60
Captive and Jailers
WHEN THEY HAD ENTERED the fort, and whilst the
governor was making some preparations for the reception of his
guests—“Come,” said Athos, “let us have a word of explanation
whilst we are alone.”
“It is simply this,” replied the musketeer. “I have
conducted hither a prisoner, whom the King commands shall not be
seen. You came here, he has thrown something to you through the
lattice of his window; I was at dinner with the governor, I saw the
object thrown, and I saw Raoul pick it up. It does not take long to
understand this. I understood it; and I thought you in intelligence
with my prisoner. And then—”
“And then—you commanded us to be shot.”
“Ma foi! I admit it; but if I was the first
to seize a musket, fortunately I was the last to take aim at
you.”
“If you had killed me, d’Artagnan, I should have
had the good fortune to die for the royal house of France, and it
would be an honour to die by your hand—you, its noblest and most
loyal defender.”
“What the devil, Athos, do you mean by the royal
house?” stammered d’Artagnan. “You don’t mean that you, a
well-informed and sensible man, can place any faith in the nonsense
written by an idiot?”
“I do believe in it.”
“With so much the more reason, my dear Chevalier,
from your having orders to kill all those who do believe in it,”
said Raoul.
“That is because,” replied the captain of the
musketeers,—“because every calumny, however absurd it may be, has
the almost certain chance of becoming popular.”
“No, d’Artagnan,” replied Athos promptly; “but
because the King is not willing that the secret of his family
should transpire among the people, and cover with shame the
executioners of the son of Louis XIII.”
“Do not talk in such a childish manner, Athos, or I
shall begin to think you have lost your senses. Besides, explain to
me how it is possible Louis XIII should have a son in the Isle of
Sainte-Marguerite?”
“A son whom you have brought hither masked, in a
fishing boat,” said Athos. “Why not?”
D’Artagnan was brought to a pause.
“Ah! ah!” said he; “whence do you know that a
fishing boat—”
“Brought you to Sainte-Marguerite’s with the
carriage containing the prisoner—with a prisoner whom you styled
monseigneur. Oh! I am acquainted with all that,” resumed the Comte.
D’Artagnan bit his moustache.
“If it were true,” said he, “that I had brought
hither in a boat, and with a carriage, a masked prisoner, nothing
proves that this prisoner must be a prince—a prince of the house of
France?”
“Oh! ask that of Aramis,” replied Athos
coolly.
“Of Aramis!” cried the musketeer, quite at a stand.
“Have you seen Aramis?”
“After his discomfiture at Vaux, yes; I have seen
Aramis, a fugitive, pursued, ruined; and Aramis has told me enough
to make me believe in the complaints that this unfortunate young
man cut upon the bottom of the plate.”
D’Artagnan’s head sank upon his breast with
confusion. “This is the way,” said he, “in which God turns to
nothing that which men call their wisdom! A fine secret must that
be of which twelve or fifteen persons hold the tattered fragments!
Athos, cursed be the chance which has brought you face to face with
me in this affair! for now—”
“Well!” sad Athos, with his customary mild
severity, “is your secret lost because I know it? Consult your
memory, my friend. Have I not borne secrets as heavy as
this?”
“You have never borne one so dangerous,” replied
d’Artagnan, in a tone of sadness. “I have something like a sinister
idea that all who are concerned with this secret will die, and die
unfortunately.”
“The will of God be done!” said Athos, “but here is
your governor.”
D‘Artagnan and his friends immediately resumed
their parts. The governor, suspicious and hard, behaved towards
d’Artagnan with a politeness almost amounting to obsequiousness.
With respect to the travellers, he contented himself with offering
them good cheer, and never taking his eye from them. Athos and
Raoul observed that he often tried to embarrass them by sudden
attacks, or to catch them off their guard; but neither the one nor
the other gave him the least advantage. What d’Artagnan had said
was probable, if the governor did not believe it to be quite true.
They rose from table to repose awhile.
“What is this man’s name? I don’t like the looks of
him,” said Athos to d’Artagnan, in Spanish.
“Saint-Mars,” replied the captain.
“He is then, I suppose, the Prince’s jailer?”
“Eh? how can I tell? I may be kept at
Sainte-Marguerite for ever.”
