A horse for your lackey? but that is doing things in lordly style, my friend.


Ah, madame! do you take me for a beggar?


No; I only thought that a pretty mule makes sometimes as good an appearance as a horse, and it seemed to me that by getting a pretty mule for Mousqueton—


Well, agreed for a pretty mule, you are right, I have seen very great Spanish nobles whose whole suite were mounted on mules. But then you understand, Madame Coquenard, a mule with feathers and bells.


Be satisfied,


There remains the valise,


Oh, don’t let that disturb you. My husband has five or six valises; you shall choose the best. There is one in particular which he prefers in his journeys, large enough to hold all the world.


Your valise is then empty?


Certainly it is empty,


Ah, but the valise I want, is a well-filled one, my dear.


Good! She is charged with some message for me from her mistress; she is about to appoint some rendezvous of which she had not courage to speak.


I wish to say three words to you, Monsieur Chevalier,


Speak, my child, speak. I listen.


Here? Impossible! That which I have to say is too long, and above all, too secret.


Well, what is to be done?


If Monsieur Chevalier would follow me?


Where you please, my dear child.


Come, then. Come in here, Monsieur Chevalier, here we shall be alone, and can talk.


And whose room is this, my dear child?


It is mine, Monsieur Chevalier; it communicates with my mistress’s by that door. But you need not fear. She will not hear what we say; she never goes to bed before midnight. You love my mistress, then, very dearly, Monsieur Chevalier?


Oh, more than I can say, Kitty! I am mad for her!


Alas, monsieur, that is too bad.


What the devil do you see so bad in it?


Because, monsieur, my mistress loves you not at all.


Hein! can she have charged you to tell me so?


Oh, no, monsieur; but out of the regard I have for you, I have taken the resolution to tell you so.


Much obliged, my dear Kitty; but for the intention only—for the information, you must agree, is not likely to be at all agreeable.


That is to say, you don’t believe what I have told you; is it not so?


We have always some difficulty in believing such things, my pretty dear, were it only from self-love.


Then you don’t believe me?


I confess that unless you deign to give me some proof of what you advance—


What do you think of this?


For me?


No; for another.


For another?


Yes.


His name; his name!


Read the address.


Monsieur El Comte de Wardes.


Oh, good Lord, Monsieur Chevalier, what are you doing?


I? nothing,


You have not answered my first note. Are you indisposed, or have you forgotten the glances you favored me with at the ball of Mme. de Guise? You have an opportunity now, Count; do not allow it to escape.


Poor dear Monsieur d’Artagnan,


You pity me, little one?


Oh, yes, and with all my heart; for I know what it is to be in love.


You know what it is to be in love?


Alas, yes.


Well, then, instead of pitying me, you would do much better to assist me in avenging myself on your mistress.


And what sort of revenge would you take?


I would triumph over her, and supplant my rival.


I will never help you in that, Monsieur Chevalier,


And why not?


For two reasons.


What ones?


The first is that my mistress will never love you.


How do you know that?


You have cut her to the heart.


I? In what can I have offended her—I who ever since I have known her have lived at her feet like a slave? Speak, I beg you!


I will never confess that but to the man—who should read to the bottom of my soul!


Kitty. I will read to the bottom of your soul whenever you like; don’t let that disturb you.


Oh, no, it is not me you love! It is my mistress you love; you told me so just now.


And does that hinder you from letting me know the second reason?


The second reason, Monsieur the Chevalier, is that in love, everyone for herself!


Well, are you willing, my dear Kitty, that I should give you a proof of that love which you doubt?


What love?


Of that which I am ready to feel toward you.


And what is that proof?


Are you willing that I should this evening pass with you the time I generally spend with your mistress?


Oh, yes, very willing.


Well, then, come here, my dear, come, and let me tell you that you are the prettiest soubrette I ever saw!


Good God, there is my mistress calling me! Go; go directly! What are you doing?


Well. Are you asleep, that you don’t answer when I ring?


Here am I, Milady, here am I!


Well. I have not seen our Gascon this evening.


What, Milady! has he not come? Can he be inconstant before being happy?


Oh, no; he must have been prevented by Monsieur de Tréville or Monsieur Dessessart. I understand my game, Kitty; I have this one safe.


What will you do with him, madame?


What will I do with him? Be easy, Kitty, there is something between that man and me that he is quite ignorant of: he nearly made me lose my credit with his Eminence. Oh, I will be revenged!


I believed that Madame loved him.


I love him? I detest him! An idiot, who held the life of Lord de Winter in his hands and did not kill him, by which I missed three hundred thousand livres’ income.


That’s true, your son was the only heir of his uncle, and until his majority you would have had the enjoyment of his fortune.


For all this. I should long ago have revenged myself on him if, and I don’t know why, the cardinal had not requested me to conciliate him.


Oh, yes; but Madame has not conciliated that little woman he was so fond of.


What, the mercer’s wife of the Rue des Fossoyeurs? Has he not already forgotten she ever existed? Fine vengeance that, on my faith! That will do, go into your own room, and tomorrow endeavor again to get me an answer to the letter I gave you.


For Monsieur de Wardes?


To be sure; for Monsieur de Wardes.


Now, there is one, who appears to me quite a different sort of a man from that poor Monsieur d’Artagnan.


Go to bed, mademoiselle; I don’t like comments.


Oh, good Lord! what is the matter with you? How pale you are!


The abominable creature,


Silence, silence, begone!


That’s exactly the reason I won’t go,


What!


Or, at least, I will go—later.


Oh, you love her still,


No, Kitty, you are mistaken. I do not love her, but I will avenge myself for her contempt.


Oh, yes, I know what sort of vengeance! You told me that!


What matters it to you, Kitty? You know it is you alone whom I love.


How can I know that?


By the scorn I will throw upon her. MADAME, Until the present moment I could not believe that it was to me your first two letters were addressed, so unworthy did I feel myself of such an honor; besides, I was so seriously indisposed that I could not in any case have replied to them. But now I am forced to believe in the excess of your kindness, since not only your letter but your servant assures me that I have the good fortune to be beloved by you. She has no occasion to teach me the way in which a man of spirit may obtain his pardon. I will come and ask mine at eleven o’clock this evening. To delay it a single day would be in my eyes now to commit a fresh offense. From him whom you have rendered the happiest of men, COMTE DE WARDES


There, give that to Milady. It is the count’s reply. Listen, my dear girl; you cannot but perceive that all this must end, some way or other. Milady may discover that you gave the first billet to my lackey instead of to the count’s; that it is I who have opened the others which ought to have been opened by de Wardes. Milady will then turn you out of doors, and you know she is not the woman to limit her vengeance.


Alas! for whom have I exposed myself to all that?


For me, I well know, my sweet girl. But I am grateful, I swear to you.


But what does this note contain?


Milady will tell you.


Ah, you do not love me!


Chapter XXXIV. IN WHICH THE EQUIPMENT OF ARAMIS AND PORTHOS IS TREATED OF


People, in general, only ask advice not to follow it; or if they do follow it, it is for the sake of having someone to blame for having given it.


Is it my equipment?


Yes and no,


Well, but can’t you speak?


Come, monsieur.


What do you want with me, my friend?


A man wishes to see Monsieur at home,


A man! What man?


A mendicant.


Give him alms, Bazin, and bid him pray for a poor sinner.


This mendicant insists upon speaking to you, and pretends that you will be very glad to see him.


Has he sent no particular message for me?


Yes. If Monsieur Aramis hesitates to come, he said, tell him I am from Tours.


From Tours! A thousand pardons, gentlemen; but no doubt this man brings me the news I expected.


I believe these fellows have managed their business. What do you think, D’Artagnan?


I know that Porthos was in a fair way, and as to Aramis to tell you the truth, I have never been seriously uneasy on his account. But you, my dear Athos—you, who so generously distributed the Englishman’s pistoles, which were our legitimate property—what do you mean to do?


I am satisfied with having killed that fellow, my boy, seeing that it is blessed bread to kill an Englishman; but if I had pocketed his pistoles, they would have weighed me down like a remorse.


Go to, my dear Athos; you have truly inconceivable ideas.


Let it pass. What do you think of Monsieur de Tréville telling me, when he did me the honor to call upon me yesterday, that you associated with the suspected English, whom the cardinal protects?


That is to say, I visit an Englishwoman—the one I named.


Oh, ay! the fair woman on whose account I gave you advice, which naturally you took care not to adopt.


I gave you my reasons.


Yes; you look there for your outfit, I think you said.


Not at all. I have acquired certain knowledge that that woman was concerned in the abduction of Madame Bonacieux.


Yes, I understand now: to find one woman, you court another. It is the longest road, but certainly the most amusing.


You have asked for me?


I wish to speak with Monsieur Aramis. Is that your name, monsieur?


My very own. You have brought me something?


Yes, if you show me a certain embroidered handkerchief.


Here it is, here it is. Look.


That is right, dismiss your lackey.


My Friend, it is the will of fate that we should be still for some time separated; but the delightful days of youth are not lost beyond return. Perform your duty in camp; I will do mine elsewhere. Accept that which the bearer brings you; make the campaign like a handsome true gentleman, and think of me, who kisses tenderly your black eyes. Adieu; or rather, au revoir.


Golden dreams! Oh, beautiful life! Yes, we are young; yes, we shall yet have happy days! My love, my blood, my life! all, all, all, are thine, my adored mistress!


The devil! my dear Aramis, if these are the prunes that are sent to you from Tours, I beg you will make my compliments to the gardener who gathers them.


You are mistaken, friend D’Artagnan, this is from my publisher, who has just sent me the price of that poem in one-syllable verse which I began yonder.


Ah, indeed. Well, your publisher is very generous, my dear Aramis, that’s all I can say.


How, monsieur? a poem sell so dear as that! It is incredible! Oh, monsieur, you can write as much as you like; you may become equal to Monsieur de Voiture and Monsieur de Benserade. I like that. A poet is as good as an abbé. Ah! Monsieur Aramis, become a poet, I beg of you.


Bazin, my friend. I believe you meddle with my conversation.


Ah! you sell your productions at their weight in gold. You are very fortunate, my friend; but take care or you will lose that letter which is peeping from your doublet, and which also comes, no doubt, from your publisher.


My dear D’Artagnan, if you please, we will join our friends; as I am rich, we will today begin to dine together again, expecting that you will be rich in your turn.


My faith! It is long since we have had a good dinner; and I, for my part, have a somewhat hazardous expedition for this evening, and shall not be sorry, I confess, to fortify myself with a few glasses of good old Burgundy.


