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“And how so?”
“I will wait to see you come out.”
“In that case, adieu!”
“But, why?”
“I do not want you!”
“But you claimed my protection.”
“I claimed the assistance of a gentleman, and not the vigilance of a spy.”
“You are severe.”
“How would you call those who follow people who don’t want them?”
“Indiscreet!”
“The term is too mild!”
“Come, madame, I see that one must obey you.”
“Why deprive yourself of the merit of doing so at once?”
“Is there none in my repentance?”
“But do you sincerely repent?”
“I don’t know that myself. But I do know that I promise to do just what you wish, if you will let me accompany you where you are going.”
“And you will leave me afterwards?”
“Yes.”
“Without awaiting my exit?”
“Certainly.”
“On your word of honour?”
“On the word of a gentleman!”
“Then take my arm, and let us get on.”
D’Artagnan offered his arm, which Madame Bonancieux, half laughing and half trembling, accepted, and they reached the top of the Rue de la Harpe; but the young woman appeared to hesitate there, as she had hesitated before at the Rue Vaugirard. Nevertheless, by certain marks, she appeared to recognise a door, which she approached.
“Now, sir,” said she, “it is here that my business calls me. I return you a thousand thanks for your good company, which has saved me from all the dangers to which I should have been exposed alone; but the time is now come for you to keep your word. You must leave me here.”
“And will you be exposed to no danger in returning?”
“I shall only have to fear robbers.”
“Is that nothing?”
“What could they take from me? I have not a farthing in my possession!”
“You forget that beautiful embroidered handkerchief, with the arms on it.”
“Which?”
“That which I found at your feet, and replaced in your pocket.”
“Silence! Silence! you imprudent man! Would you ruin me?”
“You see now that there is still some danger, since one word makes you tremble, and you confess that if this word was heard you would be ruined. Come now, madame,” continued d’Artagnan, seizing her hand, “be more generous; put some confidence in me; have you not read in my eyes that my heart is full of sympathy and devotion?”
“Yes,” said Madame Bonancieux; “and do but ask me for my own secrets, and I will trust you with them all; but those of others are a different matter.”
“Very well!” replied d’Artagnan, “then I will find them out. Since these secrets have an influence on your life, it is necessary that they should become mine also.”
“Have a care!” exclaimed the young woman, in a tone of seriousness which made d’Artagnan shudder involuntarily. “Oh! do not interfere in anything that concerns me; do not seek to aid me in any of my undertakings; avoid them, I beseech you, in the name of the interest that you feel for me, and in the name of that service which you rendered to me, and which I never shall forget whilst my life lasts! Let me advise you rather to think of me no more; let my existence be obliterated from your mind; let me be to you as though you had never chanced to see me.”
“Would you like Aramis to do the same, madame?” asked d’Artagnan, full of jealousy.
“This makes the second or third time that you have mentioned that name, sir, although I have already told you that I do not know the owner of it.”
“You do not know the man at whose window-shutters you went to knock? Come, madame, you must think me credulous indeed!”
“Confess that it is to keep me talking here, that you have invented this tale, and this person.”
“I invent nothing, madame—nothing. I am telling the exact truth!”
“And you say that one of your friends lives in that house?”
“I say it, and I repeat it for the third time—that house is inhabited by a friend of mine, and that friend is Aramis.”
“All this will be explained by and by,” murmured the young woman; “and now, sir, be silent.”
“If you could see into my heart,” said d’Artagnan, “you would discover so much curiosity, that you would have pity on me: and so much love, that you would directly satisfy my curiosity. You ought not to distrust those who love you!”
“You come quickly to love, sir,” said the young woman, shaking her head.
“It is because love has come quickly on me, and for the first time; and I am not yet twenty years of age.”
The young woman stole a glance at him.
“Listen,” continued d’Artagnan; “I am already on the track: three months ago I was near fighting a duel with Aramis on account of a handkerchief like that which you showed the lady who was at his house; it was on account of a handkerchief marked in the same manner, I am positive.”
“Sir,” said the young woman, “you really bore me, I declare, with these questions.”
