Then the executioner removed his red cloak and spread it on the ground. He laid the body on it, threw in the head, tied the four corners together, lifted it to his shoulder, and got back into the boat.
When he arrived in the middle of the Lys he stopped the boat, suspended his burden over the river, and cried with a loud voice, “Let God’s justice be done!”
And he let the cadaver drop into the depths of the water, which closed over it.
Three days later the four musketeers returned to Paris without exceeding the limits of their leave. That same evening they went to pay their customary visit to Monsieur de Tréville.
“Well, Messieurs,” asked the brave captain, “have you enjoyed your excursion?”
“Prodigiously!” replied Athos, through clenched teeth.
LXVII
Conclusion
In accord with the promise he’d made to the cardinal to depart from Paris and return to La Rochelle, on the sixth of the following month the king left his capital, still stunned by the news of Buckingham’s assassination.
Though warned that the life of the man she loved so much was threatened, the queen, when she heard of his death, refused to believe it, and even rashly exclaimed, “It’s not true! He’s just written to me.”
But the next day she had no choice but to believe the fatal news: La Porte, detained like everyone in England on the orders of Charles I, arrived bearing the grim gift the dying Buckingham had sent to the queen.
The king was gleeful, and didn’t even bother to conceal his joy from the queen. Louis XIII, like all petty personalities, had little sympathy for others.
But soon the king was once again petulant and surly. His brow never went unfurrowed for long, and he felt that by returning to the camp, he was submitting once more to slavery. Nonetheless, return he did.
For him, the cardinal was like the fascinating serpent, while he was the bird who flits from branch to branch, but can’t escape the charm of the serpent’s gaze.
So the return journey to La Rochelle was a depressing one. Moreover, the four friends amazed their fellow musketeers by always riding together, side by side, with glum expressions and lowered heads. Only Athos occasionally raised his broad brow, with a glint in his eye and a bitter smile on his lips. Then, like his comrades, he fell once more into his reveries.
When the royal escort arrived in a town, once they’d conducted the king to his lodgings, the four friends immediately retired to their own, or to some lonely cabaret, where they neither gambled nor drank—only talked in low voices, while keeping a sharp lookout for eavesdroppers.
One day, when the king had paused in his travels to fly his falcon, and the four friends, as usual, had gone to a tavern on the high road rather than follow the hunt, a man, riding from the direction of La Rochelle, pulled up at the door and called for some wine. Looking into the common room he saw the four musketeers sitting together at a table.
“Holà! Monsieur d’Artagnan!” he said. “That is you I see there, is it not?”
D’Artagnan raised his head and uttered a cry of joy. It was the man he called his phantom, the stranger of Meung, of the Rue des Fossoyeurs and of Arras.
D’Artagnan drew his sword and sprang toward the door.
But this time, instead of fleeing, the stranger leaped from his horse and advanced to meet d’Artagnan.
“Ah, Monsieur!” said the young man. “I’ve caught up with you at last. This time you won’t escape me.”
“I have no such intention, Monsieur, for this time I’m looking for you. In the name of the king, I arrest you. Surrender your sword, Monsieur, and make no resistance—for I warn you, it’s your head if you do.”
“Who the devil are you, then?” demanded d’Artagnan, lowering his sword without offering to surrender it.
“I am the Comte de Rochefort,” replied the stranger, “the Equerry of Monsieur le Cardinal de Richelieu, and I have orders to conduct you to His Eminence.”
“And we are returning to His Eminence, Monsieur le Comte,” said Athos, coming forward. “You may take the word of Monsieur d’Artagnan that he will go directly to La Rochelle.”
“I must place him in the custody of the guards who will bring him to the camp.”
“We will serve in that capacity, Monsieur, upon our word as gentlemen. And you may also take our word as gentlemen, that otherwise,” Athos added, narrowing his eyes, “Monsieur d’Artagnan will not leave us.”