Agreed, as to the old Burgundy; I have no objection to that,


Ah, my yellow horse. Aramis, look at that horse!


Oh, the frightful brute!


Ah, my dear, upon that very horse I came to Paris.


What, does Monsieur know this horse?


It is of an original color. I never saw one with such a hide in my life.


and that was why I got three crowns for him. It must have been for his hide, for, certes, the carcass is not worth eighteen livres. But how did this horse come into your hands, Mousqueton?


Pray, say nothing about it, monsieur; it is a frightful trick of the husband of our duchess!


How is that, Mousqueton?


Why, we are looked upon with a rather favorable eye by a lady of quality, the Duchesse de—but, your pardon; my master has commanded me to be discreet. She had forced us to accept a little souvenir, a magnificent Spanish genet and an Andalusian mule, which were beautiful to look upon. The husband heard of the affair; on their way he confiscated the two magnificent beasts which were being sent to us, and substituted these horrible animals.


Which you are taking back to him?


Exactly!


No, pardieu; though I should like to have seen Porthos on my yellow horse. That would give me an idea of how I looked when I arrived in Paris. But don’t let us hinder you, Mousqueton; go and perform your master’s orders. Is he at home?


Yes, monsieur, but in a very ill humor. Get up!


I did all for the best! One of our clients is a horsedealer; he owes money to the office, and is backward in his pay. I took the mule and the horse for what he owed us; he assured me that they were two noble steeds.


Well, madame, if he owed you more than five crowns, your horsedealer is a thief.


There is no harm in trying to buy things cheap, Monsieur Porthos,


No, madame; but they who so assiduously try to buy things cheap ought to permit others to seek more generous friends.


Monsieur Porthos! Monsieur Porthos! I have been wrong; I see it. I ought not to have driven a bargain when it was to equip a cavalier like you. Stop, in the name of heaven, Monsieur Porthos! Stop, and let us talk.


Talking with you brings me misfortune. Nothing; for that amounts to the same thing as if I asked you for something.


Listen. This evening M. Coquenard is going to the house of the Duc de Chaulnes, who has sent for him. It is for a consultation, which will last three hours at least. Come! We shall be alone, and can make up our accounts.


In good time. Now you talk, my dear. You pardon me? We shall see,


She loves him devilishly,


What is that noise? I, the Comte de Wardes.


he has not even waited for the hour he himself named!


why do you not enter? Count, Count, you know that I wait for you. Yes, Count. I am happy in the love which your looks and your words have expressed to me every time we have met. I also—I love you. Oh, tomorrow, tomorrow, I must have some pledge from you which will prove that you think of me; and that you may not forget me, take this! No, no! Keep that ring for love of me. Besides, in accepting it, you render me a much greater service than you imagine.


This woman is full of mysteries,


Poor angel, whom that monster of a Gascon barely failed to kill. do your wounds still make you suffer?


Yes, much,


Be tranquil. I will avenge you—and cruelly!


Peste!


Your Milady, appears to be an infamous creature, but not the less you have done wrong to deceive her. In one fashion or another you have a terrible enemy on your hands.


You notice my ring?


Yes, it reminds me of a family jewel.


It is beautiful, is it not?


Yes, magnificent. I did not think two sapphires of such a fine water existed. Have you traded it for your diamond?


No. It is a gift from my beautiful Englishwoman, or rather Frenchwoman—for I am convinced she was born in France, though I have not questioned her.


That ring comes from Milady?


Her very self; she gave it me last night. Here it is,


It is impossible it can be she. How could this ring come into the hands of Milady Clarik? And yet it is difficult to suppose such a resemblance should exist between two jewels.


Do you know this ring?


I thought I did, but no doubt I was mistaken. Pray, D’Artagnan, either take off that ring or turn the mounting inside; it recalls such cruel recollections that I shall have no head to converse with you. Don’t ask me for counsel; don’t tell me you are perplexed what to do. But stop! let me look at that sapphire again; the one I mentioned to you had one of its faces scratched by accident. Look, is it not strange?


But from whom did this ring come to you, Athos?


From my mother, who inherited it from her mother. As I told you, it is an old family jewel.


And you—sold it?


No. I gave it away in a night of love, as it has been given to you. D’Artagnan, you know I love you; if I had a son I could not love him better. Take my advice, renounce this woman. I do not know her, but a sort of intuition tells me she is a lost creature, and that there is something fatal about her.


You are right. I will have done with her. I own that this woman terrifies me.


Shall you have the courage?


I shall, and instantly.


In truth, my young friend, you will act rightly, and God grant that this woman, who has scarcely entered into your life, may not leave a terrible trace in it!


Do not depend upon me, madame, for the next meeting. Since my convalescence I have so many affairs of this kind on my hands that I am forced to regulate them a little. When your turn comes, I shall have the honor to inform you of it. I kiss your hands.


What is this letter?


The answer to Madame’s,


Impossible! It is impossible a gentleman could have written such a letter to a woman. My God! can he have— What do you want with me? and why do you place your hand on me?


I thought that Madame was ill, and I wished to bring her help,


I faint? I? I? Do you take me for half a woman? When I am insulted I do not faint; I avenge myself!


Dear M. D’Artagnan, It is wrong thus to neglect your friends, particularly at the moment you are about to leave them for so long a time. My brother-in-law and myself expected you yesterday and the day before, but in vain. Will it be the same this evening?


Show him in. I am at home to nobody, observe, to nobody.


Bad, very bad. Then, my visit is ill-timed; you, no doubt, stand in need of repose, and I will withdraw.


No, no! On the contrary, stay, Monsieur d’Artagnan; your agreeable company will divert me.


Alas! can you be cruel enough to put such a question to me—to me, who, from the moment I saw you, have only breathed and sighed through you and for you?


Then you love me?


Have I any need to tell you so? Have you not perceived it?


It may be; but you know the more hearts are worth the capture, the more difficult they are to be won.


Oh, difficulties do not affright me. I shrink before nothing but impossibilities.


Nothing is impossible, to true love.


Nothing, madame?


Nothing,


I have an enemy.


You, madame! is that possible, my God?—good and beautiful as you are!


A mortal enemy. An enemy who has insulted me so cruelly that between him and me it is war to the death. May I reckon on you as an auxiliary?


You may, madame. My arm and my life belong to you, like my love.


Then, since you are as generous as you are loving—


Well?


Well, from the present time, cease to talk of impossibilities.


Do not overwhelm me with happiness. Avenge me of that infamous De Wardes, and I shall soon know how to get rid of you—you double idiot, you animated sword blade! Fall voluntarily into my arms, hypocritical and dangerous woman, after having abused me with such effrontery, and afterward I will laugh at you with him whom you wish me to kill. I am ready,


You have understood me, then, dear Monsieur d’Artagnan,


I could interpret one of your looks.


Then you would employ for me your arm which has already acquired so much renown?


Instantly!


But on my part, how should I repay such a service? I know these lovers. They are men who do nothing for nothing.


You know the only reply that I desire, the only one worthy of you and of me! Ah, ah, that is because my happiness appears so impossible to me; and I have such fear that it should fly away from me like a dream that I pant to make a reality of it.


Well, merit this pretended happiness, then!


I am at your orders,


Quite certain?


Only name to me the base man that has brought tears into your beautiful eyes!


Who told you that I had been weeping?


It appeared to me—


Such women as I never weep. Remember that his name is all my secret.


Yet I must know his name.


Yes, you must; see what confidence I have in you!


You overwhelm me with joy. What is his name?


You know him.


Indeed.


Yes.


It is surely not one of my friends?


If it were one of your friends you would hesitate, then?


Not if it were my own brother!


I love your devotedness,


Alas, do you love nothing else in me?


I love you also, you!


You love me, you! Oh, if that were so, I should lose my reason! His name is— De Wardes; I know it,


And how do you know it? Tell me, tell me, tell me, I say, how do you know it?


How do I know it? I know it because yesterday Monsieur de Wardes, in a saloon where I was, showed a ring which he said he had received from you.


Wretch!


Well? Well, I will avenge you of this wretch,


Thanks, my brave friend! and when shall I be avenged?


Tomorrow—immediately—when you please! Tomorrow, you will be avenged, or I shall be dead.


No, you will avenge me; but you will not be dead. He is a coward.


With women, perhaps; but not with men. I know something of him.


But it seems you had not much reason to complain of your fortune in your contest with him.


Fortune is a courtesan; favorable yesterday, she may turn her back tomorrow.


Which means that you now hesitate?


No, I do not hesitate; God forbid! But would it be just to allow me to go to a possible death without having given me at least something more than hope?


Is that all?—speak, then. That is but too just,


Oh, you are an angel!


Then all is agreed?


Except that which I ask of you, dear love.


But when I assure you that you may rely on my tenderness?


I cannot wait till tomorrow.


Silence! I hear my brother. It will be useless for him to find you here. Go out this way, and come back at eleven o’clock; we will then terminate this conversation. Kitty will conduct you to my chamber. Well, mademoiselle, what are you thinking about, standing there like a statue? Do as I bid you: show the chevalier out; and this evening at eleven o’clock—you have heard what I said.


It appears that these appointments are all made for eleven o’clock, that’s a settled custom. But. I must not play the fool. This woman is certainly a great liar. I must take care.


Come in.


Are you afraid, dear Monsieur d’Artagnan?


You cannot think so, dear love! but now, suppose this poor Comte de Wardes were less guilty than you think him?


At all events, he has deceived me, and from the moment he deceived me, he merited death.


He shall die, then, since you condemn him! I am quite ready, but in the first place I should like to be certain of one thing.


And what is that?


That is, whether you really love me?


I have given you proof of that, it seems to me.


And I am yours, body and soul!


Thanks, my brave lover; but as you are satisfied of my love, you must, in your turn, satisfy me of yours. Is it not so?


Certainly; but if you love me as much as you say, do you not entertain a little fear on my account?


What have I to fear?


Why, that I may be dangerously wounded—killed even.


Impossible! you are such a valiant man, and such an expert swordsman.


You would not, then, prefer a method, which would equally avenge you while rendering the combat useless?


Really. I believe you now begin to hesitate.


No, I do not hesitate; but I really pity this poor Comte de Wardes, since you have ceased to love him. I think that a man must be so severely punished by the loss of your love that he stands in need of no other chastisement.


Who told you that I loved him?


At least, I am now at liberty to believe, without too much fatuity, that you love another, and I repeat that I am really interested for the count.


You?


Yes, I.


And why you?


