The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  His eyes had fallen on the group about the tables—the group, who in turn were gazing at him, following the petrified stare of d’Artagnan, who thought he was looking at a ghost. The large man’s mouth flew open and stayed open. His eyes protruded. Then, just as d’Artagnan moved to cross himself, he took two enormous strides across the room and swept an arm about the musketeer.

  “D’Artagnan!”

  “Porthos!”

  For the moment, all else was forgotten—the scene around, the group of officers, the furious and livid Montforge—in this genuinely amazing meeting.

  Porthos, living or dead, was the last person d’Artagnan expected to see here in Grenoble. In the previous year M. du Vallon had left the service, marrying the 800,000 livres of Madame Coquenard, and had disappeared from sight. And here he was, dust covered, huge, tears on his cheeks at sight of d’Artagnan—not a ghost at all, but indisputably alive.

  Tears were likewise on the cheeks of d’Artagnan, though not from the same cause. The one-armed hug of Porthos came near to crushing in his ribs.

  “While this,” observed Comte de Montforge mockingly, “is extremely touching, it is aside from the matter under discussion.”

  Porthos released d’Artagnan and turned. His naturally haughty countenance took on a look of ineffable scorn.

  “And who,” he inquired, “is this insect passing commentaries upon us?”

  “This, my friend,” said d’Artagnan, “is M. le Comte de Montforge, who also dislikes my fashion of passing commentaries, and who is about to do me the honor of teaching me his own manner with the sword-point. Gentlemen, I am happy to present my friend, M. du Vallon, late of the company of M. de Treville. If you will arrange the meeting with him, I shall be very glad, as I am eager to have speech with him before presenting myself to His Majesty. Time presses.

  However bewildered he might have been, Porthos was quick to comprehend the situation, and with his most magnificent bow, assumed the duties of second.

  “At your most humble service, gentlemen!” he exclaimed. “I am sorry to say that my left arm is disabled by the knife of a scoundrel rascal, but—”

  “This is between me and M. de Montforge alone,” interposed d’Artagnan, and sat down again to his wine.

  “The devil!” he ejaculated to himself. “Am I going to have a chance to read this letter or not? Still, if I do it now, it will lend me the appearance of being entirely at my ease—”

  He glanced around. Porthos had joined the companions of Montforge and was talking with them. Montforge was drinking and eyeing the winestains on his magnificent doublet. Removing the letter from his pocket, d’Artagnan looked at the superscription. He read, in the very fine, beautiful writing of Aramis:

  “Mlle. Helene de Sirle, Parc de Montmorenci.”

  “Hm! Parc de Montmorenci—that might be anywhere,” reflected d’Artagnan, “but it must be the one at Passy. Therefore, Aramis is at Paris. Vivadiou! Something learned.”

  He turned over and unfolded the letter. Before he had glanced at the writing, a heavy step interrupted him, and he looked up as—Porthos approached.

  “Ha! At once, all together, to a spot nearby. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” said d’Artagnan, and sighed as he pocketed the letter. “Decidedly,” he said to himself, “if this devilish interference proceeds much farther, I shall have to kill someone!”

  The six men left the tavern in company and in silence. A hundred yards away was the College of the Recolets. Behind the rear wall of this enclosure was the Rue du Dauphine, and across the street was the charming little park and garden where Marie de Medici had been triumphally received on her way from Italy to marriage with Henry IV. At this hour of the morning, the park was entirely deserted, and few were passing along the streets.

  “Admirably conceived, this spot!” exclaimed Porthos grandly. “In the city yet not of it eh, my dear d’Artagnan? A pretty spot for foot-work—what excellent clipped grass!”

  The party halted. D’Artagnan turned to the count.

  “My dear M. de Montforge,” he said, “it were a pity if any misapprehension of my own should cause vexation. It may be that you had no intention of casting aspersions upon a lady whom I am very honored in serving—”

  “A truce to politeness, monsieur!” exclaimed Montforge angrily. “What you heard, you heard. What you did, you did. The devil fly away with apologies! En garde!”

  “En garde, messieurs,” echoed Porthos.

