Meanwhile Grimaud, still silent, drew out of the pie the second poniard, the rope ladder, and the choke-pear.
La Ramée’s eyes followed the appearance of each of these objects with increasing terror. “Oh, Monseigneur!” he cried, with such an expression of stupefaction that at any other time the prince would have laughed. “You wouldn’t have the heart to kill me!”
“No—unless you try to thwart my escape.”
“But, Monseigneur, if I let you escape, I’m a ruined man.”
“I’ll make sure you’re repaid the full value of your position.”
“Are you really determined to leave the dungeon?”
“Pardieu!”
“And nothing I can say will make you change your mind?”
“This evening, I shall be free.”
“And if I defend myself? If I cry out?”
“Faith of a gentleman: I’ll kill you.”
At that moment the clock struck seven.
“Seven o’clock,” said Grimaud, who until then hadn’t said a word.
“Seven o’clock,” said the duke. “You see, I mustn’t be late.”
La Ramée, driven by conscience, made a small movement. The duke frowned, and the officer felt the point of the dagger penetrate his clothes and prick his flesh. “Enough, Monseigneur!” he said. “Enough. I’ll hold still.”
“We must hurry,” said the duke.
“Monseigneur, one final favor.”
“What? Speak quickly.”
“Tie me up, Monseigneur.”
“Tie you up? Why?”
“So no one will think I was your accomplice.”
“Tie his hands!” said Grimaud. “Not in front, but behind.”
“But with what?” said the duke.
“With your belt, Monseigneur,” said La Ramée.
The duke unbuckled his belt and gave it to Grimaud, who bound La Ramée’s hands tightly behind him.
“Now his feet,” said Grimaud. La Ramée stretched out his legs; Grimaud tore a strip from the tablecloth and tied him with it.
“Now my sword,” said La Ramée. “Tie its hilt onto the sheath.”
The duke took a lacing from his breeches and bound the sword to its owner’s satisfaction.
“Now,” said poor La Ramée, “the choke-pear—I insist upon it. Otherwise they’ll put me on trial because I didn’t scream for help. And tightly, Monseigneur—tightly.”
Grimaud prepared to fulfill the officer’s request, but the man signaled that he had something more to say. “Speak,” said the duke.
“Please, Monseigneur,” said La Ramée, “don’t forget, if I get in trouble because of you, that I have a wife and four children.”
“Don’t worry. . . . Tightly, Grimaud.”
In a moment La Ramée was gagged and laid on the ground, and then two or three chairs were overturned to indicate there’d been a struggle. Grimaud collected all the officer’s keys from his pockets; the first opened the door of the cell they were in, then locked it behind them after they left. They went quickly along the gallery that led to the small courtyard. The three doors along the way were speedily unlocked and opened by Grimaud in an impressive display of dexterity.
Finally, they arrived at the tennis court; it was completely deserted, unlit and unguarded. The duke ran to the wall and saw, across the moat, three cavaliers holding two spare horses. The duke, excited to see them, exchanged waves with them.
Meanwhile, Grimaud attached the rope ladder—or rather, what passed for one, a ball of silk cord with a rung at each end. One rung was lodged in the embrasure, the other the climber was to place behind his legs as he unwound the cord in descending.
“Go,” said the duke.
“Me first, Monseigneur?” asked Grimaud.
“Quite so,” said the duke. “If they catch me, I go back into prison; if they catch you, you hang.”
“Fair enough,” said Grimaud. And immediately, setting himself astride the lower rung, he began his perilous descent. The duke watched him with eyes wide in helpless terror, as three-quarters of the way down the wall, the cord suddenly broke, and Grimaud fell heavily into the dry-moat.
Though the duke cried out, Grimaud didn’t even groan—but he had to be badly injured, as he remained lying where he’d fallen. At once one of the waiting men dropped down into the moat and untangled Grimaud from the cord, after which the other two helped him up and out. “Come down, Monseigneur,” called the first man. “The drop at the end is only fifteen feet, and the grass here is soft.”
