cry, ‘Fie! Friends are shadows! The world is a sepulcher!'”
“Alas, you will find it so yourself,” said Aramis, with a sigh.
“Well, then, let us say no more about it,” said d’Artagnan; “and let us burn this letter, which, no doubt, announces to you some fresh infidelity of your GRISETTE or your chambermaid.”
“What letter?” cried Aramis, eagerly.
“A letter which was sent to your abode in your absence, and which was given to me for you.”
“But from whom is that letter?”
“Oh, from some heartbroken waiting woman, some desponding GRISETTE; from Madame de Chevreuse’s chambermaid, perhaps, who was obliged to return to Tours with her mistress, and who, in order to appear smart and attractive, stole some perfumed paper, and sealed her letter with a duchess’s coronet.”
“What do you say?”
“Hold! I must have lost it,” said the young man maliciously, pretending to search for it. “But fortunately the world is a sepulcher; the men, and consequently the women, are but shadows, and love is a sentiment to which you cry, ‘Fie! Fie!'”
“d’Artagnan, d’Artagnan,” cried Aramis, “you are killing me!”
“Well, here it is at last!” said d’Artagnan, as he drew the letter from his pocket.
Aramis made a bound, seized the letter, read it, or rather devoured it, his countenance radiant.
“This same waiting maid seems to have an agreeable style,” said the messenger, carelessly.
“Thanks, d’Artagnan, thanks!” cried Aramis, almost in a state of delirium. “She was forced to return to Tours; she is not faithless; she still loves me! Come, my friend, come, let me embrace you. Happiness almost stifles me!”
The two friends began to dance around the venerable St. Chrysostom, kicking about famously the sheets of the thesis, which had fallen on the floor.
At that moment Bazin entered with the spinach and the omelet.
“Be off, you wretch!” cried Aramis, throwing his skullcap in his face. “Return whence you came; take back those horrible vegetables, and that poor kickshaw! Order a larded hare, a fat capon, mutton leg dressed with garlic, and four bottles of old Burgundy.”
Bazin, who looked at his master, without comprehending the cause of this change, in a melancholy manner, allowed the omelet to slip into the spinach, and the spinach onto the floor.
“Now this is the moment to consecrate your existence to the King of kings,” said d’Artagnan, “if you persist in offering him a civility. NON INUTILE DESIDERIUM OBLATIONE.”
“Go to the devil with your Latin. Let us drink, my dear d’Artagnan, MORBLEU! Let us drink while the wine is fresh! Let us drink heartily, and while we do so, tell me a little of what is going on in the world yonder.”
27 THE WIFE OF ATHOS
“We have now to search for Athos,” said d’Artagnan to the vivacious Aramis, when he had informed him of all that had passed since their departure from the capital, and an excellent dinner had made one of them forget his thesis and the other his fatigue.
“Do you think, then, that any harm can have happened to him?” asked Aramis. “Athos is so cool, so brave, and handles his sword so skillfully.”
“No doubt. Nobody has a higher opinion of the courage and skill of Athos than I have; but I like better to hear my sword clang against lances than against staves. I fear lest Athos should have been beaten down by serving men. Those fellows strike hard, and don’t leave off in a hurry. This is why I wish to set out again as soon as possible.”
“I will try to accompany you,” said Aramis, “though I scarcely feel in a condition to mount on horseback. Yesterday I undertook to employ that cord which you see hanging against the wall, but pain prevented my continuing the pious exercise.”
“That’s the first time I ever heard of anybody trying to cure gunshot wounds with cat-o’-nine-tails; but you were ill, and illness renders the head weak, therefore you may be excused.”
“When do you mean to set out?”
“Tomorrow at daybreak. Sleep as soundly as you can tonight, and tomorrow, if you can, we will take our departure together.”
“Till tomorrow, then,” said Aramis; “for iron-nerved as you are, you must need repose.”
The next morning, when d’Artagnan entered Aramis’s chamber, he found him at the window.
“What are you looking at?” asked d’Artagnan.
“My faith! I am admiring three magnificent horses which the stable boys are leading about. It would be a pleasure worthy of a prince to travel upon such horses.”
“Well, my dear Aramis, you may enjoy that pleasure, for one of those three horses is yours.”
“Ah, bah! Which?”
“Whichever of the three you like, I have no preference.”
“And the rich caparison, is that mine, too?”
“Without doubt.”
“You laugh, d’Artagnan.”
“No, I have left off laughing, now that you speak French.”
“What, those rich holsters, that velvet housing, that saddle studded with silver-are they all for me?”
“For you and nobody else, as the horse which paws the ground is mine, and the other horse, which is caracoling, belongs to Athos.”
“PESTE! They are three superb animals!”
“I am glad they please you.”
“Why, it must have been the king who made you such a present.”
“Certainly it was not the cardinal; but don’t trouble yourself whence they come, think only that one of the three is your property.”
“I choose that which the red-headed boy is leading.”
“It is yours!”
“Good heaven! That is enough to drive away all my pains; I could mount him with thirty balls in my body. On my soul, handsome stirrups! HOLA, Bazin, come here this minute.”
Bazin appeared on the threshold, dull and spiritless.
“That last order is useless,” interrupted d’Artagnan; “there are loaded pistols in your holsters.”
Bazin sighed.
“Come, Monsieur Bazin, make yourself easy,” said d’Artagnan; “people of all conditions gain the kingdom of heaven.”
“Monsieur was already such a good theologian,” said Bazin, almost weeping; “he might have become a bishop, and perhaps a cardinal.”
“Well, but my poor Bazin, reflect a little. Of what use is it to be a churchman, pray? You do not avoid going to war by that means; you see, the cardinal is about to make the next campaign, helm on head and partisan in hand. And Monsieur de Nogaret de la Valette, what do you say of him? He is a cardinal likewise. Ask his lackey how often he has had to prepare lint of him.”
“Alas!” sighed Bazin. “I know it, monsieur; everything is turned topsy-turvy in the world nowadays.”
While this dialogue was going on, the two young men and the poor lackey descended.
“Hold my stirrup, Bazin,” cried Aramis; and Aramis sprang into the saddle with his usual grace and agility, but after a few vaults and curvets of the noble animal his rider felt his pains come on so insupportably that he turned pale and became unsteady in his seat. D’Artagnan, who, foreseeing such an event, had kept his eye on him, sprang toward him, caught him in his arms, and assisted him to his chamber.
“That’s all right, my dear Aramis, take care of yourself,” said he; “I will go alone in search of Athos.”
“You are a man of brass,” replied Aramis.
“No, I have good luck, that is all. But how do you mean to pass your time till I come back? No more theses, no more glosses upon the fingers or upon benedictions, hey?”
Aramis smiled. “I will make verses,” said he.
“Yes, I dare say; verses perfumed with the odor of the billet from the attendant of Madame de Chevreuse. Teach Bazin prosody; that will console him. As to the horse, ride him a little every day, and that will accustom you to his maneuvers.”
“Oh, make yourself easy on that head,” replied Aramis. “You will find me ready to follow you.”
They took leave of each other, and in ten minutes, after having commended his friend to the cares of the hostess and Bazin, d’Artagnan was trotting along in the direction of Amiens.
How was he going to find Athos? Should he find him at all? The position in which he had left him was critical. He probably had succumbed. This idea, while darkening his brow, drew several sighs from him, and caused him to formulate to himself a few vows of vengeance. Of all his friends, Athos was the eldest, and the least resembling him in appearance, in his tastes and sympathies.
Yet he entertained a marked preference for this gentleman. The noble and distinguished air of Athos, those flashes of greatness which from time to time broke out from the shade in which he voluntarily kept himself, that unalterable equality of temper which made him the most pleasant companion in the world, that forced and cynical gaiety, that bravery which might have been termed blind if it had not been the result of the rarest coolness–such qualities attracted more than the esteem, more than the friendship of d’Artagnan; they attracted his admiration.
Indeed, when placed beside M. de Treville, the elegant and noble courtier, Athos in his most cheerful days might advantageously sustain a comparison. He was of middle height; but his person was so admirably shaped and so well proportioned that more than once in his struggles with Porthos he had overcome the giant whose physical strength was proverbial among the Musketeers. His head, with piercing eyes, a straight nose, a chin cut like that of Brutus, had altogether an indefinable character of grandeur and grace. His hands, of which he took little care, were the despair of Aramis, who cultivated his with almond paste and perfumed oil. The sound of his voice was at once penetrating and melodious; and then, that which was inconceivable in Athos, who was always retiring, was that delicate knowledge of the world and of the usages of the most brilliant society–those manners of a high degree which appeared, as if unconsciously to himself, in his least actions.
