“Not a word!” he commanded. “Monsieur, you see that I am not to be trifled with. Luckily for you, I remembered just in time that you were protecting my friend Aramis. Instead of killing you, I turned the point, gave you a bare scratch, and now I shall be very glad to have a little further speech with you. I am M. d’Artagnan, lieutenant of Musketeers—your name?”
The cavalier straightened, touched his side, grimaced. His gaze searched the impassive countenance of d’Artagnan, then his lips parted in a smile.
“Thank heaven for your memory, monsieur, tardy as it was!” he exclaimed. “So you are the friend of Aramis, who followed us this afternoon? I guessed as much. I am the Chevalier de Moreau, a relative and intimate of Madame de Chevreuse; in fact, all her business passes through my hands. She is at this moment very ill and can see no one. Thus, monsieur, your message would have to be delivered to me in any case. A few words with Aramis will convince you that I am speaking the truth.”
D’Artagnan lowered his sword.
“And the ring, Chevalier—”
“Was one given the queen by Chevreuse,” said the other quietly. “I myself had the stone mounted for Madame.”
D’Artagnan sheathed his weapon and bowed. He now knew with whom he was dealing.
“Monsieur, will you accept my apologies?” he said. “If you will permit me to look at the wound I was so unfortunate as to give you, I—”
“No, no, it is nothing,” said the chevalier, and laughed, a trifle maliciously. “But you yourself are wounded, M. d’Artagnan—at least let me—”
D’Artagnan blinked, at recollection of earlier passages with the chevalier.
“Bah! Mere scratches, my dear chevalier, not worth attention,” he said. “Well, shall we resume our dinner? I believe, in view of what you say, that I may confide my messages to you.
“Absolutely, I assure you,” said the chevalier, and drained a glass of wine. “I am forced, in the illness of Mme. de Chevreuse, to handle all her affairs.”
“Then,” said d’Artagnan, “you may be able to tell me what name was signed to a letter, not long ago received by M. d’Herblay—a letter which told him never to see the writer again, never to speak with the writer, never to think of the writer?”
The chevalier turned pale. “Monsieur, how do you know of such a letter?”
“It was taken from Aramis when he was attacked and wounded. The man who took it, and other papers, died in my arms. I destroyed these papers, recognizing the seal of Aramis.”
“Ah!” A breath, as of intense relief, escaped the chevalier. He rose and held out a hand to d’Artagnan. “Monsieur, you are an honorable man. I salute you.”
For a moment d’Artagnan pressed those soft yet strong fingers, and felt a magnetic current pass through his veins. Then, resuming his seat, the chevalier continued.
“The letter was signed by the name of Marie Michon.”
“Exactly,” said d’Artagnan. “Now,” and he poured more wine, “we may come to business. I have two errands to Madame de Chevreuse—one from a man, one from a woman. Choose!”
“Ladies first, always!” said the chevalier gaily.
“Good.” D’Artagnan touched the sapphire on his finger. “Her Majesty gave me this ring to show Madame, asked me to bring whatever message might be given me. That was all.”
“Hm!” The chevalier reflected. “I can speak for Madame here, I believe. Tell Her Majesty that the will of Thounenin is being sent to Paris by way of London, but a sure friend is on guard. The moment this will is seized and destroyed, danger ceases. I dare not communicate with her; Marshal de Bassompierre will let her know the outcome.”
“For the ears of all the court to hear?” asked d’Artagnan drily.
“In four words which she alone will understand: ‘God loves the brave.’ Understood?”
D’Artagnan inclined his head. “The message will be delivered, monsieur. May I ask whither you are taking my friend Aramis?”
“To the Chateau of Dampierre. He is in need of care; his recovery will be slow.”
“Lucky Aramis!” thought d’Artagnan to himself. “Beloved by one of the greatest ladies of France, the most beautiful woman in Europe—who would wish swift recovery in such a case?”
The chevalier drew from his finger a large ring ornamented with a small magnificent diamond of the most exquisite quality.
“If you please, M. d’Artagnan, give me the token of Her Majesty, and accept this, instead, as evidence to her that your mission was fulfilled. She will recognize the jewel, since it was a gift from her. And now—your second errand?”
