Johannes Ewald - "The Death of Balder"

Daniel Defoe - "A Vindication of the Press"

Favell Lee Mortimer - "Far Off"

Surendranath Dasgupta - "A History of Indian Philosophy, Vol. 1"

Books: Book review: 'The Mercy Papers' and 'Downtown Owl'
Moreover Technologies - Premier purveyor of real-time news and RSS feeds from across the Web

Book Review: The Horror, the Horror
Ad -

How to live what Michael Pollan preaches
The Mercy Papers A Memoir of Three Weeks By Robin Romm 213 pages. Scribner. $22. The foundational condition of being human is that we're going to die. Almost as basic a truth is that we seem incapable of believing it. The collision of these inconsonant

A / B / C / D / E / F / G / H / I / J / K / L / M / N / O / P / R / S / T / U / V / W / Y / Z

The Forty Five Guardsmen written by Alexandre Dumas

A >> Alexandre Dumas >> The Forty Five Guardsmen




"Certainly I will, but I must know what part I am to play," said Remy,
repulsing his hand.

"First tell me is the lady the mistress of M. du Bouchage, or of his
brother?"

The blood mounted to Remy's face.

"Of neither," said he: "the lady upstairs has no lover."

"No lover! But then she is a wonder; morbleu! a woman who has no lover!
we have found the philosopher's stone."

"Then," said Remy, "what does M. le Duc d'Anjou want my mistress to do?"

"He wants her to come to Chateau-Thierry, where he is going at his
utmost speed."

"This is, upon my word, a passion very quickly conceived."

"That is like monseigneur."

"I only see one difficulty," said Remy.

"What is that?"

"That my mistress is about to embark for England."

"Diable! this, then, is where you must try to aid me."--"How?"

"By persuading her to go in an opposite direction."

"You do not know my mistress, monsieur; she is not easily persuaded.
Besides, even if she were persuaded to go to Chateau-Thierry instead of
England, do you think she would yield to the prince?"

"Why not?"

"She does not love the duke."

"Bah! not love a prince of the blood."

"But if Monseigneur the Duc d'Anjou suspects my mistress of loving M. du
Bouchage, or M. de Joyeuse, how did he come to think of carrying her off
from him she loved?"

"My good man," said Aurilly, "you have trivial ideas, and I fear we
shall never understand each other; I have preferred kindness to
violence, but if you force me to change my plans, well! I will change
them."

"What will you do?"

"I told you I had full powers from the duke to kill you and carry off
the lady."

"And you believe you could do it with impunity?"

"I believe all my master tells me to believe. Come, will you persuade
your mistress to come to France?"

"I will try, but I can answer for nothing."

"And when shall I have the answer?"

"I will go up at once and see what I can do."

"Well, go up; I will wait. But one last word; you know that your fortune
and life hang on your answer."

"I know it."

"That will do; I will go and get the horses ready."

"Do not be in too great a hurry."

"Bah! I am sure of the answer; no one is cruel to a prince."

"I fancied that happened sometimes."

"Yes, but very rarely."

While Remy went up, Aurilly proceeded to the stables without feeling any
doubt as to the result.

"Well!" said Diana, on seeing Remy.

"Well, madame, the duke has seen you."

"And--"

"And he says he loves you."

"Loves me! but you are mad, Remy."

"No; I tell you that he--that man--that wretch, Aurilly, told me so."

"But, then, he recognized me?"

"If he had, do you think that Aurilly would have dared to present
himself and talk to you of love in the prince's name? No, he did not
recognize you."

"Yes, you must be right, Remy. So many things have passed during six
years through that infernal brain, that he has forgotten me. Let us
follow this man."

"But this man will recognize you."

"Why should his memory be better than his master's?"

"Oh! it is his business to remember, while it is the duke's to forget.
How could he live if he did not forget? But Aurilly will not have
forgotten; he will recognize you, and will denounce you as an avenging
shade."

"Remy, I thought I told you I had a mask, and that you told me you had a
knife."

"It is true, madame; and I begin to think that God is assisting us to
punish the wicked." Then, calling Aurilly from the top of the staircase,
"Monsieur," said he.