If a repast were on foot, Athos presided over it better than any other, placing every guest exactly in the rank which his ancestors had earned for him or that he had made for himself. If a question in heraldry were started, Athos knew all the noble families of the kingdom, their genealogy, their alliances, their coats of arms, and the origin of them. Etiquette had no minutiae unknown to him. He knew what were the rights of the great land owners. He was profoundly versed in hunting and falconry, and had one day when conversing on this great art astonished even Louis XIII himself, who took a pride in being considered a past master therein.
Like all the great nobles of that period, Athos rode and fenced to perfection. But still further, his education had been so little neglected, even with respect to scholastic studies, so rare at this time among gentlemen, that he smiled at the scraps of Latin which Aramis sported and which Porthos pretended to understand. Two or three times, even, to the great astonishment of his friends, he had, when Aramis allowed some rudimental error to escape him, replaced a verb in its right tense and a noun in its case. Besides, his probity was irreproachable, in an age in which soldiers compromised so easily with their religion and their consciences, lovers with the rigorous delicacy of our era, and the poor with God’s Seventh Commandment. This Athos, then, was a very extraordinary man.
And yet this nature so distinguished, this creature so beautiful, this essence so fine, was seen to turn insensibly toward material life, as old men turn toward physical and moral imbecility. Athos, in his hours of gloom–and these hours were frequent–was extinguished as to the whole of the luminous portion of him, and his brilliant side disappeared as into profound darkness.
Then the demigod vanished; he remained scarcely a man. His head hanging down, his eye dull, his speech slow and painful, Athos would look for hours together at his bottle, his glass, or at Grimaud, who, accustomed to obey him by signs, read in the faint glance of his master his least desire, and satisfied it immediately. If the four friends were assembled at one of these moments, a word, thrown forth occasionally with a violent effort, was the share Athos furnished to the conversation. In exchange for his silence Athos drank enough for four, and without appearing to be otherwise affected by wine than by a more marked constriction of the brow and by a deeper sadness.
D’Artagnan, whose inquiring disposition we are acquainted with, had not–whatever interest he had in satisfying his curiosity on this subject–been able to assign any cause for these fits of for the periods of their recurrence. Athos never received any letters; Athos never had concerns which all his friends did not know.
It could not be said that it was wine which produced this sadness; for in truth he only drank to combat this sadness, which wine however, as we have said, rendered still darker. This excess of bilious humor could not be attributed to play; for unlike Porthos, who accompanied the variations of chance with songs or oaths, Athos when he won remained as unmoved as when he lost. He had been known, in the circle of the Musketeers, to win in one night three thousand pistoles; to lose them even to the gold-embroidered belt for gala days, win all this again with the addition of a hundred louis, without his beautiful eyebrow being heightened or lowered half a line, without his hands losing their pearly hue, without his conversation, which was cheerful that evening, ceasing to be calm and agreeable.
Neither was it, as with our neighbors, the English, an atmospheric influence which darkened his countenance; for the sadness generally became more intense toward the fine season of the year. June and July were the terrible months with Athos.
For the present he had no anxiety. He shrugged his shoulders when people spoke of the future. His secret, then, was in the past, as had often been vaguely said to d’Artagnan.
This mysterious shade, spread over his whole person, rendered still more interesting the man whose eyes or mouth, even in the most complete intoxication, had never revealed anything, however skillfully questions had been put to him.
“Well,” thought d’Artagnan, “poor Athos is perhaps at this moment dead, and dead by my fault–for it was I who dragged him into this affair, of which he did not know the origin, of which he is ignorant of the result, and from which he can derive no advantage.”
“Without reckoning, monsieur,” added Planchet to his master’s audibly expressed reflections, “that we perhaps owe our lives to him. Do you remember how he cried, ‘On, d’Artagnan, on, I am taken’? And when he had discharged his two pistols, what a terrible noise he made with his sword! One might have said that twenty men, or rather twenty mad devils, were fighting.”
These words redoubled the eagerness of d’Artagnan, who urged his horse, though he stood in need of no incitement, and they proceeded at a rapid pace. About eleven o’clock in the morning they perceived Ameins, and at half past eleven they were at the door of the cursed inn.
D’Artagnan had often meditated against the perfidious host one of those hearty vengeances which offer consolation while they are hoped for. He entered the hostelry with his hat pulled over his eyes, his left hand on the pommel of the sword, and cracking his whip with his right hand.
“Do you remember me?” said he to the host, who advanced to greet him.
“I have not that honor, monseigneur,” replied the latter, his eyes dazzled by the brilliant style in which d’Artagnan traveled.
“What, you don’t know me?”
“No, monseigneur.”
“Well, two words will refresh your memory. What have you done with that gentleman against whom you had the audacity, about twelve days ago, to make an accusation of passing false money?”
The host became as pale as death; for d’Artagnan had assumed a threatening attitude, and Planchet modeled himself after his master.
“Ah, monseigneur, do not mention it!” cried the host, in the most pitiable voice imaginable. “Ah, monseigneur, how dearly have I paid for that fault, unhappy wretch as I am!”
“That gentleman, I say, what has become of him?”
“Deign to listen to me, monseigneur, and be merciful! Sit down, in mercy!”
D’Artagnan, mute with anger and anxiety, took a seat in the threatening attitude of a judge. Planchet glared fiercely over the back of his armchair.
“Here is the story, monseigneur,” resumed the trembling host; “for I now recollect you. It was you who rode off at the moment I had that unfortunate difference with the gentleman you speak of.”
“Yes, it was I; so you may plainly perceive that you have no mercy to expect if you do not tell me the whole truth.”
“Condescend to listen to me, and you shall know all.”
“I listen.”
“I had been warned by the authorities that a celebrated coiner of bad money would arrive at my inn, with several of his companions, all disguised as Guards or Musketeers. Monseigneur, I was furnished with a description of your horses, your lackeys, your countenances–nothing was omitted.”
“Go on, go on!” said d’Artagnan, who quickly understood whence such an exact description had come.
“I took then, in conformity with the orders of the authorities, who sent me a reinforcement of six men, such measures as I thought necessary to get possession of the persons of the pretended coiners.”
“Again!” said d’Artagnan, whose ears chafed terribly under the repetition of this word COINERs.
“Pardon me, monseigneur, for saying such things, but they form my excuse. The authorities had terrified me, and you know that an innkeeper must keep on good terms with the authorities.”
“But once again, that gentleman–where is he? What has become of him? Is he dead? Is he living?”
“Patience, monseigneur, we are coming to it. There happened then that which you know, and of which your precipitate departure,” added the host, with an acuteness that did not escape d’Artagnan, “appeared to authorize the issue. That gentleman, your friend, defended himself desperately. His lackey, who, by an unforeseen piece of ill luck, had quarreled with the officers, disguised as stable lads–“
“Miserable scoundrel!” cried d’Artagnan, “you were all in the plot, then! And I really don’t know what prevents me from exterminating you all.”
“Alas, monseigneur, we were not in the plot, as you will soon see. Monsieur your friend (pardon for not calling him by the honorable name which no doubt he bears, but we do not know that name), Monsieur your friend, having disabled two men with his pistols, retreated fighting with his sword, with which he disabled one of my men, and stunned me with a blow of the flat side of it.”
“You villain, will you finish?” cried d’Artagnan, “Athos–what has become of Athos?”
“While fighting and retreating, as I have told Monseigneur, he found the door of the cellar stairs behind him, and as the door was open, he took out the key, and barricaded himself inside. As we were sure of finding him there, we left him alone.”
“Yes,” said d’Artagnan, “you did not really wish to kill; you only wished to imprison him.”
“Good God! To imprison him, monseigneur? Why, he imprisoned himself, I swear to you he did. In the first place he had made rough work of it; one man was killed on the spot, and two others were severely wounded. The dead man and the two wounded were carried off by their comrades, and I have heard nothing of either of them since. As for myself, as soon as I recovered my senses I went to Monsieur the Governor, to whom I related all that had passed, and asked, what I should do with my prisoner. Monsieur the Governor was all astonishment. He told me he knew nothing about the matter, that the orders I had received did not come from him, and that if I had the audacity to mention his name as being concerned in this disturbance he would have me hanged. It appears that I had made a mistake, monsieur, that I had arrested the wrong person, and that he whom I ought to have arrested had escaped.”
“But Athos!” cried d’Artagnan, whose impatience was increased by the disregard of the authorities, “Athos, where is he?”
