1
Two Old Friends
WHILST EVERY ONE AT court was busily engaged upon
his own affairs, a man mysteriously entered a house situated behind
the Place de Grève.a The
principal entrance of this house was in the Place Baudoyer; it was
tolerably large, surrounded by gardens, enclosed in the Rue
Saint-Jean by the shops of tool-makers, which protected it from
prying looks, and was walled in by a triple rampart of stone,
noise, and verdure, like an embalmed mummy in its triple coffin.
The man we have just alluded to walked along with a firm step,
although he was no longer in his early prime. His dark cloak and
long sword plainly revealed one who seemed in search of adventures;
and, judging from his curling moustaches, his fine and smooth skin,
which could be seen beneath his sombrero, it would not have been
difficult to pronounce that the gallantry of his adventures was
unquestionable. In fact, hardly had the cavalier entered the house,
when the clock struck eight; and ten minutes afterwards a lady,
followed by a servant armed to the teeth, approached and knocked at
the same door, which an old woman immediately opened for her. The
lady raised her veil as she entered; though no longer beautiful or
young, she was still active and of an imposing carriage. She
concealed beneath a rich toilette and the most exquisite taste, an
age which Ninon de l’Enclos alone could have smiled at with
impunity.1 Hardly
had she reached the vestibule, than the cavalier, whose features we
have only roughly sketched, advanced towards her, holding out his
hand.
“Good-day, my dear Duchesse,” he said.
“How do you do, my dear Aramis,” replied the
Duchesse. He led her to a most elegantly furnished apartment, on
whose high windows were reflected the expiring rays of the setting
sun, which filtered through the dark crests of some adjoining firs.
They sat down side by side. Neither of them thought of asking for
additional light in the room, and they buried themselves as it were
in the shadow, as if they wished to bury themselves in
forgetfulness.
“Chevalier,” said the Duchesse, “you have never
given me a single sign of life since our interview at
Fontainebleau, and I confess that your presence there on the day of
the Franciscan’s death, and your initiation in certain secrets,
caused me the liveliest astonishment I ever experienced in my whole
life.”
“I can explain my presence there to you, as well as
my initiation,” said Aramis.
“But let us, first of all,” said the Duchesse,
“talk a little of ourselves, for our friendship is by no means of
recent date.”
“Yes, madame; and if Heaven wills it, we shall
continue to be friends, I will not say for a long time, but for
ever.”
“That is quite certain, Chevalier, and my visit is
a proof of it.”
“Our interests, Duchesse, are no longer the same as
they used to be,” said Aramis smiling, without apprehension in the
gloom in which the room was cast, for it could not reveal that his
smile was less agreeable and less bright than formerly.
“No, Chevalier, at the present day we have other
interests. Every period of life brings its own; and, as we now
understand each other in conversing, as perfectly as we formerly
did without saying a word, let us talk, if you like.”
“I am at your orders, Duchesse. Ah! I beg your
pardon, how did you obtain my address, and what was your
object?”
“You ask me why? I have told you. Curiosity in the
first place. I wished to know what you could have to do with the
Franciscan, with whom I had certain business transactions, and who
died so singularly. You know that on the occasion of our interview
at Fontainebleau, in the cemetery, at the foot of the grave so
recently closed, we were both so much overcome by our emotions that
we omitted to confide to each other what we may have had to
say.”
“Yes, madame.”
“Well then, I had no sooner left you than I
repented, and have ever since been most anxious to ascertain the
truth. You know that Madame de Longueville and myself are almost
one, I suppose?”
“I am not aware,” said Aramis discreetly.
“I remembered, therefore,” continued the Duchesse,
“that neither of us said anything to the other in the cemetery;
that you did not speak of the relationship in which you stood to
the Franciscan, whose burial you had superintended, and that I did
not refer to the position in which I stood to him; all which seemed
very unworthy of two such old friends as ourselves, and I have
sought an opportunity of an interview with you in order to give you
some information that I have recently acquired, and to assure you
that Marie Michon,b now no
more, has left behind her one who has preserved her recollection of
events.”
Aramis bowed over the Duchesse’s hand, and pressed
his lips upon it. “You must have had some trouble to find me
again,” he said.
