Shadow of the Bastille

Episode 51

Shadow of the Bastille

Being the Fourth Part of Le Vicomte de Bragelonne

By Alexandre Dumas

Edited and Translated by Lawrence Ellsworth

Shadow’s End

This week’s episode is the conclusion of Alexandre Dumas’s Shadow of the Bastille, and therefore also the conclusion, for now, of this Musketeers Substack. All subscription charges will be suspended from now forward, and this Substack will henceforth accept no new subscribers.

As your editor and translator, I’ve had a grand time over the last two and a half years bringing you Court of Daggers, Devil’s Dance, and now Shadow of the Bastille. It was fascinating to follow in the shoes of Dumas, who originally published all this material in weekly serial form—returning it to its roots, as it were. I managed to get an episode out every single week, but given the other demands of an overcommitted writing life, I can’t say it wasn’t without strain. I’ve enjoyed this to the end, but I’m glad to wrap it up and move on to a new phase. I will also be suspending my Cinema of Swords Substack, which has been even harder maintain, but my health and energy levels aren’t what they were when I started this experiment, and I need to get off this particular treadmill. The career of a professional writer these days is constantly changing, and it’s a complicated dance to keep up.

Rest assured, I’m not by any means retiring. I will continue to work on reviews for an eventual second volume of Cinema of Swords, and I’m six chapters in on the first pass of a historical fantasy novel. Plus, my day job for Larian Studios is as a writer on top-end role-playing video games, and I’m very busy there now that we’ve gone into full pre-production on our next big title.

I thank you all for coming along on this interesting publishing journey. My next task is to compile Shadow of the Bastille into a single volume for publication sometime in December: you’re all on my mailing list, so you’ll receive due notification of that. The final volume in the Musketeers Cycle, The Man in the Iron Mask, will be published in spring of 2025 by Pegasus Books of New York and London. Keep an eye out for it: it’s even better than Shadow of the Bastille and gives Dumas’s long series a thoroughly satisfying ending.

In Last Week’s Episode

D’Artagnan returned to the Bastille with the king’s order countermanding the lettre de cachet imprisoning Athos there, to the pleasure of everyone, Aramis included, except for Governor Baisemeaux, who had been looking forward to having another well-paying prisoner on his roster. But meanwhile, Porthos, Athos’s son Raoul, and his loyal retainer Grimaud figured out that d’Artagnan must have been taking Athos to the Bastille as a royal prisoer, and scrambled to find a way to rescue the Comte de La Fère.

Chapter LVII

In Which Porthos is Convinced Without Understanding Anything

The worthy Porthos, faithful to the ancient laws of chivalry, had decided to wait for Monsieur de Saint-Aignan until sunset. And, as Saint-Aignan was not going to come, and as Raoul had forgotten to inform his second of that fact, the wait began to grow long and wearisome, so Porthos had prevailed upon the park’s gate warden to bring him some bottles of good wine and a joint of meat, just so he’d have the distraction of pulling a few corks and taking a few bites. He was in his last extremity—that is, down to the final morsels—when Raoul and Grimaud galloped up at full speed.

When Porthos saw two horsemen approaching up the road in such a hurry, he had no doubt but that these were his men, and, rising from the lawn where he had been reclining, he began stretching his limbs and wrists, saying, “See what it is to have good habits—the clown has finally decided to show up after all. If I’d given up and left, he could have claimed a victory by default.”

Then he assumed a martial pose, hand on one hip while arching his mighty back to emphasize his towering stature. But instead of Saint-Aignan coming he saw only Raoul, who approached shouting, “Ah, dear friend! Please pardon me! I feel terrible about this!”

“Raoul!” said Porthos, quite surprised.

“Are you angry with me?” asked Raoul, dismounting to embrace Porthos.

“Me? What for?”

“For forgetting about you. Because, you see, I lost my head.”

“Ah, bah!”

“If you only knew, my friend.”

“Have you killed him?”

“Who?”

“Saint-Aignan.”

“Alas! If only this was about Saint-Aignan.”

“What’s it about, then?”

“Monsieur le Comte de La Fère has just been arrested.”

Porthos started suddenly, a movement that could have knocked down a wall. “Arrested! By whom?”

“By d’Artagnan!”

“That’s impossible,” said Porthos.

“However, it’s the truth,” replied Raoul.

Porthos turned to Grimaud like a man who needs a second opinion. Grimaud nodded.

“And where did they take him?” Porthos asked.

“Probably to the Bastille.”

