LXI. D’Artagnan hits on a Plan…

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.

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.”

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.”

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?”

“In the cellar.”

“The cellar—what cellar?”

“Our landlord’s, to be sure. Mousqueton is propped against the door and here’s the key.”

“Bravo!” said Aramis, “how did you manage it?”

“Like everything else, with money; but it cost me dear.”

“How much?” asked Athos.

“Five hundred pounds.”

“And where did you get so much money?” said Athos. “Had you, then, that sum?”

“The queen’s famous diamond,” answered D’Artagnan, with a sigh.

“Ah, true,” said Aramis. “I recognized it on your finger.”

“You bought it back, then, from Monsieur des Essarts?” asked Porthos.

“Yes, but it was fated that I should not keep it.”

“So, then, we are all right as regards the executioner,” said Athos; “but unfortunately every executioner has his assistant, his man, or whatever you call him.”

“And this one had his,” said D’Artagnan; “but, as good luck would have it, just as I thought I should have two affairs to manage, our friend was brought home with a broken leg. In the excess of his zeal he had accompanied the cart containing the scaffolding as far as the king’s window, and one of the crossbeams fell on his leg and broke it.”

“Ah!” cried Aramis, “that accounts for the cry I heard.”

“Probably,” said D’Artagnan, “but as he is a thoughtful young man he promised to send four expert workmen in his place to help those already at the scaffold, and wrote the moment he was brought home to Master Tom Lowe, an assistant carpenter and friend of his, to go down to Whitehall, with three of his friends. Here’s the letter he sent by a messenger, for sixpence, who sold it to me for a guinea.”

“And what on earth are you going to do with it?” asked Athos.

“Can’t you guess, my dear Athos? You, who speak English like John Bull himself, are Master Tom Lowe, we, your three companions. Do you understand it now?”

Athos uttered a cry of joy and admiration, ran to a closet and drew forth workmen’s clothes, which the four friends immediately put on; they then left the hotel, Athos carrying a saw, Porthos a vise, Aramis an axe and D’Artagnan a hammer and some nails.

The letter from the executioner’s assistant satisfied the master carpenter that those were the men he expected.

LXV. The Workmen

Toward midnight Charles heard a great noise beneath his window. It arose from blows of hammer and hatchet, clinking of pincers and cranching of saws.

Lying dressed upon his bed, the noise awoke him with a start and found a gloomy echo in his heart. He could not endure it, and sent Parry to ask the sentinel to beg the workmen to strike more gently and not disturb the last slumber of one who had been their king. The sentinel was unwilling to leave his post, but allowed Parry to pass.

Arriving at the window Parry found an unfinished scaffold, over which they were nailing a covering of black serge. Raised to the height of twenty feet, so as to be on a level with the window, it had two lower stories. Parry, odious as was this sight to him, sought for those among some eight or ten workmen who were making the most noise; and fixed on two men, who were loosening the last hooks of the iron balcony.

“My friends,” said Parry, mounting the scaffold and standing beside them, “would you work a little more quietly? The king wishes to get a sleep.”

One of the two, who was standing up, was of gigantic size and was driving a pick with all his might into the wall, whilst the other, kneeling beside him, was collecting the pieces of stone. The face of the first was lost to Parry in the darkness; but as the second turned around and placed his finger on his lips Parry started back in amazement.

“Very well, very well,” said the workman aloud, in excellent English. “Tell the king that if he sleeps badly to-night he will sleep better to-morrow night.”

These blunt words, so terrible if taken literally, were received by the other workmen with a roar of laughter. But Parry withdrew, thinking he was dreaming.

Charles was impatiently awaiting his return. At the moment he re-entered, the sentinel who guarded the door put his head through the opening, curious as to what the king was doing. The king was lying on his bed, resting on his elbow. Parry closed the door and approaching the king, his face radiant with joy:

“Sire,” he said, in a low voice, “do you know who these workmen are who are making so much noise?”

“I? No; how would you have me know?”

Parry bent his head and whispered to the king: “It is the Comte de la Fère and his friends.”

“Raising my scaffold!” cried the king, astounded.

“Yes, and at the same time making a hole in the wall.”

The king clasped his hands and raised his eyes to Heaven; then leaping down from his bed he went to the window, and pulling aside the curtain tried to distinguish the figures outside, but in vain.

Parry was not wrong. It was Athos he had recognized, and Porthos who was boring a hole through the wall.

This hole communicated with a kind of loft—the space between the floor of the king’s room and the ceiling of the one below it. Their plan was to pass through the hole they were making into this loft and cut out from below a piece of the flooring of the king’s room, so as to form a kind of trap-door.

Through this the king was to escape the next night, and, hidden by the black covering of the scaffold, was to change his dress for that of a workman, slip out with his deliverers, pass the sentinels, who would suspect nothing, and so reach the skiff that was waiting for him at Greenwich.

Day gilded the tops of the houses. The aperture was finished and Athos passed through it, carrying the clothes destined for the king wrapped in black cloth, and the tools with which he was to open a communication with the king’s room. He had only two hours’ work to do to open communication with the king and, according to the calculations of the four friends, they had the entire day before them, since, the executioner being absent, another must be sent for to Bristol.

D’Artagnan returned to change his workman’s clothes for his chestnut-colored suit, and Porthos to put on his red doublet. As for Aramis, he went off to the bishop’s palace to see if he could possibly pass in with Juxon to the king’s presence. All three agreed to meet at noon in Whitehall Place to see how things went on.

Before leaving the scaffold Aramis had approached the opening where Athos was concealed to tell him that he was about to make an attempt to gain another interview with the king.

“Adieu, then, and be of good courage,” said Athos. “Report to the king the condition of affairs. Say to him that when he is alone it will help us if he will knock on the floor, for then I can continue my work in safety. Try, Aramis, to keep near the king. Speak loud, very loud, for they will be listening at the door. If there is a sentinel within the apartment, kill him without hesitation. If there are two, let Parry kill one and you the other. If there are three, let yourself be slain, but save the king.”

“Be easy,” said Aramis; “I will take two poniards and give one to Parry. Is that all?”

“Yes, go; but urge the king strongly not to stand on false generosity. While you are fighting if there is a fight, he must flee. The trap once replaced over his head, you being on the trap, dead or alive, they will need at least ten minutes to find the hole by which he has escaped. In those ten minutes we shall have gained the road and the king will be saved.”

“Everything shall be done as you say, Athos. Your hand, for perhaps we shall not see each other again.”

Athos put his arm around Aramis’s neck and embraced him.

“For you,” he said. “Now if I die, say to D’Artagnan that I love him as a son, and embrace him for me. Embrace also our good and brave Porthos. Adieu.”

“Adieu,” said Aramis. “I am as sure now that the king will be saved as I am sure that I clasp the most loyal hand in the world.”

Aramis parted from Athos, went down from the scaffold in his turn and took his way to the hotel, whistling the air of a song in praise of Cromwell. He found the other two friends sitting at table before a good fire, drinking a bottle of port and devouring a cold chicken. Porthos was cursing the infamous parliamentarians; D’Artagnan ate in silence, revolving in his mind the most audacious plans.

Aramis related what had been agreed upon. D’Artagnan approved with a movement of the head and Porthos with his voice.

“Bravo!” he said; “besides, we shall be there at the time of the flight. What with D’Artagnan, Grimaud and Mousqueton, we can manage to dispatch eight of them. I say nothing about Blaisois, for he is only fit to hold the horses. Two minutes a man makes four minutes. Mousqueton will lose another, that’s five; and in five minutes we shall have galloped a quarter of a league.”

Aramis swallowed a hasty mouthful, gulped a glass of wine and changed his clothes.

“Now,” said he, “I’m off to the bishop’s. Take care of the executioner, D’Artagnan.”

“All right. Grimaud has relieved Mousqueton and has his foot on the cellar door.”

“Well, don’t be inactive.”

“Inactive, my dear fellow! Ask Porthos. I pass my life upon my legs.”

Aramis again presented himself at the bishop’s. Juxon consented the more readily to take him with him, as he would require an assistant priest in case the king should wish to communicate. Dressed as Aramis had been the night before, the bishop got into his carriage, and the former, more disguised by his pallor and sad countenance than his deacon’s dress, got in by his side. The carriage stopped at the door of the palace.

It was about nine o’clock in the morning.

Nothing was changed. The ante-rooms were still full of soldiers, the passages still lined by guards. The king was already sanguine, but when he perceived Aramis his hope turned to joy. He embraced Juxon and pressed the hand of Aramis. The bishop affected to speak in a loud voice, before every one, of their previous interview. The king replied that the words spoken in that interview had borne their fruit, and that he desired another under the same conditions. Juxon turned to those present and begged them to leave him and his assistant alone with the king. Every one withdrew. As soon as the door was closed:

“Sire,” said Aramis, speaking rapidly, “you are saved; the London executioner has vanished. His assistant broke his leg last night beneath your majesty’s window—the cry we heard was his—and there is no executioner nearer at hand than Bristol.”

“But the Comte de la Fère?” asked the king.

“Two feet below you; take the poker from the fireplace and strike three times on the floor. He will answer you.”

The king did so, and the moment after, three muffled knocks, answering the given signal, sounded beneath the floor.

“So,” said Charles, “he who knocks down there——”

“Is the Comte de la Fère, sire,” said Aramis. “He is preparing a way for your majesty to escape. Parry, for his part, will raise this slab of marble and a passage will be opened.”

“Oh, Juxon,” said the king, seizing the bishop’s two hands in his own, “promise that you will pray all your life for this gentleman and for the other that you hear beneath your feet, and for two others also, who, wherever they may be, are on the watch for my safety.”

“Sire,” replied Juxon, “you shall be obeyed.”

Meanwhile, the miner underneath was heard working away incessantly, when suddenly an unexpected noise resounded in the passage. Aramis seized the poker and gave the signal to stop; the noise came nearer and nearer. It was that of a number of men steadily approaching. The four men stood motionless. All eyes were fixed on the door, which opened slowly and with a kind of solemnity.

A parliamentary officer, clothed in black and with a gravity that augured ill, entered, bowed to the king, and unfolding a parchment, read the sentence, as is usually done to criminals before their execution.

“What is this?” said Aramis to Juxon.

Juxon replied with a sign which meant that he knew no more than Aramis about it.

“Then it is for to-day?” asked the king.

“Was not your majesty warned that it was to take place this morning?”

“Then I must die like a common criminal by the hand of the London executioner?”

“The London executioner has disappeared, your majesty, but a man has offered his services instead. The execution will therefore only be delayed long enough for you to arrange your spiritual and temporal affairs.”

A slight moisture on his brow was the only trace of emotion that Charles evinced, as he learned these tidings. But Aramis was livid. His heart ceased beating, he closed his eyes and leaned upon the table. Charles perceived it and took his hand.

“Come, my friend,” said he, “courage.” Then he turned to the officer. “Sir, I am ready. There is but little reason why I should delay you. Firstly, I wish to communicate; secondly, to embrace my children and bid them farewell for the last time. Will this be permitted me?”

“Certainly,” replied the officer, and left the room.

Aramis dug his nails into his flesh and groaned aloud.

“Oh! my lord bishop,” he cried, seizing Juxon’s hands, “where is Providence? where is Providence?”

“My son,” replied the bishop, with firmness, “you see Him not, because the passions of the world conceal Him.”

“My son,” said the king to Aramis, “do not take it so to heart. You ask what God is doing. God beholds your devotion and my martyrdom, and believe me, both will have their reward. Ascribe to men, then, what is happening, and not to God. It is men who drive me to death; it is men who make you weep.”

“Yes, sire,” said Aramis, “yes, you are right. It is men whom I should hold responsible, and I will hold them responsible.”

“Be seated, Juxon,” said the king, falling upon his knees. “I have now to confess to you. Remain, sir,” he added to Aramis, who had moved to leave the room. “Remain, Parry. I have nothing to say that cannot be said before all.”

Juxon sat down, and the king, kneeling humbly before him, began his confession.

LXVI. Remember!

The mob had already assembled when the confession terminated. The king’s children next arrived—the Princess Charlotte, a beautiful, fair-haired child, with tears in her eyes, and the Duke of Gloucester, a boy eight or nine years old, whose tearless eyes and curling lip revealed a growing pride. He had wept all night long, but would not show his grief before the people.

Charles’s heart melted within him at the sight of those two children, whom he had not seen for two years and whom he now met at the moment of death. He turned to brush away a tear, and then, summoning up all his firmness, drew his daughter toward him, recommending her to be pious and resigned. Then he took the boy upon his knee.

“My son,” he said to him, “you saw a great number of people in the streets as you came here. These men are going to behead your father. Do not forget that. Perhaps some day they will want to make you king, instead of the Prince of Wales, or the Duke of York, your elder brothers. But you are not the king, my son, and can never be so while they are alive. Swear to me, then, never to let them put a crown upon your head unless you have a legal right to the crown. For one day—listen, my son—one day, if you do so, they will doom you to destruction, head and crown, too, and then you will not be able to die with a calm conscience, as I die. Swear, my son.”

The child stretched out his little hand toward that of his father and said, “I swear to your majesty.”

“Henry,” said Charles, “call me your father.”

“Father,” replied the child, “I swear to you that they shall kill me sooner than make me king.”

“Good, my child. Now kiss me; and you, too, Charlotte. Never forget me.”

“Oh! never, never!” cried both the children, throwing their arms around their father’s neck.

“Farewell,” said Charles, “farewell, my children. Take them away, Juxon; their tears will deprive me of the courage to die.”

