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.

“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.

“Raoul here!” murmured he. “Oh! Grimaud, why did you not 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:

“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.”

“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.”

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.

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.

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.

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

Vallière! “Monsieur d’Artagnan!” murmured she.

“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!”

“Monsieur!” said she, sobbing.

“For it was you,” added this pitiless friend of the dead,--“it was you

who sped these two men to the grave.”

“Oh! spare 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.

“What I now tell you,” added he, coldly, “I have already told the king.”

She clasped her hands. “I know,” said she, “I have caused the death of

the Vicomte de Bragelonne.”

“Ah! you know 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.”

“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.’”

“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.”

D’Artagnan made no reply; he was too well convinced that she was not

mistaken.

“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!”

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

Vallière. “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.

“You see, madame,” said the captain bitterly to the young woman,--“you

see your happiness still lasts.”

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.

“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.”

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.

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!”

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 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.

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.

“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.”

“That is true,” replied the falconer. “I don’t see 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.

D’Artagnan accosted the officers with the shade of affability which

distinguishes superiors, and received in turn for his courtesy two most

respectful bows.

“Ah! what a lucky chance to see you here, Monsieur d’Artagnan!” cried

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.”

“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]

“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.”

“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.

“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.”

“Two hundred and sixty to go, and as many to return,” said D’Artagnan,

quietly.

“And,” said the falconer, “is _he_ well?”

“Who?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Why, poor M. Fouquet,” continued the falconer, in a low voice. The

keeper of the harriers had prudently withdrawn.

“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.”

“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.”

“Enough!” said D’Artagnan, pensively, and with a view of cutting short

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.”

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.”

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.

“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.”

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.

“Oh, passionately, monsieur!” repeated the falconer, with an accent of

bitter regret and a sigh that was the funeral oration of 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.

“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?”

“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.”

The words “to amuse the ladies” were so strongly accented they set

D’Artagnan thinking.

“Ah!” said he, looking keenly at the falconer.

The keeper of the harriers smiled, no doubt with a view of making it up

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]

“And everything begins as well as ends,” said the keeper with a coarse

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?”

The keeper gave him a significant wink; but D’Artagnan was unwilling to

learn anything from this man.

“Shall we see the king early?” asked he of the falconer.

“At seven o’clock, monsieur, I shall fly the birds.”

“Who comes with the king? How is Madame? How is the queen?”

“Better, monsieur.”

“Has she been ill, then?”

“Monsieur, since the last chagrin she suffered, her majesty has been

unwell.”

“What chagrin? You need not fancy your news is old. I have but just

returned.”

“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?’”

“Ah!” said D’Artagnan,--“poor woman! She must heartily hate Mademoiselle

de la Vallière.”

“Oh, no! not Mademoiselle de la Vallière,” 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 Vallière 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.

“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.

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?”

“Sire,” replied the captain, “because your majesty was asleep when I

arrived, and not awake when I resumed 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.”

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.

“Good-day, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the minister, with marked

affability, “have you had a pleasant journey?”

“Yes, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, bowing to the neck of his horse.

“I heard the king invite you to his table for this evening,” continued

the minister; “you will 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.

“M. le Duc d’Almeda, who is arrived this morning from Spain.”

“The Duc d’Almeda?” said D’Artagnan, reflecting in vain.

“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.

“_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.

Colbert, after having observed them in silence for a few moments, urged

his horse forward, and left the two old friends together.

“And so,” said the musketeer, taking Aramis’s arm, “you, the exile, the

rebel, are again in France?”

“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 Vallière’s carriage to pass.

Look, how uneasy she is! How her eyes, dim with tears, follow the king,

who is riding on horseback yonder!”

“With whom?”

“With Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, now Madame de Montespan,” replied

Aramis.

“She is jealous. Is she then deserted?”

“Not quite yet, but it will not 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?”

“No,” replied the duke.

“Here repose men that we knew well,” said D’Artagnan, greatly agitated.

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.

“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.”

Aramis stopped, and concealed himself in the shade. They then saw,

without being seen, the pale face of La Vallière, 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.

“What will you give me in exchange?” said he.

She broke off a little branch of cypress and offered it to the king, who

looked intoxicated with hope.

“Humph!” said Aramis to D’Artagnan; “the present is but a sad one, for

that cypress shades a tomb.”

“Yes, and the tomb is that of Raoul de Bragelonne,” said D’Artagnan

aloud; “of Raoul, who sleeps under that cross with his father.”

