The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  This touched d’Artagnan’s all but mortal hurt and spurred him to audacity.

  “From such risk, Monseigneur, you and I are alike immune; you, by reason of the cloth, and I, by reason of a loss I have not forgotten.”

  The Cardinal was silent for a moment. Perhaps he, too, had not forgotten Constance de Bonacieux; perhaps he had not forgotten Milady, who, as his agent, had poisoned the unhappy Constance and torn d’Artagnan’s heart asunder. After a moment be lifted his head, moved to his secretary, sat down before it and wrote a few lines. Sanding them, he folded and sealed the letter, and addressed it. Then he extended it to d’Artagnan.

  “The letter; a personal matter for which I give you thanks.”

  “I am honored, Monseigneur. And the verbal message?”

  The Cardinal spoke reflectively, with a certain air of savage and cruel assurance.

  “You may say that you had it from my lips, but couch it in these terms: ‘His Majesty has learned all and is taking the child under his own protection. Be very quiet during the next six months. If you indulge your liking for letters and visitors you are lost.’ That is all. Repeat the message, monsieur, if you please.”

  D’Artagnan repeated it, word for word, but he could not keep a note of astonishment from his voice. Richelieu, watching him narrowly, smiled as though gratified by the effect of his words.

  “You think, perhaps, I am sending a warning? No, monsieur; I am sending a threat.”

  This was true. Richelieu never sent warnings his purposes were guessed only after they were accomplished.

  “Pardon, Your Eminence,” said d’Artagnan. “I do not think regarding such matters. They pass directly from ears to lips, without reaching my brain; and they are then forgotten.”

  “Very well, monsieur. When can you start?”

  “The moment I receive my despatches.”

  “They will be ready in five minutes. Wait below. The horse standing there is a present for you—a token of my gratitude for your kindness. You ride alone?”

  “With a friend, Monseigneur—a M. du Vallon, formerly of the Musketeers, whom I encountered this morning.”

  “Ah, yes—Porthos, is it not?” Richelieu smiled, and this smile struck terror into d’Artagnan, so singular was its quality. “You will, perhaps—want to have a word with M. de Bassompierre, who has just arrived from the army?”

  “I, Monseigneur?” D’Artagnan looked surprised. “Not at all. I am not one of M. de Bassompierre’s gentlemen—I know him very slightly, indeed.”

  “Indeed!” echoed Richelieu. “Very well; that is all, monsieur.”

  D’Artagnan bowed and departed. When he found himself outside the room, he was trembling, as though he had just emerged from some terrible danger.

  Scarcely was he gone, when Pere Joseph entered the room and addressed the Cardinal.

  “Monseigneur, His Majesty awaits you—he is being barbered now.”

  “Good. And Bassompierre?”

  “Is, I think, going to Paris at once.”

  “So? My friend and father,” and Richelieu tapped his arm affectionately. “I have accomplished two things within a very few minutes. First, Chevreuse is eliminated from whatever may happen within the next few months.”

  “Then Your Eminence has accomplished a miracle.”

  “Second, that dangerous young man who wore a ring yesterday and does not wear it today, will cause no further trouble.”

  “So?” The Capuchin looked doubtful. “He is a better man than Montforge. He may—escape.”

  “In which case he will fall into a pit from which there is no escape. See to it that he is provided with a purse when the papers are sent him.”

  Pere Joseph looked astonished at this unwonted liberality, for at this period Richelieu was niggardly with money. He had twice received Marion de l’Orme, the most famous hetera of Paris; he received her most magnificently on each occasion; after the second time, he sent her a purse by his lackey Bournais. She opened it, found a hundred pistoles, threw them into the street, and told the story to everyone.

  Going directly to the courtyard, d’Artagnan paused to peep at the letter given him: all his curiosity had been keenly aroused. He glanced at the superscription. This letter was addressed to Helene de Sirle, at the Parc du Montmorenci.

  With a bewildered air, d’Artagnan went to the horse that a groom was holding, and mounted with scarcely a glance at the superb animal. He sat waiting, a thousand conjectures flashing across his mind. One thing was clear—his mission ended with the delivery of this letter.

