Shadow of the Bastille
Being the Fourth Part of Le Vicomte de Bragelonne
By Alexandre Dumas
Edited and Translated by Lawrence Ellsworth
In Last Week’s Episode
After his seaside duel with Buckingham, the villainous Comte de Wardes finally returned to court, where he immediately began stirring up trouble. His target was the Comte de Guiche, whom he hoped to provoke into a duel on horseback over de Guiche’s secret affair with Princess Henrietta, but, protective of Madame’s name, he couldn’t be goaded into a fight on that basis. But when it came to defending the name of Louise de La Vallière, the fiancée of his friend Raoul de Bragelonne, de Guiche felt compelled to accept.
Chapter IV
The Duel
De Wardes chose his horse, and de Guiche selected his, and then they saddled them with holster saddles. De Wardes had no pistols, but de Guiche had two pairs; he fetched them from his rooms, loaded them, and offered de Wardes the choice. De Wardes chose the pistols he’d used twenty times before, the same with which de Guiche had seen him kill swallows on the wing.
“You shouldn’t be surprised that I’m taking every precaution,” said de Wardes. “You’re familiar with your weapons. I’m just evening the odds.”
“A pointless remark,” said de Guiche. “You’re within your rights.”
“Now,” said de Wardes, “I must ask you to help me mount my horse, as I still have trouble with that.”
“Maybe we’d better do this on foot.”
“No, once I’m in the saddle, I’ll be fine.”
“All right, enough talk, then.” And de Guiche helped de Wardes up onto his horse.
“Now, in our eagerness to exterminate ourselves,” continued de Wardes, “there’s something we didn’t take into account.”
“What’s that?”
“Night has fallen, and we’ll have to grope to find each other in the dark.”
“It’s all one. The ending will be the same.”
“And another thing: honest gentlemen don’t go to a duel without seconds.”
“Oh, come!” cried de Guiche. “Are you really that keen on following the rules?”
“Yes. If you kill me, I don’t want it said that I was murdered—and if I kill you, I don’t want to be charged with a crime.”
“Has anyone said such a thing about your duel with Buckingham?” asked de Guiche. “It took place under basically the same conditions as ours.”
“No, it was still daylight, we were in water up to our thighs, and the shore was lined with spectators who were watching us.”
De Guiche thought for a moment and concluded that de Wardes wanted witnesses so he could turn the conversation once more back to Madame and give the fight a different complexion. So, he didn’t reply, and when de Wardes questioned him again, he just gave a nod to indicate that things were fine as they stood.
The adversaries set out, leaving the château by the same gate near which we recently saw Montalais and Malicorne. The night, as if to reject the heat of the day, had gathered and pushed all the heavy clouds together from west to east. This dense ceiling, solid clouds but without a trace of thunder, bulged down toward the earth, where it was pierced by the wind and began to fray like torn cloth. Large, warm drops began to fall in a scatter to the ground, where they clumped the dust into rolling globules. At the same time, the dried foliage seemed to breathe in the moisture of the storm, and the flowers, hedges, and trees exhaled a thousand scents that evoked sweet memories of youth, love, and happiness.
“The earth smells very good tonight,” said de Wardes. “It’s a seduction that’s trying to keep us upon it.”
“By the way,” replied de Guiche, “I have several ideas I’d like to bring up.”
“About?”
“About our combat.”
“Indeed, it’s high time we discussed the details.”
“Will it be an ordinary duel, settled according to custom?”
“Which custom did you have in mind?”
“We dismount in an open area, tie our horses to whatever’s handy, approach each other unarmed, then back away one hundred fifty paces before charging each other.”
“Fine! That’s how I killed poor Follivent last month at Saint-Denis.”
“Excuse me, but you forgot one detail.”
“What?”
“In your duel with Follivent, you marched on foot toward each other with your swords in your teeth and your pistols in your hands.”
“True.”
“But now, since you can’t really march, as you yourself admit, we should remount our horses and charge mounted, and then fire at will.”
“Good idea, but it’s dark, and the affair may require more shots than in daylight.”
“Right! We’ll each fire three shots, one for each pistol, with a single reload.”
“Perfect! Where shall we fight?”
“Do you have a preference?”
“Do you see that little stand of trees ahead of us?”
“The Rochin Wood? That will do.”
“You’re familiar with it?”
“Completely.”
“You know the clearing in its center?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s go to that clearing.”
“So be it!” said de Guiche.
