Various
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 57, No. 351, January 1845
All cocked hats, be it observed, are glorious rain-traps; the only improvement they are capable of is one not yet patented, namely, the appending of neat flexible spouts, say of Macintosh cloth, from each corner, so as to convey the water in pleasant meanderings over the back and coat-tails. In dry weather these spouts might be tied up, and would form graceful curves either before, behind, or on one side of the cocked flaps, while in a shower they would add dignity to utility, as they hung all adown the back of the wearer. One kind of utility, however, the old cocked hat certainly had; it served in some degree, maugre the looping up of the brim, to shelter the face from the sun; not indeed when worn full front, as it was in Dr Johnson's time, and as we remember the household troops used to wear it — but when, by a daring innovation of revolutionary times, it came to be turned round on its human pivot, and lay gently athwart the line of vision. Thus it is that our generals wear it in this nineteenth century; thus it was that the Great Duke got all through Spain with it; though Napoleon, who greatly reduced its dimensions, always kept to the orthodox full-front; and in all positions, except the latter, it certainly does shade some portion of the face from the sun. But while, for example, the projection of one peak shades the nose, the ears and cheeks are left to fish for themselves; or else, if the hat wheels round again to the front, the ears come under its benignant shade, but the tip of the proboscis suffers awfully. The cocked hat has always been a two-horned dilemma ever since the third peak moved up in the world from its original position of horizontal equality, and aspired to be a near neighbour of the cockade or towering plume.
It was that wicked revolution of France, or rather that dissolute time preceding it, which produced the most mischief in the hat line. Look at any of the pictures of that day — look at the portraits of the Conventionalists — look at the old prints of country gentlemen hunting or riding races at Newmarket — remember the Sir Joshuas in many a noble gallery; and you will not fail to remark that the choice spirits of the day, the go-ahead lads of that time, had let down the flaps of their cocked hats into slouching, and we must say, most slovenly circular brims. There was a sort of free-and-easy look affected in that day about the head, totally at enmity with the prim rigidity of the cocked beaver; you might have taken off your chapeau rond, as it then came to be called, and you might have sat on it — it would have been never the worse; but not so with its stiff old father — no liberties were to be taken with him; once sit upon him, and you would have crushed him forever. This very difference of hats marked a difference of politics — at least in France. There the old chapeau à trois cornes was the badge of the aristocracy: the chapeau rond and the bonnet rouge were sworn brothers in the cause of democracy. The times were getting unhinged; all fashions were relaxing; so were public morals; so were private morals; so were men's hats: hats and heads seemed to have a sympathy, and to have gone wrong together.
And what has been the history of the hat since that day? — the civilian's hat we mean. Who remembers the overlapping crowns which came into fashion soon after the great peace, at a time when Frenchmen wore their brims extravagantly pinched up at the sides, and deeply pulled down fore and aft? Sometimes the hat rose up in pyramidal majesty; sometimes it was shut in like a telescope wanting to be pulled out. And then every kind of fancy man had a fancy hat: there was the Neck-or-nothing hat, the Bang-up, the Corinthian, the Jerry, and the Logic; or else distinguished leaders of ton lent their names to it, and we had the Petershams, the Barringtons, &c. Through every degree of absurdity has the chapeau rond passed, until it seems to have settled down into that quiescent state of mediocrity which marks the decline of empires and of hats. The brim is no longer only half an inch broad as it was once, nor four inches broad as we also remember it: it seems to vary between the limits of one inch and two — a breadth just sufficient to let the line of shade, when the head is erect, come upon the eye-lids, and just sufficient to clear the ears. But if the head be moved ever so little, or if the rain come down ever so slantingly, the services of the hat are at an end: it is well enough to intercept any thing coming down perpendicularly, but "slantendicularly," as friend Slick says — no. Its present height is just enough to prevent your wearing it in a carriage, and such, too, as to give a moderate wind a good purchase upon it: the substance is such that the least exposure to wet ruins it, whether of beaver or silk; a moderate blow will crack or break its form; and for the first week, if you have any thing like a sensitive head, or any bosses of unknown qualities protruding from your cranium, you are doomed to incessant headache from hat-pinchings. It has no properties of usefulness to recommend it, and none of ornament, saving this — if it can be called such — the being an invaluable appendage for a little man to make himself appear tall. What a wide interval from the simplicity of its Phrygian original!
