45

Twenty Years After

by Alexandre Dumas

45, TWENTY YEARS AFTER by Alexandre Dumas
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The Beggar of St. Eustache.



D'Artagnan had calculated that in not going at once to the
Palais Royal he would give Comminges time to arrive before
him, and consequently to make the cardinal acquainted with
the eminent services which he, D'Artagnan, and his friend
had rendered to the queen's party in the morning.

They were indeed admirably received by Mazarin, who paid
them numerous compliments, and announced that they were more
than half on their way to obtain what they desired, namely,
D'Artagnan his captaincy, Porthos his barony.

D'Artagnan would have preferred money in hand to all that
fine talk, for he knew well that to Mazarin it was easy to
promise and hard to perform. But, though he held the
cardinal's promises as of little worth, he affected to be
completely satisfied, for he was unwilling to discourage
Porthos.

Whilst the two friends were with the cardinal, the queen
sent for him. Mazarin, thinking that it would be the means
of increasing the zeal of his two defenders if he procured
them personal thanks from the queen, motioned them to follow
him. D'Artagnan and Porthos pointed to their dusty and torn
dresses, but the cardinal shook his head.

"Those costumes," he said, "are of more worth than most of
those which you will see on the backs of the queen's
courtiers; they are costumes of battle."

D'Artagnan and Porthos obeyed. The court of Anne of Austria
was full of gayety and animation; for, after having gained a
victory over the Spaniard, it had just gained another over
the people. Broussel had been conducted out of Paris without
further resistance, and was at this time in the prison of
Saint Germain; while Blancmesnil, who was arrested at the
same time, but whose arrest had been made without difficulty
or noise, was safe in the Castle of Vincennes.

Comminges was near the queen, who was questioning him upon
the details of his expedition, and every one was listening
to his account, when D'Artagnan and Porthos were perceived
at the door, behind the cardinal.

"Ah, madame," said Comminges, hastening to D'Artagnan, "here
is one who can tell you better than myself, for he was my
protector. Without him I should probably at this moment be a
dead fish in the nets at Saint Cloud, for it was a question
of nothing less than throwing me into the river. Speak,
D'Artagnan, speak."

D'Artagnan had been a hundred times in the same room with
the queen since he had become lieutenant of the musketeers,
but her majesty had never once spoken to him.

"Well, sir," at last said Anne of Austria, "you are silent,
after rendering such a service?"

"Madame," replied D'Artagnan, "I have nought to say, save
that my life is ever at your majesty's service, and that I
shall only be happy the day I lose it for you.

"I know that, sir; I have known that," said the queen, "a
long time; therefore I am delighted to be able thus publicly
to mark my gratitude and my esteem."

"Permit me, madame," said D'Artagnan, "to reserve a portion
for my friend; like myself" (he laid an emphasis on these
words) "an ancient musketeer of the company of Treville; he
has done wonders."

"His name?" asked the queen.

"In the regiment," said D'Artagnan, "he is called Porthos"
(the queen started), "but his true name is the Chevalier du
Vallon."

"De Bracieux de Pierrefonds," added Porthos.

"These names are too numerous for me to remember them all,
and I will content myself with the first," said the queen,
graciously. Porthos bowed. At this moment the coadjutor was
announced; a cry of surprise ran through the royal
assemblage. Although the coadjutor had preached that same
morning it was well known that he leaned much to the side of
the Fronde; and Mazarin, in requesting the archbishop of
Paris to make his nephew preach, had evidently had the
intention of administering to Monsieur de Retz one of those
Italian kicks he so much enjoyed giving.

The fact was, in leaving Notre Dame the coadjutor had
learned the event of the day. Although almost engaged to the
leaders of the Fronde he had not gone so far but that
retreat was possible should the court offer him the
advantages for which he was ambitious and to which the
coadjutorship was but a stepping-stone. Monsieur de Retz
wished to become archbishop in his uncle's place, and
cardinal, like Mazarin; and the popular party could with
difficulty accord him favors so entirely royal. He therefore
hastened to the palace to congratulate the queen on the
battle of Lens, determined beforehand to act with or against
the court, as his congratulations were well or ill received.

The coadjutor possessed, perhaps, as much wit as all those
put together who were assembled at the court to laugh at
him. His speech, therefore, was so well turned, that in
spite of the great wish felt by the courtiers to laugh, they
could find no point on which to vent their ridicule. He
concluded by saying that he placed his feeble influence at
her majesty's command.

