CHAPTER 15
The Proscribed
D'Artagnan had not reached the bottom of the staircase, when
the king called his gentleman. "I have a commission to give
you, monsieur," said he.
"I am at your majesty's commands."
"Wait, then." And the young king began to write the
following letter, which cost him more than one sigh,
although, at the same time, something like a feeling of
triumph glittered in his eyes:
"My Lord Cardinal, -- Thanks to your good counsels and,
above all, thanks to your firmness, I have succeeded in
overcoming a weakness unworthy of a king. You have too ably
arranged my destiny to allow gratitude not to stop me at the
moment when I was about to destroy your work. I felt I was
wrong to wish to make my life turn from the course you had
marked out for it. Certainly it would have been a misfortune
to France and my family if a misunderstanding had taken
place between me and my minister. This, however, would
certainly have happened if I had made your niece my wife. I
am perfectly aware of this, and will henceforth oppose
nothing to the accomplishment of my destiny. I am prepared,
then, to wed the infanta, Maria Theresa. You may at once
open the conference. -- Your affectionate Louis."
The king, after reperusing the letter, sealed it himself.
"This letter for my lord cardinal," said he.
The gentleman took it. At Mazarin's door he found Bernouin
waiting with anxiety.
"Well?" asked the minister's valet de chambre.
"Monsieur," said the gentleman, "here is a letter for his
eminence."
"A letter! Ah! we expected one after the little journey of
the morning."
"Oh! you know, then, that his majesty ---- "
"As first minister, it belongs to the duties of our charge
to know everything. And his majesty prays and implores, I
presume."
"I don't know, but he sighed frequently whilst he was
writing."
"'Yes, yes, yes; we understand all that; people sigh
sometimes from happiness as well as from grief, monsieur."
"And yet the king did not look very happy when he returned,
monsieur."
"You did not see clearly. Besides, you only saw his majesty
on his return, for he was only accompanied by the lieutenant
of the guards. But I had his eminence's telescope, I looked
through it when he was tired, and I am sure they both wept."
"Well! was it for happiness they wept?"
"No, but for love, and they vowed to each other a thousand
tendernesses, which the king asks no better than to keep.
Now this letter is a beginning of the execution."
"And what does his eminence think of this love, which is, by
the bye, no secret to anybody?"
Bernouin took the gentleman by the arm, and whilst ascending
the staircase, -- "In confidence," said he, in a low voice,
"his eminence looks for success in the affair. I know very
well we shall have war with Spain; but, bah! war will please
the nobles. My lord cardinal, besides, can endow his niece
royally, nay, more than royally. There will be money,
festivities, and fireworks -- everybody will be delighted."
"Well, for my part," replied the gentleman, shaking his
head, "it appears to me that this letter is very light to
contain all that."
"My friend," replied Bernouin, "I am certain of what I tell
you. M. d'Artagnan related all that passed to me."
"Ay, ay! and what did he tell you? Let us hear."
"I accosted him by asking him, on the part of the cardinal,
if there were any news, without discovering my designs,
observe, for M. d'Artagnan is a cunning hand. `My dear
Monsieur Bernouin,' he replied, `the king is madly in love
with Mademoiselle de Mancini, that is all I have to tell
you.' And then I asked him `Do you think, to such a degree
that it will urge him to act contrary to the designs of his
eminence?' `Ah! don't ask me,' said he; `I think the king
capable of anything; he has a will of iron, and what he
wills he wills in earnest. If he takes it into his head to
marry Mademoiselle de Mancini, he will marry her, depend
upon it.' And thereupon he left me and went straight to the
stables, took a horse, saddled it himself, jumped upon its
back, and set off as if the devil were at his heels."
"So that you believe, then ---- "
"I believe that monsieur the lieutenant of the guards knew
more than he was willing to say."
"In your opinion, then, M. d'Artagnan ---- "
"Is gone, according to all probability, after the exiles, to
carry out all that can facilitate the success of the king's
love."
Chatting thus, the two confidants arrived at the door of his
eminence's apartment. His eminence's gout had left him; he
was walking about his chamber in a state of great anxiety,
listening at doors and looking out of windows. Bernouin
entered, followed by the gentleman, who had orders from the
king to place the letter in the hands of the cardinal
himself. Mazarin took the letter, but before opening it, he
got up a ready smile, a smile of circumstance, able to throw
a veil over emotions of whatever sort they might be. So
prepared, whatever was the impression received from the
letter, no reflection of that impression was allowed to
transpire upon his countenance.
"Well," said he, when he had read and reread the letter,
"very well, monsieur. Inform the king that I thank him for
his obedience to the wishes of the queen-mother, and that I
will do everything for the accomplishment of his will."
The gentlemen left the room. The door had scarcely closed
before the cardinal, who had no mask for Bernouin, took off
that which had so recently covered his face, and with a most
dismal expression, -- "Call M. de Brienne," said he. Five
minutes afterward the secretary entered.
