“Eh? Trust you—my source of all happiness?” D’Artagnan was astonished, and broke into his quick, kindling smile. “With my life!”
“Then why do you go to Paris—after you swore to me you would be here all summer? The court is not leaving.”
“Ah!” he exclaimed. “I go because I am ordered, not because I desire it.”
“On duty or on errands of love?”
D’Artagnan laughed. “On errands of state, believe me! Love and duty I leave here.”
“Liar!” she said, her brown eyes very merry and bright. “You go to see a lady, I wager!”
“Oh! That is true,” said d’Artagnan, disconcerted. “But I also go to see another lady, and I have never seen either of them in my life, so—”
“So,” she mocked him, “you’ll see them and forget me straightway!”
“No, I swear it!” cried d’Artagnan impulsively.
“My sweet love, not for any lady save the queen whom I serve, would I forget you! And to tell the truth, I think my main errand is to be with a man, an Englishman—”
He checked himself abruptly. It seemed to him that the tapestry to one side had waved a little, as though a draught of air were in the room; this trifling matter had the effect of halting the indiscreet disclosure he had been about to make in self defense.
“An Englishman!” exclaimed Sophie, opening her eyes wide. “Not truly! A monster!”
“No,” and d’Artagnan laughed. “A nobleman. And besides, I shall not go alone. I shall have with me—”
Something checked him again—some instinct, some inner warning. He drew the yielding lips of Sophie to his, held her in a passionate embrace. And, as he released her from this embrace, he saw the tapestry move for the second time.
The blood in the veins of d’Artagnan turned to ice. He scarce realized that Sophie had drawn him down beside her, that she was covering his face with kisses.
“So you do love me!” she cried softly. “Foolish woman that I am, I thought your mission was concerned with the will of Francois Thounenin of Dompt, of whom a kinsman in Lorraine wrote me! Swear to me that you would not imperil yourself in that affair!”
With an effort, d’Artagnan collected himself.
“Thounenin of Dompt!” he repeated, astonished. “Upon my honor, I have never heard the name—I know nothing about it!”
Sophie thought him merely amazed at her knowledge. A shallow woman, absolutely unfitted for the part she was playing, she could not see that to this man such an oath meant the exact truth. With an air of making a vast impression, she reached out and took a small paper from the table nearby.
“See, where I copied it from my kinsman’s letter!” she exclaimed. “The will drawn up by Thounenin before Leonard, hereditary grand tabellion to the Duchy of Lorraine, on May 29, 1624—the will which is now being so much talked about—”
D’Artagnan, to whom all this talk meant nothing, was staring at the paper, thunderstruck. He did not regard the words written there, but the paper itself. It was an Italian paper, made with an intricate and heavy watermark—the identical paper used by Richelieu in writing Helene de Sirle. This sheet, therefore, must have come from the very desk of the cardinal at Grenoble.
“My angel, your kinsman is singularly well informed,” said d’Artagnan, without the least evidence of his surprise.
“So he should be, my love, since he is one of the Duke’s gentlemen! I was worried lest you become involved in the business and draw down the anger of the great Cardinal—”
“Be assured,” said the young man. “What beautiful paper this is—Italian, I think?”
Sophie shrugged. “I do not know. It was one of a few sheets my notary left.”
She drew d’Artagnan’s lips to hers. Under cover of a long embrace, he deftly contrived to fold the fragment of paper in his fingers; then, slipping it into his cuff, he pressed the perfumed curls of Sophie against his shoulder and covered her eyes with impassioned kisses. Looking up as he did so, he again perceived a slight movement in the tapestry—and beneath its edge, at the floor, caught a glint as of a sword-point there.
“Athos did well to warn me!” thought d’Artagnan.
Having no inclination for the role of Samson, he glanced swiftly about—not neglecting, however, the beautiful woman who was sighing in his arms and stirring as with passionate abandon.
