D’Artagnan descended by the same staircase at which he had entered.
When he reached Athos’s residence, Aramis and Porthos inquired as to the cause of this strange interview; but D’

Artagnan confined himself to telling them that Richelieu had sent for him to propose to him to enter his guards

with the rank of ensign, and that he had refused.
“And you were right,” cried Aramis and Porthos, with one voice.
Athos fell into a deep reverie and made no remark. But when they were alone,
“You have done your duty, D’Artagnan,” said Athos; “but yet perhaps you have done wrong.”
D’Artagnan sighed deeply, for this voice responded to a secret voice of his soul, which told him that great

misfortunes were awaiting him.
The whole of the next day was spent in preparations for departure. D’Artagnan went to take leave of M. de

Tréville. At that time it was still believed that the separation of the musketeers and the guards would be only

temporary, as the king was holding his parliament that very day, and proposed to set out the day after. M. de

Tréville contented himself with asking D’Artagnan if he could do anything for him, but D’Artagnan answered that

he was supplied with all he wanted.
That night all the comrades of the company of M. des Essarts’s guards and of the company of M. de Tréville’s

musketeers who had struck up a mutual friendship came together. They were parting to meet again when it should

please God, and if it should please God. The night, therefore, was a somewhat riotous one, as may be imagined, for

in such cases extreme preoccupation can be combated only by extreme carelessness.
At the first sound of the morning trumpet the friends separated, the musketeers hastening to M. de Tréville’s h?

tel, the guards to M. des Essarts’s. Each of the captains then led his company to the Louvre, where the king

reviewed them.
The review over, the guards set forward alone on their march, the musketeers waiting for the king.
Meantime, D’Artagnan was marching off with his company. On arriving at the Faubourg St. Antoine, he turned round

to look gaily at the Bastille; but as he looked at the Bastille alone he did not observe milady, who, mounted upon

a light bay horse, was pointing him out to two ill-looking men who immediately came close up to the ranks to take

notice of him. To a questioning look milady signified that it was he. Then, certain that there could no longer be

any mistake in the execution of her orders, she gave spurs to her horse and disappeared.
The two men then followed the company, and on leaving the Faubourg St. Antoine mounted two horses properly

equipped, which a servant out of livery was holding in expectation of their coming.

Chapter 36 - The Siege of Rochelle
The siege of Rochelle was one of the great political events of Louis XIII’s reign, and one of the cardinal’s

great military enterprises. It is therefore interesting and even necessary that we should say a few words about

it; moreover, many details of this siege are connected in too important a manner with the story we have undertaken

to relate to allow us to pass it over in silence.
The cardinal’s political views when he undertook this siege were considerable. Let us unfold them first, and then

we will pass on to his private views, which perhaps, had not less influence on his Eminence than the former.
Of the important cities given up by Henry IV to the Huguenots as places of safety there remained only Rochelle. It

became necessary, therefore, to destroy this last bulwark of Calvinism—a dangerous leaven, with which the

ferments of civil revolt and foreign war were constantly mingling.
Rochelle, which had derived a new importance from the ruin of the other Calvinist cities, was then the focus of

dissensions and ambitions. Moreover, its port was the last gateway in the kingdom of France open to the English,

and by closing it against England the cardinal completed the work of Joan of Arc and the Duc de Guise.
The king was to follow as soon as his Bed of Justice was held. But on rising from his Bed of Justice on the 28th

of June, he felt himself attacked by fever. He was, notwithstanding, anxious to set out; but his illness becoming

more serious, he was obliged to stop at Villeroi.
Now, whenever the king stopped the musketeers stopped. The consequence was that D’Artagnan, who was still in the

guards, found himself, for the time at least, separated from his good friends Athos, Aramis and Porthos.
He arrived, however, without accident in the camp established before Rochelle toward the 10th of September, 1627.
Everything was unchanged. The Duke of Buckingham and his English, masters of the Isle of Ré, were still besieging,

but unsuccessfully, the citadel of St. Martin and the fort of La Prée; and hostilities with Rochelle had begun,

two or three days before, about a fort which the Duc d’Angoulême had just built near the city.
The guards, under M. des Essarts’s command, took up their quarters at the Minimes.
But, as we know, D’Artagnan, preoccupied by the ambition of passing into the musketeers, had formed but few

friendships among his comrades. He found himself isolated, and given over to his own reflections.
One day D’Artagnan was walking alone along a pretty little road leading from the camp to the village of Angoutin,

when, in the last ray of the setting sun, he thought he saw a musket-barrel glittering behind a hedge.
He determined to direct his course as far away from it as he could, when, behind a rock on the opposite side of

the road, he perceived the muzzle of another musket-barrel.
It was evidently an ambuscade.
The young man cast a glance at the first musket, and with a certain degree of anxiety saw that it was levelled in

his direction; but as soon as he perceived that the mouth of the barrel was motionless, he threw himself flat on

the ground. At the same instant the gun was fired, and he heard a ball whistle over his head.
No time was to be lost. D’Artagnan sprang up with a bound, and at the same instant the ball from the other musket

tore up the stones on the very place on the road where he had thrown himself face to the ground.
And immediately taking to his heels, he ran towards the camp, with the swiftness of the young men of his country,

so renowned for their agility; but great as was his speed, the one who had first fired, having had time to reload,

fired a second shot, so well aimed this time that the bullet struck his hat and carried it ten paces from him.
However, as D’Artagnan had no other hat, he picked up this as he ran, and arrived at his quarters, very pale and

quite out of breath. He sat down without saying a word to anybody, and began to reflect.
D’Artagnan took his hat, examined the hole made by the bullet, and shook his head. The ball was not a musket-

ball; it was an arque-buse-ball. The accuracy of the aim had first given him the idea that a particular kind of

weapon had been employed. It could not, then, be a military ambuscade, as the ball was not of the regulation

calibre.

It might be a kind remembrance of the cardinal’s.
But D’Artagnan shook his head. For people against whom he had only to stretch out his hand, his Eminence had

rarely recourse to such means.
It might be a vengeance of milady’s.
That was the most probable.
At nine o’clock the next morning the drums beat the salute. The Duc d’Orléans was inspecting the posts. The

guards ran to their arms, and D’Artagnan took his place in the midst of his comrades.
Monsieur passed along the front of the line. Then all the superior officers approached him to pay him their

compliments, M. des Essarts, captain of the guards, among the rest.
It seems the Rochellais had made a sortie during the night, and had retaken a bastion which the royal army had

gained possession of two days before; the point was to ascertain, by reconnoitring, how the enemy guarded this

bastion.
In fact, at the end of a few minutes, Monsieur raised his voice and said,
“I want for this mission three of four volunteers, led by a trusty man.”
“As to the trusty man, I have him at hand, monseigneur,” said M. des Essarts, pointing to D’Artagnan; “and as

to the four or five volunteers, monseigneur has but to make his intentions known, and the men will not be wanting.

