The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [216]
“Monsieur!” Planchet breathed, more dead than alive, “Monsieur, what a narrow escape I had!”
“What, you rascal! You were going to drink my wine?”
“To the King’s health, Monsieur. I was just about to take a token drink when Fourreau told me somebody was calling for me.”
“Alas!” Fourreau confessed, his teeth chattering, “I wanted him out of the way so I could drink by myself.”
“Gentlemen,” D’Artagnan told his fellow guardsmen, “you may readily understand that we cannot continue this banquet. Pray accept my excuses; we will put it off for another day.”
The guardsmen bowed and, realizing that the four friends wished to be left alone, withdrew. The door closed upon their guests. Our friends looked at one another gravely, the full impact of the situation suddenly striking them.
“First let us leave this room,” Athos suggested. “The dead are not pleasant company particularly when they have died a violent death.”
“Planchet,” D’Artagnan ordered, “I commit the corpse of this poor wretch to your care. Let him be buried in holy ground. He was a criminal, to be sure, but he repented.”
With which the four comrades went out, leaving to Planchet and Fourreau the duty of rendering mortuary honors to Brisemont.
The steward gave them another room, where he served them some boiled eggs; they drank water which Athos in person drew from the well. In a few words, Porthos and Aramis were supplied with full information about what had led up to the present situation.
D’Artagnan turned to Athos.
“As you see, my dear friend, this is war to the death.”
Athos nodded.
“I see that quite plainly,” Athos agreed. “But do you think it is—er—it is that woman!”
“I am certain of it.”
“I still have my doubts.”
“But that fleur-de-lis on her shoulder?”
“She could easily be an Englishwoman who committed some crime in France and was branded for it.”
“No, Athos, it is your wife! Don’t you recall how our descriptions tallied?”
“Yes!” Athos stroked his chin. “Still, I should have thought that the other one was dead. I certainly strung her up systematically to that tree!”
It was D’Artagnan’s turn to shake his head.
“What are we to do?” he asked.
“Gentlemen, we cannot go on with a sword eternally dangling over our heads,” Athos replied. “We must solve this problem.”
“But how?”
“Well, D’Artagnan, try to meet her again; discuss things with her; tell her this is a question of peace or war! Give her your word as a gentleman never to say or do anything about her in return for her solemn oath to remain neutral with regard to yourself. Tell her that otherwise you will apply to the Chancellor, to the King, to the public hangman. Tell her you will move the courts against her and denounce her as branded. Tell her that you will have her tried and that if she were miraculously acquitted, you yourself will strike her down as you would a mad dog.”
“The idea appeals to me,” D’Artagnan confessed. “But how shall I meet her again?”
“By the grace of time, my friend!” Athos explained. “Time is the father of opportunity; opportunity is the martingale of man. The more we have at stake, the more we stand to gain by waiting.”
“Yes—but to wait surrounded by assassins and poisoners—?”
“Pooh!” said Athos, “God has preserved us so far, He will preserve us further.”
“And, what’s more, we are men. After all, to risk our lives is our natural lot.” D’Artagnan paused. “But what of her?”
“Her?” Athos looked puzzled. “You mean—”
“Constance, Constance Bonacieux—”
“Madame Bonacieux, of course,” Athos sighed. “Excuse me, my poor friend, I had forgotten you were in love.”
“Cheer up,” Aramis put in. “The letter you found on the dead man proves that Madame Bonacieux is alive and in a convent. Living conditions in our convents are quite comfortable. As soon as the siege of La Rochelle is over, I promise you, on