
The Three Musketeers
Alexandre Dumas




Contents


Author's Preface

1.  THE THREE PRESENTS OF D'ARTAGNAN THE ELDER
2.  THE ANTECHAMBER OF M. DE TREVILLE
3.  THE AUDIENCE
4.  THE SHOULDER OF ATHOS, THE BALDRIC OF PORTHOS AND THE
    HANDKERCHIEF OF ARAMIS
5.  THE KING'S MUSKETEERS AND THE CARDINAL'S GUARDS
6.  HIS MAJESTY KING LOUIS XIII
7.  THE INTERIOR OF "THE MUSKETEERS"
8.  CONCERNING A COURT INTRIGUE
9.  D'ARTAGNAN SHOWS HIMSELF
10. A MOUSETRAP IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
11. IN WHICH THE PLOT THICKENS
12. GEORGE VILLIERS, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM
13. MONSIEUR BONACIEUX
14. THE MAN OF MEUNG
15. MEN OF THE ROBE AND MEN OF THE SWORD
16. M. SEGUIER, KEEPER OF THE SEALS, LOOKS MORE THAN ONCE FOR THE BELL,
    IN ORDER TO RING IT, AS HE DID BEFORE
17. BONACIEUX AT HOME
18. LOVER AND HUSBAND
19. PLAN OF CAMPAIGN
20. THE JOURNEY
21. THE COUNTESS DE WINTER
22. THE BALLET OF LA MERLAISON
23. THE RENDEZVOUS
24. THE PAVILION
25. PORTHOS
26. ARAMIS AND HIS THESIS
27. THE WIFE OF ATHOS
28. THE RETURN
29. HUNTING FOR THE EQUIPMENTS
30. D'ARTAGNAN AND THE ENGLISHMAN
31. ENGLISH AND FRENCH
32. A PROCURATOR'S DINNER
33. SOUBRETTE AND MISTRESS
34. IN WHICH THE EQUIPMENT OF ARAMIS AND PORTHOS IS TREATED OF
35. A GASCON A MATCH FOR CUPID
36. DREAM OF VENGEANCE
37. MILADY'S SECRET
38. HOW, WITHOUT INCOMMODING HIMSELF, ATHOS PROCURED HIS EQUIPMENT
39. A VISION
40. A TERRIBLE VISION
41. THE SEIGE OF LA ROCHELLE
42. THE ANJOU WINE
43. THE SIGN OF THE RED DOVECOT
44. THE UTILITY OF STOVEPIPES
45. A CONJUGAL SCENE
46. THE BASTION SAINT-GERVAIS
47. THE COUNCIL OF THE MUSKETEERS
48. A FAMILY AFFAIR
49. FATALITY
50. CHAT BETWEEN BROTHER AND SISTER
51. OFFICER
52. CAPTIVITY:  THE FIRST DAY
53. CAPTIVITY:  THE SECOND DAY
54. CAPTIVITY:  THE THIRD DAY
55. CAPTIVITY:  THE FOURTH DAY
56. CAPTIVITY:  THE FIFTH DAY
57. MEANS FOR CLASSICAL TRAGEDY
58. ESCAPE
59. WHAT TOOK PLACE AT PORTSMOUTH
60. IN FRANCE
61. THE CARMELITE CONVENT AT BETHUNE
62. TWO VARIETIES OF DEMONS
63. THE DROP OF WATER
64. THE MAN IN THE RED CLOAK
65. TRIAL
66. EXECUTION
67. CONCLUSION

EPILOGUE




The Three Musketeers Alexandre Dumas




AUTHOR'S PREFACE

In which it is proved that,
notwithstanding their names' ending in
OS and IS, the heroes of the story which
we are about to have the honor to relate
to our readers have nothing mythological
about them.

A short time ago, while making
researches in the Royal Library for my
History of Louis XIV, I stumbled by
chance upon the Memoirs of M.
D'Artagnan, printed--as were most of the
works of that period, in which authors
could not tell the truth without the
risk of a residence, more or less long,
in the Bastille--at Amsterdam, by Pierre
Rouge.  The title attracted me; I took
them home with me, with the permission
of the guardian, and devoured them.

It is not my intention here to enter
into an analysis of this curious work;
and I shall satisfy myself with
referring such of my readers as
appreciate the pictures of the period to
its pages. They will therein find
portraits penciled by the hand of a
master; and although these squibs may
be, for the most part, traced upon the
doors of barracks and the walls of
cabarets, they will not find the
likenesses of Louis XIII, Anne of
Austria, Richelieu, Mazarin, and the
courtiers of the period, less faithful
than in the history of M. Anquetil.

But, it is well known, what strikes the
capricious mind of the poet is not
always what affects the mass of readers.
Now, while admiring, as others doubtless
will admire, the details we have to
relate, our main preoccupation concerned
a matter to which no one before
ourselves had given a thought.

D'Artagnan relates that on his first
visit to M. de Treville, captain of the
king's Musketeers, he met in the
antechamber three young men, serving in
the illustrious corps into which he was
soliciting the honor of being received,
bearing the names of Athos, Porthos, and
Aramis.

We must confess these three strange
names struck us; and it immediately
occurred to us that they were but
pseudonyms, under which D'Artagnan had
disguised names perhaps illustrious, or
else that the bearers of these borrowed
names had themselves chosen them on the
day in which, from caprice, discontent,
or want of fortune, they had donned the
simple Musketeer's uniform.

From the moment we had no rest till we
could find some trace in contemporary
works of these extraordinary names which
had so strongly awakened our curiosity.

The catalogue alone of the books we read
with this object would fill a whole
chapter, which, although it might be
very instructive, would certainly afford
our readers but little amusement.  It
will suffice, then, to tell them that at
the moment at which, discouraged by so
many fruitless investigations, we were
about to abandon our search, we at
length found, guided by the counsels of
our illustrious friend Paulin Paris, a
manuscript in folio, endorsed 4772 or
4773, we do not recollect which, having
for title, "Memoirs of the Comte de la
Fere, Touching Some Events Which Passed
in France Toward the End of the Reign of
King Louis XIII and the Commencement of
the Reign of King Louis XIV."

It may be easily imagined how great was
our joy when, in turning over this
manuscript, our last hope, we found at
the twentieth page the name of Athos, at
the twenty-seventh the name of Porthos,
and at the thirty-first the name of
Aramis.

The discovery of a completely unknown
manuscript at a period in which
historical science is carried to such a
high degree appeared almost miraculous. 
We hastened, therefore, to obtain
permission to print it, with the view of
presenting ourselves someday with the
pack of others at the doors of the
Academie des Inscriptions et Belles
Lettres, if we should not succeed--a
very probable thing, by the by--in
gaining admission to the Academie
Francaise with our own proper pack. 
This permission, we feel bound to say,
was graciously granted; which compels us
here to give a public contradiction to
the slanderers who pretend that we live
under a government but moderately
indulgent to men of letters.

Now, this is the first part of this
precious manuscript which we offer to
our readers, restoring it to the title
which belongs to it, and entering into
an engagement that if (of which we have
no doubt) this first part should obtain
the success it merits, we will publish
the second immediately.

In the meanwhile, as the godfather is a
second father, we beg the reader to lay
to our account, and not to that of the
Comte de la Fere, the pleasure or the
ENNUI he may experience.

This being understood, let us proceed
with our history.



1 THE THREE PRESENTS OF D'ARTAGNAN THE
ELDER

On the first Monday of the month of
April, 1625, the market town of Meung,
in which the author of ROMANCE OF THE
ROSE was born, appeared to be in as
perfect a state of revolution as if the
Huguenots had just made a second La
Rochelle of it.  Many citizens, seeing
the women flying toward the High Street,
leaving their children crying at the
open doors, hastened to don the cuirass,
and supporting their somewhat uncertain
courage with a musket or a partisan,
directed their steps toward the hostelry
of the Jolly Miller, before which was
gathered, increasing every minute, a
compact group, vociferous and full of
curiosity.

In those times panics were common, and
few days passed without some city or
other registering in its archives an
event of this kind.  There were nobles,
who made war against each other; there
was the king, who made war against the
cardinal; there was Spain, which made
war against the king.  Then, in addition
to these concealed or public, secret or
open wars, there were robbers,
mendicants, Huguenots, wolves, and
scoundrels, who made war upon everybody.
The citizens always took up arms readily
against thieves, wolves or scoundrels,
often against nobles or Huguenots,
sometimes against the king, but never
against cardinal or Spain. It resulted,
then, from this habit that on the said
first Monday of April, 1625, the
citizens, on hearing the clamor, and
seeing neither the red-and-yellow
standard nor the livery of the Duc de
Richelieu, rushed toward the hostel of
the Jolly Miller.  When arrived there,
the cause of the hubbub was apparent to
all.

A young man--we can sketch his portrait
at a dash.  Imagine to yourself a Don
Quixote of eighteen; a Don Quixote
without his corselet, without his coat
of mail, without his cuisses; a Don
Quixote clothed in a wooden doublet, the
blue color of which had faded into a
nameless shade between lees of wine and
a heavenly azure; face long and brown;
high cheek bones, a sign of sagacity;
the maxillary muscles enormously
developed, an infallible sign by which a
Gascon may always be detected, even
without his cap--and our young man wore
a cap set off with a sort of feather;
the eye open and intelligent; the nose
hooked, but finely chiseled.  Too big
for a youth, too small for a grown man,
an experienced eye might have taken him
for a farmer's son upon a journey had it
not been for the long sword which,
dangling from a leather baldric, hit
against the calves of its owner as he
walked, and against the rough side of
his steed when he was on horseback.

For our young man had a steed which was
the observed of all observers.  It was a
Bearn pony, from twelve to fourteen
years old, yellow in his hide, without a
hair in his tail, but not without
windgalls on his legs, which, though
going with his head lower than his
knees, rendering a martingale quite
unnecessary, contrived nevertheless to
perform his eight leagues a day.
Unfortunately, the qualities of this
horse were so well concealed under his
strange-colored hide and his
unaccountable gait, that at a time when
everybody was a connoisseur in
horseflesh, the appearance of the
aforesaid pony at Meung--which place he
had entered about a quarter of an hour
before, by the gate of
Beaugency--produced an unfavorable
feeling, which extended to his rider.

And this feeling had been more painfully
perceived by young D'Artagnan--for so
was the Don Quixote of this second
Rosinante named--from his not being able
to conceal from himself the ridiculous
appearance that such a steed gave him,
good horseman as he was.  He had sighed
deeply, therefore, when accepting the
gift of the pony from M. D'Artagnan the
elder.  He was not ignorant that such a
beast was worth at least twenty livres;
and the words which had accompanied the
present were above all price.

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

Upon which M. D'Artagnan the elder
girded his own sword round his son,
kissed him tenderly on both cheeks, and
gave him his benediction.

On leaving the paternal chamber, the
young man found his mother, who was
waiting for him with the famous recipe
of which the counsels we have just
repeated would necessitate frequent
employment.  The adieux were on this
side longer and more tender than they
had been on the other--not that M.
D'Artagnan did not love his son, who was
his only offspring, but M. D'Artagnan
was a man, and he would have considered
it unworthy of a man to give way to his
feelings; whereas Mme. D'Artagnan was a
woman, and still more, a mother.  She
wept abundantly; and--let us speak it to
the praise of M. D'Artagnan the
younger--notwithstanding the efforts he
made to remain firm, as a future
Musketeer ought, nature prevailed, and
he shed many tears, of which he
succeeded with great difficulty in
concealing the half.

The same day the young man set forward
on his journey, furnished with the three
paternal gifts, which consisted, as we
have said, of fifteen crowns, the horse,
and the letter for M. de Treville-- the
counsels being thrown into the bargain.

With such a VADE MECUM D'Artagnan was
morally and physically an exact copy of
the hero of Cervantes, to whom we so
happily compared him when our duty of an
historian placed us under the necessity
of sketching his portrait.  Don Quixote
took windmills for giants, and sheep for
armies; D'Artagnan took every smile for
an insult, and every look as a
provocation--whence it resulted that
from Tarbes to Meung his fist was
constantly doubled, or his hand on the
hilt of his sword; and yet the fist did
not descend upon any jaw, nor did the
sword issue from its scabbard.  It was
not that the sight of the wretched pony
did not excite numerous smiles on the
countenances of passers-by; but as
against the side of this pony rattled a
sword of respectable length, and as over
this sword gleamed an eye rather
ferocious than haughty, these passers-by
repressed their hilarity, or if hilarity
prevailed over prudence, they endeavored
to laugh only on one side, like the
masks of the ancients.  D'Artagnan,
then, remained majestic and intact in
his susceptibility, till he came to this
unlucky city of Meung.

But there, as he was alighting from his
horse at the gate of the Jolly Miller,
without anyone--host, waiter, or
hostler--coming to hold his stirrup or
take his horse, D'Artagnan spied, though
an open window on the ground floor, a
gentleman, well-made and of good
carriage, although of rather a stern
countenance, talking with two persons
who appeared to listen to him with
respect. D'Artagnan fancied quite
naturally, according to his custom, that
he must be the object of their
conversation, and listened.  This time
D'Artagnan was only in part mistaken; he
himself was not in question, but his
horse was. The gentleman appeared to be
enumerating all his qualities to his
auditors; and, as I have said, the
auditors seeming to have great deference
for the narrator, they every moment
burst into fits of laughter.  Now, as a
half-smile was sufficient to awaken the
irascibility of the young man, the
effect produced upon him by this
vociferous mirth may be easily imagined.

Nevertheless, D'Artagnan was desirous of
examining the appearance of this
impertinent personage who ridiculed him.
He fixed his haughty eye upon the
stranger, and perceived a man of from
forty to forty-five years of age, with
black and piercing eyes, pale
complexion, a strongly marked nose, and
a black and well-shaped mustache.  He
was dressed in a doublet and hose of a
violet color, with aiguillettes of the
same color, without any other ornaments
than the customary slashes, through
which the shirt appeared.  This doublet
and hose, though new, were creased, like
traveling clothes for a long time packed
in a portmanteau. D'Artagnan made all
these remarks with the rapidity of a
most minute observer, and doubtless from
an instinctive feeling that this
stranger was destined to have a great
influence over his future life.

Now, as at the moment in which
D'Artagnan fixed his eyes upon the
gentleman in the violet doublet, the
gentleman made one of his most knowing
and profound remarks respecting the
Bearnese pony, his two auditors laughed
even louder than before, and he himself,
though contrary to his custom, allowed a
pale smile (if I may allowed to use such
an expression) to stray over his
countenance. This time there could be no
doubt; D'Artagnan was really insulted. 
Full, then, of this conviction, he
pulled his cap down over his eyes, and
endeavoring to copy some of the court
airs he had picked up in Gascony among
young traveling nobles, he advanced with
one hand on the hilt of his sword and
the other resting on his hip. 
Unfortunately, as he advanced, his anger
increased at every step; and instead of
the proper and lofty speech he had
prepared as a prelude to his challenge,
he found nothing at the tip of his
tongue but a gross personality, which he
accompanied with a furious gesture.

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

The gentleman raised his eyes slowly
from the nag to his cavalier, as if he
required some time to ascertain whether
it could be to him that such strange
reproaches were addressed; then, when he
could not possibly entertain any doubt
of the matter, his eyebrows slightly
bent, and with an accent of irony and
insolence impossible to be described, he
replied to D'Artagnan, "I was not
speaking to you, sir."

"But I am speaking to you!" replied the
young man, additionally exasperated with
this mixture of insolence and good
manners, of politeness and scorn.

The stranger looked at him again with a
slight smile, and retiring from the
window, came out of the hostelry with a
slow step, and placed himself before the
horse, within two paces of D'Artagnan. 
His quiet manner and the ironical
expression of his countenance redoubled
the mirth of the persons with whom he
had been talking, and who still remained
at the window.

D'Artagnan, seeing him approach, drew
his sword a foot out of the scabbard.

"This horse is decidedly, or rather has
been in his youth, a buttercup," resumed
the stranger, continuing the remarks he
had begun, and addressing himself to his
auditors at the window, without paying
the least attention to the exasperation
of D'Artagnan, who, however placed
himself between him and them. "It is a
color very well known in botany, but
till the present time very rare among
horses."

"There are people who laugh at the horse
that would not dare to laugh at the
master," cried the young emulator of the
furious Treville.

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

"And I," cried D'Artagnan, "will allow
no man to laugh when it displeases me!"

"Indeed, sir," continued the stranger,
more calm than ever; "well, that is
perfectly right!" and turning on his
heel, was about to re-enter the hostelry
by the front gate, beneath which
D'Artagnan on arriving had observed a
saddled horse.

But, D'Artagnan was not of a character
to allow a man to escape him thus who
had the insolence to ridicule him.  He
drew his sword entirely from the
scabbard, and followed him, crying,
"Turn, turn, Master Joker, lest I strike
you behind!"

"Strike me!" said the other, turning on
his heels, and surveying the young man
with as much astonishment as contempt. 
"Why, my good fellow, you must be mad!" 
Then, in a suppressed tone, as if
speaking to himself, "This is annoying,"
continued he.  "What a godsend this
would be for his Majesty, who is seeking
everywhere for brave fellows to recruit
for his Musketeers!"

He had scarcely finished, when
D'Artagnan made such a furious lunge at
him that if he had not sprung nimbly
backward, it is probable he would have
jested for the last time.  The stranger,
then perceiving that the matter went
beyond raillery, drew his sword, saluted
his adversary, and seriously placed
himself on guard.  But at the same
moment, his two auditors, accompanied by
the host, fell upon D'Artagnan with
sticks, shovels and tongs. This caused
so rapid and complete a diversion from
the attack that D'Artagnan's adversary,
while the latter turned round to face
this shower of blows, sheathed his sword
with the same precision, and instead of
an actor, which he had nearly been,
became a spectator of the fight--a part
in which he acquitted himself with his
usual impassiveness, muttering,
nevertheless, "A plague upon these
Gascons!  Replace him on his orange
horse, and let him begone!"

"Not before I have killed you,
poltroon!" cried D'Artagnan, making the
best face possible, and never retreating
one step before his three assailants,
who continued to shower blows upon him.

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

But the stranger knew not the headstrong
personage he had to do with; D'Artagnan
was not the man ever to cry for quarter.
The fight was therefore prolonged for
some seconds; but at length D'Artagnan
dropped his sword, which was broken in
two pieces by the blow of a stick. 
Another blow full upon his forehead at
the same moment brought him to the
ground, covered with blood and almost
fainting.

It was at this moment that people came
flocking to the scene of action from all
sides.  The host, fearful of
consequences, with the help of his
servants carried the wounded man into
the kitchen, where some trifling
attentions were bestowed upon him.

As to the gentleman, he resumed his
place at the window, and surveyed the
crowd with a certain impatience,
evidently annoyed by their remaining
undispersed.

"Well, how is it with this madman?"
exclaimed he, turning round as the noise
of the door announced the entrance of
the host, who came in to inquire if he
was unhurt.

"Your excellency is safe and sound?"
asked the host.

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

"He is better," said the host, "he
fainted quite away."

"Indeed!" said the gentleman.

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

"Why, this fellow must be the devil in
person!" cried the stranger.

"Oh, no, your Excellency, he is not the
devil," replied the host, with a grin of
contempt; "for during his fainting we
rummaged his valise and found nothing
but a clean shirt and eleven crowns--
which however, did not prevent his
saying, as he was fainting, that if such
a thing had happened in Paris, you
should have cause to repent of it at a
later period."

"Then," said the stranger coolly, "he
must be some prince in disguise."

"I have told you this, good sir,"
resumed the host, "in order that you may
be on your guard."

"Did he name no one in his passion?"

"Yes; he struck his pocket and said, 'We
shall see what Monsieur de Treville will
think of this insult offered to his
protege.'"

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

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

"Indeed!"

"Exactly as I have the honor to tell
your Excellency."

The host, who was not endowed with great
perspicacity, did not observe the
expression which his words had given to
the physiognomy of the stranger.  The
latter rose from the front of the
window, upon the sill of which he had
leaned with his elbow, and knitted his
brow like a man disquieted.

"The devil!" murmured he, between his
teeth.  "Can Treville have set this
Gascon upon me?  He is very young; but a
sword thrust is a sword thrust, whatever
be the age of him who gives it, and a
youth is less to be suspected than an
older man," and the stranger fell into a
reverie which lasted some minutes.  "A
weak obstacle is sometimes sufficient to
overthrow a great design.

"Host," said he, "could you not contrive
to get rid of this frantic boy for me? 
In conscience, I cannot kill him; and
yet," added he, with a coldly menacing
expression, "he annoys me. Where is he?"

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

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

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

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

"What, monsieur, will you leave us so
soon?"

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

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

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

"What the devil!" said the host to
himself. "Can he be afraid of this boy?"
But an imperious glance from the
stranger stopped him short; he bowed
humbly and retired.

"It is not necessary for Milady* to be
seen by this fellow," continued the
stranger.  "She will soon pass; she is
already late.  I had better get on
horseback, and go and meet her.  I
should like, however, to know what this
letter addressed to Treville contains."

*We are well aware that this term,
milady, is only properly used when
followed by a family name.  But we find
it thus in the manuscript, and we do not
choose to take upon ourselves to alter
it.

And the stranger, muttering to himself,
directed his steps toward the kitchen."

In the meantime, the host, who
entertained no doubt that it was the
presence of the young man that drove the
stranger from his hostelry, re-ascended
to his wife's chamber, and found
D'Artagnan just recovering his senses. 
Giving him to understand that the police
would deal with him pretty severely for
having sought a quarrel with a great
lord--for the opinion of the host the
stranger could be nothing less than a
great lord--he insisted that
notwithstanding his weakness D'Artagnan
should get up and depart as quickly as
possible.  D'Artagnan, half stupefied,
without his doublet, and with his head
bound up in a linen cloth, arose then,
and urged by the host, began to descend
the stairs; but on arriving at the
kitchen, the first thing he saw was his
antagonist talking calmly at the step of
a heavy carriage, drawn by two large
Norman horses.

His interlocutor, whose head appeared
through the carriage window, was a woman
of from twenty to two-and-twenty years. 
We have already observed with what
rapidity D'Artagnan seized the
expression of a countenance.  He
perceived then, at a glance, that this
woman was young and beautiful; and her
style of beauty struck him more forcibly
from its being totally different from
that of the southern countries in which
D'Artagnan had hitherto resided.  She
was pale and fair, with long curls
falling in profusion over her shoulders,
had large, blue, languishing eyes, rosy
lips, and hands of alabaster.  She was
talking with great animation with the
stranger.

"His Eminence, then, orders me--" said
the lady.

"To return instantly to England, and to
inform him as soon as the duke leaves
London."

"And as to my other instructions?" asked
the fair traveler.

"They are contained in this box, which
you will not open until you are on the
other side of the Channel."

"Very well; and you--what will you do?"

"I--I return to Paris."

"What, without chastising this insolent
boy?" asked the lady.

The stranger was about to reply; but at
the moment he opened his mouth,
D'Artagnan, who had heard all,
precipitated himself over the threshold
of the door.

"This insolent boy chastises others,"
cried he; "and I hope that this time he
whom he ought to chastise will not
escape him as before."

"Will not escape him?" replied the
stranger, knitting his brow.

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

"Remember," said Milady, seeing the
stranger lay his hand on his sword, "the
least delay may ruin everything."

"You are right," cried the gentleman;
"begone then, on your part, and I will
depart as quickly on mine."  And bowing
to the lady, sprang into his saddle,
while her coachman applied his whip
vigorously to his horses.  The two
interlocutors thus separated, taking
opposite directions, at full gallop.

"Pay him, booby!" cried the stranger to
his servant, without checking the speed
of his horse; and the man, after
throwing two or three silver pieces at
the foot of mine host, galloped after
his master.

"Base coward! false gentleman!" cried
D'Artagnan, springing forward, in his
turn, after the servant.  But his wound
had rendered him too weak to support
such an exertion.  Scarcely had he gone
ten steps when his ears began to tingle,
a faintness seized him, a cloud of blood
passed over his eyes, and he fell in the
middle of the street, crying still,
"Coward! coward! coward!"

"He is a coward, indeed," grumbled the
host, drawing near to D'Artagnan, and
endeavoring by this little flattery to
make up matters with the young man, as
the heron of the fable did with the
snail he had despised the evening
before.

"Yes, a base coward," murmured
D'Artagnan; "but she--she was very
beautiful."

"What she?" demanded the host.

"Milady," faltered D'Artagnan, and
fainted a second time.

"Ah, it's all one," said the host; "I
have lost two customers, but this one
remains, of whom I am pretty certain for
some days to come.  There will be eleven
crowns gained."

It is to be remembered that eleven
crowns was just the sum that remained in
D'Artagnan's purse.

The host had reckoned upon eleven days
of confinement at a crown a day, but he
had reckoned without his guest.  On the
following morning at five o'clock
D'Artagnan arose, and descending to the
kitchen without help, asked, among other
ingredients the list of which has not
come down to us, for some oil, some
wine, and some rosemary, and with his
mother's recipe in his hand composed a
balsam, with which he anointed his
numerous wounds, replacing his bandages
himself, and positively refusing the
assistance of any doctor, D'Artagnan
walked about that same evening, and was
almost cured by the morrow.

But when the time came to pay for his
rosemary, this oil, and the wine, the
only expense the master had incurred, as
he had preserved a strict
abstinence--while on the contrary, the
yellow horse, by the account of the
hostler at least, had eaten three times
as much as a horse of his size could
reasonably supposed to have
done--D'Artagnan found nothing in his
pocket but his little old velvet purse
with the eleven crowns it contained; for
as to the letter addressed to M. de
Treville, it had disappeared.

The young man commenced his search for
the letter with the greatest patience,
turning out his pockets of all kinds
over and over again, rummaging and
rerummaging in his valise, and opening
and reopening his purse; but when he
found that he had come to the conviction
that the letter was not to be found, he
flew, for the third time, into such a
rage as was near costing him a fresh
consumption of wine, oil, and
rosemary--for upon seeing this
hot-headed youth become exasperated and
threaten to destroy everything in the
establishment if his letter were not
found, the host seized a spit, his wife
a broom handle, and the servants the
same sticks they had used the day
before.

"My letter of recommendation!" cried
D'Artagnan, "my letter of
recommendation! or, the holy blood, I
will spit you all like ortolans!"

Unfortunately, there was one
circumstance which created a powerful
obstacle to the accomplishment of this
threat; which was, as we have related,
that his sword had been in his first
conflict broken in two, and which he had
entirely forgotten. Hence, it resulted
when D'Artagnan proceeded to draw his
sword in earnest, he found himself
purely and simply armed with a stump of
a sword about eight or ten inches in
length, which the host had carefully
placed in the scabbard.  As to the rest
of the blade, the master had slyly put
that on one side to make himself a
larding pin.

But this deception would probably not
have stopped our fiery young man if the
host had not reflected that the
reclamation which his guest made was
perfectly just.

"But, after all," said he, lowering the
point of his spit, "where is this
letter?"

"Yes, where is this letter?" cried
D'Artagnan.  "In the first place, I warn
you that that letter is for Monsieur de
Treville, and it must be found, he will
not know how to find it."

His threat completed the intimidation of
the host.  After the king and the
cardinal, M. de Treville was the man
whose name was perhaps most frequently
repeated by the military, and even by
citizens.  There was, to be sure, Father
Joseph, but his name was never
pronounced but with a subdued voice,
such was the terror inspired by his Gray
Eminence, as the cardinal's familiar was
called.

Throwing down his spit, and ordering his
wife to do the same with her broom
handle, and the servants with their
sticks, he set the first example of
commencing an earnest search for the
lost letter.

"Does the letter contain anything
valuable?" demanded the host, after a
few minutes of useless investigation.

"Zounds! I think it does indeed!" cried
the Gascon, who reckoned upon this
letter for making his way at court.  "It
contained my fortune!"

"Bills upon Spain?" asked the disturbed
host.

"Bills upon his Majesty's private
treasury," answered D'Artagnan, who,
reckoning upon entering into the king's
service in consequence of this
recommendation, believed he could make
this somewhat hazardous reply without
telling of a falsehood.

"The devil!" cried the host, at his
wit's end.

"But it's of no importance," continued
D'Artagnan, with natural assurance;
"it's of no importance.  The money is
nothing; that letter was everything.  I
would rather have lost a thousand
pistoles than have lost it."  He would
not have risked more if he had said
twenty thousand; but a certain juvenile
modesty restrained him.

A ray of light all at once broke upon
the mind of the host as he was giving
himself to the devil upon finding
nothing.

"That letter is not lost!" cried he.

"What!" cried D'Artagnan.

"No, it has been stolen from you."

"Stolen? By whom?"

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

"Do you think so?" answered D'Artagnan,
but little convinced, as he knew better
than anyone else how entirely personal
the value of this letter was, and was
nothing in it likely to tempt cupidity. 
The fact was that none of his servants,
none of the travelers present, could
have gained anything by being possessed
of this paper.

"Do you say," resumed D'Artagnan, "that
you suspect that impertinent gentleman?"

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

"Then that's my thief," replied
D'Artagnan.  "I will complain to
Monsieur de Treville, and Monsieur de
Treville will complain to the king."  He
then drew two crowns majestically from
his purse and gave them to the host, who
accompanied him, cap in hand, to the
gate, and remounted his yellow horse,
which bore him without any further
accident to the gate of St. Antoine at
Paris, where his owner sold him for
three crowns, which was a very good
price, considering that D'Artagnan had
ridden him hard during the last stage. 
Thus the dealer to whom D'Artagnan sold
him for the nine livres did not conceal
from the young man that he only gave
that enormous sum for him on the account
of the originality of his color.

Thus D'Artagnan entered Paris on foot,
carrying his little packet under his
arm, and walked about till he found an
apartment to be let on terms suited to
the scantiness of his means.  This
chamber was a sort of garret, situated
in the Rue des Fossoyeurs, near the
Luxembourg.

As soon as the earnest money was paid,
D'Artagnan took possession of his
lodging, and passed the remainder of the
day in sewing onto his doublet and hose
some ornamental braiding which his
mother had taken off an almost-new
doublet of the elder M. D'Artagnan, and
which she had given her son secretly. 
Next he went to the Quai de Feraille to
have a new blade put to his sword, and
then returned toward the Louvre,
inquiring of the first Musketeer he met
for the situation of the hotel of M. de
Treville, which proved to be in the Rue
du Vieux-Colombier; that is to say, in
the immediate vicinity of the chamber
hired by D'Artagnan--a circumstance
which appeared to furnish a happy augury
for the success of his journey.

After this, satisfied with the way in
which he had conducted himself at Meung,
without remorse for the past, confident
in the present, and full of hope for the
future, he retired to bed and slept the
sleep of the brave.

This sleep, provincial as it was,
brought him to nine o'clock in the
morning; at which hour he rose, in order
to repair to the residence of M. de
Treville, the third personage in the
kingdom, in the paternal estimation.



2 THE ANTECHAMBER OF M. DE TREVILLE

M. de Troisville, as his family was
still called in Gascony, or M. de
Treville, as he has ended by styling
himself in Paris, had really commenced
life as D'Artagnan now did; that is to
say, without a sou in his pocket, but
with a fund of audacity, shrewdness, and
intelligence which makes the poorest
Gascon gentleman often derive more in
his hope from the paternal inheritance
than the richest Perigordian or
Berrichan gentleman derives in reality
from his.  His insolent bravery, his
still more insolent success at a time
when blows poured down like hail, had
borne him to the top of that difficult
ladder called Court Favor, which he had
climbed four steps at a time.

He was the friend of the king, who
honored highly, as everyone knows, the
memory of his father, Henry IV.  The
father of M. de Treville had served him
so faithfully in his wars against the
league that in default of money--a thing
to which the Bearnais was accustomed all
his life, and who constantly paid his
debts with that of which he never stood
in need of borrowing, that is to say,
with ready wit--in default of money, we
repeat, he authorized him, after the
reduction of Paris, to assume for his
arms a golden lion passant upon gules,
with the motto Fidelis et fortis.  This
was a great matter in the way of honor,
but very little in the way of wealth; so
that when the illustrious companion of
the great Henry died, the only
inheritance he was able to leave his son
was his sword and his motto.  Thanks to
this double gift and the spotless name
that accompanied it, M. de Treville was
admitted into the household of the young
prince where he made such good use of
his sword, and was so faithful to his
motto, that Louis XIII, one of the good
blades of his kingdom, was accustomed to
say that if he had a friend who was
about to fight, he would advise him to
choose as a second, himself first, and
Treville next--or even, perhaps, before
himself.

Thus Louis XIII had a real liking for
Treville--a royal liking, a
self-interested liking, it is true, but
still a liking.  At that unhappy period
it was an important consideration to be
surrounded by such men as Treville. 
Many might take for their device the
epithet STRONG, which formed the second
part of his motto, but very few
gentlemen could lay claim to the
FAITHFUL, which constituted the first. 
Treville was one of these latter.  His
was one of those rare organizations,
endowed with an obedient intelligence
like that of the dog; with a blind
valor, a quick eye, and a prompt hand;
to whom sight appeared only to be given
to see if the king were dissatisfied
with anyone, and the hand to strike this
displeasing personage, whether a Besme,
a Maurevers, a Poltiot de Mere, or a
Vitry.  In short, up to this period
nothing had been wanting to Treville but
opportunity; but he was ever on the
watch for it, and he faithfully promised
himself that he would not fail to seize
it by its three hairs whenever it came
within reach of his hand.  At last Louis
XIII made Treville the captain of his
Musketeers, who were to Louis XIII in
devotedness, or rather in fanaticism,
what his Ordinaries had been to Henry
III, and his Scotch Guard to Louis XI.

On his part, the cardinal was not behind
the king in this respect.  When he saw
the formidable and chosen body with
which Louis XIII had surrounded himself,
this second, or rather this first king
of France, became desirous that he, too,
should have his guard.  He had his
Musketeers therefore, as Louis XIII had
his, and these two powerful rivals vied
with each other in procuring, not only
from all the provinces of France, but
even from all foreign states, the most
celebrated swordsmen.  It was not
uncommon for Richelieu and Louis XIII to
dispute over their evening game of chess
upon the merits of their servants.  Each
boasted the bearing and the courage of
his own people.  While exclaiming loudly
against duels and brawls, they excited
them secretly to quarrel, deriving an
immoderate satisfaction or genuine
regret from the success or defeat of
their own combatants.  We learn this
from the memoirs of a man who was
concerned in some few of these defeats
and in many of these victories.

Treville had grasped the weak side of
his master; and it was to this address
that he owed the long and constant favor
of a king who has not left the
reputation behind him of being very
faithful in his friendships.  He paraded
his Musketeers before the Cardinal
Armand Duplessis with an insolent air
which made the gray moustache of his
Eminence curl with ire.  Treville
understood admirably the war method of
that period, in which he who could not
live at the expense of the enemy must
live at the expense of his compatriots. 
His soldiers formed a legion of
devil-may-care fellows, perfectly
undisciplined toward all but himself.

Loose, half-drunk, imposing, the king's
Musketeers, or rather M. de Treville's,
spread themselves about in the cabarets,
in the public walks, and the public
sports, shouting, twisting their
mustaches, clanking their swords, and
taking great pleasure in annoying the
Guards of the cardinal whenever they
could fall in with them; then drawing in
the open streets, as if it were the best
of all possible sports; sometimes
killed, but sure in that case to be both
wept and avenged; often killing others,
but then certain of not rotting in
prison, M. de Treville being there to
claim them.  Thus M. de Treville was
praised to the highest note by these
men, who adored him, and who, ruffians
as they were, trembled before him like
scholars before their master, obedient
to his least word, and ready to
sacrifice themselves to wash out the
smallest insult.

M. de Treville employed this powerful
weapon for the king, in the first place,
and the friends of the king--and then
for himself and his own friends.  For
the rest, in the memoirs of this period,
which has left so many memoirs, one does
not find this worthy gentleman blamed
even by his enemies; and he had many
such among men of the pen as well as
among men of the sword.  In no instance,
let us say, was this worthy gentleman
accused of deriving personal advantage
from the cooperation of his minions.
Endowed with a rare genius for intrigue
which rendered him the equal of the
ablest intriguers, he remained an honest
man.  Still further, in spite of sword
thrusts which weaken, and painful
exercises which fatigue, he had become
one of the most gallant frequenters of
revels, one of the most insinuating
lady's men, one of the softest
whisperers of interesting nothings of
his day; the BONNES FORTUNES of De
Treville were talked of as those of M.
de Bassompierre had been talked of
twenty years before, and that was not
saying a little.  The captain of the
Musketeers was therefore admired,
feared, and loved; and this constitutes
the zenith of human fortune.

Louis XIV absorbed all the smaller stars
of his court in his own vast radiance;
but his father, a sun PLURIBUS IMPAR,
left his personal splendor to each of
his favorites, his individual value to
each of his courtiers.  In addition to
the leeves of the king and the cardinal,
there might be reckoned in Paris at that
time more than two hundred smaller but
still noteworthy leeves.  Among these
two hundred leeves, that of Treville was
one of the most sought.

The court of his hotel, situated in the
Rue du Vieux-Colombier, resembled a camp
from by six o'clock in the morning in
summer and eight o'clock in winter. 
From fifty to sixty Musketeers, who
appeared to replace one another in order
always to present an imposing number,
paraded constantly, armed to the teeth
and ready for anything.  On one of those
immense staircases, upon whose space
modern civilization would build a whole
house. Ascended and descended the office
seekers of Paris, who ran after any sort
of favor--gentlemen from the provinces
anxious to be enrolled, and servants in
all sorts of liveries, bringing and
carrying messages between their masters
and M. de Treville.  In the antechamber,
upon long circular benches, reposed the
elect; that is to say, those who were
called.  In this apartment a continued
buzzing prevailed from morning till
night, while M. de Treville, in his
office contiguous to this antechamber,
received visits, listened to complaints,
gave his orders, and like the king in
his balcony at the Louvre, had only to
place himself at the window to review
both his men and arms.

The day on which D'Artagnan presented
himself the assemblage was imposing,
particularly for a provincial just
arriving from his province.  It is true
that this provincial was a Gascon; and
that, particularly at this period, the
compatriots of D'Artagnan had the
reputation of not being easily
intimidated.  When he had once passed
the massive door covered with long
square-headed nails, he fell into the
midst of a troop of swordsmen, who
crossed one another in their passage,
calling out, quarreling, and playing
tricks one with another.  In order to
make one's way amid these turbulent and
conflicting waves, it was necessary to
be an officer, a great noble, or a
pretty woman.

It was, then, into the midst of this
tumult and disorder that our young man
advanced with a beating heat, ranging
his long rapier up his lanky leg, and
keeping one hand on the edge of his cap,
with that half-smile of the embarrassed
a provincial who wishes to put on a good
face.  When he had passed one group he
began to breathe more freely; but he
could not help observing that they
turned round to look at him, and for the
first time in his life D'Artagnan, who
had till that day entertained a very
good opinion of himself, felt
ridiculous.

Arrived at the staircase, it was still
worse.  There were four Musketeers on
the bottom steps, amusing themselves
with the following exercise, while ten
or twelve of their comrades waited upon
the landing place to take their turn in
the sport.

One of them, stationed upon the top
stair, naked sword in hand, prevented,
or at least endeavored to prevent, the
three others from ascending.

These three others fenced against him
with their agile swords.

D'Artagnan at first took these weapons
for foils, and believed them to be
buttoned; but he soon perceived by
certain scratches that every weapon was
pointed and sharpened, and that at each
of these scratches not only the
spectators, but even the actors
themselves, laughed like so many madmen.

He who at the moment occupied the upper
step kept his adversaries marvelously in
check.  A circle was formed around them.
The conditions required that at every
hit the man touched should quit the
game, yielding his turn for the benefit
of the adversary who had hit him.  In
five minutes three were slightly
wounded, one on the hand, another on the
ear, by the defender of the stair, who
himself remained intact--a piece of
skill which was worth to him, according
to the rules agreed upon, three turns of
favor,

However difficult it might be, or rather
as he pretended it was, to astonish our
young traveler, this pastime really
astonished him.  He had seen in his
province--that land in which heads
become so easily heated--a few of the
preliminaries of duels; but the daring
of these four fencers appeared to him
the strongest he had ever heard of even
in Gascony.  He believed himself
transported into that famous country of
giants into which Gulliver afterward
went and was so frightened; and yet he
had not gained the goal, for there were
still the landing place and the
antechamber.

On the landing they were no longer
fighting, but amused themselves with
stories about women, and in the
antechamber, with stories about the
court.  On the landing D'Artagnan
blushed; in the antechamber he trembled.
His warm and fickle imagination, which
in Gascony had rendered formidable to
young chambermaids, and even sometimes
their mistresses, had never dreamed,
even in moments of delirium, of half the
amorous wonders or a quarter of the
feats of gallantry which were here set
forth in connection with names the best
known and with details the least
concealed. But if his morals were
shocked on the landing, his respect for
the cardinal was scandalized in the
antechamber.  There, to his great
astonishment, D'Artagnan heard the
policy which made all Europe tremble
criticized aloud and openly, as well as
the private life of the cardinal, which
so many great nobles had been punished
for trying to pry into.  That great man
who was so revered by D'Artagnan the
elder served as an object of ridicule to
the Musketeers of Treville, who cracked
their jokes upon his bandy legs and his
crooked back.  Some sang ballads about
Mme. d'Aguillon, his mistress, and Mme.
Cambalet, his niece; while others formed
parties and plans to annoy the pages and
guards of the cardinal duke--all things
which appeared to D'Artagnan monstrous
impossibilities.

Nevertheless, when the name of the king
was now and then uttered unthinkingly
amid all these cardinal jests, a sort of
gag seemed to close for a moment on all
these jeering mouths.  They looked
hesitatingly around them, and appeared
to doubt the thickness of the partition
between them and the office of M. de
Treville; but a fresh allusion soon
brought back the conversation to his
Eminence, and then the laughter
recovered its loudness and the light was
not withheld from any of his actions.

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

We have no need, therefore, to say that
D'Artagnan dared not join in the
conversation, only he looked with all
his eyes and listened with all his ears,
stretching his five senses so as to lose
nothing; and despite his confidence on
the paternal admonitions, he felt
himself carried by his tastes and led by
his instincts to praise rather than to
blame the unheard-of things which were
taking place.

Although he was a perfect stranger in
the court of M. de Treville's courtiers,
and this his first appearance in that
place, he was at length noticed, and
somebody came and asked him what he
wanted.  At this demand D'Artagnan gave
his name very modestly, emphasized the
title of compatriot, and begged the
servant who had put the question to him
to request a moment's audience of M. de
Treville--a request which the other,
with an air of protection, promised to
transmit in due season.

D'Artagnan, a little recovered from his
first surprise, had now leisure to study
costumes and physiognomy.

The center of the most animated group
was a Musketeer of great height and
haughty countenance, dressed in a
costume so peculiar as to attract
general attention.  He did not wear the
uniform cloak--which was not obligatory
at that epoch of less liberty but more
independence--but a cerulean-blue
doublet, a little faded and worn, and
over this a magnificent baldric, worked
in gold, which shone like water ripples
in the sun.  A long cloak of crimson
velvet fell in graceful folds from his
shoulders, disclosing in front the
splendid baldric, from which was
suspended a gigantic rapier. This
Musketeer had just come off guard,
complained of having a cold, and coughed
from time to time affectedly.  It was
for this reason, as he said to those
around him, that he had put on his
cloak; and while he spoke with a lofty
air and twisted his mustache
disdainfully, all admired his
embroidered baldric, and D'Artagnan more
than anyone.


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

"Ah, Porthos!" cried one of his
companions, "don't try to make us
believe you obtained that baldric by
paternal generosity.  It was given to
you by that veiled lady I met you with
the other Sunday, near the gate St.
Honor."

"No, upon honor and by the faith of a
gentleman, I bought it with the contents
of my own purse," answered he whom they
designated by the name Porthos.

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

"It's true, though," said Porthos; "and
the proof is that I paid twelve pistoles
for it."

The wonder was increased, though the
doubt continued to exist.

"Is it not true, Aramis?" said Porthos,
turning toward another Musketeer.

This other Musketeer formed a perfect
contrast to his interrogator, who had
just designated him by the name of
Aramis. He was a stout man, of about
two- or three-and-twenty, with an open,
ingenuous countenance, a black, mild
eye, and cheeks rosy and downy as an
autumn peach.  His delicate mustache
marked a perfectly straight line upon
his upper lip; he appeared to dread to
lower his hands lest their veins should
swell, and he pinched the tips of his
ears from time to time to preserve their
delicate pink transparency.  Habitually
he spoke little and slowly, bowed
frequently, laughed without noise,
showing his teeth, which were fine and
of which, as the rest of his person, he
appeared to take great care.  He
answered the appeal of his friend by an
affirmative nod of the head.

This affirmation appeared to dispel all
doubts with regard to the baldric.  They
continued to admire it, but said no more
about it; and with a rapid change of
thought, the conversation passed
suddenly to another subject.

"What do you think of the story
Chalais's esquire relates?" asked
another Musketeer, without addressing
anyone in particular, but on the
contrary speaking to everybody.

"And what does he say?" asked Porthos,
in a self-sufficient tone.

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

"A ninny, indeed!" said Porthos; "but is
the matter certain?"

"I had it from Aramis," replied the
Musketeer.

"Indeed?"

"Why, you knew it, Porthos," said
Aramis.  "I told you of it yesterday. 
Let us say no more about it."

"Say no more about it?  That's YOUR
opinion!" replied Porthos.

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

"Well, then, let us talk about it, since
you desire it," replied Aramis,
patiently.

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

"And you--you would pass rather a sad
quarter-hour with the Red Duke," replied
Aramis.

"Oh, the Red Duke!  Bravo!  Bravo!  The
Red Duke!" cried Porthos, clapping his
hands and nodding his head.  "The Red
Duke is capital.  I'll circulate that
saying, be assured, my dear fellow. Who
says this Aramis is not a wit?  What a
misfortune it is you did not follow your
first vocation; what a delicious abbe
you would have made!"

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

"He will be one, as he says," cried
Porthos; "he will be one, sooner or
later."

"Sooner." said Aramis.

"He only waits for one thing to
determine him to resume his cassock,
which hangs behind his uniform," said
another Musketeer.

"What is he waiting for?" asked another.

"Only till the queen has given an heir
to the crown of France."

"No jesting upon that subject,
gentlemen," said Porthos; "thank God the
queen is still of an age to give one!"

"They say that Monsieur de Buckingham is
in France," replied Aramis, with a
significant smile which gave to this
sentence, apparently so simple, a
tolerably scandalous meaning.

