“Monsieur Mordaunt! ’tis well,” said Porthos, “we shall
remember that; but see, there is a postscript from Aramis.”
“So there is,” said D’Artagnan, and he read:
“We conceal the place where we are, dear friends, knowing
your brotherly affection and that you would come and die
with us were we to reveal it.”
“Confound it,” interrupted Porthos, with an explosion of
passion which sent Mousqueton to the other end of the room;
“are they in danger of dying?”
D’Artagnan continued:
“Athos bequeaths to you Raoul, and I bequeath to you my
revenge. If by any good luck you lay your hand on a certain
man named Mordaunt, tell Porthos to take him into a corner
and to wring his neck. I dare not say more in a letter.
“ARAMIS.
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“If that is all, it is easily done,” said Porthos.
“On the contrary,” observed D’Artagnan, with a vexed look;
“it would be impossible.”
“How so?”
“It is precisely this Monsieur Mordaunt whom we are going to
join at Boulogne and with whom we cross to England.”
“Well, suppose instead of joining this Monsieur Mordaunt we
were to go and join our friends?” said Porthos, with a
gesture fierce enough to have frightened an army.
“I did think of it, but this letter has neither date nor
postmark.”
“True,” said Porthos. And he began to wander about the room
like a man beside himself, gesticulating and half drawing
his sword out of the scabbard.
As to D’Artagnan, he remained standing like a man in
consternation, with the deepest affliction depicted on his
face.
“Ah, this is not right; Athos insults us; he wishes to die
alone; it is bad, bad, bad.”
Mousqueton, witnessing this despair, melted into tears in a
corner of the room.
“Come,” said D’Artagnan, “all this leads to nothing. Let us
go on. We will embrace Raoul, and perhaps he will have news
of Athos.”
“Stop — an idea!” cried Porthos; “indeed, my dear
D’Artagnan, I don’t know how you manage, but you are always
full of ideas; let us go and embrace Raoul.”
“Woe to that man who should happen to contradict my master
at this moment,” said Mousqueton to himself; “I wouldn’t give
a farthing for his life.”
They set out. On arriving at the Rue Saint Denis, the
friends found a vast concourse of people. It was the Duc de
Beaufort, who was coming from the Vendomois and whom the
coadjutor was showing to the Parisians, intoxicated with
joy. With the duke’s aid they already considered themselves
invincible.
The two friends turned off into a side street to avoid
meeting the prince, and so reached the Saint Denis gate.
“Is it true,” said the guard to the two cavaliers, “that the
Duc de Beaufort has arrived in Paris?”
“Nothing more certain; and the best proof of it is,” said
D’Artagnan, “that he has dispatched us to meet the Duc de
Vendome, his father, who is coming in his turn.”
“Long live De Beaufort!” cried the guards, and they drew
back respectfully to let the two friends pass. Once across
the barriers these two knew neither fatigue nor fear. Their
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horses flew, and they never ceased speaking of Athos and
Aramis.
The camp had entered Saint Omer; the friends made a little
detour and went to the camp, and gave the army an exact
account of the flight of the king and queen. They found
Raoul near his tent, reclining on a truss of hay, of which
his horse stole some mouthfuls; the young man’s eyes were
red and he seemed dejected. The Marechal de Grammont and the
Comte de Guiche had returned to Paris and he was quite
lonely. And as soon as he saw the two cavaliers he ran to
them with open arms.
“Oh, is it you, dear friends? Did you come here to fetch me?
Will you take me away with you? Do you bring me tidings of
my guardian?”
“Have you not received any?” said D’Artagnan to the youth.
“Alas! sir, no, and I do not know what has become of him; so
that I am really so unhappy that I weep.”