My son, this horse was born in the house of your father about thirteen years ago, and has remained in it ever since, which ought to make you love it. Never sell it; allow it to die tranquilly and honorably of old age, and if you make a campaign with it, take as much care of it as you would of an old servant. At court, provided you have ever the honor to go there, —an honor to which, remember, your ancient nobility gives you the right—sustain worthily your name of gentleman, which has been worthily borne by your ancestors for five hundred years, both for your own sake and the sake of those who belong to you. By the latter I mean your relatives and friends. Endure nothing from anyone except Monsieur the Cardinal and the king. It is by his courage, please observe, by his courage alone, that a gentleman can make his way nowadays. Whoever hesitates for a second perhaps allows the bait to escape which during that exact second fortune held out to him. You are young. You ought to be brave for two reasons: the first is that you are a Gascon, and the second is that you are my son. Never fear quarrels, but seek adventures. I have taught you how to handle a sword; you have thews of iron, a wrist of steel. Fight on all occasions. Fight the more for duels being forbidden, since consequently there is twice as much courage in fighting. I have nothing to give you, my son, but fifteen crowns, my horse, and the counsels you have just heard. Your mother will add to them a recipe for a certain balsam, which she had from a Bohemian and which has the miraculous virtue of curing all wounds that do not reach the heart. Take advantage of all, and live happily and long. I have but one word to add, and that is to propose an example to you—not mine, for I myself have never appeared at court, and have only taken part in religious wars as a volunteer; I speak of Monsieur de Tréville, who was formerly my neighbor, and who had the honor to be, as a child, the play-fellow of our king, Louis XIII., whom God preserve! Sometimes their play degenerated into battles, and in these battles the king was not always the stronger. The blows which he received increased greatly his esteem and friendship for Monsieur de Tréville. Afterward, Monsieur de Tréville fought with others: in his first journey to Paris, five times; from the death of the late king till the young one came of age, without reckoning wars and sieges, seven times; and from that date up to the present day, a hundred times, perhaps! So that in spite of edicts, ordinances, and decrees, there he is, captain of the Musketeers; that is to say, chief of a legion of Cæsars, whom the king holds in great esteem and whom the cardinal dreads—he who dreads nothing, as it is said. Still further, Monsieur de Tréville gains ten thousand crowns a year; he is therefore a great noble. He began as you begin. Go to him with this letter, and make him your model in order that you may do as he has done.”


I say, sir, you sir, who are hiding yourself behind that shutter—yes, you, sir, tell me what you are laughing at, and we will laugh together!


I was not speaking to you, sir.


But I am speaking to you!


This horse is decidedly, or rather has been in his youth, a buttercup. It is a color very well known in botany, but till the present time very rare among horses.


There are people who laugh at the horse that would not dare to laugh at the master,


I do not often laugh, sir, as you may perceive by the expression of my countenance; but nevertheless I retain the privilege of laughing when I please.


And I, will allow no man to laugh when it displeases me!


Indeed, sir,


well, that is perfectly right!


Turn, turn, Master Joker, lest I strike you behind!


Strike me!


Why, my good fellow, you must be mad!


This is annoying,


What a godsend this would be for his Majesty, who is seeking everywhere for brave fellows to recruit for his Musketeers!


A plague upon these Gascons! Replace him on his orange horse, and let him begone!


Not before I have killed you, poltroon!


Another gasconade!


By my honor, these Gascons are incorrigible! Keep up the dance, then, since he will have it so. When he is tired, he will perhaps tell us that he has had enough of it.


Well, how is it with this madman?


Your Excellency is safe and sound?


Oh, yes! Perfectly safe and sound, my good host; and I wish to know what has become of our young man.


He is better,


he fainted quite away.


Indeed!


But before he fainted, he collected all his strength to challenge you, and to defy you while challenging you.


Why, this fellow must be the devil in person!


Oh, no, your Excellency, he is not the devil,


for during his fainting we rummaged his valise and found nothing but a clean shirt and eleven crowns—which however, did not prevent his saying, as he was fainting, that if such a thing had happened in Paris, you should have cause to repent of it at a later period.


Then,


he must be some prince in disguise.


I have told you this, good sir,


in order that you may be on your guard.


Did he name no one in his passion?


Yes; he struck his pocket and said, ‘We shall see what Monsieur de Tréville will think of this insult offered to his protégé.’


Monsieur de Tréville?


he put his hand upon his pocket while pronouncing the name of Monsieur de Tréville? Now, my dear host, while your young man was insensible, you did not fail, I am quite sure, to ascertain what that pocket contained. What was there in it?


A letter addressed to Monsieur de Tréville, captain of the Musketeers.


Exactly as I have the honor to tell your Excellency.


The devil!


Can Tréville have set this Gascon upon me? He is very young; but a sword thrust is a sword thrust, whatever be the age of him who gives it, and a youth is less to be suspected than an older man,


Host,


could you not contrive to get rid of this frantic boy for me? In conscience, I cannot kill him; and yet,


he annoys me. Where is he?


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


His things and his bag are with him? Has he taken off his doublet?


On the contrary, everything is in the kitchen. But if he annoys you, this young fool—


To be sure he does. He causes a disturbance in your hostelry, which respectable people cannot put up with. Go; make out my bill and notify my servant.


What, monsieur, will you leave us so soon?


You know that very well, as I gave my order to saddle my horse. Have they not obeyed me?


It is done; as your Excellency may have observed, your horse is in the great gateway, ready saddled for your departure.


That is well; do as I have directed you, then.


What the devil!


Can he be afraid of this boy?


It is not necessary for Milady* to be seen by this fellow,


She will soon pass; she is already late. I had better get on horseback, and go and meet her. I should like, however, to know what this letter addressed to Tréville contains.


This insolent boy chastises others,


and I hope that this time he whom he ought to chastise will not escape him as before.


Will not escape him?


No; before a woman you would dare not fly, I presume?


Remember,


the least delay may ruin everything.


You are right,


begone then, on your part, and I will depart as quickly on mine.


Pay him, booby!


Base coward! false gentleman!


He is a coward, indeed,


Yes, a base coward,


but she—she was very beautiful.


What she?


Milady,


Ah, it’s all one,


I have lost two customers, but this one remains, of whom I am pretty certain for some days to come. There will be eleven crowns gained.


My letter of recommendation! my letter of recommendation! or, the holy blood, I will spit you all like ortolans!


But, after all,


where is this letter?


Yes, where is this letter? In the first place, I warn you that that letter is for Monsieur de Tréville, and it must be found, or if it is not found, he will know how to find it.


Does the letter contain anything valuable?


Zounds! I think it does indeed! It contained my fortune!


Bills upon Spain?


Bills upon his Majesty’s private treasury,


The devil!


it’s of no importance. The money is nothing; that letter was everything. I would rather have lost a thousand pistoles than have lost it.


That letter is not lost!


What!


No, it has been stolen from you.


Stolen? By whom?


By the gentleman who was here yesterday. He came down into the kitchen, where your doublet was. He remained there some time alone. I would lay a wager he has stolen it.


Do you think so? Do you say, that you suspect that impertinent gentleman?


I tell you I am sure of it. When I informed him that your lordship was the protégé of Monsieur de Tréville, and that you even had a letter for that illustrious gentleman, he appeared to be very much disturbed, and asked me where that letter was, and immediately came down into the kitchen, where he knew your doublet was.


Then that’s my thief. I will complain to Monsieur de Tréville, and Monsieur de Tréville will complain to the king.


Certes, these fellows will all either be imprisoned or hanged, and I, no doubt, with them; for from the moment I have either listened to or heard them, I shall be held as an accomplice. What would my good father say, who so strongly pointed out to me the respect due to the cardinal, if he knew I was in the society of such pagans?


What would you have? This fashion is coming in. It is a folly, I admit, but still it is the fashion. Besides, one must lay out one’s inheritance somehow.


Ah, Porthos! don’t try to make us believe you obtained that baldric by paternal generosity. It was given to you by that veiled lady I met you with the other Sunday, near the gate St. Honoré.


No, upon honor and by the faith of a gentleman, I bought it with the contents of my own purse,


Yes; about in the same manner, that I bought this new purse with what my mistress put into the old one.


It’s true, though, and the proof is that I paid twelve pistoles for it. Is it not true, Aramis?


What do you think of the story Chalais’s esquire relates?


And what does he say?


He relates that he met at Brussels Rochefort, the âme damnée of the cardinal disguised as a Capuchin, and that this cursed Rochefort, thanks to his disguise, had tricked Monsieur de Laigues, like a ninny as he is.


A ninny, indeed! but is the matter certain?


I had it from Aramis,


Indeed? Why, you knew it, Porthos. I told you of it yesterday. Let us say no more about it.


Say no more about it? That’s your opinion! Say no more about it! Peste! You come to your conclusions quickly. What! The cardinal sets a spy upon a gentleman, has his letters stolen from him by means of a traitor, a brigand, a rascal—has, with the help of this spy and thanks to this correspondence, Chalais’s throat cut, under the stupid pretext that he wanted to kill the king and marry Monsieur to the queen! Nobody knew a word of this enigma. You unraveled it yesterday to the great satisfaction of all; and while we are still gaping with wonder at the news, you come and tell us today, ‘Let us say no more about it.’


Well, then, let us talk about it, since you desire it,


This Rochefort, if I were the esquire of poor Chalais, should pass a minute or two very uncomfortably with me.


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


Oh, the Red Duke! Bravo! Bravo! The Red Duke! The Red Duke is capital. I’ll circulate that saying, be assured, my dear fellow. Who says this Aramis is not a wit? What a misfortune it is you did not follow your first vocation; what a delicious abbé you would have made!


Oh, it’s only a temporary postponement. I shall be one someday. You very well know, Porthos, that I continue to study theology for that purpose.


He will be one, as he says, he will be one, sooner or later.


Sooner,


He only waits for one thing to determine him to resume his cassock, which hangs behind his uniform,


What is he waiting for? Only till the queen has given an heir to the crown of France. No jesting upon that subject, gentlemen, thank God the queen is still of an age to give one!


They say that Monsieur de Buckingham is in France,


Aramis, my good friend, this time you are wrong. Your wit is always leading you beyond bounds; if Monsieur de Tréville heard you, you would repent of speaking thus.


Are you going to give me a lesson, Porthos?


