The Three Musketeers
Alexandre Dumas

London, New York, Toronto, Sydney and New Delhi

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Author’s Preface

1 The Three Presents of M. D’Artagnan, the Father

2 The Antechamber of M. de Treville

3 The Audience

4 The Shoulder of Athos, the Belt of Porthos, and the Handkerchief of Aramis

5 The King’s Musketeers and the Cardinal’s Guards

6 His Majesty King Louis the Thirteenth

7 The Domestic Manners of the Musketeers

8 The Court Intrigue

9 D’Artagnan Begins to Show Himself

10 A Mousetrap of the Seventeenth Century

11 The Intrigue Becomes Confused

12 George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham

13 Monsieur Bonancieux

14 The Man of Meung

15 Civilians and Soldiers

16 In which the Keeper of the Seals, Séguier, looked more than once after the bell, that he might ring it as he had been used to do

17 The Bonancieux Household

18 The Lover and the Husband

19 The Plan of the Campaign

20 The Journey

21 The Countess de Winter

22 The Ballet of “The Merlaison”

23 The Appointment

24 The Pavilion

25 Porthos

26 The Thesis of Aramis

27 The Wife of Athos

28 The Return

29 The Hunt after Equipments

30 “My Lady”

31 English and French

32 An Attorney’s Dinner

33 Maid and Mistress

34 Concerning the Equipments of Aramis and Porthos

35 All Cats are alike Gray in the Dark

36 The Dream of Vengeance

37 The Lady’s Secret

38 How, without disturbing himself, Athos obtained His Equipment

39 A Charming Vision

40 A Terrible Vision

41 The Siege of La Rochelle

42 The Wine of Anjou

43 The Red Dove-Cot Tavern

44 The Utility of Stove Funnels

45 A Conjugal Scene

46 The Bastion of St. Gervais

47 The Council of the Musketeers

48 A Family Affair

49 Fatality

50 A Chat between a Brother and Sister

51 The Officer

52 The First Day of Imprisonment

53 The Second Day of Imprisonment

54 The Third Day of Imprisonment

55 The Fourth Day of Imprisonment

56 The Fifth Day of Imprisonment

57 An Event in Classical Tragedy

58 The Escape

59 What happened at Portsmouth on the Twenty-third of August, 1628

60 In France

61 The Carmelite Convent of Bethune

62 Two Kinds of Demons

63 A Drop of Water

64 The Man in the Red Cloak

65 The Judgment

66 The Execution

67 A Message from the Cardinal

The Epilogue

Preview

About the Author

By the same author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Author’s Preface

IT IS ABOUT a year ago, that in making researches in the Bibliotheque Nationale for my History of Louis the Fourteenth, I by chance met with the Memoirs of Monsieur d’Artagnan, printed by Peter the Red at Amsterdam—as the principal works of that period, when authors could not adhere to the truth without running the risk of the Bastile, generally were. The title attracted my notice; I took the Memoirs home, with the permission of the librarian, and actually devoured them.

It is not my intention here to make analysis of this curious work, but to satisfy myself by referring such of my readers to the work itself as appreciate the pictures of those times. They will there discover portraits traced by the hand of a master; and although these sketches are mostly drawn on the doors of a barrack, or the walls of an inn, they will not find them less true than those likenesses of Louis XIII., of Anne of Austria, of Richelieu, Mazarin, and the majority of the courtiers of that age, drawn by M. Anguetil.

But, as every one knows, that which strikes the eccentric mind of the poet, does not always make an impression on the great mass of readers. So, whilst admiring (as all others doubtless will do) the details which we have described, the thing which strikes us most, is one which certainly had not attracted the attention of any other person. D’Artagnan relates, that on his first visit to M. de Treville, Captain of the Royal Musketeers, he met three young men in the ante-chamber, serving in the illustrious corps into which he solicited the honour of being admitted, and bearing the names of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.

We confess that these foreign names struck us much, and we suspected that they were feigned appellations, by which d’Artagnan had perhaps concealed the names of illustrious persons; if, perchance, the bearers of them had not themselves chosen them, when, through caprice, discontent, or lack of fortune, they had donned the simple coat of a Musketeer. Therefore we could not rest satisfied till we had found in contemporary literature some trace of the extraordinary titles which had so forcibly excited our curiosity. The mere catalogue of the books we read to gain this end would fill a whole chapter, which would perhaps be very instructive, but certainly far from amusing, to our readers. We will, therefore, content ourselves with saying, that at the very moment when, discouraged by such fruitless investigations, we were about to abandon our researches, we at last, guided by the counsels of our illustrious and learned friend, Paulin Pâris, discovered a manuscript folio, numbered 4772, or 4773, we forget which, having for its title—

THE MEMOIRS OF M. LE COMTE DE LA FÈRE;

RELATING TO SOME OF THE EVENTS WHICH PASSED IN FRANCE ABOUT THE END OF THE REIGN OF LOUIS XIII, AND THE BEGINNING OF THE REIGN OF LOUIS XIV.

Our pleasure may be guessed, when, in turning over this manuscript, our last hope, we found at the twentieth page the name of Athos; at the twenty-first, the name of Aramis; at the twenty-seventh, the name of Porthos.

The discovery of a manuscript entirely unknown, at a period when historical knowledge was raised to such a high pitch, appeared to be almost a miracle. We therefore quickly requested permission to print it, that we might one day introduce ourselves to the Academy of Inscriptions and Belles Lettres with the goods of others, if we do not happen (as is very probable) to enter the French Academy on our own merits.

This permission was most graciously accorded; which we here declare, to give a public contradiction to those malevolent persons who pretend that government is not inclined to indulge authors.

We offer today the first part of this valuable manuscript to our readers, restoring to it the title which suits it, and promising, if (as we doubt not) this should meet with the success it merits, to publish immediately the second.

In the meantime, as the godfather is a second father, we invite our readers to look to us, and not to the Comte de la Fère, for his amusement or his ennui.

1 The Three Presents of M. D’Artagnan, the Father

ON THE FIRST Monday of the month of April, 1625, the small town of Meung, the birthplace of the author of the “Romance of the Rose,” appeared to be in a state of revolution, as complete as if the Huguenots were come to make a second siege of La Rochelle. Many of the townsmen, observing the flight along the high street, of women who left their children to squall at the doorsteps, hastened to don their armour, and, fortifying their courage, which was inclined to fail, with a musket or a partisan, proceeded towards the inn of the Jolly Miller, to which a vast and accumulating mob was hastening with intense curiosity.

At that period alarms were frequent, and few days passed without some bourg or other registering in its archives an event of this description. There were the nobles, who made war on each other; there was the king, who made war on the cardinal; there was the Spaniard, who made war on the king; then, besides these wars, concealed or overt, secret or public, there were bandits, mendicants, Huguenots, wolves, and lacqueys, who made war on the whole world. The townsmen always armed themselves against the bandits, the wolves, and the lacqueys; frequently against the nobles and the Huguenots; sometimes against the king; but never against the cardinal or the Spaniard. From this custom, therefore, it arose, that on the aforesaid first Monday in the month of April, 1625, the burghers, hearing a noise, and seeing neither the yellow and red flag, nor the livery of the Duke of Richelieu, rushed towards the inn of the Jolly Miller. Having reached it, every one could see and understand the cause of this alarm. A young man—

But let us trace his portrait with one stroke of the pen. Fancy to yourself Don Quixote at eighteen—Don Quixote peeled, without his coat of mail or greaves—Don Quixote clothed in a woollen doublet, whose blue colour was changed to an undyable shade, a shade between the lees of wine and a cerulean blue. The countenance long and brown; the cheek-bones high, denoting acuteness; the muscles of the jaw enormously developed—an infallible mark by which a Gascon may be recognised, even without the cap, and our youth wore a cap, adorned with a sort of feather; the eye full and intelligent; the nose hooked, but finely formed; the whole figure too large for a youth, yet too small for an adult; an inexperienced eye would have taken him for the son of a farmer on a journey, had it not been for the long sword, which, hanging from a leathern belt, banged against the heels of its owner whilst he was walking, and against the rough coat of his steed when he was mounted;—for our youth had a steed, and this steed was at the same time so remarkable as to attract observation. It was a Beaunese sheltie, of about twelve or fourteen years of age, yellow as an orange, without any hair on its tail, but abundance of galls on its legs, and which, whilst carrying its head lower than its knees, making the application of a martingale unnecessary, yet managed gallantly its eight leagues a day. Unfortunately, these useful qualities of the steed were so well concealed under its strange coat and eccentric gait, that at a time when every one knew something of horses, the apparition of the aforesaid sheltie at Meung, which it had entered about a quarter of an hour before, by the gate of Beaugency, produced a somewhat unfavourable sensation or impression, which extended even to its master. And this impression was the more painful to young d’Artagnan (for that was the name of the Don Quixote of this second Rozinante), that he could not conceal from himself the ridiculous light in which he, albeit so good a horseman, was placed by such a steed. He had, therefore, sighed deeply when he accepted the gift from M. d’Artagnan, his father: he knew that such a beast was worth about twenty francs. It is true that the words which accompanied the present were above price.

“My son,” said the Gascon gentleman, in that pure Beaunese patois or dialect, which Henry IV. could never entirely shake off—“my son, this horse was born in the paternal homestead about thirteen years ago, and has remained in it ever since, which ought to make you regard it with affection. Never sell it; let it die honourably of old age, and in tranquillity; and should you make a campaign with it, take as much care of it as you would of an old servant. At the court, if you should ever have the honour to be presented—an honour, however, to which your long line of noble ancestors entitles you—support with dignity the name of gentleman, which has been honourably borne by your ancestors, for the sake of you and yours, for more than 500 years. Never submit quietly to the slightest indignity, except it proceed from the cardinal or the king. It is by his courage—mark this well—it is by his courage alone, that a gentleman makes his way nowadays. Whoever hesitates one moment, lets perhaps that chance escape him, which fortune, for that moment alone, has offered him. You are young, and ought to be brave, for two reasons: the first, because you are a Gascon; the second, because you are my son. Have no fear of many imbroglios, and look about for adventures. You have been taught to handle the sword; you have muscles of iron, a wrist like steel; fight whenever you can, the more so because duels are forbidden, and consequently it requires twice as much courage to fight. I have to give you but fifteen crowns, my son, besides the horse, and the advice which you have heard. Your mother will add to them the recipe for a certain balsam, which she received from a Bohemian woman, and which has the miraculous power of curing every wound which has fallen short of the heart. Take advantage of all, and live long and happily. I have only one word more to add, and it is the offer of an example: not my own, for I have never been at court; I have only served in the religious wars as a volunteer. I wish to speak to you of M. de Treville, once my neighbour, who has had the honour of playing, whilst a boy, with our king, Louis XIII., whom God preserve. Sometimes their play turned to battles, and in these battles the king did not always conquer; yet his conquests by M. de Treville imbued him with a great deal of esteem and friendship for him. Afterwards, M. de Treville fought other battles; indeed, merely during his journey to Paris, he fought five times; from the death of the late monarch, to the majority of the young king, he has fought seven times, without reckoning campaigns and sieges; and since that majority till now, perhaps a hundred times! And yet, in spite of edicts, ordinances, and writs, behold him now captain of the Musketeers; that is, chief of a legion of Cæsars, upon whom the king mainly depends, and who are feared by the cardinal, who, as every one knows, is not easily alarmed. Moreover, M. de Treville gains ten thousand crowns a year, and therefore is a man of consequence. He began the world as you do. Go to him with this letter, and let your conduct be regulated by him, that you may meet with the same results.”

Hereupon M. d’Artagnan, the father, girded his own sword upon his son, tenderly kissed him on either cheek, and gave him his blessing. Leaving the paternal chamber, the young man found his mother waiting with the famous recipe, which, from the advice he had just received, it seemed very probable that he would require to use pretty often. The adieus were longer and more tender on this side than on the other; not but that M. d’Artagnan loved his son, who was his only child, but that M. d’Artagnan was a man who would have considered it unworthy of himself to give way to any sentiment; whilst Madame d’Artagnan was a woman, and, what is more, a mother. She wept much; and, to the credit of M. d’Artagnan the younger, we may as well say that, whatever efforts he made to remain firm, as became the future Musketeer, nature gained the day, and he shed many tears, some of which he had great difficulty in concealing.

Our youth took his way the same day, furnished with the three paternal gifts, which were, as we have said, the fifteen crowns, the steed, and the letter to M. de Treville. As may be well imagined, the advice was thrown into the bargain. With such a vade mecum, d’Artagnan found himself, morally and physically, the counterpart of the hero of Cervantes, to whom we so happily compared him, when our duty as his historian obliged us to draw his portrait. Don Quixote took windmills for giants, and sheep for armies; d’Artagnan considered every smile an insult, and even a look a provocation. Therefore, his fist was doubled from Tarbes to Meung; and, from one cause or another, his hand was on the pommel of his sword ten times a day. However, the fist did not descend upon any jaw, nor did the sword leave its scabbard. It was not that the unlucky yellow sheltie did not excite many a smile on the countenances of passers-by; but as beside the said yellow sheltie clashed a sword of respectable length, and above the sword glistened an eye rather stern than fierce, the wayfarers repressed their mirth, or, if their mirth surpassed their prudence, they took care only to laugh on one side of their faces, like the ancient masques. D’Artagnan, therefore, remained dignified and uninterrupted in his susceptibility, even to this fatal town of Meung. But there, when he dismounted at the door of the Jolly Miller, without any one, either landlord, waiter, or hostler, coming to hold the stirrup of his horse, d’Artagnan perceived at the open window of a room, on the ground-floor, a gentleman of distinguished air and handsome figure, although with a countenance slightly grim, conversing with two persons who appeared to listen to him with deference. D’Artagnan naturally thought, according to his usual custom, that they were talking about him, and listened accordingly. This time, however, he was partly correct: he was not the subject of conversation, but his horse was. The gentleman appeared to be enumerating to his hearers all his qualities; and since, as I have said, his hearers appeared to pay him great deference, they every moment laughed heartily.

Now, since even the slightest smile was sufficient to rouse the anger of our youth, we may well imagine what effect such unbounded mirth was likely to produce upon him. Nevertheless, d’Artagnan wished first to examine the countenance of the impertinent fellow who thus laughed at him. He therefore fixed his stern look upon the stranger, and saw a man from forty to forty-five years of age, with eyes black and piercing, complexion pale, nose strongly-marked, and moustache black and carefully trimmed. He was attired in a violet-coloured doublet and breeches, with points of the same colour, with no other ornament than the sleeves through which the shirt passed. This doublet and these breeches, though new, displayed divers wrinkles and creases, as if they had been for some time packed up in a portmanteau. D’Artagnan made these observations with the rapidity of a most minute observer, and doubtless with an instinct which told him that this unknown was to have a vast influence on his future life.

At the very moment that d’Artagnan fixed his eyes upon the gentleman with the violet doublet, that individual made one of his wisest and most profound remarks upon the Beaunese sheltie. His two auditors roared with laughter, and he himself, contrary to his usual custom, permitted a sort of sickly smile to wander over his countenance. This time there was no room for doubt. D’Artagnan was really insulted. Being convinced of this, he pulled his cap over his eyes, and trying to imitate the courtly airs which he had seen among some chance Gascon nobility in their provincial visits, he placed one hand on the guard of his sword, and the other on his hip. Unfortunately, the nearer he advanced, the more angry he grew, so that instead of the high and dignified language which he had prepared as the prelude to his challenge, he found nothing at the tip of his tongue but a rough personality, which he accompanied with a furious gesture.

“Hollo, sir!” he cried; “you, sir, who hide yourself behind the shutter—yes, you! tell me what you are laughing at, and we will laugh together.”

The gentleman slowly turned his eyes from the steed to his rider, as if it required some time to comprehend that these strange reproaches were addressed to himself; then, when he could no longer doubt it, he slightly knit his brows, and, after a pretty long pause, with an accent of irony and insolence impossible to describe, answered d’Artagnan, “I am not speaking to you, sir.”

“But I am speaking to you,” cried the young man, exasperated by this mixture of insolence and good manners—this polite contempt.

The unknown regarded him yet a moment with a slight smile, and then leaving the window, slowly sauntered out of the inn, and stationed himself opposite the horse, at two paces from d’Artagnan. His calm face and jeering aspect redoubled the mirth of his companions, who still remained at the window. D’Artagnan, seeing him come out, drew his sword a foot out of its scabbard.

“This horse decidedly is, or rather has been, a buttercup,” continued the unknown, pursuing his remarks, and addressing his auditors at the window, without appearing to notice the exasperation of d’Artagnan, who, nevertheless, swelled and strutted between them; “it is of a colour,” he continued, “well known in botany, but as yet very rare amongst horses.”

“A man may laugh at a horse, who would not dare to laugh at its master,” cried the disciple of Treville with fury.

“I do not often laugh, sir,” answered the unknown, “as you may yourself discover by the expression of my countenance; but yet I mean to preserve the right of laughing when I please.”

“And I,” roared out d’Artagnan, “do not permit any one to laugh when I do not please.”

“Really, sir!” continued the unknown, more quietly than ever; “well, that is sound sense;” and turning on his heel, he essayed to re-enter the inn by the front door, opposite which d’Artagnan, on arriving, had observed a horse ready saddled.

But d’Artagnan was not the man to let any one who had had the insolence to mock him thus escape; he therefore drew his sword and pursued him, exclaiming, “Turn, turn, Master Jester, that I may not strike you behind!”

“Strike me!” said the other, quickly turning round, and regarding the youth with as much astonishment as contempt; “go along with you, my dear boy; you are mad.” Then, in a low voice, as if he were speaking to himself, he added, “It is annoying: what a prize for his majesty, who is everywhere seeking fire-eaters to recruit his guards.”

He had scarcely finished, when d’Artagnan made such a furious thrust at him, that, had he not jumped back briskly, it is probable the jest would have been his last. Perceiving now, however, that the affair was beyond a joke, the unknown drew his sword, saluted his adversary, and gravely put himself on guard; but at the same moment his two auditors, accompanied by the host, fell pell-mell upon d’Artagnan, with sticks, shovels, and tongs. This caused such a complete diversion of the attack, that, whilst d’Artagnan himself turned to face this shower of blows, his opponent put up his sword with the same calm as before, and, from an actor, became a spectator of the combat—a character which he supported with the same imperturbability, yet all the time muttering, “Plague upon these Gascons! Put him on his orange-coloured horse, and let him go.”

“Not before I have slain you, you coward!” cried d’Artagnan, all the time making the best resistance he could, and not yielding one step to his three opponents, who showered their blows upon him.

“Yet another gasconade!” murmured the gentleman; “upon my word these Gascons are incorrigible; keep up the dance, since he actually wishes it; when he is tired he will say that he has had enough.”

But the stranger did not yet know with what a stubborn personage he had to deal. D’Artagnan was not the man ever to sue for quarter. The contest therefore continued for some moments longer, until at last, completely worn out, d’Artagnan dropped his sword, which was broken in two by a blow from a stick, while at the same instant another blow, which cut open his forehead, stretched him on the ground almost senseless.

It was now that all the burghers hastened to the scene of action. Fearing a disturbance, the landlord, assisted by his servants, carried the wounded man into the kitchen, where some care was given him. As for the stranger, he returned to the window, and viewed the crowd with evident marks of impatience, seeming rather annoyed at their refusal to go away.

“Well, how is that madman now?” said he, turning, and addressing the host, who came to inquire in what state his guest was.

“Is your excellency safe and well?” demanded the host.

“Yes, perfectly so, mine host; but I wish to know what is become of this youth.”

“He is better,” replied the host; “but he was quite senseless.”

“Indeed!” said the gentleman.

“But before he quite lost his senses, he rallied all his strength to challenge and defy you,” added the landlord.

“Well, this young fellow is the very devil himself,” said the gentleman.

“Oh, no, your excellency, oh, no,” replied the host, with a contemptuous grin, “he is not the devil, for while he was senseless we rummaged his outfit, and in his bundle we found but one shirt, and in his pocket only twelve crowns, which fact, however, did not prevent his saying, just before he fainted, that, had this happened in Paris, you should quickly have repented it, but as it has taken place here you will not have to repent it until later.”

“Therefore,” coolly observed the stranger, “he doubtless is a prince of the blood in disguise.”

“I give you this information, sir,” said the host, “that you may keep yourself on your guard.”

“And did he not name any one in his anger?”

“Yes, he slapped his pocket, and said, ‘We shall see what M. de Treville will say to this insult offered to his protégé.’”

“M. de Treville?” said the unknown, becoming more attentive; “he slapped his pocket, and mentioned the name of M. de Treville?—Let us see, my good host: whilst this young man was senseless, you did not fail, I am sure, to examine that pocket: what did it contain?”

“A letter, addressed to M. de Treville, captain of the Musketeers.”

“Really?”

“Just as I have the honour to tell your excellency,” said the host.

The latter, who had no great penetration, did not remark the expression which these words brought upon the countenance of the stranger, who now left the windowsill, on which his elbow had rested, and frowned like a man disturbed all of a sudden.

“The devil!” muttered he between his teeth; “could Treville have sent this Gascon? He is very young; but a thrust of a sword is a thrust of a sword, whatever may be the age of him that gives it, and one distrusts a boy less than an oldster; a slight obstacle is sufficient to thwart a project.” And the stranger fell into a reverie which lasted some minutes. “Come, mine host,” at length he said, “will you not rid me of this madman? I cannot conscientiously kill him, and yet,” he added with a menacing air, “he much annoys me. Where is he?”

“In my wife’s chamber, on the first storey, where they are dressing his wounds.”

“Are his clothes and his bag with him? Has he taken off his doublet?”

“On the contrary, they are below in the kitchen,” said the host; “but since this young madman annoys you———”

“Doubtless; he causes a disturbance in your inn, which no respectable people can bear. Go to your room, make out my bill, and give orders to my servants.”

“What, sir, must you be off?”

“Yes. I ordered you to saddle my horse; have I not been obeyed?”

“Yes; and your excellency may see your horse standing under the grand entrance, quite ready for the road.”

“Very well; then do as I have ordered.”

“Heyday!” said the host to himself; “can he be afraid of this young boy?” But a commanding look from the stranger cut him short; he humbly bowed, and left the apartment.

“My lady must not see this strange fellow,” said the stranger; “as she is already late, she must soon pass. I had better mount my horse and go to meet her. If I could only just learn the contents of that letter addressed to Treville.” And thus muttering, the unknown descended to the kitchen.

In the meantime, the landlord, who doubted not that this youth’s presence drove the stranger from his inn, had gone to his wife’s chamber, and found that d’Artagnan had regained consciousness. Then, whilst he made him comprehend that the police might be severe on him for having attacked a great lord (for, according to the host’s idea, the stranger could be nothing less than a great lord), he persuaded him, in spite of his weakness, to resume his journey.

D’Artagnan, half stunned, without doublet, his head completely bandaged, arose, and, pushed out by the host, began to descend the stairs; but on reaching the kitchen, the first object he saw was his opponent, who was quietly talking at the door of a heavy carriage, drawn by two large Norman horses. The person with whom he conversed was a woman of from twenty to twenty-two years of age, whose head appeared, through the window of the carriage, like a picture in a frame. We have already said how rapidly d’Artagnan caught the expression of a countenance; he saw, therefore, at the first glance, that the lady was young and attractive. Now, this beauty was the more striking to him, as it was completely different from that of his own southern country. She was a pale, fair person, with long curling hair falling on her shoulders, large blue languishing eyes, rosy lips, and alabaster hands. She conversed with the unknown with great vivacity.

“So, his eminence commands me———” said she.

“To return immediately to England, and apprise him, with all speed, whether the duke has left London,” said the unknown.

“And as to my other instructions?” demanded the fair traveller.

“They are enclosed in this box, which you will not open until you are on the other side of the Channel.”

“Good; and you? What are you going to do?”

“I return to Paris.”

“Without chastising this insolent boy?” demanded the lady.

The unknown was about to reply, but ere he could do so, d’Artagnan, who had heard every word, rushed to the doorway. “It is that insolent boy,” he cried, “who chastises others, and I hope that this time he who deserves chastisement will not escape him.”

“Will not escape him?” echoed the unknown, knitting his brows.

“No, in the presence of a woman you would hesitate to fly, I presume.”

“Consider,” said the lady, seeing the gentleman place his hand to his sword, “consider that the slightest delay might ruin all.”

“You are right,” said the gentleman; “you go your way, and I will go mine;” and, saluting the lady with a bow, he got into the saddle, whilst the coachman whipped his horses. The lady and gentleman therefore went off at a gallop towards the opposite ends of the street.

“Hollo! your bill!” shouted mine host, whose affection for the traveller was changed to the most profound contempt when he saw him departing without paying.

“Pay, rascal,” cried the traveller, as he galloped off, to his valet, who threw three or four pieces of silver at the feet of the landlord, and set off at full speed the way his master went.

“Oh, coward! wretch! false-hearted gentleman!” cried d’Artagnan, rushing after the valet. But he was still too feeble from his wounds to bear such an effort. Scarcely had he gone ten paces, before his ears tingled, a vertigo seized him, a cloud passed before his eyes, and he fell down in the street, with a final cry of “Coward! coward! coward!”

“He is a sad coward verily,” murmured the host, who now, approaching d’Artagnan, endeavoured to soothe him by this flattery, as the heron in the fable her friend the snail.

“Yes, a sad coward,” murmured d’Artagnan; “but she is beautiful.”

“Who is she?” said the landlord.

“My lady!” murmured d’Artagnan, and again fainted away.

“Never mind,” said the host; “although I have lost two, at any rate I have secured this one, whom I am sure of keeping for some days; at all events, I shall gain eleven crowns.”

It must be borne in mind that eleven crowns was the exact sum which remained in d’Artagnan’s purse; and the host had reckoned upon eleven days’ illness, at a crown a day. On this point, however, he reckoned without his guest. The following day d’Artagnan left his couch, went down to the kitchen, and, besides certain ingredients, the names of which have not descended to posterity, demanded some wine, oil, and rosemary, which, with his mother’s recipe in his hand, he compounded into a salve, wherewith he anointed his numerous wounds, renewing his plasters himself, and not allowing the interposition of any leech.

Thanks, no doubt, to the Bohemian salve, and perhaps also to the absence of the leech, d’Artagnan found himself on foot in the evening, and almost cured by the next day. But at the moment he was paying for this wine, oil, and rosemary, the sole expense he had incurred (for he had been completely abstinent, whilst, on the contrary, if one believed the hostler, the yellow horse had eaten three times as many oats as one would have supposed possible from his size), d’Artagnan found nothing in his pocket but his little purse, with its eleven crowns. As for the letter to M. de Treville, that was gone. The young man began by looking very patiently for this letter, turning out and rummaging his pockets and fobs twenty times, rummaging his valise again and again, and opening and shutting his purse; but when he was quite convinced that the letter was not to be found, he gave full vent to another fit of rage in a manner which was like to make necessary a second decoction of wine and spiced oil. For, upon beholding this young scatter-brain raging, and threatening to destroy everything in his establishment, if the letter were not found, the host had already seized upon a spit, his wife upon the handle of a broom, and the servants upon the same weapons they had wielded the evening before.

“My letter of introduction!” cried d’Artagnan, “my letter of introduction! or, by St. Denis, I will spit you all like so many ortolans.”

One circumstance prevented the youth from accomplishing his threat, which was, that his sword, as we have said, had unfortunately been broken in two in the first struggle—a mischance he had entirely forgotten; consequently, when d’Artagnan went to draw it in earnest, he found himself armed only with the stump, about eight or ten inches long, which the host had carefully thrust into the scabbard. As for the rest of the blade, the cook had adroitly set it aside for a larding-pin. And yet it is probable that this deception would not have stopped our fiery youth, had not the host reflected that the demand which his guest made was perfectly just.

“But after all,” said he, lowering his spit, “where is this letter?”

“Yes, where is this letter?” roared d’Artagnan; “and let me tell you that this letter is for M. de Treville, and that it must be found, otherwise M. de Treville will know to have it found—I’ll answer for it!”

This threat completely frightened mine host. Next to the king and the cardinal, M. de Treville was the man whose name was most frequently in the mouths of the military, and indeed of the citizens. There was certainly, Father Joseph; but his name was never mentioned except in an undertone; so great was the terror which his gray eminence, as the familiar of the cardinal was called, inspired. Therefore, throwing away his spit, and ordering his wife to do the same with her broom-handle, and the servants with their weapons, he himself set the example by commencing a diligent search for the letter.

“Did this letter contain anything valuable?” said he, after some moments of fruitless search.

“I should rather think it did,” cried the Gascon, who calculated on the letter to make his way at court; “it contained my fortune.”

“Were they bills on the Bank of Spain?” demanded the host, much disturbed.

“Bills on the private treasury of his majesty!” replied d’Artagnan, who, calculating on entering the king’s service through this letter of introduction, thought he might, without lying, make this somewhat rash reply.

“The devil!” exclaimed the host, at his wit’s end.

“But it is of no consequence,” continued d’Artagnan, with his native assurance; “the money is nothing, the letter is all I want. I had rather have lost a thousand pistoles than that!” He might as well have made it twenty thousand, but a certain youthful modesty restrained him. A sudden flash of light illumined the mind of the host, who was uttering maledictions at finding nothing.

“This letter is not lost!” he cried.

“Isn’t it?” said d’Artagnan.

“No, it has been taken from you.”

“Taken! and by whom?”

“By the stranger, yesterday; he went into the kitchen, where your doublet was lying; he was there for a time entirely alone; and I will lay a wager it was he who stole it from you.”

“You really think so?” said d’Artagnan, only half convinced, for he knew better than anybody the strictly personal value of the letter, and saw nothing in it to excite cupidity. The fact is, that none of the servants or travellers who were there could have gained anything by the theft.

“You say, then,” continued d’Artagnan, “that you suspect this impertinent gentleman?”

“I tell you that I am quite certain of it,” said the host; “when I informed him that your worship was the protégé of M. de Treville, and that you had a letter for that illustrious noble, he appeared much disturbed, demanded where the letter was, and immediately went into the kitchen, where your doublet was lying.”

“Then he is the robber,” said d’Artagnan; “I will complain to M. de Treville, and he will lay my complaint before his majesty.”

And he majestically drew from his pocket two crowns, which he handed to the host, who followed him, cap in hand, to the archway, where he remounted his yellow horse, which carried him without further accident to the gate of St. Antoine, at Paris. There its owner sold the animal for three crowns; which was a good price, considering that d’Artagnan had over-ridden him in the last part of the journey. The dealer to whom he sold the sheltie for these nine francs, did not conceal from the young man that he paid this exorbitant sum merely on account of the originality of his colour.

D’Artagnan therefore entered Paris on foot, carrying his small valise under his arm, and proceeded until he found a lodging suitable to his slender resources. This chamber was a sort of garret, situated in the Rue des Fossoyeurs, near the Luxembourg. Having paid the luckpenny, he took possession of his lodging, and passed the remainder of the day in sewing on his doublet and breeches sundry laces which his mother had secretly taken from a nearly new doublet of the elder M. d’Artagnan. He then repaired to the Quai de la Feraille, to procure a new blade for his sword; after which he returned to the Louvre, and learned from the first musketeer he met where M. de Treville’s hotel was situated. This he ascertained to be in the Rue de Vieux Colombier; that is, in the very neighbourhood where he had himself taken up his abode; a circumstance which he construed into a happy omen of the success of his expedition.

These matters disposed of, and satisfied with the manner in which he had behaved at Meung, without remorse for the past, confident in the present, and full of hope for the future, he went to bed and slept the sleep of the brave. This sleep, still that of a rustic, lasted till nine o’clock in the morning, the hour at which he rose to repair to the hotel of this famed M. de Treville, who, according to d’Artagnan’s father, was the third personage in the realm.

