The Modern Library Children's Classics

by Kenneth Grahame

  Then the quartet followed Grimaud into the bastion.

  XLVII

  THE COUNCIL OF THE MUSKETEERS

  As Athos had foreseen, the bastion was occupied by but a dozen dead bodies, some French and some of La Rochelle.

  “Friends,” said Athos who had assumed command of the expedition, “while Grimaud is laying out our breakfast, let us start collecting the guns and cartridges. We can talk while accomplishing this task; these gentlemen,” he pointed to the dead, “cannot overhear us.”

  “But still we could throw them into the ditch,” Porthos suggested, “of course after making sure there is nothing in their pockets.”

  “Yes, that is Grimaud’s job,” Athos observed.

  “Then let Grimaud search them and throw them over the walls immediately.”

  “By no manner of means,” Athos replied, “for they may still be of use to us.”

  “These bodies of use to us?” Porthos scoffed. “Look here, Athos, are you going mad?”

  “Judge not rashly, say the Gospel and the Cardinal,” Athos replied. “How many guns, gentlemen?”

  “Twelve.”

  “How many cartridges?”

  “About a hundred.”

  “That is all we need, let us load the guns.”

  The four musketeers set to work and just as they were loading the last musket Grimaud signaled that breakfast was ready. Athos replied by gestures that it was well and, pointing to a kind of turret shaped like a pepperbox, indicated that Grimaud was to stand guard there. To lighten the boredom of this duty, Athos permitted him to take along a loaf of bread, two cutlets and a bottle of wine.

  “And now to table!” said Athos briskly.

  The four friends sat on the ground, their legs crossed like Turks or tailors.

  “Now that there is no danger of being overheard,” D’Artagnan suggested, “I trust you will tell us your mysterious secret.”

  “My friends, I hope to procure you both amusement and glory,” Athos began. “I have taken you out for a very jolly walk; here is a most toothsome breakfast; and yonder, as you may see through the loopholes, stand five hundred persons who take us for madmen or heroes, two species of idiots which are not unlike.”

  “But the secret, Athos, the secret.”

  “The secret is that I saw Milady yesterday.”

  D’Artagnan was raising his wine to his lips. At the name of Milady his hand shook so violently that he had to put the glass on the ground again for fear of spilling its contents.

  “You saw your wi—”

  “Hush!” Athos interrupted in a quick whisper. “You forget, my friend, that these gentlemen are not initiated into my family secrets.” Then, aloud: “I saw Milady,” he concluded.

  “Where?”

  “About two miles from here, at the Sign of the Red Dovecote.”

  “In that case I am a lost man!” D’Artagnan groaned.

  “No, not quite yet, for she must certainly have left the shores of France by now.”

  D’Artagnan breathed again.

  “Come, now, after all, who is this Milady?” Porthos inquired.

  “A charming woman,” Athos explained, sipping a glass of sparkling wine. “Damnation! that scoundrelly innkeeper gave us Anjou instead of champagne and he thinks we can’t tell the difference!… Yes, as I was saying, Milady is a charming woman who bestowed her favors upon D’Artagnan. Our friend played her some nasty trick or other. Seeking revenge, she tried to have him shot a month ago, to poison him last week and yesterday to demand his head of the Cardinal.”

  “What! she demanded my head of the Cardinal?” cried D’Artagnan, pale with terror.

  “That is Gospel truth,” Porthos testified. “I heard it with my own ears.”

  “So did I,” Aramis confirmed.

  “In that case, all further struggle is useless!” D’Artagnan let his arm fall to his side in discouragement. “I may as well blow my brains out and end it all.”

  “That is the ultimate folly to commit,” Athos commented, “seeing that it is the only one for which we have no remedy.”

  “But with such enemies,” D’Artagnan objected, “how can I ever escape? First, the stranger of Meung … then the Comte de Vardes whom I wounded thrice … then Milady whose secret I discovered … and now the Cardinal whose revenge I foiled.…”

  “Well, that only makes four, and there are four of us, so we are evenly matched,” Athos said easily. Then: “By God, look at Grimaud! From the signs he is making I judge we are about to face a far larger number of people than that! What is it, Grimaud?” he called. “In view of the seriousness of the situation I permit you to speak, my friend. But pray be laconic. What do you see?”

