"I don't understand," said Porthos.
"The affair at Armentieres," whispered D'Artagnan.
"The affair at Armentieres?" asked he again.
"Milady."
"Oh, yes!" said Porthos; "true, I had forgotten it!"
Athos looked at him intently.
"You have forgotten it, Porthos?" said he.
"Faith! yes, it is so long ago," answered Porthos.
"This affair does not, then, weigh upon your conscience?"
"Faith, no."
"And you, D'Artagnan?"
"I -- I own that when my mind returns to that terrible
period I have no recollection of anything but the rigid
corpse of poor Madame Bonancieux. Yes, yes," murmured he, "I
have often felt regret for the victim, but never the very
slightest remorse for the assassin."
Athos shook his dead doubtfully.
"Consider," said Aramis, "if you admit divine justice and
its participation in the things of this world, that woman
was punished by the will of heaven. We were but the
instruments, that is all."
"But as to free will, Aramis?"
"How acts the judge? He has a free will, yet he fearlessly
condemns. What does the executioner? He is master of his
arm, yet he strikes without remorse."
"The executioner!" muttered Athos, as if arrested by some
recollection.
"I know that it is terrible," said D'Artagnan; "but when I
reflect that we have killed English, Rochellais, Spaniards,
nay, even French, who never did us any other harm but to aim
at and to miss us, whose only fault was to cross swords with
us and to be unable to ward off our blows -- I can, on my
honor, find an excuse for my share in the murder of that
woman."
"As for me," said Porthos, "now that you have reminded me of
it, Athos, I have the scene again before me, as if I now
were there. Milady was there, as it were, where you sit."
(Athos changed color.) "I -- I was where D'Artagnan stands.
I wore a long sword which cut like a Damascus -- you
remember it, Aramis for you always called it Balizarde.
Well, I swear to you, all three, that had the executioner of
Bethune -- was he not of Bethune? -- yes, egad! of Bethune!
-- not been there, I would have cut off the head of that
infamous being without thinking of it, or even after
thinking of it. She was a most atrocious woman."
"And then," said Aramis, with the tone of philosophical
indifference which he had assumed since he had belonged to
the church and in which there was more atheism than
confidence in God, "what is the use of thinking of it all?
At the last hour we must confess this action and God knows
better than we can whether it is a crime, a fault, or a
meritorious deed. I repent of it? Egad! no. Upon my honor
and by the holy cross; I only regret it because she was a
woman."
"The most satisfactory part of the matter," said D'Artagnan,
"is that there remains no trace of it."
"She had a son," observed Athos.
"Oh! yes, I know that," said D'Artagnan, "and you mentioned
it to me; but who knows what has become of him? If the
serpent be dead, why not its brood? Do you think his uncle
De Winter would have brought up that young viper? De Winter
probably condemned the son as he had done the mother."
"Then," said Athos, "woe to De Winter, for the child had
done no harm."
"May the devil take me, if the child be not dead," said
Porthos. "There is so much fog in that detestable country,
at least so D'Artagnan declares."
Just as the quaint conclusion reached by Porthos was about
to bring back hilarity to faces now more or less clouded,
hasty footsteps were heard upon the stair and some one
knocked at the door.
"Come in," cried Athos.
"Please your honors," said the host, "a person in a great
hurry wishes to speak to one of you."
"To which of us?" asked all the four friends.
"To him who is called the Comte de la Fere."
"It is I," said Athos, "and what is the name of the person?"
"Grimaud."
"Ah!" exclaimed Athos, turning pale. "Back already! What can
have happened, then, to Bragelonne?"
"Let him enter," cried D'Artagnan; "let him come up."
But Grimaud had already mounted the staircase and was
waiting on the last step; so springing into the room he
motioned the host to leave it. The door being closed, the
four friends waited in expectation. Grimaud's agitation, his
pallor, the sweat which covered his face, the dust which
soiled his clothes, all indicated that he was the messenger
of some important and terrible news.
"Your honors," said he, "that woman had a child; that child
has become a man; the tigress had a little one, the tiger
has roused himself; he is ready to spring upon you --
beware!"
Athos glanced around at his friends with a melancholy smile.
Porthos turned to look at his sword, which was hanging on
the wall; Aramis seized his knife; D'Artagnan arose.
"What do you mean, Grimaud?" he exclaimed.
"That Milady's son has left England, that he is in France,
on his road to Paris, if he be not here already."
"The devil he is!" said Porthos. "Are you sure of it?"
"Certain," replied Grimaud.
This announcement was received in silence. Grimaud was so
breathless, so exhausted, that he had fallen back upon a
chair. Athos filled a beaker with champagne and gave it to
him.
"Well, after all," said D'Artagnan, "supposing that he
lives, that he comes to Paris; we have seen many other such.
Let him come."
"Yes," echoed Porthos, glancing affectionately at his sword,
still hanging on the wall; "we can wait for him; let him
come."
"Moreover, he is but a child," said Aramis.
Grimaud rose.
"A child!" he exclaimed. "Do you know what he has done, this
child? Disguised as a monk he discovered the whole history
in confession from the executioner of Bethune, and having
confessed him, after having learned everything from him, he
gave him absolution by planting this dagger into his heart.
See, it is on fire yet with his hot blood, for it is not
thirty hours since it was drawn from the wound."
And Grimaud threw the dagger on the table.
D'Artagnan, Porthos and Aramis rose and in one spontaneous
motion rushed to their swords. Athos alone remained seated,
calm and thoughtful.
"And you say he is dressed as a monk, Grimaud?"
"Yes, as an Augustine monk."
"What sized man is he?"
"About my height; thin, pale, with light blue eyes and tawny
flaxen hair."
"And he did not see Raoul?" asked Athos.