”
“Four gallant men who will risk being killed with me!” said D’Artagnan, raising his sword.
Two of his comrades of the guards immediately sprang forward, and two soldiers having joined them, the number was

deemed sufficient; so D’Artagnan declined all others, as he was unwilling to injure the chances of those who came

forward first.
It was not known whether, after taking the bastion, the Rochellais had evacuated it or left a garrison in it; so

the object was to examine the place near enough to ascertain.
D’Artagnan set out with his four companions, and followed the trench.
Screened by the revetment, they came within a hundred paces of the bastion. There, on turning round, D’Artagnan

perceived that the two soldiers had disappeared.
He thought that they had stayed behind from fear, and so he continued to advance.
At the turning of the counterscarp they found themselves within about sixty paces of the bastion.
No one was to be seen, and the bastion seemed abandoned.
The three men of the forlorn hope were deliberating whether to proceed any farther, when suddenly a circle of

smoke enveloped the stone giant, and a dozen balls came whistling round D’Artagnan and his two companions.
They knew what they wanted to know: the bastion was guarded. A longer stay in this dangerous spot would therefore

have been uselessly imprudent. D’Artagnan and his two companions turned their backs, and beat a retreat like a

flight.
On arriving at the angle of the trench which was to serve them as a rampart, one of the guardsmen fell; a ball had

passed through his breast. The other, who was safe and sound, kept on his way to camp.
D’Artagnan was not willing to abandon his companion thus, and stooped down to raise him and assist him in

regaining the lines. But at this moment two shots were fired. One ball hit the head of the already wounded

guardsman, and the other flattened itself against a rock, after passing within two inches of D’Artagnan.
The young man turned quickly round, for this attack could not come from the bastion, which was masked by the angle

of the trench. The idea of the two soldiers who had abandoned him occurred to his mind, and reminded him of the

assassins of two evenings before. So he resolved this time to satisfy himself on this point, and fell on his

comrade’s body as though he were dead.
He instantly saw two heads appearing above an abandoned work, within thirty paces of him; they were the heads of

his two soldiers.
But as he might be merely wounded and might accuse them of their crime, they came up to him with the purpose of

making sure of him. Fortunately, deceived by D’Artagnan’s trick, they neglected to reload their guns.
When they were within ten paces of him, D’Artagnan, who in falling had taken great care not to let go his sword,

suddenly got up, and with one leap came upon them.
The assassins realized that if they fled toward the camp without killing their man they should be accused by him;

therefore their first idea was to desert to the enemy. One of them took his gun by the barrel, and used it as he

would a club. He aimed a terrible blow at D’Artagnan, who dodged it by springing on one side; but by this

movement he left free passage to the bandit, who at once darted off toward the bastion. As the Rochellais who

guarded the bastion were ignorant of the intentions of the man they saw coming toward them, they fired at him, and

he fell, struck by a ball which broke his shoulder.
Meantime D’Artagnan had thrown himself on the other soldier, attacking him with his sword. The struggle was not

long. The wretch had nothing to defend himself with but his discharged arquebuse. The guardsman’s sword slipped

down the barrel of the now useless weapon, and pierced the thigh of the assassin, who fell.

D’Artagnan immediately placed the point of the weapon at his throat.
“Wretch,” cried D’Artagnan, “see here, speak quickly! Who employed you to assassinate me?”
“A woman whom I don’t know, but who is called milady.”
“But if you don’t know this woman, how do you know her name?”
“My comrade knew her and called her so. She made the bargain with him, and not with me; he has even now in his

pocket a letter from that person, which must be of great importance to you, judging by what I have heard.”
“But how are you concerned in this ambuscade?”
“He proposed to me to undertake it with him, and I agreed.”
“And how much did she give you for this fine enterprise?”
“A hundred louis.”
“Well, good enough!” said the young man, laughing; “she thinks I am worth something. A hundred louis! Well,

that was a temptation for two miserable creatures like you. So I understand you accepted it, and I grant you my

pardon, but on one condition.”
“What is that?” said the soldier, uneasy at perceiving that all was not over.
“That you go and fetch me the letter your comrade has in his pocket.”
“Why,” cried the bandit, “that is only another way of killing me. How can you wish me to go and fetch that

letter under the fire from the bastion?”
Terror was so strongly painted on his face, covered with a cold sweat, that D’Artagnan took pity on him, and

casting on him a look of contempt,
“Well,” said he, “I will show you the difference between a man of true courage and a coward, as you are. Stay,

I will go.”
And with a light step, an eye on the watch, observing the movements of the enemy and taking advantage of all the

aid afforded by the nature of the ground, D’Artagnan succeeded in reaching the second soldier.
There were two means of attaining his object—to search him on the spot, or to carry him away, making a buckler of

his body, and then search him in the trench.
D’Artagnan preferred the second means, and lifted the assassin on his shoulders at the very moment the enemy

fired.
A slight shock, the dull thud of three balls penetrating the flesh, a last cry, a convulsion of agony, proved to D

’Artagnan that the man who had just tried to assassinate him had saved his life.
D’Artagnan regained the trench, and threw the body down by the wounded man, who was as pale as death.
He instantly began the search. Among some unimportant papers he found the following letter, the one which he had

gone to get at the risk of his life:
“Since you have lost track of that woman, and she is now in safety in the convent, which you should never have

allowed her to reach, try, at least, not to miss the man. If you do, you know that my hand reaches far, and that

you shall repay me very dearly the hundred louis you have had of me.”
No signature. Nevertheless it was plain the letter came from milady. He consequently kept it as a piece of

evidence, and as he was in safety behind the angle of the trench, he began to question the wounded man. He

confessed that he had undertaken, with his comrade, the man just killed, to abduct a young woman about to leave

Paris by the gate of La Villette; but having stopped to drink at a saloon, they had missed the carriage by ten

minutes.
“But what were you to have done with the woman?” asked D’Artagnan, in great agitation.
“We were to have conveyed her to a h?tel in the Place Royale,” said the wounded man.
“Yes, yes,” murmured D’Artagnan; “that’s the place—milady’s own residence.”
Then the young man, shuddering, felt what a terrible thirst of vengeance impelled this woman to destroy him, as

well as those who loved him, and how well acquainted she must be with affairs of the court, since she had

discovered everything. Doubtless she owed this information to the cardinal.
But he also perceived, with a feeling of genuine joy, that the queen must have at last discovered the prison in

which poor Madame Bonacieux was expiating her devotion, and that she had freed her from that prison. And the

letter he had received from the young woman, and her passing along the Chaillot road like an apparition, were now

explained.

