Twenty Years After, Alexandre Dumas [librera reader TXT] 📗

to you, madame.” Then turning to Athos, he continued, “And this gentleman is that noble Comte de la Fere, whose high reputation is so well known to your majesty.”

“Gentlemen,” said the queen, “a few years ago I had around me ushers, treasures, armies; and by the lifting of a finger all these were busied in my service. To-day, look around you, and it may astonish you, that in order to accomplish a plan which is dearer to me than life I have only Lord de Winter, the friend of twenty years, and you, gentlemen, whom I see for the first time and whom I know but as my countrymen.”

“It is enough,” said Athos, bowing low, “if the lives of three men can purchase yours, madame.”

“I thank you, gentlemen. But hear me,” continued she. “I am not only the most miserable of queens, but the most unhappy of mothers, the most wretched of wives. My children, two of them, at least, the Duke of York and the Princess Elizabeth, are far away from me, exposed to the blows of the ambitious and our foes; my husband, the king, is leading in England so wretched an existence that it is no exaggeration to aver that he seeks death as a thing to be desired. Hold! gentlemen, here is the letter conveyed to me by Lord de Winter. Read it.”

Obeying the queen, Athos read aloud the letter which we have already seen, in which King Charles demanded to know whether the hospitality of France would be accorded him.

“Well?” asked Athos, when he had closed the letter.

“Well,” said the queen, “it has been refused.”

The two friends exchanged a smile of contempt.

“And now,” said Athos, “what is to be done? I have the honor to inquire from your majesty what you desire Monsieur d’Herblay and myself to do in your service. We are ready.”

“Ah, sir, you have a noble heart!” exclaimed the queen, with a burst of gratitude; whilst Lord de Winter turned to her with a glance which said, “Did I not answer for them?”

“But you, sir?” said the queen to Aramis.

“I, madame,” replied he, “follow Monsieur de la Fere wherever he leads, even were it on to death, without demanding wherefore; but when it concerns your majesty’s service, then,” added he, looking at the queen with all the grace of former days, “I precede the count.”

“Well, then, gentlemen,” said the queen, “since it is thus, and since you are willing to devote yourselves to the service of a poor princess whom the whole world has abandoned, this is what is required to be done for me. The king is alone with a few gentlemen, whom he fears to lose every day; surrounded by the Scotch, whom he distrusts, although he be himself a Scotchman. Since Lord de Winter left him I am distracted, sirs. I ask much, too much, perhaps, for I have no title to request it. Go to England, join the king, be his friends, protectors, march to battle at his side, and be near him in his house, where conspiracies, more dangerous than the perils of war, are hatching every day. And in exchange for the sacrifice that you make, gentlemen, I promise — not to reward you, I believe that word would offend you — but to love you as a sister, to prefer you, next to my husband and my children, to every one. I swear it before Heaven.”

And the queen raised her eyes solemnly upward.

“Madame,” said Athos, “when must we set out?”

“You consent then?” exclaimed the queen, joyfully.

“Yes, madame; only it seems to me that your majesty goes too far in engaging to load us with a friendship so far above our merit. We render service to God, madame in serving a prince so unfortunate, a queen so virtuous. Madame, we are yours, body and soul.”

“Oh, sirs,” said the queen, moved even to tears, “this is the first time for five years I have felt the least approach to joy or hope. God, who can read my heart, all the gratitude I feel, will reward you! Save my husband! Save the king, and although you care not for the price that is placed upon a good action in this world, leave me the hope that we shall meet again, when I may be able to thank you myself. In the meantime, I remain here. Have you anything to ask of me? From this moment I become your friend, and since you are engaged in my affairs I ought to occupy myself in yours.”

“Madame,” replied Athos, “I have only to ask your majesty’s prayers.”

“And I,” said Aramis, “I am alone in the world and have only your majesty to serve.”

The queen held out her hand, which they kissed, and she said in a low tone to De Winter:

“If you need money, my lord, separate the jewels I have given you; detach the diamonds and sell them to some Jew. You will receive for them fifty or sixty thousand francs; spend them if necessary, but let these gentlemen be treated as they deserve, that is to say, like kings.”

The queen had two letters ready, one written by herself, the other by her daughter, the Princess Henrietta. Both were addressed to King Charles. She gave the first to Athos and the other to Aramis, so that should they be separated by chance they might make themselves known to the king; after which they withdrew.

At the foot of the staircase De Winter stopped.

“Not to arouse suspicions, gentlemen,” said he, “go your way and I will go mine, and this evening at nine o’clock we will assemble again at the Gate Saint Denis. We will travel on horseback as far as our horses can go and afterward we can take the post. Once more, let me thank you, my good friends, both in my own name and the queen’s.”

