The faithful steward uttered a cry of joy.
Ten minutes later, Athos was once more riding toward Paris. He rode carelessly, blindly, not looking whither he was going; he was steeped in reflection, and his features wore an expression of gloomy bitterness. He was quite lost to everything around. The country-folk on the road avoided him carefully. His distinguished air, his garb, and above all the magnificent horse he bestrode, the horse which Richelieu had presented to d’Artagnan, showed them that he was some noble best left alone.
At the point where the road dipped down under the hill of La Chaise, to seek the banks of the Seine, his horse suddenly halted of its own accord.
Athos lifted his head. This little glade, enclosed by trees, was empty save for a coach which stood directly ahead of him. A rear wheel was broken. In the coach, thus tilted to one side, sat a young woman, magnificently dressed, and of the most dazzling beauty. She was staring at Athos; by the terror in her eyes, by the pallor of her features, he perceived that she was in great fear. A glance around showed him that she was absolutely alone.
Approaching the coach, Athos doffed his hat and bowed in the saddle, with that absolute grace of which he alone knew the secret.
“Madame,” he said, “I see that you are in some distress. If I may have the honor of assisting you, I beg that you will consider me entirely at your service.
At these words, the terror passed from her eyes, and she clasped her hands together.
“Ah, monsieur—you are a gentleman—will you have the goodness to remain until my servants return with another coach? Two soldiers just passed by; if they had not discerned your approach, they would have robbed me—”
“Be at rest, madame.” Athos dismounted and bowed again. “My name is Athos, of the Musketeers; you are safe. If you will tell me of what regiment those soldiers were, I shall see that they are punished as they deserve.”
“I do not know, monsieur—I was too terrified to observe! I am the niece of M. d’Estrees, who is with the army. Our tiny chateau is close by—if you will have the goodness to escort me home, I shall be eternally grateful!”
Athos assented with his air of grave courtesy. To himself he thought that never had he seen so beautiful a woman as this girl, for she was little more than a girl. Athos was a person who looked upon women with a jaundiced and critical eye; but this creature delighted him. Her fresh completion, her air of frank innocence, told that she was not of the court; her hair, of a rich golden yellow, was unpowdered; her eyes were of a limpid and serene blue. Above all, she radiated that indescribable charm which is the attribute of one woman in ten thousand, and which not one man in ten thousand ever encounters.
Before he could more than assent, however, a coach appeared, coming from the direction of Paris. The coachman drew up, the postilion opened the door, with bows to Mlle. d’Estrees and glances of curiosity at Athos.
“If mademoiselle will enter—”
“Good,” she said. “This gentleman will escort me—you will bring his horse, Francois.”
Athos handed her into the other coach, followed, and sat by her side. He felt somewhat ill at ease; the closeness of this charming girl, the air of frank abandon with which she turned to him, provoked singular feelings within him.
“You are a gentleman of the Musketeers?” she asked. “Ah, monsieur, how fortunate you came when you did! My father was in your corps—well, shall I make a confession? When I saw you, I said to myself: ‘That is no ordinary man! He is some great prince in disguise.’ Confess, monsieur—I was right? Athos is the name of a mountain, not of a man.”
“You are well versed in geography, mademoiselle,” said Athos, and turned to her with that noble and singularly charming smile which he rarely showed, and then only when he was with someone who pleased him greatly. “We are all princes in disguise, my child, but too often the disguise—”
“Tiens! What sort of talk is this?” she broke in with a gay laugh. “My child, indeed! My reverend gray-haired father—nonsense, monsieur! I am no babe, and you are no philosopher. But there is our chateau ahead; come, confess, is it not a pretty place?”
“It is adorable!” exclaimed Athos.
“Then you will enter with me, drink a glass of wine, allow your horse to be rubbed down, allow my cousin to thank you for your kindness, and if you are polite you may kiss my hand.”
“With all my heart, mademoiselle,” said Athos, and for once his grave manner was somewhat lightened. Her arch words, her laughing eyes, her youth and innocence, affected him in an extraordinary fashion.