"Well!" replied Aurilly.

"My mistress thanks M. du Bouchage for having provided thus for her
safety, and accepts with gratitude your obliging offer."

"It is well," said Aurilly, "the horses are ready."

"Come, madame, come," said Remy, offering his arm to Diana.

Aurilly waited at the bottom of the staircase, lantern in hand, all
anxiety to see the lady.

"Diable!" murmured he, "she has a mask. But between this and
Chateau-Thierry the silk cords will be worn out or cut."




CHAPTER LXXVI.

THE JOURNEY.


They set off. Aurilly affected the most perfect equality with Remy, and
showed to Diana the greatest respect. But this respect was very
interested. Indeed, to hold the stirrup of a woman when she mounts or
dismounts, to watch each of her movements with solicitude, to let slip
no occasion of picking up her glove, is the role either of a lover, a
servant, or a spy. In touching Diana's glove Aurilly saw her hand, in
clasping her cloak he peeped under her mask, and always did his utmost
to see that face which the duke had not been able to recognize, but
which he doubted not he should be able to. But Aurilly had to deal with
one as skillful as himself; Remy claimed to perform his ordinary
services to Diana, and seemed jealous of Aurilly, while Diana herself,
without appearing to have any suspicions, begged Aurilly not to
interfere with the services which her old attendant was accustomed to
render to her. Aurilly was then reduced to hoping for rain or sun to
make her remove her mask; but neither rain nor sun had any effect, and
whenever they stopped Diana took her meals in her own room. Aurilly
tried to look through the keyholes, but Diana always sat with her back
to the door. He tried to peep through the windows, but there were always
thick curtains drawn, or if none were there, cloaks were hung up to
supply their place. Neither questions, nor attempts at corruption,
succeeded with Remy, who always declared that his mistress's will was
his.

"But these precautions are, then, taken only on my account?" said
Aurilly.

"No, for everybody."

"But M. d'Anjou saw her; she was not hidden then."

"Pure chance; but it is just because he did see her that she is more
careful than ever."

Days passed on, and they were nearing their destination, but Aurilly's
curiosity had not been gratified. Already Picardy appeared to the eyes
of the travelers.

Aurilly began to lose patience, and the bad passions of his nature to
gain the ascendant. He began to suspect some secret under all this
mystery. One day he remained a little behind with Remy, and renewed his
attempts at seduction, which Remy repulsed as usual.

"But," said Aurilly, "some day or other I must see your mistress."

"Doubtless," said Remy; "but that will be when she likes, and not when
you like."

"But if I employ force."

"Try," said Remy, while a lightning glance, which he could not repress,
shot from his eyes.

Aurilly tried to laugh. "What a fool I am!" said he; "what does it
matter to me who she is? She is the same person whom the duke saw."

"Certainly."

"And whom he told me to bring to Chateau-Thierry."

"Yes."

"Well! that is all that is necessary. It is not I who am in love with
her, it is monseigneur; and provided that you do not seek to escape or
fly--"

"Do we appear to wish to do so?"

"No."

"And she so little desires to do so, that were you not here we should
continue our way to Chateau-Thierry; if the duke wishes to see us, we
wish also to see him."

"That is capital," said Aurilly. "Would your mistress like to rest here
a little while?" continued he, pointing to a hotel on the road.

"You know," said Remy, "that my mistress never stops but in towns."

"Well, I, who have made no such vow, will stop here a moment; ride on,
and I will follow."

Remy rejoined Diana.

"What was he saying?" asked she.

"He expressed his constant desire--"

"To see me?"

"Yes."

Diana smiled.

"He is furious," continued Remy.

"He shall not see me; of that I am determined."

"But once we are at Chateau-Thierry, must he not see your face?"

"What matter, if the discovery come too late? Besides, the duke did not
recognize me."

"No, but his follower will. All these mysteries which have so annoyed
Aurilly for eight days had not existed for the prince; they had not
excited his curiosity or awakened his souvenirs, while for a week
Aurilly has been seeking, imagining, suspecting. Your face will strike
on a memory fully awakened, and he will know you at once."

