The invention of the mousetrap does not date from our days; as soon as societies, in forming, had invented any kind of police, that police invented mousetraps.
As perhaps our readers are not familiar with the slang of the Rue de Jerusalem, and as it is fifteen years since we applied this word for the first time to this thing, allow us to explain to them what is a mousetrap.
When in a house, of whatever kind it may be, an individual suspected of any crime is arrested, the arrest is held secret. Four or five men are placed in ambuscade in the first room. The door is opened to all who knock. It is closed after them, and they are arrested; so that at the end of two or three days they have in their power almost all the HABITUES of the establishment. And that is a mousetrap.
The apartment of M. Bonacieux, then, became a mousetrap; and whoever appeared there was taken and interrogated by the cardinal’s people. It must be observed that as a separate passage led to the first floor, in which d’Artagnan lodged, those who called on him were exempted from this detention.
Besides, nobody came thither but the three Musketeers; they had all been engaged in earnest search and inquiries, but had discovered nothing. Athos had even gone so far as to question M. de Treville—a thing which, considering the habitual reticence of the worthy Musketeer, had very much astonished his captain. But M. de Treville knew nothing, except that the last time he had seen the cardinal, the king, and the queen, the cardinal looked very thoughtful, the king uneasy, and the redness of the queen’s eyes donated that she had been sleepless or tearful. But this last circumstance was not striking, as the queen since her marriage had slept badly and wept much.
M. de Treville requested Athos, whatever might happen, to be observant of his duty to the king, but particularly to the queen, begging him to convey his desires to his comrades.
As to d’Artagnan, he did not budge from his apartment. He converted his chamber into an observatory. From his windows he saw all the visitors who were caught. Then, having removed a plank from his floor, and nothing remaining but a simple ceiling between him and the room beneath, in which the interrogatories were made, he heard all that passed between the inquisitors and the accused.
The interrogatories, preceded by a minute search operated upon the persons arrested, were almost always framed thus: “Has Madame Bonacieux sent anything to you for her husband, or any other person? Has Monsieur Bonacieux sent anything to you for his wife, or for any other person? Has either of them confided anything to you by word of mouth?”
“If they knew anything, they would not question people in this manner,” said d’Artagnan to himself. “Now, what is it they want to know? Why, they want to know if the Duke of Buckingham is in Paris, and if he has had, or is likely to have, an interview with the queen.”
D’Artagnan held onto this idea, which, from what he had heard, was not wanting in probability.
In the meantime, the mousetrap continued in operation, and likewise d’Artagnan’s vigilance.
On the evening of the day after the arrest of poor Bonacieux, as Athos had just left d’Artagnan to report at M. de Treville’s, as nine o’clock had just struck, and as Planchet, who had not yet made the bed, was beginning his task, a knocking was heard at the street door. The door was instantly opened and shut; someone was taken in the mousetrap.
D’Artagnan flew to his hole, laid himself down on the floor at full length, and listened.
Cries were soon heard, and then moans, which someone appeared to be endeavoring to stifle. There were no questions.
“The devil!” said d’Artagnan to himself. “It seems like a woman! They search her; she resists; they use force—the scoundrels!”
In spite of his prudence, d’Artagnan restrained himself with great difficulty from taking a part in the scene that was going on below.
“But I tell you that I am the mistress of the house, gentlemen! I tell you I am Madame Bonacieux; I tell you I belong to the queen!” cried the unfortunate woman.
“Madame Bonacieux!” murmured d’Artagnan. “Can I be so lucky as to find what everybody is seeking for?”
The voice became more and more indistinct; a tumultuous movement shook the partition. The victim resisted as much as a woman could resist four men.
“Pardon, gentlemen—par—” murmured the voice, which could now only be heard in inarticulate sounds.
“They are binding her; they are going to drag her away,” cried d’Artagnan to himself, springing up from the floor. “My sword! Good, it is by my side! Planchet!”
“Monsieur.”
“Run and seek Athos, Porthos and Aramis. One of the three will certainly be at home, perhaps all three. Tell them to take arms, to come here, and to run! Ah, I remember, Athos is at Monsieur de Treville’s.”
“But where are you going, monsieur, where are you going?”
“I am going down by the window, in order to be there the sooner,” cried d’Artagnan. “You put back the boards, sweep the floor, go out at the door, and run as I told you.”
“Oh, monsieur! Monsieur! You will kill yourself,” cried Planchet.
“Hold your tongue, stupid fellow,” said d’Artagnan; and laying hold of the casement, he let himself gently down from the first story, which fortunately was not very elevated, without doing himself the slightest injury.
He then went straight to the door and knocked, murmuring, “I will go myself and be caught in the mousetrap, but woe be to the cats that shall pounce upon such a mouse!”
The knocker had scarcely sounded under the hand of the young man before the tumult ceased, steps approached, the door was opened, and d’Artagnan, sword in hand, rushed into the rooms of M. Bonacieux, the door of which doubtless acted upon by a spring, closed after him.
