CHAPTER VIII
IN WHICH A GENTLEMAN PROVES TO BE A GOOD WORKMAN
Riding north and west, d’Artagnan and his companions were followed by only one lackey. Porthos had left his plump mousqueton to act as squire for Madame du Vallon. Planchet, the former lackey of d’Artagnan, was now a sergeant in the guards, and within the past week his successor had been trounced and discharged for theft; thus, d’Artagnan was without a lackey. Grimaud, the silent servant of Athos, alone followed the three.
They rode from Lyon to Nevers without a halt, and came into the charming capital of the Nivernais with staggering horses and parched throats. They went to the post-tavern, turned over their horses to the hostlers, and stumbled into the inn-room for dinner before seeking rest for the night. Grimaud, after his custom, remained with the horses to be certain they received proper attention.
“Ah!” Porthos sighed as he lowered himself into a chair, which groaned beneath him. “We are at Nevers. From Nevers we ride on to Melun. From—”
“Not so fast!” said d’Artagnan, with a cry of joy as bottles and food began to rain upon the table. “From here we ride to Orleans.”
“Eh?” Porthos opened his eyes wide. Athos, who cared nothing about their road, was pouring wine.
“But Orleans is not the road for Paris!”
“We do not go to Paris,” said d’Artagnan. “We go to Orleans, thence to Longjumeau. There we head west for Dampierre.”
“An excellent program!” Athos lifted his flagon. “To a safe journey!”
Presently Grimaud entered, came opposite his master, and paused until Athos looked up. Then Grimaud put out a hand as though taking a horse’s reins, looked the imaginary animal up and down, and turned his head, speaking to an imaginary person.
“This is the horse, as described.”
His gaze came to rest upon d’Artagnan.
Athos dismissed him with a gesture and looked at his two friends. D’Artagnan was frowning, Porthos was gaping in astonishment.
“You see—the Cardinal gave you a horse, my dear d’Artagnan!” said Athos quizzically. “A beautiful horse, a horse in a thousand! An hostler takes his bridle, turns and says that this is the horse as described. Voila! The description is known. Montforge has passed this way ahead of us—and has left men behind! Beware!”
And having said, he refilled his flagon.
“Well,” said d’Artagnan after a moment, “and what do you expect?”
“Naturally, the unexpected,” retorted Athos, with a shrug. “Why worry?”
“Good. I’m too weary to care what happens.”
* * * *
Nonetheless, d’Artagnan questioned the grooms and hostlers carefully, inquired after a cavalier of Montforge’s description, and learned exactly nothing. The three comrades slept soundly that night and were off with sunrise.
Despite this disturbing incident, nothing happened to justify the expectations of Athos. The towers of Orleans smiled sunnily upon them of a midday, and they bore straight on to make another five leagues of the northern highway ere night. They considered that if anything happened, it should come at Orleans; thus, once past that city, they took small thought of any peril.
Porthos had discarded his sling, for his wound no longer incommoded him. He had secured a huge horse of Norman strain, which might have served some mail-clad Roland as destrier; this animal had no speed, but bore the weight of Porthos like a feather. With his great figure, his gallant air, his enormous horse, Porthos was the admired of all beholders, and was taken to be a duke at the very least.
Late on a warm summer’s afternoon they came into Longjumeau, with the silver thread of the Yvette glistening along the valley below. They avoided the post-tavern here, lest it prove dangerous. Instead, they sought the Pomme d’Or, rode into the courtyard of this hostelry so famous for its wine and fowl, and Porthos at once vanished inside to look over the situation and command a fitting dinner. Athos, who was somewhat particular about his rooms, departed with the host to inspect the proffered chambers.
D’Artagnan approached the horse-trough, which an hostler was filling from the pump, and held his wrists beneath the flow of water to cool his blood, for the day was hot and the highway was thick with dust despite its paving of stone flags. At this instant, a coach passed in the street, outside the wide-open courtyard gates. The coach was white with dust, the four horses were flecked with lather, and its pace was rapid. D’Artagnan glanced at it as it rumbled past.
