronde and the civil war had produced but twice. Soldier, priest, diplomatist; gallant, avaricious, cunning; Aramis had never taken the good things of this life except as stepping-stones to rise to giddier ends. Generous in spirit, if not lofty in heart, he never did ill but for the sake of shining even yet more brilliantly. Towards the end of his career, at the moment of reaching the goal, like the patrician Fuscus, he had made a false step upon a plank, and had fallen into the sea. But Porthos, good, harmless Porthos! To see Porthos hungry, to see Mousqueton without gold lace, imprisoned, perhaps; to see Pierrefonds, Bracieux, razed to the very stones, dishonored even to the timber,—these were so many poignant griefs for D’Artagnan, and every time that one of these griefs struck him, he bounded like a horse at the sting of a gadfly beneath the vaults of foliage where he has sought shady shelter from the burning sun. Never was the man of spirit subjected to ennui, if his body was exposed to fatigue; never did the man of healthy body fail to find life light, if he had something to engage his mind. D’Artagnan, riding fast, thinking as constantly, alighted from his horse in Pairs, fresh and tender in his muscles as the athlete preparing for the gymnasium. The king did not expect him so soon, and had just departed for the chase towards Meudon. D’Artagnan, instead of riding after the king, as he would formerly have done, took off his boots, had a bath, and waited till his majesty should return dusty and tired. He occupied the interval of five hours in taking, as people say, the air of the house, and in arming himself against all ill chances. He learned that the king, during the last fortnight, had been gloomy; that the queen-mother was ill and much depressed; that Monsieur, the king’s brother, was exhibiting a devotional turn; that Madame had the vapors; and that M. de Guiche was gone to one of his estates. He learned that M. Colbert was radiant; that M. Fouquet consulted a fresh physician every day, who still did not cure him, and that his principal complaint was one which physicians do not usually cure, unless they are political physicians. The king, D’Artagnan was told, behaved in the kindest manner to M. Fouquet, and did not allow him to be ever out of his sight; but the surintendant, touched to the heart, like one of those fine trees a worm has punctured, was declining daily, in spite of the royal smile, that sun of court trees. D’Artagnan learned that Mademoiselle de la Valliere had become indispensable to the king; that the king, during his sporting excursions, if he did not take her with him, wrote to her frequently, no longer verses, but, which was much worse, prose, and that whole pages at a time. Thus, as the political Pleiad of the day said, the first king in the world was seen descending from his horse with an ardor beyond compare, and on the crown of his hat scrawling bombastic phrases, which M. de Saint-Aignan, aide-de-camp in perpetuity, carried to La Valliere at the risk of foundering his horses. During this time, deer and pheasants were left to the free enjoyment of their nature, hunted so lazily that, it was said, the art of venery ran great risk of degenerating at the court of France. D’Artagnan then thought of the wishes of poor Raoul, of that desponding letter destined for a woman who passed her life in hoping, and as D’Artagnan loved to philosophize a little occasionally, he resolved to profit by the absence of the king to have a minute’s talk with Mademoiselle de la Valliere. This was a very easy affair; while the king was hunting, Louise was walking with some other ladies in one of the galleries of the Palais Royal, exactly where the captain of the musketeers had some guards to inspect. D’Artagnan did not doubt that, if he could but open the conversation on Raoul, Louise might give him grounds for writing a consolatory letter to the poor exile; and hope, or at least consolation for Raoul, in the state of heart in which he had left him, was the sun, was life to two men, who were very dear to our captain. He directed his course, therefore, to the spot where he knew he should find Mademoiselle de la Valliere. D’Artagnan found La Valliere the center of the circle. In her apparent solitude, the king’s favorite received, like a queen, more, perhaps, than the queen, a homage of which Madame had been so proud, when all the king’s looks were directed to her and commanded the looks of the courtiers. D’Artagnan, although no squire of dames, received, nevertheless, civilities and attentions from the ladies; he was polite, as a brave man always is, and his terrible reputation had conciliated as much friendship among the men as admiration among the women. On seeing him enter, therefore, they immediately accosted him; and, as is not unfrequently the case with fair ladies, opened the attack by questions. “Where had he been? What had become of him so long? Why had they not seen him as usual make his fine horse curvet in such beautiful style, to the delight and astonishment of the curious from the king’s balcony?”
And from that moment, D’Artagnan, adjusting his actions to the horse's pace, like a true centaur, let his mind wander to nothing—that is, to everything. He wondered why the king had summoned him back; why the Iron Mask had thrown the silver plate at Raoul's feet. Regarding the first question, he had no doubts; he knew that the king had called him out of necessity. He also understood that Louis XIV. must have felt a strong urge for a private conversation with someone who possessed such a secret and was on par with the kingdom's highest powers. But as for understanding the king's exact wishes, D’Artagnan was completely at a loss. The musketeer had no doubts about why the unfortunate Philippe had revealed his true identity and lineage. Philippe, forever masked in steel and exiled to a place where men seemed little more than slaves to nature; Philippe, deprived of D’Artagnan’s company, who had showered him with honors and delicate kindness, saw nothing but horrid specters in this world. With despair beginning to consume him, he expressed complaints, hoping his confessions would summon some avenger for him. The way the musketeer nearly killed his two closest friends, the strange fate that had brought Athos into the state secret, Raoul's farewell, and the bleak future threatening a sorrowful end all constantly pushed D’Artagnan into sorrowful predictions and forebodings, which his swift pace could no longer shake off as it once had. D’Artagnan shifted from these thoughts to remembering the outlawed Porthos and Aramis. He envisioned them both as fugitives, hunted and ruined—hardworking builders of fortunes they had lost; and as the king called for his man of action in moments of vengeance and malice, D’Artagnan shivered at the thought of receiving a task that would cause him deep pain. Sometimes, as he climbed hills, with his exhausted horse breathing heavily, D’Artagnan, left alone with his thoughts, reflected on Aramis’s extraordinary genius—his sharp wit and knack for intrigue, a combination rarely seen since the Fronde and the civil war. Soldier, priest, diplomat; charming, greedy, cunning; Aramis had only taken the pleasures of life as stepping-stones to loftier goals. Generous in spirit, if not grand in heart, he only did wrong to shine even more brightly. Toward the end of his journey, just as he was about to reach his target—like the patrician Fuscus—he had stumbled onto a plank and fallen into the sea. But Porthos, good, simple Porthos! The sight of Porthos going hungry, of Mousqueton without gold lace and maybe imprisoned; to see Pierrefonds and Bracieux stripped to their stones and dishonored down to the timber—these were countless heartaches for D’Artagnan, and each time one of these sorrows struck him, he jumped like a horse at the sting of a gadfly beneath the leafy shade where he sought refuge from the scorching sun. Never was a spirited man subjected to boredom if his body was wearied; never did a healthy man find life heavy if engaged in thought. D’Artagnan, riding quickly and thinking constantly, dismounted in Paris, fit and agile as an athlete preparing for the gym. The king hadn’t expected him so soon and had just left for the hunt towards Meudon. Instead of chasing after the king, as he would have done before, D’Artagnan took off his boots, had a bath, and waited for His Majesty to return dusty and tired. He spent the five-hour interval taking in the atmosphere of the house and preparing himself for any unfortunate events. He learned that during the past fortnight, the king had been in a gloomy mood; that the queen-mother was ill and feeling down; that Monsieur, the king’s brother, was displaying a devout disposition; that Madame was experiencing the vapors; and that M. de Guiche had gone to one of his estates. He found out that M. Colbert was in high spirits; that M. Fouquet consulted a different physician every day who still couldn't cure him, and that his main ailment was one that doctors typically can’t treat unless they’re political physicians. D’Artagnan was informed that the king acted very kindly towards M. Fouquet, keeping him always within sight; yet the surintendant, touched to the core, like one of those beautiful trees with a worm in it, was fading daily, despite the royal smile, the sunlight of courtiers. D’Artagnan also learned that Mademoiselle de la Valliere had become essential to the king; that during his hunting trips, if he didn’t bring her along, he wrote to her often, not verses, but, which was far worse, prose, and whole pages at that. Thus, as the political Pleiad of the day stated, the first king in the world was seen dismounting his horse with a zeal unmatched, scribbling grandiose phrases on the brim of his hat, which M. de Saint-Aignan, his ever-present aide-de-camp, rushed to deliver to La Valliere, risking the horses' exhaustion. Meanwhile, the deer and pheasants enjoyed their freedom, hunted so lazily that it was rumored the art of hunting was in danger of declining in the court of France. D’Artagnan then thought of poor Raoul’s wishes, of that despairing letter meant for a woman who lived in hope, and as D’Artagnan liked to engage in a bit of philosophy now and then, he decided to take advantage of the king's absence to have a brief conversation with Mademoiselle de la Valliere. This was quite easy; while the king was hunting, Louise was walking with some other ladies in one of the galleries of the Palais Royal, right where the captain of the musketeers had some guards to review. D’Artagnan was sure that if he could just steer the conversation towards Raoul, Louise might provide him with insights for writing a comforting letter to the poor exile; and hope, or at least comfort for Raoul, given the state of mind in which he had left him, was the sun, the very essence of life for two men dear to our captain. So he headed towards the spot where he knew he would find Mademoiselle de la Valliere. D’Artagnan found La Valliere at the center of the gathering. In her seemingly solitary state, the king’s favorite received admiration, possibly more than the queen herself, garnering attention that Madame had once cherished when all of the king’s gazes were focused on her, capturing the attention of the courtiers. Even though D’Artagnan wasn’t a squire to the ladies, he nonetheless received kindness and attention from them; he was courteous, as any brave man would be, and his formidable reputation had earned him as much affection among the men as admiration among the women. Upon seeing him enter, they quickly approached him, and, as often happens with lovely ladies, initiated the conversation with questions. “Where had he been? What had kept him away so long? Why hadn’t they seen him perform his splendid horse tricks from the king’s balcony, to the delight and amazement of everyone?”
He replied that he had just come from the land of oranges. This set all the ladies laughing. Those were times in which everybody traveled, but in which, notwithstanding, a journey of a hundred leagues was a problem often solved by death.
He said he had just come from the land of oranges. This made all the ladies laugh. It was a time when everyone traveled, but still, a journey of a hundred leagues was often a challenge that ended in death.
“From the land of oranges?” cried Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente. “From Spain?”
“From the land of oranges?” exclaimed Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente. “From Spain?”
“Eh! eh!” said the musketeer.
“Hey! hey!” said the musketeer.
“From Malta?” echoed Montalais.
“From Malta?” repeated Montalais.
“Ma foi! You are coming very near, ladies.”
“My goodness! You are getting quite close, ladies.”
“Is it an island?” asked La Valliere.
“Is it an island?” La Valliere asked.
“Mademoiselle,” said D’Artagnan; “I will not give you the trouble of seeking any further; I come from the country where M. de Beaufort is, at this moment, embarking for Algiers.”
“Mademoiselle,” said D’Artagnan; “I won’t make you look any further; I come from the place where M. de Beaufort is currently getting ready to leave for Algiers.”
“Have you seen the army?” asked several warlike fair ones.
“Have you seen the army?” asked several fierce-looking women.
“As plainly as I see you,” replied D’Artagnan.
“As clearly as I see you,” replied D’Artagnan.
“And the fleet?”
“And what about the fleet?”
“Yes, I saw everything.”
“Yep, I saw everything.”
“Have we any of us any friends there?” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, coldly, but in a manner to attract attention to a question that was not without its calculated aim.
“Does anyone have friends there?” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, coldly, but in a way that drew attention to a question that had its deliberate purpose.
“Why,” replied D’Artagnan, “yes; there were M. de la Guillotiere, M. de Manchy, M. de Bragelonne—”
“Why,” replied D’Artagnan, “yes; there were Mr. de la Guillotiere, Mr. de Manchy, Mr. de Bragelonne—”
La Valliere became pale. “M. de Bragelonne!” cried the perfidious Athenais. “Eh, what!—is he gone to the wars?—he!”
La Valliere turned pale. “M. de Bragelonne!” exclaimed the deceitful Athenais. “Wait, what!—has he gone to war?—he!”
Montalais trod on her toe, but all in vain.
Montalais stepped on her toe, but it was all for nothing.
“Do you know what my opinion is?” continued she, addressing D’Artagnan.
“Do you know what I think?” she continued, speaking to D’Artagnan.
“No, mademoiselle; but I should like very much to know it.”
“No, miss; but I would really like to know it.”
“My opinion is, then, that all the men who go to this war are desperate, desponding men, whom love has treated ill; and who go to try if they cannot find jet-complexioned women more kind than fair ones have been.”
"My opinion is that all the men who go to this war are desperate, unhappy men who have been mistreated by love; they go to see if they can find dark-skinned women who are kinder than the fair ones have been."
Some of the ladies laughed; La Valliere was evidently confused; Montalais coughed loud enough to waken the dead.
Some of the ladies laughed; La Valliere clearly looked confused; Montalais coughed loudly enough to wake the dead.
“Mademoiselle,” interrupted D’Artagnan, “you are in error when you speak of black women at Gigelli; the women there have not jet faces; it is true they are not white—they are yellow.”
“Mademoiselle,” interrupted D’Artagnan, “you’re mistaken when you talk about black women at Gigelli; the women there don’t have dark faces; it’s true they aren't white—they're yellow.”
“Yellow!” exclaimed the bevy of fair beauties.
“Yellow!” shouted the group of gorgeous women.
“Eh! do not disparage it. I have never seen a finer color to match with black eyes and a coral mouth.”
“Hey! Don't underestimate it. I've never seen a better color that goes with black eyes and a coral mouth.”
“So much the better for M. de Bragelonne,” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, with persistent malice. “He will make amends for his loss. Poor fellow!”
“So much the better for M. de Bragelonne,” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, with relentless spite. “He’ll make up for his loss. Poor guy!”
A profound silence followed these words; and D’Artagnan had time to observe and reflect that women—mild doves—treat each other more cruelly than tigers. But making La Valliere pale did not satisfy Athenais; she determined to make her blush likewise. Resuming the conversation without pause, “Do you know, Louise,” said she, “that there is a great sin on your conscience?”
A deep silence followed those words, and D’Artagnan had a chance to notice and think that women—gentle doves—can be harsher to each other than tigers. But making La Valliere pale didn't satisfy Athenais; she decided to make her blush as well. Picking up the conversation without missing a beat, she said, “Do you know, Louise, that there’s a big sin weighing on your conscience?”
“What sin, mademoiselle?” stammered the unfortunate girl, looking round her for support, without finding it.
“What sin, miss?” stammered the unfortunate girl, looking around for support, but finding none.
“Eh!—why,” continued Athenais, “the poor young man was affianced to you; he loved you; you cast him off.”
“Eh!—why,” Athenais continued, “the poor young man was engaged to you; he loved you; you rejected him.”
“Well, that is a right which every honest woman has,” said Montalais, in an affected tone. “When we know we cannot constitute the happiness of a man, it is much better to cast him off.”
“Well, that is a right that every decent woman has,” said Montalais, in an exaggerated tone. “When we know we can’t make a man happy, it’s much better to let him go.”
“Cast him off! or refuse him!—that’s all very well,” said Athenais, “but that is not the sin Mademoiselle de la Valliere has to reproach herself with. The actual sin is sending poor Bragelonne to the wars; and to wars in which death is so very likely to be met with.” Louise pressed her hand over her icy brow. “And if he dies,” continued her pitiless tormentor, “you will have killed him. That is the sin.”
“Cast him off! Or reject him! — that’s easy to say,” Athenais said, “but that’s not what Mademoiselle de la Valliere truly needs to feel guilty about. The real issue is sending poor Bragelonne off to fight in a war where death is so likely.” Louise pressed her hand against her cold forehead. “And if he dies,” her relentless tormentor continued, “you will have taken his life. That is the real sin.”
Louise, half-dead, caught at the arm of the captain of the musketeers, whose face betrayed unusual emotion. “You wished to speak with me, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said she, in a voice broken by anger and pain. “What had you to say to me?”
Louise, barely alive, gripped the arm of the musketeer captain, whose face showed unusual emotion. “You wanted to talk to me, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” she said, her voice trembling with anger and pain. “What did you want to tell me?”
D’Artagnan made several steps along the gallery, holding Louise on his arm; then, when they were far enough removed from the others—“What I had to say to you, mademoiselle,” replied he, “Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente has just expressed; roughly and unkindly, it is true but still in its entirety.”
D’Artagnan took a few steps down the hallway, with Louise on his arm; then, when they were far enough away from the others—“What I needed to tell you, mademoiselle,” he said, “Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente just said it; it was harsh and unkind, it’s true, but it was still the whole thing.”
She uttered a faint cry; pierced to the heart by this new wound, she went her way, like one of those poor birds which, struck unto death, seek the shade of the thicket in which to die. She disappeared at one door, at the moment the king was entering by another. The first glance of the king was directed towards the empty seat of his mistress. Not perceiving La Valliere, a frown came over his brow; but as soon as he saw D’Artagnan, who bowed to him—“Ah! monsieur!” cried he, “you have been diligent! I am much pleased with you.” This was the superlative expression of royal satisfaction. Many men would have been ready to lay down their lives for such a speech from the king. The maids of honor and the courtiers, who had formed a respectful circle round the king on his entrance, drew back, on observing he wished to speak privately with his captain of the musketeers. The king led the way out of the gallery, after having again, with his eyes, sought everywhere for La Valliere, whose absence he could not account for. The moment they were out of the reach of curious ears, “Well! Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said he, “the prisoner?”
She let out a soft cry; brokenhearted by this new anguish, she carried on, like one of those unfortunate birds that, mortally wounded, seek the shelter of the bushes to die. She slipped out one door just as the king was entering another. The king's first glance went to the empty seat of his mistress. Not seeing La Valliere, a frown appeared on his face; but as soon as he spotted D’Artagnan, who bowed to him, he exclaimed, “Ah! monsieur! You have been working hard! I’m very pleased with you.” This was the highest expression of royal approval. Many men would have been willing to give their lives for such a compliment from the king. The maids of honor and the courtiers, who had gathered respectfully around the king upon his arrival, stepped back when they saw he wanted to have a private conversation with his captain of the musketeers. The king led the way out of the gallery, having once more searched for La Valliere with his eyes, unable to understand her absence. As soon as they were out of earshot, he said, “Well! Monsieur d’Artagnan, what about the prisoner?”
“Is in his prison, sire.”
"Is in his cell, sire."
“What did he say on the road?”
“What did he say on the road?”
“Nothing, sire.”
"Nothing, your majesty."
“What did he do?”
"What did he do?"
“There was a moment at which the fisherman—who took me in his boat to Sainte-Marguerite—revolted, and did his best to kill me. The—the prisoner defended me instead of attempting to fly.”
“There was a moment when the fisherman—who took me in his boat to Sainte-Marguerite—turned against me and tried his best to kill me. The—the prisoner defended me instead of trying to escape.”
The king became pale. “Enough!” said he; and D’Artagnan bowed. Louis walked about his cabinet with hasty steps. “Were you at Antibes,” said he, “when Monsieur de Beaufort came there?”
The king turned pale. “That's enough!” he said, and D’Artagnan bowed. Louis paced around his office quickly. “Were you at Antibes,” he asked, “when Monsieur de Beaufort arrived there?”
“No, sire; I was setting off when monsieur le duc arrived.”
“No, sir; I was about to leave when the duke arrived.”
“Ah!” which was followed by a fresh silence. “Whom did you see there?”
“Ah!” which was followed by a fresh silence. “Who did you see there?”
“A great many persons,” said D’Artagnan, coolly.
“A lot of people,” said D’Artagnan, calmly.
The king perceived he was unwilling to speak. “I have sent for you, monsieur le capitaine, to desire you to go and prepare my lodgings at Nantes.”
The king noticed he was hesitant to talk. “I’ve called for you, Captain, to ask you to go and get my accommodations ready in Nantes.”
“At Nantes!” cried D’Artagnan.
“At Nantes!” shouted D’Artagnan.
“In Bretagne.”
"In Brittany."
“Yes, sire, it is in Bretagne. Will you majesty make so long a journey as to Nantes?”
“Yes, Your Majesty, it’s in Brittany. Will you make the long journey to Nantes?”
“The States are assembled there,” replied the king. “I have two demands to make of them: I wish to be there.”
“The States are gathered there,” replied the king. “I have two requests for them: I want to be there.”
“When shall I set out?” said the captain.
"When should I leave?" said the captain.
“This evening—to-morrow—to-morrow evening; for you must stand in need of rest.”
“This evening—tomorrow—tomorrow evening; because you must need some rest.”
“I have rested, sire.”
"I've rested, your majesty."
“That is well. Then between this and to-morrow evening, when you please.”
“That sounds good. So, anytime between now and tomorrow evening works for you.”
D’Artagnan bowed as if to take his leave; but, perceiving the king very much embarrassed, “Will you majesty,” said he, stepping two paces forward, “take the court with you?”
D’Artagnan bowed as if he was going to leave; but seeing that the king looked quite embarrassed, he said, taking a couple of steps forward, “Your Majesty, will you take the court with you?”
“Certainly I shall.”
“Of course, I will.”
“Then you majesty will, doubtless, want the musketeers?” And the eye of the king sank beneath the penetrating glance of the captain.
“Then Your Majesty will definitely want the musketeers?” And the king’s gaze dropped under the captain's piercing stare.
“Take a brigade of them,” replied Louis.
“Get a squad of them,” Louis replied.
“Is that all? Has your majesty no other orders to give me?”
“Is that it? Do you have no other instructions for me, Your Majesty?”
“No—ah—yes.”
“No—uh—yes.”
“I am all attention, sire.”
"I'm all ears, sir."
“At the castle of Nantes, which I hear is very ill arranged, you will adopt the practice of placing musketeers at the door of each of the principal dignitaries I shall take with me.”
“At the castle of Nantes, which I hear is poorly laid out, you will start the practice of having musketeers stationed at the door of each of the main dignitaries I’ll be bringing with me.”
“Of the principal?”
"About the principal?"
“Yes.”
"Yes."
“For instance, at the door of M. de Lyonne?”
“For example, at M. de Lyonne's door?”
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“And that of M. Letellier?”
“And what about M. Letellier?”
“Yes.”
"Yeah."
“Of M. de Brienne?”
"About M. de Brienne?"
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“And of monsieur le surintendant?”
“And what about the superintendent?”
“Without doubt.”
“Absolutely.”
“Very well, sire. By to-morrow I shall have set out.”
“Sure thing, your Majesty. By tomorrow, I will have set off.”
“Oh, yes; but one more word, Monsieur d’Artagnan. At Nantes you will meet with M. le Duc de Gesvres, captain of the guards. Be sure that your musketeers are placed before his guards arrive. Precedence always belongs to the first comer.”
“Oh, yes; but one more thing, Monsieur d’Artagnan. In Nantes, you’ll meet M. le Duc de Gesvres, the captain of the guards. Make sure your musketeers are in position before his guards show up. Priority always goes to whoever arrives first.”
“Yes, sire.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And if M. de Gesvres should question you?”
“And what if Mr. de Gesvres asks you?”
“Question me, sire! Is it likely that M. de Gesvres should question me?” And the musketeer, turning cavalierly on his heel, disappeared. “To Nantes!” said he to himself, as he descended from the stairs. “Why did he not dare to say, from thence to Belle-Isle?”
“Question me, sir! Do you really think M. de Gesvres would question me?” And the musketeer, nonchalantly turning on his heel, vanished. “To Nantes!” he muttered to himself as he walked down the stairs. “Why didn’t he have the nerve to say, from there to Belle-Isle?”
As he reached the great gates, one of M. Brienne’s clerks came running after him, exclaiming, “Monsieur d’Artagnan! I beg your pardon—”
As he got to the large gates, one of M. Brienne’s clerks came rushing after him, saying, “Monsieur d’Artagnan! I’m sorry—”
“What is the matter, Monsieur Ariste?”
"What's wrong, Mr. Ariste?"
“The king has desired me to give you this order.”
“The king wants me to give you this order.”
“Upon your cash-box?” asked the musketeer.
“On your cash box?” asked the musketeer.
“No, monsieur; on that of M. Fouquet.”
“No, sir; on that of Mr. Fouquet.”
D’Artagnan was surprised, but he took the order, which was in the king’s own writing, and was for two hundred pistoles. “What!” thought he, after having politely thanked M. Brienne’s clerk, “M. Fouquet is to pay for the journey, then! Mordioux! that is a bit of pure Louis XI. Why was not this order on the chest of M. Colbert? He would have paid it with such joy.” And D’Artagnan, faithful to his principle of never letting an order at sight get cold, went straight to the house of M. Fouquet, to receive his two hundred pistoles.
D’Artagnan was taken aback, but he accepted the order, which was in the king’s own handwriting, and was for two hundred pistoles. “What!” he thought, after politely thanking M. Brienne’s clerk, “M. Fouquet is covering the journey, then! Mordioux! that's so typical of Louis XI. Why wasn't this order with M. Colbert? He would have paid it gladly.” Sticking to his principle of never letting an immediate order go cold, D’Artagnan went straight to M. Fouquet's house to collect his two hundred pistoles.
Chapter XXXV. The Last Supper.
The superintendent had no doubt received advice of the approaching departure, for he was giving a farewell dinner to his friends. From the bottom to the top of the house, the hurry of the servants bearing dishes, and the diligence of the registres, denoted an approaching change in offices and kitchen. D’Artagnan, with his order in his hand, presented himself at the offices, when he was told it was too late to pay cash, the chest was closed. He only replied: “On the king’s service.”
The superintendent had surely been informed about the upcoming departure, as he was hosting a farewell dinner for his friends. From the basement to the top of the house, the rush of the servants carrying dishes and the busy activity of the registres indicated that there was going to be a shift in the offices and kitchen. D’Artagnan, with his order in hand, arrived at the offices, only to be told that it was too late to pay in cash; the chest was closed. He simply responded, “On the king’s service.”
The clerk, a little put out by the serious air of the captain, replied, that “that was a very respectable reason, but that the customs of the house were respectable likewise; and that, in consequence, he begged the bearer to call again next day.” D’Artagnan asked if he could not see M. Fouquet. The clerk replied that M. le surintendant did not interfere with such details, and rudely closed the outer door in the captain’s face. But the latter had foreseen this stroke, and placed his boot between the door and the door-case, so that the lock did not catch, and the clerk was still nose to nose with his interlocutor. This made him change his tone, and say, with terrified politeness, “If monsieur wishes to speak to M. le surintendant, he must go to the ante-chambers; these are the offices, where monseigneur never comes.”
The clerk, a bit taken aback by the captain's serious demeanor, replied that “that was a very valid reason, but the rules of the establishment were also important; therefore, he asked the visitor to come back the next day.” D’Artagnan inquired whether he could see M. Fouquet. The clerk responded that M. le surintendant didn’t deal with such matters, and rudely slammed the outer door in the captain’s face. However, D’Artagnan had anticipated this move and wedged his boot between the door and the frame, preventing the lock from catching, which left the clerk face to face with him. This forced the clerk to change his tone and, with a terrified politeness, said, “If monsieur wishes to speak to M. le surintendant, he must go to the waiting rooms; these are the offices, where monseigneur never comes.”
“Oh! very well! Where are they?” replied D’Artagnan.
“Oh! Fine! Where are they?” replied D’Artagnan.
“On the other side of the court,” said the clerk, delighted to be free. D’Artagnan crossed the court, and fell in with a crowd of servants.
“On the other side of the courtyard,” said the clerk, happy to be free. D’Artagnan crossed the courtyard and joined a group of servants.
“Monseigneur sees nobody at this hour,” he was answered by a fellow carrying a vermeil dish, in which were three pheasants and twelve quails.
“Monseigneur isn’t seeing anyone at this hour,” a person carrying a red dish replied, which held three pheasants and twelve quails.
“Tell him,” said the captain, laying hold of the servant by the end of his dish, “that I am M. d’Artagnan, captain of his majesty’s musketeers.”
“Tell him,” said the captain, grabbing the servant by the edge of his dish, “that I am M. d’Artagnan, captain of the king’s musketeers.”
The fellow uttered a cry of surprise, and disappeared; D’Artagnan following him slowly. He arrived just in time to meet M. Pelisson in the ante-chamber: the latter, a little pale, came hastily out of the dining-room to learn what was the matter. D’Artagnan smiled.
The guy let out a surprised shout and vanished; D’Artagnan followed him at a leisurely pace. He got there just in time to run into M. Pelisson in the waiting room: the latter, looking a bit pale, quickly came out of the dining room to find out what was going on. D’Artagnan smiled.
“There is nothing unpleasant, Monsieur Pelisson; only a little order to receive the money for.”
“There’s nothing unpleasant, Mr. Pelisson; just a bit of organization needed to collect the money.”
“Ah!” said Fouquet’s friend, breathing more freely; and he took the captain by the hand, and, dragging him behind him, led him into the dining-room, where a number of friends surrounded the surintendant, placed in the center, and buried in the cushions of a fauteuil. There were assembled all the Epicureans who so lately at Vaux had done the honors of the mansion of wit and money in aid of M. Fouquet. Joyous friends, for the most part faithful, they had not fled their protector at the approach of the storm, and, in spite of the threatening heavens, in spite of the trembling earth, they remained there, smiling, cheerful, as devoted in misfortune as they had been in prosperity. On the left of the surintendant sat Madame de Belliere; on his right was Madame Fouquet; as if braving the laws of the world, and putting all vulgar reasons of propriety to silence, the two protecting angels of this man united to offer, at the moment of the crisis, the support of their twined arms. Madame de Belliere was pale, trembling, and full of respectful attentions for madame la surintendante, who, with one hand on her husband’s, was looking anxiously towards the door by which Pelisson had gone out to bring D’Artagnan. The captain entered at first full of courtesy, and afterwards of admiration, when, with his infallible glance, he had divined as well as taken in the expression of every face. Fouquet raised himself up in his chair.
“Ah!” said Fouquet’s friend, breathing more easily; he took the captain by the hand and dragged him into the dining room, where a group of friends surrounded the superintendent, who was resting comfortably in a cushioned armchair. All the Epicureans who had recently welcomed M. Fouquet at Vaux were there, celebrating the blend of wit and wealth. Joyful friends, mostly loyal, they hadn’t deserted their protector in the face of trouble; despite the threatening skies and trembling ground, they stayed there, smiling and cheerful, just as devoted in hardship as they had been in good times. To the left of the superintendent sat Madame de Belliere; on his right was Madame Fouquet. Defying societal norms and silencing any conventional reasons for propriety, the two protective figures joined together to offer their support with their entwined arms at this critical moment. Madame de Belliere was pale, trembling, and attentive to Madame la Surintendante, who, with one hand on her husband’s, anxiously glanced at the door where Pelisson had gone to fetch D’Artagnan. The captain entered first with courtesy, and then with admiration, as he assessed the expression on every face with his perceptive gaze. Fouquet leaned back in his chair.
“Pardon me, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said he, “if I did not myself receive you when coming in the king’s name.” And he pronounced the last words with a sort of melancholy firmness, which filled the hearts of all his friends with terror.
“Sorry, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” he said, “for not welcoming you myself when I came in the king’s name.” He said the last words with a kind of serious sadness that filled all his friends with fear.
“Monseigneur,” replied D’Artagnan, “I only come to you in the king’s name to demand payment of an order for two hundred pistoles.”
“Your Excellency,” replied D’Artagnan, “I’m only here on behalf of the king to request payment for an order of two hundred pistoles.”
The clouds passed from every brow but that of Fouquet, which still remained overcast.
The clouds moved away from everyone’s face except for Fouquet’s, which still looked gloomy.
“Ah! then,” said he, “perhaps you also are setting out for Nantes?”
“Ah! then,” he said, “maybe you’re heading to Nantes too?”
“I do not know whither I am setting out, monseigneur.”
“I don’t know where I’m headed, sir.”
“But,” said Madame Fouquet, recovered from her fright, “you are not going so soon, monsieur le capitaine, as not to do us the honor to take a seat with us?”
“But,” said Madame Fouquet, now calm after her scare, “you’re not leaving so soon, Captain, that you can’t honor us by sitting down with us?”
“Madame, I should esteem that a great honor done me, but I am so pressed for time, that, you see, I have been obliged to permit myself to interrupt your repast to procure payment of my note.”
“Madame, I would consider it a great honor, but I’m so short on time that I’ve had to interrupt your meal to collect payment for my note.”
“The reply to which shall be gold,” said Fouquet, making a sign to his intendant, who went out with the order D’Artagnan handed him.
“The reply to that will be worth its weight in gold,” said Fouquet, signaling to his steward, who left with the order D’Artagnan had given him.
“Oh!” said the latter, “I was not uneasy about the payment; the house is good.”
“Oh!” said the latter, “I wasn’t worried about the payment; the house is solid.”
A painful smile passed over the pale features of Fouquet.
A pained smile crossed the pale face of Fouquet.
“Are you in pain?” asked Madame de Belliere.
“Are you hurting?” asked Madame de Belliere.
“Do you feel your attack coming on?” asked Madame Fouquet.
“Do you feel your attack coming on?” asked Madame Fouquet.
“Neither, thank you both,” said Fouquet.
“Neither, thank you both,” said Fouquet.
“Your attack?” said D’Artagnan, in his turn; “are you unwell, monseigneur?”
“Your attack?” D’Artagnan replied. “Are you feeling okay, monseigneur?”
“I have a tertian fever, which seized me after the fete at Vaux.”
“I have a recurring fever that hit me after the fete at Vaux.”
“Caught cold in the grottos, at night, perhaps?”
“Caught a chill in the caves, at night, maybe?”
“No, no; nothing but agitation, that was all.”
“No, no; it was just a lot of unrest, that’s all.”
“The too much heart you displayed in your reception of the king,” said La Fontaine, quietly, without suspicion that he was uttering a sacrilege.
“The excessive enthusiasm you showed in welcoming the king,” said La Fontaine, calmly, unaware that he was committing a sacrilege.
“We cannot devote too much heart to the reception of our king,” said Fouquet, mildly, to his poet.
“We can't invest too much emotion in welcoming our king,” said Fouquet, gently, to his poet.
“Monsieur meant to say the too great ardor,” interrupted D’Artagnan, with perfect frankness and much amenity. “The fact is, monseigneur, that hospitality was never practiced as at Vaux.”
“Sir meant to say the excessive enthusiasm,” interrupted D’Artagnan, with complete honesty and a friendly tone. “The truth is, my lord, that hospitality has never been as warm as it is at Vaux.”
Madame Fouquet permitted her countenance to show clearly that if Fouquet had conducted himself well towards the king, the king had hardly done the like to the minister. But D’Artagnan knew the terrible secret. He alone with Fouquet knew it; those two men had not, the one the courage to complain, the other the right to accuse. The captain, to whom the two hundred pistoles were brought, was about to take his leave, when Fouquet, rising, took a glass of wine, and ordered one to be given to D’Artagnan.
Madame Fouquet allowed her face to show that while Fouquet had treated the king well, the king had not returned the favor to the minister. But D’Artagnan knew the terrible secret. Only he and Fouquet were aware of it; one lacked the courage to complain, the other lacked the right to accuse. The captain, to whom the two hundred pistoles were given, was getting ready to leave when Fouquet stood up, lifted a glass of wine, and asked for one to be brought to D’Artagnan.
“Monsieur,” said he, “to the health of the king, whatever may happen.”
“Mister,” he said, “to the health of the king, no matter what happens.”
“And to your health, monseigneur, whatever may happen,” said D’Artagnan.
“And to your health, my lord, no matter what happens,” said D’Artagnan.
He bowed, with these words of evil omen, to all the company, who rose as soon as they heard the sound of his spurs and boots at the bottom of the stairs.
He bowed, with these words of bad luck, to everyone present, who stood up as soon as they heard the sound of his spurs and boots at the bottom of the stairs.
“I, for a moment, thought it was I and not my money he wanted,” said Fouquet, endeavoring to laugh.
“I briefly thought he wanted me and not just my money,” said Fouquet, trying to laugh.
“You!” cried his friends; “and what for, in the name of Heaven!”
“You!” shouted his friends; “and why, for heaven’s sake?”
“Oh! do not deceive yourselves, my dear brothers in Epicurus,” said the superintendent; “I do not wish to make a comparison between the most humble sinner on the earth, and the God we adore, but remember, he gave one day to his friends a repast which is called the Last Supper, and which was nothing but a farewell dinner, like that which we are making at this moment.”
“Oh! please don’t fool yourselves, my dear brothers in Epicurus,” said the superintendent; “I don’t want to compare the least of sinners on earth with the God we worship, but remember, He had a meal one day with His friends that’s called the Last Supper, which was nothing more than a farewell dinner, just like the one we’re having right now.”
A painful cry of denial arose from all parts of the table. “Shut the doors,” said Fouquet, and the servants disappeared. “My friends,” continued Fouquet, lowering his voice, “what was I formerly? What am I now? Consult among yourselves and reply. A man like me sinks when he does not continue to rise. What shall we say, then, when he really sinks? I have no more money, no more credit; I have no longer anything but powerful enemies, and powerless friends.”
A painful cry of denial came up from all around the table. “Shut the doors,” said Fouquet, and the servants vanished. “My friends,” he continued, lowering his voice, “what was I before? What am I now? Talk among yourselves and let me know. A man like me falls when he stops climbing. So what do we say when he truly falls? I have no money left, no credit; all I have now are powerful enemies and useless friends.”
“Quick!” cried Pelisson. “Since you explain yourself with such frankness, it is our duty to be frank, likewise. Yes, you are ruined—yes, you are hastening to your ruin—stop. And, in the first place, what money have we left?”
“Quick!” shouted Pelisson. “Since you’re being so honest, we should be honest too. Yes, you’re ruined—yes, you’re rushing toward your ruin—stop. First of all, how much money do we have left?”
“Seven hundred thousand livres,” said the intendant.
“Seven hundred thousand livres,” the manager said.
“Bread,” murmured Madame Fouquet.
"Bread," whispered Madame Fouquet.
“Relays,” said Pelisson, “relays, and fly!”
“Relays,” said Pelisson, “relays, and go!”
“Whither?”
"Where to?"
“To Switzerland—to Savoy—but fly!”
“Head to Switzerland—to Savoy—but fly!”
“If monseigneur flies,” said Madame Belliere, “it will be said that he was guilty—was afraid.”
“If the boss runs away,” said Madame Belliere, “people will say he was guilty—he was scared.”
“More than that, it will be said that I have carried away twenty millions with me.”
“More than that, people will say that I took away twenty million with me.”
“We will draw up memoirs to justify you,” said La Fontaine. “Fly!”
“We'll write up memoirs to defend you,” said La Fontaine. “Go away!”
“I will remain,” said Fouquet. “And, besides, does not everything serve me?”
“I will stay,” said Fouquet. “And besides, doesn’t everything work for me?”
“You have Belle-Isle,” cried the Abbe Fouquet.
"You have Belle-Isle," shouted Abbe Fouquet.
“And I am naturally going there, when going to Nantes,” replied the superintendent. “Patience, then, patience!”
“And I’m naturally going there when I go to Nantes,” replied the superintendent. “Just be patient, okay? Patience!”
“Before arriving at Nantes, what a distance!” said Madame Fouquet.
“Before getting to Nantes, what a distance!” said Madame Fouquet.
“Yes, I know that well,” replied Fouquet. “But what is to be done there? The king summons me to the States. I know well it is for the purpose of ruining me; but to refuse to go would be to evince uneasiness.”
“Yes, I know that well,” replied Fouquet. “But what can I do? The king is calling me to the States. I know it’s to bring about my downfall; but if I refuse to go, it will show that I’m anxious.”
“Well, I have discovered the means of reconciling everything,” cried Pelisson. “You are going to set out for Nantes.”
“Well, I’ve found a way to make everything work out,” shouted Pelisson. “You’re going to head out to Nantes.”
Fouquet looked at him with an air of surprise.
Fouquet looked at him in surprise.
“But with friends; but in your own carriage as far as Orleans; in your own barge as far as Nantes; always ready to defend yourself, if you are attacked; to escape, if you are threatened. In fact, you will carry your money against all chances; and, whilst flying, you will only have obeyed the king; then, reaching the sea, when you like, you will embark for Belle-Isle, and from Belle-Isle you will shoot out wherever it may please you, like the eagle that leaps into space when it has been driven from its eyrie.”
"But with friends; but in your own carriage up to Orleans; in your own boat up to Nantes; always ready to defend yourself if you're attacked; to escape if you're threatened. In fact, you’ll carry your money no matter what happens; and, while fleeing, you will have simply obeyed the king; then, when you reach the sea, whenever you want, you will board a ship for Belle-Isle, and from Belle-Isle, you can go wherever you choose, like the eagle that soars into the sky when it's forced out of its nest."
A general assent followed Pelisson’s words. “Yes, do so,” said Madame Fouquet to her husband.
A general agreement followed Pelisson’s words. “Yes, go ahead,” said Madame Fouquet to her husband.
“Do so,” said Madame de Belliere.
“Go ahead,” said Madame de Belliere.
“Do it! do it!” cried all his friends.
“Do it! Do it!” shouted all his friends.
“I will do so,” replied Fouquet.
"I'll do that," said Fouquet.
“This very evening?”
“Tonight?”
“In an hour?”
“In an hour?”
“Instantly.”
"Immediately."
“With seven hundred thousand livres you can lay the foundation of another fortune,” said the Abbe Fouquet.
“With seven hundred thousand livres, you can build the foundation of another fortune,” said the Abbe Fouquet.
“What is there to prevent our arming corsairs at Belle-Isle?”
“What’s stopping us from equipping pirates at Belle-Isle?”
“And, if necessary, we will go and discover a new world,” added La Fontaine, intoxicated with fresh projects and enthusiasm.
“And if needed, we’ll go and discover a new world,” added La Fontaine, excited by new ideas and enthusiasm.
A knock at the door interrupted this concert of joy and hope. “A courier from the king,” said the master of the ceremonies.
A knock at the door interrupted this celebration of joy and hope. “A messenger from the king,” said the host.
A profound silence immediately ensued, as if the message brought by this courier was nothing but a reply to all the projects given birth to a moment before. Every one waited to see what the master would do. His brow was streaming with perspiration, and he was really suffering from his fever at that instant. He passed into his cabinet, to receive the king’s message. There prevailed, as we have said, such a silence in the chambers, and throughout the attendance, that from the dining-room could be heard the voice of Fouquet, saying, “That is well, monsieur.” This voice was, however, broken by fatigue, and trembled with emotion. An instant after, Fouquet called Gourville, who crossed the gallery amidst the universal expectation. At length, he himself re-appeared among his guests; but it was no longer the same pale, spiritless countenance they had beheld when he left them; from pale he had become livid; and from spiritless, annihilated. A breathing, living specter, he advanced with his arms stretched out, his mouth parched, like a shade that comes to salute the friends of former days. On seeing him thus, every one cried out, and every one rushed towards Fouquet. The latter, looking at Pelisson, leaned upon his wife, and pressed the icy hand of the Marquise de Belliere.
A deep silence followed instantly, as if the message from this courier was just a response to all the plans that had been discussed a moment earlier. Everyone waited to see how the master would react. Sweat was pouring down his forehead, and he was really suffering from his fever at that moment. He went into his office to receive the king’s message. There was such a silence in the rooms and among the guests that they could hear Fouquet's voice from the dining room saying, “That is well, monsieur.” However, this voice was strained from fatigue and shook with emotion. A moment later, Fouquet called Gourville, who walked through the gallery amid the collective anticipation. Finally, he returned to his guests, but he was no longer the same pale, lifeless face they had seen when he left; he had turned from pale to ashen, and from lifeless to completely defeated. A breathing, living ghost, he approached with his arms outstretched, his mouth dry, like a shadow coming to greet the friends of the past. Upon seeing him like this, everyone shouted and rushed towards Fouquet. He, looking at Pelisson, leaned on his wife and held the cold hand of the Marquise de Belliere.
“Well,” said he, in a voice which had nothing human in it.
"Well," he said, in a voice that sounded inhuman.
“What has happened, my God!” said some one to him.
“What just happened, my God!” someone said to him.
Fouquet opened his right hand, which was clenched, but glistening with perspiration, and displayed a paper, upon which Pelisson cast a terrified glance. He read the following lines, written by the king’s hand:
Fouquet opened his right hand, which was clenched but slick with sweat, and showed a paper that made Pelisson look terrified. He read the following lines, written by the king:
“‘DEAR AND WELL-BELOVED MONSIEUR FOUQUET,—Give us, upon that which you have left of ours, the sum of seven hundred thousand livres, of which we stand in need to prepare for our departure.
“‘DEAR AND BELOVED MONSIEUR FOUQUET,—Please provide us with the seven hundred thousand livres that you have left of ours, as we need it to get ready for our departure.
“‘And, as we know your health is not good, we pray God to restore you, and to have you in His holy keeping. “‘LOUIS.
“‘And, since we know your health isn't great, we pray for God to restore you and keep you in His care. “‘LOUIS.
“‘The present letter is to serve as a receipt.’”
"This letter serves as a receipt."
A murmur of terror circulated through the apartment.
A whisper of fear spread through the apartment.
“Well,” cried Pelisson, in his turn, “you have received that letter?”
“Well,” shouted Pelisson, in response, “you got that letter?”
“Received it, yes!”
"Got it, yes!"
“What will you do, then?”
“What are you gonna do?”
“Nothing, since I have received it.”
“Nothing since I got it.”
“But—”
“But—”
“If I have received it, Pelisson, I have paid it,” said the surintendant, with a simplicity that went to the heart of all present.
“If I’ve received it, Pelisson, I’ve paid it,” said the superintendent, with a sincerity that touched everyone there.
“You have paid it!” cried Madame Fouquet. “Then we are ruined!”
“You’ve paid it!” shouted Madame Fouquet. “Then we’re doomed!”
“Come, no useless words,” interrupted Pelisson. “Next to money, life. Monseigneur, to horse! to horse!”
“Come on, enough with the nonsense,” interrupted Pelisson. “After money, it’s life that matters. Monseigneur, let’s get on our horses!”
“What, leave us!” at once cried both the women, wild with grief.
“What, leave us!” both women cried at once, overwhelmed with grief.
“Eh! monseigneur, in saving yourself, you save us all. To horse!”
“Hey! Sir, by saving yourself, you're saving us all. Get on your horse!”
“But he cannot hold himself on. Look at him.”
“But he can't keep it together. Just look at him.”
“Oh! if he takes time to reflect—” said the intrepid Pelisson.
“Oh! if he takes time to think—” said the fearless Pelisson.
“He is right,” murmured Fouquet.
"He's right," murmured Fouquet.
“Monseigneur! Monseigneur!” cried Gourville, rushing up the stairs, four steps at once. “Monseigneur!”
“Sir! Sir!” shouted Gourville, racing up the stairs, taking four steps at a time. “Sir!”
“Well! what?”
"Well! What’s up?"
“I escorted, as you desired, the king’s courier with the money.”
“I took the king’s courier with the money, just as you wanted.”
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“Well! when I arrived at the Palais Royal, I saw—”
“Well! when I got to the Palais Royal, I saw—”
“Take breath, my poor friend, take breath; you are suffocating.”
“Take a breath, my poor friend, take a breath; you’re suffocating.”
“What did you see?” cried the impatient friends.
“What did you see?” shouted the impatient friends.
“I saw the musketeers mounting on horseback,” said Gourville.
“I saw the musketeers getting on their horses,” said Gourville.
“There, then!” cried every voice at once; “there, then! is there an instant to be lost?”
“There, then!” shouted everyone at once; “there, then! Is there any time to waste?”
Madame Fouquet rushed downstairs, calling for her horses; Madame de Belliere flew after her, catching her in her arms, and saying: “Madame, in the name of his safety, do not betray anything, do not manifest alarm.”
Madame Fouquet hurried down the stairs, calling for her horses; Madame de Belliere rushed after her, catching her in her arms, and said: “Madame, for his safety, please don't give anything away, don't show any signs of panic.”
Pelisson ran to have the horses put to the carriages. And, in the meantime, Gourville gathered in his hat all that the weeping friends were able to throw into it of gold and silver—the last offering, the pious alms made to misery by poverty. The surintendant, dragged along by some, carried by others, was shut up in his carriage. Gourville took the reins, and mounted the box. Pelisson supported Madame Fouquet, who had fainted. Madame de Belliere had more strength, and was well paid for it; she received Fouquet’s last kiss. Pelisson easily explained this precipitate departure by saying that an order from the king had summoned the minister to Nantes.
Pelisson rushed to get the horses hooked up to the carriages. In the meantime, Gourville collected all the gold and silver that the sobbing friends could toss into his hat—the final offering, the heartfelt charity given to the needy by those who themselves were struggling. The superintendent, pulled along by some and carried by others, was tucked into his carriage. Gourville took the reins and climbed onto the box. Pelisson supported Madame Fouquet, who had fainted. Madame de Belliere had more strength and was well compensated for it; she received Fouquet’s last kiss. Pelisson easily explained this hasty departure by saying that the king had summoned the minister to Nantes.
Chapter XXXVI. In M. Colbert’s Carriage.
As Gourville had seen, the king’s musketeers were mounting and following their captain. The latter, who did not like to be confined in his proceedings, left his brigade under the orders of a lieutenant, and set off on post horses, recommending his men to use all diligence. However rapidly they might travel, they could not arrive before him. He had time, in passing along the Rue des Petits-Champs, to see something which afforded him plenty of food for thought and conjecture. He saw M. Colbert coming out from his house to get into his carriage, which was stationed before the door. In this carriage D’Artagnan perceived the hoods of two women, and being rather curious, he wished to know the names of the ladies hid beneath these hoods. To get a glimpse at them, for they kept themselves closely covered up, he urged his horse so near the carriage, that he drove him against the step with such force as to shake everything containing and contained. The terrified women uttered, the one a faint cry, by which D’Artagnan recognized a young woman, the other an imprecation, in which he recognized the vigor and aplomb that half a century bestows. The hoods were thrown back: one of the women was Madame Vanel, the other the Duchesse de Chevreuse. D’Artagnan’s eyes were quicker than those of the ladies; he had seen and known them, whilst they did not recognize him; and as they laughed at their fright, pressing each other’s hands,—
As Gourville saw, the king’s musketeers were mounting up and following their captain. The captain, who preferred not to be restricted in his actions, left his troops in the care of a lieutenant and took off on post horses, urging his men to hurry. No matter how fast they rode, they couldn't reach him before he did. While passing along Rue des Petits-Champs, he encountered something that gave him plenty to think about and speculate on. He saw M. Colbert coming out of his house to get into a carriage that was waiting at the door. In this carriage, D’Artagnan noticed the hoods of two women, and feeling curious, he wanted to know who the ladies hiding under those hoods were. To catch a glimpse of them, since they were keeping themselves well covered, he nudged his horse so close to the carriage that he bumped against the step with enough force to jolt everything inside and out. The frightened women let out a cry, one faint enough for D’Artagnan to recognize that she was a young woman, and the other shouted a curse, revealing the strength and confidence that comes with age. The hoods were thrown back: one of the women was Madame Vanel, and the other was the Duchesse de Chevreuse. D’Artagnan’s eyes were quicker than the ladies’; he had seen and recognized them, while they didn’t know who he was, and as they laughed at their scare, holding each other's hands—
“Humph!” said D’Artagnan, “the old duchesse is no more inaccessible to friendship than formerly. She paying her court to the mistress of M. Colbert! Poor M. Fouquet! that presages you nothing good!”
“Humph!” said D’Artagnan, “the old duchess is just as open to friendship as she was before. She is trying to gain favor with M. Colbert’s mistress! Poor M. Fouquet! that doesn’t bode well for you!”
He rode on. M. Colbert got into his carriage and the distinguished trio commenced a sufficiently slow pilgrimage toward the wood of Vincennes. Madame de Chevreuse set down Madame Vanel at her husband’s house, and, left alone with M. Colbert, chatted upon affairs whilst continuing her ride. She had an inexhaustible fund of conversation, that dear duchesse, and as she always talked for the ill of others, though ever with a view to her own good, her conversation amused her interlocutor, and did not fail to leave a favorable impression.
He kept riding. M. Colbert got into his carriage, and the distinguished trio began a leisurely journey toward the Vincennes forest. Madame de Chevreuse dropped off Madame Vanel at her husband's house and, left alone with M. Colbert, chatted about various topics while continuing her ride. That dear duchess had a never-ending supply of conversation, and since she always spoke ill of others, though with her own interests in mind, her chatter entertained her companion and definitely made a good impression.
She taught Colbert, who, poor man! was ignorant of the fact, how great a minister he was, and how Fouquet would soon become a cipher. She promised to rally around him, when he should become surintendant, all the old nobility of the kingdom, and questioned him as to the preponderance it would be proper to allow La Valliere. She praised him, she blamed him, she bewildered him. She showed him the secret of so many secrets that, for a moment, Colbert thought he was doing business with the devil. She proved to him that she held in her hand the Colbert of to-day, as she had held the Fouquet of yesterday; and as he asked her very simply the reason of her hatred for the surintendant: “Why do you yourself hate him?” said she.
She showed Colbert, who, poor guy! didn’t realize how important he was, just how soon Fouquet would fade into irrelevance. She promised to gather all the old nobility around him once he became the superintendent and asked him how much influence La Valliere should be given. She complimented him, criticized him, and left him confused. She revealed to him the secrets behind so many secrets that, for a moment, Colbert thought he was making a deal with the devil. She demonstrated that she had the Colbert of today in her grasp, just like she had controlled the Fouquet of yesterday. When he simply asked her why she hated the superintendent, she replied, “Why do you hate him yourself?”
“Madame, in politics,” replied he, “the differences of system oft bring about dissentions between men. M. Fouquet always appeared to me to practice a system opposed to the true interests of the king.”
“Ma’am, in politics,” he replied, “the differences in systems often lead to disagreements among people. M. Fouquet has always seemed to me to follow a system that is contrary to the king's true interests.”
She interrupted him.—“I will say no more to you about M. Fouquet. The journey the king is about to take to Nantes will give a good account of him. M. Fouquet, for me, is a man gone by—and for you also.”
She interrupted him. “I won’t say anything more to you about M. Fouquet. The trip the king is about to make to Nantes will speak for itself. M. Fouquet, to me, is someone from the past—and for you too.”
Colbert made no reply. “On his return from Nantes,” continued the duchesse, “the king, who is only anxious for a pretext, will find that the States have not behaved well—that they have made too few sacrifices. The States will say that the imposts are too heavy, and that the surintendant has ruined them. The king will lay all the blame on M. Fouquet, and then—”
Colbert didn't respond. “When he comes back from Nantes,” the duchess continued, “the king, who is just looking for an excuse, will see that the States haven’t acted well—that they’ve made too few sacrifices. The States will argue that the taxes are too high and that the superintendent has brought them to ruin. The king will put all the blame on M. Fouquet, and then—”
“And then?” said Colbert.
“And then?” Colbert asked.
“Oh! he will be disgraced. Is not that your opinion?”
“Oh! he’s going to be disgraced. Don’t you think so?”
Colbert darted a glance at the duchesse, which plainly said: “If M. Fouquet be only disgraced, you will not be the cause of it.”
Colbert shot a look at the duchess that clearly communicated: “If Mr. Fouquet is just disgraced, you won't be the reason for it.”
“Your place, M. Colbert,” the duchesse hastened to say, “must be a high place. Do you perceive any one between the king and yourself, after the fall of M. Fouquet?”
“Your position, Mr. Colbert,” the duchess quickly said, “must be a prominent one. Do you see anyone standing between the king and you, after M. Fouquet's downfall?”
“I do not understand,” said he.
“I don’t get it,” he said.
“You will understand. To what does your ambition aspire?”
“You will understand. What does your ambition aim for?”
“I have none.”
"I have nothing."
“It was useless, then, to overthrow the superintendent, Monsieur Colbert. It was idle.”
“It was pointless to get rid of the superintendent, Monsieur Colbert. It was a waste of time.”
“I had the honor to tell you, madame—”
“I had the honor to tell you, ma'am—”
“Oh! yes, I know, all about the interest of the king—but, if you please, we will speak of your own.”
“Oh! yes, I know all about the king's interest—but, if you don't mind, let's talk about yours.”
“Mine! that is to say, the affairs of his majesty.”
“Mine! that is to say, the matters of his majesty.”
“In short, are you, or are you not endeavoring to ruin M. Fouquet? Answer without evasion.”
"In short, are you trying to ruin M. Fouquet or not? Answer clearly."
“Madame, I ruin nobody.”
“Ma'am, I ruin no one.”
“I am endeavoring to comprehend, then, why you purchased from me the letters of M. Mazarin concerning M. Fouquet. Neither can I conceive why you have laid those letters before the king.”
“I’m trying to understand why you bought M. Mazarin’s letters about M. Fouquet from me. I also can’t figure out why you showed those letters to the king.”
Colbert, half stupefied, looked at the duchesse with an air of constraint.
Colbert, half confused, looked at the duchess with a tense expression.
“Madame,” said he, “I can less easily conceive how you, who received the money, can reproach me on that head—”
“Madam,” he said, “it's harder for me to understand how you, who accepted the money, can blame me for that—”
“That is,” said the old duchesse, “because we must will that which we wish for, unless we are not able to obtain what we wish.”
“That is,” said the old duchess, “because we have to want what we desire, unless we can't get what we want.”
“Will!” said Colbert, quite confounded by such coarse logic.
“Will!” said Colbert, totally baffled by such crude reasoning.
“You are not able, hein! Speak.”
"You can't, huh? Speak."
“I am not able, I allow, to destroy certain influences near the king.”
"I know I can't get rid of certain influences around the king."
“That fight in favor of M. Fouquet? What are they? Stop, let me help you.”
“That fight for Mr. Fouquet? What’s that about? Hold on, let me assist you.”
“Do, madame.”
“Go ahead, ma’am.”
“La Valliere?”
“La Valliere?”
“Oh! very little influence; no knowledge of business, and small means. M. Fouquet has paid his court to her.”
“Oh! very little influence; no knowledge of business, and limited resources. M. Fouquet has tried to win her favor.”
“To defend him would be to accuse herself, would it not?”
"Defending him would mean accusing herself, wouldn't it?"
“I think it would.”
"I believe it would."
“There is still another influence, what do you say to that?”
“There's still another influence, what do you think about that?”
“Is it considerable?”
"Is it significant?"
“The queen-mother, perhaps?”
"The queen mother, maybe?"
“Her majesty, the queen-mother, has a weakness for M. Fouquet very prejudicial to her son.”
“Her Majesty, the queen mother, has a soft spot for M. Fouquet, which is very harmful to her son.”
“Never believe that,” said the old duchesse, smiling.
“Never believe that,” said the old duchess, smiling.
“Oh!” said Colbert, with incredulity, “I have often experienced it.”
“Oh!” Colbert exclaimed, astounded, “I’ve felt that way before.”
“Formerly?”
"Previously?"
“Very recently, madame, at Vaux. It was she who prevented the king from having M. Fouquet arrested.”
“Just recently, ma'am, at Vaux. She was the one who stopped the king from having Mr. Fouquet arrested.”
“People do not forever entertain the same opinions, my dear monsieur. That which the queen may have wished recently, she would not wish, perhaps, to-day.”
“People don’t always hold the same opinions, my dear sir. What the queen may have wanted recently, she might not want today.”
“And why not?” said Colbert, astonished.
“And why not?” Colbert said, surprised.
“Oh! the reason is of very little consequence.”
“Oh! The reason really doesn’t matter much.”
“On the contrary, I think it is of great consequence; for, if I were certain of not displeasing her majesty, the queen-mother, my scruples would be all removed.”
“Actually, I believe it’s very important; because if I knew I wouldn’t upset her majesty, the queen-mother, my doubts would disappear.”
“Well! have you never heard talk of a certain secret?”
“Well! Have you never heard about a certain secret?”
“A secret?”
"A secret?"
“Call it what you like. In short, the queen-mother has conceived a bitter hatred for all those who have participated, in one fashion or another, in the discovery of this secret, and M. Fouquet I believe is one of these.”
“Call it what you want. Basically, the queen mother has developed a deep hatred for everyone who has been involved, in one way or another, in uncovering this secret, and I believe M. Fouquet is one of them.”
“Then,” said Colbert, “we may be sure of the assent of the queen-mother?”
“Then,” Colbert said, “can we be certain of the queen mother’s approval?”
“I have just left her majesty, and she assures me so.”
“I just spoke to her majesty, and she confirmed that.”
“So be it, then, madame.”
"Alright then, ma'am."
“But there is something further; do you happen to know a man who was the intimate friend of M. Fouquet, M. d’Herblay, a bishop, I believe?”
“But there’s something else; do you know a man who was a close friend of M. Fouquet, M. d’Herblay, a bishop, I think?”
“Bishop of Vannes.”
"Bishop of Vannes."
“Well! this M. d’Herblay, who also knew the secret, the queen-mother is pursuing with the utmost rancor.”
“Well! This M. d’Herblay, who also knows the secret, is being pursued by the queen mother with the utmost bitterness.”
“Indeed!”
"Absolutely!"
“So hotly pursued, that if he were dead, she would not be satisfied with anything less than his head, to satisfy her he would never speak again.”
“So intensely chased that if he were dead, she wouldn't be happy with anything less than his head; to make sure he never spoke again.”
“And is that the desire of the queen-mother?”
“And is that what the queen mother wants?”
“An order is given for it.”
“An order has been placed for it.”
“This Monsieur d’Herblay shall be sought for, madame.”
“This Monsieur d’Herblay will be looked for, ma’am.”
“Oh! it is well known where he is.”
“Oh! It’s well known where he is.”
Colbert looked at the duchesse.
Colbert looked at the duchess.
“Say where, madame.”
"Where to, madame?"
“He is at Belle-Ile-en-Mer.”
"He's at Belle-Ile-en-Mer."
“At the residence of M. Fouquet?”
“At M. Fouquet’s place?”
“At the residence of M. Fouquet.”
“At the home of Mr. Fouquet.”
“He shall be taken.”
“He will be taken.”
It was now the duchesse’s turn to smile. “Do not fancy the capture so easy,” said she; “do not promise it so lightly.”
It was now the duchess's turn to smile. “Don't think the capture is so easy,” she said; “don't promise it so casually.”
“Why not, madame?”
“Why not, ma'am?”
“Because M. d’Herblay is not one of those people who can be taken when and where you please.”
“Because M. d’Herblay isn’t someone you can just take whenever and wherever you want.”
“He is a rebel, then?”
"Is he a rebel, then?"
“Oh! Monsieur Colbert, we have passed all our lives in making rebels, and yet you see plainly, that so far from being taken, we take others.”
“Oh! Mr. Colbert, we’ve spent our whole lives creating rebels, and yet you can clearly see that rather than being captured, we capture others.”
Colbert fixed upon the old duchesse one of those fierce looks of which no words can convey the expression, accompanied by a firmness not altogether wanting in grandeur. “The times are gone,” said he, “in which subjects gained duchies by making war against the king of France. If M. d’Herblay conspires, he will perish on the scaffold. That will give, or will not give, pleasure to his enemies,—a matter, by the way, of little importance to us.”
Colbert fixed the old duchess with one of those intense looks that words can't fully express, showing a determination that had a touch of grandeur. “Those days are over,” he said. “Subjects don’t earn duchies by waging war against the king of France anymore. If M. d’Herblay conspires, he will face execution. Whether that brings joy to his enemies is beside the point for us.”
And this us, a strange word in the mouth of Colbert, made the duchesse thoughtful for a moment. She caught herself reckoning inwardly with this man—Colbert had regained his superiority in the conversation, and he meant to keep it.
And this us, a strange word coming from Colbert, made the duchess pause for a moment. She found herself considering this man—Colbert had regained his dominance in the conversation, and he intended to hold onto it.
“You ask me, madame,” he said, “to have this M. d’Herblay arrested?”
“You're asking me, ma'am,” he said, “to have this Mr. d’Herblay arrested?”
“I?—I ask you nothing of the kind!”
“I?—I’m not asking you anything like that!”
“I thought you did, madame. But as I have been mistaken, we will leave him alone; the king has said nothing about him.”
“I assumed you did, ma'am. But since I was wrong, we'll leave him alone; the king hasn't mentioned him.”
The duchesse bit her nails.
The duchess bit her nails.
“Besides,” continued Colbert, “what a poor capture would this bishop be! A bishop game for a king! Oh! no, no; I will not even take the slightest notice of him.”
“Besides,” Colbert went on, “what a pathetic catch this bishop would be! A bishop for a king! Oh! No, no; I won’t even give him the slightest attention.”
The hatred of the duchesse now discovered itself.
The duchess's hatred became evident now.
“Game for a woman!” said she. “Is not the queen a woman? If she wishes M. d’Herblay arrested, she has her reasons. Besides, is not M. d’Herblay the friend of him who is doomed to fall?”
“Game for a woman!” she said. “Isn’t the queen a woman? If she wants M. d’Herblay arrested, she has her reasons. Besides, isn’t M. d’Herblay the friend of the one who is destined to fall?”
“Oh! never mind that,” said Colbert. “This man shall be spared, if he is not the enemy of the king. Is that displeasing to you?”
“Oh! never mind that,” said Colbert. “This guy will be spared, as long as he isn't the king's enemy. Does that bother you?”
“I say nothing.”
"I won't say anything."
“Yes—you wish to see him in prison, in the Bastile, for instance.”
“Yes—you want to see him in prison, in the Bastille, for example.”
“I believe a secret better concealed behind the walls of the Bastile than behind those of Belle-Isle.”
“I think a secret is better hidden behind the walls of the Bastille than behind those of Belle-Isle.”
“I will speak to the king about it; he will clear up the point.”
“I'll talk to the king about it; he'll clarify the issue.”
“And whilst waiting for that enlightenment, Monsieur l’Eveque de Vannes will have escaped. I would do so.”
“And while waiting for that insight, Monsieur l’Eveque de Vannes will have slipped away. I would do the same.”
“Escaped! he! and whither should he escape? Europe is ours, in will, if not in fact.”
“Escaped! He! And where should he escape to? Europe is ours, in spirit, if not in reality.”
“He will always find an asylum, monsieur. It is evident you know nothing of the man you have to do with. You do not know D’Herblay; you do not know Aramis. He was one of those four musketeers who, under the late king, made Cardinal de Richelieu tremble, and who, during the regency, gave so much trouble to Monseigneur Mazarin.”
“He will always find a safe place, sir. It’s clear you don’t know anything about the person you're up against. You don’t know D’Herblay; you don’t know Aramis. He was one of those four musketeers who, under the previous king, made Cardinal de Richelieu nervous, and who, during the regency, caused a lot of trouble for Monseigneur Mazarin.”
“But, madame, what can he do, unless he has a kingdom to back him?”
"But, ma'am, what can he do without a kingdom to support him?"
“He has one, monsieur.”
"He has one, sir."
“A kingdom, he! what, Monsieur d’Herblay?”
“A kingdom, huh! What about it, Monsieur d’Herblay?”
“I repeat to you, monsieur, that if he wants a kingdom, he either has it or will have it.”
“I’m telling you again, sir, that if he wants a kingdom, he either has it or will get it.”
“Well, as you are so earnest that this rebel should not escape, madame, I promise you he shall not escape.”
"Well, since you are so determined that this rebel shouldn't escape, ma'am, I promise you he won't get away."
“Belle-Isle is fortified, M. Colbert, and fortified by him.”
“Belle-Isle is fortified, Mr. Colbert, and he’s the one who fortified it.”
“If Belle-Isle were also defended by him, Belle-Isle is not impregnable; and if Monsieur l’Eveque de Vannes is shut up in Belle-Isle, well, madame, the place shall be besieged, and he will be taken.”
“If Belle-Isle is also defended by him, Belle-Isle isn't invincible; and if Monsieur l’Eveque de Vannes is trapped in Belle-Isle, well, madame, the place will be besieged, and he will be captured.”
“You may be very certain, monsieur, that the zeal you display in the interest of the queen-mother will please her majesty mightily, and you will be magnificently rewarded; but what shall I tell her of your projects respecting this man?”
“You can be very sure, sir, that the enthusiasm you show for the queen mother will please her majesty immensely, and you will be greatly rewarded; but what should I say to her about your plans concerning this man?”
“That when once taken, he shall be shut up in a fortress from which her secret shall never escape.”
"Once he's taken, he will be locked away in a fortress where her secret will never get out."
“Very well, Monsieur Colbert, and we may say, that, dating from this instant, we have formed a solid alliance, that is, you and I, and that I am absolutely at your service.”
“Alright, Monsieur Colbert, we can say that from this moment on, we have formed a strong alliance, you and I, and I am completely at your service.”
“It is I, madame, who place myself at yours. This Chevalier d’Herblay is a kind of Spanish spy, is he not?”
“It’s me, madam, who puts myself at your service. This Chevalier d’Herblay is some sort of Spanish spy, isn’t he?”
“Much more.”
“Way more.”
“A secret ambassador?”
"An undercover ambassador?"
“Higher still.”
“Even higher.”
“Stop—King Phillip III. of Spain is a bigot. He is, perhaps, the confessor of Phillip III.”
“Stop—King Philip III of Spain is a bigot. He is, maybe, the confessor of Philip III.”
“You must go higher even than that.”
“You need to aim even higher than that.”
“Mordieu!” cried Colbert, who forgot himself so far as to swear in the presence of this great lady, of this old friend of the queen-mother. “He must then be the general of the Jesuits.”
“Mordieu!” exclaimed Colbert, who lost his composure enough to swear in front of this esteemed lady, an old friend of the queen mother. “He must be the Jesuit general, then.”
“I believe you have guessed it at last,” replied the duchesse.
"I think you've finally figured it out," replied the duchess.
“Ah! then, madame, this man will ruin us all if we do not ruin him; and we must make haste, too.”
“Ah! Then, madam, this man will ruin us all if we don’t ruin him first; and we need to hurry, too.”
“Such was my opinion, monsieur, but I did not dare to give it you.”
“That's what I thought, sir, but I didn't feel comfortable sharing it with you.”
“And it was lucky for us he has attacked the throne, and not us.”
“And we were lucky that he attacked the throne and not us.”
“But, mark this well, M. Colbert. M. d’Herblay is never discouraged; if he has missed one blow, he will be sure to make another; he will begin again. If he has allowed an opportunity to escape of making a king for himself, sooner or later, he will make another, of whom, to a certainty, you will not be prime minister.”
“But, remember this well, Mr. Colbert. Mr. d’Herblay is never discouraged; if he misses one chance, he'll be sure to find another; he'll start over. If he's let an opportunity slip by to make himself a king, sooner or later, he'll create another, and without a doubt, you won't be the prime minister.”
Colbert knitted his brow with a menacing expression. “I feel assured that a prison will settle this affair for us, madame, in a manner satisfactory for both.”
Colbert frowned with a threatening look. “I’m confident that a prison will resolve this situation for us, ma'am, in a way that works for both of us.”
The duchesse smiled again.
The duchess smiled again.
“Oh! if you knew,” said she, “how many times Aramis has got out of prison!”
“Oh! if you only knew,” she said, “how many times Aramis has escaped from prison!”
“Oh!” replied Colbert, “we will take care that he shall not get out this time.”
“Oh!” replied Colbert, “we’ll make sure he doesn’t get out this time.”
“But you were not attending to what I said to you just now. Do you remember that Aramis was one of the four invincibles whom Richelieu so dreaded? And at that period the four musketeers were not in possession of that which they have now—money and experience.”
“But you weren't really listening to what I just told you. Do you remember that Aramis was one of the four unbeatable ones whom Richelieu was so afraid of? Back then, the four musketeers didn’t have what they have now—money and experience.”
Colbert bit his lips.
Colbert bit his lips.
“We will renounce the idea of the prison,” said he, in a lower tone: “we will find a little retreat from which the invincible cannot possibly escape.”
“We're going to give up on the idea of prison,” he said quietly. “We’ll find a small hideout where the unbeatable can't escape.”
“That was well spoken, our ally!” replied the duchesse. “But it is getting late; had we not better return?”
“That was well said, our friend!” replied the duchess. “But it’s getting late; shouldn’t we head back?”
“The more willingly, madame, from my having my preparations to make for setting out with the king.”
“The more willingly, ma'am, since I have preparations to make for leaving with the king.”
“To Paris!” cried the duchesse to the coachman.
“To Paris!” shouted the duchess to the driver.
And the carriage returned towards the Faubourg Saint Antoine, after the conclusion of the treaty that gave to death the last friend of Fouquet, the last defender of Belle-Isle, the former friend of Marie Michon, the new foe of the old duchesse.
And the carriage headed back to Faubourg Saint Antoine after the treaty was signed that ended the life of Fouquet's final friend, the last supporter of Belle-Isle, the former friend of Marie Michon, and the new enemy of the old duchess.
Chapter XXXVII. The Two Lighters.
D’Artagnan had set off; Fouquet likewise was gone, and with a rapidity which doubled the tender interest of his friends. The first moments of this journey, or better say, this flight, were troubled by a ceaseless dread of every horse and carriage to be seen behind the fugitive. It was not natural, in fact, if Louis XIV. was determined to seize this prey, that he should allow it to escape; the young lion was already accustomed to the chase, and he had bloodhounds sufficiently clever to be trusted. But insensibly all fears were dispersed; the surintendant, by hard traveling, placed such a distance between himself and his persecutors, that no one of them could reasonably be expected to overtake him. As to his position, his friends had made it excellent for him. Was he not traveling to join the king at Nantes, and what did the rapidity prove but his zeal to obey? He arrived, fatigued, but reassured, at Orleans, where he found, thanks to the care of a courier who had preceded him, a handsome lighter of eight oars. These lighters, in the shape of gondolas, somewhat wide and heavy, containing a small chamber, covered by the deck, and a chamber in the poop, formed by a tent, then acted as passage-boats from Orleans to Nantes, by the Loire, and this passage, a long one in our days, appeared then more easy and convenient than the high-road, with its post-hacks and its ill-hung carriages. Fouquet went on board this lighter, which set out immediately. The rowers, knowing they had the honor of conveying the surintendant of the finances, pulled with all their strength, and that magic word, the finances, promised them a liberal gratification, of which they wished to prove themselves worthy. The lighter seemed to leap the mimic waves of the Loire. Magnificent weather, a sunrise that empurpled all the landscape, displayed the river in all its limpid serenity. The current and the rowers carried Fouquet along as wings carry a bird, and he arrived before Beaugency without the slightest accident having signalized the voyage. Fouquet hoped to be the first to arrive at Nantes; there he would see the notables and gain support among the principal members of the States; he would make himself a necessity, a thing very easy for a man of his merit, and would delay the catastrophe, if he did not succeed in avoiding it entirely. “Besides,” said Gourville to him, “at Nantes, you will make out, or we will make out, the intentions of your enemies; we will have horses always ready to convey you to Poitou, a bark in which to gain the sea, and when once upon the open sea, Belle-Isle is your inviolable port. You see, besides, that no one is watching you, no one is following.” He had scarcely finished when they discovered at a distance, behind an elbow formed by the river, the masts of a huge lighter coming down. The rowers of Fouquet’s boat uttered a cry of surprise on seeing this galley.
D’Artagnan had set off; Fouquet had also left quickly, which only increased the concern of his friends. In the early moments of this journey, or better yet, this escape, he was plagued by an endless fear of every horse and carriage he spotted behind him. It wasn’t unreasonable to think that if Louis XIV was determined to catch him, he wouldn’t let him get away; the young king was already used to the hunt and had bloodhounds he could rely on. But gradually, all fears faded away; the superintendent had put enough distance between himself and his pursuers through hard riding, making it unlikely that anyone would catch up to him. His situation was made even better by his friends. He was going to meet the king in Nantes, and the speed of his travel only showed his eagerness to obey. He arrived, tired but reassured, in Orleans, where he found, thanks to a courier who had gone ahead, a nice eight-oar lighter. These lighters, shaped like gondolas, were fairly wide and heavy, with a small cabin covered by a deck, and a tented cabin at the stern. They served as passenger boats from Orleans to Nantes along the Loire, and this lengthy journey, which seems long to us now, was then easier and more convenient than the main road, with its post-horses and poorly constructed carriages. Fouquet boarded the lighter, which set off immediately. The rowers, knowing they had the honor of transporting the superintendent of finances, rowed with all their strength, and that magic word, the finances, promised them a generous reward, which they wanted to earn. The lighter seemed to skip across the gentle waves of the Loire. The weather was beautiful, with a sunrise that bathed the landscape in purple hues, showcasing the river in all its clear tranquility. The current and the rowers propelled Fouquet forward as effortlessly as wings lift a bird, and he reached Beaugency without any incident marking the trip. Fouquet hoped to arrive in Nantes first; there he would meet the important figures and build support among the main members of the States. He planned to make himself indispensable, something easy for a man of his caliber, and to postpone the disaster, if not avoid it entirely. “Besides,” Gourville said to him, “in Nantes, you’ll figure out, or we will figure out, the intentions of your enemies; we’ll have horses ready to take you to Poitou, and a boat to get you to the sea. Once you’re on the open sea, Belle-Isle would be your safe haven. You can see, too, that no one is watching you or following you.” He had barely finished speaking when they spotted in the distance, behind a bend in the river, the masts of a large lighter coming down the river. The rowers of Fouquet’s boat let out a gasp of surprise at the sight of the galley.
“What is the matter?” asked Fouquet.
"What's happening?" asked Fouquet.
“The matter is, monseigneur,” replied the patron of the bark, “that it is a truly remarkable thing—that lighter comes along like a hurricane.”
“The thing is, sir,” replied the captain of the boat, “that it's truly impressive how that lighter shows up like a hurricane.”
Gourville started, and mounted to the deck, in order to obtain a better view.
Gourville got up and went to the deck to get a better view.
Fouquet did not go up with him, but said to Gourville, with restrained mistrust: “See what it is, dear friend.”
Fouquet didn't go up with him, but told Gourville, with a hint of mistrust: “Check it out, my friend.”
The lighter had just passed the elbow. It came on so fast, that behind it might be plainly seen the white wake illumined with the fires of the day.
The lighter had just passed the bend. It moved so quickly that behind it, you could clearly see the white wake lit up by the daylight.
“How they go,” repeated the skipper, “how they go! They must be well paid! I did not think,” he added, “that oars of wood could behave better than ours, but yonder oarsmen prove the contrary.”
“How they row,” repeated the captain, “how they row! They must be well paid! I didn’t think,” he added, “that wooden oars could perform better than ours, but those oarsmen over there prove otherwise.”
“Well they may,” said one of the rowers, “they are twelve, and we but eight.”
“Well, they might,” said one of the rowers, “there are twelve of them, and we’re only eight.”
“Twelve rowers!” replied Gourville, “twelve! impossible.”
“Twelve rowers!” replied Gourville, “Twelve! That’s impossible.”
The number of eight rowers for a lighter had never been exceeded, even for the king. This honor had been paid to monsieur le surintendant, more for the sake of haste than of respect.
The number of eight rowers for a lighter had never been surpassed, even for the king. This honor had been given to monsieur le surintendant, more out of urgency than out of respect.
“What does it mean?” said Gourville, endeavoring to distinguish beneath the tent, which was already apparent, travelers which the most piercing eye could not yet have succeeded in discovering.
“What does it mean?” Gourville asked, trying to see through the tent, where travelers were already visible, even though the sharpest eyes wouldn’t have been able to spot them yet.
“They must be in a hurry, for it is not the king,” said the patron.
“They must be rushing, because it’s not the king,” said the patron.
Fouquet shuddered.
Fouquet shivered.
“By what sign do you know that it is not the king?” said Gourville.
“By what sign do you know that it isn’t the king?” Gourville asked.
“In the first place, because there is no white flag with fleurs-de-lis, which the royal lighter always carries.”
“In the first place, because there’s no white flag with fleurs-de-lis, which the royal lighter always carries.”
“And then,” said Fouquet, “because it is impossible it should be the king, Gourville, as the king was still in Paris yesterday.”
“And then,” said Fouquet, “it can’t be the king, Gourville, since the king was still in Paris yesterday.”
Gourville replied to the surintendant by a look which said: “You were there yourself yesterday.”
Gourville responded to the superintendent with a look that said, “You were there yourself yesterday.”
“And by what sign do you make out they are in such haste?” added he, for the sake of gaining time.
“And what makes you think they're in such a hurry?” he added, to buy himself some time.
“By this, monsieur,” said the patron; “these people must have set out a long while after us, and they have already nearly overtaken us.”
“By this, sir,” said the owner; “these people must have left a long time after us, and they have already almost caught up to us.”
“Bah!” said Gourville, “who told you that they do not come from Beaugency or from Moit even?”
“Bah!” said Gourville, “who told you they don’t come from Beaugency or Moit either?”
“We have seen no lighter of that shape, except at Orleans. It comes from Orleans, monsieur, and makes great haste.”
“We haven't seen a light like that, except in Orleans. It comes from Orleans, sir, and it's moving fast.”
Fouquet and Gourville exchanged a glance. The captain remarked their uneasiness, and, to mislead him, Gourville immediately said:
Fouquet and Gourville shared a look. The captain noticed their discomfort, and to throw him off, Gourville quickly said:
“Some friend, who has laid a wager he would catch us; let us win the wager, and not allow him to come up with us.”
"Some friend has made a bet that he can catch us; let's win the bet and not let him catch up."
The patron opened his mouth to say that it was quite impossible, but Fouquet said with much hauteur,—“If it is any one who wishes to overtake us, let him come.”
The patron started to speak, intending to say it was impossible, but Fouquet replied with a lot of arrogance, “If anyone wants to catch up with us, let them come.”
“We can try, monseigneur,” said the man, timidly. “Come, you fellows, put out your strength; row, row!”
“We can try, sir,” said the man, hesitantly. “Come on, you guys, put in some effort; row, row!”
“No,” said Fouquet, “on the contrary; stop short.”
“No,” said Fouquet, “on the contrary; hold on.”
“Monseigneur! what folly!” interrupted Gourville, stooping towards his ear.
“Monseigneur! What a ridiculous thing to say!” interrupted Gourville, leaning closer to his ear.
“Pull up!” repeated Fouquet. The eight oars stopped, and resisting the water, created a retrograde motion. It stopped. The twelve rowers in the other did not, at first, perceive this maneuver, for they continued to urge on their boat so vigorously that it arrived quickly within musket-shot. Fouquet was short-sighted, Gourville was annoyed by the sun, now full in his eyes; the skipper alone, with that habit and clearness which are acquired by a constant struggle with the elements, perceived distinctly the travelers in the neighboring lighter.
“Pull up!” Fouquet shouted again. The eight oars came to a halt, and fighting against the water, created a backward movement. It stopped. The twelve rowers in the other boat didn’t notice this maneuver at first, as they kept pushing their boat so hard that it quickly drew within shooting range. Fouquet was short-sighted, and Gourville was troubled by the sun, which was now shining directly in his eyes; only the skipper, with the clarity and instinct gained from constant battles with the elements, clearly saw the travelers in the nearby lighter.
“I can see them!” cried he; “there are two.”
"I can see them!" he shouted. "There are two."
“I can see nothing,” said Gourville.
“I can't see anything,” said Gourville.
“You will not be long before you distinguish them; in twenty strokes of their oars they will be within ten paces of us.”
“You won’t have to wait long to spot them; in twenty strokes of their oars, they’ll be just ten steps away from us.”
But what the patron announced was not realized; the lighter imitated the movement commanded by Fouquet, and instead of coming to join its pretended friends, it stopped short in the middle of the river.
But what the patron announced didn't happen; the lighter followed the movement directed by Fouquet, and instead of joining its supposed friends, it came to a halt in the middle of the river.
“I cannot comprehend this,” said the captain.
"I can't understand this," said the captain.
“Nor I,” cried Gourville.
“Me neither,” cried Gourville.