The Comte de Rochefort glanced behind him, and saw that Porthos and Aramis had placed themselves between him and the door. He realized that he was completely at the mercy of these four men.
“Messieurs,” he said, “if Monsieur d’Artagnan will surrender his sword to me, and add his word to yours, I will accept your promise to conduct Monsieur d’Artagnan to the quarters of Monseigneur le Cardinal.”
“You have my word, Monsieur,” said d’Artagnan, “and here is my sword.”
“All the better for me,” said Rochefort, “as I must still complete my mission.”
“If it is to rejoin Milady,” said Athos coldly, “it’s pointless. You won’t find her.”
“What’s happened to her?” Rochefort asked sharply.
“Return to camp with us and you’ll find out.”
Rochefort considered this for a moment; then, since they were only a day’s travel from Surgères, where the cardinal was to meet the king, he decided to follow Athos’s advice and return with them. Besides, that would enable him to personally keep an eye on his prisoner.
They resumed their journey.
The next day, at three in the afternoon, they arrived at Surgères, where the cardinal awaited Louis XIII. The minister and the king embraced each other enthusiastically, and congratulated themselves on the lucky chance that had rid France of a relentless enemy who had incited all Europe against her. After which the cardinal, who had been informed by Rochefort that d’Artagnan had been arrested, and who was impatient to see him, took his leave of the king, inviting him to come the next day to view the dyke blocking the harbor, now completed.
On returning that evening to his quarters at the Pont de la Pierre, the cardinal found d’Artagnan, without his sword, standing before the door of his house. The three musketeers were with him—armed.
This time, since he was surrounded by his guards, the cardinal gave the musketeers a stern look and made a sign for d’Artagnan to follow him.
D’Artagnan obeyed.
“We’ll wait for you, d’Artagnan,” said Athos, loud enough for the cardinal to hear him.
His Eminence frowned, paused for a moment, and then continued on his way without saying a word.
D’Artagnan entered behind the cardinal, and Rochefort behind d’Artagnan; the door behind them was guarded.
His Eminence went into the chamber that served him as a study and made a sign to Rochefort to bring in the young musketeer.
Rochefort obeyed, and then withdrew.
D’Artagnan faced the cardinal alone. This was his second interview with Richelieu, and he later confessed he was sure it would be his last.
Richelieu remained standing, leaning against the chimney, a table between him and d’Artagnan.
“Monsieur,” said the cardinal, “you have been arrested on my orders.”
“So they told me, Monseigneur.”
“Do you know why?”
“No, Monseigneur—for the only cause you might have to arrest me is still unknown to Your Eminence.”
Richelieu transfixed the young man with a look. “Oh?” he said. “What does that mean?”
“If Monseigneur will first inform me of what crimes I am accused, I will then relate what I have done.”
“You are accused of crimes that have taken heads much higher than yours, Monsieur!” said the cardinal.
“Such as what, Monseigneur?” asked d’Artagnan, with a calm that astonished the cardinal.
“You are accused of having corresponded with the enemies of the realm. You are accused of prying i
nto state secrets. You are accused of attempting to thwart the plans of your superiors.”
“And who has accused me of these things, Monseigneur?” said d’Artagnan, who didn’t doubt that these charges came from Milady. “A woman branded by the justice of the State? A woman who married one man in France and another in England? A woman who poisoned her second husband, and attempted to poison me?”
“What are you talking about, Monsieur?” said the cardinal, astonished. “And what woman are you speaking of?”
“Of Milady de Winter,” replied d’Artagnan. “Yes, Milady de Winter—of whose crimes Your Eminence is doubtless ignorant, since you’ve honored her with your confidence.”
“Monsieur,” said the cardinal, “if Milady de Winter has committed the crimes of which you speak, she will be punished.”
“She has been, Monseigneur.”
“And who has punished her?”
“We have.”
“She is in prison?”
“She is dead.”
“Dead!” repeated the cardinal, who couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Dead! Are you telling me she’s dead?”
