The Three Musketeers E-Book

Dumas Alexandre

• Herausgeber: GAEditori
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

The Three Musketeers is an appendix novel written by the French Alexandre Dumas with the collaboration of Auguste Maquet in 1844 and originally published in installments in the newspaper Le Siècle. It is one of the most famous novels and features of French literature and has started a trilogy, which includes Twenty Years Later (1845) and The Viscount of Bragelonne (1850). The three musketeers of the title are Athos, Porthos and Aramis, to which the novel's protagonist, D'Artagnan, is added.
 

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Alexandre Dumas

The Three Musketeers

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Alexandre Dumas

Printed in March 2022

Alexandre Dumas

The Three Musketeers

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.

Louis XIV absorbed all the smaller stars of his court in his own vast

radiance; but his father, a sun PLURIBUS IMPAR, left his personal splendor to

each of his favorites, his individual value to each of his courtiers. In addition to

the leeves of the king and the cardinal, there might be reckoned in Paris at that

time more than two hundred smaller but still noteworthy leeves. Among these

two hundred leeves, that of Treville was one of the most sought.

The court of his hotel, situated in the Rue du Vieux-Colombier, resembled a

camp from by six o’clock in the morning in summer and eight o’clock in winter.

From fifty to sixty Musketeers, who appeared to replace one another in order always to present an imposing number, paraded constantly, armed to the teeth

and ready for anything. On one of those immense staircases, upon whose space

modern civilization would build a whole house, ascended and descended the

office seekers of Paris, who ran after any sort of favor--gentlemen from the provinces anxious to be enrolled, and servants in all sorts of liveries, bringing and carrying messages between their masters and M. de Treville. In the

antechamber, upon long circular benches, reposed the elect; that is to say, those

who were called. In this apartment a continued buzzing prevailed from morning

till night, while M. de Treville, in his office contiguous to this antechamber, received visits, listened to complaints, gave his orders, and like the king in his balcony at the Louvre, had only to place himself at the window to review both

his men and arms.

The day on which d’Artagnan presented himself the assemblage was

imposing, particularly for a provincial just arriving from his province. It is true

that this provincial was a Gascon; and that, particularly at this period, the compatriots of d’Artagnan had the reputation of not being easily intimidated.

When he had once passed the massive door covered with long square-headed nails, he fell into the midst of a troop of swordsmen, who crossed one another in

their passage, calling out, quarreling, and playing tricks one with another. In order to make one’s way amid these turbulent and conflicting waves, it was

necessary to be an officer, a great noble, or a pretty woman.

It was, then, into the midst of this tumult and disorder that our young man

advanced with a beating heart, ranging his long rapier up his lanky leg, and keeping one hand on the edge of his cap, with that half-smile of the embarrassed

provincial who wishes to put on a good face. When he had passed one group he

began to breathe more freely; but he could not help observing that they turned round to look at him, and for the first time in his life d’Artagnan, who had till that day entertained a very good opinion of himself, felt ridiculous.

Arrived at the staircase, it was still worse. There were four Musketeers on

the bottom steps, amusing themselves with the following exercise, while ten or

twelve of their comrades waited upon the landing place to take their turn in the

sport.

One of them, stationed upon the top stair, naked sword in hand, prevented,

or at least endeavored to prevent, the three others from ascending.

These three others fenced against him with their agile swords.

D’Artagnan at first took these weapons for foils, and believed them to be

buttoned; but he soon perceived by certain scratches that every weapon was

pointed and sharpened, and that at each of these scratches not only the

spectators, but even the actors themselves, laughed like so many madmen.

He who at the moment occupied the upper step kept his adversaries

marvelously in check. A circle was formed around them. The conditions required

that at every hit the man touched should quit the game, yielding his turn for the

benefit of the adversary who had hit him. In five minutes three were slightly wounded, one on the hand, another on the ear, by the defender of the stair, who

himself remained intact--a piece of skill which was worth to him, according to the rules agreed upon, three turns of favor.

However difficult it might be, or rather as he pretended it was, to astonish our young traveler, this pastime really astonished him. He had seen in his

province--that land in which heads become so easily heated--a few of the

preliminaries of duels; but the daring of these four fencers appeared to him the

strongest he had ever heard of even in Gascony. He believed himself transported

into that famous country of giants into which Gulliver afterward went and was so frightened; and yet he had not gained the goal, for there were still the landing

place and the antechamber.