“Yes,” she answered, annoyed to find the subject
taking a turn which Aramis wished to give it; “but I knew you were
a friend of M. Fouquet’s,2 and so I
inquired in that direction.”
“A friend! oh!” exclaimed the Chevalier. “I can
hardly pretend to be that. A poor priest who has been favoured by
so generous a protector, and whose heart is full of gratitude and
devotion to him, is all that I pretend to be to M. Fouquet.”
“He made you a bishop?”
“Yes, Duchesse.”
“A very good retiring pension for so handsome a
musketeer.”
“Yes; in the same way that political intrigue is
for yourself,” thought Aramis. “And so,” he added, “you inquired
after me at M. Fouquet’s?”
“Easily enough. You had been to Fontainebleau with
him, and had undertaken a voyage to your diocese, which is
Belle-Île-en-Mer, I believe.”
“No, madame,” said Aramis. “My diocese is
Vannes.”
“I meant that. I only thought that
Belle-Ile-en-Mer—”
“Is a property belonging to M. Fouquet, nothing
more.”
“Ah! I had been told that Belle-Île was fortified;
besides, I know how great the military knowledge is you
possess.”
“I have forgotten everything of the kind since I
entered the Church,” said Aramis, annoyed.
“Suffice it to know that I learnt you had returned
from Vannes, and I sent to one of our friends, M. le Comte de la
Fère,3 who is
discretion itself, in order to ascertain it, but he answered that
he was not aware of your address.”
“So like Athos,” thought the Bishop; “that which is
actually good never alters.”
“Well, then, you know that I cannot venture to show
myself here, and that the Queen-Mother has always some grievance or
other against me.”
“Yes, indeed, and I am surprised at it.”
“Oh! there are various reasons for it. But, to
continue, being obliged to conceal myself, I was fortunate enough
to meet with M. d’Artagnan, who was formerly one of your old
friends, I believe?”
“A friend of mine still, Duchesse.”
“He gave me some information, and sent me to M.
Baisemeaux, the governor of the Bastille.”
Aramis was somewhat agitated at this remark, and a
light flashed from his eyes in the darkness of the room, which he
could not conceal from his keen-sighted friend. “M. de Baisemeaux!”
he said; “why did d’Artagnan send you to M. de Baisemeaux?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“What can this possibly mean?” said the Bishop,
summoning all the resources of his mind to his aid, in order to
carry on the combat in a befitting manner.
“M. de Baisemeaux is greatly indebted to you,
d’Artagnan told me.”
“True, he is so.”
“And the address of a creditor is as easily
ascertained as that of a debtor.”
“Very true; and so Baisemeaux indicated to
you—”
“Saint-Mandé, where I forwarded a letter to
you.”
“Which I have in my hand, and which is most
precious to me,” said Aramis, “because I am indebted to it for the
pleasure of seeing you here.” The Duchesse, satisfied at having
successfully alluded to the various difficulties of so delicate an
explanation, began to breathe freely again, which Aramis, however,
could not succeed in doing. “We had got as far as your visit to M.
Baisemeaux, I believe?”
“Nay,” she said, laughing, “further than
that.”
“In that case we must have been speaking about the
grudge you have against the Queen-Mother.”c
“Further still,” she returned,—“further still; we
were talking of the connection—”
“Which existed between you and the Franciscan,”
said Aramis, interrupting her eagerly; “well, I am listening to you
very attentively.”
“It is easily explained,” returned the Duchesse.
“You know that I am living at Brussels with M. de Laicques?”
“I have heard so.”
“You know that my children have ruined and stripped
me of everything.”
“How terrible, dear Duchesse.”
“Terrible indeed; this obliged me to resort to some
means of obtaining a livelihood, and, particularly, to avoid
vegetating the remainder of my existence away, I had old hatreds to
turn to account, old friendships to serve; I no longer had either
credit or protectors.”
“You, too, who had extended protection towards so
many persons,” said Aramis softly.
“It is always the case, Chevalier. Well, at the
present time I am in the habit of seeing the King of Spain very
frequently.”
“Ah!”
“Who has just nominated a general of the
Jesuits,d
according to the usual custom.”
“Is it usual, indeed?”
“Were you not aware of it?”
“I beg your pardon; I was inattentive.”
