The three musketeers
Planchet, emboldened by the first exploit, sprang upon Lubin; and being
strong and vigorous, he soon got him on the broad of his back, and
placed his knee upon his breast.
“Go on with your affair, monsieur,” cried Planchet; “I have finished
mine.”
Seeing this, the gentleman drew his sword, and sprang upon D’Artagnan;
but he had too strong an adversary. In three seconds D’Artagnan had
wounded him three times, exclaiming at each thrust, “One for Athos, one
for Porthos; and one for Aramis!”
At the third hit the gentleman fell like a log. D’Artagnan believed him
to be dead, or at least insensible, and went toward him for the purpose
of taking the order; but the moment he extended his hand to search for
it, the wounded man, who had not dropped his sword, plunged the point
into D’Artagnan’s breast, crying, “One for you!”
“And one for me—the best for last!” cried D’Artagnan, furious, nailing
him to the earth with a fourth thrust through his body.
This time the gentleman closed his eyes and fainted. D’Artagnan
searched his pockets, and took from one of them the order for the
passage. It was in the name of Comte de Wardes.
Then, casting a glance on the handsome young man, who was scarcely
twenty-five years of age, and whom he was leaving in his gore, deprived
of sense and perhaps dead, he gave a sigh for that unaccountable
destiny which leads men to destroy each other for the interests of
people who are strangers to them and who often do not even know that
they exist. But he was soon aroused from these reflections by Lubin,
who uttered loud cries and screamed for help with all his might.
Planchet grasped him by the throat, and pressed as hard as he could.
“Monsieur,” said he, “as long as I hold him in this manner, he can’t
cry, I’ll be bound; but as soon as I let go he will howl again. I know
him for a Norman, and Normans are obstinate.”
In fact, tightly held as he was, Lubin endeavored still to cry out.
“Stay!” said D’Artagnan; and taking out his handkerchief, he gagged
him.
“Now,” said Planchet, “let us bind him to a tree.”
This being properly done, they drew the Comte de Wardes close to his
servant; and as night was approaching, and as the wounded man and the
bound man were at some little distance within the wood, it was evident
they were likely to remain there till the next day.
“And now,” said D’Artagnan, “to the Governor’s.”
“But you are wounded, it seems,” said Planchet.
“Oh, that’s nothing! Let us attend to what is more pressing first, and
then we will attend to my wound; besides, it does not seem very
dangerous.”
And they both set forward as fast as they could toward the country
house of the worthy functionary.
The Comte de Wardes was announced, and D’Artagnan was introduced.
“You have an order signed by the cardinal?” said the governor.
“Yes, monsieur,” replied D’Artagnan; “here it is.”
“Ah, ah! It is quite regular and explicit,” said the governor.
“Most likely,” said D’Artagnan; “I am one of his most faithful
servants.”
“It appears that his Eminence is anxious to prevent someone from
crossing to England?”
“Yes; a certain D’Artagnan, a Béarnese gentleman who left Paris in
company with three of his friends, with the intention of going to
London.”
“Do you know him personally?” asked the governor.
“Whom?”
“This D’Artagnan.”
“Perfectly well.”
“Describe him to me, then.”
“Nothing more easy.”
And D’Artagnan gave, feature for feature, a description of the Comte de
Wardes.
“Is he accompanied?”
“Yes; by a lackey named Lubin.”
“We will keep a sharp lookout for them; and if we lay hands on them his
Eminence may be assured they will be reconducted to Paris under a good
escort.”
“And by doing so, Monsieur the Governor,” said D’Artagnan, “you will
deserve well of the cardinal.”
“Shall you see him on your return, Monsieur Count?”
“Without a doubt.”
“Tell him, I beg you, that I am his humble servant.”
“I will not fail.”
Delighted with this assurance the governor countersigned the passport
and delivered it to D’Artagnan. D’Artagnan lost no time in useless
compliments. He thanked the governor, bowed, and departed. Once
outside, he and Planchet set off as fast as they could; and by making a
long detour avoided the wood and reentered the city by another gate.
The vessel was quite ready to sail, and the captain was waiting on the
wharf. “Well?” said he, on perceiving D’Artagnan.
“Here is my pass countersigned,” said the latter.
“And that other gentleman?
“He will not go today,” said D’Artagnan; “but here, I’ll pay you for us
two.”
“In that case let us go,” said the shipmaster.
“Let us go,” repeated D’Artagnan.
He leaped with Planchet into the boat, and five minutes after they were
on board. It was time; for they had scarcely sailed half a league, when
D’Artagnan saw a flash and heard a detonation. It was the cannon which
announced the closing of the port.
He had now leisure to look to his wound. Fortunately, as D’Artagnan had
thought, it was not dangerous. The point of the sword had touched a
rib, and glanced along the bone. Still further, his shirt had stuck to
the wound, and he had lost only a few drops of blood.
D’Artagnan was worn out with fatigue. A mattress was laid upon the deck
for him. He threw himself upon it, and fell asleep.
On the morrow, at break of day, they were still three or four leagues
from the coast of England. The breeze had been so light all night, they
had made but little progress. At ten o’clock the vessel cast anchor in
the harbor of Dover, and at half past ten D’Artagnan placed his foot on
English land, crying, “Here I am at last!”
