Three Musketeers (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 21

  “Your affair has become more complicated since yesterday evening, my good man, and I advise you to tell the whole truth; for your repentance alone can remove the anger of the cardinal.”

  “Why, I am ready to tell everything,” cried Bonacieux, “at least, all that I know. Interrogate me, I entreat you!”

  “Where is your wife, in the first place?”

  “Why, did not I tell you she had been stolen from me?”

  “Yes, but yesterday at five o’clock in the afternoon, thanks to you, she escaped.”

  “My wife escaped! cried Bonacieux. ”Oh, unfortunate creature! Monsieur, if she has escaped, it is not my fault, I swear.”

  “What business had you, then, to go into the chamber of Monsieur d’Artagnan, your neighbor, with whom you had a long conference during the day?”

  “Ah, yes, Monsieur Commissary; yes, that is true, and I confess that I was in the wrong. I did go to Monsieur d’Artagnan’s.”

  “What was the aim of that visit?”

  “To beg him to assist me in finding my wife. I believed I had a right to endeavor to find her. I was deceived, as it appears, and I ask your pardon.”

  “And what did Monsieur d’Artagnan reply?”

  “Monsieur d’Artagnan promised me his assistance; but I soon found out that he was betraying me.”

  “You impose upon justice. Monsieur d’Artagnan made a compact with you; and in virtue of that compact put to flight the police who had arrested your wife, and has placed her beyond reach.”

  “Monsieur d’Artagnan has carried off my wife! What do you tell me?”

  “Fortunately, Monsieur d’Artagnan is in our hands, and you shall be confronted with him.”

  “By my faith, I ask no better,” cried Bonacieux; “I shall not be sorry to see the face of an acquaintance.”

  “Bring in Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the commissary to the guards. The two guards led in Athos.

  “Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the commissary, addressing Athos, “declare all that passed yesterday between you and Monsieur.”

  “But,” cried Bonacieux, “this is not Monsieur d’Artagnan whom you show me.”

  “What! not Monsieur d’Artagnan?” exclaimed the commissary.

  “Not the least in the world,” replied Bonacieux.

  “What is this gentleman’s name?” asked the commissary.

  “I cannot tell you; I don’t know him.”

  “How! you don’t know him?”

  “No.”

  “Did you never see him?”

  “Yes, I have seen him, but I don’t know what he calls himself.”

  “Your name?” replied the commissary.

  “Athos,” replied the Musketeer.

  “But that is not a man’s name; that is the name of a mountain,” cried the poor questioner, who began to lose his head.

  “That is my name,” said Athos, quietly.

  “But you said that your name was D’Artagnan.”

  “Who, I?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “Somebody said to me, You are Monsieur d‘Artagnan?’ I answered, ‘You think so?’ My guards exclaimed that they were sure of it. I did not wish to contradict them; besides, I might be deceived.”

  “Monsieur, you insult the majesty of justice.”

  “Not at all,” said Athos, calmly.

  “You are Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

  “You see, monsieur, that you say it again.”

  “But I tell you, Monsieur Commissary,” cried Bonacieux, in his turn, “there is not the least doubt about the matter. Monsieur d‘Artagnan is my tenant, although he does not pay me my rent—and even better on that account ought I to know him. Monsieur d’Artagnan is a young man, scarcely nineteen or twenty, and this gentleman is thirty at least. Monsieur d’Artagnan is in Monsieur Dessessart’s Guards, and this gentleman is in the company of Monsieur de Tréville’s Musketeers. Look at his uniform, Monsieur Commissary, look at his uniform!”

  “That’s true,” murmured the commissary; “pardieu, that’s true.”

  At this moment the door was opened quickly, and a messenger, introduced by one of the gatekeepers of the Bastille, gave a letter to the commissary.

  “Oh, unhappy woman!” cried the commissary.

  “How? What do you say? Of whom do you speak? It is not of my wife, I hope!”

