THE WHITE HORSE AND THE BLACK HORSE.
"That is rather surprising," said D'Artagnan, "Gourville running about
the streets so gayly, when he is almost certain that M. Fouquet is in
danger; when it is almost equally certain that it was Gourville who
warned M. Fouquet just now by the note which was torn into a thousand
pieces upon the terrace and given to the winds by Monsieur le
Surintendant. Gourville is rubbing his hands, that is because he has
done something clever. Whence comes M. Gourville? Gourville is coming
from the Rue aux Herbes. Whither does the Rue aux Herbes lead?" And
D'Artagnan followed along the tops of the houses of Nantes dominated by
the castle, the line traced by the streets, as he would have done upon a
topographical plan; only, instead of the dead, flat paper, the living
chart rose in relief with the cries, the movements, and the shadows of
the men and things. Beyond the inclosure of the city, the great verdant
plains stretched out, bordering the Loire, and appeared to run toward
the empurpled horizon, which was cut by the azure of the waters and the
dark green of the marshes. Immediately outside the gates of Nantes two
white roads were seen diverging like the separated fingers of a gigantic
hand. D'Artagnan, who had taken in all the panorama at a glance by
crossing the terrace, was led by the line of the Rue aux Herbes to the
mouth of one of those roads which took its rise under the gates of
Nantes. One step more, and he was about to descend the stairs, take his
trellised carriage and go toward the lodgings of M. Fouquet. But chance
decreed that at the moment of replunging into the staircase he was
attracted by a moving point which was gaining ground upon that road.
"What is that?" said the musketeer to himself; "a horse galloping--a
runaway horse, no doubt. What a pace he is going at!" The moving point
became detached from the road, and entered into the fields. "A white
horse," continued the captain, who had just seen the color thrown out
luminously against the dark ground, "and he is mounted; it must be some
boy whose horse is thirsty and has run away with him to the
drinking-place, diagonally." These reflections, rapid as lightning,
simultaneous with visual perception, D'Artagnan had already forgotten
when he descended the first steps of the staircase. Some morsels of
paper were spread over the stairs, and shone out white against the dirty
stones. "Eh! eh!" said the captain to himself, "here are some of the
fragments of the note torn by M. Fouquet. Poor man! he had given his
secret to the wind; the wind will have no more to do with it, and brings
it back to the king. Decidedly. Fouquet, you play with misfortune! the
game is not a fair one--fortune is against you. The star of Louis XIV.
obscures yours; the adder is stronger and more cunning than the
squirrel." D'Artagnan picked up one of these morsels of paper as he
descended. "Gourville's pretty little hand," cried he, while examining
one of the fragments of the note; "I was not mistaken." And he read the
word "horse." "Stop!" said he; and he examined another, upon which there
was not a letter traced. Upon a third he read the word "white": "white
horse," repeated he, like a child that is spelling. "Ah, mordioux!"
cried the suspicious spirit, "a white horse!" And, like to that grain of
powder which, burning, dilates into a centupled volume, D'Artagnan,
enlarged by ideas and suspicions, rapidly reascended the stairs toward
the terrace. The white horse was still galloping in the direction of
the Loire, at the extremity of which, melted into the vapors of the
water, a little sail appeared, balancing, like an atom.
"Oh, oh!" cried the musketeer, "there is but a man who flies who would
go at that pace across plowed lands; there is but one Fouquet, a
financier, to ride thus in open day upon a white horse; there is no one
but the lord of Belle-Isle who would make his escape toward the sea,
while there are such thick forests on the land; and there is but one
D'Artagnan in the world to catch M. Fouquet, who has half an hour's
start, and who will have gained his boat within an hour." This being
said, the musketeer gave orders that the carriage with the iron trellis
should be taken immediately to a thicket situated just outside the city.
He selected his best horse, jumped upon his back, galloped along the Rue
aux Herbes, taking, not the road Fouquet had taken, but the bank itself
of the Loire, certain that he should gain ten minutes upon the total of
the distance, and, at the intersection of the two lines, come up with
the fugitive, who could have no suspicion of being pursued in that
direction. In the rapidity of the pursuit, and with the impatience of
the persecutor, animated himself in the chase as in war, D'Artagnan, so
mild, so kind toward Fouquet, was surprised to find himself become
ferocious and almost sanguinary. For a long time he galloped without
catching sight of the white horse. His fury assumed the tints of rage;
he doubted of himself--he suspected that Fouquet had buried himself in
some subterranean road, or that he had changed the white horse for one
of those famous black ones, as swift as the wind, which D'Artagnan, at
Saint-Mandé, had so frequently admired, and envied their vigorous
lightness.