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

"Are you going to give me a lesson,
Porthos?" cried Aramis, from whose
usually mild eye a flash passed like
lightning.

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

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

"Aramis!"

"Porthos!"

"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" cried the
surrounding group.

"Monsieur de Treville awaits Monsieur
d'Artagnan," cried a servant, throwing
open the door of the cabinet.

At this announcement, during which the
door remained open, everyone became
mute, and amid the general silence the
young man crossed part of the length of
the antechamber, and entered the
apartment of the captain of the
Musketeers, congratulating himself with
all his heart at having so narrowly
escaped the end of this strange quarrel.



3 THE AUDIENCE

M. de Treville was at the moment in
rather ill-humor, nevertheless he
saluted the young man politely, who
bowed to the very ground; and he smiled
on receiving D'Artagnan's response, the
Bearnese accent of which recalled to him
at the same time his youth and his
country--a double remembrance which
makes a man smile at all ages; but
stepping toward the antechamber and
making a sign to D'Artagnan with his
hand, as if to ask his permission to
finish with others before he began with
him, he called three times, with a
louder voice at each time, so that he
ran through the intervening tones
between the imperative accent and the
angry accent.

"Athos!  Porthos!  Aramis!"

The two Musketeers with whom we have
already made acquaintance, and who
answered to the last of these three
names, immediately quitted the group of
which they had formed a part, and
advanced toward the cabinet, the door of
which closed after them as soon as they
had entered.  Their appearance, although
it was not quite at ease, excited by its
carelessness, at once full of dignity
and submission, the admiration of
D'Artagnan, who beheld in these two men
demigods, and in their leader an
Olympian Jupiter, armed with all his
thunders.

When the two Musketeers had entered;
when the door was closed behind them;
when the buzzing murmur of the
antechamber, to which the summons which
had been made had doubtless furnished
fresh food, had recommenced; when M. de
Treville had three or four times paced
in silence, and with a frowning brow,
the whole length of his cabinet, passing
each time before Porthos and Aramis, who
were as upright and silent as if on
parade--he stopped all at once full in
front of them, and covering them from
head to foot with an angry look, "Do you
know what the king said to me," cried
he, "and that no longer ago then
yesterday evening--do you know,
gentlemen?"

"No," replied the two Musketeers, after
a moment's silence, "no, sir, we do
not."

"But I hope that you will do us the
honor to tell us," added Aramis, in his
politest tone and with his most graceful
bow.

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

"The Guards of the cardinal! And why
so?" asked Porthos, warmly.

"Because he plainly perceives that his
piquette* stands in need of being
enlivened by a mixture of good wine."

*A watered liquor, made from the second
pressing of the grape.

The two Musketeers reddened to the
whites of their eyes. D'Artagnan did not
know where he was, and wished himself a
hundred feet underground.

"Yes, yes," continued M. de Treville,
growing warmer as he spoke, "and his
majesty was right; for, upon my honor,
it is true that the Musketeers make but
a miserable figure at court.  The
cardinal related yesterday while playing
with the king, with an air of condolence
very displeasing to me, that the day
before yesterday those DAMNED
MUSKETEERS, those DAREDEVILS--he dwelt
upon those words with an ironical tone
still more displeasing to me--those
BRAGGARTS, added he, glancing at me with
his tiger-cat's eye, had made a riot in
the Rue Ferou in a cabaret, and that a
party of his Guards (I thought he was
going to laugh in my face) had been
forced to arrest the rioters!  MORBLEU! 
You must know something about it. 
Arrest Musketeers!  You were among
them--you were!  Don't deny it; you were
recognized, and the cardinal named you. 
But it's all my fault; yes, it's all my
fault, because it is myself who selects
my men.  You, Aramis, why the devil did
you ask me for a uniform when you would
have been so much better in a cassock? 
And you, Porthos, do you only wear such
a fine golden baldric to suspend a sword
of straw from it? And Athos--I don't see
Athos.  Where is he?"

"Ill--very ill, say you? And of what
malady?"

"It is feared that it may be the
smallpox, sir," replied Porthos,
desirous of taking his turn in the
conversation; "and what is serious is
that it will certainly spoil his face."

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

Porthos and Aramis trembled with rage. 
They could willingly have strangled M.
de Treville, if, at the bottom of all
this, they had not felt it was the great
love he bore them which made him speak
thus.  They stamped upon the carpet with
their feet; they bit their lips till the
blood came, and grasped the hilts of
their swords with all their might.  All
without had heard, as we have said,
Athos, Porthos, and Aramis called, and
had guessed, from M. de Treville's tone
of voice, that he was very angry about
something.  Ten curious heads were glued
to the tapestry and became pale with
fury; for their ears, closely applied to
the door, did not lose a syllable of
what he said, while their mouths
repeated as he went on, the insulting
expressions of the captain to all the
people in the antechamber.  In an
instant, from the door of the cabinet to
the street gate, the whole hotel was
boiling.

"Ah! The king's Musketeers are arrested
by the Guards of the cardinal, are
they?" continued M. de Treville, as
furious at heart as his soldiers, but
emphasizing his words and plunging them,
one by one, so to say, like so many
blows of a stiletto, into the bosoms of
his auditors.  "What! Six of his
Eminence's Guards arrest six of his
Majesty's Musketeers! MORBLEU!  My part
is taken!  I will go straight to the
louvre; I will give in my resignation as
captain of the king's Musketeers to take
a lieutenancy in the cardinal's Guards,
and if he refuses me, MORBLEU!  I will
turn abbe."

At these words, the murmur without
became an explosion; nothing was to be
heard but oaths and blasphemies.  The
MORBLUES, the SANG DIEUS, the MORTS
TOUTS LES DIABLES, crossed one another
in the air.  D'Artagnan looked for some
tapestry behind which he might hide
himself, and felt an immense inclination
to crawl under the table.

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

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

"I did not know that," replied M. de
Treville, in a somewhat softened tone. 
"The cardinal exaggerated, as I
perceive."

"But pray, sir," continued Aramis, who,
seeing his captain become appeased,
ventured to risk a prayer, "do not say
that Athos is wounded.  He would be in
despair if that should come to the ears
of the king; and as the wound is very
serious, seeing that after crossing the
shoulder it penetrates into the chest,
it is to be feared--"

At this instant the tapestry was raised
and a noble and handsome head, but
frightfully pale, appeared under the
fringe.

"Athos!" cried the two Musketeers.

"Athos!" repeated M. de Treville
himself.

"You have sent for me, sir," said Athos
to M. de Treville, in a feeble yet
perfectly calm voice, "you have sent for
me, as my comrades inform me, and I have
hastened to receive your orders. I am
here; what do you want with me?"

And at these words, the Musketeer, in
irreproachable costume, belted as usual,
with a tolerably firm step, entered the
cabinet. M. de Treville, moved to the
bottom of his heart by this proof of
courage, sprang toward him.

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

And without waiting for the answer of
the newcomer to this proof of affection,
M. de Treville seized his right hand and
pressed it with all his might, without
perceiving that Athos, whatever might be
his self-command, allowed a slight
murmur of pain to escape him, and if
possible, grew paler than he was before.

The door had remained open, so strong
was the excitement produced by the
arrival of Athos, whose wound, though
kept as a secret, was known to all.  A
burst of satisfaction hailed the last
words of the captain; and two or three
heads, carried away by the enthusiasm of
the moment, appeared through the
openings of the tapestry.  M. de
Treville was about to reprehend this
breach of the rules of etiquette, when
he felt the hand of Athos, who had
rallied all his energies to contend
against pain, at length overcome by it,
fell upon the floor as if he were dead.

"A surgeon!" cried M. de Treville,
"mine! The king's! The best! A surgeon!
Or, s'blood, my brave Athos will die!"

At the cries of M. de Treville, the
whole assemblage rushed into the
cabinet, he not thinking to shut the
door against anyone, and all crowded
round the wounded man.  But all this
eager attention might have been useless
if the doctor so loudly called for had
not chanced to be in the hotel.  He
pushed through the crowd, approached
Athos, still insensible, and as all this
noise and commotion inconvenienced him
greatly, he required, as the first and
most urgent thing, that the Musketeer
should be carried into an adjoining
chamber.  Immediately M. de Treville
opened and pointed the way to Porthos
and Aramis, who bore their comrade in
their arms.  Behind this group walked
the surgeon; and behind the surgeon the
door closed.

The cabinet of M. de Treville, generally
held so sacred, became in an instant the
annex of the antechamber.  Everyone
spoke, harangued, and vociferated,
swearing, cursing, and consigning the
cardinal and his Guards to all the
devils.

An instant after, Porthos and Aramis
re-entered, the surgeon and M. de
Treville alone remaining with the
wounded.

At length, M. de Treville himself
returned.  The injured man had recovered
his senses.  The surgeon declared that
the situation of the Musketeer had
nothing in it to render his friends
uneasy, his weakness having been purely
and simply caused by loss of blood.

Then M. de Treville made a sign with his
hand, and all retired except D'Artagnan,
who did not forget that he had an
audience, and with the tenacity of a
Gascon remained in his place.

When all had gone out and the door was
closed, M. de Treville, on turning
round, found himself alone with the
young man.  The event which had occurred
had in some degree broken the thread of
his ideas.  He inquired what was the
will of his persevering visitor.
D'Artagnan then repeated his name, and
in an instant recovering all his
remembrances of the present and the
past, M. de Treville grasped the
situation.

"Pardon me," said he, smiling, "pardon
me my dear compatriot, but I had wholly
forgotten you.  But what help is there
for it!  A captain is nothing but a
father of a family, charged with even a
greater responsibility than the father
of an ordinary family. Soldiers are big
children; but as I maintain that the
orders of the king, and more
particularly the orders of the cardinal,
should be executed--"

D'Artagnan could not restrain a smile. 
By this smile M. de Treville judged that
he had not to deal with a fool, and
changing the conversation, came straight
to the point.

"I respected your father very much,"
said he.  "What can I do for the son? 
Tell me quickly; my time is not my own."

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

"It is indeed a favor, young man,"
replied M. de Treville, "but it may not
be so far beyond your hopes as you
believe, or rather as you appear to
believe.  But his majesty's decision is
always necessary; and I inform you with
regret that no one becomes a Musketeer
without the preliminary ordeal of
several campaigns, certain brilliant
actions, or a service of two years in
some other regiment less favored than
ours."

D'Artagnan bowed without replying,
feeling his desire to don the
Musketeer's uniform vastly increased by
the great difficulties which preceded
the attainment of it.

"But," continued M. de Treville, fixing
upon his compatriot a look so piercing
that it might be said he wished to read
the thoughts of his heart, "on account
of my old companion, your father, as I
have said, I will do something for you,
young man. Our recruits from Bearn are
not generally very rich, and I have no
reason to think matters have much
changed in this respect since I left the
province.  I dare say you have not
brought too large a stock of money with
you?"

D'Artagnan drew himself up with a proud
air which plainly said, "I ask alms of
no man."

"Oh, that's very well, young man,"
continued M. de Treville, "that's all
very well.  I know these airs; I myself
came to Paris with four crowns in my
purse, and would have fought with anyone
who dared to tell me I was not in a
condition to purchase the Louvre."

D'Artagnan's bearing became still more
imposing.  Thanks to the sale of his
horse, he commenced his career with four
more crowns than M. de Treville
possessed at the commencement of his.

"You ought, I say, then, to husband the
means you have, however large the sum
may be; but you ought also to endeavor
to perfect yourself in the exercises
becoming a gentleman.  I will write a
letter today to the Director of the
Royal Academy, and tomorrow he will
admit you without any expense to
yourself.  Do not refuse this little
service.  Our best-born and richest
gentlemen sometimes solicit it without
being able to obtain it.  You will learn
horsemanship, swordsmanship in all its
branches, and dancing.  You will make
some desirable acquaintances; and from
time to time you can call upon me, just
to tell me how you are getting on, and
to say whether I can be of further
service to you."

D'Artagnan, stranger as he was to all
the manners of a court, could not but
perceive a little coldness in this
reception.

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

"I certainly am surprised," replied M.
de Treville, "that you should undertake
so long a journey without that necessary
passport, the sole resource of us poor
Bearnese."

"I had one, sir, and, thank God, such as
I could wish," cried D'Artagnan; "but it
was perfidiously stolen from me."

He then related the adventure of Meung,
described the unknown gentleman with the
greatest minuteness, and all with a
warmth and truthfulness that delighted
M. de Treville.

"This is all very strange," said M. de
Treville, after meditating a minute;
"you mentioned my name, then, aloud?"

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

Flattery was at that period very
current, and M. de Treville loved
incense as well as a king, or even a
cardinal.  He could not refrain from a
smile of visible satisfaction; but this
smile soon disappeared, and returning to
the adventure of Meung, "Tell me,"
continued he, "had not this gentlemen a
slight scar on his cheek?"

"Yes, such a one as would be made by the
grazing of a ball."

"Was he not a fine-looking man?"

"Yes."

"Of lofty stature."

"Yes."

"Of complexion and brown hair?"

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

"He was waiting for a woman," continued
Treville.

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

"You know not the subject of their
conversation?"

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

"Was this woman English?"

"He called her Milady."

"It is he; it must be he!"  murmured
Treville.  "I believed him still at
Brussels."

"Oh, sir, if you know who this man is,"
cried D'Artagnan, "tell me who he is,
and whence he is.  I will then release
you from all your promises--even that of
procuring my admission into the
Musketeers; for before everything, I
wish to avenge myself."

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

"That will not prevent me," replied
D'Artagnan, "if ever I find him."

"In the meantime," said Treville, "seek
him not--if I have a right to advise
you."

All at once the captain stopped, as if
struck by a sudden suspicion.  This
great hatred which the young traveler
manifested so loudly for this man,
who--a rather improbable thing--had
stolen his father's letter from him--was
there not some perfidy concealed under
this hatred?  Might not this young man
be sent by his Eminence?  Might he not
have come for the purpose of laying a
snare for him?  This pretended
D'Artagnan--was he not an emissary of
the cardinal, whom the cardinal sought
to introduce into Treville's house, to
place near him, to win his confidence,
and afterward to ruin him as had been
done in a thousand other instances?  He
fixed his eyes upon D'Artagnan even more
earnestly than before.  He was
moderately reassured however, by the
aspect of that countenance, full of
astute intelligence and affected
humility.  "I know he is a Gascon,"
reflected he, "but he may be one for the
cardinal as well as for me.  Let us try
him."

"My friend," said he, slowly, "I wish,
as the son of an ancient friend--for I
consider this story of the lost letter
perfectly true--I wish, I say, in order
to repair the coldness you may have
remarked in my reception of you, to
discover to you the secrets of our
policy.  The king and the cardinal are
the best of friends; their apparent
bickerings are only feints to deceive
fools.  I am not willing that a
compatriot, a handsome cavalier, a brave
youth, quite fit to make his way, should
become the dupe of all these artifices
and fall into the snare after the
example of so many others who have been
ruined by it.  Be assured that I am
devoted to both these all-powerful
masters, and that my earnest endeavors
have no other aim than the service of
the king, and also the cardinal--one of
the most illustrious geniuses that
France has ever produced.

"Now, young man, regulate your conduct
accordingly; and if you entertain,
whether from your family, your
relations, or even from your instincts,
any of these enmities which we see
constantly breaking out against the
cardinal, bid me adieu and let us
separate.  I will aid you in many ways,
but without attaching you to my person. 
I hope that my frankness at least will
make you my friend; for you are the only
young man to whom I have hitherto spoken
as I have done to you."

Treville said to himself:  "If the
cardinal has set this young fox upon me,
he will certainly not have failed--he,
who knows how bitterly I execrate
him--to tell his spy that the best means
of making his court to me is to rail at
him.  Therefore, in spite of all my
protestations, if it be as I suspect, my
cunning gossip will assure me that he
holds his Eminence in horror."

It, however, proved otherwise. 
D'Artagnan answered, with the greatest
simplicity:  "I came to Paris with
exactly such intentions.  My father
advised me to stoop to nobody but the
king, the cardinal, and yourself--whom
he considered the first three personages
in France."

D'Artagnan added M. de Treville to the
others, as may be perceived; but he
thought this addition would do no harm.

"I have the greatest veneration for the
cardinal," continued he, "and the most
profound respect for his actions.  So
much the better for me, sir, if you
speak to me, as you say, with
frankness--for then you will do me the
honor to esteem the resemblance of our
opinions; but if you have entertained
any doubt, as naturally you may, I feel
that I am ruining myself by speaking the
truth.  But I still trust you will not
esteem me the less for it, and that is
my object beyond all others."

M. de Treville was surprised to the
greatest degree.  So much penetration,
so much frankness, created admiration,
but did not entirely remove his
suspicions.  The more this young man was
superior to others, the more he was to
be dreaded if he meant to deceive him;
"You are an honest youth; but at the
present moment I can only do for you
that which I just now offered.  My hotel
will be always open to you.  Hereafter,
being able to ask for me at all hours,
and consequently to take advantage of
all opportunities, you will probably
obtain that which you desire."

"That is to say," replied D'Artagnan,
"that you will wait until I have proved
myself worthy of it.  Well, be assured,"
added he, with the familiarity of a
Gascon, "you shall not wait long."  And
he bowed in order to retire, and as if
he considered the future in his own
hands.

"But wait a minute," said M. de
Treville, stopping him.  "I promised you
a letter for the director of the
Academy.  Are you too proud to accept
it, young gentleman?"

"No, sir," said D'Artagnan; "and I will
guard it so carefully that I will be
sworn it shall arrive at its address,
and woe be to him who shall attempt to
take it from me!"

M. de Treville smiled at this flourish;
and leaving his young man compatriot in
the embrasure of the window, where they
had talked together, he seated himself
at a table in order to write the
promised letter of recommendation. 
While he was doing this, D'Artagnan,
having no better employment, amused
himself with beating a march upon the
window and with looking at the
Musketeers, who went away, one after
another, following them with his eyes
until they disappeared.

M. de Treville, after having written the
letter, sealed it, and rising,
approached the young man in order to
give it to him.  But at the very moment
when D'Artagnan stretched out his hand
to receive it, M. de Treville was highly
astonished to see his protege make a
sudden spring, become crimson with
passion, and rush from the cabinet
crying, "S'blood, he shall not escape me
this time!"

"And who?" asked M. de Treville.

"He, my thief!" replied D'Artagnan. 
"Ah, the traitor!" and he disappeared.

"The devil take the madman!" murmured M.
de Treville, "unless," added he, "this
is a cunning mode of escaping, seeing
that he had failed in his purpose!"



4 THE SHOULDER OF ATHOS, THE BALDRIC OF
PORTHOS AND THE HANDKERCHIEF OF ARAMIS

D'Artagnan, in a state of fury, crossed
the antechamber at three bounds, and was
darting toward the stairs, which he
reckoned upon descending four at a time,
when, in his heedless course, he ran
head foremost against a Musketeer who
was coming out of one of M. de
Treville's private rooms, and striking
his shoulder violently, made him utter a
cry, or rather a howl.

"Excuse me," said D'Artagnan,
endeavoring to resume his course,
"excuse me, but I am in a hurry."

Scarcely had he descended the first
stair, when a hand of iron seized him by
the belt and stopped him.

"You are in a hurry?" said the
Musketeer, as pale as a sheet. "Under
that pretense you run against me!  You
say. 'Excuse me,' and you believe that
is sufficient?  Not at all my young man.
Do you fancy because you have heard
Monsieur de Treville speak to us a
little cavalierly today that other
people are to treat us as he speaks to
us?  Undeceive yourself, comrade, you
are not Monsieur de Treville."

"My faith!" replied D'Artagnan,
recognizing Athos, who, after the
dressing performed by the doctor, was
returning to his own apartment.  "I did
not do it intentionally, and not doing
it intentionally, I said 'Excuse me.' 
It appears to me that this is quite
enough.  I repeat to you, however, and
this time on my word of honor--I think
perhaps too often--that I am in haste,
great haste.  Leave your hold, then, I
beg of you, and let me go where my
business calls me."

"Monsieur," said Athos, letting him go,
"you are not polite; it is easy to
perceive that you come from a distance."

D'Artagnan had already strode down three
or four stairs, but at Athos's last
remark he stopped short.

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

"Perhaps," said Athos.

"Ah!  If I were not in such haste, and
if I were not running after someone,"
said D'Artagnan.

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

"And where, I pray you?"

"Near the Carmes-Deschaux."

"At what hour?"

"About noon."

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

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

"Good!" cried D'Artagnan, "I will be
there ten minutes before twelve."  And
he set off running as if the devil
possessed him, hoping that he might yet
find the stranger, whose slow pace could
not have carried him far.

But at the street gate, Porthos was
talking with the soldier on guard. 
Between the two talkers there was just
enough room for a man to pass. 
D'Artagnan thought it would suffice for
him, and he sprang forward like a dart
between them.  But D'Artagnan had
reckoned without the wind.  As he was
about to pass, the wind blew out
Porthos's long cloak, and D'Artagnan
rushed straight into the middle of it. 
Without doubt, Porthos had reasons for
not abandoning this part of his
vestments, for instead of quitting his
hold on the flap in his hand, he pulled
it toward him, so that D'Artagnan rolled
himself up in the velvet by a movement
of rotation explained by the persistency
of Porthos.

D'Artagnan, hearing the Musketeer swear,
wished to escape from the cloak, which
blinded him, and sought to find his way
from under the folds of it.  He was
particularly anxious to avoid marring
the freshness of the magnificent baldric
we are acquainted with; but on timidly
opening his eyes, he found himself with
his nose fixed between the two shoulders
of Porthos--that is to say, exactly upon
the baldric.

Alas, like most things in this world
which have nothing in their favor but
appearances, the baldric was glittering
with gold in the front, but was nothing
but simple buff behind.  Vainglorious as
he was, Porthos could not afford to have
a baldric wholly of gold, but had at
least half.  One could comprehend the
necessity of the cold and the urgency of
the cloak.

"Bless me!" cried Porthos, making strong
efforts to disembarrass himself of
D'Artagnan, who was wriggling about his
back; "you must be mad to run against
people in this manner."

"Excuse me," said D'Artagnan,
reappearing under the shoulder of the
giant, "but I am in such haste--I was
running after someone and--"

"And do you always forget your eyes when
you run?" asked Porthos.

"No," replied D'Artagnan, piqued, "and
thanks to my eyes, I can see what other
people cannot see."

Whether Porthos understood him or did
not understand him, giving way to his
anger, "Monsieur," said he, "you stand a
chance of getting chastised if you rub
Musketeers in this fashion."

"Chastised, Monsieur!" said D'Artagnan,
"the expression is strong."

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

"Ah, PARDIEU!  I know full well that you
don't turn your back to yours."

And the young man, delighted with his
joke, went away laughing loudly.

Porthos foamed with rage, and made a
movement to rush after D'Artagnan.

"Presently, presently," cried the
latter, "when you haven't your cloak
on."

"At one o'clock, then, behind the
Luxembourg."

"Very well, at one o'clock, then,"
replied D'Artagnan, turning the angle of
the street.

But neither in the street he had passed
through, nor in the one which his eager
glance pervaded, could he see anyone;
however slowly the stranger had walked,
he was gone on his way, or perhaps had
entered some house.  D'Artagnan inquired
of everyone he met with, went down to
the ferry, came up again by the Rue de
Seine, and the Red Cross; but nothing,
absolutely nothing!  This chase was,
however, advantageous to him in one
sense, for in proportion as the
perspiration broke from his forehead,
his heart began to cool.

He began to reflect upon the events that
had passed; they were numerous and
inauspicious.  It was scarcely eleven
o'clock in the morning, and yet this
morning had already brought him into
disgrace with M. de Treville, who could
not fail to think the manner in which
D'Artagnan had left him a little
cavalier.

Besides this, he had drawn upon himself
two good duels with two men, each
capable of killing three
D'Artagnans-with two Musketeers, in
short, with two of those beings whom he
esteemed so greatly that he placed them
in his mind and heart above all other
men.

The outlook was sad.  Sure of being
killed by Athos, it may easily be
understood that the young man was not
very uneasy about Porthos.  As hope,
however, is the last thing extinguished
in the heart of man, he finished by
hoping that he might survive, even
though with terrible wounds, in both
these duels; and in case of surviving,
he made the following reprehensions upon
his own conduct:

"What a madcap I was, and what a stupid
fellow I am!  That brave and unfortunate
Athos was wounded on that very shoulder
against which I must run head foremost,
like a ram.  The only thing that
astonishes me is that he did not strike
me dead at once.  He had good cause to
do so; the pain I gave him must have
been atrocious.  As to Porthos--oh, as
to Porthos, faith, that's a droll
affair!"

And in spite of himself, the young man
began to laugh aloud, looking round
carefully, however, to see that his
solitary laugh, without a cause in the
eyes of passers-by, offended no one.

"As to Porthos, that is certainly droll;
but I am not the less a giddy fool.  Are
people to be run against without
warning?  No! And have I any right to go
and peep under their cloaks to see what
is not there?  He would have pardoned
me, he would certainly have pardoned me,
if I had not said anything to him about
that cursed baldric--in ambiguous words,
it is true, but rather drolly ambiguous.
Ah, cursed Gascon that I am, I get from
one hobble into another.  Friend
D'Artagnan," continued he, speaking to
himself with all the amenity that he
thought due himself, "if you escape, of
which there is not much chance, I would
advise you to practice perfect
politeness for the future.  You must
henceforth be admired and quoted as a
model of it.  To be obliging and polite
does not necessarily make a man a
coward.  Look at Aramis, now; Aramis is
mildness and grace personified.  Well,
did anybody ever dream of calling Aramis
a coward?  No, certainly not, and from
this moment I will endeavor to model
myself after him.  Ah! That's strange! 
Here he is!"

D'Artagnan, walking and soliloquizing,
had arrived within a few steps of the
hotel d'Arguillon and in front of that
hotel perceived Aramis, chatting gaily
with three gentlemen; but as he had not
forgotten that it was in presence of
this young man that M. de Treville had
been so angry in the morning, and as a
witness of the rebuke the Musketeers had
received was not likely to be at all
agreeable, he pretended not to see him. 
D'Artagnan, on the contrary, quite full
of his plans of conciliation and
courtesy, approached the young men with
a profound bow, accompanied by a most
gracious smile.  All four, besides,
immediately broke off their
conversation.

D'Artagnan was not so dull as not to
perceive that he was one too many; but
he was not sufficiently broken into the
fashions of the gay world to know how to
extricate himself gallantly from a false
position, like that of a man who begins
to mingle with people he is scarcely
acquainted with and in a conversation
that does not concern him.  He was
seeking in his mind, then, for the least
awkward means of retreat, when he
remarked that Aramis had let his
handkerchief fall, and by mistake, no
doubt, had placed his foot upon it. 
This appeared to be a favorable
opportunity to repair his intrusion.  He
stooped, and with the most gracious air
he could assume, drew the handkerchief
from under the foot of the Musketeer in
spite of the efforts the latter made to
detain it, and holding it out to him,
said, "I believe, monsieur, that this is
a handkerchief you would be sorry to
lose?"

The handkerchief was indeed richly
embroidered, and had a coronet and arms
at one of its corners.  Aramis blushed
excessively, and snatched rather than
took the handkerchief from the hand of
the Gascon.

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

Aramis darted at D'Artagnan one of those
looks which inform a man that he has
acquired a mortal enemy.  Then, resuming
his mild air, "You are deceived,
gentlemen," said he, "this handkerchief
is not mine, and I cannot fancy why
Monsieur has taken it into his head to
offer it to me rather than to one of
you; and as a proof of what I say, here
is mine in my pocket."

So saying, he pulled out his own
handkerchief, likewise a very elegant
handkerchief, and of fine
cambric--though cambric was dear at the
period--but a handkerchief without
embroidery and without arms, only
ornamented with a single cipher, that of
its proprietor.

This time D'Artagnan was not hasty.  He
perceived his mistake; but the friends
of Aramis were not at all convinced by
his denial, and one of them addressed
the young Musketeer with affected
seriousness.  "If it were as you pretend
it is," said he, "I should be forced, my
dear Aramis, to reclaim it myself; for,
as you very well know, Bois-Tracy is an
intimate friend of mine, and I cannot
allow the property of his wife to be
sported as a trophy."

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

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

"And you were deceived, my dear sir,"
replied Aramis, coldly, very little
sensible to the reparation.  Then
turning toward that one of the guards
who had declared himself the friend of
Bois-Tracy, "Besides," continued he, "I
have reflected, my dear intimate of
Bois-Tracy, that I am not less tenderly
his friend than you can possibly be; so
that decidedly this handkerchief is as
likely to have fallen from your pocket
as mine."

"No, upon my honor!" cried his Majesty's
Guardsman.

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

"Of the handkerchief?"

"Yes."

"Perfectly just," cried the other two
Guardsmen, "the judgment of King
Solomon!  Aramis, you certainly are full
of wisdom!"

The young men burst into a laugh, and as
may be supposed, the affair had no other
sequel.  In a moment or two the
conversation ceased, and the three
Guardsmen and the Musketeer, after
having cordially shaken hands,
separated, the Guardsmen going one way
and Aramis another.

"Now is my time to make peace with this
gallant man," said D'Artagnan to
himself, having stood on one side during
the whole of the latter part of the
conversation; and with this good feeling
drawing near to Aramis, who was
departing without paying any attention
to him, "Monsieur," said he, "you will
excuse me, I hope."

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

"What, monsieur!" cried D'Artagnan, "and
do you suppose--"

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

"Monsieur, you act wrongly in
endeavoring to mortify me," said
D'Artagnan, in whom the natural
quarrelsome spirit began to speak more
loudly than his pacific resolutions.  "I
am from Gascony, it is true; and since
you know it, there is no occasion to
tell you that Gascons are not very
patient, so that when they have begged
to be excused once, were it even for a
folly, they are convinced that they have
done already at least as much again as
they ought to have done."

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

"By US, you mean!" cried D'Artagnan.

"Why did you so maladroitly restore me
the handkerchief?"

"Why did you so awkwardly let it fall?"

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

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

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

"And I will send you back to your Mass
book, Master Abbe.  Draw, if you please,
and instantly--"

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

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

"Monsieur is a Gascon?" asked Aramis.

"Yes.  Monsieur does not postpone an
interview through prudence?"

"Prudence, monsieur, is a virtue
sufficiently useless to Musketeers, I
know, but indispensable to churchmen;
and as I am only a Musketeer
provisionally, I hold it good to be
prudent.  At two o'clock I shall have
the honor of expecting you at the hotel
of Monsieur de Treville.  There I will
indicate to you the best place and
time."

The two young men bowed and separated,
Aramis ascending the street which led to
the Luxembourg, while D'Artagnan,
perceiving the appointed hour was
approaching, took the road to the
Carmes-Deschaux, saying to himself,
"Decidedly I can't draw back; but at
least, if I am killed, I shall be killed
by a Musketeer."



5 THE KING'S MUSKETEERS AND THE
CARDINAL'S GUARDS

D'Artagnan was acquainted with nobody in
Paris.  He went therefore to his
appointment with Athos without a second,
determined to be satisfied with those
his adversary should choose.  Besides,
his intention was formed to make the
brave Musketeer all suitable apologies,
but without meanness or weakness,
fearing that might result from this duel
which generally results from an affair
of this kind, when a young and vigorous
man fights with an adversary who is
wounded and weakened--if conquered, he
doubles the triumph of his antagonist;
if a conqueror, he is accused of foul
play and want of courage.

Now, we must have badly painted the
character of our adventure seeker, or
our readers must have already perceived
that D'Artagnan was not an ordinary man;
therefore, while repeating to himself
that his death was inevitable, he did
not make up his mind to die quietly, as
one less courageous and less restrained
might have done in his place.  He
reflected upon the different characters
of men he had to fight with, and began
to view his situation more clearly.  He
hoped, by means of loyal excuses, to
make a friend of Athos, whose lordly air
and austere bearing pleased him much. 
He flattered himself he should be able
to frighten Porthos with the adventure
of the baldric, which he might, if not
killed upon the spot, relate to
everybody a recital which, well managed,
would cover Porthos with ridicule.  As
to the astute Aramis, he did not
entertain much dread of him; and
supposing he should be able to get so
far, he determined to dispatch him in
good style or at least, by hitting him
in the face, as Caesar recommended his
soldiers do to those of Pompey, to
damage forever the beauty of which he
was so proud.

In addition to this, D'Artagnan
possessed that invincible stock of
resolution which the counsels of his
father had implanted in his heart:
"Endure nothing from anyone but the
king, the cardinal, and Monsieur de
Treville."  He flew, then, rather than
walked, toward the convent of the Carmes
Dechausses, or rather Deschaux, as it
was called at that period, a sort of
building without a window, surrounded by
barren fields--an accessory to the
Preaux-Clercs, and which was generally
employed as the place for the duels of
men who had no time to lose.

When D'Artagnan arrived in sight of the
bare spot of ground which extended along
the foot of the monastery, Athos had
been waiting about five minutes, and
twelve o'clock was striking.  He was,
then, as punctual as the Samaritan
woman, and the most rigorous casuist
with regard to duels could have nothing
to say.

Athos, who still suffered grievously
from his wound, though it had been
dressed anew by M. de Treville's
surgeon, was seated on a post and
waiting for his adversary with hat in
hand, his feather even touching the
ground.

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

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

Athos reflected for an instant.  "You
know no one but Monsieur de Treville?"
he asked.

"Yes, monsieur, I know only him."

"Well, but then," continued Athos,
speaking half to himself, "if I kill
you, I shall have the air of a
boy-slayer."

"Not too much so," replied D'Artagnan,
with a bow that was not deficient in
dignity, "since you do me the honor to
draw a sword with me while suffering
from a wound which is very
inconvenient."

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

"You have truly, monsieur," said
D'Artagnan, bowing again, "a courtesy,
for which, I assure you, I am very
grateful."

"You confuse me," replied Athos, with
his gentlemanly air; "let us talk of
something else, if you please.  Ah,
s'blood, how you have hurt me!  My
shoulder quite burns."

"If you would permit me--" said
D'Artagnan, with timidity.

"What, monsieur?"

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

"Well?"

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

D'Artagnan spoke these words with a
simplicity that did honor to his
courtesy, without throwing the least
doubt upon his courage.

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

"If you are in haste, monsieur," said
D'Artagnan, with the same simplicity
with which a moment before he had
proposed to him to put off the duel for
three days, "and if it be your will to
dispatch me at once, do not
inconvenience yourself, I pray you."

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

In fact, at the end of the Rue Vaugirard
the gigantic Porthos appeared.

"What!" cried D'Artagnan, "is your first
witness Monsieur Porthos?"

"Yes, that disturbs you?"

"By no means."

"And here is the second."

D'Artagnan turned in the direction
pointed to by Athos, and perceived
Aramis.

"What!" cried he, in an accent of
greater astonishment than before, "your
second witness is Monsieur Aramis?"

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

"From Tarbes," said D'Artagnan.

"It is probable you are ignorant of this
little fact," said Athos.

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

In the meantime, Porthos had come up,
waved his hand to Athos, and then
turning toward D'Artagnan, stood quite
astonished.

Let us say in passing that he had
changed his baldric and relinquished his
cloak.

"Ah, ah!" said he, "what does this
mean?"

"This is the gentleman I am going to
fight with," said Athos, pointing to
D'Artagnan with his hand and saluting
him with the same gesture.

"Why, it is with him I am also going to
fight," said Porthos.

"But not before one o'clock," replied
D'Artagnan.

"And I also am to fight with this
gentleman," said Aramis, coming in his
turn onto the place.

"But not until two o'clock," said
D'Artagnan, with the same calmness.

"But what are you going to fight about,
Athos?" asked Aramis.

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

"Faith!  I am going to fight--because I
am going to fight," answered Porthos,
reddening.

Athos, whose keen eye lost nothing,
perceived a faintly sly smile pass over
the lips of the young Gascon as he
replied, "We had a short discussion upon
dress."

"And you, Aramis?" asked Athos.

"Oh, ours is a theological quarrel,"
replied Aramis, making a sign to
D'Artagnan to keep secret the cause of
their duel.

Athos indeed saw a second smile on the
lips of D'Artagnan.

"Indeed?" said Athos.

"Yes; a passage of St. Augustine, upon
which we could not agree," said the
Gascon.

"Decidedly, this is a clever fellow,"
murmured Athos.

"And now you are assembled, gentlemen,"
said D'Artagnan, "permit me to offer you
my apologies.

At this word APOLOGIES, a cloud passed
over the brow of Athos, a haughty smile
curled the lip of Porthos, and a
negative sign was the reply of Aramis.

"You do not understand me, gentlemen,"
said D'Artagnan, throwing up his head,
the sharp and bold lines of which were
at the moment gilded by a bright ray of
the sun.  "I asked to be excused in case
I should not be able to discharge my
debt to all three; for Monsieur Athos
has the right to kill me first, which
must much diminish the face-value of
your bill, Monsieur Porthos, and render
yours almost null, Monsieur Aramis.  And
now, gentlemen, I repeat, excuse me, but
on that account only, and--on guard!"

At these words, with the most gallant
air possible, D'Artagnan drew his sword.

The blood had mounted to the head of
D'Artagnan, and at that moment he would
have drawn his sword against all the
Musketeers in the kingdom as willingly
as he now did against Athos, Porthos,
and Aramis.

It was a quarter past midday.  The sun
was in its zenith, and the spot chosen
for the scene of the duel was exposed to
its full ardor.

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

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

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

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

"When you please, monsieur," said Athos,
putting himself on guard.

"I waited your orders," said D'Artagnan,
crossing swords.

But scarcely had the two rapiers
clashed, when a company of the Guards of
his Eminence, commanded by M. de Jussac,
turned the corner of the convent.

"The cardinal's Guards!" cried Aramis
and Porthos at the same time.  "Sheathe
your swords, gentlemen, sheathe your
swords!"

But it was too late.  The two combatants
had been seen in a position which left
no doubt of their intentions.

"Halloo!" cried Jussac, advancing toward
them and making a sign to his men to do
so likewise, "halloo, Musketeers? 
Fighting here, are you?  And the edicts?
What is become of them?"

"You are very generous, gentlemen of the
Guards," said Athos, full of rancor, for
Jussac was one of the aggressors of the
preceding day.  "If we were to see you
fighting, I can assure you that we would
make no effort to prevent you.  Leave us
alone, then, and you will enjoy a little
amusement without cost to yourselves."

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

"Monsieur," said Aramis, parodying
Jussac, "it would afford us great
pleasure to obey your polite invitation
if it depended upon ourselves; but
unfortunately the thing is
impossible--Monsieur de Treville has
forbidden it.  Pass on your way, then;
it is the best thing to do."

This raillery exasperated Jussac.  "We
will charge upon you, then," said he,
"if you disobey."

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

Athos, Porthos, and Aramis instantly
drew near one another, while Jussac drew
up his soldiers.

This short interval was sufficient to
determine D'Artagnan on the part he was
to take.  It was one of those events
which decide the life of a man; it was a
choice between the king and the
cardinal--the choice made, it must be
persisted in.  To fight, that was to
disobey the law, that was to risk his
head, that was to make at one blow an
enemy of a minister more powerful than
the king himself.  All this young man
perceived, and yet, to his praise we
speak it, he did not hesitate a second. 
Turning towards Athos and his friends,
"Gentlemen," said he, "allow me to
correct your words, if you please.  You
said you were but three, but it appears
to me we are four."

"But you are not one of us," said
Porthos.

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

"Withdraw, young man," cried Jussac, who
doubtless, by his gestures and the
expression of his countenance, had
guessed D'Artagnan's design.  "You may
retire; we consent to that.  Save your
skin; begone quickly."

D'Artagnan did not budge.

"Decidedly, you are a brave fellow,"
said Athos, pressing the young man's
hand.

"Come, come, choose your part," replied
Jussac.

"Well," said Porthos to Aramis, "we must
do something."

"Monsieur is full of generosity," said
Athos.

But all three reflected upon the youth
of D'Artagnan, and dreaded his
inexperience.

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

"Yes, but to yield!" said Porthos.

"That IS difficult," replied Athos.

D'Artagnan comprehended their
irresolution.

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

"What is your name, my brave fellow?"
said Athos.

"D'Artagnan, monsieur."

"Well, then, Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and
D'Artagnan, forward!" cried Athos.

"Come, gentlemen, have you decided?"
cried Jussac for the third time.

"It is done, gentlemen," said Athos.

"And what is your choice?" asked Jussac.

"We are about to have the honor of
charging you," replied Aramis, lifting
his hat with one hand and drawing his
sword with the other.

"Ah! You resist, do you?" cried Jussac.

"S'blood; does that astonish you?"

And the nine combatants rushed upon each
other with a fury which however did not
exclude a certain degree of method.

Athos fixed upon a certain Cahusac, a
favorite of the cardinal's. Porthos had
Bicarat, and Aramis found himself
opposed to two adversaries.  As to
D'Artagnan, he sprang toward Jussac
himself.

The heart of the young Gascon beat as if
it would burst through his side--not
from fear, God he thanked, he had not
the shade of it, but with emulation; he
fought like a furious tiger, turning ten
times round his adversary, and changing
his ground and his guard twenty times. 
Jussac was, as was then said, a fine
blade, and had had much practice;
nevertheless it required all his skill
to defend himself against an adversary
who, active and energetic, departed
every instant from received rules,
attacking him on all sides at once, and
yet parrying like a man who had the
greatest respect for his own epidermis.

This contest at length exhausted
Jussac's patience.  Furious at being
held in check by one whom he had
considered a boy, he became warm and
began to make mistakes.  D'Artagnan, who
though wanting in practice had a sound
theory, redoubled his agility. Jussac,
anxious to put an end to this, springing
forward, aimed a terrible thrust at his
adversary, but the latter parried it;
and while Jussac was recovering himself,
glided like a serpent beneath his blade,
and passed his sword through his body. 
Jussac fell like a dead mass.

D'Artagnan then cast an anxious and
rapid glance over the field of battle.

Aramis had killed one of his
adversaries, but the other pressed him
warmly.  Nevertheless, Aramis was in a
good situation, and able to defend
himself.

Bicarat and Porthos had just made
counterhits.  Porthos had received a
thrust through his arm, and Bicarat one
through his thigh.  But neither of these
two wounds was serious, and they only
fought more earnestly.

Athos, wounded anew by Cahusac, became
evidently paler, but did not give way a
foot.  He only changed his sword hand,
and fought with his left hand.

According to the laws of dueling at that
period, D'Artagnan was at liberty to
assist whom he pleased.  While he was
endeavoring to find out which of his
companions stood in greatest need, he
caught a glance from Athos.  The glance
was of sublime eloquence. Athos would
have died rather than appeal for help;
but he could look, and with that look
ask assistance.  D'Artagnan interpreted
it; with a terrible bound he sprang to
the side of Cahusac, crying, "To me,
Monsieur Guardsman; I will slay you!"

Cahusac turned.  It was time; for Athos,
whose great courage alone supported him,
sank upon his knee.

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

The exclamation was drawn from Athos by
seeing the sword of Cahusac fly twenty
paces from him.  D'Artagnan and Cahusac
sprang forward at the same instant, the
one to recover, the other to obtain, the
sword; but D'Artagnan, being the more
active, reached it first and placed his
foot upon it.

Cahusac immediately ran to the Guardsman
whom Aramis had killed, seized his
rapier, and returned toward D'Artagnan;
but on his way he met Athos, who during
his relief which D'Artagnan had procured
him had recovered his breath, and who,
for fear that D'Artagnan would kill his
enemy, wished to resume the fight.

D'Artagnan perceived that it would be
disobliging Athos not to leave him
alone; and in a few minutes Cahusac
fell, with a sword thrust through his
throat.

At the same instant Aramis placed his
sword point on the breast of his fallen
enemy, and forced him to ask for mercy.

There only then remained Porthos and
Bicarat.  Porthos made a thousand
flourishes, asking Bicarat what o'clock
it could be, and offering him his
compliments upon his brother's having
just obtained a company in the regiment
of Navarre; but, jest as he might, he
gained nothing.  Bicarat was one of
those iron men who never fell dead.

Nevertheless, it was necessary to
finish.  The watch might come up and
take all the combatants, wounded or not,
royalists or cardinalists.  Athos,
Aramis, and D'Artagnan surrounded
Bicarat, and required him to surrender. 
Though alone against all and with a
wound in his thigh, Bicarat wished to
hold out; but Jussac, who had risen upon
his elbow, cried out to him to yield. 
Bicarat was a Gascon, as D'Artagnan was;
he turned a deaf ear, and contented
himself with laughing, and between two
parries finding time to point to a spot
of earth with his sword, "Here," cried
he, parodying a verse of the Bible,
"here will Bicarat die; for I only am
left, and they seek my life."

"But there are four against you; leave
off, I command you."

"Ah, if you command me, that's another
thing," said Bicarat.  "As you are my
commander, it is my duty to obey."  And
springing backward, he broke his sword
across his knee to avoid the necessity
of surrendering it, threw the pieces
over the convent wall, and crossed him
arms, whistling a cardinalist air.

Bravery is always respected, even in an
enemy.  The Musketeers saluted Bicarat
with their swords, and returned them to
their sheaths.  D'Artagnan did the same.
Then, assisted by Bicarat, the only one
left standing, he bore Jussac, Cahusac,
and one of Aramis's adversaries who was
only wounded, under the porch of the
convent.  The fourth, as we have said,
was dead.  They then rang the bell, and
carrying away four swords out of five,
they took their road, intoxicated with
joy, toward the hotel of M. de Treville.

They walked arm in arm, occupying the
whole width of the street and taking in
every Musketeer they met, so that in the
end it became a triumphal march.  The
heart of D'Artagnan swam in delirium; he
marched between Athos and Porthos,
pressing them tenderly.

"If I am not yet a Musketeer," said he
to his new friends, as he passed through
the gateway of M. de Treville's hotel,
"at least I have entered upon my
apprenticeship, haven't I?"



6 HIS MAJESTY KING LOUIS XIII

This affair made a great noise.  M. de
Treville scolded his Musketeers in
public, and congratulated them in
private; but as no time was to be lost
in gaining the king, M. de Treville
hastened to report himself at the
Louvre.  It was already too late.  The
king was closeted with the cardinal, and
M. de Treville was informed that the
king was busy and could not receive him
at that moment.  In the evening M. de
Treville attended the king's gaming
table.  The king was winning; and as he
was very avaricious, he was in an
excellent humor.  Perceiving M. de
Treville at a distance--

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

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

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

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


"Wait, then, monsieur, wait," said the
king; "I will not detain you long."

