Chapter XV.

Athos as a Diplomatist.

D’Artagnan retired to bed—not to sleep, but to think over all he had

heard that evening. Being naturally goodhearted, and having had once a

liking for Athos, which had grown into a sincere friendship, he was

delighted at thus meeting a man full of intelligence and moral

strength, instead of a drunkard. He admitted without annoyance the

continued superiority of Athos over himself, devoid as he was of that

jealousy which might have saddened a less generous disposition; he was

delighted also that the high qualities of Athos appeared to promise

favorably for his mission. Nevertheless, it seemed to him that Athos

was not in all respects sincere and frank. Who was the youth he had

adopted and who bore so striking a resemblance to him? What could

explain Athos’s having re-entered the world and the extreme sobriety he

had observed at table? The absence of Grimaud, whose name had never

once been uttered by Athos, gave D’Artagnan uneasiness. It was evident

either that he no longer possessed the confidence of his friend, or

that Athos was bound by some invisible chain, or that he had been

forewarned of the lieutenant’s visit.

He could not help thinking of M. Rochefort, whom he had seen in Notre

Dame; could De Rochefort have forestalled him with Athos? Again, the

moderate fortune which Athos possessed, concealed as it was, so

skillfully, seemed to show a regard for appearances and to betray a

latent ambition which might be easily aroused. The clear and vigorous

intellect of Athos would render him more open to conviction than a less

able man would be. He would enter into the minister’s schemes with the

more ardor, because his natural activity would be doubled by necessity.

Resolved to seek an explanation on all these points on the following

day, D’Artagnan, in spite of his fatigue, prepared for an attack and

determined that it should take place after breakfast. He determined to

cultivate the good-will of the youth Raoul and, either whilst fencing

with him or when out shooting, to extract from his simplicity some

information which would connect the Athos of old times with the Athos

of the present. But D’Artagnan at the same time, being a man of extreme

caution, was quite aware what injury he should do himself, if by any

indiscretion or awkwardness he should betray has manoeuvering to the

experienced eye of Athos. Besides, to tell truth, whilst D’Artagnan was

quite disposed to adopt a subtle course against the cunning of Aramis

or the vanity of Porthos, he was ashamed to equivocate with Athos,

true-hearted, open Athos. It seemed to him that if Porthos and Aramis

deemed him superior to them in the arts of diplomacy, they would like

him all the better for it; but that Athos, on the contrary, would

despise him.

“Ah! why is not Grimaud, the taciturn Grimaud, here?” thought

D’Artagnan, “there are so many things his silence would have told me;

with Grimaud silence was another form of eloquence!”

There reigned a perfect stillness in the house. D’Artagnan had heard

the door shut and the shutters barred; the dogs became in their turn

silent. At last a nightingale, lost in a thicket of shrubs, in the

midst of its most melodious cadences had fluted low and lower into

stillness and fallen asleep. Not a sound was heard in the castle,

except of a footstep up and down, in the chamber above—as he supposed,

the bedroom of Athos.

“He is walking about and thinking,” thought D’Artagnan; “but of what?

It is impossible to know; everything else might be guessed, but not

that.”

At length Athos went to bed, apparently, for the noise ceased.

Silence and fatigue together overcame D’Artagnan and sleep overtook him

also. He was not, however, a good sleeper. Scarcely had dawn gilded his

window curtains when he sprang out of bed and opened the windows.

Somebody, he perceived, was in the courtyard, moving stealthily. True

to his custom of never passing anything over that it was within his

power to know, D’Artagnan looked out of the window and perceived the

close red coat and brown hair of Raoul.

The young man was opening the door of the stable. He then, with

noiseless haste, took out the horse that he had ridden on the previous

evening, saddled and bridled it himself and led the animal into the

alley to the right of the kitchen-garden, opened a side door which

conducted him to a bridle road, shut it after him, and D’Artagnan saw

him pass by like a dart, bending, as he went, beneath the pendent

flowery branches of maple and acacia. The road, as D’Artagnan had

observed, was the way to Blois.

