Twenty Years After

by Alexander Dumas

  D’Artagnan bowed.

  “Well, that’s not an impossibility! We’ll see, Messieurs, we’ll see. Now, Monsieur du Vallon,” said Mazarin, “which do you prefer: to serve in the city, or go out on campaign?”

  Porthos opened his mouth to answer.

  “Monseigneur,” said d’Artagnan, “like me, Monsieur du Vallon prefers extraordinary services, that is to say, those missions that others consider insane or impossible.”

  This little gasconade did not displease Mazarin, and it started him thinking. “Maybe, but I must confess I summoned you here for a more sedentary task. I’m anxious about . . . Here, now! What’s that noise?”

  A great clamor came from the antechamber, the office door opened suddenly, and a man covered in dust rushed in, shouting, “Monsieur le Cardinal? Where’s His Eminence?”

  Mazarin recoiled, thinking it was an assassin, and took shelter behind his chair. D’Artagnan and Porthos moved to put themselves between the cardinal and the newcomer.

  “Eh, Monsieur!” said Mazarin. “What are you doing, bursting in here and shouting like some crier in the markets?”

  “Monseigneur,” said the officer so reproached, “I must tell you what I have to report quickly and in confidence. I’m Poins, Officer of the Guards at the dungeon of Vincennes.”

  The officer was so pale and distraught that Mazarin, convinced he brought news of importance, waved d’Artagnan and Porthos aside to make way for the messenger. The two cavaliers withdrew into a corner of the office.

  “Speak, Monsieur, and quickly,” said Mazarin. “What is it, then?”

  “Just this, Monseigneur,” said the messenger. “Monsieur de Beaufort has escaped from the Château de Vincennes.”

  Mazarin uttered a cry and turned even paler than the messenger. He fell back into his chair in a near-faint. “Escaped!” he gasped. “Beaufort—escaped?”

  “From the parapet, Monseigneur, I saw him riding away.”

  “And you didn’t shoot him?”

  “He was out of range.”

  “But Chavigny, what was he doing?”

  “He was away.”

  “And La Ramée?”

  “He was found tied and gagged in the prisoner’s cell, near a fallen poniard.”

  “But what about his assistant?”

  “He was the duke’s accomplice and escaped with him.”

  Mazarin groaned.

  “Monseigneur,” said d’Artagnan, taking a step toward the cardinal.

  “What?” said Mazarin.

  “It seems to me Your Eminence is losing precious time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If Your Eminence will order the prisoner pursued, he might still be caught. France is large, and it’s sixty leagues to the closest border.”

  “And who would go after him?” cried Mazarin.

  “Pardieu! Me!”

  “You would arrest him?”

  “Why not?”

  “You would take the Duc de Beaufort from amidst his armed allies?”

  “If Monseigneur ordered it, I’d arrest the Devil himself. I’d grab him by the horns and haul him in.”

  “Me, too,” said Porthos.

  “You too?” said Mazarin, astonished. “But the duke won’t give up without a fierce fight.”

  “Well!” said d’Artagnan, his eyes afire. “A fight! It’s been a while since we had a good fight, isn’t it, Porthos?”

  “To battle!” said Porthos.

  “And you think you can catch him?”

  “Yes, if we’re better mounted than he is.”

  “Then take whatever troops you want with you and go.”

  “At your orders, Monseigneur.”

  “At my orders,” said Mazarin, taking a sheet of paper and writing a few lines.

  “Add, Monseigneur, that we may confiscate any horses we need along the way.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Mazarin. “On the king’s service! Take whatever you need and go!”

  “Very good, Monseigneur.”

  “Monsieur du Vallon,” said Mazarin, “you’ll find your barony just beyond the Duc de Beaufort—all you have to do is catch him. As for you, Monsieur d’Artagnan, I make no promises, but if you bring him back, dead or alive, you may ask for what you will.”

  “To horse, Porthos!” said d’Artagnan, taking his friend by the arm.

  “I’m with you,” replied Porthos, with his serene composure.

  And they ran down the grand staircase, gathering up guards as they passed, shouting, “To horse! To horse!”