In fact, fortune changed; and as the
king began to lose what he had won, he
was not sorry to find an excuse for
playing Charlemagne--if we may use a
gaming phrase of whose origin we confess
our ignorance.  The king therefore arose
a minute after, and putting the money
which lay before him into his pocket,
the major part of which arose from his
winnings, "La Vieuville," said he, "take
my place; I must speak to Monsieur de
Treville on an affair of importance. 
Ah, I had eighty louis before me; put
down the same sum, so that they who have
lost may have nothing to complain of. 
Justice before everything."

Then turning toward M. de Treville and
walking with him toward the embrasure of
a window, "Well, monsieur," continued
he, "you say it is his Eminence's Guards
who have sought a quarrel with your
Musketeers?"

"Yes, sire, as they always do."

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

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

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

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

"Yes, you are right, Treville, you are
right!"

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

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

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


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

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

"Why, this is a victory!" cried the
king, all radiant, "a complete victory!"

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

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

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

"How does he call himself?"

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

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

And Louis XIII twisted his mustache
proudly, placing his hand upon his hip.

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

"so you may plainly see, Treville,"
interrupted the king, "it was they who
attacked?"

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

"Brave young man!" murmured the king.

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

"He who wounded Jussac!" cried the king,
"he, a boy!  Treville, that's
impossible!"

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

"Jussac, one of the first swordsmen in
the kingdom?"

"Well, sire, for once he found his
master."

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

"When will your Majesty deign to receive
him?"

"Tomorrow, at midday, Treville."

"Shall I bring him alone?"

"No, bring me all four together.  I wish
to thank them all at once.  Devoted men
are so rare, Treville, by the back
staircase. It is useless to let the
cardinal know."

"Yes, sire."

"You understand, Treville--an edict is
still an edict, it is forbidden to
fight, after all."

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

"That is true," said the king; "but
never mind, Treville, come still by the
back staircase."

Treville smiled; but as it was indeed
something to have prevailed upon this
child to rebel against his master, he
saluted the king respectfully, and with
this agreement, took leave of him.

That evening the three Musketeers were
informed of the honor accorded them.  As
they had long been acquainted with the
king, they were not much excited; but
D'Artagnan, with his Gascon imagination,
saw in it his future fortune, and passed
the night in golden dreams.  By eight
o'clock in the morning he was at the
apartment of Athos.

D'Artagnan found the Musketeer dressed
and ready to go out.  As the hour to
wait upon the king was not till twelve,
he had made a party with Porthos and
Aramis to play a game at tennis in a
tennis court situated near the stables
of the Luxembourg.  Athos invited
D'Artagnan to follow them; and although
ignorant of the game, which he had never
played, he accepted, not knowing what to
do with his time from nine o'clock in
the morning, as it then scarcely was,
till twelve.

The two Musketeers were already there,
and were playing together. Athos, who
was very expert in all bodily exercises,
passed with D'Artagnan to the opposite
side and challenged them; but at the
first effort he made, although he played
with his left hand, he found that his
wound was yet too recent to allow of
such exertion.  D'Artagnan remained,
therefore, alone; and as he declared he
was too ignorant of the game to play it
regularly they only continued giving
balls to one another without counting.
But one of these balls, launched by
Porthos' herculean hand, passed so close
to D'Artagnan's face that he thought
that if, instead of passing near, it had
hit him, his audience would have been
probably lost, as it would have been
impossible for him to present himself
before the king.  Now, as upon this
audience, in his Gascon imagination,
depended his future life, he saluted
Aramis and Porthos politely, declaring
that he would not resume the game until
he should be prepared to play with them
on more equal terms, and went and took
his place near the cord and in the
gallery.

Unfortunately for D'Artagnan, among the
spectators was one of his Eminence's
Guardsmen, who, still irritated by the
defeat of his companions, which had
happened only the day before, had
promised himself to seize the first
opportunity of avenging it.  He believed
this opportunity was now come and
addressed his neighbor:  "It is not
astonishing that that young man should
be afraid of a ball, for he is doubtless
a Musketeer apprentice."

D'Artagnan turned round as if a serpent
had stung him, and fixed his eyes
intensely upon the Guardsman who had
just made this insolent speech.

"PARDIEU," resumed the latter, twisting
his mustache, "look at me as long as you
like, my little gentleman!  I have said
what I have said."

"And as since that which you have said
is too clear to require any
explanation," replied D'Artagnan, in a
low voice, "I beg you to follow me."

"And when?" asked the Guardsman, with
the same jeering air.

"At once, if you please."

"And you know who I am, without doubt?"

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

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

"What is your name?"

"Bernajoux, at your service."

"Well, then, Monsieur Bernajoux," said
D'Artagnan, tranquilly, "I will wait for
you at the door."

"Go, monsieur, I will follow you."

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

"That's true," said the Guardsman,
astonished that his name had not
produced more effect upon the young man.

Indeed, the name of Bernajoux was known
to all the world, D'Artagnan alone
excepted, perhaps; for it was one of
those which figured most frequently in
the daily brawls which all the edicts of
the cardinal could not repress.

Porthos and Aramis were so engaged with
their game, and Athos was watching them
with so much attention, that they did
not even perceive their young companion
go out, who, as he had told the
Guardsman of his Eminence, stopped
outside the door.  An instant after, the
Guardsman descended in his turn.  As
D'Artagnan had no time to lose, on
account of the audience of the king,
which was fixed for midday, he cast his
eyes around, and seeing that the street
was empty, said to his adversary, "My
faith!  It is fortunate for you,
although your name is Bernajoux, to have
only to deal with an apprentice
Musketeer.  Never mind; be content, I
will do my best.  On guard!"

"But," said he whom D'Artagnan thus
provoked, "it appears to me that this
place is badly chosen, and that we
should be better behind the Abbey St.
Germain or in the Pre-aux-Clercs."

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

Bernajoux was not a man to have such a
compliment paid to him twice.  In an
instant his sword glittered in his hand,
and he sprang upon his adversary, whom,
thanks to his great youthfulness, he
hoped to intimidate.

But D'Artagnan had on the preceding day
served his apprenticeship.  Fresh
sharpened by his victory, full of hopes
of future favor, he was resolved not to
recoil a step.  So the two swords were
crossed close to the hilts, and as
D'Artagnan stood firm, it was his
adversary who made the retreating step;
but D'Artagnan seized the moment at
which, in this movement, the sword of
Bernajoux deviated from the line.  He
freed his weapon, made a lunge, and
touched his adversary on the shoulder.
D'Artagnan immediately made a step
backward and raised his sword; but
Bernajoux cried out that it was nothing,
and rushing blindly upon him, absolutely
spitted himself upon D'Artagnan's sword.
As, however, he did not fall, as he did
not declare himself conquered, but only
broke away toward the hotel of M. de la
Tremouille, in whose service he had a
relative, D'Artagnan was ignorant of the
seriousness of the last wound his
adversary had received, and pressing him
warmly, without doubt would soon have
completed his work with a third blow,
when the noise which arose from the
street being heard in the tennis court,
two of the friends of the Guardsman, who
had seen him go out after exchanging
some words with D'Artagnan, rushed,
sword in hand, from the court, and fell
upon the conqueror.  But Athos, Porthos,
and Aramis quickly appeared in their
turn, and the moment the two Guardsmen
attacked their young companion, drove
them back. Bernajoux now fell, and as
the Guardsmen were only two against
four, they began to cry, "To the rescue!
The Hotel de la Tremouille!"  At these
cries, all who were in the hotel rushed
out and fell upon the four companions,
who on their side cried aloud, "To the
rescue, Musketeers!"

This cry was generally heeded; for the
Musketeers were known to be enemies of
the cardinal, and were beloved on
account of the hatred they bore to his
Eminence.  Thus the soldiers of other
companies than those which belonged to
the Red Duke, as Aramis had called him,
often took part with the king's
Musketeers in these quarrels.  Of three
Guardsmen of the company of M.
Dessessart who were passing, two came to
the assistance of the four companions,
while the other ran toward the hotel of
M. de Treville, crying, "To the rescue,
Musketeers!  To the rescue!" As usual,
this hotel was full of soldiers of this
company, who hastened to the succor of
their comrades.  The MELEE became
general, but strength was on the side of
the Musketeers.  The cardinal's Guards
and M. de la Tremouille's people
retreated into the hotel, the doors of
which they closed just in time to
prevent their enemies from entering with
them.  As to the wounded man, he had
been taken in at once, and, as we have
said, in a very bad state.

Excitement was at its height among the
Musketeers and their allies, and they
even began to deliberate whether they
should not set fire to the hotel to
punish the insolence of M. de la
Tremouille's domestics in daring to make
a SORTIE upon the king's Musketeers. 
The proposition had been made, and
received with enthusiasm, when
fortunately eleven o'clock struck. 
D'Artagnan and his companions remembered
their audience, and as they would very
much have regretted that such an
opportunity should be lost, they
succeeded in calming their friends, who
contented themselves with hurling some
paving stones against the gates; but the
gates were too strong.  They soon tired
of the sport.  Besides, those who must
be considered the leaders of the
enterprise had quit the group and were
making their way toward the hotel of M.
de Treville, who was waiting for them,
already informed of this fresh
disturbance.

"Quick to the Louvre," said he, "to the
Louvre without losing an instant, and
let us endeavor to see the king before
he is prejudiced by the cardinal.  We
will describe the thing to him as a
consequence of the affair of yesterday,
and the two will pass off together."

M. de Treville, accompanied by the four
young fellows, directed his course
toward the Louvre; but to the great
astonishment of the captain of the
Musketeers, he was informed that the
king had gone stag hunting in the forest
of St. Germain.  M. de Treville required
this intelligence to be repeated to him
twice, and each time his companions saw
his brow become darker.

"Had his Majesty," asked he, "any
intention of holding this hunting party
yesterday?"

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

"And the king has seen the cardinal?"
asked M. de Treville.

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

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

This advice was too reasonable, and
moreover came from a man who knew the
king too well, to allow the four young
men to dispute it.  M. de Treville
recommended everyone to return home and
wait for news.

On entering his hotel, M. de Treville
thought it best to be first in making
the complaint.  He sent one of his
servants to M. de la Tremouille with a
letter in which he begged of him to
eject the cardinal's Guardsmen from his
house, and to reprimand his people for
their audacity in making SORTIE against
the king's Musketeers.  But M. de la
Tremouille--already prejudiced by his
esquire, whose relative, as we already
know, Bernajoux was--replied that it was
neither for M. de Treville nor the
Musketeers to complain, but, on the
contrary, for him, whose people the
Musketeers had assaulted and whose hotel
they had endeavored to burn.  Now, as
the debate between these two nobles
might last a long time, each becoming,
naturally, more firm in his own opinion,
M. de Treville thought of an expedient
which might terminate it quietly.  This
was to go himself to M. de la
Tremouille.

He repaired, therefore, immediately to
his hotel, and caused himself to be
announced.

The two nobles saluted each other
politely, for if no friendship existed
between them, there was at least esteem.
Both were men of courage and honor; and
as M. de la Tremouille--a Protestant,
and seeing the king seldom--was of no
party, he did not, in general, carry any
bias into his social relations.  This
time, however, his address, although
polite, was cooler than usual.

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

"I have no objection," replied M. de la
Tremouille, "but I warn you that I am
well informed, and all the fault is with
your Musketeers."

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

"Make it, monsieur, I listen."

"How is Monsieur Bernajoux, your
esquire's relative?"

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

"But has the wounded man retained his
senses?"

"Perfectly."

"Does he talk?"

"With difficulty, but he can speak."

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

M. de la Tremouille reflected for an
instant; then as it was difficult to
suggest a more reasonable proposal, he
agreed to it.

Both descended to the chamber in which
the wounded man lay.  The latter, on
seeing these two noble lords who came to
visit him, endeavored to raise himself
up in his bed; but he was too weak, and
exhausted by the effort, he fell back
again almost senseless.

M. de la Tremouille approached him, and
made him inhale some salts, which
recalled him to life.  Then M. de
Treville, unwilling that it should be
thought that he had influenced the
wounded man, requested M. de la
Tremouille to interrogate him himself.

That happened which M. de Treville had
foreseen.  Placed between life and
death, as Bernajoux was, he had no idea
for a moment of concealing the truth;
and he described to the two nobles the
affair exactly as it had passed.

This was all that M. de Treville wanted.
He wished Bernajoux a speedy
convalescence, took leave of M. de la
Tremouille, returned to his hotel, and
immediately sent word to the four
friends that he awaited their company at
dinner.

M. de Treville entertained good company,
wholly anticardinalst, though.  It may
easily be understood, therefore, that
the conversation during the whole of
dinner turned upon the two checks that
his Eminence's Guardsmen had received. 
Now, as D'Artagnan had been the hero of
these two fights, it was upon him that
all the felicitations fell, which Athos,
Porthos, and Aramis abandoned to him,
not only as good comrades, but as men
who had so often had their turn that
could very well afford him his.

Toward six o'clock M. de Treville
announced that it was time to go to the
Louvre; but as the hour of audience
granted by his Majesty was past, instead
of claiming the ENTREE by the back
stairs, he placed himself with the four
young men in the antechamber.  The king
had not yet returned from hunting.  Our
young men had been waiting about half an
hour, amid a crowd of courtiers, when
all the doors were thrown open, and his
Majesty was announced.

At his announcement D'Artagnan felt
himself tremble to the very marrow of
his bones.  The coming instant would in
all probability decide the rest of his
life.  His eyes therefore were fixed in
a sort of agony upon the door through
which the king must enter.

Louis XIII appeared, walking fast.  He
was in hunting costume covered with
dust, wearing large boots, and holding a
whip in his hand.  At the first glance,
D'Artagnan judged that the mind of the
king was stormy.

This disposition, visible as it was in
his Majesty, did not prevent the
courtiers from ranging themselves along
his pathway. In royal antechambers it is
worth more to be viewed with an angry
eye than not to be seen at all.  The
three Musketeers therefore did not
hesitate to make a step forward. 
D'Artagnan on the contrary remained
concealed behind them; but although the
king knew Athos, Porthos, and Aramis
personally, he passed before them
without speaking or looking--indeed, as
if he had never seen them before.  As
for M. de Treville, when the eyes of the
king fell upon him, he sustained the
look with so much firmness that it was
the king who dropped his eyes; after
which his Majesty, grumbling, entered
his apartment.

"Matters go but badly," said Athos,
smiling; "and we shall not be made
Chevaliers of the Order this time."

"Wait here ten minutes," said M. de
Treville; "and if at the expiration of
ten minutes you do not see me come out,
return to my hotel, for it will be
useless for you to wait for me longer."

The four young men waited ten minutes, a
quarter of an hour, twenty minutes; and
seeing that M. de Treville did not
return, went away very uneasy as to what
was going to happen.

M. de Treville entered the king's
cabinet boldly, and found his Majesty in
a very ill humor, seated on an armchair,
beating his boot with the handle of his
whip.  This, however, did not prevent
his asking, with the greatest coolness,
after his Majesty's health.

"Bad, monsieur, bad!" replied the king;
"I am bored."

This was, in fact, the worst complaint
of Louis XIII, who would sometimes take
one of his courtiers to a window and
say, "Monsieur So-and-so, let us weary
ourselves together."

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

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

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

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

This was the chance at which M. de
Treville waited for the king. He knew
the king of old, and he knew that all
these complaints were but a preface--a
sort of excitation to encourage
himself-- and that he had now come to
his point at last.

"And in what have I been so unfortunate
as to displease your Majesty?" asked M.
de Treville, feigning the most profound
astonishment.

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

"Sire," replied M. de Treville, calmly,
"on the contrary, I come to demand it of
you."

"And against whom?" cried the king.

"Against calumniators," said M. de
Treville.

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

"And who told you this fine story,
sire?" asked Treville, quietly.

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

"Your Majesty probably refers to God,"
said M. de Treville; "for I know no one
except God who can be so far above your
Majesty."

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

"His Eminence is not his holiness,
sire."

"What do you mean by that, monsieur?"

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

"What, then!  You will bind yourself,"
cried the king, "by what Monsieur de la
Tremouille shall say?"

"Yes, sire."

"You will accept his judgment?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Any you will submit to the reparation
he may require?"

"Certainly."

"La Chesnaye," said the king.  "La
Chesnaye!"

Louis XIII's confidential valet, who
never left the door, entered in reply to
the call.

"La Chesnaye," said the king, "let
someone go instantly and find Monsieur
de la Tremouille; I wish to speak with
him this evening."

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

"Nobody, by the faith of a gentleman."

"Tomorrow, then, sire?"

"Tomorrow, monsieur."

"At what o'clock, please your Majesty?"

"At any hour you will."

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

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

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

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

"Till then, God preserve your Majesty!"

However ill the king might sleep, M. de
Treville slept still worse.  He had
ordered his three Musketeers and their
companion to be with him at half past
six in the morning.  He took them with
him, without encouraging them or
promising them anything, and without
concealing from them that their luck,
and even his own, depended upon the cast
of the dice.

Arrived at the foot of the back stairs,
he desired them to wait. If the king was
still irritated against them, they would
depart without being seen; if the king
consented to see them, they would only
have to be called.

On arriving at the king's private
antechamber, M. de Treville found La
Chesnaye, who informed him that they had
not been able to find M. de la
Tremouille on the preceding evening at
his hotel, that he returned too late to
present himself at the Louvre, that he
had only that moment arrived and that he
was at that very hour with the king.

This circumstance pleased M. de Treville
much, as he thus became certain that no
foreign suggestion could insinuate
itself between M. de la Tremouille's
testimony and himself.

In fact, ten minutes had scarcely passed
away when the door of the king's closet
opened, and M. de Treville saw M. de la
Tremouille come out.  The duke came
straight up to him, and said: "Monsieur
de Treville, his Majesty has just sent
for me in order to inquire respecting
the circumstances which took place
yesterday at my hotel.  I have told him
the truth; that is to say, that the
fault lay with my people, and that I was
ready to offer you my excuses.  Since I
have the good fortune to meet you, I beg
you to receive them, and to hold me
always as one of your friends."

"Monsieur the Duke," said M. de
Treville, "I was so confident of your
loyalty that I required no other
defender before his Majesty than
yourself.  I find that I have not been
mistaken, and I thank you that there is
still one man in France of whom may be
said, without disappointment, what I
have said of you."

"That's well said," cried the king, who
had heard all these compliments through
the open door; "only tell him, Treville,
since he wishes to be considered your
friend, that I also wish to be one of
his, but he neglects me; that it is
nearly three years since I have seen
him, and that I never do see him unless
I send for him.  Tell him all this for
me, for these are things which a king
cannot say for himself."

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

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

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

"Yes, yes, let them come up immediately.
It is nearly eight o'clock, and at nine
I expect a visit.  Go, Monsieur Duke,
and return often.  Come in, Treville."

The Duke saluted and retired.  At the
moment he opened the door, the three
Musketeers and D'Artagnan, conducted by
La Chesnaye, appeared at the top of the
staircase.

"Come in, my braves," said the king,
"come in; I am going to scold you."

The Musketeers advanced, bowing,
D'Artagnan following closely behind
them.

"What the devil!" continued the king. 
"Seven of his Eminence's Guards placed
HORS DE COMBAT by you four in two days! 
That's too many, gentlemen, too many! 
If you go on so, his Eminence will be
forced to renew his company in three
weeks, and I to put the edicts in force
in all their rigor.  One now and then I
don't say much about; but seven in two
days, I repeat, it is too many, it is
far too many!"

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

"Quite contrite and repentant!  Hem!"
said the king.  "I place no confidence
in their hypocritical faces.  In
particular, there is one yonder of a
Gascon look.  Come hither, monsieur."

D'Artagnan, who understood that it was
to him this compliment was addressed,
approached, assuming a most deprecating
air.

"Why you told me he was a young man? 
This is a boy, Treville, a mere boy!  Do
you mean to say that it was he who
bestowed that severe thrust at Jussac?"

"And those two equally fine thrusts at
Bernajoux."

"Truly!"

"Without reckoning," said Athos, "that
if he had not rescued me from the hands
of Cahusac, I should not now have the
honor of making my very humble reverence
to your Majesty."

"Why he is a very devil, this Bearnais! 
VENTRE-SAINT-GRIS, Monsieur de Treville,
as the king my father would have said. 
But at this sort of work, many doublets
must be slashed and many swords broken. 
Now, Gascons are always poor, are they
not?"

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

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

D'Artagnan related the adventure of the
preceding day in all its details; how,
not having been able to sleep for the
joy he felt in the expectation of seeing
his Majesty, he had gone to his three
friends three hours before the hour of
audience; how they had gone together to
the tennis court, and how, upon the fear
he had manifested lest he receive a ball
in the face, he had been jeered at by
Bernajoux who had nearly paid for his
jeer with his life and M. de la
Tremouille, who had nothing to do with
the matter, with the loss of his hotel.

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

"If your Majesty is so," said Treville,
"we are."

"Oh, yes; I am," added the king, taking
a handful of gold from La Chesnaye, and
putting it into the hand of D'Artagnan. 
"Here," said he, "is a proof of my
satisfaction."

At this epoch, the ideas of pride which
are in fashion in our days did not
prevail.  A gentleman received, from
hand to hand, money from the king, and
was not the least in the world
humiliated.  D'Artagnan put his forty
pistoles into his pocket without any
scruple--on the contrary, thanking his
Majesty greatly.

"There," said the king, looking at a
clock, "there, now, as it is half past
eight, you may retire; for as I told
you, I expect someone at nine.  Thanks
for your devotedness, gentlemen.  I may
continue to rely upon it, may I not?"

"Oh, sire!" cried the four companions,
with one voice, "we would allow
ourselves to be cut to pieces in your
Majesty's service."

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

The king waved his hand to Treville, who
left him and rejoined the Musketeers,
whom he found sharing the forty pistoles
with D'Artagnan.

The cardinal, as his Majesty had said,
was really furious, so furious that
during eight days he absented himself
from the king's gaming table.  This did
not prevent the king from being as
complacent to him as possible whenever
he met him, or from asking in the
kindest tone, "Well, Monsieur Cardinal,
how fares it with that poor Jussac and
that poor Bernajoux of yours?"



7 THE INTERIOR OF "THE MUSKETEERS"

When D'Artagnan was out of the Louvre,
and consulted his friends upon the use
he had best make of his share of the
forty pistoles, Athos advised him to
order a good repast at the Pomme-de-Pin,
Porthos to engage a lackey, and Aramis
to provide himself with a suitable
mistress.

The repast was carried into effect that
very day, and the lackey waited at
table.  The repast had been ordered by
Athos, and the lackey furnished by
Porthos.  He was a Picard, whom the
glorious Musketeer had picked up on the
Bridge Tournelle, making rings and
plashing in the water.

Porthos pretended that this occupation
was proof of a reflective and
contemplative organization, and he had
brought him away without any other
recommendation.  The noble carriage of
this gentleman, for whom he believed
himself to be engaged, had won
Planchet--that was the name of the
Picard.  He felt a slight
disappointment, however, when he saw
that this place was already taken by a
compeer named Mousqueton, and when
Porthos signified to him that the state
of his household, though great, would
not support two servants, and that he
must enter into the service of
D'Artagnan.  Nevertheless, when he
waited at the dinner given my his
master, and saw him take out a handful
of gold to pay for it, he believed his
fortune made, and returned thanks to
heaven for having thrown him into the
service of such a Croesus.  He preserved
this opinion even after the feast, with
the remnants of which he repaired his
own long abstinence; but when in the
evening he made his master's bed, the
chimeras of Planchet faded away.  The
bed was the only one in the apartment,
which consisted of an antechamber and a
bedroom.  Planchet slept in the
antechamber upon a coverlet taken from
the bed of D'Artagnan, and which
D'Artagnan from that time made shift to
do without.

Athos, on his part, had a valet whom he
had trained in his service in a
thoroughly peculiar fashion, and who was
named Grimaud.  He was very taciturn,
this worthy signor.  Be it understood we
are speaking of Athos.  During the five
or six years that he had lived in the
strictest intimacy with his companions,
Porthos and Aramis, they could remember
having often seen him smile, but had
never heard him laugh.  His words were
brief and expressive, conveying all that
was meant, and no more; no
embellishments, no embroidery, no
arabesques.  His conversation a matter
of fact, without a single romance.

Although Athos was scarcely thirty years
old, and was of great personal beauty
and intelligence of mind, no one knew
whether he had ever had a mistress.  He
never spoke of women.  He certainly did
not prevent others from speaking of them
before him, although it was easy to
perceive that this kind of conversation,
in which he only mingled by bitter words
and misanthropic remarks, was very
disagreeable to him.  His reserve, his
roughness, and his silence made almost
an old man of him.  He had, then, in
order not to disturb his habits,
accustomed Grimaud to obey him upon a
simple gesture or upon a simple movement
of his lips.  He never spoke to him,
except under the most extraordinary
occasions.

Sometimes, Grimaud, who feared his
master as he did fire, while
entertaining a strong attachment to his
person and a great veneration for his
talents, believed he perfectly
understood what he wanted, flew to
execute the order received, and did
precisely the contrary.  Athos then
shrugged his shoulders, and, without
putting himself in a passion, thrashed
Grimaud.  On these days he spoke a
little.

Porthos, as we have seen, had a
character exactly opposite to that of
Athos.  He not only talked much, but he
talked loudly, little caring, we must
render him that justice, whether anybody
listened to him or not.  He talked for
the pleasure of talking and for the
pleasure of hearing himself talk.  He
spoke upon all subjects except the
sciences, alleging in this respect the
inveterate hatred he had borne to
scholars from his childhood. He had not
so noble an air as Athos, and the
commencement of their intimacy often
rendered him unjust toward that
gentleman, whom he endeavored to eclipse
by his splendid dress.  But with his
simple Musketeer's uniform and nothing
but the manner in which he threw back
his head and advanced his foot, Athos
instantly took the place which was his
due and consigned the ostentatious
Porthos to the second rank.  Porthos
consoled himself by filling the
antechamber of M. de Treville and the
guardroom of the Louvre with the
accounts of his love scrapes, after
having passed from professional ladies
to military ladies, from the lawyer's
dame to the baroness, there was question
of nothing less with Porthos than a
foreign princess, who was enormously
fond of him.

An old proverb says, "Like master, like
man."  Let us pass, then, from the valet
of Athos to the valet of Porthos, from
Grimaud to Mousqueton.

Mousqueton was a Norman, whose pacific
name of Boniface his master had changed
into the infinitely more sonorous name
of Mousqueton.  He had entered the
service of Porthos upon condition that
he should only be clothed and lodged,
though in a handsome manner; but he
claimed two hours a day to himself,
consecrated to an employment which would
provide for his other wants.  Porthos
agreed to the bargain; the thing suited
him wonderfully well.  He had doublets
cut out of his old clothes and cast-off
cloaks for Mousqueton, and thanks to a
very intelligent tailor, who made his
clothes look as good as new by turning
them, and whose wife was suspected of
wishing to make Porthos descend from his
aristocratic habits, Mousqueton made a
very good figure when attending on his
master.

As for Aramis, of whom we believe we
have sufficiently explained the
character--a character which, like that
of his lackey was called Bazin.  Thanks
to the hopes which his master
entertained of someday entering into
orders, he was always clothed in black,
as became the servant of a churchman. 
He was a Berrichon, thirty-five or forty
years old, mild, peaceable, sleek,
employing the leisure his master left
him in the perusal of pious works,
providing rigorously for two a dinner of
few dishes, but excellent.  For the
rest, he was dumb, blind, and deaf, and
of unimpeachable fidelity.

And now that we are acquainted,
superficially at least, with the masters
and the valets, let us pass on to the
dwellings occupied by each of them.

Athos dwelt in the Rue Ferou, within two
steps of the Luxembourg. His apartment
consisted of two small chambers, very
nicely fitted up, in a furnished house,
the hostess of which, still young and
still really handsome, cast tender
glances uselessly at him. Some fragments
of past splendor appeared here and there
upon the walls of this modest lodging; a
sword, for example, richly embossed,
which belonged by its make to the times
of Francis I, the hilt of which alone,
encrusted with precious stones, might be
worth two hundred pistoles, and which,
nevertheless, in his moments of greatest
distress Athos had never pledged or
offered for sale.  It had long been an
object of ambition for Porthos. Porthos
would have given ten years of his life
to possess this sword.

One day, when he had an appointment with
a duchess, he endeavored even to borrow
it of Athos.  Athos, without saying
anything, emptied his pockets, got
together all his jewels, purses,
aiguillettes, and gold chains, and
offered them all to Porthos; but as to
the sword, he said it was sealed to its
place and should never quit it until its
master should himself quit his lodgings.
In addition to the sword, there was a
portrait representing a nobleman of the
time of Henry III, dressed with the
greatest elegance, and who wore the
Order of the Holy Ghost; and this
portrait had certain resemblances of
lines with Athos, certain family
likenesses which indicated that this
great noble, a knight of the Order of
the King, was his ancestor.

Besides these, a casket of magnificent
goldwork, with the same arms as the
sword and the portrait, formed a middle
ornament to the mantelpiece, and
assorted badly with the rest of the
furniture.  Athos always carried the key
of this coffer about him; but he one day
opened it before Porthos, and Porthos
was convinced that this coffer contained
nothing but letters and papers--love
letters and family papers, no doubt.

Porthos lived in an apartment, large in
size and of very sumptuous appearance,
in the Rue du Vieux-Colombier.  Every
time he passed with a friend before his
windows, at one of which Mousqueton was
sure to be placed in full livery,
Porthos raised his head and his hand,
and said, "That is my abode!"  But he
was never to be found at home; he never
invited anybody to go up with him, and
no one could form an idea of what his
sumptuous apartment contained in the
shape of real riches.

As to Aramis, he dwelt in a little
lodging composed of a boudoir, an eating
room, and a bedroom, which room,
situated, as the others were, on the
ground floor, looked out upon a little
fresh green garden, shady and
impenetrable to the eyes of his
neighbors.

With regard to D'Artagnan, we know how
he was lodged, and we have already made
acquaintance with his lackey, Master
Planchet.

D'Artagnan, who was by nature very
curious--as people generally are who
possess the genius of intrigue--did all
he could to make out who Athos, Porthos,
and Aramis really were (for under these
pseudonyms each of these young men
concealed his family name)-- Athos in
particular, who, a league away, savored
of nobility.  He addressed himself then
to Porthos to gain information
respecting Athos and Aramis, and to
Aramis in order to learn something of
Porthos.

Unfortunately Porthos knew nothing of
the life of his silent companion but
what revealed itself.  It was said Athos
had met with great crosses in love, and
that a frightful treachery had forever
poisoned the life of this gallant man. 
What could this treachery be?  All the
world was ignorant of it.

As to Porthos, except his real name (as
was the case with those of his two
comrades), his life was very easily
known.  Vain and indiscreet, it was as
easy to see through him as through a
crystal.  The only thing to mislead the
investigator would have been belief in
all the good things he said of himself.

With respect to Aramis, though having
the air of having nothing secret about
him, he was a young fellow made up of
mysteries, answering little to questions
put to him about others, and having
learned from him the report which
prevailed concerning the success of the
Musketeer with a princess, wished to
gain a little insight into the amorous
adventures of his interlocutor.  "And
you, my dear companion," said he, "you
speak of the baronesses, countesses, and
princesses of others?"

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

"Oh, I don't doubt that," replied
D'Artagnan; "but it seems to me that you
are tolerably familiar with coats of
arms--a certain embroidered
handkerchief, for instance, to which I
owe the honor of your acquaintance?"

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

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

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

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

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

Aramis held out his hand in a cordial
manner to his young companion, and took
leave of him.

Notwithstanding all the pains he took,
D'Artagnan was unable to learn any more
concerning his three new-made friends. 
He formed, therefore, the resolution of
believing for the present all that was
said of their past, hoping for more
certain and extended revelations in the
future.  In the meanwhile, he looked
upon Athos as an Achilles, Porthos as an
Ajax, and Aramis as a Joseph.

As to the rest, the life of the four
young friends was joyous enough.  Athos
played, and that as a rule
unfortunately. Nevertheless, he never
borrowed a sou of his companions,
although his purse was ever at their
service; and when he had played upon
honor, he always awakened his creditor
by six o'clock the next morning to pay
the debt of the preceding evening.

Porthos had his fits.  On the days when
he won he was insolent and ostentatious;
if he lost, he disappeared completely
for several days, after which he
reappeared with a pale face and thinner
person, but with money in his purse.

As to Aramis, he never played.  He was
the worst Musketeer and the most
unconvivial companion imaginable.  He
had always something or other to do. 
Sometimes in the midst of dinner, when
everyone, under the attraction of wine
and in the warmth of conversation,
believed they had two or three hours
longer to enjoy themselves at table,
Aramis looked at his watch, arose with a
bland smile, and took leave of the
company, to go, as he said, to consult a
casuist with whom he had an appointment.
At other times he would return home to
write a treatise, and requested his
friends not to disturb him.

At this Athos would smile, with his
charming, melancholy smile, which so
became his noble countenance, and
Porthos would drink, swearing that
Aramis would never be anything but a
village CURE.

Planchet, D'Artagnan's valet, supported
his good fortune nobly. He received
thirty sous per day, and for a month he
returned to his lodgings gay as a
chaffinch, and affable toward his
master. When the wind of adversity began
to blow upon the housekeeping of the Rue
des Fossoyeurs--that is to say, when the
forty pistoles of King Louis XIII were
consumed or nearly so--he commenced
complaints which Athos thought nauseous,
Porthos indecent, and Aramis ridiculous.
Athos counseled D'Artagnan to dismiss
the fellow; Porthos was of opinion that
he should give him a good thrashing
first; and Aramis contended that a
master should never attend to anything
but the civilities paid to him.

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

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

D'Artagnan did reflect, and resolved to
thrash Planchet provisionally; which he
did with the conscientiousness that
D'Artagnan carried into everything. 
After having well beaten him, he forbade
him to leave his service without his
permission. "For," added he, "the future
cannot fail to mend; I inevitably look
for better times.  Your fortune is
therefore made if you remain with me,
and I am too good a master to allow you
to miss such a chance by granting you
the dismissal you require."

This manner of acting roused much
respect for D'Artagnan's policy among
the Musketeers.  Planchet was equally
seized with admiration, and said no more
about going away.

The life of the four young men had
become fraternal.  D'Artagnan, who had
no settled habits of his own, as he came
from his province into the midst of his
world quite new to him, fell easily into
the habits of his friends.

They rose about eight o'clock in the
winter, about six in summer, and went to
take the countersign and see how things
went on at M. de Treville's. 
D'Artagnan, although he was not a
Musketeer, performed the duty of one
with remarkable punctuality.  He went on
guard because he always kept company
with whoever of his friends was on duty.
He was well known at the Hotel of the
Musketeers, where everyone considered
him a good comrade.  M. de Treville, who
had appreciated him at the first glance
and who bore him a real affection, never
ceased recommending him to the king.

On their side, the three Musketeers were
much attached to their young comrade. 
The friendship which united these four
men, and the need they felt of seeing
another three or four times a day,
whether for dueling, business, or
pleasure, caused them to be continually
running after one another like shadows;
and the Inseparables were constantly to
be met with seeking one another, from
the Luxembourg to the Place St. Sulpice,
or from the Rue du Vieux-Colombier to
the Luxembourg.

In the meanwhile the promises of M. de
Treville went on prosperously.  One fine
morning the king commanded M. de
Chevalier Dessessart to admit D'Artagnan
as a cadet in his company of Guards. 
D'Artagnan, with a sigh, donned his
uniform, which he would have exchanged
for that of a Musketeer at the expense
of ten years of his existence.  But M.
de Treville promised this favor after a
novitiate of two years--a novitiate
which might besides be abridged if an
opportunity should present itself for
D'Artagnan to render the king any signal
service, or to distinguish himself by
some brilliant action.  Upon this
promise D'Artagnan withdrew, and the
next day he began service.

Then it became the turn of Athos,
Porthos, and Aramis to mount guard with
D'Artagnan when he was on duty.  The
company of M. le Chevalier Dessessart
thus received four instead of one when
it admitted D'Artagnan.



8 CONCERNING A COURT INTRIGUE

In the meantime, the forty pistoles of
King Louis XIII, like all other things
of this world, after having had a
beginning had an end, and after this end
our four companions began to be somewhat
embarrassed.  At first, Athos supported
the association for a time with his own
means.

Porthos succeeded him; and thanks to one
of those disappearances to which he was
accustomed, he was able to provide for
the wants of all for a fortnight.  At
last it became Aramis's turn, who
performed it with a good grace and who
succeeded--as he said, by selling some
theological books--in procuring a few
pistoles.

Then, as they had been accustomed to do,
they had recourse to M. de Treville, who
made some advances on their pay; but
these advances could not go far with
three Musketeers who were already much
in arrears and a Guardsman who as yet
had no pay at all.

At length when they found they were
likely to be really in want, they got
together, as a last effort, eight or ten
pistoles, with which Porthos went to the
gaming table.  Unfortunately he was in a
bad vein; he lost all, together with
twenty-five pistoles for which he had
given his word.

Then the inconvenience became distress. 
The hungry friends, followed by their
lackeys, were seen haunting the quays
and Guard rooms, picking up among their
friends abroad all the dinners they
could meet with; for according to the
advice of Aramis, it was prudent to sow
repasts right and left in prosperity, in
order to reap a few in time of need.

Athos was invited four times, and each
time took his friends and their lackeys
with him.  Porthos had six occasions,
and contrived in the same manner that
his friends should partake of them;
Aramis had eight of them.  He was a man,
as must have been already perceived, who
made but little noise, and yet was much
sought after.

As to D'Artagnan, who as yet knew nobody
in the capital, he only found one
chocolate breakfast at the house of a
priest of his own province, and one
dinner at the house of a cornet of the
Guards. He took his army to the
priest's, where they devoured as much
provision as would have lasted him for
two months, and to the cornet's, who
performed wonders; but as Planchet said,
"People do not eat at once for all time,
even when they eat a good deal."

D'Artagnan thus felt himself humiliated
in having only procured one meal and a
half for his companions--as the
breakfast at the priest's could only be
counted as half a repast--in return for
the feasts which Athos, Porthos, and
Aramis had procured him.  He fancied
himself a burden to the society,
forgetting in his perfectly juvenile
good faith that he had fed this society
for a month; and he set his mind
actively to work.  He reflected that
this coalition of four young, brave,
enterprising, and active men ought to
have some other object than swaggering
walks, fencing lessons, and practical
jokes, more or less witty.

In fact, four men such as they
were--four men devoted to one another,
from their purses to their lives; four
men always supporting one another, never
yielding, executing singly or together
the resolutions formed in common; four
arms threatening the four cardinal
points, or turning toward a single
point--must inevitably, either
subterraneously, in open day, by mining,
in the trench, by cunning, or by force,
open themselves a way toward the object
they wished to attain, however well it
might be defended, or however distant it
may seem.  The only thing that
astonished D'Artagnan was that his
friends had never thought of this.

He was thinking by himself, and even
seriously racking his brain to find a
direction for this single force four
times multiplied, with which he did not
doubt, as with the lever for which
Archimedes sought, they should succeed
in moving the world, when someone tapped
gently at his door.  D'Artagnan awakened
Planchet and ordered him to open it.

From this phrase, "D'Artagnan awakened
Planchet," the reader must not suppose
it was night, or that day was hardly
come.  No, it had just struck four. 
Planchet, two hours before, had asked
his master for some dinner, and he had
answered him with the proverb, "He who
sleeps, dines."  And Planchet dined by
sleeping.

A man was introduced of simple mien, who
had the appearance of a tradesman. 
Planchet, by way of dessert, would have
liked to hear the conversation; but the
citizen declared to D'Artagnan that what
he had to say being important and
confidential, he desired to be left
alone with him.

D'Artagnan dismissed Planchet, and
requested his visitor to be seated. 
There was a moment of silence, during
which the two men looked at each other,
as if to make a preliminary
acquaintance, after which D'Artagnan
bowed, as a sign that he listened.

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

"Speak, monsieur, speak," said
D'Artagnan, who instinctively scented
something advantageous.

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

"Well, monsieur?" asked D'Artagnan.

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

"And by whom was your wife abducted?"

"I know nothing surely, monsieur, but I
suspect someone."

"And who is the person whom you
suspect?"

"A man who has persued her a long time."

"The devil!"

"But allow me to tell you, monsieur,"
continued the citizen, "that I am
convinced that there is less love than
politics in all this."

"Less love than politics," replied
D'Artagnan, with a reflective air; "and
what do you suspect?"

"I do not know whether I ought to tell
you what I suspect."

"Monsieur, I beg you to observe that I
ask you absolutely nothing.  It is you
who have come to me.  It is you who have
told me that you had a secret to confide
in me.  Act, then, as you think proper;
there is still time to withdraw."

"No, monsieur, no; you appear to be an
honest young man, and I will have
confidence in you.  I believe, then,
that it is not on account of any
intrigues of her own that my wife has
been arrested, but because of those of a
lady much greater than herself."

"Ah, ah!  Can it be on account of the
amours of Madame de Bois-Tracy?" said
D'Artagnan, wishing to have the air, in
the eyes of the citizen, of being posted
as to court affairs."

"Higher, monsieur, higher."

"Of Madame d'Aiguillon?"

"Still higher."

"Of Madame de Chevreuse?"

"Of the--" D'Artagnan checked himself.

"Yes, monsieur," replied the terrified
citizen, in a tone so low that he was
scarcely audible.

"And with whom?"

"With whom can it be, if not the Duke
of--"

"The Duke of--"

"Yes, monsieur," replied the citizen,
giving a still fainter intonation to his
voice.

"But how do you know all this?"

"How do I know it?"

"Yes, how do you know it?  No
half-confidence, or--you understand!"

"I know it from my wife, monsieur--from
my wife herself."

"Who learns it from whom?"

"From Monsieur Laporte.  Did I not tell
you that she was the goddaughter of
Monsieur Laporte, the confidential man
of the queen?  Well, Monsieur Laporte
placed her near her Majesty in order
that our poor queen might at least have
someone in whom she could place
confidence, abandoned as she is by the
king, watched as she is by the cardinal,
betrayed as she is by everybody."

"Ah, ah!  It begins to develop itself,"
said D'Artagnan.

"Now, my wife came home four days ago,
monsieur.  One of her conditions was
that she should come and see me twice a
week; for, as I had the honor to tell
you, my wife loves me dearly--my wife,
then, came and confided to me that the
queen at that very moment entertained
great fears."

"Truly!"

"Yes.  The cardinal, as it appears,
pursues he and persecutes her more than
ever.  He cannot pardon her the history
of the Saraband.  You know the history
of the Saraband?"

"PARDIEU!  Know it!" replied D'Artagnan,
who knew nothing about it, but who
wished to appear to know everything that
was going on.

"So that now it is no longer hatred, but
vengeance."

"Indeed!"

"And the queen believes--"

"Well, what does the queen believe?"

"She believes that someone has written
to the Duke of Buckingham in her name."

"In the queen's name?"

"Yes, to make him come to Paris; and
when once come to Paris, to draw him
into some snare."

"The devil!  But your wife, monsieur,
what has she to do with all this?"

"Her devotion to the queen is known; and
they wish either to remove her from her
mistress, or to intimidate her, in order
to obtain her Majesty's secrets, or to
seduce her and make use of her as a
spy."

"That is likely," said D'Artagnan; "but
the man who has abducted her--do you
know him?"

"I have told you that I believe I know
him."

"His name?"

"I do not know that; what I do know is
that he is a creature of the cardinal,
his evil genius."

"But you have seen him?"

"Yes, my wife pointed him out to me one
day."

'Has he anything remarkable about him by
which one may recognize him?"

"Oh, certainly; he is a noble of very
lofty carriage, black hair, swarthy
complexion, piercing eye, white teeth,
and has a scar on his temple."

"A scar on his temple!" cried
D'Artagnan; "and with that, white teeth,
a piercing eye, dark complexion, black
hair, and haughty carriage--why, that's
my man of Meung."

"He is your man, do you say?"

"Yes, yes; but that has nothing to do
with it.  No, I am wrong. On the
contrary, that simplifies the matter
greatly.  If your man is mine, with one
blow I shall obtain two revenges, that's
all; but where to find this man?"

"I know not."

"Have you no information as to his
abiding place?"

"None.  One day, as I was conveying my
wife back to the Louvre, he was coming
out as she was going in, and she showed
him to me."

"The devil!  The devil!" murmured
D'Artagnan; "all this is vague enough. 
From whom have you learned of the
abduction of your wife?"

"From Monsieur Laporte."

"Did he give you any details?"

"He knew none himself."

"And you have learned nothing from any
other quarter?"

"Yes, I have received--"

"What?"

"I fear I am committing a great
imprudence."

"You always come back to that; but I
must make you see this time that it is
too late to retreat."

"I do not retreat, MORDIEU!" cried the
citizen, swearing in order to rouse his
courage.  "Besides, by the faith of
Bonacieux--"

"You call yourself Bonacieux?"
interrupted D'Artagnan.

"Yes, that is my name."

"You said, then, by the word of
Bonacieux.  Pardon me for interrupting
you, but it appears to me that that name
is familiar to me."

"Possibly, monsieur. I am your
landlord."

"Ah, ah!" said D'Artagnan, half rising
and bowing; "you are my landlord?"

"Yes, monsieur, yes.  And as it is three
months since you have been here, and
though, distracted as you must be in
your important occupations, you have
forgotten to pay me my rent--as, I say,
I have not tormented you a single
instant, I thought you would appreciate
my delicacy."

"How can it be otherwise, my dear
Bonacieux?" replied D'Artagnan; "trust
me, I am fully grateful for such
unparalleled conduct, and if, as I told
you, I can be of any service to you--"

"I believe you, monsieur, I believe you;
and as I was about to say, by the word
of Bonacieux, I have confidence in you."

"Finish, then, what you were about to
say."

The citizen took a paper from his
pocket, and presented it to D'Artagnan.

"A letter?" said the young man.

"Which I received this morning."

D'Artagnan opened it, and as the day was
beginning to decline, he approached the
window to read it.  The citizen followed
him.

"'Do not seek your wife,'" read
D'Artagnan; "'she will be restored to
you when there is no longer occasion for
her. If you make a single step to find
her you are lost.'

"That's pretty positive," continued
D'Artagnan; "but after all, it is but a
menace."

"Yes; but that menace terrifies me.  I
am not a fighting man at all, monsieur,
and I am afraid of the Bastille."

"Hum!" said D'Artagnan.  "I have no
greater regard for the Bastille than
you.  If it were nothing but a sword
thrust, why then--"

"I have counted upon you on this
occasion, monsieur."

"Yes?"

