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coadjutor, who, they say, has power to remit great sins.”
“And does he imagine that the coadjutor will put himself out
for him?”
“To be sure; the coadjutor has promised.”
“Who told you that?”
“Monsieur Maillard himself.”
“You have seen him, then?”
“Certainly; I was there when he fell.”
“What were you doing there?”
“I was shouting, `Down with Mazarin!’ `Death to the
cardinal!’ `The Italian to the gallows!’ Isn’t that what you
would have me shout?”
“Be quiet, you rascal!” said Bazin, looking uneasily around.
“So that he told me, that poor Monsieur Maillard, `Go find
the coadjutor, Friquet, and if you bring him to me you shall
be my heir.’ Say, then, Father Bazin — the heir of Monsieur
Maillard, the giver of holy water at Saint Eustache! Hey! I
shall have nothing to do but to fold my arms! All the same,
I should like to do him that service — what do you say to
it?”
“I will tell the coadjutor,” said Bazin.
In fact, he slowly and respectfully approached the prelate
and spoke to him privately a few words, to which the latter
responded by an affirmative sign. He then returned with the
same slow step and said:
“Go and tell the dying man that he must be patient.
Monseigneur will be with him in an hour.”
“Good!” said Friquet, “my fortune is made.”
“By the way,” said Bazin, “where was he carried?”
“To the tower Saint Jacques la Boucherie;” and delighted
with the success of his embassy, Friquet started off at the
top of his speed.
When the Te Deum was over, the coadjutor, without stopping
to change his priestly dress, took his way toward that old
tower which he knew so well. He arrived in time. Though
sinking from moment to moment, the wounded man was not yet
dead. The door was opened to the coadjutor of the room in
which the mendicant was suffering.
A moment later Friquet went out, carrying in his hand a
large leather bag; he opened it as soon as he was outside
the chamber and to his great astonishment found it full of
gold. The mendicant had kept his word and made Friquet his
heir.
“Ah! Mother Nanette!” cried Friquet, suffocating; “ah!
Mother Nanette!”
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He could say no more; but though he hadn’t strength to speak
he had enough for action. He rushed headlong to the street,
and like the Greek from Marathon who fell in the square at
Athens, with his laurel in his hand, Friquet reached
Councillor Broussel’s threshold, and then fell exhausted,
scattering on the floor the louis disgorged by his leather
bag.
Mother Nanette began by picking up the louis; then she
picked up Friquet.
In the meantime the cortege returned to the Palais Royal.
“That Monsieur d’Artagnan is a very brave man, mother,” said
the young king.
“Yes, my son; and he rendered very important services to
your father. Treat him kindly, therefore, in the future.”
“Captain,” said the young king to D’Artagnan, on descending
from the carriage, “the queen has charged me to invite you
to dinner to-day — you and your friend the Baron du
Vallon.”
That was a great honor for D’Artagnan and for Porthos.
Porthos was delighted; and yet during the entire repast he
seemed to be preoccupied.
“What was the matter with you, baron?” D’Artagnan said to
him as they descended the staircase of the Palais Royal.
“You seemed at dinner to be anxious about something.”
“I was trying,” said Porthos, “to recall where I had seen
that mendicant whom I must have killed.”
“And you couldn’t remember?”
“No.”
“Well, search, my friend, search; and when you have found,
you will tell me, will you not?”
“Pardieu!” said Porthos.
90
Conclusion.
On going home, the two friends found a letter from Athos,
who desired them to meet him at the Grand Charlemagne on the
following day.
The friends went to bed early, but neither of them slept.
When we arrive at the summit of our wishes, success has
usually the power to drive away sleep on the first night
after the fulfilment of long cherished hopes.