“Eureka!” exclaimed d’Artagnan. “The paper is in the barrel of that pistol.”
The messenger was dismissed, and the doors closed.
“Well, my friends,” said Lord de Winter, “I must depart in two days for Venice—I have an errand there for the King of England. While I remain here, this house and all I have or can borrow, are at your service.”
“Thank you, monsieur,” said Athos. “We have need of nothing, except the name of the man who bears that document.”
“His name is the Comte de Riberac.”
“Ah!” exclaimed d’Artagnan, half in consternation. “Riberac—whose brother was killed at La Rochelle—whose relative is Madame de Combalet, niece of Richelieu—whose—”
Athos burst into a laugh—a thing almost unknown for him.
“Whose pistol carries the honor of Her Majesty!” he intervened. “That is enough for us. You know him by sight, I think?”
“Yes,” said d’Artagnan, who perceived that Athos had formulated everything clearly in his own mind. “Proceed, I beg of you! Your judgment is unsurpassed, Athos! Give the orders and I will obey.”
“You honor me, my friend. I propose that you deal with this gentleman, secure the document, deliver your letter to Mademoiselle de Sirle. I, on my part, shall take Porthos and Grimaud, and go to St. Saforin—it is a short half-day’s ride from Paris. We shall need your ring.”
“Here it is,” and d’Artagnan handed the circlet of gold to Athos. “And since I, for one, have some need of repose, when does this program go into effect?”
Athos reflected. “Your share is to you; mine to me. I will ride to St. Saforin tomorrow evening, remove the boy early next morning, and return to the Hotel de Treville to await word from you.”
“Very well,” said d’Artagnan. “I will sleep until noon tomorrow, then ride out on the Compiegne road and meet M. de Riberac.”
And if you miss him?”
“Then I will find the document at the chateau of the lady.”
“Be careful, my son!” Athos bent a terrible look upon his friend. “You do not know of what that woman and those around her are capable! She serves the Cardinal, who is probably her lover; Bassompierre is certainly her lover; she would deceive an angel from heaven with her airs of innocence! Be careful!”
“I promise it, Athos,” said d’Artagnan, alarmed by these words.
Again there was a knock, and the lackey opened the doors.
“My lord,” he said, “a gentleman is here by the name of Monsieur Porthos.”
There was a cry of acclaim from all three. A moment later Porthos appeared.
M. du Vallon had this peculiarity; when he was extremely drunk, he was apparently in perfect control of his faculties, but in reality had not the least consciousness of anything except what passed through his brain on the instant. He entered the room, bowed ceremoniously to Lord de Winter, and gazed blankly at Athos and d’Artagnan. He was, if possible, more magnificent than ever in his bearing.
“This is most extraordinary, gentlemen,” he declaimed in a loud voice, without noticing the greetings of anyone. “Here I left you on your way to the Hotel de Chevreuse, and I find you awaiting me here! However, I do not try to understand anything. Ah, messieurs, so you have unmasked? Monsieur,” and he bowed profoundly to Lord de Winter, “you will, I promise you, have no reason to regret attaching me to the service of Your Highness.”
“Heavens!” d’Artagnan broke into a laugh, and pulled at the Englishman’s sleeve. “He is drunk—he takes you for the Duc d’Orleans!”
Porthos turned to Athos, and bowed again.
“Monsieur le Comte,” he declaimed, “it is an honor to have shared your enjoyment of that exquisite Chablis, and your views upon the subject of His Eminence the Cardinal.”
“Ah!” said Athos, amused. “It seems that I have become the Comte de Soissons!”
Porthos twirled his mustache magnificently, and bowed to d’Artagnan.
“I did not need a whisper from M. de Bassompierre to penetrate your identity, but be assured, monsieur, it is entirely safe with me!” he said loftily. “None shall know that you are in Paris. If any inquire of me, I shall say: “Certainly! M. le Duc de Guise is spending a few days at my country house.’ But I do not see our honest Bassompierre, that dear friend of my comrade d’Herblay—well, well, let us see if this wine can match the Chablis—”
And coming to the table, he seated himself amid the laughter of the three men, and with a perfectly steady hand poured himself wine, and sipped it.
“Excellent,” he exclaimed. “Excellent! Gentlemen, damnation to the Cardinal, happiness to our new king—and may it prove true that the king is dead!”
