blinds of the royal carriage, but the young king stretched
out his arm, saying:
“No, sir! I wish to see everything.”
“If your majesty wishes to look out — well, then, look!”
replied D’Artagnan. And turning with that fury which made
him so formidable, he rushed toward the chief of the
insurgents, a man who, with a huge sword in his hand, was
trying to hew a passage to the coach door through the
musketeers.
“Make room!” cried D’Artagnan. “Zounds! give way!”
At these words the man with a pistol and sword raised his
head, but it was too late. The blow was sped by D’Artagnan;
the rapier had pierced his bosom.
“Ah! confound it!” cried the Gascon, trying in vain, too
late, to retract the thrust. “What the devil are you doing
here, count?”
“Accomplishing my destiny,” replied Rochefort, falling on
one knee. “I have already got up again after three stabs
from you, I shall never rise after this fourth.”
“Count!” said D’Artagnan, with some degree of emotion, “I
struck without knowing that it was you. I am sorry, if you
die, that you should die with sentiments of hatred toward
me.”
Rochefort extended his hand to D’Artagnan, who took it. The
count wished to speak, but a gush of blood stifled him. He
stiffened in the last convulsions of death and expired.
“Back, people!” cried D’Artagnan, “your leader is dead; you
have no longer any business here.”
Indeed, as if De Rochefort had been the very soul of the
attack, the crowd who had followed and obeyed him took to
flight on seeing him fall. D’Artagnan charged, with a party
of musketeers, up the Rue du Coq, and the portion of the mob
he assailed disappeared like smoke, dispersing near the
Place Saint Germain-l’Auxerrois and taking the direction of
the quays.
D’Artagnan returned to help Porthos, if Porthos needed help;
but Porthos, for his part, had done his work as
conscientiously as D’Artagnan. The left of the carriage was
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Dumas, Alexandre – Twenty Years After
as well cleared as the right, and they drew up the blind of
the window which Mazarin, less heroic than the king, had
taken the precaution to lower.
Porthos looked very melancholy.
“What a devil of a face you have, Porthos! and what a
strange air for a victor!”
“But you,” answered Porthos, “seem to me agitated.”
“There’s a reason! Zounds! I have just killed an old
friend.”
“Indeed!” replied Porthos, “who?”
“That poor Count de Rochefort.”
“Well! exactly like me! I have just killed a man whose face
is not unknown to me. Unluckily, I hit him on the head and
immediately his face was covered with blood.”
“And he said nothing as he died?”
“Yes; he exclaimed, `Oh!'”
“I suppose,” answered D’Artagnan, laughing, “if he only said
that, it did not enlighten you much.”
“Well, sir!” cried the queen.
“Madame, the passage is quite clear and your majesty can
continue your road.”
In fact, the procession arrived, in safety at Notre Dame, at
the front gate of which all the clergy, with the coadjutor
at their head, awaited the king, the queen and the minister,
for whose happy return they chanted a Te Deum.
As the service was drawing to a close a boy entered the
church in great excitement, ran to the sacristy, dressed
himself quickly in the choir robes, and cleaving, thanks to
that uniform, the crowd that filled the temple, approached
Bazin, who, clad in his blue robe, was standing gravely in
his place at the entrance to the choir.
Bazin felt some one pulling his sleeve. He lowered to earth
his eyes, beatifically raised to Heaven, and recognized
Friquet.
“Well, you rascal, what is it? How do you dare to disturb me
in the exercise of my functions?” asked the beadle.
“Monsieur Bazin,” said Friquet, “Monsieur Maillard — you
know who he is, he gives holy water at Saint Eustache —- ”
“Well, go on.”
“Well, he received in the scrimmage a sword stroke on the
head. That great giant who was there gave it to him.”
“In that case,” said Bazin, “he must be pretty sick.”
“So sick that he is dying, and he wants to confess to the