dead. Look!” and D’Artagnan, obliging Athos to look in the
direction he pointed, showed him the body of Mordaunt
floating on its back, which, sometimes submerged, sometimes
rising, seemed still to pursue the four friends with looks
of insult and mortal hatred.
At last he sank. Athos had followed him with a glance in
which the deepest melancholy and pity were expressed.
“Bravo! Athos!” cried Aramis, with an emotion very rare in
him.
“A capital blow you gave!” cried Porthos.
“I have a son. I wished to live,” said Athos.
“In short,” said D’Artagnan, “this has been the will of
God.”
“It was not I who killed him,” said Athos in a soft, low
tone, “’twas destiny.”
74
How Mousqueton, after being very nearly roasted, had a Narrow
Escape of being eaten.
A deep silence reigned for a long time in the boat after the
fearful scene described.
The moon, which had shone for a short time, disappeared
behind the clouds; every object was again plunged in the
obscurity that is so awful in the deserts and still more so
in that liquid desert, the ocean, and nothing was heard save
the whistling of the west wind driving along the tops of the
crested billows.
Porthos was the first to speak.
“I have seen,” he said, “many dreadful things, but nothing
that ever agitated me so much as what I have just witnessed.
Nevertheless, even in my present state of perturbation, I
protest that I feel happy. I have a hundred pounds’ weight
less upon my chest. I breathe more freely.” In fact, Porthos
breathed so loud as to do credit to the free play of his
powerful lungs.
“For my part,” observed Aramis, “I cannot say the same as
you do, Porthos. I am still terrified to such a degree that
I scarcely believe my eyes. I look around the boat,
expecting every moment to see that poor wretch holding
between his hands the poniard plunged into his heart.”
“Oh! I feel easy,” replied Porthos. “The poniard was pointed
at the sixth rib and buried up to the hilt in his body. I do
not reproach you, Athos, for what you have done. On the
contrary, when one aims a blow that is the regulation way to
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strike. So now, I breathe again — I am happy!”
“Don’t be in haste to celebrate a victory, Porthos,”
interposed D’Artagnan; “never have we incurred a greater
danger than we are now encountering. Men may subdue men —
they cannot overcome the elements. We are now on the sea, at
night, without any pilot, in a frail bark; should a blast of
wind upset the boat we are lost.”
Mousqueton heaved a deep sigh.
“You are ungrateful, D’Artagnan,” said Athos; “yes,
ungrateful to Providence, to whom we owe our safety in the
most miraculous manner. Let us sail before the wind, and
unless it changes we shall be drifted either to Calais or
Boulogne. Should our bark be upset we are five of us good
swimmers, able enough to turn it over again, or if not, to
hold on by it. Now we are on the very road which all the
vessels between Dover and Calais take, ’tis impossible but
that we should meet with a fisherman who will pick us up.”
“But should we not find any fisherman and should the wind
shift to the north?”
“That,” said Athos, “would be quite another thing; and we
should nevermore see land until we were upon the other side
of the Atlantic.”
“Which implies that we may die of hunger,” said Aramis.
“‘Tis more than possible,” answered the Comte de la Fere.
Mousqueton sighed again, more deeply than before.
“What is the matter? what ails you?” asked Porthos.
“I am cold, sir,” said Mousqueton.
“Impossible! your body is covered with a coating of fat
which preserves it from the cold air.”
“Ah! sir, ’tis this very coating of fat that makes me
shiver.”
“How is that, Mousqueton?
“Alas! your honor, in the library of the Chateau of Bracieux
there are a lot of books of travels.”
“What then?”
“Amongst them the voyages of Jean Mocquet in the time of