“What gives you that idea?”

“Along the way here, we talked to people who had seen their closed carriage, and others who saw it enter the Bastille.”

“Ooh!” growled Porthos, and he took two mighty steps.

“What are you thinking?” asked Raoul.

“Me? Nothing. Only, I don’t want Athos in the Bastille.”

Raoul asked Porthos, “Are you aware that it was by order of the king that the arrest was made?”

Porthos gave the young man a look as if to say, What’s that to me?

This silent language seemed so eloquent to Raoul that he didn’t ask for more. He mounted his horse. Porthos, assisted by Grimaud, had already done the same.

“Let’s draw up our plan,” said Raoul.

“Yes,” replied Porthos. “Our plan, we should draw it up.”

Raoul sighed deeply and stopped.

“What’s wrong?” asked Porthos. “Feeling ill?”

“No, feeling helpless. Do we think the three of us are going to take the Bastille?”

“Hum. If d’Artagnan was with us, I wouldn’t say we couldn’t,” replied Porthos.

Raoul was struck with admiration by this heroic confidence and its force of simplicity. These were the famous men who, in groups of three or four, had challenged armies and assaulted castles! These men who had faced death and survived the ruins of a century were still stronger than the hardiest of the young. “Monsieur,” he said to Porthos, “that’s a great idea: we absolutely must go find Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“He probably returned home after conducting my father to the Bastille.”

“Let’s inquire first at the Bastille,” said Grimaud, who spoke little but always to the point.

They soon arrived at the gate of the fortress. At a moment of chance, such as God grants to those of resolute will, Grimaud spotted a closed carriage approaching the gate at the drawbridge. This was when d’Artagnan, as we’ve seen, was returning from the king.

In vain did Raoul press his horse forward to try to catch up with the carriage and see who was within it. The vehicle passed beneath the gate’s portcullis, which closed behind it, and a guard on duty thrust his musket in front of the nose of Raoul’s horse. Raoul spun his horse about and rode a few paces away, satisfied at having seen the carriage that had taken away his father.

“We have it,” said Grimaud.

“If we wait a bit, it’s sure to come out again, don’t you think, my friend?”

“Unless d’Artagnan is also a prisoner,” replied Porthos, “in which case all is lost.”

Raoul said nothing to that. Anything was possible. He advised Grimaud to lead the horses around the corner into the alley of Jean-Beausire to avoid suspicion while he, with his keen young eyes, watched for the emergence of d’Artagnan or the carriage.

It was the right tactic: less than twenty minutes later the gate opened and the carriage reappeared. Its shutters prevented Raoul from seeing who was within, but Grimaud swore he’d glimpsed two people, one of whom was his master. Porthos glanced back and forth between Raoul and Grimaud, hoping to guess what they had in mind.

“It’s obvious,” said Grimaud, “that if Monsieur le Comte is in this carriage, either he’s been released or he’s being taken to another prison.”

“We’ll know that by what route they take,” said Porthos.

“If he’s been set free,” said Grimaud, “they’ll take him home.”

“That’s true,” said Porthos.

“The carriage isn’t taking that route,” said Raoul.

And indeed, the carriage had turned toward the suburb of Saint-Antoine.

“Ride after it,” said Porthos. “We’ll attack the carriage on the road and tell Athos to escape.”

“Open rebellion!” murmured Raoul.

Porthos gave Raoul a look of haughty inquiry. Raoul only leaned down in the saddle and rode harder.

Soon enough, the three riders caught up with the carriage and were so close behind it, their mounts’ foam flecked the body of the vehicle.

D’Artagnan, ever alert, heard the clatter of horses’ hooves just as Raoul was telling Porthos to pass the carriage to see who was inside with Athos. Porthos obeyed but couldn’t see past the lowered shutters.

Raoul, seized by anger and impatience, was determined to discover who was inside with Athos, even if he had to go to extremities.

Meanwhile, d’Artagnan had instantly recognized Porthos, and then, between the slats of the shutters, saw Raoul as well. He informed the count what was up, and they waited to see how far Raoul and Porthos would push things.

They didn’t have to wait long. Raoul, pistol in hand, leapt onto the lead horse of the carriage team and ordered the driver to stop.

Porthos simply seized the coachman and ejected him from his seat.

Grimaud was already at the door of the carriage as it rolled to a stop.

The passengers came out.

Raoul opened his arms wide and cried, “Monsieur le Comte! Monsieur le Comte!”

“Well! Is that you, Raoul?” said Athos, giddy with joy.

