Henry Bedford-Jones

D’Artagnan

Warsaw 2022

Contents

PREFACE

I. INTRODUCING A QUEEN, A SOLDIER, AND A ROGUE

II. PROVING THAT NEITHER KING NOR MINISTER RULED FRANCE

III. MENTION THE DEVIL, AND HE APPEARS

IV. A MARSHAL ARRIVES, A LIEUTENANT DEPARTS

V. FOUR LETTERS ARE SENT, ONE ARRIVES

VI. IN WHICH ATHOS UTTERS PREDICTIONS

VII. MIRACLES ARE SOMETIMES UNWELCOME

VIII. IN WHICH A GENTLEMAN PROVES TO BE A GOOD WORKMAN

IX. A NAKED MAN HAS NO CHOICE

X. THE EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE OF THE COMTE DE LA FÈRE

XI. THE STILL MORE EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE OF M. DU VALLON

XII. IN WHICH D'ARTAGNAN ACCOMPLISHES TWO THINGS FOR OTHERS, ONE FOR HIMSELF

XIII. ONE MEANS OF ADMISSION TO THE ORDER OF THE HOLY GHOST

XIV. INSTEAD OF ONE FATHER, TWO APPEAR

XV. TWO DEPART, THREE REMAIN

XVI. THE ASTONISHING EFFECT OF A KICK UPON A DEAD MAN

EPILOGUE

PREFACE

THIS story augments and incorporates without alteration a fragmentary manuscript whose handwriting has been identified as that of Alexandre Dumas, and as such authenticated by Victor Lemasle, the well known expert of Paris. So far as can be learned, it has remained unpublished hitherto.

No romantic tale can be attached to this manuscript, though one is tempted to weave a fantastic and plausible prologue after the fashion of Rider Haggard. The Thounenin will, whose existence in a French collection of old documents possibly suggested the story to the author, has been secured and is in the possession of the publisher. This sheet of old vellum, stamped with the arms of Lorraine and signed by Leonard, hereditary grand tabellion of the province, is in itself a curiosity.

In here presenting a complete story, the writer has no apologies to offer. Nothing can be learned about this tale from the life or literary remains of Dumas. The child about whom it centers will be recognized as the Vicomte de Bragelonne, hero of the later novels of the series, whose parentage is very plainly set forth by Dumas in “Twenty Years After.” The publisher, who is the owner of the manuscript in question, is of course fully informed as to what portion of this novel is from the pen of Dumas, and what from the typewriter of

–H. Bedford-Jones. Ann Arbor, April 1, 1928

I. INTRODUCING A QUEEN, A SOLDIER, AND A ROGUE

ON the second Thursday in July, 1630, the ancient city of Lyon had become the second capital of France. Louis XIII and Cardinal de Richelieu, who had been with the army in Savoy, were returned to Grenoble; the court and the two queens had come to Lyon. Paris was empty as the grave, and between Lyon and Grenoble fluctuated all court business, since Marie de Medici, the queen-mother, acted as regent while Louis XIII was on campaign.

On the south side of the Place des Terreaux, overlooking the Saone to the left and the Rhone to the right, stood the vast convent of the Dames Benedictines. This massive building, of which today only the directory remains, rang loud with voices and glittered bravely with gay costumes and weapons. Musketeers guarded the high gates, coaches thundered in the paved courtyard, and at the river-bank below the fair green gardens waited gilded barges; in truth, at this moment two queens of France were residing within its walls.

In an upper room, beside a tiny fire that burned in the wall- hearth to dispel the chill of morning, sat a woman who read a letter in some agitation. Despite the tapestry adorning the walls, and the handsome curtains of the bed, the room bore an air of severity and plainness which spoke of the conventual surroundings.

The woman who sat in this room was about thirty; that is to say, at the height of womanly perfection; the velvety softness of her skin, her powdered chestnut hair, and her beautiful hands, combined to make her appear much younger. Pride mingled with a gentle sadness in her features; a certain lofty majesty in her mien was tempered by kindliness and sweetness. Her eyes were quite brilliant, yet now a cloudy phantom of terror was gathering in their liquid depths, as she read the disturbing phrases of this letter:

Though it grieves me to trouble you, yet you must be placed on guard. Knowing this goes direct to your hand, I write plainly and trust you to destroy it at once.

In 1624, six years ago, one François Thounenin was a curé at Dompt; he there made his will. In the following year he was transferred to Aubain, near Versailles, by the influence of my family, of which he was a relation. Two years ago he died in this same village of Aubain. Before dying, being on a visit to Dompt,he made a codicil to his will; it was incorporated with the original document deposited at Nancy. This addition, made in the fear of death, concerned a certain child. We knew nothing of the codicil naturally. Thounenin died soon after it was made, and learning of this, we arranged for the child.

This will has been taken from the archives. The fact was learned at once, pursuit was begun and I have every reason to believe that the document will be recovered and destroyed. That it concern you were impossible; yet I fear, my dear friend, lest it be made to concern you! I am closely watched, my friends are suspect, it is difficult for me to do anything.

If possible, send me a messenger whom you can trust. I may have no other chance to write you by a sure hand, yet it is imperative that you be kept informed of danger or–of security. Adieu! Destroy this.

Marie.

The woman who wrote this letter was Marie de Rohan, Duchesse de Chevreuse, the most able and determined of Richelieu’s enemies. The woman who read it was Anne of Austria, Queen of France, the most beautiful and helpless of Richelieu’s victims. When she had read the letter, the queen let it fall upon the flames in the fireplace; in another moment it had become a black ash lifting upward on the draught. Her head falling on her hand, the queen fell into agitated reverie.

“Good God, what can this mean–what is it about–what will they attempt next against me or my friends?” murmured Anne of Austria. Her beautiful eyes were suffused with tears. “And what can I do–whom can I send–in what person can I trust, when I am allowed to see no one in private except by express permission?”

At this instant a tap at the door roused her, caused her to efface all trace of emotion. Into the room came Dona Estafania, the only one of her Spanish attendants now remaining at her side. She curtseyed to the queen from the doorway.

“Your Majesty, the courier is here for the despatches. Madame the Queen-mother requests that if yours are ready, they be sent instantly.”

“They are lying on my secretary,” said the queen. Guessing from the formal address that the messenger was waiting, she added: “This courier–he is at hand?”

“Yes, madame,” said Dona Estafania. “He is M. d’Artagnan, a gentleman of the Musketeers–”

“Ah!” murmured the queen. “Wait–”

At the mention of this name, a swift pallor leaped in her cheeks and then was gone in a suffused red half concealed by her rouge. Perhaps she remembered this name; perhaps other days came before her eyes in this moment; perhaps the memory of dead Buckingham pierced her sharply.

“He is alone?” she asked quickly, impulsive

“Yes madame.”

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