The Man in the Iron Mask by Alexandre Dumas (read 50 shades of grey .txt) 📗
- Author: Alexandre Dumas
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“Yes, and which terminates at the little creek by a trench where we discovered the day that splendid fox escaped that way.”
“Precisely. In case of misfortunes, a bark is to be concealed for us in that cavern; indeed, it must be there by this time. We will wait for a favorable moment, and during the night we will go to sea!”
“That is a grand idea. What shall we gain by it?”
“We shall gain this—nobody knows that grotto, or rather its issue, except ourselves and two or three hunters of the island; we shall gain this—that if the island is occupied, the scouts, seeing no bark upon the shore, will never imagine we can escape, and will cease to watch.”
“I understand.”
“Well! that weakness in the legs?”
“Oh! better, much, just now.”
“You see, then, plainly, that everything conspires to give us quietude and hope. D’Artagnan will sweep the sea and leave us free. No royal fleet or descent to be dreaded. Vive Dieu! Porthos, we have still half a century of magnificent adventure before us, and if I once touch Spanish ground, I swear to you,” added the bishop with terrible energy, “that your brevet of duke is not such a chance as it is said to be.”
“We live by hope,” said Porthos, enlivened by the warmth of his companion.
All at once a cry resounded in their ears: “To arms! to arms!”
This cry, repeated by a hundred throats, piercing the chamber where the two friends were conversing, carried surprise to one, and uneasiness to the other. Aramis opened the window; he saw a crowd of people running with flambeaux. Women were seeking places of safety, the armed population were hastening to their posts.
“The fleet! the fleet!” cried a soldier, who recognized Aramis.
“The fleet?” repeated the latter.
“Within half cannon-shot,” continued the soldier.
“To arms!” cried Aramis.
“To arms!” repeated Porthos, formidably. And both rushed forth towards the mole to place themselves within the shelter of the batteries. Boats, laden with soldiers, were seen approaching; and in three directions, for the purpose of landing at three points at once.
“What must be done?” said an officer of the guard.
“Stop them; and if they persist, fire!” said Aramis.
Five minutes later, the cannonade commenced. These were the shots that D’Artagnan had heard as he landed in France. But the boats were too near the mole to allow the cannon to aim correctly. They landed, and the combat commenced hand to hand.
“What’s the matter, Porthos?” said Aramis to his friend.
“Nothing! nothing!—only my legs; it is really incomprehensible!—they will be better when we charge.” In fact, Porthos and Aramis did charge with such vigor, and so thoroughly animated their men, that the royalists re-embarked precipitately, without gaining anything but the wounds they carried away.
“Eh! but Porthos,” cried Aramis, “we must have a prisoner, quick! quick!” Porthos bent over the stair of the mole, and seized by the nape of the neck one of the officers of the royal army who was waiting to embark till all his people should be in the boat. The arm of the giant lifted up his prey, which served him as a buckler, and he recovered himself without a shot being fired at him.
“Here is a prisoner for you,” said Porthos coolly to Aramis.
“Well!” cried the latter, laughing, “did you not calumniate your legs?”
“It was not with my legs I captured him,” said Porthos, “it was with my arms!”
Chapter XLVI. The Son of Biscarrat.
The Bretons of the Isle were very proud of this victory; Aramis did not encourage them in the feeling.
“What will happen,” said he to Porthos, when everybody was gone home, “will be that the anger of the king will be roused by the account of the resistance; and that these brave people will be decimated or shot when they are taken, which cannot fail to take place.”
“From which it results, then,” said Porthos, “that what we have done is of not the slightest use.”
“For the moment it may be,” replied the bishop, “for we have a prisoner from whom we shall learn what our enemies are preparing to do.”
“Yes, let us interrogate the prisoner,” said Porthos, “and the means of making him speak are very simple. We are going to supper; we will invite him to join us; as he drinks he will talk.”
This was done. The officer was at first rather uneasy, but became reassured on seeing what sort of men he had to deal with. He gave, without having any fear of compromising himself, all the details imaginable of the resignation and departure of D’Artagnan. He explained how, after that departure, the new leader of the expedition had ordered a surprise upon Belle-Isle. There his explanations stopped. Aramis and Porthos exchanged a glance that evinced their despair. No more dependence to be placed now on D’Artagnan’s fertile imagination—no further resource in the event of defeat. Aramis, continuing his interrogations, asked the prisoner what the leaders of the expedition contemplated doing with the leaders of Belle-Isle.
“The orders are,” replied he, “to kill during combat, or hang afterwards.”
Porthos and Aramis looked at each other again, and the color mounted to their faces.
“I am too light for the gallows,” replied Aramis; “people like me are not hung.”
“And I am too heavy,” said Porthos; “people like me break the cord.”
“I am sure,” said the prisoner, gallantly, “that we could have guaranteed you the exact kind of death you preferred.”
“A thousand thanks!” said Aramis, seriously. Porthos bowed.
“One more cup of wine to your health,” said he, drinking himself. From one subject to another the chat with the officer was prolonged. He was an intelligent gentleman, and suffered himself to be led on by the charm of Aramis’s wit and Porthos’s cordial bonhomie.
“Pardon me,” said he, “if I address a question to you; but men who are in their sixth bottle have a clear right to forget themselves
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