The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  He forgot that he himself had not yet entered Paris.

  D’ARTAGNAN (Part 2)

  CHAPTER XI

  THE STILL MORE EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE OF M. DU VALLON

  Since everyone knew that M. de St. Luc was with the King, and his hotel in the Place Royale was closed for the summer, there was some astonishment in the quarter when, on the thirtieth day of July, servants appeared, the gates were opened, and the shutters flung back. However, in this vicinity of hotels and residences of the nobility, nearly all of which were shut up, there was none to ask questions.

  On the morning of this day, a traveling coach entered the courtyard of this hotel. A gentleman of stern features, sober but rich attire, and wearing pistols beneath his cloak, alighted. This gentleman was Lord de Winter, Baron Sheffield. The steward of M. de St. Luc approached and bowed deferentially.

  “Milord will find everything ready,” he said. “The larder is stocked, the beds are aired; the orders from our master are to obey you as himself. We are at your service, monsieur, and we trust you will have no reason to be dissatisfied with us.”

  Lord de Winter nodded. “Very well. In the course of today I expect four gentlemen who will ask for me here. They may come together or singly. They may come at noon or midnight. I desire to have ready for them the most sumptuous banquet possible, with the finest wines.”

  “At what hour, Milord?”

  “At whatever hour they come,” said Lord de Winter.

  “And if they delay until evening, monsieur will dine—”

  “On bread and milk only, in my own chamber.”

  So saying, he retired to the chamber prepared for him, and rested most of the day.

  The afternoon drew on, evening came; lights were put out, the banquet was ready, no guests arrived. At nine o’clock Lord de Winter supped lightly in his own room on bread and milk. He was served by his lackey, who spoke a sort of French, but who only shrugged when the anxious steward questioned him about the expected guests.

  “My master has invited them,” he said. “They will arrive.”

  At ten o’clock Lord de Winter, who had been seated by an open window, appeared upon the grand staircase and encountered the steward.

  “I hear a horse at the gallop,” he said. “Let us descend.”

  The steward thought him mad. They descended to the courtyard, where cressets had been lighted, and were just in time to see an exhausted horse come through the gates and halt, trembling. The rider alighted; he was bareheaded, but so covered with dust from head to foot as to be unrecognizable. He took two steps, and staggered.

  “M. de Winter!” he exclaimed in a croaking voice.

  “By the love of the saints!” exclaimed de Winter. “It is M. d’Artagnan!”

  And he caught d’Artagnan in his arms, embraced him warmly, then assisted him to enter and ordered a bath prepared and garments laid out from his own wardrobe. D’Artagnan, who had ridden all day at breakneck speed, had killed his horse; but he had arrived.

  He bathed hurriedly, dressed, and was being conducted to the salon where Lord de Winter awaited him, when the steward entered.

  “Monsieur, there is a gentleman below—he came on foot, and he appears to be covered with blood. He asked for you—”

  D’Artagnan turned, gained the courtyard at a bound, and clasped Athos in his arms. Athos was, it is true, covered with blood, and he had arrived on foot, for excellent reasons. Upon entering Paris he had suddenly fainted, had fallen from his horse, and for two hours lay in the house of a surgeon whither he was carried. Upon regaining consciousness, he had forced his way from the house and had come to the Place Royale afoot, like a man blind and deaf, answering none who spoke to him.

  Athos, in turn bathed and with the wound across his scalp dressed anew, presently joined d’Artagnan and Lord de Winter. The latter was filled with curiosity, but said nothing. Athos paused in the doorway and regarded his friend.

  “D’Artagnan, you did not fulfill your errand at Dampierre?”

  “I did,” said d’Artagnan, “but I did not go to Dampierre. Two men attempted to kill me; I killed them. Unfortunately, one of them hit me a blow between the eyes—I think it is quite discolored. Peasants, in passing, took me for dead, and stripped us all. However—”

  “You did not find Aramis?”

  “Yes. All is well. But you, my friend—you, Athos! I have never seen you in such a state?”

  Athos shrugged. “Bah! I fell from my horse and struck my head, that is all. I separated from Porthos, and left Grimaud with him. They have not arrived?”