“Three times she tried to kill me, and I let it pass . . . until she killed the woman I loved. Then we captured her, my friends and I. We tried her—and condemned her.”
D’Artagnan then related the poisoning of Madame Bonacieux at the Carmelite convent at Béthune, the trial in the lonely house, and the execution on the banks of the Lys.
A shudder passed through the cardinal, who was not a man who shuddered often or easily.
But all at once, as if in response to a sudden thought, the cardinal’s expression, until then rather grim, gradually regained a perfect serenity.
“So,” he said, in a voice whose mildness contrasted with the severity of his words, “you appointed yourselves judges, not considering that those who punish without the authority of punishment are assassins.”
“Monseigneur, I swear that I have never for a moment had any intention of excusing my actions to you. I submit to whatever sentence Your Eminence may choose to pronounce. I am not so attached to life as to fear death.”
“Yes, I know; you’re a man of heart, Monsieur,” said the cardinal, in a voice that was almost affectionate. “So I can tell you beforehand that you will be judged—and condemned.”
“Another might reply to Your Eminence that he had his pardon in his pocket. I will content myself with saying: issue your orders, Monseigneur. I am prepared.”
“Your pardon?” said Richelieu, surprised.
“Yes, Monseigneur,” said d’Artagnan.
“And signed by whom? The king?” The cardinal pronounced these words with a singular expression of contempt.
“No—by Your Eminence.”
“By me? Are you mad, Monsieur?”
“Monseigneur will no doubt recognize his own handwriting.”
And d’Artagnan presented to the cardinal the precious paper that Athos had wrested from Milady, and which he had given to d’Artagnan to serve as his safeguard.
His Eminence took the paper and read it slowly aloud, lingering over every syllable:
It is by my order, and for the good of the State, that the bearer has done what has been done.
5 August 1628 RICHELIEU
The cardinal, after having read the note, fell into a deep reverie— but he didn’t return the paper to d’Artagnan.
He is deciding what sort of torture to employ in killing me, d’Artagnan thought. Well, my faith! He’ll see how a gentleman dies.
The young musketeer was in just the mood for a heroic demise.
Richelieu thought for a while, turning the paper over and over in his hands. Finally he raised his head, fixed his eagle’s gaze on that loyal, candid, and intelligent face, noting on it the traces of tears from the sufferings of the past month, and thinking for the third or fourth time what a future this youth of twenty-two years had before him, and what resources his initiative, courage, and wits might offer to a good master.
On the other hand, the crimes, the audacity, and the infernal genius of Milady had more than once given him pause. He was secretly relieved to be forever rid of such a dangerous accomplice.
He slowly tore the paper that d’Artagnan had so confidently given him into tiny pieces.
I’m lost! d’Artagnan thought.
And he bowed deeply before the cardinal, as if to say, So be it, my lord.
The cardinal went to the table and, without sitting down, wrote a few lines on a parchment that was already two-thirds covered with writing, and then affixed his seal to it.
That is my condemnation, thought d’Artagnan. He will spare me the tedium of a trial and confinement to the Bastille. It’s very gracious of him.
“Here, Monsieur,” said the cardinal to the young man. “I have taken one carte blanche from you, and now I give you another. The name in this field commission is blank: you may fill it in yourself.”
D’Artagnan took the paper hesitantly and looked it over. It was a brevet commission for a lieutenancy in the King’s Musketeers.
D’Artagnan fell at the cardinal’s feet.
“Monseigneur,” he said, “from now on my life is yours, to do with as you will. But this favor you grant me, I don’t deserve it. My three friends are far more worthy . . .”
“You’re a brave lad, d’Artagnan,” interrupted the cardinal, clapping him familiarly on the shoulder, delighted to have vanquished this natural rebel. “Do with this commission as you please. Only remember that, though the name is left blank, it’s to you that I give it.”
