Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas (early readers .TXT) 📖
- Author: Alexandre Dumas
Book online «The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas (early readers .TXT) 📖». Author Alexandre Dumas
Then, casting a glance on the handsome young man, who was scarcely twenty-five years of age, and whom he was leaving in his gore, deprived of sense and perhaps dead, he gave a sigh for that unaccountable destiny which leads men to destroy each other for the interests of people who are strangers to them and who often do not even know that they exist. But he was soon aroused from these reflections by Lubin, who uttered loud cries and screamed for help with all his might.
Planchet grasped him by the throat, and pressed as hard as he could. “Monsieur,” said he, “as long as I hold him in this manner, he can’t cry, I’ll be bound; but as soon as I let go he will howl again. I know him for a Norman, and Normans are obstinate.”
In fact, tightly held as he was, Lubin endeavored still to cry out.
“Stay!” said d’Artagnan; and taking out his handkerchief, he gagged him.
“Now,” said Planchet, “let us bind him to a tree.”
This being properly done, they drew the Comte de Wardes close to his servant; and as night was approaching, and as the wounded man and the bound man were at some little distance within the wood, it was evident they were likely to remain there till the next day.
“And now,” said d’Artagnan, “to the Governor’s.”
“But you are wounded, it seems,” said Planchet.
“Oh, that’s nothing! Let us attend to what is more pressing first, and then we will attend to my wound; besides, it does not seem very dangerous.”
And they both set forward as fast as they could toward the country house of the worthy functionary.
The Comte de Wardes was announced, and d’Artagnan was introduced.
“You have an order signed by the cardinal?” said the governor.
“Yes, monsieur,” replied d’Artagnan; “here it is.”
“Ah, ah! It is quite regular and explicit,” said the governor.
“Most likely,” said d’Artagnan; “I am one of his most faithful servants.”
“It appears that his Eminence is anxious to prevent someone from crossing to England?”
“Yes; a certain d’Artagnan, a Béarnese gentleman who left Paris in company with three of his friends, with the intention of going to London.”
“Do you know him personally?” asked the governor.
“Whom?”
“This d’Artagnan.”
“Perfectly well.”
“Describe him to me, then.”
“Nothing more easy.”
And d’Artagnan gave, feature for feature, a description of the Comte de Wardes.
“Is he accompanied?”
“Yes; by a lackey named Lubin.”
“We will keep a sharp lookout for them; and if we lay hands on them his Eminence may be assured they will be reconducted to Paris under a good escort.”
“And by doing so, Monsieur the Governor,” said d’Artagnan, “you will deserve well of the cardinal.”
“Shall you see him on your return, Monsieur Count?”
“Without a doubt.”
“Tell him, I beg you, that I am his humble servant.”
“I will not fail.”
Delighted with this assurance the governor countersigned the passport and delivered it to d’Artagnan. D’Artagnan lost no time in useless compliments. He thanked the governor, bowed, and departed. Once outside, he and Planchet set off as fast as they could; and by making a long detour avoided the wood and reentered the city by another gate.
The vessel was quite ready to sail, and the captain was waiting on the wharf. “Well?” said he, on perceiving d’Artagnan.
“Here is my pass countersigned,” said the latter.
“And that other gentleman?
“He will not go today,” said d’Artagnan; “but here, I’ll pay you for us two.”
“In that case let us go,” said the shipmaster.
“Let us go,” repeated d’Artagnan.
He leaped with Planchet into the boat, and five minutes after they were on board. It was time; for they had scarcely sailed half a league, when d’Artagnan saw a flash and heard a detonation. It was the cannon which announced the closing of the port.
He had now leisure to look to his wound. Fortunately, as d’Artagnan had thought, it was not dangerous. The point of the sword had touched a rib, and glanced along the bone. Still further, his shirt had stuck to the wound, and he had lost only a few drops of blood.
D’Artagnan was worn out with fatigue. A mattress was laid upon the deck for him. He threw himself upon it, and fell asleep.
On the morrow, at break of day, they were still three or four leagues from the coast of England. The breeze had been so light all night, they had made but little progress. At ten o’clock the vessel cast anchor in the harbor of Dover, and at half past ten d’Artagnan placed his foot on English land, crying, “Here I am at last!”
But that was not all; they must get to London. In England the post was well served. D’Artagnan and Planchet took each a post horse, and a postillion rode before them. In a few hours they were in the capital.
D’Artagnan did not know London; he did not know a word of English; but he wrote the name of Buckingham on a piece of paper, and everyone pointed out to him the way to the duke’s hôtel.
The duke was at Windsor hunting with the king. D’Artagnan inquired for the confidential valet of the duke, who, having accompanied him in all his voyages, spoke French perfectly well; he told him that he came from Paris on an affair of life and death, and that he must speak with his master instantly.
The confidence with which d’Artagnan spoke convinced Patrick, which was the name of this minister of the minister. He ordered two horses to be saddled, and himself went as guide to the young Guardsman. As for Planchet, he had been lifted from his horse as stiff as a rush; the poor lad’s strength was almost exhausted. D’Artagnan seemed iron.
On their arrival at the castle they learned that Buckingham and the king were hawking in the marshes two or three leagues away. In twenty minutes they were on the spot named. Patrick soon caught the sound of his master’s voice calling his falcon.
“Whom must I announce to my Lord Duke?” asked Patrick.