Having, therefore, criticized our present head-gear, and condemned our hats, without pulling them to pieces, let us enquire what a proper covering for the head should be: first of all in point of usefulness, and next in point of comely appearance. But let no man vainly imagine that we expect to suit the fancies of all the creatures privileged to wear hats, or even to cover their heads; we do not pretend to invent, or decide upon, any one given type or form of head-dress. So many are the wants of a man in covering his head, so widely differing from each other are the exigencies of different people, that uniformity in hats is to be given up as a bad job: to attempt it would foil the strength of a Hercules: the utmost we can hope to effect is to lay down certain limits for the variations of this apex of human pride.
For us, then, who live in a climate rainy, windy, hot, and cold, all within any twenty-four hours of the year, just as the case may be, it is plain that we want for general use something that will be proof against the atmospherical accidents that may befall any man who goes abroad to take the air. And here let it be observed, that in reasoning about hats, all thoughts about that effeminate invention, the umbrella, are to be laid aside. This utensil is truly a disgrace to the manhood of the times; and its existence, by allowing people to dispense with warm cloaks and other anti-rain appliances, has caused more disease, in letting them catch cold, than any thing else we know of. Our stalwart ancestors did admirably well without umbrellas; they wore good cloaks or coats, and broad beavers to keep the rain out of their necks, faring not a jot the worse for it. Umbrellas are only fit for men-milliners, Cockney travellers, and women. The nature of a hat, we flatter ourselves, is something independent of cotton and whalebone; and instead of the umbrella claiming precedence over the hat, the hat, we take it, should be above the umbrella. An Englishman's hat, then, should be something that will keep the rain off his face and neck when the weather is bad, and shield his eyes from the glare of the sun on the few days when sunlight is oppressive — and these two requirements settle at once, on all principles of common sense, that a man, if he has only one kind of covering for the head, should have a hat with a broad brim. This is the very foundation of the definition of an useful hat, providing that a hat is really to be the thing worn for protecting a man's upper story. Usefulness will also decide against height in the crown. Cui bono this same high crown of ours, that looks more like a watering-pot deprived of its spout and handle than a reasonable article of human apparel? Down with the crowns, say we! If you will wear a hat, down with your crown. You may put down your half-sovereign or sovereign, or whatever you please, for your new hat first of all, but down with your crown too. Here, gentle reader, you will exclaim against our taste, and will protest that we would sacrifice every thing to that horrid utilitarian principle, which opposes all ideas of beauty and poetry. We are free to confess that, in our opinion, there is not much poetry to be made about such a subject — unless some obsolete verses, "All round my hat," may be alleged to the contrary; but as for the beauty of the head-piece, we protest that we admit its existence, and think that it should be consulted by whomsoever would pay proper attention to his own outward appearance. The merely useful may possibly make the shape approximate to that of a Quaker's or a jarvey's, but the beautiful has to elevate and modify it into the mystical proportions fit for a man of taste. One other quality, however, which is intimately connected with the useful, has to be noticed. The substance should not be hard and unyielding. Witness, ye reminiscences — ye painful images of bygone headachs, even yet flitting through our brain like Titanic thunderbolts! — accursed be the memory of that fellow Tightfit in Old Bond Street, who used to screw his hats on our cranium when we were young, and ere London had awakened us! As you value your comfort, dear reader, never purchase a hard hat. A hard heart may be borne with, but a hard hat — never! And last of all, a hat should be light — yes, the lighter the better — light as a gossamer web, though 'tis a simile that will not bear stretching. You may have the misfortune to be a heavy-headed man, but do not add to it that of being heavy-hatted. Avoid the extremity of suffering; and observe the climax of ill from which we would shield your head — a narrow-brimmed, hard, heavy, high-crowned hat —
"τοδε γαρ βροτοίς μεγιστον ηλθετ’ εκ θεων κακον."
