The Modern Library Children's Classics

by Kenneth Grahame

  “He won’t even whimper while I have him like this,” he announced. “But so soon as I let go of him, Monsieur, he squeals like a stuck pig. You see, he’s a Norman and Normans are a pig-headed lot.”

  Indeed, all but choked, Lubin still attempted to shout for help.

  “This will settle him,” D’Artagnan said, taking his handkerchief and gagging the lackey.

  “Now Monsieur, let us string him up to a tree.”

  This accomplished they drew the body of the Comte de Vardes close to the lackey. Night was falling. As the stranger and his lackey were both immobilized a few feet within the wood they would probably remain there until the morrow.

  “Now to the Governor’s!” said D’Artagnan briskly.

  “But you are wounded, Monsieur?”

  “Oh, that’s nothing. Come, let us attend to our most urgent business, we can attend to my wound later. It is a mere scratch.”

  They soon reached the worthy official’s country house; the Comte de Vardes was announced; D’Artagnan entered.

  “You have an order signed by the Cardinal?” the Governor asked.

  D’Artagnan produced the order.

  “Hm! quite regular and explicit.”

  “Of course, Monsieur. I am one of the Cardinal’s most faithful servants.”

  “Apparently His Eminence is anxious to prevent someone from crossing to England.”

  “Yes, Monsieur, one D’Artagnan, a gentleman from Béarn, who set out for London with three of his friends.”

  “Do you know him personally?”

  “Do I know—”

  “D’Artagnan?”

  “Intimately, Monsieur.”

  “Pray describe him to me, then.”

  “Nothing could be simpler,” D’Artagnan assured him. And he proceeded to furnish the most minute description of the Comte de Vardes.

  “Is he accompanied by anyone?”

  “Yes, by a valet named Lubin.”

  “We will keep a sharp lookout for them,” the Governor promised, “and if ever we lay hands on them, His Eminence may be sure they will be returned to Paris under heavy guard.”

  “By doing so, my dear Governor, you will have deserved well of the Cardinal,” D’Artagnan said unctuously.

  “Will you be seeing His Eminence on your return, Monsieur le Comte?”

  “Why, of course.”

  “Tell him, I beg you, that I remain his humble servant.”

  “I shall not fail to do so.”

  Delighted with this assurance, the Governor countersigned the passport and handed it to D’Artagnan. Unwilling to lose a moment of his precious time in idle compliments, the Gascon bowed to the Governor, thanked him and took his leave. Once out of doors, master and lackey set off at top speed; taking a long détour, they skirted the wood, entering the town by another gate. As they reached the harbor, they found the vessel still ready to sail and the skipper awaiting them alongside.

  “Well?” he asked as D’Artagnan appeared.

  “Here is my pass, signed and countersigned.”

  “And the other gentleman?”

  “He will not leave today,” D’Artagnan explained. “But never mind: I will pay for both of us.”

  “In that case we shall set sail at once.”

  “The sooner the better,” D’Artagnan agreed, leaping into the rowboat, Planchet behind him. Five minutes later they were aboard the vessel. It was high time, too, for they were barely half-a-league at sea when D’Artagnan saw a flash and heard a detonation as the cannon announced the closing of the harbor.

  At last he had an opportunity to examine his injury. Happily, as he had thought, it was not serious: the point of the sword, striking a rib, had glanced along the bone, and his shirt, matted over the wound, had staunched the blood. But he was exhausted and when they laid out a mattress on deck for him, he sank gratefully upon it and promptly fell into a deep sleep.

  At daybreak, the vessel was a few leagues off the English coast; the breeze had been slight all night and the sailing slow. By ten o’clock the craft dropped anchor in Dover harbor. Half an hour later D’Artagnan set foot on English soil, crying:

  “Here I am at last!”

  But that was not all, they must get to London. In England the post was well organized and post-horses readily available; D’Artagnan and Planchet took advantage of this and, preceded by a postilion, they reached the capital within four hours.

