The coachman perceived at once, by the expression of the man who thus

addressed him, that he had fallen into a trap, and he remained with his

mouth wide open and his eyes portentously staring.

Two musketeers were pacing the court, to whom D’Artagnan called by

their names.

“Monsieur de Bellière,” said he to one of them, “do me the favor to

take the reins from the hands of this worthy man, mount upon the box

and drive to the door of the private stair, and wait for me there; it

is an affair of importance on the service of the king.”

The musketeer, who knew that his lieutenant was incapable of jesting

with regard to the service, obeyed without a word, although he thought

the order strange. Then turning toward the second musketeer, D’Artagnan

said:

“Monsieur du Verger, help me to place this man in a place of safety.”

The musketeer, thinking that his lieutenant had just arrested some

prince in disguise, bowed, and drawing his sword, signified that he was

ready. D’Artagnan mounted the staircase, followed by his prisoner, who

in his turn was followed by the soldier, and entered Mazarin’s

ante-room. Bernouin was waiting there, impatient for news of his

master.

“Well, sir?” he said.

“Everything goes on capitally, my dear Monsieur Bernouin, but here is a

man whom I must beg you to put in a safe place.”

“Where, then, sir?”

“Where you like, provided that the place which you shall choose has

iron shutters secured by padlocks and a door that can be locked.”

“We have that, sir,” replied Bernouin; and the poor coachman was

conducted to a closet, the windows of which were barred and which

looked very much like a prison.

“And now, my good friend,” said D’Artagnan to him, “I must invite you

to deprive yourself, for my sake, of your hat and cloak.”

The coachman, as we can well understand, made no resistance; in fact,

he was so astonished at what had happened to him that he stammered and

reeled like a drunken man; D’Artagnan deposited his clothes under the

arm of one of the valets.

“And now, Monsieur du Verger,” he said, “shut yourself up with this man

until Monsieur Bernouin returns to open the door. The duty will be

tolerably long and not very amusing, I know; but,” added he, seriously,

“you understand, it is on the king’s service.”

“At your command, lieutenant,” replied the musketeer, who saw the

business was a serious one.

“By-the-bye,” continued D’Artagnan, “should this man attempt to fly or

to call out, pass your sword through his body.”

The musketeer signified by a nod that these commands should be obeyed

to the letter, and D’Artagnan went out, followed by Bernouin. Midnight

struck.

“Lead me into the queen’s oratory,” said D’Artagnan, “announce to her I

am here, and put this parcel, with a well-loaded musket, under the seat

of the carriage which is waiting at the foot of the private stair.”

Bernouin conducted D’Artagnan to the oratory, where he sat down

pensively. Everything had gone on as usual at the Palais Royal. As we

said before, by ten o’clock almost all the guests had dispersed; those

who were to fly with the court had the word of command and they were

each severally desired to be from twelve o’clock to one at Cours la

Reine.

At ten o’clock Anne of Austria had entered the king’s room. Monsieur

had just retired, and the youthful Louis, remaining the last, was

amusing himself by placing some lead soldiers in a line of battle, a

game which delighted him much. Two royal pages were playing with him.

“Laporte,” said the queen, “it is time for his majesty to go to bed.”

The king asked to remain up, having, he said, no wish to sleep; but the

queen was firm.

“Are you not going to-morrow morning at six o’clock, Louis, to bathe at

Conflans? I think you wished to do so of your own accord?”

“You are right, madame,” said the king, “and I am ready to retire to my

room when you have kissed me. Laporte, give the light to Monsieur the

Chevalier de Coislin.”

The queen touched with her lips the white, smooth brow the royal child

presented to her with a gravity which already partook of etiquette.

“Go to sleep soon, Louis,” said the queen, “for you must be awakened

very early.”

“I will do my best to obey you, madame,” said the youthful king, “but I

have no inclination to sleep.”

“Laporte,” said Anne of Austria, in an undertone, “find some very dull

book to read to his majesty, but do not undress yourself.”

The king went out, accompanied by the Chevalier de Coislin, bearing the

candlestick, and then the queen returned to her own apartment. Her

ladies—that is to say Madame de Bregy, Mademoiselle de Beaumont, Madame

de Motteville, and Socratine, her sister, so called on account of her

sense—had just brought into her dressing-room the remains of the

dinner, on which, according to her usual custom, she supped. The queen

then gave her orders, spoke of a banquet which the Marquis de

Villequier was to give to her on the day after the morrow, indicated

the persons she would admit to the honor of partaking of it, announced

another visit on the following day to Val-de-Grace, where she intended

to pay her devotions, and gave her commands to her senior valet to

accompany her. When the ladies had finished their supper the queen

feigned extreme fatigue and passed into her bedroom. Madame de

Motteville, who was on especial duty that evening, followed to aid and

undress her. The queen then began to read, and after conversing with

her affectionately for a few minutes, dismissed her.

It was at this moment D’Artagnan entered the courtyard of the palace,

in the coadjutor’s carriage, and a few seconds later the carriages of

the ladies-in-waiting drove out and the gates were shut after them.

A few minutes after twelve o’clock Bernouin knocked at the queen’s

bedroom door, having come by the cardinal’s secret corridor. Anne of

Austria opened the door to him herself. She was dressed, that is to

say, in _dishabille_, wrapped in a long, warm dressing-gown.

“It is you, Bernouin,” she said. “Is Monsieur d’Artagnan there?”

“Yes, madame, in your oratory. He is waiting till your majesty is

ready.”

“I am. Go and tell Laporte to wake and dress the king, and then pass on

to the Maréchal de Villeroy and summon him to me.”

Bernouin bowed and retired.

The queen entered her oratory, which was lighted by a single lamp of

Venetian crystal, She saw D’Artagnan, who stood expecting her.

“Is it you?” she said.

“Yes, madame.”

“Are you ready?”

“I am.”

“And his eminence, the cardinal?”

“Has got off without any accident. He is awaiting your majesty at Cours

la Reine.”

“But in what carriage do we start?”

“I have provided for everything; a carriage below is waiting for your

majesty.”

“Let us go to the king.”

D’Artagnan bowed and followed the queen. The young Louis was already

dressed, with the exception of his shoes and doublet; he had allowed

himself to be dressed, in great astonishment, overwhelming Laporte with

questions, who replied only in these words, “Sire, it is by the queen’s

commands.”

The bedclothes were thrown back, exposing the king’s bed linen, which

was so worn that here and there holes could be seen. It was one of the

results of Mazarin’s niggardliness.

The queen entered and D’Artagnan remained at the door. As soon as the

child perceived the queen he escaped from Laporte and ran to meet her.

Anne then motioned to D’Artagnan to approach, and he obeyed.

“My son,” said Anne of Austria, pointing to the musketeer, calm,

standing uncovered, “here is Monsieur d’Artagnan, who is as brave as

one of those ancient heroes of whom you like so much to hear from my

women. Remember his name well and look at him well, that his face may

not be forgotten, for this evening he is going to render us a great

service.”

The young king looked at the officer with his large-formed eye, and

repeated:

“Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

“That is it, my son.”

The young king slowly raised his little hand and held it out to the

musketeer; the latter bent on his knee and kissed it.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” repeated Louis; “very well, madame.”

At this moment they were startled by a noise as if a tumult were

approaching.

“What is that?” exclaimed the queen.

“Oh, oh!” replied D’Artagnan, straining both at the same time his quick

ear and his intelligent glance, “it is the murmur of the populace in

revolution.”

“We must fly,” said the queen.

“Your majesty has given me the control of this business; we had better

wait and see what they want.”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan!”

“I will answer for everything.”

Nothing is so catching as confidence. The queen, full of energy and

courage, was quickly alive to these two virtues in others.

“Do as you like,” she said, “I rely upon you.”

“Will your majesty permit me to give orders in your name throughout

this business?”

“Command, sir.”

“What do the people want this time?” demanded the king.

“We are about to ascertain, sire,” replied D’Artagnan, as he rapidly

left the room.

The tumult continued to increase and seemed to surround the Palais

Royal entirely. Cries were heard from the interior, of which they could

not comprehend the sense. It was evident that there was clamor and

sedition.

The king, half dressed, the queen and Laporte remained each in the same

state and almost in the same place, where they were listening and

waiting. Comminges, who was on guard that night at the Palais Royal,

ran in. He had about two hundred men in the courtyards and stables, and

he placed them at the queen’s disposal.

“Well,” asked Anne of Austria, when D’Artagnan reappeared, “what does

it mean?”

“It means, madame, that the report has spread that the queen has left

the Palais Royal, carrying off the king, and the people ask to have

proof to the contrary, or threaten to demolish the Palais Royal.”

“Oh, this time it is too much!” exclaimed the queen, “and I will prove

to them I have not left.”

D’Artagnan saw from the expression of the queen’s face that she was

about to issue some violent command. He approached her and said in a

low voice:

“Has your majesty still confidence in me?”

This voice startled her. “Yes, sir,” she replied, “every confidence;

speak.”

“Will the queen deign to follow my advice?”

“Speak.”

“Let your majesty dismiss M. de Comminges and desire him to shut

himself up with his men in the guardhouse and in the stables.”

Comminges glanced at D’Artagnan with the envious look with which every

courtier sees a new favorite spring up.

“You hear, Comminges?” said the queen.

D’Artagnan went up to him; with his usual quickness he caught the

anxious glance.

“Monsieur de Comminges,” he said, “pardon me; we both are servants of

the queen, are we not? It is my turn to be of use to her; do not envy

me this happiness.”

Comminges bowed and left.

“Come,” said D’Artagnan to himself, “I have got one more enemy.”

“And now,” said the queen, addressing D’Artagnan, “what is to be done?

for you hear that, instead of becoming calmer, the noise increases.”

“Madame,” said D’Artagnan, “the people want to see the king and they

must see him.”

“What! _must_ see him! Where—on the balcony?”

“Not at all, madame, but here, sleeping in his bed.”

“Oh, your majesty,” exclaimed Laporte, “Monsieur d’Artagnan is right.”

The queen became thoughtful and smiled, like a woman to whom duplicity

is no stranger.

“Without doubt,” she murmured.

“Monsieur Laporte,” said D’Artagnan, “go and announce to the people

through the grating that they are going to be satisfied and that in

five minutes they shall not only see the king, but they shall see him

in bed; add that the king sleeps and that the queen begs that they will

keep silence, so as not to awaken him.”

“But not every one; a deputation of two or four people.”

“Every one, madame.”

“But reflect, they will keep us here till daybreak.”

“It shall take but a quarter of an hour, I answer for everything,

madame; believe me, I know the people; they are like a great child, who

only wants humoring. Before the sleeping king they will be mute, gentle

and timid as lambs.”

“Go, Laporte,” said the queen.

The young king approached his mother and said, “Why do as these people

ask?”

“It must be so, my son,” said Anne of Austria.

“But if they say, ‘it must be’ to me, am I no longer king?”

The queen remained silent.

“Sire,” said D’Artagnan, “will your majesty permit me to ask you a

question?”

Louis XIV. turned around, astonished that any one should dare to

address him. But the queen pressed the child’s hand.

“Yes, sir.” he said.

“Does your majesty remember, when playing in the park of Fontainebleau,

or in the palace courts at Versailles, ever to have seen the sky grow

suddenly dark and heard the sound of thunder?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“Well, then, this noise of thunder, however much your majesty may have

wished to continue playing, has said, ‘go in, sire. You must do so.’”

“Certainly, sir; but they tell me that the noise of thunder is the

voice of God.”

“Well then, sire,” continued D’Artagnan, “listen to the noise of the

people; you will perceive that it resembles that of thunder.”

In truth at that moment a terrible murmur was wafted to them by the

night breeze; then all at once it ceased.

“Hold, sire,” said D’Artagnan, “they have just told the people that you

are asleep; you see, you still are king.”

