Silence, silence! If I am happy in an error, do not have the cruelty to lift me from it. You have told me yourself, madame, that I have been drawn into a snare; I, perhaps, may leave my life in it—for, although it may be strange, I have for some time had a presentiment that I should shortly die.


Oh, my God!


I do not tell you this, madame, to terrify you; no, it is even ridiculous for me to name it to you, and, believe me, I take no heed of such dreams. But the words you have just spoken, the hope you have almost given me, will have richly paid all—were it my life.


I also, duke, have had presentiments; I also have had dreams. I dreamed that I saw you lying bleeding, wounded.


In the left side, was it not, and with a knife?


Yes, it was so, my Lord, it was so—in the left side, and with a knife. Who can possibly have told you I had had that dream? I have imparted it to no one but my God, and that in my prayers.


I ask for no more. You love me, madame; it is enough.


I love you, I?


Yes, yes. Would God send the same dreams to you as to me if you did not love me? Should we have the same presentiments if our existences did not touch at the heart? You love me, my beautiful queen, and you will weep for me?


Oh, my God, my God! this is more than I can bear. In the name of heaven, Duke, leave me, go! I do not know whether I love you or love you not; but what I know is that I will not be perjured. Take pity on me, then, and go! Oh, if you are struck in France, if you die in France, if I could imagine that your love for me was the cause of your death, I could not console myself; I should run mad. Depart then, depart, I implore you!


Oh, how beautiful you are thus! Oh, how I love you!


Go, go, I implore you, and return hereafter! Come back as ambassador, come back as minister, come back surrounded with guards who will defend you, with servants who will watch over you, and then I shall no longer fear for your days, and I shall be happy in seeing you.


Oh, is this true what you say?


Yes.


Oh, then, some pledge of your indulgence, some object which came from you, and may remind me that I have not been dreaming; something you have worn, and that I may wear in my turn—a ring, a necklace, a chain.


Will you depart—will you depart, if I give you that you demand?


This very instant?


You will leave France, you will return to England?


I will, I swear to you.


Wait, then, wait. Here, my Lord, here, keep this in memory of me. You have promised me to go,


And I keep my word. Your hand, madame, your hand, and I depart! Within six months, if I am not dead, I shall have seen you again, madame—even if I have to overturn the world.


But, Monsieur Commissary, believe that I know and appreciate, more than anybody, the merit of the incomparable eminence by whom we have the honor to be governed.


Indeed?


How I came there, or rather why I am there, that is entirely impossible for me to tell you, because I don’t know myself; but to a certainty it is not for having, knowingly at least, disobliged Monsieur the Cardinal.


Of high treason! you have a wife?


Yes, monsieur, that is to say,


What, you ‘had one’? What have you done with her, then, if you have her no longer?


They have abducted her, monsieur.


They have abducted her? Ah!


I think I know him.


Who is he?


Remember that I affirm nothing, Monsieur the Commissary, and that I only suspect.


Whom do you suspect? Come, answer freely.


a tall, dark man, of lofty carriage, who has the air of a great lord. He has followed us several times, as I think, when I have waited for my wife at the wicket of the Louvre to escort her home.


And his name?


Oh, as to his name, I know nothing about it; but if I were ever to meet him, I should recognize him in an instant, I will answer for it, were he among a thousand persons.


You should recognize him among a thousand, say you? You have answered that you should recognize him


But I have not told you that I know him!


Take away the prisoner,


Where must we place him?


In a dungeon.


Which?


Good Lord! In the first one handy, provided it is safe,


Alas, alas! misfortune is over my head; my wife must have committed some frightful crime. They believe me her accomplice, and will punish me with her. She must have spoken; she must have confessed everything—a woman is so weak! A dungeon! The first he comes to! That’s it! A night is soon passed; and tomorrow to the wheel, to the gallows! Oh, my God, my God, have pity on me!


Your affair has become more complicated since yesterday evening, my good man, and I advise you to tell the whole truth; for your repentance alone can remove the anger of the cardinal.


Why, I am ready to tell everything,


Where is your wife, in the first place?


Why, did not I tell you she had been stolen from me?


Yes, but yesterday at five o’clock in the afternoon, thanks to you, she escaped.


My wife escaped!


What business had you, then, to go into the chamber of Monsieur d’Artagnan, your neighbor, with whom you had a long conference during the day?


Ah, yes, Monsieur Commissary; yes, that is true, and I confess that I was in the wrong. I did go to Monsieur d’Artagnan’s.


What was the aim of that visit?


To beg him to assist me in finding my wife. I believed I had a right to endeavor to find her. I was deceived, as it appears, and I ask your pardon.


And what did Monsieur d’Artagnan reply?


Monsieur d’Artagnan promised me his assistance; but I soon found out that he was betraying me.


You impose upon justice. Monsieur d’Artagnan made a compact with you; and in virtue of that compact put to flight the police who had arrested your wife, and has placed her beyond reach.


M. d’Artagnan has abducted my wife! Come now, what are you telling me?


Fortunately, Monsieur d’Artagnan is in our hands, and you shall be confronted with him.


By my faith, I ask no better. I shall not be sorry to see the face of an acquaintance.


Bring in the Monsieur d’Artagnan,


declare all that passed yesterday between you and Monsieur.


But, this is not Monsieur d’Artagnan whom you show me.


What! Not Monsieur d’Artagnan?


Not the least in the world,


What is this gentleman’s name?


I cannot tell you; I don’t know him.


How! You don’t know him?


No.


Did you never see him?


Yes, I have seen him, but I don’t know what he calls himself.


Your name?


Athos. That is my name,


But you said that your name was D’Artagnan.


Who, I?


Yes, you.


Somebody said to me, ‘You are Monsieur d’Artagnan?’ I answered, ‘You think so?’ My guards exclaimed that they were sure of it. I did not wish to contradict them; besides, I might be deceived.


Monsieur, you insult the majesty of justice.


Not at all,


You are Monsieur d’Artagnan.


You see, monsieur, that you say it again.


But I tell you, Monsieur Commissary, there is not the least doubt about the matter. Monsieur d’Artagnan is my tenant, although he does not pay me my rent—and even better on that account ought I to know him. Monsieur d’Artagnan is a young man, scarcely nineteen or twenty, and this gentleman must be thirty at least. Monsieur d’Artagnan is in Monsieur Dessessart’s Guards, and this gentleman is in the company of Monsieur de Tréville’s Musketeers. Look at his uniform, Monsieur Commissary, look at his uniform!


That’s true,


pardieu, that’s true.


Oh, unhappy woman!


How? What do you say? Of whom do you speak? It is not of my wife, I hope!


On the contrary, it is of her. Yours is a pretty business.


But, do me the pleasure, monsieur, to tell me how my own proper affair can become worse by anything my wife does while I am in prison?


Because that which she does is part of a plan concerted between you—of an infernal plan.


I swear to you, Monsieur Commissary, that you are in the profoundest error, that I know nothing in the world about what my wife had to do, that I am entirely a stranger to what she has done; and that if she has committed any follies, I renounce her, I abjure her, I curse her!


Bah! if you have no more need of me, send me somewhere. Your Monsieur Bonacieux is very tiresome. And yet, if it be Monsieur d’Artagnan who is concerned in this matter, I do not perceive how I can take his place.


Do as I bade you,


and preserve absolute secrecy. You understand!


Follow me,


Follow you! follow you at this hour! Where, my God?


Where we have orders to lead you.


But that is not an answer.


It is, nevertheless, the only one we can give.


Ah, my God, my God! now, indeed, I am lost!


Is your name Bonacieux?


Yes, Monsieur Officer, at your service.


Come in,


Is this that Bonacieux?


Yes, monseigneur,


That’s well. Give me those papers, and leave us.


You are accused of high treason,


So I have been told already, monseigneur, but I swear to you that I know nothing about it.


You have conspired with your wife, with Madame de Chevreuse, and with my Lord Duke of Buckingham.


Indeed, monseigneur. I have heard her pronounce all those names.


And on what occasion?


She said that the Cardinal de Richelieu had drawn the Duke of Buckingham to Paris to ruin him and to ruin the queen.


She said that?


Yes, monseigneur, but I told her she was wrong to talk about such things; and that his Eminence was incapable—


Hold your tongue! You are stupid,


That’s exactly what my wife said, monseigneur.


Do you know who carried off your wife?


No, monseigneur.


You have suspicions, nevertheless?


Yes, monseigneur; but these suspicions appeared to be disagreeable to Monsieur the Commissary, and I no longer have them.


Your wife has escaped. Did you know that?


No, monseigneur. I learned it since I have been in prison, and that from the conversation of Monsieur the Commissary—an amiable man.


Then you are ignorant of what has become of your wife since her flight.


Absolutely, monseigneur; but she has most likely returned to the Louvre.


At one o’clock this morning she had not returned.


My God! What can have become of her, then?


We shall know, be assured. Nothing is concealed from the cardinal; the cardinal knows everything.


In that case, monseigneur, do you believe the cardinal will be so kind as to tell me what has become of my wife?


Perhaps he may; but you must, in the first place, reveal to the cardinal all you know of your wife’s relations with Madame de Chevreuse.


But, monseigneur, I know nothing about them; I have never seen her.


When you went to fetch your wife from the Louvre, did you always return directly home?


Scarcely ever; she had business to transact with linen drapers, to whose houses I conducted her.


And how many were there of these linen drapers?


Two, monseigneur.


And where did they live?


One in Rue de Vaugirard, the other Rue de la Harpe.


Did you go into these houses with her?


Never, monseigneur; I waited at the door.


And what excuse did she give you for entering all alone?


She gave me none; she told me to wait, and I waited.


You are a very complacent husband, my dear Monsieur Bonacieux,


He calls me his dear Monsieur. Peste! Matters are going all right.


Should you know those doors again?


Yes.


Do you know the numbers?


What are they?


No. 25 in the Rue de Vaugirard; 75 in the Rue de la Harpe.


That’s well,


Go,


and find Rochefort. Tell him to come to me immediately, if he has returned.


The count is here,


and requests to speak with your Eminence instantly.


Let him come in, then!


It is he!


He! What he?


The man who abducted my wife. No, monseigneur, no, it is not he! no, I was deceived. This is quite another man, and does not resemble him at all. Monsieur is, I am sure, an honest man.


Take away that fool!


They have seen each other;


Who?


He and she.


The queen and the duke?


Yes.


Where?


At the Louvre.


Are you sure of it?


Perfectly sure.


Who told you of it?


Madame de Lannoy, who is devoted to your Eminence, as you know.