“You must be aware of that—you who were on such
good terms with the Franciscan.”
“With the general of the Jesuits, you mean?”
“Exactly. Well, then, I have seen the King of
Spain, who wished to do me a service, but was unable. He gave me
recommendations, however, to Flanders, both for myself and for
Laicques too; and conferred a pension on me out of the funds
belonging to the order.”
“Of Jesuits?”
“Yes. The general—I mean the Franciscan—was sent to
me; and, for the purpose of conforming with the requisitions of the
statutes of the order, and of entitling me to the pension, I was
reputed to be in a position to render certain services. You are
aware that that is the rule?”
“No, I did not know it,” said Aramis.
Madame de Chevreuse paused to look at Aramis, but
it was perfectly dark. “Well, such is the rule, however,” she
resumed. “I ought, therefore, to seem to possess a power of
usefulness of some kind or other. I proposed to travel for the
order, and I was placed on the list of affiliated travellers. You
understand it was a formality, by means of which I received my
pension, which was very convenient for me.”
“Good heavens! Duchesse, what you tell me is like a
dagger thrust into me. You obliged to receive a pension from
the Jesuits?”
“No, Chevalier; from Spain.”
“Except as a conscientious scruple, Duchesse, you
will admit that it is pretty nearly the same thing.”
“No, not at all.”
“But surely, of your magnificent fortune there must
remain—”
“Dampierre is all that remains.”
“And that is handsome enough.”
“Yes; but Dampierre is burdened, mortgaged, and
almost fallen to ruin, like its owner.”
“And can the Queen-Mother know and see all that,
without shedding a tear?” said Aramis with a penetrating look,
which encountered nothing but the darkness.
“Yes, she has forgotten everything.”
“You have, I believe, attempted to get restored to
favour?”
“Yes; but, most singularly, the young King inherits
the antipathy that his dear father had for me. You will, too, tell
me that I am indeed a woman to be hated, and that I am no longer
one who can be loved.”
“Dear Duchesse, pray arrive soon at the
circumstance which brought you here; for I think we can be of
service to each other.”
“Such has been my own thought. I came to
Fontainebleau with a double object in view. In the first place, I
was summoned there by the Franciscan whom you knew. By the bye, how
did you know him?—for I have told you my story, and have not yet
heard yours.”
“I knew him in a very natural way, Duchesse. I
studied theology with him at Parma. We became fast friends; and it
happened, from time to time, that business, or travels, or war,
separated us from each other.”
“You were, of course, aware that he was the general
of the Jesuits? ”
“I suspected it.”
“But by what extraordinary chance did it happen
that you were at the hotel where the affiliated travellers had met
together ?”
“Oh!” said Aramis in a calm voice, “it was the
merest chance in the world. I was going to Fontainebleau to see M.
Fouquet, for the purpose of obtaining an audience of the King. I
was passing by unknown; I saw the poor dying monk in the road, and
recognised him immediately. You know the rest—he died in my
arms.”
“Yes; but bequeathing to you so vast a power that
you issue your sovereign orders and directions like a
monarch.”
“He certainly did leave me a few commissions to
settle.”
“And for me?”
“I have told you—a sum of twelve thousand livres
was to be paid to you. I thought I had given you the necessary
signature to enable you to receive it. Did you not get the
money?”
“Oh! yes, yes. You give your orders, I am informed,
with so much mystery, and such a majestic presence, that it is
generally believed you are the successor of the defunct
chief.”
Aramis coloured impatiently, and the Duchesse
continued, “I have obtained my information,” she said, “from the
King of Spain himself; and he cleared up some of my doubts on the
point. Every general of the Jesuits is nominated by him, and must
be a Spaniard, according to the statutes of the order. You are not
a Spaniard, nor have you been nominated by the King of
Spain.”
Aramis did not reply to this remark, except to say,
“You see, Duchesse, how greatly you were mistaken, since the King
of Spain told you that.”
“Yes, my dear Aramis; but there was something else
which I have been thinking of.”
“What is that?”
“You know, I believe, something about most things;
and it occurred to me that you know the Spanish language.”
“Every Frenchman who has been actively engaged in
the Fronde4 knows
Spanish.”
“You have lived in Flanders?”
“Three years.”