“You who can see so plainly the people in that lighter,” resumed Fouquet, “try to describe them to us, before we are too far off.”
“You who can see the people in that lighter so clearly,” continued Fouquet, “please describe them to us before we get too far away.”
“I thought I saw two,” replied the boatman. “I can only see one now, under the tent.”
“I thought I saw two,” the boatman replied. “I can only see one now, under the tent.”
“What sort of man is he?”
“What kind of guy is he?”
“He is a dark man, broad-shouldered, bull-necked.”
“He's a dark-skinned man, broad-shouldered and heavyset.”
A little cloud at that moment passed across the azure, darkening the sun. Gourville, who was still looking, with one hand over his eyes, became able to see what he sought, and all at once, jumping from the deck into the chamber where Fouquet awaited him: “Colbert!” said he, in a voice broken by emotion.
A small cloud crossed the blue sky, blocking the sun. Gourville, still shielding his eyes with one hand, could finally see what he was looking for. Suddenly, he jumped from the deck into the room where Fouquet was waiting for him. “Colbert!” he said, his voice shaking with emotion.
“Colbert!” repeated Fouquet. “Too strange! but no, it is impossible!”
“Colbert!” echoed Fouquet. “So weird! But no, that can’t be right!”
“I tell you I recognized him, and he, at the same time, so plainly recognized me, that he is just gone into the chamber on the poop. Perhaps the king has sent him on our track.”
“I’m telling you, I recognized him, and at the same time, he totally recognized me, so he just went into the room on the poop deck. Maybe the king has sent him after us.”
“In that case he would join us, instead of lying by. What is he doing there?”
“In that case, he would join us instead of just lying around. What is he doing there?”
“He is watching us, without a doubt.”
“He’s definitely watching us.”
“I do not like uncertainty,” said Fouquet; “let us go straight up to him.”
“I don’t like uncertainty,” said Fouquet; “let's go right up to him.”
“Oh! monseigneur, do not do that, the lighter is full of armed men.”
“Oh! sir, don’t do that, the boat is full of armed men.”
“He wishes to arrest me, then, Gourville? Why does he not come on?”
“He wants to arrest me, then, Gourville? Why doesn't he just come over?”
“Monseigneur, it is not consistent with your dignity to go to meet even your ruin.”
“Your Excellency, it doesn't befit your status to even go meet your downfall.”
“But to allow them to watch me like a malefactor!”
“But to let them watch me like a criminal!”
“Nothing yet proves that they are watching you, monseigneur; be patient!”
“Nothing has shown that they're watching you yet, sir; just be patient!”
“What is to be done, then?”
“What should we do now?”
“Do not stop; you were only going so fast to appear to obey the king’s order with zeal. Redouble the speed. He who lives will see!”
“Don’t stop; you were just going fast to show you were following the king’s order eagerly. Pick up the pace. Those who survive will see!”
“That is better. Come!” cried Fouquet; “since they remain stock-still yonder, let us go on.”
"That's better. Come on!" shouted Fouquet. "Since they're just standing there, let's move ahead."
The captain gave the signal, and Fouquet’s rowers resumed their task with all the success that could be looked for from men who had rested. Scarcely had the lighter made a hundred fathoms, than the other, that with the twelve rowers, resumed its rapid course. This position lasted all day, without any increase or diminution of distance between the two vessels. Towards evening Fouquet wished to try the intentions of his persecutor. He ordered his rowers to pull towards the shore, as if to effect a landing. Colbert’s lighter imitated this maneuver, and steered towards the shore in a slanting direction. By the merest chance, at the spot where Fouquet pretended to wish to land, a stableman, from the chateau of Langeais, was following the flowery banks leading three horses in halters. Without doubt the people of the twelve-oared lighter fancied that Fouquet was directing his course to these horses ready for flight, for four or five men, armed with muskets, jumped from the lighter on to the shore, and marched along the banks, as if to gain ground on the horseman. Fouquet, satisfied of having forced the enemy to a demonstration, considered his intention evident, and put his boat in motion again. Colbert’s people returned likewise to theirs, and the course of the two vessels was resumed with fresh perseverance. Upon seeing this, Fouquet felt himself threatened closely, and in a prophetic voice—“Well, Gourville,” said he, whisperingly, “what did I say at our last repast, at my house? Am I going, or not, to my ruin?”
The captain signaled, and Fouquet’s rowers got back to work with all the energy you’d expect from men who had rested. Just as the lighter had covered a hundred fathoms, the other one, with its twelve rowers, took off at full speed. This situation continued all day, with no change in distance between the two boats. By evening, Fouquet wanted to test his pursuer's intentions. He ordered his rowers to head toward the shore, as if they were planning to land. Colbert’s lighter copied this move, steering toward the shore at an angle. By pure chance, right where Fouquet pretended he wanted to land, a stableman from the Langeais chateau was following the flower-filled banks, leading three horses. No doubt, the crew of the twelve-oared lighter thought that Fouquet was aiming for those horses ready to bolt, because four or five men armed with muskets jumped from the lighter onto the shore and walked along the banks, seemingly trying to get ahead of the horseman. Fouquet, pleased that he had forced the enemy to show their hand, figured his plan was clear and set his boat in motion again. Colbert’s team did the same, and both vessels resumed their course with renewed determination. Seeing this, Fouquet felt a close threat and, in a prophetic tone, whispered, “Well, Gourville, what did I say at our last meal at my house? Am I going, or not, to my ruin?”
“Oh! monseigneur!”
“Oh! my lord!”
“These two boats, which follow each other with so much emulation, as if we were disputing, M. Colbert and I, a prize for swiftness on the Loire, do they not aptly represent our fortunes; and do you not believe, Gourville, that one of the two will be wrecked at Nantes?”
“These two boats, which are racing each other so eagerly, as if M. Colbert and I were competing for a speed prize on the Loire, don't they perfectly reflect our fortunes? And don’t you think, Gourville, that one of them will end up wrecked at Nantes?”
“At least,” objected Gourville, “there is still uncertainty; you are about to appear at the States; you are about to show what sort of man you are; your eloquence and genius for business are the buckler and sword that will serve to defend you, if not to conquer with. The Bretons do not know you; and when they become acquainted with you your cause is won! Oh! let M. Colbert look to it well, for his lighter is as much exposed as yours to being upset. Both go quickly, his faster than yours, it is true; we shall see which will be wrecked first.”
“At least,” Gourville countered, “there's still some uncertainty; you’re about to present yourself to the States; you’re about to show what kind of person you are. Your eloquence and knack for business are the shield and sword that will protect you, if not help you triumph. The Bretons don’t know you, and once they get to know you, your cause will be secure! Oh! Mr. Colbert better be careful because his lighter is just as likely to capsize as yours. Both are moving quickly, his is faster than yours, that’s true; we’ll see which one sinks first.”
Fouquet, taking Gourville’s hand—“My friend,” said he, “everything considered, remember the proverb, ‘First come, first served!’ Well! M. Colbert takes care not to pass me. He is a prudent man is M. Colbert.”
Fouquet, taking Gourville’s hand—“My friend,” he said, “all things considered, remember the saying, ‘First come, first served!’ Well! M. Colbert makes sure not to let me get ahead. He’s a careful man, that M. Colbert.”
He was right; the two lighters held their course as far as Nantes, watching each other. When the surintendant landed, Gourville hoped he should be able to seek refuge at once, and have the relays prepared. But, at the landing, the second lighter joined the first, and Colbert, approaching Fouquet, saluted him on the quay with marks of the profoundest respect—marks so significant, so public, that their result was the bringing of the whole population upon La Fosse. Fouquet was completely self-possessed; he felt that in his last moments of greatness he had obligations towards himself. He wished to fall from such a height that his fall should crush some of his enemies. Colbert was there—so much the worse for Colbert. The surintendant, therefore, coming up to him, replied, with that arrogant semi-closure of the eyes peculiar to him—“What! is that you, M. Colbert?”
He was right; the two barges kept their path all the way to Nantes, keeping an eye on each other. When the surintendant landed, Gourville hoped he could find shelter immediately and get the relays ready. But upon landing, the second barge joined the first, and Colbert, approaching Fouquet, greeted him on the quay with the utmost respect—signs so significant and public that they drew the entire crowd to La Fosse. Fouquet remained completely composed; he knew that in his final moments of power, he had duties to himself. He wanted to fall from such a great height that his fall would take some of his enemies down with him. Colbert was there—so much the worse for Colbert. Therefore, as he approached him, the surintendant replied, with that arrogant half-closed look typical of him, “What! Is that you, M. Colbert?”
“To offer you my respects, monseigneur,” said the latter.
“To pay my respects to you, sir,” said the latter.
“Were you in that lighter?”—pointing to the one with twelve rowers.
“Were you in that small boat?”—pointing to the one with twelve rowers.
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Of twelve rowers?” said Fouquet; “what luxury, M. Colbert. For a moment I thought it was the queen-mother.”
“Of twelve rowers?” said Fouquet; “what luxury, Mr. Colbert. For a moment I thought it was the queen mother.”
“Monseigneur!”—and Colbert blushed.
“Sir!”—and Colbert blushed.
“This is a voyage that will cost those who have to pay for it dear, Monsieur l’Intendant!” said Fouquet. “But you have, happily, arrived!—You see, however,” added he, a moment after, “that I, who had but eight rowers, arrived before you.” And he turned his back towards him, leaving him uncertain whether the maneuvers of the second lighter had escaped the notice of the first. At least he did not give him the satisfaction of showing that he had been frightened. Colbert, so annoyingly attacked, did not give way.
“This is a journey that will cost those who have to pay for it a lot, Monsieur l’Intendant!” said Fouquet. “But luckily, you’ve made it!—You see, though,” he added a moment later, “that I, with only eight rowers, got here before you.” And he turned away from him, leaving him unsure whether the movements of the second barge had gone unnoticed by the first. At the very least, he didn’t give him the satisfaction of showing that he had been scared. Colbert, who was being annoyingly attacked, didn’t back down.
“I have not been quick, monseigneur,” he replied, “because I followed your example whenever you stopped.”
“I haven't been fast, sir,” he replied, “because I kept following your lead whenever you paused.”
“And why did you do that, Monsieur Colbert?” cried Fouquet, irritated by the base audacity; “as you had a superior crew to mine, why did you not either join me or pass me?”
“And why did you do that, Mr. Colbert?” shouted Fouquet, annoyed by the sheer audacity; “since you had a better crew than mine, why didn’t you either team up with me or go past me?”
“Out of respect,” said the intendant, bowing to the ground.
“Out of respect,” said the manager, bowing to the ground.
Fouquet got into a carriage which the city had sent to him, we know not why or how, and he repaired to la Maison de Nantes, escorted by a vast crowd of people, who for several days had been agog with expectation of a convocation of the States. Scarcely was he installed when Gourville went out to order horses on the route to Poitiers and Vannes, and a boat at Paimboef. He performed these various operations with so much mystery, activity, and generosity, that never was Fouquet, then laboring under an attack of fever, more nearly saved, except for the counteraction of that immense disturber of human projects,—chance. A report was spread during the night, that the king was coming in great haste on post horses, and would arrive in ten or twelve hours at the latest. The people, while waiting for the king, were greatly rejoiced to see the musketeers, newly arrived, with Monsieur d’Artagnan, their captain, and quartered in the castle, of which they occupied all the posts, in quality of guard of honor. M. d’Artagnan, who was very polite, presented himself, about ten o’clock, at the lodgings of the surintendant to pay his respectful compliments; and although the minister suffered from fever, although he was in such pain as to be bathed in sweat, he would receive M. d’Artagnan, who was delighted with that honor, as will be seen by the conversation they had together.
Fouquet got into a carriage that the city had sent for him, though we don’t know why or how, and he went to la Maison de Nantes, followed by a large crowd of people who had been eagerly anticipating a meeting of the States for several days. He had barely settled in when Gourville went out to arrange for horses headed to Poitiers and Vannes, and a boat at Paimboef. He handled all these tasks with such secrecy, speed, and generosity that Fouquet, who was battling a fever, was nearly saved—if not for the unpredictable nature of chance. A rumor spread during the night that the king was rushing to arrive on post horses and would be there in ten to twelve hours at the latest. While waiting for the king, the crowd was thrilled to see the newly arrived musketeers, led by Monsieur d’Artagnan, their captain, who were stationed at the castle and occupied all the posts as the honor guard. M. d’Artagnan, being very courteous, came to the Surintendant's lodgings around ten o'clock to pay his respects; and even though the minister was suffering from fever and in so much pain that he was drenched in sweat, he still welcomed M. d’Artagnan, who was very pleased by that honor, as will be evident from their conversation.
Chapter XXXVIII. Friendly Advice.
Fouquet had gone to bed, like a man who clings to life, and wishes to economize, as much as possible, that slender tissue of existence, of which the shocks and frictions of this world so quickly wear out the tenuity. D’Artagnan appeared at the door of this chamber, and was saluted by the superintendent with a very affable “Good day.”
Fouquet had gone to bed, like someone who holds on to life and wants to make the most of that fragile thread of existence, which the challenges and stresses of this world quickly thin out. D’Artagnan appeared at the door of this room and was greeted by the superintendent with a friendly “Good day.”
“Bon jour! monseigneur,” replied the musketeer; “how did you get through the journey?”
“Good morning! my lord,” replied the musketeer; “how was your trip?”
“Tolerably well, thank you.”
“Pretty good, thanks.”
“And the fever?”
"And how's the fever?"
“But poorly. I drink, as you perceive. I am scarcely arrived, and I have already levied a contribution of tisane upon Nantes.”
“But not well. I drink, as you can see. I've barely arrived, and I've already imposed a demand for some herbal tea from Nantes.”
“You should sleep first, monseigneur.”
"Get some sleep first, monseigneur."
“Eh! corbleu! my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, I should be very glad to sleep.”
“Hey! corbleu! my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, I’d really like to get some sleep.”
“Who hinders you?”
“Who’s holding you back?”
“Why, you in the first place.”
"Why you in the first place."
“I? Oh, monseigneur!”
“I? Oh, my lord!”
“No doubt you do. Is it at Nantes as at Paris? Do you not come in the king’s name?”
“No doubt you do. Is it the same in Nantes as in Paris? Aren't you coming on behalf of the king?”
“For Heaven’s sake, monseigneur,” replied the captain, “leave the king alone! The day on which I shall come on the part of the king, for the purpose you mean, take my word for it, I will not leave you long in doubt. You will see me place my hand on my sword, according to the ordonnance, and you will hear my say at once, in ceremonial voice, ‘Monseigneur, in the name of the king, I arrest you!’”
“For heaven's sake, sir,” replied the captain, “leave the king out of this! The day I come on behalf of the king for the reason you think, believe me, I won’t keep you guessing. You’ll see me put my hand on my sword, as per the rules, and you’ll hear me say right away, in a formal tone, ‘Sir, in the name of the king, I arrest you!’”
“You promise me that frankness?” said the superintendent.
“You promise me that honesty?” said the superintendent.
“Upon my honor! But we have not come to that, believe me.”
"Honestly! But we haven't reached that point, trust me."
“What makes you think that, M. d’Artagnan? For my part, I think quite the contrary.”
“What makes you think that, M. d’Artagnan? I, for one, believe the opposite.”
“I have heard speak of nothing of the kind,” replied D’Artagnan.
"I haven't heard anything like that," replied D’Artagnan.
“Eh! eh!” said Fouquet.
“Eh! eh!” said Fouquet.
“Indeed, no. You are an agreeable man, in spite of your fever. The king should not, cannot help loving you, at the bottom of his heart.”
“Definitely not. You're a likable guy, even with your fever. The king shouldn't, and can't help but love you deep down in his heart.”
Fouquet’s expression implied doubt. “But M. Colbert?” said he; “does M. Colbert love me as much as you say?”
Fouquet’s expression showed hesitation. “But M. Colbert?” he asked; “does M. Colbert care for me as much as you say?”
“I am not speaking of M. Colbert,” replied D’Artagnan. “He is an exceptional man. He does not love you; so much is very possible; but, mordioux! the squirrel can guard himself against the adder with very little trouble.”
“I’m not talking about M. Colbert,” D’Artagnan replied. “He’s a remarkable man. It’s quite possible he doesn’t love you; however, mordioux! the squirrel can keep itself safe from the adder with very little effort.”
“Do you know that you are speaking to me quite as a friend?” replied Fouquet; “and that, upon my life! I have never met with a man of your intelligence, and heart?”
“Did you know you’re talking to me like a friend?” replied Fouquet. “And honestly! I’ve never come across a man with your intelligence and heart!”
“You are pleased to say so,” replied D’Artagnan. “Why did you wait till to-day to pay me such a compliment?”
“You're happy to say that,” replied D’Artagnan. “Why did you wait until today to give me such a compliment?”
“Blind that we are!” murmured Fouquet.
“How blind we are!” murmured Fouquet.
“Your voice is getting hoarse,” said D’Artagnan; “drink, monseigneur, drink!” And he offered him a cup of tisane, with the most friendly cordiality; Fouquet took it, and thanked him by a gentle smile. “Such things only happen to me,” said the musketeer. “I have passed ten years under your very beard, while you were rolling about tons of gold. You were clearing an annual pension of four millions; you never observed me; and you find out there is such a person in the world, just at the moment you—”
“Your voice is getting raspy,” said D’Artagnan. “Drink, monseigneur, drink!” He offered him a cup of herbal tea with the friendliest gesture. Fouquet took it and thanked him with a gentle smile. “This only happens to me,” said the musketeer. “I've spent ten years right under your nose while you were swimming in gold. You were collecting an annual pension of four million; you never noticed me; and now you discover I exist just as you—”
“Just at the moment I am about to fall,” interrupted Fouquet. “That is true, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“Just as I’m about to fall,” interrupted Fouquet. “That’s right, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“I did not say so.”
"I didn't say that."
“But you thought so; and that is the same thing. Well! if I fall, take my word as truth, I shall not pass a single day without saying to myself, as I strike my brow, ‘Fool! fool!—stupid mortal! You had a Monsieur d’Artagnan under your eye and hand, and you did not employ him, you did not enrich him!’”
"But you believed that, and that's basically the same thing. Well! If I fail, believe me when I say I won't go a single day without telling myself, as I hit my forehead, ‘Idiot! Idiot!—stupid human! You had a Monsieur d’Artagnan right in front of you, and you didn't use him, you didn't benefit from him!’”
“You overwhelm me,” said the captain. “I esteem you greatly.”
“You amaze me,” said the captain. “I think very highly of you.”
“There exists another man, then, who does not think as M. Colbert thinks,” said the surintendant.
“There is another man, then, who doesn’t think the way M. Colbert thinks,” said the superintendent.
“How this M. Colbert looms up in your imagination! He is worse than fever!”
"Wow, this M. Colbert really sticks in your mind! He's worse than a fever!"
“Oh! I have good cause,” said Fouquet. “Judge for yourself.” And he related the details of the course of the lighters, and the hypocritical persecution of Colbert. “Is not this a clear sign of my ruin?”
“Oh! I have a good reason,” said Fouquet. “You can see for yourself.” And he explained what had happened with the lighters and the fake persecution from Colbert. “Isn’t this a clear sign that I'm doomed?”
D’Artagnan became very serious. “That is true,” he said. “Yes; it has an unsavory odor, as M. de Treville used to say.” And he fixed on M. Fouquet his intelligent and significant look.
D’Artagnan became very serious. “That’s true,” he said. “Yeah; it has a nasty smell, like M. de Treville used to say.” And he gave M. Fouquet a knowing and meaningful look.
“Am I not clearly designated in that, captain? Is not the king bringing me to Nantes to get me away from Paris, where I have so many creatures, and to possess himself of Belle-Isle?”
“Am I not clearly assigned that role, captain? Isn’t the king bringing me to Nantes to get me away from Paris, where I have so many followers, and to take control of Belle-Isle?”
“Where M. d’Herblay is,” added D’Artagnan. Fouquet raised his head. “As for me, monseigneur,” continued D’Artagnan, “I can assure you the king has said nothing to me against you.”
“Where M. d’Herblay is,” added D’Artagnan. Fouquet raised his head. “As for me, Your Excellency,” continued D’Artagnan, “I can assure you the king hasn’t said anything against you.”
“Indeed!”
"Absolutely!"
“The king commanded me to set out for Nantes, it is true; and to say nothing about it to M. de Gesvres.”
“The king ordered me to head to Nantes, that’s true; and not to mention it to M. de Gesvres.”
“My friend.”
"My friend."
“To M. de Gesvres, yes, monseigneur,” continued the musketeer, whose eye s did not cease to speak a language different from the language of his lips. “The king, moreover, commanded me to take a brigade of musketeers, which is apparently superfluous, as the country is quite quiet.”
“To M. de Gesvres, yes, sir,” continued the musketeer, whose eyes spoke a different language than his words. “The king also ordered me to take a squad of musketeers, which seems unnecessary since the country is pretty calm.”
“A brigade!” said Fouquet, raising himself upon his elbow.
“A brigade!” said Fouquet, propping himself up on his elbow.
“Ninety-six horsemen, yes, monseigneur. The same number as were employed in arresting MM. de Chalais, de Cinq-Mars, and Montmorency.”
“Ninety-six horsemen, yes, sir. The same number that was used to arrest Messrs. de Chalais, de Cinq-Mars, and Montmorency.”
Fouquet pricked up his ears at these words, pronounced without apparent value. “And what else?” said he.
Fouquet perked up at these words, which were said without much importance. “And what else?” he asked.
“Oh! nothing but insignificant orders; such as guarding the castle, guarding every lodging, allowing none of M. de Gesvres’s guards to occupy a single post.”
“Oh! just trivial orders; like watching over the castle, overseeing every lodging, and not letting any of M. de Gesvres’s guards take a single post.”
“And as to myself,” cried Fouquet, “what orders had you?”
“And what about me?” shouted Fouquet. “What orders did you have?”
“As to you, monseigneur?—not the smallest word.”
“As for you, my lord?—not a single word.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan, my safety, my honor, perhaps my life are at stake. You would not deceive me?”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan, my safety, my honor, and maybe even my life are on the line. You wouldn’t trick me, would you?”
“I?—to what end? Are you threatened? Only there really is an order with respect to carriages and boats—”
“I?—what for? Are you feeling threatened? There is actually a system when it comes to carriages and boats—”
“An order?”
"Is that an order?"
“Yes; but it cannot concern you—a simple measure of police.”
“Yes, but it shouldn’t concern you—just a standard police procedure.”
“What is it, captain?—what is it?”
“What is it, captain? What’s going on?”
“To forbid all horses or boats to leave Nantes, without a pass, signed by the king.”
“To prohibit all horses or boats from leaving Nantes without a pass signed by the king.”
“Great God! but—”
"Wow! But—"
D’Artagnan began to laugh. “All that is not to be put into execution before the arrival of the king at Nantes. So that you see plainly, monseigneur, the order in nowise concerns you.”
D’Artagnan started to laugh. “None of that is going to happen until the king arrives in Nantes. So it’s clear, my lord, that this order has nothing to do with you.”
Fouquet became thoughtful, and D’Artagnan feigned not to observe his preoccupation. “It is evident, by my thus confiding to you the orders which have been given to me, that I am friendly towards you, and that I am trying to prove to you that none of them are directed against you.”
Fouquet grew pensive, and D’Artagnan pretended not to notice his distraction. “It’s clear, by my sharing the orders I’ve received with you, that I’m on your side and that I’m trying to show you that none of them are aimed at you.”
“Without doubt!—without doubt!” said Fouquet, still absent.
“Absolutely!—absolutely!” said Fouquet, still not fully present.
“Let us recapitulate,” said the captain, his glance beaming with earnestness. “A special guard about the castle, in which your lodging is to be, is it not?”
“Let’s recap,” said the captain, his look full of sincerity. “A special guard around the castle, where you’ll be staying, right?”
“Do you know the castle?”
“Do you know the castle?”
“Ah! monseigneur, a regular prison! The absence of M. de Gesvres, who has the honor of being one of your friends. The closing of the gates of the city, and of the river without a pass; but, only when the king shall have arrived. Please to observe, Monsieur Fouquet, that if, instead of speaking to man like you, who are one of the first in the kingdom, I were speaking to a troubled, uneasy conscience—I should compromise myself forever. What a fine opportunity for any one who wished to be free! No police, no guards, no orders; the water free, the roads free, Monsieur d’Artagnan obliged to lend his horses, if required. All this ought to reassure you, Monsieur Fouquet, for the king would not have left me thus independent, if he had any sinister designs. In truth, Monsieur Fouquet, ask me whatever you like, I am at your service; and, in return, if you will consent to do it, do me a service, that of giving my compliments to Aramis and Porthos, in case you embark for Belle-Isle, as you have a right to do without changing your dress, immediately, in your robe de chambre—just as you are.” Saying these words, and with a profound bow, the musketeer, whose looks had lost none of their intelligent kindness, left the apartment. He had not reached the steps of the vestibule, when Fouquet, quite beside himself, hung to the bell-rope, and shouted, “My horses!—my lighter!” But nobody answered. The surintendant dressed himself with everything that came to hand.
“Ah! Your Excellency, this feels like a prison! M. de Gesvres is missing, who has the honor of being one of your friends. The city gates are closed, and the river is locked down without a pass; but only until the king arrives. Please note, Monsieur Fouquet, that if I were speaking to someone other than you, who is one of the most respected in the kingdom, I would be putting myself in a difficult position forever. What a perfect opportunity for anyone wanting to escape! No police, no guards, no orders; the waterways are open, the roads are clear, and Monsieur d’Artagnan is obligated to lend his horses, if needed. All of this should put you at ease, Monsieur Fouquet, because the king wouldn’t leave me so independent if he had any bad intentions. Honestly, Monsieur Fouquet, ask me anything you want; I’m here to help you. And in return, if you could, please send my regards to Aramis and Porthos if you head to Belle-Isle, as you have every right to do without changing out of your robe de chambre—just as you are.” After saying this, with a deep bow, the musketeer, whose face still radiated kindness and intelligence, left the room. He had barely made it to the steps of the vestibule when Fouquet, completely flustered, grabbed the bell-rope and shouted, “My horses!—my lighter!” But no one responded. The superintendent dressed in whatever he could find.
“Gourville!—Gourville!” cried he, while slipping his watch into his pocket. And the bell sounded again, whilst Fouquet repeated, “Gourville!—Gourville!”
“Gourville!—Gourville!” he shouted, slipping his watch into his pocket. The bell rang again as Fouquet called out, “Gourville!—Gourville!”
Gourville at length appeared, breathless and pale.
Gourville finally showed up, out of breath and looking pale.
“Let us be gone! Let us be gone!” cried Fouquet, as soon as he saw him.
“Let’s get out of here! Let’s get out of here!” cried Fouquet as soon as he saw him.
“It is too late!” said the surintendant’s poor friend.
“It’s too late!” said the superintendent’s poor friend.
“Too late!—why?”
"Why is it too late?"
“Listen!” And they heard the sounds of trumpets and drums in front of the castle.
“Listen!” And they heard the sounds of trumpets and drums in front of the castle.
“What does that mean, Gourville?”
“What does that mean, Gourville?”
“It means the king is come, monseigneur.”
"It means the king has arrived, sir."
“The king!”
"The king!"
“The king, who has ridden double stages, who has killed horses, and who is eight hours in advance of all our calculations.”
“The king, who has ridden for two full stages, who has worn out horses, and who is eight hours ahead of all our estimates.”
“We are lost!” murmured Fouquet. “Brave D’Artagnan, all is over, thou has spoken to me too late!”
“We're lost!” murmured Fouquet. “Brave D’Artagnan, it’s all over, you spoke to me too late!”
The king, in fact, was entering the city, which soon resounded with the cannon from the ramparts, and from a vessel which replied from the lower parts of the river. Fouquet’s brow darkened; he called his valets de chambre and dressed in ceremonial costume. From his window, behind the curtains, he could see the eagerness of the people, and the movement of a large troop, which had followed the prince. The king was conducted to the castle with great pomp, and Fouquet saw him dismount under the portcullis, and say something in the ear of D’Artagnan, who held his stirrup. D’Artagnan, when the king had passed under the arch, directed his steps towards the house Fouquet was in; but so slowly, and stopping so frequently to speak to his musketeers, drawn up like a hedge, that it might be said he was counting the seconds, or the steps, before accomplishing his object. Fouquet opened the window to speak to him in the court.
The king was actually entering the city, which quickly echoed with cannon fire from the ramparts and from a ship responding from the lower part of the river. Fouquet’s mood darkened; he called his valets de chambre and put on his ceremonial outfit. From his window, behind the curtains, he could see the crowd’s excitement and the movement of a large group that had followed the prince. The king was escorted to the castle with great ceremony, and Fouquet watched him dismount under the portcullis and whisper something to D’Artagnan, who was holding his stirrup. After the king passed through the arch, D’Artagnan made his way toward the house where Fouquet was, but he moved so slowly and stopped so often to chat with his musketeers, lined up like a barrier, that it seemed like he was counting the seconds or the steps before reaching his destination. Fouquet opened the window to speak to him in the courtyard.
“Ah!” cried D’Artagnan, on perceiving him, “are you still there, monseigneur?”
“Ah!” yelled D’Artagnan, spotting him, “are you still here, my lord?”
And that word still completed the proof to Fouquet of how much information and how many useful counsels were contained in the first visit the musketeer had paid him. The surintendant sighed deeply. “Good heavens! yes, monsieur,” replied he. “The arrival of the king has interrupted me in the projects I had formed.”
And that word still completed the proof to Fouquet of how much information and how many useful counsels were contained in the first visit the musketeer had paid him. The superintendent sighed deeply. “Good heavens! Yes, sir,” he replied. “The arrival of the king has interrupted the plans I had made.”
“Oh, then you know that the king has arrived?”
“Oh, so you know that the king is here?”
“Yes, monsieur, I have seen him; and this time you come from him—”
“Yes, sir, I have seen him; and this time you come from him—”
“To inquire after you, monseigneur; and, if your health is not too bad, to beg you to have the kindness to repair to the castle.”
"To check on you, sir; and, if you're feeling well enough, to kindly request that you come to the castle."
“Directly, Monsieur d’Artagnan, directly!”
"Right away, Monsieur d’Artagnan, right away!"
“Ah, mordioux!” said the captain, “now the king is come, there is no more walking for anybody—no more free will; the password governs all now, you as much as me, me as much as you.”
“Ah, mordioux!” said the captain, “now that the king has arrived, no one can walk freely anymore—no more free will; the password controls everything now, you just as much as me, me just as much as you.”
Fouquet heaved a last sigh, climbed with difficulty into his carriage, so great was his weakness, and went to the castle, escorted by D’Artagnan, whose politeness was not less terrifying this time than it had just before been consoling and cheerful.
Fouquet let out one last sigh, struggled to get into his carriage due to his weakness, and headed to the castle, accompanied by D’Artagnan, whose politeness was just as frightening this time as it had been comforting and cheerful before.
Chapter XXXIX. How the King, Louis XIV., Played His Little Part.
As Fouquet was alighting from his carriage, to enter the castle of Nantes, a man of mean appearance went up to him with marks of the greatest respect, and gave him a letter. D’Artagnan endeavored to prevent this man from speaking to Fouquet, and pushed him away, but the message had been given to the surintendant. Fouquet opened the letter and read it, and instantly a vague terror, which D’Artagnan did not fail to penetrate, was painted on the countenance of the first minister. Fouquet put the paper into the portfolio which he had under his arm, and passed on towards the king’s apartments. D’Artagnan, through the small windows made at every landing of the donjon stairs, saw, as he went up behind Fouquet, the man who had delivered the note, looking round him on the place and making signs to several persons, who disappeared in the adjacent streets, after having themselves repeated the signals. Fouquet was made to wait for a moment on the terrace of which we have spoken,—a terrace which abutted on the little corridor, at the end of which the cabinet of the king was located. Here D’Artagnan passed on before the surintendant, whom, till that time, he had respectfully accompanied, and entered the royal cabinet.
As Fouquet got out of his carriage to enter the castle of Nantes, a poorly dressed man approached him with great respect and handed him a letter. D’Artagnan tried to stop this man from talking to Fouquet and pushed him away, but the message had already been delivered to the superintendent. Fouquet opened the letter and read it, and a vague terror, which D’Artagnan quickly noticed, appeared on the face of the first minister. Fouquet put the paper into the portfolio he was carrying and moved on toward the king’s rooms. As D’Artagnan followed Fouquet up the stairs of the donjon, he saw through the small windows at each landing the man who had delivered the note looking around and signaling to several people, who then vanished into the nearby streets after repeating the signals. Fouquet had to wait for a moment on the terrace we mentioned earlier—a terrace adjacent to the little corridor leading to the king's cabinet. At this point, D’Artagnan stepped ahead of the superintendent, whom he had been respectfully accompanying until then, and entered the royal cabinet.
“Well?” asked Louis XIV., who, on perceiving him, threw on to the table covered with papers a large green cloth.
“Well?” asked Louis XIV, who, seeing him, tossed a large green cloth onto the table that was covered with papers.
“The order is executed, sire.”
"The order is completed, sir."
“And Fouquet?”
"And Fouquet?"
“Monsieur le surintendant follows me,” said D’Artagnan.
“Monsieur le surintendant is following me,” said D’Artagnan.
“In ten minutes let him be introduced,” said the king, dismissing D’Artagnan again with a gesture. The latter retired; but had scarcely reached the corridor at the extremity of which Fouquet was waiting for him, when he was recalled by the king’s bell.
“In ten minutes, have him introduced,” said the king, waving D’Artagnan away again. D’Artagnan left, but had barely reached the corridor at the end where Fouquet was waiting for him when the king’s bell summoned him back.
“Did he not appear astonished?” asked the king.
“Did he not seem surprised?” asked the king.
“Who, sire?”
“Who, sir?”
“Fouquet,” replied the king, without saying monsieur, a peculiarity which confirmed the captain of the musketeers in his suspicions.
“Fouquet,” the king replied, without adding monsieur, a detail that reinforced the musketeers captain's suspicions.
“No, sire,” replied he.
“No, sir,” he replied.
“That’s well!” And a second time Louis dismissed D’Artagnan.
"That's great!" And for a second time, Louis waved D'Artagnan away.
Fouquet had not quitted the terrace where he had been left by his guide. He reperused his note, conceived thus:
Fouquet had not left the terrace where his guide had left him. He reread his note, which said this:
“Something is being contrived against you. Perhaps they will not dare to carry it out at the castle; it will be on your return home. The house is already surrounded by musketeers. Do not enter. A white horse is in waiting for you behind the esplanade!”
“Something is being plotted against you. Maybe they won't have the guts to do it at the castle; it will happen when you're on your way back home. The house is already surrounded by musketeers. Don't go in. A white horse is waiting for you behind the esplanade!”
Fouquet recognized the writing and zeal of Gourville. Not being willing that, if any evil happened to himself, this paper should compromise a faithful friend, the surintendant was busy tearing it into a thousand morsels, spread about by the wind from the balustrade of the terrace. D’Artagnan found him watching the snowflake fluttering of the last scraps in space.
Fouquet saw the talent and dedication of Gourville. Not wanting to risk that, if anything happened to him, this document could jeopardize a loyal friend, the superintendent was busy tearing it into a thousand pieces, scattering them in the wind from the terrace railing. D’Artagnan found him watching the last bits fluttering in the air like snowflakes.
“Monsieur,” said he, “the king awaits you.”
“Mister,” he said, “the king is waiting for you.”
Fouquet walked with a deliberate step along the little corridor, where MM. de Brienne and Rose were at work, whilst the Duc de Saint-Aignan, seated on a chair, likewise in the corridor, appeared to be waiting for orders, with feverish impatience, his sword between his legs. It appeared strange to Fouquet that MM. Brienne, Rose, and de Saint-Aignan, in general so attentive and obsequious, should scarcely take the least notice, as he, the surintendant, passed. But how could he expect to find it otherwise among courtiers, he whom the king no longer called anything but Fouquet? He raised his head, determined to look every one and everything bravely in the face, and entered the king’s apartment, where a little bell, which we already know, had already announced him to his majesty.
Fouquet walked down the narrow hallway with a purposeful stride, where Messrs. de Brienne and Rose were busy working, while the Duke de Saint-Aignan, sitting on a chair in the corridor, seemed to be waiting for orders with restless impatience, his sword resting between his legs. It struck Fouquet as odd that Messrs. Brienne, Rose, and de Saint-Aignan, normally so attentive and deferential, barely acknowledged him as he, the superintendent, passed by. But how could he expect anything different from courtiers, given that the king no longer referred to him as anything but Fouquet? He lifted his chin, resolved to face everyone and everything boldly, and entered the king’s apartment, where a little bell, which we already know, had already announced him to His Majesty.
The king, without rising, nodded to him, and with interest: “Well! how are you, Monsieur Fouquet?” said he.
The king, staying seated, nodded at him with interest: “Well! How are you, Monsieur Fouquet?” he said.
“I am in a high fever,” replied the surintendant; “but I am at the king’s service.”
“I have a high fever,” replied the superintendent; “but I’m at the king’s service.”
“That is well; the States assemble to-morrow; have you a speech ready?”
“That’s good; the States are meeting tomorrow; do you have a speech prepared?”
Fouquet looked at the king with astonishment. “I have not, sire,” replied he; “but I will improvise one. I am too well acquainted with affairs to feel any embarrassment. I have only one question to ask; will your majesty permit me?”
Fouquet stared at the king in shock. “I haven’t, Your Majesty,” he answered; “but I can come up with one on the spot. I know enough about these matters to not feel awkward. I just need to ask one question; will you allow me, Your Majesty?”
“Certainly. Ask it.”
"Sure. Go ahead and ask."
“Why did not your majesty do his first minister the honor of giving him notice of this in Paris?”
“Why didn’t your majesty give your first minister the courtesy of informing him about this in Paris?”
“You were ill; I was not willing to fatigue you.”
"You were sick; I didn’t want to wear you out."
“Never did a labor—never did an explanation fatigue me, sire; and since the moment is come for me to demand an explanation of my king—”
“Never has a task—never has an explanation worn me out, sir; and now that the time has come for me to ask my king for an explanation—”
“Oh, Monsieur Fouquet! an explanation? An explanation, pray, of what?”
“Oh, Mister Fouquet! An explanation? Please, an explanation of what?”
“Of your majesty’s intentions with respect to myself.”
“Regarding your majesty’s intentions concerning me.”
The king blushed. “I have been calumniated,” continued Fouquet, warmly, “and I feel called upon to adjure the justice of the king to make inquiries.”
The king turned red. “I’ve been slandered,” Fouquet continued passionately, “and I believe it’s important to urge the king’s sense of justice to investigate.”
“You say all this to me very uselessly, Monsieur Fouquet; I know what I know.”
“You're telling me all this for no reason, Monsieur Fouquet; I'm aware of what I know.”
“Your majesty can only know the things that have been told to you; and I, on my part, have said nothing to you, whilst others have spoken many, many times—”
“Your majesty can only know what has been shared with you; and I, for my part, have said nothing to you, while others have spoken many, many times—”
“What do you wish to say?” said the king, impatient to put an end to this embarrassing conversation.
“What do you want to say?” the king asked, eager to wrap up this awkward conversation.
“I will go straight to the facts, sire; and I accuse a certain man of having injured me in your majesty’s opinion.”
“I'll get right to the point, your majesty; I accuse a certain man of having wronged me in your eyes.”
“Nobody has injured you, Monsieur Fouquet.”
“Nobody has hurt you, Mr. Fouquet.”
“That reply proves to me, sire, that I am right.”
"That response shows me, Your Majesty, that I'm correct."
“Monsieur Fouquet, I do not like people to be accused.”
“Monsieur Fouquet, I don’t like it when people are accused.”
“Not when one is accused?”
"Not if one is accused?"
“We have already spoken too much about this affair.”
“We've already talked too much about this situation.”
“Your majesty will not allow me to justify myself?”
“Are you really not going to let me explain myself, Your Majesty?”
“I repeat that I do not accuse you.”
“I want to make it clear that I’m not accusing you.”
Fouquet, with a half-bow, made a step backward. “It is certain,” thought he, “that he has made up his mind. He alone who cannot go back can show such obstinacy. Not to see the danger now would be to be blind indeed; not to shun it would be stupid.” He resumed aloud, “Did your majesty send for me on business?”
Fouquet, with a slight bow, took a step back. “It’s clear,” he thought, “that he’s made up his mind. Only someone who can't turn back can be this stubborn. Not recognizing the danger now would be truly blind; ignoring it would be foolish.” He then spoke up, “Did your majesty call me for business?”
“No, Monsieur Fouquet, but for some advice I wish to give you.”
“No, Monsieur Fouquet, but I have some advice I'd like to give you.”
“I respectfully await it, sire.”
“I’m waiting for it, sir.”
“Rest yourself, Monsieur Fouquet, do not throw away your strength; the session of the States will be short, and when my secretaries shall have closed it, I do not wish business to be talked of in France for a fortnight.”
“Take a break, Monsieur Fouquet, don’t waste your energy; the States session will be brief, and once my secretaries wrap it up, I don’t want any discussions about business in France for two weeks.”
“Has the king nothing to say to me on the subject of this assembly of the States?”
“Does the king have nothing to say to me about this assembly of the States?”
“No, Monsieur Fouquet.”
“No, Mr. Fouquet.”
“Not to me, the surintendant of the finances?”
“Not to me, the superintendent of finances?”
“Rest yourself, I beg you; that is all I have to say to you.”
“Please take a break, I’m asking you; that’s all I need to say to you.”
Fouquet bit his lips and hung his head. He was evidently busy with some uneasy thought. This uneasiness struck the king. “Are you angry at having to rest yourself, M. Fouquet?” said he.
Fouquet bit his lips and looked down. He was clearly preoccupied with some troubling thought. This unease caught the king's attention. “Are you upset about having to take a break, M. Fouquet?” he asked.
“Yes, sire, I am not accustomed to take rest.”
“Yes, sir, I’m not used to resting.”
“But you are ill; you must take care of yourself.”
"But you're sick; you need to take care of yourself."
“Your majesty spoke just now of a speech to be pronounced to-morrow.”
“Your majesty just mentioned a speech that will be given tomorrow.”
His majesty made no reply; this unexpected stroke embarrassed him. Fouquet felt the weight of this hesitation. He thought he could read danger in the eyes of the young prince, which fear would but precipitate. “If I appear frightened, I am lost,” thought he.
His majesty didn't respond; this unexpected move caught him off guard. Fouquet felt the pressure of this pause. He thought he could see danger in the young prince's eyes, which fear would only make worse. “If I show that I'm scared, I'm done for,” he thought.
The king, on his part, was only uneasy at the alarm of Fouquet. “Has he a suspicion of anything?” murmured he.
The king, for his part, was only troubled by Fouquet's alarm. “Does he suspect something?” he whispered.
“If his first word is severe,” again thought Fouquet; “if he becomes angry, or feigns to be angry for the sake of a pretext, how shall I extricate myself? Let us smooth the declivity a little. Gourville was right.”
“If his first word is harsh,” Fouquet thought again; “if he gets angry, or pretends to be angry as an excuse, how will I get out of this? Let’s ease the situation a bit. Gourville was right.”
“Sire,” said he, suddenly, “since the goodness of the king watches over my health to the point of dispensing with my labor, may I not be allowed to be absent from the council of to-morrow? I could pass the day in bed, and will entreat the king to grant me his physician, that we may endeavor to find a remedy against this fearful fever.”
“Sir,” he said suddenly, “since the kindness of the king cares about my health enough to excuse me from my work, may I not be allowed to miss the council tomorrow? I could spend the day in bed and will ask the king for his doctor so we can try to find a cure for this terrible fever.”
“So be it, Monsieur Fouquet, it shall be as you desire; you shall have a holiday to-morrow, you shall have the physician, and shall be restored to health.”
“Alright, Monsieur Fouquet, it will be as you wish; you’ll have a day off tomorrow, you’ll see the doctor, and you’ll recover your health.”
“Thanks!” said Fouquet, bowing. Then, opening his game: “Shall I not have the happiness of conducting your majesty to my residence of Belle-Isle?”
“Thanks!” said Fouquet, bowing. Then, starting his pitch: “Will I not have the pleasure of showing your majesty to my home at Belle-Isle?”
And he looked Louis full in the face, to judge of the effect of such a proposal. The king blushed again.
And he looked Louis straight in the face to see how he would react to such a proposal. The king blushed once more.
“Do you know,” replied he, endeavoring to smile, “that you have just said, ‘My residence of Belle-Isle’?”
“Do you know,” he replied, trying to smile, “that you just said, ‘My home in Belle-Isle’?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well! do you not remember,” continued the king in the same cheerful tone, “that you gave me Belle-Isle?”
“Well! don't you remember,” continued the king in the same cheerful tone, “that you gave me Belle-Isle?”
“That is true again, sire. Only, as you have not taken it, you will doubtless come with me and take possession of it.”
"That's true again, sir. But since you haven't taken it, you'll definitely come with me and claim it."
“I mean to do so.”
"I'm going to do that."
“That was, besides, your majesty’s intention as well as mine; and I cannot express to your majesty how happy and proud I have been to see all the king’s regiments from Paris to help take possession.”
“That was, besides, your majesty’s intention as well as mine; and I cannot express to your majesty how happy and proud I have been to see all the king’s regiments from Paris to help take possession.”
The king stammered out that he did not bring the musketeers for that alone.
The king stammered that he didn’t bring the musketeers just for that.
“Oh, I am convinced of that,” said Fouquet, warmly; “your majesty knows very well that you have nothing to do but to come alone with a cane in your hand, to bring to the ground all the fortifications of Belle-Isle.”
“Oh, I totally believe that,” said Fouquet, warmly; “Your majesty knows very well that all you need to do is come alone with a cane in your hand, and you can take down all the fortifications of Belle-Isle.”
“Peste!” cried the king; “I do not wish those fine fortifications, which cost so much to build, to fall at all. No, let them stand against the Dutch and English. You would not guess what I want to see at Belle-Isle, Monsieur Fouquet; it is the pretty peasants and women of the lands on the sea-shore, who dance so well, and are so seducing with their scarlet petticoats! I have heard great boast of your pretty tenants, monsieur le surintendant; well, let me have a sight of them.”
“Pest!” the king exclaimed; “I don’t want those impressive fortifications, which cost so much to build, to fall at all. No, let them stand strong against the Dutch and English. You wouldn’t believe what I want to see at Belle-Isle, Monsieur Fouquet; it’s the lovely peasants and women from the coastal lands, who dance so well and are so enticing in their red petticoats! I’ve heard a lot of praise about your charming tenants, monsieur le surintendant; well, I want to see them.”
“Whenever your majesty pleases.”
"Whenever you're ready, Your Majesty."
“Have you any means of transport? It shall be to-morrow, if you like.”
“Do you have any way to get around? It can be tomorrow if you’d like.”
The surintendant felt this stroke, which was not adroit, and replied, “No, sire; I was ignorant of your majesty’s wish; above all, I was ignorant of your haste to see Belle-Isle, and I am prepared with nothing.”
The superintendent felt this blow, which was not handled well, and replied, “No, sire; I wasn’t aware of your majesty’s desire; especially, I didn’t know you were in such a rush to see Belle-Isle, and I have nothing ready.”
“You have a boat of your own, nevertheless?”
“You still have your own boat, don’t you?”
“I have five; but they are all in port, or at Paimboeuf; and to join them, or bring them hither, would require at least twenty-four hours. Have I any occasion to send a courier? Must I do so?”
“I have five, but they're all in port or at Paimboeuf, and getting them here or joining them would take at least twenty-four hours. Do I need to send a courier? Should I do that?”
“Wait a little, put an end to the fever,—wait till to-morrow.”
“Wait a bit, stop the fever—wait until tomorrow.”
“That is true. Who knows but that by to-morrow we may not have a hundred other ideas?” replied Fouquet, now perfectly convinced and very pale.
"That's true. Who knows, by tomorrow we might come up with a hundred other ideas?" replied Fouquet, now fully convinced and very pale.
The king started, and stretched his hand out towards his little bell, but Fouquet prevented his ringing.
The king reached for his little bell, but Fouquet stopped him from ringing it.
“Sire,” said he, “I have an ague—I am trembling with cold. If I remain a moment longer, I shall most likely faint. I request your majesty’s permission to go and fling myself beneath the bedclothes.”
“Sire,” he said, “I have a fever—I’m shaking with cold. If I stay here any longer, I’ll probably faint. I ask for your majesty's permission to go and throw myself under the blankets.”
“Indeed, you are in a shiver; it is painful to behold! Come, Monsieur Fouquet, begone! I will send to inquire after you.”
“Wow, you’re really shivering; it’s hard to watch! Come on, Monsieur Fouquet, leave! I’ll send someone to check on you.”
“Your majesty overwhelms me with kindness. In an hour I shall be better.”
“Your majesty is incredibly kind to me. I’ll feel better in an hour.”
“I will call some one to reconduct you,” said the king.
“I'll call someone to take you back,” said the king.
“As you please, sire; I would gladly take the arm of any one.”
"As you wish, your majesty; I would happily take anyone's arm."
“Monsieur d’Artagnan!” cried the king, ringing his little bell.
“Monsieur d’Artagnan!” the king shouted, ringing his little bell.
“Oh, sire,” interrupted Fouquet, laughing in such a manner as made the prince feel cold, “would you give me the captain of your musketeers to take me to my lodgings? An equivocal honor that, sire! A simple footman, I beg.”
“Oh, Your Highness,” interrupted Fouquet, laughing in a way that sent a chill through the prince, “would you really have your captain of musketeers escort me to my lodgings? That’s quite a mixed blessing, Your Highness! I would prefer just a regular footman, please.”
“And why, M. Fouquet? M. d’Artagnan conducts me often, and extremely well!”
“And why, Mr. Fouquet? Mr. d’Artagnan often escorts me, and he does it extremely well!”
“Yes, but when he conducts you, sire, it is to obey you; whilst me—”
“Yes, but when he leads you, sir, it’s to follow your orders; while I—”
“Go on!”
"Keep going!"
“If I am obliged to return home supported by the leader of the musketeers, it would be everywhere said you had had me arrested.”
“If I have to go back home with the leader of the musketeers helping me, everyone will say you had me arrested.”
“Arrested!” replied the king, who became paler than Fouquet himself,—“arrested! oh!”
“Arrested!” replied the king, who became paler than Fouquet himself, —“arrested! oh!”
“And why should they not say so?” continued Fouquet, still laughing; “and I would lay a wager there would be people found wicked enough to laugh at it.” This sally disconcerted the monarch. Fouquet was skillful enough, or fortunate enough, to make Louis XIV. recoil before the appearance of the deed he meditated. M. d’Artagnan, when he appeared, received an order to desire a musketeer to accompany the surintendant.
“And why shouldn’t they say that?” Fouquet continued to laugh. “I bet there would be people cruel enough to find it funny.” This remark unsettled the king. Fouquet was clever, or maybe just lucky, to make Louis XIV hesitate before carrying out his plan. When M. d’Artagnan showed up, he received a command to have a musketeer accompany the superintendent.
“Quite unnecessary,” said the latter; “sword for sword; I prefer Gourville, who is waiting for me below. But that will not prevent me enjoying the society of M. d’Artagnan. I am glad he will see Belle-Isle, he is so good a judge of fortifications.”
“Totally unnecessary,” said the latter; “sword for sword; I’d rather have Gourville, who’s waiting for me below. But that won’t stop me from enjoying M. d’Artagnan’s company. I’m glad he’s going to see Belle-Isle; he’s such a good judge of fortifications.”
D’Artagnan bowed, without at all comprehending what was going on. Fouquet bowed again and left the apartment, affecting all the slowness of a man who walks with difficulty. When once out of the castle, “I am saved!” said he. “Oh! yes, disloyal king, you shall see Belle-Isle, but it shall be when I am no longer there.”
D’Artagnan bowed, completely clueless about what was happening. Fouquet bowed again and left the room, moving slowly like someone who struggles to walk. Once outside the castle, he exclaimed, “I’m saved! Oh yes, disloyal king, you’ll see Belle-Isle, but it will be when I’m no longer there.”
He disappeared, leaving D’Artagnan with the king.
He vanished, leaving D’Artagnan with the king.
“Captain,” said the king, “you will follow M. Fouquet at the distance of a hundred paces.”
“Captain,” said the king, “you will follow M. Fouquet at a distance of a hundred paces.”
“Yes, sire.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“He is going to his lodgings again. You will go with him.”
“He's going back to his place. You should go with him.”
“Yes, sire.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You will arrest him in my name, and will shut him up in a carriage.”
“You will capture him in my name and lock him up in a carriage.”
“In a carriage. Well, sire?”
“In a carriage. Well, sir?”
“In such a fashion that he may not, on the road, either converse with any one or throw notes to people he may meet.”
“In such a way that he cannot talk to anyone on the road or pass notes to people he encounters.”
“That will be rather difficult, sire.”
"That will be pretty tough, Your Majesty."
“Not at all.”
"Not at all."
“Pardon me, sire, I cannot stifle M. Fouquet, and if he asks for liberty to breathe, I cannot prevent him by closing both the windows and the blinds. He will throw out at the doors all the cries and notes possible.”
"Excuse me, sir, I can't silence M. Fouquet, and if he requests the freedom to breathe, I can't stop him by shutting both the windows and the curtains. He will let out all his cries and complaints."
“The case is provided for, Monsieur d’Artagnan; a carriage with a trellis will obviate both the difficulties you point out.”
“The situation is taken care of, Monsieur d’Artagnan; a carriage with a canopy will solve both the issues you mentioned.”
“A carriage with an iron trellis!” cried D’Artagnan; “but a carriage with an iron trellis is not made in half an hour, and your majesty commands me to go immediately to M. Fouquet’s lodgings.”
“A carriage with an iron trellis!” shouted D’Artagnan; “but a carriage with an iron trellis can't be made in just half an hour, and your majesty is asking me to head straight to M. Fouquet’s place.”
“The carriage in question is already made.”
“The carriage in question is already built.”
“Ah! that is quite a different thing,” said the captain; “if the carriage is ready made, very well, then, we have only to set it in motion.”
“Ah! that’s a whole different matter,” said the captain; “if the carriage is ready-made, great, then we just have to get it moving.”
“It is ready—and the horses harnessed.”
“It’s ready—and the horses are harnessed.”
“Ah!”
“Ah!”
“And the coachman, with the outriders, is waiting in the lower court of the castle.”
“And the coachman, along with the riders, is waiting in the castle's lower courtyard.”
D’Artagnan bowed. “There only remains for me to ask your majesty whither I shall conduct M. Fouquet.”
D’Artagnan bowed. “All that's left for me to ask your majesty is where I should take M. Fouquet.”
“To the castle of Angers, at first.”
“To the castle of Angers, at first.”
“Very well, sire.”
"Sure thing, your majesty."
“Afterwards we will see.”
"Later we'll see."
“Yes, sire.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan, one last word: you have remarked that, for making this capture of M. Fouquet, I have not employed my guards, on which account M. de Gesvres will be furious.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan, just one last thing: you’ve noticed that I didn’t use my guards to capture M. Fouquet, and because of that, M. de Gesvres is going to be really angry.”
“Your majesty does not employ your guards,” said the captain, a little humiliated, “because you mistrust M. de Gesvres, that is all.”
“Your majesty doesn’t use your guards,” said the captain, feeling a bit humiliated, “because you don’t trust M. de Gesvres, that’s all.”
“That is to say, monsieur, that I have more confidence in you.”
“That means, sir, that I trust you more.”
“I know that very well, sire! and it is of no use to make so much of it.”
“I know that very well, your majesty! And it doesn’t help to make such a big deal out of it.”
“It is only for the sake of arriving at this, monsieur, that if, from this moment, it should happen that by any chance whatever M. Fouquet should escape—such chances have been, monsieur—”
“It’s only to achieve this, sir, that if, from now on, it should so happen that M. Fouquet manages to escape by any chance—such things have happened, sir—”
“Oh! very often, sire; but for others, not for me.”
“Oh! very often, Your Majesty; but for others, not for me.”
“And why not with you?”
"Why not with you?"
“Because I, sire, have, for an instant, wished to save M. Fouquet.”
“Because I, your majesty, briefly wanted to save M. Fouquet.”
The king started. “Because,” continued the captain, “I had then a right to do so, having guessed your majesty’s plan, without you having spoken to me of it, and that I took an interest in M. Fouquet. Now, was I not at liberty to show my interest in this man?”
The king was taken aback. “Because,” the captain went on, “I had the right to do so, having figured out your majesty’s plan without you telling me about it, and I was interested in M. Fouquet. Now, wasn’t I allowed to show my interest in this man?”
“In truth, monsieur, you do not reassure me with regard to your services.”
"In fact, sir, you don't really make me feel confident about your services."
“If I had saved him then, I should have been perfectly innocent; I will say more, I should have done well, for M. Fouquet is not a bad man. But he was not willing; his destiny prevailed; he let the hour of liberty slip by. So much the worse! Now I have orders, I will obey those orders, and M. Fouquet you may consider as a man arrested. He is at the castle of Angers, this very M. Fouquet.”
“If I had saved him back then, I would have been completely innocent; I’ll go a step further, I would have done the right thing, because M. Fouquet isn’t a bad person. But he didn’t want to be saved; fate took over; he let the chance for freedom pass. Too bad for him! Now I have orders, I’ll follow those orders, and you can think of M. Fouquet as a man who has been arrested. He is at the castle of Angers, this very M. Fouquet.”
“Oh! you have not got him yet, captain.”
“Oh! you still haven't got him, captain.”
“That concerns me; every one to his trade, sire; only, once more, reflect! Do you seriously give me orders to arrest M. Fouquet, sire?”
"That worries me; everyone has their job, Your Majesty; but once again, think about it! Are you really giving me the order to arrest Mr. Fouquet, sir?"
“Yes, a thousand times, yes!”
“Yes, a million times, yes!”
“In writing, sire, then.”
"In writing, my lord."
“Here is the order.”
"Here’s the order."
D’Artagnan read it, bowed to the king, and left the room. From the height of the terrace he perceived Gourville, who went by with a joyous air towards the lodgings of M. Fouquet.
D’Artagnan read it, nodded to the king, and left the room. From the terrace, he saw Gourville walking by with a cheerful demeanor toward M. Fouquet's lodgings.
Chapter XL: The White Horse and the Black.
“That is rather surprising,” said D’Artagnan; “Gourville running about the streets so gayly, when he is almost certain that M. Fouquet is in danger; when it is almost equally certain that it was Gourville who warned M. Fouquet just now by the note which was torn into a thousand pieces upon the terrace, and given to the winds by monsieur le surintendant. Gourville is rubbing his hands; that is because he has done something clever. Whence comes M. Gourville? Gourville is coming from the Rue aux Herbes. Whither does the Rue aux Herbes lead?” And D’Artagnan followed, along the tops of the houses of Nantes, dominated by the castle, the line traced by the streets, as he would have done upon a topographical plan; only, instead of the dead, flat paper, the living chart rose in relief with the cries, the movements, and the shadows of men and things. Beyond the inclosure of the city, the great verdant plains stretched out, bordering the Loire, and appeared to run towards the pink horizon, which was cut by the azure of the waters and the dark green of the marshes. Immediately outside the gates of Nantes two white roads were seen diverging like separate fingers of a gigantic hand. D’Artagnan, who had taken in all the panorama at a glance by crossing the terrace, was led by the line of the Rue aux Herbes to the mouth of one of those roads which took its rise under the gates of Nantes. One step more, and he was about to descend the stairs, take his trellised carriage, and go towards the lodgings of M. Fouquet. But chance decreed, at the moment of plunging into the staircase, that he was attracted by a moving point then gaining ground upon that road.
"That's pretty surprising," said D’Artagnan; "Gourville running around the streets so cheerfully when he’s almost certain that M. Fouquet is in danger; when it’s also almost certain that it was Gourville who just warned M. Fouquet with the note that was torn into a thousand pieces on the terrace and blown away by monsieur le surintendant. Gourville is rubbing his hands; that’s because he’s done something clever. Where is M. Gourville coming from? Gourville is coming from Rue aux Herbes. Where does Rue aux Herbes lead?" And D’Artagnan followed, along the rooftops of Nantes, dominated by the castle, the path traced by the streets, as he would have done on a map; only, instead of a flat paper, the living map rose in relief with the cries, the movements, and the shadows of people and things. Beyond the city limits, the vast green plains stretched out, bordering the Loire, and seemed to run towards the pink horizon, which was marked by the blue of the waters and the dark green of the marshes. Just outside the gates of Nantes, two white roads diverged like separate fingers of a gigantic hand. D’Artagnan, who had taken in the whole panorama at a glance while crossing the terrace, was led by the line of Rue aux Herbes to the mouth of one of those roads that started beneath the gates of Nantes. One more step, and he was about to descend the stairs, take his trellised carriage, and head towards M. Fouquet's lodgings. But fate intervened at the moment he was about to plunge into the staircase, as he noticed a moving point gaining ground on that road.
“What is that?” said the musketeer to himself; “a horse galloping,—a runaway horse, no doubt. What a rate he is going at!” The moving point became detached from the road, and entered into the fields. “A white horse,” continued the captain, who had just observed the color thrown luminously against the dark ground, “and he is mounted; it must be some boy whose horse is thirsty and has run away with him.”
“What’s that?” said the musketeer to himself; “a horse galloping—a runaway horse, for sure. Look at how fast it’s going!” The moving figure broke away from the road and went into the fields. “A white horse,” the captain continued, noticing the color glowing against the dark ground, “and someone’s riding it; it must be some kid whose horse is thirsty and has bolted with him.”
These reflections, rapid as lightning, simultaneous with visual perception, D’Artagnan had already forgotten when he descended the first steps of the staircase. Some morsels of paper were spread over the stairs, and shone out white against the dirty stones. “Eh! eh!” said the captain to himself, “here are some of the fragments of the note torn by M. Fouquet. Poor man! he has given his secret to the wind; the wind will have no more to do with it, and brings it back to the king. Decidedly, Fouquet, you play with misfortune! the game is not a fair one,—fortune is against you. The star of Louis XIV. obscures yours; the adder is stronger and more cunning than the squirrel.” D’Artagnan picked up one of these morsels of paper as he descended. “Gourville’s pretty little hand!” cried he, whilst examining one of the fragments of the note; “I was not mistaken.” And he read the word “horse.” “Stop!” said he; and he examined another, upon which there was not a letter traced. Upon a third he read the word “white;” “white horse,” repeated he, like a child that is spelling. “Ah, mordioux!” cried the suspicious spirit, “a white horse!” And, like that grain of powder which, burning, dilates into ten thousand times its volume, D’Artagnan, enlightened by ideas and suspicions, rapidly reascended the stairs towards the terrace. The white horse was still galloping in the direction of the Loire, at the extremity of which, melting into the vapors of the water, a little sail appeared, wave-balanced like a water-butterfly. “Oh!” cried the musketeer, “only a man who wants to fly would go at that pace across plowed lands; there is but one Fouquet, a financier, to ride thus in open day upon a white horse; there is no one but the lord of Belle-Isle who would make his escape towards the sea, while there are such thick forests on land, and there is but one D’Artagnan in the world to catch M. Fouquet, who has half an hour’s start, and who will have gained his boat within an hour.” This being said, the musketeer gave orders that the carriage with the iron trellis should be taken immediately to a thicket situated just outside the city. He selected his best horse, jumped upon his back, galloped along the Rue aux Herbes, taking, not the road Fouquet had taken, but the bank itself of the Loire, certain that he should gain ten minutes upon the total distance, and, at the intersection of the two lines, come up with the fugitive, who could have no suspicion of being pursued in that direction. In the rapidity of the pursuit, and with the impatience of the avenger, animating himself as in war, D’Artagnan, so mild, so kind towards Fouquet, was surprised to find himself become ferocious—almost sanguinary. For a long time he galloped without catching sight of the white horse. His rage assumed fury, he doubted himself,—he suspected that Fouquet had buried himself in some subterranean road, or that he had changed the white horse for one of those famous black ones, as swift as the wind, which D’Artagnan, at Saint-Mande, had so frequently admired and envied for their vigor and their fleetness.
These thoughts, quick as lightning and happening at the same time as what he saw, D’Artagnan had already forgotten when he stepped down the first few stairs. Some scraps of paper were scattered on the steps, standing out white against the dirty stones. “Well, well!” the captain thought to himself, “here are some fragments of the note that M. Fouquet tore up. Poor guy! He’s thrown his secret to the wind; the wind won't keep it and will just bring it back to the king. Clearly, Fouquet, you’re flirting with disaster! This game isn’t fair—fortune is not on your side. The star of Louis XIV. overshadows yours; the adder is stronger and craftier than the squirrel.” D’Artagnan picked up one of the scraps as he went down. “Gourville’s pretty little handwriting!” he exclaimed, examining one of the note’s fragments; “I was right.” He read the word “horse.” “Wait!” he said, studying another piece that had no letters on it. On the third scrap, he read the word “white;” “white horse,” he repeated, like a child learning to spell. “Ah, mordioux!” shouted his suspicious mind, “a white horse!” And just like that grain of powder that expands into thousands of times its size when it burns, D’Artagnan, filled with thoughts and suspicions, quickly ran back up the stairs toward the terrace. The white horse was still galloping toward the Loire, where, blending into the water’s mist, a small sail appeared, bobbing like a water butterfly. “Oh!” the musketeer shouted, “only someone desperate to escape would move that fast across plowed fields; only one financier, Fouquet, would ride a white horse out in the open; and there's only one lord of Belle-Isle who would make a run for the sea when there are thick forests on land, and only one D’Artagnan in the world who could catch M. Fouquet, who has a half-hour head start and will board his boat in an hour.” With that, the musketeer ordered that the carriage with the iron trellis be taken immediately to a thicket just outside the city. He chose his best horse, jumped on its back, and raced down Rue aux Herbes, taking not the route Fouquet had taken but the bank of the Loire itself, sure that he could shave ten minutes off the total distance and, where the two paths crossed, catch up to the fugitive who wouldn’t suspect he was being followed in that direction. In the excitement of the chase, fueled by his desire for revenge, D’Artagnan, who had been so gentle and kind toward Fouquet, was shocked to realize he was becoming wild—almost bloodthirsty. For a long time, he rode without spotting the white horse. His anger turned into fury, and he started to doubt himself—he suspected that Fouquet had hidden himself in some underground path or that he had switched the white horse for one of those famous black ones, as swift as the wind, which D’Artagnan had often admired and envied for their speed and power at Saint-Mande.
At such moments, when the wind cut his eyes so as to make the tears spring from them, when the saddle had become burning hot, when the galled and spurred horse reared with pain, and threw behind him a shower of dust and stones, D’Artagnan, raising himself in his stirrups, and seeing nothing on the waters, nothing beneath the trees, looked up into the air like a madman. He was losing his senses. In the paroxysms of eagerness he dreamt of aerial ways,—the discovery of following century; he called to his mind Daedalus and the vast wings that had saved him from the prisons of Crete. A hoarse sigh broke from his lips, as he repeated, devoured by the fear of ridicule, “I! I! duped by a Gourville! I! They will say that I am growing old,—they will say I have received a million to allow Fouquet to escape!” And he again dug his spurs into the sides of his horse: he had ridden astonishingly fast. Suddenly, at the extremity of some open pasture-ground, behind the hedges, he saw a white form which showed itself, disappeared, and at last remained distinctly visible against the rising ground. D’Artagnan’s heart leaped with joy. He wiped the streaming sweat from his brow, relaxed the tension of his knees,—by which the horse breathed more freely,—and, gathering up his reins, moderated the speed of the vigorous animal, his active accomplice on this man-hunt. He had then time to study the direction of the road, and his position with regard to Fouquet. The superintendent had completely winded his horse by crossing the soft ground. He felt the necessity of gaining a firmer footing, and turned towards the road by the shortest secant line. D’Artagnan, on his part, had nothing to do but to ride straight on, concealed by the sloping shore; so that he would cut his quarry off the road when he came up with him. Then the real race would begin,—then the struggle would be in earnest.
At that moment, when the wind stung his eyes and made tears well up, when the saddle had become scorching hot, when the sore and spurred horse reared in pain and kicked up a cloud of dust and stones, D’Artagnan, lifting himself in his stirrups and seeing nothing on the water and nothing beneath the trees, gazed up at the sky like a madman. He felt like he was losing his mind. In a frenzy of eagerness, he imagined flying—an invention of the next century; he remembered Daedalus and the massive wings that had saved him from the prisons of Crete. A harsh sigh escaped his lips as he repeated, consumed by the fear of being laughed at, “Me! Me! fooled by a Gourville! Me! They’ll say I’m getting old—they’ll say I took a million to let Fouquet escape!” And he dug his spurs into his horse’s sides again; he had been riding incredibly fast. Suddenly, at the edge of an open field behind the hedges, he spotted a white figure that appeared, vanished, and finally became clearly visible against the rising ground. D’Artagnan’s heart soared with joy. He wiped the streaming sweat from his forehead, relaxed his grip on the horse, which breathed more easily, and, gathering the reins, slowed down the energetic animal, his active partner in this man-hunt. He now had time to evaluate the road ahead and his position concerning Fouquet. The superintendent had completely exhausted his horse by crossing the soft earth. He realized he needed better footing and turned toward the road using the shortest route. D’Artagnan, on the other hand, only needed to ride straight on, hidden by the sloping shore, so he would cut off his target when he caught up with him. Then the real chase would start—then the struggle would be serious.
D’Artagnan gave his horse good breathing-time. He observed that the superintendent had relaxed into a trot, which was to say, he, too, was favoring his horse. But both of them were too much pressed for time to allow them to continue long at that pace. The white horse sprang off like an arrow the moment his feet touched firm ground. D’Artagnan dropped his head, and his black horse broke into a gallop. Both followed the same route; the quadruple echoes of this new race-course were confounded. Fouquet had not yet perceived D’Artagnan. But on issuing from the slope, a single echo struck the air; it was that of the steps of D’Artagnan’s horse, which rolled along like thunder. Fouquet turned round, and saw behind him, within a hundred paces, his enemy bent over the neck of his horse. There could be no doubt—the shining baldrick, the red cassock—it was a musketeer. Fouquet slackened his hand likewise, and the white horse placed twenty feet more between his adversary and himself.
D’Artagnan gave his horse a good break. He noticed that the superintendent had slowed to a trot, meaning he was also taking it easy on his horse. But both of them were too pressed for time to keep that pace for long. The white horse took off like an arrow the moment its hooves hit solid ground. D’Artagnan lowered his head, and his black horse burst into a gallop. Both took the same path; the echoes of this new race blended together. Fouquet hadn’t noticed D’Artagnan yet. But as he came out of the slope, a single echo filled the air; it was the sound of D’Artagnan’s horse, thundering along. Fouquet turned around and saw his enemy just a hundred paces behind him, leaning over his horse's neck. There was no doubt about it—the shining baldrick, the red cassock—it was a musketeer. Fouquet also eased his grip, and the white horse pulled twenty feet ahead of his opponent.
“Oh, but,” thought D’Artagnan, becoming very anxious, “that is not a common horse M. Fouquet is upon—let us see!” And he attentively examined with his infallible eye the shape and capabilities of the courser. Round full quarters—a thin long tail—large hocks—thin legs, as dry as bars of steel—hoofs hard as marble. He spurred his own, but the distance between the two remained the same. D’Artagnan listened attentively; not a breath of the horse reached him, and yet he seemed to cut the air. The black horse, on the contrary, began to puff like any blacksmith’s bellows.
“Oh, but,” thought D’Artagnan, feeling very anxious, “that’s not an ordinary horse M. Fouquet is riding—let’s check it out!” He carefully examined with his keen eye the horse’s build and abilities. It had strong, rounded hindquarters—a long, slender tail—big hocks—thin legs, as solid as steel bars—hoofs tough as marble. He spurred his own horse, but the gap between them stayed the same. D’Artagnan listened closely; not a sound from the horse reached him, yet it seemed to slice through the air. The black horse, on the other hand, started to puff like a blacksmith’s bellows.
“I must overtake him, if I kill my horse,” thought the musketeer; and he began to saw the mouth of the poor animal, whilst he buried the rowels of his merciless spurs into his sides. The maddened horse gained twenty toises, and came up within pistol-shot of Fouquet.
“I have to catch up to him, even if it kills my horse,” thought the musketeer; and he started yanking on the poor animal's mouth while digging the sharp spurs into its sides. The frantic horse surged ahead twenty toises and closed in to within pistol-shot of Fouquet.
“Courage!” said the musketeer to himself, “courage! the white horse will perhaps grow weaker, and if the horse does not fall, the master must pull up at last.” But horse and rider remained upright together, gaining ground by difficult degrees. D’Artagnan uttered a wild cry, which made Fouquet turn round, and added speed to the white horse.
“Stay strong!” the musketeer thought to himself, “stay strong! The white horse might get tired, and if the horse doesn’t fall, the rider has to stop eventually.” But both the horse and rider kept going, slowly gaining ground. D’Artagnan let out a desperate shout that caught Fouquet’s attention and made the white horse go faster.
“A famous horse! a mad rider!” growled the captain. “Hola! mordioux! Monsieur Fouquet! stop! in the king’s name!” Fouquet made no reply.
“A famous horse! A crazy rider!” growled the captain. “Hey! mordioux! Mr. Fouquet! Stop! In the king’s name!” Fouquet didn’t respond.
“Do you hear me?” shouted D’Artagnan, whose horse had just stumbled.
“Do you hear me?” shouted D’Artagnan, whose horse had just tripped.
“Pardieu!” replied Fouquet, laconically; and rode on faster.
“Pardieu!” replied Fouquet, briefly, and rode on faster.
D’Artagnan was nearly mad; the blood rushed boiling to his temples and his eyes. “In the king’s name!” cried he again, “stop, or I will bring you down with a pistol-shot!”
D’Artagnan was almost furious; blood was boiling in his temples and eyes. “In the king’s name!” he shouted again, “stop, or I’ll shoot you!”
“Do!” replied Fouquet, without relaxing his speed.
“Do!” replied Fouquet, without slowing down.
D’Artagnan seized a pistol and cocked it, hoping that the double click of the spring would stop his enemy. “You have pistols likewise,” said he, “turn and defend yourself.”
D’Artagnan grabbed a pistol and cocked it, hoping that the sound of the spring would freeze his enemy. “You have pistols too,” he said, “turn around and defend yourself.”
Fouquet did turn round at the noise, and looking D’Artagnan full in the face, opened, with his right hand, the part of his dress which concealed his body, but he did not even touch his holsters. There were not more than twenty paces between the two.
Fouquet turned around at the sound and, looking D'Artagnan straight in the face, opened his dress with his right hand to reveal his body, but he didn't even reach for his holsters. There were only about twenty paces between them.
“Mordioux!” said D’Artagnan, “I will not assassinate you; if you will not fire upon me, surrender! what is a prison?”
“Mordioux!” said D’Artagnan, “I won’t kill you; if you don’t shoot at me, just give up! What’s a prison?”
“I would rather die!” replied Fouquet; “I shall suffer less.”
“I would rather die!” replied Fouquet; “I’ll suffer less.”
D’Artagnan, drunk with despair, hurled his pistol to the ground. “I will take you alive!” said he; and by a prodigy of skill which this incomparable horseman alone was capable, he threw his horse forward to within ten paces of the white horse; already his hand was stretched out to seize his prey.
D’Artagnan, overwhelmed with despair, threw his pistol to the ground. “I will take you alive!” he said, and with a remarkable skill that only this exceptional horseman possessed, he urged his horse forward to within ten paces of the white horse; his hand was already reaching out to grab his target.
“Kill me! kill me!” cried Fouquet, “‘twould be more humane!”
“Kill me! Kill me!” shouted Fouquet, “It would be more humane!”
“No! alive—alive!” murmured the captain.
“No! alive—alive!” whispered the captain.
At this moment his horse made a false step for the second time, and Fouquet’s again took the lead. It was an unheard-of spectacle, this race between two horses which now only kept alive by the will of their riders. It might be said that D’Artagnan rode, carrying his horse along between his knees. To the furious gallop had succeeded the fast trot, and that had sunk to what might be scarcely called a trot at all. But the chase appeared equally warm in the two fatigued athletoe. D’Artagnan, quite in despair, seized his second pistol, and cocked it.
At that moment, his horse stumbled for the second time, and Fouquet’s horse took the lead again. It was an incredible sight, this race between two horses that were only being pushed forward by their riders' determination. You could say that D’Artagnan was riding, forcing his horse along with his knees. The furious gallop had turned into a fast trot, which had slowed down to something barely resembling a trot. But the chase still seemed just as intense for the two exhausted riders. In despair, D’Artagnan grabbed his second pistol and cocked it.
“At your horse! not at you!” cried he to Fouquet. And he fired. The animal was hit in the quarters—he made a furious bound, and plunged forward. At that moment D’Artagnan’s horse fell dead.
“At your horse! Not at you!” he shouted to Fouquet. And he fired. The animal was hit in the haunches—it made a furious leap and charged forward. At that moment, D’Artagnan’s horse collapsed dead.
“I am dishonored!” thought the musketeer; “I am a miserable wretch! for pity’s sake, M. Fouquet, throw me one of your pistols, that I may blow out my brains!” But Fouquet rode away.
“I am disgraced!” thought the musketeer; “I am a pathetic wretch! For pity’s sake, M. Fouquet, toss me one of your pistols so I can end this!” But Fouquet rode away.
“For mercy’s sake! for mercy’s sake!” cried D’Artagnan; “that which you will not do at this moment, I myself will do within an hour, but here, upon this road, I should die bravely; I should die esteemed; do me that service, M. Fouquet!”
“For mercy’s sake! For mercy’s sake!” D’Artagnan shouted. “What you won’t do right now, I’ll do myself in an hour. But here, on this road, I want to die bravely; I want to die with honor. Please, do me this service, M. Fouquet!”
M. Fouquet made no reply, but continued to trot on. D’Artagnan began to run after his enemy. Successively he threw away his hat, his coat, which embarrassed him, and then the sheath of his sword, which got between his legs as he was running. The sword in his hand itself became too heavy, and he threw it after the sheath. The white horse began to rattle in its throat; D’Artagnan gained upon him. From a trot the exhausted animal sunk to a staggering walk—the foam from his mouth was mixed with blood. D’Artagnan made a desperate effort, sprang towards Fouquet, and seized him by the leg, saying in a broken, breathless voice, “I arrest you in the king’s name! blow my brains out, if you like; we have both done our duty.”
M. Fouquet didn’t respond but kept on trotting. D’Artagnan started to chase after his enemy. He successively tossed aside his hat, his coat, which was getting in his way, and then the sheath of his sword, which tripped him as he ran. The sword in his hand felt too heavy, so he threw it after the sheath. The white horse started to wheeze; D’Artagnan was closing the gap. The tired horse shifted from a trot to a staggering walk—the foam from its mouth mixed with blood. D’Artagnan made a desperate effort, lunged towards Fouquet, and grabbed him by the leg, saying in a breathless voice, “I arrest you in the king’s name! Go ahead and blow my brains out if you want; we’ve both done our duty.”
Fouquet hurled far from him, into the river, the two pistols D’Artagnan might have seized, and dismounting from his horse—“I am your prisoner, monsieur,” said he; “will you take my arm, for I see you are ready to faint?”
Fouquet threw the two pistols that D’Artagnan could have taken far away into the river, and after getting off his horse, he said, “I am your prisoner, sir. Will you take my arm? You look like you’re about to faint.”
“Thanks!” murmured D’Artagnan, who, in fact, felt the earth sliding from under his feet, and the light of day turning to blackness around him; then he rolled upon the sand, without breath or strength. Fouquet hastened to the brink of the river, dipped some water in his hat, with which he bathed the temples of the musketeer, and introduced a few drop between his lips. D’Artagnan raised himself with difficulty, and looked about him with a wandering eye. He beheld Fouquet on his knees, with his wet hat in his hand, smiling upon him with ineffable sweetness. “You are not off, then?” cried he. “Oh, monsieur! the true king of royalty, in heart, in soul, is not Louis of the Louvre, or Philippe of Sainte-Marguerite; it is you, proscribed, condemned!”
“Thanks!” D’Artagnan murmured, feeling the ground slipping away beneath him and the daylight fading into darkness around him. He then collapsed on the sand, breathless and weak. Fouquet rushed to the riverbank, scooped up some water in his hat, and used it to wash the musketeer's temples, managing to get a few drops between his lips. D’Artagnan struggled to raise himself and looked around with a dazed expression. He saw Fouquet on his knees, holding his wet hat, smiling at him with uncontainable kindness. “You’re still here, then?” he exclaimed. “Oh, sir! The true king in heart and soul isn’t Louis of the Louvre or Philippe of Sainte-Marguerite; it’s you, the exile, the condemned!”
“I, who this day am ruined by a single error, M. d’Artagnan.”
“I, who today am ruined by a single mistake, M. d’Artagnan.”
“What, in the name of Heaven, is that?”
“What in the world is that?”
“I should have had you for a friend! But how shall we return to Nantes? We are a great way from it.”
“I should have had you as a friend! But how are we supposed to get back to Nantes? We're really far away from it.”
“That is true,” said D’Artagnan, gloomily.
"That's true," D'Artagnan said, feeling down.
“The white horse will recover, perhaps; he is a good horse! Mount, Monsieur d’Artagnan; I will walk till you have rested a little.”
“The white horse might get better; he’s a good horse! Get on, Monsieur d’Artagnan; I’ll walk while you catch your breath a bit.”
“Poor beast! and wounded, too?” said the musketeer.
“Poor thing! And hurt, too?” said the musketeer.
“He will go, I tell you; I know him; but we can do better still, let us both get up, and ride slowly.”
“He's definitely going to go, trust me; I know him well. But we can do even better—let's both get up and ride slowly.”
“We can try,” said the captain. But they had scarcely charged the animal with this double load, when he began to stagger, and then with a great effort walked a few minutes, then staggered again, and sank down dead by the side of the black horse, which he had just managed to come up to.
“We can try,” said the captain. But they had barely loaded the animal with this double burden when it started to stagger, and after a huge effort, it walked for a few minutes, then staggered again and collapsed dead next to the black horse, which it had just managed to reach.
“We will go on foot—destiny wills it so—the walk will be pleasant,” said Fouquet, passing his arm through that of D’Artagnan.
“We’ll walk—destiny wants it that way—the stroll will be nice,” said Fouquet, linking his arm with D’Artagnan’s.
“Mordioux!” cried the latter, with a fixed eye, a contracted brow, and a swelling heart—“What a disgraceful day!”
“Mordioux!” yelled the other, with a fixed stare, a furrowed brow, and an overflowing heart—“What an embarrassing day!”
They walked slowly the four leagues which separated them from the little wood behind which the carriage and escort were in waiting. When Fouquet perceived that sinister machine, he said to D’Artagnan, who cast down his eyes, ashamed of Louis XIV., “There is an idea that did not emanate from a brave man, Captain d’Artagnan; it is not yours. What are these gratings for?” said he.
They walked slowly the four leagues that separated them from the small woods where the carriage and escort were waiting. When Fouquet saw that ominous vehicle, he said to D’Artagnan, who looked down, ashamed of Louis XIV., “That’s an idea that didn’t come from a brave person, Captain d’Artagnan; it’s not your idea. What are these bars for?”
“To prevent your throwing letters out.”
“To stop you from throwing letters away.”
“Ingenious!”
"Brilliant!"
“But you can speak, if you cannot write,” said D’Artagnan.
“But you can talk, even if you can’t write,” said D’Artagnan.
“Can I speak to you?”
"Can I talk to you?"
“Why, certainly, if you wish to do so.”
“Of course, if that's what you want to do.”
