“M. d’Artagnan does not get any older,” said the captain of the harriers to his colleague the falconer; “with ten years more than either of us, he has the seat of a young man on horseback.”

“That is true,” replied the falconer. “I don’t see any change in him for the last twenty years.”

But this officer was mistaken; d’Artagnan in the last four years had lived twelve years. Age imprinted its pitiless claws at each angle of his eyes; his brow was bald; his hands, formerly brown and nervous, were getting white as if the blood began to chill there.

D’Artagnan accosted the officers with the shade of affability which distinguishes superior men, and received in return for his courtesy two most respectful bows.

“Ah! what a lucky chance to see you here, Monsieur d’Artagnan!” cried the falconer.

“It is rather I who should say that, messieurs,” replied the captain, “for nowadays, the King makes more frequent use of his musketeers than of his falcons.”

“Ah! it is not as it was in the good old times,” sighed the falconer. “Do you remember, Monsieur d‘Artagnan, when the late King hunted magpies^an in the vineyards beyond Beaugence? Ah! you were not captain of the musketeers at that time, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

“And you were nothing but under-corporal of the tiercelets,” replied d’Artagnan, laughing. “Never mind that; it was a good time, seeing that it is always a good time when we are young. Good day, monsieur the captain of the harriers.”

“You do me honour, Monsieur le Comte,” said the latter. D‘Artagnan made no reply. The title of Comte had not struck him; d’Artagnan had been a Comte for four years.

“Are you not very much fatigued with the long journey you have had?” continued the falconer. “It must be full two hundred leagues from hence to Pignerol.”

“Two hundred and sixty to go, and as many to come back,” said d’Artagnan quietly.

“And,” said the falconer, “is he well?”

“Who?” asked d’Artagnan.

“Why, poor M. Fouquet,” continued the falconer, still in a low voice. The captain of the harriers had prudently withdrawn.

“No,” replied d’Artagnan, “the poor man frets terribly; he cannot comprehend how imprisonment can be a favour; he says that the parliament had absolved him by banishing him, and that banishment is liberty. He cannot imagine that they had sworn his death, and that to save his life from the claws of the parliament was to have too much obligation to God.”

“Ah! yes; the poor man had a near chance of the scaffold;” replied the falconer; “it is said that M. Colbert had given ordersto the governor of the Bastille, and that the execution was ordered.”

“Enough!” said d’Artagnan pensively, and with a view of cutting short the conversation.

“Yes,” said the captain of the harriers, drawing towards them, “M. Fouquet is now at Pignerol; he has richly deserved it. He has had the good fortune to be conducted there by you; he had robbed the King enough.”

D’Artagnan launched at the master of the dogs one of his evil looks, and said to him,—“Monsieur, if any one told me that you had eaten your dogs’ meat, not only would I refuse to believe it; but, still more, if you were condemned to the whip or the jail for it, I should pity you, and would not allow people to speak ill of you. And yet, monsieur, honest man as you may be, I assure you that you are not more so than poor M. Fouquet was.

After having undergone this sharp rebuke, the captain of the harriers hung his head, and allowed the falconer to get two steps in advance of him, nearer to d’Artagnan.

“He is content,” said the falconer, in a low voice to the musketeer; “we all know that harriers are in fashion nowadays; if he were a falconer he would not talk in that way.”

D’Artagnan smiled in a melancholy manner at seeing this great political question resolved by the discontent of such humble interests. He for a moment ran over in his mind the glorious existence of the Surintendant, the crumbling away of his fortunes, and the melancholy death that awaited him; and, to conclude,—“Did M. Fouquet love falconry?” said he.

“Oh! passionately, monsieur!” replied the falconer, with an accent of bitter regret, and a sigh that was the funeral oration of Fouquet.

D’Artagnan allowed the ill-humour of the one and the regrets of the other to pass, and continued to advance into the plain. They could already catch glimpses of the huntsmen at the issues of the wood, the feathers of the outriders passing like shooting-stars across the clearings, and the white horses cutting with their luminous apparitions the dark thickets of the copses.

“But,” resumed d’Artagnan, “will the sport be long? Pray give us a good swift bird, for I am very tired. Is it a heron or a swan?”

“Both, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the falconer; “but you need not be alarmed; the King is not much of a sportsman; he does not sport on his own account; he only wishes to give amusement to the ladies.”

The words “to the ladies” were so strongly accented, that it set d’Artagnan listening.

“Ah!” said he, looking at the falconer with surprise.

The captain of the harriers smiled, no doubt with a view of making it up with the musketeer.

“Oh! you may safely laugh,” said d’Artagnan; “I know nothing of current news; I only arrived yesterday, after a month’s absence. I left the court mourning the death of the Queen-Mother. The King was not willing to take any amusement after receiving the last sigh of Anne of Austria; but everything has an end in this world. Well! then he is no longer sad? So much the better.”

“And everything commences as well as ends,” said the captain of the dogs, with a coarse laugh.