“As I was anxious to repair the wrongs I had done the prisoner,” resumed the innkeeper, “I took my way straight to the cellar in order to set him at liberty. Ah, monsieur, he was no longer a man, he was a devil! To my offer of liberty, he replied that it was nothing but a snare, and that before he came out he intended to impose his own conditions. I told him very humbly–for I could not conceal from myself the scrape I had got into by laying hands on one of his Majesty’s Musketeers–I told him I was quite ready to submit to his conditions.
“‘In the first place,’ said he, ‘I wish my lackey placed with me, fully armed.’ We hastened to obey this order; for you will please to understand, monsieur, we were disposed to do everything your friend could desire. Monsieur Grimaud (he told us his name, although he does not talk much)–Monsieur Grimaud, then, went down to the cellar, wounded as he was; then his master, having admitted him, barricaded the door afresh, and ordered us to remain quietly in our own bar.”
“But where is Athos now?” cried d’Artagnan. “Where is Athos?”
“In the cellar, monsieur.”
“What, you scoundrel! Have you kept him in the cellar all this time?”
“Merciful heaven! No, monsieur! We keep him in the cellar! You do not know what he is about in the cellar. Ah! If you could but persuade him to come out, monsieur, I should owe you the gratitude of my whole life; I should adore you as my patron saint!”
“Then he is there? I shall find him there?”
“Without doubt you will, monsieur; he persists in remaining there. We every day pass through the air hole some bread at the end of a fork, and some meat when he asks for it; but alas! It is not of bread and meat of which he makes the greatest consumption. I once endeavored to go down with two of my servants; but he flew into terrible rage. I heard the noise he made in loading his pistols, and his servant in loading his musketoon. Then, when we asked them what were their intentions, the master replied that he had forty charges to fire, and that he and his lackey would fire to the last one before he would allow a single soul of us to set foot in the cellar. Upon this I went and complained to the governor, who replied that I only had what I deserved, and that it would teach me to insult honorable gentlemen who took up their abode in my house.”
“So that since that time–” replied d’Artagnan, totally unable to refrain from laughing at the pitiable face of the host.
“So from that time, monsieur,” continued the latter, “we have led the most miserable life imaginable; for you must know, monsieur, that all our provisions are in the cellar. There is our wine in bottles, and our wine in casks; the beer, the oil, and the spices, the bacon, and sausages. And as we are prevented from going down there, we are forced to refuse food and drink to the travelers who come to the house; so that our hostelry is daily going to ruin. If your friend remains another week in my cellar I shall be a ruined man.”
“And not more than justice, either, you ass! Could you not perceive by our appearance that we were people of quality, and not coiners–say?”
“Yes, monsieur, you are right,” said the host. “But, hark, hark! There he is!”
“Somebody has disturbed him, without doubt,” said d’Artagnan.
“But he must be disturbed,” cried the host; “Here are two English gentlemen just arrived.”
“Well?”
“Well, the English like good wine, as you may know, monsieur; these have asked for the best. My wife has perhaps requested permission of Monsieur Athos to go into the cellar to satisfy these gentlemen; and he, as usual, has refused. Ah, good heaven! There is the hullabaloo louder than ever!”
D’Artagnan, in fact, heard a great noise on the side next the cellar. He rose, and preceded by the host wringing his hands, and followed by Planchet with his musketoon ready for use, he approached the scene of action.
The two gentlemen were exasperated; they had had a long ride, and were dying with hunger and thirst.
“But this is tyranny!” cried one of them, in very good French, though with a foreign accent, “that this madman will not allow these good people access to their own wine! Nonsense, let us break open the door, and if he is too far gone in his madness, well, we will kill him!”
“Softly, gentlemen!” said d’Artagnan, drawing his pistols from his belt, “you will kill nobody, if you please!”
“Good, good!” cried the calm voice of Athos, from the other side of the door, “let them just come in, these devourers of little children, and we shall see!”
Brave as they appeared to be, the two English gentlemen looked at each other hesitatingly. One might have thought there was in that cellar one of those famished ogres–the gigantic heroes of popular legends, into whose cavern nobody could force their way with impunity.
There was a moment of silence; but at length the two Englishmen felt ashamed to draw back, and the angrier one descended the five or six steps which led to the cellar, and gave a kick against the door enough to split a wall.
“Planchet,” said d’Artagnan, cocking his pistols, “I will take charge of the one at the top; you look to the one below. Ah, gentlemen, you want battle; and you shall have it.”
“Good God!” cried the hollow voice of Athos, “I can hear d’Artagnan, I think.”
“Yes,” cried d’Artagnan, raising his voice in turn, “I am here, my friend.”
“Ah, good, then,” replied Athos, “we will teach them, these door breakers!”
The gentlemen had drawn their swords, but they found themselves taken between two fires. They still hesitated an instant; but, as before, pride prevailed, and a second kick split the door from bottom to top.
“Stand on one side, d’Artagnan, stand on one side,” cried Athos. “I am going to fire!”
“Gentlemen,” exclaimed d’Artagnan, whom reflection never abandoned, “gentlemen, think of what you are about. Patience, Athos! You are running your heads into a very silly affair; you will be riddled. My lackey and I will have three shots at you, and you will get as many from the cellar. You will then have our swords, with which, I can assure you, my friend and I can play tolerably well. Let me conduct your business and my own. You shall soon have something to drink; I give you my word.”
“If there is any left,” grumbled the jeering voice of Athos.
The host felt a cold sweat creep down his back.
“How! ‘If there is any left!'” murmured he.
“What the devil! There must be plenty left,” replied d’Artagnan. “Be satisfied of that; these two cannot have drunk all the cellar. Gentlemen, return your swords to their scabbards.”
“Well, provided you replace your pistols in your belt.”
“Willingly.”
And d’Artagnan set the example. Then, turning toward Planchet, he made him a sign to uncock his musketoon.
The Englishmen, convinced of these peaceful proceedings, sheathed their swords grumblingly. The history of Athos’s imprisonment was then related to them; and as they were really gentlemen, they pronounced the host in the wrong.
“Now, gentlemen,” said d’Artagnan, “go up to your room again; and in ten minutes, I will answer for it, you shall have all you desire.”
The Englishmen bowed and went upstairs.
“Now I am alone, my dear Athos,” said d’Artagnan; “open the door, I beg of you.”
“Instantly,” said Athos.
Then was heard a great noise of fagots being removed and of the groaning of posts; these were the counterscarps and bastions of Athos, which the besieged himself demolished.
An instant after, the broken door was removed, and the pale face of Athos appeared, who with a rapid glance took a survey of the surroundings.
D’Artagnan threw himself on his neck and embraced him tenderly. He then tried to draw him from his moist abode, but to his surprise he perceived that Athos staggered.
“You are wounded,” said he.
“I! Not at all. I am dead drunk, that’s all, and never did a man more strongly set about getting so. By the Lord, my good host! I must at least have drunk for my part a hundred and fifty bottles.”
“Mercy!” cried the host, “if the lackey has drunk only half as much as the master, I am a ruined man.”
“Grimaud is a well-bred lackey. He would never think of faring in the same manner as his master; he only drank from the cask. Hark! I don’t think he put the faucet in again. Do you hear it? It is running now.”
D’Artagnan burst into a laugh which changed the shiver of the host into a burning fever.
In the meantime, Grimaud appeared in his turn behind his master, with the musketoon on his shoulder, and his head shaking. Like one of those drunken satyrs in the pictures of Rubens. He was moistened before and behind with a greasy liquid which the host recognized as his best olive oil.
The four crossed the public room and proceeded to take possession of the best apartment in the house, which d’Artagnan occupied with authority.
In the meantime the host and his wife hurried down with lamps into the cellar, which had so long been interdicted to them and where a frightful spectacle awaited them.
Beyond the fortifications through which Athos had made a breach in order to get out, and which were composed of fagots, planks, and empty casks, heaped up according to all the rules of the strategic art, they found, swimming in puddles of oil and wine, the bones and fragments of all the hams they had eaten; while a heap of broken bottles filled the whole left-hand corner of the cellar, and a tun, the cock of which was left running, was yielding, by this means, the last drop of its blood. “The image of devastation and death,” as the ancient poet says, “reigned as over a field of battle.”
Of fifty large sausages, suspended from the joists, scarcely ten remained.
Then the lamentations of the host and hostess pierced the vault of the cellar. D’Artagnan himself was moved by them. Athos did not even turn his head.
To grief succeeded rage. The host armed himself with a spit, and rushed into the chamber occupied by the two friends.
“Some wine!” said Athos, on perceiving the host.