Juxon led them away, and this time the doors were left open.

Meanwhile, Athos, in his concealment, waited in vain the signal to recommence his work. Two long hours he waited in terrible inaction. A deathlike silence reigned in the room above. At last he determined to discover the cause of this stillness. He crept from his hole and stood, hidden by the black drapery, beneath the scaffold. Peeping out from the drapery, he could see the rows of halberdiers and musketeers around the scaffold and the first ranks of the populace swaying and groaning like the sea.

“What is the matter, then?” he asked himself, trembling more than the wind-swayed cloth he was holding back. “The people are hurrying on, the soldiers under arms, and among the spectators I see D’Artagnan. What is he waiting for? What is he looking at? Good God! have they allowed the headsman to escape?”

Suddenly the dull beating of muffled drums filled the square. The sound of heavy steps was heard above his head. The next moment the very planks of the scaffold creaked with the weight of an advancing procession, and the eager faces of the spectators confirmed what a last hope at the bottom of his heart had prevented him till then believing. At the same moment a well-known voice above him pronounced these words:

“Colonel, I want to speak to the people.”

Athos shuddered from head to foot. It was the king speaking on the scaffold.

In fact, after taking a few drops of wine and a piece of bread, Charles, weary of waiting for death, had suddenly decided to go to meet it and had given the signal for movement. Then the two wings of the window facing the square had been thrown open, and the people had seen silently advancing from the interior of the vast chamber, first, a masked man, who, carrying an axe in his hand, was recognized as the executioner. He approached the block and laid his axe upon it. Behind him, pale indeed, but marching with a firm step, was Charles Stuart, who advanced between two priests, followed by a few superior officers appointed to preside at the execution and attended by two files of partisans who took their places on opposite sides of the scaffold.

The sight of the masked man gave rise to a prolonged sensation. Every one was full of curiosity as to who that unknown executioner could be who presented himself so opportunely to assure to the people the promised spectacle, when the people believed it had been postponed until the following day. All gazed at him searchingly.

But they could discern nothing but a man of middle height, dressed in black, apparently of a certain age, for the end of a gray beard peeped out from the bottom of the mask that hid his features.

The king’s request had undoubtedly been acceded to by an affirmative sign, for in firm, sonorous accents, which vibrated in the depths of Athos’s heart, the king began his speech, explaining his conduct and counseling the welfare of the kingdom.

“Oh!” said Athos to himself, “is it indeed possible that I hear what I hear and that I see what I see? Is it possible that God has abandoned His representative on earth and left him to die thus miserably? And I have not seen him! I have not said adieu to him!”

A noise was heard like that the instrument of death would make if moved upon the block.

“Do not touch the axe,” said the king, and resumed his speech.

At the end of his speech the king looked tenderly around upon the people. Then unfastening the diamond ornament which the queen had sent him, he placed it in the hands of the priest who accompanied Juxon. Then he drew from his breast a little cross set in diamonds, which, like the order, had been the gift of Henrietta Maria.

“Sir,” said he to the priest, “I shall keep this cross in my hand till the last moment. Take it from me when I am—dead.”

“Yes, sire,” said a voice, which Athos recognized as that of Aramis.

He then took his hat from his head and threw it on the ground. One by one he undid the buttons of his doublet, took it off and deposited it by the side of his hat. Then, as it was cold, he asked for his gown, which was brought to him.

All the preparations were made with a frightful calmness. One would have thought the king was going to bed and not to his coffin.

“Will these be in your way?” he said to the executioner, raising his long locks; “if so, they can be tied up.”

Charles accompanied these words with a look designed to penetrate the mask of the unknown headsman. His calm, noble gaze forced the man to turn away his head. But after the searching look of the king he encountered the burning eyes of Aramis.

The king, seeing that he did not reply, repeated his question.

“It will do,” replied the man, in a tremulous voice, “if you separate them across the neck.”

The king parted his hair with his hands, and looking at the block he said:

“This block is very low, is there no other to be had?”

“It is the usual block,” answered the man in the mask.

“Do you think you can behead me with a single blow?” asked the king.

“I hope so,” was the reply. There was something so strange in these three words that everybody, except the king, shuddered.

“I do not wish to be taken by surprise,” added the king. “I shall kneel down to pray; do not strike then.”

“When shall I strike?”

“When I shall lay my head on the block and say ‘Remember!’ then strike boldly.”

“Gentlemen,” said the king to those around him, “I leave you to brave the tempest; I go before you to a kingdom which knows no storms. Farewell.”

He looked at Aramis and made a special sign to him with his head.

“Now,” he continued, “withdraw a little and let me say my prayer, I beseech you. You, also, stand aside,” he said to the masked man. “It is only for a moment and I know that I belong to you; but remember that you are not to strike till I give the signal.”

Then he knelt down, made the sign of the cross, and lowering his face to the planks, as if he would have kissed them, said in a low tone, in French, “Comte de la Fère, are you there?”

“Yes, your majesty,” he answered, trembling.

“Faithful friend, noble heart!” said the king, “I should not have been rescued. I have addressed my people and I have spoken to God; last of all I speak to you. To maintain a cause which I believed sacred I have lost the throne and my children their inheritance. A million in gold remains; it is buried in the cellars of Newcastle Keep. You only know that this money exists. Make use of it, then, whenever you think it will be most useful, for my eldest son’s welfare. And now, farewell.”

“Farewell, saintly, martyred majesty,” lisped Athos, chilled with terror.

A moment’s silence ensued and then, in a full, sonorous voice, the king exclaimed: “Remember!”

He had scarcely uttered the word when a heavy blow shook the scaffold and where Athos stood immovable a warm drop fell upon his brow. He reeled back with a shudder and the same moment the drops became a crimson cataract.

Athos fell on his knees and remained some minutes as if bewildered or stunned. At last he rose and taking his handkerchief steeped it in the blood of the martyred king. Then as the crowd gradually dispersed he leaped down, crept from behind the drapery, glided between two horses, mingled with the crowd and was the first to arrive at the inn.

Having gained his room he raised his hand to his face, and observing that his fingers were covered with the monarch’s blood, fell down insensible.

LXVII. The Man in the Mask

The snow was falling thick and icy. Aramis was the next to come in and to discover Athos almost insensible. But at the first words he uttered the comte roused himself from the kind of lethargy in which he had sunk.

“Well,” said Aramis, “beaten by fate!”

“Beaten!” said Athos. “Noble and unhappy king!”

“Are you wounded?” cried Aramis.

“No, this is his blood.”

“Where were you, then?”

“Where you left me—under the scaffold.”

“Did you see it all?”

“No, but I heard all. God preserve me from another such hour as I have just passed.”

“Then you know that I did not leave him?”

“I heard your voice up to the last moment.”

“Here is the order he gave me and the cross I took from his hand; he desired they should be returned to the queen.”

“Then here is a handkerchief to wrap them in,” replied Athos, drawing from his pocket the one he had steeped in the king’s blood.

“And what,” he continued, “has been done with the poor body?”

“By order of Cromwell royal honors will be accorded to it. The doctors are embalming the corpse, and when it is ready it will be placed in a lighted chapel.”

“Mockery,” muttered Athos, savagely; “royal honors to one whom they have murdered!”

“Well, cheer up!” said a loud voice from the staircase, which Porthos had just mounted. “We are all mortal, my poor friends.”

“You are late, my dear Porthos.”

“Yes, there were some people on the way who delayed me. The wretches were dancing. I took one of them by the throat and three-quarters throttled him. Just then a patrol rode up. Luckily the man I had had most to do with was some minutes before he could speak, so I took advantage of his silence to walk off.”

“Have you seen D’Artagnan?”

“We got separated in the crowd and I could not find him again.”

“Oh!” said Athos, satirically, “I saw him. He was in the front row of the crowd, admirably placed for seeing; and as on the whole the sight was curious, he probably wished to stay to the end.”

“Ah Comte de la Fère,” said a calm voice, though hoarse with running, “is it your habit to calumniate the absent?”

This reproof stung Athos to the heart, but as the impression produced by seeing D’Artagnan foremost in a coarse, ferocious crowd had been very strong, he contented himself with replying:

“I am not calumniating you, my friend. They were anxious about you here; I simply told them where you were. You didn’t know King Charles; to you he was only a foreigner and you were not obliged to love him.”

So saying, he stretched out his hand, but the other pretended not to see it and he let it drop again slowly by his side.

“Ugh! I am tired,” cried D’Artagnan, sitting down.

“Drink a glass of port,” said Aramis; “it will refresh you.”

“Yes, let us drink,” said Athos, anxious to make it up by hobnobbing with D’Artagnan, “let us drink and get away from this hateful country. The felucca is waiting for us, you know; let us leave to-night, we have nothing more to do here.”

“You are in a hurry, sir count,” said D’Artagnan.

“But what would you have us to do here, now that the king is dead?”

“Go, sir count,” replied D’Artagnan, carelessly; “you see nothing to keep you a little longer in England? Well, for my part, I, a bloodthirsty ruffian, who can go and stand close to a scaffold, in order to have a better view of the king’s execution—I remain.”

Athos turned pale. Every reproach his friend uttered struck deeply in his heart.

“Ah! you remain in London?” said Porthos.

“Yes. And you?”

“Hang it!” said Porthos, a little perplexed between the two, “I suppose, as I came with you, I must go away with you. I can’t leave you alone in this abominable country.”

“Thanks, my worthy friend. So I have a little adventure to propose to you when the count is gone. I want to find out who was the man in the mask, who so obligingly offered to cut the king’s throat.”

“A man in a mask?” cried Athos. “You did not let the executioner escape, then?”

“The executioner is still in the cellar, where, I presume, he has had an interview with mine host’s bottles. But you remind me. Mousqueton!”

“Sir,” answered a voice from the depths of the earth.

“Let out your prisoner. All is over.”

“But,” said Athos, “who is the wretch that has dared to raise his hand against his king?”

“An amateur headsman,” replied Aramis, “who however, does not handle the axe amiss.”

“Did you not see his face?” asked Athos.

“He wore a mask.”

“But you, Aramis, who were close to him?”

“I could see nothing but a gray beard under the fringe of the mask.”

“Then it must be a man of a certain age.”

“Oh!” said D’Artagnan, “that matters little. When one puts on a mask, it is not difficult to wear a beard under it.”

“I am sorry I did not follow him,” said Porthos.

“Well, my dear Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, “that’s the very thing it came into my head to do.”

Athos understood all now.

“Pardon me, D’Artagnan,” he said. “I have distrusted God; I could the more easily distrust you. Pardon me, my friend.”

“We will see about that presently,” said D’Artagnan, with a slight smile.

“Well, then?” said Aramis.

“Well, while I was watching—not the king, as monsieur le comte thinks, for I know what it is to see a man led to death, and though I ought to be accustomed to the sight it always makes me ill—while I was watching the masked executioner, the idea came to me, as I said, to find out who he was. Now, as we are wont to complete ourselves each by all the rest and to depend on one another for assistance, as one calls his other hand to aid the first, I looked around instinctively to see if Porthos was there; for I had seen you, Aramis, with the king, and you, count, I knew would be under the scaffold, and for that reason I forgive you,” he added, offering Athos his hand, “for you must have suffered much. I was looking around for Porthos when I saw near me a head which had been broken, but which, for better or worse, had been patched with plaster and with black silk. ‘Humph!’ thought I, ‘that looks like my handiwork; I fancy I must have mended that skull somewhere or other.’ And, in fact, it was that unfortunate Scotchman, Parry’s brother, you know, on whom Groslow amused himself by trying his strength. Well, this man was making signs to another at my left, and turning around I recognized the honest Grimaud. ‘Oh!’ said I to him. Grimaud turned round with a jerk, recognized me, and pointed to the man in the mask. ‘Eh!’ said he, which meant, ‘Do you see him?’ ‘Parbleu!’ I answered, and we perfectly understood one another. Well, everything was finished as you know. The mob dispersed. I made a sign to Grimaud and the Scotchman, and we all three retired into a corner of the square. I saw the executioner return into the king’s room, change his clothes, put on a black hat and a large cloak and disappear. Five minutes later he came down the grand staircase.”

“You followed him?” cried Athos.

“I should think so, but not without difficulty. Every few minutes he turned around, and thus obliged us to conceal ourselves. I might have gone up to him and killed him. But I am not selfish, and I thought it might console you all a little to have a share in the matter. So we followed him through the lowest streets in the city, and in half an hour’s time he stopped before a little isolated house. Grimaud drew out a pistol. ‘Eh?’ said he, showing it. I held back his arm. The man in the mask stopped before a low door and drew out a key; but before he placed it in the lock he turned around to see if he was being followed. Grimaud and I got behind a tree, and the Scotchman having nowhere to hide himself, threw himself on his face in the road. Next moment the door opened and the man disappeared.”

“The scoundrel!” said Aramis. “While you have been returning hither he will have escaped and we shall never find him.”

“Come, now, Aramis,” said D’Artagnan, “you must be taking me for some one else.”

“Nevertheless,” said Athos, “in your absence——”

“Well, in my absence haven’t I put in my place Grimaud and the Scotchman? Before he had taken ten steps beyond the door I had examined the house on all sides. At one of the doors, that by which he had entered, I placed our Scotchman, making a sign to him to follow the man wherever he might go, if he came out again. Then going around the house I placed Grimaud at the other exit, and here I am. Our game is beaten up. Now for the tally-ho.”

