“Come, then, I see that I must trust unreservedly to you.”
“Believe me, my lord, it will be your best plan.”
“Come,” said Mazarin, conducting d’Artagnan into the queen’s oratory and desiring him to wait there. He did not wait long, for in five minutes the queen entered in full gala costume. Thus dressed she scarcely appeared thirty-five years of age. She was still exceedingly handsome.
“It is you, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” she said, smiling graciously; “I thank you for having insisted on seeing me.”
“I ought to ask Your Majesty’s pardon, but I wished to receive your commands from your own mouth.”
“Do you accept the commission which I have entrusted to you?”
“With gratitude.”
“Very well, be here at midnight.”
“I will not fail.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” continued the queen, “I know your disinterestedness too well to speak of my own gratitude at such a moment, but I swear to you that I shall not forget this second service as I forgot the first.”
“Your Majesty is free to forget or to remember, as it pleases you; and I know not what you mean,” said d’Artagnan, bowing.
“Go, sir,” said the queen, with her most bewitching smile, “go and return at midnight.”
And d’Artagnan retired, but as he passed out he glanced at the curtain through which the queen had entered and at the bottom of the tapestry he remarked the tip of a velvet slipper.
Good, thought he; Mazarin has been listening to discover whether I betrayed him. In truth, that Italian puppet does not deserve the services of an honest man.
D’Artagnan was not less exact to his appointment and at half-past nine o’clock he entered the anteroom.
He found the cardinal dressed as an officer, and he looked very well in that costume, which, as we have already said, he wore elegantly; only he was very pale and trembled slightly.
“Quite alone?” he asked.
“Yes, my lord.”
“And that worthy Monsieur du Vallon, are we not to enjoy his society?”
“Certainly, my lord; he is waiting in his carriage at the gate of the garden of the Palais Royal.”
“And we start in his carriage, then?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And with us no other escort but you two?”
“Is it not enough? One of us would suffice.”
“Really, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the cardinal, “your coolness startles me.”
“I should have thought, on the contrary, that it ought to have inspired you with confidence.”
“And Bernouin—do I not take him with me?”
“There is no room for him, he will rejoin your Eminence.”
“Let us go,” said Mazarin, “since everything must be done as you wish.”
“My lord, there is time to draw back,” said d’Artagnan, “and your Eminence is perfectly free.”
“Not at all, not at all,” said Mazarin; “let us be off.”
And so they descended the private stair, Mazarin leaning on the arm of d’Artagnan a hand the musketeer felt trembling. At last, after crossing the courts of the Palais Royal, where there still remained some of the conveyances of late guests, they entered the garden and reached the little gate. Mazarin attempted to open it by a key which he took from his pocket, but with such shaking fingers that he could not find the keyhole.
“Give it to me,” said d’Artagnan, who when the gate was open deposited the key in his pocket, reckoning upon returning by that gate.
The steps were already down and the door open. Mousqueton stood at the door and Porthos was inside the carriage.
“Mount, my lord,” said d’Artagnan to Mazarin, who sprang into the carriage without waiting for a second bidding. D’Artagnan followed him, and Mousqueton, having closed the door, mounted behind the carriage with many groans. He had made some difficulties about going, under pretext that he still suffered from his wound, but d’Artagnan had said to him:
“Remain if you like, my dear Monsieur Mouston, but I warn you that Paris will be burnt down tonight”; upon which Mousqueton had declared, without asking anything further, that he was ready to follow his master and Monsieur d’Artagnan to the end of the world.
The carriage started at a measured pace, without betraying by the slightest sign that it contained people in a hurry. The cardinal wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and looked around him. On his left was Porthos, whilst d’Artagnan was on his right; each guarded a door and served as a rampart to him on either side. Before him, on the front seat, lay two pairs of pistols—one in front of Porthos and the other of d’Artagnan. About a hundred paces from the Palais Royal a patrol stopped the carriage.
“Who goes?” asked the captain.
“Mazarin!” replied d’Artagnan, bursting into a laugh. The cardinal’s hair stood on end. But the joke appeared an excellent one to the citizens, who, seeing the conveyance without escort and unarmed, would never have believed in the possibility of so great an imprudence.
“A good journey to ye,” they cried, allowing it to pass.
“Hem!” said d’Artagnan, “what does my lord think of that reply?”
“Man of talent!” cried Mazarin.
“In truth,” said Porthos, “I understand; but now—”
About the middle of the Rue des Petits Champs they were stopped by a second patrol.
“Who goes there?” inquired the captain of the patrol.
“Keep back, my lord,” said d’Artagnan. And Mazarin buried himself so far behind the two friends that he disappeared, completely hidden between them.
“Who goes there?” cried the same voice, impatiently whilst d’Artagnan perceived that they had rushed to the horses’ heads. But putting his head out of the carriage:
“Eh! Planchet,” said he.
The chief approached, and it was indeed Planchet; d’Artagnan had recognized the voice of his old servant.
“How, sir!” said Planchet, “is it you?”
“Eh! mon Dieu! yes, my good friend, this worthy Porthos has just received a sword wound and I am taking him to his country house at Saint Cloud.”
“Oh! really,” said Planchet.
“Porthos,” said d’Artagnan, “if you can still speak, say a word, my dear Porthos, to this good Planchet.”
“Planchet, my friend,” said Porthos, in a melancholy voice, “I am very ill; should you meet a doctor you