Fouquet reflected for a moment, then looking the captain full in the face, “One single word,” said he; “will you remember it?”
Fouquet thought for a moment, then looked the captain straight in the eye, “Just one word,” he said; “will you remember it?”
“I will not forget it.”
"I won't forget it."
“Will you speak it to whom I wish?”
“Will you say it to the person I want?”
“I will.”
"I got this."
“Saint-Mande,” articulated Fouquet, in a low voice.
“Saint-Mande,” Fouquet said quietly.
“Well! and for whom?”
"Well! And for who?"
“For Madame de Belliere or Pelisson.”
“For Madame de Belliere or Pelisson.”
“It shall be done.”
“Consider it done.”
The carriage rolled through Nantes, and took the route to Angers.
The carriage rolled through Nantes and headed toward Angers.
Chapter XLI. In Which the Squirrel Falls,—the Adder Flies.
It was two o’clock in the afternoon. The king, full of impatience, went to his cabinet on the terrace, and kept opening the door of the corridor, to see what his secretaries were doing. M. Colbert, seated in the same place M. de Saint-Aignan had so long occupied in the morning, was chatting in a low voice with M. de Brienne. The king opened the door suddenly, and addressed them. “What is it you are saying?”
It was 2 PM. The king, feeling impatient, went to his study on the terrace and kept popping open the corridor door to check on what his secretaries were up to. M. Colbert, sitting in the same spot M. de Saint-Aignan had occupied all morning, was talking quietly with M. de Brienne. The king suddenly opened the door and spoke to them. "What are you talking about?"
“We were speaking of the first sitting of the States,” said M. de Brienne, rising.
“We were talking about the first meeting of the States,” said M. de Brienne, getting up.
“Very well,” replied the king, and returned to his room.
“Alright,” the king replied, and went back to his room.
Five minutes after, the summons of the bell recalled Rose, whose hour it was.
Five minutes later, the bell's ringing brought Rose back, as it was her time.
“Have you finished your copies?” asked the king.
"Have you finished your copies?" the king asked.
“Not yet, sire.”
“Not yet, your majesty.”
“See if M. d’Artagnan has returned.”
“Check if M. d’Artagnan has come back.”
“Not yet, sire.”
“Not yet, Your Majesty.”
“It is very strange,” murmured the king. “Call M. Colbert.”
“It’s really odd,” the king murmured. “Get M. Colbert.”
Colbert entered; he had been expecting this all the morning.
Colbert walked in; he had been expecting this all morning.
“Monsieur Colbert,” said the king, very sharply; “you must ascertain what has become of M. d’Artagnan.”
“Monsieur Colbert,” the king said sharply, “you need to find out what happened to M. d’Artagnan.”
Colbert in his calm voice replied, “Where does your majesty desire him to be sought for?”
Colbert replied calmly, “Where does Your Majesty want him to be searched for?”
“Eh! monsieur! do you not know on what I have sent him?” replied Louis, acrimoniously.
“Hey! Sir! Don’t you know what I sent him?” replied Louis, bitterly.
“Your majesty did not inform me.”
"Your majesty didn't inform me."
“Monsieur, there are things that must be guessed; and you, above all, are apt to guess them.”
“Monsieur, there are things you need to figure out, and you, above all, are good at figuring them out.”
“I might have been able to imagine, sire; but I do not presume to be positive.”
“I could have imagined, sir; but I don’t assume to be certain.”
Colbert had not finished these words when a rougher voice than that of the king interrupted the interesting conversation thus begun between the monarch and his clerk.
Colbert had not finished these words when a harsher voice than the king's interrupted the engaging conversation that had just started between the monarch and his clerk.
“D’Artagnan!” cried the king, with evident joy.
“D’Artagnan!” the king exclaimed, clearly delighted.
D’Artagnan, pale and in evidently bad humor, cried to the king, as he entered, “Sire, is it your majesty who has given orders to my musketeers?”
D’Artagnan, looking pale and clearly in a bad mood, called out to the king as he entered, “Sire, did your majesty give orders to my musketeers?”
“What orders?” said the king.
"What orders?" asked the king.
“About M. Fouquet’s house?”
“About M. Fouquet's place?”
“None!” replied Louis.
“None!” said Louis.
“Ha!” said D’Artagnan, biting his mustache; “I was not mistaken, then; it was monsieur here;” and he pointed to Colbert.
“Ha!” said D’Artagnan, biting his mustache; “I wasn’t wrong after all; it was you, monsieur;” and he pointed to Colbert.
“What orders? Let me know,” said the king.
“What orders? Tell me,” said the king.
“Orders to turn the house topsy-turvy, to beat M. Fouquet’s servants, to force the drawers, to give over a peaceful house to pillage! Mordioux! these are savage orders!”
“Orders to turn the house upside down, to attack M. Fouquet’s servants, to break open the drawers, to hand over a peaceful home to looting! Mordioux! these are brutal orders!”
“Monsieur!” said Colbert, turning pale.
“Mister!” said Colbert, turning pale.
“Monsieur,” interrupted D’Artagnan, “the king alone, understand,—the king alone has a right to command my musketeers; but, as to you, I forbid you to do it, and I tell you so before his majesty; gentlemen who carry swords do not sling pens behind their ears.”
“Sir,” interrupted D’Artagnan, “only the king—understand this—the king alone has the authority to command my musketeers; as for you, I forbid you to do so, and I’m telling you this in front of his majesty; gentlemen who wield swords don’t tuck pens behind their ears.”
“D’Artagnan! D’Artagnan!” murmured the king.
“D’Artagnan! D’Artagnan!” whispered the king.
“It is humiliating,” continued the musketeer; “my soldiers are disgraced. I do not command reitres, thank you, nor clerks of the intendant, mordioux!”
“It’s humiliating,” the musketeer continued; “my soldiers are disgraced. I don’t command reitres, thank you, nor clerks of the intendant, mordioux!”
“Well! but what is all this about?” said the king with authority.
“Well! But what’s all this about?” said the king assertively.
“About this, sire; monsieur—monsieur, who could not guess your majesty’s orders, and consequently could not know I was gone to arrest M. Fouquet; monsieur, who has caused the iron cage to be constructed for his patron of yesterday—has sent M. de Roncherolles to the lodgings of M. Fouquet, and, under the pretense of securing the surintendant’s papers, they have taken away the furniture. My musketeers have been posted round the house all the morning; such were my orders. Why did any one presume to order them to enter? Why, by forcing them to assist in this pillage, have they been made accomplices in it? Mordioux! we serve the king, we do; but we do not serve M. Colbert!” 5
“About this, sire; sir—sir, who could not have guessed your majesty’s orders, and therefore could not know I had gone to arrest M. Fouquet; sir, who has had the iron cage built for his former patron—has sent M. de Roncherolles to M. Fouquet’s place, and, pretending to secure the surintendant’s papers, they took away the furniture. My musketeers have been stationed around the house all morning; that was my orders. Why did anyone think they had the authority to let them in? Why, by forcing them to take part in this theft, have they been made accomplices? Mordioux! we serve the king, yes, but we do not serve M. Colbert!” 5
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the king, sternly, “take care; it is not in my presence that such explanations, and made in such a tone, should take place.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” the king said firmly, “be careful; discussions like this, and in that tone, shouldn’t happen in my presence.”
“I have acted for the good of the king,” said Colbert, in a faltering voice. “It is hard to be so treated by one of your majesty’s officers, and that without redress, on account of the respect I owe the king.”
“I have acted for the good of the king,” said Colbert, in a shaky voice. “It’s tough to be treated like this by one of your majesty’s officers, and with no way to fix it, because of the respect I have for the king.”
“The respect you owe the king,” cried D’Artagnan, his eyes flashing fire, “consists, in the first place, in making his authority respected, and his person beloved. Every agent of a power without control represents that power, and when people curse the hand which strikes them, it is the royal hand that God reproaches, do you hear? Must a soldier, hardened by forty years of wounds and blood, give you this lesson, monsieur? Must mercy be on my side, and ferocity on yours? You have caused the innocent to be arrested, bound, and imprisoned!”
“The respect you owe the king,” shouted D’Artagnan, his eyes blazing with intensity, “starts with making sure his authority is respected and his person is loved. Every agent of unchecked power represents that power, and when people curse the hand that strikes them, it's the royal hand that God reproaches, do you understand? Does a soldier, who has endured forty years of wounds and blood, really need to teach you this lesson, sir? Should mercy be on my side and cruelty on yours? You have had innocent people arrested, tied up, and imprisoned!”
“Accomplices, perhaps, of M. Fouquet,” said Colbert.
“Maybe accomplices of M. Fouquet,” said Colbert.
“Who told you M. Fouquet had accomplices, or even that he was guilty? The king alone knows that; his justice is not blind! When he says, ‘Arrest and imprison’ such and such a man, he is obeyed. Do not talk to me, then, any more of the respect you owe the king, and be careful of your words, that they may not chance to convey the slightest menace; for the king will not allow those to be threatened who do him service by others who do him disservice; and if in case I should have, which God forbid! a master so ungrateful, I would make myself respected.”
“Who told you M. Fouquet had accomplices, or even that he was guilty? Only the king knows that; his justice isn’t blind! When he says, ‘Arrest and imprison’ someone, people follow orders. So don’t talk to me anymore about the respect you owe the king, and be careful with your words so they don’t accidentally hint at any threat; the king won’t tolerate anyone threatening those who serve him for the benefit of those who don’t. And if I were to have, God forbid! a master so ungrateful, I would ensure I commanded respect.”
Thus saying, D’Artagnan took his station haughtily in the king’s cabinet, his eyes flashing, his hand on his sword, his lips trembling, affecting much more anger than he really felt. Colbert, humiliated and devoured with rage, bowed to the king as if to ask his permission to leave the room. The king, thwarted alike in pride and in curiosity, knew not which part to take. D’Artagnan saw him hesitate. To remain longer would have been a mistake: it was necessary to score a triumph over Colbert, and the only method was to touch the king so near the quick, that his majesty would have no other means of extrication but choosing between the two antagonists. D’Artagnan bowed as Colbert had done; but the king, who, in preference to everything else, was anxious to have all the exact details of the arrest of the surintendant of the finances from him who had made him tremble for a moment,—the king, perceiving that the ill-humor of D’Artagnan would put off for half an hour at least the details he was burning to be acquainted with,—Louis, we say, forgot Colbert, who had nothing new to tell him, and recalled his captain of the musketeers.
As he said this, D’Artagnan stood confidently in the king’s office, his eyes blazing, hand on his sword, lips quivering, pretending to be angrier than he actually was. Colbert, feeling humiliated and consumed by rage, bowed to the king as if seeking permission to exit the room. The king, torn between pride and curiosity, didn’t know which side to take. D’Artagnan noticed his hesitation. Staying longer would have been a mistake: he needed to win a victory over Colbert, and the only way to do that was to push the king so hard that he had no choice but to pick between the two adversaries. D’Artagnan bowed like Colbert had, but the king, who was more eager than anything else to hear all the details about the arrest of the finance minister from the man who had made him anxious for a moment, realized that D’Artagnan's bad mood would delay the information he was desperate to know for at least half an hour. So, Louis ignored Colbert, who had nothing new to share, and called back his captain of the musketeers.
“In the first place,” said he, “let me see the result of your commission, monsieur; you may rest yourself hereafter.”
“In the first place,” he said, “let me see the results of your task, sir; you can relax after this.”
D’Artagnan, who was just passing through the doorway, stopped at the voice of the king, retraced his steps, and Colbert was forced to leave the closet. His countenance assumed almost a purple hue, his black and threatening eyes shone with a dark fire beneath their thick brows; he stepped out, bowed before the king, half drew himself up in passing D’Artagnan, and went away with death in his heart. D’Artagnan, on being left alone with the king, softened immediately, and composing his countenance: “Sire,” said he, “you are a young king. It is by the dawn that people judge whether the day will be fine or dull. How, sire, will the people, whom the hand of God has placed under your law, argue of your reign, if between them and you, you allow angry and violent ministers to interpose their mischief? But let us speak of myself, sire, let us leave a discussion that may appear idle, and perhaps inconvenient to you. Let us speak of myself. I have arrested M. Fouquet.”
D’Artagnan, who was just passing through the doorway, halted when he heard the king's voice, retraced his steps, and Colbert had to exit the room. His face turned almost purple, and his dark, intense eyes glimmered with a fierce light beneath his thick brows; he stepped out, bowed to the king, straightened up slightly as he passed D’Artagnan, and left with a heavy heart. Once alone with the king, D’Artagnan quickly softened his demeanor and composed his expression: “Sire,” he said, “you are a young king. People judge whether the day will be bright or gloomy by the dawn. How, sire, will the people, whom God has placed under your rule, view your reign if you allow angry and violent ministers to create chaos between you and them? But let’s talk about me, sire, let’s set aside a discussion that may seem trivial and perhaps inconvenient for you. Let’s talk about me. I have arrested M. Fouquet.”
“You took plenty of time about it,” said the king, sharply.
“You took your sweet time with that,” the king said sharply.
D’Artagnan looked at the king. “I perceive that I have expressed myself badly. I announced to your majesty that I had arrested Monsieur Fouquet.”
D’Artagnan looked at the king. “I realize that I didn’t communicate that well. I informed your majesty that I had arrested Monsieur Fouquet.”
“You did; and what then?”
"You did; and what happened?"
“Well! I ought to have told your majesty that M. Fouquet had arrested me; that would have been more just. I re-establish the truth, then; I have been arrested by M. Fouquet.”
“Well! I should have mentioned to you, Your Majesty, that M. Fouquet had me arrested; that would have been fairer. So, let me set the record straight: M. Fouquet is the one who arrested me.”
It was now the turn of Louis XIV. to be surprised. His majesty was astonished in his turn.
It was now Louis XIV's turn to be surprised. His majesty was astonished in return.
D’Artagnan, with his quick glance, appreciated what was passing in the heart of his master. He did not allow him time to put any questions. He related, with that poetry, that picturesqueness, which perhaps he alone possessed at that period, the escape of Fouquet, the pursuit, the furious race, and, lastly, the inimitable generosity of the surintendant, who might have fled ten times over, who might have killed the adversary in the pursuit, but who had preferred imprisonment, perhaps worse, to the humiliation of one who wished to rob him of his liberty. In proportion as the tale advanced, the king became agitated, devouring the narrator’s words, and drumming with his finger-nails upon the table.
D’Artagnan, with a quick look, understood what was going on in his master’s heart. He didn’t give him a chance to ask any questions. He described, with a flair that maybe only he had at that time, the escape of Fouquet, the chase, the wild race, and finally, the unmatched generosity of the surintendant, who could have fled multiple times, who could have killed his pursuer, but who chose imprisonment, or maybe something worse, over the shame of letting someone take away his freedom. As the story went on, the king grew increasingly anxious, hanging on to the narrator’s words and tapping his fingernails on the table.
“It results from all this, sire, in my eyes, at least, that the man who conducts himself thus is a gallant man, and cannot be an enemy to the king. That is my opinion, and I repeat it to your majesty. I know what the king will say to me, and I bow to it,—reasons of state. So be it! To my ears that sounds highly respectable. But I am a soldier, and I have received my orders, my orders are executed—very unwillingly on my part, it is true, but they are executed. I say no more.”
“It seems to me, Your Majesty, that a man who behaves this way is a noble person and cannot be an enemy of the king. That’s my view, and I want to express it to you again. I understand what the king will say to me, and I accept it—political reasons. That sounds very respectable to me. But I am a soldier, and I’ve received my orders; those orders have been carried out—though I’ve done so very reluctantly, it’s true, but they have been carried out. I won’t say anything more.”
“Where is M. Fouquet at this moment?” asked Louis, after a short silence.
“Where is M. Fouquet right now?” asked Louis, after a brief silence.
“M. Fouquet, sire,” replied D’Artagnan, “is in the iron cage that M. Colbert had prepared for him, and is galloping as fast as four strong horses can drag him, towards Angers.”
“M. Fouquet, sir,” replied D’Artagnan, “is in the iron cage that M. Colbert set up for him, and is being dragged as fast as four strong horses can take him, towards Angers.”
“Why did you leave him on the road?”
“Why did you leave him on the road?”
“Because your majesty did not tell me to go to Angers. The proof, the best proof of what I advance, is that the king desired me to be sought for but this minute. And then I had another reason.”
“Because Your Majesty didn’t tell me to go to Angers. The best evidence of what I’m saying is that the king wanted me to be found just now. And then I had another reason.”
“What is that?”
"What’s that?"
“Whilst I was with him, poor M. Fouquet would never attempt to escape.”
“While I was with him, poor M. Fouquet never tried to escape.”
“Well!” cried the king, astonished.
"Wow!" exclaimed the king, amazed.
“Your majesty ought to understand, and does understand, certainly, that my warmest wish is to know that M. Fouquet is at liberty. I have given him one of my brigadiers, the most stupid I could find among my musketeers, in order that the prisoner might have a chance of escaping.”
“Your Majesty should understand, and I believe you do, that my greatest wish is to know that M. Fouquet is free. I’ve given him one of my brigadiers, the least clever one I could find among my musketeers, so that the prisoner might have a chance to escape.”
“Are you mad, Monsieur d’Artagnan?” cried the king, crossing his arms on his breast. “Do people utter such enormities, even when they have the misfortune to think them?”
“Are you crazy, Monsieur d’Artagnan?” shouted the king, crossing his arms over his chest. “Do people really say such outrageous things, even if they mistakenly believe them?”
“Ah! sire, you cannot expect that I should be an enemy to M. Fouquet, after what he has just done for you and me. No, no; if you desire that he should remain under your lock and bolt, never give him in charge to me; however closely wired might be the cage, the bird would, in the end, take wing.”
“Ah! Sir, you can’t expect me to be an enemy to M. Fouquet after what he just did for you and me. No, no; if you want him to stay locked away, don’t give him to me; no matter how securely the cage is wired, the bird will eventually fly away.”
“I am surprised,” said the king, in his sternest tone, “you did not follow the fortunes of the man M. Fouquet wished to place upon my throne. You had in him all you want—affection, gratitude. In my service, monsieur, you will only find a master.”
“I’m surprised,” said the king, in his sternest tone, “you didn’t follow the fortunes of the man M. Fouquet wanted to put on my throne. You had everything you wanted in him—affection, gratitude. In my service, monsieur, you’ll only find a master.”
“If M. Fouquet had not gone to seek you in the Bastile, sire,” replied D’Artagnan, with a deeply impressive manner, “one single man would have gone there, and I should have been that man—you know that right well, sire.”
“If M. Fouquet hadn’t come to find you in the Bastille, sire,” replied D’Artagnan, with a serious tone, “one person would have gone there, and I would have been that person—you know that very well, sire.”
The king was brought to a pause. Before that speech of his captain of the musketeers, so frankly spoken and so true, the king had nothing to offer. On hearing D’Artagnan, Louis remembered the D’Artagnan of former times; him who, at the Palais Royal, held himself concealed behind the curtains of his bed, when the people of Paris, led by Cardinal de Retz, came to assure themselves of the presence of the king; the D’Artagnan whom he saluted with his hand at the door of his carriage, when repairing to Notre Dame on his return to Paris; the soldier who had quitted his service at Blois; the lieutenant he had recalled to be beside his person when the death of Mazarin restored his power; the man he had always found loyal, courageous, devoted. Louis advanced towards the door and called Colbert. Colbert had not left the corridor where the secretaries were at work. He reappeared.
The king paused. Facing the honest and true words of his captain of the musketeers, he had nothing to counter. When he heard D’Artagnan, Louis recalled the D’Artagnan of the past; the one who, at the Palais Royal, hid behind the curtains of his bed while the people of Paris, led by Cardinal de Retz, came to confirm the king's presence; the D’Artagnan he waved to at the door of his carriage on his way to Notre Dame upon returning to Paris; the soldier who had left his post at Blois; the lieutenant he had summoned to be by his side when Mazarin’s death restored his power; the man he had always found to be loyal, brave, and dedicated. Louis moved towards the door and called for Colbert. Colbert had not left the corridor where the secretaries were working. He came back.
“Colbert, did you make a perquisition on the house of M. Fouquet?”
“Colbert, did you search M. Fouquet’s house?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What has it produced?”
“What has it created?”
“M. de Roncherolles, who was sent with your majesty’s musketeers, has remitted me some papers,” replied Colbert.
“M. de Roncherolles, who was sent with your majesty’s musketeers, has sent me some documents,” replied Colbert.
“I will look at them. Give me your hand.”
“I'll check them out. Give me your hand.”
“My hand, sire!”
"My hand, sir!"
“Yes, that I may place it in that of M. d’Artagnan. In fact, M. d’Artagnan,” added he, with a smile, turning towards the soldier, who, at sight of the clerk, had resumed his haughty attitude, “you do not know this man; make his acquaintance.” And he pointed to Colbert. “He has been made but a moderately valuable servant in subaltern positions, but he will be a great man if I raise him to the foremost rank.”
“Yes, I can put it in M. d’Artagnan’s hands. Actually, M. d’Artagnan,” he added with a smile, turning toward the soldier, who had reverted to his proud demeanor upon seeing the clerk, “you don’t know this guy; you should get to know him.” And he gestured to Colbert. “He’s only been a somewhat useful servant in lower positions, but he’ll be a significant person if I promote him to the top.”
“Sire!” stammered Colbert, confused with pleasure and fear.
“Sire!” stammered Colbert, caught between excitement and fear.
“I always understood why,” murmured D’Artagnan in the king’s ear; “he was jealous.”
“I always got why,” D’Artagnan whispered in the king’s ear; “he was jealous.”
“Precisely, and his jealousy confined his wings.”
“Exactly, and his jealousy held him back.”
“He will henceforward be a winged-serpent,” grumbled the musketeer, with a remnant of hatred against his recent adversary.
“He will from now on be a winged serpent,” grumbled the musketeer, with a lingering hatred for his recent opponent.
But Colbert, approaching him, offered to his eyes a physiognomy so different from that which he had been accustomed to see him wear; he appeared so good, so mild, so easy; his eyes took the expression of an intelligence so noble, that D’Artagnan, a connoisseur in physiognomies, was moved, and almost changed in his convictions. Colbert pressed his hand.
But Colbert, walking up to him, showed a face that was so different from what he usually saw; he looked so kind, so gentle, so relaxed; his eyes had a look of such noble intelligence that D’Artagnan, who was skilled in reading faces, felt moved and almost changed his beliefs. Colbert shook his hand.
“That which the king has just told you, monsieur, proves how well his majesty is acquainted with men. The inveterate opposition I have displayed, up to this day, against abuses and not against men, proves that I had it in view to prepare for my king a glorious reign, for my country a great blessing. I have many ideas, M. d’Artagnan. You will see them expand in the sun of public peace; and if I have not the good fortune to conquer the friendship of honest men, I am at least certain, monsieur, that I shall obtain their esteem. For their admiration, monsieur, I would give my life.”
“What the king just told you, sir, shows how well he understands people. The persistent opposition I’ve shown, up until now, against abuses and not against individuals, shows that I aimed to prepare my king for a glorious reign and my country for a great blessing. I have many ideas, M. d’Artagnan. You’ll see them grow in the light of public peace; and even if I’m not lucky enough to win the friendship of good people, I am at least certain, sir, that I will earn their respect. For their admiration, sir, I would give my life.”
This change, this sudden elevation, this mute approbation of the king, gave the musketeer matter for profound reflection. He bowed civilly to Colbert, who did not take his eyes off him. The king, when he saw they were reconciled, dismissed them. They left the room together. As soon as they were out of the cabinet, the new minister, stopping the captain, said:
This change, this sudden rise in status, this silent approval from the king, left the musketeer deep in thought. He politely nodded to Colbert, who didn’t take his eyes off him. When the king saw they had made up, he sent them away. They left the room together. As soon as they were outside the cabinet, the new minister, stopping the captain, said:
“Is it possible, M. d’Artagnan, that with such an eye as yours, you did not, at the first glance, at the first impression, discover what sort of man I am?”
“Is it possible, M. d’Artagnan, that with an eye like yours, you didn’t, at first glance, immediately see what kind of man I am?”
“Monsieur Colbert,” replied the musketeer, “a ray of the sun in our eyes prevents us from seeing the most vivid flame. The man in power radiates, you know; and since you are there, why should you continue to persecute him who had just fallen into disgrace, and fallen from such a height?”
“Monsieur Colbert,” replied the musketeer, “a ray of sunlight in our eyes keeps us from seeing the brightest flame. A person in power shines, you know; and since you’re here, why keep going after the one who just fell from grace, especially after such a high position?”
“I, monsieur!” said Colbert; “oh, monsieur! I would never persecute him. I wished to administer the finances and to administer them alone, because I am ambitious, and, above all, because I have the most entire confidence in my own merit; because I know that all the gold of this country will ebb and flow beneath my eyes, and I love to look at the king’s gold; because, if I live thirty years, in thirty years not a denir of it will remain in my hands; because, with that gold, I will build granaries, castles, cities, and harbors; because I will create a marine, I will equip navies that shall waft the name of France to the most distant people; because I will create libraries and academies; because I will make France the first country in the world, and the wealthiest. These are the motives for my animosity against M. Fouquet, who prevented my acting. And then, when I shall be great and strong, when France is great and strong, in my turn, then, will I cry, ‘Mercy’!”
“I, sir!” said Colbert; “oh, sir! I would never go after him. I wanted to manage the finances and do it on my own, because I’m ambitious, and, above all, because I have complete confidence in my own abilities; because I know that all the gold in this country will come and go before my eyes, and I love to see the king’s gold; because, if I live for thirty years, in thirty years not a single cent of it will remain in my hands; because, with that gold, I will build granaries, castles, cities, and harbors; because I will create a navy, I will equip fleets that will carry the name of France to the most distant lands; because I will establish libraries and academies; because I will make France the greatest country in the world, and the richest. These are the reasons for my hostility towards Mr. Fouquet, who blocked my efforts. And then, when I am great and strong, when France is great and strong, then I will cry, ‘Mercy’!”
“Mercy, did you say? then ask his liberty of the king. The king is only crushing him on your account.”
“Mercy, did you say? Then ask the king to set him free. The king is only punishing him because of you.”
Colbert again raised his head. “Monsieur,” said he, “you know that is not so, and that the king has his own personal animosity against M. Fouquet; it is not for me to teach you that.”
Colbert lifted his head once more. “Sir,” he said, “you know that’s not true, and that the king has a personal grudge against Mr. Fouquet; it’s not my place to explain that to you.”
“But the king will grow tired; he will forget.”
“But the king will get exhausted; he will forget.”
“The king never forgets, M. d’Artagnan. Hark! the king calls. He is going to issue an order. I have not influenced him, have I? Listen.”
“The king never forgets, M. d’Artagnan. Listen! The king is calling. He’s about to give an order. I haven’t influenced him, have I? Pay attention.”
The king, in fact, was calling his secretaries. “Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said he.
The king was actually calling for his secretaries. "Mr. d'Artagnan," he said.
“I am here, sire.”
"I’m here, your majesty."
“Give twenty of your musketeers to M. de Saint-Aignan, to form a guard for M. Fouquet.”
“Give twenty of your musketeers to Mr. de Saint-Aignan to create a guard for Mr. Fouquet.”
D’Artagnan and Colbert exchanged looks. “And from Angers,” continued the king, “they will conduct the prisoner to the Bastile, in Paris.”
D’Artagnan and Colbert shared a glance. “And from Angers,” the king went on, “they will take the prisoner to the Bastille, in Paris.”
“You were right,” said the captain to the minister.
“You were right,” the captain said to the minister.
“Saint-Aignan,” continued the king, “you will have any one shot who shall attempt to speak privately with M. Fouquet, during the journey.”
“Saint-Aignan,” the king continued, “you will stop anyone who tries to speak privately with M. Fouquet during the journey.”
“But myself, sire,” said the duke.
“But I, sire,” said the duke.
“You, monsieur, you will only speak to him in the presence of the musketeers.” The duke bowed and departed to execute his commission.
"You, sir, will only talk to him when the musketeers are present." The duke bowed and left to carry out his task.
D’Artagnan was about to retire likewise; but the king stopped him.
D’Artagnan was about to leave as well, but the king stopped him.
“Monsieur,” said he, “you will go immediately, and take possession of the isle and fief of Belle-Ile-en-Mer.”
“Sir,” he said, “you will go right away and take control of the island and estate of Belle-Ile-en-Mer.”
“Yes, sire. Alone?”
"Yes, Your Highness. Alone?"
“You will take a sufficient number of troops to prevent delay, in case the place should be contumacious.”
“You will bring enough troops to avoid any delays if the location proves to be uncooperative.”
A murmur of courtly incredulity rose from the group of courtiers. “That shall be done,” said D’Artagnan.
A murmur of disbelief spread through the group of courtiers. “That will be taken care of,” said D’Artagnan.
“I saw the place in my infancy,” resumed the king, “and I do not wish to see it again. You have heard me? Go, monsieur, and do not return without the keys.”
“I saw the place when I was a child,” the king continued, “and I don’t want to see it again. Do you understand me? Go, sir, and don’t come back without the keys.”
Colbert went up to D’Artagnan. “A commission which, if you carry it out well,” said he, “will be worth a marechal’s baton to you.”
Colbert walked over to D’Artagnan. “If you handle this task well,” he said, “it could earn you a marshal's baton.”
“Why do you employ the words, ‘if you carry it out well’?”
“Why do you use the phrase, ‘if you do it well’?”
“Because it is difficult.”
“Because it’s hard.”
“Ah! in what respect?”
"Ah! in what way?"
“You have friends in Belle-Isle, Monsieur d’Artagnan; and it is not an easy thing for men like you to march over the bodies of their friends to obtain success.”
“You have friends in Belle-Isle, Monsieur d’Artagnan; and it isn’t easy for men like you to walk over the bodies of their friends to achieve success.”
D’Artagnan hung his head in deepest thought, whilst Colbert returned to the king. A quarter of an hour after, the captain received the written order from the king, to blow up the fortress of Belle-Isle, in case of resistance, with power of life and death over all the inhabitants or refugees, and an injunction not to allow one to escape.
D’Artagnan lowered his head in deep thought, while Colbert went back to the king. Fifteen minutes later, the captain received a written order from the king to blow up the fortress of Belle-Isle if there was any resistance, giving him authority over all the inhabitants or refugees, with a directive not to let anyone escape.
“Colbert was right,” thought D’Artagnan; “for me the baton of a marechal of France will cost the lives of my two friends. Only they seem to forget that my friends are not more stupid than the birds, and that they will not wait for the hand of the fowler to extend over their wings. I will show them that hand so plainly, that they will have quite time enough to see it. Poor Porthos! Poor Aramis! No; my fortune should shall not cost your wings a feather.”
“Colbert was right,” D’Artagnan thought; “for me, the title of a marshal of France will cost the lives of my two friends. Only they seem to forget that my friends aren't any less clever than the birds, and that they won't wait for the hunter's hand to reach out over their wings. I will show them that hand so clearly that they will have plenty of time to see it. Poor Porthos! Poor Aramis! No; my fortune will not cost you a single feather.”
Having thus determined, D’Artagnan assembled the royal army, embarked it at Paimboeuf, and set sail, without the loss of an unnecessary minute.
Having made up his mind, D’Artagnan gathered the royal army, loaded it onto ships at Paimboeuf, and set sail without wasting a single minute.
Chapter XLII. Belle-Ile-en-Mer.
At the extremity of the mole, against which the furious sea beats at the evening tide, two men, holding each other by the arm, were conversing in an animated and expansive tone, without the possibility of any other human being hearing their words, borne away, as they were, one by one, by the gusts of wind, with the white foam swept from the crests of the waves. The sun had just gone down in the vast sheet of the crimsoned ocean, like a gigantic crucible. From time to time, one of these men, turning towards the east, cast an anxious, inquiring look over the sea. The other, interrogating the features of his companion, seemed to seek for information in his looks. Then, both silent, busied with dismal thoughts, they resumed their walk. Every one has already perceived that these two men were our proscribed heroes, Porthos and Aramis, who had taken refuge in Belle-Isle, since the ruin of their hopes, since the discomfiture of the colossal schemes of M. d’Herblay.
At the end of the pier, where the wild sea crashes against it at high tide, two men, linked by the arm, were chatting excitedly, knowing no one else could hear them as their words were carried away one by one by the wind, along with the white foam from the waves. The sun had just set over the vast surface of the red-tinged ocean, like a massive crucible. Occasionally, one of the men would turn eastward and look out over the sea with a worried, questioning gaze. The other, observing his companion's face, seemed to be trying to read his expression for answers. Then, both fell silent, lost in grim thoughts, and continued their walk. It was clear to everyone that these two men were our exiled heroes, Porthos and Aramis, who had sought refuge in Belle-Isle since their dreams were shattered and the grand plans of M. d’Herblay had failed.
“If is of no use your saying anything to the contrary, my dear Aramis,” repeated Porthos, inhaling vigorously the salt breeze with which he charged his massive chest, “It is of no use, Aramis. The disappearance of all the fishing-boats that went out two days ago is not an ordinary circumstance. There has been no storm at sea; the weather has been constantly calm, not even the lightest gale; and even if we had had a tempest, all our boats would not have foundered. I repeat, it is strange. This complete disappearance astonishes me, I tell you.”
“It doesn’t matter if you say otherwise, my dear Aramis,” repeated Porthos, taking a deep breath of the salty breeze that filled his broad chest, “It doesn’t matter, Aramis. The fact that all the fishing boats that went out two days ago are missing isn’t normal. There hasn't been a storm at sea; the weather has been consistently calm, not even the slightest wind; and even if we had experienced a tempest, not all of our boats would have sunk. I’m telling you, this is strange. The total disappearance amazes me, I swear.”
“True,” murmured Aramis. “You are right, friend Porthos; it is true, there is something strange in it.”
“True,” murmured Aramis. “You’re right, friend Porthos; it is true, there’s something odd about it.”
“And further,” added Porthos, whose ideas the assent of the bishop of Vannes seemed to enlarge; “and, further, do you not observe that if the boats have perished, not a single plank has washed ashore?”
“And further,” added Porthos, whose thoughts seemed to grow with the bishop of Vannes’ agreement, “and, further, don’t you notice that if the boats are gone, not a single plank has washed up on shore?”
“I have remarked it as well as yourself.”
"I've noticed it just like you have."
“And do you not think it strange that the two only boats we had left in the whole island, and which I sent in search of the others—”
“And don’t you think it’s strange that the only two boats we had left on the entire island, the ones I sent to look for the others—”
Aramis here interrupted his companion by a cry, and by so sudden a movement, that Porthos stopped as if he were stupefied. “What do you say, Porthos? What!—You have sent the two boats—”
Aramis interrupted his friend with a shout and such a sudden move that Porthos froze, looking stunned. “What are you saying, Porthos? What!—You’ve sent the two boats—”
“In search of the others! Yes, to be sure I have,” replied Porthos, calmly.
“In search of the others! Yes, I'm sure I have,” replied Porthos, calmly.
“Unhappy man! What have you done? Then we are indeed lost,” cried the bishop.
“Unhappy man! What have you done? Then we are truly lost,” cried the bishop.
“Lost!—what did you say?” exclaimed the terrified Porthos. “How lost, Aramis? How are we lost?”
“Lost!—what did you say?” exclaimed the terrified Porthos. “How lost, Aramis? How are we lost?”
Aramis bit his lips. “Nothing! nothing! Your pardon, I meant to say—”
Aramis bit his lips. “Nothing! Nothing! Sorry, I meant to say—”
“What?”
"What?"
“That if we were inclined—if we took a fancy to make an excursion by sea, we could not.”
“That if we wanted to—if we felt like taking a trip by sea, we couldn’t.”
“Very good! and why should that vex you? A precious pleasure, ma foi! For my part, I don’t regret it at all. What I regret is certainly not the more or less amusement we can find at Belle-Isle: what I regret, Aramis, is Pierrefonds; Bracieux; le Vallon; beautiful France! Here, we are not in France, my dear friend; we are—I know not where. Oh! I tell you, in full sincerity of soul, and your affection will excuse my frankness, but I declare to you I am not happy at Belle-Isle. No; in good truth, I am not happy!”
“Very good! And why should that bother you? It's a real pleasure, I swear! For my part, I don’t regret it at all. What I regret is definitely not the level of fun we can have at Belle-Isle; what I regret, Aramis, is Pierrefonds; Bracieux; le Vallon; beautiful France! Here, we are not in France, my dear friend; we are—I don’t even know where. Oh! I’m telling you honestly, and your friendship will excuse my honesty, but I have to say I’m not happy at Belle-Isle. No; to be honest, I’m not happy!”
Aramis breathed a long, but stifled sigh. “Dear friend,” replied he: “that is why it is so sad a thing you have sent the two boats we had left in search of the boats which disappeared two days ago. If you had not sent them away, we would have departed.”
Aramis let out a long, but muffled sigh. “My dear friend,” he said: “that’s why it’s so unfortunate that you sent the two boats we had left in search of the ones that disappeared two days ago. If you hadn’t sent them off, we would have already left.”
“‘Departed!’ And the orders, Aramis?”
"‘Left!’ And the instructions, Aramis?"
“What orders?”
“What are the orders?”
“Parbleu! Why, the orders you have been constantly, in and out of season, repeating to me—that we were to hold Belle-Isle against the usurper. You know very well!”
“Seriously! The orders you've been constantly repeating to me, in every situation, that we were supposed to hold Belle-Isle against the usurper. You know that for sure!”
“That is true!” murmured Aramis again.
"That's true!" Aramis whispered again.
“You see, then, plainly, my friend, that we could not depart; and that the sending away of the boats in search of the others cannot prove prejudicial to us in the very least.”
“You can clearly see, my friend, that we couldn’t leave; and sending the boats to look for the others won’t harm us at all.”
Aramis was silent; and his vague glances, luminous as that of an albatross, hovered for a long time over the sea, interrogating space, seeking to pierce the very horizon.
Aramis was quiet; his distant glances, bright like those of an albatross, lingered for a long time over the sea, questioning the landscape, trying to see beyond the horizon.
“With all that, Aramis,” continued Porthos, who adhered to his idea, and that the more closely from the bishop having apparently endorsed it,—“with all that, you give me no explanation about what can have happened to these unfortunate boats. I am assailed by cries and complaints whichever way I go. The children cry to see the desolation of the women, as if I could restore the absent husbands and fathers. What do you suppose, my friend, and how ought I to answer them?”
“With all that, Aramis,” continued Porthos, who stuck to his point even more since the bishop seemed to support it, “with all that, you’re not giving me any explanation about what could have happened to these poor boats. I'm overwhelmed by cries and complaints no matter where I turn. The kids are crying because of the grief of the women, as if I could bring back their missing husbands and fathers. What do you think, my friend, and how should I respond to them?”
“Think all you like, my good Porthos, and say nothing.”
“Believe whatever you want, my good Porthos, and don’t say anything.”
This reply did not satisfy Porthos at all. He turned away grumbling something in ill-humor. Aramis stopped the valiant musketeer. “Do you remember,” said he, in a melancholy tone, kneading the two hands of the giant between his own with affectionate cordiality, “do you remember, my friend, that in the glorious days of youth—do you remember, Porthos, when we were all strong and valiant—we, and the other two—if we had then had an inclination to return to France, do you think this sheet of salt water would have stopped us?”
This response didn't sit well with Porthos at all. He turned away, grumbling under his breath. Aramis stopped the brave musketeer. “Do you remember,” he said in a somber tone, holding Porthos's hands between his own with genuine warmth, “do you remember, my friend, back in the good old days of our youth—do you remember, Porthos, when we were all strong and fearless—we and the other two—if we had wanted to go back to France then, do you think this stretch of saltwater would have held us back?”
“Oh!” said Porthos; “but six leagues.”
“Oh!” said Porthos, “only six leagues.”
“If you had seen me get astride of a plank, would you have remained on land, Porthos?”
“If you had seen me climb onto a plank, would you have stayed on land, Porthos?”
“No, pardieu! No, Aramis. But, nowadays, what sort of a plank should we want, my friend! I, in particular.” And the Seigneur de Bracieux cast a profound glance over his colossal rotundity with a loud laugh. “And do you mean seriously to say you are not tired of Belle-Isle a little, and that you would not prefer the comforts of your dwelling—of your episcopal palace, at Vannes? Come, confess.”
“No, pardieu! No, Aramis. But seriously, what kind of a plank would we need these days, my friend! Especially me.” And the Seigneur de Bracieux took a deep look at his huge belly and laughed loudly. “And are you really saying you’re not a bit tired of Belle-Isle and that you wouldn’t rather have the comforts of your home—your episcopal palace in Vannes? Come on, admit it.”
“No,” replied Aramis, without daring to look at Porthos.
“No,” replied Aramis, not looking at Porthos.
“Let us stay where we are, then,” said his friend, with a sigh, which, in spite of the efforts he made to restrain it, escaped his echoing breast. “Let us remain!—let us remain! And yet,” added he, “and yet, if we seriously wished, but that decidedly—if we had a fixed idea, one firmly taken, to return to France, and there were not boats—”
“Let’s just stay here,” his friend said with a sigh that, despite his attempts to hold it back, escaped from his chest. “Let’s stay!—let’s stay! But,” he added, “but if we truly wanted to, if we really had a solid plan, a definite decision to go back to France, and there weren’t any boats—”
“Have you remarked another thing, my friend—that is, since the disappearance of our barks, during the last two days’ absence of fishermen, not a single small boat has landed on the shores of the isle?”
“Have you noticed something else, my friend—that since our boats disappeared, in the last two days when the fishermen have been away, not a single small boat has come ashore on the island?”
“Yes, certainly! you are right. I, too, have remarked it, and the observation was the more naturally made, for, before the last two fatal days, barks and shallops were as plentiful as shrimps.”
“Yeah, definitely! You’re right. I’ve noticed that too, and it was easy to see, especially since, before the last two tragic days, boats and small ships were as common as shrimp.”
“I must inquire,” said Aramis, suddenly, and with great agitation. “And then, if we had a raft constructed—”
“I need to ask,” said Aramis, suddenly and very agitated. “And then, if we built a raft—”
“But there are some canoes, my friend; shall I board one?”
“But there are some canoes, my friend; should I get on one?”
“A canoe!—a canoe! Can you think of such a thing, Porthos? A canoe to be upset in. No, no,” said the bishop of Vannes; “it is not our trade to ride upon the waves. We will wait, we will wait.”
“A canoe!—a canoe! Can you believe it, Porthos? A canoe to flip over. No, no,” said the bishop of Vannes; “it’s not our job to ride the waves. We’ll wait, we’ll wait.”
And Aramis continued walking about with increased agitation. Porthos, who grew tired of following all the feverish movements of his friend—Porthos, who in his faith and calmness understood nothing of the sort of exasperation which was betrayed by his companion’s continual convulsive starts—Porthos stopped him. “Let us sit down upon this rock,” said he. “Place yourself there, close to me, Aramis, and I conjure you, for the last time, to explain to me in a manner I can comprehend—explain to me what we are doing here.”
And Aramis kept walking around, more agitated than ever. Porthos, who was getting tired of following his friend's frantic movements—Porthos, who in his calmness didn’t understand the kind of frustration that was shown by Aramis’s constant anxious shifts—stopped him. “Let’s sit down on this rock,” he said. “Sit here next to me, Aramis, and I urge you, for the last time, to explain to me in a way I can understand—tell me what we’re doing here.”
“Porthos,” said Aramis, much embarrassed.
"Porthos," Aramis said, feeling awkward.
“I know that the false king wished to dethrone the true king. That is a fact, that I understand. Well—”
“I know that the false king wanted to take the true king's throne. That's a fact, and I get it. Well—”
“Yes?” said Aramis.
"Yes?" Aramis said.
“I know that the false king formed the project of selling Belle-Isle to the English. I understand that, too.”
“I know that the fake king planned to sell Belle-Isle to the English. I get that, too.”
“Yes?”
"Yes?"
“I know that we engineers and captains came and threw ourselves into Belle-Isle to take direction of the works, and the command of ten companies levied and paid by M. Fouquet, or rather the ten companies of his son-in-law. All that is plain.”
“I know that we engineers and captains came and threw ourselves into Belle-Isle to take charge of the projects and the command of ten companies raised and funded by M. Fouquet, or more accurately, the ten companies of his son-in-law. That's all clear.”
Aramis rose in a state of great impatience. He might be said to be a lion importuned by a gnat. Porthos held him by the arm. “But what I cannot understand, what, in spite of all the efforts of my mind, and all my reflections, I cannot comprehend, and never shall comprehend, is, that instead of sending us troops, instead of sending us reinforcements of men, munitions, provisions, they leave us without boats, they leave Belle-Isle without arrivals, without help; it is that instead of establishing with us a correspondence, whether by signals, or written or verbal communications, all relations with the shore are intercepted. Tell me, Aramis, answer me, or rather, before answering me, will you allow me to tell you what I have thought? Will you hear what my idea is, the plan I have conceived?”
Aramis stood up, feeling extremely impatient. He was like a lion bothered by a gnat. Porthos grabbed his arm. “What I can’t wrap my head around, no matter how much I think about it, is why instead of sending us troops, reinforcements, supplies, and food, they leave us without boats and leave Belle-Isle without any help at all. Instead of setting up communication with us—whether through signals, written notes, or speaking directly—all connections with the shore are cut off. Tell me, Aramis, answer me, or rather, before you respond, can I share what I’ve been thinking? Will you listen to my idea, the plan I’ve come up with?”
The bishop raised his head. “Well! Aramis,” continued Porthos, “I have dreamed, I have imagined that an event has taken place in France. I dreamt of M. Fouquet all the night, of lifeless fish, of broken eggs, of chambers badly furnished, meanly kept. Villainous dreams, my dear D’Herblay; very unlucky, such dreams!”
The bishop lifted his head. “Well! Aramis,” Porthos continued, “I had a dream, I pictured an event happening in France. Idreamt about M. Fouquet all night, lifeless fish, broken eggs, poorly furnished rooms, and shabby upkeep. Terrible dreams, my dear D’Herblay; very unfortunate, those dreams!”
“Porthos, what is that yonder?” interrupted Aramis, rising suddenly, and pointing out to his friend a black spot upon the empurpled line of the water.
“Porthos, what is that over there?” interrupted Aramis, suddenly standing up and pointing to a dark spot on the purple line of the water.
“A bark!” said Porthos; “yes, it is a bark! Ah! we shall have some news at last.”
“A ship!” said Porthos; “yeah, it’s a ship! Ah! we’re finally going to get some news.”
“There are two!” cried the bishop, on discovering another mast; “two! three! four!”
“There are two!” shouted the bishop upon spotting another mast; “two! three! four!”
“Five!” said Porthos, in his turn. “Six! seven! Ah! mon Dieu! mon Dieu! it is a fleet!”
“Five!” said Porthos, taking his turn. “Six! Seven! Ah! Oh my God! Oh my God! it’s a fleet!”
“Our boats returning, probably,” said Aramis, very uneasily, in spite of the assurance he affected.
“Our boats are probably coming back,” said Aramis, sounding very uneasy, despite the confidence he was trying to show.
“They are very large for fishing-boats,” observed Porthos, “and do you not remark, my friend, that they come from the Loire?”
“They're really big for fishing boats,” Porthos noted, “and don't you see, my friend, that they come from the Loire?”
“They come from the Loire—yes—”
"They're from the Loire—yes—"
“And look! everybody here sees them as well as ourselves; look, women and children are beginning to crowd the jetty.”
“And look! Everyone here sees them just like we do; look, women and children are starting to gather on the jetty.”
An old fisherman passed. “Are those our barks, yonder?” asked Aramis.
An old fisherman walked by. “Are those our boats over there?” asked Aramis.
The old man looked steadily into the eye of the horizon.
The old man gazed intently at the horizon.
“No, monseigneur,” replied he, “they are lighter boars, boats in the king’s service.”
“No, sir,” he replied, “they're lighter boats, part of the king’s fleet.”
“Boats in the royal service?” replied Aramis, starting. “How do you know that?” said he.
“Boats in royal service?” Aramis exclaimed, taken aback. “How do you know that?” he asked.
“By the flag.”
“Near the flag.”
“But,” said Porthos, “the boat is scarcely visible; how the devil, my friend, can you distinguish the flag?”
“But,” said Porthos, “the boat is barely visible; how on earth, my friend, can you see the flag?”
“I see there is one,” replied the old man; “our boats, trade lighters, do not carry any. That sort of craft is generally used for transport of troops.”
“I see there is one,” replied the old man; “our boats, trade lighters, don’t carry any. That kind of vessel is usually used for moving troops.”
“Ah!” groaned Aramis.
“Ugh!” groaned Aramis.
“Vivat!” cried Porthos, “they are sending us reinforcements, don’t you think they are, Aramis?”
“Hooray!” shouted Porthos, “they're sending us reinforcements, don’t you think so, Aramis?”
“Probably.”
"Probably."
“Unless it is the English coming.”
“Unless it’s the English team coming.”
“By the Loire? That would have an evil look, Porthos; for they must have come through Paris!”
“By the Loire? That would seem suspicious, Porthos; because they must have come through Paris!”
“You are right; they are reinforcements, decidedly, or provisions.”
“You’re right; they’re definitely reinforcements or supplies.”
Aramis leaned his head upon his hands, and made no reply. Then, all at once,—“Porthos,” said he, “have the alarm sounded.”
Aramis rested his head on his hands and said nothing. Then, suddenly, he said, "Porthos, sound the alarm."
“The alarm! do you imagine such a thing?”
“The alarm! can you believe something like that?”
“Yes, and let the cannoniers mount their batteries, the artillerymen be at their pieces, and be particularly watchful of the coast batteries.”
“Yes, and let the gunners set up their cannons, the artillery crews get ready, and make sure to keep a close eye on the coastal batteries.”
Porthos opened his eyes to their widest extent. He looked attentively at his friend, to convince himself he was in his proper senses.
Porthos opened his eyes wide. He looked closely at his friend to make sure he was thinking clearly.
“I will do it, my dear Porthos,” continued Aramis, in his blandest tone; “I will go and have these orders executed myself, if you do not go, my friend.”
I will do it, my dear Porthos,” Aramis continued in the most pleasant tone; “I’ll go and carry out these orders myself if you don’t go, my friend.”
“Well! I will—instantly!” said Porthos, who went to execute the orders, casting all the while looks behind him, to see if the bishop of Vannes were not deceived; and if, on recovering more rational ideas, he would not recall him. The alarm was sounded, trumpets brayed, drums rolled; the great bronze bell swung in horror from its lofty belfry. The dikes and moles were quickly filled with the curious and soldiers; matches sparkled in the hands of the artillerymen, placed behind the large cannon bedded in their stone carriages. When every man was at his post, when all the preparations for defense were made: “Permit me, Aramis, to try to comprehend,” whispered Porthos, timidly, in Aramis’s ear.
“Well! I will—right away!” said Porthos, who went to carry out the orders, glancing back frequently to see if the bishop of Vannes was not mistaken; and if, upon regaining his senses, he would change his mind. The alarm was raised, trumpets blared, and drums beat; the huge bronze bell swung in horror from its tall tower. The dikes and mounds were quickly filled with curious onlookers and soldiers; sparks flew from the matches in the hands of the artillerymen, who were stationed behind the large cannons set in their stone carriages. When everyone was at their post and all preparations for defense were complete: “Allow me, Aramis, to try to understand,” whispered Porthos, nervously, in Aramis’s ear.
“My dear friend, you will comprehend but too soon,” murmured M. d’Herblay, in reply to this question of his lieutenant.
“My dear friend, you will understand very soon,” murmured M. d’Herblay, in response to his lieutenant's question.
“The fleet which is coming yonder, with sails unfurled, straight towards the port of Belle-Isle, is a royal fleet, is it not?”
“The fleet coming over there, with its sails up, heading straight toward the port of Belle-Isle, is a royal fleet, right?”
“But as there are two kings in France, Porthos, to which of these two kings does this fleet belong?”
“But since there are two kings in France, Porthos, which of these two kings does this fleet belong to?”
“Oh! you open my eyes,” replied the giant, stunned by the insinuation.
“Oh! you’re really opening my eyes,” replied the giant, taken aback by the suggestion.
And Porthos, whose eyes this reply of his friend’s had at last opened, or rather thickened the bandage which covered his sight, went with his best speed to the batteries to overlook his people, and exhort every one to do his duty. In the meantime, Aramis, with his eye fixed on the horizon, saw the ships continually drawing nearer. The people and the soldiers, perched on the summits of the rocks, could distinguish the masts, then the lower sails, and at last the hulls of the lighters, bearing at the masthead the royal flag of France. It was night when one of these vessels, which had created such a sensation among the inhabitants of Belle-Isle, dropped anchor within cannon shot of the place. It was soon seen, notwithstanding the darkness, that some sort of agitation reigned on board the vessel, from the side of which a skiff was lowered, of which the three rowers, bending to their oars, took the direction of the port, and in a few instants struck land at the foot of the fort. The commander jumped ashore. He had a letter in his hand, which he waved in the air, and seemed to wish to communicate with somebody. This man was soon recognized by several soldiers as one of the pilots of the island. He was the captain of one of the two barks retained by Aramis, but which Porthos, in his anxiety with regard to the fate of the fishermen who had disappeared, had sent in search of the missing boats. He asked to be conducted to M. d’Herblay. Two soldiers, at a signal from a sergeant, marched him between them, and escorted him. Aramis was upon the quay. The envoy presented himself before the bishop of Vannes. The darkness was almost absolute, notwithstanding the flambeaux borne at a small distance by the soldiers who were following Aramis in his rounds.
And Porthos, whose eyes had finally been opened by his friend's reply, or rather whose vision was even more clouded, hurried to the batteries to oversee his men and encourage everyone to do their duty. Meanwhile, Aramis, gazing at the horizon, saw the ships steadily approaching. The townspeople and soldiers, perched on the rocks, could make out the masts, then the lower sails, and finally the hulls of the lighters flying the royal flag of France at their masthead. It was nighttime when one of these ships, which had caused such a stir among the residents of Belle-Isle, dropped anchor within cannon range of the town. Despite the darkness, it quickly became clear that there was some kind of activity on board. A skiff was lowered from the side of the vessel, and with three rowers straining at their oars, it headed toward the port and soon reached the shore at the foot of the fort. The commander jumped ashore, waving a letter in the air as if he wanted to communicate with someone. Several soldiers soon recognized him as one of the island's pilots. He was the captain of one of the two boats retained by Aramis, but Porthos, worried about the fate of the missing fishermen, had sent it to search for the lost boats. He asked to be taken to M. d’Herblay. At a signal from a sergeant, two soldiers escorted him between them. Aramis was standing on the quay when the messenger approached the bishop of Vannes. The darkness was nearly complete, despite the torches held nearby by the soldiers following Aramis during his rounds.
“Well, Jonathan, from whom do you come?”
“Well, Jonathan, who do you come from?”
“Monseigneur, from those who captured me.”
“Sir, from the people who took me.”
“Who captured you?”
“Who took you?”
“You know, monseigneur, we set out in search of our comrades?”
“You know, sir, we set out to find our friends?”
“Yes; and afterwards?”
“Yes, and what’s next?”
“Well! monseigneur, within a short league we were captured by a chasse maree belonging to the king.”
“Well, your grace, we were captured by a king's fishing boat within a short league.”
“Ah!” said Aramis.
“Ah!” Aramis exclaimed.
“Of which king?” cried Porthos.
"Which king?" cried Porthos.
Jonathan started.
Jonathan began.
“Speak!” continued the bishop.
"Speak!" the bishop insisted.
“We were captured, monseigneur, and joined to those who had been taken yesterday morning.”
“We were captured, sir, and joined with those who had been taken yesterday morning.”
“What was the cause of the mania for capturing you all?” said Porthos.
“What made everyone want to capture you all?” Porthos asked.
“Monsieur, to prevent us from telling you,” replied Jonathan.
“Sir, to stop us from telling you,” replied Jonathan.
Porthos was again at a loss to comprehend. “And they have released you to-day?” asked he.
Porthos was once again confused. “And they let you go today?” he asked.
“That I might tell you they have captured us, monsieur.”
"Just so I can tell you that they have captured us, sir."
“Trouble upon trouble,” thought honest Porthos.
“Trouble after trouble,” thought the sincere Porthos.
During this time Aramis was reflecting.
During this time, Aramis was deep in thought.
“Humph!” said he, “then I suppose it is a royal fleet blockading the coasts?”
“Humph!” he said, “I guess it’s a royal fleet blocking the coasts?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who commands it?”
“Who’s in charge?”
“The captain of the king’s musketeers.”
“The captain of the king’s musketeers.”
“D’Artagnan?”
“D’Artagnan?”
“D’Artagnan!” exclaimed Porthos.
“D’Artagnan!” shouted Porthos.
“I believe that is the name.”
"I believe that’s the name."
“And did he give you this letter?”
“And did he give you this letter?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
"Yes, sir."
“Bring the torches nearer.”
"Bring the torches closer."
“It is his writing,” said Porthos.
“It’s his writing,” Porthos said.
Aramis eagerly read the following lines:
Aramis eagerly read the next lines:
“Order of the king to take Belle-Isle; or to put the garrison to the sword, if they resist; order to make prisoners of all the men of the garrison; signed, D’ARTAGNAN, who, the day before yesterday, arrested M. Fouquet, for the purpose of his being sent to the Bastile.”
“Order from the king to take Belle-Isle; or to execute the garrison if they resist; order to capture all the men in the garrison; signed, D’ARTAGNAN, who, two days ago, arrested M. Fouquet to be sent to the Bastille.”
Aramis turned pale, and crushed the paper in his hands.
Aramis went pale and crumpled the paper in his hands.
“What is it?” asked Porthos.
“What’s that?” asked Porthos.
“Nothing, my friend, nothing.”
"Nothing, my friend, nothing."
“Tell me, Jonathan?”
"Tell me, Jonathan?"
“Monseigneur?”
"Your Excellency?"
“Did you speak to M. d’Artagnan?”
“Did you talk to M. d’Artagnan?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“Sure, your lordship.”
“What did he say to you?”
"What did he say?"
“That for ampler information, he would speak with monseigneur.”
"That for more information, he would talk to the lord."
“Where?”
"Where at?"
“On board his own vessel.”
"On board his own ship."
“On board his vessel!” and Porthos repeated, “On board his vessel!”
“On his ship!” Porthos exclaimed, “On his ship!”
“M. le mousquetaire,” continued Jonathan, “told me to take you both on board my canoe, and bring you to him.”
“M. the musketeer,” continued Jonathan, “told me to take you both onto my canoe and bring you to him.”
“Let us go at once,” exclaimed Porthos. “Dear D’Artagnan!”
“Let’s go right now,” exclaimed Porthos. “My dear D’Artagnan!”
But Aramis stopped him. “Are you mad?” cried he. “Who knows that it is not a snare?”
But Aramis stopped him. “Are you crazy?” he exclaimed. “Who knows if it's not a trap?”
“Of the other king’s?” said Porthos, mysteriously.
“Of the other king’s?” Porthos asked, with a hint of mystery.
“A snare, in fact! That’s what it is, my friend.”
“A trap, really! That’s what it is, my friend.”
“Very possibly; what is to be done, then? If D’Artagnan sends for us—”
“Very possibly; what should we do then? If D’Artagnan calls for us—”
“Who assures you that D’Artagnan sends for us?”
“Who guarantees that D’Artagnan is calling for us?”
“Well, but—but his writing—”
"Well, but his writing—"
“Writing is easily counterfeited. This looks counterfeited—unsteady—”
“Writing can be easily faked. This looks fake—shaky—”
“You are always right; but, in the meantime, we know nothing.”
“You're always right; but for now, we know nothing.”
Aramis was silent.
Aramis didn't say anything.
“It is true,” said the good Porthos, “we do not want to know anything.”
“It’s true,” said the good Porthos, “we don’t want to know anything.”
“What shall I do?” asked Jonathan.
“What should I do?” asked Jonathan.
“You will return on board this captain’s vessel.”
“You will get back on this captain’s ship.”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
"Yes, sir."
“And will tell him that we beg he will himself come into the island.”
“And we’ll ask him to come to the island himself.”
“Ah! I comprehend!” said Porthos.
“Got it!” said Porthos.
“Yes, monseigneur,” replied Jonathan; “but if the captain should refuse to come to Belle-Isle?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Jonathan; “but what if the captain refuses to come to Belle-Isle?”
“If he refuses, as we have cannon, we will make use of them.”
“If he says no, since we have cannons, we will use them.”
“What! against D’Artagnan?”
“What! against D'Artagnan?”
“If it is D’Artagnan, Porthos, he will come. Go, Jonathan, go!”
“If it’s D’Artagnan, Porthos, he’ll come. Go, Jonathan, go!”
“Ma foi! I no longer comprehend anything,” murmured Porthos.
My goodness! I don't understand anything anymore,” murmured Porthos.
“I will make you comprehend it all, my dear friend; the time for it has come; sit down upon this gun-carriage, open your ears, and listen well to me.”
“I’ll help you understand everything, my dear friend; the time has come for that. Sit down on this gun carriage, open your ears, and listen carefully to me.”
“Oh! pardieu! I will listen, no fear of that.”
“Oh! of course! I'll listen, no doubt about it.”
“May I depart, monseigneur?” cried Jonathan.
“Can I leave, sir?” cried Jonathan.
“Yes, begone, and bring back an answer. Allow the canoe to pass, you men there!” And the canoe pushed off to regain the fleet.
“Yes, go away, and come back with an answer. Let the canoe pass, you guys there!” And the canoe pushed off to return to the fleet.
Aramis took Porthos by the hand, and commenced his explanations.
Aramis took Porthos by the hand and began to explain.
Chapter XLIII. Explanations by Aramis.
“What I have to say to you, friend Porthos, will probably surprise you, but it may prove instructive.”
“What I’m about to tell you, my friend Porthos, might come as a surprise, but it could be useful to know.”
“I like to be surprised,” said Porthos, in a kindly tone; “do not spare me, therefore, I beg. I am hardened against emotions; don’t fear, speak out.”
“I like to be surprised,” Porthos said warmly. “So go ahead, don’t hold back. I can handle my emotions; don’t worry, just say what’s on your mind.”
“It is difficult, Porthos—difficult; for, in truth, I warn you a second time, I have very strange things, very extraordinary things, to tell you.”
“It’s tough, Porthos—really tough; because, honestly, I’m warning you a second time, I have some really strange things, some truly extraordinary things, to share with you.”
“Oh! you speak so well, my friend, that I could listen to you for days together. Speak, then, I beg—and—stop, I have an idea: I will, to make your task more easy, I will, to assist you in telling me such things, question you.”
“Oh! you speak so well, my friend, that I could listen to you for days. Please, go on, I ask—and wait, I have an idea: to make it easier for you, I will help by asking you questions.”
“I shall be pleased at your doing so.”
"I'd be happy to see you do that."
“What are we going to fight for, Aramis?”
“What are we going to fight for, Aramis?”
“If you ask me many such questions as that—if you would render my task the easier by interrupting my revelations thus, Porthos, you will not help me at all. So far, on the contrary, that is the very Gordian knot. But, my friend, with a man like you, good, generous, and devoted, the confession must be bravely made. I have deceived you, my worthy friend.”
“If you keep asking me questions like that—if you’re going to make it harder for me by interrupting my story, Porthos, you’re not helping me at all. In fact, that’s the real problem. But, my friend, with someone like you, kind, generous, and loyal, I have to be honest. I’ve misled you, my dear friend.”
“You have deceived me!”
"You've tricked me!"
“Good Heavens! yes.”
“Oh my gosh! Yes.”
“Was it for my good, Aramis?”
“Was it for my benefit, Aramis?”
“I thought so, Porthos; I thought so sincerely, my friend.”
“I really believed that, Porthos; I truly did, my friend.”
“Then,” said the honest seigneur of Bracieux, “you have rendered me a service, and I thank you for it; for if you had not deceived me, I might have deceived myself. In what, then, have you deceived me, tell me?”
“Then,” said the honest lord of Bracieux, “you’ve done me a favor, and I appreciate it; because if you hadn’t tricked me, I might have tricked myself. So, how exactly did you deceive me? Tell me.”
“In that I was serving the usurper against whom Louis XIV., at this moment, is directing his efforts.”
"In that I was working for the usurper that Louis XIV. is currently trying to take down."
“The usurper!” said Porthos, scratching his head. “That is—well, I do not quite clearly comprehend!”
“The usurper!” said Porthos, scratching his head. “That is—well, I don’t quite understand!”
“He is one of the two kings who are contending for the crown of France.”
“He is one of the two kings who are competing for the crown of France.”
“Very well! Then you were serving him who is not Louis XIV.?”
"Alright! So you were serving someone who's not Louis XIV?"
“You have hit the matter in one word.”
"You've nailed it in one word."
“It follows that—”
"Therefore—"
“It follows that we are rebels, my poor friend.”
“It stands to reason that we are rebels, my poor friend.”
“The devil! the devil!” cried Porthos, much disappointed.
“The devil! the devil!” shouted Porthos, feeling very let down.
“Oh! but, dear Porthos, be calm, we shall still find means of getting out of the affair, trust me.”
“Oh! But, dear Porthos, stay calm; we’ll still figure out a way to get out of this, trust me.”
“It is not that which makes me uneasy,” replied Porthos; “that which alone touches me is that ugly word rebels.”
“It’s not that which makes me uneasy,” replied Porthos; “what really bothers me is that ugly word rebels.”
“Ah! but—”
“Ah! but—”
“And so, according to this, the duchy that was promised me—”
“And so, based on this, the duchy that was promised to me—”
“It was the usurper that was to give it to you.”
“It was the usurper who was supposed to give it to you.”
“And that is not the same thing, Aramis,” said Porthos, majestically.
“And that's not the same thing, Aramis,” said Porthos, grandly.
“My friend, if it had only depended upon me, you should have become a prince.”
"My friend, if it had been up to me, you would have become a prince."
Porthos began to bite his nails in a melancholy way.
Porthos started to bite his nails in a sad way.
“That is where you have been wrong,” continued he, “in deceiving me; for that promised duchy I reckoned upon. Oh! I reckoned upon it seriously, knowing you to be a man of your word, Aramis.”
“That’s where you’ve gone wrong,” he continued, “by deceiving me; because I was counting on that promised duchy. Oh! I was really counting on it, knowing you to be a man of your word, Aramis.”
“Poor Porthos! pardon me, I implore you!”
“Poor Porthos! Please forgive me, I beg you!”
“So, then,” continued Porthos, without replying to the bishop’s prayer, “so then, it seems, I have quite fallen out with Louis XIV.?”
“So, then,” continued Porthos, without acknowledging the bishop’s prayer, “so then, it seems I’ve really fallen out with Louis XIV.?”
“Oh! I will settle all that, my good friend, I will settle all that. I will take it on myself alone!”
“Oh! I’ll handle all of that, my good friend, I’ll take care of everything. I’ll take it all on myself!”
“Aramis!”
"Aramis!"
“No, no, Porthos, I conjure you, let me act. No false generosity! No inopportune devotedness! You knew nothing of my projects. You have done nothing of yourself. With me it is different. I alone am the author of this plot. I stood in need of my inseparable companion; I called upon you, and you came to me in remembrance of our ancient device, ‘All for one, one for all.’ My crime is that I was an egotist.”
“No, no, Porthos, I urge you, let me handle this. No fake generosity! No unnecessary devotion! You didn’t know anything about my plans. You haven’t done anything on your own. It’s different for me. I’m the one who came up with this scheme. I needed my constant partner; I called for you, and you came to me remembering our old motto, ‘All for one, one for all.’ My wrongdoing is that I was selfish.”
“Now, that is a word I like,” said Porthos; “and seeing that you have acted entirely for yourself, it is impossible for me to blame you. It is natural.”
“Now, that’s a word I like,” Porthos said. “And since you’ve done everything for yourself, I can’t blame you. It’s just natural.”
And upon this sublime reflection, Porthos pressed his friend’s hand cordially.
And upon this profound thought, Porthos shook his friend's hand warmly.
In presence of this ingenuous greatness of soul, Aramis felt his own littleness. It was the second time he had been compelled to bend before real superiority of heart, which is more imposing than brilliancy of mind. He replied by a mute and energetic pressure to the endearment of his friend.
In the presence of this genuine greatness of character, Aramis felt his own smallness. It was the second time he had to submit to true superiority of spirit, which is more impressive than intelligence. He responded with a silent and strong squeeze in return to his friend's affection.
“Now,” said Porthos, “that we have come to an explanation, now that I am perfectly aware of our situation with respect to Louis XIV., I think, my friend, it is time to make me comprehend the political intrigue of which we are the victims—for I plainly see there is a political intrigue at the bottom of all this.”
“Now,” said Porthos, “that we’ve cleared things up, and I fully understand our situation regarding Louis XIV., I think, my friend, it’s time for you to help me grasp the political scheming that we are caught up in—because I can clearly see there’s a political plot behind all this.”
“D’Artagnan, my good Porthos, D’Artagnan is coming, and will detail it to you in all its circumstances; but, excuse me, I am deeply grieved, I am bowed down with mental anguish, and I have need of all my presence of mind, all my powers of reflection, to extricate you from the false position in which I have so imprudently involved you; but nothing can be more clear, nothing more plain, than your position, henceforth. The king Louis XIV. has no longer now but one enemy: that enemy is myself, myself alone. I have made you a prisoner, you have followed me, to-day I liberate you, you fly back to your prince. You can perceive, Porthos, there is not one difficulty in all this.”
“D’Artagnan, my dear Porthos, D’Artagnan is coming, and he will explain everything to you in detail; but please, understand that I am very upset, I’m weighed down with mental anguish, and I need all my focus, all my ability to think clearly, to get you out of the tricky situation I’ve foolishly put you in; but nothing is clearer, nothing more obvious, than your situation from now on. King Louis XIV has only one enemy now: and that enemy is me, just me. I’ve made you a prisoner, you’ve followed me, and today I’m setting you free, so you can return to your prince. You see, Porthos, there’s not a single problem in all this.”
“Do you think so?” said Porthos.
“Do you really think that?” said Porthos.
“I am quite sure of it.”
"I'm pretty sure."
“Then why,” said the admirable good sense of Porthos, “then why, if we are in such an easy position, why, my friend, do we prepare cannon, muskets, and engines of all sorts? It seems to me it would be much more simple to say to Captain d’Artagnan: ‘My dear friend, we have been mistaken; that error is to be repaired; open the door to us, let us pass through, and we will say good-bye.’”
“Then why,” said Porthos, with his usual common sense, “if we’re in such a good position, why are we getting cannons, muskets, and all kinds of weapons ready? It seems to me it would be much simpler to say to Captain d'Artagnan: ‘Hey, my friend, we were wrong; let’s fix that mistake; open the door for us, let us through, and we’ll say goodbye.’”
“Ah! that!” said Aramis, shaking his head.
“Ah! that!” said Aramis, shaking his head.
“Why do you say ‘that’? Do you not approve of my plan, my friend?”
“Why do you say ‘that’? Are you not in favor of my plan, my friend?”
“I see a difficulty in it.”
“I see a problem with it.”
“What is it?”
"What's that?"
“The hypothesis that D’Artagnan may come with orders which will oblige us to defend ourselves.”
“The idea that D’Artagnan might arrive with orders that will force us to defend ourselves.”
“What! defend ourselves against D’Artagnan? Folly! Against the good D’Artagnan!”
"What! Defend ourselves against D’Artagnan? Ridiculous! Against the good D’Artagnan!"
Aramis once more replied by shaking his head.
Aramis shook his head again in response.
“Porthos,” at length said he, “if I have had the matches lighted and the guns pointed, if I have had the signal of alarm sounded, if I have called every man to his post upon the ramparts, those good ramparts of Belle-Isle which you have so well fortified, it was not for nothing. Wait to judge; or rather, no, do not wait—”
“Porthos,” he finally said, “if I’ve lit the matches and pointed the guns, if I’ve sounded the alarm and called every man to his post on the ramparts, those strong ramparts of Belle-Isle that you’ve fortified so well, it’s for a reason. Don’t wait to judge; or rather, no, don’t wait—”
“What can I do?”
"What should I do?"
“If I knew, my friend, I would have told you.”
“If I knew, my friend, I would’ve told you.”
“But there is one thing much more simple than defending ourselves:—a boat, and away for France—where—”
“But there is one thing much simpler than defending ourselves: a boat, and off to France—where—”
“My dear friend,” said Aramis, smiling with a strong shade of sadness, “do not let us reason like children; let us be men in council and in execution.—But, hark! I hear a hail for landing at the port. Attention, Porthos, serious attention!”
“My dear friend,” Aramis said, smiling with a hint of sadness, “let’s not think like children; let’s act like men in our discussions and actions. —But wait! I hear someone calling for landing at the port. Pay attention, Porthos, this is serious!”
“It is D’Artagnan, no doubt,” said Porthos, in a voice of thunder, approaching the parapet.
"It’s definitely D’Artagnan," said Porthos, in a booming voice, moving closer to the parapet.
“Yes, it is I,” replied the captain of the musketeers, running lightly up the steps of the mole, and gaining rapidly the little esplanade on which his two friends waited for him. As soon as he came towards them, Porthos and Aramis observed an officer who followed D’Artagnan, treading apparently in his very steps. The captain stopped upon the stairs of the mole, when half-way up. His companions imitated him.
“Yes, it’s me,” said the captain of the musketeers, quickly climbing the steps of the pier and reaching the small platform where his two friends were waiting for him. As soon as he approached them, Porthos and Aramis noticed an officer who was following D’Artagnan, seemingly stepping in his exact footprints. The captain paused on the stairs of the pier, halfway up. His companions did the same.
“Make your men draw back,” cried D’Artagnan to Porthos and Aramis; “let them retire out of hearing.” This order, given by Porthos, was executed immediately. Then D’Artagnan, turning towards him who followed him:
“Tell your men to fall back,” shouted D’Artagnan to Porthos and Aramis; “let them move out of earshot.” This command, issued by Porthos, was carried out right away. Then D’Artagnan, turning to the one who was following him:
“Monsieur,” said he, “we are no longer on board the king’s fleet, where, in virtue of your order, you spoke so arrogantly to me, just now.”
“Mister,” he said, “we're no longer on the king's ship, where, by your command, you just spoke to me so arrogantly.”
“Monsieur,” replied the officer, “I did not speak arrogantly to you; I simply, but rigorously, obeyed instructions. I was commanded to follow you. I follow you. I am directed not to allow you to communicate with any one without taking cognizance of what you do; I am in duty bound, accordingly, to overhear your conversations.”
“Sir,” the officer replied, “I wasn’t being rude to you; I was just following orders. I was told to follow you, so I am. I’ve been instructed not to let you talk to anyone without monitoring what you say; therefore, I have to listen in on your conversations.”
D’Artagnan trembled with rage, and Porthos and Aramis, who heard this dialogue, trembled likewise, but with uneasiness and fear. D’Artagnan, biting his mustache with that vivacity which denoted in him exasperation, closely to be followed by an explosion, approached the officer.
D’Artagnan shook with anger, and Porthos and Aramis, who overheard the conversation, felt uneasy and scared. D’Artagnan, biting his mustache with a quickness that showed he was about to explode, stepped closer to the officer.
“Monsieur,” said he, in a low voice, so much the more impressive, that, affecting calm, it threatened tempest—“monsieur, when I sent a canoe hither, you wished to know what I wrote to the defenders of Belle-Isle. You produced an order to that effect; and, in my turn, I instantly showed you the note I had written. When the skipper of the boat sent by me returned, when I received the reply of these two gentlemen” (and he pointed to Aramis and Porthos), “you heard every word of what the messenger said. All that was plainly in your orders, all that was well executed, very punctually, was it not?”
“Sir,” he said in a low voice, which was even more impactful because, while trying to stay calm, it hinted at a storm—“sir, when I sent a canoe here, you wanted to know what I wrote to the defenders of Belle-Isle. You provided an order for that; and in response, I immediately showed you the note I had written. When the skipper of the boat I sent back returned, and I got the reply from these two gentlemen” (and he pointed to Aramis and Porthos), “you heard everything the messenger said. All that was clearly in your orders, all that was executed well and very promptly, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, monsieur,” stammered the officer; “yes, without doubt, but—”
“Yes, sir,” stammered the officer; “yes, definitely, but—”
“Monsieur,” continued D’Artagnan, growing warm—“monsieur, when I manifested the intention of quitting my vessel to cross to Belle-Isle, you demanded to accompany me; I did not hesitate; I brought you with me. You are now at Belle-Isle, are you not?”
“Sir,” D’Artagnan continued, getting heated—“sir, when I expressed my intention to leave my ship to go to Belle-Isle, you insisted on coming with
“Yes, monsieur; but—”
“Yeah, sir; but—”
“But—the question no longer is of M. Colbert, who has given you that order, or of whomsoever in the world you are following the instructions; the question now is of a man who is a clog upon M. d’Artagnan, and who is alone with M. d’Artagnan upon steps whose feet are bathed by thirty feet of salt water; a bad position for that man, a bad position, monsieur! I warn you.”
“But the question isn’t about M. Colbert, who gave you that order, or anyone else you're following; it’s about a man who is holding back M. d’Artagnan, and who is standing alone with M. d’Artagnan on steps at the edge of thirty feet of salt water. That’s a tough spot for that man, a tough spot, sir! I’m warning you.”
“But, monsieur, if I am a restraint upon you,” said the officer, timidly, and almost faintly, “it is my duty which—”
“But, sir, if I'm holding you back,” said the officer, hesitantly and nearly weakly, “it’s my duty that—”
“Monsieur, you have had the misfortune, either you or those that sent you, to insult me. It is done. I cannot seek redress from those who employ you,—they are unknown to me, or are at too great a distance. But you are under my hand, and I swear that if you make one step behind me when I raise my feet to go up to those gentlemen, I swear to you by my name, I will cleave your head in two with my sword, and pitch you into the water. Oh! it will happen! it will happen! I have only been six times angry in my life, monsieur, and all five preceding times I killed my man.”
“Mister, you or the people who sent you have unfortunately insulted me. It’s done now. I can’t seek justice from those who hired you—they’re either unknown to me or too far away. But you’re here, and I swear that if you take even one step back when I go up to those gentlemen, I promise you by my name, I will split your head in two with my sword and throw you into the water. Oh! It will happen! It will happen! I’ve only been angry six times in my life, and all five times before, I killed my man.”
The officer did not stir; he became pale under this terrible threat, but replied with simplicity, “Monsieur, you are wrong in acting against my orders.”
The officer didn’t move; he turned pale from this serious threat, but simply replied, “Sir, you’re mistaken for going against my orders.”
Porthos and Aramis, mute and trembling at the top of the parapet, cried to the musketeer, “Good D’Artagnan, take care!”
Porthos and Aramis, silent and shaking at the top of the wall, shouted to the musketeer, “Hey D’Artagnan, be careful!”
D’Artagnan made them a sign to keep silence, raised his foot with ominous calmness to mount the stair, and turned round, sword in hand, to see if the officer followed him. The officer made a sign of the cross and stepped up. Porthos and Aramis, who knew their D’Artagnan, uttered a cry, and rushed down to prevent the blow they thought they already heard. But D’Artagnan passed his sword into his left hand,—
D’Artagnan signaled for them to be quiet, calmly lifted his foot to go up the stairs, and turned around, sword in hand, to check if the officer was following him. The officer crossed himself and stepped up. Porthos and Aramis, who knew their D’Artagnan well, shouted and rushed down to stop the strike they thought was coming. But D’Artagnan switched his sword to his left hand,—
“Monsieur,” said he to the officer, in an agitated voice, “you are a brave man. You will all the better comprehend what I am going to say to you now.”
“Mister,” he said to the officer, in an anxious voice, “you are a brave man. You will better understand what I’m about to tell you now.”
“Speak, Monsieur d’Artagnan, speak,” replied the officer.
“Speak, Mr. d’Artagnan, speak,” replied the officer.
“These gentlemen we have just seen, and against whom you have orders, are my friends.”
“These guys we just saw, and whom you have orders against, are my friends.”
“I know they are, monsieur.”
“I know they are, sir.”
“You can understand whether or not I ought to act towards them as your instructions prescribe.”
“You can tell if I should treat them the way you instructed.”
“I understand your reserve.”
"I get why you're hesitant."
“Very well; permit me, then, to converse with them without a witness.”
“Alright; let me talk to them without anyone else around.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan, if I yield to your request, if I do that which you beg me, I break my word; but if I do not do it, I disoblige you. I prefer the one dilemma to the other. Converse with your friends, and do not despise me, monsieur, for doing this for your sake, whom I esteem and honor; do not despise me for committing for you, and you alone, an unworthy act.” D’Artagnan, much agitated, threw his arm round the neck of the young man, and then went up to his friends. The officer, enveloped in his cloak, sat down on the damp, weed-covered steps.
“Monsieur d’Artagnan, if I give in to your request, if I do what you ask, I break my word; but if I don’t do it, I upset you. I prefer one dilemma over the other. Talk to your friends, and don’t look down on me, monsieur, for doing this for your sake, someone I respect and honor; don’t think poorly of me for committing this unworthy act just for you.” D’Artagnan, feeling quite uneasy, threw his arm around the young man’s neck and then approached his friends. The officer, wrapped in his cloak, sat down on the damp, weed-covered steps.
“Well!” said D’Artagnan to his friends, “such is my position, judge for yourselves.” All three embraced as in the glorious days of their youth.
“Well!” D’Artagnan said to his friends, “that’s my situation, you can decide for yourselves.” The three of them hugged just like they did in the good old days of their youth.
“What is the meaning of all these preparations?” said Porthos.
“What’s all this preparation about?” Porthos asked.
“You ought to have a suspicion of what they signify,” said D’Artagnan.
“You should be suspicious of what they mean,” said D’Artagnan.
“Not any, I assure you, my dear captain; for, in fact, I have done nothing, no more has Aramis,” the worthy baron hastened to say.
“Not at all, I promise you, my dear captain; because, really, I haven’t done anything, nor has Aramis,” the worthy baron quickly added.
D’Artagnan darted a reproachful look at the prelate, which penetrated that hardened heart.
D’Artagnan shot a disapproving glance at the prelate, which reached that tough heart.
“Dear Porthos!” cried the bishop of Vannes.
“Dear Porthos!” exclaimed the bishop of Vannes.
“You see what is being done against you,” said D’Artagnan; “interception of all boats coming to or going from Belle-Isle. Your means of transport seized. If you had endeavored to fly, you would have fallen into the hands of the cruisers that plow the sea in all directions, on the watch for you. The king wants you to be taken, and he will take you.” D’Artagnan tore at his gray mustache. Aramis grew somber, Porthos angry.
“You see what’s happening to you,” D’Artagnan said; “they’re stopping all boats coming to or going from Belle-Isle. Your way out has been taken from you. If you had tried to escape, you would have ended up in the hands of the ships that patrol the sea everywhere, looking for you. The king wants to capture you, and he will.” D’Artagnan tugged at his gray mustache. Aramis became serious, and Porthos got angry.
“My idea was this,” continued D’Artagnan: “to make you both come on board, to keep you near me, and restore you your liberty. But now, who can say, when I return to my ship, I may not find a superior; that I may not find secret orders which will take from me my command, and give it to another, who will dispose of me and you without hope of help?”
“My idea was this,” continued D’Artagnan: “to get both of you on board, to have you close by, and then give you back your freedom. But now, who can say that when I get back to my ship, I won’t find a superior officer; that I won’t find hidden orders that will strip me of my command and hand it over to someone else, who will decide what to do with me and you, leaving us with no hope of help?”
“We must remain at Belle-Isle,” said Aramis, resolutely; “and I assure you, for my part, I will not surrender easily.” Porthos said nothing. D’Artagnan remarked the silence of his friend.