“It’s a sort of natural enclosed battlefield, with twisting paths, underbrush, blind turns, and shrubbery; it will meet our needs perfectly.”
“It suits me if it suits you. This is it, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Look at that beautiful open glade in the center. The glints of light that fall from the stars, as Corneille says, seem to concentrate in the middle, and the natural bounds are the woods around the outside.”
“It’s fine! Let’s get to it.”
“First, let’s finish the terms and conditions.”
“Here are mine; if you have any complaints, let me know.”
“I’m listening,” said de Wardes.
“If his horse is slain, the rider must continue on foot.”
“No doubt about it, since we have no spare horses.”
“But that doesn’t force the opponent to dismount.”
“The opponent may act as they see fit.”
“The adversaries, having closed, may not separate, and must therefore shoot at short range.”
“Agreed. No more than three shots, right?”
“That’s enough, I think. Here are powder and balls for your pistols; measure out three shots, I’ll do the same, and we’ll toss the rest into the bushes.”
“And we should swear by Christ that we have no more balls or powder on us,” added de Wardes.
“I so swear.” And de Guiche held a hand up toward the sky.
De Wardes did the same. “And now, my dear Count,” he said, “let me tell you that I’m not fooled by anything you’ve said tonight. You are, or soon will be, Madame’s lover; I’ve divined your secret, you’re afraid that I’ll reveal it and want to kill me to keep me quiet. In your place, I’d do the same.”
De Guiche lowered his head.
“But tell me,” continued de Wardes triumphantly, “was it really worthwhile to aggravate me again with that paltry Bragelonne affair? Take care, mon cher ami, for when you corner the wild boar, you enrage it, and when you vex the fox, it turns with the ferocity of a jaguar. You have vexed me, and I’ll fight to the death.”
“That’s your right.”
“Yes, so take care, for I mean to do you harm. First of all, you can be sure that I didn’t make the mistake of locking up my secret, or rather your secret, in my heart. I have a friend, a kindred spirit whom you know, with whom I’ve shared my secret, so don’t think it will do you any good to kill me. On the other hand, if I kill you, dame! I can do whatever I want to whomever I want.”
De Guiche shivered.
“If I kill you,” continued de Wardes, “you will leave behind two enemies to Madame who will do their best to ruin her.”
“Ah, Monsieur!” cried de Guiche angrily. “Don’t count so soon upon my death. Of those two enemies, I hope to kill the first now and the second at the earliest opportunity.”
De Wardes’s only reply was a burst of laughter so diabolical that a superstitious man would have been frightened.
But de Guiche was not so susceptible. “I think everything is settled, Monsieur de Wardes,” he said. “Choose your location first, unless you’d prefer I do.”
“Not at all,” said de Wardes. “I’m happy to spare you the trouble.” And, putting his horse to the gallop, he crossed to the far side of the clearing, where he took up a position on the path opposite to where de Guiche had stopped.
De Guiche remained motionless. At a distance of a hundred paces, the adversaries were completely invisible to each other, hidden as they were in the shadows beneath the overarching elms and chestnuts.
A minute passed in the deepest silence, at the end of which each man heard the double click of his opponent cocking his pistols in the shadows.
De Guiche, following the usual tactics, put his horse into a gallop, convinced that his safety would be doubly guaranteed by speed and his rollicking movement in the saddle. He charged in a straight line toward where he thought to find his opponent.
He expected to meet de Wardes halfway in the middle of the clearing, but he was wrong. He continued his charge, assuming de Wardes was awaiting him in his starting position.
But two-thirds of the way across the clearing the glade was lit by a flash, and a ball clipped the plume from his hat. Almost instantly, as if the first flash lit the way for the second, another shot rang out, and a ball buried itself in the head of de Guiche’s horse, just below the ear. The animal fell.
These two shots, coming from a direction quite different from where he expected to find de Wardes, took de Guiche by surprise, but he kept his head and managed his fall, though not quite well enough to keep the toe of one boot from being caught beneath the horse. Fortunately, the horse writhed in its death agony and de Guiche was able to free his leg.
De Guiche got up and patted himself all over; he was uninjured. The moment he’d felt the horse failing, he’d thrust his pistols into the saddle holsters, lest his fall cause one or even both of them to go off, disarming him unnecessarily. Now standing, he drew both pistols from their holsters and marched toward where he’d seen de Wardes by the flash of his fire.