  Ten men were quickly assembled. D’Artagnan and Porthos mounted up, the former on Vulcan and the latter on Bayard, while Mousqueton straddled Phoebus.

  “Follow me!” shouted d’Artagnan.

  “Let’s ride,” said Porthos.

  And they dug their spurs into the flanks of their noble steeds and galloped up Rue Saint-Honoré like a raging storm.

  “Well, now, Monsieur le Baron!” called d’Artagnan. “I promised you some exercise, didn’t I?”

  “You did, Monsieur le Capitaine!” replied Porthos.

  They glanced behind: Mousqueton, sweating even more than his horse, was right behind them, followed at a gallop by the ten troopers.

  The citizens gazed in amazement from their doorsteps as their excited dogs barked and nipped at the cavaliers’ heels.

  At the corner of the Saint-Jean cemetery, d’Artagnan’s horse knocked down a pedestrian, but their business was too pressing to stop. The galloping troop continued on its way as if the horses had wings. But alas! Every action, however small, has its consequences, and we’ll see how this one nearly led to the fall of the monarchy.

  XXVII

  The King’s Highway

  Headed toward Vincennes, they galloped through the Faubourg Saint-Antoine and soon found themselves outside the city, riding through a wood and then into a village. The horses seemed to stretch out more with every step, their red nostrils roaring like blazing furnaces. D’Artagnan, working the spurs, led Porthos by no more than two feet. Mousqueton followed by two lengths. The troopers trailed in a scattering behind, depending on the virtues of their horses.

  Coming over a crest d’Artagnan saw a group of people clustered along the moat where the Château de Vincennes faces Saint-Maur. He realized that must be from whence the prisoner had fled, and that was where he’d find more information. He reached the group within five minutes, followed successively by his troopers.

  The folk who made up the group were completely engrossed. They stared at the cord that still hung from the parapet and ended, broken, twenty feet from the ground. They estimated the height of the drop and shared theories of the escape. Nervous sentries passed along the top of the wall, peering down anxiously.

  A squad of soldiers, commanded by a sergeant, arrived to drive the idlers away from where the duke had taken to horseback. D’Artagnan went straight up to the sergeant. “Mon Officier,” said the sergeant, “you can’t linger here.”

  “Your orders don’t apply to me,” said d’Artagnan. “Has anyone gone after the fugitives?”

  “Yes, Officer, but unfortunately the escapees were well mounted.”

  “How many were there?”

  “Four healthy, and one injured, whom they took with them.”

  “Four!” said d’Artagnan, looking at Porthos. “Did you hear that, Baron? Only four!”

  A happy smile lit Porthos’s face.

  “And how much of a lead do they have?” asked d’Artagnan.

  “Two hours and a quarter, Officer.”

  “Two hours and a quarter, that’s nothing. We’re well mounted, aren’t we, Porthos?”

  Porthos sighed at the thought of what was ahead for his poor horses.

  “Very well,” said d’Artagnan. “Now, which direction did they go?”

  “As to that, Officer, I’m not supposed to say.”

  D’Artagnan drew a paper from his pocket. “The king’s orders,” he said.

  “Speak to the gove
rnor, then.”

  “And where is the governor?”

  “He’s away.”

  Anger colored d’Artagnan’s face; his brow furrowed, his temples flushed. “You wretch!” he said to the sergeant. “Do you think you can toy with me? Just wait.”

  He unfolded the paper and held it up in front of the sergeant with one hand, while with the other he drew a pistol and cocked it. “The king’s orders, I said. Look at this and answer me, or I’ll blow out your brains! Which way did they go?”

  The sergeant saw that d’Artagnan was serious. “The road to Vendôme!” he said.

  “By what gate did they leave?”

  “The Saint-Maur gate.”

  “If you’re lying to me, dog, you hang tomorrow,” said d’Artagnan.

  “And if you catch up to them, you’ll never return to hang me,” muttered the sergeant.

  D’Artagnan shrugged, beckoned to his troop, and spurred on. “This way, Messieurs, this way!” he cried, pointing toward the gate that gave onto Saint-Maur.

  But now that the duke had escaped, the gatekeeper thought it prudent to lock the gate. He had to be persuaded in the same way as the sergeant, which cost them ten more minutes.