“Ah!” said d’Artagnan a second time—he burned to know, but dignity would not allow him to interrogate people below him,—“there is something beginning, then, it appears?”

The captain gave him a significant wink; but d’Artagnan was unwilling to learn anything from this man.

“Shall we see the King early?” asked he of the falconer.

“At seven o’clock, monsieur, I shall fly the birds.”

“Who comes with the King? How is Madame? How is the Queen?”

“Better, monsieur.”

“Has she been ill, then?”

“Monsieur, since the last chagrin she had, Her Majesty has been unwell.”

“What chagrin? You need not fancy your news is old. I am but just returned.”

“It appears that the Queen, a little neglected since the death of her mother-in-law, complained to the King, who replied to her,—‘Do I not sleep with you every night, madame? What more do you want?’ ”

“Ah!” said d’Artagnan,—“poor woman! She must heartily hate Mademoiselle de la Vallière.”

“Oh, no! not Mademoiselle de la Vallière,” replied the falconer.

“Who then—?” The horn interrupted this conversation. It summoned the dogs and the hawks. The falconer and his companion set off immediately, leaving d‘Artagnan alone in the midst of the suspended sentence. The King appeared at a distance, surrounded by ladies and horsemen. All the troop advanced in beautiful order, at a foot’s pace, the horns of various sorts animating the dogs and the horses. It was a movement, a noise, a mirage of light, of which nothing now can give an idea, unless it be the fictitious splendour or false majesty of a theatrical spectacle. D’Artagnan, with an eye a little weakened, distinguished behind the group three carriages. The first was intended for the Queen; it was empty. D’Artagnan, who did not see Mademoiselle de la Vallière by the King’s side, on looking about for her, saw her in the second carriage. She was alone with two of her women, who seemed as dull as their mistress. On the left hand of the King, upon a high-spirited horse, restrained by a bold and skilful hand, shone a lady of the most dazzling beauty. The King smiled upon her, and she smiled upon the King. Loud laughter followed every word she spoke.

“I must know that woman,” thought the musketeer; “who can she be?” And he stooped towards his friend the falconer, to whom he addressed the question he had put to himself. The falconer was about to reply, when the King, perceiving d’Artagnan, “Ah, Comte?” said he, “you are returned, then! why have I not seen you?”

“Sire,” replied the Captain, “because your Majesty was asleep when I arrived; and not awake when I resumed my duties this morning.”

“Still the same!” said Louis in a loud voice, denoting satisfaction. “Take some rest, Comte; I command you to do so. You will dine with me to-day.”

A murmur of admiration surrounded d‘Artagnan like an immense caress. Every one was eager to salute him. Dining with the King was an honour His Majesty was not so prodigal of as Henry IV had been. The King passed a few steps in advance, and d’Artagnan found himself in the midst of a fresh group, among whom shone Colbert.

“Good day, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the minister, with affable politeness; “have you had a pleasant journey?”

“Yes, monsieur,” said d’Artagnan, bowing to the neck of his horse.

“I heard the King invite you to his table for this evening,” continued the minister; “you will meet an old friend there.”

“An old friend of mine?” asked d’Artagnan, plunging painfully into the dark waves of the past, which had swallowed up for him so many friendships and so many hatreds.

“M. le Duc d’ Alméda, who is arrived this morning from Spain.”

“The Duc d‘Alméda?” said d’Artagnan, reflecting in vain.

“I!” said an old man, white as snow, sitting bent in his carriage, which he caused to be thrown open to make room for the musketeer.

“Aramis!” cried d’Artagnan, struck with perfect stupor. And he left, inert as it was, the thin arm of the old nobleman hanging round his neck.

Colbert, after having observed them in silence for a minute, put his horse forward, and left the two old friends together.

“And so,” said the musketeer, taking the arm of Aramis, “you the exile, the rebel, are again in France!”

“Ah! and I shall dine with you at the King’s table,” said Aramis, smiling. “Yes; will you not ask yourself what is the use of fidelity in this world? Stop! let us allow poor La Vallière’s carriage to pass. Look, how uneasy she is! How her eye, dimmed with tears, follows the King, who is riding on horseback yonder!”

“With whom?”

“With Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, now become Madame de Montespan,” replied Aramis.

“She is jealous; is she then deserted?”

“Not quite yet, but it will not be long.”

They chatted together, while following the sport, and Aramis’s coachman drove them so cleverly that they got up at the moment when the falcon, attacking the bird, beat him down, and fell upon him. The King alighted, Madame de Montespan followed his example. They were in front of an isolated chapel, concealed by large trees, already despoiled of their leaves by the first winds of autumn. Behind this chapel was an enclosure, closed by a latticed gate. The falcon had beat down his prey in the enclosure belonging to this little chapel, and the King was desirous of going in to take the first feather, according to custom. The cortège formed a circle round the building and the hedges, too small to receive so many. D’Artagnan held back Aramis by the arm, as he was about, like the rest, to alight from his carriage, and in a hoarse, broken voice, “Do you know, Aramis,” said he, “whither chance has conducted us?”

