Twenty years after
“This skiff might be of use to you for personal projects.”
“Oh, my lord, my lord!”
“That title,” said Cromwell, laughing, “is all very well here, but take
care a word like that does not escape your lips in public.”
“But your honor will soon be called so generally.”
“I hope so, at least,” said Cromwell, rising and putting on his cloak.
“You are going, sir?”
“Yes,” said Cromwell. “I slept here last night and the night before,
and you know it is not my custom to sleep three times in the same bed.”
“Then,” said Mordaunt, “your honor gives me my liberty for to-night?”
“And even for all day to-morrow, if you want it. Since last evening,”
he added, smiling, “you have done enough in my service, and if you have
any personal matters to settle it is just that I should give you time.”
“Thank you, sir; it will be well employed, I hope.”
Cromwell turned as he was going.
“Are you armed?” he asked.
“I have my sword.”
“And no one waiting for you outside?”
“No.”
“Then you had better come with me.”
“Thank you, sir, but the way by the subterranean passage would take too
much time and I have none to lose.”
Cromwell placed his hand on a hidden handle and opened a door so well
concealed by the tapestry that the most practiced eye could not have
discovered it. It closed after him with a spring. This door
communicated with a subterranean passage, leading under the street to a
grotto in the garden of a house about a hundred yards from that of the
future Protector.
It was just before this that Grimaud had perceived the two men seated
together.
D’Artagnan was the first to recover from his surprise.
“Mordaunt,” he cried. “Ah! by Heaven! it is God Himself who sent us
here.”
“Yes,” said Porthos, “let us break the door in and fall upon him.”
“No,” replied D’Artagnan, “no noise. Now, Grimaud, you come here, climb
up to the window again and tell us if Mordaunt is alone and whether he
is preparing to go out or go to bed. If he comes out we shall catch
him. If he stays in we will break in the window. It is easier and less
noisy than the door.”
Grimaud began to scale the wall again.
“Keep guard at the other door, Athos and Aramis. Porthos and I will
stay here.”
The friends obeyed.
“He is alone,” said Grimaud.
“We did not see his companion come out.”
“He may have gone by the other door.”
“What is he doing?”
“Putting on his cloak and gloves.”
“He’s ours,” muttered D’Artagnan.
Porthos mechanically drew his dagger from the scabbard.
“Put it up again, my friend,” said D’Artagnan. “We must proceed in an
orderly manner.”
“Hush!” said Grimaud, “he is coming out. He has put out the lamp, I can
see nothing now.”
“Get down then and quickly.”
Grimaud leaped down. The snow deadened the noise of his fall.
“Now go and tell Athos and Aramis to stand on each side of the door and
clap their hands if they catch him. We will do the same.”
The next moment the door opened and Mordaunt appeared on the threshold,
face to face with D’Artagnan. Porthos clapped his hands and the other
two came running around. Mordaunt was livid, but he uttered no cry nor
called for assistance. D’Artagnan quietly pushed him in again, and by
the light of a lamp on the staircase made him ascend the steps backward
one by one, keeping his eyes all the time on Mordaunt’s hands, who,
however, knowing that it was useless, attempted no resistance. At last
they stood face to face in the very room where ten minutes before
Mordaunt had been talking to Cromwell.
Porthos came up behind, and unhooking the lamp on the staircase relit
that in the room. Athos and Aramis entered last and locked the door
behind them.
“Oblige me by taking a seat,” said D’Artagnan, pushing a chair toward
Mordaunt, who sat down, pale but calm. Aramis, Porthos and D’Artagnan
drew their chairs near him. Athos alone kept away and sat in the
furthest corner of the room, as if determined to be merely a spectator
of the proceedings. He seemed to be quite overcome. Porthos rubbed his
hands in feverish impatience. Aramis bit his lips till the blood came.
D’Artagnan alone was calm, at least in appearance.
“Monsieur Mordaunt,” he said, “since, after running after one another
so long, chance has at last brought us together, let us have a little
conversation, if you please.”
Chapter LXIX.
Conversational.
Though Mordaunt had been so completely taken by surprise and had
mounted the stairs in such utter confusion, when once seated he
recovered himself, as it were, and prepared to seize any possible
opportunity of escape. His eye wandered to a long stout sword on his
flank and he instinctively slipped it around within reach of his right
hand.
D’Artagnan was waiting for a reply to his remark and said nothing.
Aramis muttered to himself, “We shall hear nothing but the usual
commonplace things.”
Porthos sucked his mustache, muttering, “A good deal of ceremony
to-night about crushing an adder.” Athos shrunk into his corner, pale
and motionless as a _bas-relief_.
The silence, however, could not last forever. So D’Artagnan began:
“Sir,” he said, with desperate politeness, “it seems to me that you
change your costume almost as rapidly as I have seen the Italian
mummers do, whom the Cardinal Mazarin brought over from Bergamo and
whom he doubtless took you to see during your travels in France.”
Mordaunt did not reply.
“Just now,” D’Artagnan continued, “you were disguised—I mean to say,
attired—as a murderer, and now——”
“And now I look very much like a man who is going to be murdered.”
“Oh! sir,” said D’Artagnan, “how can you talk like that when you are in
the company of gentlemen and have such an excellent sword at your
side?”
“No sword is excellent enough to be of use against four swords and
daggers.”
“Well, that is scarcely the question. I had the honor of asking you why
you altered your costume. The mask and beard became you very well, and
as to the axe, I do not think it would be out of keeping even at this
moment. Why, then, have you laid it aside?”