The covering of the head, then, must have its usefulness made ornamental, if not beautiful; and the due ornamentation of it will depend principally upon its form, but also upon its colour and material. Now, form is the principal thing; every one that has half an eye for art will tell you this — 'tis an admitted axiom. Either, then, the shape of the covering should conform to that of the head, or it should not, and we take our ground in support of the latter position. The natural form of the head is determined by the rotundity of the cranium, beautifully modified by the waving curls of the hair — we speak of the abstract well-formed head; and nothing that approaches to the same shape will ever do more than give a bad substitute for the outline of the head as nature framed it. Any covering conceals the hair; and if you remove from sight this intrinsically beautiful integument, it is a principle of bad taste to put in its place only a poor copy of the same contour. If you cover the head, cover it with something that forms lines not curving like the skull, nor yet so angular as to create too striking an opposition of ideas in the mind of the beholder. A close-fitting untasseled skull-cap does not improve the form of the head, for it is not half so graceful as the hair; but a square hat or pyramidal cap is truly detestable. This is the reason why the common nightcap is ugly; it fits the head too closely, and its upper end conveys the ludicrous idea of something made to be pulled at. On the other hand, the double nightcap, pulled out and allowed to hang down on one shoulder, Spanish fashion, is less ugly — though far removed from our own ideas of beauty — because it introduces a new system of curves, and acts as a kind of dependent drapery to compensate for the concealment of the hair. Here is also the reason why the common hat is so frightful; it gives us straight or nearly straight lines, going upwards like tangents from the oval of the face, and cut off above by another straight line (the section of the crown) at right angles: all such lines and angles are foreign to the face and head. The common nightcap is too familiar, the common hat too stiff. Observe the lines of the face and head; the projection of the nose, the rounded angularity of the chin; the vertical section of the head affording curves with decided yet harmonious irregularities; the horizontal section producing a nearly regular contour. Well, it is upon principles of this kind that the covering of the head should be beautified. Now, we profess ourselves unable to make any better reconciliation of the useful with the beautiful for this purpose, than in the small, flexible, light, and broad-brimmed hat, which is still to be found in some Spanish and Italian pictures; a hat not quite so large as that worn in the reign of Charles I., yet with all its freedom and capability of assuming a variety of graceful forms; not so stiff as the beaux of the Spanish court, and the rakes of our own merry monarch's palace made it; not so formal as we know James I. and Lord Bacon used to wear; but something between all these three types. The prevalence of straight lines in it should be avoided without its appearing slovenly, and its dimensions should be such as to consult convenience without relapsing into a homely vulgarity. Such a kind of hat admits of any further ornament which the fancy of the wearer may induce him to add; a feather, a band, a buckle, or even a plain button for occasionally looping up the brim on one side or other, (not two sides, for it would return to the old cocked hat,) — any of these extraneous additions would harmonize, and would be in due character with its shape. Such a hat would certainly be useful; and that it would be ornamental we have only to decide by consulting our eyes, and by looking at our ancestors' portraits of the seventeenth century.
But there is another kind of covering for the head, which, for its peculiar purposes, seems to us more useful and more ornamental even than this hat; we allude to the common round travelling cap, the officers' undress cap in the British army. Are you going a journey? have you any rough work to do? have you got a headach and want something light? would you put on something that will not spoil by being pulled about, sat on, slept on, and stood on? something handy, useful, comfortable, and withal good-looking? — What do you do? you get a foraging cap. Every man looks well in a foraging cap; it harmonizes with every body's face: it makes the old look young, and the young look smart: it is, without pretence, plain in detail, and yet elegant in outline: it has no straight lines in it, and yet its curves are in contrast with those of the head; they run in opposite directions: and the shade of the cap, if it has one, emulates the decisiveness of the nose, and gives character to the profile of the head, just as the nose gives point and force to the face. Nothing so easily admits of suitable ornament: a plain band — a golden one — or even a coloured one — makes it suitable to the various ranks and occupations of men: while its material, admitting of infinite variety, according to the taste of the wearer, never injures the source of its beauty its form. The cap fails in only one thing; it is unfit for rainy weather; it will only do for dry days. Do not attempt to put a flap behind it, and tie it under your chin — you at once convert it into an ugly nightcap; its curves then imitate those of the head, and the ridiculous takes the place of the becoming. For three hundred days, however, out of the three hundred and sixty-five, such a cap may be worn with the greatest comfort and advantage: while, for simplicity and elegance, it has no rival. We exclude most vigorously all other kinds of caps; we admit nothing but the common round foraging cap, with a small shade over the eyes; we especially set our faces against the little quirked Highland cap, now revived, and becoming popular among the southrons. This cap has part of its curves — those behind the head approximating too closely to the curve of the skull: in fact, at the hinder part it is a skull-cap; whereas, the other part of the curves in front are too much in opposition to the outline of the face: they bend over and form an unpleasant contrast with the nose and chin: they are deficient in the shade or visor, and there is not one man in a thousand whose face they suit. All fancy-caps with whalebone, falling tops, angular projections, &c., are utterly abominate; we pin our faith to the quiet, unsophisticated, gentlemanlike cap worn by our officers: it beats almost any other head-dress in the world.
