Louise de la Valliere by Alexandre Dumas (best sales books of all time TXT) 📗

“I? What for?”

“For having forgotten you. But I assure you my head seems utterly lost. If you only knew!”

“You have killed him?”

“Who?”

“Saint-Aignan; or, if that is not the case, what is the matter?”

“The matter is, that Monsieur le Comte de la Fere has by this time been arrested.”

Porthos gave a start that would have thrown down a wall.

“Arrested!” he cried out; “by whom?”

“By D’Artagnan.”

“It is impossible,” said Porthos.

“My dear friend, it is perfectly true.”

Porthos turned towards Grimaud, as if he needed a second confirmation of the intelligence.

Grimaud nodded his head. “And where have they taken him?”

“Probably to the Bastile.”

“What makes you think that?”

“As we came along we questioned some persons, who saw the carriage pass; and others who saw it enter the Bastile.”

“Oh!” muttered Porthos.

“What do you intend to do?” inquired Raoul.

“I? Nothing; only I will not have Athos remain at the Bastile.”

“Do you know,” said Raoul, advancing nearer to Porthos, “that the arrest was made by order of the king?”

Porthos looked at the young man, as if to say, “What does that matter to me?” This dumb language seemed so eloquent of meaning to Raoul that he did not ask any other question. He mounted his horse again; and Porthos, assisted by Grimaud, had already done the same.

“Let us arrange our plan of action,” said Raoul.

“Yes,” returned Porthos, “that is the best thing we can do.”

Raoul sighed deeply, and then paused suddenly.

“What is the matter?” asked Porthos; “are you faint?”

“No, only I feel how utterly helpless our position is. Can we three pretend to go and take the Bastile?”

“Well, if D’Artagnan were only here,” replied Porthos, “I am not so very certain we would fail.”

Raoul could not resist a feeling of admiration at the sight of such perfect confidence, heroic in its simplicity. These were truly the celebrated men who, by three or four, attacked armies and assaulted castles! Men who had terrified death itself, who had survived the wrecks of a tempestuous age, and still stood, stronger than the most robust of the young.

“Monsieur,” said he to Porthos, “you have just given me an idea; we absolutely must see M. d’Artagnan.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“He ought by this time to have returned home, after having taken my father to the Bastile. Let us go to his house.”

“First inquire at the Bastile,” said Grimaud, who was in the habit of speaking little, but that to the purpose.

Accordingly, they hastened towards the fortress, when one of those chances which Heaven bestows on men of strong will caused Grimaud suddenly to perceive the carriage, which was entering by the great gate of the drawbridge. This was the moment that D’Artagnan was, as we have seen, returning from his visit to the king. In vain was it that Raoul urged on his horse in order to join the carriage, and to see whom it contained. The horses had already gained the other side of the great gate, which again closed, while one of the sentries struck the nose of Raoul’s horse with his musket; Raoul turned about, only too happy to find he had ascertained something respecting the carriage which had contained his father.

“We have him,” said Grimaud.

“If we wait a little it is certain he will leave; don’t you think so, my friend?”

“Unless, indeed, D’Artagnan also be a prisoner,” replied Porthos, “in which case everything is lost.”

Raoul returned no answer, for any hypothesis was admissible. He instructed Grimaud to lead the horses to the little street Jean-Beausire, so as to give rise to less suspicion, and himself with his piercing gaze watched for the exit either of D’Artagnan or the carriage. Nor had he decided wrongly; for twenty minutes had not elapsed before the gate reopened and the carriage reappeared. A dazzling of the eyes prevented Raoul from distinguishing what figures occupied the interior. Grimaud averred that he had seen two persons, and that one of them was his master. Porthos kept looking at Raoul and Grimaud by turns, in the hope of understanding their idea.

“It is clear,” said Grimaud, “that if the comte is in the carriage, either he is set at liberty or they are taking him to another prison.”

“We shall soon see that by the road he takes,” answered Porthos.

“If he is set at liberty,” said Grimaud, “they will conduct him home.”

“True,” rejoined Porthos.

“The carriage does not take that way,” cried Raoul; and indeed the horses were just disappearing down the Faubourg St. Antoine.

“Let us hasten,” said Porthos; “we will attack the carriage on the road and tell Athos to flee.”

“Rebellion,” murmured Raoul.

Porthos darted a second glance at Raoul, quite worthy of the first. Raoul replied only by spurring the flanks of his steed. In a few moments the three cavaliers had overtaken the carriage, and followed it so closely that their horses’ breath moistened the back of it. D’Artagnan, whose senses were ever on the alert, heard the trot of the horses, at the moment when Raoul was telling Porthos to pass the chariot, so as to see who was the person accompanying Athos. Porthos complied, but could not see anything, for the blinds were lowered. Rage and impatience were gaining mastery over Raoul. He had just noticed the mystery preserved by Athos’s companion, and determined on proceeding to extremities. On his part D’Artagnan had perfectly recognized Porthos, and Raoul also, from under the blinds, and had communicated to the comte the result of his observation. They were desirous only of seeing whether Raoul and Porthos would push the affair to the uttermost. And this they speedily did, for Raoul, presenting his pistol, threw himself on the leader, commanding the coachmen to stop. Porthos seized the coachman, and dragged him from his seat. Grimaud already had hold of the carriage door. Raoul threw open his arms, exclaiming, “M. le comte! M. le comte!”

“Ah! is it you, Raoul?” said Athos, intoxicated with joy.

“Not bad, indeed!” added D’Artagnan, with a burst of laughter, and they both embraced the young man and Porthos, who had taken possession of them.

“My brave Porthos! best of friends,” cried Athos, “it is still