by Anthology
Two hours after leaving the inn at Amiens, “Satan’s Legions” entered the heart of Paris. Here they separated, and each made his way to his own quarters. Clive followed Athos, for he apparently was the only one of the musketeers that could furnish adequate lodging—Aramis saying he was expecting a messenger and did not wish to disturb Monsieur Clive, d’Artagnan’s quarters were too small, and Porthos not giving any good excuse. Clive followed Athos, therefore, and as they sped through the practically deserted streets of Paris they evoked almost the same reaction as had occurred on the high road. This was hardly what they wanted, so in order to avoid undue publicity they cut their motors when they turned into the street upon which Athos’ lodgings stood, and coasted to his door. They immediately hustled the machines inside, and closed the door against any prying eyes.
Athos and the lackey were soon asleep, but in spite of the strenuous day Clive was unable to doze off. He lay tossing on his couch, animated by the excitement of the day, and that in prospect. When the first gray blurring of dawn found the one window in the room, Clive pulled a chair up to this seventeenth century facsimile of glass, and attempted to view any activity that might be going on in the street.
“This must be a pretty quiet neighborhood,” he thought. “Looks like it’s deserted.” At that moment he heard a loud pounding coming from the street. Looking in the direction of the sound Clive saw a group of uniformed men standing before the doorway of a house near the intersection where they had cut their motors the preceding night.
“Open up in there!” he heard a voice command. “It’s his Majesty’s Police.” The door was opened by an anxious looking little man who was wearing a night-shirt, and night-cap, and the police entered, pushing him aside. As they disappeared in the doorway, a second group rounded the corner and paused before the door of the next house, where this scene was reenacted.
“Looks like the dragnet is out for someone,” Clive thought, and then an idea suddenly struck him. “Maybe it is for us! Anyway, it wouldn’t do for them to find these motorcycles.” He turned to awaken Athos, and found him already dressing. Grimaud had also arisen, and was preparing breakfast.
“Monsieur the Lieutenant of Police arose early to chase devils,” said Athos, coming to the window. “It appears as though Monsieur the cardinal has a hand in the chase—otherwise we would not have been disturbed for another hour.”
“It’s going to be rather hard to hide those motorcycles,” said Clive, “and they’ll know I’m not French the minute I open my mouth, even if they don’t notice my clothes.”
“If my plans succeed they will not come in,” said Athos in a very calm, almost light-hearted manner which Clive was to learn the musketeer assumed in tense situations. “If my plans do not succeed they will come in here where we will demand their swords, and if they do not wish to give them to us we will have to kill them or be killed by them.” He paused and glanced at Clive, who had not moved a muscle on his face. “Or if Monsieur Clive does not wish to see it through he is free now to take his motorcycle and ride back the way he came, with our gratitude for what he has done . . .”
Clive smiled. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” he said.
“Bravo! You speak like a true Musketeer,” said Athos, enthusiastically. “But we must finish dressing now so that we may not embarrass the police.”
Clive had forgotten for the moment that he was not dressed, and after having a quick sponge bath with water that Grimaud had brought for him he donned his uniform. They had barely started breakfast when the inevitable pounding sounded at the door. Grimaud glanced at his master, who by means of a sign told him to continue with his work, while he continued his breakfast. The knock was heard again, this time it was louder, and was accompanied by the voice of one of the police who offered to remove the door if it were not immediately opened. Athos arose and buckled his sword at his side, then walking leisurely to the door, opened it just as a battering ram was about to be brought into play. Seeing a gentleman standing in the doorway, fully armed, and wearing the uniform of the king’s musketeers, the attitude of the police was somewhat softened.
“Pardon, Monsieur, but we must search your house,” said the one who seemed to be the leader of the group.
“And what do you expect to find?” asked Athos in his most dignified manner. The police officer removed his hat and scratched his head.
“We don’t exactly know,” he answered. “Last night it was reported that the devil was riding through the countryside, and this neighborhood is reported as being one of the places he stopped. We know, Monsieur, that it is foolish to search for the devil, but Monsieur the cardinal has ordered a complete investigation.”
“Does Monsieur then believe that I could harbor the devil in my poor lodgings, when he has so many residences of his own in Paris?” Athos’ attitude had changed, he was now smiling at the minions of the law. It was several moments before these men understood what Athos meant, but when they did they laughed heartily.
“We are sorry to bother Monsieur,” said the spokesman, “but we have orders.”
Athos took the spokesman aside. “Would you wish to compromise a person of quality just to carry out your stupid orders?” he asked. A knowing look spread over the face of the officer. He turned to the others:
“Next house!” he ordered.
Clive, who was watching through the window, allowed a sigh of relief to escape when he saw the police march to the next door, and when Athos told him how he had swung the deal, Clive decided that corruption had its points. The two returned to their breakfast.
“What’s next on the program?” asked Clive as he finished eating.
“I have sent Grimaud out to the lodgings of our friends to request them to attend us here before we do anything further.”
D’Artagnan, living nearest to the lodgings of Athos, was the first to arrive, Porthos was close on his heels, and a short time later Aramis appeared—explaining that he had stopped by the hotel of M. de Treville to request an audience for the five men.
