The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [56]
“They have gagged her, they are going to drag her away.” D’Artagnan rose to his feet as though mechanically propelled by a spring. “My sword? Good, here it is! Planchet!”
“Monsieur?”
“Go fetch Athos, Porthos and Aramis. One of the three will surely be at home. Tell them to come here at once, fully armed. Tell them to run. Oh, I remember, Athos is at the Hôtel de Tréville.”
“But where are you going, Monsieur?”
“I’m going down through the window, it’s quicker. You put back the boards, sweep the floor, go out by the front door and off to where I told you.”
“Oh, Monsieur, Monsieur, you are going to get killed.”
“Hush, idiot!” said D’Artagnan. Vaulting over the windowsill, he clung to it for a moment, then dropped without mishap to the ground which fortunately was no very great distance. A second later, he was knocking at the street door, murmuring as he did so:
“It’s my turn to get caught in the mousetrap, but God help the cats that pounce on a mouse like me.”
The sound of his knock brought the tumult within to an abrupt halt; steps were heard approaching, the door opened and D’Artagnan, sword drawn, rushed into Monsieur Bonacieux’s apartment. This door clicked shut upon him.
Immediately the whole neighborhood heard loud cries, a stamping of many feet, a clash of swords, and a prolonged smashing of furniture. Those who, surprised at this bedlam, went to their windows to ascertain its cause, were rewarded by seeing the street door flung open again and four black-clad men emerging. These did not walk or run, they actually flew out like so many frightened crows, strewing furniture and ground with feathers from their wings or, in other words, patches of their clothes and tatters from their cloaks.
D’Artagnan emerged the victor without much effort, for only one of the officers was armed and he defended himself only for form’s sake. True, the three others attempted to fell the young man with chairs, stools and crockery, but two or three scratches from the Gascon’s blade terrified them. A scant ten minutes sufficed to put them to rout, leaving D’Artagnan undisputed master of the field of battle.
Such neighbors as had opened their windows with the habitual phlegm of Parisians in these times of riot and perpetual brawls, now closed them quite as phlegmatically. Seeing the four men in black disappear, they knew instinctively that for the moment at least the fun was over. Besides it was growing late and in those days, as today, early to bed was the watchword in the Luxembourg quarter.
Left alone with Madame Bonacieux, D’Artagnan turned toward where the poor woman lay back, deep in an armchair, half-conscious. One swift glance revealed a charming woman of twenty-five or twenty-six, with dark hair, blue eyes and a slightly retroussé nose, admirable teeth and a complexion marbled with rose and opal. There however ended whatever resemblance she bore to a lady of rank: her hands were white but without delicacy, her feet did not bespeak your lady of quality. Happily D’Artagnan was not yet acquainted with such niceties of social distinction.
While he was surveying Madame Bonacieux and had, as we have said, reached her feet, he noticed a fine cambric handkerchief lying on the floor. True to habit, he picked it up. In one corner he recognized the same crest he had seen on the handkerchief which had almost caused Aramis to cut his throat.
Ever since that occasion D’Artagnan looked askance at handkerchiefs with crests on them, so without a word he put this one back into Madame Bonacieux’s pocket.
At that moment, Madame Bonacieux recovered her senses. Opening her eyes, she cast a glance of terror about her, then realized that the apartment was empty and that she was alone with her liberator. Smiling, she stretched out her hands to him—and Madame Bonacieux had the sweetest smile in all the world!
“Ah, Monsieur, you saved me! Pray let me thank you—”
“Madame, you owe me no thanks. I did what any gentleman would have done in my place.”
“Oh, but I do owe you