บทที่ บทที่ 51 · Chapter LI.

. Chapter LI.

OFFICER

Meanwhile, the cardinal looked anxiously for news from England; but no

news arrived that was not annoying and threatening.

Although La Rochelle was invested, however certain success might

appear—thanks to the precautions taken, and above all to the dyke,

which prevented the entrance of any vessel into the besieged city—the

blockade might last a long time yet. This was a great affront to the

king’s army, and a great inconvenience to the cardinal, who had no

longer, it is true, to embroil Louis XIII. with Anne of Austria—for that

affair was over—but he had to adjust matters for M. de Bassompierre,

who was embroiled with the Duc d’Angoulême.

As to Monsieur, who had begun the siege, he left to the cardinal the

task of finishing it.

The city, notwithstanding the incredible perseverance of its mayor, had

attempted a sort of mutiny for a surrender; the mayor had hanged the

mutineers. This execution quieted the ill-disposed, who resolved to

allow themselves to die of hunger—this death always appearing to them

more slow and less sure than strangulation.

On their side, from time to time, the besiegers took the messengers

which the Rochellais sent to Buckingham, or the spies which Buckingham

sent to the Rochellais. In one case or the other, the trial was soon

over. The cardinal pronounced the single word, “Hanged!” The king was

invited to come and see the hanging. He came languidly, placing himself

in a good situation to see all the details. This amused him sometimes a

little, and made him endure the siege with patience; but it did not

prevent his getting very tired, or from talking at every moment of

returning to Paris—so that if the messengers and the spies had failed,

his Eminence, notwithstanding all his inventiveness, would have found

himself much embarrassed.

Nevertheless, time passed on, and the Rochellais did not surrender. The

last spy that was taken was the bearer of a letter. This letter told

Buckingham that the city was at an extremity; but instead of adding,

“If your succor does not arrive within fifteen days, we will

surrender,” it added, quite simply, “If your succor comes not within

fifteen days, we shall all be dead with hunger when it comes.”

The Rochellais, then, had no hope but in Buckingham. Buckingham was

their Messiah. It was evident that if they one day learned positively

that they must not count on Buckingham, their courage would fail with

their hope.

The cardinal looked, then, with great impatience for the news from

England which would announce to him that Buckingham would not come.

The question of carrying the city by assault, though often debated in

the council of the king, had been always rejected. In the first place,

La Rochelle appeared impregnable. Then the cardinal, whatever he said,

very well knew that the horror of bloodshed in this encounter, in which

Frenchman would combat against Frenchman, was a retrograde movement of

sixty years impressed upon his policy; and the cardinal was at that

period what we now call a man of progress. In fact, the sack of La

Rochelle, and the assassination of three of four thousand Huguenots who

allowed themselves to be killed, would resemble too closely, in 1628,

the massacre of St. Bartholomew in 1572; and then, above all this, this

extreme measure, which was not at all repugnant to the king, good

Catholic as he was, always fell before this argument of the besieging

generals—La Rochelle is impregnable except to famine.

The cardinal could not drive from his mind the fear he entertained of

his terrible emissary—for he comprehended the strange qualities of this

woman, sometimes a serpent, sometimes a lion. Had she betrayed him? Was

she dead? He knew her well enough in all cases to know that, whether

acting for or against him, as a friend or an enemy, she would not

remain motionless without great impediments; but whence did these

impediments arise? That was what he could not know.

And yet he reckoned, and with reason, on Milady. He had divined in the

past of this woman terrible things which his red mantle alone could

cover; and he felt, from one cause or another, that this woman was his

own, as she could look to no other but himself for a support superior

to the danger which threatened her.

He resolved, then, to carry on the war alone, and to look for no

success foreign to himself, but as we look for a fortunate chance. He

continued to press the raising of the famous dyke which was to starve

La Rochelle. Meanwhile, he cast his eyes over that unfortunate city,

which contained so much deep misery and so many heroic virtues, and

recalling the saying of Louis XI., his political predecessor, as he

himself was the predecessor of Robespierre, he repeated this maxim of

Tristan’s gossip: “Divide in order to reign.”