The only weapon in sight was a long Turkish poniard, inlaid with gold and gems. It hung by the window, barely a foot from the suspicious point in the tapestry. Since the chamber had, so far as he knew, only the one door, and escape from the window was impossible because of its height above the ground, d’Artagnan realized that he must act swiftly and shrewdly if he were to escape. He no longer doubted that Sophie was acting as a spy, or had a spy concealed behind her hangings. This paper had been given her, doubtless in order that she should question him about the will of Thounenin; she bad blundered in putting it into his hands. So this was why she had been so curious about his errand!
“My angel, I am about to show my confidence in you,” said D’Artagnan, caressing the silken locks that fell about his breast and watching the tapestry narrowly as he spoke. “True, I can have no secrets from you! Know, then, that I have been given an important mission by His Eminence the Cardinal.”
“Ah!” The lovely arms of Sophie tightened about him. “By Richelieu himself?”
“Himself,” repeated d’Artagnan. “A conspiracy has been discovered at Paris—a conspiracy to kill the king, place the Duc d’Orleans on the throne, and arrest the cardinal. Well, then! I go to seize the leaders of this conspiracy. It is the way of our great cardinal, my angel, to strike when least expected—to foresee the blow aimed at him and launch a stroke which will paralyze it. An excellent fashion, I assure you, and one which I myself endeavor to imitate whenever possible—as for example—”
While speaking, he had gently loosened the clinging arms that enfolded him. Now, with one sudden and agile spring, he gained the window, grasped the Turkish poniard, ripped it from its hangings, and unsheathing it, thrust it with all his strength at the tapestry.
Swift as he was, his blow was evaded.
The tapestry was flung aside, a man there leaped back from the blow, a sword glittered and drove at the heart of d’Artagnan. One piercing shriek burst from Sophie—but d’Artagnan had no time to look at her. He had missed his blow, but with the dagger he caught and parried the sword-stroke aimed at him—and he recognized the man facing him.
It was the Comte de Montforge.
“Ah, villain!” cried d’Artagnan furiously. “Assassin that you are—”
Montforge laughed, pressed in upon him. Having only the poniard, d’Artagnan could scarce hope to defend himself for long against the rapier that sought his throat; he darted backward, holding the longer steel in play. A table overturned with a crash. Montforge struck against a chair, was momentarily flung off balance—and like a panther, d’Artagnan leaped in upon him and struck him full above the heart.
The poniard shattered. Montforge was unharmed.
“Mail!” cried d’Artagnan. “Coward as well as villain—”
He hurled the hilt of the poniard into the eyes of Montforge, gained the door with one leap, and slammed it behind him as he darted for the stairs.
He encountered none of the domestics. Burning with mortification, with fury, with shame, he caught up his sword, bared it, turned and ran back up the stairs to encounter Montforge on an equal basis. When he burst into the room again, however, Montforge was not there. Sophie lay upon the couch, in a faint; a turned-back corner of the tapestry disclosed another door, now locked, by which Montforge had evidently departed.
D’Artagnan, raging, retraced his steps, took up baldric, hat and cloak, and in another moment was out in the Rue de Grenoble. Darkness was falling, there were no passers-by, the street was empty. Then, recalling the side street by which he himself had entered, d’Artagnan ran to the corner.
“Ah!” he cried out. “Scou
ndrel—wait!”
At the little garden gate, Montforge was just mounting into the saddle of a horse. He gave d’Artagnan one glance, flung a mocking laugh at him, and thrust in his spurs. He was darting away before d’Artagnan could reach him, another laugh trailing back. With a furious curse, d’Artagnan put up his sword and bent his steps toward his own quarters.
“The devil!” he exclaimed, torn between bewilderment and chagrin. “Here’s our precious notary, then—ah! Athos, you were right, as always!”
When he came to his own quarters, Grimaud was before the door.
“The horses are ready?” asked d’Artagnan. Grimaud made a sign of assent, and d’Artagnan went into the room.
Porthos was sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes still heavy with sleep. Athos sat beside the window, flinging dice idly with one hand against the other. At sight of d’Artagnan, Porthos uttered a sharp exclamation.
“Ah, my friend! Imagine! I am a fool—I was never robbed at all! I came to myself, found my—my belongings, my rouleaux of gold, inside the lining of my cloak—”
“Wait!” Athos rose. He had perceived the disordered attire, the changed aspect, of d’Artagnan; now, as the latter dropped his cloak, Athos pointed to a slit in his sleeve. “What has happened? Then my warning was not futile, after all?”
