64
Whitehall.
The parliament condemned Charles to death, as might have
been foreseen. Political judgments are generally vain
formalities, for the same passions which give rise to the
accusation ordain to the condemnation. Such is the atrocious
logic of revolutions.
Although our friends were expecting that condemnation, it
filled them with grief. D'Artagnan, whose mind was never
more fertile in resources than in critical emergencies,
swore again that he would try all conceivable means to
prevent the denouement of the bloody tragedy. But by what
means? As yet he could form no definite plan; all must
depend on circumstances. Meanwhile, it was necessary at all
hazards, in order to gain time, to put some obstacle in the
way of the execution on the following day -- the day
appointed by the judges. The only way of doing that was to
cause the disappearance of the London executioner. The
headsman out of the way, the sentence could not be executed.
True, they could send for the headsman of the nearest town,
but at least a day would be gained, and a day might be
sufficient for the rescue. D'Artagnan took upon himself that
more than difficult task.
Another thing, not less essential, was to warn Charles
Stuart of the attempt to be made, so that he might assist
his rescuers as much as possible, or at least do nothing to
thwart their efforts. Aramis assumed that perilous charge.
Charles Stuart had asked that Bishop Juxon might be
permitted to visit him. Mordaunt had called on the bishop
that very evening to apprise him of the religious desire
expressed by the king and also of Cromwell's permission.
Aramis determined to obtain from the bishop, through fear or
by persuasion, consent that he should enter in the bishop's
place, and clad in his sacerdotal robes, the prison at
Whitehall.
Finally, Athos undertook to provide, in any event, the means
of leaving England -- in case either of failure or of
success.
The night having come they made an appointment to meet at
eleven o'clock at the hotel, and each started out to fulfill
his dangerous mission.
The palace of Whitehall was guarded by three regiments of
cavalry and by the fierce anxiety of Cromwell, who came and
went or sent his generals or his agents continually. Alone
in his usual room, lighted by two candles, the condemned
monarch gazed sadly on the luxury of his past greatness,
just as at the last hour one sees the images of life more
mildly brilliant than of yore.
Parry had not quitted his master, and since his condemnation
had not ceased to weep. Charles, leaning on a table, was
gazing at a medallion of his wife and daughter; he was
waiting first for Juxon, then for martyrdom.
At times he thought of those brave French gentlemen who had
appeared to him from a distance of a hundred leagues
fabulous and unreal, like the forms that appear in dreams.
In fact, he sometimes asked himself if all that was
happening to him was not a dream, or at least the delirium
of a fever. He rose and took a few steps as if to rouse
himself from his torpor and went as far as the window; he
saw glittering below him the muskets of the guards. He was
thereupon constrained to admit that he was indeed awake and
that his bloody dream was real.
Charles returned in silence to his chair, rested his elbow
on the table, bowed his head upon his hand and reflected.
"Alas!" he said to himself, "if I only had for a confessor
one of those lights of the church, whose soul has sounded
all the mysteries of life, all the littlenesses of
greatness, perhaps his utterance would overawe the voice
that wails within my soul. But I shall have a priest of
vulgar mind, whose career and fortune I have ruined by my
misfortune. He will speak to me of God and death, as he has
spoken to many another dying man, not understanding that
this one leaves his throne to an usurper, his children to
the cold contempt of public charity."
And he raised the medallion to his lips.
It was a dull, foggy night. A neighboring church clock
slowly struck the hour. The flickering light of the two
candles showed fitful phantom shadows in the lofty room.
These were the ancestors of Charles, standing back dimly in
their tarnished frames.
An awful sadness enveloped the heart of Charles. He buried
his brow in his hands and thought of the world, so beautiful
when one is about to leave it; of the caresses of children,
so pleasing and so sweet, especially when one is parting
from his children never to see them again; then of his wife,
the noble and courageous woman who had sustained him to the
last moment. He drew from his breast the diamond cross and
the star of the Garter which she had sent him by those
generous Frenchmen; he kissed it, and then, as he reflected,
that she would never again see those things till he lay cold
and mutilated in the tomb, there passed over him one of
those icy shivers which may be called forerunners of death.
Then, in that chamber which recalled to him so many royal
souvenirs, whither had come so many courtiers, the scene of
so much flattering homage, alone with a despairing servant,
whose feeble soul could afford no support to his own, the
king at last yielded to sorrow, and his courage sank to a
level with that feebleness, those shadows, and that wintry
cold. That king, who was so grand, so sublime in the hour of
death, meeting his fate with a smile of resignation on his
lips, now in that gloomy hour wiped away a tear which had
fallen on the table and quivered on the gold embroidered
cloth.