  “One moment, gentlemen!” interposed M. Constant, the king’s officer, looking a trifle nervously from d’Artagnan to Montforge. “I must say that if this difficulty could be composed, it were much the better course, in view of the edict against duelling. M. de Montforge’s remarks—”

  “Have nothing to do with it!” snapped that gentleman, angrily. “M. d’Artagnan emptied his winecup in my face—there’s the crux of the whole thing!”

  “Good! Excellent! Via crucis, via crucis!” boomed Porthos, who was proud of his scanty Latin. “En garde, messieurs—”

  The two swords crossed. The two men parried, feinted, tested each the other.

  In this moment, a singular prescience seized upon the soul of d’Artagnan. Perhaps the astounding meeting with Porthos had set a spark to his imagination; perhaps his agile mind was somewhat disturbed at finding Montforge an absolute master of his weapon, whether in French or Italian style. He did not know Montforge, had never heard the man mentioned among the skilled blades of the court; and this was singular in the extreme.

  Over the crossed steel he saw two blazing black eyes, intrepid as his own, proud as his own, confident as his own; in them he read a determined enmity. Ere this, he had looked into eyes afire with the intention of killing; he knew as he stood there that Montforge meant to kill him. Across his mind flashed the memory of other men; of Jussac, of Count de Wardes—above all, of Rochefort the implacable.

  Another Rochefort here—from some unguessed source it came to him that he had here entered upon something deeper than he knew, something that must go farther than he wished, unless he killed the man before him. “Kill this man—kill him swiftly!” The mental warning fairly screamed at the ears of his soul.

  D’Artagnan fought with his back to the street. He was entirely absorbed in his adversary; he saw nothing save those savage black eyes, he felt nothing save the pressure of blade against blade, he heard nothing save the sharp click and slither of the crossed steel. Still wet with morning dew, the grass underfoot sent up a sharply sweet fragrance as it was crushed by their stamping boots.

  Angered by those flaming eyes, d’Artagnan suddenly abandoned the defensive and began to exert himself. He worked into a shrewd and merciless attack, so agile, so vibrant with energy, as to be irresistible. He saw a look of intense astonishment and dismay sweep into the face of Montforge, saw his enemy give back—saw him slip suddenly in the grass and go all asprawl, his blade flying afar. With an effort, d’Artagnan checked himself midway of a lunge, and drew back.

  “When you are ready, monsieur,” he said calmly, sure of himself now.

  Montforge came to one knee, then paused, staring. No one had moved to pick up his rapier, nor did he reach out for it. D’Artagnan glanced surprisedly at the others—saw Porthos agape, the image of consternation, saw the others apparently paralyzed, saw they were not looking at him or at Montforge, but at a point behind him, on which every eye seemed fixed with a species of stupefied fascination.

  “The devil!” exclaimed d’Artagnan, and turned.

  “Not in person, at all events,” said a man who had approached behind him—a man who had turned into the park from the street, and who was accompanied by two gentlemen.

  This man was Richelieu.

  “Well, gentlemen,” said the cardinal, sweeping an icy eye over the group, “I confess that you have conspired to present me with a surprise this fine morning. Montforge—d’Artagnan—Constant—”

  His gaze rested on Porthos for an instant as though he half recognized t
he large man.

  Porthos bowed.

  “M. du Vallon, Your Eminence, late of the company of M. Treville.”

  “Ah!” said the Cardinal. “I remember you.’

  Porthos paled at these ominous words. Montforge rose, in some agitation, and drew out a handkerchief, with which he wiped perspiration from his brow.

  “Your Eminence,” he said, “I beg that you will absolve these gentlemen; any blame connected with this scene rests upon me alone, for I challenged M. d’Artagnan.”

  “Ah!” said d’Artagnan to himself, throwing Montforge a glance of admiration. “I could love this man—if he did not hate me!”

  “Yes?” said Richelieu drily. “Each of you, no doubt, imagined that the other was an enemy of France—eh, gentlemen?”

  D’Artagnan bowed. “Exactly, Monseigneur.”

  “Your Eminence has discerned the truth,” said Montforge, his dark face slightly pale. None knew better than he that Richelieu was most to be feared when he jested.