Then those who dwelt in Bonacieux’s unfortunate house, together with the nearest neighbors, heard loud cries, stamping of feet, clashing of swords, and breaking of furniture. A moment after, those who, surprised by this tumult, had gone to their windows to learn the cause of it, saw the door open, and four men, clothed in black, not COME out of it, but FLY, like so many frightened crows, leaving on the ground and on the corners of the furniture, feathers from their wings; that is to say, patches of their clothes and fragments of their cloaks.
D’Artagnan was conqueror—without much effort, it must be confessed, for only one of the officers was armed, and even he defended himself for form’s sake. It is true that the three others had endeavored to knock the young man down with chairs, stools, and crockery; but two or three scratches made by the Gascon’s blade terrified them. Ten minutes sufficed for their defeat, and d’Artagnan remained master of the field of battle.
The neighbors who had opened their windows, with the coolness peculiar to the inhabitants of Paris in these times of perpetual riots and disturbances, closed them again as soon as they saw the four men in black flee—their instinct telling them that for the time all was over. Besides, it began to grow late, and then, as today, people went to bed early in the quarter of the Luxembourg.
On being left alone with Mme. Bonacieux, d’Artagnan turned toward her; the poor woman reclined where she had been left, half-fainting upon an armchair. D’Artagnan examined her with a rapid glance.
She was a charming woman of twenty-five or twenty-six years, with dark hair, blue eyes, and a nose slightly turned up, admirable teeth, and a complexion marbled with rose and opal. There, however, ended the signs which might have confounded her with a lady of rank. The hands were white, but without delicacy; the feet did not bespeak the woman of quality. Happily, d’Artagnan was not yet acquainted with such niceties.
While d’Artagnan was examining Mme. Bonacieux, and was, as we have said, close to her, he saw on the ground a fine cambric handkerchief, which he picked up, as was his habit, and at the corner of which he recognized the same cipher he had seen on the handkerchief which had nearly caused him and Aramis to cut each other’s throat.
From that time, d’Artagnan had been cautious with respect to handkerchiefs with arms on them, and he therefore placed in the pocket of Mme. Bonacieux the one he had just picked up.
At that moment Mme. Bonacieux recovered her senses. She opened her eyes, looked around her with terror, saw that the apartment was empty and that she was alone with her liberator. She extended her hands to him with a smile. Mme. Bonacieux had the sweetest smile in the world.
“Ah, monsieur!” said she, “you have saved me; permit me to thank you.”
“Madame,” said d’Artagnan, “I have only done what every gentleman would have done in my place; you owe me no thanks.”
“Oh, yes, monsieur, oh, yes; and I hope to prove to you that you have not served an ingrate. But what could these men, whom I at first took for robbers, want with me, and why is Monsieur Bonacieux not here?”
“Madame, those men were more dangerous than any robbers could have been, for they are the agents of the cardinal; and as to your husband, Monsieur Bonacieux, he is not here because he was yesterday evening conducted to the Bastille.”
“My husband in the Bastille!” cried Mme. Bonacieux. “Oh, my God! What has he done? Poor dear man, he is innocence itself!”
And something like a faint smile lighted the still-terrified features of the young woman.
“What has he done, madame?” said d’Artagnan. “I believe that his only crime is to have at the same time the good fortune and the misfortune to be your husband.”
“But, monsieur, you know then—”
“I know that you have been abducted, madame.”
“And by whom? Do you know him? Oh, if you know him, tell me!”
“By a man of from forty to forty-five years, with black hair, a dark complexion, and a scar on his left temple.”
“That is he, that is he; but his name?”
“Ah, his name? I do not know that.”
“And did my husband know I had been carried off?”
“He was informed of it by a letter, written to him by the abductor himself.”
“And does he suspect,” said Mme. Bonacieux, with some embarrassment, “the cause of this event?”
“He attributed it, I believe, to a political cause.”
“I doubted from the first; and now I think entirely as he does. Then my dear Monsieur Bonacieux has not suspected me a single instant?”
“So far from it, madame, he was too proud of your prudence, and above all, of your love.”
A second smile, almost imperceptible, stole over the rosy lips of the pretty young woman.
“But,” continued d’Artagnan, “how did you escape?”
“I took advantage of a moment when they left me alone; and as I had known since morning the reason of my abduction, with the help of the sheets I let myself down from the window. Then, as I believed my husband would be at home, I hastened hither.”
“To place yourself under his protection?”
“Oh, no, poor dear man! I knew very well that he was incapable of defending me; but as he could serve us in other ways, I wished to inform him.”
“Of what?”
“Oh, that is not my secret; I must not, therefore, tell you.”
“Besides,” said d’Artagnan, “pardon me, madame, if, guardsman as I am, I remind you of prudence—besides, I believe we are not here in a very proper place for imparting confidences. The men I have put to flight will return reinforced; if they find us here, we are lost. I have sent for three of my friends, but who knows whether they were at home?”
