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The Forty Five Guardsmen written by Alexandre Dumas

A >> Alexandre Dumas >> The Forty Five Guardsmen




"What do you mean, Henri?"

The young man smiled. "I mean, brother," said he, "that I have often
thought I loved before, and that all women, until now, have been for
me--women to whom I might offer my love."

"Oh! and what is this one?" said Anne, trying to recover his gayety,
which, in spite of himself, had been a little disturbed by his brother's
confidence.

"My brother," said Henri, seizing his hand in a fervent grasp, "as truly
as I live, I know not if she be a creature of this world or not."

"Holy Fathers! you would make me afraid, if a Joyeuse could know fear.
However, as she walks, weeps, and gives kisses, it seems to me to augur
well. But finish."

"There is little more. I followed her, and she did not try to escape or
lead me astray; she never seemed to think of it."

"Well, and where does she live?"

"By the side of the Bastille, Rue de Lesdiguieres. At the door, the
servant turned and saw me."

"You asked to speak to him?"

"You will think it ridiculous, but I dared not."

"You entered the house, then?"

"No, brother."

"Really, Henri, I am tempted to disown you this evening. But you
returned the next day?"

"Yes, but uselessly, and equally so to La Gypecienne."

"She had disappeared?"

"Like a shadow."

"But you inquired?"

"The street has few inhabitants, and no one knew her. I watched for the
servant, but he also had disappeared; however, a light which shone every
evening through the Venetian blinds consoled me by the knowledge that
she was still there. At last this disappeared; she had quitted the Rue
de Lesdiguieres, and no one knew where she had gone."

"But you found her again?"

"Chance did it. Listen: it is really strange. I was going along the Rue
de Bussy, a fortnight ago, about midnight; you know how strict the
regulations are about fire; well, I saw, not only light in the windows
of a house, but a real fire, which had broken out in the second story. I
knocked at the door, and a man appeared at the window. 'You have fire in
your house!' I cried. 'Silence! I beg; I am occupied in putting it out.'
'Shall I call the watch?' I asked. 'No! in Heaven's name, call no one!'
'But can I help you?' 'Will you? I shall be very grateful,' and he threw
me the key out of the window.

"I mounted the stairs rapidly, and entered the room where the fire was
burning; it was used as a chemist's laboratory, and in making I know not
what experiments, an inflammable liquid had been spilled, which had
ignited the floor. When I entered, the fire was almost got under. I
looked at the man; a dreadful scar disfigured his cheek, and another his
forehead; the rest of his face was hidden by a thick beard. 'I thank
you, monsieur,' said he; 'but you see all is finished now; if you are as
gallant a man as you seem, have the goodness to retire, for my mistress
may return at any moment, and will be angry if she sees a stranger
here.'

"The sound of his voice struck me instantly. I was about to cry, 'You
are the man of La Gypecienne--of the Rue de Lesdiguieres!' for you
remember that I had not seen his face before, but only heard his voice,
when suddenly a door opened, and a woman entered. 'What is the matter,
Remy, and why this noise?' she asked. Oh! my brother, it was she! more
beautiful than ever, by the dying light of the fire. It was she!--the
woman whose memory had ever lived in my heart. At the cry which I
uttered the servant looked narrowly at me. 'Thanks, monsieur,' said he,
again; 'you see the fire is out; go, I beg of you.'

"'My friend,' said I, 'you dismiss me very rudely.' 'Madame,' said he,
'it is he.' 'Who?' 'The young man we met in the garden, and who followed
us home.' She turned toward me and said, 'Monsieur, I beg of you to go.'
I hesitated; I wished to speak, but my words failed me. I remained
motionless and mute, gazing at her. 'Take care, monsieur,' said the
servant, sadly; 'you will force her to fly again.' 'Heaven forbid!'
cried I; 'but how do I offend you, madame?' She did not reply;
insensible, mute, and cold, as though she had not heard me, she turned,
and I saw her disappear gradually in the shade."