“And have stayed at Madrid?”
“Fifteen months.”
“You are in a position, then, to become a
naturalised Spaniard when you like.”
“Really?” said Aramis, with a frankness which
deceived the Duchesse.
“Undoubtedly. Two years’ residence and an
acquaintance with the language are indispensable. You have upwards
of four years—more than double the time necessary.”
“What are you driving at, Duchesse?”
“At this—I am on good terms with the King of
Spain.”
“And I am not on bad terms,” thought Aramis to
himself.
“Shall I ask the King,” continued the Duchesse, “to
confer the succession to the Franciscan’s post upon you?”
“Oh, Duchesse!”
“You have it already, perhaps?” she said.
“No, upon my honour.”
“Very well, then, I can render you that
service.”
“Why did you not render the same service to M. de
Laicques, Duchesse? He is a very talented man, and one you love
besides.”
“Yes, no doubt; but, at all events, putting
Laicques aside, will you have it?”
“No, I thank you, Duchesse.”
She paused. “He is nominated,” she thought; and
then resumed aloud, “If you refuse me in this manner, it is not
very encouraging for me, supposing I should have something to ask
of you.”
“Oh! ask, pray ask.”
“Ask! I cannot do so, if you have not the power to
grant what I want.”
“However limited my power and ability, ask all the
same.”
“I need a sum of money to restore Dampierre.”
“Ah!” replied Aramis coldly—“money? Well, Duchesse,
how much would you require?”
“Oh! a tolerably round sum.”
“So much the worse—you know I am not rich.”
“No, no; but the order is—and if you had been the
general—”
“You know I am not the general, I think.”
“In that case you have a friend who must be very
wealthy—M. Fouquet.”
“M. Fouquet! He is more than half ruined,
madame.”
“So it is said, but I would not believe it.”
“Why, Duchesse?”
“Because I have, or rather Laicques has, certain
letters in his possession, from Cardinal Mazarin, which establish
the existence of very strange accounts.”
“What accounts?”
“Relative to various sums of money borrowed and
disposed of. I cannot very distinctly remember what they are; but
they establish the fact that the Surintendant, according to these
letters, which are signed by Mazarin, had taken thirty millions of
francs from the coffers of the State. The case is a very serious
one”.
Aramis clenched his hands in anxiety and
apprehension. “Is it possible,” he said, “that you have such
letters as you speak of, and have not communicated them to M.
Fouquet?”
“Ah!” replied the Duchesse, “I keep such little
matters as these in reserve. The day may come when they may be of
service; and they can then be withdrawn from the safe custody in
which they now are.”
“And that day has arrived?” said Aramis.
“Yes.”
“And you are going to show those letters to M.
Fouquet?”
“I prefer to talk about them with you,
instead.”
“You must be in sad want of money, my poor friend,
to think of such things as these—you, too, who held M. de Mazarin’s
prose effusions in such indifferent esteem.”
“The fact is, I am in want of money.”
“And then,” continued Aramis in cold accents, “it
must have been very distressing to you to be obliged to have
recourse to such a means. It is cruel.”
“Oh! if I had wished to do harm instead of good,”
said Madame de Chevreuse, “instead of asking the general of the
order, or M. Fouquet, for the five hundred thousand francs I
require—”
“Five hundred thousand francs!”
“Yes; no more. Do you think it much? I require at
least as much as that to restore Dampierre.”
“Yes, madame.”
“I say, therefore, that, instead of asking for this
amount, I should have gone to see my old friend the Queen-Mother;
the letters from her husband, the Signor Mazarini,e
would have served me as an introduction, and I should have begged
this mere trifle of her, saying to her, ‘I wish, madame, to have
the honour of receiving you at Dampierre. Permit me to put
Dampierre in a fit state for that purpose.’ ”
Aramis did not reply a single word. “Well,” she
said, “what are you thinking about?”
“I am making certain additions,” said Aramis.
“And M. Fouquet subtractions. I, on the other hand,
am trying the art of multiplication. What excellent calculators we
are! How well we could understand one another!”
“Will you allow me to reflect?” said Aramis.
“No, for with such an opening between people like
ourselves, ‘yes,’ or ‘no’ is the only answer, and that an immediate
one.”