Henry IV., when besieging Paris, had loaves and provisions thrown over

the walls. The cardinal had little notes thrown over in which he

represented to the Rochellais how unjust, selfish, and barbarous was

the conduct of their leaders. These leaders had corn in abundance, and

would not let them partake of it; they adopted as a maxim—for they,

too, had maxims—that it was of very little consequence that women,

children, and old men should die, so long as the men who were to defend

the walls remained strong and healthy. Up to that time, whether from

devotedness or from want of power to act against it, this maxim,

without being generally adopted, nevertheless passed from theory into

practice; but the notes did it injury. The notes reminded the men that

the children, women, and old men whom they allowed to die were their

sons, their wives, and their fathers, and that it would be more just

for everyone to be reduced to the common misery, in order that equal

conditions should give birth to unanimous resolutions.

These notes had all the effect that he who wrote them could expect, in

that they induced a great number of the inhabitants to open private

negotiations with the royal army.

But at the moment when the cardinal saw his means already bearing

fruit, and applauded himself for having put it in action, an inhabitant

of La Rochelle who had contrived to pass the royal lines—God knows how,

such was the watchfulness of Bassompierre, Schomberg, and the Duc

d’Angoulême, themselves watched over by the cardinal—an inhabitant of

La Rochelle, we say, entered the city, coming from Portsmouth, and

saying that he had seen a magnificent fleet ready to sail within eight

days. Still further, Buckingham announced to the mayor that at length

the great league was about to declare itself against France, and that

the kingdom would be at once invaded by the English, Imperial, and

Spanish armies. This letter was read publicly in all parts of the city.

Copies were put up at the corners of the streets; and even they who had

begun to open negotiations interrupted them, being resolved to await

the succor so pompously announced.

This unexpected circumstance brought back Richelieu’s former anxiety,

and forced him in spite of himself once more to turn his eyes to the

other side of the sea.

During this time, exempt from the anxiety of its only and true chief,

the royal army led a joyous life, neither provisions nor money being

wanting in the camp. All the corps rivaled one another in audacity and

gaiety. To take spies and hang them, to make hazardous expeditions upon

the dyke or the sea, to imagine wild plans, and to execute them

coolly—such were the pastimes which made the army find these days short

which were not only so long to the Rochellais, a prey to famine and

anxiety, but even to the cardinal, who blockaded them so closely.

Sometimes when the cardinal, always on horseback, like the lowest

_gendarme_ of the army, cast a pensive glance over those works, so

slowly keeping pace with his wishes, which the engineers, brought from

all the corners of France, were executing under his orders, if he met a

Musketeer of the company of Tréville, he drew near and looked at him in

a peculiar manner, and not recognizing in him one of our four

companions, he turned his penetrating look and profound thoughts in

another direction.

One day when oppressed with a mortal weariness of mind, without hope in

the negotiations with the city, without news from England, the cardinal

went out, without any other aim than to be out of doors, and

accompanied only by Cahusac and La Houdinière, strolled along the

beach. Mingling the immensity of his dreams with the immensity of the

ocean, he came, his horse going at a foot’s pace, to a hill from the

top of which he perceived behind a hedge, reclining on the sand and

catching in its passage one of those rays of the sun so rare at this

period of the year, seven men surrounded by empty bottles. Four of

these men were our Musketeers, preparing to listen to a letter one of

them had just received. This letter was so important that it made them

forsake their cards and their dice on the drumhead.

The other three were occupied in opening an enormous flagon of

Collicure wine; these were the lackeys of these gentlemen.