My dear fellow, be a Musketeer or an abbé. Be one or the other, but not both. You know what Athos told you the other day; you eat at everybody’s mess. Ah, don’t be angry, I beg of you, that would be useless; you know what is agreed upon between you, Athos and me. You go to Madame d’Aguillon’s, and you pay your court to her; you go to Madame de Bois-Tracy’s, the cousin of Madame de Chevreuse, and you pass for being far advanced in the good graces of that lady. Oh, good Lord! Don’t trouble yourself to reveal your good luck; no one asks for your secret—all the world knows your discretion. But since you possess that virtue, why the devil don’t you make use of it with respect to her Majesty? Let whoever likes talk of the king and the cardinal, and how he likes; but the queen is sacred, and if anyone speaks of her, let it be respectfully.


Porthos, you are as vain as Narcissus; I plainly tell you so. You know I hate moralizing, except when it is done by Athos. As to you, good sir, you wear too magnificent a baldric to be strong on that head. I will be an abbé if it suits me. In the meanwhile I am a Musketeer; in that quality I say what I please, and at this moment it pleases me to say that you weary me.


Aramis!


Porthos!


Gentlemen! Gentlemen!


Monsieur de Tréville awaits Monsieur d’Artagnan,


Athos! Porthos! Aramis!


Do you know what the king said to me, and that no longer ago than yesterday evening—do you know, gentlemen?


No, no, sir, we do not.


But I hope that you will do us the honor to tell us,


He told me that he should henceforth recruit his Musketeers from among the Guards of Monsieur the Cardinal.


The Guards of the cardinal! And why so?


Because he plainly perceives that his piquette* stands in need of being enlivened by a mixture of good wine. Yes, yes, and his majesty was right; for, upon my honor, it is true that the Musketeers make but a miserable figure at court. The cardinal related yesterday while playing with the king, with an air of condolence very displeasing to me, that the day before yesterday those damned Musketeers, those daredevils—he dwelt upon those words with an ironical tone still more displeasing to me—those braggarts, added he, glancing at me with his tiger-cat’s eye, had made a riot in the Rue Férou in a cabaret, and that a party of his Guards (I thought he was going to laugh in my face) had been forced to arrest the rioters! Morbleu! You must know something about it. Arrest Musketeers! You were among them—you were! Don’t deny it; you were recognized, and the cardinal named you. But it’s all my fault; yes, it’s all my fault, because it is myself who selects my men. You, Aramis, why the devil did you ask me for a uniform when you would have been so much better in a cassock? And you, Porthos, do you only wear such a fine golden baldric to suspend a sword of straw from it? And Athos—I don’t see Athos. Where is he?


Ill—


Very ill, say you? And of what malady?


It is feared that it may be the smallpox, sir, and what is serious is that it will certainly spoil his face.


The smallpox! That’s a great story to tell me, Porthos! Sick of the smallpox at his age! No, no; but wounded without doubt, killed, perhaps. Ah, if I knew! S’blood! Messieurs Musketeers, I will not have this haunting of bad places, this quarreling in the streets, this swordplay at the crossways; and above all, I will not have occasion given for the cardinal’s Guards, who are brave, quiet, skillful men who never put themselves in a position to be arrested, and who, besides, never allow themselves to be arrested, to laugh at you! I am sure of it—they would prefer dying on the spot to being arrested or taking back a step. To save yourselves, to scamper away, to flee—that is good for the king’s Musketeers!


Well, my Captain, the truth is that we were six against six. But we were not captured by fair means; and before we had time to draw our swords, two of our party were dead, and Athos, grievously wounded, was very little better. For you know Athos. Well, Captain, he endeavored twice to get up, and fell again twice. And we did not surrender—no! They dragged us away by force. On the way we escaped. As for Athos, they believed him to be dead, and left him very quiet on the field of battle, not thinking it worth the trouble to carry him away. That’s the whole story. What the devil, Captain, one cannot win all one’s battles! The great Pompey lost that of Pharsalia; and Francis the First, who was, as I have heard say, as good as other folks, nevertheless lost the Battle of Pavia.


And I have the honor of assuring you that I killed one of them with his own sword, for mine was broken at the first parry. Killed him, or poniarded him, sir, as is most agreeable to you.


I did not know that. The cardinal exaggerated, as I perceive.


But pray, sir, do not say that Athos is wounded. He would be in despair if that should come to the ears of the king; and as the wound is very serious, seeing that after crossing the shoulder it penetrates into the chest, it is to be feared—


Athos!


You have sent for me, sir, you have sent for me, as my comrades inform me, and I have hastened to receive your orders. I am here; what do you want with me?


I was about to say to these gentlemen, that I forbid my Musketeers to expose their lives needlessly; for brave men are very dear to the king, and the king knows that his Musketeers are the bravest on the earth. Your hand, Athos!


A surgeon! mine! The king’s! The best! A surgeon! Or, s’blood, my brave Athos will die!


Pardon me, pardon me my dear compatriot, but I had wholly forgotten you. But what help is there for it! A captain is nothing but a father of a family, charged with even a greater responsibility than the father of an ordinary family. Soldiers are big children; but as I maintain that the orders of the king, and more particularly the orders of the cardinal, should be executed— I respected your father very much. What can I do for the son? Tell me quickly; my time is not my own.


Monsieur, on quitting Tarbes and coming hither, it was my intention to request of you, in remembrance of the friendship which you have not forgotten, the uniform of a Musketeer; but after all that I have seen during the last two hours, I comprehend that such a favor is enormous, and tremble lest I should not merit it.


It is indeed a favor, young man, but it may not be so far beyond your hopes as you believe, or rather as you appear to believe. But his majesty’s decision is always necessary; and I inform you with regret that no one becomes a Musketeer without the preliminary ordeal of several campaigns, certain brilliant actions, or a service of two years in some other regiment less favored than ours. on account of my old companion, your father, as I have said, I will do something for you, young man. Our recruits from Béarn are not generally very rich, and I have no reason to think matters have much changed in this respect since I left the province. I dare say you have not brought too large a stock of money with you? that’s very well, young man, that’s all very well. I know these airs; I myself came to Paris with four crowns in my purse, and would have fought with anyone who dared to tell me I was not in a condition to purchase the Louvre. I will write a letter today to the Director of the Royal Academy, and tomorrow he will admit you without any expense to yourself. Do not refuse this little service. Our best-born and richest gentlemen sometimes solicit it without being able to obtain it. You will learn horsemanship, swordsmanship in all its branches, and dancing. You will make some desirable acquaintances; and from time to time you can call upon me, just to tell me how you are getting on, and to say whether I can be of further service to you.


Alas, sir. I cannot but perceive how sadly I miss the letter of introduction which my father gave me to present to you.


I certainly am surprised, that you should undertake so long a journey without that necessary passport, the sole resource of us poor Béarnese.


I had one, sir, and, thank God, such as I could wish, but it was perfidiously stolen from me.


This is all very strange, you mentioned my name, then, aloud?


Yes, sir, I certainly committed that imprudence; but why should I have done otherwise? A name like yours must be as a buckler to me on my way. Judge if I should not put myself under its protection.


Tell me, had not this gentlemen a slight scar on his cheek? Was he not a fine-looking man? Of lofty stature. Of pale complexion and brown hair?


Yes, yes, that is he; how is it, sir, that you are acquainted with this man? If I ever find him again—and I will find him, I swear, were it in hell!


He was waiting for a woman,


He departed immediately after having conversed for a minute with her whom he awaited.


You know not the subject of their conversation?


He gave her a box, told her not to open it except in London.


Was this woman English?


He called her Milady.


It is he; it must be he! Beware, young man! If you see him coming on one side of the street, pass by on the other. Do not cast yourself against such a rock; he would break you like glass.


That will not prevent me, if ever I find him.


seek him not—if I have a right to advise you.


My friend. I wish, as the son of an ancient friend—for I consider this story of the lost letter perfectly true—I wish, I say, in order to repair the coldness you may have remarked in my reception of you, to discover to you the secrets of our policy. The king and the cardinal are the best of friends; their apparent bickerings are only feints to deceive fools. I am not willing that a compatriot, a handsome cavalier, a brave youth, quite fit to make his way, should become the dupe of all these artifices and fall into the snare after the example of so many others who have been ruined by it. Be assured that I am devoted to both these all-powerful masters, and that my earnest endeavors have no other aim than the service of the king, and also the cardinal—one of the most illustrious geniuses that France has ever produced. Now, young man, regulate your conduct accordingly; and if you entertain, whether from your family, your relations, or even from your instincts, any of these enmities which we see constantly breaking out against the cardinal, bid me adieu and let us separate. I will aid you in many ways, but without attaching you to my person. I hope that my frankness at least will make you my friend; for you are the only young man to whom I have hitherto spoken as I have done to you. If the cardinal has set this young fox upon me, he will certainly not have failed—he, who knows how bitterly I execrate him—to tell his spy that the best means of making his court to me is to rail at him. Therefore, in spite of all my protestations, if it be as I suspect, my cunning gossip will assure me that he holds his Eminence in horror.


I came to Paris with exactly such intentions. My father advised me to stoop to nobody but the king, the cardinal, and yourself—whom he considered the first three personages in France. I have the greatest veneration for the cardinal, and the most profound respect for his actions. So much the better for me, sir, if you speak to me, as you say, with frankness—for then you will do me the honor to esteem the resemblance of our opinions; but if you have entertained any doubt, as naturally you may, I feel that I am ruining myself by speaking the truth. But I still trust you will not esteem me the less for it, and that is my object beyond all others.


You are an honest youth; but at the present moment I can only do for you that which I just now offered. My hôtel will be always open to you. Hereafter, being able to ask for me at all hours, and consequently to take advantage of all opportunities, you will probably obtain that which you desire.


that you will wait until I have proved myself worthy of it. Well, be assured, you shall not wait long.


But wait a minute. I promised you a letter for the director of the Academy. Are you too proud to accept it, young gentleman?


No. No, sir, and I will guard it so carefully that I will be sworn it shall arrive at its address, and woe be to him who shall attempt to take it from me!


S’blood, he shall not escape me this time! And who?


He, my thief! Ah, the traitor!


Excuse me, but I am in a hurry. You are in a hurry? Under that pretense you run against me! You say, ‘Excuse me,’ and you believe that is sufficient? Not at all, my young man. Do you fancy because you have heard Monsieur de Tréville speak to us a little cavalierly today that other people are to treat us as he speaks to us? Undeceive yourself, comrade, you are not Monsieur de Tréville.


My faith! I did not do it intentionally, and not doing it intentionally, I said ‘Excuse me.’ It appears to me that this is quite enough. I repeat to you, however, and this time on my word of honor—I think perhaps too often—that I am in haste, great haste. Leave your hold, then, I beg of you, and let me go where my business calls me.


you are not polite; it is easy to perceive that you come from a distance.