But that was not all; they must get to London. In England the post was
well served. D’Artagnan and Planchet took each a post horse, and a
postillion rode before them. In a few hours they were in the capital.
D’Artagnan did not know London; he did not know a word of English; but
he wrote the name of Buckingham on a piece of paper, and everyone
pointed out to him the way to the duke’s hôtel.
The duke was at Windsor hunting with the king. D’Artagnan inquired for
the confidential valet of the duke, who, having accompanied him in all
his voyages, spoke French perfectly well; he told him that he came from
Paris on an affair of life and death, and that he must speak with his
master instantly.
The confidence with which D’Artagnan spoke convinced Patrick, which was
the name of this minister of the minister. He ordered two horses to be
saddled, and himself went as guide to the young Guardsman. As for
Planchet, he had been lifted from his horse as stiff as a rush; the
poor lad’s strength was almost exhausted. D’Artagnan seemed iron.
On their arrival at the castle they learned that Buckingham and the
king were hawking in the marshes two or three leagues away. In twenty
minutes they were on the spot named. Patrick soon caught the sound of
his master’s voice calling his falcon.
“Whom must I announce to my Lord Duke?” asked Patrick.
“The young man who one evening sought a quarrel with him on the Pont
Neuf, opposite the Samaritaine.”
“A singular introduction!”
“You will find that it is as good as another.”
Patrick galloped off, reached the duke, and announced to him in the
terms directed that a messenger awaited him.
Buckingham at once remembered the circumstance, and suspecting that
something was going on in France of which it was necessary he should be
informed, he only took the time to inquire where the messenger was, and
recognizing from afar the uniform of the Guards, he put his horse into
a gallop, and rode straight up to D’Artagnan. Patrick discreetly kept
in the background.
“No misfortune has happened to the queen?” cried Buckingham, the
instant he came up, throwing all his fear and love into the question.
“I believe not; nevertheless I believe she runs some great peril from
which your Grace alone can extricate her.”
“I!” cried Buckingham. “What is it? I should be too happy to be of any
service to her. Speak, speak!”
“Take this letter,” said D’Artagnan.
“This letter! From whom comes this letter?”
“From her Majesty, as I think.”
“From her Majesty!” said Buckingham, becoming so pale that D’Artagnan
feared he would faint as he broke the seal.
“What is this rent?” said he, showing D’Artagnan a place where it had
been pierced through.
“Ah,” said D’Artagnan, “I did not see that; it was the sword of the
Comte de Wardes which made that hole, when he gave me a good thrust in
the breast.”
“You are wounded?” asked Buckingham, as he opened the letter.
“Oh, nothing but a scratch,” said D’Artagnan.
“Just heaven, what have I read?” cried the duke. “Patrick, remain here,
or rather join the king, wherever he may be, and tell his Majesty that
I humbly beg him to excuse me, but an affair of the greatest importance
recalls me to London. Come, monsieur, come!” and both set off towards
the capital at full gallop.
Chapter XXI.
THE COUNTESS DE WINTER
As they rode along, the duke endeavored to draw from D’Artagnan, not
all that had happened, but what D’Artagnan himself knew. By adding all
that he heard from the mouth of the young man to his own remembrances,
he was enabled to form a pretty exact idea of a position of the
seriousness of which, for the rest, the queen’s letter, short but
explicit, gave him the clue. But that which astonished him most was
that the cardinal, so deeply interested in preventing this young man
from setting his foot in England, had not succeeded in arresting him on
the road. It was then, upon the manifestation of this astonishment,
that D’Artagnan related to him the precaution taken, and how, thanks to
the devotion of his three friends, whom he had left scattered and
bleeding on the road, he had succeeded in coming off with a single
sword thrust, which had pierced the queen’s letter and for which he had
repaid M. de Wardes with such terrible coin. While he was listening to
this recital, delivered with the greatest simplicity, the duke looked
from time to time at the young man with astonishment, as if he could
not comprehend how so much prudence, courage, and devotedness could be
allied with a countenance which indicated not more than twenty years.
The horses went like the wind, and in a few minutes they were at the
gates of London. D’Artagnan imagined that on arriving in town the duke
would slacken his pace, but it was not so. He kept on his way at the
same rate, heedless about upsetting those whom he met on the road. In
fact, in crossing the city two or three accidents of this kind
happened; but Buckingham did not even turn his head to see what became
of those he had knocked down. D’Artagnan followed him amid cries which
strongly resembled curses.
On entering the court of his hôtel, Buckingham sprang from his horse,
and without thinking what became of the animal, threw the bridle on his
neck, and sprang toward the vestibule. D’Artagnan did the same, with a
little more concern, however, for the noble creatures, whose merits he
fully appreciated; but he had the satisfaction of seeing three or four
grooms run from the kitchens and the stables, and busy themselves with
the steeds.
The duke walked so fast that D’Artagnan had some trouble in keeping up
with him. He passed through several apartments, of an elegance of which
even the greatest nobles of France had not even an idea, and arrived at
length in a bedchamber which was at once a miracle of taste and of
richness. In the alcove of this chamber was a door concealed in the
tapestry which the duke opened with a little gold key which he wore
suspended from his neck by a chain of the same metal. With discretion
D’Artagnan remained behind; but at the moment when Buckingham crossed