  “Therefore,” he reflected, “once my errand’s done I’m free to help Porthos. And the Cardinal sends me to the same point, to the same person, as the Queen! Now, if I had Athos to advise me in this—ah, fool that I am!”

  It had just occurred to him that since Athos was at Lyon, there was nothing to prevent him from taking Athos with him. And at this admirable inspiration, d’Artagnan could scarce control his eagerness to be off, pick up Porthos, and depart.

  Abruptly, as he sat there, a terrible memory rose before him. The words of the dying man recurred to him with sinister emphasis:

  “Above them all, she—she herself!”

  She herself! A child in the abbey of St. Saforin, guarded by an unknown Betstein; Aramis and Bassompierre and a plot—what was it all? How did a child enter into it? Was this the same child mentioned in Richelieu’s message? Sudden relief came at the thought. “Ah!” he murmured, wiping a trickle of sweat from his eyes. “Then it’s a question of Chevreuse, not of the Queen—excellent And here, I see, are my despatches—”

  A secretary approached him, handed him a packet of letters and a purse.

  D’Artagnan turned his horse and twirled his mustache as the magnificent animal bore him from the courtyard and past the guards saluting at the gates. He returned their salute, and two minutes later was on his way to rejoin Porthos.

  CHAPTER V

  FOUR LETTERS ARE SENT, ONE ARRIVES

  At the moment d’Artagnan and Porthos left Grenoble, the affairs of France were in divers hands and conditions. The Imperialists had captured Mantua by assault and Casale was under siege; on the other hand, the army had swept all before it in Savoy and Piedmont, hence the queen-mother was more than ever furious against Richelieu. Both the king and the cardinal had left the army for the best of reasons—the plague. Louis XIII, never a robust man, had come to Grenoble and paused there, with illness creeping upon him. He had intended to rejoin the army, but it began to look as though he would rejoin the court instead.

  The queens were at Lyon, and Paris ruled itself. Bassompierre arrived at Grenoble more in guise of a triumphing Caesar than a grumbling general.

  He found the king at his levee, and was received most joyfully by Louis, who was at the moment in the hands of his hairdresser.

  “Ha! Our beloved marshal foregoes the pomps of war to rejoin us!” exclaimed the king, as Bassompierre knelt to kiss his hand. “Come, Francois, tell me something! I hear that when you entered Madrid as our ambassador, you rode a mule. Is that true?”

  “Faith, sire, entirely true!” and Bassompierre chuckled. He was extremely handsome, and was wearing superb armor, expressly donned for the occasion. His hearty, genial laugh, his air of breezy frankness, swept into the room like a freshening breath of morning, “A mule of the finest Andaluzian strain, sent me by the Emperor; a mule to make a bishop weep with envy—”

  Well, well,” interrupted Louis, “I never thought to see the day when an ass was mounted upon a mule!”

  Those around broke into laughter. Bassompierre swept the king a low bow.

  “True, very true,” he rejoined. “But all things are possible to those anointed of the Lord! Upon that occasion I was, naturally, representing Your Majesty.”

  The superb audacity of this reply delighted the king, who burst into laughter that ended the business of his hairdresser.

  “Francois, you have a tongue in a thousand—I love you for it,” he cried gaily. “Th
ey say you would sooner lose a friend than a good jest, Francois! Be careful you do not lose a friend in me!”

  “God forbid, Your Majesty!” said Bassompierre devoutly. “For then I should have to seek a friend in His Eminence.”

  “Impossible, Betstein, impossible!” Louis laughed heartily, and according to his custom used the German form of Bassompierre’s name, as a token of familiarity. “Our good cardinal has no maids of honor at his court.”

  “In such case,” said the audacious Lorrainer, “let us both return to Lyon, sire, and be at our ease!”

  Louis chuckled at this thrust. It was no secret that the king was madly but virtuously enamored of Mlle. de Hautefort, maid of honor to the queen. Leaning back in his chair, Louis resigned himself again to the hands of his hairdresser. He was handsome, in his thinly cruel fashion, but his temper was extremely uneven; he rose to a certain largeness of spirit only with Bassompierre.

  This man, who alone could jest with the king on even terms, moved among the gentlemen present, his impressive personality dominating them all, even his enemies. Of these he had not a few. The polished and imposing presence, the very force of character which so contributed to his success as courtier or gambler, lover or ambassador, assured him the solid testimonial of envious foes.

