thoroughly uncomfortable; for when turned from the eyes of Athos he
encountered those of Aramis.
“And you, Porthos,” continued the count, as if in consideration for
D’Artagnan’s embarrassment, “you, the best heart, the best friend, the
best soldier that I know—you, with a soul that makes you worthy of a
birth on the steps of a throne, and who, sooner or later, must receive
your reward from an intelligent king—you, my dear Porthos, you, a
gentleman in manners, in tastes and in courage, you are as culpable as
D’Artagnan.”
Porthos blushed, but with pleasure rather than with confusion; and yet,
bowing his head, as if humiliated, he said:
“Yes, yes, my dear count, I feel that you are right.”
Athos arose.
“Come,” he said, stretching out his hand to D’Artagnan, “come, don’t be
sullen, my dear son, for I have said all this to you, if not in the
tone, at least with the feelings of a father. It would have been easier
to me merely to have thanked you for preserving my life and not to have
uttered a word of all this.”
“Doubtless, doubtless, Athos. But here it is: you have sentiments, the
devil knows what, such as every one can’t entertain. Who could suppose
that a sensible man could leave his house, France, his ward—a charming
youth, for we saw him in the camp—to fly to the aid of a rotten,
worm-eaten royalty, which is going to crumble one of these days like an
old hovel. The sentiments you air are certainly fine, so fine that they
are superhuman.”
“However that may be, D’Artagnan,” replied Athos, without falling into
the snare which his Gascon friend had prepared for him by an appeal to
his parental love, “however that may be, you know in the bottom of your
heart that it is true; but I am wrong to dispute with my master.
D’Artagnan, I am your prisoner—treat me as such.”
“Ah! _pardieu!_” said D’Artagnan, “you know you will not be my prisoner
very long.”
“No,” said Aramis, “they will doubtless treat us like the prisoners of
the Philipghauts.”
“And how were they treated?” asked D’Artagnan.
“Why,” said Aramis, “one-half were hanged and the other half were
shot.”
“Well, I,” said D’Artagnan “I answer that while there remains a drop of
blood in my veins you will be neither hanged nor shot. _Sang Diou!_ let
them come on! Besides—do you see that door, Athos?”
“Yes; what then?”
“Well, you can go out by that door whenever you please; for from this
moment you are free as the air.”
“I recognize you there, my brave D’Artagnan,” replied Athos; “but you
are no longer our masters. That door is guarded, D’Artagnan; you know
that.”
“Very well, you will force it,” said Porthos. “There are only a dozen
men at the most.”
“That would be nothing for us four; it is too much for us two. No,
divided as we now are, we must perish. See the fatal example: on the
Vendomois road, D’Artagnan, you so brave, and you, Porthos, so valiant
and so strong—you were beaten; to-day Aramis and I are beaten in our
turn. Now that never happened to us when we were four together. Let us
die, then, as De Winter has died; as for me, I will fly only on
condition that we all fly together.”
“Impossible,” said D’Artagnan; “we are under Mazarin’s orders.”
“I know it and I have nothing more to say; my arguments lead to
nothing; doubtless they are bad, since they have not determined minds
so just as yours.”
“Besides,” said Aramis, “had they taken effect it would be still better
not to compromise two excellent friends like D’Artagnan and Porthos. Be
assured, gentlemen, we shall do you honor in our dying. As for myself,
I shall be proud to face the bullets, or even the rope, in company with
you, Athos; for you have never seemed to me so grand as you are
to-day.”
D’Artagnan said nothing, but, after having gnawed the flower stalk, he
began to bite his nails. At last:
“Do you imagine,” he resumed, “that they mean to kill you? And
wherefore should they do so? What interest have they in your death?
Moreover, you are _our_ prisoners.”
“Fool!” cried Aramis; “knowest thou not, then, Mordaunt? I have but
exchanged with him one look, yet that look convinced me that we were
doomed.”
“The truth is, I’m very sorry that I did not strangle him as you
advised me,” said Porthos.
“Eh! I make no account of the harm Mordaunt can do!” cried D’Artagnan.
“_Cap de Diou!_ if he troubles me too much I will crush him, the
insect! Do not fly, then. It is useless; for I swear to you that you
are as safe here as you were twenty years, ago—you, Athos, in the Rue
Ferou, and you, Aramis, in the Rue de Vaugirard.”
“Stop,” cried Athos, extending his hand to one of the grated windows by
which the room was lighted; “you will soon know what to expect, for
here he is.”
“Who?”
“Mordaunt.”
In fact, looking at the place to which Athos pointed, D’Artagnan saw a
cavalier coming toward the house at full gallop.
It was Mordaunt.
D’Artagnan rushed out of the room.
Porthos wanted to follow him.
“Stay,” said D’Artagnan, “and do not come till you hear me drum my
fingers on the door.”
When Mordaunt arrived opposite the house he saw D’Artagnan on the
threshold and the soldiers lying on the grass here and there, with
their arms.
“Halloo!” he cried, “are the prisoners still there?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the sergeant, uncovering.
“’Tis well; order four men to conduct them to my lodging.”
Four men prepared to do so.
“What is it?” said D’Artagnan, with that jeering manner which our
readers have so often observed in him since they made his acquaintance.
“What is the matter, if you please?”
“Sir,” replied Mordaunt, “I have ordered the two prisoners we made this
morning to be conducted to my lodging.”
“Wherefore, sir? Excuse curiosity, but I wish to be enlightened on the
subject.”
“Because these prisoners, sir, are at my disposal and I choose to
dispose of them as I like.”
“Allow me—allow me, sir,” said D’Artagnan, “to observe you are in
error. The prisoners belong to those who take them and not to those who
only saw them taken. You might have taken Lord Winter—who, ’tis said,
was your uncle—prisoner, but you preferred killing him; ’tis well; we,
that is, Monsieur du Vallon and I, could have killed our prisoners—we
preferred taking them.”
Mordaunt’s very lips grew white with rage.
D’Artagnan now saw that affairs were growing worse and he beat the
guard’s march upon the door. At the first beat Porthos rushed out and
stood on the other side of the door.
This movement was observed by Mordaunt.
“Sir!” he thus addressed D’Artagnan, “your resistance is useless; these
prisoners have just been given me by my illustrious patron, Oliver
Cromwell.”
These words struck D’Artagnan like a thunderbolt. The blood mounted to
his temples, his eyes became dim; he saw from what fountainhead the
ferocious hopes of the young man arose, and he put his hand to the hilt
of his sword.
As for Porthos, he looked inquiringly at D’Artagnan.
This look of Porthos’s made the Gascon regret that he had summoned the
brute force of his friend to aid him in an affair which seemed to
require chiefly cunning.
“Violence,” he said to himself, “would spoil all; D’Artagnan, my
friend, prove to this young serpent that thou art not only stronger,
but more subtle than he is.”
“Ah!” he said, making a low bow, “why did you not begin by saying that,
Monsieur Mordaunt? What! are you sent by General Oliver Cromwell, the
most illustrious captain of the age?”
“I have this instant left him,” replied Mordaunt, alighting, in order
to give his horse to a soldier to hold.
“Why did you not say so at once, my dear sir! all England is with
Cromwell; and since you ask for my prisoners, I bend, sir, to your
wishes. They are yours; take them.”
Mordaunt, delighted, advanced, Porthos looking at D’Artagnan with
open-mouthed astonishment. Then D’Artagnan trod on his foot and Porthos
began to understand that this was merely acting.
Mordaunt put his foot on the first step of the door and, with his hat
in hand, prepared to pass by the two friends, motioning to the four men
to follow him.
“But, pardon,” said D’Artagnan, with the most charming smile and
putting his hand on the young man’s shoulder, “if the illustrious
General Oliver Cromwell has disposed of our prisoners in your favour,
he has, of course, made that act of donation in writing.”
Mordaunt stopped short.
“He has given you some little writing for me—the least bit of paper
which may show that you come in his name. Be pleased to give me that
scrap of paper so that I may justify, by a pretext at least, my
abandoning my countrymen. Otherwise, you see, although I am sure that
General Oliver Cromwell can intend them no harm, it would have a bad
appearance.”
Mordaunt recoiled; he felt the blow and discharged a terrible look at
D’Artagnan, who responded by the most amiable expression that ever
graced a human countenance.
“When I tell you a thing, sir,” said Mordaunt, “you insult me by
doubting it.”
“I!” cried D’Artagnan, “I doubt what you say! God keep me from it, my
dear Monsieur Mordaunt! On the contrary, I take you to be a worthy and
accomplished gentleman. And then, sir, do you wish me to speak freely
to you?” continued D’Artagnan, with his frank expression.
“Speak out, sir,” said Mordaunt.
“Monsieur du Vallon, yonder, is rich and has forty thousand francs
yearly, so he does not care about money. I do not speak for him, but
for myself.”
“Well, sir? What more?”
“Well—I—I’m not rich. In Gascony ’tis no dishonor, sir, nobody is rich;
and Henry IV., of glorious memory, who was the king of the Gascons, as
His Majesty Philip IV. is the king of the Spaniards, never had a penny
in his pocket.”
“Go on, sir, I see what you wish to get at; and if it is simply what I
think that stops you, I can obviate the difficulty.”
“Ah, I knew well,” said the Gascon, “that you were a man of talent.
Well, here’s the case, here’s where the saddle hurts me, as we French
say. I am an officer of fortune, nothing else; I have nothing but what
my sword brings me in—that is to say, more blows than banknotes. Now,
on taking prisoners, this morning, two Frenchmen, who seemed to me of
high birth—in short, two knights of the Garter—I said to myself, my
fortune is made. I say two, because in such circumstances, Monsieur du
Vallon, who is rich, always gives me his prisoners.”
Mordaunt, completely deceived by the wordy civility of D’Artagnan,
smiled like a man who understands perfectly the reasons given him, and
said:
“I shall have the order signed directly, sir, and with it two thousand
pistoles; meanwhile, let me take these men away.”
“No,” replied D’Artagnan; “what signifies a delay of half an hour? I am
a man of order, sir; let us do things in order.”
“Nevertheless,” replied Mordaunt, “I could compel you; I command here.”
“Ah, sir!” said D’Artagnan, “I see that although we have had the honor
of traveling in your company you do not know us. We are gentlemen; we
are, both of us, able to kill you and your eight men—we two only. For
Heaven’s sake don’t be obstinate, for when others are obstinate I am
obstinate likewise, and then I become ferocious and headstrong, and
there’s my friend, who is even more headstrong and ferocious than
myself. Besides, we are sent here by Cardinal Mazarin, and at this
moment represent both the king and the cardinal, and are, therefore, as
ambassadors, able to act with impunity, a thing that General Oliver
Cromwell, who is assuredly as great a politician as he is a general, is
quite the man to understand. Ask him then, for the written order. What
will that cost you my dear Monsieur Mordaunt?”
“Yes, the written order,” said Porthos, who now began to comprehend
what D’Artagnan was aiming at, “we ask only for that.”
However inclined Mordaunt was to have recourse to violence, he
understood the reasons D’Artagnan had given him; besides, completely
ignorant of the friendship which existed between the four Frenchmen,
all his uneasiness disappeared when he heard of the plausible motive of
the ransom. He decided, therefore, not only to fetch the order, but the
two thousand pistoles, at which he estimated the prisoners. He
therefore mounted his horse and disappeared.
“Good!” thought D’Artagnan; “a quarter of an hour to go to the tent, a
quarter of an hour to return; it is more than we need.” Then turning,
without the least change of countenance, to Porthos, he said, looking
him full in the face: “Friend Porthos, listen to this; first, not a
syllable to either of our friends of what you have heard; it is
unnecessary for them to know the service we are going to render them.”
“Very well; I understand.”
“Go to the stable; you will find Mousqueton there; saddle your horses,
put your pistols in your saddle-bags, take out the horses and lead them
to the street below this, so that there will be nothing to do but mount
them; all the rest is my business.”
Porthos made no remark, but obeyed, with the sublime confidence he had
in his friend.
“I go,” he said, “only, shall I enter the chamber where those gentlemen
are?”
“No, it is not worth while.”
“Well, do me the kindness to take my purse, which I left on the
mantelpiece.”
“All right.”
He then proceeded, with his usual calm gait, to the stable and went
into the very midst of the soldiery, who, foreigner as he was, could
not help admiring his height and the enormous strength of his great
limbs.
At the corner of the street he met Mousqueton and took him with him.
D’Artagnan, meantime, went into the house, whistling a tune which he
had begun before Porthos went away.
“My dear Athos, I have reflected on your arguments and I am convinced.
I am sorry to have had anything to do with this matter. As you say,
Mazarin is a knave. I have resolved to fly with you, not a word—be
ready. Your swords are in the corner; do not forget them, they are in
many circumstances very useful; there is Porthos’s purse, too.”
He put it into his pocket. The two friends were perfectly stupefied.