“But you, madame, prudent as you are, suppose you were arrested with this handkerchief upon you, and the handkerchief was seized, would you not be compromised?”
“How so? Are not the initials my own—C. B.—Constance Bonancieux?”
“Or, Camille de Bois Tracy.”
“Silence, sir! Again I say, silence! Oh, since the dangers which I run do not deter you, think of those you may run yourself.”
“I?”
“Yes, you. There is the danger of imprisonment and death in knowing me.”
“Then I will never leave you!”
“Sir,” said the young woman, in a tone of supplication, clasping her hands as she spoke; “in the name of heaven, by the honour of a soldier, by the courtesy of a gentleman, I implore you to leave me. See! it is now striking twelve, the very hour at which I am expected.”
“Madame,” said the young man, bowing, “I can refuse nothing solicited in those terms. Be reassured; I leave you.”
“But you will not follow—will not watch me?”
“No, I shall return home immediately.”
“Ah! I was convinced that you were an honourable man!” exclaimed Madame Bonancieux, offering one of her hands to him, as she placed the other on the knocker of a small door, which was well-nigh concealed in a recess.
D’Artagnan seized the hand which was offered to him, and kissed it eagerly.
“Alas!” exclaimed d’Artagnan, with that unpolished simplicity which women sometimes prefer to the delicacies of politeness, because it illuminates the depths of thought, and proves that feeling is more powerful than reason, “I wish I had never seen you!”
“Well!” said Madame Bonancieux, in a tone almost affectionate, and pressing the hand which held hers, “well! I will not say the same as you do; that which is lost today may not be lost for ever. Who knows whether, when I am freed from my present embarrassments, I may not satisfy your curiosity?”
“And do you make the same promise regarding my love?” asked the overjoyed d’Artagnan.
“Oh! I dare give no promises in that respect. It must depend upon the sentiments with which you may inspire me.”
“But, at present, madame?”
“At present, sir, I have not got beyond gratitude.”
“Alas! you are too charming; and only take advantage of my love.”
“No, I take advantage of your generosity, that’s all. But, believe me, with some people, nothing can be wholly lost.”
“You make me the happiest of men. Oh! do not forget this evening, and this promise?”
“Be assured, I will remember everything at the right time and place. But now go; go, in heaven’s name! I was expected at midnight, and am behind my time.”
“By five minutes.”
“But, under certain circumstances, five minutes are five ages.”
“Yes! when one loves.”
“Well, who has told you that this is not a love-affair?”
“It is a man who expects you!” cried d’Artagnan; “a man!”
“There, now, the discussion is about to be renewed,” cried Madame Bonancieux, with a half smile, which was not altogether exempt from impatience.
“No! I am going. I trust you; I wish to have all the merit of my devotion, even if I am a fool for it! Adieu! madame, adieu.”
Then, as though he felt himself too weak to relinquish the fair hand he held but by a shock, he hastily ran off, whilst Madame Bonancieux rapped three times at the door, slowly and regularly, as she had before done at the window-shutter.
At the corner of the street he turned, but the door had been opened and closed again, and the mercer’s pretty wife had disappeared.
D’Artagnan proceeded on his way. He had promised Madame Bonancieux not to watch her; and, had his life depended on a knowledge of the place that she was going to, or the person who went with her, he would still have gone home, as he had promised to do. In five minutes he was in the Rue des Fossoyeurs.
“Poor Athos,” said he, “he will not understand this. He will have fallen asleep waiting for me, or he will have returned home, and will have learned that there has been a woman there. A woman at his house! After all,” continued d’Artagnan, “there certainly was one at Aramis’s. All this is very strange, and I shall be extremely curious to know how it will end.”
“Badly, sir, badly,” replied a voice, which the young man recognised as that of Planchet, for in soliloquising aloud, in the manner of persons who are deeply occupied, he had entered the passage, at the bottom of which was his own staircase.
“How, badly! what are you saying, you fool?” said d’Artagnan, “and what has happened?”
“All sorts of misfortunes.”
“What misfortunes?”
“In the first place, M. Athos is arrested.”
“Arrested! Athos arrested! and what for?”