“Oh! no, not you!”
“My friend, I am in the situation of a man who
finds a treasure in the midst of a desert. He would like to carry
it away, but he cannot; he would like to leave it, but he dares
not. The King will not dare to recall me, for fear no one else
should serve him as faithfully as I should; he regrets not having
me near him, from being aware that no one will be of so much
service near his person as myself. But it will happen as it may
please God.”
“But,” observed Raoul, “your not being certain
proves that your situation here is provisional, and you will return
to Paris.”
“Ask these gentlemen,” interrupted the governor,
“what was their purpose in coming to Sainte-Marguerite?”
“They came from learning there was a convent of
Benedictines at Sainte-Honorat which is considered curious; and
from being told there was excellent shooting in the island.”
“That is quite at their service as well as yours,”
replied Saint-Mars. D’Artagnan politely thanked him.
“When will they depart?” added the governor.
“To-morrow,” replied d’Artagnan.
M. de Saint-Mars went to make his rounds, and left
d’Artagnan alone with the pretended Spaniards.
“Oh!” exclaimed the musketeer, “here is a life with
a society that suits me but little. I command this man, and he
bores me, mordioux! Come let us have a shot or two at the
rabbits; the walk will be beautiful, and not fatiguing. The isle is
but a league and a half in length, upon a breadth of a league; a
real park. Let us try to amuse ourselves.”
“As you please, d’Artagnan; not for the sake of
amusing ourselves, but to gain an opportunity for talking
freely.”
D’Artagnan made a sign to a soldier, who brought
the gentlemen some guns, and then returned to the fort.
“And now,” said the musketeer, “answer me the
question put to you by that black-looking Saint-Mars: ‘What did you
come to do at the Lerin Isles?’ ”
“To bid you farewell.”
“Bid me farewell! What do you mean by that? Is
Raoul going anywhere?”
“Yes.”
“Then I will lay a wager it is with M. de
Beaufort?”
“With M. de Beaufort it is, my dear friend; you
always guess rightly.”
“From habit.”
Whilst the two friends were commencing their
conversation, Raoul, with his head hanging down and his heart
oppressed, seated himself on a mossy rock, his gun across his
knees, looking at the sea—looking at the heavens, and listening to
the voice of his soul—he allowed the sportsmen to attain a
considerable distance from him. D’Artagnan remarked his
absence.
“He has not recovered the blow,” said he to
Athos.
“He is struck to death.”
“Oh! your fears exaggerate, I hope. Raoul is of a
fine nature. Around all hearts so noble as his, there is a second
envelope which forms a cuirass. The first bleeds, the second
resists.”
“No,” replied Athos, “Raoul will die of it.”
“Mordioux!” said d’Artagnan, in a melancholy
tone. And he did not add a word to this explanation. Then, a minute
after, “Why do you let him go?”
“Because he insists upon going.”
“And why do you not go with him?”
“Because I could not bear to see him die.”
D’Artagnan looked his friend earnestly in the face.
“You know one thing,” continued the Comte, leaning upon the arm of
the captain; “you know that in the course of my life I have been
afraid of but few things. Well! I have an incessant, gnawing,
insurmountable fear that a day will arrive in which I shall hold
the dead body of that boy in my arms.”
“Oh!” murmured d’Artagnan, “oh!”
“He will die, I know. I have a perfect conviction
of that; but I would not see him die.”
“How is this, Athos? you come and place yourself in
the presence of the bravest man you say you have ever seen, of your
own d’Artagnan, of that man without an equal, as you formerly
called him, and you come and tell him with your arms folded that
you are afraid of witnessing the death of your son, you who have
seen all that can be seen in this world! Why have you this fear,
Athos? Man upon this earth must expect everything, and ought to
face everything.”
“Listen to me, my friend. After having worn myself
out upon this earth of which you speak, I have preserved but two
religions; that of life, my friendships, my duty as a father—that
of eternity, love and respect for God. Now I have within me the
revelation that if God should decree that my friend or my son
should render up his last sigh in my presence—oh! no, I cannot even
tell you, d’Artagnan!”
“Speak, speak, tell me!”
