LITMIR.BIZ

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off to Paris, when you shall have given a certain letter.”

      “For whom?”

      “M. de Lyonne.”

      “And what do you want with Lyonne?”

      “I wish to make him sign a lettre de cachet.”

      “‘Lettre de cachet!’ Do you desire to put somebody in the Bastile?”

      “On the contrary – to let somebody out.”

      “And who?”

      “A poor devil – a youth, a lad who has been Bastiled these ten years, for two Latin verses he made against the Jesuits.”

      “‘Two Latin verses!’ and, for ‘two Latin verses,’ the miserable being has been in prison for ten years!”

      “Yes!”

      “And has committed no other crime?”

      “Beyond this, he is as innocent as you or I.”

      “On your word?”

      “On my honor!”

      “And his name is – ”

      “Seldon.”

      “Yes. – But it is too bad. You knew this, and you never told me!”

      “‘Twas only yesterday his mother applied to me, monseigneur.”

      “And the woman is poor!”

      “In the deepest misery.”

      “Heaven,” said Fouquet, “sometimes bears with such injustice on earth, that I hardly wonder there are wretches who doubt of its existence. Stay, M. d’Herblay.” And Fouquet, taking a pen, wrote a few rapid lines to his colleague Lyonne. Aramis took the letter and made ready to go.

      “Wait,” said Fouquet. He opened his drawer, and took out ten government notes which were there, each for a thousand francs. “Stay,” he said; “set the son at liberty, and give this to the mother; but, above all, do not tell her – ”

      “What, monseigneur?”

      “That she is ten thousand livres richer than I. She would say I am but a poor superintendent! Go! and I pray that God will bless those who are mindful of his poor!”

      “So also do I pray,” replied Aramis, kissing Fouquet’s hand.

      And he went out quickly, carrying off the letter for Lyonne and the notes for Seldon’s mother, and taking up Moliere, who was beginning to lose patience.

      Chapter VII. Another Supper at the Bastile

      Seven o’clock sounded from the great clock of the Bastile, that famous clock, which, like all the accessories of the state prison, the very use of which is a torture, recalled to the prisoners’ minds the destination of every hour of their punishment. The time-piece of the Bastile, adorned with figures, like most of the clocks of the period, represented St. Peter in bonds. It was the supper hour of the unfortunate captives. The doors, grating on their enormous hinges, opened for the passage of the baskets and trays of provisions, the abundance and the delicacy of which, as M. de Baisemeaux has himself taught us, was regulated by the condition in life of the prisoner. We understand on this head the theories of M. de Baisemeaux, sovereign dispenser of gastronomic delicacies, head cook of the royal fortress, whose trays, full-laden, were ascending the steep staircases, carrying some consolation to the prisoners in the shape of honestly filled bottles of good vintages. This same hour was that of M. le gouverneur’s supper also. He had a guest to-day, and the spit turned more heavily than usual. Roast partridges, flanked with quails and flanking a larded leveret; boiled fowls; hams, fried and sprinkled with white wine, cardons of Guipuzcoa and la bisque ecrevisses: these, together with soups and hors d’oeuvres, constituted the governor’s bill of fare. Baisemeaux, seated at table, was rubbing his hands and looking at the bishop of Vannes, who, booted like a cavalier, dressed in gray and sword at side, kept talking of his hunger and testifying the liveliest impatience. M. de Baisemeaux de Montlezun was not accustomed to the unbending movements of his greatness my lord of Vannes, and this evening Aramis, becoming sprightly, volunteered confidence on confidence. The prelate had again a little touch of the musketeer about him. The bishop just trenched on the borders only of license in his style of conversation. As for M. de Baisemeaux, with the facility of vulgar people, he gave himself up entirely upon this point of his guest’s freedom. “Monsieur,” said he, “for indeed to-night I dare not call you monseigneur.”

      “By no means,” said Aramis; “call me monsieur; I am booted.”

      “Do you know, monsieur, of whom you remind me this evening?”

      “No! faith,” said Aramis, taking up his glass; “but I hope I remind you of a capital guest.”

      “You remind me of two, monsieur. Francois, shut the window; the wind may annoy his greatness.”

      “And let him go,” added Aramis. “The supper is completely served, and we shall eat it very well without waiters. I like exceedingly to be tete-a-tete when I am with a friend.” Baisemeaux bowed respectfully.

      “I like exceedingly,” continued Aramis, “to help myself.”

      “Retire, Francois,” cried Baisemeaux. “I was saying that your greatness puts me in mind of two persons; one very illustrious, the late cardinal, the great Cardinal de la Rochelle, who wore boots like you.”

      “Indeed,” said Aramis; “and the other?”

      “The other was a certain musketeer, very handsome, very brave, very adventurous, very fortunate, who, from being abbe, turned musketeer, and from musketeer turned abbe.” Aramis condescended to smile. “From abbe,” continued Baisemeaux, encouraged by Aramis’s smile – “from abbe, bishop – and from bishop – ”

      “Ah! stay there, I beg,” exclaimed Aramis.

      “I have just said, monsieur, that you gave me the idea of a cardinal.”

      “Enough, dear M. Baisemeaux. As you said, I have on the boots of a cavalier, but I do not intend, for all that, to embroil myself with the church this evening.”

      “But you have wicked intentions, nevertheless, monseigneur.”

      “Oh, yes, wicked, I own, as everything mundane is.”

      “You traverse the town and the streets in disguise?”

      “In disguise, as you say.”

      “And you still make use of your sword?”

      “Yes, I should think so; but only when I am compelled. Do me the pleasure to summon Francois.”

      “Have you no wine there?”

      “‘Tis not for wine, but because it is hot here, and the window is shut.”

      “I shut the windows at supper-time so as not to hear the sounds or the arrival of couriers.”

      “Ah, yes. You hear them when the window is open?”

      “But too well, and that disturbs me. You understand?”

      “Nevertheless I am suffocated. Francois.” Francois entered. “Open the windows, I pray you, Master Francois,” said Aramis. “You will allow him, dear M. Baisemeaux?”

      “You are at home here,” answered the governor. The window was opened. “Do you not think,” said M. de Baisemeaux, “that you will find yourself very lonely, now M. de la Fere has returned to his household gods at Blois? He is a very old friend, is he not?”

      “You know it as I do, Baisemeaux, seeing that you were in the musketeers with us.”

      “Bah! with my friends I reckon neither bottles of wine nor years.”

      “And you are right. But I do more than love M. de la Fere, dear Baisemeaux; I venerate him.”

      “Well, for my part, though ‘tis singular,” said the governor, “I prefer M. d’Artagnan to him. There is a man for you, who drinks long and well! That

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