“Captain,” said Biscarrat, “you have no need to command me. My word has been restored to me this very instant; and I came in the name of these men.”
“To tell me who they are?”
“To tell you they are determined to defend themselves to the death, unless you grant them satisfactory terms.”
“How many are there of them, then?”
“There are two,” said Biscarrat.
“There are two—and want to impose conditions upon us?”
“There are two, and they have already killed ten of our men.”
“What sort of people are they—giants?”
“Worse than that. Do you remember the history of the Bastion Saint-Gervais, captain?”
“Yes; where four musketeers held out against an army.”
“Well, these are two of those same musketeers.”
“And their names?”
“At that period they were called Porthos and Aramis. Now they are styled M. d’Herblay and M. du Vallon.”
“And what interest have they in all this?”
“It is they who were holding Belle-Isle for M. Fouquet.”
A murmur ran through the ranks of the soldiers on hearing the two words “Porthos and Aramis.” “The musketeers! the musketeers!” repeated they. And among all these brave men, the idea that they were going to have a struggle against two of the oldest glories of the French army, made a shiver, half enthusiasm, two-thirds terror, run through them. In fact, those four names—d’Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis—were venerated among all who wore a sword; as, in antiquity, the names of Hercules, Theseus, Castor, and Pollux were venerated.
“Two men—and they have killed ten in two discharges! It is impossible, Monsieur Biscarrat!”
“Eh! captain,” replied the latter, “I do not tell you that they have not with them two or three men, as the musketeers of the Bastion Saint-Gervais had two or three lackeys; but, believe me, captain, I have seen these men, I have been taken prisoner by them—I know they themselves alone are all-sufficient to destroy an army.”
“That we shall see,” said the captain, “and that in a moment, too. Gentlemen, attention!”
At this reply, no one stirred, and all prepared to obey. Biscarrat alone risked a last attempt.
“Monsieur,” said he, in a low voice, “be persuaded by me; let us pass on our way. Those two men, those two lions you are going to attack, will defend themselves to the death. They have already killed ten of our men; they will kill double the number, and end by killing themselves rather than surrender. What shall we gain by fighting them?”
“We shall gain the consciousness, Monsieur, of not having allowed eighty of the king’s Guards to retire before two rebels. If I listened to your advice, Monsieur, I should be a dishonored man; and by dishonoring myself I should dishonor the army. Forward, my men!”
And he marched first as far as the opening of the grotto. There he halted. The object of this halt was to give Biscarrat and his companions time to describe to him the interior of the grotto. Then, when he believed he had a sufficient acquaintance with the place, he divided his company into three bodies, which were to enter successively, keeping up a sustained fire in all directions. No doubt, in this attack they would lose five more, perhaps ten; but, certainly, they must end by taking the rebels, since there was no issue; and, at any rate, two men could not kill eighty.
“Captain,” said Biscarrat, “I beg to be allowed to march at the head of the first platoon.”
“So be it,” replied the captain; “you have all the honor. I make you a present of it.”
“Thanks!” replied the young man, with all the firmness of his race.
“Take your sword, then.”
“I shall go as I am, captain,” said Biscarrat, “for I do not go to kill, I go to be killed.”
And placing himself at the head of the first platoon, with head uncovered and arms crossed—“March, gentlemen,” said he.
256
An Homeric Song
It is time to pass to the other camp, and to describe at once the combatants and the field of battle. Aramis and Porthos had gone to the grotto of Locmaria with the expectation of finding there their canoe ready armed, as well as the three Bretons, their assistants; and they at first hoped to make the bark pass through the little issue of the cavern, concealing in that fashion both their labors and their flight. The arrival of the fox and dogs obliged them to remain concealed. The grotto extended the space of about a hundred toises, to that little slope dominating a creek. Formerly a temple of the Celtic divinities, when Belle-Isle was still called Kalonèse, this grotto had beheld more than one human sacrifice accomplished in its mystic depths. The first entrance to the cavern was by a moderate descent, above which distorted rocks formed a weird arcade; the interior, very uneven and dangerous from the inequalities of the vault, was subdivided into several compartments, which communicated with each other by means of rough and jagged steps, fixed right and left, in uncouth natural pillars. At the third compartment the vault was so low, the passage so narrow, that the bark would scarcely have passed without touching the side; nevertheless, in moments of despair, wood softens and stone grows flexible beneath the human will. Such was the thought of Aramis, when, after having fought the fight, he decided upon flight—a flight most dangerous, since all the assailants were not dead; and that, admitting the possibility of putting the bark to sea, they would have to fly in open day, before the conquered, so interested on recognizing their small number, in pursuing their conquerors. When the two discharges had killed ten men, Aramis, familiar with the windings of the cavern, went to reconnoiter them one by one, and counted them, for the smoke prevented seeing outside; and he immediately commanded that the canoe should be rolled as far as the great stone, the closure of the liberating issue. Porthos collected all his strength, took the canoe in his arms, and raised