“I will never forget,” replied d’Artagnan. “Your Eminence can be certain of that.”
The cardinal turned, and called, “Rochefort!”
The count, who was doubtless just outside the door, entered immediately.
“Rochefort,” said the cardinal, “you see here Monsieur d’Artagnan, whom I receive among the number of my friends. Embrace each other—and remain cordial hereafter, if you want to keep your heads on your shoulders.”
The embrace of Rochefort and d’Artagnan lacked enthusiasm— but the cardinal was there, and observing them closely.
The two cavaliers left the chamber at the same time.
“We’ll meet again—won’t we, Monsieur?” said Rochefort.
“Whenever you please,” said d’Artagnan.
“I’m sure an opportunity will present itself,” replied Rochefort.
“What’s that?” said Richelieu, opening the door.
The two men smiled at each other, shook hands, and bowed to His Eminence.
“We were beginning to grow impatient,” said Athos, outside.
“Yet here I am!” replied d’Artagnan. “Not only free, but in favor!”
“Are you going to tell us about it?”
“This very evening.”
In fact, that same evening d’Artagnan took himself to the quarters of Athos, whom he found already engaged in emptying a bottle of Spanish wine, an occupation he applied himself to religiously every night.
D’Artagnan related his entire conversation with the cardinal, then drew the commission from his pocket. “Take this, my dear Athos,” he said. “It really belongs to you.”
Athos smiled his mild and charming smile.
“My friend,” he said, “for Athos it’s too much, and for the Comte de La Fère it’s too little. Keep this commission—it’s yours. God knows, you bought it dearly enough.”
D’Artagnan left Athos’s quarters and went to those of Porthos. He found him clothed in a magnificent new outfit, covered with splendid embroidery, and admiring himself in a mirror. “Ah!” he said. “It’s you, my friend! Do you think this suits me?”
“Perfectly!” said d’Artagnan. “But I’ve come to offer you something that suits you even better.”
“What’s that?” asked Porthos.
“A lieutenancy in the musketeers.”
D’Artagnan related to Porthos his interview with the cardinal, then drew th
e commission from his pocket. “Take this, my friend,” he said. “Write your name at the bottom, and be my officer.”
Porthos cast his eyes over the commission and returned it to d’Artagnan, to the young man’s great astonishment. “Yes,” he said, “that would be very flattering for me, but I wouldn’t be around long enough to enjoy the honor. During our expedition to Béthune, my duchess’s husband passed on—so you see, mon cher, it’s my duty to manage the deceased’s estate. Once I marry the widow, that is; this is my wedding suit I’m trying on. No, keep your lieutenancy, mon cher.”
And he returned to his mirror.
The young man next went in search of Aramis. He found him kneeling before a prie-dieu, his brow leaning on an open prayer book. D’Artagnan told him of his interview with the cardinal, and drew the commission, for the third time, from his pocket.
“You, our friend, our guiding light and invisible protector,” he said, “take this commission. You deserve it more than anyone, for your wisdom and advice always lead to success.”
“Alas, dear friend!” said Aramis. “Our recent adventures have thoroughly disgusted me with the life of a man of the sword. This time, my decision is irrevocable: once the siege is over, I intend to enter the order of the Lazarists.113 Keep your commission, d’Artagnan—the profession of arms suits you, and you’ll be a bold and intrepid captain.”
D’Artagnan, his eyes moistened by gratitude and lit by joy, returned to Athos, whom he found at his table, savoring his final glass of Malaga by the light of the lamp.
“Well,” d’Artagnan said, “they refused me too.”
“That’s because no one, dear friend, is more worthy than you.” Athos took up a plume, wrote d’Artagnan on the commission, and gave it back to him.
“But then I’ll no longer have any friends,” said the young man, “only bitter memories . . .”
And he let his head fall into his hands, while two tears rolled down his cheeks.
“You are young,” replied Athos, “and your bitter memory, in time, will become fond reminiscence!”
Epilogue