After the initial surprise, de Guiche understood his adversary’s maneuver, which could not have been simpler. Instead of riding toward de Guiche or awaiting him in his starting position, de Wardes had quietly ridden about fifteen paces around the edge of the clearing, keeping to the shadows, and as soon as his opponent had ridden far enough to present him his flank, he aimed easily and steadily from his immobile horse and fired. And despite the darkness, the first ball had passed only an inch above de Guiche’s head.
De Wardes was so sure of his aim that he was certain de Guiche would fall. He was astonished to see the rider still in his saddle and rushed his second shot, dipping his hand and killing the horse. Fortunately for de Wardes, his opponent was briefly pinned beneath his mount; by the time he’d freed himself, de Wardes hoped to reload his third shot and have de Guiche at his mercy.
But on the contrary, de Guiche was on his feet quickly with three shots still to fire. De Guiche understood the situation: it was all about speed. He set out at a run, hoping to reach de Wardes before he reloaded.
De Wardes saw him coming on like a storm. His pistol ball was rough and resisted the rod; to load sloppily was to risk losing his last shot, but to be careful could cost him his life. He made his horse rear up. De Guiche paused and, as the horse came down again, he fired, knocking off de Wardes’s hat.
De Wardes had gained a moment and used it to finish reloading his pistol. De Guiche, not seeing his opponent fall, threw away his empty weapon, marched toward de Wardes and raised his second pistol.
But at his third step, de Wardes took aim and fired. A roar of anger was the reply as de Guiche’s arm twitched and flailed. His pistol fell to the ground.
De Wardes saw the count bend down, pick up the pistol in his left hand, and take another step forward.
It was the moment of destiny. “He’s not mortally wounded,” de Wardes murmured. “I’m lost.”
But just as de Guiche raised his pistol to de Wardes, his head, shoulders, and legs shivered at once, and he collapsed. He moaned painfully and rolled at the hooves of de Wardes’s horse.
“Time to go!” muttered de Wardes. And, gathering the reins, he drove in both spurs. The horse jumped the inert body and quickly carried de Wardes back to the château.
Once he’d arrived, de Wardes took a quarter of an hour to think things through. In his impatience to leave the battlefield, he’d neglected to make sure that de Guiche was dead. Two possibilities occurred to de Wardes’s anxious mind: de Guiche was either dead or only wounded. “And if he was dead, should I have left his body to the wolves?” That would have been an unnecessary cruelty, since if de Guiche were dead he certainly couldn’t talk.
But if he wasn’t dead, wouldn’t leaving him there make de Wardes look like a heartless savage?
This latter consideration won out. De Wardes sought out Manicamp and was told that he’d looked for de Guiche and, not finding him, had gone to bed.
De Wardes awoke the sleeper and told him the whole story. Manicamp listened without saying a word, but with an expression of increasing dismay that anyone who knew his habitual calm would have said was impossible. When de Wardes had finished, Manicamp said only two words: “Let’s go!”
They went on foot. As they marched, de Wardes recounted the event again in greater detail, and Manicamp’s expression grew ever darker. “So,” Manicamp said when de Wardes finally fell silent, “do you think he’s dead?”
“Alas, yes!”
“And you fought like that without witnesses?”
“That’s how he wanted it.”
“It’s strange!”
“Strange? How so?”
“It doesn’t sound like de Guiche to me.”
“You’re not doubting my word, are you?”
“Ha!”
“You doubt me, then?”
“A bit. And I warn you, I’ll doubt you much more if I find the poor boy dead.”
“Monsieur de Manicamp!”
“Monsieur de Wardes!”
“I think you’re insulting me!”
“Suit yourself. What would you have? I’ve never cared for those who say, ‘I’ve killed Monsieur So-and-So in an alley; it’s a great tragedy, but everything was done honorably.’ The whole thing has an ugly look, Monsieur de Wardes!”
“Enough! We’ve arrived.”
In fact, they’d entered the clearing, and saw in its center the dead horse, a motionless mound. Near the horse, flattening the grass, the count lay face down, bathed in blood. He was exactly where de Wardes had left him and didn’t seem to have moved an inch.
Manicamp fell to his knees, lifted the count, and found his body cold and bloody. He let it fall. Then, hunting through the grass, he searched until he found de Guiche’s pistol.
“Morbleu!” he said, rising pale as a specter, the pistol in his hand. “You were quite right; he’s dead!”
“Dead?” repeated de Wardes.
“Yes—and his pistol is still loaded,” added Manicamp, inspecting the pan.
“But didn’t I tell you that I caught him as he charged and fired as he aimed at me?”
