Twenty years after
assured, we shall not see her.”
“And you say that we are going from here to the Palais Royal?”
“Immediately. Only, that there may be no delay, I shall borrow one of
your horses.”
“Certainly; all the four are at your service.”
“Oh, I need only one of them for the time being.”
“Shall we take our valets?”
“Yes, you may as well take Mousqueton. As to Planchet, he has certain
reasons for not going to court.”
“And what are they?”
“Oh, he doesn’t stand well with his eminence.”
“Mouston,” said Porthos, “saddle Vulcan and Bayard.”
“And for myself, monsieur, shall I saddle Rustaud?”
“No, take a more stylish horse, Phœbus or Superbe; we are going with
some ceremony.”
“Ah,” said Mousqueton, breathing more freely, “you are only going,
then, to make a visit?”
“Oh! yes, of course, Mouston; nothing else. But to avoid risk, put the
pistols in the holsters. You will find mine on my saddle, already
loaded.”
Mouston breathed a sigh; he couldn’t understand visits of ceremony made
under arms.
“Indeed,” said Porthos, looking complacently at his old lackey as he
went away, “you are right, D’Artagnan; Mouston will do; Mouston has a
very fine appearance.”
D’Artagnan smiled.
“But you, my friend—are you not going to change your dress?”
“No, I shall go as I am. This traveling dress will serve to show the
cardinal my haste to obey his commands.”
They set out on Vulcan and Bayard, followed by Mousqueton on Phœbus,
and arrived at the Palais Royal at about a quarter to seven. The
streets were crowded, for it was the day of Pentecost, and the crowd
looked in wonder at these two cavaliers; one as fresh as if he had come
out of a bandbox, the other so covered with dust that he looked as if
he had but just come off a field of battle.
Mousqueton also attracted attention; and as the romance of Don Quixote
was then the fashion, they said that he was Sancho, who, after having
lost one master, had found two.
On reaching the palace, D’Artagnan sent to his eminence the letter in
which he had been ordered to return without delay. He was soon ordered
to the presence of the cardinal.
“Courage!” he whispered to Porthos, as they proceeded. “Do not be
intimidated. Believe me, the eye of the eagle is closed forever. We
have only the vulture to deal with. Hold yourself as bolt upright as on
the day of the bastion of St. Gervais, and do not bow too low to this
Italian; that might give him a poor idea of you.”
“Good!” answered Porthos. “Good!”
Mazarin was in his study, working at a list of pensions and benefices,
of which he was trying to reduce the number. He saw D’Artagnan and
Porthos enter with internal pleasure, yet showed no joy in his
countenance.
“Ah! you, is it? Monsieur le lieutenant, you have been very prompt.
’Tis well. Welcome to ye.”
“Thanks, my lord. Here I am at your eminence’s service, as well as
Monsieur du Vallon, one of my old friends, who used to conceal his
nobility under the name of Porthos.”
Porthos bowed to the cardinal.
“A magnificent cavalier,” remarked Mazarin.
Porthos turned his head to the right and to the left, and drew himself
up with a movement full of dignity.
“The best swordsman in the kingdom, my lord,” said D’Artagnan.
Porthos bowed to his friend.
Mazarin was as fond of fine soldiers as, in later times, Frederick of
Prussia used to be. He admired the strong hands, the broad shoulders
and the steady eye of Porthos. He seemed to see before him the
salvation of his administration and of the kingdom, sculptured in flesh
and bone. He remembered that the old association of musketeers was
composed of four persons.
“And your two other friends?” he asked.
Porthos opened his mouth, thinking it a good opportunity to put in a
word in his turn; D’Artagnan checked him by a glance from the corner of
his eye.
“They are prevented at this moment, but will join us later.”
Mazarin coughed a little.
“And this gentleman, being disengaged, takes to the service willingly?”
he asked.
“Yes, my lord, and from pure devotion to the cause, for Monsieur de
Bracieux is rich.”
“Rich!” said Mazarin, whom that single word always inspired with a
great respect.
“Fifty thousand francs a year,” said Porthos.
These were the first words he had spoken.
“From pure zeal?” resumed Mazarin, with his artful smile; “from pure
zeal and devotion then?”
“My lord has, perhaps, no faith in those words?” said D’Artagnan.
“Have _you_, Monsieur le Gascon?” asked Mazarin, supporting his elbows
on his desk and his chin on his hands.
“I,” replied the Gascon, “I believe in devotion as a word at one’s
baptism, for instance, which naturally comes before one’s proper name;
every one is naturally more or less devout, certainly; but there should
be at the end of one’s devotion something to gain.”
“And your friend, for instance; what does he expect to have at the end
of his devotion?”
“Well, my lord, my friend has three magnificent estates: that of
Vallon, at Corbeil; that of Bracieux, in the Soissonais; and that of
Pierrefonds, in the Valois. Now, my lord, he would like to have one of
his three estates erected into a barony.”
“Only that?” said Mazarin, his eyes twinkling with joy on seeing that
he could pay for Porthos’s devotion without opening his purse; “only
that? That can be managed.”
“I shall be baron!” explained Porthos, stepping forward.
“I told you so,” said D’Artagnan, checking him with his hand; “and now
his eminence confirms it.”
“And you, Monsieur D’Artagnan, what do you want?”
“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, “it is twenty years since Cardinal de
Richelieu made me lieutenant.”
“Yes, and you would be gratified if Cardinal Mazarin should make you
captain.”
D’Artagnan bowed.