Framed in the window of this coach he glimpsed the face of a man—a man who was looking straight at him, a face suddenly agape with recognition, a face he knew and that knew him. Then it was gone, rolling away down the street toward the bridge.
In that coach-window had been framed the face of Aramis.
For a moment d’Artagnan remained absolute petrified with astounded incredulity. Pale and haggard the face had been—yet he recognized it instantly, and knew he himself had been recognized. And no word, no halt!
By nature very curious, he was instantly aflame.
He gained the gateway with one leap and stood staring down the street. The coach went on without pause; indeed, the postilion was whipping up the horses as though the occupants had ordered more speed. It whirled on toward the bridge and the city gates. Evidently, Aramis had no intention of stopping.
With an oath, d’Artagnan turned, and ran like a madman toward the horses, which the staring Grimaud and a groom were unsaddling. His own animal was being led to the stables. He disdained the horse of Porthos, and instead caught at that of Athos, as yet saddled and bridled. He tore the reins from the hand of Grimaud, flung himself into the saddle at a bound, and one glance told him that neither Porthos nor Athos were in sight.
“Aramis!” he cried to Grimaud. “I have seen Aramis—”
His startled horse plunged, leaped, turned at the pull of the bridle and went out of the courtyard like an arrow. D’Artagnan had his sword, and the pistols of Athos were at the saddle; he was bare-headed, and his cloak reposed with his hat.
As he came thus plunging out into the street, the people there scattered with cries of fright and anger. The horse slipped, recovered; d’Artagnan thrust in his spurs and sent the frightened animal hurtling in the wake of the coach, unheeding the shouts of those he barely avoided. Luckily, the street was not blocked ahead, and he had a clear way.
In his haste, in his furious concentration upon the coach ahead, our Musketeer did not perceive two cavaliers who had dismounted in the street outside the Pomme d’Or and were conversing. They, however, did not fail to observe his sudden emergence and his mad gallop toward the bridge.
“It is he!” exclaimed one, and they hurriedly mounted and rode after.
* * * *
D’Artagnan had no trouble in sighting his quarry, once he gained the bridge and was across the Yvette. The coach had not taken the northern highway for Paris, but that to the west, a road leading to Palaisau and beyond. It had gained on him. He sighted it half a mile away, climbing the higher ground there, dust rolling out behind it in a great cloud.
“The devil!” said d’Artagnan, putting in his spurs. “They’re whipping up—can it be that Aramis does not want me to catch up with him? Bah! There’s too much at stake to pause upon his sly whims.”
Tired though his animal was, it responded nobly to his urgings. The coach had passed beyond his range of vision long ere he had in turn reached the uplands, but the heavy dust it raised showed that he was gaining. Here on level ground, however, four horses had the advantage over one, already wearied by climbing the rise, and with dismay d’Artagnan perceived his animal to be flagging.
At a bend in the road he caught sight of two figures behind. So thick was his own dust that he could see only that they were riding furiously, gaining on him fast.
“Ha! Grimaud and Athos, no doubt!” he reflected, and then gave his attention to the road ahead. He determined to expend his horse in one last, supreme effort, and if he could not come up with the c
oach, a bullet would at least drop one of its horses. It was vital that Aramis be halted, that an explanation be obtained, at any and all costs.
To this end, d’Artagnan drew from their holsters the two pistols at his saddle, which were already loaded, and made shift to prime them, as he rode. He had just primed the second pistol when he became aware of a rider close behind him, and turned.
At this instant the man behind him fired a pistol. The bullet tore the hat from the head of d’Artagnan, but did not injure him.
Only then did he perceive his mistake—this rider, and the other slightly in the rear, were strangers! The second man held a pistol drawn, ready for use. Without hesitation, d’Artagnan raised the weapon in his own hand. As he pressed the trigger, his horse stumbled. His bullet missed the first man, but struck the horse of the second.
“Assassins!” exclaimed d’Artagnan. His horse stumbled again, then pitched forward and fell. Unprepared, he was flung clear of the saddle and sent rolling in the dust of the road.
Catlike, d’Artagnan was upon his feet almost instantly—only to pause there in sharp dismay. In the fall, his right shoulder had been struck; for the moment, his arm was next to useless, numbed, paralyzed. The first rider had just dismounted, and, sword out, was running at him. The second, flung by his wounded horse, was on his feet and plucking at his sword.