“Yes, yes! You are right,” cried the affrighted Mme. Bonacieux; “let us fly! Let us save ourselves.”
At these words she passed her arm under that of d’Artagnan, and urged him forward eagerly.
“But whither shall we fly—whither escape?”
“Let us first withdraw from this house; afterward we shall see.”
The young woman and the young man, without taking the trouble to shut the door after them, descended the Rue des Fossoyeurs rapidly, turned into the Rue des Fosses-Monsieur-le-Prince, and did not stop till they came to the Place St. Sulpice.
“And now what are we to do, and where do you wish me to conduct you?” asked d’Artagnan.
“I am at quite a loss how to answer you, I admit,” said Mme. Bonacieux. “My intention was to inform Monsieur Laporte, through my husband, in order that Monsieur Laporte might tell us precisely what had taken place at the Louvre in the last three days, and whether there is any danger in presenting myself there.”
“But I,” said d’Artagnan, “can go and inform Monsieur Laporte.”
“No doubt you could, only there is one misfortune, and that is that Monsieur Bonacieux is known at the Louvre, and would be allowed to pass; whereas you are not known there, and the gate would be closed against you.”
“Ah, bah!” said d’Artagnan; “you have at some wicket of the Louvre a CONCIERGE who is devoted to you, and who, thanks to a password, would—”
Mme. Bonacieux looked earnestly at the young man.
“And if I give you this password,” said she, “would you forget it as soon as you used it?”
“By my honor, by the faith of a gentleman!” said d’Artagnan, with an accent so truthful that no one could mistake it.
“Then I believe you. You appear to be a brave young man; besides, your fortune may perhaps be the result of your devotedness.”
“I will do, without a promise and voluntarily, all that I can do to serve the king and be agreeable to the queen. Dispose of me, then, as a friend.”
“But I—where shall I go meanwhile?”
“Is there nobody from whose house Monsieur Laporte can come and fetch you?”
“No, I can trust nobody.”
“Stop,” said d’Artagnan; “we are near Athos’s door. Yes, here it is.”
“Who is this Athos?”
“One of my friends.”
“But if he should be at home and see me?”
“He is not at home, and I will carry away the key, after having placed you in his apartment.”
“But if he should return?”
“Oh, he won’t return; and if he should, he will be told that I have brought a woman with me, and that woman is in his apartment.”
“But that will compromise me sadly, you know.”
“Of what consequence? Nobody knows you. Besides, we are in a situation to overlook ceremony.”
“Come, then, let us go to your friend’s house. Where does he live?”
“Rue Ferou, two steps from here.”
“Let us go!”
Both resumed their way. As d’Artagnan had foreseen, Athos was not within. He took the key, which was customarily given him as one of the family, ascended the stairs, and introduced Mme. Bonacieux into the little apartment of which we have given a description.
“You are at home,” said he. “Remain here, fasten the door inside, and open it to nobody unless you hear three taps like this;” and he tapped thrice—two taps close together and pretty hard, the other after an interval, and lighter.
“That is well,” said Mme. Bonacieux. “Now, in my turn, let me give you my instructions.”
“I am all attention.”
“Present yourself at the wicket of the Louvre, on the side of the Rue de l’Echelle, and ask for Germain.”
“Well, and then?”
“He will ask you what you want, and you will answer by these two words, ‘Tours’ and ‘Bruxelles.’ He will at once put himself at your orders.”
“And what shall I command him?”
“To go and fetch Monsieur Laporte, the queen’s VALET DE CHAMBRE.”
“And when he shall have informed him, and Monsieur Laporte is come?”
“You will send him to me.”
“That is well; but where and how shall I see you again?”
“Do you wish to see me again?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, let that care be mine, and be at ease.”
“I depend upon your word.”
“You may.”
D’Artagnan bowed to Mme. Bonacieux, darting at her the most loving glance that he could possibly concentrate upon her charming little person; and while he descended the stairs, he heard the door closed and double-locked. In two bounds he was at the Louvre; as he entered the wicket of L’Echelle, ten o’clock struck. All the events we have described had taken place within a half hour.
Everything fell out as Mme. Bonacieux prophesied. On hearing the password, Germain bowed. In a few minutes, Laporte was at the lodge; in two words d’Artagnan informed him where Mme. Bonacieux was. Laporte assured himself, by having it twice repeated, of the accurate address, and set off at a run. Hardly, however, had he taken ten steps before he returned.
“Young man,” said he to d’Artagnan, “a suggestion.”
“What?”
“You may get into trouble by what has taken place.”
“You believe so?”
“Yes. Have you any friend whose clock is too slow?”
“Well?”
“Go and call upon him, in order that he may give evidence of your having been with him at half past nine. In a court of justice that is called an alibi.”