2 The Antechamber of M. de Treville

M. DE TROISVILLE, as his family was yet called in Gascony, or M. de Treville, as he called himself in Paris, had actually begun life like d’Artagnan; that is to say, without being worth a sou, but with that fund of audacity, esprit, and resolution, which makes the poorest Gascon gentleman often inherit more in imagination than the richest nobleman of Perigord or Berri receives in reality. His daring and haughty courage—still more haughty in success—at the time when blows fell thick as hail, had raised him to the top of that difficult ladder which is called court favour, and which he had climbed four rungs at a time. He was the confidential friend of the king, who, as every one knows, greatly honoured the memory of his father, Henry IV. The father of M. de Treville had served the latter so faithfully in his wars against the League, that, for want of ready money—(a commodity which, during his life, was very scarce with the Bearnese, who constantly paid his debts with what he never had occasion to borrow, that is to say, with his genius)—for want of ready money, as we have said, he had authorised him, after the reduction of Paris, to take for his arms—“Un lion d’or passant, sur gueules,” with the motto, “fidelis et fortis.” It was a great deal of honour, but not much profit; therefore, when the illustrious companion of Henry the Great died, the sole inheritance he left his son was his sword, with the arms and motto. Thanks, however, to this double legacy, and to the name without tarnish which 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 true to his motto, that Louis XIII., one of the best hands with the rapier in his own kingdom, used to say, that if he had a friend who was going to fight, he would advise him to take for a second, first himself, and then Treville, or even perhaps Treville before himself. On this account Louis had a real affection for Treville; a royal affection, an egotistical affection, it must be allowed, but an affection nevertheless. In those unhappy days it was an important consideration to surround oneself with men of Treville’s stamp. Many could take for their device the epithet of “fortis,” which formed the second part of the motto, but very few men could claim the epithet “fidelis,” which formed the first part of it. Treville was one of the few: his was one of those rare organisations with the intelligence and obedience of the mastiff, and a blind courage, and a ready hand, one to whom the eye had been given only to see whether the king was dissatisfied with any one, and the hand only to strike the offending person—a Besme, a Maurevers, a Poltrot de Méré, a Vitry; in short, Treville only wanted an opportunity; but he watched for it, and was resolved to seize it by its three hairs if ever it came within reach of his grasp. Louis XIII. therefore appointed Treville captain of the musketeers, who, by their devotion, or rather fanaticism, became what his ordinary troops were to Henry III., and his Scottish guard to Louis XI. In this respect the cardinal was not behind the king; for when he saw the formidable picked guard with which Louis surrounded himself, this second, or rather this first, king of France, wished also to have his own guard; he therefore, as well as the king, had his musketeers; and these two potent rivals were seen selecting for their service, from all the provinces of France, and even from all foreign countries, men famous for their skill as swordsmen. It was not rare for Richelieu and the king, over their game of chess in the evening, to dispute concerning the merits of their respective followers. Each boasted of the deportment and the courage of his own; and whilst openly inveighing against duels and imbroglios, they secretly excited their respective partisans to right, and experienced immoderate delight, or intense chagrin, at their respective victories or defeats. Thus at least says the memoir of one who was concerned in some of these defeats, and many of these victories.

Treville had seized on the weak point in his master’s character; and to this knowledge he owed the long and constant favour of a king who has not left behind him the reputation of having been constant in his friendships. He paraded his musketeers before the cardinal Armand Duplessis with an air of insolence which made the gray moustache of his eminence curl with anger. Treville also thoroughly understood the war of that period, when, if you lived not at the expense of the enemy, you lived at that of your countrymen. His soldiers formed a legion of very devils, under no discipline but his own. Swaggering bullies, given to wine, the king’s musketeers, or rather M. de Treville’s, spread themselves through the taverns, the public walks, and the theatres, talking loud, curling their moustaches, jingling their swords, hustling the guards of the cardinal when they met them, indulging, in the open street, in a thousand jokes; sometimes killed, but then certain of being lamented and avenged; sometimes killing, but then quite certain not to languish in prison, since M. de Treville was always at hand to procure their pardon and release. Therefore M. de Treville was lauded in every tone, sung of in every key, by these men, who adored him; yet, hang-dogs as they were, they trembled before him as scholars before their master, obedient to a word, and ready to meet death to wipe away any reproach. M. de Treville had used this powerful lever, first, for the king and his friends, and next, for himself and his own friends. The captain of the musketeers was, therefore, admired, feared, and loved, which state constitutes the apogee of human affairs.

Louis XIV. absorbed all the lesser stars of his court, by his vast brilliancy; but his father, “Sol pluribus impar,” imparted his personal splendour to many of his favourites—his individual valour to each of his courtiers. Besides the king’s levee, and that of the cardinal, there were then at Paris at least two hundred smaller ones, fairly exclusive; and amongst these two hundred smaller levees, that of M. de Treville was one of those most frequented. From six o’clock in the morning during summer, and eight in the winter, the courtyard of his hotel, in the Rue du Vieux Colombier, resembled a camp. From fifty to sixty musketeers, who appeared to relieve each other, and to present a number always imposing, were stalking about incessantly, armed to the teeth, and ready for anything. From one end to the other of one of those long staircases, on whose space our modern civilisation would build an entire mansion, ascended and descended those petitioners who sought favours; with provincial gentlemen, eager to be enrolled; and liveried lacqueys of every colour, in the act of delivering messages from their masters to M. de Treville. In the antechamber, on long circular benches, reclined the élite, that is, such of them as had assembled; a continual buzzing prevailed from morning till night; whilst M. de Treville, in his cabinet adjoining the 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 his window to review his men and their arms.

On the day when d’Artagnan presented himself, the assembly was very imposing, especially to a provincial just arrived in Paris. It is true, this provincial was a Gascon, and at this period more especially, d’Artagnan’s countrymen had the reputation of not being easily intimidated. In fact, as soon as any one had passed the threshold of the massive door, studded with long square nails, he found himself in the midst of a troop of swordsmen, who were cruising about the court, talking, quarrelling, and jesting with each other. To clear a path through these eddies, it was necessary to be an officer, a man of rank, or a pretty woman. It was, therefore, in the midst of this crowd and disorder that our youth, holding his long rapier against his slender legs, and the rim of his beaver in his hand, advanced with palpitating heart, yet with that sort of half smile of provincial embarrassment which wishes to create a good impression. When he had passed one group, he breathed more freely; but he perceived that they turned to look at him, and d’Artagnan, who to that day had invariably entertained a pretty good opinion of himself, for the first time in his life thought himself ridiculous. When he had reached the staircase it was still worse; on the first step were four musketeers, who amused themselves in the following manner, whilst ten or a dozen of their companions waited on the landing-place till it was their turn to have a share in the game. One of them on a higher step, with a naked sword in his hand, prevented, or endeavoured to prevent, the other three from mounting the stairs; whilst these three skirmished with him very actively with their swords. D’Artagnan at first took these swords for foils, and thought they were buttoned; but he soon found, by certain scratches, that each weapon was as sharp as possible, and at each of these scratches, not only the spectators, but the actors themselves, laughed most heartily. The one who held the higher step at that time, kept his opponents at bay in a dexterous manner. A circle was formed round him, the condition of the game being, that at every hit, he who was struck should relinquish the pastime, and surrender his turn of reception by M. de Treville to the one who had touched him. In five minutes three were grazed, one on the hand, one on the chin, and another on the ear, by this defender of the staircase, who was himself untouched—a proof of his skill which, according to the rules of the game, entitled him to three turns of favour. This sport surprised our young traveller, although he did not wish it to appear that he was astonished. He had seen in his own province (that province where, moreover, the fiery passions are so promptly roused) a good many provocatives to duels, and yet the gasconade of these four players appeared much stronger than any he had heard of even in Gascony. He fancied he was transported into that famous country of giants where Gulliver afterwards went, and was so much frightened. And yet he had not reached the end: the landing-place and antechamber still remained. On the landing-place they did not fight, but recounted histories of the fair sex; and in the antechamber, tales of the court. On the landing-place d’Artagnan blushed; in the antechamber he shuddered. But if his good manners were shocked on the landing-place, his respect for the cardinal was scandalised in the antechamber. There, to his great astonishment, he heard the policy which made all Europe tremble, openly criticised, as well as the private life of the cardinal, which so many powerful men had been punished for attempting to scrutinise. That great man, whom d’Artagnan’s father had so deeply reverenced, M. de Treville and his men made their butt, deriding his bandy legs and crooked back. Some sang carols on Madame d’Aiguillon, his mistress, and Madame de Combalet, his niece; whilst others planned adventures against the pages and guards of the cardinal duke himself. All these things appeared to d’Artagnan monstrous impossibilities. Nevertheless, when the name of the king accidentally slipped out in the midst of these jokes on the cardinal, a sort of momentary gag stopped all their jeering mouths; they looked around with hesitation, and seemed to doubt the discretion of the wall of M. de Treville’s cabinet. But some allusion soon brought back the conversation to his eminence. The wit was of the most brilliant kind, and none of his actions was uncommented upon. “Verily,” thought d’Artagnan with terror, “these gentry will soon be put into the Bastile and hanged. Doubtless, I shall accompany them, for having heard all they have said. I shall, without doubt, be taken for an accomplice. What would my father say—he who enjoined me so strongly to respect the cardinal—if he knew that I was in the company of such reprobates?”

Of course, while d’Artagnan dared not join in the conversation, he kept his eyes and ears wide open, and every sense on the alert, that he might lose nothing; and in spite of the paternal advice, he found himself drawn by his tastes and instinct, rather to praise than blame the incredible things he heard around him. Nevertheless, as he was absolutely a stranger to the crowd of M. de Treville’s courtiers, and it was the first time he had been seen there, some one came to inquire what he wanted. At this question he humbly gave his name, relying on his being a countryman, and requested the servant to solicit a moment’s audience of M. de Treville—a request which the inquirer, in the tone of a protector, promised to make at the proper time.

D’Artagnan, a little recovered from his first surprise, had now time to study the dresses and countenances of those around him. In the midst of the most animated group was a musketeer of great height, of a haughty countenance, and so fantastical a costume as to attract general attention. He did not wear his uniform tunic, which was not absolutely indispensable at that period of less liberty, yet greater independence, but a close coat of celestial blue, slightly faded and worn, and on this coat a magnificent border of gold embroidery, which glittered like scales upon a sunlit stream; a long mantle or cloak of crimson velvet hung gracefully from his shoulders, discovering the front alone of his splendid belt, from which depended his enormous rapier. This musketeer, who had just come from guard, complained of having caught cold, and coughed occasionally with great affectation. Therefore, as he averred, he had taken his cloak; and whilst he was talking loudly over the group, and proudly curling his moustache, every one much admired the embroidered belt, and d’Artagnan more than any one else.

“What would you have?” said the musketeer. “It is the fashion; I know very well that it is foolish, but it is the fashion; besides, one must spend one’s hereditary property on something or other.”

“Ah, Porthos!” cried one of the bystanders, “do not try to make us believe that this lace comes from the paternal generosity: it was given you by the veiled lady with whom I met you the other Sunday, near the gate of St. Honore.”

“No, upon my honour, and by the faith of a gentleman, I bought it with my own money,” said he whom they called Porthos.

“Yes, as I bought this new purse with what my mistress put in the old,” cried another musketeer.

“But it is true,” said Porthos, “and the proof is, that I paid twelve pistoles for it.”

The wonder and admiration were redoubled, though the doubt still existed.

“Is it not so, Aramis?” inquired Porthos, turning to another musketeer.

The person thus appealed to formed a perfect contrast to the one who thus questioned him, and who designated him by the name of Aramis. He was a young man, not more than twenty-two or twenty-three years of age, with a soft and ingenuous countenance, a black and mild eye, and cheeks rosy and damask as an autumnal peach; his slender moustache marked a perfect straight line along his upper lip; his hands appeared to dread hanging down, for fear of making their veins swell; and he was continually pinching the tips of his ears, to make them preserve a delicate and transparent carnation hue. Habitually he talked little and slowly, often bowed, laughed quietly, merely showing his teeth, which were good, and of which, as of the rest of his person, he appeared to take the greatest care. He replied to his friend’s question by an affirmative inclination of the head, and this affirmation appeared to settle all doubt concerning the embroidery. They therefore continued to admire it, but said no more about it; and by a sudden change of thought, the conversation at once passed to another subject.

“What do you think of this story of Chalais’s squire?” inquired another musketeer, not addressing any one in particular, but the company in general.

“And what does he say?” demanded Porthos in a conceited tone.

“He says that he found Rochefort, the tool of the cardinal, at Brussels, disguised as a Capuchin friar; and that this cursed Rochefort, thanks to his disguise, had deceived M. de Laignes, simpleton as he is.”

“He is a simpleton,” said Porthos; “but is it a fact?”

“I heard it from Aramis,” answered the musketeer.

“Really!”

“Ah, you know it well enough, Porthos,” said Aramis.

“I told it you myself yesterday evening; do not let us talk any more about it.”

“Not talk any more about it! that’s your view of the matter,” said Porthos; “not talk any more about it! Egad, you would make short work of it. What! the cardinal sets a spy upon a gentleman, robs him of his correspondence through a traitor, a robber, a gallows-bird; cut Chalais’s throat through this spy, and by means of this correspondence, under the flimsy pretext that he desired to kill the king, and marry monsieur to the queen! No one knew one word of this enigma; you told us of it yesterday evening, to the great astonishment of every one; and whilst we are still all amazed at the news, you come today and say to us, ‘Let us talk no more about it!’”

“Well, then, since it better suits your humour, let us talk about it,” calmly replied Aramis.

“Were I poor Chalais’s squire,” cried Porthos, “this Rochefort would pass a bad minute with me!”

“And the red duke would make but short work with you,” replied Aramis.

“Ah, the red duke! bravo, bravo, the red duke!” exclaimed Porthos, with an approving nod, and clapping his hands; “the red duke is charming! Rest assured, my dear fellow, that I will disseminate the title. What a genius he has, this Aramis! what a pity that you could not follow your vocation, my dear fellow; what an exquisite abbé you would have made!”

“Oh, it is a mere transitory delay,” replied Aramis; “one day or other I shall be one; for you well know, Porthos, that I continue to study theology with that intention.”

“He will actually do as he says,” replied Porthos; “he will do it, sooner or later.”

“Very soon,” said Aramis.

“He only waits for one thing to decide what he will do, and to resume his cassock, which is hung up behind his uniform,” replied another musketeer.

“And what event does he wait for?” inquired another.

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

“Let us not jest on this subject, gentlemen,” said Porthos; “thank God, the queen is yet of an age to give it one.”

“It is said that the Duke of Buckingham is in France,” observed Aramis with a mocking laugh, which gave to his remark, simple as it was in appearance, a meaning sufficiently scandalous.

“Aramis, my friend, this time you are wrong,” rejoined Porthos, “and your wit always leads you too far. It would be the worse for you if M. de Treville heard you talking in this manner.”

“Do not lecture me, Porthos,” cried Aramis, in whose soft eye something like the lightning’s flash now passed.

“My dear fellow, be either musketeer or abbé; be one or the other; but not one and the other,” exclaimed Porthos. “You may remember that Athos told you the other day, that you eat at every rack. But let us not dispute, I beseech you; it would be perfectly useless. You know what is settled between you and me and Athos: you go to Madame d’Aiguillon’s, and you pay her attentions; you then repair to Madame de Bois Tracy, the cousin of Madame de Chevreuse, and a woman in whose good graces you are thought to stand highly. Nay, my dear fellow, confess not your good fortune: no one demands your secret; every one knows your discretion; but since you possess this virtue yourself, surely you will not grudge some portion of it to the queen. Let who will talk about the king and the cardinal, but the queen is sacred; and if you discuss her at all, let it be respectfully.”

“Porthos, you are as presumptuous as Narcissus!” said Aramis; “you know that I detest moralising, except from Athos. As to you, my dear fellow, you have rather too splendid a belt to be powerful on that subject. I will be an abbé if it suits me; in the meantime I am a musketeer, in which character I say what I choose, and at this moment I choose to tell you that you irritate me.”

“Aramis!”

“Porthos!”

“That will do! gentlemen! gentlemen!” cried out all around them.

“M. de Treville awaits M. d’Artagnan,” interrupted the lackey, opening the door of the cabinet.

At this declaration, during which the door remained open, every one was silent; and in the midst of this general silence the young Gascon, passing through part of the antechamber, entered the cabinet of the captain of the musketeers, felicitating himself with all his heart upon just escaping the conclusion of this singular quarrel.

3 The Audience

M. DE TREVILLE was at this moment in a very bad humour; nevertheless, as the young man bowed to the ground, he politely saluted him, and smiled on receiving his compliments, which in their accent, recalled both his youth and his country at the same time—a double recollection, which makes a man smile at every period of his life. But going towards the antechamber, and making a sign with his hand to d’Artagnan, as if requesting permission to finish with others before he began with him, he called three times, raising his voice each time so as to run through the intermediate scale between the tone of command and that of anger—“Athos!”—“Porthos”—“ARAMIS!” The two musketeers, whose acquaintance we have already made, and who answered to the two last of these three names, immediately quitted the group of which they formed a portion, and advanced towards the cabinet, the door of which was closed immediately they had passed its threshold. Their bearing, although not quite calm, was at the same time full of dignity and submission, and their apparent indifference excited the admiration of d’Artagnan, who saw in these men a species of demi-gods, and in their chief an Olympian Jupiter, armed with all his thunders.

When the two musketeers had entered, and the door was closed behind them—when the murmuring buzz of the antechamber, to which the summons that had been given had doubtless furnished a new topic, had recommenced—when, lastly, M. de Treville had paced the whole length of his cabinet three or four times in silence, but with a frowning brow, passing each time before Porthos and Aramis, upright and mute as on parade, he suddenly stopped directly in front of them, and measuring them from top to toe with an angry look, exclaimed, “Do you know what the king said to me, and that not later than last evening? Do you know, gentlemen?”

“No,” answered the two musketeers, after a moment’s silence; “no, sir, we do not.”

“But we hope you will do us the honour of informing us,” added Aramis in his most polished tone, and with the most graceful bow.

“He told me that, for the future, he should recruit his musketeers from those of the cardinal.”

“From those of the cardinal! And why?” demanded Porthos with heat.

“Because he saw very well that his thin dregs required to be enlivened by some good and generous wine!”

The two musketeers blushed up to the very eyes.

D’Artagnan knew not where he was, and wished himself an hundred feet below the earth.

“Yes, yes,” continued M. De Treville, becoming more warm, “yes, his majesty was right; for, upon my honour, the musketeers cut but a sorry figure at court. Yesterday, whilst playing with the king, the cardinal recounted, with an air of condolence which much annoyed me, that on the previous day these cursed musketeers, these devils incarnate—and he dwelt on these words with an ironical accent, which annoyed me the more—these cutters and slashers—(looking at me with the eye of a tiger)—had loitered beyond closing time in a tavern in the Rue Ferou, and that a picquet of his guards (I thought he would laugh in my face) had been obliged to arrest the disturbers. ‘Od’s-life! you ought to know something about this. Arrest the musketeers! You were amongst them—you, sirs! do not deny it; you were recognised, and the cardinal named you. But it is all my own fault; yes, my fault; for I choose my own men. Look ye, Aramis! why did you ask me for a tunic, when a cassock suited you so well? Hark ye, Porthos! have you got such a splendid belt, only to hang to it a sword of straw? And Athos—I do not see Athos; where is he?”

“Sir,” answered Aramis, in a melancholy tone, “he is ill, very ill.”

“Ill! very ill, say you? and of what disorder?”

“We fear it is the small-pox,” answered Porthos, anxious to put in a word; “and this would be very distressing, since it would certainly spoil his face.”

“The small-pox! This is a marvellous story you are telling me, Porthos! Ill of small-pox at his age! No, no; but doubtless he is wounded, perhaps killed. Ah! if I were certain of this! Zounds, gentlemen, I do not understand why you haunt such loose places, why you quarrel in the streets, and play with the sword in the crossways; and I do not wish you to afford mirth for the cardinal’s guards, who are brave men, quiet, and skilful, who never throw themselves open to an arrest, and who, moreover, would not allow themselves to be arrested, not they! I am sure they would rather die than be arrested or escape! It is you who fly! who scamper away! A fine thing for the royal musketeers, indeed!”

Porthos and Aramis shook with rage. They could have strangled M. de Treville, had they not perceived that his great affection for them was the foundation of all he said.

As it was, they stamped on the carpet, bit their lips till the blood ran, and grasped the hilts of their swords with all their might.

M. de Treville’s summons for Athos, Porthos, and Aramis had, as we have said, been heard outside the room; and those who remained in the antechamber had concluded, from the sound of his voice, that he was in a towering rage. Ten curious heads, therefore, rested against the tapestry, and grew pale with anger, for their ears, glued to the door, lost not one word of what was said, whilst they rapidly repeated the taunting language of their captain to all who were in the antechamber. In an instant the whole hotel, from the door of the cabinet to the outer gate, was in a state of commotion.

“So! the musketeers of the king allow themselves to be arrested by the guards of the cardinal!” continued M. de Treville, not less excited within than were his soldiers without, but jerking out and mincing his words, and plunging them, as one may say, one by one, like poniards, into the bosoms of his auditors. “So, six of his excellency’s guards arrest six of his majesty’s musketeers! Sangdieu! I have taken my resolve. I will go hence to the Louvre, where I shall tender to the king my resignation as captain of the musketeers, and demand a lieutenancy in the cardinal’s guards; and if I fail in this, mortdieu, I will turn abbé!”

At these words the murmurs without broke out into a regular explosion; nothing but oaths and curses were everywhere heard. “Morbleu!” “Sangdieu!” and “Death to all the devils!” resounded through the hotel. D’Artagnan hastily glanced around the cabinet in search of some tapestry behind which he might hide himself, and failing in this, felt an almost uncontrollable desire to get under the table.

“Well, captain,” said Porthos, almost beside himself, “the truth is, we were six against six, but were unawares set upon, and before we had time to draw our swords, two of our party fell dead, and Athos was so grievously wounded as to be scarcely in better plight. You know him well, captain; twice he endeavoured to rise, and twice he fell back; and yet we did not yield ourselves up. No, we were dragged away by force; but escaped on the road. As for Athos, they believed him dead, so quietly left him on the field of battle, not thinking he was worth carrying away. That is the truth. Zounds! captain, one cannot gain every battle; even the great Pompey lost that of Pharsalia; and Francis, who, I have heard, was as brave as most men, lost the battle of Pavia.”

“And I can assure you that I killed one fellow with his own sword,” said Aramis, “for mine broke at the first parry. Killed or poniarded him, as you please!”

“I did not know these circumstances,” said M. de Treville, in a somewhat milder tone; “from what I now learn, the cardinal must have exaggerated.”

“But I beseech you, sir—” said Aramis, who, seeing his captain more calm, ventured to hazard a request—“I beseech you, sir, do not say that Athos is wounded; he would be in despair if it came to the king’s ears; as the wound is very severe, having, after passing through the shoulder, penetrated the chest, it is not impossible———”

At this moment the door opened, and a noble and beautiful face, but frightfully pale, appeared.

“Athos!” exclaimed both the gentlemen.

“Athos!” repeated M. de Treville himself.

“You inquired for me,” said Athos, to M. de Treville, in a perfectly calm but feeble voice. “My comrades informed me that you commanded my presence, and I hastened to obey you; here I am, sir; what do you require me for?” And with these words the musketeer, perfectly arrayed, and girded as usual, entered the cabinet with a firm step.

M. de Treville, touched to the heart by this proof of endurance, rushed towards him. “I was just going to tell these gentlemen,” added he, “that I forbid my musketeers to expose their lives unnecessarily; for brave men are dear to the king, and his majesty knows that his musketeers are the bravest on the earth. Your hand, Athos!” And without waiting till he responded to this proof of affection, M. de Treville seized his hand, and pressed it with much warmth, and without observing that Athos, notwithstanding his command over himself, uttered a cry of pain, and became even more pale than before, if it were possible.

In spite of the secrecy which had been observed respecting it, the severe wound which Athos had received was well known to his comrades, and his unlooked-for arrival had produced a great sensation amongst them. The door of the cabinet had, since his entrance, remained ajar; and, as two or three heads were, in the warmth of the general feeling, thrust through the opening of the tapestry, a simultaneous burst of applause followed the last words of their captain. M. de Treville would, doubtless, have sternly and instantly checked this infraction of the laws of propriety; but at the moment he suddenly felt the hand of Athos grasp his own, and, on looking at him, perceived that he was fainting. He had rallied all his powers to struggle against his pain during the interview; but he could now no longer sustain it, and fell senseless upon the carpet.

“A surgeon!” cried M. de Treville; “mine—or, rather, the king’s—a surgeon! or my brave Athos will die!” At these exclamations of M. de Treville, every one rushed into the cabinet, and before he could stop them, pressed round the wounded man. But this eagerness would have been useless, had not the surgeon been found in the hotel. Forcing his way through the spectators, he approached Athos, who was still insensible; and as the pressure of the crowd occasioned him much inconvenience, he directed as the first step of all, that the guardsman should be instantly conveyed into an adjoining apartment. M. de Treville immediately opened a door, and pointed out the way to Porthos and Aramis, who bore off their comrade in their arms.

The cabinet of M. de Treville, that place usually deemed sacred, became for the moment an adjunct to the antechamber, and one in which every one discoursed, talked loud, swore, and consigned the cardinal and all his guards to the infernal regions. In a few moments Porthos and Aramis re-entered, having left M. de Treville and the surgeon with the wounded man. At length M. de Treville himself followed, and announced that Athos had recovered his senses; whilst the surgeon declared that there was nothing in his situation to alarm his friends, his weakness being occasioned entirely by the loss of blood.

Upon a signal from M. de Treville, every one now retired except d’Artagnan, who did not abandon his audience, but, with true Gascon tenacity, held his ground. When all the intruders had left the room, and the door was again closed, M. de Treville turned round, and found himself alone with the young man. The event which had just taken place had in some measure disarranged the previous train of his ideas; and he therefore now inquired what this persevering visitor required. D’Artagnan repeated his name; and M. de Treville, recalling the past and present, instantly became aware of his situation.

“Pardon,” said he smiling, “pardon, my dear countryman, but I had entirely forgotten you. What do you want? A captain is merely the father of a family, but burdened with a heavier responsibility than an ordinary parent; for soldiers are great children; but, as I maintain, it is my duty to see that the orders of the king, and more especially those of the cardinal, are carefully executed.”

D’Artagnan could not repress a smile; and this smile satisfied M. de Treville that he was not dealing with a fool. Therefore he came at once to the point, and, at the same time, changed the subject.

“I have loved your father,” said he; “what can I do for his son? Tell me quickly, for my time is not my own.”

“Sir,” said d’Artagnan, “in quitting Tarbes, and coming here, I wished to ask from you, as a memorial of the friendship which you have not forgotten, the uniform of a musketeer; but from what I have seen during these last two hours, I more fully comprehend the extreme importance of the favour, and tremble lest I may not be deemed a fit recipient.”

“It is truly a great favour, young man,” said M. de Treville; “but it cannot be so far above you as you believe, or, at least, seem to believe. However, a decision his majesty has provided for this case; and I regret to inform you, that no one is received among the musketeers who has not passed the ordeal of some campaigns, performed certain brilliant actions, or served for two years in some less favoured regiment than our own.”

D’Artagnan bowed in silence, but at the same time feeling more eager to don the uniform of the musketeers, since that object could only be obtained with great difficulty.

“But,” continued M. de Treville, fixing his piercing look upon his countryman, as if he wished to penetrate the inmost recesses of his heart, “but for the sake of my ancient friend, your father, I wish to do something for you. Young man, we cadets of Bearn are not in general overburdened with wealth, and I fear that matters are not much improved in this respect since I left the province. Your purse, therefore, can scarce be as full as it was.”

D’Artagnan drew himself up with a proud air, which seemed to say, “I ask charity of none.”

“It is well, young man, it is very well; I understand your feelings. I came to Paris myself with only four crowns in my pocket, and I would have fought any one who had dared to dispute my ability to purchase the Louvre.”

D’Artagnan assumed a still prouder air. Thanks to the sale of his horse, he began the world with four crowns more than M. de Treville.

“I should say, therefore, that however large may be the sum you really possess, you ought to preserve it. In the meantime you must perfect yourself in all those accomplishments which become a gentleman, and I will this day write a letter to the director of the Royal Academy, who will receive you tomorrow without any fee. Do not refuse this trifling favour. Gentlemen of the highest rank and wealth often solicit without being able to obtain it, the same gift. You will there learn to ride, to fence, and to dance; you will form a circle in good society; and from time to time you must personally apprise me of your progress, and let me know if I can do anything for you.”

D’Artagnan, ignorant as he was of the manners of high society, felt the coldness of this reception.

“Alas, sir,” said he, “I now deeply feel the want of the letter of introduction which my father gave me for you.”

“I am, in truth, somewhat surprised,” replied M. de Treville, “that you should have undertaken so long a journey without that viaticum, so essential to every Bearnese.”

“I had one, sir, and a good one—thank God!” cried d’Artagnan, “but was perfidiously robbed of it;” and with a degree of warmth and an air of truth which charmed M. de Treville, he recounted his adventure at Meung, accurately describing his unknown adversary.

“It was very strange,” said M. de Treville musingly. “You spoke of me openly, did you?”

“Yes, sir, I certainly committed that imprudence; but such a name as yours served me as a shield on my journey; therefore you can guess if I frequently covered myself with it or no!”

It was an age of flattery, and M. de Treville loved the incense as well as a king or a cardinal. He could not help smiling, therefore, with evident satisfaction; but this smile soon passed away, and returning to the adventure at Meung, he continued—

“Tell me, had not this gentleman a slight scar on the cheek?”

“Yes, as if left by a pistol-ball.”

“Was he not a man of commanding air?”

“Yes.”

“Of a tall figure?”

“Yes.”

“With an olivine complexion?”

“Yes, yes, that is he: but do you know this man, sir? Ah! if I ever meet him—and I will find him, I swear to you, even were he in hell———”

“He attended a woman did he not?” continued M. de Treville.

“At least he departed after he had conversed a moment with the one he had attended.”

“Do you know the subject of their conversation?”

“He gave her a box, which he said contained her instructions, and desired her not to open it until she arrived in London.”

“Was this woman an Englishwoman?”

“He called her ‘my lady.’”

“It is he,” murmured Treville: “it must be; I thought he was at Brussels.”

“Oh, sir,” exclaimed d’Artagnan, “if you know this man, tell me who and whence he is, and I will hold you absolved even of your promise to admit me amongst the musketeers; for before and above everything else, I long to avenge myself.”

“Beware, young man,” said M. de Treville. “Should you perceive this man walking on the one side of the street, instead of seeking your revenge, proceed yourself on the opposite side; precipitate not yourself against such a rock, upon which you will assuredly be shattered like glass.”

“That fear will not deter me, should I ever meet him,” said d’Artagnan.

“In the meantime, do not seek him,” replied Treville.

“If you take my advice———”

But all at once M. de Treville paused, as if struck by a sudden suspicion: the deadly hatred which the young traveller so openly avowed for this man who had deprived him of his father’s letter—which was in itself a very improbable circumstance—might not this apparent enmity conceal some perfidy? Was not this young man sent by his eminence? Did not he come to lay a trap for him? Was not this pretended d’Artagnan an emissary of the cardinal, whom the latter sought to introduce into his house, and whom he wished to place near him to worm himself into his confidence, and afterwards to betray him, as was often done in similar cases? He looked more earnestly at d’Artagnan than at first, and was but slightly reassured by the appearance of that countenance, beaming with acute talent and affected humility. “I know very well that he is a Gascon,” thought he; “but he is just as likely to be one for the cardinal as for me. Yet I will try him further.”

“Young man,” said he slowly, “as the son of mine ancient friend—for I consider the history of this lost letter as true—I wish, in order to compensate for the coolness which you perceived in my first reception, to reveal to you the secrets of our politics. The king and the cardinal are the best of friends; their apparent disputes are merely to deceive fools; and I do not wish that my countryman, a handsome cavalier, a brave youth, formed to rise in the world, should be the dupe of all these pretences, and, like a simpleton, rush headlong into the snare which has made awful examples of so many others. Rest assured, that I am entirely devoted to these two all-powerful masters, and that all my serious proceedings can never have any other object in view than the service of the king, and of the cardinal, who is one of the most illustrious geniuses that France has ever produced. Now, young man, regulate your conduct by this; and should you, through your family or connections, or even your instincts, bear the slightest hostility towards the cardinal, such as you may have seen burst forth occasionally amongst our nobility, take your leave, and quit me. I can assist you in a thousand ways, without attaching you to my own person. At all events, I hope my frankness will make you my friend, for you are the first young man to whom I have as yet spoken in this manner.”

