Twenty Years After by Alexandre Dumas (good story books to read txt) 📕
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- Author: Alexandre Dumas
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“It is five hundred feet from here, in advance,” said D’Artagnan.
“True, monsieur,” said Mousqueton; “and five hundred feet from here is a small hunting-house.”
“Mousqueton, thy pistols,” said D’Artagnan.
“I have them at hand, monsieur.”
“Porthos, take yours from your holsters.”
“I have them.”
“Good!” said D’Artagnan, seizing his own; “now you understand, Porthos?”
“Not too well.”
“We are out on the king’s service.”
“Well?”
“For the king’s service we need horses.”
“That is true,” said Porthos.
“Then not a word, but set to work!”
They went on through the darkness, silent as phantoms; they saw a light glimmering in the midst of some trees.
“Yonder is the house, Porthos,” said the Gascon; “let me do what I please and do you what I do.”
They glided from tree to tree till they arrived at twenty steps from the house unperceived and saw by means of a lantern suspended under a hut, four fine horses. A groom was rubbing them down; near them were saddles and bridles.
D’Artagnan approached quickly, making a sign to his two companions to remain a few steps behind.
“I buy those horses,” he said to the groom.
The groom turned toward him with a look of surprise, but made no reply.
“Didn’t you hear, fellow?”
“Yes, I heard.”
“Why, then, didn’t you reply?”
“Because these horses are not to be sold,” was the reply.
“I take them, then,” said the lieutenant.
And he took hold of one within his reach; his two companions did the same thing.
“Sir,” cried the groom, “they have traversed six leagues and have only been unsaddled half an hour.”
“Half an hour’s rest is enough,” replied the Gascon.
The groom cried aloud for help. A kind of steward appeared, just as D’Artagnan and his companions were prepared to mount. The steward attempted to expostulate.
“My dear friend,” cried the lieutenant, “if you say a word I will blow out your brains.”
“But, sir,” answered the steward, “do you know that these horses belong to Monsieur de Montbazon?”
“So much the better; they must be good animals, then.”
“Sir, I shall call my people.”
“And I, mine; I’ve ten guards behind me, don’t you hear them gallop? and I’m one of the king’s musketeers. Come, Porthos; come, Mousqueton.”
They all mounted the horses as quickly as possible.
“Halloo! hi! hi!” cried the steward; “the house servants, with the carbines!”
“On! on!” cried D’Artagnan; “there’ll be firing! on!”
They all set off, swift as the wind.
“Here!” cried the steward, “here!” whilst the groom ran to a neighboring building.
“Take care of your horses!” cried D’Artagnan to him.
“Fire!” replied the steward.
A gleam, like a flash of lightning, illumined the road, and with the flash was heard the whistling of balls, which were fired wildly in the air.
“They fire like grooms,” said Porthos. “In the time of the cardinal people fired better than that, do you remember the road to Crevecoeur, Mousqueton?”
“Ah, sir! my left side still pains me!”
“Are you sure we are on the right track, lieutenant?”
“Egad, didn’t you hear? these horses belong to Monsieur de Montbazon; well, Monsieur de Montbazon is the husband of Madame de Montbazon----”
“And----”
“And Madame de Montbazon is the mistress of the Duc de Beaufort.”
“Ah! I understand,” replied Porthos; “she has ordered relays of horses.”
“Exactly so.”
“And we are pursuing the duke with the very horses he has just left?”
“My dear Porthos, you are really a man of most superior understanding,” said D’Artagnan, with a look as if he spoke against his conviction.
“Pooh!” replied Porthos, “I am what I am.”
They rode on for an hour, till the horses were covered with foam and dust.
“Zounds! what is yonder?” cried D’Artagnan.
“You are very lucky if you see anything such a night as this,” said Porthos.
“Something bright.”
“I, too,” cried Mousqueton, “saw them also.”
“Ah! ah! have we overtaken them?”
“Good! a dead horse!” said D’Artagnan, pulling up his horse, which shied; “it seems their horses, too, are breaking down, as well as ours.”
“I seem to hear the noise of a troop of horsemen,” exclaimed Porthos, leaning over his horse’s mane.
“Impossible.”
“They appear to be numerous.”
“Then ‘tis something else.”
“Another horse!” said Porthos.
“Dead?”
“No, dying.”
“Saddled?”
“Yes, saddled and bridled.”
“Then we are upon the fugitives.”
“Courage, we have them!”
“But if they are numerous,” observed Mousqueton, “‘tis not we who have them, but they who have us.”
“Nonsense!” cried D’Artagnan, “they’ll suppose us to be stronger than themselves, as we’re in pursuit; they’ll be afraid and will disperse.”
“Certainly,” remarked Porthos.
“Ah! do you see?” cried the lieutenant.
“The lights again! this time I, too, saw them,” said Porthos.
“On! on! forward! forward!” cried D’Artagnan, in his stentorian voice; “we shall laugh over all this in five minutes.”
And they darted on anew. The horses, excited by pain and emulation, raced over the dark road, in the midst of which was now seen a moving mass, denser and more obscure than the rest of the horizon.
They rode on in this way for ten minutes. Suddenly two dark forms seemed to separate from the mass, advanced, grew in size, and as they loomed up larger and larger, assumed the appearance of two horsemen.
“Aha!” cried D’Artagnan, “they’re coming toward us.”
“So much the worse for them,” said Porthos.
“Who goes there?” cried a hoarse voice.
The three horsemen made no reply, stopped not, and all that was heard was the noise of swords drawn from the scabbards and the cocking of the pistols with which the two phantoms were armed.