“We have to stay at Belle-Isle,” Aramis said firmly; “and I promise you, I won’t give up easily.” Porthos stayed quiet. D’Artagnan noticed his friend's silence.
“I have another trial to make of this officer, of this brave fellow who accompanies me, and whose courageous resistance makes me very happy; for it denotes an honest man, who, though an enemy, is a thousand times better than a complaisant coward. Let us try to learn from him what his instructions are, and what his orders permit or forbid.”
“I have another test to conduct with this officer, this brave guy who's with me, and whose courageous stand makes me really happy; because it shows he's an honest man, who, even as an enemy, is a thousand times better than a weak coward. Let's try to find out from him what his instructions are, and what his orders allow or don’t allow.”
“Let us try,” said Aramis.
"Let's give it a shot," said Aramis.
D’Artagnan went to the parapet, leaned over towards the steps of the mole, and called the officer, who immediately came up. “Monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, after having exchanged the cordial courtesies natural between gentlemen who know and appreciate each other, “monsieur, if I wished to take away these gentlemen from here, what would you do?”
D’Artagnan went to the edge, leaned over towards the steps of the mole, and called the officer, who quickly came up. “Sir,” said D’Artagnan, after exchanging the friendly pleasantries typical among gentlemen who know and respect one another, “sir, if I wanted to take these gentlemen away from here, what would you do?”
“I should not oppose it, monsieur; but having direct explicit orders to put them under guard, I should detain them.”
"I can't go against it"
“Ah!” said D’Artagnan.
“Wow!” said D’Artagnan.
“That’s all over,” said Aramis, gloomily. Porthos did not stir.
“That’s done with,” said Aramis, sadly. Porthos didn’t move.
“But still take Porthos,” said the bishop of Vannes. “He can prove to the king, and I will help him do so, and you too, Monsieur d’Artagnan, that he had nothing to do with this affair.”
“But still take Porthos,” said the bishop of Vannes. “He can prove to the king, and I will help him do that, and you too, Monsieur d’Artagnan, that he had nothing to do with this situation.”
“Hum!” said D’Artagnan. “Will you come? Will you follow me, Porthos? The king is merciful.”
“Hmm!” said D’Artagnan. “Will you come? Will you follow me, Porthos? The king is merciful.”
“I want time for reflection,” said Porthos.
“I need some time to think,” said Porthos.
“You will remain here, then?”
"Are you staying here then?"
“Until fresh orders,” said Aramis, with vivacity.
“Until new orders,” said Aramis, energetically.
“Until we have an idea,” resumed D’Artagnan; “and I now believe that will not be long, for I have one already.”
“Until we have an idea,” D’Artagnan continued, “and I believe that won’t be long because I already have one.”
“Let us say adieu, then,” said Aramis; “but in truth, my good Porthos, you ought to go.”
“Let’s say goodbye, then,” said Aramis; “but honestly, my good Porthos, you really should go.”
“No,” said the latter, laconically.
“No,” said the latter, flatly.
“As you please,” replied Aramis, a little wounded in his susceptibilities at the morose tone of his companion. “Only I am reassured by the promise of an idea from D’Artagnan, an idea I fancy I have divined.”
“As you wish,” replied Aramis, a bit hurt by his companion's gloomy tone. “I’m just comforted by the idea D’Artagnan has promised, an idea I think I might have figured out.”
“Let us see,” said the musketeer, placing his ear near Aramis’s mouth. The latter spoke several words rapidly, to which D’Artagnan replied, “That is it, precisely.”
“Let’s see,” said the musketeer, leaning his ear close to Aramis’s mouth. Aramis quickly said several words, to which D’Artagnan responded, “That’s it, exactly.”
“Infallible!” cried Aramis.
"Perfect!" cried Aramis.
“During the first emotion this resolution will cause, take care of yourself, Aramis.”
“During the first feeling this decision will bring, take care of yourself, Aramis.”
“Oh! don’t be afraid.”
“Oh! don’t worry.”
“Now, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan to the officer, “thanks, a thousand thanks! You have made yourself three friends for life.”
“Now, sir,” D’Artagnan said to the officer, “thank you, a thousand thank yous! You've gained three friends for life.”
“Yes,” added Aramis. Porthos alone said nothing, but merely bowed.
“Yeah,” added Aramis. Porthos didn't say anything, but just nodded.
D’Artagnan, having tenderly embraced his two old friends, left Belle-Isle with the inseparable companion with whom M. Colbert had saddled him. Thus, with the exception of the explanation with which the worthy Porthos had been willing to be satisfied, nothing had changed in appearance in the fate of one or the other, “Only,” said Aramis, “there is D’Artagnan’s idea.”
D’Artagnan, after warmly hugging his two old friends, left Belle-Isle with the constant companion that M. Colbert had assigned to him. So, aside from the explanation that the good-natured Porthos had been happy to accept, nothing seemed to have changed in the fortunes of either of them. “Only,” said Aramis, “there’s D’Artagnan’s idea.”
D’Artagnan did not return on board without profoundly analyzing the idea he had discovered. Now, we know that whatever D’Artagnan did examine, according to custom, daylight was certain to illuminate. As to the officer, now grown mute again, he had full time for meditation. Therefore, on putting his foot on board his vessel, moored within cannon-shot of the island, the captain of the musketeers had already got together all his means, offensive and defensive.
D’Artagnan didn’t come back on board without thoroughly thinking through the idea he had uncovered. Now, we know that whatever D’Artagnan looked into, daylight was bound to reveal. As for the officer, now silent again, he had plenty of time for reflection. So, when he stepped onto his ship, anchored within cannon range of the island, the captain of the musketeers had already gathered all his offensive and defensive resources.
He immediately assembled his council, which consisted of the officers serving under his orders. These were eight in number; a chief of the maritime forces; a major directing the artillery; an engineer, the officer we are acquainted with, and four lieutenants. Having assembled them, D’Artagnan arose, took of his hat, and addressed them thus:
He quickly gathered his council, which included the officers under his command. There were eight in total: a chief of the naval forces, a major in charge of the artillery, an engineer—who we know—and four lieutenants. Once they were all gathered, D’Artagnan stood up, took off his hat, and addressed them like this:
“Gentlemen, I have been to reconnoiter Belle-Ile-en-Mer, and I have found in it a good and solid garrison; moreover, preparations are made for a defense that may prove troublesome. I therefore intend to send for two of the principal officers of the place, that we may converse with them. Having separated them from their troops and cannon, we shall be better able to deal with them; particularly by reasoning with them. Is not this your opinion, gentlemen?”
“Gentlemen, I have been to check out Belle-Ile-en-Mer, and I found it has a strong and reliable garrison; furthermore, they have made preparations for a defense that could be challenging. I plan to call for two of the main officers there so we can talk to them. By separating them from their troops and cannons, we'll be in a better position to handle them, especially by discussing things with them. Don’t you agree, gentlemen?”
The major of artillery rose.
The artillery major rose.
“Monsieur,” said he, with respect, but firmness, “I have heard you say that the place is preparing to make a troublesome defense. The place is then, as you know, determined on rebellion?”
“Sir,” he said, respectfully but firmly, “I’ve heard you mention that the place is getting ready to put up a tough defense. So, as you know, the place is set on rebellion?”
D’Artagnan was visibly put out by this reply; but he was not the man to allow himself to be subdued by a trifle, and resumed:
D’Artagnan was clearly annoyed by this response, but he wasn’t the type to let something minor defeat him, and he continued:
“Monsieur,” said he, “your reply is just. But you are ignorant that Belle-Isle is a fief of M. Fouquet’s, and that former monarchs gave the right to the seigneurs of Belle-Isle to arm their people.” The major made a movement. “Oh! do not interrupt me,” continued D’Artagnan. “You are going to tell me that that right to arm themselves against the English was not a right to arm themselves against their king. But it is not M. Fouquet, I suppose, who holds Belle-Isle at this moment, since I arrested M. Fouquet the day before yesterday. Now the inhabitants and defenders of Belle-Isle know nothing of this arrest. You would announce it to them in vain. It is a thing so unheard-of and extraordinary, so unexpected, that they would not believe you. A Breton serves his master, and not his masters; he serves his master till he has seen him dead. Now the Bretons, as far as I know, have not seen the body of M. Fouquet. It is not, then, surprising they hold out against that which is neither M. Fouquet nor his signature.”
“Sir,” he said, “your response is fair. But you don’t realize that Belle-Isle is a fief of Mr. Fouquet, and that previous kings granted the lords of Belle-Isle the right to arm their people.” The major shifted. “Oh! Please don’t interrupt me,” D’Artagnan continued. “You’re about to say that this right to arm themselves against the English doesn’t mean they can arm themselves against their king. But it’s not Mr. Fouquet who controls Belle-Isle right now, since I arrested Mr. Fouquet the day before yesterday. And the people defending Belle-Isle are unaware of this arrest. You would announce it to them in vain. It’s something so unbelievable and extraordinary, so unexpected, that they wouldn’t believe you. A Breton serves his master, not his masters; he sticks with his master until he sees him dead. As far as I know, the Bretons haven’t seen Mr. Fouquet’s body. So it’s not surprising that they resist against something that isn't Mr. Fouquet or his signature.”
The major bowed in token of assent.
The major nodded in agreement.
“That is why,” continued D’Artagnan, “I propose to cause two of the principal officers of the garrison to come on board my vessel. They will see you, gentlemen; they will see the forces we have at our disposal; they will consequently know to what they have to trust, and the fate that attends them, in case of rebellion. We will affirm to them, upon our honor, that M. Fouquet is a prisoner, and that all resistance can only be prejudicial to them. We will tell them that at the first cannon fired, there will be no further hope of mercy from the king. Then, or so at least I trust, they will resist no longer. They will yield up without fighting, and we shall have a place given up to us in a friendly way which it might cost prodigious efforts to subdue.”
"That’s why,” D’Artagnan went on, “I suggest we bring two of the main officers of the garrison on board my ship. They’ll see you, gentlemen; they’ll see the forces we have at our disposal; they’ll understand what they’re up against and what their fate will be if they rebel. We’ll swear to them, on our honor, that M. Fouquet is a prisoner and that any resistance will only harm them. We’ll inform them that the moment the first cannon is fired, there will be no hope for mercy from the king. Then, at least I hope, they won’t resist any longer. They’ll surrender without a fight, and we’ll take the place peacefully, which would otherwise require a tremendous effort to conquer.”
The officer who had followed D’Artagnan to Belle-Isle was preparing to speak, but D’Artagnan interrupted him.
The officer who had followed D’Artagnan to Belle-Isle was about to speak, but D’Artagnan cut him off.
“Yes, I know what you are going to tell me, monsieur; I know that there is an order of the king’s to prevent all secret communications with the defenders of Belle-Isle, and that is exactly why I do not offer to communicate except in presence of my staff.”
“Yes, I know what you’re going to say, sir; I know that there’s a royal order against all secret communications with the defenders of Belle-Isle, and that’s exactly why I only offer to communicate in front of my team.”
And D’Artagnan made an inclination of the head to his officers, who knew him well enough to attach a certain value to the condescension.
And D’Artagnan nodded to his officers, who knew him well enough to appreciate the gesture.
The officers looked at each other as if to read each other’s opinions in their eyes, with the intention of evidently acting, should they agree, according to the desire of D’Artagnan. And already the latter saw with joy that the result of their consent would be sending a bark to Porthos and Aramis, when the king’s officer drew from a pocket a folded paper, which he placed in the hands of D’Artagnan.
The officers exchanged glances, trying to gauge each other’s thoughts, clearly intending to act in line with D’Artagnan's wishes if they were on the same page. D’Artagnan felt a rush of joy at the thought that their agreement would mean sending a boat to Porthos and Aramis when the king’s officer took out a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to D’Artagnan.
This paper bore upon its superscription the number 1.
This paper had the number 1 written at the top.
“What, more!” murmured the surprised captain.
“What, more!” murmured the shocked captain.
“Read, monsieur,” said the officer, with a courtesy that was not free from sadness.
“Read, sir,” said the officer, with a politeness that wasn’t without a hint of sadness.
D’Artagnan, full of mistrust, unfolded the paper, and read these words: “Prohibition to M. d’Artagnan to assemble any council whatever, or to deliberate in any way before Belle-Isle be surrendered and the prisoners shot. Signed—LOUIS.”
D’Artagnan, filled with suspicion, opened the paper and read these words: “Prohibition to M. d’Artagnan to hold any council or deliberate in any way until Belle-Isle is surrendered and the prisoners are executed. Signed—LOUIS.”
D’Artagnan repressed the quiver of impatience that ran through his whole body, and with a gracious smile:
D’Artagnan held back the wave of impatience that coursed through his entire body and smiled warmly:
“That is well, monsieur,” said he; “the king’s orders shall be complied with.”
“That’s fine, sir,” he said; “the king’s orders will be followed.”
Chapter XLIV. Result of the Ideas of the King, and the Ideas of D’Artagnan.
The blow was direct. It was severe, mortal. D’Artagnan, furious at having been anticipated by an idea of the king’s, did not despair, however, even yet; and reflecting upon the idea he had brought back from Belle-Isle, he elicited therefrom novel means of safety for his friends.
The hit was straight on. It was intense, deadly. D’Artagnan, angry for having been outsmarted by the king's idea, didn’t lose hope just yet; and thinking about the idea he had gotten from Belle-Isle, he came up with new ways to protect his friends.
“Gentlemen,” said he, suddenly, “since the king has charged some other than myself with his secret orders, it must be because I no longer possess his confidence, and I should really be unworthy of it if I had the courage to hold a command subject to so many injurious suspicions. Therefore I will go immediately and carry my resignation to the king. I tender it before you all, enjoining you all to fall back with me upon the coast of France, in such a way as not to compromise the safety of the forces his majesty has confided to me. For this purpose, return all to your posts; within an hour, we shall have the ebb of the tide. To your posts, gentlemen! I suppose,” added he, on seeing that all prepared to obey him, except the surveillant officer, “you have no orders to object, this time?”
“Gentlemen,” he said suddenly, “since the king has assigned someone else his secret orders, it must be because I no longer have his trust, and I wouldn't deserve it if I had the nerve to hold a position surrounded by so much doubt. So, I will go right away and submit my resignation to the king. I present it before all of you, urging you to fall back with me to the coast of France in a way that doesn’t compromise the safety of the forces the king has entrusted to me. For this, return to your posts; within an hour, we’ll have the tide going out. To your posts, gentlemen!” he added, noticing that everyone was getting ready to obey him except the supervising officer. “I assume,” he continued, “that you have no objections this time?”
And D’Artagnan almost triumphed while speaking these words. This plan would prove the safety of his friends. The blockade once raised, they might embark immediately, and set sail for England or Spain, without fear of being molested. Whilst they were making their escape, D’Artagnan would return to the king; would justify his return by the indignation which the mistrust of Colbert had raised in him; he would be sent back with full powers, and he would take Belle-Isle; that is to say, the cage, after the birds had flown. But to this plan the officer opposed a further order of the king’s. It was thus conceived:
And D’Artagnan felt a surge of victory as he spoke these words. This plan would ensure his friends' safety. Once the blockade was lifted, they could leave immediately and set sail for England or Spain without worrying about being stopped. While they made their escape, D’Artagnan would go back to the king; he would explain his return by expressing the anger that Colbert's mistrust had caused him; he would be sent back with full authority, and he would take Belle-Isle; which is to say, the cage, after the birds had already flown. But to this plan, the officer had a different order from the king. It was stated as follows:
“From the moment M. d’Artagnan shall have manifested the desire of giving in his resignation, he shall no longer be reckoned leader of the expedition, and every officer placed under his orders shall be held to no longer obey him. Moreover, the said Monsieur d’Artagnan, having lost that quality of leader of the army sent against Belle-Isle, shall set out immediately for France, accompanied by the officer who will have remitted the message to him, and who will consider him a prisoner for whom he is answerable.”
“Once M. d’Artagnan shows that he wants to resign, he will no longer be considered the leader of the expedition, and every officer under his command will no longer have to follow his orders. Furthermore, Monsieur d’Artagnan, having lost his status as the leader of the army sent against Belle-Isle, will leave for France immediately, accompanied by the officer who brings him this message, and who will regard him as a prisoner for whom he is responsible.”
Brave and careless as he was, D’Artagnan turned pale. Everything had been calculated with a depth of precognition which, for the first time in thirty years, recalled to him the solid foresight and inflexible logic of the great cardinal. He leaned his head on his hand, thoughtful, scarcely breathing. “If I were to put this order in my pocket,” thought he, “who would know it, what would prevent my doing it? Before the king had had time to be informed, I should have saved those poor fellows yonder. Let us exercise some small audacity! My head is not one of those the executioner strikes off for disobedience. We will disobey!” But at the moment he was about to adopt this plan, he saw the officers around him reading similar orders, which the passive agent of the thoughts of that infernal Colbert had distributed to them. This contingency of his disobedience had been foreseen—as all the rest had been.
Brave and reckless as he was, D’Artagnan went pale. Everything had been planned with a level of foresight that, for the first time in thirty years, reminded him of the solid judgment and unyielding logic of the great cardinal. He rested his head on his hand, deep in thought, barely breathing. “If I were to tuck this order in my pocket,” he considered, “who would find out, what would stop me from doing it? Before the king even got wind of it, I could save those poor guys over there. Let’s show a bit of boldness! My head isn’t one they’d chop off for disobedience. We’ll go against the orders!” But just as he was about to act on this plan, he noticed the officers around him reading similar orders, which the unwilling messenger of that vile Colbert had handed out to them. This possibility of his disobedience had been anticipated—just like everything else.
“Monsieur,” said the officer, coming up to him, “I await your good pleasure to depart.”
“Mister,” said the officer, approaching him, “I’m ready to leave whenever you are.”
“I am ready, monsieur,” replied D’Artagnan, grinding his teeth.
“I’m ready, sir,” replied D’Artagnan, grinding his teeth.
The officer immediately ordered a canoe to receive M. d’Artagnan and himself. At sight of this he became almost distraught with rage.
The officer quickly ordered a canoe for M. d’Artagnan and himself. Seeing this made him nearly explode with anger.
“How,” stammered he, “will you carry on the directions of the different corps?”
“Um,” he stuttered, “how will you manage the instructions from the different teams?”
“When you are gone, monsieur,” replied the commander of the fleet, “it is to me the command of the whole is committed.”
“When you’re gone, sir,” replied the fleet commander, “the entire command is entrusted to me.”
“Then, monsieur,” rejoined Colbert’s man, addressing the new leader, “it is for you that this last order remitted to me is intended. Let us see your powers.”
“Then, sir,” replied Colbert’s man, speaking to the new leader, “this final order given to me is meant for you. Let’s see your authority.”
“Here they are,” said the officer, exhibiting the royal signature.
“Here they are,” said the officer, showing the royal signature.
“Here are your instructions,” replied the officer, placing the folded paper in his hands; and turning round towards D’Artagnan, “Come, monsieur,” said he, in an agitated voice (such despair did he behold in that man of iron), “do me the favor to depart at once.”
“Here are your instructions,” the officer said, handing over the folded paper. Then, turning to D’Artagnan, he said in a shaky voice, “Please, sir, leave immediately.”
“Immediately!” articulated D’Artagnan, feebly, subdued, crushed by implacable impossibility.
“Right away!” said D’Artagnan, weakly, subdued, overwhelmed by relentless impossibility.
And he painfully subsided into the little boat, which started, favored by wind and tide, for the coast of France. The king’s guards embarked with him. The musketeer still preserved the hope of reaching Nantes quickly, and of pleading the cause of his friends eloquently enough to incline the king to mercy. The bark flew like a swallow. D’Artagnan distinctly saw the land of France profiled in black against the white clouds of night.
And he painfully settled into the small boat, which started moving, helped by the wind and tide, toward the coast of France. The king’s guards joined him. The musketeer still held onto the hope of reaching Nantes quickly and of arguing for his friends strongly enough to sway the king towards mercy. The boat raced forward like a swallow. D’Artagnan clearly saw the land of France outlined in black against the white clouds of night.
“Ah! monsieur,” said he, in a low voice, to the officer to whom, for an hour, he had ceased speaking, “what would I give to know the instructions for the new commander! They are all pacific, are they not? and—”
“Ah! sir,” he said quietly to the officer he hadn’t spoken to for an hour, “what would I give to know the orders for the new commander! They’re all peaceful, right? And—”
He did not finish; the thunder of a distant cannon rolled athwart the waves, another, and two or three still louder. D’Artagnan shuddered.
He didn’t finish; the sound of a distant cannon boomed across the waves, then another, and two or three more even louder. D’Artagnan shivered.
“They have commenced the siege of Belle-Isle,” replied the officer. The canoe had just touched the soil of France.
“They've started the siege of Belle-Isle,” the officer replied. The canoe had just reached the shores of France.
Chapter XLV. The Ancestors of Porthos.
When D’Artagnan left Aramis and Porthos, the latter returned to the principal fort, in order to converse with greater liberty. Porthos, still thoughtful, was a restraint on Aramis, whose mind had never felt itself more free.
When D’Artagnan left Aramis and Porthos, Porthos went back to the main fort to talk more freely. Porthos, still deep in thought, held back Aramis, whose mind had never felt so unrestrained.
“Dear Porthos,” said he, suddenly, “I will explain D’Artagnan’s idea to you.”
“Hey Porthos,” he said suddenly, “I’ll explain D’Artagnan’s idea to you.”
“What idea, Aramis?”
"Which idea, Aramis?"
“An idea to which we shall owe our liberty within twelve hours.”
“An idea that will give us our freedom in twelve hours.”
“Ah! indeed!” said Porthos, much astonished. “Let us hear it.”
“Wow! Really?” said Porthos, very surprised. “Let's hear it.”
“Did you remark, in the scene our friend had with the officer, that certain orders constrained him with regard to us?”
“Did you notice, in the scene our friend had with the officer, that certain orders limited him concerning us?”
“Yes, I did notice that.”
“Yeah, I saw that.”
“Well! D’Artagnan is going to give in his resignation to the king, and during the confusion that will result from his absence, we will get away, or rather you will get away, Porthos, if there is possibility of flight for only one.”
“Well! D’Artagnan is going to hand in his resignation to the king, and during the chaos that will follow his absence, we’ll make our escape, or rather you will, Porthos, if only one of us has the chance to flee.”
Here Porthos shook his head and replied: “We will escape together, Aramis, or we will stay together.”
Here Porthos shook his head and replied: “We will escape together, Aramis, or we will stay together.”
“Thine is a right, a generous heart,” said Aramis, “only your melancholy uneasiness affects me.”
“Yours is a true and generous heart,” said Aramis, “but your sadness and unease concern me.”
“I am not uneasy,” said Porthos.
“I’m not worried,” Porthos said.
“Then you are angry with me.”
“Then you’re mad at me.”
“I am not angry with you.”
"I'm not angry with you."
“Then why, my friend, do you put on such a dismal countenance?”
“Then why, my friend, do you have such a gloomy face?”
“I will tell you; I am making my will.” And while saying these words, the good Porthos looked sadly in the face of Aramis.
“I’m telling you, I’m making my will.” And as he said this, the good Porthos looked sadly at Aramis.
“Your will!” cried the bishop. “What, then! do you think yourself lost?”
“Your will!” shouted the bishop. “What?! Do you think you’re doomed?”
“I feel fatigued. It is the first time, and there is a custom in our family.”
“I feel tired. It’s the first time, and it’s a tradition in our family.”
“What is it, my friend?”
"What’s up, my friend?"
“My grandfather was a man twice as strong as I am.”
“My grandfather was a man twice as strong as I am.”
“Indeed!” said Aramis; “then your grandfather must have been Samson himself.”
“Seriously!” said Aramis. “Then your grandfather must have been Samson himself.”
“No; his name was Antoine. Well! he was about my age, when, setting out one day for the chase, he felt his legs weak, the man who had never known what weakness was before.”
“No; his name was Antoine. Well! he was about my age when, one day while heading out for a hunt, he felt his legs weak, the man who had never experienced weakness before.”
“What was the meaning of that fatigue, my friend?”
“What did that fatigue mean, my friend?”
“Nothing good, as you will see; for having set out, complaining still of weakness of the legs, he met a wild boar, which made head against him; he missed him with his arquebuse, and was ripped up by the beast and died immediately.”
“Nothing good, as you will see; for after setting out, still complaining about his weak legs, he encountered a wild boar, which charged at him. He missed it with his gun and was gored by the beast, dying instantly.”
“There is no reason in that why you should alarm yourself, dear Porthos.”
“There’s no reason for you to worry, dear Porthos.”
“Oh! you will see. My father was as strong again as I am. He was a rough soldier, under Henry III. and Henry IV.; his name was not Antoine, but Gaspard, the same as M. de Coligny. Always on horseback, he had never known what lassitude was. One evening, as he rose from table, his legs failed him.”
“Oh! You'll see. My dad was just as strong as I am. He was a tough soldier under Henry III and Henry IV; his name wasn’t Antoine, but Gaspard, just like M. de Coligny. Always on horseback, he never knew what tiredness felt like. One evening, as he got up from the table, his legs gave out.”
“He had supped heartily, perhaps,” said Aramis, “and that was why he staggered.”
“He had eaten a big meal, maybe,” said Aramis, “and that’s why he was staggering.”
“Bah! A friend of M. de Bassompierre, nonsense! No, no, he was astonished at this lassitude, and said to my mother, who laughed at him, ‘Would not one believe I was going to meet with a wild boar, as the late M. du Vallon, my father did?’”
“Bah! A friend of M. de Bassompierre, ridiculous! No, no, he was shocked by this lack of energy and said to my mother, who was laughing at him, ‘Wouldn’t you think I was about to face a wild boar, like the late M. du Vallon, my father did?’”
“Well?” said Aramis.
“Well?” Aramis said.
“Well, having this weakness, my father insisted upon going down into the garden, instead of going to bed; his foot slipped on the first stair, the staircase was steep; my father fell against a stone in which an iron hinge was fixed. The hinge gashed his temple; and he was stretched out dead upon the spot.”
"Well, with this weakness, my father insisted on going down to the garden instead of going to bed; his foot slipped on the first step, the stairs were steep; my father fell against a stone with an iron hinge fixed in it. The hinge sliced his temple, and he was lying dead on the spot."
Aramis raised his eyes to his friend: “These are two extraordinary circumstances,” said he; “let us not infer that there may succeed a third. It is not becoming in a man of your strength to be superstitious, my brave Porthos. Besides, when were your legs known to fail? Never have you stood so firm, so haughtily; why, you could carry a house on your shoulders.”
Aramis looked at his friend and said, “These are two incredible situations. Let’s not assume there will be a third. It’s not right for someone as strong as you to be superstitious, my brave Porthos. Besides, when have your legs ever failed you? You’ve never stood so firmly or so confidently; you could carry a house on your shoulders.”
“At this moment,” said Porthos, “I feel myself pretty active; but at times I vacillate; I sink; and lately this phenomenon, as you say, has occurred four times. I will not say this frightens me, but it annoys me. Life is an agreeable thing. I have money; I have fine estates; I have horses that I love; I have also friends that I love: D’Artagnan, Athos, Raoul, and you.”
“At this moment,” Porthos said, “I feel pretty energetic; but sometimes I waver; I feel down; and lately, this has happened four times, as you mentioned. I wouldn’t say it scares me, but it does bother me. Life is good. I have money; I have beautiful properties; I have horses that I adore; and I have friends that I cherish: D’Artagnan, Athos, Raoul, and you.”
The admirable Porthos did not even take the trouble to dissimulate in the very presence of Aramis the rank he gave him in his friendship. Aramis pressed his hand: “We will still live many years,” said he, “to preserve to the world such specimens of its rarest men. Trust yourself to me, my friend; we have no reply from D’Artagnan, that is a good sign. He must have given orders to get the vessels together and clear the seas. On my part I have just issued directions that a bark should be rolled on rollers to the mouth of the great cavern of Locmaria, which you know, where we have so often lain in wait for the foxes.”
The admirable Porthos didn't even bother to hide how he ranked Aramis among his friends. Aramis squeezed his hand and said, “We will still live many years to keep these rare examples of extraordinary men in the world. Trust me, my friend; the fact that we haven't heard from D'Artagnan is a good sign. He must have given orders to assemble the ships and clear the waters. I've just instructed that a boat should be rolled on rollers to the entrance of the great cave at Locmaria, you know the one where we've often waited for the foxes.”
“Yes, and which terminates at the little creek by a trench where we discovered the day that splendid fox escaped that way.”
“Yes, and it ends at the small creek by a ditch where we found out that magnificent fox got away that way.”
“Precisely. In case of misfortunes, a bark is to be concealed for us in that cavern; indeed, it must be there by this time. We will wait for a favorable moment, and during the night we will go to sea!”
“Exactly. If something goes wrong, there's a boat hidden for us in that cave; it should be there by now. We'll wait for the right moment, and during the night, we'll set sail!”
“That is a grand idea. What shall we gain by it?”
“That’s a great idea. What will we achieve from it?”
“We shall gain this—nobody knows that grotto, or rather its issue, except ourselves and two or three hunters of the island; we shall gain this—that if the island is occupied, the scouts, seeing no bark upon the shore, will never imagine we can escape, and will cease to watch.”
“We will achieve this—nobody knows that cave, or rather its exit, except for us and a couple of hunters on the island; we will achieve this—that if the island is taken, the scouts, noticing no boat on the shore, will never suspect we can get away, and will stop watching.”
“I understand.”
"I get it."
“Well! that weakness in the legs?”
“Well! What's up with that weakness in your legs?”
“Oh! better, much, just now.”
“Oh! better, much, right now.”
“You see, then, plainly, that everything conspires to give us quietude and hope. D’Artagnan will sweep the sea and leave us free. No royal fleet or descent to be dreaded. Vive Dieu! Porthos, we have still half a century of magnificent adventure before us, and if I once touch Spanish ground, I swear to you,” added the bishop with terrible energy, “that your brevet of duke is not such a chance as it is said to be.”
“You see, clearly, that everything comes together to provide us with peace and hope. D’Artagnan will sail the seas and set us free. There's no royal fleet or invasion to fear. Vive Dieu! Porthos, we still have half a century of amazing adventures ahead of us, and if I set foot on Spanish soil, I promise you,” the bishop added with intense determination, “that your duke's title is not as great an opportunity as people say it is.”
“We live by hope,” said Porthos, enlivened by the warmth of his companion.
“We live by hope,” said Porthos, energized by the warmth of his friend.
All at once a cry resounded in their ears: “To arms! to arms!”
All of a sudden, a shout echoed in their ears: "To arms! To arms!"
This cry, repeated by a hundred throats, piercing the chamber where the two friends were conversing, carried surprise to one, and uneasiness to the other. Aramis opened the window; he saw a crowd of people running with flambeaux. Women were seeking places of safety, the armed population were hastening to their posts.
This shout, echoed by a hundred voices, cutting through the room where the two friends were talking, surprised one and made the other uneasy. Aramis opened the window; he saw a crowd of people running with torches. Women were looking for safe places, and the armed crowd was rushing to their positions.
“The fleet! the fleet!” cried a soldier, who recognized Aramis.
“The fleet! The fleet!” shouted a soldier who recognized Aramis.
“The fleet?” repeated the latter.
"The fleet?" the latter repeated.
“Within half cannon-shot,” continued the soldier.
“Within half a cannon shot,” continued the soldier.
“To arms!” cried Aramis.
"To arms!" shouted Aramis.
“To arms!” repeated Porthos, formidably. And both rushed forth towards the mole to place themselves within the shelter of the batteries. Boats, laden with soldiers, were seen approaching; and in three directions, for the purpose of landing at three points at once.
“To arms!” Porthos shouted fiercely. They both charged towards the mole to take cover behind the batteries. Boats filled with soldiers were seen approaching from three different directions, aiming to land at three points simultaneously.
“What must be done?” said an officer of the guard.
“What do we need to do?” asked a guard officer.
“Stop them; and if they persist, fire!” said Aramis.
“Stop them; and if they don’t listen, shoot!” said Aramis.
Five minutes later, the cannonade commenced. These were the shots that D’Artagnan had heard as he landed in France. But the boats were too near the mole to allow the cannon to aim correctly. They landed, and the combat commenced hand to hand.
Five minutes later, the cannon fire began. These were the shots that D’Artagnan had heard when he arrived in France. However, the boats were too close to the pier for the cannon to aim properly. They disembarked, and the fighting started up close.
“What’s the matter, Porthos?” said Aramis to his friend.
“What's wrong, Porthos?” Aramis asked his friend.
“Nothing! nothing!—only my legs; it is really incomprehensible!—they will be better when we charge.” In fact, Porthos and Aramis did charge with such vigor, and so thoroughly animated their men, that the royalists re-embarked precipitately, without gaining anything but the wounds they carried away.
“Nothing! nothing!—just my legs; it’s really hard to understand!—they’ll feel better when we charge.” In fact, Porthos and Aramis charged with such energy and inspired their men so much that the royalists hurried back onto their boats, leaving only with the wounds they had.
“Eh! but Porthos,” cried Aramis, “we must have a prisoner, quick! quick!” Porthos bent over the stair of the mole, and seized by the nape of the neck one of the officers of the royal army who was waiting to embark till all his people should be in the boat. The arm of the giant lifted up his prey, which served him as a buckler, and he recovered himself without a shot being fired at him.
“Hey! But Porthos,” shouted Aramis, “we need a prisoner, hurry! Hurry!” Porthos leaned over the mole’s staircase and grabbed one of the officers of the royal army by the scruff of the neck while he was waiting to board until all his men were in the boat. The giant’s arm lifted his catch, using him as a shield, and he managed to regain his position without a single shot being fired at him.
“Here is a prisoner for you,” said Porthos coolly to Aramis.
“Here’s a prisoner for you,” Porthos said casually to Aramis.
“Well!” cried the latter, laughing, “did you not calumniate your legs?”
“Well!” exclaimed the other, laughing, “did you not insult your legs?”
“It was not with my legs I captured him,” said Porthos, “it was with my arms!”
“It wasn’t my legs that caught him,” said Porthos, “it was my arms!”
Chapter XLVI. The Son of Biscarrat.
The Bretons of the Isle were very proud of this victory; Aramis did not encourage them in the feeling.
The Bretons of the Isle were very proud of this victory; Aramis did not support their feelings.
“What will happen,” said he to Porthos, when everybody was gone home, “will be that the anger of the king will be roused by the account of the resistance; and that these brave people will be decimated or shot when they are taken, which cannot fail to take place.”
“What will happen,” he said to Porthos, after everyone had gone home, “is that the king’s anger will be stirred by the report of the resistance; and these brave people will be reduced in numbers or executed when they are captured, which is bound to happen.”
“From which it results, then,” said Porthos, “that what we have done is of not the slightest use.”
“Then it turns out,” said Porthos, “that what we did is completely pointless.”
“For the moment it may be,” replied the bishop, “for we have a prisoner from whom we shall learn what our enemies are preparing to do.”
“For now it might be,” the bishop replied, “because we have a prisoner who will tell us what our enemies are planning to do.”
“Yes, let us interrogate the prisoner,” said Porthos, “and the means of making him speak are very simple. We are going to supper; we will invite him to join us; as he drinks he will talk.”
“Yes, let’s interrogate the prisoner,” said Porthos, “and the way to make him talk is pretty simple. We’re going to dinner; we’ll invite him to join us; he’ll start talking as he drinks.”
This was done. The officer was at first rather uneasy, but became reassured on seeing what sort of men he had to deal with. He gave, without having any fear of compromising himself, all the details imaginable of the resignation and departure of D’Artagnan. He explained how, after that departure, the new leader of the expedition had ordered a surprise upon Belle-Isle. There his explanations stopped. Aramis and Porthos exchanged a glance that evinced their despair. No more dependence to be placed now on D’Artagnan’s fertile imagination—no further resource in the event of defeat. Aramis, continuing his interrogations, asked the prisoner what the leaders of the expedition contemplated doing with the leaders of Belle-Isle.
This was done. The officer was initially a bit uneasy, but he relaxed when he saw what kind of men he was dealing with. He shared all the possible details about D’Artagnan's resignation and departure without worrying about compromising himself. He explained how, after that departure, the new leader of the expedition had ordered a surprise attack on Belle-Isle. That was where his explanations ended. Aramis and Porthos exchanged a glance that showed their despair. There was no longer any reliance on D’Artagnan’s creative thinking—no more backup plan in case of defeat. Continuing his questioning, Aramis asked the prisoner what the leaders of the expedition planned to do with the leaders of Belle-Isle.
“The orders are,” replied he, “to kill during combat, or hang afterwards.”
“The orders are,” he replied, “to kill during combat, or hang afterwards.”
Porthos and Aramis looked at each other again, and the color mounted to their faces.
Porthos and Aramis exchanged another glance, and a flush crept to their faces.
“I am too light for the gallows,” replied Aramis; “people like me are not hung.”
"I’m too lightweight for the gallows," Aramis replied. "People like me don’t get hanged."
“And I am too heavy,” said Porthos; “people like me break the cord.”
“And I'm too heavy,” said Porthos; “people like me snap the cord.”
“I am sure,” said the prisoner, gallantly, “that we could have guaranteed you the exact kind of death you preferred.”
“I’m sure,” said the prisoner, confidently, “that we could have guaranteed you the exact kind of death you wanted.”
“A thousand thanks!” said Aramis, seriously. Porthos bowed.
“A thousand thanks!” Aramis said, looking serious. Porthos nodded.
“One more cup of wine to your health,” said he, drinking himself. From one subject to another the chat with the officer was prolonged. He was an intelligent gentleman, and suffered himself to be led on by the charm of Aramis’s wit and Porthos’s cordial bonhomie.
“One more cup of wine to your health,” he said, taking a drink himself. The conversation with the officer flowed from one topic to another. He was a smart guy, and he let himself be drawn in by the charm of Aramis's wit and Porthos’s friendly good nature.
“Pardon me,” said he, “if I address a question to you; but men who are in their sixth bottle have a clear right to forget themselves a little.”
“Excuse me,” he said, “if I ask you a question; but guys who are on their sixth drink have a pretty good excuse to let loose a bit.”
“Address it!” cried Porthos; “address it!”
“Deal with it!” shouted Porthos; “deal with it!”
“Speak,” said Aramis.
"Speak," Aramis said.
“Were you not, gentlemen, both in the musketeers of the late king?”
“Weren't you both in the king's musketeers?”
“Yes, monsieur, and amongst the best of them, if you please,” said Porthos.
"Yes, sir, and one of the best among them, if you don't mind," said Porthos.
“That is true; I should say even the best of all soldiers, messieurs, if I did not fear to offend the memory of my father.”
"That's true; I would even say he was the best of all soldiers, gentlemen, if I wasn't worried about disrespecting my father's memory."
“Of your father?” cried Aramis.
"Your father's?" cried Aramis.
“Do you know what my name is?”
"Do you know my name?"
“Ma foi! no, monsieur; but you can tell us, and—”
“My word! no, sir; but you can tell us, and—”
“I am called Georges de Biscarrat.”
"I'm called Georges de Biscarrat."
“Oh!” cried Porthos, in his turn. “Biscarrat! Do you remember that name, Aramis?”
“Oh!” shouted Porthos, in response. “Biscarrat! Do you remember that name, Aramis?”
“Biscarrat!” reflected the bishop. “It seems to me—”
“Biscarrat!” the bishop thought. “It looks to me—”
“Try to recollect, monsieur,” said the officer.
“Try to remember, sir,” said the officer.
“Pardieu! that won’t take me long,” said Porthos. “Biscarrat—called Cardinal—one of the four who interrupted us on the day on which we formed our friendship with D’Artagnan, sword in hand.”
“Pardieu! That won't take long,” said Porthos. “Biscarrat—known as Cardinal—was one of the four who interrupted us the day we became friends with D’Artagnan, sword in hand.”
“Precisely, gentlemen.”
"Exactly, guys."
“The only one,” cried Aramis, eagerly, “we could not scratch.”
“The only one,” Aramis exclaimed eagerly, “we couldn’t touch.”
“Consequently, a capital blade?” said the prisoner.
“So, a capital punishment?” said the prisoner.
“That’s true! most true!” exclaimed both friends together. “Ma foi! Monsieur Biscarrat, we are delighted to make the acquaintance of such a brave man’s son.”
"That's true! Totally true!" both friends shouted together. "Honestly! Mr. Biscarrat, we're thrilled to meet the son of such a brave man."
Biscarrat pressed the hands held out by the two musketeers. Aramis looked at Porthos as much as to say, “Here is a man who will help us,” and without delay,—“Confess, monsieur,” said he, “that it is good to have once been a good man.”
Biscarrat shook hands with the two musketeers. Aramis glanced at Porthos as if to say, “Here’s someone who can assist us,” and without wasting any time, he said, “Admit it, sir, it feels good to have once been a good person.”
“My father always said so, monsieur.”
"My dad always said that, sir."
“Confess, likewise, that it is a sad circumstance in which you find yourself, of falling in with men destined to be shot or hung, and to learn that these men are old acquaintances, in fact, hereditary friends.”
“Admit it, it’s a pretty unfortunate situation you’re in, getting involved with guys who are destined to be shot or hanged, only to realize that these guys are old acquaintances, really, family friends.”
“Oh! you are not reserved for such a frightful fate as that, messieurs and friends!” said the young man, warmly.
“Oh! you’re not meant for such a terrible fate as that, gentlemen and friends!” said the young man, passionately.
“Bah! you said so yourself.”
"Ugh! You said that yourself."
“I said so just now, when I did not know you; but now that I know you, I say—you will evade this dismal fate, if you wish!”
“I just said that a moment ago, when I didn't know you; but now that I know you, I say—you can avoid this grim fate if you want to!”
“How—if we wish?” echoed Aramis, whose eyes beamed with intelligence as he looked alternately at the prisoner and Porthos.
“How—if we want?” echoed Aramis, whose eyes sparkled with intelligence as he glanced between the prisoner and Porthos.
“Provided,” continued Porthos, looking, in his turn, with noble intrepidity, at M. Biscarrat and the bishop—“provided nothing disgraceful be required of us.”
“On the condition,” Porthos continued, looking with bold courage at M. Biscarrat and the bishop, “that nothing shameful is asked of us.”
“Nothing at all will be required of you, gentlemen,” replied the officer—“what should they ask of you? If they find you they will kill you, that is a predetermined thing; try, then, gentlemen, to prevent their finding you.”
“Nothing at all will be required of you, gentlemen,” replied the officer. “What could they ask of you? If they find you, they will kill you; that is already decided. So, gentlemen, try to avoid being found.”
“I don’t think I am mistaken,” said Porthos, with dignity; “but it appears evident to me that if they want to find us, they must come and seek us here.”
“I don’t think I’m wrong,” said Porthos, with dignity; “but it seems clear to me that if they want to find us, they have to come and look for us here.”
“In that you are perfectly right, my worthy friend,” replied Aramis, constantly consulting with his looks the countenance of Biscarrat, who had grown silent and constrained. “You wish, Monsieur de Biscarrat, to say something to us, to make us some overture, and you dare not—is that true?”
“In that you are totally right, my good friend,” replied Aramis, frequently checking Biscarrat's expression, which had become quiet and tense. “You want to say something to us, Monsieur de Biscarrat, to make us an offer, but you’re hesitating—is that correct?”
“Ah! gentlemen and friends! it is because by speaking I betray the watchword. But, hark! I hear a voice that frees mine by dominating it.”
“Ah! gentlemen and friends! It’s because by speaking I give away the secret. But, listen! I hear a voice that takes control of mine and sets it free.”
“Cannon!” said Porthos.
“Cannon!” said Porthos.
“Cannon and musketry, too!” cried the bishop.
“Cannons and guns, too!” shouted the bishop.
On hearing at a distance, among the rocks, these sinister reports of a combat which they thought had ceased:
On hearing from a distance, among the rocks, these ominous sounds of a fight they thought had ended:
“What can that be?” asked Porthos.
“What could that be?” asked Porthos.
“Eh! Pardieu!” cried Aramis; “that is just what I expected.”
“Eh! Pardieu!” exclaimed Aramis; “that’s exactly what I expected.”
“What is that?”
"What's that?"
“That the attack made by you was nothing but a feint; is not that true, monsieur? And whilst your companions allowed themselves to be repulsed, you were certain of effecting a landing on the other side of the island.”
"That the attack you made was just a distraction; isn't that right, sir? And while your friends let themselves be pushed back, you were confident you could land on the other side of the island."
“Oh! several, monsieur.”
“Oh! Several, sir.”
“We are lost, then,” said the bishop of Vannes, quietly.
“We're lost, then,” said the bishop of Vannes, quietly.
“Lost! that is possible,” replied the Seigneur de Pierrefonds, “but we are not taken or hung.” And so saying, he rose from the table, went to the wall, and coolly took down his sword and pistols, which he examined with the care of an old soldier who is preparing for battle, and who feels that life, in a great measure, depends upon the excellence and right conditions of his arms.
“Lost! That’s possible,” replied the Seigneur de Pierrefonds, “but we’re neither captured nor executed.” With that, he stood up from the table, walked over to the wall, and casually retrieved his sword and pistols. He inspected them carefully, like an experienced soldier getting ready for battle, aware that his survival largely relies on the quality and proper state of his weapons.
At the report of the cannon, at the news of the surprise which might deliver up the island to the royal troops, the terrified crowd rushed precipitately to the fort to demand assistance and advice from their leaders. Aramis, pale and downcast, between two flambeaux, showed himself at the window which looked into the principal court, full of soldiers waiting for orders and bewildered inhabitants imploring succor.
At the sound of the cannon, with the news of the surprise that could hand the island over to the royal troops, the frightened crowd quickly rushed to the fort to ask for help and guidance from their leaders. Aramis, looking pale and dejected, stood between two torches at the window overlooking the main courtyard, filled with soldiers waiting for orders and confused residents pleading for assistance.
“My friends,” said D’Herblay, in a grave and sonorous voice, “M. Fouquet, your protector, your friend, you father, has been arrested by an order of the king, and thrown into the Bastile.” A sustained yell of vengeful fury came floating up to the window at which the bishop stood, and enveloped him in a magnetic field.
“My friends,” said D’Herblay in a serious and powerful voice, “M. Fouquet, your protector, your friend, your father, has been arrested by the king’s orders and thrown into the Bastille.” A prolonged scream of rage filled the air around the window where the bishop stood, surrounding him in a magnetic energy.
“Avenge Monsieur Fouquet!” cried the most excited of his hearers, “death to the royalists!”
“Avenge Monsieur Fouquet!” shouted the most fired-up of his listeners, “death to the royalists!”
“No, my friends,” replied Aramis, solemnly; “no, my friends; no resistance. The king is master in his kingdom. The king is the mandatory of God. The king and God have struck M. Fouquet. Humble yourselves before the hand of God. Love God and the king, who have struck M. Fouquet. But do not avenge your seigneur, do not think of avenging him. You would sacrifice yourselves in vain—you, your wives and children, your property, your liberty. Lay down your arms, my friends—lay down your arms! since the king commands you so to do—and retire peaceably to your dwellings. It is I who ask you to do so; it is I who beg you to do so; it is I who now, in the hour of need, command you to do so, in the name of M. Fouquet.”
“No, my friends,” Aramis replied solemnly; “no, my friends; no resistance. The king is in charge of his kingdom. The king is God's representative. The king and God have targeted M. Fouquet. Humble yourselves before God's hand. Love God and the king, who have struck M. Fouquet. But don’t seek revenge for your lord, don’t even think about avenging him. You would sacrifice yourselves for nothing—you, your wives and children, your property, your freedom. Lay down your arms, my friends—lay down your arms! Since the king commands it, return peacefully to your homes. It is I who ask you to do this; it is I who beg you to do this; it is I who now, in this moment of need, command you to do this, in the name of M. Fouquet.”
The crowd collected under the window uttered a prolonged roar of anger and terror. “The soldiers of Louis XIV. have reached the island,” continued Aramis. “From this time it would no longer be a fight betwixt them and you—it would be a massacre. Begone, then, begone, and forget; this time I command you, in the name of the Lord of Hosts!”
The crowd gathered under the window let out a long roar of anger and fear. “The soldiers of Louis XIV have arrived on the island,” Aramis continued. “From now on, it won’t just be a fight between them and you—it will be a massacre. Get out of here, then, get out and forget; this time I’m commanding you, in the name of the Lord of Hosts!”
The mutineers retired slowly, submissive, silent.
The mutineers retreated slowly, obedient and quiet.
“Ah! what have you just been saying, my friend?” said Porthos.
“Ah! what were you just saying, my friend?” said Porthos.
“Monsieur,” said Biscarrat to the bishop, “you may save all these inhabitants, but thus you will neither save yourself nor your friend.”
“Monsieur,” Biscarrat said to the bishop, “you can save all these people, but in doing so, you won’t save yourself or your friend.”
“Monsieur de Biscarrat,” said the bishop of Vannes, with a singular accent of nobility and courtesy, “Monsieur de Biscarrat, be kind enough to resume your liberty.”
“Monsieur de Biscarrat,” said the bishop of Vannes, with a unique tone of nobility and politeness, “Monsieur de Biscarrat, please feel free to reclaim your freedom.”
“I am very willing to do so, monsieur; but—”
“I’m more than happy to do that, sir; but—”
“That would render us a service, for when announcing to the king’s lieutenant the submission of the islanders, you will perhaps obtain some grace for us on informing him of the manner in which that submission has been effected.”
“That would be a great help to us, because when you tell the king's lieutenant about the islanders' submission, you might earn us some favor by explaining how that submission happened.”
“Grace!” replied Porthos with flashing eyes, “what is the meaning of that word?”
“Grace!” Porthos responded with shining eyes, “what does that word mean?”
Aramis touched the elbow of his friend roughly, as he had been accustomed to do in the days of their youth, when he wanted to warn Porthos that he had committed, or was about to commit, a blunder. Porthos understood him, and was silent immediately.
Aramis roughly nudged his friend's elbow, just like he used to in their younger days when he wanted to let Porthos know he had made, or was about to make, a mistake. Porthos got the message and fell silent right away.
“I will go, messieurs,” replied Biscarrat, a little surprised likewise at the word “grace” pronounced by the haughty musketeer, of and to whom, but a few minutes before, he had related with so much enthusiasm the heroic exploits with which his father had delighted him.
“I'll go, gentlemen,” replied Biscarrat, a bit surprised by the word “grace” used by the proud musketeer, to whom, just a few minutes earlier, he had enthusiastically recounted the heroic deeds his father had shared with him.
“Go, then, Monsieur Biscarrat,” said Aramis, bowing to him, “and at parting receive the expression of our entire gratitude.”
“Go ahead, Monsieur Biscarrat,” said Aramis, giving him a bow, “and as we say goodbye, please accept our heartfelt thanks.”
“But you, messieurs, you whom I think it an honor to call my friends, since you have been willing to accept that title, what will become of you in the meantime?” replied the officer, very much agitated at taking leave of the two ancient adversaries of his father.
“But you, gentlemen, whom I feel it’s an honor to call my friends, since you’ve accepted that title, what will happen to you in the meantime?” replied the officer, quite anxious about saying goodbye to the two longtime rivals of his father.
“We will wait here.”
“Let’s wait here.”
“But, mon Dieu!—the order is precise and formal.”
“But, oh my God!—the order is exact and official.”
“I am bishop of Vannes, Monsieur de Biscarrat; and they no more shoot a bishop than they hang a gentleman.”
“I’m the bishop of Vannes, Monsieur de Biscarrat; and they don’t shoot a bishop any more than they hang a gentleman.”
“Ah! yes, monsieur—yes, monseigneur,” replied Biscarrat; “it is true, you are right, there is still that chance for you. Then, I will depart, I will repair to the commander of the expedition, the king’s lieutenant. Adieu! then, messieurs, or rather, to meet again, I hope.”
“Ah! yes, sir—yes, my lord,” replied Biscarrat; “it’s true, you’re right, there’s still a chance for you. Then, I’ll leave, I’ll go to the commander of the expedition, the king’s lieutenant. Goodbye! Then, gentlemen, or rather, I hope to see you again.”
The worthy officer, jumping upon a horse given him by Aramis, departed in the direction of the sound of cannon, which, by surging the crowd into the fort, had interrupted the conversation of the two friends with their prisoner. Aramis watched the departure, and when left alone with Porthos:
The brave officer, hopping onto a horse lent to him by Aramis, rode off toward the sound of cannon fire, which had pushed the crowd into the fort and interrupted the two friends' conversation with their prisoner. Aramis observed him leave, and when he was alone with Porthos:
“Well, do you comprehend?” said he.
“Do you get it?” he asked.
“Ma foi! no.”
“No way!”
“Did not Biscarrat inconvenience you here?”
“Didn’t Biscarrat cause you any trouble here?”
“No; he is a brave fellow.”
“No; he is a brave guy.”
“Yes; but the grotto of Locmaria—is it necessary all the world should know it?”
“Yes; but does everyone really need to know about the grotto of Locmaria?”
“Ah! that is true, that is true; I comprehend. We are going to escape by the cavern.”
“Ah! that's true, that's true; I get it. We're going to escape through the cave.”
“If you please,” cried Aramis, gayly. “Forward, friend Porthos; our boat awaits us. King Louis has not caught us—yet.”
“If you don't mind,” Aramis exclaimed cheerfully. “Let's go, friend Porthos; our boat is waiting for us. King Louis hasn't caught us—yet.”
Chapter XLVII. The Grotto of Locmaria.
The cavern of Locmaria was sufficiently distant from the mole to render it necessary for our friends to husband their strength in order to reach it. Besides, night was advancing; midnight had struck at the fort. Porthos and Aramis were loaded with money and arms. They walked, then, across the heath, which stretched between the mole and the cavern, listening to every noise, in order better to avoid an ambush. From time to time, on the road which they had carefully left on their left, passed fugitives coming from the interior, at the news of the landing of the royal troops. Aramis and Porthos, concealed behind some projecting mass of rock, collected the words that escaped from the poor people, who fled, trembling, carrying with them their most valuable effects, and tried, whilst listening to their complaints, to gather something from them for their own interest. At length, after a rapid race, frequently interrupted by prudent stoppages, they reached the deep grottoes, in which the prophetic bishop of Vannes had taken care to have secreted a bark capable of keeping the sea at this fine season.
The cavern of Locmaria was far enough from the mole that our friends needed to conserve their energy to get to it. Plus, night was falling; midnight had already passed at the fort. Porthos and Aramis were weighed down with money and weapons. They made their way across the heath that lay between the mole and the cavern, listening for any sounds to avoid being ambushed. Occasionally, they saw refugees coming from the interior, alerted by the news of the royal troops landing. Aramis and Porthos, hidden behind some outcroppings of rock, picked up snippets of conversation from the frightened people fleeing with their most prized possessions, trying to glean useful information from their complaints. Finally, after a fast pace that they interrupted with careful pauses, they reached the deep grottoes where the prophetic bishop of Vannes had arranged to hide a boat that was capable of sailing in these pleasant conditions.
“My good friend,” said Porthos, panting vigorously, “we have arrived, it seems. But I thought you spoke of three men, three servants, who were to accompany us. I don’t see them—where are they?”
“My good friend,” said Porthos, breathing heavily, “it looks like we’ve arrived. But I thought you mentioned three men, three servants, who were supposed to come with us. I don’t see them—where are they?”
“Why should you see them, Porthos?” replied Aramis. “They are certainly waiting for us in the cavern, and, no doubt, are resting, having accomplished their rough and difficult task.”
“Why should you go see them, Porthos?” replied Aramis. “They’re definitely waiting for us in the cave and, without a doubt, are resting after finishing their tough and challenging job.”
Aramis stopped Porthos, who was preparing to enter the cavern. “Will you allow me, my friend,” said he to the giant, “to pass in first? I know the signal I have given to these men; who, not hearing it, would be very likely to fire upon you or slash away with their knives in the dark.”
Aramis stopped Porthos, who was getting ready to enter the cave. “Can I go in first, my friend?” he said to the big guy. “I know the signal I gave these men; if they don’t hear it, they might accidentally shoot at you or start swinging their knives in the dark.”
“Go on, then, Aramis; go on—go first; you impersonate wisdom and foresight; go. Ah! there is that fatigue again, of which I spoke to you. It has just seized me afresh.”
“Go ahead, Aramis; go first; you represent wisdom and foresight; go. Ah! that tiredness is hitting me again, just like I mentioned to you. It’s just come over me once more.”
Aramis left Porthos sitting at the entrance of the grotto, and bowing his head, he penetrated into the interior of the cavern, imitating the cry of the owl. A little plaintive cooing, a scarcely distinct echo, replied from the depths of the cave. Aramis pursued his way cautiously, and soon was stopped by the same kind of cry as he had first uttered, within ten paces of him.
Aramis left Porthos sitting at the entrance of the cave and, lowering his head, made his way into the cavern, imitating the sound of an owl. A soft, sad cooing, a barely noticeable echo, responded from deep within the cave. Aramis proceeded carefully and soon heard the same kind of cry he had first made, just ten paces ahead of him.
“Are you there, Yves?” said the bishop.
“Are you there, Yves?” the bishop asked.
“Yes, monseigneur; Goenne is here likewise. His son accompanies us.”
“Yes, sir; Goenne is here too. His son is with us.”
“That is well. Are all things ready?”
"Sounds good. Is everything set?"
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Go to the entrance of the grottoes, my good Yves, and you will there find the Seigneur de Pierrefonds, who is resting after the fatigue of our journey. And if he should happen not to be able to walk, lift him up, and bring him hither to me.”
“Go to the entrance of the caves, my good Yves, and you’ll find the Seigneur de Pierrefonds there, resting after the fatigue of our journey. If he can’t walk, pick him up and bring him to me.”
The three men obeyed. But the recommendation given to his servants was superfluous. Porthos, refreshed, had already commenced the descent, and his heavy step resounded amongst the cavities, formed and supported by columns of porphyry and granite. As soon as the Seigneur de Bracieux had rejoined the bishop, the Bretons lighted a lantern with which they were furnished, and Porthos assured his friend that he felt as strong again as ever.
The three men did as they were told. But the advice given to his servants was unnecessary. Porthos, feeling re-energized, had already started to go down, and his heavy footsteps echoed in the spaces created and held up by columns of porphyry and granite. As soon as the Seigneur de Bracieux met up with the bishop, the Bretons lit a lantern they had brought along, and Porthos told his friend that he felt as strong as ever.
“Let us inspect the boat,” said Aramis, “and satisfy ourselves at once what it will hold.”
“Let’s check out the boat,” said Aramis, “and see right away what it can carry.”
“Do not go too near with the light,” said the patron Yves; “for as you desired me, monseigneur, I have placed under the bench of the poop, in the coffer you know of, the barrel of powder, and the musket-charges that you sent me from the fort.”
“Don’t get too close with the light,” said the patron Yves; “because, as you asked me, sir, I have put the barrel of gunpowder and the musket cartridges you sent me from the fort under the bench in the coffer you know about.”
“Very well,” said Aramis; and, taking the lantern himself, he examined minutely all parts of the canoe, with the precautions of a man who is neither timid nor ignorant in the face of danger. The canoe was long, light, drawing little water, thin of keel; in short, one of those that have always been so aptly built at Belle-Isle; a little high in its sides, solid upon the water, very manageable, furnished with planks which, in uncertain weather, formed a sort of deck over which the waves might glide, so as to protect the rowers. In two well-closed coffers, placed beneath the benches of the prow and the poop, Aramis found bread, biscuit, dried fruits, a quarter of bacon, a good provision of water in leathern bottles; the whole forming rations sufficient for people who did not mean to quit the coast, and would be able to revictual, if necessity commanded. The arms, eight muskets, and as many horse-pistols, were in good condition, and all loaded. There were additional oars, in case of accident, and that little sail called trinquet, which assists the speed of the canoe at the same time the boatmen row, and is so useful when the breeze is slack. When Aramis had seen to all these things, and appeared satisfied with the result of his inspection, “Let us consult Porthos,” said he, “to know if we must endeavor to get the boat out by the unknown extremity of the grotto, following the descent and the shade of the cavern, or whether it be better, in the open air, to make it slide upon its rollers through the bushes, leveling the road of the little beach, which is but twenty feet high, and gives, at high tide, three or four fathoms of good water upon a sound bottom.”
“Alright,” said Aramis, and taking the lantern himself, he carefully examined all parts of the canoe, like someone who is neither scared nor clueless in the face of danger. The canoe was long and light, drawing little water, and had a slender keel; in short, it was one of those that have always been skillfully built at Belle-Isle. It had high sides, was stable on the water, very manageable, and equipped with planks that created a sort of deck to protect the rowers from waves in rough weather. In two tightly sealed chests beneath the seats at the front and the back, Aramis found bread, biscuits, dried fruits, a quarter of bacon, and a good supply of water in leather bottles; all of this was enough for people who didn’t plan to leave the coast and could restock if necessary. The arms—eight muskets and as many pistols—were in good shape and fully loaded. There were extra oars in case of emergency, as well as a small sail called trinquet that helps the canoe move faster while the rowers pull, which is particularly useful when the wind is light. Once Aramis had checked everything and seemed pleased with the outcome of his inspection, he said, “Let’s ask Porthos if we should try to get the boat out through the unknown end of the grotto by following the descent and shadows of the cave, or if it would be better to slide it on its rollers through the bushes in the open air, leveling the path of the small beach, which is only about twenty feet high and provides three or four fathoms of good water on a solid bottom at high tide.”
“It must be as you please, monseigneur,” replied the skipper Yves, respectfully; “but I don’t believe that by the slope of the cavern, and in the dark in which we shall be obliged to maneuver our boat, the road will be so convenient as the open air. I know the beach well, and can certify that it is as smooth as a grass-plot in a garden; the interior of the grotto, on the contrary, is rough; without reckoning, monseigneur, that at its extremity we shall come to the trench which leads into the sea, and perhaps the canoe will not pass down it.”
“It’s up to you, sir,” replied the skipper Yves, respectfully. “But I doubt that with the slope of the cave and the darkness we'll have to navigate in our boat, it will be as easy as being out in the open. I know the beach well and can assure you it’s as smooth as a lawn in a garden; however, the inside of the grotto is rough. Not to mention, sir, that at the end we’ll reach the trench that leads to the sea, and the canoe might not fit through it.”
“I have made my calculation,” said the bishop, “and I am certain it will pass.”
“I’ve done my calculations,” said the bishop, “and I’m sure it will go through.”
“So be it; I wish it may, monseigneur,” continued Yves; “but your highness knows very well that to make it reach the extremity of the trench, there is an enormous stone to be lifted—that under which the fox always passes, and which closes the trench like a door.”
“So be it; I hope it happens, your highness,” continued Yves; “but you know very well that to make it reach the end of the trench, there’s a huge stone to lift—the one under which the fox always passes, and which closes the trench like a door.”
“It can be raised,” said Porthos; “that is nothing.”
“It can be raised,” Porthos said; “that’s nothing.”
“Oh! I know that monseigneur has the strength of ten men,” replied Yves; “but that is giving him a great deal of trouble.”
“Oh! I know that the lord has the strength of ten men,” Yves replied; “but that is putting a lot of pressure on him.”
“I think the skipper may be right,” said Aramis; “let us try the open-air passage.”
“I think the captain might be right,” said Aramis; “let’s try the outdoor route.”
“The more so, monseigneur,” continued the fisherman, “that we should not be able to embark before day, it will require so much labor, and that as soon as daylight appears, a good vedette placed outside the grotto would be necessary, indispensable even, to watch the maneuvers of the lighters or cruisers that are on the look-out for us.”
“The more so, sir,” continued the fisherman, “since we won’t be able to set off before dawn; it’s going to take a lot of work. As soon as daylight breaks, a good vedette positioned outside the grotto will be necessary—essential, even—to keep an eye on the movements of the lighters or cruisers that are searching for us.”
“Yes, yes, Yves, your reasons are good; we will go by the beach.”
“Yes, yes, Yves, your reasons are valid; we’ll take the beach route.”
And the three robust Bretons went to the boat, and were beginning to place their rollers underneath it to put it in motion, when the distant barking of dogs was heard, proceeding from the interior of the island.
And the three strong Bretons went to the boat and started putting their rollers underneath it to get it moving when they heard the distant barking of dogs coming from the interior of the island.
Aramis darted out of the grotto, followed by Porthos. Dawn just tinted with purple and white the waves and plain; through the dim light, melancholy fir-trees waved their tender branches over the pebbles, and long flights of crows were skimming with their black wings the shimmering fields of buckwheat. In a quarter of an hour it would be clear daylight; the wakened birds announced it to all nature. The barkings which had been heard, which had stopped the three fishermen engaged in moving the boat, and had brought Aramis and Porthos out of the cavern, now seemed to come from a deep gorge within about a league of the grotto.
Aramis rushed out of the cave, followed by Porthos. The dawn was just brushing the waves and landscape with hints of purple and white; in the soft light, sorrowful fir trees swayed their delicate branches over the pebbles, while long groups of crows glided across the sparkling buckwheat fields with their dark wings. In about fifteen minutes, it would be fully daylight; the birds that had woken up were announcing it to nature. The barking that had been heard, which had interrupted the three fishermen who were moving the boat and pulled Aramis and Porthos out of the cave, now seemed to come from a deep ravine about a mile away from the grotto.
“It is a pack of hounds,” said Porthos; “the dogs are on a scent.”
“It’s a pack of hounds,” said Porthos; “the dogs are on a scent.”
“Who can be hunting at such a moment as this?” said Aramis.
“Who could be hunting at a time like this?” said Aramis.
“And this way, particularly,” continued Porthos, “where they might expect the army of the royalists.”
“And in this way, especially,” Porthos continued, “where they might anticipate the royalist army.”
“The noise comes nearer. Yes, you are right, Porthos, the dogs are on a scent. But, Yves!” cried Aramis, “come here! come here!”
“The noise is getting closer. You're right, Porthos, the dogs are on a scent. But, Yves!” shouted Aramis, “get over here! come here!”
Yves ran towards him, letting fall the cylinder which he was about to place under the boat when the bishop’s call interrupted him.
Yves ran toward him, dropping the cylinder he was about to put under the boat when the bishop's call interrupted him.
“What is the meaning of this hunt, skipper?” said Porthos.
“What’s the point of this hunt, captain?” said Porthos.
“Eh! monseigneur, I cannot understand it,” replied the Breton. “It is not at such a moment that the Seigneur de Locmaria would hunt. No, and yet the dogs—”
“Eh! my lord, I can’t figure it out,” replied the Breton. “This isn’t a time when the Lord of Locmaria would go hunting. No, and yet the dogs—”
“Unless they have escaped from the kennel.”
“Unless they have escaped from the doghouse.”
“No,” said Goenne, “they are not the Seigneur de Locmaria’s hounds.”
“No,” said Goenne, “those aren’t the Seigneur de Locmaria’s dogs.”
“In common prudence,” said Aramis, “let us go back into the grotto; the voices evidently draw nearer, we shall soon know what we have to trust to.”
“In common sense,” said Aramis, “let's go back into the grotto; the voices are clearly getting closer, and we’ll soon find out what we can rely on.”
They re-entered, but had scarcely proceeded a hundred steps in the darkness, when a noise like the hoarse sigh of a creature in distress resounded through the cavern, and breathless, rapid, terrified, a fox passed like a flash of lightning before the fugitives, leaped over the boat and disappeared, leaving behind its sour scent, which was perceptible for several seconds under the low vaults of the cave.
They went back in, but had barely taken a hundred steps in the dark when a sound like the hoarse sigh of an animal in trouble echoed through the cavern. Out of nowhere, a fox raced by the escapees like a bolt of lightning, jumped over the boat, and vanished, leaving behind its sour scent that lingered in the air for several seconds beneath the low ceilings of the cave.
“The fox!” cried the Bretons, with the glad surprise of born hunters.
“The fox!” cried the Bretons, filled with the joyful surprise of natural hunters.
“Accursed mischance!” cried the bishop, “our retreat is discovered.”
“Damn it!” cried the bishop, “they found out we’re retreating.”
“How so?” said Porthos; “are you afraid of a fox?”
“How come?” said Porthos; “are you scared of a fox?”
“Eh! my friend, what do you mean by that? why do you specify the fox? It is not the fox alone. Pardieu! But don’t you know, Porthos, that after the foxes come hounds, and after hounds men?”
“Hey! my friend, what do you mean by that? Why are you pointing out the fox? It’s not just the fox. For sure! But don’t you know, Porthos, that after the foxes come the hounds, and after the hounds come the men?”
Porthos hung his head. As though to confirm the words of Aramis, they heard the yelping pack approach with frightful swiftness upon the trail. Six foxhounds burst at once upon the little heath, with mingling yelps of triumph.
Porthos hung his head. To confirm Aramis's words, they heard the yelping pack rushing toward them on the trail. Six foxhounds suddenly burst onto the small heath, with a mix of triumphant barks.
“There are the dogs, plain enough!” said Aramis, posted on the look-out behind a chink in the rocks; “now, who are the huntsmen?”
“There are the dogs, obvious enough!” said Aramis, stationed at the lookout behind a crack in the rocks; “now, who are the hunters?”
“If it is the Seigneur de Locmaria’s,” replied the sailor, “he will leave the dogs to hunt the grotto, for he knows them, and will not enter in himself, being quite sure that the fox will come out the other side; it is there he will wait for him.”
“If it’s the Seigneur de Locmaria’s,” replied the sailor, “he’ll let the dogs search the grotto because he knows them. He won’t go in himself, being confident that the fox will come out the other side; that’s where he’ll wait for it.”
“It is not the Seigneur de Locmaria who is hunting,” replied Aramis, turning pale in spite of his efforts to maintain a placid countenance.
“It isn’t the Seigneur de Locmaria who’s hunting,” replied Aramis, turning pale despite his efforts to keep a calm face.
“Who is it, then?” said Porthos.
"Who is it, then?" Porthos asked.
“Look!”
"Check it out!"
Porthos applied his eye to the slit, and saw at the summit of a hillock a dozen horsemen urging on their horses in the track of the dogs, shouting, “Taiaut! taiaut!”
Porthos looked through the slit and saw at the top of a small hill a dozen horsemen pushing their horses to follow the dogs, shouting, “Taiaut! taiaut!”
“The guards!” said he.
"The guards!" he said.
“Yes, my friend, the king’s guards.”
“Yes, my friend, the king’s guards.”
“The king’s guards! do you say, monseigneur?” cried the Bretons, growing pale in turn.
“The king’s guards? Do you really mean that, sir?” cried the Bretons, turning pale as well.
“With Biscarrat at their head, mounted upon my gray horse,” continued Aramis.
“With Biscarrat leading the way, mounted on my gray horse,” continued Aramis.
The hounds at the same moment rushed into the grotto like an avalanche, and the depths of the cavern were filled with their deafening cries.
The hounds burst into the grotto like an avalanche, and the depths of the cave echoed with their loud barks.
“Ah! the devil!” said Aramis, resuming all his coolness at the sight of this certain, inevitable danger. “I am perfectly satisfied we are lost, but we have, at least, one chance left. If the guards who follow their hounds happen to discover there is an issue to the grotto, there is no help for us, for on entering they must see both ourselves and our boat. The dogs must not go out of the cavern. Their masters must not enter.”
“Ah! the devil!” said Aramis, regaining his composure at the sight of this certain, inevitable danger. “I’m completely convinced we’re lost, but at least we have one chance left. If the guards, who are following their dogs, happen to find the exit to the grotto, we’re done for, because when they enter, they’ll see both us and our boat. The dogs can’t leave the cavern. Their masters can’t come in.”
“That is clear,” said Porthos.
"That's clear," said Porthos.
“You understand,” added Aramis, with the rapid precision of command; “there are six dogs that will be forced to stop at the great stone under which the fox has glided—but at the too narrow opening of which they must be themselves stopped and killed.”
“You understand,” added Aramis, with the quick certainty of authority; “there are six dogs that will have to stop at the large stone beneath which the fox has slipped—although at the too narrow opening, they themselves will have to be stopped and killed.”
The Bretons sprang forward, knife in hand. In a few minutes there was a lamentable concert of angry barks and mortal howls—and then, silence.
The Bretons rushed forward, knife in hand. Within a few minutes, there was a tragic mix of angry barks and deathly howls—and then, silence.
“That’s well!” said Aramis, coolly, “now for the masters!”
"That's great!" said Aramis, calmly, "now let's get to the main event!"
“What is to be done with them?” said Porthos.
“What should we do with them?” said Porthos.
“Wait their arrival, conceal ourselves, and kill them.”
“Wait for them to arrive, hide ourselves, and then kill them.”
“Kill them!” replied Porthos.
“Take them out!” replied Porthos.
“There are sixteen,” said Aramis, “at least, at present.”
“There are sixteen,” said Aramis, “at least for now.”
“And well armed,” added Porthos, with a smile of consolation.
“And well armed,” added Porthos, with a reassuring smile.
“It will last about ten minutes,” said Aramis. “To work!”
“It'll last about ten minutes,” Aramis said. “Let’s get to work!”
And with a resolute air he took up a musket, and placed a hunting-knife between his teeth.
And with a determined look, he grabbed a musket and held a hunting knife between his teeth.
“Yves, Goenne, and his son,” continued Aramis, “will pass the muskets to us. You, Porthos, will fire when they are close. We shall have brought down, at the lowest computation, eight, before the others are aware of anything—that is certain; then all, there are five of us, will dispatch the other eight, knife in hand.”
“Yves, Goenne, and his son,” Aramis continued, “will pass the guns to us. You, Porthos, will fire when they're close. We should be able to take down at least eight before the others even realize what's happening—that's a sure thing; then all of us, five in total, will take care of the other eight with knives in hand.”
“And poor Biscarrat?” said Porthos.
“And poor Biscarrat?” Porthos asked.
Aramis reflected a moment—“Biscarrat first,” replied he, coolly. “He knows us.”
Aramis thought for a moment. "Biscarrat first," he replied calmly. "He knows us."
Chapter XLVIII. The Grotto.
In spite of the sort of divination which was the remarkable side of the character of Aramis, the event, subject to the risks of things over which uncertainty presides, did not fall out exactly as the bishop of Vannes had foreseen. Biscarrat, better mounted than his companions, arrived first at the opening of the grotto, and comprehended that fox and hounds were one and all engulfed in it. Only, struck by that superstitious terror which every dark and subterraneous way naturally impresses upon the mind of man, he stopped at the outside of the grotto, and waited till his companions should have assembled round him.
Despite Aramis's remarkable ability in divination, the outcome, subject to the uncertainties of fate, didn’t turn out exactly as the bishop of Vannes had predicted. Biscarrat, better mounted than his companions, reached the entrance of the grotto first and realized that both the fox and the hounds were completely inside. However, gripped by the superstitious fear that dark, underground paths naturally evoke, he paused at the cave's entrance and waited for his companions to gather around him.
“Well!” asked the young men, coming up, out of breath, and unable to understand the meaning of this inaction.
“Well!” asked the young men, arriving out of breath and unable to grasp the reason for this inactivity.
“Well! I cannot hear the dogs; they and the fox must all be lost in this infernal cavern.”
“Well! I can’t hear the dogs; they and the fox must be lost in this hellish cave.”
“They were too close up,” said one of the guards, “to have lost scent all at once. Besides, we should hear them from one side or another. They must, as Biscarrat says, be in this grotto.”
“They were too close up,” one of the guards said, “to have lost their scent all at once. Besides, we should hear them from one side or another. They must, as Biscarrat says, be in this grotto.”
“But then,” said one of the young men, “why don’t they give tongue?”
“But then,” said one of the young men, “why don’t they speak up?”
“It is strange!” muttered another.
"That's weird!" muttered another.
“Well, but,” said a fourth, “let us go into this grotto. Does it happen to be forbidden we should enter it?”
“Well, but,” said a fourth, “let’s go into this grotto. Is it forbidden for us to enter?”
“No,” replied Biscarrat. “Only, as it looks as dark as a wolf’s mouth, we might break our necks in it.”
“No,” replied Biscarrat. “But since it looks as dark as a wolf’s mouth, we could end up breaking our necks in there.”
“Witness the dogs,” said a guard, “who seem to have broken theirs.”
“Look at the dogs,” said a guard, “who seem to have broken theirs.”
“What the devil can have become of them?” asked the young men in chorus. And every master called his dog by his name, whistled to him in his favorite mode, without a single one replying to either call or whistle.
“What on earth could have happened to them?” asked the young men in unison. And each master called his dog by name, whistled in his usual way, but not a single one responded to either call or whistle.
“It is perhaps an enchanted grotto,” said Biscarrat; “let us see.” And, jumping from his horse, he made a step into the grotto.
“It might be an enchanted grotto,” said Biscarrat; “let's check it out.” And, jumping off his horse, he stepped into the grotto.
“Stop! stop! I will accompany you,” said one of the guards, on seeing Biscarrat disappear in the shades of the cavern’s mouth.
“Stop! Stop! I’ll go with you,” said one of the guards, seeing Biscarrat vanish into the shadows of the cave entrance.
“No,” replied Biscarrat, “there must be something extraordinary in the place—don’t let us risk ourselves all at once. If in ten minutes you do not hear of me, you can come in, but not all at once.”
“No,” Biscarrat said, “there has to be something unusual about this place—let's not put ourselves in danger all at once. If you don’t hear from me in ten minutes, then you can come in, but not all at once.”
“Be it so,” said the young man, who, besides, did not imagine that Biscarrat ran much risk in the enterprise, “we will wait for you.” And without dismounting from their horses, they formed a circle round the grotto.
“Okay,” said the young man, who also didn’t think that Biscarrat was taking much of a risk with his plan, “we’ll wait for you.” And without getting off their horses, they formed a circle around the grotto.
Biscarrat entered then alone, and advanced through the darkness till he came in contact with the muzzle of Porthos’s musket. The resistance which his chest met with astonished him; he naturally raised his hand and laid hold of the icy barrel. At the same instant, Yves lifted a knife against the young man, which was about to fall upon him with all force of a Breton’s arm, when the iron wrist of Porthos stopped it half-way. Then, like low muttering thunder, his voice growled in the darkness, “I will not have him killed!”
Biscarrat entered alone and moved through the darkness until he felt the muzzle of Porthos’s musket against him. The resistance he felt on his chest surprised him; he instinctively raised his hand and grabbed the cold barrel. At that moment, Yves raised a knife to strike the young man with all the strength of a Breton’s arm, but Porthos's iron grip stopped it halfway. Then, like distant rumbling thunder, his voice growled in the darkness, “I won’t let you kill him!”
Biscarrat found himself between a protection and a threat, the one almost as terrible as the other. However brave the young man might be, he could not prevent a cry escaping him, which Aramis immediately suppressed by placing a handkerchief over his mouth. “Monsieur de Biscarrat,” said he, in a low voice, “we mean you no harm, and you must know that if you have recognized us; but, at the first word, the first groan, the first whisper, we shall be forced to kill you as we have killed your dogs.”
Biscarrat found himself caught between a protection and a threat, both almost equally terrifying. No matter how brave the young man was, he couldn't stop a cry from escaping him, which Aramis quickly silenced by covering his mouth with a handkerchief. “Monsieur de Biscarrat,” he said in a low voice, “we mean you no harm, and you must know that if you’ve recognized us; but at the first word, the first groan, the first whisper, we’ll have to kill you just like we killed your dogs.”
“Yes, I recognize you, gentlemen,” said the officer, in a low voice. “But why are you here—what are you doing, here? Unfortunate men! I thought you were in the fort.”
“Yes, I recognize you, gentlemen,” said the officer quietly. “But why are you here—what are you doing here? Unfortunate men! I thought you were in the fort.”
“And you, monsieur, you were to obtain conditions for us, I think?”
“And you, sir, were supposed to get us some conditions, right?”
“I did all I was able, messieurs, but—”
“I did everything I could, gentlemen, but—”
“But what?”
"But why?"
“But there are positive orders.”
“But there are good orders.”
“To kill us?”
"To kill us?"
Biscarrat made no reply. It would have cost him too much to speak of the cord to gentlemen. Aramis understood the silence of the prisoner.
Biscarrat didn't respond. Talking about the rope to gentlemen would have been too costly for him. Aramis understood the prisoner's silence.
“Monsieur Biscarrat,” said he, “you would be already dead if we had not regard for your youth and our ancient association with your father; but you may yet escape from the place by swearing that you will not tell your companions what you have seen.”
“Monsieur Biscarrat,” he said, “you would already be dead if we didn’t care about your youth and our long-standing connection with your father; but you can still get out of here if you promise not to tell your friends what you’ve seen.”
“I will not only swear that I will not speak of it,” said Biscarrat, “but I still further swear that I will do everything in the world to prevent my companions from setting foot in the grotto.”
“I not only swear that I won’t talk about it,” said Biscarrat, “but I also swear that I’ll do everything I can to keep my friends from going into the grotto.”
“Biscarrat! Biscarrat!” cried several voices from the outside, coming like a whirlwind into the cave.
“Biscarrat! Biscarrat!” shouted multiple voices from outside, rushing into the cave like a whirlwind.
“Reply,” said Aramis.
"Reply," Aramis said.
“Here I am!” cried Biscarrat.
“Here I am!” shouted Biscarrat.
“Now, begone; we depend on your loyalty.” And he left his hold of the young man, who hastily returned towards the light.
“Now, go away; we rely on your loyalty.” And he released his grip on the young man, who quickly made his way back toward the light.
“Biscarrat! Biscarrat!” cried the voices, still nearer. And the shadows of several human forms projected into the interior of the grotto. Biscarrat rushed to meet his friends in order to stop them, and met them just as they were adventuring into the cave. Aramis and Porthos listened with the intense attention of men whose life depends upon a breath of air.
“Biscarrat! Biscarrat!” shouted the voices, growing closer. The shadows of several people appeared at the entrance of the grotto. Biscarrat hurried to meet his friends to stop them and caught up with them just as they were about to enter the cave. Aramis and Porthos listened with the focused intensity of men whose lives depend on a single breath of air.
“Oh! oh!” exclaimed one of the guards, as he came to the light, “how pale you are!”
“Oh! oh!” shouted one of the guards as he stepped into the light, “you look so pale!”
“Pale!” cried another; “you ought to say corpse-color.”
“Pale!” shouted another; “you should say corpse color.”
“I!” said the young man, endeavoring to collect his faculties.
“I!” said the young man, trying to gather his thoughts.
“In the name of Heaven! what has happened?” exclaimed all the voices.
“In the name of heaven! What has happened?” everyone exclaimed.
“You have not a drop of blood in your veins, my poor friend,” said one of them, laughing.
“You don’t have a drop of blood in your veins, my poor friend,” one of them said, laughing.
“Messieurs, it is serious,” said another, “he is going to faint; does any one of you happen to have any salts?” And they all laughed.
“Gentlemen, this is serious,” said another, “he's about to faint; does anyone have any salts?” And they all laughed.
This hail of jests fell round Biscarrat’s ears like musket-balls in a melee. He recovered himself amidst a deluge of interrogations.
This barrage of jokes hit Biscarrat's ears like gunfire in a melee. He collected himself amid a flood of questions.
“What do you suppose I have seen?” asked he. “I was too hot when I entered the grotto, and I have been struck with a chill. That is all.”
“What do you think I’ve seen?” he asked. “I was too warm when I entered the cave, and now I’m feeling cold. That’s all.”
“But the dogs, the dogs; have you seen them again—did you see anything of them—do you know anything about them?”
“But the dogs, the dogs; have you seen them again—did you see anything of them—do you know anything about them?”
“I suppose they have got out some other way.”
“I guess they found another way out.”
“Messieurs,” said one of the young men, “there is in that which is going on, in the paleness and silence of our friend, a mystery which Biscarrat will not, or cannot reveal. Only, and this is certain, Biscarrat has seen something in the grotto. Well, for my part, I am very curious to see what it is, even if it is the devil! To the grotto! messieurs, to the grotto!”
