The doctors are embalming the corpse, and when it is ready
it will be placed in a lighted chapel.”
“Mockery,” muttered Athos, savagely; “royal honors to one
whom they have murdered!”
“Well, cheer up!” said a loud voice from the staircase,
which Porthos had just mounted. “We are all mortal, my poor
friends.”
“You are late, my dear Porthos.”
“Yes, there were some people on the way who delayed me. The
wretches were dancing. I took one of them by the throat and
three-quarters throttled him. Just then a patrol rode up.
Luckily the man I had had most to do with was some minutes
before he could speak, so I took advantage of his silence to
walk off.”
“Have you seen D’Artagnan?”
“We got separated in the crowd and I could not find him
again.”
“Oh!” said Athos, satirically, “I saw him. He was in the
front row of the crowd, admirably placed for seeing; and as
on the whole the sight was curious, he probably wished to
stay to the end.”
“Ah Comte de la Fere,” said a calm voice, though hoarse with
running, “is it your habit to calumniate the absent?”
This reproof stung Athos to the heart, but as the impression
produced by seeing D’Artagnan foremost in a coarse,
ferocious crowd had been very strong, he contented himself
with replying:
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“I am not calumniating you, my friend. They were anxious
about you here; I simply told them where you were. You
didn’t know King Charles; to you he was only a foreigner and
you were not obliged to love him.”
So saying, he stretched out his hand, but the other
pretended not to see it and he let it drop again slowly by
his side.
“Ugh! I am tired,” cried D’Artagnan, sitting down.
“Drink a glass of port,” said Aramis; “it will refresh you.”
“Yes, let us drink,” said Athos, anxious to make it up by
hobnobbing with D’Artagnan, “let us drink and get away from
this hateful country. The felucca is waiting for us, you
know; let us leave to-night, we have nothing more to do
here.”
“You are in a hurry, sir count,” said D’Artagnan.
“But what would you have us to do here, now that the king is
dead?”
“Go, sir count,” replied D’Artagnan, carelessly; “you see
nothing to keep you a little longer in England? Well, for my
part, I, a bloodthirsty ruffian, who can go and stand close
to a scaffold, in order to have a better view of the king’s
execution — I remain.”
Athos turned pale. Every reproach his friend uttered struck
deeply in his heart.
“Ah! you remain in London?” said Porthos.
“Yes. And you?”
“Hang it!” said Porthos, a little perplexed between the two,
“I suppose, as I came with you, I must go away with you. I
can’t leave you alone in this abominable country.”
“Thanks, my worthy friend. So I have a little adventure to
propose to you when the count is gone. I want to find out
who was the man in the mask, who so obligingly offered to
cut the king’s throat.”
“A man in a mask?” cried Athos. “You did not let the
executioner escape, then?”
“The executioner is still in the cellar, where, I presume,
he has had an interview with mine host’s bottles. But you
remind me. Mousqueton!”
“Sir,” answered a voice from the depths of the earth.
“Let out your prisoner. All is over.”
“But,” said Athos, “who is the wretch that has dared to
raise his hand against his king?”
“An amateur headsman,” replied Aramis, “who however, does
not handle the axe amiss.”
“Did you not see his face?” asked Athos.
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“He wore a mask.”
“But you, Aramis, who were close to him?”
“I could see nothing but a gray beard under the fringe of
the mask.”
“Then it must be a man of a certain age.”
“Oh!” said D’Artagnan, “that matters little. When one puts
on a mask, it is not difficult to wear a beard under it.”
“I am sorry I did not follow him,” said Porthos.
“Well, my dear Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, “that’s the very