  There was an instant of silence, while the cardinal looked from one to the other. Then he spoke, slowly, gravely, as though the affair were to be held in abeyance, not forgotten.

  “Justice, gentlemen, is said to be blind. It is my desire that you two gentlemen shake hands and end this matter.”

  Blank astonishment greeted these words. “So!” thought d’Artagnan, with the rapidity of light.

  “Our honest cardinal has something to be gained by not hanging us!” Sheathing his rapier, which he was still holding, he turned and held out his hand to Montforge.

  “Come, monsieur!” he said with a smile. “This gentleman is our superior in rank, since he is minister of war. He is our superior in intelligence, since he is a cardinal. And certainly he is our superior in wisdom, since he gives us very practical advice which had occurred to neither of us! Upon my word, monsieur, I think we should grant his desire!”

  “With all my heart,” said Montforge, and shook hands heartily. But the look he gave d’Artagnan belied his words.

  “Excellently done, gentlemen!” said Richelieu. “M. de Montforge, I desire your company in my cabinet within ten minutes, if you please. M. d’Artagnan, may I inquire whether you return to Lyon?”

  “I do not know, Your Eminence,” said d’Artagnan. “I have not yet presented myself to His Majesty.”

  “Then, if you will have the kindness to present yourself to me in an hour’s time,” returned the cardinal, “I should be very happy to have the honor of a little conversation with you.”

  D’Artagnan bowed profoundly.

  When the cardinal had departed Montforge approached d’Artagnan, who was adjusting his uniform cloak, and regarded him intently.

  “Monsieur, I trust we shall have the pleasure of a future meeting?”

  D’Artagnan’s smile, which could add so much charm to his features, leaped out straightway.

  “By all means, monsieur—let us leave it to the finger of destiny! I only trust you will not suffer for your very frank avowal of blame.”

  Montforge shrugged, as though it were of no moment. “Very well,” he said, and bowed. “We shall, then, meet again.”

  D’Artagnan noted that this was uttered as a statement of fact predetermined.

  “Where to?” asked Porthos, as they came to the street together.

  “To the tavern, pardieu!” said d’Artagnan. “We’re an hour together, at all events. Well, old friend, I see that the red minister remembers you, eh?”

  “Yes, devil take him!” said Porthos, twirling his mustache complacently. “He remembers that little scene on the road outside La Rochelle, eh? Come you’re with the king here? I thought your company was at Lyon with the court?”

  D’Artagnan whistled to himself. “You did, eh? And who put that thought into your head, I wonder? Cautiously, here—cautiously!” he reflected to himself. Aloud, he replied; “It is, it is—I arrived here last night with despatches. When I’ve seen His Eminence, I’ll probably know my future plans. But have you repented matrimony! You must be going to join the army, since you’re here—and whence comes your wound?”

  “From the devil,” said Porthos seriously. “By the way, here’s your handkerchief. You must have dropped it when His Eminence appeared. I retrieved it.”

  “Handkerchief? I haven’t one to my name,” said d’Artagnan.

  He took the bit of cambric which Porthos handed him, and stared at it, while the giant clapped him on the back.

  “Ha! Up to the old tricks of Aramis, are you! I know a lady’s kerchief when I see it, comrade! And deuce take me but it’s got a monogram! Here, give me a look—”

  “Go to the devil,” said d’Artagnan, and laughed as they turned in at the tavern entrance. He thrust the kerchief swiftly away, for he had perceived one thing, and remembered another.

  He remembered that Montforge had wiped his face with a handkerchief. And on this bit of cambric he perceived the monogram “H de S.”—the initials of Helene de Sine. Montforge had dropped this handkerchief, therefore—therefore a hundred conjectures! He thrust them all out of his bewildered brain and bent his thought on the more important thing: the letter in his pocket, as yet unread.

  Porthos, finding himself thick and grimy with dust, departed to the pump. He was bursting to talk, but disgust at his own condition was stronger, so he left d’Artagnan to order the wine. Alone for the moment, the musketeer drew the letter from his pocket and unfolded it, and now there was none to interfere. He read:

  Dear Mademoiselle:

  The bearer of this letter is a friend to be trusted. I have received terrible news, and I am ill. Meantime, my friend will serve you as would I myself, had I the honor to be at your side.

  d’Herblay.