“He was found in your lodgings, and they mistook him for you.”
“And by whom has he been arrested?”
“By the guard which was brought by the men in black whom you put to flight.”
“Why did he not give his name? Why not say that he was not concerned in this affair?”
“He was very careful not to do that, sir. On the contrary, he came near me and said—‘Thy master wants his liberty just now, and I do not need mine; since he knows all, and I know nothing. They will believe him to be in custody, and that will give him time; in three days I will declare who I am, and they will be obliged to let me go.’”
“Brave Athos! noble heart!” muttered d’Artagnan. “I recognise him well in that! And what did the officers do?”
“Four of them took him either to the Bastile or to Fort l’Eveque; and two remained with the men in black, rummaging everywhere, and carrying away all your papers. The other two mounted guard at the door whilst all this was doing; and at last they went away, leaving the house empty and the door open.”
“And Porthos and Aramis?”
“I could not find them; they have not been.”
“But they may come at any moment, for you left word that I was waiting for them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, then, do not stir from here. If they should come, tell them what has happened, and that they must wait for me at the Pineapple Tavern. There might be some danger here; the house may be watched. I will run to M. de Treville’s, to tell him all this, and then will rejoin them there.”
“Very well, sir,” said Planchet.
“But you will remain? you will not be afraid,” said d’Artagnan, turning back a step to encourage his lackey.
“Be easy, sir,” said Planchet; “you do not know me yet. I am brave when I please to set about it; the great thing is to get me in the right mind. Besides, I come from Picardy.”
“Then it is all settled,” said d’Artagnan; “you will rather die than desert your post.”
“Yes, sir; and I will stick at nothing to prove my attachment to you.”
“Good,” said d’Artagnan to himself; “it is plain that the method I have followed with this lad is decidedly a proper one. I will adopt it henceforth on every occasion.”
And as fast as his legs, which were already somewhat fatigued, could carry him, he ran towards the Rue de Colombier.
M. de Treville was not at home. His company was on guard at the Louvre; and he was at the Louvre with it.
It was necessary, however, to see M. de Treville. It was important that he should be informed of these events. D’Artagnan determined, therefore, to obtain an entrance at the Louvre. His uniform, as one of M. de Essarts’s guards, ought to be a passport for admission.
He therefore went down the Rue des Petits-Augustins, and along the Quai to reach the Pont-Neuf. He had half a mind to cross the ferry; but on reaching the side of the river he mechanically put his hand into his pocket, and found that he had not enough to pay the ferryman.
When he reached the top of the Rue Guenegaud, he saw two persons, whose appearance struck him, coming out of the Rue Dauphine. They were a man and a woman. The woman resembled in figure Madame Bonancieux; and the man had such a look of Aramis that he might be mistaken for him. Besides, the woman had on the black mantle which d’Artagnan still seemed to see delineated on the shutter in the Rue Vaugirard, and on the door in the Rue de la Harpe. Moreover, the man wore the uniform of the musketeers.
The hood of the woman was lowered, and the man held his handkerchief before his face. This double precaution showed that they were both anxious to escape recognition.
They went over the bridge, and this was also d’Artagnan’s road, as he was going to the Louvre; he therefore followed them.
Scarcely, however, had he taken twenty steps, before he was convinced that the woman was Madame Bonancieux, and the man Aramis.
At the very instant he felt fermenting in his heart all the suspicious torments of jealousy.
He was doubly betrayed; betrayed both by his friend, and by her whom he had already loved as a mistress.
Madame Bonancieux had sworn to him that she did not know Aramis; and a quarter of an hour after she had made this oath he found her hanging on his arm.
D’Artagnan did not reflect that he had only known the mercer’s pretty wife during the last three hours; that she only owed him a little gratitude for having delivered her from the men in black, who wished to carry her away; and that she had made him no promise. He looked upon himself as an outraged lover; as deceived, and laughed at; and the flush of anger passed over his face, as he resolved to ascertain the truth.
The young couple perceived that they were followed, and they increased their haste. D’Artagnan, however, had made his determination; he passed by them, and then returned towards them just as they were opposite the Samaritan, which was lighted by a lamp that threw its radiance over all that part of the bridge.