Morbleu, monsieur! however far I may come, it is not you who can give me a lesson in good manners, I warn you.


Perhaps,


Ah! If I were not in such haste, and if I were not running after someone,


Monsieur Man-in-a-hurry, you can find me without running—me, you understand?


And where, I pray you?


Near the Carmes-Deschaux.


At what hour?


About noon.


About noon? That will do; I will be there.


Endeavor not to make me wait; for at quarter past twelve I will cut off your ears as you run.


Good! I will be there ten minutes before twelve.


that is to say,


Bless me! you must be mad to run against people in this manner.


Excuse me, but I am in such haste—I was running after someone and—


And do you always forget your eyes when you run?


and thanks to my eyes, I can see what other people cannot see.


Monsieur,


you stand a chance of getting chastised if you rub Musketeers in this fashion.


Chastised, Monsieur! the expression is strong.


It is one that becomes a man accustomed to look his enemies in the face.


Ah, pardieu! I know full well that you don’t turn your back to yours.


Presently, presently, when you haven’t your cloak on.


At one o’clock, then, behind the Luxembourg. Very well, at one o’clock, then,


What a madcap I was, and what a stupid fellow I am! That brave and unfortunate Athos was wounded on that very shoulder against which I must run head foremost, like a ram. The only thing that astonishes me is that he did not strike me dead at once. He had good cause to do so; the pain I gave him must have been atrocious. As to Porthos—oh, as to Porthos, faith, that’s a droll affair! As to Porthos, that is certainly droll; but I am not the less a giddy fool. Are people to be run against without warning? No! And have I any right to go and peep under their cloaks to see what is not there? He would have pardoned me, he would certainly have pardoned me, if I had not said anything to him about that cursed baldric—in ambiguous words, it is true, but rather drolly ambiguous. Ah, cursed Gascon that I am, I get from one hobble into another. Friend D’Artagnan, if you escape, of which there is not much chance, I would advise you to practice perfect politeness for the future. You must henceforth be admired and quoted as a model of it. To be obliging and polite does not necessarily make a man a coward. Look at Aramis, now; Aramis is mildness and grace personified. Well, did anybody ever dream of calling Aramis a coward? No, certainly not, and from this moment I will endeavor to model myself after him. Ah! That’s strange! Here he is!


I believe, monsieur, that this is a handkerchief you would be sorry to lose?


Ah, ah! will you persist in saying, most discreet Aramis, that you are not on good terms with Madame de Bois-Tracy, when that gracious lady has the kindness to lend you one of her handkerchiefs?


You are deceived, gentlemen, this handkerchief is not mine, and I cannot fancy why Monsieur has taken it into his head to offer it to me rather than to one of you; and as a proof of what I say, here is mine in my pocket.


If it were as you pretend it is. I should be forced, my dear Aramis, to reclaim it myself; for, as you very well know, Bois-Tracy is an intimate friend of mine, and I cannot allow the property of his wife to be sported as a trophy.


You make the demand badly, and while acknowledging the justice of your reclamation, I refuse it on account of the form.


The fact is. I did not see the handkerchief fall from the pocket of Monsieur Aramis. He had his foot upon it, that is all; and I thought from having his foot upon it the handkerchief was his.


And you were deceived, my dear sir. Besides. I have reflected, my dear intimate of Bois-Tracy, that I am not less tenderly his friend than you can possibly be; so that decidedly this handkerchief is as likely to have fallen from your pocket as mine.


No, upon my honor!


You are about to swear upon your honor and I upon my word, and then it will be pretty evident that one of us will have lied. Now, here, Montaran, we will do better than that—let each take a half.


Of the handkerchief?


Yes.


Perfectly just, the judgment of King Solomon! Aramis, you certainly are full of wisdom!


Now is my time to make peace with this gallant man. Monsieur, you will excuse me, I hope.


Ah, monsieur, permit me to observe to you that you have not acted in this affair as a gallant man ought.


What, monsieur! and do you suppose—


I suppose, monsieur, that you are not a fool, and that you knew very well, although coming from Gascony, that people do not tread upon handkerchiefs without a reason. What the devil! Paris is not paved with cambric!


Monsieur, you act wrongly in endeavoring to mortify me. I am from Gascony, it is true; and since you know it, there is no occasion to tell you that Gascons are not very patient, so that when they have begged to be excused once, were it even for a folly, they are convinced that they have done already at least as much again as they ought to have done.


Monsieur, what I say to you about the matter, is not for the sake of seeking a quarrel. Thank God, I am not a bravo! And being a Musketeer but for a time, I only fight when I am forced to do so, and always with great repugnance; but this time the affair is serious, for here is a lady compromised by you.


By us, you mean!


Why did you so maladroitly restore me the handkerchief?


Why did you so awkwardly let it fall?


I have said, monsieur, and I repeat, that the handkerchief did not fall from my pocket.


And thereby you have lied twice, monsieur, for I saw it fall.


Ah, you take it with that tone, do you, Master Gascon? Well, I will teach you how to behave yourself.


And I will send you back to your Mass book, Master Abbé. Draw, if you please, and instantly—


Not so, if you please, my good friend—not here, at least. Do you not perceive that we are opposite the Hôtel d’Arguillon, which is full of the cardinal’s creatures? How do I know that this is not his Eminence who has honored you with the commission to procure my head? Now, I entertain a ridiculous partiality for my head, it seems to suit my shoulders so correctly. I wish to kill you, be at rest as to that, but to kill you quietly in a snug, remote place, where you will not be able to boast of your death to anybody.


I agree, monsieur; but do not be too confident. Take your handkerchief; whether it belongs to you or another, you may perhaps stand in need of it.


Monsieur is a Gascon? Yes. Monsieur does not postpone an interview through prudence? Prudence, monsieur, is a virtue sufficiently useless to Musketeers, I know, but indispensable to churchmen; and as I am only a Musketeer provisionally, I hold it good to be prudent. At two o’clock I shall have the honor of expecting you at the hôtel of Monsieur de Tréville. There I will indicate to you the best place and time.


Monsieur. I have engaged two of my friends as seconds; but these two friends are not yet come, at which I am astonished, as it is not at all their custom.


I have no seconds on my part, monsieur, for having only arrived yesterday in Paris, I as yet know no one but Monsieur de Tréville, to whom I was recommended by my father, who has the honor to be, in some degree, one of his friends.


You know no one but Monsieur de Tréville?


Yes, monsieur, I know only him.


Well, but then, if I kill you, I shall have the air of a boy-slayer.


Not too much so, since you do me the honor to draw a sword with me while suffering from a wound which is very inconvenient.


Very inconvenient, upon my word; and you hurt me devilishly, I can tell you. But I will take the left hand—it is my custom in such circumstances. Do not fancy that I do you a favor; I use either hand easily. And it will be even a disadvantage to you; a left-handed man is very troublesome to people who are not prepared for it. I regret I did not inform you sooner of this circumstance.


You have truly, monsieur, a courtesy, for which, I assure you, I am very grateful.


let us talk of something else, if you please. Ah, s’blood, how you have hurt me! My shoulder quite burns.


If you would permit me—


What, monsieur?


I have a miraculous balsam for wounds—a balsam given to me by my mother and of which I have made a trial upon myself.


Well?


Well, I am sure that in less than three days this balsam would cure you; and at the end of three days, when you would be cured—well, sir, it would still do me a great honor to be your man.


Pardieu, monsieur! that’s a proposition that pleases me; not that I can accept it, but a league off it savors of the gentleman. Thus spoke and acted the gallant knights of the time of Charlemagne, in whom every cavalier ought to seek his model. Unfortunately, we do not live in the times of the great emperor, we live in the times of the cardinal; and three days hence, however well the secret might be guarded, it would be known, I say, that we were to fight, and our combat would be prevented. I think these fellows will never come.


If you are in haste, monsieur, and if it be your will to dispatch me at once, do not inconvenience yourself, I pray you.


There is another word which pleases me. That did not come from a man without a heart. Monsieur, I love men of your kidney; and I foresee plainly that if we don’t kill each other, I shall hereafter have much pleasure in your conversation. We will wait for these gentlemen, so please you; I have plenty of time, and it will be more correct. Ah, here is one of them, I believe.


What! is your first witness Monsieur Porthos?


Yes, that disturbs you?


By no means.


And here is the second.


What! your second witness is Monsieur Aramis?


Doubtless! Are you not aware that we are never seen one without the others, and that we are called among the Musketeers and the Guards, at court and in the city, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, or the Three Inseparables? And yet, as you come from Dax or Pau—


From Tarbes,


It is probable you are ignorant of this little fact,


My faith! you are well named, gentlemen; and my adventure, if it should make any noise, will prove at least that your union is not founded upon contrasts.


Ah, ah! what does this mean?


This is the gentleman I am going to fight with,


Why, it is with him I am also going to fight,


But not before one o’clock,


And I also am to fight with this gentleman,


But not until two o’clock,


But what are you going to fight about, Athos?


Faith! I don’t very well know. He hurt my shoulder. And you, Porthos?


Faith! I am going to fight—because I am going to fight,


We had a short discussion upon dress.


And you, Aramis?


Oh, ours is a theological quarrel,


Indeed?


Yes; a passage of St. Augustine, upon which we could not agree,


Decidedly, this is a clever fellow,


And now you are assembled, gentlemen, permit me to offer you my apologies. You do not understand me, gentlemen. I asked to be excused in case I should not be able to discharge my debt to all three; for Monsieur Athos has the right to kill me first, which must much diminish the face-value of your bill, Monsieur Porthos, and render yours almost null, Monsieur Aramis. And now, gentlemen, I repeat, excuse me, but on that account only, and—on guard!


It is very hot, and yet I cannot take off my doublet; for I just now felt my wound begin to bleed again, and I should not like to annoy Monsieur with the sight of blood which he has not drawn from me himself.


That is true, Monsieur, and whether drawn by myself or another, I assure you I shall always view with regret the blood of so brave a gentleman. I will therefore fight in my doublet, like yourself.


Come, come, enough of such compliments! Remember, we are waiting for our turns.


Speak for yourself when you are inclined to utter such incongruities. For my part, I think what they say is very well said, and quite worthy of two gentlemen.


When you please, monsieur,


I waited your orders,


The cardinal’s Guards! Sheathe your swords, gentlemen, sheathe your swords!