He turned to the wounded man, who had watched with intense anxiety all the varying expressions of his countenance,

and holding out his arm to him,
“Come,” said he; “I will not abandon you thus. Lean upon me, and let us return to camp.”
The guardsman who had returned at the first discharge had announced the death of his four companions. There was

therefore much astonishment and delight in the regiment when the young man was seen to come back safe and sound.
D’Artagnan explained the sword-wound of his companion by a sortie which he improvised. He told of the other

soldier’s death and the perils they had encountered. This recital was for him the occasion of a veritable

triumph. The whole army talked of this expedition for a day, and Monsieur sent him his compliments on it.

Chapter 37 - The Anjou Wine
D’Artagnan had become more tranquil. He felt only one uneasiness, and that was not hearing from his three

friends.
But one morning early in November everything was explained to him by this letter, dated from Villeroi:
“Monsieur D’Artagnan,—MM. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis after giving an entertainment at my house, and having a

very gay time, created such a disturbance that the provost of the castle, a very rigid man, has had them confined

for some days; but I fulfil the order they have given me by forwarding to you a dozen bottles of my Anjou wine,

with which they are much taken. They are desirous that you should drink to their health in their favourite wine. I

have done so, and am, sir, with great respect, your very humble and obedient servant,
“Godeau, Steward of the Musketeers.”
“That’s good!” cried D’Artagnan; “they think of me in their pleasures, as I thought of them in my troubles.

Well, I will certainly drink to their health with all my heart, but I will not drink alone.”
And D’Artagnan went after two guardsmen with whom he had formed greater intimacy than with the others, to invite

them to drink with him this delicious Anjou wine which had just been sent him from Villeroi.
One of the two guardsmen was engaged that evening, and the other for the next. So the meeting was fixed for the

day after that.
Planchet, very proud of being raised to the dignity of butler, thought he would get everything ready, like an

intelligent man; and with this object in mind called in the assistance of the lackey of one of his master’s

guests, named Fourreau, and the sham soldier who had tried to kill D’Artagnan, and who, belonging to no corps,

had been in D’Artagnan’s service, or rather Planchet’s, ever since D’Artagnan saved his life.
The hour of the banquet having come, the two guests arrived, took their places, and the dishes were served on the

table. Planchet waited, towel on arm; Fourreau uncorked the bottles, and Brisemont, as the convalescent was named,

carefully poured into glass decanters the wine, which seemed to be rather muddy after the joltings of the journey.

Brisemont poured the dregs into a glass, and D’Artagnan allowed him to drink it, for the poor devil had not as

yet much strength.
The guests, after having eaten their soup, were on the point of touching the first glass of wine to their lips,

when suddenly the cannon roared from Fort Louis and Fort Neuf. Instantly the guardsmen, imagining this to be

caused by some unexpected attack, either of the besieged or the English, sprang to their swords.
But scarcely were they out of the messroom when they learned the cause of the noise. Cries of “Hurrah for the

king! hurrah for the cardinal!” were resounding on every side, and drums were beating in all directions.
In fact, the king had made forced marches, and had just arrived with all his household and a reinforcement of ten

thousand troops. His musketeers rode in front of him and behind him. D’Artagnan, standing with his company drawn

up in line, saluted with an expressive gesture his friends, whom he followed with his eyes, and M. de Tréville,

who instantly recognized him.
The ceremony of reception over, the four friends were soon in one another’s arms.
“By jove!” cried D’Artagnan, “you could not have arrived more opportunely; the dinner cannot have had time to

cool.—Can it, gentlemen?” added the young man, turning to the two guardsmen, whom he introduced to his friends.
“Ah, ha!” said Porthos, “so it seems we were feasting!”
“Is there any drinkable wine in your shanty?” asked Athos.
“Well, by Jove! there is your own, my dear friend,” replied D’Artagnan.
“Our wine!” exclaimed Athos in astonishment.
“Yes, the wine you sent me.”
“We sent you wine?”
“Yes; you know what I mean—the wine from the slopes of Anjou.”
“Did you send this wine, Aramis?” said Athos.
“No; and you, Porthos?”
“No; and you, Athos?
“No!”
“Well, but if it was not you, it was your steward,” said D’Artagnan.
“Our steward!”
“Here is his letter,” said D’Artagnan, and he exhibited the note to his comrades.
“That is not his writing!” said Athos; “I know it. Before we left Villeroi I settled the accounts of our crowd.

“It is a forged letter,” said Porthos. “We have not been under arrest.”
D’Artagnan rushed towards the messroom, the three musketeers and the two guards following him.
The first object that met D’Artagnan’s eyes on entering the diningroom was Brisemont stretched on the ground and

rolling in horrible convulsions.
Planchet and Fourreau, pale as death, were trying to aid him; but it was plain that all assistance was useless—

all the features of the dying man were distorted with the death struggle.
“Ah!” cried he, perceiving D’Artagnan—“ah! it is frightful! You pretend to pardon me, and you poison me!”
“I swear to you on the Gospel,” said D’Artagnan, throwing himself down by the dying man, “that I didn’t know

the wine was poisoned, and I was going to drink of it as you did.”
“I do not believe you,” cried the soldier.
And he expired under redoubled torments.
“Oh, my friends,” said D’Artagnan, “you come once more to save my life—not only mine, but the lives of these

gentlemen.—Gentlemen,” continued he, addressing the guardsmen, “I request you say nothing about this adventure.

Great personages may have had a hand in what you have seen, and if talked about, the evil would only recoil on us.