Why did she not let me know sooner?


Whether by chance or mistrust, the queen made Madame de Surgis sleep in her chamber, and detained her all day.


Well, we are beaten! Now let us try to take our revenge.


I will assist you with all my heart, monseigneur; be assured of that.


How did it come about?


At half past twelve the queen was with her women—


In her bedchamber—


Go on.


When someone came and brought her a handkerchief from her laundress.


And then?


The queen immediately exhibited strong emotion; and despite the rouge with which her face was covered evidently turned pale—


And then, and then?


She then arose, and with altered voice, ‘Ladies,’ said she, ‘wait for me ten minutes, I shall soon return.’ She then opened the door of her alcove, and went out.


Why did not Madame de Lannoy come and inform you instantly?


Nothing was certain; besides, her Majesty had said, ‘Ladies, wait for me,’ and she did not dare to disobey the queen.


How long did the queen remain out of the chamber?


Three-quarters of an hour.


None of her women accompanied her?


Only Donna Estafania.


Did she afterward return?


Yes; but only to take a little rosewood casket, with her cipher upon it, and went out again immediately.


And when she finally returned, did she bring that casket with her?


No.


Does Madame de Lannoy know what was in that casket?


Yes; the diamond studs which his Majesty gave the queen.


And she came back without this casket?


Yes.


Madame de Lannoy, then, is of opinion that she gave them to Buckingham?


She is sure of it.


How can she be so?


In the course of the day Madame de Lannoy, in her quality of tire-woman of the queen, looked for this casket, appeared uneasy at not finding it, and at length asked information of the queen.


And then the queen?


The queen became exceedingly red, and replied that having in the evening broken one of those studs, she had sent it to her goldsmith to be repaired.


He must be called upon, and so ascertain if the thing be true or not.


I have just been with him.


And the goldsmith?


The goldsmith has heard nothing of it.


Well, well! Rochefort, all is not lost; and perhaps—perhaps everything is for the best.


The fact is that I do not doubt your Eminence’s genius—


Will repair the blunders of his agent—is that it?


That is exactly what I was going to say, if your Eminence had let me finish my sentence.


Meanwhile, do you know where the Duchesse de Chevreuse and the Duke of Buckingham are now concealed?


No, monseigneur; my people could tell me nothing on that head.


But I know.


You, monseigneur?


Yes; or at least I guess. They were, one in the Rue de Vaugirard, No. 25; the other in the Rue de la Harpe, No. 75.


Does your Eminence command that they both be instantly arrested?


It will be too late; they will be gone.


But still, we can make sure that they are so.


Take ten men of my Guardsmen, and search the two houses thoroughly.


Instantly, monseigneur.


Bring the prisoner in again. You have deceived me!


I. I deceive your Eminence!


Your wife, in going to Rue de Vaugirard and Rue de la Harpe, did not go to find linen drapers.


Then why did she go, just God?


She went to meet the Duchesse de Chevreuse and the Duke of Buckingham.


Yes, yes, that’s it. Your Eminence is right. I told my wife several times that it was surprising that linen drapers should live in such houses as those, in houses that had no signs; but she always laughed at me. Ah, monseigneur! ah, how truly you are the cardinal, the great cardinal, the man of genius whom all the world reveres!


Rise, my friend, you are a worthy man.


The cardinal has touched me with his hand! I have touched the hand of the great man! The great man has called me his friend!


Yes, my friend, yes, and as you have been unjustly suspected, well, you must be indemnified. Here, take this purse of a hundred pistoles, and pardon me.


I pardon you, monseigneur! But you are able to have me arrested, you are able to have me tortured, you are able to have me hanged; you are the master, and I could not have the least word to say. Pardon you, monseigneur! You cannot mean that!


Ah, my dear Monsieur Bonacieux, you are generous in this matter. I see it and I thank you for it. Thus, then, you will take this bag, and you will go away without being too malcontent.


I go away enchanted.


Farewell, then, or rather, au revoir, for I hope we shall meet again.


Whenever Monseigneur wishes, I am always at at his Eminence’s orders.


That will be frequently, I assure you, for I have found something extremely agreeable in your conversation.


Oh! Monseigneur!


Au revoir, Monsieur Bonacieux, au revoir!


Long life to the Monseigneur! Long life to his Eminence! Long life to the great cardinal!


Good! that man would henceforward lay down his life for me. Well?


Well, a young woman of about twenty-six or twenty-eight years of age, and a man of from thirty-five to forty, have indeed lodged at the two houses pointed out by your Eminence; but the woman left last night, and the man this morning.


It was they! and now it is too late to have them pursued. The duchess is at Tours, and the duke at Boulogne. It is in London they must be found.


What are your Eminence’s orders?


Not a word of what has passed. Let the queen remain in perfect security; let her be ignorant that we know her secret. Let her believe that we are in search of some conspiracy or other. Send me the keeper of the seals, Séguier.


And that man, what has your Eminence done with him?


What man?


That Bonacieux.


I have done with him all that could be done. I have made him a spy upon his wife. Tell Vitray to come to me, and tell him to get ready for a journey. Vitray, you will go with all speed to London. You must not stop an instant on the way. You will deliver this letter to Milady. Here is an order for two hundred pistoles; call upon my treasurer and get the money. You shall have as much again if you are back within six days, and have executed your commission well.


Twenty witnesses, could attest the fact


You arrive in good time, monsieur. I have learned some fine things concerning your Musketeers.


And I. I have some pretty things to tell your Majesty concerning these gownsmen.


What?


I have the honor to inform your Majesty, that a party of procureurs, commissaries, and men of the police—very estimable people, but very inveterate, as it appears, against the uniform—have taken upon themselves to arrest in a house, to lead away through the open street, and throw into Fort l’Evêque, all upon an order which they have refused to show me, one of my, or rather your Musketeers, sire, of irreproachable conduct, of an almost illustrious reputation, and whom your Majesty knows favorably, Monsieur Athos.


Athos, yes, certainly I know that name.


Let your Majesty remember, that Monsieur Athos is the Musketeer who, in the annoying duel which you are acquainted with, had the misfortune to wound Monsieur de Cahusac so seriously. A propos, monseigneur. Monsieur de Cahusac is quite recovered, is he not?


Thank you,


Athos, then, went to pay a visit to one of his friends absent at the time,


And the next day, Bernajoux. Yes, sire, yes, it is the same; and your Majesty has a good memory.


Come, how shall we decide?


That concerns your Majesty more than me. I should affirm the culpability.


And I deny it. But his Majesty has judges, and these judges will decide.


That is best. Send the case before the judges; it is their business to judge, and they shall judge.


Only, it is a sad thing that in the unfortunate times in which we live, the purest life, the most incontestable virtue, cannot exempt a man from infamy and persecution. The army, I will answer for it, will be but little pleased at being exposed to rigorous treatment on account of police affairs.


Police affairs! police affairs! And what do you know about them, Monsieur? Meddle with your Musketeers, and do not annoy me in this way. It appears, according to your account, that if by mischance a Musketeer is arrested, France is in danger. What a noise about a Musketeer! I would arrest ten of them, ventrebleu, a hundred, even, all the company, and I would not allow a whisper.


From the moment they are suspected by your Majesty, the Musketeers are guilty; therefore, you see me prepared to surrender my sword—for after having accused my soldiers, there can be no doubt that Monsieur the Cardinal will end by accusing me. It is best to constitute myself at once a prisoner with Athos, who is already arrested, and with D’Artagnan, who most probably will be.


Gascon-headed man, will you have done?


Sire, either order my Musketeer to be restored to me, or let him be tried.


He shall be tried,


Well, so much the better; for in that case I shall demand of his Majesty permission to plead for him.


If his Eminence, did not have personal motives—


Pardon me, but the instant your Majesty considers me a prejudiced judge, I withdraw.


Come, will you swear, by my father, that Athos was at your residence during the event and that he took no part in it?


By your glorious father, and by yourself, whom I love and venerate above all the world, I swear it.


Be so kind as to reflect, sire. If we release the prisoner thus, we shall never know the truth.


Athos may always be found, ready to answer, when it shall please the gownsmen to interrogate him. He will not desert, Monsieur the Cardinal, be assured of that; I will answer for him.


No, he will not desert, he can always be found, as Tréville says. Besides, let us give them apparent security; that is policy.


Order it as you please, sire; you possess the right of pardon.


The right of pardoning only applies to the guilty, and my Musketeer is innocent. It is not mercy, then, that you are about to accord, sire, it is justice.


And he is in the Fort l’Evêque?


Yes, sire, in solitary confinement, in a dungeon, like the lowest criminal.


The devil! what must be done?


Sign an order for his release, and all will be said. I believe with your Majesty that Monsieur de Tréville’s guarantee is more than sufficient. A perfect harmony reigns, sire, between the leaders and the soldiers of your Musketeers, which must be profitable for the service and honorable to all.


He will play me some dog’s trick or other, and that immediately. One has never the last word with such a man. But let us be quick—the king may change his mind in an hour; and at all events it is more difficult to replace a man in the Fort l’Evêque or the Bastille who has got out, than to keep a prisoner there who is in. You have come off well, there is your Jussac thrust paid for. There still remains that of Bernajoux, but you must not be too confident.


Now that we are at length by ourselves, we will, if your Majesty pleases, converse seriously. Sire, Buckingham has been in Paris five days, and only left this morning.


Buckingham in Paris! and why does he come?


To conspire, no doubt, with your enemies, the Huguenots and the Spaniards.


No, pardieu, no! To conspire against my honor with Madame de Chevreuse, Madame de Longueville, and the Condés.


Oh, sire, what an idea! The queen is too virtuous; and besides, loves your Majesty too well.


Woman is weak, Monsieur Cardinal, and as to loving me much, I have my own opinion as to that love.


I not the less maintain, that the Duke of Buckingham came to Paris for a project wholly political.


And I am sure that he came for quite another purpose, Monsieur Cardinal; but if the queen be guilty, let her tremble!


Indeed, whatever repugnance I may have to directing my mind to such a treason, your Majesty compels me to think of it. Madame de Lannoy, whom, according to your Majesty’s command, I have frequently interrogated, told me this morning that the night before last her Majesty sat up very late, that this morning she wept much, and that she was writing all day.


That’s it! to him, no doubt. Cardinal, I must have the queen’s papers.


But how to take them, sire? It seems to me that it is neither your Majesty nor myself who can charge himself with such a mission.


How did they act with regard to the Maréchale d’Ancre? first her closets were thoroughly searched, and then she herself.


