The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  He leaped among them, striking.

  Now in the obscurity of this room, through the fumes of powder, ascended fearful and hideous sounds; the revolting reek of fresh blood stank in the nostrils of men. Amid the rising cloud of dust might be discerned frantic shapes rushing to and fro. The piercing sharpness of cries and screams followed swift upon thudding crunches as that grisly weapon fell, now here, now there, crushing out life and human shape.

  Panic fell upon these men; they crowded about the entrance, and there Porthos fell upon them and scattered them, and slew two as they fought madly together at the narrow opening. At this, their blind panic was changed into the instinct of the wild beast to destroy that which is destroying him. Their weapons had been flung away or dropped. None the less, they came crowding upon the dim and terrible figure of Porthos gripping at him before and behind; he thrust the pointed bar and transfixed one man so that he screamed and writhed like some helpless beetle dying upon a pin, but there the steel spit was torn out of his hand and lost.

  In this chamber of dust and blood and death, the one uprose among the dozen that tore at him, a giant among pigmies. Suddenly something was seen to move in the air above their heads, and there sounded a rushing as it were of wings, and the pitiful terrified wail of a man sharply rising. Then they fell back from around him in mad horror, for Porthos, stooping, had plucked up a man by the ankles and was swinging him about his head, and beating with this flail of flesh and bone upon those before him, and crushing them down. Upon this, they fled.

  And now, abruptly, the madness went out of Porthos. He dropped the broken body from his hands, wiped the blood and sweat out of his eyes, and stood peering around him in a sort of half-comprehending abhorrence. A trembling seized upon him. A dying man was shrieking at his feet, and he turned away, crossing himself with shaking hand.

  “Mon Dieu, what have I done!” he groaned.

  He went to the doors, wrenched at them. In a spasmodic effort he put forth his strength and tore them from the remaining hinges; the mass of iron and wood swung at him, he checked and turned it, and with a heave of his shoulders sent it over with a resounding crash. He stumbled out into the sunlight, wiping his streaming face.

  Upon his benumbed brain broke sharply the remembrance of Athos and d’Artagnan. He turned, went back into that place of death, and presently bore forth the body of Athos in his arms; the body breathed, and with a sob of relief Porthos laid it down and went back inside. He paid no heed to the remaining assailants, nor cared that these were escaping by the rear entrance. He searched until he found d’Artagnan, picked him up, and carried him outside, where he set him down beside Athos.

  Panting, he stood and gazed around with blood-shot eyes. From the interior of the inn came a low groaning of stricken men. From outside the wall of the courtyard lifted the sound of men running; five figures came into sight through the shattered gates, making for the clump of grazing horses. There were five survivors of Montforge’s party.

  Porthos paid no heed to these things. He went to the pump, plunged his head into the trough, and, dripping, brought back water which he dashed over Athos and d’Artagnan. The latter stirred, moved, and suddenly sat up, blinking around.

  “Ma foi! Where am I?” he exclaimed. “Is that you, Porthos?”

  Porthos, seeing that d’Artagnan was not greatly hurt, was kneeling over Athos and bandaging the two wounds of the latter.

  “Yes, it is I,” said Porthos gloomily. “I thought you were dead, my friend.”

  “Evidently I am not,” said d’Artagnan, and surveyed himself. “Ah! There’s a scrape along my ribs at least—”

  He opened his clothes, to disclose a wound, alarming in appearance but not at all dangerous, where the sword of Montforge had glided along his ribs.

  “My new suit is certainly ruined,” he observed. “Well, I must obey the example of M. de Bassompierre, who never wears a suit more than once or twice!”

  He drew from his pocket the folded vellum sheet of the Thounenin will. It was disfigured by a cut where the sword had passed through, and was stained with blood, but was none the less readable.

  “Good!” said d’Artagn an. “And Montforge where is he? What has happened?”

  “He is dead,” said Porthos. He suddenly desisted from his work, and began a frantic search of his person. He explored pockets, looked everywhere; at length he stared at d’Artagnan with an expression of such terror that d’Artagnan, despite his wound, struggled to his feet.

  “What is the matter, Porthos?” he exclaimed in alarm. “What has happened?”

  “Ah!” Porthos uttered a groan. “I am lost!”

  “Why, in heaven’s name? You are hurt?”

  “I am lost,” repeated Porthos in a sepulchral voice, and showed a broken silver chain which he had taken from beneath his shirt. “The portrait of Madame du Valon, which I swore never to remove from about my neck—well, it is gone!”

  D’Artagnan gaped at him, then suddenly broke into a laugh.

  “It is no laughing matter, I assure you,” said Porthos. “You do not understand these things—”

  D’Artagnan laughed the harder. At this instant he perceived that Athos had opened his eyes; and kneeling, he clasped the bandaged figure in his arms.

  Porthos departed to search for his lost portrait, but he did not find it.