And Porthos gravely drank the toast he had proposed.
The laughter of the three listeners froze into a frightful silence, which d’Artagnan was the first to break.
“Porthos!” he said severely, leaning forward.
“Awake—for the love of heaven guard your tongue, think of what you say! Do you not know me?”
Porthos set down his glass.
“That is admirable wine—the bouquet is magnificent,” he observed, and regarded d’Artagnan with a blank stare. “Gentlemen, you did well to meet me. You do well, M. le Duc, to appreciate my qualities and ask my advice. Yes, I heard rumors at Grenoble that the king had not been well, but devil take me if I expected such news as this. I presume, Monsieur,” and he turned in a stately fashion to Lord de Winter, “I presume your first move will be to arrest Richelieu? Ah, yes—I believe you mentioned something of the sort. I desired to carry the order of arrest—you had promised it to my friend M. de Bassompierre, was that it? Yes, yes.”
Lord de Winter sat stupefied. Athos, bending his penetrating gaze upon Porthos, had turned pale. D’Artagnan, who sat there staring with his mouth open, suddenly moved as though a fly had stung him.
“Ah!” he said. “Those masked gentlemen—no, no, it is impossible! He is the victim of some hoax!
He is drunk and—”
“He is nothing of the sort,” said Athos. “You think this news about the king is quite reliable, M. du Vallon?”
“Eh?” said Porthos, transferring his stare to Athos. “You ask me that, M. le Comte? You yourself showed me the despatch, brought from Lyon by your own cousin—upon my word, monsieur, if you were not the Comte de Soissons I should imagine you to be drunk!”
And he poured himself more wine, very gravely.
“Monsieur,” he said to Lord de Winter, applying to that gentleman the title usually accorded the king’s brother, the Duc d’Orleans, “it has pleased Your Highness to consult me about your plans. I will even carry my advice a step farther. I advise you to marry Her Majesty the Queen immediately, and thus secure the throne by making peace with Austria. You could not do better than create M. d’Artagnan a Marshal of France, and my friend the Comte de la Fere would make an admirable Minister. For myself, I desire nothing; I believe, however, that a mere barony would quite delight Madame du Vallon. I beg, Monsieur, that you will think over this advice very seriously.”
Cold sweat started upon the brow of d’Artagnan, and he saw in the face of Athos something like terror.
There was now no doubt that by some chance Porthos had encountered the greatest enemies of Richelieu, who were supposed to be far from Paris. By what magic of wine or talk he had insinuated himself into their company and penetrated their identities, was impossible to say; ordinarily the most simple fellow in the world, Porthos when in liquor had a certain subtlety.
D’Artagnan could picture that scene at the tavern; unfortunately it was far from being incredible. Gaston of Orleans was a dissolute fool always turning to some new prank or eccentricity, careless what he did or said. Soissons was a popinjay who blew in any wind and was headstrong in the wrong direction. Guise, learning that the king was dying, was capable of anything. That they had amused themselves with Porthos was evident. The very improbability of their discussing such matters with him was th
e surest proof of it having occurred, particularly where Orleans was concerned.
“If this has happened,” murmured d’Artagnan, “it means the Bastille!”
“On the contrary,” said Athos, who had recovered himself, “if it has happened, it may mean power and honor! Reflect; it is clear that the Comte de Soissons has news that the king is dying or dead. Therefore, the Duc d’Orleans ascends the throne—”
“We must sober M. Porthos and drag the truth out of him,” said Lord de Winter.
“Impossible!” said d’Artagnan, with a gesture of despair. “I know him, monsieur. One more drink, and he will be asleep. When he wakens, all memory of what has happened will be utterly gone from his mind.”
“That is true,” said Athos.
In another five minutes, indeed, Porthos dropped his chin on his breast and fell sound asleep.
Porthos, however, had not been deceived, nor had he deceived.
At the exact moment he was creating d’Artagnan a Marshal of France, terrible things were happening in Lyon, where the king had some time since joined the court. Attacked by dysentery and fever, Louis XIII was informed that medical skill could do no more for him, and he could not live another day.
