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- Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020
He is a French writer whose adventure novels made him one of the most widely read French authors in the world. He was also a playwright and journalist. Having hired several assistants, he writes novels for newspapers with a sequel – adventure, pseudo-historical in nature, which both readers and publishers are happy to buy. Among these works are 5 famous historical multibooks such as: „The Count Of Monte Cristo”, „The Three Musketeers”, „Twenty Years After”, „The Black Tulip”, „La Reine Margot”.
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Contents
The Three Musketeers
AUTHOR’S PREFACE
1 THE THREE PRESENTS OF D’ARTAGNAN THE ELDER
2 THE ANTECHAMBER OF M. DE TREVILLE
3 THE AUDIENCE
4 THE SHOULDER OF ATHOS, THE BALDRIC OF PORTHOS AND THE HANDKERCHIEF OF ARAMIS
5 THE KING’S MUSKETEERS AND THE CARDINAL’S GUARDS
6 HIS MAJESTY KING LOUIS XIII
7 THE INTERIOR* OF THE MUSKETEERS
8 CONCERNING A COURT INTRIGUE
9 D’ARTAGNAN SHOWS HIMSELF
10 A MOUSETRAP IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
11 IN WHICH THE PLOT THICKENS
12 GEORGE VILLIERS, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM
13 MONSIEUR BONACIEUX
14 THE MAN OF MEUNG
15 MEN OF THE ROBE AND MEN OF THE SWORD
16 IN WHICH M. SEGUIER, KEEPER OF THE SEALS, LOOKS MORE THAN ONCE FOR THE BELL
17 BONACIEUX AT HOME
18 LOVER AND HUSBAND
19 PLAN OF CAMPAIGN
20 THE JOURNEY
21 THE COUNTESS DE WINTER
22 THE BALLET OF LA MERLAISON
23 THE RENDEZVOUS
24 THE PAVILION
25 PORTHOS
26 ARAMIS AND HIS THESIS
27 THE WIFE OF ATHOS
28 THE RETURN
29 HUNTING FOR THE EQUIPMENTS
30 D’ARTAGNAN AND THE ENGLISHMAN
31 ENGLISH AND FRENCH
32 A PROCURATOR’S DINNER
33 SOUBRETTE AND MISTRESS
34 IN WHICH THE EQUIPMENT OF ARAMIS AND PORTHOS IS TREATED OF
35 A GASCON A MATCH FOR CUPID
36 DREAM OF VENGEANCE
37 MILADY’S SECRET
38 HOW, WITHOUT INCOMMDING HIMSELF, ATHOS PROCURES HIS EQUIPMENT
39 A VISION
40 A TERRIBLE VISION
41 THE SEIGE OF LA ROCHELLE
42 THE ANJOU WINE
43 THE SIGN OF THE RED DOVECOT
44 THE UTILITY OF STOVEPIPES
45 A CONJUGAL SCENE
46 THE BASTION SAINT-GERVAIS
47 THE COUNCIL OF THE MUSKETEERS
48 A FAMILY AFFAIR
49 FATALITY
50 CHAT BETWEEN BROTHER AND SISTER
51 OFFICER
52 CAPTIVITY: THE FIRST DAY
53 CAPTIVITY: THE SECOND DAY
54 CAPTIVITY: THE THIRD DAY
55 CAPTIVITY: THE FOURTH DAY
56 CAPTIVITY: THE FIFTH DAY
57 MEANS FOR CLASSICAL TRAGEDY
58 ESCAPE
59 WHAT TOOK PLACE AT PORTSMOUTH AUGUST 23, 1628
60 IN FRANCE
61 THE CARMELITE CONVENT AT BETHUNE
62 TWO VARIETIES OF DEMONS
63 THE DROP OF WATER
64 THE MAN IN THE RED CLOAK
65 TRIAL
66 EXECUTION
67 CONCLUSION
EPILOGUE
Twenty Years After
1. The Shade of Cardinal Richelieu.
2. A Nightly Patrol.
3. Dead Animosities.
4. Anne of Austria at the Age of Forty-six.
5. The Gascon and the Italian.
6. D’Artagnan in his Fortieth Year.
7. Touches upon the Strange Effects a Half-pistole may have.
8. D’Artagnan, Going to a Distance to discover Aramis.
9. The Abbe D’Herblay.
10. Monsieur Porthos du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds.
11. Wealth does not necessarily produce Happiness.
12. Porthos was Discontented with his Condition.
13. Two Angelic Faces.
14. The Castle of Bragelonne.
15. Athos as a Diplomatist.
16. The Duc de Beaufort.
17. Duc de Beaufort amused his Leisure Hours in the Donjon of Vincennes.
18. Grimaud begins his Functions.
19. Pates made by the Successor of Father Marteau are described.
20. One of Marie Michon’s Adventures.
21. The Abbe Scarron.
22. Saint Denis.
23. One of the Forty Methods of Escape of the Duc de Beaufort.
24. The timely Arrival of D’Artagnan in Paris.
25. An Adventure on the High Road.
26. The Rencontre.
27. The four old Friends prepare to meet again.
28. The Place Royale.
29. The Ferry across the Oise.
30. Skirmishing.
31. The Monk.
32. The Absolution.
33. Grimaud Speaks.
34. On the Eve of Battle.
35. A Dinner in the Old Style.
36. A Letter from Charles the First.
37. Cromwell’s Letter.
38. Henrietta Maria and Mazarin.
39. How, sometimes, the Unhappy mistake Chance for Providence.
40. Uncle and Nephew.
41. Paternal Affection.
42. Another Queen in Want of Help.
43. In which it is proved that first Impulses are oftentimes the best.
44. Te Deum for the Victory of Lens.
45. The Beggar of St. Eustache.
46. The Tower of St. Jacques de la Boucherie.
47. The Riot.
48. The Riot becomes a Revolution.
49. Misfortune refreshes the Memory.
50. The Interview.
51. The Flight.
52. The Carriage of Monsieur le Coadjuteur.
53. How D’Artagnan and Porthos earned by selling Straw.
54. In which we hear Tidings of Aramis.
55. The Scotchman.
56. The Avenger.
57. Oliver Cromwell.
58. Jesus Seigneur.
59. Noble Natures never lose Courage, nor good Stomachs their Appetites.
60. Respect to Fallen Majesty.
61. D’Artagnan hits on a Plan.
62. London.
63. The Trial.
64. Whitehall.
65. The Workmen.
66. Remember!
67. The Man in the Mask.
68. Cromwell’s House.
69. Conversational.
70. The Skiff “Lightning.”
71. Port Wine.
72. End of the Port Wine Mystery.
73. Fatality.
74. How Mousqueton had a Narrow Escape of being eaten.
75. The Return.
76. The Ambassadors.
77. The three Lieutenants of the Generalissimo.
78. The Battle of Charenton.
79. The Road to Picardy.
80. The Gratitude of Anne of Austria.
81. Cardinal Mazarin as King.
82. Precautions.
83. Strength and Sagacity.
84. Strength and Sagacity--Continued.
85. The Oubliettes of Cardinal Mazarin.
86. Conferences.
87. Thinking that Porthos will be at last a Baron, and D’Artagnan a Captain.
88. Shows how with Threat and Pen more is effected than by the Sword.
89. Difficult for Kings to return to the Capitals of their Kingdoms.