“Assassins!” cried d’Artagnan, furious. “Do you know you are dealing with a royal officer?”
He had no reply, except a snarling grin. Both men, he perceived, were bretteurs, or bravos of a certain type very common at this period—veterans of the wars in Italy and Germany, men used to every trick of arms, who would cut a throat for a pistole and do it with all the address of long practice.
With an effort of the will, d’Artagnan’s numbed fingers closed on his sword-hilt and bared the blade. It was high time; the first bretteur was already lunging at him. There was now no doubt whatever—this was no mistake, but deliberate assassination. D’Artagnan knew he was dealing with men who were unscrupulous, pitiless, who would either kill or be killed.
Avoiding that first lunge by a miracle of agility, d’Artagnan engaged the sword of the bretteur with his own rapier, and at the very first pass, perceived his adversary to be a master of the weapon after the somewhat rough style of the army. For a moment he could do no more than hold the defensive. The shock of a rude fall unsettles the nerves and affects those delicate sensitory ganglia whose messages control the brain of a swordsman.
“Flank oblique, Carabin!” cried out the bravo suddenly.
“Understood,” replied the second, who had come up, and he fell upon d’Artagnan from the left side.
“Cowards!” cried d’Artagnan, finding himself thus engaged by two men at once.
“No, monsieur—good workmen,” replied Carabin, with a grin.
D’Artagnan fell back a step, the better to hold both swords in play. He was himself again; the dazzling rapidity of his thrusts and parries astonished and angered the two bretteurs, who redoubled their efforts. The sun was setting; in this reddish light their blades took on a copper tinge, and their eyes seemed glowing with infernal fires. Carabin began to work around to the rear of the Musketeer, but the agility of d’Artagnan defeated his purpose. And now the anger of d’Artagnan passed into that furious ecstasy which seized upon him in battle, uplifting him above all thought of peril. The dust raised by their tramping feet, the hoarse breathing of men, the bloodshot eyes and snarling lips, the sweat that streamed from brow and neck, the clink and click of blades, the sharp death glinting there at their throats—all this swept through the veins of d’Artagnan like wine.
He broke into sudden laughter. Still engaged with the first man, he avoided a lunge from Carabin and then, with the flashing swoop of a falcon, was away and entirely clear of Carabin. In this momentary respite he hurled himself upon the first bretteur with fiery abandon. It was his only chance, as he now saw—to cope with both at once was impossible. He must kill one of them swiftly, then finish with the other one.
Ten seconds passed before Carabin could work around the Musketeer, returning to the attack.
In this ten seconds, the rapier of d’Artagnan flashed before the eyes of the first bretteur like the white fire of a thunderbolt. The blades crossed, met, clung as though magnetized together. Suddenly, with the rapidity of light, d’Artagnan disengaged—and dashed the hilt of his sword into the bretteur’s face; almost in the same motion, it seemed, he leaped sideways and ran the dazed man through the throat.
The second was upon him with a howl of rage and fury.
“Coward!” roared Carabin, seeing his comrade clutch at his throat and fall. “That was not the act of a gentleman!”
“Certainly not,” returned d’Artagnan coolly, as he engaged, parried, riposted. “I am not dealing with gentlemen, but with good workmen. My faith, but I’m a good workman myself, my friend!”
“Work, then,” growled Carabin, “for you’ll feed the devil’s fires tonight!”
And he attacked with a ferocity, a grim determination, that alarmed d’Artagnan. Here was a better swordsman than the first; one, also, who knew every trick of camp and field and put them into play—his business was not to fence, but to kill.
D’Artagnan, however, had been on more than one campaign; also, the hotel of the Musketeers was not a place where one played with blunted rapiers. Thus, he was not caught asleep when the bretteur produced a poniard in his left hand and, forcing up the rapiers, drove in at him with the shorter weapon—vainly.