Athos threw himself into D’Artagnan’s arms.

“Friend,” he said, “you have been too good in pardoning me; I was wrong, a hundred times wrong. I ought to have known you better by this time; but we are all possessed of a malignant spirit, which bids us doubt.”

“Humph!” said Porthos. “Don’t you think the executioner might be Master Cromwell, who, to make sure of this affair, undertook it himself?”

“Ah! just so. Cromwell is stout and short, and this man thin and lanky, rather tall than otherwise.”

“Some condemned soldier, perhaps,” suggested Athos, “whom they have pardoned at the price of regicide.”

“No, no,” continued D’Artagnan, “it was not the measured step of a foot soldier, nor was it the gait of a horseman. If I am not mistaken we have to do with a gentleman.”

“A gentleman!” exclaimed Athos. “Impossible! It would be a dishonor to all the nobility.”

“Fine sport, by Jove!” cried Porthos, with a laugh that shook the windows. “Fine sport!”

“Are you still bent on departure, Athos?” asked D’Artagnan.

“No, I remain,” replied Athos, with a threatening gesture that promised no good to whomsoever it was addressed.

“Swords, then!” cried Aramis, “swords! let us not lose a moment.”

The four friends resumed their own clothes, girded on their swords, ordered Mousqueton and Blaisois to pay the bill and to arrange everything for immediate departure, and wrapped in their large cloaks left in search of their game.

The night was dark, snow was falling, the streets were silent and deserted. D’Artagnan led the way through the intricate windings and narrow alleys of the city and ere long they had reached the house in question. For a moment D’Artagnan thought that Parry’s brother had disappeared; but he was mistaken. The robust Scotchman, accustomed to the snows of his native hills, had stretched himself against a post, and like a fallen statue, insensible to the inclemency of the weather, had allowed the snow to cover him. He rose, however, as they approached.

“Come,” said Athos, “here’s another good servant. Really, honest men are not so scarce as I thought.”

“Don’t be in a hurry to weave crowns for our Scotchman. I believe the fellow is here on his own account, for I have heard that these gentlemen born beyond the Tweed are very vindictive. I should not like to be Groslow, if he meets him.”

“Well?” said Athos, to the man, in English.

“No one has come out,” he replied.

“Then, Porthos and Aramis, will you remain with this man while we go around to Grimaud?”

Grimaud had made himself a kind of sentry box out of a hollow willow, and as they drew near he put his head out and gave a low whistle.

“Soho!” cried Athos.

“Yes,” said Grimaud.

“Well, has anybody come out?”

“No, but somebody has gone in.”

“A man or a woman?”

“A man.”

“Ah! ah!” said D’Artagnan, “there are two of them, then!”

“I wish there were four,” said Athos; “the two parties would then be equal.”

“Perhaps there are four,” said D’Artagnan.

“What do you mean?”

“Other men may have entered before them and waited for them.”

“We can find out,” said Grimaud. At the same time he pointed to a window, through the shutters of which a faint light streamed.

“That is true,” said D’Artagnan, “let us call the others.”

They returned around the house to fetch Porthos and Aramis.

“Have you seen anything?” they asked.

“No, but we are going to,” replied D’Artagnan, pointing to Grimaud, who had already climbed some five or six feet from the ground.

All four came up together. Grimaud continued to climb like a cat and succeeded at last in catching hold of a hook, which served to keep one of the shutters back when opened. Then resting his foot on a small ledge he made a sign to show all was right.

“Well?” asked D’Artagnan.

Grimaud showed his closed hand, with two fingers spread out.

“Speak,” said Athos; “we cannot see your signs. How many are there?”

“Two. One opposite to me, the other with his back to me.”

“Good. And the man opposite to you is——

“The man I saw go in.”

“Do you know him?”

“I thought I recognized him, and was not mistaken. Short and stout.”

“Who is it?” they all asked together in a low tone.

“General Oliver Cromwell.”

The four friends looked at one another.

“And the other?” asked Athos.

“Thin and lanky.”

“The executioner,” said D’Artagnan and Aramis at the same time.

“I can see nothing but his back,” resumed Grimaud. “But wait. He is moving; and if he has taken off his mask I shall be able to see. Ah——”

And as if struck in the heart he let go the hook and dropped with a groan.

“Did you see him?” they all asked.

“Yes,” said Grimaud, with his hair standing on end.

“The thin, spare man?”

“Yes.”

“The executioner, in short?” asked Aramis.

“Yes.”

“And who is it?” said Porthos.

“He—he—is——” murmured Grimaud, pale as a ghost and seizing his master’s hand.

“Who? He?” asked Athos.

“Mordaunt,” replied Grimaud.

D’Artagnan, Porthos and Aramis uttered a cry of joy.

Athos stepped back and passed his hand across his brow.

“Fatality!” he muttered.

LXVIII. Cromwell’s House

It was, in fact, Mordaunt whom D’Artagnan had followed, without knowing it. On entering the house he had taken off his mask and imitation beard, then, mounting a staircase, had opened a door, and in a room lighted by a single lamp found himself face to face with a man seated behind a desk.

This man was Cromwell.

Cromwell had two or three of these retreats in London, unknown except to the most intimate of his friends. Mordaunt was among these.

“It is you, Mordaunt,” he said. “You are late.”

“General, I wished to see the ceremony to the end, which delayed me.”

“Ah! I scarcely thought you were so curious as that.”

“I am always curious to see the downfall of your honor’s enemies, and he was not among the least of them. But you, general, were you not at Whitehall?”

“No,” said Cromwell.

There was a moment’s silence.

“Have you had any account of it?”

“None. I have been here since the morning. I only know that there was a conspiracy to rescue the king.”

“Ah, you knew that?” said Mordaunt.

“It matters little. Four men, disguised as workmen, were to get the king out of prison and take him to Greenwich, where a vessel was waiting.”

“And knowing all that, your honor remained here, far from the city, tranquil and inactive.”

“Tranquil, yes,” replied Cromwell. “But who told you I was inactive?”

“But—if the plot had succeeded?”

“I wished it to do so.”

“I thought your excellence considered the death of Charles I. as a misfortune necessary to the welfare of England.”

“Yes, his death; but it would have been more seemly not upon the scaffold.”

“Why so?” asked Mordaunt.

Cromwell smiled. “Because it could have been said that I had had him condemned for the sake of justice and had let him escape out of pity.”

“But if he had escaped?”

“Impossible; my precautions were taken.”

“And does your honor know the four men who undertook to rescue him?”

“The four Frenchmen, of whom two were sent by the queen to her husband and two by Mazarin to me.”

“And do you think Mazarin commissioned them to act as they have done?”

“It is possible. But he will not avow it.”

“How so?”

“Because they failed.”

“Your honor gave me two of these Frenchmen when they were only guilty of fighting for Charles I. Now that they are guilty of a conspiracy against England will your honor give me all four of them?”

“Take them,” said Cromwell.

Mordaunt bowed with a smile of triumphant ferocity.

“Did the people shout at all?” Cromwell asked.

“Very little, except ‘Long live Cromwell!’”

“Where were you placed?”

Mordaunt tried for a moment to read in the general’s face if this was simply a useless question, or whether he knew everything. But his piercing eyes could by no means penetrate the sombre depths of Cromwell’s.

“I was so situated as to hear and see everything,” he answered.

It was now Cromwell’s turn to look fixedly at Mordaunt, and Mordaunt to make himself impenetrable.

“It appears,” said Cromwell, “that this improvised executioner did his duty remarkably well. The blow, so they tell me at least, was struck with a master’s hand.”

Mordaunt remembered that Cromwell had told him he had had no detailed account, and he was now quite convinced that the general had been present at the execution, hidden behind some screen or curtain.

“In fact,” said Mordaunt, with a calm voice and immovable countenance, “a single blow sufficed.”

“Perhaps it was some one in that occupation,” said Cromwell.

“Do you think so, sir? He did not look like an executioner.”

“And who else save an executioner would have wished to fill that horrible office?”

“But,” said Mordaunt, “it might have been some personal enemy of the king, who had made a vow of vengeance and accomplished it in this way. Perhaps it was some man of rank who had grave reasons for hating the fallen king, and who, learning that the king was about to flee and escape him, threw himself in the way, with a mask on his face and an axe in his hand, not as substitute for the executioner, but as an ambassador of Fate.”

“Possibly.”

“And if that were the case would your honor condemn his action?”

“It is not for me to judge. It rests between his conscience and his God.”

“But if your honor knew this man?”

“I neither know nor wish to know him. Provided Charles is dead, it is the axe, not the man, we must thank.”

“And yet, without the man, the king would have been rescued.”

Cromwell smiled.

“They would have carried him to Greenwich,” he said, “and put him on board a felucca with five barrels of powder in the hold. Once out to sea, you are too good a politician not to understand the rest, Mordaunt.”

“Yes, they would have all been blown up.”

“Just so. The explosion would have done what the axe had failed to do. Men would have said that the king had escaped human justice and been overtaken by God’s. You see now why I did not care to know your gentleman in the mask; for really, in spite of his excellent intentions, I could not thank him for what he has done.”

Mordaunt bowed humbly. “Sir,” he said, “you are a profound thinker and your plan was sublime.”

“Say absurd, since it has become useless. The only sublime ideas in politics are those which bear fruit. So to-night, Mordaunt, go to Greenwich and ask for the captain of the felucca Lightning. Show him a white handkerchief knotted at the four corners and tell the crew to disembark and carry the powder back to the arsenal, unless, indeed——”

“Unless?” said Mordaunt, whose face was lighted by a savage joy as Cromwell spoke:

“This skiff might be of use to you for personal projects.”

“Oh, my lord, my lord!”

“That title,” said Cromwell, laughing, “is all very well here, but take care a word like that does not escape your lips in public.”

“But your honor will soon be called so generally.”

“I hope so, at least,” said Cromwell, rising and putting on his cloak.

“You are going, sir?”

“Yes,” said Cromwell. “I slept here last night and the night before, and you know it is not my custom to sleep three times in the same bed.”

“Then,” said Mordaunt, “your honor gives me my liberty for to-night?”

“And even for all day to-morrow, if you want it. Since last evening,” he added, smiling, “you have done enough in my service, and if you have any personal matters to settle it is just that I should give you time.”

“Thank you, sir; it will be well employed, I hope.”

Cromwell turned as he was going.

“Are you armed?” he asked.

“I have my sword.”

“And no one waiting for you outside?”

“No.”

“Then you had better come with me.”

“Thank you, sir, but the way by the subterranean passage would take too much time and I have none to lose.”

Cromwell placed his hand on a hidden handle and opened a door so well concealed by the tapestry that the most practiced eye could not have discovered it. It closed after him with a spring. This door communicated with a subterranean passage, leading under the street to a grotto in the garden of a house about a hundred yards from that of the future Protector.

It was just before this that Grimaud had perceived the two men seated together.

D’Artagnan was the first to recover from his surprise.

“Mordaunt,” he cried. “Ah! by Heaven! it is God Himself who sent us here.”

“Yes,” said Porthos, “let us break the door in and fall upon him.”

“No,” replied D’Artagnan, “no noise. Now, Grimaud, you come here, climb up to the window again and tell us if Mordaunt is alone and whether he is preparing to go out or go to bed. If he comes out we shall catch him. If he stays in we will break in the window. It is easier and less noisy than the door.”

Grimaud began to scale the wall again.

“Keep guard at the other door, Athos and Aramis. Porthos and I will stay here.”

The friends obeyed.

“He is alone,” said Grimaud.

“We did not see his companion come out.”

“He may have gone by the other door.”

“What is he doing?”

“Putting on his cloak and gloves.”

“He’s ours,” muttered D’Artagnan.

Porthos mechanically drew his dagger from the scabbard.

“Put it up again, my friend,” said D’Artagnan. “We must proceed in an orderly manner.”

“Hush!” said Grimaud, “he is coming out. He has put out the lamp, I can see nothing now.”

“Get down then and quickly.”

Grimaud leaped down. The snow deadened the noise of his fall.

“Now go and tell Athos and Aramis to stand on each side of the door and clap their hands if they catch him. We will do the same.”

The next moment the door opened and Mordaunt appeared on the threshold, face to face with D’Artagnan. Porthos clapped his hands and the other two came running around. Mordaunt was livid, but he uttered no cry nor called for assistance. D’Artagnan quietly pushed him in again, and by the light of a lamp on the staircase made him ascend the steps backward one by one, keeping his eyes all the time on Mordaunt’s hands, who, however, knowing that it was useless, attempted no resistance. At last they stood face to face in the very room where ten minutes before Mordaunt had been talking to Cromwell.

Porthos came up behind, and unhooking the lamp on the staircase relit that in the room. Athos and Aramis entered last and locked the door behind them.

“Oblige me by taking a seat,” said D’Artagnan, pushing a chair toward Mordaunt, who sat down, pale but calm. Aramis, Porthos and D’Artagnan drew their chairs near him. Athos alone kept away and sat in the furthest corner of the room, as if determined to be merely a spectator of the proceedings. He seemed to be quite overcome. Porthos rubbed his hands in feverish impatience. Aramis bit his lips till the blood came.

D’Artagnan alone was calm, at least in appearance.

“Monsieur Mordaunt,” he said, “since, after running after one another so long, chance has at last brought us together, let us have a little conversation, if you please.”

LXIX. Conversational

Though Mordaunt had been so completely taken by surprise and had mounted the stairs in such utter confusion, when once seated he recovered himself, as it were, and prepared to seize any possible opportunity of escape. His eye wandered to a long stout sword on his flank and he instinctively slipped it around within reach of his right hand.