Because I alone know— That he is far from being, or rather having been, so guilty toward you as he appears.


Indeed! explain yourself, for I really cannot tell what you mean.


Yes; I am a man of honor, and since your love is mine, and I am satisfied I possess it—for I do possess it, do I not?


Entirely; go on.


Well, I feel as if transformed—a confession weighs on my mind.


A confession!


If I had the least doubt of your love I would not make it, but you love me, my beautiful mistress, do you not?


Without doubt.


Then if through excess of love I have rendered myself culpable toward you, you will pardon me?


Perhaps.


This confession, what is this confession? You gave De Wardes a meeting on Thursday last in this very room, did you not?


No, no! It is not true. Do not lie, my angel,


that would be useless.


What do you mean? Speak! you kill me.


Be satisfied; you are not guilty toward me, and I have already pardoned you.


What next? what next?


De Wardes cannot boast of anything.


How is that? You told me yourself that that ring—


That ring I have! The Comte de Wardes of Thursday and the D’Artagnan of today are the same person.


Ah, wretch! you have basely betrayed me, and still more, you have my secret! You shall die.


Well, beautiful lady, very well, pardieu, if you don’t calm yourself, I will design a second fleur-de-lis upon one of those pretty cheeks!


Scoundrel, infamous scoundrel!


Quick, Kitty, quick! let me get out of the hôtel; for if we leave her time to turn round, she will have me killed by the servants.


But you can’t go out so, you are naked.


That’s true, that’s true. But dress me as well as you are able, only make haste; think, my dear girl, it’s life and death!


Don’t open!


Holloa, there! what do you want, you strumpet? What’s your business here, you hussy?


Hold your tongue, you stupid fellow! I am D’Artagnan; don’t you know me? Where is your master?


You, Monsieur d’Artagnan! impossible.


Grimaud, I thought I heard you permitting yourself to speak?


Ah, monsieur, it is—


Silence!


Don’t laugh, my friend! for heaven’s sake, don’t laugh, for upon my soul, it’s no laughing matter!


Are you wounded, my friend? How pale you are!


No, but I have just met with a terrible adventure! Are you alone, Athos?


Parbleu! whom do you expect to find with me at this hour?


Well, well!


Come, speak! Is the king dead? Have you killed the cardinal? You are quite upset! Come, come, tell me; I am dying with curiosity and uneasiness!


Athos, prepare yourself to hear an incredible, an unheard-of story.


Well, but put on this dressing gown first. Well?


Well. Milady is marked with a fleur-de-lis upon her shoulder!


Ah!


Let us see. Are you sure that the other is dead?


The other?


Yes, she of whom you told me one day at Amiens. This is a woman of twenty-six or twenty-eight years.


Fair, is she not?


Very.


Blue and clear eyes, of a strange brilliancy, with black eyelids and eyebrows?


Yes.


Tall, well-made? She has lost a tooth, next to the eyetooth on the left?


The fleur-de-lis is small, rosy in color, and looks as if efforts had been made to efface it by the application of poultices?


But you say she is English?


She is called Milady, but she may be French. Lord de Winter is only her brother-in-law.


I will see her, D’Artagnan!


Beware, Athos, beware. You tried to kill her; she is a woman to return you the like, and not to fail.


She will not dare to say anything; that would be to denounce herself.


She is capable of anything or everything. Did you ever see her furious?


No,


A tigress, a panther! Ah, my dear Athos, I am greatly afraid I have drawn a terrible vengeance on both of us!


You are right; and upon my soul, I would give my life for a hair. Fortunately, the day after tomorrow we leave Paris. We are going according to all probability to La Rochelle, and once gone—


She will follow you to the end of the world, Athos, if she recognizes you. Let her, then, exhaust her vengeance on me alone!


My dear friend, of what consequence is it if she kills me? Do you, perchance, think I set any great store by life?


There is something horribly mysterious under all this, Athos; this woman is one of the cardinal’s spies, I am sure of that.


In that case, take care! If the cardinal does not hold you in high admiration for the affair of London, he entertains a great hatred for you; but as, considering everything, he cannot accuse you openly, and as hatred must be satisfied, particularly when it’s a cardinal’s hatred, take care of yourself. If you go out, do not go out alone; when you eat, use every precaution. Mistrust everything, in short, even your own shadow.


Fortunately, all this will be only necessary till after tomorrow evening, for when once with the army, we shall have, I hope, only men to dread.


In the meantime. I renounce my plan of seclusion, and wherever you go, I will go with you. You must return to the Rue des Fossoyeurs; I will accompany you.


But however near it may be. I cannot go thither in this guise.


That’s true. All this will not advance your outfit, for if I am not mistaken, you have left the best of your apparel with Milady, and she will certainly not have the politeness to return it to you. Fortunately, you have the sapphire.


The jewel is yours, my dear Athos! Did you not tell me it was a family jewel?


Yes, my grandfather gave two thousand crowns for it, as he once told me. It formed part of the nuptial present he made his wife, and it is magnificent. My mother gave it to me, and I, fool as I was, instead of keeping the ring as a holy relic, gave it to this wretch.


Then. Then, my friend, take back this ring, to which I see you attach much value.


I take back the ring, after it has passed through the hands of that infamous creature? Never; that ring is defiled, D’Artagnan.


Sell it, then.


Sell a jewel which came from my mother! I vow I should consider it a profanation.


Pledge it, then; you can borrow at least a thousand crowns on it. With that sum you can extricate yourself from your present difficulties; and when you are full of money again, you can redeem it, and take it back cleansed from its ancient stains, as it will have passed through the hands of usurers.


You are a capital companion, D’Artagnan, your never-failing cheerfulness raises poor souls in affliction. Well, let us pledge the ring, but upon one condition.


What?


That there shall be five hundred crowns for you, and five hundred crowns for me.


Don’t dream it, Athos. I don’t need the quarter of such a sum—I who am still only in the Guards—and by selling my saddles, I shall procure it. What do I want? A horse for Planchet, that’s all. Besides, you forget that I have a ring likewise.


To which you attach more value, it seems, than I do to mine; at least, I have thought so.


Yes, for in any extreme circumstance it might not only extricate us from some great embarrassment, but even a great danger. It is not only a valuable diamond, but it is an enchanted talisman.


I don’t at all understand you, but I believe all you say to be true. Let us return to my ring, or rather to yours. You shall take half the sum that will be advanced upon it, or I will throw it into the Seine; and I doubt, as was the case with Polycrates, whether any fish will be sufficiently complaisant to bring it back to us.


Well, I will take it, then,


Make haste, dear lodger, there is a very pretty girl waiting for you upstairs; and you know women don’t like to be kept waiting.


That’s Kitty!


You have promised your protection; you have promised to save me from her anger. Remember, it is you who have ruined me!


Yes, yes, to be sure, Kitty, be at ease, my girl. But what happened after my departure?


How can I tell! The lackeys were brought by the cries she made. She was mad with passion. There exist no imprecations she did not pour out against you. Then I thought she would remember it was through my chamber you had penetrated hers, and that then she would suppose I was your accomplice; so I took what little money I had and the best of my things, and I got away.


Poor dear girl! But what can I do with you? I am going away the day after tomorrow.


Do what you please, Monsieur Chevalier. Help me out of Paris; help me out of France!


I cannot take you, however, to the siege of La Rochelle,


No; but you can place me in one of the provinces with some lady of your acquaintance—in your own country, for instance.


My dear little love! In my country the ladies do without chambermaids. But stop! I can manage your business for you. Planchet, go and find Aramis. Request him to come here directly. We have something very important to say to him.


I understand, but why not Porthos? I should have thought that his duchess—


Oh, Porthos’s duchess is dressed by her husband’s clerks. Besides, Kitty would not like to live in the Rue aux Ours. Isn’t it so, Kitty?


I do not care where I live, provided I am well concealed, and nobody knows where I am.


Meanwhile, Kitty, when we are about to separate, and you are no longer jealous of me—


Monsieur Chevalier, far off or near. I shall always love you.


Where the devil will constancy niche itself next?


And I, also. I also. I shall always love you; be sure of that. But now answer me. I attach great importance to the question I am about to put to you. Did you never hear talk of a young woman who was carried off one night?


There, now! Oh, Monsieur Chevalier, do you love that woman still?


No, no; it is one of my friends who loves her—Monsieur Athos, this gentleman here.


I?


You, to be sure! You know the interest we both take in this poor little Madame Bonacieux. Besides, Kitty will tell nothing; will you, Kitty? You understand, my dear girl, she is the wife of that frightful baboon you saw at the door as you came in.


Oh, my God! You remind me of my fright! If he should have known me again!


How? know you again? Did you ever see that man before?


He came twice to Milady’s.


That’s it. About what time?


Why, about fifteen or eighteen days ago.


Exactly so.


And yesterday evening he came again.


Yesterday evening?


Yes, just before you came.


My dear Athos, we are enveloped in a network of spies. And do you believe he knew you again, Kitty?


I pulled down my hood as soon as I saw him, but perhaps it was too late.


Go down, Athos—he mistrusts you less than me—and see if he be still at his door.


He has gone, and the house door is shut.


He has gone to make his report, and to say that all the pigeons are at this moment in the dovecot.


Well, then, let us all fly, and leave nobody here but Planchet to bring us news.


A minute. Aramis, whom we have sent for!


That’s true, we must wait for Aramis.


Will it be really rendering you a service, D’Artagnan?


I shall be grateful to you all my life.


Very well. Madame de Bois-Tracy asked me, for one of her friends who resides in the provinces, I believe, for a trustworthy maid. If you can, my dear D’Artagnan, answer for Mademoiselle—


Oh, monsieur, be assured that I shall be entirely devoted to the person who will give me the means of quitting Paris.


Then, this falls out very well.


And now, my dear girl, you know that it is not good for any of us to be here. Therefore let us separate. We shall meet again in better days.


And whenever we find each other, in whatever place it may be, you will find me loving you as I love you today.


Dicers’ oaths!


How much did the Jew say he would give for the sapphire if he purchased it?


Five hundred pistoles.


That is to say, two hundred more—a hundred pistoles for you and a hundred pistoles for me. Well, now, that would be a real fortune to us, my friend; let us go back to the Jew’s again.


What! will you—


This ring would certainly only recall very bitter remembrances; then we shall never be masters of three hundred pistoles to redeem it, so that we really should lose two hundred pistoles by the bargain. Go and tell him the ring is his, D’Artagnan, and bring back the two hundred pistoles with you.


Reflect, Athos!