  One of these gentlemen, who fancied the raillery of the king betokened a change in the marshal’s fortunes, thought the occasion opportune to intrude a suave hint of intrigue. He turned to Bassompierre.

  “So, monsieur, we are to judge that you have joined the party of Guise?”

  “Eh?” said Bassompierre, astonished, “I? And why should you think that, monsieur?”

  The other shrugged. “Why not, indeed, after the tender manner in which you embrace his sister, the Princesse de Conti?”

  “Ho!” Bassompierre inflated his cheeks in hearty laughter. “Nonsense, my dear monsieur, nonsense! I assure you that I have embraced your wife with far greater warmth—and I do not love you any the more because of it!”

  The king broke into a roar of mirth in which all his gentlemen joined, and in the midst of this mirth, the cardinal was announced. Richelieu entered, saluted profoundly, kissed the king’s hand, and greeted Bassompiere very warmly. Now, as it chanced, Louis remembered d’Artagnan and asked where he was.

  “He has just departed, sire,” said the cardinal. “He received your letters for the court, and was next moment in the saddle.”

  “Ah! A pity I missed him!” said Bassompierre. “I like that young man. He is impetuous, he is afraid of nothing, he is a good officer. Above all, he is faithful.”

  “You admire faithful men more than faithful women, eh?” jested the king.

  “Faith, sire, it’s all one to me!” Bassompierre’s laughing brown eyes twinkled, and he twirled the waxed points of his mustache. Then, meeting the eye of Richelieu, he sensed a coming attack, and fell silent with disconcerted surprise. How he had offended the minister, he could not conceive.

  “M. le Marechal wears armor,” said the cardinal smoothly. “Surely, sire, he does not fear the weapons of enemies here?”

  An ominous hint. Bassompierre was too old a courtier to show his astonishment, however; the king, rising from the chair, took his arm affectionately.

  “Eh, Betstein? Surely you have no such fear in our presence?”

  “Alas, sire—I have great fear of assassination,” admitted Bassompierre, who was no man to refuse a challenge from the cardinal or any other. At the word, there was a stir. The king’s hand fell, his face changed. Those around stood frozen, and Richelieu’s eye held a satiric gleam of triumph. With that word, Bassompierre had wrecked his future—all felt this to be certain.

  “Assassination!” echoed Louis. “In our presence? Explain yourself, monsieur!”

  Bassompierre bowed.

  “Sire, His Eminence is, as usual, entirely right. Regard this corselet—expressly made for me, never worn until this morning! You will observe, sire, the remarkable gold inlay, the supreme lightness yet excellence of the steel!”

  “It is indeed magnificent,” said the king coldly. “I doubt whether its like is in our own armory. But, Francois, if you seem to doubt our ability to protect—”

  It was coming. Another instant, and Bassompierre would be dismissed, sent to his estates, ruined! He intervened, coolly.

  “Pardon, sir—you misapprehend. Assassination is indeed my greatest fear; but not for myself. I wore this corselet in the hope that you would deign to accept it from me, wear it, and so set at rest all the fears that have weighed upon me! This bit of steel is too beauteous for me—only the son of Henri Quatre could wear it fittingly!”

  And with a gesture, Bassompierre unbuckled the corselet.

  The king was astonished, delighted, charmed as a boy with a new toy. The cardinal bit his lip with vexation. Although slightly large for Louis XIII, the corselet proved a fairly good fit, and the king insisted on wearing it immediately. He discovered that it became him admirably, and was put into excellent humor. So, when Bassompierre requested permission to go to Paris it was granted instantly.

  “As you like, Betstein, as you like,” said the king. “But, I order you—tell us her name!”

  “Her name, sire, is Chaillot,” said Bassompiere, giving the title of the magnificent estate he had recently purchased. “I go to build my home, hoping that some day I may have the honor to entertain Your Majesty there.”

  “See that you build your house upon the rock, my dear marshal,” said Richelieu drily. Bassonpierre smiled at him.

  “Monseigneur, it shall be built upon a stone!” he said, playing on his own name.