The prevailing tendency of the age is to avoid distinctions of dress except in the value of the material, and then only between the two great divisions of society — the affluent and the poor. Hence all ornament seems to be a superfluity, except upon occasions of public display or military service; and men will not now listen to any one who advises them to put feathers and gold lace on their hats and caps: they would as soon think of returning to the embroidered coats of their grandfathers. The principle is a good one: in the palmy days of Rome, the differences of dress bore no proportion to the differences of station; distinction in dress was the failing of the middle ages, a consequence of some lurking seeds of northern barbarism, which are only now ceasing to be propagated. We seem, like the great men of the Eternal City eighteen hundred years ago, to be looking more at the inward worth and influence of a man, than at his outward state and dress; and it is a good sign of the times; it is a reasonable inclination of the mind; but it confines the exercise of taste in dress. Men of the present day are determined to be plain about the head as well as about the body; all ornament of head-dress they have left to soldiers and to the fairer half of the creation: —sed hæc hactenus— we reserve our remarks on the coiffures of these two classes for another occasion.
H. L. J.
THE THREE GUARDSMEN
Guardsmen have at all periods been a racketing, rollicking set of fellows. Whether ancients or moderns, infidels or Christians, prætorians or janissaries, the mousquetaires and Scottish archers of the French Louises, or the lifeguards of "bonnie Dundee's" own regiment, they have always claimed, and usually enjoyed, a greater degree of license than is accorded to the more unpretending soldiery of the line. The first in the field, and the last out of it, they have sometimes seemed to think that, by thrashing the king's enemies, they acquired a right to baton his subjects, that captured cities atoned for the wrongs of deluded damsels, and that each extra blow struck in the fight, entitled them to an extra bottle in the barrack-room. On duty, discipline — off duty, dissipation — seems to have been the motto of these gentlemen; and if it be the case, that they occasionally forgot the former part of their device, it, on the other hand, is no where upon record, that they were oblivious of its latter portion. Fighting hard and drinking hard, living hard and dying hard, the bravest men and most desperate debauchees of all countries, have worn the uniform of guardsmen.
Our old friend, M. Alexandre Dumas, who, if we may believe one of his biographers, passes twelve hours a-day in driving a goosequill for the entertainment and particular edification of his countrymen, found himself, one fine morning, desperately at a loss for something to write about. He is, perhaps, not the first writer of fiction who has been in a like predicament; and even if he were, it would be neither wonderful nor unpardonable, seeing that his average rate of production is about three volumes per month. There is a limit to all things, even to the imagination of a French romance writer; and M. Dumas, without exception the most prolific of modern scribblers, was for once hard up for a subject.
