Two draped figures stood at the entrance of the Criterion Restaurant,
and the electric light played upon the huge feathers in their hats,
glittered on their trappings, and touched their gilt spurs. One was an
enormous man, nearly a foot taller than those about him; the other,
though of medium height, appeared to be made of Damascus steel.
“’Tis the hour, D’Artagnan,” said Porthos, as a church clock struck six.
“And the men!” answered D’Artagnan; whereupon two other romantic
figures leapt from a hansom-cab.
“Athos!”
“Aramis!”
“God be with us all!”
The friends embraced, then entered the restaurant.
For a few brief hours they had secured leave of absence from the
Stygian Fields, and before pushing on to Paris, had determined to
visit a scene precious by reason of its manifold memories.
Porthos ordered dinner.
“Come hither, lackey,” he roared in a voice that made the china jingle.
“The best--the best of everything--and champagne; no baser wine.”
He flung down his sword, and made his chair creak and groan.
“What thoughts of Milady and dear Lord Winter rise up in memory!” mused
Athos.
“Of Buckingham and the Court,” said D’Artagnan.
Aramis read the evening paper.
Suddenly he became violently agitated and transported with feverish
excitement.
“Behold!” he cried, “the mummers have us! the mummers have us! At
the playhouse named ‘Her Majesty’s’ _The Musketeers_ fret their hour
nightly to crowded houses!”
D’Artagnan frowned, and sought the face of Athos; Porthos looked
furious, and twirled his huge moustaches; Athos lifted his eyebrows,
and the habitual melancholy of his noble and patrician face became much
increased.
“What say you to this, friend Athos?” inquired D’Artagnan.
Without a word Athos took the _Globe_ from the hand of Aramis, and
studied it.
“One Beerbohm Tree essays your part, dear D’Artagnan; but be calm, be
calm! He may mean well.”
D’Artagnan drank a bumper of champagne, but his hand trembled, and a
terrible light gleamed in his eyes.
“And we--we are all in the play,” continued Athos. He started, and grew
pale. “And Milady also,” he hissed.
“And Richelieu?” inquired Porthos.
“They are all there.”
Porthos shut his teeth like a rat-trap.
“It will be like old times,” he said.
Aramis answered nothing; he merely drew his blade and made it glitter
thrice through the air, then put it up again.
The diners were much surprised, and the waiters also showed uneasiness.
“I perceive the play is alleged to be by one Sydney Grundy,” observed
Athos, his melancholy increasing.
“Bon Dieu!” observed D’Artagnan.
“Bon Dumas!” said Aramis.
“Speak, Athos,” continued D’Artagnan; “deliver your opinion, and
we four will execute it in the face of this city. One thing I am
determined upon. This profanation must cease. We owe it to the Master.”
“Dumas would certainly will it so,” declared Porthos. “His mighty shade
must not be troubled by these puppets. I have my muscles still, Athos
has his brains, Aramis his priestly cunning, D’Artagnan his matchless
blade.”
“This passes belief!” cried Aramis, suddenly shaking the _Globe_
aloft. He started to his feet, and his friends, moved by that close,
mysterious sympathy which at all times united them, likewise leapt from
their chairs.
“What now?” cried D’Artagnan, his dark eyes gleaming with Gascon fire.
“Another travesty! Another _Three Musketeers_--this time at a house of
entertainment named the ‘Garrick,’ and executed by one Hamilton!”
“’Sdeath, this passes belief!” murmured Athos.
A tear stood in his eye, but he dashed it away, gripped his companions
by the hand, and put one foot on the table. The others instantly
followed his example.
“For auld lang syne!” cried Porthos, and, raising his bull-like voice,
he made the electric-light fittings shake in the roof.
“So be it; Athos is right,” said Aramis.
“He is always right,” declared D’Artagnan.
“His word shall be obeyed to the last letter, by----!” swore Porthos.
“I have not spoken yet, however,” said Athos.
A roar of laughter greeted this sally, then the friends resumed their
business and their meal.
“Briefly, in a little affair of this kind, expedition is the main
factor,” declared Athos. “We are, of course, agreed,” he continued,
“that these exhibitions must cease?”
“Agreed!” they shouted like one musketeer.
“Then the only question left is that of the penalty.”
“Let them die; it is the reward of sacrilege!” said Aramis coldly.
“Nay, they mean no evil; they probably know not what they do,” said
Athos. “These poor knaves must live.”
“And I say they must die!” repeated Aramis.
The eyes of Aramis and Athos met, and both turned deathly pale.
“A quarrel?” asked Athos, with the delicate intonation of a royal
prince.
Porthos and D’Artagnan waited in breathless suspense for the answer of
Aramis.
“Heaven forbid!” cried the musketeer. “’Twill be time for that when we
are back again on the shores of Styx. Duty first, pleasure afterwards.”
