“That’s it,” said d’Artagnan; “you, Monsieur le Comte de la Fère, to the right of Monsieur Groslow. You, Chevalier d’Herblay, to his left. Du Vallon next me. You’ll bet for me and those gentlemen for Monsieur Groslow.”
By this arrangement d’Artagnan could nudge Porthos with his knee and make signs with his eyes to Athos and Aramis.
At the names Comte de la Fère and Chevalier d’Herblay, Charles opened his eyes, and raising his noble head, in spite of himself, threw a glance at all the actors in the scene.
At that moment Parry turned over several leaves of his Bible and read with a loud voice this verse in Jeremiah:
“God said, ‘Hear ye the words of the prophets my servants, whom I have sent unto you.’ ”
The four friends exchanged glances. The words that Parry had read assured them that their presence was understood by the king and was assigned to its real motive. D’Artagnan’s eyes sparkled with joy.
“You asked me just now if I was in funds,” said d’Artagnan, placing some twenty pistoles upon the table. “Well, in my turn I advise you to keep a sharp lookout on your treasure, my dear Monsieur Groslow, for I can tell you we shall not leave this without robbing you of it.”
“Not without my defending it,” said Groslow.
“So much the better,” said d’Artagnan. “Fight, my dear captain, fight. You know or you don’t know, that that is what we ask of you.”
“Oh! yes,” said Groslow, bursting with his usual coarse laugh, “I know you Frenchmen want nothing but cuts and bruises.”
Charles had heard and understood it all. A slight color mounted to his cheeks. The soldiers then saw him stretch his limbs, little by little, and under the pretense of much heat throw off the Scotch plaid which covered him.
Athos and Aramis started with delight to find that the king was lying with his clothes on.
The game began. The luck had turned, and Groslow, having won some hundred pistoles, was in the merriest possible humor.
Porthos, who had lost the fifty pistoles he had won the night before and thirty more besides, was very cross and questioned d’Artagnan with a nudge of the knee as to whether it would not soon be time to change the game. Athos and Aramis looked at him inquiringly. But d’Artagnan remained impassible.
It struck ten. They heard the guard going its rounds.
“How many rounds do they make a night?” asked d’Artagnan, drawing more pistoles from his pocket.
“Five,” answered Groslow, “one every two hours.”
D’Artagnan glanced at Athos and Aramis and for the first time replied to Porthos’s nudge of the knee by a nudge responsive. Meanwhile, the soldiers whose duty it was to remain in the king’s room, attracted by that love of play so powerful in all men, had stolen little by little toward the table, and standing on tiptoe, lounged, watching the game, over the shoulders of d’Artagnan and Porthos. Those on the other side had followed their example, thus favoring the views of the four friends, who preferred having them close at hand to chasing them about the chamber. The two sentinels at the door still had their swords unsheathed, but they were leaning on them while they watched the game.
Athos seemed to grow calm as the critical moment approached. With his white, aristocratic hands he played with the louis, bending and straightening them again, as if they were made of pewter. Aramis, less self-controlled, fumbled continually with his hidden poniard. Porthos, impatient at his continued losses, kept up a vigorous play with his knee.
D’Artagnan turned, mechanically looking behind him, and between the figures of two soldiers he could see Parry standing up and Charles leaning on his elbow with his hands clasped and apparently offering a fervent prayer to God.
D’Artagnan saw that the moment was come. He darted a preparatory glance at Athos and Aramis, who slyly pushed their chairs a little back so as to leave themselves more space for action. He gave Porthos a second nudge of the knee and Porthos got up as if to stretch his legs and took care at the same time to ascertain that his sword could be drawn smoothly from the scabbard.
“Hang it!” cried d’Artagnan, “another twenty pistoles lost. Really, Captain Groslow, you are too much in fortune’s way. This can’t last,” and he drew another twenty from his pocket. “One more turn, captain; twenty pistoles on one throw—only one, the last.”
“Done for twenty,” replied Groslow.
And he turned up two cards as usual, a king for d’Artagnan and an ace for himself.
“A king,” said d’Artagnan; “it’s a good omen, Master Groslow—look out for the king.”
And in spite of his extraordinary self-control there was a strange vibration in the Gascon’s voice which made his partner start.
Groslow began turning the cards one after another. If he turned up an ace first he won; if a king he lost.
He turned up a king.
“At last!” cried d’Artagnan.
At this word Athos and Aramis jumped up. Porthos drew back a step. Daggers and swords were just about to shine, when suddenly the door was thrown open and Harrison appeared in the doorway, accompanied by a man enveloped in a large cloak. Behind this man could be seen the glistening muskets of half a dozen soldiers.
Groslow jumped up, ashamed at being surprised in the midst of wine, cards, and dice. But Harrison paid not the least attention to him, and entering the king’s room, followed by his companion:
“Charles Stuart,” said he, “an order has come to conduct you to London without stopping day or night. Prepare yourself, then, to start at once.”
“And by whom is this order given?” asked the king.
“By General Oliver Cromwell. And here is Mr. Mordaunt, who has brought it and is charged with its execution.”
“Mordaunt!” muttered the four friends, exchanging glances.
D’Artagnan swept up the money that he and Porthos had lost and buried it in his huge pocket. Athos and Aramis placed themselves behind him. At this movement Mordaunt turned around, recognized them, and uttered an exclamation of savage delight.
“I’m afraid we