Ready money is needful for the present time, and we must learn how to make sacrifices. Go, D’Artagnan, go; Grimaud will accompany you with his musketoon.


Be, on Thursday next, at from six to seven o’clock in the evening, on the road to Chaillot, and look carefully into the carriages that pass; but if you have any consideration for your own life or that of those who love you, do not speak a single word, do not make a movement which may lead anyone to believe you have recognized her who exposes herself to everything for the sake of seeing you but for an instant.


That’s a snare, don’t go, D’Artagnan.


And yet. I think I recognize the writing.


It may be counterfeit. Between six and seven o’clock the road of Chaillot is quite deserted; you might as well go and ride in the forest of Bondy.


But suppose we all go, what the devil! They won’t devour us all four, four lackeys, horses, arms, and all!


And besides, it will be a chance for displaying our new equipments,


But if it is a woman who writes, and that woman desires not to be seen, remember, you compromise her, D’Artagnan; which is not the part of a gentleman.


We will remain in the background, and he will advance alone.


Yes; but a pistol shot is easily fired from a carriage which goes at a gallop.


Bah! they will miss me; if they fire we will ride after the carriage, and exterminate those who may be in it. They must be enemies.


He is right, battle. Besides, we must try our own arms.


Bah, let us enjoy that pleasure, with his mild and careless manner.


As you please,


Gentlemen, it is half past four, and we have scarcely time to be on the road of Chaillot by six.


Besides, if we go out too late, nobody will see us, and that will be a pity. Let us get ready, gentlemen.


But this second letter, you forget that; it appears to me, however, that the seal denotes that it deserves to be opened. For my part, I declare, D’Artagnan, I think it of much more consequence than the little piece of waste paper you have so cunningly slipped into your bosom.


Well, let us see, gentlemen, what are his Eminence’s commands,


M. d’Artagnan, of the king’s Guards, company Dessessart, is expected at the Palais-Cardinal this evening, at eight o’clock.


LA HOUDINIERE, Captain of the Guards


The devil! here’s a rendezvous much more serious than the other.


I will go to the second after attending the first. One is for seven o’clock, and the other for eight; there will be time for both.


Hum! I would not go at all. A gallant knight cannot decline a rendezvous with a lady; but a prudent gentleman may excuse himself from not waiting on his Eminence, particularly when he has reason to believe he is not invited to make his compliments.


I am of Aramis’s opinion,


Gentlemen. I have already received by Monsieur de Cavois a similar invitation from his Eminence. I neglected it, and on the morrow a serious misfortune happened to me—Constance disappeared. Whatever may ensue, I will go.


If you are determined, do so.


But the Bastille?


Bah! you will get me out if they put me there,


To be sure we will, to be sure we will get you out; but meantime, as we are to set off the day after tomorrow, you would do much better not to risk this Bastille.


Let us do better than that, do not let us leave him during the whole evening. Let each of us wait at a gate of the palace with three Musketeers behind him; if we see a close carriage, at all suspicious in appearance, come out, let us fall upon it. It is a long time since we have had a skirmish with the Guards of Monsieur the Cardinal; Monsieur de Tréville must think us dead.


To a certainty, Athos, you were meant to be a general of the army! What do you think of the plan, gentlemen?


Admirable!


Well. I will run to the hôtel, and engage our comrades to hold themselves in readiness by eight o’clock; the rendezvous, the Place du Palais-Cardinal. Meantime, you see that the lackeys saddle the horses.


I have no horse, but that is of no consequence, I can take one of Monsieur de Tréville’s.


That is not worth while, you can have one of mine.


One of yours! how many have you, then?


Three,


Certes, you are the best-mounted poet of France or Navarre.


Well, my dear Aramis, you don’t want three horses? I cannot comprehend what induced you to buy three!


Therefore I only purchased two,


The third, then, fell from the clouds, I suppose?


No, the third was brought to me this very morning by a groom out of livery, who would not tell me in whose service he was, and who said he had received orders from his master.


Or his mistress,


That makes no difference, and who affirmed, as I said, that he had received orders from his master or mistress to place the horse in my stable, without informing me whence it came.


It is only to poets that such things happen,


Well, in that case, we can manage famously, which of the two horses will you ride—that which you bought or the one that was given to you?


That which was given to me, assuredly. You cannot for a moment imagine, D’Artagnan, that I would commit such an offense toward—


The unknown giver,


Or the mysterious benefactress,


The one you bought will then become useless to you?


Nearly so.


And you selected it yourself?


With the greatest care. The safety of the horseman, you know, depends almost always upon the goodness of his horse.


Well, transfer it to me at the price it cost you?


I was going to make you the offer, my dear D’Artagnan, giving you all the time necessary for repaying me such a trifle.


How much did it cost you?


Eight hundred livres.


Here are forty double pistoles, my dear friend. I know that is the coin in which you were paid for your poems.


You are rich, then?


Rich? Richest, my dear fellow!


Send your saddle, then, to the hôtel of the Musketeers, and your horse can be brought back with ours.


Very well; but it is already five o’clock, so make haste.


The devil! you have a magnificent horse there, Porthos.


Yes, it is the one that ought to have been sent to me at first. A bad joke of the husband’s substituted the other; but the husband has been punished since, and I have obtained full satisfaction.


If that be the case, they are doubtless transporting her from one prison to another. But what can they intend to do with the poor creature, and how shall I ever meet her again?


Friend, remember that it is the dead alone with whom we are not likely to meet again on this earth. You know something of that, as well as I do, I think. Now, if your mistress is not dead, if it is she we have just seen, you will meet with her again some day or other. And perhaps, my God! perhaps sooner than you wish.


If De Wardes has related all our affair to the cardinal, which is not to be doubted, and if he has recognized me, as is probable, I may consider myself almost as a condemned man. But why has he waited till now? That’s all plain enough. Milady has laid her complaints against me with that hypocritical grief which renders her so interesting, and this last offense has made the cup overflow. Fortunately, my good friends are down yonder, and they will not allow me to be carried away without a struggle. Nevertheless, Monsieur de Tréville’s company of Musketeers alone cannot maintain a war against the cardinal, who disposes of the forces of all France, and before whom the queen is without power and the king without will. D’Artagnan, my friend, you are brave, you are prudent, you have excellent qualities; but the women will ruin you!


Monsieur, are you a D’Artagnan from Béarn?


Yes, monseigneur,


There are several branches of the D’Artagnans at Tarbes and in its environs, to which do you belong?


I am the son of him who served in the Religious Wars under the great King Henry, the father of his gracious Majesty.


That is well. It is you who set out seven or eight months ago from your country to seek your fortune in the capital?


Yes, monseigneur.


You came through Meung, where something befell you. I don’t very well know what, but still something.


Monseigneur, this was what happened to me—


Never mind, never mind! You were recommended to Monsieur de Tréville, were you not?


Yes, monseigneur; but in that unfortunate affair at Meung—


The letter was lost, yes, I know that. But Monsieur de Tréville is a skilled physiognomist, who knows men at first sight; and he placed you in the company of his brother-in-law, Monsieur Dessessart, leaving you to hope that one day or other you should enter the Musketeers.


Monseigneur is correctly informed,


Since that time many things have happened to you. You were walking one day behind the Chartreux, when it would have been better if you had been elsewhere. Then you took with your friends a journey to the waters of Forges; they stopped on the road, but you continued yours. That is all very simple: you had business in England.


Monseigneur. I went—


Hunting at Windsor, or elsewhere—that concerns nobody. I know, because it is my office to know everything. On your return you were received by an august personage, and I perceive with pleasure that you preserve the souvenir she gave you. The day after that, you received a visit from Cavois. He went to desire you to come to the palace. You have not returned that visit, and you were wrong.


Monseigneur, I went— Monseigneur, I feared I had incurred disgrace with your Eminence.


How could that be, monsieur? Could you incur my displeasure by having followed the orders of your superiors with more intelligence and courage than another would have done? It is the people who do not obey that I punish, and not those who, like you, obey—but too well. As a proof, remember the date of the day on which I had you bidden to come to me, and seek in your memory for what happened to you that very night. In short, as I have heard nothing of you for some time past, I wished to know what you were doing. Besides, you owe me some thanks. You must yourself have remarked how much you have been considered in all the circumstances. That, arose not only from a feeling of natural equity, but likewise from a plan I have marked out with respect to you. I wished to explain this plan to you on the day you received my first invitation; but you did not come. Fortunately, nothing is lost by this delay, and you are now about to hear it. Sit down there, before me, D’Artagnan; you are gentleman enough not to listen standing. You are brave, Monsieur d’Artagnan, you are prudent, which is still better. I like men of head and heart. Don’t be afraid. By men of heart I mean men of courage. But young as you are, and scarcely entering into the world, you have powerful enemies; if you do not take great heed, they will destroy you.


Alas, monseigneur! very easily, no doubt, for they are strong and well supported, while I am alone.


Yes, that’s true; but alone as you are, you have done much already, and will do still more, I don’t doubt. Yet you have need, I believe, to be guided in the adventurous career you have undertaken; for, if I mistake not, you came to Paris with the ambitious idea of making your fortune.


I am at the age of extravagant hopes, monseigneur,


There are no extravagant hopes but for fools, monsieur, and you are a man of understanding. Now, what would you say to an ensign’s commission in my Guards, and a company after the campaign?


Ah, monseigneur.


You accept it, do you not?


Monseigneur,


How? You refuse?


I am in his Majesty’s Guards, monseigneur, and I have no reason to be dissatisfied.


But it appears to me that my Guards—mine—are also his Majesty’s Guards; and whoever serves in a French corps serves the king.


Monseigneur, your Eminence has ill understood my words.


You want a pretext, do you not? I comprehend. Well, you have this excuse: advancement, the opening campaign, the opportunity which I offer you—so much for the world. As regards yourself, the need of protection; for it is fit you should know, Monsieur d’Artagnan, that I have received heavy and serious complaints against you. You do not consecrate your days and nights wholly to the king’s service. In fact. I have here a whole pile which concerns you. I know you to be a man of resolution; and your services, well directed, instead of leading you to ill, might be very advantageous to you. Come; reflect, and decide.


Your goodness confounds me, monseigneur, and I am conscious of a greatness of soul in your Eminence that makes me mean as an earthworm; but since Monseigneur permits me to speak freely—


Yes; speak.


Then, I will presume to say that all my friends are in the king’s Musketeers and Guards, and that by an inconceivable fatality my enemies are in the service of your Eminence; I should, therefore, be ill received here and ill regarded there if I accepted what Monseigneur offers me.