“Gentlemen,” said one of the young men, “there's a mystery in what's happening, in our friend's pale face and silence, that Biscarrat won't or can't explain. But one thing is for sure, Biscarrat has seen something in the grotto. Personally, I'm very curious to find out what it is, even if it’s the devil himself! To the grotto! Gentlemen, to the grotto!”
“To the grotto!” repeated all the voices. And the echo of the cavern carried like a menace to Porthos and Aramis, “To the grotto! to the grotto!”
“To the grotto!” everyone echoed. And the sound bounced around the cave like a threat to Porthos and Aramis, “To the grotto! to the grotto!”
Biscarrat threw himself before his companions. “Messieurs! messieurs!” cried he, “in the name of Heaven! do not go in!”
Biscarrat threw himself in front of his friends. “Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” he shouted, “for the love of God! don’t go in!”
“Why, what is there so terrific in the cavern?” asked several at once. “Come, speak, Biscarrat.”
“Why, what’s so scary in the cave?” several asked at once. “Come on, speak, Biscarrat.”
“Decidedly, it is the devil he has seen,” repeated he who had before advanced that hypothesis.
“Clearly, it’s the devil he has seen,” repeated the one who had suggested that idea earlier.
“Well,” said another, “if he has seen him, he need not be selfish; he may as well let us have a look at him in turn.”
“Well,” said another, “if he’s seen him, he doesn’t need to be selfish; he might as well let us have a chance to see him too.”
“Messieurs! messieurs! I beseech you,” urged Biscarrat.
“Gentlemen! Gentlemen! I beg you,” urged Biscarrat.
“Nonsense! Let us pass!”
"Nonsense! Let us through!"
“Messieurs, I implore you not to enter!”
“Gentlemen, I urge you not to go in!”
“Why, you went in yourself.”
"Why, you went in yourself."
Then one of the officers, who—of a riper age than the others—had till this time remained behind, and had said nothing, advanced. “Messieurs,” said he, with a calmness which contrasted with the animation of the young men, “there is in there some person, or something, that is not the devil; but which, whatever it may be, has had sufficient power to silence our dogs. We must discover who this some one is, or what this something is.”
Then one of the officers, who was older than the others and had stayed quiet until now, stepped forward. “Gentlemen,” he said, with a calmness that stood out against the excitement of the younger men, “there is someone or something in there that isn’t the devil; but whatever it is, it has been strong enough to silence our dogs. We need to find out who this person is, or what this thing is.”
Biscarrat made a last effort to stop his friends, but it was useless. In vain he threw himself before the rashest; in vain he clung to the rocks to bar the passage; the crowd of young men rushed into the cave, in the steps of the officer who had spoken last, but who had sprung in first, sword in hand, to face the unknown danger. Biscarrat, repulsed by his friends, unable to accompany them, without passing in the eyes of Porthos and Aramis for a traitor and a perjurer, with painfully attentive ear and unconsciously supplicating hands leaned against the rough side of a rock which he thought must be exposed to the fire of the musketeers. As to the guards, they penetrated further and further, with exclamations that grew fainter as they advanced. All at once, a discharge of musketry, growling like thunder, exploded in the entrails of the vault. Two or three balls were flattened against the rock on which Biscarrat was leaning. At the same instant, cries, shrieks, imprecations burst forth, and the little troop of gentlemen reappeared—some pale, some bleeding—all enveloped in a cloud of smoke, which the outer air seemed to suck from the depths of the cavern. “Biscarrat! Biscarrat!” cried the fugitives, “you knew there was an ambuscade in that cavern, and you did not warn us! Biscarrat, you are the cause that four of us are murdered men! Woe be to you, Biscarrat!”
Biscarrat made a last attempt to stop his friends, but it was pointless. He threw himself in front of the most reckless ones, and he clung to the rocks to block their way, but the group of young men rushed into the cave, following the officer who had spoken last, but who had jumped in first, sword drawn, ready to face the unknown danger. Biscarrat, pushed away by his friends and unable to join them without being seen as a traitor and a liar by Porthos and Aramis, listened intently with a heavy heart, his hands pressed against the rough surface of a rock that he feared would be targeted by the musketeers. Meanwhile, the guards moved deeper and deeper into the cave, their exclamations growing softer as they went on. Suddenly, a volley of gunfire erupted like thunder from within the cave. Two or three bullets smashed against the rock where Biscarrat was leaning. At that moment, cries, screams, and curses erupted, and the small group of gentlemen reappeared—some pale, some bleeding—all surrounded by a cloud of smoke that the outside air seemed to pull from the cave's depths. “Biscarrat! Biscarrat!” shouted the fleeing men, “you knew there was an ambush in that cave, and you didn’t warn us! Biscarrat, you are the reason four of us are dead! Woe to you, Biscarrat!”
“You are the cause of my being wounded unto death,” said one of the young men, letting a gush of scarlet life-blood vomit in his palm, and spattering it into Biscarrat’s livid face. “My blood be on your head!” And he rolled in agony at the feet of the young man.
“You're the reason I'm dying,” said one of the young men, letting a stream of red blood pour from his palm and splatter onto Biscarrat’s pale face. “My blood is on your hands!” And he writhed in pain at the feet of the young man.
“But, at least, tell us who is there?” cried several furious voices.
“But at least, tell us who’s there?” shouted several angry voices.
Biscarrat remained silent. “Tell us, or die!” cried the wounded man, raising himself upon one knee, and lifting towards his companion an arm bearing a useless sword. Biscarrat rushed towards him, opening his breast for the blow, but the wounded man fell back not to rise again, uttering a groan which was his last. Biscarrat, with hair on end, haggard eyes, and bewildered head, advanced towards the interior of the cavern, saying, “You are right. Death to me, who have allowed my comrades to be assassinated. I am a worthless wretch!” And throwing away his sword, for he wished to die without defending himself, he rushed head foremost into the cavern. The others followed him. The eleven who remained out of sixteen imitated his example; but they did not go further than the first. A second discharge laid five upon the icy sand; and as it was impossible to see whence this murderous thunder issued, the others fell back with a terror that can be better imagined than described. But, far from flying, as the others had done, Biscarrat remained safe and sound, seated on a fragment of rock, and waited. There were only six gentlemen left.
Biscarrat stayed quiet. “Tell us, or die!” shouted the wounded man, propping himself up on one knee and lifting an arm that clutched a useless sword toward his companion. Biscarrat rushed at him, exposing himself for the blow, but the wounded man fell back, never to rise again, letting out a groan that was his last. Biscarrat, with his hair standing on end, haggard eyes, and a dazed expression, moved deeper into the cavern, saying, “You’re right. Death to me for allowing my comrades to be killed. I’m a worthless wretch!” Throwing away his sword because he wanted to die without fighting back, he plunged headfirst into the cave. The others followed him. The eleven survivors out of sixteen did the same, but they didn’t go further than the entrance. A second shot took down five onto the icy sand; and since it was impossible to see where this deadly noise came from, the rest recoiled in a terror that’s better imagined than described. But instead of fleeing like the others, Biscarrat stayed safe and sound, sitting on a rock, and waited. Only six gentlemen remained.
“Seriously,” said one of the survivors, “is it the devil?”
"Seriously," said one of the survivors, "is it the devil?"
“Ma foi! it is much worse,” said another.
“My word! it is much worse,” said another.
“Ask Biscarrat, he knows.”
"Ask Biscarrat; he knows."
“Where is Biscarrat?” The young men looked round them, and saw that Biscarrat did not answer.
“Where is Biscarrat?” The young men looked around and noticed that Biscarrat didn’t respond.
“He is dead!” said two or three voices.
“He’s dead!” said a couple of voices.
“Oh! no!” replied another, “I saw him through the smoke, sitting quietly on a rock. He is in the cavern; he is waiting for us.”
“Oh! no!” said another, “I saw him through the smoke, sitting calmly on a rock. He’s in the cave; he’s waiting for us.”
“He must know who are there.”
“He needs to know who is there.”
“And how should he know them?”
“And how is he supposed to know them?”
“He was taken prisoner by the rebels.”
“He was captured by the rebels.”
“That is true. Well! let us call him, and learn from him whom we have to deal with.” And all voices shouted, “Biscarrat! Biscarrat!” But Biscarrat did not answer.
"That's true. Okay! Let's call him and find out who we’re dealing with." And everyone shouted, "Biscarrat! Biscarrat!" But Biscarrat didn't respond.
“Good!” said the officer who had shown so much coolness in the affair. “We have no longer any need of him; here are reinforcements coming.”
“Good!” said the officer who had remained so calm during the situation. “We no longer need him; reinforcements are on their way.”
In fact, a company of guards, left in the rear by their officers, whom the ardor of the chase had carried away—from seventy-five to eighty men—arrived in good order, led by their captain and the first lieutenant. The five officers hastened to meet their soldiers; and, in language the eloquence of which may be easily imagined, they related the adventure, and asked for aid. The captain interrupted them. “Where are your companions?” demanded he.
In fact, a group of guards, left behind by their officers who got caught up in the excitement of the chase—about seventy-five to eighty men—showed up in good order, led by their captain and the first lieutenant. The five officers quickly went to meet their soldiers, and in words that you can easily picture as persuasive, they recounted the adventure and asked for help. The captain cut them off. “Where are your companions?” he asked.
“Dead!”
“Deceased!”
“But there were sixteen of you!”
"But there were sixteen of you!"
“Ten are dead. Biscarrat is in the cavern, and we are five.”
"Ten are dead. Biscarrat is in the cave, and we are five."
“Biscarrat is a prisoner?”
“Biscarrat is in prison?”
“Probably.”
“Probably.”
“No, for here he is—look.” In fact, Biscarrat appeared at the opening of the grotto.
“No, here he is—look.” In fact, Biscarrat showed up at the entrance of the cave.
“He is making a sign to come on,” said the officer. “Come on!”
“He's signaling for us to come over,” said the officer. “Come on!”
“Come on!” cried all the troop. And they advanced to meet Biscarrat.
“Come on!” shouted the whole group. And they moved forward to confront Biscarrat.
“Monsieur,” said the captain, addressing Biscarrat, “I am assured that you know who the men are in that grotto, and who make such a desperate defense. In the king’s name I command you to declare what you know.”
“Sir,” said the captain, speaking to Biscarrat, “I’m sure you know who the people are in that grotto, and who are putting up such a fierce fight. In the king’s name, I command you to tell me what you know.”
“Captain,” said Biscarrat, “you have no need to command me. My word has been restored to me this very instant; and I came in the name of these men.”
“Captain,” said Biscarrat, “you don’t need to order me around. I just got my word back right now; and I came here on behalf of these men.”
“To tell me who they are?”
“To tell me who they are?”
“To tell you they are determined to defend themselves to the death, unless you grant them satisfactory terms.”
"To let you know they are committed to defending themselves to the end, unless you provide them with satisfactory terms."
“How many are there of them, then?”
“How many of them are there, then?”
“There are two,” said Biscarrat.
"There are two," said Biscarrat.
“There are two—and want to impose conditions upon us?”
“There are two—and they want to impose conditions on us?”
“There are two, and they have already killed ten of our men.”
“There are two of them, and they’ve already killed ten of our guys.”
“What sort of people are they—giants?”
“What kind of people are they—giants?”
“Worse than that. Do you remember the history of the Bastion Saint-Gervais, captain?”
“Worse than that. Do you remember the history of the Bastion Saint-Gervais, captain?”
“Yes; where four musketeers held out against an army.”
"Yeah; where four musketeers stood up to an army."
“Well, these are two of those same musketeers.”
“Well, these are two of those same musketeers.”
“And their names?”
"And what are their names?"
“At that period they were called Porthos and Aramis. Now they are styled M. d’Herblay and M. du Vallon.”
“At that time, they were called Porthos and Aramis. Now, they are referred to as M. d’Herblay and M. du Vallon.”
“And what interest have they in all this?”
“And what do they care about all this?”
“It is they who were holding Bell-Isle for M. Fouquet.”
“It’s them who were holding Bell-Isle for M. Fouquet.”
A murmur ran through the ranks of the soldiers on hearing the two words “Porthos and Aramis.” “The musketeers! the musketeers!” repeated they. And among all these brave men, the idea that they were going to have a struggle against two of the oldest glories of the French army, made a shiver, half enthusiasm, two-thirds terror, run through them. In fact, those four names—D’Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis—were venerated among all who wore a sword; as, in antiquity, the names of Hercules, Theseus, Castor, and Pollux were venerated.
A wave of excitement spread through the soldiers when they heard the names “Porthos and Aramis.” “The musketeers! The musketeers!” they repeated. Among all these brave men, the thought of facing off against two of the most legendary figures in the French army sent a mix of enthusiasm and fear through them. In fact, those four names—D’Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis—were revered by everyone who carried a sword, just as names like Hercules, Theseus, Castor, and Pollux were celebrated in ancient times.
“Two men—and they have killed ten in two discharges! It is impossible, Monsieur Biscarrat!”
“Two men—and they have killed ten in two rounds! It’s unbelievable, Monsieur Biscarrat!”
“Eh! captain,” replied the latter, “I do not tell you that they have not with them two or three men, as the musketeers of the Bastion Saint-Gervais had two or three lackeys; but, believe me, captain, I have seen these men, I have been taken prisoner by them—I know they themselves alone are all-sufficient to destroy an army.”
“Hey! Captain,” replied the other, “I’m not saying they don’t have a couple of guys with them, like the musketeers of Bastion Saint-Gervais had a couple of lackeys; but trust me, captain, I’ve seen these men, I’ve been captured by them—I know they alone are enough to take down an army.”
“That we shall see,” said the captain, “and that in a moment, too. Gentlemen, attention!”
“That we’ll see,” said the captain, “and that in a moment, too. Gentlemen, listen up!”
At this reply, no one stirred, and all prepared to obey. Biscarrat alone risked a last attempt.
At this response, nobody moved, and everyone got ready to comply. Biscarrat was the only one who dared to make one last attempt.
“Monsieur,” said he, in a low voice, “be persuaded by me; let us pass on our way. Those two men, those two lions you are going to attack, will defend themselves to the death. They have already killed ten of our men; they will kill double the number, and end by killing themselves rather than surrender. What shall we gain by fighting them?”
“Monsieur,” he said quietly, “please listen to me; let’s just move on. Those two men, those two lions you’re planning to attack, will fight to the death. They’ve already killed ten of our men; they’ll kill twice that many and will end up dying instead of giving up. What will we gain by fighting them?”
“We shall gain the consciousness, monsieur, of not having allowed eighty of the king’s guards to retire before two rebels. If I listened to your advice, monsieur, I should be a dishonored man; and by dishonoring myself I should dishonor the army. Forward, my men!”
“We will be aware, sir, that we didn’t let eighty of the king’s guards back down in front of two rebels. If I took your advice, sir, I would be a disgraced man; and by bringing shame upon myself, I would bring shame upon the army. Forward, my men!”
And he marched first as far as the opening of the grotto. There he halted. The object of this halt was to give Biscarrat and his companions time to describe to him the interior of the grotto. Then, when he believed he had a sufficient acquaintance with the place, he divided his company into three bodies, which were to enter successively, keeping up a sustained fire in all directions. No doubt, in this attack they would lose five more, perhaps ten; but, certainly, they must end by taking the rebels, since there was no issue; and, at any rate, two men could not kill eighty.
And he marched ahead until he reached the entrance of the cave. There he stopped. The reason for this pause was to give Biscarrat and his companions time to describe the inside of the cave to him. Once he felt he had a good understanding of the place, he divided his group into three teams, which were to enter one after the other, maintaining constant fire in all directions. Without a doubt, in this attack they would lose five more, maybe even ten; but they were certain to eventually capture the rebels, since there was no escape; and anyway, two men couldn't kill eighty.
“Captain,” said Biscarrat, “I beg to be allowed to march at the head of the first platoon.”
“Captain,” Biscarrat said, “I ask to be allowed to lead the first platoon.”
“So be it,” replied the captain; “you have all the honor. I make you a present of it.”
“So be it,” replied the captain; “you have all the honor. I’m giving it to you as a gift.”
“Thanks!” replied the young man, with all the firmness of his race.
“Thanks!” replied the young man, with all the confidence of his background.
“Take your sword, then.”
"Grab your sword, then."
“I shall go as I am, captain,” said Biscarrat, “for I do not go to kill, I go to be killed.”
“I’ll go as I am, captain,” said Biscarrat, “because I’m not going to kill, I’m going to be killed.”
And placing himself at the head of the first platoon, with head uncovered and arms crossed,—“March, gentlemen,” said he.
And taking the lead of the first platoon, with his head bare and arms crossed, he said, “Let’s march, gentlemen.”
Chapter XLIX. An Homeric Song.
It is time to pass to the other camp, and to describe at once the combatants and the field of battle. Aramis and Porthos had gone to the grotto of Locmaria with the expectation of finding there their canoe ready armed, as well as the three Bretons, their assistants; and they at first hoped to make the bark pass through the little issue of the cavern, concealing in that fashion both their labors and their flight. The arrival of the fox and dogs obliged them to remain concealed. The grotto extended the space of about a hundred toises, to that little slope dominating a creek. Formerly a temple of the Celtic divinities, when Belle-Isle was still called Kalonese, this grotto had beheld more than one human sacrifice accomplished in its mystic depths. The first entrance to the cavern was by a moderate descent, above which distorted rocks formed a weird arcade; the interior, very uneven and dangerous from the inequalities of the vault, was subdivided into several compartments, which communicated with each other by means of rough and jagged steps, fixed right and left, in uncouth natural pillars. At the third compartment the vault was so low, the passage so narrow, that the bark would scarcely have passed without touching the side; nevertheless, in moments of despair, wood softens and stone grows flexible beneath the human will. Such was the thought of Aramis, when, after having fought the fight, he decided upon flight—a flight most dangerous, since all the assailants were not dead; and that, admitting the possibility of putting the bark to sea, they would have to fly in open day, before the conquered, so interested on recognizing their small number, in pursuing their conquerors. When the two discharges had killed ten men, Aramis, familiar with the windings of the cavern, went to reconnoiter them one by one, and counted them, for the smoke prevented seeing outside; and he immediately commanded that the canoe should be rolled as far as the great stone, the closure of the liberating issue. Porthos collected all his strength, took the canoe in his arms, and raised it up, whilst the Bretons made it run rapidly along the rollers. They had descended into the third compartment; they had arrived at the stone which walled the outlet. Porthos seized this gigantic stone at its base, applied his robust shoulder, and gave a heave which made the wall crack. A cloud of dust fell from the vault, with the ashes of ten thousand generations of sea birds, whose nests stuck like cement to the rock. At the third shock the stone gave way, and oscillated for a minute. Porthos, placing his back against the neighboring rock, made an arch with his foot, which drove the block out of the calcareous masses which served for hinges and cramps. The stone fell, and daylight was visible, brilliant, radiant, flooding the cavern through the opening, and the blue sea appeared to the delighted Bretons. They began to lift the bark over the barricade. Twenty more toises, and it would glide into the ocean. It was during this time that the company arrived, was drawn up by the captain, and disposed for either an escalade or an assault. Aramis watched over everything, to favor the labors of his friends. He saw the reinforcements, counted the men, and convinced himself at a single glance of the insurmountable peril to which fresh combat would expose them. To escape by sea, at the moment the cavern was about to be invaded, was impossible. In fact, the daylight which had just been admitted to the last compartments had exposed to the soldiers the bark being rolled towards the sea, the two rebels within musket-shot; and one of their discharges would riddle the boat if it did not kill the navigators. Besides, allowing everything,—if the bark escaped with the men on board of it, how could the alarm be suppressed—how could notice to the royal lighters be prevented? What could hinder the poor canoe, followed by sea and watched from the shore, from succumbing before the end of the day? Aramis, digging his hands into his gray hair with rage, invoked the assistance of God and the assistance of the demons. Calling to Porthos, who was doing more work than all the rollers—whether of flesh or wood—“My friend,” said he, “our adversaries have just received a reinforcement.”
It’s time to switch to the other camp and describe the fighters and the battlefield. Aramis and Porthos had gone to the grotto of Locmaria, hoping to find their canoe ready and armed, along with their three Breton assistants. They initially wanted to sneak the boat out through the small opening of the cave, hiding both their work and their escape. However, the arrival of the fox and dogs forced them to stay hidden. The grotto stretched about a hundred toises, leading to a small slope overlooking a cove. Once a temple dedicated to Celtic gods, when Belle-Isle was still known as Kalonese, this grotto had witnessed more than one human sacrifice within its mystical depths. The main entrance to the cavern was accessed by a gentle descent, above which twisted rocks formed a strange arch; the interior was uneven and dangerous due to the irregularities of the ceiling, divided into several compartments connected by rough, jagged steps anchored in odd natural pillars. In the third compartment, the ceiling was so low, the passage so narrow, that the boat would barely fit without brushing against the sides; however, in desperate times, wood can bend and stone can yield to human will. This was Aramis's thought when, after battling, he decided to escape—a perilous flight, as not all their attackers had been defeated; and if they managed to get the boat into the water, they would have to flee in broad daylight, right in front of their opponents who were keen to recognize their small numbers and chase after them. After two rounds of fire had downed ten men, Aramis, familiar with the twists and turns of the cavern, went to scout them one by one and counted them, as the smoke blocked the view outside; he immediately ordered that the canoe be pushed as far as the large stone blocking the escape. Porthos gathered all his strength, hoisted the canoe onto his shoulders, while the Bretons quickly rolled it along the rollers. They made it down to the third compartment and reached the stone that sealed the exit. Porthos grabbed the massive stone at its base, pressed his solid shoulder against it, and heaved, causing it to crack. A cloud of dust fell from the ceiling, mixed with the remnants of countless generations of seabirds whose nests clung to the rock like glue. On the third heave, the stone gave way and swayed for a moment. Porthos, with his back against the neighboring rock, arched his foot, pushing the block out from the calcareous hinges and clamps. The stone fell, and bright light flooded the cavern through the opening, revealing the blue sea to the excited Bretons. They started to lift the canoe over the barrier. Just twenty more toises, and it would slide into the ocean. Meanwhile, the company arrived, was organized by the captain, and prepared for either a climb or an assault. Aramis kept a lookout to support his friends' efforts. He observed the reinforcements, counted the men, and quickly realized the overwhelming danger another fight would bring. Escaping by sea the moment the cave was about to be invaded was impossible. The daylight that had just hit the last compartments exposed the soldiers to the sight of the canoe being rolled toward the sea, with two rebels in musket range; and a shot could either sink the boat or kill the rowers. Moreover, assuming they managed to escape with the canoe, how could they silence the alarm—how could they prevent the royal ships from being notified? What could stop the little canoe, visible from the shore and followed by the sea, from sinking before the day ended? Aramis, tearing at his gray hair in frustration, called for both divine and diabolical help. Shouting to Porthos, who was putting in more effort than all the rollers combined—be they flesh or wood—“My friend,” he said, “our enemies have just received reinforcements.”
“Ah, ah!” said Porthos, quietly, “what is to be done, then?”
“Ah, ah!” Porthos said quietly, “What should we do now?”
“To recommence the combat,” said Aramis, “is hazardous.”
“To start the fight again,” said Aramis, “is risky.”
“Yes,” said Porthos, “for it is difficult to suppose that out of two, one should not be killed; and certainly, if one of us was killed, the other would get himself killed also.” Porthos spoke these words with that heroic nature which, with him, grew grander with necessity.
“Yes,” Porthos said, “because it’s hard to imagine that out of two, one wouldn’t be killed; and if one of us is killed, the other would definitely die too.” Porthos said this with that heroic spirit which, for him, became even greater when it was needed.
Aramis felt it like a spur to his heart. “We shall neither of us be killed if you do what I tell you, friend Porthos.”
Aramis felt it like a jolt to his heart. “Neither of us will get killed if you do what I say, buddy Porthos.”
“Tell me what?”
“Tell me what now?”
“These people are coming down into the grotto.”
“These people are coming into the cave.”
“Yes.”
"Yeah."
“We could kill about fifteen of them, but no more.”
“We could take out about fifteen of them, but not any more.”
“How many are there in all?” asked Porthos.
“How many are there altogether?” asked Porthos.
“They have received a reinforcement of seventy-five men.”
“They’ve gotten an extra seventy-five men.”
“Seventy-five and five, eighty. Ah!” sighed Porthos.
“Seventy-five and five, eighty. Ah!” sighed Porthos.
“If they fire all at once they will riddle us with balls.”
“If they shoot all at once, they will fill us with bullets.”
“Certainly they will.”
"Of course they will."
“Without reckoning,” added Aramis, “that the detonation might occasion a collapse of the cavern.”
“Not to mention,” added Aramis, “that the explosion could cause the cave to collapse.”
“Ay,” said Porthos, “a piece of falling rock just now grazed my shoulder.”
“Ay,” said Porthos, “a rock just fell and nearly hit my shoulder.”
“You see, then?”
"Do you see now?"
“Oh! it is nothing.”
“Oh! It's nothing.”
“We must determine upon something quickly. Our Bretons are going to continue to roll the canoe towards the sea.”
"We need to make a decision fast. Our Bretons are going to keep pushing the canoe toward the sea."
“Very well.”
"Alright."
“We two will keep the powder, the balls, and the muskets here.”
“We’ll keep the gunpowder, bullets, and muskets here.”
“But only two, my dear Aramis—we shall never fire three shots together,” said Porthos, innocently, “the defense by musketry is a bad one.”
“But only two, my dear Aramis—we will never shoot three times together,” said Porthos, naively, “defending ourselves with muskets isn’t a good idea.”
“Find a better, then.”
“Find a better one, then.”
“I have found one,” said the giant, eagerly; “I will place myself in ambuscade behind the pillar with this iron bar, and invisible, unattackable, if they come in floods, I can let my bar fall upon their skulls, thirty times in a minute. Hein! what do you think of the project? You smile!”
“I've found one,” said the giant, eagerly. “I’ll hide behind the pillar with this iron bar, and if they come in waves, I can strike them on the head thirty times a minute without being seen or attacked. Hey! What do you think of the plan? You're smiling!”
“Excellent, dear friend, perfect! I approve it greatly; only you will frighten them, and half of them will remain outside to take us by famine. What we want, my good friend, is the entire destruction of the troop. A single survivor encompasses our ruin.”
“Great, my dear friend, perfect! I really approve; just be careful not to scare them off, or half of them will stay outside and starve us. What we need, my good friend, is the complete annihilation of the group. One survivor means our downfall.”
“You are right, my friend, but how can we attract them, pray?”
“You're right, my friend, but how can we attract them, please?”
“By not stirring, my good Porthos.”
“By not getting involved, my good Porthos.”
“Well! we won’t stir, then; but when they are all together—”
“Well! We won’t move, then; but when they’re all together—”
“Then leave it to me, I have an idea.”
“Leave it to me, I have an idea.”
“If it is so, and your idea proves a good one—and your idea is most likely to be good—I am satisfied.”
“If that’s the case, and your idea turns out to be a good one—and it’s very likely to be good—I’m good with that.”
“To your ambuscade, Porthos, and count how many enter.”
“To your ambush, Porthos, and count how many come in.”
“But you, what will you do?”
“But you, what are you going to do?”
“Don’t trouble yourself about me; I have a task to perform.”
“Don’t worry about me; I have something I need to do.”
“I think I hear shouts.”
“I think I hear yelling.”
“It is they! To your post. Keep within reach of my voice and hand.”
“It’s them! Get to your positions. Stay close enough to hear me and see me.”
Porthos took refuge in the second compartment, which was in darkness, absolutely black. Aramis glided into the third; the giant held in his hand an iron bar of about fifty pounds weight. Porthos handled this lever, which had been used in rolling the bark, with marvelous facility. During this time, the Bretons had pushed the bark to the beach. In the further and lighter compartment, Aramis, stooping and concealed, was busy with some mysterious maneuver. A command was given in a loud voice. It was the last order of the captain commandant. Twenty-five men jumped from the upper rocks into the first compartment of the grotto, and having taken their ground, began to fire. The echoes shrieked and barked, the hissing balls seemed actually to rarefy the air, and then opaque smoke filled the vault.
Porthos took shelter in the second compartment, which was completely dark. Aramis slipped into the third; the big man held an iron bar that weighed about fifty pounds. Porthos handled this lever, which had been used to roll the boat, with remarkable ease. Meanwhile, the Bretons had pushed the boat up to the beach. In the further and lighter compartment, Aramis, crouching and hidden, was busy with some secret action. A loud command was shouted. It was the final order from the commanding captain. Twenty-five men jumped from the upper rocks into the first compartment of the cave, and after taking their positions, they started firing. The echoes screamed and roared, the whistling bullets seemed to thin the air, and then thick smoke filled the space.
“To the left! to the left!” cried Biscarrat, who, in his first assault, had seen the passage to the second chamber, and who, animated by the smell of powder, wished to guide his soldiers in that direction. The troop, accordingly, precipitated themselves to the left—the passage gradually growing narrower. Biscarrat, with his hands stretched forward, devoted to death, marched in advance of the muskets. “Come on! come on!” exclaimed he, “I see daylight!”
“To the left! To the left!” shouted Biscarrat, who, during his first attack, had spotted the way to the second chamber, and who, fueled by the smell of gunpowder, wanted to lead his soldiers that way. The troops rushed to the left, the passage getting narrower as they moved. Biscarrat, with his hands stretched out in front of him, ready to face death, led the way ahead of the muskets. “Let’s go! Let’s go!” he yelled, “I see daylight!”
“Strike, Porthos!” cried the sepulchral voice of Aramis.
“Hit it, Porthos!” shouted the eerie voice of Aramis.
Porthos breathed a heavy sigh—but he obeyed. The iron bar fell full and direct upon the head of Biscarrat, who was dead before he had ended his cry. Then the formidable lever rose ten times in ten seconds, and made ten corpses. The soldiers could see nothing; they heard sighs and groans; they stumbled over dead bodies, but as they had no conception of the cause of all this, they came forward jostling each other. The implacable bar, still falling, annihilated the first platoon, without a single sound to warn the second, which was quietly advancing; only, commanded by the captain, the men had stripped a fir, growing on the shore, and, with its resinous branches twisted together, the captain had made a flambeau. On arriving at the compartment where Porthos, like the exterminating angel, had destroyed all he touched, the first rank drew back in terror. No firing had replied to that of the guards, and yet their way was stopped by a heap of dead bodies—they literally walked in blood. Porthos was still behind his pillar. The captain, illumining with trembling pine-torch this frightful carnage, of which he in vain sought the cause, drew back towards the pillar behind which Porthos was concealed. Then a gigantic hand issued from the shade, and fastened on the throat of the captain, who uttered a stifle rattle; his stretched-out arms beating the air, the torch fell and was extinguished in blood. A second after, the corpse of the captain dropped close to the extinguished torch, and added another body to the heap of dead which blocked up the passage. All this was effected as mysteriously as though by magic. At hearing the rattling in the throat of the captain, the soldiers who accompanied him had turned round, caught a glimpse of his extended arms, his eyes starting from their sockets, and then the torch fell and they were left in darkness. From an unreflective, instinctive, mechanical feeling, the lieutenant cried:
Porthos let out a heavy sigh—but he complied. The iron bar struck Biscarrat squarely on the head, killing him before his scream was over. Then the powerful lever rose ten times in ten seconds, creating ten corpses. The soldiers couldn't see anything; they heard sighs and groans and stumbled over dead bodies, but since they were clueless about what was happening, they pushed forward, bumping into each other. The relentless bar continued to fall, wiping out the first platoon without a sound to warn the second, which was advancing calmly. Under the captain's orders, the men had stripped a fir tree by the shore, and with its resinous branches twisted together, the captain had made a torch. When they reached the area where Porthos, like an avenging angel, had wiped out everyone he touched, the first rank stepped back in fear. No shots had been fired in response to the guards, yet their path was blocked by a mass of dead bodies—they literally walked through blood. Porthos was still hidden behind his pillar. The captain, using the flickering pine torch to illuminate the horrifying scene, which he could not understand, stepped back toward the pillar where Porthos was hiding. Suddenly, a massive hand emerged from the shadows and tightened around the captain's throat. He let out a strangled gasp; his outstretched arms flailed in the air, the torch fell, and was extinguished in blood. A moment later, the captain's corpse tumbled to the ground next to the extinguished torch, adding another body to the pile that obstructed the passage. All of this happened as mysteriously as if it were magic. Upon hearing the captain's choking sounds, the soldiers with him turned around, catching a glimpse of his outstretched arms, his eyes bulging, and then the torch fell, leaving them in darkness. Acting on instinct, the lieutenant cried:
“Fire!”
"Fire!"
Immediately a volley of musketry flamed, thundered, roared in the cavern, bringing down enormous fragments from the vaults. The cavern was lighted for an instant by this discharge, and then immediately returned to pitchy darkness rendered thicker by the smoke. To this succeeded a profound silence, broken only by the steps of the third brigade, now entering the cavern.
Immediately, a volley of gunfire erupted, booming and crashing in the cave, causing huge chunks to fall from the ceiling. The cave was briefly lit up by this gunfire and then plunged back into total darkness, made denser by the smoke. This was followed by a deep silence, interrupted only by the footsteps of the third brigade, now entering the cave.
Chapter L: The Death of a Titan.
At the moment when Porthos, more accustomed to the darkness than these men, coming from open daylight, was looking round him to see if through this artificial midnight Aramis were not making him some signal, he felt his arm gently touched, and a voice low as a breath murmured in his ear, “Come.”
At the moment when Porthos, who was used to the dark more than these guys coming from the bright daylight, was scanning his surroundings to see if Aramis was signaling to him through this fake midnight, he felt a gentle touch on his arm, and a voice as quiet as a whisper murmured in his ear, “Come.”
“Oh!” said Porthos.
“Oh!” Porthos exclaimed.
“Hush!” said Aramis, if possible, yet more softly.
“Hush!” said Aramis, even more softly, if that's possible.
And amidst the noise of the third brigade, which continued to advance, the imprecations of the guards still left alive, the muffled groans of the dying, Aramis and Porthos glided unseen along the granite walls of the cavern. Aramis led Porthos into the last but one compartment, and showed him, in a hollow of the rocky wall, a barrel of powder weighing from seventy to eighty pounds, to which he had just attached a fuse. “My friend,” said he to Porthos, “you will take this barrel, the match of which I am going to set fire to, and throw it amidst our enemies; can you do so?”
And amid the noise of the third brigade, which kept advancing, the curses of the guards still alive and the muffled groans of the dying, Aramis and Porthos moved unseen along the granite walls of the cavern. Aramis led Porthos into the second-to-last compartment and showed him, in a hollow of the rocky wall, a barrel of gunpowder weighing between seventy and eighty pounds, to which he had just attached a fuse. “My friend,” he said to Porthos, “you will take this barrel, the fuse of which I’m about to light, and throw it among our enemies; can you do that?”
“Parbleu!” replied Porthos; and he lifted the barrel with one hand. “Light it!”
“Wow!” replied Porthos; and he lifted the barrel with one hand. “Light it!”
“Stop,” said Aramis, “till they are all massed together, and then, my Jupiter, hurl your thunderbolt among them.”
“Stop,” said Aramis, “until they’re all gathered together, and then, my Jupiter, throw your thunderbolt at them.”
“Light it,” repeated Porthos.
“Light it,” Porthos repeated.
“On my part,” continued Aramis, “I will join our Bretons, and help them to get the canoe to the sea. I will wait for you on the shore; launch it strongly, and hasten to us.”
“On my end,” continued Aramis, “I’ll join our Breton friends and help them get the canoe to the sea. I’ll wait for you on the shore; launch it with force and hurry back to us.”
“Light it,” said Porthos, a third time.
“Light it,” Porthos said for the third time.
“But do you understand me?”
“But do you get me?”
“Parbleu!” said Porthos again, with laughter that he did not even attempt to restrain, “when a thing is explained to me I understand it; begone, and give me the light.”
“Wow!” said Porthos again, laughing without holding back, “when something is explained to me, I get it; now go away and give me the light.”
Aramis gave the burning match to Porthos, who held out his arm to him, his hands being engaged. Aramis pressed the arm of Porthos with both his hands, and fell back to the outlet of the cavern where the three rowers awaited him.
Aramis handed the burning match to Porthos, who extended his arm toward him since his hands were busy. Aramis grasped Porthos's arm with both hands and stepped back to the cave entrance where the three rowers were waiting for him.
Porthos, left alone, applied the spark bravely to the match. The spark—a feeble spark, first principle of conflagration—shone in the darkness like a glow-worm, then was deadened against the match which it set fire to, Porthos enlivening the flame with his breath. The smoke was a little dispersed, and by the light of the sparkling match objects might, for two seconds, be distinguished. It was a brief but splendid spectacle, that of this giant, pale, bloody, his countenance lighted by the fire of the match burning in surrounding darkness! The soldiers saw him, they saw the barrel he held in his hand—they at once understood what was going to happen. Then, these men, already choked with horror at the sight of what had been accomplished, filled with terror at thought of what was about to be accomplished, gave out a simultaneous shriek of agony. Some endeavored to fly, but they encountered the third brigade, which barred their passage; others mechanically took aim and attempted to fire their discharged muskets; others fell instinctively upon their knees. Two or three officers cried out to Porthos to promise him his liberty if he would spare their lives. The lieutenant of the third brigade commanded his men to fire; but the guards had before them their terrified companions, who served as a living rampart for Porthos. We have said that the light produced by the spark and the match did not last more than two seconds; but during these two seconds this is what it illumined: in the first place, the giant, enlarged in the darkness; then, at ten paces off, a heap of bleeding bodies, crushed, mutilated, in the midst of which some still heaved in the last agony, lifting the mass as a last respiration inflating the sides of some old monster dying in the night. Every breath of Porthos, thus vivifying the match, sent towards this heap of bodies a phosphorescent aura, mingled with streaks of purple. In addition to this principal group scattered about the grotto, as the chances of death or surprise had stretched them, isolated bodies seemed to be making ghastly exhibitions of their gaping wounds. Above ground, bedded in pools of blood, rose, heavy and sparkling, the short, thick pillars of the cavern, of which the strongly marked shades threw out the luminous particles. And all this was seen by the tremulous light of a match attached to a barrel of powder, that is to say, a torch which, whilst throwing a light on the dead past, showed death to come.
Porthos, left alone, bravely struck the match. The spark—a weak spark, the first step to a fire—glowed in the darkness like a firefly, then was snuffed out as it ignited the match, with Porthos fanning the flame with his breath. The smoke cleared a bit, and for two seconds, the flickering match revealed objects around him. It was a brief yet striking sight: this giant, pale and bloodied, his face lit by the match’s flame in the surrounding darkness! The soldiers saw him; they noticed the barrel in his hand and immediately understood what was about to happen. Choked with horror from what they had already witnessed and terrified at what was to come, they let out a collective scream of despair. Some tried to run, but they ran into the third brigade, which blocked their escape; others aimlessly took aim and tried to fire their unloaded muskets; some instinctively dropped to their knees. Two or three officers shouted at Porthos to promise him his freedom if he would spare their lives. The lieutenant of the third brigade ordered his men to fire; but the guards had their terrified comrades in front of them, acting as a living shield for Porthos. We said the light from the spark and the match lasted only two seconds; but during those two seconds, this is what it revealed: first, the giant, magnified in the dark; then, ten paces away, a heap of bleeding bodies, crushed and mangled, among which some were still gasping in their final moments, heaving like a dying monster in the night. Every breath from Porthos, energizing the match, sent a phosphorescent glow toward the pile of bodies, mixed with streaks of purple. Besides this main group, scattered around the grotto, isolated bodies seemed to grotesquely display their gaping wounds. Above, sunk in pools of blood, rose the short, thick pillars of the cavern, their sharp shadows casting luminous particles. And all of this was illuminated by the trembling light of a match attached to a barrel of gunpowder, a torch that, while shining light on the dead past, foreshadowed the death to come.
As I have said, this spectacle did not last above two seconds. During this short space of time an officer of the third brigade got together eight men armed with muskets, and, through an opening, ordered them to fire upon Porthos. But they who received the order to fire trembled so that three guards fell by the discharge, and the five remaining balls hissed on to splinter the vault, plow the ground, or indent the pillars of the cavern.
As I mentioned, this scene only lasted about two seconds. In that brief moment, an officer from the third brigade gathered eight men armed with muskets and, through an opening, ordered them to shoot at Porthos. But those who were told to fire were so scared that three guards ended up getting hit by the shots, and the five remaining bullets whizzed off, either hitting the ceiling, digging into the ground, or striking the pillars of the cave.
A burst of laughter replied to this volley; then the arm of the giant swung round; then was seen whirling through the air, like a falling star, the train of fire. The barrel, hurled a distance of thirty feet, cleared the barricade of dead bodies, and fell amidst a group of shrieking soldiers, who threw themselves on their faces. The officer had followed the brilliant train in the air; he endeavored to precipitate himself upon the barrel and tear out the match before it reached the powder it contained. Useless! The air had made the flame attached to the conductor more active; the match, which at rest might have burnt five minutes, was consumed in thirty seconds, and the infernal work exploded. Furious vortices of sulphur and nitre, devouring shoals of fire which caught every object, the terrible thunder of the explosion, this is what the second which followed disclosed in that cavern of horrors. The rocks split like planks of deal beneath the axe. A jet of fire, smoke, and debris sprang from the middle of the grotto, enlarging as it mounted. The large walls of silex tottered and fell upon the sand, and the sand itself, an instrument of pain when launched from its hard bed, riddled the faces with its myriad cutting atoms. Shrieks, imprecations, human life, dead bodies—all were engulfed in one terrific crash.
A burst of laughter responded to this attack; then the giant's arm swung around; and suddenly, like a falling star, the trail of fire was seen whirling through the air. The barrel, thrown thirty feet away, cleared the barricade of dead bodies and landed among a group of screaming soldiers, who threw themselves to the ground. The officer had followed the glowing trail in the air; he tried to dive onto the barrel and snatch the match away before it ignited the powder inside. It was pointless! The air intensified the flame on the fuse; the match, which could have burned for five minutes when still, was gone in thirty seconds, and the horrific explosion occurred. Furious whirlwinds of sulfur and salts, engulfing waves of fire that consumed everything in sight, and the deafening roar of the explosion—that's what the second that followed revealed in that hellish cavern. The rocks split like soft wood beneath an axe. A jet of fire, smoke, and debris shot up from the center of the cave, expanding as it rose. The solid walls of flint shook and collapsed onto the sand, and the sand itself, a tool of pain when thrown from its hard bed, shredded faces with its countless sharp particles. Screams, curses, human lives, dead bodies—all were swallowed up in one terrifying crash.
The three first compartments became one sepulchral sink into which fell grimly back, in the order of their weight, every vegetable, mineral, or human fragment. Then the lighter sand and ash came down in turn, stretching like a winding sheet and smoking over the dismal scene. And now, in this burning tomb, this subterranean volcano, seek the king’s guards with their blue coats laced with silver. Seek the officers, brilliant in gold, seek for the arms upon which they depended for their defense. One single man has made of all of those things a chaos more confused, more shapeless, more terrible than the chaos which existed before the creation of the world. There remained nothing of the three compartments—nothing by which God could have recognized His handiwork. As for Porthos, after having hurled the barrel of powder amidst his enemies, he had fled, as Aramis had directed him to do, and had gained the last compartment, into which air, light, and sunshine penetrated through the opening. Scarcely had he turned the angle which separated the third compartment from the fourth when he perceived at a hundred paces from him the bark dancing on the waves. There were his friends, there liberty, there life and victory. Six more of his formidable strides, and he would be out of the vault; out of the vault! a dozen of his vigorous leaps and he would reach the canoe. Suddenly he felt his knees give way; his knees seemed powerless, his legs to yield beneath him.
The first three compartments turned into a grim sink where everything heavy—vegetables, minerals, and human remains—dropped down. Then the lighter sand and ash followed, laying down like a shroud and smoking over the bleak scene. Now, in this burning tomb, this underground volcano, search for the king’s guards in their blue coats trimmed with silver. Look for the officers, shining in gold, search for the weapons they relied on for protection. One man has turned all those elements into a chaos that’s more confusing, more formless, and more terrifying than the chaos that existed before the world was created. There was nothing left of the three compartments—nothing God could recognize as His creation. As for Porthos, after throwing the barrel of gunpowder among his enemies, he had fled, just as Aramis had instructed, and reached the last compartment where air, light, and sunshine came through the opening. He had barely turned the corner separating the third compartment from the fourth when he spotted the boat dancing on the waves a hundred paces away. There were his friends, there was freedom, life, and victory. Just six more powerful strides, and he’d be out of the vault; out of the vault! A dozen strong leaps and he’d reach the canoe. Suddenly, he felt his knees buckle; they seemed weak, and his legs threatened to give way beneath him.
“Oh! oh!” murmured he, “there is my weakness seizing me again! I can walk no further! What is this?”
“Oh! oh!” he murmured, “my weakness is hitting me again! I can’t walk any further! What’s going on?”
Aramis perceived him through the opening, and unable to conceive what could induce him to stop thus—“Come on, Porthos! come on,” he cried; “come quickly!”
Aramis saw him through the opening, and unable to understand what could make him stop like that—“Come on, Porthos! hurry up,” he shouted; “get over here!”
“Oh!” replied the giant, making an effort that contorted every muscle of his body—“oh! but I cannot.” While saying these words, he fell upon his knees, but with his mighty hands he clung to the rocks, and raised himself up again.
“Oh!” replied the giant, straining every muscle in his body—“oh! but I can’t.” As he said this, he dropped to his knees, but with his powerful hands, he held onto the rocks and pushed himself back up.
“Quick! quick!” repeated Aramis, bending forward towards the shore, as if to draw Porthos towards him with his arms.
“Quick! Quick!” Aramis repeated, leaning forward toward the shore, as if he were trying to pull Porthos closer with his arms.
“Here I am,” stammered Porthos, collecting all his strength to make one step more.
“Here I am,” stuttered Porthos, gathering all his strength to take one more step.
“In the name of Heaven! Porthos, make haste! the barrel will blow up!”
“In the name of Heaven! Porthos, hurry up! The barrel is going to explode!”
“Make haste, monseigneur!” shouted the Bretons to Porthos, who was floundering as in a dream.
“Come on, sir!” shouted the Bretons to Porthos, who was struggling as if in a dream.
But there was no time; the explosion thundered, earth gaped, the smoke which hurled through the clefts obscured the sky; the sea flowed back as though driven by the blast of flame which darted from the grotto as if from the jaws of some gigantic fiery chimera; the reflux took the bark out twenty toises; the solid rocks cracked to their base, and separated like blocks beneath the operation of the wedge; a portion of the vault was carried up towards heaven, as if it had been built of cardboard; the green and blue and topaz conflagration and black lava of liquefactions clashed and combated an instant beneath a majestic dome of smoke; then oscillated, declined, and fell successively the mighty monoliths of rock which the violence of the explosion had not been able to uproot from the bed of ages; they bowed to each other like grave and stiff old men, then prostrating themselves, lay down forever in their dusty tomb.
But there was no time; the explosion roared, the earth split open, and the smoke that billowed through the cracks hid the sky; the sea pulled back as if pushed by the blast of flames shooting from the grotto like it was the mouth of some huge fiery monster; the retreat carried the boat out twenty toises; the solid rocks cracked at their base and broke apart like blocks under a wedge; part of the roof shot up toward the heavens, as if it had been made of cardboard; the green, blue, and topaz flames along with black molten rock clashed and fought for a moment beneath a grand dome of smoke; then the massive rock monoliths that the force of the explosion hadn't managed to uproot from the ancient bed swayed, tipped, and finally fell; they bowed to one another like serious and stiff old men, then, laying down forever, rested in their dusty graves.
This frightful shock seemed to restore Porthos the strength that he had lost; he arose, a giant among granite giants. But at the moment he was flying between the double hedge of granite phantoms, these latter, which were no longer supported by the corresponding links, began to roll and totter round our Titan, who looked as if precipitated from heaven amidst rocks which he had just been launching. Porthos felt the very earth beneath his feet becoming jelly-tremulous. He stretched both hands to repulse the falling rocks. A gigantic block was held back by each of his extended arms. He bent his head, and a third granite mass sank between his shoulders. For an instant the power of Porthos seemed about to fail him, but this new Hercules united all his force, and the two walls of the prison in which he was buried fell back slowly and gave him place. For an instant he appeared, in this frame of granite, like the angel of chaos, but in pushing back the lateral rocks, he lost his point of support, for the monolith which weighed upon his shoulders, and the boulder, pressing upon him with all its weight, brought the giant down upon his knees. The lateral rocks, for an instant pushed back, drew together again, and added their weight to the ponderous mass which would have been sufficient to crush ten men. The hero fell without a groan—he fell while answering Aramis with words of encouragement and hope, for, thanks to the powerful arch of his hands, for an instant he believed that, like Enceladus, he would succeed in shaking off the triple load. But by degrees Aramis beheld the block sink; the hands, strung for an instant, the arms stiffened for a last effort, gave way, the extended shoulders sank, wounded and torn, and the rocks continued to gradually collapse.
This terrifying shock seemed to give Porthos the strength he had lost; he stood up, a giant among stone giants. But as he was racing between the double hedge of rocky phantoms, these figures, no longer held up by the corresponding links, began to roll and sway around him, making him look like he had fallen from the sky into the rocks he had just been launching. Porthos felt the ground beneath him becoming unsteady. He stretched out both hands to push away the falling rocks. A massive block was stopped by each of his outstretched arms. He bent his head, and a third stone mass pressed down between his shoulders. For a moment, it seemed Porthos might lose his strength, but this new Hercules gathered all his might, and the two walls of the prison he was trapped in slowly fell back, making space for him. For a moment, in this frame of granite, he looked like an angel of chaos, but as he pushed against the side rocks, he lost his support, because the heavy stone on his shoulders and the boulder pressing down on him brought the giant to his knees. The side rocks, pushed back for an instant, came together again and added their weight to the massive load that could have crushed ten men. The hero fell without a sound—he fell while responding to Aramis with words of encouragement and hope, believing for a moment that, like Enceladus, he could shake off the triple burden. But gradually, Aramis saw the block sink; the hands, stretched for a brief moment, the arms stiffened for one last effort, gave way, and the extended shoulders sank, hurt and torn, while the rocks continued to collapse little by little.
“Porthos! Porthos!” cried Aramis, tearing his hair. “Porthos! where are you? Speak!”
“Porthos! Porthos!” shouted Aramis, pulling at his hair. “Porthos! where are you? Answer me!”
“Here, here,” murmured Porthos, with a voice growing evidently weaker, “patience! patience!”
“Here, here,” Porthos whispered, his voice clearly getting weaker, “patience! patience!”
Scarcely had he pronounced these words, when the impulse of the fall augmented the weight; the enormous rock sank down, pressed by those others which sank in from the sides, and, as it were, swallowed up Porthos in a sepulcher of badly jointed stones. On hearing the dying voice of his friend, Aramis had sprung to land. Two of the Bretons followed him, with each a lever in his hand—one being sufficient to take care of the bark. The dying rattle of the valiant gladiator guided them amidst the ruins. Aramis, animated, active and young as at twenty, sprang towards the triple mass, and with his hands, delicate as those of a woman, raised by a miracle of strength the corner-stone of this great granite grave. Then he caught a glimpse, through the darkness of that charnel-house, of the still brilliant eye of his friend, to whom the momentary lifting of the mass restored a momentary respiration. The two men came rushing up, grasped their iron levers, united their triple strength, not merely to raise it, but sustain it. All was useless. They gave way with cries of grief, and the rough voice of Porthos, seeing them exhaust themselves in a useless struggle, murmured in an almost cheerful tone those supreme words which came to his lips with the last respiration, “Too heavy!”
As soon as he said those words, the force of the fall increased the weight; the massive rock sank down, pushed by other stones coming in from the sides, effectively burying Porthos under a pile of poorly fitted stones. Hearing his friend’s fading voice, Aramis jumped onto solid ground. Two of the Bretons followed him, each with a lever in hand—one was enough to manage the boat. The dying sounds of the brave gladiator guided them through the rubble. Aramis, energetic, agile, and youthful as he was at twenty, rushed toward the heavy pile and, with hands delicate as a woman's, miraculously lifted the corner-stone of this great granite tomb. Then he spotted, through the darkness of that grave, the still bright eye of his friend, who drew a momentary breath with the brief lifting of the weight. The two men charged up, grabbed their iron levers, and combined their strength not just to lift it but to hold it in place. But it was all in vain. They cried out in grief as the weight gave way, and Porthos, witnessing their futile struggle, murmured in a surprisingly cheerful tone those final words that came to him with his last breath, “Too heavy!”
After which his eyes darkened and closed, his face grew ashy pale, the hands whitened, and the colossus sank quite down, breathing his last sigh. With him sank the rock, which, even in his dying agony he had still held up. The three men dropped the levers, which rolled upon the tumulary stone. Then, breathless, pale, his brow covered with sweat, Aramis listened, his breast oppressed, his heart ready to break.
After that, his eyes went dark and shut, his face turned ashen, his hands became pale, and the giant collapsed, letting out his last breath. As he fell, the rock he had held up even in his dying moments also came crashing down. The three men dropped the levers, which rolled onto the gravestone. Then, breathless and pale, with sweat on his brow, Aramis listened, feeling heavy in his chest, his heart on the verge of breaking.
Nothing more. The giant slept the eternal sleep, in the sepulcher which God had built about him to his measure.
Nothing more. The giant slept a never-ending sleep, in the tomb that God had created for him just right.
Chapter LI. Porthos’s Epitaph.
Aramis, silent and sad as ice, trembling like a timid child, arose shivering from the stone. A Christian does not walk on tombs. But, though capable of standing, he was not capable of walking. It might be said that something of dead Porthos had just died within him. His Bretons surrounded him; Aramis yielded to their kind exertions, and the three sailors, lifting him up, carried him to the canoe. Then, having laid him down upon the bench near the rudder, they took to their oars, preferring this to hoisting sail, which might betray them.
Aramis, silent and as cold as ice, trembling like a shy child, rose shivering from the stone. A Christian doesn’t walk on graves. But even though he could stand, he couldn’t walk. It could be said that a part of the deceased Porthos had just died inside him. His Breton companions gathered around him; Aramis surrendered to their kind efforts, and the three sailors, lifting him up, took him to the canoe. After laying him down on the bench near the rudder, they began to row, choosing this over hoisting the sail, which might give away their position.
On all that leveled surface of the ancient grotto of Locmaria, one single hillock attracted their eyes. Aramis never removed his from it; and, at a distance out in the sea, in proportion as the shore receded, that menacing proud mass of rock seemed to draw itself up, as formerly Porthos used to draw himself up, raising a smiling, yet invincible head towards heaven, like that of his dear old honest valiant friend, the strongest of the four, yet the first dead. Strange destiny of these men of brass! The most simple of heart allied to the most crafty; strength of body guided by subtlety of mind; and in the decisive moment, when vigor alone could save mind and body, a stone, a rock, a vile material weight, triumphed over manly strength, and falling upon the body, drove out the mind.
On that flat area of the ancient grotto of Locmaria, one small mound caught their attention. Aramis kept his gaze fixed on it; and from a distance out in the sea, as the shore moved away, that imposing proud mass of rock seemed to rise up, just as Porthos used to, lifting a smiling yet defiant head towards the sky, like that of his dear old honest brave friend, the strongest of the four, yet the first to die. Strange fate of these strong men! The most simple-hearted were paired with the most cunning; physical strength was paired with cleverness; and at the crucial moment, when strength alone could save both mind and body, a stone, a rock, a worthless material weight, triumphed over manly strength, and when it fell upon the body, it drove out the mind.
Worthy Porthos! born to help other men, always ready to sacrifice himself for the safety of the weak, as if God had only given him strength for that purpose; when dying he only thought he was carrying out the conditions of his compact with Aramis, a compact, however, which Aramis alone had drawn up, and which Porthos had only known to suffer by its terrible solidarity. Noble Porthos! of what good now are thy chateaux overflowing with sumptuous furniture, forests overflowing with game, lakes overflowing with fish, cellars overflowing with wealth! Of what service to thee now thy lackeys in brilliant liveries, and in the midst of them Mousqueton, proud of the power delegated by thee! Oh, noble Porthos! careful heaper-up of treasure, was it worth while to labor to sweeten and gild life, to come upon a desert shore, surrounded by the cries of seagulls, and lay thyself, with broken bones, beneath a torpid stone? Was it worth while, in short, noble Porthos, to heap so much gold, and not have even the distich of a poor poet engraven upon thy monument? Valiant Porthos! he still, without doubt, sleeps, lost, forgotten, beneath the rock the shepherds of the heath take for the gigantic abode of a dolmen. And so many twining branches, so many mosses, bent by the bitter wind of ocean, so many lichens solder thy sepulcher to earth, that no passers-by will imagine such a block of granite could ever have been supported by the shoulders of one man.
Worthy Porthos! Born to help others, always ready to sacrifice himself for the safety of the weak, as if God had given him strength just for that purpose; when he was dying, he only thought he was fulfilling the terms of his agreement with Aramis, a contract that Aramis had drawn up alone, and which Porthos had suffered from because of its harsh solidarity. Noble Porthos! What good are your chateaux filled with luxurious furniture, forests abundant with game, lakes rich with fish, and cellars stocked with wealth? What good are your liveried servants now, and among them Mousqueton, proud of the power you've given him? Oh, noble Porthos! Careful collector of treasure, was it worth it to work hard to make life sweet and rich, only to end up on a deserted shore, surrounded by the cries of seagulls, lying with broken bones beneath a heavy stone? Was it worth it, in short, noble Porthos, to amass so much gold and not even have a couple of lines from a poor poet inscribed on your monument? Valiant Porthos! He still, without a doubt, sleeps, lost and forgotten, beneath the rock that shepherds in the heath take for the gigantic home of a dolmen. And so many intertwining branches, so much moss, weighed down by the bitter ocean wind, so many lichens bind your grave to the earth that no passerby would imagine such a block of granite could ever have been supported by the shoulders of one man.
Aramis, still pale, still icy-cold, his heart upon his lips, looked, even till, with the last ray of daylight, the shore faded on the horizon. Not a word escaped him, not a sigh rose from his deep breast. The superstitious Bretons looked upon him, trembling. Such silence was not that of a man, it was the silence of a statue. In the meantime, with the first gray lines that lighted up the heavens, the canoe hoisted its little sail, which, swelling with the kisses of the breeze, and carrying them rapidly from the coast, made bravest way towards Spain, across the dreaded Gulf of Gascony, so rife with storms. But scarcely half an hour after the sail had been hoisted, the rowers became inactive, reclining on their benches, and, making an eye-shade with their hands, pointed out to each other a white spot which appeared on the horizon as motionless as a gull rocked by the viewless respiration of the waves. But that which might have appeared motionless to ordinary eyes was moving at a quick rate to the experienced eye of the sailor; that which appeared stationary upon the ocean was cutting a rapid way through it. For some time, seeing the profound torpor in which their master was plunged, they did not dare to rouse him, and satisfied themselves with exchanging their conjectures in whispers. Aramis, in fact, so vigilant, so active—Aramis, whose eye, like that of the lynx, watched without ceasing, and saw better by night than by day—Aramis seemed to sleep in this despair of soul. An hour passed thus, during which daylight gradually disappeared, but during which also the sail in view gained so swiftly on the bark, that Goenne, one of the three sailors, ventured to say aloud:
Aramis, still pale and icy cold, with his heart on his lips, watched until the last ray of daylight faded away on the horizon. He didn’t say a word, not even a sigh escaped his deep chest. The superstitious Bretons looked at him, trembling. That kind of silence wasn't normal; it was the silence of a statue. Meanwhile, as the first hints of gray began to light up the sky, the canoe raised its small sail, which swelled with the gentle breeze, quickly carrying them away from the coast and making its way toward Spain, crossing the feared Gulf of Gascony, known for its storms. But barely half an hour after raising the sail, the rowers grew inactive, reclining on their benches and shading their eyes with their hands, pointing out to each other a white spot that appeared on the horizon, as still as a gull resting on the unseen breath of the waves. But what might have seemed stationary to untrained eyes was actually moving quickly to a sailor's experienced gaze; what appeared to be still on the ocean was cutting swiftly through it. For a while, seeing their master lost in this deep stupor, they didn’t dare disturb him, contenting themselves with whispering their speculations. Aramis, who was usually so watchful and alert—Aramis, whose eyes, like a lynx's, could see better at night than during the day—seemed to be sleeping in this despair. An hour passed in this manner, during which daylight gradually faded, but during which the sail in the distance quickly approached the boat, prompting Goenne, one of the three sailors, to venture to say aloud:
“Monseigneur, we are being chased!”
“Sir, we’re being chased!”
Aramis made no reply; the ship still gained upon them. Then, of their own accord, two of the sailors, by the direction of the patron Yves, lowered the sail, in order that that single point upon the surface of the waters should cease to be a guide to the eye of the enemy pursuing them. On the part of the ship in sight, on the contrary, two more small sails were run up at the extremities of the masts. Unfortunately, it was the time of the finest and longest days of the year, and the moon, in all her brilliancy, succeeded inauspicious daylight. The balancelle, which was pursuing the little bark before the wind, had then still half an hour of twilight, and a whole night almost as light as day.
Aramis didn’t respond; the ship was still closing in on them. Then, on their own initiative, two of the sailors, following the orders of the captain Yves, lowered the sail so that the small spot on the water would no longer serve as a target for the enemy chasing them. Meanwhile, the ship in sight raised two additional small sails at the ends of the masts. Unfortunately, it was the season of the longest and brightest days of the year, and the moon, shining brightly, took the place of the unfortunate daylight. The balancelle, pursuing the small boat with the wind, still had half an hour of twilight and almost an entire night that was nearly as bright as day.
“Monseigneur! monseigneur! we are lost!” said the captain. “Look! they see us plainly, though we have lowered sail.”
“Monseigneur! Monseigneur! We’re doomed!” said the captain. “Look! They can see us clearly, even though we’ve lowered the sail.”
“That is not to be wondered at,” murmured one of the sailors, “since they say that, by the aid of the devil, the Paris-folk have fabricated instruments with which they see as well at a distance as near, by night as well as by day.”
"That's not surprising," one of the sailors whispered, "since people say that with the help of the devil, the folks in Paris have created devices that let them see clearly at a distance as well as up close, at night as well as during the day."
Aramis took a telescope from the bottom of the boat, focussed it silently, and passing it to the sailor, “Here,” said he, “look!” The sailor hesitated.
Aramis grabbed a telescope from the bottom of the boat, adjusted it quietly, and handed it to the sailor, saying, “Here, take a look!” The sailor hesitated.
“Don’t be alarmed,” said the bishop, “there is no sin in it; and if there is any sin, I will take it on myself.”
“Don’t worry,” said the bishop, “there’s no sin in it; and if there is any sin, I’ll take the blame myself.”
The sailor lifted the glass to his eye, and uttered a cry. He believed that the vessel, which appeared to be distant about cannon-shot, had at a single bound cleared the whole distance. But, on withdrawing the instrument from his eye, he saw that, except the way which the balancelle had been able to make during that brief instant, it was still at the same distance.
The sailor raised the glass to his eye and shouted. He thought that the ship, which seemed to be about the distance of a cannon shot away, had suddenly covered the entire gap. But when he pulled the instrument away from his eye, he realized that, aside from the distance the balancelle had traveled in that brief moment, it was still just as far away.
“So,” murmured the sailor, “they can see us as we see them.”
“So,” whispered the sailor, “they can see us just like we see them.”
“They see us,” said Aramis, and sank again into impassibility.
“They see us,” Aramis said, and fell silent again.
“What!—they see us!” said Yves. “Impossible!”
“What!—they see us!” Yves exclaimed. “No way!”
“Well, captain, look yourself,” said the sailor. And he passed him the glass.
“Well, captain, take a look for yourself,” said the sailor. And he handed him the glass.
“Monseigneur assures me that the devil has nothing to do with this?” asked Yves.
“Monseigneur assures me that the devil has nothing to do with this?” Yves asked.
Aramis shrugged his shoulders.
Aramis shrugged.
The skipper lifted the glass to his eye. “Oh! monseigneur,” said he, “it is a miracle—there they are; it seems as if I were going to touch them. Twenty-five men at least! Ah! I see the captain forward. He holds a glass like this, and is looking at us. Ah! he turns round, and gives an order; they are rolling a piece of cannon forward—they are loading it—pointing it. Misericorde! they are firing at us!”
The captain raised the glass to his eye. “Oh! sir,” he said, “it's a miracle—there they are; it feels like I’m about to touch them. At least twenty-five men! Ah! I see the captain up front. He has a glass like this and is looking at us. Ah! He turns around and gives an order; they’re rolling a cannon forward—they’re loading it—pointing it. Mercy! They’re firing at us!”
And by a mechanical movement, the skipper put aside the telescope, and the pursuing ship, relegated to the horizon, appeared again in its true aspect. The vessel was still at the distance of nearly a league, but the maneuver sighted thus was not less real. A light cloud of smoke appeared beneath the sails, more blue than they, and spreading like a flower opening; then, at about a mile from the little canoe, they saw the ball take the crown off two or three waves, dig a white furrow in the sea, and disappear at the end of it, as inoffensive as the stone with which, in play, a boy makes ducks and drakes. It was at once a menace and a warning.
And with a quick movement, the captain set aside the telescope, and the chasing ship, pushed back to the horizon, came into view again as it really was. The vessel was still almost a mile away, but seeing it this way was no less real. A light cloud of smoke appeared below the sails, bluer than they were, spreading out like a blooming flower; then, about a mile from the small canoe, they saw the projectile skim over a couple of waves, carve a white line in the sea, and vanish at the end as harmless as a stone tossed by a boy playing skip stones. It was both a threat and a warning.
“What is to be done?” asked the patron.
“What should we do?” asked the patron.
“They will sink us!” said Goenne, “give us absolution, monseigneur!” And the sailors fell on their knees before him.
“They're going to sink us!” said Goenne, “please give us forgiveness, sir!” And the sailors dropped to their knees in front of him.
“You forget that they can see you,” said he.
"You forget that they can see you," he said.
“That is true!” said the sailors, ashamed of their weakness. “Give us your orders, monseigneur, we are prepared to die for you.”
“That's true!” said the sailors, embarrassed by their weakness. “Give us your orders, sir, we’re ready to die for you.”
“Let us wait,” said Aramis.
“Let’s wait,” said Aramis.
“How—let us wait?”
"How—should we wait?"
“Yes; do you not see, as you just now said, that if we endeavor to fly, they will sink us?”
“Yes; don’t you see, as you just said, that if we try to fly, they will bring us down?”
“But, perhaps,” the patron ventured to say, “perhaps under cover of night, we could escape them.”
“But maybe,” the patron suggested, “maybe if we go out at night, we could get away from them.”
“Oh!” said Aramis, “they have, no doubt, Greek fire with which to lighten their own course and ours likewise.”
“Oh!” said Aramis, “they probably have Greek fire to light their path and ours too.”
At the same moment, as if the vessel was responsive to the appeal of Aramis, a second cloud of smoke mounted slowly to the heavens, and from the bosom of that cloud sparkled an arrow of flame, which described a parabola like a rainbow, and fell into the sea, where it continued to burn, illuminating a space of a quarter of a league in diameter.
At that moment, as if the ship was responding to Aramis's call, a second plume of smoke rose slowly into the sky, and from within that cloud, a flame shot out like an arrow, arching through the air like a rainbow, and landed in the sea, where it kept burning, lighting up an area about a quarter of a league in diameter.
The Bretons looked at each other in terror. “You see plainly,” said Aramis, “it will be better to wait for them.”
The Bretons looked at each other in fear. “You can see clearly,” said Aramis, “it’s better to wait for them.”
The oars dropped from the hands of the sailors, and the bark, ceasing to make way, rocked motionless upon the summits of the waves. Night came on, but still the ship drew nearer. It might be imagined it redoubled its speed with darkness. From time to time, as a vulture rears its head out of its nest, the formidable Greek fire darted from its sides, and cast its flame upon the ocean like an incandescent snowfall. At last it came within musket-shot. All the men were on deck, arms in hand; the cannoniers were at their guns, the matches burning. It might be thought they were about to board a frigate and to fight a crew superior in number to their own, not to attempt the capture of a canoe manned by four people.
The oars fell from the sailors' hands, and the ship, coming to a stop, rocked motionless on the tops of the waves. Night fell, but the ship continued to approach. It almost seemed like it increased its speed in the dark. Occasionally, like a vulture lifting its head from its nest, the fierce Greek fire shot from its sides, lighting up the ocean like a shower of glowing snowflakes. Eventually, it came within musket range. All the men were on deck, weapons ready; the gunners were at their cannons, the fuses burning. It would be easy to think they were about to board a frigate and fight a crew larger than their own, rather than trying to capture a canoe with just four people on it.
“Surrender!” cried the commander of the balancelle, with the aid of his speaking-trumpet.
“Surrender!” shouted the commander of the balancelle, using his megaphone.
The sailors looked at Aramis. Aramis made a sign with his head. Yves waved a white cloth at the end of a gaff. This was like striking their flag. The pursuer came on like a race-horse. It launched a fresh Greek fire, which fell within twenty paces of the little canoe, and threw a light upon them as white as sunshine.
The sailors glanced at Aramis. Aramis nodded. Yves waved a white cloth from the end of a gaff. It was like lowering their flag. The pursuer advanced like a racehorse. It shot off another blast of Greek fire, which landed about twenty paces from the small canoe, illuminating them with a brightness as intense as sunlight.
“At the first sign of resistance,” cried the commander of the balancelle, “fire!” The soldiers brought their muskets to the present.
“At the first sign of resistance,” shouted the commander of the balancelle, “fire!” The soldiers raised their muskets.
“Did we not say we surrendered?” said Yves.
“Didn't we say we surrendered?” Yves said.
“Alive, alive, captain!” cried one excited soldier, “they must be taken alive.”
“Alive, alive, captain!” shouted one excited soldier, “they need to be taken alive.”
“Well, yes—living,” said the captain. Then turning towards the Bretons, “Your lives are safe, my friends!” cried he, “all but the Chevalier d’Herblay.”
“Well, yes—living,” said the captain. Then, turning towards the Bretons, he exclaimed, “Your lives are safe, my friends! All except for the Chevalier d’Herblay.”
Aramis stared imperceptibly. For an instant his eye was fixed upon the depths of the ocean, illumined by the last flashes of the Greek fire, which ran along the sides of the waves, played on the crests like plumes, and rendered still darker and more terrible the gulfs they covered.
Aramis gazed quietly. For a moment, his eyes were locked on the depths of the ocean, lit by the final bursts of Greek fire, which flowed along the waves, danced on the crests like feathers, and made the dark, scary depths even more intense.
“Do you hear, monseigneur?” said the sailors.
“Do you hear, sir?” said the sailors.
“Yes.”
"Yeah."
“What are your orders?”
"What do you want me to do?"
“Accept!”
"Agree!"
“But you, monseigneur?”
"But you, sir?"
Aramis leaned still more forward, and dipped the ends of his long white fingers in the green limpid waters of the sea, to which he turned with smiles as to a friend.
Aramis leaned even further forward and dipped the tips of his long white fingers into the clear green waters of the sea, which he regarded with smiles as if it were a friend.
“Accept!” repeated he.
“Accept!” he repeated.
“We accept,” repeated the sailors; “but what security have we?”
“We agree,” the sailors repeated, “but what guarantee do we have?”
“The word of a gentleman,” said the officer. “By my rank and by my name I swear that all except M. le Chevalier d’Herblay shall have their lives spared. I am lieutenant of the king’s frigate the ‘Pomona,’ and my name is Louis Constant de Pressigny.”
“The word of a gentleman,” said the officer. “By my rank and name, I swear that everyone except M. le Chevalier d’Herblay will have their lives spared. I’m the lieutenant of the king’s frigate the ‘Pomona,’ and my name is Louis Constant de Pressigny.”
With a rapid gesture, Aramis—already bent over the side of the bark towards the sea—drew himself up, and with a flashing eye, and a smile upon his lips, “Throw out the ladder, messieurs,” said he, as if the command had belonged to him. He was obeyed. When Aramis, seizing the rope ladder, walked straight up to the commander, with a firm step, looked at him earnestly, made a sign to him with his hand, a mysterious and unknown sign at sight of which the officer turned pale, trembled, and bowed his head, the sailors were profoundly astonished. Without a word Aramis then raised his hand to the eyes of the commander and showed him the collet of a ring he wore on the ring-finger of his left hand. And while making this sign Aramis, draped in cold and haughty majesty, had the air of an emperor giving his hand to be kissed. The commandant, who for a moment had raised his head, bowed a second time with marks of the most profound respect. Then stretching his hand out, in his turn, towards the poop, that is to say, towards his own cabin, he drew back to allow Aramis to go first. The three Bretons, who had come on board after their bishop, looked at each other, stupefied. The crew were awed to silence. Five minutes after, the commander called the second lieutenant, who returned immediately, ordering the head to be put towards Corunna. Whilst this order was being executed, Aramis reappeared upon the deck, and took a seat near the bastingage. Night had fallen; the moon had not yet risen, yet Aramis looked incessantly towards Belle-Isle. Yves then approached the captain, who had returned to take his post in the stern, and said, in a low and humble voice, “What course are we to follow, captain?”
With a quick motion, Aramis—already leaning over the side of the boat towards the sea—pulled himself up, and with a gleam in his eye and a smile on his lips, said, “Lower the ladder, gentlemen,” as if the order had been his to give. They complied. When Aramis grabbed the rope ladder and walked straight up to the commander with a steady step, looked him in the eye, and made a hand gesture, a mysterious and unfamiliar sign that made the officer pale, tremble, and bow his head, the sailors were left utterly shocked. Without saying a word, Aramis then raised his hand to the commander's eyes and showed him the setting of a ring he wore on the ring finger of his left hand. While doing this, Aramis, wrapped in cold and imposing majesty, had the demeanor of an emperor offering his hand to be kissed. The commandant, who had briefly lifted his head, bowed again, showing deep respect. Then, stretching his hand towards the poop deck—that is, toward his own cabin—he stepped aside to let Aramis go first. The three Bretons who had come on board after their bishop exchanged bewildered glances. The crew fell silent in awe. Five minutes later, the commander summoned the second lieutenant, who promptly returned, ordering the ship to head toward Corunna. As this order was being carried out, Aramis appeared back on deck and took a seat near the bastingage. Night had fallen; the moon hadn’t risen yet, but Aramis kept looking toward Belle-Isle. Yves then approached the captain, who had returned to his position at the stern, and asked in a low, humble voice, “What course are we to follow, captain?”
“We take what course monseigneur pleases,” replied the officer.
“We'll follow whatever path you choose, sir,” replied the officer.
Aramis passed the night leaning upon the bastingage. Yves, on approaching him next morning, remarked that “the night must have been a very damp one, for the wood on which the bishop’s head had rested was soaked with dew.” Who knows?—that dew was, it may be, the first tears that had ever fallen from the eyes of Aramis!
Aramis spent the night leaning against the bastingage. When Yves came over to him the next morning, he commented, “It must have been a really damp night because the wood where the bishop's head rested is soaked with dew.” Who knows?—that dew might just be the first tears that ever came from Aramis’s eyes!
What epitaph would have been worth that, good Porthos?
What kind of epitaph would be worth that, good Porthos?
Chapter LII. M. de Gesvres’s Round.
D’Artagnan was little used to resistance like that he had just experienced. He returned, profoundly irritated, to Nantes. Irritation, with this vigorous man, usually vented itself in impetuous attack, which few people, hitherto, were they king, were they giants, had been able to resist. Trembling with rage, he went straight to the castle, and asked an audience with the king. It might be about seven o’clock in the morning, and, since his arrival at Nantes, the king had been an early riser. But on arriving at the corridor with which we are acquainted, D’Artagnan found M. de Gesvres, who stopped him politely, telling him not to speak too loud and disturb the king. “Is the king asleep?” said D’Artagnan. “Well, I will let him sleep. But about what o’clock do you suppose he will rise?”
D’Artagnan wasn't used to this kind of resistance that he had just faced. He returned to Nantes, deeply frustrated. For someone as energetic as him, frustration usually turned into a rash attack, which few—whether they were kings or giants—had managed to withstand. Shaking with anger, he headed straight to the castle to request a meeting with the king. It was around seven in the morning, and the king had been an early riser since D’Artagnan arrived in Nantes. However, when he got to the familiar corridor, D’Artagnan encountered M. de Gesvres, who politely stopped him and warned him not to speak too loudly and wake the king. “Is the king asleep?” D’Artagnan asked. “Well, I’ll let him sleep. But what time do you think he’ll wake up?”
“Oh! in about two hours; his majesty has been up all night.”
“Oh! in about two hours; the king has been up all night.”
D’Artagnan took his hat again, bowed to M. de Gesvres, and returned to his own apartments. He came back at half-past nine, and was told that the king was at breakfast. “That will just suit me,” said D’Artagnan. “I will talk to the king while he is eating.”
D’Artagnan grabbed his hat again, nodded to M. de Gesvres, and went back to his room. He returned at nine-thirty and was informed that the king was having breakfast. “That works perfectly for me,” said D’Artagnan. “I’ll speak to the king while he eats.”
M. de Brienne reminded D’Artagnan that the king would not see any one at meal-time.
M. de Brienne reminded D’Artagnan that the king wouldn’t see anyone during mealtime.
“But,” said D’Artagnan, looking askant at Brienne, “you do not know, perhaps, monsieur, that I have the privilege of entree anywhere—and at any hour.”
“But,” said D’Artagnan, glancing at Brienne, “you might not know, sir, that I have the privilege of entree anywhere—and at any hour.”
Brienne took the captain’s hand kindly, and said, “Not at Nantes, dear Monsieur d’Artagnan. The king, in this journey, has changed everything.”
Brienne took the captain’s hand gently and said, “Not at Nantes, dear Monsieur d’Artagnan. The king has changed everything on this journey.”
D’Artagnan, a little softened, asked about what o’clock the king would have finished his breakfast.
D’Artagnan, feeling a bit more relaxed, asked what time the king would finish his breakfast.
“We don’t know.”
“We don’t know.”
“Eh?—don’t know! What does that mean? You don’t know how much time the king devotes to eating? It is generally an hour; and, if we admit that the air of the Loire gives an additional appetite, we will extend it to an hour and a half; that is enough, I think. I will wait where I am.”
“Eh?—don’t know! What does that mean? You really don’t know how much time the king spends eating? It’s usually about an hour; and if we consider that the air of the Loire gives you a bigger appetite, we can stretch it to an hour and a half; that should be enough, I think. I’ll stay put right here.”
“Oh! dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, the order of the day is not to allow any person to remain in this corridor; I am on guard for that particular purpose.”
“Oh! dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, the rule for today is to not let anyone stay in this hallway; I am here to enforce that.”
D’Artagnan felt his anger mounting to his brain a second time. He went out quickly, for fear of complicating the affair by a display of premature ill-humor. As soon as he was out he began to reflect. “The king,” said he, “will not receive me, that is evident. The young man is angry; he is afraid, beforehand, of the words that I may speak to him. Yes; but in the meantime Belle-Isle is besieged, and my two friends by now probably taken or killed. Poor Porthos! As to Master Aramis, he is always full of resources, and I am easy on his account. But, no, no; Porthos is not yet an invalid, nor is Aramis in his dotage. The one with his arm, the other with his imagination, will find work for his majesty’s soldiers. Who knows if these brave men may not get up for the edification of his most Christian majesty a little bastion of Saint-Gervais! I don’t despair of it. They have cannon and a garrison. And yet,” continued D’Artagnan, “I don’t know whether it would not be better to stop the combat. For myself alone I will not put up with either surly looks or insults from the king; but for my friends I must put up with everything. Shall I go to M. Colbert? Now, there is a man I must acquire the habit of terrifying. I will go to M. Colbert.” And D’Artagnan set forward bravely to find M. Colbert, but was informed that he was working with the king, at the castle of Nantes. “Good!” cried he, “the times have come again in which I measured my steps from De Treville to the cardinal, from the cardinal to the queen, from the queen to Louis XIII. Truly is it said that men, in growing old, become children again!—To the castle, then!” He returned thither. M. de Lyonne was coming out. He gave D’Artagnan both hands, but told him that the king had been busy all the preceding evening and all night, and that orders had been given that no one should be admitted. “Not even the captain who takes the order?” cried D’Artagnan. “I think that is rather too strong.”
D’Artagnan felt his anger rising again. He quickly stepped outside, worried that showing his irritation too soon would make things worse. Once outside, he started to think. “It’s clear the king won’t see me. The young man is upset; he’s already afraid of what I might say. But in the meantime, Belle-Isle is under siege, and my two friends are probably captured or killed by now. Poor Porthos! As for Master Aramis, he always knows how to handle things, so I’m not too worried about him. But no, Porthos isn’t out of the game yet, and Aramis isn’t past his prime. One with his strength and the other with his clever ideas will find a way to keep the king’s soldiers busy. Who knows, these brave men might even set up a little bastion of Saint-Gervais for the benefit of his most Christian majesty! I haven’t lost hope. They have cannons and a garrison. Still,” D’Artagnan continued, “I’m not sure if it wouldn’t be better to call off the fight. I won’t put up with the king’s sour looks or insults for myself, but for my friends, I have to endure everything. Should I go to M. Colbert? Now, there’s a guy I need to get the hang of intimidating. I’ll go to M. Colbert.” And D’Artagnan bravely made his way to find M. Colbert, only to be told that he was working with the king at the castle of Nantes. “Good!” he exclaimed, “it’s like the old days when I’d go from De Treville to the cardinal, from the cardinal to the queen, and from the queen to Louis XIII. It’s true what they say: as men age, they become like children again!—To the castle, then!” He headed back there. M. de Lyonne was coming out. He shook D’Artagnan’s hands warmly but informed him that the king had been busy all night and that orders were in place for no one to be admitted. “Not even the captain who delivers the orders?” D’Artagnan exclaimed. “I think that’s a bit much.”
“Not even he,” said M. de Lyonne.
“Not even he,” said Mr. de Lyonne.
“Since that is the case,” replied D’Artagnan, wounded to the heart; “since the captain of the musketeers, who has always entered the king’s chamber, is no longer allowed to enter it, his cabinet, or his salle-a-manger, either the king is dead, or his captain is in disgrace. Do me the favor, then, M. de Lyonne, who are in favor, to return and tell the king, plainly, I send him my resignation.”
“Since that's the situation,” replied D’Artagnan, hurt to the core; “since the captain of the musketeers, who has always been allowed in the king's chamber, can no longer enter there, his office, or his dining room, either the king is dead, or his captain is in trouble. So please, M. de Lyonne, as someone who is in good standing, go back and tell the king, directly, that I’m resigning.”
“D’Artagnan, beware of what you are doing!”
“D’Artagnan, be careful with what you’re doing!”
“For friendship’s sake, go!” and he pushed him gently towards the cabinet.
“For the sake of friendship, just go!” he said, giving him a gentle nudge towards the cabinet.
“Well, I will go,” said Lyonne.
“Alright, I’m off,” said Lyonne.
D’Artagnan waited, walking about the corridor in no enviable mood. Lyonne returned.
D’Artagnan paced the corridor, feeling quite uneasy. Lyonne came back.
“Well, what did the king say?” exclaimed D’Artagnan.
“Well, what did the king say?” D’Artagnan exclaimed.
“He simply answered, ‘’Tis well,’” replied Lyonne.
“He simply answered, ‘It’s all good,’” replied Lyonne.
