Court of Daggers

Episode 30

Court of Daggers

~ or ~

The Vicomte de Bragelonne

By Alexandre Dumas

Edited and Translated by Lawrence Ellsworth

In Last Week’s Episode

Athos had an audience with King Louis XIV in which he requested royal permission for his son, Raoul de Bragelonne, to marry Louise de La Vallière. The king thought the Comte de La Fère’s request was strangely lukewarm, and upon interrogating Athos learned that the father did not much favor Raoul’s match with Louise. The king, who thought better of Raoul than he did of Louise, therefore declined to approve the marriage, intending to find the Vicomte de Bragelonne a bride more worthy of him.

Meanwhile, Raoul received an urgent note from the Duke of Buckingham asking for an interview, and Bragelonne replied that he would come immediately.

Chapter XLIV

An Invitation to Cross Swords in the Surf

Raoul, when he arrived at de Guiche’s rooms, found him conversing with de Wardes and Manicamp. De Wardes, since the incident at the fence, had treated Raoul as a stranger. It didn’t seem as if there’d been a break between them, they just acted as if they didn’t know each other.

Raoul entered and de Guiche came to meet him. Raoul, while shaking his friend’s hand, glanced at the other two young men, hoping to read on their faces what was moving their minds. De Wardes was cold and impenetrable; Manicamp seemed absorbed in adjusting his suit’s lace trim.

De Guiche took Raoul into a dressing room and bade him sit down. “You look well,” he said to him.

“That’s odd,” replied Raoul, “because I certainly don’t feel well.”

“It’s the same as with me, isn’t it? Love goes wrong.”

“All the better for your sake, Count. For you, I think good news in love would be the worst news of all.”

“Don’t worry, then, because not only am I miserable, I’m surrounded by people who are happy.”

“Now you’ve lost me,” said Raoul. “Explain, my friend, explain.”

“I will, and then you’ll understand. I’ve fought in vain against that feeling you saw born in me; it’s grown to take complete hold of me, against all my wisdom and will. I’ve measured this misfortune, I know it for an abyss, but it’s my fate and I’ll follow it through.”

“Madman! One step over that edge and today it’s your ruin, tomorrow maybe your death.”

“Then so be it!”

“De Guiche!”

“I tell you, I’ve thought about this until I can think no more.”

“And do you believe that if you tell her everything that Madame will love you?”

“I believe nothing, Raoul, I merely hope, because hope is the heart of man, and lives in him till he dies.”

“But that happiness you grasp for, if you gained it, you’d be lost.”

“Don’t try to stop me, Raoul, I beg you. I tell you right out you can’t convince me because I refuse to be convinced. I’ve suffered so much I’m past the point of no return, and even death would feel like a blessing. Not only do I love to delirium, I’m jealous to mad fury.”

Raoul thumped his fist into his hand in a gesture that looked, at long last, like anger. “Great,” he said.

“Great or terrible, it hardly matters. Here’s what I ask of you, my friend, my brother. For the last three days Madame has been giddy with happiness. The first day I could scarcely look at her, I hated her so for not being as unhappy as I. The second day I couldn’t look away, and on her side, Raoul, I thought I saw that she looked on me, if not with pity, then at least with some tenderness. But between her gaze and mine there arose a shadow as another’s smile drew a smile from her. Always beside her horse was a horse that wasn’t mine, always her ear turned toward a caressing voice that was not my own. Raoul, for three days my head has been on fire, my veins have run with flame. This shadow, I must banish it; that smile, I must smash it; that voice, I must strangle it.”

“You want to kill Monsieur?” Raoul cried.

“What? No! I’m not jealous of Monsieur, not jealous of the husband. I’m jealous of the lover.”

“Of the lover?”

“You mean you haven’t noticed him here when he was so apparent to you before?”

“You’re jealous of Monsieur de Buckingham?”

“Unto death!”

“Again? Or is it still?”

“Oh, this time we’ll settle it properly! I took the initiative and sent him a challenge.”

“Wait, you’re the one who wrote to him?”

“How do you know about it?”

