tell me when I was in his convent. At that time I was not
concerned in the adventure, in the course of which you have
so successfully estopped me! However, because I was prudent
you must not take me for a fool. If I had wished to widen
the breach between those whom Monsieur d'Herblay chooses to
receive with a rope ladder and those whom he receives with a
wooden ladder, I could have spoken out."
"What are you meddling with?" cried Aramis, pale with anger,
suspecting that D'Artagnan had acted as a spy on him and had
seen him with Madame de Longueville.
"I never meddle save with what concerns me, and I know how
to make believe that I haven't seen what does not concern
me; but I hate hypocrites, and among that number I place
musketeers who are abbes and abbes who are musketeers; and,"
he added, turning to Porthos "here's a gentleman who's of
the same opinion as myself."
Porthos, who had not spoken one word, answered merely by a
word and a gesture.
He said "yes" and he put his hand on his sword.
Aramis started back and drew his. D'Artagnan bent forward,
ready either to attack or to stand on his defense.
Athos at that moment extended his hand with the air of
supreme command which characterized him alone, drew out his
sword and the scabbard at the same time, broke the blade in
the sheath on his knee and threw the pieces to his right.
Then turning to Aramis:
"Aramis," he said, "break your sword."
Aramis hesitated.
"It must be done," said Athos; then in a lower and more
gentle voice, he added. "I wish it."
Then Aramis, paler than before, but subdued by these words,
snapped the serpent blade between his hands, and then
folding his arms, stood trembling with rage.
These proceedings made D'Artagnan and Porthos draw back.
D'Artagnan did not draw his sword; Porthos put his back into
the sheath.
"Never!" exclaimed Athos, raising his right hand to Heaven,
"never! I swear before God, who seeth us, and who, in the
darkness of this night heareth us, never shall my sword
cross yours, never my eye express a glance of anger, nor my
heart a throb of hatred, at you. We lived together, we
loved, we hated together; we shed, we mingled our blood
together, and too probably, I may still add, that there may
be yet a bond between us closer even than that of
friendship; perhaps there may be the bond of crime; for we
four, we once did condemn, judge and slay a human being whom
we had not any right to cut off from this world, although
apparently fitter for hell than for this life. D'Artagnan, I
have always loved you as my son; Porthos, we slept six years
side by side; Aramis is your brother as well as mine, and
Aramis has once loved you, as I love you now and as I have
ever loved you. What can Cardinal Mazarin be to us, to four
men who compelled such a man as Richelieu to act as we
pleased? What is such or such a prince to us, who fixed the
diadem upon a great queen's head? D'Artagnan, I ask your
pardon for having yesterday crossed swords with you; Aramis
does the same to Porthos; now hate me if you can; but for my
own part, I shall ever, even if you do hate me, retain
esteem and friendship for you. I repeat my words, Aramis,
and then, if you desire it, and if they desire it, let us
separate forever from our old friends."
There was a solemn, though momentary silence, which was
broken by Aramis.
"I swear," he said, with a calm brow and kindly glance, but
in a voice still trembling with recent emotion, "I swear
that I no longer bear animosity to those who were once my
friends. I regret that I ever crossed swords with you,
Porthos; I swear not only that it shall never again be
pointed at your breast, but that in the bottom of my heart
there will never in future be the slightest hostile
sentiment; now, Athos, come."
Athos was about to retire.
"Oh! no! no! do not go away!" exclaimed D'Artagnan, impelled
by one of those irresistible impulses which showed the
nobility of his nature, the native brightness of his
character; "I swear that I would give the last drop of my
blood and the last fragment of my limbs to preserve the
friendship of such a friend as you, Athos -- of such a man
as you, Aramis." And he threw himself into the arms of
Athos.
"My son!" exclaimed Athos, pressing him in his arms.