“It is a snare,” thought the Bishop; “it is
impossible that Anne of Austria could listen to such a woman as
this.”
“Well?” said the Duchesse.
“Well, madame, I should be very much astonished if
M. Fouquet had five hundred thousand francs at his disposal at the
present moment.”
“It is no use speaking of it then,” said the
Duchesse, “and Dampierre must get restored how it can.”
“Oh! you are not embarrassed to such an extent as
that, I suppose.”
“No; I am never embarrassed.”
“And the Queen,” continued the Bishop, “will
certainly do for you, what the Surintendant is unable to do.”
“Oh! certainly. But tell me, do you not think it
would be better, that I should speak, myself, to M. Fouquet, about
these letters?”
“Nay, Duchesse, you will do precisely whatever you
please in that respect. M. Fouquet either feels, or does not feel
himself to be guilty; if he really be so, I know he is proud enough
not to confess it; if he be not so, he will be exceedingly offended
at your menace.”
“As usual, you reason like an angel,” said the
Duchesse as she rose from her seat.
“And so, you are now going to denounce M. Fouquet
to the Queen,” said Aramis.
“‘Denounce!’ Oh! what a disagreeable word. I shall
not ‘denounce,’ my dear friend; you now know matters of policy too
well to be ignorant how easily these affairs are arranged. I shall
merely side against M. Fouquet, and nothing more; and, in a war of
party against party, a weapon of attack is always a weapon.”
“No doubt.”
“And, once on friendly terms again with the
Queen-Mother, I may be dangerous towards some persons.”
“You are at perfect liberty to be so,
Duchesse.”
“A liberty of which I shall avail myself.”
“You are not ignorant, I suppose, Duchesse, that M.
Fouquet is on the best of terms with the King of Spain.”
“I suppose so.”
“If, therefore, you begin a party warfare against
M. Fouquet, he will reply in the same way; for he, too, is at
perfect liberty to do so, is he not?”
“Oh! certainly.”
“And as he is on good terms with Spain, he will
make use of that friendship as a weapon of attack.”
“You mean that he will be on good terms with the
general of the order of the Jesuits, my dear Aramis.”
“That may be the case, Duchesse.”
“And that, consequently, the pension I have been
receiving from the order will be stopped.”
“I am greatly afraid it might be.”
“Well; I must contrive to console myself in the
best way I can; for after Richelieu,f after
the Frondes, after exile, what is there left for Madame de
Chevreuse to be afraid of?”
“The pension, you are aware, is forty-eight
thousand francs.”
“Alas! I am quite aware of it.”
“Moreover, in party contests, you know, the friends
of the enemy do not escape.”
“Ah! you mean that poor Laicques will have to
suffer.”
“I am afraid it is almost inevitable,
Duchesse.”
“Oh! he only receives twelve thousand francs
pension.”
“Yes, but the King of Spain has some influence
left; advised by M. Fouquet, he might get M. Laicques shut up in
prison for a little while.”
“I am not very nervous on that point, my dear
friend; because, thanks to a reconciliation with Anne of Austria, I
will undertake that France should insist upon M. Laicques’s
liberation.”
“True. In that case you will have something else to
apprehend?”
“What can that be?” said the Duchesse, pretending
to be surprised and terrified.
“You will learn; indeed, you must know it already,
that having once been an affiliated member of the order, it is not
easy to leave it; for the secrets that any particular member may
have acquired are unwholesome, and carry with them the germs of
misfortune for whoever may reveal them.”
The Duchesse paused and reflected for a moment, and
then said, “That is more serious, I will think over it.”
And, notwithstanding the profound obscurity, Aramis
seemed to feel a burning glance, like a hot iron, escape from his
friend’s eyes, and plunge into his heart.
“Let us recapitulate,” said Aramis; determined to
keep himself on his guard, and gliding his hand into his breast,
where he had a dagger concealed.
“Exactly, let us recapitulate; good accounts make
good friends.”
“The suppression of your pension—”
“Forty-eight thousand francs, and that of Laicques
twelve, make, together, sixty thousand francs; that is what you
mean, I suppose?”
“Precisely; and I was trying to find out what would
be your equivalent for that?”
“Five hundred thousand francs, which I shall get
from the Queen.”