Treville ceased speaking, but he thought to himself, “If the cardinal has really sent me this young fox, he would not surely fail—he who knows how much I loathe him—to tell his spy that the best way of paying court to me, is to rail at himself. Therefore, in spite of my protestations, the cunning fellow will doubtless say that he holds his eminence in detestation.”

The result, however, was far different from M. de Treville’s anticipations. D’Artagnan replied, with the utmost simplicity, “Sir, I am come to Paris with sentiments and intentions exactly similar to those you have just expressed. My father charged me to obey no one but the king, the cardinal, and yourself, whom he considers the three greatest men in France.” D’Artagnan, it will be perceived, added M. de Treville to the others, but he considered that this addition would do no harm. “Hence,” he continued, “I have the greatest veneration for the cardinal, and the most profound respect for his actions. It is, therefore, so much the better for me, sir, if, as you say, you speak frankly to me, since you will then do me the honour to esteem this similarity of opinions; but if, on the contrary, as may be very natural, you entertain any feelings of distrust respecting me, so much the worse, as I shall then feel that I am ruined by speaking the truth. But in any case, you will at least honour me with your esteem, which I value more than anything else.”

M. de Treville was astonished. So much penetration, and yet so much candour, excited his admiration, although they failed in wholly removing his doubts. The more superior this youth was to other young men, the more formidable a traitor would he make. Nevertheless, he grasped d’Artagnan’s hand, and said to him, “You are an honest fellow; but at present I can only do for you what I have promised. In the meantime, my hotel shall always be open to you; so that, having access to me at all times, and being ready to take advantage of every opportunity, you will probably hereafter obtain what you desire.”

“That is to say,” replied d’Artagnan, “that you will wait till I have become worthy of it. Very well,” he added, with Gascon familiarity; “rest assured that you will not have to wait long;” and he bowed to retire, as if the future lay with himself.

“But wait a moment,” said M. de Treville, stopping him; “I promised you a letter to the director of the Academy. Are you too proud to accept it, my little gentleman?”

“No, sir,” replied d’Artagnan; “and I will answer for it that the same fate that overtook my father’s letter shall not occur to this, which I will take good care shall reach its destination; and woe be to him who shall attempt to deprive me of it.”

M. de Treville smiled at this gasconade, and leaving his young countryman in the embrasure of the window, where they had been talking, sat down to write the promised letter of introduction. In the meantime, d’Artagnan, who had nothing better to do, beat a march on the window, looking at the musketeers, who had followed each other, and watching them rounding the corner of the street. M. de Treville, having written the letter and sealed it, approached the young man to give it to him; but at the very moment when d’Artagnan held out his hand to receive it, M. de Treville was astonished to perceive his protégé spring up, redden with anger, and rush out of the cabinet, exclaiming—

“‘Od’s blood! he shall not escape me this time!”

“And who is he?” demanded M. de Treville.

“It is he—the robber!” replied d’Artagnan. “Oh, what a traitor!”—and he vanished.

“Deuce take the madman!” murmured M. de Treville, “unless it is, after all, a clever mode of giving me the slip, seeing that he has failed in his attempts.”

4 The Shoulder of Athos, the Belt of Porthos, and the Handkerchief of Aramis

D’ARTAGNAN, QUITE FURIOUS, had passed through the antechamber in three bounds, and reached the staircase, which he was about to descend by four steps at a time, when he suddenly ran full butt against a musketeer, who was leaving M. de Treville’s suite of rooms by a private door, and butting his shoulder, made him utter a cry, or rather a howl. “Excuse me,” said d’Artagnan, trying to continue his course; “excuse me; I am in a great hurry.”

But he had hardly descended the first step, before a hand of iron seized him by the scarf and stopped him. “You are in a hurry!” exclaimed the musketeer, as pale as a sheet, “and under this pretext you dash against me. You say, ‘Excuse me,’ and think that is sufficient. But it is not so, my young man. Do you imagine, because you heard M. de Treville address us somewhat bluntly today that any one may speak to us as he speaks? Undeceive yourself, comrade: you are not M. de Treville?”

“Upon my word—“said d’Artagnan, seeing that it was Athos, who, after the treatment of the surgeon, was now returning to his apartments—“upon my word, I did not run against you on purpose; and not having done it on purpose, I said, ‘Excuse me.’ It appears to me, therefore, quite sufficient. Nevertheless, I repeat—and this time perhaps it is an excess of courtesy—that, upon my honour, I am in a hurry, a confounded hurry: loose me, therefore, I beseech you, and permit me to go about my business.”

“Sir,” said Athos, releasing him, “you are by no means polite; it is evident that you come from a distance.”

D’Artagnan had already descended three or four steps, but at the remark of Athos, he stopped short. “Sir,” said he, “from whatever distance I may come, I assure you that you are not the individual to give me a lesson in good manners.”

“Perhaps I am,” replied Athos.

“Ah! would that I were not in such a hurry,” exclaimed d’Artagnan, “and that I were not running after some one!”

“Monsieur in a hurry! you will find me without running; do you understand?”

“And where, may it please you?”

“Near the Carmes-Deschaux.”

“At what hour?”

“About twelve o’clock.”

“Very well, I will be there.”

“Take care that you do not make me wait too long,” said Athos, “for I tell you plainly, at a quarter past twelve, it is I that will run after you, and cut off your ears as you go!”

“Good!” exclaimed d’Artagnan; “but I will take special care to be there at ten minutes before twelve.”

And he commenced running again as if possessed by devils, hoping still to catch the unknown, whose slow pace could not yet have carried him beyond his reach. But at the corner of the street Porthos was talking with one of the soldiers on guard, and between these two there was just space enough for a man to pass. D’Artagnan fancied that this space was sufficient for him, and he shot forward to rush like an arrow between the two. He had not, however, made allowance for the wind, which, whilst he was passing, actually bellied out the enormous cloak of Porthos, into which he fairly plunged. Doubtless Porthos had cogent reasons for not abandoning this most essential portion of his dress; and therefore, instead of letting go the corner which he held, he drew it more closely towards him, so that d’Artagnan found himself rolled up in the velvet, by a rotatory motion which is clearly explained by the obstinate resistance of Porthos.

D’Artagnan, hearing the musketeer swear, wished to escape from under the cloak, which completely blinded him, and sought for an outlet from the folds. Above all things he feared that he had injured the freshness of the magnificent belt, of which we have heard so much; but on recovering his powers of vision he found his nose jammed between the shoulders of Porthos; that is, exactly on the belt. Alas! like the majority of the fine things of this world, which are only made for outward show, the belt was of gold in front, and of simple leather behind. In fact, Porthos, proud as he was, being unable to afford a belt entirely of gold, had procured one of which the half at least was of that metal. And this may perhaps account for the cold under which Porthos had avowed himself as suffering, and the consequent need of the cloak.

“‘Od’s-boddikins!” cried Porthos, making every effort to free himself from d’Artagnan, who kept poking his nose into his back; “you are mad to throw yourself in this manner upon people.”

“Excuse me,” said d’Artagnan, reappearing from beneath the shoulder of the giant, “but I was in a hurry; I am running after some one———”

“Do you shut your eyes when you run?” demanded Porthos.

“No,” answered d’Artagnan, somewhat piqued, “no; and, thanks to my eyes, I can see what others do not see.”

Whether Porthos understood him or not, he yet gave way to his anger. “Sir,” said he, “you will get yourself chastised, if you thus rub against the musketeers.”

“Chastised, sir!” said d’Artagnan; “your expression is harsh.”

“It is such as becomes a man who is accustomed to face his enemies.”

“Ah, by St. Denis,” replied d’Artagnan, “I know well that you would not turn your back upon yours!” and the young man, delighted with his joke, marched off, laughing outrageously.

Porthos foamed with anger, and was hastening after him; but d’Artagnan turned and said—

“By and by, by and by, when you are without your cloak.”

“At one o’clock, then, behind the Luxembourg,” shouted Porthos.

“Very well, at one o’clock,” answered d’Artagnan, as he turned into the street adjoining.

But neither in the street which he had just traversed, nor in that down which he looked, did he see any one. Slowly as the stranger had walked, he had disappeared. Perhaps he had entered some house. D’Artagnan inquired after him of every one he met; he even went down to the ferry, returned by the Rue de Seine and La Croix Rouge, but no one, actually no one, was to be seen. This pursuit, however, was so far serviceable to him, that, as the perspiration bathed his forehead, his heart grew cool, and he then began to reflect on the events which had just transpired. They were numerous and inauspicious. It was scarcely eleven o’clock, and already the morning had brought with it the loss of M. de Treville’s favour, since he must have deemed the mode in which d’Artagnan left him extremely abrupt; beside this, he had picked up good duels, with two men, each of them capable of slaying three d’Artagnans; and, lastly, these duels were with musketeers, with two of those very men whom he esteemed so highly as to rank them in his mind and heart above all the world. The Fates were against him; sure of being killed by Athos, it is clear our youth did not care much about Porthos. However, as hope is the last thing which is extinguished in man’s heart, he began to hope he might survive—it might be, to be sure, with some terrible wounds; and, under the impression that he should survive, he gave himself the following rebukes as a guard for the future:—“What a hare-brained fellow I am! What a booby! This brave and unlucky Athos was wounded on the shoulder, against which I must therefore run full butt like a ram. The only thing which surprises me is, that he did not kill me at once. He would have been justified in doing so, for the pain I caused him must have been excruciating. As for Porthos—oh! as for Porthos, upon my word, it is even more droll.” And in spite of all his efforts to restrain himself, the youth began to laugh, at the same time looking round lest this solitary merriment, which to those who might see him must appear without cause, should offend any one passing. “As to Porthos,” he continued, “it is more droll; but I am not the less a miserable giddy-pate, to throw myself thus upon people, without saying ‘take care.’ And, besides, does any one look under a person’s cloak to search for what no one supposes to be there? He would doubtless have pardoned me, had I not spoken to him of that cursed belt. It was, it is true, only by insinuation—yes, but a neat insinuation. I’faith a pretty business! Foolish Gascon that I am—a pretty kettle of fish I shall make. Come, my friend, d’Artagnan,” he continued, addressing himself with all the amenity to which he thought himself entitled; “should you escape, which is not very probable, you must practise courtesy for the future; hereafter every one must admire you, and must quote you as a model. To be obliging and polite is not to be cowardly. Observe Aramis: he is softness and grace personified. And yet did any one ever pretend to say that Aramis was a coward? No; and for the future I will in all points make him my model. Ah! singular enough, here he is.”

D’Artagnan, thus walking and soliloquising, had arrived within a few paces of the hotel d’Aiguillon, and before this hotel he perceived Aramis talking gaily with three gentlemen of the king’s guards. On the other hand, although Aramis perceived d’Artagnan, he had not forgotten that it was before this young man that M. de Treville had given way to passion, and a witness of the reproaches that the musketeers had received was by no means agreeable to him. He therefore pretended not to see him; but d’Artagnan, full of his new-formed plans of conciliation and courtesy, approached the four young men, making them a profound obeisance, accompanied by a gracious smile. Aramis bowed slightly, but did not smile. Silence fell upon the group. D’Artagnan had acuteness enough to perceive that he was an intruder; but he was not sufficiently skilled in the ways of polite society to withdraw himself dexterously from a false position, such as is generally that of a man who joins those he scarcely knows, and intrudes himself into a conversation in which he has no interest. He therefore sought within himself for some means of retreat which might be the least awkward, when he suddenly perceived that Aramis had dropped his handkerchief, and, inadvertently no doubt, had put his foot upon it. The moment appeared to be favourable for repairing his ill-timed intrusion; he therefore stooped down with the most graceful air imaginable, drew the handkerchief from under the musketeer’s foot, notwithstanding the efforts he made to retain it there, saying, as he presented it to Aramis, “I believe, sir, this is a handkerchief which you would be sorry to lose.”

The handkerchief was, in fact, richly embroidered, and had a coronet and arms in one of its corners. Aramis blushed excessively, and snatched, rather than took, the handkerchief from the hands of the Gascon.

“Ah! ah!” said one of the guards, “will you still insist, most discreet Aramis, that you are on bad terms with Madame de Bois Tracy, when that gracious lady condescends to lend you her handkerchief?”

Aramis threw such a glance at d’Artagnan, as makes a man understand that he has gained a mortal enemy. Then, resuming his soft air, “You guess wrong, comrades,” said he; “this handkerchief is not mine, and I know not why this gentleman has had the fancy to give it to me, rather than to one of you; and as a proof of what I say, here is my own in my pocket.” So saying, he drew from his pocket his own handkerchief, a very handsome one, of fine cambric, although cambric at that time was very dear; but it was without embroidery, without arms, and adorned with a simple cipher, that of its owner.

This time d’Artagnan was silent. He had discovered his mistake. But the friends of Aramis would not allow themselves to be convinced by his denial; and one of them, addressing the young musketeer with an affected air of solemnity, said—

“If the fact is as you assert, my dear Aramis, I shall be compelled to demand possession of the handkerchief, de Bois Tracy being, as you are aware, one of my most intimate friends, and I should not wish any one to display his wife’s property by way of a trophy.”

“You make this demand with a bad grace,” replied Aramis; “and on this ground alone, even were I to admit its justice fundamentally, I should still refuse compliance with your request.”

“The fact is,” modestly observed d’Artagnan, “I did not see the handkerchief fall from the pocket of M. Aramis; he had his foot upon it, however, and hence my reason for supposing that it belonged to him.”

“And you were mistaken, sir,” coldly replied Aramis, not very grateful for the apology. Then, turning to the guardsman who had avowed himself the friend of de Bois Tracy, he added, “Besides, on reflection, my worthy comrade, I am the friend of de Bois Tracy as well as yourself, and this handkerchief, strictly speaking, might have come from your pocket as well as from mine.”

“No, upon my honour,” said the musketeer.

“You swear by your honour, and I pledge my word; therefore one of us must evidently lie. But come, Monterau, let us do something better than indulge in counter assertions and denials: let each of us take half.”

“Of the handkerchief?”

“Yes.”

“Perfectly fair,” cried the other two guardsmen; “decidedly the judgment of Solomon. Aramis, you are certainly cram-ful of wisdom!” exclaimed the young men, indulging in hearty laughter; and the affair, as may be imagined, was thus deprived of further importance. Immediately afterwards the conversation ceased, and the friends separated, with a cordial shaking of hands, the three guardsmen going one way, and Aramis another.

“Now is my opportunity for making my peace with this gentleman,” mentally ejaculated d’Artagnan, who had kept somewhat aloof during the latter part of the conversation, and who now, impelled by this good feeling, approached Aramis, who was departing without taking any further notice of him.

“I hope, sir, that you will excuse me,” said he, addressing Aramis.

“Sir,” rejoined the latter, “you must permit me to remark, that you have not acted in this affair as a man of good breeding ought to have done.”

“What inference, sir, am I to draw from your remark?”

“Why, sir, I take it for granted that you are not a fool; and that, although coming from Gascony, you must be well aware that no one walks upon pocket-handkerchiefs without sufficient reason for so doing. Zounds, sir, Paris is not paved with cambric!”

“You do me injustice, sir, in thus endeavouring to mortify me,” said d’Artagnan, in whom the inherent love of quarrelling began to operate much more forcibly than his previous pacific intentions. “I am a Gascon, it is true; and, as you do not require to be informed, the Gascons are not very long-suffering; therefore, when they have once apologised, even should it be for some imprudence, they consider that they have done one half more than they ought to do.”

“What I have said to you, sir,” retorted Aramis, “is not for the purpose of seeking a quarrel with you. Thank God! I am no bully; and being a musketeer only temporarily, I never fight except when I am compelled, and then with the utmost reluctance. This, however, is a serious affair, for a lady here is compromised by you.”

“Say rather by us,” cried d’Artagnan.

“Why did you perpetrate such a stupid blunder as to give me this handkerchief?”

“Why were you so stupid as to let it fall?”

“I have declared, and I repeat, sir, that this handkerchief did not come from my pocket.”

“Well, then, you have twice lied; for I myself saw it fall from your pocket.”

“Ah, is this the tone you choose to assume, Sir Gascon? Well, I must teach you how to behave better.”

“And I will send you back to your missal, M. Abbé; so draw, if you please, this instant?”

“No, I thank you, my fine fellow; not here, at any rate. Do you not perceive that we are opposite the hotel d’Aiguillon, which is full of the cardinal’s creatures. In fact, who can say that it is not his eminence who has commissioned you to procure my head for him. Now, as it happens that I entertain what may appear to you a ridiculous affection for my head, provided it remains tolerably firm on my shoulders, I wish, before parting with it, to kill you. But keep yourself quite easy on that score; I will kill you at leisure, in a retired and secret spot, where you may not be able to boast of your death to any one.”

“I am quite agreeable,” replied d’Artagnan; “but do not be puffed up; and here, take away your handkerchief, whether it belongs to you or not; probably you may have tears to dry.”

“Spoken like a true Gascon, sir,” said Aramis.

“Yes; but that is no reason why you should delay our little affair, unless, indeed, you are influenced by more prudential motives.”

“I know well that prudence, although indispensable to churchmen, is a virtue unknown to the musketeers,” replied Aramis, “and being, as I have informed you, only a soldier temporarily, I am resolved to remain prudent. At two o’clock I shall have the honour of awaiting you at the hotel of M. de Treville, whence I will conduct you to a more convenient spot.”

The two young men then bowed to each other, and parted. Aramis proceeded towards the Luxembourg; whilst d’Artagnan, finding that the time approached, took the road to the Carmes Deschaux, all the while inwardly ejaculating—“Positively, I cannot escape! but at all events, if I am killed, it will be by a musketeer.”

5 The King’s Musketeers and the Cardinal’s Guards

D’ARTAGNAN WAS FRIEND LESS in Paris. He therefore went to meet Athos without being provided with a second, having made up his mind to be satisfied with those which accompanied his adversary. Besides, he fully intended to offer the brave musketeer all suitable apologies, but, at the same time, to betray nothing having the slightest appearance of timidity or weakness. He also feared such a result from this duel as may be naturally anticipated in an affair of the kind, where a young and vigorous man fights with an opponent who is wounded and enfeebled; and in which, should the former be vanquished, the triumph of his opponent is doubled; whilst, should the former prove the conqueror, he is not only accused of being brave at small risk, but even his courage is regarded as extremely doubtful. Moreover, unless we have been unsuccessful in our attempt to portray the true character of our adventurer, the reader must have already remarked, that d’Artagnan was no common type. Therefore, although he could not divest himself of the idea that his death was inevitable, he had by no means resolved quietly to resign himself to his fate with that patience which another less courageous than himself might perhaps have displayed in such a case. He pondered upon the different characters of those with whom he was about to engage, and at length began to obtain a clearer view of his situation. By means of the sincere apology which he contemplated, he hoped to conciliate Athos, whose aristocratic air and austere manner quite delighted him. Then he flattered himself that he might intimidate Porthos by the adventure of the belt, whose story, if he were not instantaneously killed, he might relate to every one, so as to overwhelm him with ridicule. Lastly, as regarded the quiet Aramis, he entertained very slight apprehensions; for, supposing that he should survive to fight him, he entertained no doubt of his ability to make short work of him, or, at all events, by wounding him in the face (as Cæsar recommended his men to do with Pompey’s soldiers), to spoil for ever that beauty of which he was so vain. In fine, d’Artagnan now brought into action those principles of unconquerable and steady resolve which the counsels of his father had implanted in his heart—counsels which, as we know, had instructed him to submit to nothing like indignity unless it proceeded from the king, the cardinal, or M. de Treville.

Full of these ideas, he sped as if on wings towards the convent des Carmes Deschaux—a building without windows, adjoining a chapel of ease of the Pré-aux-Clercs, and surrounded by dry meadows, which generally served as a rendezvous for those combatants who had no time to lose. As d’Artagnan came in sight of the small open space in front of the convent, it struck the hour of noon, and Athos had already been about five minutes on the ground. He was therefore as punctual as the Samaritan woman, and the most rigorous casuist in the laws of duelling could have found nothing to censure.

Athos, who continued to suffer severely from his wound, although it had again been dressed by M. de Treville’s surgeon, had seated himself on a large stone, where he awaited his adversary with that air of calmness and dignity which never forsook him. As d’Artagnan approached, he arose, and politely advanced some steps to meet him; whilst d’Artagnan, on his part, went towards his antagonist bowing until his plume touched the ground.

“Sir,” said Athos, “I expected two of my friends who are to act as my seconds, but they are not yet arrived. I am surprised that they should be so late, as they are generally punctual!”

“I have no second, sir,” said d’Artagnan; “I only arrived in Paris yesterday; consequently I am unknown to any one here except M. de Treville, to whom I was introduced by my father, who has the honour to claim his friendship.”

Athos mused for an instant, and then said: “So M. de Treville is your only acquaintance?”

“Yes, sir, I know no one but him.”

“Oh, then,” continued Athos sotto voce, “if I should kill you, I shall acquire the reputation of a child-eater.”

“Not entirely so, sir,” answered d’Artagnan, with a bow which was not devoid of dignity, “not quite so; since you do me the honour to draw your sword against me whilst suffering from a wound which must occasion you great inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience! Upon my honour I assure you that you hurt me confoundedly. But I will use my left hand, as I usually do under such circumstances. Yet do not imagine that by this means I do you a favour, as I fight equally well with either hand. Indeed, it will rather be a disadvantage to you, a left-handed man being a very trying opponent to one who is not used to it. I regret, therefore, that I did not apprise you sooner of this circumstance.”

“Really, sir,” said d’Artagnan, again bowing, “you are so very courteous that I cannot be sufficiently grateful.”

“You overwhelm me,” replied Athos, with the air of a well-bred man; “if it be not disagreeable to you, pray let us converse upon some other subject. Ah! how you did hurt me! how my shoulder still burns!”

“Would you permit me———?” said d’Artagnan, somewhat timidly.

“To do what, sir?” inquired Athos.

“I have a salve which is quite a panacea for wounds—a salve which my mother gave me, and which I have tried upon myself with success.”

“And what of it?” continued Athos.

“Why, sir, I am certain that in less than three days this salve would cure you; and at the end of that time, when your cure is completed, it would be a great honour for me to cross swords with you.”

D’Artagnan uttered these words with a simplicity which did honour to his courtesy, without in the slightest degree detracting from his courage.

“By my faith!” exclaimed Athos, “this is a proposition which much pleases me; not that I should think of accepting it; but it savours of the perfect knight, and it was thus that, in the days of Charlemagne, those brave men, whom every man of honour should make his model, spoke. Unfortunately, however, we do not live in the times of the great emperor, but in those of the cardinal; and three days hence, however well we might preserve our secret, it would be known that we were going to fight, and we should be prevented. But,” he added, with some impatience, “these seconds are laggards.”

“If you are in haste, sir,” said d’Artagnan, with the same simplicity that had the moment before characterised his proposition to put off the duel for three days—“if you are in haste, and should wish to dispose of me at once, dispense with the seconds, I beseech you.”

“This speech of yours pleases me still more,” said Athos, gracefully bowing to d’Artagnan, “it does not seem that of a man who lacks either head or heart. I admire men of your stamp, and, if we are spared, I shall hereafter have sincere pleasure in your acquaintance. Meantime, let us wait for these gentlemen, I pray you. I have plenty of time, and it will be more according to rule. Ah! see, here comes one of them.”

And as he spoke, the gigantic form of Porthos was seen at the end of the Rue de Vaugirard.

“What!” exclaimed d’Artagnan, “is M. Porthos one of your seconds!”

“Yes, have you any objection to him?”

“Oh, certainly not!”

“And here is the other.”

D’Artagnan looked in the direction indicated by Athos, and beheld Aramis.

“What!” cried he, in a tone of yet greater astonishment, “is M. Aramis the other of your seconds?”

“Certainly; are you not aware that one is rarely seen without the other, and that amongst the musketeers and guards, at court and in the town, we are known as Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, or the three inseparables? But as you come from Dax or Pau———”

“From Tarbes,” said d’Artagnan.

“You may very naturally be ignorant of all this.”

“Really, gentlemen,” said d’Artagnan, “you are well named; and should my adventure become known, it will at least prove that like draws to like.”

In the meantime Porthos approached, shook hands with Athos, and turning towards d’Artagnan, seemed lost in astonishment. We may mention, in passing, that he had changed his belt, and laid aside his cloak.

“It is with this gentleman that I am about to fight,” said Athos, pointing towards d’Artagnan, and at the same time saluting him.

“And I also am going to fight him,” replied Porthos.

“But not till one o’clock,” interrupted d’Artagnan.

“And I also—it is with him that I am to fight,” said Aramis, who had arrived on the ground, just after Porthos.

“Our appointment, however, is for two o’clock,” replied d’Artagnan, with the same coolness.

“But what are you going to fight about, Athos?” demanded Aramis.

“Upon my faith, I do not well know, except that he hurt my shoulder.”

“And you, Porthos?”

“I fight because I fight,” replied Porthos colouring. Athos, whom nothing escaped, perceived a slight smile curling the lips of the Gascon.

“We had a dispute about dress,” said d’Artagnan.

“And you, Aramis?” demanded Athos.

“Me? I fight on account of a theological dispute,” answered Aramis, making a sign to d’Artagnan that he wished him to conceal the true cause of their duel.

“Really!” said Athos, who observed d’Artagnan smile again.

“Yes, a point of St. Augustine, on which we could not agree,” said the Gascon.

“Decidedly he is a man of spirit,” murmured Athos.

“And now that you are all arrived, gentlemen,” said d’Artagnan, “permit me to offer my apologies.”

A frown passed over the brow of Athos, a haughty smile glided over the lips of Porthos, and a negative sign was the reply of Aramis.

“You do not rightly understand me, gentlemen,” said d’Artagnan, elevating his head, on which a sunbeam played, gilding its fine and manly lines. “I wish to apologise because it is improbable that I shall be able to pay my debt to all three; for M. Athos has the right to kill me first, which greatly decreases the value of your bill, M. Porthos, whilst it renders yours, M. Aramis, of scarcely the slightest value. Therefore, gentlemen, on that account alone, I again repeat my offer of apology. And now upon your guard!”

And with the most gallant and fearless mien he drew his sword.

His blood was fairly roused, and at that moment he would have drawn his sword against all the musketeers in the kingdom with as little hesitation as he then did against Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.

It was a quarter past twelve, the sun was at its meridian, and the situation chosen for the encounter was exposed to its fierce heat.

“It is very hot,” said Athos, drawing his sword, “and yet I cannot take off my doublet, for just now I perceived that my wound bled, and I fear to distress this gentleman by showing him blood which he has not drawn from me himself.”

“True, sir,” replied d’Artagnan, “but I assure you that, whether drawn by myself or by any other person, I shall always see with regret the blood of so brave a gentleman; I will therefore follow your example, and fight in my doublet.”

“Come,” said Porthos, “a truce to these compliments. Remember that we also await our turn.”

“Speak for yourself only, Porthos, when you choose to be so rude,” interposed Aramis. “As for me, I consider the courtesies which have passed between these gentlemen as worthy of men of the highest honour.”

“When you please, sir,” said Athos, placing himself on his guard.

“I was at your service,” said d’Artagnan, crossing his sword.

But the two rapiers had scarcely met, when a party of the cardinal’s guards, commanded by M. de Jussac, appeared at the corner of the convent.

“The cardinal’s guards!” exclaimed Porthos and Aramis at the same moment. “Sheathe swords—gentlemen—sheathe swords!”

But it was too late. The combatants had been seen in a position which left no doubt of their intentions.

“Hollo!” cried Jussac, advancing towards them, and giving a signal to his men to do the same. “Hollo, musketeers! What, fighting here? And the edicts—are they forgotten, eh?”

“You are extremely generous, gentlemen of the guards,” said Athos, in a tone of the most bitter animosity, for Jussac had been one of the aggressors on the night before last. “If we saw you fighting, I promise you that we should not prevent it; therefore let us alone, and you will enjoy the spectacle without any of the pain.”

“Gentlemen,” answered Jussac, “it is with regret I declare that what you request is impossible. Duty must take precedence of everything else. Sheathe, therefore, if you please, and follow us.”

“Sir,” said Aramis, parodying Jussac’s manner, “if it depended upon ourselves, we should accept your polite invitation with the utmost pleasure; but unfortunately the thing is impossible. M. de Treville has forbidden it. Move on, therefore; it is the best thing you can do.”

This mockery exasperated Jussac. “We will charge you,” said he, “if you disobey.”

“They are five,” said Athos in a low voice, “and we are only three; we shall be beaten again, and we must die here; for I positively swear that I will not again appear before the captain a vanquished man.”

Athos, Porthos, and Aramis closed up to each other, whilst Jussac drew up his men. This moment of delay sufficed for d’Artagnan to form his resolution. It was one of those moments weighed with a man’s whole destiny; it was a choice between the king and the cardinal, and this choice, once made, must be adhered to. To fight was to disobey the law, to risk his head, and, by one blow, to make an enemy of a minister more powerful than the king himself. All this the young man plainly perceived, and we must do him the justice to declare that he did not hesitate a single instant.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “you must allow me to correct one thing which you have said. You affirmed that you were but three; but it appears to me that there are four of us.”

“You are not one of us,” said Porthos.

“True,” replied d’Artagnan, “I have not the dress, but I have the heart and soul of a musketeer; I feel it, sir, and it impels me along, as it were, by force.”

“Hark ye, young man!” cried Jussac, who doubtless, from d’Artagnan’s gestures and the expression of his countenance, had divined his intentions; “you may retire; we permit you; save your skin, and that quickly.”

But d’Artagnan moved not a step.

“You are unquestionably a man of spirit,” said Athos, pressing the young man’s hand.

“Come, come; decide, decide!” exclaimed Jussac.

“We must make up our minds,” said Porthos and Aramis.

“You are truly generous,” said Athos to d’Artagnan.

But all three thought of d’Artagnan’s youth, and feared his inexperience.

“We are but three, and one of us wounded, exclusive of this boy,” remarked Athos; “and yet it will be said that we were four men.”

“Ay, but to retreat!” said Porthos.

“It is difficult,” said Athos.

“Quite impossible!” said Aramis.

D’Artagnan comprehended the cause of their irresolution. “Gentlemen,” said he, “only try me, and I pledge you my honour that I will not leave this spot except as a conqueror.”

“What is your name, my fine fellow?” said Athos.

“D’Artagnan, sir.”

“Well, then, Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan, forward!” exclaimed Athos.

“So, you have made up your minds, gentlemen?” cried Jussac for the third time.

“Quite so,” replied Athos.

“And what is your resolve?” demanded Jussac.

“We are about to have the honour of charging you,” replied Aramis, raising his hat with one hand, and drawing his sword with the other.

“Ah! you resist!” cried Jussac.

“Mortdieu! Does that surprise you?”

And the nine combatants rushed upon each other with a fury which did not, however, exclude a kind of method. Athos took Cahusac, one of the cardinal’s favourites; Porthos selected Biscarrat; and Aramis found himself opposed to two adversaries. As for d’Artagnan, he sprang towards Jussac himself.

The heart of the young Gascon throbbed violently, not with fear, but with eagerness. He fought with the fury of an enraged tiger, turning round his adversary, and every moment changing his guard and position. Jussac, as we have before said, was a most skilful and experienced swordsman; nevertheless, he found the utmost difficulty in defending himself against his adversary, who, active and nimble, perpetually deviated from all the received rules of fencing, attacking on all sides at once, and yet at the same time guarding himself like one who had the greatest respect in the world for his own person. At length the struggle was brought to a conclusion by Jussac’s rashness. Furious at being thus held at bay by one whom he regarded as a mere boy, he became less cautious, and committed various indiscretions; whilst d’Artagnan, who, although deficient in practice, had a profound knowledge of the theory of the art, redoubled his agility. Jussac, eager to dispatch him, made a tremendous lunge, at the same time breaking ground; but d’Artagnan parried the thrust, and whilst Jussac recovered himself, he glided like a serpent under his weapon, and passed his sword through his body; Jussac fell heavily on the ground.

