“Let us go, then. I place full confidence in you, my friend.”
D’Artagnan carefully drew back the bolt, and both, light as shadows, glided through the interior door into the passage, ascended the stairs as quietly as possible, and entered D’Artagnan’s apartment.
Once in his apartment, for greater security the young man barricaded the door. They both went up to the window, and through a slit in the shutter they saw M. Bonacieux talking with a man in a cloak.
At the sight of this man D’Artagnan started, half drew his sword, and sprang towards the door.
It was the man of Meung. D’Artagnan drew near the window and listened.
M. Bonacieux had opened his door, and seeing the apartment empty, had returned to the man in the cloak, whom he had left alone for an instant.
“She is gone,” said he; “she must have gone back to the Louvre.”
“You are sure,” replied the stranger, “that she did not suspect the intention you had when you went out?”
“No,” replied Bonacieux, with a self-sufficient air, “she is too superficial a woman.”
“Let us walk into your apartment. We shall be safer there than in the doorway.”
D’Artagnan raised the three or four tiles which made of his chamber another ear of Dionysius, spread a carpet, went down upon his knees, and made a sign to Madame Bonacieux to stoop down toward the opening, as he did.
“And you think that your wife—” said Rochefort.“Has returned to the Louvre.”
“Without speaking to any one but yourself?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Please to understand that is an important point.”
“So the news I brought you, then, has some value—”
“A very great value, my dear Bonacieux. I don’t attempt to deny it.”
“Then the cardinal will be pleased with me?”
“No doubt he will.”
“The great cardinal!”
“Are you sure that in her conversation with you your wife mentioned no proper names?”
“I don’t think she did.”
“She did not name Madame de Chevreuse, the Duke of Buckingham, or Madame de Verne?”
“No; she only told me she wished to send me to London to further the interests of an illustrious personage.”
“Oh, the traitor!” murmured Madame Bonacieux.
“Silence!” whispered D’Artagnan, taking a hand which, without thinking of it, she suffered him to retain.
“Nevertheless,” continued the man in the cloak, “it was very silly of you not to have feigned to accept the mission. You would now be in possession of the letter; the state, which is now threatened, would be safe; and you—”
“I will go to the Louvre; I will ask for Madame Bonacieux; I will tell her I have reflected upon the matter; I will resume the affair, obtain the letter, and then hasten directly to the cardinal’s.”
“Well, begone then! Make all possible haste. I will shortly come back to learn the result of your plan.”
The unknown went out.
“The wretch!” said Madame Bonacieux, addressing this other affectionate epithet to her husband.
“Silence, once more!” said D’Artagnan, pressing her hand still more tightly.
A terrible howling interrupted these reflections of D’Artagnan and Madame Bonacieux. It was her husband, who had discovered the disappearance of his money-bag, and was screaming out, “Thieves! thieves!”
Bonacieux cried for a long time. But as such cries, on account of their frequency, did not attract much notice in the Rue des Fossoyeurs, and as, besides, the mercer’s house had not been for some time in very good repute, finding that nobody came, he went out, continuing to cry aloud, and his voice died away in the direction of the Rue du Bac.
“Now he is gone, it is your turn to go,” said Madame Bonacieux. “Have courage, but above all, prudence, and remember that it is your duty to the queen!”
“To her and to you!” cried D’Artagnan. “Be satisfied, lovely Constance. I shall become worthy of her gratitude, but shall I likewise return worthy of your love?”
The young woman replied only by the vivid blush which mounted to her cheeks. A few moments later D’Artagnan went out in his turn, enveloped in a large cloak, which the sheath of a long sword held back cavalierly.
Madame Bonacieux followed him with her eyes, with that long, fond look with which a woman accompanies the man whom she feels she loves. But when he had turned the angle of the street she fell on her knees, and clasping her hands,
“Oh, my God!” cried she, “protect the queen, protect me!”
Chapter 17 - Plan of Campaign
D’Artagnan went straight to M. de Tréville’s h?tel. He had considered that in a few minutes the cardinal would be warned by this cursed unknown, who appeared to be his agent, and he rightly judged he had not a moment to lose.
The young man’s heart overflowed with joy. An opportunity presented itself to him in which there would be both glory and money to be gained, and as a far higher encouragement still, had just brought him into close intimacy with the woman he adored. This chance was doing, then, for him, almost at once, more than he would have dared to ask of Providence.