“No,” replied the Duc.

“Here repose people I have known,” said d’Artagnan, much agitated.

Aramis, without divining anything, and with a trembling step, penetrated into the chapel by a little door which d’Artagnan opened for him. “Where are they buried?” said he.

“There, in the enclosure. There is a cross, you see, under that little cypress. The little cypress is planted over their tomb; don’t go to it; the King is going that way; the heron has fallen just there.”

Aramis stopped and concealed himself in the shade. They then saw, without being seen, the pale face of La Vallière, who, neglected in her carriage, had at first looked on, with a melancholy heart, from the door, and then, carried away by jealousy, she had advanced into the chapel, whence, leaning against a pillar, she contemplated in the enclosure the King smiling and making signs to Madame de Montespan to approach, as there was nothing to be afraid of. Madame de Montespan complied; she took the hand the King held out to her, and he, plucking out the first feather from the heron, which the falconer had strangled, placed it in the hat of his beautiful companion. She, smiling in her turn, kissed the hand tenderly which made her this present. The King blushed with pleasure; he looked at Madame de Montespan with all the fire of love.

“What will you give me in exchange?” said he.

She broke off a little branch of cypress and offered it to the King, who looked intoxicated with hope.

“Humph!” said Aramis to d’Artagnan; “the present is but a sad one, for that cypress shades a tomb.”

“Yes, and the tomb is that of Raoul de Bragelonne,” said d’Artagnan aloud; “of Raoul, who sleeps under that cross with his father.”

A groan resounded behind them. They saw a woman fall fainting to the ground. Mademoiselle de la Vallière had seen all, and heard all.

“Poor woman!” muttered d’Artagnan, as he helped the attendants to carry back to her carriage her who from that time was to suffer.

That evening d’Artagnan was seated at the King’s table, near M. Colbert and M. le Duc d’ Alméda. The King was very gay. He paid a thousand little attentions to the Queen, a thousand kindnesses to Madame, seated at his left hand, and very sad. It might have been supposed to be that calm time when the King used to watch the eyes of his mother for the avowal or disavowal of what he had just done.

Of mistresses there was no question at this dinner. The King addressed Aramis two or three times, calling him M. l‘Ambassadeur, which increased the surprise already felt by d’Artagnan at seeing his friend the rebel so marvellously well received at court.

The King, on rising from table, gave his hand to the Queen, and made a sign to Colbert, whose eye watched that of his master. Colbert took d‘Artagnan and Aramis on one side. The King began to chat with his sister, whilst Monsieur, very uneasy, entertained the Queen with a preoccupied air, without ceasing to watch his wife and brother from the corner of his eye. The conversation between Aramis, d’Artagnan, and Colbert, turned upon indifferent subjects. They spoke of preceding ministers; Colbert related the feats of Mazarin, and required those of Richelieu to be related to him. D’Artagnan could not overcome his surprise at finding this man, with heavy eyebrows and a low forehead, contain so much sound knowledge and cheerful spirits. Aramis was astonished at that lightness of character which permitted a serious man to retard with advantage the moment for a more important conversation, to which nobody made any allusion, although all three interlocutors felt the imminence of it. It was very plain from the embarrassed appearance of Monsieur, how much the conversation of the King and Madame annoyed him. The eyes of Madame were almost red; was she going to complain? Was she going to commit a little scandal in open court? The King took her on one side, and in a tone so tender that it must have reminded the Princess of the time when she was loved for herself,—

“Sister,” said he, “why do I see tears in those beautiful eyes?”

“Why—sire—” said she.

“Monsieur is jealous, is he not, sister?”

She looked towards Monsieur, an infallible sign that they were talking about him.

“Yes,” said she.

“Listen to me,” said the King; “if your friends compromise you, it is not Monsieur’s fault.”

He spoke these words with so much kindness, that Madame, encouraged, she, who had had so many griefs for so long a time, was near bursting, so full was her heart.

“Come, come, dear little sister,” said the King, “tell me your griefs; by the word of a brother, I pity them; by the word of a King, I will terminate them.”

She raised her fine eyes, and in a melancholy tone,—

“It is not my friends who compromise me,” said she; “they are either absent or concealed; they have been brought into disgrace with your Majesty; they, so devoted, so good, so loyal!”

“You say this on account of Guiche, whom I have exiled, at the desire of Monsieur?”

“And who, since that unjust exile, has endeavoured to get himself killed every day!”

“Unjust, do you say, sister?”

“So unjust, that if I had not had the respect mixed with friendship that I have always entertained for your Majesty—”

“Well?”

“Well! I would have asked my brother Charles,^ao upon whom I can always—”

The King started. “What then?”

“I would have asked him to have represented to you that Monsieur and his favourite, M. le Chevalier de Lorraine, ought not with impunity to constitute themselves the executioners of my honour and my happiness.”

“The Chevalier de Lorraine,” said the King; “that dismal face?”

