The three musketeers
These cries had something so heartrending in them that M. d’Artagnan,
who had been at first the most eager in pursuit of Milady, sat down on
the stump of a tree and hung his head, covering his ears with the palms
of his hands; and yet, notwithstanding, he could still hear her cry and
threaten.
D’Artagnan was the youngest of all these men. His heart failed him.
“Oh, I cannot behold this frightful spectacle!” said he. “I cannot
consent that this woman should die thus!”
Milady heard these few words and caught at a shadow of hope.
“D’Artagnan, D’Artagnan!” cried she; “remember that I loved you!”
The young man rose and took a step toward her.
But Athos rose likewise, drew his sword, and placed himself in the way.
“If you take one step farther, D’Artagnan,” said he, “we shall cross
swords together.”
D’Artagnan sank on his knees and prayed.
“Come,” continued Athos, “executioner, do your duty.”
“Willingly, monseigneur,” said the executioner; “for as I am a good
Catholic, I firmly believe I am acting justly in performing my
functions on this woman.”
“That’s well.”
Athos made a step toward Milady.
“I pardon you,” said he, “the ill you have done me. I pardon you for my
blasted future, my lost honor, my defiled love, and my salvation
forever compromised by the despair into which you have cast me. Die in
peace!”
Lord de Winter advanced in his turn.
“I pardon you,” said he, “for the poisoning of my brother, and the
assassination of his Grace, Lord Buckingham. I pardon you for the death
of poor Felton; I pardon you for the attempts upon my own person. Die
in peace!”
“And I,” said M. d’Artagnan. “Pardon me, madame, for having by a trick
unworthy of a gentleman provoked your anger; and I, in exchange, pardon
you the murder of my poor love and your cruel vengeance against me. I
pardon you, and I weep for you. Die in peace!”
“I am lost!” murmured Milady in English. “I must die!”
Then she arose of herself, and cast around her one of those piercing
looks which seemed to dart from an eye of flame.
She saw nothing; she listened, and she heard nothing.
“Where am I to die?” said she.
“On the other bank,” replied the executioner.
Then he placed her in the boat, and as he was going to set foot in it
himself, Athos handed him a sum of silver.
“Here,” said he, “is the price of the execution, that it may be plain
we act as judges.”
“That is correct,” said the executioner; “and now in her turn, let this
woman see that I am not fulfilling my trade, but my debt.”
And he threw the money into the river.
The boat moved off toward the left-hand shore of the Lys, bearing the
guilty woman and the executioner; all the others remained on the
right-hand bank, where they fell on their knees.
The boat glided along the ferry rope under the shadow of a pale cloud
which hung over the water at that moment.
The troop of friends saw it gain the opposite bank; the figures were
defined like black shadows on the red-tinted horizon.
Milady, during the passage had contrived to untie the cord which
fastened her feet. On coming near the bank, she jumped lightly on shore
and took to flight. But the soil was moist; on reaching the top of the
bank, she slipped and fell upon her knees.
She was struck, no doubt, with a superstitious idea; she conceived that
heaven denied its aid, and she remained in the attitude in which she
had fallen, her head drooping and her hands clasped.
Then they saw from the other bank the executioner raise both his arms
slowly; a moonbeam fell upon the blade of the large sword. The two arms
fell with a sudden force; they heard the hissing of the scimitar and
the cry of the victim, then a truncated mass sank beneath the blow.
The executioner then took off his red cloak, spread it upon the ground,
laid the body in it, threw in the head, tied all up by the four
corners, lifted it on his back, and entered the boat again.
In the middle of the stream he stopped the boat, and suspending his
burden over the water cried in a loud voice, “Let the justice of God be
done!” and he let the corpse drop into the depths of the waters, which
closed over it.
Three days afterward the four Musketeers were in Paris; they had not
exceeded their leave of absence, and that same evening they went to pay
their customary visit to M. de Tréville.
“Well, gentlemen,” said the brave captain, “I hope you have been well
amused during your excursion.”
“Prodigiously,” replied Athos in the name of himself and his comrades.
Chapter LXVII.
CONCLUSION
On the sixth of the following month the king, in compliance with the
promise he had made the cardinal to return to La Rochelle, left his
capital still in amazement at the news which began to spread itself of
Buckingham’s assassination.
Although warned that the man she had loved so much was in great danger,
the queen, when his death was announced to her, would not believe the
fact, and even imprudently exclaimed, “it is false; he has just written
to me!”
But the next day she was obliged to believe this fatal intelligence;
Laporte, detained in England, as everyone else had been, by the orders
of Charles I., arrived, and was the bearer of the duke’s dying gift to
the queen.
The joy of the king was lively. He did not even give himself the
trouble to dissemble, and displayed it with affectation before the
queen. Louis XIII., like every weak mind, was wanting in generosity.
But the king soon again became dull and indisposed; his brow was not
one of those that long remain clear. He felt that in returning to camp
he should re-enter slavery; nevertheless, he did return.
The cardinal was for him the fascinating serpent, and himself the bird
which flies from branch to branch without power to escape.
The return to La Rochelle, therefore, was profoundly dull. Our four
friends, in particular, astonished their comrades; they traveled
together, side by side, with sad eyes and heads lowered. Athos alone
from time to time raised his expansive brow; a flash kindled in his
eyes, and a bitter smile passed over his lips, then, like his comrades,
he sank again into reverie.
