The Man in the Iron Mask

The White Horse and the Black.

“That is surprising,” said D’Artagnan; “Gourville about the so gayly, when he is almost that M. Fouquet is in danger; when it is almost that it was Gourville who M. Fouquet just now by the note which was into a thousand pieces upon the terrace, and to the by le surintendant. Gourville is his hands; that is he has done something clever. Whence comes M. Gourville? Gourville is from the Rue Herbes. Whither the Rue Herbes lead?” And D’Artagnan followed, along the of the houses of Nantes, by the castle, the line by the streets, as he would have done upon a plan; only, of the dead, paper, the rose in with the cries, the movements, and the of men and things. Beyond the of the city, the great out, the Loire, and appeared to the pink horizon, which was cut by the of the and the dark green of the marshes. Immediately the gates of Nantes two white were like of a hand. D’Artagnan, who had taken in all the at a by the terrace, was by the line of the Rue Herbes to the mouth of one of those which took its under the gates of Nantes. One step more, and he was about to the stairs, take his carriage, and go the of M. Fouquet. But decreed, at the moment of into the staircase, that he was by a moving point then ground upon that road.

“What is that?” said the to himself; “a galloping,—a horse, no doubt. What a he is going at!” The moving point from the road, and entered into the fields. “A white horse,” the captain, who had just the color against the dark ground, “and he is mounted; it must be some boy is thirsty and has away with him.”

These reflections, as lightning, with perception, D’Artagnan had already when he the steps of the staircase. Some of paper were spread over the stairs, and out white against the dirty stones. “Eh! eh!” said the captain to himself, “here are some of the of the note by M. Fouquet. Poor man! he has his to the wind; the wind will have no more to do with it, and it to the king. Decidedly, Fouquet, you play with misfortune! the game is not a one,—fortune is against you. The star of Louis XIV. yours; the is and more than the squirrel.” D’Artagnan up one of these of paper as he descended. “Gourville’s little hand!” he, one of the of the note; “I was not mistaken.” And he read the word “horse.” “Stop!” said he; and he another, upon which there was not a traced. Upon a third he read the word “white;” “white horse,” he, like a child that is spelling. “Ah, mordioux!” the spirit, “a white horse!” And, like that of which, burning, into ten thousand times its volume, D’Artagnan, by ideas and suspicions, the stairs the terrace. The white was still in the direction of the Loire, at the of which, melting into the of the water, a little sail appeared, wave-balanced like a water-butterfly. “Oh!” the musketeer, “only a man who wants to would go at that across lands; there is but one Fouquet, a financier, to thus in open day upon a white horse; there is no one but the lord of Belle-Isle who would make his the sea, while there are such thick on land, and there is but one D’Artagnan in the world to catch M. Fouquet, who has an hour’s start, and who will have his an hour.” This being said, the gave orders that the with the iron should be taken to a just the city. He his best horse, jumped upon his back, along the Rue Herbes, taking, not the road Fouquet had taken, but the bank itself of the Loire, that he should ten minutes upon the total distance, and, at the of the two lines, come up with the fugitive, who have no of being in that direction. In the of the pursuit, and with the of the avenger, himself as in war, D’Artagnan, so mild, so Fouquet, was to himself ferocious—almost sanguinary. For a long time he without of the white horse. His fury, he himself,—he that Fouquet had himself in some road, or that he had the white for one of those famous black ones, as as the wind, which D’Artagnan, at Saint-Mande, had so and for their and their fleetness.

At such moments, when the wind cut his so as to make the from them, when the had hot, when the and with pain, and him a of and stones, D’Artagnan, himself in his stirrups, and nothing on the waters, nothing the trees, looked up into the air like a madman. He was his senses. In the of he of ways,—the of century; he called to his mind Daedalus and the that had saved him from the of Crete. A from his lips, as he repeated, by the of ridicule, “I! I! by a Gourville! I! They will say that I am old,—they will say I have a to allow Fouquet to escape!” And he again his into the of his horse: he had fast. Suddenly, at the of some open pasture-ground, the hedges, he saw a white which itself, disappeared, and at last visible against the ground. D’Artagnan’s with joy. He the from his brow, the of his knees,—by which the more freely,—and, up his reins, the speed of the animal, his active on this man-hunt. He had then time to study the direction of the road, and his position with to Fouquet. The had his by the soft ground. He the of a footing, and the road by the line. D’Artagnan, on his part, had nothing to do but to on, by the shore; so that he would cut his off the road when he came up with him. Then the would begin,—then the would be in earnest.

D’Artagnan gave his good breathing-time. He that the had into a trot, which was to say, he, too, was his horse. But of them were too much pressed for time to allow them to continue long at that pace. The white off like an the moment his touched ground. D’Artagnan his head, and his black into a gallop. Both the same route; the of this new race-course were confounded. Fouquet had not yet D’Artagnan. But on from the slope, a single echo the air; it was that of the steps of D’Artagnan’s horse, which rolled along like thunder. Fouquet round, and saw him, a hundred paces, his enemy over the of his horse. There be no doubt—the baldrick, the red cassock—it was a musketeer. Fouquet his hand likewise, and the white twenty more his and himself.