On the landing they were no longer fighting, but amused themselves with

stories about women, and in the antechamber, with stories about the court. On the landing d’Artagnan blushed; in the antechamber he trembled. His warm and

fickle imagination, which in Gascony had rendered him formidable to young

chambermaids, and even sometimes their mistresses, had never dreamed, even in

moments of delirium, of half the amorous wonders or a quarter of the feats of gallantry which were here set forth in connection with names the best known and

with details the least concealed. But if his morals were shocked on the landing,

his respect for the cardinal was scandalized in the antechamber. There, to his great astonishment, d’Artagnan heard the policy which made all Europe tremble

criticized aloud and openly, as well as the private life of the cardinal, which so

many great nobles had been punished for trying to pry into. That great man who

was so revered by d’Artagnan the elder served as an object of ridicule to the Musketeers of Treville, who cracked their jokes upon his bandy legs and his

crooked back. Some sang ballads about Mme. d’Aguillon, his mistress, and

Mme. Cambalet, his niece; while others formed parties and plans to annoy the pages and guards of the cardinal duke--all things which appeared to d’Artagnan

monstrous impossibilities.

Nevertheless, when the name of the king was now and then uttered

unthinkingly amid all these cardinal jests, a sort of gag seemed to close for a moment on all these jeering mouths. They looked hesitatingly around them, and

appeared to doubt the thickness of the partition between them and the office of

M. de Treville; but a fresh allusion soon brought back the conversation to his Eminence, and then the laughter recovered its loudness and the light was not withheld from any of his actions.

“Certes, these fellows will all either be imprisoned or hanged,” thought the

terrified d’Artagnan, “and I, no doubt, with them; for from the moment I have either listened to or heard them, I shall be held as an accomplice. What would my good father say, who so strongly pointed out to me the respect due to the cardinal, if he knew I was in the society of such pagans?”

We have no need, therefore, to say that d’Artagnan dared not join in the

conversation, only he looked with all his eyes and listened with all his ears, stretching his five senses so as to lose nothing; and despite his confidence on the

paternal admonitions, he felt himself carried by his tastes and led by his instincts

to praise rather than to blame the unheard-of things which were taking place.

Although he was a perfect stranger in the court of M. de Treville’s courtiers,

and this his first appearance in that place, he was at length noticed, and

somebody came and asked him what he wanted. At this demand d’Artagnan

gave his name very modestly, emphasized the title of compatriot, and begged the

servant who had put the question to him to request a moment’s audience of M.

de Treville--a request which the other, with an air of protection, promised to transmit in due season.

D’Artagnan, a little recovered from his first surprise, had now leisure to

study costumes and physiognomy.

The center of the most animated group was a Musketeer of great height and

haughty countenance, dressed in a costume so peculiar as to attract general

attention. He did not wear the uniform cloak--which was not obligatory at that epoch of less liberty but more independence--but a cerulean-blue doublet, a little

faded and worn, and over this a magnificent baldric, worked in gold, which

shone like water ripples in the sun. A long cloak of crimson velvet fell in graceful folds from his shoulders, disclosing in front the splendid baldric, from

which was suspended a gigantic rapier. This Musketeer had just come off guard,

complained of having a cold, and coughed from time to time affectedly. It was for this reason, as he said to those around him, that he had put on his cloak; and

while he spoke with a lofty air and twisted his mustache disdainfully, all admired

his embroidered baldric, and d’Artagnan more than anyone.

“What would you have?” said the Musketeer. “This fashion is coming in. It

is a folly, I admit, but still it is the fashion. Besides, one must lay out one’s inheritance somehow.”

“Ah, Porthos!” cried one of his companions, “don’t try to make us believe

you obtained that baldric by paternal generosity. It was given to you by that veiled lady I met you with the other Sunday, near the gate St. Honor.”

“No, upon honor and by the faith of a gentleman, I bought it with the

contents of my own purse,” answered he whom they designated by the name

Porthos.

“Yes; about in the same manner,” said another Musketeer, “that I bought

this new purse with what my mistress put into the old one.”

“It’s true, though,” said Porthos; “and the proof is that I paid twelve pistoles

for it.”

The wonder was increased, though the doubt continued to exist.