90. Conclusion.
The Vicomte de Bragelonne
Chapter I. The Letter
Chapter II. The Messenger
Chapter III. The Interview
Chapter IV. Father and Son
Chapter V. In which Something will be said of Cropoli
Chapter VI. The Unknown
Chapter VII. Parry
Chapter VIII. What his Majesty King Louis XIV. was at the Age of Twenty-Two
Chapter IX. In which the Unknown of the Hostelry of Les Medici loses his Incognito
Chapter X. The Arithmetic of M. de Mazarin
Chapter XI. Mazarin's Policy
Chapter XII. The King and the Lieutenant
Chapter XIII. Mary de Mancini
Chapter XIV. In which the King and the Lieutenant each give Proofs of Memory
Chapter XV. The Proscribed
Chapter XVI. "Remember!"
Chapter XVII. In which Aramis is sought, and only Bazin is found
Chapter XVIII. In which D'Artagnan seeks Porthos, and only finds Mousqueton
Chapter XIX. What D'Artagnan went to Paris for
Chapter XX. Of the Society which was formed in the Rue des Lombards
Chapter XXI. In which D'Artagnan prepares to travel
Chapter XXII. D'Artagnan travels for the House of Planchet and Company
Chapter XXIII. In which the Author is forced to write a Little History
Chapter XXIV. The Treasure
Chapter XXV. The Marsh
Chapter XXVI. Heart and Mind
Chapter XXVII. The Next Day
Chapter XXVIII. Smuggling
Chapter XXIX. Fear he has placed his Money and that of Planchet in the Sinking Fund
Chapter XXX. The Shares of Planchet and Company rise again to Par
Chapter XXXI. Monk reveals Himself
Chapter XXXII. Athos and D'Artagnan meet once more at the Hostelry of the Corne du Cerf
Chapter XXXIII. The Audience
Chapter XXXIV. Of the Embarrassment of Riches
Chapter XXXV. On the Canal
Chapter XXXVI. How D'Artagnan drew a Country-Seat from a Deal Box
Chapter XXXVII. How D'Artagnan regulated the "Assets" of the Company."
Chapter XXXVIII. the French Grocer had already been established in the Seventeenth Century
Chapter XXXIX. Mazarin's Gaming Party
Chapter XL: An Affair of State
Chapter XLI. The Recital
Chapter XLII. In which Mazarin becomes Prodigal
Chapter XLIII. Guenaud
Chapter XLIV. Colbert
Chapter XLV. Confession of a Man of Wealth
Chapter XLVI. The Donation
Chapter XLVII. How Anne of Austria gave one Piece of Advice to Louis XIV
Chapter XLVIII. Agony
Chapter XLIX. The First Appearance of Colbert
Chapter L: The First Day of the Royalty of Louis XIV
Chapter LI. A Passion
Chapter LII. D'Artagnan's Lesson
Chapter LIII. The King
Chapter LIV. The Houses of M. Fouquet
Chapter LV. The Abbe Fouquet
Chapter LVI. M. de la Fontaine's Wine
Chapter LVII. The Gallery of Saint-Mande
Chapter LVIII. Epicureans
Chapter LIX. A Quarter of an Hour's Delay
Chapter LX. Plan of Battle
Chapter LXI. The Cabaret of the Image-de-Notre-Dame
Chapter LXII. Vive Colbert!
Chapter LXIII. How M. d'Eymeris's Diamond passed into the Hands of M. d'Artagnan
Chapter LXIV. Difference D'Artagnan finds between the Intendant and the Superintendent
Chapter LXV. Philosophy of the Heart and Mind
Chapter LXVI. The Journey
Chapter LXVII. How D'Artagnan became Acquainted with a Poet
Chapter LXVIII. D'Artagnan continues his Investigations
Chapter LXIX. D'Artagnan was to meet an Old Acquaintance
Chapter LXX. Wherein the Ideas of D'Artagnan begin to clear up a little
Chapter LXXI. A Procession at Vannes
Chapter LXXII. The Grandeur of the Bishop of Vannes
Chapter LXXIII. In which Porthos begins to be sorry for having come with D'Artagnan
Chapter LXXIV. D'Artagnan makes all Speed, Porthos snores, and Aramis counsels
Chapter LXXV. In which Monsieur Fouquet Acts
The Count of Monte Cristo
VOLUME ONE
Chapter 1. Marseilles—The Arrival
Chapter 2. Father and Son
Chapter 3. The Catalans
Chapter 4. Conspiracy
Chapter 5. The Marriage Feast
Chapter 6. The Deputy Procureur du Roi
Chapter 7. The Examination
Chapter 8. The Château d’If
Chapter 9. The Evening of the Betrothal
Chapter 10. The King’s Closet at the Tuileries
Chapter 11. The Corsican Ogre
Chapter 12. Father and Son
Chapter 13. The Hundred Days
Chapter 14. The Two Prisoners
Chapter 15. Number 34 and Number 27
Chapter 16. A Learned Italian
Chapter 17. The Abbé’s Chamber
Chapter 18. The Treasure
Chapter 19. The Third Attack
Chapter 20. The Cemetery of the Château d’If
Chapter 21. The Island of Tiboulen
Chapter 22. The Smugglers
Chapter 23. The Island of Monte Cristo
Chapter 24. The Secret Cave
Chapter 25. The Unknown
Chapter 26. The Pont du Gard Inn
Chapter 27. The Story
VOLUME TWO
Chapter 28. The Prison Register
Chapter 29. The House of Morrel & Son
Chapter 30. The Fifth of September
Chapter 31. Italy: Sinbad the Sailor
Chapter 32. The Waking
Chapter 33. Roman Bandits
Chapter 34. The Colosseum
Chapter 35. La Mazzolata
Chapter 36. The Carnival at Rome
Chapter 37. The Catacombs of Saint Sebastian
Chapter 38. The Rendezvous
Chapter 39. The Guests
Chapter 40. The Breakfast
Chapter 41. The Presentation
Chapter 42. Monsieur Bertuccio
Chapter 43. The House at Auteuil
Chapter 44. The Vendetta
Chapter 45. The Rain of Blood
Chapter 46. Unlimited Credit
Chapter 47. The Dappled Grays
VOLUME THREE
Chapter 48. Ideology
Chapter 49. Haydée
Chapter 50. The Morrel Family
Chapter 51. Pyramus and Thisbe
Chapter 52. Toxicology
Chapter 53. Robert le Diable
Chapter 54. A Flurry in Stocks
Chapter 55. Major Cavalcanti
Chapter 56. Andrea Cavalcanti
Chapter 57. In the Lucern Patch
Chapter 58. M. Noirtier de Villefort
Chapter 59. The Will
Chapter 60. The Telegraph
Chapter 61. How a Gardener May Get Rid of the Dormice that Eat His Peaches
Chapter 62. Ghosts
Chapter 63. The Dinner
Chapter 64. The Beggar
Chapter 65. A Conjugal Scene
Chapter 66. Matrimonial Projects
Chapter 67. The Office of the King’s Attorney
Chapter 68. A Summer Ball
Chapter 69. The Inquiry
Chapter 70. The Ball
Chapter 71. Bread and Salt