Halloo, Musketeers? Fighting here, are you? And the edicts? What is become of them?


You are very generous, gentlemen of the Guards. If we were to see you fighting, I can assure you that we would make no effort to prevent you. Leave us alone, then, and you will enjoy a little amusement without cost to yourselves.


Gentlemen, it is with great regret that I pronounce the thing impossible. Duty before everything. Sheathe, then, if you please, and follow us.


Monsieur, it would afford us great pleasure to obey your polite invitation if it depended upon ourselves; but unfortunately the thing is impossible—Monsieur de Tréville has forbidden it. Pass on your way, then; it is the best thing to do.


We will charge upon you, then,


There are five of them, and we are but three; we shall be beaten again, and must die on the spot, for, on my part, I declare I will never appear again before the captain as a conquered man.


Gentlemen, allow me to correct your words, if you please. You said you were but three, but it appears to me we are four.


But you are not one of us,


That’s true. I have not the uniform, but I have the spirit. My heart is that of a Musketeer; I feel it, monsieur, and that impels me on.


Withdraw, young man. You may retire; we consent to that. Save your skin; begone quickly.


Decidedly, you are a brave fellow,


Well, we must do something.


Monsieur is full of generosity. We should only be three, one of whom is wounded, with the addition of a boy, and yet it will not be the less said we were four men.


Yes, but to yield!


That is difficult,


Try me, gentlemen, and I swear to you by my honor that I will not go hence if we are conquered.


What is your name, my brave fellow?


D’Artagnan, monsieur.


Well, then, Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and D’Artagnan, forward!


Come, gentlemen, have you decided?


It is done, gentlemen.


And what is your choice?


We are about to have the honor of charging you,


Ah! You resist, do you? S’blood; does that astonish you?


To me, Monsieur Guardsman; I will slay you!


S’blood! do not kill him, young man, I beg of you. I have an old affair to settle with him when I am cured and sound again. Disarm him only—make sure of his sword. That’s it! Very well done!


Here,


here will Bicarat die; for I only am left, and they seek my life. Ah, if you command me, that’s another thing. As you are my commander, it is my duty to obey.


If I am not yet a Musketeer, at least I have entered upon my apprenticeship, haven’t I?


Come here, Monsieur Captain, come here, that I may growl at you. Do you know that his Eminence has been making fresh complaints against your Musketeers, and that with so much emotion, that this evening his Eminence is indisposed? Ah, these Musketeers of yours are very devils—fellows to be hanged.


No, sire, on the contrary, they are good creatures, as meek as lambs, and have but one desire, I’ll be their warranty. And that is that their swords may never leave their scabbards but in your majesty’s service. But what are they to do? The Guards of Monsieur the Cardinal are forever seeking quarrels with them, and for the honor of the corps even, the poor young men are obliged to defend themselves.


Listen to Monsieur de Tréville, listen to him! Would not one say he was speaking of a religious community? In truth, my dear Captain, I have a great mind to take away your commission and give it to Mademoiselle de Chemerault, to whom I promised an abbey. But don’t fancy that I am going to take you on your bare word. I am called Louis the Just, Monsieur de Tréville, and by and by, by and by we will see.


Ah, sire; it is because I confide in that justice that I shall wait patiently and quietly the good pleasure of your Majesty.


Wait, then, monsieur, wait. I will not detain you long. La Vieuville, take my place; I must speak to Monsieur de Tréville on an affair of importance. Ah, I had eighty louis before me; put down the same sum, so that they who have lost may have nothing to complain of. Justice before everything. Well, monsieur, you say it is his Eminence’s Guards who have sought a quarrel with your Musketeers?


Yes, sire, as they always do.


And how did the thing happen? Let us see, for you know, my dear Captain, a judge must hear both sides.


Good Lord! In the most simple and natural manner possible. Three of my best soldiers, whom your Majesty knows by name, and whose devotedness you have more than once appreciated, and who have, I dare affirm to the king, his service much at heart—three of my best soldiers, I say, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, had made a party of pleasure with a young fellow from Gascony, whom I had introduced to them the same morning. The party was to take place at St. Germain, I believe, and they had appointed to meet at the Carmes-Deschaux, when they were disturbed by de Jussac, Cahusac, Bicarat, and two other Guardsmen, who certainly did not go there in such a numerous company without some ill intention against the edicts.


Ah, ah! You incline me to think so. There is no doubt they went thither to fight themselves.


I do not accuse them, sire; but I leave your Majesty to judge what five armed men could possibly be going to do in such a deserted place as the neighborhood of the Convent des Carmes.


Yes, you are right, Tréville, you are right!


Then, upon seeing my Musketeers they changed their minds, and forgot their private hatred for partisan hatred; for your Majesty cannot be ignorant that the Musketeers, who belong to the king and nobody but the king, are the natural enemies of the Guardsmen, who belong to the cardinal.


Yes, Tréville, yes, and it is very sad, believe me, to see thus two parties in France, two heads to royalty. But all this will come to an end, Tréville, will come to an end. You say, then, that the Guardsmen sought a quarrel with the Musketeers?


I say that it is probable that things have fallen out so, but I will not swear to it, sire. You know how difficult it is to discover the truth; and unless a man be endowed with that admirable instinct which causes Louis XIII. to be named the Just—


You are right, Tréville; but they were not alone, your Musketeers. They had a youth with them?


Yes, sire, and one wounded man; so that three of the king’s Musketeers—one of whom was wounded—and a youth not only maintained their ground against five of the most terrible of the cardinal’s Guardsmen, but absolutely brought four of them to earth.


Why, this is a victory! a complete victory!


Yes, sire; as complete as that of the Bridge of Ce.


Four men, one of them wounded, and a youth, say you?


One hardly a young man; but who, however, behaved himself so admirably on this occasion that I will take the liberty of recommending him to your Majesty.


How does he call himself?


D’Artagnan, sire; he is the son of one of my oldest friends—the son of a man who served under the king your father, of glorious memory, in the civil war.


And you say this young man behaved himself well? Tell me how, Tréville—you know how I delight in accounts of war and fighting.


Sire, as I told you, Monsieur d’Artagnan is little more than a boy; and as he has not the honor of being a Musketeer, he was dressed as a citizen. The Guards of the cardinal, perceiving his youth and that he did not belong to the corps, invited him to retire before they attacked.


So you may plainly see, Tréville, it was they who attacked?


That is true, sire; there can be no more doubt on that head. They called upon him then to retire; but he answered that he was a Musketeer at heart, entirely devoted to your Majesty, and that therefore he would remain with Messieurs the Musketeers.


Brave young man!


Well, he did remain with them; and your Majesty has in him so firm a champion that it was he who gave Jussac the terrible sword thrust which has made the cardinal so angry.


He who wounded Jussac! he, a boy! Tréville, that’s impossible!


It is as I have the honor to relate it to your Majesty.


Jussac, one of the first swordsmen in the kingdom?


Well, sire, for once he found his master.


I will see this young man, Tréville—I will see him; and if anything can be done—well, we will make it our business.


When will your Majesty deign to receive him?


Tomorrow, at midday, Tréville.


Shall I bring him alone?


No, bring me all four together. I wish to thank them all at once. Devoted men are so rare, Tréville, by the back staircase. It is useless to let the cardinal know. You understand, Tréville—an edict is still an edict, it is forbidden to fight, after all.


But this encounter, sire, is quite out of the ordinary conditions of a duel. It is a brawl; and the proof is that there were five of the cardinal’s Guardsmen against my three Musketeers and Monsieur d’Artagnan.


That is true, but never mind, Tréville, come still by the back staircase.


It is not astonishing that that young man should be afraid of a ball, for he is doubtless a Musketeer apprentice.


Pardieu


look at me as long as you like, my little gentleman! I have said what I have said.


And as since that which you have said is too clear to require any explanation, I beg you to follow me.


And when?


At once, if you please.


And you know who I am, without doubt?


I? I am completely ignorant; nor does it much disquiet me.


You’re in the wrong there; for if you knew my name, perhaps you would not be so pressing.


What is your name?


Bernajoux, at your service.


Well, then, Monsieur Bernajoux, I will wait for you at the door.


Go, monsieur, I will follow you.


Do not hurry yourself, monsieur, lest it be observed that we go out together. You must be aware that for our undertaking, company would be in the way.


That’s true,


My faith! It is fortunate for you, although your name is Bernajoux, to have only to deal with an apprentice Musketeer. Never mind; be content, I will do my best. On guard!


But it appears to me that this place is badly chosen, and that we should be better behind the Abbey St. Germain or in the Pré-aux-Clercs.


What you say is full of sense, but unfortunately I have very little time to spare, having an appointment at twelve precisely. On guard, then, monsieur, on guard!


To the rescue! The Hôtel de la Trémouille!


To the rescue, Musketeers!


Quick to the Louvre, to the Louvre without losing an instant, and let us endeavor to see the king before he is prejudiced by the cardinal. We will describe the thing to him as a consequence of the affair of yesterday, and the two will pass off together. Had his Majesty any intention of holding this hunting party yesterday?


No, your Excellency, the Master of the Hounds came this morning to inform him that he had marked down a stag. At first the king answered that he would not go; but he could not resist his love of sport, and set out after dinner.


And the king has seen the cardinal?


In all probability he has, for I saw the horses harnessed to his Eminence’s carriage this morning, and when I asked where he was going, they told me, ‘To St. Germain.’


He is beforehand with us. Gentlemen, I will see the king this evening; but as to you, I do not advise you to risk doing so.


Monsieur, we fancy that we have each cause to complain of the other, and I am come to endeavor to clear up this affair.


I have no objection, but I warn you that I am well informed, and all the fault is with your Musketeers.


You are too just and reasonable a man, monsieur! not to accept the proposal I am about to make to you.


Make it, monsieur, I listen.


How is Monsieur Bernajoux, your esquire’s relative?


Why, monsieur, very ill indeed! In addition to the sword thrust in his arm, which is not dangerous, he has received another right through his lungs, of which the doctor says bad things.


But has the wounded man retained his senses?


Perfectly.


Does he talk?


With difficulty, but he can speak.


Well, monsieur, let us go to him. Let us adjure him, in the name of the God before whom he must perhaps appear, to speak the truth. I will take him for judge in his own cause, monsieur, and will believe what he will say.


I wish Bernajoux a speedy convalescence, took leave of M. de la Trémouille, returned to his hôtel, and immediately sent word to the four friends that he awaited their company at dinner.


Matters go but badly, and we shall not be made Chevaliers of the Order this time.