D’Artagnan found his advice prudent. He took to his heels, and was soon at M. de Treville’s; but instead of going into the saloon with the rest of the crowd, he asked to be introduced to M. de Treville’s office. As d’Artagnan so constantly frequented the hotel, no difficulty was made in complying with his request, and a servant went to inform M. de Treville that his young compatriot, having something important to communicate, solicited a private audience. Five minutes after, M. de Treville was asking d’Artagnan what he could do to serve him, and what caused his visit at so late an hour.
“Pardon me, monsieur,” said d’Artagnan, who had profited by the moment he had been left alone to put back M. de Treville’s clock three-quarters of an hour, “but I thought, as it was yet only twenty-five minutes past nine, it was not too late to wait upon you.”
“Twenty-five minutes past nine!” cried M. de Treville, looking at the clock; “why, that’s impossible!”
“Look, rather, monsieur,” said d’Artagnan, “the clock shows it.”
“That’s true,” said M. de Treville; “I believed it later. But what can I do for you?”
Then d’Artagnan told M. de Treville a long history about the queen. He expressed to him the fears he entertained with respect to her Majesty; he related to him what he had heard of the projects of the cardinal with regard to Buckingham, and all with a tranquillity and candor of which M. de Treville was the more the dupe, from having himself, as we have said, observed something fresh between the cardinal, the king, and the queen.
As ten o’clock was striking, d’Artagnan left M. de Treville, who thanked him for his information, recommended him to have the service of the king and queen always at heart, and returned to the saloon; but at the foot of the stairs, d’Artagnan remembered he had forgotten his cane. He consequently sprang up again, re-entered the office, with a turn of his finger set the clock right again, that it might not be perceived the next day that it had been put wrong, and certain from that time that he had a witness to prove his alibi, he ran downstairs and soon found himself in the street.
At two o’clock in the morning, our four adventurers left Paris by the Barriere St. Denis. As long as it was dark they remained silent; in spite of themselves they submitted to the influence of the obscurity, and apprehended ambushes on every side.
With the first rays of day their tongues were loosened; with the sun gaiety revived. It was like the eve of a battle; the heart beat, the eyes laughed, and they felt that the life they were perhaps going to lose, was, after all, a good thing.
Besides, the appearance of the caravan was formidable. The black horses of the Musketeers, their martial carriage, with the regimental step of these noble companions of the soldier, would have betrayed the most strict incognito. The lackeys followed, armed to the teeth.
All went well till they arrived at Chantilly, which they reached about eight o’clock in the morning. They needed breakfast, and alighted at the door of an AUBERGE, recommended by a sign representing St. Martin giving half his cloak to a poor man. They ordered the lackeys not to unsaddle the horses, and to hold themselves in readiness to set off again immediately.
They entered the common hall, and placed themselves at table. A gentleman, who had just arrived by the route of Dammartin, was seated at the same table, and was breakfasting. He opened the conversation about rain and fine weather; the travelers replied. He drank to their good health, and the travelers returned his politeness.
But at the moment Mousqueton came to announce that the horses were ready, and they were arising from table, the stranger proposed to Porthos to drink the health of the cardinal. Porthos replied that he asked no better if the stranger, in his turn, would drink the health of the king. The stranger cried that he acknowledged no other king but his Eminence. Porthos called him 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 the fellow, and rejoin us as soon as you can.”
All three remounted 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.
“There goes one!” cried Athos, at the end of five hundred paces.
“But why did that man attack Porthos rather than any other one of us?” asked Aramis.
“Because, as Porthos was talking louder than the rest of us, he took him for the chief,” said d’Artagnan.
“I always said that this cadet from Gascony was a well of wisdom,” murmured Athos; and the travelers continued their route.
At Beauvais they stopped two hours, as well to breathe their horses a little as to wait for Porthos. At the end of two hours, as Porthos did not come, not any 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 filling up the ruts with mud.
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 laborers began to jeer the travelers and by their insolence disturbed the equanimity even of the cool Athos, who urged on his horse against one of them.
Then each of these men retreated as far as the ditch, from which each took a concealed musket; the result was that our seven travelers were outnumbered in weapons. Aramis received a ball which passed through his shoulder, and Mousqueton another ball which lodged in the fleshy part which prolongs the lower portion of the loins. Therefore Mousqueton alone fell from his horse, not because he was severely wounded, but not being able to see the wound, he judged it to be more serious than it really was.
“It was an ambuscade!” shouted d’Artagnan. “Don’t waste a charge! 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 will serve us for a relay,” said Athos.
“I would rather have had a hat,” said d’Artagnan. “Mine was carried away by a ball. By my faith, it is very fortunate that the letter was not in it.”
“They’ll kill poor Porthos when he comes up,” said Aramis.
“If Porthos were on his legs, he would have rejoined us by this time,” said Athos. “My opinion is that on the ground the drunken man was not intoxicated.”
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 travelers had chosen crossroads in the hope that they might meet with less interruption; but at Crevecoeur, 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 more pale every minute, and they were obliged to support him on his horse. They lifted him off at the door of a cabaret, 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.
