Chapter LVIII.

Jesus Seigneur.

Whilst Mordaunt was making his way to Cromwell’s tent, D’Artagnan and

Porthos had brought their prisoners to the house which had been

assigned to them as their dwelling at Newcastle.

The order given by Mordaunt to the sergeant had been heard by

D’Artagnan, who accordingly, by an expressive glance, warned Athos and

Aramis to exercise extreme caution. The prisoners, therefore, had

remained silent as they marched along in company with their

conquerors—which they could do with the less difficulty since each of

them had occupation enough in answering his own thoughts.

It would be impossible to describe Mousqueton’s astonishment when from

the threshold of the door he saw the four friends approaching, followed

by a sergeant with a dozen men. He rubbed his eyes, doubting if he

really saw before him Athos and Aramis; and forced at last to yield to

evidence, he was on the point of breaking forth in exclamations when he

encountered a glance from the eyes of Porthos, the repressive force of

which he was not inclined to dispute.

Mousqueton remained glued to the door, awaiting the explanation of this

strange occurrence. What upset him completely was that the four friends

seemed to have no acquaintance with one another.

The house to which D’Artagnan and Porthos conducted Athos and Aramis

was the one assigned to them by General Cromwell and of which they had

taken possession on the previous evening. It was at the corner of two

streets and had in the rear, bordering on the side street, stables and

a sort of garden. The windows on the ground floor, according to a

custom in provincial villages, were barred, so that they strongly

resembled the windows of a prison.

The two friends made the prisoners enter the house first, whilst they

stood at the door, desiring Mousqueton to take the four horses to the

stable.

“Why don’t we go in with them?” asked Porthos.

“We must first see what the sergeant wishes us to do,” replied

D’Artagnan.

The sergeant and his men took possession of the little garden.

D’Artagnan asked them what they wished and why they had taken that

position.

“We have had orders,” answered the man, “to help you in taking care of

your prisoners.”

There could be no fault to find with this arrangement; on the contrary,

it seemed to be a delicate attention, to be gratefully received;

D’Artagnan, therefore, thanked the man and gave him a crown piece to

drink to General Cromwell’s health.

The sergeant answered that Puritans never drank, and put the crown

piece in his pocket.

“Ah!” said Porthos, “what a fearful day, my dear D’Artagnan!”

“What! a fearful day, when to-day we find our friends?”

“Yes; but under what circumstances?”

“’Tis true that our position is an awkward one; but let us go in and

see more clearly what is to be done.”

“Things look black enough,” replied Porthos; “I understand now why

Aramis advised me to strangle that horrible Mordaunt.”

“Silence!” cried the Gascon; “do not utter that name.”

“But,” argued Porthos, “I speak French and they are all English.”

D’Artagnan looked at Porthos with that air of wonder which a cunning

man cannot help feeling at displays of crass stupidity.

But as Porthos on his side could not comprehend his astonishment, he

merely pushed him indoors, saying, “Let us go in.”

They found Athos in profound despondency; Aramis looked first at

Porthos and then at D’Artagnan, without speaking, but the latter

understood his meaningful look.

“You want to know how we came here? ’Tis easily guessed. Mazarin sent

us with a letter to General Cromwell.”

“But how came you to fall into company with Mordaunt, whom I bade you

distrust?” asked Athos.

“And whom I advised you to strangle, Porthos,” said Aramis.

“Mazarin again. Cromwell had sent him to Mazarin. Mazarin sent us to

Cromwell. There is a certain fatality in it.”

“Yes, you are right, D’Artagnan, a fatality that will separate and ruin

us! So, my dear Aramis, say no more about it and let us prepare to

submit to destiny.”

“Zounds! on the contrary, let us speak about it; for it was agreed

among us, once for all, that we should always hold together, though

engaged on opposing sides.”

“Yes,” added Athos, “I now ask you, D’Artagnan, what side you are on?

Ah! behold for what end the wretched Mazarin has made use of you. Do

you know in what crime you are to-day engaged? In the capture of a

king, his degradation and his murder.”

“Oh! oh!” cried Porthos, “do you think so?”

“You are exaggerating, Athos; we are not so far gone as that,” replied

the lieutenant.

“Good heavens! we are on the very eve of it. I say, why is the king

taken prisoner? Those who wish to respect him as a master would not buy

him as a slave. Do you think it is to replace him on the throne that

Cromwell has paid for him two hundred thousand pounds sterling? They

will kill him, you may be sure of it.”

“I don’t maintain the contrary,” said D’Artagnan. “But what’s that to

us? I am here because I am a soldier and have to obey orders—I have

taken an oath to obey, and I do obey; but you who have taken no such

oath, why are you here and what cause do you represent?”