“Some wine!” cried the stupefied host, “some wine? Why you have drunk more than a hundred pistoles’ worth! I am a ruined man, lost, destroyed!”
“Bah,” said Athos, “we were always dry.”
“If you had been contented with drinking, well and good; but you have broken all the bottles.”
“You pushed me upon a heap which rolled down. That was your fault.”
“All my oil is lost!”
“Oil is a sovereign balm for wounds; and my poor Grimaud here was obliged to dress those you had inflicted on him.”
“All my sausages are gnawed!”
“There is an enormous quantity of rats in that cellar.”
“You shall pay me for all this,” cried the exasperated host.
“Triple ass!” said Athos, rising; but he sank down again immediately. He had tried his strength to the utmost. d’Artagnan came to his relief with his whip in his hand.
The host drew back and burst into tears.
“This will teach you,” said d’Artagnan, “to treat the guests God sends you in a more courteous fashion.”
“God? Say the devil!”
“My dear friend,” said d’Artagnan, “if you annoy us in this manner we will all four go and shut ourselves up in your cellar, and we will see if the mischief is as great as you say.”
“Oh, gentlemen,” said the host, “I have been wrong. I confess it, but pardon to every sin! You are gentlemen, and I am a poor innkeeper. You will have pity on me.”
“Ah, if you speak in that way,” said Athos, “you will break my heart, and the tears will flow from my eyes as the wine flowed from the cask. We are not such devils as we appear to be. Come hither, and let us talk.”
The host approached with hesitation.
“Come hither, I say, and don’t be afraid,” continued Athos. “At the very moment when I was about to pay you, I had placed my purse on the table.”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“That purse contained sixty pistoles; where is it?”
“Deposited with the justice; they said it was bad money.”
“Very well; get me my purse back and keep the sixty pistoles.”
“But Monseigneur knows very well that justice never lets go that which it once lays hold of. If it were bad money, there might be some hopes; but unfortunately, those were all good pieces.”
“Manage the matter as well as you can, my good man; it does not concern me, the more so as I have not a livre left.”
“Come,” said d’Artagnan, “let us inquire further. Athos’s horse, where is that?”
“In the stable.”
“How much is it worth?”
“Fifty pistoles at most.”
“It’s worth eighty. Take it, and there ends the matter.”
“What,” cried Athos, “are you selling my horse–my Bajazet? And pray upon what shall I make my campaign; upon Grimaud?”
“I have brought you another,” said d’Artagnan.
“Another?”
“And a magnificent one!” cried the host.
“Well, since there is another finer and younger, why, you may take the old one; and let us drink.”
“What?” asked the host, quite cheerful again.
“Some of that at the bottom, near the laths. There are twenty- five bottles of it left; all the rest were broken by my fall. Bring six of them.”
“Why, this man is a cask!” said the host, aside. “If he only remains here a fortnight, and pays for what he drinks, I shall soon re-establish my business.”
“And don’t forget,” said d’Artagnan, “to bring up four bottles of the same sort for the two English gentlemen.”
“And now,” said Athos, “while they bring the wine, tell me, d’Artagnan, what has become of the others, come!”
D’Artagnan related how he had found Porthos in bed with a strained knee, and Aramis at a table between two theologians. As he finished, the host entered with the wine ordered and a ham which, fortunately for him, had been left out of the cellar.
“That’s well!” said Athos, filling his glass and that of his friend; “here’s to Porthos and Aramis! But you, d’Artagnan, what is the matter with you, and what has happened to you personally? You have a sad air.”
“Alas,” said d’Artagnan, “it is because I am the most unfortunate.”
“Tell me.”
“Presently,” said d’Artagnan.
“Presently! And why presently? Because you think I am drunk? d’Artagnan, remember this! My ideas are never so clear as when I have had plenty of wine. Speak, then, I am all ears.”
D’Artagnan related his adventure with Mme. Bonacieux. Athos listened to him without a frown; and when he had finished, said, “Trifles, only trifles!” That was his favorite word.
“You always say TRIFLES, my dear Athos!” said d’Artagnan, “and that come very ill from you, who have never loved.”
The drink-deadened eye of Athos flashed out, but only for a moment; it became as dull and vacant as before.
“That’s true,” said he, quietly, “for my part I have never loved.”
“Acknowledge, then, you stony heart,” said d’Artagnan, “that you are wrong to be so hard upon us tender hearts.”
“Tender hearts! Pierced hearts!” said Athos.
“What do you say?”
“I say that love is a lottery in which he who wins, wins death! You are very fortunate to have lost, believe me, my dear d’Artagnan. And if I have any counsel to give, it is, always lose!”
“She seemed to love me so!”
“She SEEMED, did she?”
“Oh, she DID love me!”
“You child, why, there is not a man who has not believed, as you do, that his mistress loved him, and there lives not a man who has not been deceived by his mistress.”
“Except you, Athos, who never had one.”
“That’s true,” said Athos, after a moment’s silence, “that’s true! I never had one! Let us drink!”
“But then, philosopher that you are,” said d’Artagnan, “instruct me, support me. I stand in need of being taught and consoled.”
“Consoled for what?”
“For my misfortune.”
“Your misfortune is laughable,” said Athos, shrugging his shoulders; “I should like to know what you would say if I were to relate to you a real tale of love!”
“Which has happened to you?”
“Or one of my friends, what matters?”
“Tell it, Athos, tell it.”
“Better if I drink.”
“Drink and relate, then.”
“Not a bad idea!” said Athos, emptying and refilling his glass. “The two things agree marvelously well.”
“I am all attention,” said d’Artagnan.
Athos collected himself, and in proportion as he did so, d’Artagnan saw that he became pale. He was at that period of intoxication in which vulgar drinkers fall on the floor and go to sleep. He kept himself upright and dreamed, without sleeping. This somnambulism of drunkenness had something frightful in it.
“You particularly wish it?” asked he.
“I pray for it,” said d’Artagnan.
“Be it then as you desire. One of my friends–one of my friends, please to observe, not myself,” said Athos, interrupting himself with a melancholy smile, “one of the counts of my province–that is to say, of Berry–noble as a Dandolo or a Montmorency, at twenty-five years of age fell in love with a girl of sixteen, beautiful as fancy can paint. Through the ingenuousness of her age beamed an ardent mind, not of the woman, but of the poet. She did not please; she intoxicated. She lived in a small town with her brother, who was a curate. Both had recently come into the country. They came nobody knew whence; but when seeing her so lovely and her brother so pious, nobody thought of asking whence they came. They were said, however, to be of good extraction. My friend, who was seigneur of the country, might have seduced her, or taken her by force, at his will–for he was master. Who would have come to the assistance of two strangers, two unknown persons? Unfortunately he was an honorable man; he married her. The fool! The ass! The idiot!”
“How so, if he love her?” asked d’Artagnan.
“Wait,” said Athos. “He took her to his chateau, and made her the first lady in the province; and in justice it must be allowed that she supported her rank becomingly.”
“Well?” asked d’Artagnan.
“Well, one day when she was hunting with her husband,” continued Athos, in a low voice, and speaking very quickly,” she fell from her horse and fainted. The count flew to her to help, and as she appeared to be oppressed by her clothes, he ripped them open with his ponaird, and in so doing laid bare her shoulder. d’Artagnan,” said Athos, with a maniacal burst of laughter, “guess what she had on her shoulder.”
“How can I tell?” said d’Artagnan.
“A FLEUR-DE-LIS,” said Athos. “She was branded.”
Athos emptied at a single draught the glass he held in his hand.
“Horror!” cried d’Artagnan. “What do you tell me?”
“Truth, my friend. The angel was a demon; the poor young girl had stolen the sacred vessels from a church.”
“And what did the count do?”
“The count was of the highest nobility. He had on his estates the rights of high and low tribunals. He tore the dress of the countess to pieces; he tied her hands behind her, and hanged her on a tree.”
“Heavens, Athos, a murder?” cried d’Artagnan.
“No less,” said Athos, as pale as a corpse. “But methinks I need wine!” and he seized by the neck the last bottle that was left, put it to his mouth, and emptied it at a single draught, as he would have emptied an ordinary glass.
Then he let his head sink upon his two hands, while d’Artagnan stood before him, stupefied.
“That has cured me of beautiful, poetical, and loving women,” said Athos, after a considerable pause, raising his head, and forgetting to continue the fiction of the count. “God grant you as much! Let us drink.”
“Then she is dead?” stammered d’Artagnan.
“PARBLEU!” said Athos. “But hold out your glass. Some ham, my boy, or we can’t drink.”
“And her brother?” added d’Artagnan, timidly.
