“I too,” Porthos assured the Gascon. “You may count on me,” Aramis chimed in. “Anyhow I am not sorry to be leaving Paris; I need some distraction.”
“You will have distraction aplenty, gentlemen, you may be sure of that,” D’Artagnan promised.
“When are we to leave?” Athos inquired.
“Immediately; we have not a minute to lose.”
Pandemonium broke loose as the young men summoned their lackeys.
“Ho, Grimaud, my boots, properly polished and set out for me!” Athos cried.
“Planchet, home at once to furbish my equipment!” D’Artagnan commanded.
“Mousqueton, I will give you five minutes to get my gear in shape!” Porthos said in lordly fashion.
“Bazin, you know what to do,” Aramis counseled.
“Fetch up our horses from the stables,” D’Artagnan ordered.
When the lackeys were gone, Porthos asked:
“What is our plan of campaign? Point one: where are we bound for?”
“Calais,” said D’Artagnan. “That is the shortest route to London.”
“No one has asked me for my advice,” Porthos said, “but I will volunteer it. A party of four, setting out together, would attract too much attention. I therefore suggest that D’Artagnan give each of us his instructions. I am willing to go by the Boulogne road to blaze the trail; Athos can leave two hours later on the Amiens road, Aramis can follow us along the Noyon road, and D’Artagnan can do as he sees fit. I think it would be wise for D’Artagnan to join us eventually by whatever route he sees fit. And I do advise him to wear Planchet’s livery while Planchet, disguised as a guardsman, impersonates D’Artagnan.”
“To my way of thinking,” Athos observed, “this matter is not one for lackeys. A gentleman may betray a secret by chance, a lackey invariably sells it!”
“The plan suggested by Porthos seems to me unfeasible,” D’Artagnan commented, “if only because I am myself at a loss to tell you what to do. All I can tell you is this: I have a letter to deliver but I cannot make three copies of it, because it is sealed. Therefore in my opinion we should all travel together. The letter is here, in this pocket.…”
And he tapped his breast.
“If I am killed,” he went on, “one of you must take it and ride on; if he is killed, a third will take his place, and so on. One thing alone matters: the letter must reach its destination.”
“Bravo D’Artagnan, I agree!” said Athos. “We must be logical about all this. I am supposed to go to the spa of Forges; instead, I shall go to the seaside, for I can choose my place of convalescence. If anyone tries to stop us, I have but to show Monsieur de Tréville’s letter, and you, my friends, your furlough orders; if we are attacked, we fight back; if we are sent up for trial, we will swear we were bound for a holiday at the seaside. Four men, each on his own, are too easily destroyed; four men, shoulder to shoulder, form a troop. We will arm our lackeys with pistols and light muskets; if an army is sent out against us, we shall give battle; and as D’Artagnan said, the survivor will deliver the message.…”
“Well spoken, Athos!” Aramis congratulated his friend. “You do not speak often, but when you do, you speak like Saint John of the Golden Mouth. I see eye to eye with Athos and I suggest we adopt his plan. What about it, Porthos?”
“I am with you. Since D’Artagnan bears the letter, he should be in charge of operations. Let him order, we will obey.”
“Very well, I vote for the plan Athos outlined,” D’Artagnan decided. “Let us leave within a half-hour!”
Whereupon four right hands moved toward the money bag, four palms seized seventy-five pistoles each, and four men separated in order to prepare for the forthcoming campaign.
XX
THE JOURNEY
At two in the morning our four adventurers left Paris by the Gate of Saint-Denis. So long as it was night, they exchanged no word, awed as they were by the darkness, and imagining ambushes on every side. But with the first light of dawn their tongues were loosened and with the sun their gaiety revived. It was like on the eve of battle; their hearts throbbed, their eyes danced, and they felt that the life they were perhaps to lose was, after all, a good thing.
The appearance of the caravan was most impressive; their black horses, their martial air, and that squadron training which makes a musketeer’s mount keep in perfect step with his fellows would have betrayed the strictest incognito. The lackeys followed, armed to the teeth.