Wait here ten minutes, and if at the expiration of ten minutes you do not see me come out, return to my hôtel, for it will be useless for you to wait for me longer.


Bad, monsieur, bad! I am bored. Monsieur So-and-so, let us weary ourselves together.


How! Your Majesty is bored? Have you not enjoyed the pleasures of the chase today?


A fine pleasure, indeed, monsieur! Upon my soul, everything degenerates; and I don’t know whether it is the game which leaves no scent, or the dogs that have no noses. We started a stag of ten branches. We chased him for six hours, and when he was near being taken—when St. Simon was already putting his horn to his mouth to sound the halali—crack, all the pack takes the wrong scent and sets off after a two-year-older. I shall be obliged to give up hunting, as I have given up hawking. Ah, I am an unfortunate king, Monsieur de Tréville! I had but one gerfalcon, and he died day before yesterday.


Indeed, sire, I wholly comprehend your disappointment. The misfortune is great; but I think you have still a good number of falcons, sparrow hawks, and tiercels.


And not a man to instruct them. Falconers are declining. I know no one but myself who is acquainted with the noble art of venery. After me it will all be over, and people will hunt with gins, snares, and traps. If I had but the time to train pupils! But there is the cardinal always at hand, who does not leave me a moment’s repose; who talks to me about Spain, who talks to me about Austria, who talks to me about England! Ah! à propos of the cardinal, Monsieur de Tréville, I am vexed with you!


And in what have I been so unfortunate as to displease your Majesty?


Is it thus you perform your charge, monsieur? Is it for this I name you captain of my Musketeers, that they should assassinate a man, disturb a whole quarter, and endeavor to set fire to Paris, without your saying a word? But yet, undoubtedly my haste accuses you wrongfully; without doubt the rioters are in prison, and you come to tell me justice is done.


Sire, on the contrary, I come to demand it of you.


And against whom?


Against calumniators,


Ah! This is something new. Will you tell me that your three damned Musketeers, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, and your youngster from Béarn, have not fallen, like so many furies, upon poor Bernajoux, and have not maltreated him in such a fashion that probably by this time he is dead? Will you tell me that they did not lay siege to the hôtel of the Duc de la Trémouille, and that they did not endeavor to burn it?—which would not, perhaps, have been a great misfortune in time of war, seeing that it is nothing but a nest of Huguenots, but which is, in time of peace, a frightful example. Tell me, now, can you deny all this?


And who told you this fine story, sire?


Who has told me this fine story, monsieur? Who should it be but he who watches while I sleep, who labors while I amuse myself, who conducts everything at home and abroad—in France as in Europe?


Your Majesty probably refers to God, for I know no one except God who can be so far above your Majesty.


No, monsieur; I speak of the prop of the state, of my only servant, of my only friend—of the cardinal.


His Eminence is not his holiness, sire.


What do you mean by that, monsieur?


That it is only the Pope who is infallible, and that this infallibility does not extend to cardinals.


You mean to say that he deceives me; you mean to say that he betrays me? You accuse him, then? Come, speak; avow freely that you accuse him!


No, sire, but I say that he deceives himself. I say that he is ill-informed. I say that he has hastily accused your Majesty’s Musketeers, toward whom he is unjust, and that he has not obtained his information from good sources.


The accusation comes from Monsieur de la Trémouille, from the duke himself. What do you say to that?


I might answer, sire, that he is too deeply interested in the question to be a very impartial witness; but so far from that, sire, I know the duke to be a royal gentleman, and I refer the matter to him—but upon one condition, sire.


What?


It is that your Majesty will make him come here, will interrogate him yourself, tête-à-tête, without witnesses, and that I shall see your Majesty as soon as you have seen the duke.


What, then! You will bind yourself, by what Monsieur de la Trémouille shall say?


Yes, sire.


You will accept his judgment?


Undoubtedly.


And you will submit to the reparation he may require?


Certainly.


La Chesnaye! let someone go instantly and find Monsieur de la Trémouille; I wish to speak with him this evening.


Your Majesty gives me your word that you will not see anyone between Monsieur de la Trémouille and myself?


Nobody, by the faith of a gentleman.


Tomorrow, then, sire?


Tomorrow, monsieur.


At what o’clock, please your Majesty?


At any hour you will.


But in coming too early I should be afraid of awakening your Majesty.


Awaken me! Do you think I ever sleep, then? I sleep no longer, monsieur. I sometimes dream, that’s all. Come, then, as early as you like—at seven o’clock; but beware, if you and your Musketeers are guilty.


If my Musketeers are guilty, sire, the guilty shall be placed in your Majesty’s hands, who will dispose of them at your good pleasure. Does your Majesty require anything further? Speak, I am ready to obey.


No, monsieur, no; I am not called Louis the Just without reason. Tomorrow, then, monsieur—tomorrow.


Till then, God preserve your Majesty!


Monsieur de Tréville, his Majesty has just sent for me in order to inquire respecting the circumstances which took place yesterday at my hôtel. I have told him the truth; that is to say, that the fault lay with my people, and that I was ready to offer you my excuses. Since I have the good fortune to meet you, I beg you to receive them, and to hold me always as one of your friends. Monsieur the Duke. I was so confident of your loyalty that I required no other defender before his Majesty than yourself. I find that I have not been mistaken, and I thank you that there is still one man in France of whom may be said, without disappointment, what I have said of you.


That’s well said, only tell him, Tréville, since he wishes to be considered your friend, that I also wish to be one of his, but he neglects me; that it is nearly three years since I have seen him, and that I never do see him unless I send for him. Tell him all this for me, for these are things which a king cannot say for himself.


Thanks, sire, thanks, but your Majesty may be assured that it is not those—I do not speak of Monsieur de Tréville—whom your Majesty sees at all hours of the day that are most devoted to you.


Ah! You have heard what I said? So much the better, Duke, so much the better. It is you, Tréville. Where are your Musketeers? I told you the day before yesterday to bring them with you; why have you not done so?


They are below, sire, and with your permission La Chesnaye will bid them come up.


Yes, yes, let them come up immediately. It is nearly eight o’clock, and at nine I expect a visit. Go, Monsieur Duke, and return often. Come in, Tréville. Come in, my braves, come in; I am going to scold you. What the devil! Seven of his Eminence’s Guards placed hors de combat by you four in two days! That’s too many, gentlemen, too many! If you go on so, his Eminence will be forced to renew his company in three weeks, and I to put the edicts in force in all their rigor. One now and then I don’t say much about; but seven in two days, I repeat, it is too many, it is far too many!


Therefore, sire, your Majesty sees that they are come, quite contrite and repentant, to offer you their excuses.


Quite contrite and repentant! Hem! I place no confidence in their hypocritical faces. In particular, there is one yonder of a Gascon look. Come hither, monsieur. Why, you told me he was a young man? This is a boy, Tréville, a mere boy! Do you mean to say that it was he who bestowed that severe thrust at Jussac?


And those two equally fine thrusts at Bernajoux.


Truly!


that if he had not rescued me from the hands of Cahusac, I should not now have the honor of making my very humble reverence to your Majesty.


Why he is a very devil, this Béarnais! Ventre-saint-gris, Monsieur de Tréville, as the king my father would have said. But at this sort of work, many doublets must be slashed and many swords broken. Now, Gascons are always poor, are they not?


Sire, I can assert that they have hitherto discovered no gold mines in their mountains; though the Lord owes them this miracle in recompense for the manner in which they supported the pretensions of the king your father.


Which is to say that the Gascons made a king of me, myself, seeing that I am my father’s son, is it not, Tréville? Well, happily, I don’t say nay to it. La Chesnaye, go and see if by rummaging all my pockets you can find forty pistoles; and if you can find them, bring them to me. And now let us see, young man, with your hand upon your conscience, how did all this come to pass?


This is all very well,


yes, this is just the account the duke gave me of the affair. Poor cardinal! Seven men in two days, and those of his very best! But that’s quite enough, gentlemen; please to understand, that’s enough. You have taken your revenge for the Rue Férou, and even exceeded it; you ought to be satisfied.


If your Majesty is so, we are.


Oh, yes; I am. Here, is a proof of my satisfaction. there, now, as it is half past eight, you may retire; for as I told you, I expect someone at nine. Thanks for your devotedness, gentlemen. I may continue to rely upon it, may I not?


we would allow ourselves to be cut to pieces in your Majesty’s service.


Well, well, but keep whole; that will be better, and you will be more useful to me. Tréville, as you have no room in the Musketeers, and as we have besides decided that a novitiate is necessary before entering that corps, place this young man in the company of the Guards of Monsieur Dessessart, your brother-in-law. Ah, pardieu, Tréville! I enjoy beforehand the face the cardinal will make. He will be furious; but I don’t care. I am doing what is right.


Like master, like man.


That is my abode!


And you, my dear companion, you speak of the baronesses, countesses, and princesses of others?


Pardieu! I spoke of them because Porthos talked of them himself, because he had paraded all these fine things before me. But be assured, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, that if I had obtained them from any other source, or if they had been confided to me, there exists no confessor more discreet than myself.


Oh, I don’t doubt that, but it seems to me that you are tolerably familiar with coats of arms—a certain embroidered handkerchief, for instance, to which I owe the honor of your acquaintance?


My dear friend, do not forget that I wish to belong to the Church, and that I avoid all mundane opportunities. The handkerchief you saw had not been given to me, but it had been forgotten and left at my house by one of my friends. I was obliged to pick it up in order not to compromise him and the lady he loves. As for myself, I neither have, nor desire to have, a mistress, following in that respect the very judicious example of Athos, who has none any more than I have.


But what the devil! You are not a priest, you are a Musketeer!


A Musketeer for a time, my friend, as the cardinal says, a Musketeer against my will, but a churchman at heart, believe me. Athos and Porthos dragged me into this to occupy me. I had, at the moment of being ordained, a little difficulty with—But that would not interest you, and I am taking up your valuable time.


Not at all; it interests me very much, and at this moment I have absolutely nothing to do.


Yes, but I have my breviary to repeat, then some verses to compose, which Madame d’Aiguillon begged of me. Then I must go to the Rue St. Honoré in order to purchase some rouge for Madame de Chevreuse. So you see, my dear friend, that if you are not in a hurry, I am very much in a hurry.


to consult a casuist with whom he had an appointment.


Aramis would never be anything but a village curé.