“Well done,” cried d’Artagnan; “it will be well if he sees the king before the cardinal’s messenger arrives from Amiens.”
“Yes, and it will be well if we complete our mission before the Lieutenant of Police misses the guards he sent to my house,” said Porthos.
The others looked at him with undisguised amazement.
“I hope you haven’t done anything rash; Porthos,” said Aramis, impatiently. “Or is this one of your jokes?”
“Well what could I do?” asked Porthos. “My bourgeois neighbors told the police that they had seen the devil enter my house, so when they came to search, I had to detain them. I didn’t kill them, although I had to run my sword through the thigh of one, and the arm of the second, and I am afraid I cracked the skull of the third with my fist.”
“But what have you done with them now?” asked Athos.
“I have bound them firmly and placed them on my bed, where Mousqueton is dressing their wounds.”
“In that case, there is only one thing to do,” said d’Artagnan. “We must prevent these men from telling what they know, but at the same time we can not let them stay in Porthos’ lodgings.”
“And how do you propose to do that?” asked Porthos.
“Very simple, we will send our lackeys to your lodgings with wine—cheap, powerful wine. Our lackeys will see to it that the police drink the wine until overcome by it, and then set them free. Who will believe the story of a drunkard? They will be discharged immediately, and we will not be troubled by them again.”
“Bravo!” cried Aramis.
“I still say d’Artagnan has the wisest head of the four of us,” said Athos. He gave Grimaud a signal with his hand, and the lackey immediately began to carry out the plan, assisted by Planchet and Bazin.
“I see you have brought your portmanteau, d’Artagnan,” said Athos when the lackeys had left. “Are you sure it still contains the precious picture and those so important documents?” D’
Artagnan blanched slightly at these words, and quickly opened the small leather case he was carrying, and then closed it again with an expression of relief.
“Yes, I still have them,” he said, “but I would like to get them into the proper hands without any more delay.”
“Then let us go to see M. de Treville at once,” said Athos.
Clive had been watching this scene in silence. It was beginning to appear as though his usefulness had about ended, and consequently he lingered behind as the others went to the door. Athos turned with a questioning look on his face:
“Do you not wish to accompany us, Monsieur Clive?” he asked. “I’m sure M. de Treville will be disappointed if he does not have the opportunity of speaking with the man that brought us unscathed through a regiment of the cardinal’s best guards.”
Clive felt his face flush. “I thought my uniform would start an investigation, and get you fellows in trouble,” he said.
“Your foreign speech without the uniform would cause much more trouble,” said Athos, “but with M. de Treville’s protection the police will not dare to touch you in your foreign uniform.”
“And in addition,” said Aramis, “we owe M. Clive a debt of gratitude which we can not allow to go unrepaid.”
“One for all and all for one,” cried Porthos. “You are one of us now.”
“Let us be off,” came the impatient voice of d’Artagnan who had gone outside, and could not understand the delay.
This was all the urging Clive needed; he followed the others out the door, and arm-in-arm the five men marched musketeer-fashion toward the hotel of the captain of the musketeers.
Needless to say, Clive attracted a great deal of attention along the route, but marching in the center of such an imposing array of musketeers no one dared question his presence. Other musketeers that were encountered, although displaying curiosity, boisterously called out the usual greetings to their four comrades. This curiosity was mirrored in the face of M. de Treville, who had been awaiting their arrival, and who escorted them immediately to his private chambers.
“Your arrival seems always to be accompanied by some sort of a crisis,” he said in more of a paternal than critical manner. “I presume I am not far wrong in assuming you gentlemen to be the cause of the story of devils flying over the countryside on fiery dragons, that has Monsieur le Cardinal so upset this morning?”
“You are correct, Monsieur, we were the cause of the excitement. We did not encourage the stories of the devils, however, and we didn’t have time to discourage them; so you see, we are innocent of the whole thing, although being the cause of it,” said Porthos.
“Porthos, you talk in circles,” said d’Artagnan. “What you say is not important anyhow,” and then turning to Treville he continued: “We have come to speak to you of a matter of utmost importance to the queen and the state.” He opened his portmanteau and handed the contents to the captain. Treville’s eyes widened when he saw the picture, and read the inscription.
“Does Monsieur le Cardinal know you have these things?” he asked.
“Yes, Monsieur,” answered d’Artagnan, “but he hasn’t had time to receive word of our escape from his guards at Amiens, since we came by a much speedier method than horseback.” Then d’Artagnan described the manner in which they obtained the picture and documents, and how they had been waylaid in Amiens, and had escaped by riding into the cave, and of the unbelievable adventures that had befallen them in the strange new world. Treville listened attentively to this recital, not able to suppress expressions of incredulity, and frequently gazing wonderingly at Clive, his uniform, and the revolver strapped at his side. When d’Artagnan had finished his story, Treville turned to Clive.