D’Artagnan now cast a rapid and anxious glance over the field of battle. Aramis had already killed one of his adversaries, but the other pressed him sharply. He was, however, in very good trim, and could well defend himself. Biscarrat and Porthos had both received wounds, Porthos in the arm, and his adversary in the thigh; but as neither of these wounds was severe, they only fought the more fiercely. Athos, wounded afresh by Cahusac, looked more and more pale, but did not yield an inch; he had merely changed hands, and fought with his left. According to the laws of duelling at that period, d’Artagnan was at liberty to assist any one of his companions; and whilst he sought to ascertain which of them most required his aid, he caught a glance from Athos, which served instead of speech. Athos would have died sooner than call for assistance; but his look plainly denoted how much he required support. D’Artagnan at once comprehended his meaning, and with a single bound he fell on Cahusac’s flank, exclaiming, “Turn, sir guardsman, or I kill you!”

Cahusac did turn, just as Athos, whom his extreme courage had alone sustained, sunk upon one knee. “Hollo, young man!” exclaimed Athos, “do not kill him, I beseech you; I have an old affair to settle with him when I am cured. Disarm him only; deprive him of his sword—that’s it—good, very good!”

This exclamation escaped Athos on perceiving the sword of Cahusac flying from his hand a distance of twenty paces. D’Artagnan and Cahusac both rushed forward to secure the weapon; but d’Artagnan being the most active, reached it first, and placed his foot upon it. Cahusac then went to the guardsman killed by Aramis, seized his rapier, and was returning to d’Artagnan; but on his way he encountered Athos, who during this momentary pause had recovered his breath, and fearing that d’Artagnan might kill his opponent, wished to renew the contest. D’Artagnan perceived that he would offend Athos if he did not permit him to have his own way; and in a few minutes Cahusac fell pierced in the throat. At the same moment Aramis placed the point of his sword at the breast of his fallen adversary, and compelled him to sue for mercy.

Porthos and Biscarrat alone remained fighting. Porthos, whilst fighting, indulged himself in a thousand fantastic jests and humours, asking Biscarrat what time of day it was, and congratulating him on the company his brother had just obtained in the regiment of Navarre. This jesting, however, gained him no advantage; for Biscarrat was one of those indomitable spirits who die, but do not surrender. It was time, however, to stop the fight, as the guard might arrive, and arrest all the combatants, whether wounded or not, whether royalists or cardinalists. Athos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan, therefore, surrounded Biscarrat, and summoned him to surrender. Although alone against all four, and with a wound which had passed through his thigh, Biscarrat refused to yield; but Jussac, raising himself on his elbow, requested him to desist. Biscarrat, however, like d’Artagnan, was a Gascon: he therefore only laughed, and pretended not to hear; and finding time, between the parries, to point with his sword to the ground at his feet—

“Here,” said he, “will Biscarrat die, the sole survivor of those that were with him.”

“But they are four—four against one!” cried Jussac; “yield, I command you!”

“Ah, if you command me, it is another thing,” said Biscarrat; “you are my commander, and I must obey.”

And suddenly springing backwards, he broke his sword across his knee, in order that he might not give it up, threw the pieces over the wall of the convent; and then, crossing his arms, he whistled a cardinalist air.

Bravery is always respected, even in an enemy. The musketeers saluted Biscarrat with their swords, and returned them to their scabbards. D’Artagnan did the same; and then, assisted by Biscarrat, the only one who remained on his legs, he carried Jussac, Cahusac, and that one of the adversaries of Aramis who was only wounded, under the porch of the convent. The fourth, as we have said, was dead. They then rang the bell, and confiscating four out of the five swords, they set off, intoxicated with joy, towards M. de Treville’s hotel. They proceeded arm in arm, occupying the whole breadth of the street; and as they detained every musketeer they met, the march soon became like a triumphal procession. D’Artagnan’s heart was in a delirium of exultation, as he marched between Athos and Porthos.

“If I am not yet a musketeer,” said he to his new friends, whilst passing the threshold of M. de Treville’s hotel, “I am at least next door to one. Is it not so?”

6 His Majesty King Louis the Thirteenth

THE AFFAIR MADE a great noise. M. de Treville strongly censured his musketeers in public; but privately they heard only his congratulations. As, however, it was essential that no time should be lost in gaining the king, M. de Treville hastened to the Louvre. But he was too late; the king was closeted with the cardinal, and M. de Treville was informed that his majesty was engaged, and could not then see any one. In the evening, M. de Treville returned. The king was at play, and was winning; and his majesty, being very covetous, was in an excellent humour. Therefore, as soon as he saw M. de Treville, he exclaimed—

“Come here, my captain, that I may chide you. Are you aware that his eminence came to complain to me of your musketeers, and with so much emotion as to be indisposed? Well, really, these musketeers of yours are perfect devils—thorough hang-dogs!”

“No, sire,” replied M. de Treville, who at the first glance saw the turn the affair was likely to take. “No, on the contrary, they are good creatures, gentle as lambs, and who, I am confident, have only one wish, that their swords should never leave their scabbards except in time of war. But what are they to do? the guards of the cardinal are continually seeking opportunities of quarrelling with them; and, for the honour of the regiment, the poor young men are obliged to defend themselves.”

“Hark ye, M. de Treville,” said the king; “hark ye! Is this a religious fraternity—these men of yours—that you are speaking of? Truly, my dear captain, I am half inclined to deprive you of your command, and bestow it upon Mademoiselle de Chemerault, to whom I have promised an abbey. Do not suppose, however, that I give implicit credence to this simple story of yours. I am called Louis the Just, M. de Treville; and soon, very soon, we shall see———”

“And it is because I confide in that justice, sire, that I shall calmly and patiently await your majesty’s good pleasure.”

“Wait then, sir, wait then,” said the king, “and it will not be long.”

In fact, at that moment the chances of the game turned against the king, who began to lose what he had before gained. Therefore he was not sorry to find an excuse (to use an expression of the gaming table, of which we confess we know not the origin) for making Charlemagne. The king therefore rose, and putting into his pocket the money which was before him, and most of which he had won—

“La Vieuville,” said he, “take my place. I must talk with M. de Treville on an affair of importance. Ah! I had eighty louis before me: lay down the same sum, that those who have lost may not want their revenge. Justice above all things!”

Then turning towards M. de Treville, and walking with him towards a recess in one of the windows—

“Well, sir,” continued he, “you affirm that it is the guards of his eminence who seek quarrels with your musketeers?”

“Yes, sire; invariably.”

“Well, and how did this affair happen? Relate the facts; for you know, my dear captain, a judge must hear both parties.”

“Oh! by my faith, in the most simple and natural manner: three of my best soldiers, whom your majesty knows by name, and whose services you have often appreciated, and who, I can assure your majesty, are wholly devoted to your service—three of my best soldiers, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, had made a party of pleasure with a young Gascon, a volunteer, whom I had introduced to them the same morning. The party was to be held at St. Germain’s, I believe; and the rendezvous was fixed at Carmes-Deschaux, when it was interrupted by de Jussac, Cahusac, Biscarrat, and two other musketeers of the cardinal who doubtless did not assemble there in such force without some intention in opposition to the edicts.”

“Ah! you give me ground for a conjecture,” said the king; “doubtless they came there to have an affair of honour.”

“I do not accuse them, sire, but I leave your majesty to judge what five armed men could be doing in a spot so retired as is the neighbourhood of the convent.’

“Very true, Treville; yes, you are right.”

“But, when they saw my musketeers, they changed their intentions, and forgot their individual and personal hatred, to indulge their enmity towards our corps; for your majesty well knows that the musketeers, who are wholly for the king, and nothing but the king, are the natural enemies of the guards, who are for the cardinal alone.”

“Yes, Treville,” said the king sorrowfully; “and it is a sad thing, believe me, thus to see two parties in France—two royal heads, as it were, under one crown. But this must be brought to an end. You say, then, that the guards sought a difference with the musketeers?”

“I say it is probable that this was the case, but I do not swear to it, sire. Your majesty well knows how difficult it is to discover the truth, unless, indeed, one were gifted with that admirable penetration which has caused Louis XIII. to be named the Just.”

“There again you are right, Treville. But your musketeers were not alone; there was a boy with them.”

“Yes, sire, and a wounded man; so that three of the king’s musketeers, of whom one was wounded, and this boy, not only made head against five of the most formidable of the cardinal’s guards, but even bore four of them to the earth.”

“Why, it is a complete victory!” exclaimed the king, radiant with joy—“a most complete victory!”

“Yes, sire, as complete as that of the bridge of Cé.”

“Four men—of whom one was wounded, and another a boy—do you say?”

“A stripling; but who behaved so nobly on this occasion, that I shall take the liberty of recommending him to your majesty.”

“What is his name?”

“D’Artagnan, sire; he is the son of one of my oldest friends—the son of a man who was engaged in the Partizan war on the side of the king your father, of glorious memory.”

“And you say this youth acquitted himself bravely? Tell me all about it, Treville, for you know how I love to hear of war and combats.”

And the king placed himself in an attentive posture, at the same time twirling his moustache in a military manner.

“Sire,” replied M. de Treville, “as I have already told you, M. d’Artagnan is almost a child; and as he has not the honour of being a musketeer, he was in plain clothes. The cardinal’s guards, perceiving his youth and also that he was a civilian, invited him to retire before they commenced their assault.”

“Thus we may clearly perceive, Treville,” interrupted the king, “that it was the guards who began the attack.”

“Most assuredly, sire, there cannot be a doubt on the subject. They therefore warned him to retire; but he replied that as he was at heart a musketeer, and wholly devoted to his majesty, he should remain with the musketeers.”

“Brave youth!” murmured the king.

“And he did remain with them; and in him your majesty has the resolute and valiant champion who gave Jussac that terrific sword thrust which has so much enraged the cardinal.”

“He who wounded Jussac?” exclaimed the king. “He—a boy! Treville, it is impossible!”

“It is as I have the honour to inform your majesty.”

“Jussac! one of the best duellists in the realm!”

“Yes, sire; but he has now found his master.”

“Treville, I must see this young man,” said Louis; “I must see him; and if I can do anything———However, we will think about that.”

“When will your majesty condescend to receive him?”

“Tomorrow, at twelve, Treville.”

“Shall I bring him alone?”

“No, bring the other three. I wish to thank them all at the same time. Men so brave are rare, Treville, and such devotion ought to be rewarded.”

“At twelve, sire, we will be at the Louvre.”

“By the private staircase, Treville—by the private staircase; it is unnecessary to let the cardinal know it.”

“Yes, sire.”

“You understand, Treville; an edict is always an edict; at all events, fighting is forbidden by the law.”

“But this combat,” said Treville, “is altogether different from the common duels: it was a sudden brawl; and the proof of it is, that there were five of the cardinal’s guards against three of the musketeers and M. d’Artagnan.”

“It is quite true,” said the king; “yet, nevertheless, Treville, come by the private staircase.”

Treville smiled; but conceiving that he had already secured an important advantage, by thus inducing the pupil to rebel against his master, he respectfully saluted the king, and, with his permission, made his retiral.

The same evening the three musketeers were apprised of the honour intended for them. As they had long known the king, they were not much enchanted by the news; but d’Artagnan, with his Gascon imagination, saw in it his future fortunes, and passed the night amid golden dreams. By eight in the morning he was with Athos, whom he found dressed, and ready to go out.

As they were not to see the king until twelve o’clock, and Athos had engaged to meet Porthos and Aramis at a tennis-court, near the Luxembourg stables, to play a match of tennis, he invited d’Artagnan to join them. Although ignorant of the game, which he had never played, d’Artagnan accepted the invitation, not knowing how otherwise to dispose of his time in the interval. Porthos and Aramis were already there, knocking the balls about. Athos, who was very skilful in all athletic games, went to one side with d’Artagnan, and challenged them. But at the first movement which he made, although he played with his left hand, he found that his wound was too fresh to permit such an exertion. D’Artagnan, therefore, remained alone; and as he declared that he was too unskilful to play a regular game, they only sent the balls about, without counting the points. One of these balls, however, driven by the Herculean hand of Porthos, passed so near d’Artagnan as to satisfy him that, had it hit him full in the face, instead of going on one side, his royal audience would have been lost, as, in all probability, he would thereby have been rendered unfit to be presented to the king. Now, since, in his Gascon imagination, all his fortune depended upon this audience, he politely saluted Porthos and Aramis, declaring that he would not renew the game until he was up to their standard, and then took his station near the ropes and the gallery.

Unfortunately for d’Artagnan, amongst the spectators there was one of the cardinal’s guards, who was irritated by the previous night’s defeat of his companions, and had resolved to take the first opportunity of avenging it. He now believed that this opportunity had arrived, and addressing a bystander—

“It is no wonder,” said he, “that this young man is afraid of the ball; he is, doubtless, a musketeer recruit.”

D’Artagnan turned as if bitten by a serpent, and looked fiercely at the guardsman who had uttered this insolent remark.

“I’faith,” continued the latter, proudly curling his moustache, “you may look at me as much as you please, my little gentleman. What I have said, I mean.”

“And since what you have said explains itself,” replied d’Artagnan, in a low voice, “I will thank you to follow me.”

“Ah! indeed! and when, pray?” said the guardsman, with the same air of mockery.

“Immediately, if you please.”.

“Doubtless you know who I am?”

“I have not the slightest idea; and, what is more, I do not care.”

“And yet you are wrong; for if you knew my name, perhaps you would be less courageous.”

“Indeed! and pray what is your name?” said d’Artagnan.

“Bernajoux, at your service.”

“Well, M. Bernajoux,” replied d’Artagnan with the utmost tranquillity, “I shall await you at the gate.”

“Proceed, sir; I will follow you.”

“But do not be in too great haste, sir,” said d’Artagnan, “lest it should be perceived that we go out together; for, considering how we are about to be engaged, you must be aware that too many witnesses might prove inconvenient.”

“There is some sense in that,” replied the guardsman, much surprised that his name had not produced a greater effect on the young man.

The name of Bernajoux was indeed known to every one, except d’Artagnan; for he was one of those who constantly figured in the daily brawls which all the edicts of the king and the cardinal could not suppress.

Porthos and Aramis were so much occupied by their game, and Athos was watching them so attentively, that they did not even perceive the departure of their young companion, who, as he had promised, waited a moment at the door for his opponent. In fact, d’Artagnan had no time to lose, considering the expected audience, which was fixed for twelve o’clock. He therefore cast his eyes around, and seeing that there was no one in the street—

“Faith, sir,” said he to his adversary, “although your name is Bernajoux, it is very fortunate for you that you have to deal with a musketeer recruit only. However, be content: I will do my best. On your guard, sir!”

“But,” said he whom d’Artagnan thus addressed, “it appears to me this place is badly chosen, and that we should be better behind the abbey of St. Germain, or in the Pré-aux-Clercs.”

“True enough,” replied d’Artagnan, “but, unfortunately, my time is precious, as I have an important engagement precisely at twelve; therefore draw, sir, draw!”

Bernajoux was not the man to wait the repetition of such a compliment. In an instant, therefore, his sword glittered in his hand, and he rushed upon his adversary, whom, on account of his extreme youth, he hoped to intimidate.

But d’Artagnan had served his apprenticeship the evening before, and now fresh, and elated with his victory, as well as inflamed with hopes of future favour, he was fully resolved not to recede an inch. The two swords were therefore engaged, even to the guard; and as d’Artagnan kept his ground firmly, his adversary was obliged to retreat a single step. By this movement Bernajoux’s sword deviated from “opposition,” and d’Artagnan, seizing the opportunity, made a lunge which wounded his adversary in the shoulder. He immediately stepped back one pace, and raised his sword; but Bernajoux, declaring that it was nothing, made a blind thrust at d’Artagnan, and impaled himself upon his sword. Nevertheless, as Bernajoux neither fell, nor declared himself vanquished, but merely retreated towards the hotel of M. de la Tremouille, in whose service he had a relative, d’Artagnan, ignorant of the severity of his adversary’s wound, pressed him closely, and doubtless would have despatched him by a third thrust, had not the clash of the rapiers reached the tennis-court, from which now rushed, sword in hand, two of the guardsman’s friends (who had heard him exchange words with d’Artagnan), and fell upon the conqueror. But Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, now also joined the fray; and at the moment when the two guardsmen attacked their young comrade, forced them to turn. At that instant Bernajoux fell; and as the guards were then only two against four, they began to cry out—“To our aid! hotel de la Tremouille!” At this cry, all the inmates of the hotel rushed out, and fell upon the four friends; who, on their side, exclaimed “Help, musketeers!”

The latter cry was very common; for it was known that the musketeers hated the cardinal, and they were beloved for the very hatred they bore towards his eminence. Hence, in those quarrels, the guards of all the other regiments, excepting those actually belonging to the Red Duke, as Aramis had designated the cardinal, generally sided with the king’s musketeers. Of three guardsmen, who were passing, of the company of M. des Essarts, two came to the assistance of the four friends, whilst the third ran to the hotel of M. de Treville, crying, “Help! musketeers, help!” As usual, M. de Treville’s hotel was full of soldiers, who ran to the assistance of their comrades, and the battle became general. But the superiority of force was with the musketeers; and the cardinal’s guards, with M. de la Tremouille’s people, retired into the hotel, the doors of which they secured in time to exclude their opponents. As for the wounded man, he had been carried away at first, and, as we have said, in very bad plight.

Excitement amongst the musketeers and their allies was at its height, and they deliberated whether they should not set fire to the hotel, to punish the insolence of M. de la Tremouille’s retainers, who had presumed to charge the king’s musketeers. The proposition had been made and received with enthusiasm, when fortunately it struck eleven o’clock; and d’Artagnan and his companions, remembering their audience, and not wishing a feat so daring to be performed without their aid, succeeded in quelling the commotion; they therefore contented themselves with throwing some stones at the door, and then left the place. Besides, those whom they regarded as their leaders had just left them to proceed towards the hotel of M. de Treville, who, already aware of this fresh insult, awaited their arrival.

“Quick, to the Louvre!” said he; “to the Louvre, without losing one moment; and let us endeavour to see the king before the cardinal prejudices him. We will narrate the affair as a consequence of that of yesterday, and the two will be disposed of together.”

M. de Treville, accompanied by the four young men, hastened towards the Louvre; but, to the great surprise of the captain of the musketeers, he was informed that the king had gone to the chase in the forest of St. Germain. M. de Treville caused this intelligence to be twice repeated, and each time his companions observed his countenance become darker.

“Had his majesty formed the intention of hunting, yesterday?” demanded he.

“No, your excellency,” replied the valet. “The master of the hounds came this morning to announce that he had roused a stag; at first the king said he would not go, but subsequently he could not resist the pleasure which the chase promised him, and he set out after dinner.”

“And has the king seen the cardinal?” demanded M. de Treville.

“In all probability,” replied the valet, “for this morning I saw the horses harnessed to the cardinal’s carriage; I inquired where it was going, and was told to St. Germain.”

“We are anticipated,” said M. de Treville. “I shall see the king this evening; but, as for you, I would not counsel you at present to attempt it.”

The advice was too reasonable; especially as that of a man who knew the king too well, to be opposed by the young men. M. de Treville therefore requested them to return to their respective homes, and await his orders.

On reaching his hotel, it occurred to M. de Treville that it would be prudent to be in advance with his complaint. He therefore despatched a letter to M. de la Tremouille, requesting him to dismiss from his house the cardinal’s guards; and, further, to reprimand his own people for charging the musketeers. M. de la Tremouille, however, being already prejudiced by his equerry, whose relative Bernajoux was, replied that neither M. de Treville nor his musketeers had a right to complain, but, on the contrary, he himself; the musketeers having not only attacked and wounded his people, but also threatened to burn his mansion. Now, as a dispute between two such great men might last a long time, each being likely to adhere obstinately to his opinion, M. de Treville thought of an expedient to bring it to a close; and this was to go himself to M. de la Tremouille. He therefore repaired to his hotel, and caused himself to be announced.

The two noblemen saluted each other politely, for, although they were not friends, they yet esteemed each other. They were both brave and honourable men; and as M. de la Tremouille was a protestant, and therefore rarely saw the king, he intrigued on no side, and had contracted few prejudices in his social relations. On the present occasion, however, his reception of his visitor, though polite, was colder than usual.

“Sir,” said M. de Treville, “we each believe that we have cause of complaint against the other, and I am now here to see if we cannot together clear up the matter.”

“Most willingly,” replied M. de la Tremouille, “but I tell you beforehand that I have full information, and am satisfied all the blame rests with your musketeers.”

“You are too just a man, sir, and too reasonable,” observed M. de Treville, “not to accept the proposition I shall now make to you.”

“Proceed, sir; I will hear it.”

“How is M. Bernajoux, the relative of your equerry?”

“Why, sir,” replied Tremouille, “he is very ill indeed. Besides the wound which he received in the arm, and which is not dangerous, he has also received another, which has passed through his lungs; so that the physician gives but a poor account of him.”

“But does the wounded man retain his senses?” inquired Treville.

“Perfectly.”

“Can he speak?”

“With difficulty; but still he can speak.”

“Well, then, sir, let us interview him. Let us adjure him in the name of that God before whom, perhaps, he is about to appear, to tell the truth. I will acknowledge him as the judge, even in his own cause; and I will abide by his explanation.”

M. de la Tremouille reflected for a moment, and as it would have been difficult to conceive a more reasonable proposition, he agreed to it.

They therefore proceeded together to the chamber of the wounded man, who, when he saw them enter his apartment, endeavoured to raise himself in bed; but being too feeble, and, exhausted by the effort, he fell back, almost insensible.

M. de la Tremouille approached his bed, and by the application of some smelling-salts, restored him to consciousness. Then, in order to avoid any future imputation of having influenced the guardsman, M. de la Tremouille invited M. de Treville to question him himself.

The result was as M. de Treville had foreseen. Lingering as he was between life and death, Bernajoux had not the slightest idea of concealing the truth, and therefore gave a true narration of the occurrence. This was all that M. de Treville required; so wishing Bernajoux a speedy recovery, he took leave of M. de la Tremouille; and having regained his own hotel, he immediately summoned the four friends to dine with him.

M. de Treville received the best company; but, of course, all were anti-cardinalists. It may be readily imagined, therefore, that the conversation turned upon the two defeats which the cardinal’s guards had sustained; and as d’Artagnan had been the hero of the last two days, he received all the congratulations; which Athos, Porthos, and Aramis yielded to him with pleasure, not only as true comrades, but as men who had had their turn too often not to let him have his.

About six o’clock, M. de Treville announced his intention of proceeding to the Louvre; but, as the original hour of audience was past, instead of obtaining admission by the private staircase, he placed himself in the antechamber, with the four young men. The king was not yet returned from the chase; but our friends had scarcely waited half an hour amongst the crowd of courtiers, before the doors were opened, and his majesty was announced.

This announcement caused d’Artagnan to shudder with emotion. The important moment was arrived upon which, in all probability, his future fate depended. His eyes, therefore, were fixed with intense anxiety on the door through which the king was about to enter.

Louis XIII. appeared, followed by his attendants. He was attired in his hunting-dress, still covered with dust; he was heavily booted; and in his hand he held his riding-whip. At the first glance, d’Artagnan perceived that the king was in a violent rage. This humour, though distinctly visible in his majesty’s features, did not prevent the courtiers from ranging themselves along the sides of the room; and as, in the royal antechamber, it is better to be seen by an irritable and angry eye, than not to be seen at all, the three musketeers did not hesitate to step forward, although d’Artagnan, on his part, concealed himself behind them as much as possible. Yet though Athos, Porthos, and Aramis were personally known to the king, he passed on as if he had never seen them before, without either looking at or addressing them. But when his eyes rested for a moment upon M. de Treville, the latter met them with so much firmness, that the king turned aside his gaze, and, muttering to himself, entered his apartment.

“The aspects are unfavourable,” said Athos smiling; “we shall not be knighted this time.”

“Wait here ten minutes,” said M. de Treville, “and if I do not return to you in that time, proceed to my hotel as it will be useless for you to wait longer for me.”

The young men waited ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, even twenty minutes; and then, finding that M. de Treville did not return, they departed, very uneasy with the turn things were taking.

M. de Treville, who had boldly entered the royal cabinet, found his majesty in a very bad humour; he was seated in an arm-chair, venting his irritation by striking his boots with the handle of his whip. This, however, M. de Treville did not appear to notice, but with the utmost composure he inquired after his majesty’s health.

“Bad, very bad,” replied the king. “I am dull and dispirited.”

This was, in fact, the worst malady of Louis XIII., who often withdrew to a window with one of his courtiers, saying to him, “Come, sir, let us be bored together.”

“I regret to find your majesty thus,” said M. de Treville. “Have you not, then, enjoyed the pleasure of the chase?”

“A fine pleasure, truly! By my faith, all goes to ruin, and I know not whether it is the game that is no longer so swift a-foot, or the dogs that have no noses. We roused a stag of ten tines; we ran him for six hours; and when we were on the point of taking him, and just as Saint Simon was about to place his horn to his mouth, to sound the ‘mort’—crac, all the pack went off on the wrong scent, in pursuit of a brocket. You will thus see that I must now renounce the chase with hounds, as I have already relinquished it with falcons. Ah! I am a most unhappy king, M. de Treville; I had only one ger-falcon remaining, and he died yesterday.”

“Truly, sire, I can estimate your misfortune; it is, indeed, very great; but there are yet, I believe, a goodly number of falcons, hawks, and tercels, remaining.”

“But who is to train them? The falconers are all gone; and I alone now preserve the true art of venery. With me, all will be lost, and the game will hereafter be taken by snares, pitfalls, and traps. Oh! had I only leisure to instruct scholars! But then there is the cardinal, who never leaves me any leisure, and who is ever talking to me of Spain, of Austria, and of England! But apropos of the cardinal, I am very angry with you, M. de Treville.”

The latter had anticipated this turn of the conversation. From his long and intimate knowledge of the king, he was well aware that complaints of this nature were only a sort of prelude, as it were, to arouse his majesty’s courage to the proper pitch, which he had on this occasion attained.

“In what have I had the misfortune to offend your majesty?” inquired M. de Treville, feigning the utmost astonishment.

“Is it thus that you discharge your office, sir?” continued the king, answering one question by another; “was it for this that I created you captain of my musketeers—that they should assassinate a man, excite a whole neighbourhood, and threaten to burn all Paris, without your saying a word to me on the subject? However,” added the king, “without doubt you have come here to accuse yourself, and, having committed all the rioters to safe custody, inform me that justice has been satisfied.”

“Sire,” said M. de Treville, with the utmost composure, “I am, on the contrary, come to demand justice.”

“And against whom?” exclaimed the king.

“Against calumniators!” replied M. de Treville.

“Ah! this is something quite new,” rejoined the king. “Do you pretend to say that your three confounded musketeers, and your Bearnese recruit, did not rush like madmen on poor Bernajoux, and so ill-treat him, that he is probably now dying? Do you also pretend to say, that they did not lay siege to the hotel of the Duke de la Tremouille, and that they did not propose to burn it—which, during a period of war, would have been of little consequence, seeing it is merely a nest of Huguenots, but which, nevertheless, in time of peace, is a bad example. Say, are you about to deny these matters?”

“And who has related to your majesty all this fine story?” quietly demanded M. de Treville.

“Who has related to me this fine story, sir? Who should it be, pray, but he who watches whilst I sleep; who labours whilst I amuse myself; who manages everything within and without the realm; in Europe, as well as in France?”

“Your majesty no doubt means God,” said M. de Treville, “for I know no other being who can be so far above your majesty.”

“No, sir; I speak of the pillar of the state; of my only servant—of my only friend—of the cardinal.”

“His eminence is not his holiness, sir!”

“What do you mean by that, sir?”

“That it is only the pope who is infallible; the infallibility which he possesses does not extend to cardinals.”

“You would say, then,” said the king, “that he deceives me; you would say that he betrays me?”

“No, sire,” said M. de Treville, “but I say that he deceives himself; I say, that he has been deceived; I say, that he has hastily accused his majesty’s musketeers, towards whom he is unjust; and that he has not drawn his information from authentic sources.”

“The accusation comes from M. de la Tremouille—from the duke himself. What say you to that?” asked the king.

“I might say that he is too deeply interested in the question, to be an impartial witness; but, far from doing that, sire, I, knowing the duke for a loyal gentleman, willingly refer to him, but on one condition.”

“What is that?” said the king.

“It is that your majesty will send for him; will question him, but by yourself, face to face, without witnesses; and that I may see your majesty as soon as you have parted from the duke.”

“Ay, marry, indeed!” said the king; “and you will be judged by what the duke may say?”

“Yes, sire.”

“You will accept his judgment?”

“Without hesitation!” replied Treville.

“And you will submit to the reparations he may require?”

“Entirely!”

“La Chesnaye!” exclaimed the king, “La Chesnaye, let some one go immediately to inquire for M. de la Tremouille. I wish to speak with him this evening.”

“Your majesty gives me your word that you will not speak with any one between M. de la Tremouille and myself?” asked Treville.

“With no one, on the word of a gentleman!” replied the king.

“Tomorrow, then, sire?”

“Tomorrow, sir.”

“At what hour will it please your majesty?”

“At any hour you desire!”

“But in coming too early in the morning, I fear I may wake your majesty!”

“Wake me! Do I sleep? I never sleep now, sir! I may dream sometimes; nothing more. So come as early as you like, at seven o’clock if you choose; but I will not spare you, if your musketeers are in fault!”

“If my musketeers are guilty, sire, the guilty shall be delivered up to your majesty to await your pleasure. Does your majesty require anything else? You have but to speak and you shall be obeyed!”

“No, sir, no! It is not without reason that I have been named Louis the Just. Farewell, then, till tomorrow, sir! Farewell!”

“May God preserve your majesty till then!”

However little the king might sleep, M. de Treville slept even less. He had told the three musketeers and their comrade, to be with him at half-past six in the morning; and he took them with him without telling them anything, or making them any promise; confessing to them that their favour, as well as his own, was not worth more than the chances of a cast of dice.

He left them at the foot of the staircase. If the king remained angry with them, they were to go away unnoticed; but, if his majesty consented to receive them, they would be ready at a call.

On entering the king’s antechamber, M. de Treville found Chesnaye there, who informed him that M. de la Tremouille could not be found the evening before, and returned too late to be presented at the Louvre; that he had, in fact, but just arrived, and was now with the king.

This circumstance much pleased M. de Treville, who was certain that nothing could come between M. de la Tremouille’s deposition, and his own audience. Scarcely, indeed, had ten minutes elapsed before the door of the king’s cabinet opened, and de Treville saw M. de la Tremouille come out. The duke immediately said to him,

“M. de Treville, his majesty sent for me; to inquire into the affair that happened yesterday morning at my hotel. I have told him the truth, that the fault lay with my people, and that I was ready to make you my excuses. As I have met you, will you now receive them, and do me the favour always to consider me as one of your friends!”

“Sir,” said M. de Treville, “I was so convinced of your loyalty, that I did not wish for any other defender with his majesty than yourself. I see that I did not deceive myself; and I thank you that there is still one man in France, of whom I may say what I have said of you, without danger, deception, or mistake.”

“It is well! it is well!” said the king, who had heard all these compliments. “Only tell him, Treville, since he wishes for your friendship, that I also wish for his, but that he neglects me; that it is just three years since I have seen him; and that he only comes to a levee when invited. Tell him this for me; for those are the kind of things which a king cannot say for himself!”

“Thanks, sire! thanks!” exclaimed the duke. “But let me assure your majesty that it is not those whom you see every day (I do not refer to M. de Treville) who are the most devoted to you.”

“Ah! you heard what I said! So much the better, duke! so much the better!” said the king, advancing to the door. “Ah! it is you, Treville! where are your musketeers? I commanded you the day before yesterday to bring them! Why are they not here?”

“They are below, sire, and with your permission, Chesnaye will call them up.”

“Yes, yes! let them come directly; it will soon be eight o’clock, and at nine I have an appointment. Go, duke! and, above all things, forget not to return. Come in, Treville!”

The Duke bowed and departed. The moment that he opened the door, the three musketeers and d’Artagnan conducted by Chesnaye, appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Come, my brave fellows!” said the king, “I must scold you!”

The musketeers approached, with obeisances, d’Artagnan following behind.

