Twenty Years After

by Alexander Dumas

  And they hurtled ahead. The horses, furious from pain and fatigue, flew up the dark highway, and ahead they began to see a dark mass moving against the horizon.

  XXVIII

  Encounter

  They continued the chase for ten more minutes. Suddenly, two black blots detached themselves from the dark mass ahead, approached, grew, and assumed the silhouettes of two riders.

  “Uh-oh,” said d’Artagnan. “They’re coming to us.”

  “Too bad for them,” said Porthos.

  “Who’s that?” cried a hoarse voice.

  The three riders dashed ahead without pause or reply, though from the approaching phantoms they heard the sound of swords being drawn and of pistols being cocked.

  “Reins in your teeth!” said d’Artagnan. Porthos understood, and then he and d’Artagnan each drew a pistol left-handed and cocked it.

  “Who’s that?” the voice cried a second time. “Not one more step or you’re dead!”

  “Bah!” replied Porthos, nearly choking on dust and chewing the reins as his horse was chewing his bit. “We’ve heard that before.”

  At these words the two shadows reined up and barred the way, and starlight glinted from the barrels as they aimed their pistols.

  “Back off!” cried d’Artagnan. “Or it’s you who’ll be dead.”

  Two pistol shots replied to this threat, and the shooters followed their shots so closely that they were upon their opponents a moment later. A third pistol cracked, fired at close range by d’Artagnan, and an enemy fell. As for Porthos, he struck his opponent with his sword so hard that, though the blade was turned, he sent the man tumbling ten paces from his horse.

  “Finish him, Mousqueton!” said Porthos. And he spurred forward to catch up to his friend, who had already resumed the pursuit. “Well?” said Porthos.

  “Head shot,” shrugged d’Artagnan. “And you?”

  “Just knocked him out of the saddle—but wait . . .”

  They heard the crack of a carbine: it was Mousqueton, following his master’s orders as he passed.

  “Two down!” said d’Artagnan. “First trick to us.”

  “Yes,” said Porthos, “but here come some more players.”

  In fact, two more horsemen appeared to have detached from the main group and were hastening back to bar the road once more.

  This time d’Artagnan didn’t even wait for them to address him. “Make way!” he cried first. “Make way!”

  “What are you after?” said a voice.

  “The duke!” shouted Porthos and d’Artagnan with one voice.

  The response was a burst of laughter, but it ended in a whimper, as d’Artagnan ran the man through with his sword.

  At the same time two pistols boomed as Porthos and his adversary fired at each other.

  D’Artagnan turned and saw Porthos right behind him. “Bravo, Porthos!” he said to him. “Do you think you killed him?”

  “I think I killed his horse,” said Porthos.

  “Well, what would you have? You can’t hit the bull’s-eye every time—so long as you’re on the target, we can’t complain. . . . Hey! Parbleu! What’s wrong with my horse?”

  “Your horse is done in,” said Porthos, reining in his own.

  Indeed, d’Artagnan’s horse stumbled, fell to its knees, then groaned and lay down. It had been struck in the chest by his first opponent’s bullet. D’Artagnan’s curses were sharp enough to crack the sky.

  “Does Monsieur need a horse?” said Mousqueton.

  “By God! I’ll say,” cried d’Artagnan.

  “Take this one,” said Mousqueton.

  “How the devil do you have two horses?” said d’Artagnan, jumping on the second one.

  “Their masters were dead, and I thought they might come in handy, so I took them.”

  Meanwhile Porthos was reloading his pistols.

  “Heads up!” said d’Artagnan. “Here come two more.”

  “They keep coming like there’s no tomorrow,” said Porthos.

  Indeed, two more riders were rapidly approaching. “Watch out, Monsieur!” said Mousqueton. “The one you unhorsed has gotten up.”

  “Why didn’t you treat him like the first one?”

  “I was busy rounding up the horses.”

  A shot rang out, and Mousqueton screamed in pain. “Ah, no, Monsieur! Not the other one! It’s like the road to Amiens all over again!”

  Porthos turned and leapt like a lion on the dismounted rider, who tried to draw his sword, but before it was out of its scabbard Porthos had cracked his head with such a blow from his pommel that he dropped like an ox under the butcher’s axe.

