“Good. We are at your orders, my dear Athos.”
“Then I propose that as soon as we appease our hunger, we inspect our defenses.”
Porthos was already raising an entrenchment of bones and empty bottles.
In twenty minutes the three friends quitted the table and began their examination. As Athos pointed out, they could hope to hold only this main room of the inn; therefore they looked first at the small doorway by the fireplace. This was regrettably weak, being a makeshift door without bar or bolt. Porthos remedied the lack by overturning the oak table and placing it against the door, whereupon the host appeared with loud wails.
“Be off,” d’Artagnan said to him. “Be off, or you will be lucky to escape with your hide!”
“But send us more wine first,” added Porthos.
“Alas, monsieur, I cannot reach the cellar—you have blocked the door!”
“Then go around, dolt!” cried d’Artagnan angrily. “You have been well paid in advance; get the wine and set it in the courtyard.”
They examined the main entrance, and here found that the double doors, iron-mounted, were almost fitted to withstand grenades. The courtyard was small. Along one side were stables, a high pile of manure before them. On the other flank were the pump and troughs. At the apex of the triangle were the gates, solid barriers on well-oiled hinges. The inn entrance occupied the base of this triangle.
“The walls can be climbed,” said Athos, sweeping a glance around. “D’Artagnan, you will open the pourparlers, while we stand ready to shut the gates. We will defend the courtyard first, since our aim is to gain time. When we can no longer hold this position, we will retreat to the inn.”
“That is,” added Porthos, “if the enemy appears!”
“They have appeared,” said d’Artagnan, and pointed to a large body of men just sweeping around a bend in the road, a quarter-mile distant. Applying themselves to the gates, the three friends closed one, leaving the other slightly ajar; beside this, Porthos stood in readiness with the beam of wood which served to hold both closed.
Seeing these preparations, and sighting the horsemen approaching at a gallop, the host and hostlers were no longer in doubt as to what portended; they vanished hastily. Athos eyed the enemy.
“Twenty-three or four,” he said. “Good! When the attack opens, gentlemen, I will retire and hold the rear entrenchment; for they will certainly surround the place and attempt entrance from the rear.”
“And I,” said Porthos, indicating the pile of manure, which lay close to the wall, “will hold this side. The other to you, d’Artagnan.”
D’Artagnan advanced to the half-open gate. The enemy were now at close quarters; sighting d’Artagnan, they drew rein, perhaps expecting to be greeted by pistol-shots. At their head d’Artagnan recognized the Comte de Montforge, with the cavalier who had lately departed from the tavern. The others, he perceived, were neither gentlemen nor soldiers, but hastily gathered riffraff of Paris—lackeys, bretteurs, anyone who could ride and use sword.
While his men dismounted, Montforge rode on alone and halted a few paces from the gateway.
“Good morning, M. d’Artagnan,” he said.
“And to you, monsieur,” responded d’Artagnan politely. “You have come, no doubt, to finish our interrupted conversation?”
“Unfortunately, monsieur, that is not the case. I am engaged in an errand for His Eminence, and until it is finished, am not my own master.”
“In that case, monsieur,” said d’Artagnan, “pray do not let me detain you.”
Montforge became very angry.
“Monsieur,” he exclaimed sharply, “let me warn you that I am acting by the express orders of His Eminence.”
“Who is not the ruler of France,” said d’Artagnan calmly. “As you may know, monsieur, I am an officer of Musketeers, whose officers take rank over those of other corps. However, I must confess that your words cause me extreme astonishment. One would imagine that I am obstructing or hindering you, when I am doing nothing of the sort. In fact, monsieur, I shall be only too glad to further you in every way possible, since I have only the liveliest good feeling toward His Eminence.”
Montforge listened to this speech with suppressed rage, but managed to control himself. He was about to speak when the bellow of Porthos broke forth from the wall to their right.
“Far enough, gentlemen! Halt, or I fire!”