“I know because he told me. Here.” And he handed de Guiche the note he’d received at the same time as his friend’s.

De Guiche read it eagerly. “He’s a brave man, and more than that, a gallant man,” he said.

“Of course, the duke is a gallant man, and I don’t need to ask if your challenge was equally gallant.”

“He’ll show you my letter when you call on him on my behalf.”

“But that’s impossible.”

“What is?”

“For me to call on him for you.”

“Why?”

“Because both you and the duke summon me.”

“Oh, I assume you’ll give me the preference! Now listen, here’s what I want you to tell His Grace, it’s very simple: just pick a day, today, tomorrow, the day after, whatever suits him, and meet me at Vincennes.”

“Think about this.”

“I thought I told you I was done thinking.”

“The duke is a foreign envoy here on a mission, he’s untouchable … and Vincennes is dangerously close to the Bastille.”

“The consequences are my business.”

“But the pretext for this meeting? What reason do you want me to give him?”

“He won’t ask for any reason, trust me. The duke must be as sick of me as I am of him, must hate as much as I hate. I beg you to do this for me, and if I have to beg him to accept my challenge, then I’ll beg.”

“This is pointless. Look, the duke said he wanted to speak to me. He’s in the king’s gaming party; come along with me. I’ll talk to him in the gallery while you hang back. Two words are all it will take.”

“Good, fine. I’m going to bring de Wardes along as support.”

“Why not Manicamp? We can always call de Wardes if we need him, leave him here.”

“True, but I’d rather not.”

“He knows nothing of this?”

“Absolutely nothing! …You’re so cold to him these days.”

“Has he told you why?”

“No.”

“I don’t like that man and I never have, so I’m no colder to him today than I was yesterday.”

“Let’s go, then.”

All four went down to the courtyard. De Guiche’s carriage was waiting at the door to take them to the Palais Royal.

On the way, Raoul was thinking furiously. Privy to both parties’ secrets, he still hoped to find a way to reconcile them. He knew his influence with Buckingham and his sway over de Guiche, so he wasn’t ready to despair.

Arriving in the gallery, resplendent with wax lights, where the most beautiful and illustrious ladies of the court were orbiting like stars through a sky of flame, Raoul couldn’t help but forget de Guiche for a moment when he saw Louise, who stood, amid the other maids of honor, staring at the royal circle, which was dazzling with diamonds and gold. The king was the only man who was seated, the other cavaliers were standing. Among them Raoul saw Buckingham. He was ten paces from Monsieur among a group of French and Englishmen admiring the duke’s hauteur and the incomparable magnificence of his clothing. Some of the older courtiers remembered having seen his father, and their recollections did no harm to the son.

Buckingham was conversing with Fouquet, who was speaking loudly of Belle-Île. “I couldn’t possibly interrupt them,” said Raoul.

“Wait and choose your moment, but don’t wait too long,” said de Guiche. “I burn!”

“Ah, here comes our savior,” said Raoul, seeing d’Artagnan, who, resplendent in his new uniform as Captain of the Musketeers, had just made a triumphal entry into the gallery.

He went straight to d’Artagnan. “The Comte de La Fère was looking for you,” Raoul said.

“Yes, I just left him,” d’Artagnan replied.

“I expected you to spend most of the evening together.”

“We’ve arranged to meet again.” While answering Raoul, d’Artagnan, preoccupied, was looking right and left, scanning the crowd in the gallery for someone or something. Suddenly his eye fixed like that of an eagle spotting its prey. Raoul followed his look, and though he saw de Guiche and d’Artagnan nod to each other, he couldn’t discern the target of the proud captain’s piercing gaze.

“Monsieur le Chevalier,” said Raoul, “there’s a service that only you can render me.”

“What would that be, my dear Viscount?”

“I need to say a couple of words to Monsieur de Buckingham, but as he’s speaking with Monsieur Fouquet, I’m not the person to interrupt them.”

“Ah, Monsieur Fouquet is here?” asked d’Artagnan.

“Yes, do you see him? There.”

“Faith, so I do! And you think I carry more weight than you?”