“I do not quite understand this story,” he said, “but M. d’Artagnan says you are a brave man, and I am grateful to you for bringing my musketeers through safely. It is small wonder His Eminence is upset about the flight of the devils last night,” he continued, now addressing the musketeers as well as Clive. “It will be well for me to see the king before M. le Cardinal receives word from Amiens. As for the message for the queen, I will allow you to handle that in your own manner, and will forget that I ever saw such a picture.” Then calling his valet de chambre, who always stood in a small adjoining room, he ordered his carriage. This order was immediately fulfilled, and soon the captain, his four musketeers, and the American were speeding through the streets of Paris toward the Louvre. The carriage was drawn by eight magnificent horses, and Clive could interpret from the attitudes of the people they passed, the respect that was held for the captain of the musketeers—the third man in the government.
Before arriving at the Louvre the carriage stopped and discharged all its occupants except M. de Treville, who continued on to the main gate, while the other five made their way on foot to the small side door. D’Artagnan asked for M. Laporte, and soon the queen’s valet de chambre appeared, and recognizing his visitors led them to a small room having no windows, and only one door. The latter he bolted as soon as they were all inside. He cast a suspicious glance at Clive, but said nothing to him except to express his “pleasure” at meeting him.
D’Artagnan repeated the story, just as he had told it to Treville, and Laporte listened attentively until the narrator arrived at the journey to the “new world,” and then a smile of incredulity crossed his face and remained throughout’ the narration of the remainder of the story. When d’Artagnan had finished he handed the picture to Laporte, and the smile vanished from the face of the latter.
“You have served the queen well, Messieurs, in obtaining this picture, but since you are gentlemen of honor, and obviously have not been drinking, you have undoubtedly been bewitched, and your ‘friend,’ Monsieur Clive, is a sorcerer.” Laporte said this with a finality that was meant to allow no dispute, but anger immediately flashed in the eyes of the musketeers, while Clive was so amused that he could not prevent a chuckle from escaping him.
“Do you believe that I have bewitched you while you were standing here with us?” Clive asked the queen’s advisor.
“Of course not,” said Laporte, “you haven’t made a single motion with your hands, and your lips haven’t parted in any incantation since you have been here, for I have been watching you.”
“Oh brother!” Clive exclaimed in English.
“What was that?” asked the valet de chambre.
“If I haven’t bewitched you, how do you explain this?” asked Clive, producing a small pocket flashlight, and flashing it in the eyes of the old man.
“You have bewitched that piece of metal,” Laporte hedged.
“Do you believe that any of these musketeers could do this?” Clive asked.
“Certainly not!”
The musketeers could see what Clive was driving at, and they each produced one of the lights with which he had supplied them, and flashed them in the direction of Clive’s accuser. To say that Laporte was chagrined would be an understatement, but since he was a gentleman he apologized—coolly—to the American, and asked if he could take one of the instruments to the queen, as he knew she would request to see one when she heard about it. Clive handed his light to the queen’s valet de chambre, who took the light and the picture and left the room after asking the others to wait.
The darkness of the room seemed heightened by the flicker of a single candle on a table in the corner, and Clive thought the air very stale, although the others did not seem to show any discomfort. The five men sat in silence for nearly half an hour, when Laporte returned.
“Will Monsieur Clive please accompany me?” he asked in a tone that expressed more a command than a request. The musketeers shot questioning looks at each other, and Athos was about to refuse to let him go alone, when Clive spoke.
“I will be glad to go along if this is on the level,” he said.
“On the level?” questioned Laporte.
“I mean, if it isn’t a trap of some sort. I really wouldn’t like to be fed to the lions or burned
at the stake, or whatever it is that you do to sorcerers and witches,” Clive explained.
“If Monsieur Clive does riot return,” said Porthos, “you will account to us.”
“Put yourselves at ease, Messieurs, no harm will come to Monsieur Clive,” Laporte assured them.
Clive followed the old man out into the corridor, and up a seemingly endless circular stairway. He finally entered a fairly small room, where he was again told to wait. The room was richly furnished and hung with silks and tapestries. Four large windows admitted adequate light, and one of them being open allowed a fresh stream of air to fill the room. The air was perfumed with the scent of flowers, and looking out the window Clive could see a beautiful garden in full bloom below him. This was a marked change from the filth and squalor he had seen in the streets of Paris. While he was thus absorbed in the view before him he heard the door open behind him, and turning he saw a young woman of such breathtaking beauty that he stood spellbound.
As for the queen, for it was she who had entered the room, the smile of graciousness on her face immediately changed to an expression of astonishment when she saw Clive.
“It is he!” she cried, and then realizing what she had said’ she blushed deeply and attempted to compose her features. This aroused Clive from the spell he was under, and he bowed low as he had seen courtiers do in the motion pictures.
“I am highly flattered that you would recognize me, Madame, but I have been in your country for such a short time that I am curious to learn where you saw me before,” he said, intentionally omitting “your highness,” though he knew he was addressing the queen.
“Even the voice is the same,” she said as though speaking to herself. “Perhaps it is possible—maybe it could be true.” A strange fire burned in her eyes as though her soul were probing into the limbo of misplaced memories. Seeing Clive’s increasing embarrassment she recovered her original poise. “You undoubtedly think it very stupid of me, but I have known you, however, for years from a dream in which you came from a distant country and age.” She walked toward Clive as though hypnotized.