"And as for me," said Porthos, "I swear nothing, but I'm
choked. Forsooth! If I were obliged to fight against you, I
think I should allow myself to be pierced through and
through, for I never loved any one but you in the wide
world;" and honest Porthos burst into tears as he embraced
Athos.
"My friends," said Athos, "this is what I expected from such
hearts as yours. Yes, I have said it and I now repeat it:
our destinies are irrevocably united, although we now pursue
divergent roads. I respect your convictions, and whilst we
fight for opposite sides, let us remain friends. Ministers,
princes, kings, will pass away like mountain torrents; civil
war, like a forest flame; but we -- we shall remain; I have
a presentiment that we shall."
"Yes," replied D'Artagnan, "let us still be musketeers, and
let us retain as our battle-standard that famous napkin of
the bastion St. Gervais, on which the great cardinal had
three fleurs-de-lis embroidered."
"Be it so," cried Aramis. "Cardinalists or Frondeurs, what
matters it? Let us meet again as capital seconds in a duel,
devoted friends in business, merry companions in our ancient
pleasures."
"And whenever," added Athos, "we meet in battle, at this
word, `Place Royale!' let us put our swords into our left
hands and shake hands with the right, even in the very lust
and music of the hottest carnage."
"You speak charmingly," said Porthos.
"And are the first of men!" added D'Artagnan. "You excel us
all."
Athos smiled with ineffable pleasure.
"'Tis then all settled. Gentlemen, your hands; are we not
pretty good Christians?"
"Egad!" said D'Artagnan, "by Heaven! yes."
"We should be so on this occasion, if only to be faithful to
our oath," said Aramis.
"Ah, I'm ready to do what you will," cried Porthos; "even to
swear by Mahomet. Devil take me if I've ever been so happy
as at this moment."
And he wiped his eyes, still moist.
"Has not one of you a cross?" asked Athos.
Aramis smiled and drew from his vest a cross of diamonds,
which was hung around his neck by a chain of pearls. "Here
is one," he said.
"Well," resumed Athos, "swear on this cross, which, in spite
of its magnificent material, is still a cross; swear to be
united in spite of everything, and forever, and may this
oath bind us to each other, and even, also, our descendants!
Does this oath satisfy you?"
"Yes," said they all, with one accord.
"Ah, traitor!" muttered D'Artagnan, leaning toward Aramis
and whispering in his ear, "you have made us swear on the
crucifix of a Frondeuse."
29
The Ferry across the Oise.
We hope that the reader has not quite forgotten the young
traveler whom we left on the road to Flanders.
In losing sight of his guardian, whom he had quitted, gazing
after him in front of the royal basilican, Raoul spurred on
his horse, in order not only to escape from his own
melancholy reflections, but also to hide from Olivain the
emotion his face might betray.
One hour's rapid progress, however, sufficed to disperse the
gloomy fancies that had clouded the young man's bright
anticipations; and the hitherto unfelt pleasure of freedom
-- a pleasure which is sweet even to those who have never
known dependence -- seemed to Raoul to gild not only Heaven
and earth, but especially that blue but dim horizon of life
we call the future.
Nevertheless, after several attempts at conversation with
Olivain he foresaw that many days passed thus would prove
exceedingly dull; and the count's agreeable voice, his
gentle and persuasive eloquence, recurred to his mind at the
various towns through which they journeyed and about which
he had no longer any one to give him those interesting
details which he would have drawn from Athos, the most
amusing and the best informed of guides. Another
recollection contributed also to sadden Raoul: on their
arrival at Sonores he had perceived, hidden behind a screen
of poplars, a little chateau which so vividly recalled that
of La Valliere to his mind that he halted for nearly ten
minutes to gaze at it, and resumed his journey with a sigh
too abstracted even to reply to Olivain's respectful inquiry
about the cause of so much fixed attention. The aspect of
external objects is often a mysterious guide communicating
with the fibres of memory, which in spite of us will arouse
them at times; this thread, like that of Ariadne, when once
unraveled will conduct one through a labyrinth of thought,
in which one loses one's self in endeavoring to follow that
phantom of the past which is called recollection.
