My faith, my good host. I asked for a bottle of your best wine, and if you have deceived me, you will be punished in what you have sinned; for seeing that I hate drinking by myself, you shall drink with me. Take your glass, then, and let us drink. But what shall we drink to, so as to avoid wounding any susceptibility? Let us drink to the prosperity of your establishment.


Your Lordship does me much honor, and I thank you sincerely for your kind wish.


But don’t mistake, there is more selfishness in my toast than perhaps you may think—for it is only in prosperous establishments that one is well received. In hôtels that do not flourish, everything is in confusion, and the traveler is a victim to the embarrassments of his host. Now, I travel a great deal, particularly on this road, and I wish to see all innkeepers making a fortune.


It seems to me, that this is not the first time I have had the honor of seeing Monsieur.


Bah, I have passed perhaps ten times through Chantilly, and out of the ten times I have stopped three or four times at your house at least. Why I was here only ten or twelve days ago. I was conducting some friends, Musketeers, one of whom, by the by, had a dispute with a stranger—a man who sought a quarrel with him, for I don’t know what.


Exactly so. I remember it perfectly. It is not Monsieur Porthos that your Lordship means?


Yes, that is my companion’s name. My God, my dear host, tell me if anything has happened to him?


Your Lordship must have observed that he could not continue his journey.


Why, to be sure, he promised to rejoin us, and we have seen nothing of him.


He has done us the honor to remain here.


What, he had done you the honor to remain here?


Yes, monsieur, in this house; and we are even a little uneasy—


On what account?


Of certain expenses he has contracted.


Well, but whatever expenses he may have incurred, I am sure he is in a condition to pay them.


Ah, monsieur, you infuse genuine balm into my blood. We have made considerable advances; and this very morning the surgeon declared that if Monsieur Porthos did not pay him, he should look to me, as it was I who had sent for him.


Porthos is wounded, then?


I cannot tell you, monsieur.


What! You cannot tell me? Surely you ought to be able to tell me better than any other person.


Yes; but in our situation we must not say all we know—particularly as we have been warned that our ears should answer for our tongues.


Well, can I see Porthos?


Certainly, monsieur. Take the stairs on your right; go up the first flight and knock at Number One. Only warn him that it is you.


Why should I do that?


Because, monsieur, some mischief might happen to you.


Of what kind, in the name of wonder?


Monsieur Porthos may imagine you belong to the house, and in a fit of passion might run his sword through you or blow out your brains.


What have you done to him, then?


We have asked him for money.


The devil! Ah, I can understand that. It is a demand that Porthos takes very ill when he is not in funds; but I know he must be so at present.


We thought so, too, monsieur. As our house is carried on very regularly, and we make out our bills every week, at the end of eight days we presented our account; but it appeared we had chosen an unlucky moment, for at the first word on the subject, he sent us to all the devils. It is true he had been playing the day before.


Playing the day before! And with whom?


Lord, who can say, monsieur? With some gentleman who was traveling this way, to whom he proposed a game of lansquenet.


That’s it, then, and the foolish fellow lost all he had?


Even to his horse, monsieur; for when the gentleman was about to set out, we perceived that his lackey was saddling Monsieur Porthos’s horse, as well as his master’s. When we observed this to him, he told us all to trouble ourselves about our own business, as this horse belonged to him. We also informed Monsieur Porthos of what was going on; but he told us we were scoundrels to doubt a gentleman’s word, and that as he had said the horse was his, it must be so.


That’s Porthos all over, murmured D’Artagnan.


Then,


continued the host,


I replied that as from the moment we seemed not likely to come to a good understanding with respect to payment, I hoped that he would have at least the kindness to grant the favor of his custom to my brother host of the Golden Eagle; but Monsieur Porthos replied that, my house being the best, he should remain where he was. This reply was too flattering to allow me to insist on his departure. I confined myself then to begging him to give up his chamber, which is the handsomest in the hôtel, and to be satisfied with a pretty little room on the third floor; but to this Monsieur Porthos replied that as he every moment expected his mistress, who was one of the greatest ladies in the court, I might easily comprehend that the chamber he did me the honor to occupy in my house was itself very mean for the visit of such a personage. Nevertheless, while acknowledging the truth of what he said, I thought proper to insist; but without even giving himself the trouble to enter into any discussion with me, he took one of his pistols, laid it on his table, day and night, and said that at the first word that should be spoken to him about removing, either within the house or out of it, he would blow out the brains of the person who should be so imprudent as to meddle with a matter which only concerned himself. Since that time, monsieur, nobody entered his chamber but his servant.


What! Mousqueton is here, then?


Oh, yes, monsieur. Five days after your departure, he came back, and in a very bad condition, too. It appears that he had met with disagreeableness, likewise, on his journey. Unfortunately, he is more nimble than his master; so that for the sake of his master, he puts us all under his feet, and as he thinks we might refuse what he asked for, he takes all he wants without asking at all.


The fact is. I have always observed a great degree of intelligence and devotedness in Mousqueton.


That is possible, monsieur; but suppose I should happen to be brought in contact, even four times a year, with such intelligence and devotedness—why, I should be a ruined man!


No, for Porthos will pay you.


Hum!


The favorite of a great lady will not be allowed to be inconvenienced for such a paltry sum as he owes you.


If I durst say what I believe on that head—


What you believe?


I ought rather to say, what I know.


What you know?


And even what I am sure of.


And of what are you so sure?


I would say that I know this great lady.


You?


Yes; I.


And how do you know her?


Oh, monsieur, if I could believe I might trust in your discretion.


Speak! By the word of a gentleman, you shall have no cause to repent of your confidence.


Well, monsieur, you understand that uneasiness makes us do many things.


What have you done?


Oh, nothing which was not right in the character of a creditor.


Well?


Monsieur Porthos gave us a note for his duchess, ordering us to put it in the post. This was before his servant came. As he could not leave his chamber, it was necessary to charge us with this commission.


And then?


Instead of putting the letter in the post, which is never safe, I took advantage of the journey of one of my lads to Paris, and ordered him to convey the letter to this duchess himself. This was fulfilling the intentions of Monsieur Porthos, who had desired us to be so careful of this letter, was it not?


Nearly so.


Well, monsieur, do you know who this great lady is?


No; I have heard Porthos speak of her, that’s all.


Do you know who this pretended duchess is?


I repeat to you, I don’t know her.


Why, she is the old wife of a procurator* of the Châtelet, monsieur, named Madame Coquenard, who, although she is at least fifty, still gives herself jealous airs. It struck me as very odd that a princess should live in the Rue aux Ours.


But how do you know all this?


Because she flew into a great passion on receiving the letter, saying that Monsieur Porthos was a weathercock, and that she was sure it was for some woman he had received this wound.


Has he been wounded, then?


Oh, good Lord! What have I said?


You said that Porthos had received a sword cut.


Yes, but he has forbidden me so strictly to say so.


And why so.


Zounds, monsieur! Because he had boasted that he would perforate the stranger with whom you left him in dispute; whereas the stranger, on the contrary, in spite of all his rodomontades quickly threw him on his back. As Monsieur Porthos is a very boastful man, he insists that nobody shall know he has received this wound except the duchess, whom he endeavored to interest by an account of his adventure.


It is a wound that confines him to his bed?


Ah, and a master stroke, too, I assure you. Your friend’s soul must stick tight to his body.


Were you there, then?


Monsieur, I followed them from curiosity, so that I saw the combat without the combatants seeing me.


And what took place?


Oh! The affair was not long, I assure you. They placed themselves on guard; the stranger made a feint and a lunge, and that so rapidly that when Monsieur Porthos came to the parade, he had already three inches of steel in his breast. He immediately fell backward. The stranger placed the point of his sword at his throat; and Monsieur Porthos, finding himself at the mercy of his adversary, acknowledged himself conquered. Upon which the stranger asked his name, and learning that it was Porthos, and not D’Artagnan, he assisted him to rise, brought him back to the hôtel, mounted his horse, and disappeared.


So it was with Monsieur d’Artagnan this stranger meant to quarrel?


It appears so.


And do you know what has become of him?


No, I never saw him until that moment, and have not seen him since.


Very well; I know all that I wish to know. Porthos’s chamber is, you say, on the first story, Number One?


Yes, monsieur, the handsomest in the inn—a chamber that I could have let ten times over.


Bah! Be satisfied. Porthos will pay you with the money of the Duchess Coquenard.


Oh, monsieur, procurator’s wife or duchess, if she will but loosen her pursestrings, it will be all the same; but she positively answered that she was tired of the exigencies and infidelities of Monsieur Porthos, and that she would not send him a denier.


And did you convey this answer to your guest?


We took good care not to do that; he would have found in what fashion we had executed his commission.


So that he still expects his money?


Oh, Lord, yes, monsieur! Yesterday he wrote again; but it was his servant who this time put the letter in the post.


Do you say the procurator’s wife is old and ugly?


Fifty at least, monsieur, and not at all handsome, according to Pathaud’s account.


In that case, you may be quite at ease; she will soon be softened. Besides, Porthos cannot owe you much.


How, not much! Twenty good pistoles, already, without reckoning the doctor. He denies himself nothing; it may easily be seen he has been accustomed to live well.


Never mind; if his mistress abandons him, he will find friends, I will answer for it. So, my dear host, be not uneasy, and continue to take all the care of him that his situation requires.


Monsieur has promised me not to open his mouth about the procurator’s wife, and not to say a word of the wound?


That’s agreed; you have my word.


Oh, he would kill me!


Don’t be afraid; he is not so much of a devil as he appears.


Ah, pardieu! Is that you? You are right welcome. Excuse my not coming to meet you; but, you know what has happened to me?


No.


Has the host told you nothing, then?


I asked after you, and came up as soon as I could. And what has happened to you, my dear Porthos?


Why, on making a thrust at my adversary, whom I had already hit three times, and whom I meant to finish with the fourth, I put my foot on a stone, slipped, and strained my knee.


Truly?


Honor! Luckily for the rascal, for I should have left him dead on the spot, I assure you.


And what has became of him?


Oh, I don’t know; he had enough, and set off without waiting for the rest. But you, my dear D’Artagnan, what has happened to you?


So that this strain of the knee, my dear Porthos, keeps you in bed?


My God, that’s all. I shall be about again in a few days.


Why did you not have yourself conveyed to Paris? You must be cruelly bored here.


That was my intention; but, my dear friend, I have one thing to confess to you.


What’s that?


