Twenty years after
gentleman, an enemy himself to Mazarin, as every gentleman ought to
be.”
“Hush! don’t let us talk politics, my lord.”
“Then my keeper would begin to trust this man and to depend upon him,
and I should have news from those without the prison walls.”
“Ah, yes! but how can the news be brought to you?”
“Nothing easier; in a game of tennis, for example.”
“In a game of tennis?” asked La Ramee, giving more serious attention to
the duke’s words.
“Yes; see, I send a ball into the moat; a man is there who picks it up;
the ball contains a letter. Instead of returning the ball to me when I
call for it from the top of the wall, he throws me another; that other
ball contains a letter. Thus we have exchanged ideas and no one has
seen us do it.”
“The devil it does! The devil it does!” said La Ramee, scratching his
head; “you are in the wrong to tell me that, my lord. I shall have to
watch the men who pick up balls.”
The duke smiled.
“But,” resumed La Ramee, “that is only a way of corresponding.”
“And that is a great deal, it seems to me.”
“But not enough.”
“Pardon me; for instance, I say to my friends, Be on a certain day, on
a certain hour, at the other side of the moat with two horses.”
“Well, what then?” La Ramee began to be uneasy; “unless the horses have
wings to mount the ramparts and come and fetch you.”
“That’s not needed. I have,” replied the duke, “a way of descending
from the ramparts.”
“What?”
“A rope ladder.”
“Yes, but,” answered La Ramee, trying to laugh, “a ladder of ropes
can’t be sent around a ball, like a letter.”
“No, but it may be sent in something else.”
“In something else—in something else? In what?”
“In a pâté, for example.”
“In a pâté?” said La Ramee.
“Yes. Let us suppose one thing,” replied the duke “let us suppose, for
instance, that my _maître d’hôtel_, Noirmont, has purchased the shop of
Père Marteau——”
“Well?” said La Ramee, shuddering.
“Well, La Ramee, who is a gourmand, sees his pâtés, thinks them more
attractive than those of Père Marteau and proposes to me that I shall
try them. I consent on condition that La Ramee tries them with me. That
we may be more at our ease, La Ramee removes the guards, keeping only
Grimaud to wait on us. Grimaud is the man whom a friend has sent to
second me in everything. The moment for my escape is fixed—seven
o’clock. Well, at a few minutes to seven——”
“At a few minutes to seven?” cried La Ramee, cold sweat upon his brow.
“At a few minutes to seven,” returned the duke (suiting the action to
the words), “I raise the crust of the pie; I find in it two poniards, a
ladder of rope, and a gag. I point one of the poniards at La Ramee’s
breast and I say to him, ‘My friend, I am sorry for it, but if thou
stirrest, if thou utterest one cry, thou art a dead man!’”
The duke, in pronouncing these words, suited, as we have said, the
action to the words. He was standing near the officer and he directed
the point of the poniard in such a manner, close to La Ramee’s heart,
that there could be no doubt in the mind of that individual as to his
determination. Meanwhile, Grimaud, still mute as ever, drew from the
pie the other poniard, the rope ladder and the gag.
La Ramee followed all these objects with his eyes, his alarm every
moment increasing.
“Oh, my lord,” he cried, with an expression of stupefaction in his
face; “you haven’t the heart to kill me!”
“No; not if thou dost not oppose my flight.”
“But, my lord, if I allow you to escape I am a ruined man.”
“I will compensate thee for the loss of thy place.”
“You are determined to leave the château?”
“By Heaven and earth! This night I am determined to be free.”
“And if I defend myself, or call, or cry out?”
“I will kill thee, on the honor of a gentleman.”
At this moment the clock struck.
“Seven o’clock!” said Grimaud, who had not spoken a word.
La Ramee made one movement, in order to satisfy his conscience. The
duke frowned, the officer felt the point of the poniard, which, having
penetrated through his clothes, was close to his heart.
“Let us dispatch,” said the duke.
“My lord, one last favor.”
“What? speak, make haste.”
“Bind my arms, my lord, fast.”
“Why bind thee?”
“That I may not be considered as your accomplice.”
“Your hands?” asked Grimaud.
“Not before me, behind me.”
“But with what?” asked the duke.
“With your belt, my lord!” replied La Ramee.
The duke undid his belt and gave it to Grimaud, who tied La Ramee in
such a way as to satisfy him.
“Your feet, too,” said Grimaud.
La Ramee stretched out his legs, Grimaud took a table-cloth, tore it
into strips and tied La Ramee’s feet together.
“Now, my lord,” said the poor man, “let me have the _poire d’angoisse_.
I ask for it; without it I should be tried in a court of justice
because I did not raise the alarm. Thrust it into my mouth, my lord,
thrust it in.”
Grimaud prepared to comply with this request, when the officer made a
sign as if he had something to say.
“Speak,” said the duke.
“Now, my lord, do not forget, if any harm happens to me on your
account, that I have a wife and four children.”
“Rest assured; put the gag in, Grimaud.”
In a second La Ramee was gagged and laid prostrate. Two or three chairs
were thrown down as if there had been a struggle. Grimaud then took
from the pocket of the officer all the keys it contained and first
opened the door of the room in which they were, then shut it and
double-locked it, and both he and the duke proceeded rapidly down the
gallery which led to the little inclosure. At last they reached the
tennis court. It was completely deserted. No sentinels, no one at any
of the windows. The duke ran to the rampart and perceived on the other
side of the ditch, three cavaliers with two riding horses. The duke
exchanged a signal with them. It was indeed for him that they were
there.