The duke was already on his way. His task was more difficult without the lower rung for support—he had to descend fully fifty feet solely by the strength of his arms and wrists. But the duke, as we’ve said, was nimble, athletic, and cool in the face of danger; in less than five minutes, he was at the end of the cord, which as the waiting gentleman had told him was only fifteen feet from the ground. He took a breath, closed his eyes, and dropped, landing harmlessly on his feet.93
Immediately he turned and began to climb out of the moat, at the top of which he met the Comte de Rochefort. The other two gentlemen were unknown to him. Grimaud, knocked out, was tied to his horse.
“Messieurs,” said the prince, “I will thank you later, but right now there’s not a moment to lose. Let’s ride! And if you love me, ride hard!”
And he sprang onto his horse and put it into a gallop, drawing the fresh air deep into his chest, and shouting, with a joy impossible to describe, “Free! Free! FREE!”
XXVI
A Timely Arrival and a Hasty Departure
At Blois, d’Artagnan collected the sum that Mazarin, to speed his return, had authorized to cover his immediate needs.
It took an ordinary rider four days to travel from Blois to Paris. D’Artagnan arrived at the Saint-Denis gate at about four in the afternoon of the third day. Once he would have done it in two. We’ve already seen that Athos, who set out three hours after him, had arrived twenty-four hours ahead of him. But Planchet had lost the habit of these wild, forced rides, and d’Artagnan chided him for his softness.
“What do you mean, Monsieur? We did forty leagues in three days! I think that’s pretty good for a confectioner.”
“Have you really become just a grocer, Planchet—and now that we’re reunited, are you seriously thinking of returning to vegetate in your grocery?”
“Hmph,” said Planchet. “You’re the only one still pursuing such an overactive life. Look at Monsieur Athos, now—does he spend his time seeking out strenuous adventures? No, he lives like a gentleman farmer, a true country seigneur. The tranquil life, Monsieur, is the only life.”
“Hypocrite!” said d’Artagnan. “We’re almost back to Paris, where there’s a rope and a scaffold waiting for you and your ‘tranquil life’!”
Indeed, as they were speaking the travelers rode up to the barrier at the gate. As they were entering a neighborhood where he thought he might be recognized, Planchet pulled down the brim of his hat. D’Artagnan twisted his mustache and remembered that Porthos should be awaiting him in Rue Tiquetonne. He’d been considering how to tempt him away from his green domain of Bracieux and the heroic kitchens of Pierrefonds.
Turning the corner of the Rue Montmartre, he saw, in one of the windows of the Hôtel de la Chevrette, Porthos dressed in a sky-blue doublet edged with silver embroidery, and yawning so as to nearly dislocate his jaw, while passersby gazed with respectful admiration upon such a gentleman, so handsome, so wealthy, and so bored with his own wealth and grandeur.
D’Artagnan and Planchet had scarcely turned the corner when Porthos spotted them. “Hey, d’Artagnan!” he called. “God be praised! It’s you at last.”
“And good afternoon to you, too, old comrade!” d’Artagnan replied.
A small crowd of idle onlookers gathered around the riders as the house grooms took their horses by the bridle, but at a frown from d’Artagnan and a gesture from Planchet the busybodies dispersed, since they weren’t quite sure why they’d gath
ered in the first place.
Meanwhile Porthos had come down to the doorstep. “Ah, my dear friend,” he said, “I see my horses have been hard put to it.”
“So true!” said d’Artagnan. “My heart breaks for these noble creatures.”
“I feel the same—they need a proper stable,” said Porthos. “If it wasn’t for the hostess here, who looks fine and knows a joke when she hears it,” he said, smugly preening, “I’d have sought lodging elsewhere.”
The fair Madeleine, who’d appeared behind him, stopped when she heard this and turned pale as death, for she thought it would be the scene with the Swiss Guard all over again—but to her amazement d’Artagnan didn’t frown, and instead of getting angry, he said to Porthos with a laugh, “Yes, dear friend, I understand that the air of the Rue Tiquetonne can’t compare to that of the valley of Pierrefonds, but don’t worry—I’ve got better prospects ahead.”
“Really? When?”
“Very soon, I hope.”
“Ah! All the better!”
