“My son,” said Athos, in a grave and solemn voice, “I am the father you have prayed for; you are the son I thought never to hold in my arms! Dom Lawrence, I ask you to give this union the blessing of God; and I swear before Him that from this day forward I will be such a father to this boy that he may all his life remember me with love, respect, and reverence.”
And as he spoke, tears came from his eyes and bedewed his cheeks. With a short, sharp cry the boy was in his arms, and they embraced warmly. Dom Lawrence, himself visibly moved at this singular emotion, lifted his arm above the two, and his fingers made the gesture of benecdiction. As for honest Porthos, he was also dabbing eyes, but of a sudden he fell upon his knees and held out his arms to the boy.
“Name of the devil, I say the same thing!” he thundered terribly. “Embrace me! If everyou stand in need of a father, if ever you need money, strength, help—devil fly away with me if I don’t supply all this and more! My son, I am your second father!”
And he, too, folded the boy in his arms. Dom Lawrence, who had looked stern at these resounding oaths, perceived that they went, as it were, by contraries; and a smile came to his lips.
Athos rose. “We must be off,” he said.
“May I saddle a horse or mule for—”
“No.” Athos shook his head, and took the hand of the boy. A smile came to his lips—a smile of ineffable sweetness and serenity. “My son, you will ride in my arms, for we may have to ride fast. If I cannot carry you, my faithful Grimaud will—”
“Ha!” cried Porthos. “He is a flea, this little one! I could carry him on my hand—here, my son, step to my hand!”
And in a moment he held Raoul, who stood upright, on the palm of his hand; and then he extended the hand and held the boy at arm’s length, with scarcely an effort. Laughing, Athos caught up the boy and set him on the floor.
“Come, Raoul!” he said. “Say adieu to Dom Lawrence. You have clothes, perhaps, toys, things you would fetch?”
Raoul looked up at him, smiled, pressed his hand.
“There is nothing in the world I lack, my father, now that I have found you!” he said, with an expression of such heartfelt affection that Athos turned pale from very emotion.
The farewells said, Dom Lawrence went with them to the courtyard. Athos signed to Grimaud to bring up the horses. As he did so, there was a sudden commotion at the gate, a shout, and into the courtyard came a horse covered with mud and lather, staggering with exhaustion; from the saddle slipped d’Artagnan, his blue-and-silver garments splashed with mud from neck to boots.
“Ah! I rode hard to find you here!” he exclaimed. “All is well.”
“Good.” Athos presented him to Dom Lawrence, then looked at the foundered horse. “You cannot ride that poor beast a rod farther—”
“Let that be my care,” broke in the prior. “A moment, gentlemen—I will myself select a fitting horse from the stable—”
He hurried away. Athos turned, pointed to d’Artagnan. “My son, let me present a man whom I am proud to call my friend, and whom you may ever call your friend with the same pride. M. d’Artagnan, this is my son Raoul, Vicomte de Bragelonne.”
D’Artagnan dropped to one knee, his face beaming, and embraced the boy. As he rose, Athos gave him a swift look of interrogation.
“And your errand?”
“Accomplished,” said d’Artagnan. Then his face changed, as he looked from man to boy. He suddenly realized that never again would Athos address him with the title which had so charmed and warmed him with its affection—the title of my son.
“You met no one on the way here—Montforge, for example?”
“No,” said d’Artagnan. He put hand to pocket, and drew forth the outer sheet of the Thounenin will. Silently, he held it before the eyes of Athos, who changed countenance.
“What? You have not preserved that document—”
“The outer sheet alone; the remainder I destroyed.”
“And the bearer—Riberac?”
D’Artagnan made the sign of the cross. Dom Lawrence was approaching; behind him came a lay brother, leading a beautiful horse, saddled and bridled.
“With my compliments, M. d’Artagnan,” said the prior. Then, as the four mounted, he handed up Raoul to the arms of Athos; he lifted his hand, and they bared their heads to his benediction.
Another moment, and with Grimaud following they were out of the courtyard of St. Saforin and riding Parisward.
“Athos, my friend, you appear like a new man,” said d’Artagnan.