"And is that all?"

"All; the servant led me to the door, saying, 'Forget, monsieur, I beg
of you.' I fled, bewildered and half crazy, and since then I have gone
every evening to this street, and, concealed in the angle of the
opposite house, under the shade of a little balcony, I see, once in ten
times, a light in her room: that is my life, my happiness."

"What happiness!"

"Alas! I should lose this, if I tried for more."

"But in acting thus, you lose all the amusements of the world."

"My brother," said Henri, with a sad smile, "I am happy thus."

"Not so, mordieu! One monk in a family is enough."

"No railleries, brother."

"But let me say one thing!"

"What is it?"

"That you have been taken in like a schoolboy."

"I am not taken in; I only gave way to a power stronger than mine. When
a current carries you away, you cannot fight against it."

"But if it lead to an abyss?"

"You must be swallowed up!"

"Do you think so?"

"Yes!"

"I do not: and in your place--"

"What would you have done?"

"Enough, certainly, to have learned her name and--"

"Anne, you don't know her."

"No, but I know you, Henri. You had 50,000 crowns that I gave you out of
the last 100,000 the king gave to me."

"They are still in my chest, Anne; I have not touched one of them."

"Mordieu! If they were not there, you would be in a different position."

"Oh! my brother!"

"Certainly. An ordinary servant may be bought for ten crowns, a good
one for 100, an excellent one for 1,000, and a marvel for 3,000. Let us
see, then. Suppose this man to be the phoenix of all servants--the beau
ideal of fidelity, yet, by the pope! for 20,000 crowns you will buy him.
There would then remain 30,000 crowns for the phoenix of women, and all
would be settled."

"Anne!" sighed Henri, "there are people who cannot be bought; there are
hearts that the king is not rich enough to purchase."

"Well! perhaps so; but hearts are sometimes given. What have you done to
win that of the beautiful statue?"

"I believe, Anne, that I have done all I could."

"Really, Comte du Bouchage, you are mad. You see a woman, sad, solitary,
and melancholy, and you become more sad, more recluse, and more
melancholy than she. She is alone--keep her company; she is sad--be gay;
she regrets--console her, and replace him she regrets."

"Impossible! brother."

"Have you tried? Are you in love, or are you not?"

"I have no words to express how much!"

"Well! I see no reason to despair."

"I have no hope."

"At what time do you see her?"

"I have told you that I do not see her."--"Never?"--"Never!"

"Not even at her window?"

"Not even at her window!"

"We must put an end to that. Do you think she has a lover?"

"I have never seen any one enter her house, except the Remy of whom I
spoke to you."

"Take the house opposite."

"It may not be to let."

"Bah! offer double the rent!"

"But if she sees me there, she will disappear as before."

"You shall see her this evening."

"I!"

"Yes! Be under her balcony at eight o'clock."

"I am always there."

"Well, give me the address."

"Between the Porte Bussy and the Hotel St. Denis, near the corner of the
Rue des Augustins, and a few steps from a large inn, having for a sign,
'The Sword of the Brave Chevalier.'"

"Very well, then; this evening at eight o'clock."

"But what do you intend to do?"

"You shall see: meanwhile, go home; put on your richest dress, and use
your finest perfume, and I hope that you will enter the house to-night."

"May you be a true prophet, brother!"

"Well! I leave you for the present, for my lady-love waits for me: and I
confess, that after your account, I prefer her to yours. Adieu! Henri,
till the evening."

The brothers then pressed each other's hands, and separated.




CHAPTER VII.

"THE SWORD OF THE BRAVE CHEVALIER."


During the conversation we have just related, night had begun to fall,
enveloping the city with its damp mantle of fog.

