As he was arriving at the end of the Rue Guénégaud he saw, coming out of the Rue Dauphine, two persons whose appearance struck his attention. One was a man, and the other a woman.
The woman had Madame Bonacieux’s figure, and the man resembled Aramis so much as to be mistaken for him.
Besides, the woman had on that black cloak, which D’Artagnan could still see outlined upon the shutter of the Rue de Vaugirard, and upon the door of the Rue de la Harpe.
And still further, the man wore the uniform of the musketeers.
The woman’s hood was pulled down, and the man held his handkerchief up to his face. Both, as this double precaution indicated—both had an interest, then, in not being recognized.
They followed the bridge. That was D’Artagnan’s road, since D’Artagnan was going to the Louvre. D’Artagnan followed them.
He had not gone twenty steps before he became convinced that the woman was really Madame Bonacieux, and the man Aramis.
He felt at that instant all the suspicions of jealousy agitating his heart.
He was doubly betrayed—by his friend, and by her whom he already loved as a mistress. Madame Bonacieux had sworn by all that was holy that she did not know Aramis, and a quarter of an hour after she had taken this oath he found her hanging on Aramis’s arm.
The young man and woman had perceived they were followed, and had redoubled their speed. D’Artagnan hastened on, passed them, then turned on them at the moment they were before the Samaritaine, which was illuminated by a lamp that threw its light over all this part of the bridge.
D’Artagnan stopped before them, and they stopped before him.
“What do you want, sir?” demanded the musketeer, drawing back a step, and with a foreign accent which proved to D’Artagnan that he was deceived in one part of his conjectures at least.
“It is not Aramis!” cried he.
“No, sir, it is not Aramis; and by your exclamation, I perceive you have mistaken me for another, and pardon you.”
“You pardon me!” cried D’Artagnan.
“Yes,” replied the unknown. “Allow me, then, to pass on, since it is not with me you have anything to do.”
“You are right, sir; it is not with you I have anything to do. It is with madame here.”
“With madame! You do not know her!” replied the stranger.
“You are mistaken, sir; I know her very well.”
“Ah,” said Madame Bonacieux, in a tone of reproach—“ah, sir, I had the promise of a soldier and the word of a gentleman. I thought I might have depended upon them!”
“And I, madame!” said D’Artagnan, embarrassed; “you promised me—”
“Take my arm, madame,” said the stranger, “and let us proceed on our way.”
D’Artagnan, however, stupefied, cast down, annihilated by all that had happened, stood, with his arms crossed, before the musketeer and Madame Bonacieux.
The musketeer advanced a step or two and pushed D’Artagnan aside with his hand.
D’Artagnan made a spring backwards, and drew his sword.
At the same time, and with the rapidity of lightning, the unknown drew his.
“In the name of Heaven, milord!” cried Madame Bonacieux, throwing herself between the combatants, and seizing the swords with her hands.
“Milord!” cried D’Artagnan, enlightened by a sudden idea—“milord! Pardon me, sir, but are you not—”
“Milord, the Duke of Buckingham!” said Madame Bonacieux in an undertone; “and now you may ruin us all.”
“Milord—madame—I ask a hundred pardons. But I love her, milord, and was jealous. You know what it is to love, milord. Pardon me, and then tell me how I can risk my life to serve your grace.”
“You are a good young man!” said Buckingham, holding out his hand to D’Artagnan, who pressed it respectfully. “You offer me your services; I accept them. Follow us at a distance of twenty paces to the Louvre, and if any one watches us, slay him!”
D’Artagnan placed his naked sword under his arm, allowed the duke and Madame Bonacieux to proceed twenty steps, and then followed them, ready to carry out to the letter the instructions of the noble and elegant minister of Charles I.
But fortunately the young seid had no opportunity to give the duke this proof of his devotion, and the young woman and the handsome musketeer entered the Louvre by the wicket of L’Echelle without any interference.
As for D’Artagnan, he immediately repaired to the tavern of the Pomme de Pin, where he found Porthos and Aramis, who were waiting for him. But, without giving them any explanation of the inconvenience he had caused them, he told them that he had himself terminated the affair in which he had thought for a moment he should need their assistance.
And now, carried away as we are by our story, we must leave our three friends to return each to his own home, and follow the Duke of Buckingham and his guide through the windings of the Louvre.