It is that as I was cruelly bored, as you say, and as I had the seventy-five pistoles in my pocket which you had distributed to me, in order to amuse myself I invited a gentleman who was traveling this way to walk up, and proposed a cast of dice. He accepted my challenge, and, my faith, my seventy-five pistoles passed from my pocket to his, without reckoning my horse, which he won into the bargain. But you, my dear D’Artagnan?


What can you expect, my dear Porthos; a man is not privileged in all ways. You know the proverb ‘Unlucky at play, lucky in love.’ You are too fortunate in your love for play not to take its revenge. What consequence can the reverses of fortune be to you? Have you not, happy rogue that you are—have you not your duchess, who cannot fail to come to your aid?


Well, you see, my dear D’Artagnan, with what ill luck I play. I wrote to her to send me fifty louis or so, of which I stood absolutely in need on account of my accident.


Well?


Well, she must be at her country seat, for she has not answered me.


No; so I yesterday addressed another epistle to her, still more pressing than the first. But you are here, my dear fellow, let us speak of you. I confess I began to be very uneasy on your account.


But your host behaves very well toward you, as it appears, my dear Porthos,


So, so. Only three or four days ago the impertinent jackanapes gave me his bill, and I was forced to turn both him and his bill out of the door; so that I am here something in the fashion of a conqueror, holding my position, as it were, my conquest. So you see, being in constant fear of being forced from that position, I am armed to the teeth.


And yet, it appears to me that from time to time you must make sorties.


Not I, unfortunately! This miserable strain confines me to my bed; but Mousqueton forages, and brings in provisions. Friend Mousqueton, you see that we have a reinforcement, and we must have an increase of supplies.


Mousqueton, you must render me a service.


What, monsieur?


You must give your recipe to Planchet. I may be besieged in my turn, and I shall not be sorry for him to be able to let me enjoy the same advantages with which you gratify your master.


Lord, monsieur! There is nothing more easy. One only needs to be sharp, that’s all. I was brought up in the country, and my father in his leisure time was something of a poacher.


And what did he do the rest of his time?


Monsieur, he carried on a trade which I have always thought satisfactory.


Which?


As it was a time of war between the Catholics and the Huguenots, and as he saw the Catholics exterminate the Huguenots and the Huguenots exterminate the Catholics—all in the name of religion—he adopted a mixed belief which permitted him to be sometimes Catholic, sometimes a Huguenot. Now, he was accustomed to walk with his fowling piece on his shoulder, behind the hedges which border the roads, and when he saw a Catholic coming alone, the Protestant religion immediately prevailed in his mind. He lowered his gun in the direction of the traveler; then, when he was within ten paces of him, he commenced a conversation which almost always ended by the traveler’s abandoning his purse to save his life. It goes without saying that when he saw a Huguenot coming, he felt himself filled with such ardent Catholic zeal that he could not understand how, a quarter of an hour before, he had been able to have any doubts upon the superiority of our holy religion. For my part, monsieur, I am Catholic—my father, faithful to his principles, having made my elder brother a Huguenot.


And what was the end of this worthy man?


Oh, of the most unfortunate kind, monsieur. One day he was surprised in a lonely road between a Huguenot and a Catholic, with both of whom he had before had business, and who both knew him again; so they united against him and hanged him on a tree. Then they came and boasted of their fine exploit in the cabaret of the next village, where my brother and I were drinking.


And what did you do?


We let them tell their story out. Then, as in leaving the cabaret they took different directions, my brother went and hid himself on the road of the Catholic, and I on that of the Huguenot. Two hours after, all was over; we had done the business of both, admiring the foresight of our poor father, who had taken the precaution to bring each of us up in a different religion.


Well, I must allow, as you say, your father was a very intelligent fellow. And you say in his leisure moments the worthy man was a poacher?


Yes, monsieur, and it was he who taught me to lay a snare and ground a line. The consequence is that when I saw our laborers, which did not at all suit two such delicate stomachs as ours, I had recourse to a little of my old trade. While walking near the wood of Monsieur le Prince, I laid a few snares in the runs; and while reclining on the banks of his Highness’s pieces of water, I slipped a few lines into his fish ponds. So that now, thanks be to God, we do not want, as Monsieur can testify, for partridges, rabbits, carp or eels—all light, wholesome food, suitable for the sick.


But the wine, who furnishes the wine? Your host?


That is to say, yes and no.


How yes and no?


He furnishes it, it is true, but he does not know that he has that honor.


Explain yourself, Mousqueton; your conversation is full of instructive things.


That is it, monsieur. It has so chanced that I met with a Spaniard in my peregrinations who had seen many countries, and among them the New World.


What connection can the New World have with the bottles which are on the commode and the wardrobe?


Patience, monsieur, everything will come in its turn. This Spaniard had in his service a lackey who had accompanied him in his voyage to Mexico. This lackey was my compatriot; and we became the more intimate from there being many resemblances of character between us. We loved sporting of all kinds better than anything; so that he related to me how in the plains of the Pampas the natives hunt the tiger and the wild bull with simple running nooses which they throw to a distance of twenty or thirty paces the end of a cord with such nicety; but in face of the proof I was obliged to acknowledge the truth of the recital. My friend placed a bottle at the distance of thirty paces, and at each cast he caught the neck of the bottle in his running noose. I practiced this exercise, and as nature has endowed me with some faculties, at this day I can throw the lasso with any man in the world. Well, do you understand, monsieur? Our host has a well-furnished cellar the key of which never leaves him; only this cellar has a ventilating hole. Now through this ventilating hole I throw my lasso, and as I now know in which part of the cellar is the best wine, that’s my point for sport. You see, monsieur, what the New World has to do with the bottles which are on the commode and the wardrobe. Now, will you taste our wine, and without prejudice say what you think of it?


Thank you, my friend, thank you; unfortunately, I have just breakfasted.


Well, arrange the table, Mousqueton, and while we breakfast, D’Artagnan will relate to us what has happened to him during the ten days since he left us.


Willingly,


D’Artagnan had said nothing to Porthos of his wound or of his procurator’s wife. Our Béarnais was a prudent lad, however young he might be. Consequently he had appeared to believe all that the vainglorious Musketeer had told him, convinced that no friendship will hold out against a surprised secret. Besides, we feel always a sort of mental superiority over those whose lives we know better than they suppose. In his projects of intrigue for the future, and determined as he was to make his three friends the instruments of his fortune, D’Artagnan was not sorry at getting into his grasp beforehand the invisible strings by which he reckoned upon moving them. And yet, as he journeyed along, a profound sadness weighed upon his heart. He thought of that young and pretty Mme. Bonacieux who was to have paid him the price of his devotedness; but let us hasten to say that this sadness possessed the young man less from the regret of the happiness he had missed, than from the fear he entertained that some serious misfortune had befallen the poor woman. For himself, he had no doubt she was a victim of the cardinal’s vengeance; and, as was well known, the vengeance of his Eminence was terrible. How he had found grace in the eyes of the minister, he did not know; but without doubt M. de Cavois would have revealed this to him if the captain of the Guards had found him at home. Nothing makes time pass more quickly or more shortens a journey than a thought which absorbs in itself all the faculties of the organization of him who thinks. External existence then resembles a sleep of which this thought is the dream. By its influence, time has no longer measure, space has no longer distance. We depart from one place, and arrive at another, that is all. Of the interval passed, nothing remains in the memory but a vague mist in which a thousand confused images of trees, mountains, and landscapes are lost. It was as a prey to this hallucination that D’Artagnan traveled, at whatever pace his horse pleased, the six or eight leagues that separated Chantilly from Crèvecœur, without his being able to remember on his arrival in the village any of the things he had passed or met with on the road.


My good dame, can you tell me what has become of one of my friends, whom we were obliged to leave here about a dozen days ago?


A handsome young man, three- or four-and-twenty years old, mild, amiable, and well made?


That is he—wounded in the shoulder.


Just so. Well, monsieur, he is still here.


Ah, pardieu! My dear dame, you restore me to life; where is this dear Aramis? Let me embrace him, I am in a hurry to see him again.


Pardon, monsieur, but I doubt whether he can see you at this moment.


Why so? Has he a lady with him?


Jesus! What do you mean by that? Poor lad! No, monsieur, he has not a lady with him.


With whom is he, then?


With the curate of Montdidier and the superior of the Jesuits of Amiens.


Good heavens! is the poor fellow worse, then?


No, monsieur, quite the contrary; but after his illness grace touched him, and he determined to take orders.


That’s it! I had forgotten that he was only a Musketeer for a time.


Monsieur still insists upon seeing him?


More than ever.


Well, monsieur has only to take the right-hand staircase in the courtyard, and knock at Number Five on the second floor.


Good day, dear D’Artagnan, believe me, I am glad to see you.


So am I delighted to see you, although I am not yet sure that it is Aramis I am speaking to.


To himself, my friend, to himself! But what makes you doubt it? I was afraid I had made a mistake in the chamber, and that I had found my way into the apartment of some churchman. Then another error seized me on seeing you in company with these gentlemen—I was afraid you were dangerously ill.


I disturb you, perhaps, my dear Aramis, for by what I see, I am led to believe that you are confessing to these gentlemen.


You disturb me? Oh, quite the contrary, dear friend, I swear; and as a proof of what I say, permit me to declare I am rejoiced to see you safe and sound.


Ah, he’ll come round, that’s not bad!


This gentleman, who is my friend, has just escaped from a serious danger,


Praise God, monsieur,


I have not failed to do so, your Reverences,


You arrive in good time, dear D’Artagnan, and by taking part in our discussion may assist us with your intelligence. Monsieur the Principal of Amiens, Monsieur the Curate of Montdidier, and I are arguing certain theological questions in which we have been much interested; I shall be delighted to have your opinion.


The opinion of a swordsman can have very little weight, and you had better be satisfied, believe me, with the knowledge of these gentlemen.


On the contrary, your opinion will be very valuable. The question is this: Monsieur the Principal thinks that my thesis ought to be dogmatic and didactic.


Your thesis! Are you then making a thesis?


Without doubt. In the examination which precedes ordination, a thesis is always a requisite.


Ordination!


Now, as you have heard, D’Artagnan, Monsieur the Principal is desirous that my thesis should be dogmatic, while I, for my part, would rather it should be ideal. This is the reason why Monsieur the Principal has proposed to me the following subject, which has not yet been treated upon, and in which I perceive there is matter for magnificent elaboration—‘Utraque manus in benedicendo clericis inferioribus necessaria est.’ Which means. The two hands are indispensable for priests of the inferior orders, when they bestow the benediction.


An admirable subject!


Admirable and dogmatic!