  “On the contrary, it is of her. Yours is a pretty business.”

  “But,” said the agitated mercer, “do me the pleasure, monsieur, to tell me how my own proper affair can become worse by anything my wife does while I am in prison?”

  “Because that which she does is part of a plan concerted between you—of an infernal plan.”

  “I swear to you, Monsieur Commissary, that you are in the profoundest error, that I know nothing in the world about what my wife had to do, that I am entirely a stranger to what she has done; and that if she has committed any follies, I renounce her, I abjure her, I curse her!”

  “Bah!” said Athos to the commissary, “if you have no more need of me, send me somewhere. Your Monsieur Bonacieux is very tiresome.”

  The commissary designated by the same gesture Athos and Bonacieux, “Let them be guarded more closely than ever.”

  “And yet,” said Athos, with his habitual calmness, “if it be Monsieur d’Artagnan who is concerned in this matter, I do not perceive how I can take his place.”

  “Do as I bade you,” cried the commissary, “and preserve absolute secrecy. You understand!”

  Athos shrugged his shoulders, and followed his guards silently, while M. Bonacieux uttered lamentations enough to break the heart of a tiger.

  They locked the mercer in the same dungeon where he had passed the night, and left him to himself during the day. Bonacieux wept all day like a true mercer, not being at all a military man, as he himself informed us. In the evening, about nine o’clock, at the moment he had made up his mind to go to bed, he heard steps in his corridor. These steps drew near to his dungeon, the door was thrown open, and the guards appeared.

  “Follow me,” said an officer, who came behind the guards.

  “Follow you!” cried Bonacieux, “follow you at this hour! Where, my God?”

  “Where we have orders to lead you.”

  “But that is not an answer.”

  “It is, nevertheless, the only one we can give.”

  “Ah, my God, my God!” murmured the poor mercer, “now, indeed, I am lost!” And he followed the guards who came for him, mechanically and without resistance.

  He passed along the same corridor as before, crossed one court, then a second side of the building; at length, at the gate of the entrance court he found a carriage surrounded by four guards on horseback. They made him enter this carriage, the officer placed himself by his side, the door was locked, and they were left in a rolling prison. The carriage was put in motion as slowly as a funeral car. Through the closely fastened windows the prisoner could perceive the houses and the pavement, that was all; but, true Parisian as he was, Bonacieux could recognize every street by the milestones, the signs, and the lamps. At the moment of arriving at St. Paul—the spot where such as were condemned at the Bastille were executed—he was near fainting and crossed himself twice. He thought the carriage was about to stop there. The carriage, however, passed on.

  Farther on, a still greater terror seized him on passing by the cemetery of St. Jean, where state criminals were buried. One thing, however, reassured him; he remembered that before they were buried their heads were generally cut off, and he felt that his head was still on his shoulders. But when he saw the carriage take the way to La Grêve, when he perceived the pointed roof of the Hotel de Ville, and the carriage passed under the arcade, he believed all was over with him. He wished to confess to the officer, and upon his refusal, uttered such pitiable cries that the officer told him that if he continued to deafen him thus, he should put a gag in his mouth.

  This measure somewhat reassured Bonacieux. If they meant to execute him at La
Grêve, it could scarcely be worth while to gag him, as they had nearly reached the place of execution. Indeed, the carriage crossed the fatal spot without stopping. There remained, then, no other place to fear but the Traitor’s Cross; the carriage was taking the direct road to it.

  This time there was no longer any doubt; it was at the Traitor’s Cross that lesser criminals were executed. Bonacieux had flattered himself in believing himself worthy of St. Paul or of the Place de Grêve; it was at the Traitor’s Cross that his journey and his destiny were about to end! He could not yet see that dreadful cross, but he felt somehow as if it were coming to meet him. When he was within twenty paces of it, he heard a noise of people and the carriage stopped. This was more than poor Bonacieux could endure, depressed as he was by the successive emotions which he had experienced; he uttered a feeble groan which might have been taken for the last sigh of a dying man, and fainted.