"Monsieur," said Mazarin, "I have just rendered a great
service to the monarchy, the greatest I have ever rendered
it. You will carry this letter, which proves it, to her
majesty the queen-mother, and when she shall have returned
it to you, you will lodge it in portfolio B., which is
filled with documents and papers relative to my ministry."
Brienne went as desired, and, as the letter was unsealed,
did not fail to read it on his way. There is likewise no
doubt that Bernouin, who was on good terms with everybody,
approached so near to the secretary as to be able to read
the letter over his shoulder; so that the news spread with
such activity through the castle, that Mazarin might have
feared it would reach the ears of the queen-mother before M.
de Brienne could convey Louis XIV.'s letter to her. A moment
after orders were given for departure, and M. de Conde
having been to pay his respects to the king on his pretended
rising, inscribed the city of Poitiers upon his tablets, as
the place of sojourn and rest for their majesties.
Thus in a few instants was unraveled an intrigue which had
covertly occupied all the diplomacies of Europe. It had
nothing, however, very clear as a result, but to make a poor
lieutenant of musketeers lose his commission and his
fortune. It is true, that in exchange he gained his liberty.
We shall soon know how M. d'Artagnan profited by this. For
the moment, if the reader will permit us, we shall return to
the hostelry of les Medici, of which one of the windows
opened at the very moment the orders were given for the
departure of the king.
The window that opened was that of one of the rooms of
Charles II. The unfortunate prince had passed the night in
bitter reflections, his head resting on his hands, and his
elbows on the table, whilst Parry, infirm and old, wearied
in body and in mind, had fallen asleep in a corner. A
singular fortune was that of this faithful servant, who saw
beginning for the second generation the fearful series of
misfortunes which had weighed so heavily on the first. When
Charles II. had well thought over the fresh defeat he had
experienced, when he perfectly comprehended the complete
isolation into which he had just fallen, on seeing his fresh
hope left behind him, he was seized as with a vertigo, and
sank back in the large armchair in which he was seated. Then
God took pity on the unhappy prince, and sent to console him
sleep, the innocent brother of death. He did not wake till
half-past six, that is to say, till the sun shone brightly
into his chamber, and Parry, motionless with fear of waking
him, was observing with profound grief the eyes of the young
man already red with wakefulness, and his cheeks pale with
suffering and privations.
At length the noise of some heavy carts descending towards
the Loire awakened Charles. He arose, looked around him like
a man who has forgotten everything, perceived Parry, shook
him by the hand, and commanded him to settle the reckoning
with Master Cropole. Master Cropole, being called upon to
settle his account with Parry, acquitted himself, it must be
allowed, like an honest man; he only made his customary
remark, that the two travelers had eaten nothing, which had
the double disadvantage of being humiliating for his
kitchen, and of forcing him to ask payment for a repast not
consumed, but not the less lost. Parry had nothing to say to
the contrary, and paid.
"I hope," said the king, "it has not been the same with the
horses. I don't see that they have eaten at your expense,
and it would be a misfortune for travelers like us, who have
a long journey to make, to have our horses fail us."
But Cropole, at this doubt, assumed his majestic air, and
replied that the stables of les Medici were not less
hospitable than its refectory.
The king mounted his horse; his old servant did the same,
and both set out towards Paris, without meeting a single
person on their road, in the streets or the faubourgs of the
city. For the prince the blow was the more severe, as it was
a fresh exile. The unfortunates cling to the smallest hopes,
as the happy do to the greatest good; and when they are
obliged to quit the place where that hope has soothed their
hearts, they experience the mortal regret which the banished
man feels when he places his foot upon the vessel which is
to bear him into exile. It appears that the heart already
wounded so many times suffers from the least scratch; it
appears that it considers as a good the momentary absence of
evil, which is nothing but the absence of pain; and that
God, into the most terrible misfortunes, has thrown hope as
the drop of water which the rich bad man in hell entreated
of Lazarus.
For one instant even the hope of Charles II. had been more
than a fugitive joy; -- that was when he found himself so
kindly welcomed by his brother king; then it had taken a
form that had become a reality; then, all at once, the
refusal of Mazarin had reduced the fictitious reality to the
state of a dream. This promise of Louis XIV., so soon
retracted, had been nothing but a mockery; a mockery like
his crown -- like his scepter -- like his friends -- like
all that had surrounded his royal childhood, and which had
abandoned his proscribed youth. Mockery! everything was a
mockery for Charles II. except the cold, black repose
promised by death.
Such were the ideas of the unfortunate prince while sitting
listlessly upon his horse, to which he abandoned the reins;
he rode slowly along beneath the warm May sun, in which the
somber misanthropy of the exile perceived a last insult to
his grief.