”
“Ah, sir,” stammered Planchet, more dead than alive—“ah, sir, what a narrow escape I have had!”
“Gentlemen,” said D’Artagnan, addressing the guardsmen, “you will easily see that such a feast can only be

very melancholy after what has just taken place; so I beg you to accept my excuses, and put off the party till

another day.”
The two guardsmen courteously accepted D’Artagnan’s excuses, and perceiving that the four friends desired to be

alone, they retired.
When the young guardsman and the three musketeers were without witnesses, they looked at each other with an air

which plainly expressed that each of them realized the seriousness of the situation.
“In the first place,” said Athos, “let us leave this room; a dead man, especially the victim of a violent

death, is not agreeable company.”
The manager gave them another room, and served them with boiled eggs, while Athos went himself to draw water at

the spring. In a few words Porthos and Aramis were informed of all that had occurred.
“Well,” said D’Artagnan to Athos, “you see, dear friend, that it is war to the death!”
“Bah!” said Athos; “God has preserved us hitherto; God will preserve us still.”
“Yes, He has. Besides, we are men; and all things considered, it is our lot to risk our lives. But she—” added

D’Artagnan in an undertone.
“She? Who?” asked Athos.
“Constance.”
“Madame Bonacieux! Ah, that’s true!” Said Athos. “My poor friend, I had forgotten.”
“Well,” said Aramis, “but have you not learned by the letter you found on the dead assassin that she is in a

convent? One may be very comfortable in a convent; and as soon as the siege of Rochelle is over, I promise you, I

take upon myself to get news of her.”
“You, Aramis!” cried the three friend. “How?”
“By the queen’s almoner, with whom I am very intimately acquainted.”
And with this assurance the four friends, having finished their modest repast, separated, promising to meet again

that evening. D’Artagnan returned to the Minimes, and the three musketeers repaired to the king’s quarters,

where they had to prepare their lodging.

Chapter 38 - The Tavern of the Red Dovecot
Meanwhile the king, who, although he had so recently arrived, was in such haste to face the enemy, and, with more

reason than the cardinal, shared his hatred for Buckingham, desired every disposition to be made, first to drive

the English from the Isle of Ré, and afterwards to press the siege of Rochelle.
As it is not our intention to write a journal of the siege, but, on the contrary, only to introduce such events of

it as are connected with the story we are telling, we will content ourselves with saying in a word or two that the

expedition succeeded, to the king’s great astonishment and the cardinal’s great glory. The English, driven back

foot by foot, beaten in every skirmish, and overwhelmed in the passage of the Isle of Loix, were obliged to re-

embark, leaving on the battlefield two thousand men, among whom were five colonels, three lieutenantcolonels, two

hundred and fifty captains, and twenty gentlemen of rank, four pieces of cannon, and sixty colours, which were

taken to Paris by Claude de St. Simon, and suspended with great pomp in the arches of Notre Dame.
The cardinal was left free to carry on the siege without having, at least for the moment, anything to fear from

the English.
All the responsibility rested on the cardinal, for one cannot be a despotic minister without responsibility;

therefore all the resources of his mighty genius were expended night and day engaged in listening to the slightest

rumour heard in any of the great kingdoms of Europe.
The cardinal, to whom his most inveterate detractors have never denied personal bravery, was not prevented,

however, from making excursions by night, sometimes to communicate to the Duc d’Angoulême important orders;

sometimes to go and confer with the king; sometimes to have an interview with a messenger whom he did not wish to

receive at his headquarters.
Now, one evening, when D’Artagnan, who was in the trenches, was not able to accompany them, Athos, Porthos, and

Aramis, mounted on their war-horses, enveloped in their military cloaks, with their hands on their pistol-butts,

were returning from an ale-house called the Red Dovecot, which Athos had discovered two days before on the road to

La Jarrie. They were riding along on the road leading to the camp, and quite on their guard, as we have stated,

for fear of an ambuscade, when, about a quarter of a league from the village of Boinar, they fancied they heard

the trampling of horses approaching them. All three instantly halted, closed in, and waited, occupying the middle

of the road. In an instant, just as the moon broke out from behind a cloud, they saw appear at a turn of the road

two horsemen, who, on perceiving them, stopped in their turn, seemingly to deliberate whether they should continue

their route or go back. Their hesitation aroused some suspicion in the three friends, and Athos, riding a few

paces in advance of the others, cried in a firm voice,
“Who goes there?”
“Who goes there, yourselves?” replied one of the two horsemen.
“That is not an answer,” replied Athos. “Who goes there? Answer, or else we charge.”
“Your name?” insisted the horseman, letting his cloak fall, and leaving his face uncovered.
“The cardinal!” cried the astonished musketeer.
“Your name?” cried his Eminence for the third time.
“Athos,” said the musketeer.
The cardinal made a sign to his attendant, who drew near to him.
“These three musketeers shall follow us,” said he in an undertone. “I do not wish it known I left the camp; and

by following us we shall be certain they will tell no one.”
“We are gentlemen, monseigneur,” said Athos; “put us on our honour, and give yourself no uneasiness. Thank God,

we can keep a secret.”
The cardinal fixed his keen eyes on the bold speaker.
“You have a quick ear, Monsieur Athos,” said the cardinal; “but now listen to this: it is not from mistrust

that I ask you to follow me, but for my security. No doubt your companions are MM. Porthos and Aramis.”
“Yes, your Eminence,” said Athos, while the two musketeers who had remained behind advanced, hat in hand.
“I know you, gentlemen,” said the cardinal, “I know you. I know you are not altogether my friends, and I am

sorry for it; but I know you are brave and loyal gentlemen, and that confidence may be reposed in you. Monsieur

Athos, do me the honour of accompanying me, you and your two friends, and then I shall have an escort to excite

envy in his Majesty, if we should meet him.”
The three musketeers bowed to the necks of their horses.
“Well, on my honour,” said Athos, “your Eminence is right in taking us with you; we have seen ill-looking faces

on the road, and we have even had a quarrel at the Red Dovecot with four of them.”
“And pray what was your quarrel about?”
“These fellows were drunk,” said Athos, “and knowing that a lady had arrived at the tavern this evening, they

were on the point of forcing her door.”
“Forcing her door!” said the cardinal; “and for what purpose?”

“To do her violence, without doubt,” said Athos. “I have had the honour of informing your Eminence that these

wretches were drunk.”
“And was the lady young and handsome?” asked the cardinal in some anxiety.
“We did not see her, monseigneur,” said Athos.
“You did not see her! Ah, very well,” replied the cardinal quickly; “you acted quite right in defending a woman

’s honour; and as I myself am going to the Red Dovecot, I shall know whether you have told me truth or not.”
Athos bowed.
“And now, gentlemen, that’s all very well,” continued his Eminence. “I know what I wanted to know. Follow me.