At this moment they were interrupted by Aurilly, who had taken a
cross-road and come suddenly upon them, in the hope of surprising some
words of their conversation. The sudden silence which followed his
arrival proved to him that he was in the way, and he therefore rode
behind them.

He instinctively feared something, as Remy had said, but his floating
conjectures never for an instant approached the truth. From this moment
his plans were fixed, and in order to execute them the better he changed
his conduct, and showed himself the most accommodating and joyous
companion possible during the rest of the day.

Remy remarked this change not without anxiety.

The next day they started early, and at noon were forced to stop to rest
the horses. At two o'clock they set off again, and went on without
stopping until four. A great forest, that of La Fere, was visible in the
distance; it had the somber and mysterious aspect of our northern
forests, so imposing: to southern natures, to whom, beyond all things,
heat and sunshine are necessary; but it was nothing to Remy and Diana,
who were accustomed to the thick woods of Anjou and Sologne. It might
have been about six o'clock in the evening when they entered the forest,
and after half an hour's journey the sun began to go down. A high wind
whirled about the leaves and carried them toward a lake, along the shore
of which the travelers were journeying. Diana rode in the middle,
Aurilly on the right, and Remy on the left. No other human being was
visible under the somber arches of the trees.

From the long extent of the road, one might have thought it one of those
enchanted forests, under whose shade nothing can live, had it not been
for the hoarse howling of the wolves waking up at the approach of night.
All at once Diana felt that her saddle, which had been put on by
Aurilly, was slipping. She called Remy, who jumped down, and began to
tighten the girths. At this moment Aurilly approached Diana, and while
she was occupied, cut the strings of silk which fastened her mask.
Before she had divined the movement, or had time to put up her hand,
Aurilly seized the mask and looked full at her. The eyes of these two
people met with a look so terrible, that no one could have said which
looked most pale and menacing. Aurilly let the mask and his dagger fall,
and clasping his hands, cried, "Heavens and earth! Madame de Monsoreau!"

"It is a name which you shall repeat no more," cried Remy, seizing him
by the girdle and dragging him from his horse. Both rolled on the ground
together, and Aurilly stretched out his hand to reach his dagger.

"No, Aurilly, no," said Remy, placing his knee on his breast.

"Le Haudoin!" cried Aurilly; "oh, I am a dead man!"

"That is not yet true, but will be in a moment," cried Remy; and drawing
his knife, he plunged the whole blade into the throat of the musician.

Diana, with haggard eyes, half turned on her saddle, and leaning on the
pommel, shuddering, but pitiless, had not turned her head away from this
terrible spectacle. However, when she saw the blood spurt out from the
wound, she fell from her horse as though she were dead.

Remy did not occupy himself with her at that terrible moment, but
searched Aurilly, took from him the two rouleaux of gold, then tied a
stone to the neck of the corpse, and threw it into the lake. He then
washed his hands in the water, took in his arms Diana, who was still
unconscious, and placed her again on her horse. That of Aurilly,
frightened by the howling of the wolves, which began to draw nearer, had
fled into the woods.

When Diana recovered herself, she and Remy, without exchanging a single
word, continued their route toward Chateau-Thierry.




CHAPTER LXXVII.

HOW KING HENRI III. DID NOT INVITE CRILLON TO BREAKFAST, AND HOW CHICOT
INVITED HIMSELF.


The day after the events that we have just related had taken place in
the forest of La Fere, the king of France left his bath at about nine in
the morning. His valet-de-chambre, after having rolled him in a blanket
of fine wool, and sponged him with that thick Persian wadding which
looks like the fleece of a sheep, had given him over to the barbers and
dressers, who in their turn gave place to the perfumers and courtiers.
When these last were gone, the king sent for his maitre d'hotel, and
ordered something more than his ordinary bouillon, as he felt hungry
that morning. This good news spread joy throughout the Louvre, and the
smell of the viands was already beginning to be perceptible, when
Crillon, colonel of the French guards, entered to take his majesty's
orders.

