Twenty Years After by Alexandre Dumas (best free ebook reader for android txt) 📕

The duke tried to exchange a glance with Grimaud, but there was no glance in Grimaud’s eyes.

“Go, then,” said the duke, “and return as soon as possible.”

“Does your highness wish to take revenge for the game of tennis yesterday?”

Grimaud intimated by a scarcely perceptible nod that he should consent.

“Yes,” said the duke, “but take care, my dear La Ramee, for I propose to beat you badly.”

La Ramee went out. Grimaud looked after him, and when the door was closed he drew out of his pocket a pencil and a sheet of paper.

“Write, my lord,” he said.

“And what?”

Grimaud dictated.

“All is ready for to-morrow evening. Keep watch from seven to nine. Have two riding horses ready. We shall descend by the first window in the gallery.”

“What next?”

“Sign your name, my lord.”

The duke signed.

“Now, my lord, give me, if you have not lost it, the ball — that which contained the letter.”

The duke took it from under his pillow and gave it to Grimaud. Grimaud gave a grim smile.

“Well?” asked the duke.

“Well, my lord, I sew up the paper in the ball and you, in your game of tennis, will send the ball into the ditch.”

“But will it not be lost?”

“Oh no; there will be some one at hand to pick it up.”

“A gardener?”

Grimaud nodded.

“The same as yesterday?”

Another nod on the part of Grimaud.

“The Count de Rochefort?”

Grimaud nodded the third time.

“Come, now,” said the duke, “give some particulars of the plan for our escape.”

“That is forbidden me,” said Grimaud, “until the last moment.”

“Who will be waiting for me beyond the ditch?”

“I know nothing about it, my lord.”

“But at least, if you don’t want to see me turn crazy, tell what that famous pate will contain.”

“Two poniards, a knotted rope and a poire d’angoisse.”*

*This poire d’angoisse was a famous gag, in the form of a pear, which, being thrust into the mouth, by the aid of a spring, dilated, so as to distend the jaws to their greatest width.

“Yes, I understand.”

“My lord observes that there will be enough to go around.”

“We shall take to ourselves the poniards and the rope,” replied the duke.

“And make La Ramee eat the pear,” answered Grimaud.

“My dear Grimaud, thou speakest seldom, but when thou dost, one must do thee justice — thy words are words of gold.”

One of Marie Michon’s Adventures.

Whilst these projects were being formed by the Duc de Beaufort and Grimaud, the Comte de la Fere and the Vicomte de Bragelonne were entering Paris by the Rue du Faubourg Saint Marcel.

They stopped at the sign of the Fox, in the Rue du Vieux Colombier, a tavern known for many years by Athos, and asked for two bedrooms.

“You must dress yourself, Raoul,” said Athos, “I am going to present you to some one.”

“To-day, monsieur?” asked the young man.

“In half an hour.”

The young man bowed. Perhaps, not being endowed with the endurance of Athos, who seemed to be made of iron, he would have preferred a bath in the river Seine of which he had heard so much, and afterward his bed; but the Comte de la Fere had spoken and he had no thought but to obey.

“By the way,” said Athos, “take some pains with your toilet, Raoul; I want you to be approved.”

“I hope, sir,” replied the youth, smiling, “that there’s no idea of a marriage for me; you know of my engagement to Louise?”

Athos, in his turn, smiled also.

“No, don’t be alarmed, although it is to a lady that I am going to present you, and I am anxious that you should love her –- “

The young man looked at the count with a certain uneasiness, but at a smile from Athos he was quickly reassured.

“How old is she?” inquired the Vicomte de Bragelonne.

“My dear Raoul, learn, once for all, that that is a question which is never asked. When you can find out a woman’s age by her face, it is useless to ask it; when you cannot do so, it is indiscreet.”

“Is she beautiful?”

“Sixteen years ago she was deemed not only the prettiest, but the most graceful woman in France.”

This reply reassured the vicomte. A woman who had been a reigning beauty a year before he was born could not be the subject of any scheme for him. He retired to his toilet. When he reappeared, Athos received him with the same paternal smile as that which he had often bestowed on D’Artagnan, but a more profound tenderness for Raoul was now visibly impressed upon his face.

Athos cast a glance at his feet, hands and hair — those three marks of race. The youth’s dark hair was neatly parted and hung in curls, forming a sort of dark frame around his face; such was the fashion of the day. Gloves of gray kid, matching the hat, well displayed the form of a slender and elegant hand; whilst his boots, similar in color to the hat and gloves, confined feet small as those of a boy twelve years old.

“Come,” murmured Athos, “if she is not proud of him, she must be hard to please.”

It was three o’clock in the afternoon. The two travelers proceeded to the Rue Saint Dominique and stopped at the door of a magnificent hotel, surmounted with the arms of De Luynes.

“‘Tis here,” said Athos.

He entered the hotel and ascended the front steps, and addressing a footman who waited there in a grand livery, asked if the Duchess de Chevreuse was visible and if she could receive the Comte de la Fere?

