this news has reached; it is as yet unknown to all, and I
had sworn to the Count de Guiche to remit this letter to
your majesty before even I should embrace my guardian."
"Your guardian! is he, too, a Bragelonne?" asked Lord de
Winter. "I once knew a Bragelonne -- is he still alive?"
"No, sir, he is dead; and I believe it is from him my
guardian, whose near relation he was, inherited the estate
from which I take my name."
"And your guardian, sir," asked the queen, who could not
help feeling some interest in the handsome young man before
her, "what is his name?"
"The Comte de la Fere, madame," replied the young man,
bowing.
De Winter made a gesture of surprise and the queen turned to
him with a start of joy.
"The Comte de la Fere!" she cried. "Have you not mentioned
that name to me?"
As for De Winter he could scarcely believe that he had heard
aright. "The Comte de la Fere!" he cried in his turn. "Oh,
sir, reply, I entreat you -- is not the Comte de la Fere a
noble whom I remember, handsome and brave, a musketeer under
Louis XIII., who must be now about forty-seven or
forty-eight years of age?"
"Yes, sir, you are right in every particular!"
"And who served under an assumed name?"
"Under the name of Athos. Latterly I heard his friend,
Monsieur d'Artagnan, give him that name."
"That is it, madame, that is the same. God be praised! And
he is in Paris?" continued he, addressing Raoul; then
turning to the queen: "We may still hope. Providence has
declared for us, since I have found this brave man again in
so miraculous a manner. And, sir, where does he reside,
pray?"
"The Comte de la Fere lodges in the Rue Guenegaud, Hotel du
Grand Roi Charlemagne."
"Thanks, sir. Inform this dear friend that he may remain
within, that I shall go and see him immediately."
"Sir, I obey with pleasure, if her majesty will permit me to
depart."
"Go, Monsieur de Bragelonne," said the queen, "and rest
assured of our affection."
Raoul bent respectfully before the two princesses, and
bowing to De Winter, departed.
The queen and De Winter continued to converse for some time
in low voices, in order that the young princess should not
overhear them; but the precaution was needless: she was in
deep converse with her own thoughts.
Then, when De Winter rose to take leave:
"Listen, my lord," said the queen; "I have preserved this
diamond cross which came from my mother, and this order of
St. Michael which came from my husband. They are worth about
fifty thousand pounds. I had sworn to die of hunger rather
than part with these precious pledges; but now that this
ornament may be useful to him or his defenders, everything
must be sacrificed. Take them, and if you need money for
your expedition, sell them fearlessly, my lord. But should
you find the means of retaining them, remember, my lord,
that I shall esteem you as having rendered the greatest
service that a gentleman can render to a queen; and in the
day of my prosperity he who brings me this order and this
cross shall be blessed by me and my children."
"Madame," replied De Winter, "your majesty will be served by
a man devoted to you. I hasten to deposit these two objects
in a safe place, nor should I accept them if the resources
of our ancient fortune were left to us, but our estates are
confiscated, our ready money is exhausted, and we are
reduced to turn to service everything we possess. In an hour
hence I shall be with the Comte de la Fere, and to-morrow
your majesty shall have a definite reply."
The queen tendered her hand to Lord de Winter, who, kissing
it respectfully, went out and traversed alone and
unconducted those large, dark and deserted apartments,
brushing away tears which, blase as he was by fifty years
spent as a courtier, he could not withhold at the spectacle
of royal distress so dignified, yet so intense.
40
Uncle and Nephew.
The horse and servant belonging to De Winter were waiting
for him at the door; he proceeded toward his abode very
thoughtfully, looking behind him from time to him to
contemplate the dark and silent frontage of the Louvre. It
was then that he saw a horseman, as it were, detach himself
from the wall and follow him at a little distance. In
leaving the Palais Royal he remembered to have observed a
similar shadow.
"Tony," he said, motioning to his groom to approach.
"Here I am, my lord."
"Did you remark that man who is following us?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Who is he?"
"I do not know, only he has followed your grace from the
Palais Royal, stopped at the Louvre to wait for you, and now
leaves the Louvre with you."
"Some spy of the cardinal," said De Winter to him, aside.
"Let us pretend not to notice that he is watching us."
And spurring on he plunged into the labyrinth of streets
which led to his hotel, situated near the Marais, for having
for so long a time lived near the Place Royale, Lord de
Winter naturally returned to lodge near his ancient
dwelling.
The unknown spurred his horse to a gallop.
De Winter dismounted at his hotel and went up into his
apartment, intending to watch the spy; but as he was about
to place his gloves and hat on a table, he saw reflected in
a glass opposite to him a figure which stood on the
threshold of the room. He turned around and Mordaunt stood
before him.
There was a moment of frozen silence between these two.
"Sir," said De Winter, "I thought I had already made you
aware that I am weary of this persecution; withdraw, then,
or I shall call and have you turned out as you were in
London. I am not your uncle, I know you not."
"My uncle," replied Mordaunt, with his harsh and bantering
tone, "you are mistaken; you will not have me turned out
this time as you did in London -- you dare not. As for
denying that I am your nephew, you will think twice about
it, now that I have learned some things of which I was
ignorant a year ago."
"And how does it concern me what you have learned?" said De
Winter.
"Oh, it concerns you very closely, my uncle, I am sure, and
you will soon be of my opinion," added he, with a smile
which sent a shudder through the veins of him he thus
addressed. "When I presented myself before you for the first
time in London, it was to ask you what had become of my
fortune; the second time it was to demand who had sullied my
name; and this time I come before you to ask a question far
more terrible than any other, to say to you as God said to
the first murderer: `Cain, what hast thou done to thy
brother Abel?' My lord, what have you done with your sister
-- your sister, who was my mother?"
