Twenty years after
battle. But if you think the king’s life is not worth what it must cost
there’s an end of the matter and I send to Groslow to say I am ill.”
“No, you are right,” said Athos.
At this moment a soldier entered to inform them that Groslow was
waiting for them.
“Where?” asked D’Artagnan.
“In the room of the English Nebuchadnezzar,” replied the staunch
Puritan.
“Good,” replied Athos, whose blood mounted to his face at the insult
offered to royalty; “tell the captain we are coming.”
The Puritan then went out. The lackeys had been ordered to saddle eight
horses and to wait, keeping together and without dismounting, at the
corner of a street about twenty steps from the house where the king was
lodged.
It was nine o’clock in the evening; the sentinels had been relieved at
eight and Captain Groslow had been on guard for an hour. D’Artagnan and
Porthos, armed with their swords, and Athos and Aramis, each carrying a
concealed poniard, approached the house which for the time being was
Charles Stuart’s prison. The two latter followed their captors in the
humble guise of captives, without arms.
“Od’s bodikins,” said Groslow, as the four friends entered, “I had
almost given you up.”
D’Artagnan went up to him and whispered in his ear:
“The fact is, we, that is, Monsieur du Vallon and I, hesitated a
little.”
“And why?”
D’Artagnan looked significantly toward Athos and Aramis.
“Aha,” said Groslow; “on account of political opinions? No matter. On
the contrary,” he added, laughing, “if they want to see their Stuart
they shall see him.
“Are we to pass the night in the king’s room?” asked D’Artagnan.
“No, but in the one next to it, and as the door will remain open it
comes to the same thing. Have you provided yourself with money? I
assure you I intend to play the devil’s game to-night.”
D’Artagnan rattled the gold in his pockets.
“Very good,” said Groslow, and opened the door of the room. “I will
show you the way,” and he went in first.
D’Artagnan turned to look at his friends. Porthos was perfectly
indifferent; Athos, pale, but resolute; Aramis was wiping a slight
moisture from his brow.
The eight guards were at their posts. Four in the king’s room, two at
the door between the rooms and two at that by which the friends had
entered. Athos smiled when he saw their bare swords; he felt it was no
longer to be a butchery, but a fight, and he resumed his usual good
humor.
Charles was perceived through the door, lying dressed upon his bed, at
the head of which Parry was seated, reading in a low voice a chapter
from the Bible.
A candle of coarse tallow on a black table lighted up the handsome and
resigned face of the king and that of his faithful retainer, far less
calm.
From time to time Parry stopped, thinking the king, whose eyes were
closed, was really asleep, but Charles would open his eyes and say with
a smile:
“Go on, my good Parry, I am listening.”
Groslow advanced to the door of the king’s room, replaced on his head
the hat he had taken off to receive his guests, looked for a moment
contemptuously at this simple, yet touching scene, then turning to
D’Artagnan, assumed an air of triumph at what he had achieved.
“Capital!” cried the Gascon, “you would make a distinguished general.”
“And do you think,” asked Groslow, “that Stuart will ever escape while
I am on guard?”
“No, to be sure,” replied D’Artagnan; “unless, forsooth, the sky rains
friends upon him.”
Groslow’s face brightened.
It is impossible to say whether Charles, who kept his eyes constantly
closed, had noticed the insolence of the Puritan captain, but the
moment he heard the clear tone of D’Artagnan’s voice his eyelids rose,
in spite of himself.
Parry, too, started and stopped reading.
“What are you thinking about?” said the king; “go on, my good Parry,
unless you are tired.”
Parry resumed his reading.
On a table in the next room were lighted candles, cards, two
dice-boxes, and dice.
“Gentlemen,” said Groslow, “I beg you will take your places. I will sit
facing Stuart, whom I like so much to see, especially where he now is,
and you, Monsieur d’Artagnan, opposite to me.”
Athos turned red with rage. D’Artagnan frowned at him.
“That’s it,” said D’Artagnan; “you, Monsieur le Comte de la Fère, to
the right of Monsieur Groslow. You, Chevalier d’Herblay, to his left.
Du Vallon next me. You’ll bet for me and those gentlemen for Monsieur
Groslow.”
By this arrangement D’Artagnan could nudge Porthos with his knee and
make signs with his eyes to Athos and Aramis.
At the names Comte de la Fère and Chevalier d’Herblay, Charles opened
his eyes, and raising his noble head, in spite of himself, threw a
glance at all the actors in the scene.
At that moment Parry turned over several leaves of his Bible and read
with a loud voice this verse in Jeremiah:
“God said, ‘Hear ye the words of the prophets my servants, whom I have
sent unto you.’”
The four friends exchanged glances. The words that Parry had read
assured them that their presence was understood by the king and was
assigned to its real motive. D’Artagnan’s eyes sparkled with joy.
“You asked me just now if I was in funds,” said D’Artagnan, placing
some twenty pistoles upon the table. “Well, in my turn I advise you to
keep a sharp lookout on your TREASURE, my dear Monsieur Groslow, for I
can tell you we shall not leave this without robbing you of it.”
“Not without my defending it,” said Groslow.
“So much the better,” said D’Artagnan. “Fight, my dear captain, fight.
You know or you don’t know, that that is what we ask of you.”
“Oh! yes,” said Groslow, bursting with his usual coarse laugh, “I know
you Frenchmen want nothing but cuts and bruises.”
