The Man in the Iron Mask, Alexandre Dumas [the best motivational books TXT] 📗
- Author: Alexandre Dumas
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“It is a pack of hounds,” said Porthos; “the dogs are on a scent.”
“Who can be hunting at such a moment as this?” said Aramis.
“And this way, particularly,” continued Porthos, “where they might expect the army of the royalists.”
“The noise comes nearer. Yes, you are right, Porthos, the dogs are on a scent. But, Yves!” cried Aramis, “come here! come here!”
Yves ran towards him, letting fall the cylinder which he was about to place under the boat when the bishop’s call interrupted him.
“What is the meaning of this hunt, skipper?” said Porthos.
“Eh! monseigneur, I cannot understand it,” replied the Breton. “It is not at such a moment that the Seigneur de Locmaria would hunt. No, and yet the dogs—”
“Unless they have escaped from the kennel.”
“No,” said Goenne, “they are not the Seigneur de Locmaria’s hounds.”
“In common prudence,” said Aramis, “let us go back into the grotto; the voices evidently draw nearer, we shall soon know what we have to trust to.”
They re-entered, but had scarcely proceeded a hundred steps in the darkness, when a noise like the hoarse sigh of a creature in distress resounded through the cavern, and breathless, rapid, terrified, a fox passed like a flash of lightning before the fugitives, leaped over the boat and disappeared, leaving behind its sour scent, which was perceptible for several seconds under the low vaults of the cave.
“The fox!” cried the Bretons, with the glad surprise of born hunters.
“Accursed mischance!” cried the bishop, “our retreat is discovered.”
“How so?” said Porthos; “are you afraid of a fox?”
“Eh! my friend, what do you mean by that? why do you specify the fox? It is not the fox alone. Pardieu! But don’t you know, Porthos, that after the foxes come hounds, and after hounds men?”
Porthos hung his head. As though to confirm the words of Aramis, they heard the yelping pack approach with frightful swiftness upon the trail. Six foxhounds burst at once upon the little heath, with mingling yelps of triumph.
“There are the dogs, plain enough!” said Aramis, posted on the look-out behind a chink in the rocks; “now, who are the huntsmen?”
“If it is the Seigneur de Locmaria’s,” replied the sailor, “he will leave the dogs to hunt the grotto, for he knows them, and will not enter in himself, being quite sure that the fox will come out the other side; it is there he will wait for him.”
“It is not the Seigneur de Locmaria who is hunting,” replied Aramis, turning pale in spite of his efforts to maintain a placid countenance.
“Who is it, then?” said Porthos.
“Look!”
Porthos applied his eye to the slit, and saw at the summit of a hillock a dozen horsemen urging on their horses in the track of the dogs, shouting, “Taiaut! taiaut!”
“The guards!” said he.
“Yes, my friend, the king’s guards.”
“The king’s guards! do you say, monseigneur?” cried the Bretons, growing pale in turn.
“With Biscarrat at their head, mounted upon my gray horse,” continued Aramis.
The hounds at the same moment rushed into the grotto like an avalanche, and the depths of the cavern were filled with their deafening cries.
“Ah! the devil!” said Aramis, resuming all his coolness at the sight of this certain, inevitable danger. “I am perfectly satisfied we are lost, but we have, at least, one chance left. If the guards who follow their hounds happen to discover there is an issue to the grotto, there is no help for us, for on entering they must see both ourselves and our boat. The dogs must not go out of the cavern. Their masters must not enter.”
“That is clear,” said Porthos.
“You understand,” added Aramis, with the rapid precision of command; “there are six dogs that will be forced to stop at the great stone under which the fox has glided—but at the too narrow opening of which they must be themselves stopped and killed.”
The Bretons sprang forward, knife in hand. In a few minutes there was a lamentable concert of angry barks and mortal howls—and then, silence.
“That’s well!” said Aramis, coolly, “now for the masters!”
“What is to be done with them?” said Porthos.
“Wait their arrival, conceal ourselves, and kill them.”
“Kill them!” replied Porthos.
“There are sixteen,” said Aramis, “at least, at present.”
“And well armed,” added Porthos, with a smile of consolation.
“It will last about ten minutes,” said Aramis. “To work!”
And with a resolute air he took up a musket, and placed a hunting-knife between his teeth.
“Yves, Goenne, and his son,” continued Aramis, “will pass the muskets to us. You, Porthos, will fire when they are close. We shall have brought down, at the lowest computation, eight, before the others are aware of anything—that is certain; then all, there are five of us, will dispatch the other eight, knife in hand.”
“And poor Biscarrat?” said Porthos.
Aramis reflected a moment—“Biscarrat first,” replied he, coolly. “He knows us.”
Chapter XLVIII. The Grotto.
In spite of the sort of divination which was the remarkable side of the character of Aramis, the event, subject to the risks of things over which uncertainty presides, did not fall out exactly as the bishop of Vannes had foreseen. Biscarrat, better mounted than his companions, arrived first at the opening of the grotto, and comprehended that fox and hounds were one and all engulfed in it. Only, struck by that superstitious terror which every dark and subterraneous way naturally impresses upon the mind of man, he stopped at the outside of the grotto, and waited till his companions should have assembled round him.
