Chapter 40

Chapter XL
The White Horse and the Black Horse
”That is rather surprising,” said d’Artagnan,- “Gourville running about the streets so gayly, when he is almost certain that M. Fouquet is in danger; when it is almost equally certain that it was Gourville who warned M. Fouquet just now by the note which was torn into a thousand pieces upon the terrace, and given to the winds by Monsieur the Superintendent. Gourville is rubbing his hands; that is because he has done something clever. Whence comes M. Gourville? Gourville is coming from the Rue aux Herbes. Whither does the Rue aux Herbes lead?” And d’Artagnan followed, along the tops of the houses of Nantes dominated by the castle, the line traced by the streets, as he would have done upon a topographical plan; only, instead of the dead flat paper, the living chart rose in relief with the cries, the movements, and the shadows of the men and things.

Beyond the enclosure of the city the great verdant plains stretched out, bordering the Loire, and appeared to run towards the empurpled horizon, which was cut by the azure of the waters and the dark green of the marshes. Immediately outside the gates of Nantes two white roads were seen diverging like the separated fingers of a gigantic hand. D’Artagnan, who had taken in all the panorama at a glance in crossing the terrace, was led by the line of the Rue aux Herbes to the mouth of one of those roads which took its rise under the gates of Nantes. One step more, and he was about to descend the stairs, take his trellised carriage, and go towards the lodgings of M. Fouquet. But chance decreed that at the moment of recommencing his descent he was attracted by a moving point which was gaining ground upon that road.

“What is that?” said the musketeer to himself; “a horse galloping,- a runaway horse, no doubt. At what a pace he is going!” The moving point became detached from the road, and entered into the fields. “A white horse,” continued the captain, who had just seen the color thrown out luminously against the dark ground, “and he is mounted; it must be some boy whose horse is thirsty and has run away with him across lots to the drinking place.” These reflections, rapid as lightning, simultaneous with visual perception, d’Artagnan had already forgotten when he descended the first steps of the staircase. Some morsels of paper were spread over the stairs, and shone out white against the dirty stones. “Eh, eh!” said the captain to himself, “here are some of the fragments of the note torn by M. Fouquet. Poor man! he had given his secret to the wind; the wind will have no more to do with it, and brings it back to the King. Decidedly, Fouquet, you play with misfortune! The game is not a fair one,- fortune is against you. The star of Louis XIV obscures yours; the adder is stronger and more cunning than