The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  D’Artagnan knew already that Montforge was an excellent blade; he knew already that the man was a favorite of Richelieu; so, having learned nothing, he presently departed to find Athos, and came upon him just going off duty. Athos embraced him warmly, as though he had been absent four months instead of four days.

  “Ha, my son—back already? What news?”

  “Every sort imaginable,” said d’Artagnan. “Come over to that auberge and settle down to talk it out in comfort—”

  “Unfortunately,” said Athos, “I have been assigned to escort their majesties, who go riding in the park in half an hour.”

  “Bah!” D’Artagnan beckoned to another gentleman of the Musketeers, who was approaching. “You are on leave, my dear Athos—you ride to Paris with me. M. de Bret will take your place and be glad to do it.”

  This proving true, the two friends repaired to the auberge across the street.

  “To Paris?” said Athos, and then shrugged. “Good! As well one place as another.”

  Such was the philosophy of the Comte de la Fere at this period.

  Since that terrible night on the banks of the Lys, when d’Artagnan, Lord de Winter, and the Three Musketeers had witnessed the execution of Milady, Athos had once more sunk into the depths of his own negligence toward life. He had no ambition. He lived for nothing. He drank huge quantities of his favorite Spanish wine, spoke little, appeared drowned in a dark and mysterious sadness. Yet neither wine nor melancholy affected this man outwardly—this man who, so far as others were concerned, lived as a perfect model of chivalry and honor. His voice retained its soft liquid quality, his features retained their indefinable air of nobility, of sweetness, his wrist retained its marvelous flexibility; all this despite his more frequent turning to the material side of life—to tavern debauches where he uttered scarce a word, to steady drinking until Grimaud took his arm and led him home. It seemed as though Athos had resolved to drown all that lay behind and ahead of him.

  As the two friends turned in at the tavern, a man suddenly appeared in front of them and blocked the way. This man was Grimaud, the lackey of Athos.

  Athos motioned him aside, but Grimaud did not budge.

  “Well?” asked Athos. In reply, Grimaud drew a letter from his pocket and presented it. This letter was addressed to the Comte de la Fere.

  “Who brought this?” demanded Athos in astonishment. Grimaud, trained to silence, shrugged to indicate his ignorance. D’Artagnan, who knew that Athos never wrote or received a letter, was astonished.

  “Bah!” said Athos. “Your news first, d’Artagnan. Come!”

  They entered the auberge and settled themselves in a corner. When the wine was brought and they were alone, d’Artagnan took the ring and letter from his pocket. He handed the ring to Athos, whose amazing knowledge of heraldry had ere this astonished him.

  “Do you know whose arms these are!”

  Athos smiled slightly. “Certainly. They belong to the man who would have been married to the daughter of the old Constable de Montmorenci, had he not neglected the etiquette of paying a visit to the Duc de Bouillon, nephew of the Constable. In consequence, she was married to Conde—”

  “I am not a historian,” interrupted d’Artagnan. “Whose are these arms?”

  Athos drank deeply. “They belong to the man who refused to be made Duc d’Aumale.”

  “His name?”

  “He has two.”

  “Devil take you!” said d’Artagnan impatiently. Athos, seeing that he was in earnest, at once lost his jesting manner.

  “Pardon, my son—yet you astonished me by your ignorance! This man is captain of the Chateau de Monceaux; a knight of the Ordre du St. Esprit; he refused a bribe of 100,000 crowns; he played tennis with Wallenstein before Emperor Maximilian; he outdrank the canons of Saverne; he won a wager of a thousand crowns from Henri IV; he was given the honor of having fifty guards; he refused the Duchy of Beaupreau; he was made Marshal of France—”

  “Ah! ah!” exclaimed d’Artagnan in stupefied astonishment. “You cannot mean Schomberg—”

  “Certainly not. I mean Bassompierre—whose name originally was Betstein, the same name in Germanized form.”

  D’Artagnan was overcome with stupefaction. Betstein!

  “Read this,” he said, and handed the letter of Aramis to his friend. Athos glanced at it, and pushed it away a little with his hand.

  “I have a letter of my own, not yet read,” he said. “A gentleman does not read the letters of others, my son.