“That most sacred in the world,” said Athos; “the cause of misfortune,

of religion, royalty. A friend, a wife, a daughter, have done us the

honor to call us to their aid. We have served them to the best of our

poor means, and God will recompense the will, forgive the want of

power. You may see matters differently, D’Artagnan, and think

otherwise. I will not attempt to argue with you, but I blame you.”

“Heyday!” cried D’Artagnan, “what matters it to me, after all, if

Cromwell, who’s an Englishman, revolts against his king, who is a

Scotchman? I am myself a Frenchman. I have nothing to do with these

things—why hold me responsible?”

“Yes,” said Porthos.

“Because all gentlemen are brothers, because you are a gentleman,

because the kings of all countries are the first among gentlemen,

because the blind populace, ungrateful and brutal, always takes

pleasure in pulling down what is above them. And you, you, D’Artagnan,

a man sprung from the ancient nobility of France, bearing an honorable

name, carrying a good sword, have helped to give up a king to

beersellers, shopkeepers, and wagoners. Ah! D’Artagnan! perhaps you

have done your duty as a soldier, but as a gentleman, I say that you

are very culpable.”

D’Artagnan was chewing the stalk of a flower, unable to reply and

thoroughly uncomfortable; for when turned from the eyes of Athos he

encountered those of Aramis.

“And you, Porthos,” continued the count, as if in consideration for

D’Artagnan’s embarrassment, “you, the best heart, the best friend, the

best soldier that I know—you, with a soul that makes you worthy of a

birth on the steps of a throne, and who, sooner or later, must receive

your reward from an intelligent king—you, my dear Porthos, you, a

gentleman in manners, in tastes and in courage, you are as culpable as

D’Artagnan.”

Porthos blushed, but with pleasure rather than with confusion; and yet,

bowing his head, as if humiliated, he said:

“Yes, yes, my dear count, I feel that you are right.”

Athos arose.

“Come,” he said, stretching out his hand to D’Artagnan, “come, don’t be

sullen, my dear son, for I have said all this to you, if not in the

tone, at least with the feelings of a father. It would have been easier

to me merely to have thanked you for preserving my life and not to have

uttered a word of all this.”

“Doubtless, doubtless, Athos. But here it is: you have sentiments, the

devil knows what, such as every one can’t entertain. Who could suppose

that a sensible man could leave his house, France, his ward—a charming

youth, for we saw him in the camp—to fly to the aid of a rotten,

worm-eaten royalty, which is going to crumble one of these days like an

old hovel. The sentiments you air are certainly fine, so fine that they

are superhuman.”

“However that may be, D’Artagnan,” replied Athos, without falling into

the snare which his Gascon friend had prepared for him by an appeal to

his parental love, “however that may be, you know in the bottom of your

heart that it is true; but I am wrong to dispute with my master.

D’Artagnan, I am your prisoner—treat me as such.”

“Ah! _pardieu!_” said D’Artagnan, “you know you will not be my prisoner

very long.”

“No,” said Aramis, “they will doubtless treat us like the prisoners of

the Philipghauts.”

“And how were they treated?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Why,” said Aramis, “one-half were hanged and the other half were

shot.”

“Well, I,” said D’Artagnan “I answer that while there remains a drop of

blood in my veins you will be neither hanged nor shot. _Sang Diou!_ let

them come on! Besides—do you see that door, Athos?”

“Yes; what then?”

“Well, you can go out by that door whenever you please; for from this

moment you are free as the air.”

“I recognize you there, my brave D’Artagnan,” replied Athos; “but you

are no longer our masters. That door is guarded, D’Artagnan; you know

that.”

“Very well, you will force it,” said Porthos. “There are only a dozen

men at the most.”

“That would be nothing for us four; it is too much for us two. No,

divided as we now are, we must perish. See the fatal example: on the

Vendomois road, D’Artagnan, you so brave, and you, Porthos, so valiant

and so strong—you were beaten; to-day Aramis and I are beaten in our

turn. Now that never happened to us when we were four together. Let us

die, then, as De Winter has died; as for me, I will fly only on

condition that we all fly together.”

“Impossible,” said D’Artagnan; “we are under Mazarin’s orders.”

“I know it and I have nothing more to say; my arguments lead to

nothing; doubtless they are bad, since they have not determined minds

so just as yours.”