“You’re a man of importance!”

“Why, so I am—I’m captain of the musketeers. I was promised the rank for so long, and have had it so briefly, that I quite forgot my dignity.”

“You’ll do this for me, won’t you?”

“Monsieur Fouquet, diable!”

“Do you have an issue with him?”

“No, he’s more likely to have an issue with me. But still, it has to be done one day or another….”

“There, I think he’s looking at you. Or could it be…?”

“No, you’re not wrong, it really is me he does the honor to look at.”

“Then this is a good moment.”

“You think so?”

“Go, then, I beg you.”

“I’m going.”

De Guiche had kept an eye on Raoul, and Raoul signaled him that everything was arranged.

D’Artagnan walked straight up to the glittering group and bowed politely to Monsieur Fouquet. “Bonjour, Monsieur d’Artagnan. We were just talking about Belle-Île-en-Mer,” said Fouquet, with a meaningful glance and the social grace that it takes half a life to learn, and that some people, no matter how they study, never achieve.

“About Belle-Île?” said d’Artagnan. “I believe that’s your domain, isn’t it, Monsieur Fouquet?”

“Your servant, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Buckingham with a bow. “Monsieur Fouquet just informed me that he’s given Belle-Île to the king,”

“Do you know Belle-Île, Chevalier?” Fouquet asked the musketeer.

“I’ve been there only once, Monsieur,” replied d’Artagnan, like a man born to wit and gallantry.

“Did you stay long?”

“Less than a day, Monseigneur.”

“But you got a good look at it?”

“As much as can be seen in a day.”

“One might see a lot in a day with eyes like yours, Monsieur.”

D’Artagnan bowed.

Meanwhile, Raoul was signaling to Buckingham. “Monsieur le Surintendant,” said Buckingham, “I’ll leave you with the captain, who knows so much more than I about bastions, scarps, and counterscarps. I leave only to join a friend who beckons to me. You understand….”

And Buckingham detached himself from the group and moved toward Raoul, only pausing for a moment by the table where Madame, the queen mother, the young queen, and the king were playing cards.

“Quickly, Raoul,” said de Guiche, “there he is: be fast and firm!”

Buckingham indeed, after paying his compliments to Madame, continued toward Raoul.

Raoul advanced to meet him; de Guiche hung back but followed him with his eyes. The maneuver was performed so that the young men met in the gap between the group around the card table and a band of gentlemen talking by the gallery windows. But just as the two were about to meet, they were joined by a third.

It was Monsieur who was advancing on the Duke of Buckingham. Monsieur wore on his pink and perfumed lips his most charming smile. “Mon Dieu,” he said, aggressively polite, “what’s this story I’ve heard, my dear Duke?”

Buckingham hadn’t seen Monsieur coming but turned suddenly at his voice. He shuddered despite himself, and a slight pallor appeared on his cheeks. “Why, Monseigneur,” he said, “what could Your Highness have heard to cause such great astonishment?”

“A thing that fills me with despair, Duke,” said the prince, “and that will drive the whole Court into mourning.”

“Ah, Your Highness is too good,” said Buckingham, “for I see he wishes to speak of my departure.”

“Quite so.”

“Alas, Monseigneur, to spend only a week in Paris is more a matter of mourning for me.”

De Guiche heard all this from his nearby position and shuddered in his turn. “His departure!” he murmured. “Can it be?”

Philippe was continuing with the same gracious air, “If the King of England summons you, Monsieur, that I can understand; we all know that His Majesty Charles II, who loves his gentlemen, can’t do without you. But it shouldn’t be said that we lost you without regrets, so please accept mine.”

“Monseigneur,” said the duke, “believe that if I leave the Court of France….”

“It’s because they call you back, I understand that. But if you think my word has any weight with your king, I offer to beg His Majesty Charles II to leave you with us a while longer.”

“Such kindness overwhelms me, Monseigneur,” replied Buckingham, “but I have specific orders. My sojourn in France was limited, and I’ve prolonged it at the risk of displeasing my gracious sovereign. Only today did I remember that I should have left four days ago.”

