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.

“Is that the young man I have heard M. le Prince speak so highly of?”

asked M. de Beaufort.

“It is, monseigneur.”

“He is quite the soldier; let him stay, count, we cannot spare him.”

“Remain, Raoul, since monseigneur permits 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?”

“How am I to understand you, monseigneur?” said Athos.

“Why, I call upon you to bid you farewell.”

“Farewell!”

“Yes, in good truth. Have you no idea of what I am about to become?”

“Why, I suppose, what you have always been, monseigneur,--a valiant

prince, and an excellent gentleman.”

“I am 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?”

“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!”

“Oh, monseigneur, if you did not yourself tell me that--”

“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.”

“Into favor?”

“Yes. You smile. Ah, my dear count, do you know why I have accepted this

enterprise, can you guess?”

“Because your highness loves glory above--everything.”

“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.”

“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?”

“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.”

“Why, monseigneur, this is mere exaggeration; and hitherto you have

shown nothing exaggerated save in 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.”

“Yes, you made up your mind 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?”

“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.”

“Ah! monseigneur! monseigneur!”

“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.

“What do you mean to do with him?” asked he.

“Nothing at present, monseigneur.”

“Ah! yes, I know; since the passion of the king for La Vallière.”

“Yes, monseigneur.”

“That is all true, then, is it? I think I know her, that little La

Vallière. She is not particularly handsome, if I remember right?”

“No, monseigneur,” said Athos.

“Do you know whom she reminds me of?”

“Does she remind your highness of any one?”

“She reminds me of a very agreeable girl, whose mother lived in the

Halles.”

“Ah! ah!” said Athos, smiling.

“Oh! the good old times,” added M. de Beaufort. “Yes, La Vallière

reminds me of that girl.”

“Who had a son, had she not?” [3]

“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.”

“Yes, he is my son, monseigneur.”

“And the poor lad has been cut out by the king, and he frets.”

“Still better, monseigneur, he abstains.”

“You are going to let the boy rust in idleness; it is a mistake. Come,

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--”

“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.”

“That is very possible, monseigneur; but it is the king who makes

marechals of France, and Raoul will never accept anything of 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.

“Grimaud! Good evening, Grimaud!” said he; “how goes it?”

The servant bowed profoundly, as much gratified as his noble

interlocutor.

“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.

“But what is this, count, only one glass?”

“I should not think of drinking with your highness, unless your highness

permitted me,” replied Athos, with noble humility.

“_Cordieu!_ you were right to bring only one glass, we will both drink

out of it, like two brothers in arms. Begin, count.”

“Do me the honor,” said Athos, gently putting back the glass.

“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:

“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.

“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.

“Will you promise me, monseigneur, to grant me what I wish for?”

“_Pardieu!_ That is agreed upon.”

“I wished, monsieur le duc, to go with you to Gigelli.”

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.

“That is difficult, my dear vicomte, very difficult,” added he, in a

lower tone of voice.

“Pardon me, monseigneur, I have been indiscreet,” replied Raoul, in a

firm voice; “but as you yourself invited me to wish--”

“To wish to leave me?” said Athos.

“Oh! monsieur--can you imagine--”

“Well, _mordieu!_” cried the duke, “the young vicomte is right! What can

he do here? He will go moldy 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!”

“That is to say, memory,” said Raoul, eagerly; “and that is to say, so

much 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.”

“Monseigneur!” cried Raoul, bending his knee.

“Monseigneur!” cried Athos, taking the hand of the duke; “Raoul shall do

just as he likes.”

“Oh! no, monsieur, just as you like,” 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.”

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.”

“Pardon me, monsieur le duc,” interrupted Raoul, “do not tell the king

so, for it is not the king I wish 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.”

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!”

“God! how so?” 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]

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?”

“I will 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.”

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.

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.”

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!”

“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.”

“You leave me desolate by going, 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.”

“Then,” said Athos, coldly, “you go with the intention of getting killed

in Africa? Oh, tell me! do not 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.”

Athos embraced his son tenderly, 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.”

And he slowly gained his bedroom. Raoul went down into the garden, and

passed the night in the alley of limes.