"Yes, on the contrary, they met, and it was the viscount
himself who conducted him to the bed of the dying man."
Athos, in his turn, rising without speaking, went and
unhooked his sword.
"Heigh, sir," said D'Artagnan, trying to laugh, "do you know
we look very much like a flock of silly, mouse-evading
women! How is it that we, four men who have faced armies
without blinking, begin to tremble at the mention of a
child?"
"It is true," said Athos, "but this child comes in the name
of Heaven."
And very soon they left the inn.
36
A Letter from Charles the First.
The reader must now cross the Seine with us and follow us to
the door of the Carmelite Convent in the Rue Saint Jacques.
It is eleven o'clock in the morning and the pious sisters
have just finished saying mass for the success of the armies
of King Charles I. Leaving the church, a woman and a young
girl dressed in black, the one as a widow and the other as
an orphan, have re-entered their cell.
The woman kneels on a prie-dieu of painted wood and at a
short distance from her stands the young girl, leaning
against a chair, weeping.
The woman must have once been handsome, but traces of sorrow
have aged her. The young girl is lovely and her tears only
embellish her; the lady appears to be about forty years of
age, the girl about fourteen.
"Oh, God!" prayed the kneeling suppliant, "protect my
husband, guard my son, and take my wretched life instead!"
"Oh, God!" murmured the girl, "leave me my mother!"
"Your mother can be of no use to you in this world,
Henrietta," said the lady, turning around. "Your mother has
no longer either throne or husband; she has neither son,
money nor friends; the whole world, my poor child, has
abandoned your mother!" And she fell back, weeping, into her
daughter's arms.
"Courage, take courage, my dear mother!" said the girl.
"Ah! 'tis an unfortunate year for kings," said the mother.
"And no one thinks of us in this country, for each must
think about his own affairs. As long as your brother was
with me he kept me up; but he is gone and can no longer send
us news of himself, either to me or to your father. I have
pledged my last jewels, sold your clothes and my own to pay
his servants, who refused to accompany him unless I made
this sacrifice. We are now reduced to live at the expense of
these daughters of Heaven; we are the poor, succored by
God."
"But why not address yourself to your sister, the queen?"
asked the girl.
"Alas! the queen, my sister, is no longer queen, my child.
Another reigns in her name. One day you will be able to
understand how all this is."
"Well, then, to the king, your nephew. Shall I speak to him?
You know how much he loves me, my mother.
"Alas! my nephew is not yet king, and you know Laporte has
told us twenty times that he himself is in need of almost
everything."
"Then let us pray to Heaven," said the girl.
The two women who thus knelt in united prayer were the
daughter and grand-daughter of Henry IV., the wife and
daughter of Charles I.
They had just finished their double prayer, when a nun
softly tapped at the door of the cell.
"Enter, my sister," said the queen.
"I trust your majesty will pardon this intrusion on her
meditations, but a foreign lord has arrived from England and
waits in the parlor, demanding the honor of presenting a
letter to your majesty."
"Oh, a letter! a letter from the king, perhaps. News from
your father, do you hear, Henrietta? And the name of this
lord?"
"Lord de Winter."
"Lord de Winter!" exclaimed the queen, "the friend of my
husband. Oh, bid him enter!"
And the queen advanced to meet the messenger, whose hand she
seized affectionately, whilst he knelt down and presented a
letter to her, contained in a case of gold.
"Ah! my lord!" said the queen, "you bring us three things
which we have not seen for a long time. Gold, a devoted
friend, and a letter from the king, our husband and master."
De Winter bowed again, unable to reply from excess of
emotion.
On their side the mother and daughter retired into the
embrasure of a window to read eagerly the following letter:
Dear Wife, -- We have now reached the moment of decision. I
have concentrated here at Naseby camp all the resources
Heaven has left me, and I write to you in haste from thence.
Here I await the army of my rebellious subjects. I am about
to struggle for the last time with them. If victorious, I
shall continue the struggle; if beaten, I am lost. I shall
try, in the latter case (alas! in our position, one must
provide for everything), I shall try to gain the coast of
France. But can they, will they receive an unhappy king, who
will bring such a sad story into a country already agitated
by civil discord? Your wisdom and your affection must serve
me as guides. The bearer of this letter will tell you,
madame, what I dare not trust to pen and paper and the risks
of transit. He will explain to you the steps that I expect
you to pursue. I charge him also with my blessing for my
children and with the sentiments of my soul for yourself, my
dearest sweetheart."
The letter bore the signature, not of "Charles, King," but
of "Charles -- still king."
"And let him be no longer king," cried the queen. "Let him
be conquered, exiled, proscribed, provided he still lives.
Alas! in these days the throne is too dangerous a place for
me to wish him to retain it. But my lord, tell me," she
continued, "hide nothing from me -- what is, in truth, the
king's position? Is it as hopeless as he thinks?"
"Alas! madame, more hopeless than he thinks. His majesty has
so good a heart that he cannot understand hatred; is so
loyal that he does not suspect treason! England is torn in
twain by a spirit of disturbance which, I greatly fear,
blood alone can exorcise."
"But Lord Montrose," replied the queen, "I have heard of his
great and rapid successes of battles gained. I heard it said
that he was marching to the frontier to join the king."
"Yes, madame; but on the frontier he was met by Lesly; he
had tried victory by means of superhuman undertakings. Now
victory has abandoned him. Montrose, beaten at Philiphaugh,
was obliged to disperse the remains of his army and to fly,
disguised as a servant. He is at Bergen, in Norway."
"Heaven preserve him!" said the queen. "It is at least a
consolation to know that some who have so often risked their
lives for us are safe. And now, my lord, that I see how
hopeless the position of the king is, tell me with what you
are charged on the part of my royal husband."
"Well, then, madame," said De Winter, "the king wishes you