  Mousqueton, groaning, slid down from his horse, as his wound wouldn’t let him stay in the saddle.

  Watching the approaching riders, d’Artagnan had paused to reload his pistol, and discovered that his new horse had a carbine in a long saddle holster.

  “I’m back!” said Porthos. “Do we wait for them, or charge?”

  “We charge,” said d’Artagnan.

  “We charge!” said Porthos.

  They dug their spurs into their horses. The oncoming riders were no more than twenty paces from them. “In the king’s name!” cried d’Artagnan. “Let us pass.”

  “There’s no king here,” replied a dark, resonant voice that seemed to come from a cloud, as the rider came wreathed in a mist of dust.

  “And I say the king is everywhere,” said d’Artagnan.

  “We’ll see,” said the same voice. Two shots rang out simultaneously, one from d’Artagnan, the other from Porthos’s adversary. D’Artagnan’s ball shot off his enemy’s hat, while the bullet from Porthos’s opponent tore out the throat of his horse, which collapsed with a groan.

  “For the last time, where do you think you’re going?” said the same dark voice.

  “To the Devil!” d’Artagnan replied.

  “Fine! I’ll send you to him.” D’Artagnan saw him bring up the barrel of a musket; there was no time to reach for his holsters, but he remembered some advice Athos had once given him and made his horse rear.

  The musket ball struck his mount in the belly. D’Artagnan felt his horse going down, and with marvelous agility he leapt off, landing safely.

  “What’s this?” said the same vibrant and mocking voice. “We’re not here to slaughter horses, but men! Draw your sword, Monsieur! Draw your sword!” And the man leapt down from his horse.

  “Let it be swords, then,” said d’Artagnan, “because the sword is my business.”

  In two bounds d’Artagnan was within reach of his opponent and felt his steel on his enemy’s. D’Artagnan, cool as ever, engaged him in tierce, his favorite guard.

  Meanwhile Porthos knelt, a pistol in each hand, behind his dying horse, which writhed in convulsions of agony.

  But the mêlée was on between d’Artagnan and his opponent. D’Artagnan launched his usual fierce attack—but this time he met a strength and skill that gave him pause. He attacked twice in quarte, then stepped back, but his adversary didn’t advance into the trap; d’Artagnan resumed his attack in tierce. Each lunged and parried twice, but flying sparks were the only result.

  Finally, d’Artagnan thought he saw the opportunity to unleash his favorite feint; he lunged with finesse, drew his opponent’s point out of line, then remised like lightning, sure that he had him.

  The remise was parried.

  “Mordioux!” he swore in his Gascon accent.

  At this exclamation, his opponent sprang back and cocked his head, as if trying to see through the gloom. Meanwhile d’Artagnan, fearing a feint, fell into a defensive guard.

  “Take care,” said Porthos to his opponent. “I still have two loaded pistols.”

  “Then I give you leave to shoot first,” his adversary replied.

  Porthos fired, the flash lighting up the battlefield.

  At this sudden light, both fencers cried out.

  “Athos!” said d’Artagnan.

  “D’Artagnan!” sai
d Athos.

  Athos raised his sword’s point; d’Artagnan lowered his. “Aramis!” called Athos. “Don’t shoot.”

  “Oh ho, is that you, Aramis?” said Porthos. And he tossed away his second pistol.

  Aramis holstered his own pistol and sheathed his sword.

  “My son!” said Athos, extending his hand to d’Artagnan. It was what he used to call d’Artagnan in the old days.

  “Athos,” said d’Artagnan, wringing his hands, “so you’re defending the duke? And here I am, having sworn to take him dead or alive. Agh! I’m dishonored.”

  “Kill me, then,” said Athos, lowering his guard, “if your honor requires my death.”

  “Oh! Devil take me!” cried d’Artagnan. “There was only one man in the world who could stop me, and fate put him in my path. Gah! What am I going to tell the cardinal?”

  “You will tell him, Monsieur,” said a voice that rang out over the battlefield, “that he sent against me the only two men who could beat four other cavaliers, fight the Comte de La Fère and the Chevalier d’Herblay to a standstill, and then yield to fifty more.”