A groan resounded--they saw a woman fall fainting to the ground.

Mademoiselle de la Vallière had seen all, heard all.

“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.

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.

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.

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:

“Sister,” said he, “why do I see tears in those lovely eyes?”

“Why--sire--” said she.

“Monsieur is jealous, is he not, sister?”

She looked towards Monsieur, an infallible sign that they were talking

about him.

“Yes,” said she.

“Listen to me,” said the king; “if your friends compromise you, it is

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.

“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.”

She raised her glorious eyes and, in a melancholy 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!”

“You say this on account of De Guiche, whom I have exiled, at Monsieur’s

desire?”

“And who, since that unjust exile, has endeavored to get himself killed

once every day.”

“Unjust, say you, sister?”

“So unjust, that if I had not had the respect mixed with friendship that

I have always entertained for your majesty--”

“Well!”

“Well! I would have asked my brother Charles, upon whom I can always--”

The king started. “What, then?”

“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.”

“The Chevalier de Lorraine,” said the king; “that dismal fellow?”

“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.”

“So,” said the king, slowly, “you call your brother of England a better

friend than I am?”

“Actions speak for themselves, sire.”

“And you would prefer going to ask assistance there--”

“To my own country!” said she with pride; “yes, sire.”

“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?”

“Then,” said Henrietta, “act!”

“Let us form an alliance.”

“Begin.”

“I have, you say, unjustly exiled De Guiche.”

“Oh! yes,” said she, blushing.

“De Guiche shall return.” [10]

“So far, well.”

“And now you say that I do wrong in having in your household the

Chevalier de Lorraine, who gives Monsieur ill advice respecting 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!”

“The Chevalier de Lorraine shall no longer annoy you--I promise you

that.” [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.”

“Instead of embroiling me with your brother Charles, you must make him a

more intimate friend than ever.”

“That is very 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--”

“Ah! it’s a political friendship, is it?”

“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.”

“Ah! you are quite right,” said Madame; “the coffers of the king of

England have been sonorous for some time.”

“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.”

“To effect that I must go to London, 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.”

“Only,” interrupted Madame, “it is possible I should fail. The king of

England has dangerous counselors.”

“Counselors, do you say?”

“Precisely. If, by chance, your majesty had any intention--I am only

supposing so--of asking Charles II. his alliance in a war--”

“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.”

“And then your negotiations will fail?”

“Oh! those ladies cause all negotiations to fall through which they

don’t make themselves.”

“Do you know the idea that has struck me, sister?”

“No; inform 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.”

“That is really an idea, sire, and I will search.”

“You will find what you want.”

“I hope so.”

“A pretty ambassadress is necessary; an agreeable face is better than an

ugly one, is it not?”

“Most assuredly.”

“An animated, lively, audacious character.”

“Certainly.”

“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.”

“Very true.”

“And who knows a little English.”

“_Mon Dieu!_ why, some one,” cried Madame, “like Mademoiselle de

Keroualle, for instance!”

“Oh! why, yes!” said Louis XIV.; “you have hit the mark,--it is you who

have found, my sister.”

“I will take her; she will have no cause to complain, I suppose.”

“Oh! no, I will name her _seductrice plenipotentiaire_ at once, and will

add a dowry to the title.”

“That is well.”

“I fancy you already on your road, my dear little sister, consoled for

all your griefs.”

“I will go, on two conditions. The first is, that I shall know what I am

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 may easily be imagined, sire.”

“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.”

“They are your allies, nevertheless.”

“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?”

“I thought you had forgotten that miserable episode?”

“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.

“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?”

“We have Mademoiselle de Keroualle to treat that question,” replied

Madame.

“Your second condition for going, if you please, sister?”

“The consent of Monsieur, my husband.”

“You shall have it.”

“Then consider me already gone, 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:

“Monsieur l’ambassadeur, shall we talk about 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.

“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.”

These words fell with the crush of an avalanche upon Monsieur, who

adored his favorite, and concentrated all his affections in him.

“In what has the chevalier been inconsiderate enough to displease your

majesty?” cried he, darting a furious look at Madame.

“I will tell you that when he is gone,” said the king, suavely. “And

also when Madame, here, shall have crossed over into England.”

“Madame! in England!” murmured Monsieur, in amazement.

“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.

During this time Colbert was talking with the Duc d’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,” 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.”

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?”

“Oh! certainly,” 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.”

“That’s evident enough,” replied the musketeer.

“And what do you think of it, Monsieur d’Artagnan?”