  EPILOGUE

  The three friends reached the Hotel de Treville late the following afternoon, for it was necessary to obtain a coach before Athos could be transported. Thanks to the miraculous balsam of d’Artagnan, his wounds promised to be in no way serious, but they effectually prevented him from keeping the saddle for some days. At the hotel of the Musketeers, they learned that Grimaud and Raoul had arrived, had met Gervais at noon, and had departed with him. Since Athos did not know the whereabouts of his uncle’s steward, it was necessary to await his return on the following day.

  They discovered, further, that Mousqueton had thrice arrived in search of Porthos, and on the third occasion the former Madame Coquenard had come also, promising to return very shortly. At this news Porthos was in some consternation.

  D’Artagnan had his wound dressed anew, and immediately after dinner that night prepared two missives. The first contained no writing; it held only the outer sheet of the Thounenin will, and was addressed to Mme. la Duchesse de Chevreuse, at her chateau of Dampierre. As Athos rightly said, the sword-thrust and the blood staining the document told their own story.

  The second epistle was a letter addressed to His Eminence Cardinal de Richelieu. In it d’Artagnan wrote:

  Monseigneur: I have the honor to report that the two errands which you had the goodness to confide to me, have been performed. The verbal message was delivered. There was apparently no response, since the person to to whom it was addressed was subject to fainting spells. The letter to a person in Paris was also delivered. As Your Eminence said nothing of any answer, I did not await one but departed immediately.

  I regret that I have not the honor to deliver this report in person, owing to a wound received at the hands of certain bretteurs who attacked me. I await your orders, Monseigneur, being your very humble and very obedient servant,

  Artagnan.

  D’Artagnan showed this letter to Athos, who read it attentively.

  “You must rewrite it.”

  “How?” said d’Artagnan. “What have I misspelled?”

  “Nothing. You must change the wording to read ‘a severe wound…which confines me to my bed.’ It will make an excellent impression upon His Eminence. No one knows exactly what happened among you, Bassompierre, and Mile. de Sirle—except Bassompierre, who does not know all. Richelieu will probably deem you sufficiently punished. If he discovers that Raoul was not the son of Her Majesty, but of Chevreuse well, you may be entirely safe!”

  “But I am not confined to my bed.”

  “Confine yourself for the night. Our complaisant surgeon will gladly add a notation to this effect.”

  “But you,
Athos—”

  “I leave the service, my son. As soon as I am able to write, my resignation goes in. There is nothing to fear, believe me! If the king dies, Richelieu is lost. If the king lives—then greater men than you and I are lost, and in the stench of their blood we are forgotten, I promise you!”

  D’Artagnan did not entirely agree with this reasoning, but he perceived the force of the advice, and promptly followed it.

  Neither he nor Athos saw Porthos again at this time, for when they arose next morning, it was to learn that a coach had arrived very early, a lady had alighted and asked for Porthos, and that Porthos, summoned from his bed, had mounted into the coach with the lady and departed. He did not leave so much as a note for his friends, but Grimaud, who witnessed the scene, said that Porthos had flung both arms toward heaven as though in supplication, and had then meekly obeyed the orders of the lady.

  A week later, Athos departed for his estates, d’Artagnan for his duty.

  Upon the day Louis XIII was expected to die at Lyon, at almost the very hour predicted for his death by the physicians, he unexpectedly recovered; but he made his mother a secret promise that as soon as peace was concluded with the Empire, he would dismiss Richelieu.

  The court returned to Paris, the king going to Versailles, the queen-mother to her palace of the Luxembourg. She dissembled, and pretended great friendship for the Cardinal. Alarmed by this, Richelieu investigated, heard of the promise made by Louis XIII, and despatched a courier to Ratisbon ordering Pere Joseph not to sign the treaty.

  It had already been signed. Marie de Medici sent imperatively for her son.

  On the morning of November tenth, the king arrived quietly at the Luxembourg, accompanied only by Bassompierre. Richelieu, already warned, made haste to be present at this interview, but when he reached the Luxembourg, it was too late. The doors of the ante-chamber were locked. The king and Marie de Medici were alone in the latter’s cabinet; orders were given that no one was to be allowed entrance.

  Here in the heart of this vast palace, secure from the disturbing influence of Richelieu or others, Marie de Medici indicated the desk beside the window, and commanded her son to sit down and write the dismissal of the Minister. Louis, who feared the tongue of his mother above all things, yielded and took his seat.

  At this instant a small door opened in the wall. The door led by a private passage into the chapel of the Luxembourg, and had not been locked. In the opening was framed the scarlet-clad figure of Richelieu.

  “He is here—all is lost!” exclaimed the king.

  Pretending not to hear these words, Richelieu smiled and came forward.

  “Your Majesties, I believe, were speaking of me?” he observed.

  Marie de Medici was infuriated by the audacity of this man whom she had raised to power. The intrusion upon her privacy outraged her pride; the upsetting of her plans kindled her virulence; she flew into a paroxysm of rage and unloosed upon Richelieu all the floodgates of her hatred and wrath.

