“Accomplishing my destiny,” replied Rochefort, falling on one knee. “I have already got up again after three stabs from you, I shall never rise after this fourth.”
“Count!” said d’Artagnan, with some degree of emotion, “I struck without knowing that it was you. I am sorry, if you die, that you should die with sentiments of hatred toward me.”
Rochefort extended his hand to d’Artagnan, who took it. The count wished to speak, but a gush of blood stifled him. He stiffened in the last convulsions of death and expired.
“Back, people!” cried d’Artagnan, “your leader is dead; you have no longer any business here.”
Indeed, as if de Rochefort had been the very soul of the attack, the crowd who had followed and obeyed him took to flight on seeing him fall. D’Artagnan charged, with a party of musketeers, up the Rue du Coq, and the portion of the mob he assailed disappeared like smoke, dispersing near the Place Saint Germain-l’Auxerrois and taking the direction of the quays.
D’Artagnan returned to help Porthos, if Porthos needed help; but Porthos, for his part, had done his work as conscientiously as d’Artagnan. The left of the carriage was as well cleared as the right, and they drew up the blind of the window which Mazarin, less heroic than the king, had taken the precaution to lower.
Porthos looked very melancholy.
“What a devil of a face you have, Porthos! and what a strange air for a victor!”
“But you,” answered Porthos, “seem to me agitated.”
“There’s a reason! Zounds! I have just killed an old friend.”
“Indeed!” replied Porthos, “who?”
“That poor Count de Rochefort.”
“Well! exactly like me! I have just killed a man whose face is not unknown to me. Unluckily, I hit him on the head and immediately his face was covered with blood.”
“And he said nothing as he died?”
“Yes; he exclaimed, ‘Oh!’ ”
“I suppose,” answered d’Artagnan, laughing, “if he only said that, it did not enlighten you much.”
“Well, sir!” cried the queen.
“Madame, the passage is quite clear and Your Majesty can continue your road.”
In fact, the procession arrived in safety at Notre Dame, at the front gate of which all the clergy, with the coadjutor at their head, awaited the king, the queen and the minister, for whose happy return they chanted a Te Deum.
As the service was drawing to a close a boy entered the church in great excitement, ran to the sacristy, dressed himself quickly in the choir robes, and cleaving, thanks to that uniform, the crowd that filled the temple, approached Bazin, who, clad in his blue robe, was standing gravely in his place at the entrance to the choir.
Bazin felt someone pulling his sleeve. He lowered to earth his eyes, beatifically raised to Heaven, and recognized Friquet.
“Well, you rascal, what is it? How do you dare to disturb me in the exercise of my functions?” asked the beadle.
“Monsieur Bazin,” said Friquet, “Monsieur Maillard—you know who he is, he gives holy water at Saint Eustache—”
“Well, go on.”
“Well, he received in the scrimmage a sword stroke on the head. That great giant who was there gave it to him.”
“In that case,” said Bazin, “he must be pretty sick.”
“So sick that he is dying, and he wants to confess to the coadjutor, who, they say, has power to remit great sins.”
“And does he imagine that the coadjutor will put himself out for him?”
“To be sure; the coadjutor has promised.”
“Who told you that?”
“Monsieur Maillard himself.”
“You have seen him, then?”
“Certainly; I was there when he fell.”
“What were you doing there?”
“I was shouting, ‘Down with Mazarin!’ ‘Death to the cardinal!’ ‘The Italian to the gallows!’ Isn’t that what you would have me shout?”
“Be quiet, you rascal!” said Bazin, looking uneasily around.
“So that he told me, that poor Monsieur Maillard, ‘Go find the coadjutor, Friquet, and if you bring him to me you shall be my heir.’ Say, then, Father Bazin—the heir of Monsieur Maillard, the giver of holy water at Saint Eustache! Hey! I shall have nothing to do but to fold my arms! All the same, I should like to do him that service—what do you say to it?”
“I will tell the coadjutor,” said Bazin.
In fact, he slowly and respectfully approached the prelate and spoke to him privately a few words, to which the latter responded by an affirmative sign. He then returned with the same slow step and said:
“Go and tell the dying man that he must be patient. Monseigneur will be with him in an hour.”
“Good!” said Friquet, “my fortune is made.”
“By the way,” said Bazin, “where was he carried?”
“To the tower Saint Jacques la Boucherie”; and delighted with the success of his embassy, Friquet started off at the top of his speed.
When the Te Deum was over, the coadjutor, without stopping to change his priestly dress, took his way toward that old tower which he knew so well. He arrived in time. Though sinking from moment to moment, the wounded man was not yet dead. The door was opened to the coadjutor of the room in which the mendicant was suffering.
A moment later Friquet went out, carrying in his hand a large leather bag; he opened it as soon as he was outside the chamber and to his great astonishment found it full of gold. The mendicant had kept his word and made Friquet his heir.
“Ah! Mother Nanette!” cried Friquet, suffocating; “ah! Mother Nanette!”
He could say no more; but though he hadn’t strength to speak he had enough for action. He rushed headlong to the street, and like the Greek from Marathon who fell in the square at Athens, with his laurel in his hand, Friquet reached Councillor Broussel’s threshold, and then fell exhausted, scattering on the floor the louis disgorged by his leather bag.
Mother Nanette began by picking up the louis; then she picked up Friquet.
In the meantime the cortege returned to the Palais Royal.
“That Monsieur d’Artagnan is a very brave man, mother,” said the young king.
“Yes, my son; and he rendered very important