“Well, pray, is there anything to be so surprised at?” he said. “I was
blind; Athos has made me see, that’s all; come here.”
The two friends went near him.
“Do you see that street? There are the horses. Go out by the door, turn
to the right, jump into your saddles, all will be right; don’t be
uneasy at anything except mistaking the signal. That will be the signal
when I call out—_Jésus Seigneur!_”
“But give us your word that you will come too, D’Artagnan,” said Athos.
“I swear I will, by Heaven.”
“’Tis settled,” said Aramis; “at the cry ‘_Jésus Seigneur_’ we go out,
upset all that stands in our way, run to our horses, jump into our
saddles, spur them; is that all?”
“Exactly.”
“See, Aramis, as I have told you, D’Artagnan is first amongst us all,”
said Athos.
“Very true,” replied the Gascon, “but I always run away from
compliments. Don’t forget the signal: ‘_Jésus Seigneur!_’” and he went
out as he came in, whistling the self-same air.
The soldiers were playing or sleeping; two of them were singing in a
corner, out of tune, the psalm: “On the rivers of Babylon.”
D’Artagnan called the sergeant. “My dear friend, General Cromwell has
sent Monsieur Mordaunt to fetch me. Guard the prisoners well, I beg of
you.”
The sergeant made a sign, as much as to say he did not understand
French, and D’Artagnan tried to make him comprehend by signs and
gestures. Then he went into the stable; he found the five horses
saddled, his own amongst the rest.
“Each of you take a horse by the bridle,” he said to Porthos and
Mousqueton; “turn to the left, so that Athos and Aramis may see you
clearly from the window.”
“They are coming, then?” said Porthos.
“In a moment.”
“You didn’t forget my purse?”
“No; be easy.”
“Good.”
Porthos and Mousqueton each took a horse by the bridle and proceeded to
their post.
Then D’Artagnan, being alone, struck a light and lighted a small bit of
tinder, mounted his horse and stopped at the door in the midst of the
soldiers. There, caressing as he pretended, the animal with his hand,
he put this bit of burning tinder in his ear. It was necessary to be as
good a horseman as he was to risk such a scheme, for no sooner had the
animal felt the burning tinder than he uttered a cry of pain and reared
and jumped as if he had been mad.
The soldiers, whom he was nearly trampling, ran away.
“Help! help!” cried D’Artagnan; “stop—my horse has the staggers.”
In an instant the horse’s eyes grew bloodshot and he was white with
foam.
“Help!” cried D’Artagnan. “What! will you let me be killed? _Jésus
Seigneur!_”
No sooner had he uttered this cry than the door opened and Athos and
Aramis rushed out. The coast, owing to the Gascon’s stratagem, was
clear.
“The prisoners are escaping! the prisoners are escaping!” cried the
sergeant.
“Stop! stop!” cried D’Artagnan, giving rein to his famous steed, who,
darting forth, overturned several men.
“Stop! stop!” cried the soldiers, and ran for their arms.
But the prisoners were in their saddles and lost no time hastening to
the nearest gate.
In the middle of the street they saw Grimaud and Blaisois, who were
coming to find their masters. With one wave of his hand Athos made
Grimaud, who followed the little troop, understand everything, and they
passed on like a whirlwind, D’Artagnan still directing them from behind
with his voice.
They passed through the gate like apparitions, without the guards
thinking of detaining them, and reached the open country.
All this time the soldiers were calling out, “Stop! stop!” and the
sergeant, who began to see that he was the victim of an artifice, was
almost in a frenzy of despair. Whilst all this was going on, a cavalier
in full gallop was seen approaching. It was Mordaunt with the order in
his hand.
“The prisoners!” he exclaimed, jumping off his horse.
The sergeant had not the courage to reply; he showed him the open door,
the empty room. Mordaunt darted to the steps, understood all, uttered a
cry, as if his very heart was pierced, and fell fainting on the stone
steps.
Chapter LIX.
Noble Natures never lose Courage, nor good Stomachs their Appetites.
The little troop, without looking behind them or exchanging a word,
fled at a rapid gallop, fording a little stream, of which none of them
knew the name, and leaving on their left a town which Athos declared to
be Durham. At last they came in sight of a small wood, and spurring
their horses afresh, rode in its direction.
As soon as they had disappeared behind a green curtain sufficiently
thick to conceal them from the sight of any one who might be in pursuit
they drew up to hold a council together. The two grooms held the
horses, that they might take a little rest without being unsaddled, and
Grimaud was posted as sentinel.
“Come, first of all,” said Athos to D’Artagnan, “my friend, that I may
shake hands with you—you, our rescuer—you, the true hero of us all.”
“Athos is right—you have my adoration,” said Aramis, in his turn
pressing his hand. “To what are you not equal, with your superior
intelligence, infallible eye, your arm of iron and your enterprising
mind!”
“Now,” said the Gascon, “that is all well, I accept for Porthos and
myself everything—thanks and compliments; we have plenty of time to
spare.”
The two friends, recalled by D’Artagnan to what was also due to
Porthos, pressed his hand in their turn.
“And now,” said Athos, “it is not our plan to run anywhere and like
madmen, but we must map up our campaign. What shall we do?”
“What are we going to do, i’faith? It is not very difficult to say.”
“Tell us, then, D’Artagnan.”
“We are going to reach the nearest seaport, unite our little resources,
hire a vessel and return to France. As for me I will give my last sou
for it. Life is the greatest treasure, and speaking candidly, ours
hangs by a thread.”
“What do you say to this, Du Vallon?”
“I,” said Porthos, “I am entirely of D’Artagnan’s opinion; this is a
‘beastly’ country, this England.”
“You are quite decided, then, to leave it?” asked Athos of D’Artagnan.
“Egad! I don’t see what is to keep me here.”
A glance was exchanged between Athos and Aramis.
“Go, then, my friends,” said the former, sighing.
“How, go then?” exclaimed D’Artagnan. “Let us go, you mean?”
“No, my friend,” said Athos, “you must leave us.”
“Leave you!” cried D’Artagnan, quite bewildered at this unexpected
announcement.
“Bah!” said Porthos, “why separate, since we are all together?”
“Because you can and ought to return to France; your mission is
accomplished, but ours is not.”
“Your mission is not accomplished?” exclaimed D’Artagnan, looking in
astonishment at Athos.
“No, my friend,” replied Athos, in his gentle but decided voice, “we
came here to defend King Charles; we have but ill defended him—it
remains for us to save him!”
“To save the king?” said D’Artagnan, looking at Aramis as he had looked
at Athos.
Aramis contented himself by making a sign with his head.
D’Artagnan’s countenance took an expression of the deepest compassion;
he began to think he had to do with madmen.
“You cannot be speaking seriously, Athos!” said he; “the king is
surrounded by an army, which is conducting him to London. This army is
commanded by a butcher, or the son of a butcher—it matters
little—Colonel Harrison. His majesty, I can assure you, will be tried
on his arrival in London; I have heard enough from the lips of Oliver
Cromwell to know what to expect.”
A second look was exchanged between Athos and Aramis.
“And when the trial is ended there will be no delay in putting the
sentence into execution,” continued D’Artagnan.
“And to what penalty do you think the king will be condemned?” asked
Athos.
“The penalty of death, I greatly fear; they have gone too far for him
to pardon them, and there is nothing left to them but one thing, and
that is to kill him. Have you never heard what Oliver Cromwell said
when he came to Paris and was shown the dungeon at Vincennes where
Monsieur de Vendôme was imprisoned?”
“What did he say?” asked Porthos.
“‘Princes must be knocked on the head.’”
“I remember it,” said Athos.
“And you fancy he will not put his maxim into execution, now that he
has got hold of the king?”
“On the contrary, I am certain he will do so. But then that is all the
more reason why we should not abandon the august head so threatened.”
“Athos, you are becoming mad.”
“No, my friend,” Athos gently replied, “but De Winter sought us out in
France and introduced us, Monsieur d’Herblay and myself, to Madame
Henrietta. Her majesty did us the honor to ask our aid for her husband.
We engaged our word; our word included everything. It was our strength,
our intelligence, our life, in short, that we promised. It remains now
for us to keep our word. Is that your opinion, D’Herblay?”
“Yes,” said Aramis, “we have promised.”
“Then,” continued Athos, “we have another reason; it is this—listen: In
France at this moment everything is poor and paltry. We have a king ten
years old, who doesn’t yet know what he wants; we have a queen blinded
by a belated passion; we have a minister who governs France as he would
govern a great farm—that is to say, intent only on turning out all the
gold he can by the exercise of Italian cunning and invention; we have
princes who set up a personal and egotistic opposition, who will draw
from Mazarin’s hands only a few ingots of gold or some shreds of power
granted as bribes. I have served them without enthusiasm—God knows that
I estimated them at their real value, and that they are not high in my
esteem—but on principle. To-day I am engaged in a different affair. I
have encountered misfortune in a high place, a royal misfortune, a
European misfortune; I attach myself to it. If we can succeed in saving
the king it will be good; if we die for him it will be grand.”
“So you know beforehand you must perish!” said D’Artagnan.
“We fear so, and our only regret is to die so far from both of _you_.”
“What will you do in a foreign land, an enemy’s country?”
“I traveled in England when I was young, I speak English like an
Englishman, and Aramis, too, knows something of the language. Ah! if we
had you, my friends! With you, D’Artagnan, with you, Porthos—all four
reunited for the first time for twenty years—we would dare not only
England, but the three kingdoms put together!”
“And did you promise the queen,” resumed D’Artagnan, petulantly, “to
storm the Tower of London, to kill a hundred thousand soldiers, to
fight victoriously against the wishes of the nation and the ambition of
a man, and when that man is Cromwell? Do not exaggerate your duty. In
Heaven’s name, my dear Athos, do not make a useless sacrifice. When I
see you merely, you look like a reasonable being; when you speak, I
seem to have to do with a madman. Come, Porthos, join me; say frankly,
what do you think of this business?”
“Nothing good,” replied Porthos.
“Come,” continued D’Artagnan, who, irritated that instead of listening
to him Athos seemed to be attending to his own thoughts, “you have
never found yourself the worse for my advice. Well, then, believe me,
Athos, your mission is ended, and ended nobly; return to France with
us.”
“Friend,” said Athos, “our resolution is irrevocable.”
“Then you have some other motive unknown to us?”
Athos smiled and D’Artagnan struck his hands together in anger and
muttered the most convincing reasons that he could discover; but to all
these reasons Athos contented himself by replying with a calm, sweet
smile and Aramis by nodding his head.
“Very well,” cried D’Artagnan, at last, furious, “very well, since you
wish it, let us leave our bones in this beggarly land, where it is
always cold, where fine weather is a fog, fog is rain, and rain a
deluge; where the sun represents the moon and the moon a cream cheese;
in truth, whether we die here or elsewhere matters little, since we
must die.”
“Only reflect, my good fellow,” said Athos, “it is but dying rather
sooner.”
“Pooh! a little sooner or a little later, it isn’t worth quarreling
over.”
“If I am astonished at anything,” remarked Porthos, sententiously, “it
is that it has not already happened.”
“Oh, it will happen, you may be sure,” said D’Artagnan. “So it is
agreed, and if Porthos makes no objection——”
“I,” said Porthos, “I will do whatever you please; and besides, I think
what the Comte de la Fère said just now is very good.”
“But your future career, D’Artagnan—your ambition, Porthos?”
“Our future, our ambition!” replied D’Artagnan, with feverish
volubility. “Need we think of that since we are to save the king? The
king saved—we shall assemble our friends together—we will head the
Puritans—reconquer England; we shall re-enter London—place him securely
on his throne——”
“And he will make us dukes and peers,” said Porthos, whose eyes
sparkled with joy at this imaginary prospect.
“Or he will forget us,” added D’Artagnan.
“Oh!” said Porthos.
“Well, that has happened, friend Porthos. It seems to me that we once
rendered Anne of Austria a service not much less than that which to-day
we are trying to perform for Charles I.; but, none the less, Anne of
Austria has forgotten us for twenty years.”
“Well, in spite of that, D’Artagnan,” said Athos, “you are not sorry
that you were useful to her?”
“No, indeed,” said D’Artagnan; “I admit even that in my darkest moments
I find consolation in that remembrance.”
“You see, then, D’Artagnan, though princes often are ungrateful, God
never is.”
“Athos,” said D’Artagnan, “I believe that were you to fall in with the
devil, you would conduct yourself so well that you would take him with
you to Heaven.”
“So, then?” said Athos, offering his hand to D’Artagnan.
“’Tis settled,” replied D’Artagnan. “I find England a charming country,
and I stay—but on one condition only.”
“What is it?”
“That I am not forced to learn English.”
“Well, now,” said Athos, triumphantly, “I swear to you, my friend, by
the God who hears us—I believe that there is a power watching over us,
and that we shall all four see France again.”
