The Second Time Travel Megapack: 23 Modern and Classic Stories Read online

  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?”

  Clive considered for a moment. “In order to do so,” he said, “it would be necessary for your highness to ride behind me, and it is hardly proper that I turn my back upon the king of France.”

  “But if I ordered you to do so,” answered the king proudly, “such action could not be considered anything but proper.”

  “But your highness forgets,” answered Clive, standing stiffly before the king, “I am not one of your subjects, and am, therefore, not accountable to you for your orders. If you will change that order to a request,” he continued, “I will be very happy to comply with your wishes.”

  Clive knew he was sticking his neck out by saying this, but somehow this still seemed like a dream to him; a dream from which he could awaken at any time. He felt that if the going got too tough he could fight his way to the streets and once on his motorcycle he could easily reach Amiens where he could swim through the caverns to safety.

  The king flushed with anger and stood up as though about to command Clive’s arrest, then thinking better of it he said:

  “Monsieur, it is true you are not one of my subjects, and your presence in my country may need some explaining. The fact remains, however, that you have done a service for France, for which we are grateful, and you shall see that even a king can show his gratitude.” If this speech was meant to humiliate Clive it had no such effect, at least not outwardly. The king continued: “Now Monsieur, if you will allow me to mount your machine I would like to try a short ride with you.”

  “I would be honored to have you ride with me,” said Clive as though the first part of the conversation had never been spoken. The two men, king and truck driver mounted the machine, and the king motioned everyone back. This motion was more or less superfluous for the moment the motor was started the spectators pressed themselves tightly against the walls. Clive sent the machine round and round the room, gathering speed as the king gained confidence. When finally they stopped, the king was flushed with excitement, and like a child he did not want to dismount, but wanted to continue riding around the hall. Clive explained to him that the exhaust fumes, which were now becoming quite noticeable, might have a harmful effect upon those present if they became more concentrated.

  “In that case, Monsieur,” said the king, “we must defer our ride to some other time. For the present will you be so kind as to accompany me to my chambers? I am very curious to hear your story. I shall also ask M. de Treville and my four amazing musketeers to accompany us.”

  The five men just mentioned were standing near and overhead this last remark, as the king had intended, and followed Clive and the king to the chambers of the latter.

  “Now, Monsieur Clive,” said the king when they were all seated, “I am sure your story is an interesting one, and since I cannot order you to relate it, I request your condescension,” Although friendly, the king’s voice had an unmistakable undertone of irony. “Before you start, however,” he continued, “would you mind telling me what appeared so interesting to you in the east wing, while you were in the courtyard this evening?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Clive, as though that had been on his mind, “I was going to ask someone if falconry was commonly practiced here in Paris.”

  “Falconry?” asked the king.

  “Yes, your Majesty. Just as I was about to enter the Louvre I glanced up in time to see a falcon, that had just been liberated, pursue a pigeon. The bird escaped, however, by flying into a small window in the building.”

  The king seemed immediately absorbed by Clive’s story. “And the falcon,” he asked, “what became of it?”

  “The falcon followed the pigeon through the window, but almost immediately returned as though driven out. It then flew over the building and disappeared on the other side.” This story of Clive’s was not just a product of his imagination, although the incident had occurred at the time he rode into the court, and not at the time he had been enchanted by the momentary view of the queen. He had not given the matter much attention at the time, but after Treville’s warning he had raked his mind for a plausible stor
y. He knew that he couldn’t just tell the king he had been staring at his wife, and then he thought of the falcon incident which had occurred almost directly above the window through which he had seen the queen.

  The king appeared to be annoyed and quite upset by Clive’s story, and he immediately called for La Chesnaye, his secretary and valet de chambre.

  “La Chesnaye,” said the king when the secretary had appeared, “do you know of anyone in the palace who has recently taken an interest in falconry?”

  “No, sire, that is, no one besides His Eminence,” answered the secretary.

  “His Eminence!” cried the king. “Does Monsieur le Cardinal, then, take time from his campaigns to devote to training falcons, as one must do to be a falconer?”

  “No sire, I thought you knew,” said La Chesnaye who acted genuinely surprised. “His Eminence has been acquainting himself with your falcons.”

  “My falcons!” The king was beside himself, he stormed up and down the room, heaping abuse upon everything and everybody in general, but carefully omitting the name of Richelieu. “If His Eminence has taken up falconry, and so suddenly that he has found need of my falcons, my throne is again tottering under intrigue,” he said, after he had calmed down enough to give the matter a reasonable thought. He threw himself into a chair and stared silently at the floor for some time. Rather than being embarrassed by this outburst, Clive had a feeling of relief, since his emotional display put the king in the same category as other mortals.

  Gradually the attitude of Louis XIII changed, and this change was mirrored in his face. Without looking up from the floor he said: