The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  CHAPTER IV

  A MARSHAL ARRIVES, A LIEUTENANT DEPARTS

  “So you have seen Aramis?” asked d’Artagnan quickly.

  Porthos swallowed hard, and turned a wild gaze upon the Gascon.

  “I am a fool,” he said thickly. “I have said too much. I promised—”

  “I think, my dear Porthos,” said d’Artagnan coolly, “that you and I have been somewhat in company in other days, and I have never heard you complain of having trusted me too much. Ma foi! If you have no confidence in me—”

  Porthos began to swear horribly.

  “For the love of the saints give me time, give me time!” he cried out in despair. “My dear comrade, you don’t understand! Listen to me. I met Aramis in Paris. He was in terrible straits; he had been flung into the depths of despair, he spoke of killing himself—Aramis! Can you fancy such a thing? He was gloomy as the foul fiend! I don’t know exactly what had caused it.”

  “I think you do,” said d’Artagnan—to himself. Aloud: “Yes?”

  “Well,” and here Porthos began to flounder, “Aramis gave me a packet of money to deliver—a sum he had collected for some lady, I know not what it was. I promised to take it to her. He made me swear not to breathe his name—”

  D’Artagnan laughed. He saw that the giant was genuinely overwhelmed at being unable to confide in him, and he was melted instantly.

  “So the robbers took the money, eh?” he asked.

  “Anything else?”

  “No—it was some gold in rouleaux,” said Porthos, but reddened a trifle as he spoke. “The devil of it is that I don’t know the exact amount. They sprang upon me just after I left poor Aramis.”

  “He was not wounded when you left him?”

  “He? Wounded?” Porthos stared. “Not in the least, except in spirit.”

  With an air as though he were glad to escape further questioning for the moment, Porthos applied himself to the food and wine that was set before them.

  D’Artagnan whistled to himself—he began to see a good many things. Aramis had received a letter from his Marie Michon, which had stricken him. He sent Porthos to Mlle. de Sine, whoever this might be; not with money, but with a letter. Porthos was attacked, robbed, left for dead; Aramis was then attacked, wounded, robbed, and the black-browed spy set forth for Grenoble.

  But now—Porthos was still lying about it! Very well, then—he would not get his letter back very readily. In what net of intrigue had Aramis enmeshed this huge man with a child’s heart? D’Artagnan felt a twinge of anger at the thought. It was all very well for Aramis to indulge his own bent for intrigue, but it was not right for him to ensnare poor simple, honest Porthos.

  “Tell me what you know of this man-you say he died on the road, in your arms?” said Porthos. “Tell me, I conjure you! Did you get my rouleaux of gold from him?”

  “I did not look to see if he had any,” said d’Artagnan drily, and with truth. Since Porthos stubbornly concealed all mention of the letter, the less said the better. Aramis, he reflected, has drawn our big comrade into some conspiracy; since Porthos is the worst possible conspirator, let him now remain out of it for his own good!

  D’Artagnan told of finding the dead man in the road, taking the fresher horse, and coming on to Grenoble—exactly as he had told Richelieu. Upon hearing this tale, Porthos was plunged into the depths of despair. He himself had seen nothing of the dead man or of d’Artagnan’s horse, and the inference was plain.

  “The robbers returned to their prey after you had passed,” he said gloomily. “They plundered the man, flung him into the river, and took your horse away. Ah, miserable wretches! If I had you under my hands, I’d wring your cursed necks! My friend, I am ruined.”

  “Why?” asked d’Artagnan.

  “Because the lady was to confide a mission to me in place of Aramis,” said the other. “I swore that I would take the money to her, accept an errand from her—and now! I am ruined.”

  “On the contrary,” said d’Artagnan, “you are saved.”

  “Saved?” Porthos stared at him, “In what way? How do you mean?”

  “Eat, drink, fortify yourself, my friend,” and d’Artagnan gestured toward the file of scullions bringing further dishes and platters. “Talk when alone.”

  The magnificent bellows of Porthos had set everyone to running, and now were produced capons, a brace of ducks, the excellent sausages for which Grenoble was renowned, pastries, venison; dish followed dish, bottle pursued bottle, and in between details of the service d’Artagnan expounded details drawn largely from his own fertile imagination.