“Is less agreeable, I fear.” D’Artagnan slipped the ring on his finger, but not without a sigh. The Queen’s jewel had been to him more than a jewel merely. “His Eminence Cardinal de Richelieu sent me to Dampierre with a verbal message.”
The other stiffened perceptibly, fastened a sharp and alert gaze upon d’Artagnan.
“A verbal message? From his own lips?”
D’Artagnan assented. “It is not impossible,” he said, “that His Eminence had learned of the mission confided to me in secret by Her Majesty. In fact, I have every reason to believe that I was not expected to reach Dampierre alive. However—‘me voici!’”
“And the message?” The chevalier leaned forward in breathless suspense.
“It is this, from the lips of His Eminence: ‘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.”
The effect upon his listener was extraordinary. Across the face of the chevalier spread a deadly pallor; his lips parted in a gasp, and then he uttered a cry of mortal anguish—a low piercing cry, as though these words had stricken him to the very heart. His head fell forward—he had fainted, for the second time.
“The devil!” D’Artagnan rose, hearing a knock at the door. He opened, found the lackey there, and beckoned. “Look to your master—he has fainted. No harm done. I’ll see to my patient.”
He knew that the lackey was, of course, in the secret of his master.
Passing into the next room, where the candle still burned dimly, d’Artagnan closed the door, then looked down at Aramis. To his gratification, the latter was sleeping soundly and peacefully, with a half-smile which lent his features an almost angelic expression.
“Ah, my dear Aramis, one can forgive a duchess for loving you!” murmured d’Artagnan to himself. “You have your faults, yes, but to accompany them you have a heart of gold. And where, I wonder, is honest Bazin? Strange that he did not come with you.
“I am here, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said a voice. D’Artagnan started. From the floor at the foot of the bed uprose the melancholy figure of Bazin. “I was seeking a physician, and when I came back with him, you were here.”
D’Artagnan burst into laughter, which he checked instantly for fear of waking Aramis. He knew very well with what feelings Bazin regarded him, and he made haste to set the lackey’s mind at rest.
“Well, my good Bazin, I have not come to drag your master back to a secular life, I can assure you. As a matter of fact, he will be very lucky if he hangs on to any sort of life, for his wound is a bad one; but I imagine he will have the best of care, at Dampierre.”
“He will, monsieur,” said Bazin, with a sort of groan.
“I have, it appears, appropriated his breeches—I came with only my shirt,” said d’Artagnan. “Can you find me some clothes, any clothes at all? I have no money, but I have an extra horse which seems to be a good one. If you can arrange to sell this horse for me in the morning—”
“I can arrange everything, monsieur,” said Bazin. “Do you go to Dampierre with us?”
“Unluckily, no. I leave you here, and I leave as quickly as I can get clothed.”
“Then, monsieur,” said Bazin, brightening visibly, “I will arrange it. As for clothes, my master has a whole portmanteau in the coach, and I recall tha
t his clothes fit you perfectly. Since he will have no use for riding-boots, you might as well take his.”
“Good,” said d’Artagnan. “Then I will bid you good night.”
He returned to the adjoining room; but, upon entering, found it empty. He glanced around in astonishment. At this instant he caught sharp voices from the courtyard. Leaving the room, he came out upon the stone staircase just in time to see two horses dash from the gateway and go into the night at a gallop. The host was ascending the stairs, and held up both hands at sight of d’Artagnan.
“Ah, monsieur, they have gone!” he exclaimed. “The gentleman left his coach and postilion to bring the wounded gentleman in the morning, and said that you were to have his room in his place—”
“The devil!” muttered d’Artagnan. “So she fled on getting that message, did she? My dear M. de Richelieu, I congratulate You on effecting more with a dozen words than I could with my sword-point!”
And, with a sigh, he turned back.
CHAPTER X
THE EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE OF THE COMTE DE LA FERE
Left at the Pomme d’Or, Athos and Porthos learned from Grimaud what d’Artagnan had cried out, and how he had departed. They lost no time in following; unluckily, the horses had to be saddled. Upon reaching the bridge, they made inquiries, and a soldier there declared he had seen a horseman answering the description of d’Artagnan take the highway north to Paris.