During the whole time he was speaking, the queen appeared to
be well pleased with the coadjutor's harangue; but
terminating as it did with such a phrase, the only one which
could be caught at by the jokers, Anne turned around and
directed a glance toward her favorites, which announced that
she delivered up the coadjutor to their tender mercies.
Immediately the wits of the court plunged into satire.
Nogent-Beautin, the fool of the court, exclaimed that "the
queen was very happy to have the succor of religion at such
a moment." This caused a universal burst of laughter. The
Count de Villeroy said that "he did not know how any fear
could be entertained for a moment, when the court had, to
defend itself against the parliament and the citizens of
Paris, his holiness the coadjutor, who by a signal could
raise an army of curates, church porters and vergers."

The Marechal de la Meilleraie added that in case the
coadjutor should appear on the field of battle it would be a
pity that he should not be distinguished in the melee by
wearing a red hat, as Henry IV. had been distinguished by
his white plume at the battle of Ivry.

During this storm, Gondy, who had it in his power to make it
most unpleasant for the jesters, remained calm and stern.
The queen at last asked him if he had anything to add to the
fine discourse he had just made to her.

"Yes, madame," replied the coadjutor; "I have to beg you to
reflect twice ere you cause a civil war in the kingdom."

The queen turned her back and the laughing recommenced.

The coadjutor bowed and left the palace, casting upon the
cardinal such a glance as is best understood by mortal foes.
That glance was so sharp that it penetrated the heart of
Mazarin, who, reading in it a declaration of war, seized
D'Artagnan by the arm and said:

"If occasion requires, monsieur, you will remember that man
who has just gone out, will you not?"

"Yes, my lord," he replied. Then, turning toward Porthos,
"The devil!" said he, "this has a bad look. I dislike these
quarrels among men of the church."

Gondy withdrew, distributing benedictions on his way, and
finding a malicious satisfaction in causing the adherents of
his foes to prostrate themselves at his feet.

"Oh!" he murmured, as he left the threshold of the palace:
"ungrateful court! faithless court! cowardly court! I will
teach you how to laugh to-morrow -- but in another manner."

But whilst they were indulging in extravagant joy at the
Palais Royal, to increase the hilarity of the queen,
Mazarin, a man of sense, and whose fear, moreover, gave him
foresight, lost no time in making idle and dangerous jokes;
he went out after the coadjutor, settled his account, locked
up his gold, and had confidential workmen to contrive hiding
places in his walls.

On his return home the coadjutor was informed that a young
man had come in after his departure and was waiting for
him; he started with delight when, on demanding the name of
this young man, he learned that it was Louvieres. He
hastened to his cabinet. Broussel's son was there, still
furious, and still bearing bloody marks of his struggle with
the king's officers. The only precaution he had taken in
coming to the archbishopric was to leave his arquebuse in
the hands of a friend.

The coadjutor went to him and held out his hand. The young
man gazed at him as if he would have read the secret of his
heart.

"My dear Monsieur Louvieres," said the coadjutor, "believe
me, I am truly concerned for the misfortune which has
happened to you."

"Is that true, and do you speak seriously?" asked Louvieres.

"From the depth of my heart," said Gondy.

"In that case, my lord, the time for words has passed and
the hour for action is at hand; my lord, in three days, if
you wish it, my father will be out of prison and in six
months you may be cardinal."

The coadjutor started.

"Oh! let us speak frankly," continued Louvieres, "and act in
a straightforward manner. Thirty thousand crowns in alms is
not given, as you have done for the last six months, out of
pure Christian charity; that would be too grand. You are
ambitious -- it is natural; you are a man of genius and you
know your worth. As for me, I hate the court and have but
one desire at this moment -- vengeance. Give us the clergy
and the people, of whom you can dispose, and I will bring
you the citizens and the parliament; with these four
elements Paris is ours in a week; and believe me, monsieur
coadjutor, the court will give from fear what it will not
give from good-will."

It was now the coadjutor's turn to fix his piercing eyes on
Louvieres.

"But, Monsieur Louvieres, are you aware that it is simply
civil war you are proposing to me?"

"You have been preparing long enough, my lord, for it to be
welcome to you now."

"Never mind," said the coadjutor; "you must be well aware
that this requires reflection."

"And how many hours of reflection do you ask?"

"Twelve hours, sir; is it too long?"

"It is now noon; at midnight I will be at your house."

"If I should not be in, wait for me."

"Good! at midnight, my lord."

"At midnight, my dear Monsieur Louvieres."