The three gentlemen then shook hands, Lord de Winter taking the Rue Saint Honore, and Athos and Aramis remaining together.

“Well,” said Aramis, when they were alone, “what do you think of this business, my dear count?”

“Bad,” replied Athos, “very bad.”

“But you received it with enthusiasm.”

“As I shall ever receive the defense of a great principle, my dear D’Herblay. Monarchs are only strong by the assistance of the aristocracy, but aristocracy cannot survive without the countenance of monarchs. Let us, then, support monarchy, in order to support ourselves.

“We shall be murdered there,” said Aramis. “I hate the English — they are coarse, like every nation that swills beer.”

“Would it be better to remain here,” said Athos, “and take a turn in the Bastile or the dungeon of Vincennes for having favored the escape of Monsieur de Beaufort? I’faith, Aramis, believe me, there is little left to regret. We avoid imprisonment and we play the part of heroes; the choice is easy.”

“It is true; but in everything, friend, one must always return to the same question — a stupid one, I admit, but very necessary — have you any money?”

“Something like a hundred pistoles, that my farmer sent to me the day before I left Bragelonne; but out of that sum I ought to leave fifty for Raoul — a young man must live respectably. I have then about fifty pistoles. And you?”

“As for me, I am quite sure that after turning out all my pockets and emptying my drawers I shall not find ten louis at home. Fortunately Lord de Winter is rich.”

“Lord de Winter is ruined for the moment; Oliver Cromwell has annexed his income resources.”

“Now is the time when Baron Porthos would be useful.”

“Now it is that I regret D’Artagnan.”

“Let us entice them away.”

“This secret, Aramis, does not belong to us; take my advice, then, and let no one into our confidence. And moreover, in taking such a step we should appear to be doubtful of ourselves. Let us regret their absence to ourselves for our own sakes, but not speak of it.”

“You are right; but what are you going to do until this evening? I have two things to postpone.”

“And what are they?”

“First, a thrust with the coadjutor, whom I met last night at Madame de Rambouillet’s and whom I found particular in his remarks respecting me.”

“Oh, fie — a quarrel between priests, a duel between allies!”

“What can I do, friend? he is a bully and so am I; his cassock is a burden to him and I imagine I have had enough of mine; in fact, there is so much resemblance between us that I sometimes believe he is Aramis and I am the coadjutor. This kind of life fatigues and oppresses me; besides, he is a turbulent fellow, who will ruin our party. I am convinced that if I gave him a box on the ear, such as I gave this morning to the little citizen who splashed me, it would change the appearance of things.”

“And I, my dear Aramis,” quietly replied Athos, “I think it would only change Monsieur de Retz’s appearance. Take my advice, leave things just as they are; besides, you are neither of you now your own masters; he belongs to the Fronde and you to the queen of England. So, if the second matter which you regret being unable to attend to is not more important than the first –- “

“Oh! that is of the first importance.”

“Attend to it, then, at once.”

“Unfortunately, it is a thing that I can’t perform at any time I choose. It was arranged for the evening and no other time will serve.”

“I understand,” said Athos smiling, “midnight.”

“About that time.”

“But, my dear fellow, those are things that bear postponement and you must put it off, especially with so good an excuse to give on your return –- “

“Yes, if I return.”

“If you do not return, how does it concern you? Be reasonable. Come, you are no longer twenty years old.”

“To my great regret, mordieu! Ah, if I were but twenty years old!”

“Yes,” said Athos, “doubtless you would commit great follies! But now we must part. I have one or two visits to make and a letter yet to write. Call for me at eight o’clock or shall I wait supper for you at seven?”

“That will do very well,” said Aramis. “I have twenty visits to make and as many letters to write.”

They then separated. Athos went to pay a visit to Madame de Vendome, left his name at Madame de Chevreuse’s and wrote the following letter to D’Artagnan:

 

“Dear Friend, — I am about to set off with Aramis on important business. I wished to make my adieux to you, but time does not permit. Remember that I write to you now to repeat how much affection for you I still cherish.

“Raoul is gone to Blois and is ignorant of my departure; watch over him in my absence as much as you possibly can; and if by chance you receive no news of me three months hence, tell him to open a packet which he will find addressed to him in my bronze casket at Blois, of which I send you now the key.

“Embrace Porthos from Aramis and myself. Adieu, perhaps farewell.”

 

At the hour agreed upon Aramis arrived; he was dressed as an officer and had the old sword at his side which he had drawn so often and which he was more than ever ready to draw.

“By-the-bye,” he said, “I think that we are decidedly wrong to depart thus, without leaving a line for Porthos and D’Artagnan.”

“The thing is done, dear friend,” said Athos; “I foresaw that and have embraced them both from you and myself.”

“You are a wonderful man, my dear count,” said Aramis;