  14

  THE MAN OF MEUNG

  The crowd was caused, not by the expectation of a man to be hanged, but by the contemplation of a man who was hanged.

  The carriage, which had been stopped for a minute, resumed its way, passed through the crowd, threaded the Rue St. Honoré, turned into the Rue des Bons Enfants, and stopped before a low door.

  The door opened; two guards received Bonacieux in their arms from the officer who supported him. They carried him through an alley, up a flight of stairs, and deposited him in an antechamber.

  All these movements had been effected mechanically, as far as he was concerned. He had walked as one walks in a dream; he had a glimpse of objects as through a fog. His ears had perceived sounds without comprehending them; he might have been executed at that moment without his making a single gesture in his own defense or uttering a cry to implore mercy.

  He remained on the bench, with his back leaning against the wall and his hands hanging down, exactly on the spot where the guards placed him.

  On looking around him, however, as he could perceive no threatening object, as nothing indicated that he ran any real danger, as the bench was comfortably covered with a well-stuffed cushion, as the wall was ornamented with a beautiful Cordova leather, and as large red damask curtains, fastened back by gold clasps, floated before the window, he perceived by degrees that his fear was exaggerated, and he began to turn his head to the right and the left, upward and downward.

  At this movement, which nobody opposed, he resumed a lit tle courage, and ventured to draw up one leg and then the other. At length, with the help of his two hands he lifted himself from the bench, and found himself on his feet.

  At this moment an officer with a pleasant face opened a door, continued to exchange some words with a person in the next chamber, and then came up to the prisoner. “Is your name Bonacieux?” said he.

  “Yes, Monsieur Officer,” stammered the mercer, more dead than alive, “at your service.”

  “Come in,” said the officer.

  And he moved out of the way to let the mercer pass. The latter obeyed without reply, and entered the chamber, where he appeared to be expected.

  It was a large cabinet, close and stifling, with the walls furnished with arms offensive and defensive, and in which there was already a fire, although it was scarcely the end of the month of September. A square table, covered with books and papers, upon which was unrolled an immense plan of the city of La Rochelle, occupied the center of the room.

  Standing before the chimney was a man of middle height, of a haughty, proud mien; with piercing eyes, a large brow, and a thin face, which was made still longer by a royal (or imperial, as it is now called), surmounted by a pair of mustaches. Although this man was scarcely thirty-six or thirty-seven years of age, hair, mustaches, and royal, all began to be gray. This man, except a sword, had all the appearance of a soldier; and his buff boots, still slightly covered with dust, indicated that he had been on horseback in the course of the day.

  This man was Armand Jean Duplessis, Cardinal de Richelieu; not such as he is now represented—broken down like an old man, suffering like a martyr, his body bent, his voice failing, buried in a large armchair as in an anticipated tomb; no longer living but by the strength of his genius, and no longer maintaining the struggle with Europe but by the eternal application of his thoughts—but such as he really was at this period; that is to say, an active and gallant cavalier, already weak of body, but sustained by that moral power which made of him one of the most extraordinary men that ever lived, preparing, after having supported the Duc de Nevers in his duchy of Mantua, after having taken Nimes, Castres, and Uzes, to drive the English from the Isle of Re and lay siege to La Rochelle.

  At first sight, nothing denoted the cardinal; and it was impossible for those who did not know his face to guess in whose presence they were.

  The poor mercer remained standing at the door, while the eyes of the personage we have just described were fixed upon him, and appeared to wish to penetrate even into the depths of the past.

  “Is this that Bonacieux?” asked he, after a moment of silence.

  “Yes, monseigneur,” replied the officer.

  “That’s well. Give me those papers, and leave us.”

  The officer took from the table the papers pointed out, gave them to him who asked for them, bowed to the ground, and retired.

  Bonacieux recognized in these papers his interrogatories of the Bastille. From time to time the man by the chimney raised his eyes from the writings, and plunged them like poniards into the heart of the poor mercer.