“MORBLEU,” said Athos, as soon as they were again in motion, “reduced to two masters and Grimaud and Planchet! MORBLEU! I won’t be their dupe, I will answer for it. I will neither open my mouth nor draw my sword between this and Calais. I swear by—”
“Don’t waste time in swearing,” said d’Artagnan; “let us gallop, if our horses will consent.”
And the travelers buried their rowels in their horses’ flanks, who thus vigorously stimulated recovered their energies. They arrived at Amiens at midnight, and alighted at the AUBERGE of the Golden Lily.
The host had the appearance of as honest a man as any on earth. He received the travelers with his candlestick in one hand and his cotton nightcap in the other. He wished to lodge the two travelers each in a charming chamber; but unfortunately these charming chambers were at the opposite extremities of the hotel. d’Artagnan and Athos refused them. The host replied that he had no other worthy of their Excellencies; but the travelers declared they would sleep in the common chamber, each on a mattress which might be thrown upon the ground. The host insisted; but the travelers were firm, and he was obliged to do as they wished.
They had just prepared their beds and barricaded their door within, when someone knocked at the yard shutter; they demanded who was there, and recognizing the voices of their lackeys, opened the shutter. It was indeed Planchet and Grimaud.
“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 reach you.”
“And on what will you sleep?” said d’Artagnan.
“Here is my bed,” replied Planchet, producing a bundle of straw.
“Come, then,” said d’Artagnan, “you are right. Mine host’s face does not please me at all; it is too gracious.”
“Nor me either,” said Athos.
Planchet mounted by the window and installed himself across the doorway, while Grimaud went and shut himself up in the stable, undertaking that by five o’clock in the morning he and the four horses should be ready.
The night was quiet enough. Toward two o’clock in the morning somebody endeavored to open the door; but as Planchet awoke in an instant and cried, “Who goes there?” somebody replied that he was mistaken, and went away.
At four o’clock in the morning they heard a terrible riot in the stables. Grimaud had tried to waken the stable boys, and the stable boys had beaten him. When they opened the window, they saw the poor lad lying senseless, with his head split by a blow with a pitchfork.
Planchet went down into the yard, and wished to saddle the horses; but the horses were all used up. Mousqueton’s horse which had traveled for five or six hours without a rider the day before, might have been able to pursue the journey; but by an inconceivable error the 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 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 neighborhood. At the door stood two horses, fresh, strong, and fully equipped. These would just have suited them. He asked where their masters were, and was informed that they had passed the night in the inn, and were then settling their bill with the host.
Athos went down to pay the reckoning, while d’Artagnan and Planchet stood at the street door. The host was in a lower and back room, 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 forgers.
“You blackguard!” cried Athos, going toward him, “I’ll cut your ears off!”
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.
D’Artagnan and Planchet did not require twice bidding; they unfastened the two horses that were waiting at the door, leaped upon them, buried their spurs in their sides, and set off at full gallop.
“Do you know what has become of Athos?” asked d’Artagnan of Planchet, as they galloped on.
“Ah, monsieur,” said Planchet, “I saw one fall at each of his two shots, and he appeared to me, through the glass door, to be fighting with his sword with the others.”
“Brave Athos!” murmured d’Artagnan, “and to think that we are compelled to leave him; maybe the same fate awaits us two paces hence. Forward, Planchet, forward! You are a brave fellow.”
“As I told you, monsieur,” replied Planchet, “Picards are found out by being used. Besides, I am here in my own country, and that excites me.”
And both, with free use of the spur, arrived at St. Omer without drawing bit. At St. Omer they breathed their horses with the bridles passed under their arms for fear of accident, and ate a morsel from their hands on the stones of the street, after they departed again.
At a hundred paces from the gates of Calais, d’Artagnan’s horse gave out, and could not by any means be made to get up again, the blood flowing from his eyes and his nose. There still remained Planchet’s horse; but he stopped short, and could not be made to move a step.
Fortunately, as we have said, they were within a hundred paces of the city; they left their two nags upon the high road, and ran toward the quay. Planchet called his master’s attention to a gentleman who had just arrived with his lackey, and only preceded them by about fifty paces. They made all speed to come up to this gentleman, who appeared to be in great haste. His boots were covered with dust, and he inquired if he could not instantly cross over to England.
“Nothing would be more easy,” said the captain of a vessel ready to set sail, “but this morning came an order to let no one leave without express permission from the cardinal.”
“I have that permission,” said the gentleman, drawing the paper from his pocket; “here it is.”
“Have it examined by the governor of the port,” said the shipmaster, “and give me the preference.”
“Where shall I find the governor?”
“At his country house.”
“And that is situated?”
“At a quarter of a league from the city. Look, you may see it from here—at the foot of that little hill, that slated roof.”
“Very well,” said the gentleman. And, with his lackey, he took the road to the governor’s country house.
D’Artagnan and Planchet followed the gentleman at a distance of five hundred paces. Once outside the city, d’Artagnan overtook the gentleman as he was entering a little wood.