“So be it!” said D’Artagnan, “but I—I confess I have a contrary
conviction.”
“Our good D’Artagnan,” said Aramis, “represents among us the opposition
in parliament, which always says _no_, and always does _aye_.”
“But in the meantime saves the country,” added Athos.
“Well, now that everything is decided,” cried Porthos, rubbing his
hands, “suppose we think of dinner! It seems to me that in the most
critical positions of our lives we have always dined.”
“Oh! yes, speak of dinner in a country where for a feast they eat
boiled mutton, and as a treat drink beer. What the devil did you come
to such a country for, Athos? But I forgot,” added the Gascon, smiling,
“pardon, I forgot you are no longer Athos; but never mind, let us hear
your plan for dinner, Porthos.”
“My plan!”
“Yes, have you a plan?”
“No! I am hungry, that is all.”
“_Pardieu_, if that is all, I am hungry, too; but it is not everything
to be hungry, one must find something to eat, unless we browse on the
grass, like our horses——”
“Ah!” exclaimed Aramis, who was not quite so indifferent to the good
things of the earth as Athos, “do you remember, when we were at
Parpaillot, the beautiful oysters that we ate?”
“And the legs of mutton of the salt marshes,” said Porthos, smacking
his lips.
“But,” suggested D’Artagnan, “have we not our friend Mousqueton, who
managed for us so well at Chantilly, Porthos?”
“Yes,” said Porthos, “we have Mousqueton, but since he has been
steward, he has become very heavy; never mind, let us call him, and to
make sure that he will reply agreeably——
“Here! Mouston,” cried Porthos.
Mouston appeared, with a most piteous face.
“What is the matter, my dear M. Mouston?” asked D’Artagnan. “Are you
ill?”
“Sir, I am very hungry,” replied Mouston.
“Well, it is just for that reason that we have called you, my good M.
Mouston. Could you not procure us a few of those nice little rabbits,
and some of those delicious partridges, of which you used to make
fricassees at the hotel——? ‘Faith, I do not remember the name of the
hotel.”
“At the hotel of——,” said Porthos; “by my faith—nor do I remember it
either.”
“It does not matter; and a few of those bottles of old Burgundy wine,
which cured your master so quickly of his sprain!”
“Alas! sir,” said Mousqueton, “I much fear that what you ask for are
very rare things in this detestable and barren country, and I think we
should do better to go and seek hospitality from the owner of a little
house we see on the fringe of the forest.”
“How! is there a house in the neighborhood?” asked D’Artagnan.
“Yes, sir,” replied Mousqueton.
“Well, let us, as you say, go and ask a dinner from the master of that
house. What is your opinion, gentlemen, and does not M. Mouston’s
suggestion appear to you full of sense?”
“Oh!” said Aramis, “suppose the master is a Puritan?”
“So much the better, _mordioux!_” replied D’Artagnan; “if he is a
Puritan we will inform him of the capture of the king, and in honor of
the news he will kill for us his fatted hens.”
“But if he should be a cavalier?” said Porthos.
“In that case we will put on an air of mourning and he will pluck for
us his black fowls.”
“You are very happy,” exclaimed Athos, laughing, in spite of himself,
at the sally of the irresistible Gascon; “for you see the bright side
of everything.”
“What would you have?” said D’Artagnan. “I come from a land where there
is not a cloud in the sky.”
“It is not like this, then,” said Porthos stretching out his hand to
assure himself whether a chill sensation he felt on his cheek was not
really caused by a drop of rain.
“Come, come,” said D’Artagnan, “more reason why we should start on our
journey. Halloo, Grimaud!”
Grimaud appeared.
“Well, Grimaud, my friend, have you seen anything?” asked the Gascon.
“Nothing!” replied Grimaud.
“Those idiots!” cried Porthos, “they have not even pursued us. Oh! if
we had been in their place!”
“Yes, they are wrong,” said D’Artagnan. “I would willingly have said
two words to Mordaunt in this little desert. It is an excellent spot
for bringing down a man in proper style.”
“I think, decidedly,” observed Aramis, “gentlemen, that the son hasn’t
his mother’s energy.”
“What, my good fellow!” replied Athos, “wait awhile; we have scarcely
left him two hours ago—he does not know yet in what direction we came
nor where we are. We may say that he is not equal to his mother when we
put foot in France, if we are not poisoned or killed before then.”
“Meanwhile, let us dine,” suggested Porthos.
“I’faith, yes,” said Athos, “for I am hungry.”
“Look out for the black fowls!” cried Aramis.
And the four friends, guided by Mousqueton, took up the way toward the
house, already almost restored to their former gayety; for they were
now, as Athos had said, all four once more united and of single mind.
Chapter LX.
Respect to Fallen Majesty.
As our fugitives approached the house, they found the ground cut up, as
if a considerable body of horsemen had preceded them. Before the door
the traces were yet more apparent; these horsemen, whoever they might
be, had halted there.
“Egad!” cried D’Artagnan, “it’s quite clear that the king and his
escort have been by here.”
“The devil!” said Porthos; “in that case they have eaten everything.”
“Bah!” said D’Artagnan, “they will have left a chicken, at least.” He
dismounted and knocked on the door. There was no response.
He pushed open the door and found the first room empty and deserted.
“Well?” cried Porthos.
“I can see nobody,” said D’Artagnan. “Aha!”
“What?”
“Blood!”
At this word the three friends leaped from their horses and entered.
D’Artagnan had already opened the door of the second room, and from the
expression of his face it was clear that he there beheld some
extraordinary object.
The three friends drew near and discovered a young man stretched on the
ground, bathed in a pool of blood. It was evident that he had attempted
to regain his bed, but had not had sufficient strength to do so.
Athos, who imagined that he saw him move, was the first to go up to
him.
“Well?” inquired D’Artagnan.
“Well, if he is dead,” said Athos, “he has not been so long, for he is
still warm. But no, his heart is beating. Ho, there, my friend!”
The wounded man heaved a sigh. D’Artagnan took some water in the hollow
of his hand and threw it upon his face. The man opened his eyes, made
an effort to raise his head, and fell back again. The wound was in the
top of his skull and blood was flawing copiously.
Aramis dipped a cloth into some water and applied it to the gash. Again
the wounded man opened his eyes and looked in astonishment at these
strangers, who appeared to pity him.
“You are among friends,” said Athos, in English; “so cheer up, and tell
us, if you have the strength to do so, what has happened?”
“The king,” muttered the wounded man, “the king is a prisoner.”
“You have seen him?” asked Aramis, in the same language.
The man made no reply.
“Make your mind easy,” resumed Athos, “we are all faithful servants of
his majesty.”
“Is what you tell me true?” asked the wounded man.
“On our honor as gentlemen.”
“Then I may tell you all. I am brother to Parry, his majesty’s lackey.”
Athos and Aramis remembered that this was the name by which De Winter
had called the man they had found in the passage of the king’s tent.
“We know him,” said Athos, “he never left the king.”
“Yes, that is he. Well, he thought of me, when he saw the king was
taken, and as they were passing before the house he begged in the
king’s name that they would stop, as the king was hungry. They brought
him into this room and placed sentinels at the doors and windows. Parry
knew this room, as he had often been to see me when the king was at
Newcastle. He knew that there was a trap-door communicating with a
cellar, from which one could get into the orchard. He made a sign,
which I understood, but the king’s guards must have noticed it and held
themselves on guard. I went out as if to fetch wood, passed through the
subterranean passage into the cellar, and whilst Parry was gently
bolting the door, pushed up the board and beckoned to the king to
follow me. Alas! he would not. But Parry clasped his hands and implored
him, and at last he agreed. I went on first, fortunately. The king was
a few steps behind me, when suddenly I saw something rise up in front
of me like a huge shadow. I wanted to cry out to warn the king, but
that very moment I felt a blow as if the house was falling on my head,
and fell insensible. When I came to myself again, I was stretched in
the same place. I dragged myself as far as the yard. The king and his
escort were no longer there. I spent perhaps an hour in coming from the
yard to this place; then my strength gave out and I fainted again.”
“And now how are you feeling?”
“Very ill,” replied the wounded man.
“Can we do anything for you?” asked Athos.
“Help to put me on the bed; I think I shall feel better there.”
“Have you any one to depend on for assistance?”
“My wife is at Durham and may return at any moment. But you—is there
nothing that you want?”
“We came here with the intention of asking for something to eat.”
“Alas, they have taken everything; there isn’t a morsel of bread in the
house.”
“You hear, D’Artagnan?” said Athos; “we shall have to look elsewhere
for our dinner.”
“It is all one to me now,” said D’Artagnan; “I am no longer hungry.”
“Faith! neither am I,” said Porthos.
They carried the man to his bed and called Grimaud to dress the wound.
In the service of the four friends Grimaud had had so frequent occasion
to make lint and bandages that he had become something of a surgeon.
In the meantime the fugitives had returned to the first room, where
they took counsel together.
“Now,” said Aramis, “we know how the matter stands. The king and his
escort have gone this way; we had better take the opposite direction,
eh?”
Athos did not reply; he reflected.
“Yes,” said Porthos, “let us take the opposite direction; if we follow
the escort we shall find everything devoured and die of hunger. What a
confounded country this England is! This is the first time I have gone
without my dinner for ten years, and it is generally my best meal.”
“What do you think, D’Artagnan?” asked Athos. “Do you agree with
Aramis?”
“Not at all,” said D’Artagnan; “I am precisely of the contrary
opinion.”
“What! you would follow the escort?” exclaimed Porthos, in dismay.
“No, I would join the escort.”
Athos’s eyes shone with joy.
“Join the escort!” cried Aramis.
“Let D’Artagnan speak,” said Athos; “you know he always has wise advice
to give.”
“Clearly,” said D’Artagnan, “we must go where they will not look for
us. Now, they will be far from looking for us among the Puritans;
therefore, with the Puritans we must go.”
“Good, my friend, good!” said Athos. “It is excellent advice. I was
about to give it when you anticipated me.”
“That, then, is your opinion?” asked Aramis.
“Yes. They will think we are trying to leave England and will search
for us at the ports; meanwhile we shall reach London with the king.
Once in London we shall be hard to find—without considering,” continued
Athos, throwing a glance at Aramis, “the chances that may come to us on
the way.”
“Yes,” said Aramis, “I understand.”
“I, however, do not understand,” said Porthos. “But no matter; since it
is at the same time the opinion of D’Artagnan and of Athos, it must be
the best.”
“But,” said Aramis, “shall we not be suspected by Colonel Harrison?”
“Egad!” cried D’Artagnan, “he’s just the man I count upon. Colonel
Harrison is one of our friends. We have met him twice at General
Cromwell’s. He knows that we were sent from France by Monsieur Mazarin;
he will consider us as brothers. Besides, is he not a butcher’s son?
Well, then, Porthos shall show him how to knock down an ox with a blow
of the fist, and I how to trip up a bull by taking him by the horns.
That will insure his confidence.”
Athos smiled. “You are the best companion that I know, D’Artagnan,” he
said, offering his hand to the Gascon; “and I am very happy in having
found you again, my dear son.”
This was, as we have seen, the term which Athos applied to D’Artagnan
in his more expansive moods.
At this moment Grimaud came in. He had stanched the wound and the man
was better.
The four friends took leave of him and asked if they could deliver any
message for him to his brother.
“Tell him,” answered the brave man, “to let the king know that they
have not killed me outright. However insignificant I am, I am sure that
his majesty is concerned for me and blames himself for my death.”
“Be easy,” said D’Artagnan, “he will know all before night.”
The little troop recommenced their march, and at the end of two hours
perceived a considerable body of horsemen about half a league ahead.
“My dear friends,” said D’Artagnan, “give your swords to Monsieur
Mouston, who will return them to you at the proper time and place, and
do not forget you are our prisoners.”
It was not long before they joined the escort. The king was riding in
front, surrounded by troopers, and when he saw Athos and Aramis a glow
of pleasure lighted his pale cheeks.
D’Artagnan passed to the head of the column, and leaving his friends
under the guard of Porthos, went straight to Harrison, who recognized
him as having met him at Cromwell’s and received him as politely as a
man of his breeding and disposition could. It turned out as D’Artagnan
had foreseen. The colonel neither had nor could have any suspicion.
They halted for the king to dine. This time, however, due precautions
were taken to prevent any attempt at escape. In the large room of the
hotel a small table was placed for him and a large one for the
officers.
“Will you dine with me?” asked Harrison of D’Artagnan.
“Gad, I should be very happy, but I have my companion, Monsieur du
Vallon, and the two prisoners, whom I cannot leave. Let us manage it
better. Have a table set for us in a corner and send us whatever you
like from yours.”
“Good,” answered Harrison.
The matter was arranged as D’Artagnan had suggested, and when he
returned he found the king already seated at his little table, where
Parry waited on him, Harrison and his officers sitting together at
another table, and, in a corner, places reserved for himself and his
companions.
