29

Twenty Years After

by Alexandre Dumas

29, TWENTY YEARS AFTER by Alexandre Dumas
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The Ferry across the Oise.



We hope that the reader has not quite forgotten the young
traveler whom we left on the road to Flanders.

In losing sight of his guardian, whom he had quitted, gazing
after him in front of the royal basilican, Raoul spurred on
his horse, in order not only to escape from his own
melancholy reflections, but also to hide from Olivain the
emotion his face might betray.

One hour's rapid progress, however, sufficed to disperse the
gloomy fancies that had clouded the young man's bright
anticipations; and the hitherto unfelt pleasure of freedom
-- a pleasure which is sweet even to those who have never
known dependence -- seemed to Raoul to gild not only Heaven
and earth, but especially that blue but dim horizon of life
we call the future.

Nevertheless, after several attempts at conversation with
Olivain he foresaw that many days passed thus would prove
exceedingly dull; and the count's agreeable voice, his
gentle and persuasive eloquence, recurred to his mind at the
various towns through which they journeyed and about which
he had no longer any one to give him those interesting
details which he would have drawn from Athos, the most
amusing and the best informed of guides. Another
recollection contributed also to sadden Raoul: on their
arrival at Sonores he had perceived, hidden behind a screen
of poplars, a little chateau which so vividly recalled that
of La Valliere to his mind that he halted for nearly ten
minutes to gaze at it, and resumed his journey with a sigh
too abstracted even to reply to Olivain's respectful inquiry
about the cause of so much fixed attention. The aspect of
external objects is often a mysterious guide communicating
with the fibres of memory, which in spite of us will arouse
them at times; this thread, like that of Ariadne, when once
unraveled will conduct one through a labyrinth of thought,
in which one loses one's self in endeavoring to follow that
phantom of the past which is called recollection.

Now the sight of this chateau had taken Raoul back fifty
leagues westward and had caused him to review his life from
the moment when he had taken leave of little Louise to that
in which he had seen her for the first time; and every
branch of oak, every gilded weathercock on roof of slates,
reminded him that, instead of returning to the friends of
his childhood, every instant estranged him further and that
perhaps he had even left them forever.

With a full heart and burning head he desired Olivain to
lead on the horses to a wayside inn, which he observed
within gunshot range, a little in advance of the place they
had reached.

As for himself, he dismounted and remained under a beautiful
group of chestnuts in flower, amidst which were murmuring a
multitude of happy bees, and bade Olivain send the host to
him with writing paper and ink, to be placed on a table
which he found there, conveniently ready. Olivain obeyed and
continued on his way, whilst Raoul remained sitting, with
his elbow leaning on the table, from time to time gently
shaking the flowers from his head, which fell upon him like
snow, and gazing vaguely on the charming landscape spread
out before him, dotted over with green fields and groups of
trees. Raoul had been there about ten minutes, during five
of which he was lost in reverie, when there appeared within
the circle comprised in his rolling gaze a man with a
rubicund face, who, with a napkin around his body, another
under his arm, and a white cap upon his head, approached
him, holding paper, pen and ink in hand.

"Ha! ha!" laughed the apparition, "every gentleman seems to
have the same fancy, for not a quarter of an hour ago a
young lad, well mounted like you, as tall as you and of
about your age, halted before this clump of trees and had
this table and this chair brought here, and dined here, with
an old gentleman who seemed to be his tutor, upon a pie, of
which they haven't left a mouthful, and two bottles of Macon
wine, of which they haven't left a drop, but fortunately we
have still some of the same wine and some of the same pies
left, and if your worship will but give your orders ---- "

"No, friend " replied Raoul, smiling, "I am obliged to you,
but at this moment I want nothing but the things for which I
have asked -- only I shall be very glad if the ink prove
black and the pen good; upon these conditions I will pay for
the pen the price of the bottle, and for the ink the price
of the pie."

"Very well, sir," said the host, "I'll give the pie and the
bottle of wine to your servant, and in this way you will
have the pen and ink into the bargain."