Do you happen to entertain the haughty idea that I have not yet made you an offer equal to your value?


Monseigneur, your Eminence is a hundred times too kind to me; and on the contrary, I think I have not proved myself worthy of your goodness. The siege of La Rochelle is about to be resumed, monseigneur. I shall serve under the eye of your Eminence, and if I have the good fortune to conduct myself at the siege in such a manner as merits your attention, then I shall at least leave behind me some brilliant action to justify the protection with which you honor me. Everything is best in its time, monseigneur. Hereafter, perhaps, I shall have the right of giving myself; at present I shall appear to sell myself.


That is to say, you refuse to serve me, monsieur, remain free, then, and guard your hatreds and your sympathies.


Monseigneur—


Well, well. I don’t wish you any ill; but you must be aware that it is quite trouble enough to defend and recompense our friends. We owe nothing to our enemies; and let me give you a piece of advice; take care of yourself, Monsieur d’Artagnan, for from the moment I withdraw my hand from behind you, I would not give an obolus for your life.


I will try to do so, monseigneur,


Remember at a later period and at a certain moment, if any mischance should happen to you, that it was I who came to seek you, and that I did all in my power to prevent this misfortune befalling you.


I shall entertain, whatever may happen, an eternal gratitude toward your Eminence for that which you now do for me.


Well, let it be, then, as you have said, Monsieur d’Artagnan; we shall see each other again after the campaign. I will have my eye upon you, for I shall be there, and on our return, well—we will settle our account!


Ah, monseigneur, spare me the weight of your displeasure. Remain neutral monseigneur, if you find that I act as becomes a gallant man.


Young man, if I shall be able to say to you at another time what I have said to you today, I promise you to do so.


And you were right,


You have done that which you ought to have done, D’Artagnan; but perhaps you have been wrong.


You will see, gentlemen, that we shall be fools enough to take La Rochelle.


If there is a third shot. I am a lost man.


Ah, my poor friends! where are you? And that you should fail me!


Monsieur is about to ask for some men of good will for a dangerous mission, but one which will do honor to those who shall accomplish it; and I made you a sign in order that you might hold yourself in readiness.


Thanks, my captain!


I want for this mission three or four volunteers, led by a man who can be depended upon.


As to the man to be depended upon, I have him under my hand, monsieur, and as to the four or five volunteers, Monsieur has but to make his intentions known, and the men will not be wanting.


Four men of good will who will risk being killed with me!


Oh, do not kill me! Pardon, pardon, my officer, and I will tell you all.


Is your secret of enough importance to me to spare your life for it?


Yes; if you think existence worth anything to a man of twenty, as you are, and who may hope for everything, being handsome and brave, as you are.


Wretch, speak quickly! Who employed you to assassinate me?


A woman whom I don’t know, but who is called Milady.


But if you don’t know this woman, how do you know her name?


My comrade knows her, and called her so. It was with him she agreed, and not with me; he even has in his pocket a letter from that person, who attaches great importance to you, as I have heard him say.


But how did you become concerned in this villainous affair?


He proposed to me to undertake it with him, and I agreed.


And how much did she give you for this fine enterprise?


A hundred louis.


Well, come! she thinks I am worth something. A hundred louis? Well, that was a temptation for two wretches like you. I understand why you accepted it, and I grant you my pardon; but upon one condition.


What is that?


That you will go and fetch me the letter your comrade has in his pocket.


But, that is only another way of killing me. How can I go and fetch that letter under the fire of the bastion?


You must nevertheless make up your mind to go and get it, or I swear you shall die by my hand.


Pardon, monsieur; pity! In the name of that young lady you love, and whom you perhaps believe dead but who is not!


And how do you know there is a young woman whom I love, and that I believed that woman dead?


By that letter which my comrade has in his pocket.


You see, then, that I must have that letter. So no more delay, no more hesitation; or else whatever may be my repugnance to soiling my sword a second time with the blood of a wretch like you, I swear by my faith as an honest man—


Stop, stop! I will go—I will go!


Stop. I will show you the difference between a man of courage and such a coward as you. Stay where you are; I will go myself.


Since you have lost sight of that woman and she is now in safety in the convent, which you should never have allowed her to reach, try, at least, not to miss the man. If you do, you know that my hand stretches far, and that you shall pay very dearly for the hundred louis you have from me.


But what were you to do with that woman?


We were to have conveyed her to a hôtel in the Place Royale,


Yes, yes! that’s the place—Milady’s own residence!


Come, I will not abandon you thus. Lean upon me, and let us return to the camp.


Yes, but is it not to have me hanged?


You have my word, for the second time I give you your life.


M. D’ARTAGNAN, MM. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, after having had an entertainment at my house and enjoying themselves very much, created such a disturbance that the provost of the castle, a rigid man, has ordered them to be confined for some days; but I accomplish the order they have given me by forwarding to you a dozen bottles of my Anjou wine, with which they are much pleased. They are desirous that you should drink to their health in their favorite wine. I have done this, and am, monsieur, with great respect, Your very humble and obedient servant,


That’s all well! They think of me in their pleasures, as I thought of them in my troubles. Well, I will certainly drink to their health with all my heart, but I will not drink alone.


Pardieu! you could not have arrived in better time; the dinner cannot have had time to get cold! Can it, gentlemen?


Ah, ah! it appears we are feasting!


I hope, there are no women at your dinner.


Is there any drinkable wine in your tavern?


Well, pardieu! there is yours, my dear friend,


Our wine!


Yes, that you sent me.


We sent you wine?


You know very well—the wine from the hills of Anjou.


Yes, I know what brand you are talking about.


The wine you prefer.


Well, in the absence of champagne and chambertin, you must content yourselves with that.


And so, connoisseurs in wine as we are, we have sent you some Anjou wine?


Not exactly, it is the wine that was sent by your order.


On our account?


Did you send this wine, Aramis?


No; and you, Porthos?


No; and you, Athos?


No!


If it was not you, it was your purveyor. Our purveyor! Yes, your purveyor, Godeau—the purveyor of the Musketeers.


My faith! never mind where it comes from, let us taste it, and if it is good, let us drink it.


No, don’t let us drink wine which comes from an unknown source.


You are right, Athos. Did none of you charge your purveyor, Godeau, to send me some wine? Here is his letter,


This is not his writing! I am acquainted with it; before we left Villeroy I settled the accounts of the regiment.


A false letter altogether, we have not been disciplined.


D’Artagnan, how could you believe that we had made a disturbance?


Thou alarmest me! what has happened?


Look you, my friends! a horrible suspicion crosses my mind! Can this be another vengeance of that woman?


Ah! ah! this is frightful! You pretend to pardon me, and you poison me!


I! I, wretch? What do you say?


I say that it was you who gave me the wine; I say that it was you who desired me to drink it. I say you wished to avenge yourself on me, and I say that it is horrible!


Do not think so, Brisemont, do not think so. I swear to you, I protest—


Oh, but God is above! God will punish you! My God, grant that he may one day suffer what I suffer!


Upon the Gospel. I swear to you that the wine was poisoned and that I was going to drink of it as you did.


I do not believe you,


Oh, my friends, you come once more to save my life, not only mine but that of these gentlemen. Gentlemen, I request you will be silent with regard to this adventure. Great personages may have had a hand in what you have seen, and if talked about, the evil would only recoil upon us.


ah, monsieur, what an escape I have had!


How, sirrah! you were going to drink my wine?


To the health of the king, monsieur; I was going to drink a small glass of it if Fourreau had not told me I was called.


Alas! I wanted to get him out of the way that I might drink myself.


Gentlemen, you may easily comprehend that such a feast can only be very dull after what has taken place; so accept my excuses, and put off the party till another day, I beg of you.


In the first place, let us leave this chamber; the dead are not agreeable company, particularly when they have died a violent death.


I commit the corpse of this poor devil to your care. Let him be interred in holy ground. He committed a crime, it is true; but he repented of it. you see, my dear friend, that this is war to the death.


Yes, yes. I perceive that plainly; but do you really believe it is she?


I am sure of it.


Nevertheless, I confess I still doubt.


Athos, she is your wife, I tell you,


Yes; but I should think the other must be dead, I hanged her so effectually.


But in either case, what is to be done?


The fact is, one cannot remain thus, with a sword hanging eternally over his head. We must extricate ourselves from this position.


But how?


Listen! You must try to see her, and have an explanation with her. Say to her: ‘Peace or war! My word as a gentleman never to say anything of you, never to do anything against you; on your side, a solemn oath to remain neutral with respect to me. If not, I will apply to the chancellor, I will apply to the king, I will apply to the hangman, I will move the courts against you, I will denounce you as branded, I will bring you to trial; and if you are acquitted, well, by the faith of a gentleman, I will kill you at the corner of some wall, as I would a mad dog.’


I like the means well enough, but where and how to meet with her?


Time, dear friend, time brings round opportunity; opportunity is the martingale of man. The more we have ventured the more we gain, when we know how to wait.


Yes; but to wait surrounded by assassins and poisoners.


Bah! God has preserved us hitherto, God will preserve us still.


Yes, we. Besides, we are men; and everything considered, it is our lot to risk our lives; but she,


What she?


Constance.


Madame Bonacieux! Ah, that’s true! My poor friend, I had forgotten you were in love.


have you not learned by the letter you found on the wretched corpse that she is in a convent? One may be very comfortable in a convent; and as soon as the siege of La Rochelle is terminated, I promise you on my part—


Good, good! Yes, my dear Aramis, we all know that your views have a religious tendency.


I am only temporarily a Musketeer,


It is some time since we heard from his mistress. But take no notice; we know all about that.


it appears to me that the means are very simple.


What?


You say she is in a convent?


Yes.


Very well. As soon as the siege is over, we’ll carry her off from that convent.


But we must first learn what convent she is in.


That’s true,


Don’t you say, dear D’Artagnan, that it is the queen who has made choice of the convent for her?


I believe so, at least.


In that case Porthos will assist us.


And how so, if you please?


Why, by your marchioness, your duchess, your princess. She must have a long arm.


Hush! I believe her to be a cardinalist; she must know nothing of the matter.


I take upon myself to obtain intelligence of her.


You, Aramis? You! And how?


By the queen’s almoner, to whom I am very intimately allied,


Who goes there?


Who goes there, yourselves?


That is not an answer. Who goes there? Answer, or we charge.


Beware of what you are about, gentlemen!


It is some superior officer making his night rounds. What do you wish, gentlemen?


Who are you?


