Chapter XLII.

Another Queen in Want of Help.

Athos had not failed to send early to Aramis and had given his letter

to Blaisois, the only serving-man whom he had left. Blaisois found

Bazin donning his beadle’s gown, his services being required that day

at Notre Dame.

Athos had desired Blaisois to try to speak to Aramis himself. Blaisois,

a tall, simple youth, who understood nothing but what he was expressly

told, asked, therefore for the Abbé d’Herblay, and in spite of Bazin’s

assurances that his master was not at home, he persisted in such a

manner as to put Bazin into a passion. Blaisois seeing Bazin in

clerical guise, was a little discomposed at his denials and wanted to

pass at all risks, believing too, that the man with whom he had to do

was endowed with the virtues of his cloth, namely, patience and

Christian charity.

But Bazin, still the servant of a musketeer, when once the blood

mounted to his fat cheeks, seized a broomstick and began belaboring

Blaisois, saying:

“You have insulted the church, my friend, you have insulted the

church!”

At this moment Aramis, aroused by this unusual disturbance, cautiously

opened the door of his room; and Blaisois, looking reproachfully at the

Cerberus, drew the letter from his pocket and presented it to Aramis.

“From the Comte de la Fère,” said Aramis. “All right.” And he retired

into his room without even asking the cause of so much noise.

Blaisois returned disconsolate to the Hotel of the Grand Roi

Charlemagne and when Athos inquired if his commission was executed, he

related his adventure.

“You foolish fellow!” said Athos, laughing. “And you did not tell him

that you came from me?”

“No, sir.”

At ten o’clock Athos, with his habitual exactitude, was waiting on the

Pont du Louvre and was almost immediately joined by Lord de Winter.

They waited ten minutes and then his lordship began to fear Aramis was

not coming to join them.

“Patience,” said Athos, whose eyes were fixed in the direction of the

Rue du Bac, “patience; I see an abbé cuffing a man, then bowing to a

woman; it must be Aramis.”

It was indeed Aramis. Having run against a young shopkeeper who was

gaping at the crows and who had splashed him, Aramis with one blow of

his fist had distanced him ten paces.

At this moment one of his penitents passed, and as she was young and

pretty Aramis took off his cap to her with his most gracious smile.

A most affectionate greeting, as one can well believe took place

between him and Lord de Winter.

“Where are we going?” inquired Aramis; “are we going to fight,

perchance? I carry no sword this morning and cannot return home to

procure one.”

“No,” said Lord de Winter, “we are going to pay a visit to Her Majesty

the Queen of England.”

“Oh, very well,” replied Aramis; then bending his face down to Athos’s

ear, “what is the object of this visit?” continued he.

“Nay, I know not; some evidence required from us, perhaps.”

“May it not be about that cursed affair?” asked Aramis, “in which case

I do not greatly care to go, for it will be to pocket a lecture; and

since it is my function to give them to others I am rather averse to

receiving them myself.”

“If it were so,” answered Athos, “we should not be taken there by Lord

de Winter, for he would come in for his share; he was one of us.”

“You’re right; yes, let us go.”

On arriving at the Louvre Lord de Winter entered first; indeed, there

was but one porter there to receive them at the gate.

It was impossible in daylight for the impoverished state of the

habitation grudging charity had conceded to an unfortunate queen to

pass unnoticed by Athos, Aramis, and even the Englishman. Large rooms,

completely stripped of furniture, bare walls upon which, here and

there, shone the old gold moldings which had resisted time and neglect,

windows with broken panes (impossible to close), no carpets, neither

guards nor servants: this is what first met the eyes of Athos, to which

he, touching his companion’s elbow, directed his attention by his

glances.

“Mazarin is better lodged,” said Aramis.

“Mazarin is almost king,” answered Athos; “Madame Henrietta is almost

no longer queen.”

“If you would condescend to be clever, Athos,” observed Aramis, “I

really do think you would be wittier than poor Monsieur de Voiture.”

