Time Travel Omnibus, page 314
“And this foreigner, Monsieur Clive, how could he aid four musketeers in repelling successfully a whole company of His Eminence’s guards?” asked the king; more concerned over the details of the fight than by the fact that an act of treason had been committed.
“He has a pistol that will fire six shots without reloading, and he has a two-wheeled vehicle that will travel as fast as the wind without the use of horses.”
“Have you seen these things?” asked the king.
“I have seen the pistols, and this morning I have heard nothing else but tales of the vehicles, and you shall hear these same tales before the day is over,” answered Treville.
“And is M. Clive in Paris?” asked the king. “If so, I would like to see him.”
“Yes, sire, he is in Paris. I will have him here at your convenience—after the hunt perhaps?”
“Hunt!” cried the king. “There’ll be no hunt today. With my kingdom practically toppling about my ears, and M. le Cardinal placing his guards in the way of the loyal men who would try to prevent the collapse, I have more important business than hunting. Bring him this evening and have him bring the vehicle and the pistol to show me, for I am very curious about these wonders. And say, Treville, have Messieurs Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan come also—they deserve my gratitude.”
This was the very mood in which Treville wished to leave the king, so he took his leave and departed. As he was leaving he heard Louis XIII call his valet de chambre, La Chesnaye, and tell him to send for His Eminence, the cardinal. This command was unnecessary, however, for Treville met Monsieur le Cardinal on the stairs. The latter was in great haste, and was clouded up like a thunder storm—not speaking as he passed the captain of the musketeers.
Armand Jean Duplessis, Cardinal de Richelieu, for one of the few times in his life found himself in a position so awkward that he could think of no way out. He could not give the real reason for the attack on the musketeers for he did not have the picture as proof, and he knew that he could not fabricate a story since M. de Treville had already seen the king. He decided then upon an attitude of hurt innocence, neither admitting or denying anything. He took his scolding from the king, therefore, which was really fairly light, since privately Louis XIII feared his minster.
CLIVE and the musketeers had returned to the hotel of M. de Treville to await the return of that gentleman. They did not have long to wait for soon his carriage pulled into the courtyard and discharged its occupant. Treville went straight to his private chambers, and then sent his secretary out to look for the five men, whom he had passed in the corridor without noticing. When they entered the room they found the captain in a good humor, and the musketeers immediately realized that things had gone well at the Louvre.
“Monsieur Clive,” said Treville, “the king-appears to have taken a special interest in you, he has granted you an audience this evening.” He then spoke to the others: “You gentlemen will accompany M. Clive, and you will take at least one, of your so-called ‘motorcycles,’ and your pistols, for the king is deeply interested in them.” The musketeers exchanged glances with Clive. “I hope,” continued Treville, “that you gentlemen have not reconsidered, and decided that this has all been a dream.”
“I hope Monsieur does not doubt us,” said Athos.
“Not if you affirm your story,” said Treville, “but you must admit that this story is almost unbelievable. In spite of the fact that I believe you gentlemen implicitly, I can not comprehend what you tell me. I can not understand how men can journey back and forth through time—that journey which has always been a one-way, one-speed journey from which there has been no return.” He paused, as though expecting an answer.
“I’ll have to tell him about Einstein sometime,” thought Clive, but he said nothing, and as the others had nothing to say Treville continued:
“Incidentally, I have not told the king your story, so you can make it as convincing as you care to.”
The five companions thanked M. de Treville and left the room. Clive was deeply occupied, not so much over the thought of meeting the king, as over the chance that the queen might be nearby when he met the king. It had been hardly an hour since he had left the queen’s chambers, but it seemed like an eternity to him. He knew it was mad to even think of her, the way he thought of her, but he attempted to justify his stand by considering her situation. She was married, and to the king of France; but she was married in name only. The king, prompted by the cardinal, made life miserable for the queen by his petty suspicions and persecutions. The cardinal was in love with the queen, but was so incensed by her hatred for him that he never missed an opportunity to antagonize her, and bring discomfort and embarrassment to her. As for the queen, she had only known one love. True, she had been attracted by the Duke of Buckingham, due mostly to his kindness to her, and to the fact that he was an arch enemy of the cardinal—but her true love was a dream, and the dream was Clive.