Porthos’s exclamation was followed by a deep groan that came from beyond the angle of the door. D’Artagnan, dismounting, saw the silhouette of the bulging belly of Mousqueton, whose sad mouth was the source of the complaint. “So, you, too, my poor Monsieur Mouston, have moved into this boarding house?” d’Artagnan asked in a tone equal parts compassion and mockery.
“Yes—and he finds the cooking terrible,” said Porthos.
“Well, then, why not do it himself, as he did at Chantilly?” said d’Artagnan.
“Ah, Monsieur, I don’t have here, as we did there, the ponds of Monsieur le Prince, filled with lovely fish, or the forests of His Highness, where one could take such fine partridges. As for the cellar here, I’ve inspected it in detail, and it’s deeply disappointing.”
“Truly, Monsieur Mouston,” said d’Artagnan, “I would pity you, if I didn’t have more pressing business to attend to.”
Then, taking Porthos aside: “My dear du Vallon,” he said, “your outfit is splendid, which is appropriate, as I’m about to present you to the cardinal.”
“Bah! Are you really?” said Porthos, his eyes widening.
“Yes, my friend.”
“An official presentation?”
“Does that worry you?”
“No, but I admit I’m anxious.”
“Oh, don’t worry! It’s not like you have to deal with the old cardinal—this one won’t overwhelm you with his majesty.”
“All the same, d’Artagnan—it’s the Court, you know!”
“Oh, mon ami, there’s no real Court these days.”
“But—the queen!”
“And as I was about to add, there is no queen. Anyway, we certainly won’t see her.”
“You say, then, that we’re going from here to the Palais Royal?”
“Right away. Only, so we won’t be late, I’m going to have to borrow one of your horses.”
“As you like. There are four of them in your stables, all at your disposal.”
“Oh, one will be good enough for the moment.”
“Should we bring our servants?”
“Yes, it wouldn’t hurt to bring Mousqueton with us. As for Planchet, he has reasons for not appearing at Court.”
“Like what?”
“He did some deeds that put him at odds with His Eminence.”
“Mouston,” said Porthos, “saddle Vulcan and Bayard.”
“And for myself, Monsieur, shall I take Rustaud?”
“No, we’re going on a ceremonial visit, so take a more stylish horse, like Phoebus or Superb.”
“Ah!” breathed Mousqueton with relief. “So, we’re just paying a visit?”
“Mon Dieu, yes, Mouston, no more than that. Only—just in case—put your pistols in your saddle holsters. I have mine, already loaded.”
Mouston sighed; he knew all about the kind of ceremonial visits one made while armed to the teeth.
“In fact, d’Artagnan,” said Porthos, complacently surveying his old lackey, “you’re right, Mouston will do nicely—he looks quite magnificent.”
D’Artagnan smiled. “And you,” said Porthos, “aren’t you going to change into a fresh outfit?”
“No, I’m fine as I am.”
“But you’re filthy with sweat and dust, and your boots are quite muddy!”
“All of which testifies to how eagerly I obey the cardinal’s orders.”
Mousqueton came back with three horses, fully equipped. D’Artagnan remounted as if he’d just had a week’s rest. “Oh, Planchet!” he said. “I’ll need the long rapier . . .”
“As for me,” said Porthos, displaying a small dress sword with a golden hilt, “I have my court sword.”
“Take your rapier, old friend.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m not sure—just trust me and take it.”
“My rapier, Mouston,” commanded Porthos.
“But that’s combat equipment, Monsieur!” replied Mouston. “Are we going on campaign? If so, tell me now, so I can take appropriate precautions.”
“You know how it is, Mouston,” said d’Artagnan. “With us, it’s always appropriate to take precautions. Or has your memory grown so dim, you’ve forgotten that we don’t usually spend our evenings at balls and serenades?”
“You’re right—I should have known better,” said Mousqueton, quickly arming himself from head to foot. “. . . Alas!”
They rode off at a trot and arrived at the Palais Royal at a quarter past seven. The streets were crowded, as it was the day of Pentecost, and as they rode by the citizens looked with surprise at these two cavaliers, one so shiny and fresh he might have come right out of a box, and the other so dusty he seemed to have come from a battlefield. Mousqueton also attracted the attention of the onlookers, who said, as the novel Don Quixote94 was then in vogue, that he looked like Sancho who, having lost one master, had found two others.