Athos smiled.

The queen appeared to be impatiently expecting them, for at the first

slight noise she heard in the hall leading to her room she came herself

to the door to receive these courtiers in the corridors of Misfortune.

“Enter. You are welcome, gentlemen,” she said.

The gentlemen entered and remained standing, but at a motion from the

queen they seated themselves. Athos was calm and grave, but Aramis was

furious; the sight of such royal misery exasperated him and his eyes

examined every new trace of poverty that presented itself.

“You are examining the luxury I enjoy,” said the queen, glancing sadly

around her.

“Madame,” replied Aramis, “I must ask your pardon, but I know not how

to hide my indignation at seeing how a daughter of Henry IV. is treated

at the court of France.”

“Monsieur Aramis is not an officer?” asked the queen of Lord de Winter.

“That gentleman is the Abbé d’Herblay,” replied he.

Aramis blushed. “Madame,” he said, “I am an abbé, it is true, but I am

so against my will. I never had a vocation for the bands; my cassock is

fastened by one button only, and I am always ready to become a

musketeer once more. This morning, being ignorant that I should have

the honor of seeing your majesty, I encumbered myself with this dress,

but you will find me none the less a man devoted to your majesty’s

service, in whatever way you may see fit to use me.”

“The Abbé d’Herblay,” resumed De Winter, “is one of those gallant

musketeers formerly belonging to His Majesty King Louis XIII., of whom

I have spoken to you, madame.” Then turning to Athos, he continued,

“And this gentleman is that noble Comte de la Fère, whose high

reputation is so well known to your majesty.”

“Gentlemen,” said the queen, “a few years ago I had around me ushers,

treasures, armies; and by the lifting of a finger all these were busied

in my service. To-day, look around you, and it may astonish you, that

in order to accomplish a plan which is dearer to me than life I have

only Lord de Winter, the friend of twenty years, and you, gentlemen,

whom I see for the first time and whom I know but as my countrymen.”

“It is enough,” said Athos, bowing low, “if the lives of three men can

purchase yours, madame.”

“I thank you, gentlemen. But hear me,” continued she. “I am not only

the most miserable of queens, but the most unhappy of mothers, the most

wretched of wives. My children, two of them, at least, the Duke of York

and the Princess Elizabeth, are far away from me, exposed to the blows

of the ambitious and our foes; my husband, the king, is leading in

England so wretched an existence that it is no exaggeration to aver

that he seeks death as a thing to be desired. Hold! gentlemen, here is

the letter conveyed to me by Lord de Winter. Read it.”

Obeying the queen, Athos read aloud the letter which we have already

seen, in which King Charles demanded to know whether the hospitality of

France would be accorded him.

“Well?” asked Athos, when he had closed the letter.

“Well,” said the queen, “it has been refused.”

The two friends exchanged a smile of contempt.

“And now,” said Athos, “what is to be done? I have the honor to inquire

from your majesty what you desire Monsieur d’Herblay and myself to do

in your service. We are ready.”

“Ah, sir, you have a noble heart!” exclaimed the queen, with a burst of

gratitude; whilst Lord de Winter turned to her with a glance which

said, “Did I not answer for them?”

“But you, sir?” said the queen to Aramis.

“I, madame,” replied he, “follow Monsieur de la Fère wherever he leads,

even were it on to death, without demanding wherefore; but when it

concerns your majesty’s service, then,” added he, looking at the queen

with all the grace of former days, “I precede the count.”

“Well, then, gentlemen,” said the queen, “since it is thus, and since

you are willing to devote yourselves to the service of a poor princess

whom the whole world has abandoned, this is what is required to be done

for me. The king is alone with a few gentlemen, whom he fears to lose

every day; surrounded by the Scotch, whom he distrusts, although he be

himself a Scotchman. Since Lord de Winter left him I am distracted,

sirs. I ask much, too much, perhaps, for I have no title to request it.