”
The three musketeers fell behind his Eminence, who again enveloped his face in his cloak and started up his horse,

keeping at from eight to ten paces in advance of his four companions.
They soon reached the silent, solitary tavern. The landlord doubtless knew what illustrious visitor was coming,

and had consequently sent intruders away.
At ten paces from the door the cardinal made a sign to his attendant and the three musketeers to halt. A saddled

horse was fastened to the window-shutter. The cardinal knocked three times in a peculiar manner.
A man enveloped in a cloak immediately came out, and exchanged some rapid words with the cardinal; after which he

got on horseback and set off in the direction of Surgères, which was likewise that of Paris.
“Advance, gentlemen,” said the cardinal.
“You have told me the truth, gentlemen,” said he, addressing the three musketeers, “and it will not be my fault

if our meeting this evening be not advantageous to you; meanwhile follow me.”
The cardinal alighted; the three musketeers followed his example. The cardinal threw the bridle of his horse to

his attendant; the three musketeers fastened their horses to the shutters.
The landlord stood at the door; for him, the cardinal was only an officer coming to visit a lady.
“Have you a room on the ground floor where these gentlemen can wait, near a good fire?” the cardinal asked.
The landlord opened the door of a large room, in which a poor stove had just been replaced by a large and

excellent fireplace.
“I have this, sir,” said he.
“That will do,” replied the cardinal.—“Come in, gentlemen, and be kind enough to wait for me; I shall not be

more than half an hour.”
And while the three musketeers were going into the ground-floor room, the cardinal, without asking further

information, mounted the staircase like a man who has no need of his way being pointed out to him.

Chapter 39 - The Utility of Stove-Pipes
It was evident that without suspecting it, and actuated solely by their chivalric and adventurous characters, our

three friends had just rendered a service to some one whom the cardinal honoured with his special protection.
Now who was that some one? This was the question the three musketeers put to each other. Then, seeing that none of

the replies their wits could furnish was satisfactory, Porthos called the landlord and asked for dice.
Porthos and Aramis sat down at the table and began to play. Athos walked about in a contemplative mood.
While thinking and walking, Athos kept passing and re-passing before the stove-pipe, broken in half, the other end

of which went into the upper chamber; and every time he passed he heard a murmur of words, which at length

attracted his attention. Athos went close to it, and distinguished some words which undoubtedly seemed to deserve

so deep an interest that he beckoned to his friends to be silent, remaining himself bent, with his ear placed

against the opening of the lower orifice.
“Listen, milady,” said the cardinal; “the affair is important. Sit down and let us talk.”
“Milady!” murmured Athos.
“I am listening to your Eminence with the greatest attention,” replied a woman’s voice that made the musketeer

start.
“A small vessel, with an English crew, whose captain is devoted to me, awaits you at the mouth of the Charente,

at Fort de la Pointe. He will set sail to-morrow morning.”
“I must go there to-night, then?”
“Instantly! That is to say, as soon as you have received my instructions. Two men, whom you will find at the door

on going out, will serve as your escort. You will let me leave first, and, half an hour after, you can go away in

your turn.”
“Yes, monseigneur. Now let us return to the mission in which you wish to employ me, and, as I desire to continue

to merit your Eminence’s confidence, deign to explain it to me in clear and precise terms, so that I may not

commit any error.”
There was a moment of deep silence between the two speakers. It was evident the cardinal was weighing beforehand

the terms in which he was about to speak, and that milady was collecting all the powers of her mind to understand

the things he was about to say, and to engrave them in her memory when they were spoken.
Athos took advantage of this moment to tell his two companions to fasten the door on the inside, and to beckon

them to come and listen with him.
The two musketeers, who loved their ease, each brought a chair for himself and one for Athos. All three then sat

down with their heads together and their ears alert.
“You will go to London,” pursued the cardinal; “when you reach London you will seek out Buckingham.”
“I must beg your Eminence to observe,” said milady, “that since the affair of the diamond studs, about which

the duke always suspected me, his Grace has been very mistrustful of me.”
“Well, this time,” said the cardinal, “it is not a question of worming yourself into his confidence, but you

will present yourself frankly and loyally as a negotiator.
“You will go to Buckingham in my behalf, and you will tell him I am acquainted with all the preparations he has

made; but that they give me no uneasiness, since at the first step he takes I will ruin the queen.”
“Will he believe that your Eminence is in a position to accomplish the threat you make him?”
“Yes, for I have the proofs.”
“I must be able to present these proofs so as to convince him.”
“Unquestionably. And you will tell him I will publish the report of Bois-Robert and of the Marquis de Beautru,

regarding the interview with the queen which the duke had at the constable’s residence, on the evening Madame la

Connétable gave a masked ball. You will tell him, in order that he may not doubt anything, that he came there in

the costume of the Great Mogul, which the Chevalier de Guise was to have worn, and which he bought for three

thousand pistoles.”
“Very well, monseigneur.”
“All the details of his entrance and departure on the night when he was introduced into the palace in the

character of an Italian fortuneteller you will tell him, in order that he may not doubt the correctness of my

information.”
“Is that all, monseigneur?”
“Tell him also that I am acquainted with all the details of the adventure at Amiens; that I will have a little

romance made of it, wittily turned, with a plan of the garden and portraits of the principal actors in that

nocturnal romance.”
“I will tell him that.”
“Then add that his Grace in his precipitation to quit the Isle of Ré forgot and left behind him in his lodging a

letter from Madame de Chevreuse, which singularly compromises the queen, inasmuch as it proves not only that her

Majesty can love the king’s enemies, but that she can conspire with the enemies of France. You recollect

perfectly all I have told you, do you not?”
“Your Eminence will judge: Madame la Connétable’s ball; the night at the Louvre; the evening at Amiens; the

arrest of Montague; the letter of Madame de Chevreuse.”
“That’s it,” said the cardinal—“that’s it. You have an excellent memory, milady.”