Arriving in the palace antechamber, d’Artagnan found himself in familiar territory, as the musketeers of his own company were on guard duty. He called over the audiencer and showed him the cardinal’s letter, which ordered him to return without losing a second. The audiencer bowed and went in to announce him to His Eminence.
D’Artagnan turned toward Porthos, who seemed agitated and was ever so slightly trembling. He smiled, leaned up toward Porthos’s ear, and said, “Take courage, my brave friend! We no longer brave the eye of an eagle, we’re just dealing with a vulture. Stand as straight as you did at the Saint-Gervais bastion, and don’t bow too deeply to this Italian; it will give him the wrong impression of your worth.”
“Well, all right,” said Porthos.
The audiencer returned. “Enter, Messieurs,” he said. “His Eminence awaits you.”
In fact, Mazarin was seated in his study, poring over a list of names of those receiving pensions and benefits to see who he might safely strike off. He watched d’Artagnan and Porthos enter from the corner of his eye, and though that eye had sparkled with satisfaction at the audiencer’s announcement, he now pretended not to notice them.
“Ah, is that you, Monsieur Lieutenant?” he said, looking up. “You’ve shown great diligence, and your arrival is welcome.”
“Thank you, Monseigneur. I’ve come at Your Eminence’s orders, and brought with me one of my old friends, Monsieur du Vallon, who once disguised his nobility under the name of Porthos.”
Porthos bowed to the cardinal.
“A magnificent cavalier indeed,” said Mazarin.
Porthos shook his head slightly, and gave his giant shoulders a modest shrug.
“He’s the mightiest sword in the realm, Monseigneur,” said d’Artagnan, “though many who know it won’t inform you of it—or can’t.”
Porthos saluted d’Artagnan.
Mazarin loved handsomely turned-out soldiers almost as much as Frederick of Prussia would in a later era. He took a moment to admire Porthos’s sinewy hands, broad shoulders, and steady eye. It seemed to him that he
had before him the means of salvation of his ministry and the kingdom, carved from muscle and bone. He remembered that there had once been four such impressive musketeers. “And your other two friends?” he asked.
Porthos opened his mouth, thinking it was time to get a word in, but d’Artagnan quelled him with a twitch of his eye. “Our other friends are engaged at present but will join us later.”
Mazarin coughed lightly. “And Monsieur here, freer than they, has volunteered to rejoin the service?”
“Yes, Monseigneur, and out of sheer devotion, for Monsieur de Bracieux is quite wealthy.”
“Wealthy?” said Mazarin, repeating the single word that always got his attention.
“An annual income of fifty thousand livres,” said Porthos, speaking for the first time.
“Out of sheer devotion,” continued Mazarin, with his cunning smile. “Sheer devotion, eh?”
“Perhaps Monseigneur no longer believes in such a thing?” d’Artagnan asked.
“Do you, Monsieur Gascon?” said Mazarin, resting his elbows on his desk and his chin on his hands.
“Me?” said d’Artagnan. “I think ‘Devotion’ makes a fine baptismal name, so long as it’s followed by something more earthly. Everyone starts out more or less devoted, but devotion eventually needs a reward.”
“So, your friend—for example. What would he like to have as a reward for his devotion?”
“Well, Monseigneur! My friend has three magnificent estates: Vallon at Corbeil, Bracieux near Soissons, and Pierrefonds in the Valois. And what he would like is to have one of these estates elevated to a barony.”
“Is that all?” said Mazarin, eyes sparkling at the happy idea that he could reward Porthos’s devotion without opening his purse. “Is that all? Well, the thing can be arranged.”
“Me, a baron!” cried Porthos, taking a step forward.
“I told you so,” said d’Artagnan, stopping him with a movement of his hand, “and Monseigneur confirms it.”
“And you, Monsieur d’Artagnan—what do you want?”
“Monseigneur,” said d’Artagnan, “in September it will be twenty years since Cardinal Richelieu made me a lieutenant.”
“Indeed—and you’d like Cardinal Mazarin to make you a captain.”
Twenty Years After Page 26