D’Artagnan stopped in front of them, and they stopped also.
“What do you want, sir?” asked the musketeer, recoiling a step, and in a foreign accent, which proved to d’Artagnan that he had at least deceived himself in one of his conjectures.
“It is not Aramis!” exclaimed d’Artagnan.
“No, sir, it is not Aramis; and as I find by your exclamation that you mistook me for another, I excuse you.”
“Excuse me indeed!” said d’Artagnan.
“Yes,” replied the unknown; “now let me pass on, since it is not with me that you have anything to do.”
“You are right, sir,” said d’Artagnan; “it is not with you that I have anything to settle, it is with the lady.”
“With the lady! You do not even know her,” exclaimed the stranger.
“You are mistaken, sir. I do know her.”
“Ah!” said Madame Bonancieux, in a reproachful tone; “I had your word of honour as a soldier, your promise as a gentleman, and I hoped I might have trusted to them.”
“And I,” said d’Artagnan, in confusion, “I had your promise.”
“Take my arm, madame,” said the stranger, “and let us proceed.”
But d’Artagnan—stunned, overwhelmed, annihilated by all that had happened—remained standing, with his arms crossed, before the musketeer and Madame Bonancieux.
The former came forward two paces, and put d’Artagnan aside with his hand.
D’Artagnan made one bound backwards, and drew his sword.
At the same moment, and with the quickness of lightning, the stranger drew his.
“In God’s name, my lord!” said Madame Bonancieux, throwing herself between the combatants, and seizing their swords with both her hands—
“My lord!” cried d’Artagnan, enlightened by a sudden idea; “My lord! pardon me, sir, but can you be—”
“My Lord Duke of Buckingham!” said Madame Bonancieux, in a very low voice, “and now you may destroy us all.”
“My lord—madame—pardon me; a thousand pardons; but, my lord, I loved her, and was jealous. You know, my lord, what it is to love! Pardon me, and tell me how I may die in your grace’s cause.”
“You are a brave youth,” said Buckingham, offering him a hand, which d’Artagnan pressed respectfully.
“You offer me your services, and I accept them. Follow us, at the distance of twenty paces, to the Louvre, and if any one dogs our steps, kill him!”
D’Artagnan put his naked sword under his arm, let the duke and Madame Bonancieux go forward about twenty steps, and then followed them, ready to execute to the letter the instructions of the elegant and noble minister of Charles I.
But, unfortunately, the young volunteer had no opportunity of affording this proof of his devotion to the duke; and the young woman and the handsome musketeer entered the Louvre, by the wicket in the Rue de l’Echelle, without encountering any interruption.
As for d’Artagnan, he went immediately to the Pineapple, where he found Porthos and Aramis waiting for him.
But without giving them any further reason for the trouble he had caused them, he told them that he had concluded by himself the business for which he at first thought he should have wanted their assistance.
And now, carried on as we have been by our history, let us leave our three friends to return each to his own home, whilst we follow, amidst the tortuous corridors of the Louvre, the Duke of Buckingham and his guide.
CHAPTER 12 George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham
Madame Bonancieux and the duke entered the Louvre without any difficulty; Madame Bonancieux was known to be of the household of the queen; and the duke wore the uniform of the musketeers of M. de Treville, who, as we have said, were on guard that evening. Besides, Germain was devoted to the queen, and, if anything happened, Madame Bonancieux would be accused of having introduced her lover into the Louvre—that was all! She took the blame upon herself; her reputation would be lost, it is true; but of what value in the world was the reputation of a mercer’s little wife?
When they were once inside the court, the duke and the young woman kept close to the wall for about twenty paces; at the end of which Madame Bonancieux tried a small private door, which was usually open during the day, but closed at night. The door opened, and they both entered, and found themselves in total darkness; but Madame Bonancieux was well acquainted with all the turnings and twistings of this part of the Louvre, which was appropriated to the persons of the royal suite. She shut all the doors behind her, took the duke by the hand and going some steps on tip-toe, seized hold of a banister, put a foot upon the staircase, and began to ascend it. The duke had already counted two flights, when she turned to the left, went through a long corridor, descended another stage, walked a few steps forward, introduced a key into a lock, opened a door, and pushed her companion into a room lighted only by a night-lamp, saying to him—“Remain here, my lord duke; some one will come immediately.” Then she went out by the same door, locking it after her, so that the duke found himself literally a prisoner.
