Twenty Years Later by Dumas, Alexandre. Part one

D’Artagnan drew from his pocket a paper. “Order of the

king,” he said.

“Speak to the governor, then.”

“And where is the governor?”

“In the country.”

Anger mounted to D’Artagnan’s face; he frowned and his

cheeks were colored.

“Ah, you scoundrel!” he said to the sergeant, “I believe you

are impudent to me! Wait!”

He unfolded the paper, presented it to the sergeant with one

hand and with the other took a pistol from his holsters and

cocked it.

“Order of the king, I tell you. Read and answer, or I will

blow out your brains!”

The sergeant saw that D’Artagnan was in earnest. “The

Vendomois road,” he replied.

“And by what gate did they go out?”

“By the Saint Maur gate.”

“If you are deceiving me, rascal, you will be hanged

to-morrow.”

“And if you catch up with them you won’t come back to hang

me,” murmured the sergeant.

D’Artagnan shrugged his shoulders, made a sign to his escort

and started.

“This way, gentlemen, this way!” he cried, directing his

course toward the gate that had been pointed out.

But, now that the duke had escaped, the concierge had seen

fit to fasten the gate with a double lock. It was necessary

to compel him to open it, as the sergeant had been compelled

to speak, and this took another ten minutes. This last

obstacle having been overcome, the troop pursued their

course with their accustomed ardor; but some of the horses

could no longer sustain this pace; three of them stopped

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after an hour’s gallop, and one fell down.

D’Artagnan, who never turned his head, did not perceive it.

Porthos told him of it in his calm manner.

“If only we two arrive,” said D’Artagnan, “it will be

enough, since the duke’s troop are only four in number.”

“That is true,” said Porthos

And he spurred his courser on.

At the end of another two hours the horses had gone twelve

leagues without stopping; their legs began to tremble, and

the foam they shed whitened the doublets of their masters.

“Let us rest here an instant to give these poor creatures

breathing time,” said Porthos.

“Let us rather kill them! yes, kill them!” cried D’Artagnan;

“I see fresh tracks; ’tis not a quarter of an hour since

they passed this place.”

In fact, the road was trodden by horses’ feet, visible even

in the approaching gloom of evening.

They set out; after a run of two leagues, Mousqueton’s horse

sank.

“Gracious me!” said Porthos, “there’s Phoebus ruined.”

“The cardinal will pay you a hundred pistoles.”

“I’m above that.”

“Let us set out again, at full gallop.”

“Yes, if we can.”

But at last the lieutenant’s horse refused to go on; he

could not breathe; one last spur, instead of making him

advance, made him fall.

“The devil!” exclaimed Porthos; “there’s Vulcan foundered.”

“Zounds!” cried D’Artagnan, “then we must stop! Give me your

horse, Porthos. What the devil are you doing?”

“By Jove, I am falling, or rather, Bayard is falling,”

answered Porthos.

All three then cried: “All’s over.”

“Hush!” said D’Artagnan.

“What is it?”

“I hear a horse.”

“It belongs to one of our companions, who is overtaking us.”

“No,” said D’Artagnan, “it is in advance.”

“That is another thing,” said Porthos; and he listened

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toward the quarter indicated by D’Artagnan.

“Monsieur,” said Mousqueton, who, abandoning his horse on the

high road, had come on foot to rejoin his master, “Phoebus

could no longer hold out and —- ”

“Silence!” said Porthos.

In fact, at that moment a second neighing was borne to them

on the night wind.

“It is five hundred feet from here, in advance,” said

D’Artagnan.

“True, monsieur,” said Mousqueton; “and five hundred feet

from here is a small hunting-house.”

“Mousqueton, thy pistols,” said D’Artagnan.

“I have them at hand, monsieur.”

“Porthos, take yours from your holsters.”

“I have them.”

“Good!” said D’Artagnan, seizing his own; “now you

understand, Porthos?”

“Not too well.”

“We are out on the king’s service.”

“Well?”

“For the king’s service we need horses.”

“That is true,” said Porthos.

“Then not a word, but set to work!”

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