“Her brother?” replied Athos.
“Yes, the priest.”
“Oh, I inquired after him for the purpose of hanging him likewise; but he was beforehand with me, he had quit the curacy the night before.”
“Was it ever known who this miserable fellow was?”
“He was doubtless the first lover and accomplice of the fair lady. A worthy man, who had pretended to be a curate for the purpose of getting his mistress married, and securing her a position. He has been hanged and quartered, I hope.”
“My God, my God!” cried d’Artagnan, quite stunned by the relation of this horrible adventure.
“Taste some of this ham, d’Artagnan; it is exquisite,” said Athos, cutting a slice, which he placed on the young man’s plate.
“What a pity it is there were only four like this in the cellar. I could have drunk fifty bottles more.”
D’Artagnan could no longer endure this conversation, which had made him bewildered. Allowing his head to sink upon his two hands, he pretended to sleep.
“These young fellows can none of them drink,” said Athos, looking at him with pity, “and yet this is one of the best!”
28 THE RETURN
D’Artagnan was astounded by the terrible confidence of Athos; yet many things appeared very obscure to him in this half revelation. In the first place it had been made by a man quite drunk to one who was half drunk; and yet, in spite of the incertainty which the vapor of three or four bottles of Burgundy carries with it to the brain, d’Artagnan, when awaking on the following morning, had all the words of Athos as present to his memory as if they then fell from his mouth–they had been so impressed upon his mind. All this doubt only gave rise to a more lively desire of arriving at a certainty, and he went into his friend’s chamber with a fixed determination of renewing the conversation of the preceding evening; but he found Athos quite himself again–that is to say, the most shrewd and impenetrable of men. Besides which, the Musketeer, after having exchanged a hearty shake of the hand with him, broached the matter first.
“I was pretty drunk yesterday, d’Artagnan,” said he, “I can tell that by my tongue, which was swollen and hot this morning, and by my pulse, which was very tremulous. I wager that I uttered a thousand extravagances.”
While saying this he looked at his friend with an earnestness that embarrassed him.
“No,” replied d’Artagnan, “if I recollect well what you said, it was nothing out of the common way.”
“Ah, you surprise me. I thought I had told you a most lamentable story.” And he looked at the young man as if he would read the bottom of his heart.
“My faith,” said d’Artagnan, “it appears that I was more drunk than you, since I remember nothing of the kind.”
Athos did not trust this reply, and he resumed; “you cannot have failed to remark, my dear friend, that everyone has his particular kind of drunkenness, sad or gay. My drunkenness is always sad, and when I am thoroughly drunk my mania is to relate all the lugubrious stories which my foolish nurse inculcated into my brain. That is my failing–a capital failing, I admit; but with that exception, I am a good drinker.”
Athos spoke this in so natural a manner that d’Artagnan was shaken in his conviction.
“It is that, then,” replied the young man, anxious to find out the truth, “it is that, then, I remember as we remember a dream. We were speaking of hanging.”
“Ah, you see how it is,” said Athos, becoming still paler, but yet attempting to laugh; “I was sure it was so–the hanging of people is my nightmare.”
“Yes, yes,” replied d’Artagnan. “I remember now; yes, it was about–stop a minute–yes, it was about a woman.”
“That’s it,” replied Athos, becoming almost livid; “that is my grand story of the fair lady, and when I relate that, I must be very drunk.”
“Yes, that was it,” said d’Artagnan, “the story of a tall, fair lady, with blue eyes.”
“Yes, who was hanged.”
“By her husband, who was a nobleman of your acquaintance,” continued d’Artagnan, looking intently at Athos.
“Well, you see how a man may compromise himself when he does not know what he says,” replied Athos, shrugging his shoulders as if he thought himself an object of pity. “I certainly never will get drunk again, d’Artagnan; it is too bad a habit.”
D’Artagnan remained silent; and then changing the conversation all at once, Athos said:
“By the by, I thank you for the horse you have brought me.”
“Is it to your mind?” asked d’Artagnan.
“Yes; but it is not a horse for hard work.”
“You are mistaken; I rode him nearly ten leagues in less than an hour and a half, and he appeared no more distressed than if he had only made the tour of the Place St. Sulpice.”
“Ah, you begin to awaken my regret.”
“Regret?”
“Yes; I have parted with him.”
“How?”
“Why, here is the simple fact. This morning I awoke at six o’clock. You were still fast asleep, and I did not know what to do with myself; I was still stupid from our yesterday’s debauch. As I came into the public room, I saw one of our Englishman bargaining with a dealer for a horse, his own having died yesterday from bleeding. I drew near, and found he was bidding a hundred pistoles for a chestnut nag. ‘PARDIEU,’ said I, ‘my good gentleman, I have a horse to sell, too.’ ‘Ay, and a very fine one! I saw him yesterday; your friend’s lackey was leading him.’ ‘Do you think he is worth a hundred pistoles?’ ‘Yes! Will you sell him to me for that sum?’ ‘No; but I will play for him.’ ‘What?’ ‘At dice.’ No sooner said than done, and I lost the horse. Ah, ah! But please to observe I won back the equipage,” cried Athos.
D’Artagnan looked much disconcerted.
“This vexes you?” said Athos.
“Well, I must confess it does,” replied d’Artagnan. “That horse was to have identified us in the day of battle. It was a pledge, a remembrance. Athos, you have done wrong.”
“But, my dear friend, put yourself in my place,” replied the Musketeer. “I was hipped to death; and still further, upon my honor, I don’t like English horses. If it is only to be recognized, why the saddle will suffice for that; it is quite remarkable enough. As to the horse, we can easily find some excuse for its disappearance. Why the devil! A horse is mortal; suppose mine had had the glanders or the farcy?”
D’Artagnan did not smile.
“It vexes me greatly,” continued Athos, “that you attach so much importance to these animals, for I am not yet at the end of my story.”
“What else have you done.”
“After having lost my own horse, nine against ten–see how near– I formed an idea of staking yours.”
“Yes; but you stopped at the idea, I hope?”
“No; for I put it in execution that very minute.”
“And the consequence?” said d’Artagnan, in great anxiety.
“I threw, and I lost.”
“What, my horse?”
“Your horse, seven against eight; a point short–you know the proverb.”
“Athos, you are not in your right senses, I swear.”
“My dear lad, that was yesterday, when I was telling you silly stories, it was proper to tell me that, and not this morning. I lost him then, with all his appointments and furniture.”
“Really, this is frightful.”
“Stop a minute; you don’t know all yet. I should make an excellent gambler if I were not too hot-headed; but I was hot- headed, just as if I had been drinking. Well, I was not hot- headed then–“
“Well, but what else could you play for? You had nothing left?”
‘Oh, yes, my friend; there was still that diamond left which sparkles on your finger, and which I had observed yesterday.”
“This diamond!” said d’Artagnan, placing his hand eagerly on his ring.
“And as I am a connoisseur in such things, having had a few of my own once, I estimated it at a thousand pistoles.”
“I hope,” said d’Artagnan, half dead with fright, “you made no mention of my diamond?”
“On the contrary, my dear friend, this diamond became our only resource; with it I might regain our horses and their harnesses, and even money to pay our expenses on the road.”
“Athos, you make me tremble!” cried d’Artagnan.
“I mentioned your diamond then to my adversary, who had likewise remarked it. What the devil, my dear, do you think you can wear a star from heaven on your finger, and nobody observe it? Impossible!”
“Go on, go on, my dear fellow!” said d’Artagnan; “for upon my honor, you will kill me with your indifference.”
“We divided, then, this diamond into ten parts of a hundred pistoles each.”
“You are laughing at me, and want to try me!” said d’Artagnan, whom anger began to take by the hair, as Minerva takes Achilles, in the ILLIAD.
“No, I do not jest, MORDIEU! I should like to have seen you in my place! I had been fifteen days without seeing a human face, and had been left to brutalize myself in the company of bottles.”
“That was no reason for staking my diamond!” replied d’Artagnan, closing his hand with a nervous spasm.
“Hear the end. Ten parts of a hundred pistoles each, in ten throws, without revenge; in thirteen throws I had lost all–in thirteen throws. The number thirteen was always fatal to me; it was on the thirteenth of July that–“
“VENTREBLEU!” cried d’Artagnan, rising from the table, the story of the present day making him forget that of the preceding one.
“Patience!” said Athos; “I had a plan. The Englishman was an original; I had seen him conversing that morning with Grimaud, and Grimaud had told me that he had made him proposals to enter into his service. I staked Grimaud, the silent Grimaud, divided into ten portions.”
