His boots lay nearby; except for these and his shirt, he was naked as the two bretteurs. He drew on the boots, then retrieved Richelieu’s letter and his own papers, which had been flung to the ground. At one side he found his baldric and sword. The peasants had not dared carry off anything which might cause questions to be asked of them later on. Thus, they had not touched the two horses, which were cropping the grass nearby. They had borne away every scrap of clothing, however.
Except for a bruise, d’Artagnan found himself unhurt. His money was gone; his saddle-bags were emptied. He had, however, his own horse, now rested and recovered, also an extra horse with equipment. The sale of this animal would provide him with clothes and money.
“Alas, where is Athos?” he murmured. “Surely he and Porthos would have followed—ah! They must have taken the other road, the Paris highway! Well, no matter. We have a rendezvous in Paris with Milord de Winter—that’s understood. Meanwhile, I must press on to Dampierre and find Madame de Chevreuse. And now—back to Longjumeau, or ahead?”
His hesitation was brief. If he returned to Longjumeau, he would doubtless find his companions gone; and his appearance in such costume would provoke mirth, to say the least. Much better to follow the road westward and get clothes in the first village he reached. So, taking the reins of the dead bretteur’s horse, he mounted, grimaced, and started out along the road.
He looked back at the two white things in the starlight. Not they were to blame, he knew well—but Montforge. Curiously, he found himself angered; not by what had happened, but by the fact that he had so nearly lost the ring beneath his shirt. He might, he reflected, yet have need of the queen’s jewel—money did not come to one out of the air!
Thus thinking, he came to a crest and, some distance ahead, saw the yellow-gleaming lights of a village.
CHAPTER IX
A NAKED MAN HAS NO CHOICE
The village of Champlan was small. Aside from the church, the only building of any consequence was the inn, to which d’Artagnan directed his horse. A lantern burned above the gates, which were open.
In the courtyard, near a blazing cresset, stood a coach which a groom was washing. At sight of this coach, d’Artagnan drew rein in astonishment—it was the same vehicle which he had been pursuing that afternoon! So, then, Aramis had halted here!
No sooner did this thought strike into his mind, than a man, the only person in sight except for the groom, turned from the coach and peered at him. This man, who was somewhat elderly, had the appearance of a lackey.
“So, you have come!” he exclaimed, then started in surprise at the aspect of d’Artagnan as the latter came into the circle of light. “Name of the devil! I told the fool to fetch a surgeon—not to drag him out of his bed!”
D’Artagnan was alert to the situation. A surgeon had been hastily summoned, probably from the next village or town; he recalled the haggard face of Aramis at the coach window, knew Aramis was wounded.
“Ergo,” he reflected as he dismounted, “I cease to be a musketeer—and become a surgeon!”
“Good!” he said to the man. “A wound, I understand? Clothes do not matter. It is true that I was brought out of bed—so much the better! Where is the patient?”
“Diantre! Clothes matter more than you think, perhaps—but it’s your business, not mine,” and the lackey grinned wryly. “You look like a soldier rather than a physician, my friend.”
“Undoubtedly Mother Eve made some similar remark to Adam, the first time she saw him clad,” returned d’Artagnan crisply. “Well, does the patient die while you talk? Lead on!”
The impatience in his voice checked the lackey, who perceived that he was dealing with a gentleman. D’Artagnan was in a hurry, indeed. Any of the inn-folk would know he was not the expected surgeon. The one groom in sight was a half-witted lout, fortunately, who paid no heed to what was said.
“Come,” said the lackey, turning to the stone stairs that ascended the inner wall of the courtyard. “My master is at dinner. His friend has a bad wound, which has been slow in healing, and the jolting of the coach today has hurt him terribly. If the wound has opened, he is a dead man; we have not dared to look, as yet.”
“Fear not,” said d’Artagnan. “I have a balsam of oil and rosemary which has the miraculous virtue of curing all wounds that do not touch the heart!. I promise you I will cure him.”
Then he remembered that he had lost everything, including his vial of that balsam, whose recipe his mother had had from a Bohemian, which he ever carried with him. However, this could not be helped, and since he knew the recipe by heart, he could have more of the balsam prepared for the patient.
