Twenty Years After by Alexandre Dumas (good story books to read txt) 📕
Read free book «Twenty Years After by Alexandre Dumas (good story books to read txt) 📕» - read online or download for free at americanlibrarybooks.com
- Author: Alexandre Dumas
Read book online «Twenty Years After by Alexandre Dumas (good story books to read txt) 📕». Author - Alexandre Dumas
“From pure zeal?” resumed Mazarin, with his artful smile; “from pure zeal and devotion then?”
“My lord has, perhaps, no faith in those words?” said D’Artagnan.
“Have you, Monsieur le Gascon?” asked Mazarin, supporting his elbows on his desk and his chin on his hands.
“I,” replied the Gascon, “I believe in devotion as a word at one’s baptism, for instance, which naturally comes before one’s proper name; every one is naturally more or less devout, certainly; but there should be at the end of one’s devotion something to gain.”
“And your friend, for instance; what does he expect to have at the end of his devotion?”
“Well, my lord, my friend has three magnificent estates: that of Vallon, at Corbeil; that of Bracieux, in the Soissonais; and that of Pierrefonds, in the Valois. Now, my lord, he would like to have one of his three estates erected into a barony.”
“Only that?” said Mazarin, his eyes twinkling with joy on seeing that he could pay for Porthos’s devotion without opening his purse; “only that? That can be managed.”
“I shall be baron!” explained Porthos, stepping forward.
“I told you so,” said D’Artagnan, checking him with his hand; “and now his eminence confirms it.”
“And you, Monsieur D’Artagnan, what do you want?”
“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, “it is twenty years since Cardinal de Richelieu made me lieutenant.”
“Yes, and you would be gratified if Cardinal Mazarin should make you captain.”
D’Artagnan bowed.
“Well, that is not impossible. We will see, gentlemen, we will see. Now, Monsieur de Vallon,” said Mazarin, “what service do you prefer, in the town or in the country?”
Porthos opened his mouth to reply.
“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, “Monsieur de Vallon is like me, he prefers service extraordinary--that is to say, enterprises that are considered mad and impossible.”
That boastfulness was not displeasing to Mazarin; he fell into meditation.
“And yet,” he said, “I must admit that I sent for you to appoint you to quiet service; I have certain apprehensions--well, what is the meaning of that?”
In fact, a great noise was heard in the ante-chamber; at the same time the door of the study was burst open and a man, covered with dust, rushed into it, exclaiming:
“My lord the cardinal! my lord the cardinal!”
Mazarin thought that some one was going to assassinate him and he drew back, pushing his chair on the castors. D’Artagnan and Porthos moved so as to plant themselves between the person entering and the cardinal.
“Well, sir,” exclaimed Mazarin, “what’s the matter? and why do you rush in here, as if you were about to penetrate a crowded market-place?”
“My lord,” replied the messenger, “I wish to speak to your eminence in secret. I am Monsieur du Poins, an officer in the guards, on duty at the donjon of Vincennes.”
Mazarin, perceiving by the paleness and agitation of the messenger that he had something of importance to say, made a sign that D’Artagnan and Porthos should give place.
D’Artagnan and Porthos withdrew to a corner of the cabinet.
“Speak, monsieur, speak at once!” said Mazarin “What is the matter?”
“The matter is, my lord, that the Duc de Beaufort has contrived to escape from the Chateau of Vincennes.”
Mazarin uttered a cry and became paler than the man who had brought the news. He fell back, almost fainting, in his chair.
“Escaped? Monsieur de Beaufort escaped?”
“My lord, I saw him run off from the top of the terrace.”
“And you did not fire on him?”
“He was out of range.”
“Monsieur de Chavigny--where was he?”
“Absent.”
“And La Ramee?”
“Was found locked up in the prisoner’s room, a gag in his mouth and a poniard near him.”
“But the man who was under him?”
“Was an accomplice of the duke’s and escaped along with him.”
Mazarin groaned.
“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, advancing toward the cardinal, “it seems to me that your eminence is losing precious time. It may still be possible to overtake the prisoner. France is large; the nearest frontier is sixty leagues distant.”
“And who is to pursue him?” cried Mazarin.
“I, pardieu!”
“And you would arrest him?”
“Why not?”
“You would arrest the Duc de Beaufort, armed, in the field?”
“If your eminence should order me to arrest the devil, I would seize him by the horns and would bring him in.”
“So would I,” said Porthos.
“So would you!” said Mazarin, looking with astonishment at those two men. “But the duke will not yield himself without a furious battle.”
“Very well,” said D’Artagnan, his eyes aflame, “battle! It is a long time since we have had a battle, eh, Porthos?”
“Battle!” cried Porthos.
“And you think you can catch him?”
“Yes, if we are better mounted than he.”
“Go then, take what guards you find here, and pursue him.”
“You command us, my lord, to do so?”
“And I sign my orders,” said Mazarin, taking a piece of paper and writing some lines; “Monsieur du Vallon, your barony is on the back of the Duc de Beaufort’s horse; you have nothing to do but to overtake it. As for you, my dear lieutenant, I promise you nothing; but if you bring him back to me, dead or alive, you may ask all you wish.”
“To horse, Porthos!” said D’Artagnan, taking his friend by the hand.
“Here I am,” smiled Porthos, with his sublime composure.
They descended the great staircase, taking with them all the guards they found on their road, and crying out, “To arms! To arms!” and immediately put spur to horse, which set off along the Rue Saint Honore with the speed of the whirlwind.
“Well, baron, I promise you some good exercise!” said the Gascon.