  “A troop.”

  “How many?”

  “Twenty.”

  “What sort of men?”

  “Sixteen sappers, four soldiers.”

  “How far off?”

  “Five hundred paces.”

  “Good; we still have time to finish this fowl and to drink one glass to your health, D’Artagnan!”

  “Your health,” Porthos and Aramis repeated.

  “Well, then, to my health, though I scarcely believe your good wishes will be of much use to me.”

  “Nonsense,” said Athos. “God is great, as the Mohammedans say, and the future lies in the hollow of his palm.”

  Then, draining his glass, which he set down beside him, Athos rose nonchalantly to his feet, picked up the first musket at hand and took his stand near one of the loopholes. Porthos, Aramis and D’Artagnan followed suit; Grimaud was told to stand behind the four friends in order to reload their weapons.

  After a moment or two the troop appeared. It advanced along a communication trench which linked the city to the bastion.

  “God help us!” Athos scoffed. “It was certainly not worth while to disturb ourselves for a score of oafs armed with pickaxes, mattocks and shovels! Grimaud need but have waved to them to go away and I am sure they would have left us in peace.”

  “I doubt it; they are advancing very resolutely. Besides, they are not all pioneers. There are four soldiers and a corporal armed with muskets.”

  “Pooh!” Athos shrugged his shoulders. “They probably haven’t seen us.”

  “I must confess I feel it most distasteful to fire on these poor devils of civilians.”

  “It is a bad priest who takes pity on heretics,” said Porthos sententiously.

  “Aramis is right,” Athos contradicted. “Let me go warn them.”

  “What the devil do you mean?” cried D’Artagnan. “You will be shot down like a pheasant.”

  Paying no heed to D’Artagnan’s remonstrance, Athos mounted the breach, his musket in one hand, his hat in the other and saluting courteously, shouted:

  “Gentlemen, your attention, please!”

  Amazed, the troop halted some fifty paces from the bastion.

  “Gentlemen,” Athos continued, “a few friends and myself are breakfasting together in this bastion. Now you know nothing can be so annoying as to be disturbed at mealtime. We therefore beg you, if you have absolutely imperative business here, either to wait until we finish our meal or to come back later. Unless, of course, you are so well advised as to quit the side of the rebels and come here to join us in drinking to the health of the King of France.”

  “Look out, Athos!” D’Artagnan warned him. “Can’t you see they are taking aim?”

  “Certainly, but they are only civilians, very indifferent marksmen who will surely miss me.”

  At the same instant four shots rang out and the bullets flattened themselves out against the wall around Athos without a single one touching him. Four shots answered them almost immediately but, much better aimed than those of the aggressors, they hit their mark. Three soldiers fell dead and one pioneer was wounded.

  “Grimaud, another musket!” Athos called, still atop the breach.

  Grimaud promptly obeyed. His three friends had reloaded and a second discharge followed. The co
rporal and two sappers fell dead; the rest of the troop took to their heels.

  “Now gentlemen, a sally!” Athos ordered.

  The four friends rushed out of the fort, reached the scene of battle, picked up the soldiers’ muskets and the corporal’s short pike, and, certain that the fugitives would not stop until safely within the city again, they calmly returned to the bastion bearing the trophies of their victory.

  “Reload the weapons, Grimaud,” Athos commanded. “As for us, gentlemen, let us return to our breakfast and resume our conversation. Where were we?”

  “We were discussing Milady,” D’Artagnan said. “You told us she had left the shores of France,” he added, for he was greatly concerned over her itinerary.

  “She is going to England,” Athos vouchsafed.

  “For what purpose?”

  “For the purpose of assassinating the Duke of Buckingham or, at any rate, having someone assassinate him.”

  D’Artagnan uttered an exclamation of surprise and indignation.

  “But that is infamous!” he cried.

