The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  The door opened, showing the corridor dimly lighted. Against this background was a single figure, that of Bassompierre.

  “My love, you are devilish modest!” said the marshal, taking a step forward. Then he recoiled, as the rapier of d’Artagnan touched his breast; the cloak fell from his hand, and he stood motionless.

  “Not a sound!” said d’Artagnan, confident that he was safe against recognition in the darkness of the oratory. “One word, one call, and you are a dead man. Fool that you were, to prate of your errand at Lyon! Do you not know that my mistress is the chief agent of Richelieu in Paris—that Richelieu is her lover?”

  A choked exclamation broke from Bassompierre.

  “So you bear an order to arrest Richelieu!” pursued d’Artagnan. As he spoke, he moved around the intruder. “In with you! Come forward! You are too late, M. de Bassompierre—my mistress holds an order from Richelieu to arrest you.”

  “Who are you?” murmured the unhappy Bassompierre, overwhelmed by these words, and realizing that he had fallen into a trap.

  Without response, d’Artagnan slipped through the doorway, closed the door, and turned the key in the lock. Bassompierre was imprisoned.

  D’Artagnan looked about. There had been no alarm; everything was peaceful. A hanging lamp burned dimly in the corridor. The door to the little dining-room stood open. The door at the end of the corridor was closed, half shadowed by a turn. The mistake of Bassompierre, to one who did not know the situation of the rooms, was entirely natural.

  On the floor lay the cloak of Bassompierre, still wet with rain. D’Artagnan picked it up, shook it out, wrapped it around him. Upon it was fastened the cross of the Order du St. Esprit, an order to which only Princes of the Blood and very great nobles belonged.

  “Good!” murmured d’Artagnan, and his pulses leaped swiftly. “Cruelty for cruelty—humiliation for humiliation—mockery for mockery! That is justice.”

  And he passed to the door at the end of the corridor, tried it softly, found it unlocked. It opened upon modest darkness, indeed, but not upon complete darkness. Beside the heavily curtained bed, there burned a candle.

  Wrapped in his cloak with its splendid insignia, d’Artagnan advanced and extinguished the light A soft laugh sounded in the room, thrilling him to every nerve of his being, inflaming him madly.

  In his excitement, in his burning passion for vengeance, d’Artagnan had not thought to lock the door behind him. His dread suspicions were forgotten; his caution was flung to the winds; in the blind ardor of youth, intoxicated by enjoyment of the most delicious vengeance imaginable, he forgot all else.

  He even forgot the unfortunate Bassompierre, with whom he had exchanged places.(Since the memoirs of Bassompierre were written under the eye of Richelieu, it is obvious why they contain no mention of this incident.)

  Outside, the storm swept past in its fury, the rain lessened and died into the thin drippings of trees. In the dining-room of the pavilion, the candles burned down to their sockets, guttered and died out. The hanging-lamp in the corridor alone shed light in the darkness.

  D’Artagnan, who had fallen into a heavy slumber, was suddenly awakened by that unknown sense which so often comes to our rescue in the depths of night. By his side, Helene de Sirle slept with the quiet and regular breathing of a child.

  A board in the floor creaked lightly. Someone was in the room.

  Startled, wide awake on the instant, d’Artagnan was aware of a dim light showing through the bed-curtains. He did not hesitate; as the curtains, on one side of the bed, were abruptly jerked away, he flung himself to the other side, across the sleeping figure of Helene de Sirle. A sword plunged at him, and another—two men stood there, a third holding aside the curtains.

  There was a cry, a choked scream. D’Artagnan, throwing himself over the far side of the bed, had a frightful vision of Helene de Sirle writhing half upright, pierced by the two blades intended for him—then he was on the floor, scrambling cat-like to his feet, darting to his clothes and sword at the foot of the bed.

  Oaths resounded, shrill curses. One of the three men rushed to the doorway, blocked it, the two others hurled themselves on d’Artagnan. Naked, he bared his rapier as they came upon him, and recognized one of the two as Roquemont.

  “Ha, assassin!” he cried, and engaged both blades at once.

  From Roquemont burst a cry of dismay, of rage, of consternation. “It is not he—it is not our man! In upon him finish him quickly!”