"Seeing you constantly surrounded by
Musketeers of a very superb appearance,
and knowing that these Musketeers belong
to Monsieur de Treville, and were
consequently enemies of the cardinal, I
thought that you and your friends, while
rendering justice to your poor queen,
would be pleased to play his Eminence an
ill turn."

"Without doubt."

"And then I have thought that
considering three months' lodging, about
which I have said nothing--"

"Yes, yes; you have already given me
that reason, and I find it excellent."

"Reckoning still further, that as long
as you do me the honor to remain in my
house I shall never speak to you about
rent--"

"Very kind!"

"And adding to this, if there be need of
it, meaning to offer you fifty pistoles,
if, against all probability, you should
be short at the present moment."

"Admirable!  You are rich then, my dear
Monsieur Bonacieux?"

"I am comfortably off, monsieur, that's
all; I have scraped together some such
thing as an income of two or three
thousand crown in the haberdashery
business, but more particularly in
venturing some funds in the last voyage
of the celebrated navigator Jean Moquet;
so that you understand, monsieur--But"
cried the citizen.

"What!" demanded D'Artagnan.

"Whom do I see yonder?"

"Where?"

"In the street, facing your window, in
the embrasure of that door--a man
wrapped in a cloak."

"It is he!" cried D'Artagnan and the
citizen at the same time, each having
recognized his man.

"Ah, this time," cried D'Artagnan,
springing to his sword, "this time he
will not escape me!"

Drawing his sword from its scabbard, he
rushed out of the apartment.  On the
staircase he met Athos and Porthos, who
were coming to see him.  They separated,
and D'Artagnan rushed between them like
a dart.

"Pah!  Where are you going?" cried the
two Musketeers in a breath.

"The man of Meung!" replied D'Artagnan,
and disappeared.

D'Artagnan had more than once related to
his friends his adventure with the
stranger, as well as the apparition of
the beautiful foreigner, to whom this
man had confided some important missive.

The opinion of Athos was that D'Artagnan
had lost his letter in the skirmish.  A
gentleman, in his opinion--and according
to D'Artagnan's portrait of him, the
stranger must be a gentleman-- would be
incapable of the baseness of stealing a
letter.

Porthos saw nothing in all this but a
love meeting, given by a lady to a
cavalier, or by a cavalier to a lady,
which had been disturbed by the presence
of D'Artagnan and his yellow horse.

Aramis said that as these sorts of
affairs were mysterious, it was better
not to fathom them.

They understood, then, from the few
words which escaped from D'Artagnan,
what affair was in hand, and as they
thought that overtaking his man, or
losing sight of him, D'Artagnan would
return to his rooms, they kept on their
way.

When they entered D'Artagan's chamber,
it was empty; the landlord, dreading the
consequences of the encounter which was
doubtless about to take place between
the young man and the stranger, had,
consistent with the character he had
given himself, judged it prudent to
decamp.



9 D'ARTAGNAN SHOWS HIMSELF

As Athos and Porthos had foreseen, at
the expiration of a half hour,
D'Artagnan returned.  He had again
missed his man, who had disappeared as
if by enchantment.  D'Artagnan had run,
sword in hand, through all the
neighboring streets, but had found
nobody resembling the man he sought for.
Then he came back to the point where,
perhaps, he ought to have begun, and
that was to knock at the door against
which the stranger had leaned; but this
proved useless--for though he knocked
ten or twelve times in succession, no
one answered, and some of the neighbors,
who put their noses out of their windows
or were brought to their doors by the
noise, had assured him that that house,
all the openings of which were tightly
closed, had not been inhabited for six
months.

While D'Artagnan was running through the
streets and knocking at doors, Aramis
had joined his companions; so that on
returning home D'Artagnan found the
reunion complete.

"Well!" cried the three Musketeers all
together, on seeing D'Artagnan enter
with his brow covered with perspiration
and his countenance upset with anger.

"Well!" cried he, throwing his sword
upon the bed, "this man must be the
devil in person; he has disappeared like
a phantom, like a shade, like a
specter."

"Do you believe in apparitions?" asked
Athos of Porthos.

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

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

"At all events, man or devil, body or
shadow, illusion or reality, this man is
born for my damnation; for his flight
has caused us to miss a glorious affair,
gentlemen--an affair by which there were
a hundred pistoles, and perhaps more, to
be gained."

"How is that?" cried Porthos and Aramis
in a breath.

As to Athos, faithful to his system of
reticence, he contented himself with
interrogating D'Artagnan by a look.

"Planchet," said D'Artagnan to his
domestic, who just then insinuated his
head through the half-open door in order
to catch some fragments of the
conversation, "go down to my landlord,
Monsieur Bonacieux, and ask him to send
me half a dozen bottles of Beaugency
wine; I prefer that."

"Ah, ah!  You have credit with your
landlord, then?" asked Porthos.

"Yes," replied D'Artagnan, "from this
very day; and mind, if the wine is bad,
we will send him to find better."

"We must use, and not abuse," said
Aramis, sententiously.

"I always said that D'Artagnan had the
longest head of the four," said Athos,
who, having uttered his opinion, to
which D'Artagnan replied with a bow,
immediately resumed his accustomed
silence.

"But come, what is this about?" asked
Porthos.

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

"Be satisfied," replied D'Artagnan; "the
honor of no one will have cause to
complain of what I have to tell.

He then related to his friends, word for
word, all that had passed between him
and his host, and how the man who had
abducted the wife of his worthy landlord
was the same with whom he had had the
difference at the hostelry of the Jolly
Miller.

"Your affair is not bad," said Athos,
after having tasted like a connoisseur
and indicated by a nod of his head that
he thought the wine good; "and one may
draw fifty or sixty pistoles from this
good man.  Then there only remains to
ascertain whether these fifty or sixty
pistoles are worth the risk of four
heads."

"But observe," cried D'Artagnan, "that
there is a woman in the affair--a woman
carried off, a woman who is doubtless
threatened, tortured perhaps, and all
because she is faithful to her
mistress."

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

At this speech of Aramis, the brow of
Athos became clouded and he bit his
lips.

"It is not Madame Bonacieux about whom I
am anxious," cried D'Artagnan, "but the
queen, whom the king abandons, whom the
cardinal persecutes, and who sees the
heads of all her friends fall, one after
the other."

"Why does she love what we hate most in
the world, the Spaniards and the
English?"

"Spain is her country," replied
D'Artagnan; "and it is very natural that
she should love the Spanish, who are the
children of the same soil as herself. 
As to the second reproach, I have heard
it said that she does not love the
English, but an Englishman."

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

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

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

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

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

*Haberdasher

"She is afraid so."

"Wait a minute, then," said Aramis.

"What for?" demanded Porthos.

"Go on, while I endeavor to recall
circumstances."

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

"The Gascon is full of ideas," said
Porthos, with admiration.

"I like to hear him talk," said Athos;
"his dialect amuses me."

"Gentlemen," cried Aramis, "listen to
this."

"Listen to Aramis," said his three
friends.

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

Athos smiled.

"He resides in a quiet quarter,"
continued Aramis; "his tastes and his
profession require it.  Now, at the
moment when I left his house--"

Here Aramis paused.

"Well," cried his auditors; "at the
moment you left his house?"

Aramis appeared to make a strong inward
effort, like a man who, in the full
relation of a falsehood, finds himself
stopped by some unforeseen obstacle; but
the eyes of his three companions were
fixed upon him, their ears were wide
open, and there were no means of
retreat.

"This doctor has a niece," continued
Aramis.

"Ah, he has a niece!" interrupted
Porthos.

"A very respectable lady," said Aramis.

The three friends burst into laughter.

"Ah, if you laugh, if you doubt me,"
replied Aramis, "you shall know
nothing."

"We believe like Mohammedans, and are as
mute as tombstones," said Athos.

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

"Ah!  She has a carriage, then, this
niece of the doctor?" interrupted
Porthos, one of whose faults was a great
looseness of tongue.  "A nice
acquaintance, my friend!"

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

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," cried
D'Artagnan, who began to get a glimpse
of the result of the adventure, "the
thing is serious. Let us try not to
jest, if we can.  Go on Aramis, go on."

"All at once, a tall, dark
gentleman--just like yours, D'Artagnan."

"The same, perhaps," said he.

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

"The doctor's niece?"

"Hold your tongue, Porthos," said Athos;
"you are insupportable."

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

"He took you for Buckingham!" cried
D'Artagnan.

"I believe so," replied Aramis.

"But the lady?" asked Porthos.

"He took her for the queen!" said
D'Artagnan.

"Just so," replied Aramis.

"The Gascon is the devil!" cried Athos;
"nothing escapes him."

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

"I wore an enormous cloak," said Aramis.

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

"I can comprehend that the spy may have
been deceived by the person; but the
face--"

"I had a large hat," said Aramis.

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

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," said D'Artagnan,
"do not let us lose our time in jesting.
Let us separate, and let us seek the
mercer's wife--that is the key of the
intrigue."

"A woman of such inferior condition! 
Can you believe so?" said Porthos,
protruding his lips with contempt.

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

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

"That's useless," said D'Artagnan; "for
I believe if he does not pay us, we
shall be well enough paid by another
party."

At this moment a sudden noise of
footsteps was heard upon the stairs; the
door was thrown violently open, and the
unfortunate mercer rushed into the
chamber in which the council was held.

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

Porthos and Aramis arose.

"A moment," cried D'Artagnan, making
them a sign to replace in the scabbard
their half-drawn swords.  "It is not
courage that is needed; it is prudence."

"And yet," cried Porthos, "we will not
leave--"

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

At this moment the four Guards appeared
at the door of the antechamber, but
seeing four Musketeers standing, and
their swords by their sides, they
hesitated about going farther.

"Come in, gentlemen, come in," called
D'Artagnan; "you are here in my
apartment, and we are all faithful
servants of the king and cardinal."

"Then, gentlemen, you will not oppose
our executing the orders we have
received?" asked one who appeared to be
the leader of the party.

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

"What does he say?" grumbled Porthos.

"You are a simpleton," said Athos. 
"Silence!"

"But you promised me--" whispered the
poor mercer.

"We can only save you by being free
ourselves," replied D'Artagnan, in a
rapid, low tone; "and if we appear
inclined to defend you, they will arrest
us with you."

"It seems, nevertheless--"

"Come, gentlemen, come!" said
D'Artagnan, aloud; "I have no motive for
defending Monsieur.  I saw him today for
the first time, and he can tell you on
what occasion; he came to demand the
rent of my lodging.  Is that not true,
Monsieur Bonacieux? Answer!"

"That is the very truth," cried the
mercer; "but Monsieur does not tell
you--"

"Silence, with respect to me, silence,
with respect to my friends; silence
about the queen, above all, or you will
ruin everybody without saving yourself! 
Come, come, gentlemen, remove the
fellow."  And D'Artagnan pushed the
half-stupefied mercer among the Guards,
saying to him, "You are a shabby old
fellow, my dear.  You come to demand
money of me--of a Musketeer!  To prison
with him!  Gentlemen, once more, take
him to prison, and keep him under key as
long as possible; that will give me time
to pay him."

The officers were full of thanks, and
took away their prey.  As they were
going down D'Artagnan laid his hand on
the shoulder of their leader.

"May I not drink to your health, and you
to mine?" said D'Artagnan, filling two
glasses with the Beaugency wine which he
had obtained from the liberality of M.
Bonacieux.

"That will do me great honor," said the
leader of the posse, "and I accept
thankfully."

"Then to yours, monsieur--what is your
name?"

"Boisrenard."

"Monsieur Boisrenard."

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

"D'Artagnan."

"To yours, monsieur."

"And above all others," cried
D'Artagnan, as if carried away by his
enthusiasm, "to that of the king and the
cardinal."

The leader of the posse would perhaps
have doubted the sincerity of D'Artagnan
if the wine had been bad; but the wine
was good, and he was convinced.

"What diabolical villainy you have
performed here," said Porthos, when the
officer had rejoined his companions and
the four friends found themselves alone.
"Shame, shame, for four Musketeers to
allow an unfortunate fellow who cried
for help to be arrested in their midst! 
And a gentleman to hobnob with a
bailiff!"

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

"Well, I am in a maze," said Porthos;
"do YOU approve of what D'Artagnan has
done?"

"PARBLEU!  Indeed I do," said Athos; "I
not only approve of what he has done,
but I congratulate him upon it."

"And now, gentlemen," said D'Artagnan,
without stopping to explain his conduct
to Porthos, "All for one, one for
all--that is our motto, is it not?"

"And yet--" said Porthos.

"Hold out your hand and swear!" cried
Athos and Aramis at once.

Overcome by example, grumbling to
himself, nevertheless, Porthos stretched
out his hand, and the four friends
repeated with one voice the formula
dictated by D'Artagnan:

"All for one, one for all."

"That's well!  Now let us everyone
retire to his own home," said
D'Artagnan, as if he had done nothing
but command all his life; "and
attention!  For from this moment we are
at feud with the cardinal."



10 A MOUSETRAP IN THE SEVENTEENTH
CENTURY

The invention of the mousetrap does not
date from our days; as soon as
societies, in forming, had invented any
kind of police, that police invented
mousetraps.

As perhaps our readers are not familiar
with the slang of the Rue de Jerusalem,
and as it is fifteen years since we
applied this word for the first time to
this thing, allow us to explain to them
what is a mousetrap.

When in a house, of whatever kind it may
be, an individual suspected of any crime
is arrested, the arrest is held secret.
Four or five men are placed in ambuscade
in the first room.  The door is opened
to all who knock.  It is closed after
them, and they are arrested; so that at
the end of two or three days they have
in their power almost all the HABITUES
of the establishment. And that is a
mousetrap.

The apartment of M. Bonacieux, then,
became a mousetrap; and whoever appeared
there was taken and interrogated by the
cardinal's people.  It must be observed
that as a separate passage led to the
first floor, in which D'Artagnan lodged,
those who called on him were exempted
from this detention.

Besides, nobody came thither but the
three Musketeers; they had all been
engaged in earnest search and inquiries,
but had discovered nothing.  Athos had
even gone so far as to question M. de
Treville--a thing which, considering the
habitual reticence of the worthy
Musketeer, had very much astonished his
captain.  But M. de Treville knew
nothing, except that the last time he
had seen the cardinal, the king, and the
queen, the cardinal looked very
thoughtful, the king uneasy, and the
redness of the queen's eyes donated that
she had been sleepless or tearful.  But
this last circumstance was not striking,
as the queen since her marriage had
slept badly and wept much.

M. de Treville requested Athos, whatever
might happen, to be observant of his
duty to the king, but particularly to
the queen, begging him to convey his
desires to his comrades.

As to D'Artagnan, he did not budge from
his apartment.  He converted his chamber
into an observatory.  From his windows
he saw all the visitors who were caught.
Then, having removed a plank from his
floor, and nothing remaining but a
simple ceiling between him and the room
beneath, in which the interrogatories
were made, he heard all that passed
between the inquisitors and the accused.

The interrogatories, preceded by a
minute search operated upon the persons
arrested, were almost always framed
thus: "Has Madame Bonacieux sent
anything to you for her husband, or any
other person?  Has Monsieur Bonacieux
sent anything to you for his wife, or
for any other person?  Has either of
them confided anything to you by word of
mouth?"

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

D'Artagnan held onto this idea, which,
from what he had heard, was not wanting
in probability.

In the meantime, the mousetrap continued
in operation, and likewise D'Artagnan's
vigilance.

On the evening of the day after the
arrest of poor Bonacieux, as Athos had
just left D'Artagnan to report at M. de
Treville's, as nine o'clock had just
struck, and as Planchet, who had not yet
made the bed, was beginning his task, a
knocking was heard at the street door. 
The door was instantly opened and shut;
someone was taken in the mousetrap.

D'Artagnan flew to his hole, laid
himself down on the floor at full
length, and listened.

Cries were soon heard, and then moans,
which someone appeared to be endeavoring
to stifle.  There were no questions.

"The devil!" said D'Artagnan to himself.
"It seems like a woman! They search her;
she resists; they use force--the
scoundrels!"

In spite of his prudence, D'Artagnan
restrained himself with great difficulty
from taking a part in the scene that was
going on below.

"But I tell you that I am the mistress
of the house, gentlemen! I tell you I am
Madame Bonacieux; I tell you I belong to
the queen!" cried the unfortunate woman.

"Madame Bonacieux!" murmured D'Artagnan.
"Can I be so lucky as to find what
everybody is seeking for?"

The voice became more and more
indistinct; a tumultuous movement shook
the partition.  The victim resisted as
much as a woman could resist four men.

"Pardon, gentlemen--par--" murmured the
voice, which could now only be heard in
inarticulate sounds.

"They are binding her; they are going to
drag her away," cried D'Artagnan to
himself, springing up from the floor. 
"My sword! Good, it is by my side! 
Planchet!"

"Monsieur."

"Run and seek Athos, Porthos and Aramis.
One of the three will certainly be at
home, perhaps all three.  Tell them to
take arms, to come here, and to run! 
Ah, I remember, Athos is at Monsieur de
Treville's."

"But where are you going, monsieur,
where are you going?"

"I am going down by the window, in order
to be there the sooner," cried
D'Artagnan.  "You put back the boards,
sweep the floor, go out at the door, and
run as I told you."

"Oh, monsieur!  Monsieur!  You will kill
yourself," cried Planchet.

"Hold your tongue, stupid fellow," said
D'Artagnan; and laying hold of the
casement, he let himself gently down
from the first story, which fortunately
was not very elevated, without doing
himself the slightest injury.

He then went straight to the door and
knocked, murmuring, "I will go myself
and be caught in the mousetrap, but woe
be to the cats that shall pounce upon
such a mouse!"

The knocker had scarcely sounded under
the hand of the young man before the
tumult ceased, steps approached, the
door was opened, and D'Artagnan, sword
in hand, rushed into the rooms of M.
Bonacieux, the door of which doubtless
acted upon by a spring, closed after
him.

Then those who dwelt in Bonacieux's
unfortunate house, together with the
nearest neighbors, heard loud cries,
stamping of feet, clashing of swords,
and breaking of furniture.  A moment
after, those who, surprised by this
tumult, had gone to their windows to
learn the cause of it, saw the door
open, and four men, clothed in black,
not COME out of it, but FLY, like so
many frightened crows, leaving on the
ground and on the corners of the
furniture, feathers from their wings;
that is to say, patches of their clothes
and fragments of their cloaks.

D'Artagnan was conqueror--without much
 effort, it must be confessed, for only
 one of the officers was armed, and even
 he defended himself for form's sake. 
 It is true that the three others had
 endeavored to knock the young man down
 with chairs, stools, and crockery; but
 two or three scratches made by the
 Gascon's blade terrified them.  Ten
 minutes sufficed for their defeat, and
 D'Artagnan remained master of the field
 of battle.

The neighbors who had opened their
windows, with the coolness peculiar to
the inhabitants of Paris in these times
of perpetual riots and disturbances,
closed them again as soon as they saw
the four men in black flee--their
instinct telling them that for the time
all was over.  Besides, it began to grow
late, and then, as today, people went to
bed early in the quarter of the
Luxembourg.

On being left alone with Mme. Bonacieux,
D'Artagnan turned toward her; the poor
woman reclined where she had been left,
half-fainting upon an armchair. 
D'Artagnan examined her with a rapid
glance.

She was a charming woman of twenty-five
or twenty-six years, with dark hair,
blue eyes, and a nose slightly turned
up, admirable teeth, and a complexion
marbled with rose and opal.  There,
however, ended the signs which might
have confounded her with a lady of rank.
The hands were white, but without
delicacy; the feet did not bespeak the
woman of quality.  Happily, D'Artagnan
was not yet acquainted with such
niceties.

While D'Artagnan was examining Mme.
Bonacieux, and was, as we have said,
close to her, he saw on the ground a
fine cambric handkerchief, which he
picked up, as was his habit, and at the
corner of which he recognized the same
cipher he had seen on the handkerchief
which had nearly caused him and Aramis
to cut each other's throat.

From that time, D'Artagnan had been
cautious with respect to handkerchiefs
with arms on them, and he therefore
placed in the pocket of Mme. Bonacieux
the one he had just picked up.

At that moment Mme. Bonacieux recovered
her senses.  She opened her eyes, looked
around her with terror, saw that the
apartment was empty and that she was
alone with her liberator.  She extended
her hands to him with a smile.  Mme.
Bonacieux had the sweetest smile in the
world.

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

"Madame," said D'Artagnan, "I have only
done what every gentleman would have
done in my place; you owe me no thanks."

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

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

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

And something like a faint smile lighted
the still-terrified features of the
young woman.

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

"But, monsieur, you know then--"

"I know that you have been abducted,
madame."

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

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

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

"Ah, his name?  I do not know that."

"And did my husband know I had been
carried off?"

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

"And does he suspect," said Mme.
Bonacieux, with some embarrassment, "the
cause of this event?"

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

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

"So far from it, madame, he was too
proud of your prudence, and above all,
of your love."

A second smile, almost imperceptible,
stole over the rosy lips of the pretty
young woman.

"But," continued D'Artagnan, "how did
you escape?"

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

"To place yourself under his
protection?"

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

"Of what?"

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

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

"Yes, yes!  You are right," cried the
affrighted Mme. Bonacieux; "let us fly! 
Let us save ourselves."

At these words she passed her arm under
that of D'Artagnan, and urged him
forward eagerly.

"But whither shall we fly--whither
escape?"

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

The young woman and the young man,
without taking the trouble to shut the
door after them, descended the Rue des
Fossoyeurs rapidly, turned into the Rue
des Fosses-Monsieur-le-Prince, and did
not stop till they came to the Place St.
Sulpice.

"And now what are we to do, and where do
you wish me to conduct you?" asked
D'Artagnan.

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

"But I," said D'Artagnan, "can go and
inform Monsieur Laporte."

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

"Ah, bah!" said D'Artagnan; "you have at
some wicket of the Louvre a CONCIERGE
who is devoted to you, and who, thanks
to a password, would--"

Mme. Bonacieux looked earnestly at the
young man.

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

"By my honor, by the faith of a
gentleman!" said D'Artagnan, with an
accent so truthful that no one could
mistake it.

"Then I believe you.  You appear to be a
brave young man; besides, your fortune
may perhaps be the result of your
devotedness."


"I will do, without a promise and
voluntarily, all that I can do to serve
the king and be agreeable to the queen. 
Dispose of me, then, as a friend."

"But I--where shall I go meanwhile?"

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

"No, I can trust nobody."

"Stop," said D'Artagnan; "we are near
Athos's door.  Yes, here it is."

"Who is this Athos?"

"One of my friends."

"But if he should be at home and see
me?"

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

"But if he should return?"

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

"But that will compromise me sadly, you
know."

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

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

"Rue Ferou, two steps from here."

"Let us go!"

Both resumed their way.  As D'Artagnan
had foreseen, Athos was not within.  He
took the key, which was customarily
given him as one of the family, ascended
the stairs, and introduced Mme.
Bonacieux into the little apartment of
which we have given a description.

"You are at home," said he.  "Remain
here, fasten the door inside, and open
it to nobody unless you hear three taps
like this;" and he tapped thrice--two
taps close together and pretty hard, the
other after an interval, and lighter.

"That is well," said Mme. Bonacieux. 
"Now, in my turn, let me give you my
instructions."

"I am all attention."

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

"Well, and then?"

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

"And what shall I command him?"

"To go and fetch Monsieur Laporte, the
queen's VALET DE CHAMBRE."

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

"You will send him to me."

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

"Do you wish to see me again?"

"Certainly."

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

"I depend upon your word."

"You may."

D'Artagnan bowed to Mme. Bonacieux,
darting at her the most loving glance
that he could possibly concentrate upon
her charming little person; and while he
descended the stairs, he heard the door
closed and double-locked.  In two bounds
he was at the Louvre; as he entered the
wicket of L'Echelle, ten o'clock struck.
All the events we have described had
taken place within a half hour.

Everything fell out as Mme. Bonacieux
prophesied.  On hearing the password,
Germain bowed.  In a few minutes,
Laporte was at the lodge; in two words
D'Artagnan informed him where Mme.
Bonacieux was.  Laporte assured himself,
by having it twice repeated, of the
accurate address, and set off at a run. 
Hardly, however, had he taken ten steps
before he returned.

"Young man," said he to D'Artagnan, "a
suggestion."

"What?"

"You may get into trouble by what has
taken place."

"You believe so?"

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

"Well?"

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

D'Artagnan found his advice prudent.  He
took to his heels, and was soon at M. de
Treville's; but instead of going into
the saloon with the rest of the crowd,
he asked to be introduced to M. de
Treville's office.  As D'Artagnan so
constantly frequented the hotel, no
difficulty was made in complying with
his request, and a servant went to
inform M. de Treville that his young
compatriot, having something important
to communicate, solicited a private
audience.  Five minutes after, M. de
Treville was asking D'Artagnan what he
could do to serve him, and what caused
his visit at so late an hour.

"Pardon me, monsieur," said D'Artagnan,
who had profited by the moment he had
been left alone to put back M. de
Treville's clock three-quarters of an
hour, "but I thought, as it was yet only
twenty-five minutes past nine, it was
not too late to wait upon you."

"Twenty-five minutes past nine!" cried
M. de Treville, looking at the clock;
"why, that's impossible!"

"Look, rather, monsieur," said
D'Artagnan, "the clock shows it."

"That's true," said M. de Treville; "I
believed it later.  But what can I do
for you?"

Then D'Artagnan told M. de Treville a
long history about the queen.  He
expressed to him the fears he
entertained with respect to her Majesty;
he related to him what he had heard of
the projects of the cardinal with regard
to Buckingham, and all with a
tranquillity and candor of which M. de
Treville was the more the dupe, from
having himself, as we have said,
observed something fresh between the
cardinal, the king, and the queen.

As ten o'clock was striking, D'Artagnan
left M. de Treville, who thanked him for
his information, recommended him to have
the service of the king and queen always
at heart, and returned to the saloon;
but at the foot of the stairs,
D'Artagnan remembered he had forgotten
his cane.  He consequently sprang up
again, re-entered the office, with a
turn of his finger set the clock right
again, that it might not be perceived
the next day that it had been put wrong,
and certain from that time that he had a
witness to prove his alibi, he ran
downstairs and soon found himself in the
street.



11 IN WHICH THE PLOT THICKENS

His visit to M. de Treville being paid,
the pensive D'Artagnan took the longest
way homeward.

On what was D'Artagnan thinking, that he
strayed thus from his path, gazing at
the stars of heaven, and sometimes
sighing, sometimes smiling?

He was thinking of Mme. Bonacieux.  For
an apprentice Musketeer the young woman
was almost an ideal of love.  Pretty,
mysterious, initiated in almost all the
secrets of the court, which reflected
such a charming gravity over her
pleasing features, it might be surmised
that she was not wholly unmoved; and
this is an irresistible charm to novices
in love.  Moreover, D'Artagnan had
delivered her from the hands of the
demons who wished to search and ill
treat her; and this important service
had established between them one of
those sentiments of gratitude which so
easily assume a more tender character.

D'Artagnan already fancied himself, so
rapid is the flight of our dreams upon
the wings of imagination, accosted by a
messenger from the young woman, who
brought him some billet appointing a
meeting, a gold chain, or a diamond.  We
have observed that young cavaliers
received presents from their king
without shame.  Let us add that in these
times of lax morality they had no more
delicacy with respect to the mistresses;
and that the latter almost always left
them valuable and durable remembrances,
as if they essayed to conquer the
fragility of their sentiments by the
solidity of their gifts.

Without a blush, men made their way in
the world by the means of women
blushing.  Such as were only beautiful
gave their beauty, whence, without
doubt, comes the proverb, "The most
beautiful girl in the world can only
give what she has."  Such as were rich
gave in addition a part of their money;
and a vast number of heroes of that
gallant period may be cited who would
neither have won their spurs in the
first place, nor their battles
afterward, without the purse, more or
less furnished, which their mistress
fastened to the saddle bow.

D'Artagnan owned nothing.  Provincial
diffidence, that slight varnish, the
ephemeral flower, that down of the
peach, had evaporated to the winds
through the little orthodox counsels
which the three Musketeers gave their
friend.  D'Artagnan, following the
strange custom of the times, considered
himself at Paris as on a campaign,
neither more nor less than if he had
been in Flanders--Spain yonder, woman
here, In each there was an enemy to
contend with, and contributions to be
levied.

But, we must say, at the present moment
D'Artagnan was ruled by a feeling much
more noble and disinterested.  The
mercer had said that he was rich; the
young man might easily guess that with
so weak a man as M. Bonacieux; and
interest was almost foreign to this
commencement of love, which had been the
consequence of it.  We say ALMOST, for
the idea that a young, handsome, kind,
and witty woman is at the same time rich
takes nothing from the beginning of
love, but on the contrary strengthens
it.

There are in affluence a crowd of
aristocratic cares and caprices which
are highly becoming to beauty.  A fine
and white stocking, a silken robe, a
lace kerchief, a pretty slipper on the
foot, a tasty ribbon on the head do not
make an ugly woman pretty, but they make
a pretty woman beautiful, without
reckoning the hands, which gain by all
this; the hands, among women
particularly, to be beautiful must be
idle.

Then D'Artagnan, as the reader, from
whom we have not concealed the state of
his fortune, very well knows--D'Artagnan
was not a millionaire; he hoped to
become one someday, but the time which
in his own mind he fixed upon for this
happy change was still far distant.  In
the meanwhile, how disheartening to see
the woman one loves long for those
thousands of nothings which constitute a
woman's happiness, and be unable to give
her those thousands of nothings.  At
least, when the woman is rich and the
lover is not, that which he cannot offer
she offers to herself; and although it
is generally with her husband's money
that she procures herself this
indulgence, the gratitude for it seldom
reverts to him.

Then D'Artagnan, disposed to become the
most tender of lovers, was at the same
time a very devoted friend, In the midst
of his amorous projects for the mercer's
wife, he did not forget his friends. 
The pretty Mme. Bonacieux was just the
woman to walk with in the Plain St.
Denis or in the fair of St. Germain, in
company with Athos, Porthos, and Aramis,
to whom D'Artagnan had often remarked
this.  Then one could enjoy charming
little dinners, where one touches on one
side the hand of a friend, and on the
other the foot of a mistress.  Besides,
on pressing occasions, in extreme
difficulties, D'Artagnan would become
the preserver of his friends.

And M. Bonacieux? whom D'Artagnan had
pushed into the hands of the officers,
denying him aloud although he had
promised in a whisper to save him.  We
are compelled to admit to our readers
that D'Artagnan thought nothing about
him in any way; or that if he did think
of him, it was only to say to himself
that he was very well where he was,
wherever it might be.  Love is the most
selfish of all the passions.

Let our readers reassure themselves.  IF
D'Artagnan forgets his host, or appears
to forget him, under the pretense of not
knowing where he has been carried, we
will not forget him, and we know where
he is.  But for the moment, let us do as
did the amorous Gascon; we will see
after the worthy mercer later.

D'Artagnan, reflecting on his future
amours, addressing himself to the
beautiful night, and smiling at the
stars, ascended the Rue Cherish-Midi, or
Chase-Midi, as it was then called.  As
he found himself in the quarter in which
Aramis lived, he took it into his head
to pay his friend a visit in order to
explain the motives which had led him to
send Planchet with a request that he
would come instantly to the mousetrap. 
Now, if Aramis had been at home when
Planchet came to his abode, he had
doubtless hastened to the Rue des
Fossoyeurs, and finding nobody there but
his other two companions perhaps, they
would not be able to conceive what all
this meant.  This mystery required an
explanation; at least, so D'Artagnan
declared to himself.

He likewise thought this was an
opportunity for talking about pretty
little Mme. Bonacieux, of whom his head,
if not his heart, was already full.  We
must never look for discretion in first
love.  First love is accompanied by such
excessive joy that unless the joy be
allowed to overflow, it will stifle you.

Paris for two hours past had been dark,
and seemed a desert. Eleven o'clock
sounded from all the clocks of the
Faubourg St. Germain.  It was delightful
weather.  D'Artagnan was passing along a
lane on the spot where the Rue d'Assas
is now situated, breathing the balmy
emanations which were borne upon the
wind from the Rue de Vaugirard, and
which arose from the gardens refreshed
by the dews of evening and the breeze of
night.  From a distance resounded,
deadened, however, by good shutters, the
songs of the tipplers, enjoying
themselves in the cabarets scattered
along the plain.  Arrived at the end of
the lane, D'Artagnan turned to the left.
The house in which Aramis dwelt was
situated between the Rue Cassette and
the Rue Servandoni.

D'Artagnan had just passed the Rue
Cassette, and already perceived the door
of his friend's house, shaded by a mass
of sycamores and clematis which formed a
vast arch opposite the front of it, when
he perceived something like a shadow
issuing from the Rue Servandoni.  This
something was enveloped in a cloak, and
D'Artagnan at first believed it was a
man; but by the smallness of the form,
the hesitation of the walk, and the
indecision of the step, he soon
discovered that it was a woman. Further,
this woman, as if not certain of the
house she was seeking, lifted up her
eyes to look around her, stopped, went
backward, and then returned again. 
D'Artagnan was perplexed.

"Shall I go and offer her my services?"
thought he.  "By her step she must be
young; perhaps she is pretty.  Oh, yes! 
But a woman who wanders in the streets
at this hour only ventures out to meet
her lover.  If I should disturb a
rendezvous, that would not be the best
means of commencing an acquaintance."

Meantime the young woman continued to
advance, counting the houses and
windows.  This was neither long nor
difficult.  There were but three hotels
in this part of the street; and only two
windows looking toward the road, one of
which was in a pavilion parallel to that
which Aramis occupied, the other
belonging to Aramis himself.

"PARIDIEU!" said D'Artagnan to himself,
to whose mind the niece of the
theologian reverted, "PARDIEU, it would
be droll if this belated dove should be
in search of our friend's house.  But on
my soul, it looks so.  Ah, my dear
Aramis, this time I shall find you out."
And D'Artagnan, making himself as small
as he could, concealed himself in the
darkest side of the street near a stone
bench placed at the back of a niche.

The young woman continued to advance;
and in addition to the lightness of her
step, which had betrayed her, she
emitted a little cough which denoted a
sweet voice.  D'Artagnan believed this
cough to be a signal.

Nevertheless, whether the cough had been
answered by a similar signal which had
fixed the irresolution of the nocturnal
seeker, or whether without this aid she
saw that she had arrived at the end of
her journey, she resolutely drew near to
Aramis's shutter, and tapped, at three
equal intervals, with her bent finger.

"This is all very fine, dear Aramis,"
murmured D'Artagnan.

"Ah, Monsieur Hypocrite, I understand
how you study theology."

The three blows were scarcely struck,
when the inside blind was opened and a
light appeared through the panes of the
outside shutter.

"Ah, ah!" said the listener, "not
through doors, but through windows!  Ah,
this visit was expected.  We shall see
the windows open, and the lady enter by
escalade.  Very pretty!"

But to the great astonishment of
D'Artagnan, the shutter remained closed.
Still more, the light which had shone
for an instant disappeared, and all was
again in obscurity.

D'Artagnan thought this could not last
long, and continued to look with all his
eyes and listen with all his ears.

He was right; at the end of some seconds
two sharp taps were heard inside.  The
young woman in the street replied by a
single tap, and the shutter was opened a
little way.

It may be judged whether D'Artagnan
looked or listened with avidity. 
Unfortunately the light had been removed
into another chamber; but the eyes of
the young man were accustomed to the
night.  Besides, the eyes of the Gascons
have, as it is asserted, like those of
cats, the faculty of seeing in the dark.

D'Artagnan then saw that the young woman
took from her pocket a white object,
which she unfolded quickly, and which
took the form of a handkerchief.  She
made her interlocutor observe the corner
of this unfolded object.

This immediately recalled to
D'Artagnan's mind the handkerchief which
he had found at the feet of Mme.
Bonacieux, which had reminded him of
that which he had dragged from under the
feet of Aramis.

"What the devil could that handkerchief
signify?"

Placed where he was, D'Artagnan could
not perceive the face of Aramis.  We say
Aramis, because the young man
entertained no doubt that it was his
friend who held this dialogue from the
interior with the lady of the exterior. 
Curiosity prevailed over prudence; and
profiting by the preoccupation into
which the sight of the handkerchief
appeared to have plunged the two
personages now on the scene, he stole
from his hiding place, and quick as
lightning, but stepping with utmost
caution, he ran and placed himself close
to the angle of the wall, from which his
eye could pierce the interior of
Aramis's room.

Upon gaining this advantage D'Artagnan
was near uttering a cry of surprise; it
was not Aramis who was conversing with
the nocturnal visitor, it was a woman! 
D'Artagnan, however, could only see
enough to recognize the form of her
vestments, not enough to distinguish her
features.

At the same instant the woman inside
drew a second handkerchief from her
pocket, and exchanged it for that which
had just been shown to her.  Then some
words were spoken by the two women.  At
length the shutter closed.  The woman
who was outside the window turned round,
and passed within four steps of
D'Artagnan, pulling down the hood of her
mantle; but the precaution was too late,
D'Artagnan had already recognized Mme.
Bonacieux.

Mme. Bonacieux!  The suspicion that it
was she had crossed the mind of
D'Artagnan when she drew the
handkerchief from her pocket; but what
probability was there that Mme.
Bonacieux, who had sent for M. Laporte
in order to be reconducted to the
Louvre, should be running about the
streets of Paris at half past eleven at
night, at the risk of being abducted a
second time?

This must be, then, an affair of
importance; and what is the most
important affair to a woman of
twenty-five!  Love.

But was it on her own account, or on
account of another, that she exposed
herself to such hazards?  This was a
question the young man asked himself,
whom the demon of jealousy already
gnawed, being in heart neither more nor
less than an accepted lover.

There was a very simple means of
satisfying himself whither Mme.
Bonacieux was going; that was to follow
her.  This method was so simple that
D'Artagnan employed it quite naturally
and instinctively.

But at the sight of the young man, who
detached himself from the wall like a
statue walking from its niche, and at
the noise of the steps which she heard
resound behind her, Mme. Bonacieux
uttered a little cry and fled.

D'Artagnan ran after her.  It was not
difficult for him to overtake a woman
embarrassed with her cloak.  He came up
with her before she had traversed a
third of the street.  The unfortunate
woman was exhausted, not by fatigue, but
by terror, and when D'Artagnan placed
his hand upon her shoulder, she sank
upon one knee, crying in a choking
voice, "Kill me, if you please, you
shall know nothing!"

D'Artagnan raised her by passing his arm
round her waist; but as he felt by her
weight she was on the point of fainting,
he made haste to reassure her by
protestations of devotedness.  These
protestations were nothing for Mme.
Bonacieux, for such protestations may be
made with the worst intentions in the
world; but the voice was all Mme.
Bonacieux thought she recognized the
sound of that voice; she reopened her
eyes, cast a quick glance upon the man
who had terrified her so, and at once
perceiving it was D'Artagnan, she
uttered a cry of joy, "Oh, it is you, it
is you!  Thank God, thank God!"

"Yes, it is I," said D'Artagnan, "it is
I, whom God has sent to watch over you."

"Was it with that intention you followed
me?" asked the young woman, with a
coquettish smile, whose somewhat
bantering character resumed its
influence, and with whom all fear had
disappeared from the moment in which she
recognized a friend in one she had taken
for an enemy.

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

"One of your friends?" interrupted Mme.
Bonacieux.

"Without doubt; Aramis is one of my best
friends."

"Aramis!  Who is he?"

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

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

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

"Undoubtedly."

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

"No."

"By a Musketeer?"

"No, indeed!"

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

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

"That is true; but this woman is a
friend of Aramis--"

"I know nothing of that."

"--since she lodges with him."

"That does not concern me."

"But who is she?"

"Oh, that is not my secret."

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

"Do I lose by that?"

"No; you are, on the contrary,
adorable."

"Give me your arm, then."

"Most willingly.  And now?"

"Now escort me."

"Where?"

"Where I am going."

"But where are you going?"

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

"Shall I wait for you?"

"That will be useless."

"You will return alone, then?"

"Perhaps yes, perhaps no."

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

"I don't know yet."

"But I will know it!"

"How so?"

"I will wait until you come out."

"In that case, adieu."

"Why so?"

"I do not want you."

"But you have claimed--"

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

"The word is rather hard."

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

"They are indiscreet."

"The word is too mild."

"well, madame, I perceive I must do as
you wish."

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

"Is there no merit in repentance?"

"And do you really repent?"

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

"And you will leave me then?"

"Yes."

"Without waiting for my coming out
again?"

"Yes."

"Word of honor?"

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

D'Artagnan offered his arm to Mme.
Bonacieux, who willingly took it, half
laughing, half trembling, and both
gained the top of Rue de la Harpe. 
Arriving there, the young woman seemed
to hesitate, as she had before done in
the Rue Vaugirard.  She seemed, however,
by certain signs, to recognize a door,
and approaching that door, "And now,
monsieur," said she, "it is here I have
business; a thousand thanks for your
honorable company, which has saved me
from all the dangers to which, alone I
was exposed.  But the moment is come to
keep your word; I have reached my
destination."

"And you will have nothing to fear on
your return?"

"I shall have nothing to fear but
robbers."

"And that is nothing?"

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

"You forget that beautiful handkerchief
with the coat of arms."

"Which?"

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

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

"You see very plainly that there is
still danger for you, since a single
word makes you tremble; and you confess
that if that word were heard you would
be ruined.  Come, come, madame!" cried
D'Artagnan, seizing her hands, and
surveying her with an ardent glance,
"come, be more generous.  Confide in me.
Have you not read in my eyes that there
is nothing but devotion and sympathy in
my heart?"

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

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

"Beware of what you do!" cried the young
woman, in a manner so serious as to make
D'Artagnan start in spite of himself. 
"Oh, meddle in nothing which concerns
me.  Do not seek to assist me in that
which I am accomplishing.  This I ask of
you in the name of the interest with
which I inspire you, in the name of the
service you have rendered me and which I
never shall forget while I have life. 
Rather, place faith in what I tell you. 
Have no more concern about me; I exist
no longer for you, any more than if you
had never seen me."

"Must Aramis do as much as I, madame?"
said D'Artagnan, deeply piqued.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"All this will be cleared up at a later
period," murmured the young woman; "no,
monsieur, be silent."

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

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

"That is because love has come suddenly
upon me, and for the first time; and
because I am only twenty."

The young woman looked at him furtively.

"Listen; I am already upon the scent,"
resumed D'Artagnan. "About three months
ago I was near having a duel with Aramis
concerning a handkerchief resembling the
one you showed to the woman in his
house--for a handkerchief marked in the
same manner, I am sure."

"Monsieur," said the young woman, "you
weary me very much, I assure you, with
your questions."

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

"In what way?  The initials are only
mine--C. B., Constance Bonacieux."

"Or Camille de Bois-Tracy."

"Silence, monsieur!  Once again,
silence!  Ah, since the dangers I incur
on my own account cannot stop you, think
of those you may yourself run!"

"Me?"

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

"Then I will not leave you."

"Monsieur!" said the young woman,
supplicating him and clasping her hands
together, "monsieur, in the name of
heaven, by the honor of a soldier, by
the courtesy of a gentleman, depart!
There, there midnight sounds!  That is
the hour when I am expected."

"Madame," said the young man, bowing; "I
can refuse nothing asked of me thus.  Be
content; I will depart."

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

"I will return home instantly."

"Ah, I was quite sure you were a good
and brave young man," said Mme.
Bonacieux, holding out her hand to him,
and placing the other upon the knocker
of a little door almost hidden in the
wall.

D'Artagnan seized the hand held out to
him, and kissed it ardently.

"Ah!  I wish I had never seen you!"
cried D'Artagnan, with that ingenuous
roughness which women often prefer to
the affectations of politeness, because
it betrays the depths of the thought and
proves that feeling prevails over
reason.

"Well!" resumed Mme. Bonacieux, in a
voice almost caressing, and pressing the
hand of D'Artagnan, who had not
relinquished hers, "well:  I will not
say as much as you do; what is lost for
today may not be lost forever.  Who
knows, when I shall be at liberty, that
I may not satisfy your curiosity?"

"And will you make the same promise to
my love?" cried D'Artagnan, beside
himself with joy.

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

"Then today, madame--"

"Oh, today, I am no further than
gratitude."

"Ah!  You are too charming," said
D'Artagnan, sorrowfully; "and you abuse
my love."

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

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

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

"By five minutes."

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

"When one loves."

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

"It is a man, then, who expects you?"
cried D'Artagnan.  "A man!"

"The discussion is going to begin
again!" said Mme. Bonacieux, with a
half-smile which was not exempt from a
tinge of impatience.

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

And as if he only felt strength to
detach himself by a violent effort from
the hand he held, he sprang away,
running, while Mme. Bonacieux knocked,
as at the shutter, three light and
regular taps.  When he had gained the
angle of the street, he turned. The door
had been opened, and shut again; the
mercer's pretty wife had disappeared.

D'Artagnan pursued his way.  He had
given his word not to watch Mme.
Bonacieux, and if his life had depended
upon the spot to which she was going or
upon the person who should accompany
her, D'Artagnan would have returned
home, since he had so promised. Five
minutes later he was in the Rue des
Fossoyeurs.

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

"Badly, monsieur, badly!" replied a
voice which the young man recognized as
that of Planchet; for, soliloquizing
aloud, as very preoccupied people do, he
had entered the alley, at the end of
which were the stairs which led to his
chamber.

"How badly?  What do you mean by that,
you idiot?" asked D'Artagnan.  "What has
happened?"

"All sorts of misfortunes."

"What?"

"In the first place, Monsieur Athos is
arrested."

"Arrested!  Athos arrested!  What for?"

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

"And by whom was he arrested?"

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

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

"He took care not to do so, monsieur; on
the contrary, he came up to me and said,
'It is your master that needs his
liberty at this moment and not I, since
he knows everything and I know nothing.
They will believe he is arrested, and
that will give him time; in three days I
will tell them who I am, and they cannot
fail to let me go.'"

"Bravo, Athos!  Noble heart!" murmured
D'Artagnan.  "I know him well there! 
And what did the officers do?"

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

"And Porthos and Aramis?"

"I could not find them; they did not
come."

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

"Yes, monsieur."

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

"Very well, monsieur," said Planchet.

"But you will remain; you are not
afraid?" said D'Artagnan, coming back to
recommend courage to his lackey.

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

"Then it is understood," said
D'Artagnan; "you would rather be killed
than desert your post?"

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

"Good!" said D'Artagnan to himself.  "It
appears that the method I have adopted
with this boy is decidedly the best.  I
shall use it again upon occasion."

And with all the swiftness of his legs,
already a little fatigued however, with
the perambulations of the day,
D'Artagnan directed his course toward M.
de Treville's.