“So!” thought the Gascon “here’s a young blade who has already his love

affair, who doesn’t at all agree with Athos in his hatred to the fair

sex. He’s not going to hunt, for he has neither dogs nor arms; he’s not

going on a message, for he goes secretly. Why does he go in secret? Is

he afraid of me or of his father? for I am sure the count is his

father. By Jove! I shall know about that soon, for I shall soon speak

out to Athos.”

Day was now advanced; all the noises that had ceased the night before

reawakened, one after the other. The bird on the branch, the dog in his

kennel, the sheep in the field, the boats moored in the Loire, even,

became alive and vocal. The latter, leaving the shore, abandoned

themselves gaily to the current. The Gascon gave a last twirl to his

mustache, a last turn to his hair, brushed, from habit, the brim of his

hat with the sleeve of his doublet, and went downstairs. Scarcely had

he descended the last step of the threshold when he saw Athos bent down

toward the ground, as if he were looking for a crown-piece in the dust.

“Good-morning, my dear host,” cried D’Artagnan.

“Good-day to you; have you slept well?”

“Excellently, Athos, but what are you looking for? You are perhaps a

tulip fancier?”

“My dear friend, if I am, you must not laugh at me for being so. In the

country people alter; one gets to like, without knowing it, all those

beautiful objects that God causes to spring from the earth, which are

despised in cities. I was looking anxiously for some iris roots I

planted here, close to this reservoir, and which some one has trampled

upon this morning. These gardeners are the most careless people in the

world; in bringing the horse out to the water they’ve allowed him to

walk over the border.”

D’Artagnan began to smile.

“Ah! you think so, do you?”

And he took his friend along the alley, where a number of tracks like

those which had trampled down the flowerbeds, were visible.

“Here are the horse’s hoofs again, it seems, Athos,” he said

carelessly.

“Yes, indeed, the marks are recent.”

“Quite so,” replied the lieutenant.

“Who went out this morning?” Athos asked, uneasily. “Has any horse got

loose?”

“Not likely,” answered the Gascon; “these marks are regular.”

“Where is Raoul?” asked Athos; “how is it that I have not seen him?”

“Hush!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, putting his finger on his lips; and he

related what he had seen, watching Athos all the while.

“Ah, he’s gone to Blois; the poor boy——”

“Wherefore?”

“Ah, to inquire after the little La Vallière; she has sprained her

foot, you know.”

“You think he has?”

“I am sure of it,” said Athos; “don’t you see that Raoul is in love?”

“Indeed! with whom—with a child seven years old?”

“Dear friend, at Raoul’s age the heart is so expansive that it must

encircle one object or another, fancied or real. Well, his love is half

real, half fanciful. She is the prettiest little creature in the world,

with flaxen hair, blue eyes,—at once saucy and languishing.”

“But what say you to Raoul’s fancy?”

“Nothing—I laugh at Raoul; but this first desire of the heart is

imperious. I remember, just at his age, how deep in love I was with a

Grecian statue which our good king, then Henry IV., gave my father,

insomuch that I was mad with grief when they told me that the story of

Pygmalion was nothing but a fable.”

“It is mere want of occupation. You do not make Raoul work, so he takes

his own way of employing himself.”

“Exactly; therefore I think of sending him away from here.”

“You will be wise to do so.”

“No doubt of it; but it will break his heart. So long as three or four

years ago he used to adorn and adore his little idol, whom he will some

day fall in love with in right earnest if he remains here. The parents

of little La Vallière have for a long time perceived and been amused at

it; now they begin to look concerned.”

“Nonsense! However, Raoul must be diverted from this fancy. Send him

away or you will never make a man of him.”

“I think I shall send him to Paris.”

“So!” thought D’Artagnan, and it seemed to him that the moment for

attack had arrived.