Chapter 72. Madame de Saint-Méran
Chapter 73. The Promise
VOLUME FOUR
Chapter 74. The Villefort Family Vault
Chapter 75. A Signed Statement
Chapter 76. Progress of Cavalcanti the Younger
Chapter 77. Haydée
Chapter 78. We hear From Yanina
Chapter 79. The Lemonade
Chapter 80. The Accusation
Chapter 81. The Room of the Retired Baker
Chapter 82. The Burglary
Chapter 83. The Hand of God
Chapter 84. Beauchamp
Chapter 85. The Journey
Chapter 86. The Trial
Chapter 87. The Challenge
Chapter 88. The Insult
Chapter 89. The Night
Chapter 90. The Meeting
Chapter 91. Mother and Son
Chapter 92. The Suicide
Chapter 93. Valentine
Chapter 94. Maximilian’s Avowal
Chapter 95. Father and Daughter
VOLUME FIVE
Chapter 96. The Contract
Chapter 97. The Departure for Belgium
Chapter 98. The Bell and Bottle Tavern
Chapter 99. The Law
Chapter 100. The Apparition
Chapter 101. Locusta
Chapter 102. Valentine
Chapter 103. Maximilian
Chapter 104. Danglars’ Signature
Chapter 105. The Cemetery of Père-Lachaise
Chapter 106. Dividing the Proceeds
Chapter 107. The Lions’ Den
Chapter 108. The Judge
Chapter 109. The Assizes
Chapter 110. The Indictment
Chapter 111. Expiation
Chapter 112. The Departure
Chapter 113. The Past
Chapter 114. Peppino
Chapter 115. Luigi Vampa’s Bill of Fare
Chapter 116. The Pardon
Chapter 117. The Fifth of October
The Black Tulip
Chapter 1. A Grateful People
Chapter 2. The Two Brothers
Chapter 3. The Pupil of John de Witt
Chapter 4. The Murderers
Chapter 5. The Tulip-fancier and his Neighbour
Chapter 6. The Hatred of a Tulip-fancier
Chapter 7. The Happy Man makes Acquaintance with Misfortune
Chapter 8. An Invasion
Chapter 9. The Family Cell
Chapter 10. The Jailer’s Daughter
Chapter 11. Cornelius van Baerle’s Will
Chapter 12. The Execution
Chapter 13. What was going on all this Time in the Mind of one of the Spectators
Chapter 14. The Pigeons of Dort
Chapter 15. The Little Grated Window
Chapter 16. Master and Pupil
Chapter 17. The First Bulb
Chapter 18. Rosa’s Lover
Chapter 19. The Maid and the Flower
Chapter 20. The Events which took place during those Eight Days
Chapter 21. The Second Bulb
Chapter 22. The Opening of the Flower
Chapter 23. The Rival
Chapter 24. The Black Tulip changes Masters
Chapter 25. The President van Systens
Chapter 26. A Member of the Horticultural Society
Chapter 27. The Third Bulb
Chapter 28. The Hymn of the Flowers
Chapter 29. In which Van Baerle, before leaving Loewestein, settles Accounts with Gryphus
Chapter 30. Wherein the Reader begins to guess the Kind of Execution that was awaiting Van Baerle
Chapter 31. Haarlem
Chapter 32. A Last Request
Chapter 33. Conclusion
The Three Musketeers
AUTHOR’S PREFACE
In which it is proved that, notwithstanding their names’ ending in OS and IS, the heroes of the story which we are about to have the honor to relate to our readers have nothing mythological about them.
A short time ago, while making researches in the Royal Library for my History of Louis XIV, I stumbled by chance upon the Memoirs of M. d’Artagnan, printed–as were most of the works of that period, in which authors could not tell the truth without the risk of a residence, more or less long, in the Bastille–at Amsterdam, by Pierre Rouge. The title attracted me; I took them home with me, with the permission of the guardian, and devoured them.
It is not my intention here to enter into an analysis of this curious work; and I shall satisfy myself with referring such of my readers as appreciate the pictures of the period to its pages. They will therein find portraits penciled by the hand of a master; and although these squibs may be, for the most part, traced upon the doors of barracks and the walls of cabarets, they will not find the likenesses of Louis XIII, Anne of Austria, Richelieu, Mazarin, and the courtiers of the period, less faithful than in the history of M. Anquetil.
But, it is well known, what strikes the capricious mind of the poet is not always what affects the mass of readers. Now, while admiring, as others doubtless will admire, the details we have to relate, our main preoccupation concerned a matter to which no one before ourselves had given a thought.
D’Artagnan relates that on his first visit to M. de Treville, captain of the king’s Musketeers, he met in the antechamber three young men, serving in the illustrious corps into which he was soliciting the honor of being received, bearing the names of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.
We must confess these three strange names struck us; and it immediately occurred to us that they were but pseudonyms, under which d’Artagnan had disguised names perhaps illustrious, or else that the bearers of these borrowed names had themselves chosen them on the day in which, from caprice, discontent, or want of fortune, they had donned the simple Musketeer’s uniform.
From that moment we had no rest till we could find some trace in contemporary works of these extraordinary names which had so strongly awakened our curiosity.
The catalogue alone of the books we read with this object would fill a whole chapter, which, although it might be very instructive, would certainly afford our readers but little amusement. It will suffice, then, to tell them that at the moment at which, discouraged by so many fruitless investigations, we were about to abandon our search, we at length found, guided by the counsels of our illustrious friend Paulin Paris, a manuscript in folio, endorsed 4772 or 4773, we do not recollect which, having for title, “Memoirs of the Comte de la Fere, Touching Some Events Which Passed in France Toward the End of the Reign of King Louis XIII and the Commencement of the Reign of King Louis XIV.”