“Is my mortal enemy. Whilst that man lives in my household, where Monsieur retains him and delegates his powers to him, I shall be the most miserable woman in this kingdom.”

“So,” said the King slowly, “you call your brother of England a better friend than I am?”

“Actions speak for themselves, sire.”

“And you would prefer going to ask assistance there.”

“To my own country!” said she, with pride; “yes, sire.”

“You are the grandchild of Henry IV as well as myself, my friend. Cousin and brother-in-law, does not that amount pretty well to the title of brother-germain?”^ap

“Then,” said Henrietta, “act!”

“Let us form an alliance.”

“Begin.”

“I have, you say, unjustly exiled Guiche.”

“Oh! yes,” said she, blushing.

“Guiche shall return.”

“So far, well.”

“And now you say that I am wrong in having in your household the Chevalier de Lorraine, who gives Monsieur ill-advice respecting you.”

“Remember well what I tell you, sire; the Chevalier de Lorraine some day—Observe, if ever I come to an ill end, I beforehand accuse the Chevalier de Lorraine; he has a soul capable of any crime.”

“The Chevalier de Lorraine shall no longer annoy you—I promise you that.”

“Then that will be a true preliminary of alliance, sire—I sign; but since you have done your part, tell me what shall be mine.”

“Instead of embroiling me with your brother Charles, you must make him my more intimate friend than ever.”

“That is very easy.”

“Oh! not quite so much so as you may think, for, in ordinary friendship people embrace or exercise hospitality, and that only costs a kiss or a return—easy expenses; but in political friendship—”

“Ah! it’s a political friendship, is it?”

“Yes, my sister; and then, instead of embraces and feasts, it is soldiers, it is soldiers all living and well equipped, that we must serve up to our friend; vessels we must offer, all armed with cannon and stored with provisions. It hence results that we have not always our coffers in a fit state to form such friendships.”

“Ah! you are quite right,” said Madame; “the coffers of the King of England have been very sonorous for some time.”

“But you, my sister, who have so much influence over your brother, you can obtain more than an ambassador could ever obtain.”

“To the effect that I must go to London, my dear brother.”

“I have thought so,” replied the King eagerly; “and I have said to myself that such a voyage would do your spirits good.”

“Only,” interrupted Madame, “it is possible I should fail. The King of England has dangerous counsellors.”

“Counsellors, do you say?”

“Precisely. If, by chance, your Majesty had any intention—I am only supposing so—of asking Charles II his alliance for a war—”

“For a war?”

“Yes; well! then the counsellors of the King, who are to the number of seven—Mademoiselle Stewart, Mademoiselle Wells, Mademoiselle Gwyn, Miss Orchay, Mademoiselle Zunga, Miss Davies, and the proud Countess of Castlemaine—will represent to the King that war costs a great deal of money; that it is better to give balls and suppers at Hampton Court than to equip vessels of the line at Portsmouth and Greenwich.”

“And then your negotiation will fail?”

“Oh! those ladies cause all negotiations to fail that they don’t make themselves.”

“Do you know the idea that has struck me, sister?”

“No; tell me what it is.”

“It is that by searching well around you, you might perhaps find a female counsellor to take with you to your brother whose eloquence might paralyse the ill-will of the seven others”.

“That is really an idea, sire, and I will search.”

“You will find what you want.”

“I hope so.”

“A pretty person is necessary; an agreeable face is better than an ugly one, is it not?”

“Most assuredly.”

“An animated, lively, audacious character.”

“Certainly.”

“Nobility; that is, enough to enable her to approach the King without awkwardness; little enough, so as not to trouble herself about the dignity of her race.”

“Quite just.”

“And who knows a little English.”

“Mon Dieu! why, some one,” cried Madame, “like Mademoiselle de Kéroualle, for instance!”

“Oh! why, yes!” said Louis XIV; “you have found—it is you who have found, my sister.”

“I will take her; she will have no cause to complain, I suppose.

“Oh! no; I will name her séductrice plénipotentiaire at once, and will add the dowry to the title.”

“That is well.”

“I fancy you already on your road, my dear little sister, and consoled for all your griefs.”

“I will go, on two conditions. The first is, that I shall know what I am negotiating about.”

“This is it. The Dutch, you know, insult me daily in their gazettes, and by their republican attitude. I don’t like republics.”

“That may easily be conceived, sire.”

“I see with pain that these kings of the sea—they call themselves so—keep trade from France in the Indies, and that their vessels will soon occupy all the ports of Europe. Such a power is too near me, sister.”

“They are your allies, nevertheless.”

“That is why they were wrong in having the medal you have heard of struck; a medal which represents Holland stopping the sun as Joshua did, with this legend, The sun has stopped before me. There is not much fraternity in that, is there?”

“I thought you had forgotten that miserable affair.”

“I never forget anything, my sister. And if my true friends, such as your brother Charles, are willing to second me—” The Princess remained pensively silent.

“Listen to me; there is the empire of the seas to be shared,” said Louis XIV “For this partition, which England submits to, could I not represent the second party as well as the Dutch?”