“What! the devil!” continued the king, “seven of his eminence’s guards regularly doubled up by you four in two days! It is too many, gentlemen; it is too many: at this rate, his eminence will have to renew his regiment in three weeks, and I shall have to enforce the edicts in their full rigour. I say nothing of one by chance; but seven in two days, I repeat it, are too many, a great deal too many!”

“But your majesty perceives that they have come in sorrow and repentance, to excuse themselves.”

“In sorrow and repentance! hum!” said the king. “I do not put much trust in their hypocritical faces. There is, above all, a Gascon face in the background there! Come here, you, sir!”

D’Artagnan, who comprehended that the compliment was addressed to him, approached his majesty with a desperately desponding look.

“What! you told me it was a young man! But this is a mere boy, M. de Treville, quite a boy. Did he give that terrible wound to Jussac?”

“Yes! And those two beautiful sword thrusts to Bernajoux,” said M. de Treville.

“Really!”

“Without reckoning,” said Athos, “that if he had not rescued me from the hands of Biscarrat, I should certainly not have had the honour of paying my very humble reverence to your majesty.”

“Why, M. de Treville, this Bearnese must be the very devil. Ventre saint-gris, as the king, my sire, would have said, at this rate many doublets must be riddled, and lots of swords broken. Now, the Gascons are always poor, are they not?”

“Sire, I must say that they have found no mines of gold in their mountains, though the Almighty owed them that recompense for the manner in which they supported the cause of your father.”

“Which is to say, is it not, Treville, that it was the Gascons who made me king, as I am my father’s son? Well, let it be so; I will not contradict it. La Chesnaye, go and see if, by rummaging my pockets, you can find forty pistoles; and if you find them, bring them to me.

And now let me hear, young man, with your hand on your heart, how this affair happened?”

D’Artagnan told all the circumstances of the adventure; how, not being able to sleep, from the expectation of seeing his majesty, he went to his friend’s house three hours before the time of the audience; how they went together to the tennis-court! and how, on account of the fear he betrayed of being struck upon his face by the ball, he had been rallied by Bernajoux, who had narrowly escaped paying for his raillery with his life; and M. de Tremouille, who was innocent, with the loss of his hotel.

“It is exactly so,” murmured the king; “yes, it is exactly as the duke recounted the affair. Poor cardinal! Seven men in two days, and seven of his most valued soldiers, too! But this is sufficient, gentlemen; do you understand? You have taken your revenge for the Rue Ferou, and more than enough. You ought now to be satisfied.”

“So we are, if your majesty is,” said Treville.

“Yes! I am,” replied the king; and taking a handful of gold from the hand of Chesnaye, and putting it into d’Artagnan’s, he added, “there is a proof of my satisfaction.”

At this period, the independent notions which are now current were not yet in fashion. A gentleman received money from the king’s hand, without being humiliated. D’Artagnan, therefore, put the forty pistoles into his pocket, without any other ceremony than that of warmly thanking his majesty for the gift.

“There,” said the king, examining his watch, “now that it is half-past eight, retire. I have told you that I have an appointment at nine. Thanks for your devotion, gentlemen! I may rely upon it, may I not?”

“Oh! sire!” replied the four at once, “we will allow ourselves to be cut in pieces in your defence!”

“Well! well! But it will be much better to remain whole, and you will be far more useful to me in that state. Treville,” added the king, in a low voice, as the others retired, “as you have no commission vacant in the musketeers, and as we have decided that it should be necessary to pass a certain probation before entering that corps, place this young man in your brother-in-law, M. des Essarts’, company of guards. Ah! I quite enjoy the thought of the grimace that the cardinal will make: he will be furious; but I do not care, I am quite right this time.”

The king bowed to Treville, and the latter joined his musketeers, whom he found sharing the forty pistoles which his majesty had given d’Artagnan.

The cardinal was in reality as furious as his master had anticipated—so furious, in fact, that for eight days he took no hand at the king’s card-table. But this did not prevent the king from putting on the most charming face, and asking, every time he met him, in a most insinuating tone—

“Well! M. le Cardinal! how is your poor Bernajoux? and your poor Jussac?”

7 The Domestic Manners of the Musketeers

WHEN D’ARTAGNAN HAD left the Louvre, and had consulted his friends what he ought to do with his portion of the forty pistoles, Athos advised him to order a good dinner, and Porthos and Aramis to hire a lackey.

The dinner was accomplished on the same day; and the lackey waited at table. The dinner had been ordered by Athos; and the lackey, who had been provided by Porthos, was a Picard, whom the glorious musketeer had enlisted, on that very day, for that occasion, whilst he was sauntering about on the bridge of Latournelle, spitting into the stream. Porthos pretended that this occupation was a proof of a meditative organization, and had hired him without any other testimonial. The magnificent appearance of the gentleman, on whose account he had been hired, seduced Planchet, for that was the name of the Picard. He had, indeed, been slightly disappointed when he found, on his arrival, that the situation he expected was already held by a brother lackey of the name of Mousqueton; and when Porthos told him that his ménage, though on a large scale, did not admit of two servants, and that he must therefore wait on d’Artagnan. But when he attended at the dinner which his master gave, and saw him, when paying, draw from his pocket a handful of gold, he believed his fortune made, and thanked Heaven that he had fallen into the possession of such a Crœsus. In that opinion he remained until the feast was ended, and he had made up for his long abstinence by an attack upon the remnants. But, on making his master’s bed, the visions of Planchet all vanished. There was only that one bed in the chambers, which consisted merely of an anteroom and bedroom. Planchet slept upon a coverlet, with which d’Artagnan from that time forward dispensed, taken from d’Artagnan’s bed.

Athos, on his part, had a valet, whom he had drilled to his service in a manner peculiar to himself, and whom he called Grimaud. He was very taciturn, this worthy signor—we mean Athos, not his man. For the four or five years that he had lived in the closest intimacy with his companions, Porthos and Aramis, these two had often seen him smile, but never remembered to have heard him laugh. His words were brief and expressive; saying what he wished them to express, but no more; he employed no ornaments or embellishments whatever. Although Athos was scarcely thirty, and was possessed of great personal and mental attractions, no one ever knew him to have had a mistress. He never spoke of the female sex; and although he did not prevent such conversation from others, it was evident, from bitter and misogynous remarks, that it was disagreeable to him. His reserve, austerity, and silence, made him almost an old man, and he had therefore accustomed Grimaud, that he might not interrupt his habits, to obey a simple gesture, or even a motion of his lips. He never addressed him orally but in extreme cases. Sometimes Grimaud, who feared his master like fire, but at the same time was greatly attached to him believed he understood him perfectly, rushed forward to execute his orders, and did something directly contrary to what was wanted. Then Athos shrugged his shoulders, and, in cold blood, belaboured him soundly. On such days he spoke a little.

Porthos, as is easy to see, had a character diametrically opposed to that of Athos: he not only spoke a great deal, but in a loud voice. It must be owned, to do him justice, that it was of little consequence to him, whether any one attended to him or not; he talked for the mere pleasure of speaking, or of hearing himself talk; and talked, too, of everything but the sciences, which he never alluded to but to express the inveterate hatred he had from his infancy entertained towards savants. He had not such an aristocratic air as Athos, and the sense of his inferiority on that point had, at the commencement of their connection, made him often unjust towards that gentleman, whom he endeavoured to surpass by the splendour of his dress. But, in his simple uniform coat, merely, and by the manner in which he carried himself, Athos took at once the rank to which he was entitled, and sent the foppish Porthos back to the second place. Porthos consoled himself by making M. de Treville’s antechamber, and the guardroom of the Louvre, ring with the account of his conquests—a subject upon which Athos never spoke—and boasted of none lower than a foreign princess, who was deeply enamoured of him.

An old proverb says, “Like master like man.” Let us then pass from the valet of Athos, to the valet of Porthos, from Grimaud to Mousqueton. Mousqueton was a Norman, whose pacific name of Boniface, his master had changed to the much more sonorous and warlike one of Mousqueton. He had entered Porthos’ service on the sole payment of dress, board, and lodging, but in a sumptuous manner; and he only demanded two hours a day to provide for his other wants. Porthos had accepted the bargain, and things went on wonderfully well. He had old doublets and cloaks cut up and turned in a manner that made Mousqueton cut a very good figure.

As to Aramis, whose character we believe we have sufficiently explained, and which, as well as those of his comrades, we shall more fully develop hereafter, his lackey was named Bazin. Thanks to the hopes which his master entertained of some day taking orders, he was always dressed in black as became a churchman’s servant. He was of the province of Berri; thirty-five or forty years of age; mild, peaceable, and fat; and passed his leisure in reading devotional treatises. He was dexterous in preparing a dinner for two; of excellent quality, though of few dishes. In all else he was dumb, blind, deaf, and of approved fidelity.

Now that we know, at least superficially, the masters and the men, let us turn to their habitations.

Athos dwelt in the Rue Ferou, at two paces from the Luxembourg. His habitation, or lodging, consisted of two small rooms in a very neatly-furnished house, whose mistress was still young and pretty, but ogled him in vain. Some few fragments of long-departed splendour adorned the walls of this modest lodging; such as a richly-mounted sword, which looked of the age of Francis I., and of which the handle alone, encrusted with precious stones, might be worth about two hundred pistoles, Nevertheless, Athos, even in moments of the greatest distress, could never be persuaded to dispose of or to pawn it. This sword had long excited the envy of Porthos, who would willingly have given ten years of his life for the possession of it.

One day when, as he said, he had an appointment with a duchess, he endeavoured to borrow it of Athos. But his friend, without saying a word, emptied his pockets of all his money and trinkets, purses, points, and gold chains, and offered them all to Porthos; but as for the sword, he said, it was fixed to its place, and must only leave it when its master quitted the lodging. Besides this sword, he had the portrait of a nobleman, of the time of Henry III., dressed with great elegance, and adorned with the order of the Saint-Esprit; and this portrait had some slight resemblance to Athos, a certain family likeness, which denoted that this great noble, a royal knight, was his ancestor. Lastly, a box of splendid jewellery-work, with the same arms as the sword and portrait, completed a mantel decoration, which clashed fearfully with the furniture. Athos always carried the key of this box; but one day he opened it before Porthos, and Porthos could bear witness that it contained only letters and papers; love-letters, and family records, no doubt.

Porthos inhabited a lodging of vast size, and of most sumptuous appearance, in the Rue du Vieux Colombier. Every time Porthos passed the windows of this house, at one of which Mousqueton always appeared in splendid livery, he raised his head and hand, saying, “Behold my habitation!” But no one ever found him at home, nor did he ever ask any one in; and it was therefore impossible to form an idea of the reality of those riches which this sumptuous appearance promised.

As for Aramis, he dwelt in a small apartment, comprising a drawing-room, a dining-room, and a sleeping chamber, which were situate on the ground-floor, and had access to a small garden, fresh, green, shady, and quite impenetrable to the eyes of the surrounding neighbourhood.

We have already had occasion to know how d’Artagnan was lodged, and have already formed an acquaintance with his lackey, Master Planchet.

D’Artagnan, who was naturally very curious, as men of talent generally are, made every effort to find out who Athos, Porthos, and Aramis really were; for, under one of those assumed appellations, each of these young men concealed his real name.

It was evident they were of good origin, too, particularly Athos, who might be known as a nobleman at a league’s distance. He therefore tried from Porthos to get some information concerning Athos and Aramis; and assailed Aramis, to find out something concerning Porthos.

Unfortunately, Porthos knew no more of the life of his silent comrade than that which has been told. It was said that he had met with great misfortunes of the heart, and that a terrible treachery had for ever poisoned the happiness of this gallant man. What this treachery was, no one knew.

As for Porthos, except his real name, with which M. de Treville alone was acquainted, as well as with those of his two comrades also, his life was easily discovered. Vain and indiscreet, he was as easily seen through as crystal. The only thing which could mislead the investigator would have been a belief in all the good which he announced of himself.

As for Aramis, with the appearance of entire openness he was enveloped in mystery. He replied but little to the questions put to him about others, and entirely eluded those which related to himself. One day d’Artagnan, having questioned him a long time about Porthos, and having learned the report of his love affair with a princess, wished to ascertain something of a similar nature as regarded himself.

“And you, my dear companion,” said he, “I have an opinion that you are familiar with coats of arms: witness a certain handkerchief.”

Aramis was not angry this time, but he put on a most modest air, and said, affectedly: “My dear fellow, do not forget that I wish to enter the church, and that I fly from all worldly things. That handkerchief was not a love-token for me, but was left by mistake at my house by one of my friends. I was obliged to take it for fear of compromising him, and his mistress. As for myself, I am, like Athos, indifferent to these affairs.”

“But what the devil! you are not an abbé, but a musketeer!” exclaimed d’Artagnan.

“A musketeer, my dear fellow, for a time, as the cardinal says; a musketeer by accident, but a churchman at heart, believe me. Athos and Porthos have foisted me in, to occupy my time. I had, at the moment I was going to be ordained, a slight difficulty with———But that does not much interest you, and I take up your valuable time.”

“On the contrary,” said d’Artagnan; “it interests me much, and I have at present actually nothing to do.”

“Yes, but I have my breviary to say,” replied Aramis, “then some verses to compose, which Madame d’Aiguillon has requested of me; then I must go into the Rue St. Honoré, to buy some rouge for Madame de Chevreuse so you see, my dear friend, that though you are not in a hurry, I am;” and Aramis, tenderly pressing his young companion’s hand, took leave of him.

D’Artagnan could not, with all his pains, learn any more of his three new friends; he therefore determined to believe all that was at present said of their past life, and hope for better and more full information from the future. In the meantime, he considered Athos an Achilles, Porthos an Ajax, and Aramis a Joseph!

The days of the four young men passed happily on. Athos played, and always with ill-luck; yet he never borrowed a sou of his friends, although he lent to them when he could. And, when he played on credit, he always awoke his creditor at six in the morning to pay him the debt of the evening before. Porthos had his humours: one day, if he gained, he was insolent and splendid; and when he lost, he disappeared entirely for a time, and then came back, wan and thin, but with his pockets stored with coin. As for Aramis, he never played; he was the worst musketeer, and the most unpleasant guest possible. He always wanted to study; even in the middle of dinner, when all expected him to spend two or three hours in the midst of the wine and company, out came his watch, and he would say—rising with a graceful smile, and taking leave of the company—that he must consult a casuist with whom he had an appointment.

Planchet, d’Artagnan’s valet, nobly supported his good fortune. He received thirty sous a day; and, during a month, entered the lodgings gay as a chaffinch, and affable to his master. When the wind of adversity began to blow on the household of the Rue des Fossoyeurs—that is to say, when Louis XIII.’s forty pistoles were eaten up, or nearly so—he began to utter complaints which d’Artagnan found very nauseous, Porthos indelicate, and Aramis ridiculous. On this account, Athos advised d’Artagnan to dismiss the rascal; Porthos wished him to thrash him first; and Aramis declared that a master should never listen to anything but his servant’s compliments.

“It is very easy for you to talk,” replied d’Artagnan; “for you, Athos, who live mutely with Grimaud, and forbid him to speak; and, consequently, can never hear anything unpleasant from him; for you Porthos, who live magnificently, and are a sort of demigod to your valet, Mousqueton; for you, in fine, Aramis, who, being always engaged in thought, make your servant Bazin, who is a mild, religious man, respect you; but I—who am without stability or resources—I, who am neither musketeer nor guardsman—what can I do to inspire Planchet with affection, terror, or respect?”

“The thing is weighty,” answered the three friends; “the discipline of your establishment is in the balance. With valets, as with women, it is necessary to prove master at once, if you wish to keep them with you; let us therefore reflect!”

D’Artagnan reflected, and resolved to thrash Planchet provisionally, which was executed as conscientiously as he acted in all other affairs. Then, after having drubbed him soundly, he forbade him to quit his service without permission. “For,” said he, “the future cannot be unfavourable to me; I have an infallible expectation of better times, and your fortune is therefore made if you remain with me. Yes! I am too good a master to let your prospects be sacrificed, by giving you the notice you demand.”

This manner of proceeding gave the musketeers great respect for d’Artagnan’s policy; and Planchet was seized with equal admiration, and spoke no more of leaving him.

The lives of the four young men were now passed alike. D’Artagnan, who had formed no habits whatever, as he had but just arrived from the provinces and fallen into the midst of a world entirely new to him, immediately assumed those of his friends.

They rose at eight in the winter, and at six in the summer; and went to take the countersign, and see what was doing at M. de Treville’s. D’Artagnan, though he was not a musketeer, performed the duties of one with great punctuality. He was always on guard, as he always accompanied that one of his friends whose turn it chanced to be. Every one at the hotel knew him, and regarded him as a comrade. M. de Treville, who, at the first glance took his measure, and had a sincere affection for him, did not cease to recommend him to the king.

The three musketeers had, on their parts, a great affection for their young companion. The friendship which united these four men, and the necessity of seeing each other three or four times a day, whether the affair were one of honour or of pleasure, made them run after each other like shadows; and they were always to be seen seeking each other, from the Luxembourg to the Place de Saint Sulpice, or from the Rue du Vieux Colombier to the Luxembourg.

In the meantime, the promises of M. de Treville were fulfilled. One fine day, the king commanded M. de Chevalier des Essarts to take d’Artagnan, as a recruit, into his company of guards. It was not without a sigh that d’Artagnan put on the uniform, which he would have exchanged for that of the musketeers at the cost of ten years of his existence. But M. de Treville promised him that favour after a cadetship of two years; a cadetship which, however, might be abridged, if he should find an opportunity of distinguishing himself by some brilliant action. D’Artagnan retired with this promise, and entered on his service the next day.

Then it was that Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, mounted guard, in turn, with d’Artagnan, when the duty came to him. The company of M. des Essarts, therefore, on the day that it received the youthful Gascon, received four men, in the place of one!

8 The Court Intrigue

NEVERTHELESS, THE FORTY pistoles of Louis XIII., like everything else in this world, after having had a beginning, had also an end; and, after the end, our four companions fell into difficulties. Athos, at first, supported the association from his own private funds; to him succeeded Porthos, and, thanks to one of his occasional disappearances, he supplied the necessities of his friends for about fifteen days. Lastly, came the turn of Aramis, who performed his part with a good grace, on the strength of a few pistoles, procured, as he asserted, by the sale of some of his theological books. After all these resources were exhausted, they had recourse to M. de Treville, who made some advances of pay; but these could not go very far with our musketeers, who had had advances already; while the young guardsman had as yet no pay due. When they were at last almost destitute, they mustered, as a last resource, about eight or ten pistoles, which Porthos staked at play; but, being in ill-luck, he lost not only them, but twenty-five more, for which he gave his word of honour. Their difficulties thus became transformed to actual bankruptcy; and the four half-starved soldiers, followed by their lackeys, were seen running about the promenades and guard-rooms, picking up dinners wherever they could find them; for whilst in prosperity they had, by Aramis’s advice, sown repasts right and left, in order that they might reap some in the season of adversity. Athos received four invitations, and every time took his three friends and their lackeys with him; Porthos had six chances, of which, also, they all took advantage; but Aramis had eight, for he, as may be seen, was a man who made but little noise over a good deal of work. As for d’Artagnan, who scarcely knew any one in the capital, he only found a breakfast on chocolate at the house of a Gascon priest, and one dinner with a cornet of the guards. He took his little army with him to the priest—whose two months’ stock of provisions it mercilessly consumed—and to the cornet’s, who gave them quite a banquet; but, as Planchet observed, however much we may devour, it still makes only a single meal.

D’Artagnan, therefore, was somewhat humbled at returning only one meal and a half for the feasts which Athos, Porthos, and Aramis had procured him. He thought himself a burden to the clique; forgetting, in his youthful sincerity, that he had supported that clique throughout a whole month. It was, by this reflection that his ardent mind was set to work. He conceived that this coalition of four brave, enterprising, and active young men, ought to have some nobler aim than idle walks, fencing lessons, and more or less amusing jests. In fact, four such men as they—so devoted to each other, with their purses or their lives; so ready to support each other without surrendering an inch; executing, either singly or together, the common resolutions; menacing the four cardinal points at one time, or concentrating their united efforts on some single focus—ought inevitably, either secretly or openly, either by mine or trench, by stratagem or force, to find a way to what they had in view, however well defended or however distant that object might be. The only thing that surprised d’Artagnan was, that this capacity had never yet occurred to his companions. He himself now thought of it seriously, racking his brain to find a direction for his individual power four times multiplied, with which he felt assured that he might, as with the lever which Archimedes sought, succeed in moving the world.—But his meditations were disturbed by a gentle knock at the door.

D’Artagnan roused Planchet, and told him to see who was there. But from this phrase of rousing Planchet, it must not be supposed that it was night. No! it was four in the afternoon; but two hours had elapsed since Planchet, on coming to ask his master for some dinner, had been answered—

“He who sleeps, dines!”

And Planchet was having dinner on this economical fare.

A man of plain and simple appearance, who had a bourgeois air, was introduced.

Planchet would have liked, by way of dessert, to hear the conversation; but the man declared to d’Artagnan that what he had to say being urgent and confidential, he would wish to be alone with him. D’Artagnan therefore dismissed Planchet, and begged his visitor to be seated.

There was a momentary silence, during which the two men regarded one another inquisitively, after which d’Artagnan bowed as a signal of attention.

“I have heard M. d’Artagnan mentioned as a very brave young man,” said the citizen, “and this it is that has determined me to confide a secret to him.”

“Speak, sir, speak!” exclaimed d’Artagnan, who instinctively suspected something profitable.

The citizen paused; and then continued—“I have a wife, who is seamstress to the queen, and who is not without wit or beauty. I was induced to marry her, three years ago, though she had but a small dowry, because M. de la Porte, the queen’s cloak-bearer, is her godfather and patron.”

“Well, sir?” demanded d’Artagnan.

“Well, sir,” replied the citizen, “she was abducted yesterday morning, as she left her workroom.”

“And by whom has she been abducted?” inquired d’Artagnan.

“I do not know positively, sir,” said the other; “but I suspect a certain person.”

“And who is this person whom you suspect?”

“One who has for a long time pursued her.”

“The deuce he has!”

“But, allow me to tell you, sir, that there is less of love than of policy in all this.”

“Less of love than of policy!” exclaimed d’Artagnan, with an air of profound reflection; “and whom do you suspect?”

“I scarcely know whether I ought to mention names.”

“Sir,” said d’Artagnan, “permit me to observe, that I have absolutely demanded nothing from you; it is you who have come to me; it is you who told me that you had a secret to confide to me; do then as you please; there is yet time to draw back.”

“No, sir, you have the air of an honourable man, and I can trust you. I believe it is in consequence of no love affair of her own that my wife has been entrapped, but because of an amour of a lady of far more exalted station than her own!”

“Ah, ah! can it be on account of some amour of Madame de Bois Tracy?” asked d’Artagnan; who wished to appear familiar with Court circles.

“Higher, sir, higher!”

“Of Madame d’Aiguillon?”

“Higher yet!” said the citizen.

“Of Madame de Chevreuse?”

“Higher still!—much higher!”

“Of the———”

And here d’Artagnan paused.

“Yes!” answered the frightened citizen, in such a low voice as scarcely to be audible.

“And who is the other party?” said d’Artagnan.

“Who can it be, if not the Duke of———?” replied the mercer.

“With the Duke of———?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the citizen, in a still lower tone.

“But how do you know all this?”

“How do I know it?” said the mercer.

“Yes! How do you know it? You must tell me all or nothing, you understand,” said d’Artagnan.

“I know it from my wife, sir—from my wife herself.”

“And from whom does she know it?”

“From M. de la Porte. Did I not tell you that she is his god-daughter? Well! M. de la Porte, who is the confidential agent of the queen, had placed her near her majesty, that the poor thing—abandoned as she is by the king, watched as she is by the cardinal, and betrayed as she is by all—might at any rate have some one in whom she could confide.”

“Ah, ah! I begin to understand,” said d’Artagnan.

“Now, sir, my wife came home four days ago. One of the conditions of our marriage was, that she should come and see me twice a week; for, as I have the honour to inform you, she is my love as well as my wife. Well, sir, she came to inform me, in confidence, that the queen is at the present time in great alarm.”

“Really?” said d’Artagnan.

“Yes! the cardinal, as it appears, spies upon her and prosecutes her more than ever; he cannot pardon her the episode of the Sarabande—you know the story of the Sarabande, sir?”

“Egad! I should think I do!” replied d’Artagnan; who knew nothing at all about it, but would not for the world appear ignorant.

“So that it is no longer hatred now, but revenge!” said the citizen.

“Really!” replied d’Artagnan.

“And the queen believes———”

“Well! what does the queen believe?”

“She believes that they have forged a letter in her name to the Duke of Buckingham.”

“In her majesty’s name?”

“Yes, to entice him to Paris; and when they have got him here, to lead him into some snare.”

“The deuce! But your wife, my dear sir—what is her part in all this?”

“They know her devotion to the queen, and want to separate her from her mistress; and either to intimidate her into betraying her majesty’s secrets, or seduce her into serving as a spy upon her.”

“It seems probable!” said d’Artagnan; “but, do you know her abductor?”

“I have told you that I believe I know him!”

“His name?”

“I have not an idea what it is; all I know is that he is a creature of the cardinal—the minister’s tool.”

“But you know him by sight?”

“Yes; my wife pointed him out one day.”

“Has he any mark by which he may be recognised?”

“Yes, certainly; he is a man of aristocratic appearance, and has a dark skin, a tawny complexion, piercing eyes, white teeth, and a scar on his forehead.”

“A scar on his forehead!” cried d’Artagnan; “and with white teeth, piercing eyes, dark complexion, and proud air—it is my man of Meung!”

“Your man, do you say?”

“Yes, yes!” said d’Artagnan; “but that has nothing to do with this affair. Yet I mistake! It has, on the contrary, a great deal to do with it; for if your man is mine also, I shall at one blow perform two acts of revenge.—But where can I meet with him?”

“I have not the slightest idea.”

“Have you no clue to his abode?”

“None whatever. One day, when I accompanied my wife to the Louvre, he came out as she entered, and she pointed him out to me.”

“Plague on it!” murmured d’Artagnan; “this is all very vague. But how did you hear of the abduction of your wife?”

“From M. de la Porte.”

“Did he tell you the details?”

“He knew none.”

“You have got no information from other quarters?”

“Yes, I have received———”

“What?”

“But I know not whether I should inform you.”

“You return to your hesitation; but permit me to observe, that you have now advanced too far to recede.”

“I do not draw back,” exclaimed the citizen, accompanying the assurance with an oath, to support his courage; besides, on the honour of Bonancieux———”

“Then your name is Bonancieux?” interrupted d’Artagnan.

“Yes, that is my name.”

“You say, on the honour of Bonancieux! Pardon this interruption, but the name appears not to be unknown to me.”

“It is very possible, sir, for I am your landlord.”

“Ah, ah!” said d’Artagnan, half rising, “ah, you are my landlord?”

“Yes, sir, yes; and as for the three months that you have been in my house (diverted, no doubt, by your great and splendid occupations), you have forgotten to pay me my rent, and as, likewise, I have not once asked you for payment, I thought that you would have some regard on account of my delicacy in that respect.”

“Why, I have no alternative, my dear M. Bonancieux,” answered d’Artagnan, “believe me, I am grateful for such a proceeding, and shall, as I have said, be most happy if I can be of use in any way.”

“I believe you, I believe you,” interrupted the citizen; “and as I said, on the honour of Bonancieux, I have confidence in you.”

“Then go on with your account.”

The citizen drew a paper from his pocket, and gave it to d’Artagnan.

“A letter!” exclaimed the young man.

“Which I received this morning.”

D’Artagnan opened it, and, as the light commenced to wane, he approached the window, followed by Bonancieux.

“Do not seek for your wife,” read d’Artagnan: “she will be returned to you when she is no longer required. If you make a single attempt to discover her, you are lost!”

“Well, this is pretty positive!” continued d’Artagnan; “but, after all, it is only a threat.”

“Yes, but this threat frightens me, sir: I am not at all warlike, and I fear the Bastile.”

“Humph!” said d’Artagnan, “I do not like the Bastile any more than you do; if it was only a sword thrust, now, it would be of no consequence!”

“And yet I had depended much on your assistance.”

“Quite right!”

“Seeing you always surrounded by musketeers of haughty carriage, and perceiving that those musketeers belonged to M. de Treville, and, consequently, were the enemies of the cardinal, I thought that you and your friends, whilst gaining justice for our poor queen, would be enchanted at doing his eminence an ill turn.”

“Unquestionably!”

“And then I thought, that, owing me three months’ rent, which I never demanded———”

“Yes, yes, you have already mentioned that reason, and I consider it excellent.”

“Reckoning, moreover, that as long as you will do me the honour of remaining in my house, I should make no reference to rent———”

“Good, again!” said d’Artagnan.

“And, added to that, calculating upon offering you fifty pistoles, should you be at all distressed at this time, which I don’t say for a moment———”

“Wonderfully good! You are rich, then, my dear M. Bonancieux!”

“Say, rather, in easy circumstances, sir. I have amassed something like two or three thousand crowns a year in the linen-drapery line; and more particularly, by investing something in the last voyage of the celebrated navigator, Jean Mocquet; so that you understand, sir———Ah! but———”exclaimed the citizen.

“What?” demanded d’Artagnan.

“What do I see there?”

“Where?”

“In the street, opposite your windows; in the opening of that entry—a man wrapped in a cloak!”

“It is he!” cried d’Artagnan and the citizen in one breath; each having at the same moment recognised his man.

“Ah!” this time he shall not escape me!” exclaimed d’Artagnan, rushing out, sword in hand.

On the staircase he met Athos and Porthos, who were coming to see him. They stood apart, and he passed between them like a meteor.

“Ah, where are you running to?” cried the two musketeers.

“The man of Meung!” ejaculated d’Artagnan, as he disappeared.

D’Artagnan had more than once related to his friends his adventure with the stranger, and also the apparition of the fair traveller, to whom this man appeared to confide such an important missive. Athos was of opinion that d’Artagnan had lost the letter during the quarrel, since a gentleman, such as he had described the unknown to be, must have been incapable of theft: Porthos only saw in the affair an amorous appointment, which d’Artagnan and his yellow horse had disturbed; and Aramis had said, these kind of things being mysterious, had better not be searched into. From the few words which escaped d’Artagnan, they understood, therefore, what was his object; and concluding that he would return, after he had found his man, they proceeded to his apartment.

When they entered the room which d’Artagnan had just quitted, they found it empty; for the landlord, fearing the consequences of the meeting and duel which he doubted not was about to take place between the young man and the stranger, had judged it most prudent to decamp.

9 D’Artagnan Begins to Show Himself

AS ATHOS AND Porthos had anticipated, d’Artagnan returned in half an hour. He had again missed his man, who had disappeared as if by enchantment. The young Gascon had run through all the neighbouring streets, sword in hand, but found no one resembling him. Whilst d’Artagnan was engaged in this pursuit, Aramis had joined his companions, so that on his return he found the re-union complete.

“Well!” exclaimed they, when they saw him enter, covered with perspiration, and furious.

“Well!” said he, throwing his sword on the bed; “this man must be the devil himself: he disappeared like a phantom, a shadow, a spectre!”

“Do you believe in apparitions?” demanded Athos and Porthos.

“I only believe in what I see; and as I have never seen an apparition, I do not believe in them.”

“The Bible declares that one appeared to Saul!” said Aramis.

“Be it how it may,” said d’Artagnan, “man or devil, body or shadow, illusion or reality, this man is born to be my bane; for his escape has caused us to lose a fine opportunity—one, gentlemen, by which an hundred pistoles, or more, were to be gained!”

“How is that?” asked Aramis and Porthos; but Athos, true to his principle of silence, merely interrogated d’Artagnan by a look.

“Planchet,” said d’Artagnan, “go to my landlord, M. Bonancieux, and tell him to send me half a dozen bottles of Beaugency, which is my favourite wine.”

“Ah! then you have credit with your landlord?” demanded Porthos.

“Yes, from this day,” said d’Artagnan; “and be assured that if the wine is bad, we will send to him for better.”

“You should use, and not abuse,” sententiously remarked Aramis.

“I always said that d’Artagnan had the best head of the four,” said Athos; who, having delivered himself of this opinion, which d’Artagnan acknowledged by a bow, relapsed into his usual silence.