“Suppose,” he said, “we roughly chalk out a career for this young man.

I wish to consult you about some thing.”

“Do so.”

“Do you think it is time for us to enter the service?”

“But are you not still in the service—you, D’Artagnan?”

“I mean active service. Our former life, has it still no attractions

for you? would you not be happy to begin anew in my society and in that

of Porthos, the exploits of our youth?”

“Do you propose to me to do so, D’Artagnan?”

“Decidedly and honestly.”

“On whose side?” asked Athos, fixing his clear, benevolent glance on

the countenance of the Gascon.

“Ah, devil take it, you speak in earnest——”

“And must have a definite answer. Listen, D’Artagnan. There is but one

person, or rather, one cause, to whom a man like me can be useful—that

of the king.”

“Exactly,” answered the musketeer.

“Yes, but let us understand each other,” returned Athos, seriously. “If

by the cause of the king you mean that of Monsieur de Mazarin, we do

_not_ understand each other.”

“I don’t say exactly,” answered the Gascon, confused.

“Come, D’Artagnan, don’t let us play a sidelong game; your hesitation,

your evasion, tells me at once on whose side you are; for that party no

one dares openly to recruit, and when people recruit for it, it is with

averted eyes and humble voice.”

“Ah! my dear Athos!”

“You know that I am not alluding to you; you are the pearl of brave,

bold men. I speak of that spiteful and intriguing Italian—of the pedant

who has tried to put on his own head a crown which he stole from under

a pillow—of the scoundrel who calls his party the party of the king—who

wants to send the princes of the blood to prison, not daring to kill

them, as our great cardinal—our cardinal did—of the miser, who weighs

his gold pieces and keeps the clipped ones for fear, though he is rich,

of losing them at play next morning—of the impudent fellow who insults

the queen, as they say—so much the worse for her—and who is going in

three months to make war upon us, in order that he may retain his

pensions; is that the master whom you propose to me? I thank you,

D’Artagnan.”

“You are more impetuous than you were,” returned D’Artagnan. “Age has

warmed, not chilled your blood. Who informed you this was the master I

propose to you? Devil take it,” he muttered to himself, “don’t let me

betray my secrets to a man not inclined to entertain them.”

“Well, then,” said Athos, “what are your schemes? what do you propose?”

“Zounds! nothing more than natural. You live on your estate, happy in

golden mediocrity. Porthos has, perhaps, sixty thousand francs income.

Aramis has always fifty duchesses quarreling over the priest, as they

quarreled formerly over the musketeer; but I—what have I in the world?

I have worn my cuirass these twenty years, kept down in this inferior

rank, without going forward or backward, hardly half living. In fact, I

am dead. Well! when there is some idea of being resuscitated, you say

he’s a scoundrel, an impudent fellow, a miser, a bad master! By Jove! I

am of your opinion, but find me a better one or give me the means of

living.”

Athos was for a few moments thoughtful.

“Good! D’Artagnan is for Mazarin,” he said to himself.

From that moment he grew very guarded.

On his side D’Artagnan became more cautious also.

“You spoke to me,” Athos resumed, “of Porthos; have you persuaded him

to seek his fortune? But he has wealth, I believe, already.”

“Doubtless he has. But such is man, we always want something more than

we already have.”

“What does Porthos wish for?”

“To be a baron.”

“Ah, true! I forgot,” said Athos, laughing.

“’Tis true!” thought the Gascon, “where has he heard it? Does he

correspond with Aramis? Ah! if I knew that he did I should know all.”

The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Raoul.

“Is our little neighbor worse?” asked D’Artagnan, seeing a look of

vexation on the face of the youth.

“Ah, sir!” replied Raoul, “her fall is a very serious one, and without

any ostensible injury, the physician fears she will be lame for life.”

“This is terrible,” said Athos.

“And what makes me all the more wretched, sir, is, that I was the cause

of this misfortune.”

“How so?” asked Athos.

