Twenty years after
And Mordaunt darted out of the general’s tent, his heart beating and
his eyes sparkling with joy.
Cromwell gazed a moment after him.
“He has slain his uncle!” he murmured. “Alas! what are my servants?
Possibly this one, who asks nothing or seems to ask nothing, has asked
more in the eyes of Heaven than those who tax the country and steal the
bread of the poor. Nobody serves me for nothing. Charles, who is my
prisoner, may still have friends, but I have none!”
And with a deep sigh he again sank into the reverie that had been
interrupted by Mordaunt.
Chapter LVIII.
Jesus Seigneur.
Whilst Mordaunt was making his way to Cromwell’s tent, D’Artagnan and
Porthos had brought their prisoners to the house which had been
assigned to them as their dwelling at Newcastle.
The order given by Mordaunt to the sergeant had been heard by
D’Artagnan, who accordingly, by an expressive glance, warned Athos and
Aramis to exercise extreme caution. The prisoners, therefore, had
remained silent as they marched along in company with their
conquerors—which they could do with the less difficulty since each of
them had occupation enough in answering his own thoughts.
It would be impossible to describe Mousqueton’s astonishment when from
the threshold of the door he saw the four friends approaching, followed
by a sergeant with a dozen men. He rubbed his eyes, doubting if he
really saw before him Athos and Aramis; and forced at last to yield to
evidence, he was on the point of breaking forth in exclamations when he
encountered a glance from the eyes of Porthos, the repressive force of
which he was not inclined to dispute.
Mousqueton remained glued to the door, awaiting the explanation of this
strange occurrence. What upset him completely was that the four friends
seemed to have no acquaintance with one another.
The house to which D’Artagnan and Porthos conducted Athos and Aramis
was the one assigned to them by General Cromwell and of which they had
taken possession on the previous evening. It was at the corner of two
streets and had in the rear, bordering on the side street, stables and
a sort of garden. The windows on the ground floor, according to a
custom in provincial villages, were barred, so that they strongly
resembled the windows of a prison.
The two friends made the prisoners enter the house first, whilst they
stood at the door, desiring Mousqueton to take the four horses to the
stable.
“Why don’t we go in with them?” asked Porthos.
“We must first see what the sergeant wishes us to do,” replied
D’Artagnan.
The sergeant and his men took possession of the little garden.
D’Artagnan asked them what they wished and why they had taken that
position.
“We have had orders,” answered the man, “to help you in taking care of
your prisoners.”
There could be no fault to find with this arrangement; on the contrary,
it seemed to be a delicate attention, to be gratefully received;
D’Artagnan, therefore, thanked the man and gave him a crown piece to
drink to General Cromwell’s health.
The sergeant answered that Puritans never drank, and put the crown
piece in his pocket.
“Ah!” said Porthos, “what a fearful day, my dear D’Artagnan!”
“What! a fearful day, when to-day we find our friends?”
“Yes; but under what circumstances?”
“’Tis true that our position is an awkward one; but let us go in and
see more clearly what is to be done.”
“Things look black enough,” replied Porthos; “I understand now why
Aramis advised me to strangle that horrible Mordaunt.”
“Silence!” cried the Gascon; “do not utter that name.”
“But,” argued Porthos, “I speak French and they are all English.”
D’Artagnan looked at Porthos with that air of wonder which a cunning
man cannot help feeling at displays of crass stupidity.
But as Porthos on his side could not comprehend his astonishment, he
merely pushed him indoors, saying, “Let us go in.”
They found Athos in profound despondency; Aramis looked first at
Porthos and then at D’Artagnan, without speaking, but the latter
understood his meaningful look.
“You want to know how we came here? ’Tis easily guessed. Mazarin sent
us with a letter to General Cromwell.”
“But how came you to fall into company with Mordaunt, whom I bade you
distrust?” asked Athos.
“And whom I advised you to strangle, Porthos,” said Aramis.
“Mazarin again. Cromwell had sent him to Mazarin. Mazarin sent us to
Cromwell. There is a certain fatality in it.”
“Yes, you are right, D’Artagnan, a fatality that will separate and ruin
us! So, my dear Aramis, say no more about it and let us prepare to
submit to destiny.”
“Zounds! on the contrary, let us speak about it; for it was agreed
among us, once for all, that we should always hold together, though
engaged on opposing sides.”
“Yes,” added Athos, “I now ask you, D’Artagnan, what side you are on?
Ah! behold for what end the wretched Mazarin has made use of you. Do
you know in what crime you are to-day engaged? In the capture of a
king, his degradation and his murder.”
“Oh! oh!” cried Porthos, “do you think so?”
“You are exaggerating, Athos; we are not so far gone as that,” replied
the lieutenant.
“Good heavens! we are on the very eve of it. I say, why is the king
taken prisoner? Those who wish to respect him as a master would not buy
him as a slave. Do you think it is to replace him on the throne that
Cromwell has paid for him two hundred thousand pounds sterling? They
will kill him, you may be sure of it.”
“I don’t maintain the contrary,” said D’Artagnan. “But what’s that to
us? I am here because I am a soldier and have to obey orders—I have
taken an oath to obey, and I do obey; but you who have taken no such
oath, why are you here and what cause do you represent?”
“That most sacred in the world,” said Athos; “the cause of misfortune,
of religion, royalty. A friend, a wife, a daughter, have done us the
honor to call us to their aid. We have served them to the best of our
poor means, and God will recompense the will, forgive the want of
power. You may see matters differently, D’Artagnan, and think
otherwise. I will not attempt to argue with you, but I blame you.”