  “Bah, I beg you to believe that to me this matter is but of little moment!” Turning toward his servant: “Now that you have finished, Grimaud,” he called, “take the corporal’s pike, tie a napkin to it and plant it on top of our bastion so that the rebels of La Rochelle may see they are dealing with brave and loyal soldiers of the King.”

  Grimaud obeyed without replying. An instant after, the white flag was floating over the heads of the four friends. Across the plain a thunder of applause greeted its appearance; half the camp stood at the barriers.

  “Why do you worry so little whether Milady murders Buckingham or not?” D’Artagnan inquired. “The Duke is our friend.”

  “The Duke is an Englishman, the Duke is fighting against us, let her do what she likes with the Duke.” Athos picked up a bottle and poured its contents into his glass to the very last drop. “The Duke? I care no more for him than I do for an empty bottle.” And he sent the bottle hurtling through the air a distance of twenty paces.

  “Hold on,” D’Artagnan argued, “I don’t intend to abandon Buckingham so blithely. He gave us some very handsome horses, didn’t he?”

  “And some very handsome saddles, too,” chimed in Porthos who at the moment was wearing the gold lace from his on his coat.

  “Besides,” Aramis said gravely, “God wishes the conversion of a sinner, not his death.”

  “Amen,” said Athos, “and we shall return to the subject presently if you so desire. But my chief and immediate concern was much more urgent and I am sure D’Artagnan will appreciate this. I was determined to confiscate from that woman a kind of blanket order which she had extorted from the Cardinal and which she meant to use to get rid of you, D’Artagnan, and perhaps of all of us, with impunity.”

  “But this creature is a demon!” Porthos remarked, holding out his plate to Aramis who was carving the fowl.

  “What of this blanket order?” D’Artagnan asked. “Has she still got it?”

  “No, I have. But I would be lying if I told you I got it without trouble.”

  “My dear Athos, I shall give up counting the number of times I owe my life to you.”

  “So you left us to go to her?” asked Aramis.

  “Exactly.”

  “And you have that letter of the Cardinal’s?” D’Artagnan queried.

  “Here it is,” said Athos, drawing the precious paper from the pocket of his uniform. D’Artagnan unfolded it with a hand whose trembling he did not even attempt to conceal, and read:

  December third, 1627

  It is by my order and for the service of the State that the bearer of this note has done what he has done.

  Signed by my hand at the Camp of La Rochelle

  Richelieu

  “Indeed, this is an absolution in every sense,” Aramis declared, “and in all due form.”

  “We must destroy this paper,” D’Artagnan urged, for in it he fancied he read his own death sentence.

  “On the contrary, we must keep it preciously,” said Athos. “I would not surrender it for as many gold pieces as would cover it.”

  “Now you have the paper,” D’Artagnan ventured uneasily, “what is she going to do?”

  “Oh, she will probably write to the Cardinal,” Athos replied with utmost indifference. “I suppose she will tell him that a damned musketeer named Athos forcibly robbed her of her safe-conduct. By the same token, she will probably advise His Eminence to get rid of this musketeer’s two friends Porthos and Aramis at the same time. The Cardinal will recall that these are the same men who have crossed his path so often. So one fine morning he will have D’Artagnan arrested and to save his prisoner the pangs of loneliness he will send us three to keep D’Artagnan company in the Bastille.”

  “Look here, my dear fellow,” Porthos grumbled, “you seem to be making a very dull joke of it in very poor taste.”

  “I am not joking,” Athos insisted.

  “By God!” Porthos exploded. “To wring that damned Milady’s neck would be much less of a sin than to do so to those poor Huguenot devils who have committed no crimes other than singing in French the psalms we sing in Latin.”

  “What does the Abbé have to say to that?”

  “I, Athos? I say I thoroughly agree with Porthos.”

  “And so do I!” D’Artagnan said warmly.

  “Fortunately she is far away!” Porthos spoke consolingly. “I must confess her presence here would make me very uncomfortable.”

  “Her presence in England makes me just as uncomfortable as her presence in France,” said Athos.