M. de Treville was not at his hotel. 
His company was on guard at the Louvre;
he was at the Louvre with his company.

It was necessary to reach M. de
Treville; it was important that he
should be informed of what was passing. 
D'Artagnan resolved to try and enter the
Louvre.  His costume of Guardsman in the
company of M. Dessessart ought to be his
passport.

He therefore went down the Rue des
Petits Augustins, and came up to the
quay, in order to take the New Bridge. 
He had at first an idea of crossing by
the ferry; but on gaining the riverside,
he had mechanically put his hand into
his pocket, and perceived that he had
not wherewithal to pay his passage.

As he gained the top of the Rue
Guenegaud, he saw two persons coming out
of the Rue Dauphine whose appearance
very much struck him.  Of the two
persons who composed this group, one was
a man and the other a woman.  The woman
had the outline of Mme. Bonacieux; the
man resembled Aramis so much as to be
mistaken for him.

Besides, the woman wore that black
mantle which D'Artagnan could still see
outlined on the shutter of the Rue de
Vaugirard and on the door of the Rue de
la Harpe; still further, the man wore
the uniform of a Musketeer.

The woman's hood was pulled down, and
the man geld a handkerchief to his face.
Both, as this double precaution
indicated, had an interest in not being
recognized.

They took the bridge.  That was
D'Artagnan's road, as he was going to
the Louvre.  D'Artagnan followed them.

He had not gone twenty steps before he
became convinced that the woman was
really Mme. Bonacieux and that the man
was Aramis.

He felt at that instant all the
suspicions of jealousy agitating his
heart.  He felt himself doubly betrayed,
by his friend and by her whom he already
loved like a mistress.  Mme. Bonacieux
had declared to him, by all the gods,
that she did not know Aramis; and a
quarter of an hour after having made
this assertion, he found her hanging on
the arm of Aramis.

D'Artagnan did not reflect that he had
only known the mercer's pretty wife for
three hours; that she owed him nothing
but a little gratitude for having
delivered her from the men in black, who
wished to carry her off, and that she
had promised him nothing.  He considered
himself an outraged, betrayed, and
ridiculed lover.  Blood and anger
mounted to his face; he was resolved to
unravel the mystery.

The young man and young woman perceived
they were watched, and redoubled their
speed.  D'Artagnan determined upon his
course. He passed them, then returned so
as to meet them exactly before the
Samaritaine. Which was illuminated by a
lamp which threw its light over all that
part of the bridge.

D'Artagnan stopped before them, and they
stopped before him.

"What do you want, monsieur?" demanded
the Musketeer, recoiling a step, and
with a foreign accent, which proved to
D'Artagnan that he was deceived in one
of his conjectures.

"It is not Aramis!" cried he.

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

"You pardon me?" cried D'Artagnan.

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

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

"With Madame!  You do not know her,"
replied the stranger.

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

"Ah," said Mme. Bonacieux; in a tone of
reproach, "ah, monsieur, I had your
promise as a soldier and your word as a
gentleman.  I hoped to be able to rely
upon that."

"And I, madame!" said D'Artagnan,
embarrassed; "you promised me--"

"Take my arm, madame," said the
stranger, "and let us continue our way."

D'Artagnan, however, stupefied, cast
down, annihilated by all that happened,
stood, with crossed arms, before the
Musketeer and Mme. Bonacieux.

The Musketeer advanced two steps, and
pushed D'Artagnan aside with his hand. 
D'Artagnan made a spring backward and
drew his sword.  At the same time, and
with the rapidity of lightning, the
stranger drew his.

"In the name of heaven, my Lord!" cried
Mme. Bonacieux, throwing herself between
the combatants and seizing the swords
with her hands.

"My Lord!" cried D'Artagnan, enlightened
by a sudden idea, "my Lord!  Pardon me,
monsieur, but you are not--"

"My Lord the Duke of Buckingham," said
Mme. Bonacieux, in an undertone; "and
now you may ruin us all."

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

"You are a brave young man," said
Buckingham, holding out his hand to
D'Artagnan, who pressed it respectfully.
"You offer me your services; with the
same frankness I accept them.  Follow us
at a distance of twenty paces, as far as
the Louvre, and if anyone watches us,
slay him!"

D'Artagnan placed his naked sword under
his arm, allowed the duke and Mme.
Bonacieux to take twenty steps ahead,
and then followed them, ready to execute
the instructions of the noble and
elegant minister of Charles I.

Fortunately, he had no opportunity to
give the duke this proof of his
devotion, and the young woman and the
handsome Musketeer entered the Louvre by
the wicket of the Echelle without any
interference.

As for D'Artagnan, he immediately
repaired to the cabaret of the
Pomme-de-Pin, where he found Porthos and
Aramis awaiting him. Without giving them
any explanation of the alarm and
inconvenience he had caused them, he
told them that he had terminated the
affair alone in which he had for a
moment believed he should need their
assistance.

Meanwhile, carried away as we are by our
narrative, we must leave our three
friends to themselves, and follow the
Duke of Buckingham and his guide through
the labyrinths of the Louvre.



12 GEORGE VILLIERS, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM

Mme. Bonacieux and the duke entered the
Louvre without difficulty.  Mme.
Bonacieux was known to belong to the
queen; the duke wore the uniform of the
Musketeers of M. de Treville, who, as we
have said, were that evening on guard. 
Besides, Germain was in the interests of
the queen; and if anything should
happen, Mme. Bonacieux would be accused
of having introduced her lover into the
Louvre, that was all.  She took the risk
upon herself. Her reputation would be
lost, it is true; but of what value in
the world was the reputation of the
little wife of a mercer?

Once within the interior of the court,
the duke and the young woman followed
the wall for the space of about
twenty-five steps. This space passed,
Mme. Bonacieux pushed a little servants'
door, open by day but generally closed
at night.  The door yielded. Both
entered, and found themselves in
darkness; but Mme. Bonacieux was
acquainted with all the turnings and
windings of this part of the Louvre,
appropriated for the people of the
household.  She closed the door after
her, took the duke by the hand, and
after a few experimental steps, grasped
a balustrade, put her foot upon the
bottom step, and began to ascend the
staircase.  The duke counted two
stories.  She then turned to the right,
followed the course of a long corridor,
descended a flight, went a few steps
farther, introduced a key into a lock,
opened a door, and pushed the duke into
an apartment lighted only by a lamp,
saying, "Remain here, my Lord Duke;
someone will come."  She then went out
by the same door, which she locked, so
that the duke found himself literally a
prisoner.

Nevertheless, isolated as he was, we
must say that the Duke of Buckingham did
not experience an instant of fear.  One
of the salient points of his character
was the search for adventures and a love
of romance.  Brave, rash, and
enterprising, this was not the first
time he had risked his life in such
attempts.  He had learned that the
pretended message from Anne of Austria,
upon the faith of which he had come to
Paris, was a snare; but instead of
regaining England, he had, abusing the
position in which he had been placed,
declared to the queen that he would not
depart without seeing her.  The queen
had at first positively refused; but at
length became afraid that the duke, if
exasperated, would commit some folly. 
She had already decided upon seeing him
and urging his immediate departure,
when, on the very evening of coming to
this decision, Mme. Bonacieux, who was
charged with going to fetch the duke and
conducting him to the Louvre, was
abducted.  For two days no one knew what
had become of her, and everything
remained in suspense; but once free, and
placed in communication with Laporte,
matters resumed their course, and she
accomplished the perilous enterprise
which, but for her arrest, would have
been executed three days earlier.

Buckingham, left alone, walked toward a
mirror.  His Musketeer's uniform became
him marvelously.

At thirty-five, which was then his age,
he passed, with just title, for the
handsomest gentleman and the most
elegant cavalier of France or England.

The favorite of two kings, immensely
rich, all-powerful in a kingdom which he
disordered at his fancy and calmed again
at his caprice, George Villiers, Duke of
Buckingham, had lived one of those
fabulous existences which survive, in
the course of centuries, to astonish
posterity.

Sure of himself, convinced of his own
power, certain that the laws which rule
other men could not reach him, he went
straight to the object he aimed at, even
were this object were so elevated and so
dazzling that it would have been madness
for any other even to have contemplated
it.  It was thus he had succeeded in
approaching several times the beautiful
and proud Anne of Austria, and in making
himself loved by dazzling her.

George Villiers placed himself before
the glass, as we have said, restored the
undulations to his beautiful hair, which
the weight of his hat had disordered,
twisted his mustache, and, his heart
swelling with joy, happy and proud at
being near the moment he had so long
sighed for, he smiled upon himself with
pride and hope.

At this moment a door concealed in the
tapestry opened, and a woman appeared. 
Buckingham saw this apparition in the
glass; he uttered a cry.  It was the
queen!

Anne of Austria was then twenty-six or
twenty-seven years of age; that is to
say, she was in the full splendor of her
beauty.

Her carriage was that of a queen or a
goddess; her eyes, which cast the
brilliancy of emeralds, were perfectly
beautiful, and yet were at the same time
full of sweetness and majesty.

Her mouth was small and rosy; and
although her underlip, like that of all
princes of the House of Austria,
protruded slightly beyond the other, it
was eminently lovely in its smile, but
as profoundly disdainful in its
contempt.

Her skin was admired for its velvety
softness; her hands and arms were of
surpassing beauty, all the poets of the
time singing them as incomparable.

Lastly, her hair, which, from being
light in her youth, had become chestnut,
and which she wore curled very plainly,
and with much powder, admirably set off
her face, in which the most rigid critic
could only have desired a little less
rouge, and the most fastidious sculptor
a little more fineness in the nose.

Buckingham remained for a moment
dazzled.  Never had Anna of Austria
appeared to him so beautiful, amid
balls, fetes, or carousals, as she
appeared to him at this moment, dressed
in a simple robe of white satin, and
accompanied by Donna Estafania--the only
one of her Spanish women who had not
been driven from her by the jealousy of
the king or by the persecutions of
Richelieu.

Anne of Austria took two steps forward. 
Buckingham threw himself at her feet,
and before the queen could prevent him,
kissed the hem of her robe.

"Duke, you already know that it is not I
who caused you to be written to."

"Yes, yes, madame!  Yes, your Majesty!"
cried the duke. "I know that I must have
been mad, senseless, to believe that
snow would become animated or marble
warm; but what then!  They who love
believe easily in love.  Besides, I have
lost nothing by this journey because I
see you."

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

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

"My Lord," cried the queen, "you forget
that I have never said that I love you."

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

"What folly," murmured Anne of Austria,
who had not the courage to find fault
with the duke for having so well
preserved her portrait in his heart,
"what folly to feed a useless passion
with such remembrances!"

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

"Duke," said the queen, blushing, "never
speak of that evening."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Madame de Chevreuse was not queen,"
murmured Anne of Austria, overcome, in
spite of herself, by the expression of
so profound a passion.

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

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

"Silence, silence!" cried the duke.  "If
I am happy in an error, do not have the
cruelty to lift me from it.  You have
told me yourself, madame, that I have
been drawn into a snare; I, perhaps, may
leave my life in it--for, although it
may be strange, I have for some time had
a presentiment that I should shortly
die."  And the duke smiled, with a smile
at once sad and charming.

"Oh, my God!" cried Anne of Austria,
with an accent of terror which proved
how much greater an interest she took in
the duke than she ventured to tell.

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

"Oh, but I," said Anne, "I also, duke,
have had presentiments; I also have had
dreams.  I dreamed that I saw you lying
bleeding, wounded."

"In the left side, was it not, and with
a knife?" interrupted Buckingham.

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

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

"I love you, I?"

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

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

"Oh, how beautiful you are thus!  Oh,
how I love you!" said Buckingham.

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

"Oh, is this true what you say?"

"Yes."

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

"Will you depart--will you depart, if I
give you that you demand?"

"Yes."

"This very instant?"

"Yes."

"You will leave France, you will return
to England?"

"I will, I swear to you."

"Wait, then, wait."

Anne of Austria re-entered her
apartment, and came out again almost
immediately, holding a rosewood casket
in her hand, with her cipher encrusted
with gold.

"Her, my Lord, here," said she, "keep
this in memory of me."

Buckingham took the casket, and fell a
second time on his knees.

"You have promised me to go," said the
queen.

"And I keep my word.  Your hand, madame,
your hand, and I depart!"

Anne of Austria stretched forth her
hand, closing her eyes, and leaning with
the other upon Estafania, for she felt
that her strength was about to fail her.

Buckingham pressed his lips passionately
to that beautiful hand, and then rising,
said, "Within six months, if I am not
dead, I shall have seen you again,
madame--even if I have to overturn the
world."  And faithful to the promise he
had made, he rushed out of the
apartment.

In the corridor he met Mme. Bonacieux,
who waited for him, and who, with the
same precautions and the same good luck,
conducted him out of the Louvre.



13 MONSIEUR BONACIEUX

There was in all this, as may have been
observed, one personage concerned, of
whom, notwithstanding his precarious
position, we have appeared to take but
very little notice.  This personage was
M. Bonacieux, the respectable martyr of
the political and amorous intrigues
which entangled themselves so nicely
together at this gallant and chivalric
period.

Fortunately, the reader may remember, or
may not remember--fortunately we have
promised not to lose sight of him.

The officers who arrested him conducted
him straight to the Bastille, where he
passed trembling before a party of
soldiers who were loading their muskets.
Thence, introduced into a
half-subterranean gallery, he became, on
the part of those who had brought him,
the object of the grossest insults and
the harshest treatment.  The officers
perceived that they had not to deal with
a gentleman, and they treated him like a
very peasant.

At the end of half an hour or
thereabouts, a clerk came to put an end
to his tortures, but not to his anxiety,
by giving the order to conduct M.
Bonacieux to the Chamber of Examination.
Ordinarily, prisoners were interrogated
in their cells; but they did not do so
with M. Bonacieux.

Two guards attended the mercer who made
him traverse a court and enter a
corridor in which were three sentinels,
opened a door and pushed him
unceremoniously into a low room, where
the only furniture was a table, a chair,
and a commissary.  The commissary was
seated in the chair, and was writing at
the table.

The two guards led the prisoner toward
the table, and upon a sign from the
commissary drew back so far as to be
unable to hear anything.

The commissary, who had till this time
held his head down over his papers,
looked up to see what sort of person he
had to do with.  This commissary was a
man of very repulsive mien, with a
pointed nose, with yellow and salient
cheek bones, with eyes small but keen
and penetrating, and an expression of
countenance resembling at once the
polecat and the fox.  His head,
supported by a long and flexible neck,
issued from his large black robe,
balancing itself with a motion very much
like that of the tortoise thrusting his
head out of his shell.  He began by
asking M. Bonacieux his name, age,
condition, and abode.

The accused replied that his name was
Jacques Michel Bonacieux, that he was
fifty-one years old, a retired mercer,
and lived Rue des Fossoyeurs, No. 14.

The commissary then, instead of
continuing to interrogate him, made him
a long speech upon the danger there is
for an obscure citizen to meddle with
public matters.  He complicated this
exordium by an exposition in which he
painted the power and the deeds of the
cardinal, that incomparable minister,
that conqueror of past ministers, that
example for ministers to come--deeds and
power which none could thwart with
impunity.

After this second part of his discourse,
fixing his hawk's eye upon poor
Bonacieux, he bade him reflect upon the
gravity of his situation.

The reflections of the mercer were
already made; he cursed the instant when
M. Laporte formed the idea of marrying
him to his goddaughter, and particularly
the moment when that goddaughter had
been received as Lady of the Linen to
her Majesty.

At bottom the character of M. Bonacieux
was one of profound selfishness mixed
with sordid avarice, the whole seasoned
with extreme cowardice.  The love with
which his young wife had inspired him
was a secondary sentiment, and was not
strong enough to contend with the
primitive feelings we have just
enumerated. Bonacieux indeed reflected
on what had just been said to him.

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

"Indeed?" asked the commissary, with an
air of doubt.  "If that is really so,
how came you in the Bastille?"

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

"You must, nevertheless, have committed
a crime, since you are here and are
accused of high treason."

"Of high treason!" cried Bonacieux,
terrified; "of high treason! How is it
possible for a poor mercer, who detests
Huguenots and who abhors Spaniards, to
be accused of high treason?  Consider,
monsieur, the thing is absolutely
impossible."

"Monsieur Bonacieux," said the
commissary, looking at the accused as if
his little eyes had the faculty of
reading to the very depths of hearts,
"you have a wife?"

"Yes, monsieur," replied the mercer, in
a tremble, feeling that it was at this
point affairs were likely to become
perplexing; "that is to say, I HAD one."

"What, you 'had one'?  What have you
done with her, then, if you have her no
longer?"

"They have abducted her, monsieur."

"They have abducted her?  Ah!"

Bonacieux inferred from this "Ah" that
the affair grew more and more intricate.

"They have abducted her," added the
commissary; "and do you know the man who
has committed this deed?"

"I think I know him."

"Who is he?"

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

"Whom do you suspect?  Come, answer
freely."

M. Bonacieux was in the greatest
perplexity possible.  Had he better deny
everything or tell everything?  By
denying all, it might be suspected that
he must know too much to avow; by
confessing all he might prove his good
will.  He decided, then, to tell all.

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

The commissary now appeared to
experience a little uneasiness.

"And his name?" said he.

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

The face of the commissary grew still
darker.

"You should recognize him among a
thousand, say you?" continued he.

"That is to say," cried Bonacieux, who
saw he had taken a false step, "that is
to say--"

"You have answered that you should
recognize him," said the commissary. 
"That is all very well, and enough for
today; before we proceed further,
someone must be informed that you know
the ravisher of your wife."

"But I have not told you that I know
him!" cried Bonacieux, in despair.  "I
told you, on the contrary--"

"Take away the prisoner," said the
commissary to the two guards.

"Where must we place him?" demanded the
chief.

"In a dungeon."

"Which?"

"Goof Lord!  In the first one handy,
provided it is safe," said the
commissary, with an indifference which
penetrated poor Bonacieux with horror.

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

Without listening the least in the world
to the lamentations of M.
Bonacieux--lamentations to which,
besides, they must have been pretty well
accustomed--the two guards took the
prisoner each by an arm, and led him
away, while the commissary wrote a
letter in haste and dispatched it by an
officer in waiting.

Bonacieux could not close his eyes; not
because his dungeon was so very
disagreeable, but because his uneasiness
was so great. He sat all night on his
stool, starting at the least noise; and
when the first rays of the sun
penetrated into his chamber, the dawn
itself appeared to him to have taken
funereal tints.

All at once he heard his bolts drawn,
and made a terrified bound. He believed
they were come to conduct him to the
scaffold; so that when he saw merely and
simply, instead of the executioner he
expected, only his commissary of the
preceding evening, attended by his
clerk, he was ready to embrace them
both.

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

"Why, I am ready to tell everything,"
cried Bonacieux, "at least, all that I
know.  Interrogate me, I entreat you!"

"Where is your wife, in the first
place?"

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

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

"My wife escaped!" cried Bonacieux. 
"Oh, unfortunate creature! Monsieur, if
she has escaped, it is not my fault, I
swear."

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

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

"What was the aim of that visit?"

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

"And what did Monsieur d'Artagnan
reply?"

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

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

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

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

"Bring in the Monsieur d'Artagnan," said
the commissary to the guards.  The two
guards led in Athos.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan," said the
commissary, addressing Athos, "declare
all that passed yesterday between you
and Monsieur."

"But," cried Bonacieux, "this is not
Monsieur d'Artagnan whom you show me."

"What!  Not Monsieur d'Artagnan?"
exclaimed the commissary.

"Not the least in the world," replied
Bonacieux.

"What is this gentleman's name?" asked
the commissary.

"I cannot tell you; I don't know him."

"How!  You don't know him?"

"No."

"Did you never see him?"

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

"Your name?" replied the commissary.

"Athos," replied the Musketeer.

"But that is not a man's name; that is
the name of a mountain," cried the poor
questioner, who began to lose his head.

"That is my name," said Athos, quietly.

"But you said that your name was
D'Artagnan."

"Who, I?"

"Yes, you."

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

"Monsieur, you insult the majesty of
justice."

"Not at all," said Athos, calmly.

"You are Monsieur d'Artagnan."

"You see, monsieur, that you say it
again."

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

"That's true," murmured the commissary;
"PARDIEU, that's true."

At this moment the door was opened
quickly, and a messenger, introduced by
one of the gatekeepers of the Bastille,
gave a letter to the commissary.

"Oh, unhappy woman!" cried the
commissary.

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

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

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

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

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

"Bah!" said Athos to the commissary, "if
you have no more need of me, send me
somewhere.  Your Monsieur Bonacieux is
very tiresome."

The commissary designated by the same
gesture Athos and Bonacieux, "Let them
be guarded more closely than ever."

"And yet," said Athos, with his habitual
calmness, "if it be Monsieur d'Artagnan
who is concerned in this matter, I do
not perceive how I can take his place."

"Do as I bade you," cried the
commissary, "and preserve absolute
secrecy.  You understand!"

Athos shrugged his shoulders, and
followed his guards silently, while M.
Bonacieux uttered lamentations enough to
break the heart of a tiger.

They locked the mercer in the same
dungeon where he had passed the night,
and left him to himself during the day. 
Bonacieux wept all day, like a true
mercer, not being at all a military man,
as he himself informed us.  In the
evening, about nine o'clock, at the
moment he had made up his mind to go to
bed, he heard steps in his corridor. 
These steps drew near to his dungeon,
the door was thrown open, and the guards
appeared.

"Follow me," said an officer, who came
up behind the guards.

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

"Where we have orders to lead you."

"But that is not an answer."

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

"Ah, my God, my God!" murmured the poor
mercer, "now, indeed, I am lost!"  And
he followed the guards who came for him,
mechanically and without resistance.

He passed along the same corridor as
before, crossed one court, then a second
side of a building; at length, at the
gate of the entrance court he found a
carriage surrounded by four guards on
horseback.  They made him enter this
carriage, the officer placed himself by
his side, the door was locked, and they
were left in a rolling prison.  The
carriage was put in motion as slowly as
a funeral car.  Through the closely
fastened windows the prisoner could
perceive the houses and the pavement,
that was all; but, true Parisian as he
was, Bonacieux could recognize every
street by the milestones, the signs, and
the lamps.  At the moment of arriving at
St. Paul--the spot where such as were
condemned at the Bastille were
executed--he was near fainting and
crossed himself twice.  He thought the
carriage was about to stop there. The
carriage, however, passed on.

Farther on, a still greater terror
seized him on passing by the cemetery of
St. Jean, where state criminals were
buried.  One thing, however, reassured
him; he remembered that before they were
buried their heads were generally cut
off, and he felt that his head was still
on his shoulders.  But when he saw the
carriage take the way to La Greve, when
he perceived the pointed roof of the
Hotel de Ville, and the carriage passed
under the arcade, he believed it was
over with him.  He wished to confess to
the officer, and upon his refusal,
uttered such pitiable cries that the
officer told him that if he continued to
deafen him thus, he should put a gag in
his mouth.

This measure somewhat reassured
Bonacieux.  If they meant to execute him
at La Greve, it could scarcely be worth
while to gag him, as they had nearly
reached the place of execution.  Indeed,
the carriage crossed the fatal spot
without stopping.  There remained, then,
no other place to fear but the Traitor's
Cross; the carriage was taking the
direct road to it.

This time there was no longer any doubt;
it was at the Traitor's Cross that
lesser criminals were executed. 
Bonacieux had flattered himself in
believing himself worthy of St. Paul or
of the Place de Greve; it was at the
Traitor's Cross that his journey and his
destiny were about to end!  He could not
yet see that dreadful cross, but he felt
somehow as if it were coming to meet
him.  When he was within twenty paces of
it, he heard a noise of people and the
carriage stopped.  This was more than
poor Bonacieux could endure, depressed
as he was by the successive emotions
which he had experienced; he uttered a
feeble groan which night have been taken
for the last sigh of a dying man, and
fainted.



14 THE MAN OF MEUNG

The crowd was caused, not by the
expectation of a man to be hanged, but
by the contemplation of a man who was
hanged.

The carriage, which had been stopped for
a minute, resumed its way, passed
through the crowd, threaded the Rue St.
Honore, turned into the Rue des Bons
Enfants, and stopped before a low door.

The door opened; two guards received
Bonacieux in their arms from the officer
who supported him.  They carried him
through an alley, up a flight of stairs,
and deposited him in an antechamber.

All these movements had been effected
mechanically, as far as he was
concerned.  He had walked as one walks
in a dream; he had a glimpse of objects
as through a fog.  His ears had
perceived sounds without comprehending
them; he might have been executed at
that moment without his making a single
gesture in his own defense or uttering a
cry to implore mercy.

He remained on the bench, with his back
leaning against the wall and his hands
hanging down, exactly on the spot where
the guards placed him.

On looking around him, however, as he
could perceive no threatening object, as
nothing indicated that he ran any real
danger, as the bench was comfortably
covered with a well-stuffed cushion, as
the wall was ornamented with a beautiful
Cordova leather, and as large red damask
curtains, fastened back by gold clasps,
floated before the window, he perceived
by degrees that his fear was
exaggerated, and he began to turn his
head to the right and the left, upward
and downward.

At this movement, which nobody opposed,
he resumed a little courage, and
ventured to draw up one leg and then the
other.  At length, with the help of his
two hands he lifted himself from the
bench, and found himself on his feet.

At this moment an officer with a
pleasant face opened a door, continued
to exchange some words with a person in
the next chamber and then came up to the
prisoner.  "Is your name Bonacieux?"
said he.

"Yes, Monsieur Officer," stammered the
mercer, more dead than alive, "at your
service."

"Come in," said the officer.

And he moved out of the way to let the
mercer pass.  The latter obeyed without
reply, and entered the chamber, where he
appeared to be expected.

It was a large cabinet, close and
stifling, with the walls furnished with
arms offensive and defensive, and in
which there was already a fire, although
it was scarcely the end of the month of
September.  A square table, covered with
books and papers, upon which was
unrolled an immense plan of the city of
La Rochelle, occupied the center of the
room.

Standing before the chimney was a man of
middle height, of a haughty, proud mien;
with piercing eyes, a large brow, and a
thin face, which was made still longer
by a ROYAL (or IMPERIAL, as it is now
called), surmounted by a pair of
mustaches.  Although this man was
scarcely thirty-six or thirty-seven
years of age, hair, mustaches, and
royal, all began to be gray.  This man,
except a sword, had all the appearance
of a soldier; and his buff boots still
slightly covered with dust, indicated
that he had been on horseback in the
course of the day.

This man was Armand Jean Duplessis,
Cardinal de Richelieu; not such as he is
now represented--broken down like an old
man, suffering like a martyr, his body
bent, his voice failing, buried in a
large armchair as in an anticipated
tomb; no longer living but by the
strength of his genius, and no longer
maintaining the struggle with Europe but
by the eternal application of his
thoughts--but such as he really was at
this period; that is to say, an active
and gallant cavalier, already weak of
body, but sustained by that moral power
which made of him one of the most
extraordinary men that ever lived,
preparing, after having supported the
Duc de Nevers in his duchy of Mantua,
after having taken Nimes, Castres, and
Uzes, to drive the English from the Isle
of Re and lay siege to La Rochelle.

At first sight, nothing denoted the
cardinal; and it was impossible for
those who did not know his face to guess
in whose presence they were.

The poor mercer remained standing at the
door, while the eyes of the personage we
have just described were fixed upon him,
and appeared to wish to penetrate even
into the depths of the past.

"Is this that Bonacieux?" asked he,
after a moment of silence.

"Yes, monseigneur," replied the officer.

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

The officer took from the table the
papers pointed out, gave them to him who
asked for them, bowed to the ground, and
retired.

Bonacieux recognized in these papers his
interrogatories of the Bastille.  From
time to time the man by the chimney
raised his eyes from the writings, and
plunged them like poniards into the
heart of the poor mercer.

At the end of ten minutes of reading and
ten seconds of examination, the cardinal
was satisfied.

"That head has never conspired,"
murmured he, "but it matters not; we
will see."

"You are accused of high treason," said
the cardinal, slowly.

"So I have been told already,
monseigneur," cried Bonacieux, giving
his interrogator the title he had heard
the officer give him, "but I swear to
you that I know nothing about it."

The cardinal repressed a smile.

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

"Indeed, monseigneur," responded the
mercer, "I have heard her pronounce all
those names."

"And on what occasion?"

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

"She said that?" cried the cardinal,
with violence.

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

"Hold your tongue!  You are stupid,"
replied the cardinal.

"That's exactly what my wife said,
monseigneur."

"Do you know who carried off your wife?"

"No, monsigneur."

"You have suspicions, nevertheless?"

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

"Your wife has escaped.  Did you know
that?"

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

The cardinal repressed another smile.

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

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

"At one o'clock this morning she had not
returned."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And how many were there of these linen
drapers?"

"Two, monseigneur."

"And where did they live?"

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

"Did you go into these houses with her?"

"Never, monseigneur; I waited at the
door."

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

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

"You are a very complacent husband, my
dear Monsieur Bonacieux," said the
cardinal.

"He calls me his dear Monsieur," said
the mercer to himself. "PESTE!  Matters
are going all right."

"Should you know those doors again?"

"Yes."

"Do you know the numbers?"

"Yes."

"What are they?"

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

"That's well," said the cardinal.

At these words he took up a silver bell,
and rang it; the officer entered.

"Go," said he, in a subdued voice, "and
find Rochefort.  Tell him to come to me
immediately, if he has returned."

"The count is here," said the officer,
"and requests to speak with your
Eminence instantly."

"Let him come in, then!" said the
cardinal, quickly.

The officer sprang out of the apartment
with that alacrity which all the
servants of the cardinal displayed in
obeying him.

"To your Eminence!" murmured Bonacieux,
rolling his eyes round in astonishment.

Five seconds has scarcely elapsed after
the disappearance of the officer, when
the door opened, and a new personage
entered.

"It is he!" cried Bonacieux.

"He!  What he?" asked the cardinal.

"The man who abducted my wife."

The cardinal rang a second time.  The
officer reappeared.

"Place this man in the care of his
guards again, and let him wait till I
send for him."

"No, monseigneur, no, it is not he!"
cried Bonacieux; "no, I was deceived. 
This is quite another man, and does not
resemble him at all.  Monsieur is, I am
sure, an honest man."

"Take away that fool!" said the
cardinal.

The officer took Bonacieux by the arm,
and led him into the antechamber, where
he found his two guards.

The newly introduced personage followed
Bonacieux impatiently with his eyes till
he had gone out; and the moment the door
closed, "They have seen each other;"
said he, approaching the cardinal
eagerly.

"Who?" asked his Eminence.

"He and she."

"The queen and the duke?" cried
Richelieu.

"Yes."

"Where?"

"At the Louvre."

"Are you sure of it?"

"Perfectly sure."

"Who told you of it?"

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

"Why did she not let me know sooner?"

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

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

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

"How did it come about?"

"At half past twelve the queen was with
her women--"

"Where?"

"In her bedchamber--"

"Go on."

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

"And then?"

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

"And then, and then?"

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

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

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

"How long did the queen remain out of
the chamber?"

"Three-quarters of an hour."

"None of her women accompanied her?"

"Only Donna Estafania."

"Did she afterward return?"

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

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

"No."

"Does Madame de Lannoy know what was in
that casket?"

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

"And she came back without this casket?"

"Yes."

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

"She is sure of it."

"How can she be so?"

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

"And then the queen?"

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

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

"I have just been with him."

"And the goldsmith?"

"The goldsmith has heard nothing of it."

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

"The fact is that I do not doubt your
Eminence's genius--"

"Will repair the blunders of his
agent--is that it?"

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

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

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

"But I know."

"You, monseigneur?"

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

"Does your Eminence command that they
both be instantly arrested?"

"It will be too late; they will be
gone."

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

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

"Instantly, monseigneur."  And Rochefort
went hastily out of the apartment.

The cardinal being left alone, reflected
for an instant and then rang the bell a
third time.  The same officer appeared.

"Bring the prisoner in again," said the
cardinal.

M. Bonacieux was introduced afresh, and
upon a sign from the cardinal, the
officer retired.

"You have deceived me!" said the
cardinal, sternly.

"I," cried Bonacieux, "I deceive your
Eminence!"

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

"Then why did she go, just God?"

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

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

The cardinal, however contemptible might
be the triumph gained over so vulgar a
being as Bonacieux, did not the less
enjoy it for an instant; then, almost
immediately, as if a fresh thought has
occurred, a smile played upon his lips,
and he said, offering his hand to the
mercer, "Rise, my friend, you are a
worthy man."

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

"Yes, my friend, yes," said the
cardinal, with that paternal tone which
he sometimes knew how to assume, but
which deceived none who knew him; "and
as you have been unjustly suspected,
well, you must be indemnified.  Here,
take this purse of a hundred pistoles,
and pardon me."

"I pardon you, monseigneur!" said
Bonacieux, hesitating to take the purse,
fearing, doubtless, that this pretended
gift was but a pleasantry.  "But you are
able to have me arrested, you are able
to have me tortured, you are able to
have me hanged; you are the master, and
I could not have the least word to say. 
Pardon you, monseigneur!  You cannot
mean that!"

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

"I go away enchanted."

"Farewell, then, or rather, AU REVOIR!"

And the cardinal made him a sign with
his hand, to which Bonacieux replied by
bowing to the ground.  He then went out
backward, and when he was in the
antechamber the cardinal heard him, in
his enthusiasm, crying aloud, "Long life
to the Monseigneur!  Long life to his
Eminence!  Long life to the great
cardinal!"  The cardinal listened with a
smile to this vociferous manifestation
of the feelings of M. Bonacieux; and
then, when Bonacieux's cries were no
longer audible, "Good!" said he, "that
man would henceforward lay down his life
for me."  And the cardinal began to
examine with the greatest attention the
map of La Rochelle, which, as we have
said, lay open on the desk, tracing with
a pencil the line in which the famous
dyke was to pass which, eighteen months
later, shut up the port of the besieged
city.  As he was in the deepest of his
strategic meditations, the door opened,
and Rochefort returned.

"Well?" said the cardinal, eagerly,
rising with a promptitude which proved
the degree of importance he attached to
the commission with which he had charged
the count.

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

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

"What are your Eminence's orders?"

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

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

"What man?" asked the cardinal.

"That Bonacieux."

"I have done with him all that could be
done.  I have made him a spy upon his
wife."

The Comte de Rochefort bowed like a man
who acknowledges the superiority of the
master as great, and retired.

Left alone, the cardinal seated himself
again and wrote a letter, which he
secured with his special seal.  Then he
rang.  The officer entered for the
fourth time.

"Tell Vitray to come to me," said he,
"and tell him to get ready for a
journey."

An instant after, the man he asked for
was before him, booted and spurred.

"Vitray," said he, "you will go with all
speed to London.  You must not stop an
instant on the way.  You will deliver
this letter to Milady.  Here is an order
for two hundred pistoles; call upon my
treasurer and get the money.  You shall
have as much again if you are back
within six days, and have executed your
commission well."

The messenger, without replying a single
word, bowed, took the letter, with the
order for the two hundred pistoles, and
retired.

Here is what the letter contained:

MILADY, Be at the first ball at which
the Duke of Buckingham shall be present.
He will wear on his doublet twelve
diamond studs; get as near to him as you
can, and cut off two.

As soon as these studs shall be in your
possession, inform me.



15 MEN OF THE ROBE AND MEN OF THE SWORD

On the day after these events had taken
place, Athos not having reappeared, M.
de Treville was informed by D'Artagnan
and Porthos of the circumstance.  As to
Aramis, he had asked for leave of
absence for five days, and was gone, it
was said, to Rouen on family business.

M. de Treville was the father of his
soldiers.  The lowest or the least known
of them, as soon as he assumed the
uniform of the company, was as sure of
his aid and support as if he had been
his own brother.

He repaired, then, instantly to the
office of the LIEUTENANT-CRIMINEL.  The
officer who commanded the post of the
Red Cross was sent for, and by
successive inquiries they learned that
Athos was then lodged in the Fort
l'Eveque.

Athos had passed through all the
examinations we have seen Bonacieux
undergo.

We were present at the scene in which
the two captives were confronted with
each other.  Athos, who had till that
time said nothing for fear that
D'Artagnan, interrupted in his turn,
should not have the time necessary, from
this moment declared that his name was
Athos, and not D'Artagnan.  He added
that he did not know either M. or Mme.
Bonacieux; that he had never spoken to
the one or the other; that he had come,
at about ten o'clock in the evening, to
pay a visit to his friend M. d'Artagnan,
but that till that hour he had been at
M. de Treville's, where he had dined. 
"Twenty witnesses," added he, "could
attest the fact"; and he named several
distinguished gentlemen, and among them
was M. le Duc de la Tremouille.

The second commissary was as much
bewildered as the first had been by the
simple and firm declaration of the
Musketeer, upon whom he was anxious to
take the revenge which men of the robe
like at all times to gain over men of
the sword; but the name of M. de
Treville, and that of M. de la
Tremouille, commanded a little
reflection.

Athos was then sent to the cardinal; but
unfortunately the cardinal was at the
Louvre with the king.

It was precisely at this moment that M.
de Treville, on leaving the residence of
the LIEUTENANT-CRIMINEL and the governor
of the Fort l'Eveque without being able
to find Athos, arrived at the palace.

As captain of the Musketeers, M. de
Treville had the right of entry at all
times.

It is well known how violent the king's
prejudices were against the queen, and
how carefully these prejudices were kept
up by the cardinal, who in affairs of
intrigue mistrusted women infinitely
more than men.  One of the grand causes
of this prejudice was the friendship of
Anne of Austria for Mme. de Chevreuse. 
These two women gave him more uneasiness
than the war with Spain, the quarrel
with England, or the embarrassment of
the finances.  In his eyes and to his
conviction, Mme. de Chevreuse not only
served the queen in her political
intrigues, but, what tormented him still
more, in her amorous intrigues.

At the first word the cardinal spoke of
Mme. de Chevreuse--who, though exiled to
Tours and believed to be in that city,
had come to Paris, remained there five
days, and outwitted the police--the king
flew into a furious passion.  Capricious
and unfaithful, the king wished to be
called Louis the Just and Louis the
Chaste. Posterity will find a difficulty
in understanding this character, which
history explains only by facts and never
by reason.

But when the cardinal added that not
only Mme. de Chevreuse had been in
Paris, but still further, that the queen
had renewed with her one of those
mysterious correspondences which at that
time was named a CABAL; when he affirmed
that he, the cardinal, was about to
unravel the most closely twisted thread
of this intrigue; that at the moment of
arresting in the very act, with all the
proofs about her, the queen's emissary
to the exiled duchess, a Musketeer had
dared to interrupt the course of justice
violently, by falling sword in hand upon
the honest men of the law, charged with
investigating impartially the whole
affair in order to place it before the
eyes of the king--Louis XIII could not
contain himself, and he made a step
toward the queen's apartment with that
pale and mute indignation which, when in
broke out, led this prince to the
commission of the most pitiless cruelty.
And yet, in all this, the cardinal had
not yet said a word about the Duke of
Buckingham.

At this instant M. de Treville entered,
cool, polite, and in irreproachable
costume.

Informed of what had passed by the
presence of the cardinal and the
alteration in the king's countenance, M.
de Treville felt himself something like
Samson before the Philistines.

Louis XIII had already placed his hand
on the knob of the door; at the noise of
M. de Treville's entrance he turned
round.  "You arrive in good time,
monsieur," said the king, who, when his
passions were raised to a certain point,
could not dissemble; "I have learned
some fine things concerning your
Musketeers."

"And I," said Treville, coldly, "I have
some pretty things to tell your Majesty
concerning these gownsmen."

"What?" said the king, with hauteur.

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

"Athos," said the king, mechanically;
"yes, certainly I know that name."

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

"Thank you," said the cardinal, biting
his lips with anger.

"Athos, then, went to pay a visit to one
of his friends absent at the time,"
continued Treville, "to a young
Bearnais, a cadet in his Majesty's
Guards, the company of Monsieur
Dessessart, but scarcely had he arrived
at his friend's and taken up a book,
while waiting his return, when a mixed
crowd of bailiffs and soldiers came and
laid siege to the house, broke open
several doors--"

The cardinal made the king a sign, which
signified, "That was on account of the
affair about which I spoke to you."

"We all know that," interrupted the
king; "for all that was done for our
service."

"Then," said Treville, "it was also for
your Majesty's service that one of my
Musketeers, who was innocent, has been
seized, that he has been placed between
two guards like a malefactor, and that
this gallant man, who has ten times shed
his blood in your Majesty's service and
is ready to shed it again, has been
paraded through the midst of an insolent
populace?"

"Bah!" said the king, who began to be
shaken, "was it so managed?"

"Monsieur de Treville," said the
cardinal, with the greatest phlegm,
"does not tell your Majesty that this
innocent Musketeer, this gallant man,
had only an hour before attacked, sword
in hand, four commissaries of inquiry,
who were delegated by myself to examine
into an affair of the highest
importance."

"I defy your Eminence to prove it,"
cried Treville, with his Gascon freedom
and military frankness; "for one hour
before, Monsieur Athos, who, I will
confide it to your Majesty, is really a
man of the highest quality, did me the
honor after having dined with me to be
conversing in the saloon of my hotel,
with the Duc de la Tremouille and the
Comte de Chalus, who happened to be
there."

The king looked at the cardinal.

"A written examination attests it," said
the cardinal, replying aloud to the mute
interrogation of his Majesty; "and the
ill-treated people have drawn up the
following, which I have the honor to
present to your Majesty."

"And is the written report of the
gownsmen to be placed in comparison with
the word of honor of a swordsman?"
replied Treville haughtily.

"Come, come, Treville, hold your
tongue," said the king.

"If his Eminence entertains any
suspicion against one of my Musketeers,"
said Treville, "the justice of Monsieur
the Cardinal is so well known that I
demand an inquiry."

"In the house in which the judicial
inquiry was made," continued the
impassive cardinal, "there lodges, I
believe, a young Bearnais, a friend of
the Musketeer."

"Your Eminence means Monsieur
d'Artagnan."

"I mean a young man whom you patronize,
Monsieur de Treville."

"Yes, your Eminence, it is the same."

"Do you not suspect this young man of
having given bad counsel?"

"To Athos, to a man double his age?"
interrupted Treville.  "No, monseigneur.
Besides, D'Artagnan passed the evening
with me."

"Well," said the cardinal, "everybody
seems to have passed the evening with
you."

"Does your Eminence doubt my word?" said
Treville, with a brow flushed with
anger.

"No, God forbid," said the cardinal;
"only, at what hour was he with you?"

"Oh, as to that I can speak positively,
your Eminence; for as he came in I
remarked that it was but half past nine
by the clock, although I had believed it
to be later."

"At what hour did he leave your hotel?"

"At half past ten--an hour after the
event."

"Well," replied the cardinal, who could
not for an instant suspect the loyalty
of Treville, and who felt that the
victory was escaping him, "well, but
Athos WAS taken in the house in the Rue
des Fossoyeurs."

"Is one friend forbidden to visit
another, or a Musketeer of my company to
fraternize with a Guard of Dessessart's
company?"

"Yes, when the house where he
fraternizes is suspected."

"That house is suspected, Treville,"
said the king; "perhaps you did not know
it?"

"Indeed, sire, I did not.  The house may
be suspected; but I deny that it is so
in the part of it inhabited my Monsieur
d'Artagnan, for I can affirm, sire, if I
can believe what he says, that there
does not exist a more devoted servant of
your Majesty, or a more profound admirer
of Monsieur the Cardinal."

"Was it not this D'Artagnan who wounded
Jussac one day, in that unfortunate
encounter which took place near the
Convent of the Carmes-Dechausses?" asked
the king, looking at the cardinal, who
colored with vexation.

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

"Come, how shall we decide?" said the
king.

"That concerns your Majesty more than
me," said the cardinal.  "I should
affirm the culpability."

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

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

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

The expression was imprudent; but M. de
Treville launched it with knowledge of
his cause.  He was desirous of an
explosion, because in that case the mine
throws forth fire, and fire enlightens.

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

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

"Gascon-headed man, will you have done?"
said the king.

"Sire," replied Treville, without
lowering his voice in the least, "either
order my Musketeer to be restored to me,
or let him be tried."

"He shall be tried," said the cardinal.

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

The king feared an outbreak.

"If his Eminence," said he, "did not
have personal motives--"

The cardinal saw what the king was about
to say and interrupted him:

"Pardon me," said he; "but the instant
your Majesty considers me a prejudiced
judge, I withdraw."

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

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

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

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

"No, he will not desert," said the king;
"he can always be found, as Treville
says.  Besides," added he, lowering his
voice and looking with a suppliant air
at the cardinal, "let us give them
apparent security; that is policy."

This policy of Louis XIII made Richelieu
smile.

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

"The right of pardoning only applies to
the guilty," said Treville, who was
determined to have the last word, "and
my Musketeer is innocent.  It is not
mercy, then, that you are about to
accord, sire, it is justice."

"And he is in the Fort l'Eveque?" said
the king.

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

"The devil!" murmured the king; "what
must be done?"

"Sign an order for his release, and all
will be said," replied the cardinal.  "I
believe with your Majesty that Monsieur
de Treville's guarantee is more than
sufficient."

Treville bowed very respectfully, with a
joy that was not unmixed with fear; he
would have preferred an obstinate
resistance on the part of the cardinal
to this sudden yielding.

The king signed the order for release,
and Treville carried it away without
delay.  As he was about to leave the
presence, the cardinal have him a
friendly smile, and said, "A perfect
harmony reigns, sire, between the
leaders and the soldiers of your
Musketeers, which must be profitable for
the service and honorable to all."

"He will play me some dog's trick or
other, and that immediately," said
Treville.  "One has never the last word
with such a man.  But let us be
quick--the king may change his mind in
an hour; and at all events it is more
difficult to replace a man in the Fort
l'Eveque or the Bastille who has got
out, than to keep a prisoner there who
is in."

M. de Treville made his entrance
triumphantly into the Fort l'Eveque,
whence he delivered the Musketeer, whose
peaceful indifference had not for a
moment abandoned him.

The first time he saw D'Artagnan, "You
have come off well," said he to him;
"there is your Jussac thrust paid for. 
There still remains that of Bernajoux,
but you must not be too confident."

As to the rest, M. de Treville had good
reason to mistrust the cardinal and to
think that all was not over, for
scarcely had the captain of the
Musketeers closed the door after him,
than his Eminence said to the king, "Now
that we are at length by ourselves, we
will, if your Majesty pleases, converse
seriously. Sire, Buckingham has been in
Paris five days, and only left this
morning."