"Do as you like," said Raoul, who was beginning his
apprenticeship with that particular class of society, who,
when there were robbers on the highroads, were connected
with them, and who, since highwaymen no longer exist, have
advantageously and aptly filled their vacant place.

The host, his mind at ease about his bill, placed pen, ink
and paper upon the table. By a lucky chance the pen was
tolerably good and Raoul began to write. The host remained
standing in front of him, looking with a kind of involuntary
admiration at his handsome face, combining both gravity and
sweetness of expression. Beauty has always been and always
will be all-powerful.

"He's not a guest like the other one here just now,"
observed mine host to Olivain, who had rejoined his master
to see if he wanted anything, "and your young master has no
appetite."

"My master had appetite enough three days ago, but what can
one do? he lost it the day before yesterday."

And Olivain and the host took their way together toward the
inn, Olivain, according to the custom of serving-men well
pleased with their place, relating to the tavern-keeper all
that he could say in favor of the young gentleman; whilst
Raoul wrote on thus:



"Sir, -- After a four hours' march I stop to write to you,
for I miss you every moment, and I am always on the point of
turning my head as if to reply when you speak to me. I was
so bewildered by your departure and so overcome with grief
at our separation, that I am sure I was able to but very
feebly express all the affection and gratitude I feel toward
you. You will forgive me, sir, for your heart is of such a
generous nature that you can well understand all that has
passed in mine. I entreat you to write to me, for you form a
part of my existence, and, if I may venture to tell you so,
I also feel anxious. It seemed to me as if you were yourself
preparing for some dangerous undertaking, about which I did
not dare to question you, since you told me nothing. I have,
therefore, as you see, great need of hearing from you. Now
that you are no longer beside me I am afraid every moment of
erring. You sustained me powerfully, sir, and I protest to
you that to-day I feel very lonely. Will you have the
goodness, sir, should you receive news from Blois, to send
me a few lines about my little friend Mademoiselle de la
Valliere, about whose health, when we left, so much anxiety
was felt? You can understand, honored and dear guardian, how
precious and indispensable to me is the remembrance of the
years that I have passed with you. I hope that you will
sometimes, too, think of me, and if at certain hours you
should miss me, if you should feel any slight regret at my
absence, I shall be overwhelmed with joy at the thought that
you appreciate my affection for and my devotion to yourself,
and that I have been able to prove them to you whilst I had
the happiness of living with you."



After finishing this letter Raoul felt more composed; he
looked well around him to see if Olivain and the host might
not be watching him, whilst he impressed a kiss upon the
paper, a mute and touching caress, which the heart of Athos
might well divine on opening the letter.

During this time Olivain had finished his bottle and eaten
his pie; the horses were also refreshed. Raoul motioned to
the host to approach, threw a crown upon the table, mounted
his horse, and posted his letter at Senlis. The rest that
had been thus afforded to men and horses enabled them to
continue their journey at a good round pace. At Verberie,
Raoul desired Olivain to make some inquiry about the young
man who was preceding them; he had been observed to pass
only three-quarters of an hour previously, but he was well
mounted, as the tavern-keeper had already said, and rode at
a rapid pace.

"Let us try and overtake this gentleman," said Raoul to
Olivain; "like ourselves he is on his way to join the army
and may prove agreeable company."

It was about four o'clock in the afternoon when Raoul
arrived at Compiegne; there he dined heartily and again
inquired about the young gentleman who was in advance of
them. He had stopped, like Raoul, at the Hotel of the Bell
and Bottle, the best at Compiegne; and had started again on
his journey, saying that he should sleep at Noyon.

"Well, let us sleep at Noyon," said Raoul.

"Sir," replied Olivain, respectfully, "allow me to remark
that we have already much fatigued the horses this morning.
I think it would be well to sleep here and to start again
very early to-morrow. Eighteen leagues is enough for the
first stage."

"The Comte de la Fere wished me to hasten on," replied
Raoul, "that I might rejoin the prince on the morning of the
fourth day; let us push on, then, to Noyon; it will be a
stage similar to those we traveled from Blois to Paris. We
shall arrive at eight o'clock. The horses will have a long
night's rest, and at five o'clock to-morrow morning we can
be again on the road."