“Oh, but,” D’Artagnan, very anxious, “that is not a common M. Fouquet is upon—let us see!” And he with his the shape and of the courser. Round full quarters—a thin long tail—large hocks—thin legs, as as of steel—hoofs hard as marble. He his own, but the the two the same. D’Artagnan attentively; not a of the him, and yet he to cut the air. The black horse, on the contrary, to like any blacksmith’s bellows.

“I must overtake him, if I kill my horse,” the musketeer; and he to saw the mouth of the animal, he the of his into his sides. The twenty toises, and came up pistol-shot of Fouquet.

“Courage!” said the to himself, “courage! the white will weaker, and if the not fall, the master must up at last.” But and together, ground by difficult degrees. D’Artagnan a wild cry, which Fouquet turn round, and added speed to the white horse.

“A famous horse! a rider!” the captain. “Hola! mordioux! Monsieur Fouquet! stop! in the king’s name!” Fouquet no reply.

“Do you me?” D’Artagnan, had just stumbled.

“Pardieu!” Fouquet, laconically; and on faster.

D’Artagnan was nearly mad; the blood to his temples and his eyes. “In the king’s name!” he again, “stop, or I will you with a pistol-shot!”

“Do!” Fouquet, without his speed.

D’Artagnan a pistol and it, that the of the would stop his enemy. “You have pistols likewise,” said he, “turn and yourself.”

Fouquet did turn at the noise, and looking D’Artagnan full in the face, opened, with his right hand, the part of his dress which his body, but he did not touch his holsters. There were not more than twenty the two.

“Mordioux!” said D’Artagnan, “I will not you; if you will not fire upon me, surrender! what is a prison?”

“I would die!” Fouquet; “I shall less.”

D’Artagnan, with despair, his pistol to the ground. “I will take you alive!” said he; and by a of skill which this alone was capable, he his to ten of the white horse; already his hand was out to his prey.

“Kill me! kill me!” Fouquet, “‘twould be more humane!”

“No! alive—alive!” the captain.

At this moment his a false step for the second time, and Fouquet’s again took the lead. It was an unheard-of spectacle, this two which now only alive by the will of their riders. It might be said that D’Artagnan rode, his along his knees. To the had succeeded the fast trot, and that had to what might be called a at all. But the appeared warm in the two athletoe. D’Artagnan, in despair, his second pistol, and it.

“At your horse! not at you!” he to Fouquet. And he fired. The animal was in the quarters—he a bound, and forward. At that moment D’Artagnan’s dead.

“I am dishonored!” the musketeer; “I am a wretch! for pity’s sake, M. Fouquet, me one of your pistols, that I may out my brains!” But Fouquet away.

“For mercy’s sake! for mercy’s sake!” D’Artagnan; “that which you will not do at this moment, I myself will do an hour, but here, upon this road, I should die bravely; I should die esteemed; do me that service, M. Fouquet!”

M. Fouquet no reply, but to on. D’Artagnan to after his enemy. Successively he away his hat, his coat, which embarrassed him, and then the of his sword, which got his as he was running. The in his hand itself too heavy, and he it after the sheath. The white to in its throat; D’Artagnan upon him. From a the animal to a walk—the from his mouth was mixed with blood. D’Artagnan a effort, Fouquet, and him by the leg, saying in a broken, voice, “I you in the king’s name! my out, if you like; we have done our duty.”

Fouquet from him, into the river, the two pistols D’Artagnan might have seized, and from his horse—“I am your prisoner, monsieur,” said he; “will you take my arm, for I see you are to faint?”

“Thanks!” D’Artagnan, who, in fact, the earth from under his feet, and the light of day to around him; then he rolled upon the sand, without or strength. Fouquet to the of the river, some water in his hat, with which he the temples of the musketeer, and a his lips. D’Artagnan himself with difficulty, and looked about him with a eye. He Fouquet on his knees, with his wet in his hand, upon him with sweetness. “You are not off, then?” he. “Oh, monsieur! the true king of royalty, in heart, in soul, is not Louis of the Louvre, or Philippe of Sainte-Marguerite; it is you, proscribed, condemned!”

“I, who this day am by a single error, M. d’Artagnan.”

“What, in the name of Heaven, is that?”

“I should have had you for a friend! But how shall we return to Nantes? We are a great way from it.”

“That is true,” said D’Artagnan, gloomily.

“The white will recover, perhaps; he is a good horse! Mount, Monsieur d’Artagnan; I will walk till you have rested a little.”

“Poor beast! and wounded, too?” said the musketeer.

“He will go, I tell you; I know him; but we can do still, let us up, and slowly.”

“We can try,” said the captain. But they had the animal with this load, when he to stagger, and then with a great walked a minutes, then again, and by the of the black horse, which he had just managed to come up to.

“We will go on foot—destiny it so—the walk will be pleasant,” said Fouquet, his arm through that of D’Artagnan.

“Mordioux!” the latter, with a eye, a brow, and a heart—“What a day!”

They walked slowly the four which them from the little which the and were in waiting. When Fouquet that machine, he said to D’Artagnan, who his eyes, of Louis XIV., “There is an idea that did not from a man, Captain d’Artagnan; it is not yours. What are these for?” said he.