  For reply, d’Artagnan’s rapier pierced the throat of Roquemont’s companion. The third bravo, darting forward from the doorway, attacked the young man in the rear. Only a miracle of agility saved him.

  D’Artagnan now comprehended everything perfectly. It was Bassompierre these three assassins had sought; they had arranged with Helene de Sirle, had planned to murder him while he slept at her side. The species of horror which had enveloped d’Artagnan, upon seeing those bloody swords torn from her body, passed into a furious rage.

  “So you sought Bassompierre, eh?” he exclaimed. “Cadedis! Murderers of women, you have found retribution instead!”

  As he spoke, his point touched the third assassin in the groin, and the man sank to the floor, groaning. D’Artagnan faced Roquemont, laughed wildly, and pressed in a furious attack that drove his opponent backwards until he stood against the bed and could retreat no farther.

  “Good!” cried d’Artagnan. “You shall die with her whom your base blade murdered, you dog!”

  Roquernont rallied, cursing heartily; the superb attack of d’Artagnan dazzled him, held him mercilessly rooted to the spot. Sweat streamed down his face, his lips drew back from his teeth; d’Artagnan’s point touched his breast and blood gushed out. He fought on. At his back, the torn bed-curtains revealed the figure of Helene de Sirle, lying dead in a terrible crimson tide.

  Suddenly d’Artagnan lunged, lunged again, uttered a sharp cry of triumph. Roquemont dropped his blade. Pierced through the heart, he flung out his arms and fell backwards and lay half across the bed.

  A terrible sound caught the ear of d’Artagnan. He turned, saw the wounded man half rising from the floor, coughing horribly. Without hesitation, as he would have pierced a snake, he drove his rapier through the throat of the assassin.

  “Justice!” he exclaimed, and stood leaning on his rapier, until a sudden trembling seized upon him. With a choked cry, he turned to his clothes and dressed, hurriedly. Cold horror of this place of death spurred him, froze his very marrow.

  Dressed, he caught up Bassompierre’s cloak, seized his bloody rapier, and strode down the corridor to the chapel door. This he unlocked, threw open.

  “Are you there, M. de Bassompierre?” he ex-claimed. Quickly, quickly!”

  Bassompierre, dagger in hand, stumbled into the doorway. At sight of d’Artagnan standing with dripping blade, he stopped short, blinked, then recoiled a step.

  “Ha! It is M. d’Artagnan!” he exclaimed in astonishment.

  “Is this your cloak, monsieur?” D’Artagnan extended the garment, which the other took. “I was in time to save you, then—they came to kill You, monsieur! Go and look in the room yonder—”

  Bassompierre was bewildered, yet comprehended that he was in no immediate danger. He did not comprehend everything; d’Artagnan did not desire that he should comprehend everything, in fact. He went to the door of the bedroom, and took a step inside. A low cry burst from him. He turned, came back to d’Artagnan, and his eyes were starting from his head.

  “She—dead—who killed her—”

  “How do I know?” D’Artagnan laughed harshly. “Come—let us get out of here and talk later! Have the goodness to follow me, monsieur—”

  Still holding his sword, he led the way out into the rain-wet gardens, and directed his steps toward the stables, with Bassompierre at his side. Under the lantern in the doorway of the stables was a sleepy groom, three saddled horses waiting at hand. D’Artagnan pointed to them with his crimsoned sword.

 
“The horses of your assassins, monsieur!” Then, advancing upon the groom, he put his point at the man’s throat. “Up! Walk in front of me, see that the gates are open! Assassins have murdered your mistress, but I have avenged her. Forward!”

  He drove the groom before him. Bassompierre, mounting into the saddle, followed with the horses. Reaching the gates, they found these unlocked and unguarded; the terrified groom opened them.

  A moment later, the two were away from the chateau, in the darkness of the road. Here Bassompierre drew rein.

  “I do not understand this, monsieur—except that you have saved my life,” he exclaimed warmly. “If I can in anyway repay you—”

  D’Artagnan brought the horses stirrup to stirrup.

  “You can, monsieur,” he said simply. “Madame de Chevreuse desires to send a message of four words to the queen. These four words will inform Her Majesty that she has for the moment no more to fear from her enemies.”