“We have Mademoiselle de Kéroualle to treat that question,” replied Madame.

“Your second condition for going, if you please, sister?”

“The consent of Monsieur, my husband.”

“You shall have it.”

“Then consider me gone, my brother.”

On hearing these words, Louis XIV turned round towards the corner of the room in which d’Artagnan, Colbert, and Aramis stood, and made an affirmative sign to his minister. Colbert then broke the conversation at the point it happened to be at, and said to Aramis,—

“Monsieur l’Ambassadeur, shall we talk about business?”

D’Artagnan immediately withdrew, from politeness. He directed his steps towards the chimney, within hearing of what the King was going to say to Monsieur, who, evidently very uneasy, had gone to him. The face of the King was animated. Upon his brow was stamped a will, the redoubtable expression of which already met with no more contradiction in France, and was soon to meet with no more in Europe.

“Monsieur,” said the King to his brother, “I am not pleased with M. le Chevalier de Lorraine. You, who do him the honour to protect him, must advise him to travel for a few months.” These words fell with the crush of an avalanche upon Monsieur, who adored this favourite, and concentrated all his af fections in him.

“In what has the Chevalier been able to displease your Majesty?” cried he, darting a furious look at Madame.

“I will tell you that when he is gone,” replied the impassible King. “And also when Madame, here, shall have crossed over into England.”

“Madame! into England!” murmured Monsieur, in a perfect state of stupor.

“In a week, my brother,” continued the King, “whilst we two will go whither I will tell you.” And the King turned upon his heel, after having smiled in his brother’s face, to sweeten a little the bitter draught he had given him.

During this time Colbert was talking with the Duc d’Alméda.

“Monsieur,” said Colbert to Aramis, “this is the moment for us to come to an understanding. I have made your peace with the King, and I owed that clearly to a man of your merit; but as you have often expressed friendship for me, an opportunity presents itself for giving me a proof of it. You are, besides, more a Frenchman than a Spaniard. Shall we have, answer me frankly, the neutrality of Spain, if we undertake anything against the United Provinces?”^aq

“Monsieur,” replied Aramis, “the interest of Spain is very clear. To embroil Europe with the United Provinces, against which subsists the ancient malice of their conquered liberty, is our policy, but the King of France is allied with the United Provinces. You are not ignorant, besides, that it would be a maritime war, and that France is not in a state to make such a one with advantage.”

Colbert, turning round at this moment, saw d‘Artagnan, who was seeking an interlocutor, during the “aside” of the King and Monsieur. He called him, at the same time saying in a low voice to Aramis, “We may talk with M. d’Artagnan, I suppose?”

“Oh! certainly,” replied the ambassador.

“We were saying, M. d’Alméda and I,” said Colbert, “that war with the United Provinces would be a maritime war.”

“That’s evident enough,” replied the musketeer.

“And what do you think of it, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

“I think that to carry that war on successfully, you must have a very large land army.”

“What did you say?” said Colbert, thinking he had ill-understood him.

“Why such a land army?” said Aramis.

“Because the King will be beaten by sea if he has not the English with him, and that when beaten by sea, he will soon be invaded, either by the Dutch in his ports, or by the Spaniards by land.”

“And Spain neutral?” asked Aramis.

“Neutral as long as the King shall be the stronger,” rejoined d’Artagnan.

Colbert admired that sagacity which never touched a question without enlightening it thoroughly. Aramis smiled, as he had long known that in diplomacy d‘Artagnan acknowledged no master. Colbert, who, like all proud men, dwelt upon his fantasy with a certainty of success, resumed the subject: “Who told you, M. d’Artagnan, that the King had no navy?”

“Oh! I have taken no heed of these details,” replied the captain. “I am but a middling sailor. Like all nervous people, I hate the sea; and yet I have an idea that with ships, France being a seaport with two hundred heads, we might have sailors.”

Colbert drew from his pocket a little oblong book, divided into two columns. On the first were the names of vessels, on the other the figures recapitulating the number of cannon and men requisite to equip these ships. “I have had the same idea as you,” said he to d’Artagnan, “and I have had an account drawn up of the vessels we have altogether-thirty-five ships.”

“Thirty-five ships! that is impossible!” cried d’Artagnan.

“Something like two thousand pieces of cannon,” said Colbert. “That is what the King possesses at this moment. With thirty-five vessels we can make three squadrons, but I must have five.”

“Five!” cried Aramis.

“They will be afloat before the end of the year, gentlemen; the King will have fifty ships of the line. We may venture on a contest with them, may we not?”

“To build vessels,” said d’Artagnan, “is difficult, but possible. As to arming them, how is that to be done? In France there are neither foundries nor military docks.”

“Bah!” replied Colbert, with a gay tone, “I have instituted all that this year and a half past. Did you not know it? Don’t you know M. d’Imfreville?”

“D‘Imfreville?” replied d’Artagnan; “no.”