Charles had heard and understood it all. A slight color mounted to his
cheeks. The soldiers then saw him stretch his limbs, little by little,
and under the pretense of much heat throw off the Scotch plaid which
covered him.
Athos and Aramis started with delight to find that the king was lying
with his clothes on.
The game began. The luck had turned, and Groslow, having won some
hundred pistoles, was in the merriest possible humor.
Porthos, who had lost the fifty pistoles he had won the night before
and thirty more besides, was very cross and questioned D’Artagnan with
a nudge of the knee as to whether it would not soon be time to change
the game. Athos and Aramis looked at him inquiringly. But D’Artagnan
remained impassible.
It struck ten. They heard the guard going its rounds.
“How many rounds do they make a night?” asked D’Artagnan, drawing more
pistoles from his pocket.
“Five,” answered Groslow, “one every two hours.”
D’Artagnan glanced at Athos and Aramis and for the first time replied
to Porthos’s nudge of the knee by a nudge responsive. Meanwhile, the
soldiers whose duty it was to remain in the king’s room, attracted by
that love of play so powerful in all men, had stolen little by little
toward the table, and standing on tiptoe, lounged, watching the game,
over the shoulders of D’Artagnan and Porthos. Those on the other side
had followed their example, thus favoring the views of the four
friends, who preferred having them close at hand to chasing them about
the chamber. The two sentinels at the door still had their swords
unsheathed, but they were leaning on them while they watched the game.
Athos seemed to grow calm as the critical moment approached. With his
white, aristocratic hands he played with the louis, bending and
straightening them again, as if they were made of pewter. Aramis, less
self-controlled, fumbled continually with his hidden poniard. Porthos,
impatient at his continued losses, kept up a vigorous play with his
knee.
D’Artagnan turned, mechanically looking behind him, and between the
figures of two soldiers he could see Parry standing up and Charles
leaning on his elbow with his hands clasped and apparently offering a
fervent prayer to God.
D’Artagnan saw that the moment was come. He darted a preparatory glance
at Athos and Aramis, who slyly pushed their chairs a little back so as
to leave themselves more space for action. He gave Porthos a second
nudge of the knee and Porthos got up as if to stretch his legs and took
care at the same time to ascertain that his sword could be drawn
smoothly from the scabbard.
“Hang it!” cried D’Artagnan, “another twenty pistoles lost. Really,
Captain Groslow, you are too much in fortune’s way. This can’t last,”
and he drew another twenty from his pocket. “One more turn, captain;
twenty pistoles on one throw—only one, the last.”
“Done for twenty,” replied Groslow.
And he turned up two cards as usual, a king for D’Artagnan and an ace
for himself.
“A king,” said D’Artagnan; “it’s a good omen, Master Groslow—look out
for the king.”
And in spite of his extraordinary self-control there was a strange
vibration in the Gascon’s voice which made his partner start.
Groslow began turning the cards one after another. If he turned up an
ace first he won; if a king he lost.
He turned up a king.
“At last!” cried D’Artagnan.
At this word Athos and Aramis jumped up. Porthos drew back a step.
Daggers and swords were just about to shine, when suddenly the door was
thrown open and Harrison appeared in the doorway, accompanied by a man
enveloped in a large cloak. Behind this man could be seen the
glistening muskets of half a dozen soldiers.
Groslow jumped up, ashamed at being surprised in the midst of wine,
cards, and dice. But Harrison paid not the least attention to him, and
entering the king’s room, followed by his companion:
“Charles Stuart,” said he, “an order has come to conduct you to London
without stopping day or night. Prepare yourself, then, to start at
once.”
“And by whom is this order given?” asked the king.
“By General Oliver Cromwell. And here is Mr. Mordaunt, who has brought
it and is charged with its execution.”
“Mordaunt!” muttered the four friends, exchanging glances.
D’Artagnan swept up the money that he and Porthos had lost and buried
it in his huge pocket. Athos and Aramis placed themselves behind him.
At this movement Mordaunt turned around, recognized them, and uttered
an exclamation of savage delight.
“I’m afraid we are prisoners,” whispered D’Artagnan to his friend.
“Not yet,” replied Porthos.
“Colonel, colonel,” cried Mordaunt, “you are betrayed. These four
Frenchmen have escaped from Newcastle, and no doubt want to carry off
the king. Arrest them.”
“Ah! my young man,” said D’Artagnan, drawing his sword, “that is an
order sooner given than executed. Fly, friends, fly!” he added,
whirling his sword around him.
The next moment he darted to the door and knocked down two of the
soldiers who guarded it, before they had time to cock their muskets.
Athos and Aramis followed him. Porthos brought up the rear, and before
soldiers, officers, or colonel had time to recover their surprise all
four were in the street.
“Fire!” cried Mordaunt; “fire upon them!”
Three or four shots were fired, but with no other result than to show
the four fugitives turning the corner of the street safe and sound.
The horses were at the place fixed upon, and they leaped lightly into
their saddles.
“Forward!” cried D’Artagnan, “and spur for your dear lives!”
They galloped away and took the road they had come by in the morning,
namely, in the direction toward Scotland. A few hundred yards beyond
the town D’Artagnan drew rein.
“Halt!” he cried, “this time we shall be pursued. We must let them
leave the village and ride after us on the northern road, and when they
have passed we will take the opposite direction.”
There was a stream close by and a bridge across it.
D’Artagnan led his horse under the arch of the bridge. The others