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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Dumas, Alexandre – Ten Years Later
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
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