“Trousers,” said Grimaud, still squaring his accounts.
“Ah, yes!” said Mousqueton.
Grimaud, in fact, was not only the accountant, but the armorer of the party; and as he was a man full of forethought, these trousers, carefully rolled up in his valise, contained every sort of tool for immediate use.
Mousqueton, therefore, was soon provided with tools and he began his task. In a few minutes he had extracted three boards. He tried to pass his body through the aperture, but not being like the frog in the fable, who thought he was larger than he really was, he found he must take out three or four more before he could get through.
He sighed and set to work again.
Grimaud had now finished his accounts. He arose and stood near Mousqueton.
“I,” he said.
“What?” said Mousqueton.
“I can pass.”
“That is true,” said Mousqueton, glancing at his friend’s long and thin body, “you will pass easily.”
“And he knows the full casks,” said Blaisois, “for he has already been in the hold with Monsieur le Chevalier d’Artagnan. Let Monsieur Grimaud go in, Monsieur Mouston.”
“I could go in as well as Grimaud,” said Mousqueton, a little piqued.
“Yes, but that would take too much time and I am thirsty. I am getting more and more seasick.”
“Go in, then, Grimaud,” said Mousqueton, handing him the beer pot and gimlet.
“Rinse the glasses,” said Grimaud. Then with a friendly gesture toward Mousqueton, that he might forgive him for finishing an enterprise so brilliantly begun by another, he glided like a serpent through the opening and disappeared.
Blaisois was in a state of great excitement; he was in ecstasies. Of all the exploits performed since their arrival in England by the extraordinary men with whom he had the honor to be associated, this seemed without question to be the most wonderful.
“You are about to see,” said Mousqueton, looking at Blaisois with an expression of superiority which the latter did not even think of questioning, “you are about to see, Blaisois, how we old soldiers drink when we are thirsty.”
“My cloak,” said Grimaud, from the bottom of the hold.
“What do you want?” asked Blaisois.
“My cloak—stop up the aperture with it.”
“Why?” asked Blaisois.
“Simpleton!” exclaimed Mousqueton; “suppose anyone came into the room.”
“Ah, true,” cried Blaisois, with evident admiration; “but it will be dark in the cellar.”
“Grimaud always sees, dark or light, night as well as day,” answered Mousqueton.
“That is lucky,” said Blaisois. “As for me, when I have no candle I can’t take two steps without knocking against something.”
“That’s because you haven’t served,” said Mousqueton. “Had you been in the army you would have been able to pick up a needle on the floor of a closed oven. But hark! I think someone is coming.”
Mousqueton made, with a low whistling sound, the sign of alarm well known to the lackeys in the days of their youth, resumed his place at the table and made a sign to Blaisois to follow his example.
Blaisois obeyed.
The door of their cabin was opened. Two men, wrapped in their cloaks, appeared.
“Oho!” said they, “not in bed at a quarter past eleven. That’s against all rules. In a quarter of an hour let everyone be in bed and snoring.”
These two men then went toward the compartment in which Grimaud was secreted; opened the door, entered and shut it after them.
“Ah!” cried Blaisois, “he is lost!”
“Grimaud’s a cunning fellow,” murmured Mousqueton.
They waited for ten minutes, during which time no noise was heard that might indicate that Grimaud was discovered, and at the expiration of that anxious interval the two men returned, closed the door after them, and repeating their orders that the servants should go to bed and extinguish their lights, disappeared.
“Shall we obey?” asked Blaisois. “All this looks suspicious.”
“They said a quarter of an hour. We still have five minutes,” replied Mousqueton.
“Suppose we warn the masters.”
“Let’s wait for Grimaud.”
“But perhaps they have killed him.”
“Grimaud would have cried out.”
“You know he is almost dumb.”
“We should have heard the blow, then.”
“But if he doesn’t return?”
“Here he is.”
At that very moment Grimaud drew back the cloak which hid the aperture and came in with his face livid, his eyes staring wide open with terror, so that the pupils were contracted almost to nothing, with a large circle of white around them. He held in his hand a tankard full of a dark substance, and approaching the gleam of light shed by the lamp he uttered this single monosyllable: “Oh!” with such an expression of extreme terror that Mousqueton started, alarmed, and Blaisois was near fainting from fright.
Both, however, cast an inquisitive glance into the tankard—it was full of gunpowder.
Convinced that the ship was full of powder instead of having a cargo of wine, Grimaud hastened to awake d’Artagnan, who had no sooner beheld him than he perceived that something extraordinary had taken place. Imposing silence, Grimaud put out the little night lamp, then knelt down and poured into the lieutenant’s ear a recital melodramatic enough not to require play of feature to give it pith.
This was the gist of his strange story:
The first barrel that Grimaud had found on passing into the compartment he struck—it was empty. He passed on to another—it, also, was empty, but the third which he tried was, from the dull sound it gave out, evidently full. At this point Grimaud stopped and was preparing to make a hole with his gimlet, when he found a spigot; he therefore placed his tankard under it and turned the spout; something, whatever it was the cask contained, fell silently into the tankard.
Whilst he was thinking that he should first taste the liquor which the tankard contained before taking it to his companions, the door of the cellar opened and a man with a lantern in his hands and enveloped in a cloak, came and stood just before the hogshead, behind which Grimaud, on hearing him come in, instantly crept. This was Groslow. He was accompanied