“The young man who one evening sought a quarrel with him on the Pont Neuf, opposite the Samaritaine.”
“A singular introduction!”
“You will find that it is as good as another.”
Patrick galloped off, reached the duke, and announced to him in the terms directed that a messenger awaited him.
Buckingham at once remembered the circumstance, and suspecting that something was going on in France of which it was necessary he should be informed, he only took the time to inquire where the messenger was, and recognizing from afar the uniform of the Guards, he put his horse into a gallop, and rode straight up to d’Artagnan. Patrick discreetly kept in the background.
“No misfortune has happened to the queen?” cried Buckingham, the instant he came up, throwing all his fear and love into the question.
“I believe not; nevertheless I believe she runs some great peril from which your Grace alone can extricate her.”
“I!” cried Buckingham. “What is it? I should be too happy to be of any service to her. Speak, speak!”
“Take this letter,” said d’Artagnan.
“This letter! From whom comes this letter?”
“From her Majesty, as I think.”
“From her Majesty!” said Buckingham, becoming so pale that d’Artagnan feared he would faint as he broke the seal.
“What is this rent?” said he, showing d’Artagnan a place where it had been pierced through.
“Ah,” said d’Artagnan, “I did not see that; it was the sword of the Comte de Wardes which made that hole, when he gave me a good thrust in the breast.”
“You are wounded?” asked Buckingham, as he opened the letter.
“Oh, nothing but a scratch,” said d’Artagnan.
“Just heaven, what have I read?” cried the duke. “Patrick, remain here, or rather join the king, wherever he may be, and tell his Majesty that I humbly beg him to excuse me, but an affair of the greatest importance recalls me to London. Come, monsieur, come!” and both set off towards the capital at full gallop.
THE COUNTESS DE WINTER
As they rode along, the duke endeavored to draw from d’Artagnan, not all that had happened, but what d’Artagnan himself knew. By adding all that he heard from the mouth of the young man to his own remembrances, he was enabled to form a pretty exact idea of a position of the seriousness of which, for the rest, the queen’s letter, short but explicit, gave him the clue. But that which astonished him most was that the cardinal, so deeply interested in preventing this young man from setting his foot in England, had not succeeded in arresting him on the road. It was then, upon the manifestation of this astonishment, that d’Artagnan related to him the precaution taken, and how, thanks to the devotion of his three friends, whom he had left scattered and bleeding on the road, he had succeeded in coming off with a single sword thrust, which had pierced the queen’s letter and for which he had repaid M. de Wardes with such terrible coin. While he was listening to this recital, delivered with the greatest simplicity, the duke looked from time to time at the young man with astonishment, as if he could not comprehend how so much prudence, courage, and devotedness could be allied with a countenance which indicated not more than twenty years.
The horses went like the wind, and in a few minutes they were at the gates of London. D’Artagnan imagined that on arriving in town the duke would slacken his pace, but it was not so. He kept on his way at the same rate, heedless about upsetting those whom he met on the road. In fact, in crossing the city two or three accidents of this kind happened; but Buckingham did not even turn his head to see what became of those he had knocked down. D’Artagnan followed him amid cries which strongly resembled curses.
On entering the court of his hôtel, Buckingham sprang from his horse, and without thinking what became of the animal, threw the bridle on his neck, and sprang toward the vestibule. D’Artagnan did the same, with a little more concern, however, for the noble creatures, whose merits he fully appreciated; but he had the satisfaction of seeing three or four grooms run from the kitchens and the stables, and busy themselves with the steeds.
The duke walked so fast that d’Artagnan had some trouble in keeping up with him. He passed through several apartments, of an elegance of which even the greatest nobles of France had not even an idea, and arrived at length in a bedchamber which was at once a miracle of taste and of richness. In the alcove of this chamber was a door concealed in the tapestry which the duke opened with a little gold key which he wore suspended from his neck by a chain of the same metal. With discretion d’Artagnan remained behind; but at the moment when Buckingham crossed the threshold, he turned round, and seeing the hesitation of the young man, “Come in!” cried he, “and if you have the good fortune to be admitted to her Majesty’s presence, tell her what you have seen.”
Encouraged by this invitation, d’Artagnan followed the duke, who closed the door after them. The two found themselves in a small chapel covered with a tapestry of Persian silk worked with gold, and brilliantly lighted with a vast number of candles. Over a species of altar, and beneath a canopy of blue velvet, surmounted by white and red plumes, was a full-length portrait of Anne of Austria, so perfect in its resemblance that d’Artagnan uttered a cry of surprise on beholding it. One might believe the queen was about to speak. On the altar, and beneath the portrait, was the casket containing the diamond studs.
The duke approached the altar, knelt as a priest might have done before a crucifix, and opened the casket. “There,” said he, drawing from the casket a large bow of blue ribbon all sparkling with diamonds, “there are the precious studs which I have taken an oath should be buried with me. The queen gave them to me, the queen requires them again. Her will be done, like that of God, in all things.”
Then, he began to kiss, one after the other, those dear studs with which he was about to part. All at once he uttered a terrible cry.
“What is the matter?” exclaimed d’Artagnan, anxiously; “what has happened to you, my Lord?”
“All is lost!” cried Buckingham, becoming as pale as a corpse; “two of the studs are wanting, there are only ten.”
“Can you have lost them, my Lord, or do you think they have been stolen?”
“They have been stolen,” replied the duke,
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