The table at which the Puritan officers were seated was round, and
whether by chance or coarse intention, Harrison sat with his back to
the king.
The king saw the four gentlemen come in, but appeared to take no notice
of them.
They sat down in such a manner as to turn their backs on nobody. The
officers, table and that of the king were opposite to them.
“I’faith, colonel,” said D’Artagnan, “we are very grateful for your
gracious invitation; for without you we ran the risk of going without
dinner, as we have without breakfast. My friend here, Monsieur du
Vallon, shares my gratitude, for he was particularly hungry.”
“And I am so still,” said Porthos bowing to Harrison.
“And how,” said Harrison, laughing, “did this serious calamity of going
without breakfast happen to you?”
“In a very simple manner, colonel,” said D’Artagnan. “I was in a hurry
to join you and took the road you had already gone by. You can
understand our disappointment when, arriving at a pretty little house
on the skirts of a wood, which at a distance had quite a gay
appearance, with its red roof and green shutters, we found nothing but
a poor wretch bathed—Ah! colonel, pay my respects to the officer of
yours who struck that blow.”
“Yes,” said Harrison, laughing, and looking over at one of the officers
seated at his table. “When Groslow undertakes this kind of thing
there’s no need to go over the ground a second time.”
“Ah! it was this gentleman?” said D’Artagnan, bowing to the officer. “I
am sorry he does not speak French, that I might tender him my
compliments.”
“I am ready to receive and return them, sir,” said the officer, in
pretty good French, “for I resided three years in Paris.”
“Then, sir, allow me to assure you that your blow was so well directed
that you have nearly killed your man.”
“Nearly? I thought I had quite,” said Groslow.
“No. It was a very near thing, but he is not dead.”
As he said this, D’Artagnan gave a glance at Parry, who was standing in
front of the king, to show him that the news was meant for him.
The king, too, who had listened in the greatest agony, now breathed
again.
“Hang it,” said Groslow, “I thought I had succeeded better. If it were
not so far from here to the house I would return and finish him.”
“And you would do well, if you are afraid of his recovering; for you
know, if a wound in the head does not kill at once, it is cured in a
week.”
And D’Artagnan threw a second glance toward Parry, on whose face such
an expression of joy was manifested that Charles stretched out his hand
to him, smiling.
Parry bent over his master’s hand and kissed it respectfully.
“I’ve a great desire to drink the king’s health,” said Athos.
“Let me propose it, then,” said D’Artagnan.
“Do,” said Aramis.
Porthos looked at D’Artagnan, quite amazed at the resources with which
his companion’s Gascon sharpness continually supplied him. D’Artagnan
took up his camp tin cup, filled it with wine and arose.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “let us drink to him who presides at the repast.
Here’s to our colonel, and let him know that we are always at his
commands as far as London and farther.”
And as D’Artagnan, as he spoke, looked at Harrison, the colonel
imagined the toast was for himself. He arose and bowed to the four
friends, whose eyes were fixed on Charles, while Harrison emptied his
glass without the slightest misgiving.
The king, in return, looked at the four gentlemen and drank with a
smile full of nobility and gratitude.
“Come, gentlemen,” cried Harrison, regardless of his illustrious
captive, “let us be off.”
“Where do we sleep, colonel?”
“At Thirsk,” replied Harrison.
“Parry,” said the king, rising too, “my horse; I desire to go to
Thirsk.”
“Egad!” said D’Artagnan to Athos, “your king has thoroughly taken me,
and I am quite at his service.”
“If what you say is sincere,” replied Athos, “he will never reach
London.”
“How so?”
“Because before then we shall have carried him off.”
“Well, this time, Athos,” said D’Artagnan, “upon my word, you are mad.”
“Have you some plan in your head then?” asked Aramis.
“Ay!” said Porthos, “the thing would not be impossible with a good
plan.”
“I have none,” said Athos; “but D’Artagnan will discover one.”
D’Artagnan shrugged his shoulders and they proceeded.
Chapter LXI.
D’Artagnan hits on a Plan.
As night closed in they arrived at Thirsk. The four friends appeared to
be entire strangers to one another and indifferent to the precautions
taken for guarding the king. They withdrew to a private house, and as
they had reason every moment to fear for their safety, they occupied
but one room and provided an exit, which might be useful in case of an
attack. The lackeys were sent to their several posts, except that
Grimaud lay on a truss of straw across the doorway.
D’Artagnan was thoughtful and seemed for the moment to have lost his
usual loquacity. Porthos, who could never see anything that was not
self-evident, talked to him as usual. He replied in monosyllables and
Athos and Aramis looked significantly at one another.
Next morning D’Artagnan was the first to rise. He had been down to the
stables, already taken a look at the horses and given the necessary
orders for the day, whilst Athos and Aramis were still in bed and
Porthos snoring.
At eight o’clock the march was resumed in the same order as the night
before, except that D’Artagnan left his friends and began to renew the
acquaintance which he had already struck up with Monsieur Groslow.
Groslow, whom D’Artagnan’s praises had greatly pleased, welcomed him
with a gracious smile.
“Really, sir,” D’Artagnan said to him, “I am pleased to find one with
whom to talk in my own poor tongue. My friend, Monsieur du Vallon, is
of a very melancholy disposition, so much so, that one can scarcely get
three words out of him all day. As for our two prisoners, you can
imagine that they are but little in the vein for conversation.”
“They are hot royalists,” said Groslow.
“The more reason they should be sulky with us for having captured the
Stuart, for whom, I hope, you’re preparing a pretty trial.”
“Why,” said Groslow, “that is just what we are taking him to London
for.”
“And you never by any chance lose sight of him, I presume?”
“I should think not, indeed. You see he has a truly royal escort.”
“Ay, there’s no fear in the daytime; but at night?”
“We redouble our precautions.”
“And what method of surveillance do you employ?”
“Eight men remain constantly in his room.”
“The deuce, he is well guarded, then. But besides these eight men, you
doubtless place some guard outside?”
“Oh, no! Just think. What would you have two men without arms do
against eight armed men?”
“Two men—how do you mean?”
“Yes, the king and his lackey.”
“Oh! then they allow the lackey to remain with him?”
“Yes; Stuart begged this favor and Harrison consented. Under pretense
that he’s a king it appears he cannot dress or undress without
assistance.”
“Really, captain,” said D’Artagnan, determined to continue on the
laudatory tack on which he had commenced, “the more I listen to you the
more surprised I am at the easy and elegant manner in which you speak
French. You have lived three years in Paris? May I ask what you were
doing there?”
“My father, who is a merchant, placed me with his correspondent, who in
turn sent his son to join our house in London.”
“Were you pleased with Paris, sir?”
“Yes, but you are much in want of a revolution like our own—not against
your king, who is a mere child, but against that _lazar_ of an Italian,
the queen’s favorite.”
“Ah! I am quite of your opinion, sir, and we should soon make an end of
Mazarin if we had only a dozen officers like yourself, without
prejudices, vigilant and incorruptible.”
“But,” said the officer, “I thought you were in his service and that it
was he who sent you to General Cromwell.”
“That is to say I am in the king’s service, and that knowing he wanted
to send some one to England, I solicited the appointment, so great was
my desire to know the man of genius who now governs the three kingdoms.
So that when he proposed to us to draw our swords in honor of old
England you see how we snapped up the proposition.”
“Yes, I know that you charged by the side of Mordaunt.”
“On his right and left, sir. Ah! there’s another brave and excellent
young man.”
“Do you know him?” asked the officer.
“Yes, very well. Monsieur du Vallon and myself came from France with
him.”
“It appears, too, you kept him waiting a long time at Boulogne.”
“What would you have? I was like you, and had a king in keeping.”
“Aha!” said Groslow; “what king?”
“Our own, to be sure, the little one—Louis XIV.”
“And how long had you to take care of him?”
“Three nights; and, by my troth, I shall always remember those three
nights with a certain pleasure.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean that my friends, officers in the guards and _mousquetaires_,
came to keep me company and we passed the night in feasting, drinking,
dicing.”
“Ah true,” said the Englishman, with a sigh; “you Frenchmen are born
boon companions.”
“And don’t you play, too, when you are on guard?”
“Never,” said the Englishman.
“In that case you must be horribly bored, and have my sympathy.”
“The fact is, I look to my turn for keeping guard with horror. It’s
tiresome work to keep awake a whole night.”
“Yes, but with a jovial partner and dice, and guineas clinking on the
cloth, the night passes like a dream. You don’t like playing, then?”
“On the contrary, I do.”
“Lansquenet, for instance?”
“Devoted to it. I used to play almost every night in France.”
“And since your return to England?”
“I have not handled a card or dice-box.”
“I sincerely pity you,” said D’Artagnan, with an air of profound
compassion.
“Look here,” said the Englishman.
“Well?”
“To-morrow I am on guard.”
“In Stuart’s room?”
“Yes; come and pass the night with me.”
“Impossible!”
“Impossible! why so?”
“I play with Monsieur du Vallon every night. Sometimes we don’t go to
bed at all!”
“Well, what of that?”
“Why, he would be annoyed if I did not play with him.”
“Does he play well?”
“I have seen him lose as much as two thousand pistoles, laughing all
the while till the tears rolled down.”
“Bring him with you, then.”
“But how about our prisoners?”
“Let your servants guard them.”
“Yes, and give them a chance of escaping,” said D’Artagnan. “Why, one
of them is a rich lord from Touraine and the other a knight of Malta,
of noble family. We have arranged the ransom of each of them—£2,000 on
arriving in France. We are reluctant to leave for a single moment men
whom our lackeys know to be millionaires. It is true we plundered them
a little when we took them, and I will even confess that it is their
purse that Monsieur du Vallon and I draw on in our nightly play. Still,
they may have concealed some precious stone, some valuable diamond; so
that we are like those misers who are unable to absent themselves from
their treasures. We have made ourselves the constant guardians of our
men, and while I sleep Monsieur du Vallon watches.”
“Ah! ah!” said Groslow.
“You see, then, why I must decline your polite invitation, which is
especially attractive to me, because nothing is so wearisome as to play
night after night with the same person; the chances always balance and
at the month’s end nothing is gained or lost.”
“Ah!” said Groslow, sighing; “there is something still more wearisome,
and that is not to play at all.”
“I can understand that,” said D’Artagnan.
“But, come,” resumed the Englishman, “are these men of yours
dangerous?”
“In what respect?”
“Are they capable of attempting violence?”
D’Artagnan burst out laughing at the idea.
“_Jésus Dieu!_” he cried; “one of them is trembling with fever, having
failed to adapt himself to this charming country of yours, and the
other is a knight of Malta, as timid as a young girl; and for greater
security we have taken from them even their penknives and pocket
scissors.”
“Well, then,” said Groslow, “bring them with you.”
“But really——” said D’Artagnan.
“I have eight men on guard, you know. Four of them can guard the king
and the other four your prisoners. I’ll manage it somehow, you will
see.”
“But,” said D’Artagnan, “now I think of it—what is to prevent our
beginning to-night?”
“Nothing at all,” said Groslow.
“Just so. Come to us this evening and to-morrow we’ll return your
visit.”
“Capital! This evening with you, to-morrow at Stuart’s, the next day
with me.”
“You see, that with a little forethought one can lead a merry life
anywhere and everywhere,” said D’Artagnan.
“Yes, with Frenchmen, and Frenchmen like you.”
“And Monsieur du Vallon,” added the other. “You will see what a fellow
he is; a man who nearly killed Mazarin between two doors. They employ
him because they are afraid of him. Ah, there he is calling me now.
You’ll excuse me, I know.”
They exchanged bows and D’Artagnan returned to his companions.
“What on earth can you have been saying to that bulldog?” exclaimed
Porthos.
“My dear fellow, don’t speak like that of Monsieur Groslow. He’s one of
my most intimate friends.”
“One of your friends!” cried Porthos, “this butcher of unarmed
farmers!”
“Hush! my dear Porthos. Monsieur Groslow is perhaps rather hasty, it’s
true, but at bottom I have discovered two good qualities in him—he is
conceited and stupid.”
Porthos opened his eyes in amazement; Athos and Aramis looked at one
another and smiled; they knew D’Artagnan, and knew that he did nothing
without a purpose.
“But,” continued D’Artagnan, “you shall judge of him for yourself. He
is coming to play with us this evening.”
“Oho!” said Porthos, his eyes glistening at the news. “Is he rich?”
“He’s the son of one of the wealthiest merchants in London.”
“And knows lansquenet?”
“Adores it.”
“Basset?”
“His mania.”
“Biribi?”
“Revels in it.”
“Good,” said Porthos; “we shall pass an agreeable evening.”
“The more so, as it will be the prelude to a better.”
“How so?”
“We invite him to play to-night; he has invited us in return to-morrow.