The queen looked with surprise at this strange man, whose brilliant

courage made him the equal of the bravest, and who was, by his fine and

quick intelligence, the equal of the most astute.

Laporte entered.

“Well, Laporte?” asked the queen.

“Madame,” he replied, “Monsieur d’Artagnan’s prediction has been

accomplished; they are calm, as if by enchantment. The doors are about

to be opened and in five minutes they will be here.”

“Laporte,” said the queen, “suppose you put one of your sons in the

king’s place; we might be off during the time.”

“If your majesty desires it,” said Laporte, “my sons, like myself, are

at the queen’s service.”

“Not at all,” said D’Artagnan; “should one of them know his majesty and

discover but a substitute, all would be lost.”

“You are right, sir, always right,” said Anne of Austria. “Laporte,

place the king in bed.”

Laporte placed the king, dressed as he was, in the bed and then covered

him as far as the shoulders with the sheet. The queen bent over him and

kissed his brow.

“Pretend to sleep, Louis,” said she.

“Yes,” said the king, “but I do not wish to be touched by any of those

men.”

“Sire, I am here,” said D’Artagnan, “and I give you my word, that if a

single man has the audacity, his life shall pay for it.”

“And now what is to be done?” asked the queen, “for I hear them.”

“Monsieur Laporte, go to them and again recommend silence. Madame, wait

at the door, whilst I shall be at the head of the king’s bed, ready to

die for him.”

Laporte went out; the queen remained standing near the hangings, whilst

D’Artagnan glided behind the curtains.

Then the heavy and collected steps of a multitude of men were heard,

and the queen herself raised the tapestry hangings and put her finger

on her lips.

On seeing the queen, the men stopped short, respectfully.

“Enter, gentlemen, enter,” said the queen.

There was then amongst that crowd a moment’s hesitation, which looked

like shame. They had expected resistance, they had expected to be

thwarted, to have to force the gates, to overturn the guards. The gates

had opened of themselves, and the king, ostensibly at least, had no

other guard at his bed-head but his mother. The foremost of them

stammered and attempted to fall back.

“Enter, gentlemen,” said Laporte, “since the queen desires you so to

do.”

Then one more bold than the rest ventured to pass the door and to

advance on tiptoe. This example was imitated by the rest, until the

room filled silently, as if these men had been the humblest, most

devoted courtiers. Far beyond the door the heads of those who were not

able to enter could be seen, all craning to their utmost height to try

and see.

D’Artagnan saw it all through an opening he had made in the curtain,

and in the very first man who entered he recognized Planchet.

“Sir,” said the queen to him, thinking he was the leader of the band,

“you wished to see the king and therefore I determined to show him to

you myself. Approach and look at him and say if we have the appearance

of people who wish to run away.”

“No, certainly,” replied Planchet, rather astonished at the unexpected

honor conferred upon him.

“You will say, then, to my good and faithful Parisians,” continued

Anne, with a smile, the expression of which did not deceive D’Artagnan,

“that you have seen the king in bed, asleep, and the queen also ready

to retire.”

“I shall tell them, madame, and those who accompany me will say the

same thing; but——”

“But what?” asked Anne of Austria.

“Will your majesty pardon me,” said Planchet, “but is it really the

king who is lying there?”

Anne of Austria started. “If,” she said, “there is one among you who

knows the king, let him approach and say whether it is really his

majesty lying there.”

A man wrapped in a cloak, in the folds of which his face was hidden,

approached and leaned over the bed and looked.

For one second, D’Artagnan thought the man had some evil design and he

put his hand to his sword; but in the movement made by the man in

stooping a portion of his face was uncovered and D’Artagnan recognized

the coadjutor.

“It is certainly the king,” said the man, rising again. “God bless his

majesty!”

“Yes,” repeated the leader in a whisper, “God bless his majesty!” and

all these men, who had entered enraged, passed from anger to pity and

blessed the royal infant in their turn.

“Now,” said Planchet, “let us thank the queen. My friends, retire.”

They all bowed, and retired by degrees as noiselessly as they had

entered. Planchet, who had been the first to enter, was the last to

leave. The queen stopped him.

“What is your name, my friend?” she said.

Planchet, much surprised at the inquiry, turned back.

“Yes,” continued the queen, “I think myself as much honored to have

received you this evening as if you had been a prince, and I wish to

know your name.”

“Yes,” thought Planchet, “to treat me as a prince. No, thank you.”

D’Artagnan trembled lest Planchet, seduced, like the crow in the fable,

should tell his name, and that the queen, knowing his name, would

discover that Planchet had belonged to him.

“Madame,” replied Planchet, respectfully, “I am called Dulaurier, at

your service.”

“Thank you, Monsieur Dulaurier,” said the queen; “and what is your

business?”

“Madame, I am a clothier in the Rue Bourdonnais.”

“That is all I wished to know,” said the queen. “Much obliged to you,

Monsieur Dulaurier. You will hear again from me.”

“Come, come,” thought D’Artagnan, emerging from behind the curtain,

“decidedly Monsieur Planchet is no fool; it is evident he has been

brought up in a good school.”

The different actors in this strange scene remained facing one another,

without uttering a single word; the queen standing near the door,

D’Artagnan half out of his hiding place, the king raised on his elbow,

ready to fall down on his bed again at the slightest sound that would

indicate the return of the multitude, but instead of approaching, the

noise became more and more distant and very soon it died entirely away.

The queen breathed more freely. D’Artagnan wiped his damp forehead and

the king slid off his bed, saying, “Let us go.”

At this moment Laporte reappeared.

“Well?” asked the queen

“Well, madame,” replied the valet, “I followed them as far as the

gates. They announced to all their comrades that they had seen the king

and that the queen had spoken to them; and, in fact, they went away

quite proud and happy.”

“Oh, the miserable wretches!” murmured the queen, “they shall pay

dearly for their boldness, and it is I who promise this.”

Then turning to D’Artagnan, she said:

“Sir, you have given me this evening the best advice I have ever

received. Continue, and say what we must do now.”

“Monsieur Laporte,” said D’Artagnan, “finish dressing his majesty.”

“We may go, then?” asked the queen.

“Whenever your majesty pleases. You have only to descend by the private

stairs and you will find me at the door.”

“Go, sir,” said the queen; “I will follow you.”

D’Artagnan went down and found the carriage at its post and the

musketeer on the box. D’Artagnan took out the parcel which he had

desired Bernouin to place under the seat. It may be remembered that it

was the hat and cloak belonging to Monsieur de Gondy’s coachman.

He placed the cloak on his shoulders and the hat on his head, whilst

the musketeer got off the box.

“Sir,” said D’Artagnan, “you will go and release your companion, who is

guarding the coachman. You must mount your horse and proceed to the Rue

Tiquetonne, Hotel de la Chevrette, whence you will take my horse and

that of Monsieur du Vallon, which you must saddle and equip as if for

war, and then you will leave Paris, bringing them with you to Cours la

Reine. If, when you arrive at Cours la Reine, you find no one, you must

go on to Saint Germain. On the king’s service.”

The musketeer touched his cap and went away to execute the orders thus

received.

D’Artagnan mounted the box, having a pair of pistols in his belt, a

musket under his feet and a naked sword behind him.

The queen appeared, and was followed by the king and the Duke d’Anjou,

his brother.

“Monsieur the coadjutor’s carriage!” she exclaimed, falling back.

“Yes, madame,” said D’Artagnan; “but get in fearlessly, for I myself

will drive you.”

The queen uttered a cry of surprise and entered the carriage, and the

king and monsieur took their places at her side.

“Come, Laporte,” said the queen.

“How, madame!” said the valet, “in the same carriage as your

majesties?”

“It is not a matter of royal etiquette this evening, but of the king’s

safety. Get in, Laporte.”

Laporte obeyed.

“Pull down the blinds,” said D’Artagnan.

“But will that not excite suspicion, sir?” asked the queen.

“Your majesty’s mind may be quite at ease,” replied the officer; “I

have my answer ready.”

The blinds were pulled down and they started at a gallop by the Rue

Richelieu. On reaching the gate the captain of the post advanced at the

head of a dozen men, holding a lantern in his hand.

D’Artagnan signed to them to draw near.

“Do you recognize the carriage?” he asked the sergeant.

“No,” replied the latter.

“Look at the arms.”

The sergeant put the lantern near the panel.

“They are those of monsieur le coadjuteur,” he said.

“Hush; he is enjoying a ride with Madame de Guéménée.”

The sergeant began to laugh.

“Open the gate,” he cried. “I know who it is!” Then putting his face to

the lowered blinds, he said:

“I wish you joy, my lord!”

“Impudent fellow!” cried D’Artagnan, “you will get me turned off.”

The gate groaned on its hinges, and D’Artagnan, seeing the way clear,

whipped his horses, who started at a canter, and five minutes later

they had rejoined the cardinal.

“Mousqueton!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, “draw up the blinds of his

majesty’s carriage.”

“It is he!” cried Porthos.

“Disguised as a coachman!” exclaimed Mazarin.

“And driving the coadjutor’s carriage!” said the queen.

“_Corpo di Dio!_ Monsieur d’Artagnan!” said Mazarin, “you are worth

your weight in gold.”

Chapter LIII.

How D’Artagnan and Porthos earned by selling Straw.

Mazarin was desirous of setting out instantly for Saint Germain, but

the queen declared that she should wait for the people whom she had

appointed to meet her. However, she offered the cardinal Laporte’s

place, which he accepted and went from one carriage to the other.

It was not without foundation that a report of the king’s intention to

leave Paris by night had been circulated. Ten or twelve persons had

been in the secret since six o’clock, and howsoever great their

prudence might be, they could not issue the necessary orders for the

departure without suspicion being generated. Besides, each individual

had one or two others for whom he was interested; and as there could be

no doubt but that the queen was leaving Paris full of terrible projects

of vengeance, every one had warned parents and friends of what was

about to transpire; so that the news of the approaching exit ran like a

train of lighted gunpowder along the streets.

The first carriage which arrived after that of the queen was that of

the Prince de Condé, with the princess and dowager princess. Both these

ladies had been awakened in the middle of the night and did not know

what it all was about. The second contained the Duke and Duchess of

Orléans, the tall young Mademoiselle and the Abbé de la Rivière; and

the third, the Duke de Longueville and the Prince de Conti, brother and

brother-in-law of Condé. They all alighted and hastened to pay their

respects to the king and queen in their coach. The queen fixed her eyes

upon the carriage they had left, and seeing that it was empty, she

said:

“But where is Madame de Longueville?”

“Ah, yes, where is my sister?” asked the prince.

“Madame de Longueville is ill,” said the duke, “and she desired me to

excuse her to your majesty.”

Anne gave a quick glance to Mazarin, who answered by an almost

imperceptible shake of his head.

“What do you say of this?” asked the queen.

“I say that she is a hostage for the Parisians,” answered the cardinal.

“Why is she not come?” asked the prince in a low voice, addressing his

brother.

“Silence,” whispered the duke, “she has her reasons.”

“She will ruin us!” returned the prince.

“She will save us,” said Conti.

Carriages now arrived in crowds; those of the Maréchal de Villeroy,

Guitant, Villequier and Comminges came into the line. The two

musketeers arrived in their turn, holding the horses of D’Artagnan and

Porthos in their hands. These two instantly mounted, the coachman of

the latter replacing D’Artagnan on the coach-box of the royal coach.

Mousqueton took the place of the coachman, and drove standing, for

reasons known to himself, like Automedon of antiquity.

The queen, though occupied by a thousand details, tried to catch the

Gascon’s eye; but he, with his wonted prudence, had mingled with the

crowd.

“Let us be the _avant_ guard,” said he to Porthos, “and find good

quarters at Saint Germain; nobody will think of us, and for my part I

am greatly fatigued.”

“As for me,” replied Porthos, “I am falling asleep, which is strange,

considering we have not had any fighting; truly the Parisians are

idiots.”