  D’Artagnan did not know London and he could not speak one word of English, but he wrote the name of Buckingham on a piece of paper and everyone to whom he showed it, pointed out the way to the Duke’s mansion.

  The Duke was at Windsor, hunting with the King. D’Artagnan inquired for the Duke’s confidential valet, who had accompanied him in all his travels and spoke perfect French. He explained that he had come from Paris on a matter of life and death and that he must speak to his master immediately.

  The assurance with which D’Artagnan spoke convinced Patrick on the spot. The minister’s minister therefore ordered two horses to be saddled forthwith and himself accompanied the young guardsman. As for Planchet, he had been lifted from his horse stiff as a ramrod; the poor lad’s strength was well-nigh spent. D’Artagnan, on the contrary, seemed fresh as a daisy.

  At Windsor Castle they inquired for the Duke and were told that the King and Buckingham were in the marshes two or three leagues distant. As they reached the place twenty minutes later, Patrick recognized his master’s voice, calling his falcon back to him.

  “Whom am I to announce to His Grace?” Patrick asked.

  “The young man who one evening challenged him on the Pont-Neuf, opposite the Samaritaine.”

  “A somewhat peculiar introduction, Monsieur, if I may say so.”

  “You will find it as good as any other.”

  Patrick rode off, located the Duke, and announced that a messenger awaited him, identifying the messenger as directed.

  Buckingham recalled the incident at once. Suspecting that something vital was going on in France, he hastened to ask where the messenger was. Recognizing the uniform of the guards, he rode straight up to D’Artagnan. Patrick kept discreetly in the background. At once, Buckingham, reining in his horse, cast all discretion to the winds. Voicing all his fear and love:

  “Has any harm befallen Her Majesty?” he asked.

  “I think not, Milord. Nevertheless, I believe Her Majesty to be in great danger from which Your Grace alone can save her.”

  “I? God help me, I would be only too happy to be of service to the Queen. Speak, man, speak up!”

  “Pray read this letter, Milord.”

  “A letter from whom?”

  “From Her Majesty, I think.”

  “From Her Majesty!” Buckingham repeated, turning so pale that D’Artagnan feared he was about to faint. His hands trembling, he broke the seal.

  “Why is this letter ripped here?” Buckingham asked, his finger on a portion of the letter where the paper was pierced through.

  “I had not noticed that, Milord,” D’Artagnan said. “The Comte de Vardes made that hole when his sword pinked my chest.”

  “Are you wounded?” Buckingham asked, unfolding the letter.

  “Nothing serious, Milord, a mere scratch.”

  “Great Heavens, what have I read?” Buckingham cried aghast. Then, imperiously: “Stay here, Patrick, or rather find the King wherever he is and tell His Majesty that I beseech him to excuse me but that a matter of the utmost importance calls me to London.” Turning to D’Artagnan: “Come, Monsieur, come!” he ordered.

  And both set off toward the capital at full gallop.

  XXI

  LADY CLARK

  Along the way the Duke drew from D’Artagnan not all that happened but what D’Artagnan himself knew. By adding what he recalled to what information the young Gascon gave him, Buckingham was able to form a pretty exact idea of the state of affairs. The Queen’s letter was short and scarcely informative but it afforded ample confirmation of how seriou
s the situation must be. What surprised him most was that the Cardinal, so vitally interested in preventing the youth from reaching England, had been powerless to intercept him. In the face of this astonishment, D’Artagnan told him how carefully the voyage had been planned and what precautions had been taken … how devoted his three friends had been … how he had left them scattered along the road, bathed in their blood … how he had come off successfully save for the sword thrust which had pierced the Queen’s letter … and in what terrible coin he had repaid Monsieur de Vardes.… Listening to D’Artagnan’s plain matter-of-fact account, the Duke looked at the Gascon from time to time in wonder as if he could not understand how so much prudence, courage and devotion could belong to a man who looked barely twenty.