“Monsieur, you appear to be in great haste?”
“No one can be more so, monsieur.”
“I am sorry for that,” said d’Artagnan; “for as I am in great haste likewise, I wish to beg you to render me a service.”
“What?”
“To let me sail first.”
“That’s impossible,” said the gentleman; “I have traveled sixty leagues in forty hours, and by tomorrow at midday I must be in London.”
“I have performed that same distance in forty hours, and by ten o’clock in the morning I must be in London.”
“Very sorry, monsieur; but I was here first, and will not sail second.”
“I am sorry, too, monsieur; but I arrived second, and must sail first.”
“The king’s service!” said the gentleman.
“My own service!” said d’Artagnan.
“But this is a needless quarrel you seek with me, as it seems to me.”
“PARBLEU! What do you desire it to be?”
“What do you want?”
“Would you like to know?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, then, I wish that order of which you are bearer, seeing that I have not one of my own and must have one.”
“You jest, I presume.”
“I never jest.”
“Let me pass!”
“You shall not pass.”
“My brave young man, I will blow out your brains. HOLA, Lubin, my pistols!”
“Planchet,” called out d’Artagnan, “take care of the lackey; I will manage the master.”
Planchet, emboldened by the first exploit, sprang upon Lubin; and being strong and vigorous, he soon got him on the broad of his back, and placed his knee upon his breast.
“Go on with your affair, monsieur,” cried Planchet; “I have finished mine.”
Seeing this, the gentleman drew his sword, and sprang upon d’Artagnan; but he had too strong an adversary. In three seconds d’Artagnan had wounded him three times, exclaiming at each thrust, “One for Athos, one for Porthos; and one for Aramis!”
At the third hit the gentleman fell like a log. D’Artagnan believed him to be dead, or at least insensible, and went toward him for the purpose of taking the order; but the moment he extended his hand to search for it, the wounded man, who had not dropped his sword, plunged the point into d’Artagnan’s breast, crying, “One for you!”
“And one for me—the best for last!” cried d’Artagnan, furious, nailing him to the earth with a fourth thrust through his body.
This time the gentleman closed his eyes and fainted. D’Artagnan searched his pockets, and took from one of them the order for the passage. It was in the name of Comte de Wardes.
Then, casting a glance on the handsome young man, who was scarcely twenty-five years of age, and whom he was leaving in his gore, deprived of sense and perhaps dead, he gave a sigh for that unaccountable destiny which leads men to destroy each other for the interests of people who are strangers to them and who often do not even know that they exist. But he was soon aroused from these reflections by Lubin, who uttered loud cries and screamed for help with all his might.
Planchet grasped him by the throat, and pressed as hard as he could. “Monsieur,” said he, “as long as I hold him in this manner, he can’t cry, I’ll be bound; but as soon as I let go he will howl again. I know him for a Norman, and Normans are obstinate.”
In fact, tightly held as he was, Lubin endeavored still to cry out.
“Stay!” said d’Artagnan; and taking out his handkerchief, he gagged him.
“Now,” said Planchet, “let us bind him to a tree.”
This being properly done, they drew the Comte de Wardes close to his servant; and as night was approaching, and as the wounded man and the bound man were at some little distance within the wood, it was evident they were likely to remain there till the next day.
“And now,” said d’Artagnan, “to the Governor’s.”
“But you are wounded, it seems,” said Planchet.
“Oh, that’s nothing! Let us attend to what is more pressing first, and then we will attend to my wound; besides, it does not seem very dangerous.”
And they both set forward as fast as they could toward the country house of the worthy functionary.
The Comte de Wardes was announced, and d’Artagnan was introduced.
“You have an order signed by the cardinal?” said the governor.
“Yes, monsieur,” replied d’Artagnan; “here it is.”
“Ah, ah! It is quite regular and explicit,” said the governor.
“Most likely,” said d’Artagnan; “I am one of his most faithful servants.”
“It appears that his Eminence is anxious to prevent someone from crossing to England?”
“Yes; a certain d’Artagnan, a Bearnese gentleman who left Paris in company with three of his friends, with the intention of going to London.”
“Do you know him personally?” asked the governor.
“Whom?”
“This d’Artagnan.”
“Perfectly well.”
“Describe him to me, then.”
“Nothing more easy.”
And d’Artagnan gave, feature for feature, a description of the Comte de Wardes.
“Is he accompanied?”
“Yes; by a lackey named Lubin.”
“We will keep a sharp lookout for them; and if we lay hands on them his Eminence may be assured they will be reconducted to Paris under a good escort.”
“And by doing so, Monsieur the Governor,” said d’Artagnan, “you will deserve well of the cardinal.”
“Shall you see him on your return, Monsieur Count?”
“Without a doubt.”
“Tell him, I beg you, that I am his humble servant.”
“I will not fail.”
Delighted with this assurance the governor countersigned the passport and delivered it to d’Artagnan. D’Artagnan lost no time in useless compliments. He thanked the governor, bowed, and departed. Once outside, he and Planchet set off as fast as they could; and by making a long detour avoided the wood and reentered the city by another gate.