The Maréchale d’Ancre was no more than the Maréchale d’Ancre. A Florentine adventurer, sire, and that was all; while the august spouse of your Majesty is Anne of Austria, Queen of France—that is to say, one of the greatest princesses in the world.


She is not the less guilty, Monsieur Duke! The more she has forgotten the high position in which she was placed, the more degrading is her fall. Besides, I long ago determined to put an end to all these petty intrigues of policy and love. She has near her a certain Laporte.


Who, I believe, is the mainspring of all this, I confess,


You think then, as I do, that she deceives me?


I believe, and I repeat it to your Majesty, that the queen conspires against the power of the king, but I have not said against his honor.


And I—I tell you against both. I tell you the queen does not love me; I tell you she loves another; I tell you she loves that infamous Buckingham! Why did you not have him arrested while in Paris?


Arrest the Duke! Arrest the prime minister of King Charles I.! Think of it, sire! What a scandal! And if the suspicions of your Majesty, which I still continue to doubt, should prove to have any foundation, what a terrible disclosure, what a fearful scandal!


But as he exposed himself like a vagabond or a thief, he should have been—


He should have been—?


Nothing, nothing. But all the time he was in Paris, you, of course, did not lose sight of him?


No, sire.


Where did he lodge?


Rue de la Harpe. No. 75.


Where is that?


By the side of the Luxembourg.


And you are certain that the queen and he did not see each other?


I believe the queen to have too high a sense of her duty, sire.


But they have corresponded; it is to him that the queen has been writing all the day. Monsieur Duke, I must have those letters!


Sire, notwithstanding—


Monsieur Duke, at whatever price it may be, I will have them.


I would, however, beg your Majesty to observe—


Do you, then, also join in betraying me, Monsieur Cardinal, by thus always opposing my will? Are you also in accord with Spain and England, with Madame de Chevreuse and the queen?


Sire. I believed myself secure from such a suspicion.


Monsieur Cardinal, you have heard me; I will have those letters.


There is but one way.


What is that?


That would be to charge Monsieur de Séguier, the keeper of the seals, with this mission. The matter enters completely into the duties of the post.


Let him be sent for instantly.


He is most likely at my hôtel. I requested him to call, and when I came to the Louvre I left orders if he came, to desire him to wait.


Your Majesty’s orders shall be executed; but—


But what?


But the queen will perhaps refuse to obey.


My orders?


Yes, if she is ignorant that these orders come from the king.


Well, that she may have no doubt on that head, I will go and inform her myself.


Your Majesty will not forget that I have done everything in my power to prevent a rupture.


Yes, Duke, yes, I know you are very indulgent toward the queen, too indulgent, perhaps; we shall have occasion, I warn you, at some future period to speak of that.


Whenever it shall please your Majesty; but I shall be always happy and proud, sire, to sacrifice myself to the harmony which I desire to see reign between you and the Queen of France.


Very well, Cardinal, very well; but, meantime, send for Monsieur the Keeper of the Seals. I will go to the queen.


Madame, you are about to receive a visit from the chancellor, who will communicate certain matters to you with which I have charged him.


But why this visit, sire? What can the chancellor have to say to me that your Majesty could not say yourself?


What do you desire, monsieur, and with what object do you present yourself here?


To make, madame, in the name of the king, and without prejudice to the respect which I have the honor to owe to your Majesty a close examination into all your papers.


How, monsieur, an investigation of my papers—mine! Truly, this is an indignity!


Be kind enough to pardon me, madame; but in this circumstance I am but the instrument which the king employs. Has not his Majesty just left you, and has he not himself asked you to prepare for this visit?


Search, then, monsieur! I am a criminal, as it appears. Estafania, give up the keys of my drawers and my desks.


And now it remains for me to make the principal examination.


What is that?


His majesty is certain that a letter has been written by you during the day; he knows that it has not yet been sent to its address. This letter is not in your table nor in your secretary; and yet this letter must be somewhere.


Would you dare to lift your hand to your queen?


I am a faithful subject of the king, madame, and all that his Majesty commands I shall do.


Well, it is true! and the spies of the cardinal have served him faithfully. I have written a letter today; that letter is not yet gone. The letter is here.


Then give me that letter, madame,


I will give it to none but the king, monsieur,


If the king had desired that the letter should be given to him, madame, he would have demanded it of you himself. But I repeat to you, I am charged with reclaiming it; and if you do not give it up—


Well?


He has, then, charged me to take it from you.


How! What do you say?


That my orders go far, madame; and that I am authorized to seek for the suspected paper, even on the person of your Majesty.


What horror!


Be kind enough, then, madame, to act more compliantly.


The conduct is infamously violent! Do you know that, monsieur?


The king commands it, madame; excuse me.


I will not suffer it! No, no, I would rather die!


There, monsieur, there is that letter! take it, and deliver me from your odious presence.


There, Duke,


you were right and I was wrong. The whole intrigue is political, and there is not the least question of love in this letter; but, on the other hand, there is abundant question of you.


Well, your Majesty,


you see how far my enemies go; they menace you with two wars if you do not dismiss me. In your place, in truth, sire, I should yield to such powerful instance; and on my part, it would be a real happiness to withdraw from public affairs.


What say you, Duke?


I say, sire, that my health is sinking under these excessive struggles and these never-ending labors. I say that according to all probability I shall not be able to undergo the fatigues of the siege of La Rochelle, and that it would be far better that you should appoint there either Monsieur de Condé, Monsieur de Bassopierre, or some valiant gentleman whose business is war, and not me, who am a churchman, and who am constantly turned aside for my real vocation to look after matters for which I have no aptitude. You would be the happier for it at home, sire, and I do not doubt you would be the greater for it abroad.


Monsieur Duke,


I understand you. Be satisfied, all who are named in that letter shall be punished as they deserve, even the queen herself.


What do you say, sire? God forbid that the queen should suffer the least inconvenience or uneasiness on my account! She has always believed me, sire, to be her enemy; although your Majesty can bear witness that I have always taken her part warmly, even against you. Oh, if she betrayed your Majesty on the side of your honor, it would be quite another thing, and I should be the first to say, ‘No grace, sire—no grace for the guilty!’ Happily, there is nothing of the kind, and your Majesty has just acquired a new proof of it.


That is true, Monsieur Cardinal,


and you were right, as you always are; but the queen, not the less, deserves all my anger.


It is you, sire, who have now incurred hers. And even if she were to be seriously offended, I could well understand it; your Majesty has treated her with a severity—


It is thus I will always treat my enemies and yours, Duke, however high they may be placed, and whatever peril I may incur in acting severely toward them.


The queen is my enemy, but is not yours, sire; on the contrary, she is a devoted, submissive, and irreproachable wife. Allow me, then, sire, to intercede for her with your Majesty.


Let her humble herself, then, and come to me first.


On the contrary, sire, set the example. You have committed the first wrong, since it was you who suspected the queen.


What! I make the first advances?


Never!


Sire, I entreat you to do so.


Besides, in what manner can I make advances first?


By doing a thing which you know will be agreeable to her.


What is that?


Give a ball; you know how much the queen loves dancing. I will answer for it, her resentment will not hold out against such an attention.


Monsieur Cardinal, you know that I do not like worldly pleasures.


The queen will only be the more grateful to you, as she knows your antipathy for that amusement; besides, it will be an opportunity for her to wear those beautiful diamonds which you gave her recently on her birthday and with which she has since had no occasion to adorn herself.


We shall see, Monsieur Cardinal, we shall see,


but upon my honor, you are too indulgent toward her.


Sire,


leave severity to your ministers. Clemency is a royal virtue; employ it, and you will find that you derive advantage therein.


But,


sire, you do not tell me all that you have in your heart. What have I done, then? Let me know what crime I have committed. It is impossible that your Majesty can make all this ado about a letter written to my brother.


Madame,


there will shortly be a ball at the Hôtel de Ville. I wish, in order to honor our worthy aldermen, you should appear in ceremonial costume, and above all, ornamented with the diamond studs which I gave you on your birthday. That is my answer.


You hear, madame,


You hear, madame?


Yes, sire, I hear,


You will appear at this ball?


Yes.


With those studs?


It was the cardinal, then, who informed you of this fête?


Yes, madame,


but why do you ask that?


It was he who told you to invite me to appear with these studs?


That is to say, madame—


It was he, sire, it was he!


Well, and what does it signify whether it was he or I? Is there any crime in this request?


No, sire.


Then you will appear?


Yes, sire.


That is well,


that is well; I count upon it.


I am lost,


lost!—for the cardinal knows all, and it is he who urges on the king, who as yet knows nothing but will soon know everything. I am lost! My God, my God, my God!


Can I be of service to your Majesty?


Oh, fear nothing, madame! I am your Majesty’s, body and soul, and however far I may be from you, however inferior may be my position, I believe I have discovered a means of extricating your Majesty from your trouble. You, oh, heaven, you! but look me in the face. I am betrayed on all sides. Can I trust in you?


Oh, madame!


upon my soul, I am ready to die for your Majesty!


yes, there are traitors here; but by the holy name of the Virgin, I swear that no one is more devoted to your Majesty than I am. Those studs which the king speaks of, you gave them to the Duke of Buckingham, did you not? Those studs were enclosed in a little rosewood box which he held under his arm? Am I deceived? Is it not so, madame?


Oh, my God, my God!


Well, those studs,


we must have them back again.


Yes, without doubt, it is necessary, but how am I to act? How can it be effected?


Someone must be sent to the duke.


But who, who? In whom can I trust?


Place confidence in me, madame; do me that honor, my queen, and I will find a messenger.


But I must write.


Oh, yes; that is indispensable. Two words from the hand of your Majesty and your private seal.


But these two words would bring about my condemnation, divorce, exile!


Yes, if they fell into infamous hands. But I will answer for these two words being delivered to their address.


Oh, my God! I must then place my life, my honor, my reputation, in your hands?


Yes, yes, madame, you must; and I will save them all.


But how? Tell me at least the means.


My husband had been at liberty these two or three days. I have not yet had time to see him again. He is a worthy, honest man who entertains neither love nor hatred for anybody. He will do anything I wish. He will set out upon receiving an order from me, without knowing what he carries, and he will carry your Majesty’s letter, without even knowing it is from your Majesty, to the address which is on it.


Do that, and you will have saved my life, you will have saved my honor!


Do not exaggerate the service I have the happiness to render your Majesty. I have nothing to save for your Majesty; you are only the victim of perfidious plots.


That is true, that is true, my child, you are right.


Give me then, that letter, madame; time presses.