During this brief conversation the horses had been pushed hard, and the coach approached a little chateau set in a small and evidently ancient park, closely crowded by surrounding buildings, yet all having the air of being far in the country. Two enormous oak trees quite shrouded the entrance gates of stone; the chateau itself proved to be a small structure but of very beautiful proportions, in the style of those erected during the reign of Francois I—that is to say, a century earlier.
Athos alighted, handed Mlle. d’Estrees from the coach, and she spoke to the servant who appeared at the doorway.
“My cousin—he has not departed yet?”
“I think he has gone to the stables, mademoiselle, to select a horse.”
“Good! Tell him I wish to see him, and that we have a guest.”
The servant departed. Athos was by this time very curious, and willingly accompanied the young lady into the house. He knew the name of d’Estrees, but he did not know that anyone of the name could be living here; the former mistress of Henry IV had bequeathed her children a title, and not a name.
Athos asked no questions, however. In a day when Chavigny was twitted to his face upon being sired by Richelieu, Athos possessed a singular delicacy and refinement, which was not the least of his virtues.
Having ordered wine, his hostess led him to a small library having only one window, high in the wall, and completely lined with books from floor to ceiling.
“This is our coolest chamber on such a day,” she stated. “Also, it is my favorite room. Further, I desire to look up the name of Athos in an atlas.”
“Then I may save you the trouble,” declared Athos. “It is the name of a mountain in Greece, inhabited solely by anchorites, who admit no woman to their inclosure.”
“While you, monsieur, by force of contrast—”
Athos smiled. “I, mademoiselle, present neither contrast nor conformity. But what an admirable library! When you shall have read all these tomes, I dread to think of how scholarly you will become!”
“Oh, I have read them all,” she rejoined. “That is to say, all except the Plato, which I find dull. And apparently I do not look the scholar, to judge by your observation!”
A servant entered with a magnificent salver of massive silver, on which were exquisite Venetian glasses and wine in a beaker of chased gold. Athos glanced at the shelves of books closest to hand; he was astonished to see the most handsome bindings, and among others the works of Rabelais in the superb binding designed by Fevart for Henri II. The Greek, Latin and French authors were mingled indiscriminately; Montaigne nestled cheek by jowl with a royal Book of Hours of the XIV Century encased in a jewel-studded box from the hand of Pierre Lovat.
Mademoiselle d’Estrees poured wine, and extended a glass to Athos, then raised her own.
“To the broken coach,” she exclaimed gaily, which led to so fortunate a meeting! Ah—I hear my cousin—I pray you to excuse me for one instant, monsieur—”
And setting down her untouched glass, she left the room hastily.
Athos held his glass to the light, sniffed the bouquet of the wine, which was his favorite Malaga—then checked himself as he was on the point of sipping. His eyes had caught a few grains of white powder on the tray at the foot of the beaker; the more singular, as the salver was highly polished.
Setting down his glass, Athos glanced around. A frightful suspicion seized upon him. He turned, went to the door, opened it, look
ed out into the hall. No one was there. He caught an echo of low voices from a half-closed doorway beyond, and stepped softly toward it. The voice of a man came to him with astonishing words.
“You fool! It’s the wrong man—pardieu, they picked the right horse, though! The pair of them must have exchanged horses.”
“Is it my fault, then?” came the tones of Mlle. d’Estrees, but now singularly low and sullen. “We got the message, did our part well—”
“Finish it, then—I’ve no time to waste, Helene!” returned the man. “I must be off at once. You say no admission can be gained without the ring? Well, I must get a ring made, since the one you sent is lost.”
“Be sure it bears the arms of Bassompierre!” cautioned the woman. “And remember, they have guards at St. Saforin!”
The other laughed curtly. “Bah! I’ll take the child to Grenoble—no news today?”
“None from London as yet. Marconnet came this morning from Lyon—it is rumored that the king is ill,” said the woman’s voice. “If you have trouble, bring the boy here. But have a care! Bassompierre is in Paris—he will be here today or tomorrow.”