In effect, several of Montforge’s companions had come close. D’Artagnan was astonished to see the figure of Porthos looming up above the wall, in his hands a huge old-fashioned arquebus. This weapon had been hanging above the fireplace in the tavern, and besides being at present empty, had certainly not been used since the time of the League; the enemy, however, were not aware of this, and promptly halted.
“You were about to say, monsieur—?” prompted d’Artagnan.
“That you have misunderstood me,” returned Montforge. “Or rather, you know very well what I want. I have an order from His Eminence to arrest the person of a boy named Raoul d’Aram.”
Monsieur,” said d’Artagnan, “that is interesting information; but do you expect me to believe the word of an assassin?”
A tide of red suffused the face of Montforge. Then, taking a paper from his pocket, he came close to the gate and handed it to d’Artagnan.
“Let us cease this byplay, monsieur,” he said acidly. “You took this child from St. Saforin; he was seen to arrive here with you; he is inside this place. There is my authority, and I demand in the name of the Cardinal that you deliver him to me.”
D’Artagnan opened the document and found that Montforge spoke the truth.
“Very well, monsieur,” he said, with a bow, as he returned the paper. “I have every respect for the orders of His Eminence, I assure you.”
“Good. You will deliver the child at once?”
“Eh?” D’Artagnan assumed an expression of surprise. “I? But, my dear M. de Montforge, this order has nothing to do with me! The boy is not here, I assure you! He is now on the way to Paris; if you hurry after him, you have every chance in the world of catching him!”
“Bah!” said the other, with a gesture of contempt. “I am astonished, monsieur, that a gentleman of your reputation would stoop to lies!”
“No less astonished, monsieur,” returned D’Artagnan, “than I am that a gentleman of your name would acquire the reputation which you possess.
The angry features of Montforge went livid at this thrust. “Then you refuse to obey the orders of the Cardinal?” he cried.
“No, monsieur,” said d’Artagnan. “I refuse to obey the dictates of a dishonored assassin.”
With the rapidity of light, Montforge drew a pistol from its saddle-holster and fired.
Artagnan, however, had glided into the opening behind him; the bullet struck the planks and was deflected. At the same instant the gate swung shut and Porthos hurried from his perch to help with the beam. It fell into place.
Athos departed to the interior, Porthos to his pile of manure. From outside, sounded shouts and orders. The assailants crowded close about the gates, found them solid, and being unable to force an entrance, sought to create one.
The first man to reach the top of the wall did so, unluckily for himself, opposite Porthos. The giant, whirling the heavy arquebus about his head like a feather, loosed it suddenly; the missile struck the unfortunate man, knocked him from the wall, and when his comrades ran to him, they found his body a crushed and lifeless mass.
The battle of Le Moine Qui Keude was open.
CHAPTER XVI
THE ASTONISHING EFFECT OF A KICK UPONA DEAD MAN
The wall of the courtyard was ten feet in height. Within two minutes, the head and shoulders of a man appeared on the side of Porthos; another appeared opposite d’Artagnan. They then remained stationary, without attempting to scale the wall.
“Come, descend!” roared Porthos, who had drawn his sword. “Over with you, rascals!”
“We are t
oo polite, monsieur,” said the man on his side, and he turned to look back at his comrades who supported him. “They have no pistols,” he said. “Quickly!”
The man opposite d’Artagnan said nothing, but took a pistol handed to him, leveled it at d’Artagnan, and fired.
The bullet pierced the musketeer’s hat.
“Another!” exclaimed the man.
D’Artagnan ground his teeth with rage. He perceived instantly that without powder they could not defend the courtyard. The enemy had no intention of risking a hand-to-hand combat when these two men on the wall could shoot down the defenders without peril to themselves.
“Back, Porthos!” he exclaimed sharply. “Take shelter!”
Am I a crab to run backward? Name of the devil!” cried Porthos furiously. “We held the Bastion St. Gervais against an army—cannot we hold this fortress against a rabble?”
His adversary on the wall grinned at him and raised a pistol upon the parapet.
“Here is a flea too large to miss!” he observed. “Vive le Cardinal!”