Answer in your turn, or you may repent of your disobedience.


King’s Musketeers.


What company?


Company of Tréville.


Advance, and give an account of what you are doing here at this hour.


Your pardon, my officer, but we were ignorant with whom we had to do, and you may see that we were keeping good guard.


Your name?


But yourself, monsieur, give me, I beg you, the proof that you have the right to question me.


Monsieur the Cardinal!


Athos,


These three Musketeers shall follow us. I am not willing it should be known I have left the camp; and if they follow us we shall be certain they will tell nobody.


We are gentlemen, monseigneur, require our parole, and give yourself no uneasiness. Thank God, we can keep a secret.


You have a quick ear, Monsieur Athos, but now listen to this. It is not from mistrust that I request you to follow me, but for my security. Your companions are no doubt Messieurs Porthos and Aramis.


Yes, your Eminence,


I know you, gentlemen. I know you. I know you are not quite my friends, and I am sorry you are not so; but I know you are brave and loyal gentlemen, and that confidence may be placed in you. Monsieur Athos, do me, then, the honor to accompany me; you and your two friends, and then I shall have an escort to excite envy in his Majesty, if we should meet him.


Well, upon my honor, your Eminence is right in taking us with you; we have seen several ill-looking faces on the road, and we have even had a quarrel at the Red Dovecot with four of those faces.


A quarrel, and what for, gentlemen? you know I don’t like quarrelers.


And that is the reason why I have the honor to inform your Eminence of what has happened; for you might learn it from others, and upon a false account believe us to be in fault.


What have been the results of your quarrel?


My friend, Aramis, here, has received a slight sword wound in the arm, but not enough to prevent him, as your Eminence may see, from mounting to the assault tomorrow, if your Eminence orders an escalade.


But you are not the men to allow sword wounds to be inflicted upon you thus. Come, be frank, gentlemen, you have settled accounts with somebody! Confess; you know I have the right of giving absolution.


I, monseigneur? I did not even draw my sword, but I took him who offended me round the body, and threw him out of the window. It appears that in falling, he broke his thigh.


Ah, ah! and you, Monsieur Porthos?


I, monseigneur, knowing that dueling is prohibited—I seized a bench, and gave one of those brigands such a blow that I believe his shoulder is broken.


Very well, and you, Monsieur Aramis?


Monseigneur, being of a very mild disposition, and being, likewise, of which Monseigneur perhaps is not aware, about to enter into orders, I endeavored to appease my comrades, when one of these wretches gave me a wound with a sword, treacherously, across my left arm. Then I admit my patience failed me; I drew my sword in my turn, and as he came back to the charge, I fancied I felt that in throwing himself upon me, he let it pass through his body. I only know for a certainty that he fell; and it seemed to me that he was borne away with his two companions.


The devil, gentlemen! three men placed hors de combat in a cabaret squabble! You don’t do your work by halves. And pray what was this quarrel about?


These fellows were drunk, and knowing there was a lady who had arrived at the cabaret this evening, they wanted to force her door.


Force her door! and for what purpose?


To do her violence, without doubt. I have had the honor of informing your Eminence that these men were drunk.


And was this lady young and handsome?


We did not see her, monseigneur,


You did not see her? Ah, very well. You did well to defend the honor of a woman; and as I am going to the Red Dovecot myself, I shall know if you have told me the truth.


Monseigneur, we are gentlemen, and to save our heads we would not be guilty of a falsehood.


Therefore I do not doubt what you say, Monsieur Athos, I do not doubt it for a single instant; but, to change the conversation, was this lady alone?


The lady had a cavalier shut up with her, but as notwithstanding the noise, this cavalier did not show himself, it is to be presumed that he is a coward.


‘Judge not rashly’, says the Gospel. And now, gentlemen, that’s well. I know what I wish to know; follow me.


Advance, gentlemen. You have told me the truth, my gentlemen, and it will not be my fault if our encounter this evening be not advantageous to you. In the meantime, follow me. Have you any chamber on the ground floor where these gentlemen can wait near a good fire?


I have this,


That will do. Enter, gentlemen, and be kind enough to wait for me; I shall not be more than half an hour.


Listen, Milady, the affair is important. Sit down, and let us talk it over.


Milady!


I listen to your Eminence with greatest attention,


A small vessel with an English crew, whose captain is on my side, awaits you at the mouth of Charente, at Fort La Pointe*. He will set sail tomorrow morning.


I must go thither tonight?


Instantly! That is to say, when you have received my instructions. Two men, whom you will find at the door on going out, will serve you as escort. You will allow me to leave first; then, after half an hour, you can go away in your turn.


Yes, monseigneur. Now let us return to the mission with which you wish to charge me; and as I desire to continue to merit the confidence of your Eminence, deign to unfold it to me in terms clear and precise, that I may not commit an error.


You will go to London. Arrived in London, you will seek Buckingham.


I must beg your Eminence to observe, that since the affair of the diamond studs, about which the duke always suspected me, his Grace distrusts me.


Well, this time, it is not necessary to steal his confidence, but to present yourself frankly and loyally as a negotiator.


Frankly and loyally,


Yes, frankly and loyally. All this negotiation must be carried on openly.


I will follow your Eminence’s instructions to the letter. I only wait till you give them.


You will go to Buckingham in my behalf, and you will tell him I am acquainted with all the preparations he has made; but that they give me no uneasiness, since at the first step he takes I will ruin the queen.


Will he believe that your Eminence is in a position to accomplish the threat thus made?


Yes; for I have the proofs.


I must be able to present these proofs for his appreciation.


Without doubt. And you will tell him I will publish the report of Bois-Robert and the Marquis de Beautru, upon the interview which the duke had at the residence of Madame the Constable with the queen on the evening Madame the Constable gave a masquerade. You will tell him, in order that he may not doubt, that he came there in the costume of the Great Mogul, which the Chevalier de Guise was to have worn, and that he purchased this exchange for the sum of three thousand pistoles.


Well, monseigneur?


All the details of his coming into and going out of the palace—on the night when he introduced himself in the character of an Italian fortune teller—you will tell him, that he may not doubt the correctness of my information; that he had under his cloak a large white robe dotted with black tears, death’s heads, and crossbones—for in case of a surprise, he was to pass for the phantom of the White Lady who, as all the world knows, appears at the Louvre every time any great event is impending.


Is that all, monseigneur?


Tell him also that I am acquainted with all the details of the adventure at Amiens; that I will have a little romance made of it, wittily turned, with a plan of the garden and portraits of the principal actors in that nocturnal romance.


I will tell him that.


Tell him further that I hold Montague in my power; that Montague is in the Bastille; that no letters were found upon him, it is true, but that torture may make him tell much of what he knows, and even what he does not know.


Exactly.


Then add that his Grace has, in the precipitation with which he quit the Isle of Ré, forgotten and left behind him in his lodging a certain letter from Madame de Chevreuse which singularly compromises the queen, inasmuch as it proves not only that her Majesty can love the enemies of the king but that she can conspire with the enemies of France. You recollect perfectly all I have told you, do you not?


Your Eminence will judge: the ball of Madame the Constable; the night at the Louvre; the evening at Amiens; the arrest of Montague; the letter of Madame de Chevreuse.


That’s it, that’s it. You have an excellent memory, Milady.


But, if, in spite of all these reasons, the duke does not give way and continues to menace France?


The duke is in love to madness, or rather to folly. Like the ancient paladins, he has only undertaken this war to obtain a look from his lady love. If he becomes certain that this war will cost the honor, and perhaps the liberty, of the lady of his thoughts, as he says, I will answer for it he will look twice.


And yet, if he persists?


If he persists? That is not probable.


It is possible,


If he persists— If he persists—well, then I shall hope for one of those events which change the destinies of states.


If your Eminence would quote to me some one of these events in history, perhaps I should partake of your confidence as to the future.


Well, here, for example, when, in 1610, for a cause similar to that which moves the duke, King Henry IV., of glorious memory, was about, at the same time, to invade Flanders and Italy, in order to attack Austria on both sides. Well, did there not happen an event which saved Austria? Why should not the king of France have the same chance as the emperor?


Your Eminence means, I presume, the knife stab in the Rue de la Feronnerie?


Precisely,


Does not your Eminence fear that the punishment inflicted upon Ravaillac may deter anyone who might entertain the idea of imitating him?


There will be, in all times and in all countries, particularly if religious divisions exist in those countries, fanatics who ask nothing better than to become martyrs. Ay, and observe—it just occurs to me that the Puritans are furious against Buckingham, and their preachers designate him as the Antichrist.


Well?


Well, the only thing to be sought for at this moment is some woman, handsome, young, and clever, who has cause of quarrel with the duke. The duke has had many affairs of gallantry; and if he has fostered his amours by promises of eternal constancy, he must likewise have sown the seeds of hatred by his eternal infidelities.


No doubt, such a woman may be found.


Well, such a woman, who would place the knife of Jacques Clément or of Ravaillac in the hands of a fanatic, would save France.


Yes; but she would then be the accomplice of an assassination.


Were the accomplices of Ravaillac or of Jacques Clément ever known?


No; for perhaps they were too high-placed for anyone to dare look for them where they were. The Palace of Justice would not be burned down for everybody, monseigneur.


You think, then, that the fire at the Palace of Justice was not caused by chance?


I, monseigneur? I think nothing; I quote a fact, that is all. Only I say that if I were named Madame de Montpensier, or the Queen Marie de Médicis, I should use less precautions than I take, being simply called Milady Clarik.


That is just. What do you require, then?


I require an order which would ratify beforehand all that I should think proper to do for the greatest good of France.


But in the first place, this woman I have described must be found who is desirous of avenging herself upon the duke.


She is found,


Then the miserable fanatic must be found who will serve as an instrument of God’s justice.


He will be found.


Well, then it will be time to claim the order which you just now required.


Your Eminence is right, and I have been wrong in seeing in the mission with which you honor me anything but that which it really is—that is, to announce to his Grace, on the part of your Eminence, that you are acquainted with the different disguises by means of which he succeeded in approaching the queen during the fête given by Madame the Constable; that you have proofs of the interview granted at the Louvre by the queen to a certain Italian astrologer who was no other than the Duke of Buckingham; that you have ordered a little romance of a satirical nature to be written upon the adventures of Amiens, with a plan of the gardens in which those adventures took place, and portraits of the actors who figured in them; that Montague is in the Bastille, and that the torture may make him say things he remembers, and even things he has forgotten; that you possess a certain letter from Madame de Chevreuse, found in his Grace’s lodging, which singularly compromises not only her who wrote it, but her in whose name it was written. Then, if he persists, notwithstanding all this—as that is, as I have said, the limit of my mission—I shall have nothing to do but to pray God to work a miracle for the salvation of France. That is it, is it not, monseigneur, and I shall have nothing else to do?