“Are you sure you fought a duel with him, Monsieur de Wardes? For I confess, it looks like you murdered him. No indignation, if you please! You fired your three shots, and his pistol is still loaded. You killed his horse, while de Guiche, one of the finest marksmen in France, hit neither you nor your mount! You made a mistake in bringing me here, Monsieur de Wardes, because I find the blood is rushing to my head. I suppose I must be flushed with honor. And I think, since the opportunity presents itself, that I shall blow your brains out. Monsieur de Wardes, commend your soul to God!”
“Monsieur de Manicamp, think about what you’re doing!”
“In fact, I think I’ve thought quite enough.”
“You would assassinate me?”
“Without remorse, for the moment, at least.”
“Is that the act of a gentleman?”
“If I do it, it is.”
“At least let me defend myself!”
“Why? So you can do to me what you’ve done to poor de Guiche?”
And Manicamp, with a grim frown, slowly raised the pistol until it was pointed directly at de Wardes’s chest.
De Wardes was so terrified he didn’t even try to run.
And then, in the appalling silence of that moment, which seemed to de Wardes to last a century, they heard a groan.
“Oh!” cried de Wardes. “He’s alive! Alive! Help me, Monsieur de Guiche, he wants to murder me!”
Manicamp stepped back, and between them the two men could see the count painfully pushing himself up with one hand.
Manicamp tossed the pistol far away and knelt by his friend with a cry of joy.
De Wardes wiped the cold sweat from his forehead. “Just in time!” he murmured.
“Where are you hurt?” Manicamp asked de Guiche. “Show me!”
De Guiche raised his mutilated hand to his bloody chest.
“Count!” cried de Wardes. “I’m accused of having assassinated you. Please, tell him that I fought honorably!”
“It’s true,” gasped the wounded man. “Monsieur de Wardes fought with honor, and anyone who says otherwise must account for it to me.”
“Come, Monsieur,” said Manicamp, “help me get this poor boy home, and afterward I’ll give you whatever satisfaction you like. Or if you’re in a hurry, we can bandage the count with our handkerchiefs, and since there are two shots left to fire, let’s shoot them.”
“No thank you,” said de Wardes. “I’ve faced death twice in the last hour and that’s enough for me; I prefer your apologies.”
Manicamp laughed, and de Guiche did too, despite his pain.
The two young men offered to carry de Guiche, but he said he felt strong enough to walk on his own. The ball had shattered his ring and small fingers and then grazed a rib without entering his chest. It was the shock of the wound rather than its severity that had caused him to pass out.
Manicamp put himself under one arm, de Wardes under the other, and together they brought him to Fontainebleau, to the doctor who had attended at his deathbed the Franciscan predecessor4 of Aramis.*
Notes on the Text of Shadow of the Bastille
4. THE FRANCISCAN PREDECESSOR OF ARAMIS: The venerable but unnamed General of the Jesuits, a Franciscan monk, died leaving his position and power in Aramis’ hands (as seen in Devil’s Dance).
Historical Characters
ARAMIS: Aramis, Chevalier René d’Herblay, Bishop of Vannes, is based loosely on Henri, Seigneur d’Aramitz (1620?–1655 or 1674), but Dumas drew the character from Courtilz de Sandras’s fictionalized Memoirs of Monsieur d’Artagnan (circa 1700). In his pseudo-biography of d’Artagnan Sandras had made Aramis the brother of Athos and Porthos, but the historical d’Aramitz was a Gascon petty nobleman, an abbot who spent at least the first half of the 1640s serving under his uncle, Captain de Tréville, in the King’s Musketeers. Sources disagree as to the date of his death. The sly and ambitious Aramis of the Musketeers Cycle is entirely an invention of Dumas.
ALEXANDRE DUMAS’ MUSKETEERS CYCLE
Shadow of the Bastille 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
Volumes one through seven are already in print, the first five from Pegasus Books, while Books Six, Court of Daggers, and Seven, Devil’s Dance, are available as independent publications. Each week now brings a new episode in the serialization of Book Eight, Shadow of the Bastille.
If you’re interested in my work, you can learn more about it at swashbucklingadventure.net. Also, be sure to check out my parallel Substack, cinemaofswords.substack.com.
Welcome, fellow cavaliers, and enjoy the ride!
—Lawrence Ellsworth
Copyright © 2023 Lawrence Schick. All rights reserved.
Just received my copy of Devil’s Dance in the mail. Looking forward to the next part of the cycle. As always, thank you for your work. Happy holidays!