Clive was debating the advisability of telling the king about the cavern at Amiens, for this stood as the one means of escape if he could get the queen there on some pretense. But then, he reasoned, the musketeers were loyal to their king, and they would hardly stand by while the American kidnapped the queen. Being so absorbed, he did not notice Grimaud who had been waiting for his master in the corridor, and who showed obvious signs of excitement.
“What is it, Grimaud?” asked Athos. “You may speak.”
“They are searching the house,” answered the lackey.
“Who?”
“The cardinal’s guards.”
“How many?”
The lackey held up four fingers. “Well, what are we waiting for?” asked Clive. The five men left at full speed. It was but a short distance from the hotel of M. de Treville in the Rue du Vieux-Colombier to the modest quarters occupied by Athos in the Rue Ferou, and the five friends covered the distance very quickly. When they arrived at their destination they found a cart drawn up in front of the door, and one of the motorcycles was being loaded into it while the other one already reposed within. This work was being done by the peasant owners of the cart, who were being superintended by one of the cardinal’s guards. This man appeared vaguely familiar to Clive, who in casting about for his identity noticed the sword the guard was carrying—it was the sword he had picked up at the cavern, and this man was apparently du Bois, the man whose enmity he had unconsciously obtained.
WITH his own sword in his hand, Clive walked up to the guard: “Am I to understand that you seek to avoid an encounter with me by breaking into my friend’s house and stealing your own sword while no one is here to challenge you?” he asked. The guard flushed scarlet, but did not reply. “And what is the meaning of this?” he continued, indicating the motorcycles that now reposed in the cart. The guard finally found his tongue.
“I am acting upon orders of Monsieur le Cardinal,” he said in a defiant tone.
“And His Eminence ordered you to recover your sword in this manner?” taunted Clive.
“Monsieur,” said the guard whose embarrassment was becoming rage; “are you attempting to provoke a quarrel with me?”
“Well that’s the general idea. And about those motorcycles, you might as well unload them since the king has countermanded the cardinal’s order.”
“The king never countermands his Eminence’s orders,” said the guard disdainfully.
“Monsieur,” said Clive, “you have insulted me twice, and that is twice more than I will allow. Defend yourself.”
Again Clive felt the blood mount to his head as he crossed swords with the man that Porthos had said was the best swordsman outside of the musketeers. It took only a few moments for him to verify Porthos’ statement, and Clive who had started in on the offensive was frequently forced to fall back on a defensive technique. The two fighters were well matched, and neither could gain more than a temporary advantage. Clive had an inspired science, although lacking in experience, while du Bois made up for a deficiency in the science by years of experience.
The sound of sword play brought the other three guards to the door. One of them had, strapped to his waist, the precious sword of Athos—an heirloom this musketeer had treasured so jealously. Seeing this, Athos uttered a cry and sprang toward the thief.
“His Eminence has apparently surrounded himself with robbers and plunderers,” he said, seizing the fellow by the throat, “so I will not accord you the privileges of a gentleman.” After administering a, profound shaking to the guard, he sent a smashing blow to his jaw which dropped him to the ground like a bundle of rags. Athos then tenderly removed the sword from the guard’s belt.
D’Artagnan and Aramis took charge of the other guards, and engaged them in the street, while Porthos superintended the unloading of the motorcycles.