The cardinal was, as we have said, in very low spirits; and nothing

when he was in that state of mind increased his depression so much as

gaiety in others. Besides, he had another strange fancy, which was

always to believe that the causes of his sadness created the gaiety of

others. Making a sign to La Houdinière and Cahusac to stop, he alighted

from his horse, and went toward these suspected merry companions,

hoping, by means of the sand which deadened the sound of his steps and

of the hedge which concealed his approach, to catch some words of this

conversation which appeared so interesting. At ten paces from the hedge

he recognized the talkative Gascon; and as he had already perceived

that these men were Musketeers, he did not doubt that the three others

were those called the Inseparables; that is to say, Athos, Porthos, and

Aramis.

It may be supposed that his desire to hear the conversation was

augmented by this discovery. His eyes took a strange expression, and

with the step of a tiger-cat he advanced toward the hedge; but he had

not been able to catch more than a few vague syllables without any

positive sense, when a sonorous and short cry made him start, and

attracted the attention of the Musketeers.

“Officer!” cried Grimaud.

“You are speaking, you scoundrel!” said Athos, rising upon his elbow,

and transfixing Grimaud with his flaming look.

Grimaud therefore added nothing to his speech, but contented himself

with pointing his index finger in the direction of the hedge,

announcing by this gesture the cardinal and his escort.

With a single bound the Musketeers were on their feet, and saluted with

respect.

The cardinal seemed furious.

“It appears that Messieurs the Musketeers keep guard,” said he. “Are

the English expected by land, or do the Musketeers consider themselves

superior officers?”

“Monseigneur,” replied Athos, for amid the general fright he alone had

preserved the noble calmness and coolness that never forsook him,

“Monseigneur, the Musketeers, when they are not on duty, or when their

duty is over, drink and play at dice, and they are certainly superior

officers to their lackeys.”

“Lackeys?” grumbled the cardinal. “Lackeys who have the order to warn

their masters when anyone passes are not lackeys, they are sentinels.”

“Your Eminence may perceive that if we had not taken this precaution,

we should have been exposed to allowing you to pass without presenting

you our respects or offering you our thanks for the favor you have done

us in uniting us. D’Artagnan,” continued Athos, “you, who but lately

were so anxious for such an opportunity for expressing your gratitude

to Monseigneur, here it is; avail yourself of it.”

These words were pronounced with that imperturbable phlegm which

distinguished Athos in the hour of danger, and with that excessive

politeness which made of him at certain moments a king more majestic

than kings by birth.

D’Artagnan came forward and stammered out a few words of gratitude

which soon expired under the gloomy looks of the cardinal.

“It does not signify, gentlemen,” continued the cardinal, without

appearing to be in the least swerved from his first intention by the

diversion which Athos had started, “it does not signify, gentlemen. I

do not like to have simple soldiers, because they have the advantage of

serving in a privileged corps, thus to play the great lords; discipline

is the same for them as for everybody else.”

Athos allowed the cardinal to finish his sentence completely, and bowed

in sign of assent. Then he resumed in his turn: “Discipline,

Monseigneur, has, I hope, in no way been forgotten by us. We are not on

duty, and we believed that not being on duty we were at liberty to

dispose of our time as we pleased. If we are so fortunate as to have

some particular duty to perform for your Eminence, we are ready to obey

you. Your Eminence may perceive,” continued Athos, knitting his brow,

for this sort of investigation began to annoy him, “that we have not

come out without our arms.”

And he showed the cardinal, with his finger, the four muskets piled

near the drum, on which were the cards and dice.

“Your Eminence may believe,” added D’Artagnan, “that we would have come

to meet you, if we could have supposed it was Monseigneur coming toward

us with so few attendants.”

The cardinal bit his mustache, and even his lips a little.

“Do you know what you look like, all together, as you are armed and

guarded by your lackeys?” said the cardinal. “You look like four

conspirators.”

“Oh, as to that, Monseigneur, it is true,” said Athos; “we do conspire,

as your Eminence might have seen the other morning. Only we conspire

against the Rochellais.”