But wait. To-night we stop at Derby; and if there is a bottle of wine
in the town let Mousqueton buy it. It will be well to prepare a light
supper, of which you, Athos and Aramis, are not to partake—Athos,
because I told him you had a fever; Aramis, because you are a knight of
Malta and won’t mix with fellows like us. Do you understand?”
“That’s no doubt very fine,” said Porthos; “but deuce take me if I
understand at all.”
“Porthos, my friend, you know I am descended on the father’s side from
the Prophets and on the mother’s from the Sybils, and that I only speak
in parables and riddles. Let those who have ears hear and those who
have eyes see; I can tell you nothing more at present.”
“Go ahead, my friend,” said Athos; “I am sure that whatever you do is
well done.”
“And you, Aramis, are you of that opinion?”
“Entirely so, my dear D’Artagnan.”
“Very good,” said D’Artagnan; “here indeed are true believers; it is a
pleasure to work miracles before them; they are not like that
unbelieving Porthos, who must see and touch before he will believe.”
“The fact is,” said Porthos, with an air of _finesse_, “I am rather
incredulous.”
D’Artagnan gave him playful buffet on the shoulder, and as they had
reached the station where they were to breakfast, the conversation
ended there.
At five in the evening they sent Mousqueton on before as agreed upon.
Blaisois went with him.
In crossing the principal street in Derby the four friends perceived
Blaisois standing in the doorway of a handsome house. It was there a
lodging was prepared for them.
At the hour agreed upon Groslow came. D’Artagnan received him as he
would have done a friend of twenty years’ standing. Porthos scanned him
from head to foot and smiled when he discovered that in spite of the
blow he had administered to Parry’s brother, he was not nearly so
strong as himself. Athos and Aramis suppressed as well as they could
the disgust they felt in the presence of such coarseness and brutality.
In short, Groslow seemed to be pleased with his reception.
Athos and Aramis kept themselves to their _rôle_. At midnight they
withdrew to their chamber, the door of which was left open on the
pretext of kindly consideration. Furthermore, D’Artagnan went with
them, leaving Porthos at play with Groslow.
Porthos gained fifty pistoles from Groslow, and found him a more
agreeable companion than he had at first believed him to be.
As to Groslow, he promised himself that on the following evening he
would recover from D’Artagnan what he had lost to Porthos, and on
leaving reminded the Gascon of his appointment.
The next day was spent as usual. D’Artagnan went from Captain Groslow
to Colonel Harrison and from Colonel Harrison to his friends. To any
one not acquainted with him he seemed to be in his normal condition;
but to his friends—to Athos and Aramis—was apparent a certain
feverishness in his gayety.
“What is he contriving?” asked Aramis.
“Wait,” said Athos.
Porthos said nothing, but he handled in his pocket the fifty pistoles
he had gained from Groslow with a degree of satisfaction which betrayed
itself in his whole bearing.
Arrived at Ryston, D’Artagnan assembled his friends. His face had lost
the expression of careless gayety it had worn like a mask the whole
day. Athos pinched Aramis’s hand.
“The moment is at hand,” he said.
“Yes,” returned D’Artagnan, who had overheard him, “to-night,
gentlemen, we rescue the king.”
“D’Artagnan,” said Athos, “this is no joke, I trust? It would quite cut
me up.”
“You are a very odd man, Athos,” he replied, “to doubt me thus. Where
and when have you seen me trifle with a friend’s heart and a king’s
life? I have told you, and I repeat it, that to-night we rescue Charles
I. You left it to me to discover the means and I have done so.”
Porthos looked at D’Artagnan with an expression of profound admiration.
Aramis smiled as one who hopes. Athos was pale, and trembled in every
limb.
“Speak,” said Athos.
“We are invited,” replied D’Artagnan, “to pass the night with M.
Groslow. But do you know where?”
“No.”
“In the king’s room.”
“The king’s room?” cried Athos.
“Yes, gentlemen, in the king’s room. Groslow is on guard there this
evening, and to pass the time away he has invited us to keep him
company.”
“All four of us?” asked Athos.
“_Pardieu!_ certainly, all four; we couldn’t leave our prisoners, could
we?”
“Ah! ah!” said Aramis.
“Tell us about it,” said Athos, palpitating.
“We are going, then, we two with our swords, you with daggers. We four
have got to master these eight fools and their stupid captain. Monsieur
Porthos, what do you say to _that?_”
“I say it is easy enough,” answered Porthos.
“We dress the king in Groslow’s clothes. Mousqueton, Grimaud and
Blaisois have our horses saddled at the end of the first street. We
mount them and before daylight are twenty leagues distant.”
Athos placed his two hands on D’Artagnan’s shoulders, and gazed at him
with his calm, sad smile.
“I declare, my friend,” said he, “that there is not a creature under
the sky who equals you in prowess and in courage. Whilst we thought you
indifferent to our sorrows, which you couldn’t share without crime, you
alone among us have discovered what we were searching for in vain. I
repeat it, D’Artagnan, you are the best one among us; I bless and love
you, my dear son.”
“And to think that I couldn’t find that out,” said Porthos, scratching
his head; “it is so simple.”
“But,” said Aramis, “if I understand rightly we are to kill them all,
eh?”
Athos shuddered and turned pale.
“_Mordioux!_” answered D’Artagnan, “I believe we must. I confess I can
discover no other safe and satisfactory way.”
“Let us see,” said Aramis, “how are we to act?”
“I have arranged two plans. Firstly, at a given signal, which shall be
the words ‘At last,’ you each plunge a dagger into the heart of the
soldier nearest to you. We, on our side, do the same. That will be four
killed. We shall then be matched, four against the remaining five. If
these five men give themselves up we gag them; if they resist, we kill
them. If by chance our Amphitryon changes his mind and receives only
Porthos and myself, why, then, we must resort to heroic measures and
each give two strokes instead of one. It will take a little longer time
and may make a greater disturbance, but you will be outside with swords
and will rush in at the proper time.”
“But if you yourselves should be struck?” said Athos.
“Impossible!” said D’Artagnan; “those beer drinkers are too clumsy and
awkward. Besides, you will strike at the throat, Porthos; it kills as
quickly and prevents all outcry.”
“Very good,” said Porthos; “it will be a nice little throat cutting.”
“Horrible, horrible,” exclaimed Athos.
“Nonsense,” said D’Artagnan; “you would do as much, Mr. Humanity, in a
battle. But if you think the king’s life is not worth what it must cost
there’s an end of the matter and I send to Groslow to say I am ill.”
“No, you are right,” said Athos.
At this moment a soldier entered to inform them that Groslow was
waiting for them.
“Where?” asked D’Artagnan.
“In the room of the English Nebuchadnezzar,” replied the staunch
Puritan.
“Good,” replied Athos, whose blood mounted to his face at the insult
offered to royalty; “tell the captain we are coming.”
The Puritan then went out. The lackeys had been ordered to saddle eight
horses and to wait, keeping together and without dismounting, at the
corner of a street about twenty steps from the house where the king was
lodged.
It was nine o’clock in the evening; the sentinels had been relieved at
eight and Captain Groslow had been on guard for an hour. D’Artagnan and
Porthos, armed with their swords, and Athos and Aramis, each carrying a
concealed poniard, approached the house which for the time being was
Charles Stuart’s prison. The two latter followed their captors in the
humble guise of captives, without arms.
“Od’s bodikins,” said Groslow, as the four friends entered, “I had
almost given you up.”
D’Artagnan went up to him and whispered in his ear:
“The fact is, we, that is, Monsieur du Vallon and I, hesitated a
little.”
“And why?”
D’Artagnan looked significantly toward Athos and Aramis.
“Aha,” said Groslow; “on account of political opinions? No matter. On
the contrary,” he added, laughing, “if they want to see their Stuart
they shall see him.
“Are we to pass the night in the king’s room?” asked D’Artagnan.
“No, but in the one next to it, and as the door will remain open it
comes to the same thing. Have you provided yourself with money? I
assure you I intend to play the devil’s game to-night.”
D’Artagnan rattled the gold in his pockets.
“Very good,” said Groslow, and opened the door of the room. “I will
show you the way,” and he went in first.
D’Artagnan turned to look at his friends. Porthos was perfectly
indifferent; Athos, pale, but resolute; Aramis was wiping a slight
moisture from his brow.
The eight guards were at their posts. Four in the king’s room, two at
the door between the rooms and two at that by which the friends had
entered. Athos smiled when he saw their bare swords; he felt it was no
longer to be a butchery, but a fight, and he resumed his usual good
humor.
Charles was perceived through the door, lying dressed upon his bed, at
the head of which Parry was seated, reading in a low voice a chapter
from the Bible.
A candle of coarse tallow on a black table lighted up the handsome and
resigned face of the king and that of his faithful retainer, far less
calm.
From time to time Parry stopped, thinking the king, whose eyes were
closed, was really asleep, but Charles would open his eyes and say with
a smile:
“Go on, my good Parry, I am listening.”
Groslow advanced to the door of the king’s room, replaced on his head
the hat he had taken off to receive his guests, looked for a moment
contemptuously at this simple, yet touching scene, then turning to
D’Artagnan, assumed an air of triumph at what he had achieved.
“Capital!” cried the Gascon, “you would make a distinguished general.”
“And do you think,” asked Groslow, “that Stuart will ever escape while
I am on guard?”
“No, to be sure,” replied D’Artagnan; “unless, forsooth, the sky rains
friends upon him.”
Groslow’s face brightened.
It is impossible to say whether Charles, who kept his eyes constantly
closed, had noticed the insolence of the Puritan captain, but the
moment he heard the clear tone of D’Artagnan’s voice his eyelids rose,
in spite of himself.
Parry, too, started and stopped reading.
“What are you thinking about?” said the king; “go on, my good Parry,
unless you are tired.”
Parry resumed his reading.
On a table in the next room were lighted candles, cards, two
dice-boxes, and dice.
“Gentlemen,” said Groslow, “I beg you will take your places. I will sit
facing Stuart, whom I like so much to see, especially where he now is,
and you, Monsieur d’Artagnan, opposite to me.”
Athos turned red with rage. D’Artagnan frowned at him.
“That’s it,” said D’Artagnan; “you, Monsieur le Comte de la Fère, to
the right of Monsieur Groslow. You, Chevalier d’Herblay, to his left.
Du Vallon next me. You’ll bet for me and those gentlemen for Monsieur
Groslow.”
By this arrangement D’Artagnan could nudge Porthos with his knee and
make signs with his eyes to Athos and Aramis.
At the names Comte de la Fère and Chevalier d’Herblay, Charles opened
his eyes, and raising his noble head, in spite of himself, threw a
glance at all the actors in the scene.
At that moment Parry turned over several leaves of his Bible and read
with a loud voice this verse in Jeremiah:
“God said, ‘Hear ye the words of the prophets my servants, whom I have
sent unto you.’”
The four friends exchanged glances. The words that Parry had read
assured them that their presence was understood by the king and was
assigned to its real motive. D’Artagnan’s eyes sparkled with joy.
“You asked me just now if I was in funds,” said D’Artagnan, placing
some twenty pistoles upon the table. “Well, in my turn I advise you to
keep a sharp lookout on your TREASURE, my dear Monsieur Groslow, for I
can tell you we shall not leave this without robbing you of it.”
“Not without my defending it,” said Groslow.
“So much the better,” said D’Artagnan. “Fight, my dear captain, fight.
You know or you don’t know, that that is what we ask of you.”
“Oh! yes,” said Groslow, bursting with his usual coarse laugh, “I know
you Frenchmen want nothing but cuts and bruises.”
Charles had heard and understood it all. A slight color mounted to his
cheeks. The soldiers then saw him stretch his limbs, little by little,
and under the pretense of much heat throw off the Scotch plaid which
covered him.
Athos and Aramis started with delight to find that the king was lying
with his clothes on.
The game began. The luck had turned, and Groslow, having won some
hundred pistoles, was in the merriest possible humor.
Porthos, who had lost the fifty pistoles he had won the night before
and thirty more besides, was very cross and questioned D’Artagnan with
a nudge of the knee as to whether it would not soon be time to change
the game. Athos and Aramis looked at him inquiringly. But D’Artagnan
remained impassible.
It struck ten. They heard the guard going its rounds.
“How many rounds do they make a night?” asked D’Artagnan, drawing more
pistoles from his pocket.
“Five,” answered Groslow, “one every two hours.”
D’Artagnan glanced at Athos and Aramis and for the first time replied
to Porthos’s nudge of the knee by a nudge responsive. Meanwhile, the
soldiers whose duty it was to remain in the king’s room, attracted by
that love of play so powerful in all men, had stolen little by little
toward the table, and standing on tiptoe, lounged, watching the game,
over the shoulders of D’Artagnan and Porthos. Those on the other side
had followed their example, thus favoring the views of the four
friends, who preferred having them close at hand to chasing them about
the chamber. The two sentinels at the door still had their swords
unsheathed, but they were leaning on them while they watched the game.