Suddenly the door opened, an ecclesiastic in episcopal robes
entered, followed by two guards, to whom the king waved an
imperious gesture. The guards retired; the room resumed its
obscurity.
"Juxon!" cried Charles, "Juxon, thank you, my last friend;
you come at a fitting moment."
The bishop looked anxiously at the man sobbing in the
ingle-nook.
"Come, Parry," said the king, "cease your tears."
"If it's Parry," said the bishop, "I have nothing to fear;
so allow me to salute your majesty and to tell you who I am
and for what I am come."
At this sight and this voice Charles was about to cry out,
when Aramis placed his finger on his lips and bowed low to
the king of England.
"The chevalier!" murmured Charles.
"Yes, sire," interrupted Aramis, raising his voice, "Bishop
Juxon, the faithful knight of Christ, obedient to your
majesty's wishes."
Charles clasped his hands, amazed and stupefied to find that
these foreigners, without other motive than that which their
conscience imposed on them, thus combated the will of a
people and the destiny of a king.
"You!" he said, "you! how did you penetrate hither? If they
recognize you, you are lost."
"Care not for me, sire; think only of yourself. You see,
your friends are wakeful. I know not what we shall do yet,
but four determined men can do much. Meanwhile, do not be
surprised at anything that happens; prepare yourself for
every emergency."
Charles shook his head.
"Do you know that I die to-morrow at ten o'clock?"
"Something, your majesty, will happen between now and then
to make the execution impossible."
The king looked at Aramis with astonishment.
At this moment a strange noise, like the unloading of a
cart, and followed by a cry of pain, was heard beneath the
window.
"Do you hear?" said the king.
"I hear," said Aramis, "but I understand neither the noise
nor the cry of pain."
"I know not who can have uttered the cry," said the king,
"but the noise is easily understood. Do you know that I am
to be beheaded outside this window? Well, these boards you
hear unloaded are the posts and planks to build my scaffold.
Some workmen must have fallen underneath them and been
hurt."
Aramis shuddered in spite of himself.
"You see," said the king, "that it is useless for you to
resist. I am condemned; leave me to my death."
"My king," said Aramis, "they well may raise a scaffold, but
they cannot make an executioner."
"What do you mean?" asked the king.
"I mean that at this hour the headsman has been got out of
the way by force or persuasion. The scaffold will be ready
by to-morrow, but the headsman will be wanting and they will
put it off till the day after to-morrow."
"What then?" said the king.
"To-morrow night we shall rescue you."
"How can that be?" cried the king, whose face was lighted
up, in spite of himself, by a flash of joy.
"Oh! sir," cried Parry, "may you and yours be blessed!"
"How can it be?" repeated the king. "I must know, so that I
may assist you if there is any chance."
"I know nothing about it," continued Aramis, "but the
cleverest, the bravest, the most devoted of us four said to
me when I left him, `Tell the king that to-morrow at ten
o'clock at night, we shall carry him off.' He has said it
and will do it."
"Tell me the name of that generous friend," said the king,
"that I may cherish for him an eternal gratitude, whether he
succeeds or not."
"D'Artagnan, sire, the same who had so nearly rescued you
when Colonel Harrison made his untimely entrance."
"You are, indeed, wonderful men," said the king; "if such
things had been related to me I should not have believed
them."
"Now, sire," resumed Aramis, "listen to me. Do not forget
for a single instant that we are watching over your safety;
observe the smallest gesture, the least bit of song, the
least sign from any one near you; watch everything, hear
everything, interpret everything."
"Oh, chevalier!" cried the king, "what can I say to you?
There is no word, though it should come from the profoundest
depth of my heart, that can express my gratitude. If you
succeed I do not say that you will save a king; no, in
presence of the scaffold as I am, royalty, I assure you, is
a very small affair; but you will save a husband to his
wife, a father to his children. Chevalier, take my hand; it
is that of a friend who will love you to his last sigh."
Aramis stooped to kiss the king's hand, but Charles clasped
his and pressed it to his heart.
At this moment a man entered, without even knocking at the
door. Aramis tried to withdraw his hand, but the king still
held it. The man was one of those Puritans, half preacher
and half soldier, who swarmed around Cromwell.
"What do you want, sir?" said the king.
"I desire to know if the confession of Charles Stuart is at
an end?" said the stranger.
"And what is it to you?" replied the king; "we are not of
the same religion."
"All men are brothers," said the Puritan. "One of my
brothers is about to die and I come to prepare him."
"Bear with him," whispered Aramis; "it is doubtless some
spy."