16 IN WHICH M. SEGUIER, KEEPER OF THE
SEALS, LOOKS MORE THAN ONCE FOR THE
BELL, IN ORDER TO RING IT, AS HE DID
BEFORE

It is impossible to form an idea of the
impression these few words made upon
Louis XIII.  He grew pale and red
alternately; and the cardinal saw at
once that he had recovered by a single
blow all the ground he had lost.

"Buckingham in Paris!" cried he, "and
why does he come?"

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

"No, PARDIEU, no!  To conspire against
my honor with Madame de Chevreuse,
Madame de Longueville, and the Condes."

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

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

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

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

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

"That's it!" cried the king; "to him, no
doubt.  Cardinal, I must have the
queen's papers."

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

"How did they act with regard to the
Marechale d'Ancre?" cried the king, in
the highest state of choler; "first her
closets were thoroughly searched, and
then she herself."

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

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

"Who, I believe, is the mainspring of
all this, I confess," said the cardinal.

"You think then, as I do, that she
deceives me?" said the king.

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

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

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

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

Louis XIII stopped, terrified at what he
was about to say, while Richelieu,
stretching out his neck, waited
uselessly for the word which had died on
the lips of the king.

"He should have been--?"

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

"No, sire."

"Where did he lodge?"

"Rue de la Harpe. No. 75."

"Where is that?"

"By the side of the Luxembourg."

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

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

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

"Sire, notwithstanding--"

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

"I would, however, beg your Majesty to
observe--"

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

"Sire," replied the cardinal, sighing,
"I believed myself secure from such a
suspicion."

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

"There is but one way."

"What is that?"

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

"Let him be sent for instantly."

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

"Let him be sent for instantly."

"Your Majesty's orders shall be
executed; but--"

"But what?"

"But the queen will perhaps refuse to
obey."

"My orders?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Louis XIII, opening the door of
communication, passed into the corridor
which led from his apartments to those
of Anne of Austria.

The queen was in the midst of her
women--Mme. de Guitaut, Mme. de Sable,
Mme. de Montbazon, and Mme. de Guemene. 
In a corner was the Spanish companion,
Donna Estafania, who had followed her
from Madrid.  Mme. Guemene was reading
aloud, and everybody was listening to
her with attention with the exception of
the queen, who had, on the contrary,
desired this reading in order that she
might be able, while feigning to listen,
to pursue the thread of her own
thoughts.

These thoughts, gilded as they were by a
last reflection of love, were not the
less sad.  Anne of Austria, deprived of
the confidence of her husband, pursued
by the hatred of the cardinal, who could
not pardon her for having repulsed a
more tender feeling, having before her
eyes the example of the queen-mother
whom that hatred had tormented all her
life--though Marie de Medicis, if the
memoirs of the time are to be believed,
had begun by according to the cardinal
that sentiment which Anne of Austria
always refused him--Anne of Austria had
seen her most devoted servants fall
around her, her most intimate
confidants, her dearest favorites.  Like
those unfortunate persons endowed with a
fatal gift, she brought misfortune upon
everything she touched. Her friendship
was a fatal sign which called down
persecution. Mme. de Chevreuse and Mme.
de Bernet were exiled, and Laporte did
not conceal from his mistress that he
expected to be arrested every instant.

It was at the moment when she was
plunged in the deepest and darkest of
these reflections that the door of the
chamber opened, and the king entered.

The reader hushed herself instantly. 
All the ladies rose, and there was a
profound silence.  As to the king, he
made no demonstration of politeness,
only stopping before the queen.
"Madame," said he, "you are about to
receive a visit from the chancellor, who
will communicate certain matters to you
with which I have charged him."

The unfortunate queen, who was
constantly threatened with divorce,
exile, and trial even, turned pale under
her rouge, and could not refrain from
saying, "But why this visit, sire?  What
can the chancellor have to say to me
that your Majesty could not say
yourself?"

The king turned upon his heel without
reply, and almost at the same instant
the captain of the Guards, M. de
Guitant, announced the visit of the
chancellor.

When the chancellor appeared, the king
had already gone out by another door.

The chancellor entered, half smiling,
half blushing.  As we shall probably
meet with him again in the course of our
history, it may be well for our readers
to be made at once acquainted with him.

This chancellor was a pleasant man.  He
was Des Roches le Masle, canon of Notre
Dame, who had formerly been valet of a
bishop, who introduced him to his
Eminence as a perfectly devout man.  The
cardinal trusted him, and therein found
his advantage.

There are many stories related of him,
and among them this. After a wild youth,
he had retired into a convent, there to
expiate, at least for some time, the
follies of adolescence.  On entering
this holy place, the poor penitent was
unable to shut the door so close as to
prevent the passions he fled from
entering with him.  He was incessantly
attacked by them, and the superior, to
whom he had confided this misfortune,
wishing as much as in him lay to free
him from them, had advised him, in order
to conjure away the tempting demon, to
have recourse to the bell rope, and ring
with all his might.  At the denunciating
sound, the monks would be rendered aware
that temptation was besieging a brother,
and all the community would go to
prayers.

This advice appeared good to the future
chancellor.  He conjured the evil spirit
with abundance of prayers offered up by
the monks.  But the devil does not
suffer himself to be easily dispossessed
from a place in which he has fixed his
garrison.  In proportion as they
redoubled the exorcisms he redoubled the
temptations; so that day and night the
bell was ringing full swing, announcing
the extreme desire for mortification
which the penitent experienced.

The monks had no longer an instant of
repose.  By day they did nothing but
ascend and descend the steps which led
to the chapel; at night, in addition to
complines and matins, they were further
obliged to leap twenty times out of
their beds and prostrate themselves on
the floor of their cells.

It is not known whether it was the devil
who gave way, or the monks who grew
tired; but within three months the
penitent reappeared in the world with
the reputation of being the most
terrible POSSESSED that ever existed.

On leaving the convent he entered into
the magistracy, became president on the
place of his uncle, embraced the
cardinal's party, which did not prove
want of sagacity, became chancellor,
served his Eminence with zeal in his
hatred against the queen-mother and his
vengeance against Anne of Austria,
stimulated the judges in the affair of
Calais, encouraged the attempts of M. de
Laffemas, chief gamekeeper of France;
then, at length, invested with the
entire confidence of the cardinal--a
confidence which he had so well
earned--he received the singular
commission for the execution of which he
presented himself in the queen's
apartments.

The queen was still standing when he
entered; but scarcely had she perceived
him then she reseated herself in her
armchair, and made a sign to her women
to resume their cushions and stools, and
with an air of supreme hauteur, said,
"What do you desire, monsieur, and with
what object do you present yourself
here?"

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

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

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

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

For form's sake the chancellor paid a
visit to the pieces of furniture named;
but he well knew that it was not in a
piece of furniture that the queen would
place the important letter she had
written that day.

When the chancellor had opened and shut
twenty times the drawers of the
secretaries, it became necessary,
whatever hesitation he might
experience--it became necessary, I say,
to come to the conclusion of the affair;
that is to say, to search the queen
herself.  The chancellor advanced,
therefore, toward Anne of Austria, and
said with a very perplexed and
embarrassed air, "And now it remains for
me to make the principal examination."

"What is that?" asked the queen, who did
not understand, or rather was not
willing to understand.

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

"Would you dare to lift your hand to
your queen?" said Anne of Austria,
drawing herself up to her full height,
and fixing her eyes upon the chancellor
with an expression almost threatening.

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

"Well, it is true!" said Anne of
Austria; "and the spies of the cardinal
have served him faithfully.  I have
written a letter today; that letter is
not yet gone.  The letter is here."  And
the queen laid her beautiful hand on her
bosom.

"Then give me that letter, madame," said
the chancellor.

"I will give it to none but the king
monsieur," said Anne.

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

"Well?"

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

"How!  What do you say?"

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

"What horror!" cried the queen.

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

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

"The king commands it, madame; excuse
me."

"I will not suffer it!  No, no, I would
rather die!" cried the queen, in whom
the imperious blood of Spain and Austria
began to rise.

The chancellor made a profound
reverence.  Then, with the intention
quite patent of not drawing back a foot
from the accomplishment of the
commission with which he was charged,
and as the attendant of an executioner
might have done in the chamber of
torture, he approached Anne of Austria,
for whose eyes at the same instant
sprang tears of rage.

The queen was, as we have said, of great
beauty.  The commission might well be
called delicate; and the king had
reached, in his jealousy of Buckingham,
the point of not being jealous of anyone
else.

Without doubt the chancellor, Seguier
looked about at that moment for the rope
of the famous bell; but not finding it
he summoned his resolution, and
stretched forth his hands toward the
place where the queen had acknowledged
the paper was to be found.

Anne of Austria took one step backward,
became so pale that it might be said she
was dying, and leaning with her left
hand upon a table behind her to keep
herself from falling, she with her right
hand drew the paper from her bosom and
held it out to the keeper of the seals.

"There, monsieur, there is that letter!"
cried the queen, with a broken and
trembling voice; "take it, and deliver
me from your odious presence."

The chancellor, who, on his part,
trembled with an emotion easily to be
conceived, took the letter, bowed to the
ground, and retired.  The door was
scarcely closed upon him, when the queen
sank, half fainting, into the arms of
her women.

The chancellor carried the letter to the
king without having read a single word
of it.  The king took it with a
trembling hand, looked for the address,
which was wanting, became very pale,
opened it slowly, then seeing by the
first words that it was addressed to the
King of Spain, he read it rapidly.

It was nothing but a plan of attack
against the cardinal.  The queen pressed
her brother and the Emperor of Austria
to appear to be wounded, as they really
were, by the policy of Richelieu--the
eternal object of which was the
abasement of the house of Austria--to
declare war against France, and as a
condition of peace, to insist upon the
dismissal of the cardinal; but as to
love, there was not a single word about
it in all the letter.

The king, quite delighted, inquired if
the cardinal was still at the Louvre; he
was told that his Eminence awaited the
orders of his Majesty in the business
cabinet.

The king went straight to him.

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

The cardinal took the letter, and read
it with the greatest attention; then,
when he had arrived at the end of it, he
read it a second time.  "Well, your
Majesty," said he, "you see how far my
enemies go; they menace you with two
wars if you do not dismiss me.  In your
place, in truth, sire, I should yield to
such powerful instance; and on my part,
it would be a real happiness to withdraw
from public affairs."

"What say you, Duke?"

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

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

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

"That is true, Monsieur Cardinal," said
the king, "and you were right, as you
always are; but the queen, not the less,
deserves all my anger."

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

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

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

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

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

"What!  I make the first advances?" said
the king.  "Never!"

"Sire, I entreat you to do so."

"Besides, in what manner can I make
advances first?"

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

"What is that?"

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

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

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

"We shall see, Monsieur Cardinal, we
shall see," said the king, who, in his
joy at finding the queen guilty of a
crime which he cared little about, and
innocent of a fault of which he had
great dread, was ready to make up all
differences with her, "we shall see, but
upon my honor, you are too indulgent
toward her."

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

Thereupon the cardinal, hearing the
clock strike eleven, bowed low, asking
permission of the king to retire, and
supplicating him to come to a good
understanding with the queen.

Anne of Austria, who, in consequence of
the seizure of her letter, expected
reproaches, was much astonished the next
day to see the king make some attempts
at reconciliation with her.  Her first
movement was repellent.  Her womanly
pride and her queenly dignity had both
been so cruelly offended that she could
not come round at the first advance;
but, overpersuaded by the advice of her
women, she at last had the appearance of
beginning to forget. The king took
advantage of this favorable moment to
tell her that her had the intention of
shortly giving a fete.

A fete was so rare a thing for poor Anne
of Austria that at this announcement, as
the cardinal had predicted, the last
trace of her resentment disappeared, if
not from her heart at least from her
countenance.  She asked upon what day
this fete would take place, but the king
replied that he must consult the
cardinal upon that head.

Indeed, every day the king asked the
cardinal when this fete should take
place; and every day the cardinal, under
some pretext, deferred fixing it.  Ten
days passed away thus.

On the eighth day after the scene we
have described, the cardinal received a
letter with the London stamp which only
contained these lines:  "I have them;
but I am unable to leave London for want
of money.  Send me five hundred
pistoles, and four or five days after I
have received them I shall be in Paris."

On the same day the cardinal received
this letter the king put his customary
question to him.

Richelieu counted on his fingers, and
said to himself, "She will arrive, she
says, four or five days after having
received the money.  It will require
four or five days for the transmission
of the money, four or five days for her
to return; that makes ten days.  Now,
allowing for contrary winds, accidents,
and a woman's weakness, there are twelve
days."

"Well, Monsieur Duke," said the king,
"have you made your calculations?"

"Yes, sire.  Today is the twentieth of
September.  The aldermen of the city
give a fete on the third of October. 
That will fall in wonderfully well; you
will not appear to have gone out of your
way to please the queen."

Then the cardinal added, "A PROPOS,
sire, do not forget to tell her Majesty
the evening before the fete that you
should like to see how her diamond studs
become her."



17 BONACIEUX AT HOME

It was the second time the cardinal had
mentioned these diamond studs to the
king.  Louis XIII was struck with this
insistence, and began to fancy that this
recommendation concealed some mystery.

More than once the king had been
humiliated by the cardinal, whose
police, without having yet attained the
perfection of the modern police, were
excellent, being better informed than
himself, even upon what was going on in
his own household.  He hoped, then, in a
conversation with Anne of Austria, to
obtain some information from that
conversation, and afterward to come upon
his Eminence with some secret which the
cardinal either knew or did not know,
but which, in either case, would raise
him infinitely in the eyes of his
minister.

He went then to the queen, and according
to custom accosted her with fresh
menaces against those who surrounded
her.  Anne of Austria lowered her head,
allowed the torrent to flow on without
replying, hoping that it would cease of
itself; but this was not what Louis XIII
meant.  Louis XIII wanted a discussion
from which some light or other might
break, convinced as he was that the
cardinal had some afterthought and was
preparing for him one of those terrible
surprises which his Eminence was so
skillful in getting up.  He arrived at
this end by his persistence in
accusation.

"But," cried Anne of Austria, tired of
these vague attacks, "but, sire, you do
not tell me all that you have in your
heart.  What have I done, then?  Let me
know what crime I have committed.  It is
impossible that your Majesty can make
all this ado about a letter written to
my brother."

The king, attacked in a manner so
direct, did not know what to answer; and
he thought that this was the moment for
expressing the desire which he was not
have made until the evening before the
fete.

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

The answer was terrible.  Anne of
Austria believed that Louis XIII knew
all, and that the cardinal had persuaded
him to employ this long dissimulation of
seven or eight days, which, likewise,
was characteristic.  She became
excessively pale, leaned her beautiful
hand upon a CONSOLE, which hand appeared
then like one of wax, and looking at the
king with terror in her eyes, she was
unable to reply by a single syllable.

"You hear, madame," said the king, who
enjoyed the embarrassment to its full
extent, but without guessing the cause. 
"You hear, madame?"

"Yes, sire, I hear," stammered the
queen.

"You will appear at this ball?"

"Yes."

"With those studs?"

"Yes."

The queen's paleness, if possible,
increased; the king perceived it, and
enjoyed it with that cold cruelty which
was one of the worst sides of his
character.

"Then that is agreed," said the king,
"and that is all I had to say to you."

"But on what day will this ball take
place?" asked Anne of Austria.

Louis XIII felt instinctively that he
ought not to reply to this question, the
queen having put it in an almost dying
voice.

"Oh, very shortly, madame," said he;
"but I do not precisely recollect the
date of the day.  I will ask the
cardinal."

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

"Yes, madame," replied the astonished
king; "but why do you ask that?"

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

"That is to say, madame--"

"It was he, sire, it was he!"

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

"No, sire."

"Then you will appear?"

"Yes, sire."

"That is well," said the king, retiring,
"that is well; I count upon it."

The queen made a curtsy, less from
etiquette than because her knees were
sinking under her.  The king went away
enchanted.

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

She knelt upon a cushion and prayed,
with her head buried between her
palpitating arms.

In fact, her position was terrible. 
Buckingham had returned to London; Mme.
Chevreuse was at Tours.  More closely
watched than ever, the queen felt
certain, without knowing how to tell
which, that one of her women had
betrayed her.  Laporte could not leave
the Louvre; she had not a soul in the
world in whom she could confide.  Thus,
while contemplating the misfortune which
threatened her and the abandonment in
which she was left, she broke out into
sobs and tears.

"Can I be of service to your Majesty?"
said all at once a voice full of
sweetness and pity.

The queen turned sharply round, for
there could be no deception in the
expression of that voice; it was a
friend who spoke thus.

In fact, at one of the doors which
opened into the queen's apartment
appeared the pretty Mme. Bonacieux.  She
had been engaged in arranging the
dresses and linen in a closet when the
king entered; she could not get out and
had heard all.

The queen uttered a piercing cry at
finding herself surprised--for in her
trouble she did not at first recognize
the young woman who had been given to
her by Laporte.

"Oh, fear nothing, madame!" said the
young woman, clasping her hands and
weeping herself at the queen's sorrows;
"I am your Majesty's, body and soul, and
however far I may be from you, however
inferior may be my position, I believe I
have discovered a means of extricating
your Majesty from your trouble."

"You, oh, heaven, you!" cried the queen;
"but look me in the face.  I am betrayed
on all sides.  Can I trust in you?"

"Oh, madame!" cried the young woman,
falling on her knees; "upon my soul, I
am ready to die for your Majesty!"

This expression sprang from the very
bottom of the heart, and, like the
first, there was no mistaking it.

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

"Oh, my God, my God!" murmured the
queen, whose teeth chattered with
fright.

"Well, those studs," continued Mme.
Bonacieux, "we must have them back
again."

"Yes, without doubt, it is necessary,"
cried the queen; "but how am I to act? 
How can it be effected?"

"Someone must be sent to the duke."

"But who, who?  In whom can I trust?"

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

"But I must write."

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

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

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

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

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

"But how?  Tell me at least the means."

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

The queen took the two hands of the
young woman with a burst of emotion,
gazed at her as if to read her very
heart, and seeing nothing but sincerity
in her beautiful eyes, embraced her
tenderly.

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

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

"That is true, that is true, my child,"
said the queen, "you are right."

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

The queen ran to a little table, on
which were ink, paper, and pens.  She
wrote two lines, sealed the letter with
her private seal, and gave it to Mme.
Bonacieux.

"And now," said the queen, "we are
forgetting one very necessary thing."

"What is that, madame?"

"Money."

Mme. Bonacieux blushed.

"Yes, that is true," said she, "and I
will confess to your Majesty that my
husband--"

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

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

"And I have none, either," said the
queen.  Those who have read the MEMOIRS
of Mme. de Motteville will not be
astonished at this reply.  "But wait a
minute."

Anne of Austria ran to her jewel case.

"Here," said she, "here is a ring of
great value, as I have been assured.  It
came from my brother, the King of Spain.
It is mine, and I am at liberty to
dispose of it.  Take this ring; raise
money with it, and let your husband set
out."

"In an hour you shall be obeyed."

"You see the address," said the queen,
speaking so low that Mme. Bonacieux
could hardly hear what she said, "To my
Lord Duke of Buckingham, London."

"The letter shall be given to himself."

"Generous girl!" cried Anne of Austria.

Mme. Bonacieux kissed the hands of the
queen, concealed the paper in the bosom
of her dress, and disappeared with the
lightness of a bird.

Ten minutes afterward she was at home. 
As she told the queen, she had not seen
her husband since his liberation; she
was ignorant of the change that had
taken place in him with respect to the
cardinal--a change which had since been
strengthened by two or three visits from
the Comte de Rochefort, who had become
the best friend of Bonacieux, and had
persuaded him, without much trouble, was
putting his house in order, the
furniture of which he had found mostly
broken and his closets nearly
empty--justice not being one of the
three things which King Solomon names as
leaving no traces of their passage.  As
to the servant, she had run away at the
moment of her master's arrest.  Terror
had had such an effect upon the poor
girl that she had never ceased walking
from Paris till she reached Burgundy,
her native place.

The worthy mercer had, immediately upon
re-entering his house, informed his wife
of his happy return, and his wife had
replied by congratulating him, and
telling him that the first moment she
could steal from her duties should be
devoted to paying him a visit.

This first moment had been delayed five
days, which, under any other
circumstances, might have appeared
rather long to M. Bonacieux; but he had,
in the visit he had made to the cardinal
and in the visits Rochefort had made
him, ample subjects for reflection, and
as everybody knows, nothing makes time
pass more quickly than reflection.

This was the more so because Bonacieux's
reflections were all rose-colored. 
Rochefort called him his friend, his
dear Bonacieux, and never ceased telling
him that the cardinal had a great
respect for him.  The mercer fancied
himself already on the high road to
honors and fortune.

On her side Mme. Bonacieux had also
reflected; but, it must be admitted,
upon something widely different from
ambition.  In spite of herself her
thoughts constantly reverted to that
handsome young man who was so brave and
appeared to be so much in love.  Married
at eighteen to Mme. Bonacieux, having
always lived among her husband's
friends--people little capable of
inspiring any sentiment whatever in a
young woman whose heart was above her
position--Mme. Bonacieux had remained
insensible to vulgar seductions; but at
this period the title of gentleman had
great influence with the citizen class,
and D'Artagnan was a gentleman. Besides,
he wore the uniform of the Guards, which
next to that of the Musketeers was most
admired by the ladies.  He was, we
repeat, handsome, young, and bold; he
spoke of love like a man who did love
and was anxious to be loved in return. 
There was certainly enough in all this
to turn a head only twenty-three years
old, and Mme. Bonacieux had just
attained that happy period of life.

The couple, then, although they had not
seen each other for eight days, and
during that time serious events had
taken place in which both were
concerned, accosted each other with a
degree of preoccupation.  Nevertheless,
Bonacieux manifested real joy, and
advanced toward his wife with open arms.
Madame Bonacieux presented her cheek to
him.

"Let us talk a little," said she.

"How!" said Bonacieux, astonished.

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

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

"Oh, that's of no consequence just now,"
said Mme. Bonacieux.

"And what does it concern, then--my
captivity?"

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

"You speak very much at your ease,
madame," said Bonacieux, hurt at the
little interest his wife showed in him. 
"Do you know that I was plunged during a
day and night in a dungeon of the
Bastille?"

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

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

"Yes, that first, and other things
afterward."

"Speak."

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

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

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

"Me?"

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

Mme. Bonacieux knew that in talking of
money to her husband, she took him on
his weak side.  But a man, were he even
a mercer, when he had talked for ten
minutes with Cardinal Richelieu, is no
longer the same man.

"Much money to be gained?" said
Bonacieux, protruding his lip.

"Yes, much."

"About how much?"

"A thousand pistoles, perhaps."

"What you demand of me is serious,
then?"

"It is indeed."

"What must be done?"

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

"And whither am I to go?"

"To London."

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

"But others wish that you should go
there."

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

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

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

"The cardinal?" cried Mme. Bonacieux. 
"Have you seen the cardinal?"

"He sent for me," answered the mercer,
proudly.

"And you responded to his bidding, you
imprudent man?"

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

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

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

"Of the great cardinal!"

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

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

"I am sorry for it, madame, but I
acknowledge not her power but that of
the great man whom I have the honor to
serve."

"You serve the cardinal?"

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

Bonacieux was repeating, word for word,
a sentence which he had heard from the
Comte de Rochefort; but the poor wife,
who had reckoned on her husband, and
who, in that hope, had answered for him
to the queen, did not tremble the less,
both at the danger into which she had
nearly cast herself and at the helpless
state to which she was reduced. 
Nevertheless, knowing the weakness of
her husband, and more particularly his
cupidity, she did not despair of
bringing him round to her purpose.

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

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

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

"Eh, eh!" said Bonacieux, slapping a
plump, round bag, which returned a sound
a money; "what do you think of this,
Madame Preacher?"

"Whence comes that money?"

"You do not guess?"

"From the cardinal?"

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

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

"That may be, madame!"

"And you receive silver from that man?"

"Have you not said that that abduction
was entirely political?"

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

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

"Monsieur," said the young woman, "I
know you to be cowardly, avaricious, and
foolish, but I never till now believed
you infamous!"

"Madame," said Bonacieux, who had never
seen his wife in a passion, and who
recoiled before this conjugal anger,
"madame, what do you say?"

"I say you are a miserable creature!"
continued Mme. Bonacieux, who saw she
was regaining some little influence over
her husband. "You meddle with politics,
do you--and still more, with cardinalist
politics?  Why, you sell yourself, body
and soul, to the demon, the devil, for
money!"

"No, to the cardinal."

"It's the same thing," cried the young
woman.  "Who calls Richelieu calls
Satan."

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

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

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

"I have told you.  You must depart
instantly, monsieur.  You must
accomplish loyally the commission with
which I deign to charge you, and on that
condition I pardon everything, I forget
everything; and what is more," and she
geld out her hand to him, "I restore my
love."

Bonacieux was cowardly and avaricious,
but he loved his wife.  He was softened.
A man of fifty cannot long bear malice
with a wife of twenty-three.  Mme.
Bonacieux saw that he hesitated.

"Come!  Have you decided?" said she.

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

"What matters it, if you avoid them?"

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

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

Bonacieux fell into a profound
reflection.  He weighed the two angers
in his brain--that of the cardinal and
that of the queen; that of the cardinal
predominated enormously.

"Have me arrested on the part of the
queen," said he, "and I--I will appeal
to his Eminence.

At once Mme. Bonacieux saw that she had
gone too far, and she was terrified at
having communicated so much.  She for a
moment contemplated with fright that
stupid countenance, impressed with the
invincible resolution of a fool that is
overcome by fear.

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

"That is because your fancies go too
far," replied the triumphant Bonacieux,
"and I mistrust them."

'Well, I will give it up, then," said
the young woman, sighing. "It is well as
it is; say no more about it."

"At least you should tell me what I
should have to do in London," replied
Bonacieux, who remembered a little too
late that Rochefort had desired him to
endeavor to obtain his wife's secrets.

"It is of no use for you to know
anything about it," said the young
woman, whom an instinctive mistrust now
impelled to draw back.  "It was about
one of those purchases that interest
women-- a purchase by which much might
have been gained."

But the more the young woman excused
herself, the more important Bonacieux
thought the secret which she declined to
confide to him.  He resolved then to
hasten immediately to the residence of
the Comte de Rochefort, and tell him
that the queen was seeking for a
messenger to send to London.

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

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

"As you please, Madame Bonacieux," said
the ex-mercer.  "Shall I see you again
soon?"

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

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

"Not the least in the world."

"Tell then, then?"

"Till then."

Bonacieux kissed his wife's hand, and
set off at a quick pace.

"Well," said Mme. Bonacieux, when her
husband had shut the street door and she
found herself alone; "that imbecile
lacked but one thing to become a
cardinalist.  And I, who have answered
for him to the queen--I, who have
promised my poor mistress--ah, my God,
my God!  She will take me for one of
those wretches with whom the palace
swarms and who are placed about her as
spies!  Ah, Monsieur Bonacieux, I never
did love you much, but now it is worse
than ever.  I hate you, and on my word
you shall pay for this!"

At the moment she spoke these words a
rap on the ceiling made her raise her
head, and a voice which reached her
through the ceiling cried, "Dear Madame
Bonacieux, open for me the little door
on the alley, and I will come down to
you."



18 LOVER AND HUSBAND

"Ah, Madame," said D'Artagnan, entering
by the door which the young woman opened
for him, "allow me to tell you that you
have a bad sort of a husband."

"You have, then, overheard our
conversation?" asked Mme. Bonacieux,
eagerly, and looking at D'Artagnan with
disquiet.

"The whole?"

"But how, my God?"

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

"And what did you understand by what we
said?"

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

Mme. Bonacieux made no reply; but her
heart beat with joy and secret hope
shone in her eyes.

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

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

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

"I see that you require someone to
answer for me?"

"I admit that would reassure me
greatly."

"Do you know Athos?"

"No."

"Porthos?"

"No."

"Aramis?"

"No.  Who are these gentleman?"

"Three of the king's Musketeers.  Do you
know Monsieur de Treville, their
captain?"

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

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

"Oh, no, certainly not!"

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

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

"You were about to confide it to
Monsieur Bonacieux," said D'Artagnan,
with chagrin.

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

"And yet, me--you see plainly that I
love you."

"You say so."

"I am an honorable man."

"You say so."

"I am a gallant fellow."

"I believe it."

"I am brave."

"Oh, I am sure of that!"

"Then, put me to the proof."

Mme. Bonacieux looked at the young man,
restrained for a minute by a last
hesitation; but there was such an ardor
in his eyes, such persuasion in his
voice, that she felt herself constrained
to confide in him.  Besides, she found
herself in circumstances where
everything must be risked for the sake
of everything.  The queen might be as
much injured by too much reticence as by
too much confidence; and--let us admit
it--the involuntary sentiment which she
felt for her young protector decided her
to speak.

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

"And I--I swear to you before God,
madame," said D'Artagnan. "that if I am
taken while accomplishing the orders you
give me, I will die sooner than do
anything that may compromise anyone."

Then the young woman confided in him the
terrible secret of which chance had
already communicated to him a part in
front of the Samaritaine.  This was
their mutual declaration of love.

D'Artagnan was radiant with joy and
pride.  This secret which he possessed,
this woman whom he loved!  Confidence
and love mad him a giant.

"I go," said he; "I go at once."

"How, you will go!" said Mme. Bonacieux;
"and your regiment, your captain?"

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

"Still another obstacle," murmured Mme.
Bonacieux, sorrowfully.

"As to that," cried D'Artagnan, after a
moment of reflection, "I shall surmount
it, be assured."

"How so?"

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

"But another thing."

"What?" asked D'Artagnan, seeing that
Mme. Bonacieux hesitated to continue.

"You have, perhaps, no money?"

"PERHAPS is too much," said D'Artagnan,
smiling.

"Then," replied Mme. Bonacieux, opening
a cupboard and taking from it the very
bag which a half hour before her husband
had caressed so affectionately, "take
this bag."

"The cardinal's?" cried D'Artagnan,
breaking into a loud laugh, he having
heard, as may be remembered, thanks to
the broken boards, every syllable of the
conversation between the mercer and his
wife.

"The cardinal's," replied Mme.
Bonacieux.  "You see it makes a very
respectable appearance."

"PARDIEU," cried D'Artagnan, "it will be
a double amusing affair to save the
queen with the cardinal's money!"

"You are an amiable and charming young
man," said Mme. Bonacieux. "Be assured
you will not find her Majesty
ungrateful."

"Oh, I am already grandly recompensed!"
cried D'Artagnan.  "I love you; you
permit me to tell you that I do--that is
already more happiness than I dared to
hope."

"Silence!" said Mme. Bonacieux,
starting.

"What!"

"Someone is talking in the street."

"It is the voice of--"

"Of my husband!  Yes, I recognize it!"

D'Artagnan ran to the door and pushed
the bolt.

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

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

"You are right; we must go out."

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

"Then you must come up into my room."

"Ah," said Mme. Bonacieux, "you speak
that in a tone that frightens me!"

Mme. Bonacieux pronounced these words
with tears in her eyes. D'Artagnan saw
those tears, and much disturbed,
softened, he threw himself at her feet.

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

"Let us go," said she, "I place full
confidence in you, my friend!"

D'Artagnan drew back the bolt with
precaution, and both, light as shadows,
glided through the interior door into
the passage, ascended the stairs as
quietly as possible, and entered
D'Artagnan's chambers.

Once there, for greater security, the
young man barricaded the door.  They
both approached the window, and through
a slit in the shutter they saw Bonacieux
talking with a man in a cloak.

At sight of this man, D'Artagnan
started, and half drawing his sword,
sprang toward the door.

It was the man of Meung.

"What are you going to do?" cried Mme.
Bonacieux; "you will ruin us all!"

"But I have sworn to kill that man!"
said D'Artagnan.

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

"And do you command nothing in your own
name?"

"In my name," said Mme. Bonacieux, with
great emotion, "in my name I beg you! 
But listen; they appear to be speaking
of me."

D'Artagnan drew near the window, and
lent his ear.

M. Bonacieux had opened his door, and
seeing the apartment, had returned to
the man in the cloak, whom he had left
alone for an instant.

"She is gone," said he; "she must have
returned to the Louvre."

"You are sure," replied the stranger,
"that she did not suspect the intentions
with which you went out?"

"No," replied Bonacieux, with a
self-sufficient air, "she is too
superficial a woman."

"Is the young Guardsman at home?"

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

"All the same, it is well to be
certain."

"How so?"

"By knocking at his door.  Go."

"I will ask his servant."

Bonacieux re-entered the house, passed
through the same door that had afforded
a passage for the two fugitives, went up
to D'Artagnan's door, and knocked.

No one answered.  Porthos, in order to
make a greater display, had that evening
borrowed Planchet.  As to D'Artagnan, he
took care not to give the least sign of
existence.

The moment the hand of Bonacieux sounded
on the door, the two young people felt
their hearts bound within them.

"There is nobody within," said
Bonacieux.

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

"Ah, my God!" whispered Mme. Bonacieux,
"we shall hear no more."

"On the contrary," said D'Artagnan, "we
shall hear better."

D'Artagnan raised the three or four
boards which made his chamber another
ear of Dionysius, spread a carpet on the
floor, went upon his knees, and made a
sign to Mme. Bonacieux to stoop as he
did toward the opening.

"You are sure there is nobody there?"
said the stranger.

"I will answer for it," said Bonacieux.

"And you think that your wife--"

"Has returned to the Louvre."

"Without speaking to anyone but
yourself?"

"I am sure of it."

"That is an important point, do you
understand?"

"Then the news I brought you is of
value?"

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

"Then the cardinal will be pleased with
me?"

"I have no doubt of it."

"The great cardinal!"

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

"I think not."

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

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

"The traitor!" murmured Mme. Bonacieux.

"Silence!" said D'Artagnan, taking her
hand, which, without thinking of it, she
abandoned to him.

"Never mind," continued the man in the
cloak; "you were a fool not to have
pretended to accept the mission.  You
would then be in present possession of
the letter.  The state, which is now
threatened, would be safe, and you--"

"And I?"

"Well you--the cardinal would have given
you letters of nobility."

"Did he tell you so?"

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

"Be satisfied," replied Bonacieux; "my
wife adores me, and there is yet time."

"The ninny!" murmured Mme. Bonacieux.

"Silence!" said D'Artagnan, pressing her
hand more closely.

"How is there still time?" asked the man
in the cloak.

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

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

The stranger went out.

"Infamous!" said Mme. Bonacieux,
addressing this epithet to her husband.

"Silence!" said D'Artagnan, pressing her
hand still more warmly.

A terrible howling interrupted these
reflections of D'Artagnan and Mme.
Bonacieux.  It was her husband, who had
discovered the disappearance of the
moneybag, and was crying "Thieves!"

"Oh, my God!" cried Mme. Bonacieux, "he
will rouse the whole quarter."

Bonacieux called a long time; but as
such cries, on account of their
frequency, brought nobody in the Rue des
Fossoyeurs, and as lately the mercer's
house had a bad name, finding that
nobody came, he went out continuing to
call, his voice being heard fainter and
fainter as he went in the direction of
the Rue du Bac.

"Now he is gone, it is your turn to get
out," said Mme. Bonacieux.  "Courage, my
friend, but above all, prudence, and
think what you owe to the queen."

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

The young woman only replied by the
beautiful glow which mounted to her
cheeks.  A few seconds afterward
D'Artagnan also went out enveloped in a
large cloak, which ill-concealed the
sheath of a long sword.

Mme. Bonacieux followed him with her
eyes, with that long, fond look with
which he had turned the angle of the
street, she fell on her knees, and
clasping her hands, "Oh, my God," cried
she, "protect the queen, protect me!"



19 PLAN OF CAMPAIGN

D'Artagnan went straight to M. de
Treville's.  He had reflected that in a
few minutes the cardinal would be warned
by this cursed stranger, who appeared to
be his agent, and he judged, with
reason, he had not a moment to lose.

The heart of the young man overflowed
with joy.  An opportunity presented
itself to him in which there would be at
the same time glory to be acquired, and
money to be gained; and as a far higher
encouragement, it brought him into close
intimacy with a woman he adored.  This
chance did, then, for him at once more
than he would have dared to ask of
Providence.

M. de Treville was in his saloon with
his habitual court of gentlemen. 
D'Artagnan, who was known as a familiar
of the house, went straight to his
office, and sent word that he wished to
see him on something of importance.

D'Artagnan had been there scarcely five
minutes when M. de Treville entered.  At
the first glance, and by the joy which
was painted on his countenance, the
worthy captain plainly perceived that
something new was on foot.

All the way along D'Artagnan had been
consulting with himself whether he
should place confidence in M. de
Treville, or whether he should only ask
him to give him CARTE BLANCHE for some
secret affair.  But M. de Treville had
always been so thoroughly his friend,
had always been so devoted to the king
and queen, and hated the cardinal so
cordially, that the young man resolved
to tell him everything.

"Did you ask for me, my good friend?"
said M. de Treville.

'Yes, monsieur," said D'Artagnan,
lowering his voice, "and you will pardon
me, I hope, for having disturbed you
when you know the importance of my
business."

"Speak, then, I am all attention."

"It concerns nothing less", said
D'Artagnan, "than the honor, perhaps the
life of the queen."

"What did you say?" asked M. de
Treville, glancing round to see if they
were surely alone, and then fixing his
questioning look upon D'Artagnan.

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

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

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

"Is this secret your own?"

"No, monsieur; it is her Majesty's."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"When?"

"This very night."

"You leave Paris?"

"I am going on a mission."

"May you tell me whither?"

"To London."

"Has anyone an interest in preventing
your arrival there?"

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

"And you are going alone?"

"I am going alone."

"In that case you will not get beyond
Bondy.  I tell you so, by the faith of
De Treville."

"How so?"

"You will be assassinated."

"And I shall die in the performance of
my duty."

"But your mission will not be
accomplished."

"That is true," replied D'Artagnan.

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

"Ah, you are right, monsieur," said
D'Artagnan; "but you know Athos,
Porthos, and Aramis, and you know if I
can dispose of them."

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

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

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

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

"Begone, then, find them instantly, and
let all be done tonight! Ha!  But first
write your request to Dessessart. 
Perhaps you had a spy at your heels; and
your visit, if it should ever be known
to the cardinal, will thus seem
legitimate."

D'Artagnan drew up his request, and M.
de Treville, on receiving it, assured
him that by two o'clock in the morning
the four leaves of absence should be at
the respective domiciles of the
travelers.

"Have the goodness to send mine to
Athos's residence.  I should dread some
disagreeable encounter if I were to go
home."

"Be easy.  Adieu, and a prosperous
voyage.  A PROPOS," said M. de Treville,
calling him back.

D'Artagnan returned.

"Have you any money?"

D'Artagnan tapped the bag he had in his
pocket.

"Enough?" asked M. de Treville.

"Three hundred pistoles."

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

D'Artagnan saluted M. de Treville, who
held out his hand to him; D'Artagnan
pressed it with a respect mixed with
gratitude.  Since his first arrival at
Paris, he had had constant occasion to
honor this excellent man, whom he had
always found worthy, loyal, and great.

His first visit was to Aramis, at whose
residence he had not been since the
famous evening on which he had followed
Mme. Bonacieux. Still further, he had
seldom seen the young Musketeer; but
every time he had seen him, he had
remarked a deep sadness imprinted on his
countenance.

This evening, especially, Aramis was
melancholy and thoughtful. D'Artagnan
asked some questions about this
prolonged melancholy. Aramis pleaded as
his excuse a commentary upon the
eighteenth chapter of St. Augustine,
which he was forced to write in Latin
for the following week, and which
preoccupied him a good deal.

After the two friends had been chatting
a few moments, a servant from M. de
Treville entered, bringing a sealed
packet.

"What is that?" asked Aramis.

"The leave of absence Monsieur has asked
for," replied the lackey.

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

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

The lackey bowed to the ground and
departed.

"What does all this mean?" asked Aramis.

"Pack up all you want for a journey of a
fortnight, and follow me."

"But I cannot leave Paris just now
without knowing--"

Aramis stopped.

"What is become of her?  I suppose you
mean--" continued D'Artagnan.

"Become of whom?" replied Aramis.

"The woman who was here--the woman with
the embroidered handkerchief."

"Who told you there was a woman here?"
replied Aramis, becoming as pale as
death.

"I saw her."

"And you know who she is?"

"I believe I can guess, at least."

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

"I presume that she has returned to
Tours."

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

"Because she was in fear of being
arrested."

"Why has she not written to me, then?"

"Because she was afraid of compromising
you."

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

"for the cause which today takes us to
England."

"And what is this cause?" demanded
Aramis.

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

Aramis smiled, as he remembered the tale
he had told his friends on a certain
evening.  "Well, then, since she has
left Paris, and you are sure of it,
D'Artagnan, nothing prevents me, and I
am ready to follow you.  You say we are
going--"

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

"Will Bazin go with us?" asked Aramis.

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

Aramis called Bazin, and, after having
ordered him to join them at Athos's
residence, said "Let us go then," at the
same time taking his cloak, sword, and
three pistols, opening uselessly two or
three drawers to see if he could not
find stray coin.  When well assured this
search was superfluous, he followed
D'Artagnan, wondering to himself how
this young Guardsman should know so well
who the lady was to whom he had given
hospitality, and that he should know
better than himself what had become of
her.

Only as they went out Aramis placed his
hand upon the arm of D'Artagnan, and
looking at him earnestly, "You have not
spoken of this lady?" said he.

"To nobody in the world."

"Not even to Athos or Porthos?"

"I have not breathed a syllable to
them."

"Good enough!"

Tranquil on this important point, Aramis
continued his way with D'Artagnan, and
both soon arrived at Athos's dwelling. 
They found him holding his leave of
absence in one hand, and M. de
Treville's note in the other.

"Can you explain to me what signify this
leave of absence and this letter, which
I have just received?" said the
astonished Athos.


My dear Athos, I wish, as your health
absolutely requires it, that you should
rest for a fortnight.  Go, then, and
take the waters of Forges, or any that
may be more agreeable to you, and
recuperate yourself as quickly as
possible.

Yours affectionate

De Treville


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

"To the waters of Forges?"

"There or elsewhere."

"In the king's service?"

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

At that moment Porthos entered. 
"PARDIEU!" said he, "here is a strange
thing!  Since when, I wonder, in the
Musketeers, did they grant men leave of
absence without their asking for it?"

"Since," said D'Artagnan, "they have
friends who ask it for them."

"Ah, ah!" said Porthos, "it appears
there's something fresh here."

"Yes, we are going--" said Aramis.

"To what country?" demanded Porthos.

"My faith!  I don't know much about it,"
said Athos.  "Ask D'Artagnan."

"To London, gentlemen," said D'Artagnan.

"To London!" cried Porthos; "and what
the devil are we going to do in London?"

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

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

"Nor I," said Aramis.

"Nor I," said Athos.

"I have," replied D'Artagnan, pulling
out his treasure from his pocket, and
placing it on the table.  "There are in
this bag three hundred pistoles.  Let
each take seventy-five; that is enough
to take us to London and back.  Besides,
make yourselves easy; we shall not all
arrive at London."

"Why so?"

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

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

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

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

"You would be all the wiser," said
Athos.

"And yet," said Aramis, "I am somewhat
of Porthos's opinion."

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

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

"And I also," said Porthos.

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

"Well, you will have distractions
enough, gentlemen, be assured," said
D'Artagnan.

"And, now, when are we to go?" asked
Athos.

"Immediately," replied D'Artagnan; "we
have not a minute to lose."

"Hello, Grimaud!  Planchet!  Mousqueton!
Bazin!" cried the four young men,
calling their lackeys, "clean my boots,
and fetch the horses from the hotel."

Each Musketeer was accustomed to leave
at the general hotel, as at a barrack,
his own horse and that of his lackey. 
Planchet, Grimaud, Mousqueton, and Bazin
set off at full speed.

"Now let us lay down the plan of
campaign," said Porthos.  "Where do we
go first?"

"To Calais," said D'Artagnan; "that is
the most direct line to London."

"Well," said Porthos, "this is my
advice--"

"Speak!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well," said D'Artagnan, "I decide that
we should adopt Athos's plan, and that
we set off in half an hour."

"Agreed!" shouted the three Musketeers
in chorus.

Each one, stretching out his hand to the
bag, took his seventy-five pistoles, and
make his preparations to set out at the
time appointed.



20 THE JOURNEY

At two o'clock in the morning, our four
adventurers left Paris by the Barriere
St. Denis.  As long as it was dark they
remained silent; in spite of themselves
they submitted to the influence of the
obscurity, and apprehended ambushes on
every side.

With the first rays of day their tongues
were loosened; with the sun gaiety
revived.  It was like the eve of a
battle; the heart beat, the eyes
laughed, and they felt that the life
they were perhaps going to lose, was,
after all, a good thing.

Besides, the appearance of the caravan
was formidable.  The black horses of the
Musketeers, their martial carriage, with
the regimental step of these noble
companions of the soldier, would have
betrayed the most strict incognito.  The
lackeys followed, armed to the teeth.

All went well till they arrived at
Chantilly, which they reached about
eight o'clock in the morning.  They
needed breakfast, and alighted at the
door of an AUBERGE, recommended by a
sign representing St. Martin giving half
his cloak to a poor man. They ordered
the lackeys not to unsaddle the horses,
and to hold themselves in readiness to
set off again immediately.

They entered the common hall, and placed
themselves at table.  A gentleman, who
had just arrived by the route of
Dammartin, was seated at the same table,
and was breakfasting.  He opened the
conversation about rain and fine
weather; the travelers replied. He drank
to their good health, and the travelers
returned his politeness.

But at the moment Mousqueton came to
announce that the horses were ready, and
they were arising from table, the
stranger proposed to Porthos to drink
the health of the cardinal.  Porthos
replied that he asked no better if the
stranger, in his turn, would drink the
health of the king.  The stranger cried
that he acknowledged no other king but
his Eminence.  Porthos called him drunk,
and the stranger drew his sword.

"You have committed a piece of folly,"
said Athos, "but it can't be helped;
there is no drawing back.  Kill the
fellow, and rejoin us as soon as you
can."

All three remounted their horses, and
set out at a good pace, while Porthos
was promising his adversary to perforate
him with all the thrusts known in the
fencing schools.

"There goes one!" cried Athos, at the
end of five hundred paces.

"But why did that man attack Porthos
rather than any other one of us?" asked
Aramis.

"Because, as Porthos was talking louder
than the rest of us, he took him for the
chief," said D'Artagnan.

"I always said that this cadet from
Gascony was a well of wisdom," murmured
Athos; and the travelers continued their
route.

