The Three Musketeers

“And now,” said Athos, “if you have no further business with me, dismiss me. Your M. Bonancieux is very tiresome.”

“Take the prisoners back to their dungeons,” said the commissary, pointing to Athos and Bonancieux, “and guard them more strictly than ever.”

“Nevertheless,” said Athos, with his usual tranquillity, “your business is with M. d’Artagnan; I do not well see how I can supply his place!”

“Do what I have ordered,” cried the commissary; “and the most solitary confinement—do you hear?”

The two followed the guards, Athos shrugging his shoulders, and M. Bonancieux uttering lamentations which might have softened the heart of a tiger.

They took the mercer into the same dungeon where he had passed the night, and left him there throughout the whole day. Hour after hour did poor Bonancieux weep like a very mercer; he was not at all a man of warlike soul, as he himself told us.

About nine o’clock in the evening, just as he had made up his mind to go to bed, he heard steps in his corridor. These steps approached his dungeon, the door opened, and the guards appeared.

“Follow me,” said a sergeant who commanded the guards.

“Follow you!” cried Bonancieux, “follow you at this time of night! And where? my God!”

“Where we have orders to conduct you.”

“But that is no answer.”

“It is, nevertheless, the only answer you will get.”

“O Lord! O Lord!” muttered the poor mercer, “now I am lost!”

He followed, mechanically, and without resistance.

He went down the same corridor as before, crossed a first court, then a second floor; and then, at the entrance gate, he found a carriage surrounded by four horse guards. They made him enter this carriage; the sergeant placed himself at his side; the door was locked, and they both found themselves in a moving prison.

The carriage proceeded slowly, like a funeral coach. Through the padlocked bars the prisoner could only see the horses and the pavement. But, like a true Parisian as he was, Bonancieux recognised each street by its corners, its lamps, and its signs. At the moment they reached St. Paul, where the criminals of the Bastile were executed, he nearly fainted, and crossed himself twice. He thought the carriage would have stopped there; but it went on, nevertheless. Farther on, he was seized with great fear: it was in skirting the cemetery of St. Jean, where the state criminals were buried. One thing alone encouraged him, which was, that before burying them, one generally cut off their heads; and his head was yet upon his shoulders. But when the carriage took the road to La Grève, and he perceived the painted roof of the Hotel de Ville, and saw that the carriage went under its colonnade, he thought it was all over with him, and wished to confess himself to the sergeant; and, on the refusal of the latter, uttered such piteous cries, that the sergeant declared that if he continued to deafen him so, he would put a gag on him. This threat reassured him a little: if they meant to execute him at the Grève, it was scarcely worth while to gag him, as they had nearly reached the place of execution. In fact, the carriage crossed this fatal place without stopping. There was only the Croix du Trahoir, then, to fear; and the carriage took the exact road to it.

This time there was no further room for doubt. It was at the Croix du Trahoir that inferior criminals were executed. Bonancieux had flattered himself, by considering that he was worthy of St. Paul, or the place de Grève. It was at the Croix du Trahoir that his journey and his destiny would end. He could not yet see this unhappy cross, but he felt it, as it were, loom before him. When he was only about twenty paces from it, he heard a noise, and the carriage stopped. This was more than poor Bonancieux could bear: already crushed by the successive emotions he had experienced, he uttered a feeble cry, or rather groan, which might have been taken for the last sigh of a dying man, and fainted.

14 The Man of Meung

THE MOB THAT stopped the way was produced, not by the expectation of seeing a man hanged, but by the contemplation of man who was already hanging. After a moment’s hindrance, the carriage proceeded on its way, passed through the crowd, went along the Rue St. Honore, and turning at the Rue des Bons Enfants, stopped at a low doorway.

When the door opened, two guards, assisted by the sergeant, received Bonancieux in their arms, and pushed him into a court; they then made him ascend a staircase, and placed him in an antechamber. All these operations were performed nearly mechanically, as far as he was concerned. He had walked as in a dream, he had seen things as through a mist; he had heard without understanding; and they might have executed him then without his making the slightest resistance, or uttering an appeal for mercy.

He remained passive on the bench, with his back resting against the wall, and his arms hanging down, on the very spot where his guards had placed him.

