Author: Alexandre Dumas
Category: Adventure
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“A process verbal of Men of the Robe against the word of honor of a Man of the Sword?” replied Tréville haughtily.
“Come, come, Tréville, calm yourself,” said the king.
“If His Eminence suspects one of my musketeers,” said Tréville, “the justice of Monsieur le Cardinal is sufficiently well-known for me to demand an inquest of him.”
The cardinal was undisturbed. “Lodging in this house upon which justice had descended is, I believe, a Béarnaise friend of the musketeer.”
“Your Eminence speaks of Monsieur d’Artagnan?”
“I speak of a young man whom you’ve made a protégé, Monsieur de Tréville.”
“Yes, Your Eminence, that’s the one.”
“We suspect this young man of having been a malign influence . . .”
“On Monsieur Athos, a man double his age?” interrupted Monsieur de Tréville. “No, Monseigneur. Besides, Monsieur d’Artagnan had passed the evening at my hôtel.”
“Really?” said the cardinal. “Did everyone involved in this affair spend the evening at your hôtel?”
“Your Eminence doubts my word?” said Tréville, face reddening with anger.
“No, God forbid!” said the cardinal. “But tell me, at what hour was he with you?”
“Now that I can speak about knowledgeably, as when he entered, I remarked that it was half-past nine, though I’d thought it was later.”
“And at what hour did he leave your hôtel?”
“At ten-thirty, an hour after the event.”
“But, then,” replied the cardinal, who didn’t doubt Tréville’s integrity for a moment, and sensed that the victory was escaping him, “you can’t deny that Athos was taken in that house on the Rue des Fossoyeurs.”
“Is it forbidden for a friend to visit a friend? Or a musketeer of my company to fraternize with a guard of des Essarts’s company?”
“Yes, when the house in which he fraternizes with his friend is suspected.”
“You see, that house is suspected, Tréville,” said the king. “Perhaps you didn’t know that?”
“No, Sire, I was ignorant of the fact. But even if the house is suspected, I’m sure it doesn’t apply to the part inhabited by Monsieur d’Artagnan. For I must say, Sire, that, to hear him tell it, there exists no more devoted servant of Your Majesty, or more profound admirer of Monsieur le Cardinal.”
“Wasn’t this d’Artagnan the one who wounded Jussac in that unfortunate encounter near the Carmelite convent?” the king asked the cardinal, who flushed with irritation.
“Yes, Sire, and Bernajoux the next day. Your Majesty has an excellent memory.”
“Come, how shall we resolve this?” said the king.
“That’s up to Your Majesty,” said the cardinal. “Personally, I would affirm the man’s guilt.”
“And I would deny it,” said Tréville. “But Your Majesty has judges. Let the judges decide.”
“Quite so,” said the king. “Let’s set the case before the magistrates. It’s their job to judge, so let them judge.”
“Only it’s tragic that in these sad times, even a pure life of incontestable virtue can’t exempt a man from infamy and persecution,” continued Tréville. “Believe me, Your Majesty’s army won’t be happy about seeing one of their own maltreated on account of police affairs.”
The choice of words was provocative, but Monsieur de Tréville had used it quite deliberately. He wanted an explosion, because an exploding mine emits fire, and fire casts light.
“Police affairs!” cried the king, echoing Tréville. “Police affairs! And what do you know of those, Monsieur? Stick to your musketeers, and stop vexing me! According to you, if by some mischance we arrest one musketeer, all France is endangered. All this fuss about one musketeer? I’d arrest ten of them, ventrebleu! A hundred, even—the whole company! And no one can dare tell me not to!”
“From the moment Your Majesty suspects them,” said Tréville, “the musketeers are guilty. In that case, Sire, I’m ready to surrender my sword to you. No doubt Monsieur le Cardinal, after accusing my men, will end by accusing me. I’ll consider myself a prisoner along with Monsieur Athos, who is already under arrest, and Monsieur d’Artagnan, who will doubtless be arrested at any moment.”
“Are you finished with your gasconade?” said the king.
“Sire,” replied Tréville, without lowering his voice in the least, “order my musketeer restored to me, or let him be tried.”