The lackey guided d’Artagnan to the upper corridor, upon which an open doorway emitted a blaze of light. In the hallway were grouped scullions and chambermaids, while into the open doorway the host of the inn was himself bearing a platter holding an enormous roast duck, almost a goose in size. Obviously the friend of Aramis was about to sup well.
The door of the room adjoining this was opened by the lackey, and d’Artagnan entered. One glance around showed that he had reached his goal. Upon the bed lay Aramis, senseless, loosely wrapped in a black gown. No one else was in the room, and one poor candle burned dimly beside the bed.
In the wall was a door which opened into the adjoining room. The lackey went to this door, knocked, and opened it at a curt command.
“Monsieur,” he said to the unseen friend of Aramis, “the physician is here, but he came literally in his shirt. If you wish to order that he be clothed—”
“Name of the fiend!” cried out d’Artagnan angrily. “Clothe yourself, lackey, and let your betters alone! Shut the hall door and keep those women outside. I’m here to work, not to parade myself. Vivadiou! Time enough for clothes when there’s nothing else to do. Be off! Have my horse looked after. Bring clean cloths and water. Fetch more candles. Lively!”
The lackey scuttled hastily out. A burst of laughter sounded from the adjoining room. Into the communicating doorway strode a laughing cavalier, masked and hatted, who held a candelabrum in one hand.
“Here are lights, M. Aesculapius!” he exclaimed gaily. “And if my friend recovers, I promise you six pistoles; if he dies, six inches of steel!”
“To the devil with your pistoles, your steel, and yourself,” snapped d’Artagnan, who was now bending over Aramis and laying bare the bandaged chest. “So! He’s in bad shape, but I’ve seen him in worse. We must have warm water to remove these wrappings—they’re blood-hardened. Well, my friend, at whom are you staring?”
The cavalier in the doorway was inspecting d’Artagnan in some amusement.
“Sword and shirt—your costume, monsieur, might be bettered!” he said merrily. “Shall I lend you a pair of breeches to go with that sword?”
D’Artagnan was removing his baidric. With it came a portion of his tattered shirt. He surveyed himself ruefully.
“Well, well, monsieur, I shall attend first to my patient, then to myself,” he replied, not knowing whether to be angered or amused.
“And so, my Gascon,” returned the cavalier, “you have seen this gentleman in worse shape, have you? May I ask where?”
D’Artagnan could have bitten off his tongue. “I said I had seen others in worse shape,” he replied. “I see a pair of breeches there on a chair if you’ll have the goodness to retire to your dinner and leave me to my work, I’ll be obliged.”
“With all my heart, most testy physician!” said the other mockingly, swept a low bow, and stepped back into the other room. “And, when your work is finished, perhaps you will do me the honor of joining me.”
“Ah!” exclaimed d’Artagn an. “Since I haven’t eaten this afternoon, I’ll be glad to do so, monsieur.”
The other closed the door. D’Artagnan reached for the breeches on the chair, which fitted him passably. As he put them on, there was a tinkle—the chain of the scapulary around his neck had parted. Doubtless a link had given way during his exertions that after
noon. The sapphire ring of the queen fell upon the floor.
D’Artagnan picked it up, placed it on the little finger of his right hand, pocketed the scapulary, and buttoned up the breeches, just as the lackey entered with a tray. He motioned to the bedside table.
“Put it there. Now, help me with these bandages. Removing them will hurt him, and that will bring him to his senses. Have the fresh cloths ready.”
The bandages were undone. The wound was bathed in warm water, the cloths came away. A low word broke from d’Artagnan at sight of the wound. Then he saw the eyes of Aramis flicker open and stare up at him.
“Vivadiou! It’s angry, but has not broken open,” he exclaimed. Then, at the ear of Aramis: “Quiet, comrade! Let your mind be at rest. That sealed packet and that letter from Marie Michon have been destroyed. All is safe. If you hadn’t run away from me, you’d have learned it sooner. Quiet, now!”
