The Man in the Iron Mask by Alexandre Dumas (read 50 shades of grey .txt) 📗

growing old,—they will say I have received a million to allow Fouquet to escape!” And he again dug his spurs into the sides of his horse: he had ridden astonishingly fast. Suddenly, at the extremity of some open pasture-ground, behind the hedges, he saw a white form which showed itself, disappeared, and at last remained distinctly visible against the rising ground. D’Artagnan’s heart leaped with joy. He wiped the streaming sweat from his brow, relaxed the tension of his knees,—by which the horse breathed more freely,—and, gathering up his reins, moderated the speed of the vigorous animal, his active accomplice on this man-hunt. He had then time to study the direction of the road, and his position with regard to Fouquet. The superintendent had completely winded his horse by crossing the soft ground. He felt the necessity of gaining a firmer footing, and turned towards the road by the shortest secant line. D’Artagnan, on his part, had nothing to do but to ride straight on, concealed by the sloping shore; so that he would cut his quarry off the road when he came up with him. Then the real race would begin,—then the struggle would be in earnest.

D’Artagnan gave his horse good breathing-time. He observed that the superintendent had relaxed into a trot, which was to say, he, too, was favoring his horse. But both of them were too much pressed for time to allow them to continue long at that pace. The white horse sprang off like an arrow the moment his feet touched firm ground. D’Artagnan dropped his head, and his black horse broke into a gallop. Both followed the same route; the quadruple echoes of this new race-course were confounded. Fouquet had not yet perceived D’Artagnan. But on issuing from the slope, a single echo struck the air; it was that of the steps of D’Artagnan’s horse, which rolled along like thunder. Fouquet turned round, and saw behind him, within a hundred paces, his enemy bent over the neck of his horse. There could be no doubt—the shining baldrick, the red cassock—it was a musketeer. Fouquet slackened his hand likewise, and the white horse placed twenty feet more between his adversary and himself.

“Oh, but,” thought D’Artagnan, becoming very anxious, “that is not a common horse M. Fouquet is upon—let us see!” And he attentively examined with his infallible eye the shape and capabilities of the courser. Round full quarters—a thin long tail—large hocks—thin legs, as dry as bars of steel—hoofs hard as marble. He spurred his own, but the distance between the two remained the same. D’Artagnan listened attentively; not a breath of the horse reached him, and yet he seemed to cut the air. The black horse, on the contrary, began to puff like any blacksmith’s bellows.

“I must overtake him, if I kill my horse,” thought the musketeer; and he began to saw the mouth of the poor animal, whilst he buried the rowels of his merciless spurs into his sides. The maddened horse gained twenty toises, and came up within pistol-shot of Fouquet.

“Courage!” said the musketeer to himself, “courage! the white horse will perhaps grow weaker, and if the horse does not fall, the master must pull up at last.” But horse and rider remained upright together, gaining ground by difficult degrees. D’Artagnan uttered a wild cry, which made Fouquet turn round, and added speed to the white horse.

“A famous horse! a mad rider!” growled the captain. “Hola! mordioux! Monsieur Fouquet! stop! in the king’s name!” Fouquet made no reply.

“Do you hear me?” shouted D’Artagnan, whose horse had just stumbled.

“Pardieu!” replied Fouquet, laconically; and rode on faster.

D’Artagnan was nearly mad; the blood rushed boiling to his temples and his eyes. “In the king’s name!” cried he again, “stop, or I will bring you down with a pistol-shot!”

“Do!” replied Fouquet, without relaxing his speed.

D’Artagnan seized a pistol and cocked it, hoping that the double click of the spring would stop his enemy. “You have pistols likewise,” said he, “turn and defend yourself.”

Fouquet did turn round at the noise, and looking D’Artagnan full in the face, opened, with his right hand, the part of his dress which concealed his body, but he did not even touch his holsters. There were not more than twenty paces between the two.

“Mordioux!” said D’Artagnan, “I will not assassinate you; if you will not fire upon me, surrender! what is a prison?”

“I would rather die!” replied Fouquet; “I shall suffer less.”

D’Artagnan, drunk with despair, hurled his pistol to the ground. “I will take you alive!” said he; and by a prodigy of skill which this incomparable horseman alone was capable, he threw his horse forward to within ten paces of the white horse; already his hand was stretched out to seize his prey.

“Kill me! kill me!” cried Fouquet, “‘twould be more humane!”

“No! alive—alive!” murmured the captain.

At this moment his horse made a false step for the second time, and Fouquet’s again took the lead. It was an unheard-of spectacle, this race between two horses which now only kept alive by the will of their riders. It might be said that D’Artagnan rode, carrying his horse along between his knees. To the furious gallop had succeeded the fast trot, and that had sunk to what might be scarcely called a trot at all. But the chase appeared equally warm in the two fatigued athletoe. D’Artagnan, quite in despair, seized his second pistol, and cocked it.

“At your horse! not at you!” cried he to Fouquet. And he fired. The animal was hit in the quarters—he made a furious bound, and plunged forward. At that moment D’Artagnan’s horse fell dead.

“I am dishonored!” thought the musketeer; “I am a miserable wretch! for pity’s sake, M. Fouquet, throw me one of your pistols, that I may blow out my brains!” But Fouquet rode away.

“For mercy’s sake! for mercy’s sake!” cried D’Artagnan; “that which you will not do at this moment, I myself will do within an hour, but here, upon this road, I should die bravely; I should die esteemed; do me that service, M. Fouquet!”

M. Fouquet made no reply, but continued to trot on. D’Artagnan began to run after his enemy. Successively he threw away his hat, his coat, which embarrassed him, and then the sheath of his sword, which got between his legs as he was running. The sword in his hand itself became too heavy, and he threw it after the sheath. The white horse began to rattle in its throat; D’Artagnan gained upon him. From a trot the exhausted animal sunk to a staggering walk—the foam from his mouth was mixed with blood. D’Artagnan made a desperate effort, sprang towards Fouquet, and seized him by the leg, saying in a broken, breathless voice, “I arrest you in the king’s name! blow my brains out, if you like; we have both done our duty.”

Fouquet hurled far from him, into the river, the two pistols D’Artagnan might have seized, and dismounting from his horse—“I am your prisoner, monsieur,” said he; “will you take my arm, for I see you are ready to faint?”

“Thanks!” murmured D’Artagnan, who, in fact, felt the earth sliding from under his feet, and the light of day turning to blackness around him; then he rolled upon the sand, without breath or strength. Fouquet hastened to the brink of the river, dipped some water in his hat, with which he bathed the temples of the musketeer, and