This is all very easy for you to say, for you, Athos, who live like a dumb man with Grimaud, who forbid him to speak, and consequently never exchange ill words with him; for you, Porthos, who carry matters in such a magnificent style, and are a god to your valet, Mousqueton; and for you, Aramis, who, always abstracted by your theological studies, inspire your servant, Bazin, a mild, religious man, with a profound respect; but for me, who am without any settled means and without resources—for me, who am neither a Musketeer nor even a Guardsman, what am I to do to inspire either the affection, the terror, or the respect in Planchet?


This is serious, it is a family affair. It is with valets as with wives, they must be placed at once upon the footing in which you wish them to remain. Reflect upon it.


For, the future cannot fail to mend; I inevitably look for better times. Your fortune is therefore made if you remain with me, and I am too good a master to allow you to miss such a chance by granting you the dismissal you require.


People do not eat at once for all time, even when they eat a good deal.


He who sleeps, dines.


I have heard Monsieur d’Artagnan spoken of as a very brave young man, and this reputation which he justly enjoys had decided me to confide a secret to him.


Speak, monsieur, speak,


I have a wife who is seamstress to the queen, monsieur, and who is not deficient in either virtue or beauty. I was induced to marry her about three years ago, although she had but very little dowry, because Monsieur Laporte, the queen’s cloak bearer, is her godfather, and befriends her.


Well, monsieur?


Well! well, monsieur, my wife was abducted yesterday morning, as she was coming out of her workroom.


And by whom was your wife abducted? And who is the person whom you suspect? Less love than politics. What do you suspect? Monsieur, I beg you to observe that I ask you absolutely nothing. It is you who have come to me. It is you who have told me that you had a secret to confide in me. Act, then, as you think proper; there is still time to withdraw. Ah, ah! Can it be on account of the amours of Madame de Bois-Tracy? Of Madame d’Aiguillon? Of Madame de Chevreuse? Of the—


Pardieu! Know it! Indeed! Well, what does the queen believe? That is likely. His name?


He is your man, do you say? Yes, yes; but that has nothing to do with it. No, I am wrong. On the contrary, that simplifies the matter greatly. If your man is mine, with one blow I shall obtain two revenges, that’s all; but where to find this man? Have you no information as to his abiding place? What? You always come back to that; but I must make you see this time that it is too late to retreat. You call yourself Bonacieux? Ah, ah! You are my landlord? How can it be otherwise, my dear Bonacieux? I believe you, monsieur, I believe you; and as I was about to say, by the word of Bonacieux, I have confidence in you. Finish, then, what you were about to say. A letter? That’s pretty positive. Hum! Yes? Without doubt. And then I have thought that considering three months’ lodging, about which I have said nothing— Yes, yes; you have already given me that reason, and I find it excellent. Very kind! Admirable! You are rich then, my dear Monsieur Bonacieux? What! Where? It is he! This time he will not escape me! The man of Meung!


Do you believe in apparitions?


I never believe in anything I have not seen, and as I never have seen apparitions, I don’t believe in them.


The Bible makes our belief in them a law; the ghost of Samuel appeared to Saul, and it is an article of faith that I should be very sorry to see any doubt thrown upon, Porthos.


Planchet, go down to my landlord, Monsieur Bonacieux, and ask him to send me half a dozen bottles of Beaugency wine; I prefer that.


Ah, ah! You have credit with your landlord, then?


Yes,


We must use, and not abuse,


But come, what is this about?


Yes, impart it to us, my dear friend, unless the honor of any lady be hazarded by this confidence; in that case you would do better to keep it to yourself.


Be satisfied, the honor of no one will have cause to complain of what I have to tell.


Your affair is not bad, and one may draw fifty or sixty pistoles from this good man. Then there only remains to ascertain whether these fifty or sixty pistoles are worth the risk of four heads.


But observe, that there is a woman in the affair—a woman carried off, a woman who is doubtless threatened, tortured perhaps, and all because she is faithful to her mistress.


Beware, D’Artagnan, beware. You grow a little too warm, in my opinion, about the fate of Madame Bonacieux. Woman was created for our destruction, and it is from her we inherit all our miseries.


It is not Madame Bonacieux about whom I am anxious, but the queen, whom the king abandons, whom the cardinal persecutes, and who sees the heads of all her friends fall, one after the other. Spain is her country, and it is very natural that she should love the Spanish, who are the children of the same soil as herself. As to the second reproach, I have heard it said that she does not love the English, but an Englishman.


Well, and by my faith, it must be acknowledged that this Englishman is worthy of being loved. I never saw a man with a nobler air than his.


Without reckoning that he dresses as nobody else can. I was at the Louvre on the day when he scattered his pearls; and, pardieu, I picked up two that I sold for ten pistoles each. Do you know him, Aramis?


As well as you do, gentlemen; for I was among those who seized him in the garden at Amiens, into which Monsieur Putange, the queen’s equerry, introduced me. I was at school at the time, and the adventure appeared to me to be cruel for the king.


Which would not prevent me, if I knew where the Duke of Buckingham was, from taking him by the hand and conducting him to the queen, were it only to enrage the cardinal, and if we could find means to play him a sharp turn, I vow that I would voluntarily risk my head in doing it.


And did the mercer* rejoin Athos, tell you, D’Artagnan, that the queen thought that Buckingham had been brought over by a forged letter?


She is afraid so.


Wait a minute, then,


What for?


Go on, while I endeavor to recall circumstances.


And now I am convinced, that this abduction of the queen’s woman is connected with the events of which we are speaking, and perhaps with the presence of Buckingham in Paris.


The Gascon is full of ideas. I like to hear him talk,


his dialect amuses me.


Gentlemen, listen to this.


Listen to Aramis. Yesterday I was at the house of a doctor of theology, whom I sometimes consult about my studies.


He resides in a quiet quarter, his tastes and his profession require it. Now, at the moment when I left his house—


Well, at the moment you left his house?


This doctor has a niece,


Ah, he has a niece!


A very respectable lady,


We believe like Mohammedans, and are as mute as tombstones,


I will continue, then. This niece comes sometimes to see her uncle; and by chance was there yesterday at the same time that I was, and it was my duty to offer to conduct her to her carriage.


Ah! She has a carriage, then, this niece of the doctor?


Porthos. I have had the occasion to observe to you more than once that you are very indiscreet; and that is injurious to you among the women.


Gentlemen, gentlemen, the thing is serious. Let us try not to jest, if we can. Go on Aramis, go on.


All at once, a tall, dark gentleman—just like yours, D’Artagnan.


The same, perhaps,


Possibly, came toward me, accompanied by five or six men who followed about ten paces behind him; and in the politest tone, ‘Monsieur Duke,’ said he to me, ‘and you madame,’ continued he, addressing the lady on my arm—


The doctor’s niece?


Hold your tongue, Porthos,


—will you enter this carriage, and that without offering the least resistance, without making the least noise?


He took you for Buckingham!


I believe so,


But the lady?


He took her for the queen!


Just so,


The Gascon is the devil!


The fact is. Aramis is of the same height, and something of the shape of the duke; but it nevertheless appears to me that the dress of a Musketeer—


I wore an enormous cloak,


In the month of July? The devil! Is the doctor afraid that you may be recognized?


I can comprehend that the spy may have been deceived by the person; but the face— I had a large hat,


Oh, good lord, what precautions for the study of theology!


Gentlemen, gentlemen, do not let us lose our time in jesting. Let us separate, and let us seek the mercer’s wife—that is the key of the intrigue.


A woman of such inferior condition! Can you believe so?


She is goddaughter to Laporte, the confidential valet of the queen. Have I not told you so, gentlemen? Besides, it has perhaps been her Majesty’s calculation to seek on this occasion for support so lowly. High heads expose themselves from afar, and the cardinal is longsighted.


Well, in the first place make a bargain with the mercer, and a good bargain.


That’s useless, for I believe if he does not pay us, we shall be well enough paid by another party.


Save me, gentlemen, for the love of heaven, save me! There are four men come to arrest me. Save me! Save me!


A moment. It is not courage that is needed; it is prudence.


And yet, we will not leave—


You will leave D’Artagnan to act as he thinks proper. He has, I repeat, the longest head of the four, and for my part I declare that I will obey him. Do as you think best, D’Artagnan.


Come in, gentlemen, come in, you are here in my apartment, and we are all faithful servants of the king and cardinal.


Then, gentlemen, you will not oppose our executing the orders we have received?


On the contrary, gentlemen, we would assist you if it were necessary.


What does he say?


You are a simpleton. Silence!


We can only save you by being free ourselves, and if we appear inclined to defend you, they will arrest us with you. Come, gentlemen, come! I have no motive for defending Monsieur. I saw him today for the first time, and he can tell you on what occasion; he came to demand the rent of my lodging. Is that not true, Monsieur Bonacieux? Answer!


That is the very truth, but Monsieur does not tell you—


Silence, with respect to me, silence, with respect to my friends; silence about the queen, above all, or you will ruin everybody without saving yourself! Come, come, gentlemen, remove the fellow. You are a shabby old fellow, my dear. You come to demand money of me—of a Musketeer! To prison with him! Gentlemen, once more, take him to prison, and keep him under key as long as possible; that will give me time to pay him. May I not drink to your health, and you to mine?


That will do me great honor, and I accept thankfully.


Then to yours, monsieur—what is your name?


Boisrenard.


Monsieur Boisrenard. To yours, my gentlemen! What is your name, in your turn, if you please?


D’Artagnan.


To yours, monsieur. And above all others, to that of the king and the cardinal.


What diabolical villainy you have performed here. Shame, shame, for four Musketeers to allow an unfortunate fellow who cried for help to be arrested in their midst! And a gentleman to hobnob with a bailiff!


Porthos. Athos has already told you that you are a simpleton, and I am quite of his opinion. D’Artagnan, you are a great man; and when you occupy Monsieur de Tréville’s place, I will come and ask your influence to secure me an abbey.


Well, I am in a maze, do you approve of what D’Artagnan has done?


Parbleu! Indeed I do. I not only approve of what he has done, but I congratulate him upon it.


All for one, one for all—that is our motto, is it not?


And yet—


Hold out your hand and swear!


All for one, one for all. That’s well! Now let us everyone retire to his own home, and attention! For from this moment we are at feud with the cardinal.


If they knew anything, they would not question people in this manner. Now, what is it they want to know? Why, they want to know if the Duke of Buckingham is in Paris, and if he has had, or is likely to have, an interview with the queen.


The devil! It seems like a woman! They search her; she resists; they use force—the scoundrels!


But I tell you that I am the mistress of the house, gentlemen! I tell you I am Madame Bonacieux; I tell you I belong to the queen!