The stare of Aramis, at these words, passed into a look of wide-eyed incredulity, of stark amazement. However, Aramis had no chance to appease his curiosity or wonder, for he was being deftly bandaged afresh.
“No talking,” said d’Artagnan to him, mindful of the lackey. “Set your mind at rest and go to sleep. I’ll be here in the morning, and if you’ll have the goodness to tell this lackey that I’m a doctor to your taste, all will be well.”
Aramis quite understood, and a faint smile touched his lips. He looked at the lackey.
“Tell your master that we stay here for the night, or that I do at all events,” he said. “I must speak with this gentleman in the morning.”
“Very good, monsieur,” said the lackey, and held the water while d’Artagnan rinsed his hands.
“But I do not know where this gentleman can sleep—we have taken every bed in this tiny country inn!”
“Bah! Your master and I will share a bed,” said d’Artagnan carelessly. “Aramis, no more talk! I’m dining with your friend. By the way, since he is masked, do you care to tell me his name? I can allow you two words, at least.”
Aramis regarded him with a rather amused uneasiness.
“Alas, my dear d’Artagnan, I regret that the secret is not mine to impart—”
“Keep it to yourself, then,” said d’Artagnan brusquely. The lackey had already taken his departure, apparently in some agitation. “Listen, my friend! Porthos is close by. All goes well. I’m on my way to Dampierre, and we’ll talk in the morning. So turn over and sleep!”
“Wait!” exclaimed Aramis. At this moment, however, the door between the two rooms opened, and the cavalier appeared, still masked.
“I hear your voice, M. d’Herblay—excellent! This is indeed a worthy physician, even if he came in his shirt, and a torn and bloody shirt to boot! Come, my Aesculapius, come and join me, and let our friend here sleep.”
D’Artagnan, nothing loath, followed into the adjoining room. The lackey, already there, held a chair for him, at a table bountifully spread.
Once seated, d’Artagnan, who was extremely curious, turned all his attention to his host, but found himself completely baffled. Certainly, here was no one he knew. The cavalier retained his mask and his hat, upon which was a magnificent plume; his garments were of the most beautiful quality, and the lace at his throat and cuffs was superb Mechlin. The voice of the cavalier was a thin contralto of peculiar timbre; and this gentleman, observing the frank curiosity of d’Artagnan, lightly touched his throat.
“Monsieur, you will pardon my singular speech! Some years ago I was wounded in the throat, and my speech has been affected since. To judge from your attire, you came hither from the bed of another patient—or perhaps from your own bed?”
D’Artagnan, noting the flash of jewels, concluded that he was speaking with some noble.
“You have hit it, monsieur,” he replied, with his frank and winning smile. “To be more exact, two patients—who tried to rob me. Vivadiou! They came close to doing it, too.”
“So that explains it!” The cavalier appeared to be vastly amused. D’Artagnan was eating and drinking while he talked. “As to sharing a bed with you, monsieur, I regret to say that I am not in the habit of accepting such proposals. We might indeed share this room, which has two couches—”
“Better still,” rejoined d’Artagnan, his mouth full. “Having recently slept with two dead men, I prefer not to sleep with any man at all for some time to come.”
The masked cavalier laughed heartily, showing white and perfect teeth.
“I have never tried that novelty,” he observed, “although I understand that the late Queen Margot put the prescription into effect at one time. Now, if we—”
He paused suddenly. D’Artagnan, in lifting his winecup, had passed his hand near the candles; the sapphire on his finger blazed suddenly. He saw that the cavalier observed it, and quickly turned the bezel inward, but too late.
“Monsieur—that ring!” exclaimed the other, leaning forward, the color ebbing from his face. “It is most astonishing, but if I mistake not, it is well known to me—”
“Impossible,” said d’Artagnan, in swift alarm. “It was a gift to me from a lady, long ago, and I wear it in memory of her.”
At this instant came a knock at the door. The lackey opened, there was a moment of agitated conversation, then the lackey came to the table and bowed to his master, respectfully.