  “Ah, ah! Chevreuse—noble creature! Then she sent you?” exclaimed Bassompierre. “Yes, yes, by all means give me the message! I comprehend perfectly. The four words?”

  “God loves the brave.”

  “They shall be delivered.”

  “Thank you, monsieur. And allow me to say that my friends, one of whom is Lord de Winter, are about to place the child in better security than St. Saforin affords at the moment. He will be taken care of.”

  “Ah! Death of my life?” cried Bassompierre, who could no longer contain his amazement. “M. d’Artagnan, you overcome me—”

  “We must part, if you are to gain Lyon tonight,” and d’Artagnan turned his horse before any further explanations could be made. “Farewell, monsieur!”

  “Farewell—and accept my thanks,” came the voice of Bassompierre, already half swallowed up in the dawn-darkness. “I am in your debt—believe me, I shall not forget it!”

  D’Artagnan, who now heard cries of alarm rising within the park of the little chateau, put spurs to his horse.

  “And I,” he said to himself, “owe you a good deal—for the loan of your cloak! Our accounts are balanced, my dear Bassompierre.”

  He rode—but not toward Paris.

  CHAPTER XIV

  INSTEAD OF ONE FATHER, TWO APPEAR

  There were at this period two Saints Saforin—the village of the name, lying close to the highway, and the royal abbey which owned the village and many other fiefs. The abbey, however, lay a league distant, and was gained by an indirect road.

  On May 3, 1542, Francois I rode out of Paris with a single companion, on one of those pleasant excursions so beloved of that amorous monarch. He had a rendezvous at the village of St. Saforin with a lady of the vicinity who had promised to entertain him fittingly in the absence of her lord.

  Unluckily, the king was misdirected, took the road to the abbey, was recognized, and was that night entertained by the worthy prior instead of by the charitable lady.

  Athos and Porthos, on the contrary, asked directions from a country lout who knew much of village wenches and little of monasteries or abbeys.

  Toward midnight they found themselves in the village of St. Saforin, with rain pouring down and thunder rolling across the hills. To gain the abbey that night was an impossibility.

  “Very well,” said Athos calmly, and looked at Grimaud. “Sunrise!”

  At sunrise, they were breaking their fast and the horses were ready. An hour later they were dismounting before the entrance of the abbey.

  Some years previously the abbacy had been conferred upon a gentleman of Picardy, who drew his revenues and did not trouble his head about the place whence they came. The direct rule of the abbey was in the hands of the prior, Dom Lawrence, a distant connection of the Luynes family and in earlier years a boon companion of Bassompierre in the campaign of Hungary against the Turks.

  Athos and Porthos were conducted into a reception room by a black-clad lay brother upon whom the rule of silence had not yet been imposed.

  “Dom Lawrence will be with you in a few moments,” he said, and left them.

  Porthos was vastly impressed by the well-ordered place, with its massive walls and its air of indomitable strength. Wine was brought them, and he tasted it with appreciation.

  “This is excellent!” he observed. “I perceive that these monks know how to live. Athos, my friend, drink! You are pale. Does the fact that you are about to become a father so weigh upon your spirit?”

  “I was thinking of d’Artagnan,” said Athos. “Ah! Here is Dom Lawrence.”

  Dom Lawrence Was a very spare and vigorous man of sixty. He gravely inclined his head to the bow of his visitors, dismissed Porthos with a glance, and then gazed fixedly at Athos.

  “I am at Your service, gentlemen,” he said. “But, if I am not mistaken, I have met one of you at least—a long time ago.”

  The pallor of Athos became accentuated.

  “This, Dom Lawrence, is M. du Vallon,” he replied. “As for me, I am named Athos, formerly of the company of M. de Treville, now of the company of M. Rambures.”

  “Eh? Eh?” Dom Lawrence frowned slightly. The lofty countenance of Athos seemed to bring other memories before him. “Of the Musketeers? But, my dear monsieur, I am quite certain that I have had the honor of meeting you, not recently, but in the past.”