Grimaud, meantime, undid the means of escape.
This was not, however, a rope ladder, but a ball of silk cord, with a
narrow board which was to pass between the legs, the ball to unwind
itself by the weight of the person who sat astride upon the board.
“Go!” said the duke.
“First, my lord?” inquired Grimaud.
“Certainly. If I am caught, I risk nothing but being taken back again
to prison. If they catch thee, thou wilt be hung.”
“True,” replied Grimaud.
And instantly, Grimaud, sitting upon the board as if on horseback,
commenced his perilous descent.
The duke followed him with his eyes, with involuntary terror. He had
gone down about three-quarters of the length of the wall when the cord
broke. Grimaud fell—precipitated into the moat.
The duke uttered a cry, but Grimaud did not give a single moan. He must
have been dreadfully hurt, for he did not stir from the place where he
fell.
Immediately one of the men who were waiting slipped down into the moat,
tied under Grimaud’s shoulders the end of a cord, and the remaining
two, who held the other end, drew Grimaud to them.
“Descend, my lord,” said the man in the moat. “There are only fifteen
feet more from the top down here, and the grass is soft.”
The duke had already begun to descend. His task was the more difficult,
as there was no board to support him. He was obliged to let himself
down by his hands and from a height of fifty feet. But as we have said
he was active, strong, and full of presence of mind. In less than five
minutes he arrived at the end of the cord. He was then only fifteen
feet from the ground, as the gentlemen below had told him. He let go
the rope and fell upon his feet, without receiving any injury.
He instantly began to climb up the slope of the moat, on the top of
which he met De Rochefort. The other two gentlemen were unknown to him.
Grimaud, in a swoon, was tied securely to a horse.
“Gentlemen,” said the duke, “I will thank you later; now we have not a
moment to lose. On, then! on! those who love me, follow me!”
And he jumped on his horse and set off at full gallop, snuffing the
fresh air in his triumph and shouting out, with an expression of face
which it would be impossible to describe:
“Free! free! free!”
Chapter XXIV.
The timely Arrival of D’Artagnan in Paris.
At Blois, D’Artagnan received the money paid to him by Mazarin for any
future service he might render the cardinal.
From Blois to Paris was a journey of four days for ordinary travelers,
but D’Artagnan arrived on the third day at the Barrière Saint Denis. In
turning the corner of the Rue Montmartre, in order to reach the Rue
Tiquetonne and the Hotel de la Chevrette, where he had appointed
Porthos to meet him, he saw at one of the windows of the hotel, that
friend himself dressed in a sky-blue waistcoat, embroidered with
silver, and gaping, till he showed every one of his white teeth; whilst
the people passing by admiringly gazed at this gentleman, so handsome
and so rich, who seemed to weary of his riches and his greatness.
D’Artagnan and Planchet had hardly turned the corner when Porthos
recognized them.
“Eh! D’Artagnan!” he cried. “Thank God you have come!”
“Eh! good-day, dear friend!” replied D’Artagnan.
Porthos came down at once to the threshold of the hotel.
“Ah, my dear friend!” he cried, “what bad stabling for my horses here.”
“Indeed!” said D’Artagnan; “I am most unhappy to hear it, on account of
those fine animals.”
“And I, also—I was also wretchedly off,” he answered, moving backward
and forward as he spoke; “and had it not been for the hostess,” he
added, with his air of vulgar self-complacency, “who is very agreeable
and understands a joke, I should have got a lodging elsewhere.”
The pretty Madeleine, who had approached during this colloquy, stepped
back and turned pale as death on hearing Porthos’s words, for she
thought the scene with the Swiss was about to be repeated. But to her
great surprise D’Artagnan remained perfectly calm, and instead of being
angry he laughed, and said to Porthos:
“Yes, I understand, the air of La Rue Tiquetonne is not like that of
Pierrefonds; but console yourself, I will soon conduct you to one much
better.”
“When will you do that?”
“Immediately, I hope.”
“Ah! so much the better!”
To that exclamation of Porthos’s succeeded a groaning, low and
profound, which seemed to come from behind a door. D’Artagnan, who had
just dismounted, then saw, outlined against the wall, the enormous
stomach of Mousqueton, whose down-drawn mouth emitted sounds of
distress.
“And you, too, my poor Monsieur Mouston, are out of place in this poor
hotel, are you not?” asked D’Artagnan, in that rallying tone which may
indicate either compassion or mockery.
“He finds the cooking detestable,” replied Porthos.
“Why, then, doesn’t he attend to it himself, as at Chantilly?”
“Ah, monsieur, I have not here, as I had there, the ponds of monsieur
le prince, where I could catch those beautiful carp, nor the forests of
his highness to provide me with partridges. As for the cellar, I have
searched every part and poor stuff I found.”
“Monsieur Mouston,” said D’Artagnan, “I should indeed condole with you
had I not at this moment something very pressing to attend to.”
Then taking Porthos aside:
“My dear Du Vallon,” he said, “here you are in full dress most
fortunately, for I am going to take you to the cardinal’s.”
“Gracious me! really!” exclaimed Porthos, opening his great wondering
eyes.
“Yes, my friend.”
“A presentation? indeed!”
“Does that alarm you?”
“No, but it agitates me.”
“Oh! don’t be distressed; you have to deal with a cardinal of another
kind. This one will not oppress you by his dignity.”
“’Tis the same thing—you understand me, D’Artagnan—a court.”
“There’s no court now. Alas!”
“The queen!”
“I was going to say, there’s no longer a queen. The queen! Rest