“He is a man I have discovered; he has a speciality; he is a man of genius—he knows how to set men to work. It is he who has founded cannon and cut the woods of Bourgogne. And then, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur, you may not believe what I am going to tell you, but I have a further idea.”

“Oh, monsieur!” said Aramis civilly, “I always believe you.”

“Figure to yourself that, calculating upon the character of the Dutch, our allies, I said to myself, ‘They are merchants, they are friends with the King; they will be happy to sell to the King what they fabricate for themselves; then, the more we buy’—Ah! I must add this: I have Forant—do you know Forant, d’Artagnan?”

Colbert in his warmth, forgot himself; he called the captain simply d’Artagnan, as the King did. But the captain only smiled at it.

“No,” replied he, “I don’t know him.”

“That is another man I have discovered, with a genius for buying. This Forant has purchased for me 350,000 pounds of iron in balls, 200,000 pounds of powder, twelve cargoes of Northern timber, matches, grenades, pitch, tar—I know not what! with a saving of seven per cent. upon what all those articles would cost me fabricated in France.”

“That is a good idea,” replied d’Artagnan, “to have Dutch balls founded, which will return to the Dutch.”

“Is it not, with loss too?” And Colbert laughed aloud. He was delighted with his own joke.

“Still further,” added he; “these same Dutch are building for the King at this moment, six vessels after the model of the best of their marine. Destouches—Ah! perhaps you don’t know Destouches?”

“No, monsieur.”

“He is a man who has a glance singularly sure to discern, when a ship is launched, what are the defects and qualities of that ship—that is valuable, please to observe! Nature is truly whimsical. Well, this Destouches appeared to me to be a man likely to be useful in port, and he is superintending the construction of six vessels of 78,^ar which the Provinces are building for His Majesty. It results from all this, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, that the King, if he wished to quarrel with the Provinces, would have a very pretty fleet. Now, you know bet ter than anybody else if the land army is good.”

D’Artagnan and Aramis looked at each other, wondering at the mysterious labours this man had effected in a few years. Colbert understood them, and was touched by this best of flatteries.

“If we in France were ignorant of what was going on,” said d’Artagnan, “out of France still less must be known.”

“That is why I told Monsieur l’Ambassadeur,” said Colbert, “that Spain promising its neutrality, England helping us—”

“If England assists you,” said Aramis, “I engage for the neutrality of Spain.”

“I take you at your word,” hastened Colbert to reply with blunt good humour. “And talking of Spain, you have not the Golden Fleece, Monsieur d’Alméda. I heard the King say the other day that he should like to see you wear the Grand Cordon of St. Michael.”

Aramis bowed. “Oh!” thought d’Artagnan, “and Porthos is no longer here! How many yards of ribbon would there be for him in these decorations! Good Porthos!”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” resumed Colbert, “between us two, you will have, I would wager, an inclination to lead your musketeers into Holland. Can you swim?” And he laughed like a man in a very good humour.

“Like an eel,” replied d’Artagnan.

“Ah! but there are some rough passages of canals and marshes yonder, and the best swimmers are sometimes drowned there.”

“It is my profession to die for His Majesty,” said the musketeer. “Only, as it is seldom that in war much water is met without a little fire, I declare to you beforehand that I will do my best to choose fire. I am getting old; water freezes me—fire warms, Monsieur Colbert.”

And d‘Artagnan looked so handsome in juvenile vigour and pride as he pronounced these words, that Colbert, in his turn, could not help admiring him. D’Artagnan perceived the effect he had produced. He remembered that the best tradesman is he who fixes a high price upon his goods when they are valuable. He prepared then his price in advance.

“So then,” said Colbert, “we go into Holland?”

“Yes,” replied d’Artagnan; “only—”

“Only?” said M. Colbert.

“Only,” repeated d’Artagnan, “there is in everything the question of interest and the question of self-love. It is a very fine title, that of captain of the musketeers; but observe this: we have now the King’s guards and the military household of the King. A captain of musketeers ought either to command all that, and then he would absorb a hundred thousand livres a year for expenses of representation and table—”

“Well! but do you suppose, by chance, that the King would haggle with you?” said Colbert.

“Eh! monsieur, you have not understood me,” replied d’Artagnan, sure of having carried the question of interest; “I was telling you that I, an old captain, formerly chief of the King’s guard, having precedence over the marshals of France—I saw myself one day in the trenches with two other equals, the captain of the guards and the colonel commanding the Swiss. Now, at no price will I suffer that. I have old habits; I will stand to them.”

Colbert felt this blow, but he was prepared for it.

“I have been thinking of what you said just now,” replied he.

“About what, monsieur?”

“We were speaking of canals and marshes in which people are drowned.”

“Well?”

“Well! if they are drowned, it is for want of a boat, a plank, or a stick.”

“Of a stick, however short it may be,” said d’Artagnan.

“Exactly,” said Colbert. “And, therefore, I never heard of an instance of a marshal of France being drowned.”

D’Artagnan became pale with joy, and in a not very firm voice: “People would be very proud of me in my country,” said he, “if I were a marshal of France; but a man must have commanded an expedition in chief to obtain the baton.”

