’Twas the first time d’Artagnan had ever refused a request from Athos.
Aramis calmly drew his sword, which he had carried between his teeth as he swam.
“If he lays his hand on the boat’s edge I will cut it off, regicide that he is.”
“And I,” said Porthos. “Wait.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Aramis.
“Throw myself in the water and strangle him.”
“Oh, gentlemen!” cried Athos, “be men! be Christians! See! death is depicted on his face! Ah! do not bring on me the horrors of remorse! Grant me this poor wretch’s life. I will bless you—I—”
“I am dying!” cried Mordaunt, “come to me! come to me!”
D’Artagnan began to be touched. The boat at this moment turned around, and the dying man was by that turn brought nearer Athos.
“Monsieur the Comte de la Fère,” he cried, “I supplicate you! pity me! I call on you—where are you? I see you no longer—I am dying—help me! help me!”
“Here I am, sir!” said Athos, leaning and stretching out his arm to Mordaunt with that air of dignity and nobility of soul habitual to him; “here I am, take my hand and jump into our boat.”
Mordaunt made a last effort—rose—seized the hand thus extended to him and grasped it with the vehemence of despair.
“That’s right,” said Athos; “put your other hand here.” And he offered him his shoulder as another stay and support, so that his head almost touched that of Mordaunt; and these two mortal enemies were in as close an embrace as if they had been brothers.
“Now, sir,” said the count, “you are safe—calm yourself.”
“Ah! my mother,” cried Mordaunt, with eyes on fire with a look of hate impossible to paint, “I can only offer thee one victim, but it shall at any rate be the one thou wouldst thyself have chosen!”
And whilst d’Artagnan uttered a cry, Porthos raised the oar, and Aramis sought a place to strike, a frightful shake given to the boat precipitated Athos into the sea; whilst Mordaunt, with a shout of triumph, grasped the neck of his victim, and in order to paralyze his movements, twined arms and legs around the musketeer. For an instant, without an exclamation, without a cry for help, Athos tried to sustain himself on the surface of the waters, but the weight dragged him down; he disappeared by degrees; soon nothing was to be seen except his long, floating hair; then both men disappeared and the bubbling of the water, which, in its turn, was soon effaced, alone indicated the spot where these two had sunk.
Mute with horror, the three friends had remained open-mouthed, their eyes dilated, their arms extended like statues, and, motionless as they were, the beating of their hearts was audible. Porthos was the first who came to himself. He tore his hair.
“Oh!” he cried, “Athos! Athos! thou man of noble heart; woe is me! I have let thee perish!”
At this instant, in the midst of the silver circle illumined by the light of the moon the same whirlpool which had been made by the sinking men was again obvious, and first were seen, rising above the waves, a wisp of hair, then a pale face with open eyes, yet, nevertheless, the eyes of death; then a body, which, after rising of itself even to the waist above the sea, turned gently on its back, according to the caprice of the waves, and floated.
In the bosom of this corpse was plunged a poniard, the gold hilt of which shone in the moonbeams.
“Mordaunt! Mordaunt!” cried the three friends; “ ’tis Mordaunt!”
“But Athos!” exclaimed d’Artagnan.
Suddenly the boat leaned on one side beneath a new and unexpected weight and Grimaud uttered a shout of joy; everyone turned around and beheld Athos, livid, his eyes dim and his hands trembling, supporting himself on the edge of the boat. Eight vigorous arms lifted him up immediately and laid him in the boat, where directly Athos was warmed and reanimated, reviving with the caresses and cares of his friends, who were intoxicated with joy.
“You are not hurt?” asked d’Artagnan.
“No,” replied Athos; “and he—”
“Oh, he! now we may say at last, thank Heaven! he is really dead. Look!” and d’Artagnan, obliging Athos to look in the direction he pointed, showed him the body of Mordaunt floating on its back, which, sometimes submerged, sometimes rising, seemed still to pursue the four friends with looks of insult and mortal hatred.
At last he sank. Athos had followed him with a glance in which the deepest melancholy and pity were expressed.
“Bravo! Athos!” cried Aramis, with an emotion very rare in him.
“A capital blow you gave!” cried Porthos.
“I have a son. I wished to live,” said Athos.
“In short,” said d’Artagnan, “this has been the will of God.”
“It was not I who killed him,” said Athos in a soft, low tone, “ ’twas destiny.”
LXXIV
How Mousqueton, After Being Very Nearly Roasted, Had a Narrow Escape of Being Eaten
A deep silence reigned for a long time in the boat after the fearful scene described.
The moon, which had shone for a short time, disappeared behind the clouds; every object was again plunged in the obscurity that is so awful in the deserts and still more so in that liquid desert, the ocean, and nothing was heard save the whistling of the west wind driving along the tops of the crested billows.
Porthos was the first to speak.
“I have seen,” he said, “many dreadful things, but nothing that ever agitated me so much as what I have just witnessed. Nevertheless, even in my present state of perturbation, I protest that I feel happy. I have a hundred pounds’ weight less upon my chest. I breathe more freely.” In fact, Porthos breathed so loud as to do credit to the free play of his powerful lungs.
“For my part,” observed Aramis, “I cannot say the same as you do, Porthos. I am still terrified to such a degree that I scarcely believe my