“But,” resumed the lady to whom the cardinal had just addressed this flattering compliment, “if, in spite of

all these reasons, the duke does not yield, and continues to threaten France?”
“If he persists—” His Eminence made a pause, and resumed: “If he persists—well, then I shall hope for one of

those events which change the destinies of states.”
“If your Eminence would quote to me some of these events in history,” said milady, “perhaps I should partake of

your confidence in the future.”
“Well, here, then, for example,” said Richelieu. “When in 1610, for a cause almost similar to the one that

moves the duke, King Henry IV, of glorious memory, was about to invade Flanders and Italy at the same time, in

order to attack Austria on both sides—well, did there not happen an event which saved Austria? Why should not the

king of France have the same chance as the emperor?”
“Your Eminence means the knife-stab of the Rue de la Ferronnerie?”
“Exactly so,” said the cardinal. “The only difficulty at this moment is to find some woman, handsome, young,

and clever, who wants to get revenge on the duke. Such a woman may be found. The duke has had many love affairs,

and if he has succeeded in many of his intrigues by his promises of eternal constancy, he must likewise have sown

the seeds of many hatreds by his eternal infidelities.”
“No doubt,” said milady coolly, “such a woman may be found.”
“Well, such a woman, who would put Jacques Clement’s knife or Ravaillac’s in a fanatic’s hands, would save

France.”
“She is found,” said milady.
“Then we must find the miserable fanatic who will serve as an instrument of God’s justice.”
“He will be found.”
“Well,” said the cardinal, “that is it.”
“And now,” said milady, without appearing to remark the change of the cardinal’s tone toward her—“now that I

have received your Eminence’s instructions regarding your enemies, will monseigneur permit me to say a few words

to him of mine?”
“Who are they?” replied the cardinal.
“In the first place, there is a little intriguing woman named Bonacieux.”
“She is in the prison of Nantes.”
“That is to say, she was there,” replied milady; “but the queen obtained an order from the king, by means of

which she has been conveyed to a convent.”
“And what convent?”
“I don’t know; the secret has been well kept.”
“But I will know!”
“And will your Eminence tell me in what convent this woman is?”
“I see nothing improper in that,” said the cardinal.
“Well, now I have an enemy much more to be dreaded by me than this little Madame Bonacieux.”
“Who is that?”
“Her lover.”
“What is his name?”
“I mean that wretch D’Artagnan.”
“He is a bold fellow,” said the cardinal.
“And because he is a bold fellow he is the more to be feared.”
“I must have,” said the cardinal, “a proof of his connection with Buckingham.”
“A proof!” cried milady; “I will find you ten.”
“Well, then, it is the simplest thing in the world. Get me your proof, and I will send him to the Bastille.”
“So far so good, monseigneur; but afterwards?”
“When one is in the Bastille there is no afterwards!” said the cardinal in a low voice. “Ah, by God!”

continued he, “if it were as easy for me to get rid of my enemy as it is easy to get rid of yours, and if it were

only against such people you required impunity—”
“Monseigneur,” replied milady, “a fair exchange—life for life, man for man; give me one, I will give you the

other.”
“I don’t know what you mean, nor do I even wish to know what you mean,” replied the cardinal; “but I wish to

please you, and see nothing out of the way in giving you what you ask for with respect to so mean a creature—the

more so as you tell me this petty D’Artagnan is a libertine, a duellist, a traitor.”
“An infamous scoundrel, monseigneur, an infamous scoundrel!”
“Give me a paper, a pen, and some ink, then,” said the cardinal.
“Here they are, monseigneur.”
There was a moment of silence, which proved that the cardinal was engaged in seeking the terms in which he should

write the note, or else in writing it. Athos, who had not lost a word of the conversation, took his two companions

by the hand and led them to the other end of the room.
“Well,” said Porthos, “what do you want, and why do you not let us listen to the end of the conversation?”
“Hush!” said Athos, speaking in a low voice; “we have heard all it was necessary for us to hear; besides, I don

’t prevent you from listening but I must be gone.”
“You must be gone!” said Porthos; “and if the cardinal asks for you, what answer can we make?”
“You will not wait till he asks; you will speak first, and tell him that I am gone as a scout, because certain

expressions of our landlord have made me think the road is not safe. I will say a word or two about it to the

cardinal’s attendant likewise. The rest concerns myself; don’t be anxious about that.”
“Be prudent, Athos,” said Aramis.
“Don’t be worried,” replied Athos.
Porthos and Aramis resumed their places by the stove-pipe.
Athos went out without any mystery, took his horse, which was tied with those of his friends to the fastenings of

the shutters, in four words convinced the attendant of the necessity of a vanguard for their return, carefully

examined the priming of his pistol, drew his sword, and, like a forlorn hope, took the road to the camp.

Chapter 40 - A Conjugal Scene
As athos had foreseen, the cardinal soon came down. He opened the door of the room where the musketeers were, and

found Porthos playing an earnest game at dice with Aramis. He cast a rapid glance round the room, and perceived

that one of his men was missing.
“What has become of Monsieur Athos?” asked he.
“Monseigneur,” replied Porthos, “he has gone on as a scout, owing to some expressions dropped by our landlord

making him fear the road was not safe.”
“And how have you been amusing yourself, M. Porthos?”
“I have won five pistoles from Aramis, monseigneur.”
“Well; now will you return with me?”
“We are at your Eminence’s orders.”
“To horse, then, gentlemen, for it is getting late.”
The attendant was at the door, holding the cardinal’s horse by the bridle. A short distance away a group of two

men and three horses appeared in the shade; these were the two men who were to conduct milady to Fort de la

Pointe, and superintend her embarkation.
The attendant confirmed to the cardinal what the two musketeers had already said regarding Athos. The cardinal

made an approving gesture, and started to return with the same precautions he had used in coming.
Let us leave him to follow the road to the camp, protected by his attendant and the two musketeers, and return to

Athos.
For a hundred paces he maintained the gait with which he started, but when once out of sight, he turned his horse

to the right, made a circuit and came back to within twenty paces, where, shielded by a coppice, he might watch

the passage of the little troop. Having recognized his companions’ laced hats and the golden fringe of the

cardinal’s cloak, he waited till the horsemen had turned the angle of the road, and having lost them from sight,

he returned at a gallop to the tavern, which was opened to him without hesitation.
The landlord recognized him.
“My officer,” said Athos, “has forgotten to give a piece of very important information to the lady, and has

sent me back to repair his forgetfulness.”
“Go up,” said the host; “she is still in her room.”
Athos availed himself of the permission, mounted the stairs with his lightest step, gained the landing, and

through the open door saw milady putting on her hat.
He went straight into the chamber and closed the door behind him.
At the noise he made in bolting it milady turned round.
Athos was standing before the door, enveloped in his cloak, with his hat pulled down over his eyes. On seeing that

figure, mute and motionless like a statue, milady was startled.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” cried she.
“There now!” murmured Athos; “it is certainly she!”
And dropping his cloak and raising his hat, he advanced toward milady.
“Do you know me, madame?” said he.
Milady took one step forward, and then grew pale, as though she saw a serpent.
“Come,” said Athos. “Good! I see you know me.”
“The Comte de la Fère!” murmured milady, drawing back till the wall prevented her going any farther.
“You believed me to be dead, did you not, as I believed you to be? And the name of Athos as well concealed the