D’Artagnan was waiting for a reply to his remark and said nothing. Aramis muttered to himself, “We shall hear nothing but the usual commonplace things.”

Porthos sucked his mustache, muttering, “A good deal of ceremony to-night about crushing an adder.” Athos shrunk into his corner, pale and motionless as a bas-relief.

The silence, however, could not last forever. So D’Artagnan began:

“Sir,” he said, with desperate politeness, “it seems to me that you change your costume almost as rapidly as I have seen the Italian mummers do, whom the Cardinal Mazarin brought over from Bergamo and whom he doubtless took you to see during your travels in France.”

Mordaunt did not reply.

“Just now,” D’Artagnan continued, “you were disguised—I mean to say, attired—as a murderer, and now——”

“And now I look very much like a man who is going to be murdered.”

“Oh! sir,” said D’Artagnan, “how can you talk like that when you are in the company of gentlemen and have such an excellent sword at your side?”

“No sword is excellent enough to be of use against four swords and daggers.”

“Well, that is scarcely the question. I had the honor of asking you why you altered your costume. The mask and beard became you very well, and as to the axe, I do not think it would be out of keeping even at this moment. Why, then, have you laid it aside?”

“Because, remembering the scene at Armentières, I thought I should find four axes for one, as I was to meet four executioners.”

“Sir,” replied D’Artagnan, in the calmest manner possible, “you are very young; I shall therefore overlook your frivolous remarks. What took place at Armentières has no connection whatever with the present occasion. We could scarcely have requested your mother to take a sword and fight us.”

“Aha! It is a duel, then?” cried Mordaunt, as if disposed to reply at once to the provocation.

Porthos rose, always ready for this kind of adventure.

“Pardon me,” said D’Artagnan. “Do not let us do things in a hurry. We will arrange the matter rather better. Confess, Monsieur Mordaunt, that you are anxious to kill some of us.”

“All,” replied Mordaunt.

“Then, my dear sir; I am convinced that these gentlemen return your kind wishes and will be delighted to kill you also. Of course they will do so as honorable gentlemen, and the best proof I can furnish is this——”

So saying, he threw his hat on the ground, pushed back his chair to the wall and bowed to Mordaunt with true French grace.

“At your service, sir,” he continued. “My sword is shorter than yours, it’s true, but, bah! I think the arm will make up for the sword.”

“Halt!” cried Porthos coming forward. “I begin, and without any rhetoric.”

“Allow me, Porthos,” said Aramis.

Athos did not move. He might have been taken for a statue. Even his breathing seemed to be arrested.

“Gentlemen,” said D’Artagnan, “you shall have your turn. Monsieur Mordaunt dislikes you sufficiently not to refuse you afterward. You can see it in his eye. So pray keep your places, like Athos, whose calmness is entirely laudable. Besides, we will have no words about it. I have particular business to settle with this gentleman and I shall and will begin.”

Porthos and Aramis drew back, disappointed, and drawing his sword D’Artagnan turned to his adversary:

“Sir, I am waiting for you.”

“And for my part, gentlemen, I admire you. You are disputing which shall fight me first, but you do not consult me who am most concerned in the matter. I hate you all, but not equally. I hope to kill all four of you, but I am more likely to kill the first than the second, the second than the third, and the third than the last. I claim, then, the right to choose my opponent. If you refuse this right you may kill me, but I shall not fight.”

“It is but fair,” said Porthos and Aramis, hoping he would choose one of them.

Athos and D’Artagnan said nothing, but their silence seemed to imply consent.

“Well, then,” said Mordaunt, “I choose for my adversary the man who, not thinking himself worthy to be called Comte de la Fère, calls himself Athos.”

Athos sprang up, but after an instant of motionless silence he said, to the astonishment of his friends, “Monsieur Mordaunt, a duel between us is impossible. Submit this honour to somebody else.” And he sat down.

“Ah!” said Mordaunt, with a sneer, “there’s one who is afraid.”

“Zounds!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, bounding toward him, “who says that Athos is afraid?”

“Let him have his say, D’Artagnan,” said Athos, with a smile of sadness and contempt.

“Is it your decision, Athos?” resumed the Gascon.

“Irrevocably.”

“You hear, sir,” said D’Artagnan, turning to Mordaunt. “The Comte de la Fère will not do you the honor of fighting with you. Choose one of us to replace the Comte de la Fère.”

“As long as I don’t fight with him it is the same to me with whom I fight. Put your names into a hat and draw lots.”

“A good idea,” said D’Artagnan.

“At least that will conciliate us all,” said Aramis.

“I should never have thought of that,” said Porthos, “and yet it is very simple.”

“Come, Aramis,” said D’Artagnan, “write this for us in those neat little characters in which you wrote to Marie Michon that the mother of this gentleman intended to assassinate the Duke of Buckingham.”

Mordaunt sustained this new attack without wincing. He stood with his arms folded, apparently as calm as any man could be in such circumstances. If he had not courage he had what is very like it, namely, pride.

Aramis went to Cromwell’s desk, tore off three bits of paper of equal size, wrote on the first his own name and on the others those of his two companions, and presented them open to Mordaunt, who by a movement of his head indicated that he left the matter entirely to Aramis. He then rolled them separately and put them in a hat, which he handed to Mordaunt.

Mordaunt put his hand into the hat, took out one of the three papers and disdainfully dropped it on the table without reading it.

“Ah! serpent,” muttered D’Artagnan, “I would give my chance of a captaincy in the mousquetaires for that to be my name.”

Aramis opened the paper, and in a voice trembling with hate and vengeance read “D’Artagnan.”

The Gascon uttered a cry of joy and turning to Mordaunt:

“I hope, sir,” said he, “you have no objection to make.”

“None, whatever,” replied the other, drawing his sword and resting the point on his boot.

The moment that D’Artagnan saw that his wish was accomplished and his man would not escape him, he recovered his usual tranquillity. He turned up his cuffs neatly and rubbed the sole of his right boot on the floor, but did not fail, however, to remark that Mordaunt was looking about him in a singular manner.

“Are you ready, sir?” he said at last.

“I was waiting for you, sir,” said Mordaunt, raising his head and casting at his opponent a look it would be impossible to describe.

“Well, then,” said the Gascon, “take care of yourself, for I am not a bad hand at the rapier.”

“Nor I either.”

“So much the better; that sets my mind at rest. Defend yourself.”

“One minute,” said the young man. “Give me your word, gentlemen, that you will not attack me otherwise than one after the other.”

“Is it to have the pleasure of insulting us that you say that, my little viper?”

“No, but to set my mind at rest, as you observed just now.”

“It is for something else than that, I imagine,” muttered D’Artagnan, shaking his head doubtfully.

“On the honor of gentlemen,” said Aramis and Porthos.

“In that case, gentlemen, have the kindness to retire into the corners, so as to give us ample room. We shall require it.”

“Yes, gentlemen,” said D’Artagnan, “we must not leave this person the slightest pretext for behaving badly, which, with all due respect, I fancy he is anxious still to do.”

This new attack made no impression on Mordaunt. The space was cleared, the two lamps placed on Cromwell’s desk, in order that the combatants might have as much light as possible; and the swords crossed.

D’Artagnan was too good a swordsman to trifle with his opponent. He made a rapid and brilliant feint which Mordaunt parried.

“Aha!” he cried with a smile of satisfaction.

And without losing a minute, thinking he saw an opening, he thrust his right in and forced Mordaunt to parry a counter en quarte so fine that the point of the weapon might have turned within a wedding ring.

This time it was Mordaunt who smiled.

“Ah, sir,” said D’Artagnan, “you have a wicked smile. It must have been the devil who taught it you, was it not?”

Mordaunt replied by trying his opponent’s weapon with an amount of strength which the Gascon was astonished to find in a form apparently so feeble; but thanks to a parry no less clever than that which Mordaunt had just achieved, he succeeded in meeting his sword, which slid along his own without touching his chest.

Mordaunt rapidly sprang back a step.

“Ah! you lose ground, you are turning? Well, as you please, I even gain something by it, for I no longer see that wicked smile of yours. You have no idea what a false look you have, particularly when you are afraid. Look at my eyes and you will see what no looking-glass has ever shown you—a frank and honorable countenance.”

To this flow of words, not perhaps in the best taste, but characteristic of D’Artagnan, whose principal object was to divert his opponent’s attention, Mordaunt did not reply, but continuing to turn around he succeeded in changing places with D’Artagnan.

He smiled more and more sarcastically and his smile began to make the Gascon anxious.

“Come, come,” cried D’Artagnan, “we must finish with this,” and in his turn he pressed Mordaunt hard, who continued to lose ground, but evidently on purpose and without letting his sword leave the line for a moment. However, as they were fighting in a room and had not space to go on like that forever, Mordaunt’s foot at last touched the wall, against which he rested his left hand.

“Ah, this time you cannot lose ground, my fine friend!” exclaimed D’Artagnan. “Gentlemen, did you ever see a scorpion pinned to a wall? No. Well, then, you shall see it now.”

In a second D’Artagnan had made three terrible thrusts at Mordaunt, all of which touched, but only pricked him. The three friends looked on, panting and astonished. At last D’Artagnan, having got up too close, stepped back to prepare a fourth thrust, but the moment when, after a fine, quick feint, he was attacking as sharply as lightning, the wall seemed to give way, Mordaunt disappeared through the opening, and D’Artagnan’s blade, caught between the panels, shivered like a sword of glass. D’Artagnan sprang back; the wall had closed again.

Mordaunt, in fact, while defending himself, had manœuvred so as to reach the secret door by which Cromwell had left, had felt for the knob with his left hand, pressed it and disappeared.

The Gascon uttered a furious imprecation, which was answered by a wild laugh on the other side of the iron panel.

“Help me, gentlemen,” cried D’Artagnan, “we must break in this door.”

“It is the devil in person!” said Aramis, hastening forward.

“He escapes us,” growled Porthos, pushing his huge shoulder against the hinges, but in vain. “‘Sblood! he escapes us.”

“So much the better,” muttered Athos.

“I thought as much,” said D’Artagnan, wasting his strength in useless efforts. “Zounds, I thought as much when the wretch kept moving around the room. I thought he was up to something.”

“It’s a misfortune, to which his friend, the devil, treats us,” said Aramis.

“It’s a piece of good fortune sent from Heaven,” said Athos, evidently much relieved.

“Really!” said D’Artagnan, abandoning the attempt to burst open the panel after several ineffectual attempts, “Athos, I cannot imagine how you can talk to us in that way. You cannot understand the position we are in. In this kind of game, not to kill is to let one’s self be killed. This fox of a fellow will be sending us a hundred iron-sided beasts who will pick us off like sparrows in this place. Come, come, we must be off. If we stay here five minutes more there’s an end of us.”

“Yes, you are right.”

“But where shall we go?” asked Porthos.

“To the hotel, to be sure, to get our baggage and horses; and from there, if it please God, to France, where, at least, I understand the architecture of the houses.”

So, suiting the action to the word, D’Artagnan thrust the remnant of his sword into its scabbard, picked up his hat and ran down the stairs, followed by the others.

LXX. The Skiff “Lightning.”

D’Artagnan had judged correctly; Mordaunt felt that he had no time to lose, and he lost none. He knew the rapidity of decision and action that characterized his enemies and resolved to act with reference to that. This time the musketeers had an adversary who was worthy of them.

After closing the door carefully behind him Mordaunt glided into the subterranean passage, sheathing on the way his now useless sword, and thus reached the neighboring house, where he paused to examine himself and to take breath.

“Good!” he said, “nothing, almost nothing—scratches, nothing more; two in the arm and one in the breast. The wounds that I make are better than that—witness the executioner of Bethune, my uncle and King Charles. Now, not a second to lose, for a second lost will perhaps save them. They must die—die all together—killed at one stroke by the thunder of men in default of God’s. They must disappear, broken, scattered, annihilated. I will run, then, till my legs no longer serve, till my heart bursts in my bosom but I will arrive before they do.”

Mordaunt proceeded at a rapid pace to the nearest cavalry barracks, about a quarter of a league distant. He made that quarter of a league in four or five minutes. Arrived at the barracks he made himself known, took the best horse in the stables, mounted and gained the high road. A quarter of an hour later he was at Greenwich.

“There is the port,” he murmured. “That dark point yonder is the Isle of Dogs. Good! I am half an hour in advance of them, an hour, perhaps. Fool that I was! I have almost killed myself by my needless haste. Now,” he added, rising in the stirrups and looking about him, “which, I wonder, is the Lightning?”

At this moment, as if in reply to his words, a man lying on a coil of cables rose and advanced a few steps toward him. Mordaunt drew a handkerchief from his pocket, and tying a knot at each corner—the signal agreed upon—waved it in the air and the man came up to him. He was wrapped in a large rough cape, which concealed his form and partly his face.

“Do you wish to go on the water, sir?” said the sailor.

“Yes, just so. Along the Isle of Dogs.”

“And perhaps you have a preference for one boat more than another. You would like one that sails as rapidly as——”

“Lightning,” interrupted Mordaunt.

“Then mine is the boat you want, sir. I’m your man.”

“I begin to think so, particularly if you have not forgotten a certain signal.”

“Here it is, sir,” and the sailor took from his coat a handkerchief, tied at each corner.

“Good, quite right!” cried Mordaunt, springing off his horse. “There’s not a moment to lose; now take my horse to the nearest inn and conduct me to your vessel.”