L'hôpital n'est pas pour les chiens, says the French proverb. It occurred to M. Dumas, that the league or two of books in the Bibliothèque Royale were not placed there for the mere purpose of astonishing provincials, or causing English tourists to stare and lift up their hands in admiration; but that one of the objects of their preservation might well be, that they should afford suggestions to any distinguished littérateur who happened to be, like himself, in want of an idea. Emerging, therefore, from his comfortable abode in the Chaussée d'Antin, he turned his steps in the direction of the royal library, and was soon up to his ears in dusty tomes and jaundiced parchments. After much research, he discovered a folio manuscript, numbered, as he tells us in his preface, 4772 or 4773, and purporting to be a memoir, by a certain Count de la Fère, of events that occurred in France towards the latter part of the reign of Louis the Thirteenth. Upon perusal, he found this MS. so interesting, that he applied for, and obtained permission to publish it; and the memoir in question saw the light under the title of Les Trois Mousquetaires.
The piquant and interesting matter contained in this book, caused it to be much read, and numerous persons were curious to see the original manuscript. To their infinite surprise, however, they could obtain no account whatever of such a document; and what was still more provoking, the librarians seemed to look upon them as insane when they asked for it. There was much running up and down the library stairs, much mounting upon step-ladders, and tumbling of paper and parchment, much grumbling of puzzled librarians and disappointed applicants, until at last, the most obstinate became convinced that the aforesaid MS. had no existence save in the imagination of M. Dumas, who had, as it is vulgarly styled, "taken a rise" out of the public.
In the spring of the year 1625, a young Gascon gentleman named D'Artagnan, left his home to seek fortune at Paris. He was mounted on an ill-looking cob, some fourteen years of age — that is to say, within four years as old as its rider; the sword which his father buckled on him at parting, was more remarkable for its length than its elegance; his purse contained fifteen crowns, and his valise a couple of shirts. To compensate for this meagre equipment, he rode like a Tartar, and fenced like a St George; and was moreover possessed of three qualifications invaluable to a man who has his way to make in the world — a clear head, a light heart, and a courage that nothing could daunt. One thing more he had; a letter of recommendation from his father to Monsieur de Treville, captain of the mousquetaires, or body-guards, of his Majesty Louis the Thirteenth.
Nearly the last words of the worthy old Gascon, who was compelled by his poverty to send his son forth into the world thus slenderly provided, were an injunction to honour the King and Cardinal Richelieu, then in the zenith of his power, and to fight as often as he could get an opportunity. With such counsels yet ringing in his ears, it is not surprising, that before reaching Paris young D'Artagnan gets into a very pretty quarrel against overpowering odds, is somewhat maltreated, and, while senseless from the blows he has received, has his letter stolen from him by an emissary of the Cardinal, among whose political enemies M. de Treville stands in the foremost rank. The young adventurer, however, consoles himself for his loss, shakes his feathers, and arrives at Paris without further accident. Before entering the capital he disposes of his horse, of whose uncouth appearance he is heartily ashamed; and after improving his toilet as well as his scanty wardrobe will allow, he proceeds to the hotel of Monsieur de Treville, where he falls in with the three mousquetaires who give a title to the book, in which, however, D'Artagnan plays the most conspicuous and important part. He finds the hotel Treville throned with applicants for an audience, petitioners, mousquetaires, and lackeys bearing letters from persons of the first importance. He sends in his name, and after some delay, is admitted. Here is M. Dumas' account of the interview.
"Monsieur de Treville was that day in a particularly bad humour; nevertheless he returned D'Artagnan's profound bow with a polite inclination of the head, and smiled at the strong Gascon accent in which the young man uttered his compliments. The sound recalled to his mind his own youth and his native country, two things of which the recollection is apt to make most men smile. He then waved his hand to D'Artagnan, as if requesting him to have a moment's patience, and approaching the door leading to the anteroom, he called out in an imperious and angry tone —
"'Athos! Porthos! Aramis!'
"Two mousquetaires, who had already attracted D'Artagnan's attention, left the groups of which they formed a part, and entered the audience chamber, of which the door was immediately closed behind them.
"There was a remarkable contrast in the appearance of these two guardsmen. One was a man of gigantic stature, loud-voiced, and of stern and haughty countenance; the other, on the contrary, was of gentle and naïve physiognomy, with smooth rosy cheeks, a soft expression in his black eye, a delicate mustache on his upper lip, white hands, and a voice and smile remarkable for their mildness. The bearing of these two gentlemen upon entering the presence of their captain, showed a happy mixture of submission and dignity, which excited the admiration of D'Artagnan, who was already disposed to look upon the mousquetaires as demigods, and upon their chief as an Olympic Jupiter, armed with all his thunders.
