“There is no way to return to France,” Phillip cried. “The sea lanes are no longer open. The entire world is at war.”
D’Artagnan’s eyes danced with pleased excitement.
“Excellent!” he cried. “My greatest fear has been that I would arise from my entombment in a world of dullness and peace. Comrades, we are in luck. From what our friend tells us we can step out this door and find enemies lurking in every street and alley.”
“You will not find enemies here,” Phillip said, shaking his head. “The people of America are now at war with the Germans. Their sympathies are and have been always with France.”
“This,” said D’Artagnan, “is becoming more complicated each minute.” He frowned thoughtfully. “Perhaps you had better explain everything in detail to us.”
Phillip Poincare spent that night and the better part of the next morning attempting to bring the Musketeers up to date and to interpret to them the international situation with all of its various ramifications. Whether he succeeded he couldn’t tell.
Athos and Aramis dropped off to sleep in the middle of the narrative and Porthos was nodding wearily before it was completed. Only D’Artagnan listened eagerly to the entire recital, and when Phillip had finished his account of the modern world, he had but one question to ask.
“Where can we find this man De Gaulle?” D’Artagnan said softly as his hand closed about the hilt of his sword.
Chapter IV
The rays of the morning sun awoke Phillip Poincare on the following day. With a start he sprang to his feet. He was still fully clothed and he realized that he had fallen asleep in his chair. For a dazed instant his mind flickered back over the preceding night and his first thought was that he had suffered a weird nightmare.
But a glance about the room convinced him that the previous night had not been a figment of his imagination. For stretched out on the floor, in various attitudes of slumber, were Athos, Porthos, Aramis and the dashing D’Artagnan, looking like an innocent child with his wavy brown hair falling over one eye and a peaceful smile curving his lips.
Quietly Phillip prepared himself for work. He would have to leave them here during the day, and the thought of what possibly might happen caused a nervous perspiration to break out on his forehead.
But he reckoned without his guests.
He was tiptoeing toward the door, hat in hand, when D’Artagnan stretched and opened one eye.
“Ah!” he cried. “The greetings of the day, my friend.”
With a lithe movement he sprang to his feet, stretched his arms over his head and then drummed his fists against his chest. The three slumbering Musketeers awoke and sat up. Greetings were exchanged and Aramis called down the wrath of the Heavens on D’Artagnan for arousing them at such an unearthly hour.
Phillip fidgeted uncomfortably. His eyes strayed to the clock.
“I must leave you now,” he said hastily-
“But no!” D’Artagnan cried. “We shall accompany you, Comrade. We need you to act as guide and interpreter in our wanderings. Come, you lazy dogs, on your feet. Our comrade waits impatiently.”
“But you can’t come with me,” Phillip protested. “I have to go to work.”
“Very well,” D’Artagnan said. “We shall go with you and help. After all, it is only fair.”
Aramis and Athos climbed eagerly to their feet but Porthos shook his head, frowning.
“Leave me here,” he said. “Things have happened too quickly for my poor tired brain to understand. I must think and I need solitude for that.”
“Also,” D’Artagnan grinned, “you need something with which to think, my ox-like friend. But if you wish to remain behind, so be it.”
“I must,” said Porthos. “I am puzzled.”
“Then let us be off,” D’Artagnan cried.
And in spite of Phillip’s feeble protests, the musketeers hurried him out the door, down the steps and into the street. His explanations of the night before had prepared them for the sights that met their eyes, but still they were highly amazed by the cars shooting by and the paved streets and brick houses.
D’Artagnan stretched his arms in the sunshine.
“But it is glorious,” he cried. He breathed deeply. “At least the sun and the wind and the birds and trees have not changed. They are familiar old friends.”
“Come,” Phillip said nervously. “We must hurry.”
“Lead on!” D’Artagnan cried. “Through hell’s fire we follow.”
Phillip led them down the street to the street car line where he caught the car to work. With nervous apprehension he noticed the curious glances of pedestrians as they saw the cloaked and booted figures of the Musketeers.
A fat, well-dressed man who was also waiting for a car studied the three musketeers for an incredulous moment and then broke into a roar of laughter.
He turned and nudged his companion.
“Look,” he chortled, pointing a fat finger at the objects of his mirth. “I wonder what election bet they lost.”
D’Artagnan’s lean face flushed angrily. His hand flashed to the hilt of his sword, but Phillip stayed his arm.
“He meant no harm,” he whispered.
The color faded from D’Artagnan’s face and his fingers slowly loosened their grip on his sword hilt. But his eyes were still as cold and hard as dagger points.
“It would give me great satisfaction to spit him like a roasting hen,” he said softly.
Fortunately at that moment the street car arrived. Phillip climbed aboard and the Musketeers followed his action, greatly excited with their new adventure. Phillip paid the fares and led his charges into the body of the car.
The fat man who had been waiting managed to squeeze ahead of Phillip and settle himself in the last available seat with a smug pleased expression on his round, pompous face. Not only had he outmaneuvered Phillip, but he had reached the seat an instant ahead of a slim, red-haired young girl who had gotten on at the opposite end of the car. The girl was almost knocked off her feet by his bull-like dash to the seat and she grabbed a strap just in time to save herself from falling.
The street car started with a lurch.
Phillip, with dexterity born of long experience, clutched at a strap in the nick of time, but D’Artagnan and his two companions almost fell to the floor as they lost their balance.
“Mon Dieu!” D’Artagnan cried, as he staggered back, “this is worse than that wild steed of mine.”
Heads turned from one end of the car to the other and amazed glances were fixed on the three picturesquely clad musketeers, with the swinging swords and flopping hats. A running fire of whispered comment spread from person to person. Phillip felt acutely nervous for a while, but his worry abated slightly as he realized that most of the passengers regarded his companions as masquerading college youths. He breathed a sigh of relief.
D’Artagnan tapped him on the shoulder.
“Yes?” Phillip whispered.
D’Artagnan nodded toward the red-haired girl who was hanging uncomfortably by one hand to the strap. As the car lurched and swayed she had difficulty keeping her balance. Phillip drew a nervous breath as he noticed the angry spots of color in D’Artagnan’s lean face.
“Why is the girl left to stand?” D’Artagnan asked coldly. “What kind of gentlemen do you breed in this land? His eyes raked contemptuously over the men, seated comfortably, reading their morning newspapers.
“Quietly,” Phillip whispered. “This is no concern of yours. Please, do not cause a scene here.”
The florid faced fat man and others had heard D’Artagnan’s remarks. They were looking at him with hostile glances and Phillip could hear mutterings from some of the men.