At the best pace possible, they followed this false scent, but saw nothing of their comrades, naturally enough. When darkness fell, they rode into the Croix de Berny, their horses staggering, and realized that they had come amiss. Inquiries revealed that d’Artagnan had certainly not been seen at the Croix.
“Supper, wine, a bed!” declaimed Porthos, stamping into the main room. “Capons, beef—ah, what a hearth-spit I see there, and loaded too! Not so bad, Athos! Our lieutenant no doubt took that road bearing to the left from Longjumeau, eh?”
Athos nodded, gestured Grimaud to see to the horses, and followed Porthos inside. Once seated, he emptied two goblets of wine before speaking, then regarded Porthos fixedly.
“Do you know what day this is?” he demanded severely.
“That I do; Tuesday, thanks to the saints, and no fish until Friday!” rejoined Porthos carelessly. “Only, I wish d’Artagnan were sitting here. We must go back to Longjumeau and take that cursed western road, comrade.”
“We cannot,” said Athos gloomily. “Tomorrow is the thirtieth of July.”
“Eh?” Porthos wiped his lips and stared at him inquiringly. “What of it?”
“You forget. Lord de Winter will be expecting us in Paris tomorrow. His errand is of the most supreme importance—we know this already.”
“Pardieu! You are right, Athos. But are we then to abandon poor d’Artagnan? We can find him at Dampierre, certainly—”
“Our business lies ahead,” said Athos, with an air of finality. “D’Artagnan knows the place and date of appointment; he will be there, if he is alive. We, on the contrary, are not yet at Paris.”
“Bah!” exclaimed Porthos. “Half a day’s ride away, my friend!”
“In six days the entire world was created,” rejoined Athos. “In half a day, I assure you, Richelieu can undo a large part of the work of creation.”
And he applied himself to the wine and food before him, without further remark, until the meal was finished. Then, regarding Porthos with the noble yet indefinably sad air which told of strange thoughts in his soul:
“My friend, I have a presentiment—and you know that I am never deceived. I feel that this meeting with Lord de Winter holds for me either a terrible grief, or a great happiness, I cannot tell which.”
The eyes of Porthos widened; and before he could reply, Athos had left the table.
* * * *
Next morning they left the Croix de Berny at an early hour, passed through Chambord without incident, passed Arcueil, and were almost within sight of Chatillon when the huge Norman horse of Porthos suddenly went lame. Inexplicable as it seemed, there was the fact—the animal had apparently strained a ligament or tendon.
“Ah!” exclaimed Porthos, purpling with abrupt anger. “You recall—we baited the horses back there at Arcueil? And those grooms crowding around? Pardieu! I’ll wager a pistole—”
Athos made a sign to Grimaud. The latter sighed, dismounted, held his stirrup for Porthos, and himself took the Norman.
“Forward!” said Athos. The two friends rode on, and ere reaching Chatillon had lost poor Grimaud to sight. They were only a short distance from the gates of Chatillon when two men, who had been standing with their horses at the roadside, mounted and rode into the town ahead of them.
“Did you see that?” said Athos. “They were awaiting us. They bear word ahead. Porthos, we must separate here.”
“And why, if you please?” demanded Porthos in some wonder.
“One of us must keep that appointment with Lord de Winter,” said Athos, and drew rein. “if we go on together, we shall both be stopped—depend upon it! Therefore, separate here. You ride to the east, enter Paris by the Porte St. Antoine. I will ride west, make Issy, cross the Seine and enter from Passy. You comprehend?”
“I comprehend this,” said Porthos, puffing out his cheeks. “if they watched us enter Chatillon, they will certainly watch us leave!”
“Yes, but by separating, we divide their forces, throw their plans awry, and gain greater chance of winning through,” said Athos calmly. “Bourg-la-Reine lies ahead; from there it is just two leagues to Paris. It is not yet noon we need not reach the Place Royale until tonight. You know the rendezvous? The Hotel de St. Luc.”
