Chapter LXIII.

The Trial.

The next morning King Charles I. was haled by a strong guard before the

high court which was to judge him. All London was crowding to the doors

of the house. The throng was terrific, and it was not till after much

pushing and some fighting that our friends reached their destination.

When they did so they found the three lower rows of benches already

occupied; but being anxious not to be too conspicuous, all, with the

exception of Porthos, who had a fancy to display his red doublet, were

quite satisfied with their places, the more so as chance had brought

them to the centre of their row, so that they were exactly opposite the

arm-chair prepared for the royal prisoner.

Toward eleven o’clock the king entered the hall, surrounded by guards,

but wearing his head covered, and with a calm expression turned to

every side with a look of complete assurance, as if he were there to

preside at an assembly of submissive subjects, rather than to meet the

accusations of a rebel court.

The judges, proud of having a monarch to humiliate, evidently prepared

to enjoy the right they had arrogated to themselves, and sent an

officer to inform the king that it was customary for the accused to

uncover his head.

Charles, without replying a single word, turned his head in another

direction and pulled his felt hat over it. Then when the officer was

gone he sat down in the arm-chair opposite the president and struck his

boots with a little cane which he carried in his hand. Parry, who

accompanied him, stood behind him.

D’Artagnan was looking at Athos, whose face betrayed all those emotions

which the king, possessing more self-control, had banished from his

own. This agitation in one so cold and calm as Athos, frightened him.

“I hope,” he whispered to him, “that you will follow his majesty’s

example and not get killed for your folly in this den.”

“Set your mind at rest,” replied Athos.

“Aha!” continued D’Artagnan, “it is clear that they are afraid of

something or other; for look, the sentinels are being reinforced. They

had only halberds before, now they have muskets. The halberds were for

the audience in the rear; the muskets are for us.”

“Thirty, forty, fifty, sixty-five men,” said Porthos, counting the

reinforcements.

“Ah!” said Aramis, “but you forget the officer.”

D’Artagnan grew pale with rage. He recognized Mordaunt, who with bare

sword was marshalling the musketeers behind the king and opposite the

benches.

“Do you think they have recognized us?” said D’Artagnan. “In that case

I should beat a retreat. I don’t care to be shot in a box.”

“No,” said Aramis, “he has not seen us. He sees no one but the king.

_Mon Dieu!_ how he stares at him, the insolent dog! Does he hate his

majesty as much as he does us?”

“_Pardi_,” answered Athos “we only carried off his mother; the king has

spoiled him of his name and property.”

“True,” said Aramis; “but silence! the president is speaking to the

king.”

“Stuart,” Bradshaw was saying, “listen to the roll call of your judges

and address to the court any observations you may have to make.”

The king turned his head away, as if these words had not been intended

for him. Bradshaw waited, and as there was no reply there was a moment

of silence.

Out of the hundred and sixty-three members designated there were only

seventy-three present, for the rest, fearful of taking part in such an

act, had remained away.

When the name of Colonel Fairfax was called, one of those brief but

solemn silences ensued, which announced the absence of the members who

had no wish to take a personal part in the trial.

“Colonel Fairfax,” repeated Bradshaw.

“Fairfax,” answered a laughing voice, the silvery tone of which

betrayed it as that of a woman, “is not such a fool as to be here.”

A loud laugh followed these words, pronounced with that boldness which

women draw from their own weakness—a weakness which removes them beyond

the power of vengeance.

“It is a woman’s voice,” cried Aramis; “faith, I would give a good deal

if she is young and pretty.” And he mounted on the bench to try and get

a sight of her.

“By my soul,” said Aramis, “she is charming. Look D’Artagnan; everybody

is looking at her; and in spite of Bradshaw’s gaze she has not turned

pale.”

“It is Lady Fairfax herself,” said D’Artagnan. “Don’t you remember,

Porthos, we saw her at General Cromwell’s?”

The roll call continued.

“These rascals will adjourn when they find that they are not in

sufficient force,” said the Comte de la Fère.

“You don’t know them. Athos, look at Mordaunt’s smile. Is that the look

of a man whose victim is likely to escape him? Ah, cursed basilisk, it

will be a happy day for me when I can cross something more than a look

with you.”

“The king is really very handsome,” said Porthos; “and look, too,

though he is a prisoner, how carefully he is dressed. The feather in

his hat is worth at least five-and-twenty pistoles. Look at it,

Aramis.”

The roll call finished, the president ordered them to read the act of

accusation. Athos turned pale. A second time he was disappointed in his

expectation. Notwithstanding the judges were so few the trial was to

continue; the king then, was condemned in advance.