The vessel was quite ready to sail, and the captain was waiting on the wharf. “Well?” said he, on perceiving d’Artagnan.
“Here is my pass countersigned,” said the latter.
“And that other gentleman?
“He will not go today,” said d’Artagnan; “but here, I’ll pay you for us two.”
“In that case let us go,” said the shipmaster.
“Let us go,” repeated d’Artagnan.
He leaped with Planchet into the boat, and five minutes after they were on board. It was time; for they had scarcely sailed half a league, when d’Artagnan saw a flash and heard a detonation. It was the cannon which announced the closing of the port.
He had now leisure to look to his wound. Fortunately, as d’Artagnan had thought, it was not dangerous. The point of the sword had touched a rib, and glanced along the bone. Still further, his shirt had stuck to the wound, and he had lost only a few drops of blood.
D’Artagnan was worn out with fatigue. A mattress was laid upon the deck for him. He threw himself upon it, and fell asleep.
On the morrow, at break of day, they were still three or four leagues from the coast of England. The breeze had been so light all night, they had made but little progress. At ten o’clock the vessel cast anchor in the harbor of Dover, and at half past ten d’Artagnan placed his foot on English land, crying, “Here I am at last!”
But that was not all; they must get to London. In England the post was well served. D’Artagnan and Planchet took each a post horse, and a postillion rode before them. In a few hours they were in the capital.
D’Artagnan did not know London; he did not know a word of English; but he wrote the name of Buckingham on a piece of paper, and everyone pointed out to him the way to the duke’s hotel.
The duke was at Windsor hunting with the king. D’Artagnan inquired for the confidential valet of the duke, who, having accompanied him in all his voyages, spoke French perfectly well; he told him that he came from Paris on an affair of life and death, and that he must speak with his master instantly.
The confidence with which d’Artagnan spoke convinced Patrick, which was the name of this minister of the minister. He ordered two horses to be saddled, and himself went as guide to the young Guardsman. As for Planchet, he had been lifted from his horse as stiff as a rush; the poor lad’s strength was almost exhausted. d’Artagnan seemed iron.
On their arrival at the castle they learned that Buckingham and the king were hawking in the marshes two or three leagues away. In twenty minutes they were on the spot named. Patrick soon caught the sound of his master’s voice calling his falcon.
“Whom must I announce to my Lord Duke?” asked Patrick.
“The young man who one evening sought a quarrel with him on the Pont Neuf, opposite the Samaritaine.”
“A singular introduction!”
“You will find that it is as good as another.”
Patrick galloped off, reached the duke, and announced to him in the terms directed that a messenger awaited him.
Buckingham at once remembered the circumstance, and suspecting that something was going on in France of which it was necessary he should be informed, he only took the time to inquire where the messenger was, and recognizing from afar the uniform of the Guards, he put his horse into a gallop, and rode straight up to d’Artagnan. Patrick discreetly kept in the background.
“No misfortune has happened to the queen?” cried Buckingham, the instant he came up, throwing all his fear and love into the question.
“I believe not; nevertheless I believe she runs some great peril from which your Grace alone can extricate her.”
“I!” cried Buckingham. “What is it? I should be too happy to be of any service to her. Speak, speak!”
“Take this letter,” said d’Artagnan.
“This letter! From whom comes this letter?”
“From her Majesty, as I think.”
“From her Majesty!” said Buckingham, becoming so pale that d’Artagnan feared he would faint as he broke the seal.
“What is this rent?” said he, showing d’Artagnan a place where it had been pierced through.
“Ah,” said d’Artagnan, “I did not see that; it was the sword of the Comte de Wardes which made that hole, when he gave me a good thrust in the breast.”
“You are wounded?” asked Buckingham, as he opened the letter.
“Oh, nothing but a scratch,” said d’Artagnan.
“Just heaven, what have I read?” cried the duke. “Patrick, remain here, or rather join the king, wherever he may be, and tell his Majesty that I humbly beg him to excuse me, but an affair of the greatest importance recalls me to London. Come, monsieur, come!” and both set off towards the capital at full gallop.
Instead of returning directly home, d’Artagnan alighted at the door of M. de Treville, and ran quickly up the stairs. This time he had decided to relate all that had passed. M. de Treville would doubtless give him good advice as to the whole affair. Besides, as M. de Treville saw the queen almost daily, he might be able to draw from her Majesty some intelligence of the poor young woman, whom they were doubtless making pay very dearly for her devotedness to her mistress.
M. de Treville listened to the young man’s account with a seriousness which proved that he saw something else in this adventure besides a love affair. When d’Artagnan had finished, he said, “Hum! All this savors of his Eminence, a league off.”
“But what is to be done?” said d’Artagnan.