And now, we are forgetting one very necessary thing.


What is that, madame?


Money.


Yes, that is true, and I will confess to your Majesty that my husband—


Your husband has none. Is that what you would say?


He has some, but he is very avaricious; that is his fault. Nevertheless, let not your Majesty be uneasy, we will find means.


And I have none, either. But wait a minute. Here, here is a ring of great value, as I have been assured. It came from my brother, the King of Spain. It is mine, and I am at liberty to dispose of it. Take this ring; raise money with it, and let your husband set out.


In an hour you shall be obeyed.


You see the address. To my Lord Duke of Buckingham, London.


The letter shall be given to himself.


Generous girl!


Let us talk a little,


How!


Yes, I have something of the highest importance to tell you.


True, and I have some questions sufficiently serious to put to you. Describe to me your abduction, I pray you.


Oh, that’s of no consequence just now,


And what does it concern, then—my captivity?


I heard of it the day it happened; but as you were not guilty of any crime, as you were not guilty of any intrigue, as you, in short, knew nothing that could compromise yourself or anybody else, I attached no more importance to that event than it merited.


You speak very much at your ease, madame. Do you know that I was plunged during a day and night in a dungeon of the Bastille?


Oh, a day and night soon pass away. Let us return to the object that brings me here.


What, that which brings you home to me? Is it not the desire of seeing a husband again from whom you have been separated for a week?


Yes, that first, and other things afterward.


Speak.


It is a thing of the highest interest, and upon which our future fortune perhaps depends.


The complexion of our fortune has changed very much since I saw you, Madame Bonacieux, and I should not be astonished if in the course of a few months it were to excite the envy of many folks.


Yes, particularly if you follow the instructions I am about to give you.


Me?


Yes, you. There is good and holy action to be performed, monsieur, and much money to be gained at the same time.


Much money to be gained?


Yes, much.


About how much?


A thousand pistoles, perhaps.


What you demand of me is serious, then?


It is indeed.


What must be done?


You must go away immediately. I will give you a paper which you must not part with on any account, and which you will deliver into the proper hands.


And whither am I to go?


To London.


I go to London? Go to! You jest! I have no business in London.


But others wish that you should go there.


But who are those others? I warn you that I will never again work in the dark, and that I will know not only to what I expose myself, but for whom I expose myself.


An illustrious person sends you; an illustrious person awaits you. The recompense will exceed your expectations; that is all I promise you.


More intrigues! Nothing but intrigues! Thank you, madame, I am aware of them now; Monsieur Cardinal has enlightened me on that head.


The cardinal? Have you seen the cardinal?


He sent for me,


And you responded to his bidding, you imprudent man?


Well, I can’t say I had much choice of going or not going, for I was taken to him between two guards. It is true also, that as I did not then know his Eminence, if I had been able to dispense with the visit, I should have been enchanted.


He ill-treated you, then; he threatened you?


He gave me his hand, and called me his friend. His friend! Do you hear that, madame? I am the friend of the great cardinal!


Of the great cardinal!


Perhaps you would contest his right to that title, madame?


I would contest nothing; but I tell you that the favor of a minister is ephemeral, and that a man must be mad to attach himself to a minister. There are powers above his which do not depend upon a man or the issue of an event; it is to these powers we should rally.


I am sorry for it, madame, but I acknowledge no other power but that of the great man whom I have the honor to serve.


You serve the cardinal?


Yes, madame; and as his servant, I will not allow you to be concerned in plots against the safety of the state, or to serve the intrigues of a woman who is not French and who has a Spanish heart. Fortunately we have the great cardinal; his vigilant eye watches over and penetrates to the bottom of the heart.


Ah, you are a cardinalist, then, monsieur, are you? and you serve the party of those who maltreat your wife and insult your queen?


Private interests are as nothing before the interests of all. I am for those who save the state,


And what do you know about the state you talk of? Be satisfied with being a plain, straightforward citizen, and turn to that side which offers the most advantages.


Eh, eh! what do you think of this, Madame Preacher?


Whence comes that money?


You do not guess?


From the cardinal?


From him, and from my friend the Comte de Rochefort.


The Comte de Rochefort! Why, it was he who carried me off!


That may be, madame!


And you receive silver from that man?


Have you not said that that abduction was entirely political?


Yes; but that abduction had for its object the betrayal of my mistress, to draw from me by torture confessions that might compromise the honor, and perhaps the life, of my august mistress.


Madame, your august mistress is a perfidious Spaniard, and what the cardinal does is well done.


Monsieur. I know you to be cowardly, avaricious, and foolish, but I never till now believed you infamous!


Madame, madame, what do you say?


I say you are a miserable creature! You meddle with politics, do you—and still more, with cardinalist politics? Why, you sell yourself, body and soul, to the demon, the devil, for money!


No, to the cardinal.


It’s the same thing. Who calls Richelieu calls Satan.


Hold your tongue, hold your tongue, madame! You may be overheard.


Yes, you are right; I should be ashamed for anyone to know your baseness.


But what do you require of me, then? Let us see.


I have told you. You must depart instantly, monsieur. You must accomplish loyally the commission with which I deign to charge you, and on that condition I pardon everything, I forget everything; and what is more. I restore my love. Come! Have you decided?


But, my dear love, reflect a little upon what you require of me. London is far from Paris, very far, and perhaps the commission with which you charge me is not without dangers?


What matters it, if you avoid them?


Hold, Madame Bonacieux, hold! I positively refuse; intrigues terrify me. I have seen the Bastille. My! Whew! That’s a frightful place, that Bastille! Only to think of it makes my flesh crawl. They threatened me with torture. Do you know what torture is? Wooden points that they stick in between your legs till your bones stick out! No, positively I will not go. And, morbleu, why do you not go yourself? For in truth, I think I have hitherto been deceived in you. I really believe you are a man, and a violent one, too.


And you, you are a woman—a miserable woman, stupid and brutal. You are afraid, are you? Well, if you do not go this very instant, I will have you arrested by the queen’s orders, and I will have you placed in the Bastille which you dread so much.


Have me arrested on the part of the queen, and I—I will appeal to his Eminence.


Well, be it so! Perhaps, when all is considered, you are right. In the long run, a man knows more about politics than a woman, particularly such as, like you, Monsieur Bonacieux, have conversed with the cardinal. And yet it is very hard, that a man upon whose affection I thought I might depend, treats me thus unkindly and will not comply with any of my fancies.


That is because your fancies go too far, and I mistrust them.


Well, I will give it up, then. It is well as it is; say no more about it.


At least you should tell me what I should have to do in London,


It is of no use for you to know anything about it. It was about one of those purchases that interest women—a purchase by which much might have been gained.


Pardon me for quitting you, my dear Madame Bonacieux, but, not knowing you would come to see me, I had made an engagement with a friend. I shall soon return; and if you will wait only a few minutes for me, as soon as I have concluded my business with that friend, as it is growing late, I will come back and reconduct you to the Louvre.


Thank you, monsieur, you are not brave enough to be of any use to me whatever. I shall return very safely to the Louvre all alone.


As you please, Madame Bonacieux. Shall I see you again soon?


Next week I hope my duties will afford me a little liberty, and I will take advantage of it to come and put things in order here, as they must necessarily be much deranged.


Very well; I shall expect you. You are not angry with me?


Not the least in the world.


Till then, then?


Till then. Well, that imbecile lacked but one thing: to become a cardinalist. And I, who have answered for him to the queen—I, who have promised my poor mistress—ah, my God, my God! She will take me for one of those wretches with whom the palace swarms and who are placed about her as spies! Ah, Monsieur Bonacieux, I never did love you much, but now it is worse than ever. I hate you, and on my word you shall pay for this!


Dear Madame Bonacieux, open for me the little door on the alley, and I will come down to you.


Ah, Madame, allow me to tell you that you have a bad sort of a husband.


You have, then, overheard our conversation?


The whole.


But how, my God?


By a mode of proceeding known to myself, and by which I likewise overheard the more animated conversation which he had with the cardinal’s police.


And what did you understand by what we said?


A thousand things. In the first place, that, unfortunately, your husband is a simpleton and a fool; in the next place, you are in trouble, of which I am very glad, as it gives me an opportunity of placing myself at your service, and God knows I am ready to throw myself into the fire for you; finally, that the queen wants a brave, intelligent, devoted man to make a journey to London for her. I have at least two of the three qualities you stand in need of, and here I am.


And what guarantee will you give me, if I consent to confide this message to you?


My love for you. Speak! Command! What is to be done?


My God, my God! ought I to confide such a secret to you, monsieur? You are almost a boy.


I see that you require someone to answer for me?


I admit that would reassure me greatly.


Do you know Athos?


No.


Porthos?


Aramis?


No. Who are these gentleman?


Three of the king’s Musketeers. Do you know Monsieur de Tréville, their captain?


Oh, yes, him! I know him; not personally, but from having heard the queen speak of him more than once as a brave and loyal gentleman.


You do not fear lest he should betray you to the cardinal?


Oh, no, certainly not!


Well, reveal your secret to him, and ask him whether, however important, however valuable, however terrible it may be, you may not confide it to me.


But this secret is not mine, and I cannot reveal it in this manner.


You were about to confide it to Monsieur Bonacieux,


As one confides a letter to the hollow of a tree, to the wing of a pigeon, to the collar of a dog.


And yet, me—you see plainly that I love you.


You say so.


I am an honorable man.


I am a gallant fellow.


I believe it.


I am brave.


Oh, I am sure of that!


Then, put me to the proof.


Listen. I yield to your protestations, I yield to your assurances. But I swear to you, before God who hears us, that if you betray me, and my enemies pardon me, I will kill myself, while accusing you of my death.


And I—I swear to you before God, madame, that if I am taken while accomplishing the orders you give me, I will die sooner than do anything that may compromise anyone. I go. I go at once.


How, you will go! and your regiment, your captain?


By my soul, you had made me forget all that, dear Constance! Yes, you are right; a furlough is needful.


Still another obstacle,


As to that, I shall surmount it, be assured.


How so?


I will go this very evening to Tréville, whom I will request to ask this favor for me of his brother-in-law, Monsieur Dessessart.


But another thing.


What?


You have, perhaps, no money?


Perhaps is too much,


take this bag.


The cardinal’s?


The cardinal’s. You see it makes a very respectable appearance.


Pardieu, it will be a double amusing affair to save the queen with the cardinal’s money!


You are an amiable and charming young man. Be assured you will not find her Majesty ungrateful.