  The horses went like the wind and in no time at all they reached the gates of London. D’Artagnan imagined that on arriving in the city the Duke would slacken his pace, but no! Buckingham rode on at top speed, heedless of any pedestrians so unfortunate as to stand in his path. As they crossed the city he ran down at least three people without even turning to see what had become of his victims. D’Artagnan followed amidst cries which sounded very much like curses.

  Entering the courtyard of his mansion, Buckingham dismounted and without bothering about his steed, tossed the reins over its neck and rushed to the front steps. D’Artagnan followed suit except that he did show a little more concern for the noble animals whose worth he had been able to appreciate. He was pleased to see four grooms rushing from kitchen and stables to attend to the horses.

  The Duke walked so fast that D’Artagnan had some trouble in keeping up with him. They passed through several apartments furnished with an elegance which even the greatest noblemen of France could not imagine; presently they reached a bedroom which was at once a miracle of taste and splendor. In the alcove of this room was a door cut through a tapestry; the Duke opened it with a small gold key which he wore on a chain of the same metal around his neck. Out of discretion, D’Artagnan lingered back, but as Buckingham passed through the door he turned around and noting the young man’s hesitation:

  “Come in, my friend, come in,” he invited, “and if you are so fortunate as to be admitted to Her Majesty’s presence, pray tell her what you have seen.”

  Encouraged by this invitation, D’Artagnan followed the Duke who closed the door behind them. They were in a small chapel tapestried with Persian silk and gold brocade and brilliantly lighted by a great number of wax tapers. Above a kind of altar and beneath a blue velvet dais, surmounted by red and white plumes, was a life-size portrait of Anne of Austria, so strikingly faithful that D’Artagnan uttered an exclamation of surprise. It was as though the Queen stood there before them about to speak.

  Above the altar and beneath the portrait, was the casket which held the diamond studs. The Duke approached the altar, kneeled as a priest might have knelt before a crucifix, and then opened the casket. From it he drew a large bow of blue ribbon sparkling with diamonds:

  “Here,” he said, “here are these precious diamonds with which I had vowed to be buried. The Queen gave them to me, the Queen requires their return. So be it. Her will be done, like that of God, in all things.”

  Slowly, one after the other, he kissed the beloved studs with which he must reluctantly part. Suddenly he uttered a terrible cry.

  “What is it, Milord?” D’Artagnan exclaimed anxiously. “What is the matter?”

  “The matter?” Buckingham winced; he was shaking like a leaf.

  “Milord, what—?”

  “All is lost!”

  “But—?”

  “Two of the studs are missing. There are only ten here!”

  “Can you have lost them, Milord? Do you think they have been stolen?”

  “They have been stolen and the Cardinal is responsible. Look, the ribbons which held them have been cut with scissors.”

  “If they were stolen—if Milord suspects anyone—perhaps that person still has them—”

  “Wait, wait!” cried the Duke. “The only time I wore these studs was at a ball given by the King at Windsor a week ago. Lady Winter, with whom I once had a falling out, stood beside me quite long as we made up our differences. Yes, that’s it! That reconciliation was nothing but a jealous woman’s revenge. I have not laid eyes on her since. That woman is an agent of the Cardinal’s.”

  “Then he has agents all over the world?”

  “Yes, yes, everywhere.” Buckingham gnashed his teeth with rage. “He is a terrible enemy.” There was a long silence. Then, passionately: “Tell me, when is this ball in Paris to take place?”

  “Next Monday.”

  “Next Monday. Five days from now. Ah, we have time and time aplenty!” Flinging open the door: “Patrick!” he called, “Patrick!”

  Imperturbable, as though he had not left the spot, Patrick stood at attention by the doorway.

  “Patrick, send for my jeweler and my secretary!”

  The promptness with which the servant withdrew bore eloquent testimony to his discretion and obedience. Buckingham had mentioned the jeweler first but the secretary was the first to appear because he lived in the ducal mansion. He found Buckingham seated at a table in his bedroom, writing orders in his own hand.

  “Jackson,” said the Duke, “you will call upon the Lord Chancellor immediately and inform him that I commit these orders to him for execution. I wish them to be issued forthwith.”

