Twenty Years After, Alexandre Dumas [top 100 books to read TXT] 📗
- Author: Alexandre Dumas
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“So you know beforehand you must perish!” said D’Artagnan.
“We fear so, and our only regret is to die so far from both of you.”
“What will you do in a foreign land, an enemy’s country?”
“I traveled in England when I was young, I speak English like an Englishman, and Aramis, too, knows something of the language. Ah! if we had you, my friends! With you, D’Artagnan, with you, Porthos--all four reunited for the first time for twenty years--we would dare not only England, but the three kingdoms put together!”
“And did you promise the queen,” resumed D’Artagnan, petulantly, “to storm the Tower of London, to kill a hundred thousand soldiers, to fight victoriously against the wishes of the nation and the ambition of a man, and when that man is Cromwell? Do not exaggerate your duty. In Heaven’s name, my dear Athos, do not make a useless sacrifice. When I see you merely, you look like a reasonable being; when you speak, I seem to have to do with a madman. Come, Porthos, join me; say frankly, what do you think of this business?”
“Nothing good,” replied Porthos.
“Come,” continued D’Artagnan, who, irritated that instead of listening to him Athos seemed to be attending to his own thoughts, “you have never found yourself the worse for my advice. Well, then, believe me, Athos, your mission is ended, and ended nobly; return to France with us.”
“Friend,” said Athos, “our resolution is irrevocable.”
“Then you have some other motive unknown to us?”
Athos smiled and D’Artagnan struck his hands together in anger and muttered the most convincing reasons that he could discover; but to all these reasons Athos contented himself by replying with a calm, sweet smile and Aramis by nodding his head.
“Very well,” cried D’Artagnan, at last, furious, “very well, since you wish it, let us leave our bones in this beggarly land, where it is always cold, where fine weather is a fog, fog is rain, and rain a deluge; where the sun represents the moon and the moon a cream cheese; in truth, whether we die here or elsewhere matters little, since we must die.”
“Only reflect, my good fellow,” said Athos, “it is but dying rather sooner.”
“Pooh! a little sooner or a little later, it isn’t worth quarreling over.”
“If I am astonished at anything,” remarked Porthos, sententiously, “it is that it has not already happened.”
“Oh, it will happen, you may be sure,” said D’Artagnan. “So it is agreed, and if Porthos makes no objection----”
“I,” said Porthos, “I will do whatever you please; and besides, I think what the Comte de la Fere said just now is very good.”
“But your future career, D’Artagnan--your ambition, Porthos?”
“Our future, our ambition!” replied D’Artagnan, with feverish volubility. “Need we think of that since we are to save the king? The king saved--we shall assemble our friends together--we will head the Puritans--reconquer England; we shall re-enter London--place him securely on his throne----”
“And he will make us dukes and peers,” said Porthos, whose eyes sparkled with joy at this imaginary prospect.
“Or he will forget us,” added D’Artagnan.
“Oh!” said Porthos.
“Well, that has happened, friend Porthos. It seems to me that we once rendered Anne of Austria a service not much less than that which to-day we are trying to perform for Charles I.; but, none the less, Anne of Austria has forgotten us for twenty years.”
“Well, in spite of that, D’Artagnan,” said Athos, “you are not sorry that you were useful to her?”
“No, indeed,” said D’Artagnan; “I admit even that in my darkest moments I find consolation in that remembrance.”
“You see, then, D’Artagnan, though princes often are ungrateful, God never is.”
“Athos,” said D’Artagnan, “I believe that were you to fall in with the devil, you would conduct yourself so well that you would take him with you to Heaven.”
“So, then?” said Athos, offering his hand to D’Artagnan.
“‘Tis settled,” replied D’Artagnan. “I find England a charming country, and I stay--but on one condition only.”
“What is it?”
“That I am not forced to learn English.”
“Well, now,” said Athos, triumphantly, “I swear to you, my friend, by the God who hears us--I believe that there is a power watching over us, and that we shall all four see France again.”
“So be it!” said D’Artagnan, “but I--I confess I have a contrary conviction.”
“Our good D’Artagnan,” said Aramis, “represents among us the opposition in parliament, which always says no, and always does aye.”
“But in the meantime saves the country,” added Athos.
“Well, now that everything is decided,” cried Porthos, rubbing his hands, “suppose we think of dinner! It seems to me that in the most critical positions of our lives we have always dined.”
“Oh! yes, speak of dinner in a country where for a feast they eat boiled mutton, and as a treat drink beer. What the devil did you come to such a country for, Athos? But I forgot,” added the Gascon, smiling, “pardon, I forgot you are no longer Athos; but never mind, let us hear your plan for dinner, Porthos.”
“My plan!”
“Yes, have you a plan?”
“No! I am hungry, that is all.”
“Pardieu, if that is all, I am hungry, too; but it is not everything to be hungry, one must find something to eat, unless we browse on the grass, like our horses----”
“Ah!” exclaimed Aramis, who was not quite so indifferent to the good things of the earth as Athos, “do you remember, when we were at Parpaillot, the beautiful oysters that we ate?”