And yet, as, in looking around him, he saw nothing threatening, as no real danger was indicated, as the bench was comfortably stuffed, as the wall was covered with beautiful cordovan leather, and as long curtains of red damask, held by gilt brackets, hung before the windows, he became by degrees aware that his fears were exaggerated, and began to move his head from right to left, and vertically. At this motion, which no one opposed, he resumed a little courage, ventured to draw up one leg, and then the other; and, at last, supporting himself upon his hands, he raised himself on the bench, and found himself on his feet.

At this moment an officer of pleasant appearance opened a door, exchanged a few words with some person in the next room, and then, turning towards the prisoner, said—

“Is it you who are called Bonancieux?”

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

“Enter!”

The officer bade the mercer precede him; and the latter, obeying without reply, entered a room where he appeared to be expected.

It was a large cabinet, the walls of which were furnished with offensive and defensive weapons—a close and suffocating room, in which there was already a fire, although it was scarcely yet the end of September. A square table, loaded with books and papers, and on which there was unrolled an immense plan of the town of Rochelle, occupied the middle of the apartment. In front of the chimney-piece there stood a man of middle height, with a proud and haughty air, piercing eyes, a large forehead, and an emaciated countenance, which was yet further elongated by an imperial, surmounted by a pair of moustaches.

Although this man was scarcely thirty-six or thirty-seven years old, both imperial and moustaches were beginning to grow gray. His appearance, except that he wore no sword, was military; and his buff leather boots, which were yet slightly covered with dust, pointed out that he had been on horseback during the day.

This individual was Armand-Jean Duplessis, Cardinal de Richelieu; not as he is represented—broken down like an old man, suffering like a martyr, his body shattered, his voice extinguished, buried in an enormous easy-chair, no longer living but by the power of his genius, and no longer supporting the struggle against Europe but by the eternal energy of his extraordinary mind—but such as he really was at this period; that is, a skilful and gallant cavalier, already feeble in body, but upheld by that moral force which made him one of the most unparalleled of mankind, and now preparing, after sustaining the Duc de Nevers in his duchy of Mantua, and taking Nismes, Castres, and Elzes, to drive the English from the Isle of Rhé, and to undertake the siege of La Rochelle.

At first sight, nothing denoted that it was the cardinal, and it was impossible for those who were unacquainted with his appearance to guess in whose presence they were.

The poor mercer remained standing at the door, whilst the eyes of the person we have been describing fixed themselves upon him as if they would penetrate his most secret thoughts.

“Is that this Bonancieux?” he demanded, after a moment’s pause.

“Yes, my lord!” replied the officer.

“Very well; give me those papers, and leave us.”

The officer took the papers indicated, gave them to him who asked for them, bowed to the very ground, and left the room.

In these papers Bonancieux recognised his examinations at the Bastile. From time to time the man by the chimney-piece lifted his eyes from the papers, and plunged them, like two poniards, into the very heart of the poor mercer.

At the end of ten minutes’ reading, and ten seconds’ scrutiny of Bonancieux, he had made up his mind.

“That head has never conspired,” murmured the cardinal; “but never mind, let us see.” Then he said slowly, “You are accused of high treason.”

“That is what they have already told me, my lord!” said Bonancieux, giving his interrogator the same title that he had heard the officer give him; “but I give you my oath, that I knew nothing about it.”

The cardinal suppressed a smile.

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

“I admit, my lord,” replied the mercer, “I have heard all those names mentioned by her.”

“And on what occasion?”

“She said that the Cardinal de Richelieu had enticed the Duke of Buckingham to Paris, to destroy him and the queen.”

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

“Yes, my lord; but I told her that she was wrong in saying such a thing, and that his eminence was incapable———”

“Hold your tongue—you are a fool!” replied the cardinal.

“That is exactly what my wife said to me, my lord.”

“Do you know who carried off your wife?”

“No, my lord.”

“But you had some suspicions?”

“Yes, my lord; but as these suspicions appeared to displease the commissary, I have them no longer.”

“Your wife has escaped: did you know that?”

“Not at the time, my lord; I learned it, since I have been in prison, from the commissary, who is a most amiable man.”

The cardinal suppressed another smile.

“Then you do not know what has become of your wife since her escape?”

“Not positively, my lord; but she has probably returned to the Louvre.”