Salcede dead, all the spectators were ready to leave the Place de Greve,
and the streets were filled with people, hurrying toward their homes.
Near the Porte Bussy, where we must now transport our readers, to follow
some of their acquaintances, and to make new ones, a hum, like that in a
bee-hive at sunset, was heard proceeding from a house tinted rose color,
and ornamented with blue and white pointings, which was known by the
sign of "The Sword of the Brave Chevalier," and which was an immense
inn, recently built in this new quarter. This house was decorated to
suit all tastes. On the entablature was painted a representation of a
combat between an archangel and a dragon breathing flame and smoke, and
in which the artist, animated by sentiments at once heroic and pious,
had depicted in the hands of "the brave chevalier," not a sword, but an
immense cross, with which he hacked in pieces the unlucky dragon, of
which the bleeding pieces were seen lying on the ground. At the bottom
of the picture crowds of spectators were represented raising their arms
to heaven, while from above, angels were extending over the chevalier
laurels and palms. Then, as if to prove that he could paint in every
style, the artist had grouped around gourds, grapes, a snail on a rose,
and two rabbits, one white and the other gray.

Assuredly the proprietor must have been difficult to please, if he were
not satisfied, for the artist had filled every inch of space--there was
scarcely room to have added a caterpillar. In spite, however, of this
attractive exterior, the hotel did not prosper--it was never more than
half full, though it was large and comfortable. Unfortunately, from its
proximity to the Pre-aux-Clercs, it was frequented by so many persons
either going or ready to fight, that those more peaceably disposed
avoided it. Indeed, the cupids with which the interior was decorated had
been ornamented with mustaches in charcoal by the habitues; and Dame
Fournichon, the landlady, always affirmed that the sign had brought them
ill-luck, and that had her wishes been attended to, and the painting
represented more pleasing things, such as the rose-tree of love
surrounded by flaming hearts, all tender couples would have flocked to
them.

M. Fournichon, however, stuck to his sign, and replied that he preferred
fighting men, and that one of them drank as much as six lovers.

About a month before the execution of Salcede, the host and hostess, all
of whose rooms were then empty, were looking out of the window, sadly,
and were watching the exercises of some soldiery on the Pre-aux-Clercs,
when they saw an officer, followed by a single soldier, advancing toward
their hotel. He was about to pass, when the host called out loudly--"Oh!
wife, what a beautiful horse!"

Madame Fournichon replied in an equally audible voice, "And what a
handsome cavalier!"

The officer, who did not appear insensible to flattery, raised his head
and looked first at the host and hostess and then at the hotel.
Fournichon ran rapidly downstairs and appeared at the door.

"Is the house empty?" asked the officer.

"Yes, monsieur; just at present," replied the host, humiliated; "but it
is not usually so."

However, Dame Fournichon, like most women, was more clear-sighted than
her husband, and called out, "If monsieur desires solitude, he will find
it here."

"Yes, my good woman, that is what I desire, at present," said the
officer, who dismounted, threw the bridle to the soldier, and entered
the hotel.

He was a man of about thirty-five years of age, but he did not look more
than twenty-eight, so carefully was he dressed. He was tall, with a fine
countenance and a distinguished air.

"Ah! good!" said he, "a large room and not a single guest. But there
must be something," he added, "either in your house or conduct that
keeps people away."

"Neither, monsieur," replied Madame Fournichon; "only the place is new,
and we choose our customers."

"Oh! very well."

"For example," continued she, "for a person like your lordship, we would
send away a dozen."

"Thanks, my kind hostess."

"Will monsieur taste the wine?" asked M. Fournichon.

"Will monsieur visit the rooms?" added his wife.

"Both, if you please."

Fournichon descended to the cellar.

"How many people can you lodge here?" asked the captain of the hostess.

"Thirty."

"That is not enough."

"Why so, monsieur?"

"I had a project--but we will speak of it no more."

"Ah! monsieur, you will find nothing larger, except the Louvre itself."

"Well; you can lodge thirty people?"

"Yes, doubtless."

"But for a day?"

"Oh! for a day, forty, or even forty-five."