All went well as far as Chantilly which they reached at eight in the morning. Eager for breakfast, they alighted at an inn under a sign displaying Saint Martin giving half his cloak to a beggar. The lackeys were told to keep the horses saddled and to be ready to set off again immediately.
Our friends entered the common room and sat down. A gentleman who had just arrived by the Dammartin road was breakfasting at the same table. He started talking about the weather, the travelers answered, he drank their healths, and they returned the politeness.
But just as Mousqueton came to announce that their horses were ready and our friends rose, the stranger proposed to Porthos that they drink to the Cardinal. Porthos replied that he would like nothing better if the stranger would, in turn, drink to the King. The stranger countered that he recognized no other King but His Eminence. Porthos called him a drunkard; the stranger drew his sword.
“You were foolish,” said Athos, “but, never mind, you can’t draw back now. Kill the man and join us as soon as you can.”
All three remounted their horses and left at a gallop while Porthos was promising his opponent to puncture him with every thrust known to fencing.
“There goes victim Number One,” said Athos after they had advanced some five hundred paces.
“But why did the fellow choose Porthos?” Aramis asked.
“Porthos spoke louder than the rest of us,” D’Artagnan explained. “The fellow took him for our leader.”
“Ah, this lad from Gascony is a well of wisdom,” Athos murmured.
And the travelers continued on their way.
At Beauvais they stopped to give their horses a breathing spell and to wait for Porthos. After two hours, Porthos having failed to arrive or to forward news, they resumed their journey.
A league from Beauvais, at a place where the road narrowed between two high banks, they came upon a dozen men who, taking advantage of the fact that the road was unpaved at that spot, seemed to be busy digging holes to deepen the muddy ruts.
Aramis, fearing to soil his boots in this artificial trench, cursed them roundly. Athos sought to restrain him but it was too late. The workmen started to jeer at the travelers; at their insolence even the phlegmatic Athos lost his head and urged his horse against one of them.
At this the workmen retreated as far as the ditch from which each produced a hidden musket. The result was that our seven travelers were literally riddled with bullets. Aramis received one which pierced his shoulder; Mousqueton another which embedded itself in the fleshy parts which prolong the small of the back. Only Mousqueton fell from his horse—not that he was badly hurt, but as he could not see his wound he fancied himself more seriously hurt than he was.
“This is an ambush,” said D’Artagnan. “Don’t waste a shot! Let us be off!”
Aramis, wounded though he was, seized his horse’s mane and was borne off headlong with the rest. Mousqueton’s horse, rejoining the group, galloped on in formation, riderless.
“That will give us a remount,” said Athos.
“I would prefer a hat,” D’Artagnan remarked. “Mine was carried away by a bullet. How very fortunate that I did not carry my letter in it.”
“Look here,” Aramis said anxiously, “do you realize they’ll kill poor Porthos when he comes up?”
“If Porthos were on his legs he would have joined us long ago. I fancy that on the dueling ground that so-called drunkard sobered up miraculously!”
They galloped on for another two hours at top speed though their horses began
to give signs of failing.
Hoping to avoid trouble, the cavalcade had chosen side roads but at Crèvecoeur Aramis declared he could go no further. In truth, it had required all the courage hidden beneath his polished manners and his suave grace to bring him that far; he kept growing paler and paler and he had to be held up on his horse. So they left him at an inn with Bazin who, to be frank, was more of a nuisance than a help in a skirmish, and they started off again, hoping to sleep at Amiens.
“Morbleu!” Athos cried to D’Artagnan, as they raced off, the cavalcade reduced to themselves and Grimaud and Planchet, “I vow I won’t play into their hands again; no one will make me open my mouth or draw my sword till we reach Calais!”
“Let us make no vows; let us gallop if our horses can manage it!”
And the travelers dug their spurs in their horses’ flanks, thanks to which vigorous stimulation the steeds regained their strength. The quartet reached Amiens at midnight and alighted at the Sign of the Golden Lily.
