The Three Musketeers - Part II

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The Three Musketeers

PART II

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CHAPTER XXI

The Comtesse de Winter

As they rode along, the duke endeavored to draw from d’Artagnan, not all that had happened, but what d’Artagnan himself knew. By adding all that he heard from the mouth of the young man to his own remembrances, he was enabled to form a pretty exact idea of a position of the seriousness of which, for the rest, the queen’s letter, short but explicit, gave him the clue. But that which astonished him most was that the cardinal, so deeply interested in preventing this young man from setting his foot in England, had not succeeded in arresting him on the road. It was then, upon the manifestation of this astonishment, that d’Artagnan related to him the precaution taken, and how, thanks to the devotion of his three friends, whom he had left scattered and bleeding on the road, he had succeeded in coming off with a single sword thrust, which had pierced the queen’s letter and for which he had repaid M. de Wardes with such terrible coin. While he was listening to this recital, delivered with the greatest simplicity, the duke looked from time to time at the young man with astonishment, as if he could not comprehend how so much prudence, courage, and devotedness could be allied with a countenance which indicated not more than twenty years.

The horses went like the wind, and in a few minutes they were at the gates of London. D’Artagnan imagined that on arriving in town the duke would slacken his pace, but it was not so. He kept on his way at the same rate, heedless about upsetting those whom he met on the road. In fact, in crossing the city two or three accidents of this kind happened; but Buckingham did not even turn his head to see what became of those he had knocked down. D’Artagnan followed him amid cries which strongly resembled curses.

On entering the court of his hotel, Buckingham sprang from his horse, and without thinking what became of the animal, threw the bridle on his neck, and sprang toward the vestibule. D’Artagnan did the same, with a little more concern, however, for the noble creatures, whose merits he fully appreciated; but he had the satisfaction of seeing three or four grooms run from the kitchens and the stables, and busy themselves with the steeds.

The duke walked so fast that d’Artagnan had some trouble in keeping up with him. He passed through several apartments, of an elegance of which even the greatest nobles of France had not even an idea, and arrived at length in a bedchamber which was at once a miracle of taste and of richness. In the alcove of this chamber was a door concealed in the tapestry which the duke opened with a little gold key which he wore suspended from his neck by a chain of the same metal. With discretion d’Artagnan remained behind; but at the moment when Buckingham crossed the threshold, he turned round, and seeing the hesitation of the young man, “Come in!” cried he, “and if you have the good fortune to be admitted to Her Majesty’s presence, tell her what you have seen.”

Encouraged by this invitation, d’Artagnan followed the duke, who closed the door after them. The two found themselves in a small chapel covered with a tapestry of Persian silk worked with gold, and brilliantly lighted with a vast number of candles. Over a species of altar, and beneath a canopy of blue velvet, surmounted by white and red plumes, was a full-length portrait of Anne of Austria, so perfect in its resemblance that d’Artagnan uttered a cry of surprise on beholding it. One might believe the queen was about to speak. On the altar, and beneath the portrait, was the casket containing the diamond studs.

The duke approached the altar, knelt as a priest might have done before a crucifix, and opened the casket. “There,” said he, drawing from the casket a large bow of blue ribbon all sparkling with diamonds, “there are the precious studs which I have taken an oath should be buried with me. The queen gave them to me, the queen requires them again. Her will be done, like that of God, in all things.”

Then, he began to kiss, one after the other, those dear studs with which he was about to part. All at once he uttered a terrible cry.

“What is the matter?” exclaimed d’Artagnan, anxiously; “what has happened to you, my Lord?”

“All is lost!” cried Buckingham, becoming as pale as a corpse; “two of the studs are wanting, there are only ten.”

“Can you have lost them, my Lord, or do you think they have been stolen?”

“They have been stolen,” replied the duke, “and it is the cardinal who has dealt this blow. Hold; see! The ribbons which held them have been cut with scissors.”

“If my Lord suspects they have been stolen, perhaps the person who stole them still has them in his hands.”

“Wait, wait!” said the duke. “The only time I have worn these studs was at a ball given by the king eight days ago at Windsor. The Comtesse de Winter, with whom I had quarreled, became reconciled to me at that ball. That reconciliation was nothing but the vengeance of a jealous woman. I have never seen her from that day. The woman is an agent of the cardinal.”

“He has agents, then, throughout the world?” cried d’Artagnan.

“Oh, yes,” said Buckingham, grating his teeth with rage. “Yes, he is a terrible antagonist. But when is this ball to take place?”

“Monday next.”

“Monday next! Still five days before us. That’s more time than we want. Patrick!” cried the duke, opening the door of the chapel, “Patrick!” His confidential valet appeared.

“My jeweler and my secretary.”

The valet went out with a mute promptitude which showed him accustomed to obey blindly and without reply.

But although the jeweler had been mentioned first, it was the secretary who first made his appearance. This was simply because he lived in the hotel. He found Buckingham seated at a table in his bedchamber, writing orders with his own hand.

“Mr. Jackson,” said he, “go instantly to the Lord Chancellor, and tell him that I charge him with the execution of these orders. I wish them to be promulgated immediately.”

“But, my Lord, if the Lord Chancellor interrogates me upon the motives which may have led your Grace to adopt such an extraordinary measure, what shall I reply?”

“That such is my pleasure, and that I answer for my will to no man.”

“Will that be the answer,” replied the secretary, smiling, “which he must transmit to His Majesty if, by chance, His Majesty should have the curiosity to know why no vessel is to leave any of the ports of Great Britain?”

“You are right, Mr. Jackson,” replied Buckingham. “He will say, in that case, to the king that I am determined on war, and that this measure is my first act of hostility against France.”

The secretary bowed and retired.

“We are safe on that side,” said Buckingham, turning toward d’Artagnan. “If the studs are not yet gone to Paris, they will not arrive till after you.”

“How so?”

“I have just placed an embargo on all vessels at present in His Majesty’s ports, and without particular permission, not one dare lift an anchor.”

D’Artagnan looked with stupefaction at a man who thus employed the unlimited power with which he was clothed by the confidence of a king in the prosecution of his intrigues. Buckingham saw by the expression of the young man’s face what was passing in his mind, and he smiled.

“Yes,” said he, “yes, Anne of Austria is my true queen. Upon a word from her, I would betray my country, I would betray my king, I would betray my God. She asked me not to send the Protestants of La Rochelle the assistance I promised them; I have not done so. I broke my word, it is true; but what signifies that? I obeyed my love; and have I not been richly paid for that obedience? It was to that obedience I owe her portrait.”

D’Artagnan was amazed to note by what fragile and unknown threads the destinies of nations and the lives of men are suspended. He was lost in these reflections when the goldsmith entered. He was an Irishman⁠—one of the most skillful of his craft, and who himself confessed that he gained a hundred thousand livres a year by the Duke of Buckingham.

“Mr. O’Reilly,” said the duke, leading him into the chapel, “look at these diamond studs, and tell me what they are worth apiece.”

The goldsmith cast a glance at the elegant manner in which they were set, calculated, one with another, what the diamonds were worth, and without hesitation said, “Fifteen hundred pistoles each, my Lord.”

“How many days would it require to make two studs exactly like them? You see there are two wanting.”

“Eight days, my Lord.”

“I will give you three thousand pistoles apiece if I can have them by the day after tomorrow.”

“My Lord, they shall be yours.”

“You are a jewel of a man, Mr. O’Reilly; but that is not all. These studs cannot be trusted to anybody; it must be done in the palace.”

“Impossible, my Lord! There is no one but myself can so execute them that one cannot tell the new from the old.”

“Therefore, my dear Mr. O’Reilly, you are my prisoner. And if you wish ever to leave my palace, you cannot; so make the best of it. Name to me such of your workmen as you need, and point out the tools they must bring.”

The goldsmith knew the duke. He knew all objection would be useless, and instantly determined how to act.

“May I be permitted to inform my wife?” said he.

“Oh, you may even see her if you like, my dear Mr. O’Reilly. Your captivity shall be mild, be assured; and as every inconvenience deserves its indemnification, here is, in addition to the price of the studs, an order for a thousand pistoles, to make you forget the annoyance I cause you.”

D’Artagnan could not get over the surprise created in him by this minister, who thus openhanded, sported with men and millions.

As to the goldsmith, he wrote to his wife, sending her the order for the thousand pistoles, and charging her to send him, in exchange, his most skillful apprentice, an assortment of diamonds, of which he gave the names and the weight, and the necessary tools.

Buckingham conducted the goldsmith to the chamber destined for him, and which, at the end of half an hour, was transformed into a workshop. Then he placed a sentinel at each door, with an order to admit nobody upon any pretense but his valet de chambre, Patrick. We need not add that the goldsmith, O’Reilly, and his assistant, were prohibited from going out under any pretext. This point, settled, the duke turned to d’Artagnan. “Now, my young friend,” said he, “England is all our own. What do you wish for? What do you desire?”

“A bed, my Lord,” replied d’Artagnan. “At present, I confess, that is the thing I stand most in need of.”

Buckingham gave d’Artagnan a chamber adjoining his own. He wished to have the young man at hand⁠—not that he at all mistrusted him, but for the sake of having someone to whom he could constantly talk of the queen.

In one hour after, the ordinance was published in London that no vessel bound for France should leave port, not even the packet boat with letters. In the eyes of everybody this was a declaration of war between the two kingdoms.

On the day after the morrow, by eleven o’clock, the two diamond studs were finished, and they were so completely imitated, so perfectly alike, that Buckingham could not tell the new ones from the old ones, and experts in such matters would have been deceived as he was. He immediately called d’Artagnan.

“Here,” said he to him, “are the diamond studs that you came to bring; and be my witness that I have done all that human power could do.”

“Be satisfied, my Lord, I will tell all that I have seen. But does your Grace mean to give me the studs without the casket?”

“The casket would encumber you. Besides, the casket is the more precious from being all that is left to me. You will say that I keep it.”

“I will perform your commission, word for word, my Lord.”

“And now,” resumed Buckingham, looking earnestly at the young man, “how shall I ever acquit myself of the debt I owe you?”

D’Artagnan blushed up to the whites of his eyes. He saw that the duke was searching for a means of making him accept something and the idea that the blood of his friends and himself was about to be paid for with English gold was strangely repugnant to him.

“Let us understand each other, my Lord,” replied d’Artagnan, “and let us make things clear beforehand in order that there may be no mistake. I am in the service of the King and Queen of France, and form part of the company of M. des Essart, who, as well as his brother-in-law, M. de Tréville, is particularly attached to their Majesties. What I have done, then, has been for the queen, and not at all for your Grace. And still further, it is very probable I should not have done anything of this, if it had not been to make myself agreeable to someone who is my lady, as the queen is yours.”

“Yes,” said the duke, smiling, “and I even believe that I know that other person; it is⁠—”

“My Lord, I have not named her!” interrupted the young man, warmly.

“That is true,” said the duke; “and it is to this person I am bound to discharge my debt of gratitude.”

“You have said, my Lord; for truly, at this moment when there is question of war, I confess to you that I see nothing in your Grace but an Englishman, and consequently an enemy whom I should have much greater pleasure in meeting on the field of battle than in the park at Windsor or the corridors of the Louvre⁠—all which, however, will not prevent me from executing to the very point my commission or from laying down my life, if there be need of it, to accomplish it; but I repeat it to your Grace, without your having personally on that account more to thank me for in this second interview than for what I did for you in the first.”

“We say, ‘Proud as a Scotsman,’ ” murmured the Duke of Buckingham.

“And we say, ‘Proud as a Gascon,’ ” replied d’Artagnan. “The Gascons are the Scots of France.”

D’Artagnan bowed to the duke, and was retiring.

“Well, are you going away in that manner? Where, and how?”

“That’s true!”

“ ’Fore Gad, these Frenchmen have no consideration!”

“I had forgotten that England was an island, and that you were the king of it.”

“Go to the riverside, ask for the brig Sund, and give this letter to the captain; he will convey you to a little port, where certainly you are not expected, and which is ordinarily only frequented by fishermen.”

“The name of that port?”

“St. Valery; but listen. When you have arrived there you will go to a mean tavern, without a name and without a sign⁠—a mere fisherman’s hut. You cannot be mistaken; there is but one.”

“Afterward?”

“You will ask for the host, and will repeat to him the word ‘Forward!’ ”

“Which means?”

“In French, en avant. It is the password. He will give you a horse all saddled, and will point out to you the road you ought to take. You will find, in the same way, four relays on your route. If you will give at each of these relays your address in Paris, the four horses will follow you thither. You already know two of them, and you appeared to appreciate them like a judge. They were those we rode on; and you may rely upon me for the others not being inferior to them. These horses are equipped for the field. However proud you may be, you will not refuse to accept one of them, and to request your three companions to accept the others⁠—that is, in order to make war against us. Besides, the end justified the means, as you Frenchmen say, does it not?”

“Yes, my Lord, I accept them,” said d’Artagnan; “and if it please God, we will make a good use of your presents.”

“Well, now, your hand, young man. Perhaps we shall soon meet on the field of battle; but in the meantime we shall part good friends, I hope.”

“Yes, my Lord; but with the hope of soon becoming enemies.”

“Be satisfied; I promise you that.”

“I depend upon your word, my Lord.”

D’Artagnan bowed to the duke, and made his way as quickly as possible to the riverside. Opposite the Tower of London he found the vessel that had been named to him, delivered his letter to the captain, who after having it examined by the governor of the port made immediate preparations to sail.

Fifty vessels were waiting to set out. Passing alongside one of them, d’Artagnan fancied he perceived on board it the woman of Meung⁠—the same whom the unknown gentleman had called Milady, and whom d’Artagnan had thought so handsome; but thanks to the current of the stream and a fair wind, his vessel passed so quickly that he had little more than a glimpse of her.

The next day about nine o’clock in the morning, he landed at St. Valery. D’Artagnan went instantly in search of the inn, and easily discovered it by the riotous noise which resounded from it. War between England and France was talked of as near and certain, and the jolly sailors were having a carousal.

D’Artagnan made his way through the crowd, advanced toward the host, and pronounced the word “Forward!” The host instantly made him a sign to follow, went out with him by a door which opened into a yard, led him to the stable, where a saddled horse awaited him, and asked him if he stood in need of anything else.

“I want to know the route I am to follow,” said d’Artagnan.

“Go from hence to Blangy, and from Blangy to Neufchâtel. At Neufchâtel, go to the tavern of the Golden Harrow, give the password to the landlord, and you will find, as you have here, a horse ready saddled.”

“Have I anything to pay?” demanded d’Artagnan.

“Everything is paid,” replied the host, “and liberally. Begone, and may God guide you!”

“Amen!” cried the young man, and set off at full gallop.

Four hours later he was in Neufchâtel. He strictly followed the instructions he had received. At Neufchâtel, as at St. Valery, he found a horse quite ready and awaiting him. He was about to remove the pistols from the saddle he had quit to the one he was about to fill, but he found the holsters furnished with similar pistols.

“Your address at Paris?”

“Hotel of the Guards, company of des Essart.”

“Enough,” replied the questioner.

“Which route must I take?” demanded d’Artagnan, in his turn.

“That of Rouen; but you will leave the city on your right. You must stop at the little village of Éccuis, in which there is but one tavern⁠—the Shield of France. Don’t condemn it from appearances; you will find a horse in the stables quite as good as this.”

“The same password?”

“Exactly.”

“Adieu, master!”

“A good journey, gentleman! Do you want anything?”

D’Artagnan shook his head, and set off at full speed. At Éccuis, the same scene was repeated. He found as provident a host and a fresh horse. He left his address as he had done before, and set off again at the same pace for Pontoise. At Pontoise he changed his horse for the last time, and at nine o’clock galloped into the yard of Tréville’s hotel. He had made nearly sixty leagues in little more than twelve hours.

M. de Tréville received him as if he had seen him that same morning; only, when pressing his hand a little more warmly than usual, he informed him that the company of des Essart was on duty at the Louvre, and that he might repair at once to his post.

CHAPTER XXII

The Ballet of La Merlaison

On the morrow, nothing was talked of in Paris but the ball which the aldermen of the city were to give to the king and queen, and in which their Majesties were to dance the famous La Merlaison⁠—the favorite ballet of the king.

Eight days had been occupied in preparations at the Hôtel de Ville for this important evening. The city carpenters had erected scaffolds upon which the invited ladies were to be placed; the city grocer had ornamented the chambers with two hundred flambeaux of white wax, a piece of luxury unheard of at that period; and twenty violins were ordered, and the price for them fixed at double the usual rate, upon condition, said the report, that they should be played all night.

At ten o’clock in the morning the Sieur de la Coste, ensign in the king’s Guards, followed by two officers and several archers of that body, came to the city registrar, named Clément, and demanded of him all the keys of the rooms and offices of the hotel. These keys were given up to him instantly. Each of them had a ticket attached to it, by which it might be recognized; and from that moment the Sieur de la Coste was charged with the care of all the doors and all the avenues.

At eleven o’clock came in his turn Duhallier, captain of the Guards, bringing with him fifty archers, who were distributed immediately through the Hôtel de Ville, at the doors assigned them.

At three o’clock came two companies of the Guards, one French, the other Swiss. The company of French guards was composed of half of M. Duhallier’s men and half of M. des Essart’s men.

At six in the evening the guests began to come. As fast as they entered, they were placed in the grand saloon, on the platforms prepared for them.

At nine o’clock Madame la Premiére Présidente arrived. As next to the queen, she was the most considerable personage of the fête, she was received by the city officials, and placed in a box opposite to that which the queen was to occupy.

At ten o’clock, the king’s collation, consisting of preserves and other delicacies, was prepared in the little room on the side of the church of St. Jean, in front of the silver buffet of the city, which was guarded by four archers.

At midnight great cries and loud acclamations were heard. It was the king, who was passing through the streets which led from the Louvre to the Hôtel de Ville, and which were all illuminated with colored lanterns.

Immediately the aldermen, clothed in their cloth robes and preceded by six sergeants, each holding a flambeau in his hand, went to attend upon the king, whom they met on the steps, where the provost of the merchants made him the speech of welcome⁠—a compliment to which His Majesty replied with an apology for coming so late, laying the blame upon the cardinal, who had detained him till eleven o’clock, talking of affairs of state.

His Majesty, in full dress, was accompanied by His Royal Highness, M. le Comte de Soissons, by the Grand Prior, by the Duc de Longueville, by the Duc d’Elboeuf, by the Comte d’Harcourt, by the Comte de la Roche-Guyon, by M. de Liancourt, by M. de Baradas, by the Comte de Cramail, and by the Chevalier de Souveray. Everybody noticed that the king looked dull and preoccupied.

A private room had been prepared for the king and another for Monsieur. In each of these closets were placed masquerade dresses. The same had been done for the queen and Madame the President. The nobles and ladies of their Majesties’ suites were to dress, two by two, in chambers prepared for the purpose. Before entering his closet the king desired to be informed the moment the cardinal arrived.

Half an hour after the entrance of the king, fresh acclamations were heard; these announced the arrival of the queen. The aldermen did as they had done before, and preceded by their sergeants, advanced to receive their illustrious guest. The queen entered the great hall; and it was remarked that, like the king, she looked dull and even weary.

At the moment she entered, the curtain of a small gallery which to that time had been closed, was drawn, and the pale face of the cardinal appeared, he being dressed as a Spanish cavalier. His eyes were fixed upon those of the queen, and a smile of terrible joy passed over his lips; the queen did not wear her diamond studs.

The queen remained for a short time to receive the compliments of the city dignitaries and to reply to the salutations of the ladies. All at once the king appeared with the cardinal at one of the doors of the hall. The cardinal was speaking to him in a low voice, and the king was very pale.

The king made his way through the crowd without a mask, and the ribbons of his doublet scarcely tied. He went straight to the queen, and in an altered voice said, “Why, Madame, have you not thought proper to wear your diamond studs, when you know it would give me so much gratification?”

The queen cast a glance around her, and saw the cardinal behind, with a diabolical smile on his countenance.

“Sire,” replied the queen, with a faltering voice, “because, in the midst of such a crowd as this, I feared some accident might happen to them.”

“And you were wrong, Madame. If I made you that present it was that you might adorn yourself therewith. I tell you that you were wrong.”

The voice of the king was tremulous with anger. Everybody looked and listened with astonishment, comprehending nothing of what passed.

“Sire,” said the queen, “I can send for them to the Louvre, where they are, and thus Your Majesty’s wishes will be complied with.”

“Do so, Madame, do so, and that at once; for within an hour the ballet will commence.”

The queen bent in token of submission, and followed the ladies who were to conduct her to her room. On his part the king returned to his apartment.

There was a moment of trouble and confusion in the assembly. Everybody had remarked that something had passed between the king and queen; but both of them had spoken so low that everybody, out of respect, withdrew several steps, so that nobody had heard anything. The violins began to sound with all their might, but nobody listened to them.

The king came out first from his room. He was in a most elegant hunting costume; and Monsieur and the other nobles were dressed like him. This was the costume that best became the king. So dressed, he really appeared the first gentleman of his kingdom.

The cardinal drew near to the king, and placed in his hand a small casket. The king opened it, and found in it two diamond studs.

“What does this mean?” demanded he of the cardinal.

“Nothing,” replied the latter; “only, if the queen has the studs, which I very much doubt, count them, sire, and if you only find ten, ask Her Majesty who can have stolen from her the two studs that are here.”

The king looked at the cardinal as if to interrogate him; but he had not time to address any question to him⁠—a cry of admiration burst from every mouth. If the king appeared to be the first gentleman of his kingdom, the queen was without doubt the most beautiful woman in France.

It is true that the habit of a huntress became her admirably. She wore a beaver hat with blue feathers, a surtout of gray-pearl velvet, fastened with diamond clasps, and a petticoat of blue satin, embroidered with silver. On her left shoulder sparkled the diamond studs, on a bow of the same color as the plumes and the petticoat.

The king trembled with joy and the cardinal with vexation; although, distant as they were from the queen, they could not count the studs. The queen had them. The only question was, had she ten or twelve?

At that moment the violins sounded the signal for the ballet. The king advanced toward Madame the President, with whom he was to dance, and His Highness Monsieur with the queen. They took their places, and the ballet began.

The king danced facing the queen, and every time he passed by her, he devoured with his eyes those studs of which he could not ascertain the number. A cold sweat covered the brow of the cardinal.

The ballet lasted an hour, and had sixteen entrées. The ballet ended amid the applause of the whole assemblage, and everyone reconducted his lady to her place; but the king took advantage of the privilege he had of leaving his lady, to advance eagerly toward the queen.

“I thank you, Madame,” said he, “for the deference you have shown to my wishes, but I think you want two of the studs, and I bring them back to you.”

With these words he held out to the queen the two studs the cardinal had given him.

“How, sire?” cried the young queen, affecting surprise, “you are giving me, then, two more: I shall have fourteen.”

In fact the king counted them, and the twelve studs were all on Her Majesty’s shoulder.

The king called the cardinal.

“What does this mean, Monsieur Cardinal?” asked the king in a severe tone.

“This means, sire,” replied the cardinal, “that I was desirous of presenting Her Majesty with these two studs, and that not daring to offer them myself, I adopted this means of inducing her to accept them.”

“And I am the more grateful to your Eminence,” replied Anne of Austria, with a smile that proved she was not the dupe of this ingenious gallantry, “from being certain that these two studs alone have cost you as much as all the others cost His Majesty.”

Then saluting the king and the cardinal, the queen resumed her way to the chamber in which she had dressed, and where she was to take off her costume.

The attention which we have been obliged to give, during the commencement of the chapter, to the illustrious personages we have introduced into it, has diverted us for an instant from him to whom Anne of Austria owed the extraordinary triumph she had obtained over the cardinal; and who, confounded, unknown, lost in the crowd gathered at one of the doors, looked on at this scene, comprehensible only to four persons⁠—the king, the queen, his Eminence, and himself.

The queen had just regained her chamber, and d’Artagnan was about to retire, when he felt his shoulder lightly touched. He turned and saw a young woman, who made him a sign to follow her. The face of this young woman was covered with a black velvet mask; but notwithstanding this precaution, which was in fact taken rather against others than against him, he at once recognized his usual guide, the light and intelligent Madame Bonacieux.

On the evening before, they had scarcely seen each other for a moment at the apartment of the Swiss guard, Germain, whither d’Artagnan had sent for her. The haste which the young woman was in to convey to the queen the excellent news of the happy return of her messenger prevented the two lovers from exchanging more than a few words. D’Artagnan therefore followed Madame Bonacieux moved by a double sentiment⁠—love and curiosity. All the way, and in proportion as the corridors became more deserted, d’Artagnan wished to stop the young woman, seize her and gaze upon her, were it only for a minute; but quick as a bird she glided between his hands, and when he wished to speak to her, her finger placed upon her mouth, with a little imperative gesture full of grace, reminded him that he was under the command of a power which he must blindly obey, and which forbade him even to make the slightest complaint. At length, after winding about for a minute or two, Madame Bonacieux opened the door of a closet, which was entirely dark, and led d’Artagnan into it. There she made a fresh sign of silence, and opened a second door concealed by tapestry. The opening of this door disclosed a brilliant light, and she disappeared.

D’Artagnan remained for a moment motionless, asking himself where he could be; but soon a ray of light which penetrated through the chamber, together with the warm and perfumed air which reached him from the same aperture, the conversation of two of three ladies in language at once respectful and refined, and the word “Majesty” several times repeated, indicated clearly that he was in a closet attached to the queen’s apartment. The young man waited in comparative darkness and listened.

The queen appeared cheerful and happy, which seemed to astonish the persons who surrounded her and who were accustomed to see her almost always sad and full of care. The queen attributed this joyous feeling to the beauty of the fête, to the pleasure she had experienced in the ballet; and as it is not permissible to contradict a queen, whether she smile or weep, everybody expatiated on the gallantry of the aldermen of the city of Paris.

Although d’Artagnan did not at all know the queen, he soon distinguished her voice from the others, at first by a slightly foreign accent, and next by that tone of domination naturally impressed upon all royal words. He heard her approach and withdraw from the partially open door; and twice or three times he even saw the shadow of a person intercept the light.

At length a hand and an arm, surpassingly beautiful in their form and whiteness, glided through the tapestry. D’Artagnan at once comprehended that this was his recompense. He cast himself on his knees, seized the hand, and touched it respectfully with his lips. Then the hand was withdrawn, leaving in his an object which he perceived to be a ring. The door immediately closed, and d’Artagnan found himself again in complete obscurity.

D’Artagnan placed the ring on his finger, and again waited; it was evident that all was not yet over. After the reward of his devotion, that of his love was to come. Besides, although the ballet was danced, the evening had scarcely begun. Supper was to be served at three, and the clock of St. Jean had struck three quarters past two.

The sound of voices diminished by degrees in the adjoining chamber. The company was then heard departing; then the door of the closet in which d’Artagnan was, was opened, and Madame Bonacieux entered.

“You at last?” cried d’Artagnan.

“Silence!” said the young woman, placing her hand upon his lips; “silence, and go the same way you came!”

“But where and when shall I see you again?” cried d’Artagnan.

“A note which you will find at home will tell you. Begone, begone!”

At these words she opened the door of the corridor, and pushed d’Artagnan out of the room. D’Artagnan obeyed like a child, without the least resistance or objection, which proved that he was really in love.

CHAPTER XXIII

The Rendezvous

D’Artagnan ran home immediately, and although it was three o’clock in the morning and he had some of the worst quarters of Paris to traverse, he met with no misadventure. Everyone knows that drunkards and lovers have a protecting deity.

He found the door of his passage open, sprang up the stairs and knocked softly in a manner agreed upon between him and his lackey. Planchet, [4] whom he had sent home two hours before from the Hôtel de Ville, telling him to sit up for him, opened the door for him.

“Has anyone brought a letter for me?” asked d’Artagnan, eagerly.

“No one has brought a letter, Monsieur,” replied Planchet; “but one has come of itself.”

“What do you mean, blockhead?”

“I mean to say that when I came in, although I had the key of your apartment in my pocket, and that key had never quit me, I found a letter on the green table cover in your bedroom.”

“And where is that letter?”

“I left it where I found it, Monsieur. It is not natural for letters to enter people’s houses in this manner. If the window had been open or even ajar, I should think nothing of it; but, no⁠—all was hermetically sealed. Beware, Monsieur; there is certainly some magic underneath.”

Meanwhile, the young man had darted in to his chamber, and opened the letter. It was from Madame Bonacieux, and was expressed in these terms:

There are many thanks to be offered to you, and to be transmitted to you. Be this evening about ten o’clock at St. Cloud, in front of the pavilion which stands at the corner of the house of M. d’Estrées.

C. B.

While reading this letter, d’Artagnan felt his heart dilated and compressed by that delicious spasm which tortures and caresses the hearts of lovers.

It was the first billet he had received; it was the first rendezvous that had been granted him. His heart, swelled by the intoxication of joy, felt ready to dissolve away at the very gate of that terrestrial paradise called Love!

“Well, Monsieur,” said Planchet, who had observed his master grow red and pale successively, “did I not guess truly? Is it not some bad affair?”

“You are mistaken, Planchet,” replied d’Artagnan; “and as a proof, there is a crown to drink my health.”

“I am much obliged to Monsieur for the crown he had given me, and I promise him to follow his instructions exactly; but it is not the less true that letters which come in this way into shut-up houses⁠—”

“Fall from heaven, my friend, fall from heaven.”

“Then Monsieur is satisfied?” asked Planchet.

“My dear Planchet, I am the happiest of men!”

“And I may profit by Monsieur’s happiness, and go to bed?”

“Yes, go.”

“May the blessings of heaven fall upon Monsieur! But it is not the less true that that letter⁠—”

And Planchet retired, shaking his head with an air of doubt, which the liberality of d’Artagnan had not entirely effaced.

Left alone, d’Artagnan read and reread his billet. Then he kissed and rekissed twenty times the lines traced by the hand of his beautiful mistress. At length he went to bed, fell asleep, and had golden dreams.

At seven o’clock in the morning he arose and called Planchet, who at the second summons opened the door, his countenance not yet quite freed from the anxiety of the preceding night.

“Planchet,” said d’Artagnan, “I am going out for all day, perhaps. You are, therefore, your own master till seven o’clock in the evening; but at seven o’clock you must hold yourself in readiness with two horses.”

“There!” said Planchet. “We are going again, it appears, to have our hides pierced in all sorts of ways.”

“You will take your musketoon and your pistols.”

“There, now! Didn’t I say so?” cried Planchet. “I was sure of it⁠—the cursed letter!”

“Don’t be afraid, you idiot; there is nothing in hand but a party of pleasure.”

“Ah, like the charming journey the other day, when it rained bullets and produced a crop of steel traps!”

“Well, if you are really afraid, M. Planchet,” resumed d’Artagnan, “I will go without you. I prefer traveling alone to having a companion who entertains the least fear.”

“Monsieur does me wrong,” said Planchet; “I thought he had seen me at work.”

“Yes, but I thought perhaps you had worn out all your courage the first time.”

“Monsieur shall see that upon occasion I have some left; only I beg Monsieur not to be too prodigal of it if he wishes it to last long.”

“Do you believe you have still a certain amount of it to expend this evening?”

“I hope so, Monsieur.”

“Well, then, I count on you.”

“At the appointed hour I shall be ready; only I believed that Monsieur had but one horse in the Guard stables.”

“Perhaps there is but one at this moment; but by this evening there will be four.”

“It appears that our journey was a remounting journey, then?”

“Exactly so,” said d’Artagnan; and nodding to Planchet, he went out.

M. Bonacieux was at his door. D’Artagnan’s intention was to go out without speaking to the worthy mercer; but the latter made so polite and friendly a salutation that his tenant felt obliged, not only to stop, but to enter into conversation with him.

Besides, how is it possible to avoid a little condescension toward a husband whose pretty wife has appointed a meeting with you that same evening at St. Cloud, opposite D’Estrées’s pavilion? D’Artagnan approached him with the most amiable air he could assume.

The conversation naturally fell upon the incarceration of the poor man. M. Bonacieux, who was ignorant that d’Artagnan had overheard his conversation with the stranger of Meung, related to his young tenant the persecutions of that monster, M. de Laffemas, whom he never ceased to designate, during his account, by the title of the “cardinal’s executioner,” and expatiated at great length upon the Bastille, the bolts, the wickets, the dungeons, the gratings, the instruments of torture.

D’Artagnan listened to him with exemplary complaisance, and when he had finished said, “And Madame Bonacieux, do you know who carried her off?⁠—For I do not forget that I owe to that unpleasant circumstance the good fortune of having made your acquaintance.”

“Ah!” said Bonacieux, “they took good care not to tell me that; and my wife, on her part, has sworn to me by all that’s sacred that she does not know. But you,” continued M. Bonacieux, in a tone of perfect good fellowship, “what has become of you all these days? I have not seen you nor your friends, and I don’t think you could gather all that dust that I saw Planchet brush off your boots yesterday from the pavement of Paris.”

“You are right, my dear M. Bonacieux, my friends and I have been on a little journey.”

“Far from here?”

“Oh, Lord, no! About forty leagues only. We went to take M. Athos to the waters of Forges, where my friends still remain.”

“And you have returned, have you not?” replied M. Bonacieux, giving to his countenance a most sly air. “A handsome young fellow like you does not obtain long leaves of absence from his mistress; and we were impatiently waited for at Paris, were we not?”

“My faith!” said the young man, laughing, “I confess it, and so much more the readily, my dear Bonacieux, as I see there is no concealing anything from you. Yes, I was expected, and very impatiently, I acknowledge.”

A slight shade passed over the brow of Bonacieux, but so slight that d’Artagnan did not perceive it.

“And we are going to be recompensed for our diligence?” continued the mercer, with a trifling alteration in his voice⁠—so trifling, indeed, that d’Artagnan did not perceive it any more than he had the momentary shade which, an instant before, had darkened the countenance of the worthy man.

“Ah, may you be a true prophet!” said d’Artagnan, laughing.

“No; what I say,” replied Bonacieux, “is only that I may know whether I am delaying you.”

“Why that question, my dear host?” asked d’Artagnan. “Do you intend to sit up for me?”

“No; but since my arrest and the robbery that was committed in my house, I am alarmed every time I hear a door open, particularly in the night. What the deuce can you expect? I am no swordsman.”

“Well, don’t be alarmed if I return at one, two or three o’clock in the morning; indeed, do not be alarmed if I do not come at all.”

This time Bonacieux became so pale that d’Artagnan could not help perceiving it, and asked him what was the matter.

“Nothing,” replied Bonacieux, “nothing. Since my misfortunes I have been subject to faintnesses, which seize me all at once, and I have just felt a cold shiver. Pay no attention to it; you have nothing to occupy yourself with but being happy.”

“Then I have full occupation, for I am so.”

“Not yet; wait a little! This evening, you said.”

“Well, this evening will come, thank God! And perhaps you look for it with as much impatience as I do; perhaps this evening Madame Bonacieux will visit the conjugal domicile.”

“Madame Bonacieux is not at liberty this evening,” replied the husband, seriously; “she is detained at the Louvre this evening by her duties.”

“So much the worse for you, my dear host, so much the worse! When I am happy, I wish all the world to be so; but it appears that is not possible.”

The young man departed, laughing at the joke, which he thought he alone could comprehend.

“Amuse yourself well!” replied Bonacieux, in a sepulchral tone.

But d’Artagnan was too far off to hear him; and if he had heard him in the disposition of mind he then enjoyed, he certainly would not have remarked it.

He took his way toward the hotel of M. de Tréville; his visit of the day before, it is to be remembered, had been very short and very little explicative.

He found Tréville in a joyful mood. He had thought the king and queen charming at the ball. It is true the cardinal had been particularly ill-tempered. He had retired at one o’clock under the pretense of being indisposed. As to their Majesties, they did not return to the Louvre till six o’clock in the morning.

“Now,” said Tréville, lowering his voice, and looking into every corner of the apartment to see if they were alone, “now let us talk about yourself, my young friend; for it is evident that your happy return has something to do with the joy of the king, the triumph of the queen, and the humiliation of his Eminence. You must look out for yourself.”

“What have I to fear,” replied d’Artagnan, “as long as I shall have the luck to enjoy the favor of their Majesties?”

“Everything, believe me. The cardinal is not the man to forget a mystification until he has settled account with the mystifier; and the mystifier appears to me to have the air of being a certain young Gascon of my acquaintance.”

“Do you believe that the cardinal is as well posted as yourself, and knows that I have been to London?”

“The devil! You have been to London! Was it from London you brought that beautiful diamond that glitters on your finger? Beware, my dear d’Artagnan! A present from an enemy is not a good thing. Are there not some Latin verses upon that subject? Stop!”

“Yes, doubtless,” replied d’Artagnan, who had never been able to cram the first rudiments of that language into his head, and who had by his ignorance driven his master to despair, “yes, doubtless there is one.”

“There certainly is one,” said M. de Tréville, who had a tincture of literature, “and M. de Benserade was quoting it to me the other day. Stop a minute⁠—ah, this is it: ‘Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes,’ which means, ‘Beware of the enemy who makes you presents.’ ”

“This diamond does not come from an enemy, Monsieur,” replied d’Artagnan, “it comes from the queen.”

“From the queen! Oh, oh!” said M. de Tréville. “Why, it is indeed a true royal jewel, which is worth a thousand pistoles if it is worth a denier. By whom did the queen send you this jewel?”

“She gave it to me herself.”

“Where?”

“In the room adjoining the chamber in which she changed her toilet.”

“How?”

“Giving me her hand to kiss.”

“You have kissed the queen’s hand?” said M. de Tréville, looking earnestly at d’Artagnan.

“Her Majesty did me the honor to grant me that favor.”

“And that in the presence of witnesses! Imprudent, thrice imprudent!”

“No, Monsieur, be satisfied; nobody saw her,” replied d’Artagnan, and he related to M. de Tréville how the affair came to pass.

“Oh, the women, the women!” cried the old soldier. “I know them by their romantic imagination. Everything that savors of mystery charms them. So you have seen the arm, that was all. You would meet the queen, and she would not know who you are?”

“No; but thanks to this diamond,” replied the young man.

“Listen,” said M. de Tréville; “shall I give you counsel, good counsel, the counsel of a friend?”

“You will do me honor, Monsieur,” said d’Artagnan.

“Well, then, off to the nearest goldsmith’s, and sell that diamond for the highest price you can get from him. However much of a Jew he may be, he will give you at least eight hundred pistoles. Pistoles have no name, young man, and that ring has a terrible one, which may betray him who wears it.”

“Sell this ring, a ring which comes from my sovereign? Never!” said d’Artagnan.

“Then, at least turn the gem inside, you silly fellow; for everybody must be aware that a cadet from Gascony does not find such stones in his mother’s jewel case.”

“You think, then, I have something to dread?” asked d’Artagnan.

“I mean to say, young man, that he who sleeps over a mine the match of which is already lighted, may consider himself in safety in comparison with you.”

“The devil!” said d’Artagnan, whom the positive tone of M. de Tréville began to disquiet, “the devil! What must I do?”

“Above all things be always on your guard. The cardinal has a tenacious memory and a long arm; you may depend upon it, he will repay you by some ill turn.”

“But of what sort?”

“Eh! How can I tell? Has he not all the tricks of a demon at his command? The least that can be expected is that you will be arrested.”

“What! Will they dare to arrest a man in His Majesty’s service?”

“Pardieu! They did not scruple much in the case of Athos. At all events, young man, rely upon one who has been thirty years at court. Do not lull yourself in security, or you will be lost; but, on the contrary⁠—and it is I who say it⁠—see enemies in all directions. If anyone seeks a quarrel with you, shun it, were it with a child of ten years old. If you are attacked by day or by night, fight, but retreat, without shame; if you cross a bridge, feel every plank of it with your foot, lest one should give way beneath you; if you pass before a house which is being built, look up, for fear a stone should fall upon your head; if you stay out late, be always followed by your lackey, and let your lackey be armed⁠—if, by the by, you can be sure of your lackey. Mistrust everybody, your friend, your brother, your mistress⁠—your mistress above all.”

D’Artagnan blushed.

“My mistress above all,” repeated he, mechanically; “and why her rather than another?”

“Because a mistress is one of the cardinal’s favorite means; he has not one that is more expeditious. A woman will sell you for ten pistoles, witness Delilah. You are acquainted with the Scriptures?”

D’Artagnan thought of the appointment Madame Bonacieux had made with him for that very evening; but we are bound to say, to the credit of our hero, that the bad opinion entertained by M. de Tréville of women in general, did not inspire him with the least suspicion of his pretty hostess.

“But, apropos,” resumed M. de Tréville, “what has become of your three companions?”

“I was about to ask you if you had heard any news of them?”

“None, Monsieur.”

“Well, I left them on my road⁠—Porthos at Chantilly, with a duel on his hands; Aramis at Crèvecoeur, with a ball in his shoulder; and Athos at Amiens, detained by an accusation of coining.”

“See there, now!” said M. de Tréville; “and how the devil did you escape?”

“By a miracle, Monsieur, I must acknowledge, with a sword thrust in my breast, and by nailing the Comte de Wardes on the byroad to Calais, like a butterfly on a tapestry.”

“There again! De Wardes, one of the cardinal’s men, a cousin of Rochefort! Stop, my friend, I have an idea.”

“Speak, Monsieur.”

“In your place, I would do one thing.”

“What?”

“While his Eminence was seeking for me in Paris, I would take, without sound of drum or trumpet, the road to Picardy, and would go and make some inquiries concerning my three companions. What the devil! They merit richly that piece of attention on your part.”

“The advice is good, Monsieur, and tomorrow I will set out.”

“Tomorrow! Any why not this evening?”

“This evening, Monsieur, I am detained in Paris by indispensable business.”

“Ah, young man, young man, some flirtation or other. Take care, I repeat to you, take care. It is woman who has ruined us, still ruins us, and will ruin us, as long as the world stands. Take my advice and set out this evening.”

“Impossible, Monsieur.”

“You have given your word, then?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“Ah, that’s quite another thing; but promise me, if you should not be killed tonight, that you will go tomorrow.”

“I promise it.”

“Do you need money?”

“I have still fifty pistoles. That, I think, is as much as I shall want.”

“But your companions?”