Athos seemed to grow calm as the critical moment approached. With his
white, aristocratic hands he played with the louis, bending and
straightening them again, as if they were made of pewter. Aramis, less
self-controlled, fumbled continually with his hidden poniard. Porthos,
impatient at his continued losses, kept up a vigorous play with his
knee.
D’Artagnan turned, mechanically looking behind him, and between the
figures of two soldiers he could see Parry standing up and Charles
leaning on his elbow with his hands clasped and apparently offering a
fervent prayer to God.
D’Artagnan saw that the moment was come. He darted a preparatory glance
at Athos and Aramis, who slyly pushed their chairs a little back so as
to leave themselves more space for action. He gave Porthos a second
nudge of the knee and Porthos got up as if to stretch his legs and took
care at the same time to ascertain that his sword could be drawn
smoothly from the scabbard.
“Hang it!” cried D’Artagnan, “another twenty pistoles lost. Really,
Captain Groslow, you are too much in fortune’s way. This can’t last,”
and he drew another twenty from his pocket. “One more turn, captain;
twenty pistoles on one throw—only one, the last.”
“Done for twenty,” replied Groslow.
And he turned up two cards as usual, a king for D’Artagnan and an ace
for himself.
“A king,” said D’Artagnan; “it’s a good omen, Master Groslow—look out
for the king.”
And in spite of his extraordinary self-control there was a strange
vibration in the Gascon’s voice which made his partner start.
Groslow began turning the cards one after another. If he turned up an
ace first he won; if a king he lost.
He turned up a king.
“At last!” cried D’Artagnan.
At this word Athos and Aramis jumped up. Porthos drew back a step.
Daggers and swords were just about to shine, when suddenly the door was
thrown open and Harrison appeared in the doorway, accompanied by a man
enveloped in a large cloak. Behind this man could be seen the
glistening muskets of half a dozen soldiers.
Groslow jumped up, ashamed at being surprised in the midst of wine,
cards, and dice. But Harrison paid not the least attention to him, and
entering the king’s room, followed by his companion:
“Charles Stuart,” said he, “an order has come to conduct you to London
without stopping day or night. Prepare yourself, then, to start at
once.”
“And by whom is this order given?” asked the king.
“By General Oliver Cromwell. And here is Mr. Mordaunt, who has brought
it and is charged with its execution.”
“Mordaunt!” muttered the four friends, exchanging glances.
D’Artagnan swept up the money that he and Porthos had lost and buried
it in his huge pocket. Athos and Aramis placed themselves behind him.
At this movement Mordaunt turned around, recognized them, and uttered
an exclamation of savage delight.
“I’m afraid we are prisoners,” whispered D’Artagnan to his friend.
“Not yet,” replied Porthos.
“Colonel, colonel,” cried Mordaunt, “you are betrayed. These four
Frenchmen have escaped from Newcastle, and no doubt want to carry off
the king. Arrest them.”
“Ah! my young man,” said D’Artagnan, drawing his sword, “that is an
order sooner given than executed. Fly, friends, fly!” he added,
whirling his sword around him.
The next moment he darted to the door and knocked down two of the
soldiers who guarded it, before they had time to cock their muskets.
Athos and Aramis followed him. Porthos brought up the rear, and before
soldiers, officers, or colonel had time to recover their surprise all
four were in the street.
“Fire!” cried Mordaunt; “fire upon them!”
Three or four shots were fired, but with no other result than to show
the four fugitives turning the corner of the street safe and sound.
The horses were at the place fixed upon, and they leaped lightly into
their saddles.
“Forward!” cried D’Artagnan, “and spur for your dear lives!”
They galloped away and took the road they had come by in the morning,
namely, in the direction toward Scotland. A few hundred yards beyond
the town D’Artagnan drew rein.
“Halt!” he cried, “this time we shall be pursued. We must let them
leave the village and ride after us on the northern road, and when they
have passed we will take the opposite direction.”
There was a stream close by and a bridge across it.
D’Artagnan led his horse under the arch of the bridge. The others
followed. Ten minutes later they heard the rapid gallop of a troop of
horsemen. A few minutes more and the troop passed over their heads.
Chapter LXII.
London.
As soon as the noise of the hoofs was lost in the distance D’Artagnan
remounted the bank of the stream and scoured the plain, followed by his
three friends, directing their course, as well as they could guess,
toward London.
“This time,” said D’Artagnan, when they were sufficiently distant to
proceed at a trot, “I think all is lost and we have nothing better to
do than to reach France. What do you say, Athos, to that proposition?
Isn’t it reasonable?”
“Yes, dear friend,” Athos replied, “but you said a word the other day
that was more than reasonable—it was noble and generous. You said, ‘Let
us die here!’ I recall to you that word.”
“Oh,” said Porthos, “death is nothing: it isn’t death that can disquiet
us, since we don’t know what it is. What troubles me is the idea of
defeat. As things are turning out, I foresee that we must give battle
to London, to the provinces, to all England, and certainly in the end
we can’t fail to be beaten.”
“We ought to witness this great tragedy even to its last scene,” said
Athos. “Whatever happens, let us not leave England before the crisis.
Don’t you agree with me, Aramis?”
“Entirely, my dear count. Then, too, I confess I should not be sorry to
come across Mordaunt again. It appears to me that we have an account to
settle with him, and that it is not our custom to leave a place without
paying our debts, of _this_ kind, at least.”
“Ah! that’s another thing,” said D’Artagnan, “and I should not mind
waiting in London a whole year for a chance of meeting this Mordaunt in
question. Only let us lodge with some one on whom we can count; for I
imagine, just now, that Noll Cromwell would not be inclined to trifle
with us. Athos, do you know any inn in the whole town where one can
find white sheets, roast beef reasonably cooked, and wine which is not
made of hops and gin?”
“I think I know what you want,” replied Athos. “De Winter took us to
the house of a Spaniard, who, he said, had become naturalized as an
Englishman by the guineas of his new compatriots. What do you say to
it, Aramis?”
“Why, the idea of taking quarters with Senor Perez seems to me very
reasonable, and for my part I agree to it. We will invoke the
remembrance of that poor De Winter, for whom he seemed to have a great
regard; we will tell him that we have come as amateurs to see what is
going on; we will spend with him a guinea each per day; and I think
that by taking all these precautions we can be quite undisturbed.”
“You forget, Aramis, one precaution of considerable importance.”
“What is that?”
“The precaution of changing our clothes.”
“Changing our clothes!” exclaimed Porthos. “I don’t see why; we are
very comfortable in those we wear.”
“To prevent recognition,” said D’Artagnan. “Our clothes have a cut
which would proclaim the Frenchman at first sight. Now, I don’t set
sufficient store on the cut of my jerkin to risk being hung at Tyburn
or sent for change of scene to the Indies. I shall buy a
chestnut-colored suit. I’ve remarked that your Puritans revel in that
color.”
“But can you find your man?” said Aramis to Athos.
“Oh! to be sure, yes. He lives at the Bedford Tavern, Greenhall Street.
Besides, I can find my way about the city with my eyes shut.”
“I wish we were already there,” said D’Artagnan; “and my advice is that
we reach London before daybreak, even if we kill our horses.”
“Come on, then,” said Athos, “for unless I am mistaken in my
calculations we have only eight or ten leagues to go.”
The friends urged on their horses and arrived, in fact, at about five
o’clock in the morning. They were stopped and questioned at the gate by
which they sought to enter the city, but Athos replied, in excellent
English, that they had been sent forward by Colonel Harrison to
announce to his colleague, Monsieur Bridge, the approach of the king.
That reply led to several questions about the king’s capture, and Athos
gave details so precise and positive that if the gatekeepers had any
suspicions they vanished completely. The way was therefore opened to
the four friends with all sorts of Puritan congratulations.
Athos was right. He went direct to the Bedford Tavern, and the host,
who recognized him, was delighted to see him again with such a numerous
and promising company.
Though it was scarcely daylight our four travelers found the town in a
great bustle, owing to the reported approach of Harrison and the king.
The plan of changing their clothes was unanimously adopted. The
landlord sent out for every description of garment, as if he wanted to
fit up his wardrobe. Athos chose a black coat, which gave him the
appearance of a respectable citizen. Aramis, not wishing to part with
his sword, selected a dark-blue cloak of a military cut. Porthos was
seduced by a wine-colored doublet and sea-green breeches. D’Artagnan,
who had fixed on his color beforehand, had only to select the shade,
and looked in his chestnut suit exactly like a retired sugar dealer.
“Now,” said D’Artagnan, “for the actual man. We must cut off our hair,
that the populace may not insult us. As we no longer wear the sword of
the gentleman we may as well have the head of the Puritan. This, as you
know, is the important point of distinction between the Covenanter and
the Cavalier.”
After some discussion this was agreed to and Mousqueton played the
_rôle_ of barber.
“We look hideous,” said Athos.
“And smack of the Puritan to a frightful extent,” said Aramis.
“My head feels actually cold,” said Porthos.
“As for me, I feel anxious to preach a sermon,” said D’Artagnan.
“Now,” said Athos, “that we cannot even recognize one another and have
therefore no fear of others recognizing us, let us go and see the
king’s entrance.”
They had not been long in the crowd before loud cries announced the
king’s arrival. A carriage had been sent to meet him, and the gigantic
Porthos, who stood a head above the entire rabble, soon announced that
he saw the royal equipage approaching. D’Artagnan raised himself on
tiptoe, and as the carriage passed, saw Harrison at one window and
Mordaunt at the other.
The next day, Athos, leaning out of his window, which looked upon the
most populous part of the city, heard the Act of Parliament, which
summoned the ex-king, Charles I., to the bar, publicly cried.
“Parliament indeed!” cried Athos. “Parliament can never have passed
such an act as that.”
At this moment the landlord came in.
“Did parliament pass this act?” Athos asked of him in English.
“Yes, my lord, the pure parliament.”
“What do you mean by ‘the pure parliament’? Are there, then, two
parliaments?”
“My friend,” D’Artagnan interrupted, “as I don’t understand English and
we all understand Spanish, have the kindness to speak to us in that
language, which, since it is your own, you must find pleasure in using
when you have the chance.”
“Ah! excellent!” said Aramis.
As to Porthos, all his attention was concentrated on the allurements of
the breakfast table.
“You were asking, then?” said the host in Spanish.
“I asked,” said Athos, in the same language, “if there are two
parliaments, a pure and an impure?”
“Why, how extraordinary!” said Porthos, slowly raising his head and
looking at his friends with an air of astonishment, “I understand
English, then! I understand what you say!”
“That is because we are talking Spanish, my dear friend,” said Athos.
“Oh, the devil!” said Porthos, “I am sorry for that; it would have been
one language more.”
“When I speak of the pure parliament,” resumed the host, “I mean the
one which Colonel Bridge has weeded.”
“Ah! really,” said D’Artagnan, “these people are very ingenious. When I
go back to France I must suggest some such convenient course to
Cardinal Mazarin and the coadjutor. One of them will weed the
parliament in the name of the court, and the other in the name of the
people; and then there won’t be any parliament at all.”
“And who is this Colonel Bridge?” asked Aramis, “and how does he go to
work to weed the parliament?”
“Colonel Bridge,” replied the Spaniard, “is a retired wagoner, a man of
much sense, who made one valuable observation whilst driving his team,
namely, that where there happened to be a stone on the road, it was
much easier to remove the stone than try and make the wheel pass over
it. Now, of two hundred and fifty-one members who composed the
parliament, there were one hundred and ninety-one who were in the way
and might have upset his political wagon. He took them up, just as he
formerly used to take up the stones from the road, and threw them out
of the house.”
“Neat,” remarked D’Artagnan. “Very!”
“And all these one hundred and ninety-one were Royalists?” asked Athos.
“Without doubt, señor; and you understand that they would have saved
the king.”
“To be sure,” said Porthos, with majestic common sense; “they were in
the majority.”
“And you think,” said Aramis, “he will consent to appear before such a
tribunal?”
“He will be forced to do so,” smiled the Spaniard.
“Now, Athos!” said D’Artagnan, “do you begin to believe that it’s a
ruined cause, and that what with your Harrisons, Joyces, Bridges and
Cromwells, we shall never get the upper hand?”
“The king will be delivered at the tribunal,” said Athos; “the very
silence of his supporters indicates that they are at work.”
D’Artagnan shrugged his shoulders.
“But,” said Aramis, “if they dare to condemn their king, it can only be
to exile or imprisonment.”
D’Artagnan whistled a little air of incredulity.
“We shall see,” said Athos, “for we shall go to the sittings, I
presume.”
“You will not have long to wait,” said the landlord; “they begin
to-morrow.”
“So, then, they drew up the indictments before the king was taken?”