Athos bowed, and all four friends caressed each other warmly.
Porthos ordered more wine.
“To your plan,” cried D’Artagnan. “The night wanes and the playhouse
opens its doors ere long.”
“We must be there at the rise of the curtain. We will disguise
ourselves.”
“Nay, no disguise. There is nothing to fear.”
“So be it, then. We will take our place among the spectators, and at
a given signal from D’Artagnan we will force a way to the stage. Then
each man must draw and put a quarrel on the mummer who is impersonating
him. If they do not instantly yield, their fate be upon their own
shoulders.”
“I pray they may draw their weapons,” said Porthos.
“Pshaw! What glory comes to us from spitting of players? ’Tis as easy
as toasting cheese,” said D’Artagnan.
They had now dined well, and Porthos called aloud for the reckoning.
“Hasten, lackey!” he cried, “or I shall lace thy black, frowsy jacket
in a new pattern.”
The musketeers buckled on their swords, and D’Artagnan spoke to Athos.
“Our adventure, then, is bloodless--a mere farce, nothing like the good
old times?”
Athos shook his head.
“Alas! I would it were so. But blood must flow. It is ever our fate to
spill it. Two gentlemen must die to-night; we owe it to the Master.”
“Their names?” cried Aramis.
“Messieurs Sydney Grundy and Henry Hamilton.”
A look of terrible meaning flashed from eye to eye, and the avengers
clasped each other’s hands.
Then Porthos flung two pistoles upon the table, and arm-in-arm the
musketeers clanged and clashed out of the Criterion, to the relief of
everybody present.
Their lackeys awaited them.
Mousqueton and Grimaud were directed to go into the pit of the
theatre and join their masters on the stage at the critical moment;
while Planchet and Bazin were to have the horses in readiness at the
stage-door.
“And now?” said Porthos.
“_Pardieu!_ To Her Majesty’s Theatre!” answered D’Artagnan.
A flash of lightning flickered over Panton Street as the immortal four
moved stealthily in that direction.
* * * * *
Among the first to enter Her Majesty’s Theatre on the night with which
we are concerned were Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and D’Artagnan. Porthos
flung three pistoles into the box-office, and demanded four seats near
the stage, while the clerk in charge regarded the coins with some
suspicion.
“They are each worth sixteen English shillings,” said D’Artagnan
shortly.
“Then I shall want another of them if you require a box,” replied the
young man.
Porthos produced the money, and soon the four friends were comfortably
seated in a stage-box.
“It is well,” said Athos. “From this place we may make our voices heard
among the players, and work our will without shedding of blood; at
least, it may be permitted to hope so.”
“Let me see,” answered Porthos; “what lies before us?”
“’Tis simple. We must put a stop to the performance, and we must secure
the person of Sydney Grundy. One does not wish to slay him here in a
place of entertainment; but he must be captured and removed,” declared
Aramis. “We may safely leave that task to D’Artagnan.”
With increasing interest the warriors regarded the incoming audience,
and marvelled at the changes Time had wrought upon human costume.
“_Pardieu!_ Look at the men!” said Porthos. “They are all attired even
as the lackeys at the eating-house.”
“The English will never learn how to dress,” declared Aramis.
Then the band struck up, and the eyes of D’Artagnan, ranging through
the theatre, met those of Mousqueton and Grimaud. He made a secret
sign, which they showed was understood by an intelligent gleam in
their eyes. Meantime Aramis and Athos carefully studied the programme.
Presently the drama began, and from the very commencement roar upon
roar of deep, lion-like sound thundered and echoed in the stage-box of
the Musketeers. It was Porthos regarding his double on the stage.
“It is too droll--these English. Behold the worthy fellow! Look, dear
friends, at the English Porthos! Inspect his thews and sinews. _Sang
bleu!_ I could eat him like a French roll!”
Loud and indignant cries resounded through the theatre, and Mr.
Tree, taking the centre of the stage much against his will, gazed
inquiringly at the box from which rolled the huge voice of Porthos and
drowned those of the performers. The actor-manager’s eyes met those of
D’Artagnan, and he turned pale.
“They are there, the three Musketeers--the others!” he whispered to
Milady in a voice swept by the deepest emotion.
“Not Hamilton’s?” asked Milady, her eyes flashing as much with
indignation as natural feminine curiosity.
“No, no, Dumas’. And D’Artagnan is also there.”
“That is different,” she said, and manifested an inclination to retire
to her dressing-room. Order was restored, however, and the play
progressed. With characteristic bull-dog British courage the gentlemen
of the stage struggled through their parts, drew their swords, and
fretted their hour, each with an uneasy eye upon the stage-box.