“I told you so, Athos,” said D’Artagnan, shrugging his shoulders. “Now

take your courage in both hands and hear what this gentleman in black

is going to say about his sovereign, with full license and privilege.”

Never till then had a more brutal accusation or meaner insults

tarnished kingly majesty.

Charles listened with marked attention, passing over the insults,

noting the grievances, and, when hatred overflowed all bounds and the

accuser turned executioner beforehand, replying with a smile of lofty

scorn.

“The fact is,” said D’Artagnan, “if men are punished for imprudence and

triviality, this poor king deserves punishment. But it seems to me that

that which he is just now undergoing is hard enough.”

“In any case,” Aramis replied, “the punishment should fall not on the

king, but on his ministers; for the first article of the constitution

is, ‘The king can do no wrong.’”

“As for me,” thought Porthos, giving Mordaunt his whole attention,

“were it not for breaking in on the majesty of the situation I would

leap down from the bench, reach Mordaunt in three bounds and strangle

him; I would then take him by the feet and knock the life out of these

wretched musketeers who parody the musketeers of France. Meantime,

D’Artagnan, who is full of invention, would find some way to save the

king. I must speak to him about it.”

As to Athos, his face aflame, his fists clinched, his lips bitten till

they bled, he sat there foaming with rage at that endless parliamentary

insult and that long enduring royal patience; the inflexible arm and

steadfast heart had given place to a trembling hand and a body shaken

by excitement.

At this moment the accuser concluded with these words: “The present

accusation is preferred by us in the name of the English people.”

At these words there was a murmur along the benches, and a second

voice, not that of a woman, but a man’s, stout and furious, thundered

behind D’Artagnan.

“You lie!” it cried. “Nine-tenths of the English people are horrified

at what you say.”

This voice was that of Athos, who, standing up with outstretched hand

and quite out of his mind, thus assailed the public accuser.

King, judges, spectators, all turned their eyes to the bench where the

four friends were seated. Mordaunt did the same and recognized the

gentleman, around whom the three other Frenchmen were standing, pale

and menacing. His eyes glittered with delight. He had discovered those

to whose death he had devoted his life. A movement of fury called to

his side some twenty of his musketeers, and pointing to the bench where

his enemies were: “Fire on that bench!” he cried.

But with the rapidity of thought D’Artagnan seized Athos by the waist,

and followed by Porthos with Aramis, leaped down from the benches,

rushed into the passages, and flying down the staircase were lost in

the crowd without, while the muskets within were pointed on some three

thousand spectators, whose piteous cries and noisy alarm stopped the

impulse already given to bloodshed.

Charles also had recognized the four Frenchmen. He put one hand on his

heart to still its beating and the other over his eyes, that he might

not witness the slaying of his faithful friends.

Mordaunt, pale and trembling with anger, rushed from the hall sword in

hand, followed by six pikemen, pushing, inquiring and panting in the

crowd; and then, having found nothing, returned.

The tumult was indescribable. More than half an hour passed before any

one could make himself heard. The judges were looking for a new

outbreak from the benches. The spectators saw the muskets leveled at

them, and divided between fear and curiosity, remained noisy and

excited.

Quiet was at length restored.

“What have you to say in your defense?” asked Bradshaw of the king.

Then rising, with his head still covered, in the tone of a judge rather

than a prisoner, Charles began.

“Before questioning me,” he said, “reply to my question. I was free at

Newcastle and had there concluded a treaty with both houses. Instead of

performing your part of this contract, as I performed mine, you bought

me from the Scotch, cheaply, I know, and that does honor to the

economic talent of your government. But because you have paid the price

of a slave, do you imagine that I have ceased to be your king? No. To

answer you would be to forget it. I shall only reply to you when you

have satisfied me of your right to question me. To answer you would be

to acknowledge you as my judges, and I only acknowledge you as my

executioners.” And in the middle of a deathlike silence, Charles, calm,

lofty, and with his head still covered, sat down again in his

arm-chair.

“Why are not my Frenchmen here?” he murmured proudly and turning his

eyes to the benches where they had appeared for a moment; “they would

have seen that their friend was worthy of their defense while alive,

and of their tears when dead.”

“Well,” said the president, seeing that Charles was determined to

remain silent, “so be it. We will judge you in spite of your silence.

You are accused of treason, of abuse of power, and murder. The evidence

will support it. Go, and another sitting will accomplish what you have

postponed in this.”

Charles rose and turned toward Parry, whom he saw pale and with his

temples dewed with moisture.

“Well, my dear Parry,” said he, “what is the matter, and what can

affect you in this manner?”

