The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [237]
“They are firing on our dear departed enemies,” said Athos.
“But corpses cannot return fire.”
“Perhaps. But the rebels will imagine an ambush, they will pause to take counsel, they will send someone forward to parley and by the time they have found out how we duped them, we shall be well out of range. That is why it is useless to catch cold by running—an exercise I have always considered to be highly diaphoretic.”
“Now I understand!” Porthos gasped, marveling.
“It’s about time!” said Athos with a shrug.
Cries of relief and cheers of approval kept rising from the camp as the French observed the four friends returning at a walk. For a moment all was silence, then a fresh volley of bullets spattered among the stones about our friends and whistled past their ears. The rebels had at last occupied the bastion.
“Bunglers, those rebels!” Athos remarked. “How many did we shoot down?”
“Fifteen!”
“And how many did we crush?”
“Eight or ten.”
“And not a scratch in return. But no! Look at D’Artagnan’s hand. You’re bleeding, lad.”
“I’m all right!”
“A spent bullet?”
“Not even that.”
“What is it, then?” Athos loved the young Gascon like a child. Gloomy and imperturbable though he was, at times Athos felt all the anxiety and solicitude of a father for his son.
“A mere scratch!” D’Artagnan smiled. “I caught my fingers between two stones—one from the wall, one on my ring—and it tore the skin.”
“That is what you get for wearing diamonds, my master,” Athos observed contemptuously.
“I have an idea!” cried Porthos triumphantly.
“Silence, all,” said Aramis. “Porthos has an idea.”
“Let us hear it!”
“Well,” said Porthos deliberately, “we have a diamond, haven’t we? And, having a diamond, why the devil are we complaining about a lack of funds?”
“Quite so!” said Aramis.
“Good man, Porthos!” Athos approved. “That really is a fine idea!”
“We have a diamond,” Porthos repeated, preening himself on the compliment Athos had paid him. “Therefore, let us sell it!”
“But it is the Queen’s—”
“All the more reason to sell it, D’Artagnan,” Athos interrupted. “Her Majesty is saving the life of her lover, Lord Buckingham, which is as it should be. But by the same reasoning, Her Majesty is morally bound to save us, her friends. Sell the diamond, I say. Porthos has already expressed himself cogently on the subject; what says Monsieur l’Abbé?”
Aramis blushed.
“My own feeling,” he said slowly and deliberately, “is that since the ring is not the gift of a mistress, and hence not a talisman of love, D’Artagnan would be justified in selling it!”
“My friend, you speak like theology incarnate. So your advice is—”
“—to sell the diamond.”
“Sell it we shall,” cried D’Artagnan gaily, “and let us drop the matter.”
The rebels continued to fire from the bastion but our friends were out of reach; the shooting was but a token gesture by disappointed marksmen seeking to ease their consciences.
“God’s truth, it was high time Porthos conceived this idea,” Athos concluded, “for here we are at camp again. Accordingly, gentlemen, not one word of this matter to anyone. Remember, we are being observed. Here come our friends to meet us. They will probably bear us back in triumph shoulder-high.”
And so it was. The entire camp was agog; more than two thousand spectators had been watching every move in this exploit as avidly as though it were a rousing drama produced for their entertainment. How indeed could they suspect that this bravado offered the only means whereby our friends could hold a council of war which turned into a battle royal? Cheers of “Vivent les Mousquetaires!” and huzzahs of “Vivent les Gardes!” rose on every side.
Monsieur de Busigny was the first to reach Athos and wring his hand. Jubilantly he admitted he had lost the wager. Close on his heels, the dragoon and the Swiss guardsman offered their awed congratulations, followed by a host of soldiery who did likewise, amid embraces, handclasps, felicitations, benedictions and endless laughter at the expense of the men of La Rochelle. So great was the