It may be easily imagined how great was our joy when, in turning over this manuscript, our last hope, we found at the twentieth page the name of Athos, at the twenty-seventh the name of Porthos, and at the thirty-first the name of Aramis.
The discovery of a completely unknown manuscript at a period in which historical science is carried to such a high degree appeared almost miraculous. We hastened, therefore, to obtain permission to print it, with the view of presenting ourselves someday with the pack of others at the doors of the Academie des Inscriptions et Belles Lettres, if we should not succeed–a very probable thing, by the by–in gaining admission to the Academie Francaise with our own proper pack. This permission, we feel bound to say, was graciously granted; which compels us here to give a public contradiction to the slanderers who pretend that we live under a government but moderately indulgent to men of letters.
Now, this is the first part of this precious manuscript which we offer to our readers, restoring it to the title which belongs to it, and entering into an engagement that if (of which we have no doubt) this first part should obtain the success it merits, we will publish the second immediately.
In the meanwhile, as the godfather is a second father, we beg the reader to lay to our account, and not to that of the Comte de la Fere, the pleasure or the ENNUI he may experience.
This being understood, let us proceed with our history.
1 THE THREE PRESENTS OF D’ARTAGNAN THE ELDER
On the first Monday of the month of April, 1625, the market town of Meung, in which the author of ROMANCE OF THE ROSE was born, appeared to be in as perfect a state of revolution as if the Huguenots had just made a second La Rochelle of it. Many citizens, seeing the women flying toward the High Street, leaving their children crying at the open doors, hastened to don the cuirass, and supporting their somewhat uncertain courage with a musket or a partisan, directed their steps toward the hostelry of the Jolly Miller, before which was gathered, increasing every minute, a compact group, vociferous and full of curiosity.
In those times panics were common, and few days passed without some city or other registering in its archives an event of this kind. There were nobles, who made war against each other; there was the king, who made war against the cardinal; there was Spain, which made war against the king. Then, in addition to these concealed or public, secret or open wars, there were robbers, mendicants, Huguenots, wolves, and scoundrels, who made war upon everybody. The citizens always took up arms readily against thieves, wolves or scoundrels, often against nobles or Huguenots, sometimes against the king, but never against the cardinal or Spain. It resulted, then, from this habit that on the said first Monday of April, 1625, the citizens, on hearing the clamor, and seeing neither the red-and-yellow standard nor the livery of the Duc de Richelieu, rushed toward the hostel of the Jolly Miller. When arrived there, the cause of the hubbub was apparent to all.
A young man–we can sketch his portrait at a dash. Imagine to yourself a Don Quixote of eighteen; a Don Quixote without his corselet, without his coat of mail, without his cuisses; a Don Quixote clothed in a woolen doublet, the blue color of which had faded into a nameless shade between lees of wine and a heavenly azure; face long and brown; high cheek bones, a sign of sagacity; the maxillary muscles enormously developed, an infallible sign by which a Gascon may always be detected, even without his cap–and our young man wore a cap set off with a sort of feather; the eye open and intelligent; the nose hooked, but finely chiseled. Too big for a youth, too small for a grown man, an experienced eye might have taken him for a farmer’s son upon a journey had it not been for the long sword which, dangling from a leather baldric, hit against the calves of its owner as he walked, and against the rough side of his steed when he was on horseback.
For our young man had a steed which was the observed of all observers. It was a Bearn pony, from twelve to fourteen years old, yellow in his hide, without a hair in his tail, but not without windgalls on his legs, which, though going with his head lower than his knees, rendering a martingale quite unnecessary, contrived nevertheless to perform his eight leagues a day. Unfortunately, the qualities of this horse were so well concealed under his strange-colored hide and his unaccountable gait, that at a time when everybody was a connoisseur in horseflesh, the appearance of the aforesaid pony at Meung–which place he had entered about a quarter of an hour before, by the gate of Beaugency–produced an unfavorable feeling, which extended to his rider.
And this feeling had been more painfully perceived by young d’Artagnan–for so was the Don Quixote of this second Rosinante named–from his not being able to conceal from himself the ridiculous appearance that such a steed gave him, good horseman as he was. He had sighed deeply, therefore, when accepting the gift of the pony from M. d’Artagnan the elder. He was not ignorant that such a beast was worth at least twenty livres; and the words which had accompanied the present were above all price.
“My son,” said the old Gascon gentleman, in that pure Bearn PATOIS of which Henry IV could never rid himself, “this horse was born in the house of your father about thirteen years ago, and has remained in it ever since, which ought to make you love it. Never sell it; allow it to die tranquilly and honorably of old age, and if you make a campaign with it, take as much care of it as you would of an old servant. At court, provided you have ever the honor to go there,” continued M. d’Artagnan the elder, “–an honor to which, remember, your ancient nobility gives you the right–sustain worthily your name of gentleman, which has been worthily borne by your ancestors for five hundred years, both for your own sake and the sake of those who belong to you. By the latter I mean your relatives and friends. Endure nothing from anyone except Monsieur the Cardinal and the king. It is by his courage, please observe, by his courage alone, that a gentleman can make his way nowadays. Whoever hesitates for a second perhaps allows the bait to escape which during that exact second fortune held out to him. You are young. You ought to be brave for two reasons: the first is that you are a Gascon, and the second is that you are my son. Never fear quarrels, but seek adventures. I have taught you how to handle a sword; you have thews of iron, a wrist of steel. Fight on all occasions. Fight the more for duels being forbidden, since consequently there is twice as much courage in fighting. I have nothing to give you, my son, but fifteen crowns, my horse, and the counsels you have just heard. Your mother will add to them a recipe for a certain balsam, which she had from a Bohemian and which has the miraculous virtue of curing all wounds that do not reach the heart. Take advantage of all, and live happily and long. I have but one word to add, and that is to propose an example to you–not mine, for I myself have never appeared at court, and have only taken part in religious wars as a volunteer; I speak of Monsieur de Treville, who was formerly my neighbor, and who had the honor to be, as a child, the play-fellow of our king, Louis XIII, whom God preserve! Sometimes their play degenerated into battles, and in these battles the king was not always the stronger. The blows which he received increased greatly his esteem and friendship for Monsieur de Treville. Afterward, Monsieur de Treville fought with others: in his first journey to Paris, five times; from the death of the late king till the young one came of age, without reckoning wars and sieges, seven times; and from that date up to the present day, a hundred times, perhaps! So that in spite of edicts, ordinances, and decrees, there he is, captain of the Musketeers; that is to say, chief of a legion of Caesars, whom the king holds in great esteem and whom the cardinal dreads–he who dreads nothing, as it is said. Still further, Monsieur de Treville gains ten thousand crowns a year; he is therefore a great noble. He began as you begin. Go to him with this letter, and make him your model in order that you may do as he has done.”