“Is it not true, Aramis?” said Porthos, turning toward another Musketeer.

This other Musketeer formed a perfect contrast to his interrogator, who had

just designated him by the name of Aramis. He was a stout man, of about two- or

three-and-twenty, with an open, ingenuous countenance, a black, mild eye, and

cheeks rosy and downy as an autumn peach. His delicate mustache marked a

perfectly straight line upon his upper lip; he appeared to dread to lower his hands

lest their veins should swell, and he pinched the tips of his ears from time to time

to preserve their delicate pink transparency. Habitually he spoke little and

slowly, bowed frequently, laughed without noise, showing his teeth, which were

fine and of which, as the rest of his person, he appeared to take great care. He

answered the appeal of his friend by an affirmative nod of the head.

This affirmation appeared to dispel all doubts with regard to the baldric.

They continued to admire it, but said no more about it; and with a rapid change of thought, the conversation passed suddenly to another subject.

“What do you think of the story Chalais’s esquire relates?” asked another

Musketeer, without addressing anyone in particular, but on the contrary speaking

to everybody.

“And what does he say?” asked Porthos, in a self-sufficient tone.

“He relates that he met at Brussels Rochefort, the AME DAMNEE of the

cardinal disguised as a Capuchin, and that this cursed Rochefort, thanks to his disguise, had tricked Monsieur de Laigues, like a ninny as he is.”

“A ninny, indeed!” said Porthos; “but is the matter certain?”

“I had it from Aramis,” replied the Musketeer.

“Indeed?”

“Why, you knew it, Porthos,” said Aramis. “I told you of it yesterday. Let

us say no more about it.”

“Say no more about it? That’s YOUR opinion!” replied Porthos.

“Say no more about it! PESTE! You come to your conclusions quickly.

What! The cardinal sets a spy upon a gentleman, has his letters stolen from him

by means of a traitor, a brigand, a rascal--has, with the help of this spy and thanks to this correspondence, Chalais’s throat cut, under the stupid pretext that

he wanted to kill the king and marry Monsieur to the queen! Nobody knew a

word of this enigma. You unraveled it yesterday to the great satisfaction of all;

and while we are still gaping with wonder at the news, you come and tell us today, ‘Let us say no more about it.’”

“Well, then, let us talk about it, since you desire it,” replied Aramis,

patiently.

“This Rochefort,” cried Porthos, “if I were the esquire of poor Chalais,

should pass a minute or two very uncomfortably with me.”

“And you--you would pass rather a sad quarter-hour with the Red Duke,”

replied Aramis.

“Oh, the Red Duke! Bravo! Bravo! The Red Duke!” cried Porthos, clapping

his hands and nodding his head. “The Red Duke is capital. I’ll circulate that saying, be assured, my dear fellow. Who says this Aramis is not a wit? What a

misfortune it is you did not follow your first vocation; what a delicious abbe you

would have made!”

“Oh, it’s only a temporary postponement,” replied Aramis; “I shall be one

someday. You very well know, Porthos, that I continue to study theology for that

purpose.”

“He will be one, as he says,” cried Porthos; “he will be one, sooner or

later.”

“Sooner,” said Aramis.

“He only waits for one thing to determine him to resume his cassock, which

hangs behind his uniform,” said another Musketeer.

“What is he waiting for?” asked another.

“Only till the queen has given an heir to the crown of France.”

“No jesting upon that subject, gentlemen,” said Porthos; “thank God the

queen is still of an age to give one!”

“They say that Monsieur de Buckingham is in France,” replied Aramis,

with a significant smile which gave to this sentence, apparently so simple, a tolerably scandalous meaning.

“Aramis, my good friend, this time you are wrong,” interrupted Porthos.

“Your wit is always leading you beyond bounds; if Monsieur de Treville heard

you, you would repent of speaking thus.”

“Are you going to give me a lesson, Porthos?” cried Aramis, from whose

usually mild eye a flash passed like lightning.