Comte de la Fère as the name of Lady Clarick concealed Anne de Beuil! Were you not so called when your honoured

brother married us? Our position is truly strange,” pursued Athos, laughing. “We have lived up to the present

time only because we believed each other to be dead, and because a remembrance is less oppressive than a living

creature, though sometimes a remembrance is a devouring thing!”
“But,” said milady, in a hollow, faint voice, “what brings you back to me? and what do you want with me?”
“I wish to tell you that, though I have remained invisible to your eyes, I have not lost sight of you. I can tell

you of your actions day by day from the time you entered the cardinal’s service until this evening.”
A smile of incredulity passed over milady’s pale lips.
“You must be Satan!” cried she.
“Perhaps,” said Athos. “But, at least, listen to what I say. Assassinate the Duke of Buckingham, or have him

assassinated; it makes no difference to me. I don’t know him; besides, he is an Englishman. But do not touch with

the tip of your finger a single hair of D’Artagnan, who is a faithful friend, whom I love and defend, or I swear

to you by my father’s life the crime which you shall have committed shall be your last.”

Athos was seized with a kind of vertigo. The sight of this creature, who had nothing womanly about her, recalled

devouring remembrances. His desire for her death returned, burning, and pervaded him like a raging fever. He put

his hand to his belt, drew out a pistol, and cocked it.
Milady, pale as a corpse, struggled to cry out; but her frozen tongue could utter only a hoarse sound, which had

nothing human in it, and seemed a wild beast’s rattle. Clinging to the dark tapestry, she appeared, with her hair

in disorder, like the frightful image of terror.
Athos slowly raised his pistol, stretched out his arm, so that the weapon almost touched milady’s forehead; and

then, in a voice the more terrible from having the supreme calmness of an inflexible resolution,
“Madame,” said he, “you will this instant deliver to me the paper the cardinal signed; or, on my soul, I will

blow your brains out.”
With another man, milady might have preserved some doubt; but she knew Athos, yet she remained motionless.
“You have one second to decide,” said he.
Milady saw by the contraction of his countenance that he was about to pull the trigger; she put her hand quickly

into her bosom, pulled out a paper, and held it toward Athos.
“Take it,” said she, “and be damned!”
Athos took the paper, returned the pistol to his belt, approached the lamp to be assured that it was the right

paper, unfolded it, and read,
“August 5, 1628.
“By my order, and for the good of the State, the bearer hereof has done what he has done.
Richelieu.”
“And now,” said Athos, taking up his cloak again and putting on his hat—“now that I have drawn your teeth,

viper, bite if you can.”
And he left the chamber without once looking behind him.
At the door he found the two men, and the horse which they held.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “you know monseigneur’s order is for you to conduct that woman, without losing time, to

Fort de la Pointe, and not to leave her till she is on board.”
As his words agreed exactly with the order they had received, they bowed in sign of assent.
Athos leaped lightly into his saddle, and set out at full gallop; only, instead of following the road, he took

across the fields, urging his horse to the utmost, and stopping occasionally to listen.
In one of his halts he heard the trampling of several horses on the road. He had no doubt it was the cardinal and

his escort. He immediately galloped on ahead, rubbed his horse down with some heather and leaves of trees, and

then placed himself in the middle of the road, about two hundred paces from the camp.
“Who goes there?” cried he, as soon as he saw the horsemen coming.
“That is our brave musketeer, I think,” said the cardinal.
“Yes, monseigneur,” said Porthos, “it is he.”
“Monsieur Athos,” said Richelieu, “receive my thanks for the good guard you have kept. Gentlemen, we are here;

take the gate on the left. The watchword is ‘King and Ré.’ ”
On saying these words the cardinal bent his head in salutation of the three friends, and took the right hand,

followed by his attendant, for that night he himself was to sleep in camp.
“Well,” said Porthos and Aramis together, as soon as the cardinal was out of hearing—“well, he signed the

paper she asked for!”
“I know he did,” said Athos, “and here it is.”
And the three friends did not exchange another word till they got to their quarters, except to give the watchword

to the sentinels.
But they sent Mousqueton to tell Planchet that his master was requested to come to the quarters of the musketeers

the instant he left the trenches.
Milady, as Athos had foreseen, on finding the two men awaiting her, made no objection to going with them.
Consequently, after travelling all night, she was at seven o’clock at Fort de la Pointe; at eight o’clock she

had embarked; and at nine the vessel, which, with letters of marque from the cardinal, was supposed to be going to

Bayonne, raised anchor and set sail toward England.

Chapter 41 - The Bastion St. Gervais
On rejoining his three friends, D’Artagnan found them assembled in the same room. Athos was meditating, Porthos

was twirling his moustache, Aramis was reading prayers in a charming little Book of Hours, bound in blue velvet.
“By Jove,” said he, “gentlemen, I hope what you have to tell me is worth the trouble; or else, I warn you, I

will not pardon you for making me come here instead of getting a little rest, after a night spent in taking and

dismantling a bastion. Ah! why were you not there, gentlemen? It was warm work.”
“We were in a place where it was not very cold!” replied Porthos, giving his moustache a twirl that was peculiar

to him.
“Hush!” said Athos.
“Oh, ho!” said D’Artagnan, comprehending the musketeer’s slight frown; “it appears there is something new on

hand.”
“Aramis,” said Athos, “you went to breakfast the day before yesterday at the tavern of the Infidel, I believe?