“Or, which you will not get.”
“I know a means of procuring them,” said the
Duchesse thoughtlessly.
This remark made the Chevalier prick up his ears;
and from the moment his adversary had committed this error, his
mind was so thoroughly on its guard, that he seemed every moment to
gain the advantage more and more; and she, consequently, to lose
it. “I will admit, for argument’s sake, that you obtain the money,”
he resumed, “you will lose the double of it, having a hundred
thousand francs’ pension to receive instead of sixty thousand, and
that for a period of ten years.”
“Not so, for I shall only be subjected to this
reduction of my income during the period of M. Fouquet’s remaining
in power, a period which I estimate at two months.”
“Ah!” said Aramis.
“I am frank, you see.”
“I thank you for it, Duchesse; but you would be
wrong to suppose that after M. Fouquet’s disgrace the order would
resume the payment of your pension.”
“I know a means of making the order pay, as I know
a means of forcing the Queen-Mother to concede what I
require.”
“In that case, Duchesse, we are all obliged to
strike our flags to you. The victory is yours, and the triumph also
is yours. Be clement, I entreat you.”
“But is it possible,” resumed the Duchesse, without
taking notice of the irony, “that you really draw back from a
miserable sum of five hundred thousand francs, when it is a
question of sparing you—I mean your friend—I beg your pardon, I
ought rather to say your protector—the disagreeable consequences
which a party conquest produces.”
“Duchesse, I will tell you why; supposing the five
hundred thousand francs were to be given you, M. Laicques will
require his share, which will be another five hundred thousand
francs, I presume? and then, after M. de Laicques’ and your own
portions have been arranged, the portions which your children, your
poor pensioners, and various other persons will require, will start
up as fresh claims; and these letters, however compromising they
may be in their nature, are not worth from three to four millions.
Can you have forgotten the Queen of France’s diamonds?g—they
were surely worth more than these bits of waste paper signed by
Mazarin, and yet their recovery did not cost a fourth part of what
you ask for yourself.”
“Yes, that is true; but the merchant values his
goods at his own price, and it is for the purchaser to buy or
refuse.”
“Stay a moment, Duchesse; would you like me to tell
you why I will not buy your letters.”
“Pray tell me.”
“Because the letters you say are Mazarin’s are
false.”
“What an absurdity.”
“I have no doubt of it, for it would, to say the
least, be very singular that after you had quarrelled with the
Queen through M. Mazarin’s means, you should have kept up any
intimate acquaintance with the latter; it would look as if you had
been acting as a spy; and upon my word, I do not like to make use
of the word.”
“Oh! pray say it.”
“Your great complaisance would seem very
suspicious, at all events.”
“That is quite true; but what is not less so is
that which the letter contains.”
“I pledge you my word, Duchesse, that you will not
be able to make use of it with the Queen.”
“Oh! yes, indeed; I can make use of everything with
the Queen.”
“Very good,” thought Aramis. “Croak on, old
owl—hiss, viper that you are!”
But the Duchesse had said enough, and advanced a
few steps towards the door. Aramis, however, had reserved an
exposure which she did not expect—the imprecation of the slave
behind the car of the conqueror. He rang the bell, candles
immediately appeared in the adjoining room, and the Bishop found
himself completely encircled by lights, which shone upon the worn,
haggard face of the Duchesse, revealing every feature but too
clearly. Aramis fixed a long and ironical look upon her pale, thin,
withered cheeks—upon her dim, dull eyes—and upon her lips, which
she kept carefully closed over her blackened and scanty teeth. He,
however, had thrown himself into a graceful attitude, with his
haughty and intelligent head thrown back; he smiled so as to reveal
his teeth, which were still brilliant and dazzling. The old
coquette understood the trick that had been played her. She was
standing immediately before a large mirror, in which her
decrepitude, so carefully concealed, was only made more manifest.
And, thereupon, without even saluting Aramis, who bowed with the
ease and grace of the musketeer of early days, she hurried away
with trembling steps, which her very precipitation only the more
impeded. Aramis sprang across the room, like a zephyr, to lead her
to the door. Madame de Chevreuse made a sign to her servant, who
resumed his musket; and she left the house where such tender
friends had not been able to understand each other, only because
they had understood each other too well.