  “You need not hesitate over confiding in me, my friend,” he said confidentially. “Perhaps I know more of the whole affair than you suppose—more, perhaps, than you yourself know! Picture our Aramis, now, engaged in helping a great man, a friend of his—a Marshal of France, now with the army—you comprehend?”

  “Ah, ah!” cried Porthos in amazement. “You know about that? Then Aramis wrote you, eh? He said I must be most particular not to mention the name of Bassompierre—”

  “Then don’t mention it,” said d’Artagnan, twirling his mustache complacently. “Aramis receives a letter from his lady-love; it throws him into consternation, into despair! Everything pales before this. Nothing matters. He is disheartened, talks of suicide, entering a monastery, taking the vows and writing a thesis for ordination—”

  “Upon my soul, his very words!” exclaimed the staring Porthos, but for all his amazement he did not forget to attack the fortifications now before him.

  “Well, then—Aramis encounters you. He knows your valor, your disregard of odds—he has reason to know them! And he also knows your modesty, your hesitancy at undertaking anything of dubious nature, your reluctance to push yourself forward is it not?”

  Porthos deftly removed half the breast of a duck, placed it in his mouth, and nodded complacently. Being anything but modest, he loved to picture himself possessed of this virtue.

  “Would Aramis mention these qualities?” pursued d’Artagnan. “No! He feared lest you beg him to select a braver, abler man. Instead, he merely asked you to do him a small favor—deliver a sum of money to a lady, and accept a commission from her. He parts from you. A few moments afterward, you are set upon, brought to earth like a Hercules assailed by base foes—and you are robbed. Why? Because you had been spied upon. It was suspected that he had given you this money. In fact, no sooner had you parted than he in turn was assaulted, attacked, badly wounded, and plundered also. You comprehend?”

  The eyes of Porthos opened tremendously, but, his mouth being filled with duck-breast, he could only nod amazed comprehension.

  “You killed two of the rascals,” pursued d’Artagnan. “The third escaped, went to attack Aramis, thinking you were dead. He presently took to the road. He had the best of horses waiting everywhere for him, he was known wherever he went—”

  “Who—who the devil told you all this?” blurted out Porthos, stupefied.

  “I reconstruct, my friend. Now, this man was not fleeing from you, as you think—on the contrary, he was hastening to reach another man, riding like mad to bring this other man the money he stole from you, the papers he stole from Aramis you comprehend? They were vitally important. He stayed not to eat nor sleep, but rode, leaped from horse to horse, spurred from hill to hill, never looked behind! At Lyon he inquired the road to Grenoble, climbed into the fresh saddle, and was gone. Why? Because he was bringing his loot to a man here,”

  “Eh?” Porthos, who had just drunk an entire bottle of wine at a draught, set down his flagon an stared afresh. “A man—here? Bringing them—pardieu! I never thought of that! Who told you so?”

  “The man to whom he was bringing them,” said d’Artagnan placidly. “Last night when I arrived he asked after such a courier, whom he was expecting hourly. He described the man, I recognized the dead man in the road—”

  The veins swelled in the forehead of Porthos. His nostrils distended, a flood of color rus
hed into his face. He brought down one fist on the board and the impact smashed half the crockery.

  “His name!” he thundered. “Who is this man? I’ll attend to him! His name, instantly!”

  “Armand, Cardinal de Richelieu.”

  This name froze Porthos into stone. He did not move, his eyes remained fastened upon d’Artagnan; but the color slowly drained out of his face.

  “Ah! Ah!” he said slowly. “But that is impossible! That—that would mean—would mean—”

  “Exactly,” said d’Artagnan. “That would mean your assassin was a spy who no doubt supposed you to be engaged in some intrigue against the Cardinal.”

  “I see it all,” said Porthos, and his head fell in dejection. “I am lost.”

  “How so?”

  Porthos paused, gulped at his wine. Still he lacked the imagination to confess everything and obtain a spiritual absolution from his friend.