Yes, admirable! prorsus admirabile! but which requires a profound study of both the Scriptures and the Fathers. Now, I have confessed to these learned ecclesiastics, and that in all humility, that the duties of mounting guard and the service of the king have caused me to neglect study a little. I should find myself, therefore, more at my ease, facilius natans, in a subject of my own choice, which would be to these hard theological questions what morals are to metaphysics in philosophy.


See what an exordium!


Exordium. Quemadmodum inter cœlorum immensitatem.


Let us speak French, my father. Monsieur d’Artagnan will enjoy our conversation better.


Yes. I am fatigued with reading, and all this Latin confuses me.


Certainly. Well, let us see what is to be derived from this gloss. Moses, the servant of God—he was but a servant, please to understand—Moses blessed with the hands; he held out both his arms while the Hebrews beat their enemies, and then he blessed them with his two hands. Besides, what does the Gospel say? Imponite manus, and not manum—place the hands, not the hand.


Place the hands,


St. Peter, on the contrary, of whom the Popes are the successors, porrige digitos—present the fingers. Are you there, now?


Certes, but the thing is subtle.


The fingers. St. Peter blessed with the fingers. The Pope, therefore blesses with the fingers. And with how many fingers does he bless? With three fingers, to be sure—one for the Father, one for the Son, and one for the Holy Ghost. The Pope is the successor of St. Peter, and represents the three divine powers; the rest—ordines inferiores—of the ecclesiastical hierarchy bless in the name of the holy archangels and angels. The most humble clerks such as our deacons and sacristans, bless with holy water sprinklers, which resemble an infinite number of blessing fingers. There is the subject simplified. Argumentum omni denudatum ornamento. I could make of that subject two volumes the size of this,


Certes. Non inutile est desiderium in oblatione A little regret is not unsuitable in an offering to the Lord.


Stop there! for that thesis touches closely upon heresy. There is a proposition almost like it in the Augustinus of the heresiarch Jansenius, whose book will sooner or later be burned by the hands of the executioner. Take care, my young friend. You are inclining toward false doctrines, my young friend; you will be lost.


You will be lost,


You approach that famous point of free will which is a mortal rock. You face the insinuations of the Pelagians and the semi-Pelagians.


But, my Reverend—


How will you prove, that we ought to regret the world when we offer ourselves to God? Listen to this dilemma: God is God, and the world is the devil. To regret the world is to regret the devil; that is my conclusion.


And that is mine also,


But, for heaven’s sake—


Desideras diabolum, unhappy man!


He regrets the devil! Ah, my young friend, do not regret the devil, I implore you!


But listen to me, then. I do not say I regret; no, I will never pronounce that sentence, which would not be orthodox. No; but pray grant me that it is acting with an ill grace to offer to the Lord only that with which we are perfectly disgusted! Don’t you think so, D’Artagnan?


I think so, indeed,


This is the point of departure; it is a syllogism. The world is not wanting in attractions. I quit the world; then I make a sacrifice. Now, the Scripture says positively, ‘Make a sacrifice unto the Lord.’


That is true,


And then, and then I made a certain rondeau upon it last year, which I showed to Monsieur Voiture, and that great man paid me a thousand compliments.


A rondeau!


Repeat it! Repeat it! it will make a little change.


Not so, for it is religious, it is theology in verse.


The devil!


Here it is. Vous qui pleurez un passé plein de charmes, Et qui trainez des jours infortunés, Tous vos malheurs se verront terminés, Quand à Dieu seul vous offrirez vos larmes, Vous qui pleurez! You who weep for pleasures fled, While dragging on a life of care, All your woes will melt in air, If to God your tears are shed, You who weep!


Beware of a profane taste in your theological style. What says Augustine on this subject: ‘Severus sit clericorum verbo.’


Yes, let the sermon be clear,


Now, now your thesis would please the ladies; it would have the success of one of Monsieur Patru’s pleadings.


Please God!


There it is, the world still speaks within you in a loud voice, altisimâ voce. You follow the world, my young friend, and I tremble lest grace prove not efficacious.


Be satisfied, my reverend father, I can answer for myself.


Mundane presumption!


I know myself, Father; my resolution is irrevocable.


Then you persist in continuing that thesis?


I feel myself called upon to treat that, and no other. I will see about the continuation of it, and tomorrow I hope you will be satisfied with the corrections I shall have made in consequence of your advice.


Work slowly, we leave you in an excellent tone of mind.


Yes, the ground is all sown, and we have not to fear that one portion of the seed may have fallen upon stone, another upon the highway, or that the birds of heaven have eaten the rest, aves cœli comederunt illam.


Plague stifle you and your Latin!


Farewell, my son, till tomorrow.


Till tomorrow, rash youth. You promise to become one of the lights of the Church. Heaven grant that this light prove not a devouring fire!


you see that I am returned to my fundamental ideas.


Yes, efficacious grace has touched you, as that gentleman said just now.


Oh, these plans of retreat have been formed for a long time. You have often heard me speak of them, have you not, my friend?


Yes; but I confess I always thought you jested.


With such things! Oh, D’Artagnan!


The devil! Why, people jest with death.


And people are wrong, D’Artagnan; for death is the door which leads to perdition or to salvation.


Granted; but if you please, let us not theologize, Aramis. You must have had enough for today. As for me, I have almost forgotten the little Latin I have ever known. Then I confess to you that I have eaten nothing since ten o’clock this morning, and I am devilish hungry.


We will dine directly, my friend; only you must please to remember that this is Friday. Now, on such a day I can neither eat flesh nor see it eaten. If you can be satisfied with my dinner—it consists of cooked tetragones and fruits.


What do you mean by tetragones?


I mean spinach, but on your account I will add some eggs, and that is a serious infraction of the rule—for eggs are meat, since they engender chickens.


This feast is not very succulent; but never mind, I will put up with it for the sake of remaining with you.


I am grateful to you for the sacrifice, but if your body be not greatly benefited by it, be assured your soul will.


And so, Aramis, you are decidedly going into the Church? What will our two friends say? What will Monsieur de Tréville say? They will treat you as a deserter, I warn you.


I do not enter the Church; I re-enter it. I deserted the Church for the world, for you know that I forced myself when I became a Musketeer.


I? I know nothing about it.


You don’t know I quit the seminary?


Not at all.


This is my story, then. Besides, the Scriptures say, ‘Confess yourselves to one another,’ and I confess to you, D’Artagnan.


And I give you absolution beforehand. You see I am a good sort of a man.


Do not jest about holy things, my friend.


Go on, then, I listen.


I had been at the seminary from nine years old; in three days I should have been twenty. I was about to become an abbé, and all was arranged. One evening I went, according to custom, to a house which I frequented with much pleasure: when one is young, what can be expected?—one is weak. An officer who saw me, with a jealous eye, reading the Lives of the Saints to the mistress of the house, entered suddenly and without being announced. That evening I had translated an episode of Judith, and had just communicated my verses to the lady, who gave me all sorts of compliments, and leaning on my shoulder, was reading them a second time with me. Her pose, which I must admit was rather free, wounded this officer. He said nothing; but when I went out he followed, and quickly came up with me. ‘Monsieur the Abbé,’ said he, ‘do you like blows with a cane?’ ‘I cannot say, monsieur,’ answered I; ‘no one has ever dared to give me any.’ ‘Well, listen to me, then, Monsieur the Abbé! If you venture again into the house in which I have met you this evening, I will dare it myself.’ I really think I must have been frightened. I became very pale; I felt my legs fail me; I sought for a reply, but could find none—I was silent. The officer waited for his reply, and seeing it so long coming, he burst into a laugh, turned upon his heel, and re-entered the house. I returned to the seminary. I am a gentleman born, and my blood is warm, as you may have remarked, my dear D’Artagnan. The insult was terrible, and although unknown to the rest of the world, I felt it live and fester at the bottom of my heart. I informed my superiors that I did not feel myself sufficiently prepared for ordination, and at my request the ceremony was postponed for a year. I sought out the best fencing master in Paris, I made an agreement with him to take a lesson every day, and every day for a year I took that lesson. Then, on the anniversary of the day on which I had been insulted, I hung my cassock on a peg, assumed the costume of a cavalier, and went to a ball given by a lady friend of mine and to which I knew my man was invited. It was in the Rue des France-Bourgeois, close to La Force. As I expected, my officer was there. I went up to him as he was singing a love ditty and looking tenderly at a lady, and interrupted him exactly in the middle of the second couplet. ‘Monsieur,’ said I, ‘does it still displease you that I should frequent a certain house of La Rue Payenne? And would you still cane me if I took it into my head to disobey you? The officer looked at me with astonishment, and then said, ‘What is your business with me, monsieur? I do not know you.’ ‘I am,’ said I, ‘the little abbé who reads Lives of the Saints, and translates Judith into verse.’ ‘Ah, ah! I recollect now,’ said the officer, in a jeering tone; ‘well, what do you want with me?’ ‘I want you to spare time to take a walk with me.’ ‘Tomorrow morning, if you like, with the greatest pleasure.’ ‘No, not tomorrow morning, if you please, but immediately.’ ‘If you absolutely insist.’ ‘I do insist upon it.’ ‘Come, then. Ladies,’ said the officer, ‘do not disturb yourselves; allow me time just to kill this gentleman, and I will return and finish the last couplet. We went out. I took him to the Rue Payenne, to exactly the same spot where, a year before, at the very same hour, he had paid me the compliment I have related to you. It was a superb moonlight night. We immediately drew, and at the first pass I laid him stark dead.


The devil!


Now, as the ladies did not see the singer come back, and as he was found in the Rue Payenne with a great sword wound through his body, it was supposed that I had accommodated him thus; and the matter created some scandal which obliged me to renounce the cassock for a time. Athos, whose acquaintance I made about that period, and Porthos, who had in addition to my lessons taught me some effective tricks of fence, prevailed upon me to solicit the uniform of a Musketeer. The king entertained great regard for my father, who had fallen at the siege of Arras, and the uniform was granted. You may understand that the moment has come for me to re-enter the bosom of the Church.


And why today, rather than yesterday or tomorrow? What has happened to you today, to raise all these melancholy ideas?


This wound, my dear D’Artagnan, has been a warning to me from heaven.


This wound? Bah, it is now nearly healed, and I am sure it is not that which gives you the most pain.


What, then?


You have one at heart, Aramis, one deeper and more painful—a wound made by a woman.


Ah, do not talk of such things, and suffer love pains? Vanitas vanitatum! According to your idea, then, my brain is turned. And for whom—for some grisette, some chambermaid with whom I have trifled in some garrison? Fie!


Pardon, my dear Aramis, but I thought you carried your eyes higher.