“I don’t think they can be in need of any. We left Paris, each with seventy-five pistoles in his pocket.”

“Shall I see you again before your departure?”

“I think not, Monsieur, unless something new should happen.”

“Well, a pleasant journey.”

“Thanks, Monsieur.”

D’Artagnan left M. de Tréville, touched more than ever by his paternal solicitude for his musketeers.

He called successively at the abodes of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. Neither of them had returned. Their lackeys likewise were absent, and nothing had been heard of either the one or the other. He would have inquired after them of their mistresses, but he was neither acquainted with Porthos’s nor Aramis’s, and as to Athos, he had none.

As he passed the Hôtel des Gardes, he took a glance in to the stables. Three of the four horses had already arrived. Planchet, all astonishment, was busy grooming them, and had already finished two.

“Ah, Monsieur,” said Planchet, on perceiving d’Artagnan, “how glad I am to see you.”

“Why so, Planchet?” asked the young man.

“Do you place confidence in our landlord⁠—M. Bonacieux?”

“I? Not the least in the world.”

“Oh, you do quite right, Monsieur.”

“But why this question?”

“Because, while you were talking with him, I watched you without listening to you; and, Monsieur, his countenance changed color two or three times!”

“Bah!”

“Preoccupied as Monsieur was with the letter he had received, he did not observe that; but I, whom the strange fashion in which that letter came into the house had placed on my guard⁠—I did not lose a movement of his features.”

“And you found it?”

“Traitorous, Monsieur.”

“Indeed!”

“Still more; as soon as Monsieur had left and disappeared round the corner of the street, M. Bonacieux took his hat, shut his door, and set off at a quick pace in an opposite direction.”

“It seems you are right, Planchet; all this appears to be a little mysterious; and be assured that we will not pay him our rent until the matter shall be categorically explained to us.”

“Monsieur jests, but Monsieur will see.”

“What would you have, Planchet? What must come is written.”

“Monsieur does not then renounce his excursion for this evening?”

“Quite the contrary, Planchet; the more ill will I have toward M. Bonacieux, the more punctual I shall be in keeping the appointment made by that letter which makes you so uneasy.”

“Then that is Monsieur’s determination?”

“Undeniably, my friend. At nine o’clock, then, be ready here at the hotel, I will come and take you.”

Planchet seeing there was no longer any hope of making his master renounce his project, heaved a profound sigh and set to work to groom the third horse.

As to d’Artagnan, being at bottom a prudent youth, instead of returning home, went and dined with the Gascon priest, who, at the time of the distress of the four friends, had given them a breakfast of chocolate.

CHAPTER XXIV

The Pavillion

At nine o’clock d’Artagnan was at the Hôtel des Gardes; he found Planchet all ready. The fourth horse had arrived.

Planchet was armed with his musketoon and a pistol. D’Artagnan had his sword and placed two pistols in his belt; then both mounted and departed quietly. It was quite dark, and no one saw them go out. Planchet took place behind his master, and kept at a distance of ten paces from him.

D’Artagnan crossed the quays, went out by the gate of La Conference and followed the road, much more beautiful then than it is now, which leads to St. Cloud.

As long as he was in the city, Planchet kept at the respectful distance he had imposed upon himself; but as soon as the road began to be more lonely and dark, he drew softly nearer, so that when they entered the Bois de Boulogne he found himself riding quite naturally side by side with his master. In fact, we must not dissemble that the oscillation of the tall trees and the reflection of the moon in the dark underwood gave him serious uneasiness. D’Artagnan could not help perceiving that something more than usual was passing in the mind of his lackey and said, “Well, M. Planchet, what is the matter with us now?”

“Don’t you think, Monsieur, that woods are like churches?”

“How so, Planchet?”

“Because we dare not speak aloud in one or the other.”

“But why did you not dare to speak aloud, Planchet⁠—because you are afraid?”

“Afraid of being heard? Yes, Monsieur.”

“Afraid of being heard! Why, there is nothing improper in our conversation, my dear Planchet, and no one could find fault with it.”

“Ah, Monsieur!” replied Planchet, recurring to his besetting idea, “that M. Bonacieux has something vicious in his eyebrows, and something very unpleasant in the play of his lips.”

“What the devil makes you think of Bonacieux?”

“Monsieur, we think of what we can, and not of what we will.”

“Because you are a coward, Planchet.”

“Monsieur, we must not confound prudence with cowardice; prudence is a virtue.”

“And you are very virtuous, are you not, Planchet?”

“Monsieur, is not that the barrel of a musket which glitters yonder? Had we not better lower our heads?”

“In truth,” murmured d’Artagnan, to whom M. de Tréville’s recommendation recurred, “in truth, this animal will end by making me afraid.” And he put his horse into a trot.

Planchet followed the movements of his master as if he had been his shadow, and was soon trotting by his side.

“Are we going to continue this pace all night?” asked Planchet.

“No; you are at your journey’s end.”

“How, Monsieur! And you?”

“I am going a few steps farther.”

“And Monsieur leaves me here alone?”

“You are afraid, Planchet?”

“No; I only beg leave to observe to Monsieur that the night will be very cold, that chills bring on rheumatism, and that a lackey who has the rheumatism makes but a poor servant, particularly to a master as active as Monsieur.”

“Well, if you are cold, Planchet, you can go into one of those cabarets that you see yonder, and be in waiting for me at the door by six o’clock in the morning.”

“Monsieur, I have eaten and drunk respectfully the crown you gave me this morning, so that I have not a sou left in case I should be cold.”

“Here’s half a pistole. Tomorrow morning.”

D’Artagnan sprang from his horse, threw the bridle to Planchet, and departed at a quick pace, folding his cloak around him.

“Good Lord, how cold I am!” cried Planchet, as soon as he had lost sight of his master; and in such haste was he to warm himself that he went straight to a house set out with all the attributes of a suburban tavern, and knocked at the door.

In the meantime d’Artagnan, who had plunged into a bypath, continued his route and reached St. Cloud; but instead of following the main street he turned behind the château, reached a sort of retired lane, and found himself soon in front of the pavilion named. It was situated in a very private spot. A high wall, at the angle of which was the pavilion, ran along one side of this lane, and on the other was a little garden connected with a poor cottage which was protected by a hedge from passersby.

He gained the place appointed, and as no signal had been given him by which to announce his presence, he waited.

Not the least noise was to be heard; it might be imagined that he was a hundred miles from the capital. D’Artagnan leaned against the hedge, after having cast a glance behind it. Beyond that hedge, that garden, and that cottage, a dark mist enveloped with its folds that immensity where Paris slept⁠—a vast void from which glittered a few luminous points, the funeral stars of that hell!

But for d’Artagnan all aspects were clothed happily, all ideas wore a smile, all shades were diaphanous. The appointed hour was about to strike. In fact, at the end of a few minutes the belfry of St. Cloud let fall slowly ten strokes from its sonorous jaws. There was something melancholy in this brazen voice pouring out its lamentations in the middle of the night; but each of those strokes, which made up the expected hour, vibrated harmoniously to the heart of the young man.

His eyes were fixed upon the little pavilion situated at the angle of the wall, of which all the windows were closed with shutters, except one on the first story. Through this window shone a mild light which silvered the foliage of two or three linden trees which formed a group outside the park. There could be no doubt that behind this little window, which threw forth such friendly beams, the pretty Madame Bonacieux expected him.

Wrapped in this sweet idea, d’Artagnan waited half an hour without the least impatience, his eyes fixed upon that charming little abode of which he could perceive a part of the ceiling with its gilded moldings, attesting the elegance of the rest of the apartment.

The belfry of St. Cloud sounded half past ten.

This time, without knowing why, d’Artagnan felt a cold shiver run through his veins. Perhaps the cold began to affect him, and he took a perfectly physical sensation for a moral impression.

Then the idea seized him that he had read incorrectly, and that the appointment was for eleven o’clock. He drew near to the window, and placing himself so that a ray of light should fall upon the letter as he held it, he drew it from his pocket and read it again; but he had not been mistaken, the appointment was for ten o’clock. He went and resumed his post, beginning to be rather uneasy at this silence and this solitude.

Eleven o’clock sounded.

D’Artagnan began now really to fear that something had happened to Madame Bonacieux. He clapped his hands three times⁠—the ordinary signal of lovers; but nobody replied to him, not even an echo.

He then thought, with a touch of vexation, that perhaps the young woman had fallen asleep while waiting for him. He approached the wall, and tried to climb it; but the wall had been recently pointed, and d’Artagnan could get no hold.

At that moment he thought of the trees, upon whose leaves the light still shone; and as one of them drooped over the road, he thought that from its branches he might get a glimpse of the interior of the pavilion.

The tree was easy to climb. Besides, d’Artagnan was but twenty years old, and consequently had not yet forgotten his schoolboy habits. In an instant he was among the branches, and his keen eyes plunged through the transparent panes into the interior of the pavilion.

It was a strange thing, and one which made d’Artagnan tremble from the sole of his foot to the roots of his hair, to find that this soft light, this calm lamp, enlightened a scene of fearful disorder. One of the windows was broken, the door of the chamber had been beaten in and hung, split in two, on its hinges. A table, which had been covered with an elegant supper, was overturned. The decanters broken in pieces, and the fruits crushed, strewed the floor. Everything in the apartment gave evidence of a violent and desperate struggle. D’Artagnan even fancied he could recognize amid this strange disorder, fragments of garments, and some bloody spots staining the cloth and the curtains. He hastened to descend into the street, with a frightful beating at his heart; he wished to see if he could find other traces of violence.

The little soft light shone on in the calmness of the night. D’Artagnan then perceived a thing that he had not before remarked⁠—for nothing had led him to the examination⁠—that the ground, trampled here and hoofmarked there, presented confused traces of men and horses. Besides, the wheels of a carriage, which appeared to have come from Paris, had made a deep impression in the soft earth, which did not extend beyond the pavilion, but turned again toward Paris.

At length d’Artagnan, in pursuing his researches, found near the wall a woman’s torn glove. This glove, wherever it had not touched the muddy ground, was of irreproachable odor. It was one of those perfumed gloves that lovers like to snatch from a pretty hand.

As d’Artagnan pursued his investigations, a more abundant and more icy sweat rolled in large drops from his forehead; his heart was oppressed by a horrible anguish; his respiration was broken and short. And yet he said, to reassure himself, that this pavilion perhaps had nothing in common with Madame Bonacieux; that the young woman had made an appointment with him before the pavilion, and not in the pavilion; that she might have been detained in Paris by her duties, or perhaps by the jealousy of her husband.

But all these reasons were combated, destroyed, overthrown, by that feeling of intimate pain which, on certain occasions, takes possession of our being, and cries to us so as to be understood unmistakably that some great misfortune is hanging over us.

Then d’Artagnan became almost wild. He ran along the high road, took the path he had before taken, and reaching the ferry, interrogated the boatman.

About seven o’clock in the evening, the boatman had taken over a young woman, wrapped in a black mantle, who appeared to be very anxious not to be recognized; but entirely on account of her precautions, the boatman had paid more attention to her and discovered that she was young and pretty.

There were then, as now, a crowd of young and pretty women who came to St. Cloud, and who had reasons for not being seen, and yet d’Artagnan did not for an instant doubt that it was Madame Bonacieux whom the boatman had noticed.

D’Artagnan took advantage of the lamp which burned in the cabin of the ferryman to read the billet of Madame Bonacieux once again, and satisfy himself that he had not been mistaken, that the appointment was at St. Cloud and not elsewhere, before the D’Estrées’s pavilion and not in another street. Everything conspired to prove to d’Artagnan that his presentiments had not deceived him, and that a great misfortune had happened.

He again ran back to the château. It appeared to him that something might have happened at the pavilion in his absence, and that fresh information awaited him. The lane was still deserted, and the same calm soft light shone through the window.

D’Artagnan then thought of that cottage, silent and obscure, which had no doubt seen all, and could tell its tale. The gate of the enclosure was shut; but he leaped over the hedge, and in spite of the barking of a chained-up dog, went up to the cabin.

No one answered to his first knocking. A silence of death reigned in the cabin as in the pavilion; but as the cabin was his last resource, he knocked again.

It soon appeared to him that he heard a slight noise within⁠—a timid noise which seemed to tremble lest it should be heard.

Then d’Artagnan ceased knocking, and prayed with an accent so full of anxiety and promises, terror and cajolery, that his voice was of a nature to reassure the most fearful. At length an old, worm-eaten shutter was opened, or rather pushed ajar, but closed again as soon as the light from a miserable lamp which burned in the corner had shone upon the baldric, sword belt, and pistol pommels of d’Artagnan. Nevertheless, rapid as the movement had been, d’Artagnan had had time to get a glimpse of the head of an old man.

“In the name of heaven!” cried he, “listen to me; I have been waiting for someone who has not come. I am dying with anxiety. Has anything particular happened in the neighborhood? Speak!”

The window was again opened slowly, and the same face appeared, only it was now still more pale than before.

D’Artagnan related his story simply, with the omission of names. He told how he had a rendezvous with a young woman before that pavilion, and how, not seeing her come, he had climbed the linden tree, and by the light of the lamp had seen the disorder of the chamber.

The old man listened attentively, making a sign only that it was all so; and then, when d’Artagnan had ended, he shook his head with an air that announced nothing good.

“What do you mean?” cried d’Artagnan. “In the name of heaven, explain yourself!”

“Oh! Monsieur,” said the old man, “ask me nothing; for if I dared tell you what I have seen, certainly no good would befall me.”

“You have, then, seen something?” replied d’Artagnan. “In that case, in the name of heaven,” continued he, throwing him a pistole, “tell me what you have seen, and I will pledge you the word of a gentleman that not one of your words shall escape from my heart.”

The old man read so much truth and so much grief in the face of the young man that he made him a sign to listen, and repeated in a low voice: “It was scarcely nine o’clock when I heard a noise in the street, and was wondering what it could be, when on coming to my door, I found that somebody was endeavoring to open it. As I am very poor and am not afraid of being robbed, I went and opened the gate and saw three men at a few paces from it. In the shadow was a carriage with two horses, and some saddlehorses. These horses evidently belonged to the three men, who were dressed as cavaliers. ‘Ah, my worthy gentlemen,’ cried I, ‘what do you want?’ ‘You must have a ladder?’ said he who appeared to be the leader of the party. ‘Yes, Monsieur, the one with which I gather my fruit.’ ‘Lend it to us, and go into your house again; there is a crown for the annoyance we have caused you. Only remember this⁠—if you speak a word of what you may see or what you may hear (for you will look and you will listen, I am quite sure, however we may threaten you), you are lost.’ At these words he threw me a crown, which I picked up, and he took the ladder. After shutting the gate behind them, I pretended to return to the house, but I immediately went out a back door, and stealing along in the shade of the hedge, I gained yonder clump of elder, from which I could hear and see everything. The three men brought the carriage up quietly, and took out of it a little man, stout, short, elderly, and commonly dressed in clothes of a dark color, who ascended the ladder very carefully, looked suspiciously in at the window of the pavilion, came down as quietly as he had gone up, and whispered, ‘It is she!’ Immediately, he who had spoken to me approached the door of the pavilion, opened it with a key he had in his hand, closed the door and disappeared, while at the same time the other two men ascended the ladder. The little old man remained at the coach door; the coachman took care of his horses, the lackey held the saddlehorses. All at once great cries resounded in the pavilion, and a woman came to the window, and opened it, as if to throw herself out of it; but as soon as she perceived the other two men, she fell back and they went into the chamber. Then I saw no more; but I heard the noise of breaking furniture. The woman screamed, and cried for help; but her cries were soon stifled. Two of the men appeared, bearing the woman in their arms, and carried her to the carriage, into which the little old man got after her. The leader closed the window, came out an instant after by the door, and satisfied himself that the woman was in the carriage. His two companions were already on horseback. He sprang into his saddle; the lackey took his place by the coachman; the carriage went off at a quick pace, escorted by the three horsemen, and all was over. From that moment I have neither seen nor heard anything.”

D’Artagnan, entirely overcome by this terrible story, remained motionless and mute, while all the demons of anger and jealousy were howling in his heart.

“But, my good gentleman,” resumed the old man, upon whom this mute despair certainly produced a greater effect than cries and tears would have done, “do not take on so; they did not kill her, and that’s a comfort.”

“Can you guess,” said d’Artagnan, “who was the man who headed this infernal expedition?”

“I don’t know him.”

“But as you spoke to him you must have seen him.”

“Oh, it’s a description you want?”

“Exactly so.”

“A tall, dark man, with black mustaches, dark eyes, and the air of a gentleman.”

“That’s the man!” cried d’Artagnan, “again he, forever he! He is my demon, apparently. And the other?”

“Which?”

“The short one.”

“Oh, he was not a gentleman, I’ll answer for it; besides, he did not wear a sword, and the others treated him with small consideration.”

“Some lackey,” murmured d’Artagnan. “Poor woman, poor woman, what have they done with you?”

“You have promised to be secret, my good Monsieur?” said the old man.

“And I renew my promise. Be easy, I am a gentleman. A gentleman has but his word, and I have given you mine.”

With a heavy heart, d’Artagnan again bent his way toward the ferry. Sometimes he hoped it could not be Madame Bonacieux, and that he should find her next day at the Louvre; sometimes he feared she had had an intrigue with another, who, in a jealous fit, had surprised her and carried her off. His mind was torn by doubt, grief, and despair.

“Oh, if I had my three friends here,” cried he, “I should have, at least, some hopes of finding her; but who knows what has become of them?”

It was past midnight; the next thing was to find Planchet. D’Artagnan went successively into all the cabarets in which there was a light, but could not find Planchet in any of them.

At the sixth he began to reflect that the search was rather dubious. D’Artagnan had appointed six o’clock in the morning for his lackey, and wherever he might be, he was right.

Besides, it came into the young man’s mind that by remaining in the environs of the spot on which this sad event had passed, he would, perhaps, have some light thrown upon the mysterious affair. At the sixth cabaret, then, as we said, d’Artagnan stopped, asked for a bottle of wine of the best quality, and placing himself in the darkest corner of the room, determined thus to wait till daylight; but this time again his hopes were disappointed, and although he listened with all his ears, he heard nothing, amid the oaths, coarse jokes, and abuse which passed between the laborers, servants, and carters who comprised the honorable society of which he formed a part, which could put him upon the least track of her who had been stolen from him. He was compelled, then, after having swallowed the contents of his bottle, to pass the time as well as to evade suspicion, to fall into the easiest position in his corner and to sleep, whether well or ill. D’Artagnan, be it remembered, was only twenty years old, and at that age sleep has its imprescriptible rights which it imperiously insists upon, even with the saddest hearts.

Toward six o’clock d’Artagnan awoke with that uncomfortable feeling which generally accompanies the break of day after a bad night. He was not long in making his toilet. He examined himself to see if advantage had been taken of his sleep, and having found his diamond ring on his finger, his purse in his pocket, and his pistols in his belt, he rose, paid for his bottle, and went out to try if he could have any better luck in his search after his lackey than he had had the night before. The first thing he perceived through the damp gray mist was honest Planchet, who, with the two horses in hand, awaited him at the door of a little blind cabaret, before which d’Artagnan had passed without even a suspicion of its existence.

CHAPTER XXV

Porthos

Instead of returning directly home, d’Artagnan alighted at the door of M. de Tréville, and ran quickly up the stairs. This time he had decided to relate all that had passed. M. de Tréville would doubtless give him good advice as to the whole affair. Besides, as M. de Tréville saw the queen almost daily, he might be able to draw from Her Majesty some intelligence of the poor young woman, whom they were doubtless making pay very dearly for her devotedness to her mistress.

M. de Tréville listened to the young man’s account with a seriousness which proved that he saw something else in this adventure besides a love affair. When d’Artagnan had finished, he said, “Hum! All this savors of his Eminence, a league off.”

“But what is to be done?” said d’Artagnan.

“Nothing, absolutely nothing, at present, but quitting Paris, as I told you, as soon as possible. I will see the queen; I will relate to her the details of the disappearance of this poor woman, of which she is no doubt ignorant. These details will guide her on her part, and on your return, I shall perhaps have some good news to tell you. Rely on me.”

D’Artagnan knew that, although a Gascon, M. de Tréville was not in the habit of making promises, and that when by chance he did promise, he more than kept his word. He bowed to him, then, full of gratitude for the past and for the future; and the worthy captain, who on his side felt a lively interest in this young man, so brave and so resolute, pressed his hand kindly, wishing him a pleasant journey.

Determined to put the advice of M. de Tréville in practice instantly, d’Artagnan directed his course toward the Rue des Fossoyeurs, in order to superintend the packing of his valise. On approaching the house, he perceived M. Bonacieux in morning costume, standing at his threshold. All that the prudent Planchet had said to him the preceding evening about the sinister character of the old man recurred to the mind of d’Artagnan, who looked at him with more attention than he had done before. In fact, in addition to that yellow, sickly paleness which indicates the insinuation of the bile in the blood, and which might, besides, be accidental, d’Artagnan remarked something perfidiously significant in the play of the wrinkled features of his countenance. A rogue does not laugh in the same way that an honest man does; a hypocrite does not shed the tears of a man of good faith. All falsehood is a mask; and however well made the mask may be, with a little attention we may always succeed in distinguishing it from the true face.

It appeared, then, to d’Artagnan that M. Bonacieux wore a mask, and likewise that that mask was most disagreeable to look upon. In consequence of this feeling of repugnance, he was about to pass without speaking to him, but, as he had done the day before, M. Bonacieux accosted him.

“Well, young man,” said he, “we appear to pass rather gay nights! Seven o’clock in the morning! Peste! You seem to reverse ordinary customs, and come home at the hour when other people are going out.”

“No one can reproach you for anything of the kind, M. Bonacieux,” said the young man; “you are a model for regular people. It is true that when a man possesses a young and pretty wife, he has no need to seek happiness elsewhere. Happiness comes to meet him, does it not, M. Bonacieux?”

Bonacieux became as pale as death, and grinned a ghastly smile.

“Ah, ah!” said Bonacieux, “you are a jocular companion! But where the devil were you gladding last night, my young master? It does not appear to be very clean in the crossroads.”

D’Artagnan glanced down at his boots, all covered with mud; but that same glance fell upon the shoes and stockings of the mercer, and it might have been said they had been dipped in the same mud heap. Both were stained with splashes of mud of the same appearance.

Then a sudden idea crossed the mind of d’Artagnan. That little stout man, short and elderly, that sort of lackey, dressed in dark clothes, treated without ceremony by the men wearing swords who composed the escort, was Bonacieux himself. The husband had presided at the abduction of his wife.

A terrible inclination seized d’Artagnan to grasp the mercer by the throat and strangle him; but, as we have said, he was a very prudent youth, and he restrained himself. However, the revolution which appeared upon his countenance was so visible that Bonacieux was terrified at it, and he endeavored to draw back a step or two; but as he was standing before the half of the door which was shut, the obstacle compelled him to keep his place.

“Ah, but you are joking, my worthy man!” said d’Artagnan. “It appears to me that if my boots need a sponge, your stockings and shoes stand in equal need of a brush. May you not have been philandering a little also, M. Bonacieux? Oh, the devil! That’s unpardonable in a man of your age, and who besides, has such a pretty wife as yours.”

“Oh, Lord! no,” said Bonacieux, “but yesterday I went to St. Mande to make some inquiries after a servant, as I cannot possibly do without one; and the roads were so bad that I brought back all this mud, which I have not yet had time to remove.”

The place named by Bonacieux as that which had been the object of his journey was a fresh proof in support of the suspicions d’Artagnan had conceived. Bonacieux had named Mande because Mande was in an exactly opposite direction from St. Cloud. This probability afforded him his first consolation. If Bonacieux knew where his wife was, one might, by extreme means, force the mercer to open his teeth and let his secret escape. The question, then, was how to change this probability into a certainty.

“Pardon, my dear M. Bonacieux, if I don’t stand upon ceremony,” said d’Artagnan, “but nothing makes one so thirsty as want of sleep. I am parched with thirst. Allow me to take a glass of water in your apartment; you know that is never refused among neighbors.”

Without waiting for the permission of his host, d’Artagnan went quickly into the house, and cast a rapid glance at the bed. It had not been used. Bonacieux had not been abed. He had only been back an hour or two; he had accompanied his wife to the place of her confinement, or else at least to the first relay.

“Thanks, M. Bonacieux,” said d’Artagnan, emptying his glass, “that is all I wanted of you. I will now go up into my apartment. I will make Planchet brush my boots; and when he has done, I will, if you like, send him to you to brush your shoes.”

He left the mercer quite astonished at his singular farewell, and asking himself if he had not been a little inconsiderate.

At the top of the stairs he found Planchet in a great fright.

“Ah, Monsieur!” cried Planchet, as soon as he perceived his master, “here is more trouble. I thought you would never come in.”

“What’s the matter now, Planchet?” demanded d’Artagnan.

“Oh! I give you a hundred, I give you a thousand times to guess, Monsieur, the visit I received in your absence.”

“When?”

“About half an hour ago, while you were at M. de Tréville’s.”

“Who has been here? Come, speak.”

“Monsieur de Cavois.”

“Monsieur de Cavois?”

“In person.”

“The captain of the cardinal’s Guards?”

“Himself.”

“Did he come to arrest me?”

“I have no doubt that he did, Monsieur, for all his wheedling manner.”

“Was he so sweet, then?”

“Indeed, he was all honey, Monsieur.”

“Indeed!”

“He came, he said, on the part of his Eminence, who wished you well, and to beg you to follow him to the Palais-Royal.” [5]

“What did you answer him?”

“That the thing was impossible, seeing that you were not at home, as he could see.”

“Well, what did he say then?”

“That you must not fail to call upon him in the course of the day; and then he added in a low voice, ‘Tell your master that his Eminence is very well disposed toward him, and that his fortune perhaps depends upon this interview.’ ”

“The snare is rather maladroit for the cardinal,” replied the young man, smiling.

“Oh, I saw the snare, and I answered you would be quite in despair on your return.

“ ‘Where has he gone?’ asked M. de Cavois.

“ ‘To Troyes, in Champagne,’ I answered.

“ ‘And when did he set out?’

“ ‘Yesterday evening.’ ”

“Planchet, my friend,” interrupted d’Artagnan, “you are really a precious fellow.”

“You will understand, Monsieur, I thought there would be still time, if you wish, to see M. de Cavois to contradict me by saying you were not yet gone. The falsehood would then lie at my door, and as I am not a gentleman, I may be allowed to lie.”

“Be of good heart, Planchet, you shall preserve your reputation as a veracious man. In a quarter of an hour we set off.”

“That’s the advice I was about to give Monsieur; and where are we going, may I ask, without being too curious?”

“Pardieu! In the opposite direction to that which you said I was gone. Besides, are you not as anxious to learn news of Grimaud, Mousqueton, and Bazin as I am to know what has become of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis?”

“Yes, Monsieur,” said Planchet, “and I will go as soon as you please. Indeed, I think provincial air will suit us much better just now than the air of Paris. So then⁠—”

“So then, pack up our luggage, Planchet, and let us be off. On my part, I will go out with my hands in my pockets, that nothing may be suspected. You may join me at the Hôtel des Gardes. By the way, Planchet, I think you are right with respect to our host, and that he is decidedly a frightfully low wretch.”

“Ah, Monsieur, you may take my word when I tell you anything. I am a physiognomist, I assure you.”

D’Artagnan went out first, as had been agreed upon. Then, in order that he might have nothing to reproach himself with, he directed his steps, for the last time, toward the residences of his three friends. No news had been received of them; only a letter, all perfumed and of an elegant writing in small characters, had come for Aramis. D’Artagnan took charge of it. Ten minutes afterward Planchet joined him at the stables of the Hôtel des Gardes. D’Artagnan, in order that there might be no time lost, had saddled his horse himself.

“That’s well,” said he to Planchet, when the latter added the portmanteau to the equipment. “Now saddle the other three horses.”

“Do you think, then, Monsieur, that we shall travel faster with two horses apiece?” said Planchet, with his shrewd air.

“No, Monsieur jester,” replied d’Artagnan; “but with our four horses we may bring back our three friends, if we should have the good fortune to find them living.”

“Which is a great chance,” replied Planchet, “but we must not despair of the mercy of God.”

“Amen!” said d’Artagnan, getting into his saddle.

As they went from the Hôtel des Gardes, they separated, leaving the street at opposite ends, one having to quit Paris by the Barrière de la Villette and the other by the Barrière Montmartre, to meet again beyond St. Denis⁠—a strategic maneuver which, having been executed with equal punctuality, was crowned with the most fortunate results. D’Artagnan and Planchet entered Pierrefitte together.

Planchet was more courageous, it must be admitted, by day than by night. His natural prudence, however, never forsook him for a single instant. He had forgotten not one of the incidents of the first journey, and he looked upon everybody he met on the road as an enemy. It followed that his hat was forever in his hand, which procured him some severe reprimands from d’Artagnan, who feared that his excess of politeness would lead people to think he was the lackey of a man of no consequence.

Nevertheless, whether the passengers were really touched by the urbanity of Planchet or whether this time nobody was posted on the young man’s road, our two travelers arrived at Chantilly without any accident, and alighted at the tavern of Great St. Martin, the same at which they had stopped on their first journey.

The host, on seeing a young man followed by a lackey with two extra horses, advanced respectfully to the door. Now, as they had already traveled eleven leagues, d’Artagnan thought it time to stop, whether Porthos were or were not in the inn. Perhaps it would not be prudent to ask at once what had become of the musketeer. The result of these reflections was that d’Artagnan, without asking information of any kind, alighted, commended the horses to the care of his lackey, entered a small room destined to receive those who wished to be alone, and desired the host to bring him a bottle of his best wine and as good a breakfast as possible⁠—a desire which further corroborated the high opinion the innkeeper had formed of the traveler at first sight.

D’Artagnan was therefore served with miraculous celerity. The regiment of the Guards was recruited among the first gentlemen of the kingdom; and d’Artagnan, followed by a lackey, and traveling with four magnificent horses, despite the simplicity of his uniform, could not fail to make a sensation. The host desired himself to serve him; which d’Artagnan perceiving, ordered two glasses to be brought, and commenced the following conversation.

“My faith, my good host,” said d’Artagnan, filling the two glasses, “I asked for a bottle of your best wine, and if you have deceived me, you will be punished in what you have sinned; for seeing that I hate drinking by myself, you shall drink with me. Take your glass, then, and let us drink. But what shall we drink to, so as to avoid wounding any susceptibility? Let us drink to the prosperity of your establishment.”

“Your Lordship does me much honor,” said the host, “and I thank you sincerely for your kind wish.”

“But don’t mistake,” said d’Artagnan, “there is more selfishness in my toast than perhaps you may think⁠—for it is only in prosperous establishments that one is well received. In hotels that do not flourish, everything is in confusion, and the traveler is a victim to the embarrassments of his host. Now, I travel a great deal, particularly on this road, and I wish to see all innkeepers making a fortune.”

“It seems to me,” said the host, “that this is not the first time I have had the honor of seeing Monsieur.”

“Bah, I have passed perhaps ten times through Chantilly, and out of the ten times I have stopped three or four times at your house at least. Why I was here only ten or twelve days ago. I was conducting some friends, musketeers, one of whom, by the by, had a dispute with a stranger⁠—a man who sought a quarrel with him, for I don’t know what.”

“Exactly so,” said the host; “I remember it perfectly. It is not M. Porthos that your Lordship means?”

“Yes, that is my companion’s name. My God, my dear host, tell me if anything has happened to him?”

“Your Lordship must have observed that he could not continue his journey.”

“Why, to be sure, he promised to rejoin us, and we have seen nothing of him.”

“He has done us the honor to remain here.”

“What, he had done you the honor to remain here?”

“Yes, Monsieur, in this house; and we are even a little uneasy⁠—”

“On what account?”

“Of certain expenses he has contracted.”

“Well, but whatever expenses he may have incurred, I am sure he is in a condition to pay them.”

“Ah, Monsieur, you infuse genuine balm into my blood. We have made considerable advances; and this very morning the surgeon declared that if M. Porthos did not pay him, he should look to me, as it was I who had sent for him.”

“Porthos is wounded, then?”

“I cannot tell you, Monsieur.”

“What! You cannot tell me? Surely you ought to be able to tell me better than any other person.”

“Yes; but in our situation we must not say all we know⁠—particularly as we have been warned that our ears should answer for our tongues.”

“Well, can I see Porthos?”

“Certainly, Monsieur. Take the stairs on your right; go up the first flight and knock at Number One. Only warn him that it is you.”

“Why should I do that?”

“Because, Monsieur, some mischief might happen to you.”

“Of what kind, in the name of wonder?”

“Monsieur Porthos may imagine you belong to the house, and in a fit of passion might run his sword through you or blow out your brains.”

“What have you done to him, then?”

“We have asked him for money.”

“The devil! Ah, I can understand that. It is a demand that Porthos takes very ill when he is not in funds; but I know he must be so at present.”

“We thought so, too, Monsieur. As our house is carried on very regularly, and we make out our bills every week, at the end of eight days we presented our account; but it appeared we had chosen an unlucky moment, for at the first word on the subject, he sent us to all the devils. It is true he had been playing the day before.”

“Playing the day before! And with whom?”

“Lord, who can say, Monsieur? With some gentleman who was traveling this way, to whom he proposed a game of lansquenet.”

“That’s it, then, and the foolish fellow lost all he had?”

“Even to his horse, Monsieur; for when the gentleman was about to set out, we perceived that his lackey was saddling M. Porthos’s horse, as well as his master’s. When we observed this to him, he told us all to trouble ourselves about our own business, as this horse belonged to him. We also informed M. Porthos of what was going on; but he told us we were scoundrels to doubt a gentleman’s word, and that as he had said the horse was his, it must be so.”

“That’s Porthos all over,” murmured d’Artagnan.

“Then,” continued the host, “I replied that as from the moment we seemed not likely to come to a good understanding with respect to payment, I hoped that he would have at least the kindness to grant the favor of his custom to my brother host of the Golden Eagle; but M. Porthos replied that, my house being the best, he should remain where he was. This reply was too flattering to allow me to insist on his departure. I confined myself then to begging him to give up his chamber, which is the handsomest in the hotel, and to be satisfied with a pretty little room on the third floor; but to this M. Porthos replied that as he every moment expected his mistress, who was one of the greatest ladies in the court, I might easily comprehend that the chamber he did me the honor to occupy in my house was itself very mean for the visit of such a personage. Nevertheless, while acknowledging the truth of what he said, I thought proper to insist; but without even giving himself the trouble to enter into any discussion with me, he took one of his pistols, laid it on his table, day and night, and said that at the first word that should be spoken to him about removing, either within the house or out of it, he would blow out the brains of the person who should be so imprudent as to meddle with a matter which only concerned himself. Since that time, Monsieur, nobody entered his chamber but his servant.”

“What! Mousqueton is here, then?”

“Oh, yes, Monsieur. Five days after your departure, he came back, and in a very bad condition, too. It appears that he had met with disagreeableness, likewise, on his journey. Unfortunately, he is more nimble than his master; so that for the sake of his master, he puts us all under his feet, and as he thinks we might refuse what he asked for, he takes all he wants without asking at all.”

“The fact is,” said d’Artagnan, “I have always observed a great degree of intelligence and devotedness in Mousqueton.”

“That is possible, Monsieur; but suppose I should happen to be brought in contact, even four times a year, with such intelligence and devotedness⁠—why, I should be a ruined man!”

“No, for Porthos will pay you.”

“Hum!” said the host, in a doubtful tone.

“The favorite of a great lady will not be allowed to be inconvenienced for such a paltry sum as he owes you.”

“If I durst say what I believe on that head⁠—”

“What you believe?”

“I ought rather to say, what I know.”

“What you know?”

“And even what I am sure of.”

“And of what are you so sure?”

“I would say that I know this great lady.”

“You?”

“Yes; I.”

“And how do you know her?”

“Oh, Monsieur, if I could believe I might trust in your discretion.”

“Speak! By the word of a gentleman, you shall have no cause to repent of your confidence.”

“Well, Monsieur, you understand that uneasiness makes us do many things.”

“What have you done?”

“Oh, nothing which was not right in the character of a creditor.”

“Well?”

“Monsieur Porthos gave us a note for his duchess, ordering us to put it in the post. This was before his servant came. As he could not leave his chamber, it was necessary to charge us with this commission.”

“And then?”

“Instead of putting the letter in the post, which is never safe, I took advantage of the journey of one of my lads to Paris, and ordered him to convey the letter to this duchess himself. This was fulfilling the intentions of M. Porthos, who had desired us to be so careful of this letter, was it not?”

“Nearly so.”

“Well, Monsieur, do you know who this great lady is?”

“No; I have heard Porthos speak of her, that’s all.”

“Do you know who this pretended duchess is?”

“I repeat to you, I don’t know her.”

“Why, she is the old wife of a procurator[6] of the Châtelet, Monsieur, named Madame Coquenard, who, although she is at least fifty, still gives herself jealous airs. It struck me as very odd that a princess should live in the Rue aux Ours.”

“But how do you know all this?”

“Because she flew into a great passion on receiving the letter, saying that M. Porthos was a weathercock, and that she was sure it was for some woman he had received this wound.”

“Has he been wounded, then?”

“Oh, good Lord! What have I said?”

“You said that Porthos had received a sword cut.”

“Yes, but he has forbidden me so strictly to say so.”

“And why so.”

“Zounds, Monsieur! Because he had boasted that he would perforate the stranger with whom you left him in dispute; whereas the stranger, on the contrary, in spite of all his rodomontades quickly threw him on his back. As M. Porthos is a very boastful man, he insists that nobody shall know he has received this wound except the duchess, whom he endeavored to interest by an account of his adventure.”

“It is a wound that confines him to his bed?”

“Ah, and a master stroke, too, I assure you. Your friend’s soul must stick tight to his body.”

“Were you there, then?”

“Monsieur, I followed them from curiosity, so that I saw the combat without the combatants seeing me.”

“And what took place?”

“Oh! The affair was not long, I assure you. They placed themselves on guard; the stranger made a feint and a lunge, and that so rapidly that when M. Porthos came to the parade, he had already three inches of steel in his breast. He immediately fell backward. The stranger placed the point of his sword at his throat; and M. Porthos, finding himself at the mercy of his adversary, acknowledged himself conquered. Upon which the stranger asked his name, and learning that it was Porthos, and not d’Artagnan, he assisted him to rise, brought him back to the hotel, mounted his horse, and disappeared.”

“So it was with M. d’Artagnan this stranger meant to quarrel?”

“It appears so.”

“And do you know what has become of him?”

“No, I never saw him until that moment, and have not seen him since.”

“Very well; I know all that I wish to know. Porthos’s chamber is, you say, on the first story, Number One?”

“Yes, Monsieur, the handsomest in the inn⁠—a chamber that I could have let ten times over.”

“Bah! Be satisfied,” said d’Artagnan, laughing, “Porthos will pay you with the money of the Duchess Coquenard.”

“Oh, Monsieur, procurator’s wife or duchess, if she will but loosen her pursestrings, it will be all the same; but she positively answered that she was tired of the exigencies and infidelities of M. Porthos, and that she would not send him a denier.”

“And did you convey this answer to your guest?”

“We took good care not to do that; he would have found in what fashion we had executed his commission.”

“So that he still expects his money?”

“Oh, Lord, yes, Monsieur! Yesterday he wrote again; but it was his servant who this time put the letter in the post.”

“Do you say the procurator’s wife is old and ugly?”

“Fifty at least, Monsieur, and not at all handsome, according to Pathaud’s account.”

“In that case, you may be quite at ease; she will soon be softened. Besides, Porthos cannot owe you much.”

“How, not much! Twenty good pistoles, already, without reckoning the doctor. He denies himself nothing; it may easily be seen he has been accustomed to live well.”

“Never mind; if his mistress abandons him, he will find friends, I will answer for it. So, my dear host, be not uneasy, and continue to take all the care of him that his situation requires.”

“Monsieur has promised me not to open his mouth about the procurator’s wife, and not to say a word of the wound?”

“That’s agreed; you have my word.”

“Oh, he would kill me!”

“Don’t be afraid; he is not so much of a devil as he appears.”

Saying these words, d’Artagnan went upstairs, leaving his host a little better satisfied with respect to two things in which he appeared to be very much interested⁠—his debt and his life.

At the top of the stairs, upon the most conspicuous door of the corridor, was traced in black ink a gigantic number “1.” D’Artagnan knocked, and upon the bidding to come in which came from inside, he entered the chamber.

Porthos was in bed, and was playing a game at lansquenet with Mousqueton, to keep his hand in; while a spit loaded with partridges was turning before the fire, and on each side of a large chimneypiece, over two chafing dishes, were boiling two stewpans, from which exhaled a double odor of rabbit and fish stews, rejoicing to the smell. In addition to this he perceived that the top of a wardrobe and the marble of a commode were covered with empty bottles.

At the sight of his friend, Porthos uttered a loud cry of joy; and Mousqueton, rising respectfully, yielded his place to him, and went to give an eye to the two stewpans, of which he appeared to have the particular inspection.

“Ah, pardieu! Is that you?” said Porthos to d’Artagnan. “You are right welcome. Excuse my not coming to meet you; but,” added he, looking at d’Artagnan with a certain degree of uneasiness, “you know what has happened to me?”

“No.”

“Has the host told you nothing, then?”

“I asked after you, and came up as soon as I could.”

Porthos seemed to breathe more freely.

“And what has happened to you, my dear Porthos?” continued d’Artagnan.

“Why, on making a thrust at my adversary, whom I had already hit three times, and whom I meant to finish with the fourth, I put my foot on a stone, slipped, and strained my knee.”

“Truly?”

“Honor! Luckily for the rascal, for I should have left him dead on the spot, I assure you.”

“And what has became of him?”

“Oh, I don’t know; he had enough, and set off without waiting for the rest. But you, my dear d’Artagnan, what has happened to you?”

“So that this strain of the knee,” continued d’Artagnan, “my dear Porthos, keeps you in bed?”

“My God, that’s all. I shall be about again in a few days.”

“Why did you not have yourself conveyed to Paris? You must be cruelly bored here.”

“That was my intention; but, my dear friend, I have one thing to confess to you.”

“What’s that?”

