CHAPTER 31
Monk reveals himself
D'Artagnan, although he flattered himself with better
success, had, nevertheless, not too well comprehended his
situation. It was a strange and grave subject for him to
reflect upon -- this voyage of Athos into England; this
league of the king with Athos, and that extraordinary
combination of his design with that of the Comte de la Fere.
The best way was to let things follow their own train. An
imprudence had been committed, and, whilst having succeeded,
as he had promised, D'Artagnan found that he had gained no
advantage by his success. Since everything was lost, he
could risk no more.
D'Artagnan followed Monk through his camp. The return of the
general had produced a marvelous effect, for his people had
thought him lost. But Monk, with his austere look and icy
demeanor, appeared to ask of his eager lieutenants and
delighted soldiers the cause of all this joy. Therefore, to
the lieutenants who had come to meet him, and who expressed
the uneasiness with which they had learnt his departure, --
"Why is all this?" said he; "am I obliged to give you an
account of myself?"
"But, your honor, the sheep may well tremble without the
shepherd."
"Tremble!" replied Monk, in his calm and powerful voice;
"ah, monsieur, what a word! Curse me, if my sheep have not
both teeth and claws; I renounce being their shepherd. Ah,
you tremble, gentlemen, do you?"
"Yes, general, for you."
"Oh! pray meddle with your own concerns. If I have not the
wit God gave to Oliver Cromwell, I have that which He has
sent to me: I am satisfied with it, however little it may
be."
The officer made no reply; and Monk, having imposed silence
on his people, all remained persuaded that he had
accomplished some important work or made some important
trial. This was forming a very poor conception of his
patience and scrupulous genius. Monk, if he had the good
faith of the Puritans, his allies, must have returned
fervent thanks to the patron saint who had taken him from
the box of M. d'Artagnan. Whilst these things were going on,
our musketeer could not help constantly repeating, --
"God grant that M. Monk may not have as much pride as I
have; for I declare if any one had put me into a coffer with
that grating over my mouth, and carried me packed up, like a
calf, across the seas, I should cherish such a memory of my
piteous looks in that coffer, and such an ugly animosity
against him who had inclosed me in it, I should dread so
greatly to see a sarcastic smile blooming upon the face of
the malicious wretch, or in his attitude any grotesque
imitation of my position in the box, that, Mordioux! I
should plunge a good dagger into his throat in compensation
for the grating, and would nail him down in a veritable
bier, in remembrance of the false coffin in which I had been
left to grow moldy for two days."
And D'Artagnan spoke honestly when he spoke thus; for the
skin of our Gascon was a very thin one. Monk, fortunately,
entertained other ideas. He never opened his mouth to his
timid conqueror concerning the past; but he admitted him
very near to his person in his labors, took him with him to
several reconnoiterings, in such a way as to obtain that
which he evidently warmly desired, -- a rehabilitation in
the mind of D'Artagnan. The latter conducted himself like a
past-master in the art of flattery: he admired all Monk's
tactics, and the ordering of his camp, he joked very
pleasantly upon the circumvallations of Lambert's camp, who
had, he said, very uselessly given himself the trouble to
inclose a camp for twenty thousand men, whilst an acre of
ground would have been quite sufficient for the corporal and
fifty guards who would perhaps remain faithful to him.
Monk, immediately after his arrival, had accepted the
proposition made by Lambert the evening before, for an
interview, and which Monk's lieutenants had refused under
the pretext that the general was indisposed. This interview
was neither long nor interesting: Lambert demanded a
profession of faith from his rival. The latter declared he
had no other opinion than that of the majority. Lambert
asked if it would not be more expedient to terminate the
quarrel by an alliance than by a battle. Monk hereupon
demanded a week for consideration. Now, Lambert could not
refuse this: and Lambert, nevertheless, had come, saying
that he should devour Monk's army. Therefore, at the end of
the interview, which Lambert's party watched with
impatience, nothing was decided -- neither treaty nor battle
-- the rebel army, as M. d'Artagnan had foreseen, began to
prefer the good cause to the bad one, and the parliament,
rumpish as it was, to the pompous nothings of Lambert's
designs.
They remembered, likewise, the good feasts of London ---the
profusion of ale and sherry with which the citizens of
London paid their friends the soldiers; -- they looked with
terror at the black war bread, at the troubled waters of the
Tweed, -- too salt for the glass, not enough so for the pot;
and they said to themselves, "Are not the roast meats kept
warm for Monk in London?" From that time nothing was heard
of but desertion in Lambert's army. The soldiers allowed
themselves to be drawn away by the force of principles,
which are, like discipline, the obligatory tie in everybody
constituted for any purpose. Monk defended the parliament --
Lambert attacked it. Monk had no more inclination to support
parliament than Lambert, but he had it inscribed on his
standards, so that all those of the contrary party were
reduced to write upon theirs "Rebellion," which sounded ill
to puritan ears. They flocked, then, from Lambert to Monk,
as sinners flock from Baal to God.
Monk made his calculations, at a thousand desertions a day
Lambert had men enough to last twenty days; but there is in
sinking things such a growth of weight and swiftness, which
combine with each other, that a hundred left the first day,
five hundred the second, a thousand the third. Monk thought
he had obtained his rate. But from one thousand the
deserters increased to two thousand, then to four thousand,
and, a week after, Lambert, perceiving that he had no longer
the possibility of accepting battle, if it were offered to
him, took the wise resolution of decamping during the night,
returning to London, and being beforehand with Monk in
constructing a power with the wreck of the military party.
But Monk, free and without uneasiness, marched towards
London as a conqueror, augmenting his army with all the
floating parties on his way. He encamped at Barnet, that is
to say, within four leagues of the capital, cherished by the
parliament, which thought it beheld in him a protector, and
awaited by the people, who were anxious to see him reveal
himself, that they might judge him. D'Artagnan himself had
not been able to fathom his tactics; he observed -- he
admired. Monk could not enter London with a settled
determination without bringing about civil war. He
temporized for a short time.
Suddenly, when least expected, Monk drove the military party
out of London, and installed himself in the city amidst the
citizens, by order of the parliament; then, at the moment
when the citizens were crying out against Monk -- at the
moment when the soldiers themselves were accusing their
leader -- Monk, finding himself certain of a majority,
declared to the Rump Parliament that it must abdicate -- be
dissolved -- and yield its place to a government which would
not be a joke. Monk pronounced this declaration, supported
by fifty thousand swords, to which, that same evening, were
united, with shouts of delirious joy, the five hundred
thousand inhabitants of the good city of London. At length,
at the moment when the people, after their triumphs and
festive repasts in the open streets, were looking about for
a master, it was affirmed that a vessel had left the Hague,
bearing Charles II. and his fortunes.
"Gentlemen," said Monk to his officers, "I am going to meet
the legitimate king. He who loves me will follow me." A
burst of acclamations welcomed these words, which D'Artagnan
did not hear without the greatest delight.
"Mordioux!" said he to Monk, "that is bold, monsieur."
"You will accompany me, will you not?" said Monk.
"Pardieu! general. But tell me, I beg, what you wrote by
Athos, that is to say, the Comte de la Fere -- you know --
the day of our arrival?"
"I have no secrets from you now," replied Monk. "I wrote
these words: `Sire, I expect your majesty in six weeks at
Dover.'"
"Ah!" said D'Artagnan, "I no longer say it is bold; I say it
is well played; it is a fine stroke!"
"You are something of a judge in such matters," replied
Monk.
And this was the only time the general had ever made an
allusion to his voyage to Holland.