“Not bad!” added d’Artagnan with a burst of laughter.

And they embraced the young man before Porthos seized them both at once.

“My brave Porthos, excellent friend!” said Athos. “Who else but you?”

“It’s like he’s still twenty years old!” said d’Artagnan. “Well done, Porthos!”

“Dame!” replied Porthos, a little confused. “We thought you’d been arrested.”

“Just a little promenade in Monsieur d’Artagnan’s carriage,” said Athos.

“But we followed you from the Bastille,” replied Raoul in a tone of suspicion and reproach.

“Where we had gone to dine with good Monsieur de Baisemeaux. You remember Baisemeaux, don’t you, Porthos?”

“Pardieu! Of course.”

“And we saw Aramis there.”

“At the Bastille?”

“For supper.”

“Ah!” said Porthos, nodding.

“He sends you a thousand regards.”

“Thank you!”

“Where is Monsieur le Comte going now?” asked Grimaud, after his master had rewarded him with a smile.

“We’re going home to Blois.”

“Just like that? Straight away?”

“Straight away.”

“Without luggage?”

“Well, good Lord! Raoul can send it along, or bring it himself if he decides to come home.”

“If nothing detains him in Paris, he would do well to follow Athos,” said d’Artagnan with a look firm and sharp as steel—and as painful, for it reopened the young man’s wounds.

“Nothing keeps me in Paris any longer,” said Raoul.

“We go, then,” replied Athos immediately.

“And Monsieur d’Artagnan?”

“Oh, I was just accompanying Athos as far as the city gate. I’ll go back with Porthos.”

“Good,” said the latter.

“Come, my son,” added the count, gently placing an arm around Raoul’s shoulder and embracing him once again. “Grimaud,” continued the count, “we’re going to ride on your horse and that of Monsieur du Vallon and leave these two gentlemen to return to Paris in the carriage. You will go to our lodgings where you will pack up our letters, clothing, and everything else, and ship it all to us.”

“But if you do that,” Raoul said to the count, “the next time you’re in Paris, you won’t have any clean clothes or other effects. It will be very inconvenient.”

“I think, Raoul, that I won’t be returning to Paris for a long time. This last visit hasn’t encouraged me to make others.”

Raoul lowered his head and said no more.

Athos left the carriage and mounted the horse that had borne Porthos, and which seemed very happy with the exchange.

They embraced, shook hands, and gave each other many testimonies of eternal friendship. Porthos promised to spend a month with Athos at his first opportunity. D’Artagnan promised to visit on his next leave, and then, having embraced Raoul for the final time, he said, “I’ll write to you, lad.”

These words meant a lot from d’Artagnan, as he never wrote anyone. Raoul was moved to tears. He tore his arms from the musketeer and departed.

D’Artagnan rejoined Porthos in the carriage. “Well, old friend!” he said. “It’s been quite a day.”

“But yes,” replied Porthos.

“You must be exhausted.”

“Not so much. However, I’ll go to bed early so that I’ll be ready tomorrow.”

“Ready for what?”

“Pardieu! To finish what I started.”

“Your determination makes me shudder, my friend. What the devil did you start that you must finish?”

“Well, Raoul didn’t fight, so I must be ready to fight in his place!”

“Fight who? The king?”

“What do you mean, the king?” asked Porthos, astonished.

“Yes, you great child, with the king!”

“No, I assure you, it’s with Monsieur de Saint-Aignan.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. If you fight with that gentleman, you’re drawing your sword against the king.”

“Oh?” said Porthos, wide-eyed. “Are you sure?”

“By God, yes!”

“Well! How do we sort that out, then?”

“We shall invite him to supper, Porthos. The table of the Captain of Musketeers is a pleasant place to meet. You’ll see the good side of Monsieur de Saint-Aignan and will drink to his health.”

“Me?” cried Porthos, horrified.

“What?” said d’Artagnan. “You’d refuse to drink to the health of the king?”

“But, corbœuf! I’m not talking about the king, I’m talking about Monsieur de Saint-Aignan.”

“And I’m telling you that’s the same thing.”

“Oh? …Well, all right, then,” said Porthos, defeated.

“You understand, don’t you?”

“No,” said Porthos. “But it’s all one.”

“Yes, you’re right,” said d’Artagnan. “Let’s go get some supper, Porthos.”

THE END

~ The Adventures of the Musketeers Conclude in Book Nine,

The Man in the Iron Mask ~

Copyright © 2024 Lawrence Schick. All rights reserved.