“You have something to say to me, my young friend?” said M. de Tréville.
“Yes, sir,” said D’Artagnan; “and you will pardon me, I hope, for having disturbed you when you know the importance of my business.”
“Speak, then; I am all attention.”
“It concerns nothing less,” said D’Artagnan, lowering his voice, “than the honour, perhaps the life, of the queen.”
“What are you saying?” asked M. de Tréville, glancing round to see if they were alone, and then fixing his scrutinizing look upon D’Artagnan.
“I say, sir, that chance has rendered me master of a secret—”
“Which you will keep, I hope, young man, with your life.”
“But which I must impart to you, sir, for you alone can assist me in the mission I have just received from her Majesty.”
“Is this secret your own?”
“No, sir; it is the queen’s.”
“Keep your secret, young man, and tell me what you wish.”
“I wish you to obtain for me, from M. des Essarts, leave of absence for a fortnight.”
“When?”
“This very night.”
“You are leaving Paris?”
“I am going on a mission.”
“May you tell me where?”
“To London.”
“Has any one an interest in preventing you reaching there?”
“The cardinal, I believe, would give anything in the world to hinder me from succeeding.”
“And you are going alone?”
“I am going alone.”
“In that case you will not get beyond Bondy. I tell you so, by the word of De Tréville.”
“How so, sir?”
“You will be assassinated.”
“And I shall die in the performance of my duty.”
“But your mission will not be accomplished.”
“That is true,” replied D’Artagnan.
“Believe me,” continued Tréville, “in enterprises of this kind, four must set out, for one to arrive.”
“Ah, you are right, sir,” said D’Artagnan; “but you know Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, and you know whether I can make use of them.”
“Without confiding to them the secret which I did not wish to know?”
“We are sworn, once and for ever, to implicit confidence and devotion against all proof. Besides, you can tell them that you have full confidence in me, and they will not be more incredulous than you.”
“I can send to each of them leave of absence for a fortnight, that is all—Athos, whose wound still gives him inconvenience, to go to the waters of Forges; Porthos and Aramis to accompany their friend, whom they are not willing to abandon in such a painful position. Sending their leave of absence will be proof enough that I authorize their journey.”
“Thanks, sir. You are a hundred times too good!”
“Go, then, and find them instantly, and let all be done tonight. Ah! but first write your request to M. des Essarts. You perhaps had a spy at your heels, and your visit—in that case already known to the cardinal—will be thus made regular.”
D’Artagnan drew up his request, and M. de Tréville, on receiving it, assured him that before two o’clock in the morning the four furloughs should be at the respective domiciles of the travellers.
“Have the goodness to send mine to Athos’s residence,” said D’Artagnan. “I should fear some disagreeable encounter if I were to go home.”
“I will. Farewell, and a prosperous journey! By the way,” said M. de Tréville, calling him back,
D’Artagnan returned.
“Have you any money?”
D’Artagnan jingled the bag he had in his pocket.
“Enough?” asked M. de Tréville.
“Three hundred pistoles.”
“Excellent! That would carry you to the end of the world. Go, then!”
D’Artagnan bowed to M. de Tréville, who held out his hand to him. D’Artagnan pressed it with a respect mixed with gratitude. Since his first arrival at Paris he had had constant occasion to honour this excellent man, whom he had always found worthy, loyal, and great.
Chapter 18 - The Journey
At two o’clock in the morning our four adventurers left Paris by the gate St. Denis.
The lackeys followed, armed to the teeth.
All went well as far as Chantilly, where they arrived about eight o’clock in the morning. They needed breakfast, and alighted at the door of an inn recommended by a sign representing St. Martin giving half his cloak to a poor man.
They entered the public room, and seated themselves at table. A gentleman, who had just arrived by the route of Dammartin, was seated at the same table, and was taking his breakfast.
At the moment Mousqueton came to announce that the horses were ready, and they were rising from the table, the stranger proposed to Porthos to drink the cardinal’s health. Porthos replied that he asked no better, if the stranger in his turn would drink the king’s health. The stranger cried that he acknowledged no other king but his Eminence. Porthos told him he was drunk, and the stranger drew his sword.
“You have committed a piece of folly,” said Athos, “but it can’t be helped; there is no drawing back. Kill your man, and rejoin us as soon as you can.”