“Nothing, absolutely nothing, at present, but quitting Paris, as I told you, as soon as possible. I will see the queen; I will relate to her the details of the disappearance of this poor woman, of which she is no doubt ignorant. These details will guide her on her part, and on your return, I shall perhaps have some good news to tell you. Rely on me.”
D’Artagnan knew that, although a Gascon, M. de Treville was not in the habit of making promises, and that when by chance he did promise, he more than kept his word. He bowed to him, then, full of gratitude for the past and for the future; and the worthy captain, who on his side felt a lively interest in this young man, so brave and so resolute, pressed his hand kindly, wishing him a pleasant journey.
Determined to put the advice of M. de Treville in practice instantly, d’Artagnan directed his course toward the Rue des Fossoyeurs, in order to superintend the packing of his valise. On approaching the house, he perceived M. Bonacieux in morning costume, standing at his threshold. All that the prudent Planchet had said to him the preceding evening about the sinister character of the old man recurred to the mind of d’Artagnan, who looked at him with more attention than he had done before. In fact, in addition to that yellow, sickly paleness which indicates the insinuation of the bile in the blood, and which might, besides, be accidental, d’Artagnan remarked something perfidiously significant in the play of the wrinkled features of his countenance. A rogue does not laugh in the same way that an honest man does; a hypocrite does not shed the tears of a man of good faith. All falsehood is a mask; and however well made the mask may be, with a little attention we may always succeed in distinguishing it from the true face.
It appeared, then, to d’Artagnan that M. Bonacieux wore a mask, and likewise that that mask was most disagreeable to look upon. In consequence of this feeling of repugnance, he was about to pass without speaking to him, but, as he had done the day before, M. Bonacieux accosted him.
“Well, young man,” said he, “we appear to pass rather gay nights! Seven o’clock in the morning! PESTE! You seem to reverse ordinary customs, and come home at the hour when other people are going out.”
“No one can reproach you for anything of the kind, Monsieur Bonacieux,” said the young man; “you are a model for regular people. It is true that when a man possesses a young and pretty wife, he has no need to seek happiness elsewhere. Happiness comes to meet him, does it not, Monsieur Bonacieux?”
Bonacieux became as pale as death, and grinned a ghastly smile.
“Ah, ah!” said Bonacieux, “you are a jocular companion! But where the devil were you gladding last night, my young master? It does not appear to be very clean in the crossroads.”
D’Artagnan glanced down at his boots, all covered with mud; but that same glance fell upon the shoes and stockings of the mercer, and it might have been said they had been dipped in the same mud heap. Both were stained with splashes of mud of the same appearance.
Then a sudden idea crossed the mind of d’Artagnan. That little stout man, short and elderly, that sort of lackey, dressed in dark clothes, treated without ceremony by the men wearing swords who composed the escort, was Bonacieux himself. The husband had presided at the abduction of his wife.
A terrible inclination seized d’Artagnan to grasp the mercer by the throat and strangle him; but, as we have said, he was a very prudent youth, and he restrained himself. However, the revolution which appeared upon his countenance was so visible that Bonacieux was terrified at it, and he endeavored to draw back a step or two; but as he was standing before the half of the door which was shut, the obstacle compelled him to keep his place.
“Ah, but you are joking, my worthy man!” said d’Artagnan. “It appears to me that if my boots need a sponge, your stockings and shoes stand in equal need of a brush. May you not have been philandering a little also, Monsieur Bonacieux? Oh, the devil! That’s unpardonable in a man of your age, and who besides, has such a pretty wife as yours.”
“Oh, Lord! no,” said Bonacieux, “but yesterday I went to St. Mande to make some inquiries after a servant, as I cannot possibly do without one; and the roads were so bad that I brought back all this mud, which I have not yet had time to remove.”
The place named by Bonacieux as that which had been the object of his journey was a fresh proof in support of the suspicions d’Artagnan had conceived. Bonacieux had named Mande because Mande was in an exactly opposite direction from St. Cloud. This probability afforded him his first consolation. If Bonacieux knew where his wife was, one might, by extreme means, force the mercer to open his teeth and let his secret escape. The question, then, was how to change this probability into a certainty.
“Pardon, my dear Monsieur Bonacieux, if I don’t stand upon ceremony,” said d’Artagnan, “but nothing makes one so thirsty as want of sleep. I am parched with thirst. Allow me to take a glass of water in your apartment; you know that is never refused among neighbors.”
Without waiting for the permission of his host, d’Artagnan went quickly into the house, and cast a rapid glance at the bed. It had not been used. Bonacieux had not been abed. He had only been back an hour or two; he had accompanied his wife to the place of her confinement, or else at least to the first relay.
“Thanks, Monsieur Bonacieux,” said d’Artagnan, emptying his glass, “that is all I wanted of you. I will now go up into my apartment. I will make Planchet brush my boots; and when he has done, I will, if you like, send him to you to brush your shoes.”
He left the mercer quite astonished at his singular farewell, and asking himself if he had not been a little inconsiderate.
At the top of the stairs he found Planchet in a great fright.