hen he came up with him. Then the real race
would begin--then the struggle would be in earnest.

D'Artagnan gave his horse good breathing-time. He observed that the
surintendant had relaxed into a trot, which was to say, he likewise was
indulging his horse. But both of them were too much pressed for time to
allow them to continue long at that pace. The white horse sprang off
like an arrow the moment his feet touched firm ground. D'Artagnan
dropped his hand, and his black horse broke into a gallop. Both followed
the same route; the quadruple echoes of the course were confounded.
Fouquet had not yet perceived D'Artagnan. But on issuing from the slope,
a single echo struck the air, it was that of the steps of D'Artagnan's
horse, which rolled along like thunder. Fouquet turned round, and saw
behind him, within a hundred paces, his enemy bent over the neck of his
horse. There could be no doubt--the shining baldrick, the red
cassock--it was a musketeer. Fouquet slackened his hand likewise, and
the white horse placed twenty feet more between his adversary and
himself.

"Oh, but," thought D'Artagnan, becoming very anxious, "that is not a
common horse M. Fouquet is upon--let us see!" And he attentively
examined, with his infallible eye, the shape and capabilities of the
courser. Round full quarters--a thin long tail--large hocks--thin legs,
dry as bars of steel--hoofs hard as marble. He spurred his own, but the
distance between the two remained the same. D'Artagnan listened
attentively; not a breath of the horse reached him, and yet he seemed to
cut the air. The black horse, on the contrary, began to blow like a
blacksmith's bellows.

"I must overtake him, if I kill my horse," thought the musketeer: and he
began to saw the mouth of the poor animal, while he buried the rowels of
his merciless spurs in his sides. The maddened horse gained twenty
toises, and came up within pistol-shot of Fouquet.

"Courage!" said the musketeer to himself, "courage; the white horse will
perhaps grow weaker, and if the horse does not fall, the master must
fall at last." But horse and rider remained upright together, and
gaining ground by degrees. D'Artagnan uttered a wild cry, which made
Fouquet turn round, and added speed to the white horse.

"A famous horse! a mad rider!" growled the captain. "Hola! mordioux!
Monsieur Fouquet! stop! in the king's name!" Fouquet made no reply.

"Do you hear me?" shouted D'Artagnan, whose horse had just stumble