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

“Ah! good God! but what can have become of her?”

“Have no fear—it will soon be known; nothing escapes the cardinal; the cardinal knows everything.”

“In that case, my lord, do you believe that the cardinal will tell me what has become of my wife?”

“Perhaps so; but it is necessary, first, that you should tell me all you know in relation to the connection of your wife with Madame de Chevreuse.”

“But, my lord, I know nothing about it; I never saw her.”

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

“Scarcely ever. She had business to transact with the queen’s drapers, to whom I convoyed her.”

“And how many linen-drapers were there?”

“Two, my lord.”

“Where do they live?”

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

“Did you accompany your wife into these houses?”

“Never, my lord. I always waited for her at the door.”

“And what excuse did she make for entering alone?”

“None: she told me to wait, and I waited.”

“You are a most accommodating husband, my dear M. Bonancieux,” said the cardinal.

“He has called me ‘my dear monsieur,’” said the mercer to himself. “‘Pon my faith, things are taking a good turn.”

“Should you know those doors again?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know the numbers?”

“Yes.”

“What are they?”

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

“Good!” said the cardinal; and, taking a silver bell, he rang it.

“Go,” said he in a low voice, to the officer who entered—“go and find Rochefort, and tell him to come here directly, if he is within.”

“The count is already here,” said the officer, “and requests an immediate audience of your eminence.”

“Your eminence!” muttered Bonancieux, who knew that such was the title ordinarily given to the cardinal; “your eminence!”

“Let him come in, then, let him come in!” said Richelieu eagerly.

The officer hurried out of the room with that rapidity with which the cardinal was generally obeyed by his followers.

“Your eminence!” again muttered Bonancieux, rolling his eyes in astonishment.

Two seconds had scarcely elapsed after the officer left the room before the door opened again, and another person entered.

“It is he!” exclaimed Bonancieux.

“Who is he?” demanded the cardinal.

“He who ran away with my wife.”

The cardinal rang a second time, and the officer reappeared.

“Put this man into the hands of the two guards, and let him wait till I send for him.”

“No, my lord, no, it is not he!” exclaimed Bonancieux; “no, I was mistaken; it is another person, not at all like him. The gentleman is an honest man.”

“Take away that simpleton!” said the cardinal.

The officer took him by the arm, and led him to the antechamber, where he was met by the two guards.

The person who had last entered impatiently followed Bonancieux with his eyes till he was gone, and, when the door was closed behind him—

“They have met,” he said, eagerly approaching the cardinal.

“Who?” demanded the cardinal.

“Those two.”

“The queen and the duke!” cried the cardinal.

“Yes.”

“And where?”

“At the Louvre!”

“Are you sure?”

“Perfectly sure!”

“Who told you of it?”

“Madame de Lannoy, who is entirely devoted to your eminence, as you well know!”

“Why did she not tell you sooner?”

“Either by chance, or by mistrust, the queen made Madame de Surgis sleep in her room, and kept it throughout the day.”

“Very well; we have been beaten; let us try to have our revenge.”

“Be assured that I will assist your eminence with all my soul.”

“How did this happen?”

“At half-past twelve the queen was with her women.”

“Where?”

“In her bed-chamber, where a pocket-handkerchief was brought her from her seamstress.”

“Well?”

“The queen immediately showed great emotion; and grew pale, under her rouge.”

“Well! what then?”

“Nevertheless, she arose; and, in an agitated voice said, ‘ladies, wait ten minutes for me; I will return.’ Then, opening the door of her alcove, she went out.”

“Why did not Madame de Lannoy come and tell you directly?”

“There was no certainty about the matter; besides, the queen had said, ‘ladies, wait for me.’ And Madame de Lannoy dared not disobey her majesty.”

“And how long did the queen remain absent from her room?”

“Three-quarters of an hour.”

“Did none of her women accompany her?”

“Only Donna Estefana.”

“And she returned?”

“Yes, but only to take a small rosewood casket, bearing her initials, with which she went out again directly.”

“And when she came back, finally, did she bring the casket with her?”

“No!”

“Does Madame de Lannoy know what the casket contained?”

“Yes! the diamond studs which his majesty presented to the queen.”

“And she came back without the casket?”

“Yes.”