“But now let us hear what is the scheme,” demanded Porthos.

“Yes,” said Aramis, “confide in us, my dear friend; at least, if the honour of some lady be not compromised.”

“Be easy,” replied d’Artagnan, “the honour of no one shall be in danger from what I have to tell you.” He then related, word for word, his intercourse with his landlord; and how the man who had carried off the worthy mercer’s wife was the same with whom he had quarrelled at the Jolly Miller, at Meung.

“The thing looks well,” said Athos, after he had tasted the wine like a connoisseur, and testified by an approving nod of the head that it was good; and had calculated also whether it was worth while to risk four heads for sixty or seventy pistoles.

“But, observe,” said d’Artagnan, “that there is a woman in the case; a woman who is carried off, and no doubt threatened, perhaps tortured, merely on account of her fidelity to her royal mistress.”

“Take care, d’Artagnan—take care,” said Aramis; “in my opinion you are too interested in Madame Bonancieux. Woman was created for our destruction; and from her all our miseries arise.”

Athos frowned, and bit his lip, whilst he listened to this profound opinion.

“It is not for Madame Bonancieux that I distress myself,” said d’Artagnan, “but for the queen, whom the king abandons, whom the cardinal persecutes, and who sees the execution of all her truest friends in succession.”

“But why will she love what we most detest—the English and the Spaniards?” asked Athos.

“Spain is her country,” replied d’Artagnan, “and it is but natural that she should love the Spaniards, who are her compatriots. As to your first reproach, I never heard that she loved the English, but an Englishman.”

“And truly,” replied Athos, “one must confess, that that Englishman is well worthy of being loved. I never saw a man of a more noble air.”

“Besides, you do not consider the perfect style in which he dresses,” said Porthos. “I was at the Louvre the day he scattered his pearls, and I picked up two which sold for twenty pistoles. Do you know him, Aramis?”

“As well as you do, gentlemen; for I was one of those who arrested him in the garden at Amiens, where the queen’s equerry, M. de Putange, had introduced me. I was at the seminary at that time, and the adventure appeared to me to bear hard upon the king.”

“Which would not hinder me,” said d’Artagnan, “from taking him by the hand, and conducting him to the queen; if it were only to enrage the cardinal. Our one eternal enemy is the cardinal; and if we could find the means of doing him some injury, I confess that I would willingly risk my life to employ them.”

“And the mercer told you, d’Artagnan,” said Athos, “that the queen thought they had decoyed Buckingham into France by some false information?”

“She fears so! And I am convinced,” added d’Artagnan, “that the abduction of this woman, one of the queen’s suite, has some connection with the circumstances of which we are speaking, and perhaps with the presence of his grace the Duke of Buckingham in Paris.”

“The Gascon is full of imagination,” said Porthos.

“I like to hear him talk,” said Athos; “his dialect amuses me.”

“Gentlemen,” said Aramis, “listen!”

“Let us attend to Aramis!” exclaimed the three friends.

“Yesterday, I was at the house of a learned doctor of theology whom I sometimes consult on technical difficulties.”

Athos smiled.

“He lives in a retired spot, convenient to his tastes and his profession. Now, just as I was leaving his house———” Here Aramis hesitated.

“Well!” said his auditors—“just as you were leaving his house?”

Aramis appeared to make an effort, like a man who, in the full swing of making up a story, finds himself suddenly arrested by an unforeseen obstacle; but, as the eyes of his three friends were upon him, he could not by any means draw back.

“This doctor has a niece,” continued Aramis.

“Oh! he has a niece,” interrupted Porthos.

“Yes, a lady of the highest morality,” said Aramis.

The three friends began to laugh.

“Ah! if you either laugh or make insinuations, you shall hear no more,” said Aramis.

“We are credulous as the Mahometans, and dumb as catafalks!” said Athos.

“Then I will continue,” said Aramis. “This niece comes sometimes to see her uncle, and as she was there by chance yesterday at the same time that I was, I was obliged to offer to conduct her to the carriage.”

“Ah! the niece of this doctor has a carriage,” interrupted Porthos, whose chief fault consisted in having too long a tongue. “A desirable connection, my friend!”

“Porthos,” said Aramis, “I have often intimated to you, that you are very indiscreet, and it does you no good in the eyes of gentlemen.”

“Gentlemen,” said d’Artagnan, who saw how the adventure arose, “the thing is serious; let us endeavour to avoid joking. Go on, Aramis; go on.”

“All of a sudden a tall, dark man, with the manners of a gentleman—like your man, d’Artagnan———”

“The same, perhaps,” said the Gascon.

“It is possible!” said Aramis; “however, he approached me, accompanied by six or seven men, who followed him at about ten paces’ distance, and then, in the most polite tone, said, ‘My lord duke, and you, madame,’ addressing the lady———”

“What! the doctor’s niece?” said Porthos.

“Silence, Porthos,” said Athos; “you are insupportable.”

“‘Please to enter that carriage, without resistance, and in silence.’”

“He took you for Buckingham?” said d’Artagnan.

“Almost certainly,” said Aramis.

“But this lady?” said Porthos.

“He took her for the queen,” said d’Artagnan.

“Precisely!” said Aramis.

“The Gascon is the devil!” said Athos; “nothing escapes him!”

“The fact is,” said Porthos, “that Aramis is about the height, and has something of the figure, of the handsome duke; and yet one would think that the uniform of a musketeer———”

“I had on an enormous cloak.”

“In the month of July! Excellent!” cried Porthos; “was the doctor afraid that you might be recognised?”

“I can conceive,” said Athos, “that the spy might be deceived by the figure; but the countenance?”

“I had a large hat,” replied Aramis.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Porthos, “what extraordinary precautions for studying theology?”

“Gentlemen,” said d’Artagnan, “do not let us lose our time in badinage; let us rather make inquiries, and discover the mercer’s wife, who might prove a key to the intrigue.”

“What! a woman of such an inferior condition! Do you think it likely, d’Artagnan?” asked Porthos, with a derisive pout.

“Have I not told you, gentlemen,” said d’Artagnan, “that she is the god-daughter of la Porte, who is the confidential servant of the queen. Perhaps it is her majesty’s policy to seek assistance from a source so humble. Lofty heads are visible at a distance, and the cardinal has a good eye.”

“Well, then,” said Porthos, “come to terms with the mercer immediately, and good terms.”

“It is unnecessary,” said d’Artagnan; “if he should not pay us, we shall be well enough paid from another quarter.”

At this moment a noise of hasty steps was heard upon the stairs; the door opened with a crash, and the unhappy mercer rushed into the room in which this council had taken place.

“Oh, gentlemen!” he exclaimed, “save me, save me! in the name of heaven save me! There are four men come to arrest me!”

Porthos and Aramis arose.

“One moment,” cried d’Artagnan, making them a sign to sheath their swords, which they had half drawn—“wait one moment; it is not courage, but diplomacy, that is necessary here!”

“Nevertheless,” said Porthos, “we will not permit———”

“Give d’Artagnan a free hand,” said Athos; “he is the cleverest of the party, and, for my part, I declare that I will obey him. Do what you like, d’Artagnan.”

As this speech was uttered, the four guards appeared at the door of the ante-room, but seeing four musketeers standing there, with swords by their sides, they hesitated to advance any farther.

“Enter, gentlemen, enter,” said d’Artagnan; “you are in my apartment, and we are all the loyal subjects of the king and cardinal.”

“Then, gentlemen, you will not oppose any obstacle to the execution of our orders?” demanded he who appeared to be the leader of the party.

“On the contrary, we would assist you were it necessary.”

“What is he saying?” inquired Porthos.

“You are stupid!” said Athos. “Silence!”

“But you promised to assist me!” whispered the poor mercer.

“We cannot assist you in prison,” hastily replied d’Artagnan, in an undertone; “and if we appear to defend you, we shall be arrested also.”

“It seems to me, however———” said the poor man.

“Come, gentlemen, come,” said d’Artagnan aloud. “I have no motive for defending this person; I saw him today for the first time, and on what occasion he will himself tell you. He came to demand his rent—did you not, M. Bonancieux?—Answer!”

“It is the plain truth!” cried the mercer; “but the gentleman does not add———”

“Silence about me! silence concerning my friends! silence, more especially, about the queen!” whispered d’Artagnan, “or you will destroy us all, without saving yourself,—Go, go, gentlemen, take away this man!”

So saying, d’Artagnan pushed the poor bewildered mercer into the hands of the guard, at the same time exclaiming—

“You are a rascally niggard! You come to demand money of me, a musketeer!—to prison with you! Gentlemen, I say again, take him to prison; and keep him under lock and key as long as possible; that will give me time to pay.”

The officers overwhelmed d’Artagnan with thanks, and carried off their prey.

As they were leaving, d’Artagnan detained the leader.

“Suppose we drank to each other’s health?” said he, filling two glasses with the Beaugency, for which he was indebted to the liberality of M. Bonancieux.

“It will be a great honour to me,” replied the leader of the guards; “and I accept the offer with gratitude.”

“Here’s to you, then, M.———You have the advantage of me, sir.”

“Boisrenard.”

“M. Boisrenard!”

“I drink to you, sir, but, in return, you have the advantage of me.”

“D’Artagnan.”

“To your health, M. d’Artagnan!”

“And, above all,” said d’Artagnan, as if carried away by his enthusiasm, “to the health of the king and the cardinal.”

The officer might have doubted d’Artagnan’s sincerity had the wine been bad; but it was excellent, and he was satisfied.

“But what devil’s own villainy have you done now?” exclaimed Porthos, when the officer had joined his companions, and the four friends found themselves alone. “For shame! Four musketeers allow a miserable creature, who implored their assistance, to be arrested in the midst of them! and, more than that, a gentleman to tipple with a bailiff!”

“Porthos,” said Aramis, “Athos has already told you that you are stupid; and I am of his opinion. D’Artagnan, you are a great man; and when you are in M. de Treville’s situation, I beg your interest to procure me an abbey.”

“Ah! I am quite in the dark!” said Porthos. “Do you also, Athos, approve of what d’Artagnan has done?”

“Most assuredly!” said Athos. “I not only approve of it, but I congratulate him.”

“And now, gentlemen,” said d’Artagnan, not deigning to explain himself to Porthos—“’All for one—one for all!’ this is our motto, is it not?”

“Nevertheless———” said Porthos.

“Stretch out your hand and swear,” cried Athos and Aramis at the same time.

Conquered by the example, but muttering in a low tone, Porthos stretched out his hand, and the four friends repeated with one voice the formal motto dictated by d’Artagnan—

“‘All for one; and one for all!’”

“That is right. Now, retire to your homes,” said d’Artagnan, as if he had never been accustomed to anything but to command others. “But,” he added, “be watchful; for remember, that from this moment we are at issue with the cardinal!”

10 A Mousetrap of the Seventeenth Century

THE MOUSETRAP IS not a modern invention. As soon as societies had, in establishing, themselves, instituted some kind of police, that police in its turn invented mousetraps.

As our readers are perhaps not familiar with the slang of the Rue de Jerusalem, and as it is, although we have been engaged in authorship for fifteen years, the first time that we have used the word in this signification, let us explain to them what a mousetrap is.

When an individual has been arrested, in any house whatever, on suspicion of some crime, his arrest is kept secret; four or five men are placed in ambush in the front room of this house; all who knock are admitted, and also locked in and detained; and, in this manner, at the end of three or four days, they can lay their fingers on all the frequenters of the establishment.

This, reader, is a mousetrap! and into such a one was M. Bonancieux’s apartment transformed. Whoever applied there, was seized and examined by the cardinal’s people. But as there was a private court leading to the first floor, which d’Artagnan occupied, his visitors were all exempt from this detention. The three musketeers, however, were, in fact, the only visitors he had; and each of these had, by this time, commenced a separate search, but had discovered nothing. Athos had even gone so far as to question M. de Treville—a circumstance which, considering his habitual taciturnity, had greatly surprised his captain. But M. de Treville knew nothing about it; excepting that the last time he had seen either the king, the queen, and the cardinal, the cardinal was very morose, the king very uneasy, and the queen’s eyes were red from watching or weeping. But this last circumstance had not attracted much of his notice, as the queen had, since her marriage, both watched and wept frequently.

Furthermore, M. de Treville strongly advised Athos to be active in the king’s service, and more particularly in the queen’s, and requested him to transmit the advice to his companions.

As to d’Artagnan, he did not stir out of his lodgings. He had converted his room into an observatory. From his own windows he saw everybody who came into the trap; and as he had taken up some squares from the floor, and dug up the deafening, so that nothing but a ceiling separated him from the room below, where the examinations were made, he heard all that passed between the inquisitors and the accused. The interrogatories, which were preceded by a strict search, were almost always in these terms—

“Has Madame Bonancieux entrusted you with anything for her husband or any other person?”

“Has M. Bonancieux entrusted you with anything for his wife, or any one else?”

“Has either of them made any verbal communication to you?”

“If they knew anything, they would not put such questions as these,” said d’Artagnan to himself. “But what are they trying to find out? Whether the Duke of Buckingham is in Paris at present; and if he has not had, or is not about to have, an interview with the queen?”

D’Artagnan stopped at this idea, which, after all that he had heard, was not without its probability. In the meantime, however, both the mousetrap and the vigilance of d’Artagnan remained in operation.

Just as it was striking nine on the evening of the day after poor Bonancieux’s arrest, and just as Athos had left d’Artagnan to go to M. de Treville’s, whilst Planchet, who had not made the bed, was about to do so, there was a knocking at the street door, which was immediately opened, and shut again: it was some new prey caught in the trap.

D’Artagnan rushed towards the unpaved part of his room, and laid himself down to listen. In a short time cries were heard, and then groans, which someone endeavoured to stifle.

There was no thought of examination.

“The devil!” said d’Artagnan to himself; “it seems to me to be a woman; they are searching her, and she resists; the wretches are using violence!”

In spite of his prudence, d’Artagnan had some trouble to restrain himself from interfering in the scene which was being enacted underneath.

“I tell you, gentlemen, that I am the mistress of the house; I am Madame Bonancieux. I tell you that I am a servant of the queen’s!” exclaimed the unfortunate woman.

“Madame Bonancieux!” murmured d’Artagnan; “shall I be so fortunate as to have found her whom everybody searches for in vain?”

“You are the very person we were waiting for,” replied the officers.

The voice became more and more stifled. Violent struggling made the wainscot rattle. The victim was offering all the resistance that one woman could offer against four men.

“Forgive me, gentlemen, by———” murmured the voice, which then

uttered only inarticulate sounds.

“They are gagging her! They are going to abduct her!” ejaculated d’Artagnan, raising himself up with a bound. “My sword!—Right! it is by my side!—Planchet!”

“Sir.”

“Run, and seek Athos, Porthos, and Aramis; one of the three must be at home; perhaps all. Tell them to arm themselves, and hasten here. Ah, now I remember Athos is with M. de Treville.”

“But where are you going, sir?—Where are you going?”

“I shall get down through the window,” said d’Artagnan, “that I may be there sooner. Replace the squares, sweep the floor, go out by the door, and hasten whither I have told you.”

“Oh! sir, you will be killed!” cried Planchet.

“Hold your tongue, idiot!” exclaimed d’Artagnan.

Then, grasping the window-sill, he dropped from the first storey, which was fortunately not high, without giving himself even a scratch. He then went immediately and knocked at the door, muttering—

“I in my turn am going to be caught in the mousetrap; but woe betide the cats who shall deal with such a mouse!”

Scarcely had the knocker sounded beneath the young man’s hand, ere the tumult ceased, and footsteps approached. The door was opened, and d’Artagnan, armed with his naked sword, sprang into the apartment of M. Bonancieux. The door, doubtless moved by a spring, closed automatically behind him.

Then might those who yet inhabited the unfortunate house of M. Bonancieux, as well as the nearest neighbours, hear loud outcries, stampings, and the clashing of swords and the continual crash of furniture. After a moment more, those who had looked from their windows to learn the cause of this surprising noise, might see the door open, and four men clothed in black, not merely go out, but fly like frightened crows, leaving on the ground, and at the corners of the house, their feathers and wings, that is to say, portions of their coats and fragments of their cloaks.

D’Artagnan had come off victorious, without much difficulty, it must be confessed; for only one of the officers was armed, and he had only gone through a form of defence. It is quite true that the other three had endeavoured to knock down the young man with chairs, stools, and crockery, but two or three scratches from the Gascon’s sword had scared them. Ten minutes had sufficed for their defeat, and d’Artagnan had remained master of the field of battle.

The neighbours, who had opened their windows with the indifference habitual to the inhabitants of Paris at that season of perpetual disturbances and riots, closed them again when they saw the four men escape; their instinct told them no more was to be seen for the time. Besides, it was getting late; and then, as well as now, people went to bed early in the quarter of the Luxembourg.

When d’Artagnan was left alone with Madame Bonancieux, he turned towards her. The poor woman was reclining in an easy chair, almost senseless. D’Artagnan examined her with a rapid glance.

She was a charming woman, about twenty-two or twenty-three years of age; with blue eyes, a nose slightly turned up, beautiful teeth, and a complexion of intermingled rose and opal. Here, however, ended the charms which might have confounded her with a lady of high birth. Her hands were white, but not delicately formed; and her feet did not indicate a woman of quality. Fortunately, d’Artagnan was not of an age to be nice in these matters.

Whilst d’Artagnan was examining Madame Bonancieux, and had got, as we have said, to her feet, he saw on the ground a fine cambric handkerchief, which, naturally, he picked up; and, at the corner of it, he discovered the same cipher that he had seen on the handkerchief which had nearly caused him and Aramis to cut one another’s throats. Since that time d’Artagnan had mistrusted all coronetted handkerchiefs; and he now put that which he had picked up into Madame Bonancieux’s pocket, without saying a word. At that moment Madame Bonancieux recovered her senses. She opened her eyes, looked around her in affright, and saw that the room was empty, and that she was alone with her deliverer. She immediately held out her hands to him, with a smile—and Madame Bonancieux had the most charming smile in the world.

“Ah! sir,” said she, “it is you who have saved me; allow me to thank you!”

“Madame,” replied d’Artagnan, “I have only done what any gentleman would have done in my situation. You owe me no thanks.”

“Yes, yes, sir, I do; and I hope to prove to you that this service has not been for naught. But what did these men, whom I at first took for robbers, want with me? and why is not M. Bonancieux here?”

“Madame, these men were far more dangerous than any robbers would have been, for they are agents of the cardinal; and as for your husband, M. Bonancieux, he is not here, because he was taken yesterday to the Bastile.”

“My husband in the Bastile!” cried Madame Bonancieux. “Oh, my God! what can he have done, poor, dear man! Why, he is innocence itself!”

And something like a smile glanced across the yet alarmed countenance of the young woman.

“As to what he has been doing, madame,” said d’Artagnan, “I believe that his only crime consists in having at the same time the good fortune and the misfortune of being your husband.”

“Then, sir, you know?”

“I know that you were carried off, madame.”

“But by whom? do you know that? Oh, if you know, pray tell me!”

“By a man about forty or forty-five years of age, with dark hair, a brown complexion, and a scar on the left temple.”

“Just so, just so: but his name?”

“Ah! his name—I don’t know it myself.”

“And did my husband know that I had been carried off?”

“He had been informed of it by a letter sent him by the ravisher himself.”

“And does he suspect,” demanded Madame Bonancieux, with some confusion, “the cause of this abduction?”

“He attributes it, I believe, to some political cause.”

“At first I doubted whether it was so, but now, as I think, he does; and so my dear M. Bonancieux did not mistrust me for a single instant?”

“Ah! so far from that, madame, he was too proud of your prudence and your love.”

A second smile, almost imperceptible, glided over the rosy lips of the beautiful young woman.

“But,” continued d’Artagnan, “how did you make your escape?”

“I profited by a moment in which I was left alone; and as I learned this morning the cause of my abduction, by the help of my sheets I got out of the window, and hurried here, where I expected to find my husband.”

“To place yourself under his protection?”

“Oh, no! poor dear man! I knew that he was incapable of protecting me; but, as he might be of some service to us, I wished to put him on his guard.”

“Against what?”

“Alas! that is not my secret; and I dare not tell it to you.”

“Besides,” said d’Artagnan—“(pardon me, madame, if, protector as I am, I remind you of prudence)—besides, I think that we are scarcely in a situation suitable for confidences. The men whom I have put to flight will return reinforced, and if they find us here, we shall be lost. I have sent to summon three of my friends, but it is uncertain whether they may be at home!”

“Yes! yes! you are right,” said Madame Bonancieux, in alarm; “let us fly: let us escape!”

And seizing d’Artagnan by his arm, she eagerly drew him along.

“But whither shall we fly? where shall we escape to?” said d’Artagnan.

“Let us get away from this place first, and then, having got clear of it, we shall see.”

Without taking the trouble to shut the door, the two young people hastily passed down the Rue des Fossoyeurs, crossed the Rue des Fosses Monsieur le Prince, and did not stop until they reached the Place de St. Sulpice.

“And now, what next?” inquired d’Artagnan; “and whither would you like me to conduct you?”

“I confess that I scarcely know whither,” said Madame Bonancieux. “I had intended, through my husband, to intimate my escape to M. de la Porte, so that the latter might tell us exactly what has happened at the Louvre within the last three days, and whether there would be any danger in my presenting myself there.”

“But I,” said d’Artagnan, “can go and inform M. de la Porte.”

“Undoubtedly; yet there is one difficulty. M. Bonancieux is known at the Louvre, and would be allowed to enter; whilst you, not being known, would not be admitted.”

“Nonsense!” said d’Artagnan: “there is doubtless a porter at some wicket of the Louvre who is devoted to you, and who, thanks to some countersign———”

Madame Bonancieux looked earnestly at the young man.

“And if I trusted you with this countersign,” said she, “would you undertake to forget it as soon as you had made use of it?”

“On my word of honour! on the faith of a gentleman!” said d’Artagnan, with that accent of truth which never can mislead.

“Well, I believe you! You look like a man of honour, and your fortune perhaps may depend on your devotion.”

“I will perform, without any promises, and conscientiously, whatever I can to serve the king, and to be acceptable to the queen,” said d’Artagnan; “use me, therefore, as a friend!”

“But what is to become of me in the meantime?”

“Have you no acquaintance, to whose house M. de la Porte can come for you?”

“No, I would rather not trust to any one!”

“Wait,” said d’Artagnan; “we are now just by Athos’s door; yes, this is the best way!”

“And who is Athos?”

“A friend of mine.”

“But, if he is at home, and sees me?”

“But he is not there, and I will take away the key when I have placed you in his apartment.”

“Suppose he should return?”

“He will not return; besides, if he should, he will be told that I have brought a woman here, and that she is now in his apartment.”

“But don’t you see this will compromise me very much?”

“What need you care! no one knows you. Besides, we are not in a position to be particular.”

“Well, let us go to your friend’s house, then; where does he live?”

“In the Rue Ferou—two steps from here.”

“Come, then.” And the two proceeded on their way. As d’Artagnan had foreseen, Athos was not at home; so taking the key, which they were in the habit of giving to him as a friend of the musketeer, he ascended the stairs, and introduced Madame Bonancieux into the little apartment which we have already described.

“You are now at home,” said he. “Lock the door inside, and do not open it to any one, unless you hear three knocks—thus;” and he tapped three times—two taps together, pretty hard, and, after a short interval, a gentler tap.

“That will do,” said Madame Bonancieux; “and now let me give you my instructions.”

“I am all attention.”

“Present yourself at the postern of the Louvre, on the side of the Rue de l’Echelle; and ask for Germain.”

“Very well; and what next?”

“He will ask you what you want; you must answer by these words—‘Tours and Brussels’—and he will immediately listen to your commands.”

“And what shall I tell him to do?”

“To go and find M. de la Porte, the queen’s valet-de-chambre.”

“And when M. de la Porte has come?”

“You will send him to me.”

“Very well. But where, and how, shall I see you again?”

“Do you feel particularly anxious to see me again?”

“Particularly.”

“Well, then, leave that to my care; and be at ease.”

“I rely upon your word.”

“And quite right.”

D’Artagnan took leave of Madame Bonancieux, with the most amorous glance that he could possibly concentrate upon her charming little person; and whilst he was descending the stairs, he heard the door behind him double locked. In two bounds he was at the Louvre; and, as he entered the small door in the Rue de l’Echelle, it struck ten; so that all the events we have just related had transpired within half an hour.

Everything happened just as Madame Bonancieux had predicted. Germain heard the watchword with a bow, and in ten minutes de la Porte was in the porter’s lodge; and in two words d’Artagnan told him what had occurred, and where Madame Bonancieux was to be found. La Porte made himself certain of the address by having it twice repeated, and then hurried away. But he had scarcely taken ten steps, before he returned.

“Young man,” said he, “let me give you some good counsel.”

“What is it?”

“You may possibly get into some trouble on account of this affair.”

“Do you think so?”

“I do! Have you any friend whose clock is slow?”

“Suppose I have?”

“Go and pay him a visit, that he may be able to bear witness that you were in his company at half-past nine. In law, that is what is called an alibi.”

D’Artagnan thought the advice prudent. He therefore took to his heels, and reached M. de Treville’s; but, instead of entering the drawing-room, with the rest of the company, he asked to be admitted into the cabinet, and as he was one of the habitual frequenters of the hotel, no objection was made to this; and M. de Treville was soon informed that his young compatriot, having something of importance to communicate, solicited a private interview.

In five minutes M. de Treville was there, and asked d’Artagnan what he could do for him, and to what he was indebted for a visit at such a late hour?

“Forgive me, sir,” said d’Artagnan (who had taken advantage of the moment he was left alone, to put the clock back three quarters of an hour), “but I thought, as it was only twenty-five minutes past nine, it was not yet too late to wait upon you.”

“Twenty-five minutes past nine!” exclaimed M. de Treville, looking at the clock, “it is impossible!”

“Look for yourself, sir,” said d’Artagnan, “the clock shows it.”

“You are right,” replied M. de Treville: “I should have thought it was later. But what can I do for you?”

Then d’Artagnan entered into a long story about the queen; expressing all the fears that he entertained upon her majesty’s account, and recounting all that he had heard about the cardinal’s designs against Buckingham; and this with a degree of tranquillity and consistency by which M. de Treville was the more readily duped, inasmuch as he had himself, as we have already said, remarked that something fresh was stirring between the cardinal, the king, and the queen.

Just as the clock was striking ten, d’Artagnan arose, and took his leave of M. de Treville, who thanked him for his information, expressed on him an incessant earnestness in the service of the king and queen, and returned to his saloon.

But d’Artagnan remembered, at the bottom of the stairs, that he had forgotten his cane; he therefore hastened up again, re-entered the cabinet, and with one touch of his finger put the clock to its right time, so that it might not be seen the next day to have been wrong: then, satisfied that he had a witness there to prove his alibi, he again descended the stairs, and soon found himself in the street.

11 The Intrigue Becomes Confused

WHEN HIS VISIT to M. de Treville was ended, d’Artagnan took, in pensive mood, the longest road to return to his own home.

But what were the meditations which thus led him from his way; contemplating, with successive sighs and smiles, the stars that glittered in the sky.

Alas! he was intent on Madame Bonancieux. To an apprentice musketeer, the charms of that young person raised her almost into an ideal of love. Pretty, mysterious, and initiated into all the court secrets, which reflected so much charming seriousness over her seductive features, he supposed her, also, to be not wholly unimpassioned, which is an irresistible attraction to novices in these engagements of the heart. He felt, moreover, that he had delivered her from the hands of miscreants who wished to search and maltreat her; and this important service had prepossessed her with a sentiment of gratitude towards him, which might easily be made to take a character of greater tenderness.

So rapidly do our dreams travel on imagination’s wings, that d’Artagnan already fancied himself accosted by some messenger from Madame Bonancieux, handing to him an appointment for an interview, or a diamond or a chain of gold. We have already intimated that the young cavaliers were not then ashamed of accepting presents from their king; and we may add, that, in those times of easy morality, they were not more scrupulous in respect of their mistresses, and that these latter almost always conferred upon them some precious and durable memorials, as though they were endeavouring to overcome the instability of their sentiments by the solidity of gifts.

Men did not then blush at owing their advancement to women; and we might refer to many amongst the heroes of that age of gallantry, who would neither have won their spurs at first, nor their battles afterwards, but for the better or worse furnished purse which some mistress had suspended at their saddle-bow.

Now, d’Artagnan possessed nothing. His provincial hesitation—that superficial varnish, and ephemeral bloom, that down on the peach—had evaporated in the storm of somewhat unorthodox advice which the three musketeers had given to their friend. According to the curious customs of the time, he had come to look upon himself as being just as much engaged in a campaign whilst he was at Paris, as though he had been in Flanders. Spaniard there, woman here: yet, in either case, there was an enemy to overcome, and contributions to raise.

But let us not disguise that the young Gascon was, at present, influenced by a nobler and more disinterested feeling. The mercer had confessed to him that he was rich; and it was easy to infer that, with a simpleton like Bonancieux, the wife would be the keeper of the purse. But nothing of this kind had contributed to that sentiment which the sight of Madame Bonancieux had inspired, and selfishness had been almost disregarded in the dawning love which had arisen from his interview. We say almost—for the assurance that a young, lovely, charming and witty woman is rich also, has a tendency, not to diminish, but rather to corroborate, this growth of sentiment. In easy circumstances, there are a crowd of aristocratic cares and caprices which accord well with beauty. A white and fine stocking, a silken dress, a lace kerchief, a pretty little shoe, a becoming ribband, do not make an ugly woman pretty, but they make a pretty woman irresistible; whilst her hands, moreover, are sure to be the gainers by her wealth; for the hands—in women, especially—must remain idle to be beautiful.

Now, as the reader very well knows—for we have made no secret of the state of his finances—d’Artagnan was not a man of large fortune. It is true that he quite expected to become so, at some future time; but the date which he had himself fixed on for that happy transformation, was as yet far distant. In the meantime, what sorrow would it be to see the woman whom one idolizes sighing for the thousand trifles in which so much of the happiness of womankind consists, and to be unable to procure them for her. But when the woman is rich, although the lover is poor, the gifts which he cannot present, she can provide for herself; and then, although it may most frequently be with the husband’s money that these enjoyments are obtained, it is not commonly to this husband that the gratitude is shown.

Thus disposed to become the most passionate of admirers, d’Artagnan had not ceased to be a devoted friend. In the midst of his more tender feelings towards the mercer’s wife, he was not forgetful of his companions. The pretty Madame Bonancieux was the very woman to take on an excursion to the plain of Saint Denis, or the fair at St. Germain, in company with Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, to whom he should be so proud to show his charming conquest. And then—as d’Artagnan had happened to remark of late—after a long walk one gets hungry; and they would have some of those pleasant little dinners, during which one touches on this side the hand of a friend, on that the foot of a mistress. Finally, in moments of emergency, in great extremities, might it not be his happiness to be the saviour of his friends?

But what of M. Bonancieux, whom d’Artagnan had given over to the keeping of the officers; disowning him aloud, whilst, in a whisper, he assured him of his care? We must confess to our readers, that d’Artagnan had never thought of him at all; or, if he did think of him, it was merely to congratulate himself, that he was very well where he was, wherever that might be. Love is the most selfish of all our passions.

Nevertheless, let our readers take comfort: though d’Artagnan forgets his landlord, or pretends to forget him, under the excuse of not knowing where he has been taken, we have not forgotten him, and do know where he is. But, for the present, let us act like the amorous Gascon. As for the worthy mercer, we will return to him by and by.

D’Artagnan, whilst meditating on his future love, and conversing with the night, and smiling on the stars, proceeded along the Rue de Cherche Midi, or Chasse Midi, as it was then called. Being in Aramis’s neighbourhood, he thought he might as well pay him a visit, to explain why he had sent Planchet with the invitation to come immediately to the mousetrap.

If Planchet had found Aramis at home, the latter had probably hastened to the Rue des Fossoyeurs, and, finding nobody there but his other two friends, perhaps, they would all have been in ignorance of what the summons meant. This dilemma needed some explanation; or, at least, so said d’Artagnan aloud.

But, in his inner soul, he thought that this call would give him an opportunity of talking of the pretty Madame Bonancieux, with whom his mind, if not his heart, was already quite occupied. It is not in regard to a first love that we must look for discretion. The joy with which such a love is attended is so exuberant, that it must overflow, or it would suffocate us.