“Because, remembering the scene at Armentières, I thought I should find
four axes for one, as I was to meet four executioners.”
“Sir,” replied D’Artagnan, in the calmest manner possible, “you are
very young; I shall therefore overlook your frivolous remarks. What
took place at Armentières has no connection whatever with the present
occasion. We could scarcely have requested your mother to take a sword
and fight us.”
“Aha! It is a duel, then?” cried Mordaunt, as if disposed to reply at
once to the provocation.
Porthos rose, always ready for this kind of adventure.
“Pardon me,” said D’Artagnan. “Do not let us do things in a hurry. We
will arrange the matter rather better. Confess, Monsieur Mordaunt, that
you are anxious to kill some of us.”
“All,” replied Mordaunt.
“Then, my dear sir; I am convinced that these gentlemen return your
kind wishes and will be delighted to kill you also. Of course they will
do so as honorable gentlemen, and the best proof I can furnish is
this——”
So saying, he threw his hat on the ground, pushed back his chair to the
wall and bowed to Mordaunt with true French grace.
“At your service, sir,” he continued. “My sword is shorter than yours,
it’s true, but, bah! I think the arm will make up for the sword.”
“Halt!” cried Porthos coming forward. “I begin, and without any
rhetoric.”
“Allow me, Porthos,” said Aramis.
Athos did not move. He might have been taken for a statue. Even his
breathing seemed to be arrested.
“Gentlemen,” said D’Artagnan, “you shall have your turn. Monsieur
Mordaunt dislikes you sufficiently not to refuse you afterward. You can
see it in his eye. So pray keep your places, like Athos, whose calmness
is entirely laudable. Besides, we will have no words about it. I have
particular business to settle with this gentleman and I shall and will
begin.”
Porthos and Aramis drew back, disappointed, and drawing his sword
D’Artagnan turned to his adversary:
“Sir, I am waiting for you.”
“And for my part, gentlemen, I admire you. You are disputing which
shall fight me first, but you do not consult me who am most concerned
in the matter. I hate you all, but not equally. I hope to kill all four
of you, but I am more likely to kill the first than the second, the
second than the third, and the third than the last. I claim, then, the
right to choose my opponent. If you refuse this right you may kill me,
but I shall not fight.”
“It is but fair,” said Porthos and Aramis, hoping he would choose one
of them.
Athos and D’Artagnan said nothing, but their silence seemed to imply
consent.
“Well, then,” said Mordaunt, “I choose for my adversary the man who,
not thinking himself worthy to be called Comte de la Fère, calls
himself Athos.”
Athos sprang up, but after an instant of motionless silence he said, to
the astonishment of his friends, “Monsieur Mordaunt, a duel between us
is impossible. Submit this honour to somebody else.” And he sat down.
“Ah!” said Mordaunt, with a sneer, “there’s one who is afraid.”
“Zounds!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, bounding toward him, “who says that
Athos is afraid?”
“Let him have his say, D’Artagnan,” said Athos, with a smile of sadness
and contempt.
“Is it your decision, Athos?” resumed the Gascon.
“Irrevocably.”
“You hear, sir,” said D’Artagnan, turning to Mordaunt. “The Comte de la
Fère will not do you the honor of fighting with you. Choose one of us
to replace the Comte de la Fère.”
“As long as I don’t fight with him it is the same to me with whom I
fight. Put your names into a hat and draw lots.”
“A good idea,” said D’Artagnan.
“At least that will conciliate us all,” said Aramis.
“I should never have thought of that,” said Porthos, “and yet it is
very simple.”
“Come, Aramis,” said D’Artagnan, “write this for us in those neat
little characters in which you wrote to Marie Michon that the mother of
this gentleman intended to assassinate the Duke of Buckingham.”
Mordaunt sustained this new attack without wincing. He stood with his
arms folded, apparently as calm as any man could be in such
circumstances. If he had not courage he had what is very like it,
namely, pride.
Aramis went to Cromwell’s desk, tore off three bits of paper of equal
size, wrote on the first his own name and on the others those of his
two companions, and presented them open to Mordaunt, who by a movement
of his head indicated that he left the matter entirely to Aramis. He
then rolled them separately and put them in a hat, which he handed to
Mordaunt.
Mordaunt put his hand into the hat, took out one of the three papers
and disdainfully dropped it on the table without reading it.
“Ah! serpent,” muttered D’Artagnan, “I would give my chance of a
captaincy in the _mousquetaires_ for that to be my name.”
Aramis opened the paper, and in a voice trembling with hate and
vengeance read “D’Artagnan.”
The Gascon uttered a cry of joy and turning to Mordaunt:
“I hope, sir,” said he, “you have no objection to make.”
“None, whatever,” replied the other, drawing his sword and resting the
point on his boot.
The moment that D’Artagnan saw that his wish was accomplished and his
man would not escape him, he recovered his usual tranquillity. He
turned up his cuffs neatly and rubbed the sole of his right boot on the
floor, but did not fail, however, to remark that Mordaunt was looking
about him in a singular manner.
“Are you ready, sir?” he said at last.
“I was waiting for you, sir,” said Mordaunt, raising his head and
casting at his opponent a look it would be impossible to describe.
“Well, then,” said the Gascon, “take care of yourself, for I am not a
bad hand at the rapier.”
“Nor I either.”
“So much the better; that sets my mind at rest. Defend yourself.”