“Monsieur, it seems that another physician has arrived—there has been some mistake—”
“Pay him and send him away,” said the cavalier, who seemed in some agitation. “Go out, shut the door, leave us alone! Devil take you—” he hurled a volley of oaths at the lackey, who hurriedly went out of the room and shut the door.
D’Artagnan, however, observed that these oaths seemed to come from emotion rather than anger. The masked cavalier turned to him quickly.
“Monsieur,” he said, “will you permit me to ask you one question? You are no surgeon, yet you have done your work well. Who you are, I care not. But I should like to ask you whether, on the inner side of that ring, there are not engraved the words ‘Dolor hic tibi proderit ohm’?”
“Hm!” said d’Artagnan. “I have not forgotten my Ovid, at all events—‘this grief will some day avail you,’ is it not? Well, monsieur, a very pretty motto there—”
“Damnation take you, will you answer my question?” snapped the cavalier. D’Artagnan leaned back in his chair, twirled his mustache, and met the angry blue eyes behind the mask.
“Come, come, monsieur!” he said, coolly. “This ring is no concern of yours, I assure you.”
“According to your own statement,” said the other, with an effort at self-control, “you are the King of France, monsieur! Having the honor of knowing our good Louis, I find it hard to credit your words.”
“Eh? My statement?” exclaimed d’Artagnan in dismay.
“Exactly. The only lady who could have given you that ring is Her Majesty the Queen.”
D’Artagnan took the ring from his finger and looked inside it. The words were indeed graven there. He had already pocketed the gold signet-ring, and now he pocketed the sapphire and pushed back his chair.
“Monsieur,” he said with a curious deadly severity, “do you insist that I tell you whence comes this ring, and my connection with it?”
“Insist? I demand!” exclaimed the other imperiously. D’Artagnan now knew beyond a doubt that he was dealing with some noble of the court, perhaps with the Duc d’Orleans himself, who had seen that ring on the queen’s hand, and who knew it intimately.
“Very well, monsieur, I comply with your request,” said d’Artagnan. “And, having told you what is not my secret, I shall then kill you.”
Upon these words he stood up and drew his sword. The masked cavalier did not move.
“Speak!” he commanded, evidently disdaining the threat as mere bravado.
“With the greatest of pleasure, monsieur,” said d’Artagnan politely, and selected the exact point of the other’s throat for his thrust. “That ring was given me by
Her Majesty, to show Madame de Chevreuse as surety that I was Her Majesty’s messenger. I regret, monsieur, that I must now keep my word, which is never broken—”
And with the rapidity of light, before his purpose could be guessed, he thrust his rapier to the point he had selected.
This thunderbolt of a lunge could not be escaped—but it could be evaded.
The masked cavalier had been playing with a long carving-knife; he whipped it up, half-parried the blow—the rapier of d’Artagnan, instead of piercing his throat, merely touched his ribs, scarce letting blood, and tore itself clear. From the cavalier broke a singular cry, and he fell sideways in his chair as though dead.
D’Artagnan, poised for a second thrust, stood gaping down at his senseless figure.
“The devil! I cannot very well kill an unconscious man,” he murmured. “Still, it must be done. First, let me see with whom I’m dealing. After all, if this is some prince of the blood who is protecting Aramis, I might—”
He laid his sword on the table, lifted the fainting cavalier, and removed the mask. The face thus exposed was unknown to him. He loosened the cavalier’s garments, felt the wound—and abruptly recoiled. The wound itself was nothing—it was scarce bleeding, in fact—but d’Artagnan had placed his hand upon the least expected object in the world.
“So, my Aramis!” he murmured, then checked his amazement, collected himself.
He swiftly replaced the kerchief he had disarranged, buttoned the tunic again, put the mask again in position, and over the cavalier’s brow sprinkled a little water. One glance at the sparkling jewels, the beautiful hands, the dull gold masses of knotted hair, told him all that was necessary to confirm his discovery. Until this moment the cavalier’s hat had remained in place; d’Artagnan straightened it, found that it was pinned fast, and chuckled.
The blue eyes opened beneath the mask, and d’Artagnan stepped back a pace. He seized his rapier and placed its point at the throat of his host.
The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack Page 107