“Monsieur!” said Colbert, “here is in this pocket-book, which you will study, a plan of a campaign you will have to lead a body of troops to carry out in the next spring.”

D’Artagnan took the book tremblingly, and his fingers meeting with those of Colbert, the minister pressed the hand of the musketeer loyally.

“Monsieur,” said he, “we had both a revenge to take, one over the other. I have begun; it is now your turn.”

“I will do you justice, monsieur,” replied d’Artagnan, “and implore you to tell the King that the first opportunity that shall offer, he may depend upon a victory, or seeing me dead.”

“Then I will have the fleur-de-lis for your marshal’s baton prepared immediately,” said Colbert.

On the morrow of this day, Aramis, who was setting out for Madrid, to negotiate the neutrality of Spain, came to embrace d’Artagnan at his hotel.

“Let us love each other for four,” said d’Artagnan; “we are now but two.”

“And you will, perhaps, never see me again, dear d’Artagnan,” said Aramis;—“if you knew how I have loved you! I am old, I am extinguished, I am dead.”

“My friend,” said d’Artagnan, “you will live longer than I shall: diplomacy commands you to live; but for my part, honour condemns me to die.”

“Bah! such men as we are, Monsieur le Marshal,” said Aramis, “only die satiated with joy or glory.”

“Ah!” replied d’Artagnan, with a melancholy smile, “I assure you, Monsieur le Duc, I feel very little appetite for either.”

They once more embraced, and, two hours after, they were separated.

The King recalled M. de Guiche, and banished M. le Chevalier de Lorraine; so that Monsieur became ill in consequence. Madame set out for London, where she applied herself so earnestly to make her brother, Charles II, have a taste for the political councils of Mademoiselle de Kéroualle, that the alliance between England and France was signed, and the English vessels, ballasted by a few millions of French gold, made a terrible campaign against the fleets of the United Provinces. Charles II had promised Mademoiselle de Kéroualle a little gratitude for her good councils; he made her Duchess of Portsmouth. Colbert had promised the King vessels, munitions, and victories. He kept his word, as is well known. At length Aramis, upon whose promises there was least dependence to be placed, wrote Colbert the following letter, on the subject of the negotiations which he had undertaken at Madrid:—

Aramis had then performed more than he had promised; it remained to be known how the King, M. Colbert, and d’Artagnan would be faithful to each other. In the spring, as Colbert had predicted, the land army entered on its campaign. It preceded, in magnificent order, the court of Louis XIV, who, setting out on horseback, surrounded by carriages filled with ladies and courtiers, conducted the elite of his kingdom to this sanguinary fête. The officers of the army, it is true, had no other music but the artillery of the Dutch forts; but it was enough for a great number, who found in this war honours, advancement, fortune, or death.

M. d’Artagnan set out commanding a body of twelve thousand men, cavalry and infantry, with which he was ordered to take the different places which form the knots of that strategic network which is called Friesland in Holland.^as Never was an army conducted more gallantly to an expedition. The officers knew that their leader, prudent and skilful as he was brave, would not sacrifice a single man, nor yield an inch of ground without necessity. He had the old habits of war, to live upon the country, keep his soldiers singing and the enemy weeping. The captain of the King’s musketeers placed his coquetry in showing that he knew his business. Never were opportunities better chosen, coups de main better supported, errors of the besieged taken better advantage of.

The army commanded by d‘Artagnan took twelve small places within a month. He was engaged in besieging the thirteenth, which had held out five days. D’Artagnan caused the trenches to be opened without appearing to suppose that these people would ever allow themselves to be taken. The pioneers and labourers were, in the army of this man, a body full of emulation, ideas, and zeal, because he treated them like soldiers, knew how to render their work glorious, and never allowed them to be killed if he could prevent it. It should have been seen then, with what eagerness the marshy glebes of Holland were turned over. Those turf-heaps, those mounds of potter’s clay melted at the word of the soldiers like butter in the vast frying-pans of the Friesland housewives.

M. d‘Artagnan despatched a courier to the King to give him an account of the last successes, which redoubled the good humour of His Majesty and his inclination to amuse the ladies. These victories of M. d’Artagnan gave so much majesty to the Prince, that Madame de Montespan no longer called him anything but Louis the Invincible. So that Mademoiselle de la Vallière, who only called the King Louis the Victorious, lost much of His Majesty’s favour. Besides, her eyes were frequently red, and for an Invincible nothing is more disagreeable than a mistress who weeps while everything is smiling around her. The star of Mademoiselle de la Vallière was being drowned in the horizon in clouds and tears. But the gaiety of Madame de Montespan redoubled with the successes of the King, and consoled him for every other unpleasant circumstance. It was to d’Artagnan the King owed this; and His Majesty was anxious to acknowledge these services; he wrote to M. Colbert:—

In consequence of this, Colbert, who detained the envoy of d‘Artagnan, placed in the hands of that messenger a letter from himself for d’Artagnan, and a small coffer of ebony inlaid with gold, which was not very voluminous in appearance, but which, without doubt, was very heavy, as a guard of five men was given to the messenger, to assist him in carrying it. These people arrived before the place which d‘Artagnan was besieging, towards daybreak and presented themselves at the lodgings of the general. They were told that M. d’Artagnan, annoyed by a sortie which the governor, an artful man, had made the evening before, and in which the works had been destroyed, seventy-seven men killed, and the reparation of the breaches commenced, had just gone, with half a score companies of grenadiers, to reconstruct the works.