"Without making a commotion outside?"--"We have often eighty soldiers
here, on Sundays."

"And no crowd before the house--no spying by the neighbors?"

"Mon Dieu! no! our nearest neighbors are a worthy bourgeois, who meddles
with no one, and a lady who lives so retired, that although she has been
here for three weeks, I have not seen her."

"That will do excellently."

"So much the better."

"And in a month from to-day--"

"That will be the 26th of October."

"Precisely. Well, on that day I hire your inn."--"The whole of it?"

"Yes, the whole. I wish to give a surprise to some countrymen,
officers--or at least--soldiers: they will be told to come here."

"But if it be a surprise--"

"Oh! if you are curious, or indiscreet--"

"No, no, monsieur," cried she.

M. Fournichon, who had heard what had passed, added, "Monsieur, you
shall be master here; and all your friends will be welcome."

"I did not say my friends, I said countrymen," replied the officer,
haughtily.

"Yes, monsieur, it was my mistake."

"You will give them supper."

"Certainly."

"If necessary, they will sleep here."

"Yes, monsieur."

"In a word, give them all they want, and ask no questions."

"Very well, monsieur."

"Here are thirty livres in advance."

"Well, monsieur, these gentlemen shall be treated like princes; will you
assure yourself by tasting the wine?"

"Thank you, I never drink."

"But, monsieur, how shall I know these gentlemen?"

"That is true; parfandious! I forgot. Give me paper, light, and wax."

When they were brought, the captain made a seal on the paper with a ring
he had on his finger. "Do you see this figure?" said he.

"A beautiful woman."

"Yes; a Cleopatra. Well, each of these men will present a similar one,
on which you will receive him. You will have further orders afterward."

The captain then descended the stall's and rode off, leaving the
Fournichons delighted with their thirty livres in advance.

"Decidedly," said the host, "the sign has brought us good fortune."




CHAPTER VIII.

THE GASCON.


We dare not affirm that Dame Fournichon was as discreet as she had
promised to be, for she interrogated the first soldier whom she saw pass
as to the name of the captain who had conducted the review. The soldier,
more cautious than she, asked her why she wished to know.

"Because he has just been here," she replied, "and one likes to know to
whom one has been talking."

The soldier laughed. "The captain who conducted the review would not
have entered this hotel," said he.

"Why not; is he too great for that?"

"Perhaps so."

"Well, but it is not for himself that he wanted the hotel."

"For whom then?"

"For his friends."

"He would not lodge his friends here, I am sure."

"Peste! why, who can he be, then?"

"Well, my good woman, he who conducted the review is simply Monsieur le
Duc Nogaret de Lavalette d'Epernon, peer of France, and colonel-general
of infantry. What do you say to that?"

"That if it was he, he did me great honor."

"Did you hear him say 'parfandious'?"

"Oh! yes."

We may now judge if the 26th of October was impatiently expected. On the
evening of the 25th a man entered, bearing a heavy bag, which he placed
on Fournichon's table.

"It is the price of the repast ordered for to-morrow," said he.

"At how much a head?"

"At six livres."

"Will they have only one meal here?"

"That is all."

"Has the captain found them a lodging, then?"

"It appears so," said the messenger, who went, and declined to answer
any more questions.

At last the much-desired day arrived; half-past twelve had just struck
when some cavaliers stopped at the door of the hotel. One, who appeared
to be their chief, came with two well-mounted lackeys. Each of them
produced the seal of Cleopatra's head, and were received with all sorts
of courtesies, especially the young man with the lackeys. Nevertheless,
excepting this young man, they all seemed timid and preoccupied. Most of
them dispersed, however, until supper-time, either to swell the crowd at
the execution of Salcede, or to see Paris.