“Or rather, we are very clever,” said D’Artagnan.

“Perhaps.”

“And how is your wrist?”

“Better; but do you think that we’ve got them this time?”

“Got what?”

“You your command, and I my title?”

“I’faith! yes—I should expect so; besides, if they forget, I shall take

the liberty of reminding them.”

“The queen’s voice! she is speaking,” said Porthos; “I think she wants

to ride on horseback.”

“Oh, she would like it, but——”

“But what?”

“The cardinal won’t allow it. Gentlemen,” he said, addressing the two

musketeers, “accompany the royal carriage, we are going forward to look

for lodgings.”

D’Artagnan started off for Saint Germain, followed by Porthos.

“We will go on, gentlemen,” said the queen.

And the royal carriage drove on, followed by the other coaches and

about fifty horsemen.

They reached Saint German without any accident; on descending, the

queen found the prince awaiting her, bare-headed, to offer her his

hand.

“What an awakening for the Parisians!” said the queen, radiant.

“It is war,” said the prince.

“Well, then, let it be war! Have we not on our side the conqueror of

Rocroy, of Nordlingen, of Lens?”

The prince bowed low.

It was then three o’clock in the morning. The queen walked first, every

one followed her. About two hundred persons had accompanied her in her

flight.

“Gentlemen,” said the queen, laughing, “pray take up your abode in the

château; it is large, and there will be no want of room for you all;

but, as we never thought of coming here, I am informed that there are,

in all, only three beds in the whole establishment, one for the king,

one for me——”

“And one for the cardinal,” muttered the prince.

“Am I—am I, then, to sleep on the floor?” asked Gaston d’Orléans, with

a forced smile.

“No, my prince,” replied Mazarin, “the third bed is intended for your

highness.”

“But your eminence?” replied the prince.

“I,” answered Mazarin, “I shall not sleep at all; I have work to do.”

Gaston desired that he should be shown into the room wherein he was to

sleep, without in the least concerning himself as to where his wife and

daughter were to repose.

“Well, for my part, I shall go to bed,” said D’Artagnan; “come,

Porthos.”

Porthos followed the lieutenant with that profound confidence he ever

had in the wisdom of his friend. They walked from one end of the

château to the other, Porthos looking with wondering eyes at

D’Artagnan, who was counting on his fingers.

“Four hundred, at a pistole each, four hundred pistoles.”

“Yes,” interposed Porthos, “four hundred pistoles; but who is to make

four hundred pistoles?”

“A pistole is not enough,” said D’Artagnan, “’tis worth a louis.”

“What is worth a louis?”

“Four hundred, at a louis each, make four hundred louis.”

“Four hundred?” said Porthos.

“Yes, there are two hundred of them, and each of them will need two,

which will make four hundred.”

“But four hundred what?”

“Listen!” cried D’Artagnan.

But as there were all kinds of people about, who were in a state of

stupefaction at the unexpected arrival of the court, he whispered in

his friend’s ear.

“I understand,” answered Porthos, “I understand you perfectly, on my

honor; two hundred louis, each of us, would be making a pretty thing of

it; but what will people say?”

“Let them say what they will; besides, how will they know that we are

doing it?”

“But who will distribute these things?” asked Porthos.

“Isn’t Mousqueton there?”

“But he wears my livery; my livery will be known,” replied Porthos.

“He can turn his coat inside out.”

“You are always in the right, my dear friend,” cried Porthos; “but

where the devil do you discover all the notions you put into practice?”

D’Artagnan smiled. The two friends turned down the first street they

came to. Porthos knocked at the door of a house to the right, whilst

D’Artagnan knocked at the door of a house to the left.

“Some straw,” they said.

“Sir, we don’t keep any,” was the reply of the people who opened the

doors; “but please ask at the hay dealer’s.”

“Where is the hay dealer’s?”

“At the last large door in the street.”

“Are there any other people in Saint Germain who sell straw?”

“Yes; there’s the landlord of the Lamb, and Gros-Louis the farmer; they

both live in the Rue des Ursulines.”

“Very well.”

D’Artagnan went instantly to the hay dealer and bargained with him for

a hundred and fifty trusses of straw, which he obtained, at the rate of

three pistoles each. He went afterward to the innkeeper and bought from

him two hundred trusses at the same price. Finally, Farmer Louis sold

them eighty trusses, making in all four hundred and thirty.

There was no more to be had in Saint Germain. This foraging did not

occupy more than half an hour. Mousqueton, duly instructed, was put at

the head of this sudden and new business. He was cautioned not to let a

bit of straw out of his hands under a louis the truss, and they

intrusted to him straw to the amount of four hundred and thirty louis.

D’Artagnan, taking with him three trusses of straw, returned to the

château, where everybody, freezing with cold and more than half asleep,

envied the king, the queen, and the Duke of Orléans, on their camp

beds. The lieutenant’s entrance produced a burst of laughter in the

great drawing-room; but he did not appear to notice that he was the

object of general attention, but began to arrange, with so much

cleverness, nicety and gayety, his straw bed, that the mouths of all

these poor creatures, who could not go to sleep, began to water.

“Straw!” they all cried out, “straw! where is there any to be found?”

“I can show you,” answered the Gascon.

And he conducted them to Mousqueton, who freely distributed the trusses

at the rate of a louis apiece. It was thought rather dear, but people

wanted to sleep, and who would not give even two or three louis for a

few hours of sound sleep?

D’Artagnan gave up his bed to any one who wanted it, making it over

about a dozen times; and since he was supposed to have paid, like the

others, a louis for his truss of straw, he pocketed in that way thirty

louis in less than half an hour. At five o’clock in the morning the

straw was worth eighty francs a truss and there was no more to be had.

D’Artagnan had taken the precaution to set apart four trusses for his

own use. He put in his pocket the key of the room where he had hidden

them, and accompanied by Porthos returned to settle with Mousqueton,

who, naïvely, and like the worthy steward that he was, handed them four

hundred and thirty louis and kept one hundred for himself.

Mousqueton, who knew nothing of what was going on in the château,

wondered that the idea had not occurred to him sooner. D’Artagnan put

the gold in his hat, and in going back to the château settled the

reckoning with Porthos, each of them had cleared two hundred and

fifteen louis.

Porthos, however, found that he had no straw left for himself. He

returned to Mousqueton, but the steward had sold the last wisp. He then

repaired to D’Artagnan, who, thanks to his four trusses of straw, was

in the act of making up and tasting, by anticipation, the luxury of a

bed so soft, so well stuffed at the head, so well covered at the foot,

that it would have excited the envy of the king himself, if his majesty

had not been fast asleep in his own. D’Artagnan could on no account

consent to pull his bed to pieces again for Porthos, but for a

consideration of four louis that the latter paid him for it, he

consented that Porthos should share his couch with him. He laid his

sword at the head, his pistols by his side, stretched his cloak over

his feet, placed his felt hat on the top of his cloak and extended

himself luxuriously on the straw, which rustled under him. He was

already enjoying the sweet dream engendered by the possession of two

hundred and nineteen louis, made in a quarter of an hour, when a voice

was heard at the door of the hall, which made him stir.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan!” it cried.

“Here!” cried Porthos, “here!”

Porthos foresaw that if D’Artagnan was called away he should remain the

sole possessor of the bed. An officer approached.

“I am come to fetch you, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

“From whom?”

“His eminence sent me.”

“Tell my lord that I’m going to sleep, and I advise him, as a friend,

to do the same.”

“His eminence is not gone to bed and will not go to bed, and wants you

instantly.”

“The devil take Mazarin, who does not know when to sleep at the proper

time. What does he want with me? Is it to make me a captain? In that

case I will forgive him.”

And the musketeer rose, grumbling, took his sword, hat, pistols, and

cloak, and followed the officer, whilst Porthos, alone and sole

possessor of the bed, endeavored to follow the good example of falling

asleep, which his predecessor had set him.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the cardinal, on perceiving him, “I have

not forgotten with what zeal you have served me. I am going to prove to

you that I have not.”

“Good,” thought the Gascon, “this is a promising beginning.”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” he resumed, “do you wish to become a captain?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And your friend still longs to be made a baron?”

“At this very moment, my lord, he no doubt dreams that he is one

already.”

“Then,” said Mazarin, taking from his portfolio the letter which he had

already shown D’Artagnan, “take this dispatch and carry it to England.”

D’Artagnan looked at the envelope; there was no address on it.

“Am I not to know to whom to present it?”

“You will know when you reach London; at London you may tear off the

outer envelope.”

“And what are my instructions?”

“To obey in every particular the man to whom this letter is addressed.

You must set out for Boulogne. At the Royal Arms of England you will

find a young gentleman named Mordaunt.”

“Yes, my lord; and what am I to do with this young gentleman?”

“Follow wherever he leads you.”

D’Artagnan looked at the cardinal with a stupefied air.

“There are your instructions,” said Mazarin; “go!”

“Go! ’tis easy to say so, but that requires money, and I haven’t any.”

“Ah!” replied Mazarin, “so you have no money?”

“None, my lord.”

“But the diamond I gave you yesterday?”

“I wish to keep it in remembrance of your eminence.”

Mazarin sighed.

“’Tis very dear living in England, my lord, especially as envoy

extraordinary.”

“Zounds!” replied Mazarin, “the people there are very sedate, and their

habits, since the revolution, simple; but no matter.”

He opened a drawer and took out a purse.

“What do you say to a thousand crowns?”

D’Artagnan pouted out his lower lip in a most extraordinary manner.

“I reply, my lord, ’tis but little, as certainly I shall not go alone.”

“I suppose not. Monsieur du Vallon, that worthy gentleman, for, with

the exception of yourself, Monsieur d’Artagnan, there’s not a man in

France that I esteem and love so much as him——”

“Then, my lord,” replied D’Artagnan, pointing to the purse which

Mazarin still held, “if you love and esteem him so much, you—understand

me?”

“Be it so! on his account I add two hundred crowns.”

“Scoundrel!” muttered D’Artagnan. “But on our return,” he said aloud,

“may we, that is, my friend and I, depend on having, he his barony, and

I my promotion?”

“On the honor of Mazarin.”

“I should like another sort of oath better,” said D’Artagnan to

himself; then aloud, “May I not offer my duty to her majesty the

queen?”

“Her majesty is asleep and you must set off directly,” replied Mazarin;

“go, pray, sir——”

“One word more, my lord; if there’s any fighting where I’m going, must

I fight?”

“You are to obey the commands of the personage to whom I have addressed

the inclosed letter.”

“’Tis well,” said D’Artagnan, holding out his hand to receive the

money. “I offer my best respects and services to you, my lord.”

D’Artagnan then, returning to the officer, said:

“Sir, have the kindness also to awaken Monsieur du Vallon and to say

’tis by his eminence’s order, and that I shall await him at the

stables.”

The officer went off with an eagerness that showed the Gascon that he

had some personal interest in the matter.

Porthos was snoring most musically when some one touched him on the

shoulder.

“I come from the cardinal,” said the officer.

“Heigho!” said Porthos, opening his large eyes; “what have you got to

say?”

“That his eminence has ordered you to England and that Monsieur

d’Artagnan is waiting for you in the stables.”

Porthos sighed heavily, arose, took his hat, his pistols, and his

cloak, and departed, casting a look of regret upon the couch where he

had hoped to sleep so well.

No sooner had he turned his back than the officer laid himself down in

it, and he had scarcely crossed the threshold before his successor, in

his turn, was snoring immoderately. It was very natural, he being the

only person in the whole assemblage, except the king, the queen, and

the Duke of Orléans, who slept gratuitously.

Chapter LIV.

In which we hear Tidings of Aramis.

D’Artagnan went straight to the stables; day was just dawning. He found

his horse and that of Porthos fastened to the manger, but to an empty

manger. He took pity on these poor animals and went to a corner of the

stable, where he saw a little straw, but in doing so he struck his foot

against a human body, which uttered a cry and arose on its knees,

rubbing its eyes. It was Mousqueton, who, having no straw to lie upon,

had helped himself to that of the horses.

