and silent anguish.
The queen stretched out her hand, seized the ring, pressed
it convulsively to her lips — and without being able to
breathe a sigh, to give vent to a sob, she extended her
arms, became deadly pale, and fell senseless in the arms of
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her attendants and her daughter.
Athos kissed the hem of the robe of the widowed queen and
rising, with a dignity that made a deep impression on those
around:
“I, the Comte de la Fere, a gentleman who has never deceived
any human being, swear before God and before this unhappy
queen, that all that was possible to save the king of
England was done whilst we were on English ground. Now,
chevalier,” he added, turning to Aramis, “let us go. Our
duty is fulfilled.”
“Not yet.” said Aramis; “we have still a word to say to
these gentlemen.”
And turning to Chatillon: “Sir, be so good as not to go away
without giving me an opportunity to tell you something I
cannot say before the queen.”
Chatillon bowed in token of assent and they all went out,
stopping at the window of a gallery on the ground floor.
“Sir,” said Aramis, “you allowed yourself just now to treat
us in a most extraordinary manner. That would not be
endurable in any case, and is still less so on the part of
those who came to bring the queen the message of a liar.”
“Sir!” cried De Chatillon.
“What have you done with Monsieur de Bruy? Has he by any
possibility gone to change his face which was too like that
of Monsieur de Mazarin? There is an abundance of Italian
masks at the Palais Royal, from harlequin even to
pantaloon.”
“Chevalier! chevalier!” said Athos.
“Leave me alone,” said Aramis impatiently. “You know well
that I don’t like to leave things half finished.”
“Conclude, then, sir,” answered De Chatillon, with as much
hauteur as Aramis.
“Gentlemen,” resumed Aramis, “any one but the Comte de la
Fere and myself would have had you arrested — for we have
friends in Paris — but we are contented with another
course. Come and converse with us for just five minutes,
sword in hand, upon this deserted terrace.”
“One moment, gentlemen,” cried Flamarens. “I know well that
the proposition is tempting, but at present it is impossible
to accept it.”
“And why not?” said Aramis, in his tone of raillery. “Is it
Mazarin’s proximity that makes you so prudent?”
“Oh, you hear that, Flamarens!” said Chatillon. “Not to
reply would be a blot on my name and my honor.”
“That is my opinion,” said Aramis.
“You will not reply, however, and these gentlemen, I am
sure, will presently be of my opinion.”
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Dumas, Alexandre – Twenty Years After
Aramis shook his head with a motion of indescribable
insolence.
Chatillon saw the motion and put his hand to his sword.
“Willingly,” replied De Chatillon.
“Duke,” said Flamarens, “you forget that to-morrow you are
to command an expedition of the greatest importance,
projected by the prince, assented to by the queen. Until
to-morrow evening you are not at your own disposal.”
“Let it be then the day after to-morrow,” said Aramis.
“To-morrow, rather,” said De Chatillon, “if you will take
the trouble of coming so far as the gates of Charenton.”
“How can you doubt it, sir? For the pleasure of a meeting
with you I would go to the end of the world.”
“Very well, to-morrow, sir.”
“I shall rely on it. Are you going to rejoin your cardinal?
Swear first, on your honor, not to inform him of our
return.”
“Conditions?”
“Why not?”
“Because it is for victors to make conditions, and you are
not yet victors, gentlemen.”
“Then let us draw on the spot. It is all one to us — to us
who do not command to-morrow’s expedition.”
Chatillon and Flamarens looked at each other. There was such
irony in the words and in the bearing of Aramis that the
duke had great difficulty in bridling his anger, but at a
word from Flamarens he restrained himself and contented
himself with saying:
“You promise, sir — that’s agreed — that I shall find you