Olivain dared offer no opposition to this determination but
he followed his master, grumbling.

"Go on, go on," said he, between his teeth, "expend your
ardor the first day; to-morrow, instead of journeying twenty
leagues, you will travel ten, the day after to-morrow, five,
and in three days you will be in bed. There you must rest;
young people are such braggarts."

It was easy to see that Olivain had not been taught in the
school of the Planchets and the Grimauds. Raoul really felt
tired, but he was desirous of testing his strength, and,
brought up in the principles of Athos and certain of having
heard him speak a thousand times of stages of twenty-five
leagues, he did not wish to fall far short of his model.
D'Artagnan, that man of iron, who seemed to be made of nerve
and muscle only, had struck him with admiration. Therefore,
in spite of Olivain's remarks, he continued to urge his
steed more and more, and following a pleasant little path,
leading to a ferry, and which he had been assured shortened
the journey by the distance of one league, he arrived at the
summit of a hill and perceived the river flowing before him.
A little troop of men on horseback were waiting on the edge
of the stream, ready to embark. Raoul did not doubt this was
the gentleman and his escort; he called out to him, but they
were too distant to be heard; then, in spite of the
weariness of his beast, he made it gallop but the rising
ground soon deprived him of all sight of the travelers, and
when he had again attained a new height, the ferryboat had
left the shore and was making for the opposite bank. Raoul,
seeing that he could not arrive in time to cross the ferry
with the travelers, halted to wait for Olivain. At this
moment a shriek was heard that seemed to come from the
river. Raoul turned toward the side whence the cry had
sounded, and shaded his eyes from the glare of the setting
sun with his hand.

"Olivain!" he exclaimed, "what do I see below there?"

A second scream, more piercing than the first, now sounded.

"Oh, sir!" cried Olivain, "the rope which holds the
ferryboat has broken and the boat is drifting. But what do I
see in the water -- something struggling?"

"Oh, yes," exclaimed Raoul, fixing his glance on one point
in the stream, splendidly illumined by the setting sun, "a
horse, a rider!"

"They are sinking!" cried Olivain in his turn.

It was true, and Raoul was convinced that some accident had
happened and that a man was drowning; he gave his horse its
head, struck his spurs into its sides, and the animal, urged
by pain and feeling that he had space open before him,
bounded over a kind of paling which inclosed the landing
place, and fell into the river, scattering to a distance
waves of white froth.

"Ah, sir!" cried Olivain, "what are you doing? Good God!"

Raoul was directing his horse toward the unhappy man in
danger. This was, in fact, a custom familiar to him. Having
been brought up on the banks of the Loire, he might have
been said to have been cradled on its waves; a hundred times
he had crossed it on horseback, a thousand times had swum
across. Athos, foreseeing the period when he should make a
soldier of the viscount, had inured him to all kinds of
arduous undertakings.

"Oh, heavens!" continued Olivain, in despair, "what would
the count say if he only saw you now!"

"The count would do as I do," replied Raoul, urging his
horse vigorously forward.

"But I -- but I," cried Olivain, pale and disconsolate
rushing about on the shore, "how shall I cross?"

"Leap, coward!" cried Raoul, swimming on; then addressing
the traveler, who was struggling twenty yards in front of
him: "Courage, sir!" said he, "courage! we are coming to
your aid."

Olivain advanced, retired, then made his horse rear --
turned it and then, struck to the core by shame, leaped, as
Raoul had done, only repeating:

"I am a dead man! we are lost!"

In the meantime, the ferryboat had floated away, carried
down by the stream, and the shrieks of those whom it
contained resounded more and more. A man with gray hair had
thrown himself from the boat into the river and was swimming
vigorously toward the person who was drowning; but being
obliged to go against the current he advanced but slowly.
Raoul continued his way and was visibly gaining ground; but
the horse and its rider, of whom he did not lose sight, were
evidently sinking. The nostrils of the horse were no longer
above water, and the rider, who had lost the reins in
struggling, fell with his head back and his arms extended.
One moment longer and all would disappear.

"Courage!" cried Raoul, "courage!"

"Too late!" murmured the young man, "too late!"