  “The prince!” said Athos and Aramis, stepping aside to make way for the Duc de Beaufort, while d’Artagnan and Porthos took a step back.

  “Fifty more!” muttered Porthos and d’Artagnan.

  “Look around you, Messieurs, if you doubt me,” said the duke.

  D’Artagnan and Porthos did look around and saw that they were surrounded by horsemen.

  “By the sound of the encounter,” said the duke, “I thought you must be twenty men. Fed up with fleeing, and ready for a little sword work, I turned back with my entire troop, to find you were only two.”

  “Yes, Monseigneur,” said Athos, “but you were not in error, for these two are worth twenty.”

  “Come, Messieurs—surrender your swords,” said the duke.

  “Our swords!” said d’Artagnan, raising his head and regaining his self-possession. “Our swords! Never!”

  “Never!” said Porthos.

  The riders began to close in.

  “One moment, Monseigneur,” said Athos. “A few words.”

  He approached the prince, who leaned toward him and listened as he whispered. “Whatever you say, Count,” said the prince. “I’m too much in your debt to refuse your first request. Fall back, Gentlemen,” he said to his escort. “Messieurs d’Artagnan and du Vallon, you’re free to go.”

  The order was followed immediately, and d’Artagnan and Porthos found themselves at the center of a widening circle.

  “Dismount now, d’Herblay,” said Athos, “and come with me.”

  Aramis got down and approached Porthos, as Athos came up to d’Artagnan. The Four were thus reunited.

  “Friends,” said Athos, “are you still sorry you didn’t shed our blood?”

  “No,” said d’Artagnan. “My only regret is to see us pitted against each other, when before we’d always been together. Alas! We’ll never succeed at anything again.”

  “Never, mon Dieu. It’s over,” said Porthos.

  “Well, then! Why don’t you join us?” said Aramis.

  “Silence, d’Herblay,” said Athos. “Don’t make such a proposal to gentlemen such as these. If they’ve joined Mazarin’s faction, their honor is engaged, just as ours is to the side of the princes.”

  “But meanwhile, we’re enemies,” said Porthos. “Sangbleu! Who would have thought it?”

  D’Artagnan said nothing, just sighed.

  Athos looked at them, then took up their hands in his. “Messieurs,” he said, “the matter is serious, and my heart suffers as if you’d pierced it through. Yes, it’s the sad truth that we are on opposite sides—but we haven’t declared war on each other. Perhaps we can come to an understanding. I believe a private conference is called for.”

  “As for me, I agree,” said Aramis.

  “Then I agree, as well,” d’Artagnan said proudly.

  Porthos nodded in assent.

  “Let’s set a place of rendezvous,” continued Athos, “somewhere convenient to all, where we can state our positions and decide how we shall conduct ourselves vis-à-vis each other.”

  “Fine!” said the other three.

  “So, we’re agreed?”

  “Entirely!”

  “Well, then! Where shall it be?”

  “How about the Place Royale?” asked d’Artagnan.

  “In Paris?”

  “Yes.”

  Athos looked at Aramis, who nodded. “The Place Royale, then!” said Athos.

  “And when?”

  “Tomorrow night, if that suits you.”

  “You’ll be there?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time?”

  “Would ten o’clock at night be convenient?”

  “Perfectly so.”

  “Then,” said Athos, “whether we settle on peace or war, friends, our personal honor, at least, will be satisfied.”

  “Maybe so,” murmured d’Artagnan, “but our honor as soldiers is lost to us.”

  “D’Artagnan,” said Athos gravely, “what wounds me more deeply is that circumstances have caused us to cross swords with each other. Yes,” he continued, shaking his head sorrowfully, “yes, as you said, evil times are upon us. Come, Aramis.”

  “While we, Porthos,” said d’Artagnan, “must go back and confess our shame to the cardinal.”

  “But be sure you mention,” shouted a voice that d’Artagnan recognized as the voice of Rochefort, “that I’m not yet too old to be a man of action!”

  “Is there anything I can do for you, Messieurs?” asked the prince.

  “Bear witness that we did all we could, Monseigneur.”