"After my reverend lord bishop," said the king to the man,
"I shall hear you with pleasure, sir."
The man retired, but not before examining the supposed Juxon
with an attention which did not escape the king.
"Chevalier," said the king, when the door was closed, "I
believe you are right and that this man only came here with
evil intentions. Take care that no misfortune befalls you
when you leave."
"I thank your majesty," said Aramis, "but under these robes
I have a coat of mail, a pistol and a dagger."
"Go, then, sir, and God keep you!"
The king accompanied him to the door, where Aramis
pronounced his benediction upon him, and passing through the
ante-rooms, filled with soldiers, jumped into his carriage
and drove to the bishop's palace. Juxon was waiting for him
impatiently.
"Well?" said he, on perceiving Aramis.
"Everything has succeeded as I expected; spies, guards,
satellites, all took me for you, and the king blesses you
while waiting for you to bless him."
"May God protect you, my son; for your example has given me
at the same time hope and courage."
Aramis resumed his own attire and left Juxon with the
assurance that he might again have recourse to him.
He had scarcely gone ten yards in the street when he
perceived that he was followed by a man, wrapped in a large
cloak. He placed his hand on his dagger and stopped. The man
came straight toward him. It was Porthos.
"My dear friend," cried Aramis.
"You see, we had each our mission," said Porthos; "mine was
to guard you and I am doing so. Have you seen the king?"
"Yes, and all goes well."
"We are to meet our friends at the hotel at eleven."
It was then striking half-past ten by St. Paul's.
Arrived at the hotel it was not long before Athos entered.
"All's well," he cried, as he entered; "I have hired a cedar
wherry, as light as a canoe, as easy on the wing as any
swallow. It is waiting for us at Greenwich, opposite the
Isle of Dogs, manned by a captain and four men, who for the
sum of fifty pounds sterling will keep themselves at our
disposition three successive nights. Once on board we drop
down the Thames and in two hours are on the open sea. In
case I am killed, the captain's name is Roger and the skiff
is called the Lightning. A handkerchief, tied at the four
corners, is to be the signal."
Next moment D'Artagnan entered.
"Empty your pockets," said he; "I want a hundred pounds, and
as for my own ---- " and he emptied them inside out.
The sum was collected in a minute. D'Artagnan ran out and
returned directly after.
"There," said he, "it's done. Ough! and not without a deal
of trouble, too."
"Has the executioner left London?" asked Athos.
"Ah, you see that plan was not sure enough; he might go out
by one gate and return by another."
"Where is he, then?"
"In the cellar."
"The cellar -- what cellar?"
"Our landlord's, to be sure. Mousqueton is propped against
the door and here's the key."
"Bravo!" said Aramis, "how did you manage it?"
"Like everything else, with money; but it cost me dear."
"How much?" asked Athos.
"Five hundred pounds."
"And where did you get so much money?" said Athos. "Had you,
then, that sum?"
"The queen's famous diamond," answered D'Artagnan, with a
sigh.
"Ah, true," said Aramis. "I recognized it on your finger."
"You bought it back, then, from Monsieur des Essarts?" asked
Porthos.
"Yes, but it was fated that I should not keep it."
"So, then, we are all right as regards the executioner,"
said Athos; "but unfortunately every executioner has his
assistant, his man, or whatever you call him."
"And this one had his," said D'Artagnan; "but, as good luck
would have it, just as I thought I should have two affairs
to manage, our friend was brought home with a broken leg. In
the excess of his zeal he had accompanied the cart
containing the scaffolding as far as the king's window, and
one of the crossbeams fell on his leg and broke it."
"Ah!" cried Aramis, "that accounts for the cry I heard."
"Probably," said D'Artagnan, "but as he is a thoughtful
young man he promised to send four expert workmen in his
place to help those already at the scaffold, and wrote the
moment he was brought home to Master Tom Lowe, an assistant
carpenter and friend of his, to go down to Whitehall, with
three of his friends. Here's the letter he sent by a
messenger, for sixpence, who sold it to me for a guinea."
"And what on earth are you going to do with it?" asked
Athos.
"Can't you guess, my dear Athos? You, who speak English like
John Bull himself, are Master Tom Lowe, we, your three
companions. Do you understand it now?"
Athos uttered a cry of joy and admiration, ran to a closet
and drew forth workmen's clothes, which the four friends
immediately put on; they then left the hotel, Athos carrying
a saw, Porthos a vise, Aramis an axe and D'Artagnan a hammer
and some nails.
The letter from the executioner's assistant satisfied the
master carpenter that those were the men he expected.