“Besides,” said Aramis, “had they taken effect it would be still better

not to compromise two excellent friends like D’Artagnan and Porthos. Be

assured, gentlemen, we shall do you honor in our dying. As for myself,

I shall be proud to face the bullets, or even the rope, in company with

you, Athos; for you have never seemed to me so grand as you are

to-day.”

D’Artagnan said nothing, but, after having gnawed the flower stalk, he

began to bite his nails. At last:

“Do you imagine,” he resumed, “that they mean to kill you? And

wherefore should they do so? What interest have they in your death?

Moreover, you are _our_ prisoners.”

“Fool!” cried Aramis; “knowest thou not, then, Mordaunt? I have but

exchanged with him one look, yet that look convinced me that we were

doomed.”

“The truth is, I’m very sorry that I did not strangle him as you

advised me,” said Porthos.

“Eh! I make no account of the harm Mordaunt can do!” cried D’Artagnan.

“_Cap de Diou!_ if he troubles me too much I will crush him, the

insect! Do not fly, then. It is useless; for I swear to you that you

are as safe here as you were twenty years, ago—you, Athos, in the Rue

Ferou, and you, Aramis, in the Rue de Vaugirard.”

“Stop,” cried Athos, extending his hand to one of the grated windows by

which the room was lighted; “you will soon know what to expect, for

here he is.”

“Who?”

“Mordaunt.”

In fact, looking at the place to which Athos pointed, D’Artagnan saw a

cavalier coming toward the house at full gallop.

It was Mordaunt.

D’Artagnan rushed out of the room.

Porthos wanted to follow him.

“Stay,” said D’Artagnan, “and do not come till you hear me drum my

fingers on the door.”

When Mordaunt arrived opposite the house he saw D’Artagnan on the

threshold and the soldiers lying on the grass here and there, with

their arms.

“Halloo!” he cried, “are the prisoners still there?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the sergeant, uncovering.

“’Tis well; order four men to conduct them to my lodging.”

Four men prepared to do so.

“What is it?” said D’Artagnan, with that jeering manner which our

readers have so often observed in him since they made his acquaintance.

“What is the matter, if you please?”

“Sir,” replied Mordaunt, “I have ordered the two prisoners we made this

morning to be conducted to my lodging.”

“Wherefore, sir? Excuse curiosity, but I wish to be enlightened on the

subject.”

“Because these prisoners, sir, are at my disposal and I choose to

dispose of them as I like.”

“Allow me—allow me, sir,” said D’Artagnan, “to observe you are in

error. The prisoners belong to those who take them and not to those who

only saw them taken. You might have taken Lord Winter—who, ’tis said,

was your uncle—prisoner, but you preferred killing him; ’tis well; we,

that is, Monsieur du Vallon and I, could have killed our prisoners—we

preferred taking them.”

Mordaunt’s very lips grew white with rage.

D’Artagnan now saw that affairs were growing worse and he beat the

guard’s march upon the door. At the first beat Porthos rushed out and

stood on the other side of the door.

This movement was observed by Mordaunt.

“Sir!” he thus addressed D’Artagnan, “your resistance is useless; these

prisoners have just been given me by my illustrious patron, Oliver

Cromwell.”

These words struck D’Artagnan like a thunderbolt. The blood mounted to

his temples, his eyes became dim; he saw from what fountainhead the

ferocious hopes of the young man arose, and he put his hand to the hilt

of his sword.

As for Porthos, he looked inquiringly at D’Artagnan.

This look of Porthos’s made the Gascon regret that he had summoned the

brute force of his friend to aid him in an affair which seemed to

require chiefly cunning.

“Violence,” he said to himself, “would spoil all; D’Artagnan, my

friend, prove to this young serpent that thou art not only stronger,

but more subtle than he is.”

“Ah!” he said, making a low bow, “why did you not begin by saying that,

Monsieur Mordaunt? What! are you sent by General Oliver Cromwell, the

most illustrious captain of the age?”

“I have this instant left him,” replied Mordaunt, alighting, in order

to give his horse to a soldier to hold.

“Why did you not say so at once, my dear sir! all England is with

Cromwell; and since you ask for my prisoners, I bend, sir, to your

wishes. They are yours; take them.”

Mordaunt, delighted, advanced, Porthos looking at D’Artagnan with

open-mouthed astonishment. Then D’Artagnan trod on his foot and Porthos

began to understand that this was merely acting.

Mordaunt put his foot on the first step of the door and, with his hat

in hand, prepared to pass by the two friends, motioning to the four men

to follow him.

“But, pardon,” said D’Artagnan, with the most charming smile and

putting his hand on the young man’s shoulder, “if the illustrious

General Oliver Cromwell has disposed of our prisoners in your favour,

he has, of course, made that act of donation in writing.”