“Oh!” Monsieur said.

“Yes, however,” added Buckingham, raising his voice loud enough to be heard by the princesses, “I’m like that man from the far east who was lost for several days in a beautiful dream,86 then woke one fine morning to find himself cured and restored to sanity. The Court of France has intoxications as strong as that dream, but one day we awaken and must leave. I couldn’t prolong my stay even if Your Highness asked it of me.”

“And when do you depart?” Philippe asked, all solicitude.

“Tomorrow, Monseigneur. My carriages have been ready for three days.”

The Duc d’Orléans gave a nod and a shrug that signified, If that’s how it is, Duke, there’s nothing more to say.

Buckingham raised his eyes to the queens and his gaze met that of Anne of Austria, who nodded her thanks and approval. Buckingham returned the gesture, concealing behind a smile the tightening around his heart.

Monsieur returned the way he’d come—but from the other direction the Comte de Guiche approached. Raoul feared the impatient young man would deliver his challenge himself and hastened to intercept him.

“No, no, Raoul, it’s all pointless now,” said de Guiche, extending his hands to the duke and drawing him behind a pillar. “Oh, Duke, Duke!” said de Guiche. “Forgive me for what I wrote to you, I was out of my mind. Give me back my letter!”

“Too true,” said the young duke with a melancholy smile. “You can’t hold a grudge against me now.”

“Oh, Duke, forgive me and take my friendship, my eternal friendship….”

“Why, indeed, should you object to me, Count, from the moment after which I’ll never see her again?”

Hearing these friendly words, Raoul realized his services were of no further use to these two young men and withdrew a few steps. This movement brought him closer to de Wardes, who was speaking of Buckingham’s departure to the Chevalier de Lorraine. “A wise retreat!” said de Wardes.

“Why is that?”

“Because the dear duke saves himself from a sword-thrust by it.” And both of them laughed.

Raoul, indignant, turned toward them with a glare, lips curled disdainfully, and flushed to the temples. The Chevalier de Lorraine spun on his heel and faced away, but de Wardes stood firm and waited.

“Monsieur,” said Raoul to de Wardes, “you continue your practice of insulting the absent? Yesterday it was Monsieur d’Artagnan, and today it is Monsieur de Buckingham.”

“But you know, Monsieur,” said de Wardes, “that sometimes I insult those who are present.”

De Wardes prodded Raoul with a finger, their shoulders leaned toward each other, their faces bent together as if each would inflame the other with the fire of his anger. The first felt that he was at the crest of his hatred, the second at the end of his patience.

Suddenly they heard a voice full of grace and civility say calmly, “I believe I heard my name mentioned.”

They turned: it was d’Artagnan, who, with a smiling eye and a cheerful expression, placed a hand on de Wardes’s shoulder. Raoul stepped aside to make room for the musketeer. De Wardes shuddered all over and turned pale but didn’t retreat.

D’Artagnan, still smiling, stepped into the space Raoul had made for him. “Thank you, my dear Raoul,” he said. “De Wardes, I need to talk to you. Don’t go away, Raoul; everyone can hear what I have to say to Monsieur de Wardes.” Then his smile faded, and his eyes went as cold and as sharp as a steel blade.

“I’m at your service, Monsieur,” said de Wardes.

“Monsieur, I’ve been looking for an opportunity to speak with you for quite a while, but haven’t found it until today,” said d’Artagnan. “This isn’t the best place for it, I admit, but if you will take the trouble to come to my rooms, they are just downstairs from this gallery.”

“I’m all yours, Monsieur,” said de Wardes.

“Are you by yourself, Monsieur?” said d’Artagnan.

“No, I with Messieurs de Manicamp and de Guiche, two of my friends.”

“Fine,” said d’Artagnan, “but two isn’t enough; can you find a few more?”

“Certainly!” said the young man, who wasn’t sure what d’Artagnan had in mind. “As many as you like.”

“Friends?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“Good friends?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then arrange it, if you please. You too, Raoul—bring along Monsieur de Guiche and Monsieur de Buckingham, if you would.”