Higher? And who am I, to nourish such ambition? A poor Musketeer, a beggar, an unknown—who hates slavery, and finds himself ill-placed in the world.


Aramis, Aramis!


Dust I am, and to dust I return. Life is full of humiliations and sorrows, all the ties which attach him to life break in the hand of man, particularly the golden ties. Oh, my dear D’Artagnan, trust me! Conceal your wounds when you have any; silence is the last joy of the unhappy. Beware of giving anyone the clue to your griefs; the curious suck our tears as flies suck the blood of a wounded hart.


Alas, my dear Aramis, that is my story you are relating!


How?


Yes; a woman whom I love, whom I adore, has just been torn from me by force. I do not know where she is or whither they have conducted her. She is perhaps a prisoner; she is perhaps dead!


Yes, but you have at least this consolation, that you can say to yourself she has not quit you voluntarily, that if you learn no news of her, it is because all communication with you is interdicted; while I—


Well?


Nothing,


So you renounce the world, then, forever; that is a settled thing—a resolution registered!


Forever! You are my friend today; tomorrow you will be no more to me than a shadow, or rather, even, you will no longer exist. As for the world, it is a sepulcher and nothing else.


The devil! All this is very sad which you tell me.


What will you? My vocation commands me; it carries me away. And yet, while I do belong to the earth, I wish to speak of you—of our friends.


I wished to speak of you, but I find you so completely detached from everything! To love you cry, ‘Fie! Friends are shadows! The world is a sepulcher!’


Alas, you will find it so yourself,


Well, then, let us say no more about it, and let us burn this letter, which, no doubt, announces to you some fresh infidelity of your grisette or your chambermaid.


What letter?


A letter which was sent to your abode in your absence, and which was given to me for you.


But from whom is that letter?


Oh, from some heartbroken waiting woman, some desponding grisette; from Madame de Chevreuse’s chambermaid, perhaps, who was obliged to return to Tours with her mistress, and who, in order to appear smart and attractive, stole some perfumed paper, and sealed her letter with a duchess’s coronet.


What do you say?


Hold! I must have lost it. But fortunately the world is a sepulcher; the men, and consequently the women, are but shadows, and love is a sentiment to which you cry, ‘Fie! Fie!’


D’Artagnan, D’Artagnan, you are killing me!


Well, here it is at last! as he drew the letter from his pocket.


This same waiting maid seems to have an agreeable style. Thanks, D’Artagnan, thanks! She was forced to return to Tours; she is not faithless; she still loves me! Come, my friend, come, let me embrace you. Happiness almost stifles me! Be off, you wretch! Return whence you came; take back those horrible vegetables, and that poor kickshaw! Order a larded hare, a fat capon, mutton leg dressed with garlic, and four bottles of old Burgundy.


Now this is the moment to consecrate your existence to the King of kings, if you persist in offering him a civility. Non inutile desiderium oblatione.


Go to the devil with your Latin. Let us drink, my dear D’Artagnan, morbleu! Let us drink while the wine is fresh! Let us drink heartily, and while we do so, tell me a little of what is going on in the world yonder.


We have now to search for Athos,


Do you think, then, that any harm can have happened to him? Athos is so cool, so brave, and handles his sword so skillfully.


No doubt. Nobody has a higher opinion of the courage and skill of Athos than I have; but I like better to hear my sword clang against lances than against staves. I fear lest Athos should have been beaten down by serving men. Those fellows strike hard, and don’t leave off in a hurry. This is why I wish to set out again as soon as possible.


I will try to accompany you, though I scarcely feel in a condition to mount on horseback. Yesterday I undertook to employ that cord which you see hanging against the wall, but pain prevented my continuing the pious exercise.


That’s the first time I ever heard of anybody trying to cure gunshot wounds with cat-o’-nine-tails; but you were ill, and illness renders the head weak, therefore you may be excused.


When do you mean to set out?


Tomorrow at daybreak. Sleep as soundly as you can tonight, and tomorrow, if you can, we will take our departure together.


Till tomorrow, then, for iron-nerved as you are, you must need repose.


What are you looking at?


My faith! I am admiring three magnificent horses which the stable boys are leading about. It would be a pleasure worthy of a prince to travel upon such horses.


Well, my dear Aramis, you may enjoy that pleasure, for one of those three horses is yours.


Ah, bah! Which?


Whichever of the three you like, I have no preference.


And the rich caparison, is that mine, too?


Without doubt.


You laugh, D’Artagnan.


No, I have left off laughing, now that you speak French.


What, those rich holsters, that velvet housing, that saddle studded with silver—are they all for me?


For you and nobody else, as the horse which paws the ground is mine, and the other horse, which is caracoling, belongs to Athos.


Peste! They are three superb animals!


I am glad they please you.


Why, it must have been the king who made you such a present.


Certainly it was not the cardinal; but don’t trouble yourself whence they come, think only that one of the three is your property.


I choose that which the red-headed boy is leading.


It is yours!


Good heaven! That is enough to drive away all my pains; I could mount him with thirty balls in my body. On my soul, handsome stirrups! Holà, Bazin, come here this minute.


That last order is useless; there are loaded pistols in your holsters.


Come, Monsieur Bazin, make yourself easy,


people of all conditions gain the kingdom of heaven.


Monsieur was already such a good theologian, he might have become a bishop, and perhaps a cardinal.


Well, but my poor Bazin, reflect a little. Of what use is it to be a churchman, pray? You do not avoid going to war by that means; you see, the cardinal is about to make the next campaign, helm on head and partisan in hand. And Monsieur de Nogaret de la Valette, what do you say of him? He is a cardinal likewise. Ask his lackey how often he has had to prepare lint of him.


Alas! I know it, monsieur; everything is turned topsy-turvy in the world nowadays.


Hold my stirrup, Bazin, and Aramis sprang into the saddle with his usual grace and agility, but after a few vaults and curvets of the noble animal his rider felt his pains come on so insupportably that he turned pale and became unsteady in his seat.


That’s all right, my dear Aramis, take care of yourself. I will go alone in search of Athos.


You are a man of brass,


No, I have good luck, that is all. But how do you mean to pass your time till I come back? No more theses, no more glosses upon the fingers or upon benedictions, hey?


I will make verses,


Yes, I dare say; verses perfumed with the odor of the billet from the attendant of Madame de Chevreuse. Teach Bazin prosody; that will console him. As to the horse, ride him a little every day, and that will accustom you to his maneuvers.


Oh, make yourself easy on that head. You will find me ready to follow you.


How was he going to find Athos? Should he find him at all? The position in which he had left him was critical. He probably had succumbed. This idea, while darkening his brow, drew several sighs from him, and caused him to formulate to himself a few vows of vengeance. Of all his friends, Athos was the eldest, and the least resembling him in appearance, in his tastes and sympathies. Yet he entertained a marked preference for this gentleman. The noble and distinguished air of Athos, those flashes of greatness which from time to time broke out from the shade in which he voluntarily kept himself, that unalterable equality of temper which made him the most pleasant companion in the world, that forced and cynical gaiety, that bravery which might have been termed blind if it had not been the result of the rarest coolness—such qualities attracted more than the esteem, more than the friendship of D’Artagnan; they attracted his admiration.


Well, poor Athos is perhaps at this moment dead, and dead by my fault—for it was I who dragged him into this affair, of which he did not know the origin, of which he is ignorant of the result, and from which he can derive no advantage.


Without reckoning, monsieur, that we perhaps owe our lives to him. Do you remember how he cried, ‘On, D’Artagnan, on, I am taken’?


Do you remember me?


I have not that honor, monseigneur,


What, you don’t know me?


No, monseigneur.


Well, two words will refresh your memory. What have you done with that gentleman against whom you had the audacity, about twelve days ago, to make an accusation of passing false money?


Ah, monseigneur, do not mention it! Ah, monseigneur, how dearly have I paid for that fault, unhappy wretch as I am!


That gentleman, I say, what has become of him?


Deign to listen to me, monseigneur, and be merciful! Sit down, in mercy! Here is the story, monseigneur, for I now recollect you. It was you who rode off at the moment I had that unfortunate difference with the gentleman you speak of.


Yes, it was I; so you may plainly perceive that you have no mercy to expect if you do not tell me the whole truth.


Condescend to listen to me, and you shall know all. I had been warned by the authorities that a celebrated coiner of bad money would arrive at my inn, with several of his companions, all disguised as Guards or Musketeers. Monseigneur, I was furnished with a description of your horses, your lackeys, your countenances—nothing was omitted.


Go on, go on!


I took then, in conformity with the orders of the authorities, who sent me a reinforcement of six men, such measures as I thought necessary to get possession of the persons of the pretended coiners.


Again!


Pardon me, monseigneur, for saying such things, but they form my excuse. The authorities had terrified me, and you know that an innkeeper must keep on good terms with the authorities.


But once again, that gentleman—where is he? What has become of him? Is he dead? Is he living?


Patience, monseigneur, we are coming to it. There happened then that which you know, and of which your precipitate departure, appeared to authorize the issue. That gentleman, your friend, defended himself desperately. His lackey, who, by an unforeseen piece of ill luck, had quarreled with the officers, disguised as stable lads—


Miserable scoundrel! you were all in the plot, then! And I really don’t know what prevents me from exterminating you all.


Alas, monseigneur, we were not in the plot, as you will soon see. Monsieur your friend (pardon for not calling him by the honorable name which no doubt he bears, but we do not know that name), Monsieur your friend, having disabled two men with his pistols, retreated fighting with his sword, with which he disabled one of my men, and stunned me with a blow of the flat side of it.


You villain, will you finish? Athos—what has become of Athos?


While fighting and retreating, as I have told Monseigneur, he found the door of the cellar stairs behind him, and as the door was open, he took out the key, and barricaded himself inside. As we were sure of finding him there, we left him alone.


Yes, you did not really wish to kill; you only wished to imprison him.


Good God! To imprison him, monseigneur? Why, he imprisoned himself, I swear to you he did. In the first place he had made rough work of it; one man was killed on the spot, and two others were severely wounded. The dead man and the two wounded were carried off by their comrades, and I have heard nothing of either of them since. As for myself, as soon as I recovered my senses I went to Monsieur the Governor, to whom I related all that had passed, and asked, what I should do with my prisoner. Monsieur the Governor was all astonishment. He told me he knew nothing about the matter, that the orders I had received did not come from him, and that if I had the audacity to mention his name as being concerned in this disturbance he would have me hanged. It appears that I had made a mistake, monsieur, that I had arrested the wrong person, and that he whom I ought to have arrested had escaped.