For the last two hours Paris had been dark and nearly deserted. Eleven o’clock was striking from all the clocks of the Faubourg St. Germain; the time was mild, and d’Artagnan was passing down a small street situated on the ground where the Rue d’Assas now stands, where the air was redolent of odours which were borne on the wind along the Rue de Vaugiraud, from gardens that the evening dews and the gentle gales refreshed. Afar off, though deadened by substantial shutters, was heard the revelry of the wine shops which were scattered over the flat quarters. Having reached the end of this street, d’Artagnan turned to the left. The house where Aramis lived was situated between the Rue Cassette and the Rue Servandoni.

D’Artagnan had already passed by the Rue Cassette, and could just perceive the door of his friend’s house, embosomed amidst sycamores and clematis, when he saw something like a shadow which came out of the Rue Servandoni. This something was enveloped in a cloak, and d’Artagnan at first thought that it was a man; but from the smallness of its size, the irresolution of its manner, and its impeded step, he soon became convinced that it must be a woman. And, moreover, this woman, as though she was uncertain of the house she sought for, lifted up her eyes to examine, stopped, turned back, and then retraced her steps. D’Artagnan was at a loss.

“Suppose I should go and proffer my services!” thought he. “By her manner it is evident that she is young, and perhaps she is pretty. Oh, yes! But then a woman who runs about the streets at this hour, seldom goes out except to meet her lover. Plague! if I should interrupt an appointment, it would be but a bad kind of introduction.”

The young woman, however, still came forward, counting the windows and the houses. This was not indeed a long or difficult operation. There were but three hotels in that part of the street, and but two windows looking upon the thoroughfare; of which one was that of a pavilion, parallel to the pavilion of Aramis, and the other that of Aramis himself.

“By Jove!” said d’Artagnan to himself, as he suddenly remembered the theologian’s niece—“by Jove! it would be droll if this wandering dove is looking for my friend’s house. But, upon my soul, it seems very like it. Ah, my dear Aramis! I will be satisfied about it once and for all.”

Making himself as small as possible, d’Artagnan concealed himself in the most obscure part of the street, near a stone bench placed at the back of a niche.

The young woman continued to advance; for, besides the lightness of her step which had betrayed her, a slight, small cough had also denoted a gentle voice. D’Artagnan concluded that this cough was a signal.

Nevertheless, whether this cough had been answered by some corresponding signal which had ended the uncertainties of her nocturnal search, or whether, without any such external aid, she perceived herself to have found her journey’s end, the lady advanced resolutely, and knocked three times, at equal intervals, and with a bent finger, on the shutter of Aramis’s window.

“It is really at Aramis’s house,” muttered d’Artagnan.

“Ah, Mr. Hypocrite I catch you studying theology!”

Scarcely had the three taps been given, before the inner casement opened, and a light appeared.

“Ah, ah!” said the listener, “not at the door, but the window! Ah! ah! the visit was expected. Come, the shutter will be opened presently, and the lady will get in by escalade. Good!”

But, to his great astonishment, the shutter continued closed; and, what was more, the light, which had flashed for an instant, disappeared, and all became dark again.

D’Artagnan thought that this could not last, and continued to watch with all his eyes and ears. He was right; in a few seconds, two knocks were heard from the inside; and when the young woman of the street answered by one knock, the shutter opened.

It may be judged if d’Artagnan did not look and listen eagerly.

Unfortunately, the light had been removed into some other room; but the eyes of the young man were accustomed to the darkness. Besides, it is said that the eyes of Gascons, like those of cats, have the faculty of seeing in the night.

D’Artagnan was able, therefore, to see the young woman take from her pocket something white, which she unfolded quickly, and which took the form of a pocket handkerchief, and she then drew the attention of the person she addressed to the corner of the object she unfolded.

This reminded d’Artagnan of the handkerchief he had found at the feet of Madame Bonancieux, which, also, had recalled to his recollection the one that he had drawn from under the foot of Aramis.

What the deuce, then, could this handkerchief mean?

Situated as he was, d’Artagnan could not see the countenance of Aramis—we say Aramis, because the young man had no doubt that it was his friend who was conversing from the inside with the lady on the outside. His curiosity, therefore, overcame his prudence; and, profiting by the earnest attention which the sight of the handkerchief excited in the two persons whom we have described, he left his place of concealment, and, quickly as lightning, yet with cautious step, placed himself near a corner of the wall, from which his eye could completely overlook the inside of Aramis’s apartment.

On reaching this spot, he was scarcely able to restrain an exclamation of surprise. It was not Aramis who was conferring with the midnight visitor, but a woman. D’Artagnan could just discern enough to recognise the general aspect of her vesture, but not to distinguish her features. At that moment the woman in the room drew a handkerchief from her own pocket, and exchanged it for the one which had been shown to her. A few words were then pronounced by the two women, the shutter was closed, and the woman in the street returned, and, lowering the hood of her cloak passed within four paces of d’Artagnan. But her precaution had been taken too late; he had already recognised Madame Bonancieux.

Madame Bonancieux! The suspicion had already crossed his mind when he saw her take the handkerchief from her pocket; but what probability was there that Madame Bonancieux, who had sent for M. de la Porte, in order that he might conduct her to the Louvre, should be coursing through the streets of Paris at half-past eleven at night, at the hazard of being carried off a second time? It must unquestionably be on some important affair; and what affair is of importance to a woman of twenty-five but love?

But was it on her own account, or that of some other person, that she exposed herself to this risk? This was the inward doubt of the young man, whom the demon of jealousy was now tormenting, as though he had been an acknowledged lover. To satisfy himself as to where Madame Bonancieux was going, there was, in fact, one very simple way, which was to follow her. So simple, indeed, did this course appear, that d’Artagnan adopted it naturally, and as it were by instinct.

But, at the sight of the young man who moved from the wall, like a statue escaping from its alcove, and at the sound of his steps behind her, Madame Bonancieux uttered a faint scream, and fled.

D’Artagnan ran after her. It was no great difficulty for him to catch a woman encumbered by a large cloak. He overtook her, in fact, before she had gone a third of the length of the street. The poor woman was exhausted, not by fatigue, but terror; and when d’Artagnan put his hand upon her shoulder, she sunk upon one knee, exclaiming in a suffocated voice—

“I will die before you learn anything.”

D’Artagnan raised her up, by placing his arm round her waist, but, perceiving by her weight that she was upon the point of fainting, he hastened to encourage her by protestations of devotion. These protestations were of no avail against Madame Bonancieux, for they may easily be made with the most mischievous intentions in the world; but the voice was everything. The young woman thought that she recognised that voice. She opened her eyes, threw one glance upon the man who had so frightened her, and, seeing that it was d’Artagnan, gave utterance to a cry of joy.

“Oh! it is you, it is you,” said she. “God be thanked!”

“Yes, it is I,” said d’Artagnan, “whom God has sent to guard you.”

“And was it with this intent that you followed me,” asked the young woman, with a smile full of coquetry; for all her fears had vanished, and her love of badinage had resumed its ascendancy, on the instant that she recognised a friend in him whom she had dreaded as a foe.

“No,” replied d’Artagnan. “No, I confess that it is chance which put me on your track. I saw a woman knocking at the window of one of my friends.”

“Of one of your friends!” interrupted Madame Bonancieux.

“Yes, certainly! Aramis is one of my intimates.”

“Aramis! who is he?”

“Come, now, do you pretend to tell me that you do not know Aramis?”

“It is the first time that I ever heard his name.”

“Then it is the first time that you have visited this house?”

“Yes, indeed!”

“And you did not know that a young man occupied it?”

“No.”

“A musketeer?”

“By no means.”

“Then it was not him that you came to look for?”

“Most assuredly not! Besides, you must have plainly seen that the person whom I talked to was a woman.”

“That is true; but then this woman is one of Aramis’s friends!”

“I know nothing about that.”

“Why, she lodges at his house.”

“That is not my affair.”

“But who is she?”

“Oh! that is not my secret.”

“My dear Madame Bonancieux, you are very charming, but you are at the same time the most mysterious creature.”

“Is that to my loss?”

“No; on the contrary, it lends you enchantment!”

“As that is the case, give me your arm.”

“With great pleasure; what now?”

“Now take care of me.”

“Where to?”

“Where I am going.”

“But where may that be?”

“You will see, since you will leave me at the door.”

“May I wait for you there?”

“That would be useless.”

“Then you will return alone?”

“Possibly.”

“But the person who will accompany you afterwards—will it be a man or a woman?”

“I do not know yet.”

“But I will find out.”

“And how so?”

“I will wait to see you come out.”

“In that case, adieu!”

“But, why?”

“I do not want you!”

“But you claimed my protection.”

“I claimed the assistance of a gentleman, and not the vigilance of a spy.”

“You are severe.”

“How would you call those who follow people who don’t want them?”

“Indiscreet!”

“The term is too mild!”

“Come, madame, I see that one must obey you.”

“Why deprive yourself of the merit of doing so at once?”

“Is there none in my repentance?”

“But do you sincerely repent?”

“I don’t know that myself. But I do know that I promise to do just what you wish, if you will let me accompany you where you are going.”

“And you will leave me afterwards?”

“Yes.”

“Without awaiting my exit?”

“Certainly.”

“On your word of honour?”

“On the word of a gentleman!”

“Then take my arm, and let us get on.”

D’Artagnan offered his arm, which Madame Bonancieux, half laughing and half trembling, accepted, and they reached the top of the Rue de la Harpe; but the young woman appeared to hesitate there, as she had hesitated before at the Rue Vaugirard. Nevertheless, by certain marks, she appeared to recognise a door, which she approached.

“Now, sir,” said she, “it is here that my business calls me. I return you a thousand thanks for your good company, which has saved me from all the dangers to which I should have been exposed alone; but the time is now come for you to keep your word. You must leave me here.”

“And will you be exposed to no danger in returning?”

“I shall only have to fear robbers.”

“Is that nothing?”

“What could they take from me? I have not a farthing in my possession!”

“You forget that beautiful embroidered handkerchief, with the arms on it.”

“Which?”

“That which I found at your feet, and replaced in your pocket.”

“Silence! Silence! you imprudent man! Would you ruin me?”

“You see now that there is still some danger, since one word makes you tremble, and you confess that if this word was heard you would be ruined. Come now, madame,” continued d’Artagnan, seizing her hand, “be more generous; put some confidence in me; have you not read in my eyes that my heart is full of sympathy and devotion?”

“Yes,” said Madame Bonancieux; “and do but ask me for my own secrets, and I will trust you with them all; but those of others are a different matter.”

“Very well!” replied d’Artagnan, “then I will find them out. Since these secrets have an influence on your life, it is necessary that they should become mine also.”

“Have a care!” exclaimed the young woman, in a tone of seriousness which made d’Artagnan shudder involuntarily. “Oh! do not interfere in anything that concerns me; do not seek to aid me in any of my undertakings;—avoid them, I beseech you, in the name of the interest that you feel for me, and in the name of that service which you rendered to me, and which I never shall forget whilst my life lasts! Let me advise you rather to think of me no more; let my existence be obliterated from your mind; let me be to you as though you had never chanced to see me.”

“Would you like Aramis to do the same, madame?” asked d’Artagnan, full of jealousy.

“This makes the second or third time that you have mentioned that name, sir, although I have already told you that I do not know the owner of it.”

“You do not know the man at whose window-shutters you went to knock? Come, madame, you must think me credulous indeed!”

“Confess that it is to keep me talking here, that you have invented this tale, and this person.”

“I invent nothing, madame—nothing. I am telling the exact truth!”

“And you say that one of your friends lives in that house?”

“I say it, and I repeat it for the third time—that house is inhabited by a friend of mine, and that friend is Aramis.”

“All this will be explained by and by,” murmured the young woman; “and now, sir, be silent.”

“If you could see into my heart,” said d’Artagnan, “you would discover so much curiosity, that you would have pity on me: and so much love, that you would directly satisfy my curiosity. You ought not to distrust those who love you!”

“You come quickly to love, sir,” said the young woman, shaking her head.

“It is because love has come quickly on me, and for the first time; and I am not yet twenty years of age.”

The young woman stole a glance at him.

“Listen,” continued d’Artagnan; “I am already on the track: three months ago I was near fighting a duel with Aramis on account of a handkerchief like that which you showed the lady who was at his house; it was on account of a handkerchief marked in the same manner, I am positive.”

“Sir,” said the young woman, “you really bore me, I declare, with these questions.”

“But you, madame, prudent as you are, suppose you were arrested with this handkerchief upon you, and the handkerchief was seized, would you not be compromised?”

“How so? Are not the initials my own—C. B.—Constance Bonancieux?”

“Or, Camille de Bois Tracy.”

“Silence, sir! Again I say, silence! Oh, since the dangers which I run do not deter you, think of those you may run yourself.”

“I?”

“Yes, you. There is the danger of imprisonment and death in knowing me.”

“Then I will never leave you!”

“Sir,” said the young woman, in a tone of supplication, clasping her hands as she spoke; “in the name of heaven, by the honour of a soldier, by the courtesy of a gentleman, I implore you to leave me. See! it is now striking twelve, the very hour at which I am expected.”

“Madame,” said the young man, bowing, “I can refuse nothing solicited in those terms. Be reassured; I leave you.”

“But you will not follow—will not watch me?”

“No, I shall return home immediately.”

“Ah! I was convinced that you were an honourable man!” exclaimed Madame Bonancieux, offering one of her hands to him, as she placed the other on the knocker of a small door, which was well-nigh concealed in a recess.

D’Artagnan seized the hand which was offered to him, and kissed it eagerly.

“Alas!” exclaimed d’Artagnan, with that unpolished simplicity which women sometimes prefer to the delicacies of politeness, because it illuminates the depths of thought, and proves that feeling is more powerful than reason, “I wish I had never seen you!”

“Well!” said Madame Bonancieux, in a tone almost affectionate, and pressing the hand which held hers, “well! I will not say the same as you do; that which is lost today may not be lost for ever. Who knows whether, when I am freed from my present embarrassments, I may not satisfy your curiosity?”

“And do you make the same promise regarding my love?” asked the overjoyed d’Artagnan.

“Oh! I dare give no promises in that respect. It must depend upon the sentiments with which you may inspire me.”

“But, at present, madame?”

“At present, sir, I have not got beyond gratitude.”

“Alas! you are too charming; and only take advantage of my love.”

“No, I take advantage of your generosity, that’s all. But, believe me, with some people, nothing can be wholly lost.”

“You make me the happiest of men. Oh! do not forget this evening, and this promise?”

“Be assured, I will remember everything at the right time and place. But now go; go, in heaven’s name! I was expected at midnight, and am behind my time.”

“By five minutes.”

“But, under certain circumstances, five minutes are five ages.”

“Yes! when one loves.”

“Well, who has told you that this is not a love-affair?”

“It is a man who expects you!” cried d’Artagnan; “a man!”

“There, now, the discussion is about to be renewed,” cried Madame Bonancieux, with a half smile, which was not altogether exempt from impatience.

“No! I am going. I trust you; I wish to have all the merit of my devotion, even if I am a fool for it! Adieu! madame, adieu.”

Then, as though he felt himself too weak to relinquish the fair hand he held but by a shock, he hastily ran off, whilst Madame Bonancieux rapped three times at the door, slowly and regularly, as she had before done at the window-shutter.

At the corner of the street he turned, but the door had been opened and closed again, and the mercer’s pretty wife had disappeared.

D’Artagnan proceeded on his way. He had promised Madame Bonancieux not to watch her; and, had his life depended on a knowledge of the place that she was going to, or the person who went with her, he would still have gone home, as he had promised to do. In five minutes he was in the Rue des Fossoyeurs.

“Poor Athos,” said he, “he will not understand this. He will have fallen asleep waiting for me, or he will have returned home, and will have learned that there has been a woman there. A woman at his house! After all,” continued d’Artagnan, “there certainly was one at Aramis’s. All this is very strange, and I shall be extremely curious to know how it will end.”

“Badly, sir, badly,” replied a voice, which the young man recognised as that of Planchet, for in soliloquising aloud, in the manner of persons who are deeply occupied, he had entered the passage, at the bottom of which was his own staircase.

“How, badly! what are you saying, you fool?” said d’Artagnan, “and what has happened?”

“All sorts of misfortunes.”

“What misfortunes?”

“In the first place, M. Athos is arrested.”

“Arrested! Athos arrested! and what for?”

“He was found in your lodgings, and they mistook him for you.”

“And by whom has he been arrested?”

“By the guard which was brought by the men in black whom you put to flight.”

“Why did he not give his name? Why not say that he was not concerned in this affair?”

“He was very careful not to do that, sir. On the contrary, he came near me and said—‘Thy master wants his liberty just now, and I do not need mine; since he knows all, and I know nothing. They will believe him to be in custody, and that will give him time; in three days I will declare who I am, and they will be obliged to let me go.’”

“Brave Athos! noble heart!” muttered d’Artagnan. “I recognise him well in that! And what did the officers do?”

“Four of them took him either to the Bastile or to Fort l’Eveque; and two remained with the men in black, rummaging everywhere, and carrying away all your papers. The other two mounted guard at the door whilst all this was doing; and at last they went away, leaving the house empty and the door open.”

“And Porthos and Aramis?”

“I could not find them; they have not been.”

“But they may come at any moment, for you left word that I was waiting for them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, then, do not stir from here. If they should come, tell them what has happened, and that they must wait for me at the Pineapple Tavern. There might be some danger here; the house may be watched. I will run to M. de Treville’s, to tell him all this, and then will rejoin them there.”

“Very well, sir,” said Planchet.

“But you will remain? you will not be afraid,” said d’Artagnan, turning back a step to encourage his lackey.

“Be easy, sir,” said Planchet; “you do not know me yet. I am brave when I please to set about it; the great thing is to get me in the right mind. Besides, I come from Picardy.”

“Then it is all settled,” said d’Artagnan; “you will rather die than desert your post.”

“Yes, sir; and I will stick at nothing to prove my attachment to you.”

“Good,” said d’Artagnan to himself; “it is plain that the method I have followed with this lad is decidedly a proper one. I will adopt it henceforth on every occasion.”

And as fast as his legs, which were already somewhat fatigued, could carry him, he ran towards the Rue de Colombier.

M. de Treville was not at home. His company was on guard at the Louvre; and he was at the Louvre with it.

It was necessary, however, to see M. de Treville. It was important that he should be informed of these events. D’Artagnan determined, therefore, to obtain an entrance at the Louvre. His uniform, as one of M. de Essarts’s guards, ought to be a passport for admission.

He therefore went down the Rue des Petits-Augustins, and along the Quai to reach the Pont-Neuf. He had half a mind to cross the ferry; but on reaching the side of the river he mechanically put his hand into his pocket, and found that he had not enough to pay the ferryman.

When he reached the top of the Rue Guénégaud, he saw two persons, whose appearance struck him, coming out of the Rue Dauphine. They were a man and a woman. The woman resembled in figure Madame Bonancieux; and the man had such a look of Aramis that he might be mistaken for him. Besides, the woman had on the black mantle which d’Artagnan still seemed to see delineated on the shutter in the Rue Vaugirard, and on the door in the Rue de la Harpe. Moreover, the man wore the uniform of the musketeers.

The hood of the woman was lowered, and the man held his handkerchief before his face. This double precaution showed that they were both anxious to escape recognition.

They went over the bridge, and this was also d’Artagnan’s road, as he was going to the Louvre; he therefore followed them.

Scarcely, however, had he taken twenty steps, before he was convinced that the woman was Madame Bonancieux, and the man Aramis.

At the very instant he felt fermenting in his heart all the suspicious torments of jealousy.

He was doubly betrayed; betrayed both by his friend, and by her whom he had already loved as a mistress.

Madame Bonancieux had sworn to him that she did not know Aramis; and a quarter of an hour after she had made this oath he found her hanging on his arm.

D’Artagnan did not reflect that he had only known the mercer’s pretty wife during the last three hours; that she only owed him a little gratitude for having delivered her from the men in black, who wished to carry her away; and that she had made him no promise. He looked upon himself as an outraged lover; as deceived, and laughed at; and the flush of anger passed over his face, as he resolved to ascertain the truth.

The young couple perceived that they were followed, and they increased their haste. D’Artagnan, however, had made his determination; he passed by them, and then returned towards them just as they were opposite the Samaritan, which was lighted by a lamp that threw its radiance over all that part of the bridge.

D’Artagnan stopped in front of them, and they stopped also.

“What do you want, sir?” asked the musketeer, recoiling a step, and in a foreign accent, which proved to d’Artagnan that he had at least deceived himself in one of his conjectures.

“It is not Aramis!” exclaimed d’Artagnan.

“No, sir, it is not Aramis; and as I find by your exclamation that you mistook me for another, I excuse you.”

“Excuse me indeed!” said d’Artagnan.

“Yes,” replied the unknown; “now let me pass on, since it is not with me that you have anything to do.”

“You are right, sir,” said d’Artagnan; “it is not with you that I have anything to settle, it is with the lady.”

“With the lady! You do not even know her,” exclaimed the stranger.

“You are mistaken, sir. I do know her.”

“Ah!” said Madame Bonancieux, in a reproachful tone; “I had your word of honour as a soldier, your promise as a gentleman, and I hoped I might have trusted to them.”

“And I,” said d’Artagnan, in confusion, “I had your promise.”

“Take my arm, madame,” said the stranger, “and let us proceed.”

But d’Artagnan—stunned, overwhelmed, annihilated by all that had happened—remained standing, with his arms crossed, before the musketeer and Madame Bonancieux.

The former came forward two paces, and put d’Artagnan aside with his hand.

D’Artagnan made one bound backwards, and drew his sword.

At the same moment, and with the quickness of lightning, the stranger drew his.

“In God’s name, my lord!” said Madame Bonancieux, throwing herself between the combatants, and seizing their swords with both her hands—

“My lord!” cried d’Artagnan, enlightened by a sudden idea; “My lord! pardon me, sir, but can you be———”

“My Lord Duke of Buckingham!” said Madame Bonancieux, in a very low voice, “and now you may destroy us all.”

“My lord—madame—pardon me; a thousand pardons; but, my lord, I loved her, and was jealous. You know, my lord, what it is to love! Pardon me, and tell me how I may die in your grace’s cause.”

“You are a brave youth,” said Buckingham, offering him a hand, which d’Artagnan pressed respectfully.

“You offer me your services, and I accept them. Follow us, at the distance of twenty paces, to the Louvre, and if any one dogs our steps, kill him!”

D’Artagnan put his naked sword under his arm, let the duke and Madame Bonancieux go forward about twenty steps, and then followed them, ready to execute to the letter the instructions of the elegant and noble minister of Charles I.

But, unfortunately, the young volunteer had no opportunity of affording this proof of his devotion to the duke; and the young woman and the handsome musketeer entered the Louvre, by the wicket in the Rue de l’Echelle, without encountering any interruption.

As for d’Artagnan, he went immediately to the Pineapple, where he found Porthos and Aramis waiting for him.

But without giving them any further reason for the trouble he had caused them, he told them that he had concluded by himself the business for which he at first thought he should have wanted their assistance.

And now, carried on as we have been by our history, let us leave our three friends to return each to his own home, whilst we follow, amidst the tortuous corridors of the Louvre, the Duke of Buckingham and his guide.

12 George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham

MADAME BONANCIEUX AND the duke entered the Louvre without any difficulty; Madame Bonancieux was known to be of the household of the queen; and the duke wore the uniform of the musketeers of M. de Treville, who, as we have said, were on guard that evening. Besides, Germain was devoted to the queen, and, if anything happened, Madame Bonancieux would be accused of having introduced her lover into the Louvre—that was all! She took the blame upon herself; her reputation would be lost, it is true; but of what value in the world was the reputation of a mercer’s little wife?

When they were once inside the court, the duke and the young woman kept close to the wall for about twenty paces; at the end of which Madame Bonancieux tried a small private door, which was usually open during the day, but closed at night. The door opened, and they both entered, and found themselves in total darkness; but Madame Bonancieux was well acquainted with all the turnings and twistings of this part of the Louvre, which was appropriated to the persons of the royal suite. She shut all the doors behind her, took the duke by the hand and going some steps on tip-toe, seized hold of a banister, put a foot upon the staircase, and began to ascend it. The duke had already counted two flights, when she turned to the left, went through a long corridor, descended another stage, walked a few steps forward, introduced a key into a lock, opened a door, and pushed her companion into a room lighted only by a night-lamp, saying to him—“Remain here, my lord duke; some one will come immediately.” Then she went out by the same door, locking it after her, so that the duke found himself literally a prisoner.

Yet though thus deserted, as it were, the duke, it must be confessed, did not feel the slightest fear. One of the prominent features of his character was the love of adventure and romance. Brave, determined, and enterprising, it was not the first time he had risked his life in such adventures. He had learned that this pretended message of Anne of Austria, on the faith of which he had come to Paris, was a snare; and, instead of returning to England, he had taken advantage of his position, and assured the queen that he would not depart without seeing her. The queen had at first positively refused an interview; but, fearing lest the duke might be guilty of some folly in his rage, she had resolved to see him, and to entreat him to return directly; when, on the very evening on which Madame Bonancieux was charged to conduct him to the Louvre, that lady was herself carried off. During two days it was not known what had become of her, and everything continued in suspense. But Madame Bonancieux once free, and in communication with la Porte, affairs had resumed their course; and she had now accomplished the perilous enterprise, which, but for her abduction, she would have executed three days before. Buckingham being left alone, approached a looking-glass. The dress of a musketeer became him wondrously. At thirty-five years old, he was justly considered as the handsomest man, and the most complete gentleman, of France or England. The favourite of two kings, rich as Crœsus, all-powerful in a realm which he disturbed and tranquillised as he pleased, George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, had engaged in one of those fabulous existences which remain, throughout the course of ages, an astonishment to posterity. Confident in himself, convinced of his power, and satisfied that the laws which restrain other people could not reach him, he went straight to the object he had fixed upon, even when that object was so elevated, and so dazzling, that it would have been madness in another to have even glanced towards it. It was thus that he had managed to approach the beautiful and haughty Anne of Austria many times, and to make her love him for his brilliant qualities.

Placing himself before the glass, the duke arrayed his beautiful fair hair, of which the pressure of his hat had disarranged the curls, and put his moustache in order; and then, his heart swelling with joy; happy and elated at having reached the moment he had so long desired, he smiled to himself proudly and hopefully.

At that moment a door concealed in the tapestry opened, and a woman appeared. Buckingham saw the reflection in the glass; he uttered a cry; it was the queen!

Anne of Austria was at that time twenty-six or twenty-seven years of age; that is, she was in all the glory of her beauty. Her deportment was that of a queen, or a goddess. Her eyes, which shone like emeralds, were perfectly beautiful, but at the same time full of gentleness and majesty. Her mouth was small and rosy; and though her under lip, like that of the princes of the house of Austria, protruded slightly beyond the other, her smile was eminently gracious, but at the same time could be profoundly haughty in its scorn. Her skin was celebrated for its velvet softness, and her hand and arm were of such surpassing beauty as to be immortalised, as incomparable, by all the poets of the time. Admirably, too, did her hair, which in her youth had been fair, but had now become chestnut, and which she wore plainly dressed, and with a great deal of powder, shade a face, on which the most rigid critic could have desired only a little less rouge, and the most fastidious sculptor only a little more delicacy in the formation of the nose.

Buckingham remained an instant perfectly dazzled. Anne of Austria never had appeared to him so beautiful even in the midst of balls, and festivals, and entertainments, as she now appeared, in her simple robe of white satin, and accompanied by Donna Estefana, the only one of her Spanish ladies who had not been driven from her by the jealousy of the king and the persecutions of the cardinal.

Anne of Austria advanced two steps; the duke threw himself at her feet, and before the queen could prevent him, had kissed the hem of her robe.

“My lord, you already know that it was not I who sent for you from England?”

“Oh! yes! madame; yes, your majesty!” exclaimed Buckingham. “I know that I have been a fool, a madman, to believe that the snow could have been animated, that the marble could grow warm; but what would you expect? The lover easily believes in love; nor has my journey been entirely in vain, since I behold you now.”

“Yes,” replied Anne, “but you know why, and how, I see you, my lord. I see you because, insensible to all my distress, you persist in remaining in a city where, by remaining, you risk your own life, and my honour; I see you, to tell you that everything separates us—the depths of the sea, the enmity of nations, the sanctity of vows! It is sacrilege to struggle against such things, my lord! And, lastly, I see you to tell you, that I must never see you more.”

“Speak, madame—speak, queen,” said Buckingham; “the softness of your voice repays the sternness of your words. You speak of sacrilege; but the sacrilege is in the separation of hearts, which God had formed for one another!”

“My lord,” cried the queen, “you forget that I have never said I loved you.”

“But neither have you ever said that you did not love me; and indeed, to say so, would be a proof of the greatest ingratitude on the part of your majesty. For tell me, where would you find a love like mine—a love, which neither time, nor absence, nor despair can extinguish, and which is recompensed by a riband, by a glance, a word? It is now three years, madame, since I saw you for the first time, and for three years have I adored you thus. Will you allow me to describe to you your dress on that occasion, and to tell the detail of the ornaments you wore? Mark me! I seem to see you now, seated, in the Spanish manner, upon cushions, wearing a dress of green satin, embroidered in silver and in gold, with pendant sleeves, fastened around your beautiful arms by large diamonds: you wore, also, a close ruff; and a small hat, of the same colour as your dress and adorned with a heron’s plume, upon your head. Oh! thus, thus, with closed eyes do I behold you as you then were; and I open my eyes again, only to see you now, a hundred times more lovely still!”

“What folly,” murmured Anne of Austria, who dared not be offended with the duke for preserving her portrait so faithfully in his heart: “what folly to nourish so useless a passion on such memories as these!”

“Alas! what would your majesty exact? I have nothing but memories; they are my happiness, my treasure, and my hope. Each meeting with you is a new jewel that I enshrine within the casket of my heart. This is the fourth of them that you have let fall, and that I have eagerly secured. Yes, in three years, madame, I have seen you only four times: the first I have already recalled to you; the second was at Madame de Chevreuse’s; the third was in the gardens of Amiens.”

“My Lord!” exclaimed the queen, blushing, “do not refer to that evening!”

“Oh! rather let me dwell upon it, madame, for it is the one radiant, blissful night of my existence! Does your majesty remember how lovely a night it was? The air was laden with odoriferous sweetness, and the blue sky was studded with innumerable stars. Ah! madame, I was alone with you for an instant then, and you were about to make me the confidant of your griefs—of the isolation of your life, and the deep sorrows of your heart. You were leaning on my arm—on this one, madam—and, when I bent my head towards you, I felt my face gently touched by your beautiful hair; and every time that I so felt it, I trembled through every vein. Oh! queen! queen! you know not the heavenly bliss, the joys of paradise, comprised in such a moment. Goods, fortune, glory, life, gladly would I give them all for another interview like that on such a night; for, madame, I will swear that then, at least on that night, you loved me!”

“My lord, it is possible that the influence of the place, the charm of that enchanting evening, the fascination of your looks, and the thousand circumstances which sometimes concur in leading a woman onwards to her fall, may have grouped themselves around me on that fatal night; but you are not ignorant, my lord, that the queen gave succour to the weakness of the woman; and that at the first word that you presumed to say, at the first liberty that you dared to take, I summoned others to my presence there!”

“Alas! it is but too true, and any feebler love than mine would never have survived the test: but my love, madame, came out from it more ardent, and immortalised. You thought to escape from me by returning to Paris;—you believed that I should never dare to quit the treasure which my master had commanded me to guard;—but what cared I for all the treasures and all the kings upon the earth! In one week, madame, I was on my return. On that occasion, madame, you had nothing to complain of; I had risked favour, and life, to see you for a single second; I did not even touch your hand; and you forgave me when you found I was submissive and repentant.”

“Yes, my lord, but you are well aware that calumny fastened even upon those follies in which I had so small a share. Prompted by the cardinal, the king felt extreme resentment. Madame de Vernet was dismissed; Putange was banished; and Madame de Chevreuse was disgraced. And do you not remember, my lord, that when you wished to return as an ambassador to France, it was his majesty himself by whom you were opposed.”