At Beauvais they stopped two hours, as
well to breathe their horses a little as
to wait for Porthos.  At the end of two
hours, as Porthos did not come, not any
news of him, they resumed their journey.

At a league from Beauvais, where the
road was confined between two high
banks, they fell in with eight or ten
men who, taking advantage of the road
being unpaved in this spot, appeared to
be employed in digging holes and filling
up the ruts with mud.

Aramis, not liking to soil his boots
with this artificial mortar,
apostrophized them rather sharply. 
Athos wished to restrain him, but it was
too late.  The laborers began to jeer
the travelers and by their insolence
disturbed the equanimity even of the
cool Athos, who urged on his horse
against one of them.

Then each of these men retreated as far
as the ditch, from which each took a
concealed musket; the result was that
our seven travelers were outnumbered in
weapons.  Aramis received a ball which
passed through his shoulder, and
Mousqueton another ball which lodged in
the fleshy part which prolongs the lower
portion of the loins.  Therefore
Mousqueton alone fell from his horse,
not because he was severely wounded, but
not being able to see the wound, he
judged it to be more serious than it
really was.

"It was an ambuscade!" shouted
D'Artagnan.  "Don't waste a charge! 
Forward!"

Aramis, wounded as he was, seized the
mane of his horse, which carried him on
with the others.  Mousqueton's horse
rejoined them, and galloped by the side
of his companions.

"That will serve us for a relay," said
Athos.

"I would rather have had a hat," said
D'Artagnan.  "Mine was carried away by a
ball.  By my faith, it is very fortunate
that the letter was not in it."

"They'll kill poor Porthos when he comes
up," said Aramis.

"If Porthos were on his legs, he would
have rejoined us by this time," said
Athos.  "My opinion is that on the
ground the drunken man was not
intoxicated."

They continued at their best speed for
two hours, although the horses were so
fatigued that it was to be feared they
would soon refuse service.

The travelers had chosen crossroads in
the hope that they might meet with less
interruption; but at Crevecoeur, Aramis
declared he could proceed no farther. 
In fact, it required all the courage
which he concealed beneath his elegant
form and polished manners to bear him so
far.  He grew more pale every minute,
and they were obliged to support him on
his horse.  They lifted him off at the
door of a cabaret, left Bazin with him,
who, besides, in a skirmish was more
embarrassing than useful, and set
forward again in the hope of sleeping at
Amiens.

"MORBLEU," said Athos, as soon as they
were again in motion, "reduced to two
masters and Grimaud and Planchet! 
MORBLEU!  I won't be their dupe, I will
answer for it.  I will neither open my
mouth nor draw my sword between this and
Calais.  I swear by--"

"Don't waste time in swearing," said
D'Artagnan; "let us gallop, if our
horses will consent."

And the travelers buried their rowels in
their horses' flanks, who thus
vigorously stimulated recovered their
energies.  They arrived at Amiens at
midnight, and alighted at the AUBERGE of
the Golden Lily.

The host had the appearance of as honest
a man as any on earth. He received the
travelers with his candlestick in one
hand and his cotton nightcap in the
other.  He wished to lodge the two
travelers each in a charming chamber;
but unfortunately these charming
chambers were at the opposite
extremities of the hotel. D'Artagnan and
Athos refused them.  The host replied
that he had no other worthy of their
Excellencies; but the travelers declared
they would sleep in the common chamber,
each on a mattress which might be thrown
upon the ground.  The host insisted; but
the travelers were firm, and he was
obliged to do as they wished.

They had just prepared their beds and
barricaded their door within, when
someone knocked at the yard shutter;
they demanded who was there, and
recognizing the voices of their lackeys,
opened the shutter.  It was indeed
Planchet and Grimaud.

"Grimaud can take care of the horses,"
said Planchet.  "If you are willing,
gentlemen, I will sleep across your
doorway, and you will then be certain
that nobody can reach you."

"And on what will you sleep?" said
D'Artagnan.

"Here is my bed," replied Planchet,
producing a bundle of straw.

"Come, then," said D'Artagnan, "you are
right.  Mine host's face does not please
me at all; it is too gracious."

"Nor me either," said Athos.

Planchet mounted by the window and
installed himself across the doorway,
while Grimaud went and shut himself up
in the stable, undertaking that by five
o'clock in the morning he and the four
horses should be ready.

The night was quiet enough.  Toward two
o'clock in the morning somebody
endeavored to open the door; but as
Planchet awoke in an instant and cried,
"Who goes there?" somebody replied that
he was mistaken, and went away.

At four o'clock in the morning they
heard a terrible riot in the stables. 
Grimaud had tried to waken the stable
boys, and the stable boys had beaten
him.  When they opened the window, they
saw the poor lad lying senseless, with
his head split by a blow with a
pitchfork.

Planchet went down into the yard, and
wished to saddle the horses; but the
horses were all used up.  Mousqueton's
horse which had traveled for five or six
hours without a rider the day before,
might have been able to pursue the
journey; but by an inconceivable error
the veterinary surgeon, who had been
sent for, as it appeared, to bleed one
of the host's horses, had bled
Mousqueton's.

This began to be annoying.  All these
successive accidents were perhaps the
result of chance; but they might be the
fruits of a plot.  Athos and D'Artagnan
went out, while Planchet was sent to
inquire if there were not three horses
for sale in the neighborhood.  At the
door stood two horses, fresh, strong,
and fully equipped.  These would just
have suited them.  He asked where their
masters were, and was informed that they
had passed the night in the inn, and
were then settling their bill with the
host.

Athos went down to pay the reckoning,
while D'Artagnan and Planchet stood at
the street door.  The host was in a
lower and back room, to which Athos was
requested to go.

Athos entered without the least
mistrust, and took out two pistoles to
pay the bill.  The host was alone,
seated before his desk, one of the
drawers of which was partly open.  He
took the money which Athos offered to
him, and after turning and turning it
over and over in his hands, suddenly
cried out that it was bad, and that he
would have him and his companions
arrested as forgers.

"You blackguard!" cried Athos, going
toward him, "I'll cut your ears off!"

At the same instant, four men, armed to
the teeth, entered by side doors, and
rushed upon Athos.

"I am taken!" shouted Athos, with all
the power of his lungs. "Go on,
D'Artagnan!  Spur, spur!" and he fired
two pistols.

D'Artagnan and Planchet did not require
twice bidding; they unfastened the two
horses that were waiting at the door,
leaped upon them, buried their spurs in
their sides, and set off at full gallop.

"Do you know what has become of Athos?"
asked D'Artagnan of Planchet, as they
galloped on.

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

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

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

And both, with free use of the spur,
arrived at St. Omer without drawing bit.
At St. Omer they breathed their horses
with the bridles passed under their arms
for fear of accident, and ate a morsel
from their hands on the stones of the
street, after they departed again.

At a hundred paces from the gates of
Calais, D'Artagnan's horse gave out, and
could not by any means be made to get up
again, the blood flowing from his eyes
and his nose.  There still remained
Planchet's horse; but he stopped short,
and could not be made to move a step.

Fortunately, as we have said, they were
within a hundred paces of the city; they
left their two nags upon the high road,
and ran toward the quay.  Planchet
called his master's attention to a
gentleman who had just arrived with his
lackey, and only preceded them by about
fifty paces.  They made all speed to
come up to this gentleman, who appeared
to be in great haste.  His boots were
covered with dust, and he inquired if he
could not instantly cross over to
England.

"Nothing would be more easy," said the
captain of a vessel ready to set sail,
"but this morning came an order to let
no one leave without express permission
from the cardinal."

"I have that permission," said the
gentleman, drawing the paper from his
pocket; "here it is."

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

"Where shall I find the governor?"

"At his country house."

"And that is situated?"

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

"Very well," said the gentleman. And,
with his lackey, he took the road to the
governor's country house.

D'Artagnan and Planchet followed the
gentleman at a distance of five hundred
paces.  Once outside the city,
D'Artagnan overtook the gentleman as he
was entering a little wood.

"Monsieur," you appear to be in great
haste?"

"No one can be more so, monsieur."

"I am sorry for that," said D'Artagnan;
"for as I am in great haste likewise, I
wish to beg you to render me a service."

"What?"

"To let me sail first."

"That's impossible," said the gentleman;
"I have traveled sixty leagues in forty
hours, and by tomorrow at midday I must
be in London."

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

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

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

"The king's service!" said the
gentleman.

"My own service!" said D'Artagnan.

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

"PARBLEU!  What do you desire it to be?"

"What do you want?"

"Would you like to know?"

"Certainly."

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

"You jest, I presume."

"I never jest."

"Let me pass!"

"You shall not pass."

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

"Planchet," called out D'Artagnan, "take
care of the lackey; I will manage the
master."

Planchet, emboldened by the first
exploit, sprang upon Lubin; and being
strong and vigorous, he soon got him on
the broad of his back, and placed his
knee upon his breast.

"Go on with your affair, monsieur,"
cried Planchet; "I have finished mine."

Seeing this, the gentleman drew his
sword, and sprang upon D'Artagnan; but
he had too strong an adversary.  In
three seconds D'Artagnan had wounded him
three times, exclaiming at each thrust,
"One for Athos, one for Porthos; and one
for Aramis!"

At the third hit the gentleman fell like
a log.  D'Artagnan believed him to be
dead, or at least insensible, and went
toward him for the purpose of taking the
order; but the moment he extended his
hand to search for it, the wounded man,
who had not dropped his sword, plunged
the point into D'Artagnan's breast,
crying, "One for you!"

"And one for me--the best for last!"
cried D'Artagnan, furious, nailing him
to the earth with a fourth thrust
through his body.

This time the gentleman closed his eyes
and fainted.  D'Artagnan searched his
pockets, and took from one of them the
order for the passage.  It was in the
name of Comte de Wardes.

Then, casting a glance on the handsome
young man, who was scarcely twenty-five
years of age, and whom he was leaving in
his gore, deprived of sense and perhaps
dead, he gave a sigh for that
unaccountable destiny which leads men to
destroy each other for the interests of
people who are strangers to them and who
often do not even know that they exist. 
But he was soon aroused from these
reflections by Lubin, who uttered loud
cries and screamed for help with all his
might.

Planchet grasped him by the throat, and
pressed as hard as he could. 
"Monsieur," said he, "as long as I hold
him in this manner, he can't cry, I'll
be bound; but as soon as I let go he
will howl again.  I know him for a
Norman, and Normans are obstinate."

In fact, tightly held as he was, Lubin
endeavored still to cry out.

"Stay!" said D'Artagnan; and taking out
his handkerchief, he gagged him.

"Now," said Planchet, "let us bind him
to a tree."

This being properly done, they drew the
Comte de Wardes close to his servant;
and as night was approaching, and as the
wounded man and the bound man were at
some little distance within the wood, it
was evident they were likely to remain
there till the next day.

"And now," said D'Artagnan, "to the
Governor's."

"But you are wounded, it seems," said
Planchet.

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

And they both set forward as fast as
they could toward the country house of
the worthy functionary.

The Comte de Wardes was announced, and
D'Artagnan was introduced.

"You have an order signed by the
cardinal?" said the governor.

"Yes, monsieur," replied D'Artagnan;
"here it is."

"Ah, ah!  It is quite regular and
explicit," said the governor.

"Most likely," said D'Artagnan; "I am
one of his most faithful servants."

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

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

"Do you know him personally?" asked the
governor.

"Whom?"

"This D'Artagnan."

"Perfectly well."

"Describe him to me, then."

"Nothing more easy."

And D'Artagnan have, feature for
feature, a description of the Comte de
Wardes.

"Is he accompanied?"

"Yes; by a lackey named Lubin."

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

"And by doing so, Monsieur the
Governor," said D'Artagnan, "you will
deserve well of the cardinal."

"Shall you see him on your return,
Monsieur Count?"

"Without a doubt."

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

"I will not fail."

Delighted with this assurance the
governor countersigned the passport and
delivered it to D'Artagnan.  D'Artagnan
lost no time in useless compliments.  He
thanked the governor, bowed, and
departed.  Once outside, he and Planchet
set off as fast as they could; and by
making a long detour avoided the wood
and reentered the city by another gate.

The vessel was quite ready to sail, and
the captain was waiting on the wharf. 
"Well?" said he, on perceiving
D'Artagnan.

"Here is my pass countersigned," said
the latter.

"And that other gentleman?

"He will not go today," said D'Artagnan;
"but here, I'll pay you for us two."

"In that case let us go," said the
shipmaster.

"Let us go," repeated D'Artagnan.

He leaped with Planchet into the boat,
and five minutes after they were on
board.  It was time; for they had
scarcely sailed half a league, when
D'Artagnan saw a flash and heard a
detonation.  It was the cannon which
announced the closing of the port.

He had now leisure to look to his wound.
Fortunately, as D'Artagnan had thought,
it was not dangerous.  The point of the
sword had touched a rib, and glanced
along the bone.  Still further, his
shirt had stuck to the wound, and he had
lost only a few drops of blood.

D'Artagnan was worn out with fatigue.  A
mattress was laid upon the deck for him.
He threw himself upon it, and fell
asleep.

On the morrow, at break of day, they
were still three or four leagues from
the coast of England.  The breeze had
been so light all night, they had made
but little progress.  At ten o'clock the
vessel cast anchor in the harbor of
Dover, and at half past ten D'Artagnan
placed his foot on English land, crying,
"Here I am at last!"

But that was not all; they must get to
London.  In England the post was well
served.  D'Artagnan and Planchet took
each a post horse, and a postillion rode
before them.  In a few hours they were
in the capital.

D'Artagnan did not know London; he did
not know a word of English; but he wrote
the name of Buckingham on a piece of
paper, and everyone pointed out to him
the way to the duke's hotel.

The duke was at Windsor hunting with the
king.  D'Artagnan inquired for the
confidential valet of the duke, who,
having accompanied him in all his
voyages, spoke French perfectly well; he
told him that he came from Paris on an
affair of life and death, and that he
must speak with his master instantly.

The confidence with which D'Artagnan
spoke convinced Patrick, which was the
name of this minister of the minister. 
He ordered two horses to be saddled, and
himself went as guide to the young
Guardsman.  As for Planchet, he had been
lifted from his horse as stiff as a
rush; the poor lad's strength was almost
exhausted. D'Artagnan seemed iron.

On their arrival at the castle they
learned that Buckingham and the king
were hawking in the marshes two or three
leagues away. In twenty minutes they
were on the spot named.  Patrick soon
caught the sound of his master's voice
calling his falcon.

"Whom must I announce to my Lord Duke?"
asked Patrick.

"The young man who one evening sought a
quarrel with him on the Pont Neuf,
opposite the Samaritaine."

"A singular introduction!"

"You will find that it is as good as
another."

Patrick galloped off, reached the duke,
and announced to him in the terms
directed that a messenger awaited him.

Buckingham at once remembered the
circumstance, and suspecting that
something was going on in France of
which it was necessary he should be
informed, he only took the time to
inquire where the messenger was, and
recognizing from afar the uniform of the
Guards, he put his horse into a gallop,
and rode straight up to D'Artagnan. 
Patrick discreetly kept in the
background.

"No misfortune has happened to the
queen?" cried Buckingham, the instant he
came up, throwing all his fear and love
into the question.

"I believe not; nevertheless I believe
she runs some great peril from which
your Grace alone can extricate her."

"I!" cried Buckingham.  "What is it?  I
should be too happy to be of any service
to her.  Speak, speak!"

"Take this letter," said D'Artagnan.

"This letter!  From whom comes this
letter?"

"From her Majesty, as I think."

"From her Majesty!" said Buckingham,
becoming so pale that D'Artagnan feared
he would faint as he broke the seal.

"What is this rent?" said he, showing
D'Artagnan a place where it had been
pierced through.

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

"You are wounded?" asked Buckingham, as
he opened the letter.

"Oh, nothing but a scratch," said
D'Artagnan.

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



21 THE COUNTESS DE WINTER

As they rode along, the duke endeavored
to draw from D'Artagnan, not all that
had happened, but what D'Artagnan
himself knew.  By adding all that he
heard from the mouth of the young man to
his own remembrances, he was enabled to
form a pretty exact idea of a position
of the seriousness of which, for the
rest, the queen's letter, short but
explicit, gave him the clue.  But that
which astonished him most was that the
cardinal, so deeply interested in
preventing this young man from setting
his foot in England, had not succeeded
in arresting him on the road.  It was
then, upon the manifestation of this
astonishment, that D'Artagnan related to
him the precaution taken, and how,
thanks to the devotion of his three
friends, whom he had left scattered and
bleeding on the road, he had succeeded
in coming off with a single sword
thrust, which had pierced the queen's
letter and for which he had repaid M. de
Wardes with such terrible coin.  While
he was listening to this recital,
delivered with the greatest simplicity,
the duke looked from time to time at the
young man with astonishment, as if he
could not comprehend how so much
prudence, courage, and devotedness could
be allied with a countenance which
indicated not more than twenty years.

The horses went like the wind, and in a
few minutes they were at the gates of
London.  D'Artagnan imagined that on
arriving in town the duke would slacken
his pace, but it was not so.  He kept on
his way at the same rate, heedless about
upsetting those whom he met on the road.
In fact, in crossing the city two or
three accidents of this kind happened;
but Buckingham did not even turn his
head to see what became of those he had
knocked down. D'Artagnan followed him
amid cries which strongly resembled
curses.

On entering the court of his hotel,
Buckingham sprang from his horse, and
without thinking what became of the
animal, threw the bridle on his neck,
and sprang toward the vestibule. 
D'Artagnan did the same, with a little
more concern, however, for the noble
creatures, whose merits he fully
appreciated; but he had the satisfaction
of seeing three or four grooms run from
the kitchens and the stables, and busy
themselves with the steeds.

The duke walked so fast that D'Artagnan
had some trouble in keeping up with him.
He passed through several apartments, of
an elegance of which even the greatest
nobles of France had not even an idea,
and arrived at length in a bedchamber
which was at once a miracle of taste and
of richness.  In the alcove of this
chamber was a door concealed in the
tapestry which the duke opened with a
little gold key which he wore suspended
from his neck by a chain of the same
metal.  With discretion D'Artagnan
remained behind; but at the moment when
Buckingham crossed the threshold, he
turned round, and seeing the hesitation
of the young man, "Come in!" cried he,
"and if you have the good fortune to be
admitted to her Majesty's presence, tell
her what you have seen."

Encouraged by this invitation,
D'Artagnan followed the duke, who closed
the door after them.  The two found
themselves in a small chapel covered
with a tapestry of Persian silk worked
with gold, and brilliantly lighted with
a vast number of candles.  Over a
species of altar, and beneath a canopy
of blue velvet, surmounted by white and
red plumes, was a full-length portrait
of Anne of Austria, so perfect in its
resemblance that D'Artagnan uttered a
cry of surprise on beholding it.  One
might believe the queen was about to
speak.  On the altar, and beneath the
portrait, was the casket containing the
diamond studs.

The duke approached the altar, knelt as
a priest might have done before a
crucifix, and opened the casket. 
"There, said he, drawing from the casket
a large bow of blue ribbon all sparkling
with diamonds, "there are the precious
studs which I have taken an oath should
be buried with me.  The queen have them
to me, the queen requires them again. 
Her will be done, like that of God, in
all things."

Then, he began to kiss, one after the
other, those dear studs with which he
was about to part.  All at once he
uttered a terrible cry.

"What is the matter?" exclaimed
D'Artagnan, anxiously; "what has
happened to you, my Lord?"

"All is lost!" cried Buckingham,
becoming as pale as a corpse; "two of
the studs are wanting, there are only
ten."

"Can you have lost them, my Lord, or do
you think they have been stolen?"

"They have been stolen," replied the
duke, "and it is the cardinal who has
dealt this blow.  Hold; see!  The
ribbons which held them have been cut
with scissors."

"If my Lord suspects they have been
stolen, perhaps the person who stole
them still has them in his hands."

"Wait, wait!" said the duke.  "The only
time I have worn these studs was at a
ball given by the king eight days ago at
Windsor. The Comtesse de Winter, with
whom I had quarreled, became reconciled
to me at that ball.  That reconciliation
was nothing but the vengeance of a
jealous woman.  I have never seen her
from that day.  The woman is an agent of
the cardinal."

"He has agents, then, throughout the
world?" cried D'Artagnan.

"Oh, yes," said Buckingham, grating his
teeth with rage.  "Yes, he is a terrible
antagonist.  But when is this ball to
take place?"

"Monday next."

"Monday next!  Still five days before
us.  That's more time than we want. 
Patrick!" cried the duke, opening the
door of the chapel, "Patrick!"  His
confidential valet appeared.

"My jeweler and my secretary."

The valet went out with a mute
promptitude which showed him accustomed
to obey blindly and without reply.

But although the jeweler had been
mentioned first, it was the secretary
who first made his appearance.  This was
simply because he lived in the hotel. 
He found Buckingham seated at a table in
his bedchamber, writing orders with his
own hand.

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

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

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

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

"You are right, Mr. Jackson," replied
Buckingham.  "He will say, in that case,
to the king that I am determined on war,
and that this measure is my first act of
hostility against France."

The secretary bowed and retired.

"We are safe on that side," said
Buckingham, turning toward D'Artagnan. 
"If the studs are not yet gone to Paris,
they will not arrive till after you."

"How so?"

"I have just placed an embargo on all
vessels at present in his Majesty's
ports, and without particular
permission, not one dare life an
anchor."

D'Artagnan looked with stupefaction at a
man who thus employed the unlimited
power with which he was clothed by the
confidence of a king in the prosecution
of his intrigues.  Buckingham saw by the
expression of the young man's face what
was passing in his mind, and he smiled.

"Yes," said he, "yes, Anne of Austria is
my true queen.  Upon a word from her, I
would betray my country, I would betray
my king, I would betray my God.  She
asked me not to send the Protestants of
La Rochelle the assistance I promised
them; I have not done so.  I broke my
word, it is true; but what signifies
that?  I obeyed my love; and have I not
been richly paid for that obedience?  It
was to that obedience I owe her
portrait."

D'Artagnan was amazed to note by what
fragile and unknown threads the
destinies of nations and the lives of
men are suspended.  He was lost in these
reflections when the goldsmith entered. 
He was an Irishman--one of the most
skillful of his craft, and who himself
confessed that he gained a hundred
thousand livres a year by the Duke of
Buckingham.

"Mr. O'Reilly," said the duke, leading
him into the chapel, "look at these
diamond studs, and tell me what they are
worth apiece."

The goldsmith cast a glance at the
elegant manner in which they were set,
calculated, one with another, what the
diamonds were worth, and without
hesitation said, "Fifteen hundred
pistoles each, my Lord."

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

"Eight days, my Lord."

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

"My Lord, they shall be yours."

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

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

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

The goldsmith knew the duke.  He knew
all objection would be useless, and
instantly determined how to act.

"May I be permitted to inform my wife?"
said he.

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

D'Artagnan could not get over the
surprise created in him by this
minister, who thus open-handed, sported
with men and millions.

As to the goldsmith, he wrote to his
wife, sending her the order for the
thousand pistoles, and charging her to
send him, in exchange, his most skillful
apprentice, an assortment of diamonds,
of which he gave the names and the
weight, and the necessary tools.

Buckingham conducted the goldsmith to
the chamber destined for him, and which,
at the end of half an hour, was
transformed into a workshop.  Then he
placed a sentinel at each door, with an
order to admit nobody upon any pretense
but his VALET DE CHAMBRE, Patrick.  We
need not add that the goldsmith,
O'Reilly, and his assistant, were
prohibited from going out under any
pretext. This point, settled, the duke
turned to D'Artagnan.  "Now, my young
friend," said he, "England is all our
own.  What do you wish for?  What do you
desire?"

"A bed, my Lord," replied D'Artagnan. 
"At present, I confess, that is the
thing I stand most in need of."

Buckingham gave D'Artagnan a chamber
adjoining his own.  He wished to have
the young man at hand--not that he at
all mistrusted him, but for the sake of
having someone to whom he could
constantly talk of the queen.

In one hour after, the ordinance was
published in London that no vessel bound
for France should leave port, not even
the packet boat with letters.  In the
eyes of everybody this was a declaration
of war between the two kingdoms.

On the day after the morrow, by eleven
o'clock, the two diamond studs were
finished, and they were so completely
imitated, so perfectly alike, that
Buckingham could not tell the new ones
from the old ones, and experts in such
matters would have been deceived as he
was.  He immediately called D'Artagnan. 
"Here," said he to him, "are the diamond
studs that you came to bring; and be my
witness that I have done all that human
power could do."

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

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

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

"And now," resumed Buckingham, looking
earnestly at the young man, "how shall I
ever acquit myself of the debt I owe
you?"

D'Artagnan blushed up to the whites of
his eyes.  He saw that the duke was
searching for a means of making him
accept something and the idea that the
blood of his friends and himself was
about to be paid for with English gold
was strangely repugnant to him.

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

"Yes," said the duke, smiling, "and I
even believe that I know that other
person; it is--"

"My Lord, I have not named her!"
interrupted the young man, warmly.

"That is true," said the duke; "and it
is to this person I am bound to
discharge my debt of gratitude."

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

"We say, 'Proud as a Scotsman,'"
murmured the Duke of Buckingham.

"And we say, 'Proud as a Gascon,'"
replied D'Artagnan.  "The Gascons are
the Scots of France."

D'Artagnan bowed to the duke, and was
retiring.

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

"That's true!"

"Fore Gad, these Frenchmen have no
consideration!"

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

"Go to the riverside, ask for the brig
SUND, and give this letter to the
captain; he will convey you to a little
port, where certainly you are not
expected, and which is ordinarily only
frequented by fishermen."

"The name of that port?"

"St. Valery; but listen.  When you have
arrived there you will go to a mean
tavern, without a name and without a
sign--a mere fisherman's hut.  You
cannot be mistaken; there is but one."

"Afterward?"

"You will ask for the host, and will
repeat to him the word 'Forward!'"

"Which means?"

"In French, EN AVANT.  It is the
password.  He will give you a horse all
saddled, and will point out to you the
road you ought to take.  You will find,
in the same way, four relays on your
route.  If you will give at each of
these relays your address in Paris, the
four horses will follow you thither. 
You already know two of them, and you
appeared to appreciate them like a
judge. They were those we rode on; and
you may rely upon me for the others not
being inferior to them.  These horses
are equipped for the field.  However
proud you may be, you will not refuse to
accept one of them, and to request your
three companions to accept the
others--that is, in order to make war
against us. Besides, the end justified
the means, as you Frenchmen say, does it
not?"

"Yes, my Lord, I accept them," said
D'Artagnan; "and if it please God, we
will make a good use of your presents."

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

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

"Be satisfied; I promise you that."

"I depend upon your word, my Lord."

D'Artagnan bowed to the duke, and made
his way as quickly as possible to the
riverside.  Opposite the Tower of London
he found the vessel that had been named
to him, delivered his letter to the
captain, who after having it examined by
the governor of the port made immediate
preparations to sail.

Fifty vessels were waiting to set out. 
Passing alongside one of them,
D'Artagnan fancied he perceived on board
it the woman of Meung--the same whom the
unknown gentleman had called Milady, and
whom D'Artagnan had thought so handsome;
but thanks to the current of the stream
and a fair wind, his vessel passed so
quickly that he had little more than a
glimpse of her.

The next day about nine o'clock in the
morning, he landed at St. Valery. 
D'Artagnan went instantly in search of
the inn, and easily discovered it by the
riotous noise which resounded from it. 
War between England and France was
talked of as near and certain, and the
jolly sailors were having a carousal.

D'Artagnan made his way through the
crowd, advanced toward the host, and
pronounced the word "Forward!"  The host
instantly made him a sign to follow,
went out with him by a door which opened
into a yard, led him to the stable,
where a saddled horse awaited him, and
asked him if he stood in need of
anything else.

"I want to know the route I am to
follow," said D'Artagnan.

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

"Have I anything to pay?" demanded
D'Artagnan.

"Everything is paid," replied the host,
"and liberally.  Begone, and may God
guide you!"

"Amen!" cried the young man, and set off
at full gallop.

Four hours later he was in Neufchatel. 
He strictly followed the instructions he
had received.  At Neufchatel, as at St.
Valery, he found a horse quite ready and
awaiting him.  He was about to remove
the pistols from the saddle he had quit
to the one he was about to fill, but he
found the holsters furnished with
similar pistols.

"Your address at Paris?"

"Hotel of the Guards, company of
Dessessart."

"Enough," replied the questioner.

"Which route must I take?" demanded
D'Artagnan, in his turn.

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

"The same password?"

"Exactly."

"Adieu, master!"

"A good journey, gentlemen!  Do you want
anything?"

D'Artagnan shook his head, and set off
at full speed.  At Eccuis, the same
scene was repeated.  He found as
provident a host and a fresh horse.  He
left his address as he had done before,
and set off again at the same pace for
Pontoise.  At Pontoise he changed his
horse for the last time, and at nine
o'clock galloped into the yard of
Treville's hotel.  He had made nearly
sixty leagues in little more than twelve
hours.

M. de Treville received him as if he had
seen him that same morning; only, when
pressing his hand a little more warmly
than usual, he informed him that the
company of Dessessart was on duty at the
Louvre, and that he might repair at once
to his post.



22 THE BALLET OF LA MERLAISON

On the morrow, nothing was talked of in
Paris but the ball which the aldermen of
the city were to give to the king and
queen, and in which their Majesties were
to dance the famous La Merlaison-- the
favorite ballet of the king.

Eight days had been occupied in
preparations at the Hotel de Ville for
this important evening.  The city
carpenters had erected scaffolds upon
which the invited ladies were to be
placed; the city grocer had ornamented
the chambers with two hundred FLAMBEAUX
if white wax, a piece of luxury unheard
of at that period; and twenty violins
were ordered, and the price for them
fixed at double the usual rate, upon
condition, said the report, that they
should be played all night.

At ten o'clock in the morning the Sieur
de la Coste, ensign in the king's
Guards, followed by two officers and
several archers of that body, came to
the city registrar, named Clement, and
demanded of him all the keys of the
rooms and offices of the hotel.  These
keys were given up to him instantly. 
Each of them had ticket attached to it,
by which it might be recognized; and
from that moment the Sieur de la Coste
was charged with the care of all the
doors and all the avenues.

At eleven o'clock came in his turn
Duhallier, captain of the Guards,
bringing with him fifty archers, who
were distributed immediately through the
Hotel de Ville, at the doors assigned
them.

At three o'clock came two companies of
the Guards, one French, the other Swiss.
The company of French guards was
composed of half of M. Duhallier's men
and half of M. Dessessart's men.

At six in the evening the guests began
to come.  As fast as they entered, they
were placed in the grand saloon, on the
platforms prepared for them.

At nine o'clock Madame la Premiere
Presidente arrived.  As next to the
queen, she was the most considerable
personage of the fete, she was received
by the city officials, and placed in a
box opposite to that which the queen was
to occupy.

At ten o'clock, the king's collation,
consisting of preserves and other
delicacies, was prepared in the little
room on the side of the church of St.
Jean, in front of the silver buffet of
the city, which was guarded by four
archers.

At midnight great cries and loud
acclamations were heard.  It was the
king, who was passing through the
streets which led from the Louvre to the
Hotel de Ville, and which were all
illuminated with colored lanterns.

Immediately the alderman, clothed in
their cloth robes and preceded by six
sergeants, each holding a FLAMBEAU in
his hand, went to attend upon the king,
whom they met on the steps, where the
provost of the merchants made him the
speech of welcome--a compliment to which
his Majesty replied with an apology for
coming so late, laying the blame upon
the cardinal, who had detained him till
eleven o'clock, talking of affairs of
state.

His Majesty, in full dress, was
accompanied by his royal Highness, M. le
Comte de Soissons, by the Grand Prior,
by the Duc de Longueville, by the Duc
d'Euboeuf, by the Comte d'Harcourt, by
the Comte de la Roche-Guyon, by M. de
Liancourt, by M. de Baradas, by the
Comte de Cramail, and by the Chevalier
de Souveray.  Everybody noticed that the
king looked dull and preoccupied.

A private room had been prepared for the
king and another for Monsieur.  In each
of these closets were placed masquerade
dresses.  The same had been done for the
queen and Madame the President.  The
nobles and ladies of their Majesties'
suites were to dress, two by two, in
chambers prepared for the purpose.
Before entering his closet the king
desired to be informed the moment the
cardinal arrived.

Half an hour after the entrance of the
king, fresh acclamations were heard;
these announced the arrival of the
queen.  The aldermen did as they had
done before, and preceded by their
sergeants, advanced to receive their
illustrious guest.  The queen entered
the great hall; and it was remarked
that, like the king, she looked dull and
even weary.

At the moment she entered, the curtain
of a small gallery which to that time
had been closed, was drawn, and the pale
face of the cardinal appeared, he being
dresses as a Spanish cavalier.  His eyes
were fixed upon those of the queen, and
a smile of terrible joy passed over his
lips; the queen did not wear her diamond
studs.

The queen remained for a short time to
receive the compliments of the city
dignitaries and to reply to the
salutations of the ladies.  All at once
the king appeared with the cardinal at
one of the doors of the hall.  The
cardinal was speaking to him in a low
voice, and the king was very pale.

The king made his way through the crowd
without a mask, and the ribbons of his
doublet scarcely tied.  He went straight
to the queen, and in an altered voice
said, "Why, madame, have you not thought
proper to wear your diamond studs, when
you know it would give me so much
gratification?"

The queen cast a glance around her, and
saw the cardinal behind, with a
diabolical smile on his countenance.

"Sire," replied the queen, with a
faltering voice, "because, in the midst
of such a crowd as this, I feared some
accident might happen to them."

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

The voice of the king was tremulous with
anger.  Everybody looked and listened
with astonishment, comprehending nothing
of what passed.

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

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

The queen bent in token of submission,
and followed the ladies who were to
conduct her to her room.  On his part
the king returned to his apartment.

There was a moment of trouble and
confusion in the assembly. Everybody had
remarked that something had passed
between the king and queen; but both of
them had spoken so low that everybody,
out of respect, withdrew several steps,
so that nobody had heard anything.  The
violins began to sound with all their
might, but nobody listened to them.

The king came out first from his room. 
He was in a most elegant hunting
costume; and Monsieur and the other
nobles were dressed like him.  This was
the costume that best became the king. 
So dressed, he really appeared the first
gentleman of his kingdom.

The cardinal drew near to the king, and
placed in his hand a small casket.  The
king opened it, and found in it two
diamond studs.

"What does this mean?" demanded he of
the cardinal.

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

The king looked at the cardinal as if to
interrogate him; but he had not time to
address any question to him--a cry of
admiration burst from every mouth.  If
the king appeared to be the first
gentleman of his kingdom, the queen was
without doubt the most beautiful woman
in France.

It is true that the habit of a huntress
became her admirably. She wore a beaver
hat with blue feathers, a surtout of
gray-pearl velvet, fastened with diamond
clasps, and a petticoat of blue satin,
embroidered with silver.  On her left
shoulder sparkled the diamonds studs, on
a bow of the same color as the plumes
and the petticoat.

The king trembled with joy and the
cardinal with vexation; although,
distant as they were from the queen,
they could not count the studs.  The
queen had them.  The only question was,
had she ten or twelve?

At that moment the violins sounded the
signal for the ballet. The king advanced
toward Madame the President, with whom
he was to dance, and his Highness
Monsieur with the queen.  They took
their places, and the ballet began.

The king danced facing the queen, and
every time he passed by her, he devoured
with his eyes those studs of which he
could not ascertain the number.  A cold
sweat covered the brow of the cardinal.

The ballet lasted an hour, and had
sixteen ENTREES.  The ballet ended amid
the applause of the whole assemblage,
and everyone reconducted his lady to her
place; but the king took advantage of
the privilege he had of leaving his
lady, to advance eagerly toward the
queen.

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

With these words he held out to the
queen the two studs the cardinal had
given him.

"How, sire?" cried the young queen,
affecting surprise, "you are giving me,
then, two more:  I shall have fourteen."

In fact the king counted them, and the
twelve studs were all on her Majesty's
shoulder.

The king called the cardinal.

"What does this mean, Monsieur
Cardinal?" asked the king in a severe
tone.

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

"And I am the more grateful to your
Eminence," replied Anne of Austria, with
a smile that proved she was not the dupe
of this ingenious gallantry, "from being
certain that these two studs alone have
cost you as much as all the others cost
his Majesty."

Then saluting the king and the cardinal,
the queen resumed her way to the chamber
in which she had dressed, and where she
was to take off her costume.

The attention which we have been obliged
to give, during the commencement of the
chapter, to the illustrious personages
we have introduced into it, has diverted
us for an instant from him to whom Anne
of Austria owed the extraordinary
triumph she had obtained over the
cardinal; and who, confounded, unknown,
lost in the crowd gathered at one of the
doors, looked on at this scene,
comprehensible only to four persons--the
king, the queen, his Eminence, and
himself.

The queen had just regained her chamber,
and D'Artagnan was about to retire, when
he felt his shoulder lightly touched. 
He turned and saw a young woman, who
made him a sign to follow her.  The face
of this young woman was covered with a
black velvet mask; but notwithstanding
this precaution, which was in fact taken
rather against others than against him,
he at once recognized his usual guide,
the light and intelligent Mme.
Bonacieux.

On the evening before, they had scarcely
seen each other for a moment at the
apartment of the Swiss guard, Germain,
whither D'Artagnan had sent for her. 
The haste which the young woman was in
to convey to the queen the excellent
news of the happy return of her
messenger prevented the two lovers from
exchanging more than a few words. 
D'Artagnan therefore followed Mme.
Bonacieux moved by a double
sentiment--love and curiosity.  All the
way, and in proportion as the corridors
became more deserted, D'Artagnan wished
to stop the young woman, seize her and
gaze upon her, were it only for a
minute; but quick as a bird she glided
between his hands, and when he wished to
speak to her, her finger placed upon her
mouth, with a little imperative gesture
full of grace, reminded him that he was
under the command of a power which he
must blindly obey, and which forbade him
even to make the slightest complaint. 
At length, after winding about for a
minute or two, Mme. Bonacieux opened the
door of a closet, which was entirely
dark, and led D'Artagnan into it.  There
she made a fresh sign of silence, and
opened a second door concealed by
tapestry.  The opening of this door
disclosed a brilliant light, and she
disappeared.

D'Artagnan remained for a moment
motionless, asking himself where he
could be; but soon a ray of light which
penetrated through the chamber, together
with the warm and perfumed air which
reached him from the same aperture, the
conversation of two of three ladies in
language at once respectful and refined,
and the word "Majesty" several times
repeated, indicated clearly that he was
in a closet attached to the queen's
apartment.  The young man waited in
comparative darkness and listened.

The queen appeared cheerful and happy,
which seemed to astonish the persons who
surrounded her and who were accustomed
to see her almost always sad and full of
care.  The queen attributed this joyous
feeling to the beauty of the fete, to
the pleasure she had experienced in the
ballet; and as it is not permissible to
contradict a queen, whether she smile or
weep, everybody expatiated on the
gallantry of the aldermen of the city of
Paris.

Although D'Artagnan did not at all know
the queen, he soon distinguished her
voice from the others, at first by a
slightly foreign accent, and next by
that tone of domination naturally
impressed upon all royal words.  He
heard her approach and withdraw from the
partially open door; and twice or three
times he even saw the shadow of a person
intercept the light.

At length a hand and an arm,
surpassingly beautiful in their form and
whiteness, glided through the tapestry. 
D'Artagnan at once comprehended that
this was his recompense.  He cast
himself on his knees, seized the hand,
and touched it respectfully with his
lips.  Then the hand was withdrawn,
leaving in his an object which he
perceived to be a ring.  The door
immediately closed, and D'Artagnan found
himself again in complete obscurity.

D'Artagnan placed the ring on his
finger, and again waited; it was evident
that all was not yet over.  After the
reward of his devotion, that of his love
was to come.  Besides, although the
ballet was danced, the evening had
scarcely begun.  Supper was to be served
at three, and the clock of St. Jean had
struck three quarters past two.

The sound of voices diminished by
degrees in the adjoining chamber.  The
company was then heard departing; then
the door of the closet in which
D'Artagnan was, was opened, and Mme.
Bonacieux entered.

"You at last?" cried D'Artagnan.

"Silence!" said the young woman, placing
her hand upon his lips; "silence, and go
the same way you came!"

"But where and when shall I see you
again?" cried D'Artagnan.

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

At these words she opened the door of
the corridor, and pushed D'Artagnan out
of the room.  D'Artagnan obeyed like a
child, without the least resistance or
objection, which proved that he was
really in love.



23 THE RENDEZVOUS

D'Artagnan ran home immediately, and
although it was three o'clock in the
morning and he had some of the worst
quarters of Paris to traverse, he met
with no misadventure.  Everyone knows
that drunkards and lovers have a
protecting deity.

He found the door of his passage open,
sprang up the stairs and knocked softly
in a manner agreed upon between him and
his lackey.  Planchet*, whom he had sent
home two hours before from the Hotel de
Ville, telling him to sit up for him,
opened the door for him.

*The reader may ask, "How came Planchet
here?" when he was left "stiff as a
rush" in London.  In the intervening
time Buckingham perhaps sent him to
Paris, as he did the horses.

"Has anyone brought a letter for me?"
asked D'Artagnan, eagerly.

"No one has BROUGHT a letter, monsieur,"
replied Planchet; "but one has come of
itself."

"What do you mean, blockhead?"

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

"And where is that letter?"

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

Meanwhile, the young man had darted in
to his chamber, and opened the letter. 
It was from Mme. Bonacieux, and was
expressed in these terms:

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

While reading this letter, D'Artagnan
felt his heart dilated and compressed by
that delicious spasm which tortures and
caresses the hearts of lovers.

It was the first billet he had received;
it was the first rendezvous that had
been granted him.  His heart, swelled by
the intoxication of joy, felt ready to
dissolve away at the very gate of that
terrestrial paradise called Love!

"Well, monsieur," said Planchet, who had
observed his master grow red and pale
successively, "did I not guess truly? 
Is it not some bad affair?"

"You are mistaken, Planchet," replied
D'Artagnan; "and as a proof, there is a
crown to drink my health."

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

"Fall from heaven, my friend, fall from
heaven."

"Then Monsieur is satisfied?" asked
Planchet.

"My dear Planchet, I am the happiest of
men!"

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

"Yes, go."

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

And Planchet retired, shaking his head
with an air of doubt, which the
liberality of D'Artagnan had not
entirely effaced.

Left alone, D'Artagnan read and reread
his billet.  Then he kissed and rekissed
twenty times the lines traced by the
hand of his beautiful mistress.  At
length he went to bed, fell asleep, and
had golden dreams.

At seven o'clock in the morning he arose
and called Planchet, who at the second
summons opened the door, his countenance
not yet quite freed from the anxiety of
the preceding night.

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

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

"You will take your musketoon and your
pistols."

"There, now!  Didn't I say so?" cried
Planchet.  "I was sure of it--the cursed
letter!"

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

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

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

"Monsieur does me wrong," said Planchet;
"I thought he had seen me at work."

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

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

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

"I hope so, monsieur."

"Well, then, I count on you."

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

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

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

"Exactly so," said D'Artagnan; and
nodding to Planchet, he went out.

M. Bonacieux was at his door. 
D'Artagnan's intention was to go out
without speaking to the worthy mercer;
but the latter made so polite and
friendly a salutation that his tenant
felt obliged, not only to stop, but to
enter into conversation with him.

Besides, how is it possible to avoid a
little condescension toward a husband
whose pretty wife has appointed a
meeting with you that same evening at
St. Cloud, opposite D'Estrees's
pavilion?  D'Artagnan approached him
with the most amiable air he could
assume.

The conversation naturally fell upon the
incarceration of the poor man.  M.
Bonacieux, who was ignorant that
D'Artagnan had overheard his
conversation with the stranger of Meung,
related to his young tenant the
persecutions of that monster, M. de
Laffemas, whom he never ceased to
designate, during his account, by the
title of the "cardinal's executioner,"
and expatiated at great length upon the
Bastille, the bolts, the wickets, the
dungeons, the gratings, the instruments
of torture.

D'Artagnan listened to him with
exemplary complaisance, and when he had
finished said, "And Madame Bonacieux, do
you know who carried her off?--For I do
not forget that I owe to that unpleasant
circumstance the good fortune of having
made your acquaintance."

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

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

"Far from here?"

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

"And you have returned, have you not?"
replied M. Bonacieux, giving to his
countenance a most sly air.  "A handsome
young fellow like you does not obtain
long leaves of absence from his
mistress; and we were impatiently waited
for at Paris, were we not?"

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

A slight shade passed over the brow of
Bonacieux, but so slight that D'Artagnan
did not perceive it.

"And we are going to be recompensed for
our diligence?" continued the mercer,
with a trifling alteration in his
voice--so trifling, indeed, that
D'Artagnan did not perceive it any more
than he had the momentary shade which,
an instant before, had darkened the
countenance of the worthy man.

"Ah, may you be a true prophet!" said
D'Artagnan, laughing.

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

"Why that question, my dear host?" asked
D'Artagnan.  "Do you intend to sit up
for me?"

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

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

This time Bonacieux became so pale that
D'Artagnan could not help perceiving it,
and asked him what was the matter.

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

"Then I have full occupation, for I am
so."

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

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

"Madame Bonacieux is not at liberty this
evening," replied the husband,
seriously; "she is detained at the
Louvre this evening by her duties."

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

The young man departed, laughing at the
joke, which he thought he alone could
comprehend.

"Amuse yourself well!" replied
Bonacieux, in a sepulchral tone.

But D'Artagnan was too far off to hear
him; and if he had heard him in the
disposition of mind he then enjoyed, he
certainly would not have remarked it.

He took his way toward the hotel of M.
de Treville; his visit of the day
before, it is to be remembered, had been
very short and very little explicative.

He found Treville in a joyful mood.  He
had thought the king and queen charming
at the ball.  It is true the cardinal
had been particularly ill-tempered.  He
had retired at one o'clock under the
pretense of being indisposed.  As to
their Majesties, they did not return to
the Louvre till six o'clock in the
morning.

"Now," said Treville, lowering his
voice, and looking into every corner of
the apartment to see if they were alone,
"now let us talk about yourself, my
young friend; for it is evident that
your happy return has something to do
with the joy of the king, the triumph of
the queen, and the humiliation of his
Eminence.  You must look out for
yourself."

"What have I to fear," replied
D'Artagnan, "as long as I shall have the
luck to enjoy the favor of their
Majesties?"

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

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

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

"Yes, doubtless," replied D'Artagnan,
who had never been able to cram the
first rudiments of that language into
his head, and who had by his ignorance
driven his master to despair, "yes,
doubtless there is one."