"Monsieur de Treville took two or three turns up and down the apartment, silent, and with a contracted brow, passing each time before Porthos and Aramis, who remained mute and immoveable as if upon the parade ground. Suddenly he stopped, and measured them from head to foot with an angry glance.
"'Do you know what the King told me, gentlemen, and that no longer ago than yesternight? Do you know, I say, what his Majesty told me?'
"'No,' replied the two guardsmen after a moment's silence. 'No, sir, we do not know it.'
"'But I hope you will do us the honour to inform us,' said Aramis in his most polite tone, and with his most graceful bow.
"'He told me that henceforward he would recruit his mousquetaires from among the guards of Monsieur le Cardinal.'
"'Among the guards of Monsieur le Cardinal! And why so?' demanded Porthos abruptly.
"'Because he finds that his own sour wine requires to be improved by the admixture of some more generous liquor.'
"The two guardsmen coloured up to the eyes. D'Artagnan felt uncertain whether he was standing on his head or his heels.
"'Yes,' continued Monsieur de Treville with increased vivacity, 'and his Majesty is right; for, by my honour, the mousquetaires cut a sorry figure at the court! Monsieur le Cardinal was relating yesterday at the King's card-table, in a tone of condolence that displeased me no little, how those infernal mousquetaires, those sabreurs as he ironically called them, had forgotten themselves over their bottle at a tavern in the Rue Ferou, and how a patrol of his guards had found it necessary to arrest them. I thought he was going to laugh in my face as he said the words, looking at me all the time with his tiger-cat eyes. Morbleu! you ought to know something about it. You were amongst them; the cardinal named you. Mousquetaires, indeed, who allow themselves to be arrested! But it is my fault for not choosing my men better. What the devil possessed you, Aramis, to ask me for a guardsman's uniform, when a priest's surplice would have fitted you better? And you, Porthos, what is the use of your wearing that magnificent embroidered sword-belt, if the weapon it supports is of such small service to you? And Athos, I do not see Athos. Where is he?'
"'Sir,' replied Aramis gravely, 'he is ill — very ill.'
"'Ill, say you? And of what disease?'
"'It is feared that it is the small-pox, sir,' replied Porthos, who was desirous of putting in a word. 'It would be a great pity, for it would assuredly spoil his appearance.'
"'The small-pox! A fine story indeed! The small-pox at his age! Not so! But wounded, I suppose — killed perhaps. Sangdieu! Messieurs les Mousquetaires, I insist upon your ceasing to frequent taverns and places of bad repute. I will have no more brawling and sword-playing in the public streets. I will not have my regiment made a laughing-stock to the Cardinal's guards, who are brave fellows, prudent and quiet — who do not get themselves into trouble, and if they did, would not allow themselves to be arrested. Not they! They would sooner die upon the spot than recede an inch. It is only the King's mousquetaires who run away or are taken prisoners.'
"Porthos and Aramis trembled with rage. They would willingly have strangled their chief, if they had not felt that it was the great affection he bore them that induced him to speak thus harshly. They bit their lips till the blood came, and clutched the hilts of their swords in silent fury. Several of the guardsmen in the anteroom, who had heard Monsieur de Treville's summons to Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, and suspected what was going on, had applied their ears to the tapestry, and lost not a word of their captain's reproaches, which they repeated to those around them, who in their turn repeated them to their comrades on the staircase and in the courtyard. In an instant, from the anteroom to the street, all was commotion.
"'Ha! his Majesty's mousquetaires allow themselves to be arrested by the Cardinal's guards!' continued Monsieur de Treville, who was as furious as his soldiers. 'Aha! sirs, six of his Eminence's guards arrest six of the King's! Morbleu! I have made up my mind what to do. I will go at once to the Louvre, resign my post as captain of mousquetaires, and solicit a lieutenancy in the Cardinal's guards; and if I am refused, morbleu! I will turn priest!'