But the Musketeers were not patient men, and a moment came, about
half-way through the second act, when their eyes sought each other’s
faces, and Aramis, without being asked to do so, rose and gathered the
four swords, which were placed in a corner of the box.
Athos could not conceal the nobility of his character even at this
moment.
“Consider,” he said, “that these good people may have wives and
children dependent upon their efforts. They are probably doing their
best.”
“And we must do ours,” said D’Artagnan sternly. “We owe it to the
Master.”
“We are three to one, Athos,” said Porthos. “Aramis, D’Artagnan, and I
are all of one mind. Regard your double upon the boards. If he cannot
spur you to action, nothing can. For my part, I shall not draw my sword
against any man here, because it would be murder, but my namesake on
the stage must be whipped--that is, if he shows fight.”
“I shall try a pass with this Beerbohm Tree,” said D’Artagnan, “for he
numbers twelve good inches more than I do, and would appear to have
some slight familiarity with his weapon.”
“And I shall prick this Aramis of Sydney Grundy also,” declared the
Aramis of Dumas.
“Are you ready?”
“We are ready.”
“Then follow me.”
In a moment D’Artagnan had bounded on to the stage. After him came
Athos and Aramis, while a moment later, with a sound like thunder,
the enormous bulk of Porthos followed. As ill-luck would have it, the
giant miscalculated his distance, and fell into the footlights. The
shock extinguished half of them, and frightened the orchestra to such
an extent that every member of it, with the exception of the conductor,
dived like a rabbit and became invisible.
“Your swords, gentlemen,” said D’Artagnan, advancing with a polite bow.
“You will hardly refuse. I see by your looks that you know us.”
“Make way! make way!” shouted Mousqueton and Grimaud from the pit.
Giving and receiving hard blows, they finally reached their masters’
sides.
Mr. Beerbohm Tree was in a tight place, according to the modern
phrase. The house hung upon his words, and roared with savage delight
at the unexpected spectacle. Mr. Tree, we repeat, was in a fix. Should
he fight or call for base aid? Pride indicated the first course,
prudence prompted the latter.
He made a sign to the pretended musketeers behind him.
But Aramis and D’Artagnan observed it, and leapt forward with an
ancient expletive on their lips.
“Treachery! treachery! Then guard yourselves, gentlemen!” they cried.
There was a deathlike stillness. Only one sweet female voice cut the
heated air like a knife. It was Milady calling for the police.
Whistles sounded and the hurried tramp of firemen and mechanics was
heard behind the scenes.
“A breath of the good past times,” panted D’Artagnan, pinning Mr. Tree
to the left upper entrance.
“Spirit of the old king!” cried Aramis, as the unfortunate gentleman
who impersonated him fell pierced through the left lung.
“May we meet in heaven, my unhappy friend,” ejaculated Athos, while
the actor who played his part expired in his arms from twenty mortal
thrusts.
“But where is Monsieur Sydney Grundy?” cried D’Artagnan.
“He has escaped!” hissed Aramis. “A vehicle has just hurried from the
stage-door.”
“We must follow to the world’s end if need be.”
Athos wiped his blade. There were tears upon it as well as blood.
“Where is Porthos?” he inquired.
Aramis stamped furiously and pointed to the bar.
Porthos was drinking bottled beer at the expense of the Haymarket
Porthos.
“Traitor!” gasped Aramis.
“Not so!” said Athos sadly; “he teaches us a lesson. Had we done
likewise these good men would not lie where they do.”
“Had Monsieur Tree offered me anything to drink----” said D’Artagnan
thoughtfully.
But at the same moment Grimaud pulled at the sleeve of Athos, and said
a few hasty words in the deaf and dumb alphabet of the fingers.
“We are surrounded,” said Athos quietly. “Fifty policemen stand
between us and safety.”
“Porthos!” shouted all the others.
“Monsieur Porthos!” cried Mousqueton and Grimaud.
The giant drained a third bottle, then, shaking hands with his
impersonator, returned to the stage.
“Forward!” cried D’Artagnan.
An illumination, in some respects resembling summer lightning, flashed
along their blades, and police constables fell before them, mowed down
like the grass of the field.
A groan of despair rattled in the dying throats of 29 B, 44 D, 83 X,
221 Z, and 339 T. Porthos had spitted them like a row of larks on a
skewer!
The stage-door keeper was the last to fall. Behind them the roar of a
maddened audience, deprived of half its money’s worth, sounded like the
cry of fiends.
They gained the air at last. Their horses awaited them, each with a
lackey at the stirrup.
“We have done our duty,” said Aramis.
“Only half of it,” answered D’Artagnan.
“What next?” inquired Athos. “No more blood, my dear D’Artagnan.”
“The ‘Garrick,’” answered the young Gascon, his eyes aflame.
Porthos laughed joyously. “This beer of England is good,” he said.