“Mon Dieu, Monsieur, what a production!” said de Wardes, trying to smile.

The captain raised a hand to enjoin patience and said, “No rush. I’ll be waiting, Monsieur.”

“Give me a minute.”

“In a minute, then.” And he went down to his chambers.

His rooms weren’t empty; the Comte de La Fère was waiting there, sitting in the embrasure of a window. “Well?” he asked d’Artagnan as he came in.

“Well!” said the latter. “Monsieur de Wardes does me the honor to pay me a visit, in the company of some of his friends and ours.”

In fact, de Wardes and Manicamp came in behind him, followed by de Guiche and Buckingham, surprised and unsure what was afoot. Raoul followed with three other gentlemen; he surveyed the room, spotted the count, and went to stand near him.

D’Artagnan received his visitors with all courtesy, keeping his countenance calm and polite. All his guests were men of distinction well known at Court. He apologized to everyone for any inconvenience he’d caused, then turned to de Wardes, who, despite himself, couldn’t keep from showing some surprise and anxiety.

“Monsieur,” d’Artagnan said, “now that we’re out of the king’s presence, where we can speak frankly without impropriety, I’ll tell you why I took the liberty of inviting you to my quarters, and to gather these gentlemen as well. I’ve learned, from my friend the Comte de La Fère, of the insulting accusations you’ve made about me, and that you consider me your mortal enemy because I had fought with your father.”

“It’s true, Monsieur, I did say that,” hissed de Wardes, his pallor tinged with a slight flame.

“You accuse me of some crime, or fault, or act of cowardice. Please state your accusation.”

“In front of witnesses, Monsieur?”

“Yes, absolutely, in front of witnesses—and you see the witnesses I’ve chosen are experts in matters of honor.”

“I don’t think you properly appreciate my delicacy, Monsieur. I accused you, it’s true, but I have kept confidential the details of my accusation. Rather than act indiscreetly, I chose to express my hatred before people who would be sure to let you know of it. You overlook my discretion, though you said nothing to my silence. This doesn’t seem to me like your usual careful prudence, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan gnawed on the end of his mustache. “Monsieur,” he said, “I’ve already had the honor to beg you to articulate your grievances against me.”

“Aloud?”

“Parbleu!”

“I will speak, then.”

“So, speak, Monsieur,” said d’Artagnan, bowing. “We’re all listening to you.”

“Well, Monsieur, it was not an injury to me, but an injury to my father.”

“You already said that.”

“Yes, but there are certain matters that can be handled only with circumspection.”

“Do you imply that it was a shameful act?”

“In every way.”

The witnesses began to glance at each other anxiously, but they were reassured when they saw that d’Artagnan’s face showed no emotion.

De Wardes was silent.

“Speak, Monsieur,” said the musketeer. “You see that you’re keeping us waiting.”

“Well, then, listen! My father loved a woman, a noble woman, and this woman loved my father.”

D’Artagnan exchanged a glance with Athos.

De Wardes continued. “D’Artagnan intercepted a letter appointing a tryst, and substituted himself, in darkness and disguise, for the invited lover.”

“That’s true,” said d’Artagnan.

A slight murmur was heard from the listeners.

“Yes, I did that disgraceful thing. You should have added, Monsieur, you who are so impartial, that at the time of the event you reproach me for I was not yet twenty-one years old.”

“The act was no less shameful for that,” said de Wardes, “and the age of reason is old enough for a gentleman not to commit an indelicacy.”

A louder murmur was heard, of astonishment and almost doubt.

“It was a shameful trick, indeed,” said d’Artagnan, “and I didn’t wait for Monsieur de Wardes’s reproaches to reproach myself for it, and very bitterly, too. Age has made me more reasonable, and above all more honest, and I’ve expiated this shame by long and deep regrets. But I appeal to you, gentlemen: it happened in 1626, at a time that, luckily for you, you know only from history, a time when romance lacked scruples, and a man’s conscience didn’t choke him with poison and bitterness. We were young soldiers at war, sometimes winning, sometimes losing, with our swords rarely long in their sheaths; the hand of war made us hard, and the hand of the cardinal made us hasty. But I repented all that long ago, Monsieur de Wardes, and there are other things I’m still repenting.”