It was still nip and tuck with Clive and du Bois, and it appeared as though this were going to be a contest of endurance. Here Clive had the advantage for he had always kept himself in excellent physical condition by means of vigorous athletics. Du Bois, on the other hand, although a seasoned fighter was an ardent disciple of the “Wine, Women and Song” school. Gradually, therefore, the Frenchman began to wear down; his feints became more obvious, and his thrusts lacked force—his recovery was slower. Clive took advantage of his opponent’s fatigue to slip inside his guard and inflict slight wounds in his arms and body. In parrying a blow from the guard who had by now lost so much control that he was swinging wildly at the American, Clive caught his opponent’s sword with his own and flung it high into the air, the tip of his own sword passing through the right arm of the guard. Upon striking the cobblestone street the sword broke in two pieces.
“Monsieur,” said du Bois, “you have disarmed me and have given me a nasty wound in my sword arm. If, however, you will allow me to obtain another sword I will fight you left-handed.” The blood was pouring from the wound in cascades, and the guard was growing very pale.
“You are very brave, Monsieur, but foolish,” said Clive, walking toward the guard. “Let me dress your wound, and when it is sufficiently healed to allow you to hold a sword in that hand we can finish our affair.” Baring the guard’s arm he placed a tourniquet above the wound, and helped him into the house.
CLIVE unpacked the medical instruments and supplies he had brought with him, and boiled the instruments. Then using the best surgical technique he had learned in school he cleaned and dressed the wound, tying off the bleeding vessels. Du Bois watched this procedure with amazement, and no small degree of alarm. When Clive had finished dressing the wound, and the Frenchman found himself still alive, he uttered a sigh of relief.
D’Artagnan and Aramis had both rendered their opponents HORS DE COMBAT by swords thrusts through the neck of one, and through the hand of the other, and had brought them inside partially to get them off the street and partially out of curiosity to see Clive dress them. The neck injury was a fortunate one in that none of the important structures were severed, and it was a simple matter of stitching and dressing to take care of it. The hand, however, was a different matter—three of the finger tendons had been severed and Clive felt like calling for a surgeon. He realized, however, that he knew more about suturing tendons than anyone in the world at that time, so he did the best he could do, taking two hours to finish the job, and since he did all this work without the use of an anesthetic he was not too proud of the final result.
THEY had an hour yet before their audience with the king, and the musketeers and the American spent half that time preparing themselves for this visit to court. Clive polished his buttons and meticulously brushed the last remaining dust and lint off his uniform. Porthos got out his most elaborate clothing, while Athos, d’Artagnan, and Aramis arrayed themselves simply in their musketeers’ uniforms.
They then mounted their motorcycles and converged upon the hotel of M. de Treville. They rode slowly and deliberately through the streets, knowing that they would not be molested, and having no need now for secrecy. Word of their approach flew ahead of them, and consequently as they passed through the streets the windows were filled with faces, and groups of Parisians were gathered at all of the doors.
Reaching the hotel of M. de Treville they drove into the courtyard, and were greeted with a cheer from the musketeers, who quickly surrounded them to ply them with a thousand questions and requests for rides on these strange, noisy mechanical horses. M. de Treville sent his secretary down with the information that he would be prepared to leave for the Louvre within thirty minutes, and that he requested them to follow his carriage. In this remaining thirty minutes the five friends occupied themselves by whisking the comrades of the musketeers through the neighboring streets at high speed behind them on their motorcycles. If their passengers had any misgivings about the prospects of such a trip, they did not air them, for they were by reputation the bravest men in France. A close scrutiny, however, would have revealed that those who went for the ride were slightly pallid upon dismounting. As soon as their curiosity was satisfied as to the motorcycles, the musketeers began to clamor for a demonstration of the revolvers. They became so insistent that Porthos had set up a target in the courtyard, and was about to empty his revolver in its general direction when M. de Treville appeared, and making a sign for the cyclists to follow him he entered his carriage and drove in the direction of the Louvre. Athos, Porthos, Aramis, d’Artagnan, and Clive again mounted their motorcycles and followed the carriage, five abreast where the streets were wide enough to permit it.