“And the legs of mutton of the salt marshes,” said Porthos, smacking his lips.
“But,” suggested D’Artagnan, “have we not our friend Mousqueton, who managed for us so well at Chantilly, Porthos?”
“Yes,” said Porthos, “we have Mousqueton, but since he has been steward, he has become very heavy; never mind, let us call him, and to make sure that he will reply agreeably----
“Here! Mouston,” cried Porthos.
Mouston appeared, with a most piteous face.
“What is the matter, my dear M. Mouston?” asked D’Artagnan. “Are you ill?”
“Sir, I am very hungry,” replied Mouston.
“Well, it is just for that reason that we have called you, my good M. Mouston. Could you not procure us a few of those nice little rabbits, and some of those delicious partridges, of which you used to make fricassees at the hotel----? ‘Faith, I do not remember the name of the hotel.”
“At the hotel of----,” said Porthos; “by my faith--nor do I remember it either.”
“It does not matter; and a few of those bottles of old Burgundy wine, which cured your master so quickly of his sprain!”
“Alas! sir,” said Mousqueton, “I much fear that what you ask for are very rare things in this detestable and barren country, and I think we should do better to go and seek hospitality from the owner of a little house we see on the fringe of the forest.”
“How! is there a house in the neighborhood?” asked D’Artagnan.
“Yes, sir,” replied Mousqueton.
“Well, let us, as you say, go and ask a dinner from the master of that house. What is your opinion, gentlemen, and does not M. Mouston’s suggestion appear to you full of sense?”
“Oh!” said Aramis, “suppose the master is a Puritan?”
“So much the better, mordioux!” replied D’Artagnan; “if he is a Puritan we will inform him of the capture of the king, and in honor of the news he will kill for us his fatted hens.”
“But if he should be a cavalier?” said Porthos.
“In that case we will put on an air of mourning and he will pluck for us his black fowls.”
“You are very happy,” exclaimed Athos, laughing, in spite of himself, at the sally of the irresistible Gascon; “for you see the bright side of everything.”
“What would you have?” said D’Artagnan. “I come from a land where there is not a cloud in the sky.”
“It is not like this, then,” said Porthos stretching out his hand to assure himself whether a chill sensation he felt on his cheek was not really caused by a drop of rain.
“Come, come,” said D’Artagnan, “more reason why we should start on our journey. Halloo, Grimaud!”
Grimaud appeared.
“Well, Grimaud, my friend, have you seen anything?” asked the Gascon.
“Nothing!” replied Grimaud.
“Those idiots!” cried Porthos, “they have not even pursued us. Oh! if we had been in their place!”
“Yes, they are wrong,” said D’Artagnan. “I would willingly have said two words to Mordaunt in this little desert. It is an excellent spot for bringing down a man in proper style.”
“I think, decidedly,” observed Aramis, “gentlemen, that the son hasn’t his mother’s energy.”
“What, my good fellow!” replied Athos, “wait awhile; we have scarcely left him two hours ago--he does not know yet in what direction we came nor where we are. We may say that he is not equal to his mother when we put foot in France, if we are not poisoned or killed before then.”
“Meanwhile, let us dine,” suggested Porthos.
“I’faith, yes,” said Athos, “for I am hungry.”
“Look out for the black fowls!” cried Aramis.
And the four friends, guided by Mousqueton, took up the way toward the house, already almost restored to their former gayety; for they were now, as Athos had said, all four once more united and of single mind.
As our fugitives approached the house, they found the ground cut up, as if a considerable body of horsemen had preceded them. Before the door the traces were yet more apparent; these horsemen, whoever they might be, had halted there.
“Egad!” cried D’Artagnan, “it’s quite clear that the king and his escort have been by here.”
“The devil!” said Porthos; “in that case they have eaten everything.”
“Bah!” said D’Artagnan, “they will have left a chicken, at least.” He dismounted and knocked on the door. There was no response.
He pushed open the door and found the first room empty and deserted.
“Well?” cried Porthos.
“I can see nobody,” said D’Artagnan. “Aha!”
“What?”
“Blood!”
At this word the three friends leaped from their horses and entered. D’Artagnan had already opened the door of the second room, and from the expression of his face it was clear that he there beheld some extraordinary object.
The three friends drew near and discovered a young man stretched on the ground, bathed in a pool of blood. It was evident that he had attempted to regain his bed, but had not had sufficient strength to do so.
Athos, who imagined that he saw him move, was the first to go up to him.
“Well?” inquired D’Artagnan.
“Well, if he is dead,” said Athos, “he has not been so long, for he is still warm. But no, his heart is beating. Ho, there, my friend!”
The wounded man heaved a sigh. D’Artagnan took some water in the hollow of his hand and threw it upon his face. The man opened his eyes, made an effort to raise his head, and fell back again. The wound was in the top of his skull and blood was flawing copiously.
Aramis dipped a cloth into some water and applied it to the gash. Again the wounded man opened his eyes and looked in astonishment at these strangers, who appeared to
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