“He shall be tried,” said the cardinal.
“Very well, so much the better. I will demand of His Majesty permission to plead for him.”
The king wanted to avoid a judicial brawl. He said, “If His Eminence didn’t have a personal interest . . .”
The cardinal saw where the king was going, and forestalled him. “Pardonnez moi,” he said, “but the moment Your Majesty regards me as a prejudiced judge, I must recuse myself.”
“Enough of this,” said the king. “Tréville, will you swear to me, by the name of my father, that Monsieur Athos was at your hôtel during the event and took no part in it?”
“By your glorious father and by yourself, whom I love and venerate more than all else in the world, I swear it!”
“Reflect, if you please, Sire,” said the cardinal. “If we set the prisoner free, we will never be able to know the truth of this affair.”
“Monsieur Athos will always be available,” replied Monsieur de Tréville, “ready to appear whenever it pleases the Gentlemen of the Robe to interrogate him. He’d never desert, Monsieur le Cardinal—I’ll answer for it.”
“It’s true, he’d never desert,” said the king. “One can always summon him, as Monsieur de Tréville says. Besides,” he added, lowering his voice and almost pleading with His Eminence, “let’s give them a little security—it would be politic, don’t you think?”
Louis XIII’s politics made Richelieu smile. “Order it so, Sire. You have the right of amnesty.”
“The right of amnesty applies only to the guilty,” said Tréville, out to get the last word, “and my musketeer is innocent. Thus it’s not a ruling of amnesty, Sire, but of justice.”
“You say he’s in For-l’Évêque?” said the king.
“Yes, Sire, in solitary confinement in a dungeon, like the worst kind of criminal.”
“The devil! The devil!” murmured the king. “What to do?”
“Sign the order that puts him at liberty and there’s nothing more to say,” replied the cardinal. “Like Your Majesty, I believe the guarantee of Monsieur de Tréville is more than sufficient.”
Tréville bowed respectfully, but his joy was tainted by suspicion; he would have preferred stubborn resistance from the cardinal to this sudden compliance.
The king wrote the order for Athos’s liberation and gave it to Tréville, who immediately prepared to take his leave. As he was about to go, the cardinal gave him a friendly smile, and said to the king, “In your musketeers, Sire, perfect harmony reigns between the soldiers and the commander. It’s a credit to the service, and benefits everyone.”
“He’s about to play me some dirty trick,” Tréville said to himself. “I’ll never get the last word when dealing with such a man. But quickly, quickly—the king could change his mind any moment. And most importantly, it’s harder to get a man back into the Bastille or For-l’Évêque once he’s out, than to keep him there once he’s in.”
Monsieur de Tréville made a triumphant entrance into For-l’Évêque, from whence he delivered his musketeer, who’d continued to maintain his serene indifference.
Then, the first time Tréville saw d’Artagnan, he said, “You’ve had a lucky escape; this squares the account for your wounding of Jussac. But there still remains the reckoning for Bernajoux, so don’t be too cocksure.”
Wise advice, for Monsieur de Tréville had good reason to fear that the cardinal might have yet another arrow in his quiver. The Captain of Musketeers had scarcely closed the door behind him before His Eminence said
to the king, “Now that we’re alone, we can talk seriously, if it please Your Majesty. Sire, Monsieur de Buckingham has been in Paris for five days, and only left it this morning.”
XVI
In Which Séguier, the Keeper of the Seals, Looks More Than Once for the Bell He Used to Ring
It is impossible to convey the effect the name Buckingham had upon Louis XIII. He grew red, then pale, then red again; and the cardinal saw that with one phrase he’d won back all the ground he’d lost to Tréville.
“Buckingham! In Paris!” cried the king. “Why did he come here?”
“No doubt to conspire with your enemies, the Huguenots and the Spanish.”
“No, by God—no! He came to conspire against my conjugal honor, with Madame de Chevreuse, Madame de Longueville, and the Condés!”58
“Sire! What an idea! The queen is far too prudent, and loves Your Majesty too well.”