Now the sight of this chateau had taken Raoul back fifty
leagues westward and had caused him to review his life from
the moment when he had taken leave of little Louise to that
in which he had seen her for the first time; and every
branch of oak, every gilded weathercock on roof of slates,
reminded him that, instead of returning to the friends of
his childhood, every instant estranged him further and that
perhaps he had even left them forever.
With a full heart and burning head he desired Olivain to
lead on the horses to a wayside inn, which he observed
within gunshot range, a little in advance of the place they
had reached.
As for himself, he dismounted and remained under a beautiful
group of chestnuts in flower, amidst which were murmuring a
multitude of happy bees, and bade Olivain send the host to
him with writing paper and ink, to be placed on a table
which he found there, conveniently ready. Olivain obeyed and
continued on his way, whilst Raoul remained sitting, with
his elbow leaning on the table, from time to time gently
shaking the flowers from his head, which fell upon him like
snow, and gazing vaguely on the charming landscape spread
out before him, dotted over with green fields and groups of
trees. Raoul had been there about ten minutes, during five
of which he was lost in reverie, when there appeared within
the circle comprised in his rolling gaze a man with a
rubicund face, who, with a napkin around his body, another
under his arm, and a white cap upon his head, approached
him, holding paper, pen and ink in hand.
"Ha! ha!" laughed the apparition, "every gentleman seems to
have the same fancy, for not a quarter of an hour ago a
young lad, well mounted like you, as tall as you and of
about your age, halted before this clump of trees and had
this table and this chair brought here, and dined here, with
an old gentleman who seemed to be his tutor, upon a pie, of
which they haven't left a mouthful, and two bottles of Macon
wine, of which they haven't left a drop, but fortunately we
have still some of the same wine and some of the same pies
left, and if your worship will but give your orders ---- "
"No, friend " replied Raoul, smiling, "I am obliged to you,
but at this moment I want nothing but the things for which I
have asked -- only I shall be very glad if the ink prove
black and the pen good; upon these conditions I will pay for
the pen the price of the bottle, and for the ink the price
of the pie."
"Very well, sir," said the host, "I'll give the pie and the
bottle of wine to your servant, and in this way you will
have the pen and ink into the bargain."
"Do as you like," said Raoul, who was beginning his
apprenticeship with that particular class of society, who,
when there were robbers on the highroads, were connected
with them, and who, since highwaymen no longer exist, have
advantageously and aptly filled their vacant place.
The host, his mind at ease about his bill, placed pen, ink
and paper upon the table. By a lucky chance the pen was
tolerably good and Raoul began to write. The host remained
standing in front of him, looking with a kind of involuntary
admiration at his handsome face, combining both gravity and
sweetness of expression. Beauty has always been and always
will be all-powerful.
"He's not a guest like the other one here just now,"
observed mine host to Olivain, who had rejoined his master
to see if he wanted anything, "and your young master has no
appetite."
"My master had appetite enough three days ago, but what can
one do? he lost it the day before yesterday."
And Olivain and the host took their way together toward the
inn, Olivain, according to the custom of serving-men well
pleased with their place, relating to the tavern-keeper all
that he could say in favor of the young gentleman; whilst
Raoul wrote on thus:
"Sir, -- After a four hours' march I stop to write to you,
for I miss you every moment, and I am always on the point of
turning my head as if to reply when you speak to me. I was
so bewildered by your departure and so overcome with grief
at our separation, that I am sure I was able to but very
feebly express all the affection and gratitude I feel toward
you. You will forgive me, sir, for your heart is of such a
generous nature that you can well understand all that has
passed in mine. I entreat you to write to me, for you form a
part of my existence, and, if I may venture to tell you so,
I also feel anxious. It seemed to me as if you were yourself