“Of course,” said D’Artagnan; “they began the day he was sold.”
“And you know,” said Aramis, “that it was our friend Mordaunt who made,
if not the bargain, at least the overtures.”
“And you know,” added D’Artagnan, “that whenever I catch him I will
kill him, this Mordaunt.”
“And I, too,” exclaimed Porthos.
“And I, too,” added Aramis.
“Touching unanimity!” cried D’Artagnan, “which well becomes good
citizens like us. Let us take a turn around the town and imbibe a
little fog.”
“Yes,” said Porthos, “’twill be at least a little change from beer.”
Chapter LXIII.
The Trial.
The next morning King Charles I. was haled by a strong guard before the
high court which was to judge him. All London was crowding to the doors
of the house. The throng was terrific, and it was not till after much
pushing and some fighting that our friends reached their destination.
When they did so they found the three lower rows of benches already
occupied; but being anxious not to be too conspicuous, all, with the
exception of Porthos, who had a fancy to display his red doublet, were
quite satisfied with their places, the more so as chance had brought
them to the centre of their row, so that they were exactly opposite the
arm-chair prepared for the royal prisoner.
Toward eleven o’clock the king entered the hall, surrounded by guards,
but wearing his head covered, and with a calm expression turned to
every side with a look of complete assurance, as if he were there to
preside at an assembly of submissive subjects, rather than to meet the
accusations of a rebel court.
The judges, proud of having a monarch to humiliate, evidently prepared
to enjoy the right they had arrogated to themselves, and sent an
officer to inform the king that it was customary for the accused to
uncover his head.
Charles, without replying a single word, turned his head in another
direction and pulled his felt hat over it. Then when the officer was
gone he sat down in the arm-chair opposite the president and struck his
boots with a little cane which he carried in his hand. Parry, who
accompanied him, stood behind him.
D’Artagnan was looking at Athos, whose face betrayed all those emotions
which the king, possessing more self-control, had banished from his
own. This agitation in one so cold and calm as Athos, frightened him.
“I hope,” he whispered to him, “that you will follow his majesty’s
example and not get killed for your folly in this den.”
“Set your mind at rest,” replied Athos.
“Aha!” continued D’Artagnan, “it is clear that they are afraid of
something or other; for look, the sentinels are being reinforced. They
had only halberds before, now they have muskets. The halberds were for
the audience in the rear; the muskets are for us.”
“Thirty, forty, fifty, sixty-five men,” said Porthos, counting the
reinforcements.
“Ah!” said Aramis, “but you forget the officer.”
D’Artagnan grew pale with rage. He recognized Mordaunt, who with bare
sword was marshalling the musketeers behind the king and opposite the
benches.
“Do you think they have recognized us?” said D’Artagnan. “In that case
I should beat a retreat. I don’t care to be shot in a box.”
“No,” said Aramis, “he has not seen us. He sees no one but the king.
_Mon Dieu!_ how he stares at him, the insolent dog! Does he hate his
majesty as much as he does us?”
“_Pardi_,” answered Athos “we only carried off his mother; the king has
spoiled him of his name and property.”
“True,” said Aramis; “but silence! the president is speaking to the
king.”
“Stuart,” Bradshaw was saying, “listen to the roll call of your judges
and address to the court any observations you may have to make.”
The king turned his head away, as if these words had not been intended
for him. Bradshaw waited, and as there was no reply there was a moment
of silence.
Out of the hundred and sixty-three members designated there were only
seventy-three present, for the rest, fearful of taking part in such an
act, had remained away.
When the name of Colonel Fairfax was called, one of those brief but
solemn silences ensued, which announced the absence of the members who
had no wish to take a personal part in the trial.
“Colonel Fairfax,” repeated Bradshaw.
“Fairfax,” answered a laughing voice, the silvery tone of which
betrayed it as that of a woman, “is not such a fool as to be here.”
A loud laugh followed these words, pronounced with that boldness which
women draw from their own weakness—a weakness which removes them beyond
the power of vengeance.
“It is a woman’s voice,” cried Aramis; “faith, I would give a good deal
if she is young and pretty.” And he mounted on the bench to try and get
a sight of her.
“By my soul,” said Aramis, “she is charming. Look D’Artagnan; everybody
is looking at her; and in spite of Bradshaw’s gaze she has not turned
pale.”
“It is Lady Fairfax herself,” said D’Artagnan. “Don’t you remember,
Porthos, we saw her at General Cromwell’s?”
The roll call continued.
“These rascals will adjourn when they find that they are not in
sufficient force,” said the Comte de la Fère.
“You don’t know them. Athos, look at Mordaunt’s smile. Is that the look
of a man whose victim is likely to escape him? Ah, cursed basilisk, it
will be a happy day for me when I can cross something more than a look
with you.”
“The king is really very handsome,” said Porthos; “and look, too,
though he is a prisoner, how carefully he is dressed. The feather in
his hat is worth at least five-and-twenty pistoles. Look at it,
Aramis.”
The roll call finished, the president ordered them to read the act of
accusation. Athos turned pale. A second time he was disappointed in his
expectation. Notwithstanding the judges were so few the trial was to
continue; the king then, was condemned in advance.
“I told you so, Athos,” said D’Artagnan, shrugging his shoulders. “Now
take your courage in both hands and hear what this gentleman in black
is going to say about his sovereign, with full license and privilege.”
Never till then had a more brutal accusation or meaner insults
tarnished kingly majesty.
Charles listened with marked attention, passing over the insults,
noting the grievances, and, when hatred overflowed all bounds and the
accuser turned executioner beforehand, replying with a smile of lofty
scorn.
“The fact is,” said D’Artagnan, “if men are punished for imprudence and
triviality, this poor king deserves punishment. But it seems to me that
that which he is just now undergoing is hard enough.”
“In any case,” Aramis replied, “the punishment should fall not on the
king, but on his ministers; for the first article of the constitution
is, ‘The king can do no wrong.’”
“As for me,” thought Porthos, giving Mordaunt his whole attention,
“were it not for breaking in on the majesty of the situation I would
leap down from the bench, reach Mordaunt in three bounds and strangle
him; I would then take him by the feet and knock the life out of these
wretched musketeers who parody the musketeers of France. Meantime,
D’Artagnan, who is full of invention, would find some way to save the
king. I must speak to him about it.”
As to Athos, his face aflame, his fists clinched, his lips bitten till
they bled, he sat there foaming with rage at that endless parliamentary
insult and that long enduring royal patience; the inflexible arm and
steadfast heart had given place to a trembling hand and a body shaken
by excitement.
At this moment the accuser concluded with these words: “The present
accusation is preferred by us in the name of the English people.”
At these words there was a murmur along the benches, and a second
voice, not that of a woman, but a man’s, stout and furious, thundered
behind D’Artagnan.
“You lie!” it cried. “Nine-tenths of the English people are horrified
at what you say.”
This voice was that of Athos, who, standing up with outstretched hand
and quite out of his mind, thus assailed the public accuser.
King, judges, spectators, all turned their eyes to the bench where the
four friends were seated. Mordaunt did the same and recognized the
gentleman, around whom the three other Frenchmen were standing, pale
and menacing. His eyes glittered with delight. He had discovered those
to whose death he had devoted his life. A movement of fury called to
his side some twenty of his musketeers, and pointing to the bench where
his enemies were: “Fire on that bench!” he cried.
But with the rapidity of thought D’Artagnan seized Athos by the waist,
and followed by Porthos with Aramis, leaped down from the benches,
rushed into the passages, and flying down the staircase were lost in
the crowd without, while the muskets within were pointed on some three
thousand spectators, whose piteous cries and noisy alarm stopped the
impulse already given to bloodshed.
Charles also had recognized the four Frenchmen. He put one hand on his
heart to still its beating and the other over his eyes, that he might
not witness the slaying of his faithful friends.
Mordaunt, pale and trembling with anger, rushed from the hall sword in
hand, followed by six pikemen, pushing, inquiring and panting in the
crowd; and then, having found nothing, returned.
The tumult was indescribable. More than half an hour passed before any
one could make himself heard. The judges were looking for a new
outbreak from the benches. The spectators saw the muskets leveled at
them, and divided between fear and curiosity, remained noisy and
excited.
Quiet was at length restored.
“What have you to say in your defense?” asked Bradshaw of the king.
Then rising, with his head still covered, in the tone of a judge rather
than a prisoner, Charles began.
“Before questioning me,” he said, “reply to my question. I was free at
Newcastle and had there concluded a treaty with both houses. Instead of
performing your part of this contract, as I performed mine, you bought
me from the Scotch, cheaply, I know, and that does honor to the
economic talent of your government. But because you have paid the price
of a slave, do you imagine that I have ceased to be your king? No. To
answer you would be to forget it. I shall only reply to you when you
have satisfied me of your right to question me. To answer you would be
to acknowledge you as my judges, and I only acknowledge you as my
executioners.” And in the middle of a deathlike silence, Charles, calm,
lofty, and with his head still covered, sat down again in his
arm-chair.
“Why are not my Frenchmen here?” he murmured proudly and turning his
eyes to the benches where they had appeared for a moment; “they would
have seen that their friend was worthy of their defense while alive,
and of their tears when dead.”
“Well,” said the president, seeing that Charles was determined to
remain silent, “so be it. We will judge you in spite of your silence.
You are accused of treason, of abuse of power, and murder. The evidence
will support it. Go, and another sitting will accomplish what you have
postponed in this.”
Charles rose and turned toward Parry, whom he saw pale and with his
temples dewed with moisture.
“Well, my dear Parry,” said he, “what is the matter, and what can
affect you in this manner?”
“Oh, my king,” said Parry, with tears in his eyes and in a tone of
supplication, “do not look to the left as we leave the hall.”
“And why, Parry?”
“Do not look, I implore you, my king.”
“But what is the matter? Speak,” said Charles, attempting to look
across the hedge of guards which surrounded him.
“It is—but you will not look, will you?—it is because they have had the
axe, with which criminals are executed, brought and placed there on the
table. The sight is hideous.”
“Fools,” said Charles, “do they take me for a coward, like themselves?
You have done well to warn me. Thank you, Parry.”
When the moment arrived the king followed his guards out of the hall.
As he passed the table on which the axe was laid, he stopped, and
turning with a smile, said:
“Ah! the axe, an ingenious device, and well worthy of those who know
not what a gentleman is; you frighten me not, executioner’s axe,” added
he, touching it with the cane which he held in his hand, “and I strike
you now, waiting patiently and Christianly for you to return the blow.”
And shrugging his shoulders with unaffected contempt he passed on. When
he reached the door a stream of people, who had been disappointed in
not being able to get into the house and to make amends had collected
to see him come out, stood on each side, as he passed, many among them
glaring on him with threatening looks.
“How many people,” thought he, “and not one true friend.”
And as he uttered these words of doubt and depression within his mind,
a voice beside him said:
“Respect to fallen majesty.”
The king turned quickly around, with tears in his eyes and heart. It
was an old soldier of the guards who could not see his king pass
captive before him without rendering him this final homage. But the
next moment the unfortunate man was nearly killed with heavy blows of
sword-hilts, and among those who set upon him the king recognized
Captain Groslow.
“Alas!” said Charles, “that is a severe chastisement for a very
trifling fault.”
He continued his walk, but he had scarcely gone a hundred paces, when a
furious fellow, leaning between two soldiers, spat in the king’s face,
as once an infamous and accursed Jew spit in the face of Jesus of
Nazareth. Loud roars of laughter and sullen murmurs arose together. The
crowd opened and closed again, undulating like a stormy sea, and the
king imagined that he saw shining in the midst of this living wave the
bright eyes of Athos.
Charles wiped his face and said with a sad smile: “Poor wretch, for
half a crown he would do as much to his own father.”
The king was not mistaken. Athos and his friends, again mingling with
the throng, were taking a last look at the martyr king.
When the soldier saluted Charles, Athos’s heart bounded for joy; and
that unfortunate, on coming to himself, found ten guineas that the
French gentleman had slipped into his pocket. But when the cowardly
insulter spat in the face of the captive monarch Athos grasped his
dagger. But D’Artagnan stopped his hand and in a hoarse voice cried,
“Wait!”
Athos stopped. D’Artagnan, leaning on Athos, made a sign to Porthos and
Aramis to keep near them and then placed himself behind the man with
the bare arms, who was still laughing at his own vile pleasantry and
receiving the congratulations of several others.
The man took his way toward the city. The four friends followed him.
The man, who had the appearance of being a butcher, descended a little
steep and isolated street, looking on to the river, with two of his
friends. Arrived at the bank of the river the three men perceived that
they were followed, turned around, and looking insolently at the
Frenchmen, passed some jests from one to another.
“I don’t know English, Athos,” said D’Artagnan; “but you know it and
will interpret for me.”
