Twenty Years After. Dumas Alexandre
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, which is much worse.”
“You ungrateful to Marie Michon, monsieur?” said Madame de Chevreuse, trying to read in Athos’s eyes. “But how can that be? You never knew her.”
“Eh, madame, who knows?” said Athos. “There is a popular proverb to the effect that it is only mountains that never meet; and popular proverbs contain sometimes a wonderful amount of truth.”
“Oh, go on, monsieur, go on!” said Madame de Chevreuse eagerly; “you can’t imagine how much this conversation interests me.”
“You encourage me,” said Athos, “I will continue, then. That cousin of Aramis, that Marie Michon, that needlewoman, notwithstanding her low condition, had acquaintances in the highest rank; she called the grandest ladies of the court her friend, and the queen-proud as she is, in her double character as Austrian and as Spaniard-called her her sister.”
“Alas!” said Madame de Chevreuse, with a slight sigh and a little movement of her eyebrows that was peculiarly her own, “since that time everything has changed.”
“And the queen had reason for her affection, for Marie was devoted to her-devoted to that degree that she served her as medium of intercourse with her brother, the king of Spain.”
“Which,” interrupted the duchess, “is now brought up against her as a great crime.”
“And therefore,” continued Athos, “the cardinal-the true cardinal, the other one-determined one fine morning to arrest poor Marie Michon and send her to the Chateau de Loches. Fortunately the affair was not managed so secretly but that it became known to the queen. The case had been provided for: if Marie Michon should be threatened with any danger the queen was to send her a prayer-book bound in green velvet.”
“That is true, monsieur, you are well informed.”
“One morning the green book was brought to her by the Prince de Marsillac. There was no time to lose. Happily Marie and a follower of hers named Kitty could disguise themselves admirably in men’s clothes. The prince procured for Marie Michon the dress of a cavalier and for Kitty that of a lackey; he sent them two excellent horses, and the fugitives went out hastily from Tours, shaping their course toward Spain, trembling at the least noise, following unfrequented roads,