  “Rest easy, I’ll see to that. Adieu, Messieurs—I hope to meet you again sometime, perhaps in Paris, and then you may have your revenge.” With these words, the duke waved to them in salute, put his horse into a gallop, and rode off, followed by his escort, who disappeared into the night, the sound of their hoofbeats dwindling until it was lost.

  D’Artagnan and Porthos found themselves alone on the king’s highway, except for a man holding the bridles of two spare horses. They thought it was Mousqueton and approached him. “But who’s this?” cried d’Artagnan. “Is that you, Grimaud?”

  “Grimaud!” said Porthos.

  Grimaud just nodded to tell the two friends that they weren’t mistaken.

  “And whose horses are these?” asked d’Artagnan.

  “Where do they come from?” asked Porthos.

  “Monsieur le Comte de La Fère.”

  “Athos, Athos,” murmured d’Artagnan. “The consummate gentleman! You really do think of everything.”

  “And just in time!” said Porthos. “I was afraid we were going to have to walk.” He climbed into the saddle.

  D’Artagnan did the same. “Well, now! So where are you off to, Grimaud? Are you leaving your master?”

  “Yes,” said Grimaud. “I go to join the Vicomte de Bragelonne with the army in Flanders.”

  For a while they rode together in silence down the road back to Paris, until they suddenly heard groans that seemed to rise out of a ditch.

  “What’s that?” asked d’Artagnan.

  “That,” said Porthos, “is Mousqueton.”

  “Oh, yes, Monsieur, it’s me,” said a sad voice, from a shadow by the side of the road.

  Porthos rushed to his steward, to whom he was really quite attached. “Were you badly wounded, my dear Mouston?” he said.

  “Mouston!” said Grimaud, eyes wide.

  “No, Monsieur, I don’t think so—but I’m injured in an embarrassing way.”

  “So, you can’t ride a horse?”

  “No, Monsieur—and what am I to do?”

  “Can you walk?”

  “I’ll try, at least as far as the first house we come to.”

  “What are we going to do?” said d’Artagnan. “We have to get back to Paris.”

  “I’ll take care of Mousqueton,” said
Grimaud.

  “Thanks, that’s good of you, Grimaud!” said Porthos.

  Grimaud dismounted and went to lend a hand to his old friend, who greeted him tearfully, though Grimaud wasn’t sure whether the tears were due to their reunion or his injury.

  As for d’Artagnan and Porthos, they rode silently back to Paris.

  Three hours later they were passed by a dusty courier, a messenger sent by the duke with a letter for the cardinal in which, as the prince had promised, he bore witness to the deeds of Porthos and d’Artagnan.

  Mazarin had already passed a miserable night before this letter arrived, in which the prince announced that he was free and ready to undertake a war to the death.

  The cardinal read it two or three times, then folded it, put it into his pocket, and said, “Though d’Artagnan has failed, what consoles me at least is that on his way he trampled Broussel. That Gascon is a valuable man and serves me even in his clumsiness.”

  The cardinal was referring to the man whom d’Artagnan had knocked over in Paris at the corner of Saint-Jean, who was none other than the worthy Councilor Broussel.

  XXIX

  Good Councilor Broussel

  But unfortunately for Cardinal Mazarin, and despite his malicious hopes, the worthy Councilor Broussel had not been exterminated.

  It was true, he had been quietly crossing Rue Saint-Honoré when d’Artagnan’s speeding steed had struck him in the shoulder and knocked him into the mud. As we said, at the time d’Artagnan hadn’t paid any attention to the event, not realizing its significance. Besides, d’Artagnan shared the deep disdain that the nobility of that period, and especially the nobility of the sword, felt for the bourgeoisie. He paid no mind to the small man dressed in black, though he was the cause of the man’s misfortune. No one even heard him cry out until after the storm of armed cavaliers had thundered past; only then was the injury noticed.

  Passersby ran up to the moaning man and asked him his name, title, and address; and when told that his name was Broussel, he was a councilor of parliament, and he lived in Rue Saint-Landry, an angry cry went up from the gathering crowd, a cry so terrible and threatening that the wounded man feared another hurricane was about to pass over him.