“That it was well!” said the captain, with an explosion. “That is to say, that he accepts it? Good! Now, then, I am free! I am only a plain citizen, M. de Lyonne. I have the pleasure of bidding you good-bye! Farewell, castle, corridor, ante-chamber! a bourgeois, about to breathe at liberty, takes his farewell of you.”
“That was great!” said the captain, with excitement. “So he's on board? Awesome! Now I’m free! I’m just an ordinary citizen, M. de Lyonne. I’m happy to say goodbye! Goodbye, castle, hallway, waiting room! A regular guy, about to enjoy his freedom, says farewell to you.”
And without waiting longer, the captain sprang from the terrace down the staircase, where he had picked up the fragments of Gourville’s letter. Five minutes after, he was at the hostelry, where, according to the custom of all great officers who have lodgings at the castle, he had taken what was called his city-chamber. But when he arrived there, instead of throwing off his sword and cloak, he took his pistols, put his money into a large leather purse, sent for his horses from the castle-stables, and gave orders that would ensure their reaching Vannes during the night. Everything went on according to his wishes. At eight o’clock in the evening, he was putting his foot in the stirrup, when M. de Gesvres appeared, at the head of twelve guards, in front of the hostelry. D’Artagnan saw all from the corner of his eye; he could not fail seeing thirteen men and thirteen horses. But he feigned not to observe anything, and was about to put his horse in motion. Gesvres rode up to him. “Monsieur d’Artagnan!” said he, aloud.
And without waiting any longer, the captain jumped off the terrace and ran down the staircase, where he had picked up the pieces of Gourville’s letter. Five minutes later, he arrived at the inn, where, like all high-ranking officers staying at the castle, he had taken what was known as his city room. But when he got there, instead of taking off his sword and cloak, he grabbed his pistols, put his money into a big leather purse, called for his horses from the castle stables, and gave orders to ensure they would reach Vannes that night. Everything went according to plan. By eight o’clock in the evening, he was getting ready to mount his horse when M. de Gesvres showed up, leading twelve guards, right in front of the inn. D’Artagnan noticed everything out of the corner of his eye; he couldn’t miss seeing thirteen men and thirteen horses. But he pretended not to notice anything and was about to set his horse in motion. Gesvres rode up to him. “Monsieur d’Artagnan!” he called out.
“Ah, Monsieur de Gesvres! good evening!”
“Ah, Mr. de Gesvres! Good evening!”
“One would say you were getting on horseback.”
“One might say you were getting on a horse.”
“More than that,—I am mounted,—as you see.”
“More than that, I’m on horseback, as you can see.”
“It is fortunate I have met with you.”
“It’s great that I met you.”
“Were you looking for me, then?”
“Were you trying to find me, then?”
“Mon Dieu! yes.”
“Oh my God! Yes.”
“On the part of the king, I will wager?”
“On behalf of the king, I’ll bet?”
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“As I, three days ago, went in search of M. Fouquet?”
“As I went in search of M. Fouquet three days ago?”
“Oh!”
“Oh!”
“Nonsense! It is of no use being over-delicate with me; that is all labor lost. Tell me at once you are come to arrest me.”
“Nonsense! There's no point in being overly polite with me; that's just a waste of effort. Just tell me right away that you've come to arrest me.”
“To arrest you?—Good heavens! no.”
"To arrest you?—Oh my gosh! No."
“Why do you come to accost me with twelve horsemen at your heels, then?”
“Why do you come to confront me with twelve horsemen following you, then?”
“I am making my round.”
“I’m making my rounds.”
“That isn’t bad! And so you pick me up in your round, eh?”
"That’s not bad! So you’re picking me up in your round, huh?"
“I don’t pick you up; I meet with you, and I beg you to come with me.”
“I don’t just pick you up; I meet you and ask you to come with me.”
“Where?”
“Where at?”
“To the king.”
"To the king."
“Good!” said D’Artagnan, with a bantering air; “the king is disengaged.”
“Good!” said D’Artagnan, jokingly; “the king is free.”
“For Heaven’s sake, captain,” said M. de Gesvres, in a low voice to the musketeer, “do not compromise yourself! these men hear you.”
“For heaven’s sake, captain,” M. de Gesvres said quietly to the musketeer, “don’t put yourself at risk! These guys can hear you.”
D’Artagnan laughed aloud, and replied:
D’Artagnan laughed and responded:
“March! People who are arrested are placed between the six first guards and the six last.”
“March! People who are arrested are put between the first six guards and the last six.”
“But as I am not arresting you,” said M. de Gesvres, “you will march behind, with me, if you please.”
“But since I’m not detaining you,” said M. de Gesvres, “you can walk behind me, if you’d like.”
“Well,” said D’Artagnan, “that is very polite, duke, and you are right in being so; for if ever I had had to make my rounds near your chambre-de-ville, I should have been courteous to you, I assure you, on the word of a gentleman! Now, one favor more; what does the king want with me?”
“Well,” said D’Artagnan, “that’s very kind of you, Duke, and you’re right to be so; because if I had ever needed to be around your chambre-de-ville, I would have been courteous to you, I promise you, on my word as a gentleman! Now, one more favor; what does the king want with me?”
“Oh, the king is furious!”
“Oh, the king is mad!”
“Very well! the king, who has thought it worth while to be angry, may take the trouble to grow calm again; that is all. I shan’t die of that, I will swear.”
“Alright! The king, who has decided it's worth getting angry, can take the time to calm down again; that's all. I won’t die from that, I promise.”
“No, but—”
“No, but—”
“But—I shall be sent to keep company with unfortunate M. Fouquet. Mordioux! That is a gallant man, a worthy man! We shall live very sociably together, I will be sworn.”
“But—I’ll be sent to hang out with the unfortunate M. Fouquet. Mordioux! That’s a brave man, a decent man! We’ll get along just fine, I promise.”
“Here we are at our place of destination,” said the duke. “Captain, for Heaven’s sake be calm with the king!”
“Here we are at our destination,” said the duke. “Captain, for God's sake, be calm with the king!”
“Ah! ah! you are playing the brave man with me, duke!” said D’Artagnan, throwing one of his defiant glances over Gesvres. “I have been told that you are ambitious of uniting your guards with my musketeers. This strikes me as a splendid opportunity.”
“Ah! ah! you’re trying to act tough with me, duke!” said D’Artagnan, casting one of his challenging looks at Gesvres. “I’ve heard you want to merge your guards with my musketeers. That sounds like a fantastic opportunity.”
“I will take exceeding good care not to avail myself of it, captain.”
“I will make sure not to take advantage of it, captain.”
“And why not, pray?”
“And why not, right?”
“Oh, for many reasons—in the first place, for this: if I were to succeed you in the musketeers after having arrested you—”
“Oh, for many reasons—firstly, this: if I were to take your place in the musketeers after having arrested you—”
“Ah! then you admit you have arrested me?”
“Ah! So you’re admitting that you’ve arrested me?”
“No, I don’t.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Say met me, then. So, you were saying if you were to succeed me after having arrested me?”
“Say you met me, then. So, you were saying if you succeeded me after arresting me?”
“Your musketeers, at the first exercise with ball cartridges, would fire my way, by mistake.”
“Your musketeers, during their first practice with ball cartridges, would accidentally shoot my way.”
“Oh, as to that I won’t say; for the fellows do love me a little.”
“Oh, I won’t say anything about that; the guys really do care about me a bit.”
Gesvres made D’Artagnan pass in first, and took him straight to the cabinet where Louis was waiting for his captain of the musketeers, and placed himself behind his colleague in the ante-chamber. The king could be heard distinctly, speaking aloud to Colbert in the same cabinet where Colbert might have heard, a few days before, the king speaking aloud with M. d’Artagnan. The guards remained as a mounted picket before the principal gate; and the report was quickly spread throughout the city that monsieur le capitaine of the musketeers had been arrested by order of the king. Then these men were seen to be in motion, and as in the good old times of Louis XIII. and M. de Treville, groups were formed, and staircases were filled; vague murmurs, issuing from the court below, came rolling to the upper stories, like the distant moaning of the waves. M. de Gesvres became uneasy. He looked at his guards, who, after being interrogated by the musketeers who had just got among their ranks, began to shun them with a manifestation of innocence. D’Artagnan was certainly less disturbed by all this than M. de Gesvres, the captain of the guards. As soon as he entered, he seated himself on the ledge of a window whence with his eagle glance he saw all that was going on without the least emotion. No step of the progressive fermentation which had shown itself at the report of his arrest escaped him. He foresaw the very moment the explosion would take place; and we know that his previsions were in general correct.
Gesvres let D’Artagnan go in first and took him straight to the room where Louis was waiting for his musketeer captain. He positioned himself behind his colleague in the outer chamber. The king could be clearly heard talking to Colbert in the same room where Colbert might have heard the king just days before speaking with D’Artagnan. The guards remained stationed at the main gate, and news quickly spread through the city that the captain of the musketeers had been arrested by the king’s orders. Then, people started to move around, and just like in the good old days of Louis XIII and M. de Treville, groups formed, and the stairs were crowded. Vague murmurs from the courtyard below rolled up to the higher floors like distant waves. M. de Gesvres grew anxious. He looked at his guards, who, after being questioned by the musketeers who had just joined them, began to avoid them while trying to appear innocent. D’Artagnan, however, was much less unsettled by all this than M. de Gesvres, the captain of the guards. As soon as he entered, he sat on the windowsill, where he could observe everything going on outside without a hint of emotion. He didn’t miss any signs of the brewing unrest at the news of his arrest. He anticipated exactly when the situation would explode; and we know that his predictions were usually spot on.
“It would be very whimsical,” thought he, “if, this evening, my praetorians should make me king of France. How I should laugh!”
“It would be so funny,” he thought, “if my guards made me king of France this evening. I would just laugh!”
But, at the height, all was stopped. Guards, musketeers, officers, soldiers, murmurs, uneasiness, dispersed, vanished, died away; there was an end of menace and sedition. One word had calmed the waves. The king had desired Brienne to say, “Hush, messieurs! you disturb the king.”
But at that moment, everything came to a halt. Guards, musketeers, officers, soldiers—murmurs, unease—spread out, disappeared, and faded away; the threats and unrest ended. One word had calmed the turmoil. The king had asked Brienne to say, “Quiet, gentlemen! You're disturbing the king.”
D’Artagnan sighed. “All is over!” said he; “the musketeers of the present day are not those of his majesty Louis XIII. All is over!”
D’Artagnan sighed. “It’s all over!” he said; “the musketeers today are not the same as those under his majesty Louis XIII. It’s all over!”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan, you are wanted in the ante-chamber of the king,” proclaimed an usher.
“Monsieur d’Artagnan, you’re needed in the king’s waiting room,” announced an usher.
Chapter LIII. King Louis XIV.
The king was seated in his cabinet, with his back turned towards the door of entrance. In front of him was a mirror, in which, while turning over his papers, he could see at a glance those who came in. He did not take any notice of the entrance of D’Artagnan, but spread above his letters and plans the large silk cloth he used to conceal his secrets from the importunate. D’Artagnan understood this by-play, and kept in the background; so that at the end of a minute the king, who heard nothing, and saw nothing save from the corner of his eye, was obliged to cry, “Is not M. d’Artagnan there?”
The king was sitting in his office, with his back to the entrance door. In front of him was a mirror, which allowed him to see anyone who walked in while he sorted through his papers. He didn’t acknowledge D’Artagnan’s arrival but instead spread a large silk cloth over his letters and plans to hide his secrets from prying eyes. D’Artagnan picked up on this act and stayed in the background; after a minute, the king, who hadn’t heard or seen anything except out of the corner of his eye, had to call out, “Is M. d’Artagnan not here?”
“I am here, sire,” replied the musketeer, advancing.
“I’m here, sir,” replied the musketeer, stepping forward.
“Well, monsieur,” said the king, fixing his pellucid eyes on D’Artagnan, “what have you to say to me?”
“Well, sir,” said the king, fixing his clear eyes on D’Artagnan, “what do you want to tell me?”
“I, sire!” replied the latter, who watched the first blow of his adversary to make a good retort; “I have nothing to say to your majesty, unless it be that you have caused me to be arrested, and here I am.”
“I, Your Majesty!” replied the other, who was waiting for the first strike from his opponent to come up with a sharp response; “I have nothing to say to you, except that you had me arrested, and now here I am.”
The king was going to reply that he had not had D’Artagnan arrested, but any such sentence appeared too much like an excuse, and he was silent. D’Artagnan likewise preserved an obstinate silence.
The king was about to say that he hadn't had D’Artagnan arrested, but that response seemed too much like an excuse, so he stayed quiet. D’Artagnan also kept an stubborn silence.
“Monsieur,” at length resumed the king, “what did I charge you to go and do at Belle-Isle? Tell me, if you please.”
“Monsieur,” the king finally said, “what did I ask you to do at Belle-Isle? Please tell me.”
The king while uttering these words looked intently at his captain. Here D’Artagnan was fortunate; the king seemed to place the game in his hands.
The king, while saying this, stared intently at his captain. D’Artagnan was in luck; it seemed like the king was putting the game in his hands.
“I believe,” replied he, “that your majesty does me the honor to ask what I went to Belle-Isle to accomplish?”
“I believe,” he replied, “that your majesty is asking what I went to Belle-Isle to achieve?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
"Yes, sir."
“Well! sire, I know nothing about it; it is not of me that question should be asked, but of that infinite number of officers of all kinds, to whom have been given innumerable orders of all kinds, whilst to me, head of the expedition, nothing precise was said or stated in any form whatever.”
“Well! Sir, I don’t know anything about it; the questions shouldn’t be directed at me, but rather at the countless officers of all kinds who have received numerous orders. As the head of the expedition, nothing specific was communicated to me at all.”
The king was hurt: he showed it by his reply. “Monsieur,” said he, “orders have only been given to such as were judged faithful.”
The king was hurt: he showed it in his response. “Sir,” he said, “orders have only been given to those who were deemed trustworthy.”
“And, therefore, I have been astonished, sire,” retorted the musketeer, “that a captain like myself, who ranks with a marechal of France, should have found himself under the orders of five or six lieutenants or majors, good to make spies of, possibly, but not at all fit to conduct a warlike expedition. It was upon this subject I came to demand an explanation of your majesty, when I found the door closed against me, which, the final insult offered to a brave man, has led me to quit your majesty’s service.”
“And so, I’ve been surprised, sir,” the musketeer shot back, “that a captain like me, who ranks with a marshal of France, has ended up taking orders from five or six lieutenants or majors—useful for spying, maybe, but definitely not capable of leading a military mission. It was about this that I came to ask for your majesty’s explanation when I found the door shut in my face, which, as the final insult to a brave man, has made me leave your majesty’s service.”
“Monsieur,” replied the king, “you still believe that you are living in an age when kings were, as you complain of having been, under the orders and at the discretion of their inferiors. You seem to forget that a king owes an account of his actions to none but God.”
“Monsieur,” replied the king, “you still think you're living in a time when kings were, as you say you have been, at the mercy of those below them. You seem to forget that a king has to answer to no one for his actions but God.”
“I forget nothing, sire,” said the musketeer, wounded by this lesson. “Besides, I do not see in what an honest man, when he asks of his king how he has ill-served him, offends him.”
“I forget nothing, sir,” said the musketeer, hurt by this lesson. “Besides, I don’t see how an honest man, when he asks his king how he has let him down, is offending him.”
“You have ill-served me, monsieur, by siding with my enemies against me.”
"You've really let me down, sir, by choosing to side with my enemies."
“Who are your enemies, sire?”
“Who are your enemies, king?”
“The men I sent you to fight.”
“The guys I sent you to fight.”
“Two men the enemies of the whole of your majesty’s army! That is incredible.”
“Two men are the enemies of your majesty’s entire army! That’s unbelievable.”
“You have no power to judge of my will.”
"You have no power to judge my intentions."
“But I have to judge of my own friendships, sire.”
"But I have to evaluate my own friendships, sir."
“He who serves his friends does not serve his master.”
“He who helps his friends isn’t helping his boss.”
“I so well understand this, sire, that I have respectfully offered your majesty my resignation.”
“I understand this very well, sir, which is why I have respectfully submitted my resignation to your majesty.”
“And I have accepted it, monsieur,” said the king. “Before being separated from you I was willing to prove to you that I know how to keep my word.”
“And I have accepted it, sir,” said the king. “Before being apart from you, I was ready to show you that I know how to keep my promises.”
“Your majesty has kept more than your word, for your majesty has had me arrested,” said D’Artagnan, with his cold, bantering air; “you did not promise me that, sire.”
“Your majesty has done more than you promised, because you had me arrested,” said D’Artagnan, with his cool, mocking demeanor; “you didn’t guarantee me that, sire.”
The king would not condescend to perceive the pleasantry, and continued, seriously, “You see, monsieur, to what grave steps your disobedience forces me.”
The king wouldn’t lower himself to acknowledge the joke and continued seriously, “You see, sir, what serious actions your disobedience forces me to take.”
“My disobedience!” cried D’Artagnan, red with anger.
“My disobedience!” shouted D’Artagnan, his face flushed with anger.
“It is the mildest term that I can find,” pursued the king. “My idea was to take and punish rebels; was I bound to inquire whether these rebels were your friends or not?”
“It’s the gentlest way I can put it,” the king continued. “I intended to arrest and punish the rebels; was I supposed to check if these rebels were your friends or not?”
“But I was,” replied D’Artagnan. “It was a cruelty on your majesty’s part to send me to capture my friends and lead them to your gibbets.”
“But I was,” replied D’Artagnan. “It was cruel of you, Your Majesty, to send me to capture my friends and bring them to your gallows.”
“It was a trial I had to make, monsieur, of pretended servants, who eat my bread and should defend my person. The trial has succeeded ill, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“It was a test I had to conduct, sir, with fake servants who eat my food and should protect me. The test hasn’t gone well, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“For one bad servant your majesty loses,” said the musketeer, with bitterness, “there are ten who, on that same day, go through a like ordeal. Listen to me, sire; I am not accustomed to that service. Mine is a rebel sword when I am required to do ill. It was ill to send me in pursuit of two men whose lives M. Fouquet, your majesty’s preserver, implored you to save. Still further, these men were my friends. They did not attack your majesty, they succumbed to your blind anger. Besides, why were they not allowed to escape? What crime had they committed? I admit you may contest with me the right of judging their conduct. But why suspect me before the action? Why surround me with spies? Why disgrace me before the army? Why me, in whom till now you showed the most entire confidence—who for thirty years have been attached to your person, and have given you a thousand proofs of my devotion—for it must be said, now that I am accused—why reduce me to see three thousand of the king’s soldiers march in battle against two men?”
“For one bad servant, Your Majesty loses,” said the musketeer bitterly, “but there are ten who, on that same day, go through a similar ordeal. Listen to me, sire; I'm not used to that kind of service. My sword is turned against rebellion when I'm forced to do something wrong. It was wrong to send me after two men whose lives M. Fouquet, your Majesty’s protector, begged you to save. Furthermore, those men were my friends. They didn’t attack you; they fell victim to your blind anger. Besides, why weren’t they allowed to escape? What crime had they committed? I admit you might argue about judging their actions. But why suspect me before anything even happened? Why surround me with spies? Why disgrace me in front of the army? Why me, who until now you have trusted completely—who for thirty years have been loyal to you and have shown you countless proofs of my devotion—why make me watch three thousand of the king’s soldiers march into battle against two men?”
“One would say you have forgotten what these men have done to me!” said the king, in a hollow voice, “and that it was no merit of theirs I was not lost.”
“One might think you’ve forgotten what these men have done to me!” said the king, in a hollow voice, “and that it was not because of their merit that I wasn’t lost.”
“Sire, one would imagine you forget that I was there.”
“Sire, one might think you’ve forgotten that I was there.”
“Enough, Monsieur d’Artagnan, enough of these dominating interests which arise to keep the sun itself from my interests. I am founding a state in which there shall be but one master, as I promised you; the moment is at hand for me to keep my promise. You wish to be, according to your tastes or private friendships, free to destroy my plans and save my enemies? I will thwart you or will drop you—seek a more compliant master. I know full well that another king would not conduct himself as I do, and would allow himself to be dominated by you, at the risk of sending you some day to keep company with M. Fouquet and the rest; but I have an excellent memory, and for me, services are sacred titles to gratitude, to impunity. You shall only have this lesson, Monsieur d’Artagnan, as the punishment of your want of discipline, and I will not imitate my predecessors in anger, not having imitated them in favor. And, then, other reasons make me act mildly towards you; in the first place, because you are a man of sense, a man of excellent sense, a man of heart, and that you will be a capital servant to him who shall have mastered you; secondly, because you will cease to have any motives for insubordination. Your friends are now destroyed or ruined by me. These supports on which your capricious mind instinctively relied I have caused to disappear. At this moment, my soldiers have taken or killed the rebels of Belle-Isle.”
“Enough, Monsieur d’Artagnan, enough of these overpowering interests that prevent the sun from shining on my own. I'm establishing a state where there will be just one ruler, just as I promised you; the time has come for me to fulfill that promise. Do you want to be free, according to your preferences or personal friendships, to sabotage my plans and save my enemies? I will either stop you or dismiss you—find a master who’s more agreeable. I know very well that another king wouldn’t handle things as I do and would let you influence him, possibly ending up like M. Fouquet and the others; but I have a great memory, and for me, favors are sacred obligations of loyalty and protection from consequences. This will be your only lesson, Monsieur d’Artagnan, as punishment for your lack of discipline, and I won’t repeat the anger of my predecessors, as I haven’t followed their favoritism either. Additionally, other reasons compel me to treat you leniently; first, because you are a sensible man, a very sensible man, a good-hearted man, and you will be a valuable servant to whoever manages to gain your loyalty; second, because you will have no more reasons to resist. Your allies are now either destroyed or ruined by my hand. I have made those supports, which your unpredictable nature relied on, vanish. Right now, my soldiers have captured or killed the rebels of Belle-Isle.”
D’Artagnan became pale. “Taken or killed!” cried he. “Oh! sire, if you thought what you tell, if you were sure you were telling me the truth, I should forget all that is just, all that is magnanimous in your words, to call you a barbarous king, and an unnatural man. But I pardon you these words,” said he, smiling with pride; “I pardon them to a young prince who does not know, who cannot comprehend what such men as M. d’Herblay, M. du Vallon, and myself are. Taken or killed! Ah! Ah! sire! tell me, if the news is true, how much has it cost you in men and money. We will then reckon if the game has been worth the stakes.”
D’Artagnan turned pale. “Captured or killed!” he exclaimed. “Oh! Your Majesty, if you actually believe what you're saying, if you’re convinced you’re telling me the truth, I would have to forget everything just and noble in your words to call you a cruel king and an unnatural man. But I excuse you for these words,” he said, smiling with pride; “I excuse them to a young prince who doesn’t know, who can’t understand what men like M. d’Herblay, M. du Vallon, and I are truly like. Captured or killed! Ah! Sire! Let me ask you, if the news is true, how much has it cost you in men and money? Then we can see if the game has been worth the stakes.”
As he spoke thus, the king went up to him in great anger, and said, “Monsieur d’Artagnan, your replies are those of a rebel! Tell me, if you please, who is king of France? Do you know any other?”
As he said this, the king approached him in a rage and said, “Monsieur d’Artagnan, your answers are those of a rebel! Tell me, if you please, who is the king of France? Do you know anyone else?”
“Sire,” replied the captain of the musketeers, coldly, “I very well remember that one morning at Vaux you addressed that question to many people who did not answer to it, whilst I, on my part, did answer to it. If I recognized my king on that day, when the thing was not easy, I think it would be useless to ask the question of me now, when your majesty and I are alone.”
“Sir,” replied the captain of the musketeers, coldly, “I clearly remember that one morning at Vaux you asked that question to many people who didn’t respond, while I did. If I recognized my king that day, when it wasn’t easy, I think it’s pointless to ask me that question now, when it’s just the two of us.”
At these words Louis cast down his eyes. It appeared to him that the shade of the unfortunate Philippe passed between D’Artagnan and himself, to evoke the remembrance of that terrible adventure. Almost at the same moment an officer entered and placed a dispatch in the hands of the king, who, in his turn, changed color, while reading it.
At these words, Louis looked down. It seemed to him that the spirit of the unfortunate Philippe moved between D’Artagnan and himself, bringing back memories of that awful adventure. Almost immediately, an officer walked in and handed a dispatch to the king, who, in turn, changed color as he read it.
“Monsieur,” said he, “what I learn here you would know later; it is better I should tell you, and that you should learn it from the mouth of your king. A battle has taken place at Belle-Isle.”
“Monsieur,” he said, “what I learn here you will find out later; it’s better that I tell you, and that you hear it from your king. A battle has happened at Belle-Isle.”
“Is it possible?” said D’Artagnan, with a calm air, though his heart was beating fast enough to choke him. “Well, sire?”
“Is it possible?” D’Artagnan asked, trying to stay calm, even though his heart was pounding hard enough to choke him. “Well, Your Majesty?”
“Well, monsieur—and I have lost a hundred and ten men.”
“Well, sir—and I have lost a hundred and ten men.”
A beam of joy and pride shone in the eyes of D’Artagnan. “And the rebels?” said he.
A look of joy and pride lit up D'Artagnan's eyes. "And the rebels?" he asked.
“The rebels have fled,” said the king.
“The rebels have run away,” said the king.
D’Artagnan could not restrain a cry of triumph. “Only,” added the king, “I have a fleet which closely blockades Belle-Isle, and I am certain not a bark can escape.”
D’Artagnan couldn’t hold back a shout of victory. “However,” the king added, “I have a fleet that’s tightly blockading Belle-Isle, and I’m sure not a single ship can get away.”
“So that,” said the musketeer, brought back to his dismal idea, “if these two gentlemen are taken—”
“So, if these two gentlemen are caught—” said the musketeer, returning to his grim thought.
“They will be hanged,” said the king, quietly.
“They're going to be hanged,” the king said quietly.
“And do they know it?” replied D’Artagnan, repressing his trembling.
“And do they know it?” replied D’Artagnan, trying to steady his shaking.
“They know it, because you must have told them yourself; and all the country knows it.”
“They know it because you must have told them yourself, and everyone in the country knows it.”
“Then, sire, they will never be taken alive, I will answer for that.”
“Then, sir, they will never be captured alive; I can guarantee that.”
“Ah!” said the king, negligently, and taking up his letter again. “Very well, they will be dead, then, Monsieur d’Artagnan, and that will come to the same thing, since I should only take them to have them hanged.”
“Ah!” said the king casually, picking up his letter again. “Very well, they will be dead then, Monsieur d’Artagnan, and that will be the same since I would only bring them in to have them hanged.”
D’Artagnan wiped the sweat which flowed from his brow.
D’Artagnan wiped the sweat off his forehead.
“I have told you,” pursued Louis XIV., “that I would one day be an affectionate, generous, and constant master. You are now the only man of former times worthy of my anger or my friendship. I will not spare you either sentiment, according to your conduct. Could you serve a king, Monsieur d’Artagnan, who should have a hundred kings, his equals, in the kingdom? Could I, tell me, do with such weak instruments the great things I meditate? Did you ever see an artist effect great works with an unworthy tool? Far from us, monsieur, the old leaven of feudal abuse! The Fronde, which threatened to ruin monarchy, has emancipated it. I am master at home, Captain d’Artagnan, and I shall have servants who, lacking, perhaps, your genius, will carry devotion and obedience to the verge of heroism. Of what consequence, I ask you, of what consequence is it that God has given no sense to arms and legs? It is to the head he has given genius, and the head, you know, the rest obey. I am the head.”
“I’ve told you,” continued Louis XIV, “that I would one day be a loving, generous, and loyal master. You’re now the only person from the past who deserves my anger or my friendship. I won’t hold back either feeling, depending on how you act. Could you serve a king, Monsieur d’Artagnan, who has a hundred other kings, his equals, in the realm? Tell me, could I accomplish the grand things I have in mind with such weak resources? Have you ever seen an artist create great works with a subpar tool? Let’s leave behind the old ways of feudal abuse! The Fronde, which almost brought down the monarchy, has freed it. I am in charge here, Captain d’Artagnan, and I will have servants who, while perhaps lacking your talent, will show devotion and obedience that approaches heroism. What does it matter, I ask you, what does it matter that God hasn’t given arms and legs any sense? He has given genius to the head, and the rest, as you know, follows its lead. I am the head.”
D’Artagnan started. Louis XIV. continued as if he had seen nothing, although this emotion had not by any means escaped him. “Now, let us conclude between us two the bargain I promised to make with you one day when you found me in a very strange predicament at Blois. Do me justice, monsieur, when you admit I do not make any one pay for the tears of shame that I then shed. Look around you; lofty heads have bowed. Bow yours, or choose such exile as will suit you. Perhaps, when reflecting upon it, you will find your king has a generous heart, who reckons sufficiently upon your loyalty to allow you to leave him dissatisfied, when you possess a great state secret. You are a brave man; I know you to be so. Why have you judged me prematurely? Judge me from this day forward, D’Artagnan, and be as severe as you please.”
D’Artagnan was taken aback. Louis XIV continued as if he hadn’t noticed, although this emotion had definitely not escaped him. “Now, let’s finalize the deal I promised to make with you that day when you found me in a very unusual situation at Blois. Be fair, monsieur, and admit that I don’t make anyone pay for the tears of shame I shed back then. Look around you; high-ranking individuals have bowed down. Bow your head, or choose an exile that suits you. Maybe, as you think it over, you’ll realize your king has a generous heart, one that trusts in your loyalty enough to let you leave feeling unsatisfied, even when you hold a significant state secret. You’re a brave man; I know that to be true. Why have you judged me too soon? Judge me from this day forward, D’Artagnan, and be as tough as you want.”
D’Artagnan remained bewildered, mute, undecided for the first time in his life. At last he had found an adversary worthy of him. This was no longer trick, it was calculation; no longer violence, but strength; no longer passion, but will; no longer boasting, but council. This young man who had brought down a Fouquet, and could do without a D’Artagnan, deranged the somewhat headstrong calculations of the musketeer.
D’Artagnan stood there confused, silent, and unsure for the first time in his life. Finally, he had found a rival who was his equal. It was no longer a game, but strategy; no longer brute force, but power; no longer just emotion, but determination; no longer bragging, but wisdom. This young man who had taken down a Fouquet and could manage without a D’Artagnan disrupted the somewhat reckless plans of the musketeer.
“Come, let us see what stops you?” said the king, kindly. “You have given in your resignation; shall I refuse to accept it? I admit that it may be hard for such an old captain to recover lost good-humor.”
“Come, let’s see what’s holding you back?” said the king, kindly. “You’ve handed in your resignation; should I refuse to accept it? I recognize that it might be tough for such an old captain to regain his lost good spirits.”
“Oh!” replied D’Artagnan, in a melancholy tone, “that is not my most serious care. I hesitate to take back my resignation because I am old in comparison with you, and have habits difficult to abandon. Henceforward, you must have courtiers who know how to amuse you—madmen who will get themselves killed to carry out what you call your great works. Great they will be, I feel—but, if by chance I should not think them so? I have seen war, sire, I have seen peace; I have served Richelieu and Mazarin; I have been scorched with your father, at the fire of Rochelle; riddled with sword-thrusts like a sieve, having grown a new skin ten times, as serpents do. After affronts and injustices, I have a command which was formerly something, because it gave the bearer the right of speaking as he liked to his king. But your captain of the musketeers will henceforward be an officer guarding the outer doors. Truly, sire, if that is to be my employment from this time, seize the opportunity of our being on good terms, to take it from me. Do not imagine that I bear malice; no, you have tamed me, as you say; but it must be confessed that in taming me you have lowered me; by bowing me you have convicted me of weakness. If you knew how well it suits me to carry my head high, and what a pitiful mien I shall have while scenting the dust of your carpets! Oh! sire, I regret sincerely, and you will regret as I do, the old days when the king of France saw in every vestibule those insolent gentlemen, lean, always swearing—cross-grained mastiffs, who could bite mortally in the hour of danger or of battle. These men were the best of courtiers to the hand which fed them—they would lick it; but for the hand that struck them, oh! the bite that followed! A little gold on the lace of their cloaks, a slender stomach in their hauts-de-chausses, a little sparkling of gray in their dry hair, and you will behold the handsome dukes and peers, the haughty marechaux of France. But why should I tell you all this? The king is master; he wills that I should make verses, he wills that I should polish the mosaics of his ante-chambers with satin shoes. Mordioux! that is difficult, but I have got over greater difficulties. I will do it. Why should I do it? Because I love money?—I have enough. Because I am ambitious?—my career is almost at an end. Because I love the court? No. I will remain here because I have been accustomed for thirty years to go and take the orderly word of the king, and to have said to me ‘Good evening, D’Artagnan,’ with a smile I did not beg for. That smile I will beg for! Are you content, sire?” And D’Artagnan bowed his silver head, upon which the smiling king placed his white hand with pride.
“Oh!” replied D’Artagnan, in a sad tone, “that’s not my biggest concern. I’m hesitant to take back my resignation because I’m older than you and have habits that are hard to change. From now on, you need courtiers who can entertain you—fools who will get themselves killed for what you call your great projects. They will be great, I can feel it—but what if I don’t find them great? I’ve seen war, Your Majesty; I’ve seen peace. I’ve served Richelieu and Mazarin; I’ve been burned alongside your father during the siege of Rochelle; I’ve been cut up like a sieve, growing new skin multiple times, just like a snake. After facing insults and injustices, I have a command that used to mean something, as it allowed the holder to speak freely to his king. But now, your captain of the musketeers will just be another officer guarding the outer doors. Truly, sire, if that’s going to be my role from now on, take this chance while we’re on good terms to relieve me of it. Don’t think I hold a grudge; no, you’ve tamed me, as you say; but let’s be honest, in taming me you’ve also diminished me; in bending me, you’ve shown my weakness. If you only knew how much it suits me to hold my head high, and how pitiful I’ll look while dusting your carpets! Oh! sire, I truly miss, and you will too, those old days when the king of France saw in every hallway those arrogant gentlemen, lean and always swearing—grumpy mastiffs who could deliver a fatal bite in times of danger or battle. These men were the best courtiers to the hand that fed them—they would lick it; but for the hand that struck them, oh! the bite that followed! A little gold on the lace of their cloaks, a slim waist in their hauts-de-chausses, a bit of gray in their dry hair, and you’d see the handsome dukes and peers, the proud marechaux of France. But why am I telling you all this? The king is the master; he wants me to write poetry, he wants me to clean the mosaics of his waiting rooms with satin shoes. Mordioux! that’s tough, but I’ve overcome bigger challenges. I will do it. Why should I do it? Because I love money?—I have enough. Because I’m ambitious?—my career is almost over. Because I love the court? No. I’ll stay here because I’ve been used to taking the king’s orders for thirty years and hearing ‘Good evening, D’Artagnan,’ with a smile I didn’t ask for. That smile I will ask for! Are you satisfied, sire?” And D’Artagnan bowed his silver head, upon which the smiling king proudly placed his white hand.
“Thanks, my old servant, my faithful friend,” said he. “As, reckoning from this day, I have no longer any enemies in France, it remains with me to send you to a foreign field to gather your marshal’s baton. Depend upon me for finding you an opportunity. In the meanwhile, eat of my very best bread, and sleep in absolute tranquillity.”
“Thanks, my old servant, my loyal friend,” he said. “Since, starting today, I have no more enemies in France, it’s up to me to send you to another country to earn your marshal’s baton. You can count on me to find you that opportunity. In the meantime, enjoy my finest bread and sleep in complete peace.”
“That is all kind and well!” said D’Artagnan, much agitated. “But those poor men at Belle-Isle? One of them, in particular—so good! so brave! so true!”
“That’s really nice and all!” said D’Artagnan, feeling very upset. “But what about those poor guys at Belle-Isle? One of them, especially—so good! So brave! So loyal!”
“Do you ask their pardon of me?”
“Are you asking for their forgiveness from me?”
“Upon my knees, sire!”
“Kneeling before you, sire!”
“Well! then, go and take it to them, if it be still in time. But do you answer for them?”
“Well! Then, go and take it to them, if it’s still on time. But do you guarantee they’ll accept it?”
“With my life, sire.”
“With my life, sir.”
“Go, then. To-morrow I set out for Paris. Return by that time, for I do not wish you to leave me in the future.”
“Go ahead. Tomorrow, I'm heading to Paris. Come back by then because I don’t want you to leave me in the future.”
“Be assured of that, sire,” said D’Artagnan, kissing the royal hand.
"Rest assured, my lord," said D'Artagnan, kissing the royal hand.
And with a heart swelling with joy, he rushed out of the castle on his way to Belle-Isle.
And with a heart full of joy, he hurried out of the castle on his way to Belle-Isle.
Chapter LIV. M. Fouquet’s Friends.
The king had returned to Paris, and with him D’Artagnan, who, in twenty-four hours, having made with greatest care all possible inquiries at Belle-Isle, succeeded in learning nothing of the secret so well kept by the heavy rock of Locmaria, which had fallen on the heroic Porthos. The captain of the musketeers only knew what those two valiant men—these two friends, whose defense he had so nobly taken up, whose lives he had so earnestly endeavored to save—aided by three faithful Bretons, had accomplished against a whole army. He had seen, spread on the neighboring heath, the human remains which had stained with clouted blood the scattered stones among the flowering broom. He learned also that a bark had been seen far out at sea, and that, like a bird of prey, a royal vessel had pursued, overtaken, and devoured the poor little bird that was flying with such palpitating wings. But there D’Artagnan’s certainties ended. The field of supposition was thrown open. Now, what could he conjecture? The vessel had not returned. It is true that a brisk wind had prevailed for three days; but the corvette was known to be a good sailer and solid in its timbers; it had no need to fear a gale of wind, and it ought, according to the calculation of D’Artagnan, to have either returned to Brest, or come back to the mouth of the Loire. Such was the news, ambiguous, it is true, but in some degree reassuring to him personally, which D’Artagnan brought to Louis XIV., when the king, followed by all the court, returned to Paris.
The king had returned to Paris, accompanied by D’Artagnan, who, in just twenty-four hours, made careful inquiries at Belle-Isle but found out nothing about the secret so well guarded by the heavy rock of Locmaria that had fallen on the heroic Porthos. The captain of the musketeers only knew what those two brave men—friends whom he had nobly defended and whose lives he had tried so hard to save—along with three loyal Bretons, had managed to do against a whole army. He had seen the remains scattered across the neighboring heath, stained with clotted blood among the blooming broom. He also learned that a ship had been spotted far out at sea, and that, like a predator, a royal vessel had chased, caught, and devoured the poor little bird that was flying with such frantic wings. But that was where D’Artagnan’s certainties ended. Now, what could he guess? The vessel hadn’t returned. It was true that a strong wind had been blowing for three days; however, the corvette was known to sail well and was sturdy; it shouldn’t have feared a storm, and according to D’Artagnan’s calculations, it should have either returned to Brest or come back to the mouth of the Loire. Such was the news—uncertain, but somewhat reassuring to him personally—that D’Artagnan brought to Louis XIV when the king, followed by the entire court, returned to Paris.
Louis, satisfied with his success—Louis, more mild and affable as he felt himself more powerful—had not ceased for an instant to ride beside the carriage door of Mademoiselle de la Valliere. Everybody was anxious to amuse the two queens, so as to make them forget this abandonment by son and husband. Everything breathed the future, the past was nothing to anybody. Only that past was like a painful bleeding wound to the hearts of certain tender and devoted spirits. Scarcely was the king reinstalled in Paris, when he received a touching proof of this. Louis XIV. had just risen and taken his first repast when his captain of the musketeers presented himself before him. D’Artagnan was pale and looked unhappy. The king, at the first glance, perceived the change in a countenance generally so unconcerned. “What is the matter, D’Artagnan?” said he.
Louis, pleased with his success—Louis, more gentle and friendly as he felt stronger—had not stopped for a moment from riding next to the carriage door of Mademoiselle de la Valliere. Everyone was eager to entertain the two queens, trying to help them forget their abandonment by son and husband. Everything hinted at the future; the past meant nothing to anyone. Yet that past was like a painful, bleeding wound for certain tender and loyal hearts. Hardly had the king settled back in Paris when he received an emotional sign of this. Louis XIV had just gotten up and had his first meal when his captain of the musketeers came to see him. D’Artagnan looked pale and unhappy. The king noticed the change in his usually carefree expression right away. “What’s wrong, D’Artagnan?” he asked.
“Sire, a great misfortune has happened to me.”
“Sire, I’ve experienced a terrible misfortune.”
“Good heavens! what is that?”
“Wow! What is that?”
“Sire, I have lost one of my friends, M. du Vallon, in the affair of Belle-Isle.”
“Sire, I have lost one of my friends, M. du Vallon, in the incident at Belle-Isle.”
And, while speaking these words, D’Artagnan fixed his falcon eye upon Louis XIV., to catch the first feeling that would show itself.
And, while saying these words, D’Artagnan locked his keen gaze on Louis XIV., hoping to catch the first glimpse of his emotions.
“I knew it,” replied the king, quietly.
“I knew it,” the king responded softly.
“You knew it, and did not tell me!” cried the musketeer.
“You knew it and didn’t tell me!” shouted the musketeer.
“To what good? Your grief, my friend, was so well worthy of respect. It was my duty to treat it gently. To have informed you of this misfortune, which I knew would pain you so greatly, D’Artagnan, would have been, in your eyes, to have triumphed over you. Yes, I knew that M. du Vallon had buried himself beneath the rocks of Locmaria; I knew that M. d’Herblay had taken one of my vessels with its crew, and had compelled it to convey him to Bayonne. But I was willing you should learn these matters in a direct manner, in order that you might be convinced my friends are with me respected and sacred; that always in me the man will sacrifice himself to subjects, whilst the king is so often found to sacrifice men to majesty and power.”
“To what end? Your grief, my friend, was deserving of deep respect. I had a duty to handle it with care. Letting you know about this tragedy, which I knew would hurt you so much, D’Artagnan, would’ve felt like I was getting the upper hand over you. Yes, I knew that M. du Vallon had hidden himself under the rocks of Locmaria; I knew that M. d’Herblay had taken one of my ships and its crew, forcing them to take him to Bayonne. But I wanted you to find out about these things directly, so you could see that my friends are valued and treated with reverence; that I will always put myself on the line for important matters, while the king often sacrifices people for the sake of majesty and power.”
“But, sire, how could you know?”
“But, sir, how would you know?”
“How do you yourself know, D’Artagnan?”
“How do you know that for yourself, D’Artagnan?”
“By this letter, sire, which M. d’Herblay, free and out of danger, writes me from Bayonne.”
“Here’s a letter, sire, that M. d’Herblay, safe and sound, wrote to me from Bayonne.”
“Look here,” said the king, drawing from a casket placed upon the table closet to the seat upon which D’Artagnan was leaning, “here is a letter copied exactly from that of M. d’Herblay. Here is the very letter, which Colbert placed in my hands a week before you received yours. I am well served, you may perceive.”
“Look here,” said the king, pulling out a letter from a box on the table near where D’Artagnan was leaning, “this is a copy of M. d’Herblay's letter. This is the exact letter that Colbert gave to me a week before you got yours. You can see that I have good people working for me.”
“Yes, sire,” murmured the musketeer, “you were the only man whose star was equal to the task of dominating the fortune and strength of my two friends. You have used your power, sire, you will not abuse it, will you?”
“Yes, sir,” whispered the musketeer, “you were the only one whose luck matched the challenge of overcoming the fortune and strength of my two friends. You have used your power, sir, but you won't misuse it, will you?”
“D’Artagnan,” said the king, with a smile beaming with kindness, “I could have M. d’Herblay carried off from the territories of the king of Spain, and brought here, alive, to inflict justice upon him. But, D’Artagnan, be assured I will not yield to this first and natural impulse. He is free—let him continue free.”
“D’Artagnan,” said the king, with a warm smile, “I could have M. d’Herblay taken from the lands of the king of Spain and brought here alive to face justice. But, D’Artagnan, rest assured that I won’t give in to this first and natural urge. He is free—let him stay that way.”
“Oh, sire! you will not always remain so clement, so noble, so generous as you have shown yourself with respect to me and M. d’Herblay; you will have about you counselors who will cure you of that weakness.”
“Oh, my lord! You won't always stay so kind, so noble, so generous as you've been with me and Mr. d’Herblay; you'll have advisors around you who will rid you of that softness.”
“No, D’Artagnan, you are mistaken when you accuse my council of urging me to pursue rigorous measures. The advice to spare M. d’Herblay comes from Colbert himself.”
“No, D’Artagnan, you’re wrong to say that my advisors are pushing me to take strict actions. The suggestion to spare M. d’Herblay comes directly from Colbert himself.”
“Oh, sire!” said D’Artagnan, extremely surprised.
“Oh, sir!” said D’Artagnan, very surprised.
“As for you,” continued the king, with a kindness very uncommon to him, “I have several pieces of good news to announce to you; but you shall know them, my dear captain, the moment I have made my accounts all straight. I have said that I wish to make, and would make, your fortune; that promise will soon become reality.”
“As for you,” the king continued, showing an unusual kindness, “I have some great news to share with you; but you’ll hear it, my dear captain, as soon as I’ve sorted out my accounts. I’ve mentioned that I want to help make your fortune; that promise will soon come true.”
“A thousand times thanks, sire! I can wait. But I implore you, whilst I go and practice patience, that your majesty will deign to notice those poor people who have for so long a time besieged your ante-chamber, and come humbly to lay a petition at your feet.”
“Thank you so much, your majesty! I can wait. But I beg you, while I practice patience, please take a moment to pay attention to those poor people who have been waiting outside your door for so long and have come to humbly present a petition to you.”
“Who are they?”
"Who are they?"
“Enemies of your majesty.” The king raised his head.
“Enemies of your majesty.” The king lifted his head.
“Friends of M. Fouquet,” added D’Artagnan.
“Friends of M. Fouquet,” D’Artagnan added.
“Their names?”
"Their names?"
“M. Gourville, M. Pelisson, and a poet, M. Jean de la Fontaine.”
“M. Gourville, M. Pelisson, and a poet, M. Jean de la Fontaine.”
The king took a moment to reflect. “What do they want?”
The king paused to think. "What do they want?"
“I do not know.”
"I don't know."
“How do they appear?”
“How do they look?”
“In great affliction.”
“In deep distress.”
“What do they say?”
"What do they say?"
“Nothing.”
"Nothing."
“What do they do?”
"What are they up to?"
“They weep.”
“They cry.”
“Let them come in,” said the king, with a serious brow.
“Let them come in,” said the king, with a serious expression.
D’Artagnan turned rapidly on his heel, raised the tapestry which closed the entrance to the royal chamber, and directing his voice to the adjoining room, cried, “Enter.”
D’Artagnan quickly turned around, lifted the tapestry that covered the entrance to the royal chamber, and called out to the room next door, "Come in."
The three men D’Artagnan had named immediately appeared at the door of the cabinet in which were the king and his captain. A profound silence prevailed in their passage. The courtiers, at the approach of the friends of the unfortunate superintendent of finances, drew back, as if fearful of being affected by contagion with disgrace and misfortune. D’Artagnan, with a quick step, came forward to take by the hand the unhappy men who stood trembling at the door of the cabinet; he led them in front of the king’s fauteuil, who, having placed himself in the embrasure of a window, awaited the moment of presentation, and was preparing himself to give the supplicants a rigorously diplomatic reception.
The three men D’Artagnan had mentioned quickly appeared at the door of the room where the king and his captain were. A heavy silence filled the air as they passed through. The courtiers stepped back at the sight of the friends of the unfortunate finance superintendent, as if afraid to be tainted by disgrace and misfortune. D’Artagnan hurried forward to take the hands of the distressed men waiting by the door; he brought them in front of the king’s fauteuil, who had positioned himself in the window nook, preparing for the introductions and getting ready to offer the supplicants a strictly diplomatic reception.
The first of the friends of Fouquet’s to advance was Pelisson. He did not weep, but his tears were only restrained that the king might better hear his voice and prayer. Gourville bit his lips to check his tears, out of respect for the king. La Fontaine buried his face in his handkerchief, and the only signs of life he gave were the convulsive motions of his shoulders, raised by his sobs.
The first of Fouquet’s friends to step forward was Pelisson. He didn’t cry, but he held back his tears so the king could hear his voice and plea better. Gourville bit his lips to hold back his tears out of respect for the king. La Fontaine buried his face in his handkerchief, and the only signs of life he showed were the shaking of his shoulders from his sobs.
The king preserved his dignity. His countenance was impassible. He even maintained the frown which appeared when D’Artagnan announced his enemies. He made a gesture which signified, “Speak;” and he remained standing, with his eyes fixed searchingly on these desponding men. Pelisson bowed to the ground, and La Fontaine knelt as people do in churches. This dismal silence, disturbed only by sighs and groans, began to excite in the king, not compassion, but impatience.
The king kept his composure. His expression was unreadable. He even held on to the scowl that appeared when D’Artagnan mentioned his enemies. He made a gesture that meant, “Go ahead and speak;” and he stayed standing, his eyes intensely focused on the troubled men. Pelisson bowed deeply, and La Fontaine knelt like people do in churches. This heavy silence, broken only by sighs and groans, began to stir in the king, not sympathy, but impatience.
“Monsieur Pelisson,” said he, in a sharp, dry tone. “Monsieur Gourville, and you, Monsieur—” and he did not name La Fontaine, “I cannot, without sensible displeasure, see you come to plead for one of the greatest criminals it is the duty of justice to punish. A king does not allow himself to soften save at the tears of the innocent, the remorse of the guilty. I have no faith either in the remorse of M. Fouquet or the tears of his friends, because the one is tainted to the very heart, and the others ought to dread offending me in my own palace. For these reasons, I beg you, Monsieur Pelisson, Monsieur Gourville, and you, Monsieur—, to say nothing that will not plainly proclaim the respect you have for my will.”
“Monsieur Pelisson,” he said in a sharp, dry tone. “Monsieur Gourville, and you, Monsieur—” and he didn’t name La Fontaine, “I cannot, without considerable displeasure, see you come to defend one of the greatest criminals that justice must punish. A king only softens at the tears of the innocent or the remorse of the guilty. I have no faith in M. Fouquet’s remorse or his friends’ tears, because one is corrupt to the core and the others should fear offending me in my own palace. For these reasons, I ask you, Monsieur Pelisson, Monsieur Gourville, and you, Monsieur— to avoid saying anything that doesn’t clearly show the respect you have for my wishes.”
“Sire,” replied Pelisson, trembling at these words, “we are come to say nothing to your majesty that is not the most profound expression of the most sincere respect and love that are due to a king from all his subjects. Your majesty’s justice is redoubtable; every one must yield to the sentences it pronounces. We respectfully bow before it. Far from us the idea of coming to defend him who has had the misfortune to offend your majesty. He who has incurred your displeasure may be a friend of ours, but he is an enemy to the state. We abandon him, but with tears, to the severity of the king.”
“Sire,” replied Pelisson, trembling at these words, “we come to express nothing to your majesty but the deepest respect and love that every king deserves from his subjects. Your majesty’s justice is formidable; everyone must submit to the rulings it issues. We humbly accept it. The idea of defending someone who has had the misfortune to offend your majesty is far from our minds. While he may be a friend of ours, he is an enemy of the state. We relinquish him, but with tears, to the king's sternness.”
“Besides,” interrupted the king, calmed by that supplicating voice, and those persuasive words, “my parliament will decide. I do not strike without first having weighed the crime; my justice does not wield the sword without employing first a pair of scales.”
“Besides,” interrupted the king, calmed by that pleading voice and those convincing words, “my parliament will decide. I don’t act without first considering the crime; my justice doesn’t wield the sword without first using a pair of scales.”
“Therefore we have every confidence in that impartiality of the king, and hope to make our feeble voices heard, with the consent of your majesty, when the hour for defending an accused friend strikes.”
“Therefore, we have complete confidence in the king's fairness and hope to make our humble voices heard, with your majesty's approval, when the time comes to defend an accused friend.”
“In that case, messieurs, what do you ask of me?” said the king, with his most imposing air.
“In that case, gentlemen, what do you want from me?” said the king, with his most commanding presence.
“Sire,” continued Pelisson, “the accused has a wife and family. The little property he had was scarcely sufficient to pay his debts, and Madame Fouquet, since her husband’s captivity, is abandoned by everybody. The hand of your majesty strikes like the hand of God. When the Lord sends the curse of leprosy or pestilence into a family, every one flies and shuns the abode of the leprous or plague-stricken. Sometimes, but very rarely, a generous physician alone ventures to approach the ill-reputed threshold, passes it with courage, and risks his life to combat death. He is the last resource of the dying, the chosen instrument of heavenly mercy. Sire, we supplicate you, with clasped hands and bended knees, as a divinity is supplicated! Madame Fouquet has no longer any friends, no longer any means of support; she weeps in her deserted home, abandoned by all those who besieged its doors in the hour of prosperity; she has neither credit nor hope left. At least, the unhappy wretch upon whom your anger falls receives from you, however culpable he may be, his daily bread though moistened by his tears. As much afflicted, more destitute than her husband, Madame Fouquet—the lady who had the honor to receive your majesty at her table—Madame Fouquet, the wife of the ancient superintendent of your majesty’s finances, Madame Fouquet has no longer bread.”
“Sire,” continued Pelisson, “the accused has a wife and family. The little property he had was barely enough to cover his debts, and since her husband’s imprisonment, Madame Fouquet has been abandoned by everyone. Your majesty’s hand strikes like the hand of God. When the Lord sends the curse of leprosy or plague into a family, everyone flees and avoids the home of the infected. Sometimes, though very rarely, a brave doctor dares to approach the ill-fated threshold, crosses it with courage, and risks his life to fight against death. He becomes the last hope for the dying, the chosen instrument of divine mercy. Sire, we plead with you, with clasped hands and bowed knees, as one would plead with a deity! Madame Fouquet has no friends left, no means of support; she weeps in her empty home, deserted by all who once crowded its doors during better times; she has neither credit nor hope remaining. At the very least, the unfortunate soul upon whom your anger falls receives from you, no matter how guilty he may be, his daily bread even if it’s soaked in his tears. As much afflicted, more destitute than her husband, Madame Fouquet—the lady who had the honor to host your majesty—Madame Fouquet, the wife of the former superintendent of your majesty’s finances, Madame Fouquet has no bread left.”
Here the mortal silence which had chained the breath of Pelisson’s two friends was broken by an outburst of sobs; and D’Artagnan, whose chest heaved at hearing this humble prayer, turned round towards the angle of the cabinet to bite his mustache and conceal a groan.
Here, the heavy silence that had stifled Pelisson’s two friends was shattered by a wave of sobs; D’Artagnan, overwhelmed by this heartfelt plea, turned toward the corner of the room to bite his mustache and hide a groan.
The king had preserved his eye dry and his countenance severe; but the blood had mounted to his cheeks, and the firmness of his look was visibly diminished.
The king had kept his eyes dry and his expression serious; however, the blood had risen to his cheeks, and the steadiness of his gaze was noticeably reduced.
“What do you wish?” said he, in an agitated voice.
“What do you want?” he asked, his voice tense.
“We come humbly to ask your majesty,” replied Pelisson, upon whom emotion was fast gaining, “to permit us, without incurring the displeasure of your majesty, to lend to Madame Fouquet two thousand pistoles collected among the old friends of her husband, in order that the widow may not stand in need of the necessaries of life.”
“We come humbly to ask your majesty,” replied Pelisson, feeling increasingly emotional, “to allow us, without upsetting your majesty, to lend Madame Fouquet two thousand pistoles raised from her husband’s old friends, so that the widow won’t be in need of life’s essentials.”
At the word widow, pronounced by Pelisson whilst Fouquet was still alive, the king turned very pale;—his pride disappeared; pity rose from his heart to his lips; he cast a softened look upon the men who knelt sobbing at his feet.
At the word widow, spoken by Pelisson while Fouquet was still alive, the king turned very pale; his pride vanished; compassion welled up from his heart to his lips; he gave a gentle look to the men who knelt crying at his feet.
“God forbid,” said he, “that I should confound the innocent with the guilty. They know me but ill who doubt my mercy towards the weak. I strike none but the arrogant. Do, messieurs, do all that your hearts counsel you to assuage the grief of Madame Fouquet. Go, messieurs—go!”
“God forbid,” he said, “that I should mix up the innocent with the guilty. Those who doubt my kindness toward the weak don’t really know me. I only go after the arrogant. Please, gentlemen, do whatever your hearts tell you to ease the pain of Madame Fouquet. Go, gentlemen—go!”
The three now rose in silence with dry eyes. The tears had been scorched away by contact with their burning cheeks and eyelids. They had not the strength to address their thanks to the king, who himself cut short their solemn reverences by entrenching himself suddenly behind the fauteuil.
The three of them stood up quietly with dry eyes. The tears had been burned away by the heat of their cheeks and eyelids. They didn't have the strength to thank the king, who interrupted their solemn bows by suddenly hiding behind the fauteuil.
D’Artagnan remained alone with the king.
D'Artagnan was left alone with the king.
“Well,” said he, approaching the young prince, who interrogated him with his look. “Well, my master! If you had not the device which belongs to your sun, I would recommend you one which M. Conrart might translate into eclectic Latin, ‘Calm with the lowly; stormy with the strong.’”
“Well,” he said, moving closer to the young prince, who was looking at him expectantly. “Well, my lord! If you didn’t have the emblem that represents your sun, I’d suggest one that M. Conrart could translate into elegant Latin: ‘Calm with the humble; stormy with the strong.’”
The king smiled, and passed into the next apartment, after having said to D’Artagnan, “I give you the leave of absence you must want to put the affairs of your friend, the late M. du Vallon, in order.”
The king smiled and walked into the next room after telling D’Artagnan, “I give you the time off you need to sort out the affairs of your friend, the late M. du Vallon.”
Chapter LV. Porthos’s Will.
At Pierrefonds everything was in mourning. The courts were deserted—the stables closed—the parterres neglected. In the basins, the fountains, formerly so jubilantly fresh and noisy, had stopped of themselves. Along the roads around the chateau came a few grave personages mounted on mules or country nags. These were rural neighbors, cures and bailiffs of adjacent estates. All these people entered the chateau silently, handed their horses to a melancholy-looking groom, and directed their steps, conducted by a huntsman in black, to the great dining-room, where Mousqueton received them at the door. Mousqueton had become so thin in two days that his clothes moved upon him like an ill-fitting scabbard in which the sword-blade dances at each motion. His face, composed of red and white, like that of the Madonna of Vandyke, was furrowed by two silver rivulets which had dug their beds in his cheeks, as full formerly as they had become flabby since his grief began. At each fresh arrival, Mousqueton found fresh tears, and it was pitiful to see him press his throat with his fat hand to keep from bursting into sobs and lamentations. All these visits were for the purpose of hearing the reading of Porthos’s will, announced for that day, and at which all the covetous friends of the dead man were anxious to be present, as he had left no relations behind him.
At Pierrefonds, everything was in mourning. The courts were empty—the stables shut—the gardens untended. In the fountains, which once sparkled with joy and noise, the water had stopped flowing. Along the roads around the chateau, a few serious individuals rode on mules or local horses. These were nearby neighbors, priests, and bailiffs from neighboring estates. They all entered the chateau quietly, handed their horses to a somber-looking groom, and were led by a huntsman dressed in black to the grand dining room, where Mousqueton greeted them at the door. Mousqueton had become so thin in just two days that his clothes hung on him like a loose scabbard, with the sword blade rattling at every move. His face, a mix of red and white like the Madonna of Vandyke, was marked by two silver lines that had carved themselves into his cheeks, once plump but now sagging since his grief began. With each new arrival, Mousqueton found more tears, and it was heartbreaking to see him clutch his throat with his chubby hand to hold back sobs and wails. All these visits were to hear the reading of Porthos's will, scheduled for that day, and everyone eager to be present, as he had no surviving relatives.
The visitors took their places as they arrived, and the great room had just been closed when the clock struck twelve, the hour fixed for the reading of the important document. Porthos’s procureur—and that was naturally the successor of Master Coquenard—commenced by slowly unfolding the vast parchment upon which the powerful hand of Porthos had traced his sovereign will. The seal broken—the spectacles put on—the preliminary cough having sounded—every one pricked up his ears. Mousqueton had squatted himself in a corner, the better to weep and the better to hear. All at once the folding-doors of the great room, which had been shut, were thrown open as if by magic, and a warlike figure appeared upon the threshold, resplendent in the full light of the sun. This was D’Artagnan, who had come alone to the gate, and finding nobody to hold his stirrup, had tied his horse to the knocker and announced himself. The splendor of daylight invading the room, the murmur of all present, and, more than all, the instinct of the faithful dog, drew Mousqueton from his reverie; he raised his head, recognized the old friend of his master, and, screaming with grief, he embraced his knees, watering the floor with his tears. D’Artagnan raised the poor intendant, embraced him as if he had been a brother, and, having nobly saluted the assembly, who all bowed as they whispered to each other his name, he went and took his seat at the extremity of the great carved oak hall, still holding by the hand poor Mousqueton, who was suffocating with excess of woe, and sank upon the steps. Then the procureur, who, like the rest, was considerably agitated, commenced.
The visitors settled in as they arrived, and the large room had just been closed when the clock struck twelve, the designated time for reading the important document. Porthos's lawyer—and the successor of Master Coquenard—began by slowly unfolding the large parchment on which Porthos's strong handwriting expressed his wishes. With the seal broken, spectacles on, and a preliminary cough sounded, everyone perked up. Mousqueton had squatted in a corner to better weep and listen. Suddenly, the folding doors of the large room swung open as if by magic, and a striking figure appeared in the doorway, glowing in the sunlight. It was D’Artagnan, who had arrived alone at the gate, and since nobody was there to hold his stirrup, he tied his horse to the knocker and announced himself. The bright daylight flooded the room, causing a stir among the guests, and more than anything, the instinct of the devoted dog brought Mousqueton out of his daze; he looked up, recognized his master's old friend, and, crying out in sorrow, clung to his knees, soaking the floor with his tears. D’Artagnan lifted the grieving intendant, embraced him like a brother, and after politely greeting the assembly—who all bowed and whispered his name—he took a seat at the far end of the grand oak hall, still holding poor Mousqueton, who was overwhelmed with grief, and sank down on the steps. Then the lawyer, who like the others was quite anxious, began.
Porthos, after a profession of faith of the most Christian character, asked pardon of his enemies for all the injuries he might have done them. At this paragraph, a ray of inexpressible pride beamed from the eyes of D’Artagnan.
Porthos, after expressing his Christian beliefs, asked for forgiveness from his enemies for any harm he might have caused them. At this moment, an undeniable pride shone in D’Artagnan's eyes.
He recalled to his mind the old soldier; all those enemies of Porthos brought to earth by his valiant hand; he reckoned up the numbers of them, and said to himself that Porthos had acted wisely, not to enumerate his enemies or the injuries done to them, or the task would have been too much for the reader. Then came the following schedule of his extensive lands:
He remembered the old soldier; all those enemies of Porthos brought down by his brave hand; he counted them up in his head and thought to himself that Porthos was smart not to list his enemies or the harm done to them, or it would have been too overwhelming for the reader. Then came the following schedule of his extensive lands:
“I possess at this present time, by the grace of God—
“I have right now, by the grace of God—
“1. The domain of Pierrefonds, lands, woods, meadows, waters, and forests, surrounded by good walls.
“1. The Pierrefonds estate, including its lands, woods, meadows, waters, and forests, enclosed by strong walls.
“2. The domain of Bracieux, chateaux, forests, plowed lands, forming three farms.
“2. The area of Bracieux, castles, forests, and farmland, creating three farms.
“3. The little estate Du Vallon, so named because it is in the valley.” (Brave Porthos!)
“3. The small property Du Vallon, named that because it’s located in the valley.” (Brave Porthos!)
“4. Fifty farms in Touraine, amounting to five hundred acres.
“4. Fifty farms in Touraine, covering five hundred acres.
“5. Three mills upon the Cher, bringing in six hundred livres each.
“5. Three mills on the Cher, each bringing in six hundred livres.”
“6. Three fish-pools in Berry, producing two hundred livres a year.
“6. Three fish ponds in Berry, generating two hundred livres a year.
“As to my personal or movable property, so called because it can be moved, as is so well explained by my learned friend the bishop of Vannes—” (D’Artagnan shuddered at the dismal remembrance attached to that name)—the procureur continued imperturbably—“they consist—”
“As for my personal or movable property, which is called that because it can be moved, as my knowledgeable friend the Bishop of Vannes explains so well—” (D’Artagnan shuddered at the bleak memory associated with that name)—the prosecutor continued calmly—“they consist—”
“1. In goods which I cannot detail here for want of room, and which furnish all my chateaux or houses, but of which the list is drawn up by my intendant.”
“1. In items that I can't specify here due to space limitations, and which supply all my chateaux or houses, but for which the list has been prepared by my manager.”
Every one turned his eyes towards Mousqueton, who was still lost in grief.
Everyone turned their eyes towards Mousqueton, who was still consumed by sadness.
“2. In twenty horses for saddle and draught, which I have particularly at my chateau of Pierrefonds, and which are called—Bayard, Roland, Charlemagne, Pepin, Dunois, La Hire, Ogier, Samson, Milo, Nimrod, Urganda, Armida, Flastrade, Dalilah, Rebecca, Yolande, Finette, Grisette, Lisette, and Musette.
“2. At my chateau of Pierrefonds, I have twenty horses for riding and pulling, and they are named—Bayard, Roland, Charlemagne, Pepin, Dunois, La Hire, Ogier, Samson, Milo, Nimrod, Urganda, Armida, Flastrade, Dalilah, Rebecca, Yolande, Finette, Grisette, Lisette, and Musette.
“3. In sixty dogs, forming six packs, divided as follows: the first, for the stag; the second, for the wolf; the third, for the wild boar; the fourth, for the hare; and the two others, for setters and protection.
“3. In sixty dogs, organized into six packs, divided as follows: the first for the stag; the second for the wolf; the third for the wild boar; the fourth for the hare; and the two others for setters and protection.
“4. In arms for war and the chase contained in my gallery of arms.
“4. Equipped for battle and hunting, stored in my collection of weapons."
“5. My wines of Anjou, selected for Athos, who liked them formerly; my wines of Burgundy, Champagne, Bordeaux, and Spain, stocking eight cellars and twelve vaults, in my various houses.
“5. My Anjou wines, chosen for Athos, who used to enjoy them; my Burgundy, Champagne, Bordeaux, and Spanish wines, filling eight cellars and twelve vaults across my different houses.”
“6. My pictures and statues, which are said to be of great value, and which are sufficiently numerous to fatigue the sight.
“6. My pictures and statues, which are said to be very valuable, and which are so numerous that they can tire the eyes.”
“7. My library, consisting of six thousand volumes, quite new, and have never been opened.
“7. My library, made up of six thousand books, is completely new and has never been opened.”
“8. My silver plate, which is perhaps a little worn, but which ought to weigh from a thousand to twelve hundred pounds, for I had great trouble in lifting the coffer that contained it and could not carry it more than six times round my chamber.
“8. My silver plate, which might be a bit worn, but should weigh between a thousand and twelve hundred pounds, because I had a hard time lifting the chest that held it and couldn’t carry it more than six times around my room.
“9. All these objects, in addition to the table and house linen, are divided in the residences I liked the best.”
“9. All these items, along with the table and house linens, are divided among the homes I liked the most.”
Here the reader stopped to take breath. Every one sighed, coughed, and redoubled his attention. The procureur resumed:
Here the reader paused to catch their breath. Everyone sighed, coughed, and focused their attention even more. The prosecutor continued:
“I have lived without having any children, and it is probable I never shall have any, which to me is a cutting grief. And yet I am mistaken, for I have a son, in common with my other friends; that is, M. Raoul Auguste Jules de Bragelonne, the true son of M. le Comte de la Fere.
“I have lived without having any children, and it’s likely I never will, which is a deep sadness for me. And yet I’m wrong, because I do have a son, just like my other friends; that is, M. Raoul Auguste Jules de Bragelonne, the true son of M. le Comte de la Fere.”
“This young nobleman appears to me extremely worthy to succeed the valiant gentleman of whom I am the friend and very humble servant.”
“This young nobleman seems to me highly deserving of succeeding the brave gentleman whom I consider a friend and very humble servant.”
Here a sharp sound interrupted the reader. It was D’Artagnan’s sword, which, slipping from his baldric, had fallen on the sonorous flooring. Every one turned his eyes that way, and saw that a large tear had rolled from the thick lid of D’Artagnan, half-way down to his aquiline nose, the luminous edge of which shone like a little crescent moon.
Here a loud sound interrupted the reader. It was D’Artagnan’s sword, which had slipped from his belt and fallen onto the resonant floor. Everyone turned to look and saw that a large tear had rolled from D’Artagnan’s thick eyelid, halfway down to his sharp nose, the bright edge of which glowed like a small crescent moon.
“This is why,” continued the procureur, “I have left all my property, movable, or immovable, comprised in the above enumerations, to M. le Vicomte Raoul Auguste Jules de Bragelonne, son of M. le Comte de la Fere, to console him for the grief he seems to suffer, and enable him to add more luster to his already glorious name.”
“This is why,” continued the prosecutor, “I have left all my property, whether movable or immovable, listed above, to M. le Vicomte Raoul Auguste Jules de Bragelonne, son of M. le Comte de la Fere, to comfort him in his apparent grief and help him enhance his already illustrious name.”
A vague murmur ran through the auditory. The procureur continued, seconded by the flashing eye of D’Artagnan, which, glancing over the assembly, quickly restored the interrupted silence:
A vague murmur spread through the audience. The prosecutor continued, supported by D'Artagnan's piercing gaze, which glanced over the crowd and quickly brought back the interrupted silence:
“On condition that M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne do give to M. le Chevalier d’Artagnan, captain of the king’s musketeers, whatever the said Chevalier d’Artagnan may demand of my property. On condition that M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne do pay a good pension to M. le Chevalier d’Herblay, my friend, if he should need it in exile. I leave to my intendant Mousqueton all of my clothes, of city, war, or chase, to the number of forty-seven suits, in the assurance that he will wear them till they are worn out, for the love of and in remembrance of his master. Moreover, I bequeath to M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne my old servant and faithful friend Mousqueton, already named, providing that the said vicomte shall so act that Mousqueton shall declare, when dying, he has never ceased to be happy.”
“On the condition that Mr. Vicomte de Bragelonne gives Mr. Knight d’Artagnan, captain of the king’s musketeers, whatever the said d’Artagnan may request from my property. On the condition that Mr. Vicomte de Bragelonne pays a good pension to Mr. Knight d’Herblay, my friend, if he needs it in exile. I leave all my clothes, including city, war, or hunting attire, totaling forty-seven suits, to my steward Mousqueton, trusting that he will wear them until they’re worn out, out of love for and in memory of his master. Moreover, I bequeath my old servant and loyal friend Mousqueton, previously mentioned, to Mr. Vicomte de Bragelonne, as long as the said vicomte ensures that Mousqueton declares, when he dies, that he has never stopped being happy.”
On hearing these words, Mousqueton bowed, pale and trembling; his shoulders shook convulsively; his countenance, compressed by a frightful grief, appeared from between his icy hands, and the spectators saw him stagger and hesitate, as if, though wishing to leave the hall, he did not know the way.
On hearing these words, Mousqueton bowed, pale and shaking; his shoulders trembled uncontrollably; his face, twisted by terrible sorrow, emerged from between his cold hands, and the onlookers saw him stagger and hesitate, as if, despite wanting to leave the hall, he didn’t know how.
“Mousqueton, my good friend,” said D’Artagnan, “go and make your preparations. I will take you with me to Athos’s house, whither I shall go on leaving Pierrefonds.”
“Mousqueton, my good friend,” said D’Artagnan, “go and get ready. I’ll take you with me to Athos’s place after I leave Pierrefonds.”
Mousqueton made no reply. He scarcely breathed, as if everything in that hall would from that time be foreign. He opened the door, and slowly disappeared.
Mousqueton didn't say anything. He barely breathed, as if everything in that hall would from now on feel unfamiliar. He opened the door and slowly slipped away.
The procureur finished his reading, after which the greater part of those who had come to hear the last will of Porthos dispersed by degrees, many disappointed, but all penetrated with respect. As for D’Artagnan, thus left alone, after having received the formal compliments of the procureur, he was lost in admiration of the wisdom of the testator, who had so judiciously bestowed his wealth upon the most necessitous and the most worthy, with a delicacy that neither nobleman nor courtier could have displayed more kindly. When Porthos enjoined Raoul de Bragelonne to give D’Artagnan all that he would ask, he knew well, our worthy Porthos, that D’Artagnan would ask or take nothing; and in case he did demand anything, none but himself could say what. Porthos left a pension to Aramis, who, if he should be inclined to ask too much, was checked by the example of D’Artagnan; and that word exile, thrown out by the testator, without apparent intention, was it not the mildest, most exquisite criticism upon that conduct of Aramis which had brought about the death of Porthos? But there was no mention of Athos in the testament of the dead. Could the latter for a moment suppose that the son would not offer the best part to the father? The rough mind of Porthos had fathomed all these causes, seized all these shades more clearly than law, better than custom, with more propriety than taste.
The prosecutor finished his reading, and most of the people who had come to hear Porthos's last will gradually dispersed, many feeling disappointed but all filled with respect. As for D’Artagnan, left alone after receiving the formal compliments from the prosecutor, he was lost in admiration for the wisdom of the deceased, who had wisely shared his wealth with those most in need and most deserving, showing a kindness that no noble or courtier could match. When Porthos told Raoul de Bragelonne to give D’Artagnan anything he asked for, Porthos knew well that D’Artagnan would ask for or take nothing; and if he did ask for something, only he could say what it would be. Porthos left a pension for Aramis, who, if he felt tempted to ask for too much, was held back by D’Artagnan’s example; and that word exile, casually mentioned by the deceased, was it not the gentlest, most refined criticism of Aramis’s actions that had led to Porthos’s death? But there was no mention of Athos in the deceased's will. Could he really think that the son wouldn’t give the best part to the father? Porthos's straightforward mind had grasped all these reasons and nuances more clearly than the law, better than custom, and with more appropriateness than taste.
“Porthos had indeed a heart,” said D’Artagnan to himself with a sigh. As he made this reflection, he fancied he hard a groan in the room above him; and he thought immediately of poor Mousqueton, whom he felt it was a pleasing duty to divert from his grief. For this purpose he left the hall hastily to seek the worthy intendant, as he had not returned. He ascended the staircase leading to the first story, and perceived, in Porthos’s own chamber, a heap of clothes of all colors and materials, upon which Mousqueton had laid himself down after heaping them all on the floor together. It was the legacy of the faithful friend. Those clothes were truly his own; they had been given to him; the hand of Mousqueton was stretched over these relics, which he was kissing with his lips, with all his face, and covered with his body. D’Artagnan approached to console the poor fellow.
“Porthos really did have a heart,” D’Artagnan thought to himself with a sigh. As he had this thought, he thought he heard a groan from the room above him; and immediately he thought of poor Mousqueton, whom he felt he should cheer up. So, he quickly left the hall to find the loyal steward, since he hadn’t come back. He climbed the staircase to the first floor and saw, in Porthos’s room, a pile of clothes of various colors and fabrics, on top of which Mousqueton had laid down after throwing them all on the floor. It was the legacy of his faithful friend. Those clothes truly belonged to him; they had been given to him; Mousqueton was leaning over these mementos, kissing them with his lips, pressing his face against them, and covering them with his body. D’Artagnan approached to comfort the poor guy.
“My God!” said he, “he does not stir—he has fainted!”
“OMG!” he said, “he’s not moving—he passed out!”
But D’Artagnan was mistaken. Mousqueton was dead! Dead, like the dog who, having lost his master, crawls back to die upon his cloak.
But D’Artagnan was wrong. Mousqueton was dead! Dead, like the dog who, having lost its owner, drags itself back to die on his cloak.
Chapter LVI. The Old Age of Athos.
While these affairs were separating forever the four musketeers, formerly bound together in a manner that seemed indissoluble, Athos, left alone after the departure of Raoul, began to pay his tribute to that foretaste of death which is called the absence of those we love. Back in his house at Blois, no longer having even Grimaud to receive a poor smile as he passed through the parterre, Athos daily felt the decline of vigor of a nature which for so long a time had seemed impregnable. Age, which had been kept back by the presence of the beloved object, arrived with that cortege of pains and inconveniences, which grows by geometrical accretion. Athos had no longer his son to induce him to walk firmly, with head erect, as a good example; he had no longer, in those brilliant eyes of the young man, an ever-ardent focus at which to kindle anew the fire of his looks. And then, must it be said, that nature, exquisite in tenderness and reserve, no longer finding anything to understand its feelings, gave itself up to grief with all the warmth of common natures when they yield to joy. The Comte de la Fere, who had remained a young man to his sixty-second year; the warrior who had preserved his strength in spite of fatigue; his freshness of mind in spite of misfortune, his mild serenity of soul and body in spite of Milady, in spite of Mazarin, in spite of La Valliere; Athos had become an old man in a week, from the moment at which he lost the comfort of his later youth. Still handsome, though bent, noble, but sad, he sought, since his solitude, the deeper glades where sunshine scarcely penetrated. He discontinued all the mighty exercises he had enjoyed through life, when Raoul was no longer with him. The servants, accustomed to see him stirring with the dawn at all seasons, were astonished to hear seven o’clock strike before their master quitted his bed. Athos remained in bed with a book under his pillow—but he did not sleep, neither did he read. Remaining in bed that he might no longer have to carry his body, he allowed his soul and spirit to wander from their envelope and return to his son, or to God. 6
While these events were causing the four musketeers, who were once inseparable, to drift apart, Athos, left alone after Raoul's departure, started to experience the sorrow of losing those he loved. Back at his home in Blois, without even Grimaud to share a faint smile with as he walked through the garden, Athos felt his strength fading from what had once seemed unbreakable. Age, which had held off in the presence of his beloved, came with a growing number of pains and troubles. Athos no longer had his son to inspire him to walk tall and set a good example; he no longer had the brilliant eyes of the young man to reignite the spark in his own gaze. And to be honest, nature, in its delicate tenderness, no longer found anything to resonate with its feelings, allowing itself to grieve with the same intensity as those who yield to joy. The Comte de la Fere, who had remained youthful through his sixty-second year; the warrior who kept his strength despite exhaustion; whose mind stayed sharp despite hardships, whose spirit was calm despite Milady, Mazarin, and La Valliere; Athos had aged into an old man within a week, from the moment he lost the comfort of his later youth. Still handsome, though stooped, noble yet sorrowful, he sought out the deeper woods where sunlight barely reached since his solitude began. He stopped engaging in all the vigorous activities he once enjoyed when Raoul was with him. The servants, used to seeing him up with the sunrise every day, were shocked to hear the clock strike seven before their master got out of bed. Athos lay in bed with a book under his pillow—but he neither slept nor read. Staying in bed to avoid carrying his body, he let his soul and spirit drift away from their shell and return to his son or to God. 6
His people were sometimes terrified to see him, for hours together, absorbed in silent reverie, mute and insensible; he no longer heard the timid step of the servant who came to the door of his chamber to watch the sleeping or waking of his master. It often occurred that he forgot the day had half passed away, that the hours for the two first meals were gone by. Then he was awakened. He rose, descended to his shady walk, then came out a little into the sun, as though to partake of its warmth for a minute in memory of his absent child. And then the dismal monotonous walk recommenced, until, exhausted, he regained the chamber and his bed, his domicile by choice. For several days the comte did not speak a single word. He refused to receive the visits that were paid him, and during the night he was seen to relight his lamp and pass long hours in writing, or examining parchments.
His people were sometimes scared to see him, sitting for hours lost in thought, quiet and unresponsive; he no longer noticed the soft footstep of the servant who came to his door to check on whether he was asleep or awake. Often, he would forget that the day was already half gone, that it was past time for his first two meals. Then he would be stirred from his thoughts. He would get up, go down to his shaded path, and then step out briefly into the sun, as if to soak in its warmth for a moment in memory of his absent child. Then the dreary, repetitive walk would begin again, until he was drained and returned to his room and his bed, his chosen place to be. For several days, the count didn't say a single word. He turned down visitors, and at night, he could be seen relighting his lamp and spending long hours writing or examining old documents.
Athos wrote one of these letters to Vannes, another to Fontainebleau; they remained without answers. We know why: Aramis had quitted France, and D’Artagnan was traveling from Nantes to Paris, from Paris to Pierrefonds. His valet de chambre observed that he shortened his walk every day by several turns. The great alley of limes soon became too long for feet that used to traverse it formerly a hundred times a day. The comte walked feebly as far as the middle trees, seated himself upon a mossy bank that sloped towards a sidewalk, and there waited the return of his strength, or rather the return of night. Very shortly a hundred steps exhausted him. At length Athos refused to rise at all; he declined all nourishment, and his terrified people, although he did not complain, although he wore a smile upon his lips, although he continued to speak with his sweet voice—his people went to Blois in search of the ancient physician of the late Monsieur, and brought him to the Comte de la Fere in such a fashion that he could see the comte without being himself seen. For this purpose, they placed him in a closet adjoining the chamber of the patient, and implored him not to show himself, for fear of displeasing their master, who had not asked for a physician. The doctor obeyed. Athos was a sort of model for the gentlemen of the country; the Blaisois boasted of possessing this sacred relic of French glory. Athos was a great seigneur compared with such nobles as the king improvised by touching with his artificial scepter the patched-up trunks of the heraldic trees of the province.
Athos wrote one letter to Vannes and another to Fontainebleau; neither received a reply. We know why: Aramis had left France, and D’Artagnan was traveling from Nantes to Paris, then from Paris to Pierrefonds. His valet de chambre noticed that he was cutting his walks shorter every day. The grand lime tree avenue soon felt too long for feet that used to walk it a hundred times a day. The count walked slowly to the middle of the trees, sat down on a mossy bank sloping toward a path, and there waited for his strength to return, or more precisely, for night to fall. He was soon exhausted after just a hundred steps. Eventually, Athos stopped getting up entirely; he refused all food, and though he didn’t complain, wore a smile on his lips, and continued to speak in his gentle voice, his worried people went to Blois searching for the former physician of the late Monsieur and brought him to the Comte de la Fere in a way that allowed him to see the count without being seen himself. They put him in a room next to the patient’s chamber and begged him not to show himself, fearing it might upset their master, who hadn’t asked for a doctor. The doctor complied. Athos was something of a role model for the local gentlemen; the people of Blois took pride in having this sacred relic of French glory. Athos was a significant noble compared to the types of nobles the king created by touching the patched-up trunks of the heraldic trees of the province with his artificial scepter.
People respected Athos, we say, and they loved him. The physician could not bear to see his people weep, to see flock round him the poor of the canton, to whom Athos had so often given life and consolation by his kind words and his charities. He examined, therefore, from the depths of his hiding-place, the nature of that mysterious malady which bent and aged more mortally every day a man but lately so full of life and a desire to live. He remarked upon the cheeks of Athos the hectic hue of fever, which feeds upon itself; slow fever, pitiless, born in a fold of the heart, sheltering itself behind that rampart, growing from the suffering it engenders, at once cause and effect of a perilous situation. The comte spoke to nobody; he did not even talk to himself. His thought feared noise; it approached to that degree of over-excitement which borders upon ecstasy. Man thus absorbed, though he does not yet belong to God, already appertains no longer to the earth. The doctor remained for several hours studying this painful struggle of the will against superior power; he was terrified at seeing those eyes always fixed, ever directed on some invisible object; was terrified at the monotonous beating of that heart from which never a sigh arose to vary the melancholy state; for often pain becomes the hope of the physician. Half a day passed away thus. The doctor formed his resolution like a brave man; he issued suddenly from his place of retreat, and went straight up to Athos, who beheld him without evincing more surprise than if he had understood nothing of the apparition.