  “A soldier reads the correspondence of the enemy,” said d’Artagnan.

  “True,” said Athos, and picked up the letter. A slight pallor came into his face, and his eyes darted a fiery glance at d’Artagnan. “A letter—to a lady—and in the hands of Aramis! And you say—an enemy—

  “Read it,” said d’Artagnan calmly. “It contains no secrets.”

  Athos met his gaze steadily for a moment, found it serene and unclouded, nodded slightly, and opened the letter.

  “I have read it,” he said.

  “Good. Now—can you conceive to whom it refers? To what bearer?”

  The singularly imperturbable eyes of Athos rested on him, and then that sweet and expressive smile touched the lips of the older man.

  “Ah, my son! I know the suppressed eagerness burning in you! Were it not impossible, I would say that the bearer of this letter—this friend of Aramis—must be also a friend of ours. Porthos. But that is impossible.”

  D’Artagnan was seized with wonder at this evidence of insight.

  “Athos—you are divine!” he exclaimed. “Porthos is at this moment asleep on my bed. Come—here is the whole story.”

  And he poured out all that had happened since he had left Lyon for Grenoble.

  Athos listened, tapping with his long and beautiful fingers on the letter he had received but had not opened. He showed no astonishment at what he heard—only a miracle could make Athos lift an eyebrow. But, when d’Artagnan repeated the words uttered by the dying spy of Richelieu, the gaze of Athos became singularly penetrating, alert, alive. The names of Porthos and of Aramis still had power for him. When the tale came to the meeting with Porthos, his gaze showed interest. When it came to the interrupted duel, it revealed satisfaction.

  “Ah, my son, I am proud of you!” he said quietly, and those words thrilled d’Artagnan above all praise from Richelieu or Louis himself. “I have heard of this Montforge—a man of noble blood and ignoble speech and deed. Continue.”

  D’Artagnan finished his recital, and the eye of Athos began to sparkle. D’Artagnan showed Richelieu’s letter to Helene de Sirle, and was about to repeat the verbal message to Chevreuse, when Athos checked him.

  “Tut, tut—that message is sacred!”

  “But I have no secrets from you, my friend.”

  “That is not your secret.”

  “True.” D’Artagnan reflected. “Richelieu said the message was not a warning, but a threat, and was extremely dangerous to me as the bearer.”

  A disdainful smile touched the lips of Athos.

  “Undoubtedly. Chevreuse is the most dangerous woman in France, as Richelieu knows to his cost; she stops at nothing, stoops to anything!”

  “Well, leave that aside. What do you think of the other matter?”

  “I think Bassompierre is facing destruction,” and Athos drank an entire goblet of Malaga as though it were a duty.

  “No, no—I mean the business of the child! That’s why I wanted to repeat the message—it has a vital connection.”

  “So?” Athos looked thoughtful. “You think Porthos knows all about it?”

  “I have not asked him. Theories are wasted time.”

  “Exactly my opinion. Let’s dismiss the whole affair for the moment—ride to Paris, then to Dampierre—or to Dampierre first. We can go by way of Bourg-la-Reine and circle back to Paris. Once there, we deliver your letter to Mlle. de Sirle and Porthos delivers his.”

  “Or we for him. I promised
to gain him admission to her presence.”

  “You must give him the letter.”

  “And confess that I kept silent about it?”

  “Not at all. Give it to Grimaud.” Athos turned and crooked his finger. As though by magic, Grimaud came forward and stood before the table. Athos handed him the letter.

  “M. Porthos.”

  Grimaud had not heard of Porthos in above a year’s time, but said nothing.

  The horses, immediately after supper tonight,” said Athos, Grimaud gave d’Artagnan an inquiring look.

  “No, I have a new mount,” said d’Artagnan. “Go to my room first.”

  “Ah!” Grimaud started. “Then M. Por—”

  “Silence, you villain!” commanded Athos.

  Demanding pardon with a profound bow, Grimaud departed on his errand. D’Artagnan laughed; he understood perfectly. Grimaud would put the letter in the pocket of Porthos, who would discover it upon wakening.

