well wish ill to Mazarin; for I assure you, on his side he
wishes you no good.”
“Pooh! really?” asked Athos. “If I thought the fellow knew
me by my name I would be rebaptized, for fear it might be
thought I knew him.”
“He knows you better by your actions than your name; he is
quite aware that there are two gentlemen who greatly aided
the escape of Monsieur de Beaufort, and he has instigated an
active search for them, I can answer for it.”
“By whom?”
“By me; and this morning he sent for me to ask me if I had
obtained any information.”
“And what did you reply?”
“That I had none as yet; but that I was to dine to-day with
two gentlemen, who would be able to give me some.”
“You told him that?” said Porthos, a broad smile spreading
over his honest face. “Bravo! and you are not afraid of
that, Athos?”
“No,” replied Athos, “it is not the search of Mazarin that I
fear.”
“Now,” said Aramis, “tell me a little what you do fear.”
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“Nothing for the present; at least, nothing in good
earnest.”
“And with regard to the past?” asked Porthos.
“Oh! the past is another thing,” said Athos, sighing; “the
past and the future.”
“Are you afraid for your young Raoul?” asked Aramis.
“Well,” said D’Artagnan, “one is never killed in a first
engagement.”
“Nor in the second,” said Aramis
“Nor in the third,” returned Porthos; “and even when one is
killed, one rises again, the proof of which is, that here we
are!”
“No,” said Athos, “it is not Raoul about whom I am anxious,
for I trust he will conduct himself like a gentleman; and if
he is killed — well, he will die bravely; but hold —
should such a misfortune happen — well — ” Athos passed
his hand across his pale brow.
“Well?” asked Aramis.
“Well, I shall look upon it as an expiation.”
“Ah!” said D’Artagnan; “I know what you mean.”
“And I, too,” added Aramis; “but you must not think of that,
Athos; what is past, is past.”
“I don’t understand,” said Porthos.
“The affair at Armentieres,” whispered D’Artagnan.
“The affair at Armentieres?” asked he again.
“Milady.”
“Oh, yes!” said Porthos; “true, I had forgotten it!”
Athos looked at him intently.
“You have forgotten it, Porthos?” said he.
“Faith! yes, it is so long ago,” answered Porthos.
“This affair does not, then, weigh upon your conscience?”
“Faith, no.”
“And you, D’Artagnan?”
“I — I own that when my mind returns to that terrible
period I have no recollection of anything but the rigid
corpse of poor Madame Bonancieux. Yes, yes,” murmured he, “I
have often felt regret for the victim, but never the very
slightest remorse for the assassin.”
Athos shook his dead doubtfully.
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“Consider,” said Aramis, “if you admit divine justice and
its participation in the things of this world, that woman
was punished by the will of heaven. We were but the
instruments, that is all.”
“But as to free will, Aramis?”
“How acts the judge? He has a free will, yet he fearlessly
condemns. What does the executioner? He is master of his
arm, yet he strikes without remorse.”
“The executioner!” muttered Athos, as if arrested by some
recollection.
“I know that it is terrible,” said D’Artagnan; “but when I
reflect that we have killed English, Rochellais, Spaniards,
nay, even French, who never did us any other harm but to aim
at and to miss us, whose only fault was to cross swords with
us and to be unable to ward off our blows — I can, on my
honor, find an excuse for my share in the murder of that
woman.”
“As for me,” said Porthos, “now that you have reminded me of
it, Athos, I have the scene again before me, as if I now
were there. Milady was there, as it were, where you sit.”
(Athos changed color.) “I — I was where D’Artagnan stands.
I wore a long sword which cut like a Damascus — you
remember it, Aramis for you always called it Balizarde.