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.
“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.”
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.
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.
“Well, M. d’Herblay?”
“Well, sire, all is accomplished.”
“How?”
“Exactly as we expected.”
“Did he resist?”
“Terribly! tears and entreaties.”
“And then?”
“A perfect stupor.”
“But at last?”
“Oh! at last, a complete victory, and absolute silence.”
“Did the governor of the Bastile suspect anything?”
“Nothing.”
“The resemblance, however--”
“Was the cause of 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.”
“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--”
“People can return from their exile, Monsieur 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.”
Once more a cold look of intelligence passed between Aramis and the
young king.
“And M. du Vallon?” asked Philippe in order to change the conversation.
“He will be presented to you to-day, and confidentially will
congratulate you on the danger which that conspirator has made you run.”
“What is to be done with him?”
“With M. du Vallon?”
“Yes; confer a dukedom on him, I suppose.”
“A dukedom,” replied Aramis, smiling in a significant manner.
“Why do you laugh, Monsieur d’Herblay?”
“I laugh at the extreme caution of your idea.”
“Cautious, why so?”
“Your majesty is doubtless afraid that poor Porthos may possible become
a troublesome witness, and you wish to get rid of him.”
“What! in making him a duke?”
“Certainly; you would assuredly kill him, for he would die from joy, and
the secret would die with him.”
“Good heavens!”
“Yes,” said Aramis, phlegmatically; “I should lose a very 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.
“What is that?” said Philippe.
“The dawn, sire.”
“Well?”
“Well, before you retired to bed last night, you probably decided to do
something this morning at break of day.”
“Yes, I told my captain of the musketeers,” replied the young man
hurriedly, “that I should expect him.”
“If you told him that, he will certainly be here, for he is a most
punctual man.”
“I hear a step in the vestibule.”
“It must be he.”
“Come, let us begin the attack,” said the young king resolutely.
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
“He, too, is striking a blow, for I hear him at the door,” added the
prince, hurriedly.
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.
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.
“Are you going out?” said Fouquet.
“Yes, monseigneur. And you?”
“I shall remain.”
“You pledge your word?”
“Certainly.”
“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--”
“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.”
“Of 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.”
“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?”
“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?”
“No.”
“Well, that tells me of an arrest that will have to be made this very
day.”
“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.”
“You! arrest _you!_”
“Of course. The warning--”
“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.”
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.”
“What is it, monseigneur?”
“M. d’Herblay; let me see Monsieur d’Herblay.”
“I am going to try and 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.
“Good morning, dear D’Artagnan,” replied the prelate, coldly.
“You here!” stammered out the musketeer.
“His majesty desires you to report that he is still sleeping, after
having been greatly fatigued during the whole 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.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
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.
“I am going with you,” said the bishop.
“Where to?”
“To M. Fouquet; I wish to be a witness of his delight.”
“Ah! Aramis, how you puzzled me just now!” said D’Artagnan again.
“But you understand _now_, I suppose?”
“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.