“I am strong against everything, except the death
of those I love. For that only there is no remedy. He who dies,
gains; he who sees others die, loses. No; this is it—to know that I
should no more meet upon earth him whom I now behold with joy; to
know that there would nowhere be a d‘Artagnan any more, nowhere
again be a Raoul, oh! I am old, see you, I have no longer courage;
I pray God to spare me in my weakness; but if he struck me so
plainly and in that fashion, I should curse him. A Christian
gentleman ought not to curse his God, d’Artagnan; it is quite
enough to have cursed a king!”
“Humph!” said d’Artagnan, a little confused by this
violent tempest of grief.
“Let me speak to him, Athos? Who knows?”
“Try if you please, but I am convinced you will not
succeed.”
“I will not attempt to console him, I will serve
him.”
“You will?”
“Doubtless, I will. Do you think this would be the
first time a woman had repented of an infidelity? I will go to him,
I tell you.”
Athos shook his head, and continued his walk alone.
D’Artagnan, cutting across the brambles, rejoined Raoul, and held
out his hand to him. “Well, Raoul! You have something to say to
me?”
“I have a kindness to ask of you,” replied
Bragelonne.
“Ask it then.”
“You will some day return to France?”
“I hope so.”
“Ought I to write to Mademoiselle de la
Vallière?”
“No; you must not.”
“But I have so many things to say to her.”
“Come and say them to her, then.”
“Never! ”
“Pray, what virtue do you attribute to a letter,
which your speech might not possess?”
“Perhaps you are right.”
“She loves the King,” said d’Artagnan bluntly; “and
she is an honest girl.”
Raoul started. “And you, you! whom she abandons,
she, perhaps, loves better than she does the King, but after
another fashion.”
“D’Artagnan, do you believe she loves the
King?”
“To idolatry. Her heart is inaccessible to any
other feeling. You might continue to live near her, and would be
her best friend.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Raoul, with a passionate burst of
repugnance for such a painful hope.
“Will you do so?”
“It would be base.”
“That is a very absurd word, which would lead me to
think slightly of your understanding. Please understand, Raoul,
that it is never base to do that which is imposed by a superior
force. If your heart says to you, ‘Go there or die,’ why, go there,
Raoul. Was she base or brave, she whom you loved, in preferring the
King to you, the King whom her heart commanded her imperiously to
prefer to you? No, she was the bravest of women. Do then as she has
done. Obey yourself. Do you know one thing of which I am sure,
Raoul?”
“What is that?”
“Why, that by seeing her closely with the eyes of a
jealous man—”
“Well?”
“Well! you would cease to love her.”
“Then I am decided, my dear d’Artagnan.”
“To set off to see her again?”
“No; to set off that I may never see her again. I
wish to love her for ever.”
“Humph! I must confess,” replied the musketeer,
“that is a conclusion which I was far from expecting.”
“This is what I wish, my friend. You will see her
again, and you will give her a letter, which, if you think proper,
will explain to her as to yourself, what is passing in my heart.
Read it; I prepared it last night. Something told me I should see
you today.” He held the letter out, and d’Artagnan read it:—
“Mademoiselle,—
You are not wrong in my eyes in not loving me. You
have only been guilty of one fault towards me, that of having left
me to believe you loved me. This error will cost me my life. I
pardon you, but I cannot pardon myself. It is said that happy
lovers are deaf to the complaints of rejected lovers. It will not
be so with you, who did not love me, except with anxiety. I am sure
that if I had persisted in endeavouring to change that friendship
into love, you would have yielded out of a fear of bringing about
my death, or of lessening the esteem I had for you. It is much more
delightful to me to die, knowing you are free and satisfied. How
much, then, will you love me, when you will no longer fear either
my presence or my reproaches! You will love me, because, however
charming a new love may appear to you, God has not made me in
anything inferior to him you have chosen, and because my
devotedness, my sacrifice, and my painful end will assure me, in
your eyes, a certain superiority over him. I have allowed to
escape, in the candid credulity of my heart, the treasure I
possessed. Many people tell me that you loved me enough to lead me
to hope you would have loved me much. That idea takes from my mind
all bitterness, and leads me only to blame myself. You will accept
this last farewell, and you will bless me for having taken refuge
in the inviolable asylum where all hatred is extinguished, and all
love endures for ever. Adieu, mademoiselle. If your happiness could
be purchased by the last drop of my blood, I would shed that drop.