  “So we have money, horses, freedom, and we ride upon business for the queen and the Cardinal—excellent!” said Athos, taking all this as a matter of course. “Aramis is wounded; you destroyed the packet taken from him—better still! That spy said he had had this ring with Bassompierre’s arms made—I wonder why? Bah! No use wondering. Ride and discover.”

  “Have you forgotten your own letter?” asked d’Artagnan.

  With a careless shrug, Athos picked up the letter, found the seal illegible, and tore open the folded paper. It was a very stout paper, a sort of parchment; the letter had been sent on from the Hotel of the Musketeers at Paris.

  Reading the letter, Athos did not change his expression, but the color slowly drained out of his face and was replaced by a mortal pallor. He lifted his eyes, looked at d’Artagnan, and spoke with visible effort.

  “Do you—do you remember a man—an Englishman—” his voice failed. D’Artagnan, startled, leaned over the table.

  “You do not mean—Lord de Winter?”

  Athos inclined his head and pushed forward the letter. D’Artagnan, stupefied, turned it about and read:

  “M. Athos: Lest one letter fail, I send four, to you and to your three friends. I shall be in Paris, at the Hotel of the Marquis de St. Luc, Place Royale, on July 30th. WINTER.”

  D’Artagnan looked at the letter, then looked at Athos, then at the letter again, with a puzzled frown. Something was lacking here—he did not know what. On that fateful night beside the River Lys two years ago, when Milady was executed, a fifth man had stood beside the four friends. She, who had been the mistress of d’Artagnan and the wife of Athos, had also been the sister-in-law of Lord de Winter; this woman was dead, but she had left frightful memories behind.

  “What does he mean?” Athos passed a hand across his pallid brow. “I do not want to see him. Why should he write the four of us—”

  “Ah, ah!” exclaimed d’Artagnan, and lifted his voice. “Host! A lighted candle—name of the devil, be quick about it!” He looked at Athos, his eyes sparkling. “My friend, I have just thought of something—this signature is well below the body of the letter—”

  The inn-keeper brought a lighted candle and departed. When he was gone, d’Artagnan held the letter above the flame. Words appeared, written in the thick paper with secret ink and momentarily shown by the heat:

  He is dead; she remains. Come, if you would save her!

  D’Artagnan lifted his head and regarded Athos, who had read the writing.

  “He—ah! That means Buckingham. And she—then it’s a question of the queen—”

  “Silence, foolish tongue!” exclaimed Athos severely. “Of course, of course! This Englishman is faithful and a gentleman. But St. Luc is brother-in-law to Bassompierre! I do not understand this at all—”

  “Therefore dismiss conjecture, accept your own medicine, and don’t waste time!” D’Artagnan held the paper in the flame and watched it burn. “One letter out of four arrived. This is the twenty-fifth of July. We must ride to Dampierre first; that’s understood. If we’re to be in Paris on the thirtieth—”

  “We must leave this evening,” said Athos. “Except that Porthos needs sleep, we should leave now, this moment!”

  D’Artagnan rose. “Good. Pray wait for me at my quarters—make yourself at home there, my dear Athos. I may not return until late.”

  “Oh!” Athos looked at him with a touch of sadness. “That pretty little lady in Rue de Grenoble, eh? Well, well, I do not repeat my warnings.”

  D’Artagnan flushed slightly. It was true that Athos had warned him, though for no particular reason; if he had ignored the warning, he had not forgotten it.

  “One romance begins, another is ended,” he said lightly. “Do not reproach me; the lady has treated me well and I cannot leave her like a bumpkin without saying farewell. And, since her husband is the equerry of the Duc de Lesdigueres, and with the army—”

  “All is safe,” concluded Athos satirically. “Go with God or the devil, my friend! I have nothing to live for except your friendship, so come back safe.”

  And Athos drained another flagon of Malaga at one draught.