“I am a new man,” said Athos gravely. “Did I not predict that from this meeting with Lord de Winter would come either a great happiness or a great sorrow? Well, it has come, as you can see for yourself. But tell us all, d’Artagnan! What happened at that house last night? Why did you ride to join us here, instead of keeping the rendezvous in the Vieux Colombier?”
“Merely to join you, I think. Terrible things have happened, Athos.” And, while Porthos crowded close to hear them better, d’Artagnan began to recount his adventures since leaving the Hotel de St. Luc.
As the tale proceeded, Porthos uttered admiring ejaculations; Athos listened in silence. D’Artagnan concealed nothing, but poured forth his story as it had happened.
“Ah, my friend,” said Athos, when it was finished, “I fear you did wrong, very wrong—”
Raoul twisted about in his arms, and looked up at him with an expression of childish surprise.
“Mon pere, you told me you were proud to call this gentleman your friend. How, then, can you say that he did wrong? I think he was another Bayard!”
Athos, usually pale, flushed deeply; d’Artagnan was frankly embarrassed, then both of them broke into a laugh as their eyes met.
“And,” said d’Artagnan, “since I saved the life of a Marshal of France—”
“My dear d’Artagnan,” cried Porthos in admiration, “I always said you yourself deserved a marshal’s baton! This proves it. Then we have succeeded to perfection! The document burned, everything as we would have it! Yet there is one thing we have forgotten.”
“And what is that?” demanded d’Artagnan.
“We ride to Paris. Montforge rides from Paris. Ergo, we are fairly certain to meet.”
This was true, and the fact had been entirely overlooked. While thus conversing, they had drawn into the highway, from the road leading to the abbey, and now Athos turned and beckoned Grimaud. He made a gesture to ride in advance, touched his pistols, and Grimaud comprehended. The faithful fellow, who was staring with all his eyes at Raoul, put in his spurs and rode on as a vanguard.
“Let us suppose,” said d’Artagnan, a trifle uncomfortably, “that the king is not dead. My dear Athos, do you imagine that our activity in this little matter will be remembered by His Eminence? Or, more specifically, my activity?”
Athos shrugged. “Remembered, yes; by Montforge, with whom you must some day settle accounts, also. Punished—no. Should the king live, Richelieu will be engulfed in a terrific struggle with the Queen Mother and the princes. He knows you are not his enemy, but a servant of the Queen. Since his agents failed to destroy you, he is apt to leave you alone. If he loses the fight, you have nothing to fear. If he wins, he will be so busy sending the Bassompierres and Marillacs to the scaffold or the Bastille, that he will not think of lesser folk.”
D’Artagnan nodded, and felt some assurance that Athos spoke the truth.
Grimaud remained half a mile in advance, far enough to give them plenty of warning in case he encountered trouble. No danger appeared, however. Noon was drawing on when before them appeared the inn of Le Moine Qui Keude—an ancient wayside tavern occupying the triangle between forks of the road.
“Faith!” exclaimed d’Artagnan, staring at the swinging sign. “Is this French or English?”
Athos smiled. “In Champagne, my friend, they say keude for cueille. This is the famous auberge where Henry V of England halted on his way to Paris; it was here that Henri III of France first met the charming Lais; and
it is here that we shall stop for a bite if you will ride on and bring Grimaud back.”
D’Artagnan touched up his horse and rode past the curious old tavern, which stood apparently to itself between the two roads, the adjacent buildings being at some distance.
He caught up with Grimaud, recalled him, and turned back. This required some little time, for Grimaud had been well in the lead. When they rode into the courtyard of the Plucking Monk, the others had entered the auberge and a groom was baiting the horses; also, a cavalier was in the act of mounting and riding. He saluted d’Artagnan as he passed, and rode forth, but not for Paris; instead, he headed north, and spurred as though in haste to reach Soissons before night.
“Who was that man?” d’Artagnan asked the groom who took his horse.
“I do not know, monsieur. He stayed the night here.”
D’Artagnan turned to the inn entrance. He heard the voice of Porthos inside, and was on the point of entering when Grimaud halted him. To his surprise, he saw that Grimaud was in some agitation.