Mordaunt stopped short.

“He has given you some little writing for me—the least bit of paper

which may show that you come in his name. Be pleased to give me that

scrap of paper so that I may justify, by a pretext at least, my

abandoning my countrymen. Otherwise, you see, although I am sure that

General Oliver Cromwell can intend them no harm, it would have a bad

appearance.”

Mordaunt recoiled; he felt the blow and discharged a terrible look at

D’Artagnan, who responded by the most amiable expression that ever

graced a human countenance.

“When I tell you a thing, sir,” said Mordaunt, “you insult me by

doubting it.”

“I!” cried D’Artagnan, “I doubt what you say! God keep me from it, my

dear Monsieur Mordaunt! On the contrary, I take you to be a worthy and

accomplished gentleman. And then, sir, do you wish me to speak freely

to you?” continued D’Artagnan, with his frank expression.

“Speak out, sir,” said Mordaunt.

“Monsieur du Vallon, yonder, is rich and has forty thousand francs

yearly, so he does not care about money. I do not speak for him, but

for myself.”

“Well, sir? What more?”

“Well—I—I’m not rich. In Gascony ’tis no dishonor, sir, nobody is rich;

and Henry IV., of glorious memory, who was the king of the Gascons, as

His Majesty Philip IV. is the king of the Spaniards, never had a penny

in his pocket.”

“Go on, sir, I see what you wish to get at; and if it is simply what I

think that stops you, I can obviate the difficulty.”

“Ah, I knew well,” said the Gascon, “that you were a man of talent.

Well, here’s the case, here’s where the saddle hurts me, as we French

say. I am an officer of fortune, nothing else; I have nothing but what

my sword brings me in—that is to say, more blows than banknotes. Now,

on taking prisoners, this morning, two Frenchmen, who seemed to me of

high birth—in short, two knights of the Garter—I said to myself, my

fortune is made. I say two, because in such circumstances, Monsieur du

Vallon, who is rich, always gives me his prisoners.”

Mordaunt, completely deceived by the wordy civility of D’Artagnan,

smiled like a man who understands perfectly the reasons given him, and

said:

“I shall have the order signed directly, sir, and with it two thousand

pistoles; meanwhile, let me take these men away.”

“No,” replied D’Artagnan; “what signifies a delay of half an hour? I am

a man of order, sir; let us do things in order.”

“Nevertheless,” replied Mordaunt, “I could compel you; I command here.”

“Ah, sir!” said D’Artagnan, “I see that although we have had the honor

of traveling in your company you do not know us. We are gentlemen; we

are, both of us, able to kill you and your eight men—we two only. For

Heaven’s sake don’t be obstinate, for when others are obstinate I am

obstinate likewise, and then I become ferocious and headstrong, and

there’s my friend, who is even more headstrong and ferocious than

myself. Besides, we are sent here by Cardinal Mazarin, and at this

moment represent both the king and the cardinal, and are, therefore, as

ambassadors, able to act with impunity, a thing that General Oliver

Cromwell, who is assuredly as great a politician as he is a general, is

quite the man to understand. Ask him then, for the written order. What

will that cost you my dear Monsieur Mordaunt?”

“Yes, the written order,” said Porthos, who now began to comprehend

what D’Artagnan was aiming at, “we ask only for that.”

However inclined Mordaunt was to have recourse to violence, he

understood the reasons D’Artagnan had given him; besides, completely

ignorant of the friendship which existed between the four Frenchmen,

all his uneasiness disappeared when he heard of the plausible motive of

the ransom. He decided, therefore, not only to fetch the order, but the

two thousand pistoles, at which he estimated the prisoners. He

therefore mounted his horse and disappeared.

“Good!” thought D’Artagnan; “a quarter of an hour to go to the tent, a

quarter of an hour to return; it is more than we need.” Then turning,

without the least change of countenance, to Porthos, he said, looking

him full in the face: “Friend Porthos, listen to this; first, not a

syllable to either of our friends of what you have heard; it is

unnecessary for them to know the service we are going to render them.”

“Very well; I understand.”

“Go to the stable; you will find Mousqueton there; saddle your horses,

put your pistols in your saddle-bags, take out the horses and lead them

to the street below this, so that there will be nothing to do but mount

them; all the rest is my business.”

Porthos made no remark, but obeyed, with the sublime confidence he had

in his friend.

“I go,” he said, “only, shall I enter the chamber where those gentlemen

are?”

“No, it is not worth while.”

“Well, do me the kindness to take my purse, which I left on the

mantelpiece.”

“All right.”