“Oh, my king,” said Parry, with tears in his eyes and in a tone of

supplication, “do not look to the left as we leave the hall.”

“And why, Parry?”

“Do not look, I implore you, my king.”

“But what is the matter? Speak,” said Charles, attempting to look

across the hedge of guards which surrounded him.

“It is—but you will not look, will you?—it is because they have had the

axe, with which criminals are executed, brought and placed there on the

table. The sight is hideous.”

“Fools,” said Charles, “do they take me for a coward, like themselves?

You have done well to warn me. Thank you, Parry.”

When the moment arrived the king followed his guards out of the hall.

As he passed the table on which the axe was laid, he stopped, and

turning with a smile, said:

“Ah! the axe, an ingenious device, and well worthy of those who know

not what a gentleman is; you frighten me not, executioner’s axe,” added

he, touching it with the cane which he held in his hand, “and I strike

you now, waiting patiently and Christianly for you to return the blow.”

And shrugging his shoulders with unaffected contempt he passed on. When

he reached the door a stream of people, who had been disappointed in

not being able to get into the house and to make amends had collected

to see him come out, stood on each side, as he passed, many among them

glaring on him with threatening looks.

“How many people,” thought he, “and not one true friend.”

And as he uttered these words of doubt and depression within his mind,

a voice beside him said:

“Respect to fallen majesty.”

The king turned quickly around, with tears in his eyes and heart. It

was an old soldier of the guards who could not see his king pass

captive before him without rendering him this final homage. But the

next moment the unfortunate man was nearly killed with heavy blows of

sword-hilts, and among those who set upon him the king recognized

Captain Groslow.

“Alas!” said Charles, “that is a severe chastisement for a very

trifling fault.”

He continued his walk, but he had scarcely gone a hundred paces, when a

furious fellow, leaning between two soldiers, spat in the king’s face,

as once an infamous and accursed Jew spit in the face of Jesus of

Nazareth. Loud roars of laughter and sullen murmurs arose together. The

crowd opened and closed again, undulating like a stormy sea, and the

king imagined that he saw shining in the midst of this living wave the

bright eyes of Athos.

Charles wiped his face and said with a sad smile: “Poor wretch, for

half a crown he would do as much to his own father.”

The king was not mistaken. Athos and his friends, again mingling with

the throng, were taking a last look at the martyr king.

When the soldier saluted Charles, Athos’s heart bounded for joy; and

that unfortunate, on coming to himself, found ten guineas that the

French gentleman had slipped into his pocket. But when the cowardly

insulter spat in the face of the captive monarch Athos grasped his

dagger. But D’Artagnan stopped his hand and in a hoarse voice cried,

“Wait!”

Athos stopped. D’Artagnan, leaning on Athos, made a sign to Porthos and

Aramis to keep near them and then placed himself behind the man with

the bare arms, who was still laughing at his own vile pleasantry and

receiving the congratulations of several others.

The man took his way toward the city. The four friends followed him.

The man, who had the appearance of being a butcher, descended a little

steep and isolated street, looking on to the river, with two of his

friends. Arrived at the bank of the river the three men perceived that

they were followed, turned around, and looking insolently at the

Frenchmen, passed some jests from one to another.

“I don’t know English, Athos,” said D’Artagnan; “but you know it and

will interpret for me.”

Then quickening their steps they passed the three men, but turned back

immediately, and D’Artagnan walked straight up to the butcher and

touching him on the chest with the tip of his finger, said to Athos:

“Say this to him in English: ‘You are a coward. You have insulted a

defenseless man. You have befouled the face of your king. You must

die.’”

Athos, pale as a ghost, repeated these words to the man, who, seeing

the bodeful preparations that were making, put himself in an attitude

of defense. Aramis, at this movement, drew his sword.

“No,” cried D’Artagnan, “no steel. Steel is for gentlemen.”

And seizing the butcher by the throat:

“Porthos,” said he, “kill this fellow for me with a single blow.”

Porthos raised his terrible fist, which whistled through the air like a

sling, and the portentous mass fell with a smothered crash on the

insulter’s skull and crushed it. The man fell like an ox beneath the

poleaxe. His companions, horror-struck, could neither move nor cry out.

“Tell them this, Athos,” resumed D’Artagnan; “thus shall all die who

forget that a captive man is sacred and that a captive king doubly

represents the Lord.”

Athos repeated D’Artagnan’s words.

The fellows looked at the body of their companion, swimming in blood,

and then recovering voice and legs together, ran screaming off.

“Justice is done,” said Porthos, wiping his forehead.

“And now,” said D’Artagnan to Athos, “entertain no further doubts about

me; I undertake all that concerns the king.”