Chapter 12 - George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham
Madame Bonacieux and the duke entered the Louvre without difficulty. Madame Bonacieux was known to belong to the queen; the duke wore the uniform of the musketeers of M. de Tréville, who, as we have said, were that evening on guard.
Buckingham, on being left alone, walked towards a mirror. His musketeer’s uniform became him wonderfully well.
At this instant a door concealed in the tapestry was opened, and a woman appeared. Buckingham saw this apparition in the glass. He uttered a cry. It was the queen!
Anne of Austria advanced two steps. Buckingham threw himself at her feet, and before the queen could prevent him, kissed the hem of her robe.
“Duke, you already know that it is not I who caused you to be written to.”
“Yes, yes, madame! yes, your Majesty!” cried the duke. “I know that I must have been mad, senseless, to believe that snow would become animated or marble warm. But what then? They who love easily believe in love; besides, this journey is not wholly lost, since I see you.”
“Yes,” replied Anne; “but you know why and how I see you, milord? Because, insensible to all my sufferings, you persist in remaining in a city where, by remaining, you run the risk of your own life, and make me run the risk of losing my honour. I see you to tell you that everything separates us—the depths of the sea, the enmity of kingdoms, the sancity of vows. It is sacrilege to struggle against so many things, milord. In short, I see you to tell you that we must never see each other again.”
“Speak on, madame, speak on, queen,” said Buckingham; “the sweetness of your voice covers the harshness of your words. You talk of sacrilege; but the sacrilege lies in the separation of two hearts formed by God for each other.”
“Milord,” cried the queen, “you forget that I have never told you I loved you.”
“Silence, silence!” cried the duke. “If I am happy in an error, do not have the cruelty to deprive me of it. You have told me yourself, madame, that I have been drawn into a snare; and I, perhaps, shall leave my life in it—for, strangely enough, I have for some time had a presentiment that I shall shortly die.” And the duke smiled, with a smile at once sad and charming.
“Oh, my God!” cried Anne of Austria, with an accent of terror which proved how much greater was the interest she took in the duke than she ventured to tell.
“I do not tell you this, madame, to terrify you; no, what I say to you is even ridiculous; and, believe me I do not heed such dreams. But the words you have just spoken, the hope you have almost given me, will have richly paid for all, were it even my life.”
“Oh, but I,” said Anne—“I, duke, have had presentiments likewise; I have had dreams. I dreamed that I saw you lying bleeding, wounded.”
“In the left side, was it not, and with a knife?” interrupted Buckingham.
“Yes, it was so, milord, it was so—in the left side, and with a knife. Who can possibly have told you I had had that dream? I have imparted it to no one but my God, and only then in my prayers.”
“I ask for no more. You love me, madame. It is enough.”
“I love you! I?”
“Yes, yes. Would God send the same dreams to you as to me if you did not love me? Should we have the same presentiments if our existencies did not meet in our hearts? You love me, my queen, and you will weep for me?”
“Oh, my God, my God!” cried Anne of Austria, “this is more than I can bear. In the name of Heaven, duke, leave me—go! I do not know whether I love you or do not love you, but what I know is, that I will not be a perjured woman. Take pity on me, then, and go. Oh, if you are struck in France, if you die in France, if I could imagine that your love for me was the cause of your death, nothing could ever console me; I should go mad. Depart, then; go, I implore you!”
“Oh, how beautiful you are so! Oh, how I love you!” said Buckingham.
“Oh, but go—go back, I implore you, and return later on! Come as ambassador, come as minister, come surrounded with guards who will defend you, with servants who will watch over you, and then—then I shall no longer fear for your life, and I shall be happy in seeing you again.”
“Oh, is this true, is what you say true?”
“Yes.”
“Then, some pledge of your indulgence, some object which, coming from you, may assure me that I have not dreamed; something you have worn, and that I may wear in my turn—a ring, a necklace, a chain!”
“Will you go then, will you go, if I give you what you ask for?”
“Yes.”
“This very instant?”
“Yes.”
“You will leave France, you will return to England?”
“I will, I swear to you I will.”
“Wait, then, wait.”
And Anne of Austria went into her apartment, and came out again almost immediately, holding a casket in her hand made of rosewood with her monogram incrusted in gold.
“Here, milord, here,” said she; “keep this in memory of me.”
