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:

“Rabaud,” said he, “mind, we must travel thirty leagues a day.”

“At your pleasure, 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 Vallière 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 Vallière 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 Vallière. 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 Vallière. D’Artagnan found La Vallière

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?”

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.

“From the land of oranges?” cried Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente. “From

Spain?”

“Eh! eh!” said the musketeer.

“From Malta?” echoed Montalais.

“_Ma foi!_ You are coming very near, ladies.”

“Is it an island?” asked La Vallière.

“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.”

“Have you seen the army?” asked several warlike fair ones.

“As plainly as I see you,” replied D’Artagnan.

“And the fleet?”

“Yes, 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.

“Why,” replied D’Artagnan, “yes; there were M. de la Guillotiere, M. de

Manchy, M. de Bragelonne--”

La Vallière became pale. “M. de Bragelonne!” cried the perfidious

Athenais. “Eh, what!--is he gone to the wars?--he!”

Montalais trod on her toe, but all in vain.

“Do you know what my opinion is?” continued she, addressing D’Artagnan.

“No, mademoiselle; but I should like very much 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.”

Some of the ladies laughed; La Vallière was evidently confused;

Montalais coughed loud enough to waken 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.”

“Yellow!” exclaimed the bevy of fair beauties.

“Eh! do not disparage it. I have never seen a finer color to match 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!”

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 Vallière 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?”

“What sin, mademoiselle?” stammered the unfortunate girl, looking round

her for support, without finding it.

“Eh!--why,” continued Athenais, “the poor young man was affianced to

you; he loved you; you cast him off.”

“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.”

“Cast him off! or refuse him!--that’s all very well,” said Athenais,

“but that is not the sin Mademoiselle de la Vallière 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.”

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?”

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.”

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 Vallière, 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 Vallière,

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?”

“Is in his prison, sire.”

“What did he say on the road?”

“Nothing, sire.”

“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.”

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?”

“No, sire; I was setting off when monsieur le duc arrived.”

“Ah!” which was followed by a fresh silence. “Whom did you see there?”

“A great many persons,” said D’Artagnan, coolly.

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.”

“At Nantes!” cried D’Artagnan.

“In Bretagne.”

“Yes, sire, it is in Bretagne. Will you majesty make so long a journey

as to Nantes?”

“The States are assembled there,” replied the king. “I have two demands

to make of them: I wish to be there.”

“When shall I set out?” said the captain.

“This evening--to-morrow--to-morrow evening; for you must stand in need

of rest.”

“I have rested, sire.”

“That is well. Then between this and to-morrow evening, when you

please.”

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?”

“Certainly I shall.”

“Then you majesty will, doubtless, want the musketeers?” And the eye of

the king sank beneath the penetrating glance of the captain.

“Take a brigade of them,” replied Louis.

“Is that all? Has your majesty no other orders to give me?”

“No--ah--yes.”

“I am all attention, sire.”

“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.”

“Of the principal?”

“Yes.”

“For instance, at the door of M. de Lyonne?”

“Yes.”

“And that of M. Letellier?”

“Yes.”

“Of M. de Brienne?”

“Yes.”

“And of monsieur le surintendant?”

“Without doubt.”

“Very well, sire. By to-morrow I shall have set out.”

“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.”

“Yes, sire.”

“And if M. de Gesvres should question 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?”

As he reached the great gates, one of M. Brienne’s clerks came running

after him, exclaiming, “Monsieur d’Artagnan! I beg your pardon--”

“What is the matter, Monsieur Ariste?”

“The king has desired me to give you this order.”

“Upon your cash-box?” asked the musketeer.

“No, monsieur; on that of M. 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.