At these moments, when the wind cut his eyes so as to make the water
spring from them, when the saddle had become burning hot, when the
galled and spurred horse reared with pain, and threw behind him a shower
of dust and stones, D'Artagnan, raising himself in his stirrups, and
seeing nothing on the waters--nothing beneath the trees, looked up into
the air like a madman. He was losing his senses. In the paroxysms of his
eagerness he dreamed of aërial ways--the discovery of the following
century; he called to his mind Dædalus and his vast wings, which had
saved him from the prisons of Crete. A hoarse sigh broke from his lips,
as he repeated, devoured by the fear of ridicule, "I! I! duped by a
Gourville! I! They will say I am growing old--they will say I have
received a million to allow Fouquet to escape!" And he again dug his
spurs into the sides of his horse: he had ridden astonishingly fast.
Suddenly, at the extremity of some open pasture-ground, behind the
hedges, he saw a white form which showed itself, disappeared, and at
last remained distinctly visible upon a rising ground. D'Artagnan's
heart leaped with joy. He wiped the streaming sweat from his brow,
relaxed the tension of his knees--by which the horse breathed more
freely--and gathering up his reins, moderated the speed of the vigorous
animal, his active accomplice in this man hunt. He had then time to
study the direction of the road, and his position with regard to
Fouquet. The surintendant had completely winded his horse by crossing
the soft grounds. He felt the necessity of gaining a more firm footing,
and turned toward the road by the shortest secant line. D'Artagnan, on
his part, had nothing to do but to ride straight beneath the sloping
shore, which concealed him from the eyes of his enemy; so that he would
cut him off on his road when he came up with him. Then the real race
would begin--then the struggle would be in earnest.
D'Artagnan gave his horse good breathing-time. He observed that the
surintendant had relaxed into a trot, which was to say, he likewise was
indulging his horse. But both of them were too much pressed for time to
allow them to continue long at that pace. The white horse sprang off
like an arrow the moment his feet touched firm ground. D'Artagnan
dropped his hand, and his black horse broke into a gallop. Both followed
the same route; the quadruple echoes of the course were confounded.
Fouquet had not yet perceived D'Artagnan. But on issuing from the slope,
a single echo struck the air, it was that of the steps of D'Artagnan's
horse, which rolled along like thunder. Fouquet turned round, and saw
behind him, within a hundred paces, his enemy bent over the neck of his
horse. There could be no doubt--the shining baldrick, the red
cassock--it was a musketeer. Fouquet slackened his hand likewise, and
the white horse placed twenty feet more between his adversary and
himself.
"Oh, but," thought D'Artagnan, becoming very anxious, "that is not a
common horse M. Fouquet is upon--let us see!" And he attentively
examined, with his infallible eye, the shape and capabilities of the
courser. Round full quarters--a thin long tail--large hocks--thin legs,
dry as bars of steel--hoofs hard as marble. He spurred his own, but the
distance between the two remained the same. D'Artagnan listened
attentively; not a breath of the horse reached him, and yet he seemed to
cut the air. The black horse, on the contrary, began to blow like a
blacksmith's bellows.
"I must overtake him, if I kill my horse," thought the musketeer: and he
began to saw the mouth of the poor animal, while he buried the rowels of
his merciless spurs in his sides. The maddened horse gained twenty
toises, and came up within pistol-shot of Fouquet.
"Courage!" said the musketeer to himself, "courage; the white horse will
perhaps grow weaker, and if the horse does not fall, the master must
fall at last." But horse and rider remained upright together, and
gaining ground by degrees. D'Artagnan uttered a wild cry, which made
Fouquet turn round, and added speed to the white horse.
"A famous horse! a mad rider!" growled the captain. "Hola! mordioux!
Monsieur Fouquet! stop! in the king's name!" Fouquet made no reply.
"Do you hear me?" shouted D'Artagnan, whose horse had just stumbled.
"Pardieu!" replied Fouquet, laconically; and rode on faster.
D'Artagnan was nearly mad; the blood rushed boiling to his temples and
his eyes. "In the king's name!" cried he again; "stop, or I will bring
you down with a pistol-shot!"
"Do!" replied Fouquet, without relaxing his speed.
D'Artagnan seized a pistol and cocked it, hoping that the noise of the
spring would stop his enemy. "You have pistols likewise," said he, "turn
and defend yourself."
Fouquet did turn round at the noise, and looking D'Artagnan full in the
face, opened with his right hand the part of his dress which concealed
his body, but he did not even touch his holsters. There were not more
than twenty paces between the two.
"Mordioux!" said D'Artagnan, "I will not assassinate you; if you will
not fire upon me, surrender! what is a prison?"
"I would rather die!" replied Fouquet; "I shall suffer less."
D'Artagnan, drunk with despair, hurled his pistol to the ground. "I will
take you alive!" said he; and by a prodigy of skill of which this
incomparable horseman alone was capable he threw his horse forward to
within ten paces of the white horse; already his hand was stretched out
to seize his prey.