“But,” asked the sailor, “where are your companions? I thought there were four of you.”

“Listen to me, sir. I’m not the man you take me for; you are in Captain Rogers’s post, are you not? under orders from General Cromwell. Mine, also, are from him!”

“Indeed, sir, I recognize you; you are Captain Mordaunt.”

Mordaunt was startled.

“Oh, fear nothing,” said the skipper, showing his face. “I am a friend.”

“Captain Groslow!” cried Mordaunt.

“Himself. The general remembered that I had formerly been a naval officer and he gave me the command of this expedition. Is there anything new in the wind?”

“Nothing.”

“I thought, perhaps, that the king’s death——”

“Has only hastened their flight; in ten minutes they will perhaps be here.”

“What have you come for, then?”

“To embark with you.”

“Ah! ah! the general doubted my fidelity?”

“No, but I wish to have a share in my revenge. Haven’t you some one who will relieve me of my horse?”

Groslow whistled and a sailor appeared.

“Patrick,” said Groslow, “take this horse to the stables of the nearest inn. If any one asks you whose it is you can say that it belongs to an Irish gentleman.”

The sailor departed without reply.

“Now,” said Mordaunt, “are you not afraid that they will recognize you?”

“There is no danger, dressed as I am in this pilot coat, on a night as dark as this. Besides even you didn’t recognize me; they will be much less likely to.”

“That is true,” said Mordaunt, “and they will be far from thinking of you. Everything is ready, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“The cargo on board?”

“Yes.”

“Five full casks?”

“And fifty empty ones.”

“Good.”

“We are carrying port wine to Anvers.”

“Excellent. Now take me aboard and return to your post, for they will soon be here.”

“I am ready.”

“It is important that none of your crew should see me.”

“I have but one man on board, and I am as sure of him as I am of myself. Besides, he doesn’t know you; like his mates he is ready to obey our orders knowing nothing of our plan.”

“Very well; let us go.”

They then went down to the Thames. A boat was fastened to the shore by a chain fixed to a stake. Groslow jumped in, followed by Mordaunt, and in five minutes they were quite away from that world of houses which then crowded the outskirts of London; and Mordaunt could discern the little vessel riding at anchor near the Isle of Dogs. When they reached the side of this felucca, Mordaunt, dexterous in his eagerness for vengeance, seized a rope and climbed up the side of the vessel with a coolness and agility very rare among landsmen. He went with Groslow to the captain’s berth, a sort of temporary cabin of planks, for the chief apartment had been given up by Captain Rogers to the passengers, who were to be accommodated at the other end of the boat.

“They will have nothing to do, then at this end?” said Mordaunt.

“Nothing at all.”

“That’s a capital arrangement. Return to Greenwich and bring them here. I shall hide myself in your cabin. You have a longboat?”

“That in which we came.”

“It appeared light and well constructed.”

“Quite a canoe.”

“Fasten it to the poop with a rope; put the oars into it, so that it may follow in the track and there will be nothing to do except to cut the cord. Put a good supply of rum and biscuit in it for the seamen; should the night happen to be stormy they will not be sorry to find something to console themselves with.”

“Consider all this done. Do you wish to see the powder-room?”

“No. When you return I will set the fuse myself, but be careful to conceal your face, so that you cannot be recognized by them.”

“Never fear.”

“There’s ten o’clock striking at Greenwich.”

Groslow, then, having given the sailor on duty an order to be on the watch with more than usual vigilance, went down into the longboat and soon reached Greenwich. The wind was chilly and the jetty was deserted, as he approached it; but he had no sooner landed than he heard a noise of horses galloping upon the paved road.

These horsemen were our friends, or rather, an avant garde, composed of D’Artagnan and Athos. As soon as they arrived at the spot where Groslow stood they stopped, as if guessing that he was the man they wanted. Athos alighted and calmly opened the handkerchief tied at each corner, whilst D’Artagnan, ever cautious, remained on horseback, one hand upon his pistol, leaning forward watchfully.

On seeing the appointed signal, Groslow, who had at first crept behind one of the cannons planted on that spot, walked straight up to the gentlemen. He was so well wrapped up in his cloak that it would have been impossible to see his face even if the night had not been so dark as to render precaution superfluous; nevertheless, the keen glance of Athos perceived at once it was not Rogers who stood before them.

“What do you want with us?” he asked of Groslow.

“I wish to inform you, my lord,” replied Groslow, with an Irish accent, feigned of course, “that if you are looking for Captain Rogers you will not find him. He fell down this morning and broke his leg. But I’m his cousin; he told me everything and desired me to watch instead of him, and in his place to conduct, wherever they wished to go, the gentlemen who should bring me a handkerchief tied at each corner, like that one which you hold and one which I have in my pocket.”

And he drew out the handkerchief.

“Was that all he said?” inquired Athos.

“No, my lord; he said you had engaged to pay seventy pounds if I landed you safe and sound at Boulogne or any other port you choose in France.”

“What do you think of all this?” said Athos, in a low tone to D’Artagnan, after explaining to him in French what the sailor had said in English.

“It seems a likely story to me.”

“And to me, too.”

“Besides, we can but blow out his brains if he proves false,” said the Gascon; “and you, Athos, you know something of everything and can be our captain. I dare say you know how to navigate, should he fail us.”

“My dear friend, you guess well. My father meant me for the navy and I have some vague notions about navigation.”

“You see!” cried D’Artagnan.

They then summoned their friends, who, with Blaisois, Mousqueton and Grimaud, promptly joined them, leaving Parry behind them, who was to take back to London the horses of the gentlemen and of their lackeys, which had been sold to the host in settlement of their account with him. Thanks to this stroke of business the four friends were able to take away with them a sum of money which, if not large, was sufficient as a provision against delays and accidents.

Parry parted from his friends regretfully; they had proposed his going with them to France, but he had straightway declined.

“It is very simple,” Mousqueton had said; “he is thinking of Groslow.”

It was Captain Groslow, the reader will remember, who had broken Parry’s head.

D’Artagnan resumed immediately the attitude of distrust that was habitual with him. He found the wharf too completely deserted, the night too dark, the captain too accommodating. He had reported to Aramis what had taken place, and Aramis, not less distrustful than he, had increased his suspicions. A slight click of the tongue against his teeth informed Athos of the Gascon’s uneasiness.

“We have no time now for suspicions,” said Athos. “The boat is waiting for us; come.”

“Besides,” said Aramis, “what prevents our being distrustful and going aboard at the same time? We can watch the skipper.”

“And if he doesn’t go straight I will crush him, that’s all.”

“Well said, Porthos,” replied D’Artagnan. “Let us go, then. You first, Mousqueton,” and he stopped his friends, directing the valets to go first, in order to test the plank leading from the pier to the boat.

The three valets passed without accident. Athos followed them, then Porthos, then Aramis. D’Artagnan went last, still shaking his head.

“What in the devil is the matter with you, my friend?” said Porthos. “Upon my word you would make Cæsar afraid.”

“The matter is,” replied D’Artagnan, “that I can see upon this pier neither inspector nor sentinel nor exciseman.”

“And you complain of that!” said Porthos. “Everything goes as if in flowery paths.”

“Everything goes too well, Porthos. But no matter; we must trust in God.”

As soon as the plank was withdrawn the captain took his place at the tiller and made a sign to one of the sailors, who, boat-hook in hand, began to push out from the labyrinth of boats in which they were involved. The other sailor had already seated himself on the port side and was ready to row. As soon as there was room for rowing, his companion rejoined him and the boat began to move more rapidly.

“At last we are off!” exclaimed Porthos.

“Alas,” said Athos, “we depart alone.”

“Yes; but all four together and without a scratch; which is a consolation.”

“We are not yet at our destination,” observed the prudent D’Artagnan; “beware of misadventure.”

“Ah, my friend!” cried Porthos, “like the crows, you always bring bad omens. Who could intercept us on such a night as this, pitch dark, when one does not see more than twenty yards before one?”

“Yes, but to-morrow morning——”

“To-morrow we shall be at Boulogne.”

“I hope so, with all my heart,” said the Gascon, “and I confess my weakness. Yes, Athos, you may laugh, but as long as we were within gunshot of the pier or of the vessels lying by it I was looking for a frightful discharge of musketry which would crush us.”

“But,” said Porthos, with great wisdom, “that was impossible, for they would have killed the captain and the sailors.”

“Bah! much Monsieur Mordaunt would care. You don’t imagine he would consider a little thing like that?”

“At any rate,” said Porthos, “I am glad to hear D’Artagnan admit that he is afraid.”

“I not only confess it, but am proud of it,” returned the Gascon; “I’m not such a rhinoceros as you are. Oho! what’s that?”

“The Lightning,” answered the captain, “our felucca.”

“So far, so good,” laughed Athos.

They went on board and the captain instantly conducted them to the berth prepared for them—a cabin which was to serve for all purposes and for the whole party; he then tried to slip away under pretext of giving orders to some one.

“Stop a moment,” cried D’Artagnan; “pray how many men have you on board, captain?”

“I don’t understand,” was the reply.

“Explain it, Athos.”

Groslow, on the question being interpreted, answered, “Three, without counting myself.”

D’Artagnan understood, for while replying the captain had raised three fingers. “Oh!” he exclaimed, “I begin to be more at my ease, however, whilst you settle yourselves, I shall make the round of the boat.”

“As for me,” said Porthos, “I will see to the supper.”

“A very good idea, Porthos,” said the Gascon. “Athos lend me Grimaud, who in the society of his friend Parry has perhaps picked up a little English, and can act as my interpreter.”

“Go, Grimaud,” said Athos.

D’Artagnan, finding a lantern on the deck, took it up and with a pistol in his hand he said to the captain, in English, “Come,” (being, with the classic English oath, the only English words he knew), and so saying he descended to the lower deck.

This was divided into three compartments—one which was covered by the floor of that room in which Athos, Porthos and Aramis were to pass the night; the second was to serve as the sleeping-room for the servants, the third, under the prow of the ship, was under the temporary cabin in which Mordaunt was concealed.

“Oho!” cried D’Artagnan, as he went down the steps of the hatchway, preceded by the lantern, “what a number of barrels! one would think one was in the cave of Ali Baba. What is there in them?” he added, putting his lantern on one of the casks.

The captain seemed inclined to go upon deck again, but controlling himself he answered:

“Port wine.”

“Ah! port wine! ’tis a comfort,” said the Gascon, “since we shall not die of thirst. Are they all full?”

Grimaud translated the question, and Groslow, who was wiping the perspiration from off his forehead, answered:

“Some full, others empty.”

D’Artagnan struck the barrels with his hand, and having ascertained that he spoke the truth, pushed his lantern, greatly to the captain’s alarm, into the interstices between the barrels, and finding that there was nothing concealed in them:

“Come along,” he said; and he went toward the door of the second compartment.

“Stop!” said the Englishman, “I have the key of that door;” and he opened the door, with a trembling hand, into the second compartment, where Mousqueton and Blaisois were preparing supper.

Here there was evidently nothing to seek or to apprehend and they passed rapidly to examine the third compartment.

This was the room appropriated to the sailors. Two or three hammocks hung upon the ceiling, a table and two benches composed the entire furniture. D’Artagnan picked up two or three old sails hung on the walls, and meeting nothing to suspect, regained by the hatchway the deck of the vessel.

“And this room?” he asked, pointing to the captain’s cabin.

“That’s my room,” replied Groslow.

“Open the door.”

The captain obeyed. D’Artagnan stretched out his arm in which he held the lantern, put his head in at the half opened door, and seeing that the cabin was nothing better than a shed:

“Good,” he said. “If there is an army on board it is not here that it is hidden. Let us see what Porthos has found for supper.” And thanking the captain, he regained the state cabin, where his friends were.

Porthos had found nothing, and with him fatigue had prevailed over hunger. He had fallen asleep and was in a profound slumber when D’Artagnan returned. Athos and Aramis were beginning to close their eyes, which they half opened when their companion came in again.

“Well!” said Aramis.

“All is well; we may sleep tranquilly.”

On this assurance the two friends fell asleep; and D’Artagnan, who was very weary, bade good-night to Grimaud and laid himself down in his cloak, with naked sword at his side, in such a manner that his body barricaded the passage, and it should be impossible to enter the room without upsetting him.

LXXI. Port Wine

In ten minutes the masters slept; not so the servants—-hungry, and more thirsty than hungry.

Blaisois and Mousqueton set themselves to preparing their bed which consisted of a plank and a valise. On a hanging table, which swung to and fro with the rolling of the vessel, were a pot of beer and three glasses.

“This cursed rolling!” said Blaisois. “I know it will serve me as it did when we came over.”

“And to think,” said Mousqueton, “that we have nothing to fight seasickness with but barley bread and hop beer. Pah!”

“But where is your wicker flask, Monsieur Mousqueton? Have you lost it?” asked Blaisois.

“No,” replied Mousqueton, “Parry kept it. Those devilish Scotchmen are always thirsty. And you, Grimaud,” he said to his companion, who had just come in after his round with D’Artagnan, “are you thirsty?”

“As thirsty as a Scotchman!” was Grimaud’s laconic reply.

And he sat down and began to cast up the accounts of his party, whose money he managed.

“Oh, lackadaisy! I’m beginning to feel queer!” cried Blaisois.

“If that’s the case,” said Mousqueton, with a learned air, “take some nourishment.”

“Do you call that nourishment?” said Blaisois, pointing to the barley bread and pot of beer upon the table.