“Woman is weak, Monsieur le Cardinal,” said the king, “and as for loving me too well, I have my own opinion about that.”
“Nonetheless, I maintain that the Duke of Buckingham came to Paris for no other reason than politics,” said the cardinal.
“And I am quite sure that he came for something else, Monsieur le Cardinal! By God! If the queen is guilty, she’ll suffer for this!”
“In point of fact,” said the cardinal, “reluctant though I am to contemplate such treachery, Your Majesty’s ire compels me to consider it. Madame de Lannoy—whom I interrogate frequently, as Your Majesty has commanded—Madame de Lannoy told me this morning that Her Majesty was up very late the night before last. Furthermore, this morning she was crying, and spent hours writing something.”
“Writing! To him, no doubt,” said the King. “Cardinal, I must have the queen’s papers.”
“But how can you get them, Sire? It seems to me that neither Your Majesty nor myself can demand them of her.”
“How did they do it with Concini’s wife?”59 roared the king. “They searched her armoires, her desks, and finally they searched her.”
“Concini’s wife was merely Concini’s wife: a Florentine adventuress, Sire, nothing more. Your Majesty’s august spouse is Anne of Austria, Queen of France—in other words, one of the most exalted princesses on earth.”
“That doesn’t make her any less guilty, Monsieur le Cardinal! The more she forgets her high position, the guiltier she is, and the farther she has to fall! I decided some time ago to put an end to all these petty intrigues of love and politics. She has in her household a certain La Porte . . .”
“Whom I believe is the mastermind behind all this,” said the cardinal.
“So you think, as I do, that she’s deceiving me?” said the king.
“Sire, I believe, and I repeat once again, that the queen conspires against Your Majesty’s power, not Your Majesty’s honor.”
“And I tell you it’s against both! I tell you, the queen does not love me. I tell you, she loves another. I tell you, Monsieur, she loves that wretch the Duke of Buckingham! Why didn’t you have him arrested while he was in Paris?”
“What? Arrest the Duke of Buckingham, the Prime Minister of King Charles of England? What can you be thinking, Sire? There’d be an international uproar! Worse, if Your Majesty’s suspicions— which I don’t by any means endorse—were discovered to have any foundation to them, what a scandal there would be!”
“But since Buckingham’s proven himself a rogue and a sneak, he should have been . . .” Louis XIII stopped short, terrified by what he’d almost said. Richelieu stretched his neck toward him, hoping to coax out the word that remained unsaid on the king’s lips.
“. . . Yes, Sire? He should have been . . . ?”
“Nothing,” said the king, “nothing. But, while he was in Paris, I assume you never lost sight of him?”
“Oh, no, Sire.”
“Where did he stay?”
“A house in the Rue de La Harpe.”
“Which is where?”
“In the neighborhood of the Luxembourg.”
“And you’re sure that he and the queen didn’t see each other?”
“I believe the queen is too committed to her duties, Sire.”
“But they’ve corresponded—it’s to him the queen’s been writing all day. Monsieur le Cardinal, I must have those letters!”
“But, Sire . . .”
“Monsieur le Cardinal, I must have them—whatever the price!”
“If I could observe to Your Majesty . . .”
“Do you betray me as well, Monsieur, by this way you have of always opposing my will? Are you, too, allied with the Spanish and the English, with Madame de Chevreuse and the queen?”
“Sire,” replied the cardinal, sighing, “I thought I was above such suspicions.”
“Monsieur le Cardinal, I have spoken. I will have those letters!” “In that case, there’s only one way to do it.”
“Which is?”
“To charge the Keeper of the Seals with the mission. This kind of task falls within the duties of Monsieur Séguier’s position.”
“Have him sent for this instant!”
“He should be at my hôtel, Sire. I had asked him to call, and when I left for the Louvre, I left orders to have him wait for me if he appeared.”
“Have him sent for this instant!”
“Your Majesty’s orders shall be executed, of course; but . . .”
“But what?”
“But . . . the queen may refuse to obey.”
“What? Disobey my orders?”
“She might, if she doesn’t know the order came from the king.”
“Very well: to remove all doubt, I’ll go and tell her myself!”