  CHAPTER VI

  IN WHICH ATHOS UTTERS PREDICTIONS

  For above a year d’Artagnan had remained faithful to the memory of his devoted Constance, who had been poisoned by Milady; but when one is young and ardent, wounds heal swiftly. It must be confessed that Sophie de Bruler was an excellent agent of healing. Her little house in the Rue de Grenoble was discreet, charming, even rich; her husband in earlier years had fought in Hungary against the Turks and had brought home two wagon-loads of booty. Sophie herself was, like other young wives of elderly warriors, inconsolable in the absence of her lord, and did not rebuff the attempts at consolation which d’Artagnan made. In person she was small, with the most brilliant brown eyes in the world, and her graceful, supple figure was the envy of half the ladies of Lyon. If our hero had in some wise consoled her for the absence of her knightly husband, then she had offered him no little consolation for his own deeper and more bitter loss. D’Artagnan was not in love with her, but he made love as though he were, and at moments he almost deceived himself in this regard.

  Although his coming was unexpected, he did not hesitate on this account. The house being on a corner, there was a garden gate opening on the side street; to this gate, d’Artagnan possessed the key.

  Letting himself in at this gate, he found the garden empty. The afternoon was late, but darkness was still an hour or two away. Knowing that the little bell attached to the gate gave warning of each arrival, he eyed the windows as he crossed the garden, hoping to catch sight of the fair Sophie. No one appeared, however.

  He knocked at the door, which was instantly opened to him by the femme-de-chambre.

  “Come in, monsieur,” she said. “Madame saw your approach and sent me to tell you that she would not keep you a moment. She is engaged with her notary. Will you enter the little salon!”

  Giving her his hat and cloak, d’Artagnan stepped into the tiny reception salon near the entrance—a very handsome little room hung with yellow satin and containing a superb Titian which M. de Bruler had removed from a Hungarian altar.

  “Peste! Madame is devoted to her notary!” thought d’Artagnan. “This is the third time in two weeks she has been engaged with him.”

  However, since Sophie was managing the affairs of her absent husband, she had some excuse for her attachment to business.

  D’Artagnan, indeed, had not waited five minutes when the femme-de-chambre appeared and said her mistress would receive him.

  “She has been suffering all day from a migraine and is in her chamber,” she said. “If monsieur will follow—”

  D’Artagnan pressed a coin into her hand.

  “You need not show me the way,” he said eagerly. “I know it already, my good woman—”

  And he sprang for the stairway.

  Sophie de Bruler, wearing a charming negligee of sky-blue silk encrusted with silver stars, reclined on a chaise-long
ue near a table on which were documents, ink, quills and sand-sifter. The walls of the room were covered by that magnificent set of tapestries designed by Rubens and representing the rape of Lucrece and the fall of the Tarquins, for which M. de Bruler had refused 40,000 crowns.

  The room was in disorder, as was invariably the case. The curtains of the tall carven bed in one corner were drawn. On the tables was heaped a medley of bottles and boxes and toilet articles—pomades, mirrors, perfumes, powders; clothes were everywhere, flung about carelessly. The one quality lacking to Madame de Bruler was neatness.

  D’Artagnan parted the curtains, stood on the threshold an instant; then, with the rapidity of light, was across the room and kneeling beside his mistress. He pressed his lips to hers, she returned the embrace warmly, yielding to his ardor with a passionate abandon that enchanted him. Then, suddenly, she drew away, looked into his eyes, smiled.

  “Ah, in what a state you find me!” she exclaimed. “This terrible room—always in confusion, always at sixes and sevens! I am ashamed, my dear d’Artagnan—”

  “Let love assoil your shame, then,” he returned quickly. “I ride to Paris and beyond, my fair one—a long journey, a long errand! I may not return. Before leaving, I stole an hour or two to see you, to mingle my tears with yours, to protest my devotion—”

  “Ah, horror!” she exclaimed. “You—leaving? Impossible! Cruel that you are, to greet me with such words! Here, sit beside me, tell me you are only jesting—”

  “Alas, would that I were!” responded d’Artagnan, obeying her command. “Are we alone?”

  “Absolutely, my treasure!” she replied, touching his hair with caressing fingers. “Georgette has orders not to disturb us until supper is served. Ah, my hero—surely you were jesting?”

  D’Artagnan drew her to him. “Jesting? No, unfortunately! So come—let us forget tomorrow in today!”

  “Gladly—if you trust me a little!” she returned, with a warm response to his kisses.