“Never!” added Porthos.
Some of the men moved toward them.
“One moment, my lord,” whispered Athos, and he said something in a low voice.
“As you will,” replied the duke. “I am too much indebted to you to refuse your first request. Gentlemen,” he said to his escort, “withdraw. Monsieur d’Artagnan, Monsieur du Vallon, you are free.”
The order was obeyed; d’Artagnan and Porthos then found themselves in the centre of a large circle.
“Now, d’Herblay,” said Athos, “dismount and come here.”
Aramis dismounted and went to Porthos, whilst Athos approached d’Artagnan.
All four once more together.
“Friends!” said Athos, “do you regret you have not shed our blood?”
“No,” replied d’Artagnan; “I regret to see that we, hitherto united, are opposed to each other. Ah! nothing will ever go well with us hereafter!”
“Oh, Heaven! No, all is over!” said Porthos.
“Well, be on our side now,” resumed Aramis.
“Silence, d’Herblay!” cried Athos; “such proposals are not to be made to gentlemen such as these. ’Tis a matter of conscience with them, as with us.”
“Meantime, here we are, enemies!” said Porthos. “Gramercy! who would ever have thought it?”
D’Artagnan only sighed.
Athos looked at them both and took their hands in his.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “this is a serious business and my heart bleeds as if you had pierced it through and through. Yes, we are severed; there is the great, the distressing truth! But we have not as yet declared war; perhaps we shall have to make certain conditions, therefore a solemn conference is indispensable.”
“For my own part, I demand it,” said Aramis.
“I accept it,” interposed d’Artagnan, proudly.
Porthos bowed, as if in assent.
“Let us choose a place of rendezvous,” continued Athos, “and in a last interview arrange our mutual position and the conduct we are to maintain toward each other.”
“Good!” the other three exclaimed.
“Well, then, the place?”
“Will the Place Royale suit you?” asked d’Artagnan.
“In Paris?”
“Yes.”
Athos and Aramis looked at each other.
“The Place Royale—be it so!” replied Athos.
“When?”
“Tomorrow evening, if you like!”
“At what hour?”
“At ten in the evening, if that suits you; by that time we shall have returned.”
“Good.”
“There,” continued Athos, “either peace or war will be decided; honor, at all events, will be maintained!”
“Alas!” murmured d’Artagnan, “our honor as soldiers is lost to us forever!”
“D’Artagnan,” said Athos, gravely, “I assure you that you do me wrong in dwelling so upon that. What I think of is that we have crossed swords as enemies. Yes,” he continued, sadly shaking his head, “Yes, it is as you said; misfortune indeed has overtaken us. Come, Aramis.”
“And we, Porthos,” said d’Artagnan, “will return, carrying our shame to the cardinal.”
“And tell him,” cried a voice, “that I am not too old yet for a man of action.”
D’Artagnan recognized the voice of de Rochefort.
“Can I do anything for you, gentlemen?” asked the duke.
“Bear witness that we have done all that we could.”
“That shall be testified to, rest assured. Adieu! we shall meet soon, I trust, in Paris, where you shall have your revenge.” The duke, as he spoke, kissed his hand, spurred his horse into a gallop and disappeared, followed by his troop, who were soon lost in distance and darkness.
D’Artagnan and Porthos were now alone with a man who held by the bridles two horses; they thought it was Mousqueton and went up to him.
“What do I see?” cried the lieutenant. “Grimaud, is it thou?”
Grimaud signified that he was not mistaken.
“And whose horses are these?” cried d’Artagnan.
“Who has given them to us?” said Porthos.
“The Comte de la Fère.”
“Athos! Athos!” muttered d’Artagnan; “you think of everyone; you are indeed a nobleman! Whither art thou going, Grimaud?”
“To join the Vicomte de Bragelonne in Flanders, your honor.”
They were taking the road toward Paris, when groans, which seemed to proceed from a ditch, attracted their attention.
“What is that?” asked d’Artagnan.
“It is I—Mousqueton,” said a mournful voice, whilst a sort of shadow arose out of the side of the road.
Porthos ran to him. “Art thou dangerously wounded, my dear Mousqueton?” he said.
“No, sir, but I am severely.”
“What can we do?” said d’Artagnan; “we must return to Paris.”
“I will take care of Mousqueton,” said Grimaud; and he gave his arm to his old comrade, whose eyes were full of tears, nor could Grimaud tell whether the tears were caused by wounds or by the pleasure of seeing him again.
D’Artagnan and Porthos went on, meantime, to Paris. They were passed by a sort of courier, covered with dust, the bearer of a letter from the duke to the cardinal, giving testimony to the valor of d’Artagnan and Porthos.
Mazarin had passed a very bad night when this letter was brought to him, announcing that the duke was free and that he would henceforth raise up mortal strife against him.
“What consoles me,” said the cardinal after reading the letter, “is that, at least, in this chase, d’Artagnan has done me one good turn—he has destroyed Broussel. This Gascon is a precious fellow; even his misadventures are of use.”
The cardinal referred to that man whom d’Artagnan upset at the corner of the Cimetière Saint Jean in Paris, and who was no other than the Councillor Broussel.
XXVII
The Four Old Friends Prepare to Meet Again
“Well,” said Porthos, seated in the courtyard of the Hôtel de la Chevrette, to d’Artagnan, who, with a long and melancholy face, had returned from the Palais Royal; “did he receive you ungraciously, my dear friend?”
“I’faith, yes! a brute, that cardinal. What are you eating there, Porthos?”
“I am dipping a biscuit in a glass of Spanish wine; do the same.”
“You are right. Gimblou, a glass of wine.”
“Well, how has all gone off?”
“Zounds! you know there’s only one way of saying things, so I went in and said, ‘My lord, we were not the strongest party.’
“ ‘Yes, I know that,’ he said, ‘but give me the particulars.’
“You know, Porthos, I could not give him the particulars without naming our friends; to name them would be to commit them to ruin, so I merely said they were fifty and we were two.
“ ‘There was