“Well? Name of the devil, you need not be dumb with me! What is it?”
“That—that man, monsieur!” said Grimaud, in a sort of croak, and pointed after the lately departed rider.
“What about him?”
“Nevers, Arceuil, Paris!” said Grimaud, with an expression of alarm.
Athos had appeared at the doorway and was listening.
“Eh?” said d’Artagnan, perceiving him. “You heard, Athos? Grimaud says that he saw this same man, who had just departed after spending the night here, at Nevers, Arceuil, and Paris! And I remember now, he rode away at a gallop.”
Athos motioned him inside. To Grimaud he made a gesture which the lackey perfectly understood; Grimaud went to eat and drink hurriedly.
D’Artagnan, following his friend, was astonished by the perfect composure of Athos, who betrayed not the least alarm or haste.
CHAPTER XV
TWO DEPART, THREE REMAIN
The interior of the Plucking Monk was astonishing. The structure had originally been built during the English wars; the doors were of iron-bound oak, at least a span thick, and the interior had at some time been nearly gutted by fire.
It was one large room reaching to the roof, and lighted only by two small, high-placed windows. To the right of the hearth was a narrow doorway, the only means of egress to the kitchens and upper buildings; for here was a sharp slant of the ground, so that the front of the auberge was lower than the rear, and there were two steps in the floor.
This hearth was of enormous size. Across its front ran a spit of iron, seven feet in length, which fitted into sockets at each end; these sockets were supplied with chains and weights, and when the weights were raised the spit would turn for an hour at a time of itself. At one side, leaning against the chimney, stood a spare spit, a sharpened bar of iron which would have served Goliath for a bodkin.
In this dark, gloomy, ancient room, whose stones were blackened by the smoke of centuries, Porthos sat at a massive oaken table before the fireplace—a table eight feet in length and carven magnificently. At the head of the table Raoul was placed, avidly watching while the fat host inspected the fowls browning on the spit and basted them.
“Fetch bread and wine, instantly,” said Athos to the host.
Porthos looked at him, surprised, and glanced at d’Artagnan. The latter, comprehending that Athos did not wish to speak before the boy, made a gesture which Porthos understood.
“My son,” and Athos held out his hand to that of Raoul, “I am about to make a request of you. Some important business detains me and these gentlemen here. Therefore, I am going to ask that you go on to Paris with Grimaud. I will follow you soon, rejoin you, and together we will go to our future home.”
“A little thing to ask, mon pere,” replied the boy, smiling. “But I do not like to leave you so soon after finding you!”
“It will not be for long, I promise you,” said Athos.
Porthos gaped in astonishment at all this. Grimaud stumbled in, wiping his lips, and came to the table. Athos regarded him sternly, and for once did not spare words.
“Grimaud, you have served me faithfully; upon your service today depends your entire future. Succeed, and you shall never lack. Fail, and I myself will kill you. Do you comprehend?”
“Perfectly, monsieur,” said Grimaud, with a bow.
“Very well. You will take my son, here, to Paris. Proceed to the Hotel of the Musketeers. At noon tomorrow, or at noon of whatever day you reach there, Gervais will arrive.”
This was altogether too much for the taciturnity of Grimaud. “Monsieur!” he exclaimed. “Not—not Gervais your father’s steward—”
“The same,” said Athos. “If I do not arrive within three days, you and Gervais will take the Vicomte de Bragelonne home to my uncle, and he will become the Comte de la Fere. However, I will arrive. That is all.”
He turned to the boy. “My son, you have heard. Eat quickly; you must depart at once.”
Raoul began to eat the bread which had been placed on the table. Grimaud departed; in five minutes he reappeared at the entrance with a sign signifying the horse was ready. Athos took Raoul by the hand and conducted him to the doorway. There the boy looked back, and bowed.
“Au revoir, messieurs!” came his sweet, boyish voice. The others bowed. Then they looked at each other as they removed their seats.
“What the devil does this mean?” demanded Porthos.
“The devil,” said d’Artagnan.
Athos came back into the room. “There is no one coming as yet,” he observed, and advancing to the table, sat down calmly as though nothing remained to be said.