“Well, then,” said Porthos reluctantly, “I shall wait here for Grimaud.”
“Do so,” said Athos. “Farewell! Until tonight.”
And, without looking back, he turned into a side street and was lost to sight.
Athos knew very well that no one wished to prevent any of them meeting Baron de Winter, for this rendezvous was probably known to no one, and would give no suspicion. It was far more likely that d’Artagnan had been seen to leave Grenoble with one friend, and Lyon with two friends and a lackey. Their road had been roundabout; thus Montforge, easily ahead of them, could have made dispositions to kill them all.
“And that is undoubtedly his purpose,” reflected Athos. “Why, we do not yet know. He has his orders; that is enough. Ah, Richelieu! You are powerful; but when you turn your power against the honor of a woman, forces of which you know nothing will blunt your weapons! Once before, you pitted yourself against four men who had only heaven to assist them, and you lost. Be careful lest this time you destroy yourself!”
Crossing the Seine at Issy, Athos mounted the heights of Passy and took the Paris road. It was now noon; he had seen no indication of any further danger, and he was hungry. At the Auberge de la Pompe just outside Passy, he turned in and ordered his horse fed, and commanded a meal for himself. He was in funds, since d’Artagnan had shared Richelieu’s purse with his friends.
Athos was in the act of mounting, at the gate of the inn, to resume his journey, when a voice arose from a throng of country-folk returning from market at Passy.
“M. le Comte! M. le Comte!”
Athos paused. A man broke from the throng and ran to him—an elderly man with an air of respectability, who came up to him with an expression of astonished joy.
“Ah, M. le Comte!” he cried out. “To find you here—”
“I believe you mistake,” said Athos coldly. The other halted abruptly.
“Mistake? Monsieur, do you not recognize me—do you not know Gervais, your father’s old steward, now the steward of your uncle? No, no! Monsieur, you are the Count de la Fere”
Athos glanced quickly around, then he held out his hand to the older man, and his warm smile lighted his face.
“Ah, Gervais!” he said affectionately. “It is indeed you? But you have changed terribly—”
The steward seized his
hand and kissed it, with tears upon his cheeks. Before he could speak, Athos checked him, gave his horse to a groom, and led Gervais into the inn. He demanded a private room, and in two minutes they were alone.
“Ah, monsieur, I have searched all Paris to find you!” cried the old steward in agitation. “What luck, to see you here on the road! No one knew what had became of you. Some say you are with the army, some say you are dead—”
“Gervais, I am dead,” said Athos, with his air of inflexible calm. “Whence come you?”
“From Roussillon, monsieur! I have a message from your uncle. He is very ill, he will not live long; he begs you to come to him. He sent me to find you—he has no one of his own blood in the world, you alone are left—”
“I, I only remain!” said Athos, and lowered his head. “Yes, that is true.”
“I have been in Paris for a week, searching everywhere,” went on Gervais. “Yesterday I came to see a cousin of mine, who lives here near Passy, who has a farm here. Monsieur, you will come home with me! Say you will come—”
Athos raised his head. His features were composed; one would have said they were of marble, so cold and bloodless had they become.
“My good Gervais, the Comte de la Fere is dead,” he said calmly. “Athos, the Musketeer, alone remains—”
“Monsieur,” pleaded the old man, “you have a duty. Ah, pardon me—it is true! Your uncle is dying. He begs only to see you. Whether you are dead or alive, I implore you to come and speak with him!”
“Ah!” said Athos. “Yes, one has a certain duty—” He sighed, and suddenly clasped the withered hand of the steward. “Gervais, look you: I am engaged in a matter not my own. I cannot answer you here and now. You have money?”
The other made a gesture in the affirmative. “Also, monsieur, I have a thousand livres which your uncle sent, thinking you might have need.”
“I do not wish his money; keep it,” said Athos coldly. “Come to the Hotel of the Musketeers, or rather the Hotel de Treville, in the Rue du Vieux-Colombier, precisely at noon tomorrow. Ask for M. Athos, you comprehend? If I am not there, come the next day at noon, and the next. For the present, I am not my own master. The first day I am free, you will find me.”
The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack Page 108