People respected Athos, we say, and they loved him. The doctor couldn’t stand to see his people cry, to see the poor from the area gather around him, to whom Athos had often given life and comfort through his kind words and his charity. He examined, therefore, from the depths of his hiding place, the nature of that mysterious illness that was gradually aging a man who had recently been so full of life and a desire to live. He noted the flushed cheeks of Athos, marked by a fever that fed on itself; a slow, relentless fever, born in a crevice of the heart, hiding behind that barrier, growing from the suffering it caused, at once the cause and the effect of a dangerous situation. The count spoke to no one; he didn’t even talk to himself. His thoughts shunned noise; they reached a state of intense focus bordering on ecstasy. A man so absorbed, though he hasn’t yet belonged to God, no longer truly belongs to the earth. The doctor spent several hours observing this painful struggle of the will against a greater force; he was horrified to see those eyes always fixated, directed at some invisible object; he was alarmed by the monotonous beating of that heart from which no sigh arose to break the melancholy silence; for often, pain becomes the hope of the physician. Half a day passed in this way. The doctor made his decision like a brave man; he suddenly emerged from his hiding place and walked right up to Athos, who looked at him without showing any more surprise than if he had understood nothing of the appearance.
“Monsieur le comte, I crave your pardon,” said the doctor, coming up to the patient with open arms; “but I have a reproach to make you—you shall hear me.” And he seated himself by the pillow of Athos, who had great trouble in rousing himself from his preoccupation.
“Mr. Count, I ask for your forgiveness,” said the doctor, approaching the patient with open arms; “but I have something to address with you—you will listen to me.” And he sat down next to Athos's pillow, who struggled to shake off his distraction.
“What is the matter, doctor?” asked the comte, after a silence.
“What’s wrong, doctor?” asked the count, after a moment of silence.
“The matter is, you are ill, monsieur, and have had no advice.”
“The thing is, you’re sick, sir, and you haven’t gotten any advice.”
“I! ill!” said Athos, smiling.
“I! sick!” said Athos, smiling.
“Fever, consumption, weakness, decay, monsieur le comte!”
"Fever, TB, weakness, decay, sir!"
“Weakness!” replied Athos; “is it possible? I do not get up.”
“Weakness!” replied Athos; “is that really possible? I'm not getting up.”
“Come, come! monsieur le comte, no subterfuges; you are a good Christian?”
"Come on, Count, no tricks; you’re a good Christian, right?"
“I hope so,” said Athos.
“I hope so,” Athos said.
“Is it your wish to kill yourself?”
“Do you want to end your life?”
“Never, doctor.”
“Not a chance, doctor.”
“Well! monsieur, you are in a fair way of doing so. Thus to remain is suicide. Get well! monsieur le comte, get well!”
“Well, sir, you’re definitely on the right track. Staying like this is just giving up. Get better, sir! Get better!”
“Of what? Find the disease first. For my part, I never knew myself better; never did the sky appear more blue to me; never did I take more care of my flowers.”
“Of what? Figure out the problem first. As for me, I’ve never understood myself better; the sky has never seemed bluer to me; I’ve never taken better care of my flowers.”
“You have a hidden grief.”
"You have unspoken sadness."
“Concealed!—not at all; the absence of my son, doctor; that is my malady, and I do not conceal it.”
“Hidden? Not at all; my son’s absence, doctor; that is my problem, and I’m not hiding it.”
“Monsieur le comte, your son lives, he is strong, he has all the future before him—the future of men of merit, of his race; live for him—”
“Mister Count, your son is alive, he’s strong, and he has a bright future ahead of him—the future of accomplished men of his lineage; live for him—”
“But I do live, doctor; oh! be satisfied of that,” added he, with a melancholy smile; “for as long as Raoul lives, it will be plainly known, for as long as he lives, I shall live.”
“But I am alive, doctor; oh! please believe that,” he added with a sad smile; “for as long as Raoul lives, it will be obvious, because as long as he lives, I will live too.”
“What do you say?”
"What's your take?"
“A very simple thing. At this moment, doctor, I leave life suspended within me. A forgetful, dissipated, indifferent life would be beyond my strength, now I have no longer Raoul with me. You do not ask the lamp to burn when the match has not illumed the flame; do not ask me to live amidst noise and merriment. I vegetate, I prepare myself, I wait. Look, doctor; remember those soldiers we have so often seen together at the ports, where they were waiting to embark; lying down, indifferent, half on one element, half on the other; they were neither at the place where the sea was going to carry them, nor at the place the earth was going to lose them; baggage prepared, minds on the stretch, arms stacked—they waited. I repeat it, the word is the one which paints my present life. Lying down like the soldiers, my ear on the stretch for the report that may reach me, I wish to be ready to set out at the first summons. Who will make me that summons? life or death? God or Raoul? My baggage is packed, my soul is prepared, I await the signal—I wait, doctor, I wait!”
“A very simple thing. Right now, doctor, I feel like my life is on hold. I can’t handle a forgetful, carefree, indifferent existence without Raoul by my side. You wouldn’t expect a lamp to shine when the match hasn’t ignited the flame; don’t ask me to live in chaos and happiness. I’m just existing, getting ready, waiting. Look, doctor; remember those soldiers we’ve seen so many times at the ports, waiting to board? They would lie there, indifferent, half on land, half on the sea; not quite where the ocean would take them, nor where the earth would leave them; their bags packed, minds alert, arms crossed—they waited. I’ll say it again, that’s the word that captures my current life. Lying down like the soldiers, ears perked for any news that might come my way, I want to be ready to leave at the first call. Who will give me that call? life or death? God or Raoul? My bags are packed, my soul is ready, I’m just waiting for the signal—I’m waiting, doctor, I’m waiting!”
The doctor knew the temper of that mind; he appreciated the strength of that body; he reflected for the moment, told himself that words were useless, remedies absurd, and left the chateau, exhorting Athos’s servants not to quit him for a moment.
The doctor understood the temperament of that mind; he recognized the power of that body; he paused to think, told himself that words were pointless, treatments ridiculous, and left the chateau, urging Athos's servants not to leave his side for a second.
The doctor being gone, Athos evinced neither anger nor vexation at having been disturbed. He did not even desire that all letters that came should be brought to him directly. He knew very well that every distraction which should arise would be a joy, a hope, which his servants would have paid with their blood to procure him. Sleep had become rare. By intense thinking, Athos forgot himself, for a few hours at most, in a reverie most profound, more obscure than other people would have called a dream. The momentary repose which this forgetfulness thus gave the body, still further fatigued the soul, for Athos lived a double life during these wanderings of his understanding. One night, he dreamt that Raoul was dressing himself in a tent, to go upon an expedition commanded by M. de Beaufort in person. The young man was sad; he clasped his cuirass slowly, and slowly he girded on his sword.
With the doctor gone, Athos showed neither anger nor annoyance at being disturbed. He didn’t even want all the letters that came to be brought to him right away. He understood very well that every distraction that occurred would be a source of joy, a glimmer of hope, which his servants would have gladly risked their lives to provide. Sleep had become rare. Through intense thought, Athos lost himself, for a few hours at most, in a deep reverie, more obscure than what others would have called a dream. The brief rest this forgetfulness gave his body further exhausted his soul, as Athos lived a double life during these moments of wandering thought. One night, he dreamt that Raoul was getting ready in a tent to go on a mission personally commanded by M. de Beaufort. The young man looked sad; he fastened his breastplate slowly, and slowly he buckled on his sword.
“What is the matter?” asked his father, tenderly.
“What’s wrong?” asked his father, gently.
“What afflicts me is the death of Porthos, ever so dear a friend,” replied Raoul. “I suffer here the grief you soon will feel at home.”
“What troubles me is the death of Porthos, such a dear friend,” replied Raoul. “I’m experiencing the sadness you will soon feel at home.”
And the vision disappeared with the slumber of Athos. At daybreak one of his servants entered his master’s apartment, and gave him a letter which came from Spain.
And the vision faded away with Athos's sleep. At dawn, one of his servants entered his master’s room and handed him a letter that arrived from Spain.
“The writing of Aramis,” thought the comte; and he read.
“The writing of Aramis,” thought the count; and he read.
“Porthos is dead!” cried he, after the first lines. “Oh! Raoul, Raoul! thanks! thou keepest thy promise, thou warnest me!”
“Porthos is dead!” he exclaimed after the opening lines. “Oh! Raoul, Raoul! Thank you! You kept your promise, you warned me!”
And Athos, seized with a mortal sweat, fainted in his bed, without any other cause than weakness.
And Athos, drenched in sweat, fainted in his bed, with no other reason than exhaustion.
Chapter LVII. Athos’s Vision.
When this fainting of Athos had ceased, the comte, almost ashamed of having given way before this superior natural event, dressed himself and ordered his horse, determined to ride to Blois, to open more certain correspondences with either Africa, D’Artagnan, or Aramis. In fact, this letter from Aramis informed the Comte de la Fere of the bad success of the expedition of Belle-Isle. It gave him sufficient details of the death of Porthos to move the tender and devoted heart of Athos to its innermost fibers. Athos wished to go and pay his friend Porthos a last visit. To render this honor to his companion in arms, he meant to send to D’Artagnan, to prevail upon him to recommence the painful voyage to Belle-Isle, to accomplish in his company that sad pilgrimage to the tomb of the giant he had so much loved, then to return to his dwelling to obey that secret influence which was conducting him to eternity by a mysterious road. But scarcely had his joyous servants dressed their master, whom they saw with pleasure preparing for a journey which might dissipate his melancholy; scarcely had the comte’s gentlest horse been saddled and brought to the door, when the father of Raoul felt his head become confused, his legs give way, and he clearly perceived the impossibility of going one step further. He ordered himself to be carried into the sun; they laid him upon his bed of moss where he passed a full hour before he could recover his spirits. Nothing could be more natural than this weakness after then inert repose of the latter days. Athos took a bouillon, to give him strength, and bathed his dried lips in a glassful of the wine he loved the best—that old Anjou wine mentioned by Porthos in his admirable will. Then, refreshed, free in mind, he had his horse brought again; but only with the aid of his servants was he able painfully to climb into the saddle. He did not go a hundred paces; a shivering seized him again at the turning of the road.
When Athos's fainting spell ended, the comte, feeling almost embarrassed for giving in to this overwhelming natural event, got dressed and ordered his horse, determined to ride to Blois to establish more reliable communication with either Africa, D’Artagnan, or Aramis. This letter from Aramis informed the Comte de la Fere about the unfortunate outcome of the Belle-Isle expedition. It provided enough details about Porthos's death to deeply affect Athos's tender and devoted heart. Athos wanted to visit his friend Porthos one last time. To pay this tribute to his comrade in arms, he planned to ask D’Artagnan to undertake the difficult journey to Belle-Isle with him, to make that solemn pilgrimage to the grave of the giant he had loved so much, and then return home to follow the quiet pull that was leading him towards eternity by an unexplainable path. But just as his cheerful servants helped him dress for a trip that might lift his spirits, and his gentlest horse was saddled and brought to the door, Raoul's father felt dizzy, his legs gave out, and he realized he couldn't take another step. He ordered to be taken into the sun; they laid him on a bed of moss where he spent a full hour before he could regain his composure. This weakness was completely understandable after the lethargy of the past few days. Athos had a broth to regain his strength and wet his dry lips with a glass of his favorite wine—that old Anjou wine mentioned by Porthos in his wonderful will. Then, feeling refreshed and clear-headed, he asked for his horse again; but it took the help of his servants for him to struggle into the saddle. He barely went a hundred paces before another wave of shivers hit him at the bend in the road.
“This is very strange!” said he to his valet de chambre, who accompanied him.
“This is very strange!” he said to his valet de chambre, who was with him.
“Let us stop, monsieur—I conjure you!” replied the faithful servant; “how pale you are getting!”
“Let’s stop, sir—I urge you!” replied the loyal servant; “you’re looking so pale!”
“That will not prevent my pursuing my route, now I have once started,” replied the comte. And he gave his horse his head again. But suddenly, the animal, instead of obeying the thought of his master, stopped. A movement, of which Athos was unconscious, had checked the bit.
“That won't stop me from continuing my path now that I've started,” replied the comte. He let his horse have its head again. But suddenly, instead of following his master's command, the horse stopped. A movement, which Athos was unaware of, had pulled on the bit.
“Something,” said Athos, “wills that I should go no further. Support me,” added he, stretching out his arms; “quick! come closer! I feel my muscles relax—I shall fall from my horse.”
“Something,” said Athos, “makes it so I can't go any further. Help me,” he added, reaching out his arms; “hurry! Come closer! I feel my strength fading—I’m going to fall off my horse.”
The valet had seen the movement made by his master at the moment he received the order. He went up to him quickly, received the comte in his arms, and as they were not yet sufficiently distant from the house for the servants, who had remained at the door to watch their master’s departure, not to perceive the disorder in the usually regular proceeding of the comte, the valet called his comrades by gestures and voice, and all hastened to his assistance. Athos had gone but a few steps on his return, when he felt himself better again. His strength seemed to revive and with it the desire to go to Blois. He made his horse turn round: but, at the animal’s first steps, he sunk again into a state of torpor and anguish.
The valet had noticed his master's movement as soon as he received the order. He rushed over, caught the comte in his arms, and since they weren't far enough from the house for the servants, who had stayed by the door to watch their master's departure, not to notice the unusual behavior of the comte, the valet signaled to his colleagues both with gestures and voice, and they all quickly came to help. Athos had only taken a few steps on his way back when he started to feel better again. His strength seemed to return, along with the urge to head to Blois. He turned his horse around, but as soon as the horse took its first steps, he fell back into a state of numbness and distress.
“Well! decidedly,” said he, “it is willed that I should stay at home.” His people flocked around him; they lifted him from his horse, and carried him as quickly as possible into the house. Everything was prepared in his chamber, and they put him to bed.
“Well! Definitely,” he said, “it’s meant to be that I should stay home.” His family gathered around him; they lifted him off his horse and hurried him into the house. Everything was ready in his room, and they helped him into bed.
“You will be sure to remember,” said he, disposing himself to sleep, “that I expect letters from Africa this very day.”
"You'll definitely remember," he said as he got comfortable to sleep, "that I'm expecting letters from Africa today."
“Monsieur will no doubt hear with pleasure that Blaisois’s son is gone on horseback, to gain an hour over the courier of Blois,” replied his valet de chambre.
“Monsieur will surely be pleased to know that Blaisois’s son has left on horseback to get a head start on the courier from Blois,” replied his valet de chambre.
“Thank you,” replied Athos, with his placid smile.
“Thanks,” replied Athos, with his calm smile.
The comte fell asleep, but his disturbed slumber resembled torture rather than repose. The servant who watched him saw several times the expression of internal suffering shadowed on his features. Perhaps Athos was dreaming.
The count fell asleep, but his restless sleep looked more like torture than rest. The servant watching him noticed several times the look of inner pain on his face. Maybe Athos was dreaming.
The day passed away. Blaisois’s son returned; the courier had brought no news. The comte reckoned the minutes with despair; he shuddered when those minutes made an hour. The idea that he was forgotten seized him once, and brought on a fearful pang of the heart. Everybody in the house had given up all hopes of the courier—his hour had long passed. Four times the express sent to Blois had repeated his journey, and there was nothing to the address of the comte. Athos knew that the courier only arrived once a week. Here, then, was a delay of eight mortal days to be endured. He commenced the night in this painful persuasion. All that a sick man, irritated by suffering, can add of melancholy suppositions to probabilities already gloomy, Athos heaped up during the early hours of this dismal night. The fever rose: it invaded the chest, where the fire soon caught, according to the expression of the physician, who had been brought back from Blois by Blaisois at his last journey. Soon it gained the head. The physician made two successive bleedings, which dislodged it for the time, but left the patient very weak, and without power of action in anything but his brain. And yet this redoubtable fever had ceased. It besieged with its last palpitations the tense extremities; it ended by yielding as midnight struck.
The day went by. Blaisois’s son came back; the courier had brought no news. The comte counted the minutes in despair; he shuddered as those minutes turned into an hour. The thought that he was forgotten hit him suddenly, bringing a sharp pain to his heart. Everyone in the house had given up hope for the courier—his time had long passed. Four times the express sent to Blois had made the trip, and there was nothing for the comte. Athos knew the courier only arrived once a week. So, there was a frustrating delay of eight long days to endure. He began the night feeling this painful certainty. Everything a sick person, irritated by pain, can imagine to add to already gloomy thoughts, Athos piled up during the early hours of this dismal night. The fever rose: it spread to his chest, where it took hold, as the physician who had been brought back from Blois by Blaisois on his last trip had described. Soon it reached his head. The physician performed two bloodlettings, which provided temporary relief but left the patient very weak and unable to act on anything but his thoughts. And yet this terrible fever finally subsided. It continued to pulse through his tense limbs until it eventually gave in as midnight struck.
The physician, seeing the incontestable improvement, returned to Blois, after having ordered some prescriptions, and declared that the comte was saved. Then commenced for Athos a strange, indefinable state. Free to think, his mind turned towards Raoul, that beloved son. His imagination penetrated the fields of Africa in the environs of Gigelli, where M. de Beaufort must have landed with his army. A waste of gray rocks, rendered green in certain parts by the waters of the sea, when it lashed the shore in storms and tempest. Beyond, the shore, strewed over with these rocks like gravestones, ascended, in form of an amphitheater among mastic-trees and cactus, a sort of small town, full of smoke, confused noises, and terrified movements. All of a sudden, from the bosom of this smoke arose a flame, which succeeded, creeping along the houses, in covering the entire surface of the town, and increased by degrees, uniting in its red and angry vortices tears, screams, and supplicating arms outstretched to Heaven.
The doctor, seeing the undeniable improvement, returned to Blois after giving some prescriptions and declared that the count was saved. Then, Athos entered a strange, indescribable state. Free to think, his mind wandered to Raoul, his beloved son. His imagination traveled to the fields of Africa near Gigelli, where M. de Beaufort must have landed with his army. It was a wasteland of gray rocks, some areas turning green from the sea water when it crashed against the shore during storms. Beyond that, the shore, scattered with these rocks like gravestones, rose up in an amphitheater shape among mastic trees and cacti, forming a sort of small town filled with smoke, chaotic noises, and frantic movements. Suddenly, from the heart of this smoke, a flame erupted, spreading along the houses and engulfing the entire town, gradually growing larger, mixing in its red and angry whirlwinds tears, screams, and desperate arms reaching out to Heaven.
There was, for a moment, a frightful pele-mele of timbers falling to pieces, of swords broken, of stones calcined, trees burnt and disappearing. It was a strange thing that in this chaos, in which Athos distinguished raised arms, in which he heard cries, sobs, and groans, he did not see one human figure. The cannon thundered at a distance, musketry madly barked, the sea moaned, flocks made their escape, bounding over the verdant slope. But not a soldier to apply the match to the batteries of cannon, not a sailor to assist in maneuvering the fleet, not a shepherd in charge of the flocks. After the ruin of the village, the destruction of the forts which dominated it, a ruin and destruction magically wrought without the co-operation of a single human being, the flames were extinguished, the smoke began to subside, then diminished in intensity, paled and disappeared entirely. Night then came over the scene; night dark upon the earth, brilliant in the firmament. The large blazing stars which spangled the African sky glittered and gleamed without illuminating anything.
For a moment, there was a terrifying chaos of falling timbers, broken swords, burned stones, and disappearing trees. It was strange that amidst this chaos, where Athos saw raised arms and heard cries, sobs, and groans, he didn’t spot a single human figure. Cannons boomed in the distance, muskets barked wildly, the sea lamented, and flocks fled, bounding over the green slopes. But there wasn’t a soldier to light the cannon batteries, a sailor to help maneuver the fleet, or a shepherd in charge of the flocks. After the village was ruined and the forts that overlooked it were destroyed—this devastation magically occurring without a single human involved—the flames were quenched, the smoke started to fade, then lessened in intensity, paled, and completely vanished. Night then settled over the scene; a dark night on the earth but bright in the sky. The large, blazing stars that dotted the African sky sparkled and shone without lighting up anything.
A long silence ensued, which gave, for a moment, repose to the troubled imagination of Athos; and as he felt that that which he saw was not terminated, he applied more attentively the eyes of his understanding on the strange spectacle which his imagination had presented. This spectacle was soon continued for him. A mild pale moon rose behind the declivities of the coast, streaking at first the undulating ripples of the sea, which appeared to have calmed after the roaring it had sent forth during the vision of Athos—the moon, we say, shed its diamonds and opals upon the briers and bushes of the hills. The gray rocks, so many silent and attentive phantoms, appeared to raise their heads to examine likewise the field of battle by the light of the moon, and Athos perceived that the field, empty during the combat, was now strewn with fallen bodies.
A long silence followed, giving Athos a moment of peace for his troubled mind. Sensing that what he witnessed wasn’t over, he focused more intently on the bizarre scene that his imagination had conjured. This scene quickly unfolded for him. A soft, pale moon rose behind the slopes of the coast, initially illuminating the gentle waves of the sea, which seemed to have settled after the tumult it caused during Athos's vision. The moon, as we mentioned, scattered its diamonds and opals across the thorns and bushes of the hills. The gray rocks, like silent and watchful ghosts, seemed to lift their heads to also survey the battlefield in the moonlight, and Athos noticed that the field, which had been empty during the fight, was now scattered with fallen bodies.
An inexpressible shudder of fear and horror seized his soul as he recognized the white and blue uniforms of the soldiers of Picardy, with their long pikes and blue handles, and muskets marked with the fleur-de-lis on the butts. When he saw all the gaping wounds, looking up to the bright heavens as if to demand back of them the souls to which they had opened a passage,—when he saw the slaughtered horses, stiff, their tongues hanging out at one side of their mouths, sleeping in the shiny blood congealed around them, staining their furniture and their manes,—when he saw the white horse of M. de Beaufort, with his head beaten to pieces, in the first ranks of the dead, Athos passed a cold hand over his brow, which he was astonished not to find burning. He was convinced by this touch that he was present, as a spectator, without delirium’s dreadful aid, the day after the battle fought upon the shores of Gigelli by the army of the expedition, which he had seen leave the coast of France and disappear upon the dim horizon, and of which he had saluted with thought and gesture the last cannon-shot fired by the duke as a signal of farewell to his country.
An indescribable shiver of fear and horror gripped him as he recognized the white and blue uniforms of the Picardy soldiers, with their long pikes and blue handles, and muskets marked with the fleur-de-lis on the butts. When he saw all the gaping wounds, looking up to the bright sky as if to demand back the souls that had been released from them,—when he saw the slaughtered horses, stiff with their tongues hanging out on one side of their mouths, resting in the shiny blood that had congealed around them, staining their fur and their manes,—when he saw the white horse of M. de Beaufort, with its head smashed to pieces, among the first ranks of the dead, Athos ran a cold hand over his brow, surprised not to find it burning. This touch convinced him that he was there as a spectator, without the dreadful aid of delirium, the day after the battle fought on the shores of Gigelli by the expeditionary army, which he had watched leave the coast of France and vanish on the distant horizon, and which he had bid farewell with both thought and gesture at the last cannon shot fired by the duke as a signal to his country.
Who can paint the mortal agony with which his soul followed, like a vigilant eye, these effigies of clay-cold soldiers, and examined them, one after the other, to see if Raoul slept among them? Who can express the intoxication of joy with which Athos bowed before God, and thanked Him for not having seen him he sought with so much fear among the dead? In fact, fallen in their ranks, stiff, icy, the dead, still recognizable with ease, seemed to turn with complacency towards the Comte de la Fere, to be the better seen by him, during his sad review. But yet, he was astonished, while viewing all these bodies, not to perceive the survivors. To such a point did the illusion extend, that this vision was for him a real voyage made by the father into Africa, to obtain more exact information respecting his son.
Who can capture the intense suffering with which his soul followed, like a watchful eye, these lifeless soldiers and examined them, one by one, to see if Raoul was among them? Who can convey the overwhelming joy with which Athos bowed before God and thanked Him for not having found the son he feared so much among the dead? Indeed, lying in their ranks, stiff and cold, the dead, still easily recognizable, seemed to turn towards the Comte de la Fere, as if to be better seen by him during his mournful inspection. Yet, he was astonished, while looking at all these bodies, not to see any survivors. The illusion was so strong that this vision felt like a real journey the father had taken into Africa to gather more accurate information about his son.
Fatigued, therefore, with having traversed seas and continents, he sought repose under one of the tents sheltered behind a rock, on the top of which floated the white fleur-de-lised pennon. He looked for a soldier to conduct him to the tent of M. de Beaufort. Then, while his eye was wandering over the plain, turning on all sides, he saw a white form appear behind the scented myrtles. This figure was clothed in the costume of an officer; it held in its hand a broken sword; it advanced slowly towards Athos, who, stopping short and fixing his eyes upon it, neither spoke nor moved, but wished to open his arms, because in this silent officer he had already recognized Raoul. The comte attempted to utter a cry, but it was stifled in his throat. Raoul, with a gesture, directed him to be silent, placing his finger on his lips and drawing back by degrees, without Athos being able to see his legs move. The comte, still paler than Raoul, followed his son, painfully traversing briers and bushes, stones and ditches, Raoul not appearing to touch the earth, no obstacle seeming to impede the lightness of his march. The comte, whom the inequalities of the path fatigued, soon stopped, exhausted. Raoul still continued to beckon him to follow him. The tender father, to whom love restored strength, made a last effort, and climbed the mountain after the young man, who attracted him by gesture and by smile.
Exhausted from traveling across seas and continents, he sought rest under one of the tents sheltered behind a rock, on top of which flew the white fleur-de-lised pennon. He looked for a soldier to guide him to M. de Beaufort's tent. While scanning the plain and looking around, he saw a white figure emerge from behind the fragrant myrtles. This figure was dressed like an officer and held a broken sword. It slowly approached Athos, who stopped in his tracks, staring at it, neither speaking nor moving, but wanting to open his arms, having recognized Raoul in this silent officer. The count tried to cry out, but the sound caught in his throat. Raoul gestured for him to be quiet, placing a finger to his lips and gradually retreating, without Athos seeing his legs move. The count, still paler than Raoul, followed his son, struggling through thorns, bushes, stones, and ditches, while Raoul seemed to glide effortlessly over the ground, as if nothing could hinder his path. The count, worn out by the uneven terrain, soon stopped, fatigued. Raoul continued to signal for him to follow. The loving father, fueled by his affection, made one last effort and climbed the hill after the young man, who beckoned him with gestures and smiles.
At length he gained the crest of the hill, and saw, thrown out in black, upon the horizon whitened by the moon, the aerial form of Raoul. Athos reached forth his hand to get closer to his beloved son upon the plateau, and the latter also stretched out his; but suddenly, as if the young man had been drawn away in his own despite, still retreating, he left the earth, and Athos saw the clear blue sky shine between the feet of his child and the ground of the hill. Raoul rose insensibly into the void, smiling, still calling with gesture:—he departed towards heaven. Athos uttered a cry of tenderness and terror. He looked below again. He saw a camp destroyed, and all those white bodies of the royal army, like so many motionless atoms. And, then, raising his head, he saw the figure of his son still beckoning him to climb the mystic void.
At last, he reached the top of the hill and saw, silhouetted in black against the moonlit horizon, the ethereal figure of Raoul. Athos reached out his hand to get closer to his beloved son on the plateau, and Raoul did the same, but suddenly, as if pulled away against his will, he began to retreat and left the ground. Athos saw the bright blue sky shining between Raoul's feet and the hill below. Raoul rose effortlessly into the void, smiling and still gesturing for him: he was ascending to heaven. Athos let out a cry of both love and fear. He looked down again and saw a destroyed camp, and all the white bodies of the royal army, like countless motionless particles. Then, raising his head again, he saw the figure of his son still beckoning him to ascend into the mysterious void.
Chapter LVIII. The Angel of Death.
Athos was at this part of his marvelous vision, when the charm was suddenly broken by a great noise rising from the outer gates. A horse was heard galloping over the hard gravel of the great alley, and the sound of noisy and animated conversations ascended to the chamber in which the comte was dreaming. Athos did not stir from the place he occupied; he scarcely turned his head towards the door to ascertain the sooner what these noises could be. A heavy step ascended the stairs; the horse, which had recently galloped, departed slowly towards the stables. Great hesitation appeared in the steps, which by degrees approached the chamber. A door was opened, and Athos, turning a little towards the part of the room the noise came from, cried, in a weak voice:
Athos was at this point in his amazing vision when a loud noise suddenly shattered the moment, coming from the outer gates. He heard a horse galloping over the hard gravel of the main path, and the sound of lively conversations floated up to the room where the comte was dreaming. Athos didn’t move from his spot; he barely turned his head toward the door to find out what the noise was. Heavy footsteps climbed the stairs; the horse that had just galloped slowly made its way to the stables. There was a noticeable hesitation in the footsteps as they slowly approached the room. A door opened, and Athos, turning a bit toward the source of the noise, said weakly:
“It is a courier from Africa, is it not?”
“It’s a courier from Africa, right?”
“No, monsieur le comte,” replied a voice which made the father of Raoul start upright in his bed.
“No, sir,” replied a voice that made Raoul's father sit straight up in his bed.
“Grimaud!” murmured he. And the sweat began to pour down his face. Grimaud appeared in the doorway. It was no longer the Grimaud we have seen, still young with courage and devotion, when he jumped the first into the boat destined to convey Raoul de Bragelonne to the vessels of the royal fleet. ‘Twas now a stern and pale old man, his clothes covered with dust, and hair whitened by old age. He trembled whilst leaning against the door-frame, and was near falling on seeing, by the light of the lamps, the countenance of his master. These two men who had lived so long together in a community of intelligence, and whose eyes, accustomed to economize expressions, knew how to say so many things silently—these two old friends, one as noble as the other in heart, if they were unequal in fortune and birth, remained tongue-tied whilst looking at each other. By the exchange of a single glance they had just read to the bottom of each other’s hearts. The old servitor bore upon his countenance the impression of a grief already old, the outward token of a grim familiarity with woe. He appeared to have no longer in use more than a single version of his thoughts. As formerly he was accustomed not to speak much, he was now accustomed not to smile at all. Athos read at a glance all these shades upon the visage of his faithful servant, and in the same tone he would have employed to speak to Raoul in his dream:
“Grimaud!” he murmured, and sweat began to pour down his face. Grimaud appeared in the doorway. He was no longer the Grimaud we had seen, still young with courage and loyalty, when he first jumped into the boat that would take Raoul de Bragelonne to the royal fleet. Now he was a stern, pale old man, his clothes covered in dust, and his hair gray with age. He trembled as he leaned against the doorframe and nearly fell when he saw the face of his master in the lamplight. These two men, who had spent so many years together in a bond of understanding, and whose eyes, trained to convey so much without words, stood speechless as they looked at each other. With just a single glance, they read deep into each other's hearts. The old servant's face reflected a long-standing sorrow, a visible sign of his deep familiarity with pain. It seemed he had no longer any way of expressing his thoughts other than one. Where he used to not speak much, he now appeared unable to smile at all. Athos saw all these nuances on the face of his faithful servant and spoke to him in the same tone he would have used to speak to Raoul in his dreams:
“Grimaud,” said he, “Raoul is dead. Is it not so?”
“Grimaud,” he said, “Raoul is dead. Is it not so?”
Behind Grimaud the other servants listened breathlessly, with their eyes fixed upon the bed of their sick master. They heard the terrible question, and a heart-breaking silence followed.
Behind Grimaud, the other servants listened intently, their eyes locked on the bed of their ailing master. They heard the dreadful question, and a gut-wrenching silence ensued.
“Yes,” replied the old man, heaving the monosyllable from his chest with a hoarse, broken sigh.
“Yes,” replied the old man, pushing the word out from his chest with a rough, ragged sigh.
Then arose voices of lamentation, which groaned without measure, and filled with regrets and prayers the chamber where the agonized father sought with his eyes the portrait of his son. This was for Athos like the transition which led to his dream. Without uttering a cry, without shedding a tear, patient, mild, resigned as a martyr, he raised his eyes towards Heaven, in order there to see again, rising above the mountain of Gigelli, the beloved shade that was leaving him at the moment of Grimaud’s arrival. Without doubt, while looking towards the heavens, resuming his marvelous dream, he repassed by the same road by which the vision, at once so terrible and sweet, had led him before; for after having gently closed his eyes, he reopened them and began to smile: he had just seen Raoul, who had smiled upon him. With his hands joined upon his breast, his face turned towards the window, bathed by the fresh air of night, which brought upon its wings the aroma of the flowers and the woods, Athos entered, never again to come out of it, into the contemplation of that paradise which the living never see. God willed, no doubt, to open to this elect the treasures of eternal beatitude, at this hour when other men tremble with the idea of being severely received by the Lord, and cling to this life they know, in the dread of the other life of which they get but merest glimpses by the dismal murky torch of death. Athos was spirit-guided by the pure serene soul of his son, which aspired to be like the paternal soul. Everything for this just man was melody and perfume in the rough road souls take to return to the celestial country. After an hour of this ecstasy, Athos softly raised his hands as white as wax; the smile did not quit his lips, and he murmured low, so low as scarcely to be audible, these three words addressed to God or to Raoul:
Then voices of sorrow arose, mourning without end, filling the room with regrets and prayers as the pained father searched for the portrait of his son with his eyes. For Athos, this felt like the moment leading to his dream. Without a cry, without shedding a tear, patient, gentle, and resigned like a martyr, he looked up towards Heaven, hoping to see the beloved figure rising above the Gigelli mountains, leaving him just as Grimaud arrived. Surely, while gazing upwards and reliving his wonderful dream, he retraced the path that the vision, both terrifying and sweet, had taken him on before; for after gently closing his eyes, he reopened them and began to smile: he had just seen Raoul, who had smiled back at him. With his hands clasped over his chest, his face turned towards the window, bathed in the night’s fresh air that carried the scents of flowers and woods, Athos entered into the contemplation of a paradise that the living never see, never to emerge from it again. God, no doubt, chose this moment to reveal to this favored soul the treasures of eternal bliss, while other men tremble at the thought of being harshly judged by the Lord and cling desperately to the life they know, fearing the unknown of the afterlife which they can only glimpse through the gloomy shadow of death. Athos was guided in spirit by the pure, serene essence of his son, which sought to connect with the essence of his father. For this righteous man, everything was music and fragrance on the rough journey souls take to return to their heavenly home. After an hour of this blissful state, Athos gently raised his hands, as pale as wax; the smile remained on his lips, and he murmured softly, so quietly it was barely audible, these three words directed to God or to Raoul:
“HERE I AM!”
“I'm here!”
And his hands fell slowly, as though he himself had laid them on the bed.
And his hands dropped slowly, as if he had placed them on the bed himself.
Death had been kind and mild to this noble creature. It had spared him the tortures of the agony, convulsions of the last departure; had opened with an indulgent finger the gates of eternity to that noble soul. God had no doubt ordered it thus that the pious remembrance of this death should remain in the hearts of those present, and in the memory of other men—a death which caused to be loved the passage from this life to the other by those whose existence upon this earth leads them not to dread the last judgment. Athos preserved, even in the eternal sleep, that placid and sincere smile—an ornament which was to accompany him to the tomb. The quietude and calm of his fine features made his servants for a long time doubt whether he had really quitted life. The comte’s people wished to remove Grimaud, who, from a distance, devoured the face now quickly growing marble-pale, and did not approach, from pious fear of bringing to him the breath of death. But Grimaud, fatigued as he was, refused to leave the room. He sat himself down upon the threshold, watching his master with the vigilance of a sentinel, jealous to receive either his first waking look or his last dying sigh. The noises all were quiet in the house—every one respected the slumber of their lord. But Grimaud, by anxiously listening, perceived that the comte no longer breathed. He raised himself with his hands leaning on the ground, looked to see if there did not appear some motion in the body of his master. Nothing! Fear seized him; he rose completely up, and, at the very moment, heard some one coming up the stairs. A noise of spurs knocking against a sword—a warlike sound familiar to his ears—stopped him as he was going towards the bed of Athos. A voice more sonorous than brass or steel resounded within three paces of him.
Death had been gentle and peaceful to this noble being. It had spared him the torment and convulsions of his final moments; it had opened, with a kind gesture, the gates of eternity to that noble soul. God had surely arranged it so that the cherished memory of this death would linger in the hearts of those present and in the minds of others—a death that made the transition from this life to the next something to be embraced by those whose lives on earth leave them unafraid of the last judgment. Athos kept, even in eternal sleep, that calm and sincere smile—an adornment that would accompany him to the grave. The serenity and composure of his refined features led his servants to doubt for a long time whether he had truly left this life. The count’s people wanted to move Grimaud, who, from a distance, was fixated on the face that was quickly turning to marble, and they hesitated to approach, fearing they might disturb him with the breath of death. But Grimaud, tired as he was, refused to leave the room. He settled himself on the threshold, watching his master with the attentiveness of a guard, eager to catch either his first waking glance or his last dying sigh. All was quiet in the house—everyone respected their lord's rest. But Grimaud, straining to listen, realized that the count no longer breathed. He pushed himself up with his hands on the ground, looking to see if there was any movement in his master's body. Nothing! A wave of fear gripped him; he stood fully up, and just then heard someone coming up the stairs. The sound of spurs clinking against a sword—a martial noise familiar to him—stopped him as he was moving toward Athos's bed. A voice louder than brass or steel echoed within three paces of him.
“Athos! Athos! my friend!” cried this voice, agitated even to tears.
“Athos! Athos! my friend!” shouted the voice, overwhelmed to the point of tears.
“Monsieur le Chevalier d’Artagnan,” faltered out Grimaud.
“Monsieur le Chevalier d’Artagnan,” Grimaud stammered.
“Where is he? Where is he?” continued the musketeer. Grimaud seized his arm in his bony fingers, and pointed to the bed, upon the sheets of which the livid tints of death already showed.
“Where is he? Where is he?” the musketeer kept asking. Grimaud grabbed his arm with his bony fingers and pointed to the bed, where the pale colors of death were already visible on the sheets.
A choked respiration, the opposite to a sharp cry, swelled the throat of D’Artagnan. He advanced on tip-toe, trembling, frightened at the noise his feet made on the floor, his heart rent by a nameless agony. He placed his ear to the breast of Athos, his face to the comte’s mouth. Neither noise, nor breath! D’Artagnan drew back. Grimaud, who had followed him with his eyes, and for whom each of his movements had been a revelation, came timidly; seated himself at the foot of the bed, and glued his lips to the sheet which was raised by the stiffened feet of his master. Then large drops began to flow from his red eyes. This old man in invincible despair, who wept, bent doubled without uttering a word, presented the most touching spectacle that D’Artagnan, in a life so filled with emotion, had ever met with.
A choked breath, the opposite of a sharp cry, filled D’Artagnan's throat. He crept forward on tiptoe, trembling, scared of the noise his feet made on the floor, his heart torn by an indescribable pain. He pressed his ear to Athos's chest, his face close to the comte’s mouth. No sound, no breath! D’Artagnan pulled back. Grimaud, who had watched him closely and whose every move had been a revelation, shyly approached; he sat at the foot of the bed and pressed his lips to the sheet lifted by his master’s stiffened feet. Then large tears began to flow from his red eyes. This old man, overwhelmed with despair, wept silently, bent over without saying a word, presenting the most moving sight that D’Artagnan had ever encountered in a life so filled with emotion.
The captain resumed standing in contemplation before that smiling dead man, who seemed to have burnished his last thought, to give his best friend, the man he had loved next to Raoul, a gracious welcome even beyond life. And for reply to that exalted flattery of hospitality, D’Artagnan went and kissed Athos fervently on the brow, and with his trembling fingers closed his eyes. Then he seated himself by the pillow without dread of that dead man, who had been so kind and affectionate to him for five and thirty years. He was feeding his soul with the remembrances the noble visage of the comte brought to his mind in crowds—some blooming and charming as that smile—some dark, dismal, and icy as that visage with its eyes now closed to all eternity.
The captain stood again, lost in thought, gazing at the smiling dead man who seemed to have polished his final thought, offering his best friend, the one he had loved almost as much as Raoul, a gracious welcome even in death. In response to that elevated gesture of hospitality, D’Artagnan leaned down and kissed Athos warmly on the forehead, then gently closed his eyes with trembling fingers. He settled by the pillow without fear of the dead man who had shown him kindness and affection for thirty-five years. He was nourishing his soul with the memories that the noble face of the comte stirred within him—some beautiful and charming like that smile, others dark, bleak, and cold like that face, now eternally at rest.
All at once the bitter flood which mounted from minute to minute invaded his heart, and swelled his breast almost to bursting. Incapable of mastering his emotion, he arose, and tearing himself violently from the chamber where he had just found dead him to whom he came to report the news of the death of Porthos, he uttered sobs so heart-rending that the servants, who seemed only to wait for an explosion of grief, answered to it by their lugubrious clamors, and the dogs of the late comte by their lamentable howlings. Grimaud was the only one who did not lift up his voice. Even in the paroxysm of his grief he would not have dared to profane the dead, or for the first time disturb the slumber of his master. Had not Athos always bidden him be dumb?
Suddenly, the overwhelming sadness that grew stronger by the minute flooded his heart and filled his chest almost to the point of bursting. Unable to control his emotions, he stood up and forcefully tore himself away from the room where he had just found the body of the person he had come to inform about Porthos's death. He let out sobs so heartbreaking that the servants, who seemed to be waiting for a release of grief, responded with their mournful cries, and the late comte's dogs joined in with their woeful howls. Grimaud was the only one who stayed silent. Even in the height of his sorrow, he wouldn’t dare disturb the dead or, for the first time, trouble his master’s rest. Hadn’t Athos always told him to stay quiet?
At daybreak D’Artagnan, who had wandered about the lower hall, biting his fingers to stifle his sighs—D’Artagnan went up once more; and watching the moments when Grimaud turned his head towards him, he made him a sign to come to him, which the faithful servant obeyed without making more noise than a shadow. D’Artagnan went down again, followed by Grimaud; and when he had gained the vestibule, taking the old man’s hands, “Grimaud,” said he, “I have seen how the father died; now let me know about the son.”
At dawn, D’Artagnan, who had been pacing the lower hall and biting his fingers to hold back his sighs, went upstairs again. Watching for the moments when Grimaud glanced his way, he signaled for him to come over. The loyal servant obeyed without making a sound. D’Artagnan then made his way back down, with Grimaud right behind him. Once they reached the vestibule, D’Artagnan took the old man’s hands and said, “Grimaud, I witnessed how the father died; now please tell me about the son.”
Grimaud drew from his breast a large letter, upon the envelope of which was traced the address of Athos. He recognized the writing of M. de Beaufort, broke the seal, and began to read, while walking about in the first steel-chill rays of dawn, in the dark alley of old limes, marked by the still visible footsteps of the comte who had just died.
Grimaud pulled a large letter from his chest, the envelope clearly addressed to Athos. He recognized M. de Beaufort's handwriting, broke the seal, and started reading as he walked through the chilly, early morning light in the dark alley of old linden trees, still bearing the faint footprints of the count who had just passed away.
Chapter LIX. The Bulletin.
The Duc de Beaufort wrote to Athos. The letter destined for the living only reached the dead. God had changed the address.
The Duke of Beaufort wrote to Athos. The letter meant for the living ended up reaching the dead. God had changed the address.
“MY DEAR COMTE,” wrote the prince, in his large, school-boy’s hand,—“a great misfortune has struck us amidst a great triumph. The king loses one of the bravest of soldiers. I lose a friend. You lose M. de Bragelonne. He has died gloriously, so gloriously that I have not the strength to weep as I could wish. Receive my sad compliments, my dear comte. Heaven distributes trials according to the greatness of our hearts. This is an immense one, but not above your courage. Your good friend,
“MY DEAR COMTE,” wrote the prince, in his large, school-boy’s handwriting,—“a huge misfortune has hit us in the midst of a great triumph. The king loses one of his bravest soldiers. I lose a friend. You lose M. de Bragelonne. He has died heroically, so heroically that I don't have the strength to cry as much as I wish. Please accept my heartfelt condolences, dear comte. Heaven gives us challenges according to the strength of our hearts. This is a tremendous one, but not beyond your courage. Your good friend,
“LE DUC DE BEAUFORT.”
“Duke of Beaufort.”
The letter contained a relation written by one of the prince’s secretaries. It was the most touching recital, and the most true, of that dismal episode which unraveled two existences. D’Artagnan, accustomed to battle emotions, and with a heart armed against tenderness, could not help starting on reading the name of Raoul, the name of that beloved boy who had become a shade now—like his father.
The letter included a report written by one of the prince’s secretaries. It was the most moving and truthful account of the tragic event that shattered two lives. D’Artagnan, used to dealing with strong emotions and with a heart guarded against affection, couldn’t help but flinch upon reading the name Raoul, the name of that cherished boy who had now become a memory—just like his father.
“In the morning,” said the prince’s secretary, “monseigneur commanded the attack. Normandy and Picardy had taken positions in the rocks dominated by the heights of the mountain, upon the declivity of which were raised the bastions of Gigelli.
“In the morning,” said the prince’s secretary, “sir commanded the attack. Normandy and Picardy had taken positions in the rocky areas under the heights of the mountain, where the bastions of Gigelli were located on the slope.”
“The cannon opened the action; the regiments marched full of resolution; the pikemen with pikes elevated, the musket-bearers with their weapons ready. The prince followed attentively the march and movements of the troops, so as to be able to sustain them with a strong reserve. With monseigneur were the oldest captains and his aides-de-camp. M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne had received orders not to leave his highness. In the meantime the enemy’s cannon, which at first thundered with little success against the masses, began to regulate their fire, and the balls, better directed, killed several men near the prince. The regiments formed in column, and, advancing against the ramparts, were rather roughly handled. There was a sort of hesitation in our troops, who found themselves ill-seconded by the artillery. In fact, the batteries which had been established the evening before had but a weak and uncertain aim, on account of their position. The upward direction of the aim lessened the justness of the shots as well as their range.
“The cannon signaled the start of the battle; the regiments marched with determination; the pikemen held their pikes up high, and the musket-bearers had their weapons ready. The prince closely watched the march and movements of the troops so he could support them with a strong reserve. With him were the senior captains and his aides-de-camp. M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne had been ordered to stay by his highness's side. Meanwhile, the enemy's cannon, which initially fired ineffectively against the masses, began to adjust their aim, and the more accurately directed shots killed several men near the prince. The regiments formed into columns and advanced against the ramparts, but they were met with fierce resistance. There was a sense of hesitation among our troops, who felt poorly supported by the artillery. In fact, the batteries set up the night before had a weak and uncertain aim due to their location. The upward tilt of the aim diminished the accuracy and range of the shots.”
“Monseigneur, comprehending the bad effect of this position on the siege artillery, commanded the frigates moored in the little road to commence a regular fire against the place. M. de Bragelonne offered himself at once to carry this order. But monseigneur refused to acquiesce in the vicomte’s request. Monseigneur was right, for he loved and wished to spare the young nobleman. He was quite right, and the event took upon itself to justify his foresight and refusal; for scarcely had the sergeant charged with the message solicited by M. de Bragelonne gained the seashore, when two shots from long carbines issued from the enemy’s ranks and laid him low. The sergeant fell, dyeing the sand with his blood; observing which, M. de Bragelonne smiled at monseigneur, who said to him, ‘You see, vicomte, I have saved your life. Report that, some day, to M. le Comte de la Fere, in order that, learning it from you, he may thank me.’ The young nobleman smiled sadly, and replied to the duke, ‘It is true, monseigneur, that but for your kindness I should have been killed, where the poor sergeant has fallen, and should be at rest.’ M. de Bragelonne made this reply in such a tone that monseigneur answered him warmly, ‘Vrai Dieu! Young man, one would say that your mouth waters for death; but, by the soul of Henry IV., I have promised your father to bring you back alive; and, please the Lord, I mean to keep my word.’
“Your Excellency, understanding the negative impact of this situation on the siege artillery, ordered the frigates anchored in the small bay to start a regular bombardment on the target. Mr. de Bragelonne immediately volunteered to deliver this command. However, your Excellency declined the viscount's request. You were right to do so because you cared for and wanted to protect the young nobleman. You were completely justified, and events proved your foresight and decision; for as soon as the sergeant tasked with delivering the message asked for Mr. de Bragelonne reached the shore, two shots from long rifles came from the enemy's lines and took him down. The sergeant fell, staining the sand with his blood; noticing this, Mr. de Bragelonne smiled at you, who then said to him, ‘You see, viscount, I have saved your life. Make sure to tell Mr. Count de la Fere about this someday, so he can thank me when he hears it from you.’ The young nobleman smiled sadly and replied to the duke, ‘It’s true, your Excellency, that if it weren’t for your kindness, I would have been killed where the poor sergeant fell and would be at peace now.’ Mr. de Bragelonne made this reply in such a way that you responded warmly, ‘By God! Young man, it seems like you’re eager for death; but, by the soul of Henry IV, I promised your father to bring you back alive, and, with God's grace, I plan to keep my word.’”
“Monseigneur de Bragelonne colored, and replied, in a lower voice, ‘Monseigneur, pardon me, I beseech you. I have always had a desire to meet good opportunities; and it is so delightful to distinguish ourselves before our general, particularly when that general is M. le Duc de Beaufort.’
“Monseigneur de Bragelonne blushed and responded, in a softer voice, ‘Monseigneur, please forgive me, I beg you. I have always wanted to seize good opportunities, and it’s so satisfying to stand out in front of our leader, especially when that leader is M. le Duc de Beaufort.’”
“Monseigneur was a little softened by this; and, turning to the officers who surrounded him, gave different orders. The grenadiers of the two regiments got near enough to the ditches and intrenchments to launch their grenades, which had but small effect. In the meanwhile, M. d’Estrees, who commanded the fleet, having seen the attempt of the sergeant to approach the vessels, understood that he must act without orders, and opened fire. Then the Arabs, finding themselves seriously injured by the balls from the fleet, and beholding the destruction and the ruin of their walls, uttered the most fearful cries. Their horsemen descended the mountain at a gallop, bent over their saddles, and rushed full tilt upon the columns of infantry, which, crossing their pikes, stopped this mad assault. Repulsed by the firm attitude of the battalion, the Arabs threw themselves with fury towards the etat-major, which was not on its guard at that moment.
Monseigneur was a bit softened by this; and, turning to the officers around him, issued different orders. The grenadiers from both regiments moved close enough to the ditches and fortifications to throw their grenades, which had minimal impact. Meanwhile, M. d’Estrees, who was in charge of the fleet, noticed the sergeant's attempt to approach the ships and realized he needed to act without waiting for orders, so he opened fire. Then the Arabs, realizing they were seriously hit by the cannon fire from the fleet and witnessing the destruction of their walls, let out terrifying screams. Their horsemen raced down the mountain at full speed, leaning over their saddles, and charged directly at the infantry columns, which crossed their pikes to fend off the aggressive attack. Deflected by the solid stance of the battalion, the Arabs wildly turned their rage toward the etat-major, which was caught off guard at that moment.
“The danger was great; monseigneur drew his sword; his secretaries and people imitated him; the officers of the suite engaged in combat with the furious Arabs. It was then M. de Bragelonne was able to satisfy the inclination he had so clearly shown from the commencement of the action. He fought near the prince with the valor of a Roman, and killed three Arabs with his small sword. But it was evident that his bravery did not arise from that sentiment of pride so natural to all who fight. It was impetuous, affected, even forced; he sought to glut, intoxicate himself with strife and carnage. He excited himself to such a degree that monseigneur called to him to stop. He must have heard the voice of monseigneur, because we who were close to him heard it. He did not, however, stop, but continued his course to the intrenchments. As M. de Bragelonne was a well-disciplined officer, this disobedience to the orders of monseigneur very much surprised everybody, and M. de Beaufort redoubled his earnestness, crying, ‘Stop, Bragelonne! Where are you going? Stop,’ repeated monseigneur, ‘I command you!’
“The danger was intense; the prince drew his sword, and his secretaries and attendants followed suit. The officers engaged in combat with the raging Arabs. At that moment, M. de Bragelonne was finally able to act on the desire he'd shown since the start of the fight. He fought alongside the prince with the courage of a Roman, taking down three Arabs with his small sword. However, it was clear that his bravery didn’t stem from the pride that usually drives fighters. It was impulsive, affected, even forced; he seemed to crave a thrill from the chaos and bloodshed. He got so worked up that the prince called out for him to stop. He must have heard the prince's voice because we, who were nearby, heard it too. Still, he didn’t stop and continued moving toward the intrenchments. Since M. de Bragelonne was a well-trained officer, his disobedience surprised everyone, and M. de Beaufort intensified his pleas, shouting, ‘Stop, Bragelonne! Where are you going? Stop,’ repeated the prince, ‘I command you!’”
“We all, imitating the gesture of M. le duc, we all raised our hands. We expected that the cavalier would turn bridle; but M. de Bragelonne continued to ride towards the palisades.
“We all, copying M. le duc's gesture, raised our hands. We thought the cavalier would turn around; but M. de Bragelonne kept riding toward the palisades.
“‘Stop, Bragelonne!’ repeated the prince, in a very loud voice, ‘stop! in the name of your father!’
“‘Stop, Bragelonne!’ the prince shouted loudly, ‘stop! in the name of your father!’”
“At these words M. de Bragelonne turned round; his countenance expressed a lively grief, but he did not stop; we then concluded that his horse must have run away with him. When M. le duc saw cause to conclude that the vicomte was no longer master of his horse, and had watched him precede the first grenadiers, his highness cried, ‘Musketeers, kill his horse! A hundred pistoles for the man who kills his horse!’ But who could expect to hit the beast without at least wounding his rider? No one dared the attempt. At length one presented himself; he was a sharp-shooter of the regiment of Picardy, named Luzerne, who took aim at the animal, fired, and hit him in the quarters, for we saw the blood redden the hair of the horse. Instead of falling, the cursed jennet was irritated, and carried him on more furiously than ever. Every Picard who saw this unfortunate young man rushing on to meet certain death, shouted in the loudest manner, ‘Throw yourself off, monsieur le vicomte!—off!—off! throw yourself off!’ M. de Bragelonne was an officer much beloved in the army. Already had the vicomte arrived within pistol-shot of the ramparts, when a discharge was poured upon him that enshrouded him in fire and smoke. We lost sight of him; the smoke dispersed; he was on foot, upright; his horse was killed.
At these words, M. de Bragelonne turned around; his face showed deep sorrow, but he didn’t stop. We then figured that his horse must have taken off with him. When M. le Duc realized that the vicomte was no longer in control of his horse and saw him rushing ahead of the first grenadiers, he shouted, “Musketeers, shoot his horse! A hundred pistoles for the person who brings it down!” But who could expect to hit the horse without at least injuring its rider? No one dared to try. Finally, one person stepped up; he was a sharp-shooter from the Picardy regiment named Luzerne, who took aim at the horse, fired, and hit it in the rear, as we saw blood staining the horse's coat. Instead of falling, the darn horse got even more agitated and sped off with him more violently than ever. Every Picard who witnessed this unfortunate young man racing towards certain death yelled out as loudly as they could, “Jump off, monsieur le vicomte!—off!—off! jump off!” M. de Bragelonne was a well-loved officer in the army. The vicomte had already come within pistol range of the ramparts when a volley was fired at him that engulfed him in flames and smoke. He disappeared from view; when the smoke cleared, he was on foot, standing tall; his horse was dead.
“The vicomte was summoned to surrender by the Arabs, but he made them a negative sign with his head, and continued to march towards the palisades. This was a mortal imprudence. Nevertheless the entire army was pleased that he would not retreat, since ill-chance had led him so near. He marched a few paces further, and the two regiments clapped their hands. It was at this moment the second discharge shook the walls, and the Vicomte de Bragelonne again disappeared in the smoke; but this time the smoke dispersed in vain; we no longer saw him standing. He was down, with his head lower than his legs, among the bushes, and the Arabs began to think of leaving their intrenchments to come and cut off his head or take his body—as is the custom with the infidels. But Monseigneur le Duc de Beaufort had followed all this with his eyes, and the sad spectacle drew from him many painful sighs. He then cried aloud, seeing the Arabs running like white phantoms among the mastic-trees, ‘Grenadiers! lancers! will you let them take that noble body?’
The viscount was ordered to surrender by the Arabs, but he shook his head in refusal and kept moving toward the palisades. This was a dangerous mistake. Still, the entire army felt a sense of pride that he wouldn't back down, especially since bad luck had brought him so close. He took a few more steps, and the two regiments cheered. At that moment, the second blast shook the walls, and the Vicomte de Bragelonne vanished into the smoke again; but this time, the smoke cleared in vain; he was no longer visible standing. He was down, with his head lower than his legs, among the bushes, and the Arabs began to consider leaving their fortified position to come and behead him or take his body—as infidels usually do. But Monseigneur le Duc de Beaufort had been watching all this unfold, and the grim sight drew many painful sighs from him. He then shouted, seeing the Arabs moving like white phantoms among the mastic trees, "Grenadiers! Lancers! Are you going to let them take that noble body?"
“Saying these words and waving his sword, he himself rode towards the enemy. The regiments, rushing in his steps, ran in their turn, uttering cries as terrible as those of the Arabs were wild.
“Saying these words and waving his sword, he rode towards the enemy. The regiments, rushing in his wake, followed suit, shouting cries as fierce as those of the Arabs were wild.
“The combat commenced over the body of M. de Bragelonne, and with such inveteracy was it fought that a hundred and sixty Arabs were left upon the field, by the side of at least fifty of our troops. It was a lieutenant from Normandy who took the body of the vicomte on his shoulders and carried it back to the lines. The advantage was, however, pursued, the regiments took the reserve with them, and the enemy’s palisades were utterly destroyed. At three o’clock the fire of the Arabs ceased; the hand-to-hand fight lasted two hours; it was a massacre. At five o’clock we were victorious at all points; the enemy had abandoned his positions, and M. le duc ordered the white flag to be planted on the summit of the little mountain. It was then we had time to think of M. de Bragelonne, who had eight large wounds in his body, through which almost all his blood had welled away. Still, however, he had breathed, which afforded inexpressible joy to monseigneur, who insisted on being present at the first dressing of the wounds and the consultation of the surgeons. There were two among them who declared M. de Bragelonne would live. Monseigneur threw his arms around their necks, and promised them a thousand louis each if they could save him.
The battle started over M. de Bragelonne’s body, and it was fought with such intensity that a hundred sixty Arabs were left dead on the field, along with at least fifty of our troops. A lieutenant from Normandy picked up the vicomte’s body and carried it back to our lines. We kept pushing forward; the regiments took the reserve with them, and the enemy’s defenses were completely destroyed. At three o’clock, the Arab fire stopped; the close combat lasted for two hours—it was a massacre. By five o’clock, we had won on all fronts; the enemy had abandoned their positions, and M. le duc ordered a white flag to be raised on the summit of the little mountain. It was then we had a moment to think about M. de Bragelonne, who had eight large wounds, losing almost all his blood. However, he was still breathing, which brought immense joy to monseigneur, who insisted on being present for the first treatment of the wounds and the surgeons' consultation. Two of the surgeons declared that M. de Bragelonne would survive. Monseigneur hugged them and promised them a thousand louis each if they could save him.
“The vicomte heard these transports of joy, and whether he was in despair, or whether he suffered much from his wounds, he expressed by his countenance a contradiction, which gave rise to reflection, particularly in one of the secretaries when he had heard what follows. The third surgeon was the brother of Sylvain de Saint-Cosme, the most learned of them all. He probed the wounds in his turn, and said nothing. M. de Bragelonne fixed his eyes steadily upon the skillful surgeon, and seemed to interrogate his every movement. The latter, upon being questioned by monseigneur, replied that he saw plainly three mortal wounds out of eight, but so strong was the constitution of the wounded, so rich was he in youth, and so merciful was the goodness of God, that perhaps M. de Bragelonne might recover, particularly if he did not move in the slightest manner. Frere Sylvain added, turning towards his assistants, ‘Above everything, do not allow him to move, even a finger, or you will kill him;’ and we all left the tent in very low spirits. That secretary I have mentioned, on leaving the tent, thought he perceived a faint and sad smile glide over the lips of M. de Bragelonne when the duke said to him, in a cheerful, kind voice, ‘We will save you, vicomte, we will save you yet.’
“The vicomte heard the shouts of joy, and whether he was in despair or suffering a lot from his wounds, his expression showed a contradiction that made people think, especially one of the secretaries after hearing what happened next. The third surgeon was the brother of Sylvain de Saint-Cosme, the most knowledgeable among them. He examined the wounds in his turn and remained silent. M. de Bragelonne focused intently on the skilled surgeon, seemingly questioning every move he made. When asked by monseigneur, the surgeon replied that he could clearly see three fatal wounds out of eight, but the wounded man’s strong constitution, his youth, and God’s mercy meant that M. de Bragelonne might recover, especially if he didn't move at all. Frere Sylvain added, turning to his assistants, ‘Above everything, do not let him move, not even a finger, or you will kill him;’ and we all left the tent feeling very down. That secretary I mentioned, upon leaving the tent, thought he noticed a faint and sad smile cross M. de Bragelonne's lips when the duke said to him in a warm, cheerful voice, ‘We will save you, vicomte, we will save you yet.’”
“In the evening, when it was believed the wounded youth had taken some repose, one of the assistants entered his tent, but rushed out again immediately, uttering loud cries. We all ran up in disorder, M. le duc with us, and the assistant pointed to the body of M. de Bragelonne upon the ground, at the foot of his bed, bathed in the remainder of his blood. It appeared that he had suffered some convulsion, some delirium, and that he had fallen; that the fall had accelerated his end, according to the prognosis of Frere Sylvain. We raised the vicomte; he was cold and dead. He held a lock of fair hair in his right hand, and that hand was tightly pressed upon his heart.”
"In the evening, when we thought the injured young man had gotten some rest, one of the helpers went into his tent but quickly ran out again, shouting loudly. We all rushed over, including M. le duc, and the helper pointed to M. de Bragelonne's lifeless body on the ground, at the foot of his bed, covered in what was left of his blood. It seemed that he had experienced some convulsion or delirium and had fallen; the fall had hastened his death, just as Frere Sylvain had predicted. We lifted the vicomte; he was cold and lifeless. He was clutching a lock of fair hair in his right hand, which was pressed tightly against his heart."
Then followed the details of the expedition, and of the victory obtained over the Arabs. D’Artagnan stopped at the account of the death of poor Raoul. “Oh!” murmured he, “unhappy boy! a suicide!” And turning his eyes towards the chamber of the chateau, in which Athos slept in eternal sleep, “They kept their words with each other,” said he, in a low voice; “now I believe them to be happy; they must be reunited.” And he returned through the parterre with slow and melancholy steps. All the village—all the neighborhood—were filled with grieving neighbors relating to each other the double catastrophe, and making preparations for the funeral.
Then came the details of the expedition and the victory over the Arabs. D’Artagnan paused at the news of poor Raoul's death. “Oh!” he whispered, “poor boy! a suicide!” Turning his gaze toward the castle room where Athos lay in eternal sleep, he said quietly, “They kept their promises to each other; now I believe they're happy; they must be together again.” He walked back through the garden with slow, sad steps. The whole village and the surrounding area were filled with grieving neighbors sharing the news of the double tragedy and making arrangements for the funeral.
Chapter LX. The Last Canto of the Poem.
On the morrow, all the noblesse of the provinces, of the environs, and wherever messengers had carried the news, might have been seen arriving in detachments. D’Artagnan had shut himself up, without being willing to speak to anybody. Two such heavy deaths falling upon the captain, so closely after the death of Porthos, for a long time oppressed that spirit which had hitherto been so indefatigable and invulnerable. Except Grimaud, who entered his chamber once, the musketeer saw neither servants nor guests. He supposed, from the noises in the house, and the continual coming and going, that preparations were being made for the funeral of the comte. He wrote to the king to ask for an extension of his leave of absence. Grimaud, as we have said, had entered D’Artagnan’s apartment, had seated himself upon a joint-stool near the door, like a man who meditates profoundly; then, rising, he made a sign to D’Artagnan to follow him. The latter obeyed in silence. Grimaud descended to the comte’s bed-chamber, showed the captain with his finger the place of the empty bed, and raised his eyes eloquently towards Heaven.
The next day, all the nobles from the provinces, nearby areas, and wherever news had spread, were arriving in groups. D’Artagnan had locked himself away and refused to speak to anyone. Two heavy losses weighing on the captain, so soon after Porthos’ death, for a long time crushed his spirit, which had always been so tireless and invincible. Other than Grimaud, who entered his room once, the musketeer did not see any servants or guests. He guessed from the commotion in the house and the constant coming and going that preparations were being made for the comte's funeral. He wrote to the king requesting an extension of his leave. Grimaud, as we mentioned, had entered D’Artagnan’s room and sat down on a stool near the door, like someone deep in thought; then, rising, he signaled for D’Artagnan to follow him. The latter obeyed in silence. Grimaud went down to the comte’s bedroom, pointed with his finger to the empty bed, and looked up to Heaven with an expressive gaze.
“Yes,” replied D’Artagnan, “yes, good Grimaud—now with the son he loved so much!”
“Yes,” replied D’Artagnan, “yes, good Grimaud—now with the son he loved so much!”
Grimaud left the chamber, and led the way to the hall, where, according to the custom of the province, the body was laid out, previously to being put away forever. D’Artagnan was struck at seeing two open coffins in the hall. In reply to the mute invitation of Grimaud, he approached, and saw in one of them Athos, still handsome in death, and, in the other, Raoul with his eyes closed, his cheeks pearly as those of the Palls of Virgil, with a smile on his violet lips. He shuddered at seeing the father and son, those two departed souls, represented on earth by two silent, melancholy bodies, incapable of touching each other, however close they might be.
Grimaud left the room and led the way to the hall, where, following the local custom, the body was laid out before being buried for good. D’Artagnan was taken aback to see two open coffins in the hall. Responding to Grimaud's silent gesture, he approached and saw Athos in one of them, still handsome in death, and in the other, Raoul with his eyes closed, his cheeks as pearly as those of the Palls of Virgil, a smile gracing his violet lips. He shuddered at the sight of the father and son, those two departed souls, represented on earth by two silent, sorrowful bodies, unable to touch each other, no matter how close they were.
“Raoul here!” murmured he. “Oh! Grimaud, why did you not tell me this?”
“Raoul here!” he whispered. “Oh! Grimaud, why didn’t you tell me this?”
Grimaud shook his head, and made no reply; but taking D’Artagnan by the hand, he led him to the coffin, and showed him, under the thin winding-sheet, the black wounds by which life had escaped. The captain turned away his eyes, and, judging it was useless to question Grimaud, who would not answer, he recollected that M. de Beaufort’s secretary had written more than he, D’Artagnan, had had the courage to read. Taking up the recital of the affair which had cost Raoul his life, he found these words, which ended the concluding paragraph of the letter:
Grimaud shook his head and didn’t reply; instead, he took D’Artagnan by the hand and led him to the coffin, showing him the dark wounds beneath the thin shroud where life had slipped away. The captain averted his gaze, realizing it was pointless to ask Grimaud anything since he wouldn’t respond. He recalled that M. de Beaufort’s secretary had written more than he, D’Artagnan, had been brave enough to read. Picking up the account of the incident that had cost Raoul his life, he found these words, which concluded the ending paragraph of the letter:
“Monseigneur le duc has ordered that the body of monsieur le vicomte should be embalmed, after the manner practiced by the Arabs when they wish their dead to be carried to their native land; and monsieur le duc has appointed relays, so that the same confidential servant who brought up the young man might take back his remains to M. le Comte de la Fere.”
“Monseigneur the duke has ordered that the body of monsieur the viscount be embalmed using the method practiced by the Arabs when they want their dead transported back to their homeland; and monsieur the duke has arranged for relays, so that the same trusted servant who brought the young man up might return his remains to M. the Count de la Fere.”
“And so,” thought D’Artagnan, “I shall follow thy funeral, my dear boy—I, already old—I, who am of no value on earth—and I shall scatter dust upon that brow I kissed but two months since. God has willed it to be so. Thou hast willed it to be so, thyself. I have no longer the right even to weep. Thou hast chosen death; it seemed to thee a preferable gift to life.”
“And so,” thought D’Artagnan, “I will follow your funeral, my dear boy—I, already old—I, who have no value on this earth—and I will scatter dust on that forehead I kissed just two months ago. God has decided this must be. You have chosen this, too. I don’t even have the right to cry anymore. You chose death; it seemed to you a better gift than life.”
At length arrived the moment when the chill remains of these two gentlemen were to be given back to mother earth. There was such an affluence of military and other people that up to the place of the sepulture, which was a little chapel on the plain, the road from the city was filled with horsemen and pedestrians in mourning. Athos had chosen for his resting-place the little inclosure of a chapel erected by himself near the boundary of his estates. He had had the stones, cut in 1550, brought from an old Gothic manor-house in Berry, which had sheltered his early youth. The chapel, thus rebuilt, transported, was pleasing to the eye beneath its leafy curtains of poplars and sycamores. It was ministered in every Sunday, by the cure of the neighboring bourg, to whom Athos paid an allowance of two hundred francs for this service; and all the vassals of his domain, with their families, came thither to hear mass, without having any occasion to go to the city.
Finally, the time came when the cold remains of these two gentlemen were to be returned to the earth. There was such a large gathering of military and other people that the road from the city to the burial site—a small chapel on the plain—was filled with horsemen and pedestrians in mourning. Athos had chosen a little chapel he built near the boundary of his estates as his resting place. He had the stones cut in 1550 brought from an old Gothic manor house in Berry, where he spent his early years. The chapel, rebuilt and relocated, was beautiful beneath its leafy canopy of poplars and sycamores. Every Sunday, it was officiated by the priest of the nearby village, to whom Athos paid an allowance of two hundred francs for this service; all the tenants of his estate, along with their families, came there to attend mass, avoiding the need to go to the city.
Behind the chapel extended, surrounded by two high hedges of hazel, elder and white thorn, and a deep ditch, the little inclosure—uncultivated, though gay in its sterility; because the mosses there grew thick, wild heliotrope and ravenelles there mingled perfumes, while from beneath an ancient chestnut issued a crystal spring, a prisoner in its marble cistern, and on the thyme all around alighted thousands of bees from the neighboring plants, whilst chaffinches and redthroats sang cheerfully among the flower-spangled hedges. It was to this place the somber coffins were carried, attended by a silent and respectful crowd. The office of the dead being celebrated, the last adieux paid to the noble departed, the assembly dispersed, talking, along the roads, of the virtues and mild death of the father, of the hopes the son had given, and of his melancholy end upon the arid coast of Africa.
Behind the chapel was a small enclosure, surrounded by two tall hedges of hazel, elder, and hawthorn, and a deep ditch. It was uncultivated but vibrant in its barrenness; mosses grew thick, wild heliotrope and other fragrant flowers mingled their scents, and from beneath an old chestnut tree flowed a clear spring, trapped in its marble cistern. Thousands of bees from nearby flowers buzzed around the thyme, while chaffinches and robins sang happily among the flower-filled hedges. This was the place where the somber coffins were brought, accompanied by a quiet and respectful crowd. After the funeral service was held and the final goodbyes were said to the noble departed, the group dispersed, discussing along the roads the virtues and gentle passing of the father, the hopes the son had inspired, and his tragic end on the barren shores of Africa.
Little by little, all noises were extinguished, like the lamps illuminating the humble nave. The minister bowed for the last time to the altar and the still fresh graves; then, followed by his assistant, he slowly took the road back to the presbytery. D’Artagnan, left alone, perceived that night was coming on. He had forgotten the hour, thinking only of the dead. He arose from the oaken bench on which he was seated in the chapel, and wished, as the priest had done, to go and bid a last adieu to the double grave which contained his two lost friends.
Bit by bit, all the noises faded away, like the lights that had been illuminating the simple nave. The minister bowed one last time to the altar and to the still-fresh graves; then, followed by his assistant, he slowly made his way back to the presbytery. D’Artagnan, left alone, realized that night was approaching. He had lost track of time, focused only on the deceased. He got up from the oak bench where he had been sitting in the chapel and wanted, just like the priest, to go and say a final farewell to the double grave that held his two lost friends.
A woman was praying, kneeling on the moist earth. D’Artagnan stopped at the door of the chapel, to avoid disturbing her, and also to endeavor to find out who was the pious friend who performed this sacred duty with so much zeal and perseverance. The unknown had hidden her face in her hands, which were white as alabaster. From the noble simplicity of her costume, she must be a woman of distinction. Outside the inclosure were several horses mounted by servants; a travelling carriage was in waiting for this lady. D’Artagnan in vain sought to make out what caused her delay. She continued praying, and frequently pressed her handkerchief to her face, by which D’Artagnan perceived she was weeping. He beheld her strike her breast with the compunction of a Christian woman. He heard her several times exclaim as from a wounded heart: “Pardon! pardon!” And as she appeared to abandon herself entirely to her grief, as she threw herself down, almost fainting, exhausted by complaints and prayers, D’Artagnan, touched by this love for his so much regretted friends, made a few steps towards the grave, in order to interrupt the melancholy colloquy of the penitent with the dead. But as soon as his step sounded on the gravel, the unknown raised her head, revealing to D’Artagnan a face aflood with tears, a well-known face. It was Mademoiselle de la Valliere! “Monsieur d’Artagnan!” murmured she.
A woman was praying, kneeling on the damp ground. D’Artagnan paused at the chapel door to avoid interrupting her and to try to figure out who this devoted person was, performing such a sacred duty with so much passion and determination. The unknown woman had hidden her face in her hands, which were as white as alabaster. From the simple elegance of her outfit, she looked like a woman of high standing. Outside the enclosure, several horses were being ridden by servants; a traveling carriage was waiting for her. D’Artagnan, unable to determine what was causing her delay, watched as she continued praying, frequently pressing her handkerchief to her face, revealing that she was crying. He saw her strike her chest in remorse like a Christian woman. He heard her repeatedly cry out from a wounded heart, “Forgive me! Forgive me!” As she seemed to surrender completely to her sorrow, nearly collapsing from exhaustion due to her lamentations and prayers, D’Artagnan, moved by her love for his dearly missed friends, took a few steps toward the grave to interrupt the grieving conversation between her and the deceased. However, as soon as his footstep crunched on the gravel, the unknown woman raised her head, revealing a face streaming with tears, a familiar face. It was Mademoiselle de la Vallière! “Monsieur d’Artagnan!” she murmured.
“You!” replied the captain, in a stern voice, “you here!—oh! madame, I should better have liked to see you decked with flowers in the mansion of the Comte de la Fere. You would have wept less—and they too—and I!”
“You!” the captain replied sternly, “you here!—oh! madam, I would have preferred to see you adorned with flowers in the home of the Comte de la Fere. You would have cried less—and so would they—and I!”
“Monsieur!” said she, sobbing.
“Sir!” she said, crying.
“For it was you,” added this pitiless friend of the dead,—“it was you who sped these two men to the grave.”
“For it was you,” added this merciless friend of the dead, —“it was you who sent these two men to their graves.”
“Oh! spare me!”
“Oh! please save me!”
“God forbid, madame, that I should offend a woman, or that I should make her weep in vain; but I must say that the place of the murderer is not upon the grave of her victims.” She wished to reply.
“God forbid, ma'am, that I should upset a woman or make her cry for no reason; but I have to say that the murderer doesn’t belong on the grave of their victims.” She wanted to respond.
“What I now tell you,” added he, coldly, “I have already told the king.”
“What I'm about to tell you,” he added coldly, “I've already told the king.”
She clasped her hands. “I know,” said she, “I have caused the death of the Vicomte de Bragelonne.”
She held her hands together. “I know,” she said, “I caused the death of the Vicomte de Bragelonne.”
“Ah! you know it?”
"Ah! You know about it?"
“The news arrived at court yesterday. I have traveled during the night forty leagues to come and ask pardon of the comte, whom I supposed to be still living, and to pray God, on the tomb of Raoul, that he would send me all the misfortunes I have merited, except a single one. Now, monsieur, I know that the death of the son has killed the father; I have two crimes to reproach myself with; I have two punishments to expect from Heaven.”
“The news reached the court yesterday. I traveled all night, covering forty leagues, to ask the comte for forgiveness, believing he was still alive, and to pray to God at Raoul's tomb to send me all the misfortunes I deserve, except for one. Now, sir, I know that the son’s death has devastated the father; I have two sins to hold against myself; I have two punishments to anticipate from Heaven.”
“I will repeat to you, mademoiselle,” said D’Artagnan, “what M. de Bragelonne said of you, at Antibes, when he already meditated death: ‘If pride and coquetry have misled her, I pardon her while despising her. If love has produced her error, I pardon her, but I swear that no one could have loved her as I have done.’”
“I'll tell you again, miss,” said D’Artagnan, “what M. de Bragelonne said about you at Antibes when he was already thinking about death: ‘If pride and flirtation have led her astray, I forgive her even while looking down on her. If love caused her mistake, I forgive her, but I swear that no one could have loved her like I have.’”
“You know,” interrupted Louise, “that of my love I was about to sacrifice myself; you know whether I suffered when you met me lost, dying, abandoned. Well! never have I suffered so much as now; because then I hoped, desired,—now I have no longer anything to wish for; because this death drags all my joy into the tomb; because I can no longer dare to love without remorse, and I feel that he whom I love—oh! it is but just!—will repay me with the tortures I have made others undergo.”
“You know,” Louise interrupted, “that I was about to give up everything for my love; you know how much I suffered when you found me lost, dying, and alone. Well! I have never suffered as much as I do now; because back then I had hope and desire—now I have nothing left to wish for; this death takes all my joy with it. I can no longer love without feeling guilty, and I know that the one I love—oh! it’s only fair!—will make me go through the anguish I’ve caused others.”
D’Artagnan made no reply; he was too well convinced that she was not mistaken.
D’Artagnan didn't respond; he was too sure that she wasn't wrong.
“Well, then,” added she, “dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, do not overwhelm me to-day, I again implore you! I am like the branch torn from the trunk, I no longer hold to anything in this world—a current drags me on, I know not whither. I love madly, even to the point of coming to tell it, wretch that I am, over the ashes of the dead, and I do not blush for it—I have no remorse on this account. Such love is a religion. Only, as hereafter you will see me alone, forgotten, disdained; as you will see me punished, as I am destined to be punished, spare me in my ephemeral happiness, leave it to me for a few days, for a few minutes. Now, even at the moment I am speaking to you, perhaps it no longer exists. My God! this double murder is perhaps already expiated!”
“Well, then,” she added, “dear Mr. d’Artagnan, please don’t overwhelm me today, I beg you! I feel like a branch ripped from its tree, no longer attached to anything in this world—a current is dragging me along, and I have no idea where it’s taking me. I love wildly, to the point of telling you, what a fool I am, over the ashes of the dead, and I don’t feel ashamed about it—I have no regrets about this. Such love is like a religion. However, as you will see me later, alone, forgotten, looked down upon; as you will witness my punishment, as I am meant to be punished, please spare me this fleeting happiness, let me have it for just a few days, for just a few minutes. Even now, as I’m speaking to you, perhaps it’s already gone. My God! this double murder may already be atoned for!”
While she was speaking thus, the sound of voices and of horses drew the attention of the captain. M. de Saint-Aignan came to seek La Valliere. “The king,” he said, “is a prey to jealousy and uneasiness.” Saint-Aignan did not perceive D’Artagnan, half concealed by the trunk of a chestnut-tree which shaded the double grave. Louise thanked Saint-Aignan, and dismissed him with a gesture. He rejoined the party outside the inclosure.
While she was speaking, the sound of voices and horses caught the captain's attention. M. de Saint-Aignan came to look for La Valliere. “The king,” he said, “is consumed by jealousy and unease.” Saint-Aignan didn’t notice D’Artagnan, who was partially hidden by the trunk of a chestnut tree shading the double grave. Louise thanked Saint-Aignan and dismissed him with a gesture. He rejoined the group outside the enclosure.
“You see, madame,” said the captain bitterly to the young woman,—“you see your happiness still lasts.”
"You see, ma'am," the captain said bitterly to the young woman, "your happiness is still going strong."
The young woman raised her head with a solemn air. “A day will come,” said she, “when you will repent of having so misjudged me. On that day, it is I who will pray God to forgive you for having been unjust towards me. Besides, I shall suffer so much that you yourself will be the first to pity my sufferings. Do not reproach me with my fleeting happiness, Monsieur d’Artagnan; it costs me dear, and I have not paid all my debt.” Saying these words, she again knelt down, softly and affectionately.
The young woman lifted her head with a serious expression. “There will come a day,” she said, “when you will regret misjudging me. On that day, I’ll be the one asking God to forgive you for being unfair to me. Besides, I’ll be in so much pain that you will be the first to feel sorry for my suffering. Don’t blame me for my brief happiness, Monsieur d’Artagnan; it comes at a high price, and I haven’t settled all my debts yet.” With that, she knelt down again, gently and with affection.
“Pardon me the last time, my affianced Raoul!” said she. “I have broken our chain; we are both destined to die of grief. It is thou who departest first; fear nothing, I shall follow thee. See, only, that I have not been base, and that I have come to bid thee this last adieu. The Lord is my witness, Raoul, that if with my life I could have redeemed thine, I would have given that life without hesitation. I could not give my love. Once more, forgive me, dearest, kindest friend.”
“Forgive me one last time, my dear Raoul!” she said. “I've broken our bond; we’re both meant to die from heartbreak. You are leaving first; don’t worry, I will follow you. Just know that I haven’t been cruel, and that I’ve come to say this final goodbye. God is my witness, Raoul, that if I could have traded my life for yours, I would have done it without thinking twice. I couldn't give up my love. Once more, forgive me, my sweetest, kindest friend.”
She strewed a few sweet flowers on the freshly sodded earth; then, wiping the tears from her eyes, the heavily stricken lady bowed to D’Artagnan, and disappeared.
She scattered a few sweet flowers on the freshly laid soil; then, wiping the tears from her eyes, the deeply affected lady bowed to D’Artagnan and vanished.
The captain watched the departure of the horses, horsemen, and carriage, then crossing his arms upon his swelling chest, “When will it be my turn to depart?” said he, in an agitated voice. “What is there left for man after youth, love, glory, friendship, strength, and wealth have disappeared? That rock, under which sleeps Porthos, who possessed all I have named; this moss, under which repose Athos and Raoul, who possessed much more!”
The captain watched the horses, horsemen, and carriage leave, then crossed his arms over his broad chest. “When will it be my turn to go?” he said, his voice filled with emotion. “What is there left for a man after youth, love, glory, friendship, strength, and wealth are gone? That rock where Porthos sleeps, who had everything I just mentioned; this moss where Athos and Raoul rest, who had even more!”
He hesitated for a moment, with a dull eye; then, drawing himself up, “Forward! still forward!” said he. “When it is time, God will tell me, as he foretold the others.”
He hesitated for a moment, with a dull look; then, straightening himself, “Let’s go! Keep going!” he said. “When the time comes, God will let me know, just like he did with the others.”
He touched the earth, moistened with the evening dew, with the ends of his fingers, signed himself as if he had been at the benitier in church, and retook alone—ever alone—the road to Paris.
He touched the ground, damp with the evening dew, with the tips of his fingers, made the sign of the cross like he had at the benitier in church, and set off alone—always alone—on the road to Paris.
Epilogue.