“It is that as I was cruelly bored, as you say, and as I had the seventy-five pistoles in my pocket which you had distributed to me, in order to amuse myself I invited a gentleman who was traveling this way to walk up, and proposed a cast of dice. He accepted my challenge, and, my faith, my seventy-five pistoles passed from my pocket to his, without reckoning my horse, which he won into the bargain. But you, my dear d’Artagnan?”

“What can you expect, my dear Porthos; a man is not privileged in all ways,” said d’Artagnan. “You know the proverb ‘Unlucky at play, lucky in love.’ You are too fortunate in your love for play not to take its revenge. What consequence can the reverses of fortune be to you? Have you not, happy rogue that you are⁠—have you not your duchess, who cannot fail to come to your aid?”

“Well, you see, my dear d’Artagnan, with what ill luck I play,” replied Porthos, with the most careless air in the world. “I wrote to her to send me fifty louis or so, of which I stood absolutely in need on account of my accident.”

“Well?”

“Well, she must be at her country seat, for she has not answered me.”

“Truly?”

“No; so I yesterday addressed another epistle to her, still more pressing than the first. But you are here, my dear fellow, let us speak of you. I confess I began to be very uneasy on your account.”

“But your host behaves very well toward you, as it appears, my dear Porthos,” said d’Artagnan, directing the sick man’s attention to the full stewpans and the empty bottles.

“So, so,” replied Porthos. “Only three or four days ago the impertinent jackanapes gave me his bill, and I was forced to turn both him and his bill out of the door; so that I am here something in the fashion of a conqueror, holding my position, as it were, by conquest. So you see, being in constant fear of being forced from that position, I am armed to the teeth.”

“And yet,” said d’Artagnan, laughing, “it appears to me that from time to time you must make sorties.” And he again pointed to the bottles and the stewpans.

“Not I, unfortunately!” said Porthos. “This miserable strain confines me to my bed; but Mousqueton forages, and brings in provisions. Friend Mousqueton, you see that we have a reinforcement, and we must have an increase of supplies.”

“Mousqueton,” said d’Artagnan, “you must render me a service.”

“What, Monsieur?”

“You must give your recipe to Planchet. I may be besieged in my turn, and I shall not be sorry for him to be able to let me enjoy the same advantages with which you gratify your master.”

“Lord, Monsieur! There is nothing more easy,” said Mousqueton, with a modest air. “One only needs to be sharp, that’s all. I was brought up in the country, and my father in his leisure time was something of a poacher.”

“And what did he do the rest of his time?”

“Monsieur, he carried on a trade which I have always thought satisfactory.”

“Which?”

“As it was a time of war between the Catholics and the Huguenots, and as he saw the Catholics exterminate the Huguenots and the Huguenots exterminate the Catholics⁠—all in the name of religion⁠—he adopted a mixed belief which permitted him to be sometimes Catholic, sometimes a Huguenot. Now, he was accustomed to walk with his fowling piece on his shoulder, behind the hedges which border the roads, and when he saw a Catholic coming alone, the Protestant religion immediately prevailed in his mind. He lowered his gun in the direction of the traveler; then, when he was within ten paces of him, he commenced a conversation which almost always ended by the traveler’s abandoning his purse to save his life. It goes without saying that when he saw a Huguenot coming, he felt himself filled with such ardent Catholic zeal that he could not understand how, a quarter of an hour before, he had been able to have any doubts upon the superiority of our holy religion. For my part, Monsieur, I am Catholic⁠—my father, faithful to his principles, having made my elder brother a Huguenot.”

“And what was the end of this worthy man?” asked d’Artagnan.

“Oh, of the most unfortunate kind, Monsieur. One day he was surprised in a lonely road between a Huguenot and a Catholic, with both of whom he had before had business, and who both knew him again; so they united against him and hanged him on a tree. Then they came and boasted of their fine exploit in the cabaret of the next village, where my brother and I were drinking.”

“And what did you do?” said d’Artagnan.

“We let them tell their story out,” replied Mousqueton. “Then, as in leaving the cabaret they took different directions, my brother went and hid himself on the road of the Catholic, and I on that of the Huguenot. Two hours after, all was over; we had done the business of both, admiring the foresight of our poor father, who had taken the precaution to bring each of us up in a different religion.”

“Well, I must allow, as you say, your father was a very intelligent fellow. And you say in his leisure moments the worthy man was a poacher?”

“Yes, Monsieur, and it was he who taught me to lay a snare and ground a line. The consequence is that when I saw our laborers, which did not at all suit two such delicate stomachs as ours, I had recourse to a little of my old trade. While walking near the wood of Monsieur the Prince, I laid a few snare in the runs; and while reclining on the banks of His Highness’s pieces of water, I slipped a few lines into his fish ponds. So that now, thanks be to God, we do not want, as M. can testify, for partridges, rabbits, carp or eels⁠—all light, wholesome food, suitable for the sick.”

“But the wine,” said d’Artagnan, “who furnishes the wine? Your host?”

“That is to say, yes and no.”

“How yes and no?”

“He furnishes it, it is true, but he does not know that he has that honor.”

“Explain yourself, Mousqueton; your conversation is full of instructive things.”

“This is it, Monsieur. It has so chanced that I met with a Spaniard in my peregrinations who had seen many countries, and among them the New World.”

“What connection can the New World have with the bottles which are on the commode and the wardrobe?”

“Patience, Monsieur, everything will come in its turn.”

“This Spaniard had in his service a lackey who had accompanied him in his voyage to Mexico. This lackey was my compatriot; and we became the more intimate from there being many resemblances of character between us. We loved sporting of all kinds better than anything; so that he related to me how in the plains of the Pampas the natives hunt the tiger and the wild bull with simple running nooses which they throw to a distance of twenty or thirty paces the end of a cord with such nicety; but in face of the proof I was obliged to acknowledge the truth of the recital. My friend placed a bottle at the distance of thirty paces, and at each cast he caught the neck of the bottle in his running noose. I practiced this exercise, and as nature has endowed me with some faculties, at this day I can throw the lasso with any man in the world. Well, do you understand, Monsieur? Our host has a well-furnished cellar the key of which never leaves him; only this cellar has a ventilating hole. Now through this ventilating hole I throw my lasso, and as I now know in which part of the cellar is the best wine, that’s my point for sport. You see, Monsieur, what the New World has to do with the bottles which are on the commode and the wardrobe. Now, will you taste our wine, and without prejudice say what you think of it?”

“Thank you, my friend, thank you; unfortunately, I have just breakfasted.”

“Well,” said Porthos, “arrange the table, Mousqueton, and while we breakfast, d’Artagnan will relate to us what has happened to him during the ten days since he left us.”

“Willingly,” said d’Artagnan.

While Porthos and Mousqueton were breakfasting, with the appetites of convalescents and with that brotherly cordiality which unites men in misfortune, d’Artagnan related how Aramis, being wounded, was obliged to stop at Crèvecoeur, how he had left Athos fighting at Amiens with four men who accused him of being a coiner, and how he, d’Artagnan, had been forced to run the Comtes de Wardes through the body in order to reach England.

But there the confidence of d’Artagnan stopped. He only added that on his return from Great Britain he had brought back four magnificent horses⁠—one for himself, and one for each of his companions; then he informed Porthos that the one intended for him was already installed in the stable of the tavern.

At this moment Planchet entered, to inform his master that the horses were sufficiently refreshed and that it would be possible to sleep at Clermont.

As d’Artagnan was tolerably reassured with regard to Porthos, and as he was anxious to obtain news of his two other friends, he held out his hand to the wounded man, and told him he was about to resume his route in order to continue his researches. For the rest, as he reckoned upon returning by the same route in seven or eight days, if Porthos were still at the Great St. Martin, he would call for him on his way.

Porthos replied that in all probability his sprain would not permit him to depart yet awhile. Besides, it was necessary he should stay at Chantilly to wait for the answer from his duchess.

D’Artagnan wished that answer might be prompt and favorable; and having again recommended Porthos to the care of Mousqueton, and paid his bill to the host, he resumed his route with Planchet, already relieved of one of his led horses.

CHAPTER XXVI

Aramis and His Thesis

D’Artagnan had said nothing to Porthos of his wound or of his procurator’s wife. Our Béarnais was a prudent lad, however young he might be. Consequently he had appeared to believe all that the vainglorious musketeer had told him, convinced that no friendship will hold out against a surprised secret, particularly when pride is deeply interested in that secret. Besides, we feel always a sort of mental superiority over those whose lives we know better than they suppose. In his projects of intrigue for the future, and determined as he was to make his three friends the instruments of his fortune, d’Artagnan was not sorry at getting into his grasp beforehand the invisible strings by which he reckoned upon moving them.

And yet, as he journeyed along, a profound sadness weighed upon his heart. He thought of that young and pretty Madame Bonacieux who was to have paid him the price of his devotedness; but let us hasten to say that this sadness possessed the young man less from the regret of the happiness he had missed, than from the fear he entertained that some serious misfortune had befallen the poor woman. For himself, he had no doubt she was a victim of the cardinal’s vengeance; and, as was well known, the vengeance of his Eminence was terrible. How he had found grace in the eyes of the minister, he did not know; but without doubt M. de Cavois would have revealed this to him if the captain of the Guards had found him at home.

Nothing makes time pass more quickly or more shortens a journey than a thought which absorbs in itself all the faculties of the organization of him who thinks. External existence then resembles a sleep of which this thought is the dream. By its influence, time has no longer measure, space has no longer distance. We depart from one place, and arrive at another, that is all. Of the interval passed, nothing remains in the memory but a vague mist in which a thousand confused images of trees, mountains, and landscapes are lost. It was as a prey to this hallucination that d’Artagnan traveled, at whatever pace his horse pleased, the six or eight leagues that separated Chantilly from Crèvecoeur, without his being able to remember on his arrival in the village any of the things he had passed or met with on the road.

There only his memory returned to him. He shook his head, perceived the cabaret at which he had left Aramis, and putting his horse to the trot, he shortly pulled up at the door.

This time it was not a host but a hostess who received him. D’Artagnan was a physiognomist. His eye took in at a glance the plump, cheerful countenance of the mistress of the place, and he at once perceived there was no occasion for dissembling with her, or of fearing anything from one blessed with such a joyous physiognomy.

“My good dame,” asked d’Artagnan, “can you tell me what has become of one of my friends, whom we were obliged to leave here about a dozen days ago?”

“A handsome young man, three- or four-and-twenty years old, mild, amiable, and well made?”

“That is he⁠—wounded in the shoulder.”

“Just so. Well, Monsieur, he is still here.”

“Ah, pardieu! My dear dame,” said d’Artagnan, springing from his horse, and throwing the bridle to Planchet, “you restore me to life; where is this dear Aramis? Let me embrace him, I am in a hurry to see him again.”

“Pardon, Monsieur, but I doubt whether he can see you at this moment.”

“Why so? Has he a lady with him?”

“Jesus! What do you mean by that? Poor lad! No, Monsieur, he has not a lady with him.”

“With whom is he, then?”

“With the curate of Montdidier and the superior of the Jesuits of Amiens.”

“Good heavens!” cried d’Artagnan, “is the poor fellow worse, then?”

“No, Monsieur, quite the contrary; but after his illness grace touched him, and he determined to take orders.”

“That’s it!” said d’Artagnan, “I had forgotten that he was only a musketeer for a time.”

“Monsieur still insists upon seeing him?”

“More than ever.”

“Well, Monsieur has only to take the right-hand staircase in the courtyard, and knock at Number Five on the second floor.”

D’Artagnan walked quickly in the direction indicated, and found one of those exterior staircases that are still to be seen in the yards of our old-fashioned taverns. But there was no getting at the place of sojourn of the future abbé; the defiles of the chamber of Aramis were as well guarded as the gardens of Armida. Bazin was stationed in the corridor, and barred his passage with the more intrepidity that, after many years of trial, Bazin found himself near a result of which he had ever been ambitious.

In fact, the dream of poor Bazin had always been to serve a churchman; and he awaited with impatience the moment, always in the future, when Aramis would throw aside the uniform and assume the cassock. The daily-renewed promise of the young man that the moment would not long be delayed, had alone kept him in the service of a musketeer⁠—a service in which, he said, his soul was in constant jeopardy.

Bazin was then at the height of joy. In all probability, this time his master would not retract. The union of physical pain with moral uneasiness had produced the effect so long desired. Aramis, suffering at once in body and mind, had at length fixed his eyes and his thoughts upon religion, and he had considered as a warning from heaven the double accident which had happened to him; that is to say, the sudden disappearance of his mistress and the wound in his shoulder.

It may be easily understood that in the present disposition of his master nothing could be more disagreeable to Bazin than the arrival of d’Artagnan, which might cast his master back again into that vortex of mundane affairs which had so long carried him away. He resolved, then, to defend the door bravely; and as, betrayed by the mistress of the inn, he could not say that Aramis was absent, he endeavored to prove to the newcomer that it would be the height of indiscretion to disturb his master in his pious conference, which had commenced with the morning and would not, as Bazin said, terminate before night.

But d’Artagnan took very little heed of the eloquent discourse of M. Bazin; and as he had no desire to support a polemic discussion with his friend’s valet, he simply moved him out of the way with one hand, and with the other turned the handle of the door of Number Five. The door opened, and d’Artagnan went into the chamber.

Aramis, in a black gown, his head enveloped in a sort of round flat cap, not much unlike a calotte, was seated before an oblong table, covered with rolls of paper and enormous volumes in folio. At his right hand was placed the superior of the Jesuits, and on his left the curate of Montdidier. The curtains were half drawn, and only admitted the mysterious light calculated for beatific reveries. All the mundane objects that generally strike the eye on entering the room of a young man, particularly when that young man is a musketeer, had disappeared as if by enchantment; and for fear, no doubt, that the sight of them might bring his master back to ideas of this world, Bazin had laid his hands upon sword, pistols, plumed hat, and embroideries and laces of all kinds and sorts. In their stead d’Artagnan thought he perceived in an obscure corner a discipline cord suspended from a nail in the wall.

At the noise made by d’Artagnan in entering, Aramis lifted up his head, and beheld his friend; but to the great astonishment of the young man, the sight of him did not produce much effect upon the musketeer, so completely was his mind detached from the things of this world.

“Good day, dear d’Artagnan,” said Aramis; “believe me, I am glad to see you.”

“So am I delighted to see you,” said d’Artagnan, “although I am not yet sure that it is Aramis I am speaking to.”

“To himself, my friend, to himself! But what makes you doubt it?”

“I was afraid I had made a mistake in the chamber, and that I had found my way into the apartment of some churchman. Then another error seized me on seeing you in company with these gentlemen⁠—I was afraid you were dangerously ill.”

The two men in black, who guessed d’Artagnan’s meaning, darted at him a glance which might have been thought threatening; but d’Artagnan took no heed of it.

“I disturb you, perhaps, my dear Aramis,” continued d’Artagnan, “for by what I see, I am led to believe that you are confessing to these gentlemen.”

Aramis colored imperceptibly. “You disturb me? Oh, quite the contrary, dear friend, I swear; and as a proof of what I say, permit me to declare I am rejoiced to see you safe and sound.”

Ah, he’ll come round, thought d’Artagnan; that’s not bad!

“This gentleman, who is my friend, has just escaped from a serious danger,” continued Aramis, with unction, pointing to d’Artagnan with his hand, and addressing the two ecclesiastics.

“Praise God, Monsieur,” replied they, bowing together.

“I have not failed to do so, your Reverences,” replied the young man, returning their salutation.

“You arrive in good time, dear d’Artagnan,” said Aramis, “and by taking part in our discussion may assist us with your intelligence. Monsieur the Principal of Amiens, Monsieur the Curate of Montdidier, and I are arguing certain theological questions in which we have been much interested; I shall be delighted to have your opinion.”

“The opinion of a swordsman can have very little weight,” replied d’Artagnan, who began to be uneasy at the turn things were taking, “and you had better be satisfied, believe me, with the knowledge of these gentlemen.”

The two men in black bowed in their turn.

“On the contrary,” replied Aramis, “your opinion will be very valuable. The question is this: Monsieur the Principal thinks that my thesis ought to be dogmatic and didactic.”

“Your thesis! Are you then making a thesis?”

“Without doubt,” replied the Jesuit. “In the examination which precedes ordination, a thesis is always a requisite.”

“Ordination!” cried d’Artagnan, who could not believe what the hostess and Bazin had successively told him; and he gazed, half stupefied, upon the three persons before him.

“Now,” continued Aramis, taking the same graceful position in his easy chair that he would have assumed in bed, and complacently examining his hand, which was as white and plump as that of a woman, and which he held in the air to cause the blood to descend, “now, as you have heard, d’Artagnan, Monsieur the Principal is desirous that my thesis should be dogmatic, while I, for my part, would rather it should be ideal. This is the reason why Monsieur the Principal has proposed to me the following subject, which has not yet been treated upon, and in which I perceive there is matter for magnificent elaboration⁠—‘Utraque manus in benedicendo clericis inferioribus necessaria est.’ ”

D’Artagnan, whose erudition we are well acquainted with, evinced no more interest on hearing this quotation than he had at that of M. de Tréville in allusion to the gifts he pretended that d’Artagnan had received from the Duke of Buckingham.

“Which means,” resumed Aramis, that he might perfectly understand, “ ‘The two hands are indispensable for priests of the inferior orders, when they bestow the benediction.’ ”

“An admirable subject!” cried the Jesuit.

“Admirable and dogmatic!” repeated the curate, who, about as strong as d’Artagnan with respect to Latin, carefully watched the Jesuit in order to keep step with him, and repeated his words like an echo.

As to d’Artagnan, he remained perfectly insensible to the enthusiasm of the two men in black.

“Yes, admirable! prorsus admirabile!” continued Aramis; “but which requires a profound study of both the Scriptures and the Fathers. Now, I have confessed to these learned ecclesiastics, and that in all humility, that the duties of mounting guard and the service of the king have caused me to neglect study a little. I should find myself, therefore, more at my ease, facilius natans, in a subject of my own choice, which would be to these hard theological questions what morals are to metaphysics in philosophy.”

D’Artagnan began to be tired, and so did the curate.

“See what an exordium!” cried the Jesuit.

“Exordium,” repeated the curate, for the sake of saying something. “Quemadmodum inter coelorum immensitatem.”

Aramis cast a glance upon d’Artagnan to see what effect all this produced, and found his friend gaping enough to split his jaws.

“Let us speak French, my father,” said he to the Jesuit; “Monsieur d’Artagnan will enjoy our conversation better.”

“Yes,” replied d’Artagnan; “I am fatigued with riding, and all this Latin confuses me.”

“Certainly,” replied the Jesuit, a little put out, while the curate, greatly delighted, turned upon d’Artagnan a look full of gratitude. “Well, let us see what is to be derived from this gloss. Moses, the servant of God⁠—he was but a servant, please to understand⁠—Moses blessed with the hands; he held out both his arms while the Hebrews beat their enemies, and then he blessed them with his two hands. Besides, what does the Gospel say? Imponite manus, and not manum⁠—place the hands, not the hand.”

“Place the hands,” repeated the curate, with a gesture.

“St. Peter, on the contrary, of whom the popes are the successors,” continued the Jesuit; “porrige digitos⁠—present the fingers. Are you there, now?”

“Certes,” replied Aramis, in a pleased tone, “but the thing is subtle.”

“The fingers,” resumed the Jesuit, “St. Peter blessed with the fingers. The Pope, therefore blesses with the fingers. And with how many fingers does he bless? With three fingers, to be sure⁠—one for the Father, one for the Son, and one for the Holy Ghost.”

All crossed themselves. D’Artagnan thought it was proper to follow this example.

“The Pope is the successor of St. Peter, and represents the three divine powers; the rest⁠—ordines inferiores⁠—of the ecclesiastical hierarchy bless in the name of the holy archangels and angels. The most humble clerks such as our deacons and sacristans, bless with holy water sprinklers, which resemble an infinite number of blessing fingers. There is the subject simplified. Argumentum omni denudatum ornamento. I could make of that subject two volumes the size of this,” continued the Jesuit; and in his enthusiasm he struck a St. Chrysostom in folio, which made the table bend beneath its weight.

D’Artagnan trembled.

“Certes,” said Aramis, “I do justice to the beauties of this thesis; but at the same time I perceive it would be overwhelming for me. I had chosen this text⁠—tell me, dear d’Artagnan, if it is not to your taste⁠—‘Non inutile est desiderium in oblatione’; that is, ‘A little regret is not unsuitable in an offering to the Lord.’ ”

“Stop there!” cried the Jesuit, “for that thesis touches closely upon heresy. There is a proposition almost like it in The Augustinus of the heresiarch Jansenius, whose book will sooner or later be burned by the hands of the executioner. Take care, my young friend. You are inclining toward false doctrines, my young friend; you will be lost.”

“You will be lost,” said the curate, shaking his head sorrowfully.

“You approach that famous point of free will which is a mortal rock. You face the insinuations of the Pelagians and the semi-Pelagians.”

“But, my reverend⁠—” replied Aramis, a little amazed by the shower of arguments that poured upon his head.

“How will you prove,” continued the Jesuit, without allowing him time to speak, “that we ought to regret the world when we offer ourselves to God? Listen to this dilemma: God is God, and the world is the devil. To regret the world is to regret the devil; that is my conclusion.”

“And that is mine also,” said the curate.

“But, for heaven’s sake⁠—” resumed Aramis.

“Desideras diabolum, unhappy man!” cried the Jesuit.

“He regrets the devil! Ah, my young friend,” added the curate, groaning, “do not regret the devil, I implore you!”

D’Artagnan felt himself bewildered. It seemed to him as though he were in a madhouse, and was becoming as mad as those he saw. He was, however, forced to hold his tongue from not comprehending half the language they employed.

“But listen to me, then,” resumed Aramis with politeness mingled with a little impatience. “I do not say I regret; no, I will never pronounce that sentence, which would not be orthodox.”

The Jesuit raised his hands toward heaven, and the curate did the same.

“No; but pray grant me that it is acting with an ill grace to offer to the Lord only that with which we are perfectly disgusted! Don’t you think so, d’Artagnan?”

“I think so, indeed,” cried he.

The Jesuit and the curate quite started from their chairs.

“This is the point of departure; it is a syllogism. The world is not wanting in attractions. I quit the world; then I make a sacrifice. Now, the Scripture says positively, ‘Make a sacrifice unto the Lord.’ ”

“That is true,” said his antagonists.

“And then,” said Aramis, pinching his ear to make it red, as he rubbed his hands to make them white, “and then I made a certain rondeau upon it last year, which I showed to M. Voiture, and that great man paid me a thousand compliments.”

“A rondeau!” said the Jesuit, disdainfully.

“A rondeau!” said the curate, mechanically.

“Repeat it! Repeat it!” cried d’Artagnan; “it will make a little change.”

“Not so, for it is religious,” replied Aramis; “it is theology in verse.”

“The devil!” said d’Artagnan.

“Here it is,” said Aramis, with a little look of diffidence, which, however, was not exempt from a shade of hypocrisy:

Vous qui pleurez un passe plein de charmes,

Et qui trainez des jours infortunes,

Tous vos malheurs se verront termines,

Quand a Dieu seul vous offrirez vos larmes,

Vous qui pleurez!

You who weep for pleasures fled,

While dragging on a life of care,

All your woes will melt in air,

If to God your tears are shed,

You who weep!

D’Artagnan and the curate appeared pleased. The Jesuit persisted in his opinion. “Beware of a profane taste in your theological style. What says Augustine on this subject: ‘Severus sit clericorum verbo.’ ”

“Yes, let the sermon be clear,” said the curate.

“Now,” hastily interrupted the Jesuit, on seeing that his acolyte was going astray, “now, your thesis would please the ladies; it would have the success of one of M. Patru’s pleadings.”

“Please God!” cried Aramis, transported.

“There it is,” cried the Jesuit; “the world still speaks within you in a loud voice, altisimmâ voce. You follow the world, my young friend, and I tremble lest grace prove not efficacious.”

“Be satisfied, my reverend father, I can answer for myself.”

“Mundane presumption!”

“I know myself, Father; my resolution is irrevocable.”

“Then you persist in continuing that thesis?”

“I feel myself called upon to treat that, and no other. I will see about the continuation of it, and tomorrow I hope you will be satisfied with the corrections I shall have made in consequence of your advice.”

“Work slowly,” said the curate; “we leave you in an excellent tone of mind.”

“Yes, the ground is all sown,” said the Jesuit, “and we have not to fear that one portion of the seed may have fallen upon stone, another upon the highway, or that the birds of heaven have eaten the rest, aves coeli comederunt illam.”

“Plague stifle you and your Latin!” said d’Artagnan, who began to feel all his patience exhausted.

“Farewell, my son,” said the curate, “till tomorrow.”

“Till tomorrow, rash youth,” said the Jesuit. “You promise to become one of the lights of the Church. Heaven grant that this light prove not a devouring fire!”

D’Artagnan, who for an hour past had been gnawing his nails with impatience, was beginning to attack the quick.

The two men in black rose, bowed to Aramis and d’Artagnan, and advanced toward the door. Bazin, who had been standing listening to all this controversy with a pious jubilation, sprang toward them, took the breviary of the curate and the missal of the Jesuit, and walked respectfully before them to clear their way.

Aramis conducted them to the foot of the stairs, and then immediately came up again to d’Artagnan, whose senses were still in a state of confusion.

When left alone, the two friends at first kept an embarrassed silence. It however became necessary for one of them to break it first, and as d’Artagnan appeared determined to leave that honor to his companion, Aramis said, “You see that I am returned to my fundamental ideas.”

“Yes, efficacious grace has touched you, as that gentleman said just now.”

“Oh, these plans of retreat have been formed for a long time. You have often heard me speak of them, have you not, my friend?”

“Yes; but I confess I always thought you jested.”

“With such things! Oh, d’Artagnan!”

“The devil! Why, people jest with death.”

“And people are wrong, d’Artagnan; for death is the door which leads to perdition or to salvation.”

“Granted; but if you please, let us not theologize, Aramis. You must have had enough for today. As for me, I have almost forgotten the little Latin I have ever known. Then I confess to you that I have eaten nothing since ten o’clock this morning, and I am devilishly hungry.”

“We will dine directly, my friend; only you must please to remember that this is Friday. Now, on such a day I can neither eat flesh nor see it eaten. If you can be satisfied with my dinner⁠—it consists of cooked tetragones and fruits.”

“What do you mean by tetragones?” asked d’Artagnan, uneasily.

“I mean spinach,” replied Aramis; “but on your account I will add some eggs, and that is a serious infraction of the rule⁠—for eggs are meat, since they engender chickens.”

“This feast is not very succulent; but never mind, I will put up with it for the sake of remaining with you.”

“I am grateful to you for the sacrifice,” said Aramis; “but if your body be not greatly benefited by it, be assured your soul will.”

“And so, Aramis, you are decidedly going into the Church? What will our two friends say? What will M. de Tréville say? They will treat you as a deserter, I warn you.”

“I do not enter the Church; I re-enter it. I deserted the Church for the world, for you know that I forced myself when I became a musketeer.”

“I? I know nothing about it.”

“You don’t know I quit the seminary?”

“Not at all.”

“This is my story, then. Besides, the Scriptures say, ‘Confess yourselves to one another,’ and I confess to you, d’Artagnan.”

“And I give you absolution beforehand. You see I am a good sort of a man.”

“Do not jest about holy things, my friend.”

“Go on, then, I listen.”

“I had been at the seminary from nine years old; in three days I should have been twenty. I was about to become an abbé, and all was arranged. One evening I went, according to custom, to a house which I frequented with much pleasure: when one is young, what can be expected?⁠—one is weak. An officer who saw me, with a jealous eye, reading the Lives of the Saints to the mistress of the house, entered suddenly and without being announced. That evening I had translated an episode of Judith, and had just communicated my verses to the lady, who gave me all sorts of compliments, and leaning on my shoulder, was reading them a second time with me. Her pose, which I must admit was rather free, wounded this officer. He said nothing; but when I went out he followed, and quickly came up with me. ‘Monsieur the Abbé,’ said he, ‘do you like blows with a cane?’ ‘I cannot say, Monsieur,’ answered I; ‘no one has ever dared to give me any.’ ‘Well, listen to me, then, Monsieur the Abbé! If you venture again into the house in which I have met you this evening, I will dare it myself.’ I really think I must have been frightened. I became very pale; I felt my legs fail me; I sought for a reply, but could find none⁠—I was silent. The officer waited for his reply, and seeing it so long coming, he burst into a laugh, turned upon his heel, and re-entered the house. I returned to the seminary.

“I am a gentleman born, and my blood is warm, as you may have remarked, my dear d’Artagnan. The insult was terrible, and although unknown to the rest of the world, I felt it live and fester at the bottom of my heart. I informed my superiors that I did not feel myself sufficiently prepared for ordination, and at my request the ceremony was postponed for a year. I sought out the best fencing master in Paris, I made an agreement with him to take a lesson every day, and every day for a year I took that lesson. Then, on the anniversary of the day on which I had been insulted, I hung my cassock on a peg, assumed the costume of a cavalier, and went to a ball given by a lady friend of mine and to which I knew my man was invited. It was in the Rue des France-Bourgeois, close to La Force. As I expected, my officer was there. I went up to him as he was singing a love ditty and looking tenderly at a lady, and interrupted him exactly in the middle of the second couplet. ‘Monsieur,’ said I, ‘does it still displease you that I should frequent a certain house in Rue Payenne? And would you still cane me if I took it into my head to disobey you?’ The officer looked at me with astonishment, and then said, ‘What is your business with me, Monsieur? I do not know you.’ ‘I am,’ said I, ‘the little abbé who reads Lives of the Saints, and translates Judith into verse.’ ‘Ah, ah! I recollect now,’ said the officer, in a jeering tone; ‘well, what do you want with me?’ ‘I want you to spare time to take a walk with me.’ ‘Tomorrow morning, if you like, with the greatest pleasure.’ ‘No, not tomorrow morning, if you please, but immediately.’ ‘If you absolutely insist.’ ‘I do insist upon it.’ ‘Come, then. Ladies,’ said the officer, ‘do not disturb yourselves; allow me time just to kill this gentleman, and I will return and finish the last couplet.’

“We went out. I took him to the Rue Payenne, to exactly the same spot where, a year before, at the very same hour, he had paid me the compliment I have related to you. It was a superb moonlight night. We immediately drew, and at the first pass I laid him stark dead.”

“The devil!” cried d’Artagnan.

“Now,” continued Aramis, “as the ladies did not see the singer come back, and as he was found in the Rue Payenne with a great sword wound through his body, it was supposed that I had accommodated him thus; and the matter created some scandal which obliged me to renounce the cassock for a time. Athos, whose acquaintance I made about that period, and Porthos, who had in addition to my lessons taught me some effective tricks of fence, prevailed upon me to solicit the uniform of a musketeer. The king entertained great regard for my father, who had fallen at the siege of Arras, and the uniform was granted. You may understand that the moment has come for me to re-enter the bosom of the Church.”

“And why today, rather than yesterday or tomorrow? What has happened to you today, to raise all these melancholy ideas?”

“This wound, my dear d’Artagnan, has been a warning to me from heaven.”

“This wound? Bah, it is now nearly healed, and I am sure it is not that which gives you the most pain.”

“What, then?” said Aramis, blushing.

“You have one at heart, Aramis, one deeper and more painful⁠—a wound made by a woman.”

The eye of Aramis kindled in spite of himself.

“Ah,” said he, dissembling his emotion under a feigned carelessness, “do not talk of such things, and suffer love pains? Vanitas vanitatum! According to your idea, then, my brain is turned. And for whom⁠—for some grisette, some chambermaid with whom I have trifled in some garrison? Fie!”

“Pardon, my dear Aramis, but I thought you carried your eyes higher.”

“Higher? And who am I, to nourish such ambition? A poor musketeer, a beggar, an unknown⁠—who hates slavery, and finds himself ill-placed in the world.”

“Aramis, Aramis!” cried d’Artagnan, looking at his friend with an air of doubt.

“Dust I am, and to dust I return. Life is full of humiliations and sorrows,” continued he, becoming still more melancholy; “all the ties which attach him to life break in the hand of man, particularly the golden ties. Oh, my dear d’Artagnan,” resumed Aramis, giving to his voice a slight tone of bitterness, “trust me! Conceal your wounds when you have any; silence is the last joy of the unhappy. Beware of giving anyone the clue to your griefs; the curious suck our tears as flies suck the blood of a wounded hart.”

“Alas, my dear Aramis,” said d’Artagnan, in his turn heaving a profound sigh, “that is my story you are relating!”

“How?”

“Yes; a woman whom I love, whom I adore, has just been torn from me by force. I do not know where she is or whither they have conducted her. She is perhaps a prisoner; she is perhaps dead!”

“Yes, but you have at least this consolation, that you can say to yourself she has not quit you voluntarily, that if you learn no news of her, it is because all communication with you is interdicted; while I⁠—”

“Well?”

“Nothing,” replied Aramis, “nothing.”

“So you renounce the world, then, forever; that is a settled thing⁠—a resolution registered!”

“Forever! You are my friend today; tomorrow you will be no more to me than a shadow, or rather, even, you will no longer exist. As for the world, it is a sepulcher and nothing else.”

“The devil! All this is very sad which you tell me.”

“What will you? My vocation commands me; it carries me away.”

D’Artagnan smiled, but made no answer.

Aramis continued, “And yet, while I do belong to the earth, I wish to speak of you⁠—of our friends.”

“And on my part,” said d’Artagnan, “I wished to speak of you, but I find you so completely detached from everything! To love you cry, ‘Fie! Friends are shadows! The world is a sepulcher!’ ”

“Alas, you will find it so yourself,” said Aramis, with a sigh.

“Well, then, let us say no more about it,” said d’Artagnan; “and let us burn this letter, which, no doubt, announces to you some fresh infidelity of your grisette or your chambermaid.”

“What letter?” cried Aramis, eagerly.

“A letter which was sent to your abode in your absence, and which was given to me for you.”

“But from whom is that letter?”

“Oh, from some heartbroken waiting woman, some desponding grisette; from Madame de Chevreuse’s chambermaid, perhaps, who was obliged to return to Tours with her mistress, and who, in order to appear smart and attractive, stole some perfumed paper, and sealed her letter with a duchess’s coronet.”

“What do you say?”

“Hold! I must have lost it,” said the young man maliciously, pretending to search for it. “But fortunately the world is a sepulcher; the men, and consequently the women, are but shadows, and love is a sentiment to which you cry, ‘Fie! Fie!’ ”

“D’Artagnan, d’Artagnan,” cried Aramis, “you are killing me!”

“Well, here it is at last!” said d’Artagnan, as he drew the letter from his pocket.

Aramis made a bound, seized the letter, read it, or rather devoured it, his countenance radiant.

“This same waiting maid seems to have an agreeable style,” said the messenger, carelessly.

“Thanks, d’Artagnan, thanks!” cried Aramis, almost in a state of delirium. “She was forced to return to Tours; she is not faithless; she still loves me! Come, my friend, come, let me embrace you. Happiness almost stifles me!”

The two friends began to dance around the venerable St. Chrysostom, kicking about famously the sheets of the thesis, which had fallen on the floor.

At that moment Bazin entered with the spinach and the omelet.

“Be off, you wretch!” cried Aramis, throwing his skullcap in his face. “Return whence you came; take back those horrible vegetables, and that poor kickshaw! Order a larded hare, a fat capon, mutton leg dressed with garlic, and four bottles of old Burgundy.”

Bazin, who looked at his master, without comprehending the cause of this change, in a melancholy manner, allowed the omelet to slip into the spinach, and the spinach onto the floor.

“Now this is the moment to consecrate your existence to the King of kings,” said d’Artagnan, “if you persist in offering him a civility. Non inutile desiderium oblatione.”

“Go to the devil with your Latin. Let us drink, my dear d’Artagnan, morbleu! Let us drink while the wine is fresh! Let us drink heartily, and while we do so, tell me a little of what is going on in the world yonder.”

CHAPTER XXVII

The Wife of Athos

“We have now to search for Athos,” said d’Artagnan to the vivacious Aramis, when he had informed him of all that had passed since their departure from the capital, and an excellent dinner had made one of them forget his thesis and the other his fatigue.

“Do you think, then, that any harm can have happened to him?” asked Aramis. “Athos is so cool, so brave, and handles his sword so skillfully.”

“No doubt. Nobody has a higher opinion of the courage and skill of Athos than I have; but I like better to hear my sword clang against lances than against staves. I fear lest Athos should have been beaten down by serving men. Those fellows strike hard, and don’t leave off in a hurry. This is why I wish to set out again as soon as possible.”

“I will try to accompany you,” said Aramis, “though I scarcely feel in a condition to mount on horseback. Yesterday I undertook to employ that cord which you see hanging against the wall, but pain prevented my continuing the pious exercise.”

“That’s the first time I ever heard of anybody trying to cure gunshot wounds with cat-o’-nine-tails; but you were ill, and illness renders the head weak, therefore you may be excused.”

“When do you mean to set out?”

“Tomorrow at daybreak. Sleep as soundly as you can tonight, and tomorrow, if you can, we will take our departure together.”

“Till tomorrow, then,” said Aramis; “for iron-nerved as you are, you must need repose.”

The next morning, when d’Artagnan entered Aramis’s chamber, he found him at the window.

“What are you looking at?” asked d’Artagnan.

“My faith! I am admiring three magnificent horses which the stable boys are leading about. It would be a pleasure worthy of a prince to travel upon such horses.”

“Well, my dear Aramis, you may enjoy that pleasure, for one of those three horses is yours.”

“Ah, bah! Which?”

“Whichever of the three you like, I have no preference.”

“And the rich caparison, is that mine, too?”

“Without doubt.”

“You laugh, d’Artagnan.”

“No, I have left off laughing, now that you speak French.”

“What, those rich holsters, that velvet housing, that saddle studded with silver⁠—are they all for me?”

“For you and nobody else, as the horse which paws the ground is mine, and the other horse, which is caracoling, belongs to Athos.”

“Peste! They are three superb animals!”

“I am glad they please you.”

“Why, it must have been the king who made you such a present.”

“Certainly it was not the cardinal; but don’t trouble yourself whence they come, think only that one of the three is your property.”

“I choose that which the redheaded boy is leading.”

“It is yours!”

“Good heaven! That is enough to drive away all my pains; I could mount him with thirty balls in my body. On my soul, handsome stirrups! Holà, Bazin, come here this minute.”

Bazin appeared on the threshold, dull and spiritless.

“That last order is useless,” interrupted d’Artagnan; “there are loaded pistols in your holsters.”

Bazin sighed.

“Come, M. Bazin, make yourself easy,” said d’Artagnan; “people of all conditions gain the kingdom of heaven.”

“Monsieur was already such a good theologian,” said Bazin, almost weeping; “he might have become a bishop, and perhaps a cardinal.”

“Well, but my poor Bazin, reflect a little. Of what use is it to be a churchman, pray? You do not avoid going to war by that means; you see, the cardinal is about to make the next campaign, helm on head and partisan in hand. And M. de Nogaret de la Valette, what do you say of him? He is a cardinal likewise. Ask his lackey how often he has had to prepare lint of him.”

“Alas!” sighed Bazin. “I know it, Monsieur; everything is turned topsy-turvy in the world nowadays.”

While this dialogue was going on, the two young men and the poor lackey descended.

“Hold my stirrup, Bazin,” cried Aramis; and Aramis sprang into the saddle with his usual grace and agility, but after a few vaults and curvets of the noble animal his rider felt his pains come on so insupportably that he turned pale and became unsteady in his seat. D’Artagnan, who, foreseeing such an event, had kept his eye on him, sprang toward him, caught him in his arms, and assisted him to his chamber.

“That’s all right, my dear Aramis, take care of yourself,” said he; “I will go alone in search of Athos.”

“You are a man of brass,” replied Aramis.

“No, I have good luck, that is all. But how do you mean to pass your time till I come back? No more theses, no more glosses upon the fingers or upon benedictions, hey?”

Aramis smiled. “I will make verses,” said he.

“Yes, I dare say; verses perfumed with the odor of the billet from the attendant of Madame de Chevreuse. Teach Bazin prosody; that will console him. As to the horse, ride him a little every day, and that will accustom you to his maneuvers.”

“Oh, make yourself easy on that head,” replied Aramis. “You will find me ready to follow you.”

They took leave of each other, and in ten minutes, after having commended his friend to the cares of the hostess and Bazin, d’Artagnan was trotting along in the direction of Amiens.

How was he going to find Athos? Should he find him at all? The position in which he had left him was critical. He probably had succumbed. This idea, while darkening his brow, drew several sighs from him, and caused him to formulate to himself a few vows of vengeance. Of all his friends, Athos was the eldest, and the least resembling him in appearance, in his tastes and sympathies.

Yet he entertained a marked preference for this gentleman. The noble and distinguished air of Athos, those flashes of greatness which from time to time broke out from the shade in which he voluntarily kept himself, that unalterable equality of temper which made him the most pleasant companion in the world, that forced and cynical gaiety, that bravery which might have been termed blind if it had not been the result of the rarest coolness⁠—such qualities attracted more than the esteem, more than the friendship of d’Artagnan; they attracted his admiration.

Indeed, when placed beside M. de Tréville, the elegant and noble courtier, Athos in his most cheerful days might advantageously sustain a comparison. He was of middle height; but his person was so admirably shaped and so well proportioned that more than once in his struggles with Porthos he had overcome the giant whose physical strength was proverbial among the Musketeers. His head, with piercing eyes, a straight nose, a chin cut like that of Brutus, had altogether an indefinable character of grandeur and grace. His hands, of which he took little care, were the despair of Aramis, who cultivated his with almond paste and perfumed oil. The sound of his voice was at once penetrating and melodious; and then, that which was inconceivable in Athos, who was always retiring, was that delicate knowledge of the world and of the usages of the most brilliant society⁠—those manners of a high degree which appeared, as if unconsciously to himself, in his least actions.

