“Why, yes, very nearly.”
“Will you then kindly tell me if you have in your command
the Chevalier d’Artagnan, lieutenant in the musketeers?”
“No, sir, he is not with us; he left Paris more than six
weeks ago and is believed to have gone on a mission to
England.”
“I knew that, but I supposed he had returned.”
“No, sir; no one has seen him. I can answer positively on
that point, for the musketeers belong to our forces and
Monsieur de Cambon, the substitute for Monsieur d’Artagnan,
still holds his place.”
The two friends looked at each other.
“You see,” said Athos.
“It is strange,” said Aramis.
“It is absolutely certain that some misfortune has happened
to them on the way.”
“If we have no news of them this evening, to-morrow we must
start.”
Athos nodded affirmatively, then turning:
“And Monsieur de Bragelonne, a young man fifteen years of
age, attached to the Prince de Conde — has he the honor of
being known to you?” diffident in allowing the sarcastic
Aramis to perceive how strong were his paternal feelings.
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“Yes, surely, he came with the prince; a charming young man;
he is one of your friends then, monsieur le comte?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Athos, agitated; “so much so that I
wish to see him if possible.”
“Quite possible, sir; do me the favor to accompany me and I
will conduct you to headquarters.”
“Halloo, there!” cried Aramis, turning around; “what a noise
behind us!”
“A body of cavaliers is coming toward us,” said Chatillon.
“I recognize the coadjutor by his Frondist hat.”
“And I the Duc de Beaufort by his white plume of ostrich
feathers.”
“They are coming, full gallop; the prince is with them —
ah! he is leaving them!”
“They are beating the rappel!” cried Chatillon; “we must
discover what is going on.”
In fact, they saw the soldiers running to their arms; the
trumpets sounded; the drums beat; the Duc de Beaufort drew
his sword. On his side the prince sounded a rappel and all
the officers of the royalist army, mingling momentarily with
the Parisian troops, ran to him.
“Gentlemen,” cried Chatillon, “the truce is broken, that is
evident; they are going to fight; go, then, into Charenton,
for I shall begin in a short time — there’s a signal from
the prince!”
The cornet of a troop had in fact just raised the standard
of the prince.
“Farewell, till the next time we meet,” cried Chatillon, and
he set off, full gallop.
Athos and Aramis turned also and went to salute the
coadjutor and the Duc de Beaufort. As to the Duc de
Bouillon, he had such a fit of gout as obliged him to return
to Paris in a litter; but his place was well filled by the
Duc d’Elbeuf and his four sons, ranged around him like a
staff. Meantime, between Charenton and the royal army was
left a space which looked ready to serve as a last resting
place for the dead.
“Gentlemen,” cried the coadjutor, tightening his sash, which
he wore, after the fashion of the ancient military prelates,
over his archiepiscopal simar, “there’s the enemy
approaching. Let us save them half of their journey.”
And without caring whether he were followed or not he set
off; his regiment, which bore the name of the regiment of
Corinth, from the name of his archbishopric, darted after
him and began the fight. Monsieur de Beaufort sent his
cavalry, toward Etampes and Monsieur de Chanleu, who
defended the place, was ready to resist an assault, or if
the enemy were repulsed, to attempt a sortie.
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The battle soon became general and the coadjutor performed
miracles of valor. His proper vocation had always been the
sword and he was delighted whenever he could draw it from
the scabbard, no matter for whom or against whom.
Chanleu, whose fire at one time repulsed the royal regiment,
thought that the moment was come to pursue it; but it was
reformed and led again to the charge by the Duc de Chatillon
in person. This charge was so fierce, so skillfully