Yet though thus deserted, as it were, the duke, it must be confessed, did not feel the slightest fear. One of the prominent features of his character was the love of adventure and romance. Brave, determined, and enterprising, it was not the first time he had risked his life in such adventures. He had learned that this pretended message of Anne of Austria, on the faith of which he had come to Paris, was a snare; and, instead of returning to England, he had taken advantage of his position, and assured the queen that he would not depart without seeing her. The queen had at first positively refused an interview; but, fearing lest the duke might be guilty of some folly in his rage, she had resolved to see him, and to entreat him to return directly; when, on the very evening on which Madame Bonancieux was charged to conduct him to the Louvre, that lady was herself carried off. During two days it was not known what had become of her, and everything continued in suspense. But Madame Bonancieux once free, and in communication with la Porte, affairs had resumed their course; and she had now accomplished the perilous enterprise, which, but for her abduction, she would have executed three days before. Buckingham being left alone, approached a looking-glass. The dress of a musketeer became him wondrously. At thirty-five years old, he was justly considered as the handsomest man, and the most complete gentleman, of France or England. The favourite of two kings, rich as Croesus, all-powerful in a realm which he disturbed and tranquillised as he pleased, George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, had engaged in one of those fabulous existences which remain, throughout the course of ages, an astonishment to posterity. Confident in himself, convinced of his power, and satisfied that the laws which restrain other people could not reach him, he went straight to the object he had fixed upon, even when that object was so elevated, and so dazzling, that it would have been madness in another to have even glanced towards it. It was thus that he had managed to approach the beautiful and haughty Anne of Austria many times, and to make her love him for his brilliant qualities.
Placing himself before the glass, the duke arrayed his beautiful fair hair, of which the pressure of his hat had disarranged the curls, and put his moustache in order; and then, his heart swelling with joy; happy and elated at having reached the moment he had so long desired, he smiled to himself proudly and hopefully.
At that moment a door concealed in the tapestry opened, and a woman appeared. Buckingham saw the reflection in the glass; he uttered a cry; it was the queen!
Anne of Austria was at that time twenty-six or twenty-seven years of age; that is, she was in all the glory of her beauty. Her deportment was that of a queen, or a goddess. Her eyes, which shone like emeralds, were perfectly beautiful, but at the same time full of gentleness and majesty. Her mouth was small and rosy; and though her under lip, like that of the princes of the house of Austria, protruded slightly beyond the other, her smile was eminently gracious, but at the same time could be profoundly haughty in its scorn. Her skin was celebrated for its velvet softness, and her hand and arm were of such surpassing beauty as to be immortalised, as incomparable, by all the poets of the time. Admirably, too, did her hair, which in her youth had been fair, but had now become chestnut, and which she wore plainly dressed, and with a great deal of powder, shade a face, on which the most rigid critic could have desired only a little less rouge, and the most fastidious sculptor only a little more delicacy in the formation of the nose.
Buckingham remained an instant perfectly dazzled. Anne of Austria never had appeared to him so beautiful even in the midst of balls, and festivals, and entertainments, as she now appeared, in her simple robe of white satin, and accompanied by Donna Estefana, the only one of her Spanish ladies who had not been driven from her by the jealousy of the king and the persecutions of the cardinal.
Anne of Austria advanced two steps; the duke threw himself at her feet, and before the queen could prevent him, had kissed the hem of her robe.
“My lord, you already know that it was not I who sent for you from England?”
“Oh! yes! madame; yes, your majesty!” exclaimed Buckingham. “I know that I have been a fool, a madman, to believe that the snow could have been animated, that the marble could grow warm; but what would you expect? The lover easily believes in love; nor has my journey been entirely in vain, since I behold you now.”