When once more alone Gondy sent to summon all the curates
with whom he had any connection to his house. Two hours
later, thirty officiating ministers from the most populous,
and consequently the most disturbed parishes of Paris had
assembled there. Gondy related to them the insults he had
received at the Palais Royal and retailed the jests of
Beautin, the Count de Villeroy and Marechal de la
Meilleraie. The curates asked him what was to be done.

"Simply this," said the coadjutor. "You are the directors of
all consciences. Well, undermine in them the miserable
prejudice of respect and fear of kings; teach your flocks
that the queen is a tyrant; and repeat often and loudly, so
that all may know it, that the misfortunes of France are
caused by Mazarin, her lover and her destroyer; begin this
work to-day, this instant even, and in three days I shall
expect the result. For the rest, if any one of you have
further or better counsel to expound, I will listen to him
with the greatest pleasure."

Three curates remained -- those of St. Merri, St. Sulpice
and St. Eustache. The others withdrew.

"You think, then, that you can help me more efficaciously
than your brothers?" said Gondy.

"We hope so," answered the curates.

"Let us hear. Monsieur de St. Merri, you begin."

"My lord, I have in my parish a man who might be of the
greatest use to you."

"Who and what is this man?"

"A shopkeeper in the Rue des Lombards, who has great
influence upon the commerce of his quarter."

"What is his name?"

"He is named Planchet, who himself also caused a rising
about six weeks ago; but as he was searched for after this
emeute he disappeared."

"And can you find him?"

"I hope so. I think he has not been arrested, and as I am
his wife's confessor, if she knows where he is I shall know
it too."

"Very well, sir, find this man, and when you have found him
bring him to me."

"We will be with you at six o'clock, my lord."

"Go, my dear curate, and may God assist you!"

"And you, sir?" continued Gondy, turning to the curate of
St. Sulpice.

"I, my lord," said the latter, "I know a man who has
rendered great services to a very popular prince and who
would make an excellent leader of revolt. Him I can place at
your disposal; it is Count de Rochefort."

"I know him also, but unfortunately he is not in Paris."

"My lord, he has been for three days at the Rue Cassette."

"And wherefore has he not been to see me?"

"He was told -- my lord will pardon me ---- "

"Certainly, speak."

"That your lordship was about to treat with the court."

Gondy bit his lips.

"They are mistaken; bring him here at eight o'clock, sir,
and may Heaven bless you as I bless you!"

"And now 'tis your turn," said the coadjutor, turning to the
last that remained; "have you anything as good to offer me
as the two gentlemen who have left us?"

"Better, my lord."

"Diable! think what a solemn engagement you are making; one
has offered a wealthy shopkeeper, the other a count; you are
going, then, to offer a prince, are you?"

"I offer you a beggar, my lord."

"Ah! ah!" said Gondy, reflecting, "you are right, sir; some
one who could raise the legion of paupers who choke up the
crossings of Paris; some one who would know how to cry aloud
to them, that all France might hear it, that it is Mazarin
who has reduced them to poverty."

"Exactly your man."

"Bravo! and the man?"

"A plain and simple beggar, as I have said, my lord, who
asks for alms, as he gives holy water; a practice he has
carried on for six years on the steps of St. Eustache."

"And you say that he has a great influence over his
compeers?"

"Are you aware, my lord, that mendacity is an organized
body, a kind of association of those who have nothing
against those who have everything; an association in which
every one takes his share; one that elects a leader?"

"Yes, I have heard it said," replied the coadjutor.

"Well, the man whom I offer you is a general syndic."

"And what do you know of him?"

"Nothing, my lord, except that he is tormented with
remorse."

"What makes you think so?"

"On the twenty-eighth of every month he makes me say a mass
for the repose of the soul of one who died a violent death;
yesterday I said this mass again."

"And his name?"

"Maillard; but I do not think it is his right one."

"And think you that we should find him at this hour at his
post?"

"Certainly."

"Let us go and see your beggar, sir, and if he is such as
you describe him, you are right -- it will be you who have
discovered the true treasure."

Gondy dressed himself as an officer, put on a felt cap with
a red feather, hung on a long sword, buckled spurs to his
boots, wrapped himself in an ample cloak and followed the
curate.

The coadjutor and his companion passed through all the
streets lying between the archbishopric and the St. Eustache
Church, watching carefully to ascertain the popular feeling.
The people were in an excited mood, but, like a swarm of
frightened bees, seemed not to know at what point to
concentrate; and it was very evident that if leaders of the
people were not provided all this agitation would pass off
in idle buzzing.