“I think that to carry on such a war successfully, you must have very

large land forces.”

“What did you say?” said Colbert, thinking he had ill understood him.

“Why such a large land army?” said 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.”

“And Spain neutral?” asked Aramis.

“Neutral as long as the king shall prove stronger,” rejoined D’Artagnan.

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?”

“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.”

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.”

“Thirty-five ships! impossible!” 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.”

“Five!” cried 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?”

“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.”

“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?”

“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.”

“Oh, monsieur!” said Aramis, civilly, “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?”

Colbert, in his warmth, forgot himself; he called the captain simply

_D’Artagnan_, as the king did. But the captain only smiled at it.

“No,” replied he, “I do not 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 is a capital and quaint idea,” replied D’Artagnan, “to have Dutch

cannon-balls cast which will return to the Dutch.”

“Is it not, with loss, too?” And Colbert laughed aloud. He was delighted

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?”

“No, monsieur.”

“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.”

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.

“If we, in France, were ignorant of what was going on,” said D’Artagnan,

“out of France still less must be known.”

“That is why I told monsieur l’ambassadeur,” said Colbert, “that, Spain

promising its neutrality, England helping us--”

“If England assists you,” said Aramis, “I promise the neutrality of

Spain.”

“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.”

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!”

“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.

“Like an eel,” replied D’Artagnan.

“Ah! but there are some bitter passages of canals and marshes yonder,

Monsieur d’Artagnan, and the best swimmers are sometimes drowned there.”

“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.”

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.

“So, then,” said Colbert, “we go into Holland?”

“Yes,” replied D’Artagnan; “only--”

“Only?” 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.”

“Well! but do you suppose the king would haggle 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.”

Colbert felt this blow, but he was prepared for it.

“I have been thinking of what you said just now,” replied he.

“About what, monsieur?”

“We were speaking of canals and marshes in which people are drowned.”

“Well!”

“Well! if they are drowned, it is for want of a boat, a plank, or a

stick.”

“Of a stick, however short it may be,” said D’Artagnan.

“Exactly,” said Colbert. “And, therefore, I never heard of an instance

of a _marechal_ of France being drowned.”

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_.”

“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]

D’Artagnan took the book, tremblingly, and his fingers meeting those of

Colbert, the minister pressed the hand of the musketeer loyally.

“Monsieur,” said he, “we had both a revenge to take, one over the other.

I have begun; it is now 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_.”

“Then I will have the _fleurs-de-lis_ for your _marechal’s baton_

prepared immediately,” 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.

“Let us love each other for four,” said D’Artagnan. “We are now but

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.”

“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.”

“Bah! such men as we are, monsieur le marechal,” said Aramis, “only die

satisfied with joy in glory.”

“Ah!” replied D’Artagnan, with a melancholy smile, “I assure you,

monsieur le duc, I feel very little appetite for either.”

They once more embraced, and, two hours after, separated--forever.

The Death of D’Artagnan.

Contrary to that which generally happens, whether in politics or morals,

each kept his promises, and did honor to his engagements.

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:

“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,

“LE DUC D’ALMEDA.” [13]

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.

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.

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.

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 Vallière, 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 Vallière

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:

“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.”

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.

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.

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.

At this moment the general, breathing feely and full of joy, heard a

voice behind him, saying, “Monsieur, if you please, from M. Colbert.”

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.”

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:

“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”

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 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:

“Athos--Porthos, farewell till we meet again! Aramis, adieu 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]

End of The Man in the Iron Mask. This is the last text in the series.

Footnotes

[Footnote 1: “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.]

[Footnote 2: In the five-volume edition, Volume 4 ends here.]

[Footnote 3: 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.]

[Footnote 4: 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.]

[Footnote 5: Dumas here, and later in the chapter, uses the name Roncherat.

Roncherolles is the actual name of the man.]

[Footnote 6: In some editions, “in spite of Milady” reads “in spite of malady”.]

[Footnote 7: “Pie” in this case refers to magpies, the prey for the falcons.]

[Footnote 8: Anne of Austria did not die until 1666, and Dumas sets the current

year as 1665.]

[Footnote 9: Madame de Montespan would oust Louise from the king’s affections by

1667.]

[Footnote 10: De Guiche would not return to court until 1671.]

[Footnote 11: 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.]

[Footnote 12: This particular campaign did not actually occur until 1673.]

[Footnote 13: Jean-Paul Oliva was the actual general of the Jesuits from

1664-1681.]

[Footnote 14: 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.]