"At these words the murmur outside the audience chamber became an explosion. On all sides oaths and blasphemies were resounding. D'Artagnan looked about for a place to hide himself. He felt a strong inclination to get under the table.
"'Well, captain,' said Porthos, who was completely beside himself with rage and vexation, 'the truth is that we were six against six; but they attacked us treacherously; and before we could draw a sword, two of us were dead men, and Athos desperately wounded and equally useless. You know Athos, captain; well, twice he tried to get up, and twice he fell down again. Nevertheless, we did not yield ourselves prisoners; we were taken off by main force, and on the way to the guard-house we managed to break away from them. As to Athos, they thought him dead, and left him on the ground. That is the real truth of the matter. And what then, captain! One cannot win every battle. The great Pompey lost that of Pharsalia, and Francis I., who, from what I have heard, was no fool in the fighting way, got roughly handled at Pavia.'
"'And I have the honour to assure you, sir,' said Aramis, 'that I killed one of the guards with his own sword, for mine was broken at the first onset.'
"'I did not know that,' said Treville in a more gentle tone. 'I see that the Cardinal exaggerated matters.'
"'But for heaven's sake, sir,' continued Aramis, encouraged by the softened manner of his commander, 'for heaven's sake, do not mention that Athos is wounded: he would be in despair if the King heard of it; and as the wound is very serious, having passed through the shoulder and entered the breast, it is to be feared...'
"At this moment the tapestry that covered the door was raised, and the head of a man of noble aspect and handsome features, but fearfully pale, appeared below the fringe.
"'Athos!' exclaimed the two guardsmen.
"'Athos!' repeated Monsieur de Treville himself.
"You asked for me, sir,' said Athos to Monsieur de Treville, in a calm but enfeebled voice — 'my comrades told me that you asked for me, and I hastened to obey your summons.'
"And so saying, the mousquetaire entered the room with a tolerably firm step, in full uniform and belted as usual. Monsieur de Treville, touched to the soul by this proof of courage, sprang to meet him.
"'I was telling these gentlemen,' said he, 'that I forbid my mousquetaires to expose their lives without necessity; that brave men are very dear to the King, and his Majesty knows that his mousquetaires are the bravest men upon the face of the earth. Your hand, Athos!'
"And without waiting for the new comer to hold out his right hand, Monsieur de Treville seized and pressed it energetically, not observing that Athos, in spite of his command over himself, writhed with pain, and grew each moment paler than before. The room-door had remained half open, and a loud murmur of satisfaction from without replied to the words addressed to Athos by Monsieur de Treville. The heads of two or three mousquetaires, who forgot themselves in the enthusiasm of the moment, appeared at the opening of the tapestry. Doubtless Monsieur de Treville was about to check sharply this infraction of the laws of etiquette, when he suddenly felt the hand of Athos contract in his, and looking at the guardsman, he saw that he was going to faint. At the same moment Athos, who had summoned all his energies to struggle against the sufferings he endured, was overcome by the torture of his wound, and fell senseless to the ground.
"'A surgeon!' cried Monsieur de Treville. 'My surgeon — the King's — the best! A surgeon! or, sangdieu! my brave Athos will die!'"
The swoon of Athos had merely been occasioned by loss of blood. The surgeon declares there is no danger, and D'Artagnan, who has stood his ground with true Gascon tenacity, at length obtains an audience. The loss of his letter of recommendation now proves a great disadvantage to him. In those days of court intrigue and espionage, men were naturally suspicious of each other, and the mingled naïveté and shrewdness of the young Béarnais, are causes for Monsieur de Treville at first suspecting him of being a spy of the Cardinal's. His suspicions, however, are wearing off, and he is disposed to be useful to D'Artagnan, although he cannot admit him into the mousquetaires — a noviciate of two years in some other regiment being the indispensable condition of admission into that favoured corps — when D'Artagnan, happening to look out of the window, starts, reddens with anger, and rushes to the door. He has recognised, in a passer-by, the person who had stolen his letter; and leaves Monsieur de Treville in doubt whether he has to do with a madman or with an emissary of the Cardinal's, who, fearing himself suspected, takes this pretext for effecting a retreat.