The minutes passed; the sun dropped from sight. Still the two men fought there about the dead bretteur, two horses watching them amazedly, the third dying with slow and shuddering coughs. Twice the point of Carabin touched d’Artagnan, once in the arm, once in the throat—mere touches, scarce sufficient to draw blood. Trick foiled trick, riposte answered lunge; about them the dust rose in a continual cloud, suffocating them, as their feet stamped the earth, and their breath came in hoarse pantings. D’Artagnan was astonished, and grew more furious every moment—that a mere bretteur, a bravo, a hireling assassin, should thus withstand a Musketeer, was intolerable!
Abruptly, so swiftly as to be past the eyesight, a thrust went home. Carabin staggered, recovered; the sword fell from his hand; he stood there staring terribly upon d’Artagnan, as blood gushed out across his sweat-stained shirt.
“Ah!” he exclaimed hoarsely. “You have—you have—killed me—”
His knees gave way and he pitched forward, and lay still, for a moment. Then his eyes opened. He came to one elbow, panting, the pallor of death growing in his face.
D’Artagnan stood holding his sword, gulping fresh air into his lungs as the dust-cloud thinned and dissipated on the evening breeze. There was no sound save the cough of the dying horse and the rattling breath of the dying man. Presently d’Artagnan sighed, looked at his rapier, found no blood upon it, and sheathed it.
“Water!” gasped out Carabin. “On—my saddle—”
“With all my heart,” said d’Artagnan.
He strode to the bretteur’s horse and removed a leathern bottle hung at the saddle, which was still half full of liquid. He unstopped it, came back to the dying Carabin, and knelt, holding the bottle to the man’s lips. Then Carabin drew back his head.
“You are a swordsman, my friend,” he said faintly. “It is a pleasure to be killed by such a man. Your name?”
“D’Artagnan, lieutenant in—”
“Ah! You are d’Artagnan—the man who killed Jussac—then it is no disgrace! My only regret is that I have failed in my errand. More water—”
D’Artagnan leaned forward, held the leathern bottle again to the man’s lips. But this time the hand of Carabin moved—the hand that still held the poniard. Almost at the same instant, the other had clutched d’Artagnan by the sleeve.
Overbalanced by this clutch, pulled forward, d’Artagnan fell across the legs of Carabin. The poniard missed its stroke—tore the skin of d’Artagnan’s nec
k, no more.
“Scoundrel!” he exclaimed, trying to wrench from that dying grip. “If—”
Like a flash, the bretteur uplifted himself. A cry of despair broke from his lips—he was dying in the very act! With one desperate, superhuman effort, he dashed his clenched hand into the face of d’Artagnan, and fell back dead.
The hilt of the poniard struck d’Artagnan between the eyes. He fell face down, and lay like a man mortally stricken.
Two hours passed.
When d’Artagnan came to himself, it was with a vague and wandering bewilderment. Grotesque dreams had seized upon him, and for a space he thought himself still in dream. He was numb with cold, for he found himself stripped to his shirt; the stars blinked overhead, and in his ears was the sound of rude, harsh voices in dispute.
“Keep the gold, then, and give me the silver,” said one voice. “You know very well I dare not have any gold. I’ll take the silver and this coat.”
“It’s a good coat,” objected another. “It isn’t bloody like the others. And these boots are of fine leather—”
“Leave them, fool!” broke in a third. “Do you want questions asked of us? These boots are dangerous. Leave them. Give Louis the silver and the coat—”
“There’s a letter or a paper in the pocket,” said the first. “Here—throw it away and leave it. What about this man’s shirt?”
A hand pawed the throat of d’Artagnan, and he saw a shape above him, blotting out the stars.
“Something hard under the shirt!” exclaimed the man. “By the saints, this one is still warm—”
D’Artagnan stirred suddenly, sat up. He comprehended that some peasants had come upon the scene and had looted the bodies. He saw three figures, but when he opened his lips to speak, cries of fright broke from them, and all three fled into the night.
“Fools! Dolts! Come back!” cried d’Artagnan. “I’ll not harm you—”
Useless; they were gone. He rose, cursed them, tried to pursue them. His feet were bare and he stumbled into a patch of briars. With fresh curses he returned to where the other two bodies gleamed white and naked under the stars. In some dismay he forced himself to grapple with the situation.
The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack Page 106