Oh, I am already grandly recompensed! I love you; you permit me to tell you that I do—that is already more happiness than I dared to hope.


Silence! Someone is talking in the street.


It is the voice of—


Of my husband! Yes, I recognize it!


He shall not come in before I am gone, and when I am gone, you can open to him.


But I ought to be gone, too. And the disappearance of his money; how am I to justify it if I am here?


You are right; we must go out.


Go out? How? He will see us if we go out.


Then you must come up into my room.


Ah, you speak that in a tone that frightens me!


With me you will be as safe as in a temple; I give you my word of a gentleman.


Let us go. I place full confidence in you, my friend!


you will ruin us all!


But I have sworn to kill that man!


Your life is devoted from this moment, and does not belong to you. In the name of the queen I forbid you to throw yourself into any peril which is foreign to that of your journey.


And do you command nothing in your own name?


In my name, in my name I beg you! But listen; they appear to be speaking of me.


She is gone, she must have returned to the Louvre.


You are sure


No, she is too superficial a woman.


Is the young Guardsman at home?


I do not think he is; as you see, his shutter is closed, and you can see no light shine through the chinks of the shutters.


All the same, it is well to be certain.


By knocking at his door. Go.


I will ask his servant.


There is nobody within,


Never mind. Let us return to your apartment. We shall be safer there than in the doorway.


Ah, my God! we shall hear no more.


On the contrary, we shall hear better.


You are sure there is nobody there?


I will answer for it,


And you think that your wife—


Has returned to the Louvre.


Without speaking to anyone but yourself?


I am sure of it.


That is an important point, do you understand?


Then the news I brought you is of value?


The greatest, my dear Bonacieux; I don’t conceal this from you.


Then the cardinal will be pleased with me?


I have no doubt of it.


The great cardinal!


Are you sure, in her conversation with you, that your wife mentioned no names?


I think not.


She did not name Madame de Chevreuse, the Duke of Buckingham, or Madame de Vernet?


No; she only told me she wished to send me to London to serve the interests of an illustrious personage.


The traitor!


Silence!


Never mind,


you were a fool not to have pretended to accept the mission. You would then be in present possession of the letter. The state, which is now threatened, would be safe, and you—


And I?


Well you—the cardinal would have given you letters of nobility.


Did he tell you so?


Yes, I know that he meant to afford you that agreeable surprise.


Be satisfied, my wife adores me, and there is yet time.


The ninny!


How is there still time?


I go to the Louvre; I ask for Mme. Bonacieux; I say that I have reflected; I renew the affair; I obtain the letter, and I run directly to the cardinal.


Well, go quickly! I will return soon to learn the result of your trip.


Infamous!


he will rouse the whole quarter. Now he is gone, it is your turn to get out. Courage, my friend, but above all, prudence, and think what you owe to the queen.


To her and to you! Be satisfied, beautiful Constance. I shall become worthy of her gratitude; but shall I likewise return worthy of your love?


Oh, my God, protect the queen, protect me!


Did you ask for me, my good friend?


Yes, monsieur, and you will pardon me, I hope, for having disturbed you when you know the importance of my business. Speak, then, I am all attention.


It concerns nothing less, than the honor, perhaps the life of the queen.


What did you say?


I say, monsieur, that chance has rendered me master of a secret—


Which you will guard, I hope, young man, as your life.


But which I must impart to you, monsieur, for you alone can assist me in the mission I have just received from her Majesty.


Is this secret your own?


No, monsieur; it is her Majesty’s.


Are you authorized by her Majesty to communicate it to me?


No, monsieur, for, on the contrary, I am desired to preserve the profoundest mystery.


Why, then, are you about to betray it to me?


Because, as I said, without you I can do nothing; and I am afraid you will refuse me the favor I come to ask if you do not know to what end I ask it.


Keep your secret, young man, and tell me what you wish.


I wish you to obtain for me, from Monsieur Dessessart, leave of absence for fifteen days.


When?


This very night.


You leave Paris?


I am going on a mission.


May you tell me whither?


To London.


Has anyone an interest in preventing your arrival there?


The cardinal, I believe, would give the world to prevent my success.


And you are going alone?


I am going alone.


In that case you will not get beyond Bondy. I tell you so, by the faith of de Tréville.


How so?


You will be assassinated.


And I shall die in the performance of my duty.


But your mission will not be accomplished.


That is true,


Believe me, in enterprises of this kind, in order that one may arrive, four must set out.


Ah, you are right, monsieur, but you know Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, and you know if I can dispose of them.


Without confiding to them the secret which I am not willing to know?


We are sworn, once for all, to implicit confidence and devotedness against all proof. Besides, you can tell them that you have full confidence in me, and they will not be more incredulous than you.


I can send to each of them leave of absence for fifteen days, that is all—to Athos, whose wound still makes him suffer, to go to the waters of Forges; to Porthos and Aramis to accompany their friend, whom they are not willing to abandon in such a painful condition. Sending their leave of absence will be proof enough that I authorize their journey.


Thanks, monsieur. You are a hundred times too good.


Begone, then, find them instantly, and let all be done tonight! Ha! But first write your request to Dessessart. Perhaps you had a spy at your heels; and your visit, if it should ever be known to the cardinal, will thus seem legitimate. Have the goodness to send mine to Athos’s residence. I should dread some disagreeable encounter if I were to go home. Be easy. Adieu, and a prosperous voyage. A propos,


Have you any money?


Enough?


Three hundred pistoles.


Oh, plenty! That would carry you to the end of the world. Begone, then!


What is that?


The leave of absence Monsieur has asked for,


For me! I have asked for no leave of absence.


Hold your tongue and take it! And you, my friend, there is a demipistole for your trouble; you will tell Monsieur de Tréville that Monsieur Aramis is very much obliged to him. Go.


What does all this mean?


Pack up all you want for a journey of a fortnight, and follow me. What is become of her? I suppose you mean—


Become of whom?


The woman who was here—the woman with the embroidered handkerchief.


Who told you there was a woman here? I saw her. And you know who she is?


I believe I can guess, at least.


Listen! Since you appear to know so many things, can you tell me what is become of that woman?


I presume that she has returned to Tours.


To Tours? Yes, that may be. You evidently know her. But why did she return to Tours without telling me anything?


Because she was in fear of being arrested.


Why has she not written to me, then?


Because she was afraid of compromising you.


D’Artagnan, you restore me to life! I fancied myself despised, betrayed. I was so delighted to see her again! I could not have believed she would risk her liberty for me, and yet for what other cause could she have returned to Paris?


For the cause which today takes us to England.


And what is this cause?


Oh, you’ll know it someday, Aramis; but at present I must imitate the discretion of ‘the doctor’s niece.’


Well, then, since she has left Paris, and you are sure of it, D’Artagnan, nothing prevents me, and I am ready to follow you. You say we are going—


To see Athos now, and if you will come thither, I beg you to make haste, for we have lost much time already. A propos, inform Bazin.


Will Bazin go with us?


Perhaps so. At all events, it is best that he should follow us to Athos’s.


Let us go then,


You have not spoken of this lady?


To nobody in the world.


Not even to Athos or Porthos?


I have not breathed a syllable to them.


Good enough!


Can you explain to me what signify this leave of absence and this letter, which I have just received?


Well, this leave of absence and that letter mean that you must follow me, Athos.


To the waters of Forges?


There or elsewhere.


In the king’s service?


Either the king’s or the queen’s. Are we not their Majesties’ servants?


Pardieu! here is a strange thing! Since when, I wonder, in the Musketeers, did they grant men leave of absence without their asking for it?


Since they have friends who ask it for them.


Ah, ah! it appears there’s something fresh here.


Yes, we are going—


To what country? My faith! I don’t know much about it,


Ask D’Artagnan.


To London, gentlemen. To London, gentlemen,


To London! and what the devil are we going to do in London?


That is what I am not at liberty to tell you, gentlemen; you must trust to me.


But in order to go to London, money is needed, and I have none.


Nor I.


I have. I have, There are in this bag three hundred pistoles. Let each take seventy-five; that is enough to take us to London and back. Besides, make yourselves easy; we shall not all arrive at London.


Why so?


Because, in all probability, some one of us will be left on the road.


Is this, then, a campaign upon which we are now entering?


One of a most dangerous kind, I give you notice.


Ah! But if we do risk being killed, at least I should like to know what for.


You would be all the wiser.


I am somewhat of Porthos’s opinion.


Is the king accustomed to give you such reasons? No. He says to you jauntily, ‘Gentlemen, there is fighting going on in Gascony or in Flanders; go and fight,’ and you go there. Why? You need give yourselves no more uneasiness about this.


D’Artagnan is right; here are our three leaves of absence which came from Monsieur de Tréville, and here are three hundred pistoles which came from I don’t know where. So let us go and get killed where we are told to go. Is life worth the trouble of so many questions? D’Artagnan, I am ready to follow you.


And I also.


And I also. And, indeed, I am not sorry to quit Paris; I had need of distraction.


Well, you will have distractions enough, gentlemen, be assured.


And, now, when are we to go?


Immediately; we have not a minute to lose.


Hello, Grimaud! Planchet! Mousqueton! Bazin! clean my boots, and fetch the horses from the hôtel.


Where do we go first?


To Calais; that is the most direct line to London.


Well, this is my advice— Speak! Four men traveling together would be suspected. D’Artagnan will give each of us his instructions. I will go by the way of Boulogne to clear the way; Athos will set out two hours after, by that of Amiens; Aramis will follow us by that of Noyon; as to D’Artagnan, he will go by what route he thinks is best, in Planchet’s clothes, while Planchet will follow us like D’Artagnan, in the uniform of the Guards.


my opinion is that it is not proper to allow lackeys to have anything to do in such an affair. A secret may, by chance, be betrayed by gentlemen; but it is almost always sold by lackeys.


Porthos’s plan appears to me to be impracticable, inasmuch as I am myself ignorant of what instructions I can give you. I am the bearer of a letter, that is all. I have not, and I cannot make three copies of that letter, because it is sealed. We must, then, as it appears to me, travel in company. This letter is here, in this pocket, If I should be killed, one of you must take it, and continue the route; if he be killed, it will be another’s turn, and so on—provided a single one arrives, that is all that is required.


Bravo, D’Artagnan, your opinion is mine, Besides, we must be consistent; I am going to take the waters, you will accompany me. Instead of taking the waters of Forges, I go and take sea waters; I am free to do so. If anyone wishes to stop us, I will show Monsieur de Tréville’s letter, and you will show your leaves of absence. If we are attacked, we will defend ourselves; if we are tried, we will stoutly maintain that we were only anxious to dip ourselves a certain number of times in the sea. They would have an easy bargain of four isolated men; whereas four men together make a troop. We will arm our four lackeys with pistols and musketoons; if they send an army out against us, we will give battle, and the survivor, as D’Artagnan says, will carry the letter.