That is it,


And now, now that I have received the instructions of your Eminence as concerns your enemies, Monseigneur will permit me to say a few words to him of mine?


Have you enemies, then?


Yes, monseigneur, enemies against whom you owe me all your support, for I made them by serving your Eminence.


Who are they?


In the first place, there is a little intrigante named Bonacieux.


She is in the prison of Nantes.


That is to say, she was there, but the queen has obtained an order from the king by means of which she has been conveyed to a convent.


To a convent?


Yes, to a convent.


And to which?


I don’t know; the secret has been well kept.


But I will know!


And your Eminence will tell me in what convent that woman is?


I can see nothing inconvenient in that,


Well, now I have an enemy much more to be dreaded by me than this little Madame Bonacieux.


Who is that?


Her lover.


What is his name?


Oh, your Eminence knows him well. He is the evil genius of both of us. It is he who in an encounter with your Eminence’s Guards decided the victory in favor of the king’s Musketeers; it is he who gave three desperate wounds to De Wardes, your emissary, and who caused the affair of the diamond studs to fail; it is he who, knowing it was I who had Madame Bonacieux carried off, has sworn my death.


Ah, ah! I know of whom you speak.


I mean that miserable D’Artagnan.


He is a bold fellow,


And it is exactly because he is a bold fellow that he is the more to be feared.


I must have, a proof of his connection with Buckingham.


A proof? I will have ten.


Well, then, it becomes the simplest thing in the world; get me that proof, and I will send him to the Bastille.


So far good, monseigneur; but afterwards?


When once in the Bastille, there is no afterward! Ah, pardieu! if it were as easy for me to get rid of my enemy as it is easy to get rid of yours, and if it were against such people you require impunity—


Monseigneur, a fair exchange. Life for life, man for man; give me one, I will give you the other.


I don’t know what you mean, nor do I even desire to know what you mean, but I wish to please you, and see nothing out of the way in giving you what you demand with respect to so infamous a creature—the more so as you tell me this D’Artagnan is a libertine, a duelist, and a traitor.


An infamous scoundrel, monseigneur, a scoundrel!


Give me paper, a quill, and some ink, then,


Here they are, monseigneur.


Well, what do you want, and why do you not let us listen to the end of the conversation?


Hush! We have heard all it was necessary we should hear; besides, I don’t prevent you from listening, but I must be gone.


You must be gone! and if the cardinal asks for you, what answer can we make?


You will not wait till he asks; you will speak first, and tell him that I am gone on the lookout, because certain expressions of our host have given me reason to think the road is not safe. I will say two words about it to the cardinal’s esquire likewise. The rest concerns myself; don’t be uneasy about that.


Be prudent, Athos,


Be easy on that head, you know I am cool enough.


What has become of Monseigneur Athos?


Monseigneur, he has gone as a scout, on account of some words of our host, which made him believe the road was not safe.


And you, what have you done, Monsieur Porthos?


I have won five pistoles of Aramis.


Well; now will you return with me?


We are at your Eminence’s orders.


To horse, then, gentlemen; for it is getting late.


My officer, has forgotten to give a piece of very important information to the lady, and has sent me back to repair his forgetfulness.


Go up, she is still in her chamber.


Who are you, and what do you want?


Humph, it is certainly she! Do you know me, madame? So far, well. I perceive you know me.


The Comte de la Fère!


Yes, Milady, the Comte de la Fère in person, who comes expressly from the other world to have the pleasure of paying you a visit. Sit down, madame, and let us talk, as the cardinal said. You certainly are a demon sent upon the earth! Your power is great, I know; but you also know that with the help of God men have often conquered the most terrible demons. You have once before thrown yourself in my path. I thought I had crushed you, madame; but either I was deceived or hell has resuscitated you! Yes, hell has resuscitated you. Hell has made you rich, hell has given you another name, hell has almost made you another face; but it has neither effaced the stains from your soul nor the brand from your body. You believed me to be dead, did you not, as I believed you to be? And the name of Athos as well concealed the Comte de la Fère, as the name Milady Clarik concealed Anne de Breuil. Was it not so you were called when your honored brother married us? Our position is truly a strange one. We have only lived up to the present time because we believed each other dead, and because a remembrance is less oppressive than a living creature, though a remembrance is sometimes devouring.


But, what brings you back to me, and what do you want with me?


I wish to tell you that though remaining invisible to your eyes, I have not lost sight of you.


You know what I have done?


I can relate to you, day by day, your actions from your entrance to the service of the cardinal to this evening. Listen! It was you who cut off the two diamond studs from the shoulder of the Duke of Buckingham; it was you who had Madame Bonacieux carried off; it was you who, in love with De Wardes and thinking to pass the night with him, opened the door to Monsieur d’Artagnan; it was you who, believing that De Wardes had deceived you, wished to have him killed by his rival; it was you who, when this rival had discovered your infamous secret, wished to have him killed in his turn by two assassins, whom you sent in pursuit of him; it was you who, finding the balls had missed their mark, sent poisoned wine with a forged letter, to make your victim believe that the wine came from his friends. In short, it was you who have but now in this chamber, seated in this chair I now fill, made an engagement with Cardinal Richelieu to cause the Duke of Buckingham to be assassinated, in exchange for the promise he has made you to allow you to assassinate D’Artagnan.


You must be Satan!


Perhaps. But at all events listen well to this. Assassinate the Duke of Buckingham, or cause him to be assassinated—I care very little about that! I don’t know him. Besides, he is an Englishman. But do not touch with the tip of your finger a single hair of D’Artagnan, who is a faithful friend whom I love and defend, or I swear to you by the head of my father the crime which you shall have endeavored to commit, or shall have committed, shall be the last.


Monsieur d’Artagnan has cruelly insulted me. Monsieur d’Artagnan shall die!


Indeed! Is it possible to insult you, madame? he has insulted you, and he shall die!


He shall die! she first, and he afterward.


Madame, you will this instant deliver to me the paper the cardinal signed; or upon my soul, I will blow your brains out. You have one second to decide,


Take it, and be accursed!


And now, now that I have drawn your teeth, viper, bite if you can. Gentlemen. Monseigneur’s order is, you know, to conduct that woman, without losing time, to Fort La Pointe, and never to leave her till she is on board.


Who goes there?


That is our brave Musketeer, I think,


Yes, monseigneur, it is he.


Monsieur Athos, receive my thanks for the good guard you have kept. Gentlemen, we are arrived; take the gate on the left. The watchword is, ‘King and Ré.’


Well! well, he signed the paper she required!


I know it, since here it is.


Pardieu, gentlemen. I hope what you have to tell me is worth the trouble, or else, I warn you, I will not pardon you for making me come here instead of getting a little rest after a night spent in taking and dismantling a bastion. Ah, why were you not there, gentlemen? It was warm work.


We were in a place where it was not very cold,


Hush!


It appears there is something fresh aboard.


Aramis, you went to breakfast the day before yesterday at the inn of the Parpaillot, I believe?


Yes.


How did you fare?


For my part, I ate but little. The day before yesterday was a fish day, and they had nothing but meat.


What, no fish at a seaport?


They say, that the dyke which the cardinal is making drives them all out into the open sea.


But that is not quite what I mean to ask you, Aramis. I want to know if you were left alone, and nobody interrupted you.


Why, I think there were not many intruders. Yes, Athos, I know what you mean: we shall do very well at the Parpaillot.


Let us go to the Parpaillot, then, for here the walls are like sheets of paper.


I see how it will be, we shall get into some pretty quarrel or other, and we have no need of one just now. D’Artagnan, tell us what sort of a night you have had, and we will describe ours afterward.


Ah, yes. I hear you gentlemen of the Guards have been in the trenches tonight, and that you did not get much the best of the Rochellais.


Well, don’t you hear Monsieur de Busigny, who does you the honor to ask you a question? Relate what has passed during the night, since these gentlemen desire to know it.


Have you not taken a bastion? Yes, monsieur, we have had that honor. We even have, as you may have heard, introduced a barrel of powder under one of the angles, which in blowing up made a very pretty breach. Without reckoning that as the bastion was not built yesterday all the rest of the building was badly shaken.


And what bastion is it?


The bastion St. Gervais, from behind which the Rochellais annoyed our workmen.


Was that affair hot?


Yes, moderately so. We lost five men, and the Rochellais eight or ten.


Balzempleu!


that they will send pioneers this morning to repair the bastion.


Yes, that’s probable,


a wager!


Ah, wooi, a vager!


What is it?


Stop a bit, I am in it. You cursed host! a dripping pan immediately, that I may not lose a drop of the fat of this estimable bird.


You was right, goose grease is kood with basdry.


There! Now for the wager! We listen, Monsieur Athos.


Yes, the wager!


Well, Monsieur de Busigny, I will bet you, that my three companions, Messieurs Porthos, Aramis, and D’Artagnan, and myself, will go and breakfast in the bastion St. Gervais, and we will remain there an hour, by the watch, whatever the enemy may do to dislodge us.


you are going to get us all killed without mercy.


We are much more likely to be killed, if we do not go.


that’s a fair bet, I hope.


I take it, so let us fix the stake.


You are four gentlemen, and we are four; an unlimited dinner for eight. Will that do?


Capitally,


Perfectly,


That shoots me,


The breakfast for these gentlemen is ready,


Well, bring it,


Shall I give you the change, my officer?


No, only add two bottles of champagne, and the difference will be for the napkins. will you be so kind as to set your watch with mine, or permit me to regulate mine by yours?


Which you please, monsieur! half past seven.


Thirty-five minutes after seven, by which you perceive I am five minutes faster than you.


Why, you see plainly enough we are going to the bastion.


But what are we going to do there?


You know well that we go to breakfast there.


But why did we not breakfast at the Parpaillot?


Because we have very important matters to communicate to one another, and it was impossible to talk five minutes in that inn without being annoyed by all those importunate fellows, who keep coming in, saluting you, and addressing you. Here at least, they will not come and disturb us.


It appears to me, that we could have found some retired place on the downs or the seashore.


Where we should have been seen all four conferring together, so that at the end of a quarter of an hour the cardinal would have been informed by his spies that we were holding a council.


Athos is right: Animadvertuntur in desertis.


but it behooved us to find it.