“Well, what next?” said d’Artagnan, laughing in spite of himself.
“Grimaud himself, understand; and with the ten parts of Grimaud, which are not worth a ducatoon, I regained the diamond. Tell me, now, if persistence is not a virtue?”
“My faith! But this is droll,” cried d’Artagnan, consoled, and holding his sides with laughter.
“You may guess, finding the luck turned, that I again staked the diamond.”
“The devil!” said d’Artagnan, becoming angry again.
“I won back your harness, then your horse, then my harness, then my horse, and then I lost again. In brief, I regained your harness and then mine. That’s where we are. That was a superb throw, so I left off there.”
D’Artagnan breathed as if the whole hostelry had been removed from his breast.
“Then the diamond is safe?” said he, timidly.
“Intact, my dear friend; besides the harness of your Bucephalus and mine.”
“But what is the use of harnesses without horses?”
“I have an idea about them.”
“Athos, you make me shudder.”
“Listen to me. You have not played for a long time, d’Artagnan.”
“And I have no inclination to play.”
“Swear to nothing. You have not played for a long time, I said; you ought, then, to have a good hand.”
“Well, what then?”
“Well; the Englishman and his companion are still here. I remarked that he regretted the horse furniture very much. You appear to think much of your horse. In your place I would stake the furniture against the horse.”
“But he will not wish for only one harness.”
“Stake both, PARDIEU! I am not selfish, as you are.”
“You would do so?” said d’Artagnan, undecided, so strongly did the confidence of Athos begin to prevail, in spite of himself.
“On my honor, in one single throw.”
“But having lost the horses, I am particularly anxious to preserve the harnesses.”
“Stake your diamond, then.”
“This? That’s another matter. Never, never!”
“The devil!” said Athos. “I would propose to you to stake Planchet, but as that has already been done, the Englishman would not, perhaps, be willing.”
“Decidedly, my dear Athos,” said d’Artagnan, “I should like better not to risk anything.”
“That’s a pity,” said Athos, coolly. “The Englishman is overflowing with pistoles. Good Lord, try one throw! One throw is soon made!”
“And if I lose?”
“You will win.”
“But if I lose?”
“Well, you will surrender the harnesses.”
“Have with you for one throw!” said d’Artagnan.
Athos went in quest of the Englishman, whom he found in the stable, examining the harnesses with a greedy eye. The opportunity was good. He proposed the conditions–the two harnesses, either against one horse or a hundred pistoles. The Englishman calculated fast; the two harnesses were worth three hundred pistoles. He consented.
D’Artagnan threw the dice with a trembling hand, and turned up the number three; his paleness terrified Athos, who, however, consented himself with saying, “That’s a sad throw, comrade; you will have the horses fully equipped, monsieur.”
The Englishman, quite triumphant, did not even give himself the trouble to shake the dice. He threw them on the table without looking at them, so sure was he of victory; d’Artagnan turned aside to conceal his ill humor.
“Hold, hold, hold!” said Athos, wit his quiet tone; “that throw of the dice is extraordinary. I have not seen such a one four times in my life. Two aces!”
The Englishman looked, and was seized with astonishment. d’Artagnan looked, and was seized with pleasure.
“Yes,” continued Athos, “four times only; once at the house of Monsieur Crequy; another time at my own house in the country, in my chateau at–when I had a chateau; a third time at Monsieur de Treville’s where it surprised us all; and the fourth time at a cabaret, where it fell to my lot, and where I lost a hundred louis and a supper on it.”
“Then Monsieur takes his horse back again,” said the Englishman.
“Certainly,” said d’Artagnan.
“Then there is no revenge?”
“Our conditions said, ‘No revenge,’ you will please to recollect.”
“That is true; the horse shall be restored to your lackey, monsieur.”
“A moment,” said Athos; “with your permission, monsieur, I wish to speak a word with my friend.”
“Say on.”
Athos drew d’Artagnan aside.
“Well, Tempter, what more do you want with me?” said d’Artagnan. “You want me to throw again, do you not?”
“No, I would wish you to reflect.”
“On what?”
“You mean to take your horse?”
“Without doubt.”
“You are wrong, then. I would take the hundred pistoles. You know you have staked the harnesses against the horse or a hundred pistoles, at your choice.”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, I repeat, you are wrong. What is the use of one horse for us two? I could not ride behind. We should look like the two sons of Anmon, who had lost their brother. You cannot think of humiliating me by prancing along by my side on that magnificent charger. For my part, I should not hesitate a moment; I should take the hundred pistoles. We want money for our return to Paris.”
“I am much attached to that horse, Athos.”
“And there again you are wrong. A horse slips and injures a joint; a horse stumbles and breaks his knees to the bone; a horse eats out of a manger in which a glandered horse has eaten. There is a horse, while on the contrary, the hundred pistoles feed their master.”
“But how shall we get back?”
“Upon our lackey’s horses, PARDIEU. Anybody may see by our bearing that we are people of condition.”
“Pretty figures we shall cut on ponies while Aramis and Porthos caracole on their steeds.”
“Aramis! Porthos!” cried Athos, and laughed aloud.
“What is it?” asked d’Artagnan, who did not at all comprehend the hilarity of his friend.
“Nothing, nothing! Go on!”
“Your advice, then?”
“To take the hundred pistoles, d’Artagnan. With the hundred pistoles we can live well to the end of the month. We have undergone a great deal of fatigue, remember, and a little rest will do no harm.”
“I rest? Oh, no, Athos. Once in Paris, I shall prosecute my search for that unfortunate woman!”
“Well, you may be assured that your horse will not be half so serviceable to you for that purpose as good golden louis. Take the hundred pistoles, my friend; take the hundred pistoles!”
D’Artagnan only required one reason to be satisfied. This last reason appeared convincing. Besides, he feared that by resisting longer he should appear selfish in the eyes of Athos. He acquiesced, therefore, and chose the hundred pistoles, which the Englishman paid down on the spot.
They then determined to depart. Peace with the landlord, in addition to Athos’s old horse, cost six pistoles. D’Artagnan and Athos took the nags of Planchet and Grimaud, and the two lackeys started on foot, carrying the saddles on their heads.
However ill our two friends were mounted, they were soon far in advance of their servants, and arrived at Creveccoeur. From a distance they perceived Aramis, seated in a melancholy manner at his window, looking out, like Sister Anne, at the dust in the horizon.
“HOLA, Aramis! What the devil are you doing there?” cried the two friends.
“Ah, is that you, d’Artagnan, and you, Athos?” said the young man. “I was reflecting upon the rapidity with which the blessings of this world leave us. My English horse, which has just disappeared amid a cloud of dust, has furnished me with a living image of the fragility of the things of the earth. Life itself may be resolved into three words: ERAT, EST, FUIT.”
“Which means–” said d’Artagnan, who began to suspect the truth.
“Which means that I have just been duped-sixty louis for a horse which by the manner of his gait can do at least five leagues an hour.”
D’Artagnan and Athos laughed aloud.
“My dear d’Artagnan,” said Aramis, “don’t be too angry with me, I beg. Necessity has no law; besides, I am the person punished, as that rascally horsedealer has robbed me of fifty louis, at least. Ah, you fellows are good managers! You ride on our lackey’s horses, and have your own gallant steeds led along carefully by hand, at short stages.”
At the same instant a market cart, which some minutes before had appeared upon the Amiens road, pulled up at the inn, and Planchet and Grimaud came out of it with the saddles on their heads. The cart was returning empty to Paris, and the two lackeys had agreed, for their transport, to slake the wagoner’s thirst along the route.
“What is this?” said Aramis, on seeing them arrive. “Nothing but saddles?”
“Now do you understand?” said Athos.
“My friends, that’s exactly like me! I retained my harness by instinct. HOLA, Bazin! Bring my new saddle and carry it along with those of these gentlemen.”
“And what have you done with your ecclesiastics?” asked d’Artagnan.
“My dear fellow, I invited them to a dinner the next day,” replied Aramis. “They have some capital wine here–please to observe that in passing. I did my best to make them drunk. Then the curate forbade me to quit my uniform, and the Jesuit entreated me to get him made a Musketeer.”
“Without a thesis?” cried d’Artagnan, “without a thesis? I demand the suppression of the thesis.”
“Since then,” continued Aramis, “I have lived very agreeably. I have begun a poem in verses of one syllable. That is rather difficult, but the merit in all things consists in the difficulty. The matter is gallant. I will read you the first canto. It has four hundred lines, and lasts a minute.”