About two o'clock, others began to arrive. One man came in alone,
without a hat, a cane in his hand, and swearing at Paris, where he said
the thieves were so adroit that they had stolen his hat as he had passed
through a crowd, without his being able to see who had taken it.
However, he said, it was his own fault, for wearing a hat ornamented
with such a superb diamond. At four o'clock, forty people had arrived.

"Is it not strange," said Fournichon to his wife, "they are all
Gascons?"

"Well, what of that? The captain said they were all countrymen, and he
is a Gascon. M. d'Epernon is from Toulouse."

"Then you still believe it was M. d'Epernon?"

"Did he not say three times the famous 'parfandious'?"

Very soon the five other Gascons arrived; the number of guests was
complete. Never was such surprise painted on so many faces; for an hour
nothing was heard but "saudioux," "mordioux!" and "cap de Bious!" and
such noisy joy, that it seemed to the Fournichons that all Poitou and
Languedoc were collected in their room. Some knew, and greeted each
other.

"Is it not singular to find so many Gascons here?" asked one.

"No," replied Perducas de Pincornay, "the sign is tempting for men of
honor."

"Ah! is it you?" said St. Maline, the gentleman with the lackeys, "you
have not yet explained to me what you were about to do, when the crowd
separated us."

"What was that?" asked Pincornay, reddening.

"How it happens that I met you on the road between Angouleme and Angers
without a hat, as you are now?"

"It seems to interest you, monsieur?"

"Ma foi! yes. Poitiers is far from Paris, and you came from beyond
Poitiers."

"Yes, from St. Andre de Cubsac."

"And without a hat?"

"Oh! it is very simple. My father has two magnificent horses, and he is
quite capable of disinheriting me for the accident that has happened to
one of them."

"What is that?"

"I was riding one of them when it took fright at the report of a gun
that was fired close to me, and ran away; it made for the bank of the
Dordogne and plunged in."

"With you?"

"No; luckily I had time to slip off, or I should have been drowned with
him."

"Ah! then the poor beast was drowned?"

"Pardioux! you know the Dordogne--half a league across."

"And then?"

"Then I resolved not to return home, but to go away as far as possible
from my father's anger."

"But your hat?"

"Diable! my hat had fallen."

"Like you."

"I did not fall; I slipped off."

"But your hat?"

"Ah! my hat had fallen. I sought for it, being my only resource, as I
had come out without money."

"But how could your hat be a resource?"

"Saudioux! it was a great one, for I must tell you that the plume of
this hat was fastened by a diamond clasp, that his majesty the emperor
Charles V. gave to my grandfather, when, on his way from Spain to
Flanders, he stopped at our castle."

"Ah! ah! and you have sold the clasp, and the hat with it. Then, my
dear friend, you ought to be the richest of us all, and you should have
bought another glove; your hands are not alike; one is as white as a
woman's, and the other as black as a negro's."

"But listen; as I turned to seek my hat I saw an enormous crow seize
hold of it."

"Of your hat!"

"Or rather of the clasp; attracted by the glitter, and in spite of my
cries, he flew away with it, and I saw it no more. So that, overwhelmed
by this double loss, I did not dare to return home, but came to seek my
fortune in Paris."

"Good!" cried a third, "the wind has changed into a crow. I heard you
tell M. de Loignac that the wind had carried it away while you were
reading a letter from your mistress."

"Now," cried St. Maline, "I have the honor of knowing M. d'Aubigne, who,
though a brave soldier, writes well, and I recommend you to tell him the
history of your hat; he will make a charming story of it."

Several stifled laughs were heard.

"Ah! gentlemen," cried the Gascon, "do you laugh at me?"

They turned away to laugh again.

Perducas threw a glance around him, and saw a young man near the
fireplace hiding his face in his hands. He thought it was to laugh, and,
going up to him, struck him on the shoulder, saying--

"Eh! monsieur, if you laugh, at all events show your face."

The young man looked up; it was our friend Ernanton de Carmainges.

"I beg you will leave me alone," said he, "I was not thinking of you."