He confessed, and receiving the Viaticum from the hands of Pere Suffren, bade farewell to his mother, his wife, and Richelieu. The court ordered mourning. Anne of Austria meditated upon the future and at her bidding Countess de Fargis wrote Gaston d’Orleans and mentioned a marriage between them. Marie de Medici sent couriers in every direction and prepared for her triumph over the Cardinal, a triumph which would know neither scruple nor mercy.
As for Richelieu, he saw the abyss opening under his very feet, and was utterly powerless to save himself. “I do not know,” he wrote that night to Schomberg, who was in command of the army, “whether I am alive or dead.”
Thus did history, in these heroic days, hang upon the life or death of a king.
CHAPTER XII
IN WHICH D’ARTAGNAN ACCOMPLISHES TWO THINGS FOR OTHERS, ONE FOR HIMSELF
When d’Artagnan wakened, at noon the next day, he found at his bedside a magnificent suit of blue and silver-cloth; lying upon it was this note:
My Friends: I have gone to Chaillot with M. de Bassompierre, and I shall make peace for M. Porthos provided he forgets everything that happened to him last night. Memory would be excessively dangerous for him. The king is believed to be dying. I shall await word from you; go, with God!
WINTER.
D’Artagnan asked after his friends. Grimaud appeared with word that Porthos was snoring, Athos still asleep.
“I have orders to waken them at two o’clock, monsieur.”
Obey, then. I shall be gone. One moment—where is the convent of St. Saforin?”
“Halfway between Paris and Soissons, monsieur.”
Obviously, Athos had ordered Grimaud to inform himself on this point.
D’Artagnan bathed and then dressed in the superb habiliments provided, finding that they fitted him to a marvel; and in the courtyard discovered a horse being saddled for him. This horse, presented to him with the compliments of Lord de Winter, was even finer than the one given him by Richelieu, and now lost somewhere in Paris.
When he had eaten, d’Artagnan examined his sword, inspected the letter for Mlle. de Sirle, and rode for Passy and the Compiegne highway.
He was unhurried, and appreciated to the full the glances of admiration which his magnificent costume and his royal steed drew from every side. He did not fail to note, however, an undercurrent of excitement in the streets, and he knew the reason full well.
“Pardieu! Rumors have spread,” he muttered. “And what is this? Bassompierre’s liveries!”
He encountered six of the finest horses imaginable, each one caparisoned with real splendor, in charge of two grooms wearing the Marshal’s livery. He halted them, curious.
“Will you have the goodness to tell me the reason of this?” he inquired. “I understood your master was at Chaillot today.”
The grooms, seeing that this young man, so regally mounted and attired, had recognized their liveries and must be some great noble and friend of Bassompierre, did not hesitate to answer him.
“We are taking them as relays, monsieur. Our master leaves at dawn tomorrow for Lyon, and has wagered a thousand pistoles that he will reach Lyon before midnight tomorrow.”
Thanking them, d’Artagnan rode on, stupefied with astonishment at such prodigality. Bassompierre had better reasons than a wager for reaching Lyon, he perceived—but why, then, was not the marshal leaving today instead of tomorrow?
“If I were M. de Bassompierre,” thought d’Artagnan shrewdly, “I would be finishing my journey tomorrow morning instead of beginning it! However, I suppose he has the best of reasons for remaining here; and it is lucky for Porthos that he is! Our friend must have learned some pretty secrets last night, and if he ever breathes one of them, he is a lost man.
He need not have worried, however. When Porthos wakened, he had not the slightest recollection of his last night’s adventure.
It was not yet two o’clock when d’Artagnan, past the barrier, was upon the Compiegne road. A word with the guards showed that the Comte de Riberac had not yet entered Paris, but this did not mean that he had not reached Passy, which at that time was well outside Paris. So, at a slightly quicker gait, d’Artagnan rode on. He knew Riberac, and could not miss his man, who would be unsuspecting any danger so close to his journey’s end.
With his characteristic curiosity, d’Artagnan sought out the chateau of Mlle. de Sirle, and slowly rode past, admiring the situation of the little park. Then he had reason to curse his imprudence, for as he came opposite the gates they opened and a cavalier rode forth and drew rein in surprise.
“M. d’Artagnan!” he exclaimed. “It Is you, indeed?”