Go to England, join the king, be his friends, protectors, march to

battle at his side, and be near him in his house, where conspiracies,

more dangerous than the perils of war, are hatching every day. And in

exchange for the sacrifice that you make, gentlemen, I promise—not to

reward you, I believe that word would offend you—but to love you as a

sister, to prefer you, next to my husband and my children, to every

one. I swear it before Heaven.”

And the queen raised her eyes solemnly upward.

“Madame,” said Athos, “when must we set out?”

“You consent then?” exclaimed the queen, joyfully.

“Yes, madame; only it seems to me that your majesty goes too far in

engaging to load us with a friendship so far above our merit. We render

service to God, madame, in serving a prince so unfortunate, a queen so

virtuous. Madame, we are yours, body and soul.”

“Oh, sirs,” said the queen, moved even to tears, “this is the first

time for five years I have felt the least approach to joy or hope. God,

who can read my heart, all the gratitude I feel, will reward you! Save

my husband! Save the king, and although you care not for the price that

is placed upon a good action in this world, leave me the hope that we

shall meet again, when I may be able to thank you myself. In the

meantime, I remain here. Have you anything to ask of me? From this

moment I become your friend, and since you are engaged in my affairs I

ought to occupy myself in yours.”

“Madame,” replied Athos, “I have only to ask your majesty’s prayers.”

“And I,” said Aramis, “I am alone in the world and have only your

majesty to serve.”

The queen held out her hand, which they kissed, and she said in a low

tone to De Winter:

“If you need money, my lord, separate the jewels I have given you;

detach the diamonds and sell them to some Jew. You will receive for

them fifty or sixty thousand francs; spend them if necessary, but let

these gentlemen be treated as they deserve, that is to say, like

kings.”

The queen had two letters ready, one written by herself, the other by

her daughter, the Princess Henrietta. Both were addressed to King

Charles. She gave the first to Athos and the other to Aramis, so that

should they be separated by chance they might make themselves known to

the king; after which they withdrew.

At the foot of the staircase De Winter stopped.

“Not to arouse suspicions, gentlemen,” said he, “go your way and I will

go mine, and this evening at nine o’clock we will assemble again at the

Gate Saint Denis. We will travel on horseback as far as our horses can

go and afterward we can take the post. Once more, let me thank you, my

good friends, both in my own name and the queen’s.”

The three gentlemen then shook hands, Lord de Winter taking the Rue

Saint Honoré, and Athos and Aramis remaining together.

“Well,” said Aramis, when they were alone, “what do you think of this

business, my dear count?”

“Bad,” replied Athos, “very bad.”

“But you received it with enthusiasm.”

“As I shall ever receive the defense of a great principle, my dear

D’Herblay. Monarchs are only strong by the assistance of the

aristocracy, but aristocracy cannot survive without the countenance of

monarchs. Let us, then, support monarchy, in order to support

ourselves.

“We shall be murdered there,” said Aramis. “I hate the English—they are

coarse, like every nation that swills beer.”

“Would it be better to remain here,” said Athos, “and take a turn in

the Bastile or the dungeon of Vincennes for having favored the escape

of Monsieur de Beaufort? I’faith, Aramis, believe me, there is little

left to regret. We avoid imprisonment and we play the part of heroes;

the choice is easy.”

“It is true; but in everything, friend, one must always return to the

same question—a stupid one, I admit, but very necessary—have you any

money?”

“Something like a hundred pistoles, that my farmer sent to me the day

before I left Bragelonne; but out of that sum I ought to leave fifty

for Raoul—a young man must live respectably. I have then about fifty

pistoles. And you?”

“As for me, I am quite sure that after turning out all my pockets and

emptying my drawers I shall not find ten louis at home. Fortunately

Lord de Winter is rich.”

“Lord de Winter is ruined for the moment; Oliver Cromwell has annexed

his income resources.”