“Heyday!” cried D’Artagnan, “what matters it to me, after all, if
Cromwell, who’s an Englishman, revolts against his king, who is a
Scotchman? I am myself a Frenchman. I have nothing to do with these
things—why hold me responsible?”
“Yes,” said Porthos.
“Because all gentlemen are brothers, because you are a gentleman,
because the kings of all countries are the first among gentlemen,
because the blind populace, ungrateful and brutal, always takes
pleasure in pulling down what is above them. And you, you, D’Artagnan,
a man sprung from the ancient nobility of France, bearing an honorable
name, carrying a good sword, have helped to give up a king to
beersellers, shopkeepers, and wagoners. Ah! D’Artagnan! perhaps you
have done your duty as a soldier, but as a gentleman, I say that you
are very culpable.”
D’Artagnan was chewing the stalk of a flower, unable to reply and
thoroughly uncomfortable; for when turned from the eyes of Athos he
encountered those of Aramis.
“And you, Porthos,” continued the count, as if in consideration for
D’Artagnan’s embarrassment, “you, the best heart, the best friend, the
best soldier that I know—you, with a soul that makes you worthy of a
birth on the steps of a throne, and who, sooner or later, must receive
your reward from an intelligent king—you, my dear Porthos, you, a
gentleman in manners, in tastes and in courage, you are as culpable as
D’Artagnan.”
Porthos blushed, but with pleasure rather than with confusion; and yet,
bowing his head, as if humiliated, he said:
“Yes, yes, my dear count, I feel that you are right.”
Athos arose.
“Come,” he said, stretching out his hand to D’Artagnan, “come, don’t be
sullen, my dear son, for I have said all this to you, if not in the
tone, at least with the feelings of a father. It would have been easier
to me merely to have thanked you for preserving my life and not to have
uttered a word of all this.”
“Doubtless, doubtless, Athos. But here it is: you have sentiments, the
devil knows what, such as every one can’t entertain. Who could suppose
that a sensible man could leave his house, France, his ward—a charming
youth, for we saw him in the camp—to fly to the aid of a rotten,
worm-eaten royalty, which is going to crumble one of these days like an
old hovel. The sentiments you air are certainly fine, so fine that they
are superhuman.”
“However that may be, D’Artagnan,” replied Athos, without falling into
the snare which his Gascon friend had prepared for him by an appeal to
his parental love, “however that may be, you know in the bottom of your
heart that it is true; but I am wrong to dispute with my master.
D’Artagnan, I am your prisoner—treat me as such.”
“Ah! _pardieu!_” said D’Artagnan, “you know you will not be my prisoner
very long.”
“No,” said Aramis, “they will doubtless treat us like the prisoners of
the Philipghauts.”
“And how were they treated?” asked D’Artagnan.
“Why,” said Aramis, “one-half were hanged and the other half were
shot.”
“Well, I,” said D’Artagnan “I answer that while there remains a drop of
blood in my veins you will be neither hanged nor shot. _Sang Diou!_ let
them come on! Besides—do you see that door, Athos?”
“Yes; what then?”
“Well, you can go out by that door whenever you please; for from this
moment you are free as the air.”
“I recognize you there, my brave D’Artagnan,” replied Athos; “but you
are no longer our masters. That door is guarded, D’Artagnan; you know
that.”
“Very well, you will force it,” said Porthos. “There are only a dozen
men at the most.”
“That would be nothing for us four; it is too much for us two. No,
divided as we now are, we must perish. See the fatal example: on the
Vendomois road, D’Artagnan, you so brave, and you, Porthos, so valiant
and so strong—you were beaten; to-day Aramis and I are beaten in our
turn. Now that never happened to us when we were four together. Let us
die, then, as De Winter has died; as for me, I will fly only on
condition that we all fly together.”
“Impossible,” said D’Artagnan; “we are under Mazarin’s orders.”
“I know it and I have nothing more to say; my arguments lead to
nothing; doubtless they are bad, since they have not determined minds
so just as yours.”
“Besides,” said Aramis, “had they taken effect it would be still better
not to compromise two excellent friends like D’Artagnan and Porthos. Be
assured, gentlemen, we shall do you honor in our dying. As for myself,
I shall be proud to face the bullets, or even the rope, in company with
you, Athos; for you have never seemed to me so grand as you are
to-day.”
D’Artagnan said nothing, but, after having gnawed the flower stalk, he
began to bite his nails. At last:
“Do you imagine,” he resumed, “that they mean to kill you? And
wherefore should they do so? What interest have they in your death?
Moreover, you are _our_ prisoners.”
“Fool!” cried Aramis; “knowest thou not, then, Mordaunt? I have but
exchanged with him one look, yet that look convinced me that we were
doomed.”
“The truth is, I’m very sorry that I did not strangle him as you
advised me,” said Porthos.
“Eh! I make no account of the harm Mordaunt can do!” cried D’Artagnan.
“_Cap de Diou!_ if he troubles me too much I will crush him, the
insect! Do not fly, then. It is useless; for I swear to you that you
are as safe here as you were twenty years, ago—you, Athos, in the Rue
Ferou, and you, Aramis, in the Rue de Vaugirard.”
“Stop,” cried Athos, extending his hand to one of the grated windows by
which the room was lighted; “you will soon know what to expect, for
here he is.”
“Who?”
“Mordaunt.”