“Ah, you gentlemen of policy!” replied the cardinal, knitting his brow

in his turn, “the secret of many unknown things might perhaps be found

in your brains, if we could read them as you read that letter which you

concealed as soon as you saw me coming.”

The color mounted to the face of Athos, and he made a step toward his

Eminence.

“One might think you really suspected us, monseigneur, and we were

undergoing a real interrogatory. If it be so, we trust your Eminence

will deign to explain yourself, and we should then at least be

acquainted with our real position.”

“And if it were an interrogatory!” replied the cardinal. “Others

besides you have undergone such, Monsieur Athos, and have replied

thereto.”

“Thus I have told your Eminence that you had but to question us, and we

are ready to reply.”

“What was that letter you were about to read, Monsieur Aramis, and

which you so promptly concealed?”

“A woman’s letter, monseigneur.”

“Ah, yes, I see,” said the cardinal; “we must be discreet with this

sort of letters; but nevertheless, we may show them to a confessor, and

you know I have taken orders.”

“Monseigneur,” said Athos, with a calmness the more terrible because he

risked his head in making this reply, “the letter is a woman’s letter,

but it is neither signed Marion de Lorme, nor Madame d’Aiguillon.”

The cardinal became as pale as death; lightning darted from his eyes.

He turned round as if to give an order to Cahusac and Houdinière. Athos

saw the movement; he made a step toward the muskets, upon which the

other three friends had fixed their eyes, like men ill-disposed to

allow themselves to be taken. The cardinalists were three; the

Musketeers, lackeys included, were seven. He judged that the match

would be so much the less equal, if Athos and his companions were

really plotting; and by one of those rapid turns which he always had at

command, all his anger faded away into a smile.

“Well, well!” said he, “you are brave young men, proud in daylight,

faithful in darkness. We can find no fault with you for watching over

yourselves, when you watch so carefully over others. Gentlemen, I have

not forgotten the night in which you served me as an escort to the Red

Dovecot. If there were any danger to be apprehended on the road I am

going, I would request you to accompany me; but as there is none,

remain where you are, finish your bottles, your game, and your letter.

Adieu, gentlemen!”

And remounting his horse, which Cahusac led to him, he saluted them

with his hand, and rode away.

The four young men, standing and motionless, followed him with their

eyes without speaking a single word until he had disappeared. Then they

looked at one another.

The countenances of all gave evidence of terror, for notwithstanding

the friendly adieu of his Eminence, they plainly perceived that the

cardinal went away with rage in his heart.

Athos alone smiled, with a self-possessed, disdainful smile.

When the cardinal was out of hearing and sight, “That Grimaud kept bad

watch!” cried Porthos, who had a great inclination to vent his

ill-humor on somebody.

Grimaud was about to reply to excuse himself. Athos lifted his finger,

and Grimaud was silent.

“Would you have given up the letter, Aramis?” said D’Artagnan.

“I,” said Aramis, in his most flutelike tone, “I had made up my mind.

If he had insisted upon the letter being given up to him, I would have

presented the letter to him with one hand, and with the other I would

have run my sword through his body.”

“I expected as much,” said Athos; “and that was why I threw myself

between you and him. Indeed, this man is very much to blame for talking

thus to other men; one would say he had never had to do with any but

women and children.”

“My dear Athos, I admire you, but nevertheless we were in the wrong,

after all.”

“How, in the wrong?” said Athos. “Whose, then, is the air we breathe?

Whose is the ocean upon which we look? Whose is the sand upon which we

were reclining? Whose is that letter of your mistress? Do these belong

to the cardinal? Upon my honor, this man fancies the world belongs to

him. There you stood, stammering, stupefied, annihilated. One might

have supposed the Bastille appeared before you, and that the gigantic

Medusa had converted you into stone. Is being in love conspiring? You

are in love with a woman whom the cardinal has caused to be shut up,

and you wish to get her out of the hands of the cardinal. That’s a

match you are playing with his Eminence; this letter is your game. Why

should you expose your game to your adversary? That is never done. Let

him find it out if he can! We can find out his!”