“Now is the time when Baron Porthos would be useful.”

“Now it is that I regret D’Artagnan.”

“Let us entice them away.”

“This secret, Aramis, does not belong to us; take my advice, then, and

let no one into our confidence. And moreover, in taking such a step we

should appear to be doubtful of ourselves. Let us regret their absence

to ourselves for our own sakes, but not speak of it.”

“You are right; but what are you going to do until this evening? I have

two things to postpone.”

“And what are they?”

“First, a thrust with the coadjutor, whom I met last night at Madame de

Rambouillet’s and whom I found particular in his remarks respecting

me.”

“Oh, fie—a quarrel between priests, a duel between allies!”

“What can I do, friend? he is a bully and so am I; his cassock is a

burden to him and I imagine I have had enough of mine; in fact, there

is so much resemblance between us that I sometimes believe he is Aramis

and I am the coadjutor. This kind of life fatigues and oppresses me;

besides, he is a turbulent fellow, who will ruin our party. I am

convinced that if I gave him a box on the ear, such as I gave this

morning to the little citizen who splashed me, it would change the

appearance of things.”

“And I, my dear Aramis,” quietly replied Athos, “I think it would only

change Monsieur de Retz’s appearance. Take my advice, leave things just

as they are; besides, you are neither of you now your own masters; he

belongs to the Fronde and you to the queen of England. So, if the

second matter which you regret being unable to attend to is not more

important than the first——”

“Oh! that is of the first importance.”

“Attend to it, then, at once.”

“Unfortunately, it is a thing that I can’t perform at any time I

choose. It was arranged for the evening and no other time will serve.”

“I understand,” said Athos smiling, “midnight.”

“About that time.”

“But, my dear fellow, those are things that bear postponement and you

must put it off, especially with so good an excuse to give on your

return——”

“Yes, if I return.”

“If you do not return, how does it concern you? Be reasonable. Come,

you are no longer twenty years old.”

“To my great regret, _mordieu!_ Ah, if I were but twenty years old!”

“Yes,” said Athos, “doubtless you would commit great follies! But now

we must part. I have one or two visits to make and a letter yet to

write. Call for me at eight o’clock or shall I wait supper for you at

seven?”

“That will do very well,” said Aramis. “I have twenty visits to make

and as many letters to write.”

They then separated. Athos went to pay a visit to Madame de Vendôme,

left his name at Madame de Chevreuse’s and wrote the following letter

to D’Artagnan:

“Dear Friend,—I am about to set off with Aramis on important business.

I wished to make my adieux to you, but time does not permit. Remember

that I write to you now to repeat how much affection for you I still

cherish.

“Raoul is gone to Blois and is ignorant of my departure; watch over him

in my absence as much as you possibly can; and if by chance you receive

no news of me three months hence, tell him to open a packet which he

will find addressed to him in my bronze casket at Blois, of which I

send you now the key.

“Embrace Porthos from Aramis and myself. Adieu, perhaps farewell.”

At the hour agreed upon Aramis arrived; he was dressed as an officer

and had the old sword at his side which he had drawn so often and which

he was more than ever ready to draw.

“By-the-bye,” he said, “I think that we are decidedly wrong to depart

thus, without leaving a line for Porthos and D’Artagnan.”

“The thing is done, dear friend,” said Athos; “I foresaw that and have

embraced them both from you and myself.”

“You are a wonderful man, my dear count,” said Aramis; “you think of

everything.”

“Well, have you made up your mind to this journey?”

“Quite; and now that I reflect about it, I am glad to leave Paris at

this moment.”

“And so am I,” replied Athos; “my only regret is not having seen

D’Artagnan; but the rascal is so cunning, he might have guessed our

project.”

When supper was over Blaisois entered. “Sir,” said he, “here is

Monsieur d’Artagnan’s answer.”

“But I did not tell you there would be an answer, stupid!” said Athos.