“Well!” asked the young men, coming up, out of breath, and unable to understand the meaning of this inaction.
“Well! I cannot hear the dogs; they and the fox must all be lost in this infernal cavern.”
“They were too close up,” said one of the guards, “to have lost scent all at once. Besides, we should hear them from one side or another. They must, as Biscarrat says, be in this grotto.”
“But then,” said one of the young men, “why don’t they give tongue?”
“It is strange!” muttered another.
“Well, but,” said a fourth, “let us go into this grotto. Does it happen to be forbidden we should enter it?”
“No,” replied Biscarrat. “Only, as it looks as dark as a wolf’s mouth, we might break our necks in it.”
“Witness the dogs,” said a guard, “who seem to have broken theirs.”
“What the devil can have become of them?” asked the young men in chorus. And every master called his dog by his name, whistled to him in his favorite mode, without a single one replying to either call or whistle.
“It is perhaps an enchanted grotto,” said Biscarrat; “let us see.” And, jumping from his horse, he made a step into the grotto.
“Stop! stop! I will accompany you,” said one of the guards, on seeing Biscarrat disappear in the shades of the cavern’s mouth.
“No,” replied Biscarrat, “there must be something extraordinary in the place—don’t let us risk ourselves all at once. If in ten minutes you do not hear of me, you can come in, but not all at once.”
“Be it so,” said the young man, who, besides, did not imagine that Biscarrat ran much risk in the enterprise, “we will wait for you.” And without dismounting from their horses, they formed a circle round the grotto.
Biscarrat entered then alone, and advanced through the darkness till he came in contact with the muzzle of Porthos’s musket. The resistance which his chest met with astonished him; he naturally raised his hand and laid hold of the icy barrel. At the same instant, Yves lifted a knife against the young man, which was about to fall upon him with all force of a Breton’s arm, when the iron wrist of Porthos stopped it half-way. Then, like low muttering thunder, his voice growled in the darkness, “I will not have him killed!”
Biscarrat found himself between a protection and a threat, the one almost as terrible as the other. However brave the young man might be, he could not prevent a cry escaping him, which Aramis immediately suppressed by placing a handkerchief over his mouth. “Monsieur de Biscarrat,” said he, in a low voice, “we mean you no harm, and you must know that if you have recognized us; but, at the first word, the first groan, the first whisper, we shall be forced to kill you as we have killed your dogs.”
“Yes, I recognize you, gentlemen,” said the officer, in a low voice. “But why are you here—what are you doing, here? Unfortunate men! I thought you were in the fort.”
“And you, monsieur, you were to obtain conditions for us, I think?”
“I did all I was able, messieurs, but—”
“But what?”
“But there are positive orders.”
“To kill us?”
Biscarrat made no reply. It would have cost him too much to speak of the cord to gentlemen. Aramis understood the silence of the prisoner.
“Monsieur Biscarrat,” said he, “you would be already dead if we had not regard for your youth and our ancient association with your father; but you may yet escape from the place by swearing that you will not tell your companions what you have seen.”
“I will not only swear that I will not speak of it,” said Biscarrat, “but I still further swear that I will do everything in the world to prevent my companions from setting foot in the grotto.”
“Biscarrat! Biscarrat!” cried several voices from the outside, coming like a whirlwind into the cave.
“Reply,” said Aramis.
“Here I am!” cried Biscarrat.
“Now, begone; we depend on your loyalty.” And he left his hold of the young man, who hastily returned towards the light.
“Biscarrat! Biscarrat!” cried the voices, still nearer. And the shadows of several human forms projected into the interior of the grotto. Biscarrat rushed to meet his friends in order to stop them, and met them just as they were adventuring into the cave. Aramis and Porthos listened with the intense attention of men whose life depends upon a breath of air.
“Oh! oh!” exclaimed one of the guards, as he came to the light, “how pale you are!”
“Pale!” cried another; “you ought to say corpse-color.”
“I!” said the young man, endeavoring to collect his faculties.
“In the name of Heaven! what has happened?” exclaimed all the voices.
“You have not a drop of blood in your veins, my poor friend,” said one of them, laughing.
“Messieurs, it is serious,” said another, “he is going to faint; does any one of you happen to have any salts?” And they all laughed.
This hail of jests fell round Biscarrat’s ears like musket-balls in a melee. He recovered himself amidst a deluge of interrogations.
“What do you suppose I have seen?” asked he. “I was too hot when I entered the grotto, and I have been struck with a chill. That is all.”
“But the dogs, the dogs; have you seen them again—did you see anything of them—do you know anything about them?”
“I suppose they have got out some other way.”
“Messieurs,” said one of the young men, “there is in that which is going on, in the paleness and silence of our friend, a mystery which Biscarrat will not, or cannot reveal. Only, and this is certain, Biscarrat has seen something in the grotto. Well, for my part, I am very curious to see what it is, even if it is the devil! To the grotto! messieurs, to the grotto!”
“To the grotto!” repeated all the voices. And the echo of the cavern carried like a menace to Porthos and Aramis, “To the grotto! to the
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