If a repast were on foot, Athos presided over it better than any other, placing every guest exactly in the rank which his ancestors had earned for him or that he had made for himself. If a question in heraldry were started, Athos knew all the noble families of the kingdom, their genealogy, their alliances, their coats of arms, and the origin of them. Etiquette had no minutiae unknown to him. He knew what were the rights of the great land owners. He was profoundly versed in hunting and falconry, and had one day when conversing on this great art astonished even Louis XIII himself, who took a pride in being considered a past master therein.

Like all the great nobles of that period, Athos rode and fenced to perfection. But still further, his education had been so little neglected, even with respect to scholastic studies, so rare at this time among gentlemen, that he smiled at the scraps of Latin which Aramis sported and which Porthos pretended to understand. Two or three times, even, to the great astonishment of his friends, he had, when Aramis allowed some rudimental error to escape him, replaced a verb in its right tense and a noun in its case. Besides, his probity was irreproachable, in an age in which soldiers compromised so easily with their religion and their consciences, lovers with the rigorous delicacy of our era, and the poor with God’s seventh commandment. This Athos, then, was a very extraordinary man.

And yet this nature so distinguished, this creature so beautiful, this essence so fine, was seen to turn insensibly toward material life, as old men turn toward physical and moral imbecility. Athos, in his hours of gloom⁠—and these hours were frequent⁠—was extinguished as to the whole of the luminous portion of him, and his brilliant side disappeared as into profound darkness.

Then the demigod vanished; he remained scarcely a man. His head hanging down, his eye dull, his speech slow and painful, Athos would look for hours together at his bottle, his glass, or at Grimaud, who, accustomed to obey him by signs, read in the faint glance of his master his least desire, and satisfied it immediately. If the four friends were assembled at one of these moments, a word, thrown forth occasionally with a violent effort, was the share Athos furnished to the conversation. In exchange for his silence Athos drank enough for four, and without appearing to be otherwise affected by wine than by a more marked constriction of the brow and by a deeper sadness.

D’Artagnan, whose inquiring disposition we are acquainted with, had not⁠—whatever interest he had in satisfying his curiosity on this subject⁠—been able to assign any cause for these fits, or for the periods of their recurrence. Athos never received any letters; Athos never had concerns which all his friends did not know.

It could not be said that it was wine which produced this sadness; for in truth he only drank to combat this sadness, which wine however, as we have said, rendered still darker. This excess of bilious humor could not be attributed to play; for unlike Porthos, who accompanied the variations of chance with songs or oaths, Athos when he won remained as unmoved as when he lost. He had been known, in the circle of the Musketeers, to win in one night three thousand pistoles; to lose them even to the gold-embroidered belt for gala days, win all this again with the addition of a hundred louis, without his beautiful eyebrow being heightened or lowered half a line, without his hands losing their pearly hue, without his conversation, which was cheerful that evening, ceasing to be calm and agreeable.

Neither was it, as with our neighbors, the English, an atmospheric influence which darkened his countenance; for the sadness generally became more intense toward the fine season of the year. June and July were the terrible months with Athos.

For the present he had no anxiety. He shrugged his shoulders when people spoke of the future. His secret, then, was in the past, as had often been vaguely said to d’Artagnan.

This mysterious shade, spread over his whole person, rendered still more interesting the man whose eyes or mouth, even in the most complete intoxication, had never revealed anything, however skillfully questions had been put to him.

Well, thought d’Artagnan, poor Athos is perhaps at this moment dead, and dead by my fault⁠—for it was I who dragged him into this affair, of which he did not know the origin, of which he is ignorant of the result, and from which he can derive no advantage.

“Without reckoning, Monsieur,” added Planchet to his master’s audibly expressed reflections, “that we perhaps owe our lives to him. Do you remember how he cried, ‘On, d’Artagnan, on, I am taken’? And when he had discharged his two pistols, what a terrible noise he made with his sword! One might have said that twenty men, or rather twenty mad devils, were fighting.”

These words redoubled the eagerness of d’Artagnan, who urged his horse, though he stood in need of no incitement, and they proceeded at a rapid pace. About eleven o’clock in the morning they perceived Amiens, and at half past eleven they were at the door of the cursed inn.

D’Artagnan had often meditated against the perfidious host one of those hearty vengeances which offer consolation while they are hoped for. He entered the hostelry with his hat pulled over his eyes, his left hand on the pommel of the sword, and cracking his whip with his right hand.

“Do you remember me?” said he to the host, who advanced to greet him.

“I have not that honor, monseigneur,” replied the latter, his eyes dazzled by the brilliant style in which d’Artagnan traveled.

“What, you don’t know me?”

“No, monseigneur.”

“Well, two words will refresh your memory. What have you done with that gentleman against whom you had the audacity, about twelve days ago, to make an accusation of passing false money?”

The host became as pale as death; for d’Artagnan had assumed a threatening attitude, and Planchet modeled himself after his master.

“Ah, monseigneur, do not mention it!” cried the host, in the most pitiable voice imaginable. “Ah, monseigneur, how dearly have I paid for that fault, unhappy wretch as I am!”

“That gentleman, I say, what has become of him?”

“Deign to listen to me, monseigneur, and be merciful! Sit down, in mercy!”

D’Artagnan, mute with anger and anxiety, took a seat in the threatening attitude of a judge. Planchet glared fiercely over the back of his armchair.

“Here is the story, monseigneur,” resumed the trembling host; “for I now recollect you. It was you who rode off at the moment I had that unfortunate difference with the gentleman you speak of.”

“Yes, it was I; so you may plainly perceive that you have no mercy to expect if you do not tell me the whole truth.”

“Condéscend to listen to me, and you shall know all.”

“I listen.”

“I had been warned by the authorities that a celebrated coiner of bad money would arrive at my inn, with several of his companions, all disguised as guards or musketeers. Monseigneur, I was furnished with a description of your horses, your lackeys, your countenances⁠—nothing was omitted.”

“Go on, go on!” said d’Artagnan, who quickly understood whence such an exact description had come.

“I took then, in conformity with the orders of the authorities, who sent me a reinforcement of six men, such measures as I thought necessary to get possession of the persons of the pretended coiners.”

“Again!” said d’Artagnan, whose ears chafed terribly under the repetition of this word coiners.

“Pardon me, monseigneur, for saying such things, but they form my excuse. The authorities had terrified me, and you know that an innkeeper must keep on good terms with the authorities.”

“But once again, that gentleman⁠—where is he? What has become of him? Is he dead? Is he living?”

“Patience, monseigneur, we are coming to it. There happened then that which you know, and of which your precipitate departure,” added the host, with an acuteness that did not escape d’Artagnan, “appeared to authorize the issue. That gentleman, your friend, defended himself desperately. His lackey, who, by an unforeseen piece of ill luck, had quarreled with the officers, disguised as stable lads⁠—”

“Miserable scoundrel!” cried d’Artagnan, “you were all in the plot, then! And I really don’t know what prevents me from exterminating you all.”

“Alas, monseigneur, we were not in the plot, as you will soon see. Monsieur your friend (pardon for not calling him by the honorable name which no doubt he bears, but we do not know that name), Monsieur your friend, having disabled two men with his pistols, retreated fighting with his sword, with which he disabled one of my men, and stunned me with a blow of the flat side of it.”

“You villain, will you finish?” cried d’Artagnan, “Athos⁠—what has become of Athos?”

“While fighting and retreating, as I have told Monseigneur, he found the door of the cellar stairs behind him, and as the door was open, he took out the key, and barricaded himself inside. As we were sure of finding him there, we left him alone.”

“Yes,” said d’Artagnan, “you did not really wish to kill; you only wished to imprison him.”

“Good God! To imprison him, monseigneur? Why, he imprisoned himself, I swear to you he did. In the first place he had made rough work of it; one man was killed on the spot, and two others were severely wounded. The dead man and the two wounded were carried off by their comrades, and I have heard nothing of either of them since. As for myself, as soon as I recovered my senses I went to Monsieur the Governor, to whom I related all that had passed, and asked, what I should do with my prisoner. Monsieur the Governor was all astonishment. He told me he knew nothing about the matter, that the orders I had received did not come from him, and that if I had the audacity to mention his name as being concerned in this disturbance he would have me hanged. It appears that I had made a mistake, Monsieur, that I had arrested the wrong person, and that he whom I ought to have arrested had escaped.”

“But Athos!” cried d’Artagnan, whose impatience was increased by the disregard of the authorities, “Athos, where is he?”

“As I was anxious to repair the wrongs I had done the prisoner,” resumed the innkeeper, “I took my way straight to the cellar in order to set him at liberty. Ah, Monsieur, he was no longer a man, he was a devil! To my offer of liberty, he replied that it was nothing but a snare, and that before he came out he intended to impose his own conditions. I told him very humbly⁠—for I could not conceal from myself the scrape I had got into by laying hands on one of His Majesty’s Musketeers⁠—I told him I was quite ready to submit to his conditions.

“ ‘In the first place,’ said he, ‘I wish my lackey placed with me, fully armed.’ We hastened to obey this order; for you will please to understand, Monsieur, we were disposed to do everything your friend could desire. M. Grimaud (he told us his name, although he does not talk much)⁠—M. Grimaud, then, went down to the cellar, wounded as he was; then his master, having admitted him, barricaded the door afresh, and ordered us to remain quietly in our own bar.”

“But where is Athos now?” cried d’Artagnan. “Where is Athos?”

“In the cellar, Monsieur.”

“What, you scoundrel! Have you kept him in the cellar all this time?”

“Merciful heaven! No, Monsieur! We keep him in the cellar! You do not know what he is about in the cellar. Ah! If you could but persuade him to come out, Monsieur, I should owe you the gratitude of my whole life; I should adore you as my patron saint!”

“Then he is there? I shall find him there?”

“Without doubt you will, Monsieur; he persists in remaining there. We every day pass through the air hole some bread at the end of a fork, and some meat when he asks for it; but alas! It is not of bread and meat of which he makes the greatest consumption. I once endeavored to go down with two of my servants; but he flew into terrible rage. I heard the noise he made in loading his pistols, and his servant in loading his musketoon. Then, when we asked them what were their intentions, the master replied that he had forty charges to fire, and that he and his lackey would fire to the last one before he would allow a single soul of us to set foot in the cellar. Upon this I went and complained to the governor, who replied that I only had what I deserved, and that it would teach me to insult honorable gentlemen who took up their abode in my house.”

“So that since that time⁠—” replied d’Artagnan, totally unable to refrain from laughing at the pitiable face of the host.

“So from that time, Monsieur,” continued the latter, “we have led the most miserable life imaginable; for you must know, Monsieur, that all our provisions are in the cellar. There is our wine in bottles, and our wine in casks; the beer, the oil, and the spices, the bacon, and sausages. And as we are prevented from going down there, we are forced to refuse food and drink to the travelers who come to the house; so that our hostelry is daily going to ruin. If your friend remains another week in my cellar I shall be a ruined man.”

“And not more than justice, either, you ass! Could you not perceive by our appearance that we were people of quality, and not coiners⁠—say?”

“Yes, Monsieur, you are right,” said the host. “But, hark, hark! There he is!”

“Somebody has disturbed him, without doubt,” said d’Artagnan.

“But he must be disturbed,” cried the host; “Here are two English gentlemen just arrived.”

“Well?”

“Well, the English like good wine, as you may know, Monsieur; these have asked for the best. My wife has perhaps requested permission of M. Athos to go into the cellar to satisfy these gentlemen; and he, as usual, has refused. Ah, good heaven! There is the hullabaloo louder than ever!”

D’Artagnan, in fact, heard a great noise on the side next the cellar. He rose, and preceded by the host wringing his hands, and followed by Planchet with his musketoon ready for use, he approached the scene of action.

The two gentlemen were exasperated; they had had a long ride, and were dying with hunger and thirst.

“But this is tyranny!” cried one of them, in very good French, though with a foreign accent, “that this madman will not allow these good people access to their own wine! Nonsense, let us break open the door, and if he is too far gone in his madness, well, we will kill him!”

“Softly, gentlemen!” said d’Artagnan, drawing his pistols from his belt, “you will kill nobody, if you please!”

“Good, good!” cried the calm voice of Athos, from the other side of the door, “let them just come in, these devourers of little children, and we shall see!”

Brave as they appeared to be, the two English gentlemen looked at each other hesitatingly. One might have thought there was in that cellar one of those famished ogres⁠—the gigantic heroes of popular legends, into whose cavern nobody could force their way with impunity.

There was a moment of silence; but at length the two Englishmen felt ashamed to draw back, and the angrier one descended the five or six steps which led to the cellar, and gave a kick against the door enough to split a wall.

“Planchet,” said d’Artagnan, cocking his pistols, “I will take charge of the one at the top; you look to the one below. Ah, gentlemen, you want battle; and you shall have it.”

“Good God!” cried the hollow voice of Athos, “I can hear d’Artagnan, I think.”

“Yes,” cried d’Artagnan, raising his voice in turn, “I am here, my friend.”

“Ah, good, then,” replied Athos, “we will teach them, these door breakers!”

The gentlemen had drawn their swords, but they found themselves taken between two fires. They still hesitated an instant; but, as before, pride prevailed, and a second kick split the door from bottom to top.

“Stand on one side, d’Artagnan, stand on one side,” cried Athos. “I am going to fire!”

“Gentlemen,” exclaimed d’Artagnan, whom reflection never abandoned, “gentlemen, think of what you are about. Patience, Athos! You are running your heads into a very silly affair; you will be riddled. My lackey and I will have three shots at you, and you will get as many from the cellar. You will then have our swords, with which, I can assure you, my friend and I can play tolerably well. Let me conduct your business and my own. You shall soon have something to drink; I give you my word.”

“If there is any left,” grumbled the jeering voice of Athos.

The host felt a cold sweat creep down his back.

“How! ‘If there is any left!’ ” murmured he.

“What the devil! There must be plenty left,” replied d’Artagnan. “Be satisfied of that; these two cannot have drunk all the cellar. Gentlemen, return your swords to their scabbards.”

“Well, provided you replace your pistols in your belt.”

“Willingly.”

And d’Artagnan set the example. Then, turning toward Planchet, he made him a sign to uncock his musketoon.

The Englishmen, convinced of these peaceful proceedings, sheathed their swords grumblingly. The history of Athos’s imprisonment was then related to them; and as they were really gentlemen, they pronounced the host in the wrong.

“Now, gentlemen,” said d’Artagnan, “go up to your room again; and in ten minutes, I will answer for it, you shall have all you desire.”

The Englishmen bowed and went upstairs.

“Now I am alone, my dear Athos,” said d’Artagnan; “open the door, I beg of you.”

“Instantly,” said Athos.

Then was heard a great noise of fagots being removed and of the groaning of posts; these were the counterscarps and bastions of Athos, which the besieged himself demolished.

An instant after, the broken door was removed, and the pale face of Athos appeared, who with a rapid glance took a survey of the surroundings.

D’Artagnan threw himself on his neck and embraced him tenderly. He then tried to draw him from his moist abode, but to his surprise he perceived that Athos staggered.

“You are wounded,” said he.

“I! Not at all. I am dead drunk, that’s all, and never did a man more strongly set about getting so. By the Lord, my good host! I must at least have drunk for my part a hundred and fifty bottles.”

“Mercy!” cried the host, “if the lackey has drunk only half as much as the master, I am a ruined man.”

“Grimaud is a well-bred lackey. He would never think of faring in the same manner as his master; he only drank from the cask. Hark! I don’t think he put the faucet in again. Do you hear it? It is running now.”

D’Artagnan burst into a laugh which changed the shiver of the host into a burning fever.

In the meantime, Grimaud appeared in his turn behind his master, with the musketoon on his shoulder, and his head shaking like one of those drunken satyrs in the pictures of Rubens. He was moistened before and behind with a greasy liquid which the host recognized as his best olive oil.

The four crossed the public room and proceeded to take possession of the best apartment in the house, which d’Artagnan occupied with authority.

In the meantime the host and his wife hurried down with lamps into the cellar, which had so long been interdicted to them and where a frightful spectacle awaited them.

Beyond the fortifications through which Athos had made a breach in order to get out, and which were composed of fagots, planks, and empty casks, heaped up according to all the rules of the strategic art, they found, swimming in puddles of oil and wine, the bones and fragments of all the hams they had eaten; while a heap of broken bottles filled the whole left-hand corner of the cellar, and a tun, the cock of which was left running, was yielding, by this means, the last drop of its blood. “The image of devastation and death,” as the ancient poet says, “reigned as over a field of battle.”

Of fifty large sausages, suspended from the joists, scarcely ten remained.

Then the lamentations of the host and hostess pierced the vault of the cellar. D’Artagnan himself was moved by them. Athos did not even turn his head.

To grief succeeded rage. The host armed himself with a spit, and rushed into the chamber occupied by the two friends.

“Some wine!” said Athos, on perceiving the host.

“Some wine!” cried the stupefied host, “some wine? Why you have drunk more than a hundred pistoles’ worth! I am a ruined man, lost, destroyed!”

“Bah,” said Athos, “we were always dry.”

“If you had been contented with drinking, well and good; but you have broken all the bottles.”

“You pushed me upon a heap which rolled down. That was your fault.”

“All my oil is lost!”

“Oil is a sovereign balm for wounds; and my poor Grimaud here was obliged to dress those you had inflicted on him.”

“All my sausages are gnawed!”

“There is an enormous quantity of rats in that cellar.”

“You shall pay me for all this,” cried the exasperated host.

“Triple ass!” said Athos, rising; but he sank down again immediately. He had tried his strength to the utmost. D’Artagnan came to his relief with his whip in his hand.

The host drew back and burst into tears.

“This will teach you,” said d’Artagnan, “to treat the guests God sends you in a more courteous fashion.”

“God? Say the devil!”

“My dear friend,” said d’Artagnan, “if you annoy us in this manner we will all four go and shut ourselves up in your cellar, and we will see if the mischief is as great as you say.”

“Oh, gentlemen,” said the host, “I have been wrong. I confess it, but pardon to every sin! You are gentlemen, and I am a poor innkeeper. You will have pity on me.”

“Ah, if you speak in that way,” said Athos, “you will break my heart, and the tears will flow from my eyes as the wine flowed from the cask. We are not such devils as we appear to be. Come hither, and let us talk.”

The host approached with hesitation.

“Come hither, I say, and don’t be afraid,” continued Athos. “At the very moment when I was about to pay you, I had placed my purse on the table.”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“That purse contained sixty pistoles; where is it?”

“Deposited with the justice; they said it was bad money.”

“Very well; get me my purse back and keep the sixty pistoles.”

“But Monseigneur knows very well that justice never lets go that which it once lays hold of. If it were bad money, there might be some hopes; but unfortunately, those were all good pieces.”

“Manage the matter as well as you can, my good man; it does not concern me, the more so as I have not a livre left.”

“Come,” said d’Artagnan, “let us inquire further. Athos’s horse, where is that?”

“In the stable.”

“How much is it worth?”

“Fifty pistoles at most.”

“It’s worth eighty. Take it, and there ends the matter.”

“What,” cried Athos, “are you selling my horse⁠—my Bajazet? And pray upon what shall I make my campaign; upon Grimaud?”

“I have brought you another,” said d’Artagnan.

“Another?”

“And a magnificent one!” cried the host.

“Well, since there is another finer and younger, why, you may take the old one; and let us drink.”

“What?” asked the host, quite cheerful again.

“Some of that at the bottom, near the laths. There are twenty-five bottles of it left; all the rest were broken by my fall. Bring six of them.”

“Why, this man is a cask!” said the host, aside. “If he only remains here a fortnight, and pays for what he drinks, I shall soon reestablish my business.”

“And don’t forget,” said d’Artagnan, “to bring up four bottles of the same sort for the two English gentlemen.”

“And now,” said Athos, “while they bring the wine, tell me, d’Artagnan, what has become of the others, come!”

D’Artagnan related how he had found Porthos in bed with a strained knee, and Aramis at a table between two theologians. As he finished, the host entered with the wine ordered and a ham which, fortunately for him, had been left out of the cellar.

“That’s well!” said Athos, filling his glass and that of his friend; “here’s to Porthos and Aramis! But you, d’Artagnan, what is the matter with you, and what has happened to you personally? You have a sad air.”

“Alas,” said d’Artagnan, “it is because I am the most unfortunate.”

“Tell me.”

“Presently,” said d’Artagnan.

“Presently! And why presently? Because you think I am drunk? D’Artagnan, remember this! My ideas are never so clear as when I have had plenty of wine. Speak, then, I am all ears.”

D’Artagnan related his adventure with Madame Bonacieux. Athos listened to him without a frown; and when he had finished, said, “Trifles, only trifles!” That was his favorite word.

“You always say trifles, my dear Athos!” said d’Artagnan, “and that comes very ill from you, who have never loved.”

The drink-deadened eye of Athos flashed out, but only for a moment; it became as dull and vacant as before.

“That’s true,” said he, quietly, “for my part I have never loved.”

“Acknowledge, then, you stony heart,” said d’Artagnan, “that you are wrong to be so hard upon us tender hearts.”

“Tender hearts! Pierced hearts!” said Athos.

“What do you say?”

“I say that love is a lottery in which he who wins, wins death! You are very fortunate to have lost, believe me, my dear d’Artagnan. And if I have any counsel to give, it is, always lose!”

“She seemed to love me so!”

“She seemed, did she?”

“Oh, she did love me!”

“You child, why, there is not a man who has not believed, as you do, that his mistress loved him, and there lives not a man who has not been deceived by his mistress.”

“Except you, Athos, who never had one.”

“That’s true,” said Athos, after a moment’s silence, “that’s true! I never had one! Let us drink!”

“But then, philosopher that you are,” said d’Artagnan, “instruct me, support me. I stand in need of being taught and consoled.”

“Consoled for what?”

“For my misfortune.”

“Your misfortune is laughable,” said Athos, shrugging his shoulders; “I should like to know what you would say if I were to relate to you a real tale of love!”

“Which has happened to you?”

“Or one of my friends, what matters?”

“Tell it, Athos, tell it.”

“Better if I drink.”

“Drink and relate, then.”

“Not a bad idea!” said Athos, emptying and refilling his glass. “The two things agree marvelously well.”

“I am all attention,” said d’Artagnan.

Athos collected himself, and in proportion as he did so, d’Artagnan saw that he became pale. He was at that period of intoxication in which vulgar drinkers fall on the floor and go to sleep. He kept himself upright and dreamed, without sleeping. This somnambulism of drunkenness had something frightful in it.

“You particularly wish it?” asked he.

“I pray for it,” said d’Artagnan.

“Be it then as you desire. One of my friends⁠—one of my friends, please to observe, not myself,” said Athos, interrupting himself with a melancholy smile, “one of the counts of my province⁠—that is to say, of Berry⁠—noble as a Dandolo or a Montmorency, at twenty-five years of age fell in love with a girl of sixteen, beautiful as fancy can paint. Through the ingenuousness of her age beamed an ardent mind, not of the woman, but of the poet. She did not please; she intoxicated. She lived in a small town with her brother, who was a curate. Both had recently come into the country. They came nobody knew whence; but when seeing her so lovely and her brother so pious, nobody thought of asking whence they came. They were said, however, to be of good extraction. My friend, who was seigneur of the country, might have seduced her, or taken her by force, at his will⁠—for he was master. Who would have come to the assistance of two strangers, two unknown persons? Unfortunately he was an honorable man; he married her. The fool! The ass! The idiot!”

“How so, if he love her?” asked d’Artagnan.

“Wait,” said Athos. “He took her to his château, and made her the first lady in the province; and in justice it must be allowed that she supported her rank becomingly.”

“Well?” asked d’Artagnan.

“Well, one day when she was hunting with her husband,” continued Athos, in a low voice, and speaking very quickly, “she fell from her horse and fainted. The count flew to her to help, and as she appeared to be oppressed by her clothes, he ripped them open with his poniard, and in so doing laid bare her shoulder. D’Artagnan,” said Athos, with a maniacal burst of laughter, “guess what she had on her shoulder.”

“How can I tell?” said d’Artagnan.

“A fleur-de-lis,” said Athos. “She was branded.”

Athos emptied at a single draught the glass he held in his hand.

“Horror!” cried d’Artagnan. “What do you tell me?”

“Truth, my friend. The angel was a demon; the poor young girl had stolen the sacred vessels from a church.”

“And what did the count do?”

“The count was of the highest nobility. He had on his estates the rights of high and low tribunals. He tore the dress of the countess to pieces; he tied her hands behind her, and hanged her on a tree.”

“Heavens, Athos, a murder?” cried d’Artagnan.

“No less,” said Athos, as pale as a corpse. “But methinks I need wine!” and he seized by the neck the last bottle that was left, put it to his mouth, and emptied it at a single draught, as he would have emptied an ordinary glass.

Then he let his head sink upon his two hands, while d’Artagnan stood before him, stupefied.

“That has cured me of beautiful, poetical, and loving women,” said Athos, after a considerable pause, raising his head, and forgetting to continue the fiction of the count. “God grant you as much! Let us drink.”

“Then she is dead?” stammered d’Artagnan.

“Parbleu!” said Athos. “But hold out your glass. Some ham, my boy, or we can’t drink.”

“And her brother?” added d’Artagnan, timidly.

“Her brother?” replied Athos.

“Yes, the priest.”

“Oh, I inquired after him for the purpose of hanging him likewise; but he was beforehand with me, he had quit the curacy the night before.”

“Was it ever known who this miserable fellow was?”

“He was doubtless the first lover and accomplice of the fair lady. A worthy man, who had pretended to be a curate for the purpose of getting his mistress married, and securing her a position. He has been hanged and quartered, I hope.”

“My God, my God!” cried d’Artagnan, quite stunned by the relation of this horrible adventure.

“Taste some of this ham, d’Artagnan; it is exquisite,” said Athos, cutting a slice, which he placed on the young man’s plate. “What a pity it is there were only four like this in the cellar. I could have drunk fifty bottles more.”

D’Artagnan could no longer endure this conversation, which had made him bewildered. Allowing his head to sink upon his two hands, he pretended to sleep.

“These young fellows can none of them drink,” said Athos, looking at him with pity, “and yet this is one of the best!”

CHAPTER XXVIII

The Return

D’Artagnan was astounded by the terrible confidence of Athos; yet many things appeared very obscure to him in this half revelation. In the first place it had been made by a man quite drunk to one who was half drunk; and yet, in spite of the uncertainty which the vapor of three or four bottles of Burgundy carries with it to the brain, d’Artagnan, when awaking on the following morning, had all the words of Athos as present to his memory as if they then fell from his mouth⁠—they had been so impressed upon his mind. All this doubt only gave rise to a more lively desire of arriving at a certainty, and he went into his friend’s chamber with a fixed determination of renewing the conversation of the preceding evening; but he found Athos quite himself again⁠—that is to say, the most shrewd and impenetrable of men. Besides which, the musketeer, after having exchanged a hearty shake of the hand with him, broached the matter first.

“I was pretty drunk yesterday, d’Artagnan,” said he, “I can tell that by my tongue, which was swollen and hot this morning, and by my pulse, which was very tremulous. I wager that I uttered a thousand extravagances.”

While saying this he looked at his friend with an earnestness that embarrassed him.

“No,” replied d’Artagnan, “if I recollect well what you said, it was nothing out of the common way.”

“Ah, you surprise me. I thought I had told you a most lamentable story.” And he looked at the young man as if he would read the bottom of his heart.

“My faith,” said d’Artagnan, “it appears that I was more drunk than you, since I remember nothing of the kind.”

Athos did not trust this reply, and he resumed; “You cannot have failed to remark, my dear friend, that everyone has his particular kind of drunkenness, sad or gay. My drunkenness is always sad, and when I am thoroughly drunk my mania is to relate all the lugubrious stories which my foolish nurse inculcated into my brain. That is my failing⁠—a capital failing, I admit; but with that exception, I am a good drinker.”

Athos spoke this in so natural a manner that d’Artagnan was shaken in his conviction.

“It is that, then,” replied the young man, anxious to find out the truth, “it is that, then, I remember as we remember a dream. We were speaking of hanging.”

“Ah, you see how it is,” said Athos, becoming still paler, but yet attempting to laugh; “I was sure it was so⁠—the hanging of people is my nightmare.”

“Yes, yes,” replied d’Artagnan. “I remember now; yes, it was about⁠—stop a minute⁠—yes, it was about a woman.”

“That’s it,” replied Athos, becoming almost livid; “that is my grand story of the fair lady, and when I relate that, I must be very drunk.”

“Yes, that was it,” said d’Artagnan, “the story of a tall, fair lady, with blue eyes.”

“Yes, who was hanged.”

“By her husband, who was a nobleman of your acquaintance,” continued d’Artagnan, looking intently at Athos.

“Well, you see how a man may compromise himself when he does not know what he says,” replied Athos, shrugging his shoulders as if he thought himself an object of pity. “I certainly never will get drunk again, d’Artagnan; it is too bad a habit.”

D’Artagnan remained silent; and then changing the conversation all at once, Athos said:

“By the by, I thank you for the horse you have brought me.”

“Is it to your mind?” asked d’Artagnan.

“Yes; but it is not a horse for hard work.”

“You are mistaken; I rode him nearly ten leagues in less than an hour and a half, and he appeared no more distressed than if he had only made the tour of the Place St. Sulpice.”

“Ah, you begin to awaken my regret.”

“Regret?”

“Yes; I have parted with him.”

“How?”

“Why, here is the simple fact. This morning I awoke at six o’clock. You were still fast asleep, and I did not know what to do with myself; I was still stupid from our yesterday’s debauch. As I came into the public room, I saw one of our Englishman bargaining with a dealer for a horse, his own having died yesterday from bleeding. I drew near, and found he was bidding a hundred pistoles for a chestnut nag. ‘Pardieu,’ said I, ‘my good gentleman, I have a horse to sell, too.’ ‘Ay, and a very fine one! I saw him yesterday; your friend’s lackey was leading him.’ ‘Do you think he is worth a hundred pistoles?’ ‘Yes! Will you sell him to me for that sum?’ ‘No; but I will play for him.’ ‘What?’ ‘At dice.’ No sooner said than done, and I lost the horse. Ah, ah! But please to observe I won back the equipage,” cried Athos.

D’Artagnan looked much disconcerted.

“This vexes you?” said Athos.

“Well, I must confess it does,” replied d’Artagnan. “That horse was to have identified us in the day of battle. It was a pledge, a remembrance. Athos, you have done wrong.”

“But, my dear friend, put yourself in my place,” replied the musketeer. “I was hipped to death; and still further, upon my honor, I don’t like English horses. If it is only to be recognized, why the saddle will suffice for that; it is quite remarkable enough. As to the horse, we can easily find some excuse for its disappearance. Why the devil! A horse is mortal; suppose mine had had the glanders or the farcy?”

D’Artagnan did not smile.

“It vexes me greatly,” continued Athos, “that you attach so much importance to these animals, for I am not yet at the end of my story.”

“What else have you done.”

“After having lost my own horse, nine against ten⁠—see how near⁠—I formed an idea of staking yours.”

“Yes; but you stopped at the idea, I hope?”

“No; for I put it in execution that very minute.”

“And the consequence?” said d’Artagnan, in great anxiety.

“I threw, and I lost.”

“What, my horse?”

“Your horse, seven against eight; a point short⁠—you know the proverb.”

“Athos, you are not in your right senses, I swear.”

“My dear lad, that was yesterday, when I was telling you silly stories, it was proper to tell me that, and not this morning. I lost him then, with all his appointments and furniture.”

“Really, this is frightful.”

“Stop a minute; you don’t know all yet. I should make an excellent gambler if I were not too hotheaded; but I was hotheaded, just as if I had been drinking. Well, I was not hotheaded then⁠—”

“Well, but what else could you play for? You had nothing left?”

“Oh, yes, my friend; there was still that diamond left which sparkles on your finger, and which I had observed yesterday.”

“This diamond!” said d’Artagnan, placing his hand eagerly on his ring.

“And as I am a connoisseur in such things, having had a few of my own once, I estimated it at a thousand pistoles.”

“I hope,” said d’Artagnan, half dead with fright, “you made no mention of my diamond?”

“On the contrary, my dear friend, this diamond became our only resource; with it I might regain our horses and their harnesses, and even money to pay our expenses on the road.”

“Athos, you make me tremble!” cried d’Artagnan.

“I mentioned your diamond then to my adversary, who had likewise remarked it. What the devil, my dear, do you think you can wear a star from heaven on your finger, and nobody observe it? Impossible!”

“Go on, go on, my dear fellow!” said d’Artagnan; “for upon my honor, you will kill me with your indifference.”

“We divided, then, this diamond into ten parts of a hundred pistoles each.”

“You are laughing at me, and want to try me!” said d’Artagnan, whom anger began to take by the hair, as Minerva takes Achilles, in the Iliad.

“No, I do not jest, mordieu! I should like to have seen you in my place! I had been fifteen days without seeing a human face, and had been left to brutalize myself in the company of bottles.”

“That was no reason for staking my diamond!” replied d’Artagnan, closing his hand with a nervous spasm.

“Hear the end. Ten parts of a hundred pistoles each, in ten throws, without revenge; in thirteen throws I had lost all⁠—in thirteen throws. The number thirteen was always fatal to me; it was on the thirteenth of July that⁠—”

“Ventrebleu!” cried d’Artagnan, rising from the table, the story of the present day making him forget that of the preceding one.

“Patience!” said Athos; “I had a plan. The Englishman was an original; I had seen him conversing that morning with Grimaud, and Grimaud had told me that he had made him proposals to enter into his service. I staked Grimaud, the silent Grimaud, divided into ten portions.”

“Well, what next?” said d’Artagnan, laughing in spite of himself.

“Grimaud himself, understand; and with the ten parts of Grimaud, which are not worth a ducatoon, I regained the diamond. Tell me, now, if persistence is not a virtue?”

“My faith! But this is droll,” cried d’Artagnan, consoled, and holding his sides with laughter.

“You may guess, finding the luck turned, that I again staked the diamond.”

“The devil!” said d’Artagnan, becoming angry again.

“I won back your harness, then your horse, then my harness, then my horse, and then I lost again. In brief, I regained your harness and then mine. That’s where we are. That was a superb throw, so I left off there.”

D’Artagnan breathed as if the whole hostelry had been removed from his breast.

“Then the diamond is safe?” said he, timidly.

“Intact, my dear friend; besides the harness of your Bucephalus and mine.”

“But what is the use of harnesses without horses?”

“I have an idea about them.”

“Athos, you make me shudder.”

“Listen to me. You have not played for a long time, d’Artagnan.”

“And I have no inclination to play.”

“Swear to nothing. You have not played for a long time, I said; you ought, then, to have a good hand.”

“Well, what then?”

“Well; the Englishman and his companion are still here. I remarked that he regretted the horse furniture very much. You appear to think much of your horse. In your place I would stake the furniture against the horse.”

“But he will not wish for only one harness.”

“Stake both, pardieu! I am not selfish, as you are.”

“You would do so?” said d’Artagnan, undecided, so strongly did the confidence of Athos begin to prevail, in spite of himself.

“On my honor, in one single throw.”

“But having lost the horses, I am particularly anxious to preserve the harnesses.”

“Stake your diamond, then.”

“This? That’s another matter. Never, never!”

“The devil!” said Athos. “I would propose to you to stake Planchet, but as that has already been done, the Englishman would not, perhaps, be willing.”

“Decidedly, my dear Athos,” said d’Artagnan, “I should like better not to risk anything.”

“That’s a pity,” said Athos, coolly. “The Englishman is overflowing with pistoles. Good Lord, try one throw! One throw is soon made!”

“And if I lose?”

“You will win.”

“But if I lose?”

“Well, you will surrender the harnesses.”

“Have with you for one throw!” said d’Artagnan.

Athos went in quest of the Englishman, whom he found in the stable, examining the harnesses with a greedy eye. The opportunity was good. He proposed the conditions⁠—the two harnesses, either against one horse or a hundred pistoles. The Englishman calculated fast; the two harnesses were worth three hundred pistoles. He consented.

D’Artagnan threw the dice with a trembling hand, and turned up the number three; his paleness terrified Athos, who, however, consented himself with saying, “That’s a sad throw, comrade; you will have the horses fully equipped, Monsieur.”

The Englishman, quite triumphant, did not even give himself the trouble to shake the dice. He threw them on the table without looking at them, so sure was he of victory; d’Artagnan turned aside to conceal his ill humor.

“Hold, hold, hold!” said Athos, wit his quiet tone; “that throw of the dice is extraordinary. I have not seen such a one four times in my life. Two aces!”

The Englishman looked, and was seized with astonishment. D’Artagnan looked, and was seized with pleasure.

“Yes,” continued Athos, “four times only; once at the house of M. Créquy; another time at my own house in the country, in my château at⁠—when I had a château; a third time at M. de Tréville’s where it surprised us all; and the fourth time at a cabaret, where it fell to my lot, and where I lost a hundred louis and a supper on it.”

“Then Monsieur takes his horse back again,” said the Englishman.

“Certainly,” said d’Artagnan.

“Then there is no revenge?”

“Our conditions said, ‘No revenge,’ you will please to recollect.”

“That is true; the horse shall be restored to your lackey, Monsieur.”

“A moment,” said Athos; “with your permission, Monsieur, I wish to speak a word with my friend.”

“Say on.”

Athos drew d’Artagnan aside.

“Well, Tempter, what more do you want with me?” said d’Artagnan. “You want me to throw again, do you not?”

“No, I would wish you to reflect.”

“On what?”

“You mean to take your horse?”

“Without doubt.”

“You are wrong, then. I would take the hundred pistoles. You know you have staked the harnesses against the horse or a hundred pistoles, at your choice.”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, I repeat, you are wrong. What is the use of one horse for us two? I could not ride behind. We should look like the two sons of Aymon, who had lost their brother. You cannot think of humiliating me by prancing along by my side on that magnificent charger. For my part, I should not hesitate a moment; I should take the hundred pistoles. We want money for our return to Paris.”

“I am much attached to that horse, Athos.”

“And there again you are wrong. A horse slips and injures a joint; a horse stumbles and breaks his knees to the bone; a horse eats out of a manger in which a glandered horse has eaten. There is a horse, while on the contrary, the hundred pistoles feed their master.”

“But how shall we get back?”

“Upon our lackey’s horses, pardieu. Anybody may see by our bearing that we are people of condition.”

“Pretty figures we shall cut on ponies while Aramis and Porthos caracole on their steeds.”

“Aramis! Porthos!” cried Athos, and laughed aloud.

“What is it?” asked d’Artagnan, who did not at all comprehend the hilarity of his friend.

“Nothing, nothing! Go on!”

“Your advice, then?”

“To take the hundred pistoles, d’Artagnan. With the hundred pistoles we can live well to the end of the month. We have undergone a great deal of fatigue, remember, and a little rest will do no harm.”

“I rest? Oh, no, Athos. Once in Paris, I shall prosecute my search for that unfortunate woman!”

“Well, you may be assured that your horse will not be half so serviceable to you for that purpose as good golden louis. Take the hundred pistoles, my friend; take the hundred pistoles!”

D’Artagnan only required one reason to be satisfied. This last reason appeared convincing. Besides, he feared that by resisting longer he should appear selfish in the eyes of Athos. He acquiesced, therefore, and chose the hundred pistoles, which the Englishman paid down on the spot.

They then determined to depart. Peace with the landlord, in addition to Athos’s old horse, cost six pistoles. D’Artagnan and Athos took the nags of Planchet and Grimaud, and the two lackeys started on foot, carrying the saddles on their heads.

However ill our two friends were mounted, they were soon far in advance of their servants, and arrived at Crèvecoeur. From a distance they perceived Aramis, seated in a melancholy manner at his window, looking out, like Sister Anne, at the dust in the horizon.

“Holà, Aramis! What the devil are you doing there?” cried the two friends.

“Ah, is that you, d’Artagnan, and you, Athos?” said the young man. “I was reflecting upon the rapidity with which the blessings of this world leave us. My English horse, which has just disappeared amid a cloud of dust, has furnished me with a living image of the fragility of the things of the earth. Life itself may be resolved into three words: Erat, est, fuit.”

“Which means⁠—” said d’Artagnan, who began to suspect the truth.

“Which means that I have just been duped⁠—sixty louis for a horse which by the manner of his gait can do at least five leagues an hour.”

D’Artagnan and Athos laughed aloud.

“My dear d’Artagnan,” said Aramis, “don’t be too angry with me, I beg. Necessity has no law; besides, I am the person punished, as that rascally horsedealer has robbed me of fifty louis, at least. Ah, you fellows are good managers! You ride on our lackey’s horses, and have your own gallant steeds led along carefully by hand, at short stages.”

At the same instant a market cart, which some minutes before had appeared upon the Amiens road, pulled up at the inn, and Planchet and Grimaud came out of it with the saddles on their heads. The cart was returning empty to Paris, and the two lackeys had agreed, for their transport, to slake the wagoner’s thirst along the route.

“What is this?” said Aramis, on seeing them arrive. “Nothing but saddles?”

“Now do you understand?” said Athos.

“My friends, that’s exactly like me! I retained my harness by instinct. Holà, Bazin! Bring my new saddle and carry it along with those of these gentlemen.”

“And what have you done with your ecclesiastics?” asked d’Artagnan.

“My dear fellow, I invited them to a dinner the next day,” replied Aramis. “They have some capital wine here⁠—please to observe that in passing. I did my best to make them drunk. Then the curate forbade me to quit my uniform, and the Jesuit entreated me to get him made a musketeer.”

“Without a thesis?” cried d’Artagnan, “without a thesis? I demand the suppression of the thesis.”

“Since then,” continued Aramis, “I have lived very agreeably. I have begun a poem in verses of one syllable. That is rather difficult, but the merit in all things consists in the difficulty. The matter is gallant. I will read you the first canto. It has four hundred lines, and lasts a minute.”

“My faith, my dear Aramis,” said d’Artagnan, who detested verses almost as much as he did Latin, “add to the merit of the difficulty that of the brevity, and you are sure that your poem will at least have two merits.”

“You will see,” continued Aramis, “that it breathes irreproachable passion. And so, my friends, we return to Paris? Bravo! I am ready. We are going to rejoin that good fellow, Porthos. So much the better. You can’t think how I have missed him, the great simpleton. To see him so self-satisfied reconciles me with myself. He would not sell his horse; not for a kingdom! I think I can see him now, mounted upon his superb animal and seated in his handsome saddle. I am sure he will look like the Great Mogul!”

