The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [245]
“Thank you, Monsieur, but I will never leave Monsieur d’Artagnan.” And, as he spoke, he slipped a note into his master’s hand.
D’Artagnan felt strongly prompted to embrace Planchet as he had embraced him on his departure. But he feared lest this mark of affection, bestowed upon a lackey in the open street, appear extraordinary to passers-by and he restrained himself.
“I have the answer,” he whispered to his friends.
“Good! Let us go home and read it.”
The note burned in his hand; he tried to quicken their steps but Athos took his arm and forced him to walk slowly. At last they reached the tent, lit a lamp and, as Planchet stood guard at the entrance, D’Artagnan broke the seal and, with trembling hand, opened the long-awaited letter. It contained a half-line traced in eminently British handwriting and utterly Spartan in its laconism:
Thank you, be easy.
D’Artagnan’s meagre stock of English sufficed to enable him to translate this. Athos then took the letter from D’Artagnan, set it over the lamp and did not relinquish it until it was reduced to ashes.
“Now, my lad,” Athos said, “you may claim your seven hundred livres. But you certainly ran no great risks with a note like that.”
“I am not to blame, Monsieur, for having tried every which way to make it short.”
“Well, tell us all about it,” D’Artagnan cried.
“Good Lord, Monsieur, it’s a long story.”
“You are right, Planchet,” Athos declared. “Besides the tattoo has sounded and we must not keep this light on.”
“So be it,” D’Artagnan conceded. “Go to bed, Planchet, and sleep well.”
“God’s truth, Monsieur, it will be my first sound sleep in sixteen days.”
“And mine!” said D’Artagnan.
“Mine too!” said Porthos.
“Same here!” said Aramis.
“And, truth to tell, mine too!” said Athos.
XLIX
FATALITY
Meanwhile Milady, drunk with passion and roaring on deck like a captive lioness, was sorely tempted to dive overboard and swim ashore. She could not rid her mind of the idea that she had been insulted by D’Artagnan, that she had been threatened by Athos and that she was leaving France without being revenged on them. Soon this thought became a veritable obsession and so intolerable that she implored the Captain to put her ashore no matter how terrible the risks to herself. But the Captain was eager to escape from his difficult position—he was hemmed in between French and English cruisers like a bat of the fable between the rats and the birds. It was imperative that he hasten to reach England; he therefore refused obstinately to heed what he considered to be a woman’s whim. But since his fair passenger had been particularly recommended by the Cardinal, he promised to land her, the sea and the French permitting, at some port in Brittany, say Lorient or Brest. Unfortunately the wind continued contrary and the sea rough, so they tacked, beating to windward. Nine days after leaving the Charente, Milady, pale from disappointment and vexation, saw only the blue coast of Finistère heave into sight.
She calculated that she would require at least three days to cross this corner of France and to return to the Cardinal; an additional day for landing would make it four, four days. Add these four days to the nine past and it would mean thirteen days lost—days during which so many important events might occur in London. She also reflected that the Cardinal, furious at her return, would be more likely to listen to complaints against her than to her complaints against others. Abandoning all efforts to influence the Captain, she allowed the vessel to pass Lorient and Brest without a word; he, for his part, was careful not to remind her of her request. Milady therefore continued her voyage and on the very day Planchet embarked at Portsmouth for France the fair messenger of His Eminence entered that harbor triumphantly.
The whole town was in a state of extraordinary excitement. Four large vessels, recently built,