On arriving at the Rue des Prouvaires, the curate pointed
toward the square before the church.

"Stop!" he said, "there he is at his post."

Gondy looked at the spot indicated and perceived a beggar
seated in a chair and leaning against one of the moldings; a
little basin was near him and he held a holy water brush in
his hand.

"Is it by permission that he remains there?" asked Gondy.

"No, my lord; these places are bought. I believe this man
paid his predecessor a hundred pistoles for his."

"The rascal is rich, then?"

"Some of those men sometimes die worth twenty thousand and
twenty-five and thirty thousand francs and sometimes more."

"Hum!" said Gondy, laughing; "I was not aware my alms were
so well invested."

In the meantime they were advancing toward the square, and
the moment the coadjutor and the curate put their feet on
the first church step the mendicant arose and proffered his
brush.

He was a man between sixty-six and sixty-eight years of age,
little, rather stout, with gray hair and light eyes. His
countenance denoted the struggle between two opposite
principles -- a wicked nature, subdued by determination,
perhaps by repentance.

He started on seeing the cavalier with the curate. The
latter and the coadjutor touched the brush with the tips of
their fingers and made the sign of the cross; the coadjutor
threw a piece of money into the hat, which was on the
ground.

"Maillard," began the curate, "this gentleman and I have
come to talk with you a little."

"With me!" said the mendicant; "it is a great honor for a
poor distributor of holy water."

There was an ironical tone in his voice which he could not
quite disguise and which astonished the coadjutor.

"Yes," continued the curate, apparently accustomed to this
tone, "yes, we wish to know your opinion of the events of
to-day and what you have heard said by people going in and
out of the church."

The mendicant shook his head.

"These are melancholy doings, your reverence, which always
fall again upon the poor. As to what is said, everybody is
discontented, everybody complains, but `everybody' means
`nobody.'"

"Explain yourself, my good friend," said the coadjutor.

"I mean that all these cries, all these complaints, these
curses, produce nothing but storms and flashes and that is
all; but the lightning will not strike until there is a hand
to guide it."

"My friend," said Gondy, "you seem to be a clever and a
thoughtful man; are you disposed to take a part in a little
civil war, should we have one, and put at the command of the
leader, should we find one, your personal influence and the
influence you have acquired over your comrades?"

"Yes, sir, provided this war were approved of by the church
and would advance the end I wish to attain -- I mean, the
remission of my sins."

"The war will not only be approved of, but directed by the
church. As for the remission of your sins, we have the
archbishop of Paris, who has the very greatest power at the
court of Rome, and even the coadjutor, who possesses some
plenary indulgences; we will recommend you to him."

"Consider, Maillard," said the curate, "that I have
recommended you to this gentleman, who is a powerful lord,
and that I have made myself responsible for you."

"I know, monsieur le cure," said the beggar, "that you have
always been very kind to me, and therefore I, in my turn,
will be serviceable to you."

"And do you think your power as great with the fraternity as
monsieur le cure told me it was just now?"

"I think they have some esteem for me," said the mendicant
with pride, "and that not only will they obey me, but
wherever I go they will follow me."

"And could you count on fifty resolute men, good,
unemployed, but active souls, brawlers, capable of bringing
down the walls of the Palais Royal by crying, `Down with
Mazarin,' as fell those at Jericho?"

"I think," said the beggar, "I can undertake things more
difficult and more important than that."

"Ah, ah," said Gondy, "you will undertake, then, some night,
to throw up some ten barricades?"

"I will undertake to throw up fifty, and when the day comes,
to defend them."

"I'faith!" exclaimed Gondy, "you speak with a certainty that
gives me pleasure; and since monsieur le cure can answer for
you ---- "

"I answer for him," said the curate.

"Here is a bag containing five hundred pistoles in gold;
make all your arrangements, and tell me where I shall be
able to find you this evening at ten o'clock."

"It must be on some elevated place, whence a given signal
may be seen in every part of Paris."

"Shall I give you a line for the vicar of St. Jacques de la
Boucherie? he will let you into the rooms in his tower,"
said the curate.

"Capital," answered the mendicant.

"Then," said the coadjutor, "this evening, at ten o'clock,
and if I am pleased with you another bag of five hundred
pistoles will be at your disposal."

The eyes of the mendicant dashed with cupidity, but he
quickly suppressed his emotion.

"This evening, sir," he replied, "all will be ready."