“Oh! yes,” said Groslow, bursting with his usual coarse
laugh, “I know you Frenchmen want nothing but cuts and
bruises.”
Charles had heard and understood it all. A slight color
mounted to his cheeks. The soldiers then saw him stretch his
limbs, little by little, and under the pretense of much heat
throw off the Scotch plaid which covered him.
Athos and Aramis started with delight to find that the king
was lying with his clothes on.
The game began. The luck had turned, and Groslow, having won
some hundred pistoles, was in the merriest possible humor.
Porthos, who had lost the fifty pistoles he had won the
night before and thirty more besides, was very cross and
questioned D’Artagnan with a nudge of the knee as to whether
it would not soon be time to change the game. Athos and
Aramis looked at him inquiringly. But D’Artagnan remained
impassible.
It struck ten. They heard the guard going its rounds.
“How many rounds do they make a night?” asked D’Artagnan,
drawing more pistoles from his pocket.
“Five,” answered Groslow, “one every two hours.”
D’Artagnan glanced at Athos and Aramis and for the first
time replied to Porthos’s nudge of the knee by a nudge
responsive. Meanwhile, the soldiers whose duty it was to
remain in the king’s room, attracted by that love of play so
powerful in all men, had stolen little by little toward the
table, and standing on tiptoe, lounged, watching the game,
over the shoulders of D’Artagnan and Porthos. Those on the
other side had followed their example, thus favoring the
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Dumas, Alexandre – Twenty Years After
views of the four friends, who preferred having them close
at hand to chasing them about the chamber. The two sentinels
at the door still had their swords unsheathed, but they were
leaning on them while they watched the game.
Athos seemed to grow calm as the critical moment approached.
With his white, aristocratic hands he played with the louis,
bending and straightening them again, as if they were made
of pewter. Aramis, less self-controlled, fumbled continually
with his hidden poniard. Porthos, impatient at his continued
losses, kept up a vigorous play with his knee.
D’Artagnan turned, mechanically looking behind him, and
between the figures of two soldiers he could see Parry
standing up and Charles leaning on his elbow with his hands
clasped and apparently offering a fervent prayer to God.
D’Artagnan saw that the moment was come. He darted a
preparatory glance at Athos and Aramis, who slyly pushed
their chairs a little back so as to leave themselves more
space for action. He gave Porthos a second nudge of the knee
and Porthos got up as if to stretch his legs and took care
at the same time to ascertain that his sword could be drawn
smoothly from the scabbard.
“Hang it!” cried D’Artagnan, “another twenty pistoles lost.
Really, Captain Groslow, you are too much in fortune’s way.
This can’t last,” and he drew another twenty from his
pocket. “One more turn, captain; twenty pistoles on one
throw — only one, the last.”
“Done for twenty,” replied Groslow.
And he turned up two cards as usual, a king for D’Artagnan
and an ace for himself.
“A king,” said D’Artagnan; “it’s a good omen, Master Groslow
— look out for the king.”
And in spite of his extraordinary self-control there was a
strange vibration in the Gascon’s voice which made his
partner start.
Groslow began turning the cards one after another. If he
turned up an ace first he won; if a king he lost.
He turned up a king.
“At last!” cried D’Artagnan.
At this word Athos and Aramis jumped up. Porthos drew back a
step. Daggers and swords were just about to shine, when
suddenly the door was thrown open and Harrison appeared in
the doorway, accompanied by a man enveloped in a large
cloak. Behind this man could be seen the glistening muskets
of half a dozen soldiers.
Groslow jumped up, ashamed at being surprised in the midst
of wine, cards, and dice. But Harrison paid not the least
attention to him, and entering the king’s room, followed by
his companion:
“Charles Stuart,” said he, “an order has come to conduct you