De Winter shrank back from the fire of those scorching eyes.
"Your mother?" he said.
"Yes, my lord, my mother," replied the young man, advancing
into the room until he was face to face with Lord de Winter,
and crossing his arms. "I have asked the headsman of
Bethune," he said, his voice hoarse and his face livid with
passion and grief. "And the headsman of Bethune gave me a
reply."
De Winter fell back in a chair as though struck by a
thunderbolt and in vain attempted a reply.
"Yes," continued the young man; "all is now explained; with
this key I open the abyss. My mother inherited an estate
from her husband, you have assassinated her; my name would
have secured me the paternal estate, you have deprived me of
it; you have despoiled me of my fortune. I am no longer
astonished that you knew me not. I am not surprised that you
refused to recognize me. When a man is a robber it is hard
to call him nephew whom he has impoverished; when one is a
murderer, to recognize the man whom one has made an orphan."
These words produced a contrary effect to that which
Mordaunt had anticipated. De Winter remembered the monster
that Milady had been; he rose, dignified and calm,
restraining by the severity of his look the wild glance of
the young man.
"You desire to fathom this horrible secret?" said De Winter;
"well, then, so be it. Know, then, what manner of woman it
was for whom to-day you call me to account. That woman had,
in all probability, poisoned my brother, and in order to
inherit from me she was about to assassinate me in my turn.
I have proof of it. What say you to that?"
"I say that she was my mother."
"She caused the unfortunate Duke of Buckingham to be stabbed
by a man who was, ere that, honest, good and pure. What say
you to that crime, of which I have the proof?"
"She was my mother."
"On our return to France she had a young woman who was
attached to one of her opponents poisoned in the convent of
the Augustines at Bethune. Will this crime persuade you of
the justice of her punishment -- for of all this I have the
proofs?"
"She was my mother!" cried the young man, who uttered these
three successive exclamations with constantly increasing
force.
"At last, charged with murders, with debauchery, hated by
every one and yet threatening still, like a panther
thirsting for blood, she fell under the blows of men whom
she had rendered desperate, though they had never done her
the least injury; she met with judges whom her hideous
crimes had evoked; and that executioner you saw -- that
executioner who you say told you everything -- that
executioner, if he told you everything, told you that he
leaped with joy in avenging on her his brother's shame and
suicide. Depraved as a girl, adulterous as a wife, an
unnatural sister, homicide, poisoner, execrated by all who
knew her, by every nation that had been visited by her, she
died accursed by Heaven and earth."
A sob which Mordaunt could not repress burst from his throat
and his livid face became suffused with blood; he clenched
his fists, sweat covered his face, his hair, like Hamlet's,
stood on end, and racked with fury he cried out:
"Silence, sir! she was my mother! Her crimes, I know them
not; her disorders, I know them not; her vices, I know them
not. But this I know, that I had a mother, that five men
leagued against one woman, murdered her clandestinely by
night -- silently -- like cowards. I know that you were one
of them, my uncle, and that you cried louder than the
others: `She must die.' Therefore I warn you, and listen
well to my words, that they may be engraved upon your
memory, never to be forgotten: this murder, which has robbed
me of everything -- this murder, which has deprived me of my
name -- this murder, which has impoverished me -- this
murder, which has made me corrupt, wicked, implacable -- I
shall summon you to account for it first and then those who
were your accomplices, when I discover them!"
With hatred in his eyes, foaming at his mouth, and his fist
extended, Mordaunt had advanced one more step, a
threatening, terrible step, toward De Winter. The latter put
his hand to his sword, and said, with the smile of a man who
for thirty years has jested with death:
"Would you assassinate me, sir? Then I shall recognize you
as my nephew, for you would be a worthy son of such a
mother."
"No," replied Mordaunt, forcing his features and the muscles
of his body to resume their usual places and be calm; "no, I
shall not kill you; at least not at this moment, for without
you I could not discover the others. But when I have found
them, then tremble, sir. I stabbed to the heart the headsman
of Bethune, without mercy or pity, and he was the least
guilty of you all."
With these words the young man went out and descended the
stairs with sufficient calmness to pass unobserved; then
upon the lowest landing place he passed Tony, leaning over
the balustrade, waiting only for a call from his master to
mount to his room.
But De Winter did not call; crushed, enfeebled, he remained
standing and with listening ear; then only when he had heard
the step of the horse going away he fell back on a chair,
saying:
"My God, I thank Thee that he knows me only."
41
Paternal Affection.
Whilst this terrible scene was passing at Lord de Winter's,
Athos, seated near his window, his elbow on the table and
his head supported on his hand, was listening intently to
Raoul's account of the adventures he met with on his journey
and the details of the battle.
Listening to the relation of those emotions so fresh and
pure, the fine, noble face of Athos betrayed indescribable
pleasure; he inhaled the tones of that young voice, as
harmonious music. He forgot all that was dark in the past
and that was cloudy in the future. It almost seemed as if
the return of this much loved boy had changed his fears to
hopes. Athos was happy -- happy as he had never been before.
"And you assisted and took part in this great battle,
Bragelonne!" cried the former musketeer.
"Yes, sir."
"And it was a fierce one?"
"His highness the prince charged eleven times in person."
"He is a great commander, Bragelonne."
"He is a hero, sir. I did not lose sight of him for an
instant. Oh! how fine it is to be called Conde and to be so
worthy of such a name!"
"He was calm and radiant, was he not?"
"As calm as at parade, radiant as at a fete. When we went up
to the enemy it was slowly; we were forbidden to draw first
and we were marching toward the Spaniards, who were on a
height with lowered muskets. When we arrived about thirty
paces from them the prince turned around to the soldiers:
`Comrades,' he said, `you are about to suffer a furious