They made a halt for an hour to refresh their horses. Aramis discharged his bill, placed Bazin in the cart with his comrades, and they set forward to join Porthos.

They found him up, less pale than when d’Artagnan left him after his first visit, and seated at a table on which, though he was alone, was spread enough for four persons. This dinner consisted of meats nicely dressed, choice wines, and superb fruit.

“Ah, pardieu!” said he, rising, “you come in the nick of time, gentlemen. I was just beginning the soup, and you will dine with me.”

“Oh, oh!” said d’Artagnan, “Mousqueton has not caught these bottles with his lasso. Besides, here is a piquant fricandeau and a fillet of beef.”

“I am recruiting myself,” said Porthos, “I am recruiting myself. Nothing weakens a man more than these devilish strains. Did you ever suffer from a strain, Athos?”

“Never! Though I remember, in our affair of the Rue Férou, I received a sword wound which at the end of fifteen or eighteen days produced the same effect.”

“But this dinner was not intended for you alone, Porthos?” said Aramis.

“No,” said Porthos, “I expected some gentlemen of the neighborhood, who have just sent me word they could not come. You will take their places and I shall not lose by the exchange. Holà, Mousqueton, seats, and order double the bottles!”

“Do you know what we are eating here?” said Athos, at the end of ten minutes.

“Pardieu!” replied d’Artagnan, “for my part, I am eating veal garnished with shrimps and vegetables.”

“And I some lamb chops,” said Porthos.

“And I a plain chicken,” said Aramis.

“You are all mistaken, gentlemen,” answered Athos, gravely; “you are eating horse.”

“Eating what?” said d’Artagnan.

“Horse!” said Aramis, with a grimace of disgust.

Porthos alone made no reply.

“Yes, horse. Are we not eating a horse, Porthos? And perhaps his saddle, therewith.”

“No, gentlemen, I have kept the harness,” said Porthos.

“My faith,” said Aramis, “we are all alike. One would think we had tipped the wink.”

“What could I do?” said Porthos. “This horse made my visitors ashamed of theirs, and I don’t like to humiliate people.”

“Then your duchess is still at the waters?” asked d’Artagnan.

“Still,” replied Porthos. “And, my faith, the governor of the province⁠—one of the gentlemen I expected today⁠—seemed to have such a wish for him, that I gave him to him.”

“Gave him?” cried d’Artagnan.

“My God, yes, gave, that is the word,” said Porthos; “for the animal was worth at least a hundred and fifty louis, and the stingy fellow would only give me eighty.”

“Without the saddle?” said Aramis.

“Yes, without the saddle.”

“You will observe, gentlemen,” said Athos, “that Porthos has made the best bargain of any of us.”

And then commenced a roar of laughter in which they all joined, to the astonishment of poor Porthos; but when he was informed of the cause of their hilarity, he shared it vociferously according to his custom.

“There is one comfort, we are all in cash,” said d’Artagnan.

“Well, for my part,” said Athos, “I found Aramis’s Spanish wine so good that I sent on a hamper of sixty bottles of it in the wagon with the lackeys. That has weakened my purse.”

“And I,” said Aramis, “imagined that I had given almost my last sou to the church of Montdidier and the Jesuits of Amiens, with whom I had made engagements which I ought to have kept. I have ordered Masses for myself, and for you, gentlemen, which will be said, gentlemen, for which I have not the least doubt you will be marvelously benefited.”

“And I,” said Porthos, “do you think my strain cost me nothing?⁠—without reckoning Mousqueton’s wound, for which I had to have the surgeon twice a day, and who charged me double on account of that foolish Mousqueton having allowed himself a ball in a part which people generally only show to an apothecary; so I advised him to try never to get wounded there any more.”

“Ay, ay!” said Athos, exchanging a smile with d’Artagnan and Aramis, “it is very clear you acted nobly with regard to the poor lad; that is like a good master.”

“In short,” said Porthos, “when all my expenses are paid, I shall have, at most, thirty crowns left.”

“And I about ten pistoles,” said Aramis.

“Well, then it appears that we are the Croesuses of the society. How much have you left of your hundred pistoles, d’Artagnan?”

“Of my hundred pistoles? Why, in the first place I gave you fifty.”

“You think so?”

“Pardieu!”

“Ah, that is true. I recollect.”

“Then I paid the host six.”

“What a brute of a host! Why did you give him six pistoles?”

“You told me to give them to him.”

“It is true; I am too good-natured. In brief, how much remains?”

“Twenty-five pistoles,” said d’Artagnan.

“And I,” said Athos, taking some small change from his pocket, “I⁠—”

“You? Nothing!”

“My faith! So little that it is not worth reckoning with the general stock.”

“Now, then, let us calculate how much we posses in all.”

“Porthos?”

“Thirty crowns.”

“Aramis?”

“Ten pistoles.”

“And you, d’Artagnan?”

“Twenty-five.”

“That makes in all?” said Athos.

“Four hundred and seventy-five livres,” said d’Artagnan, who reckoned like Archimedes.

“On our arrival in Paris, we shall still have four hundred, besides the harnesses,” said Porthos.

“But our troop horses?” said Aramis.

“Well, of the four horses of our lackeys we will make two for the masters, for which we will draw lots. With the four hundred livres we will make the half of one for one of the unmounted, and then we will give the turnings out of our pockets to d’Artagnan, who has a steady hand, and will go and play in the first gaming house we come to. There!”

“Let us dine, then,” said Porthos; “it is getting cold.”

The friends, at ease with regard to the future, did honor to the repast, the remains of which were abandoned to Mousqueton, Bazin, Planchet, and Grimaud.

On arriving in Paris, d’Artagnan found a letter from M. de Tréville, which informed him that, at his request, the king had promised that he should enter the company of the Musketeers.

As this was the height of d’Artagnan’s worldly ambition⁠—apart, be it well understood, from his desire of finding Madame Bonacieux⁠—he ran, full of joy, to seek his comrades, whom he had left only half an hour before, but whom he found very sad and deeply preoccupied. They were assembled in council at the residence of Athos, which always indicated an event of some gravity. M. de Tréville had intimated to them His Majesty’s fixed intention to open the campaign on the first of May, and they must immediately prepare their outfits.

The four philosophers looked at one another in a state of bewilderment. M. de Tréville never jested in matters relating to discipline.

“And what do you reckon your outfit will cost?” said d’Artagnan.

“Oh, we can scarcely say. We have made our calculations with Spartan economy, and we each require fifteen hundred livres.”

“Four times fifteen makes sixty⁠—six thousand livres,” said Athos.

“It seems to me,” said d’Artagnan, “with a thousand livres each⁠—I do not speak as a Spartan, but as a procurator⁠—”

This word procurator roused Porthos. “Stop,” said he, “I have an idea.”

“Well, that’s something, for I have not the shadow of one,” said Athos coolly; “but as to d’Artagnan, gentlemen, the idea of belonging to ours has driven him out of his senses. A thousand livres! For my part, I declare I want two thousand.”

“Four times two makes eight,” then said Aramis; “it is eight thousand that we want to complete our outfits, toward which, it is true, we have already the saddles.”

“Besides,” said Athos, waiting till d’Artagnan, who went to thank Monsieur de Tréville, had shut the door, “besides, there is that beautiful ring which beams from the finger of our friend. What the devil! D’Artagnan is too good a comrade to leave his brothers in embarrassment while he wears the ransom of a king on his finger.”

CHAPTER XXIX

Hunting for the Equipments

The most preoccupied of the four friends was certainly d’Artagnan, although he, in his quality of Guardsman, would be much more easily equipped than Messieurs the Musketeers, who were all of high rank; but our Gascon cadet was, as may have been observed, of a provident and almost avaricious character, and with that (explain the contradiction) so vain as almost to rival Porthos. To this preoccupation of his vanity, d’Artagnan at this moment joined an uneasiness much less selfish. Notwithstanding all his inquiries respecting Madame Bonacieux, he could obtain no intelligence of her. M. de Tréville had spoken of her to the queen. The queen was ignorant where the mercer’s young wife was, but had promised to have her sought for; but this promise was very vague and did not at all reassure d’Artagnan.

Athos did not leave his chamber; he made up his mind not to take a single step to equip himself.

“We have still fifteen days before us,” said he to his friends, “well, if at the end of a fortnight I have found nothing, or rather if nothing has come to find me, as I am too good a Catholic to kill myself with a pistol bullet, I will seek a good quarrel with four of his Eminence’s Guards or with eight Englishmen, and I will fight until one of them has killed me, which, considering the number, cannot fail to happen. It will then be said of me that I died for the king; so that I shall have performed my duty without the expense of an outfit.”

Porthos continued to walk about with his hands behind him, tossing his head and repeating, “I shall follow up on my idea.”

Aramis, anxious and negligently dressed, said nothing.

It may be seen by these disastrous details that desolation reigned in the community.

The lackeys on their part, like the coursers of Hippolytus, shared the sadness of their masters. Mousqueton collected a store of crusts; Bazin, who had always been inclined to devotion, never quit the churches; Planchet watched the flight of flies; and Grimaud, whom the general distress could not induce to break the silence imposed by his master, heaved sighs enough to soften the stones.

The three friends⁠—for, as we have said, Athos had sworn not to stir a foot to equip himself⁠—went out early in the morning, and returned late at night. They wandered about the streets, looking at the pavement as if to see whether the passengers had not left a purse behind them. They might have been supposed to be following tracks, so observant were they wherever they went. When they met they looked desolately at one another, as much as to say, “Have you found anything?”

However, as Porthos had first found an idea, and had thought of it earnestly afterward, he was the first to act. He was a man of execution, this worthy Porthos. D’Artagnan perceived him one day walking toward the church of St. Leu, and followed him instinctively. He entered, after having twisted his mustache and elongated his imperial, which always announced on his part the most triumphant resolutions. As d’Artagnan took some precautions to conceal himself, Porthos believed he had not been seen. D’Artagnan entered behind him. Porthos went and leaned against the side of a pillar. D’Artagnan, still unperceived, supported himself against the other side.

There happened to be a sermon, which made the church very full of people. Porthos took advantage of this circumstance to ogle the women. Thanks to the cares of Mousqueton, the exterior was far from announcing the distress of the interior. His hat was a little napless, his feather was a little faded, his gold lace was a little tarnished, his laces were a trifle frayed; but in the obscurity of the church these things were not seen, and Porthos was still the handsome Porthos.

D’Artagnan observed, on the bench nearest to the pillar against which Porthos leaned, a sort of ripe beauty, rather yellow and rather dry, but erect and haughty under her black hood. The eyes of Porthos were furtively cast upon this lady, and then roved about at large over the nave.

On her side the lady, who from time to time blushed, darted with the rapidity of lightning a glance toward the inconstant Porthos; and then immediately the eyes of Porthos wandered anxiously. It was plain that this mode of proceeding piqued the lady in the black hood, for she bit her lips till they bled, scratched the end of her nose, and could not sit still in her seat.

Porthos, seeing this, retwisted his mustache, elongated his imperial a second time, and began to make signals to a beautiful lady who was near the choir, and who not only was a beautiful lady, but still further, no doubt, a great lady⁠—for she had behind her a Negro boy who had brought the cushion on which she knelt, and a female servant who held the emblazoned bag in which was placed the book from which she read the Mass.

The lady with the black hood followed through all their wanderings the looks of Porthos, and perceived that they rested upon the lady with the velvet cushion, the little Negro, and the maidservant.

During this time Porthos played close. It was almost imperceptible motions of his eyes, fingers placed upon the lips, little assassinating smiles, which really did assassinate the disdained beauty.

Then she cried, “Ahem!” under cover of the mea culpa, striking her breast so vigorously that everybody, even the lady with the red cushion, turned round toward her. Porthos paid no attention. Nevertheless, he understood it all, but was deaf.

The lady with the red cushion produced a great effect⁠—for she was very handsome⁠—upon the lady with the black hood, who saw in her a rival really to be dreaded; a great effect upon Porthos, who thought her much prettier than the lady with the black hood; a great effect upon d’Artagnan, who recognized in her the lady of Meung, of Calais, and of Dover, whom his persecutor, the man with the scar, had saluted by the name of Milady.

D’Artagnan, without losing sight of the lady of the red cushion, continued to watch the proceedings of Porthos, which amused him greatly. He guessed that the lady of the black hood was the procurator’s wife of the Rue aux Ours, which was the more probable from the church of St. Leu being not far from that locality.

He guessed, likewise, by induction, that Porthos was taking his revenge for the defeat of Chantilly, when the procurator’s wife had proved so refractory with respect to her purse.

Amid all this, d’Artagnan remarked also that not one countenance responded to the gallantries of Porthos. There were only chimeras and illusions; but for real love, for true jealousy, is there any reality except illusions and chimeras?

The sermon over, the procurator’s wife advanced toward the holy font. Porthos went before her, and instead of a finger, dipped his whole hand in. The procurator’s wife smiled, thinking that it was for her Porthos had put himself to this trouble; but she was cruelly and promptly undeceived. When she was only about three steps from him, he turned his head round, fixing his eyes steadfastly upon the lady with the red cushion, who had risen and was approaching, followed by her black boy and her woman.

When the lady of the red cushion came close to Porthos, Porthos drew his dripping hand from the font. The fair worshipper touched the great hand of Porthos with her delicate fingers, smiled, made the sign of the cross, and left the church.

This was too much for the procurator’s wife; she doubted not there was an intrigue between this lady and Porthos. If she had been a great lady she would have fainted; but as she was only a procurator’s wife, she contented herself saying to the musketeer with concentrated fury, “Eh, M. Porthos, you don’t offer me any holy water?”

Porthos, at the sound of that voice, started like a man awakened from a sleep of a hundred years.

“Ma⁠—Madame!” cried he; “is that you? How is your husband, our dear M. Coquenard? Is he still as stingy as ever? Where can my eyes have been not to have seen you during the two hours of the sermon?”

“I was within two paces of you, Monsieur,” replied the procurator’s wife; “but you did not perceive me because you had no eyes but for the pretty lady to whom you just now gave the holy water.”

Porthos pretended to be confused. “Ah,” said he, “you have remarked⁠—”

“I must have been blind not to have seen.”

“Yes,” said Porthos, “that is a duchess of my acquaintance whom I have great trouble to meet on account of the jealousy of her husband, and who sent me word that she should come today to this poor church, buried in this vile quarter, solely for the sake of seeing me.”

“Monsieur Porthos,” said the procurator’s wife, “will you have the kindness to offer me your arm for five minutes? I have something to say to you.”

“Certainly, Madame,” said Porthos, winking to himself, as a gambler does who laughs at the dupe he is about to pluck.

At that moment d’Artagnan passed in pursuit of Milady; he cast a passing glance at Porthos, and beheld this triumphant look.

Eh, eh! said he, reasoning to himself according to the strangely easy morality of that gallant period, there is one who will be equipped in good time!

Porthos, yielding to the pressure of the arm of the procurator’s wife, as a bark yields to the rudder, arrived at the cloister St. Magloire⁠—a little-frequented passage, enclosed with a turnstile at each end. In the daytime nobody was seen there but mendicants devouring their crusts, and children at play.

“Ah, M. Porthos,” cried the procurator’s wife, when she was assured that no one who was a stranger to the population of the locality could either see or hear her, “ah, M. Porthos, you are a great conqueror, as it appears!”

“I, Madame?” said Porthos, drawing himself up proudly; “how so?”

“The signs just now, and the holy water! But that must be a princess, at least⁠—that lady with her Negro boy and her maid!”

“My God! Madame, you are deceived,” said Porthos; “she is simply a duchess.”

“And that running footman who waited at the door, and that carriage with a coachman in grand livery who sat waiting on his seat?”

Porthos had seen neither the footman nor the carriage, but with the eye of a jealous woman, Madame Coquenard had seen everything.

Porthos regretted that he had not at once made the lady of the red cushion a princess.

“Ah, you are quite the pet of the ladies, M. Porthos!” resumed the procurator’s wife, with a sigh.

“Well,” responded Porthos, “you may imagine, with the physique with which nature has endowed me, I am not in want of good luck.”

“Good Lord, how quickly men forget!” cried the procurator’s wife, raising her eyes toward heaven.

“Less quickly than the women, it seems to me,” replied Porthos; “for I, Madame, I may say I was your victim, when wounded, dying, I was abandoned by the surgeons. I, the offspring of a noble family, who placed reliance upon your friendship⁠—I was near dying of my wounds at first, and of hunger afterward, in a beggarly inn at Chantilly, without you ever deigning once to reply to the burning letters I addressed to you.”

“But, M. Porthos,” murmured the procurator’s wife, who began to feel that, to judge by the conduct of the great ladies of the time, she was wrong.

“I, who had sacrificed for you the Baronne de⁠—”

“I know it well.”

“The Comtesse de⁠—”

“Monsieur Porthos, be generous!”

“You are right, Madame, and I will not finish.”

“But it was my husband who would not hear of lending.”

“Madame Coquenard,” said Porthos, “remember the first letter you wrote me, and which I preserve engraved in my memory.”

The procurator’s wife uttered a groan.

“Besides,” said she, “the sum you required me to borrow was rather large.”

“Madame Coquenard, I gave you the preference. I had but to write to the Duchesse⁠—but I won’t repeat her name, for I am incapable of compromising a woman; but this I know, that I had but to write to her and she would have sent me fifteen hundred.”

The procurator’s wife shed a tear.

“Monsieur Porthos,” said she, “I can assure you that you have severely punished me; and if in the time to come you should find yourself in a similar situation, you have but to apply to me.”

“Fie, Madame, fie!” said Porthos, as if disgusted. “Let us not talk about money, if you please; it is humiliating.”

“Then you no longer love me!” said the procurator’s wife, slowly and sadly.

Porthos maintained a majestic silence.

“And that is the only reply you make? Alas, I understand.”

“Think of the offense you have committed toward me, Madame! It remains here!” said Porthos, placing his hand on his heart, and pressing it strongly.

“I will repair it, indeed I will, my dear Porthos.”

“Besides, what did I ask of you?” resumed Porthos, with a movement of the shoulders full of good fellowship. “A loan, nothing more! After all, I am not an unreasonable man. I know you are not rich, Madame Coquenard, and that your husband is obliged to bleed his poor clients to squeeze a few paltry crowns from them. Oh! If you were a duchess, a marchioness, or a countess, it would be quite a different thing; it would be unpardonable.”

The procurator’s wife was piqued.

“Please to know, M. Porthos,” said she, “that my strongbox, the strongbox of a procurator’s wife though it may be, is better filled than those of your affected minxes.”

“That doubles the offense,” said Porthos, disengaging his arm from that of the procurator’s wife; “for if you are rich, Madame Coquenard, then there is no excuse for your refusal.”

“When I said rich,” replied the procurator’s wife, who saw that she had gone too far, “you must not take the word literally. I am not precisely rich, though I am pretty well off.”

“Hold, Madame,” said Porthos, “let us say no more upon the subject, I beg of you. You have misunderstood me, all sympathy is extinct between us.”

“Ingrate that you are!”

“Ah! I advise you to complain!” said Porthos.

“Begone, then, to your beautiful duchess; I will detain you no longer.”

“And she is not to be despised, in my opinion.”

“Now, M. Porthos, once more, and this is the last! Do you love me still?”

“Ah, Madame,” said Porthos, in the most melancholy tone he could assume, “when we are about to enter upon a campaign⁠—a campaign, in which my presentiments tell me I shall be killed⁠—”

“Oh, don’t talk of such things!” cried the procurator’s wife, bursting into tears.

“Something whispers me so,” continued Porthos, becoming more and more melancholy.

“Rather say that you have a new love.”

“Not so; I speak frankly to you. No object affects me; and I even feel here, at the bottom of my heart, something which speaks for you. But in fifteen days, as you know, or as you do not know, this fatal campaign is to open. I shall be fearfully preoccupied with my outfit. Then I must make a journey to see my family, in the lower part of Brittany, to obtain the sum necessary for my departure.”

Porthos observed a last struggle between love and avarice.

“And as,” continued he, “the duchess whom you saw at the church has estates near to those of my family, we mean to make the journey together. Journeys, you know, appear much shorter when we travel two in company.”

“Have you no friends in Paris, then, M. Porthos?” said the procurator’s wife.

“I thought I had,” said Porthos, resuming his melancholy air; “but I have been taught my mistake.”

“You have some, M. Porthos, you have some!” cried the procurator’s wife, in a transport that surprised even herself. “Come to our house tomorrow. You are the son of my aunt, consequently my cousin; you come from Noyon, in Picardy; you have several lawsuits and no attorney. Can you recollect all that?”

“Perfectly, Madame.”

“Come at dinnertime.”

“Very well.”

“And be upon your guard before my husband, who is rather shrewd, notwithstanding his seventy-six years.”

“Seventy-six years! Peste! That’s a fine age!” replied Porthos.

“A great age, you mean, M. Porthos. Yes, the poor man may be expected to leave me a widow, any hour,” continued she, throwing a significant glance at Porthos. “Fortunately, by our marriage contract, the survivor takes everything.”

“All?”

“Yes, all.”

“You are a woman of precaution, I see, my dear Madame Coquenard,” said Porthos, squeezing the hand of the procurator’s wife tenderly.

“We are then reconciled, dear M. Porthos?” said she, simpering.

“For life,” replied Porthos, in the same manner.

“Till we meet again, then, dear traitor!”

“Till we meet again, my forgetful charmer!”

“Tomorrow, my angel!”

“Tomorrow, flame of my life!”

CHAPTER XXX

Milady

D’Artagnan followed Milady without being perceived by her. He saw her get into her carriage, and heard her order the coachman to drive to St. Germain.

It was useless to try to keep pace on foot with a carriage drawn by two powerful horses. D’Artagnan therefore returned to the Rue Férou.

In the Rue de Seine he met Planchet, who had stopped before the house of a pastry cook, and was contemplating with ecstasy a cake of the most appetizing appearance.

He ordered him to go and saddle two horses in M. de Tréville’s stables⁠—one for himself, d’Artagnan, and one for Planchet⁠—and bring them to Athos’s place. Once for all, Tréville had placed his stable at d’Artagnan’s service.

Planchet proceeded toward the Rue du Colombier, and d’Artagnan toward the Rue Férou. Athos was at home, emptying sadly a bottle of the famous Spanish wine he had brought back with him from his journey into Picardy. He made a sign for Grimaud to bring a glass for d’Artagnan, and Grimaud obeyed as usual.

D’Artagnan related to Athos all that had passed at the church between Porthos and the procurator’s wife, and how their comrade was probably by that time in a fair way to be equipped.

“As for me,” replied Athos to this recital, “I am quite at my ease; it will not be women that will defray the expense of my outfit.”

“Handsome, well-bred, noble lord as you are, my dear Athos, neither princesses nor queens would be secure from your amorous solicitations.”

“How young this d’Artagnan is!” said Athos, shrugging his shoulders; and he made a sign to Grimaud to bring another bottle.

At that moment Planchet put his head modestly in at the half-open door, and told his master that the horses were ready.

“What horses?” asked Athos.

“Two horses that M. de Tréville lends me at my pleasure, and with which I am now going to take a ride to St. Germain.”

“Well, and what are you going to do at St. Germain?” then demanded Athos.

Then d’Artagnan described the meeting which he had at the church, and how he had found that lady who, with the seigneur in the black cloak and with the scar near his temple, filled his mind constantly.

“That is to say, you are in love with this lady as you were with Madame Bonacieux,” said Athos, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously, as if he pitied human weakness.

“I? Not at all!” said d’Artagnan. “I am only curious to unravel the mystery to which she is attached. I do not know why, but I imagine that this woman, wholly unknown to me as she is, and wholly unknown to her as I am, has an influence over my life.”

“Well, perhaps you are right,” said Athos. “I do not know a woman that is worth the trouble of being sought for when she is once lost. Madame Bonacieux is lost; so much the worse for her if she is found.”

“No, Athos, no, you are mistaken,” said d’Artagnan; “I love my poor Constance more than ever, and if I knew the place in which she is, were it at the end of the world, I would go to free her from the hands of her enemies; but I am ignorant. All my researches have been useless. What is to be said? I must divert my attention!”

“Amuse yourself with Milady, my dear d’Artagnan; I wish you may with all my heart, if that will amuse you.”

“Hear me, Athos,” said d’Artagnan. “Instead of shutting yourself up here as if you were under arrest, get on horseback and come and take a ride with me to St. Germain.”

“My dear fellow,” said Athos, “I ride horses when I have any; when I have none, I go afoot.”

“Well,” said d’Artagnan, smiling at the misanthropy of Athos, which from any other person would have offended him, “I ride what I can get; I am not so proud as you. So au revoir, dear Athos.”

“Au Revoir,” said the musketeer, making a sign to Grimaud to uncork the bottle he had just brought.

D’Artagnan and Planchet mounted, and took the road to St. Germain.

All along the road, what Athos had said respecting Madame Bonacieux recurred to the mind of the young man. Although d’Artagnan was not of a very sentimental character, the mercer’s pretty wife had made a real impression upon his heart. As he said, he was ready to go to the end of the world to seek her; but the world, being round, has many ends, so that he did not know which way to turn. Meantime, he was going to try to find out Milady. Milady had spoken to the man in the black cloak; therefore she knew him. Now, in the opinion of d’Artagnan, it was certainly the man in the black cloak who had carried off Madame Bonacieux the second time, as he had carried her off the first. D’Artagnan then only half-lied, which is lying but little, when he said that by going in search of Milady he at the same time went in search of Constance.

Thinking of all this, and from time to time giving a touch of the spur to his horse, d’Artagnan completed his short journey, and arrived at St. Germain. He had just passed by the pavilion in which ten years later Louis XIV was born. He rode up a very quiet street, looking to the right and the left to see if he could catch any vestige of his beautiful Englishwoman, when from the ground floor of a pretty house, which, according to the fashion of the time, had no window toward the street, he saw a face peep out with which he thought he was acquainted. This person walked along the terrace, which was ornamented with flowers. Planchet recognized him first.

“Eh, Monsieur!” said he, addressing d’Artagnan, “don’t you remember that face which is blinking yonder?”

“No,” said d’Artagnan, “and yet I am certain it is not the first time I have seen that visage.”

“Parbleu, I believe it is not,” said Planchet. “Why, it is poor Lubin, the lackey of the Comte de Wardes⁠—he whom you took such good care of a month ago at Calais, on the road to the governor’s country house!”

“So it is!” said d’Artagnan; “I know him now. Do you think he would recollect you?”

“My faith, Monsieur, he was in such trouble that I doubt if he can have retained a very clear recollection of me.”

“Well, go and talk with the boy,” said d’Artagnan, “and make out if you can from his conversation whether his master is dead.”

Planchet dismounted and went straight up to Lubin, who did not at all remember him, and the two lackeys began to chat with the best understanding possible; while d’Artagnan turned the two horses into a lane, went round the house, and came back to watch the conference from behind a hedge of filberts.

At the end of an instant’s observation he heard the noise of a vehicle, and saw Milady’s carriage stop opposite to him. He could not be mistaken; Milady was in it. D’Artagnan leaned upon the neck of his horse, in order that he might see without being seen.

Milady put her charming blond head out at the window, and gave her orders to her maid.

The latter⁠—a pretty girl of about twenty or twenty-two years, active and lively, the true soubrette of a great lady⁠—jumped from the step upon which, according to the custom of the time, she was seated, and took her way toward the terrace upon which d’Artagnan had perceived Lubin.

D’Artagnan followed the soubrette with his eyes, and saw her go toward the terrace; but it happened that someone in the house called Lubin, so that Planchet remained alone, looking in all directions for the road where d’Artagnan had disappeared.

The maid approached Planchet, whom she took for Lubin, and holding out a little billet to him said, “For your master.”

“For my master?” replied Planchet, astonished.

“Yes, and important. Take it quickly.”

Thereupon she ran toward the carriage, which had turned round toward the way it came, jumped upon the step, and the carriage drove off.

Planchet turned and returned the billet. Then, accustomed to passive obedience, he jumped down from the terrace, ran toward the lane, and at the end of twenty paces met d’Artagnan, who, having seen all, was coming to him.

“For you, Monsieur,” said Planchet, presenting the billet to the young man.

“For me?” said d’Artagnan; “are you sure of that?”

“Pardieu, Monsieur, I can’t be more sure. The soubrette said, ‘For your master.’ I have no other master but you; so⁠—a pretty little lass, my faith, is that soubrette!”

D’Artagnan opened the letter, and read these words:

A person who takes more interest in you than she is willing to confess wishes to know on what day it will suit you to walk in the forest? Tomorrow, at the Hôtel Field of the Cloth of Gold, a lackey in black and red will wait for your reply.

“Oh!” said d’Artagnan, “this is rather warm; it appears that Milady and I are anxious about the health of the same person. Well, Planchet, how is the good M. de Wardes? He is not dead, then?”

“No, Monsieur, he is as well as a man can be with four sword wounds in his body; for you, without question, inflicted four upon the dear gentleman, and he is still very weak, having lost almost all his blood. As I said, Monsieur, Lubin did not know me, and told me our adventure from one end to the other.”

“Well done, Planchet! you are the king of lackeys. Now jump onto your horse, and let us overtake the carriage.”

This did not take long. At the end of five minutes they perceived the carriage drawn up by the roadside; a cavalier, richly dressed, was close to the door.

The conversation between Milady and the cavalier was so animated that d’Artagnan stopped on the other side of the carriage without anyone but the pretty soubrette perceiving his presence.

The conversation took place in English⁠—a language which d’Artagnan could not understand; but by the accent the young man plainly saw that the beautiful Englishwoman was in a great rage. She terminated it by an action which left no doubt as to the nature of this conversation; this was a blow with her fan, applied with such force that the little feminine weapon flew into a thousand pieces.

The cavalier laughed aloud, which appeared to exasperate Milady still more.

D’Artagnan thought this was the moment to interfere. He approached the other door, and taking off his hat respectfully, said, “Madame, will you permit me to offer you my services? It appears to me that this cavalier has made you very angry. Speak one word, Madame, and I take upon myself to punish him for his want of courtesy.”

At the first word Milady turned, looking at the young man with astonishment; and when he had finished, she said in very good French, “Monsieur, I should with great confidence place myself under your protection if the person with whom I quarrel were not my brother.”

“Ah, excuse me, then,” said d’Artagnan. “You must be aware that I was ignorant of that, Madame.”

“What is that stupid fellow troubling himself about?” cried the cavalier whom Milady had designated as her brother, stooping down to the height of the coach window. “Why does not he go about his business?”

“Stupid fellow yourself!” said d’Artagnan, stooping in his turn on the neck of his horse, and answering on his side through the carriage window. “I do not go on because it pleases me to stop here.”

The cavalier addressed some words in English to his sister.

“I speak to you in French,” said d’Artagnan; “be kind enough, then, to reply to me in the same language. You are Madame’s brother, I learn⁠—be it so; but fortunately you are not mine.”

It might be thought that Milady, timid as women are in general, would have interposed in this commencement of mutual provocations in order to prevent the quarrel from going too far; but on the contrary, she threw herself back in her carriage, and called out coolly to the coachman, “Go on⁠—home!”

The pretty soubrette cast an anxious glance at d’Artagnan, whose good looks seemed to have made an impression on her.

The carriage went on, and left the two men facing each other; no material obstacle separated them.

The cavalier made a movement as if to follow the carriage; but d’Artagnan, whose anger, already excited, was much increased by recognizing in him the Englishman of Amiens who had won his horse and had been very near winning his diamond of Athos, caught at his bridle and stopped him.

“Well, Monsieur,” said he, “you appear to be more stupid than I am, for you forget there is a little quarrel to arrange between us two.”

“Ah,” said the Englishman, “is it you, my master? It seems you must always be playing some game or other.”

“Yes; and that reminds me that I have a revenge to take. We will see, my dear Monsieur, if you can handle a sword as skillfully as you can a dice box.”

“You see plainly that I have no sword,” said the Englishman. “Do you wish to play the braggart with an unarmed man?”

“I hope you have a sword at home; but at all events, I have two, and if you like, I will throw with you for one of them.”

“Needless,” said the Englishman; “I am well furnished with such playthings.”

“Very well, my worthy gentleman,” replied d’Artagnan, “pick out the longest, and come and show it to me this evening.”

“Where, if you please?”

“Behind the Luxembourg; that’s a charming spot for such amusements as the one I propose to you.”

“That will do; I will be there.”

“Your hour?”

“Six o’clock.”

“Apropos, you have probably one or two friends?”

“I have three, who would be honored by joining in the sport with me.”

“Three? Marvelous! That falls out oddly! Three is just my number!”

“Now, then, who are you?” asked the Englishman.

“I am M. d’Artagnan, a Gascon gentleman, serving in the king’s Musketeers. And you?”

“I am Lord de Winter, Baron Sheffield.”

“Well, then, I am your servant, Monsieur Baron,” said d’Artagnan, “though you have names rather difficult to recollect.” And touching his horse with the spur, he cantered back to Paris. As he was accustomed to do in all cases of any consequence, d’Artagnan went straight to the residence of Athos.

He found Athos reclining upon a large sofa, where he was waiting, as he said, for his outfit to come and find him. He related to Athos all that had passed, except the letter to M. de Wardes.

Athos was delighted to find he was going to fight an Englishman. We might say that was his dream.

They immediately sent their lackeys for Porthos and Aramis, and on their arrival made them acquainted with the situation.

Porthos drew his sword from the scabbard, and made passes at the wall, springing back from time to time, and making contortions like a dancer.

Aramis, who was constantly at work at his poem, shut himself up in Athos’s closet, and begged not to be disturbed before the moment of drawing swords.

Athos, by signs, desired Grimaud to bring another bottle of wine.

D’Artagnan employed himself in arranging a little plan, of which we shall hereafter see the execution, and which promised him some agreeable adventure, as might be seen by the smiles which from time to time passed over his countenance, whose thoughtfulness they animated.

CHAPTER XXXI

English and French

The hour having come, they went with their four lackeys to a spot behind the Luxembourg given up to the feeding of goats. Athos threw a piece of money to the goatkeeper to withdraw. The lackeys were ordered to act as sentinels.

A silent party soon drew near to the same enclosure, entered, and joined the musketeers. Then, according to foreign custom, the presentations took place.

The Englishmen were all men of rank; consequently the odd names of their adversaries were for them not only a matter of surprise, but of annoyance.

“But after all,” said Lord de Winter, when the three friends had been named, “we do not know who you are. We cannot fight with such names; they are names of shepherds.”

“Therefore your lordship may suppose they are only assumed names,” said Athos.

“Which only gives us a greater desire to know the real ones,” replied the Englishman.

“You played very willingly with us without knowing our names,” said Athos, “by the same token that you won our horses.”

“That is true, but we then only risked our pistoles; this time we risk our blood. One plays with anybody; but one fights only with equals.”

“And that is but just,” said Athos, and he took aside the one of the four Englishmen with whom he was to fight, and communicated his name in a low voice.

Porthos and Aramis did the same.

“Does that satisfy you?” said Athos to his adversary. “Do you find me of sufficient rank to do me the honor of crossing swords with me?”

“Yes, Monsieur,” said the Englishman, bowing.

“Well! now shall I tell you something?” added Athos, coolly.

“What?” replied the Englishman.

“Why, that is that you would have acted much more wisely if you had not required me to make myself known.”

“Why so?”

“Because I am believed to be dead, and have reasons for wishing nobody to know I am living; so that I shall be obliged to kill you to prevent my secret from roaming over the fields.”

The Englishman looked at Athos, believing that he jested, but Athos did not jest the least in the world.

“Gentlemen,” said Athos, addressing at the same time his companions and their adversaries, “are we ready?”

“Yes!” answered the Englishmen and the Frenchmen, as with one voice.

“On guard, then!” cried Athos.

Immediately eight swords glittered in the rays of the setting sun, and the combat began with an animosity very natural between men twice enemies.

Athos fenced with as much calmness and method as if he had been practicing in a fencing school.

Porthos, abated, no doubt, of his too-great confidence by his adventure of Chantilly, played with skill and prudence. Aramis, who had the third canto of his poem to finish, behaved like a man in haste.

Athos killed his adversary first. He hit him but once, but as he had foretold, that hit was a mortal one; the sword pierced his heart.

Second, Porthos stretched his upon the grass with a wound through his thigh. As the Englishman, without making any further resistance, then surrendered his sword, Porthos took him up in his arms and bore him to his carriage.

Aramis pushed his so vigorously that after going back fifty paces, the man ended by fairly taking to his heels, and disappeared amid the hooting of the lackeys.

As to d’Artagnan, he fought purely and simply on the defensive; and when he saw his adversary pretty well fatigued, with a vigorous side thrust sent his sword flying. The baron, finding himself disarmed, took two or three steps back, but in this movement his foot slipped and he fell backward.

D’Artagnan was over him at a bound, and said to the Englishman, pointing his sword to his throat, “I could kill you, my Lord, you are completely in my hands; but I spare your life for the sake of your sister.”

D’Artagnan was at the height of joy; he had realized the plan he had imagined beforehand, whose picturing had produced the smiles we noted upon his face.

The Englishman, delighted at having to do with a gentleman of such a kind disposition, pressed d’Artagnan in his arms, and paid a thousand compliments to the three musketeers, and as Porthos’s adversary was already installed in the carriage, and as Aramis’s had taken to his heels, they had nothing to think about but the dead.

As Porthos and Aramis were undressing him, in the hope of finding his wound not mortal, a large purse dropped from his clothes. D’Artagnan picked it up and offered it to Lord de Winter.

“What the devil would you have me do with that?” said the Englishman.

“You can restore it to his family,” said d’Artagnan.

“His family will care much about such a trifle as that! His family will inherit fifteen thousand louis a year from him. Keep the purse for your lackeys.”

D’Artagnan put the purse into his pocket.

“And now, my young friend, for you will permit me, I hope, to give you that name,” said Lord de Winter, “on this very evening, if agreeable to you, I will present you to my sister, Milady Clarik, for I am desirous that she should take you into her good graces; and as she is not in bad odor at court, she may perhaps on some future day speak a word that will not prove useless to you.”

D’Artagnan blushed with pleasure, and bowed a sign of assent.

At this time Athos came up to d’Artagnan.

“What do you mean to do with that purse?” whispered he.

“Why, I meant to pass it over to you, my dear Athos.”

“Me! why to me?”

“Why, you killed him! They are the spoils of victory.”

“I, the heir of an enemy!” said Athos; “for whom, then, do you take me?”

“It is the custom in war,” said d’Artagnan, “why should it not be the custom in a duel?”

“Even on the field of battle, I have never done that.”

Porthos shrugged his shoulders; Aramis by a movement of his lips endorsed Athos.

“Then,” said d’Artagnan, “let us give the money to the lackeys, as Lord de Winter desired us to do.”

“Yes,” said Athos; “let us give the money to the lackeys⁠—not to our lackeys, but to the lackeys of the Englishmen.”

Athos took the purse, and threw it into the hand of the coachman. “For you and your comrades.”

This greatness of spirit in a man who was quite destitute struck even Porthos; and this French generosity, repeated by Lord de Winter and his friend, was highly applauded, except by MM. Grimaud, Bazin, Mousqueton and Planchet.

Lord de Winter, on quitting d’Artagnan, gave him his sister’s address. She lived in the Place Royale⁠—then the fashionable quarter⁠—at Number 6, and he undertook to call and take d’Artagnan with him in order to introduce him. D’Artagnan appointed eight o’clock at Athos’s residence.

This introduction to Milady Clarik occupied the head of our Gascon greatly. He remembered in what a strange manner this woman had hitherto been mixed up in his destiny. According to his conviction, she was some creature of the cardinal, and yet he felt himself invincibly drawn toward her by one of those sentiments for which we cannot account. His only fear was that Milady would recognize in him the man of Meung and of Dover. Then she knew that he was one of the friends of M. de Tréville, and consequently, that he belonged body and soul to the king; which would make him lose a part of his advantage, since when known to Milady as he knew her, he played only an equal game with her. As to the commencement of an intrigue between her and M. de Wardes, our presumptuous hero gave but little heed to that, although the marquis was young, handsome, rich, and high in the cardinal’s favor. It is not for nothing we are but twenty years old, above all if we were born at Tarbes.

D’Artagnan began by making his most splendid toilet, then returned to Athos’s, and according to custom, related everything to him. Athos listened to his projects, then shook his head, and recommended prudence to him with a shade of bitterness.

“What!” said he, “you have just lost one woman, whom you call good, charming, perfect; and here you are, running headlong after another.”

D’Artagnan felt the truth of this reproach.

“I loved Madame Bonacieux with my heart, while I only love Milady with my head,” said he. “In getting introduced to her, my principal object is to ascertain what part she plays at court.”

“The part she plays, pardieu! It is not difficult to divine that, after all you have told me. She is some emissary of the cardinal; a woman who will draw you into a snare in which you will leave your head.”

“The devil! my dear Athos, you view things on the dark side, methinks.”

“My dear fellow, I mistrust women. Can it be otherwise? I bought my experience dearly⁠—particularly fair women. Milady is fair, you say?”

“She has the most beautiful light hair imaginable!”

“Ah, my poor d’Artagnan!” said Athos.

“Listen to me! I want to be enlightened on a subject; then, when I shall have learned what I desire to know, I will withdraw.”

“Be enlightened!” said Athos, phlegmatically.

Lord de Winter arrived at the appointed time; but Athos, being warned of his coming, went into the other chamber. He therefore found d’Artagnan alone, and as it was nearly eight o’clock he took the young man with him.

An elegant carriage waited below, and as it was drawn by two excellent horses, they were soon at the Place Royale.

Milady Clarik received d’Artagnan ceremoniously. Her hotel was remarkably sumptuous, and while the most part of the English had quit, or were about to quit, France on account of the war, Milady had just been laying out much money upon her residence; which proved that the general measure which drove the English from France did not affect her.

“You see,” said Lord de Winter, presenting d’Artagnan to his sister, “a young gentleman who has held my life in his hands, and who has not abused his advantage, although we have been twice enemies, although it was I who insulted him, and although I am an Englishman. Thank him, then, Madame, if you have any affection for me.”