"Kill me! kill me!" cried Fouquet; "it is more humane!"
"No! alive--alive!" murmured the captain.
At this moment his horse made a false step for the second time, and
Fouquet's again took the lead. It was an unheard of spectacle, this race
between two horses which were only kept alive by the will of their
riders. It might be said that D'Artagnan rode carrying his horse along
between his knees. To the furious gallop had succeeded the fast trot,
and that had sunk to what might be scarcely called a trot at all. And
the chase appeared equally warm in the two fatigued _athletæ_.
D'Artagnan, quite in despair, seized his second pistol, and cocked it.
"At your horse! not at you!" cried he to Fouquet. And he fired. The
animal was hit in the quarters--he made a furious bound, and plunged
forward. At that moment D'Artagnan's horse fell dead.
"I am dishonored!" thought the musketeer; "I am a miserable wretch! for
pity's sake, M. Fouquet, throw me one of your pistols that I may blow
out my brains!" But Fouquet rode on.
"For mercy's sake! for mercy's sake!" cried D'Artagnan; "that which you
will not do at this moment, I myself will do within an hour; but here,
upon this road, I should die bravely; I should die esteemed; do me that
service, M. Fouquet!"
M. Fouquet made no reply, but continued to trot on. D'Artagnan began to
run after his enemy. Successively he threw off his hat, his coat, which
embarrassed him, and then the sheath of his sword, which got between his
legs as he was running. The sword in his hand even became too heavy, and
he threw it after the sheath. The white horse began to rattle in his
throat; D'Artagnan gained upon him. From a trot the exhausted animal
sunk to a staggering walk--the foam from his mouth was mixed with blood.
D'Artagnan made a desperate effort, sprang toward Fouquet, and seized
him by the leg, saying in a broken breathless voice, "I arrest you in
the king's name! blow my brains out, if you like--we have both done our
duty."
Fouquet hurled far from him, into the river, the two pistols which
D'Artagnan might have seized, and dismounting from his horse--"I am your
prisoner, monsieur," said he; "will you take my arm, for I see you are
ready to faint."
"Thanks!" murmured D'Artagnan, who, in fact, felt the earth moving from
under his feet, and the sky melting away over his head; and he rolled
upon the sand, without breath or strength. Fouquet hastened to the brink
of the river, dipped some water in his hat, with which he bathed the
temples of the musketeer, and introduced a few drops between his lips.
D'Artagnan raised himself up, looking round with a wandering eye. He saw
Fouquet on his knees, with his wet hat in his hand, smiling upon him
with ineffable sweetness. "You are not gone, then?" cried he. "Oh,
monsieur! the true king in royalty, in heart, in soul, is not Louis of
the Louvre, or Philippe of Sainte-Marguerite; it is you, the proscribed,
the condemned!"
"I, who this day am ruined by a single error, M. d'Artagnan."
"What, in the name of Heaven! is that?"
"I should have had you for a friend! But how shall we return to Nantes?
We are a great way from it."
"That is true," said D'Artagnan, gloomy and sad.
"The white horse will recover, perhaps; he is a good horse! Mount,
Monsieur d'Artagnan; I will walk till you have rested a little."
"Poor beast! and wounded too!" said the musketeer.
"He will go, I tell you; I know him; but we can do better still, let us
both get up, and ride slowly."
"We can try," said the captain. But they had scarcely charged the animal
with this double load than he began to stagger, then, with a great
effort, walked a few minutes, then staggered again, and sank down dead
by the side of the black horse, which he had just managed to come up to.
"We will go on foot--destiny wills it so--the walk will be pleasant,"
said Fouquet, passing his arm through that of D'Artagnan.
"Mordioux!" cried the latter, with a fixed eye, a contracted brow, and a
swelling heart--"A disgraceful day!"
They walked slowly the four leagues which separated them from the little
wood behind which waited the carriage with the escort. When Fouquet
perceived that sinister machine, he said to D'Artagnan, who cast down
his eyes as ashamed of Louis XIV., "There is an idea which is not that
of a brave man, Captain d'Artagnan; it is not yours. What are these
gratings for?" said he.
"To prevent your throwing letters out."
"Ingenious!"
"But you can speak, if you cannot write," said D'Artagnan.
"Can I speak to you?"
"Why--certainly, if you wish to do so."
Fouquet reflected for a moment, then, looking the captain full in the
face, "One single word," said he; "will you remember it?"
"I will not forget it."
"Will you speak it to whom I wish?"
"I will."
"Saint-Mandé," articulated Fouquet, in a low voice.
"Well! and for whom?"
"For Madame de Belliere or Pellisson."
"It shall be done."
The carriage passed through Nantes, and took the route of Angers.