“Yes, my captain.”
As they went, the citizens, awakened, left their doors and the street dogs followed the cavaliers, barking. At the corner of the Cimetiere Saint Jean, D’Artagnan upset a man; it was too insignificant an occurrence to delay people so eager to get on. The troop continued its course as though their steeds had wings.
Alas! there are no unimportant events in this world and we shall see that this apparently slight incident came near endangering the monarchy.
The musketeers rode the whole length of the Faubourg Saint Antoine and of the road to Vincennes, and soon found themselves out of the town, then in a forest and then within sight of a village.
The horses seemed to become more lively with each successive step; their nostrils reddened like glowing furnaces. D’Artagnan, freely applying his spurs, was in advance of Porthos two feet at the most; Mousqueton followed two lengths behind; the guards were scattered according to the varying excellence of their respective mounts.
From the top of an eminence D’Artagnan perceived a group of people collected on the other side of the moat, in front of that part of the donjon which looks toward Saint Maur. He rode on, convinced that in this direction he would gain intelligence of the fugitive. In five minutes he had arrived at the place, where the guards joined him, coming up one by one.
The several members of that group were much excited. They looked at the cord, still hanging from the loophole and broken at about twenty feet from the ground. Their eyes measured the height and they exchanged conjectures. On the top of the wall sentinels went and came with a frightened air.
A few soldiers, commanded by a sergeant, drove away idlers from the place where the duke had mounted his horse. D’Artagnan went straight to the sergeant.
“My officer,” said the sergeant, “it is not permitted to stop here.”
“That prohibition is not for me,” said D’Artagnan. “Have the fugitives been pursued?”
“Yes, my officer; unfortunately, they are well mounted.”
“How many are there?”
“Four, and a fifth whom they carried away wounded.”
“Four!” said D’Artagnan, looking at Porthos. “Do you hear, baron? They are only four!”
A joyous smile lighted Porthos’s face.
“How long a start have they?”
“Two hours and a quarter, my officer.”
“Two hours and a quarter--that is nothing; we are well mounted, are we not, Porthos?”
Porthos breathed a sigh; he thought of what was in store for his poor horses.
“Very good,” said D’Artagnan; “and now in what direction did they set out?”
“That I am forbidden to tell.”
D’Artagnan drew from his pocket a paper. “Order of the king,” he said.
“Speak to the governor, then.”
“And where is the governor?”
“In the country.”
Anger mounted to D’Artagnan’s face; he frowned and his cheeks were colored.
“Ah, you scoundrel!” he said to the sergeant, “I believe you are impudent to me! Wait!”
He unfolded the paper, presented it to the sergeant with one hand and with the other took a pistol from his holsters and cocked it.
“Order of the king, I tell you. Read and answer, or I will blow out your brains!”
The sergeant saw that D’Artagnan was in earnest. “The Vendomois road,” he replied.
“And by what gate did they go out?”
“By the Saint Maur gate.”
“If you are deceiving me, rascal, you will be hanged to-morrow.”
“And if you catch up with them you won’t come back to hang me,” murmured the sergeant.
D’Artagnan shrugged his shoulders, made a sign to his escort and started.
“This way, gentlemen, this way!” he cried, directing his course toward the gate that had been pointed out.
But, now that the duke had escaped, the concierge had seen fit to fasten the gate with a double lock. It was necessary to compel him to open it, as the sergeant had been compelled to speak, and this took another ten minutes. This last obstacle having been overcome, the troop pursued their course with their accustomed ardor; but some of the horses could no longer sustain this pace; three of them stopped after an hour’s gallop, and one fell down.
D’Artagnan, who never turned his head, did not perceive it. Porthos told him of it in his calm manner.
“If only we two arrive,” said D’Artagnan, “it will be enough, since the duke’s troop are only four in number.”
“That is true,” said Porthos
And he spurred his courser on.
At the end of another two hours the horses had gone twelve leagues without stopping; their legs began to tremble, and the foam they shed whitened the doublets of their masters.
“Let us rest here an instant to give these poor creatures breathing time,” said Porthos.
“Let us rather kill them! yes, kill them!” cried D’Artagnan; “I see fresh tracks; ‘tis not a quarter of an hour since they passed this place.”
In fact, the road was trodden by horses’ feet, visible even in the approaching gloom of evening.
They set out; after a run of two leagues, Mousqueton’s horse sank.
“Gracious me!” said Porthos, “there’s Phoebus ruined.”
“The cardinal will pay you a hundred pistoles.”
“I’m above that.”
“Let us set out again, at full gallop.”
“Yes, if we can.”
But at last the lieutenant’s horse refused to go on; he could not breathe; one last spur, instead of making him advance, made him fall.
“The devil!” exclaimed Porthos; “there’s Vulcan foundered.”
“Zounds!” cried D’Artagnan, “then we must stop! Give me your horse, Porthos. What the devil are you doing?”
“By Jove, I am falling, or rather, Bayard is falling,” answered Porthos.
All three then cried: “All’s over.”
“Hush!” said D’Artagnan.
“What is it?”
“I hear a horse.”
“It belongs to one of our companions, who is overtaking us.”
“No,” said D’Artagnan, “it is in advance.”
“That is another thing,” said Porthos; and he listened toward the quarter indicated by D’Artagnan.
“Monsieur,” said Mousqueton, who, abandoning his horse on the high road, had come on foot to rejoin his master, “Phoebus could no longer hold out and----”
“Silence!” said Porthos.
In fact, at
Comments (0)