The Three Musketeers. Александр Дюма

my God! my God!” exclaimed the queen, “this is more than I can bear. In the name of heaven, my lord, withdraw! I know not whether I love you or not; but this I know, that I will never break my vow at the altar. Have pity on me then, and leave this kingdom. Oh! if you should be wounded in France—if you should die in France—if I could imagine that your love for me had been the cause of your death, I should never be consoled. The thought would madden me! Depart then, depart, I beseech you.”

      “Oh! how beautiful you are now! How devotedly I love you!” exclaimed Buckingham.

      “Depart, I implore you, and return hereafter,” continued the queen. “Come back as an ambassador, as a minister; come back, surrounded by your guards who will defend you, and your servants who will watch over you, and then I shall have no fear for your life, and shall have some happiness in seeing you!”

      “Oh! but is it really true what you now tell me?”

      “Yes.”

      “Give me, then, some pledge of your regard—some object which has once been yours—to satisfy me that I have not been indulging in a dream; something that you have once worn, and that I may wear now—a ring, a necklace, or a chain!”

      “And will you go if I give you what you ask?”

      “Yes!”

      “Immediately?”

      “Yes!”

      “You will quit France, and will return to England?”

      “Yes, I swear I will.”

      “Wait, then; wait, sir.”

      And Anne of Austria returned to her chamber, and came back almost in an instant, holding in her hand a small casket of rosewood, with her monogram encrusted in gold.

      “Here my lord, here! keep this as a memorial of me!”

      Buckingham took the casket, and again sank upon his knee.

      “You promised me to go,” said the queen.

      “And I will keep my word! Your hand, madame, and I leave you!”

      Closing her eyes, and leaning on Donna Estefana—for she felt her strength was failing her—Anne of Austria extended her hand.

      On that beautiful hand Buckingham pressed his lips passionately, and then arose.

      “Before six months have passed,” said he, “if I be not dead, I will see you again, if I must turn the world upside down to accomplish it.”

      And true to his promise, he rushed out of the room.

      In the corridor he found Madame Bonancieux awaiting him; and, with the same precaution, and the same good fortune, she led him forth out of the Louvre.

CHAPTER 13 Monsieur Bonancieux

      There was in all this affair, as might be remarked, a person of whom, in spite of his precarious situation, we have appeared to take very little notice. This person was M. Bonancieux, a respectable martyr to the political and amorous intrigues which so thoroughly entangled themselves together in that chivalrous and gallant age. Fortunately, as our readers may or may not remember, we have promised not to lose sight of him.

      The officers who had arrested him, conducted him at once to the Bastile, where he had to pass, all trembling as he was, before a company of soldiers, who were charging their muskets.

      Taken from there into a partly subterraneous gallery, he had to endure the most brutal insults and ill-treatment. The attendants saw that he was not a nobleman, and they treated him therefore like a beggar.

      In about half an hour, a registrar came to put an end to his tortures, but not to his anxiety, by ordering that they should be conducted to the question chamber. They generally questioned prisoners in their own cells, but they did not observe so much ceremony with M. Bonancieux.

      Two guards laid hold of the mercer, and made him cross a court, and then, entering a corridor where there were three sentinels, they opened a door and pushed him into a low room, which only contained a table, a chair, and a commissary. The commissary was seated on the chair, and was engaged in writing at the table.

      The two guards led the prisoner to the table, and at a signal from the commissary, went out of earshot. The commissary, who had till then kept his head bent down over his papers, raised it up to see who he had before him. This commissary was a man with a very crabbed look; a sharp nose; cheeks yellow and puffed out; small, but piercing eyes; and with a countenance reminding one, at the same time, of a polecat and a fox. His head, supported by a long and flexible neck, was thrust out of his full black robe, and balanced itself with a motion very much like that of a turtle putting its head out of its shell.

      He began by asking M. Bonancieux his Christian name and surname, his age, profession, and place of abode.

      The accused replied that his name was Jacques Bonancieux, that his age was 51 years, that he was a retired mercer, and lived in the Rue des Fossoyeurs, No. 11.

      Instead of continuing his questions, the commissary then made him a long speech on the danger of an obscure citizen interfering in public affairs. With this exordium he combined an exposition of the power and actions of the cardinal—that incomparable minister, the conqueror of all preceding ministers, and the example for all future ministers—whom no one could oppose or thwart with impunity.

      After this second part of his discourse, he fixed his hawk’s eye on poor Bonancieux, and exhorted him to reflect upon the seriousness of his situation.

      This the mercer had already done: he wished M. de la Porte at the devil for having put it into his head to marry his god-daughter, and cursed the hour when that god-daughter had been received into the queen’s service.

      The foundation of M. Bonancieux’s character was profound selfishness, mingled with sordid avarice, the whole being seasoned with excessive cowardice. The love which he entertained towards his young wife was quite a secondary sentiment, and could not stand against those primary feelings which we have just enumerated.

      Bonancieux, in fact, reflected on what had been said to him.

      “But, Mr. Commissary,” he timidly observed, “believe me, that I know well and appreciate the incomparable merit of his eminence, by whom we have the honour of being governed.”

      “Really!” said the commissary; with a doubtful look; “but if this be true, how came you to be in the Bastile?”

      “How I am there, or rather, why I am there,” replied Bonancieux, “is what it is utterly impossible for me to tell you, seeing that I do not know myself; but most certainly it is not for having offended the cardinal, consciously at least.”

      “It is certain, nevertheless, that you must have committed some crime, as you are here accused of high treason.”

      “Of high treason!” cried Bonancieux, confounded; “of high treason! And how can you believe that a poor mercer, who hates the Huguenots, and abhors the Spaniards, can be accused of high treason? Reflect, sir—the thing is a moral impossibility.”

      “M. Bonancieux,” said the commissary, regarding the accused with his little eyes, as though he had the power of looking into the very depths of his heart, “M. Bonancieux, you have a wife.”

      “Yes, sir,” replied the trembling mercer, perceiving that it was on her account that he was now about to be inculpated; “that is to say, I had one.”

      “What? you had one! And what have you done with her, that you have her no longer?”

      “Some one has carried her off, sir!”

      “Some one has taken her from you?” said the commissary. “Ah!”

      Bonancieux perceived by this “ah!” that matters were getting worse and worse.

      “Some