Madame Bonacieux! Can I be so lucky as to find what everybody is seeking for? Pardon, gentlemen—par— They are binding her; they are going to drag her away. My sword! Good, it is by my side! Planchet!


Monsieur.


Run and seek Athos, Porthos and Aramis. One of the three will certainly be at home, perhaps all three. Tell them to take arms, to come here, and to run! Ah, I remember, Athos is at Monsieur de Tréville’s. But where are you going, monsieur, where are you going? I am going down by the window, in order to be there the sooner,


Oh, monsieur! Monsieur! You will kill yourself,


Hold your tongue, stupid fellow. I will go myself and be caught in the mousetrap, but woe be to the cats that shall pounce upon such a mouse!


Ah, monsieur! you have saved me; permit me to thank you.


Madame. I have only done what every gentleman would have done in my place; you owe me no thanks.


Oh, yes, monsieur, oh, yes; and I hope to prove to you that you have not served an ingrate. But what could these men, whom I at first took for robbers, want with me, and why is Monsieur Bonacieux not here?


Madame, those men were more dangerous than any robbers could have been, for they are the agents of the cardinal; and as to your husband, Monsieur Bonacieux, he is not here because he was yesterday evening conducted to the Bastille.


My husband in the Bastille! Oh, my God! What has he done? Poor dear man, he is innocence itself!


What has he done, madame? I believe that his only crime is to have at the same time the good fortune and the misfortune to be your husband.


But, monsieur, you know then—


I know that you have been abducted, madame.


And by whom? Do you know him? Oh, if you know him, tell me!


By a man of from forty to forty-five years, with black hair, a dark complexion, and a scar on his left temple.


That is he, that is he; but his name?


Ah, his name? I do not know that.


And did my husband know I had been carried off?


He was informed of it by a letter, written to him by the abductor himself.


And does he suspect, the cause of this event?


He attributed it, I believe, to a political cause.


I doubted from the first; and now I think entirely as he does. Then my dear Monsieur Bonacieux has not suspected me a single instant?


So far from it, madame, he was too proud of your prudence, and above all, of your love. But, how did you escape?


I took advantage of a moment when they left me alone; and as I had known since morning the reason of my abduction, with the help of the sheets I let myself down from the window. Then, as I believed my husband would be at home, I hastened hither.


To place yourself under his protection?


Oh, no, poor dear man! I knew very well that he was incapable of defending me; but as he could serve us in other ways, I wished to inform him.


Of what?


Oh, that is not my secret; I must not, therefore, tell you.


Besides, pardon me, madame, if, guardsman as I am, I remind you of prudence—besides, I believe we are not here in a very proper place for imparting confidences. The men I have put to flight will return reinforced; if they find us here, we are lost. I have sent for three of my friends, but who knows whether they were at home?


Yes, yes! You are right, let us fly! Let us save ourselves.


But whither shall we fly—whither escape?


Let us first withdraw from this house; afterward we shall see.


And now what are we to do, and where do you wish me to conduct you?


I am at quite a loss how to answer you, I admit. My intention was to inform Monsieur Laporte, through my husband, in order that Monsieur Laporte might tell us precisely what had taken place at the Louvre in the last three days, and whether there is any danger in presenting myself there.


But I, can go and inform Monsieur Laporte.


No doubt you could, only there is one misfortune, and that is that Monsieur Bonacieux is known at the Louvre, and would be allowed to pass; whereas you are not known there, and the gate would be closed against you.


Ah, bah! you have at some wicket of the Louvre a concierge who is devoted to you, and who, thanks to a password, would—


And if I give you this password, would you forget it as soon as you used it?


By my honor, by the faith of a gentleman! I will do, without a promise and voluntarily, all that I can do to serve the king and be agreeable to the queen. Dispose of me, then, as a friend.


But I—where shall I go meanwhile?


Is there nobody from whose house Monsieur Laporte can come and fetch you?


No, I can trust nobody.


Stop, we are near Athos’s door. Yes, here it is.


Who is this Athos?


One of my friends.


But if he should be at home and see me?


He is not at home, and I will carry away the key, after having placed you in his apartment.


But if he should return?


Oh, he won’t return; and if he should, he will be told that I have brought a woman with me, and that woman is in his apartment.


But that will compromise me sadly, you know.


Of what consequence? Nobody knows you. Besides, we are in a situation to overlook ceremony.


Come, then, let us go to your friend’s house. Where does he live?


Rue Férou, two steps from here.


Let us go!


You are at home. Remain here, fasten the door inside, and open it to nobody unless you hear three taps like this;


That is well. Now, in my turn, let me give you my instructions.


I am all attention.


Present yourself at the wicket of the Louvre, on the side of the Rue de l’Echelle, and ask for Germain.


Well, and then?


He will ask you what you want, and you will answer by these two words, ‘Tours’ and ‘Bruxelles.’ He will at once put himself at your orders.


And what shall I command him?


To go and fetch Monsieur Laporte, the queen’s valet de chambre.


And when he shall have informed him, and Monsieur Laporte is come?


You will send him to me.


That is well; but where and how shall I see you again?


Do you wish to see me again?


Certainly.


Well, let that care be mine, and be at ease.


I depend upon your word.


You may.


Young man, a suggestion.


What?


You may get into trouble by what has taken place.


You believe so?


Yes. Have you any friend whose clock is too slow?


Well?


Go and call upon him, in order that he may give evidence of your having been with him at half past nine. In a court of justice that is called an alibi.


Pardon me, monsieur, but I thought, as it was yet only twenty-five minutes past nine, it was not too late to wait upon you.


Twenty-five minutes past nine! why, that’s impossible!


Look, rather, monsieur, the clock shows it.


That’s true. I believed it later. But what can I do for you?


Shall I go and offer her my services? By her step she must be young; perhaps she is pretty. Oh, yes! But a woman who wanders in the streets at this hour only ventures out to meet her lover. If I should disturb a rendezvous, that would not be the best means of commencing an acquaintance. Pardieu! pardieu, it would be droll if this belated dove should be in search of our friend’s house. But on my soul, it looks so. Ah, my dear Aramis, this time I shall find you out.


This is all very fine, dear Aramis. Ah, Monsieur Hypocrite, I understand how you study theology. Ah, ah! not through doors, but through windows! Ah, this visit was expected. We shall see the windows open, and the lady enter by escalade. Very pretty!


What the devil could that handkerchief signify?


Kill me, if you please, you shall know nothing!


Yes, it is I, it is I, whom God has sent to watch over you.


Was it with that intention you followed me?


No, no, I confess it. It was chance that threw me in your way; I saw a woman knocking at the window of one of my friends.


One of your friends?


Without doubt; Aramis is one of my best friends.


Aramis! Who is he?


Come, come, you won’t tell me you don’t know Aramis?


This is the first time I ever heard his name pronounced.


It is the first time, then, that you ever went to that house?


Undoubtedly.


And you did not know that it was inhabited by a young man?


No.


By a Musketeer?


No, indeed!


It was not he, then, you came to seek?


Not the least in the world. Besides, you must have seen that the person to whom I spoke was a woman.


That is true; but this woman is a friend of Aramis—


I know nothing of that.


—since she lodges with him.


That does not concern me.


But who is she?


Oh, that is not my secret.


My dear Madame Bonacieux, you are charming; but at the same time you are one of the most mysterious women.


Do I lose by that?


No; you are, on the contrary, adorable. Give me your arm, then. Most willingly. And now?


Now escort me.


Where?


Where I am going.


But where are you going?


You will see, because you will leave me at the door.


Shall I wait for you?


That will be useless.


You will return alone, then?


Perhaps yes, perhaps no.


But will the person who shall accompany you afterward be a man or a woman?


I don’t know yet.


But I will know it!


How so?


I will wait until you come out.


In that case, adieu.


Why so?


I do not want you.


But you have claimed—


The aid of a gentleman, not the watchfulness of a spy.


The word is rather hard.


How are they called who follow others in spite of them?


They are indiscreet.


The word is too mild.


Well, madame, I perceive I must do as you wish.


Why did you deprive yourself of the merit of doing so at once?


Is there no merit in repentance?


And do you really repent?


I know nothing about it myself. But what I know is that I promise to do all you wish if you allow me to accompany you where you are going.


And you will leave me then?


Yes.


Without waiting for my coming out again?


Word of honor?


By the faith of a gentleman. Take my arm, and let us go.


And now, monsieur, it is here I have business; a thousand thanks for your honorable company, which has saved me from all the dangers to which, alone, I was exposed. But the moment is come to keep your word; I have reached my destination.


And you will have nothing to fear on your return?


I shall have nothing to fear but robbers.


And that is nothing?


What could they take from me? I have not a penny about me.


You forget that beautiful handkerchief with the coat of arms.


Which?


That which I found at your feet, and replaced in your pocket.


Hold your tongue, imprudent man! Do you wish to destroy me?


You see very plainly that there is still danger for you, since a single word makes you tremble; and you confess that if that word were heard you would be ruined. Come, come, madame! come, be more generous. Confide in me. Have you not read in my eyes that there is nothing but devotion and sympathy in my heart?


Yes, therefore, ask my own secrets, and I will reveal them to you; but those of others—that is quite another thing.


Very well. I shall discover them; as these secrets may have an influence over your life, these secrets must become mine.


Beware of what you do! Oh, meddle in nothing which concerns me. Do not seek to assist me in that which I am accomplishing. This I ask of you in the name of the interest with which I inspire you, in the name of the service you have rendered me and which I never shall forget while I have life. Rather, place faith in what I tell you. Have no more concern about me; I exist no longer for you, any more than if you had never seen me.


Must Aramis do as much as I, madame?


This is the second or third time, monsieur, that you have repeated that name, and yet I have told you that I do not know him.


You do not know the man at whose shutter you have just knocked? Indeed, madame, you believe me too credulous!


Confess that it is for the sake of making me talk that you invent this story and create this personage.


I invent nothing, madame; I create nothing. I only speak that exact truth.


And you say that one of your friends lives in that house?


I say so, and I repeat it for the third time; that house is one inhabited by my friend, and that friend is Aramis.


All this will be cleared up at a later period, no, monsieur, be silent.


If you could see my heart, you would there read so much curiosity that you would pity me and so much love that you would instantly satisfy my curiosity. We have nothing to fear from those who love us.


You speak very suddenly of love, monsieur, said the young woman, shaking her head.


That is because love has come suddenly upon me, and for the first time; and because I am only twenty. About three months ago I was near having a duel with Aramis concerning a handkerchief resembling the one you showed to the woman in his house—for a handkerchief marked in the same manner, I am sure.