  At the end of ten minutes of reading and ten seconds of examination, the cardinal was satisfied.

  “That head has never conspired,” murmured he, “but it matters not; we will see.”

  “You are accused of high treason,” said the cardinal, slowly.

  “So I have been told already, monseigneur,” cried Bonacieux, giving his interrogator the title he had heard the officer give him, “but I swear to you that I know nothing about it.”

  The cardinal repressed a smile.

  “You have conspired with your wife, with Madame de Chevreuse, and with my Lord Duke of Buckingham.”

  “Indeed, monseigneur,” responded the mercer, “I have heard her pronounce all those names.”

  “And on what occasion?”

  “She said that the Cardinal de Richelieu had drawn the Duke of Buckingham to Paris to ruin him and to ruin the queen.”

  “She said that?” cried the cardinal, with violence.

  “Yes, monseigneur, but I told her she was wrong to talk about such things; and that his Eminence was incapable—”

  “Hold your tongue! You are stupid,” replied the cardinal.

  “That’s exactly what my wife said, monseigneur.”

  “Do you know who carried off your wife?”

  “No, monseigneur.”

  “You have suspicions, nevertheless?”

  “Yes, monseigneur; but these suspicions appeared to be disagreeable to Monsieur the Commissary, and I no longer have them.”

  “Your wife has escaped. Did you know that?”

  “No, monseigneur. I learned it since I have been in prison, and that from the conversation of Monsieur the Commissary—an amiable man.”

  The cardinal repressed another smile.

  “Then you are ignorant of what has become of your wife since her flight.”

  “Absolutely, monseigneur; but she has most likely returned to the Louvre.”

  “At one o’clock this morning she had not returned.”

  “My God! what can have become of her, then?”

  “We shall know, be assured. Nothing is concealed from the cardinal; the cardinal knows everything.”

  “In that case, monseigneur, do you believe the cardinal will be so kind as to tell me what has become of my wife?”

  “Perhaps he may; but you must, in the first place, reveal to the cardinal all you know of your wife’s relations with Madame de Chevreuse.”

  “But, monseigneur, I know nothing about them; I have never see
n her.”

  “When you went to fetch your wife from the Louvre, did you always return directly home?”

  “Scarcely ever; she had business to transact with linen drapers, to whose houses I conducted her.”

  “And how many were there of these linen drapers?”

  “Two, monseigneur.”

  “And where did they live?”

  “One in Rue de Vaugirard, the other Rue de la Harpe.”

  “Did you go into these houses with her?”

  “Never, monseigneur; I waited at the door.”

  “And what excuse did she give you for entering all alone?”

  “She gave me none; she told me to wait, and I waited.”

  “You are a very complacent husband, my dear Monsieur Bonacieux,” said the cardinal.

  “He calls me his dear Monsieur,” said the mercer to himself. “Peste! matters are going all right.”

  “Should you know those doors again?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know the numbers?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are they?”

  “No. 25 in the Rue de Vaugirard; 75 in the Rue de la Harpe.”

  “That’s well,” said the cardinal.

  At these words he took up a silver bell, and rang it; the officer entered.

  “Go,” said he, in a subdued voice, “and find Rochefort. Tell him to come to me immediately, if he has returned.”

  “The count is here,” said the officer, “and requests to speak with your Eminence instantly.”

  “Let him come in, then; let him come in, then!” said the cardinal, quickly.

  The officer sprang out of the apartment with that alacrity which all the servants of the cardinal displayed in obeying him.

  “To your Eminence!” murmured Bonacieux, rolling his eyes round in astonishment.

  Five seconds had scarcely elapsed after the disappearance of the officer, when the door opened, and a new personage entered.

  “It is he!” cried Bonacieux.

  “He! what he?” asked the cardinal.

  “The man who abducted my wife.”

  The cardinal rang a second time. The officer reappeared.