  “So!” D’Artagnan pocketed the letter, with some dismay. “Nothing learned. Who is the friend of Aramis from whom that rascal took this letter? Ah—the ring! I’d be fool to present myself before the cardinal-Vivadiou! But I was wearing that ring last night—ah, well, he would not have observed it.”

  None the less, as he put the ring in his pocket, his face was a little pale at remembering how he had appeared before the cardinal and Pere Joseph on his arrival—he had certainly worn the ring, like a fool! An uneasy conscience whispered that the conversation desired by Richelieu might be on the subject of the dead spy. Now Porthos came stamping in, seized a flagon, and emptied it at a draught. When he sat down, the bench groaned beneath him.

  “Ah! Ah! Embrace me, d’Artagnan!” he exclaimed gustily. “This is good, this is like old times—wine and sword of a morning, and a hard night’s ride behind! Why the devil have you degenerated into a post courier? You, a lieutenant, bearing despatches?”

  “A courier to the king, with letters from the two queens.

  “That explains it. Our noble Athos—where is he?”

  “In Lyon. He talks of leaving the service, drinks his Spanish wine as usual, and has the devil’s own luck at dice. If you knew our company was with the court in Lyon, why didn’t you drop in to see us?”

  This confused Porthos, who seized a bottle and emptied another flagon. D’Artagan began to watch him closely, though without seeming to do so.

  “I wasn’t in Lyon ten minutes,” said the giant, and bellowed at the host for more wine and food. “Listen, comrade! Last week I came to Paris. Madame du Vallon is thinking of buying a property in Picardy; she went to look it over. I came to Paris to handle a certain business for her. There—what, think you, happened to me? Guess!”

  “Certainly not a love-affair, to the husband of eight hundred thousand livres!” and d’Artagnan laughed. He was all on the alert now—he had a conviction that Porthos was not entirely confiding in him. This rendered him curious, precautious to tell what he himself knew.

  “Something different—I was robbed,” declared Porthos, reddening with anger. “Robbed! Three men set upon me, got a noose about my neck, strangled me. I pounded one on the head and felt his skull go smash; I kicked a second, and he was dead
the next minute. But the third—ah, The third! The abominable rascal! The black-browed scoundrel! What do you think he did? He sat on my back and used a knife on me, tried to murder me! True, it only tore the flesh of my arrn, but between the loss of blood and the strangulation, I became unconscious. He robbed me and fled.”

  “Not to Grenoble, surely?” exclaim d’Artagnan.

  “Exactly! You have guessed it. Listen! By good luck I saw him leaving Paris that same night. I called for a horse, followed him. I have money, you understand! I rode after him like a madman; the horse died under me. I got another horse. Mile by mile, inch by inch, I gained upon him. I entered Lyon not five minutes after him—upon my word, it is the truth! Instead of stopping there, the unspeakable devil changed horses and had gone when I got to the posthouse. My horse was played out, there was not a fresh animal to be had. I took a tired one, and the brute went bad on me halfway here—has been limping in since midnight. The man’s here ahead of me—you must help me find him, trace him!”

  “With all my heart,” said d’Artagnan. “Who was he?”

  “I don’t know. He was a tall man with the face of a rogue. He had heavy black brows that met above his nose—eh? What? You’ve seen him?”

  D’Artagnan started.

  “Black brows that met—diantre! Did he ride a piebald horse? Did he have a cloak of dark blue or black slashed with silver?”

  Porthos leaped from his seat. “You know him? Come! Take me to him, this moment! Up!”

  “He is dead,” said d’Artagnan. “Sit down, sit down, comrade—your man’s dead! You should have seen him lying in the road as you came, for I must have been just ahead of you. He died in my arms—”

  “Pardieu! I saw nothing of him!” cried the amazed Porthos, and then sank back on the bench with an expression of utter dismay and consternation. “Mon Dieu, I am ruined, ruined! Now what shall I ever say to Aramis?”