But Athos! Athos, where is he?


As I was anxious to repair the wrongs I had done the prisoner. I took my way straight to the cellar in order to set him at liberty. Ah, monsieur, he was no longer a man, he was a devil! To my offer of liberty, he replied that it was nothing but a snare, and that before he came out he intended to impose his own conditions. I told him very humbly—for I could not conceal from myself the scrape I had got into by laying hands on one of his Majesty’s Musketeers—I told him I was quite ready to submit to his conditions.


In the first place. I wish my lackey placed with me, fully armed.


Monsieur Grimaud (he told us his name, although he does not talk much)—Monsieur Grimaud, then, went down to the cellar, wounded as he was; then his master, having admitted him, barricaded the door afresh, and ordered us to remain quietly in our own bar.


But where is Athos now? Where is Athos?


In the cellar, monsieur.


What, you scoundrel! Have you kept him in the cellar all this time?


Merciful heaven! No, monsieur! We keep him in the cellar! You do not know what he is about in the cellar. Ah! If you could but persuade him to come out, monsieur, I should owe you the gratitude of my whole life; I should adore you as my patron saint! Then he is there? I shall find him there? Without doubt you will, monsieur; he persists in remaining there. We every day pass through the air hole some bread at the end of a fork, and some meat when he asks for it; but alas! It is not of bread and meat of which he makes the greatest consumption. I once endeavored to go down with two of my servants; but he flew into terrible rage. I heard the noise he made in loading his pistols, and his servant in loading his musketoon. Then, when we asked them what were their intentions, the master replied that he had forty charges to fire, and that he and his lackey would fire to the last one before he would allow a single soul of us to set foot in the cellar. Upon this I went and complained to the governor, who replied that I only had what I deserved, and that it would teach me to insult honorable gentlemen who took up their abode in my house.


So that since that time—


So from that time, monsieur, we have led the most miserable life imaginable; for you must know, monsieur, that all our provisions are in the cellar. There is our wine in bottles, and our wine in casks; the beer, the oil, and the spices, the bacon, and sausages. And as we are prevented from going down there, we are forced to refuse food and drink to the travelers who come to the house; so that our hostelry is daily going to ruin. If your friend remains another week in my cellar I shall be a ruined man.


And not more than justice, either, you ass! Could you not perceive by our appearance that we were people of quality, and not coiners—say?


Yes, monsieur, you are right. But, hark, hark! There he is!


Somebody has disturbed him, without doubt,


But he must be disturbed. Here are two English gentlemen just arrived.


Well?


Well, the English like good wine, as you may know, monsieur; these have asked for the best. My wife has perhaps requested permission of Monsieur Athos to go into the cellar to satisfy these gentlemen; and he, as usual, has refused. Ah, good heaven! There is the hullabaloo louder than ever!


that this madman will not allow these good people access to their own wine! Nonsense, let us break open the door, and if he is too far gone in his madness, well, we will kill him!


Softly, gentlemen!


let them just come in, these devourers of little children, and we shall see!


Planchet. I will take charge of the one at the top; you look to the one below. Ah, gentlemen, you want battle; and you shall have it.


I can hear D’Artagnan, I think.


Yes. I am here, my friend.


we will teach them, these door breakers!


Gentlemen, gentlemen, think of what you are about. Patience, Athos! You are running your heads into a very silly affair; you will be riddled. My lackey and I will have three shots at you, and you will get as many from the cellar. You will then have our swords, with which, I can assure you, my friend and I can play tolerably well. Let me conduct your business and my own. You shall soon have something to drink; I give you my word.


If there is any left,


What the devil! There must be plenty left, satisfied of that; these two cannot have drunk all the cellar. Gentlemen, return your swords to their scabbards.


Well, provided you replace your pistols in your belt.


Willingly. Now, gentlemen, go up to your room again; and in ten minutes, I will answer for it, you shall have all you desire. Now I am alone, my dear Athos, open the door, I beg of you.


Instantly,


You are wounded,


I! Not at all. I am dead drunk, that’s all, and never did a man more strongly set about getting so. By the Lord, my good host! I must at least have drunk for my part a hundred and fifty bottles.


Mercy! if the lackey has drunk only half as much as the master, I am a ruined man.


Grimaud is a well-bred lackey. He would never think of faring in the same manner as his master; he only drank from the cask. Hark! I don’t think he put the faucet in again. Do you hear it? It is running now.


Some wine!


Some wine! some wine? Why you have drunk more than a hundred pistoles’ worth! I am a ruined man, lost, destroyed!


Bah, we were always dry.


If you had been contented with drinking, well and good; but you have broken all the bottles.


You pushed me upon a heap which rolled down. That was your fault.


All my oil is lost!


Oil is a sovereign balm for wounds; and my poor Grimaud here was obliged to dress those you had inflicted on him.


All my sausages are gnawed!


There is an enormous quantity of rats in that cellar.


You shall pay me for all this,


Triple ass!


This will teach you, to treat the guests God sends you in a more courteous fashion.


God? Say the devil!


My dear friend, if you annoy us in this manner we will all four go and shut ourselves up in your cellar, and we will see if the mischief is as great as you say.


Oh, gentlemen. I have been wrong. I confess it, but pardon to every sin! You are gentlemen, and I am a poor innkeeper. You will have pity on me.


Ah, if you speak in that way, you will break my heart, and the tears will flow from my eyes as the wine flowed from the cask. We are not such devils as we appear to be. Come hither, and let us talk. Come hither, I say, and don’t be afraid. At the very moment when I was about to pay you, I had placed my purse on the table.


Yes, monsieur.


That purse contained sixty pistoles; where is it?


Deposited with the justice; they said it was bad money.


Very well; get me my purse back and keep the sixty pistoles.


But Monseigneur knows very well that justice never lets go that which it once lays hold of. If it were bad money, there might be some hopes; but unfortunately, those were all good pieces.


Manage the matter as well as you can, my good man; it does not concern me, the more so as I have not a livre left.


Come, let us inquire further. Athos’s horse, where is that?


In the stable.


How much is it worth?


Fifty pistoles at most.


It’s worth eighty. Take it, and there ends the matter.


What, are you selling my horse—my Bajazet? And pray upon what shall I make my campaign; upon Grimaud?


I have brought you another,


Another?


And a magnificent one!


Well, since there is another finer and younger, why, you may take the old one; and let us drink.


What?


Some of that at the bottom, near the laths. There are twenty-five bottles of it left; all the rest were broken by my fall. Bring six of them.


Why, this man is a cask! If he only remains here a fortnight, and pays for what he drinks, I shall soon re-establish my business.


And don’t forget, to bring up four bottles of the same sort for the two English gentlemen.


And now, while they bring the wine, tell me, D’Artagnan, what has become of the others, come! That’s well! here’s to Porthos and Aramis! But you, D’Artagnan, what is the matter with you, and what has happened to you personally? You have a sad air.


Alas, it is because I am the most unfortunate.


Tell me.


Presently,


Presently! And why presently? Because you think I am drunk? D’Artagnan, remember this! My ideas are never so clear as when I have had plenty of wine. Speak, then, I am all ears. Trifles, only trifles!


You always say trifles, my dear Athos! and that comes very ill from you, who have never loved.


That’s true, for my part I have never loved.


Acknowledge, then, you stony heart, that you are wrong to be so hard upon us tender hearts.


Tender hearts! Pierced hearts!


What do you say?


I say that love is a lottery in which he who wins, wins death! You are very fortunate to have lost, believe me, my dear D’Artagnan. And if I have any counsel to give, it is, always lose!


She seemed to love me so!


She seemed, did she?


Oh, she did love me!


You child, why, there is not a man who has not believed, as you do, that his mistress loved him, and there lives not a man who has not been deceived by his mistress.


Except you, Athos, who never had one.


That’s true, that’s true! I never had one! Let us drink!


But then, philosopher that you are, instruct me, support me. I stand in need of being taught and consoled.


Consoled for what?


For my misfortune.


Your misfortune is laughable. I should like to know what you would say if I were to relate to you a real tale of love!


Which has happened to you?


Or one of my friends, what matters?


Tell it, Athos, tell it.


Better if I drink.


Drink and relate, then.


Not a bad idea! The two things agree marvelously well.


I am all attention,


You particularly wish it?


I pray for it,


Be it then as you desire. One of my friends—one of my friends, please to observe, not myself, one of the counts of my province—that is to say, of Berry—noble as a Dandolo or a Montmorency, at twenty-five years of age fell in love with a girl of sixteen, beautiful as fancy can paint. Through the ingenuousness of her age beamed an ardent mind, not of the woman, but of the poet. She did not please; she intoxicated. She lived in a small town with her brother, who was a curate. Both had recently come into the country. They came nobody knew whence; but when seeing her so lovely and her brother so pious, nobody thought of asking whence they came. They were said, however, to be of good extraction. My friend, who was seigneur of the country, might have seduced her, or taken her by force, at his will—for he was master. Who would have come to the assistance of two strangers, two unknown persons? Unfortunately he was an honorable man; he married her. The fool! The ass! The idiot!


How so, if he loved her?


Wait. He took her to his château, and made her the first lady in the province; and in justice it must be allowed that she supported her rank becomingly.


Well?


Well, one day when she was hunting with her husband, she fell from her horse and fainted. The count flew to her to help, and as she appeared to be oppressed by her clothes, he ripped them open with his poniard, and in so doing laid bare her shoulder. D’Artagnan, guess what she had on her shoulder.


How can I tell?


A fleur-de-lis. She was branded.


Horror! What do you tell me?


Truth, my friend. The angel was a demon; the poor young girl had stolen the sacred vessels from a church.


And what did the count do?


The count was of the highest nobility. He had on his estates the rights of high and low tribunals. He tore the dress of the countess to pieces; he tied her hands behind her, and hanged her on a tree.


Heavens, Athos, a murder?


No less. But methinks I need wine! That has cured me of beautiful, poetical, and loving women. God grant you as much! Let us drink.


Then she is dead?


Parbleu! But hold out your glass. Some ham, my boy, or we can’t drink.


And her brother?


Her brother?


Yes, the priest.


Oh, I inquired after him for the purpose of hanging him likewise; but he was beforehand with me, he had quit the curacy the night before.


Was it ever known who this miserable fellow was?


He was doubtless the first lover and accomplice of the fair lady. A worthy man, who had pretended to be a curate for the purpose of getting his mistress married, and securing her a position. He has been hanged and quartered, I hope.


My God, my God!


Taste some of this ham, D’Artagnan; it is exquisite. What a pity it is there were only four like this in the cellar. I could have drunk fifty bottles more. These young fellows can none of them drink, and yet this is one of the best!


