The Three Musketeers (Translated by Richard Pevear) - Alexandre Dumas [230]
“Why,” Athos said casually, “she will probably write to the cardinal that a damned musketeer by the name of Athos got her safe conduct away from her. She will advise him in the same letter to get rid of him and of his two friends, Porthos and Aramis, along with him. The cardinal will recall that those are the same men he met on the road. Then, one fine morning, he’ll have d’Artagnan arrested, and, so that he won’t be bored all alone, he’ll send us to keep him company in the Bastille.”
“Really now!” said Porthos. “It seems to me you’re making some sorry jokes there, my dear.”
“I’m not joking,” replied Athos.
“Do you know,” said Porthos, “that to wring that damned Milady’s neck would be less of a sin than to wring the necks of these poor devils of Huguenots, who have never committed any other crime than singing psalms in French that we sing in Latin?”
“What says the abbé?” Athos asked calmly.
“I say that I’m of Porthos’s opinion,” replied Aramis.
“And so am I!” said d’Artagnan.
“Luckily, she’s far away,” observed Porthos, “for I confess she’d trouble me greatly here.”
“She troubles me as much in England as in France,” said Athos.
“She troubles me wherever she is,” d’Artagnan continued.
“But since you had her,” said Porthos, “why didn’t we drown her, strangle her, hang her? It’s only the dead who don’t come back.”
“Do you think so, Porthos?” replied the musketeer, with a gloomy smile that d’Artagnan alone understood.
“I’ve got an idea,” said d’Artagnan.
“Let’s have it,” said the musketeers.
“To arms!” cried Grimaud.
The young men got up quickly and ran for their guns.
This time a small troop of some twenty or twenty-five men was coming; but these were no longer workers, they were garrison soldiers.
“How about returning to camp?” said Porthos. “It strikes me as an unequal match.”
“Impossible for three reasons,” replied Athos. “First, we haven’t finished lunch; second, we still have important things to say; third, there are another ten minutes before the hour is up.”
“Listen,” said Aramis, “we still have to draw up a plan of battle.”
“It’s quite simple,” replied Athos. “As soon as the enemy is within musket range, we open fire. If he keeps on coming, we fire again. If what’s left of the troop still wants to mount an assault, we let the besiegers get as far as the ditch, and then we push over that section of wall, which is holding up only by a miracle of equilibrium, onto their heads.”
“Bravo!” cried Porthos. “Decidedly, Athos, you are a born general, and the cardinal, who thinks he’s a great man of war, is nothing in comparison.”
“Gentlemen,” said Athos, “no duplication of effort, please. Each of you aim at his own man.”
“I’ve got mine,” said d’Artagnan.
“And I mine,” said Porthos.
“Idem,” said Aramis.
“Fire!” said Athos.
The four shots made a single bang, and four men fell.
The drum began beating at once, and the little troop rushed to the charge.
Then the shots succeeded each other without regularity, but always with the same accuracy. However, as if they knew the numerical weakness of the friends, the Rochelois kept advancing at a run.
With three more shots, two men fell; yet the advance of those who remained standing was not slowed.
On reaching the bastion, the enemy still numbered twelve or fifteen. A last volley greeted them but did not stop them: they leaped into the ditch and prepared to scale the breach.
“Come, my friends,” said Athos, “let’s finish them off with one blow. To the wall! To the wall!”
And the four friends, backed up by Grimaud, set about pushing with their gun barrels at an enormous section of wall, which leaned over as if the wind was pushing it, and, breaking loose from its base, fell with a horrible noise into the ditch. Then a great cry was heard, a cloud of dust rose into the sky, and all was over.
“Have we crushed every last one of them?” asked Athos.
“By heaven, it looks that way to me,” said d’Artagnan.
“No,” said Porthos, “there go two or three of them limping for safety.”
Indeed, three or four of the wretches, covered with mire and blood,