The host looked like the most honest man on earth; he received them with a candlestick in one hand and his cotton nightcap in the other. He begged to lodge the masters each in a comfortable room, but unfortunately these charming rooms were at opposite ends of the inn. D’Artagnan and Athos refused. The host protested that he had no other rooms worthy of Their Excellencies, to which Their Excellencies replied that they would sleep on mattresses in the public chamber. The host was insistent but the travelers held their ground and he had perforce to do their bidding.
They had just arranged their bedding and barricaded the door from within when there was a knock at the courtyard shutter. They asked who was there and recognized the voices of Planchet and Grimaud.
“Grimaud can take care of the horses,” Planchet volunteered, “and if you gentlemen are willing, I shall sleep across the doorway. Thus you will be certain that no one can reach you.”
“On what will you sleep, Planchet?” D’Artagnan asked. The valet produced a bundle of straw. “Very well!” D’Artagnan acquiesced. “Mine host’s face inspires me with scant confidence; it is altogether too affable.”
“I quite agree,” said Athos.
Planchet climbed in through the window and settled himself across the door; Grimaud went off to lock himself in the stable, promising that he and the four horses would be ready by five o’clock in the morning.
The night passed off quietly enough though at about two o’clock someone tried the door. Planchet awoke with a start, crying, “Who goes there?”
“A mistake,” came the answer. “Your pardon!”
And the intruder withdrew.
At four o’clock in the morning they heard a terrible riot in the stables. Grimaud had sought to awaken the stable boys; they had turned upon him and beaten him severely.
Opening the window of the stable, Athos and D’Artagnan saw the poor lad lying senseless on the ground, his head split. Some ostler had struck him from behind with the handle of a pitchfork.
Planchet ran to the yard to saddle the horses. They were utterly foundered; only Mousqueton’s, which had run riderless for about six hours, was fit to proceed. However, it appeared that, by some inconceivable error, a veterinary, who had been sent for to bleed the host’s horse, had bled Mousqueton’s instead.
All this was becoming most annoying. Perhaps these successive accidents were the result of chance; but they might quite as probably be the result of a plot. Athos and D’Artagnan returned to the inn while Planchet set out to find out whether there were not three horses for sale in the neighborhood. At the gate of the inn, Planchet saw two horses, fresh, strong and fully equipped; they would have suited his masters perfectly. Inquiring to whom the nags belonged, he was told their owners had spent the night at the inn and were now settling their accounts with the landlord.
Athos went downstairs to pay the bill while D’Artagnan and Planchet waited for him at the street door. The host’s office was in a low-ceilinged back room to which Athos was requested to go. Entering without the least mistrust, he found the host alone, seated at his desk, one of the drawers of which was half-open. Athos took two pistoles from his pocket to pay the bill; the host accepted the coin and then, having turned it over in his hands several times, suddenly shouted that it was counterfeit: “I shall have you and your confederate arrested as coiners,” he cried.
“You blackguard!” Athos advanced toward him. “I’ll cut your ears off.”
At the same instant four men, armed to the teeth, entered by side doors and fell upon Athos.
“I’m trapped,” Athos yelled at the top of his lungs, “Run, D’Artagnan! Spur, Spur!” And he fired two pistols.
D’Artagnan and Planchet needed no further invitation. Unfastening their horses from the gatepost they leaped upon them, buried their spurs in their flanks, and set off at full gallop.
“Do you know how Athos fared?” D’Artagnan asked of Planchet as they raced on.
“Monsieur, I saw a man fall at each of his shots. As I glanced through the glass door, I caught sight of him using his sword to advantage.”
“Athos is a brave man. What a shame we must leave him behind. Ah, well! perhaps the same fate awaits us two steps hence! Forward Planchet, forward; you’re a plucky fellow!”
“I told Monsieur I was a Picard. We of Picardy come up to scratch! Besides, Monsieur, I am in my homeland, here, and that puts me on my mettle.”
Spurring on, master and lackey reached Saint-Omer without drawing bit. There they gave their horses a breather, holding their bridles under their arms for fear of some mishap, and had a bite of food, standing on the road. A few minutes later they started off again.