“Mousqueton,” cried D’Artagnan, “let us be off! Let us set off.”

Mousqueton, recognizing the voice of his master’s friend, got up

suddenly, and in doing so let fall some louis which he had appropriated

to himself illegally during the night.

“Ho! ho!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, picking up a louis and displaying it;

“here’s a louis that smells confoundedly of straw.”

Mousqueton blushed so confusedly that the Gascon began to laugh at him

and said:

“Porthos would be angry, my dear Monsieur Mousqueton, but I pardon you,

only let us remember that this gold must serve us as a joke, so be

gay—come along.”

Mousqueton instantly assumed a jovial countenance, saddled the horses

quickly and mounted his own without making faces over it.

Whilst this went on, Porthos arrived with a very cross look on his

face, and was astonished to find the lieutenant resigned and Mousqueton

almost merry.

“Ah, that’s it!” he cried, “you have your promotion and I my barony.”

“We are going to fetch our brevets,” said D’Artagnan, “and when we come

back, Master Mazarin will sign them.”

“And where are we going?” asked Porthos.

“To Paris first; I have affairs to settle.”

And they both set out for Paris.

On arriving at its gates they were astounded to see the threatening

aspect of the capital. Around a broken-down carriage the people were

uttering imprecations, whilst the persons who had attempted to escape

were made prisoners—that is to say, an old man and two women. On the

other hand, as the two friends approached to enter, they showed them

every kind of civility, thinking them deserters from the royal party

and wishing to bind them to their own.

“What is the king doing?” they asked.

“He is asleep.”

“And the Spanish woman?”

“Dreaming.”

“And the cursed Italian?”

“He is awake, so keep on the watch, as they are gone away; it’s for

some purpose, rely on it. But as you are the strongest, after all,”

continued D’Artagnan, “don’t be furious with old men and women, and

keep your wrath for more appropriate occasions.”

The people listened to these words and let go the ladies, who thanked

D’Artagnan with an eloquent look.

“Now! onward!” cried the Gascon.

And they continued their way, crossing the barricades, getting the

chains about their legs, pushed about, questioning and questioned.

In the place of the Palais Royal D’Artagnan saw a sergeant, who was

drilling six or seven hundred citizens. It was Planchet, who brought

into play profitably the recollections of the regiment of Piedmont.

In passing before D’Artagnan he recognized his former master.

“Good-day, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Planchet proudly.

“Good-day, Monsieur Dulaurier,” replied D’Artagnan.

Planchet stopped short, staring at D’Artagnan. The first row, seeing

their sergeant stop, stopped in their turn, and so on to the very last.

“These citizens are dreadfully ridiculous,” observed D’Artagnan to

Porthos and went on his way.

Five minutes afterward he entered the hotel of La Chevrette, where

pretty Madeleine, the hostess, came to him.

“My dear Mistress Turquaine,” said the Gascon, “if you happen to have

any money, lock it up quickly; if you happen to have any jewels, hide

them directly; if you happen to have any debtors, make them pay you, or

any creditors, don’t pay them.”

“Why, prithee?” asked Madeleine.

“Because Paris is going to be reduced to dust and ashes like Babylon,

of which you have no doubt heard tell.”

“And are you going to leave me at such a time?”

“This very instant.”

“And where are you going?”

“Ah, if you could tell me that, you would be doing me a service.”

“Ah, me! ah, me!

“Have you any letters for me?” inquired D’Artagnan, wishing to signify

to the hostess that her lamentations were superfluous and that

therefore she had better spare him demonstrations of her grief.

“There’s one just arrived,” and she handed the letter to D’Artagnan.

“From Athos!” cried D’Artagnan, recognizing the handwriting.

“Ah!” said Porthos, “let us hear what he says.”

D’Artagnan opened the letter and read as follows:

“Dear D’Artagnan, dear Du Vallon, my good friends, perhaps this may be

the last time that you will ever hear from me. Aramis and I are very

unhappy; but God, our courage, and the remembrance of our friendship

sustain us. Think often of Raoul. I intrust to you certain papers which

are at Blois; and in two months and a half, if you do not hear of us,

take possession of them.

“Embrace, with all your heart, the vicomte, for your devoted, friend,

“ATHOS.”

“I believe, by Heaven,” said D’Artagnan, “that I shall embrace him,

since he’s upon our road; and if he is so unfortunate as to lose our

dear Athos, from that very day he becomes my son.”

“And I,” said Porthos, “shall make him my sole heir.”

“Let us see, what more does Athos say?”

“Should you meet on your journey a certain Monsieur Mordaunt, distrust

him, in a letter I cannot say more.”

“Monsieur Mordaunt!” exclaimed the Gascon, surprised.

“Monsieur Mordaunt! ’tis well,” said Porthos, “we shall remember that;

but see, there is a postscript from Aramis.”

“So there is,” said D’Artagnan, and he read:

“We conceal the place where we are, dear friends, knowing your

brotherly affection and that you would come and die with us were we to

reveal it.”

“Confound it,” interrupted Porthos, with an explosion of passion which

sent Mousqueton to the other end of the room; “are they in danger of

dying?”

D’Artagnan continued:

“Athos bequeaths to you Raoul, and I bequeath to you my revenge. If by

any good luck you lay your hand on a certain man named Mordaunt, tell

Porthos to take him into a corner and to wring his neck. I dare not say

more in a letter.

“ARAMIS.”

“If that is all, it is easily done,” said Porthos.

“On the contrary,” observed D’Artagnan, with a vexed look; “it would be

impossible.”

“How so?”

“It is precisely this Monsieur Mordaunt whom we are going to join at

Boulogne and with whom we cross to England.”

“Well, suppose instead of joining this Monsieur Mordaunt we were to go

and join our friends?” said Porthos, with a gesture fierce enough to

have frightened an army.

“I did think of it, but this letter has neither date nor postmark.”

“True,” said Porthos. And he began to wander about the room like a man

beside himself, gesticulating and half drawing his sword out of the

scabbard.

As to D’Artagnan, he remained standing like a man in consternation,

with the deepest affliction depicted on his face.

“Ah, this is not right; Athos insults us; he wishes to die alone; it is

bad, bad, bad.”

Mousqueton, witnessing this despair, melted into tears in a corner of

the room.

“Come,” said D’Artagnan, “all this leads to nothing. Let us go on. We

will embrace Raoul, and perhaps he will have news of Athos.”

“Stop—an idea!” cried Porthos; “indeed, my dear D’Artagnan, I don’t

know how you manage, but you are always full of ideas; let us go and

embrace Raoul.”

“Woe to that man who should happen to contradict my master at this

moment,” said Mousqueton to himself; “I wouldn’t give a farthing for

his life.”

They set out. On arriving at the Rue Saint Denis, the friends found a

vast concourse of people. It was the Duc de Beaufort, who was coming

from the Vendomois and whom the coadjutor was showing to the Parisians,

intoxicated with joy. With the duke’s aid they already considered

themselves invincible.

The two friends turned off into a side street to avoid meeting the

prince, and so reached the Saint Denis gate.

“Is it true,” said the guard to the two cavaliers, “that the Duc de

Beaufort has arrived in Paris?”

“Nothing more certain; and the best proof of it is,” said D’Artagnan,

“that he has dispatched us to meet the Duc de Vendôme, his father, who

is coming in his turn.”

“Long live De Beaufort!” cried the guards, and they drew back

respectfully to let the two friends pass. Once across the barriers

these two knew neither fatigue nor fear. Their horses flew, and they

never ceased speaking of Athos and Aramis.

The camp had entered Saint Omer; the friends made a little detour and

went to the camp, and gave the army an exact account of the flight of

the king and queen. They found Raoul near his tent, reclining on a

truss of hay, of which his horse stole some mouthfuls; the young man’s

eyes were red and he seemed dejected. The Maréchal de Grammont and the

Comte de Guiche had returned to Paris and he was quite lonely. And as

soon as he saw the two cavaliers he ran to them with open arms.

“Oh, is it you, dear friends? Did you come here to fetch me? Will you

take me away with you? Do you bring me tidings of my guardian?”

“Have you not received any?” said D’Artagnan to the youth.

“Alas! sir, no, and I do not know what has become of him; so that I am

really so unhappy that I weep.”

In fact, tears rolled down his cheeks.

Porthos turned aside, in order not to show by his honest round face

what was passing in his mind.

“Deuce take it!” cried D’Artagnan, more moved than he had been for a

long time, “don’t despair, my friend, if you have not received any

letters from the count, we have received one.”

“Oh, really!” cried Raoul.

“And a comforting one, too,” added D’Artagnan, seeing the delight that

his intelligence gave the young man.

“Have you it?” asked Raoul

“Yes—that is, I had it,” repined the Gascon, making believe to find it.

“Wait, it ought to be there in my pocket; it speaks of his return, does

it not, Porthos?”

All Gascon as he was, D’Artagnan could not bear alone the weight of

that falsehood.

“Yes,” replied Porthos, coughing.

“Eh, give it to me!” said the young man.

“Eh! I read it a little while since. Can I have lost it? Ah! confound

it! yes, my pocket has a hole in it.”

“Oh, yes, Monsieur Raoul!” said Mousqueton, “the letter was very

consoling. These gentlemen read it to me and I wept for joy.”

“But at any rate, you know where he is, Monsieur d’Artagnan?” asked

Raoul, somewhat comforted.

“Ah! that’s the thing!” replied the Gascon. “Undoubtedly I know it, but

it is a mystery.”

“Not to me, I hope?”

“No, not to you, so I am going to tell you where he is.”

Porthos devoured D’Artagnan with wondering eyes.

“Where the devil shall I say that he is, so that he cannot try to

rejoin him?” thought D’Artagnan.

“Well, where is he, sir?” asked Raoul, in a soft and coaxing voice.

“He is at Constantinople.”

“Among the Turks!” exclaimed Raoul, alarmed. “Good heavens! how can you

tell me that?”

“Does that alarm you?” cried D’Artagnan. “Pooh! what are the Turks to

such men as the Comte de la Fère and the Abbé d’Herblay?”

“Ah, his friend is with him?” said Raoul. “That comforts me a little.”

“Has he wit or not—this demon D’Artagnan?” said Porthos, astonished at

his friend’s deception.

“Now, sir,” said D’Artagnan, wishing to change the conversation, “here

are fifty pistoles that the count has sent you by the same courier. I

suppose you have no more money and that they will be welcome.”

“I have still twenty pistoles, sir.”

“Well, take them; that makes seventy.”

“And if you wish for more,” said Porthos, putting his hand to his

pocket——

“Thank you, sir,” replied Raoul, blushing; “thank you a thousand

times.”

At this moment Olivain appeared. “Apropos,” said D’Artagnan, loud

enough for the servant to hear him, “are you satisfied with Olivain?”

“Yes, in some respects, tolerably well.”

Olivain pretended to have heard nothing and entered the tent.

“What fault do you find with the fellow?”

“He is a glutton.”

“Oh, sir!” cried Olivain, reappearing at this accusation.

“And a little bit of a thief.”

“Oh, sir! oh!”

“And, more especially, a notorious coward.”

“Oh, oh! sir! you really vilify me!” cried Olivain.

“The deuce!” cried D’Artagnan. “Pray learn, Monsieur Olivain, that

people like us are not to be served by cowards. Rob your master, eat

his sweetmeats, and drink his wine; but, by Jove! don’t be a coward, or

I shall cut off your ears. Look at Monsieur Mouston, see the honorable

wounds he has received, observe how his habitual valor has given

dignity to his countenance.”

Mousqueton was in the third heaven and would have embraced D’Artagnan

had he dared; meanwhile he resolved to sacrifice his life for him on

the next occasion that presented itself.