The water closed above his head and stifled his voice.

Raoul sprang from his horse, to which he left the charge of
its own preservation, and in three or four strokes was at
the gentleman's side; he seized the horse at once by the
curb and raised its head above water; the animal began to
breathe again and, as if he comprehended that they had come
to his aid, redoubled his efforts. Raoul at the same time
seized one of the young man's hands and placed it on the
mane, which it grasped with the tenacity of a drowning man.
Thus, sure that the rider would not release his hold, Raoul
now only directed his attention to the horse, which he
guided to the opposite bank, helping it to cut through the
water and encouraging it with words.

All at once the horse stumbled against a ridge and then
placed its foot on the sand.

"Saved!" exclaimed the man with gray hair, who also touched
bottom.

"Saved!" mechanically repeated the young gentleman,
releasing the mane and sliding from the saddle into Raoul's
arms; Raoul was but ten yards from the shore; there he bore
the fainting man, and laying him down upon the grass,
unfastened the buttons of his collar and unhooked his
doublet. A moment later the gray-headed man was beside him.
Olivain managed in his turn to land, after crossing himself
repeatedly; and the people in the ferryboat guided
themselves as well as they were able toward the bank, with
the aid of a pole which chanced to be in the boat.

Thanks to the attentions of Raoul and the man who
accompanied the young gentleman, the color gradually
returned to the pale cheeks of the dying man, who opened his
eyes, at first entirely bewildered, but who soon fixed his
gaze upon the person who had saved him.

"Ah, sir," he exclaimed, "it was you! Without you I was a
dead man -- thrice dead."

"But one recovers, sir, as you perceive," replied Raoul,
"and we have but had a little bath."

"Oh! sir, what gratitude I feel!" exclaimed the man with
gray hair.

"Ah, there you are, my good D'Arminges; I have given you a
great fright, have I not? but it is your own fault. You were
my tutor, why did you not teach me to swim?"

"Oh, monsieur le comte," replied the old man, "had any
misfortune happened to you, I should never have dared to
show myself to the marshal again."

"But how did the accident happen?" asked Raoul.

"Oh, sir, in the most natural way possible," replied he to
whom they had given the title of count. "We were about a
third of the way across the river when the cord of the
ferryboat broke. Alarmed by the cries and gestures of the
boatmen, my horse sprang into the water. I cannot swim, and
dared not throw myself into the river. Instead of aiding the
movements of my horse, I paralyzed them; and I was just
going to drown myself with the best grace in the world, when
you arrived just in time to pull me out of the water;
therefore, sir, if you will agree, henceforward we are
friends until death."

"Sir," replied Raoul, bowing, "I am entirely at your
service, I assure you."

"I am called the Count de Guiche," continued the young man;
"my father is the Marechal de Grammont; and now that you
know who I am, do me the honor to inform me who you are."

"I am the Viscount de Bragelonne," answered Raoul, blushing
at being unable to name his father, as the Count de Guiche
had done.

"Viscount, your countenance, your goodness and your courage
incline me toward you; my gratitude is already due. Shake
hands -- I crave your friendship."

"Sir," said Raoul, returning the count's pressure of the
hand, "I like you already, from my heart; pray regard me as
a devoted friend, I beseech you."

And now, where are you going, viscount?" inquired De Guiche.

"To join the army, under the prince, count."

"And I, too!" exclaimed the young man, in a transport of
joy. "Oh, so much the better, we will fire the first shot
together."

"It is well; be friends," said the tutor; "young as you both
are, you were perhaps born under the same star and were
destined to meet. And now," continued he, "you must change
your clothes; your servants, to whom I gave directions the
moment they had left the ferryboat, ought to be already at
the inn. Linen and wine are both being warmed; come."

The young men had no objection to this proposition; on the
contrary, they thought it very timely.

They mounted again at once, whilst looks of admiration
passed between them. They were indeed two elegant horsemen,
with figures slight and upright, noble faces, bright and
proud looks, loyal and intelligent smiles.

De Guiche might have been about eighteen years of age, but
he was scarcely taller than Raoul, who was only fifteen.