”
“Yes.”
“How did you fare?”
“For my part, I ate but little. The day before yesterday was a fastday, and they had nothing but meat.”
“But that is not quite what I asked you,” replied Athos. “I want to know if you were left alone, and nobody

interrupted you.”
“Why, I think there were not many intruders. Yes, Athos, I know what you mean; we shall do very well at the

Infidel.”
“Let us go to the Infidel, then; for here the walls are like sheets of paper.”
D’Artagnan, who was accustomed to his friend’s manner of acting, and perceived immediately by a word, a gesture,

or a sign from him that the circumstances were serious, took Athos’s arm, and went out with him without saying

anything. Porthos followed, chatting with Aramis.
On their way they fell in with Grimaud. Athos beckoned him to come with them. Grimaud, as uusal, silently obeyed;

the poor lad had nearly come to the pass of forgetting how to speak.
They arrived at the taproom of the Infidel; it was seven o’clock in the morning, and daylight began to appear.

The three friends ordered breakfast, and went into a room in which, the host said, they were not likely to be

disturbed.
Unfortunately, the hour was baby chosen for a private conference. Reveille had just been beaten; every one was

shaking off the drowsiness of night, and, to dispel the humid morning air, came to take a drop at the bar.

Dragoons, Swiss, guardsmen, musketeers, light-horsemen succeeded one another with a rapidity which might answer

the landlord’s purposes very well, but agreed badly with the views of the four friends. Thus they replied very

curtly to the salutations, healths, and jokes of their companions.
“Come,” said Athos; “we shall get into some pretty quarrel or other, and we don’t need one just now. D’

Artagnan, tell us what sort of a night you had, and we will describe ours afterwards.”
“Ah, yes!” said a light-horseman, lolling about with a glass of brandy in his hand, which he was leisurely

sipping—“ah, yes! You gentlemen of the guards were in the trenches last night, and you had a bone to pick with

the Rochellais.”
D’Artagnan looked at Athos to know if he ought to reply to this intruder, who mixed unasked in their

conversation.
“Well,” said Athos, “don’t you hear M. de Busigny, who does you the honour of addressing you? Relate what has

passed during the night, since these gentlemen wish to know.”
“Did you not take a bastion?” asked a Swiss, who was drinking rum out of a beer-glass.
“Yes, sir,” said D’Artagnan, bowing; “we had that honour. As you may have heard, we even put a barrel of

powder under one of the angles, which, when it blew up, made a very pretty breach—without reckoning that, as the

bastion was not built yesterday, all the rest of the building was much shaken.”
“And which bastion was it?” asked a dragoon, with his sabre run through a goose, which he was taking to have

cooked.

“The bastion St. Gervais,” replied D’Artagnan, “from behind which the Rochellais have been annoying our

workmen.”
“Was the affair hot?”
“Yes, moderately so. We lost five men, and the Rochellais eight or ten.”
“Balzempleu!” said the Swiss, who, notwithstanding the admirable stock of oaths possessed by the German

language, had acquired the habit of swearing in French.
“But,” said the light-horseman, “probably they will send pioneers this morning to repair the bastion.”
“Yes, probably,” said D’Artagnan.
“Gentlemen,” said Athos, “I have a wager to propose.”
“Ah, ha! a vager!” cried the Swiss.
“What is it?” said the light-horseman.
“Stop a bit,” said the dragoon, placing his sabre like a spit upon the two large iron dogs which held the

firebrands on the hearth—“stop a bit; I am in it.—You dog of a landlord! a dripping-pan instantly, that I may

not lose a drop of the fat of this estimable bird.”
“You are qvite right,” said the Swiss; “koose-krease is koot vith bastry.”
“There!” said the dragoon. “Now for the wager. We are all attention, M. Athos.”
“Ah, now for the wager!” said the light-horseman.
“Well, Monsieur de Busigny, I will bet you,” said Athos, “that my three companions, MM. Porthos, Aramis, and D

’Artagnan, and myself, will go and breakfast in the bastion St. Gervais, and will remain there an hour, by the

watch, whatever the enemy may do to dislodge us.”
Porthos and Aramis looked at each other; they began to understand.
“Well, but,” said D’Artagnan, in Athos’s ear, “you are going to get us all killed without mercy.”
“We are much more likely to be killed,” said Athos, “if we do not go.”
“’Pon my word, gentlemen!” said Porthos, turning round upon his chair and twirling his moustache, “that’s a

fine bet, I hope.”
“I take it,” said M. de Busigny. “Now let us fix the stake.”
“Why, you are four, gentlemen,” said Athos, “and we are four: a dinner for eight. Will that do?”
“Capitally,” replied M. de Busigny.
“Perfectly well,” said the dragoon.
“Dat suits me,” said the Swiss.
The fourth auditor, who during all this conversation had played a mute part, nodded to show that he acquiesced in

the proposition.
“The breakfast for these gentlemen is ready,” said the landlord.
“Well, bring it in,” said Athos.
The landlord obeyed. Athos called Grimaud, pointed to a large basket standing in a corner, and made a sign to him

to wrap the food up in the napkins.
And bowing to all the astonished spectators, the young men started off for the bastion St. Gervais, followed by

Grimaud carrying the basket, ignorant of where he was going, but, in the passive obedience which Athos had taught

him, not even thinking of asking.
As long as they were within the camp the four friends did not exchange a word; besides, they were followed by

inquisitive loungers, who, hearing of the wager, were anxious to know how they would succeed. But when once they

had passed the line of circumvallation, and found themselves in the open field, D’Artagnan, who was completely

ignorant of what was going on, thought it was time to demand an explanation.
“And now, my dear Athos,” said he, “do me the kindness to tell me where we are going.”
“Why, you see plainly enough we are going to the bastion.”
“But what are we going to do there?”
“We have some very important things to talk over, and it was impossible to talk five minutes in that tavern

without being annoyed by all those importunate fellows, who keep coming in, saluting you, and addressing you.

Yonder, at least,” said Athos, pointing to the bastion, “they will not come and disturb us.”
“It seems to me,” said D’Artagnan, with that prudence which was so naturally allied with his extreme bravery—

“it seems to me that we could have found some retired place on the downs or by the seashore.”
“Where we should have been seen all four conferring together, so that at the end of a quarter of an hour the

cardinal would have been informed by his spies that we were holding a council.”
When they reached the bastion the four friends turned round.
More than three hundred soldiers of all kinds were assembled at the gate of the camp; and in a separate group they

could distinguish M. de Busigny, the dragoon, the Swiss, and the fourth wagerer.
Athos took off his hat, put it on the end of his sword, and waved it in the air. All the spectators returned him

his salute, accompanying this politeness with a loud hurrah, which they plainly heard. After which they all four

disappeared in the bastion, where Grimaud had already preceded them.