  At that instant Grimaud arrived, alone. He was brought into the salon.

  “Speak,” said Athos. “Where is M. Porthos?”

  The unhappy Grimaud spread out his hands. “God knows, monsieur! We halted at a tavern just inside the gates. Two other gentlemen were there; both were masked. M. Porthos joined them, and I think he is drunk by this time. Half a dozen more gentlemen arrived just before dark, and were ordering supper when their servants forced me to leave.”

  “How?” exclaimed Athos. “Masked, you say? Were the other arrivals masked also?”

  “Two of them were masked, monsieur, besides the first two.”

  “This is singular!” murmured d’Artagnan. Lord de Winter smiled.

  “Good—we will not await Porthos, then. And Aramis?”

  “Is wounded, but in the care of friends. He does not join us.”

  “Then let us proceed to supper, my friends—to supper, and to what we have to say. For, to judge from what I have seen and heard,” he added, “each of us has a good deal to recount.”

  “That is true,” said Athos in a grave voice. “But not before servants.”

  The three passed into the stately dining-hall, built by the Gerard de St. Luc who was said to have slain the Duke of Burgundy, Charles the Bold, at the siege of Nancy in ’477. Here they were served with a supper, or rather a banquet, composed of the most marvelous dishes that could be concocted by the finest chefs in PariS—that is to say, in the entire world.

  Athos accepted all this as a matter of course; he drank the superb wines as though they were common vin rouge, he left half the delicate foods almost untasted. He was preoccupied, weighed down by one of his dark moods. D’Artagnan, on the contrary, was astonished at each new course, relished each fresh wine with gusto, and could not contain his admiration.

  “This is no dinner, my dear baron, but a feast!” he exclaimed. “You are the soul of generosity.”

  “That, my dear d’Artagnan,” said Lord de Winter, “is because I come here to appeal to generosity.”

  Porthos did not arrive. Presently the table was cleared, save for wine, fruit and nuts, and the baron’s English lackey closed the doors and took up his station outside. Lord de Winter passed Athos a carafe of old Xeres wine, and spoke.

  “With your permission, my friends, I shall first tell you my story; then, if you will, tell me of your adventures. You received one at least of the letters I sent, and you discovered what was written with secret ink. Therefore, you know that I referred to Her Majesty the Queen.”

  Athos pushed away the carafe of Xeres, which he had been in the act of lifting.

  “It is a brief thing to tell, but not one to write in words,” resumed the Englishman. “You gentlemen were friends of the late Duke of Buckingham; you were in his confidence; therefore it was to you I turned. As you may or may not know, I have friends in Nancy—I am, in fact, distantly related to Duke Charles of Lorraine. One of these friends, who is also a friend of Madame de Chevreuse, recently wrote me of a very serious matter. I at once wrote you.

  “Ah! Ah!” exclaimed d’Artagnan, his eyes widening. “You cannot mean—no, it is impossible! Not the Thounenin will!”

  As though by a thunderbolt, the calm of the phlegmatic Englishman was shattered.

  “What!” he cried. “You cannot know of it already—”

  “Be silent, my son,” said Athos suddenly, to d’Artagnan, “until our hos
t first tells us everything. Then we, in turn, will complement his tale with what we know. Rather, with what we have heard; for we know little.”

  “Very well,” said de Winter, recovering. “A village cure near Versailles, a relative of Madame de Chevreuse, received from her an infant, some four years since—a newborn child. He was given money and precise directions for the care of the child.

  Being in Lorraine about a year ago, knowing himself facing death from an incurable malady, he added a codicil to a will which he had made in 1624. This codicil of two pages, written on vellum, told of the child and its origin; I may say that this cure firmly believed that the infant had been born of Her Majesty, who had been seriously ill at this time, at Versailles, under the care of Madame de Chevreuse.”

  At these words Athos to whom any slur upon the honor of the queen was a blasphemy, became livid.

  “This cure,” went on the Englishman, “made incautious statements in his will. They are statements which, if this document came into the wrong hands, might work incalculable harm to Her Majesty. As an Englishman, it was no affair of mine; as a gentleman, it became my affair. Further—”

  “Ah, ah!” cried out d’Artagnan, unable to control himself. “This is the child which is under Bassompierre’s care! This is the document which is on the way to Richelieu!”