“Tonight or tomorrow night, you mean,” and the other laughed again. “Here—I’ve no more time to waste. I will take a look at our man; if he has not drunk your potion, then we must put a sword into him—”
Athos, who had listened to this conversation with incredulous horror, made his way back to the library. He caught up his glass and emptied it behind a bookshelf, then replaced it and sank into a chair, closed his eyes, relaxed as though drugged.
The terrible paleness of his features assisted the delusion.
He was as though frozen in a sort of nightmare. What he had just overheard, made it clear to him where he was, who this woman was, and how he had been entrapped. This girl, whose innocence had so appealed to him, was the Helene de Sirle of whom d’Artagnan had spoken; the ring mentioned was the ring on d’Artagnan’s hand. The horrible realization left him benumbed, incapable of thinking or acting; for the moment he could only play his part supinely.
“He has it, pardieu!” said the man’s voice at the door. “Good; I am off. Marconnet will take care of this one for you. The address of the goldsmith who made the other ring?”
The girl’s voice responded, inaudibly. Footsteps receded.
Athos opened his eyes, sat up, sweat starting on his brow. Only now did it occur to him that the man must have been Montforge. He went to the window, and caught sight of a cavalier mounting and knew the man must be departing.
“Just God!” murmured Athos in a sort of desperation, sweeping a terrible look around the room. “Into what sort of hands have I fallen? Well there is only one way out.”
He drew his sword. The trembling which had seized upon him passed, and was resolved into a cold and deadly anger. Since meeting the broken-down coach upon the highway, much time had elapsed; the afternoon was beginning to wane.
To gain the entrance, Athos was forced to pass the length of the hall. As he came to the door of the room where he had heard the conversation, a lackey came out, saw him, stopped in astonishment. Athos lifted his rapier.
“Not a sound!” he commanded sternly. “Turn around, lead the way
Instead of complying with this order, the lackey caught a poniard from his belt and at the same instant sent a cry ringing through the house. The rapier of Athos drove into his throat, too late to check that cry of alarm.
“The devil himself,” said Athos, freeing his weapon, “has evidently supplied servants for this house!”
He strode hastily to the entrance—then checked bimself. Helene de Sirle, as he now knew her to be, stood at the foot of the steps. She had doubtless been saying farewell to Montforge, and had heard the lackey’s cry; swift, shrill orders were coming from her lips, and Athos caught sight of three men running across the garden, their weapons bared.
“It is he—kill him!” cried out the young woman in a tone of indescribable ferocity, and moved as though to lead her three men up the steps to the portal.
Athos perceived that he was trapped. Outside, near where the coach still stood waiting, he saw the horse he had ridden, but he was unable to reach the animal. With a swift motion, he caught hold of the open doors, swung them shut, and dropped a bar into place just as the three men hurled themselves upon the barrier with angry cries. The doors trembled, but did not give way.
Turning, Athos made for the wide staircase winding to the upper floor. He had recognized at a glance that his one hope of leaving this place alive lay in reaching his horse; but the cries of domestics ringing through the lower part of the house showed that he could not seek another entrance or even make use of a window. He dashed up the stairs, and was halfway to the upper floor when a pistolet exploded below.
Athos staggered, lost his balance, fell upon hands and knees. At the same instant a man with bared sword appeared at the head of the stairs. “Marconnet!” came the cry from below. “Monsieur Marconnet—kill that man!”
“Gladly,” responded the man above and, descending a step or two, darted a thrust at Athos.
The latter, however, had realized his peril, had heard the cry, knew that the man above was the courier arrived from Lyon that morning. He still held his own sword; parrying the lunge as he rose, he engaged Marconnet with a ferocity augmented by the sounds of men ascending the stairs behind and below him. Another moment, and he would be taken in rear.
That moment did not arrive.
