The Vicomte de Bragelonne; Or, Ten Years Later<br />Being the completion of "The Three Musketeers" a by Alexandre Dumas (rainbow fish read aloud TXT) 📕

to do but to come alone with a cane in your hand, to bring to the ground all the fortifications of Belle-Isle."

"Peste!" cried the king; "I do not wish those fine fortifications, which cost so much to erect, should fall at all. No, let them stand against the Dutch and the English. You would not guess what I want to see at Belle-Isle, Monsieur Fouquet; it is the pretty peasants and women of the lands on the sea-shore, who dance so well, and are so seducing with their scarlet petticoats! I have heard great boast of your pretty tenants, Monsieur le Surintendant; well, let me have a sight of them."

"Whenever your majesty pleases."

"Have you any means of transport? It should be to-morrow, if you like."

The surintendant felt this stroke, which was not adroit, and replied, "No, sire; I was ignorant of your majesty's wish; above all, I was ignorant of your haste to see Belle-Isle, and I am prepared with nothing."

"You have a boat of your own, nevertheless?'

"I have five; but they are all in the port, or at Paimbœuf; and to join them, or bring them hither, we should require at least twenty-four hours. Have I any occasion to send a courier? Must I do so?"

"Wait a little; put an end to the fever—wait till to-morrow."

"That is true; who knows but that by to-morrow we may not have a hundred other ideas?" replied Fouquet, now perfectly convinced, and very pale.

The king started, and stretched his hand out toward his little bell, but Fouquet prevented his ringing.

"Sire," said he, "I have an ague—I am trembling with cold. If I remain a moment longer, I shall most likely faint. I request your majesty's permission to go and conceal myself beneath the bedclothes."

"Indeed, you are all in a shiver; it is painful to behold! Come, M. Fouquet, begone! I will send to inquire after you."

"Your majesty overwhelms me with kindness. In an hour I shall be better."

"I will call some one to reconduct you," said the king.

"As you please, sire; I would gladly take the arm of any one."

"M. d'Artagnan!" cried the king, ringing his little bell.

"Oh! sire," interrupted Fouquet, laughing in such a manner as made the prince feel cold, "would you give me the captain of your musketeers to take me to my lodgings? A very equivocal kind of honor that, sire! A simple footman, I beg."

"And why, M. Fouquet? M. d'Artagnan conducts me often, and well!"

"Yes, but when he conducts you, sire, it is to obey you; while me—"

"Go on!"

"If I am obliged to return home supported by the leader of the musketeers, it would be everywhere said you had had me arrested."

"Arrested!" replied the king, who became paler than Fouquet himself—"arrested! oh!"

"And why would they not say so?" continued Fouquet, still laughing, "and I would lay a wager there would be people found wicked enough to laugh at it." This sally disconcerted the monarch. Fouquet was skillful enough, or fortunate enough, to make Louis XIV. recoil before the appearance of the fact he meditated. M. d'Artagnan, when he appeared, received an order to desire a musketeer to accompany the surintendant.

"Quite unnecessary," said the latter: "sword for sword; I prefer Gourville, who is waiting for me below. But that will not prevent me enjoying the society of M. d'Artagnan. I am glad he will see Belle-Isle, he who is so good a judge of fortifications."

D'Artagnan bowed, without at all comprehending what was going on. Fouquet bowed again and left the apartment, affecting all the slowness of a man who walks with difficulty. When once out of the castle, "I am saved!" said he. "Oh! yes, disloyal king! you shall see Belle-Isle, but it shall be when I am no longer there!"

He disappeared, leaving D'Artagnan with the king.

"Captain," said the king, "you will follow M. Fouquet at the distance of a hundred paces."

"Yes, sire."

"He is going to his lodgings again. You will go with him."

"Yes, sire."

"You will arrest him in my name, and will shut him up in a carriage."

"In a carriage. Well! sire?"

"In such a fashion that he may not, on the road, either converse with any one, or throw notes to people he may meet."

"That will be rather difficult, sire."

"Not at all."

"Pardon me, sire, I cannot stifle M. Fouquet, and if he asks for liberty to breathe, I cannot prevent him by shutting up glasses and blinds. He will throw out at the doors all the cries and notes possible."

"The case is provided for, M. d'Artagnan; a carriage with a trellis will obviate both the difficulties you point out."

"A carriage with an iron trellis!" cried D'Artagnan; "but a carriage with an iron trellis is not made in half an hour; and your majesty commands me to go immediately to M. Fouquet's lodgings."

"Therefore the carriage in question is already made."

"Ah! that is quite a different thing," said the captain; "if the carriage is ready made, very well, then, we have only to set it going."

"It is ready with the horses harnessed to it."

"Ah!"

"And the coachman, with the out-riders, waiting in the lower court of the castle."

D'Artagnan bowed. "There only re[Pg 467]mains for me to ask your majesty to what place I shall conduct M. Fouquet."

"To the castle of Angers at first."

"Very well, sire."

"Afterward we will see."

"Yes, sire."

"M. d'Artagnan, one last word; you have remarked that for making this capture of M. Fouquet I have not employed my guards, on which account M. de Gesvres will be furious."

"Your majesty does not employ your guards," said the captain, a little humiliated, "because you mistrust M. de Gesvres, that is all."

"That is to say, monsieur, that I have more confidence in you."

"I know that very well, sire! and it is of no use to make so much of it."

"It is only for the sake of arriving at this, monsieur, that if, from this moment, it should happen that by any chance, any chance whatever, M. Fouquet should escape—such chances have been, monsieur—"

"Oh! very often, sire; but for others, not for me."