As soon as the escort arrived in a city, when they had conducted the
king to his quarters the four friends either retired to their own or to
some secluded cabaret, where they neither drank nor played; they only
conversed in a low voice, looking around attentively to see that no one
overheard them.
One day, when the king had halted to fly the magpie, and the four
friends, according to their custom, instead of following the sport had
stopped at a cabaret on the high road, a man coming from la Rochelle on
horseback pulled up at the door to drink a glass of wine, and darted a
searching glance into the room where the four Musketeers were sitting.
“Holloa, Monsieur d’Artagnan!” said he, “is not that you whom I see
yonder?”
D’Artagnan raised his head and uttered a cry of joy. It was the man he
called his phantom; it was his stranger of Meung, of the Rue des
Fossoyeurs and of Arras.
D’Artagnan drew his sword, and sprang toward the door.
But this time, instead of avoiding him the stranger jumped from his
horse, and advanced to meet D’Artagnan.
“Ah, monsieur!” said the young man, “I meet you, then, at last! This
time you shall not escape me!”
“Neither is it my intention, monsieur, for this time I was seeking you;
in the name of the king, I arrest you.”
“How! what do you say?” cried D’Artagnan.
“I say that you must surrender your sword to me, monsieur, and that
without resistance. This concerns your head, I warn you.”
“Who are you, then?” demanded D’Artagnan, lowering the point of his
sword, but without yet surrendering it.
“I am the Chevalier de Rochefort,” answered the other, “the equerry of
Monsieur le Cardinal Richelieu, and I have orders to conduct you to his
Eminence.”
“We are returning to his Eminence, monsieur the Chevalier,” said Athos,
advancing; “and you will please to accept the word of Monsieur
d’Artagnan that he will go straight to La Rochelle.”
“I must place him in the hands of guards who will take him into camp.”
“We will be his guards, monsieur, upon our word as gentlemen; but
likewise, upon our word as gentlemen,” added Athos, knitting his brow,
“Monsieur d’Artagnan shall not leave us.”
The Chevalier de Rochefort cast a glance backward, and saw that Porthos
and Aramis had placed themselves between him and the gate; he
understood that he was completely at the mercy of these four men.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “if Monsieur d’Artagnan will surrender his sword
to me and join his word to yours, I shall be satisfied with your
promise to convey Monsieur d’Artagnan to the quarters of Monseigneur
the Cardinal.”
“You have my word, monsieur, and here is my sword.”
“This suits me the better,” said Rochefort, “as I wish to continue my
journey.”
“If it is for the purpose of rejoining Milady,” said Athos, coolly, “it
is useless; you will not find her.”
“What has become of her, then?” asked Rochefort, eagerly.
“Return to camp and you shall know.”
Rochefort remained for a moment in thought; then, as they were only a
day’s journey from Surgères, whither the cardinal was to come to meet
the king, he resolved to follow the advice of Athos and go with them.
Besides, this return offered him the advantage of watching his
prisoner.
They resumed their route.
On the morrow, at three o’clock in the afternoon, they arrived at
Surgères. The cardinal there awaited Louis XIII. The minister and the
king exchanged numerous caresses, felicitating each other upon the
fortunate chance which had freed France from the inveterate enemy who
set all Europe against her. After which, the cardinal, who had been
informed that D’Artagnan was arrested and who was anxious to see him,
took leave of the king, inviting him to come the next day to view the
work already done upon the dyke.
On returning in the evening to his quarters at the bridge of La Pierre,
the cardinal found, standing before the house he occupied, D’Artagnan,
without his sword, and the three Musketeers armed.
This time, as he was well attended, he looked at them sternly, and made
a sign with his eye and hand for D’Artagnan to follow him.
D’Artagnan obeyed.
“We shall wait for you, D’Artagnan,” said Athos, loud enough for the
cardinal to hear him.
His Eminence bent his brow, stopped for an instant, and then kept on
his way without uttering a single word.
D’Artagnan entered after the cardinal, and behind D’Artagnan the door
was guarded.
His Eminence entered the chamber which served him as a study, and made
a sign to Rochefort to bring in the young Musketeer.
Rochefort obeyed and retired.
D’Artagnan remained alone in front of the cardinal; this was his second
interview with Richelieu, and he afterward confessed that he felt well
assured it would be his last.
Richelieu remained standing, leaning against the mantelpiece; a table
was between him and D’Artagnan.
“Monsieur,” said the cardinal, “you have been arrested by my orders.”
“So they tell me, monseigneur.”
“Do you know why?”
“No, monseigneur, for the only thing for which I could be arrested is
still unknown to your Eminence.”
Richelieu looked steadfastly at the young man.
“Holloa!” said he, “what does that mean?”
“If Monseigneur will have the goodness to tell me, in the first place,
what crimes are imputed to me, I will then tell him the deeds I have
really done.”
“Crimes are imputed to you which had brought down far loftier heads
than yours, monsieur,” said the cardinal.
“What, monseigneur?” said D’Artagnan, with a calmness which astonished
the cardinal himself.
“You are charged with having corresponded with the enemies of the