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 saddlebags, 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