"And why not with you?"

"Because I, sire, have for an instant wished to save M. Fouquet."

The king started. "Because," continued the captain, "I had then a right to do so, having guessed your majesty's plan, without your having spoken to me of it, and that I took an interest in M. Fouquet. Now, was I not at liberty to show my interest in this man?"

"In truth, monsieur, you do not reassure me with regard to your services."

"If I had saved him then, I was perfectly innocent; I will say more, I should have done well, for M. Fouquet is not a bad man. But he was not willing; his destiny prevailed; he let the hour of liberty slip by. So much the worse! Now I have orders, I will obey those orders, and M. Fouquet you may consider as a man arrested. He is at the castle of Angers, is M. Fouquet."

"Oh! you have not got him yet, captain."

"That concerns me; everyone to his trade, sire; only, once more, reflect! Do[Pg 468] you seriously give me orders to arrest M. Fouquet, sire?"

"Yes, a thousand times, yes!"

"Write it, then."

"Here is the letter."

D'Artagnan read it, bowed to the king, and left the room. From the height of the terrace he perceived Gourville, who went by with a joyous air toward the lodgings of M. Fouquet.

CHAPTER CXIV. THE WHITE HORSE AND THE BLACK HORSE.

"That is rather surprising," said D'Artagnan, "Gourville running about the streets so gayly, when he is almost certain that M. Fouquet is in danger; when it is almost equally certain that it was Gourville who warned M. Fouquet just now by the note which was torn into a thousand pieces upon the terrace and given to the winds by Monsieur le Surintendant. Gourville is rubbing his hands, that is because he has done something clever. Whence comes M. Gourville? Gourville is coming from the Rue aux Herbes. Whither does the Rue aux Herbes lead?" And D'Artagnan followed along the tops of the houses of Nantes dominated by the castle, the line traced by the streets, as he would have done upon a topographical plan; only, instead of the dead, flat paper, the living chart rose in relief with the cries, the movements, and the shadows of the men and things. Beyond the inclosure of the city, the great verdant plains stretched out, bordering the Loire, and appeared to run toward the empurpled horizon, which was cut by the azure of the waters and the dark green of the marshes. Immediately outside the gates of Nantes two white roads were seen diverging like the separated fingers of a gigantic hand. D'Artagnan, who had taken in all the panorama at a glance by crossing the terrace, was led by the line of the Rue aux Herbes to the mouth of one of those roads which took its rise under the gates of Nantes. One step more, and he was about to descend the stairs, take his trellised carriage and go toward the lodgings of M. Fouquet. But chance decreed that at the moment of replunging into the staircase he was attracted by a moving point which was gaining ground upon that road.

"What is that?" said the musketeer to himself; "a horse galloping—a runaway horse, no doubt. What a pace he is going at!" The moving point became detached from the road, and entered into the fields. "A white horse," continued the captain, who had just seen the color thrown out luminously against the dark ground, "and he is mounted; it must be some boy whose horse is thirsty and has run away with him to the drinking-place, diagonally." These reflections, rapid as lightning, simultaneous with visual perception, D'Artagnan had already forgotten when he descended the first steps of the staircase. Some morsels of paper were spread over the stairs, and shone out white against the dirty stones. "Eh! eh!" said the captain to himself, "here are some of the fragments of the note torn by M. Fouquet. Poor man! he had given his secret to the wind; the wind will have no more to do with it, and brings it back to the king. Decidedly. Fouquet, you play with misfortune! the game is not a fair one—fortune is against you. The star of Louis XIV. obscures yours; the adder is stronger and more cunning than the squirrel." D'Artagnan picked up one of these morsels of paper as he descended. "Gourville's pretty little hand," cried he, while examining one of the fragments of the note; "I was not mistaken." And he read the word "horse." "Stop!" said he; and he examined another, upon which there was not a letter traced. Upon a third he read the word "white": "white horse," repeated he, like a child that is spelling. "Ah, mordioux!" cried the suspicious spirit, "a white horse!" And, like to that grain of powder which, burning, dilates into a centupled volume, D'Artagnan, enlarged by ideas and suspicions, rapidly reascended the stairs toward the terrace. The white horse was still galloping in the direction of the Loire, at the extremity of which, melted into the vapors of the water, a little sail appeared, balancing, like an atom.

"Oh, oh!" cried the musketeer, "there is but a man who flies who would go at that pace across plowed lands; there is but one Fouquet, a financier, to ride thus in open day upon a white horse; there is no one but the lord of Belle-Isle who would make his escape toward the sea, while there are such thick forests on the land; and there is but one D'Artagnan in the world to catch M. Fouquet, who has half an hour's start, and who will have gained his boat within an hour." This being said, the musketeer gave orders that the carriage with the iron trellis should be taken immediately to a thicket situated just outside the city. He selected his best horse, jumped upon his back, galloped along the Rue aux Herbes, taking, not the road Fouquet had taken, but the bank itself of the Loire, certain that he should gain ten minutes upon the total of the distance, and, at the intersection of the two lines, come up with the fugitive, who could have no suspicion of being pursued in that direction. In the rapidity of the pursuit, and with the impatience of the persecutor, animated himself in the chase as in war, D'Artagnan, so mild, so kind toward Fouquet, was surprised to find himself become ferocious and almost sanguinary. For a long time he galloped without catching sight of the white horse. His fury assumed the tints of rage; he doubted of himself—he suspected that Fouquet had buried himself in some subterranean road, or that he had changed the