Buckingham took the casket, and fell a second time on his knees.
“You promised me you would go back,” said the queen.
“And I keep my word. Your hand, madame, your hand, and I depart.”
Anne of Austria stretched forth her hand, closing her eyes, and leaned the other upon Estefana, for she felt her strength was about to fail her.
Buckingham pressed his lips passionately to that beautiful hand, and then rising, said,
“Within six months, if I am not dead, I shall have seen you again, madame, even if I have upset the whole world for it.”
And, faithful to the promise he had made, he rushed out of the apartment.
In the corridor he met Madame Bonacieux, who was waiting for him, and who, with the same precautions and the same good fortune, led him out of the Louvre.
Chapter 13 - The Man of Meung
There was in all this, as may have been noticed, one personage of whom, notwithstanding his precarious position, we have appeared to take but very little notice. This personage was M. Bonacieux, the respectable martyr of the political and amorous intrigues which were getting into such a tangle in this gallant and chivalric period.
The officers who had arrested him conducted him straight to the Bastille, where, all of a tremble, he was made to pass before a platoon of soldiers who were loading their muskets.
Thence, introduced into a half-subterranean gallery, he became, on the part of those who had brought him, the object of the grossest insults and the harshest treatment. The bailiffs perceived that they had not to deal with a nobleman, and they treated him like a very beggar.
At the end of half an hour, or thereabouts, an officer came to put an end to his tortures, but not to his anxiety, by giving the order to lead M. Bonacieux to the examination chamber.
Ordinarily, prisoners were questioned in their own cells, but with M. Bonacieux they did not use so many formalities.
In the evening, at the moment when he had made his mind up to lie down upon the bed, he heard steps in his corridor. These steps drew near to his cell, the door was thrown open, and the guards appeared.
“Follow me,” said an officer, who came behind the guards.
“Ah, my God, my God!” murmured the poor mercer, “now, indeed, I am lost!”
And, mechanically and without resistance, he followed the guards who came for him.
He passed along the corridor, crossed a first court, then a second part of the building. At length, at the gate of the outer court, he found a carriage surrounded by four guards on horseback. They made him get into this carriage, the officer placed himself by his side, the door was locked, and both were left in a rolling prison.
The carriage was put in motion as slowly as a funeral car. Through the padlocked gratings the prisoner could see the houses and the pavement, that was all; but, true Parisian as he was, Bonacieux could recognize every street by the mounting stones, the signs, and the lamps.
The carriage, which had been stopped for a minute, resumed its way, threaded the Rue Saint Honoré, turned the Rue des Bons Enfants, and stopped before a low door.
The door opened, two guards received Bonacieux in their arms from the officer who supported him. They carried him along an alley, up a flight of stairs, and deposited him in an antechamber.
All these movements had been effected mechanically, as far as he was concerned. He had moved along as if in a dream; he had had a glimpse of objects as though through a fog; his ears had perceived sounds without comprehending them; he might have been executed at that moment without his making a single gesture in his own defence, or his uttering a cry to implore mercy.
He therefore remained upon the bench, with his back leaning against the wall and his hands hanging down, exactly on the spot where the guards had placed him.
On looking round him, however, as he could see no threatening object, as nothing indicated that he ran any real danger, as the bench was comfortably covered with a well-stuffed cushion, as the wall was ornamented with beautiful Cordova leather, and as large red damask curtains, held back by gold fastenings, floated before the window, he perceived by degrees that his fear was exaggerated, and he began to turn his head to the right and the left, upwards and downwards.
At this movement, which nobody opposed, he gained a little courage, and ventured to draw up one leg and then the other. At length, with the help of both hands, he raised himself up upon the bench, and found himself upon his feet.
At that moment an officer of pleasant appearance opened a door, continued to exchange some words with a person in the next room, and then came up to the prisoner.
“Is your name Bonacieux?” said he.
“Yes, officer,” stammered the mercer, more dead than alive, “at your service.”
“Come in,” said the officer.
And he moved aside to let the mercer pass. The latter obeyed without reply, and entered the room, where it appeared he was expected.
It was a large, close, and stifling cabinet, the walls furnished with arms offensive and defensive, and where there was already a fire, although it was scarcely the end of September. A square table, covered with books and papers, upon which was unrolled an immense plan of the city of Rochelle, occupied the centre of the apartment.