“Yes, Monsieur, that’s understandable, for the action required repentance—but you nonetheless brought a lady to ruin. She of whom you speak, overcome by shame, crushed by the insult, was driven from France, and we never knew what became of her….”

“But others did,” said the Comte de La Fère, raising his arm toward de Wardes with a grim smile. “Yes, Monsieur, others did, and there are still some who, having heard of her, will recognize her from the portrait I shall draw. She was a woman of twenty-five, slender, fair, and blond, who had married in England.”

“Married?” said de Wardes.

“Ah, you didn’t know she was married? You see, Monsieur de Wardes, that we are better informed than you. Did you know she was usually referred to as Milady, with no other name than that?”

“Yes, Monsieur, I knew that.”

“My God,” murmured Buckingham.

“Well! This Milady, having come from England, returned there, after having three times conspired at the murder of Monsieur d’Artagnan. Simple justice, you might say; after all, Monsieur d’Artagnan had insulted her. But it was not for justice that while in England, by her seductions, she enslaved a young man in the service of Lord de Winter, a man named Felton. Do you grow pale, Milord Buckingham? Your eyes kindle with anger and pain. Then finish the story, Milord, and tell Monsieur de Wardes about the woman who put the knife in the hand of your father’s assassin.”

A gasp came from every mouth. The young duke said nothing, only mopped his suddenly sodden forehead with a handkerchief. Silence fell upon all the listeners.

“You see, Monsieur de Wardes,” said d’Artagnan, unexpectedly moved as his memories were revived by Athos’s words, “my crime caused no lady to lose her soul, for this woman’s soul was lost long before my deceitful act. But it was still a matter that gnawed at my conscience. However, now that the fact has been established, it remains for me to ask you, Monsieur de Wardes, very humbly to pardon this shameful act, as I would have asked your father’s forgiveness, if he still lived, upon my return to France after the death of Charles I.”

“That’s going too far, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” several voices burst out.

“I think not, Messieurs,” said the captain. “Now, Monsieur de Wardes, I hope the matter is settled between us, and you will no longer speak ill of me. That heals the wound, does it not?”

De Wardes looked down and muttered something unintelligible.

“I hope, too,” said d’Artagnan, stepping closer to the young man, “that you will give up the unfortunate habit of speaking ill of others, for a man as upright and conscientious as you, who would reproach an old soldier with the sins of his youth thirty-five years before—you, I repeat, so upright and conscientious, must accept the duty to do nothing yourself that would violate honor and conscience. Listen to what I say to you, Monsieur de Wardes. Take care that no shameful story that involves your name should reach my ears.”

“Monsieur, there’s no point in threatening me over nothing,” said de Wardes.

“Nothing? But I haven’t finished, Monsieur de Wardes,” said d’Artagnan, “and I’m afraid that I have more yet to say.”

The circle of listeners, curious, closed in.

“You spoke just now of the honor of a lady and the honor of your father, and that pleased us, for it’s sweet to think that this feeling of delicacy and honor so rare in my generation’s soul lives now in the soul of our children, and it’s encouraging to see a young man at the age where one is usually the thief of a woman’s honor instead respecting and defending them.”

De Wardes pursed his lips and clenched his fists, clearly anxious about where a speech that started so ominously would end.

“How is it, then,” continued d’Artagnan, “that you allowed yourself to say to Monsieur de Bragelonne that he did not know his mother?”

Raoul’s eyes flashed. “Oh, Monsieur le Chevalier,” he cried, rushing forward, “Monsieur le Chevalier, that’s a matter personal to me.”

De Wardes smiled wickedly.

D’Artagnan’s arm restrained Raoul. “Young man, don’t interrupt me,” he said. And looking down at de Wardes, he continued, “I’m dealing here with the kind of question that isn’t solved by the sword. I bring it up before men of honor who have all had their swords in their hands more than once. I chose them deliberately, for these gentlemen all know that a secret one fights for cannot remain a secret. I repeat my question to you, Monsieur de Wardes: why did you offend this young man by insulting both his father and his mother?”