“Send away that fellow, Raoul,” said the Gascon; “for if he’s a coward

he will disgrace thee some day.”

“Monsieur says I am coward,” cried Olivain, “because he wanted the

other day to fight a cornet in Grammont’s regiment and I refused to

accompany him.”

“Monsieur Olivain, a lackey ought never to disobey,” said D’Artagnan,

sternly; then taking him aside, he whispered to him: “Thou hast done

right; thy master was in the wrong; here’s a crown for thee, but should

he ever be insulted and thou dost not let thyself be cut in quarters

for him, I will cut out thy tongue. Remember that.”

Olivain bowed and slipped the crown into his pocket.

“And now, Raoul,” said the Gascon, “Monsieur du Vallon and I are going

away as ambassadors, where, I know not; but should you want anything,

write to Madame Turquaine, at La Chevrette, Rue Tiquetonne and draw

upon her purse as on a banker—with economy; for it is not so well

filled as that of Monsieur d’Emery.”

And having, meantime, embraced his ward, he passed him into the robust

arms of Porthos, who lifted him up from the ground and held him a

moment suspended near the noble heart of the formidable giant.

“Come,” said D’Artagnan, “let us go.”

And they set out for Boulogne, where toward evening they arrived, their

horses flecked with foam and dark with perspiration.

At ten steps from the place where they halted was a young man in black,

who seemed waiting for some one, and who, from the moment he saw them

enter the town, never took his eyes off them.

D’Artagnan approached him, and seeing him stare so fixedly, said:

“Well, friend! I don’t like people to quiz me!”

“Sir,” said the young man, “do you not come from Paris, if you please?”

D’Artagnan thought it was some gossip who wanted news from the capital.

“Yes, sir,” he said, in a softened tone.

“Are you not going to put up at the ‘Arms of England’?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you not charged with a mission from his eminence, Cardinal

Mazarin?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In that case, I am the man you have to do with. I am M. Mordaunt.”

“Ah!” thought D’Artagnan, “the man I am warned against by Athos.”

“Ah!” thought Porthos, “the man Aramis wants me to strangle.”

They both looked searchingly at the young man, who misunderstood the

meaning of that inquisition.

“Do you doubt my word?” he said. “In that case I can give you proofs.”

“No, sir,” said D’Artagnan; “and we place ourselves at your orders.”

“Well, gentlemen,” resumed Mordaunt, “we must set out without delay,

to-day is the last day granted me by the cardinal. My ship is ready,

and had you not come I must have set off without you, for General

Cromwell expects my return impatiently.”

“So!” thought the lieutenant, “’tis to General Cromwell that our

dispatches are addressed.”

“Have you no letter for him?” asked the young man.

“I have one, the seal of which I am not to break till I reach London;

but since you tell me to whom it is addressed, ’tis useless to wait

till then.”

D’Artagnan tore open the envelope of the letter. It was directed to

“Monsieur Oliver Cromwell, General of the Army of the English Nation.”

“Ah!” said D’Artagnan; “a singular commission.”

“Who is this Monsieur Oliver Cromwell?” inquired Porthos.

“Formerly a brewer,” replied the Gascon.

“Perhaps Mazarin wishes to make a speculation in beer, as we did in

straw,” said Porthos.

“Come, come, gentlemen,” said Mordaunt, impatiently, “let us depart.”

“What!” exclaimed Porthos “without supper? Cannot Monsieur Cromwell

wait a little?”

“Yes, but I?” said Mordaunt.

“Well, you,” said Porthos, “what then?”

“I cannot wait.”

“Oh! as to you, that is not my concern, and I shall sup either with or

without your permission.”

The young man’s eyes kindled in secret, but he restrained himself.

“Monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, “you must excuse famished travelers.

Besides, our supper can’t delay you much. We will hasten on to the inn;

you will meanwhile proceed on foot to the harbor. We will take a bite

and shall be there as soon as you are.”

“Just as you please, gentlemen, provided we set sail,” he said.

“The name of your ship?” inquired D’Artagnan.

“The _Standard_.”

“Very well; in half an hour we shall be on board.”

And the friends, spurring on their horses, rode to the hotel, the “Arms

of England.”

“What do you say of that young man?” asked D’Artagnan, as they hurried

along.

“I say that he doesn’t suit me at all,” said Porthos, “and that I feel

a strong itching to follow Aramis’s advice.”

“By no means, my dear Porthos; that man is a messenger of General

Cromwell; it would insure for us a poor reception, I imagine, should it

be announced to him that we had twisted the neck of his confidant.”

“Nevertheless,” said Porthos, “I have always noticed that Aramis gives

good advice.”

“Listen,” returned D’Artagnan, “when our embassy is finished——”

“Well?”

“If it brings us back to France——”

“Well?”

“Well, we shall see.”

At that moment the two friends reached the hotel, “Arms of England,”

where they supped with hearty appetite and then at once proceeded to

the port.

There they found a brig ready to set sail, upon the deck of which they

recognized Mordaunt walking up and down impatiently.

“It is singular,” said D’Artagnan, whilst the boat was taking them to

the _Standard_, “it is astonishing how that young man resembles some

one I must have known, but who it was I cannot yet remember.”

A few minutes later they were on board, but the embarkation of the

horses was a longer matter than that of the men, and it was eight

o’clock before they raised anchor.

The young man stamped impatiently and ordered all sail to be spread.

Porthos, completely used up by three nights without sleep and a journey

of seventy leagues on horseback, retired to his cabin and went to

sleep.

D’Artagnan, overcoming his repugnance to Mordaunt, walked with him upon

the deck and invented a hundred stories to make him talk.

Mousqueton was seasick.

Chapter LV.

The Scotchman.

And now our readers must leave the _Standard_ to sail peaceably, not

toward London, where D’Artagnan and Porthos believed they were going,

but to Durham, whither Mordaunt had been ordered to repair by the

letter he had received during his sojourn at Boulogne, and accompany us

to the royalist camp, on this side of the Tyne, near Newcastle.

There, placed between two rivers on the borders of Scotland, but still

on English soil, the tents of a little army extended. It was midnight.

Some Highlanders were listlessly keeping watch. The moon, which was

partially obscured by heavy clouds, now and then lit up the muskets of

the sentinels, or silvered the walls, the roofs, and the spires of the

town that Charles I. had just surrendered to the parliamentary troops,

whilst Oxford and Newark still held out for him in the hopes of coming

to some arrangement.

At one of the extremities of the camp, near an immense tent, in which

the Scottish officers were holding a kind of council, presided over by

Lord Leven, their commander, a man attired as a cavalier lay sleeping

on the turf, his right hand extended over his sword.

About fifty paces off, another man, also appareled as a cavalier, was

talking to a Scotch sentinel, and, though a foreigner, he seemed to

understand without much difficulty the answers given in the broad

Perthshire dialect.

As the town clock of Newcastle struck one the sleeper awoke, and with

all the gestures of a man rousing himself out of deep sleep he looked

attentively about him; perceiving that he was alone he rose and making

a little circuit passed close to the cavalier who was speaking to the

sentinel. The former had no doubt finished his questions, for a moment

later he said good-night and carelessly followed the same path taken by

the first cavalier.

In the shadow of a tent the former was awaiting him.

“Well, my dear friend?” said he, in as pure French as has ever been

uttered between Rouen and Tours.

“Well, my friend, there is not a moment to lose; we must let the king

know immediately.”

“Why, what is the matter?”

“It would take too long to tell you, besides, you will hear it all

directly and the least word dropped here might ruin all. We must go and

find Lord Winter.”

They both set off to the other end of the camp, but as it did not cover

more than a surface of five hundred feet they quickly arrived at the

tent they were looking for.

“Tony, is your master sleeping?” said one of the two cavaliers to a

servant who was lying in the outer compartment, which served as a kind

of ante-room.

“No, monsieur le comte,” answered the servant, “I think not; or at

least he has not long been so, for he was pacing up and down for more

than two hours after he left the king, and the sound of his footsteps

has only ceased during the last ten minutes. However, you may look and

see,” added the lackey, raising the curtained entrance of the tent.

Lord Winter was seated near an aperture, arranged as a window to let in

the night air, his eyes mechanically following the course of the moon,

intermittently veiled, as we before observed, by heavy clouds. The two

friends approached Winter, who, with his head on his hands, was gazing

at the heavens; he did not hear them enter and remained in the same

attitude till he felt a hand upon his shoulder.

He turned around, recognized Athos and Aramis and held out his hand to

them.

“Have you observed,” said he to them, “what a blood-red color the moon

has to-night?”

“No,” replied Athos; “I thought it looked much the same as usual.”

“Look, again, chevalier,” returned Lord Winter.

“I must own,” said Aramis, “I am like the Comte de la Fère—I can see

nothing remarkable about it.”

“My lord,” said Athos, “in a position so precarious as ours we must

examine the earth and not the heavens. Have you studied our Scotch

troops and have you confidence in them?”

“The Scotch?” inquired Winter. “What Scotch?”

“Ours, egad!” exclaimed Athos. “Those in whom the king has

confided—Lord Leven’s Highlanders.”

“No,” said Winter, then he paused; “but tell me, can you not perceive

the russet tint which marks the heavens?”

“Not the least in the world,” said Aramis and Athos at once.

“Tell me,” continued Winter, always possessed by the same idea, “is

there not a tradition in France that Henry IV., the evening before the

day he was assassinated, when he was playing at chess with M. de

Bassompiere, saw clots of blood upon the chessboard?”

“Yes,” said Athos, “and the maréchal has often told me so himself.”

“Then it was so,” murmured Winter, “and the next day Henry IV. was

killed.”

“But what has this vision of Henry IV. to do with you, my lord?”

inquired Aramis.

“Nothing; and indeed I am mad to trouble you with such things, when

your coming to my tent at such an hour announces that you are the

bearers of important news.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Athos, “I wish to speak to the king.”

“To the king! but the king is asleep.”

“I have something important to reveal to him.”

“Can it not be put off till to-morrow?”

“He must know it this moment, and perhaps it is already too late.”

“Come, then,” said Lord Winter.

Lord Winter’s tent was pitched by the side of the royal marquee, a kind

of corridor communicating between the two. This corridor was guarded,

not by a sentinel, but by a confidential servant, through whom, in case

of urgency, Charles could communicate instantly with his faithful

subject.

“These gentlemen are with me,” said Winter.

The lackey bowed and let them pass. As he had said, on a camp bed,

dressed in his black doublet, booted, unbelted, with his felt hat

beside him, lay the king, overcome by sleep and fatigue. They advanced,

and Athos, who was the first to enter, gazed a moment in silence on

that pale and noble face, framed in its long and now untidy, matted

hair, the blue veins showing through the transparent temples, his eyes

seemingly swollen by tears.

Athos sighed deeply; the sigh woke the king, so lightly did he sleep.

He opened his eyes.

“Ah!” said he, raising himself on his elbow, “is it you, Comte de la

Fère?”

“Yes, sire,” replied Athos.

“You watch while I sleep and you have come to bring me some news?”

“Alas, sire,” answered Athos, “your majesty has guessed aright.”

“It is bad news?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Never mind; the messenger is welcome. You never come to me without

conferring pleasure. You whose devotion recognizes neither country nor

misfortune, you who are sent to me by Henrietta; whatever news you

bring, speak out.”

“Sire, Cromwell has arrived this night at Newcastle.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the king, “to fight?”

“No, sire, but to buy your majesty.”

“What did you say?”

“I said, sire, that four hundred thousand pounds are owing to the

Scottish army.”

“For unpaid wages; yes, I know it. For the last year my faithful

Highlanders have fought for honor alone.”

Athos smiled.

“Well, sir, though honor is a fine thing, they are tired of fighting

for it, and to-night they have sold you for two hundred thousand

pounds—that is to say, for half what is owing them.”

“Impossible!” cried the king, “the Scotch sell their king for two

hundred thousand pounds! And who is the Judas who has concluded this

infamous bargain?”

