Fouquet hurled far from him into the river the two pistols which d’Artagnan might have seized, and dismounting from his horse, “I am your prisoner, Monsieur,” said he; “will you take my arm, for I see you are ready to faint?”
“Thanks!” murmured d’Artagnan, who in fact felt the earth moving from under his feet, and the sky melting away over his head; and he rolled upon the sand without breath or strength. Fouquet hastened to the brink of the river, dipped some water in his hat, with which he bathed the temples of the musketeer, and introduced a few drops between his lips. D’Artagnan raised himself up, looking round with a wandering eye. He saw Fouquet on his knees, with his wet hat in his hand, smiling upon him with ineffable sweetness. “You are not gone, then?” cried he. “Oh, Monsieur! the true King in loyalty, in heart, in soul, is not Louis of the Louvre or Philippe of Ste. Marguerite; it is you, the proscribed, the condemned!”
“I, who this day am ruined by a single error, M. d’Artagnan.”
“What, in Heaven’s name, is that?”
“I should have had you for a friend! But how shall we return to Nantes? We are a great way from it.”
“That is true,” said d’Artagnan, gloomy and sad.
“The white horse will recover, perhaps; he is a good horse! Mount, M. d’Artagnan; I will walk till you have rested a little.”
“Poor beast! and wounded too!” said the musketeer.
“He will go, I tell you; I know him. But we can do better still, let us both mount.”
“We can try,” said the captain.
But they had scarcely charged the animal with this double load when he began to stagger, then with a great effort walked a few minutes, then staggered again, and sank down dead by the side of the black horse, which he had just managed to reach.
“We will go on foot; destiny wills it so. The walk will be pleasant,” said Fouquet, passing his arm through that of d’Artagnan.
“Mordioux!” cried the latter, with a fixed eye, a contracted brow, and a swelling heart. “A disgraceful day!”
They walked slowly the four leagues which separated them from the little wood behind which waited the carriage with the escort. When Fouquet perceived that sinister machine, he said to d’Artagnan, who cast down his eyes as if ashamed of Louis XIV, “There is an idea which is not that of a brave man, Captain d’Artagnan; it is not yours. What are these gratings for?”
“To prevent your throwing letters out.”
“Ingenious!”
“But you can speak, if you cannot write,” said d’Artagnan.
“Can I speak to you?”
“Why, certainly, if you wish to do so.”
Fouquet reflected for a moment, then looking the captain full in the face, “One single word,” said he; “will you remember it?”
“I will not forget it.”
“Will you speak it to whom I wish?”
“I will.”
“St. Mande,” articulated Fouquet, in a low voice.
“Well; and for whom?”
“For Madame de Belliere or Pelisson.”
“It shall be done.”
The carriage passed through Nantes, and took the route to Angers.
Chapter LXIX: In Which the Squirrel Falls, in Which the Adder Flies
IT WAS two o’clock in the afternoon. The King, full of impatience, went to his cabinet on the terrace, and kept opening the door of the corridor to see what his secretaries were doing. M. Colbert, seated in the same place M. de Saint-Aignan had so long occupied in the morning, was chatting in a low voice with M. de Brienne. The King opened the door suddenly, and addressing them, “What do you say?” asked he.
“We were speaking of the first sitting of the States,” said M. de Brienne, rising.
“Very well,” replied the King, and returned to his room.
Five minutes after, the summons of the bell recalled Rose, whose hour it was.
“Have you finished your copies?” asked the King.
“Not yet, Sire.”
“See, then, if M. d’Artagnan is returned.”
“Not yet, Sire.”
“It is very strange!” murmured the King. “Call M. Colbert.”
Colbert entered; he had been expecting this moment all the morning.
“M. Colbert,” said the King, very sharply, “it must be ascertained what is become of M. d’Artagnan.”