  “But Your Grace, if the Lord Chancellor asks me what reasons prompted you to adopt such an extraordinary measure, what shall I answer?”

  “Tell him that such is my good pleasure and that I account for my pleasure to no man.”

  The secretary smiled:

  “Is My Lord Chancellor to forward this reply to the King if His Majesty should happen to inquire why no vessel of his is to leave any British port?”

  “Very well, Jackson!” Buckingham drew a deep breath. “Should His Majesty so inquire, the Lord Chancellor is to reply that I am determined on war and that this measure is my first act of hostility against France.”

  The secretary bowed and retired.

  “Well, we are safe on that score,” Buckingham said jauntily. “If the studs have not yet left for France they will not arrive before you.”

  “How so, Milord?”

  “I have just clapped an embargo on all vessels at present in His Majesty’s ports. Without express permission not one of them can weigh anchor!”

  D’Artagnan stared with stupefaction at this man who, invested with unlimited power by his sovereign, was thus abusing the royal confidence to serve his amours. D’Artagnan’s expression was so candid that Buckingham could not fail to read his thoughts. He smiled.

  “Yes, yes!” he said impetuously, “Anne of Austria is my true Queen. At one word from her, I would betray my country, my sovereign and my God. She asked me not to send the Protestants of La Rochelle the aid I had promised them; I have not done so. I broke my word, but what of that? Did I not bow to Her Majesty’s wishes? Have I not been richly rewarded? Have I not my obedience to thank for the portrait you just saw?”

  D’Artagnan mused on the mysterious and tenuous threads upon which the destinies of great nations and the lives of mere men are sometimes hung. He was lost in these thoughts when the goldsmith entered.

  O’Reilly, master of his guild, was an Irishman; among the most skilled workmen of Europe, he earned, as he himself admitted, one hundred thousand livres a year from Buckingham’s custom alone.

  “Come in here, O’Reilly, come in!” Buckingham led the goldsmith into his chapel. “Look at these studs and tell me what they are worth apiece.”

  O’Reilly cast a single glance at the elegant mounting of the jewels … estimated the worth of each stud … looked at the whole display rapidly to make sure he was accurate in his appraisal … and without hesitation:

  “Fifteen hundred pistoles apiece, and beauties they be, M’Lud,” he said pontifically.

  “How soon can you make two studs to match t
hese ten, O’Reilly?”

  “A week, Your Grace.”

  “O’Reilly, I will give you three thousand pistoles for each of the two studs if I can have them by the day after tomorrow.”

  “M’Lud, have them you shall!”

  “You are worth your weight in gold, Master Goldsmith, but that is not all. These studs must not be entrusted to anybody; the work must be done here, under this roof.”

  “Impossible, M’Lud. No one else can make new studs to look like the others, Your Grace, even if I say so as shouldn’t.”

  “That is why you are now a prisoner here, my dear O’Reilly. Even if you wanted to leave this hospitable dwelling at this moment, you could not do so. Come, my friend, make the best of it. Name any of your workmen you need and tell me what tools they must bring along.”

  O’Reilly knew the Duke; he realized that any objection would be futile and he made up his mind then and there.

  “May I let my wife know, please, M’Lud?”

  “Certainly. You may even see her, my dear O’Reilly. Your captivity will be a mild one, rest assured. And because every inconvenience calls for compensation, here—over and above the price of the studs—here are a thousand pistoles to console you for the trouble I am giving you.”

  D’Artagnan could not recover from his surprise as he saw how this statesman played ducks and drakes with men and millions. As for the jeweler, he wrote to his wife, enclosing the draft for a thousand pistoles and asking her to send his most skilful apprentice … an assortment of diamonds (he specified names and weights) … the required tools which he carefully listed … his nightshirt and a change of clothes.… Buckingham led him to the apartment allotted to him: within a half-hour it was transformed into a workshop. A sentry was stationed at each door with orders to allow only Patrick to go in and no one to go out.