Word of the expected visit of the American had also reached the Louvre, where the courtiers and officers had gathered at convenient windows, and some had even taken places in the courtyard to get a better view of the strange vehicle he was said to have. The roar of the five motors could be heard while they were still at some distance from the Louvre, and a murmur of excitement arose from the assembled courtiers. The king, who had been waiting in his own chambers, could suppress his curiosity no longer upon hearing this, and he marched out into the main reception hall. Much to his chagrin he passed through the hall unnoticed by the courtiers who were actually pressing each other rudely in order to gain an advantage at the windows. He paused before the window that afforded the best view of the courtyard, and after standing several moments, unnoticed by the group before this window, he demanded:
“Does the king of France command only the backs of his subjects?”
THE group at the window immediately melted away, bowing low in respect for his majesty, for the king of France was at that time in a position to grant favors to his courtiers. The king then walked to the center of the window and gazed out into the courtyard, just as Treville’s carriage, with its motorized escort entered the main gate. If this royal audience was not awed by the sound of the motorcycles it was amazed by the sight of these strange vehicles.
“Ventre-saint-gris!” exclaimed the king. “This fellow must be the devil himself!” Similar remarks were being passed by the other spectators, and the consensus of opinion had it that Clive was not human—some saying he was a disciple of Satan, while others were of the opinion that he was a beneficent sorcerer. The latter school was composed mostly of the ladies of the court who, even at that distance, could observe Clive’s fine appearance, while the former group was mostly the cardinalist element of the court.
Seeing the king standing in the window, the five cyclists dismounted and bowed low. The king nodded his approval, and called down to them requesting them to come up to the reception hall, and to bring one of the machines with them. They placed four of the motorcycles, therefore, in the custody of the musketeers that happened to be on duty at the Louvre at the time, and summoning all the servants that happened to be within hailing distance to do the actual lifting, carried the remaining machine up the stairs to the main hall.
Before entering the building, Clive saw a figure at one of the higher windows. This figure was hardly more than a shadow, but Clive immediately recognized the feminine form, and he fixed his eyes hungrily upon this window. The queen had more prudence than her American admirer, however, and as soon as the latter looked up at her she vanished from his view. The king had not missed the part Clive played in this short drama, and he became immediately suspicious of the, American. M. de Treville also observed Clive’s rapt gaze in the direction of the queen’s quarters, and fearing the king would notice it he called to Clive.
“Come Monsieur Clive,” he said; “the king is waiting for us.” And then as they were walking up the stairs he added in a low voice: “Louis XIII is very jealous of the queen, it would be well for you to be prepared to tell him upon what you were gazing so attentively just now if he should ask you.”
Clive’s face flushed visibly. “Thank you, Monsieur,” he said. Arriving in the reception hall a sight greeted Clive’s eyes that even outdid the million dollar productions arising in Hollywood. At the far end of the room sat the king on his throne. The seat on the king’s left was vacant—this was the first feature that struck Clive’s eye. Distributed in numerous small groups about the hall stood the courtiers, each trying to outdo the others in the mater of costume, and all trying to outshine the sun. All eyes were turned toward the motorcycle that had just been deposited at the head of the stairs. Clive walked over to the machine, and debated a moment the advisability of pushing it the entire length of the hall, under the critical eyes of the assembled spectators, who would look upon this as a task for peasants; yet the servants had left and he could see that he was expected to demonstrate the machine. Upon a sudden impulse he mounted the motorcycle and started the motor.
“A small dose of exhaust fumes won’t hurt them much,” he said to himself, and he steered the vehicle down the hall, stopping in front of the king. He dismounted, and bowed low before the king, who favored him with a smile and a nod.
“Monsieur Clive,” said his majesty, “I have been hearing stirring tales of your prowess as a fighter, but even more of the strange machines and weapons that you have so opportunely produced.” The king stopped as though weighing what he was about to say, and then blushing he continued: “Would it be perfectly safe for the king of France to ride for a short distance with you on that-odd vehicle?”
