“On foot or on horseback?” inquired the king.
“On horseback. He fired upon the brute and missed his aim, and then it dashed upon him.”
“And the horse was killed.”
“Ah! Your Majesty knows that, then.”
“I have been told that a horse has been found lying dead in the crossroads of the Bois-Rochin, and I presume it was de Guiche’s horse.”
“Perfectly true, sire, it was his.”
“Well, so much for the horse, and now for de Guiche?”
“De Guiche, once down, was attacked and worried by the wild boar, and wounded in the hand and in the chest.”
“It is a horrible accident, but it must be admitted it was de Guiche’s own fault. How could he possibly have gone to hunt such an animal merely armed with pistols; he must have forgotten the fable of Adonis?”
Manicamp rubbed his ear in seeming perplexity. “Very true,” he said, “it was very imprudent.”
“Can you explain it, Monsieur Manicamp?”
“Sire, what is written is written!”
“Ah! you are a fatalist.”
Manicamp looked very uncomfortable and ill at ease.
“I am angry with you, Monsieur Manicamp,” continued the king.
“With me, sire?”
“Yes. How was it that you, who are de Guiche’s intimate friend, and who know that he is subject to such acts of folly, did not stop him in time?”
Manicamp no longer knew what to do; the tone in which the king spoke was anything but that of a credulous man. On the other hand, it did not indicate any particular severity, nor did he seem to care very much about the cross-examination. There was more of raillery in it than menace. “And you say, then,” continued the king, “that it was positively de Guiche’s horse that was found dead?”
“Quite positive, sire.”
“Did that astonish you?”
“No, sire; for Your Majesty will remember that, at the last hunt, M. de Saint-Maure had a horse killed under him, and in the same way.”
“Yes, but that one was ripped open.”
“Of course, sire.”
“Had Guiche’s horse been ripped open like M. de Saint-Maure’s horse, I should not have been astonished.”
Manicamp opened his eyes very wide.
“Am I mistaken,” resumed the king, “was it not in the frontal bone that de Guiche’s horse was struck? You must admit, Monsieur de Manicamp, that that is a very singular place for a wild boar to attack.”
“You are aware, sire, that the horse is a very intelligent animal, and he doubtless endeavoured to defend himself.”
“But a horse defends himself with his heels and not with his head.”
“In that case, the terrified horse may have slipped or fallen down,” said Manicamp, “and the boar, you understand sire, the boar—”
“Oh! I understand that perfectly, as far as the horse is concerned; but how about his rider?”
“Well! that, too, is simple enough; the boar left the horse and attacked the rider; and, as I have already had the honor of informing Your Majesty, shattered de Guiche’s hand at the very moment he was about to discharge his second pistol at him, and then, with a gouge of his tusk, made that terrible hole in his chest.”
“Nothing is more likely; really, Monsieur de Manicamp, you are wrong in placing so little confidence in your own eloquence, and you can tell a story most admirably.”
“Your Majesty is exceedingly kind,” said Manicamp, saluting him in the most embarrassed manner.
“From this day henceforth, I will prohibit any gentleman attached to my court going out to a similar encounter. Really, one might just as well permit duelling.”
Manicamp started, and moved as if he were about to withdraw. “Is Your Majesty satisfied?”
“Delighted; but do not withdraw yet, Monsieur de Manicamp,” said Louis, “I have something to say to you.”
Well, well!
thought d’Artagnan, there is another who is not up to the mark
; and he uttered a sigh which might signify, “Oh! the men of our stamp, where are they now?”
At this moment an usher lifted up the curtain before the door, and announced the king’s physician.
“Ah!” exclaimed Louis, “here comes Monsieur Valot, who has just been to see M. de Guiche. We shall now hear news of the man maltreated by the boar.”
Manicamp felt more uncomfortable than ever.
“In this way, at least,” added the king, “our conscience will be quite clear.” And he looked at d’Artagnan, who did not seem in the slightest degree discomposed.
158
The Physician
M. Valot entered. The position of the different persons present was precisely the same: the king was seated, Saint-Aignan leaning over the back of his armchair, d’Artagnan with his back against the wall, and Manicamp still standing.
“Well, M. Valot,” said the king, “did you obey my directions?”
“With the greatest alacrity, sire.”
“You went to the doctor’s house in Fontainebleau?”
“Yes, sire.”
“And you found M. de Guiche there?”
“I did, sire.”
“What state was he in?—speak unreservedly.”
“In a very sad state indeed, sire.”
“The wild boar did not quite devour him, however?”
“Devour whom?”
“De Guiche.”
“What wild boar?”
“The boar that wounded him.”
“M. de Guiche wounded by a boar?”
“So it is said, at least.”
“By a poacher, rather, or by a jealous husband, or an ill-used lover, who, in order to be revenged, fired upon him.”
“What is it that you say, Monsieur Valot? Were not M. de Guiche’s wounds produced by defending himself against a wild boar?”
“M. de Guiche’s wounds are the result of a pistol-bullet that broke his ring-finger and the little finger of the right hand, and afterwards buried itself in the intercostal muscles of the chest.”
“A bullet! Are you sure Monsieur de Guiche was wounded by a bullet?” exclaimed the king, pretending to look much surprised.
“Indeed, I am, sire; so sure, in fact, that here it is.” And he presented to the king a half-flattened bullet, which the king looked at, but did not touch.
“Did he have that in his chest, poor fellow?” he asked.
“Not precisely. The ball did not penetrate, but was flattened, as you see, either