The explosion of the weapon drowned his words. Porthos, as though buffeted by an invisible hand, was knocked backward and rolled to the bottom of the manure pile. D’Artagnan ran to him, but Porthos rose, holding the hilt of his sword. The bullet had struck the blade and shattered it.
“Vive le Roi!” bellowed Porthos. “Cowards! Traitors! Murderers—”
At this instant the man on the right flank fired again.
Porthos spun around, took two or three steps, and then fell headlong at the inn entrance. Dropping his weapon, d’Artagnan caught him by the shoulders and dragged him inside. The face of Porthos was covered with blood.
“Athos! To the doors!”
“Impossible,” came the calm response of Athos. “I am—”
There was a crash. The massive table, blocking the small door beside the hearth, flew backward and fell to one side. The door behind it was carried off its hinges. D’Artagnan saw the end of a beam forced into the room, carried by several men, who stumbled along with it.
Athos, standing beside the opening, lunged as coolly as though he were in a salle d’armes. The first man fell forward on his face. The second plunged across him, clutching at his throat. Above and across them fell the beam.
“Hail, Mary!” screamed the third man, as Athos’ sword transfixed him.
Fascinated by this spectacle, d’Artagnan suddenly turned to his own flank. In the courtyard, two men had dropped over the walls and were unfastening the gates. Pulling Porthos farther inside, d’Artagnan closed the massive doors of the inn, dropped the bar in place, and caught at his sword as the voice of Athos reached him.
“D’Artagnan! They are preparing to fire—”
Two or three pistols were discharged together, the balls whistling through the chamber and flattening on the stone walls. After them, a man came rushing through the opening, sword in hand; he hesitated before the obscurity of the place, and Athos ran him through the heart. This made the fourth body upon the heap.
“Good!” said Athos coolly. “They burst down our door, and replace it with their own bodies. That is fair. Porthos—he is dead?”
“I do not know,” confessed d’Artagnan. “I think he is.”
A tremendous clang resounded through the room. The enemy were battering at the closed doors.
“Inside, there!” As the summons came to them through the half-closed passage, d’Artagnan trembled with fury; he recognized the voice of Montforge. “Surrender at once, or I will give no quarter!”
“It is we who make offers; we do not receive them,” returned Athos imperturbably.
“Fire!” shouted Montforge.
A number of pistols were discharged. Athos staggered, turned half round, then took two steps and dropped into a chair by a table against the side wall.
“Athos!” With a terrible cry of grief, d’Artagnan ran to his friend. Athos, lifting his head, pushed him away.
“Quick, to your post!” he cried. “I am not yet dead—”
And laying down his sword upon the table, he tore open his shirt and calmly began to bandage two wounds, one in his thigh, the other in his left shoulder. A thunderous sound re-echoed through the room; the massive doors were beginning to bend beneath the battering of the men outside.
D’Artagnan darted to the rear entrance. He was barely in time; two men were scrambling over the pile of bodies, and with a cry of joy d’Artagnan recognized one of them as Montforge.
“This time you will not escape me, assassin!” he cried.
For response, Montforge lifted a pistol and fired; but the powder flashed in the pan. His comrade flung himself upon D’Artagnan, slipped in a pool of blood, and spitted himself upon the rapier of the musketeer as he fell. He lay upon the floor, coughing terribly in the fumes of powder, and presently coughed no more.
No others came through the rear entrance.
Dropping his pistol, Montforge attacked d’Artagnan, sword inhand.
“Now for your comb, my cockerel!” he exclaimed mockingly. Then he staggered—the rapier of d’Artagnan struck him exactly over the heart, but it did not pierce.
“So!” cried d’Artagnan furiously. “I forgot that you were a coward and wore mail beneath your shirt—”
“In the throat, my son!” came the voice of Athos, who was watching them. “In the throat!”
Montforge turned his head for an instant, and saw Athos sitting at the table.
“Your turn next, my friend,” he cried.