“My faith, my dear Aramis,” said d’Artagnan, who detested verses almost as much as he did Latin, “add to the merit of the difficulty that of the brevity, and you are sure that your poem will at least have two merits.”
“You will see,” continued Aramis, “that it breathes irreproachable passion. And so, my friends, we return to Paris? Bravo! I am ready. We are going to rejoin that good fellow, Porthos. So much the better. You can’t think how I have missed him, the great simpleton. To see him so self-satisfied reconciles me with myself. He would not sell his horse; not for a kingdom! I think I can see him now, mounted upon his superb animal and seated in his handsome saddle. I am sure he will look like the Great Mogul!”
They made a halt for an hour to refresh their horses. Aramis discharged his bill, placed Bazin in the cart with his comrades, and they set forward to join Porthos.
They found him up, less pale than when d’Artagnan left him after his first visit, and seated at a table on which, though he was alone, was spread enough for four persons. This dinner consisted of meats nicely dressed, choice wines, and superb fruit.
“Ah, PARDIEU!” said he, rising, “you come in the nick of time, gentlemen. I was just beginning the soup, and you will dine with me.”
“Oh, oh!” said d’Artagnan, “Mousqueton has not caught these bottles with his lasso. Besides, here is a piquant FRICANDEAU and a fillet of beef.”
“I am recruiting myself,” said Porthos, “I am recruiting myself. Nothing weakens a man more than these devilish strains. Did you ever suffer from a strain, Athos?”
“Never! Though I remember, in our affair of the Rue Ferou, I received a sword wound which at the end of fifteen or eighteen days produced the same effect.”
“But this dinner was not intended for you alone, Porthos?” said Aramis.
“No,” said Porthos, “I expected some gentlemen of the neighborhood, who have just sent me word they could not come. You will take their places and I shall not lose by the exchange. HOLA, Mousqueton, seats, and order double the bottles!”
“Do you know what we are eating here?” said Athos, at the end of ten minutes.
“PARDIEU!” replied d’Artagnan, “for my part, I am eating veal garnished with shrimps and vegetables.”
“And I some lamb chops,” said Porthos.
“And I a plain chicken,” said Aramis.
“You are all mistaken, gentlemen,” answered Athos, gravely; “you are eating horse.”
“Eating what?” said d’Artagnan.
“Horse!” said Aramis, with a grimace of disgust.
Porthos alone made no reply.
“Yes, horse. Are we not eating a horse, Porthos? And perhaps his saddle, therewith.”
“No, gentlemen, I have kept the harness,” said Porthos.
“My faith,” said Aramis, “we are all alike. One would think we had tipped the wink.”
“What could I do?” said Porthos. “This horse made my visitors ashamed of theirs, and I don’t like to humiliate people.”
“Then your duchess is still at the waters?” asked d’Artagnan.
“Still,” replied Porthos. “And, my faith, the governor of the province–one of the gentlemen I expected today–seemed to have such a wish for him, that I gave him to him.”
“Gave him?” cried d’Artagnan.
“My God, yes, GAVE, that is the word,” said Porthos; “for the animal was worth at least a hundred and fifty louis, and the stingy fellow would only give me eighty.”
“Without the saddle?” said Aramis.
“Yes, without the saddle.”
“You will observe, gentlemen,” said Athos, “that Porthos has made the best bargain of any of us.”
And then commenced a roar of laughter in which they all joined, to the astonishment of poor Porthos; but when he was informed of the cause of their hilarity, he shared it vociferously according to his custom.
“There is one comfort, we are all in cash,” said d’Artagnan.
“Well, for my part,” said Athos, “I found Aramis’s Spanish wine so good that I sent on a hamper of sixty bottles of it in the wagon with the lackeys. That has weakened my purse.”
“And I,” said Aramis, “imagined that I had given almost my last sou to the church of Montdidier and the Jesuits of Amiens, with whom I had made engagements which I ought to have kept. I have ordered Masses for myself, and for you, gentlemen, which will be said, gentlemen, for which I have not the least doubt you will be marvelously benefited.”
“And I,” said Porthos, “do you think my strain cost me nothing?– without reckoning Mousqueton’s wound, for which I had to have the surgeon twice a day, and who charged me double on account of that foolish Mousqueton having allowed himself a ball in a part which people generally only show to an apothecary; so I advised him to try never to get wounded there any more.”
“Ay, ay!” said Athos, exchanging a smile with d’Artagnan and Aramis, “it is very clear you acted nobly with regard to the poor lad; that is like a good master.”
“In short,” said Porthos, “when all my expenses are paid, I shall have, at most, thirty crowns left.”
“And I about ten pistoles,” said Aramis.
“Well, then it appears that we are the Croesuses of the society. How much have you left of your hundred pistoles, d’Artagnan?”
“Of my hundred pistoles? Why, in the first place I gave you fifty.”
“You think so?”
“PARDIEU!”
“Ah, that is true. I recollect.”
“Then I paid the host six.”
“What a brute of a host! Why did you give him six pistoles?”
“You told me to give them to him.”
“It is true; I am too good-natured. In brief, how much remains?”
“Twenty-five pistoles,” said d’Artagnan.
“And I,” said Athos, taking some small change from his pocket, I–“
“You? Nothing!”
“My faith! So little that it is not worth reckoning with the general stock.”
“Now, then, let us calculate how much we posses in all.”
“Porthos?”
“Thirty crowns.”
“Aramis?”
“Ten pistoles.”
“And you, d’Artagnan?”
“Twenty-five.”
“That makes in all?” said Athos.
“Four hundred and seventy-five livres,” said d’Artagnan, who reckoned like Archimedes.
“On our arrival in Paris, we shall still have four hundred, besides the harnesses,” said Porthos.
“But our troop horses?” said Aramis.
“Well, of the four horses of our lackeys we will make two for the masters, for which we will draw lots. With the four hundred livres we will make the half of one for one of the unmounted, and then we will give the turnings out of our pockets to d’Artagnan, who has a steady hand, and will go and play in the first gaming house we come to. There!”
“Let us dine, then,” said Porthos; “it is getting cold.”
The friends, at ease with regard to the future, did honor to the repast, the remains of which were abandoned to Mousqueton, Bazin, Planchet, and Grimaud.
On arriving in Paris, d’Artagnan found a letter from M. de Treville, which informed him that, at his request, the king had promised that he should enter the company of the Musketeers.
As this was the height of d’Artagnan’s worldly ambition–apart, be it well understood, from his desire of finding Mme. Bonacieux–he ran, full of joy, to seek his comrades, whom he had left only half an hour before, but whom he found very sad and deeply preoccupied. They were assembled in council at the residence of Athos, which always indicated an event of some gravity. M. de Treville had intimated to them his Majesty’s fixed intention to open the campaign on the first of May, and they must immediately prepare their outfits.
The four philosophers looked at one another in a state of bewilderment. M. de Treville never jested in matters relating to discipline.
“And what do you reckon your outfit will cost?” said d’Artagnan.
“Oh, we can scarcely say. We have made our calculations with Spartan economy, and we each require fifteen hundred livres.”
“Four times fifteen makes sixty–six thousand livres,” said Athos.
“It seems to me,” said d’Artagnan, “with a thousand livres each– I do not speak as a Spartan, but as a procurator–“
This word PROCURATOR roused Porthos. “Stop,” said he, “I have an idea.”
“Well, that’s something, for I have not the shadow of one,” said Athos coolly; “but as to d’Artagnan, gentlemen, the idea of belonging to OURS has driven him out of his senses. A thousand livres! For my part, I declare I want two thousand.”
“Four times two makes eight,” then said Aramis; “it is eight thousand that we want to complete our outfits, toward which, it is true, we have already the saddles.”
“Besides,” said Athos, waiting till d’Artagnan, who went to thank Monsieur de Treville, had shut the door, “besides, there is that beautiful ring which beams from the finger of our friend. What the devil! D’Artagnan is too good a comrade to leave his brothers in embarrassment while he wears the ransom of a king on his finger.”
29 HUNTING FOR THE EQUIPMENTS
The most preoccupied of the four friends was certainly d’Artagnan, although he, in his quality of Guardsman, would be much more easily equipped than Messieurs the Musketeers, who were all of high rank; but our Gascon cadet was, as may have been observed, of a provident and almost avaricious character, and with that (explain the contradiction) so vain as almost to rival Porthos. To this preoccupation of his vanity, d’Artagnan at this moment joined an uneasiness much less selfish. Notwithstanding all his inquiries respecting Mme. Bonacieux, he could obtain no intelligence of her. M. de Treville had spoken of her to the queen. The queen was ignorant where the mercer’s young wife was, but had promised to have her sought for; but this promise was very vague and did not at all reassure d’Artagnan.