Well said, you don’t often speak, Athos, but when you do speak, it is like St. John of the Golden Mouth. I agree to Athos’s plan. And you, Porthos?


I agree to it, too, if D’Artagnan approves of it. D’Artagnan, being the bearer of the letter, is naturally the head of the enterprise; let him decide, and we will execute.


Well, I decide that we should adopt Athos’s plan, and that we set off in half an hour.


Agreed!


Do you know what has become of Athos?


Ah, monsieur. I saw one fall at each of his two shots, and he appeared to me, through the glass door, to be fighting with his sword with the others.


Brave Athos! and to think that we are compelled to leave him; maybe the same fate awaits us two paces hence. Forward, Planchet, forward! You are a brave fellow.


As I told you, monsieur. Picards are found out by being used. Besides, I am here in my own country, and that excites me.


Nothing would be more easy, but this morning came an order to let no one leave without express permission from the cardinal.


I have that permission, here it is.


Have it examined by the governor of the port, and give me the preference.


Where shall I find the governor?


At his country house.


And that is situated?


At a quarter of a league from the city. Look, you may see it from here—at the foot of that little hill, that slated roof.


Very well,


Monsieur, you appear to be in great haste?


No one can be more so, monsieur.


I am sorry for that, for as I am in great haste likewise, I wish to beg you to render me a service.


What?


To let me sail first.


That’s impossible. I have traveled sixty leagues in forty hours, and by tomorrow at midday I must be in London.


I have performed that same distance in forty hours, and by ten o’clock in the morning I must be in London.


Very sorry, monsieur; but I was here first, and will not sail second.


I am sorry, too, monsieur; but I arrived second, and must sail first.


The king’s service!


My own service!


But this is a needless quarrel you seek with me, as it seems to me.


Parbleu! What do you desire it to be?


What do you want?


Would you like to know?


Certainly.


Well, then, I wish that order of which you are bearer, seeing that I have not one of my own and must have one.


You jest, I presume.


I never jest.


Let me pass!


You shall not pass.


My brave young man, I will blow out your brains. Hola, Lubin, my pistols!


Planchet, take care of the lackey; I will manage the master.


Go on with your affair, monsieur. I have finished mine.


One for Athos, one for Porthos; and one for Aramis!


One for you!


And one for me—the best for last!


Monsieur, as long as I hold him in this manner, he can’t cry, I’ll be bound; but as soon as I let go he will howl again. I know him for a Norman, and Normans are obstinate.


Stay!


Now, let us bind him to a tree.


And now, to the Governor’s.


But you are wounded, it seems,


Oh, that’s nothing! Let us attend to what is more pressing first, and then we will attend to my wound; besides, it does not seem very dangerous.


You have an order signed by the cardinal? Ah, ah! It is quite regular and explicit,


Most likely. I am one of his most faithful servants.


It appears that his Eminence is anxious to prevent someone from crossing to England?


Yes; a certain D’Artagnan, a Béarnese gentleman who left Paris in company with three of his friends, with the intention of going to London.


Do you know him personally?


Whom?


This D’Artagnan.


Perfectly well.


Describe him to me, then.


Nothing more easy. And D’Artagnan gave, feature for feature, a description of the Comte de Wardes.


Is he accompanied?


Yes; by a lackey named Lubin.


We will keep a sharp lookout for them; and if we lay hands on them his Eminence may be assured they will be reconducted to Paris under a good escort.


And by doing so, Monsieur the Governor, you will deserve well of the cardinal.


Shall you see him on your return, Monsieur Count?


Without a doubt.


Tell him, I beg you, that I am his humble servant.


I will not fail.


Well?


Here is my pass countersigned,


He will not go today,


but here, I’ll pay you for us two.


In that case let us go,


Let us go,


Here I am at last!


asked Patrick


The young man who one evening sought a quarrel with him on the Pont Neuf, opposite the Samaritaine. You will find that it is as good as another.


No misfortune has happened to the queen? I believe not; nevertheless I believe she runs some great peril from which your Grace alone can extricate her. I! What is it? I should be too happy to be of any service to her. Speak, speak!


Take this letter,


This letter! From whom comes this letter?


From her Majesty, as I think.


From her Majesty! What is this rent?


Ah, I did not see that; it was the sword of the Comte de Wardes which made that hole, when he gave me a good thrust in the breast.


You are wounded?


Oh, nothing but a scratch,


Just heaven, what have I read? Patrick, remain here, or rather join the king, wherever he may be, and tell his Majesty that I humbly beg him to excuse me, but an affair of the greatest importance recalls me to London. Come, monsieur, come!


There,


What is the matter? All is lost! two of the studs are wanting, there are only ten. They have been stolen, and it is the cardinal who has dealt this blow. Hold; see! The ribbons which held them have been cut with scissors. Wait, wait! The only time I have worn these studs was at a ball given by the king eight days ago at Windsor. The Comtesse de Winter, with whom I had quarreled, became reconciled to me at that ball. That reconciliation was nothing but the vengeance of a jealous woman. I have never seen her from that day. The woman is an agent of the cardinal. He has agents, then, throughout the world? Oh, yes. Yes, he is a terrible antagonist. But when is this ball to take place?


Monday next. Monday next! Still five days before us. That’s more time than we want. Patrick! Patrick! My jeweler and my secretary.


go instantly to the Lord Chancellor, and tell him that I charge him with the execution of these orders. I wish them to be promulgated immediately.


But, my Lord, if the Lord Chancellor interrogates me upon the motives which may have led your Grace to adopt such an extraordinary measure, what shall I reply?


That such is my pleasure, and that I answer for my will to no man.


Will that be the answer, which he must transmit to his Majesty if, by chance, his Majesty should have the curiosity to know why no vessel is to leave any of the ports of Great Britain?


You are right, Mr. Jackson. He will say, in that case, to the king that I am determined on war, and that this measure is my first act of hostility against France. We are safe on that side. If the studs are not yet gone to Paris, they will not arrive till after you. Yes, yes, Anne of Austria is my true queen. Upon a word from her, I would betray my country, I would betray my king, I would betray my God. She asked me not to send the Protestants of La Rochelle the assistance I promised them; I have not done so. I broke my word, it is true; but what signifies that? I obeyed my love; and have I not been richly paid for that obedience? It was to that obedience I owe her portrait. Mr. O’Reilly, look at these diamond studs, and tell me what they are worth apiece.


Fifteen hundred pistoles each, my Lord.


How many days would it require to make two studs exactly like them? You see there are two wanting.


Eight days, my Lord.


I will give you three thousand pistoles apiece if I can have them by the day after tomorrow.


My Lord, they shall be yours.


You are a jewel of a man, Mr. O’Reilly; but that is not all. These studs cannot be trusted to anybody; it must be done in the palace.


Impossible, my Lord! There is no one but myself can so execute them that one cannot tell the new from the old.


Therefore, my dear Mr. O’Reilly, you are my prisoner. And if you wish ever to leave my palace, you cannot; so make the best of it. Name to me such of your workmen as you need, and point out the tools they must bring.


May I be permitted to inform my wife?


Oh, you may even see her if you like, my dear Mr. O’Reilly. Your captivity shall be mild, be assured; and as every inconvenience deserves its indemnification, here is, in addition to the price of the studs, an order for a thousand pistoles, to make you forget the annoyance I cause you.


Now, my young friend, England is all our own. What do you wish for? What do you desire?


A bed, my Lord,


Here, are the diamond studs that you came to bring; and be my witness that I have done all that human power could do.


Be satisfied, my Lord, I will tell all that I have seen. But does your Grace mean to give me the studs without the casket?


The casket would encumber you. Besides, the casket is the more precious from being all that is left to me. You will say that I keep it.


I will perform your commission, word for word, my Lord.


And now, how shall I ever acquit myself of the debt I owe you?


Let us understand each other, my Lord, and let us make things clear beforehand in order that there may be no mistake. I am in the service of the King and Queen of France, and form part of the company of Monsieur Dessessart, who, as well as his brother-in-law, Monsieur de Tréville, is particularly attached to their Majesties. What I have done, then, has been for the queen, and not at all for your Grace. And still further, it is very probable I should not have done anything of this, if it had not been to make myself agreeable to someone who is my lady, as the queen is yours.


and I even believe that I know that other person; it is—


My Lord, I have not named her!


and it is to this person I am bound to discharge my debt of gratitude.


You have said, my Lord; for truly, at this moment when there is question of war, I confess to you that I see nothing in your Grace but an Englishman, and consequently an enemy whom I should have much greater pleasure in meeting on the field of battle than in the park at Windsor or the corridors of the Louvre—all which, however, will not prevent me from executing to the very point my commission or from laying down my life, if there be need of it, to accomplish it; but I repeat it to your Grace, without your having personally on that account more to thank me for in this second interview than for what I did for you in the first.


Proud as a Scotsman,


Proud as a Gascon,


Well, are you going away in that manner? Where, and how?


That’s true!


Fore Gad, these Frenchmen have no consideration!


I had forgotten that England was an island, and that you were the king of it.


Go to the riverside, ask for the brig Sund, and give this letter to the captain; he will convey you to a little port, where certainly you are not expected, and which is ordinarily only frequented by fishermen. St. Valery; but listen. When you have arrived there you will go to a mean tavern, without a name and without a sign—a mere fisherman’s hut. You cannot be mistaken; there is but one. You will ask for the host, and will repeat to him the word ‘Forward!’ In French, En avant. It is the password. He will give you a horse all saddled, and will point out to you the road you ought to take. You will find, in the same way, four relays on your route. If you will give at each of these relays your address in Paris, the four horses will follow you thither. You already know two of them, and you appeared to appreciate them like a judge. They were those we rode on; and you may rely upon me for the others not being inferior to them. These horses are equipped for the field. However proud you may be, you will not refuse to accept one of them, and to request your three companions to accept the others—that is, in order to make war against us. Besides, the end justified the means, as you Frenchmen say, does it not?


Yes, my Lord, I accept them,


Well, now, your hand, young man. Perhaps we shall soon meet on the field of battle; but in the meantime we shall part good friends, I hope.


Yes, my Lord; but with the hope of soon becoming enemies.


Be satisfied; I promise you that.


I depend upon your word, my Lord.