  “On the contrary,” said Athos, whose aspect was frightful, “this child is now being taken from St. Saforin by agents of the Cardinal! But stop. Continue, monsieur. It appears that each of us has important contributions to make to this dossier.”

  Inexpressibly astonished by this knowledge on the part of his guests, Lord de Winter inclined his head and pursued his story.

  “Further, gentlemen, I know absolutely that this is not the child of Her Majesty. You will remember that I was in the confidence of the late Buckingham. Also, when M. de Bassompierre was Ambassador to England, I knew him intimately.

  There is a secret regarding this child, and I impart this secret to you upon your honor as gentlemen. This child was not born of the queen, but of Madame de Chevreuse. The fact was so strictly concealed, that the cure in question leaped to the wrong conclusion. However, if his will is obtained by enemies of Her Majesty, there will undoubtedly be a terrible injury done an innocent lady. That is why I wrote you I cannot act in this matter; you can act freely. I know your devotion to Anne of Austria as queen and woman, I know your chivalrous natures, and above all I know of what you are capable.”

  “Good,” said Athos. “But remember, we know very little. Can you tell us where that paper or document is now?”

  “I can tell you everything,” said Lord de Winter, with a trace of agitation. “That is why I asked you to meet me here. I can tell you who the man is that carries the document, where he is, whither he is going. The agents of Richelieu who extracted the document from the archives were caught, almost in the act. While they escaped, they could not send the paper to France. They sent it to England for security, and to cover their own traces. The man bearing it to Paris left London for Calais the same day I left. At Dover he was arrested on a false charge, search was made for the document. It was not discovered, but he missed his passage to Calais, and I got ahead of him. I have remained ahead of him. Sometime tonight a messenger will arrive to tell us exactly where he now is, what road he is taking to Paris, and how many are with him.”

  “Excellent!” cried d’Artagnan. “We ask no more depend upon it, monsieur, that document is as good as destroyed this moment!” Athos looked at the Englishman with a species of admiration.

  “And it was to tell us this, monsieur,” he said, “that you sent for us, that you came to Paris, that—”

  “No, no!” broke in de Winter. “It was not for this. It was because I, like you, cannot see the honor of a woman whom I revere made a pawn for politics by an unscrupulous prelate!”

  There was a moment of silence. Then the Englishman looked at d’Artagnan.

  “I have finished, monsieur. It is your turn.”

  D’Artagnan began to tell with eagerness and vivacity of all that had happened to him since leaving Athos and Porthos at Longjumeau. At last he himself understood everything, or nearly everything, and he kept back only one item—Richelieu’s verbal message to Chevreuse.

  “I may say this much,” he concluded. “The message spoke of the child, and upon receiving it my masked cavalier first fainted, then fled like a startled rabbit. And here is her diamond, to prove my tale. But you, Athos—come, tell us about this fall from a horse!”

  “With pleasure,” said Athos. “More especially as it has a direct bearing upon our entire errand and, I fear, a very terrible bearing!”

  He told of his encounter with Helene de Sirle, of what he had heard and done at her house; but he said nothing of meeting his uncle’s steward, Gervais. D’Artagnan heard the tale with anxiety; Lord de Winter only nodded from time to time, as though he were no longer to be amazed by anything these extraordinary men might say.

  “So, my friends,” said Athos in conclusion, “we may be certain of two things in regard to the Comte de Montforge. He has been ordered to destroy us, or at least d’Artagnan; and he has been ordered to carry off this child from the abbey of St. Saforin.”

  “Very good,” observed Lord de Winter calmly. “I believe we may now sum up? The document, then, is on its way to Paris, where it will be handed over—”

  “To Mlle. de Sirle,” said Athos, as the other paused. “The child is at St. Saforin. How came he there? Why did Marshal de Bassompierre assume his guardianship?”

