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- Author: Alexandre Dumas
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“I, who this day am ruined by a single error, M. d’Artagnan.”
“What, in the name of Heaven, is that?”
“I should have had you for a friend! But how shall we return to Nantes? We are a great way from it.”
“That is true,” said D’Artagnan, gloomily.
“The white horse will recover, perhaps; he is a good horse! Mount, Monsieur d’Artagnan; I will walk till you have rested a little.”
“Poor beast! and wounded, too?” said the musketeer.
“He will go, I tell you; I know him; but we can do better still, let us both get up, and ride slowly.”
“We can try,” said the captain. But they had scarcely charged the animal with this double load, when he began to stagger, and then with a great effort walked a few minutes, then staggered again, and sank down dead by the side of the black horse, which he had just managed to come up to.
“We will go on foot—destiny wills it so—the walk will be pleasant,” said Fouquet, passing his arm through that of D’Artagnan.
“Mordioux!” cried the latter, with a fixed eye, a contracted brow, and a swelling heart—“What a disgraceful day!”
They walked slowly the four leagues which separated them from the little wood behind which the carriage and escort were in waiting. When Fouquet perceived that sinister machine, he said to D’Artagnan, who cast down his eyes, ashamed of Louis XIV., “There is an idea that did not emanate from a brave man, Captain d’Artagnan; it is not yours. What are these gratings for?” said he.
“To prevent your throwing letters out.”
“Ingenious!”
“But you can speak, if you cannot write,” said D’Artagnan.
“Can I speak to you?”
“Why, certainly, if you wish to do so.”
Fouquet reflected for a moment, then looking the captain full in the face, “One single word,” said he; “will you remember it?”
“I will not forget it.”
“Will you speak it to whom I wish?”
“I will.”
“Saint-Mande,” articulated Fouquet, in a low voice.
“Well! and for whom?”
“For Madame de Belliere or Pelisson.”
“It shall be done.”
The carriage rolled through Nantes, and took the route to Angers.
Chapter XLI. In Which the Squirrel Falls,—the Adder Flies.
It was two o’clock in the afternoon. The king, full of impatience, went to his cabinet on the terrace, and kept opening the door of the corridor, to see what his secretaries were doing. M. Colbert, seated in the same place M. de Saint-Aignan had so long occupied in the morning, was chatting in a low voice with M. de Brienne. The king opened the door suddenly, and addressed them. “What is it you are saying?”
“We were speaking of the first sitting of the States,” said M. de Brienne, rising.
“Very well,” replied the king, and returned to his room.
Five minutes after, the summons of the bell recalled Rose, whose hour it was.
“Have you finished your copies?” asked the king.
“Not yet, sire.”
“See if M. d’Artagnan has returned.”
“Not yet, sire.”
“It is very strange,” murmured the king. “Call M. Colbert.”
Colbert entered; he had been expecting this all the morning.
“Monsieur Colbert,” said the king, very sharply; “you must ascertain what has become of M. d’Artagnan.”
Colbert in his calm voice replied, “Where does your majesty desire him to be sought for?”
“Eh! monsieur! do you not know on what I have sent him?” replied Louis, acrimoniously.
“Your majesty did not inform me.”
“Monsieur, there are things that must be guessed; and you, above all, are apt to guess them.”
“I might have been able to imagine, sire; but I do not presume to be positive.”
Colbert had not finished these words when a rougher voice than that of the king interrupted the interesting conversation thus begun between the monarch and his clerk.
“D’Artagnan!” cried the king, with evident joy.
D’Artagnan, pale and in evidently bad humor, cried to the king, as he entered, “Sire, is it your majesty who has given orders to my musketeers?”
“What orders?” said the king.
“About M. Fouquet’s house?”
“None!” replied Louis.
“Ha!” said D’Artagnan, biting his mustache; “I was not mistaken, then; it was monsieur here;” and he pointed to Colbert.
“What orders? Let me know,” said the king.
“Orders to turn the house topsy-turvy, to beat M. Fouquet’s servants, to force the drawers, to give over a peaceful house to pillage! Mordioux! these are savage orders!”
“Monsieur!” said Colbert, turning pale.
“Monsieur,” interrupted D’Artagnan, “the king alone, understand,—the king alone has a right to command my musketeers; but, as to you, I forbid you to do it, and I tell you so before his majesty; gentlemen who carry swords do not sling pens behind their ears.”
“D’Artagnan! D’Artagnan!” murmured the king.
“It is humiliating,” continued the musketeer; “my soldiers are disgraced. I do not command reitres, thank you, nor clerks of the intendant, mordioux!”
“Well! but what is all this about?” said the king with authority.
“About this, sire; monsieur—monsieur, who could not guess your majesty’s orders, and consequently could not know I was gone to arrest M. Fouquet; monsieur, who has caused the iron cage to be constructed for his patron of yesterday—has sent M. de Roncherolles to the lodgings of
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