“Lord Leven.”

“Are you certain of it, sir?”

“I heard it with my own ears.”

The king sighed deeply, as if his heart would break, and then buried

his face in his hands.

“Oh! the Scotch,” he exclaimed, “the Scotch I called ‘my faithful,’ to

whom I trusted myself when I could have fled to Oxford! the Scotch, my

brothers! But are you well assured, sir?”

“Lying behind the tent of Lord Leven, I raised it and saw all, heard

all!”

“And when is this to be consummated?”

“To-day—this morning; so your majesty must perceive there is no time to

lose!”

“To do what? since you say I am sold.”

“To cross the Tyne, reach Scotland and rejoin Lord Montrose, who will

not sell you.”

“And what shall I do in Scotland? A war of partisans, unworthy of a

king.”

“The example of Robert Bruce will absolve you, sire.”

“No, no! I have fought too long; they have sold me, they shall give me

up, and the eternal shame of treble treason shall fall on their heads.”

“Sire,” said Athos, “perhaps a king should act thus, but not a husband

and a father. I have come in the name of your wife and daughter and of

the children you have still in London, and I say to you, ‘Live,

sire,’—it is the will of Heaven.”

The king raised himself, buckled on his belt, and passing his

handkerchief over his moist forehead, said:

“Well, what is to be done?”

“Sire, have you in the army one regiment on which you can implicitly

rely?”

“Winter,” said the king, “do you believe in the fidelity of yours?”

“Sire, they are but men, and men are become both weak and wicked. I

will not answer for them. I would confide my life to them, but I should

hesitate ere I trusted them with your majesty’s.”

“Well!” said Athos, “since you have not a regiment, we are three

devoted men. It is enough. Let your majesty mount on horseback and

place yourself in the midst of us; we will cross the Tyne, reach

Scotland, and you will be saved.”

“Is this your counsel also, Winter?” inquired the king.

“Yes, sire.”

“And yours, Monsieur d’Herblay?”

“Yes, sire.”

“As you wish, then. Winter, give the necessary orders.”

Winter then left the tent; in the meantime the king finished his

toilet. The first rays of daybreak penetrated the aperture of the tent

as Winter re-entered it.

“All is ready, sire,” said he.

“For us, also?” inquired Athos.

“Grimaud and Blaisois are holding your horses, ready saddled.”

“In that case,” exclaimed Athos, “let us not lose an instant, but set

off.”

“Come,” added the king.

“Sire,” said Aramis, “will not your majesty acquaint some of your

friends of this?”

“Friends!” answered Charles, sadly, “I have but three—one of twenty

years, who has never forgotten me, and two of a week’s standing, whom I

shall never forget. Come, gentlemen, come!”

The king quitted his tent and found his horse ready waiting for him. It

was a chestnut that the king had ridden for three years and of which he

was very fond.

The horse neighed with pleasure at seeing him.

“Ah!” said the king, “I was unjust; here is a creature that loves me.

You at least will be faithful to me, Arthur.”

The horse, as if it understood these words, bent its red nostrils

toward the king’s face, and parting his lips displayed all its teeth,

as if with pleasure.

“Yes, yes,” said the king, caressing it with his hand, “yes, my Arthur,

thou art a fond and faithful creature.”

After this little scene Charles threw himself into the saddle, and

turning to Athos, Aramis and Winter, said:

“Now, gentlemen, I am at your service.”

But Athos was standing with his eyes fixed on a black line which

bordered the banks of the Tyne and seemed to extend double the length

of the camp.

“What is that line?” cried Athos, whose vision was still rather

obscured by the uncertain shades and demi-tints of daybreak. “What is

that line? I did not observe it yesterday.”

“It must be the fog rising from the river,” said the king.

“Sire, it is something more opaque than the fog.”

“Indeed!” said Winter, “it appears to me like a bar of red color.”

“It is the enemy, who have made a sortie from Newcastle and are

surrounding us!” exclaimed Athos.

“The enemy!” cried the king.

“Yes, the enemy. It is too late. Stop a moment; does not that sunbeam

yonder, just by the side of the town, glitter on the Ironsides?”

This was the name given the cuirassiers, whom Cromwell had made his

body-guard.

“Ah!” said the king, “we shall soon see whether my Highlanders have

betrayed me or not.”

“What are you going to do?” exclaimed Athos.

“To give them the order to charge, and run down these miserable

rebels.”

And the king, putting spurs to his horse, set off to the tent of Lord

Leven.

“Follow him,” said Athos.

“Come!” exclaimed Aramis.

“Is the king wounded?” cried Lord Winter. “I see spots of blood on the

ground.” And he set off to follow the two friends.

He was stopped by Athos.

“Go and call out your regiment,” said he; “I can foresee that we shall

have need of it directly.”

Winter turned his horse and the two friends rode on. It had taken but

two minutes for the king to reach the tent of the Scottish commander;

he dismounted and entered.

The general was there, surrounded by the more prominent chiefs.

“The king!” they exclaimed, as all rose in bewilderment.

Charles was indeed in the midst of them, his hat on his head, his brows

bent, striking his boot with his riding whip.

“Yes, gentlemen, the king in person, the king who has come to ask for

some account of what has happened.”

“What is the matter, sire?” exclaimed Lord Leven.

“It is this, sir,” said the king, angrily, “that General Cromwell has

reached Newcastle; that you knew it and I was not informed of it; that

the enemy have left the town and are now closing the passages of the

Tyne against us; that our sentinels have seen this movement and I have

been left unacquainted with it; that, by an infamous treaty you have

sold me for two hundred thousand pounds to Parliament. Of this treaty,

at least, I have been warned. This is the matter, gentlemen; answer and

exculpate yourselves, for I stand here to accuse you.”

“Sire,” said Lord Leven, with hesitation, “sire, your majesty has been

deceived by false reports.”

“My own eyes have seen the enemy extend itself between myself and

Scotland; and I can almost say that with my own ears I have heard the

clauses of the treaty debated.”

The Scotch chieftains looked at each other in their turn with frowning

brows.

“Sire,” murmured Lord Leven, crushed by shame, “sire, we are ready to

give you every proof of our fidelity.”

“I ask but one,” said the king; “put the army in battle array and face

the enemy.”

“That cannot be, sire,” said the earl.

“How, cannot be? What hinders it?” exclaimed the king.

“Your majesty is well aware that there is a truce between us and the

English army.”

“And if there is a truce the English army has broken it by quitting the

town, contrary to the agreement which kept it there. Now, I tell you,

you must pass with me through this army across to Scotland, and if you

refuse you may choose betwixt two names, which the contempt of all

honest men will brand you with—you are either cowards or traitors!”

The eyes of the Scotch flashed fire; and, as often happens on such

occasions, from shame they passed to effrontery and two heads of clans

advanced upon the king.

“Yes,” said they, “we have promised to deliver Scotland and England

from him who for the last five-and-twenty years has sucked the blood

and gold of Scotland and England. We have promised and we will keep our

promise. Charles Stuart, you are our prisoner.”

And both extended their hands as if to seize the king, but before they

could touch him with the tips of their fingers, both had fallen, one

dead, the other stunned.

Aramis had passed his sword through the body of the first and Athos had

knocked down the other with the butt end of his pistol.

Then, as Lord Leven and the other chieftains recoiled before this

unexpected rescue, which seemed to come from Heaven for the prince they

already thought was their prisoner, Athos and Aramis dragged the king

from the perjured assembly into which he had so imprudently ventured,

and throwing themselves on horseback all three returned at full gallop

to the royal tent.

On their road they perceived Lord Winter marching at the head of his

regiment. The king motioned him to accompany them.

Chapter LVI.

The Avenger.

They all four entered the tent; they had no plan ready—they must think

of one.

The king threw himself into an arm-chair. “I am lost,” said he.

“No, sire,” replied Athos. “You are only betrayed.”

The king sighed deeply.

“Betrayed! yes betrayed by the Scotch, amongst whom I was born, whom I

have always loved better than the English. Oh, traitors that ye are!”

“Sire,” said Athos, “this is not a moment for recrimination, but a time

to show yourself a king and a gentleman. Up, sire! up! for you have

here at least three men who will not betray you. Ah! if we had been

five!” murmured Athos, thinking of D’Artagnan and Porthos.

“What do you say?” inquired Charles, rising.

“I say, sire, that there is now but one way open. Lord Winter answers

for his regiment, or at least very nearly so—we will not split straws

about words—let him place himself at the head of his men, we will place

ourselves at the side of your majesty, and we will mow a swath through

Cromwell’s army and reach Scotland.”

“There is another method,” said Aramis. “Let one of us put on the dress

and mount the king’s horse. Whilst they pursue him the king might

escape.”

“It is good advice,” said Athos, “and if the king will do one of us the

honor we shall be truly grateful to him.”

“What do you think of this counsel, Winter?” asked the king, looking

with admiration at these two men, whose chief idea seemed to be how

they could take on their shoulders all the dangers that assailed him.

“I think the only chance of saving your majesty has just been proposed

by Monsieur d’Herblay. I humbly entreat your majesty to choose quickly,

for we have not an instant to lose.”

“But if I accept, it is death, or at least imprisonment, for him who

takes my place.”

“He will have had the glory of having saved his king,” cried Winter.

The king looked at his old friend with tears in his eyes; undid the

Order of the Saint Esprit which he wore, to honor the two Frenchmen who

were with him, and passed it around Winter’s neck, who received on his

knees this striking proof of his sovereign’s confidence and friendship.

“It is right,” said Athos; “he has served your majesty longer than we

have.”

The king overheard these words and turned around with tears in his

eyes.

“Wait a moment, sir,” said he; “I have an order for each of you also.”

He turned to a closet where his own orders were locked up, and took out

two ribbons of the Order of the Garter.

“These cannot be for us,” said Athos.

“Why not, sir?” asked Charles.

“Such are for royalty, and we are simple commoners.”

“Speak not of crowns. I shall not find amongst them such great hearts

as yours. No, no, you do yourselves injustice; but I am here to do you

justice. On your knees, count.”

Athos knelt down and the king passed the ribbon down from left to right

as usual, raised his sword, and instead of pronouncing the customary

formula, “I make you a knight. Be brave, faithful and loyal,” he said,

“You are brave, faithful and loyal. I knight you, monsieur le comte.”

Then turning to Aramis, he said:

“It is now your turn, monsieur le chevalier.”

The same ceremony recommenced, with the same words, whilst Winter

unlaced his leather cuirass, that he might disguise himself like the

king. Charles, having proceeded with Aramis as with Athos, embraced

them both.

“Sire,” said Winter, who in this trying emergency felt all his strength

and energy fire up, “we are ready.”

The king looked at the three gentlemen. “Then we must fly!” said he.

“Flying through an army, sire,” said Athos, “in all countries in the

world is called _charging_.”

“Then I shall die, sword in hand,” said Charles. “Monsieur le comte,

monsieur le chevalier, if ever I am king——”

“Sire, you have already done us more honor than simple gentlemen could

ever aspire to, therefore gratitude is on our side. But we must not

lose time. We have already wasted too much.”

The king again shook hands with all three, exchanged hats with Winter

and went out.

Winter’s regiment was ranged on some high ground above the camp. The

king, followed by the three friends, turned his steps that way. The

Scotch camp seemed as if at last awakened; the soldiers had come out of

their tents and taken up their station in battle array.

“Do you see that?” said the king. “Perhaps they are penitent and

preparing to march.”

“If they are penitent,” said Athos, “let them follow us.”

“Well!” said the king, “what shall we do?”

“Let us examine the enemy’s army.”

At the same instant the eyes of the little group were fixed on the same

line which at daybreak they had mistaken for fog and which the morning

sun now plainly showed was an army in order of battle. The air was soft

and clear, as it generally is at that early hour of the morning. The

regiments, the standards, and even the colors of the horses and

uniforms were now clearly distinct.