“And I set off without waiting for one, but he called me back and gave

me this;” and he presented a little leather bag, plump and giving out a

golden jingle.

Athos opened it and began by drawing forth a little note, written in

these terms:

“My dear Count,—When one travels, and especially for three months, one

never has a superfluity of money. Now, recalling former times of mutual

distress, I send you half my purse; it is money to obtain which I made

Mazarin sweat. Don’t make a bad use of it, I entreat you.

“As to what you say about not seeing you again, I believe not a word of

it; with such a heart as yours—and such a sword—one passes through the

valley of the shadow of death a dozen times, unscathed and unalarmed.

Au revoir, not farewell.

“It is unnecessary to say that from the day I saw Raoul I loved him;

nevertheless, believe that I heartily pray that I may not become to him

a father, however much I might be proud of such a son.

“Your

“D’Artagnan.

“P.S.—Be it well understood that the fifty louis which I send are

equally for Aramis as for you—for you as Aramis.”

Athos smiled, and his fine eye was dimmed by a tear. D’Artagnan, who

had loved him so tenderly, loved him still, although a Mazarinist.

“There are the fifty louis, i’faith,” said Aramis, emptying the purse

on the table, all bearing the effigy of Louis XIII. “Well, what shall

you do with this money, count? Shall you keep it or send it back?”

“I shall keep it, Aramis, and even though I had no need of it I still

should keep it. What is offered from a generous heart should be

accepted generously. Take twenty-five of them, Aramis, and give me the

remaining twenty-five.”

“All right; I am glad to see you are of my opinion. There now, shall we

start?”

“When you like; but have you no groom?”

“No; that idiot Bazin had the folly to make himself verger, as you

know, and therefore cannot leave Notre Dame.

“Very well, take Blaisois, with whom I know not what to do, since I

already have Grimaud.”

“Willingly,” said Aramis.

At this moment Grimaud appeared at the door. “Ready,” said he, with his

usual curtness.

“Let us go, then,” said Athos.

The two friends mounted, as did their servants. At the corner of the

Quai they encountered Bazin, who was running breathlessly.

“Oh, sir!” exclaimed he, “thank Heaven I have arrived in time. Monsieur

Porthos has just been to your house and has left this for you, saying

that the letter was important and must be given to you before you

left.”

“Good,” said Aramis, taking a purse which Bazin presented to him. “What

is this?”

“Wait, your reverence, there is a letter.”

“You know I have already told you that if you ever call me anything but

chevalier I will break every bone in your body. Give me the letter.”

“How can you read?” asked Athos, “it is as dark as a cold oven.”

“Wait,” said Bazin, striking a flint, and setting afire a twisted

wax-light, with which he started the church candles. Thus illumined,

Aramis read the following epistle:

“My dear D’Herblay,—I learned from D’Artagnan who has embraced me on

the part of the Comte de la Fère and yourself, that you are setting out

on a journey which may perhaps last two or three months; as I know that

you do not like to ask money of your friends I offer you some of my own

accord. Here are two hundred pistoles, which you can dispose of as you

wish and return to me when opportunity occurs. Do not fear that you put

me to inconvenience; if I want money I can send for some to any of my

châteaux; at Bracieux alone, I have twenty thousand francs in gold. So,

if I do not send you more it is because I fear you would not accept a

larger sum.

“I address you, because you know, that although I esteem him from my

heart I am a little awed by the Comte de la Fère; but it is understood

that what I offer you I offer him at the same time.

“I am, as I trust you do not doubt, your devoted

“Du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds.”

“Well,” said Aramis, “what do you say to that?”

“I say, my dear D’Herblay, that it is almost sacrilege to distrust

Providence when one has such friends, and therefore we will divide the

pistoles from Porthos, as we divided the louis sent by D’Artagnan.”

The division being made by the light of Bazin’s taper, the two friends

continued their road and a quarter of an hour later they had joined De

Winter at the Porte Saint Denis.