The Three Musketeers

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 Mme. 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 Mme.
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, Mme. 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 or 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 Mme. 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.

23

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,s whom he had
sent home two hours before from the Hotel de Ville, telling him to sit up for him,
opened the door to 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 into his chamber, and opened the letter.
It was from Mme. 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 has 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—that 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, Monsieur 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 DArtagnan; and nodding to Planchet, he went out.

M. Bonacieux was at his door. DArtagnan’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.”

“All” 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 Monsieur 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 Monsieur 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 the more
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 accounts 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 Monsieur 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 you would not
know her; she might meet you, 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, go 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.”

DArtagnan 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 Mme. 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, à propos,” 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 Crèvecœur, 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! and 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.”
DArtagnan 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 Hotel des Gardes, he took a glance into 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—Monsieur 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, Monsieur 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 Monsieur
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
he 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.

24

THE PAVILION

At nine o‘clock D’Artagnan was at the Hotel 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 his 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 Conférence 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 be 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, Monsieur 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 do 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
Monsieur 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, “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 by-path, continued his
route and reached St. Cloud; but instead of following the main street he turned
behind the chateau, 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 Mme. 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 Mme.
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 hoof marked 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 Mme.
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 Mme. 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 Mme. 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 presentments had not deceived him,
and that a great misfortune had happened.

He again ran back to the chateau. 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 at 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 Mme. 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‘dock 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.

25

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, Monsieur 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, Monsieur 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 gadding last night, my young master? It does not appear to be very
clean in the crossroads.”

DArtagnan 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, Monsieur Bonacieux?
Oh, the devil! That’s unpardonable in a man of your age, and who, besides, has
such a pretty young wife as yours.”

“Oh, Lord! no,” said Bonacieux, “but yesterday I went to St. Mandé 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 Mandé because Mandé 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 Monsieur 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, Monsieur 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 have received in your absence.”

“When?”

“About half an hour ago, while you were at Monsieur 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 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.”t
“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 Monsieur 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 Monsieur 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 Hotel 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 Hotel 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 Hotel 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 Pierre-fitte
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. Is it not Monsieur
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 has 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
Monsieur 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 has 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 Monsieur Porthos’s horse, as well as his
master’s. When we observed this to him, he told us to trouble ourselves about
our own business, as this horse belonged to him. We also informed Monsieur
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 Monsieur 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 Monsieur 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 enters 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 disagreeables, 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 Monsieur 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 procuratoru 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
Monsieur 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
Monsieur 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 Monsieur
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 Monsieur 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 Monsieur 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 purse
strings, it will be all the same; but she positively answered that she was tired of
the exigencies and infidelities of Monsieur 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 month 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 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 a 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 shabby host wanted to feed us upon
lumps of fat meat fit for 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 le Prince, I laid a few snares in the rims; 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 Monsieur
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.”

“You are right, Mousqueton. I leave it to you, while I listen.”

“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 round the necks of those terrible animals. At
first I would not believe that they could attain such a degree of skill as to 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
Crèvecœur, 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 Comte 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.

26

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 Mme. 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 Crèvecœur,
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 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 cœlorum immensitatem.”v

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.w I could make of that subject two volumes of 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.21 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 demi-Pelagians. ”22

“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 Monsieur Voiture, and that great man paid me a thousand
handsome 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 passé plein de charmes,
Et qui trainez des jours infortunés,
Tous vos malheurs se verront terminés,
Quand à 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 Monsieur Patru’s pleadings. ”

“Please God!” cried Aramis, transported.

“There it is,” cried the Jesuit; “the world still speaks within you in a loud
voice, altissimâ 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 cœli 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 Monsieur 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 one
to 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.”