“Your Majesty won’t forget that I’ve done all I could to prevent an open break?”
“Yes, I know that you’re very indulgent toward the queen—too indulgent, perhaps. And I must say, I may have to speak to you about that later.”
“Whenever it pleases Your Majesty. But I shall always be happy and proud, Sire, to sacrifice myself for the cause of harmony between you and the Queen of France.”
“Fine, Cardinal, fine; but meanwhile send for the Keeper of the Seals. As for myself, I will go see the queen.”
And Louis XIII opened the door and passed into the chamber that led to the suite of Anne of Austria.
The queen was in the midst of her women: Madame de Guitaut, Madame de Sablé, Madame de Montbazon, and Madame de Guéménée. In the corner was her Spanish lady-in-waiting, Doña Estefania, who had followed her from Madrid. Madame de Guéménée was reading aloud and everyone was listening attentively, with the exception of the queen. She’d requested this reading so that, while pretending to listen, she could follow the thread of her own thoughts.
These thoughts, gilded as they were in the glow of love, were nonetheless sad. Anne of Austria was deprived of the confidence of her husband and pursued by the hatred of the cardinal, who could not forgive her for having repulsed his own tender feelings. She had before her eyes the example of the queen mother, now also tormented by the hatred of the cardinal—although Marie de Médicis, if the memoirs of the time can be believed, had at one time granted the cardinal the favor Anne of Austria had refused him.
One by one the queen’s most devoted servants, her most intimate confidants, her dearest favorites, had all been sent away. It was as if she was endowed with a fatal gift that brought misfortune to all she touched; her friendship was a curse, a magnet for persecution. Her closest friends, Madame de Chevreuse and Madame du Vernet, had been exiled; and her cloak-bearer, La Porte, admitted to her that he expected to be arrested at any minute.
She was deep in the most profound and somber of these reflections when the door to the chamber opened and the king entered.
The reader instantly stopped, the ladies all rose, and there was a heavy silence.
The king made no pretense of politeness, but marched right up to the queen. “Madame,” he said, stuttering slightly, “y-you will receive a visit from M
onsieur the K-keeper of the Seals. He will communicate certain matters to you, with which I have charged him.”
The unhappy queen paled under her rouge. Though she had been threatened before with divorce, exile, or even trial and repudiation, she couldn’t help saying, “But why this visit from the Keeper of the Seals, Sire? What can Monsieur Séguier say to me that Your Majesty can’t tell me yourself?”
The king turned on his heel without reply, and at almost the same instant the Captain of the Queen’s Guard, Monsieur de Guitaut,60 announced the arrival of the Keeper of the Seals.
By the time Monsieur Séguier appeared, the king had already left by another door. The Keeper of the Seals entered half-smiling, half-blushing. As he may reappear in the course of this history, he deserves a brief introduction.
This Monsieur Séguier was a pleasant gentleman. It was des Roches le Masle, canon at Notre-Dame and former secretary to the cardinal, who had introduced him to His Eminence as a totally devoted man. The cardinal trusted him and found him useful.
Among the stories told of him, one is that, after a stormy youth, he had retired into a monastery for a while, to do penance for the follies of adolescence. However, once behind the doors of the holy place, the poor penitent found they were unable to shut out the passions of carnal lust that pursued him. These passions obsessed him; he confided his disgrace to the superior, who recommended that, when tormented by the demon of temptation, he should take to the bell-rope and toll the bells until he was exorcised. At the sound of the bells, the monks would know that a brother was besieged by temptation, and the entire community would go to prayers.
This seemed like good advice to the future Keeper of the Seals. He tried to exorcise the evil spirit of lust with the assistance of the monks’ prayers, but the devil is not so easily dispossessed from a fortress he has garrisoned. As the monks redoubled their prayers, so Satan redoubled his temptations. Day and night the bells pealed out, proclaiming the penitent’s need of mortification.
The monks no longer had a minute of rest. By day, they did nothing but go up and down the steps that led to the chapel; by night, in addition to the prayers of complines and matins, they had to leap twenty times from their beds and prostrate themselves on the floors of their cells.