“Well, that is not impossible. We will see, gentlemen, we will see.
Now, Monsieur de Vallon,” said Mazarin, “what service do you prefer, in
the town or in the country?”
Porthos opened his mouth to reply.
“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, “Monsieur de Vallon is like me, he prefers
service extraordinary—that is to say, enterprises that are considered
mad and impossible.”
That boastfulness was not displeasing to Mazarin; he fell into
meditation.
“And yet,” he said, “I must admit that I sent for you to appoint you to
quiet service; I have certain apprehensions—well, what is the meaning
of that?”
In fact, a great noise was heard in the ante-chamber; at the same time
the door of the study was burst open and a man, covered with dust,
rushed into it, exclaiming:
“My lord the cardinal! my lord the cardinal!”
Mazarin thought that some one was going to assassinate him and he drew
back, pushing his chair on the castors. D’Artagnan and Porthos moved so
as to plant themselves between the person entering and the cardinal.
“Well, sir,” exclaimed Mazarin, “what’s the matter? and why do you rush
in here, as if you were about to penetrate a crowded market-place?”
“My lord,” replied the messenger, “I wish to speak to your eminence in
secret. I am Monsieur du Poins, an officer in the guards, on duty at
the donjon of Vincennes.”
Mazarin, perceiving by the paleness and agitation of the messenger that
he had something of importance to say, made a sign that D’Artagnan and
Porthos should give place.
D’Artagnan and Porthos withdrew to a corner of the cabinet.
“Speak, monsieur, speak at once!” said Mazarin “What is the matter?”
“The matter is, my lord, that the Duc de Beaufort has contrived to
escape from the Château of Vincennes.”
Mazarin uttered a cry and became paler than the man who had brought the
news. He fell back, almost fainting, in his chair.
“Escaped? Monsieur de Beaufort escaped?”
“My lord, I saw him run off from the top of the terrace.”
“And you did not fire on him?”
“He was out of range.”
“Monsieur de Chavigny—where was he?”
“Absent.”
“And La Ramee?”
“Was found locked up in the prisoner’s room, a gag in his mouth and a
poniard near him.”
“But the man who was under him?”
“Was an accomplice of the duke’s and escaped along with him.”
Mazarin groaned.
“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, advancing toward the cardinal, “it seems to
me that your eminence is losing precious time. It may still be possible
to overtake the prisoner. France is large; the nearest frontier is
sixty leagues distant.”
“And who is to pursue him?” cried Mazarin.
“I, _pardieu!_”
“And you would arrest him?”
“Why not?”
“You would arrest the Duc de Beaufort, armed, in the field?”
“If your eminence should order me to arrest the devil, I would seize
him by the horns and would bring him in.”
“So would I,” said Porthos.
“So would you!” said Mazarin, looking with astonishment at those two
men. “But the duke will not yield himself without a furious battle.”
“Very well,” said D’Artagnan, his eyes aflame, “battle! It is a long
time since we have had a battle, eh, Porthos?”
“Battle!” cried Porthos.
“And you think you can catch him?”
“Yes, if we are better mounted than he.”
“Go then, take what guards you find here, and pursue him.”
“You command us, my lord, to do so?”
“And I sign my orders,” said Mazarin, taking a piece of paper and
writing some lines; “Monsieur du Vallon, your barony is on the back of
the Duc de Beaufort’s horse; you have nothing to do but to overtake it.
As for you, my dear lieutenant, I promise you nothing; but if you bring
him back to me, dead or alive, you may ask all you wish.”
“To horse, Porthos!” said D’Artagnan, taking his friend by the hand.
“Here I am,” smiled Porthos, with his sublime composure.
They descended the great staircase, taking with them all the guards
they found on their road, and crying out, “To arms! To arms!” and
immediately put spur to horse, which set off along the Rue Saint Honoré
with the speed of the whirlwind.
“Well, baron, I promise you some good exercise!” said the Gascon.
“Yes, my captain.”
As they went, the citizens, awakened, left their doors and the street
dogs followed the cavaliers, barking. At the corner of the Cimetière
Saint Jean, D’Artagnan upset a man; it was too insignificant an
occurrence to delay people so eager to get on. The troop continued its
course as though their steeds had wings.
Alas! there are no unimportant events in this world and we shall see
that this apparently slight incident came near endangering the
monarchy.
Chapter XXV.
An Adventure on the High Road.
The musketeers rode the whole length of the Faubourg Saint Antoine and
of the road to Vincennes, and soon found themselves out of the town,
then in a forest and then within sight of a village.
The horses seemed to become more lively with each successive step;
their nostrils reddened like glowing furnaces. D’Artagnan, freely
applying his spurs, was in advance of Porthos two feet at the most;
Mousqueton followed two lengths behind; the guards were scattered
according to the varying excellence of their respective mounts.
From the top of an eminence D’Artagnan perceived a group of people
collected on the other side of the moat, in front of that part of the
donjon which looks toward Saint Maur. He rode on, convinced that in
this direction he would gain intelligence of the fugitive. In five
minutes he had arrived at the place, where the guards joined him,
coming up one by one.
The several members of that group were much excited. They looked at the
cord, still hanging from the loophole and broken at about twenty feet
from the ground. Their eyes measured the height and they exchanged
conjectures. On the top of the wall sentinels went and came with a
frightened air.
A few soldiers, commanded by a sergeant, drove away idlers from the
place where the duke had mounted his horse. D’Artagnan went straight to
the sergeant.
“My officer,” said the sergeant, “it is not permitted to stop here.”