  “The money,” he said, wiping his lips. “Without it, I could not reach the lady—it was my ambassadorial letters. Now I cannot place myself at her service in the stead of Aramis. And you heard what the Cardinal said to me, my dear d’Artagnan? The tone of voice in which he spoke? Yes, his spies must have been on my trail. He remembers me, indeed! Leave me, d’Artagnan; leave me, for I am a lost man. I may be arrested any moment, taken to a royal chateau—Mont St. Michel, the Bastille, Vincennes!”

  The gloom, terror, utter despondency of Porthos drew a slight smile from d’Artagnan.

  “My dear Porthos,” he said, calmly tasting his wine, “did you ever know me to deceive you, to feed you with false hopes, to desert you?”

  “You are the soul of honor and of friendship,” said Porthos unhappily.

  “Did you ever know me to break a promise to you?”

  “The thought is inconceivable.”

  “Good. Then I bid you hope. I promise you that in this matter you are no longer alone. I must go to the Cardinal at once. Well! I shall ask for leave, which is overdue me, both for myself and for Athos. Your assassin is dead, your gold is gone, instead, you gain two friends. Aramis is wounded in Paris—that man told me so before he died in my arms. He uttered your name—dead—and that of Aramis—wounded. You see? At Paris, I swear to you upon the faith of a gentleman that we shall gain access to the lady, we shall convince her that we are to be trusted, we shall make good for you all you have lost. Do you believe me?”

  Having the means of access to the lady now inside his pocket, d’Artagnan could very well make this promise.

  Porthos lifted his head, stared incredulously at him.

  “D’Artagnan! You would do this—for me?”

  “All for one, one for all!” exclaimed d’Artagnan. “You would do as much for me. Agreed?”

  Porthos sprang to his feet, seized d’Artagnan in a warm embrace, and tears started from his eyes.

  “My friend, my friend!” he cried out with emotion. “Ask of me what you will—I am yours! What you will—anything—”

  D’Artagnan freed himself from that dangerous embrace.

  “Then I ask that you remain here until I return from my conversation with His Eminence,” he said coolly. “If leave is granted me, we may have to depart at once. You need sleep?”

  “I need nothing, since I have found you,” exclaimed Porthos. “That is to say, I need everything—but I can do without anything. Go with God, my friend—I await you!”

  D’Artagnan caught up his cloak and departed in some haste for the palace.

  He was at once uneasy and at rest mentally. He was at rest on the subject of Aramis, for he was confident that he had pieced the truth together. He was uneasy on the subject of Richelieu, for now it seemed certain that the Cardinal would desire further details regarding the dead man in the road. He cursed his own imprudence for having borne that ring on his finger the previous night; whatever the ring was, whatever it meant, he should have exercised discretion.

  “What a devilish imbroglio!” he reflected, as he made his way to the Hotel des Lesdigue’res.

  “Aramis is wounded. Porthos receives a letter from him, to Helene de Sine, whoever she is; he is robbed of it. I take it, and the papers of Aramis, from a dead man. Comte de Montforge, evidently a Cardinalist agent, loses a handkerchief which bears the initials of this same lady. Richelieu, instead of clapping a penalty on us for duelling, sweetly commands us to be friends—and summons us to his cabinet! Decidedly, this affair is going take some very careful stepping.”

  As he came to the entrance of the palace, horseman came dashing out of the courtyard and passed d’Artagnan with a wave of the hand. It was Montforge, booted and spurred.

  When the musketeer was ushered into the presence of Richelieu, he found Pere Joseph present as on the previous night. And at the very first moment, a cold shiver passed over d’Artagnan, for he thought he saw both men glance at his left hand where he had worn the ring. However, the Cardinal seemed anything but angry, greeted him affably took his arm and walked with him to the window that overlooked the courtyard.

  “Look, M. d’Artagnan, and tell me what you see.”

  D’Artagnan looked down. “Your Eminence, I see guards on duty, I see a very handsome jennet being groomed by the stables. I see a superb horse being saddled—ah, what an animal! A horse fit for a king, indeed!”

  He fell silent in admiration. Richelieu pressed his arm and turned.

  “That animal belongs to you, M. d’Artagnan. Come, I wish to ask you something. Do you by any chance recall how you happened to receive a commission as lieutenant?”

