The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [254]
This unexpected circumstance revived Richelieu’s early anxiety and forced him reluctantly to cast his eyes once more across the Channel.
Such high concerns did not affect the Royal Army. Exempt from the worries of its sole and true chief, it led a carefree, joyous life. Provisions and money were plentiful; the various units vied in gaiety and daring. For the citizenry of La Rochelle, a prey to famine and apprehension, the days were interminable; for the Cardinal who had bottled up the city, they were long enough; for the troops, they were a prolonged holiday. To catch a spy and hang him they invented the wildest expeditions and carried them out over the dike or at sea with consummate phlegm.
At times His Eminence, in no wise distinguishable from the humblest trooper in his army, would ride the dunes. As he gazed over the harbor works which kept pace with his wishes so slowly, he marveled that engineers recruited all over France had been so laggard. Whenever he met any musketeers of Monsieur de Tréville’s company, he found himself wondering why none was Athos, Porthos, Aramis or D’Artagnan. Then, shaking his head, he would stare out to sea again, his thoughts on more vital matters. One day, oppressed by intolerable ennui, in despair of negotiating with the city and utterly without news from England, His Eminence set out for a stroll along the beach with no purpose other than to take the air: Cabusac and La Houdinière alone followed him. Pacing his horse at a slow walk, His Eminence stared out across the slate-gray sea. Presently his horse brought him to the top of a dune whence he sighted a hedge. From this height His Eminence espied, over the hedge, a group of men reclining in a valley of sand. A last faint light of premature dusk, rare in that season, enabled him to distinguish seven men reclining amid a circle of empty bottles.
(Need I say that the seven were four musketeers, poised to hear one of them read a letter he had just received. Need I add that the letter was so vital that they had tossed their cards and dice onto the drumhead? Must I explain how the other three, evidently lackeys, were engaged in opening a demijohn of Colliure wine?)
His Eminence was in extremely low spirits and when depressed he could not bear to see others happy. Psychologically, too, he fancied somewhat strangely that his melancholy created gaiety in others. Motioning to Cabusac and La Houdinière to halt, His Eminence dismounted and advanced on tiptoe toward these suspect merrymakers. The sand would deaden his footsteps, the hedge conceal his approach; he could doubtless overhear them without fear of detection. He had not taken ten steps before he recognized a rollicking Gascon accent; he knew the men were musketeers; undoubtedly here were the youth he had wondered about and the inseparable Athos, Porthos and Aramis.
He was therefore all the more eager to hear what they were saying. His eyes took on a strange air of expectancy and, catlike, His Eminence crept toward the hedge. Crouching behind it he caught only a few meaningless syllables when suddenly a loud cry made him start. The musketeers looked up.
“Attention gentlemen!” Grimaud bawled.
“You spoke, scoundrel?” Athos cried incredulously. He raised himself on one elbow, brushed the sand off his shoulder with his free hand and stared at Grimaud, his eyes flashing. “You dared speak!”
Awed, Grimaud said no more. But he pointed toward the hedge. In a trice the musketeers rose to their feet, stood at attention and saluted with impeccable smartness. His Eminence seemed disgruntled.
“Well, gentlemen,” he observed sourly, “I notice