I was pretty drunk yesterday, D’Artagnan. I can tell that by my tongue, which was swollen and hot this morning, and by my pulse, which was very tremulous. I wager that I uttered a thousand extravagances.


No, if I recollect well what you said, it was nothing out of the common way.


Ah, you surprise me. I thought I had told you a most lamentable story.


My faith, it appears that I was more drunk than you, since I remember nothing of the kind.


you cannot have failed to remark, my dear friend, that everyone has his particular kind of drunkenness, sad or gay. My drunkenness is always sad, and when I am thoroughly drunk my mania is to relate all the lugubrious stories which my foolish nurse inculcated into my brain. That is my failing—a capital failing, I admit; but with that exception, I am a good drinker.


It is that, then, it is that, then, it is that, then, I remember as we remember a dream. We were speaking of hanging.


Ah, you see how it is. I was sure it was so—the hanging of people is my nightmare.


Yes, yes. I remember now; yes, it was about—stop a minute—yes, it was about a woman.


That’s it, that is my grand story of the fair lady, and when I relate that, I must be very drunk.


Yes, that was it, the story of a tall, fair lady, with blue eyes.


Yes, who was hanged.


By her husband, who was a nobleman of your acquaintance,


Well, you see how a man may compromise himself when he does not know what he says. I certainly never will get drunk again, D’Artagnan; it is too bad a habit. By the by, I thank you for the horse you have brought me.


Is it to your mind?


Yes; but it is not a horse for hard work.


You are mistaken; I rode him nearly ten leagues in less than an hour and a half, and he appeared no more distressed than if he had only made the tour of the Place St. Sulpice.


Ah, you begin to awaken my regret.


Regret?


Yes; I have parted with him.


How?


Why, here is the simple fact. This morning I awoke at six o’clock. You were still fast asleep, and I did not know what to do with myself; I was still stupid from our yesterday’s debauch. As I came into the public room, I saw one of our Englishman bargaining with a dealer for a horse, his own having died yesterday from bleeding. I drew near, and found he was bidding a hundred pistoles for a chestnut nag. ‘Pardieu,’ said I, ‘my good gentleman, I have a horse to sell, too.’ ‘Ay, and a very fine one! I saw him yesterday; your friend’s lackey was leading him.’ ‘Do you think he is worth a hundred pistoles?’ ‘Yes! Will you sell him to me for that sum?’ ‘No; but I will play for him.’ ‘What?’ ‘At dice.’ No sooner said than done, and I lost the horse. Ah, ah! But please to observe I won back the equipage. This vexes you?


Well, I must confess it does. That horse was to have identified us in the day of battle. It was a pledge, a remembrance. Athos, you have done wrong.


But, my dear friend, put yourself in my place. I was hipped to death; and still further, upon my honor, I don’t like English horses. If it is only to be recognized, why the saddle will suffice for that; it is quite remarkable enough. As to the horse, we can easily find some excuse for its disappearance. Why the devil! A horse is mortal; suppose mine had had the glanders or the farcy? It vexes me greatly, that you attach so much importance to these animals, for I am not yet at the end of my story.


What else have you done.


After having lost my own horse, nine against ten—see how near—I formed an idea of staking yours.


Yes; but you stopped at the idea, I hope?


No; for I put it in execution that very minute.


And the consequence?


I threw, and I lost.


What, my horse?


Your horse, seven against eight; a point short—you know the proverb.


Athos, you are not in your right senses, I swear.


My dear lad, that was yesterday, when I was telling you silly stories, it was proper to tell me that, and not this morning. I lost him then, with all his appointments and furniture.


Really, this is frightful.


Stop a minute; you don’t know all yet. I should make an excellent gambler if I were not too hot-headed; but I was hot-headed, just as if I had been drinking. Well, I was not hot-headed then—


Well, but what else could you play for? You had nothing left?


Oh, yes, my friend; there was still that diamond left which sparkles on your finger, and which I had observed yesterday.


This diamond!


And as I am a connoisseur in such things, having had a few of my own once, I estimated it at a thousand pistoles.


I hope, you made no mention of my diamond?


On the contrary, my dear friend, this diamond became our only resource; with it I might regain our horses and their harnesses, and even money to pay our expenses on the road.


Athos, you make me tremble!


I mentioned your diamond then to my adversary, who had likewise remarked it. What the devil, my dear, do you think you can wear a star from heaven on your finger, and nobody observe it? Impossible!


Go on, go on, my dear fellow! for upon my honor, you will kill me with your indifference.


We divided, then, this diamond into ten parts of a hundred pistoles each.


You are laughing at me, and want to try me!


No, I do not jest, mordieu! I should like to have seen you in my place! I had been fifteen days without seeing a human face, and had been left to brutalize myself in the company of bottles.


That was no reason for staking my diamond!


Hear the end. Ten parts of a hundred pistoles each, in ten throws, without revenge; in thirteen throws I had lost all—in thirteen throws. The number thirteen was always fatal to me; it was on the thirteenth of July that—


Ventrebleu!


Patience! I had a plan. The Englishman was an original; I had seen him conversing that morning with Grimaud, and Grimaud had told me that he had made him proposals to enter into his service. I staked Grimaud, the silent Grimaud, divided into ten portions.


Well, what next?


Grimaud himself, understand; and with the ten parts of Grimaud, which are not worth a ducatoon, I regained the diamond. Tell me, now, if persistence is not a virtue?


My faith! But this is droll,


You may guess, finding the luck turned, that I again staked the diamond.


The devil!


I won back your harness, then your horse, then my harness, then my horse, and then I lost again. In brief, I regained your harness and then mine. That’s where we are. That was a superb throw, so I left off there.


Then the diamond is safe?


Intact, my dear friend; besides the harness of your Bucephalus and mine.


But what is the use of harnesses without horses?


I have an idea about them.


Athos, you make me shudder.


Listen to me. You have not played for a long time, D’Artagnan.


And I have no inclination to play.


Swear to nothing. You have not played for a long time, I said; you ought, then, to have a good hand.


Well, what then?


Well; the Englishman and his companion are still here. I remarked that he regretted the horse furniture very much. You appear to think much of your horse. In your place I would stake the furniture against the horse.


But he will not wish for only one harness.


Stake both, pardieu! I am not selfish, as you are.


You would do so?


On my honor, in one single throw.


But having lost the horses, I am particularly anxious to preserve the harnesses.


Stake your diamond, then.


This? That’s another matter. Never, never!


The devil! I would propose to you to stake Planchet, but as that has already been done, the Englishman would not, perhaps, be willing.


Decidedly, my dear Athos. I should like better not to risk anything.


That’s a pity. The Englishman is overflowing with pistoles. Good Lord, try one throw! One throw is soon made!


And if I lose?


You will win.


But if I lose?


Well, you will surrender the harnesses.


Have with you for one throw!


That’s a sad throw, comrade; you will have the horses fully equipped, monsieur. Hold, hold, hold! that throw of the dice is extraordinary. I have not seen such a one four times in my life. Two aces! Yes, four times only; once at the house of Monsieur Créquy; another time at my own house in the country, in my château at—when I had a château; a third time at Monsieur de Tréville’s where it surprised us all; and the fourth time at a cabaret, where it fell to my lot, and where I lost a hundred louis and a supper on it.


Then Monsieur takes his horse back again,


Certainly,


Then there is no revenge?


Our conditions said, ‘No revenge,’ you will please to recollect.


That is true; the horse shall be restored to your lackey, monsieur.


A moment, with your permission, monsieur, I wish to speak a word with my friend.


Say on.


Well, Tempter, what more do you want with me? You want me to throw again, do you not?


No, I would wish you to reflect.


On what?


You mean to take your horse?


Without doubt.


You are wrong, then. I would take the hundred pistoles. You know you have staked the harnesses against the horse or a hundred pistoles, at your choice.


Yes.


Well, then, I repeat, you are wrong. What is the use of one horse for us two? I could not ride behind. We should look like the two sons of Aymon, who had lost their brother. You cannot think of humiliating me by prancing along by my side on that magnificent charger. For my part, I should not hesitate a moment; I should take the hundred pistoles. We want money for our return to Paris.


I am much attached to that horse, Athos.


And there again you are wrong. A horse slips and injures a joint; a horse stumbles and breaks his knees to the bone; a horse eats out of a manger in which a glandered horse has eaten. There is a horse, while on the contrary, the hundred pistoles feed their master.


But how shall we get back?


Upon our lackey’s horses, pardieu. Anybody may see by our bearing that we are people of condition.


Pretty figures we shall cut on ponies while Aramis and Porthos caracole on their steeds.


Aramis! Porthos!


What is it?


Nothing, nothing! Go on!


Your advice, then?


To take the hundred pistoles, D’Artagnan. With the hundred pistoles we can live well to the end of the month. We have undergone a great deal of fatigue, remember, and a little rest will do no harm.


I rest? Oh, no, Athos. Once in Paris, I shall prosecute my search for that unfortunate woman!


Well, you may be assured that your horse will not be half so serviceable to you for that purpose as good golden louis. Take the hundred pistoles, my friend; take the hundred pistoles!


Holà, Aramis! What the devil are you doing there?


Ah, is that you, D’Artagnan, and you, Athos? I was reflecting upon the rapidity with which the blessings of this world leave us. My English horse, which has just disappeared amid a cloud of dust, has furnished me with a living image of the fragility of the things of the earth. Life itself may be resolved into three words: Erat, est, fuit.


Which means—


Which means that I have just been duped—sixty louis for a horse which by the manner of his gait can do at least five leagues an hour. My dear D’Artagnan, don’t be too angry with me, I beg. Necessity has no law; besides, I am the person punished, as that rascaly horsedealer has robbed me of fifty louis, at least. Ah, you fellows are good managers! You ride on our lackey’s horses, and have your own gallant steeds led along carefully by hand, at short stages. What is this? Nothing but saddles?


Now do you understand?


My friends, that’s exactly like me! I retained my harness by instinct. Holà, Bazin! Bring my new saddle and carry it along with those of these gentlemen.


And what have you done with your ecclesiastics?


My dear fellow, I invited them to a dinner the next day. They have some capital wine here—please to observe that in passing. I did my best to make them drunk. Then the curate forbade me to quit my uniform, and the Jesuit entreated me to get him made a Musketeer.


Without a thesis? without a thesis? I demand the suppression of the thesis.


Since then. I have lived very agreeably. I have begun a poem in verses of one syllable. That is rather difficult, but the merit in all things consists in the difficulty. The matter is gallant. I will read you the first canto. It has four hundred lines, and lasts a minute.