I willingly make the sacrifice of it to my misery!
“Raoul, Vicomte de Bragelonne.”
“The letter is very well,” said the captain. “I
have only one fault to find with it.”
“Tell me what that is?” said Raoul.
“Why, it is, that it tells everything, except the
thing which exhales, like a mortal poison, from your eyes and from
your heart; except the senseless love which still consumes you.”
Raoul grew paler, but remained silent.
“Why did you not write simply these words:—
“‘Mademoiselle,—Instead of cursing you, I love you,
and I die.’”
“That is true,” exclaimed Raoul, with a sinister
kind of joy.
And, tearing the letter he had just taken back, he
wrote the following words upon a leaf of his tablets:—
“To procure the happiness of once more telling you
I love you, I commit the baseness of writing to you; and to punish
myself for that baseness, I die.” And he signed it.
“You will give her these tablets, captain, will you
not?”
“When?” asked the latter.
“On the day,” said Bragelonne, pointing to the last
sentence, “On the day when you can place a date under these words.”
And he sprang away quickly to join Athos, who was returning with
slow steps.
As they re-entered the fort, the sea rose with that
rapid, gusty vehemence which characterises the Mediterranean; the
ill humour of the element became a tempest. Something shapeless,
and tossed about violently by the waves, appeared just off the
coast.
“What is that?” said Athos—“a wrecked boat?”
“No, it is not a boat;” said d’Artagnan.
“Pardon me,” said Raoul, “there is a barque gaining
the port rapidly.”
“Yes, there is a barque in the creek, which is
prudently seeking shelter here; but that which Athos points to in
the sand is not a boat at all—it has run aground.”
“Yes, yes, I see it.”
“It is the carriage which I threw into the sea,
after landing the prisoner.”
“Well!” said Athos, “if you will take my advice,
d’Artagnan, you will burn that carriage, in order that no vestige
of it may remain, without which the fishermen of Antibes, who have
believed they had to do with the devil, will endeavour to prove
that your prisoner was but a man.”
“Your advice is good, Athos, and I will this night
have it carried out, or rather, I will carry it out myself; but let
us go in, for the rain falls heavily, and the lightning is
terrific.”
As they were passing over the ramparts to a gallery
of which d‘Artagnan had the key, they saw M. de Saint-Mars
directing his steps towards the chamber inhabited by the prisoner.
Upon a sign from d’Artagnan they concealed themselves in an angle
of the staircase.
“What is it?” said Athos.
“You will see. Look. The prisoner is returning from
chapel.”
And they saw, by the red flashes of the lightning
against the violet fog which the wind stamped upon the bankward
sky, they saw pass gravely, at six paces behind the governor, a man
clothed in black, and masked by a visor of polished steel, soldered
to a helmet of the same nature, which altogether enveloped the
whole of his head. The fire of the heavens cast red reflections
upon the polished surface, and these reflections, flying off
capriciously, seemed to be angry looks launched by this
unfortunate, instead of imprecations. In the middle of the gallery
the prisoner stopped for a moment, to contemplate the infinite
horizon, to respire the sulphurous perfumes of the tempest, to
drink in thirstily the hot rain, and to breathe a sigh resembling a
smothered roar.
“Come on, monsieur,” said Saint-Mars, sharply to
the prisoner, for he already became uneasy at seeing him look so
long beyond the walls. “Monsieur, come on!”
“Say monseigneur! ” cried Athos, from his corner,
with a voice so solemn and terrible, that the governor trembled
from head to foot. Athos insisted upon respect being paid to fallen
majesty. The prisoner turned round.
“Who spoke?” asked Saint-Mars.
“It was I,” replied d’Artagnan, showing himself
promptly. “You know that is the order.”
“Call me neither Monsieur nor Monseigneur,” said
the prisoner in his turn, in a voice that penetrated to the very
soul of Raoul; “call me ACCURSED!” He passed on, and the iron door
creaked after him.
“That is truly an unfortunate man!” murmured the
musketeer in a hollow whisper, pointing out to Raoul the chamber
inhabited by the Prince.