“Blaisois,” replied Mousqueton, “remember that bread is the true nourishment of a Frenchman, who is not always able to get bread, ask Grimaud.”

“Yes, but beer?” asked Blaisois sharply, “is that their true drink?”

“As to that,” answered Mousqueton, puzzled how to get out of the difficulty, “I must confess that to me beer is as disagreeable as wine is to the English.”

“What! Monsieur Mousqueton! The English—do they dislike wine?”

“They hate it.”

“But I have seen them drink it.”

“As a punishment. For example, an English prince died one day because they had put him into a butt of Malmsey. I heard the Chevalier d’Herblay say so.”

“The fool!” cried Blaisois, “I wish I had been in his place.”

“Thou canst be,” said Grimaud, writing down his figures.

“How?” asked Blaisois, “I can? Explain yourself.”

Grimaud went on with his sum and cast up the whole.

“Port,” he said, extending his hand in the direction of the first compartment examined by D’Artagnan and himself.

“Eh? eh? ah? Those barrels I saw through the door?”

“Port!” replied Grimaud, beginning a fresh sum.

“I have heard,” said Blaisois, “that port is a very good wine.”

“Excellent!” exclaimed Mousqueton, smacking his lips. “Excellent; there is port wine in the cellar of Monsieur le Baron de Bracieux.”

“Suppose we ask these Englishmen to sell us a bottle,” said the honest Blaisois.

“Sell!” cried Mousqueton, about whom there was a remnant of his ancient marauding character left. “One may well perceive, young man, that you are inexperienced. Why buy what one can take?”

“Take!” said Blaisois; “covet the goods of your neighbor? That is forbidden, it seems to me.”

“Where forbidden?” asked Mousqueton.

“In the commandments of God, or of the church, I don’t know which. I only know it says, ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s goods, nor yet his wife.’”

“That is a child’s reason, Monsieur Blaisois,” said Mousqueton in his most patronizing manner. “Yes, you talk like a child—I repeat the word. Where have you read in the Scriptures, I ask you, that the English are your neighbors?”

“Where, that is true,” said Blaisois; “at least, I can’t now recall it.”

“A child’s reason—I repeat it,” continued Mousqueton. “If you had been ten years engaged in war, as Grimaud and I have been, my dear Blaisois, you would know the difference there is between the goods of others and the goods of enemies. Now an Englishman is an enemy; this port wine belongs to the English, therefore it belongs to us.”

“And our masters?” asked Blaisois, stupefied by this harangue, delivered with an air of profound sagacity, “will they be of your opinion?”

Mousqueton smiled disdainfully.

“I suppose that you think it necessary that I should disturb the repose of these illustrious lords to say, ‘Gentlemen, your servant, Mousqueton, is thirsty.’ What does Monsieur Bracieux care, think you, whether I am thirsty or not?”

“’Tis a very expensive wine,” said Blaisois, shaking his head.

“Were it liquid gold, Monsieur Blaisois, our masters would not deny themselves this wine. Know that Monsieur de Bracieux is rich enough to drink a tun of port wine, even if obliged to pay a pistole for every drop.” His manner became more and more lofty every instant; then he arose and after finishing off the beer at one draught he advanced majestically to the door of the compartment where the wine was. “Ah! locked!” he exclaimed; “these devils of English, how suspicious they are!”

“Locked!” said Blaisois; “ah! the deuce it is; unlucky, for my stomach is getting more and more upset.”

“Locked!” repeated Mousqueton.

“But,” Blaisois ventured to say, “I have heard you relate, Monsieur Mousqueton, that once on a time, at Chantilly, you fed your master and yourself by taking partridges in a snare, carp with a line, and bottles with a slipnoose.”

“Perfectly true; but there was an airhole in the cellar and the wine was in bottles. I cannot throw the loop through this partition nor move with a pack-thread a cask of wine which may perhaps weigh two hundred pounds.”

“No, but you can take out two or three boards of the partition,” answered Blaisois, “and make a hole in the cask with a gimlet.”

Mousqueton opened his great round eyes to the utmost, astonished to find in Blaisois qualities for which he did not give him credit.

“’Tis true,” he said; “but where can I get a chisel to take the planks out, a gimlet to pierce the cask?”

“Trousers,” said Grimaud, still squaring his accounts.

“Ah, yes!” said Mousqueton.

Grimaud, in fact, was not only the accountant, but the armorer of the party; and as he was a man full of forethought, these trousers, carefully rolled up in his valise, contained every sort of tool for immediate use.

Mousqueton, therefore, was soon provided with tools and he began his task. In a few minutes he had extracted three boards. He tried to pass his body through the aperture, but not being like the frog in the fable, who thought he was larger than he really was, he found he must take out three or four more before he could get through.

He sighed and set to work again.

Grimaud had now finished his accounts. He arose and stood near Mousqueton.

“I,” he said.

“What?” said Mousqueton.

“I can pass.”

“That is true,” said Mousqueton, glancing at his friend’s long and thin body, “you will pass easily.”

“And he knows the full casks,” said Blaisois, “for he has already been in the hold with Monsieur le Chevalier d’Artagnan. Let Monsieur Grimaud go in, Monsieur Mouston.”

“I could go in as well as Grimaud,” said Mousqueton, a little piqued.

“Yes, but that would take too much time and I am thirsty. I am getting more and more seasick.”

“Go in, then, Grimaud,” said Mousqueton, handing him the beer pot and gimlet.

“Rinse the glasses,” said Grimaud. Then with a friendly gesture toward Mousqueton, that he might forgive him for finishing an enterprise so brilliantly begun by another, he glided like a serpent through the opening and disappeared.

Blaisois was in a state of great excitement; he was in ecstasies. Of all the exploits performed since their arrival in England by the extraordinary men with whom he had the honor to be associated, this seemed without question to be the most wonderful.

“You are about to see,” said Mousqueton, looking at Blaisois with an expression of superiority which the latter did not even think of questioning, “you are about to see, Blaisois, how we old soldiers drink when we are thirsty.”

“My cloak,” said Grimaud, from the bottom of the hold.

“What do you want?” asked Blaisois.

“My cloak—stop up the aperture with it.”

“Why?” asked Blaisois.

“Simpleton!” exclaimed Mousqueton; “suppose any one came into the room.”

“Ah, true,” cried Blaisois, with evident admiration; “but it will be dark in the cellar.”

“Grimaud always sees, dark or light, night as well as day,” answered Mousqueton.

“That is lucky,” said Blaisois. “As for me, when I have no candle I can’t take two steps without knocking against something.”

“That’s because you haven’t served,” said Mousqueton. “Had you been in the army you would have been able to pick up a needle on the floor of a closed oven. But hark! I think some one is coming.”

Mousqueton made, with a low whistling sound, the sign of alarm well known to the lackeys in the days of their youth, resumed his place at the table and made a sign to Blaisois to follow his example.

Blaisois obeyed.

The door of their cabin was opened. Two men, wrapped in their cloaks, appeared.

“Oho!” said they, “not in bed at a quarter past eleven. That’s against all rules. In a quarter of an hour let every one be in bed and snoring.”

These two men then went toward the compartment in which Grimaud was secreted; opened the door, entered and shut it after them.

“Ah!” cried Blaisois, “he is lost!”

“Grimaud’s a cunning fellow,” murmured Mousqueton.

They waited for ten minutes, during which time no noise was heard that might indicate that Grimaud was discovered, and at the expiration of that anxious interval the two men returned, closed the door after them, and repeating their orders that the servants should go to bed and extinguish their lights, disappeared.

“Shall we obey?” asked Blaisois. “All this looks suspicious.”

“They said a quarter of an hour. We still have five minutes,” replied Mousqueton.

“Suppose we warn the masters.”

“Let’s wait for Grimaud.”

“But perhaps they have killed him.”

“Grimaud would have cried out.”

“You know he is almost dumb.”

“We should have heard the blow, then.”

“But if he doesn’t return?”

“Here he is.”

At that very moment Grimaud drew back the cloak which hid the aperture and came in with his face livid, his eyes staring wide open with terror, so that the pupils were contracted almost to nothing, with a large circle of white around them. He held in his hand a tankard full of a dark substance, and approaching the gleam of light shed by the lamp he uttered this single monosyllable: “Oh!” with such an expression of extreme terror that Mousqueton started, alarmed, and Blaisois was near fainting from fright.

Both, however, cast an inquisitive glance into the tankard—it was full of gunpowder.

Convinced that the ship was full of powder instead of having a cargo of wine, Grimaud hastened to awake D’Artagnan, who had no sooner beheld him than he perceived that something extraordinary had taken place. Imposing silence, Grimaud put out the little night lamp, then knelt down and poured into the lieutenant’s ear a recital melodramatic enough not to require play of feature to give it pith.

This was the gist of his strange story:

The first barrel that Grimaud had found on passing into the compartment he struck—it was empty. He passed on to another—it, also, was empty, but the third which he tried was, from the dull sound it gave out, evidently full. At this point Grimaud stopped and was preparing to make a hole with his gimlet, when he found a spigot; he therefore placed his tankard under it and turned the spout; something, whatever it was the cask contained, fell silently into the tankard.

Whilst he was thinking that he should first taste the liquor which the tankard contained before taking it to his companions, the door of the cellar opened and a man with a lantern in his hands and enveloped in a cloak, came and stood just before the hogshead, behind which Grimaud, on hearing him come in, instantly crept. This was Groslow. He was accompanied by another man, who carried in his hand something long and flexible rolled up, resembling a washing line. His face was hidden under the wide brim of his hat. Grimaud, thinking that they had come, as he had, to try the port wine, effaced himself behind his cask and consoled himself with the reflection that if he were discovered the crime was not a great one.

“Have you the wick?” asked the one who carried the lantern.

“Here it is,” answered the other.

At the voice of this last speaker, Grimaud started and felt a shudder creeping through his very marrow. He rose gently, so that his head was just above the round of the barrel, and under the large hat he recognized the pale face of Mordaunt.

“How long will this fuse burn?” asked this person.

“About five minutes,” replied the captain.

That voice also was known to Grimaud. He looked from one to the other and after Mordaunt he recognized Groslow.

“Then tell the men to be in readiness—don’t tell them why now. When the clock strikes a quarter after midnight collect your men. Get down into the longboat.”

“That is, when I have lighted the match?”

“I will undertake that. I wish to be sure of my revenge. Are the oars in the boat?”

“Everything is ready.”

“’Tis well.”

Mordaunt knelt down and fastened one end of the train to the spigot, in order that he might have nothing to do but to set it on fire at the opposite end with the match.

He then arose.

“You hear me—at a quarter past midnight—in fact, in twenty minutes.”

“I understand all perfectly, sir,” replied Groslow; “but allow me to say there is great danger in what you undertake; would it not be better to intrust one of the men to set fire to the train?”

“My dear Groslow,” answered Mordaunt, “you know the French proverb, ‘Nothing one does not do one’s self is ever well done.’ I shall abide by that rule.”

Grimaud had heard all this, if he had not understood it. But what he saw made good what he lacked in perfect comprehension of the language. He had seen the two mortal enemies of the musketeers, had seen Mordaunt adjust the fuse; he had heard the proverb, which Mordaunt had given in French. Then he felt and felt again the contents of the tankard he held in his hand; and, instead of the lively liquor expected by Blaisois and Mousqueton, he found beneath his fingers the grains of some coarse powder.

Mordaunt went away with the captain. At the door he stopped to listen.

“Do you hear how they sleep?” he asked.

In fact, Porthos could be heard snoring through the partition.

“’Tis God who gives them into our hands,” answered Groslow.

“This time the devil himself shall not save them,” rejoined Mordaunt.

And they went out together.

LXXII. End of the Port Wine Mystery

Grimaud waited till he heard the bolt grind in the lock and when he was satisfied that he was alone he slowly rose from his recumbent posture.

“Ah!” he said, wiping with his sleeve large drops of sweat from his forehead, “how lucky it was that Mousqueton was thirsty!”

He made haste to pass out by the opening, still thinking himself in a dream; but the sight of the gunpowder in the tankard proved to him that his dream was a fatal nightmare.

It may be imagined that D’Artagnan listened to these details with increasing interest; before Grimaud had finished he rose without noise and putting his mouth to Aramis’s ear, and at the same time touching him on the shoulder to prevent a sudden movement:

“Chevalier,” he said, “get up and don’t make the least noise.”

Aramis awoke. D’Artagnan, pressing his hand, repeated his call. Aramis obeyed.

“Athos is near you,” said D’Artagnan; “warn him as I have warned you.”

Aramis easily aroused Athos, whose sleep was light, like that of all persons of a finely organized constitution. But there was more difficulty in arousing Porthos. He was beginning to ask full explanation of that breaking in on his sleep, which was very annoying to him, when D’Artagnan, instead of explaining, closed his mouth with his hand.

Then our Gascon, extending his arms, drew to him the heads of his three friends till they almost touched one another.

“Friends,” he said, “we must leave this craft at once or we are dead men.”

“Bah!” said Athos, “are you still afraid?”

“Do you know who is captain of this vessel?”

“No.”

“Captain Groslow.”

The shudder of the three musketeers showed to D’Artagnan that his words began to make some impression on them.

“Groslow!” said Aramis; “the devil!

“Who is this Groslow?” asked Porthos. “I don’t remember him.”

“Groslow is the man who broke Parry’s head and is now getting ready to break ours.”

“Oh! oh!”

“And do you know who is his lieutenant?”