“Yes! and France is about to pay with a war for that opposition. I cannot see you again, madame; well! I will take care that you shall continually hear of me. What do you suppose to have been the true aim of that expedition to Rhe, and that league which I am projecting with the Protestants? The delight of seeing you! I am well enough aware that I have no chance of reaching Paris at the head of an army; but then, this war must bring about a peace; peace will require negotiations; and those negotiations shall be made by none but me. They will no longer dare to reject me then; and I shall return to Paris, and behold you once again, and be, for an instant, happy. It is but too true that my enjoyment will have been bought by the blood of thousands of human beings; but what will their lives be to me, provided that my eyes are blessed once more by seeing you! This may be folly, madame—perhaps madness; but tell me, pray, had ever woman a more impassioned lover, had ever a queen a more enthusiastic servant?”

“My lord! my lord! the witnesses you call for your defence accuse you. These very proofs, that you would give me of your love, are themselves almost crimes!”

“But only because you do not love me, madame. Oh! if you loved me, how different would these circumstances seem, but the joy would be too great, and I should go mad. You spoke but now, madame, of Madame de Chevreuse; but, oh! how much less cruel was that lady than you are! Holland loved her, and she responded to his love.”

“Madame de Chevreuse was not a queen!” murmured Anne of Austria; subdued, in spite of herself, by the expression of a passion so profound.

“And would you then love me if you were not? Oh! tell me, madame! say, that you would love me? let me believe that it is but the dignity of your rank that has come between you and me! let me believe that if you had been but Madame de Chevreuse, there might have been hope for the unhappy Buckingham! Oh! charming queen! thanks for these sweet words—a thousand, thousand thanks!”

“Alas! my lord! you have misunderstood me; I did not mean to let you infer———”

“Hush! hush!” exclaimed the duke. “Be not so cruel as to correct an error that is so full of happiness to me! You have yourself told me that I have been drawn into a snare; and I perhaps shall leave my life in it, for, strangely enough, for some time I have had presentiments of an approaching death.”—And the duke smiled, with a sad, yet winning smile.

“Oh, God!” exclaimed the queen, in a tone of terror, which manifested, more fully than she might have wished, her interest in the duke.

“But I did not tell you this to alarm you, madame. No, it is even ridiculous to speak of it; and, believe me, I do not give importance to such silly dreams. But the words which you have just uttered, the hope which you almost gave me, would be a recompense for everything, even for my life!”

“Oh! but I,” said Anne of Austria—“I also have had my presentiments. I dreamed that I saw you stretched upon the earth, all bloody from a wound.”

“On the left side, and inflicted by a knife, was it not?” said the duke.

“Yes, my lord! it was in the left side, and by a knife. But who could have told you of my dream? I have never spoken of it but in my prayers to God.”

“I ask for no more. You love me, madame! yes, you love me!”

“I love you?”

“Yes, you! Would God send to you the same dreams as to me, if you did not love me? Should we be visited by the same presentiments, if our two existences did not meet in our hearts? Yes, queen, you love me, and you weep for me!”

“Oh, my God! my God!” exclaimed the queen, “this is more than I can bear. In the name of heaven, my lord, withdraw! I know not whether I love you or not; but this I know, that I will never break my vow at the altar. Have pity on me then, and leave this kingdom. Oh! if you should be wounded in France—if you should die in France—if I could imagine that your love for me had been the cause of your death, I should never be consoled. The thought would madden me! Depart then, depart, I beseech you.”

“Oh! how beautiful you are now! How devotedly I love you!” exclaimed Buckingham.

“Depart, I implore you, and return hereafter,” continued the queen. “Come back as an ambassador, as a minister; come back, surrounded by your guards who will defend you, and your servants who will watch over you, and then I shall have no fear for your life, and shall have some happiness in seeing you!”

“Oh! but is it really true what you now tell me?”

“Yes.”

“Give me, then, some pledge of your regard—some object which has once been yours—to satisfy me that I have not been indulging in a dream; something that you have once worn, and that I may wear now—a ring, a necklace, or a chain!”

“And will you go if I give you what you ask?”

“Yes!”

“Immediately?”

“Yes!”

“You will quit France, and will return to England?”

“Yes, I swear I will.”

“Wait, then; wait, sir.”

And Anne of Austria returned to her chamber, and came back almost in an instant, holding in her hand a small casket of rosewood, with her monogram encrusted in gold.

“Here my lord, here! keep this as a memorial of me!”

Buckingham took the casket, and again sank upon his knee.

“You promised me to go,” said the queen.

“And I will keep my word! Your hand, madame, and I leave you!”

Closing her eyes, and leaning on Donna Estefana—for she felt her strength was failing her—Anne of Austria extended her hand.

On that beautiful hand Buckingham pressed his lips passionately, and then arose.

“Before six months have passed,” said he, “if I be not dead, I will see you again, if I must turn the world upside down to accomplish it.”

And true to his promise, he rushed out of the room.

In the corridor he found Madame Bonancieux awaiting him; and, with the same precaution, and the same good fortune, she led him forth out of the Louvre.

13 Monsieur Bonancieux

THERE WAS IN all this affair, as might be remarked, a person of whom, in spite of his precarious situation, we have appeared to take very little notice. This person was M. Bonancieux, a respectable martyr to the political and amorous intrigues which so thoroughly entangled themselves together in that chivalrous and gallant age. Fortunately, as our readers may or may not remember, we have promised not to lose sight of him.

The officers who had arrested him, conducted him at once to the Bastile, where he had to pass, all trembling as he was, before a company of soldiers, who were charging their muskets.

Taken from there into a partly subterraneous gallery, he had to endure the most brutal insults and ill-treatment. The attendants saw that he was not a nobleman, and they treated him therefore like a beggar.

In about half an hour, a registrar came to put an end to his tortures, but not to his anxiety, by ordering that the should be conducted to the question chamber. They generally questioned prisoners in their own cells, but they did not observe so much ceremony with M. Bonancieux.

Two guards laid hold of the mercer, and made him cross a court, and then, entering a corridor where there were three sentinels, they opened a door and pushed him into a low room, which only contained a table, a chair, and a commissary. The commissary was seated on the chair, and was engaged in writing at the table.

The two guards led the prisoner to the table, and at a signal from the commissary, went out of earshot. The commissary, who had till then kept his head bent down over his papers, raised it up to see who he had before him. This commissary was a man with a very crabbed look; a sharp nose; cheeks yellow and puffed out; small, but piercing eyes; and with a countenance reminding one, at the same time, of a polecat and a fox. His head, supported by a long and flexible neck, was thrust out of his full black robe, and balanced itself with a motion very much like that of a turtle putting its head out of its shell.

He began by asking M. Bonancieux his Christian name and surname, his age, profession, and place of abode.

The accused replied that his name was Jacques Bonancieux, that his age was 51 years, that he was a retired mercer, and lived in the Rue des Fossoyeurs, No. 11.

Instead of continuing his questions, the commissary then made him a long speech on the danger of an obscure citizen interfering in public affairs. With this exordium he combined an exposition of the power and actions of the cardinal—that incomparable minister, the conqueror of all preceding ministers, and the example for all future ministers—whom no one could oppose or thwart with impunity.

After this second part of his discourse, he fixed his hawk’s eye on poor Bonancieux, and exhorted him to reflect upon the seriousness of his situation.

This the mercer had already done: he wished M. de la Porte at the devil for having put it into his head to marry his god-daughter, and cursed the hour when that god-daughter had been received into the queen’s service.

The foundation of M. Bonancieux’s character was profound selfishness, mingled with sordid avarice, the whole being seasoned with excessive cowardice. The love which he entertained towards his young wife was quite a secondary sentiment, and could not stand against those primary feelings which we have just enumerated.

Bonancieux, in fact, reflected on what had been said to him.

“But, Mr. Commissary,” he timidly observed, “believe me, that I know well and appreciate the incomparable merit of his eminence, by whom we have the honour of being governed.”

“Really!” said the commissary; with a doubtful look; “but if this be true, how came you to be in the Bastile?”

“How I am there, or rather, why I am there,” replied Bonancieux, “is what it is utterly impossible for me to tell you, seeing that I do not know myself; but most certainly it is not for having offended the cardinal, consciously at least.”

“It is certain, nevertheless, that you must have committed some crime, as you are here accused of high treason.”

“Of high treason!” cried Bonancieux, confounded; “of high treason! And how can you believe that a poor mercer, who hates the Huguenots, and abhors the Spaniards, can be accused of high treason? Reflect, sir—the thing is a moral impossibility.”

“M. Bonancieux,” said the commissary, regarding the accused with his little eyes, as though he had the power of looking into the very depths of his heart, “M. Bonancieux, you have a wife.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the trembling mercer, perceiving that it was on her account that he was now about to be inculpated; “that is to say, I had one.”

“What? you had one! And what have you done with her, that you have her no longer?”

“Some one has carried her off, sir!”

“Some one has taken her from you?” said the commissary. “Ah!”

Bonancieux perceived by this “ah!” that matters were getting worse and worse.

“Some one has taken her from you,” resumed the commissary. “And do you know who has been guilty of this abduction?”

“I think I know.”

“Who is it?”

“Remember that I affirm nothing, Mr. Commissary—I only suspect.”

“Whom do you suspect? Come, don’t hesitate to speak.”

M. Bonancieux was in the greatest perplexity. Ought he to deny everything, or to confess? From a total denial, it might be inferred that he knew too much to admit; and, by a general confession, he might give evidence of his good faith.

He determined, therefore, to have no concealments.

“I suspect,” said he, “a tall, dark man, of lofty air, who has all the appearance of a man of rank. He followed us, I think, many times, when I went to fetch my wife from the gate of the Louvre.”

The commissary appeared somewhat disturbed.

“And his name?” said he.

“Oh! as to his name, I do not know it; but if I should meet him, I could recognise him amongst a thousand persons.”

The brow of the commissary grew dark.

“You could recognise him amongst a thousand, you say?” continued he.

“That is to say,” replied Bonancieux, who saw that he had made a false step, “that is to say———”

“You have said that you could recognise him,” said the commissary; “very well, that is enough for today; it is necessary, before we proceed any further, that some one should be informed that you know the person who has carried off your wife.”

“But I did not tell you that I knew him!” cried M. Bonancieux, in despair. “I told you, on the contrary———”

“Take away the prisoner!” exclaimed the commissary to the two guards.

“Where to?” asked the registrar.

“To a dungeon.”

“To which?”

“Oh! to the first that offers, provided it be secure,” answered the commissary, with an indifference which filled the breast of poor Bonancieux with horror and dismay.

“Alas! alas!” said he, “I am undone. My wife must have committed some frightful crime; and I am supposed to be an accomplice, and shall be punished with her. She must have said something—have confessed that I was her confidant. A woman is such a weak creature! A dungeon! The first that offers! that’s it. A night is soon passed; and then, tomorrow, to the wheel, to the gibbet! Oh! my God, my God, have pity on me!”

Without in the least attending to the lamentations of Master Bonancieux, that were of a kind to which they were tolerably well accustomed, the two guards took him by the arms, and led him away, while the commissary hastily wrote a letter, for which his officer waited.

Bonancieux did not close an eye; not because his dungeon was very uncomfortable, but because his anxiety was very great. He sat upon his stool the whole night, trembling at every noise; and when the first rays of light penetrated his chamber, Aurora herself appeared to him to be dressed in funereal array.

Suddenly he heard the bolts withdrawn, and gave a terrible start. He believed that they were coming to conduct him to the scaffold; and, therefore, when he saw that it was only the commissary and his attendant, he was almost ready to embrace them.

“Your affair has become sadly complicated since last evening, my fine fellow,” said the commissary. “I advise you to tell the whole truth, for your repentance alone can mitigate the anger of the cardinal.”

“But I am ready to tell everything,” said Bonancieux; “everything, at least, that I know; question me, I beseech you!”

“In the first place, where is your wife?”

“I have just told you that some one has carried her off.”

“Yes, but since five o’clock yesterday evening, thanks to you, she has escaped.”

“My wife escaped!” cried Bonancieux; “oh! the wretch! Sir, if she has escaped, I assure you it is not my fault!”

“What were you doing, then, in the apartment of your neighbour, M. d’Artagnan, with whom you had a long conference in the course of the day?”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Commissary, yes, that is true; and I confess I was wrong in that; yes, I was in M. d’Artagnan’s apartments.”

“And why?”

“To entreat him to assist me in finding my wife. I thought I had a right to reclaim her. I was mistaken, it appears, and I humbly beg your pardon.”

“And what answer did M. d’Artagnan give?”

“M. d’Artagnan promised me his assistance; but I soon perceived that he betrayed me.”

“You would mislead justice! M. d’Artagnan made an agreement with you; and in virtue of that agreement, he put to flight the officers who had arrested your wife, and has now secreted her from all our researches.”

“M. d’Artagnan has hidden away my wife? Alas! what do you tell me?”

“Fortunately, M d’Artagnan is in our power, and you shall be confronted with him.”

“Ah, faith! I desire nothing better,” cried M. Bonancieux. “I shall not be sorry to see the face of an acquaintance.”

“Bring in M. d’Artagnan,” said the commissary to the two guards.

The guards brought in Athos.

“M. d’Artagnan,” said the commissary, addressing Athos, “declare what passed between you and that other gentleman.”

“But,” cried M. Bonancieux, “that is not M. d’Artagnan that you show me there.”

“What! not M. d’Artagnan?” cried the commissary.

“By no means,” answered Bonancieux.

“What is the gentleman’s name?” demanded the commissary.

“I cannot tell you; I don’t know him!” replied Bonancieux.

“What! you do not know him?”

“No.”

“You have never set eyes on him?”

“Yes; but I do not know his name.”

“Your name?” demanded the commissary of Athos.

“Athos!” answered the musketeer.

“But that is not the name of a man; it is the name of a mountain!” cried the unfortunate commissary, who began to get confused.

“It is my name,” calmly replied Athos.

“But you said your name was d’Artagnan.”

“I said so?”

“Yes, you!”

“The fact is, that they said to me—you are M. d’Artagnan. I replied—do you think so? My guards said they were sure of it. I did not wish to contradict them; besides, I might be mistaken.”

“Sir! you mock the majesty of justice.”

“Not at all,” calmly replied Athos.

“You are M. d’Artagnan?”

“You see that you still tell me so.”

“But,” cried M. Bonancieux, “I tell you, Mr. Commissary, that there is not the smallest doubt. M. d’Artagnan is my lodger, and, consequently, as he does not pay his rent, I know him only too well. M. d’Artagnan is a young man of nineteen or twenty years of age, at most, and this gentleman is at least thirty. M. d’Artagnan is in the guards of M. des Essarts, and this gentleman is in the company of M. de Treville’s musketeers: observe the uniform.”

“By heavens! it is true!” muttered the commissary. “It is true, by God!”

At this instant the door was quickly opened, and one of the turnkeys of the Bastile introduced a messenger, who gave the commissary a letter.

“Oh! the wretch!” exclaimed the commissary.

“What? of whom do you speak? It is not of my wife, I hope.”

“On the contrary, it is of her. Your affairs are in a nice state.”

“Do me the pleasure,” said the exasperated mercer, “to tell me, sir, how my affairs can be made worse by what my wife does whilst I am in prison?”

“Because what she does is the consequence of an infernal plan arranged between you!”

“I swear to you, Mr. Commissary, that you are in the most profound error; that I know nothing in the world of my wife’s actions; that I am completely ignorant of what she has done; and that, if she has committed follies, I renounce her, I give her the lie, and I curse her.”

“And now,” said Athos, “if you have no further business with me, dismiss me. Your M. Bonancieux is very tiresome.”

“Take the prisoners back to their dungeons,” said the commissary, pointing to Athos and Bonancieux, “and guard them more strictly than ever.”

“Nevertheless,” said Athos, with his usual tranquillity, “your business is with M. d’Artagnan; I do not well see how I can supply his place!”

“Do what I have ordered,” cried the commissary; “and the most solitary confinement—do you hear?”

The two followed the guards, Athos shrugging his shoulders, and M. Bonancieux uttering lamentations which might have softened the heart of a tiger.

They took the mercer into the same dungeon where he had passed the night, and left him there throughout the whole day. Hour after hour did poor Bonancieux weep like a very mercer; he was not at all a man of warlike soul, as he himself told us.

About nine o’clock in the evening, just as he had made up his mind to go to bed, he heard steps in his corridor. These steps approached his dungeon, the door opened, and the guards appeared.

“Follow me,” said a sergeant who commanded the guards.

“Follow you!” cried Bonancieux, “follow you at this time of night! And where? my God!”

“Where we have orders to conduct you.”

“But that is no answer.”

“It is, nevertheless, the only answer you will get.”

“O Lord! O Lord!” muttered the poor mercer, “now I am lost!”

He followed, mechanically, and without resistance.

He went down the same corridor as before, crossed a first court, then a second floor; and then, at the entrance gate, he found a carriage surrounded by four horse guards. They made him enter this carriage; the sergeant placed himself at his side; the door was locked, and they both found themselves in a moving prison.

The carriage proceeded slowly, like a funeral coach. Through the padlocked bars the prisoner could only see the horses and the pavement. But, like a true Parisian as he was, Bonancieux recognised each street by its corners, its lamps, and its signs. At the moment they reached St. Paul, where the criminals of the Bastile were executed, he nearly fainted, and crossed himself twice. He thought the carriage would have stopped there; but it went on, nevertheless. Farther on, he was seized with great fear: it was in skirting the cemetery of St. Jean, where the state criminals were buried. One thing alone encouraged him, which was, that before burying them, one generally cut off their heads; and his head was yet upon his shoulders. But when the carriage took the road to La Grève, and he perceived the painted roof of the Hotel de Ville, and saw that the carriage went under its colonnade, he thought it was all over with him, and wished to confess himself to the sergeant; and, on the refusal of the latter, uttered such piteous cries, that the sergeant declared that if he continued to deafen him so, he would put a gag on him. This threat reassured him a little: if they meant to execute him at the Grève, it was scarcely worth while to gag him, as they had nearly reached the place of execution. In fact, the carriage crossed this fatal place without stopping. There was only the Croix du Trahoir, then, to fear; and the carriage took the exact road to it.

This time there was no further room for doubt. It was at the Croix du Trahoir that inferior criminals were executed. Bonancieux had flattered himself, by considering that he was worthy of St. Paul, or the place de Grève. It was at the Croix du Trahoir that his journey and his destiny would end. He could not yet see this unhappy cross, but he felt it, as it were, loom before him. When he was only about twenty paces from it, he heard a noise, and the carriage stopped. This was more than poor Bonancieux could bear: already crushed by the successive emotions he had experienced, he uttered a feeble cry, or rather groan, which might have been taken for the last sigh of a dying man, and fainted.

14 The Man of Meung

THE MOB THAT stopped the way was produced, not by the expectation of seeing a man hanged, but by the contemplation of man who was already hanging. After a moment’s hindrance, the carriage proceeded on its way, passed through the crowd, went along the Rue St. Honore, and turning at the Rue des Bons Enfants, stopped at a low doorway.

When the door opened, two guards, assisted by the sergeant, received Bonancieux in their arms, and pushed him into a court; they then made him ascend a staircase, and placed him in an antechamber. All these operations were performed nearly mechanically, as far as he was concerned. He had walked as in a dream, he had seen things as through a mist; he had heard without understanding; and they might have executed him then without his making the slightest resistance, or uttering an appeal for mercy.

He remained passive on the bench, with his back resting against the wall, and his arms hanging down, on the very spot where his guards had placed him.

And yet, as, in looking around him, he saw nothing threatening, as no real danger was indicated, as the bench was comfortably stuffed, as the wall was covered with beautiful cordovan leather, and as long curtains of red damask, held by gilt brackets, hung before the windows, he became by degrees aware that his fears were exaggerated, and began to move his head from right to left, and vertically. At this motion, which no one opposed, he resumed a little courage, ventured to draw up one leg, and then the other; and, at last, supporting himself upon his hands, he raised himself on the bench, and found himself on his feet.

At this moment an officer of pleasant appearance opened a door, exchanged a few words with some person in the next room, and then, turning towards the prisoner, said—

“Is it you who are called Bonancieux?”

“Yes, sir,” stammered the mercer, more dead than alive, “at your service.”

“Enter!”

The officer bade the mercer precede him; and the latter, obeying without reply, entered a room where he appeared to be expected.

It was a large cabinet, the walls of which were furnished with offensive and defensive weapons—a close and suffocating room, in which there was already a fire, although it was scarcely yet the end of September. A square table, loaded with books and papers, and on which there was unrolled an immense plan of the town of Rochelle, occupied the middle of the apartment. In front of the chimney-piece there stood a man of middle height, with a proud and haughty air, piercing eyes, a large forehead, and an emaciated countenance, which was yet further elongated by an imperial, surmounted by a pair of moustaches.

Although this man was scarcely thirty-six or thirty-seven years old, both imperial and moustaches were beginning to grow gray. His appearance, except that he wore no sword, was military; and his buff leather boots, which were yet slightly covered with dust, pointed out that he had been on horseback during the day.

This individual was Armand-Jean Duplessis, Cardinal de Richelieu; not as he is represented—broken down like an old man, suffering like a martyr, his body shattered, his voice extinguished, buried in an enormous easy-chair, no longer living but by the power of his genius, and no longer supporting the struggle against Europe but by the eternal energy of his extraordinary mind—but such as he really was at this period; that is, a skilful and gallant cavalier, already feeble in body, but upheld by that moral force which made him one of the most unparalleled of mankind, and now preparing, after sustaining the Duc de Nevers in his duchy of Mantua, and taking Nismes, Castres, and Elzes, to drive the English from the Isle of Rhé, and to undertake the siege of La Rochelle.

At first sight, nothing denoted that it was the cardinal, and it was impossible for those who were unacquainted with his appearance to guess in whose presence they were.

The poor mercer remained standing at the door, whilst the eyes of the person we have been describing fixed themselves upon him as if they would penetrate his most secret thoughts.

“Is that this Bonancieux?” he demanded, after a moment’s pause.

“Yes, my lord!” replied the officer.

“Very well; give me those papers, and leave us.”

The officer took the papers indicated, gave them to him who asked for them, bowed to the very ground, and left the room.

In these papers Bonancieux recognised his examinations at the Bastile. From time to time the man by the chimney-piece lifted his eyes from the papers, and plunged them, like two poniards, into the very heart of the poor mercer.

At the end of ten minutes’ reading, and ten seconds’ scrutiny of Bonancieux, he had made up his mind.

“That head has never conspired,” murmured the cardinal; “but never mind, let us see.” Then he said slowly, “You are accused of high treason.”

“That is what they have already told me, my lord!” said Bonancieux, giving his interrogator the same title that he had heard the officer give him; “but I give you my oath, that I knew nothing about it.”

The cardinal suppressed a smile.

“You have conspired with your wife, with Madame de Chevreuse, and with my Lord Duke of Buckingham.”

“I admit, my lord,” replied the mercer, “I have heard all those names mentioned by her.”

“And on what occasion?”

“She said that the Cardinal de Richelieu had enticed the Duke of Buckingham to Paris, to destroy him and the queen.”

“She said that, did she?” cried the cardinal, with great violence.

“Yes, my lord; but I told her that she was wrong in saying such a thing, and that his eminence was incapable———”

“Hold your tongue—you are a fool!” replied the cardinal.

“That is exactly what my wife said to me, my lord.”

“Do you know who carried off your wife?”

“No, my lord.”

“But you had some suspicions?”

“Yes, my lord; but as these suspicions appeared to displease the commissary, I have them no longer.”

“Your wife has escaped: did you know that?”

“Not at the time, my lord; I learned it, since I have been in prison, from the commissary, who is a most amiable man.”

The cardinal suppressed another smile.

“Then you do not know what has become of your wife since her escape?”

“Not positively, my lord; but she has probably returned to the Louvre.”

“At one o’clock this morning she had not yet returned there.”

“Ah! good God! but what can have become of her?”

“Have no fear—it will soon be known; nothing escapes the cardinal; the cardinal knows everything.”

“In that case, my lord, do you believe that the cardinal will tell me what has become of my wife?”

“Perhaps so; but it is necessary, first, that you should tell me all you know in relation to the connection of your wife with Madame de Chevreuse.”

“But, my lord, I know nothing about it; I never saw her.”

“When you went to fetch your wife from the Louvre, did she return directly to your house?”

“Scarcely ever. She had business to transact with the queen’s drapers, to whom I convoyed her.”

“And how many linen-drapers were there?”

“Two, my lord.”

“Where do they live?”

“One in the Rue Vaugirard, and the other in the Rue de la Harpe.”

“Did you accompany your wife into these houses?”

“Never, my lord. I always waited for her at the door.”

“And what excuse did she make for entering alone?”

“None: she told me to wait, and I waited.”

“You are a most accommodating husband, my dear M. Bonancieux,” said the cardinal.

“He has called me ‘my dear monsieur,’” said the mercer to himself. “‘Pon my faith, things are taking a good turn.”

“Should you know those doors again?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know the numbers?”

“Yes.”

“What are they?”

“No. 25 in the Rue Vaugirard, and No. 75 in the Rue de la Harpe.”

“Good!” said the cardinal; and, taking a silver bell, he rang it.

“Go,” said he in a low voice, to the officer who entered—“go and find Rochefort, and tell him to come here directly, if he is within.”

“The count is already here,” said the officer, “and requests an immediate audience of your eminence.”

“Your eminence!” muttered Bonancieux, who knew that such was the title ordinarily given to the cardinal; “your eminence!”

“Let him come in, then, let him come in!” said Richelieu eagerly.

The officer hurried out of the room with that rapidity with which the cardinal was generally obeyed by his followers.

“Your eminence!” again muttered Bonancieux, rolling his eyes in astonishment.

Two seconds had scarcely elapsed after the officer left the room before the door opened again, and another person entered.

“It is he!” exclaimed Bonancieux.

“Who is he?” demanded the cardinal.

“He who ran away with my wife.”

The cardinal rang a second time, and the officer reappeared.

“Put this man into the hands of the two guards, and let him wait till I send for him.”

“No, my lord, no, it is not he!” exclaimed Bonancieux; “no, I was mistaken; it is another person, not at all like him. The gentleman is an honest man.”

“Take away that simpleton!” said the cardinal.

The officer took him by the arm, and led him to the antechamber, where he was met by the two guards.

The person who had last entered impatiently followed Bonancieux with his eyes till he was gone, and, when the door was closed behind him—

“They have met,” he said, eagerly approaching the cardinal.

“Who?” demanded the cardinal.

“Those two.”

“The queen and the duke!” cried the cardinal.

“Yes.”

“And where?”

“At the Louvre!”

“Are you sure?”

“Perfectly sure!”

“Who told you of it?”

“Madame de Lannoy, who is entirely devoted to your eminence, as you well know!”

“Why did she not tell you sooner?”

“Either by chance, or by mistrust, the queen made Madame de Surgis sleep in her room, and kept it throughout the day.”

“Very well; we have been beaten; let us try to have our revenge.”

“Be assured that I will assist your eminence with all my soul.”

“How did this happen?”

“At half-past twelve the queen was with her women.”

“Where?”

“In her bed-chamber, where a pocket-handkerchief was brought her from her seamstress.”

“Well?”

“The queen immediately showed great emotion; and grew pale, under her rouge.”

“Well! what then?”

“Nevertheless, she arose; and, in an agitated voice said, ‘ladies, wait ten minutes for me; I will return.’ Then, opening the door of her alcove, she went out.”

“Why did not Madame de Lannoy come and tell you directly?”

“There was no certainty about the matter; besides, the queen had said, ‘ladies, wait for me.’ And Madame de Lannoy dared not disobey her majesty.”

“And how long did the queen remain absent from her room?”

“Three-quarters of an hour.”

“Did none of her women accompany her?”

“Only Donna Estefana.”

“And she returned?”

“Yes, but only to take a small rosewood casket, bearing her initials, with which she went out again directly.”

“And when she came back, finally, did she bring the casket with her?”

“No!”

“Does Madame de Lannoy know what the casket contained?”

“Yes! the diamond studs which his majesty presented to the queen.”

“And she came back without the casket?”

“Yes.”

“Then the opinion of Madame de Lannoy is, that she gave this casket to Buckingham?”

“She is sure of it.”

“How so?”

“During the day, Madame de Lannoy, in her office of tirewoman to the queen, looked for this casket, appeared uneasy at not finding it, and ended by inquiring for it of the queen.”

“And then the queen———”

“The queen blushed deeply, and answered that, having the evening before broken one of the studs, she had sent it to her jeweller’s to be repaired.”

“You must go there, and ascertain whether that is true, or not.”

“I have been.”

“Well, and the goldsmith———?”

“The goldsmith has heard nothing about it.”

“Good! good! Rochefort, all is not lost, and perhaps—perhaps all is for the best!”

“The fact is, that I have no doubt but what the genius of your eminence———”

“May repair the errors of my agent! Is that what you mean?”

“It was just what I was about to say, if your eminence had permitted me to finish the sentence.”

“Now, do you know where the Duchesse de Chevreuse and the Duke of Buckingham concealed themselves?”

“No, my lord; my agents have no positive information upon that point.”

“I know it myself, though.”

“You! my lord?”

“Yes, or at least I have no doubt of it. They lived, the one in the Rue Vaugirard, at No. 25, and the other in the Rue de la Harpe, No. 75.”

“Would your eminence wish me to arrest them both?”

“It is too late; they will be gone.”

“Never mind; there is no harm in trying!”

“Take ten of my guards, and ransack the two houses.”

“It shall be done, my lord!”

So saying, Rochefort rushed from the room.

When the cardinal was left alone, he remained a moment in thought, and then rang a third time.

The officer who had come before appeared again.

“Bring in the prisoner,” said the cardinal.

“Master Bonancieux was again brought in, and, at a sign from the cardinal, the officer withdrew.

“You have deceived me,” said the cardinal, with great severity.

“I!” cried Bonancieux; “I deceive your eminence!”

“When your wife went to the Rue Vaugirard, and the Rue de la Harpe, she did not go to linen-drapers.”

“Good God! To whom did she go, then?”

“She went to see the Duchesse de Chevreuse, and the Duke of Buckingham.”

“Yes!” said Bonancieux, with a flash of recollection; “yes, exactly so; your eminence is right. I often told my wife that it was astonishing that linen-drapers should live in such houses; in houses which had no signs; and every time I said so, my wife began to laugh. Ah! my lord!” he continued, throwing himself at the feet of his eminence, “it is plain that you are the cardinal, the great cardinal—the man of genius, whom all the world reveres!”

The cardinal, small as was the triumph to be achieved over a being so vulgar as was Bonancieux, did not the less enjoy it for a moment. Then, as if a new idea struck him, he smiled, and, stretching out his hand to the mercer—

“Rise, my friend,” said he, “you are a worthy fellow.”

“The cardinal has taken my hand! I have touched the hand of the great man!” exclaimed Bonancieux; “the great man has called me his friend!”

“Yes, my friend, yes,” said the cardinal, in that paternal tone which he was sometimes able to assume, but which only deceived those who did not know him; “and as you have been unjustly suspected, we must make you some amends. Here, take this bag of a hundred pistoles, and forgive me.”

“I forgive you, my lord!” said Bonancieux, hesitating to take the bag, from a fear that this supposed gift was only a jest. “But you were quite at liberty to have me arrested; you are quite at liberty to send me to the torture; you are quite at liberty to hang me; you are the master, and I should not have the smallest word to say against it. Forgive you, my lord! But you cannot mean that!”

“Ah! my dear M. Bonancieux, you are very generous; I see it, and I thank you. But you must take this bag, and then you will go away not very discontented—will you?”

“I go away perfectly enchanted, my lord!”

“Adieu, then; or, rather, au revoir hair; for I hope that we shall see each other again.”

“As often as my lord may please; I am at your eminence’s command.”

“It shall be often, depend upon it; for I have found your conversation quite charming.”

“Oh! my lord!”

“Farewell, till our next meeting, M. Bonancieux—till our next meeting.”

Bonancieux, at a sign from the cardinal’s hand, bowed to the very ground, and then backed himself out of the room. When he was in the anteroom, the cardinal heard him, in his enthusiasm, crying out, at the top of his voice:

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