Upon which M. d’Artagnan the elder girded his own sword round his son, kissed him tenderly on both cheeks, and gave him his benediction.
On leaving the paternal chamber, the young man found his mother, who was waiting for him with the famous recipe of which the counsels we have just repeated would necessitate frequent employment. The adieux were on this side longer and more tender than they had been on the other–not that M. d’Artagnan did not love his son, who was his only offspring, but M. d’Artagnan was a man, and he would have considered it unworthy of a man to give way to his feelings; whereas Mme. d’Artagnan was a woman, and still more, a mother. She wept abundantly; and–let us speak it to the praise of M. d’Artagnan the younger–notwithstanding the efforts he made to remain firm, as a future Musketeer ought, nature prevailed, and he shed many tears, of which he succeeded with great difficulty in concealing the half.
The same day the young man set forward on his journey, furnished with the three paternal gifts, which consisted, as we have said, of fifteen crowns, the horse, and the letter for M. de Treville–the counsels being thrown into the bargain.
With such a VADE MECUM d’Artagnan was morally and physically an exact copy of the hero of Cervantes, to whom we so happily compared him when our duty of an historian placed us under the necessity of sketching his portrait. Don Quixote took windmills for giants, and sheep for armies; d’Artagnan took every smile for an insult, and every look as a provocation–whence it resulted that from Tarbes to Meung his fist was constantly doubled, or his hand on the hilt of his sword; and yet the fist did not descend upon any jaw, nor did the sword issue from its scabbard. It was not that the sight of the wretched pony did not excite numerous smiles on the countenances of passers-by; but as against the side of this pony rattled a sword of respectable length, and as over this sword gleamed an eye rather ferocious than haughty, these passers-by repressed their hilarity, or if hilarity prevailed over prudence, they endeavored to laugh only on one side, like the masks of the ancients. D’Artagnan, then, remained majestic and intact in his susceptibility, till he came to this unlucky city of Meung.
But there, as he was alighting from his horse at the gate of the Jolly Miller, without anyone–host, waiter, or hostler–coming to hold his stirrup or take his horse, d’Artagnan spied, though an open window on the ground floor, a gentleman, well-made and of good carriage, although of rather a stern countenance, talking with two persons who appeared to listen to him with respect. D’Artagnan fancied quite naturally, according to his custom, that he must be the object of their conversation, and listened. This time d’Artagnan was only in part mistaken; he himself was not in question, but his horse was. The gentleman appeared to be enumerating all his qualities to his auditors; and, as I have said, the auditors seeming to have great deference for the narrator, they every moment burst into fits of laughter. Now, as a half-smile was sufficient to awaken the irascibility of the young man, the effect produced upon him by this vociferous mirth may be easily imagined.
Nevertheless, d’Artagnan was desirous of examining the appearance of this impertinent personage who ridiculed him. He fixed his haughty eye upon the stranger, and perceived a man of from forty to forty-five years of age, with black and piercing eyes, pale complexion, a strongly marked nose, and a black and well-shaped mustache. He was dressed in a doublet and hose of a violet color, with aiguillettes of the same color, without any other ornaments than the customary slashes, through which the shirt appeared. This doublet and hose, though new, were creased, like traveling clothes for a long time packed in a portmanteau. D’Artagnan made all these remarks with the rapidity of a most minute observer, and doubtless from an instinctive feeling that this stranger was destined to have a great influence over his future life.
Now, as at the moment in which d’Artagnan fixed his eyes upon the gentleman in the violet doublet, the gentleman made one of his most knowing and profound remarks respecting the Bearnese pony, his two auditors laughed even louder than before, and he himself, though contrary to his custom, allowed a pale smile (if I may be allowed to use such an expression) to stray over his countenance. This time there could be no doubt; d’Artagnan was really insulted. Full, then, of this conviction, he pulled his cap down over his eyes, and endeavoring to copy some of the court airs he had picked up in Gascony among young traveling nobles, he advanced with one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other resting on his hip. Unfortunately, as he advanced, his anger increased at every step; and instead of the proper and lofty speech he had prepared as a prelude to his challenge, he found nothing at the tip of his tongue but a gross personality, which he accompanied with a furious gesture.
“I say, sir, you sir, who are hiding yourself behind that shutter–yes, you, sir, tell me what you are laughing at, and we will laugh together!”
The gentleman raised his eyes slowly from the nag to his cavalier, as if he required some time to ascertain whether it could be to him that such strange reproaches were addressed; then, when he could not possibly entertain any doubt of the matter, his eyebrows slightly bent, and with an accent of irony and insolence impossible to be described, he replied to d’Artagnan, “I was not speaking to you, sir.”
“But I am speaking to you!” replied the young man, additionally exasperated with this mixture of insolence and good manners, of politeness and scorn.
The stranger looked at him again with a slight smile, and retiring from the window, came out of the hostelry with a slow step, and placed himself before the horse, within two paces of d’Artagnan. His quiet manner and the ironical expression of his countenance redoubled the mirth of the persons with whom he had been talking, and who still remained at the window.
D’Artagnan, seeing him approach, drew his sword a foot out of the scabbard.
“This horse is decidedly, or rather has been in his youth, a buttercup,” resumed the stranger, continuing the remarks he had begun, and addressing himself to his auditors at the window, without paying the least attention to the exasperation of d’Artagnan, who, however, placed himself between him and them. “It is a color very well known in botany, but till the present time very rare among horses.”
“There are people who laugh at the horse that would not dare to laugh at the master,” cried the young emulator of the furious Treville.
“I do not often laugh, sir,” replied the stranger, “as you may perceive by the expression of my countenance; but nevertheless I retain the privilege of laughing when I please.”
“And I,” cried d’Artagnan, “will allow no man to laugh when it displeases me!”
“Indeed, sir,” continued the stranger, more calm than ever; “well, that is perfectly right!” and turning on his heel, was about to re-enter the hostelry by the front gate, beneath which d’Artagnan on arriving had observed a saddled horse.
But, d’Artagnan was not of a character to allow a man to escape him thus who had the insolence to ridicule him. He drew his sword entirely from the scabbard, and followed him, crying, “Turn, turn, Master Joker, lest I strike you behind!”
“Strike me!” said the other, turning on his heels, and surveying the young man with as much astonishment as contempt. “Why, my good fellow, you must be mad!” Then, in a suppressed tone, as if speaking to himself, “This is annoying,” continued he. “What a godsend this would be for his Majesty, who is seeking everywhere for brave fellows to recruit for his Musketeers!”