  “It is entirely Possible,” said Athos. “Louis XIII married Anne of Austria at Bordeaux on Nov. 28, 1615—that is to say, fifteen years ago. Upon that occasion I was a page of the Duc d’Orleans; and you, if I mistake not, were the father confessor of—”

  He paused. Across the face of Dom Lawrence flashed a look, almost of terror, as though some frightful scene had suddenly recurred to his mind. His eyes widened upon Athos.

  “I remember now, M. le Comte,” be said in a low voice, and he bowed as though he were silently saluting a person whom he reverenced. “You desired to see me, you and your friend?”

  Athos took from his finger the gold ring with the arms of Bassompierre.

  “You recognize this ring, undoubtedly? I have come to take away the boy.”

  The prior started. “Ah! Monsieur, as to his departure I have no orders. I can allow you to see him, certainly—”

  “Pardon me, intervened Athos. “Dom Lawrence, I come to take the boy as my own son; he is the son of one of my oldest friends.”

  “Unfortunately, monsieur, the gentleman who placed him here gave strict orders—”

  Again Athos intervened. “Within a short time, perhaps within a few minutes, other men will arrive on this errand. They will bear a forged ring; but they will bear the orders of Cardinal Richelieu as well. As for M. de Bassompierre, you need not worry. We act on his behalf and would bear a letter from him had he been given time to write one.”

  At the name of Richelieu, a look of alarm flashed into the eyes of Dom Lawrence.

  “The Cardinal—knows the boy is here?” he ejaculated.

  “Worse; he he has sent to get him,” said Athos calmly.

  There was a moment of silence; struggle was depicted in the face of Dom Lawrence, who knew that he would not dare refuse the child to an order of the Cardinal. As for Porthos, to whom the veiled past of Athos was ever revealing new surprises, he stood staring, yet wise enough not to open his mouth.

  “Monsieur,” said the prior suddenly, “I remember certain events in the past; I can read your face as you stand before me. Do you swear upon your honor that all you say is true?”

  “Upon my honor, and upon the Christ, it is the truth,” said Athos firmly, and so lofty and serene was his clear gaze that it would have removed doubt from St. Thomas himself.

  “It is your purpose to adopt this child, then?”

  “No; it is my purpose to make him my own son,” said Athos.

  Dom Lawrence summoned a lay brother, gave him certain instructions, and motioned to chairs.

  “We shall not keep you long, gentlemen. As to the boy, I can only say, M. le Comte, that I have studied his character well, and I believe him worthy
to become your son.”

  “Then keep the confidence as sacred,” said Athos solemnly. “No one must know this, no one must suspect where the child has gone! M de Bassompierre alone will know. As to the child I already know already what his character is, since I know his parents.”

  “Ah!” said the prior, and regarded him searchingly.

  The next moment, a lay brother led in a child of four years. Porthos could not repress an exclamation of surprise and admiration; Athos rose to his feet ceremoniously. The boy, young as he was betrayed in his features a singular beauty and loftiness of character. He wore a miniature cavalier’s suit, and bore at his side a tiny Sword. He bowed to the prior—a bow of such grace and dignity that the eyes of Athos lighted up.

  “M. d’Aram, said the Prior, “I wish to present M. Porthos, and the Comte—”

  He checked himself; with a glance at Athos, who concluded the sentence.

  “The Comte de la Fere.”

  The boy bowed to Porthos, then to Athos—his gaze remained fastened upon the latter.

  “Ah!” he exclaimed curiously. “Now I know something I have long desired—”

  He checked himself; and flushed.

  “Yes, my Son?” said the prior, with a smile.

  “I was about to say,” said the boy, still looking at Athos, “that I now know what a gentleman looks like.”

  “Eh? Eh?” exclaimed Porthos, puffing out his cheeks in mock anger. “And I, then—am I not a gentleman, eh? And honest Dom Lawrence, here?”

  The boy turned and regarded him with perfect composure.

  “Monsieur, you are a soldier,” he answered. “Dom Lawrence is a monk. That is not the same thing.”

  “The thought is to the mark, if not the words!” cried Athos in delight, and kneeling, held out his arms. “My son, my son—embrace me!”

  The boy looked at him, turned very pale, and his eyes widened.

  “What, monsieur!” he stammered. “You—you are not the father I have prayed for—”