The servant returned with a message to say, that, though the duchess had not the honor of knowing Monsieur de la Fere, she would receive him.

Athos followed the footman, who led him through a long succession of apartments and paused at length before a closed door. Athos made a sign to the Vicomte de Bragelonne to remain where he was.

The footman opened the door and announced Monsieur le Comte de la Fere.

Madame de Chevreuse, whose name appears so often in our story “The Three Musketeers,” without her actually having appeared in any scene, was still a beautiful woman. Although about forty-four or forty-five years old, she might have passed for thirty-five. She still had her rich fair hair; her large, animated, intelligent eyes, so often opened by intrigue, so often closed by the blindness of love. She had still her nymph-like form, so that when her back was turned she still was not unlike the girl who had jumped, with Anne of Austria, over the moat of the Tuileries in 1563. In all other respects she was the same mad creature who threw over her amours such an air of originality as to make them proverbial for eccentricity in her family.

She was in a little boudoir, hung with blue damask, adorned by red flowers, with a foliage of gold, looking upon a garden; and reclined upon a sofa, her head supported on the rich tapestry which covered it. She held a book in her hand and her arm was supported by a cushion.

At the footman’s announcement she raised herself a little and peeped out, with some curiosity.

Athos appeared.

He was dressed in violet-tinted velvet, trimmed with silk of the same color. His shoulder-knots were of burnished silver, his mantle had no gold nor embroidery on it; a simple plume of violet feathers adorned his hat; his boots were of black leather, and at his girdle hung that sword with a magnificent hilt that Porthos had so often admired in the Rue Feron. Splendid lace adorned the falling collar of his shirt, and lace fell also over the top of his boots.

In his whole person he bore such an impress of high degree, that Madame de Chevreuse half rose from her seat when she saw him and made him a sign to sit down near her.

Athos bowed and obeyed. The footman was withdrawing, but Athos stopped him by a sign.

“Madame,” he said to the duchess, “I have had the boldness to present myself at your hotel without being known to you; it has succeeded, since you deign to receive me. I have now the boldness to ask you for an interview of half an hour.”

“I grant it, monsieur,” replied Madame de Chevreuse with her most gracious smile.

“But that is not all, madame. Oh, I am very presuming, I am aware. The interview for which I ask is of us two alone, and I very earnestly wish that it may not be interrupted.”

“I am not at home to any one,” said the Duchess de Chevreuse to the footman. “You may go.”

The footman went out

There ensued a brief silence, during which these two persons, who at first sight recognized each other so clearly as of noble race, examined each other without embarrassment on either side.

The duchess was the first to speak.

“Well, sir, I am waiting with impatience to hear what you wish to say to me.”

“And I, madame,” replied Athos, “am looking with admiration.”

“Sir,” said Madame de Chevreuse, “you must excuse me, but I long to know to whom I am talking. You belong to the court, doubtless, yet I have never seen you at court. Have you, by any chance, been in the Bastile?”

“No, madame, I have not; but very likely I am on the road to it.”

“Ah! then tell me who you are, and get along with you upon your journey,” replied the duchess, with the gayety which made her so charming, “for I am sufficiently in bad odor already, without compromising myself still more.”

“Who I am, madame? My name has been mentioned to you — the Comte de la Fere; you do not know that name. I once bore another, which you knew, but you have certainly forgotten it.”

“Tell it me, sir.”

“Formerly,” said the count, “I was Athos.”

Madame de Chevreuse looked astonished. The name was not wholly forgotten, but mixed up and confused with ancient recollections.

“Athos?” said she; “wait a moment.”

And she placed her hands on her brow, as if to force the fugitive ideas it contained to concentration in a moment.

“Shall I help you, madame?” asked Athos.

“Yes, do,” said the duchess.

“This Athos was connected with three young musketeers, named Porthos, D’Artagnan, and –- “

He stopped short.

“And Aramis,” said the duchess, quickly.

“And Aramis; I see you have not forgotten the name.”

“No,” she said; “poor Aramis; a charming man, elegant, discreet, and a writer of poetical verses. I am afraid he has turned out ill,” she added.

“He has; he is an abbe.”

“Ah, what a misfortune!” exclaimed the duchess, playing carelessly with her fan. “Indeed, sir, I thank you; you have recalled one of the most agreeable recollections of my youth.”

“Will you permit me, then, to recall another to you?”

“Relating to him?”

“Yes and no.”

“Faith!” said Madame de Chevreuse, “say on. With a man like you I fear nothing.”

Athos bowed. “Aramis,” he continued, “was intimate with a young needlewoman from Tours, a cousin of his, named Marie Michon.”

“Ah, I knew her!” cried the duchess. “It was to her he wrote from the siege of Rochelle, to warn her of a plot against the Duke of Buckingham.”

“Exactly so; will you allow me to speak to you of her?”

“If,” replied the duchess, with a meaning look, “you do not say too much against her.”

“I should be ungrateful,” said Athos, “and I regard ingratitude, not as a fault or a crime, but as a vice,