He had scarcely finished, when d’Artagnan made such a furious lunge at him that if he had not sprung nimbly backward, it is probable he would have jested for the last time. The stranger, then perceiving that the matter went beyond raillery, drew his sword, saluted his adversary, and seriously placed himself on guard. But at the same moment, his two auditors, accompanied by the host, fell upon d’Artagnan with sticks, shovels and tongs. This caused so rapid and complete a diversion from the attack that d’Artagnan’s adversary, while the latter turned round to face this shower of blows, sheathed his sword with the same precision, and instead of an actor, which he had nearly been, became a spectator of the fight–a part in which he acquitted himself with his usual impassiveness, muttering, nevertheless, “A plague upon these Gascons! Replace him on his orange horse, and let him begone!”
“Not before I have killed you, poltroon!” cried d’Artagnan, making the best face possible, and never retreating one step before his three assailants, who continued to shower blows upon him.
“Another gasconade!” murmured the gentleman. “By my honor, these Gascons are incorrigible! Keep up the dance, then, since he will have it so. When he is tired, he will perhaps tell us that he has had enough of it.”
But the stranger knew not the headstrong personage he had to do with; d’Artagnan was not the man ever to cry for quarter. The fight was therefore prolonged for some seconds; but at length d’Artagnan dropped his sword, which was broken in two pieces by the blow of a stick. Another blow full upon his forehead at the same moment brought him to the ground, covered with blood and almost fainting.
It was at this moment that people came flocking to the scene of action from all sides. The host, fearful of consequences, with the help of his servants carried the wounded man into the kitchen, where some trifling attentions were bestowed upon him.
As to the gentleman, he resumed his place at the window, and surveyed the crowd with a certain impatience, evidently annoyed by their remaining undispersed.
“Well, how is it with this madman?” exclaimed he, turning round as the noise of the door announced the entrance of the host, who came in to inquire if he was unhurt.
“Your excellency is safe and sound?” asked the host.
“Oh, yes! Perfectly safe and sound, my good host; and I wish to know what has become of our young man.”
“He is better,” said the host, “he fainted quite away.”
“Indeed!” said the gentleman.
“But before he fainted, he collected all his strength to challenge you, and to defy you while challenging you.”
“Why, this fellow must be the devil in person!” cried the stranger.
“Oh, no, your Excellency, he is not the devil,” replied the host, with a grin of contempt; “for during his fainting we rummaged his valise and found nothing but a clean shirt and eleven crowns–which however, did not prevent his saying, as he was fainting, that if such a thing had happened in Paris, you should have cause to repent of it at a later period.”
“Then,” said the stranger coolly, “he must be some prince in disguise.”
“I have told you this, good sir,” resumed the host, “in order that you may be on your guard.”
“Did he name no one in his passion?”
“Yes; he struck his pocket and said, “We shall see what Monsieur de Treville will think of this insult offered to his protege.’”
“Monsieur de Treville?” said the stranger, becoming attentive, “he put his hand upon his pocket while pronouncing the name of Monsieur de Treville? Now, my dear host, while your young man was insensible, you did not fail, I am quite sure, to ascertain what that pocket contained. What was there in it?”
“A letter addressed to Monsieur de Treville, captain of the Musketeers.”
“Indeed!”
“Exactly as I have the honor to tell your Excellency.”
The host, who was not endowed with great perspicacity, did not observe the expression which his words had given to the physiognomy of the stranger. The latter rose from the front of the window, upon the sill of which he had leaned with his elbow, and knitted his brow like a man disquieted.
“The devil!” murmured he, between his teeth. “Can Treville have set this Gascon upon me? He is very young; but a sword thrust is a sword thrust, whatever be the age of him who gives it, and a youth is less to be suspected than an older man,” and the stranger fell into a reverie which lasted some minutes. “A weak obstacle is sometimes sufficient to overthrow a great design.
“Host,” said he, “could you not contrive to get rid of this frantic boy for me? In conscience, I cannot kill him; and yet,” added he, with a coldly menacing expression, “he annoys me. Where is he?”
“In my wife’s chamber, on the first flight, where they are dressing his wounds.”
“His things and his bag are with him? Has he taken off his doublet?”
“On the contrary, everything is in the kitchen. But if he annoys you, this young fool–”
“To be sure he does. He causes a disturbance in your hostelry, which respectable people cannot put up with. Go; make out my bill and notify my servant.”
“What, monsieur, will you leave us so soon?”
“You know that very well, as I gave my order to saddle my horse. Have they not obeyed me?”
“It is done; as your Excellency may have observed, your horse is in the great gateway, ready saddled for your departure.”
“That is well; do as I have directed you, then.”
“What the devil!” said the host to himself. “Can he be afraid of this boy?” But an imperious glance from the stranger stopped him short; he bowed humbly and retired.
“It is not necessary for Milady* to be seen by this fellow,” continued the stranger. “She will soon pass; she is already late. I had better get on horseback, and go and meet her. I should like, however, to know what this letter addressed to Treville contains.”
*We are well aware that this term, milady, is only properly used when followed by a family name. But we find it thus in the manuscript, and we do not choose to take upon ourselves to alter it.
And the stranger, muttering to himself, directed his steps toward the kitchen.
In the meantime, the host, who entertained no doubt that it was the presence of the young man that drove the stranger from his hostelry, re-ascended to his wife’s chamber, and found d’Artagnan just recovering his senses. Giving him to understand that the police would deal with him pretty severely for having sought a quarrel with a great lord–for in the opinion of the host the stranger could be nothing less than a great lord–he insisted that notwithstanding his weakness d’Artagnan should get up and depart as quickly as possible. D’Artagnan, half stupefied, without his doublet, and with his head bound up in a linen cloth, arose then, and urged by the host, began to descend the stairs; but on arriving at the kitchen, the first thing he saw was his antagonist talking calmly at the step of a heavy carriage, drawn by two large Norman horses.
His interlocutor, whose head appeared through the carriage window, was a woman of from twenty to two-and-twenty years. We have already observed with what rapidity d’Artagnan seized the expression of a countenance. He perceived then, at a glance, that this woman was young and beautiful; and her style of beauty struck him more forcibly from its being totally different from that of the southern countries in which d’Artagnan had hitherto resided. She was pale and fair, with long curls falling in profusion over her shoulders, had large, blue, languishing eyes, rosy lips, and hands of alabaster. She was talking with great animation with the stranger.
“His Eminence, then, orders me–” said the lady.
“To return instantly to England, and to inform him as soon as the duke leaves London.”
“And as to my other instructions?” asked the fair traveler.
“They are contained in this box, which you will not open until you are on the other side of the Channel.”
“Very well; and you–what will you do?”
“I–I return to Paris.”
“What, without chastising this insolent boy?” asked the lady.
The stranger was about to reply; but at the moment he opened his mouth, d’Artagnan, who had heard all, precipitated himself over the threshold of the door.
“This insolent boy chastises others,” cried he; “and I hope that this time he whom he ought to chastise will not escape him as before.”