Milady frowned slightly; a scarcely visible cloud passed over her brow, and so peculiar a smile appeared upon her lips that the young man, who saw and observed this triple shade, almost shuddered at it.

The brother did not perceive this; he had turned round to play with Milady’s favorite monkey, which had pulled him by the doublet.

“You are welcome, Monsieur,” said Milady, in a voice whose singular sweetness contrasted with the symptoms of ill-humor which d’Artagnan had just remarked; “you have today acquired eternal rights to my gratitude.”

The Englishman then turned round and described the combat without omitting a single detail. Milady listened with the greatest attention, and yet it was easily to be perceived, whatever effort she made to conceal her impressions, that this recital was not agreeable to her. The blood rose to her head, and her little foot worked with impatience beneath her robe.

Lord de Winter perceived nothing of this. When he had finished, he went to a table upon which was a salver with Spanish wine and glasses. He filled two glasses, and by a sign invited d’Artagnan to drink.

D’Artagnan knew it was considered disobliging by an Englishman to refuse to pledge him. He therefore drew near to the table and took the second glass. He did not, however, lose sight of Milady, and in a mirror he perceived the change that came over her face. Now that she believed herself to be no longer observed, a sentiment resembling ferocity animated her countenance. She bit her handkerchief with her beautiful teeth.

That pretty little soubrette whom d’Artagnan had already observed then came in. She spoke some words to Lord de Winter in English, who thereupon requested d’Artagnan’s permission to retire, excusing himself on account of the urgency of the business that had called him away, and charging his sister to obtain his pardon.

D’Artagnan exchanged a shake of the hand with Lord de Winter, and then returned to Milady. Her countenance, with surprising mobility, had recovered its gracious expression; but some little red spots on her handkerchief indicated that she had bitten her lips till the blood came. Those lips were magnificent; they might be said to be of coral.

The conversation took a cheerful turn. Milady appeared to have entirely recovered. She told d’Artagnan that Lord de Winter was her brother-in-law, and not her brother. She had married a younger brother of the family, who had left her a widow with one child. This child was the only heir to Lord de Winter, if Lord de Winter did not marry. All this showed d’Artagnan that there was a veil which concealed something; but he could not yet see under this veil.

In addition to this, after a half hour’s conversation d’Artagnan was convinced that Milady was his compatriot; she spoke French with an elegance and a purity that left no doubt on that head.

D’Artagnan was profuse in gallant speeches and protestations of devotion. To all the simple things which escaped our Gascon, Milady replied with a smile of kindness. The hour came for him to retire. D’Artagnan took leave of Milady, and left the saloon the happiest of men.

On the staircase he met the pretty soubrette, who brushed gently against him as she passed, and then, blushing to the eyes, asked his pardon for having touched him in a voice so sweet that the pardon was granted instantly.

D’Artagnan came again on the morrow, and was still better received than on the evening before. Lord de Winter was not at home; and it was Milady who this time did all the honors of the evening. She appeared to take a great interest in him, asked him whence he came, who were his friends, and whether he had not sometimes thought of attaching himself to the cardinal.

D’Artagnan, who, as we have said, was exceedingly prudent for a young man of twenty, then remembered his suspicions regarding Milady. He launched into a eulogy of his Eminence, and said that he should not have failed to enter into the Guards of the cardinal instead of the king’s Guards if he had happened to know M. de Cavois instead of M. de Tréville.

Milady changed the conversation without any appearance of affectation, and asked d’Artagnan in the most careless manner possible if he had ever been in England.

D’Artagnan replied that he had been sent thither by M. de Tréville to treat for a supply of horses, and that he had brought back four as specimens.

Milady in the course of the conversation twice or thrice bit her lips; she had to deal with a Gascon who played close.

At the same hour as on the preceding evening, d’Artagnan retired. In the corridor he again met the pretty Kitty; that was the name of the soubrette. She looked at him with an expression of kindness which it was impossible to mistake; but d’Artagnan was so preoccupied by the mistress that he noticed absolutely nothing but her.

D’Artagnan came again on the morrow and the day after that, and each day Milady gave him a more gracious reception.

Every evening, either in the antechamber, the corridor, or on the stairs, he met the pretty soubrette. But, as we have said, d’Artagnan paid no attention to this persistence of poor Kitty.

CHAPTER XXXII

A Procurator’s Dinner

However brilliant had been the part played by Porthos in the duel, it had not made him forget the dinner of the procurator’s wife.

On the morrow he received the last touches of Mousqueton’s brush for an hour, and took his way toward the Rue aux Ours with the steps of a man who was doubly in favor with fortune.

His heart beat, but not like d’Artagnan’s with a young and impatient love. No; a more material interest stirred his blood. He was about at last to pass that mysterious threshold, to climb those unknown stairs by which, one by one, the old crowns of M. Coquenard had ascended. He was about to see in reality a certain coffer of which he had twenty times beheld the image in his dreams⁠—a coffer long and deep, locked, bolted, fastened in the wall; a coffer of which he had so often heard, and which the hands⁠—a little wrinkled, it is true, but still not without elegance⁠—of the procurator’s wife were about to open to his admiring looks.

And then he⁠—a wanderer on the earth, a man without fortune, a man without family, a soldier accustomed to inns, cabarets, taverns, and restaurants, a lover of wine forced to depend upon chance treats⁠—was about to partake of family meals, to enjoy the pleasures of a comfortable establishment, and to give himself up to those little attentions which “the harder one is, the more they please,” as old soldiers say.

To come in the capacity of a cousin, and seat himself every day at a good table; to smooth the yellow, wrinkled brow of the old procurator; to pluck the clerks a little by teaching them bassette, passe-dix, and lansquenet, in their utmost nicety, and winning from them, by way of fee for the lesson he would give them in an hour, their savings of a month⁠—all this was enormously delightful to Porthos.

The musketeer could not forget the evil reports which then prevailed, and which indeed have survived them, of the procurators of the period⁠—meanness, stinginess, fasts; but as, after all, excepting some few acts of economy which Porthos had always found very unseasonable, the procurator’s wife had been tolerably liberal⁠—that is, be it understood, for a procurator’s wife⁠—he hoped to see a household of a highly comfortable kind.

And yet, at the very door the musketeer began to entertain some doubts. The approach was not such as to prepossess people⁠—an ill-smelling, dark passage, a staircase half-lighted by bars through which stole a glimmer from a neighboring yard; on the first floor a low door studded with enormous nails, like the principal gate of the Grand Châtelet.

Porthos knocked with his hand. A tall, pale clerk, his face shaded by a forest of virgin hair, opened the door, and bowed with the air of a man forced at once to respect in another lofty stature, which indicated strength, the military dress, which indicated rank, and a ruddy countenance, which indicated familiarity with good living.

A shorter clerk came behind the first, a taller clerk behind the second, a stripling of a dozen years rising behind the third. In all, three clerks and a half, which, for the time, argued a very extensive clientage.

Although the musketeer was not expected before one o’clock, the procurator’s wife had been on the watch ever since midday, reckoning that the heart, or perhaps the stomach, of her lover would bring him before his time.

Madame Coquenard therefore entered the office from the house at the same moment her guest entered from the stairs, and the appearance of the worthy lady relieved him from an awkward embarrassment. The clerks surveyed him with great curiosity, and he, not knowing well what to say to this ascending and descending scale, remained tongue-tied.

“It is my cousin!” cried the procurator’s wife. “Come in, come in, M. Porthos!”

The name of Porthos produced its effect upon the clerks, who began to laugh; but Porthos turned sharply round, and every countenance quickly recovered its gravity.

They reached the office of the procurator after having passed through the antechamber in which the clerks were, and the study in which they ought to have been. This last apartment was a sort of dark room, littered with papers. On quitting the study they left the kitchen on the right, and entered the reception room.

All these rooms, which communicated with one another, did not inspire Porthos favorably. Words might be heard at a distance through all these open doors. Then, while passing, he had cast a rapid, investigating glance into the kitchen; and he was obliged to confess to himself, to the shame of the procurator’s wife and his own regret, that he did not see that fire, that animation, that bustle, which when a good repast is on foot prevails generally in that sanctuary of good living.

The procurator had without doubt been warned of his visit, as he expressed no surprise at the sight of Porthos, who advanced toward him with a sufficiently easy air, and saluted him courteously.

“We are cousins, it appears, M. Porthos?” said the procurator, rising, yet supporting his weight upon the arms of his cane chair.

The old man, wrapped in a large black doublet, in which the whole of his slender body was concealed, was brisk and dry. His little gray eyes shone like carbuncles, and appeared, with his grinning mouth, to be the only part of his face in which life survived. Unfortunately the legs began to refuse their service to this bony machine. During the last five or six months that this weakness had been felt, the worthy procurator had nearly become the slave of his wife.

The cousin was received with resignation, that was all. M. Coquenard, firm upon his legs, would have declined all relationship with M. Porthos.

“Yes, Monsieur, we are cousins,” said Porthos, without being disconcerted, as he had never reckoned upon being received enthusiastically by the husband.

“By the female side, I believe?” said the procurator, maliciously.

Porthos did not feel the ridicule of this, and took it for a piece of simplicity, at which he laughed in his large mustache. Madame Coquenard, who knew that a simple-minded procurator was a very rare variety in the species, smiled a little, and colored a great deal.

M. Coquenard had, since the arrival of Porthos, frequently cast his eyes with great uneasiness upon a large chest placed in front of his oak desk. Porthos comprehended that this chest, although it did not correspond in shape with that which he had seen in his dreams, must be the blessed coffer, and he congratulated himself that the reality was several feet higher than the dream.

M. Coquenard did not carry his genealogical investigations any further; but withdrawing his anxious look from the chest and fixing it upon Porthos, he contented himself with saying, “Monsieur our cousin will do us the favor of dining with us once before his departure for the campaign, will he not, Madame Coquenard?”

This time Porthos received the blow right in his stomach, and felt it. It appeared likewise that Madame Coquenard was not less affected by it on her part, for she added, “My cousin will not return if he finds that we do not treat him kindly; but otherwise he has so little time to pass in Paris, and consequently to spare to us, that we must entreat him to give us every instant he can call his own previous to his departure.”

“Oh, my legs, my poor legs! where are you?” murmured Coquenard, and he tried to smile.

This succor, which came to Porthos at the moment in which he was attacked in his gastronomic hopes, inspired much gratitude in the musketeer toward the procurator’s wife.

The hour of dinner soon arrived. They passed into the eating room⁠—a large dark room situated opposite the kitchen.

The clerks, who, as it appeared, had smelled unusual perfumes in the house, were of military punctuality, and held their stools in hand quite ready to sit down. Their jaws moved preliminarily with fearful threatenings.

Indeed! thought Porthos, casting a glance at the three hungry clerks⁠—for the errand boy, as might be expected, was not admitted to the honors of the magisterial table, in my cousin’s place, I would not keep such gourmands! They look like shipwrecked sailors who have not eaten for six weeks.

M. Coquenard entered, pushed along upon his armchair with casters by Madame Coquenard, whom Porthos assisted in rolling her husband up to the table. He had scarcely entered when he began to agitate his nose and his jaws after the example of his clerks.

“Oh, oh!” said he; “here is a soup which is rather inviting.”

What the devil can they smell so extraordinary in this soup? said Porthos, at the sight of a pale liquid, abundant but entirely free from meat, on the surface of which a few crusts swam about as rare as the islands of an archipelago.

Madame Coquenard smiled, and upon a sign from her everyone eagerly took his seat.

M. Coquenard was served first, then Porthos. Afterward Madame Coquenard filled her own plate, and distributed the crusts without soup to the impatient clerks. At this moment the door of the dining room unclosed with a creak, and Porthos perceived through the half-open flap the little clerk who, not being allowed to take part in the feast, ate his dry bread in the passage with the double odor of the dining room and kitchen.

After the soup the maid brought a boiled fowl⁠—a piece of magnificence which caused the eyes of the diners to dilate in such a manner that they seemed ready to burst.

“One may see that you love your family, Madame Coquenard,” said the procurator, with a smile that was almost tragic. “You are certainly treating your cousin very handsomely!”

The poor fowl was thin, and covered with one of those thick, bristly skins through which the teeth cannot penetrate with all their efforts. The fowl must have been sought for a long time on the perch, to which it had retired to die of old age.

The devil! thought Porthos, this is poor work. I respect old age, but I don’t much like it boiled or roasted.

And he looked round to see if anybody partook of his opinion; but on the contrary, he saw nothing but eager eyes which were devouring, in anticipation, that sublime fowl which was the object of his contempt.

Madame Coquenard drew the dish toward her, skillfully detached the two great black feet, which she placed upon her husband’s plate, cut off the neck, which with the head she put on one side for herself, raised the wing for Porthos, and then returned the bird otherwise intact to the servant who had brought it in, who disappeared with it before the musketeer had time to examine the variations which disappointment produces upon faces, according to the characters and temperaments of those who experience it.

In the place of the fowl a dish of haricot beans made its appearance⁠—an enormous dish in which some bones of mutton that at first sight one might have believed to have some meat on them pretended to show themselves.

But the clerks were not the dupes of this deceit, and their lugubrious looks settled down into resigned countenances.

Madame Coquenard distributed this dish to the young men with the moderation of a good housewife.

The time for wine came. M. Coquenard poured from a very small stone bottle the third of a glass for each of the young men, served himself in about the same proportion, and passed the bottle to Porthos and Madame Coquenard.

The young men filled up their third of a glass with water; then, when they had drunk half the glass, they filled it up again, and continued to do so. This brought them, by the end of the repast, to swallowing a drink which from the color of the ruby had passed to that of a pale topaz.

Porthos ate his wing of the fowl timidly, and shuddered when he felt the knee of the procurator’s wife under the table, as it came in search of his. He also drank half a glass of this sparingly served wine, and found it to be nothing but that horrible Montreuil⁠—the terror of all expert palates.

M. Coquenard saw him swallowing this wine undiluted, and sighed deeply.

“Will you eat any of these beans, Cousin Porthos?” said Madame Coquenard, in that tone which says, “Take my advice, don’t touch them.”

“Devil take me if I taste one of them!” murmured Porthos to himself, and then said aloud, “Thank you, my cousin, I am no longer hungry.”

There was silence. Porthos could hardly keep his countenance. The procurator repeated several times, “Ah, Madame Coquenard! Accept my compliments; your dinner has been a real feast. Lord, how I have eaten!”

M. Coquenard had eaten his soup, the black feet of the fowl, and the only mutton bone on which there was the least appearance of meat.

Porthos fancied they were mystifying him, and began to curl his mustache and knit his eyebrows; but the knee of Madame Coquenard gently advised him to be patient.

This silence and this interruption in serving, which were unintelligible to Porthos, had, on the contrary, a terrible meaning for the clerks. Upon a look from the procurator, accompanied by a smile from Madame Coquenard, they arose slowly from the table, folded their napkins more slowly still, bowed, and retired.

“Go, young men! go and promote digestion by working,” said the procurator, gravely.

The clerks gone, Madame Coquenard rose and took from a buffet a piece of cheese, some preserved quinces, and a cake which she had herself made of almonds and honey.

M. Coquenard knit his eyebrows because there were too many good things. Porthos bit his lips because he saw not the wherewithal to dine. He looked to see if the dish of beans was still there; the dish of beans had disappeared.

“A positive feast!” cried M. Coquenard, turning about in his chair, “a real feast, epulce epulorum. Lucullus dines with Lucullus.”

Porthos looked at the bottle, which was near him, and hoped that with wine, bread, and cheese, he might make a dinner; but wine was wanting, the bottle was empty. Monsieur and Madame Coquenard did not seem to observe it.

This is fine! said Porthos to himself; I am prettily caught!

He passed his tongue over a spoonful of preserves, and stuck his teeth into the sticky pastry of Madame Coquenard.

Now, said he, the sacrifice is consummated! Ah! if I had not the hope of peeping with Madame Coquenard into her husband’s chest!

M. Coquenard, after the luxuries of such a repast, which he called an excess, felt the want of a siesta. Porthos began to hope that the thing would take place at the present sitting, and in that same locality; but the procurator would listen to nothing, he would be taken to his room, and was not satisfied till he was close to his chest, upon the edge of which, for still greater precaution, he placed his feet.

The procurator’s wife took Porthos into an adjoining room, and they began to lay the basis of a reconciliation.

“You can come and dine three times a week,” said Madame Coquenard.

“Thanks, Madame!” said Porthos, “but I don’t like to abuse your kindness; besides, I must think of my outfit!”

“That’s true,” said the procurator’s wife, groaning, “that unfortunate outfit!”

“Alas, yes,” said Porthos, “it is so.”

“But of what, then, does the equipment of your company consist, M. Porthos?”

“Oh, of many things!” said Porthos. “The musketeers are, as you know, picked soldiers, and they require many things useless to the Guardsmen or the Swiss.”

“But yet, detail them to me.”

“Why, they may amount to⁠—” said Porthos, who preferred discussing the total to taking them one by one.

The procurator’s wife waited tremblingly.

“To how much?” said she. “I hope it does not exceed⁠—” She stopped; speech failed her.

“Oh, no,” said Porthos, “it does not exceed two thousand five hundred livres! I even think that with economy I could manage it with two thousand livres.”

“Good God!” cried she, “two thousand livres! Why, that is a fortune!”

Porthos made a most significant grimace; Madame Coquenard understood it.

“I wished to know the detail,” said she, “because, having many relatives in business, I was almost sure of obtaining things at a hundred percent less than you would pay yourself.”

“Ah, ah!” said Porthos, “that is what you meant to say!”

“Yes, dear M. Porthos. Thus, for instance, don’t you in the first place want a horse?”

“Yes, a horse.”

“Well, then! I can just suit you.”

“Ah!” said Porthos, brightening, “that’s well as regards my horse; but I must have the appointments complete, as they include objects which a musketeer alone can purchase, and which will not amount, besides, to more than three hundred livres.”

“Three hundred livres? Then put down three hundred livres,” said the procurator’s wife, with a sigh.

Porthos smiled. It may be remembered that he had the saddle which came from Buckingham. These three hundred livres he reckoned upon putting snugly into his pocket.

“Then,” continued he, “there is a horse for my lackey, and my valise. As to my arms, it is useless to trouble you about them; I have them.”

“A horse for your lackey?” resumed the procurator’s wife, hesitatingly; “but that is doing things in lordly style, my friend.”

“Ah, Madame!” said Porthos, haughtily; “do you take me for a beggar?”

“No; I only thought that a pretty mule makes sometimes as good an appearance as a horse, and it seemed to me that by getting a pretty mule for Mousqueton⁠—”

“Well, agreed for a pretty mule,” said Porthos; “you are right, I have seen very great Spanish nobles whose whole suite were mounted on mules. But then you understand, Madame Coquenard, a mule with feathers and bells.”

“Be satisfied,” said the procurator’s wife.

“There remains the valise,” added Porthos.

“Oh, don’t let that disturb you,” cried Madame Coquenard. “My husband has five or six valises; you shall choose the best. There is one in particular which he prefers in his journeys, large enough to hold all the world.”

“Your valise is then empty?” asked Porthos, with simplicity.

“Certainly it is empty,” replied the procurator’s wife, in real innocence.

“Ah, but the valise I want,” cried Porthos, “is a well-filled one, my dear.”

Madame uttered fresh sighs. Molière had not written his scene in L’Avare then. Madame Coquenard was in the dilemma of Harpagan.

Finally, the rest of the equipment was successively debated in the same manner; and the result of the sitting was that the procurator’s wife should give eight hundred livres in money, and should furnish the horse and the mule which should have the honor of carrying Porthos and Mousqueton to glory.

These conditions being agreed to, Porthos took leave of Madame Coquenard. The latter wished to detain him by darting certain tender glances; but Porthos urged the commands of duty, and the procurator’s wife was obliged to give place to the king.

The musketeer returned home hungry and in bad humor.

CHAPTER XXXIII

Soubrette and Mistress

Meantime, as we have said, despite the cries of his conscience and the wise counsels of Athos, d’Artagnan became hourly more in love with Milady. Thus he never failed to pay his diurnal court to her; and the self-satisfied Gascon was convinced that sooner or later she could not fail to respond.

One day, when he arrived with his head in the air, and as light at heart as a man who awaits a shower of gold, he found the soubrette under the gateway of the hotel; but this time the pretty Kitty was not contented with touching him as he passed, she took him gently by the hand.

Good! thought d’Artagnan, She is charged with some message for me from her mistress; she is about to appoint some rendezvous of which she had not courage to speak. And he looked down at the pretty girl with the most triumphant air imaginable.

“I wish to say three words to you, Monsieur Chevalier,” stammered the soubrette.

“Speak, my child, speak,” said d’Artagnan; “I listen.”

“Here? Impossible! That which I have to say is too long, and above all, too secret.”

“Well, what is to be done?”

“If Monsieur Chevalier would follow me?” said Kitty, timidly.

“Where you please, my dear child.”

“Come, then.”

And Kitty, who had not let go the hand of d’Artagnan, led him up a little dark, winding staircase, and after ascending about fifteen steps, opened a door.

“Come in here, Monsieur Chevalier,” said she; “here we shall be alone, and can talk.”

“And whose room is this, my dear child?”

“It is mine, Monsieur Chevalier; it communicates with my mistress’s by that door. But you need not fear. She will not hear what we say; she never goes to bed before midnight.”

D’Artagnan cast a glance around him. The little apartment was charming for its taste and neatness; but in spite of himself, his eyes were directed to that door which Kitty said led to Milady’s chamber.

Kitty guessed what was passing in the mind of the young man, and heaved a deep sigh.

“You love my mistress, then, very dearly, Monsieur Chevalier?” said she.

“Oh, more than I can say, Kitty! I am mad for her!”

Kitty breathed a second sigh.

“Alas, Monsieur,” said she, “that is too bad.”

“What the devil do you see so bad in it?” said d’Artagnan.

“Because, Monsieur,” replied Kitty, “my mistress loves you not at all.”

“Hein!” said d’Artagnan, “can she have charged you to tell me so?”

“Oh, no, Monsieur; but out of the regard I have for you, I have taken the resolution to tell you so.”

“Much obliged, my dear Kitty; but for the intention only⁠—for the information, you must agree, is not likely to be at all agreeable.”

“That is to say, you don’t believe what I have told you; is it not so?”

“We have always some difficulty in believing such things, my pretty dear, were it only from self-love.”

“Then you don’t believe me?”

“I confess that unless you deign to give me some proof of what you advance⁠—”

“What do you think of this?”

Kitty drew a little note from her bosom.

“For me?” said d’Artagnan, seizing the letter.

“No; for another.”

“For another?”

“Yes.”

“His name; his name!” cried d’Artagnan.

“Read the address.”

“M. le Comte de Wardes.”

The remembrance of the scene at St. Germain presented itself to the mind of the presumptuous Gascon. As quick as thought, he tore open the letter, in spite of the cry which Kitty uttered on seeing what he was going to do, or rather, what he was doing.

“Oh, good Lord, Monsieur Chevalier,” said she, “what are you doing?”

“I?” said d’Artagnan; “nothing,” and he read,

“You have not answered my first note. Are you indisposed, or have you forgotten the glances you favored me with at the ball of Madame de Guise? You have an opportunity now, Count; do not allow it to escape.”

D’Artagnan became very pale; he was wounded in his self-love: he thought that it was in his love.

“Poor dear M. d’Artagnan,” said Kitty, in a voice full of compassion, and pressing anew the young man’s hand.

“You pity me, little one?” said d’Artagnan.

“Oh, yes, and with all my heart; for I know what it is to be in love.”

“You know what it is to be in love?” said d’Artagnan, looking at her for the first time with much attention.

“Alas, yes.”

“Well, then, instead of pitying me, you would do much better to assist me in avenging myself on your mistress.”

“And what sort of revenge would you take?”

“I would triumph over her, and supplant my rival.”

“I will never help you in that, Monsieur Chevalier,” said Kitty, warmly.

“And why not?” demanded d’Artagnan.

“For two reasons.”

“What ones?”

“The first is that my mistress will never love you.”

“How do you know that?”

“You have cut her to the heart.”

“I? In what can I have offended her⁠—I who ever since I have known her have lived at her feet like a slave? Speak, I beg you!”

“I will never confess that but to the man⁠—who should read to the bottom of my soul!”

D’Artagnan looked at Kitty for the second time. The young girl had freshness and beauty which many duchesses would have purchased with their coronets.

“Kitty,” said he, “I will read to the bottom of your soul whenever you like; don’t let that disturb you.” And he gave her a kiss at which the poor girl became as red as a cherry.

“Oh, no,” said Kitty, “it is not me you love! It is my mistress you love; you told me so just now.”

“And does that hinder you from letting me know the second reason?”

“The second reason, Monsieur the Chevalier,” replied Kitty, emboldened by the kiss in the first place, and still further by the expression of the eyes of the young man, “is that in love, everyone for herself!”

Then only d’Artagnan remembered the languishing glances of Kitty, her constantly meeting him in the antechamber, the corridor, or on the stairs, those touches of the hand every time she met him, and her deep sighs; but absorbed by his desire to please the great lady, he had disdained the soubrette. He whose game is the eagle takes no heed of the sparrow.

But this time our Gascon saw at a glance all the advantage to be derived from the love which Kitty had just confessed so innocently, or so boldly: the interception of letters addressed to the Comte de Wardes, news on the spot, entrance at all hours into Kitty’s chamber, which was contiguous to her mistress’s. The perfidious deceiver was, as may plainly be perceived, already sacrificing, in intention, the poor girl in order to obtain Milady, willy-nilly.

“Well,” said he to the young girl, “are you willing, my dear Kitty, that I should give you a proof of that love which you doubt?”

“What love?” asked the young girl.

“Of that which I am ready to feel toward you.”

“And what is that proof?”

“Are you willing that I should this evening pass with you the time I generally spend with your mistress?”

“Oh, yes,” said Kitty, clapping her hands, “very willing.”

“Well, then, come here, my dear,” said d’Artagnan, establishing himself in an easy chair; “come, and let me tell you that you are the prettiest soubrette I ever saw!”

And he did tell her so much, and so well, that the poor girl, who asked nothing better than to believe him, did believe him. Nevertheless, to d’Artagnan’s great astonishment, the pretty Kitty defended herself resolutely.

Time passes quickly when it is passed in attacks and defenses. Midnight sounded, and almost at the same time the bell was rung in Milady’s chamber.

“Good God,” cried Kitty, “there is my mistress calling me! Go; go directly!”

D’Artagnan rose, took his hat, as if it had been his intention to obey, then, opening quickly the door of a large closet instead of that leading to the staircase, he buried himself amid the robes and dressing gowns of Milady.

“What are you doing?” cried Kitty.

D’Artagnan, who had secured the key, shut himself up in the closet without reply.

“Well,” cried Milady, in a sharp voice. “Are you asleep, that you don’t answer when I ring?”

And d’Artagnan heard the door of communication opened violently.

“Here am I, Milady, here am I!” cried Kitty, springing forward to meet her mistress.

Both went into the bedroom, and as the door of communication remained open, d’Artagnan could hear Milady for some time scolding her maid. She was at length appeased, and the conversation turned upon him while Kitty was assisting her mistress.

“Well,” said Milady, “I have not seen our Gascon this evening.”

“What, Milady! Has he not come?” said Kitty. “Can he be inconstant before being happy?”

“Oh, no; he must have been prevented by M. de Tréville or M. des Essart. I understand my game, Kitty; I have this one safe.”

“What will you do with him, Madame?”

“What will I do with him? Be easy, Kitty, there is something between that man and me that he is quite ignorant of: he nearly made me lose my credit with his Eminence. Oh, I will be revenged!”

“I believed that Madame loved him.”

“I love him? I detest him! An idiot, who held the life of Lord de Winter in his hands and did not kill him, by which I missed three hundred thousand livres’ income.”

“That’s true,” said Kitty; “your son was the only heir of his uncle, and until his majority you would have had the enjoyment of his fortune.”

D’Artagnan shuddered to the marrow at hearing this suave creature reproach him, with that sharp voice which she took such pains to conceal in conversation, for not having killed a man whom he had seen load her with kindnesses.

“For all this,” continued Milady, “I should long ago have revenged myself on him if, and I don’t know why, the cardinal had not requested me to conciliate him.”

“Oh, yes; but Madame has not conciliated that little woman he was so fond of.”

“What, the mercer’s wife of the Rue des Fossoyeurs? Has he not already forgotten she ever existed? Fine vengeance that, on my faith!”

A cold sweat broke from d’Artagnan’s brow. Why, this woman was a monster! He resumed his listening, but unfortunately the toilet was finished.

“That will do,” said Milady; “go into your own room, and tomorrow endeavor again to get me an answer to the letter I gave you.”

“For M. de Wardes?” said Kitty.

“To be sure; for M. de Wardes.”

“Now, there is one,” said Kitty, “who appears to me quite a different sort of a man from that poor M. d’Artagnan.”

“Go to bed, mademoiselle,” said Milady; “I don’t like comments.”

D’Artagnan heard the door close; then the noise of two bolts by which Milady fastened herself in. On her side, but as softly as possible, Kitty turned the key of the lock, and then d’Artagnan opened the closet door.

“Oh, good Lord!” said Kitty, in a low voice, “what is the matter with you? How pale you are!”

“The abominable creature,” murmured d’Artagnan.

“Silence, silence, begone!” said Kitty. “There is nothing but a wainscot between my chamber and Milady’s; every word that is uttered in one can be heard in the other.”

“That’s exactly the reason I won’t go,” said d’Artagnan.

“What!” said Kitty, blushing.

“Or, at least, I will go⁠—later.”

He drew Kitty to him. She had the less motive to resist, resistance would make so much noise. Therefore Kitty surrendered.

It was a movement of vengeance upon Milady. D’Artagnan believed it right to say that vengeance is the pleasure of the gods. With a little more heart, he might have been contented with this new conquest; but the principal features of his character were ambition and pride. It must, however, be confessed in his justification that the first use he made of his influence over Kitty was to try and find out what had become of Madame Bonacieux; but the poor girl swore upon the crucifix to d’Artagnan that she was entirely ignorant on that head, her mistress never admitting her into half her secrets⁠—only she believed she could say she was not dead.

As to the cause which was near making Milady lose her credit with the cardinal, Kitty knew nothing about it; but this time d’Artagnan was better informed than she was. As he had seen Milady on board a vessel at the moment he was leaving England, he suspected that it was, almost without a doubt, on account of the diamond studs.

But what was clearest in all this was that the true hatred, the profound hatred, the inveterate hatred of Milady, was increased by his not having killed her brother-in-law.

D’Artagnan came the next day to Milady’s, and finding her in a very ill-humor, had no doubt that it was lack of an answer from M. de Wardes that provoked her thus. Kitty came in, but Milady was very cross with her. The poor girl ventured a glance at d’Artagnan which said, “See how I suffer on your account!”

Toward the end of the evening, however, the beautiful lioness became milder; she smilingly listened to the soft speeches of d’Artagnan, and even gave him her hand to kiss.

D’Artagnan departed, scarcely knowing what to think, but as he was a youth who did not easily lose his head, while continuing to pay his court to Milady, he had framed a little plan in his mind.

He found Kitty at the gate, and, as on the preceding evening, went up to her chamber. Kitty had been accused of negligence and severely scolded. Milady could not at all comprehend the silence of the Comte de Wardes, and she ordered Kitty to come at nine o’clock in the morning to take a third letter.

D’Artagnan made Kitty promise to bring him that letter on the following morning. The poor girl promised all her lover desired; she was mad.

Things passed as on the night before. D’Artagnan concealed himself in his closet; Milady called, undressed, sent away Kitty, and shut the door. As the night before, d’Artagnan did not return home till five o’clock in the morning.

At eleven o’clock Kitty came to him. She held in her hand a fresh billet from Milady. This time the poor girl did not even argue with d’Artagnan; she gave it to him at once. She belonged body and soul to her handsome soldier.

D’Artagnan opened the letter and read as follows:

This is the third time I have written to you to tell you that I love you. Beware that I do not write to you a fourth time to tell you that I detest you.

If you repent of the manner in which you have acted toward me, the young girl who brings you this will tell you how a man of spirit may obtain his pardon.

D’Artagnan colored and grew pale several times in reading this billet.

“Oh, you love her still,” said Kitty, who had not taken her eyes off the young man’s countenance for an instant.

“No, Kitty, you are mistaken. I do not love her, but I will avenge myself for her contempt.”

“Oh, yes, I know what sort of vengeance! You told me that!”

“What matters it to you, Kitty? You know it is you alone whom I love.”

“How can I know that?”

“By the scorn I will throw upon her.”

D’Artagnan took a pen and wrote:

Madame

⁠—Until the present moment I could not believe that it was to me your first two letters were addressed, so unworthy did I feel myself of such an honor; besides, I was so seriously indisposed that I could not in any case have replied to them.

But now I am forced to believe in the excess of your kindness, since not only your letter but your servant assures me that I have the good fortune to be beloved by you.

She has no occasion to teach me the way in which a man of spirit may obtain his pardon. I will come and ask mine at eleven o’clock this evening.

To delay it a single day would be in my eyes now to commit a fresh offense.

From him whom you have rendered the happiest of men,

Comte de Wardes

This note was in the first place a forgery; it was likewise an indelicacy. It was even, according to our present manners, something like an infamous action; but at that period people did not manage affairs as they do today. Besides, d’Artagnan from her own admission knew Milady culpable of treachery in matters more important, and could entertain no respect for her. And yet, notwithstanding this want of respect, he felt an uncontrollable passion for this woman boiling in his veins⁠—passion drunk with contempt; but passion or thirst, as the reader pleases.

D’Artagnan’s plan was very simple. By Kitty’s chamber he could gain that of her mistress. He would take advantage of the first moment of surprise, shame, and terror, to triumph over her. He might fail, but something must be left to chance. In eight days the campaign would open, and he would be compelled to leave Paris; d’Artagnan had no time for a prolonged love siege.

“There,” said the young man, handing Kitty the letter sealed; “give that to Milady. It is the count’s reply.”

Poor Kitty became as pale as death; she suspected what the letter contained.

“Listen, my dear girl,” said d’Artagnan; “you cannot but perceive that all this must end, some way or other. Milady may discover that you gave the first billet to my lackey instead of to the count’s; that it is I who have opened the others which ought to have been opened by de Wardes. Milady will then turn you out of doors, and you know she is not the woman to limit her vengeance.”

“Alas!” said Kitty, “for whom have I exposed myself to all that?”

“For me, I well know, my sweet girl,” said d’Artagnan. “But I am grateful, I swear to you.”

“But what does this note contain?”

“Milady will tell you.”

“Ah, you do not love me!” cried Kitty, “and I am very wretched.”

To this reproach there is always one response which deludes women. D’Artagnan replied in such a manner that Kitty remained in her great delusion. Although she cried freely before deciding to transmit the letter to her mistress, she did at last so decide, which was all d’Artagnan wished. Finally he promised that he would leave her mistress’s presence at an early hour that evening, and that when he left the mistress he would ascend with the maid. This promise completed poor Kitty’s consolation.

CHAPTER XXXIV

In Which the Equipment of Aramis and Porthos Is Treated Of

Since the four friends had been each in search of his equipments, there had been no fixed meeting between them. They dined apart from one another, wherever they might happen to be, or rather where they could. Duty likewise on its part took a portion of that precious time which was gliding away so rapidly⁠—only they had agreed to meet once a week, about one o’clock, at the residence of Athos, seeing that he, in agreement with the vow he had formed, did not pass over the threshold of his door.

This day of reunion was the same day as that on which Kitty came to find d’Artagnan. Soon as Kitty left him, d’Artagnan directed his steps toward the Rue Férou.

He found Athos and Aramis philosophizing. Aramis had some slight inclination to resume the cassock. Athos, according to his system, neither encouraged nor dissuaded him. Athos believed that everyone should be left to his own free will. He never gave advice but when it was asked, and even then he required to be asked twice.

“People, in general,” he said, “only ask advice not to follow it; or if they do follow it, it is for the sake of having someone to blame for having given it.”

Porthos arrived a minute after d’Artagnan. The four friends were reunited.

The four countenances expressed four different feelings: that of Porthos, tranquillity; that of d’Artagnan, hope; that of Aramis, uneasiness; that of Athos, carelessness.

At the end of a moment’s conversation, in which Porthos hinted that a lady of elevated rank had condescended to relieve him from his embarrassment, Mousqueton entered. He came to request his master to return to his lodgings, where his presence was urgent, as he piteously said.

“Is it my equipment?”

“Yes and no,” replied Mousqueton.

“Well, but can’t you speak?”

“Come, Monsieur.”

Porthos rose, saluted his friends, and followed Mousqueton. An instant after, Bazin made his appearance at the door.

“What do you want with me, my friend?” said Aramis, with that mildness of language which was observable in him every time that his ideas were directed toward the Church.

“A man wishes to see M. at home,” replied Bazin.

“A man! What man?”

“A mendicant.”

“Give him alms, Bazin, and bid him pray for a poor sinner.”

“This mendicant insists upon speaking to you, and pretends that you will be very glad to see him.”

“Has he sent no particular message for me?”

“Yes. If M. Aramis hesitates to come,” he said, “tell him I am from Tours.”

“From Tours!” cried Aramis. “A thousand pardons, gentlemen; but no doubt this man brings me the news I expected.” And rising also, he went off at a quick pace. There remained Athos and d’Artagnan.

“I believe these fellows have managed their business. What do you think, d’Artagnan?” said Athos.

“I know that Porthos was in a fair way,” replied d’Artagnan; “and as to Aramis to tell you the truth, I have never been seriously uneasy on his account. But you, my dear Athos⁠—you, who so generously distributed the Englishman’s pistoles, which were our legitimate property⁠—what do you mean to do?”

“I am satisfied with having killed that fellow, my boy, seeing that it is blessed bread to kill an Englishman; but if I had pocketed his pistoles, they would have weighed me down like a remorse.”

“Go to, my dear Athos; you have truly inconceivable ideas.”

“Let it pass. What do you think of M. de Tréville telling me, when he did me the honor to call upon me yesterday, that you associated with the suspected English, whom the cardinal protects?”

“That is to say, I visit an Englishwoman⁠—the one I named to you.”

“Oh, ay! the fair woman on whose account I gave you advice, which naturally you took care not to adopt.”

“I gave you my reasons.”

“Yes; you look there for your outfit, I think you said.”

“Not at all. I have acquired certain knowledge that that woman was concerned in the abduction of Madame Bonacieux.”

“Yes, I understand now: to find one woman, you court another. It is the longest road, but certainly the most amusing.”

D’Artagnan was on the point of telling Athos all; but one consideration restrained him. Athos was a gentleman, punctilious in points of honor; and there were in the plan which our lover had devised for Milady, he was sure, certain things that would not obtain the assent of this Puritan. He was therefore silent; and as Athos was the least inquisitive of any man on earth, d’Artagnan’s confidence stopped there. We will therefore leave the two friends, who had nothing important to say to each other, and follow Aramis.

Upon being informed that the person who wanted to speak to him came from Tours, we have seen with what rapidity the young man followed, or rather went before, Bazin; he ran without stopping from the Rue Férou to the Rue de Vaugirard. On entering he found a man of short stature and intelligent eyes, but covered with rags.

“You have asked for me?” said the musketeer.

“I wish to speak with M. Aramis. Is that your name, Monsieur?”

“My very own. You have brought me something?”

“Yes, if you show me a certain embroidered handkerchief.”

“Here it is,” said Aramis, taking a small key from his breast and opening a little ebony box inlaid with mother of pearl, “here it is. Look.”

“That is right,” replied the mendicant; “dismiss your lackey.”

In fact, Bazin, curious to know what the mendicant could want with his master, kept pace with him as well as he could, and arrived almost at the same time he did; but his quickness was not of much use to him. At the hint from the mendicant his master made him a sign to retire, and he was obliged to obey.

Bazin gone, the mendicant cast a rapid glance around him in order to be sure that nobody could either see or hear him, and opening his ragged vest, badly held together by a leather strap, he began to rip the upper part of his doublet, from which he drew a letter.

Aramis uttered a cry of joy at the sight of the seal, kissed the superscription with an almost religious respect, and opened the epistle, which contained what follows:

My Friend⁠

—It is the will of fate that we should be still for some time separated; but the delightful days of youth are not lost beyond return. Perform your duty in camp; I will do mine elsewhere. Accept that which the bearer brings you; make the campaign like a handsome true gentleman, and think of me, who kisses tenderly your black eyes.

Adieu; or rather, au revoir.

The mendicant continued to rip his garments; and drew from amid his rags a hundred and fifty Spanish double pistoles, which he laid down on the table; then he opened the door, bowed, and went out before the young man, stupefied by his letter, had ventured to address a word to him.

Aramis then reperused the letter, and perceived a postscript:

P.S. You may behave politely to the bearer, who is a count and a grandee of Spain!

“Golden dreams!” cried Aramis. “Oh, beautiful life! Yes, we are young; yes, we shall yet have happy days! My love, my blood, my life! all, all, all, are thine, my adored mistress!”

And he kissed the letter with passion, without even vouchsafing a look at the gold which sparkled on the table.

Bazin scratched at the door, and as Aramis had no longer any reason to exclude him, he bade him come in.

Bazin was stupefied at the sight of the gold, and forgot that he came to announce d’Artagnan, who, curious to know who the mendicant could be, came to Aramis on leaving Athos.

Now, as d’Artagnan used no ceremony with Aramis, seeing that Bazin forgot to announce him, he announced himself.

“The devil! my dear Aramis,” said d’Artagnan, “if these are the prunes that are sent to you from Tours, I beg you will make my compliments to the gardener who gathers them.”

“You are mistaken, friend d’Artagnan,” said Aramis, always on his guard; “this is from my publisher, who has just sent me the price of that poem in one-syllable verse which I began yonder.”

“Ah, indeed,” said d’Artagnan. “Well, your publisher is very generous, my dear Aramis, that’s all I can say.”

“How, Monsieur?” cried Bazin, “a poem sell so dear as that! It is incredible! Oh, Monsieur, you can write as much as you like; you may become equal to M. de Voiture and M. de Benserade. I like that. A poet is as good as an abbé. Ah! M. Aramis, become a poet, I beg of you.”