“My dear Athos,” said d’Artagnan gloomily, “your warning saved my life. So you have found your money, Porthos? Good. Listen, my friends!” He broke off momentarily. He had only told Porthos of his mission to Dampierre, not of the letter to Mlle. de Sirle. “First, I must tell you that, besides my errand to Dampierre, M. de Richelieu confided a second mission to me. This was to deliver a letter to a certain Mlle. de Sirle at Paris—”
“Eh? What’s that?” Porthos opened his eyes wide. “Why, it was to her that—that—”
“That Aramis sent you? Excellent. We shall kill two birds with one stone. Now listen attentively, my Porthos! And you, Athos—you shall hear how well founded was your warning—”
He told them everything that had happened at the house of Sophie de Bruler.
Porthos, not comprehending the half of it all, uttered ejaculations of fury and wonder; Athos, who understood everything perfectly, said nothing until d’Artagnan had finished. Then he held out his hand.
“The paper—you saved it?”
“Here it is.” D’Artagnan gave him the folded paper.
“Your letter to Mlle. de Sirle?”
From the inner pocket of his tunic, d’Artagnan took the Cardinal’s letter. Athos glanced at it, then returned it.
“Very simple, my friend. This notation is in the hand of Richelieu himself. Montforge had it from him; was probably showing it to Sophie, instructing her what to ask you about, when you arrived. You comprehend? Richelieu suspected you knew something about it, and took this means to find out more. Undoubtedly he suspects you learned something from the dead man in the road.”
D’Artagnan felt the sweat start on his forehead. That accursed ring, bearing the chevrons of Bassompierre! It was on his hand now—no harm in wearing it, since the damage was done. Montforge had come to Lyon and had persuaded Sophie to make him talk if possible.
“Then—then why should he send me to Dampierre on an errand of confidence?”
“Perhaps he desired to make your errand dangerous.”
D’Artagnan wiped his brow, as he remembered that interview with Richelieu—the strange air and narrow looks of the Cardinal. And that message about the child—yes, yes! Richelieu had been testing him, had been trying to see whether he knew anything!
“Strange about this will of a Lorrainer,” said Athos, frowning. “You know nothing about it, D’Artagnan?”
“Nothing, upon my honor.”
“But I do!” cried Porthos.
The others turned to him, astonished. The giant lifted his head, groaned, flung out his hands like a man forced to a certain confession despite himself.
“Come, come, I lay bare everything—peccavi, peccavi, my friends!” he said in a hollow voice, looking at them with strained and bloodshot eyes. “Aramis mentioned this will to me. It was connected with my errand—I know not how. Nor do I know what it is. He merely mentioned the name. D’Artagnan, my friend, I am a miserable sinner; I lied to you. It was no money that I lost, but a letter to Mlle. de Sirle. I humbly beg your pardon, my friend; you see, I swore secrecy to Aramis, and even though it hurt me, I could not tell you.”
D’Artagnan could not keep down a laugh, amazed as he was to find the Thounenin will somehow connected with this affair.
“Porthos, I’ll pardon you if you will pardon me,” he said. “I told you of finding the dying spy in the road—well, I took a letter from him—several letters, in fact. He carried your letter, and others he had taken from Aramis, bearing our friend’s seal. These I destroyed. Your letter was unsealed, and I read it. I did not give it to you, because you denied having lost anything except money. However, I had Grimaud place the letter in your cloak. Are we quits?”
“Ah! Ah!” Porthos leaped to his feet and the floor trembled. “Embrace me, my friend! I am a new man—I am ashamed of myself! There are no secrets now between us—among us three—”
“Among us four,” corrected Athos gravely. “Listen, my friends! We do not know the position of Aramis in this matter; we do not know in what we are mixing. All we do know is that we are to meet Lord de Winter in Paris on July 30th—and I suggest that we wait not another moment in Lyon, but take our horses and go.”
“Go—where?” asked Porthos.
“To Dampierre, first. We ride thither with d’Artagnan.”