“Well, that’s all very sensible, Athos,” said D’Artagnan.

“In that case, let there be no more question of what’s past, and let

Aramis resume the letter from his cousin where the cardinal interrupted

him.”

Aramis drew the letter from his pocket; the three friends surrounded

him, and the three lackeys grouped themselves again near the wine jar.

“You had only read a line or two,” said D’Artagnan; “read the letter

again from the commencement.”

“Willingly,” said Aramis.

“MY DEAR COUSIN, I think I shall make up my mind to set out for

Béthune, where my sister has placed our little servant in the convent

of the Carmelites; this poor child is quite resigned, as she knows she

cannot live elsewhere without the salvation of her soul being in

danger. Nevertheless, if the affairs of our family are arranged, as we

hope they will be, I believe she will run the risk of being damned, and

will return to those she regrets, particularly as she knows they are

always thinking of her. Meanwhile, she is not very wretched; what she

most desires is a letter from her intended. I know that such viands

pass with difficulty through convent gratings; but after all, as I have

given you proofs, my dear cousin, I am not unskilled in such affairs,

and I will take charge of the commission. My sister thanks you for your

good and eternal remembrance. She has experienced much anxiety; but she

is now at length a little reassured, having sent her secretary away in

order that nothing may happen unexpectedly.

“Adieu, my dear cousin. Tell us news of yourself as often as you

can; that is to say, as often as you can with safety. I embrace

you.

“MARIE MICHON”

“Oh, what do I not owe you, Aramis?” said D’Artagnan. “Dear Constance!

I have at length, then, intelligence of you. She lives; she is in

safety in a convent; she is at Béthune! Where is Béthune, Athos?”

“Why, upon the frontiers of Artois and of Flanders. The siege once

over, we shall be able to make a tour in that direction.”

“And that will not be long, it is to be hoped,” said Porthos; “for they

have this morning hanged a spy who confessed that the Rochellais were

reduced to the leather of their shoes. Supposing that after having

eaten the leather they eat the soles, I cannot see much that is left

unless they eat one another.”

“Poor fools!” said Athos, emptying a glass of excellent Bordeaux wine

which, without having at that period the reputation it now enjoys,

merited it no less, “poor fools! As if the Catholic religion was not

the most advantageous and the most agreeable of all religions! All the

same,” resumed he, after having clicked his tongue against his palate,

“they are brave fellows! But what the devil are you about, Aramis?”

continued Athos. “Why, you are squeezing that letter into your pocket!”

“Yes,” said D’Artagnan, “Athos is right, it must be burned. And yet if

we burn it, who knows whether Monsieur Cardinal has not a secret to

interrogate ashes?”

“He must have one,” said Athos.

“What will you do with the letter, then?” asked Porthos.

“Come here, Grimaud,” said Athos. Grimaud rose and obeyed. “As a

punishment for having spoken without permission, my friend, you will

please to eat this piece of paper; then to recompense you for the

service you will have rendered us, you shall afterward drink this glass

of wine. First, here is the letter. Eat heartily.”

Grimaud smiled; and with his eyes fixed upon the glass which Athos held

in his hand, he ground the paper well between his teeth and then

swallowed it.

“Bravo, Monsieur Grimaud!” said Athos; “and now take this. That’s well.

We dispense with your saying grace.”

Grimaud silently swallowed the glass of Bordeaux wine; but his eyes,

raised toward heaven during this delicious occupation, spoke a language

which, though mute, was not the less expressive.

“And now,” said Athos, “unless Monsieur Cardinal should form the

ingenious idea of ripping up Grimaud, I think we may be pretty much at

our ease respecting the letter.”

Meantime, his Eminence continued his melancholy ride, murmuring between

his mustaches, “These four men must positively be mine.”