A terrible cry burst from Marconnet. The rapier of Athos entered his stomach from below, and emerged beneath his shoulder-blade; before the steel could be plucked out, the unfortunate man plunged headlong, as though shot from a catapult, and his body was hurled upon two servants in the act of attacking Athos from behind. They were swept from their feet, carried downward, and came to the floor below with a crash, punctuated by cries of anguish.
Athos, catching up the rapier dropped by Marconnet, darted on to the top of the stairs. He had lost his hat; the pistol-ball had caught it away, ploughing a slight gash across his scalp from which the blood was running freely.
Having already made up his mind exactly what he was to do, Athos started down the upper corridor to gain one of the rooms giving upon the front of the chateau. A door opened, a femme-de-chambre appeared, and uttered a scream at sight of this stranger, sword in hand. Athos pushed her back into the room, slammed the door upon her, darted to a door farther on, and hurling himself into the room, closed and locked the door again.
“The devil!” exclaimed a voice. “What means this, monsieur!”
Athos whirled. He had gained the room which he desired, whose windows opened upon the front balcony of the chateau—but this room was not empty. It was a magnificent chamber. A massive oak bed, sculptured with passages from the lives of famous women and draped with the most exquisite of brocades and satins, occupied one entire end of the room. At one side was a long dressing table of mahogany, holding perfumes and pomades, linting with jeweled trifles—that of a lady, beyond question.
Standing before the windows was a pale and half-clothed young man who had apparently just left the bed to draw the curtains when the alarm was sounded. He had caught up a sword, and bared the blade as he addressed Athos. The latter recognized him as a wealthy young noble of the court, one M. Sourens, who was rapidly acquiring a reputation for extreme profligacy.
“Your pardon, monsieur,” said Athos, having turned the key in the lock. “I did not know this room was occupied. If you will have the goodness to let me pass—”
“Pass as you came,” said Sourens heatedly. “Ventrebleu! To have canaille like you rushing into one’s room—out of here before I chastise you, scullion!”
Athos became very pale, “Monsieur, if your chastisement is as out of date as your oaths,” he said with contempt, “it is scarcely to be feared. Stand aside, if you please.”
He advanced toward the window, but Sourens flung himself before the glass, angrily.
“Devil
take you, I’ll teach you how to speak to a gentleman—” and he attacked the intruder swiftly, viciously.
Athos met the attack with a slight smile of disdain, and for a moment held the infuriated young man in play. Cries and the stamp of feet were resounding through the building.
“Monsieur,” said Athos politely, as the blades rasped, “I have no desire to harm you, but it is imperative that I leave this house at once by way of your window. I ask you to give me passage, in default of which I must kill you.”
Maddened by the calm contempt in the air of Athos, the other heaped oaths upon him.
“Gallows bird!” he concluded. “Sneak-thief—I suppose you are some bretteur of the faubourgs, are you? Pass, indeed! You break into the room of Mlle. de Sirle and then—”
“Ah!” said Athos with an expression of satisfaction. “Since you appear to be occupying her room, monsieur, it is evident that you have no right here. Therefore I must keep my word.”
And he ran the young man through the heart, composedly stepped across his body, and wrenched open a window.
The sun was just setting. Before him was a balcony, the gardens some twelve feet below. No one was in sight outside; the coach and horse still stood there, unguarded. Obviously, everyone was searching through the house.
Athos thrust the borrowed sword into his own sheath, lifted the baldric over his head, and cast it into a flower-bed below. Then, bestriding the rail of the balcony, he leaped after it.
Inside, the chateau was filled with confusion, but no one thought to look out in the gardens for the intruder. Athos picked up baldric and sword and mounted. In less than a moment he was riding toward the entrance gates, which stood wide open.
“Decidedly,” he observed, “I do not envy d’Artagnan his errand to that young lady!”
He swayed suddenly, caught himself from falling, and passed a hand across his eyes. Then, settling his feet in the stirrups, he was between the gates and out in the road, where people began to stare at him, bare-headed and hurt as he was.
The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack Page 109