  D’Artagnan felt fate upon him. “Certainly, Monseigneur; from your own hands—a kindness for which I have never ceased to be grateful.”

  “In ten minutes I go to the king,” said Richelieu. “I am going to ask him something else for you.

  “For me, Your Eminence?” stammered d’Artagnan. Richelieu regarded him with a smile, and did not fail to read the caution behind his amazement.

  “Of course, with your permission only. If—”

  His voice died. He flung a glance through the window and now stood silent, looking down at the courtyard; the affability of his features was instantly changed to alert tenseness. A sound of voices rose to the room—shouts, greetings, cheers, the resounding hollow smash of pike-butts grounded on the stones. D’Artagnan, looking, saw a file of dusty guards drawing up in line, while a number of handsomely dressed cavaliers rode into the courtyard, headed by a slightly stout gentleman with a large nose, a gay smile, and magnificent armor. He was saluted on all sides with respect and hearty cordiality, and the Cardinal’s guards presented arms.

  “Pere Joseph—here!” exclaimed Richelieu. The gray secretary was already approaching the window, and now laughed shortly as he glanced out.

  “So Bassompierre arrives! Monseigneur, you need not hasten to your audience.”

  Richelieu drew back, made a gesture. “Leave me with M. d’Artagnan, if you please.”

  When they were alone, the Cardinal turned from the window and looked at d’Artagnan.

  “Monsieur, I suppose you wonder whether I go to ask the king for a lettre de cachet or a captaincy on your behalf? Come, confess! We have met before today.”

  “I am entirely at the service of Your Eminence,” said d’Artagnan, with a composure he was far from feeling. “If I have done nothing to merit a cell, certainly I have done nothing to merit a captaincy.”

  Richelieu regarded him steadily for a moment.

  “No evasions, monsieur. We are alone. Shall we be frank?”

  “If Your Eminence pleases, most gladly.”

  “With your permission, I shall ask the king to grant you an indefinite leave, in order that you may perform certain services for me. Do you wish to accept?”

  D’Artagnan bowed, partly in order to hide the relief in his face.

  “I am honored by the choice, for in serving Your Eminence, I serve the king—”

  “A truce to compliments,” interrupted Richelieu brusquely. “I know you of ol
d, M. d’Artagnan. I desire a man who is attached to His Majesty, a gentleman of finesse, of discretion—I might almost say that I desire the service of an enemy rather than of a friend.”

  “Then I cannot have the pleasure of serving you, Monseigneur,” said d’Artagnan. “I am not your enemy. Even had I the wish, I could not aspire to such a height.”

  The eye of the Cardinal was penetrating. “You are aware, perhaps, that Madame de Chevreuse is exiled from Paris to her estates at Dampierre. You are aware, I imagine, of a good deal that cannot be put into words—that princes are ambitious, that mortal life is frail, that those who are great and wealthy and respected today, may be in chains tomorrow.

  D’Artagnan trembled inwardly-more at the half-mocking tone of Richelieu than at these words.

  “Gossip runs to that effect, Your Eminence,” he returned cautiously.

  “A despatch now awaiting His Majesty’s signature goes to the Keeper of the Seals at Lyon,” pursued Richelieu. He was in a dangerous humor this morning, as d’Artagnan perceived; this man who ruled France could not always rule himself—he had even been known to strike Cavoie, the captain of his guards, as he had been known to take the Chancellor of France by the throat. “From Lyon you will seek Madame de Chevreuse at Dampierre, to whom you will deliver a verbal message. You will then return to Paris and deliver a letter for me. After which, you will be free—that is to say, if you accept.

  D’Artagnan bowed. He did not miss the indescribable tone in which those singular final words were uttered, nor the piercing regard of the Cardinal.

  “I am most happy to serve Your Eminence,” he said quietly.

  “I must warn you, monsieur,” said Richelieu slowly, “that in delivering this message to Madame de Chevreuse, you will find it a dangerous matter.”

  A disdainful smile touched the lips of d’Artagnan.

  “The danger, Monseigneur, is for those who oppose me.

  “Ah, Gascon!” Richelieu broke into a short laugh. “Yet there is greater danger in the delivery of the letter—it goes to a lady so beautiful that all who know her fall in love with her at once!”