“Well, well!” said d’Artagnan testily. “I confess that I do not comprehend all this, my dear Athos. We see a gentleman departing; we find that he stopped here for the night; Grimaud had seen this man at Nevers, at Arceuil, and at Paris.
Athos smiled at him gently. “So, my son, I take warning! Why was that man here? We do not know—not to watch us, certainly. Since Grimaud has thrice encountered him, he was obviously watching us upon those occasions, however. Therefore, he is a Cardinalist. Where Montforge is, we do not know. You did not meet him on your way from Paris; but his errand is certainly to get hold of Raoul. Good! Where the danger is unseen, it is omnipresent.”
“Eh? Eh?” Porthos opened his eyes wide. “So that is it—that man! I thought I had seen him somewhere, myself. But, Athos—regard! Why do we not all of us ride with the child?”
“They want him, not us,” explained Athos. “That man was stationed here for some purpose; I think, to take the child and ride on, in case Montforge and his companions were pursued after getting the boy. You comprehend? Ile recognized us, he knew we had got ahead of them. Therefore Montforge must have been ahead of us after all, perhaps was delayed or caught by the storm. At all events, that man must have ridden to bring him up.”
“And,” added d’Artagnan, “we would have to do some hard riding to reach Paris ahead, eh?”
“Exactly,” affirmed Athos. “I chose to place Raoul in safety. In case Montforge comes, he will think Raoul is here. I do not care to be pursued all my life, my friends; I must meet this man and kill him. It is no longer your affair. Mount, I counsel you, and ride.”
“Bah!” said d’Artagnan. “You forget I have my own account with him. Porthos, leave us! Ride after Grimaud—”
“Will you have the goodness to go to the devil?” roared Porthos angrily. “One for all—all for one! Am I a fool, a coward, a poltroon? Devil fly away with me if I leave you! Besides,” he added thoughtfully, “there is nothing to show your fine theories are right, Athos.”
Athos shrugged. “Granted. We shall wait an hour; if no one arrives, we go on our way.”
“And if they do come, then?”
Athos only shrugged again, and said nothing.
D’Artagnan could very well imagine that the man who had spent the night here knew exactly whither he was riding. He
eyed the huge room, and laughed shortly.
“Athos,” he said, “we could hold this fortress against an army! Here are the capons, the wine is good; what more do we lack?”
“Pistols,” said Athos laconically. “All our powder was wet in that accursed rain last night.”
So saying, he applied himself to the meal set before them. He was entirely composed; but in his composure was something terrible.
D’Artagnan was by no means composed. He knew that in Montforge they had an adversary as crafty as he was determined; a man no doubt armed with powers from the Cardinal, who would stop at nothing to accomplish his end. As he ate and drank, d’Artagnan thought; and the result was a sudden exclamation which made the others look up.
“Vivadiou! I forgot something. Host!” At his call, the fat host came hurriedly. D’Artagnan laid a gold piece on the table. “Come, my friend! Another like this if your memory is good. The gentleman who was here last night did not give his name?”
“No, monsieur. He arrived just before the storm and went to his room, and remained there.”
“Then you have rooms? Where?”
“There, monsieur.” The host pointed to the rear door. “Two good ones.”
“Ah! And this man said nothing about any companions?”
“Nothing, monsieur. True, he expected a company of gentlemen this afternoon and inquired if I had plenty of fowl ready. As you can see, monsieur, we were making the extra spit—”
“Gentlemen? How many?”
“A score or more, monsieur.”
“Ma foi! From Paris?”
“No, monsieur. I think he said they would be riding for Paris.”
D’Artagnan, in consternation, looked at Athos. The latter, however, calmly took out his purse and put it in the hand of the host.
“There is payment in advance, my good man.”
“In advance, monsieur!”
“Exactly. For the damage that will be done here. You may leave us.”
The host was so astonished that he quite forgot to ask after the other gold piece promised by d’Artagnan.
“You see?” said Athos. “A score of men at least, perhaps more. Montforge could not get the ring made, or would not wait for it. He went to seize the boy, took plenty of men, and depended on his authority from Richelieu. We may yet have to hold your army in check, d’Artagnan.”
The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack Page 114