smothered crash on the insulter’s skull and crushed it. The
man fell like an ox beneath the poleaxe. His companions,
horror-struck, could neither move nor cry out.
“Tell them this, Athos,” resumed D’Artagnan; “thus shall all
die who forget that a captive man is sacred and that a
captive king doubly represents the Lord.”
Athos repeated D’Artagnan’s words.
The fellows looked at the body of their companion, swimming
in blood, and then recovering voice and legs together, ran
screaming off.
“Justice is done,” said Porthos, wiping his forehead.
“And now,” said D’Artagnan to Athos, “entertain no further
doubts about me; I undertake all that concerns the king.”
64
Whitehall.
The parliament condemned Charles to death, as might have
been foreseen. Political judgments are generally vain
formalities, for the same passions which give rise to the
accusation ordain to the condemnation. Such is the atrocious
logic of revolutions.
Although our friends were expecting that condemnation, it
filled them with grief. D’Artagnan, whose mind was never
more fertile in resources than in critical emergencies,
swore again that he would try all conceivable means to
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prevent the denouement of the bloody tragedy. But by what
means? As yet he could form no definite plan; all must
depend on circumstances. Meanwhile, it was necessary at all
hazards, in order to gain time, to put some obstacle in the
way of the execution on the following day — the day
appointed by the judges. The only way of doing that was to
cause the disappearance of the London executioner. The
headsman out of the way, the sentence could not be executed.
True, they could send for the headsman of the nearest town,
but at least a day would be gained, and a day might be
sufficient for the rescue. D’Artagnan took upon himself that
more than difficult task.
Another thing, not less essential, was to warn Charles
Stuart of the attempt to be made, so that he might assist
his rescuers as much as possible, or at least do nothing to
thwart their efforts. Aramis assumed that perilous charge.
Charles Stuart had asked that Bishop Juxon might be
permitted to visit him. Mordaunt had called on the bishop
that very evening to apprise him of the religious desire
expressed by the king and also of Cromwell’s permission.
Aramis determined to obtain from the bishop, through fear or
by persuasion, consent that he should enter in the bishop’s
place, and clad in his sacerdotal robes, the prison at
Whitehall.
Finally, Athos undertook to provide, in any event, the means
of leaving England — in case either of failure or of
success.
The night having come they made an appointment to meet at
eleven o’clock at the hotel, and each started out to fulfill
his dangerous mission.
The palace of Whitehall was guarded by three regiments of
cavalry and by the fierce anxiety of Cromwell, who came and
went or sent his generals or his agents continually. Alone
in his usual room, lighted by two candles, the condemned
monarch gazed sadly on the luxury of his past greatness,
just as at the last hour one sees the images of life more
mildly brilliant than of yore.
Parry had not quitted his master, and since his condemnation
had not ceased to weep. Charles, leaning on a table, was
gazing at a medallion of his wife and daughter; he was
waiting first for Juxon, then for martyrdom.
At times he thought of those brave French gentlemen who had
appeared to him from a distance of a hundred leagues
fabulous and unreal, like the forms that appear in dreams.
In fact, he sometimes asked himself if all that was
happening to him was not a dream, or at least the delirium
of a fever. He rose and took a few steps as if to rouse
himself from his torpor and went as far as the window; he
saw glittering below him the muskets of the guards. He was
thereupon constrained to admit that he was indeed awake and
that his bloody dream was real.
Charles returned in silence to his chair, rested his elbow
on the table, bowed his head upon his hand and reflected.