Then quickening their steps they passed the three men, but turned back
immediately, and D’Artagnan walked straight up to the butcher and
touching him on the chest with the tip of his finger, said to Athos:
“Say this to him in English: ‘You are a coward. You have insulted a
defenseless man. You have befouled the face of your king. You must
die.’”
Athos, pale as a ghost, repeated these words to the man, who, seeing
the bodeful preparations that were making, put himself in an attitude
of defense. Aramis, at this movement, drew his sword.
“No,” cried D’Artagnan, “no steel. Steel is for gentlemen.”
And seizing the butcher by the throat:
“Porthos,” said he, “kill this fellow for me with a single blow.”
Porthos raised his terrible fist, which whistled through the air like a
sling, and the portentous mass fell with a smothered crash on the
insulter’s skull and crushed it. The man fell like an ox beneath the
poleaxe. His companions, horror-struck, could neither move nor cry out.
“Tell them this, Athos,” resumed D’Artagnan; “thus shall all die who
forget that a captive man is sacred and that a captive king doubly
represents the Lord.”
Athos repeated D’Artagnan’s words.
The fellows looked at the body of their companion, swimming in blood,
and then recovering voice and legs together, ran screaming off.
“Justice is done,” said Porthos, wiping his forehead.
“And now,” said D’Artagnan to Athos, “entertain no further doubts about
me; I undertake all that concerns the king.”
Chapter LXIV.
Whitehall.
The parliament condemned Charles to death, as might have been foreseen.
Political judgments are generally vain formalities, for the same
passions which give rise to the accusation ordain to the condemnation.
Such is the atrocious logic of revolutions.
Although our friends were expecting that condemnation, it filled them
with grief. D’Artagnan, whose mind was never more fertile in resources
than in critical emergencies, swore again that he would try all
conceivable means to prevent the _dénouement_ of the bloody tragedy.
But by what means? As yet he could form no definite plan; all must
depend on circumstances. Meanwhile, it was necessary at all hazards, in
order to gain time, to put some obstacle in the way of the execution on
the following day—the day appointed by the judges. The only way of
doing that was to cause the disappearance of the London executioner.
The headsman out of the way, the sentence could not be executed. True,
they could send for the headsman of the nearest town, but at least a
day would be gained, and a day might be sufficient for the rescue.
D’Artagnan took upon himself that more than difficult task.
Another thing, not less essential, was to warn Charles Stuart of the
attempt to be made, so that he might assist his rescuers as much as
possible, or at least do nothing to thwart their efforts. Aramis
assumed that perilous charge. Charles Stuart had asked that Bishop
Juxon might be permitted to visit him. Mordaunt had called on the
bishop that very evening to apprise him of the religious desire
expressed by the king and also of Cromwell’s permission. Aramis
determined to obtain from the bishop, through fear or by persuasion,
consent that he should enter in the bishop’s place, and clad in his
sacerdotal robes, the prison at Whitehall.
Finally, Athos undertook to provide, in any event, the means of leaving
England—in case either of failure or of success.
The night having come they made an appointment to meet at eleven
o’clock at the hotel, and each started out to fulfill his dangerous
mission.
The palace of Whitehall was guarded by three regiments of cavalry and
by the fierce anxiety of Cromwell, who came and went or sent his
generals or his agents continually. Alone in his usual room, lighted by
two candles, the condemned monarch gazed sadly on the luxury of his
past greatness, just as at the last hour one sees the images of life
more mildly brilliant than of yore.
Parry had not quitted his master, and since his condemnation had not
ceased to weep. Charles, leaning on a table, was gazing at a medallion
of his wife and daughter; he was waiting first for Juxon, then for
martyrdom.
At times he thought of those brave French gentlemen who had appeared to
him from a distance of a hundred leagues fabulous and unreal, like the
forms that appear in dreams. In fact, he sometimes asked himself if all
that was happening to him was not a dream, or at least the delirium of
a fever. He rose and took a few steps as if to rouse himself from his
torpor and went as far as the window; he saw glittering below him the
muskets of the guards. He was thereupon constrained to admit that he
was indeed awake and that his bloody dream was real.
Charles returned in silence to his chair, rested his elbow on the
table, bowed his head upon his hand and reflected.
“Alas!” he said to himself, “if I only had for a confessor one of those
lights of the church, whose soul has sounded all the mysteries of life,
all the littlenesses of greatness, perhaps his utterance would overawe
the voice that wails within my soul. But I shall have a priest of
vulgar mind, whose career and fortune I have ruined by my misfortune.
He will speak to me of God and death, as he has spoken to many another
dying man, not understanding that this one leaves his throne to an
usurper, his children to the cold contempt of public charity.”
And he raised the medallion to his lips.
It was a dull, foggy night. A neighboring church clock slowly struck
the hour. The flickering light of the two candles showed fitful phantom
shadows in the lofty room. These were the ancestors of Charles,
standing back dimly in their tarnished frames.
An awful sadness enveloped the heart of Charles. He buried his brow in
his hands and thought of the world, so beautiful when one is about to
leave it; of the caresses of children, so pleasing and so sweet,
especially when one is parting from his children never to see them
again; then of his wife, the noble and courageous woman who had
sustained him to the last moment. He drew from his breast the diamond
cross and the star of the Garter which she had sent him by those
generous Frenchmen; he kissed it, and then, as he reflected, that she
would never again see those things till he lay cold and mutilated in
the tomb, there passed over him one of those icy shivers which may be
called forerunners of death.
Then, in that chamber which recalled to him so many royal souvenirs,
whither had come so many courtiers, the scene of so much flattering
homage, alone with a despairing servant, whose feeble soul could afford
no support to his own, the king at last yielded to sorrow, and his
courage sank to a level with that feebleness, those shadows, and that
wintry cold. That king, who was so grand, so sublime in the hour of
death, meeting his fate with a smile of resignation on his lips, now in
that gloomy hour wiped away a tear which had fallen on the table and
quivered on the gold embroidered cloth.
Suddenly the door opened, an ecclesiastic in episcopal robes entered,
followed by two guards, to whom the king waved an imperious gesture.
The guards retired; the room resumed its obscurity.
“Juxon!” cried Charles, “Juxon, thank you, my last friend; you come at
a fitting moment.”
The bishop looked anxiously at the man sobbing in the ingle-nook.
“Come, Parry,” said the king, “cease your tears.”
“If it’s Parry,” said the bishop, “I have nothing to fear; so allow me
to salute your majesty and to tell you who I am and for what I am
come.”
At this sight and this voice Charles was about to cry out, when Aramis
placed his finger on his lips and bowed low to the king of England.
“The chevalier!” murmured Charles.
“Yes, sire,” interrupted Aramis, raising his voice, “Bishop Juxon, the
faithful knight of Christ, obedient to your majesty’s wishes.”
Charles clasped his hands, amazed and stupefied to find that these
foreigners, without other motive than that which their conscience
imposed on them, thus combated the will of a people and the destiny of
a king.
“You!” he said, “you! how did you penetrate hither? If they recognize
you, you are lost.”
“Care not for me, sire; think only of yourself. You see, your friends
are wakeful. I know not what we shall do yet, but four determined men
can do much. Meanwhile, do not be surprised at anything that happens;
prepare yourself for every emergency.”
Charles shook his head.
“Do you know that I die to-morrow at ten o’clock?”
“Something, your majesty, will happen between now and then to make the
execution impossible.”
The king looked at Aramis with astonishment.
At this moment a strange noise, like the unloading of a cart, and
followed by a cry of pain, was heard beneath the window.
“Do you hear?” said the king.
“I hear,” said Aramis, “but I understand neither the noise nor the cry
of pain.”
“I know not who can have uttered the cry,” said the king, “but the
noise is easily understood. Do you know that I am to be beheaded
outside this window? Well, these boards you hear unloaded are the posts
and planks to build my scaffold. Some workmen must have fallen
underneath them and been hurt.”
Aramis shuddered in spite of himself.
“You see,” said the king, “that it is useless for you to resist. I am
condemned; leave me to my death.”
“My king,” said Aramis, “they well may raise a scaffold, but they
cannot make an executioner.”
“What do you mean?” asked the king.
“I mean that at this hour the headsman has been got out of the way by
force or persuasion. The scaffold will be ready by to-morrow, but the
headsman will be wanting and they will put it off till the day after
to-morrow.”
“What then?” said the king.
“To-morrow night we shall rescue you.”
“How can that be?” cried the king, whose face was lighted up, in spite
of himself, by a flash of joy.
“Oh! sir,” cried Parry, “may you and yours be blessed!”
“How can it be?” repeated the king. “I must know, so that I may assist
you if there is any chance.”
“I know nothing about it,” continued Aramis, “but the cleverest, the
bravest, the most devoted of us four said to me when I left him, ‘Tell
the king that to-morrow at ten o’clock at night, we shall carry him
off.’ He has said it and will do it.”
“Tell me the name of that generous friend,” said the king, “that I may
cherish for him an eternal gratitude, whether he succeeds or not.”
“D’Artagnan, sire, the same who had so nearly rescued you when Colonel
Harrison made his untimely entrance.”
“You are, indeed, wonderful men,” said the king; “if such things had
been related to me I should not have believed them.”
“Now, sire,” resumed Aramis, “listen to me. Do not forget for a single
instant that we are watching over your safety; observe the smallest
gesture, the least bit of song, the least sign from any one near you;
watch everything, hear everything, interpret everything.”
“Oh, chevalier!” cried the king, “what can I say to you? There is no
word, though it should come from the profoundest depth of my heart,
that can express my gratitude. If you succeed I do not say that you
will save a king; no, in presence of the scaffold as I am, royalty, I
assure you, is a very small affair; but you will save a husband to his
wife, a father to his children. Chevalier, take my hand; it is that of
a friend who will love you to his last sigh.”
Aramis stooped to kiss the king’s hand, but Charles clasped his and
pressed it to his heart.
At this moment a man entered, without even knocking at the door. Aramis
tried to withdraw his hand, but the king still held it. The man was one
of those Puritans, half preacher and half soldier, who swarmed around
Cromwell.
“What do you want, sir?” said the king.
“I desire to know if the confession of Charles Stuart is at an end?”
said the stranger.
“And what is it to you?” replied the king; “we are not of the same
religion.”
“All men are brothers,” said the Puritan. “One of my brothers is about
to die and I come to prepare him.”
“Bear with him,” whispered Aramis; “it is doubtless some spy.”
“After my reverend lord bishop,” said the king to the man, “I shall
hear you with pleasure, sir.”
The man retired, but not before examining the supposed Juxon with an
attention which did not escape the king.
“Chevalier,” said the king, when the door was closed, “I believe you
are right and that this man only came here with evil intentions. Take
care that no misfortune befalls you when you leave.”
“I thank your majesty,” said Aramis, “but under these robes I have a
coat of mail, a pistol and a dagger.”
“Go, then, sir, and God keep you!”
The king accompanied him to the door, where Aramis pronounced his
benediction upon him, and passing through the ante-rooms, filled with
soldiers, jumped into his carriage and drove to the bishop’s palace.
Juxon was waiting for him impatiently.
“Well?” said he, on perceiving Aramis.
“Everything has succeeded as I expected; spies, guards, satellites, all
took me for you, and the king blesses you while waiting for you to
bless him.”
“May God protect you, my son; for your example has given me at the same
time hope and courage.”
Aramis resumed his own attire and left Juxon with the assurance that he
might again have recourse to him.
He had scarcely gone ten yards in the street when he perceived that he
was followed by a man, wrapped in a large cloak. He placed his hand on
his dagger and stopped. The man came straight toward him. It was
Porthos.
“My dear friend,” cried Aramis.
“You see, we had each our mission,” said Porthos; “mine was to guard
you and I am doing so. Have you seen the king?”
“Yes, and all goes well.”
“We are to meet our friends at the hotel at eleven.”
It was then striking half-past ten by St. Paul’s.
Arrived at the hotel it was not long before Athos entered.
“All’s well,” he cried, as he entered; “I have hired a cedar wherry, as
light as a canoe, as easy on the wing as any swallow. It is waiting for
us at Greenwich, opposite the Isle of Dogs, manned by a captain and
four men, who for the sum of fifty pounds sterling will keep themselves
at our disposition three successive nights. Once on board we drop down
the Thames and in two hours are on the open sea. In case I am killed,
the captain’s name is Roger and the skiff is called the _Lightning_. A
handkerchief, tied at the four corners, is to be the signal.”
Next moment D’Artagnan entered.
“Empty your pockets,” said he; “I want a hundred pounds, and as for my
own——” and he emptied them inside out.
The sum was collected in a minute. D’Artagnan ran out and returned
directly after.
“There,” said he, “it’s done. Ough! and not without a deal of trouble,
too.”
“Has the executioner left London?” asked Athos.
“Ah, you see that plan was not sure enough; he might go out by one gate
and return by another.”
“Where is he, then?”