For an instant, d’Artagnan despaired of his life, so deadly was the attack of Montforge that now overwhelmed him. For all his skill, he could scarce parry those incredible lunges, those ripostes which rippled from a wrist of steel. He was driven back, was forced to remain upon the defensive; and all the while there thundered a louder and louder clamor as the doors began to yield, their ancient iron hinges bending and breaking.
Suddenly the foot of d’Artagnan slipped. He fell heavily upon hands and knees; the rapier was dashed from his hand by the force of his fall. Montforge drew back a pace. Then, as d’Artagnan was in the act of rising, he leaned forward and plunged his sword into the young man’s breast.
A terrible cry burst from Athos, as he saw d’Artagnan fall prostrate.
Next instant, Montforge found himself confronted by a frightful spectacle—a man, half naked, blood upon shoulder and leg, whose eyes blazed from a livid countenance. So awful was the aspect of Athos in this instant that Montforge recoiled a step.
“Assassin!” cried Athos, and engaged that sword, wet with the blood of d’Artagnan.
In this moment Athos, ever a magnificent swordsman, was swept to superhuman heights by his grief and fury. Thrice his blade swept about the blade of Montforge, thrust it aside, lunged for the throat; thrice Montforge evaded those inimitable attacks. Suddenly the arm of Athos moved. His blade seemed to curl about that of Montforge, then tore it from the latter’s hand and sent it flying across the room.
“Life for life!” said Athos in a hollow voice, and drove his point into the throat of Montforge.
He drew the blade clear of the falling man. For an instant he looked down at Montforge, then he threw the weapon aside.
“I have dishonored my sword for the first time,” he murmured, “but I have avenged my friend.”
And quietly, with a smile upon his lips, he came to his knees, drooped, fell forward.
At this instant the doors at the entrance sagged down. The cross-bar held, but the hinges of one door burst, and those of the other cracked. The enormous mass of wood and iron swung inward at one side; it checked, caught, hung there by the cracked hinges of the other door, giving access to those without by the one open side. They attempted to shove it down, but it resisted. They gave up the effort and flooded into the room.
“Ah! ah!” cried the first man in, as he stumbled across the figure of Porthos. “Here is the big rascal I purged with a leaden pill!”
And he kicked the body of Porthos heav
ily. At this kick, Porthos opened his eyes, but no one perceived him, for the scene before them had now drawn the attention of all those men, and with confused oaths and cries they hastened across the room.
The scene was frightful; it appeared that no living person remained to greet them.
D’Artagnan lay upon his face, a trickle of blood coming from beneath his arm. Athos lay across the legs of Montforge. Behind them, the dead men and the fallen beam were piled in the rear entrance.
“The captain is dead!” cried one of the throng in consternation.
“They are all dead!” cried another.
“Name of the devil, then who pays us?” shouted a third. “Get the captain’s purse, take what we find!”
And all of them with one accord clustered about the body of Montforge, to plunder the dead.
Near the entrance, Porthos came to one knee, then gained his feet. He was almost unhurt; the ball that stunned him had barely cut the scalp, letting blood but doing no worse damage. As now, among those struggling, plundering figures, he saw the half-naked form of Athos and the fallen body of d’Artagnan, his eyes distended, a flood of color rushed into his face, and from his lips burst a wild and horrible cry.
“Murderers—you shall pay for this!”
Unarmed as he was, he rushed forward.
Next instant, even through the madness of his despair and rage he could perceive his folly, for they heard his cry and swung about, snarling like wolves. Swords glittered; a pistol crashed out, but the ball went wild. Porthos, evading the lunge of a rapier, caught sight of the huge spit leaning against the fireplace. He hurled himself toward it, reached it, and grasped it in both hands.
This pointed bar of steel, which one man could scarce lift, whirled about his head like a sliver of wood. The nearest bravo, rushing upon Porthos with sword extended, was struck full across the face by this terrific weapon.
A fearful scream burst from the others. Instead of crowding forward, they crowded back, away from this giant who flung himself upon them, face empurpled, foam slavering his lips. Porthos was in the grip of one of those convulsive rages in which he was no longer a man but a destroying angel.
The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack Page 115