"Ma foi, my good Crillon," said the king, "watch as you please over my
safety, but do not force me to play the king. I am quite joyful and gay
this morning, and feel as if I weighed but an ounce, and could fly away.
I am hungry, Crillon; do you understand that, my friend?"

"I understand it very well, sire, for I am very hungry myself."

"Oh! you, Crillon," said the king, laughing, "are always hungry."

"Not always, sire; your majesty exaggerates--only three times a day."

"And I about once a year, when I receive good news."

"Harnibleu! it appears that you have received good news, sire? So much
the better, for they become every day more rare."

"Not at all, Crillon; but you know the proverb."

"Ah! yes--'no news are good news.' I do not trust to proverbs, and above
all to that one. You have no news from Navarre, then?"

"None--a proof that there is nothing to tell."

"And from Flanders?"

"Nothing."

"A proof that they are fighting. And from Paris?"

"Nothing."

"A proof that they are plotting."

"But, Crillon, I believe I am going to have a child, for the queen
dreamed so last night."

"Well! I am happy to hear that your majesty is hungry this morning.
Adieu, sire."

"Go, my good Crillon."

"Harnibleu! sire, since your majesty is so hungry, you ought to invite
me to breakfast with you."

"Why so, Crillon?"

"Because they say your majesty lives on air, and the air of the times is
very bad. Now I should have been happy to be able to say, 'These are all
pure calumnies; the king eats like every one else.'"

"No, Crillon, no; let me believe as they do. I do not wish to eat like a
simple mortal. Remember this, Crillon--a king ought always to remain
poetical, and only show himself in a noble position. Thus, for example,
do you remember Alexander?"

"What Alexander?"

"Alexander Magnus. Ah! you do not know Latin, I remember. Well, King
Alexander loved to bathe before his soldiers, because he was so well
made, handsome and plump that they compared him to Apollo and even to
Antinous."

"Oh! oh! sire, you would be devilishly in the wrong to bathe before
yours, for you are very thin, my poor king."

"Brave Crillon, go," said Henry, striking him on the shoulder; "you are
an excellent fellow, and do not flatter me; you are no courtier, my old
friend."

"That is why you do not invite me to breakfast," replied Crillon,
laughing good-humoredly, and taking his leave quite contentedly, for the
tap on the shoulder consoled him for not getting the breakfast.

When he was gone, the breakfast was laid at once. The maitre d'hotel had
surpassed himself.

A certain partridge soup, with a puree of truffles and chestnuts,
attracted the king's attention, after he had eaten some fine oysters.
Thus the ordinary broth, that faithful old friend of the king's,
implored vainly from its golden basin; it attracted no attention. The
king began to attack the partridge soup, and was at his fourth mouthful,
when a light step near him made the floor creak, and a well-known voice
behind him said sharply,

"A plate!"

The king turned. "Chicot!" cried he.

"Himself."

And Chicot, falling at once into his old habits, sat down in a chair,
took a plate and a fork, and began on the oysters, picking out the
finest, without saying a word.

"You here! you returned!" cried Henri.

"Hush!" said Chicot, with his mouth full; and he drew the soup toward
him.

"Stop, Chicot! that is my dish."

Chicot divided it equally, and gave the king back half. Then he poured
himself out some wine, passed from the soup to a pate made of tunny
fish, then to stuffed crab, swallowed as a finish the royal broth, then,
with a great sigh, said:

"I can eat no more."

"Par la mordieu! I hope not, Chicot."

"Ah! good-morning, my king. How are you? You seem to me very gay this
morning."

"Am I not, Chicot?"

"You have quite a color; is it your own?"

"Parbleu!"

"I compliment you on it."

"The fact is, I feel very well this morning."

"I am very glad of it. But have you no little tit-bits left for
breakfast?"

"Here are cherries preserved by the ladies of Montmartre."

"They are too sweet."

"Nuts stuffed with raisins."

"Bah! they have left the stones in the raisins."

"You are not content with anything."

"Well! really, on my word, everything degenerates, even cooking, and you
begin to live very badly at your court."