I want to know the route I am to follow,


Go from hence to Blangy, and from Blangy to Neufchâtel. At Neufchâtel, go to the tavern of the Golden Harrow, give the password to the landlord, and you will find, as you have here, a horse ready saddled.


Have I anything to pay?


Everything is paid. Amen!


Which route must I take?


That of Rouen; but you will leave the city on your right. You must stop at the little village of Eccuis, in which there is but one tavern—the Shield of France. Don’t condemn it from appearances; you will find a horse in the stables quite as good as this. Exactly.


Adieu, master!


A good journey, gentlemen! Do you want anything?


Why, madame, have you not thought proper to wear your diamond studs, when you know it would give me so much gratification?


Sire, because, in the midst of such a crowd as this, I feared some accident might happen to them.


And you were wrong, madame. If I made you that present it was that you might adorn yourself therewith. I tell you that you were wrong.


Sire. I can send for them to the Louvre, where they are, and thus your Majesty’s wishes will be complied with.


Do so, madame, do so, and that at once; for within an hour the ballet will commence.


What does this mean?


Nothing, only, if the queen has the studs, which I very much doubt, count them, sire, and if you only find ten, ask her Majesty who can have stolen from her the two studs that are here.


I thank you, madame, for the deference you have shown to my wishes, but I think you want two of the studs, and I bring them back to you.


How, sire? you are giving me, then, two more: I shall have fourteen.


What does this mean, Monsieur Cardinal?


This means, sire, that I was desirous of presenting her Majesty with these two studs, and that not daring to offer them myself, I adopted this means of inducing her to accept them.


And I am the more grateful to your Eminence, from being certain that these two studs alone have cost you as much as all the others cost his Majesty.


You at last?


Silence! silence, and go the same way you came!


But where and when shall I see you again?


A note which you will find at home will tell you. Begone, begone!


Has anyone brought a letter for me?


No one has brought a letter, monsieur, but one has come of itself.


What do you mean, blockhead?


I mean to say that when I came in, although I had the key of your apartment in my pocket, and that key had never quit me, I found a letter on the green table cover in your bedroom.


And where is that letter?


I left it where I found it, monsieur. It is not natural for letters to enter people’s houses in this manner. If the window had been open or even ajar, I should think nothing of it; but, no—all was hermetically sealed. Beware, monsieur; there is certainly some magic underneath.


There are many thanks to be offered to you, and to be transmitted to you. Be this evening about ten o’clock at St. Cloud, in front of the pavilion which stands at the corner of the house of M. d’Estrées.—C.B.


Well, monsieur, did I not guess truly? Is it not some bad affair?


You are mistaken, Planchet, and as a proof, there is a crown to drink my health.


I am much obliged to Monsieur for the crown he has given me, and I promise him to follow his instructions exactly; but it is not the less true that letters which come in this way into shut-up houses—


Fall from heaven, my friend, fall from heaven.


Then Monsieur is satisfied?


My dear Planchet, I am the happiest of men!


And I may profit by Monsieur’s happiness, and go to bed?


Yes, go.


May the blessings of heaven fall upon Monsieur! But it is not the less true that that letter—


Planchet. I am going out for all day, perhaps. You are, therefore, your own master till seven o’clock in the evening; but at seven o’clock you must hold yourself in readiness with two horses.


There! We are going again, it appears, to have our hides pierced in all sorts of ways.


You will take your musketoon and your pistols.


There, now! Didn’t I say so? I was sure of it—the cursed letter!


Don’t be afraid, you idiot; there is nothing in hand but a party of pleasure.


Ah, like the charming journey the other day, when it rained bullets and produced a crop of steel traps!


Well, if you are really afraid, Monsieur Planchet. I will go without you. I prefer traveling alone to having a companion who entertains the least fear.


Monsieur does me wrong. I thought he had seen me at work.


Yes, but I thought perhaps you had worn out all your courage the first time.


Monsieur shall see that upon occasion I have some left; only I beg Monsieur not to be too prodigal of it if he wishes it to last long.


Do you believe you have still a certain amount of it to expend this evening?


I hope so, monsieur.


Well, then, I count on you.


At the appointed hour I shall be ready; only I believed that Monsieur had but one horse in the Guard stables.


Perhaps there is but one at this moment; but by this evening there will be four.


It appears that our journey was a remounting journey, then?


Exactly so,


And Madame Bonacieux, do you know who carried her off?—For I do not forget that I owe to that unpleasant circumstance the good fortune of having made your acquaintance.


Ah! they took good care not to tell me that; and my wife, on her part, has sworn to me by all that’s sacred that she does not know. But you, what has become of you all these days? I have not seen you nor your friends, and I don’t think you could gather all that dust that I saw Planchet brush off your boots yesterday from the pavement of Paris.


You are right, my dear Monsieur Bonacieux, my friends and I have been on a little journey.


Far from here?


Oh, Lord, no! About forty leagues only. We went to take Monsieur Athos to the waters of Forges, where my friends still remain.


And you have returned, have you not? A handsome young fellow like you does not obtain long leaves of absence from his mistress; and we were impatiently waited for at Paris, were we not?


My faith! I confess it, and so much more the readily, my dear Bonacieux, as I see there is no concealing anything from you. Yes, I was expected, and very impatiently, I acknowledge.


And we are going to be recompensed for our diligence?


Ah, may you be a true prophet!


No; what I say, is only that I may know whether I am delaying you.


Why that question, my dear host? Do you intend to sit up for me?


No; but since my arrest and the robbery that was committed in my house, I am alarmed every time I hear a door open, particularly in the night. What the deuce can you expect? I am no swordsman.


Well, don’t be alarmed if I return at one, two or three o’clock in the morning; indeed, do not be alarmed if I do not come at all.


Nothing, nothing. Since my misfortunes I have been subject to faintnesses, which seize me all at once, and I have just felt a cold shiver. Pay no attention to it; you have nothing to occupy yourself with but being happy.


Then I have full occupation, for I am so.


Not yet; wait a little! This evening, you said.


Well, this evening will come, thank God! And perhaps you look for it with as much impatience as I do; perhaps this evening Madame Bonacieux will visit the conjugal domicile.


Madame Bonacieux is not at liberty this evening, she is detained at the Louvre this evening by her duties.


So much the worse for you, my dear host, so much the worse! When I am happy, I wish all the world to be so; but it appears that is not possible.


Amuse yourself well!


Now, now let us talk about yourself, my young friend; for it is evident that your happy return has something to do with the joy of the king, the triumph of the queen, and the humiliation of his Eminence. You must look out for yourself.


What have I to fear, as long as I shall have the luck to enjoy the favor of their Majesties?


Everything, believe me. The cardinal is not the man to forget a mystification until he has settled account with the mystifier; and the mystifier appears to me to have the air of being a certain young Gascon of my acquaintance.


Do you believe that the cardinal is as well posted as yourself, and knows that I have been to London?


The devil! You have been to London! Was it from London you brought that beautiful diamond that glitters on your finger? Beware, my dear D’Artagnan! A present from an enemy is not a good thing. Are there not some Latin verses upon that subject? Stop!


Yes, doubtless, yes, doubtless there is one.


There certainly is one, and Monsieur de Benserade was quoting it to me the other day. Stop a minute—ah, this is it: ‘Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes,’ which means, ‘Beware of the enemy who makes you presents.”


This diamond does not come from an enemy, monsieur, it comes from the queen.


From the queen! Oh, oh! Why, it is indeed a true royal jewel, which is worth a thousand pistoles if it is worth a denier. By whom did the queen send you this jewel?


She gave it to me herself.


Where?


In the room adjoining the chamber in which she changed her toilet.


How?


Giving me her hand to kiss.


You have kissed the queen’s hand?


Her Majesty did me the honor to grant me that favor.


And that in the presence of witnesses! Imprudent, thrice imprudent!


No, monsieur, be satisfied; nobody saw her, and he related to M. de Tréville how the affair came to pass.


Oh, the women, the women! I know them by their romantic imagination. Everything that savors of mystery charms them. So you have seen the arm, that was all. You would meet the queen, and she would not know who you are?


No; but thanks to this diamond,


Listen, shall I give you counsel, good counsel, the counsel of a friend?


You will do me honor, monsieur, said D’Artagnan.


Well, then, off to the nearest goldsmith’s, and sell that diamond for the highest price you can get from him. However much of a Jew he may be, he will give you at least eight hundred pistoles. Pistoles have no name, young man, and that ring has a terrible one, which may betray him who wears it.


Sell this ring, a ring which comes from my sovereign? Never!


Then, at least turn the gem inside, you silly fellow; for everybody must be aware that a cadet from Gascony does not find such stones in his mother’s jewel case.


You think, then, I have something to dread?


I mean to say, young man, that he who sleeps over a mine the match of which is already lighted, may consider himself in safety in comparison with you.


The devil! the devil! What must I do?


Above all things be always on your guard. The cardinal has a tenacious memory and a long arm; you may depend upon it, he will repay you by some ill turn.


But of what sort?


Eh! How can I tell? Has he not all the tricks of a demon at his command? The least that can be expected is that you will be arrested.


What! Will they dare to arrest a man in his Majesty’s service?


Pardieu! They did not scruple much in the case of Athos. At all events, young man, rely upon one who has been thirty years at court. Do not lull yourself in security, or you will be lost; but, on the contrary—and it is I who say it—see enemies in all directions. If anyone seeks a quarrel with you, shun it, were it with a child of ten years old. If you are attacked by day or by night, fight, but retreat, without shame; if you cross a bridge, feel every plank of it with your foot, lest one should give way beneath you; if you pass before a house which is being built, look up, for fear a stone should fall upon your head; if you stay out late, be always followed by your lackey, and let your lackey be armed—if, by the by, you can be sure of your lackey. Mistrust everybody, your friend, your brother, your mistress—your mistress above all.


My mistress above all, and why her rather than another?


Because a mistress is one of the cardinal’s favorite means; he has not one that is more expeditious. A woman will sell you for ten pistoles, witness Delilah. You are acquainted with the Scriptures? But, à propos, what has become of your three companions?


I was about to ask you if you had heard any news of them?


None, monsieur.


Well, I left them on my road—Porthos at Chantilly, with a duel on his hands; Aramis at Crèvecœur, with a ball in his shoulder; and Athos at Amiens, detained by an accusation of coining.


See there, now! and how the devil did you escape?


By a miracle, monsieur, I must acknowledge, with a sword thrust in my breast, and by nailing the Comte de Wardes on the byroad to Calais, like a butterfly on a tapestry.