D’Artagnan recognized Sieur de Roquemont, lieutenant of the Cardinal’s guards and a close relative of Chateauneuf, at this period the most able of all Richelieu’s supporters. He noted that Roquemont seemed quite disconcerted at the encounter, and wondered what on earth this gentleman could be doing in Paris.
“Good morning, my dear Roquemont, he rejoined with entire aplomb. “A happy meeting, indeed! I fancied you were in Savoy, becoming another Bayard!”
“And I,” said Roquemont, opening his eyes at d’Artagnan’s horse and equipment, “fancied you were in Lyon with the court!”
“So I was,” said d’Artagnan, twirling his mustache, “but at the present moment I am on my way to Calais, and in two days I shall be in London.
What news from the army?”
“Faith, I know not!” and Roquemont shrugged. “I have been in Paris for ten days, and am even now starting for Lyon. Au revoir and bon voyage, monsieur!”
“And to you,” rejoined d’Artagnan, and rode on his way. “Ah, liar!” he said to himself. “You lied to me—even as I lied to you! Now there’s something in the wind. You were astonished to see me, therefore you knew nothing about me or my errand. That, it seems, lies in the hand of the Comte de Montforge. But what the devil are you doing at this house?”
He was uneasy. Roquemont, he knew, was a man of savage character; it was Roquemont who had dragged from his bed and killed the unfortunate Villeroy; it was Roquemont who, according to report, had coolly held a pistol to the dying body of Concini and finished the assassination. With such a man, anything was possible.
However, Roquemont lay behind, Riberac ahead; d’Artagnan rode on. The day, which had begun brightly, had now become overcast; rain threatened, and d’Artagnan, who had no cloak to cover his magnificent suit, scowled at the unkind heavens.
At three-thirty, d’Artagnan was in the open, flat country just beyond Bourg-Royale. The fields were empty, no one was in sight along the road; but ahead, a growing spurt of dust indicated a rider spurring to reach Paris before the storm arrived. D’Artagnan drew rein, inspected his pistols, loosened his sword in the sheath, and waited. A single rider was coming towa
rd him. Presently, recognizing his man, d’Artagnan moved his horse into the road.
Riberac, at sight of this impassive figure blocking his way, slowed his pace, and then drew rein a few feet distant, staring at d’Artagnan.
“This is a strange meeting, M. d’Artagnan!” he exclaimed. He was a pleasant young man, rich and handsome, destined for high fortune.
“I regret, monsieur,” and d’Artagnan bowed slightly in the saddle, “that the meeting was inevitable.”
“Your words are also strange, monsieur,” said Riberac, “and so is your tone. You cannot have come on purpose to meet me?”
His hand dropped to the pistol on the left side of his saddle.
“Be careful, monsieur!” said d’Artagnan. “I have two pistols here, you have only one.”
“Ah!” Riberac checked himself, regarded d’Artagnan fixedly. “So that is it!”
“That is it, monsieur. It is with the greatest regret in the world, I assure you, that I must ask you for that pistol.”
“Your regret is only equalled by mine, monsieur, in refusing it,” said Riberac, and then dismounted and drew his sword.
D’Artagnan did likewise, for he was dealing with a very polite gentleman. Riberac, who had great confidence in himself, smiled with assurance.
“I must warn you, monsieur,” he stated, “that I have been taking lessons from the Italian fencing-master of the Prince of Wales, in London.”
“And I,” said d’Artagnan, “have been killing those who give lessons. En garde, monsieur!”
The blades crossed. At the second pass, D’Artagnan’s rapier drove through the heart of Rierac, who fell backward and was dead before he struck the ground.
This victory gave d’Artagnan no satisfaction; rather, it filled him with sadness. He went to Riberac’s horse, drew the right-hand pistol from its holster, and inspected the weapon. A wooden plug was in the muzzle. Removing this, he presently extracted a tightly-rolled length of vellum.
“In this matter,” he reflected, “I cannot afford to make any mistakes.”
He unrolled the vellum, and found it to consist of three sheets, folded in the center and sewed together. A glance at the outer page showed him that this was the will of Francois Thounenin of Dompt. He examined the remainder of the pages. The center sheet proved to be a codicil to the will—undoubtedly the document of which he was in search. He removed the outer sheet and placed it in his pocket. The other two sheets he rolled again and held in his hand.
The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack Page 111