On the summit of a rising ground, a little in advance of the enemy,

appeared a short and heavy looking man; this man was surrounded by

officers. He turned a spyglass toward the little group amongst which

the king stood.

“Does this man know your majesty personally?” inquired Aramis.

Charles smiled.

“That man is Cromwell,” said he.

“Then draw down your hat, sire, that he may not discover the

substitution.”

“Ah!” said Athos, “how much time we have lost.”

“Now,” said the king, “give the word and let us start.”

“Will you not give it, sire?” asked Athos.

“No; I make you my lieutenant-general,” said the king.

“Listen, then, Lord Winter. Proceed, sire, I beg. What we are going to

say does not concern your majesty.”

The king, smiling, turned a few steps back.

“This is what I propose to do,” said Athos. “We will divide our

regiments into two squadrons. You will put yourself at the head of the

first. We and his majesty will lead the second. If no obstacle occurs

we will both charge together, force the enemy’s line and throw

ourselves into the Tyne, which we must cross, either by fording or

swimming; if, on the contrary, any repulse should take place, you and

your men must fight to the last man, whilst we and the king proceed on

our road. Once arrived at the brink of the river, should we even find

them three ranks deep, as long as you and your regiment do your duty,

we will look to the rest.”

“To horse!” said Lord Winter.

“To horse!” re-echoed Athos; “everything is arranged and decided.”

“Now, gentlemen,” cried the king, “forward! and rally to the old cry of

France, ‘Montjoy and St. Denis!’ The war cry of England is too often in

the mouths of traitors.”

They mounted—the king on Winter’s horse and Winter on that of the king;

then Winter took his place at the head of the first squadron, and the

king, with Athos on his right and Aramis on his left, at the head of

the second.

The Scotch army stood motionless and silent, seized with shame at sight

of these preparations.

Some of the chieftains left the ranks and broke their swords in two.

“There,” said the king, “that consoles me; they are not all traitors.”

At this moment Winter’s voice was raised with the cry of “Forward!”

The first squadron moved off; the second followed, and descended from

the plateau. A regiment of cuirassiers, nearly equal as to numbers,

issued from behind the hill and came full gallop toward it.

The king pointed this out.

“Sire,” said Athos, “we foresaw this; and if Lord Winter’s men but do

their duty, we are saved, instead of lost.”

At this moment they heard above all the galloping and neighing of the

horses Winter’s voice crying out:

“Sword in hand!”

At these words every sword was drawn, and glittered in the air like

lightning.

“Now, gentlemen,” said the king in his turn, excited by this sight,

“come, gentlemen, sword in hand!”

But Aramis and Athos were the only ones to obey this command and the

king’s example.

“We are betrayed,” said the king in a low voice.

“Wait a moment,” said Athos, “perhaps they do not recognize your

majesty’s voice, and await the order of their captain.”

“Have they not heard that of their colonel? But look! look!” cried the

king, drawing up his horse with a sudden jerk, which threw it on its

haunches, and seizing the bridle of Athos’s horse.

“Ah, cowards! traitors!” screamed Lord Winter, whose voice they heard,

whilst his men, quitting their ranks, dispersed all over the plain.

About fifteen men were ranged around him and awaited the charge of

Cromwell’s cuirassiers.

“Let us go and die with them!” said the king.

“Let us go,” said Athos and Aramis.

“All faithful hearts with me!” cried out Winter.

This voice was heard by the two friends, who set off, full gallop.

“No quarter!” cried a voice in French, answering to that of Winter,

which made them tremble.

As for Winter, at the sound of that voice he turned pale, and was, as

it were, petrified.

It was the voice of a cavalier mounted on a magnificent black horse,

who was charging at the head of the English regiment, of which, in his

ardor, he was ten steps in advance.

“’Tis he!” murmured Winter, his eyes glazed and he allowed his sword to

fall to his side.

“The king! the king!” cried out several voices, deceived by the blue

ribbon and chestnut horse of Winter; “take him alive.”

“No! it is not the king!” exclaimed the cavalier. “Lord Winter, you are

not the king; you are my uncle.”

At the same moment Mordaunt, for it was he, leveled his pistol at

Winter; it went off and the ball entered the heart of the old cavalier,

who with one bound on his saddle fell back into the arms of Athos,

murmuring: “He is avenged!”

“Think of my mother!” shouted Mordaunt, as his horse plunged and darted

off at full gallop.

“Wretch!” exclaimed Aramis, raising his pistol as he passed by him; but

the powder flashed in the pan and it did not go off.

At this moment the whole regiment came up and they fell upon the few

men who had held out, surrounding the two Frenchmen. Athos, after

making sure that Lord Winter was really dead, let fall the corpse and

said:

“Come, Aramis, now for the honor of France!” and the two Englishmen who

were nearest to them fell, mortally wounded.

At the same moment a fearful “hurrah!” rent the air and thirty blades

glittered about their heads.

Suddenly a man sprang out of the English ranks, fell upon Athos, twined

arms of steel around him, and tearing his sword from him, said in his

ear:

“Silence! yield—you yield to me, do you not?”

A giant had seized also Aramis’s two wrists, who struggled in vain to

release himself from this formidable grasp.

“D’Art——” exclaimed Athos, whilst the Gascon covered his mouth with his

hand.

“I am your prisoner,” said Aramis, giving up his sword to Porthos.

“Fire, fire!” cried Mordaunt, returning to the group surrounding the

two friends.

“And wherefore fire?” said the colonel; “every one has yielded.”

“It is the son of Milady,” said Athos to D’Artagnan.

“I recognize him.”

“It is the monk,” whispered Porthos to Aramis.

“I know it.”

And now the ranks began to open. D’Artagnan held the bridle of Athos’s

horse and Porthos that of Aramis. Both of them attempted to lead his

prisoner off the battle-field.

This movement revealed the spot where Winter’s body had fallen.

Mordaunt had found it out and was gazing on his dead relative with an

expression of malignant hatred.

Athos, though now cool and collected, put his hand to his belt, where

his loaded pistols yet remained.

“What are you about?” said D’Artagnan.

“Let me kill him.”

“We are all four lost, if by the least gesture you discover that you

recognize him.”

Then turning to the young man he exclaimed:

“A fine prize! a fine prize, friend Mordaunt; we have both myself and

Monsieur du Vallon, taken two Knights of the Garter, nothing less.”

“But,” said Mordaunt, looking at Athos and Aramis with bloodshot eyes,

“these are Frenchmen, I imagine.”

“I’faith, I don’t know. Are you French, sir?” said he to Athos.

“I am,” replied the latter, gravely.

“Very well, my dear sir, you are the prisoner of a fellow countryman.”

“But the king—where is the king?” exclaimed Athos, anxiously.

D’Artagnan vigorously seized his prisoner’s hand, saying:

“Eh! the king? We have secured him.”

“Yes,” said Aramis, “through an infamous act of treason.”

Porthos pressed his friend’s hand and said to him:

“Yes, sir, all is fair in war, stratagem as well as force; look

yonder!”

At this instant the squadron, that ought to have protected Charles’s

retreat, was advancing to meet the English regiments. The king, who was

entirely surrounded, walked alone in a great empty space. He appeared

calm, but it was evidently not without a mighty effort. Drops of

perspiration trickled down his face, and from time to time he put a

handkerchief to his mouth to wipe away the blood that rilled from it.

“Behold Nebuchadnezzar!” exclaimed an old Puritan soldier, whose eyes

flashed at the sight of the man they called the tyrant.

“Do you call him Nebuchadnezzar?” said Mordaunt, with a terrible smile;

“no, it is Charles the First, the king, the good King Charles, who

despoils his subjects to enrich himself.”

Charles glanced a moment at the insolent creature who uttered this, but

did not recognize him. Nevertheless, the calm religious dignity of his

countenance abashed Mordaunt.

“_Bon jour_, messieurs!” said the king to the two gentlemen who were

held by D’Artagnan and Porthos. “The day has been unfortunate, but it

is not your fault, thank God! But where is my old friend Winter?”

The two gentlemen turned away their heads in silence.

“In Strafford’s company,” said Mordaunt, tauntingly.

Charles shuddered. The demon had known how to wound him. The

remembrance of Strafford was a source of lasting remorse to him, the

shadow that haunted him by day and night. The king looked around him.

He saw a corpse at his feet. It was Winter’s. He uttered not a word,

nor shed a tear, but a deadly pallor spread over his face; he knelt

down on the ground, raised Winter’s head, and unfastening the Order of

the Saint Esprit, placed it on his own breast.

“Lord Winter is killed, then?” inquired D’Artagnan, fixing his eyes on

the corpse.

“Yes,” said Athos, “by his own nephew.”

“Come, he was the first of us to go; peace be to him! he was an honest

man,” said D’Artagnan.

“Charles Stuart,” said the colonel of the English regiment, approaching

the king, who had just put on the insignia of royalty, “do you yield

yourself a prisoner?”

“Colonel Tomlison,” said Charles, “kings cannot yield; the man alone

submits to force.”

“Your sword.”

The king drew his sword and broke it on his knee.

At this moment a horse without a rider, covered with foam, his nostrils

extended and eyes all fire, galloped up, and recognizing his master,

stopped and neighed with pleasure; it was Arthur.

The king smiled, patted it with his hand and jumped lightly into the

saddle.

“Now, gentlemen,” said he, “conduct me where you will.”

Turning back again, he said, “I thought I saw Winter move; if he still

lives, by all you hold most sacred, do not abandon him.”

“Never fear, King Charles,” said Mordaunt, “the bullet pierced his

heart.”

“Do not breathe a word nor make the least sign to me or Porthos,” said

D’Artagnan to Athos and Aramis, “that you recognize this man, for

Milady is not dead; her soul lives in the body of this demon.”

The detachment now moved toward the town with the royal captive; but on

the road an aide-de-camp, from Cromwell, sent orders that Colonel

Tomlison should conduct him to Holdenby Castle.

At the same time couriers started in every direction over England and

Europe to announce that Charles Stuart was the prisoner of Oliver

Cromwell.

Chapter LVII.

Oliver Cromwell.

Have you been to the general?” said Mordaunt to D’Artagnan and Porthos;

“you know he sent for you after the action.”

“We want first to put our prisoners in a place of safety,” replied

D’Artagnan. “Do you know, sir, these gentlemen are each of them worth

fifteen hundred pounds?”

“Oh, be assured,” said Mordaunt, looking at them with an expression he

vainly endeavoured to soften, “my soldiers will guard them, and guard

them well, I promise you.”

“I shall take better care of them myself,” answered D’Artagnan;

“besides, all they require is a good room, with sentinels, or their

simple parole that they will not attempt escape. I will go and see

about that, and then we shall have the honor of presenting ourselves to

the general and receiving his commands for his eminence.”

“You think of starting at once, then?” inquired Mordaunt.

“Our mission is ended, and there is nothing more to detain us now but

the good pleasure of the great man to whom we were sent.”

The young man bit his lips and whispered to his sergeant:

“You will follow these men and not lose sight of them; when you have

discovered where they lodge, come and await me at the town gate.”

The sergeant made a sign of comprehension.

Instead of following the knot of prisoners that were being taken into

the town, Mordaunt turned his steps toward the rising ground from

whence Cromwell had witnessed the battle and on which he had just had

his tent pitched.

Cromwell had given orders that no one was to be allowed admission; but

the sentinel, who knew that Mordaunt was one of the most confidential

friends of the general, thought the order did not extend to the young

man. Mordaunt, therefore, raised the canvas, and saw Cromwell seated

before a table, his head buried in his hands, his back being turned.

Whether he heard Mordaunt or not as he entered, Cromwell did not move.

Mordaunt remained standing near the door. At last, after a few moments,

Cromwell raised his head, and, as if he divined that some one was

there, turned slowly around.

“I said I wished to be alone,” he exclaimed, on seeing the young man.