“Will not escape him?” replied the stranger, knitting his brow.
“No; before a woman you would dare not fly, I presume?”
“Remember,” said Milady, seeing the stranger lay his hand on his sword, “the least delay may ruin everything.”
“You are right,” cried the gentleman; “begone then, on your part, and I will depart as quickly on mine.” And bowing to the lady, he sprang into his saddle, while her coachman applied his whip vigorously to his horses. The two interlocutors thus separated, taking opposite directions, at full gallop.
“Pay him, booby!” cried the stranger to his servant, without checking the speed of his horse; and the man, after throwing two or three silver pieces at the foot of mine host, galloped after his master.
“Base coward! false gentleman!” cried d’Artagnan, springing forward, in his turn, after the servant. But his wound had rendered him too weak to support such an exertion. Scarcely had he gone ten steps when his ears began to tingle, a faintness seized him, a cloud of blood passed over his eyes, and he fell in the middle of the street, crying still, “Coward! coward! coward!”
“He is a coward, indeed,” grumbled the host, drawing near to d’Artagnan, and endeavoring by this little flattery to make up matters with the young man, as the heron of the fable did with the snail he had despised the evening before.
“Yes, a base coward,” murmured d’Artagnan; “but she–she was very beautiful.”
“What she?” demanded the host.
“Milady,” faltered d’Artagnan, and fainted a second time.
“Ah, it’s all one,” said the host; “I have lost two customers, but this one remains, of whom I am pretty certain for some days to come. There will be eleven crowns gained.”
It is to be remembered that eleven crowns was just the sum that remained in d’Artagnan’s purse.
The host had reckoned upon eleven days of confinement at a crown a day, but he had reckoned without his guest. On the following morning at five o’clock d’Artagnan arose, and descending to the kitchen without help, asked, among other ingredients the list of which has not come down to us, for some oil, some wine, and some rosemary, and with his mother’s recipe in his hand composed a balsam, with which he anointed his numerous wounds, replacing his bandages himself, and positively refusing the assistance of any doctor, d’Artagnan walked about that same evening, and was almost cured by the morrow.
But when the time came to pay for his rosemary, this oil, and the wine, the only expense the master had incurred, as he had preserved a strict abstinence–while on the contrary, the yellow horse, by the account of the hostler at least, had eaten three times as much as a horse of his size could reasonably be supposed to have done–d’Artagnan found nothing in his pocket but his little old velvet purse with the eleven crowns it contained; for as to the letter addressed to M. de Treville, it had disappeared.
The young man commenced his search for the letter with the greatest patience, turning out his pockets of all kinds over and over again, rummaging and rerummaging in his valise, and opening and reopening his purse; but when he found that he had come to the conviction that the letter was not to be found, he flew, for the third time, into such a rage as was near costing him a fresh consumption of wine, oil, and rosemary–for upon seeing this hot-headed youth become exasperated and threaten to destroy everything in the establishment if his letter were not found, the host seized a spit, his wife a broom handle, and the servants the same sticks they had used the day before.
“My letter of recommendation!” cried d’Artagnan, “my letter of recommendation! or, the holy blood, I will spit you all like ortolans!”
Unfortunately, there was one circumstance which created a powerful obstacle to the accomplishment of this threat; which was, as we have related, that his sword had been in his first conflict broken in two, and which he had entirely forgotten. Hence, it resulted when d’Artagnan proceeded to draw his sword in earnest, he found himself purely and simply armed with a stump of a sword about eight or ten inches in length, which the host had carefully placed in the scabbard. As to the rest of the blade, the master had slyly put that on one side to make himself a larding pin.
But this deception would probably not have stopped our fiery young man if the host had not reflected that the reclamation which his guest made was perfectly just.
“But, after all,” said he, lowering the point of his spit, “where is this letter?”
“Yes, where is this letter?” cried d’Artagnan. “In the first place, I warn you that that letter is for Monsieur de Treville, and it must be found, or if it is not found, he will know how to find it.”
His threat completed the intimidation of the host. After the king and the cardinal, M. de Treville was the man whose name was perhaps most frequently repeated by the military, and even by citizens. There was, to be sure, Father Joseph, but his name was never pronounced but with a subdued voice, such was the terror inspired by his Gray Eminence, as the cardinal’s familiar was called.
Throwing down his spit, and ordering his wife to do the same with her broom handle, and the servants with their sticks, he set the first example of commencing an earnest search for the lost letter.
“Does the letter contain anything valuable?” demanded the host, after a few minutes of useless investigation.
“Zounds! I think it does indeed!” cried the Gascon, who reckoned upon this letter for making his way at court. “It contained my fortune!”
“Bills upon Spain?” asked the disturbed host.
“Bills upon his Majesty’s private treasury,” answered d’Artagnan, who, reckoning upon entering into the king’s service in consequence of this recommendation, believed he could make this somewhat hazardous reply without telling of a falsehood.
“The devil!” cried the host, at his wit’s end.
“But it’s of no importance,” continued d’Artagnan, with natural assurance; “it’s of no importance. The money is nothing; that letter was everything. I would rather have lost a thousand pistoles than have lost it.” He would not have risked more if he had said twenty thousand; but a certain juvenile modesty restrained him.
A ray of light all at once broke upon the mind of the host as he was giving himself to the devil upon finding nothing.
“That letter is not lost!” cried he.
“What!” cried d’Artagnan.
“No, it has been stolen from you.”
“Stolen? By whom?”
“By the gentleman who was here yesterday. He came down into the kitchen, where your doublet was. He remained there some time alone. I would lay a wager he has stolen it.”
“Do you think so?” answered d’Artagnan, but little convinced, as he knew better than anyone else how entirely personal the value of this letter was, and saw nothing in it likely to tempt cupidity. The fact was that none of his servants, none of the travelers present, could have gained anything by being possessed of this paper.
“Do you say,” resumed d’Artagnan, “that you suspect that impertinent gentleman?”
“I tell you I am sure of it,” continued the host. “When I informed him that your lordship was the protege of Monsieur de Treville, and that you even had a letter for that illustrious gentleman, he appeared to be very much disturbed, and asked me where that letter was, and immediately came down into the kitchen, where he knew your doublet was.”
“Then that’s my thief,” replied d’Artagnan. “I will complain to Monsieur de Treville, and Monsieur de Treville will complain to the king.” He then drew two crowns majestically from his purse and gave them to the host, who accompanied him, cap in hand, to the gate, and remounted his yellow horse, which bore him without any further accident to the gate of St. Antoine at Paris, where his owner sold him for three crowns, which was a very good price, considering that d’Artagnan had ridden him hard during the last stage. Thus the dealer to whom d’Artagnan sold him for the nine livres did not conceal from the young man that he only gave that enormous sum for him on the account of the originality of his color.