“Bazin, my friend,” said Aramis, “I believe you meddle with my conversation.”

Bazin perceived he was wrong; he bowed and went out.

“Ah!” said d’Artagnan with a smile, “you sell your productions at their weight in gold. You are very fortunate, my friend; but take care or you will lose that letter which is peeping from your doublet, and which also comes, no doubt, from your publisher.”

Aramis blushed to the eyes, crammed in the letter, and re-buttoned his doublet.

“My dear d’Artagnan,” said he, “if you please, we will join our friends; as I am rich, we will today begin to dine together again, expecting that you will be rich in your turn.”

“My faith!” said d’Artagnan, with great pleasure. “It is long since we have had a good dinner; and I, for my part, have a somewhat hazardous expedition for this evening, and shall not be sorry, I confess, to fortify myself with a few glasses of good old Burgundy.”

“Agreed, as to the old Burgundy; I have no objection to that,” said Aramis, from whom the letter and the gold had removed, as by magic, his ideas of conversion.

And having put three or four double pistoles into his pocket to answer the needs of the moment, he placed the others in the ebony box, inlaid with mother of pearl, in which was the famous handkerchief which served him as a talisman.

The two friends repaired to Athos’s, and he, faithful to his vow of not going out, took upon him to order dinner to be brought to them. As he was perfectly acquainted with the details of gastronomy, d’Artagnan and Aramis made no objection to abandoning this important care to him.

They went to find Porthos, and at the corner of the Rue Bac met Mousqueton, who, with a most pitiable air, was driving before him a mule and a horse.

D’Artagnan uttered a cry of surprise, which was not quite free from joy.

“Ah, my yellow horse,” cried he. “Aramis, look at that horse!”

“Oh, the frightful brute!” said Aramis.

“Ah, my dear,” replied d’Artagnan, “upon that very horse I came to Paris.”

“What, does Monsieur know this horse?” said Mousqueton.

“It is of an original color,” said Aramis; “I never saw one with such a hide in my life.”

“I can well believe it,” replied d’Artagnan, “and that was why I got three crowns for him. It must have been for his hide, for, certes, the carcass is not worth eighteen livres. But how did this horse come into your hands, Mousqueton?”

“Pray,” said the lackey, “say nothing about it, Monsieur; it is a frightful trick of the husband of our duchess!”

“How is that, Mousqueton?”

“Why, we are looked upon with a rather favorable eye by a lady of quality, the Duchesse de⁠—but, your pardon; my master has commanded me to be discreet. She had forced us to accept a little souvenir, a magnificent Spanish genet and an Andalusian mule, which were beautiful to look upon. The husband heard of the affair; on their way he confiscated the two magnificent beasts which were being sent to us, and substituted these horrible animals.”

“Which you are taking back to him?” said d’Artagnan.

“Exactly!” replied Mousqueton. “You may well believe that we will not accept such steeds as these in exchange for those which had been promised to us.”

“No, pardieu; though I should like to have seen Porthos on my yellow horse. That would give me an idea of how I looked when I arrived in Paris. But don’t let us hinder you, Mousqueton; go and perform your master’s orders. Is he at home?”

“Yes, Monsieur,” said Mousqueton, “but in a very ill humor. Get up!”

He continued his way toward the Quai des Grands Augustins, while the two friends went to ring at the bell of the unfortunate Porthos. He, having seen them crossing the yard, took care not to answer, and they rang in vain.

Meanwhile Mousqueton continued on his way, and crossing the Pont Neuf, still driving the two sorry animals before him, he reached the Rue aux Ours. Arrived there, he fastened, according to the orders of his master, both horse and mule to the knocker of the procurator’s door; then, without taking any thought for their future, he returned to Porthos, and told him that his commission was completed.

In a short time the two unfortunate beasts, who had not eaten anything since the morning, made such a noise in raising and letting fall the knocker that the procurator ordered his errand boy to go and inquire in the neighborhood to whom this horse and mule belonged.

Madame Coquenard recognized her present, and could not at first comprehend this restitution; but the visit of Porthos soon enlightened her. The anger which fired the eyes of the musketeer, in spite of his efforts to suppress it, terrified his sensitive inamorata. In fact, Mousqueton had not concealed from his master that he had met d’Artagnan and Aramis, and that d’Artagnan in the yellow horse had recognized the Béarnese pony upon which he had come to Paris, and which he had sold for three crowns.

Porthos went away after having appointed a meeting with the procurator’s wife in the cloister of St. Magloire. The procurator, seeing he was going, invited him to dinner⁠—an invitation which the musketeer refused with a majestic air.

Madame Coquenard repaired trembling to the cloister of St. Magloire, for she guessed the reproaches that awaited her there; but she was fascinated by the lofty airs of Porthos.

All that which a man wounded in his self-love could let fall in the shape of imprecations and reproaches upon the head of a woman Porthos let fall upon the bowed head of the procurator’s wife.

“Alas,” said she, “I did all for the best! One of our clients is a horsedealer; he owes money to the office, and is backward in his pay. I took the mule and the horse for what he owed us; he assured me that they were two noble steeds.”

“Well, Madame,” said Porthos, “if he owed you more than five crowns, your horsedealer is a thief.”

“There is no harm in trying to buy things cheap, M. Porthos,” said the procurator’s wife, seeking to excuse herself.

“No, Madame; but they who so assiduously try to buy things cheap ought to permit others to seek more generous friends.” And Porthos, turning on his heel, made a step to retire.

“Monsieur Porthos! M. Porthos!” cried the procurator’s wife. “I have been wrong; I see it. I ought not to have driven a bargain when it was to equip a cavalier like you.”

Porthos, without reply, retreated a second step. The procurator’s wife fancied she saw him in a brilliant cloud, all surrounded by duchesses and marchionesses, who cast bags of money at his feet.

“Stop, in the name of heaven, M. Porthos!” cried she. “Stop, and let us talk.”

“Talking with you brings me misfortune,” said Porthos.

“But, tell me, what do you ask?”

“Nothing; for that amounts to the same thing as if I asked you for something.”

The procurator’s wife hung upon the arm of Porthos, and in the violence of her grief she cried out, “Monsieur Porthos, I am ignorant of all such matters! How should I know what a horse is? How should I know what horse furniture is?”

“You should have left it to me, then, Madame, who know what they are; but you wished to be frugal, and consequently to lend at usury.”

“It was wrong, M. Porthos; but I will repair that wrong, upon my word of honor.”

“How so?” asked the musketeer.

“Listen. This evening M. Coquenard is going to the house of the Due de Chaulnes, who has sent for him. It is for a consultation, which will last three hours at least. Come! We shall be alone, and can make up our accounts.”

“In good time. Now you talk, my dear.”

“You pardon me?”

“We shall see,” said Porthos, majestically; and the two separated saying, “Till this evening.”

The devil! thought Porthos, as he walked away, it appears I am getting nearer to M. Coquenard’s strongbox at last.

CHAPTER XXXV

All Cats Are Grey in the Dark

The evening so impatiently waited for by Porthos and by d’Artagnan at last arrived.

As was his custom, d’Artagnan presented himself at Milady’s at about nine o’clock. He found her in a charming humor. Never had he been so well received. Our Gascon knew, by the first glance of his eye, that his billet had been delivered, and that this billet had had its effect.

Kitty entered to bring some sherbet. Her mistress put on a charming face, and smiled on her graciously; but alas! the poor girl was so sad that she did not even notice Milady’s condescension.

D’Artagnan looked at the two women, one after the other, and was forced to acknowledge that in his opinion Dame Nature had made a mistake in their formation. To the great lady she had given a heart vile and venal; to the soubrette she had given the heart of a duchess.

At ten o’clock Milady began to appear restless. D’Artagnan knew what she wanted. She looked at the clock, rose, reseated herself, smiled at d’Artagnan with an air which said, “You are very amiable, no doubt, but you would be charming if you would only depart.”

D’Artagnan rose and took his hat; Milady gave him her hand to kiss. The young man felt her press his hand, and comprehended that this was a sentiment, not of coquetry, but of gratitude because of his departure.

“She loves him devilishly,” he murmured. Then he went out.

This time Kitty was nowhere waiting for him; neither in the antechamber, nor in the corridor, nor beneath the great door. It was necessary that d’Artagnan should find alone the staircase and the little chamber. She heard him enter, but she did not raise her head. The young man went to her and took her hands; then she sobbed aloud.

As d’Artagnan had presumed, on receiving his letter, Milady in a delirium of joy had told her servant everything; and by way of recompense for the manner in which she had this time executed the commission, she had given Kitty a purse.

Returning to her own room, Kitty had thrown the purse into a corner, where it lay open, disgorging three or four gold pieces on the carpet. The poor girl, under the caresses of d’Artagnan, lifted her head. D’Artagnan himself was frightened by the change in her countenance. She joined her hands with a suppliant air, but without venturing to speak a word. As little sensitive as was the heart of d’Artagnan, he was touched by this mute sorrow; but he held too tenaciously to his projects, above all to this one, to change the program which he had laid out in advance. He did not therefore allow her any hope that he would flinch; only he represented his action as one of simple vengeance.

For the rest this vengeance was very easy; for Milady, doubtless to conceal her blushes from her lover, had ordered Kitty to extinguish all the lights in the apartment, and even in the little chamber itself. Before daybreak M. de Wardes must take his departure, still in obscurity.

Presently they heard Milady retire to her room. D’Artagnan slipped into the wardrobe. Hardly was he concealed when the little bell sounded. Kitty went to her mistress, and did not leave the door open; but the partition was so thin that one could hear nearly all that passed between the two women.

Milady seemed overcome with joy, and made Kitty repeat the smallest details of the pretended interview of the soubrette with de Wardes when he received the letter; how he had responded; what was the expression of his face; if he seemed very amorous. And to all these questions poor Kitty, forced to put on a pleasant face, responded in a stifled voice whose dolorous accent her mistress did not however remark, solely because happiness is egotistical.

Finally, as the hour for her interview with the count approached, Milady had everything about her darkened, and ordered Kitty to return to her own chamber, and introduce de Wardes whenever he presented himself.

Kitty’s detention was not long. Hardly had d’Artagnan seen, through a crevice in his closet, that the whole apartment was in obscurity, than he slipped out of his concealment, at the very moment when Kitty reclosed the door of communication.

“What is that noise?” demanded Milady.

“It is I,” said d’Artagnan in a subdued voice, “I, the Comte de Wardes.”

“Oh, my God, my God!” murmured Kitty, “he has not even waited for the hour he himself named!”

“Well,” said Milady, in a trembling voice, “why do you not enter? Count, Count,” added she, “you know that I wait for you.”

At this appeal d’Artagnan drew Kitty quietly away, and slipped into the chamber.

If rage or sorrow ever torture the heart, it is when a lover receives under a name which is not his own protestations of love addressed to his happy rival. D’Artagnan was in a dolorous situation which he had not foreseen. Jealousy gnawed his heart; and he suffered almost as much as poor Kitty, who at that very moment was crying in the next chamber.

“Yes, Count,” said Milady, in her softest voice, and pressing his hand in her own, “I am happy in the love which your looks and your words have expressed to me every time we have met. I also⁠—I love you. Oh, tomorrow, tomorrow, I must have some pledge from you which will prove that you think of me; and that you may not forget me, take this!” and she slipped a ring from her finger onto d’Artagnan’s. D’Artagnan remembered having seen this ring on the finger of Milady; it was a magnificent sapphire, encircled with brilliants.

The first movement of d’Artagnan was to return it, but Milady added, “No, no! Keep that ring for love of me. Besides, in accepting it,” she added, in a voice full of emotion, “you render me a much greater service than you imagine.”

“This woman is full of mysteries,” murmured d’Artagnan to himself. At that instant he felt himself ready to reveal all. He even opened his mouth to tell Milady who he was, and with what a revengeful purpose he had come; but she added, “Poor angel, whom that monster of a Gascon barely failed to kill.”

The monster was himself.

“Oh,” continued Milady, “do your wounds still make you suffer?”

“Yes, much,” said d’Artagnan, who did not well know how to answer.

“Be tranquil,” murmured Milady; “I will avenge you⁠—and cruelly!”

Peste! said d’Artagnan to himself, the moment for confidences has not yet come.

It took some time for d’Artagnan to resume this little dialogue; but then all the ideas of vengeance which he had brought with him had completely vanished. This woman exercised over him an unaccountable power; he hated and adored her at the same time. He would not have believed that two sentiments so opposite could dwell in the same heart, and by their union constitute a passion so strange, and as it were, diabolical.

Presently it sounded one o’clock. It was necessary to separate. D’Artagnan at the moment of quitting Milady felt only the liveliest regret at the parting; and as they addressed each other in a reciprocally passionate adieu, another interview was arranged for the following week.

Poor Kitty hoped to speak a few words to d’Artagnan when he passed through her chamber; but Milady herself reconducted him through the darkness, and only quit him at the staircase.

The next morning d’Artagnan ran to find Athos. He was engaged in an adventure so singular that he wished for counsel. He therefore told him all.

“Your Milady,” said he, “appears to be an infamous creature, but not the less you have done wrong to deceive her. In one fashion or another you have a terrible enemy on your hands.”

While thus speaking Athos regarded with attention the sapphire set with diamonds which had taken, on d’Artagnan’s finger, the place of the queen’s ring, carefully kept in a casket.

“You notice my ring?” said the Gascon, proud to display so rich a gift in the eyes of his friends.

“Yes,” said Athos, “it reminds me of a family jewel.”

“It is beautiful, is it not?” said d’Artagnan.

“Yes,” said Athos, “magnificent. I did not think two sapphires of such a fine water existed. Have you traded it for your diamond?”

“No. It is a gift from my beautiful Englishwoman, or rather Frenchwoman⁠—for I am convinced she was born in France, though I have not questioned her.”

“That ring comes from Milady?” cried Athos, with a voice in which it was easy to detect strong emotion.

“Her very self; she gave it me last night. Here it is,” replied d’Artagnan, taking it from his finger.

Athos examined it and became very pale. He tried it on his left hand; it fit his finger as if made for it.

A shade of anger and vengeance passed across the usually calm brow of this gentleman.

“It is impossible it can be she,” said he. “How could this ring come into the hands of Milady Clarik? And yet it is difficult to suppose such a resemblance should exist between two jewels.”

“Do you know this ring?” said d’Artagnan.

“I thought I did,” replied Athos; “but no doubt I was mistaken.” And he returned d’Artagnan the ring without, however, ceasing to look at it.

“Pray, d’Artagnan,” said Athos, after a minute, “either take off that ring or turn the mounting inside; it recalls such cruel recollections that I shall have no head to converse with you. Don’t ask me for counsel; don’t tell me you are perplexed what to do. But stop! let me look at that sapphire again; the one I mentioned to you had one of its faces scratched by accident.”

D’Artagnan took off the ring, giving it again to Athos.

Athos started. “Look,” said he, “is it not strange?” and he pointed out to d’Artagnan the scratch he had remembered.

“But from whom did this ring come to you, Athos?”

“From my mother, who inherited it from her mother. As I told you, it is an old family jewel.”

“And you⁠—sold it?” asked d’Artagnan, hesitatingly.

“No,” replied Athos, with a singular smile. “I gave it away in a night of love, as it has been given to you.”

D’Artagnan became pensive in his turn; it appeared as if there were abysses in Milady’s soul whose depths were dark and unknown. He took back the ring, but put it in his pocket and not on his finger.

“D’Artagnan,” said Athos, taking his hand, “you know I love you; if I had a son I could not love him better. Take my advice, renounce this woman. I do not know her, but a sort of intuition tells me she is a lost creature, and that there is something fatal about her.”

“You are right,” said d’Artagnan; “I will have done with her. I own that this woman terrifies me.”

“Shall you have the courage?” said Athos.

“I shall,” replied d’Artagnan, “and instantly.”

“In truth, my young friend, you will act rightly,” said the gentleman, pressing the Gascon’s hand with an affection almost paternal; “and God grant that this woman, who has scarcely entered into your life, may not leave a terrible trace in it!” And Athos bowed to d’Artagnan like a man who wishes it understood that he would not be sorry to be left alone with his thoughts.

On reaching home d’Artagnan found Kitty waiting for him. A month of fever could not have changed her more than this one night of sleeplessness and sorrow.

She was sent by her mistress to the false de Wardes. Her mistress was mad with love, intoxicated with joy. She wished to know when her lover would meet her a second night; and poor Kitty, pale and trembling, awaited d’Artagnan’s reply. The counsels of his friend, joined to the cries of his own heart, made him determine, now his pride was saved and his vengeance satisfied, not to see Milady again. As a reply, he wrote the following letter:

Do not depend upon me, Madame, for the next meeting. Since my convalescence I have so many affairs of this kind on my hands that I am forced to regulate them a little. When your turn comes, I shall have the honor to inform you of it. I kiss your hands.

Comte de Wardes

Not a word about the sapphire. Was the Gascon determined to keep it as a weapon against Milady, or else, let us be frank, did he not reserve the sapphire as a last resource for his outfit? It would be wrong to judge the actions of one period from the point of view of another. That which would now be considered as disgraceful to a gentleman was at that time quite a simple and natural affair, and the younger sons of the best families were frequently supported by their mistresses. D’Artagnan gave the open letter to Kitty, who at first was unable to comprehend it, but who became almost wild with joy on reading it a second time. She could scarcely believe in her happiness; and d’Artagnan was forced to renew with the living voice the assurances which he had written. And whatever might be⁠—considering the violent character of Milady⁠—the danger which the poor girl incurred in giving this billet to her mistress, she ran back to the Place Royale as fast as her legs could carry her.

The heart of the best woman is pitiless toward the sorrows of a rival.

Milady opened the letter with eagerness equal to Kitty’s in bringing it; but at the first words she read she became livid. She crushed the paper in her hand, and turning with flashing eyes upon Kitty, she cried, “What is this letter?”

“The answer to Madame’s,” replied Kitty, all in a tremble.

“Impossible!” cried Milady. “It is impossible a gentleman could have written such a letter to a woman.” Then all at once, starting, she cried, “My God! can he have⁠—” and she stopped. She ground her teeth; she was of the color of ashes. She tried to go toward the window for air, but she could only stretch forth her arms; her legs failed her, and she sank into an armchair. Kitty, fearing she was ill, hastened toward her and was beginning to open her dress; but Milady started up, pushing her away. “What do you want with me?” said she, “and why do you place your hand on me?”

“I thought that Madame was ill, and I wished to bring her help,” responded the maid, frightened at the terrible expression which had come over her mistress’s face.

“I faint? I? I? Do you take me for half a woman? When I am insulted I do not faint; I avenge myself!”

And she made a sign for Kitty to leave the room.

CHAPTER XXXVI

Dream of Vengeance

That evening Milady gave orders that when M. d’Artagnan came as usual, he should be immediately admitted; but he did not come.

The next day Kitty went to see the young man again, and related to him all that had passed on the preceding evening. D’Artagnan smiled; this jealous anger of Milady was his revenge.

That evening Milady was still more impatient than on the preceding evening. She renewed the order relative to the Gascon; but as before she expected him in vain.

The next morning, when Kitty presented herself at d’Artagnan’s, she was no longer joyous and alert as on the two preceding days; but on the contrary sad as death.

D’Artagnan asked the poor girl what was the matter with her; but she, as her only reply, drew a letter from her pocket and gave it to him.

This letter was in Milady’s handwriting; only this time it was addressed to M. d’Artagnan, and not to M. de Wardes.

He opened it and read as follows:

“Dear M. d’Artagnan

⁠—It is wrong thus to neglect your friends, particularly at the moment you are about to leave them for so long a time. My brother-in-law and myself expected you yesterday and the day before, but in vain. Will it be the same this evening?

“Your very grateful,

“Milady Clarik”

“That’s all very simple,” said d’Artagnan; “I expected this letter. My credit rises by the fall of that of the Comte de Wardes.”

“And will you go?” asked Kitty.

“Listen to me, my dear girl,” said the Gascon, who sought for an excuse in his own eyes for breaking the promise he had made Athos; “you must understand it would be impolitic not to accept such a positive invitation. Milady, not seeing me come again, would not be able to understand what could cause the interruption of my visits, and might suspect something; who could say how far the vengeance of such a woman would go?”

“Oh, my God!” said Kitty, “you know how to represent things in such a way that you are always in the right. You are going now to pay your court to her again, and if this time you succeed in pleasing her in your own name and with your own face, it will be much worse than before.”

Instinct made poor Kitty guess a part of what was to happen. D’Artagnan reassured her as well as he could, and promised to remain insensible to the seductions of Milady.

He desired Kitty to tell her mistress that he could not be more grateful for her kindnesses than he was, and that he would be obedient to her orders. He did not dare to write for fear of not being able⁠—to such experienced eyes as those of Milady⁠—to disguise his writing sufficiently.

As nine o’clock sounded, d’Artagnan was at the Place Royale. It was evident that the servants who waited in the antechamber were warned, for as soon as d’Artagnan appeared, before even he had asked if Milady were visible, one of them ran to announce him.

“Show him in,” said Milady, in a quick tone, but so piercing that d’Artagnan heard her in the antechamber.

He was introduced.

“I am at home to nobody,” said Milady; “observe, to nobody.” The servant went out.

D’Artagnan cast an inquiring glance at Milady. She was pale, and looked fatigued, either from tears or want of sleep. The number of lights had been intentionally diminished, but the young woman could not conceal the traces of the fever which had devoured her for two days.

D’Artagnan approached her with his usual gallantry. She then made an extraordinary effort to receive him, but never did a more distressed countenance give the lie to a more amiable smile.

To the questions which d’Artagnan put concerning her health, she replied, “Bad, very bad.”

“Then,” replied he, “my visit is ill-timed; you, no doubt, stand in need of repose, and I will withdraw.”

“No, no!” said Milady. “On the contrary, stay, M. d’Artagnan; your agreeable company will divert me.”

Oh, oh! thought d’Artagnan. She has never been so kind before. On guard!

Milady assumed the most agreeable air possible, and conversed with more than her usual brilliancy. At the same time the fever, which for an instant abandoned her, returned to give luster to her eyes, color to her cheeks, and vermillion to her lips. D’Artagnan was again in the presence of the Circe who had before surrounded him with her enchantments. His love, which he believed to be extinct but which was only asleep, awoke again in his heart. Milady smiled, and d’Artagnan felt that he could damn himself for that smile. There was a moment at which he felt something like remorse.

By degrees, Milady became more communicative. She asked d’Artagnan if he had a mistress.

“Alas!” said d’Artagnan, with the most sentimental air he could assume, “can you be cruel enough to put such a question to me⁠—to me, who, from the moment I saw you, have only breathed and sighed through you and for you?”

Milady smiled with a strange smile.

“Then you love me?” said she.

“Have I any need to tell you so? Have you not perceived it?”

“It may be; but you know the more hearts are worth the capture, the more difficult they are to be won.”

“Oh, difficulties do not affright me,” said d’Artagnan. “I shrink before nothing but impossibilities.”

“Nothing is impossible,” replied Milady, “to true love.”

“Nothing, Madame?”

“Nothing,” replied Milady.

The devil! thought d’Artagnan. The note is changed. Is she going to fall in love with me, by chance, this fair inconstant; and will she be disposed to give me myself another sapphire like that which she gave me for de Wardes?

D’Artagnan rapidly drew his seat nearer to Milady’s.

“Well, now,” she said, “let us see what you would do to prove this love of which you speak.”

“All that could be required of me. Order; I am ready.”

“For everything?”

“For everything,” cried d’Artagnan, who knew beforehand that he had not much to risk in engaging himself thus.

“Well, now let us talk a little seriously,” said Milady, in her turn drawing her armchair nearer to d’Artagnan’s chair.

“I am all attention, Madame,” said he.

Milady remained thoughtful and undecided for a moment; then, as if appearing to have formed a resolution, she said, “I have an enemy.”

“You, Madame!” said d’Artagnan, affecting surprise; “is that possible, my God?⁠—good and beautiful as you are!”

“A mortal enemy.”

“Indeed!”

“An enemy who has insulted me so cruelly that between him and me it is war to the death. May I reckon on you as an auxiliary?”

D’Artagnan at once perceived the ground which the vindictive creature wished to reach.

“You may, Madame,” said he, with emphasis. “My arm and my life belong to you, like my love.”

“Then,” said Milady, “since you are as generous as you are loving⁠—”

She stopped.

“Well?” demanded d’Artagnan.

“Well,” replied Milady, after a moment of silence, “from the present time, cease to talk of impossibilities.”

“Do not overwhelm me with happiness,” cried d’Artagnan, throwing himself on his knees, and covering with kisses the hands abandoned to him.

Avenge me of that infamous de Wardes, said Milady, between her teeth, and I shall soon know how to get rid of you⁠—you double idiot, you animated sword blade!

Fall voluntarily into my arms, hypocritical and dangerous woman, said d’Artagnan, likewise to himself, after having abused me with such effrontery, and afterward I will laugh at you with him whom you wish me to kill.

D’Artagnan lifted up his head.

“I am ready,” said he.

“You have understood me, then, dear M. d’Artagnan,” said Milady.

“I could interpret one of your looks.”

“Then you would employ for me your arm which has already acquired so much renown?”

“Instantly!”

“But on my part,” said Milady, “how should I repay such a service? I know these lovers. They are men who do nothing for nothing.”

“You know the only reply that I desire,” said d’Artagnan, “the only one worthy of you and of me!”

And he drew nearer to her.

She scarcely resisted.

“Interested man!” cried she, smiling.

“Ah,” cried d’Artagnan, really carried away by the passion this woman had the power to kindle in his heart, “ah, that is because my happiness appears so impossible to me; and I have such fear that it should fly away from me like a dream that I pant to make a reality of it.”

“Well, merit this pretended happiness, then!”

“I am at your orders,” said d’Artagnan.

“Quite certain?” said Milady, with a last doubt.

“Only name to me the base man that has brought tears into your beautiful eyes!”

“Who told you that I had been weeping?” said she.

“It appeared to me⁠—”

“Such women as I never weep,” said Milady.

“So much the better! Come, tell me his name!”

“Remember that his name is all my secret.”

“Yet I must know his name.”

“Yes, you must; see what confidence I have in you!”

“You overwhelm me with joy. What is his name?”

“You know him.”

“Indeed.”

“Yes.”

“It is surely not one of my friends?” replied d’Artagnan, affecting hesitation in order to make her believe him ignorant.

“If it were one of your friends you would hesitate, then?” cried Milady; and a threatening glance darted from her eyes.

“Not if it were my own brother!” cried d’Artagnan, as if carried away by his enthusiasm.

Our Gascon promised this without risk, for he knew all that was meant.

“I love your devotedness,” said Milady.

“Alas, do you love nothing else in me?” asked d’Artagnan.

“I love you also, you!” said she, taking his hand.

The warm pressure made d’Artagnan tremble, as if by the touch that fever which consumed Milady attacked himself.

“You love me, you!” cried he. “Oh, if that were so, I should lose my reason!”

And he folded her in his arms. She made no effort to remove her lips from his kisses; only she did not respond to them. Her lips were cold; it appeared to d’Artagnan that he had embraced a statue.

He was not the less intoxicated with joy, electrified by love. He almost believed in the tenderness of Milady; he almost believed in the crime of de Wardes. If de Wardes had at that moment been under his hand, he would have killed him.

Milady seized the occasion.

“His name is⁠—” said she, in her turn.

“De Wardes; I know it,” cried d’Artagnan.

“And how do you know it?” asked Milady, seizing both his hands, and endeavoring to read with her eyes to the bottom of his heart.

D’Artagnan felt he had allowed himself to be carried away, and that he had committed an error.

“Tell me, tell me, tell me, I say,” repeated Milady, “how do you know it?”

“How do I know it?” said d’Artagnan.

“Yes.”

“I know it because yesterday M. de Wardes, in a saloon where I was, showed a ring which he said he had received from you.”

“Wretch!” cried Milady.

The epithet, as may be easily understood, resounded to the very bottom of d’Artagnan’s heart.

“Well?” continued she.

“Well, I will avenge you of this wretch,” replied d’Artagnan, giving himself the airs of Don Japhet of Armenia.

“Thanks, my brave friend!” cried Milady; “and when shall I be avenged?”

“Tomorrow⁠—immediately⁠—when you please!”

Milady was about to cry out, “Immediately,” but she reflected that such precipitation would not be very gracious toward d’Artagnan.

Besides, she had a thousand precautions to take, a thousand counsels to give to her defender, in order that he might avoid explanations with the count before witnesses. All this was answered by an expression of d’Artagnan’s. “Tomorrow,” said he, “you will be avenged, or I shall be dead.”

“No,” said she, “you will avenge me; but you will not be dead. He is a coward.”

“With women, perhaps; but not with men. I know something of him.”

“But it seems you had not much reason to complain of your fortune in your contest with him.”

“Fortune is a courtesan; favorable yesterday, she may turn her back tomorrow.”

“Which means that you now hesitate?”

“No, I do not hesitate; God forbid! But would it be just to allow me to go to a possible death without having given me at least something more than hope?”

Milady answered by a glance which said, “Is that all?⁠—speak, then.” And then accompanying the glance with explanatory words, “That is but too just,” said she, tenderly.

“Oh, you are an angel!” exclaimed the young man.

“Then all is agreed?” said she.

“Except that which I ask of you, dear love.”

“But when I assure you that you may rely on my tenderness?”

“I cannot wait till tomorrow.”

“Silence! I hear my brother. It will be useless for him to find you here.”

She rang the bell and Kitty appeared.

“Go out this way,” said she, opening a small private door, “and come back at eleven o’clock; we will then terminate this conversation. Kitty will conduct you to my chamber.”

The poor girl almost fainted at hearing these words.

“Well, mademoiselle, what are you thinking about, standing there like a statue? Do as I bid you: show the chevalier out; and this evening at eleven o’clock⁠—you have heard what I said.”

It appears that these appointments are all made for eleven o’clock, thought d’Artagnan; that’s a settled custom.

Milady held out her hand to him, which he kissed tenderly.

“But,” said he, as he retired as quickly as possible from the reproaches of Kitty, “I must not play the fool. This woman is certainly a great liar. I must take care.”

CHAPTER XXXVII

Milady’s Secret

D’Artagnan left the hotel instead of going up at once to Kitty’s chamber, as she endeavored to persuade him to do⁠—and that for two reasons: the first, because by this means he should escape reproaches, recriminations, and prayers; the second, because he was not sorry to have an opportunity of reading his own thoughts and endeavoring, if possible, to fathom those of this woman.

What was most clear in the matter was that d’Artagnan loved Milady like a madman, and that she did not love him at all. In an instant d’Artagnan perceived that the best way in which he could act would be to go home and write Milady a long letter, in which he would confess to her that he and de Wardes were, up to the present moment absolutely the same, and that consequently he could not undertake, without committing suicide, to kill the Comte de Wardes. But he also was spurred on by a ferocious desire of vengeance. He wished to subdue this woman in his own name; and as this vengeance appeared to him to have a certain sweetness in it, he could not make up his mind to renounce it.

He walked six or seven times round the Place Royale, turning at every ten steps to look at the light in Milady’s apartment, which was to be seen through the blinds. It was evident that this time the young woman was not in such haste to retire to her apartment as she had been the first.

At length the light disappeared. With this light was extinguished the last irresolution in the heart of d’Artagnan. He recalled to his mind the details of the first night, and with a beating heart and a brain on fire he re-entered the hotel and flew toward Kitty’s chamber.

The poor girl, pale as death and trembling in all her limbs, wished to delay her lover; but Milady, with her ear on the watch, had heard the noise d’Artagnan had made, and opening the door, said, “Come in.”

All this was of such incredible immodesty, of such monstrous effrontery, that d’Artagnan could scarcely believe what he saw or what he heard. He imagined himself to be drawn into one of those fantastic intrigues one meets in dreams. He, however, darted not the less quickly toward Milady, yielding to that magnetic attraction which the loadstone exercises over iron.

As the door closed after them Kitty rushed toward it. Jealousy, fury, offended pride, all the passions in short that dispute the heart of an outraged woman in love, urged her to make a revelation; but she reflected that she would be totally lost if she confessed having assisted in such a machination, and above all, that d’Artagnan would also be lost to her forever. This last thought of love counseled her to make this last sacrifice.

D’Artagnan, on his part, had gained the summit of all his wishes. It was no longer a rival who was beloved; it was himself who was apparently beloved. A secret voice whispered to him, at the bottom of his heart, that he was but an instrument of vengeance, that he was only caressed till he had given death; but pride, but self-love, but madness silenced this voice and stifled its murmurs. And then our Gascon, with that large quantity of conceit which we know he possessed, compared himself with de Wardes, and asked himself why, after all, he should not be beloved for himself?

He was absorbed entirely by the sensations of the moment. Milady was no longer for him that woman of fatal intentions who had for a moment terrified him; she was an ardent, passionate mistress, abandoning herself to love which she also seemed to feel. Two hours thus glided away. When the transports of the two lovers were calmer, Milady, who had not the same motives for forgetfulness that d’Artagnan had, was the first to return to reality, and asked the young man if the means which were on the morrow to bring on the encounter between him and de Wardes were already arranged in his mind.

But d’Artagnan, whose ideas had taken quite another course, forgot himself like a fool, and answered gallantly that it was too late to think about duels and sword thrusts.

This coldness toward the only interests that occupied her mind terrified Milady, whose questions became more pressing.

Then d’Artagnan, who had never seriously thought of this impossible duel, endeavored to turn the conversation; but he could not succeed. Milady kept him within the limits she had traced beforehand with her irresistible spirit and her iron will.

D’Artagnan fancied himself very cunning when advising Milady to renounce, by pardoning de Wardes, the furious projects she had formed.

But at the first word the young woman started, and exclaimed in a sharp, bantering tone, which sounded strangely in the darkness, “Are you afraid, dear M. d’Artagnan?”

“You cannot think so, dear love!” replied d’Artagnan; “but now, suppose this poor Comte de Wardes were less guilty than you think him?”

“At all events,” said Milady, seriously, “he has deceived me, and from the moment he deceived me, he merited death.”

“He shall die, then, since you condemn him!” said d’Artagnan, in so firm a tone that it appeared to Milady an undoubted proof of devotion. This reassured her.

We cannot say how long the night seemed to Milady, but d’Artagnan believed it to be hardly two hours before the daylight peeped through the window blinds, and invaded the chamber with its paleness. Seeing d’Artagnan about to leave her, Milady recalled his promise to avenge her on the Comte de Wardes.

“I am quite ready,” said d’Artagnan; “but in the first place I should like to be certain of one thing.”

“And what is that?” asked Milady.

“That is, whether you really love me?”

“I have given you proof of that, it seems to me.”

“And I am yours, body and soul!”

“Thanks, my brave lover; but as you are satisfied of my love, you must, in your turn, satisfy me of yours. Is it not so?”

“Certainly; but if you love me as much as you say,” replied d’Artagnan, “do you not entertain a little fear on my account?”

“What have I to fear?”

“Why, that I may be dangerously wounded⁠—killed even.”

“Impossible!” cried Milady, “you are such a valiant man, and such an expert swordsman.”

“You would not, then, prefer a method,” resumed d’Artagnan, “which would equally avenge you while rendering the combat useless?”

Milady looked at her lover in silence. The pale light of the first rays of day gave to her clear eyes a strangely frightful expression.

“Really,” said she, “I believe you now begin to hesitate.”

“No, I do not hesitate; but I really pity this poor Comte de Wardes, since you have ceased to love him. I think that a man must be so severely punished by the loss of your love that he stands in need of no other chastisement.”

“Who told you that I loved him?” asked Milady, sharply.

“At least, I am now at liberty to believe, without too much fatuity, that you love another,” said the young man, in a caressing tone, “and I repeat that I am really interested for the count.”

“You?” asked Milady.

“Yes, I.”

“And why you?”

“Because I alone know⁠—”

“What?”

“That he is far from being, or rather having been, so guilty toward you as he appears.”

“Indeed!” said Milady, in an anxious tone; “explain yourself, for I really cannot tell what you mean.”

And she looked at d’Artagnan, who embraced her tenderly, with eyes which seemed to burn themselves away.

“Yes; I am a man of honor,” said d’Artagnan, determined to come to an end, “and since your love is mine, and I am satisfied I possess it⁠—for I do possess it, do I not?”

“Entirely; go on.”

“Well, I feel as if transformed⁠—a confession weighs on my mind.”

“A confession!”

“If I had the least doubt of your love I would not make it, but you love me, my beautiful mistress, do you not?”

“Without doubt.”

“Then if through excess of love I have rendered myself culpable toward you, you will pardon me?”

“Perhaps.”

D’Artagnan tried with his sweetest smile to touch his lips to Milady’s, but she evaded him.

“This confession,” said she, growing paler, “what is this confession?”

“You gave de Wardes a meeting on Thursday last in this very room, did you not?”

“No, no! It is not true,” said Milady, in a tone of voice so firm, and with a countenance so unchanged, that if d’Artagnan had not been in such perfect possession of the fact, he would have doubted.

“Do not lie, my angel,” said d’Artagnan, smiling; “that would be useless.”

“What do you mean? Speak! you kill me.”

“Be satisfied; you are not guilty toward me, and I have already pardoned you.”

“What next? what next?”

“De Wardes cannot boast of anything.”

“How is that? You told me yourself that that ring⁠—”

“That ring I have! The Comte de Wardes of Thursday and the d’Artagnan of today are the same person.”

The imprudent young man expected a surprise, mixed with shame⁠—a slight storm which would resolve itself into tears; but he was strangely deceived, and his error was not of long duration.

Pale and trembling, Milady repulsed d’Artagnan’s attempted embrace by a violent blow on the chest, as she sprang out of bed.

It was almost broad daylight.

D’Artagnan detained her by her night dress of fine India linen, to implore her pardon; but she, with a strong movement, tried to escape. Then the cambric was torn from her beautiful shoulders; and on one of those lovely shoulders, round and white, d’Artagnan recognized, with inexpressible astonishment, the fleur-de-lis⁠—that indelible mark which the hand of the infamous executioner had imprinted.

“Great God!” cried d’Artagnan, loosing his hold of her dress, and remaining mute, motionless, and frozen.

But Milady felt herself denounced even by his terror. He had doubtless seen all. The young man now knew her secret, her terrible secret⁠—the secret she concealed even from her maid with such care, the secret of which all the world was ignorant, except himself.

She turned upon him, no longer like a furious woman, but like a wounded panther.

“Ah, wretch!” cried she, “you have basely betrayed me, and still more, you have my secret! You shall die.”

And she flew to a little inlaid casket which stood upon the dressing table, opened it with a feverish and trembling hand, drew from it a small poniard, with a golden haft and a sharp thin blade, and then threw herself with a bound upon d’Artagnan.

Although the young man was brave, as we know, he was terrified at that wild countenance, those terribly dilated pupils, those pale cheeks, and those bleeding lips. He recoiled to the other side of the room as he would have done from a serpent which was crawling toward him, and his sword coming in contact with his nervous hand, he drew it almost unconsciously from the scabbard. But without taking any heed of the sword, Milady endeavored to get near enough to him to stab him, and did not stop till she felt the sharp point at her throat.

She then tried to seize the sword with her hands; but d’Artagnan kept it free from her grasp, and presenting the point, sometimes at her eyes, sometimes at her breast, compelled her to glide behind the bedstead, while he aimed at making his retreat by the door which led to Kitty’s apartment.

Milady during this time continued to strike at him with horrible fury, screaming in a formidable way.

As all this, however, bore some resemblance to a duel, d’Artagnan began to recover himself little by little.

“Well, beautiful lady, very well,” said he; “but, pardieu, if you don’t calm yourself, I will design a second fleur-de-lis upon one of those pretty cheeks!”

“Scoundrel, infamous scoundrel!” howled Milady.

But d’Artagnan, still keeping on the defensive, drew near to Kitty’s door. At the noise they made, she in overturning the furniture in her efforts to get at him, he in screening himself behind the furniture to keep out of her reach, Kitty opened the door. D’Artagnan, who had unceasingly maneuvered to gain this point, was not at more than three paces from it. With one spring he flew from the chamber of Milady into that of the maid, and quick as lightning, he slammed to the door, and placed all his weight against it, while Kitty pushed the bolts.

Then Milady attempted to tear down the doorcase, with a strength apparently above that of a woman; but finding she could not accomplish this, she in her fury stabbed at the door with her poniard, the point of which repeatedly glittered through the wood. Every blow was accompanied with terrible imprecations.

“Quick, Kitty, quick!” said d’Artagnan, in a low voice, as soon as the bolts were fast, “let me get out of the hotel; for if we leave her time to turn round, she will have me killed by the servants.”

“But you can’t go out so,” said Kitty; “you are naked.”

“That’s true,” said d’Artagnan, then first thinking of the costume he found himself in, “that’s true. But dress me as well as you are able, only make haste; think, my dear girl, it’s life and death!”

Kitty was but too well aware of that. In a turn of the hand she muffled him up in a flowered robe, a large hood, and a cloak. She gave him some slippers, in which he placed his naked feet, and then conducted him down the stairs. It was time. Milady had already rung her bell, and roused the whole hotel. The porter was drawing the cord at the moment Milady cried from her window, “Don’t open!”

The young man fled while she was still threatening him with an impotent gesture. The moment she lost sight of him, Milady tumbled fainting into her chamber.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

How, Without Incommoding Himself, Athos Procures His Equipment

D’Artagnan was so completely bewildered that without taking any heed of what might become of Kitty he ran at full speed across half Paris, and did not stop till he came to Athos’s door. The confusion of his mind, the terror which spurred him on, the cries of some of the patrol who started in pursuit of him, and the hooting of the people who, notwithstanding the early hour, were going to their work, only made him precipitate his course.

He crossed the court, ran up the two flights to Athos’s apartment, and knocked at the door enough to break it down.

Grimaud came, rubbing his half-open eyes, to answer this noisy summons, and d’Artagnan sprang with such violence into the room as nearly to overturn the astonished lackey.

In spite of his habitual silence, the poor lad this time found his speech.

“Holloa, there!” cried he; “what do you want, you strumpet? What’s your business here, you hussy?”

D’Artagnan threw off his hood, and disengaged his hands from the folds of the cloak. At sight of the mustaches and the naked sword, the poor devil perceived he had to deal with a man. He then concluded it must be an assassin.

