for myself, I have lived for him. I have corrected the vices
that I had; I have assumed the virtues that I had not.
Precept something, but example more. I may be mistaken, but
I believe that Raoul will be as accomplished a gentleman as
our degenerate age could display.”
The remembrance of Milady recurred to D’Artagnan.
“And you are happy?” he said to his friend.
“As happy as it is allowed to one of God’s creatures to be
on this earth; but say out all you think, D’Artagnan, for
you have not yet done so.”
“You are too bad, Athos; one can hide nothing from you,”
answered D’Artagnan. “I wished to ask you if you ever feel
any emotions of terror resembling —- ”
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“Remorse! I finish your phrase. Yes and no. I do not feel
remorse, because that woman, I profoundly hold, deserved her
punishment. Had she one redeeming trait? I doubt it. I do
not feel remorse, because had we allowed her to live she
would have persisted in her work of destruction. But I do
not mean, my friend that we were right in what we did.
Perhaps all blood demands some expiation. Hers had been
accomplished; it remains, possibly, for us to accomplish
ours.”
“I have sometimes thought as you do, Athos.”
“She had a son, that unhappy woman?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever heard of him?”
“Never.”
“He must be about twenty-three years of age,” said Athos, in
a low tone. “I often think of that young man, D’Artagnan.”
“Strange! for I had forgotten him,” said the lieutenant.
Athos smiled; the smile was melancholy.
“And Lord de Winter — do you know anything about him?”
“I know that he is in high favor with Charles I.”
“The fortunes of that monarch now are at low water. He shed
the blood of Strafford; that confirms what I said just now
— blood will have blood. And the queen?”
“What queen?”
“Madame Henrietta of England, daughter of Henry IV.”
“She is at the Louvre, as you know.”
“Yes, and I hear in bitter poverty. Her daughter, during the
severest cold, was obliged for want of fire to remain in
bed. Do you grasp that?” said Athos, shrugging his
shoulders; “the daughter of Henry IV. shivering for want of
a fagot! Why did she not ask from any one of us a home
instead of from Mazarin? She should have wanted nothing.”
“Have you ever seen the queen of England?” inquired
D’Artagnan.
“No; but my mother, as a child, saw her. Did I ever tell you
that my mother was lady of honor to Marie de Medici ”
“Never. You know, Athos, you never spoke much of such
matters.”
“Ah, mon Dieu, yes, you are right,” Athos replied; “but then
there must be some occasion for speaking.”
“Porthos wouldn’t have waited for it so patiently,” said
D’Artagnan, with a smile.
“Every one according to his nature, my dear D’Artagnan.
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Porthos, in spite of a touch of vanity, has many excellent
qualities. Have you seen him?”
“I left him five days ago,” said D’Artagnan, and he
portrayed with Gascon wit and sprightliness the magnificence
of Porthos in his Chateau of Pierrefonds; nor did he neglect
to launch a few arrows of wit at the excellent Monsieur
Mouston.
“I sometimes wonder,” replied Athos, smiling at that gayety
which recalled the good old days, “that we could form an
association of men who would be, after twenty years of
separation, still so closely bound together. Friendship
throws out deep roots in honest hearts, D’Artagnan. Believe
me, it is only the evil-minded who deny friendship; they
cannot understand it. And Aramis?”
“I have seen him also,” said D’Artagnan; “but he seemed to
me cold.”
“Ah, you have seen Aramis?” said Athos, turning on
D’Artagnan a searching look. “Why, it is a veritable
pilgrimage, my dear friend, that you are making to the
Temple of Friendship, as the poets would say.”
“Why, yes,” replied D’Artagnan, with embarrassment.
“Aramis, you know,” continued Athos, “is naturally cold, and
then he is always involved in intrigues with women.”
“I believe he is at this moment in a very complicated one,”