  “Her presence anywhere makes me terribly nervous,” D’Artagnan confessed.

  “But Athos, when you had her in your power,” Porthos said reproachfully, “why didn’t you drown her or strangle her or hang her? The dead alone do not come back to harm you.”

  “Do you believe that, Porthos?” Athos asked, his lips twisted in a wry smile which only D’Artagnan understood.

  “I have an idea,” D’Artagnan said suddenly.

  “Well?”

  But before D’Artagnan could speak:

  “To arms, gentlemen!” Grimaud shouted. The young men sprang up and seized their muskets.

  A small troop was advancing toward the bastion. There were about twenty-five men; but this time they were not sappers. Their uniform and gait indicated clearly that they were garrison soldiers.

  “Hadn’t we better make for camp?” Porthos suggested. “The odds against us are pretty grim.”

  “That is impossible on three counts,” Athos answered. “First, we have not finished breakfasting … second, we still have important matters to discuss … and third, we have been here only fifty minutes.…”

  “All right,” Aramis agreed, “but we must draw up a definite plan of action.”

  “Very simple!” Athos told him. “As soon as the enemy come within range, we fire; if they continue to advance, we fire again; and we keep firing so long as our ammunition holds out. If the enemy survivors then try to storm the bastion, we let them advance as far as the ditch and then we push this strip of wall down on their heads. Look at it, lads, it seems to be standing only by a miracle of balance.”

  “Bravo, Athos!” Porthos applauded. “You were born to be a general. The Cardinal fancies himself a great captain but compared to you he is very small beer indeed.”

  “Gentlemen, let us have no duplication,” Athos called out crisply. “Let each of us pick his own man.”

  “I have mine covered,” said D’Artagnan.

  “Mine is as good as dead!” Porthos boasted.

  “Mine is marked!” said Aramis.

  “Fire!” Athos commanded.

  The four shots rang as one, four men fell. The drum immediately beat and the little troop advanced at the double. From then on, the volleys followed irregularly but with the same telling effect; but the men of La Rochelle, as if aware of the defenders’ numerical weakness, pressed on. On every three
shots from the bastion, at least two men fell but the advance of those unscathed was by no means slackened.

  When the assailants reached the foot of the bastion, they still numbered a dozen or more. A final salvo greeted them but it did not halt their progress as they jumped into the ditch and prepared to scale the breach.

  “Now, lads, let us finish them off. To the wall, to the wall, and one good push—”

  The quartet, seconded by Grimaud, pushed with the barrels of their muskets against an enormous fragment of masonry. It bent, as if rocked by the wind. Then, loosened from its base, it fell with a deafening crash into the ditch. A horrible clamor arose, a cloud of dust spread toward the heavens—and all was over.

  “Do you think we have crushed every last one of them?” Athos asked.

  “It certainly looks like it,” D’Artagnan assured him.

  “No,” Porthos corrected, “there go a few, hobbling away.”

  In point of fact, three or four of these unfortunates caked with mud and blood were retreating painfully along the communication trench toward the city. These were all that remained of the little troop. Athos looked at his watch:

  “Gentlemen,” he announced, “we have stayed here for an hour and thus won our wager. But let us be good sportsmen and stay on a while. Besides, D’Artagnan has not had a chance to tell us about his idea.”

  And with his usual calm, Athos sat down again before the remnants of the meal.

  “My idea?”

  “Ay, you were saying you had an idea when we were suddenly interrupted.”

  “Now I remember. My idea is for me to go to England a second time and find Lord Buckingham.”

  “You shall do nothing of the sort!” Athos countered sternly.

  “Why not? I did it before!”

  “True, but at that time we were not at war. At that time, Lord Buckingham was an ally, not an enemy What yon propose to do has none too pleasant a name. It is known as treason.”

  D’Artagnan, realizing the strength of the argument, relapsed into an awkward silence.

  “Ho!” Porthos proclaimed joyfully. “I have an idea now, I think.”

  “Silence, gentlemen!” Aramis admonished. “Monsieur Porthos has an idea!”