M. Colbert’s envoy had orders to go and seek M. d‘Artagnan wherever he might be, or at whatever hour of the day or night. He directed his course, therefore, towards the trenches, followed by his escort, all on horseback. They perceived M. d’Artagnan in the open plain with his gold-laced hat, his long cane, and his large gilded cuffs. He was biting his white moustache, and wiping off, with his left hand, the dust which the passing balls threw up from the ground they ploughed near him. They also saw, amidst this terrible fire, which filled the air with its hissing whistle, officers handling the shovel, soldiers rolling barrows, and vast fascines, rising by being either carried or dragged by from ten to twenty men, cover the front of the trench, re-opened to the centre by this extraordinary effort of the general animating his soldiers. In three hours, all had been reinstated. D‘Artagnan began to speak more mildly; and he became quite calm, when the captain of the pioneers approached him, hat in hand, to tell him that the trench was again lodgeable. This man had scarcely finished speaking when a ball took off one of his legs, and he fell into the arms of d’Artagnan. The latter lifted up his soldier; and quietly, with soothing words, carried him into the trench, amidst the enthusiastic applause of the two regiments. From that time, it was no longer ardour: it was delirium; two companies stole away up to the advanced posts, which they destroyed instantly.

When their comrades, restrained with great difficulty by d‘Artagnan, saw them lodged upon the bastions, they rushed forward likewise; and soon a furious assault was made upon the counterscarp, upon which depended the safety of the place. D’Artagnan perceived there was only one means left of stopping his army, and that was to lodge it in the place. He directed all his force to two breaches, which the besieged were busy in repairing. The shock was terrible; eighteen companies took part in it, and d‘Artagnan went with the rest, within half cannonshot of the place, to support the attack by échelons. The cries of the Dutch who were being poniarded upon their guns by d’Artagnan’s grenadiers, were distinctly audible. The struggle grew fiercer with the despair of the governor, who disputed his position foot by foot. D’Artagnan, to put an end to the affair, and silence the fire, which was unceasing, sent a fresh column, which penetrated like a wimble through the posts that remained solid; and he soon perceived upon the ramparts, through the fire, the terrified flight of the besieged, pursued by the besiegers.

It was at this moment, the general, breathing freely and full of joy, heard a voice behind him, saying, “Monsieur, if you please, from M. Colbert.”

He broke the seal of a letter which contained these words:—

D’Artagnan was standing with a heated countenance and a sparkling eye. He looked up to watch the progress of his troops upon the walls, still enveloped in red and black volumes of smoke. “I have finished,” replied he to the messenger; “the city will have surrendered in a quarter of an hour.” He then resumed his reading:—

D‘Artagnan, intoxicated with joy, made a sign to the messenger, who approached, with his box in his hands. But at the moment the marshal was going to look at it, a loud explosion resounded from the ramparts, and called his attention towards the city. “It is strange,” said d’Artagnan, “that I don’t see the King’s flag upon the walls, or hear the drums beat.” He launched three hundred fresh men, under a high-spirited officer, and ordered another breach to be beaten. Then, being more tranquil, he turned towards the box which Colbert’s envoy held out to him. It was his treasure, he had won it.

D‘Artagnan was holding out his hand to open the box, when a ball from the city crushed the box in the arms of the officer, struck d’Artagnan full in the chest, and knocked him down upon a sloping heap of earth, whilst the fleur-de-lised baton, escaping from the broken sides of the box, came rolling under the powerless hand of the marshal. D’Artagnan endeavoured to raise himself up. It was thought he had been knocked down without being wounded. A terrible cry broke from the group of his terrified officers; the marshal was covered with blood; the paleness of death ascended slowly to his noble countenance. Leaning upon the arms which were held out on all sides to receive him, he was able once more to turn his eyes towards the place, and to distinguish the white flag at the crest of the principal bastion; his ears, already deaf to the sounds of life, caught feebly the rolling of the drum which announced the victory. Then, clasping in his nerveless hand the baton ornamented with its fleur-de-lis, he cast down upon it his eyes, which had no longer the power of looking upwards towards heaven, and fell back, murmuring those strange words, which appeared to the soldiers cabalistic words,—words which had formerly represented so many things upon earth, and which none but the dying man longer comprehended.

“Athos—Porthos, farewell till we meet again! Aramis, adieu for ever!”

Of the four valiant men whose history we have related, there now no longer remained but one single body; God had resumed the souls.