My faith, my dear Aramis, add to the merit of the difficulty that of the brevity, and you are sure that your poem will at least have two merits.


You will see, that it breathes irreproachable passion. And so, my friends, we return to Paris? Bravo! I am ready. We are going to rejoin that good fellow, Porthos. So much the better. You can’t think how I have missed him, the great simpleton. To see him so self-satisfied reconciles me with myself. He would not sell his horse; not for a kingdom! I think I can see him now, mounted upon his superb animal and seated in his handsome saddle. I am sure he will look like the Great Mogul!


Ah, pardieu! you come in the nick of time, gentlemen. I was just beginning the soup, and you will dine with me.


Oh, oh! Mousqueton has not caught these bottles with his lasso. Besides, here is a piquant fricandeau and a fillet of beef.


I am recruiting myself. I am recruiting myself. Nothing weakens a man more than these devilish strains. Did you ever suffer from a strain, Athos?


Never! Though I remember, in our affair of the Rue Férou, I received a sword wound which at the end of fifteen or eighteen days produced the same effect.


But this dinner was not intended for you alone, Porthos?


No. I expected some gentlemen of the neighborhood, who have just sent me word they could not come. You will take their places and I shall not lose by the exchange. Holà, Mousqueton, seats, and order double the bottles!


Do you know what we are eating here?


Pardieu! for my part, I am eating veal garnished with shrimps and vegetables.


And I some lamb chops,


And I a plain chicken,


You are all mistaken, gentlemen, you are eating horse.


Eating what?


Horse!


Yes, horse. Are we not eating a horse, Porthos? And perhaps his saddle, therewith.


No, gentlemen, I have kept the harness,


My faith, we are all alike. One would think we had tipped the wink.


What could I do? This horse made my visitors ashamed of theirs, and I don’t like to humiliate people.


Then your duchess is still at the waters?


Still. And, my faith, the governor of the province—one of the gentlemen I expected today—seemed to have such a wish for him, that I gave him to him.


Gave him?


My God, yes, gave, that is the word, for the animal was worth at least a hundred and fifty louis, and the stingy fellow would only give me eighty.


Without the saddle?


Yes, without the saddle.


You will observe, gentlemen, that Porthos has made the best bargain of any of us.


There is one comfort, we are all in cash,


Well, for my part. I found Aramis’s Spanish wine so good that I sent on a hamper of sixty bottles of it in the wagon with the lackeys. That has weakened my purse.


And I, imagined that I had given almost my last sou to the church of Montdidier and the Jesuits of Amiens, with whom I had made engagements which I ought to have kept. I have ordered Masses for myself, and for you, gentlemen, which will be said, gentlemen, for which I have not the least doubt you will be marvelously benefited.


And I, do you think my strain cost me nothing?—without reckoning Mousqueton’s wound, for which I had to have the surgeon twice a day, and who charged me double on account of that foolish Mousqueton having allowed himself a ball in a part which people generally only show to an apothecary; so I advised him to try never to get wounded there any more.


Ay, ay! it is very clear you acted nobly with regard to the poor lad; that is like a good master.


In short, when all my expenses are paid, I shall have, at most, thirty crowns left.


And I about ten pistoles,


Well, then it appears that we are the Crœsuses of the society. How much have you left of your hundred pistoles, D’Artagnan?


Of my hundred pistoles? Why, in the first place I gave you fifty.


You think so?


Pardieu! Ah, that is true. I recollect. Then I paid the host six.


What a brute of a host! Why did you give him six pistoles?


You told me to give them to him.


It is true; I am too good-natured. In brief, how much remains?


Twenty-five pistoles,


And I. I—


You? Nothing!


My faith! So little that it is not worth reckoning with the general stock. Now, then, let us calculate how much we posses in all. Porthos?


Thirty crowns.


Aramis?


Ten pistoles.


And you, D’Artagnan?


Twenty-five.


That makes in all?


Four hundred and seventy-five livres,


On our arrival in Paris, we shall still have four hundred, besides the harnesses,


But our troop horses?


Well, of the four horses of our lackeys we will make two for the masters, for which we will draw lots. With the four hundred livres we will make the half of one for one of the unmounted, and then we will give the turnings out of our pockets to D’Artagnan, who has a steady hand, and will go and play in the first gaming house we come to. There!


Let us dine, then, it is getting cold.


And what do you reckon your outfit will cost?


Oh, we can scarcely say. We have made our calculations with Spartan economy, and we each require fifteen hundred livres. Four times fifteen makes sixty—six thousand livres,


It seems to me, with a thousand livres each—I do not speak as a Spartan, but as a procurator—


Stop. I have an idea.


Well, that’s something, for I have not the shadow of one, but as to D’Artagnan, gentlemen, the idea of belonging to ours has driven him out of his senses. A thousand livres! For my part, I declare I want two thousand.


Four times two makes eight, it is eight thousand that we want to complete our outfits, toward which, it is true, we have already the saddles.


Besides, besides, there is that beautiful ring which beams from the finger of our friend. What the devil! D’Artagnan is too good a comrade to leave his brothers in embarrassment while he wears the ransom of a king on his finger.


We have still fifteen days before us, well, if at the end of a fortnight I have found nothing, or rather if nothing has come to find me, as I, too good a Catholic to kill myself with a pistol bullet, I will seek a good quarrel with four of his Eminence’s Guards or with eight Englishmen, and I will fight until one of them has killed me, which, considering the number, cannot fail to happen. It will then be said of me that I died for the king; so that I shall have performed my duty without the expense of an outfit.


I shall follow up on my idea.


Ahem!


Eh, Monsieur Porthos, you don’t offer me any holy water?


Ma-madame! is that you? How is your husband, our dear Monsieur Coquenard? Is he still as stingy as ever? Where can my eyes have been not to have seen you during the two hours of the sermon?


I was within two paces of you, monsieur, but you did not perceive me because you had no eyes but for the pretty lady to whom you just now gave the holy water.


Ah, you have remarked—


I must have been blind not to have seen.


Yes, that is a duchess of my acquaintance whom I have great trouble to meet on account of the jealousy of her husband, and who sent me word that she should come today to this poor church, buried in this vile quarter, solely for the sake of seeing me.


Monsieur Porthos, will you have the kindness to offer me your arm for five minutes? I have something to say to you.


Certainly, madame, winking to himself, as a gambler does who laughs at the dupe he is about to pluck.


Eh, eh! there is one who will be equipped in good time!


Ah, Monsieur Porthos, ah, Monsieur Porthos, you are a great conqueror, as it appears!


I, madame? how so?


The signs just now, and the holy water! But that must be a princess, at least—that lady with her Negro boy and her maid!


My God! Madame, you are deceived, she is simply a duchess.


And that running footman who waited at the door, and that carriage with a coachman in grand livery who sat waiting on his seat? Ah, you are quite the pet of the ladies, Monsieur Porthos!


Well, you may imagine, with the physique with which nature has endowed me, I am not in want of good luck.


Good Lord, how quickly men forget!


Less quickly than the women, it seems to me, for I, madame, I may say I was your victim, when wounded, dying, I was abandoned by the surgeons. I, the offspring of a noble family, who placed reliance upon your friendship—I was near dying of my wounds at first, and of hunger afterward, in a beggarly inn at Chantilly, without you ever deigning once to reply to the burning letters I addressed to you.


But, Monsieur Porthos,


I, who had sacrificed for you the Baronne de—


I know it well.


The Comtesse de—


Monsieur Porthos, be generous!


You are right, madame, and I will not finish.


But it was my husband who would not hear of lending.


Madame Coquenard, remember the first letter you wrote me, and which I preserve engraved in my memory.


Besides, the sum you required me to borrow was rather large.


Madame Coquenard, I gave you the preference. I had but to write to the Duchesse—but I won’t repeat her name, for I am incapable of compromising a woman; but this I know, that I had but to write to her and she would have sent me fifteen hundred.


Monsieur Porthos. I can assure you that you have severely punished me; and if in the time to come you should find yourself in a similar situation, you have but to apply to me.


Fie, madame, fie! Let us not talk about money, if you please; it is humiliating.


Then you no longer love me!


Think of the offense you have committed toward me, madame! It remains here!


I will repair it, indeed I will, my dear Porthos.


Besides, what did I ask of you? A loan, nothing more! After all, I am not an unreasonable man. I know you are not rich, Madame Coquenard, and that your husband is obliged to bleed his poor clients to squeeze a few paltry crowns from them. Oh! If you were a duchess, a marchioness, or a countess, it would be quite a different thing; it would be unpardonable.


Please to know, Monsieur Porthos, that my strongbox, the strongbox of a procurator’s wife though it may be, is better filled than those of your affected minxes.


That doubles the offense, for if you are rich, Madame Coquenard, then there is no excuse for your refusal.


When I said rich, you must not take the word literally. I am not precisely rich, though I am pretty well off.


Hold, madame, let us say no more upon the subject, I beg of you. You have misunderstood me, all sympathy is extinct between us.


Ingrate that you are!


Ah! I advise you to complain!


Begone, then, to your beautiful duchess; I will detain you no longer.


And she is not to be despised, in my opinion.


Now, Monsieur Porthos, once more, and this is the last! Do you love me still?


Ah, madame, when we are about to enter upon a campaign—a campaign, in which my presentiments tell me I shall be killed—


Oh, don’t talk of such things!


Something whispers me so,


Rather say that you have a new love.


Not so; I speak frankly to you. No object affects me; and I even feel here, at the bottom of my heart, something which speaks for you. But in fifteen days, as you know, or as you do not know, this fatal campaign is to open. I shall be fearfully preoccupied with my outfit. Then I must make a journey to see my family, in the lower part of Brittany, to obtain the sum necessary for my departure. And as, the duchess whom you saw at the church has estates near to those of my family, we mean to make the journey together. Journeys, you know, appear much shorter when we travel two in company.


Have you no friends in Paris, then, Monsieur Porthos?


I thought I had, but I have been taught my mistake.


You have some! Come to our house tomorrow. You are the son of my aunt, consequently my cousin; you come from Noyon, in Picardy; you have several lawsuits and no attorney. Can you recollect all that?


Perfectly, madame.


Come at dinnertime.


Very well.


And be upon your guard before my husband, who is rather shrewd, notwithstanding his seventy-six years.


Seventy-six years! Peste! That’s a fine age!


A great age, you mean, Monsieur Porthos. Yes, the poor man may be expected to leave me a widow, any hour. Fortunately, by our marriage contract, the survivor takes everything.


All?