“It seems to me,” said de Wardes, “that one may speak freely when one supports his words with the means at the disposal of a man of honor.”

“Indeed, Monsieur? What are the means by which a man of honor can support dishonorable words?”

“By the sword.”

“You’re wrong, not only by logic, but also by faith and by honor, and being wrong you would risk the lives of several men in addition to your own, which seems reckless to me. All fashions pass away, Monsieur, and the fashion for such armed encounters has passed, not to mention that there are His Majesty’s edicts that forbid dueling. So, to be consistent with your own ideas of chivalry, you will apologize to Monsieur Raoul de Bragelonne; you will tell him that you regret having made such a petty remark, and that the nobility and purity of his heritage are written, not just on his face, but in all the actions of his life. You will make this apology, Monsieur de Wardes, as I made mine just now, me, an old captain, to your downy lad’s mustache.”

“And what if I don’t?” de Wardes demanded.

“Well! If it comes to that….”

“It will come to what you hoped to prevent!” said de Wardes with a laugh. “All of your logic of conciliation will just lead to a violation of the king’s edicts.”

“No, Monsieur, you’re quite wrong,” the captain said quietly.

“What will happen, then?”

“What will happen is that I will go to the king, with whom I’m in pretty good standing; the king, to whom I’ve had the happiness to render some service since before the time you were born; the king, in short, who, at my request, has just given me a carte blanche for Monsieur Baisemeaux de Montlezun,87 Governor of the Bastille. I will say to the king, ‘Sire, a man has delivered a cowardly insult about the person of his mother to Monsieur de Bragelonne. I have filled that man’s name in the lettre de cachet88 that Your Majesty kindly gave me, and by it Monsieur de Wardes shall be confined in the Bastille for three years.’”

And d’Artagnan, drawing from his pocket an order signed by the king, handed it to de Wardes.

Then, seeing that the young man was not entirely convinced and thought he was bluffing, he shrugged his shoulders and strode calmly to the table, where there was ink and a plume large enough even for Porthos.

Then de Wardes saw that the threat was serious—and the Bastille, even in that time, was already a source of terror. He took a step toward Raoul and said, in an almost unintelligible voice, “Monsieur, I apologize to you in the terms which Monsieur d’Artagnan has dictated, and which I am forced to say to you.”

“Now, now, Monsieur,” said the musketeer with the utmost tranquility. “I did not dictate, ‘which I am forced to say to you.’ I said that the apology was one that your conscience compelled you to make. That phrase is superior, believe me, and will be a more convincing expression of your feelings.”

“I agree to that phrasing, then,” said de Wardes, “though in truth, Messieurs, you must admit that a sword thrust through the body, the former method, is better than this bullying.”

“No, Monsieur,” replied Buckingham, “for taking a sword thrust doesn’t show whether you were right or wrong, it means only that you were less skilled.”

“Monsieur…!” cried de Wardes.

“Ah ah!” interrupted d’Artagnan, cutting de Wardes off. “You’re about to say something unwise, and I’m doing you the favor of stopping you.”

“Is that all, Monsieur?” demanded de Wardes.

“Absolutely all,” replied d’Artagnan, “and these gentlemen and I are satisfied with you.”

“Believe me, Monsieur,” said de Wardes, “your verbal expediencies don’t satisfy everyone!”

“And why is that?”

“Because I would wager that Monsieur de Bragelonne and I will part even greater enemies than before.”

“You are mistaken about me, Monsieur,” replied Raoul. “I don’t have even an atom of enmity in my heart toward you.”

D’Artagnan bowed graciously to the gentlemen who had been kind enough to attend this exhibition, and each one shook his hand as they departed.

No one shook de Wardes’s hand.

“Oh!” cried the young man, succumbing to the rage devouring his heart. “Is there no one upon whom I can avenge myself?”