“Help! murder! help!” cried he.

“Hold your tongue, you stupid fellow!” said the young man; “I am d’Artagnan; don’t you know me? Where is your master?”

“You, M. d’Artagnan!” cried Grimaud, “impossible.”

“Grimaud,” said Athos, coming out of his apartment in a dressing gown, “Grimaud, I thought I heard you permitting yourself to speak?”

“Ah, Monsieur, it is⁠—”

“Silence!”

Grimaud contented himself with pointing d’Artagnan out to his master with his finger.

Athos recognized his comrade, and phlegmatic as he was, he burst into a laugh which was quite excused by the strange masquerade before his eyes⁠—petticoats falling over his shoes, sleeves tucked up, and mustaches stiff with agitation.

“Don’t laugh, my friend!” cried d’Artagnan; “for heaven’s sake, don’t laugh, for upon my soul, it’s no laughing matter!”

And he pronounced these words with such a solemn air and with such a real appearance of terror, that Athos eagerly seized his hand, crying, “Are you wounded, my friend? How pale you are!”

“No, but I have just met with a terrible adventure! Are you alone, Athos?”

“Parbleu! whom do you expect to find with me at this hour?”

“Well, well!” and d’Artagnan rushed into Athos’s chamber.

“Come, speak!” said the latter, closing the door and bolting it, that they might not be disturbed. “Is the king dead? Have you killed the cardinal? You are quite upset! Come, come, tell me; I am dying with curiosity and uneasiness!”

“Athos,” said d’Artagnan, getting rid of his female garments, and appearing in his shirt, “prepare yourself to hear an incredible, an unheard-of story.”

“Well, but put on this dressing gown first,” said the musketeer to his friend.

D’Artagnan donned the robe as quickly as he could, mistaking one sleeve for the other, so greatly was he still agitated.

“Well?” said Athos.

“Well,” replied d’Artagnan, bending his mouth to Athos’s ear, and lowering his voice, “Milady is marked with a fleur-de-lis upon her shoulder!”

“Ah!” cried the musketeer, as if he had received a ball in his heart.

“Let us see,” said d’Artagnan. “Are you sure that the other is dead?”

“The other?” said Athos, in so stifled a voice that d’Artagnan scarcely heard him.

“Yes, she of whom you told me one day at Amiens.”

Athos uttered a groan, and let his head sink on his hands.

“This is a woman of twenty-six or twenty-eight years.”

“Fair,” said Athos, “is she not?”

“Very.”

“Blue and clear eyes, of a strange brilliancy, with black eyelids and eyebrows?”

“Yes.”

“Tall, well-made? She has lost a tooth, next to the eyetooth on the left?”

“Yes.”

“The fleur-de-lis is small, rosy in color, and looks as if efforts had been made to efface it by the application of poultices?”

“Yes.”

“But you say she is English?”

“She is called Milady, but she may be French. Lord de Winter is only her brother-in-law.”

“I will see her, d’Artagnan!”

“Beware, Athos, beware. You tried to kill her; she is a woman to return you the like, and not to fail.”

“She will not dare to say anything; that would be to denounce herself.”

“She is capable of anything or everything. Did you ever see her furious?”

“No,” said Athos.

“A tigress, a panther! Ah, my dear Athos, I am greatly afraid I have drawn a terrible vengeance on both of us!”

D’Artagnan then related all⁠—the mad passion of Milady and her menaces of death.

“You are right; and upon my soul, I would give my life for a hair,” said Athos. “Fortunately, the day after tomorrow we leave Paris. We are going according to all probability to La Rochelle, and once gone⁠—”

“She will follow you to the end of the world, Athos, if she recognizes you. Let her, then, exhaust her vengeance on me alone!”

“My dear friend, of what consequence is it if she kills me?” said Athos. “Do you, perchance, think I set any great store by life?”

“There is something horribly mysterious under all this, Athos; this woman is one of the cardinal’s spies, I am sure of that.”

“In that case, take care! If the cardinal does not hold you in high admiration for the affair of London, he entertains a great hatred for you; but as, considering everything, he cannot accuse you openly, and as hatred must be satisfied, particularly when it’s a cardinal’s hatred, take care of yourself. If you go out, do not go out alone; when you eat, use every precaution. Mistrust everything, in short, even your own shadow.”

“Fortunately,” said d’Artagnan, “all this will be only necessary till after tomorrow evening, for when once with the army, we shall have, I hope, only men to dread.”

“In the meantime,” said Athos, “I renounce my plan of seclusion, and wherever you go, I will go with you. You must return to the Rue des Fossoyeurs; I will accompany you.”

“But however near it may be,” replied d’Artagnan, “I cannot go thither in this guise.”

“That’s true,” said Athos, and he rang the bell.

Grimaud entered.

Athos made him a sign to go to d’Artagnan’s residence, and bring back some clothes. Grimaud replied by another sign that he understood perfectly, and set off.

“All this will not advance your outfit,” said Athos; “for if I am not mistaken, you have left the best of your apparel with Milady, and she will certainly not have the politeness to return it to you. Fortunately, you have the sapphire.”

“The jewel is yours, my dear Athos! Did you not tell me it was a family jewel?”

“Yes, my grandfather gave two thousand crowns for it, as he once told me. It formed part of the nuptial present he made his wife, and it is magnificent. My mother gave it to me, and I, fool as I was, instead of keeping the ring as a holy relic, gave it to this wretch.”

“Then, my friend, take back this ring, to which I see you attach much value.”

“I take back the ring, after it has passed through the hands of that infamous creature? Never; that ring is defiled, d’Artagnan.”

“Sell it, then.”

“Sell a jewel which came from my mother! I vow I should consider it a profanation.”

“Pledge it, then; you can borrow at least a thousand crowns on it. With that sum you can extricate yourself from your present difficulties; and when you are full of money again, you can redeem it, and take it back cleansed from its ancient stains, as it will have passed through the hands of usurers.”

Athos smiled.

“You are a capital companion, d’Artagnan,” said be; “your never-failing cheerfulness raises poor souls in affliction. Well, let us pledge the ring, but upon one condition.”

“What?”

“That there shall be five hundred crowns for you, and five hundred crowns for me.”

“Don’t dream it, Athos. I don’t need the quarter of such a sum⁠—I who am still only in the Guards⁠—and by selling my saddles, I shall procure it. What do I want? A horse for Planchet, that’s all. Besides, you forget that I have a ring likewise.”

“To which you attach more value, it seems, than I do to mine; at least, I have thought so.”

“Yes, for in any extreme circumstance it might not only extricate us from some great embarrassment, but even a great danger. It is not only a valuable diamond, but it is an enchanted talisman.”

“I don’t at all understand you, but I believe all you say to be true. Let us return to my ring, or rather to yours. You shall take half the sum that will be advanced upon it, or I will throw it into the Seine; and I doubt, as was the case with Polycrates, whether any fish will be sufficiently complaisant to bring it back to us.”

“Well, I will take it, then,” said d’Artagnan.

At this moment Grimaud returned, accompanied by Planchet; the latter, anxious about his master and curious to know what had happened to him, had taken advantage of the opportunity and brought the garments himself.

D’Artagnan dressed himself, and Athos did the same. When the two were ready to go out, the latter made Grimaud the sign of a man taking aim, and the lackey immediately took down his musketoon, and prepared to follow his master.

They arrived without accident at the Rue des Fossoyeurs. Bonacieux was standing at the door, and looked at d’Artagnan hatefully.

“Make haste, dear lodger,” said he; “there is a very pretty girl waiting for you upstairs; and you know women don’t like to be kept waiting.”

That’s Kitty! said d’Artagnan to himself, and darted into the passage.

Sure enough! Upon the landing leading to the chamber, and crouching against the door, he found the poor girl, all in a tremble. As soon as she perceived him, she cried, “You have promised your protection; you have promised to save me from her anger. Remember, it is you who have ruined me!”

“Yes, yes, to be sure, Kitty,” said d’Artagnan; “be at ease, my girl. But what happened after my departure?”

“How can I tell!” said Kitty. “The lackeys were brought by the cries she made. She was mad with passion. There exist no imprecations she did not pour out against you. Then I thought she would remember it was through my chamber you had penetrated hers, and that then she would suppose I was your accomplice; so I took what little money I had and the best of my things, and I got away.”

“Poor dear girl! But what can I do with you? I am going away the day after tomorrow.”

“Do what you please, Monsieur Chevalier. Help me out of Paris; help me out of France!”

“I cannot take you, however, to the siege of La Rochelle,” aid d’Artagnan.

“No; but you can place me in one of the provinces with some lady of your acquaintance⁠—in your own country, for instance.”

“My dear little love! In my country the ladies do without chambermaids. But stop! I can manage your business for you. Planchet, go and find Aramis. Request him to come here directly. We have something very important to say to him.”

“I understand,” said Athos; “but why not Porthos? I should have thought that his duchess⁠—”

“Oh, Porthos’s duchess is dressed by her husband’s clerks,” said d’Artagnan, laughing. “Besides, Kitty would not like to live in the Rue aux Ours. Isn’t it so, Kitty?”

“I do not care where I live,” said Kitty, “provided I am well concealed, and nobody knows where I am.”

“Meanwhile, Kitty, when we are about to separate, and you are no longer jealous of me⁠—”

“Monsieur Chevalier, far off or near,” said Kitty, “I shall always love you.”

“Where the devil will constancy niche itself next?” murmured Athos.

“And I, also,” said d’Artagnan, “I also. I shall always love you; be sure of that. But now answer me. I attach great importance to the question I am about to put to you. Did you never hear talk of a young woman who was carried off one night?”

“There, now! Oh, Monsieur Chevalier, do you love that woman still?”

“No, no; it is one of my friends who loves her⁠—M. Athos, this gentleman here.”

“I?” cried Athos, with an accent like that of a man who perceives he is about to tread upon an adder.

“You, to be sure!” said d’Artagnan, pressing Athos’s hand. “You know the interest we both take in this poor little Madame Bonacieux. Besides, Kitty will tell nothing; will you, Kitty? You understand, my dear girl,” continued d’Artagnan, “she is the wife of that frightful baboon you saw at the door as you came in.”

“Oh, my God! You remind me of my fright! If he should have known me again!”

“How? know you again? Did you ever see that man before?”

“He came twice to Milady’s.”

“That’s it. About what time?”

“Why, about fifteen or eighteen days ago.”

“Exactly so.”

“And yesterday evening he came again.”

“Yesterday evening?”

“Yes, just before you came.”

“My dear Athos, we are enveloped in a network of spies. And do you believe he knew you again, Kitty?”

“I pulled down my hood as soon as I saw him, but perhaps it was too late.”

“Go down, Athos⁠—he mistrusts you less than me⁠—and see if he be still at his door.”

Athos went down and returned immediately.

“He has gone,” said he, “and the house door is shut.”

“He has gone to make his report, and to say that all the pigeons are at this moment in the dovecot.”

“Well, then, let us all fly,” said Athos, “and leave nobody here but Planchet to bring us news.”

“A minute. Aramis, whom we have sent for!”

“That’s true,” said Athos; “we must wait for Aramis.”

At that moment Aramis entered.

The matter was all explained to him, and the friends gave him to understand that among all his high connections he must find a place for Kitty.

Aramis reflected for a minute, and then said, coloring, “Will it be really rendering you a service, d’Artagnan?”

“I shall be grateful to you all my life.”

“Very well. Madame de Bois-Tracy asked me, for one of her friends who resides in the provinces, I believe, for a trustworthy maid. If you can, my dear d’Artagnan, answer for Mademoiselle⁠—”

“Oh, Monsieur, be assured that I shall be entirely devoted to the person who will give me the means of quitting Paris.”

“Then,” said Aramis, “this falls out very well.”

He placed himself at the table and wrote a little note which he sealed with a ring, and gave the billet to Kitty.

“And now, my dear girl,” said d’Artagnan, “you know that it is not good for any of us to be here. Therefore let us separate. We shall meet again in better days.”

“And whenever we find each other, in whatever place it may be,” said Kitty, “you will find me loving you as I love you today.”

“Dicers’ oaths!” said Athos, while d’Artagnan went to conduct Kitty downstairs.

An instant afterward the three young men separated, agreeing to meet again at four o’clock with Athos, and leaving Planchet to guard the house.

Aramis returned home, and Athos and d’Artagnan busied themselves about pledging the sapphire.

As the Gascon had foreseen, they easily obtained three hundred pistoles on the ring. Still further, the Jew told them that if they would sell it to him, as it would make a magnificent pendant for earrings, he would give five hundred pistoles for it.

Athos and d’Artagnan, with the activity of two soldiers and the knowledge of two connoisseurs, hardly required three hours to purchase the entire equipment of the musketeer. Besides, Athos was very easy, and a noble to his fingers’ ends. When a thing suited him he paid the price demanded, without thinking to ask for any abatement. D’Artagnan would have remonstrated at this; but Athos put his hand upon his shoulder, with a smile, and d’Artagnan understood that it was all very well for such a little Gascon gentleman as himself to drive a bargain, but not for a man who had the bearing of a prince. The musketeer met with a superb Andalusian horse, black as jet, nostrils of fire, legs clean and elegant, rising six years. He examined him, and found him sound and without blemish. They asked a thousand livres for him.

He might perhaps have been bought for less; but while d’Artagnan was discussing the price with the dealer, Athos was counting out the money on the table.

Grimaud had a stout, short Picard cob, which cost three hundred livres.

But when the saddle and arms for Grimaud were purchased, Athos had not a sou left of his hundred and fifty pistoles. D’Artagnan offered his friend a part of his share which he should return when convenient.

But Athos only replied to this proposal by shrugging his shoulders.

“How much did the Jew say he would give for the sapphire if he purchased it?” said Athos.

“Five hundred pistoles.”

“That is to say, two hundred more⁠—a hundred pistoles for you and a hundred pistoles for me. Well, now, that would be a real fortune to us, my friend; let us go back to the Jew’s again.”

“What! will you⁠—”

“This ring would certainly only recall very bitter remembrances; then we shall never be masters of three hundred pistoles to redeem it, so that we really should lose two hundred pistoles by the bargain. Go and tell him the ring is his, d’Artagnan, and bring back the two hundred pistoles with you.”

“Reflect, Athos!”

“Ready money is needful for the present time, and we must learn how to make sacrifices. Go, d’Artagnan, go; Grimaud will accompany you with his musketoon.”

A half hour afterward, d’Artagnan returned with the two thousand livres, and without having met with any accident.

It was thus Athos found at home resources which he did not expect.

CHAPTER XXXIX

A Vision

At four o’clock the four friends were all assembled with Athos. Their anxiety about their outfits had all disappeared, and each countenance only preserved the expression of its own secret disquiet⁠—for behind all present happiness is concealed a fear for the future.

Suddenly Planchet entered, bringing two letters for d’Artagnan.

The one was a little billet, genteelly folded, with a pretty seal in green wax on which was impressed a dove bearing a green branch.

The other was a large square epistle, resplendent with the terrible arms of his Eminence the cardinal duke.

At the sight of the little letter the heart of d’Artagnan bounded, for he believed he recognized the handwriting, and although he had seen that writing but once, the memory of it remained at the bottom of his heart.

He therefore seized the little epistle, and opened it eagerly.

“Be,” said the letter, “on Thursday next, at from six to seven o’clock in the evening, on the road to Chaillot, and look carefully into the carriages that pass; but if you have any consideration for your own life or that of those who love you, do not speak a single word, do not make a movement which may lead anyone to believe you have recognized her who exposes herself to everything for the sake of seeing you but for an instant.”

No signature.

“That’s a snare,” said Athos; “don’t go, d’Artagnan.”

“And yet,” replied d’Artagnan, “I think I recognize the writing.”

“It may be counterfeit,” said Athos. “Between six and seven o’clock the road of Chaillot is quite deserted; you might as well go and ride in the forest of Bondy.”

“But suppose we all go,” said d’Artagnan; “what the devil! They won’t devour us all four, four lackeys, horses, arms, and all!”

“And besides, it will be a chance for displaying our new equipments,” said Porthos.

“But if it is a woman who writes,” said Aramis, “and that woman desires not to be seen, remember, you compromise her, d’Artagnan; which is not the part of a gentleman.”

“We will remain in the background,” said Porthos, “and he will advance alone.”

“Yes; but a pistol shot is easily fired from a carriage which goes at a gallop.”

“Bah!” said d’Artagnan, “they will miss me; if they fire we will ride after the carriage, and exterminate those who may be in it. They must be enemies.”

“He is right,” said Porthos; “battle. Besides, we must try our own arms.”

“Bah, let us enjoy that pleasure,” said Aramis, with his mild and careless manner.

“As you please,” said Athos.

“Gentlemen,” said d’Artagnan, “it is half past four, and we have scarcely time to be on the road of Chaillot by six.”

“Besides, if we go out too late, nobody will see us,” said Porthos, “and that will be a pity. Let us get ready, gentlemen.”

“But this second letter,” said Athos, “you forget that; it appears to me, however, that the seal denotes that it deserves to be opened. For my part, I declare, d’Artagnan, I think it of much more consequence than the little piece of waste paper you have so cunningly slipped into your bosom.”

D’Artagnan blushed.

“Well,” said he, “let us see, gentlemen, what are his Eminence’s commands,” and d’Artagnan unsealed the letter and read,

M. d’Artagnan, of the king’s Guards, company des Essart, is expected at the Palais-Cardinal this evening, at eight o’clock.

La Houdinière, Captain of the Guards

“The devil!” said Athos; “here’s a rendezvous much more serious than the other.”

“I will go to the second after attending the first,” said d’Artagnan. “One is for seven o’clock, and the other for eight; there will be time for both.”

“Hum! I would not go at all,” said Aramis. “A gallant knight cannot decline a rendezvous with a lady; but a prudent gentleman may excuse himself from not waiting on his Eminence, particularly when he has reason to believe he is not invited to make his compliments.”

“I am of Aramis’s opinion,” said Porthos.

“Gentlemen,” replied d’Artagnan, “I have already received by M. de Cavois a similar invitation from his Eminence. I neglected it, and on the morrow a serious misfortune happened to me⁠—Constance disappeared. Whatever may ensue, I will go.”

“If you are determined,” said Athos, “do so.”

“But the Bastille?” said Aramis.

“Bah! you will get me out if they put me there,” said d’Artagnan.

“To be sure we will,” replied Aramis and Porthos, with admirable promptness and decision, as if that were the simplest thing in the world, “to be sure we will get you out; but meantime, as we are to set off the day after tomorrow, you would do much better not to risk this Bastille.”

“Let us do better than that,” said Athos; “do not let us leave him during the whole evening. Let each of us wait at a gate of the palace with three musketeers behind him; if we see a close carriage, at all suspicious in appearance, come out, let us fall upon it. It is a long time since we have had a skirmish with the Guards of Monsieur the Cardinal; M. de Tréville must think us dead.”

“To a certainty, Athos,” said Aramis, “you were meant to be a general of the army! What do you think of the plan, gentlemen?”

“Admirable!” replied the young men in chorus.

“Well,” said Porthos, “I will run to the hotel, and engage our comrades to hold themselves in readiness by eight o’clock; the rendezvous, the Place du Palais-Cardinal. Meantime, you see that the lackeys saddle the horses.”

“I have no horse,” said d’Artagnan; “but that is of no consequence, I can take one of M. de Tréville’s.”

“That is not worth while,” said Aramis, “you can have one of mine.”

“One of yours! how many have you, then?” asked d’Artagnan.

“Three,” replied Aramis, smiling.

“Certes,” cried Athos, “you are the best-mounted poet of France or Navarre.”

“Well, my dear Aramis, you don’t want three horses? I cannot comprehend what induced you to buy three!”

“Therefore I only purchased two,” said Aramis.

“The third, then, fell from the clouds, I suppose?”

“No, the third was brought to me this very morning by a groom out of livery, who would not tell me in whose service he was, and who said he had received orders from his master.”

“Or his mistress,” interrupted d’Artagnan.

“That makes no difference,” said Aramis, coloring; “and who affirmed, as I said, that he had received orders from his master or mistress to place the horse in my stable, without informing me whence it came.”

“It is only to poets that such things happen,” said Athos, gravely.

“Well, in that case, we can manage famously,” said d’Artagnan; “which of the two horses will you ride⁠—that which you bought or the one that was given to you?”

“That which was given to me, assuredly. You cannot for a moment imagine, d’Artagnan, that I would commit such an offense toward⁠—”

“The unknown giver,” interrupted d’Artagnan.

“Or the mysterious benefactress,” said Athos.

“The one you bought will then become useless to you?”

“Nearly so.”

“And you selected it yourself?”

“With the greatest care. The safety of the horseman, you know, depends almost always upon the goodness of his horse.”

“Well, transfer it to me at the price it cost you?”

“I was going to make you the offer, my dear d’Artagnan, giving you all the time necessary for repaying me such a trifle.”

“How much did it cost you?”

“Eight hundred livres.”

“Here are forty double pistoles, my dear friend,” said d’Artagnan, taking the sum from his pocket; “I know that is the coin in which you were paid for your poems.”

“You are rich, then?” said Aramis.

“Rich? Richest, my dear fellow!”

And d’Artagnan chinked the remainder of his pistoles in his pocket.

“Send your saddle, then, to the hotel of the musketeers, and your horse can be brought back with ours.”

“Very well; but it is already five o’clock, so make haste.”

A quarter of an hour afterward Porthos appeared at the end of the Rue Férou on a very handsome genet. Mousqueton followed him upon an Auvergne horse, small but very handsome. Porthos was resplendent with joy and pride.

At the same time, Aramis made his appearance at the other end of the street upon a superb English charger. Bazin followed him upon a roan, holding by the halter a vigorous Mecklenburg horse; this was d’Artagnan’s mount.

The two musketeers met at the gate. Athos and d’Artagnan watched their approach from the window.

“The devil!” cried Aramis, “you have a magnificent horse there, Porthos.”

“Yes,” replied Porthos, “it is the one that ought to have been sent to me at first. A bad joke of the husband’s substituted the other; but the husband has been punished since, and I have obtained full satisfaction.”

Planchet and Grimaud appeared in their turn, leading their masters’ steeds. D’Artagnan and Athos put themselves into saddle with their companions, and all four set forward; Athos upon a horse he owed to a woman, Aramis on a horse he owed to his mistress, Porthos on a horse he owed to his procurator’s wife, and d’Artagnan on a horse he owed to his good fortune⁠—the best mistress possible.

The lackeys followed.

As Porthos had foreseen, the cavalcade produced a good effect; and if Madame Coquenard had met Porthos and seen what a superb appearance he made upon his handsome Spanish genet, she would not have regretted the bleeding she had inflicted upon the strongbox of her husband.

Near the Louvre the four friends met with M. de Tréville, who was returning from St. Germain; he stopped them to offer his compliments upon their appointments, which in an instant drew round them a hundred gapers.

D’Artagnan profited by the circumstance to speak to M. de Tréville of the letter with the great red seal and the cardinal’s arms. It is well understood that he did not breathe a word about the other.

M. de Tréville approved of the resolution he had adopted, and assured him that if on the morrow he did not appear, he himself would undertake to find him, let him be where he might.

At this moment the clock of La Samaritaine struck six; the four friends pleaded an engagement, and took leave of M. de Tréville.

A short gallop brought them to the road of Chaillot; the day began to decline, carriages were passing and repassing. D’Artagnan, keeping at some distance from his friends, darted a scrutinizing glance into every carriage that appeared, but saw no face with which he was acquainted.

At length, after waiting a quarter of an hour and just as twilight was beginning to thicken, a carriage appeared, coming at a quick pace on the road of Sèvres. A presentiment instantly told d’Artagnan that this carriage contained the person who had appointed the rendezvous; the young man was himself astonished to find his heart beat so violently. Almost instantly a female head was put out at the window, with two fingers placed upon her mouth, either to enjoin silence or to send him a kiss. D’Artagnan uttered a slight cry of joy; this woman, or rather this apparition⁠—for the carriage passed with the rapidity of a vision⁠—was Madame Bonacieux.

By an involuntary movement and in spite of the injunction given, d’Artagnan put his horse into a gallop, and in a few strides overtook the carriage; but the window was hermetically closed, the vision had disappeared.

D’Artagnan then remembered the injunction: “If you value your own life or that of those who love you, remain motionless, and as if you had seen nothing.”

He stopped, therefore, trembling not for himself but for the poor woman who had evidently exposed herself to great danger by appointing this rendezvous.

The carriage pursued its way, still going at a great pace, till it dashed into Paris, and disappeared.

D’Artagnan remained fixed to the spot, astounded and not knowing what to think. If it was Madame Bonacieux and if she was returning to Paris, why this fugitive rendezvous, why this simple exchange of a glance, why this lost kiss? If, on the other side, it was not she, which was still quite possible⁠—for the little light that remained rendered a mistake easy⁠—if it was not she, might it not be the commencement of some plot against him through the allurement of this woman, for whom his love was known?

His three companions joined him. All had plainly seen a woman’s head appear at the window, but none of them, except Athos, knew Madame Bonacieux. The opinion of Athos was that it was indeed she; but less preoccupied by that pretty face than d’Artagnan, he had fancied he saw a second head, a man’s head, inside the carriage.

“If that be the case,” said d’Artagnan, “they are doubtless transporting her from one prison to another. But what can they intend to do with the poor creature, and how shall I ever meet her again?”

“Friend,” said Athos, gravely, “remember that it is the dead alone with whom we are not likely to meet again on this earth. You know something of that, as well as I do, I think. Now, if your mistress is not dead, if it is she we have just seen, you will meet with her again some day or other. And perhaps, my God!” added he, with that misanthropic tone which was peculiar to him, “perhaps sooner than you wish.”

Half past seven had sounded. The carriage had been twenty minutes behind the time appointed. D’Artagnan’s friends reminded him that he had a visit to pay, but at the same time bade him observe that there was yet time to retract.

But d’Artagnan was at the same time impetuous and curious. He had made up his mind that he would go to the Palais-Cardinal, and that he would learn what his Eminence had to say to him. Nothing could turn him from his purpose.

They reached the Rue St. Honoré, and in the Place du Palais-Cardinal they found the twelve invited musketeers, walking about in expectation of their comrades. There only they explained to them the matter in hand.

D’Artagnan was well known among the honorable corps of the king’s Musketeers, in which it was known he would one day take his place; he was considered beforehand as a comrade. It resulted from these antecedents that everyone entered heartily into the purpose for which they met; besides, it would not be unlikely that they would have an opportunity of playing either the cardinal or his people an ill turn, and for such expeditions these worthy gentlemen were always ready.

Athos divided them into three groups, assumed the command of one, gave the second to Aramis, and the third to Porthos; and then each group went and took their watch near an entrance.

D’Artagnan, on his part, entered boldly at the principal gate.

Although he felt himself ably supported, the young man was not without a little uneasiness as he ascended the great staircase, step by step. His conduct toward Milady bore a strong resemblance to treachery, and he was very suspicious of the political relations which existed between that woman and the cardinal. Still further, de Wardes, whom he had treated so ill, was one of the tools of his Eminence; and d’Artagnan knew that while his Eminence was terrible to his enemies, he was strongly attached to his friends.

“If de Wardes has related all our affair to the cardinal, which is not to be doubted, and if he has recognized me, as is probable, I may consider myself almost as a condemned man,” said d’Artagnan, shaking his head. “But why has he waited till now? That’s all plain enough. Milady has laid her complaints against me with that hypocritical grief which renders her so interesting, and this last offense has made the cup overflow.”

“Fortunately,” added he, “my good friends are down yonder, and they will not allow me to be carried away without a struggle. Nevertheless, M. de Tréville’s company of Musketeers alone cannot maintain a war against the cardinal, who disposes of the forces of all France, and before whom the queen is without power and the king without will. D’Artagnan, my friend, you are brave, you are prudent, you have excellent qualities; but the women will ruin you!”

He came to this melancholy conclusion as he entered the antechamber. He placed his letter in the hands of the usher on duty, who led him into the waiting room and passed on into the interior of the palace.

In this waiting room were five or six of the cardinals Guards, who recognized d’Artagnan, and knowing that it was he who had wounded Jussac, they looked upon him with a smile of singular meaning.

This smile appeared to d’Artagnan to be of bad augury. Only, as our Gascon was not easily intimidated⁠—or rather, thanks to a great pride natural to the men of his country, he did not allow one easily to see what was passing in his mind when that which was passing at all resembled fear⁠—he placed himself haughtily in front of Messieurs the Guards, and waited with his hand on his hip, in an attitude by no means deficient in majesty.

The usher returned and made a sign to d’Artagnan to follow him. It appeared to the young man that the guards, on seeing him depart, chuckled among themselves.

He traversed a corridor, crossed a grand saloon, entered a library, and found himself in the presence of a man seated at a desk and writing.

The usher introduced him, and retired without speaking a word. D’Artagnan remained standing and examined this man.

D’Artagnan at first believed that he had to do with some judge examining his papers; but he perceived that the man at the desk wrote, or rather corrected, lines of unequal length, scanning the words on his fingers. He saw then that he was with a poet. At the end of an instant the poet closed his manuscript, upon the cover of which was written “Mirame, a Tragedy in Five Acts,” and raised his head.

D’Artagnan recognized the cardinal.

CHAPTER XL

A Terrible Vision

The cardinal leaned his elbow on his manuscript, his cheek upon his hand, and looked intently at the young man for a moment. No one had a more searching eye than the Cardinal de Richelieu, and d’Artagnan felt this glance run through his veins like a fever.

He however kept a good countenance, holding his hat in his hand and awaiting the good pleasure of his Eminence, without too much assurance, but also without too much humility.

“Monsieur,” said the cardinal, “are you a d’Artagnan from Béarn?”

“Yes, monseigneur,” replied the young man.

“There are several branches of the d’Artagnans at Tarbes and in its environs,” said the cardinal; “to which do you belong?”

“I am the son of him who served in the Religious Wars under the great King Henry, the father of his gracious Majesty.”

“That is well. It is you who set out seven or eight months ago from your country to seek your fortune in the capital?”

“Yes, monseigneur.”

“You came through Meung, where something befell you. I don’t very well know what, but still something.”

“Monseigneur,” said d’Artagnan, “this was what happened to me⁠—”

“Never mind, never mind!” resumed the cardinal, with a smile which indicated that he knew the story as well as he who wished to relate it. “You were recommended to M. de Tréville, were you not?”

“Yes, monseigneur; but in that unfortunate affair at Meung⁠—”

“The letter was lost,” replied his Eminence; “yes, I know that. But M. de Tréville is a skilled physiognomist, who knows men at first sight; and he placed you in the company of his brother-in-law, M. des Essart, leaving you to hope that one day or other you should enter the musketeers.”

“Monseigneur is correctly informed,” said d’Artagnan.

“Since that time many things have happened to you. You were walking one day behind the Chartreux, when it would have been better if you had been elsewhere. Then you took with your friends a journey to the waters of Forges; they stopped on the road, but you continued yours. That is all very simple: you had business in England.”

“Monseigneur,” said d’Artagnan, quite confused, “I went⁠—”

“Hunting at Windsor, or elsewhere⁠—that concerns nobody. I know, because it is my office to know everything. On your return you were received by an august personage, and I perceive with pleasure that you preserve the souvenir she gave you.”

D’Artagnan placed his hand upon the queen’s diamond, which he wore, and quickly turned the stone inward; but it was too late.

“The day after that, you received a visit from Cavois,” resumed the cardinal. “He went to desire you to come to the palace. You have not returned that visit, and you were wrong.”

“Monseigneur, I feared I had incurred disgrace with your Eminence.”

“How could that be, Monsieur? Could you incur my displeasure by having followed the orders of your superiors with more intelligence and courage than another would have done? It is the people who do not obey that I punish, and not those who, like you, obey⁠—but too well. As a proof, remember the date of the day on which I had you bidden to come to me, and seek in your memory for what happened to you that very night.”

That was the very evening when the abduction of Madame Bonacieux took place. D’Artagnan trembled; and he likewise recollected that during the past half hour the poor woman had passed close to him, without doubt carried away by the same power that had caused her disappearance.

“In short,” continued the cardinal, “as I have heard nothing of you for some time past, I wished to know what you were doing. Besides, you owe me some thanks. You must yourself have remarked how much you have been considered in all the circumstances.”

D’Artagnan bowed with respect.

“That,” continued the cardinal, “arose not only from a feeling of natural equity, but likewise from a plan I have marked out with respect to you.”

D’Artagnan became more and more astonished.

“I wished to explain this plan to you on the day you received my first invitation; but you did not come. Fortunately, nothing is lost by this delay, and you are now about to hear it. Sit down there, before me, d’Artagnan; you are gentleman enough not to listen standing.” And the cardinal pointed with his finger to a chair for the young man, who was so astonished at what was passing that he awaited a second sign from his interlocutor before he obeyed.

“You are brave, M. d’Artagnan,” continued his Eminence; “you are prudent, which is still better. I like men of head and heart. Don’t be afraid,” said he, smiling. “By men of heart I mean men of courage. But young as you are, and scarcely entering into the world, you have powerful enemies; if you do not take great heed, they will destroy you.”

“Alas, monseigneur!” replied the young man, “very easily, no doubt, for they are strong and well supported, while I am alone.”

“Yes, that’s true; but alone as you are, you have done much already, and will do still more, I don’t doubt. Yet you have need, I believe, to be guided in the adventurous career you have undertaken; for, if I mistake not, you came to Paris with the ambitious idea of making your fortune.”

“I am at the age of extravagant hopes, monseigneur,” said d’Artagnan.

“There are no extravagant hopes but for fools, Monsieur, and you are a man of understanding. Now, what would you say to an ensign’s commission in my Guards, and a company after the campaign?”

“Ah, monseigneur.”

“You accept it, do you not?”

“Monseigneur,” replied d’Artagnan, with an embarrassed air.

“How? You refuse?” cried the cardinal, with astonishment.

“I am in His Majesty’s Guards, monseigneur, and I have no reason to be dissatisfied.”

“But it appears to me that my Guards⁠—mine⁠—are also His Majesty’s Guards; and whoever serves in a French corps serves the king.”

“Monseigneur, your Eminence has ill understood my words.”

“You want a pretext, do you not? I comprehend. Well, you have this excuse: advancement, the opening campaign, the opportunity which I offer you⁠—so much for the world. As regards yourself, the need of protection; for it is fit you should know, M. d’Artagnan, that I have received heavy and serious complaints against you. You do not consecrate your days and nights wholly to the king’s service.”

D’Artagnan colored.

“In fact,” said the cardinal, placing his hand upon a bundle of papers, “I have here a whole pile which concerns you. I know you to be a man of resolution; and your services, well directed, instead of leading you to ill, might be very advantageous to you. Come; reflect, and decide.”

“Your goodness confounds me, monseigneur,” replied d’Artagnan, “and I am conscious of a greatness of soul in your Eminence that makes me mean as an earthworm; but since Monseigneur permits me to speak freely⁠—”

D’Artagnan paused.

“Yes; speak.”

“Then, I will presume to say that all my friends are in the king’s Musketeers and Guards, and that by an inconceivable fatality my enemies are in the service of your Eminence; I should, therefore, be ill-received here and ill-regarded there if I accepted what Monseigneur offers me.”

“Do you happen to entertain the haughty idea that I have not yet made you an offer equal to your value?” asked the cardinal, with a smile of disdain.

“Monseigneur, your Eminence is a hundred times too kind to me; and on the contrary, I think I have not proved myself worthy of your goodness. The siege of La Rochelle is about to be resumed, monseigneur. I shall serve under the eye of your Eminence, and if I have the good fortune to conduct myself at the siege in such a manner as merits your attention, then I shall at least leave behind me some brilliant action to justify the protection with which you honor me. Everything is best in its time, monseigneur. Hereafter, perhaps, I shall have the right of giving myself; at present I shall appear to sell myself.”

“That is to say, you refuse to serve me, Monsieur,” said the cardinal, with a tone of vexation, through which, however, might be seen a sort of esteem; “remain free, then, and guard your hatreds and your sympathies.”

“Monseigneur⁠—”

“Well, well,” said the cardinal, “I don’t wish you any ill; but you must be aware that it is quite trouble enough to defend and recompense our friends. We owe nothing to our enemies; and let me give you a piece of advice; take care of yourself, M. d’Artagnan, for from the moment I withdraw my hand from behind you, I would not give an obolus for your life.”

“I will try to do so, monseigneur,” replied the Gascon, with a noble confidence.

“Remember at a later period and at a certain moment, if any mischance should happen to you,” said Richelieu, significantly, “that it was I who came to seek you, and that I did all in my power to prevent this misfortune befalling you.”

“I shall entertain, whatever may happen,” said d’Artagnan, placing his hand upon his breast and bowing, “an eternal gratitude toward your Eminence for that which you now do for me.”

“Well, let it be, then, as you have said, M. d’Artagnan; we shall see each other again after the campaign. I will have my eye upon you, for I shall be there,” replied the cardinal, pointing with his finger to a magnificent suit of armor he was to wear, “and on our return, well⁠—we will settle our account!”

“Ah, Monsieur!” cried d’Artagnan, “spare me the weight of your displeasure. Remain neutral, Monsiegneur, if you find that I act as becomes a gallant man.”

“Young man,” said Richelieu, “if I shall be able to say to you at another time what I have said to you today, I promise you to do so.”

This last expression of Richelieu’s conveyed a terrible doubt; it alarmed d’Artagnan more than a menace would have done, for it was a warning. The cardinal, then, was seeking to preserve him from some misfortune which threatened him. He opened his mouth to reply, but with a haughty gesture the cardinal dismissed him.

D’Artagnan went out, but at the door his heart almost failed him, and he felt inclined to return. Then the noble and severe countenance of Athos crossed his mind; if he made the compact with the cardinal which he required, Athos would no more give him his hand⁠—Athos would renounce him.

It was this fear that restrained him, so powerful is the influence of a truly great character on all that surrounds it.

D’Artagnan descended by the staircase at which he had entered, and found Athos and the four musketeers waiting his appearance, and beginning to grow uneasy. With a word, d’Artagnan reassured them; and Planchet ran to inform the other sentinels that it was useless to keep guard longer, as his master had come out safe from the Palais-Cardinal.

Returned home with Athos, Aramis and Porthos inquired eagerly the cause of the strange interview; but d’Artagnan confined himself to telling them that M. de Richelieu had sent for him to propose to him to enter into his guards with the rank of ensign, and that he had refused.

“And you were right,” cried Aramis and Porthos, with one voice.

Athos fell into a profound reverie and answered nothing. But when they were alone he said, “You have done that which you ought to have done, d’Artagnan; but perhaps you have been wrong.”

D’Artagnan sighed deeply, for this voice responded to a secret voice of his soul, which told him that great misfortunes awaited him.

The whole of the next day was spent in preparations for departure. D’Artagnan went to take leave of M. de Tréville. At that time it was believed that the separation of the Musketeers and the Guards would be but momentary, the king holding his Parliament that very day and proposing to set out the day after. M. de Tréville contented himself with asking d’Artagnan if he could do anything for him, but d’Artagnan answered that he was supplied with all he wanted.

That night brought together all those comrades of the Guards of M. des Essart and the company of Musketeers of M. de Tréville who had been accustomed to associate together. They were parting to meet again when it pleased God, and if it pleased God. That night, then, was somewhat riotous, as may be imagined. In such cases extreme preoccupation is only to be combated by extreme carelessness.

At the first sound of the morning trumpet the friends separated; the Musketeers hastening to the hotel of M. de Tréville, the Guards to that of M. des Essart. Each of the captains then led his company to the Louvre, where the king held his review.

The king was dull and appeared ill, which detracted a little from his usual lofty bearing. In fact, the evening before, a fever had seized him in the midst of the Parliament, while he was holding his Bed of Justice. He had, not the less, decided upon setting out that same evening; and in spite of the remonstrances that had been offered to him, he persisted in having the review, hoping by setting it at defiance to conquer the disease which began to lay hold upon him.

The review over, the Guards set forward alone on their march, the Musketeers waiting for the king, which allowed Porthos time to go and take a turn in his superb equipment in the Rue aux Ours.

The procurator’s wife saw him pass in his new uniform and on his fine horse. She loved Porthos too dearly to allow him to part thus; she made him a sign to dismount and come to her. Porthos was magnificent; his spurs jingled, his cuirass glittered, his sword knocked proudly against his ample limbs. This time the clerks evinced no inclination to laugh, such a real ear clipper did Porthos appear.

The musketeer was introduced to M. Coquenard, whose little gray eyes sparkled with anger at seeing his cousin all blazing new. Nevertheless, one thing afforded him inward consolation; it was expected by everybody that the campaign would be a severe one. He whispered a hope to himself that this beloved relative might be killed in the field.

Porthos paid his compliments to M. Coquenard and bade him farewell. M. Coquenard wished him all sorts of prosperities. As to Madame Coquenard, she could not restrain her tears; but no evil impressions were taken from her grief as she was known to be very much attached to her relatives, about whom she was constantly having serious disputes with her husband.

But the real adieux were made in Madame Coquenard’s chamber; they were heartrending.

As long as the procurator’s wife could follow him with her eyes, she waved her handkerchief to him, leaning so far out of the window as to lead people to believe she wished to precipitate herself. Porthos received all these attentions like a man accustomed to such demonstrations, only on turning the corner of the street he lifted his hat gracefully, and waved it to her as a sign of adieu.

On his part Aramis wrote a long letter. To whom? Nobody knew. Kitty, who was to set out that evening for Tours, was waiting in the next chamber.

Athos sipped the last bottle of his Spanish wine.

In the meantime d’Artagnan was defiling with his company. Arriving at the Faubourg St. Antoine, he turned round to look gaily at the Bastille; but as it was the Bastille alone he looked at, he did not observe Milady, who, mounted upon a light chestnut horse, designated him with her finger to two ill-looking men who came close up to the ranks to take notice of him. To a look of interrogation which they made, Milady replied by a sign that it was he. Then, certain that there could be no mistake in the execution of her orders, she started her horse and disappeared.

The two men followed the company, and on leaving the Faubourg St. Antoine, mounted two horses properly equipped, which a servant without livery had waiting for them.

Part III