"Do they live better at that of the king of Navarre?"

"Well!--I do not say no."

"Then there must be great changes."

"Ah! you do not know how right you are."

"Tell me about your journey! that will amuse me."

"Willingly; that is what I came for. Where shall I begin?"

"At the beginning. How did you make your journey?"

"Oh! delightfully."

"And met with no disagreeable adventures--no bad company?"

"Oh! who would dream of annoying an ambassador of his Most Christian
Majesty? You calumniate your subjects, my son."

"I asked," said the king, flattered by the tranquillity that reigned in
his kingdom, "because you had no official character, and might have run
some risk."

"I tell you, Henriquet, that you have the most charming kingdom in the
world. Travelers are nourished gratis; they are sheltered for the love
of God; they walk on flowers; and as for the wheel ruts, they are
carpeted with velvet and fringed with gold. It is incredible, but true."

"Then you are content?"

"Enchanted."

"Yes, yes; my police is well organized."

"Marvelously; I must do them justice."

"And the road is safe?"

"As that of Paradise."

"Chicot, we are returning to Virgil."

"To what part?"

"To the Bucolics. 'O fortunatos nimium!'"

"Ah! very well; but why this exception in favor of plowmen?"

"Alas! because it is not the same in towns."

"The fact is, Henri, that the towns are the centers of corruption."

"Judge of it. You go 500 leagues without accident, while I go only to
Vincennes, three-fourths of a league, and narrowly escape assassination
by the way."

"Oh! bah!"

"I will tell you about it, my friend; I am having it written. Without my
Forty-five guardsmen I should have been a dead man."

"Truly! where did it take place?"

"You mean, where was it to have taken place?"

"Yes."

"At Bel-Esbat."

"Near the convent of our friend Gorenflot?"

"Just so."

"And how did he behave under the circumstances?"

"Wonderfully, as usual. Chicot, I do not know if he had heard any rumor;
but instead of snoring in bed, he was up in his balcony, while all his
convent kept the road."

"And he did nothing else?"

"Who?"

"Dom Modeste."

"He blessed me with a majesty peculiar to himself, Chicot."

"And his monks?"

"They cried 'Vive le Roi!' tremendously."

"And were they not armed?"

"They were completely armed, which was a wonderful piece of
thoughtfulness on the part of the worthy prior; and yet this man has
said nothing, and asked for nothing. He did not come the next day, like
D'Epernon, to search my pockets, crying, 'Sire, something for having
saved the king.'"

"Oh! as for that, he is incapable of it; besides, his hands would not go
into your pockets."

"Chicot, no jests about Dom Modeste; he is one of the greatest men of my
reign; and I declare that on the first opportunity I will give him a
bishopric."

"And you will do well, my king."

"Remark one thing, Chicot, that a great man from the ranks of the people
is complete; we gentlemen, you see, inherit in our blood certain vices
and virtues. Thus, the Valois are cunning and subtle, brave, but idle;
the Lorraines are ambitious, greedy, and intriguing; the Bourbons are
sensual, without ideas, force, or will. Look at Henri: when Nature, on
the contrary, draws a great man from among the people, like Gorenflot,
he is complete."

"You think so?"

"Yes; learned, modest, cunning, and brave, you could make of him what
you liked--minister, general, or pope."

"Pray stop, sire. If the brave man heard you he would burst his skin,
for, in spite of what you say, Dom Modeste is very vain."

"You are jealous, Chicot."

"I! Heaven forbid! Jealous!"

"I am but just; noble blood does not blind me. 'Stemmata quid faciunt?'"

"Bravo! and you say, then, Henri, that you were nearly assassinated?"

"Yes."

"By whom?"

"By the League, mordieu!"

"How does the League get on?"

"Just the same."

"Which means that it grows daily."

"Oh! political bodies never live which grow big too young. They are like
children, Chicot."

"Then you are content, my son?"

"Nearly so."

"You are happy?"

"Yes, Chicot, and I am very glad to see you return."

"'Habemus consulem facetum,' as Cato said."

"You bring good news, do you not?"

"I should think so."