“Bridle in mouth!” said D’Artagnan.
Porthos understood him and he and the lieutenant each drew with the left hand a pistol from their bolsters and cocked it in their turn.
“Who goes there?” was asked a second time. “Not a step forward, or you’re dead men.”
“Stuff!” cried Porthos, almost choked with dust and chewing his bridle as a horse chews his bit. “Stuff and nonsense; we have seen plenty of dead men in our time.”
Hearing these words, the two shadows blockaded the road and by the light of the stars might be seen the shining of their arms.
“Back!” shouted D’Artagnan, “or you are dead!”
Two shots were the reply to this threat; but the assailants attacked their foes with such velocity that in a moment they were upon them; a third pistol-shot was heard, aimed by D’Artagnan, and one of his adversaries fell. As for Porthos, he assaulted the foe with such violence that, although his sword was thrust aside, the enemy was thrown off his horse and fell about ten steps from it.
“Finish, Mouston, finish the work!” cried Porthos. And he darted on beside his friend, who had already begun a fresh pursuit.
“Well?” said Porthos.
“I’ve broken my man’s skull,” cried D’Artagnan. “And you----”
“I’ve only thrown the fellow down, but hark!”
Another shot of a carbine was heard. It was Mousqueton, who was obeying his master’s command.
“On! on!” cried D’Artagnan; “all goes well! we have the first throw.”
“Ha! ha!” answered Porthos, “behold, other players appear.”
And in fact, two other cavaliers made their appearance, detached, as it seemed, from the principal group; they again disputed the road.
This time the lieutenant did not wait for the opposite party to speak.
“Stand aside!” he cried; “stand off the road!”
“What do you want?” asked a voice.
“The duke!” Porthos and D’Artagnan roared out both at once.
A burst of laughter was the answer, but finished with a groan. D’Artagnan had, with his sword, cut in two the poor wretch who had laughed.
At the same time Porthos and his adversary fired on each other and D’Artagnan turned to him.
“Bravo! you’ve killed him, I think.”
“No, wounded his horse only.”
“What would you have, my dear fellow? One doesn’t hit the bull’s-eye every time; it is something to hit inside the ring. Ho! parbleau! what is the matter with my horse?”
“Your horse is falling,” said Porthos, reining in his own.
In truth, the lieutenant’s horse stumbled and fell on his knees; then a rattling in his throat was heard and he lay down to die. He had received in the chest the bullet of D’Artagnan’s first adversary. D’Artagnan swore loud enough to be heard in the skies.
“Does your honor want a horse?” asked Mousqueton.
“Zounds! want one!” cried the Gascon.
“Here’s one, your honor----”
“How the devil hast thou two horses?” asked D’Artagnan, jumping on one of them.
“Their masters are dead! I thought they might be useful, so I took them.”
Meantime Porthos had reloaded his pistols.
“Be on the qui vive!” cried D’Artagnan. “Here are two other cavaliers.”
As he spoke, two horsemen advanced at full speed.
“Ho! your honor!” cried Mousqueton, “the man you upset is getting up.”
“Why didn’t thou do as thou didst to the first man?” said Porthos.
“I held the horses, my hands were full, your honor.”
A shot was fired that moment; Mousqueton shrieked with pain.
“Ah, sir! I’m hit in the other side! exactly opposite the other! This hurt is just the fellow of the one I had on the road to Amiens.”
Porthos turned around like a lion, plunged on the dismounted cavalier, who tried to draw his sword; but before it was out of the scabbard, Porthos, with the hilt of his had struck him such a terrible blow on the head that he fell like an ox beneath the butcher’s knife.
Mousqueton, groaning, slipped from his horse, his wound not allowing him to keep the saddle.
On perceiving the cavaliers, D’Artagnan had stopped and charged his pistol afresh; besides, his horse, he found, had a carbine on the bow of the saddle.
“Here I am!” exclaimed Porthos. “Shall we wait, or shall we charge?”
“Let us charge them,” answered the Gascon.
“Charge!” cried Porthos.
They spurred on their horses; the other cavaliers were only twenty steps from them.
“For the king!” cried D’Artagnan.
“The king has no authority here!” answered a deep voice, which seemed to proceed from a cloud, so enveloped was the cavalier in a whirlwind of dust.
“‘Tis well, we will see if the king’s name is not a passport everywhere,” replied the Gascon.
“See!” answered the voice.
Two shots were fired at once, one by D’Artagnan, the other by the adversary of Porthos. D’Artagnan’s ball took off his enemy’s hat. The ball fired by Porthos’s foe went through the throat of his horse, which fell, groaning.
“For the last time, where are you going?”
“To the devil!” answered D’Artagnan.
“Good! you may be easy, then--you’ll get there.”
D’Artagnan then saw a musket-barrel leveled at him; he had no time to draw from his holsters. He recalled a bit of advice which Athos had once given him, and made his horse rear.
The ball struck the animal full in front. D’Artagnan felt his horse giving way under him and with his wonderful agility threw himself to one side.
“Ah! this,” cried the voice, the tone of which was at once polished and jeering, “this is nothing but a butchery of horses and not a combat between men. To the sword, sir! the sword!”
And he jumped off his horse.
“To the swords! be it so!” replied D’Artagnan; “that is exactly what I want.”
D’Artagnan, in two steps, was engaged with the foe, whom, according to custom, he attacked impetuously, but he met this time with a skill and a strength of arm that gave him pause. Twice he was obliged to step back; his opponent stirred not one inch. D’Artagnan returned and again attacked him.
Twice or thrice thrusts were attempted on both sides, without effect; sparks were emitted from the swords like water spouting
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