  That final obstacle passed, the troop resumed its ride with the same haste. But the horses couldn’t maintain that pace, and after an hour’s gallop, three balked and halted; one fell. D’Artagnan didn’t pause, or even turn his head. In his calm voice, Porthos reported the loss to him.

  “So long as the two of us get there,” said d’Artagnan. “Against four, we’re plenty.”

  “True,” said Porthos. And he put the spurs to his horse.

  After two hours, the horses had gone twelve leagues without a pause; their legs began to tremble, the foam blown from their muzzles speckled their riders’ doublets, and their sweat soaked the riders’ breeches.

  “Let’s rest a few minutes to let these poor creatures breathe,” said Porthos.

  “No—we ride them to death, if we must,” d’Artagnan said. “Look! Fresh tracks. They’re no more than a quarter of an hour ahead of us.”

  And in fact, by the last rays of the setting sun, they could see the road was freshly furrowed by horses’ hooves.

  They rode on—but two leagues later Mousqueton’s horse staggered and fell.

  “Oh, great!” said Porthos. “There’s Phoebus burned out.”

  “The cardinal will pay you ten thousand pistoles.”

  “Right you are!” said Porthos. “I’m over it.”

  “Resume the pursuit, at the gallop!”

  “We will, if we can.”

  But in fact, d’Artagnan’s horse refused to take another step; his breathing shuddered to a halt, and a final touch of the spur, instead of reviving him, made him fall.

  “The devil!” said Porthos. “That’s the end of Vulcan.”

  “Mordieu!” cried d’Artagnan, pulling out his hair by the handful. “Have I hit a wall? Porthos—give me your horse. But wait, what the devil are you doing?”

  “Pardieu! I’m falling,” said Porthos, “or rather, it’s Bayard who falls.”

  D’Artagnan assisting, Porthos tried to spur the horse back up, but suddenly blood gushed from its nostrils. “Three down!” said Porthos. “It’s all over.”

  At that moment a neighing was heard. “Hush!” said d’Artagnan.

  “What is it?”

  “I heard a horse.”

  “It’s just our companions rejoining us.”

  “No,” said d’Artagnan, “it’s ahead of us.”

  “Oh? Well that’s something else entirely,” said Porthos.

  And he listened in his turn, focusing on the direction d’Artagnan had indicated.

  “Monsieur,” said Mousqueton, who, having abandoned his horse on the highway, had just walked up to rejoin his maser, “Monsieur, Phoebus couldn’t handle another . . .”

  “Hush there!” said Porthos.

  And just then a second neigh was borne to them on the night breeze.

  “They’re about five hundred paces ahead of us,” said d’Artagnan.

  “True, Monsieur,” said Mousqueton, “and five hundred paces ahead of us there happens to be a small hunting lodge.”

  “Mousqueton, your pistols,” said d’Artagnan.

  “They’re ready, Monsieur.”

  “Porthos, do you have yours?”

  “I have them.”

  “Well,” d’Artagnan said, drawing his own, “do you get it, Porthos?”

  “Not so much.”

  “We’re riding in the king’s service.”

  “So?”

  “So, in the king’s service, we require those horses.”

  “Right,” said Porthos.

  “No more talk, then. Let’s do it!”

  All three advanced through the dark, silent as ghosts. At a bend in the road, they saw a light shining through the trees.

  “There’s the house,” said d’Artagnan quietly. “I’ll go first—follow my lead, Porthos.”

  They glided from tree to tree and moved to within twenty paces of the house unnoticed. From that distance, thanks to a lantern hanging from a shed, they could see four horses of the finest quality. A groom was tending to them; nearby were saddles and bridles.

  D’Artagnan made a sign to his companions to stay a few steps behind him, and then moved quickly forward. “I’m buying these horses,” he said to the groom.

  The man turned around, surprised, but made no reply.

  “Didn’t you hear what I said, dolt?” snapped d’Artagnan.

  “I heard it,” said the groom.

  “Why didn’t you answer me?”

  “Because these horses aren’t for sale.”

  “Nonetheless, I’m buying them,” said d’Artagnan. And he reached out for the closest horse. His two companions came up and did the same.