Monsieur, you weary me very much, I assure you, with your questions.


But you, madame, prudent as you are, think, if you were to be arrested with that handkerchief, and that handkerchief were to be seized, would you not be compromised?


In what way? The initials are only mine—C. B., Constance Bonacieux. Or Camille de Bois-Tracy. Silence, monsieur! Once again, silence! Ah, since the dangers I incur on my own account cannot stop you, think of those you may yourself run!


Me?


Yes; there is peril of imprisonment, risk of life in knowing me.


Then I will not leave you.


Monsieur! monsieur, in the name of heaven, by the honor of a soldier, by the courtesy of a gentleman, depart! There, there midnight sounds! That is the hour when I am expected.


Madame, I can refuse nothing asked of me thus. Be content; I will depart.


But you will not follow me; you will not watch me?


I will return home instantly.


Ah, I was quite sure you were a good and brave young man,


well: I will not say as much as you do; what is lost for today may not be lost forever. Who knows, when I shall be at liberty, that I may not satisfy your curiosity?


And will you make the same promise to my love?


Oh, as to that, I do not engage myself. That depends upon the sentiments with which you may inspire me.


Then today, madame—


Oh, today, I am no further than gratitude.


Ah! You are too charming, and you abuse my love.


No, I use your generosity, that’s all. But be of good cheer; with certain people, everything comes round.


Oh, you render me the happiest of men! Do not forget this evening—do not forget that promise.


Be satisfied. In the proper time and place I will remember everything. Now then, go, go, in the name of heaven! I was expected at sharp midnight, and I am late.


By five minutes.


Yes; but in certain circumstances five minutes are five ages.


When one loves.


Well! And who told you I had no affair with a lover?


It is a man, then, who expects you? A man!


The discussion is going to begin again!


No, no; I go, I depart! I believe in you, and I would have all the merit of my devotion, even if that devotion were stupidity. Adieu, madame, adieu!


Poor Athos! he will never guess what all this means. He will have fallen asleep waiting for me, or else he will have returned home, where he will have learned that a woman had been there. A woman with Athos! After all, there was certainly one with Aramis. All this is very strange; and I am curious to know how it will end.


Badly, monsieur, badly!


How, badly? What do you mean by that, you idiot? What has happened?


All sorts of misfortunes.


What?


In the first place, Monsieur Athos is arrested.


Arrested! Athos arrested! What for?


He was found in your lodging; they took him for you.


And by whom was he arrested?


By Guards brought by the men in black whom you put to flight.


Why did he not tell them his name? Why did he not tell them he knew nothing about this affair?


He took care not to do so, monsieur; on the contrary, he came up to me and said,


It is your master that needs his liberty at this moment and not I, since he knows everything and I know nothing. They will believe he is arrested, and that will give him time; in three days I will tell them who I am, and they cannot fail to let me go.


Bravo, Athos! Noble heart! I know him well there! And what did the officers do?


Four conveyed him away, I don’t know where—to the Bastille or Fort l’Evêque. Two remained with the men in black, who rummaged every place and took all the papers. The last two mounted guard at the door during this examination; then, when all was over, they went away, leaving the house empty and exposed.


And Porthos and Aramis?


I could not find them; they did not come.


But they may come any moment, for you left word that I awaited them?


Yes, monsieur.


Well, don’t budge, then; if they come, tell them what has happened. Let them wait for me at the Pomme-de-Pin. Here it would be dangerous; the house may be watched. I will run to Monsieur de Tréville to tell them all this, and will meet them there.


Very well, monsieur,


But you will remain; you are not afraid?


Be easy, monsieur, you do not know me yet. I am brave when I set about it. It is all in beginning. Besides, I am a Picard.


Then it is understood, you would rather be killed than desert your post?


Yes, monsieur; and there is nothing I would not do to prove to Monsieur that I am attached to him.


Good! It appears that the method I have adopted with this boy is decidedly the best. I shall use it again upon occasion.


What do you want, monsieur?


It is not Aramis!


No, monsieur, it is not Aramis; and by your exclamation I perceive you have mistaken me for another, and pardon you.


You pardon me?


Yes. Allow me, then, to pass on, since it is not with me you have anything to do.


You are right, monsieur, it is not with you that I have anything to do; it is with Madame.


With Madame! You do not know her,


You are deceived, monsieur; I know her very well.


Ah, monsieur, I had your promise as a soldier and your word as a gentleman. I hoped to be able to rely upon that.


And I, madame! you promised me—


Take my arm, madame, and let us continue our way.


In the name of heaven, my Lord!


my Lord! my Lord! Pardon me, monsieur, but you are not—


and now you may ruin us all.


My Lord, Madame, I ask a hundred pardons! But I love her, my Lord, and was jealous. You know what it is to love, my Lord. Pardon me, and then tell me how I can risk my life to serve your Grace?


You are a brave young man. Follow us at a distance of twenty paces, as far as the Louvre, and if anyone watches us, slay him!


Remain here, my Lord Duke; someone will come.


Duke, you already know that it is not I who caused you to be written to. Yes, yes, madame! Yes, your Majesty! I know that I must have been mad, senseless, to believe that snow would become animated or marble warm; but what then! They who love believe easily in love. Besides, I have lost nothing by this journey because I see you.


Yes, but you know why and how I see you; because, insensible to all my sufferings, you persist in remaining in a city where, by remaining, you run the risk of your life, and make me run the risk of my honor. I see you to tell you that everything separates us—the depths of the sea, the enmity of kingdoms, the sanctity of vows. It is sacrilege to struggle against so many things, my Lord. In short, I see you to tell you that we must never see each other again.


Speak on, madame, speak on, Queen, the sweetness of your voice covers the harshness of your words. You talk of sacrilege! Why, the sacrilege is the separation of two hearts formed by God for each other.


My Lord, you forget that I have never said that I love you.


But you have never told me that you did not love me; and truly, to speak such words to me would be, on the part of your Majesty, too great an ingratitude. For tell me, where can you find a love like mine—a love which neither time, nor absence, nor despair can extinguish, a love which contents itself with a lost ribbon, a stray look, or a chance word? It is now three years, madame, since I saw you for the first time, and during those three years I have loved you thus. Shall I tell you each ornament of your toilet? Mark! I see you now. You were seated upon cushions in the Spanish fashion; you wore a robe of green satin embroidered with gold and silver, hanging sleeves knotted upon your beautiful arms—those lovely arms—with large diamonds. You wore a close ruff, a small cap upon your head of the same color as your robe, and in that cap a heron’s feather. Hold! Hold! I shut my eyes, and I can see you as you then were; I open them again, and I see what you are now—a hundred times more beautiful!


What folly, what folly to feed a useless passion with such remembrances!


And upon what then must I live? I have nothing but memory. It is my happiness, my treasure, my hope. Every time I see you is a fresh diamond which I enclose in the casket of my heart. This is the fourth which you have let fall and I have picked up; for in three years, madame, I have only seen you four times—the first, which I have described to you; the second, at the mansion of Madame de Chevreuse; the third, in the gardens of Amiens.


Duke, never speak of that evening.


Oh, let us speak of it; on the contrary, let us speak of it! That is the most happy and brilliant evening of my life! You remember what a beautiful night it was? How soft and perfumed was the air; how lovely the blue heavens and star-enameled sky! Ah, then, madame, I was able for one instant to be alone with you. Then you were about to tell me all—the isolation of your life, the griefs of your heart. You leaned upon my arm—upon this, madame! I felt, in bending my head toward you, your beautiful hair touch my cheek; and every time that it touched me I trembled from head to foot. Oh, Queen! Queen! You do not know what felicity from heaven, what joys from paradise, are comprised in a moment like that. Take my wealth, my fortune, my glory, all the days I have to live, for such an instant, for a night like that. For that night, madame, that night you loved me, I will swear it.


My Lord, yes; it is possible that the influence of the place, the charm of the beautiful evening, the fascination of your look—the thousand circumstances, in short, which sometimes unite to destroy a woman—were grouped around me on that fatal evening; but, my Lord, you saw the queen come to the aid of the woman who faltered. At the first word you dared to utter, at the first freedom to which I had to reply, I called for help.


Yes, yes, that is true. And any other love but mine would have sunk beneath this ordeal; but my love came out from it more ardent and more eternal. You believed that you would fly from me by returning to Paris; you believed that I would not dare to quit the treasure over which my master had charged me to watch. What to me were all the treasures in the world, or all the kings of the earth! Eight days after, I was back again, madame. That time you had nothing to say to me; I had risked my life and favor to see you but for a second. I did not even touch your hand, and you pardoned me on seeing me so submissive and so repentant.


Yes, but calumny seized upon all those follies in which I took no part, as you well know, my Lord. The king, excited by the cardinal, made a terrible clamor. Madame de Vernet was driven from me, Putange was exiled, Madame de Chevreuse fell into disgrace, and when you wished to come back as ambassador to France, the king himself—remember, my lord—the king himself opposed it.


Yes, and France is about to pay for her king’s refusal with a war. I am not allowed to see you, madame, but you shall every day hear of me. What object, think you, have this expedition to Ré and this league with the Protestants of La Rochelle which I am projecting? The pleasure of seeing you. I have no hope of penetrating, sword in hand, to Paris, I know that well. But this war may bring round a peace; this peace will require a negotiator; that negotiator will be me. They will not dare to refuse me then; and I will return to Paris, and will see you again, and will be happy for an instant. Thousands of men, it is true, will have to pay for my happiness with their lives; but what is that to me, provided I see you again! All this is perhaps folly—perhaps insanity; but tell me what woman has a lover more truly in love; what queen a servant more ardent?


My Lord, my Lord, you invoke in your defense things which accuse you more strongly. All these proofs of love which you would give me are almost crimes.


Because you do not love me, madame! If you loved me, you would view all this otherwise. If you loved me, oh, if you loved me, that would be too great happiness, and I should run mad. Ah, Madame de Chevreuse was less cruel than you. Holland loved her, and she responded to his love.


Madame de Chevreuse was not queen,


You would love me, then, if you were not queen! Madame, say that you would love me then! I can believe that it is the dignity of your rank alone which makes you cruel to me; I can believe that, had you been Madame de Chevreuse, poor Buckingham might have hoped. Thanks for those sweet words! Oh, my beautiful sovereign, a hundred times, thanks!


Oh, my Lord! You have ill understood, wrongly interpreted; I did not mean to say—