Turning from Porthos he patted the shoulder of the fair-haired, plump man who stood beside him.
“This noble soul is Aramis,” the young man said. “And last we come to Athos, the pride of the ladies of the court, the fond friend of the perfumers and lace makers, and the coolest blade in France.”
With a slight flourish he bowed to the last of the strange company, a tall, serious faced young man with firm, mobile lips and soft, warmly colored eyes.
Phillip stared dazedly at the four costumed men. His heart was hammering with a deafening sound in his ears. Those names...
Athos! Porthos! Aramis!
What did this mean? Was it all some colossal hoax?
He turned beseechingly to the dashing young man who had made the introductions.
“Who are you? Where did you come from?”
The tall young man with the lean face and smiling eyes, whipped out his gleaming blade and raised it in a salute. He laughed and a ringlet of brown hair fell over his forehead.
“My name is Gascon,” he answered. “Gascon D’Artagnan at your service.
Although the good Cardinal has called me many other uncomplimentary things, men know me simply as D’Artagnan.”
“D’Artagnan!” Phillip breathed the word slowly.
“Yes,” the young man said. He smiled and sheathed his sword. “Now if there is aught we can do to repay you for your great service I insist that you name it. Do you have enemies? Porthos will wring their necks and Athos will run them through for you. Aramis will pray for their souls and I will drink to their everlasting poor health. Come, name your wish, and by the honor of the King’s guard it shall be our command.”
Phillip’s bewildered confusion increased. There was an undeniable ring of sincerity in the young man’s voice and expression, but the entire thing was so preposterous...
“I appreciate your offer,” he said, haltingly, “but I don’t have any enemies.”
“That is unfortunate,” the young man who called himself D’Artagnan said reprovingly. “If you have no enemies, with whom do you fight?”
“I do not fight anyone,” Phillip answered.
D’Artagnan regarded him incredulously.
“A Frenchman who does not fight! It is unbelievable. Tell me, don’t you find life dull? My poor good father gave me nothing but advice, but some of it was beyond measure. Fight, Gascon! Fight always! I can hear his old voice again, repeating these words over and over. And, being of course a dutiful son, I have tried faithfully to follow his instructions.”
Porthos and Athos exchanged amused grins.
“And it is only in respect to your dear dead father that you fight, eh?” Porthos said gravely.
Phillip found the situation growing more and more bewildering. There was something weird and hysterical about the entire scene, as if it were something rehearsed in a madhouse.
“Gentlemen, please!” He stood up, an imploring note in his voice. “I appreciate your offers of help, but I do not need your assistance. I would be obliged if you would tell me who you are and why you are here. I have had a severe shock tonight and I am not in the mood for practical jokes.”
D’Artagnan looked slightly puzzled. “Mon ami,” he said, “I have told you who we are. How we come to be here is a long story, and I think you have a right to hear it. Do you not agree, comrades?” he asked, turning to his three companions.
The huge Porthos nodded.
“But, of course,” said Aramis and Athos in one voice.
D’Artagnan strolled up and down the room for a few moments in silence, his lean features thoughtful and a curious mellow glint of reminiscence in his dark expressive eyes.
“It is a simple story,” he said at last. “My friends and I for many years enjoyed a stimulating conflict with His Eminence, the Cardinal Duke de Richelieu. And you may be sure that the Red Duke was a worthy adversary, clever, resourceful and as captivated by a good hard fight as were we.” D’Artagnan paused and chuckled. “But in spite of our many disagreements, His Eminence could never bring himself to be really angry with us. Sometimes I think he was secretly glad when we routed his precious guardsmen, for it amused him to see their pomposity deflated. However, many of our enemies were not as tolerant as His Eminence. I fear they lacked his sense of humor, for they decided one night to put an end to our fun-loving pranks by the simple expedient of hanging us by our necks until we lost interest in the procedure. His Eminence saved us, for he enjoyed too much our little feud to see us dispatched, but he was forced to resort to drastic measures.
“And so,” D’Artagnan said, spreading his hands expressively, “with the aid of his immense powers he entombed us in the manuscript of the great man whose fertile pen had transmitted our adventures to paper, the Dumas Pere.
“The entombment,” he said wryly, “was supposed to be only a temporary sojourn, but several events beyond even the almost miraculous ken of His Eminence miscarried. Among these was the death of His Eminence. Since then we have waited long for our liberation, and it is to you we owe thanks for that happy event. Now do you understand how and why we are here?”
Phillip swallowed and sank back weakly in his chair. His brain was wheeling in dizzy, spiralling circles. Nothing seemed to make sense, least of all himself. For despite his common sense, he found himself believing the incredible story of this slim assured young man. Why, he couldn’t say.
“Now,” D’Artagnan said briskly, “you must tell us where we are and what year this is. And how far are we from Paris?”
“You are in America,” Phillip said weakly. “A century and a half have passed since the period you speak of.”
“America!” D’Artagnan frowned. “That is inconvenient. But,” he shrugged philosophically, “I suppose it can’t be helped. Anyway, I shall be glad to inspect the colonies of the good King.”
The mighty Porthos shook his head worriedly.
“This I do not like,” he said ponderously. “This is a new, strange world. I wish to return to my France as soon as possible.”
Phillip Poincare looked at these sons and heroes of France and there was a sadness in his eyes. They didn’t know.
“That is not possible now,” he said gently. “France has been at war with Germany for the past three years. It would be impossible for you to return there now.”
“War!” D’Artagnan cried. His strong brown hand closed over the hilt of his sword. “Our France at war and we stand here idle!”
“All the more reason for returning immediately,” Porthos said.
“But you don’t understand,” Phillip said desperately. “France lost the war over two years ago. They are now a subject nation.”
D’Artagnan’s blade leaped from its sheath. Its gleaming point swung to a stop, inches from Phillip’s heart.
“Take care,” D’Artagnan said tensely, “or I will forget the debt I owe you.” Phillip looked at the glinting point of the sword and he saw the grimness in D’Artagnan’s eyes, but he felt no fear. Only a vast pity for these courageous adventurers from another time.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “I am only telling the truth. France has been defeated.”
“She will rise!” Athos said. His eyes were no longer warm and his full lips had flattened into a thin hard line.
“‘Who was her enemy?” D’Artagnan demanded.
“The Germans,” Phillip answered. “Ah!” D’Artagnan made a gesture of disgust. “To lose to those beer swilling swine is an insult to injury.” He wheeled about, flinging his cape over his shoulder. “Well, comrades, what shall we do?”
“We return to France,” Athos said simply. “What else could we do?”
Aramis nodded slowly and Porthos grunted in assent.