He then proceeded, with his usual calm gait, to the stable and went

into the very midst of the soldiery, who, foreigner as he was, could

not help admiring his height and the enormous strength of his great

limbs.

At the corner of the street he met Mousqueton and took him with him.

D’Artagnan, meantime, went into the house, whistling a tune which he

had begun before Porthos went away.

“My dear Athos, I have reflected on your arguments and I am convinced.

I am sorry to have had anything to do with this matter. As you say,

Mazarin is a knave. I have resolved to fly with you, not a word—be

ready. Your swords are in the corner; do not forget them, they are in

many circumstances very useful; there is Porthos’s purse, too.”

He put it into his pocket. The two friends were perfectly stupefied.

“Well, pray, is there anything to be so surprised at?” he said. “I was

blind; Athos has made me see, that’s all; come here.”

The two friends went near him.

“Do you see that street? There are the horses. Go out by the door, turn

to the right, jump into your saddles, all will be right; don’t be

uneasy at anything except mistaking the signal. That will be the signal

when I call out—_Jésus Seigneur!_”

“But give us your word that you will come too, D’Artagnan,” said Athos.

“I swear I will, by Heaven.”

“’Tis settled,” said Aramis; “at the cry ‘_Jésus Seigneur_’ we go out,

upset all that stands in our way, run to our horses, jump into our

saddles, spur them; is that all?”

“Exactly.”

“See, Aramis, as I have told you, D’Artagnan is first amongst us all,”

said Athos.

“Very true,” replied the Gascon, “but I always run away from

compliments. Don’t forget the signal: ‘_Jésus Seigneur!_’” and he went

out as he came in, whistling the self-same air.

The soldiers were playing or sleeping; two of them were singing in a

corner, out of tune, the psalm: “On the rivers of Babylon.”

D’Artagnan called the sergeant. “My dear friend, General Cromwell has

sent Monsieur Mordaunt to fetch me. Guard the prisoners well, I beg of

you.”

The sergeant made a sign, as much as to say he did not understand

French, and D’Artagnan tried to make him comprehend by signs and

gestures. Then he went into the stable; he found the five horses

saddled, his own amongst the rest.

“Each of you take a horse by the bridle,” he said to Porthos and

Mousqueton; “turn to the left, so that Athos and Aramis may see you

clearly from the window.”

“They are coming, then?” said Porthos.

“In a moment.”

“You didn’t forget my purse?”

“No; be easy.”

“Good.”

Porthos and Mousqueton each took a horse by the bridle and proceeded to

their post.

Then D’Artagnan, being alone, struck a light and lighted a small bit of

tinder, mounted his horse and stopped at the door in the midst of the

soldiers. There, caressing as he pretended, the animal with his hand,

he put this bit of burning tinder in his ear. It was necessary to be as

good a horseman as he was to risk such a scheme, for no sooner had the

animal felt the burning tinder than he uttered a cry of pain and reared

and jumped as if he had been mad.

The soldiers, whom he was nearly trampling, ran away.

“Help! help!” cried D’Artagnan; “stop—my horse has the staggers.”

In an instant the horse’s eyes grew bloodshot and he was white with

foam.

“Help!” cried D’Artagnan. “What! will you let me be killed? _Jésus

Seigneur!_”

No sooner had he uttered this cry than the door opened and Athos and

Aramis rushed out. The coast, owing to the Gascon’s stratagem, was

clear.

“The prisoners are escaping! the prisoners are escaping!” cried the

sergeant.

“Stop! stop!” cried D’Artagnan, giving rein to his famous steed, who,

darting forth, overturned several men.

“Stop! stop!” cried the soldiers, and ran for their arms.

But the prisoners were in their saddles and lost no time hastening to

the nearest gate.

In the middle of the street they saw Grimaud and Blaisois, who were

coming to find their masters. With one wave of his hand Athos made

Grimaud, who followed the little troop, understand everything, and they

passed on like a whirlwind, D’Artagnan still directing them from behind

with his voice.

They passed through the gate like apparitions, without the guards

thinking of detaining them, and reached the open country.

All this time the soldiers were calling out, “Stop! stop!” and the

sergeant, who began to see that he was the victim of an artifice, was

almost in a frenzy of despair. Whilst all this was going on, a cavalier

in full gallop was seen approaching. It was Mordaunt with the order in

his hand.

“The prisoners!” he exclaimed, jumping off his horse.

The sergeant had not the courage to reply; he showed him the open door,

the empty room. Mordaunt darted to the steps, understood all, uttered a

cry, as if his very heart was pierced, and fell fainting on the stone

steps.