“It was to run to meet me that she leaped from that pile of wood.”

“There’s only one remedy, dear Raoul—that is, to marry her as a

compensation.” remarked D’Artagnan.

“Ah, sir!” answered Raoul, “you joke about a real misfortune; that is

cruel, indeed.”

The good understanding between the two friends was not in the least

altered by the morning’s skirmish. They breakfasted with a good

appetite, looking now and then at poor Raoul, who with moist eyes and a

full heart, scarcely ate at all.

After breakfast two letters arrived for Athos, who read them with

profound attention, whilst D’Artagnan could not restrain himself from

jumping up several times on seeing him read these epistles, in one of

which, there being at the time a very strong light, he perceived the

fine writing of Aramis. The other was in a feminine hand, long, and

crossed.

“Come,” said D’Artagnan to Raoul, seeing that Athos wished to be alone,

“come, let us take a turn in the fencing gallery; that will amuse you.”

And they both went into a low room where there were foils, gloves,

masks, breastplates, and all the accessories for a fencing match.

In a quarter of an hour Athos joined them and at the same moment

Charles brought in a letter for D’Artagnan, which a messenger had just

desired might be instantly delivered.

It was now Athos’s turn to take a sly look.

D’Artagnan read the letter with apparent calmness and said, shaking his

head:

“See, dear friend, what it is to belong to the army. Faith, you are

indeed right not to return to it. Monsieur de Tréville is ill, so my

company can’t do without me; there! my leave is at an end!”

“Do you return to Paris?” asked Athos, quickly.

“Egad! yes; but why don’t you come there also?”

Athos colored a little and answered:

“Should I go, I shall be delighted to see you there.”

“Halloo, Planchet!” cried the Gascon from the door, “we must set out in

ten minutes; give the horses some hay.”

Then turning to Athos he added:

“I seem to miss something here. I am really sorry to go away without

having seen Grimaud.”

“Grimaud!” replied Athos. “I’m surprised you have never so much as

asked after him. I have lent him to a friend——”

“Who will understand the signs he makes?” returned D’Artagnan.

“I _hope_ so.”

The friends embraced cordially; D’Artagnan pressed Raoul’s hand.

“Will you not come with me?” he said; “I shall pass by Blois.”

Raoul turned toward Athos, who showed him by a secret sign that he did

not wish him to go.

“No, monsieur,” replied the young man; “I will remain with monsieur le

comte.”

“Adieu, then, to both, my good friends,” said D’Artagnan; “may God

preserve you! as we used to say when we said good-bye to each other in

the late cardinal’s time.”

Athos waved his hand, Raoul bowed, and D’Artagnan and Planchet set out.

The count followed them with his eyes, his hands resting on the

shoulders of the youth, whose height was almost equal to his own; but

as soon as they were out of sight he said:

“Raoul, we set out to-night for Paris.”

“Eh?” cried the young man, turning pale.

“You may go and offer your adieux and mine to Madame de Saint-Remy. I

shall wait for you here till seven.”

The young man bent low, with an expression of sorrow and gratitude

mingled, and retired in order to saddle his horse.

As to D’Artagnan, scarcely, on his side, was he out of sight when he

drew from his pocket a letter, which he read over again:

“Return immediately to Paris.—J. M——.”

“The epistle is laconic,” said D’Artagnan; “and if there had not been a

postscript, probably I should not have understood it; but happily there

is a postscript.”

And he read that welcome postscript, which made him forget the

abruptness of the letter.

“P. S.—Go to the king’s treasurer, at Blois; tell him your name and

show him this letter; you will receive two hundred pistoles.”

“Assuredly,” said D’Artagnan, “I admire this piece of prose. The

cardinal writes better than I thought. Come, Planchet, let us pay a

visit to the king’s treasurer and then set off.”

“Toward Paris, sir?”

“Toward Paris.”

And they set out at as hard a canter as their horses could maintain.