“My dear fellow, be a Musketeer or an abbe. Be one or the other, but not

both,” replied Porthos. “You know what Athos told you the other day; you eat at

everybody’s mess. Ah, don’t be angry, I beg of you, that would be useless; you

know what is agreed upon between you, Athos and me. You go to Madame

d’Aguillon’s, and you pay your court to her; you go to Madame de Bois-Tracy’s,

the cousin of Madame de Chevreuse, and you pass for being far advanced in the

good graces of that lady. Oh, good Lord! Don’t trouble yourself to reveal your good luck; no one asks for your secret-all the world knows your discretion. But

since you possess that virtue, why the devil don’t you make use of it with respect

to her Majesty? Let whoever likes talk of the king and the cardinal, and how he

likes; but the queen is sacred, and if anyone speaks of her, let it be respectfully.”

“Porthos, you are as vain as Narcissus; I plainly tell you so,” replied

Aramis. “You know I hate moralizing, except when it is done by Athos. As to you, good sir, you wear too magnificent a baldric to be strong on that head. I will

be an abbe if it suits me. In the meanwhile I am a Musketeer; in that quality I say

what I please, and at this moment it pleases me to say that you weary me.”

“Aramis!”

“Porthos!”

“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” cried the surrounding group.

“Monsieur de Treville awaits Monsieur d’Artagnan,” cried a servant,

throwing open the door of the cabinet.

At this announcement, during which the door remained open, everyone

became mute, and amid the general silence the young man crossed part of the length of the antechamber, and entered the apartment of the captain of the

Musketeers, congratulating himself with all his heart at having so narrowly

escaped the end of this strange quarrel.

3 THE AUDIENCE

M de Treville was at the moment in rather ill-humor, nevertheless he saluted

the young man politely, who bowed to the very ground; and he smiled on

receiving d’Artagnan’s response, the Bearnese accent of which recalled to him at

the same time his youth and his country--a double remembrance which makes a

man smile at all ages; but stepping toward the antechamber and making a sign to

d’Artagnan with his hand, as if to ask his permission to finish with others before

he began with him, he called three times, with a louder voice at each time, so that he ran through the intervening tones between the imperative accent and the

angry accent.

“Athos! Porthos! Aramis!”

The two Musketeers with whom we have already made acquaintance, and

who answered to the last of these three names, immediately quitted the group of

which they had formed a part, and advanced toward the cabinet, the door of

which closed after them as soon as they had entered. Their appearance, although

it was not quite at ease, excited by its carelessness, at once full of dignity and submission, the admiration of d’Artagnan, who beheld in these two men

demigods, and in their leader an Olympian Jupiter, armed with all his thunders.

When the two Musketeers had entered; when the door was closed behind

them; when the buzzing murmur of the antechamber, to which the summons

which had been made had doubtless furnished fresh food, had recommenced;

when M. de Treville had three or four times paced in silence, and with a

frowning brow, the whole length of his cabinet, passing each time before Porthos

and Aramis, who were as upright and silent as if on parade--he stopped all at

once full in front of them, and covering them from head to foot with an angry look, “Do you know what the king said to me,” cried he, “and that no longer ago

than yesterday evening--do you know, gentlemen?”

“No,” replied the two Musketeers, after a moment’s silence, “no, sir, we do

not.”

“But I hope that you will do us the honor to tell us,” added Aramis, in his

politest tone and with his most graceful bow.

“He told me that he should henceforth recruit his Musketeers from among

the Guards of Monsieur the Cardinal.”

“The Guards of the cardinal! And why so?” asked Porthos, warmly.

“Because he plainly perceives that his piquette* stands in need of being

enlivened by a mixture of good wine.”

*A watered liquor, made from the second pressing of the grape.

The two Musketeers reddened to the whites of their eyes. D’Artagnan did not

know where he was, and wished himself a hundred feet underground.

“Yes, yes,” continued M. de Treville, growing warmer as he spoke, “and his

majesty was right; for, upon my honor, it is true that the Musketeers make but a

miserable figure at court. The cardinal related yesterday while playing with the

king, with an air of condolence very displeasing to me, that the day before yesterday those DAMNED MUSKETEERS, those DAREDEVILS--he dwelt

upon those words with an ironical tone still more displeasing to me--those

BRAGGARTS, added he, glancing at me with his tiger-cat’s eye, had made a riot

in the Rue Ferou in a cabaret, and that a party of his Guards (I thought he was

going to laugh in my face) had been forced to arrest the rioters! MORBLEU!

You must know something about it. Arrest Musketeers! You were among them--

you were! Don’t deny it; you were recognized, and the cardinal named you. But

it’s all my fault; yes, it’s all my fault, because it is myself who selects my men.