  “When one builds a house,” said the cardinal reflectively, “the next step is to bring home the bride. You are not, by any chance, thinking of marriage?”

  In these words, Bassompierre perceived that his secret marriage had become known to the cardinal. He passed off the question with a jest, but ten minutes afterward he took his leave of the king and retired.

  “If I remain here? I am a lost man!” he said to his secretary. “The horses, swiftly—let us ride for Paris!”

  He little dreamed that because he did not remain here he was, indeed, a lost man. These things lay in the future.

  When Bassompierre and his princely suite were half a league out of Grenoble, there came riding after them a gentleman of the king’s household, a distant relative of the marshal. Catching up with them, he drew Bassompierre to one side the road.

  “News for you, monsieur,” he said. “Do you know an officer of Musketeers named d’Artagnan?”

  “I know of him, at least,” said Bassompierre curiously. “Why?”

  “He precedes you to Paris.”

  “That is no news.”

  “He carries a letter.”

  “I carry fifty. Did you spur after us to tell me this?”

  “To tell you, monsieur, that I was standing in the courtyard when he drew out this letter and looked at the superscription, which was written in the hand of Richelieu.”

  “Ah!” murmured Bassompierre. “And did it concern me?”

  “That, monsieur, I leave to you. I saw the writing; the letter was addressed to a certain Mlle. de Sirle.”

  Bassompierre became pale as death.

  “Impossible!” he ejaculated. “Richelieu never heard of her!”

  “On the contrary, monsieur, Richelieu met her at the hotel of the Duc de Montmorenci, and is said to have visited her since then.”

  The pallor of the marshal became a deep and angry flush.

  “So! But it is impossible. The Cardinal—” He checked himself abruptly, smiled, and held out his hand with a swift change of manner. “My thanks, my thanks! It was good of you to think this matter might concern me, but I assure you it does not. I am sorry you have lost your time and trouble, my friend.”

  “I have not lost it, monsieur, since I have gained your thanks,” said the other, and so turned about and rode back to Grenoble.

  Bassompierre continued hi
s way but with this difference—he now rode at headlong speed.

  D’Artagnan and Porthos gained Lyon without pause. Upon reaching the artillery barracks where the Musketeers were quartered, Porthos dismounted, staggered, and was only saved from falling by d’Artagnan.

  “My friend,” he confessed, “I have been in the saddle four days and nights. I need sleep. I need salves and ointment. For the love of heaven, show me a bed and leave me!”

  D’Artagnan took him to his own quarters, then delivered his despatches, learned that Athos was on duty, and sought out M. Rambure’s, the captain of his company, whom he found at table.

  “Monsieur,” he said with his simple directness, “As you know, I bore letters to His Majesty at Grenoble. There I had the honor of seeing the Cardinal.”

  “Peste!” exclaimed Rambures, facetiously. “And you’re not in the Bastille, my dear fellow?”

  “On the contrary, I’m on my way to Paris at the request of His Eminence, who promised me leave, advised me to make haste, and authorized me do what I liked. Therefore, with your permission, I should like my friend M. Athos to ride with me.”

  “Gladly, M. d’Artagnan, gladly. But come! To Paris—for the cardinal? Just between ourselves, when did M. du Plessis obtain the services of His Majesty’s guards?”

  “By convincing the guards, monsieur, that they were acting in His Majesty’s interests.”

  Rambure’s broke into laughter. “Good, good! Put in the application—I’ll attend to it. Take our good Athos and go when you desire. Sit down and help me finish this bottle of wine; the guard will be changed in ten minutes, and you can then gobble Athos and run. What news from the army?”

  D’Artagnan made himself comfortable.

  “None that I know of—I got into Grenoble late, and left early in the morning. By the way, Rambure’s, do you happen to know a gentleman of the cardinal’s household named Montforge?”

  The captain, who was a Gascon like two-thirds of the guards, frowned.

  “Hm—yes, I’ve heard the name! Of course he’s the man who killed Aubain, Guise’s fencing master, last year. Isn’t he some relative of Mme. de Chavigny? You know, the complaisant lady who bore His Eminence a son—tut, what scandal!” Rambure’s laughed. “Here’s long life to you, and wishing I were going to Paris in your company!”