There is no desert where a bird cannot pass over one’s head, where a fish cannot leap out of the water, where a rabbit cannot come out of its burrow, and I believe that bird, fish, and rabbit each becomes a spy of the cardinal. Better, then, pursue our enterprise; from which, besides, we cannot retreat without shame. We have made a wager—a wager which could not have been foreseen, and of which I defy anyone to divine the true cause. We are going, in order to win it, to remain an hour in the bastion. Either we shall be attacked, or not. If we are not, we shall have all the time to talk, and nobody will hear us—for I guarantee the walls of the bastion have no ears; if we are, we will talk of our affairs just the same. Moreover, in defending ourselves, we shall cover ourselves with glory. You see that everything is to our advantage.


but we shall indubitably attract a ball.


Well, my dear, you know well that the balls most to be dreaded are not from the enemy.


But for such an expedition we surely ought to have brought our muskets.


You are stupid, friend Porthos. Why should we load ourselves with a useless burden?


I don’t find a good musket, twelve cartridges, and a powder flask very useless in the face of an enemy.


have you not heard what D’Artagnan said?


What did he say?


D’Artagnan said that in the attack of last night eight or ten Frenchmen were killed, and as many Rochellais.


What then?


The bodies were not plundered, were they? It appears the conquerors had something else to do.


Well?


Well, we shall find their muskets, their cartridges, and their flasks; and instead of four musketoons and twelve balls, we shall have fifteen guns and a hundred charges to fire.


truly you are a great man.


Where are we going? we shall leave our skins there.


Gentlemen, while Grimaud spreads the table, let us begin by collecting the guns and cartridges together. We can talk while performing that necessary task. These gentlemen, cannot hear us.


But we could throw them into the ditch, after having assured ourselves they have nothing in their pockets.


Yes, that’s Grimaud’s business.


pray let Grimaud search them and throw them over the walls.


Heaven forfend! they may serve us.


These bodies serve us? You are mad, dear friend.


Judge not rashly, say the gospel and the cardinal.


How many guns, gentlemen? Twelve,


How many shots?


A hundred.


That’s quite as many as we shall want. Let us load the guns. And now to table,


as there is no longer any fear of being overheard, I hope you are going to let me into your secret.


I hope at the same time to procure you amusement and glory, gentlemen. I have induced you to take a charming promenade; here is a delicious breakfast; and yonder are five hundred persons, as you may see through the loopholes, taking us for heroes or madmen—two classes of imbeciles greatly resembling each other.


The secret!


The secret is, that I saw Milady last night.


You saw your wi—


Hush! You forget, my dear, you forget that these gentlemen are not initiated into my family affairs like yourself. I have seen Milady.


Where?


Within two leagues of this place, at the inn of the Red Dovecot.


In that case I am lost,


Not so bad yet, for by this time she must have quit the shores of France.


But after all, who is Milady?


A charming woman! Villainous host! he has given us Anjou wine instead of champagne, and fancies we know no better! Yes, a charming woman, who entertained kind views toward our friend D’Artagnan, who, on his part, has given her some offense for which she tried to revenge herself a month ago by having him killed by two musket shots, a week ago by trying to poison him, and yesterday by demanding his head of the cardinal.


What! by demanding my head of the cardinal?


Yes, that is true as the Gospel. I heard her with my own ears.


I also,


Then, it is useless to struggle longer. I may as well blow my brains out, and all will be over.


That’s the last folly to be committed, seeing it is the only one for which there is no remedy.


But I can never escape, with such enemies. First, my stranger of Meung; then De Wardes, to whom I have given three sword wounds; next Milady, whose secret I have discovered; finally, the cardinal, whose vengeance I have balked.


Well, that only makes four; and we are four—one for one. Pardieu! if we may believe the signs Grimaud is making, we are about to have to do with a very different number of people. What is it, Grimaud? Considering the gravity of the occasion, I permit you to speak, my friend; but be laconic, I beg. What do you see?


A troop.


Of how many persons?


Twenty men.


What sort of men?


Sixteen pioneers, four soldiers.


How far distant?


Five hundred paces.


Good! We have just time to finish this fowl and to drink one glass of wine to your health, D’Artagnan.


To your health!


Well, then, to my health! although I am very much afraid that your good wishes will not be of great service to me.


Bah! God is great, as say the followers of Mohammed, and the future is in his hands. Pardieu! it was hardly worth while to distribute ourselves for twenty fellows armed with pickaxes, mattocks, and shovels. Grimaud had only to make them a sign to go away, and I am convinced they would have left us in peace.


I doubt that, for they are advancing very resolutely. Besides, in addition to the pioneers, there are four soldiers and a brigadier, armed with muskets.


That’s because they don’t see us,


My faith. I must confess I feel a great repugnance to fire on these poor devils of civilians.


He is a bad priest, who has pity for heretics.


In truth. Aramis is right. I will warn them.


What the devil are you going to do? you will be shot.


Gentlemen, a few friends and myself are about to breakfast in this bastion. Now, you know nothing is more disagreeable than being disturbed when one is at breakfast. We request you, then, if you really have business here, to wait till we have finished our repast, or to come again a short time hence; unless, which would be far better, you form the salutary resolution to quit the side of the rebels, and come and drink with us to the health of the King of France.


Take care, Athos! don’t you see they are aiming?


Yes, yes, but they are only civilians—very bad marksmen, who will be sure not to hit me. Grimaud, another musket! Now, gentlemen, a sortie! Reload the muskets, Grimaud, and we, gentlemen, will go on with our breakfast, and resume our conversation. Where were we?


I recollect you were saying, that after having demanded my head of the cardinal, Milady had quit the shores of France. Whither goes she?


She goes into England,


With what view?


With the view of assassinating, or causing to be assassinated, the Duke of Buckingham.


But this is infamous!


As to that. I beg you to believe that I care very little about it. Now you have done, Grimaud, take our brigadier’s half-pike, tie a napkin to it, and plant it on top of our bastion, that these rebels of Rochellais may see that they have to deal with brave and loyal soldiers of the king.


How? you care little if she kills Buckingham or causes him to be killed? But the duke is our friend.


The duke is English; the duke fights against us. Let her do what she likes with the duke; I care no more about him than an empty bottle.


A moment. I will not abandon Buckingham thus. He gave us some very fine horses.


And moreover, very handsome saddles,


Besides. God desires the conversion and not the death of a sinner.


Amen! and we will return to that subject later, if such be your pleasure; but what for the moment engaged my attention most earnestly, and I am sure you will understand me, D’Artagnan, was the getting from this woman a kind of carte blanche which she had extorted from the cardinal, and by means of which she could with impunity get rid of you and perhaps of us.


But this creature must be a demon!


And this carte blanche, this carte blanche, does it remain in her hands?


No, it passed into mine; I will not say without trouble, for if I did I should tell a lie.


My dear Athos, I shall no longer count the number of times I am indebted to you for my life.


Then it was to go to her that you left us?


Exactly.


And you have that letter of the cardinal?


Here it is,


It is by my order and for the good of the state that the bearer of this has done what he has done.


In fact, it is an absolution according to rule.


That paper must be torn to pieces,


On the contrary, it must be preserved carefully. I would not give up this paper if covered with as many gold pieces.


And what will she do now?


Why, she is probably going to write to the cardinal that a damned Musketeer, named Athos, has taken her safe-conduct from her by force; she will advise him in the same letter to get rid of his two friends, Aramis and Porthos, at the same time. The cardinal will remember that these are the same men who have often crossed his path; and then some fine morning he will arrest D’Artagnan, and for fear he should feel lonely, he will send us to keep him company in the Bastille.


Go to! It appears to me you make dull jokes, my dear,


I do not jest,


Do you know, that to twist that damned Milady’s neck would be a smaller sin than to twist those of these poor devils of Huguenots, who have committed no other crime than singing in French the psalms we sing in Latin?


What says the abbé?


I say I am entirely of Porthos’s opinion,


And I, too,


Fortunately, she is far off, for I confess she would worry me if she were here.


She worries me in England as well as in France,


She worries me everywhere,


But when you held her in your power, why did you not drown her, strangle her, hang her? It is only the dead who do not return.


You think so, Porthos?


I have an idea,


What is it?


To arms!


Shall we return to the camp? I don’t think the sides are equal.


Impossible, for three reasons. The first, that we have not finished breakfast; the second, that we still have some very important things to say; and the third, that it yet wants ten minutes before the lapse of the hour.


Well, then, we must form a plan of battle.


That’s very simple. As soon as the enemy are within musket shot, we must fire upon them. If they continue to advance, we must fire again. We must fire as long as we have loaded guns. If those who remain of the troop persist in coming to the assault, we will allow the besiegers to get as far as the ditch, and then we will push down upon their heads that strip of wall which keeps its perpendicular by a miracle.


Bravo! Decidedly, Athos, you were born to be a general, and the cardinal, who fancies himself a great soldier, is nothing beside you.


Gentlemen, no divided attention, I beg; let each one pick out his man.


I cover mine,


And I mine,


And I idem,


Fire, then,


Now, my friends, finish them at a blow. To the wall; to the wall! Can we have destroyed them all, from the first to the last?


My faith, it appears so!


No, there go three or four, limping away.


Gentlemen, we have been here an hour, and our wager is won; but we will be fair players. Besides, D’Artagnan has not told us his idea yet.


My idea?


Yes; you said you had an idea,


Oh, I remember. Well, I will go to England a second time; I will go and find Buckingham.


You shall not do that, D’Artagnan,


And why not? Have I not been there once?


Yes; but at that period we were not at war. At that period Buckingham was an ally, and not an enemy. What you would now do amounts to treason.


But. I think I have an idea, in my turn.


Silence for Monsieur Porthos’s idea!


I will ask leave of absence of Monsieur de Tréville, on some pretext or other which you must invent; I am not very clever at pretexts. Milady does not know me; I will get access to her without her suspecting me, and when I catch my beauty, I will strangle her.


Well. I am not far from approving the idea of Monsieur Porthos.


For shame! Kill a woman? No, listen to me; I have the true idea.


Let us see your idea, Aramis,


We must inform the queen.


Ah, my faith, yes! we are coming nearer to it now.


Inform the queen! and how? Have we relations with the court? Could we send anyone to Paris without its being known in the camp? From here to Paris it is a hundred and forty leagues; before our letter was at Angers we should be in a dungeon.


As to remitting a letter with safety to her Majesty. I will take that upon myself. I know a clever person at Tours—


Well, do you not adopt this means, Athos?