You, Aramis, why the devil did you ask me for a uniform when you would have

been so much better in a cassock? And you, Porthos, do you only wear such a fine golden baldric to suspend a sword of straw from it? And Athos--I don’t see

Athos. Where is he?”

“Ill--”

“Very ill, say you? And of what malady?”

“It is feared that it may be the smallpox, sir,” replied Porthos, desirous of taking his turn in the conversation; “and what is serious is that it will certainly

spoil his face.”

“The smallpox! That’s a great story to tell me, Porthos! Sick of the

smallpox at his age! No, no; but wounded without doubt, killed, perhaps. Ah, if I

knew! S’blood! Messieurs Musketeers, I will not have this haunting of bad

places, this quarreling in the streets, this swordplay at the crossways; and above

all, I will not have occasion given for the cardinal’s Guards, who are brave, quiet, skillful men who never put themselves in a position to be arrested, and who, besides, never allow themselves to be arrested, to laugh at you! I am sure

of it--they would prefer dying on the spot to being arrested or taking back a step.

To save yourselves, to scamper away, to flee--that is good for the king’s

Musketeers!”

Porthos and Aramis trembled with rage. They could willingly have

strangled M. de Treville, if, at the bottom of all this, they had not felt it was the

great love he bore them which made him speak thus. They stamped upon the

carpet with their feet; they bit their lips till the blood came, and grasped the hilts

of their swords with all their might. All without had heard, as we have said, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis called, and had guessed, from M. de Treville’s tone

of voice, that he was very angry about something. Ten curious heads were glued

to the tapestry and became pale with fury; for their ears, closely applied to the door, did not lose a syllable of what he said, while their mouths repeated as he

went on, the insulting expressions of the captain to all the people in the

antechamber. In an instant, from the door of the cabinet to the street gate, the whole hotel was boiling.

“Ah! The king’s Musketeers are arrested by the Guards of the cardinal, are they?” continued M. de Treville, as furious at heart as his soldiers, but

emphasizing his words and plunging them, one by one, so to say, like so many

blows of a stiletto, into the bosoms of his auditors. “What! Six of his Eminence’s

Guards arrest six of his Majesty’s Musketeers! MORBLEU! My part is taken! I

will go straight to the louvre; I will give in my resignation as captain of the king’s Musketeers to take a lieutenancy in the cardinal’s Guards, and if he

refuses me, MORBLEU! I will turn abbe.”

At these words, the murmur without became an explosion; nothing was to

be heard but oaths and blasphemies. The MORBLEUS, the SANG DIEUS, the

MORTS TOUTS LES DIABLES, crossed one another in the air. D’Artagnan

looked for some tapestry behind which he might hide himself, and felt an

immense inclination to crawl under the table.

“Well, my Captain,” said Porthos, quite beside himself, “the truth is that we

were six against six. But we were not captured by fair means; and before we had

time to draw our swords, two of our party were dead, and Athos, grievously

wounded, was very little better. For you know Athos. Well, Captain, he

endeavored twice to get up, and fell again twice. And we did not surrender--no!

They dragged us away by force. On the way we escaped. As for Athos, they

believed him to be dead, and left him very quiet on the field of battle, not thinking it worth the trouble to carry him away. That’s the whole story. What the

devil, Captain, one cannot win all one’s battles! The great Pompey lost that of Pharsalia; and Francis the First, who was, as I have heard say, as good as other

folks, nevertheless lost the Battle of Pavia.”

“And I have the honor of assuring you that I killed one of them with his

own sword,” said Aramis; “for mine was broken at the first parry. Killed him, or

poniarded him, sir, as is most agreeable to you.”

“I did not know that,” replied M. de Treville, in a somewhat softened tone.

“The cardinal exaggerated, as I perceive.”

“But pray, sir,” continued Aramis, who, seeing his captain become

appeased, ventured to risk a prayer, “do not say that Athos is wounded. He would be in despair if that should come to the ears of the king; and as the wound

is very serious, seeing that after crossing the shoulder it penetrates into the chest,

it is to be feared--”

At this instant the tapestry was raised and a noble and handsome head, but

frightfully pale, appeared under the fringe.

“Athos!” cried the two Musketeers.

“Athos!” repeated M. de Treville himself.