"You keep me in suspense."

"Where shall I begin?"

"I have already said, from the beginning; but you always wander from the
point. You say that the journey was good?"

"You see I have returned whole."

"Yes; then let me hear of your arrival in Navarre. What was Henri doing
when you arrived?"

"Making love."

"To Margot?"

"Oh! no."

"It would have astonished me had it been so; he is always unfaithful to
his wife--the rascal! Unfaithful to a daughter of France! Luckily, she
pays him back. And when you arrived, what was the name of Margot's
rival?"

"Fosseuse."

"A Montmorency. Come, that is not so bad for a bear of Bearn. They spoke
here of a peasant, a gardener's daughter."

"Oh! that is very old."

"Then he is faithless to Margot?"

"As much as possible."

"And she is furious?"

"Enraged."

"And she revenges herself?"

"I believe so."

Henri rubbed his hands joyfully.

"What will she do?" cried he. "Will she move heaven and earth--bring
Spain on Navarre--Artois and Flanders on Spain? Will she call in her
little brother Henriquet against her husband Henri?"

"It is possible."

"You saw her?"

"Yes."

"Then they execrate each other?"

"I believe that in their hearts they do not adore each other."

"But in appearance?"

"They are the best friends in the world."

"Yes, but some fine morning some new love will embroil them completely."

"Well! this new love has come."

"Bah!"

"Yes, on my honor; but shall I tell you what I fear?"

"Yes."

"That this new love, instead of embroiling, will reconcile them."

"Then there is a new love, really?"

"Oh! mon Dieu! yes."

"Of Henri's?"

"Of Henri's."

"For whom?"

"You wish to know all, do you not?"

"Yes, Chicot; tell me all about it."

"Well, my son, then I must go back to the beginning."

"Go back, but be quick."

"You wrote a letter to the Bearnais?"

"Well?"

"And I read it."

"What do you think of it?"

"That if it was not delicate, at least it was cunning."

"It ought to have embroiled them?"

"Yes, if Henri and Margot had been an ordinary, commonplace couple."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that Henri is no fool."

"Oh!"

"And that he guessed."

"Guessed what?"

"That you wished to make him quarrel with his wife."

"That was clear."

"Yes; but what was less clear was your object in doing so."

"Ah! diable! the object--"

"Yes, this Bearnais thought your aim was to make him quarrel with his
wife, that you might not have to pay her dowry."

"Oh!"

"Mon Dieu, yes; that is what got into the head of that devil of a
Bearnais."

"Go on, Chicot," said the king, beginning to look annoyed.

"Well! scarcely had he guessed that, than he became what you look now,
sad and melancholy; so much so, that he hardly thought of Fosseuse."

"Bah!"

"Yes, really, and then he conceived that other love I told you of."

"But this man is a Turk--a Pagan. And what did Margot say?"

"This time, my son, you will be astonished. Margot was delighted."

"But what is the name of this new mistress?"

"Oh! she is a beautiful and strong person, capable of defending herself
if she is attacked."

"And did she defend herself?"

"Oh, yes!"

"So that Henri was repulsed?"

"At first."

"And afterward?"

"Oh! Henri is persevering, and he returned to the charge."

"So that?"

"So that he won her."

"How?"

"By petards."

"What the devil are you talking about?"

"The truth."

"Petards! Who is this belle that is taken with petards?"

"It is Mademoiselle Cahors."

"Mademoiselle Cahors!"

"Yes, a large and beautiful girl, who has one foot on the Got, and the
other on the hills, and whose guardian is, or rather was, M. de Vesin, a
brave gentleman of my acquaintance."

"Mordieu!" cried Henri, furiously, "my city! he has taken my city."

"Why, you see, Henri, you would not give it to him, and he was obliged
to take it. But, apropos, here is a letter that he asked me to deliver
into your own hand."

And Chicot, drawing out a letter, gave it to the king. It was the one
Henri had written after taking Cahors, and it finished with these words:
"Quod mihi dixisti profuit multum, cognosco meos devotos; nosce tuos;
Chicotus caetera expediet."