“His lieutenant? There is none,” said Athos. “They don’t have lieutenants in a felucca manned by a crew of four.”

“Yes, but Monsieur Groslow is not a captain of the ordinary kind; he has a lieutenant, and that lieutenant is Monsieur Mordaunt.”

This time the musketeers did more than shudder—they almost cried out. Those invincible men were subject to a mysterious and fatal influence which that name had over them; the mere sound of it filled them with terror.

“What shall we do?” said Athos.

“We must seize the felucca,” said Aramis.

“And kill him,” said Porthos.

“The felucca is mined,” said D’Artagnan. “Those casks which I took for casks of port wine are filled with powder. When Mordaunt finds himself discovered he will destroy all, friends and foes; and on my word he would be bad company in going either to Heaven or to hell.”

“You have some plan, then?” asked Athos.

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“Have you confidence in me?”

“Give your orders,” said the three musketeers.

“Very well; come this way.”

D’Artagnan went toward a very small, low window, just large enough to let a man through. He turned it gently on its hinges.

“There,” he said, “is our road.”

“The deuce! it is a very cold one, my dear friend,” said Aramis.

“Stay here, if you like, but I warn you ’twill be rather too warm presently.”

“But we cannot swim to the shore.”

“The longboat is yonder, lashed to the felucca. We will take possession of it and cut the cable. Come, my friends.”

“A moment’s delay,” said Athos; “our servants?”

“Here we are!” they cried.

Meantime the three friends were standing motionless before the awful sight which D’Artagnan, in raising the shutters, had disclosed to them through the narrow opening of the window.

Those who have once beheld such a spectacle know that there is nothing more solemn, more striking, than the raging sea, rolling, with its deafening roar, its dark billows beneath the pale light of a wintry moon.

“Gracious Heaven, we are hesitating!” cried D’Artagnan; “if we hesitate what will the servants do?”

“I do not hesitate, you know,” said Grimaud.

“Sir,” interposed Blaisois, “I warn you that I can only swim in rivers.”

“And I not at all,” said Mousqueton.

But D’Artagnan had now slipped through the window.

“You have decided, friend?” said Athos.

“Yes,” the Gascon answered; “Athos! you, who are a perfect being, bid spirit triumph over body. Do you, Aramis, order the servants. Porthos, kill every one who stands in your way.”

And after pressing the hand of Athos, D’Artagnan chose a moment when the ship rolled backward, so that he had only to plunge into the water, which was already up to his waist.

Athos followed him before the felucca rose again on the waves; the cable which tied the boat to the vessel was then seen plainly rising out of the sea.

D’Artagnan swam to it and held it, suspending himself by this rope, his head alone out of water.

In one second Athos joined him.

Then they saw, as the felucca turned, two other heads peeping, those of Aramis and Grimaud.

“I am uneasy about Blaisois,” said Athos; “he can, he says, only swim in rivers.”

“When people can swim at all they can swim anywhere. To the boat! to the boat!”

“But Porthos, I do not see him.”

“Porthos is coming—he swims like Leviathan.”

In fact, Porthos did not appear; for a scene, half tragedy and half comedy, had been performed by him with Mousqueton and Blaisois, who, frightened by the noise of the sea, by the whistling of the wind, by the sight of that dark water yawning like a gulf beneath them, shrank back instead of going forward.

“Come, come!” said Porthos; “jump in.”

“But, monsieur,” said Mousqueton, “I can’t swim; let me stay here.”

“And me, too, monsieur,” said Blaisois.

“I assure you, I shall be very much in the way in that little boat,” said Mousqueton.

“And I know I shall drown before reaching it,” continued Blaisois.

“Come along! I shall strangle you both if you don’t get out,” said Porthos at last, seizing Mousqueton by the throat. “Forward, Blaisois!”

A groan, stifled by the grasp of Porthos, was all the reply of poor Blaisois, for the giant, taking him neck and heels, plunged him into the water headforemost, pushing him out of the window as if he had been a plank.

“Now, Mousqueton,” he said, “I hope you don’t mean to desert your master?”

“Ah, sir,” replied Mousqueton, his eyes filling with tears, “why did you re-enter the army? We were all so happy in the Château de Pierrefonds!”

And without any other complaint, passive and obedient, either from true devotion to his master or from the example set by Blaisois, Mousqueton leaped into the sea headforemost. A sublime action, at all events, for Mousqueton looked upon himself as dead. But Porthos was not a man to abandon an old servant, and when Mousqueton rose above the water, blind as a new-born puppy, he found he was supported by the large hand of Porthos and that he was thus enabled, without having occasion even to move, to advance toward the cable with the dignity of a very triton.

In a few minutes Porthos had rejoined his companions, who were already in the boat; but when, after they had all got in, it came to his turn, there was great danger that in putting his huge leg over the edge of the boat he would upset the little vessel. Athos was the last to enter.

“Are you all here?” he asked.

“Ah! have you your sword, Athos?” cried D’Artagnan.

“Yes.”

“Cut the cable, then.”

Athos drew a sharp poniard from his belt and cut the cord. The felucca went on, the boat continued stationary, rocked only by the swashing waves.

“Come, Athos!” said D’Artagnan, giving his hand to the count; “you are going to see something curious,” added the Gascon.

LXIII. Fatality

Scarcely had D’Artagnan uttered these words when a ringing and sudden noise was heard resounding through the felucca, which had now become dim in the obscurity of the night.

“That, you may be sure,” said the Gascon, “means something.”

They then at the same instant perceived a large lantern carried on a pole appear on the deck, defining the forms of shadows behind it.

Suddenly a terrible cry, a cry of despair, was wafted through space; and as if the shrieks of anguish had driven away the clouds, the veil which hid the moon was cleated away and the gray sails and dark shrouds of the felucca were plainly visible beneath the silvery light.

Shadows ran, as if bewildered, to and fro on the vessel, and mournful cries accompanied these delirious walkers. In the midst of these screams they saw Mordaunt upon the poop with a torch in hand.

The agitated figures, apparently wild with terror, consisted of Groslow, who at the hour fixed by Mordaunt had collected his men and the sailors. Mordaunt, after having listened at the door of the cabin to hear if the musketeers were still asleep, had gone down into the cellar, convinced by their silence that they were all in a deep slumber. Then he had run to the train, impetuous as a man who is excited by revenge, and full of confidence, as are those whom God blinds, he had set fire to the wick of nitre.

All this while Groslow and his men were assembled on deck.

“Haul up the cable and draw the boat to us,” said Groslow.

One of the sailors got down the side of the ship, seized the cable, and drew it; it came without the least resistance.

“The cable is cut!” he cried, “no boat!”

“How! no boat!” exclaimed Groslow; “it is impossible.”

“’Tis true, however,” answered the sailor; “there’s nothing in the wake of the ship; besides, here’s the end of the cable.”

“What’s the matter?” cried Mordaunt, who, coming up out of the hatchway, rushed to the stern, waving his torch.

“Only that our enemies have escaped; they have cut the cord and gone off with the boat.”

Mordaunt bounded with one step to the cabin and kicked open the door.

“Empty!” he exclaimed; “the infernal demons!”

“We must pursue them,” said Groslow, “they can’t be gone far, and we will sink them, passing over them.”

“Yes, but the fire,” ejaculated Mordaunt; “I have lighted it.”

“Ten thousand devils!” cried Groslow, rushing to the hatchway; “perhaps there is still time to save us.”

Mordaunt answered only by a terrible laugh, threw his torch into the sea and plunged in after it. The instant Groslow put his foot upon the hatchway steps the ship opened like the crater of a volcano. A burst of flame rose toward the skies with an explosion like that of a hundred cannon; the air burned, ignited by flaming embers, then the frightful lightning disappeared, the brands sank, one after another, into the abyss, where they were extinguished, and save for a slight vibration in the air, after a few minutes had elapsed one would have thought that nothing had happened.

Only—the felucca had disappeared from the surface of the sea and Groslow and his three sailors were consumed.

The four friends saw all this—not a single detail of this fearful scene escaped them. At one moment, bathed as they were in a flood of brilliant light, which illumined the sea for the space of a league, they might each be seen, each by his own peculiar attitude and manner expressing the awe which, even in their hearts of bronze, they could not help experiencing. Soon a torrent of vivid sparks fell around them—then, at last, the volcano was extinguished—then all was dark and still—the floating bark and heaving ocean.

They sat silent and dejected.

“By Heaven!” at last said Athos, the first to speak, “by this time, I think, all must be over.”

“Here, my lords! save me! help!” cried a voice, whose mournful accents, reaching the four friends, seemed to proceed from some phantom of the ocean.

All looked around; Athos himself stared.

“’Tis he! it is his voice!”

All still remained silent, the eyes of all were turned in the direction where the vessel had disappeared, endeavoring in vain to penetrate the darkness. After a minute or two they were able to distinguish a man, who approached them, swimming vigorously.

Athos extended his arm toward him, pointing him out to his companions.

“Yes, yes, I see him well enough,” said D’Artagnan.

“He—again!” cried Porthos, who was breathing like a blacksmith’s bellows; “why, he is made of iron.”

“Oh, my God!” muttered Athos.

Aramis and D’Artagnan whispered to each other.

Mordaunt made several strokes more, and raising his arm in sign of distress above the waves: “Pity, pity on me, gentlemen, in Heaven’s name! my strength is failing me; I am dying.”

The voice that implored aid was so piteous that it awakened pity in the heart of Athos.

“Poor fellow!” he exclaimed.

“Indeed!” said D’Artagnan, “monsters have only to complain to gain your sympathy. I believe he’s swimming toward us. Does he think we are going to take him in? Row, Porthos, row.” And setting the example he plowed his oar into the sea; two strokes took the bark on twenty fathoms further.

“Oh! you will not abandon me! You will not leave me to perish! You will not be pitiless!” cried Mordaunt.

“Ah! ah!” said Porthos to Mordaunt, “I think we have you now, my hero! and there are no doors by which you can escape this time but those of hell.”

“Oh! Porthos!” murmured the Comte de la Fère.

“Oh, pray, for mercy’s sake, don’t fly from me. For pity’s sake!” cried the young man, whose agony-drawn breath at times, when his head went under water, under the wave, exhaled and made the icy waters bubble.

D’Artagnan, however, who had consulted with Aramis, spoke to the poor wretch. “Go away,” he said; “your repentance is too recent to inspire confidence. See! the vessel in which you wished to fry us is still smoking; and the situation in which you are is a bed of roses compared to that in which you wished to place us and in which you have placed Monsieur Groslow and his companions.”

“Sir!” replied Mordaunt, in a tone of deep despair, “my penitence is sincere. Gentlemen, I am young, scarcely twenty-three years old. I was drawn on by a very natural resentment to avenge my mother. You would have done what I did.”

Mordaunt wanted now only two or three fathoms to reach the boat, for the approach of death seemed to give him supernatural strength.

“Alas!” he said, “I am then to die? You are going to kill the son, as you killed the mother! Surely, if I am culpable and if I ask for pardon, I ought to be forgiven.”

Then, as if his strength failed him, he seemed unable to sustain himself above the water and a wave passed over his head, which drowned his voice.

“Oh! this is torture to me,” cried Athos.

Mordaunt reappeared.

“For my part,” said D’Artagnan, “I say this must come to an end; murderer, as you were, of your uncle! executioner, as you were, of King Charles! incendiary! I recommend you to sink forthwith to the bottom of the sea; and if you come another fathom nearer, I’ll stave your wicked head in with this oar.”

“D’Artagnan! D’Artagnan!” cried Athos, “my son, I entreat you; the wretch is dying, and it is horrible to let a man die without extending a hand to save him. I cannot resist doing so; he must live.”

“Zounds!” replied D’Artagnan, “why don’t you give yourself up directly, feet and hands bound, to that wretch? Ah! Comte de la Fère, you wish to perish by his hands! I, your son, as you call me—I will not let you!”

’Twas the first time D’Artagnan had ever refused a request from Athos.

Aramis calmly drew his sword, which he had carried between his teeth as he swam.

“If he lays his hand on the boat’s edge I will cut it off, regicide that he is.”

“And I,” said Porthos. “Wait.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Aramis.

“Throw myself in the water and strangle him.”

“Oh, gentlemen!” cried Athos, “be men! be Christians! See! death is depicted on his face! Ah! do not bring on me the horrors of remorse! Grant me this poor wretch’s life. I will bless you—I——”

“I am dying!” cried Mordaunt, “come to me! come to me!”

D’Artagnan began to be touched. The boat at this moment turned around, and the dying man was by that turn brought nearer Athos.

“Monsieur the Comte de la Fère,” he cried, “I supplicate you! pity me! I call on you—where are you? I see you no longer—I am dying—help me! help me!”

“Here I am, sir!” said Athos, leaning and stretching out his arm to Mordaunt with that air of dignity and nobility of soul habitual to him; “here I am, take my hand and jump into our boat.”

Mordaunt made a last effort—rose—seized the hand thus extended to him and grasped it with the vehemence of despair.

“That’s right,” said Athos; “put your other hand here.” And he offered him his shoulder as another stay and support, so that his head almost touched that of Mordaunt; and these two mortal enemies were in as close an embrace as if they had been brothers.

“Now, sir,” said the count, “you are safe—calm yourself.”

“Ah! my mother,” cried Mordaunt, with eyes on fire with a look of hate impossible to paint, “I can only offer thee one victim, but it shall at any rate be the one thou wouldst thyself have chosen!”