Yes, all.


You are a woman of precaution, I see, my dear Madame Coquenard,


We are then reconciled, dear Monsieur Porthos?


For life,


Till we meet again, then, dear traitor!


Till we meet again, my forgetful charmer!


Tomorrow, my angel!


Tomorrow, flame of my life!


As for me. I am quite at my ease; it will not be women that will defray the expense of my outfit.


Handsome, well-bred, noble lord as you are, my dear Athos, neither princesses nor queens would be secure from your amorous solicitations.


How young this D’Artagnan is!


the horses were ready.


What horses?


Two horses that Monsieur de Tréville lends me at my pleasure, and with which I am now going to take a ride to St. Germain.


Well, and what are you going to do at St. Germain? That is to say, you are in love with this lady as you were with Madame Bonacieux,


I? not at all! I am only curious to unravel the mystery to which she is attached. I do not know why, but I imagine that this woman, wholly unknown to me as she is, and wholly unknown to her as I am, has an influence over my life.


Well, perhaps you are right. I do not know a woman that is worth the trouble of being sought for when she is once lost. Madame Bonacieux is lost; so much the worse for her if she is found.


No, Athos, no, you are mistaken. I love my poor Constance more than ever, and if I knew the place in which she is, were it at the end of the world, I would go to free her from the hands of her enemies; but I am ignorant. All my researches have been useless. What is to be said? I must divert my attention!


Amuse yourself with Milady, my dear D’Artagnan; I wish you may with all my heart, if that will amuse you.


Hear me, Athos. Instead of shutting yourself up here as if you were under arrest, get on horseback and come and take a ride with me to St. Germain.


My dear fellow. I ride horses when I have any; when I have none, I go afoot.


Well. I ride what I can get; I am not so proud as you. So au revoir, dear Athos.


Au revoir,


Eh, monsieur! don’t you remember that face which is blinking yonder?


No, and yet I am certain it is not the first time I have seen that visage.


Parbleu, I believe it is not. Why, it is poor Lubin, the lackey of the Comte de Wardes—he whom you took such good care of a month ago at Calais, on the road to the governor’s country house!


So it is! I know him now. Do you think he would recollect you?


My faith, monsieur, he was in such trouble that I doubt if he can have retained a very clear recollection of me.


Well, go and talk with the boy, and make out if you can from his conversation whether his master is dead.


For your master.


For my master?


Yes, and important. Take it quickly.


For you, monsieur,


For me? are you sure of that?


Pardieu, monsieur, I can’t be more sure. The soubrette said, ‘For your master.’ I have no other master but you; so—a pretty little lass, my faith, is that soubrette!


A person who takes more interest in you than she is willing to confess wishes to know on what day it will suit you to walk in the forest? Tomorrow, at the Hôtel Field of the Cloth of Gold, a lackey in black and red will wait for your reply.


Oh! this is rather warm; it appears that Milady and I are anxious about the health of the same person. Well, Planchet, how is the good Monsieur de Wardes? He is not dead, then?


No, monsieur, he is as well as a man can be with four sword wounds in his body; for you, without question, inflicted four upon the dear gentleman, and he is still very weak, having lost almost all his blood. As I said, monsieur, Lubin did not know me, and told me our adventure from one end to the other.


Well done, Planchet! you are the king of lackeys. Now jump onto your horse, and let us overtake the carriage.


Madame, will you permit me to offer you my services? It appears to me that this cavalier has made you very angry. Speak one word, madame, and I take upon myself to punish him for his want of courtesy.


Monsieur, I should with great confidence place myself under your protection if the person with whom I quarrel were not my brother.


Ah, excuse me, then. You must be aware that I was ignorant of that, madame.


What is that stupid fellow troubling himself about? Why does not he go about his business?


Stupid fellow yourself! I do not go on because it pleases me to stop here. I speak to you in French, be kind enough, then, to reply to me in the same language. You are Madame’s brother, I learn—be it so; but fortunately you are not mine.


Go on—home!


Well, monsieur, you appear to be more stupid than I am, for you forget there is a little quarrel to arrange between us two.


Ah, is it you, my master? It seems you must always be playing some game or other.


Yes; and that reminds me that I have a revenge to take. We will see, my dear monsieur, if you can handle a sword as skillfully as you can a dice box.


You see plainly that I have no sword. Do you wish to play the braggart with an unarmed man?


I hope you have a sword at home; but at all events, I have two, and if you like, I will throw with you for one of them.


Needless. I am well furnished with such playthings.


Very well, my worthy gentleman, pick out the longest, and come and show it to me this evening.


Where, if you please?


Behind the Luxembourg; that’s a charming spot for such amusements as the one I propose to you.


That will do; I will be there.


Your hour?


Six o’clock.


A propos, you have probably one or two friends?


I have three, who would be honored by joining in the sport with me.


Three? Marvelous! That falls out oddly! Three is just my number!


Now, then, who are you?


I am Monsieur d’Artagnan, a Gascon gentleman, serving in the king’s Musketeers. And you?


I am Lord de Winter, Baron Sheffield.


Well, then, I am your servant, Monsieur Baron, though you have names rather difficult to recollect.


But after all, we do not know who you are. We cannot fight with such names; they are names of shepherds.


Therefore your lordship may suppose they are only assumed names,


Which only gives us a greater desire to know the real ones,


You played very willingly with us without knowing our names, by the same token that you won our horses.


That is true, but we then only risked our pistoles; this time we risk our blood. One plays with anybody; but one fights only with equals.


And that is but just. Does that satisfy you? Do you find me of sufficient rank to do me the honor of crossing swords with me?


Yes, monsieur,


Well! now shall I tell you something?


What?


Why, that is that you would have acted much more wisely if you had not required me to make myself known.


Why so?


Because I am believed to be dead, and have reasons for wishing nobody to know I am living; so that I shall be obliged to kill you to prevent my secret from roaming over the fields. Gentlemen, are we ready?


Yes!


On guard, then!


I could kill you, my Lord, you are completely in my hands; but I spare your life for the sake of your sister.


What the devil would you have me do with that?


You can restore it to his family,


His family will care much about such a trifle as that! His family will inherit fifteen thousand louis a year from him. Keep the purse for your lackeys.


And now, my young friend, for you will permit me, I hope, to give you that name, on this very evening, if agreeable to you, I will present you to my sister, Milady Clarik, for I am desirous that she should take you into her good graces; and as she is not in bad odor at court, she may perhaps on some future day speak a word that will not prove useless to you.


What do you mean to do with that purse?


Why, I meant to pass it over to you, my dear Athos.


Me! why to me?


Why, you killed him! They are the spoils of victory.


I, the heir of an enemy! for whom, then, do you take me?


It is the custom in war, why should it not be the custom in a duel?


Even on the field of battle, I have never done that.


Then, let us give the money to the lackeys, as Lord de Winter desired us to do.


Yes, let us give the money to the lackeys—not to our lackeys, but to the lackeys of the Englishmen. For you and your comrades.


What! you have just lost one woman, whom you call good, charming, perfect; and here you are, running headlong after another.


I loved Madame Bonacieux with my heart, while I only love Milady with my head. In getting introduced to her, my principal object is to ascertain what part she plays at court.


The part she plays, pardieu! It is not difficult to divine that, after all you have told me. She is some emissary of the cardinal; a woman who will draw you into a snare in which you will leave your head.


The devil! my dear Athos, you view things on the dark side, methinks.


My dear fellow, I mistrust women. Can it be otherwise? I bought my experience dearly—particularly fair women. Milady is fair, you say?


She has the most beautiful light hair imaginable!


Ah, my poor D’Artagnan!


Listen to me! I want to be enlightened on a subject; then, when I shall have learned what I desire to know, I will withdraw.


Be enlightened!


You see, a young gentleman who has held my life in his hands, and who has not abused his advantage, although we have been twice enemies, although it was I who insulted him, and although I am an Englishman. Thank him, then, madame, if you have any affection for me.


You are welcome, monsieur, you have today acquired eternal rights to my gratitude.


It is my cousin! Come in, come in, Monsieur Porthos!


We are cousins, it appears, Monsieur Porthos?


Yes, monsieur, we are cousins,


By the female side, I believe?


Monsieur our cousin will do us the favor of dining with us once before his departure for the campaign, will he not, Madame Coquenard?


My cousin will not return if he finds that we do not treat him kindly; but otherwise he has so little time to pass in Paris, and consequently to spare to us, that we must entreat him to give us every instant he can call his own previous to his departure.


Oh, my legs, my poor legs! where are you?


Indeed! in my cousin’s place, I would not keep such gourmands! They look like shipwrecked sailors who have not eaten for six weeks.


Oh, oh! here is a soup which is rather inviting.


What the devil can they smell so extraordinary in this soup?


One may see that you love your family, Madame Coquenard. You are certainly treating your cousin very handsomely!


The devil! this is poor work. I respect old age, but I don’t much like it boiled or roasted.


Will you eat any of these beans, Cousin Porthos? Take my advice, don’t touch them.


Devil take me if I taste one of them! Thank you, my cousin, I am no longer hungry.


Ah, Madame Coquenard! Accept my compliments; your dinner has been a real feast. Lord, how I have eaten!


Go, young men! go and promote digestion by working. A positive feast! a real feast, epulœ epulorum. Lucullus dines with Lucullus.


This is fine! I am prettily caught! Now, the sacrifice is consummated! Ah! if I had not the hope of peeping with Madame Coquenard into her husband’s chest! Ah!


You can come and dine three times a week,


Thanks, madame! but I don’t like to abuse your kindness; besides, I must think of my outfit!


That’s true, that unfortunate outfit!


Alas, yes, it is so. Oh, of many things! The Musketeers are, as you know, picked soldiers, and they require many things useless to the Guardsmen or the Swiss. Why, they may amount to—


I hope it does not exceed—


it does not exceed two thousand five hundred livres! I even think that with economy I could manage it with two thousand livres.


Good God! two thousand livres! Why, that is a fortune! I wished to know the detail, because, having many relatives in business, I was almost sure of obtaining things at a hundred per cent less than you would pay yourself.


Ah, ah! that is what you meant to say!


Yes, dear Monsieur Porthos. Thus, for instance, don’t you in the first place want a horse?


Yes, a horse.


Well, then! I can just suit you.


Ah! that’s well as regards my horse; but I must have the appointments complete, as they include objects which a Musketeer alone can purchase, and which will not amount, besides, to more than three hundred livres.


Three hundred livres? Then put down three hundred livres,


Then, there is a horse for my lackey, and my valise. As to my arms, it is useless to trouble you about them; I have them.