Athos did not leave his chamber; he made up his mind not to take a single step to equip himself.
“We have still fifteen days before us,” said he to his friends. “well, if at the end of a fortnight I have found nothing, or rather if nothing has come to find me, as I, too good a Catholic to kill myself with a pistol bullet, I will seek a good quarrel with four of his Eminence’s Guards or with eight Englishmen, and I will fight until one of them has killed me, which, considering the number, cannot fail to happen. It will then be said of me that I died for the king; so that I shall have performed my duty without the expense of an outfit.”
Porthos continued to walk about with his hands behind him, tossing his head and repeating, “I shall follow up on my idea.”
Aramis, anxious and negligently dressed, said nothing.
It may be seen by these disastrous details that desolation reigned in the community.
The lackeys on their part, like the coursers of Hippolytus, shared the sadness of their masters. Mousqueton collected a store of crusts; Bazin, who had always been inclined to devotion, never quit the churches; Planchet watched the flight of flies; and Grimaud, whom the general distress could not induce to break the silence imposed by his master, heaved sighs enough to soften the stones.
The three friends–for, as we have said, Athos had sworn not to stir a foot to equip himself–went out early in the morning, and returned late at night. They wandered about the streets, looking at the pavement as if to see whether the passengers had not left a purse behind them. They might have been supposed to be following tracks, so observant were they wherever they went. When they met they looked desolately at one another, as much as to say, “Have you found anything?”
However, as Porthos had first found an idea, and had thought of it earnestly afterward, he was the first to act. He was a man of execution, this worthy Porthos. D’Artagnan perceived him one day walking toward the church of St. Leu, and followed him instinctively. He entered, after having twisted his mustache and elongated his imperial, which always announced on his part the most triumphant resolutions. As d’Artagnan took some precautions to conceal himself, Porthos believed he had not been seen. d’Artagnan entered behind him. Porthos went and leaned against the side of a pillar. D’Artagnan, still unperceived, supported himself against the other side.
There happened to be a sermon, which made the church very full of people. Porthos took advantage of this circumstance to ogle the women. Thanks to the cares of Mousqueton, the exterior was far from announcing the distress of the interior. His hat was a little napless, his feather was a little faded, his gold lace was a little tarnished, his laces were a trifle frayed; but in the obscurity of the church these things were not seen, and Porthos was still the handsome Porthos.
D’Artagnan observed, on the bench nearest to the pillar against which Porthos leaned, a sort of ripe beauty, rather yellow and rather dry, but erect and haughty under her black hood. The eyes of Porthos were furtively cast upon this lady, and then roved about at large over the nave.
On her side the lady, who from time to time blushed, darted with the rapidity of lightning a glance toward the inconstant Porthos; and then immediately the eyes of Porthos wandered anxiously. It was plain that this mode of proceeding piqued the lady in the black hood, for she bit her lips till they bled, scratched the end of her nose, and could not sit still in her seat.
Porthos, seeing this, retwisted his mustache, elongated his imperial a second time, and began to make signals to a beautiful lady who was near the choir, and who not only was a beautiful lady, but still further, no doubt, a great lady–for she had behind her a Negro boy who had brought the cushion on which she knelt, and a female servant who held the emblazoned bag in which was placed the book from which she read the Mass.
The lady with the black hood followed through all their wanderings the looks of Porthos, and perceived that they rested upon the lady with the velvet cushion, the little Negro, and the maid-servant.
During this time Porthos played close. It was almost imperceptible motions of his eyes, fingers placed upon the lips, little assassinating smiles, which really did assassinate the disdained beauty.
Then she cried, “Ahem!” under cover of the MEA CULPA, striking her breast so vigorously that everybody, even the lady with the red cushion, turned round toward her. Porthos paid no attention. Nevertheless, he understood it all, but was deaf.
The lady with the red cushion produced a great effect–for she was very handsome–upon the lady with he black hood, who saw in her a rival really to be dreaded; a great effect upon Porthos, who thought her much prettier than the lady with the black hood; a great effect upon d’Artagnan, who recognized in her the lady of Meung, of Calais, and of Dover, whom his persecutor, the man with the scar, had saluted by the name of Milady.
D’Artagnan, without losing sight of the lady of the red cushion, continued to watch the proceedings of Porthos, which amused him greatly. He guessed that the lady of the black hood was the procurator’s wife of the Rue aux Ours, which was the more probable from the church of St. Leu being not far from that locality.
He guessed, likewise, by induction, that Porthos was taking his revenge for the defeat of Chantilly, when the procurator’s wife had proved so refractory with respect to her purse.
Amid all this, d’Artagnan remarked also that not one countenance responded to the gallantries of Porthos. There were only chimeras and illusions; but for real love, for true jealousy, is there any reality except illusions and chimeras?
The sermon over, the procurator’s wife advanced toward the holy font. Porthos went before her, and instead of a finger, dipped his whole hand in. The procurator’s wife smiled, thinking that it was for her Porthos had put himself to this trouble; but she was cruelly and promptly undeceived. When she was only about three steps from him, he turned his head round, fixing his eyes steadfastly upon the lady with the red cushion, who had risen and was approaching, followed by her black boy and her woman.
When the lady of the red cushion came close to Porthos, Porthos drew his dripping hand from the font. The fair worshipper touched the great hand of Porthos with her delicate fingers, smiled, made the sign of the cross, and left the church.
This was too much for the procurator’s wife; she doubted not there was an intrigue between this lady and Porthos. If she had been a great lady she would have fainted; but as she was only a procurator’s wife, she contented herself saying to the Musketeer with concentrated fury, “Eh, Monsieur Porthos, you don’t offer me any holy water?”
Porthos, at the sound of that voice, started like a man awakened from a sleep of a hundred years.
“Ma-madame!” cried he; “is that you? How is your husband, our dear Monsieur Coquenard? Is he still as stingy as ever? Where can my eyes have been not to have seen you during the two hours of the sermon?”
“I was within two paces of you, monsieur,” replied the procurator’s wife; “but you did not perceive me because you had no eyes but for the pretty lady to whom you just now gave the holy water.”
Porthos pretended to be confused. “Ah,” said he, “you have remarked–“
“I must have been blind not to have seen.”
“Yes,” said Porthos, “that is a duchess of my acquaintance whom I have great trouble to meet on account of the jealousy of her husband, and who sent me word that she should come today to this poor church, buried in this vile quarter, solely for the sake of seeing me.”
“Monsieur Porthos,” said the procurator’s wife, “will you have the kindness to offer me your arm for five minutes? I have something to say to you.”
“Certainly, madame,” said Porthos, winking to himself, as a gambler does who laughs at the dupe he is about to pluck.
At that moment d’Artagnan passed in pursuit of Milady; he cast a passing glance at Porthos, and beheld this triumphant look.
“Eh, eh!” said he, reasoning to himself according to the strangely easy morality of that gallant period, “there is one who will be equipped in good time!”
Porthos, yielding to the pressure of the arm of the procurator’s wife, as a bark yields to the rudder, arrived at the cloister St. Magloire–a little-frequented passage, enclosed with a turnstile at each end. In the daytime nobody was seen there but mendicants devouring their crusts, and children at play.
“Ah, Monsieur Porthos,” cried the procurator’s wife, when she was assured that no one who was a stranger to the population of the locality could either see or hear her, “ah, Monsieur Porthos, you are a great conqueror, as it appears!”
“I, madame?” said Porthos, drawing himself up proudly; “how so?”
“The signs just now, and the holy water! But that must be a princess, at least–that lady with her Negro boy and her maid!”
“My God! Madame, you are deceived,” said Porthos; “she is simply a duchess.”
“And that running footman who waited at the door, and that carriage with a coachman in grand livery who sat waiting on his seat?”
Porthos had seen neither the footman nor the carriage, but with the eye of a jealous woman, Mme. Coquenard had seen everything.
Porthos regretted that he had not at once made the lady of the red cushion a princess.
“Ah, you are quite the pet of the ladies, Monsieur Porthos!” resumed the procurator’s wife, with a sigh.
“Well,” responded Porthos, “you may imagine, with the physique with which nature has endowed me, I am not in want of good luck.”
“Good Lord, how quickly men forget!” cried the procurator’s wife, raising her eyes toward heaven.
“Less quickly than the women, it seems to me,” replied Porthos; “for I, madame, I may say I was your victim, when wounded, dying, I was abandoned by the surgeons. I, the offspring of a noble family, who placed reliance upon your friendship–I was near