And whilst D’Artagnan uttered a cry, Porthos raised the oar, and Aramis sought a place to strike, a frightful shake given to the boat precipitated Athos into the sea; whilst Mordaunt, with a shout of triumph, grasped the neck of his victim, and in order to paralyze his movements, twined arms and legs around the musketeer. For an instant, without an exclamation, without a cry for help, Athos tried to sustain himself on the surface of the waters, but the weight dragged him down; he disappeared by degrees; soon nothing was to be seen except his long, floating hair; then both men disappeared and the bubbling of the water, which, in its turn, was soon effaced, alone indicated the spot where these two had sunk.

Mute with horror, the three friends had remained open-mouthed, their eyes dilated, their arms extended like statues, and, motionless as they were, the beating of their hearts was audible. Porthos was the first who came to himself. He tore his hair.

“Oh!” he cried, “Athos! Athos! thou man of noble heart; woe is me! I have let thee perish!”

At this instant, in the midst of the silver circle illumined by the light of the moon the same whirlpool which had been made by the sinking men was again obvious, and first were seen, rising above the waves, a wisp of hair, then a pale face with open eyes, yet, nevertheless, the eyes of death; then a body, which, after rising of itself even to the waist above the sea, turned gently on its back, according to the caprice of the waves, and floated.

In the bosom of this corpse was plunged a poniard, the gold hilt of which shone in the moonbeams.

“Mordaunt! Mordaunt!” cried the three friends; “’tis Mordaunt!”

“But Athos!” exclaimed D’Artagnan.

Suddenly the boat leaned on one side beneath a new and unexpected weight and Grimaud uttered a shout of joy; every one turned around and beheld Athos, livid, his eyes dim and his hands trembling, supporting himself on the edge of the boat. Eight vigorous arms lifted him up immediately and laid him in the boat, where directly Athos was warmed and reanimated, reviving with the caresses and cares of his friends, who were intoxicated with joy.

“You are not hurt?” asked D’Artagnan.

“No,” replied Athos; “and he——”

“Oh, he! now we may say at last, thank Heaven! he is really dead. Look!” and D’Artagnan, obliging Athos to look in the direction he pointed, showed him the body of Mordaunt floating on its back, which, sometimes submerged, sometimes rising, seemed still to pursue the four friends with looks of insult and mortal hatred.

At last he sank. Athos had followed him with a glance in which the deepest melancholy and pity were expressed.

“Bravo! Athos!” cried Aramis, with an emotion very rare in him.

“A capital blow you gave!” cried Porthos.

“I have a son. I wished to live,” said Athos.

“In short,” said D’Artagnan, “this has been the will of God.”

“It was not I who killed him,” said Athos in a soft, low tone, “’twas destiny.”

LXIV. How Mousqueton had a Narrow Escape of being eaten

A deep silence reigned for a long time in the boat after the fearful scene described.

The moon, which had shone for a short time, disappeared behind the clouds; every object was again plunged in the obscurity that is so awful in the deserts and still more so in that liquid desert, the ocean, and nothing was heard save the whistling of the west wind driving along the tops of the crested billows.

Porthos was the first to speak.

“I have seen,” he said, “many dreadful things, but nothing that ever agitated me so much as what I have just witnessed. Nevertheless, even in my present state of perturbation, I protest that I feel happy. I have a hundred pounds’ weight less upon my chest. I breathe more freely.” In fact, Porthos breathed so loud as to do credit to the free play of his powerful lungs.

“For my part,” observed Aramis, “I cannot say the same as you do, Porthos. I am still terrified to such a degree that I scarcely believe my eyes. I look around the boat, expecting every moment to see that poor wretch holding between his hands the poniard plunged into his heart.”

“Oh! I feel easy,” replied Porthos. “The poniard was pointed at the sixth rib and buried up to the hilt in his body. I do not reproach you, Athos, for what you have done. On the contrary, when one aims a blow that is the regulation way to strike. So now, I breathe again—I am happy!”

“Don’t be in haste to celebrate a victory, Porthos,” interposed D’Artagnan; “never have we incurred a greater danger than we are now encountering. Men may subdue men—they cannot overcome the elements. We are now on the sea, at night, without any pilot, in a frail bark; should a blast of wind upset the boat we are lost.”

Mousqueton heaved a deep sigh.

“You are ungrateful, D’Artagnan,” said Athos; “yes, ungrateful to Providence, to whom we owe our safety in the most miraculous manner. Let us sail before the wind, and unless it changes we shall be drifted either to Calais or Boulogne. Should our bark be upset we are five of us good swimmers, able enough to turn it over again, or if not, to hold on by it. Now we are on the very road which all the vessels between Dover and Calais take, ’tis impossible but that we should meet with a fisherman who will pick us up.”

“But should we not find any fisherman and should the wind shift to the north?”

“That,” said Athos, “would be quite another thing; and we should nevermore see land until we were upon the other side of the Atlantic.”

“Which implies that we may die of hunger,” said Aramis.

“’Tis more than possible,” answered the Comte de la Fère.

Mousqueton sighed again, more deeply than before.

“What is the matter? what ails you?” asked Porthos.

“I am cold, sir,” said Mousqueton.

“Impossible! your body is covered with a coating of fat which preserves it from the cold air.”

“Ah! sir, ’tis this very coating of fat that makes me shiver.”

“How is that, Mousqueton?

“Alas! your honor, in the library of the Château of Bracieux there are a lot of books of travels.”

“What then?”

“Amongst them the voyages of Jean Mocquet in the time of Henry IV.”

“Well?”

“In these books, your honor, ’tis told how hungry voyagers, drifting out to sea, have a bad habit of eating each other and beginning with——”

“The fattest among them!” cried D’Artagnan, unable in spite of the gravity of the occasion to help laughing.

“Yes, sir,” answered Mousqueton; “but permit me to say I see nothing laughable in it. However,” he added, turning to Porthos, “I should not regret dying, sir, were I sure that by doing so I might still be useful to you.”

“Mouston,” replied Porthos, much affected, “should we ever see my castle of Pierrefonds again you shall have as your own and for your descendants the vineyard that surrounds the farm.”

“And you should call it ‘Devotion,’” added Aramis; “the vineyard of self-sacrifice, to transmit to latest ages the recollection of your devotion to your master.”

“Chevalier,” said D’Artagnan, laughing, “you could eat a piece of Mouston, couldn’t you, especially after two or three days of fasting?”

“Oh, no,” replied Aramis, “I should much prefer Blaisois; we haven’t known him so long.”

One may readily conceive that during these jokes which were intended chiefly to divert Athos from the scene which had just taken place, the servants, with the exception of Grimaud, were not silent. Suddenly Mousqueton uttered a cry of delight, taking from beneath one of the benches a bottle of wine; and on looking more closely in the same place he discovered a dozen similar bottles, bread, and a monster junk of salted beef.

“Oh, sir!” he cried, passing the bottle to Porthos, “we are saved—the bark is supplied with provisions.”

This intelligence restored every one save Athos to gayety.

“Zounds!” exclaimed Porthos, “’tis astonishing how empty violent agitation makes the stomach.”

And he drank off half a bottle at a draught and bit great mouthfuls of the bread and meat.

“Now,” said Athos, “sleep, or try to sleep, my friends, and I will watch.”

In a few moments, notwithstanding their wet clothes, the icy blast that blew and the previous scene of terror, these hardy adventurers, with their iron frames, inured to every hardship, threw themselves down, intending to profit by the advice of Athos, who sat at the helm, pensively wakeful, guiding the little bark the way it was to go, his eyes fixed on the heavens, as if he sought to verify not only the road to France, but the benign aspect of protecting Providence. After some hours of repose the sleepers were aroused by Athos.

Dawn was shedding its pallid, placid glimmer on the purple ocean, when at the distance of a musket shot from them was seen a dark gray mass, above which gleamed a triangular sail; then masters and servants joined in a fervent cry to the crew of that vessel to hear them and to save.

“A bark!” all cried together.

It was, in fact, a small craft from Dunkirk bound for Boulogne.

A quarter of an hour afterward the rowboat of this craft took them all aboard. Grimaud tendered twenty guineas to the captain, and at nine o’clock in the morning, having a fair wind, our Frenchmen set foot on their native land.

“Egad! how strong one feels here!” said Porthos, almost burying his large feet in the sands. “Zounds! I could defy a nation!”

“Be quiet, Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, “we are observed.”

“We are admired, i’faith,” answered Porthos.

“These people who are looking at us are only merchants,” said Athos, “and are looking more at the cargo than at us.”

“I shall not trust to that,” said the lieutenant, “and I shall make for the Dunes* as soon as possible.”

* Sandy hills about Dunkirk, from which it derives its name.

The party followed him and soon disappeared with him behind the hillocks of sand unobserved. Here, after a short conference, they proposed to separate.

“And why separate?” asked Athos.

“Because,” answered the Gascon, “we were sent, Porthos and I, by Cardinal Mazarin to fight for Cromwell; instead of fighting for Cromwell we have served Charles I.—not the same thing by any means. In returning with the Comte de la Fère and Monsieur d’Herblay our crime would be confirmed. We have circumvented Cromwell, Mordaunt, and the sea, but we shall find a certain difficulty in circumventing Mazarin.”

“You forget,” replied Athos, “that we consider ourselves your prisoners and not free from the engagement we entered into.”

“Truly, Athos,” interrupted D’Artagnan, “I am vexed that such a man as you are should talk nonsense which schoolboys would be ashamed of. Chevalier,” he continued, addressing Aramis, who, leaning proudly on his sword, seemed to agree with his companion, “Chevalier, Porthos and I run no risk; besides, should any ill-luck happen to two of us, will it not be much better that the other two should be spared to assist those who may be apprehended? Besides, who knows whether, divided, we may not obtain a pardon—you from the queen, we from Mazarin—which, were we all four together, would never be granted. Come, Athos and Aramis, go to the right; Porthos, come with me to the left; these gentlemen should file off into Normandy, whilst we, by the nearest road, reach Paris.”

He then gave his friends minute directions as to their route.

“Ah! my dear friend,” exclaimed Athos, “how I should admire the resources of your mind did I not stop to adore those of your heart.”

And he gave him his hand.

“Isn’t this fox a genius, Athos?” asked the Gascon. “No! he knows how to crunch fowls, to dodge the huntsman and to find his way home by day or by night, that’s all. Well, is all said?”

“All.”

“Then let’s count our money and divide it. Ah! hurrah! there’s the sun! A merry morning to you, Sunshine. ’Tis a long time since I saw thee!”

“Come, come, D’Artagnan,” said Athos, “do not affect to be strong-minded; there are tears in your eyes. Let us be open with each other and sincere.”

“What!” cried the Gascon, “do you think, Athos, we can take leave, calmly, of two friends at a time not free from danger to you and Aramis?”

“No,” answered Athos; “embrace me, my son.”

“Zounds!” said Porthos, sobbing, “I believe I’m crying; but how foolish all this is!”

Then they embraced. At that moment their fraternal bond of union was closer than ever, and when they parted, each to take the route agreed on, they turned back to utter affectionate expressions, which the echoes of the Dunes repeated. At last they lost sight of each other.

“Sacrebleu! D’Artagnan,” said Porthos, “I must out with it at once, for I can’t keep to myself anything I have against you; I haven’t been able to recognize you in this matter.”

“Why not?” said D’Artagnan, with his wise smile.

“Because if, as you say, Athos and Aramis are in real danger, this is not the time to abandon them. For my part, I confess to you that I was all ready to follow them and am still ready to rejoin them, in spite of all the Mazarins in the world.”

“You would be right, Porthos, but for one thing, which may change the current of your ideas; and that is, that it is not those gentlemen who are in the greatest danger, it is ourselves; it is not to abandon them that we have separated, but to avoid compromising them.”

“Really?” said Porthos, opening his eyes in astonishment.

“Yes, no doubt. If they are arrested they will only be put in the Bastile; if we are arrested it is a matter of the Place de Greve.”

“Oh! oh!” said Porthos, “there is quite a gap between that fate and the baronial coronet you promised me, D’Artagnan.”

“Bah! perhaps not so great as you think, Porthos; you know the proverb, ‘All roads lead to Rome.’”

“But how is it that we are incurring greater risks than Athos and Aramis?” asked Porthos.

“Because they have but fulfilled the mission confided to them by Queen Henrietta and we have betrayed that confided to us by Mazarin; because, going hence as emissaries to Cromwell, we became partisans of King Charles; because, instead of helping cut off the royal head condemned by those fellows called Mazarin, Cromwell, Joyce, Bridge, Fairfax, etc., we very nearly succeeded in saving it.”

“Upon my word that is true,” said Porthos; “but how can you suppose, my dear friend, that in the midst of his great preoccupations General Cromwell has had time to think——”

“Cromwell thinks of everything; Cromwell has time for everything; and believe me, dear friend, we ought not to lose our time—it is precious. We shall not be safe till we have seen Mazarin, and then——”

“The devil!” said Porthos; “what can we say to Mazarin?”

“Leave that to me—I have my plan. He laughs best who laughs last. Cromwell is mighty, Mazarin is tricky, but I would rather have to do with them than with the late Monsieur Mordaunt.”

“Ah!” said Porthos, “it is very pleasant to be able to say ‘the late Monsieur Mordaunt.’”

“My faith, yes,” said D’Artagnan. “But we must be going.”

The two immediately started across country toward the road to Paris, followed by Mousqueton, who, after being too cold all night, at the end of a quarter of an hour found himself too warm.