Pincornay turned away, grumbling; but at this moment an officer entered.

"M. de Loignac!" cried twenty voices.

At this name, known through all Gascony, every one rose and kept
silence.




CHAPTER IX.

M. DE LOIGNAC.


"Supper!" cried M. de Loignac; "and from this moment let all be friends,
and love each other like brothers."

"Hum!" said St. Maline.

"That would be difficult," added Ernanton.

"See," cried Pincornay, "they laugh at me because I have no hat, and
they say nothing to M. Montcrabeau, who is going to supper in a cuirass
of the time of the Emperor Pertinax, from whom it probably came. See
what it is to have defensive arms."

"Gentlemen," cried Montcrabeau, "I take it off; so much the worse for
those who prefer seeing me with offensive instead of defensive arms;"
and he gave his cuirass to his lackey, a man about fifty years of age.

"Peace! peace!" cried De Loignac, "and let us go to table."

Meanwhile the lackey whispered to Pertinax, "And am I not to sup? Let me
have something, Pertinax. I am dying of hunger."

Pertinax, instead of being offended at this familiar address, replied,
"I will try, but you had better see for something for yourself."

"Hum! that is not reassuring."

"Have you no money?"

"We spent our last crown at Sens."

"Diable! then try to sell something."

A few minutes after a cry was heard in the street of "Old iron! who
wants to sell old iron?"

Madame Fournichon ran to the door, while M. Fournichon placed the supper
on the table, and to judge by its reception it must have been exquisite.
As his wife did not return, however, the host asked a servant what she
was doing.

"Oh, master," he replied, "she is selling all your old iron for new
money."

"I hope not my cuirass and arms," said he, running to the door.

"No," said De Loignac, "it is forbidden to buy arms."

Madame Fournichon entered triumphantly.

"You have not been selling my arms?" cried her husband.

"Yes, I have."

"I will not have them sold."

"Bah! in time of peace; and I have got ten crowns instead of an old
cuirass."

"Ten crowns! Samuel, do you hear?" said Pertinax, looking for his
valet, but he was not to be seen.

"It seems to me that this man carries on a dangerous trade. But what
does he do with them?"

"Sells them again by weight."

"By weight! and you say he gave you ten crowns--for what?"

"A cuirass and a helmet."

"Why, even if they weighed twenty pounds, that is half-a-crown a pound.
This hides some mystery."

Voices rose, and the mirth grew loud with all, except Carmainges, who
still thought of the mysterious page. He sat by M. de Loignac, who said
to him:

"Here are a number of joyful people, and they do not know what for."

"Nor I, neither; but at least I am an exception."

"You are wrong, for you are one of those to whom Paris is a paradise."

"Do not laugh at me, M. de Loignac."

"I do not; I distinguished you at once, and that other young man also
who looks so grave."

"Who?"

"M. de St. Maline."

"And why this distinction, if this question be not too curious?"

"I know you, that is all."

"Me! you know me?"

"You, and he, and all here."

"It is strange."

"Yes, but necessary."

"Why?"

"Because a chief should know his soldiers."

"And all these men--"

"Will be my soldiers to-morrow."

"But I thought that M. d'Epernon--"

"Hush! do not pronounce that name here."

Then rising, M. de Loignac said, "Gentlemen, since chance unites here
forty-five compatriots, let us empty a glass of wine to the prosperity
of all."

This proposal gave rise to frantic applause. "They are almost all half
drunk," said De Loignac; "it would be a good opportunity to make them
repeat their histories, only time does not permit of it." Then he added
aloud, "Hola! M. Fournichon, dismiss from the room all women, children
and lackeys."

Lardille retired grumbling, but Militor did not move. "Did you not hear,
M. Militor," said De Loignac; "to the kitchen!"

There remained only forty-five men, and M. de Loignac then said, "Now,
gentlemen, each knows who called him to Paris. Good! that will do; do
not call out his name. You know also that you have come to obey him."