“And why?” queried Porthos, knitting his brow.
“I have an errand there from Richelieu,” said d’Artagnan. “And first, I had an errand there for the queen—a secret errand. Now I can guess something of it—a dreadful guess! Yes, my friends, we ride for the queen, I promise you!”
“Ah!” the frown of Porthos vanished. “That resolves everything. Once more we are together, then. Once more, as in the old days—all for one, one for all! Agreed?”
“Agreed.” Athos turned to d’Artagnan. “Consider, my son! Who was with you and the Queen?”
“Her Spanish woman,” said d’Artagnan. “No one else.”
“She gave you an errand to Chevreuse, you say? Then the Spanish woman has been bought over by Richelieu, depend upon it. A courier followed you to Grenoble. What did Richelieu do? He pardoned you for duelling. He presented you with a superb horse. He sent you to Chevreuse with a verbal message—and to Paris with a letter. You see his intent?”
“Devil take me if I do!” said d’Artagnan. “He was most gracious to me—and yet all the while I had a premonition of danger—”
Athos uttered a short, ironic laugh. “We who are about to die, salute! You are doomed.”
“Impossible! You cannot mean that he would send me to be killed”
“My son, my son, did Montforge have sword drawn or not? Answer.”
“Yes,” said d’Artagnan, and reflected. “Athos, you are magnificent—you always pierce to the truth of things, make them plain as day! Yes, the scoundrel did his best to kill me. But why should Richelieu give me a letter to deliver in Paris, if he meant to kill me en route?”
“Our Cardinal knows you, my son. If one trapfails, he has another ready—you carry the means of it in your pocket. And in all this affair we shall find, not only Aramis, but the Comte de Montforge, vitally concerned. I predict it! Remember, the handkerchief he dropped; his fury against the queen; his connection with the Cardinal’s household; lastly, how he came direct to Sophie de Bruler and all but trapped you! That man is dangerous.”
“So.” D’Artagnan turned pale. “Well, Athos, I cannot let you go with me.”
“Bah!” exclaimed Athos. “Have you observed in me any great attachment to my life? Nonsense! Porthos, here, should not go. He has married a wife—”
“Name of ten thousand devils!” thundered Porthos, shaking his fist in the a
ir. “You are my friends—that’s enough! I go—we all go! And if the Cardinal tries to stop us, then so much the worse for the Cardinal!”
“Admirable!” D’Artagnan broke into a laugh.
“In this sentiment, then, let’s be off!”
“None too soon,” said Athos. “I make another prediction. I predict that, since Montforge undoubtedly knows your errand, he will be ahead of us.”
“So much the worse for Montforge,” said d’Artagnan in a low voice.
Twenty minutes later, having paused for a bite and a sup, the three friends were mounting and riding forth, with Grimaud behind them.
CHAPTER VII
MIRACLES ARE SOMETIMES UNWELCOME
Since the night when a group of men witnessed the execution of a woman beside the River Lys, one of those men had vanished from human ken.
Aramis resigned from the service, and with him the Chevalier d’Herblay disappeared. A few letters came from him; he was bound, he said, on a journey to Lorraine. Then silence. It was rumored that he had taken orders, had become a Sulpician; Athos, at least, believed this profoundly.
While Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan were spurring for Orleans, to reach Dampierre more swiftly by avoiding Paris, and while Marechal de Bassompierre was killing horses in the endeavor to reach Paris, peculiar conversations were going on in an upper room of the Croix de Bernay—that famous tavern so pleasantly situated a short day’s ride south of Paris on the Orleans road, where the western highway crossed.
This upper room was large, commodious and comfortable. Upon a couch by the window half-reclined Aramis; under his hand was a species of bed-side table, bearing paper, ink, quills and sand. He was clad only in a loose black gown, which revealed bandages about his chest. His features were pale and sunken; from time to time he paused, as though the effort of writing overtaxed his strength. A crucifix hung on the wall just above his couch.
A knock, and Bazin entered. As once before, Bazin perceived his master wounded both in mind and in body and turned from things of this world to things of the next; the joy of Bazin was, however, tempered by the fact that his master’s wound was this time no slight matter.
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