  “For several reasons,” replied Lord de Winter. “Bassompierre is a Lorrainer and friendly with Chevreuse. I myself know this lady well, and she, who might be expected to take most interest in the child, takes none. After its birth, she desired never to look upon its face. True, she makes provision for the child, but she is a selfish woman who cares not who loves her so long as she is not known as the mother of illegitimate children. In such case, you comprehend, the Duc de Chevreuse might very well abandon her, and Richelieu would certainly hold her in his power.”

  The brow of Athos was dark and gloomy. “Her attitude toward this child is a crime,” he said. D’Artagnan stared, for he had seldom heard Athos so speak of a woman. “She denies herself a son. She denies the child a parent. She places others in danger. What a woman! Bah!”

  Lord de Winter shrugged. “Well, whoever may have been the father of the child, which is a somewhat vexed question, there are the facts. He was placed in St. Saforin under the name of Raoul d’Aram—”

  Athos started so violently that his arm knocked over the carafe of Xeres wine, which d’Artagnan recovered.

  “What is that? What is that?” cried Athos in a low but piercing voice. “Raoul d’Aram! Do you comprehend, d’Artagnan? This explains everything! Aramis is a friend of Bassompierre; he has been a lover of Chevreuse for years; the boy, named Raoul d’Aram—”

  He fell silent, staring at the others. Lord de Winter nodded again. D’Artagnan swore.

  “Diantre! And he is helpless, unable to leave his bed, caring nothing for the child—ah, Aramis, what a pretty mess your gallantry has entangled us in! And this scoundrel Montforge is now on his way to St. Saforin, Athos?”

  “Yes, my son; but rest assured—he cannot proceed there until he has a ring made like the one on your finger. That requires time. He cannot get the ring before tomorrow night at the earliest. We shall be ahead of him.”

  “Ahead of him?” D’Artagnan looked at Athos inquiringly.

  “Certainly,” said Athos with his calm air. “Our errand is twofold. We have, first, to meet this messenger from London, kill him, secure the document, and destroy it. Second, we have to carry off this boy from St. Saforin.”

  D’Artagnan looked at him with incredulity; Lord de Winter with stupefied surprise. Athos met their gaze with his rare smile, whose high nobility was touched with sadness.

  “My friends,” he said, “I confess to you, I am tempted to perceive the fin
ger of God in all this affair. Our endeavor is first to defeat the schemes of Richelieu, that man whom ambition has blinded to honor; by defeating him, we save Her Majesty. Good! Aramis has abandoned this child to the care of a friend. The boy faces a terrible destiny; he is without a father, he is without a mother, yet his father and his mother are of the noblest blood in France!”

  “Bah!” said d’Artagnan uneasily. “It is no hindrance to be a bastard, my friend. Look at Orleans, who drove the English out of France! Look at the Duc de Vendome—”

  “I am looking, at this instant, at the son of Aramis, who is my friend,” said Athos, with so noble an air, so lofty and severe a tone, that d’Artagnan fell silent. “In order to accomplish our task, I propose that we first carry off this boy, cause him to vanish utterly from the sight of Richelieu or any other. I will then provide him with a father, with a mother, with a name. In brief, I will myself adopt him.”

  “You!” cried d’Artagnan in amazement.

  “You?” echoed the Englishman, as though not crediting his ears.

  “I,” said Athos calmly. “My friend,” and he turned to d’Artagnan. “I have determined to leave the service and retire to a small estate. Heretofore, I have had nothing to live for; now, it would seem, I have found a son. He will bear the name of my estate of Bragelonne.”

  There was a knock at the door. The English lackey opened.

  “My lord,” he said to his master, “Franklin has arrived.”

  “Bring him,” said Lord de Winter, and turned to his guests. “My messenger, gentlemen.”

  A dust-covered cavalier appeared, saluted, and at a command from Lord de Winter spoke in French.

  “Milord, our man stopped at Compiegne for the night. I rode on. He arrives in Paris at noon tomorrow, at the earliest probably not until later, for he is exhausted.”

  “Good,” said de Winter. “You learned nothing about the document we failed to discover?”

  “I learned nothing,” said Franklin. “But when he came to Compiegne, he removed the pistol from the right-hand side of his saddle, and carried it to his room with him.”