  She berated him, reproached him, accused him, in a storm of the most violent passion imaginable. Her storm of fury could not be checked nor averted. Richelieu fell upon his knees before her; his excuses, even his tears, only added fire to her rage. Perceiving himself lost, he rose and demanded permission to retire.

  The king dared not reply. The queen-mother loosed a fresh storm of passion. His features livid, Richelieu bowed and quitted the room.

  Upon the following day, the king signed an order placing Louis de Marillac in command of the army, as Marie de Medici had demanded; this order recalled Schomberg and La Force, who were Richelieu’s adherents. Louis XIII then departed for Versailles; he was followed by Michel de Marillac, named by Marie de Medici as Minister in the place of Richelieu. The great Cardinal had fallen.

  That day, the hotel of Richelieu was deserted. The entire court thronged to the Luxembourg, paying their addresses to Marie de Medici, complimenting her, surrounding her with adulation. The Spanish Ambassador was overjoyed. Anne of Austria smiled for the first time in months. Couriers were sent forth to carry the news to Madrid, Vienna, London. All Paris rejoiced at the ruin of the hated Cardinal.

  Richelieu perceived that he was lost. He prepared to take refuge at Le Havre; his mules, laden with his most valuable effects, set forth upon the Pontoise road. He gave orders to prepare his coach. He was on the point of departure, when St. Simon arrived from Versailles ordering him to the presence of the king.

  When Richelieu arrived, Louis XIII ordered that they be left alone together.

  Marie de Medici was holding triumphant court at the Luxembourg, surrounded by the nobles of the realm and throngs of sycophant courtiers; she was intoxicated by victory, and paused at nothing inventing her hatred of the fallen Minister. And at the same moment, the king was signing orders at Versailles which were being dictated by Richelieu; unknown to any, not only was the Cardinal reinstated in power, but this power was made absolute. Marshal de Marillac was arrested and sent to Paris a prisoner. Michel de Marillac was deprived of the seals and banished. This eleventh of November, 1630, was named by Bassompierre “The Day of Dupes”; unfortunately for himself, he was one of the dupes.

  Richelieu had turned disaster into triumph; and those who had caused his disaster, now paid. The Duc de Guise fled into exile. Marie de Medici was arrested, to die in exile. Those about her were struck down right and left. Bassompierre, warned, might have fled; he preferred to go home and destroy the six thousand love-letters he bad received from ladies. He spent the next twelve years writing his Memoirs in a room of the Bastille, of which he had at one time been the Governor.

  On the morning after the arrest of Bassompierre, d’Artagnan was summoned to the cabinet of the Cardinal. He first destroyed all his letters and papers, then obeyed the summons.

  “Good morning, M. d’Artagnan,” said Richelieu affably. “I understand that you escorted M. de Bassompierre to the Bastille yesterday?”

  The young man bowed. “I had the honor, Your Eminence, though it was Sieur de Launay who executed the order of arrest.”

  “I sent for you, monsieur, hoping you might enlighten me upon a certain subject. You have, I perceive, quite recovered from your recent wound?”

  “Your Eminence does me too much honor in remembering such trifles,” returned d’Artagnan, feeling a cold chill.

  “Not at all, not at all,” said Richelieu, smoothly. “It has been brought to my attention, monsieur, that a Musketeer of your company has left the service and assumed the title of the Comte de la Fere. Is not this the gentleman known as Athos?”

  “Yes, Monseigneur,” replied d’Artagnan, whose brow was now beaded with perspiration.

  “Ah!” said Richelieu musingly. “He has, it appears, adopted a son, the Vicomte de Bragelonne.”

  In these words, d’Artagnan perceived that the Cardinal knew everything.

  “Your Eminence,” he said, in a sort of desperation, “only those who are truly great can know the meaning of generosity. My friend Athos is the noblest man alive; he is incapable of the least deceit, pettiness or dishonor; he is even incapable of ambition, which is the most petty of all things in his eyes. If Your Eminence would have the graciousness to grant Athos a recompense for his years of service, I believe he would appreciate it above all things.”

  “How?” asked Richelieu, with a slight frown. “A recompense? A pension, you mean?”

  “Not at all, Monseigneur,” said d’Artagnan. “Your Eminence is a statesman, a minister, a great man; but before these things, a cardinal. If Your Eminence would but send the son of Athos your benediction, I am certain that Athos would esteem it above all other things!”

  Richelieu looked truly astonished. His gaze rested upon the features of d’Artagnan, and then, with one of his rare impulses, he smiled and held out his hand to the young man.

  “Monsieur,” he said, “there are less charming things in the world than the frank audacity of youth. I shall accept your advice in this matter. Have you nothing to a
sk for yourself?”

  “Faith, Monseigneur,” said the astonished d’Artagnan, “there is nothing I need, since you do me the honor of commending me!”

  This interview cost d’Artagnan above three hundred crowns. Among the papers he had destroyed was a receipt from his tailor; two weeks later, the tailor claimed his bill for the second time, and having burned the receipt, d’Artagnan was forced to pay again. However, he did not regret the loss.