  “But, Messieurs!” cried the groom. “They just traveled six leagues and have been unsaddled barely half an hour.”

  “Then they’re already warmed up,” said d’Artagnan. “Half an hour’s rest is plenty.”

  The groom called for help. A steward came out just as d’Artagnan and his companions were getting the saddles on the horses. The steward began to object loudly.

  “My dear fellow,” said d’Artagnan, “say one more word and I’ll blow your brains out.” And he showed him the barrel of a pistol that he immediately tucked back under his arm so he could continue his work.

  “But, Monsieur,” said the steward, “don’t you realize these horses belong to Monsieur de Montbazon?”

  “All the better,” said d’Artagnan. “That explains their quality.”

  “Monsieur,” said the steward, backing away toward the door of the house, “I warn you, I’ll call for my people.”

  “And I’ll call for mine,” said d’Artagnan. “I’m a lieutenant of the King’s Musketeers, with ten troopers coming up behind me. Can’t you hear them? Then we’ll see.”

  No one heard anything, but the steward went quietly back inside.

  “Are you ready, Porthos?” said d’Artagnan.

  “I’ve finished.”

  “And you, Mouston?”

  “Me too.”

  “Then into the saddle, and ride.”

  The three sprang onto their horses, just as the steward reappeared. “There they are!” he shouted. “Quick! The pistols and carbines!”

  “Off we go, before there’s musketry!” said d’Artagnan. And they spurred off like the wind.

  “Help!” bellowed the steward, as the groom appeared from another building with some armed men.

  “Careful! They’ll kill your horses!” cried d’Artagnan, laughing.

  “Fire!” replied the steward.

  Sudden lightning lit the road, followed by a detonation, then the sound of bullets whistling past the riders. “They shoot like peasants,” said Porthos. “Marksmanship isn’t what it was in Monsieur de Richelieu’s time. Do you remember the road to Crèvecœur, Mousqueton?”

&
nbsp; “Ah, Monsieur, my right buttock sure remembers it!”

  “Are you certain we’re on the right track, d’Artagnan?” asked Porthos.

  “Pardieu! Didn’t you hear what he said?”

  “What?”

  “That these horses belong to Monsieur de Montbazon.”

  “What of it?”

  “What of it? Monsieur de Montbazon is the husband of Madame de Montbazon . . .”

  “He must be, no?”

  “And Madame de Montbazon is the mistress of Monsieur de Beaufort.”

  “Ah, I get it,” said Porthos. “She provided the relays.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And now we’re chasing the duke on the horses he just left behind.”

  “My dear Porthos, you really do possess a rare intelligence,” said d’Artagnan, half serious and half jesting.

  “Bah!” said Porthos. “You must take me as I am.”

  They ran the horses for an hour, until they were white with foam and blood streamed from their flanks. “Hey! What’s that I see ahead?” said d’Artagnan.

  “You’re lucky you can see anything on a night like this,” said Porthos.

  “Sparks!”

  “Yes!” said Mousqueton. “I saw them too.”

  “Ah ha!” said Porthos. “Have we caught up to them?”

  “Here we go—a dead horse,” said d’Artagnan, reining in his own horse as it shied. “It seems they’re also reaching the end of their breath.”

  “I think I hear a troop of riders ahead,” said Porthos, bending forward over his horse’s mane.

  “A troop? Impossible.”

  “No, there are a lot of them.”

  “All right, if you say so.”

  “Here’s another horse!” said Porthos.

  “Dead?”

  “No, dying.”

  “Saddled or unsaddled?”

  “Saddled.”

  “That’s them, then.”

  “Courage! We have them.”

  “But if they’re so many,” said Mousqueton, “we don’t have them, they have us.”

  “Bah!” said d’Artagnan. “They’ll think they’re outnumbered, since they’re caught up—they’ll be afraid and scatter.”

  “Right,” said Porthos.

  “Ah! Look there,” cried d’Artagnan.

  “Yes, more sparks—this time I saw them, too,” said Porthos.

  “Forward, forward!” d’Artagnan shouted. “Five minutes from now we’ll be laughing.”