There again! De Wardes, one of the cardinal’s men, a cousin of Rochefort! Stop, my friend, I have an idea.


Speak, monsieur.


In your place, I would do one thing.


What?


While his Eminence was seeking for me in Paris, I would take, without sound of drum or trumpet, the road to Picardy, and would go and make some inquiries concerning my three companions. What the devil! They merit richly that piece of attention on your part.


The advice is good, monsieur, and tomorrow I will set out.


Tomorrow! Any why not this evening?


This evening, monsieur, I am detained in Paris by indispensable business.


Ah, young man, young man, some flirtation or other. Take care, I repeat to you, take care. It is woman who has ruined us, still ruins us, and will ruin us, as long as the world stands. Take my advice and set out this evening.


Impossible, monsieur.


You have given your word, then?


Yes, monsieur.


Ah, that’s quite another thing; but promise me, if you should not be killed tonight, that you will go tomorrow.


I promise it.


Do you need money?


I have still fifty pistoles. That, I think, is as much as I shall want.


But your companions?


I don’t think they can be in need of any. We left Paris, each with seventy-five pistoles in his pocket.


Shall I see you again before your departure?


I think not, monsieur, unless something new should happen.


Well, a pleasant journey.


Thanks, monsieur.


Ah, monsieur, how glad I am to see you.


Why so, Planchet?


Do you place confidence in our landlord—Monsieur Bonacieux?


I? Not the least in the world.


Oh, you do quite right, monsieur.


But why this question?


Because, while you were talking with him, I watched you without listening to you; and, monsieur, his countenance changed color two or three times!


Bah!


Preoccupied as Monsieur was with the letter he had received, he did not observe that; but I, whom the strange fashion in which that letter came into the house had placed on my guard—I did not lose a movement of his features.


And you found it?


Traitorous, monsieur.


Indeed!


Still more; as soon as Monsieur had left and disappeared round the corner of the street, Monsieur Bonacieux took his hat, shut his door, and set off at a quick pace in an opposite direction.


It seems you are right, Planchet; all this appears to be a little mysterious; and be assured that we will not pay him our rent until the matter shall be categorically explained to us.


Monsieur jests, but Monsieur will see.


What would you have, Planchet? What must come is written.


Monsieur does not then renounce his excursion for this evening?


Quite the contrary, Planchet; the more ill will I have toward Monsieur Bonacieux, the more punctual I shall be in keeping the appointment made by that letter which makes you so uneasy.


Then that is Monsieur’s determination?


Undeniably, my friend. At nine o’clock, then, be ready here at the hôtel, I will come and take you.


Well, Monsieur Planchet, what is the matter with us now?


Don’t you think, monsieur, that woods are like churches?


How so, Planchet?


Because we dare not speak aloud in one or the other.


But why did you not dare to speak aloud, Planchet—because you are afraid?


Afraid of being heard? Yes, monsieur.


Afraid of being heard! Why, there is nothing improper in our conversation, my dear Planchet, and no one could find fault with it.


Ah, monsieur! that Monsieur Bonacieux has something vicious in his eyebrows, and something very unpleasant in the play of his lips.


What the devil makes you think of Bonacieux?


Monsieur, we think of what we can, and not of what we will.


Because you are a coward, Planchet.


Monsieur, we must not confound prudence with cowardice; prudence is a virtue.


And you are very virtuous, are you not, Planchet?


Monsieur, is not that the barrel of a musket which glitters yonder? Had we not better lower our heads?


In truth, this animal will end by making me afraid.


Are we going to continue this pace all night?


No; you are at your journey’s end.


How, monsieur! And you?


I am going a few steps farther.


And Monsieur leaves me here alone?


You are afraid, Planchet?


No; I only beg leave to observe to Monsieur that the night will be very cold, that chills bring on rheumatism, and that a lackey who has the rheumatism makes but a poor servant, particularly to a master as active as Monsieur.


Well, if you are cold, Planchet, you can go into one of those cabarets that you see yonder, and be in waiting for me at the door by six o’clock in the morning.


Monsieur, I have eaten and drunk respectfully the crown you gave me this morning, so that I have not a sou left in case I should be cold.


Here’s half a pistole. Tomorrow morning.


Good Lord, how cold I am!


In the name of heaven! listen to me; I have been waiting for someone who has not come. I am dying with anxiety. Has anything particular happened in the neighborhood? Speak!


What do you mean? In the name of heaven, explain yourself!


Oh! Monsieur, ask me nothing; for if I dared tell you what I have seen, certainly no good would befall me.


You have, then, seen something? In that case, in the name of heaven, tell me what you have seen, and I will pledge you the word of a gentleman that not one of your words shall escape from my heart.


It was scarcely nine o’clock when I heard a noise in the street, and was wondering what it could be, when on coming to my door, I found that somebody was endeavoring to open it. As I am very poor and am not afraid of being robbed, I went and opened the gate and saw three men at a few paces from it. In the shadow was a carriage with two horses, and some saddlehorses. These horses evidently belonged to the three men, who were dressed as cavaliers. Ah, my worthy gentlemen, what do you want? You must have a ladder? Yes, monsieur, the one with which I gather my fruit. Lend it to us, and go into your house again; there is a crown for the annoyance we have caused you. Only remember this—if you speak a word of what you may see or what you may hear (for you will look and you will listen, I am quite sure, however we may threaten you), you are lost.


It is she!


But, my good gentleman, do not take on so; they did not kill her, and that’s a comfort.


Can you guess, who was the man who headed this infernal expedition?


I don’t know him.


But as you spoke to him you must have seen him.


Oh, it’s a description you want?


Exactly so.


A tall, dark man, with black mustaches, dark eyes, and the air of a gentleman.


That’s the man! again he, forever he! He is my demon, apparently. And the other?


Which?


The short one.


Oh, he was not a gentleman, I’ll answer for it; besides, he did not wear a sword, and the others treated him with small consideration.


Some lackey. Poor woman, poor woman, what have they done with you?


You have promised to be secret, my good monsieur?


And I renew my promise. Be easy, I am a gentleman. A gentleman has but his word, and I have given you mine. Oh, if I had my three friends here. I should have, at least, some hopes of finding her; but who knows what has become of them?


Hum! All this savors of his Eminence, a league off.


But what is to be done?


Nothing, absolutely nothing, at present, but quitting Paris, as I told you, as soon as possible. I will see the queen; I will relate to her the details of the disappearance of this poor woman, of which she is no doubt ignorant. These details will guide her on her part, and on your return, I shall perhaps have some good news to tell you. Rely on me.


Well, young man, we appear to pass rather gay nights! Seven o’clock in the morning! Peste! You seem to reverse ordinary customs, and come home at the hour when other people are going out.


No one can reproach you for anything of the kind, Monsieur Bonacieux, you are a model for regular people. It is true that when a man possesses a young and pretty wife, he has no need to seek happiness elsewhere. Happiness comes to meet him, does it not, Monsieur Bonacieux?


Ah, ah! you are a jocular companion! But where the devil were you gadding last night, my young master? It does not appear to be very clean in the crossroads.


Ah, but you are joking, my worthy man! It appears to me that if my boots need a sponge, your stockings and shoes stand in equal need of a brush. May you not have been philandering a little also, Monsieur Bonacieux? Oh, the devil! That’s unpardonable in a man of your age, and who besides, has such a pretty wife as yours.


Oh, Lord! no, but yesterday I went to St. Mandé to make some inquiries after a servant, as I cannot possibly do without one; and the roads were so bad that I brought back all this mud, which I have not yet had time to remove.


Pardon, my dear Monsieur Bonacieux, if I don’t stand upon ceremony, but nothing makes one so thirsty as want of sleep. I am parched with thirst. Allow me to take a glass of water in your apartment; you know that is never refused among neighbors. Thanks, Monsieur Bonacieux, that is all I wanted of you. I will now go up into my apartment. I will make Planchet brush my boots; and when he has done, I will, if you like, send him to you to brush your shoes.


Ah, monsieur! here is more trouble. I thought you would never come in.


What’s the matter now, Planchet?


Oh! I give you a hundred, I give you a thousand times to guess, monsieur, the visit I received in your absence.


When?


About half an hour ago, while you were at Monsieur de Tréville’s.


Who has been here? Come, speak.


Monsieur de Cavois.


Monsieur de Cavois?


In person.


The captain of the cardinal’s Guards?


Himself.


Did he come to arrest me?


I have no doubt that he did, monsieur, for all his wheedling manner.


Was he so sweet, then?


Indeed, he was all honey, monsieur.


Indeed!


He came, he said, on the part of his Eminence, who wished you well, and to beg you to follow him to the Palais-Royal*.


What did you answer him?


That the thing was impossible, seeing that you were not at home, as he could see.


Well, what did he say then?


That you must not fail to call upon him in the course of the day; and then he added in a low voice, ‘Tell your master that his Eminence is very well disposed toward him, and that his fortune perhaps depends upon this interview.’


The snare is rather maladroit for the cardinal, replied the young man, smiling.


Oh, I saw the snare, and I answered you would be quite in despair on your return.


Where has he gone?


To Troyes, in Champagne,


And when did he set out?


Yesterday evening.


Planchet, my friend, you are really a precious fellow.


You will understand, monsieur, I thought there would be still time, if you wish, to see Monsieur de Cavois to contradict me by saying you were not yet gone. The falsehood would then lie at my door, and as I am not a gentleman, I may be allowed to lie.


Be of good heart, Planchet, you shall preserve your reputation as a veracious man. In a quarter of an hour we set off.


That’s the advice I was about to give Monsieur; and where are we going, may I ask, without being too curious?


Pardieu! In the opposite direction to that which you said I was gone. Besides, are you not as anxious to learn news of Grimaud, Mousqueton, and Bazin as I am to know what has become of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis?


Yes, monsieur, and I will go as soon as you please. Indeed, I think provincial air will suit us much better just now than the air of Paris. So then—


So then, pack up our luggage, Planchet, and let us be off. On my part, I will go out with my hands in my pockets, that nothing may be suspected. You may join me at the Hôtel des Gardes. By the way, Planchet, I think you are right with respect to our host, and that he is decidedly a frightfully low wretch.


Ah, monsieur, you may take my word when I tell you anything. I am a physiognomist, I assure you.


That’s well. Now saddle the other three horses.


Do you think, then, monsieur, that we shall travel faster with two horses apiece?


No, Monsieur Jester, but with our four horses we may bring back our three friends, if we should have the good fortune to find them living.


Which is a great chance, but we must not despair of the mercy of God.


Amen!