Ten Years Later by Dumas, Alexandre. Part one

feel certain of having reached English land. They had

already begun to perceive distinctly a few of the cottages

of the sailors and fishermen spread over the little quay of

this humble port, when, all at once, D’Artagnan cried out,

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— “God pardon me, there is a house on fire!”

Monk raised his eyes, and perceived there was, in fact, a

house which the flames were beginning to devour. It had

begun at a little shed belonging to the house, the roof of

which had caught. The fresh evening breeze agitated the

fire. The two travelers quickened their steps, hearing loud

cries, and seeing, as they drew nearer, soldiers with their

glittering arms pointing towards the house on fire. It was

doubtless this menacing occupation which had made them

neglect to signal the felucca. Monk stopped short for an

instant, and, for the first time, formulated his thoughts

into words. “Eh! but,” said he, “perhaps they are not my

soldiers, but Lambert’s.”

These words contained at once a sorrow, an apprehension, and

a reproach perfectly intelligible to D’Artagnan. In fact,

during the general’s absence, Lambert might have given

battle, conquered, and dispersed the parliament’s army, and

taken with his own the place of Monk’s army, deprived of its

strongest support. At this doubt, which passed from the mind

of Monk to his own, D’Artagnan reasoned in this manner: “One

of two things is going to happen; either Monk has spoken

correctly, and there are no longer any but Lambertists in

the country — that is to say, enemies, who would receive me

wonderfully well, since it is to me they owe their victory;

or nothing is changed, and Monk, transported with joy at

finding his camp still in the same place, will not prove too

severe in his settlement with me.” Whilst thinking thus, the

two travelers advanced, and began to mingle with a little

knot of sailors, who looked on with sorrow at the burning

house, but did not dare to say anything on account of the

threats of the soldiers.

Monk addressed one of these sailors: — “What is going on

here?” asked he.

“Sir,” replied the man, not recognizing Monk as an officer,

under the thick cloak which enveloped him, “that house was

inhabited by a foreigner, and this foreigner became

suspected by the soldiers. They wanted to get into his house

under pretense of taking him to the camp; but he, without

being frightened by their number, threatened death to the

first who should cross the threshold of his door, and as

there was one who did venture, the Frenchman stretched him

on the earth with a pistol-shot.”

“Ah! he is a Frenchman, is he?” said D’Artagnan, rubbing his

hands. “Good!”

“How good?” replied the fisherman.

“No, I don’t mean that. — What then — my tongue slipped.”

“What then, sir — why, the other men became as enraged as

so many lions: they fired more than a hundred shots at the

house; but the Frenchman was sheltered by the wall, and

every time they tried to enter by the door they met with a

shot from his lackey, whose aim is deadly, d’ye see? Every

time they threatened the window, they met with a pistol-shot

from the master. Look and count — there are seven men down.

“Ah! my brave countryman,” cried D’Artagnan, “wait a little,

wait a little. I will be with you, and we will settle with

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this rabble.”

“One instant, sir,” said Monk, “wait.”

“Long?”

“No; only the time to ask a question.” Then, turning towards

the sailor, “My friend,” asked he with an emotion which, in

spite of all his self-command, he could not conceal, “whose

soldiers are these, pray tell me?”

“Whose should they be but that madman, Monk’s?”

“There has been no battle, then?”

“A battle, ah, yes! for what purpose? Lambert’s army is

melting away like snow in April. All come to Monk, officers

and soldiers. In a week Lambert won’t have fifty men left.”

The fisherman was interrupted by a fresh discharge directed

against the house, and by another pistol-shot which replied