“They thought this order did not concern me, sir; nevertheless, if you

wish it, I am ready to go.”

“Ah! is it you, Mordaunt?” said Cromwell, the cloud passing away from

his face; “since you are here, it is well; you may remain.”

“I come to congratulate you.”

“To congratulate me—what for?”

“On the capture of Charles Stuart. You are now master of England.”

“I was much more really so two hours ago.”

“How so, general?”

“Because England had need of me to take the tyrant, and now the tyrant

is taken. Have you seen him?”

“Yes, sir.” said Mordaunt.

“What is his bearing?”

Mordaunt hesitated; but it seemed as though he was constrained to tell

the truth.

“Calm and dignified,” said he.

“What did he say?”

“Some parting words to his friends.”

“His friends!” murmured Cromwell. “_Has_ he any friends?” Then he added

aloud, “Did he make any resistance?”

“No, sir, with the exception of two or three friends every one deserted

him; he had no means of resistance.”

“To whom did he give up his sword?”

“He did not give it up; he broke it.”

“He did well; but instead of breaking it, he might have used it to

still more advantage.”

There was a momentary pause.

“I heard that the colonel of the regiment that escorted Charles was

killed,” said Cromwell, staring very fixedly at Mordaunt.

“Yes, sir.”

“By whom?” inquired Cromwell.

“By me.”

“What was his name?”

“Lord Winter.”

“Your uncle?” exclaimed Cromwell.

“My uncle,” answered Mordaunt; “but traitors to England are no longer

members of my family.”

Cromwell observed the young man a moment in silence, then, with that

profound melancholy Shakespeare describes so well:

“Mordaunt,” he said, “you are a terrible servant.”

“When the Lord commands,” said Mordaunt, “His commands are not to be

disputed. Abraham raised the knife against Isaac, and Isaac was his

son.”

“Yes,” said Cromwell, “but the Lord did not suffer that sacrifice to be

accomplished.”

“I have looked around me,” said Mordaunt, “and I have seen neither goat

nor kid caught among the bushes of the plain.”

Cromwell bowed. “You are strong among the strong, Mordaunt,” he said;

“and the Frenchmen, how did they behave?”

“Most fearlessly.”

“Yes, yes,” murmured Cromwell; “the French fight well; and if my glass

was good and I mistake not, they were foremost in the fight.”

“They were,” replied Mordaunt.

“After you, however,” said Cromwell.

“It was the fault of their horses, not theirs.”

Another pause.

“And the Scotch?”

“They kept their word and never stirred,” said Mordaunt.

“Wretched men!”

“Their officers wish to see you, sir.”

“I have no time to see them. Are they paid?”

“Yes, to-night.”

“Let them be off and return to their own country, there to hide their

shame, if its hills are high enough; I have nothing more to do with

them nor they with me. And now go, Mordaunt.”

“Before I go,” said Mordaunt, “I have some questions and a favor to ask

you, sir.”

“A favor from me?”

Mordaunt bowed.

“I come to you, my leader, my head, my father, and I ask you, master,

are you contented with me?”

Cromwell looked at him with astonishment. The young man remained

immovable.

“Yes,” said Cromwell; “you have done, since I knew you, not only your

duty, but more than your duty; you have been a faithful friend, a

cautious negotiator, a brave soldier.”

“Do you remember, sir it was my idea, the Scotch treaty, for giving up

the king?”

“Yes, the idea was yours. I had no such contempt for men before.”

“Was I not a good ambassador in France?”

“Yes, for Mazarin has granted what I desire.”

“Have I not always fought for your glory and interests?”

“Too ardently, perhaps; it is what I have just reproached you for. But

what is the meaning of all these questions?”

“To tell you, my lord, that the moment has now arrived when, with a

single word, you may recompense all these services.”

“Oh!” said Oliver, with a slight curl of his lip, “I forgot that every

service merits some reward and that up to this moment you have not been

paid.”

“Sir, I can take my pay at this moment, to the full extent of my

wishes.”

“How is that?”

“I have the payment under my hand; I almost possess it.”

“What is it? Have they offered you money? Do you wish a step, or some

place in the government?”

“Sir, will you grant me my request?”

“Let us hear what it is, first.”

“Sir, when you have told me to obey an order did I ever answer, ‘Let me

see that order’?”

“If, however, your wish should be one impossible to fulfill?”

“When you have cherished a wish and have charged me with its

fulfillment, have I ever replied, ‘It is impossible’?”

“But a request preferred with so much preparation——”

“Ah, do not fear, sir,” said Mordaunt, with apparent simplicity: “it

will not ruin you.”

“Well, then,” said Cromwell, “I promise, as far as lies in my power, to

grant your request; proceed.”

“Sir, two prisoners were taken this morning, will you let me have

them?”

“For their ransom? have they then offered a large one?” inquired

Cromwell.

“On the contrary, I think they are poor, sir.”

“They are friends of yours, then?”

“Yes, sir,” exclaimed Mordaunt, “they are friends, dear friends of

mine, and I would lay down my life for them.”

“Very well, Mordaunt,” exclaimed Cromwell, pleased at having his

opinion of the young man raised once more; “I will give them to you; I

will not even ask who they are; do as you like with them.”

“Thank you, sir!” exclaimed Mordaunt, “thank you; my life is always at

your service, and should I lose it I should still owe you something;

thank you; you have indeed repaid me munificently for my services.”

He threw himself at the feet of Cromwell, and in spite of the efforts

of the Puritan general, who did not like this almost kingly homage, he

took his hand and kissed it.

“What!” said Cromwell, arresting him for a moment as he arose; “is

there nothing more you wish? neither gold nor rank?”

“You have given me all you can give me, and from to-day your debt is

paid.”

And Mordaunt darted out of the general’s tent, his heart beating and

his eyes sparkling with joy.

Cromwell gazed a moment after him.

“He has slain his uncle!” he murmured. “Alas! what are my servants?

Possibly this one, who asks nothing or seems to ask nothing, has asked

more in the eyes of Heaven than those who tax the country and steal the

bread of the poor. Nobody serves me for nothing. Charles, who is my

prisoner, may still have friends, but I have none!”

And with a deep sigh he again sank into the reverie that had been

interrupted by Mordaunt.

Chapter LVIII.

Jesus Seigneur.

Whilst Mordaunt was making his way to Cromwell’s tent, D’Artagnan and

Porthos had brought their prisoners to the house which had been

assigned to them as their dwelling at Newcastle.

The order given by Mordaunt to the sergeant had been heard by

D’Artagnan, who accordingly, by an expressive glance, warned Athos and

Aramis to exercise extreme caution. The prisoners, therefore, had

remained silent as they marched along in company with their

conquerors—which they could do with the less difficulty since each of

them had occupation enough in answering his own thoughts.

It would be impossible to describe Mousqueton’s astonishment when from

the threshold of the door he saw the four friends approaching, followed

by a sergeant with a dozen men. He rubbed his eyes, doubting if he

really saw before him Athos and Aramis; and forced at last to yield to

evidence, he was on the point of breaking forth in exclamations when he

encountered a glance from the eyes of Porthos, the repressive force of

which he was not inclined to dispute.

Mousqueton remained glued to the door, awaiting the explanation of this

strange occurrence. What upset him completely was that the four friends

seemed to have no acquaintance with one another.

The house to which D’Artagnan and Porthos conducted Athos and Aramis

was the one assigned to them by General Cromwell and of which they had

taken possession on the previous evening. It was at the corner of two

streets and had in the rear, bordering on the side street, stables and

a sort of garden. The windows on the ground floor, according to a

custom in provincial villages, were barred, so that they strongly

resembled the windows of a prison.

The two friends made the prisoners enter the house first, whilst they

stood at the door, desiring Mousqueton to take the four horses to the

stable.

“Why don’t we go in with them?” asked Porthos.

“We must first see what the sergeant wishes us to do,” replied

D’Artagnan.

The sergeant and his men took possession of the little garden.

D’Artagnan asked them what they wished and why they had taken that

position.

“We have had orders,” answered the man, “to help you in taking care of

your prisoners.”

There could be no fault to find with this arrangement; on the contrary,

it seemed to be a delicate attention, to be gratefully received;

D’Artagnan, therefore, thanked the man and gave him a crown piece to

drink to General Cromwell’s health.

The sergeant answered that Puritans never drank, and put the crown

piece in his pocket.

“Ah!” said Porthos, “what a fearful day, my dear D’Artagnan!”

“What! a fearful day, when to-day we find our friends?”

“Yes; but under what circumstances?”

“’Tis true that our position is an awkward one; but let us go in and

see more clearly what is to be done.”

“Things look black enough,” replied Porthos; “I understand now why

Aramis advised me to strangle that horrible Mordaunt.”

“Silence!” cried the Gascon; “do not utter that name.”

“But,” argued Porthos, “I speak French and they are all English.”

D’Artagnan looked at Porthos with that air of wonder which a cunning

man cannot help feeling at displays of crass stupidity.

But as Porthos on his side could not comprehend his astonishment, he

merely pushed him indoors, saying, “Let us go in.”

They found Athos in profound despondency; Aramis looked first at

Porthos and then at D’Artagnan, without speaking, but the latter

understood his meaningful look.

“You want to know how we came here? ’Tis easily guessed. Mazarin sent

us with a letter to General Cromwell.”

“But how came you to fall into company with Mordaunt, whom I bade you

distrust?” asked Athos.

“And whom I advised you to strangle, Porthos,” said Aramis.

“Mazarin again. Cromwell had sent him to Mazarin. Mazarin sent us to

Cromwell. There is a certain fatality in it.”

“Yes, you are right, D’Artagnan, a fatality that will separate and ruin

us! So, my dear Aramis, say no more about it and let us prepare to

submit to destiny.”

“Zounds! on the contrary, let us speak about it; for it was agreed

among us, once for all, that we should always hold together, though

engaged on opposing sides.”

“Yes,” added Athos, “I now ask you, D’Artagnan, what side you are on?

Ah! behold for what end the wretched Mazarin has made use of you. Do

you know in what crime you are to-day engaged? In the capture of a

king, his degradation and his murder.”

“Oh! oh!” cried Porthos, “do you think so?”

“You are exaggerating, Athos; we are not so far gone as that,” replied

the lieutenant.

“Good heavens! we are on the very eve of it. I say, why is the king

taken prisoner? Those who wish to respect him as a master would not buy

him as a slave. Do you think it is to replace him on the throne that

Cromwell has paid for him two hundred thousand pounds sterling? They

will kill him, you may be sure of it.”

“I don’t maintain the contrary,” said D’Artagnan. “But what’s that to

us? I am here because I am a soldier and have to obey orders—I have

taken an oath to obey, and I do obey; but you who have taken no such

oath, why are you here and what cause do you represent?”

“That most sacred in the world,” said Athos; “the cause of misfortune,

of religion, royalty. A friend, a wife, a daughter, have done us the

honor to call us to their aid. We have served them to the best of our

poor means, and God will recompense the will, forgive the want of

power. You may see matters differently, D’Artagnan, and think

otherwise. I will not attempt to argue with you, but I blame you.”

“Heyday!” cried D’Artagnan, “what matters it to me, after all, if

Cromwell, who’s an Englishman, revolts against his king, who is a

Scotchman? I am myself a Frenchman. I have nothing to do with these

things—why hold me responsible?”

“Yes,” said Porthos.

“Because all gentlemen are brothers, because you are a gentleman,

because the kings of all countries are the first among gentlemen,

because the blind populace, ungrateful and brutal, always takes

pleasure in pulling down what is above them. And you, you, D’Artagnan,

a man sprung from the ancient nobility of France, bearing an honorable

name, carrying a good sword, have helped to give up a king to

beersellers, shopkeepers, and wagoners. Ah! D’Artagnan! perhaps you

have done your duty as a soldier, but as a gentleman, I say that you

are very culpable.”