Four years after the scene we have just described, two horsemen, well mounted, traversed Blois early in the morning, for the purpose of arranging a hawking party the king had arranged to make in that uneven plain the Loire divides in two, which borders on the one side Meung, on the other Amboise. These were the keeper of the king’s harriers and the master of the falcons, personages greatly respected in the time of Louis XIII., but rather neglected by his successor. The horsemen, having reconnoitered the ground, were returning, their observations made, when they perceived certain little groups of soldiers, here and there, whom the sergeants were placing at distances at the openings of the inclosures. These were the king’s musketeers. Behind them came, upon a splendid horse, the captain, known by his richly embroidered uniform. His hair was gray, his beard turning so. He seemed a little bent, although sitting and handling his horse gracefully. He was looking about him watchfully.
Four years after the scene we just described, two well-mounted horsemen rode through Blois early in the morning to organize a hawking party the king had planned in the uneven plain split by the Loire, which borders Meung on one side and Amboise on the other. These were the king’s huntsman and the master of the falcons, respected figures during the time of Louis XIII but somewhat overlooked by his successor. The horsemen were heading back after scouting the area when they noticed small groups of soldiers scattered about, positioned by the sergeants at intervals at the openings of the enclosures. These were the king’s musketeers. Following them was the captain, riding a magnificent horse and recognized by his richly embroidered uniform. His hair was gray, and his beard was starting to turn as well. He looked a bit hunched, though he sat and handled his horse with grace, watching his surroundings attentively.
“M. d’Artagnan does not get any older,” said the keeper of the harriers to his colleague the falconer; “with ten years more to carry than either of us, he has the seat of a young man on horseback.”
“M. d’Artagnan doesn’t seem to age,” said the keeper of the hounds to his fellow falconer; “with ten more years to bear than either of us, he rides like a young man.”
“That is true,” replied the falconer. “I don’t see any change in him for the last twenty years.”
"That's true," replied the falconer. "I haven't seen any change in him for the last twenty years."
But this officer was mistaken; D’Artagnan in the last four years had lived a dozen. Age had printed its pitiless claws at each angle of his eyes; his brow was bald; his hands, formerly brown and nervous, were getting white, as if the blood had half forgotten them.
But this officer was wrong; D’Artagnan in the last four years had lived a dozen. Age had left its merciless mark at the corners of his eyes; his forehead was bald; his hands, once brown and lively, were turning white, as if the blood had half forgotten them.
D’Artagnan accosted the officers with the shade of affability which distinguishes superiors, and received in turn for his courtesy two most respectful bows.
D’Artagnan approached the officers with the kind of friendliness that sets superiors apart, and in return for his politeness, he received two very respectful bows.
“Ah! what a lucky chance to see you here, Monsieur d’Artagnan!” cried the falconer.
“Ah! What a lucky coincidence to see you here, Monsieur d’Artagnan!” shouted the falconer.
“It is rather I who should say that, messieurs,” replied the captain, “for nowadays, the king makes more frequent use of his musketeers than of his falcons.”
“It’s more like I should be the one saying that, gentlemen,” replied the captain, “because these days, the king relies on his musketeers more than his falcons.”
“Ah! it is not as it was in the good old times,” sighed the falconer. “Do you remember, Monsieur d’Artagnan, when the late king flew the pie in the vineyards beyond Beaugence? Ah! dame! you were not the captain of the musketeers at that time, Monsieur d’Artagnan.” 7
“Ah! it’s not like it was in the good old days,” sighed the falconer. “Do you remember, Monsieur d’Artagnan, when the late king flew the pie in the vineyards beyond Beaugence? Ah! man! you weren’t the captain of the musketeers back then, Monsieur d’Artagnan.” 7
“And you were nothing but under-corporal of the tiercelets,” replied D’Artagnan, laughing. “Never mind that, it was a good time, seeing that it is always a good time when we are young. Good day, monsieur the keeper of the harriers.”
“And you were just a junior corporal of the tiercelets,” replied D’Artagnan, laughing. “But that doesn’t matter, it was a great time, since it's always a great time when we're young. Have a good day, sir, the keeper of the harriers.”
“You do me honor, monsieur le comte,” said the latter. D’Artagnan made no reply. The title of comte had hardly struck him; D’Artagnan had been a comte four years.
“You honor me, sir count,” said the latter. D’Artagnan didn’t respond. The title of count hardly registered with him; D’Artagnan had been a count for four years.
“Are you not very much fatigued with the long journey you have taken, monsieur le capitaine?” continued the falconer. “It must be full two hundred leagues from hence to Pignerol.”
“Are you feeling very tired from the long journey you’ve taken, captain?” the falconer continued. “It must be almost two hundred leagues from here to Pignerol.”
“Two hundred and sixty to go, and as many to return,” said D’Artagnan, quietly.
“Two hundred and sixty to go, and just as many to come back,” said D’Artagnan calmly.
“And,” said the falconer, “is he well?”
“And,” said the falconer, “is he okay?”
“Who?” asked D’Artagnan.
“Who?” D’Artagnan asked.
“Why, poor M. Fouquet,” continued the falconer, in a low voice. The keeper of the harriers had prudently withdrawn.
“Why, poor M. Fouquet,” the falconer continued softly. The keeper of the harriers had wisely stepped back.
“No,” replied D’Artagnan, “the poor man frets terribly; he cannot comprehend how imprisonment can be a favor; he says that parliament absolved him by banishing him, and banishment is, or should be, liberty. He cannot imagine that they had sworn his death, and that to save his life from the claws of parliament was to be under too much obligation to Heaven.”
“No,” replied D’Artagnan, “the poor man is really upset; he can't understand how being imprisoned could be considered a favor. He says that the parliament freed him by exiling him, and exile is supposed to mean freedom. He can't grasp that they had sworn to kill him, and that saving his life from the parliament's grip is something he feels deeply indebted to Heaven for.”
“Ah! yes; the poor man had a close chance of the scaffold,” replied the falconer; “it is said that M. Colbert had given orders to the governor of the Bastile, and that the execution was ordered.”
“Ah! yes; the poor man was almost sentenced to the gallows,” replied the falconer; “it’s said that Mr. Colbert had instructed the governor of the Bastille, and that the execution was planned.”
“Enough!” said D’Artagnan, pensively, and with a view of cutting short the conversation.
“Enough!” said D’Artagnan, thinkively, trying to end the conversation.
“Yes,” said the keeper of the harriers, drawing towards them, “M. Fouquet is now at Pignerol; he has richly deserved it. He had the good fortune to be conducted there by you; he robbed the king sufficiently.”
“Yes,” said the keeper of the harriers, moving closer to them, “M. Fouquet is now in Pignerol; he really earned it. You were lucky enough to help him get there; he stole enough from the king.”
D’Artagnan launched at the master of the dogs one of his crossest looks, and said to him, “Monsieur, if any one told me you had eaten your dogs’ meat, not only would I refuse to believe it; but still more, if you were condemned to the lash or to jail for it, I should pity you and would not allow people to speak ill of you. And yet, monsieur, honest man as you may be, I assure you that you are not more so than poor M. Fouquet was.”
D’Artagnan shot a fierce look at the dog’s owner and said, “Sir, if someone told me you had eaten your dogs’ food, I wouldn’t just refuse to believe it; I would also feel sorry for you if you were punished for it and wouldn’t let anyone talk badly about you. And yet, sir, as honest as you might be, I assure you that you’re not any more honest than poor M. Fouquet was.”
After having undergone this sharp rebuke, the keeper of the harriers hung his head, and allowed the falconer to get two steps in advance of him nearer to D’Artagnan.
After receiving this harsh criticism, the keeper of the hounds lowered his head and let the falconer take two steps ahead of him closer to D’Artagnan.
“He is content,” said the falconer, in a low voice, to the musketeer; “we all know that harriers are in fashion nowadays; if he were a falconer he would not talk in that way.”
“He's satisfied,” said the falconer quietly to the musketeer; “we all know that harriers are popular these days; if he were a falconer, he wouldn't talk like that.”
D’Artagnan smiled in a melancholy manner at seeing this great political question resolved by the discontent of such humble interest. He for a moment ran over in his mind the glorious existence of the surintendant, the crumbling of his fortunes, and the melancholy death that awaited him; and to conclude, “Did M. Fouquet love falconry?” said he.
D’Artagnan smiled sadly as he saw this major political issue resolved by the dissatisfaction of such ordinary concerns. For a moment, he reflected on the once-glorious life of the superintendent, the downfall of his fortunes, and the tragic death that awaited him; and to sum it up, “Did M. Fouquet love falconry?” he asked.
“Oh, passionately, monsieur!” repeated the falconer, with an accent of bitter regret and a sigh that was the funeral oration of Fouquet.
“Oh, passionately, sir!” repeated the falconer, with a tone of deep regret and a sigh that was like a eulogy for Fouquet.
D’Artagnan allowed the ill-humor of the one and the regret of the other to pass, and continued to advance. They could already catch glimpses of the huntsmen at the issue of the wood, the feathers of the outriders passing like shooting stars across the clearings, and the white horses skirting the bosky thickets looking like illuminated apparitions.
D’Artagnan ignored the bad mood of one and the regret of the other and kept moving forward. They could already see the hunters emerging from the woods, the feathers of the outriders flashing like shooting stars across the open areas, and the white horses moving along the forest edges, appearing like glowing specters.
“But,” resumed D’Artagnan, “will the sport last long? Pray, give us a good swift bird, for I am very tired. Is it a heron or a swan?”
“But,” D’Artagnan continued, “will this go on for long? Please, let’s have a good quick bird, because I’m really tired. Is it a heron or a swan?”
“Both, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the falconer; “but you need not be alarmed; the king is not much of a sportsman; he does not take the field on his own account, he only wishes to amuse the ladies.”
“Both, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the falconer; “but you don’t need to worry; the king isn’t really a sportsman; he doesn’t hunt for himself, he just wants to entertain the ladies.”
The words “to amuse the ladies” were so strongly accented they set D’Artagnan thinking.
The phrase “to entertain the ladies” was emphasized so much that it made D’Artagnan ponder.
“Ah!” said he, looking keenly at the falconer.
“Ah!” he said, looking closely at the falconer.
The keeper of the harriers smiled, no doubt with a view of making it up with the musketeer.
The harrier keeper smiled, clearly hoping to make amends with the musketeer.
“Oh! you may safely laugh,” said D’Artagnan; “I know nothing of current news; I only arrived yesterday, after a month’s absence. I left the court mourning the death of the queen-mother. The king was not willing to take any amusement after receiving the last sigh of Anne of Austria; but everything comes to an end in this world. Well! then he is no longer sad? So much the better.” 8
“Oh! you can definitely laugh,” said D’Artagnan; “I don’t know anything about the latest news; I just got back yesterday after being away for a month. I left the court in mourning for the queen-mother’s death. The king didn’t want to have any fun after Anne of Austria took her last breath; but everything eventually comes to an end in this world. So, he’s not sad anymore? That’s good.” 8
“And everything begins as well as ends,” said the keeper with a coarse laugh.
“And everything starts just as it finishes,” said the keeper with a rough laugh.
“Ah!” said D’Artagnan, a second time,—he burned to know, but dignity would not allow him to interrogate people below him,—“there is something beginning, then, it seems?”
“Ah!” said D’Artagnan again—he was eager to know, but his pride kept him from asking those below him—“so it seems something is starting?”
The keeper gave him a significant wink; but D’Artagnan was unwilling to learn anything from this man.
The keeper gave him a meaningful wink, but D’Artagnan wasn’t interested in learning anything from this guy.
“Shall we see the king early?” asked he of the falconer.
“Should we see the king early?” he asked the falconer.
“At seven o’clock, monsieur, I shall fly the birds.”
“At seven o’clock, sir, I will let the birds go.”
“Who comes with the king? How is Madame? How is the queen?”
“Who’s coming with the king? How’s Madame? How’s the queen?”
“Better, monsieur.”
“Better, sir.”
“Has she been ill, then?”
"Has she been sick, then?"
“Monsieur, since the last chagrin she suffered, her majesty has been unwell.”
“Monsieur, ever since her last disappointment, her majesty has not been feeling well.”
“What chagrin? You need not fancy your news is old. I have but just returned.”
“What disappointment? You don’t need to think your news is outdated. I’ve just come back.”
“It appears that the queen, a little neglected since the death of her mother-in-law, complained to the king, who answered her,—‘Do I not sleep at home every night, madame? What more do you expect?’”
“It seems that the queen, feeling a bit overlooked since her mother-in-law passed away, expressed her concerns to the king, who replied, ‘Don’t I sleep at home every night, madam? What more do you want?’”
“Ah!” said D’Artagnan,—“poor woman! She must heartily hate Mademoiselle de la Valliere.”
“Ah!” said D’Artagnan, “poor woman! She must really hate Mademoiselle de la Valliere.”
“Oh, no! not Mademoiselle de la Valliere,” replied the falconer.
“Oh, no! Not Mademoiselle de la Valliere,” replied the falconer.
“Who then—” The blast of a hunting-horn interrupted this conversation. It summoned the dogs and the hawks. The falconer and his companions set off immediately, leaving D’Artagnan alone in the midst of the suspended sentence. The king appeared at a distance, surrounded by ladies and horsemen. All the troop advanced in beautiful order, at a foot’s pace, the horns of various sorts animating the dogs and horses. There was an animation in the scene, a mirage of light, of which nothing now can give an idea, unless it be the fictitious splendor of a theatric spectacle. D’Artagnan, with an eye a little, just a little, dimmed by age, distinguished behind the group three carriages. The first was intended for the queen; it was empty. D’Artagnan, who did not see Mademoiselle de la Valliere by the king’s side, on looking about for her, saw her in the second carriage. She was alone with two of her women, who seemed as dull as their mistress. On the left hand of the king, upon a high-spirited horse, restrained by a bold and skillful hand, shone a lady of most dazzling beauty. The king smiled upon her, and she smiled upon the king. Loud laughter followed every word she uttered.
“Who then—” The sound of a hunting horn interrupted the conversation. It called the dogs and hawks into action. The falconer and his friends set off immediately, leaving D’Artagnan alone in the middle of his unfinished thought. The king appeared in the distance, surrounded by ladies and horsemen. The entire group moved forward in an orderly fashion, at a slow pace, with various horns stirring the dogs and horses. The scene was lively, a shimmer of light that nothing can truly capture, except perhaps the staged brilliance of a theatrical performance. D’Artagnan, his eyesight slightly dimmed by age, spotted three carriages behind the group. The first was for the queen; it was empty. D’Artagnan didn’t see Mademoiselle de la Valliere next to the king, but when he looked around, he found her in the second carriage. She was alone with two of her attendants, who seemed as uninspired as she was. To the king’s left, on a spirited horse that was skillfully controlled, rode a lady of stunning beauty. The king smiled at her, and she smiled back at him. Her words were met with loud laughter each time she spoke.
“I must know that woman,” thought the musketeer; “who can she be?” And he stooped towards his friend, the falconer, to whom he addressed the question he had put to himself.
“I need to know who that woman is,” thought the musketeer; “who could she be?” He leaned towards his friend, the falconer, and asked him the question he had been pondering.
The falconer was about to reply, when the king, perceiving D’Artagnan, “Ah, comte!” said he, “you are amongst us once more then! Why have I not seen you?”
The falconer was about to reply when the king, noticing D’Artagnan, said, “Ah, comte! You’re back with us again! Why haven’t I seen you?”
“Sire,” replied the captain, “because your majesty was asleep when I arrived, and not awake when I resumed my duties this morning.”
“Sire,” replied the captain, “because your majesty was asleep when I got here, and still asleep when I started my duties this morning.”
“Still the same,” said Louis, in a loud voice, denoting satisfaction. “Take some rest, comte; I command you to do so. You will dine with me to-day.”
“Still the same,” Louis said loudly, showing his satisfaction. “Get some rest, comte; I insist you do so. You’ll have dinner with me today.”
A murmur of admiration surrounded D’Artagnan like a caress. Every one was eager to salute him. Dining with the king was an honor his majesty was not so prodigal of as Henry IV. had been. The king passed a few steps in advance, and D’Artagnan found himself in the midst of a fresh group, among whom shone Colbert.
A murmur of admiration surrounded D’Artagnan like a gentle touch. Everyone was eager to greet him. Dining with the king was an honor that his majesty didn’t give out as freely as Henry IV did. The king moved a few steps ahead, and D’Artagnan found himself in the middle of a new group, among whom Colbert stood out.
“Good-day, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the minister, with marked affability, “have you had a pleasant journey?”
“Good day, Mr. d’Artagnan,” said the minister, with noticeable friendliness, “did you have a nice trip?”
“Yes, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, bowing to the neck of his horse.
“Yes, sir,” said D’Artagnan, bowing to his horse.
“I heard the king invite you to his table for this evening,” continued the minister; “you will meet an old friend there.”
“I heard the king invited you to his table for tonight,” the minister continued. “You’ll meet an old friend there.”
“An old friend of mine?” asked D’Artagnan, plunging painfully into the dark waves of the past, which had swallowed up for him so many friendships and so many hatreds.
“An old friend of mine?” asked D’Artagnan, painfully diving into the dark waves of the past, which had consumed so many friendships and so much hatred for him.
“M. le Duc d’Almeda, who is arrived this morning from Spain.”
“M. le Duc d’Almeda, who arrived this morning from Spain.”
“The Duc d’Almeda?” said D’Artagnan, reflecting in vain.
“The Duke of Almeda?” D’Artagnan said, thinking hard but coming up empty.
“Here!” cried an old man, white as snow, sitting bent in his carriage, which he caused to be thrown open to make room for the musketeer.
“Here!” shouted an old man, as white as snow, hunching in his carriage, which he had opened up to make space for the musketeer.
“Aramis!” cried D’Artagnan, struck with profound amazement. And he felt, inert as it was, the thin arm of the old nobleman hanging round his neck.
“Aramis!” shouted D’Artagnan, filled with astonishment. And he felt, though lifeless, the thin arm of the old nobleman draped around his neck.
Colbert, after having observed them in silence for a few moments, urged his horse forward, and left the two old friends together.
Colbert, having watched them quietly for a moment, pushed his horse ahead and left the two old friends alone.
“And so,” said the musketeer, taking Aramis’s arm, “you, the exile, the rebel, are again in France?”
“And so,” said the musketeer, taking Aramis’s arm, “you, the exile, the rebel, are back in France again?”
“Ah! and I shall dine with you at the king’s table,” said Aramis, smiling. “Yes, will you not ask yourself what is the use of fidelity in this world? Stop! let us allow poor La Valliere’s carriage to pass. Look, how uneasy she is! How her eyes, dim with tears, follow the king, who is riding on horseback yonder!”
“Ah! And I’ll have dinner with you at the king’s table,” said Aramis with a smile. “Yes, have you ever thought about the point of loyalty in this world? Wait! Let’s let poor La Valliere’s carriage through. Look how anxious she is! How her tear-filled eyes follow the king, who is riding over there!”
“With whom?”
"With who?"
“With Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, now Madame de Montespan,” replied Aramis.
“With Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, now Madame de Montespan,” replied Aramis.
“She is jealous. Is she then deserted?”
“She’s jealous. Is she being abandoned?”
“Not quite yet, but it will not be long before she is.” 9
“Not quite yet, but it won't be long before she is.” 9
They chatted together, while following the sport, and Aramis’s coachman drove them so cleverly that they arrived at the instant when the falcon, attacking the bird, beat him down, and fell upon him. The king alighted; Madame de Montespan followed his example. They were in front of an isolated chapel, concealed by huge trees, already despoiled of their leaves by the first cutting winds of autumn. Behind this chapel was an inclosure, closed by a latticed gate. The falcon had beaten down his prey in the inclosure belonging to this little chapel, and the king was desirous of going in to take the first feather, according to custom. The cortege formed a circle round the building and the hedges, too small to receive so many. D’Artagnan held back Aramis by the arm, as he was about, like the rest, to alight from his carriage, and in a hoarse, broken voice, “Do you know, Aramis,” said he, “whither chance has conducted us?”
They were chatting while watching the game, and Aramis’s coachman drove them so skillfully that they arrived just as the falcon swooped down on its prey and took it down. The king got out first, and Madame de Montespan followed suit. They were standing in front of a secluded chapel, hidden by huge trees that had already shed their leaves due to the first chilly winds of autumn. Behind this chapel was an enclosure, secured by a lattice gate. The falcon had caught its prey inside the enclosure of the little chapel, and the king wanted to go in to take the first feather, as was customary. The cortege formed a circle around the building and the hedges, which were too small to fit everyone. D’Artagnan restrained Aramis by the arm just as he was about to get out of the carriage, and in a hoarse, broken voice, he said, “Do you know, Aramis, where chance has brought us?”
“No,” replied the duke.
“No,” said the duke.
“Here repose men that we knew well,” said D’Artagnan, greatly agitated.
“Here lie the men we knew well,” said D’Artagnan, deeply shaken.
Aramis, without divining anything, and with a trembling step, penetrated into the chapel by a little door which D’Artagnan opened for him. “Where are they buried?” said he.
Aramis, without guessing anything, and with a trembling step, entered the chapel through a small door that D’Artagnan opened for him. “Where are they buried?” he asked.
“There, in the inclosure. There is a cross, you see, beneath yon little cypress. The tree of grief is planted over their tomb; don’t go to it; the king is going that way; the heron has fallen just there.”
“There, in the enclosed area. There's a cross, see, under that small cypress. The tree of sorrow is planted over their grave; don’t go there; the king is headed that way; the heron has fallen right there.”
Aramis stopped, and concealed himself in the shade. They then saw, without being seen, the pale face of La Valliere, who, neglected in her carriage, at first looked on, with a melancholy heart, from the door, and then, carried away by jealousy, advanced into the chapel, whence, leaning against a pillar, she contemplated the king smiling and making signs to Madame de Montespan to approach, as there was nothing to be afraid of. Madame de Montespan complied; she took the hand the king held out to her, and he, plucking out the first feather from the heron, which the falconer had strangled, placed it in his beautiful companion’s hat. She, smiling in her turn, kissed the hand tenderly which made her this present. The king grew scarlet with vanity and pleasure; he looked at Madame de Montespan with all the fire of new love.
Aramis stopped and hid in the shade. They then saw, without being seen, La Valliere’s pale face, who, left alone in her carriage, initially watched with a heavy heart from the doorway. Then, overtaken by jealousy, she stepped into the chapel, where, leaning against a pillar, she watched the king smile and gesture for Madame de Montespan to come closer, reassuring her that there was nothing to fear. Madame de Montespan approached; she took the king's outstretched hand, and he plucked the first feather from the heron that the falconer had killed and placed it in her hat. She smiled back and gently kissed the hand that gave her this gift. The king flushed with pride and joy; he gazed at Madame de Montespan with all the intensity of new love.
“What will you give me in exchange?” said he.
“What will you give me in return?” he asked.
She broke off a little branch of cypress and offered it to the king, who looked intoxicated with hope.
She snapped off a small branch of cypress and handed it to the king, who appeared ecstatic with hope.
“Humph!” said Aramis to D’Artagnan; “the present is but a sad one, for that cypress shades a tomb.”
“Humph!” Aramis said to D’Artagnan; “the current situation is pretty bleak, as that cypress tree casts a shadow over a grave.”
“Yes, and the tomb is that of Raoul de Bragelonne,” said D’Artagnan aloud; “of Raoul, who sleeps under that cross with his father.”
“Yes, and the tomb belongs to Raoul de Bragelonne,” D’Artagnan said out loud; “to Raoul, who rests beneath that cross with his father.”
A groan resounded—they saw a woman fall fainting to the ground. Mademoiselle de la Valliere had seen all, heard all.
A groan echoed—they saw a woman collapse, fainting to the ground. Mademoiselle de la Valliere had witnessed everything, heard everything.
“Poor woman!” muttered D’Artagnan, as he helped the attendants to carry back to her carriage the lonely lady whose lot henceforth in life was suffering.
“Poor woman!” D’Artagnan said quietly, as he helped the attendants carry back to her carriage the lonely lady whose life from now on would be filled with suffering.
That evening D’Artagnan was seated at the king’s table, near M. Colbert and M. le Duc d’Almeda. The king was very gay. He paid a thousand little attentions to the queen, a thousand kindnesses to Madame, seated at his left hand, and very sad. It might have been supposed that time of calm when the king was wont to watch his mother’s eyes for the approval or disapproval of what he had just done.
That evening, D’Artagnan was sitting at the king’s table, close to Monsieur Colbert and Duke d’Almeda. The king was in a great mood. He showed a thousand little gestures of kindness to the queen and a thousand acts of care to Madame, who was seated to his left and appeared very sad. It was a moment reminiscent of when the king used to look to his mother's eyes for her approval or disapproval of his actions.
Of mistresses there was no question at this dinner. The king addressed Aramis two or three times, calling him M. l’ambassadeur, which increased the surprise already felt by D’Artagnan at seeing his friend the rebel so marvelously well received at court.
At this dinner, there was no doubt about the mistresses. The king spoke to Aramis two or three times, calling him M. l’ambassadeur, which only added to D’Artagnan's surprise at seeing his friend the rebel being so incredibly well received at court.
The king, on rising from table, gave his hand to the queen, and made a sign to Colbert, whose eye was on his master’s face. Colbert took D’Artagnan and Aramis on one side. The king began to chat with his sister, whilst Monsieur, very uneasy, entertained the queen with a preoccupied air, without ceasing to watch his wife and brother from the corner of his eye. The conversation between Aramis, D’Artagnan, and Colbert turned upon indifferent subjects. They spoke of preceding ministers; Colbert related the successful tricks of Mazarin, and desired those of Richelieu to be related to him. D’Artagnan could not overcome his surprise at finding this man, with his heavy eyebrows and low forehead, display so much sound knowledge and cheerful spirits. Aramis was astonished at that lightness of character which permitted this serious man to retard with advantage the moment for more important conversation, to which nobody made any allusion, although all three interlocutors felt its imminence. It was very plain, from the embarrassed appearance of Monsieur, how much the conversation of the king and Madame annoyed him. Madame’s eyes were almost red: was she going to complain? Was she going to expose a little scandal in open court? The king took her on one side, and in a tone so tender that it must have reminded the princess of the time when she was loved for herself:
The king stood up from the table, took the queen's hand, and signaled to Colbert, who was watching his master closely. Colbert pulled D’Artagnan and Aramis aside. The king started chatting with his sister, while Monsieur, clearly anxious, distracted the queen with a preoccupied demeanor, keeping a watchful eye on his wife and brother from the corner of his eye. The conversation between Aramis, D’Artagnan, and Colbert focused on trivial topics. They talked about previous ministers; Colbert shared stories about Mazarin’s clever tricks and asked for tales about Richelieu. D’Artagnan was surprised to see this man, with his heavy brows and low forehead, display such solid knowledge and good humor. Aramis was taken aback by how this serious man could leisurely delay a more significant conversation, which no one mentioned even though all three felt it was looming. Monsieur’s troubled expression made it clear how much the king’s and Madame’s conversation bothered him. Madame’s eyes were nearly red: was she about to complain? Was she going to stir up a little scandal in public? The king pulled her aside and spoke in such a tender tone that it must have reminded the princess of when she was loved just for who she was.
“Sister,” said he, “why do I see tears in those lovely eyes?”
“Sister,” he said, “why do I see tears in those beautiful eyes?”
“Why—sire—” said she.
“Why—your majesty—” she said.
“Monsieur is jealous, is he not, sister?”
“Monsieur is jealous, isn’t he, sister?”
She looked towards Monsieur, an infallible sign that they were talking about him.
She glanced at Monsieur, a clear sign that they were talking about him.
“Yes,” said she.
“Yes,” she said.
“Listen to me,” said the king; “if your friends compromise you, it is not Monsieur’s fault.”
“Listen to me,” said the king; “if your friends get you in trouble, it’s not Monsieur’s fault.”
He spoke these words with so much kindness that Madame, encouraged, having borne so many solitary griefs so long, was nearly bursting into tears, so full was her heart.
He spoke these words with such kindness that Madame, feeling encouraged after enduring so many lonely sorrows for so long, was on the verge of tears, her heart so full.
“Come, come, dear little sister,” said the king, “tell me your griefs; on the word of a brother, I pity them; on the word of a king, I will put an end to them.”
“Come, come, dear little sister,” said the king, “tell me your troubles; as your brother, I feel for you; as your king, I will make them stop.”
She raised her glorious eyes and, in a melancholy tone:
She lifted her beautiful eyes and said in a sad tone:
“It is not my friends who compromise me,” said she; “they are either absent or concealed; they have been brought into disgrace with your majesty; they, so devoted, so good, so loyal!”
“It’s not my friends who put me in a difficult position,” she said; “they’re either not here or hiding; they’ve fallen out of your majesty’s favor; they are so devoted, so good, so loyal!”
“You say this on account of De Guiche, whom I have exiled, at Monsieur’s desire?”
"You say this because of De Guiche, whom I have exiled at Monsieur’s request?"
“And who, since that unjust exile, has endeavored to get himself killed once every day.”
“And who, since that unfair exile, has tried to get himself killed every single day?”
“Unjust, say you, sister?”
"Unjust, you say, sister?"
“So unjust, that if I had not had the respect mixed with friendship that I have always entertained for your majesty—”
“So unfair that if I hadn't had the respect mixed with friendship that I've always felt for your majesty—”
“Well!”
“Well!”
“Well! I would have asked my brother Charles, upon whom I can always—”
“Well! I would have asked my brother Charles, who I can always—”
The king started. “What, then?”
The king began. “What now?”
“I would have asked him to have had it represented to you that Monsieur and his favorite M. le Chevalier de Lorraine ought not with impunity to constitute themselves the executioners of my honor and my happiness.”
“I would have asked him to let you know that Monsieur and his favorite, M. le Chevalier de Lorraine, shouldn’t be allowed to act as the judges of my honor and happiness without any consequences.”
“The Chevalier de Lorraine,” said the king; “that dismal fellow?”
“The Chevalier de Lorraine,” said the king; “that gloomy guy?”
“Is my mortal enemy. Whilst that man lives in my household, where Monsieur retains him and delegates his power to him, I shall be the most miserable woman in the kingdom.”
“Is my mortal enemy. As long as that man lives in my house, where Monsieur keeps him and gives him authority, I will be the most miserable woman in the kingdom.”
“So,” said the king, slowly, “you call your brother of England a better friend than I am?”
“So,” said the king, slowly, “you think your brother from England is a better friend than I am?”
“Actions speak for themselves, sire.”
“Actions speak for themselves, sir.”
“And you would prefer going to ask assistance there—”
“And you would rather go there to ask for help—”
“To my own country!” said she with pride; “yes, sire.”
“To my own country!” she said proudly; “yes, sir.”
“You are the grandchild of Henry IV. as well as myself, lady. Cousin and brother-in-law, does not that amount pretty well to the title of brother-germain?”
“You are the grandchild of Henry IV, just like I am, lady. Cousin and brother-in-law—doesn’t that pretty much make us siblings?”
“Then,” said Henrietta, “act!”
“Then,” said Henrietta, “do it!”
“Let us form an alliance.”
“Let’s form an alliance.”
“Begin.”
"Start."
“I have, you say, unjustly exiled De Guiche.”
“I have, you say, wrongfully exiled De Guiche.”
“Oh! yes,” said she, blushing.
“Oh! yes,” she said, blushing.
“De Guiche shall return.” 10
“De Guiche will return.” __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
“So far, well.”
"Doing well so far."
“And now you say that I do wrong in having in your household the Chevalier de Lorraine, who gives Monsieur ill advice respecting you?”
“And now you say that I'm wrong for having the Chevalier de Lorraine in your household, who gives Monsieur bad advice about you?”
“Remember well what I tell you, sire; the Chevalier de Lorraine some day—Observe, if ever I come to a dreadful end, I beforehand accuse the Chevalier de Lorraine; he has a spirit that is capable of any crime!”
“Remember what I’m telling you, sire; the Chevalier de Lorraine will someday—If I ever meet a terrible end, I blame the Chevalier de Lorraine in advance; he has a spirit that can do anything criminal!”
“The Chevalier de Lorraine shall no longer annoy you—I promise you that.” 11
“The Chevalier de Lorraine won’t bother you anymore—I promise.” 11
“Then that will be a true preliminary of alliance, sire,—I sign; but since you have done your part, tell me what shall be mine.”
“Then that will be a real start of our alliance, sir—I agree; but since you’ve done your part, tell me what mine should be.”
“Instead of embroiling me with your brother Charles, you must make him a more intimate friend than ever.”
“Instead of getting me involved with your brother Charles, you need to make him a closer friend than ever.”
“That is very easy.”
"That's super easy."
“Oh! not quite so easy as you may suppose, for in ordinary friendship people embrace or exercise hospitality, and that only costs a kiss or a return, profitable expenses; but in political friendship—”
“Oh! it’s not as easy as you might think, because in regular friendships, people show affection or offer hospitality, and that only costs a kiss or a reciprocation, which are worthwhile investments; but in political friendships—”
“Ah! it’s a political friendship, is it?”
“Ah! So it's a political friendship, huh?”
“Yes, my sister; and then, instead of embraces and feasts, it is soldiers—it is soldiers all alive and well equipped—that we must serve up to our friends; vessels we must offer, all armed with cannons and stored with provisions. It hence results that we have not always coffers in a fit condition for such friendships.”
“Yes, my sister; and instead of hugs and celebrations, we have to present soldiers—soldiers who are fully alive and well equipped—to our friends; we must offer ships, all armed with cannons and stocked with supplies. As a result, we don’t always have the resources available for such friendships.”
“Ah! you are quite right,” said Madame; “the coffers of the king of England have been sonorous for some time.”
“Ah! you’re absolutely right,” said Madame; “the coffers of the king of England have been quite full for a while now.”
“But you, my sister, who have so much influence over your brother, you can secure more than an ambassador could ever get the promise of.”
“But you, my sister, who have such a strong influence over your brother, you can achieve more than any ambassador could ever promise.”
“To effect that I must go to London, my dear brother.”
“I need to go to London for that, my dear brother.”
“I have thought so,” replied the king, eagerly; “and I have said to myself that such a voyage would do your health and spirits good.”
“I’ve thought that too,” the king replied eagerly; “and I’ve told myself that such a trip would be great for your health and spirits.”
“Only,” interrupted Madame, “it is possible I should fail. The king of England has dangerous counselors.”
“However,” interrupted Madame, “there’s a chance I might fail. The king of England has some dangerous advisors.”
“Counselors, do you say?”
"Counselors, is that what you mean?"
“Precisely. If, by chance, your majesty had any intention—I am only supposing so—of asking Charles II. his alliance in a war—”
“Exactly. If, by any chance, your majesty was thinking—I’m just assuming here—of asking Charles II for his alliance in a war—”
“A war?”
"Is there a war?"
“Yes; well! then the king’s counselors, who are in number seven—Mademoiselle Stewart, Mademoiselle Wells, Mademoiselle Gwyn, Miss Orchay, Mademoiselle Zunga, Miss Davies, and the proud Countess of Castlemaine—will represent to the king that war costs a great deal of money; that it is better to give balls and suppers at Hampton Court than to equip ships of the line at Portsmouth and Greenwich.”
“Yes; well! Then the king’s advisors, seven in total—Mademoiselle Stewart, Mademoiselle Wells, Mademoiselle Gwyn, Miss Orchay, Mademoiselle Zunga, Miss Davies, and the arrogant Countess of Castlemaine—will tell the king that war is very expensive; that it’s better to host parties and dinners at Hampton Court than to outfit warships at Portsmouth and Greenwich.”
“And then your negotiations will fail?”
“And then your negotiations will fall through?”
“Oh! those ladies cause all negotiations to fall through which they don’t make themselves.”
“Oh! Those ladies make sure that any negotiations don’t go through unless they’re the ones handling them.”
“Do you know the idea that has struck me, sister?”
“Do you know what idea came to me, sister?”
“No; inform me what it is.”
“No; tell me what it is.”
“It is that, searching well around you, you might perhaps find a female counselor to take with you to your brother, whose eloquence might paralyze the ill-will of the seven others.”
“It is that, if you look carefully around you, you might find a female advisor to take with you to your brother, whose persuasive conversation could neutralize the hostility of the other seven.”
“That is really an idea, sire, and I will search.”
"That's a great idea, Your Majesty, and I will look into it."
“You will find what you want.”
“You'll find what you're looking for.”
“I hope so.”
"I really hope so."
“A pretty ambassadress is necessary; an agreeable face is better than an ugly one, is it not?”
“A charming ambassador is essential; a pleasant face is better than an unattractive one, don’t you think?”
“Most assuredly.”
“Definitely.”
“An animated, lively, audacious character.”
“A vibrant, bold, energetic character.”
“Certainly.”
"Of course."
“Nobility; that is, enough to enable her to approach the king without awkwardness—not too lofty, so as not to trouble herself about the dignity of her race.”
“Nobility; which means having just enough status to approach the king comfortably—not so high up that she has to worry about the pride of her lineage.”
“Very true.”
"Absolutely."
“And who knows a little English.”
“And who knows a bit of English.”
“Mon Dieu! why, some one,” cried Madame, “like Mademoiselle de Keroualle, for instance!”
“Oh my God! Why, someone,” cried Madame, “like Mademoiselle de Keroualle, for example!”
“Oh! why, yes!” said Louis XIV.; “you have hit the mark,—it is you who have found, my sister.”
“Oh! Of course!” said Louis XIV.; “you've nailed it—it's you who have discovered it, my sister.”
“I will take her; she will have no cause to complain, I suppose.”
“I’ll take her; I guess she won’t have any reason to complain.”
“Oh! no, I will name her seductrice plenipotentiaire at once, and will add a dowry to the title.”
“Oh! no, I will call her seductrice plenipotentiaire right away, and I will add a dowry to the title.”
“That is well.”
"That's good."
“I fancy you already on your road, my dear little sister, consoled for all your griefs.”
“I imagine you’re already on your way, my dear little sister, comforted for all your sorrows.”
“I will go, on two conditions. The first is, that I shall know what I am negotiating about.”
“I'll go, but on two conditions. The first is that I need to know what I'm negotiating about.”
“That is it. The Dutch, you know, insult me daily in their gazettes, and by their republican attitude. I do not like republics.”
"That's it. The Dutch, you know, insult me every day in their newspapers and with their republican attitude. I don't like republics."
“That may easily be imagined, sire.”
"That can easily be imagined, sir."
“I see with pain that these kings of the sea—they call themselves so—keep trade from France in the Indies, and that their vessels will soon occupy all the ports of Europe. Such a power is too near me, sister.”
“I see with pain that these self-proclaimed kings of the sea are blocking trade from France in the Indies, and their ships will soon take over all the ports in Europe. That kind of power is too close for comfort, sister.”
“They are your allies, nevertheless.”
“They're your allies, though.”
“That is why they were wrong in having the medal you have heard of struck; a medal which represents Holland stopping the sun, as Joshua did, with this legend: The sun had stopped before me. There is not much fraternity in that, is there?”
“That’s why they were wrong to have the medal you’ve heard about created; a medal that shows Holland stopping the sun, just like Joshua did, with the saying: The sun had stopped before me. There isn’t much brotherhood in that, is there?”
“I thought you had forgotten that miserable episode?”
“I thought you had forgotten about that awful situation?”
“I never forget anything, sister. And if my true friends, such as your brother Charles, are willing to second me—” The princess remained pensively silent.
“I never forget anything, sister. And if my true friends, like your brother Charles, are willing to support me—” The princess stayed thoughtfully silent.
“Listen to me; there is the empire of the seas to be shared,” said Louis XIV. “For this partition, which England submits to, could I not represent the second party as well as the Dutch?”
“Listen to me; there is the empire of the seas to be shared,” said Louis XIV. “For this division, which England agrees to, couldn’t I represent the second party just as well as the Dutch?”
“We have Mademoiselle de Keroualle to treat that question,” replied Madame.
“We have Mademoiselle de Keroualle to handle that question,” replied Madame.
“Your second condition for going, if you please, sister?”
“Could you please tell me your second condition for going, sister?”
“The consent of Monsieur, my husband.”
“The approval of my husband, Monsieur.”
“You shall have it.”
"You will have it."
“Then consider me already gone, brother.”
“Then think of me as gone already, brother.”
On hearing these words, Louis XIV. turned round towards the corner of the room in which D’Artagnan, Colbert, and Aramis stood, and made an affirmative sign to his minister. Colbert then broke in on the conversation suddenly, and said to Aramis:
On hearing this, Louis XIV turned to the corner of the room where D’Artagnan, Colbert, and Aramis were standing, and nodded to his minister. Colbert then jumped into the conversation abruptly and said to Aramis:
“Monsieur l’ambassadeur, shall we talk about business?”
“Mister Ambassador, should we discuss business?”
D’Artagnan immediately withdrew, from politeness. He directed his steps towards the fireplace, within hearing of what the king was about to say to Monsieur, who, evidently uneasy, had gone to him. The face of the king was animated. Upon his brow was stamped a strength of will, the expression of which already met no further contradiction in France, and was soon to meet no more in Europe.
D’Artagnan quickly stepped back out of respect. He moved toward the fireplace, close enough to hear what the king was going to say to Monsieur, who, clearly anxious, had approached him. The king's face was lively. His forehead showed determination, an expression that was no longer challenged in France and would soon face no opposition in Europe.
“Monsieur,” said the king to his brother, “I am not pleased with M. le Chevalier de Lorraine. You, who do him the honor to protect him, must advise him to travel for a few months.”
“Mister,” said the king to his brother, “I’m not happy with M. le Chevalier de Lorraine. You, who are kind enough to protect him, should suggest that he travel for a few months.”
These words fell with the crush of an avalanche upon Monsieur, who adored his favorite, and concentrated all his affections in him.
These words hit Monsieur like a landslide, as he adored his favorite and poured all his love into him.
“In what has the chevalier been inconsiderate enough to displease your majesty?” cried he, darting a furious look at Madame.
“In what way has the knight been thoughtless enough to upset your majesty?” he shouted, giving Madame a furious glare.
“I will tell you that when he is gone,” said the king, suavely. “And also when Madame, here, shall have crossed over into England.”
“I’ll let you know when he’s gone,” said the king smoothly. “And also when Madame here has crossed over into England.”
“Madame! in England!” murmured Monsieur, in amazement.
“Madam! In England!” murmured Monsieur, in surprise.
“In a week, brother,” continued the king, “whilst we will go whither I will shortly tell you.” And the king turned on his heel, smiling in his brother’s face, to sweeten, as it were, the bitter draught he had given him.
“In a week, brother,” the king said, “we'll go where I’ll soon tell you.” Then the king smiled at his brother, trying to lighten the bitterness of the news he had just shared.
During this time Colbert was talking with the Duc d’Almeda.
During this time, Colbert was having a conversation with the Duke of Almeda.
“Monsieur,” said Colbert to Aramis, “this is the moment for us to come to an understanding. I have made your peace with the king, and I owed that clearly to a man of so much merit; but as you have often expressed friendship for me, an opportunity presents itself for giving me a proof of it. You are, besides, more a Frenchman than a Spaniard. Shall we secure—answer me frankly—the neutrality of Spain, if we undertake anything against the United Provinces?”
“Monsieur,” Colbert said to Aramis, “this is the time for us to reach an agreement. I've secured your peace with the king, and I felt it was only right to do so for a man of such merit; however, since you've often shown friendship towards me, now is a chance for you to prove it. Besides, you are more of a Frenchman than a Spaniard. Can we ensure—be honest with me—the neutrality of Spain if we take any action against the United Provinces?”
“Monsieur,” replied Aramis, “the interest of Spain is clear. To embroil Europe with the Provinces would doubtless be our policy, but the king of France is an ally of the United Provinces. You are not ignorant, besides, that it would infer a maritime war, and that France is in no state to undertake this with advantage.”
“Sir,” replied Aramis, “Spain's interests are obvious. Creating conflict in Europe with the Provinces would definitely be in our favor, but the king of France is an ally of the United Provinces. You also know that it would lead to a naval war, and France isn't in a position to handle that successfully.”
Colbert, turning round at this moment, saw D’Artagnan who was seeking some interlocutor, during this “aside” of the king and Monsieur. He called him, at the same time saying in a low voice to Aramis, “We may talk openly with D’Artagnan, I suppose?”
Colbert, turning around at that moment, saw D’Artagnan looking for someone to talk to while the king and Monsieur had their private chat. He called out to him, while quietly saying to Aramis, “I guess we can speak freely with D’Artagnan?”
“Oh! certainly,” replied the ambassador.
“Oh! Sure,” replied the ambassador.
“We were saying, M. d’Almeda and I,” said Colbert, “that a conflict with the United Provinces would mean a maritime war.”
“We were saying, M. d’Almeda and I,” Colbert said, “that a conflict with the United Provinces would lead to a maritime war.”
“That’s evident enough,” replied the musketeer.
"That's clear enough," replied the musketeer.
“And what do you think of it, Monsieur d’Artagnan?”
“And what do you think about it, Mr. d’Artagnan?”
“I think that to carry on such a war successfully, you must have very large land forces.”
“I believe that to successfully continue such a war, you need to have very large ground forces.”
“What did you say?” said Colbert, thinking he had ill understood him.
“What did you say?” Colbert asked, thinking he hadn’t understood him correctly.
“Why such a large land army?” said Aramis.
“Why do we need such a big army?” asked Aramis.
“Because the king will be beaten by sea if he has not the English with him, and that when beaten by sea, he will soon be invaded, either by the Dutch in his ports, or by the Spaniards by land.”
“Because the king will be defeated at sea if he doesn’t have the English on his side, and when he’s defeated at sea, he will quickly face invasion, either by the Dutch in his ports or by the Spaniards on land.”
“And Spain neutral?” asked Aramis.
"And is Spain neutral?" asked Aramis.
“Neutral as long as the king shall prove stronger,” rejoined D’Artagnan.
“Neutral as long as the king proves to be stronger,” D’Artagnan replied.
Colbert admired that sagacity which never touched a question without enlightening it thoroughly. Aramis smiled, as he had long known that in diplomacy D’Artagnan acknowledged no superior. Colbert, who, like all proud men, dwelt upon his fantasy with a certainty of success, resumed the subject, “Who told you, M. d’Artagnan, that the king had no navy?”
Colbert admired that wisdom which always illuminated any question it addressed. Aramis smiled, as he had long known that in diplomacy, D’Artagnan recognized no one as his superior. Colbert, who, like all proud people, focused on his dream with a strong belief in its success, continued, “Who told you, M. d’Artagnan, that the king had no navy?”
“Oh! I take no heed of these details,” replied the captain. “I am but an indifferent sailor. Like all nervous people, I hate the sea; and yet I have an idea that, with ships, France being a seaport with two hundred exits, we might have sailors.”
“Oh! I don't pay attention to those details,” replied the captain. “I’m just a careless sailor. Like all anxious people, I dread the sea; and yet I think that, with ships, and since France is a port with two hundred exits, we could have sailors.”
Colbert drew from his pocket a little oblong book divided into two columns. On the first were the names of vessels, on the other the figures recapitulating the number of cannon and men requisite to equip these ships. “I have had the same idea as you,” said he to D’Artagnan, “and I have had an account drawn up of the vessels we have altogether—thirty-five ships.”
Colbert pulled out a small, rectangular book divided into two columns. The first column listed the names of the ships, while the second showed the numbers summarizing the cannons and crew needed to equip them. “I had the same thought as you,” he said to D’Artagnan, “and I put together a report on all the ships we have—thirty-five vessels.”
“Thirty-five ships! impossible!” cried D’Artagnan.
“Thirty-five ships! No way!” cried D’Artagnan.
“Something like two thousand pieces of cannon,” said Colbert. “That is what the king possesses at this moment. Of five and thirty vessels we can make three squadrons, but I must have five.”
“About two thousand cannons,” said Colbert. “That’s what the king has right now. With thirty-five ships, we can form three squadrons, but I need five.”
“Five!” cried Aramis.
"Five!" shouted Aramis.
“They will be afloat before the end of the year, gentlemen; the king will have fifty ship of the line. We may venture on a contest with them, may we not?”
“They’ll be ready by the end of the year, gentlemen; the king will have fifty ships of the line. Can we go ahead and challenge them, can’t we?”
“To build vessels,” said D’Artagnan, “is difficult, but possible. As to arming them, how is that to be done? In France there are neither foundries nor military docks.”
“To build ships,” said D’Artagnan, “is challenging, but doable. But how do we arm them? In France, there are no foundries or military docks.”
“Bah!” replied Colbert, in a bantering tone, “I have planned all that this year and a half past, did you not know it? Do you know M. d’Imfreville?”
“Bah!” replied Colbert, teasingly, “I’ve had this all planned for the past year and a half, didn’t you know? Do you know Mr. d’Imfreville?”
“D’Imfreville?” replied D’Artagnan; “no.”
“D’Imfreville?” replied D’Artagnan. “No.”
“He is a man I have discovered; he has a specialty; he is a man of genius—he knows how to set men to work. It is he who has cast cannon and cut the woods of Bourgogne. And then, monsieur l’ambassadeur, you may not believe what I am going to tell you, but I have a still further idea.”
“He is a man I've found; he has a special skill; he is a genius—he knows how to get people to work. He’s the one who has cast cannons and cleared the forests of Burgundy. And then, Mr. Ambassador, you may not believe what I’m about to tell you, but I have an even bigger idea.”
“Oh, monsieur!” said Aramis, civilly, “I always believe you.”
“Oh, sir!” said Aramis politely, “I always believe you.”
“Calculating upon the character of the Dutch, our allies, I said to myself, ‘They are merchants, they are friendly with the king; they will be happy to sell to the king what they fabricate for themselves; then the more we buy’—Ah! I must add this: I have Forant—do you know Forant, D’Artagnan?”
“Considering the nature of the Dutch, our allies, I thought to myself, ‘They are merchants, they have a good relationship with the king; they’ll be eager to sell to the king what they produce for themselves; so the more we buy’—Oh! I have to mention this: I have Forant—do you know Forant, D’Artagnan?”
Colbert, in his warmth, forgot himself; he called the captain simply D’Artagnan, as the king did. But the captain only smiled at it.
Colbert, in his warmth, lost track of himself; he called the captain simply D’Artagnan, just like the king did. But the captain just smiled at that.
“No,” replied he, “I do not know him.”
“No,” he replied, “I don’t know him.”
“That is another man I have discovered, with a genius for buying. This Forant has purchased for me 350,000 pounds of iron in balls, 200,000 pounds of powder, twelve cargoes of Northern timber, matches, grenades, pitch, tar—I know not what! with a saving of seven per cent upon what all those articles would cost me fabricated in France.”
“That’s another guy I found who’s great at buying. This Forant has bought for me 350,000 pounds of iron balls, 200,000 pounds of powder, twelve shipments of Northern timber, matches, grenades, pitch, tar—I can't even keep track of everything! He saved me seven percent compared to what all these items would cost me made in France.”
“That is a capital and quaint idea,” replied D’Artagnan, “to have Dutch cannon-balls cast which will return to the Dutch.”
"That's a brilliant and unusual idea," replied D’Artagnan, "to have Dutch cannonballs made that will come back to the Dutch."
“Is it not, with loss, too?” And Colbert laughed aloud. He was delighted with his own joke.
“Is it not, with loss, too?” Colbert laughed out loud. He was thrilled with his own joke.
“Still further,” added he, “these same Dutch are building for the king, at this moment, six vessels after the model of the best of their name. Destouches—Ah! perhaps you don’t know Destouches?”
“Furthermore,” he added, “these same Dutch are currently building six ships for the king, based on the model of the best of their kind. Destouches—Ah! maybe you aren’t familiar with Destouches?”
“No, monsieur.”
"No, sir."
“He is a man who has a sure glance to discern, when a ship is launched, what are the defects and qualities of that ship—that is valuable, observe! Nature is truly whimsical. Well, this Destouches appeared to me to be a man likely to prove useful in marine affairs, and he is superintending the construction of six vessels of seventy-eight guns, which the Provinces are building for his majesty. It results from this, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, that the king, if he wished to quarrel with the Provinces, would have a very pretty fleet. Now, you know better than anybody else if the land army is efficient.”
“He's a man who knows how to spot the defects and strengths of a ship as soon as it's launched—that's quite valuable, just so you know! Nature can be quite unpredictable. Well, this Destouches seems like someone who would be helpful in maritime matters, and he's overseeing the construction of six ships with seventy-eight guns that the provinces are building for the king. As a result, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, if the king wanted to pick a fight with the provinces, he would have a pretty impressive fleet. Now, you know better than anyone if the army on land is up to the task.”
D’Artagnan and Aramis looked at each other, wondering at the mysterious labors this man had undertaken in so short a time. Colbert understood them, and was touched by this best of flatteries.
D’Artagnan and Aramis glanced at each other, curious about the mysterious tasks this man had managed to accomplish in such a short period. Colbert noticed their looks and felt flattered by this subtle compliment.
“If we, in France, were ignorant of what was going on,” said D’Artagnan, “out of France still less must be known.”
“If we, in France, were unaware of what was happening,” said D’Artagnan, “then even less must be known outside of France.”
“That is why I told monsieur l’ambassadeur,” said Colbert, “that, Spain promising its neutrality, England helping us—”
“That’s why I told the ambassador,” said Colbert, “that with Spain promising its neutrality and England supporting us—”
“If England assists you,” said Aramis, “I promise the neutrality of Spain.”
"If England helps you," said Aramis, "I guarantee Spain's neutrality."
“I take you at your word,” Colbert hastened to reply with his blunt bonhomie. “And, a propos of Spain, you have not the ‘Golden Fleece,’ Monsieur d’Almeda. I heard the king say the other day that he should like to see you wear the grand cordon of St. Michael.”
“I take you at your word,” Colbert quickly responded with his straightforward friendliness. “And, speaking of Spain, you don’t have the ‘Golden Fleece,’ Monsieur d’Almeda. I heard the king say the other day that he would like to see you wear the grand cordon of St. Michael.”
Aramis bowed. “Oh!” thought D’Artagnan, “and Porthos is no longer here! What ells of ribbons would there be for him in these largesses! Dear Porthos!”
Aramis bowed. “Oh!” thought D’Artagnan, “and Porthos isn’t here anymore! How many ribbons would he have gotten from these largesses! Poor Porthos!”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” resumed Colbert, “between us two, you will have, I wager, an inclination to lead your musketeers into Holland. Can you swim?” And he laughed like a man in high good humor.
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” Colbert continued, “between us, I bet you’re thinking about taking your musketeers into Holland. Can you swim?” And he laughed like a man in great spirits.
“Like an eel,” replied D’Artagnan.
“Like an eel,” D’Artagnan replied.
“Ah! but there are some bitter passages of canals and marshes yonder, Monsieur d’Artagnan, and the best swimmers are sometimes drowned there.”
“Ah! but there are some treacherous stretches of canals and marshes over there, Monsieur d’Artagnan, and even the best swimmers can sometimes drown in them.”
“It is my profession to die for his majesty,” said the musketeer. “Only, as it is seldom in war that much water is met with without a little fire, I declare to you beforehand, that I will do my best to choose fire. I am getting old; water freezes me—but fire warms, Monsieur Colbert.”
“It’s my job to die for his majesty,” said the musketeer. “But since it’s rare in war to find much water without a little fire, I want to let you know in advance that I’ll do my best to pick fire. I’m getting older; water chills me—but fire warms me, Monsieur Colbert.”
And D’Artagnan looked so handsome still in quasi-juvenile strength as he pronounced these words, that Colbert, in his turn, could not help admiring him. D’Artagnan perceived the effect he had produced. He remembered that the best tradesman is he who fixes a high price upon his goods, when they are valuable. He prepared his price in advance.
And D’Artagnan still looked so handsome and youthful as he said these words that Colbert couldn't help but admire him. D’Artagnan noticed the impact he had made. He remembered that the best seller is the one who sets a high price for their valuable goods. He decided on his price beforehand.
“So, then,” said Colbert, “we go into Holland?”
“So, then,” said Colbert, “are we heading to Holland?”
“Yes,” replied D’Artagnan; “only—”
“Yes,” replied D’Artagnan; “but—”
“Only?” said M. Colbert.
“Just?” said M. Colbert.
“Only,” repeated D’Artagnan, “there lurks in everything the question of interest, the question of self-love. It is a very fine title, that of captain of the musketeers; but observe this: we have now the king’s guards and the military household of the king. A captain of musketeers ought to command all that, and then he would absorb a hundred thousand livres a year for expenses.”
“Only,” D’Artagnan repeated, “there's always the issue of interest, the issue of self-interest. Being captain of the musketeers is a great title; but notice this: we now have the king’s guards and the king’s military household. A captain of musketeers should oversee all that, and if he did, he would need to manage a budget of a hundred thousand livres a year for expenses.”
“Well! but do you suppose the king would haggle with you?” said Colbert.
“Well! Do you really think the king would negotiate with you?” said Colbert.
“Eh! monsieur, you have not understood me,” replied D’Artagnan, sure of carrying his point. “I was telling you that I, an old captain, formerly chief of the king’s guard, having precedence of the marechaux of France—I saw myself one day in the trenches with two other equals, the captain of the guards and the colonel commanding the Swiss. Now, at no price will I suffer that. I have old habits, and I will stand or fall by them.”
“Hey! sir, you haven’t understood me,” replied D’Artagnan, confident he would get his way. “I was telling you that I, a former captain and once the head of the king’s guard, ranked above the marechaux of France—I found myself one day in the trenches with two others of equal rank, the captain of the guards and the colonel in charge of the Swiss. Now, I won’t accept that under any circumstances. I have old habits, and I will either stick to them or face the consequences.”
Colbert felt this blow, but he was prepared for it.
Colbert felt this impact, but he was ready for it.
“I have been thinking of what you said just now,” replied he.
“I’ve been thinking about what you just said,” he replied.
“About what, monsieur?”
"About what, sir?"
“We were speaking of canals and marshes in which people are drowned.”
“We were talking about canals and marshes where people drown.”
“Well!”
“Well then!”
“Well! if they are drowned, it is for want of a boat, a plank, or a stick.”
“Well! If they drowned, it's because they didn't have a boat, a plank, or a stick.”
“Of a stick, however short it may be,” said D’Artagnan.
“Of a stick, no matter how short it is,” said D’Artagnan.
“Exactly,” said Colbert. “And, therefore, I never heard of an instance of a marechal of France being drowned.”
“Exactly,” said Colbert. “And because of that, I’ve never heard of a marechal of France drowning.”
D’Artagnan became very pale with joy, and in a not very firm voice, “People would be very proud of me in my country,” said he, “if I were a marechal of France; but a man must have commanded an expedition in chief to obtain the baton.”
D’Artagnan turned very pale with excitement and said in a shaky voice, “People back home would be really proud of me if I were a marechal of France; but to get the baton, a person has to have led a mission.”
“Monsieur!” said Colbert, “here is in this pocket-book which you will study, a plan of campaign you will have to lead a body of troops to carry out in the next spring.” 12
“Monsieur!” said Colbert, “here is a pocketbook that you will review; it contains a plan for a campaign that you will need to lead a group of troops to execute next spring.” 12
D’Artagnan took the book, tremblingly, and his fingers meeting those of Colbert, the minister pressed the hand of the musketeer loyally.
D’Artagnan took the book, trembling, and when his fingers brushed against Colbert’s, the minister warmly squeezed the musketeer’s hand.
“Monsieur,” said he, “we had both a revenge to take, one over the other. I have begun; it is now your turn!”
“Sir,” he said, “we both had a score to settle, one against the other. I've made my move; now it's your turn!”
“I will do you justice, monsieur,” replied D’Artagnan, “and implore you to tell the king that the first opportunity that shall offer, he may depend upon a victory, or to behold me dead—or both.”
“I will do you justice, sir,” replied D’Artagnan, “and I urge you to tell the king that the first opportunity that comes up, he can count on a victory, or to see me dead—or both.”
“Then I will have the fleurs-de-lis for your marechal’s baton prepared immediately,” said Colbert.
“Then I will have the fleurs-de-lis for your marshal’s baton prepared right away,” said Colbert.
On the morrow, Aramis, who was setting out for Madrid, to negotiate the neutrality of Spain, came to embrace D’Artagnan at his hotel.
The next day, Aramis, who was leaving for Madrid to discuss Spain's neutrality, stopped by to say goodbye to D’Artagnan at his hotel.
“Let us love each other for four,” said D’Artagnan. “We are now but two.”
“Let’s love each other for four,” said D’Artagnan. “Right now, we’re just two.”
“And you will, perhaps, never see me again, dear D’Artagnan,” said Aramis; “if you knew how I have loved you! I am old, I am extinct—ah, I am almost dead.”
“And you might never see me again, dear D’Artagnan,” said Aramis; “if you only knew how much I’ve cared for you! I’m old, I’m faded—ah, I’m almost gone.”
“My friend,” said D’Artagnan, “you will live longer than I shall: diplomacy commands you to live; but, for my part, honor condemns me to die.”
“My friend,” said D’Artagnan, “you will live longer than I will: diplomacy requires you to live; but, as for me, honor forces me to die.”
“Bah! such men as we are, monsieur le marechal,” said Aramis, “only die satisfied with joy in glory.”
“Bah! Men like us, monsieur le maréchal,” said Aramis, “only die feeling happy with the joy of glory.”
“Ah!” replied D’Artagnan, with a melancholy smile, “I assure you, monsieur le duc, I feel very little appetite for either.”
“Ah!” replied D’Artagnan with a sad smile, “I assure you, sir, I have very little appetite for either.”
They once more embraced, and, two hours after, separated—forever.
They hugged again, and two hours later, they parted—forever.
The Death of D’Artagnan.
D’Artagnan's Death.
Contrary to that which generally happens, whether in politics or morals, each kept his promises, and did honor to his engagements.
Unlike what usually happens in politics or ethics, each person kept their promises and honored their commitments.
The king recalled M. de Guiche, and banished M. le Chevalier de Lorraine; so that Monsieur became ill in consequence. Madame set out for London, where she applied herself so earnestly to make her brother, Charles II., acquire a taste for the political counsels of Mademoiselle de Keroualle, that the alliance between England and France was signed, and the English vessels, ballasted by a few millions of French gold, made a terrible campaign against the fleets of the United Provinces. Charles II. had promised Mademoiselle de Keroualle a little gratitude for her good counsels; he made her Duchess of Portsmouth. Colbert had promised the king vessels, munitions, victories. He kept his word, as is well known. At length Aramis, upon whose promises there was least dependence to be placed, wrote Colbert the following letter, on the subject of the negotiations which he had undertaken at Madrid:
The king called back M. de Guiche and banished M. le Chevalier de Lorraine, which made Monsieur ill as a result. Madame went to London, where she worked hard to get her brother, Charles II., to appreciate the political advice of Mademoiselle de Keroualle, leading to the signing of the alliance between England and France. English ships, loaded with millions in French gold, launched a fierce campaign against the fleets of the United Provinces. Charles II. promised Mademoiselle de Keroualle some gratitude for her helpful advice and made her the Duchess of Portsmouth. Colbert had promised the king ships, supplies, and victories, and he delivered on that, as is well known. Finally, Aramis, who was the least reliable in keeping promises, wrote Colbert the following letter about the negotiations he was handling in Madrid:
“MONSIEUR COLBERT,—I have the honor to expedite to you the R. P. Oliva, general ad interim of the Society of Jesus, my provisional successor. The reverend father will explain to you, Monsieur Colbert, that I preserve to myself the direction of all the affairs of the order which concern France and Spain; but that I am not willing to retain the title of general, which would throw too high a side-light on the progress of the negotiations with which His Catholic Majesty wishes to intrust me. I shall resume that title by the command of his majesty, when the labors I have undertaken in concert with you, for the great glory of God and His Church, shall be brought to a good end. The R. P. Oliva will inform you likewise, monsieur, of the consent His Catholic Majesty gives to the signature of a treaty which assures the neutrality of Spain in the event of a war between France and the United Provinces. This consent will be valid even if England, instead of being active, should satisfy herself with remaining neutral. As for Portugal, of which you and I have spoken, monsieur, I can assure you it will contribute with all its resources to assist the Most Christian King in his war. I beg you, Monsieur Colbert, to preserve your friendship and also to believe in my profound attachment, and to lay my respect at the feet of His Most Christian Majesty. Signed,
“MONSIEUR COLBERT,—I’m honored to send you R. P. Oliva, acting general of the Society of Jesus, my temporary successor. The reverend father will explain to you, Monsieur Colbert, that I’ll still be overseeing all the order's affairs related to France and Spain; however, I prefer not to keep the title of general, as it would draw too much attention to the negotiations His Catholic Majesty has entrusted me with. I will reclaim that title at His Majesty's command once the tasks I’m working on with you, for the glory of God and His Church, are successfully completed. R. P. Oliva will also inform you, monsieur, of His Catholic Majesty's consent to sign a treaty that ensures Spain’s neutrality if a war breaks out between France and the United Provinces. This consent remains valid even if England chooses to remain neutral instead of taking action. Regarding Portugal, which you and I have discussed, I can assure you that it will provide all its resources to support the Most Christian King in his war. I kindly ask you, Monsieur Colbert, to maintain your friendship and to know that I hold you in deep regard, and to convey my respect to His Most Christian Majesty. Signed,
“LE DUC D’ALMEDA.” 13
“DUKE OF ALMEDA.” __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Aramis had performed more than he had promised; it remained to be seen how the king, M. Colbert, and D’Artagnan would be faithful to each other. In the spring, as Colbert had predicted, the land army entered on its campaign. It preceded, in magnificent order, the court of Louis XIV., who, setting out on horseback, surrounded by carriages filled with ladies and courtiers, conducted the elite of his kingdom to this sanguinary fete. The officers of the army, it is true, had no other music save the artillery of the Dutch forts; but it was enough for a great number, who found in this war honor, advancement, fortune—or death.
Aramis had done more than he promised; it remained to be seen how the king, M. Colbert, and D’Artagnan would stay loyal to each other. In the spring, as Colbert had predicted, the land army began its campaign. It marched in impressive formation ahead of the court of Louis XIV., who set out on horseback, surrounded by carriages filled with ladies and courtiers, bringing the best of his kingdom to this bloody event. The army officers had no other music than the cannon fire from the Dutch forts; but that was enough for many, who found in this war honor, promotion, wealth—or death.
M. d’Artagnan set out commanding a body of twelve thousand men, cavalry, and infantry, with which he was ordered to take the different places which form knots of that strategic network called La Frise. Never was an army conducted more gallantly to an expedition. The officers knew that their leader, prudent and skillful as he was brave, would not sacrifice a single man, nor yield an inch of ground without necessity. He had the old habits of war, to live upon the country, keeping his soldiers singing and the enemy weeping. The captain of the king’s musketeers well knew his business. Never were opportunities better chosen, coups-de-main better supported, errors of the besieged more quickly taken advantage of.
M. d’Artagnan set out in command of twelve thousand men, both cavalry and infantry, with orders to seize the various locations that make up the strategic network known as La Frise. Never had an army been led so gallantly on an expedition. The officers understood that their leader, as prudent and skilled as he was brave, wouldn’t sacrifice a single soldier or give up any ground without a good reason. He had the old ways of war, living off the land while keeping his soldiers cheerful and the enemy in despair. The captain of the king’s musketeers knew his job well. Never were opportunities better chosen, coups-de-main better supported, or the mistakes of the besieged more quickly capitalized on.
The army commanded by D’Artagnan took twelve small places within a month. He was engaged in besieging the thirteenth, which had held out five days. D’Artagnan caused the trenches to be opened without appearing to suppose that these people would ever allow themselves to be taken. The pioneers and laborers were, in the army of this man, a body full of ideas and zeal, because their commander treated them like soldiers, knew how to render their work glorious, and never allowed them to be killed if he could help it. It should have been seen with what eagerness the marshy glebes of Holland were turned over. Those turf-heaps, mounds of potter’s clay, melted at the word of the soldiers like butter in the frying-pans of Friesland housewives.
The army led by D’Artagnan captured twelve small towns in a month. He was currently besieging the thirteenth, which had held out for five days. D’Artagnan ordered the trenches to be dug without thinking that these people would ever surrender. The pioneers and laborers in his army were passionate and full of ideas because their leader treated them like soldiers, made their work feel valuable, and did everything he could to keep them safe. One could see the eagerness with which the marshy fields of Holland were turned over. Those heaps of turf, mounds of clay, yielded to the soldiers like butter melting in the frying pans of Friesland housewives.
M. d’Artagnan dispatched a courier to the king to give him an account of the last success, which redoubled the good humor of his majesty and his inclination to amuse the ladies. These victories of M. d’Artagnan gave so much majesty to the prince, that Madame de Montespan no longer called him anything but Louis the Invincible. So that Mademoiselle de la Valliere, who only called the king Louis the Victorious, lost much of his majesty’s favor. Besides, her eyes were frequently red, and to an Invincible nothing is more disagreeable than a mistress who weeps while everything is smiling round her. The star of Mademoiselle de la Valliere was being drowned in clouds and tears. But the gayety of Madame de Montespan redoubled with the successes of the king, and consoled him for every other unpleasant circumstance. It was to D’Artagnan the king owed this; and his majesty was anxious to acknowledge these services; he wrote to M. Colbert:
M. d’Artagnan sent a courier to the king to report on the latest success, which boosted the king’s good mood and his desire to entertain the ladies. These victories of M. d’Artagnan elevated the prince’s stature so much that Madame de Montespan only referred to him as Louis the Invincible. In contrast, Mademoiselle de la Valliere, who only called the king Louis the Victorious, found herself losing the king’s favor. Besides, her eyes were often red, and nothing irritates an Invincible more than a mistress who cries while everyone around her is smiling. Mademoiselle de la Valliere's star was being obscured by clouds and tears. Meanwhile, Madame de Montespan’s happiness increased with the king’s successes, providing comfort for any other unpleasant situations. D’Artagnan was the reason behind this, and the king was eager to recognize these services; he wrote to M. Colbert:
“MONSIEUR COLBERT,—We have a promise to fulfil with M. d’Artagnan, who so well keeps his. This is to inform you that the time is come for performing it. All provisions for this purpose you shall be furnished with in due time. LOUIS.”
“MR. COLBERT,—We have a promise to keep with Mr. d’Artagnan, who is always good at keeping his. This is to let you know that the time has come to carry it out. You will receive all the necessary provisions in due time. LOUIS.”
In consequence of this, Colbert, detaining D’Artagnan’s envoy, placed in the hands of that messenger a letter from himself, and a small coffer of ebony inlaid with gold, not very important in appearance, but which, without doubt, was very heavy, as a guard of five men was given to the messenger, to assist him in carrying it. These people arrived before the place which D’Artagnan was besieging towards daybreak, and presented themselves at the lodgings of the general. They were told that M. d’Artagnan, annoyed by a sortie which the governor, an artful man, had made the evening before, and in which the works had been destroyed and seventy-seven men killed, and the reparation of the breaches commenced, had just gone with twenty companies of grenadiers to reconstruct the works.
As a result, Colbert stopped D’Artagnan’s messenger and gave him a letter and a small, unremarkable ebony box inlaid with gold. It didn’t look like much, but it was undoubtedly heavy, as the messenger was accompanied by five guards to help him carry it. They arrived at the location D’Artagnan was besieging just before dawn and went to the general’s quarters. They were informed that M. d’Artagnan, frustrated by a nighttime sortie from the crafty governor that had destroyed some of the defenses and resulted in seventy-seven casualties, had just left with twenty companies of grenadiers to repair the fortifications.
M. Colbert’s envoy had orders to go and seek M. d’Artagnan, wherever he might be, or at whatever hour of the day or night. He directed his course, therefore, towards the trenches, followed by his escort, all on horseback. They perceived M. d’Artagnan in the open plain, with his gold-laced hat, his long cane, and gilt cuffs. He was biting his white mustache, and wiping off, with his left hand, the dust which the passing balls threw up from the ground they plowed so near him. They also saw, amidst this terrible fire, which filled the air with whistling hisses, officers handling the shovel, soldiers rolling barrows, and vast fascines, rising by being either carried or dragged by from ten to twenty men, cover the front of the trench reopened to the center by this extraordinary effort of the general. In three hours, all was reinstated. D’Artagnan began to speak more mildly; and he became quite calm when the captain of the pioneers approached him, hat in hand, to tell him that the trench was again in proper order. This man had scarcely finished speaking, when a ball took off one of his legs, and he fell into the arms of D’Artagnan. The latter lifted up his soldier, and quietly, with soothing words, carried him into the trench, amidst the enthusiastic applause of the regiments. From that time it was no longer a question of valor—the army was delirious; two companies stole away to the advanced posts, which they instantly destroyed.
M. Colbert’s messenger had instructions to find M. d’Artagnan, no matter where he was or what time it was. He therefore headed toward the trenches, accompanied by his escort, all on horseback. They spotted M. d’Artagnan in the open field, wearing his gold-laced hat, holding a long cane, and sporting gilt cuffs. He was biting his white mustache and using his left hand to brush off the dust kicked up by the nearby cannon fire. They also saw, in the midst of this chaos, officers wielding shovels, soldiers pushing wheelbarrows, and large bundles being carried or dragged by groups of ten to twenty men, all working to restore the front of the trench, which had been reopened through the general's extraordinary efforts. In three hours, everything was back in order. D’Artagnan began to speak more gently and felt more at ease when the captain of the pioneers approached him, hat in hand, to inform him that the trench was once again in good shape. Almost as soon as the man finished speaking, a bullet struck and severed one of his legs, and he collapsed into D’Artagnan's arms. D’Artagnan lifted the injured soldier and, reassuring him with calming words, carried him into the trench, drawing enthusiastic applause from the regiments. From that point, it was no longer about bravery—the army was ecstatic; two companies sneaked away to the front lines and quickly dismantled them.
When their comrades, restrained with great difficulty by D’Artagnan, saw them lodged upon the bastions, they rushed forward likewise; and soon a furious assault was made upon the counterscarp, upon which depended the safety of the place. D’Artagnan perceived there was only one means left of checking his army—to take the place. He directed all his force to the two breaches, where the besieged were busy in repairing. The shock was terrible; eighteen companies took part in it, and D’Artagnan went with the rest, within half cannon-shot of the place, to support the attack by echelons. The cries of the Dutch, who were being poniarded upon their guns by D’Artagnan’s grenadiers, were distinctly audible. The struggle grew fiercer with the despair of the governor, who disputed his position foot by foot. D’Artagnan, to put an end to the affair, and to silence the fire, which was unceasing, sent a fresh column, which penetrated like a very wedge; and he soon perceived upon the ramparts, through the fire, the terrified flight of the besieged, pursued by the besiegers.
When their comrades, held back with great difficulty by D’Artagnan, saw them positioned on the battlements, they rushed forward too; and soon there was a fierce attack on the counterscarp, which was crucial for the safety of the place. D’Artagnan realized that the only way to stop his army was to take the location. He directed all his forces to the two breaches, where the defenders were busy repairing. The impact was tremendous; eighteen companies were involved, and D’Artagnan joined the others to get within half cannon-shot of the site, to support the attack in waves. The screams of the Dutch, who were being stabbed by D’Artagnan’s grenadiers at their guns, were clearly heard. The fight intensified with the governor’s desperation, as he defended his position inch by inch. To bring the matter to a close and silence the relentless fire, D’Artagnan sent in a fresh column that penetrated like a wedge; and he soon saw on the ramparts, through the smoke, the panicked retreat of the besieged, chased by their attackers.
At this moment the general, breathing feely and full of joy, heard a voice behind him, saying, “Monsieur, if you please, from M. Colbert.”
At that moment, the general, breathing freely and full of joy, heard a voice behind him say, “Sir, if you please, from Mr. Colbert.”
He broke the seal of the letter, which contained these words:
He broke the seal of the letter, which contained these words:
“MONSIEUR D’ARTAGNAN:—The king commands me to inform you that he has nominated you marechal of France, as a reward for your magnificent services, and the honor you do to his arms. The king is highly pleased, monsieur, with the captures you have made; he commands you, in particular, to finish the siege you have commenced, with good fortune to you, and success for him.”
“MR. D'ARTAGNAN:—The king has asked me to let you know that he has appointed you marshal of France, as a reward for your outstanding services and the honor you've brought to his army. The king is very pleased, sir, with the victories you’ve achieved; he specifically asks you to complete the siege you’ve begun, wishing you good luck and success for him.”
D’Artagnan was standing with a radiant countenance and sparkling eye. He looked up to watch the progress of his troops upon the walls, still enveloped in red and black volumes of smoke. “I have finished,” replied he to the messenger; “the city will have surrendered in a quarter of an hour.” He then resumed his reading:
D’Artagnan was standing with a bright face and twinkling eye. He looked up to see how his troops were doing on the walls, still surrounded by thick clouds of red and black smoke. “I’m done,” he said to the messenger; “the city will surrender in fifteen minutes.” He then went back to his reading:
“The coffret, Monsieur d’Artagnan, is my own present. You will not be sorry to see that, whilst you warriors are drawing the sword to defend the king, I am moving the pacific arts to ornament a present worthy of you. I commend myself to your friendship, monsieur le marechal, and beg you to believe in mine. COLBERT”
“The coffret, Monsieur d’Artagnan, is my personal gift to you. You’ll be pleased to see that while you warriors are unsheathing your swords to defend the king, I am engaging in peaceful arts to create a gift that befits you. I count on your friendship, Monsieur le Maréchal, and ask you to trust in mine. COLBERT”
D’Artagnan, intoxicated with joy, made a sign to the messenger, who approached, with his coffret in his hands. But at the moment the marechal was going to look at it, a loud explosion resounded from the ramparts, and called his attention towards the city. “It is strange,” said D’Artagnan, “that I don’t yet see the king’s flag on the walls, or hear the drums beat the chamade.” He launched three hundred fresh men, under a high-spirited officer, and ordered another breach to be made. Then, more tranquilly, he turned towards the coffret, which Colbert’s envoy held out to him.—It was his treasure—he had won it.
D’Artagnan, filled with joy, signaled to the messenger, who stepped forward with his coffret in hand. But just as the marechal was about to examine it, a loud explosion echoed from the ramparts, drawing his attention to the city. “It’s odd,” D’Artagnan remarked, “that I don’t see the king’s flag on the walls, or hear the drums beating the chamade.” He sent out three hundred new troops, led by an upbeat officer, and ordered another breach to be created. Then, more calmly, he turned back to the coffret, which Colbert’s envoy was holding out to him.—It was his treasure—he had earned it.
D’Artagnan was holding out his hand to open the coffret, when a ball from the city crushed the coffret in the arms of the officer, struck D’Artagnan full in the chest, and knocked him down upon a sloping heap of earth, whilst the fleur-de-lised baton, escaping from the broken box, came rolling under the powerless hand of the marechal. D’Artagnan endeavored to raise himself. It was thought he had been knocked down without being wounded. A terrible cry broke from the group of terrified officers; the marechal was covered with blood; the pallor of death ascended slowly to his noble countenance. Leaning upon the arms held out on all sides to receive him, he was able once more to turn his eyes towards the place, and to distinguish the white flag at the crest of the principal bastion; his ears, already deaf to the sounds of life, caught feebly the rolling of the drum which announced the victory. Then, clasping in his nerveless hand the baton, ornamented with its fleurs-de-lis, he cast on it his eyes, which had no longer the power of looking upwards towards Heaven, and fell back, murmuring strange words, which appeared to the soldiers cabalistic—words which had formerly represented so many things on earth, and which none but the dying man any longer comprehended:
D’Artagnan was reaching for the coffret when a cannonball from the city smashed it in the officer's arms, hitting D’Artagnan square in the chest and knocking him down onto a sloping pile of dirt. The fleur-de-lised baton flew out from the broken box and rolled beneath the powerless hand of the marechal. D’Artagnan tried to get back up. People thought he had fallen without being injured. A terrible scream erupted from the terrified officers; the marechal was covered in blood, and death's pallor slowly spread across his noble face. Leaning on the outstretched arms around him, he managed to look back toward the spot and see the white flag at the top of the main bastion; his ears, already deaf to the sounds of life, faintly heard the beating of the drum announcing victory. Then, clutching the baton, decorated with its fleurs-de-lis, in his limp hand, he cast his eyes on it, unable to look up towards Heaven, and fell back, murmuring strange words that seemed mysterious to the soldiers—words that once meant so much on earth, but that only the dying man still understood:
“Athos—Porthos, farewell till we meet again! Aramis, adieu forever!”
“Athos—Porthos, see you later until we meet again! Aramis, goodbye forever!”
Of the four valiant men whose history we have related, there now remained but one. Heaven had taken to itself three noble souls. 14
Of the four brave men whose story we've shared, only one was left. Heaven had claimed three noble souls. 14
End of The Man in the Iron Mask. This is the last text in the series.
End of The Man in the Iron Mask. This is the final text in the series.
Footnotes
1 (return)
[ “He is patient because he
is eternal.” is how the Latin translates. It is from St. Augustine. This
motto was sometimes applied to the Papacy, but not to the Jesuits.]
1 (return)
[“He is patient because he is eternal,” is how the Latin translates. It’s from St. Augustine. This motto was sometimes used for the Papacy, but not for the Jesuits.]
2 (return)
[ In the five-volume edition,
Volume 4 ends here.]
2 (return)
[In the five-volume edition, Volume 4 ends here.]
3 (return)
[ It is possible that the
preceding conversation is an obscure allegorical allusion to the Fronde, or
perhaps an intimation that the Duc was the father of Mordaunt, from Twenty
Years After, but a definite interpretation still eludes modern scholars.]
3 (return)
[ The previous conversation might be a vague allegory related to the Fronde, or maybe a hint that the Duc was Mordaunt's father from Twenty Years After, but a clear interpretation still escapes modern scholars.]
4 (return)
[ The dictates of such a service
would require Raoul to spend the rest of his life outside of France, hence
Athos’s and Grimaud’s extreme reactions.]
4 (return)
[ The demands of this job would mean Raoul would have to spend the rest of his life away from France, which is why Athos and Grimaud reacted so strongly.]
5 (return)
[ Dumas here, and later in the
chapter, uses the name Roncherat. Roncherolles is the actual name of the man.]
5 (return)
[ Dumas uses the name Roncherat here and later in the chapter. The man’s actual name is Roncherolles.]
6 (return)
[ In some editions, “in
spite of Milady” reads “in spite of malady”.]
6 (return)
[ In some versions, “in spite of Milady” is written as “in spite of malady.”]
7 (return)
[ “Pie” in this case
refers to magpies, the prey for the falcons.]
7 (return)
[ “Pie” here means magpies, which are the prey for the falcons.]
8 (return)
[ Anne of Austria did not die
until 1666, and Dumas sets the current year as 1665.]
8 (return)
[ Anne of Austria didn't die until 1666, and Dumas sets the current year as 1665.]
9 (return)
[ Madame de Montespan would oust
Louise from the king’s affections by 1667.]
9 (return)
[ Madame de Montespan would replace Louise in the king’s affections by 1667.]
10 (return)
[ De Guiche would not return to
court until 1671.]
10 (return)
[ De Guiche wouldn’t go back to court until 1671.]
11 (return)
[ Madame did die of poison in
1670, shortly after returning from the mission described later. The Chevalier
de Lorraine had actually been ordered out of France in 1662.]
11 (return)
[ Madame did die from poison in 1670, shortly after coming back from the mission described later. The Chevalier de Lorraine had actually been expelled from France in 1662.]
12 (return)
[ This particular campaign did
not actually occur until 1673.]
12 (return)
[ This campaign actually took place in 1673.]
13 (return)
[ Jean-Paul Oliva was the
actual general of the Jesuits from 1664-1681.]
13 (return)
[ Jean-Paul Oliva was the actual head of the Jesuits from 1664-1681.]
14 (return)
[ In earlier editions, the last
line reads, “Of the four valiant men whose history we have related, there
now no longer remained but one single body; God had resumed the souls.”
Dumas made the revision in later editions.]
14 (return)
[ In earlier editions, the last line says, “Of the four brave men whose story we’ve told, only one body was left; God had taken back the souls.” Dumas made the change in later editions.]
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