Thus d’Artagnan entered Paris on foot, carrying his little packet under his arm, and walked about till he found an apartment to be let on terms suited to the scantiness of his means. This chamber was a sort of garret, situated in the Rue des Fossoyeurs, near the Luxembourg.
As soon as the earnest money was paid, d’Artagnan took possession of his lodging, and passed the remainder of the day in sewing onto his doublet and hose some ornamental braiding which his mother had taken off an almost-new doublet of the elder M. d’Artagnan, and which she had given her son secretly. Next he went to the Quai de Feraille to have a new blade put to his sword, and then returned toward the Louvre, inquiring of the first Musketeer he met for the situation of the hotel of M. de Treville, which proved to be in the Rue du Vieux-Colombier; that is to say, in the immediate vicinity of the chamber hired by d’Artagnan–a circumstance which appeared to furnish a happy augury for the success of his journey.
After this, satisfied with the way in which he had conducted himself at Meung, without remorse for the past, confident in the present, and full of hope for the future, he retired to bed and slept the sleep of the brave.
This sleep, provincial as it was, brought him to nine o’clock in the morning; at which hour he rose, in order to repair to the residence of M. de Treville, the third personage in the kingdom, in the paternal estimation.
2 THE ANTECHAMBER OF M. DE TREVILLE
M de Troisville, as his family was still called in Gascony, or M. de Treville, as he has ended by styling himself in Paris, had really commenced life as d’Artagnan now did; that is to say, without a sou in his pocket, but with a fund of audacity, shrewdness, and intelligence which makes the poorest Gascon gentleman often derive more in his hope from the paternal inheritance than the richest Perigordian or Berrichan gentleman derives in reality from his. His insolent bravery, his still more insolent success at a time when blows poured down like hail, had borne him to the top of that difficult ladder called Court Favor, which he had climbed four steps at a time.
He was the friend of the king, who honored highly, as everyone knows, the memory of his father, Henry IV. The father of M. de Treville had served him so faithfully in his wars against the league that in default of money–a thing to which the Bearnais was accustomed all his life, and who constantly paid his debts with that of which he never stood in need of borrowing, that is to say, with ready wit–in default of money, we repeat, he authorized him, after the reduction of Paris, to assume for his arms a golden lion passant upon gules, with the motto FIDELIS ET FORTIS. This was a great matter in the way of honor, but very little in the way of wealth; so that when the illustrious companion of the great Henry died, the only inheritance he was able to leave his son was his sword and his motto. Thanks to this double gift and the spotless name that accompanied it, M. de Treville was admitted into the household of the young prince where he made such good use of his sword, and was so faithful to his motto, that Louis XIII, one of the good blades of his kingdom, was accustomed to say that if he had a friend who was about to fight, he would advise him to choose as a second, himself first, and Treville next–or even, perhaps, before himself.
Thus Louis XIII had a real liking for Treville–a royal liking, a self-interested liking, it is true, but still a liking. At that unhappy period it was an important consideration to be surrounded by such men as Treville. Many might take for their device the epithet STRONG, which formed the second part of his motto, but very few gentlemen could lay claim to the FAITHFUL, which constituted the first. Treville was one of these latter. His was one of those rare organizations, endowed with an obedient intelligence like that of the dog; with a blind valor, a quick eye, and a prompt hand; to whom sight appeared only to be given to see if the king were dissatisfied with anyone, and the hand to strike this displeasing personage, whether a Besme, a Maurevers, a Poltiot de Mere, or a Vitry. In short, up to this period nothing had been wanting to Treville but opportunity; but he was ever on the watch for it, and he faithfully promised himself that he would not fail to seize it by its three hairs whenever it came within reach of his hand. At last Louis XIII made Treville the captain of his Musketeers, who were to Louis XIII in devotedness, or rather in fanaticism, what his Ordinaries had been to Henry III, and his Scotch Guard to Louis XI.
On his part, the cardinal was not behind the king in this respect. When he saw the formidable and chosen body with which Louis XIII had surrounded himself, this second, or rather this first king of France, became desirous that he, too, should have his guard. He had his Musketeers therefore, as Louis XIII had his, and these two powerful rivals vied with each other in procuring, not only from all the provinces of France, but even from all foreign states, the most celebrated swordsmen. It was not uncommon for Richelieu and Louis XIII to dispute over their evening game of chess upon the merits of their servants. Each boasted the bearing and the courage of his own people. While exclaiming loudly against duels and brawls, they excited them secretly to quarrel, deriving an immoderate satisfaction or genuine regret from the success or defeat of their own combatants. We learn this from the memoirs of a man who was concerned in some few of these defeats and in many of these victories.
Treville had grasped the weak side of his master; and it was to this address that he owed the long and constant favor of a king who has not left the reputation behind him of being very faithful in his friendships. He paraded his Musketeers before the Cardinal Armand Duplessis with an insolent air which made the gray moustache of his Eminence curl with ire. Treville understood admirably the war method of that period, in which he who could not live at the expense of the enemy must live at the expense of his compatriots. His soldiers formed a legion of devil-may-care fellows, perfectly undisciplined toward all but himself.
Loose, half-drunk, imposing, the king’s Musketeers, or rather M. de Treville’s, spread themselves about in the cabarets, in the public walks, and the public sports, shouting, twisting their mustaches, clanking their swords, and taking great pleasure in annoying the Guards of the cardinal whenever they could fall in with them; then drawing in the open streets, as if it were the best of all possible sports; sometimes killed, but sure in that case to be both wept and avenged; often killing others, but then certain of not rotting in prison, M. de Treville being there to claim them. Thus M. de Treville was praised to the highest note by these men, who adored him, and who, ruffians as they were, trembled before him like scholars before their master, obedient to his least word, and ready to sacrifice themselves to wash out the smallest insult.
M de Treville employed this powerful weapon for the king, in the first place, and the friends of the king–and then for himself and his own friends. For the rest, in the memoirs of this period, which has left so many memoirs, one does not find this worthy gentleman blamed even by his enemies; and he had many such among men of the pen as well as among men of the sword. In no instance, let us say, was this worthy gentleman accused of deriving personal advantage from the cooperation of his minions. Endowed with a rare genius for intrigue which rendered him the equal of the ablest intriguers, he remained an honest man. Still further, in spite of sword thrusts which weaken, and painful exercises which fatigue, he had become one of the most gallant frequenters of revels, one of the most insinuating lady’s men, one of the softest whisperers of interesting nothings of his day; the BONNES FORTUNES of de Treville were talked of as those of M. de Bassompierre had been talked of twenty years before, and that was not saying a little. The captain of the Musketeers was therefore admired, feared, and loved; and this constitutes the zenith of human fortune.