At a hundred paces from the gates of Calais D’Artagnan’s horse sank under him; the blood flowed from his nose and eyes and nothing could be done to get him up again. Planchet’s horse was still available but, having stopped at long last, now refused to budge. Congratulating themselves on being so close to the city, D’Artagnan and Planchet abandoned their mounts and ran toward the port. On the way Planchet drew his master’s attention to a gentleman and his lackey who were some fifty paces ahead. Catching up with the pair at the port, D’Artagnan noted that their boots were covered with dust. The gentleman was bustling about authoritatively, asking here and there whether he could find passage for England immediately.
“Nothing easier,” said the skipper of a vessel about to sail, “but we had orders this morning to allow no one to sail without express permission from Monsieur le Cardinal.”
“I have that permission,” the gentleman said, drawing a paper from his pocket, “here it is!”
“Monsieur must have it certified by the Governor of the Port,” said the skipper. “When that is done, please give me first choice. I’ve a fine vessel and a crack crew.”
“Where shall I find the Governor?”
“At his country house.”
“Where is that?”
“About three-quarters of a mile out of town. Look Monsieur, you can see it from here—over there, at the foot of that little hill—that slate roof …”
“Thank you,” said the gentleman and, with his lackey, he made for the Governor’s country house, D’Artagnan and Planchet following at an interval of five hundred paces. No sooner outside the city than D’Artagnan quickened his pace, overtaking the gentleman just as he was entering a little wood.
“Monsieur,” he said, “You appear to be in a vast hurry.”
“I could not be more pressed for time, Monsieur.”
“I am distressed to hear that, Monsieur, for I too am pressed for time and I was about to ask a favor of you.”
“What favor, pray?”
“To allow me to precede you.”
“Impossible! I have covered sixty leagues in forty-four hours and I must be in London tomorrow at noon.”
“I have covered the same distance in forty hours and I must be in London tomorrow at ten o’clock in the morning.”
“Truly, Monsieur, I am extremely sorry but I arrived
here first and will not pass second.”
“Truly, Monsieur, I am quite as sorry, but I arrived here second and shall pass first.”
“Service du Roi, I am on His Majesty’s Service,” the gentleman declared.
“Service de Moi, I on my own service!” D’Artagnan countered.
“Come, Monsieur, I think you are picking a needless quarrel.”
“Parbleu, what else, my friend?”
“What do you want?”
“Would you like to know?”
“Certainly.”
“Well then, I want your movement orders. I have none and need some.”
“You are jesting, I presume.”
“I never jest.”
“Let me pass!”
“You shall not pass!”
“My dear young man, I shall blow your brains out. Ho, Lubin! my pistols!”
“Planchet, you handle the lackey, I shall manage the master.”
Emboldened by his first exploit, Planchet sprang upon Lubin and, being young and lusty, soon had Lubin flattened out, Planchet’s bony knee pinning Lubin’s narrow chest to the ground.
“Carry on, Monsieur,” Planchet called. “My man is accounted for.”
The gentleman drew his sword and sprang upon D’Artagnan but he met more than he had bargained for. Within three seconds D’Artagnan pinked him thrice, dedicating each thrust as he dealt it: “One for Athos!” he cried. “One for Porthos!” and at the last, “one for Aramis!”
At the third thrust the gentleman fell like a log. D’Artagnan, believing him dead or at least in a faint, advanced to seize the order but, just as he stretched out his hand to search for it, the wounded man, who had not relinquished his sword, pinked D’Artagnan in the chest, crying:
“And one for you!”
“And one for me,” D’Artagnan cried in a fury, nailing him to the earth with a fourth thrust.
This time the gentleman closed his eyes and fainted. D’Artagnan plucked the order from the pocket into which he had seen the gentleman stuff it. It was in the name of the Comte de Vardes.
Then, casting a last glance at the handsome youth he was leaving there, lying senseless and perhaps dead, D’Artagnan heaved a sigh over that inexplicable fate which drives men to destroy one another in the interests of people who are strangers to them and who often do not suspect their very existence. But he was soon roused from these reflections by Lubin who was howling for help with all his might. Planchet grasped Lubin by the throat and pressed on his gullet as hard as he could.
The Modern Library Children's Classics Page 81