“Indeed there is, Monsieur, because there’s still me,” whispered a voice in his ear dripping with menace.

De Wardes turned to see the Duke of Buckingham, who, apparently remaining behind for just this purpose, had drawn near. “You, Monsieur!” cried de Wardes.

“Yes, me. I’m no subject of the King of France, and I’m not staying in his realm, since I’m leaving for England. And I, too, am consumed with rage and despair. Like you, I need to avenge myself on someone. I approve of the principles stated by Monsieur d’Artagnan, but I’m not obliged to apply them to you. I’m English, and I’m here to propose to you what you have vainly proposed to others.”

“Monsieur le Duc!”

“Come, Monsieur de Wardes, since you’re so angry, use me for your target dummy. I’ll be in Calais in thirty-four hours. Ride with me, the road will seem shorter with company. We’ll draw our swords on the strand that’s covered by the tide, land which for six hours at a time is the territory of France and for the following six hours belongs only to God.”

“Very well,” replied de Wardes, “I accept.”

“By God!” said the duke. “If you kill me, Monsieur de Wardes, I swear you’ll be doing me a favor.”

“I’ll do what I can to make myself agreeable, Duke,” said de Wardes.

“Then it’s agreed, you’re coming with me.”

“I’m at your service. Pardieu! I need to soothe my heart with some mortal danger.”

“Well, I think we’ve found it for you! Your servant, Monsieur de Wardes; tomorrow morning, my footman will call upon you to name the time of our departure. We’ll travel together as friends, but understand that I like to travel fast. Adieu!” Buckingham bowed to de Wardes and returned to the king’s gaming party.

De Wardes, exasperated, left the Palais Royal and rode fiercely to his Paris address.

~ THE END ~

This is the conclusion to Musketeers Book Six, Court of Daggers

But the story continues in Book Seven, Devil’s Dance, and all paid subscriptions to the Musketeers Cycle will continue next week with Episode One of that volume. The adventures continue!

Notes on the Text of Court of Daggers

86.  LOST FOR SEVERAL DAYS IN A BEAUTIFUL DREAM: This is most likely a reference to the tale in A Thousand and One Nights in which Badr al-Din is enchanted by djinni into a dream-state and spirited away to Damascus, where he is unsure whether he’s asleep or awake.

87.  BAISEMEAUX DE MONTLEZUN: François de Montlezun, Seigneur de Baisemeaux or Besmeaux, Governor of the Bastille (c. 1613—1697). A Gascon like d’Artagnan, Baisemeaux came to Paris and joined the King’s Musketeers in 1634, where it’s known he was friends with the historical d’Artagnan during their shared time in the regiment. He saw action in Italy in the 1640s, and Cardinal Mazarin made him captain of his personal guard in 1649. He gained the prize office of Governor of the Bastille in 1658, a post he held for forty years until his death.

88.  LETTRE DE CACHET: A letter signed by the King of France, usually for imprisonment, a decree that cannot be appealed.

ALEXANDRE DUMAS’ MUSKETEERS CYCLE

Court of Daggers is part of a series. Everyone has heard of The Three Musketeers and its heroes d’Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, but what’s less well known nowadays is that Dumas followed up his greatest novel with a series of sequels that are just as great. Your Cheerful Editor Lawrence Ellsworth has been compiling all-new contemporary translations of these novels, and the entire series, when complete, will fill nine volumes:

-        The Three Musketeers, Book One

-        The Red Sphinx, Book Two

-        Twenty Years After, Book Three

-        Blood Royal, Book Four

-        Between Two Kings, Book Five

-        Court of Daggers, Book Six

-        Devil’s Dance, Book Seven

-        Shadow of the Bastille, Book Eight

-        The Man in the Iron Mask, Book Nine

The first five volumes are already in print and available from Pegasus Books. Court of Daggers has now completed its serial publication, and shortly its episodes will be compiled into a conventional book and ebook. Meanwhile, next week we begin the serialization of Devil’s Dance. I hope you’ll all come along for the ride!

—Lawrence Ellsworth

Copyright © 2022 Lawrence Schick. All rights reserved.