And all three mounted their horses and set out at a good pace, while Porthos was promising his adversary to perforate him with all the thrusts known in the fencing schools.
And the travellers continued their route.
At Beauvais they stopped two hours, as much to breathe their horses a little as to wait for Porthos. At the end of the two hours, as Porthos did not come and they heard no news of him, they resumed their journey.
At a league from Beauvais, where the road was confined between two high banks, they fell in with eight or ten men who, taking advantage of the road being unpaved in this spot, appeared to be employed in digging holes and making muddy ruts.
Aramis, not liking to soil his boots with this artificial mortar, apostrophized them rather sharply. Athos wished to restrain him, but it was too late. The labourers began to jeer the travellers, and by their insolence disturbed the equanimity even of the cool Athos, who urged on his horse against one of them.
The men all immediately drew back to the ditch, from which each took a concealed musket. The result was that our seven travellers were outnumbered in weapons. Aramis received a ball which passed through his shoulder, and Mousqueton another ball which lodged in the fleshy parts at the lower portion of the back. Mousqueton alone fell from his horse, not because he was severely wounded, but from not being able to see the wound, he deemed it to be more serious than it really was.
“It is an ambuscade!” shouted D’Artagnan; “don’t waste a shot! Forward!”
Aramis, wounded as he was, seized the mane of his horse, which carried him on with the others. Mousqueton’s horse rejoined them, and galloped by the side of his companions.
“That horse will serve us for a relay,” said Athos.
They continued at their best speed for two hours, although the horses were so fatigued that it was to be feared they would soon refuse service.
The travellers had chosen cross-roads, in the hope that they might meet with less interruption. But at Crèvec?ur Aramis declared he could proceed no farther. In fact, it required all the courage which he concealed beneath his elegant form and polished manners to bear him so far. He grew paler every minute, and they were obliged to support him on his horse. They lifted him off at the door of an inn, left Bazin with him—who, besides, in a skirmish was more embarrassing than useful—and set forward again in the hope of sleeping at Amiens. They arrived at midnight, and alighted at the inn of the Golden Lily.
The host had the appearance of as honest a man as any on earth. He received the travellers with his candlestick in one hand and his cotton nightcap in the other.
“Grimaud can take care of the horses,” said Planchet. “If you are willing, gentlemen, I will sleep across your doorway, and you will then be certain that nobody can come to you.”
“And what will you sleep upon?” said D’Artagnan.
“Here is my bed,” replied Planchet, producing a bundle of straw.
At four o’clock in the morning a terrible noise was heard in the stables. Grimaud had tried to waken the stable-boys, and the stable-boys were beating him. When the window was opened the poor lad was seen lying senseless, with his head split by a blow with a fork-handle.
Planchet went down into the yard, and proceeded to saddle the horses. But the horses were all used up. Mousqueton’s horse, which had travelled for five or six hours without a rider the day before, alone might have been able to pursue the journey. But, by an inconceivable error, a veterinary surgeon, who had been sent for, as it appeared, to bleed one of the host’s horses, had bled Mousqueton’s.
This began to be annoying. All these successive accidents were, perhaps, the result of chance, but they might, quite as probably, be the fruits of a plot. Athos and D’Artagnan went out, while Planchet was sent to inquire if there were not three horses for sale in the neighbourhood. At the door stood two horses, fresh, strong, and fully equipped. These were just what they wanted. He asked where their owners were, and was informed that they had passed the night in the inn, and were then settling with the master.
Athos went down to pay the reckoning, while D’Artagnan and Planchet stood at the street door. The host was in a low room at the back, to which Athos was requested to go.
Athos entered without the least mistrust, and took out two pistoles to pay the bill. The host was alone, seated before his desk, one of the drawers of which was partly open. He took the money which Athos offered to him, and after turning and turning it over and over in his hands, suddenly cried out that it was bad, and that he would have him and his companions arrested as counterfeiters.
“You scoundrel!” cried Athos, stepping towards him, “I’ll cut your ears off!”
But the host stooped, took two pistols from the half-open drawer, pointed them at Athos, and called out for help.
At the same instant four men, armed to the teeth, entered by side doors, and rushed upon Athos.
“I am taken!” shouted Athos with all the power of his lungs. “Go on, D’Artagnan! spur! spur!” And he fired two pistols.