“Then the opinion of Madame de Lannoy is, that she gave this casket to Buckingham?”

“She is sure of it.”

“How so?”

“During the day, Madame de Lannoy, in her office of tirewoman to the queen, looked for this casket, appeared uneasy at not finding it, and ended by inquiring for it of the queen.”

“And then the queen———”

“The queen blushed deeply, and answered that, having the evening before broken one of the studs, she had sent it to her jeweller’s to be repaired.”

“You must go there, and ascertain whether that is true, or not.”

“I have been.”

“Well, and the goldsmith———?”

“The goldsmith has heard nothing about it.”

“Good! good! Rochefort, all is not lost, and perhaps—perhaps all is for the best!”

“The fact is, that I have no doubt but what the genius of your eminence———”

“May repair the errors of my agent! Is that what you mean?”

“It was just what I was about to say, if your eminence had permitted me to finish the sentence.”

“Now, do you know where the Duchesse de Chevreuse and the Duke of Buckingham concealed themselves?”

“No, my lord; my agents have no positive information upon that point.”

“I know it myself, though.”

“You! my lord?”

“Yes, or at least I have no doubt of it. They lived, the one in the Rue Vaugirard, at No. 25, and the other in the Rue de la Harpe, No. 75.”

“Would your eminence wish me to arrest them both?”

“It is too late; they will be gone.”

“Never mind; there is no harm in trying!”

“Take ten of my guards, and ransack the two houses.”

“It shall be done, my lord!”

So saying, Rochefort rushed from the room.

When the cardinal was left alone, he remained a moment in thought, and then rang a third time.

The officer who had come before appeared again.

“Bring in the prisoner,” said the cardinal.

“Master Bonancieux was again brought in, and, at a sign from the cardinal, the officer withdrew.

“You have deceived me,” said the cardinal, with great severity.

“I!” cried Bonancieux; “I deceive your eminence!”

“When your wife went to the Rue Vaugirard, and the Rue de la Harpe, she did not go to linen-drapers.”

“Good God! To whom did she go, then?”

“She went to see the Duchesse de Chevreuse, and the Duke of Buckingham.”

“Yes!” said Bonancieux, with a flash of recollection; “yes, exactly so; your eminence is right. I often told my wife that it was astonishing that linen-drapers should live in such houses; in houses which had no signs; and every time I said so, my wife began to laugh. Ah! my lord!” he continued, throwing himself at the feet of his eminence, “it is plain that you are the cardinal, the great cardinal—the man of genius, whom all the world reveres!”

The cardinal, small as was the triumph to be achieved over a being so vulgar as was Bonancieux, did not the less enjoy it for a moment. Then, as if a new idea struck him, he smiled, and, stretching out his hand to the mercer—

“Rise, my friend,” said he, “you are a worthy fellow.”

“The cardinal has taken my hand! I have touched the hand of the great man!” exclaimed Bonancieux; “the great man has called me his friend!”

“Yes, my friend, yes,” said the cardinal, in that paternal tone which he was sometimes able to assume, but which only deceived those who did not know him; “and as you have been unjustly suspected, we must make you some amends. Here, take this bag of a hundred pistoles, and forgive me.”

“I forgive you, my lord!” said Bonancieux, hesitating to take the bag, from a fear that this supposed gift was only a jest. “But you were quite at liberty to have me arrested; you are quite at liberty to send me to the torture; you are quite at liberty to hang me; you are the master, and I should not have the smallest word to say against it. Forgive you, my lord! But you cannot mean that!”

“Ah! my dear M. Bonancieux, you are very generous; I see it, and I thank you. But you must take this bag, and then you will go away not very discontented—will you?”

“I go away perfectly enchanted, my lord!”

“Adieu, then; or, rather, au revoir hair; for I hope that we shall see each other again.”

“As often as my lord may please; I am at your eminence’s command.”

“It shall be often, depend upon it; for I have found your conversation quite charming.”

“Oh! my lord!”

“Farewell, till our next meeting, M. Bonancieux—till our next meeting.”

Bonancieux, at a sign from the cardinal’s hand, bowed to the very ground, and then backed himself out of the room. When he was in the anteroom, the cardinal heard him, in his enthusiasm, crying out, at the top of his voice:

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