"There certainly is one," said M. de
Treville, who had a tincture of
literature, "and Monsieur de Benserade
was quoting it to me the other day. 
Stop a minute--ah, this is it:  'Timeo
Danaos et dona ferentes,' which means,
'Beware of the enemy who makes you
presents."

"This diamond does not come from an
enemy, monsieur," replied D'Artagnan,
"it comes from the queen."

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

"She gave it to me herself."

"Where?"

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

"How?"

"Giving me her hand to kiss."

"You have kissed the queen's hand?" said
M. de Treville, looking earnestly at
D'Artagnan.

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

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

"No, monsieur, be satisfied; nobody saw
her," replied D'Artagnan, and he related
to M. de Treville how the affair came to
pass.

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

"No; but thanks to this diamond,"
replied the young man.

"Listen," said M. de Treville; "shall I
give you counsel, good counsel, the
counsel of a friend?"

"You will do me honor, monsieur," said
D'Artagnan.

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

"Sell this ring, a ring which comes from
my sovereign?  Never!" said D'Artagnan.

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

"You think, then, I have something to
dread?" asked D'Artagnan.

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

"The devil!" said D'Artagnan, whom the
positive tone of M. de Treville began to
disquiet, "the devil!  What must I do?"

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

"But of what sort?"

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

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

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

D'Artagnan blushed.

"My mistress above all," repeated he,
mechanically; "and why her rather than
another?"

"Because a mistress is one of the
cardinal's favorite means; he has not
one that is more expeditious.  A woman
will sell you for ten pistoles, witness
Delilah.  You are acquainted with the
Scriptures?"

D'Artagnan thought of the appointment
Mme. Bonacieux had made with him for
that very evening; but we are bound to
say, to the credit of our hero, that the
bad opinion entertained by M. de
Treville of women in general, did not
inspire him with the least suspicion of
his pretty hostess.

"But, A PROPOS," resumed M. de Treville,
"what has become of your three
companions?"

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

"None, monsieur."

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

"See there, now!" said M. de Treville;
"and how the devil did you escape?"

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

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

"Speak, monsieur."

"In your place, I would do one thing."

"What?"

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

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

"Tomorrow!  Any why not this evening?"

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

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

"Impossible, monsieur."

"You have given your word, then?"

"Yes, monsieur."

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

"I promise it."

"Do you need money?"

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

"But your companions?"

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

"Shall I see you again before your
departure?"

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

"Well, a pleasant journey."

"Thanks, monsieur."

D'Artagnan left M. de Treville, touched
more than ever by his paternal
solicitude for his Musketeers.

He called successively at the abodes of
Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.  Neither of
them had returned.  Their lackeys
likewise were absent, and nothing had
been heard of either the one or the
other.  He would have inquired after
them of their mistresses, but he was
neither acquainted with Porthos's nor
Aramis's, and as to Athos, he had none.

As he passed the Hotel des Gardes, he
took a glance in to the stables.  Three
of the four horses had already arrived.
Planchet, all astonishment, was busy
grooming them, and had already finished
two.

"Ah, monsieur," said Planchet, on
perceiving D'Artagnan, "how glad I am to
see you."

"Why so, Planchet?" asked the young man.

"Do you place confidence in our
landlord--Monsieur Bonacieux?"

"I?  Not the least in the world."

"Oh, you do quite right, monsieur."

"But why this question?"

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

"Bah!"

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

"And you found it?"

"Traitorous, monsieur."

"Indeed!"

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

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

"Monsieur jests, but Monsieur will see."

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

"Monsieur does not then renounce his
excursion for this evening?"

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

"Then that is Monsieur's determination?"

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

Planchet seeing there was no longer any
hope of making his master renounce his
project, heaved a profound sigh and set
to work to groom the third horse.

As to D'Artagnan, being at bottom a
prudent youth, instead of returning
home, went and dined with the Gascon
priest, who, at the time of the distress
of the four friends, had given them a
breakfast of chocolate.



24 THE PAVILION

At nine o'clock D'Artagnan was at the
Hotel des Gardes; he found Planchet all
ready.  The fourth horse had arrived.

Planchet was armed with his musketoon
and a pistol.  D'Artagnan had his sword
and placed two pistols in his belt; then
both mounted and departed quietly.  It
was quite dark, and no one saw them go
out.  Planchet took place behind his
master, and kept at a distance of ten
paces from him.

D'Artagnan crossed the quays, went out
by the gate of La Conference and
followed the road, much more beautiful
then than it is now, which leads to St.
Cloud.

As long as he was in the city, Planchet
kept at the respectful distance he had
imposed upon himself; but as soon as the
road began to be more lonely and dark,
he drew softly nearer, so that when they
entered the Bois de Boulogne he found
himself riding quite naturally side by
side with his master.  In fact, we must
not dissemble that the oscillation of
the tall trees and the reflection of the
moon in the dark underwood gave him
serious uneasiness.  D'Artagnan could
not help perceiving that something more
than usual was passing in the mind of
his lackey and said, "Well, Monsieur
Planchet, what is the matter with us
now?"

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

"How so, Planchet?"

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

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

"Afraid of being heard?  Yes, monsieur."

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

"Ah, monsieur!" replied Planchet,
recurring to his besetting idea, "that
Monsieur Bonacieux has something vicious
in his eyebrows, and something very
unpleasant in the play of his lips."

"What the devil makes you think of
Bonacieux?"

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

"Because you are a coward, Planchet."

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

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

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

"In truth," murmured D'Artagnan, to whom
M. de Treville's recommendation
recurred, "this animal will end by
making me afraid."  And he put his horse
into a trot.

Planchet followed the movements of his
master as if he had been his shadow, and
was soon trotting by his side.

"Are we going to continue this pace all
night?" asked Planchet.

"No; you are at your journey's end."

"How, monsieur!  And you?"

"I am going a few steps farther."

"And Monsieur leaves me here alone?"

"You are afraid, Planchet?"

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

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

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

"Here's half a pistole.  Tomorrow
morning."

D'Artagnan sprang from his horse, threw
the bridle to Planchet, and departed at
a quick pace, folding his cloak around
him.

"Good Lord, how cold I am!" cried
Planchet, as soon as he had lost sight
of his master; and in such haste was he
to warm himself that he went straight to
a house set out with all the attributes
of a suburban tavern, and knocked at the
door.

In the meantime D'Artagnan, who had
plunged into a bypath, continued his
route and reached St. Cloud; but instead
of following the main street he turned
behind the chateau, reached a sort of
retired lane, and found himself soon in
front of the pavilion named.  It was
situated in a very private spot.  A high
wall, at the angle of which was the
pavilion, ran along one side of this
lane, and on the other was a little
garden connected with a poor cottage
which was protected by a hedge from
passers-by.

He gained the place appointed, and as no
signal had been given him by which to
announce his presence, he waited.

Not the least noise was to be heard; it
might be imagined that he was a hundred
miles from the capital.  D'Artagnan
leaned against the hedge, after having
cast a glance behind it.  Beyond that
hedge, that garden, and that cottage, a
dark mist enveloped with its folds that
immensity where Paris slept--a vast void
from which glittered a few luminous
points, the funeral stars of that hell!

But for D'Artagnan all aspects were
clothed happily, all ideas wore a smile,
all shades were diaphanous.  The
appointed hour was about to strike.  In
fact, at the end of a few minutes the
belfry of St. Cloud let fall slowly ten
strokes from its sonorous jaws. There
was something melancholy in this brazen
voice pouring out its lamentations in
the middle of the night; but each of
those strokes, which made up the
expected hour, vibrated harmoniously to
the heart of the young man.

His eyes were fixed upon the little
pavilion situated at the angle of the
wall, of which all the windows were
closed with shutters, except one on the
first story.  Through this window shone
a mild light which silvered the foliage
of two or three linden trees which
formed a group outside the park.  There
could be no doubt that behind this
little window, which threw forth such
friendly beams, the pretty Mme.
Bonacieux expected him.

Wrapped in this sweet idea, D'Artagnan
waited half an hour without the least
impatience, his eyes fixed upon that
charming little abode of which he could
perceive a part of the ceiling with its
gilded moldings, attesting the elegance
of the rest of the apartment.

The belfry of St. Cloud sounded half
past ten.

This time, without knowing why,
D'Artagnan felt a cold shiver run
through his veins.  Perhaps the cold
began to affect him, and he took a
perfectly physical sensation for a moral
impression.

Then the idea seized him that he had
read incorrectly, and that the
appointment was for eleven o'clock.  He
drew near to the window, and placing
himself so that a ray of light should
fall upon the letter as he held it, he
drew it from his pocket and read it
again; but he had not been mistaken, the
appointment was for ten o'clock.  He
went and resumed his post, beginning to
be rather uneasy at this silence and
this solitude.

Eleven o'clock sounded.

D'Artagnan began now really to fear that
something had happened to Mme.
Bonacieux.  He clapped his hands three
times--the ordinary signal of lovers;
but nobody replied to him, not even an
echo.

He then thought, with a touch of
vexation, that perhaps the young woman
had fallen asleep while waiting for him.
He approached the wall, and tried to
climb it; but the wall had been recently
pointed, and D'Artagnan could get no
hold.

At that moment he thought of the trees,
upon whose leaves the light still shone;
and as one of them drooped over the
road, he thought that from its branches
he might get a glimpse of the interior
of the pavilion.

The tree was easy to climb.  Besides,
D'Artagnan was but twenty years old, and
consequently had not yet forgotten his
schoolboy habits.  In an instant he was
among the branches, and his keen eyes
plunged through the transparent panes
into the interior of the pavilion.

It was a strange thing, and one which
made D'Artagnan tremble from the sole of
his foot to the roots of his hair, to
find that this soft light, this calm
lamp, enlightened a scene of fearful
disorder.  One of the windows was
broken, the door of the chamber had been
beaten in and hung, split in two, on its
hinges.  A table, which had been covered
with an elegant supper, was overturned. 
The decanters broken in pieces, and the
fruits crushed, strewed the floor. 
Everything in the apartment gave
evidence of a violent and desperate
struggle.  D'Artagnan even fancied he
could recognize amid this strange
disorder, fragments of garments, and
some bloody spots staining the cloth and
the curtains.  He hastened to descend
into the street, with a frightful
beating at his heart; he wished to see
if he could find other traces of
violence.

The little soft light shone on in the
calmness of the night. D'Artagnan then
perceived a thing that he had not before
remarked--for nothing had led him to the
examination--that the ground, trampled
here and hoofmarked there, presented
confused traces of men and horses. 
Besides, the wheels of a carriage, which
appeared to have come from Paris, had
made a deep impression in the soft
earth, which did not extend beyond the
pavilion, but turned again toward Paris.

At length D'Artagnan, in pursuing his
researches, found near the wall a
woman's torn glove.  This glove,
wherever it had not touched the muddy
ground, was of irreproachable odor.  It
was one of those perfumed gloves that
lovers like to snatch from a pretty
hand.

As D'Artagnan pursued his
investigations, a more abundant and more
icy sweat rolled in large drops from his
forehead; his heart was oppressed by a
horrible anguish; his respiration was
broken and short.  And yet he said, to
reassure himself, that this pavilion
perhaps had nothing in common with Mme.
Bonacieux; that the young woman had made
an appointment with him before the
pavilion, and not in the pavilion; that
she might have been detained in Paris by
her duties, or perhaps by the jealousy
of her husband.

But all these reasons were combated,
destroyed, overthrown, by that feeling
of intimate pain which, on certain
occasions, takes possession of our
being, and cries to us so as to be
understood unmistakably that some great
misfortune is hanging over us.

Then D'Artagnan became almost wild.  He
ran along the high road, took the path
he had before taken, and reaching the
ferry, interrogated the boatman.

About seven o'clock in the evening, the
boatman had taken over a young woman,
wrapped in a black mantle, who appeared
to be very anxious not to be recognized;
but entirely on account of her
precautions, the boatman had paid more
attention to her and discovered that she
was young and pretty.

There were then, as now, a crowd of
young and pretty women who came to St.
Cloud, and who had reasons for not being
seen, and yet D'Artagnan did not for an
instant doubt that it was Mme. Bonacieux
whom the boatman had noticed.

D'Artagnan took advantage of the lamp
which burned in the cabin of the
ferryman to read the billet of Mme.
Bonacieux once again, and satisfy
himself that he had not been mistaken,
that the appointment was at St. Cloud
and not elsewhere, before the
D'Estrees's pavilion and not in another
street.  Everything conspired to prove
to D'Artagnan that his presentiments had
not deceived him, and that a great
misfortune had happened.

He again ran back to the chateau.  It
appeared to him that something might
have happened at the pavilion in his
absence, and that fresh information
awaited him.  The lane was still
deserted, and the same calm soft light
shone through the window.

D'Artagnan then thought of that cottage,
silent and obscure, which had no doubt
seen all, and could tell its tale.  The
gate of the enclosure was shut; but he
leaped over the hedge, and in spite of
the barking of a chained-up dog, went up
to the cabin.

No one answered to his first knocking. 
A silence of death reigned in the cabin
as in the pavilion; but as the cabin was
his last resource, he knocked again.

It soon appeared to him that he heard a
slight noise within--a timid noise which
seemed to tremble lest it should be
heard.

Then D'Artagnan ceased knocking, and
prayed with an accent so full of anxiety
and promises, terror and cajolery, that
his voice was of a nature to reassure
the most fearful.  At length an old,
worm-eaten shutter was opened, or rather
pushed ajar, but closed again as soon as
the light from a miserable lamp which
burned in the corner had shone upon the
baldric, sword belt, and pistol pommels
of D'Artagnan.  Nevertheless, rapid as
the movement had been, D'Artagnan had
had time to get a glimpse of the head of
an old man.

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

The window was again opened slowly, and
the same face appeared, only it was now
still more pale than before.

D'Artagnan related his story simply,
with the omission of names. He told how
he had a rendezvous with a young woman
before that pavilion, and how, not
seeing her come, he had climbed the
linden tree, and by the light of the
lamp had seen the disorder of the
chamber.

The old man listened attentively, making
a sign only that it was all so; and
then, when D'Artagnan had ended, he
shook his head with an air that
announced nothing good.

"What do you mean?" cried D'Artagnan. 
"In the name of heaven, explain
yourself!"

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

"You have, then, seen something?"
replied D'Artagnan.  "In that case, in
the name of heaven," continued he,
throwing him a pistole, "tell me what
you have seen, and I will pledge you the
word of a gentleman that not one of your
words shall escape from my heart."

The old man read so much truth and so
much grief in the face of the young man
that he made him a sign to listen, and
repeated in a low voice: "It was
scarcely nine o'clock when I heard a
noise in the street, and was wondering
what it could be, when on coming to my
door, I found that somebody was
endeavoring to open it.  As I am very
poor and am not afraid of being robbed,
I went and opened the gate and saw three
men at a few paces from it.  In the
shadow was a carriage with two horses,
and some saddlehorses. These horses
evidently belonged to the three men, who
wee dressed as cavaliers.  'Ah, my
worthy gentlemen,' cried I, 'what do you
want?'  'You must have a ladder?' said
he who appeared to be the leader of the
party.  'Yes, monsieur, the one with
which I gather my fruit.'  'Lend it to
us, and go into your house again; there
is a crown for the annoyance we have
caused you.  Only remember this--if you
speak a word of what you may see or what
you may hear (for you will look and you
will listen, I am quite sure, however we
may threaten you), you are lost.'  At
these words he threw me a crown, which I
picked up, and he took the ladder. After
shutting the gate behind them, I
pretended to return to the house, but I
immediately went out a back door, and
stealing along in the shade of the
hedge, I gained yonder clump of elder,
from which I could hear and see
everything.  The three men brought the
carriage up quietly, and took out of it
a little man, stout, short, elderly, and
commonly dressed in clothes of a dark
color, who ascended the ladder very
carefully, looked suspiciously in at the
window of the pavilion, came down as
quietly as he had gone up, and
whispered, 'It is she!'  Immediately, he
who had spoken to me approached the door
of the pavilion, opened it with a key he
had in his hand, closed the door and
disappeared, while at the same time the
other two men ascended the ladder.  The
little old man remained at the coach
door; the coachman took care of his
horses, the lackey held the
saddlehorses.  All at once great cried
resounded in the pavilion, and a woman
came to the window, and opened it, as if
to throw herself out of it; but as soon
as she perceived the other two men, she
fell back and they went into the
chamber.  Then I saw no more; but I
heard the noise of breaking furniture. 
The woman screamed, and cried for help;
but her cries were soon stifled.  Two of
the men appeared, bearing the woman in
their arms, and carried her to the
carriage, into which the little old man
got after her.  The leader closed the
window, came out an instant after by the
door, and satisfied himself that the
woman was in the carriage.  His two
companions were already on horseback. 
He sprang into his saddle; the lackey
took his place by the coachman; the
carriage went off at a quick pace,
escorted by the three horsemen, and all
was over.  From that moment I have
neither seen nor heard anything."

D'Artagnan, entirely overcome by this
terrible story, remained motionless and
mute, while all the demons of anger and
jealousy were howling in his heart.

"But, my good gentleman," resumed the
old man, upon whom this mute despair
certainly produced a greater effect than
cries and tears would have done, "do not
take on so; they did not kill her, and
that's a comfort."

"Can you guess," said D'Artagnan, "who
was the man who headed this infernal
expedition?"

"I don't know him."

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

"Oh, it's a description you want?"

"Exactly so."

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

"That's the man!" cried D'Artagnan,
"again he, forever he!  He is my demon,
apparently.  And the other?"

"Which?"

"The short one."

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

"Some lackey," murmured D'Artagnan. 
"Poor woman, poor woman, what have they
done with you?"

"You have promised to be secret, my good
monsieur?" said the old man.

"And I renew my promise.  Be easy, I am
a gentleman.  A gentleman has but his
word, and I have given you mine."

With a heavy heart, D'Artagnan again
bent his way toward the ferry. 
Sometimes he hoped it could not be Mme.
Bonacieux, and that he should find her
next day at the Louvre; sometimes he
feared she had had an intrigue with
another, who, in a jealous fit, had
surprised her and carried her off.  His
mind was torn by doubt, grief, and
despair.

"Oh, if I had my three friends here,"
cried he, "I should have, at least, some
hopes of finding her; but who knows what
has become of them?"

It was past midnight; the next thing was
to find Planchet. D'Artagnan went
successively into all the cabarets in
which there was a light, but could not
find Planchet in any of them.

At the sixth he began to reflect that
the search was rather dubious. 
D'Artagnan had appointed six o'clock in
the morning for his lackey, and wherever
he might be, he was right.

Besides, it came into the young man's
mind that by remaining in the environs
of the spot on which this sad event had
passed, he would, perhaps, have some
light thrown upon the mysterious affair.
At the sixth cabaret, then, as we said,
D'Artagnan stopped, asked for a bottle
of wine of the best quality, and placing
himself in the darkest corner of the
room, determined thus to wait till
daylight; but this time again his hopes
were disappointed, and although he
listened with all his ears, he heard
nothing, amid the oaths, coarse jokes,
and abuse which passed between the
laborers, servants, and carters who
comprised the honorable society of which
he formed a part, which could put him
upon the least track of her who had been
stolen from him.  He was compelled,
them, after having swallowed the
contents of his bottle, to pass the time
as well as to evade suspicion, to fall
into the easiest position in his corner
and to sleep, whether well or ill. 
D'Artagnan, be it remembered, was only
twenty years old, and at that age sleep
has its imprescriptible rights which it
imperiously insists upon, even with the
saddest hearts.

Toward six o'clock D'Artagnan awoke with
that uncomfortable feeling which
generally accompanies the break of day
after a bad night.  He was not long in
making his toilet.  He examined himself
to see if advantage had been taken of
his sleep, and having found his diamond
ring on his finger, his purse in his
pocket, and his pistols in his belt, he
rose, paid for his bottle, and went out
to try if he could have any better luck
in his search after his lackey than he
had had the night before. The first
thing he perceived through the damp gray
mist was honest Planchet, who, with the
two horses in hand, awaited him at the
door of a little blind cabaret, before
which D'Artagnan had passed without even
a suspicion of its existence.



25 PORTHOS

Instead of returning directly home,
D'Artagnan alighted at the door of M. de
Treville, and ran quickly up the stairs.
This time he had decided to relate all
that had passed.  M. de Treville would
doubtless give him good advice as to the
whole affair. Besides, as M. de Treville
saw the queen almost daily, he might be
able to draw from her Majesty some
intelligence of the poor young woman,
whom they were doubtless making pay very
dearly for her devotedness to her
mistress.

M. de Treville listened to the young
man's account with a seriousness which
proved that he saw something else in
this adventure besides a love affair. 
When D'Artagnan had finished, he said,
"Hum!  All this savors of his Eminence,
a league off."

"But what is to be done?" said
D'Artagnan.

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

D'Artagnan knew that, although a Gascon,
M. de Treville was not in the habit of
making promises, and that when by chance
he did promise, he more than kept his
word.  He bowed to him, then, full of
gratitude for the past and for the
future; and the worthy captain, who on
his side felt a lively interest in this
young man, so brave and so resolute,
pressed his hand kindly, wishing him a
pleasant journey.

Determined to put the advice of M. de
Treville in practice instantly,
D'Artagnan directed his course toward
the Rue des Fossoyeurs, in order to
superintend the packing of his valise.
On approaching the house, he perceived
M. Bonacieux in morning costume,
standing at his threshold.  All that the
prudent Planchet had said to him the
preceding evening about the sinister
character of the old man recurred to the
mind of D'Artagnan, who looked at him
with more attention than he had done
before.  In fact, in addition to that
yellow, sickly paleness which indicates
the insinuation of the bile in the
blood, and which might, besides, be
accidental, D'Artagnan remarked
something perfidiously significant in
the play of the wrinkled features of his
countenance.  A rogue does not laugh in
the same way that an honest man does; a
hypocrite does not shed the tears of a
man of good faith.  All falsehood is a
mask; and however well made the mask may
be, with a little attention we may
always succeed in distinguishing it from
the true face.

It appeared, then, to D'Artagnan that M.
Bonacieux wore a mask, and likewise that
that mask was most disagreeable to look
upon. In consequence of this feeling of
repugnance, he was about to pass without
speaking to him, but, as he had done the
day before, M. Bonacieux accosted him.

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

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

Bonacieux became as pale as death, and
grinned a ghastly smile.

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

D'Artagnan glanced down at his boots,
all covered with mud; but that same
glance fell upon the shoes and stockings
of the mercer, and it might have been
said they had been dipped in the same
mud heap.  Both were stained with
splashes of mud of the same appearance.

Then a sudden idea crossed the mind of
D'Artagnan.  That little stout man,
short and elderly, that sort of lackey,
dressed in dark clothes, treated without
ceremony by the men wearing swords who
composed the escort, was Bonacieux
himself.  The husband had presided at
the abduction of his wife.

A terrible inclination seized D'Artagnan
to grasp the mercer by the throat and
strangle him; but, as we have said, he
was a very prudent youth, and he
restrained himself.  However, the
revolution which appeared upon his
countenance was so visible that
Bonacieux was terrified at it, and he
endeavored to draw back a step or two;
but as he was standing before the half
of the door which was shut, the obstacle
compelled him to keep his place.

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

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

The place named by Bonacieux as that
which had been the object of his journey
was a fresh proof in support of the
suspicions D'Artagnan had conceived. 
Bonacieux had named Mande because Mande
was in an exactly opposite direction
from St. Cloud.  This probability
afforded him his first consolation.  If
Bonacieux knew where his wife was, one
might, by extreme means, force the
mercer to open his teeth and let his
secret escape.  The question, then, was
how to change this probability into a
certainty.

"Pardon, my dear Monsieur Bonacieux, if
I don't stand upon ceremony," said
D'Artagnan, "but nothing makes one so
thirsty as want of sleep.  I am parched
with thirst.  Allow me to take a glass
of water in your apartment; you know
that is never refused among neighbors."

Without waiting for the permission of
his host, D'Artagnan went quickly into
the house, and cast a rapid glance at
the bed.  It had not been used. 
Bonacieux had not been abed.  He had
only been back an hour or two; he had
accompanied his wife to the place of her
confinement, or else at least to the
first relay.

"Thanks, Monsieur Bonacieux," said
D'Artagnan, emptying his glass, "that is
all I wanted of you.  I will now go up
into my apartment.  I will make Planchet
brush my boots; and when he has done, I
will, if you like, send him to you to
brush your shoes."

He left the mercer quite astonished at
his singular farewell, and asking
himself if he had not been a little
inconsiderate.

At the top of the stairs he found
Planchet in a great fright.

"Ah, monsieur!" cried Planchet, as soon
as he perceived his master, "here is
more trouble.  I thought you would never
come in."

"What's the matter now, Planchet?"
demanded D'Artagnan.

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

"When?"

"About half an hour ago, while you were
at Monsieur de Treville's."

"Who has been here?  Come, speak."

"Monsieur de Cavois."

"Monsieur de Cavois?"

"In person."

"The captain of the cardinal's Guards?"

"Himself."

"Did he come to arrest me?"

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

"Was he so sweet, then?"

"Indeed, he was all honey, monsieur."

"Indeed!"

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

*It was called the Palais-Cardinal
before Richelieu gave it to the King.

"What did you answer him?"

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

"Well, what did he say then?"

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

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

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

"'Where has he gone?' asked Monsieur de
Cavois.

"'To Troyes, in Champagne,' I answered.

"'And when did he set out?'

"'Yesterday evening.'"

"Planchet, my friend," interrupted
D'Artagnan, "you are really a precious
fellow."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

D'Artagnan went out first, as had been
agreed upon.  Then, in order that he
might have nothing to reproach himself
with, he directed his steps, for the
last time, toward the residences of his
three friends.  No news had been
received of them; only a letter, all
perfumed and of an elegant writing in
small characters, had come for Aramis. 
D'Artagnan took charge of it. Ten
minutes afterward Planchet joined him at
the stables of the Hotel des Gardes. 
D'Artagnan, in order that there might be
no time lost, had saddled his horse
himself.

"That's well," said he to Planchet, when
the latter added the portmanteau to the
equipment.  "Now saddle the other three
horses."

"Do you think, then, monsieur, that we
shall travel faster with two horses
apiece?" said Planchet, with his shrewd
air.

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

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

"Amen!" said D'Artagnan, getting into
his saddle.

As they went from the Hotel des Gardes,
they separated, leaving the street at
opposite ends, one having to quit Paris
by the Barriere de la Villette and the
other by the Barriere Montmartre, to
meet again beyond St. Denis--a strategic
maneuver which, having been executed
with equal punctuality, was crowned with
the most fortunate results.  D'Artagnan
and Planchet entered Pierrefitte
together.

Planchet was more courageous, it must be
admitted, by day than by night.  His
natural prudence, however, never forsook
him for a single instant.  He had
forgotten not one of the incidents of
the first journey, and he looked upon
everybody he met on the road as an
enemy.  It followed that his hat was
forever in his hand, which procured him
some severe reprimands from D'Artagnan,
who feared that his excess of politeness
would lead people to think he was the
lackey of a man of no consequence.

Nevertheless, whether the passengers
were really touched by the urbanity of
Planchet or whether this time nobody was
posted on the young man's road, our two
travelers arrived at Chantilly without
any accident, and alighted at the tavern
of Great St. Martin, the same at which
they had stopped on their first journey.

The host, on seeing a young man followed
by a lackey with two extra horses,
advanced respectfully to the door.  Now,
as they had already traveled eleven
leagues, D'Artagnan thought it time to
stop, whether Porthos were or were not
in the inn.  Perhaps it would not be
prudent to ask at once what had become
of the Musketeer.  The result of these
reflections was that D'Artagnan, without
asking information of any kind,
alighted, commended the horses to the
care of his lackey, entered a small room
destined to receive those who wished to
be alone, and desired the host to bring
him a bottle of his best wine and as
good a breakfast as possible--a desire
which further corroborated the high
opinion the innkeeper had formed of the
traveler at first sight.

D'Artagnan was therefore served with
miraculous celerity.  The regiment of
the Guards was recruited among the first
gentlemen of the kingdom; and
D'Artagnan, followed by a lackey, and
traveling with four magnificent horses,
despite the simplicity of his uniform,
could not fail to make a sensation.  The
host desired himself to serve him; which
D'Artagnan perceiving, ordered two
glasses to be brought, and commenced the
following conversation.

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

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

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

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

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

"Exactly so," said the host; "I remember
it perfectly.  It is not Monsieur
Porthos that your Lordship means?"

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

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

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

"He has done us the honor to remain
here."

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

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

"On what account?"

"Of certain expenses he has contracted."

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

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

"Porthos is wounded, then?"

"I cannot tell you, monsieur."

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

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

"Well, can I see Porthos?"

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

"Why should I do that?"

"Because, monsieur, some mischief might
happen to you."

"Of what kind, in the name of wonder?"

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

"What have you done to him, then?"

"We have asked him for money."

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

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

"Playing the day before!  And with
whom?"

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

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

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

"That's Porthos all over," murmured
D'Artagnan.

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

"What!  Mousqueton is here, then?"

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

"The fact is," said D'Artagnan, "I have
always observed a great degree of
intelligence and devotedness in
Mousqueton."

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

"No, for Porthos will pay you."

"Hum!" said the host, in a doubtful
tone.

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

"If I durst say what I believe on that
head--"

"What you believe?"

"I ought rather to say, what I know."

"What you know?"

"And even what I am sure of."

"And of what are you so sure?"

"I would say that I know this great
lady."

"You?"

"Yes; I."

"And how do you know her?"

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

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

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

"What have you done?"

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

"Well?"

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

"And then?"

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

"Nearly so."

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

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

"Do you know who this pretended duchess
is?

"I repeat to you, I don't know her."

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

*Attorney

"But how do you know all this?"

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

"Has he been wounded, then?"

"Oh, good Lord!  What have I said?"

"You said that Porthos had received a
sword cut."

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

"And why so."

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

"It is a wound that confines him to his
bed?"

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

"Were you there, then?"

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

"And what took place?"

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

"So it was with Monsieur D'Artagnan this
stranger meant to quarrel?"

"It appears so."

"And do you know what has become of
him?"

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

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

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

"Bah!  Be satisfied," said D'Artagnan,
laughing, "Porthos will pay you with the
money of the Duchess Coquenard."

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

"And did you convey this answer to your
guest?"

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

"So that he still expects his money?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's agreed; you have my word."

"Oh, he would kill me!"

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

Saying these words, D'Artagnan went
upstairs, leaving his host a little
better satisfied with respect to two
things in which he appeared to be very
much interested--his debt and his life.

At the top of the stairs, upon the most
conspicuous door of the corridor, was
traced in black ink a gigantic number
"1." D'Artagnan knocked, and upon the
bidding to come in which came from
inside, he entered the chamber.

Porthos was in bed, and was playing a
game at LANSQUENET with Mousqueton, to
keep his hand in; while a spit loaded
with partridges was turning before the
fire, and on each side of a large
chimneypiece, over two chafing dishes,
were boiling two stewpans, from which
exhaled a double odor of rabbit and fish
stews, rejoicing to the smell.  In
addition to this he perceived that the
top of a wardrobe and the marble of a
commode were covered with empty bottles.

At the sight of his friend, Porthos
uttered a loud cry of joy; and
Mousqueton, rising respectfully, yielded
his place to him, and went to give an
eye to the two stewpans, of which he
appeared to have the particular
inspection.

"Ah, PARDIEU!  Is that you?" said
Porthos to D'Artagnan.  "You are right
welcome.  Excuse my not coming to meet
you; but," added he, looking at
D'Artagnan with a certain degree of
uneasiness, "you know what has happened
to me?"

"No."

"Has the host told you nothing, then?"

"I asked after you, and came up as soon
as I could."

Porthos seemed to breathe more freely.

"And what has happened to you, my dear
Porthos?" continued D'Artagnan.

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

"Truly?"

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

"And what has became of him?"

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

"So that this strain of the knee,"
continued D'Artagnan, "my dear Porthos,
keeps you in bed?"

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

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

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

"What's that?"

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

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

"Well, you see, my dear D'Artagnan, with
what ill luck I play," replied Porthos,
with the most careless air in the world.
"I wrote to her to send me fifty louis
or so, of which I stood absolutely in
need on account of my accident."

"Well?"

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

"Truly?"

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

"But your host behaves very well toward
you, as it appears, my dear Porthos,"
said D'Artagnan, directing the sick
man's attention to the full stewpans and
the empty bottles.

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

"And yet," said D'Artagnan, laughing,
"it appears to me that from time to time
you must make SORTIES."  And he again
pointed to the bottles and the stewpans.

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

"Mousqueton," said D'Artagnan, "you must
render me a service."

"What, monsieur?"

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

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

"And what did he do the rest of his
time?"

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

"Which?"

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

"And what was the end of this worthy
man?" asked D'Artagnan.

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

"And what did you do?" said D'Artagnan.

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

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

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

"But the wine," said D'Artagnan, "who
furnishes the wine?  Your host?"

"That is to say, yes and no."

"How yes and no?"

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

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

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

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

"Patience, monsieur, everything will
come in its turn."

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

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

"Well," said Porthos, "arrange the
table, Mousequeton, and while we
breakfast, D'Artagnan will relate to us
what has happened to him during the ten
days since he left us."

"Willingly," said D'Artagnan.

While Porthos and Mousqueton were
breakfasting, with the appetites of
convalescents and with that brotherly
cordiality which unites men in
misfortune, D'Artagnan related how
Aramis, being wounded, was obliged to
stop at Crevecoeur, how he had left
Athos fighting at Amiens with four men
who accused him of being a coiner, and
how he, D'Artagnan, had been forced to
run the Comtes de Wardes through the
body in order to reach England.

But there the confidence of D'Artagnan
stopped.  He only added that on his
return from Great Britain he had brought
back four magnificent horses--one for
himself, and one for each of his
companions; then he informed Porthos
that the one intended for him was
already installed in the stable of the
tavern.

At this moment Planchet entered, to
inform his master that the horses were
sufficiently refreshed and that it would
be possible to sleep at Clermont.

As D'Artagnan was tolerably reassured
with regard to Porthos, and as he was
anxious to obtain news of his two other
friends, he held out his hand to the
wounded man, and told him he was about
to resume his route in order to continue
his researches.  For the rest, as he
reckoned upon returning by the same
route in seven or eight days, if Porthos
were still at the Great St. Martin, he
would call for him on his way.

Porthos replied that in all probability
his sprain would not permit him to
depart yet awhile.  Besides, it was
necessary he should stay at Chantilly to
wait for the answer from his duchess.

D'Artagnan wished that answer might be
prompt and favorable; and having again
recommended Porthos to the care of
Mousqueton, and paid his bill to the
host, he resumed his route with
Planchet, already relieved of one of his
led horses.



26 ARAMIS AND HIS THESIS

D'Artagnan had said nothing to Porthos
of his wound or of his procurator's
wife.  Our Bernais was a prudent lad,
however young he might be.  Consequently
he had appeared to believe all that the
vainglorious Musketeer had told him,
convinced that no friendship will hold
out against a surprised secret. 
Besides, we feel always a sort of mental
superiority over those whose lives we
know better than they suppose.  In his
projects of intrigue for the future, and
determined as he was to make his three
friends the instruments of his fortune,
D'Artagnan was not sorry at getting into
his grasp beforehand the invisible
strings by which he reckoned upon moving
them.

And yet, as he journeyed along, a
profound sadness weighed upon his heart.
He thought of that young and pretty Mme.
Bonacieux who was to have paid him the
price of his devotedness; but let us
hasten to say that this sadness
possessed the young man less from the
regret of the happiness he had missed,
than from the fear he entertained that
some serious misfortune had befallen the
poor woman.  For himself, he had no
doubt she was a victim of the cardinal's
vengeance; and, and as was well known,
the vengeance of his Eminence was
terrible.  How he had found grace in the
eyes of the minister, he did not know;
but without doubt M. de Cavois would
have revealed this to him if the captain
of the Guards had found him at home.

Nothing makes time pass more quickly or
more shortens a journey than a thought
which absorbs in itself all the
faculties of the organization of him who
thinks.  External existence then
resembles a sleep of which this thought
is the dream.  By its influence, time
has no longer measure, space has no
longer distance.  We depart from one
place, and arrive at another, that is
all.  Of the interval passed, nothing
remains in the memory but a vague mist
in which a thousand confused images of
trees, mountains, and landscapes are
lost.  It was as a prey to this
hallucination that D'Artagnan traveled,
at whatever pace his horse pleased, the
six or eight leagues that separated
Chantilly from Crevecoeur, without his
being able to remember on his arrival in
the village any of the things he had
passed or met with on the road.

There only his memory returned to him. 
He shook his head, perceived the cabaret
at which he had left Aramis, and putting
his horse to the trot, he shortly pulled
up at the door.

This time it was not a host but a
hostess who received him. D'Artagnan was
a physiognomist.  His eye took in at a
glance the plump, cheerful countenance
of the mistress of the place, and he at
once perceived there was no occasion for
dissembling with her, or of fearing
anything from one blessed with such a
joyous physiognomy.

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

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

"That is he--wounded in the shoulder."

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

"Ah, PARDIEU!  My dear dame," said
D'Artagnan, springing from his horse,
and throwing the bridle to Planchet,
"you restore me to life; where is this
dear Aramis?  Let me embrace him, I am
in a hurry to see him again."

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

"Why so?  Has he a lady with him?"

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

"With whom is he, then?"

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

"Good heavens!" cried D'Artagnan, "is
the poor fellow worse, then?"

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

"That's it!" said D'Artagnan, "I had
forgotten that he was only a Musketeer
for a time."

"Monsieur still insists upon seeing
him?"

"More than ever."

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

D'Artagnan walked quickly in the
direction indicated, and found one of
those exterior staircases that are still
to be seen in the yards of our
old-fashioned taverns.  But there was no
getting at the place of sojourn of the
future abbe; the defiles of the chamber
of Aramis were as well guarded as the
gardens of Armida. Bazin was stationed
in the corridor, and barred his passage
with the more intrepidity that, after
many years of trial, Bazin found himself
near a result of which he had ever been
ambitious.

In fact, the dream of poor Bazin had
always been to serve a churchman; and he
awaited with impatience the moment,
always in the future, when Aramis would
throw aside the uniform and assume the
cassock.  The daily-renewed promise of
the young man that the moment would not
long be delayed, had alone kept him in
the service of a Musketeer--a service in
which, he said, his soul was in constant
jeopardy.

Bazin was then at the height of joy.  In
all probability, this time his master
would not retract.  The union of
physical pain with moral uneasiness had
produced the effect so long desired.
Aramis, suffering at once in body and
mind, had at length fixed his eyes and
his thoughts upon religion, and he had
considered as a warning from heaven the
double accident which had happened to
him; that is to say, the sudden
disappearance of his mistress and the
wound in his shoulder.

It may be easily understood that in the
present disposition of his master
nothing could be more disagreeable to
Bazin than the arrival of D'Artagnan,
which might cast his master back again
into that vortex of mundane affairs
which had so long carried him away.  He
resolved, then, to defend the door
bravely; and as, betrayed by the
mistress of the inn, he could not say
that Aramis was absent, he endeavored to
prove to the newcomer that it would be
the height of indiscretion to disturb
his master in his pious conference,
which had commenced with the morning and
would not, as Bazin said, terminate
before night.

But D'Artagnan took very little heed of
the eloquent discourse of M. Bazin; and
as he had no desire to support a polemic
discussion with his friend's valet, he
simply moved him out of the way with one
hand, and with the other turned the
handle of the door of Number Five.  The
door opened, and D'Artagnan went into
the chamber.

Aramis, in a black gown, his head
enveloped in a sort of round flat cap,
not much unlike a CALOTTE, was seated
before an oblong table, covered with
rolls of paper and enormous volumes in
folio. At his right hand was placed the
superior of the Jesuits, and on his left
the curate of Montdidier.  The curtains
were half drawn, and only admitted the
mysterious light calculated for beatific
reveries.  All the mundane objects that
generally strike the eye on entering the
room of a young man, particularly when
that young man is a Musketeer, had
disappeared as if by enchantment; and
for fear, no doubt, that the sight of
them might bring his master back to
ideas of this world, Bazin had laid his
hands upon sword, pistols, plumed hat,
and embroideries and laces of all kinds
and sorts.  In their stead D'Artagnan
thought he perceived in an obscure
corner a discipline cord suspended from
a nail in the wall.

At the noise made by D'Artagnan in
entering, Aramis lifted up his head, and
beheld his friend; but to the great
astonishment of the young man, the sight
of him did not produce much effect upon
the Musketeer, so completely was his
mind detached from the things of this
world.

"Good day, dear D'Artagnan," said
Aramis; "believe me, I am glad to see
you."

"So am I delighted to see you," said
D'Artagnan, "although I am not yet sure
that it is Aramis I am speaking to."

"To himself, my friend, to himself!  But
what makes you doubt it?"

"I was afraid I had made a mistake in
the chamber, and that I had found my way
into the apartment of some churchman. 
Then another error seized me on seeing
you in company with these gentlemen--I
was afraid you were dangerously ill."

The two men in black, who guessed
D'Artagnan's meaning, darted at him a
glance which might have been thought
threatening; but D'Artagnan took no heed
of it.

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

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

"Ah, he'll come round," thought
D'Artagnan; "that's not bad!"

"This gentleman, who is my friend, has
just escaped from a serious danger,"
continued Aramis, with unction, pointing
to D'Artagnan with his hand, and
addressing the two ecclesiastics.

"Praise God, monsieur," replied they,
bowing together.

"I have not failed to do so, your
Reverences," replied the young man,
returning their salutation.

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

"The opinion of a swordsman can have
very little weight," replied D'Artagnan,
who began to be uneasy at the turn
things were taking, "and you had better
be satisfied, believe me, with the
knowledge of these gentlemen."

The two men in black bowed in their
turn.

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

"Your thesis!  Are you then making a
thesis?"

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

"Ordination!" cried D'Artagnan, who
could not believe what the hostess and
Bazin had successively told him; and he
gazed, half stupefied, upon the three
persons before him.

"Now," continued Aramis, taking the same
graceful position in his easy chair that
he would have assumed in bed, and
complacently examining his hand, which
was as white and plump as that of a
woman, and which he held in the air to
cause the blood to descend, "now, as you
have heard, D'Artagnan, Monsieur the
Principal is desirous that my thesis
should be dogmatic, while I, for my
part, would rather it should be ideal. 
This is the reason why Monsieur the
Principal has proposed to me the
following subject, which has not yet
been treated upon, and in which I
perceive there is matter for magnificent
elaboration-'UTRAQUE MANUS IN
BENEDICENDO CLERICIS INFERIORIBUS
NECESSARIA EST.'"

D'Artagnan, whose erudition we are well
acquainted with, evinced no more
interest on hearing this quotation than
he had at that of M. de Treville in
allusion to the gifts he pretended that
D'Artagnan had received from the Duke of
Buckingham.

"Which means," resumed Aramis, that he
might perfectly understand, "'The two
hands are indispensable for priests of
the inferior orders, when they bestow
the benediction.'"

"An admirable subject!" cried the
Jesuit.

"Admirable and dogmatic!" repeated the
curate, who, about as strong as
D'Artagnan with respect to Latin,
carefully watched the Jesuit in order to
keep step with him, and repeated his
words like an echo.

As to D'Artagnan, he remained perfectly
insensible to the enthusiasm of the two
men in black.

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

D'Artagnan began to be tired, and so did
the curate.

"See what an exordium!" cried the
Jesuit.

"Exordium," repeated the curate, for the
sake of saying something.  "QUEMADMODUM
INTER COELORUM IMMENSITATEM."

Aramis cast a glance upon D'Artagnan to
see what effect all this produced, and
found his friend gaping enough to split
his jaws.

"Let us speak French, my father," said
he to the Jesuit; "Monsieur D'Artagnan
will enjoy our conversation better."

"Yes," replied D'Artagnan; "I am
fatigued with reading, and all this
Latin confuses me."

"Certainly," replied the Jesuit, a
little put out, while the curate,
greatly delighted, turned upon
D'Artagnan a look full of gratitude. 
"Well, let us see what is to be derived
from this gloss.  Moses, the servant of
God-he was but a servant, please to
understand-Moses blessed with the hands;
he held out both his arms while the
Hebrews beat their enemies, and then he
blessed them with his two hands. 
Besides, what does the Gospel say?
IMPONITE MANUS, and not MANUM-place the
HANDS, not the HAND."

"Place the HANDS," repeated the curate,
with a gesture.

"St. Peter, on the contrary, of whom the
Popes are the successors," continued the
Jesuit; "PORRIGE DIGITOS-present the
fingers.  Are you there, now?"

"CERTES," replied Aramis, in a pleased
tone, "but the thing is subtle."

"The FINGERS," resumed the Jesuit, "St.
Peter blessed with the FINGERS.  The
Pope, therefore blesses with the
fingers.  And with how many fingers does
he bless?  With THREE fingers, to be
sure-one for the Father, one for the
Son, and one for the Holy Ghost."

All crossed themselves.  D'Artagnan
thought it was proper to follow this
example.

"The Pope is the successor of St. Peter,
and represents the three divine powers;
the rest-ORDINES INFERIORES-of the
ecclesiastical hierarchy bless in the
name of the holy archangels and angels.
The most humble clerks such as our
deacons and sacristans, bless with holy
water sprinklers, which resemble an
infinite number of blessing fingers. 
There is the subject simplified. 
ARGUMENTUM OMNI DENUDATUM ORNAMENTO.  I
could make of that subject two volumes
the size of this," continued the Jesuit;
and in his enthusiasm he struck a St.
Chrysostom in folio, which made the
table bend beneath its weight.

D'Artagnan trembled.

"CERTES," said Aramis, "I do justice to
the beauties of this thesis; but at the
same time I perceive it would be
overwhelming for me.  I had chosen this
text-tell me, dear D'Artagnan, if it is
not to your taste-'NON INUTILE EST
DESIDERIUM IN OBLATIONE'; that is, 'A
little regret is not unsuitable in an
offering to the Lord.'"

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

"You will be lost," said the curate,
shaking his head sorrowfully.

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

"But, my Reverend-" replied Aramis, a
little amazed by the shower of arguments
that poured upon his head.

"How will you prove," continued the
Jesuit, without allowing him time to
speak, "that we ought to regret the
world when we offer ourselves to God? 
Listen to this dilemma: God is God, and
the world is the devil.  To regret the
world is to regret the devil; that is my
conclusion."

"And that is mine also," said the
curate.

"But, for heaven's sake-" resumed
Aramis.

"DESIDERAS DIABOLUM, unhappy man!" cried
the Jesuit.

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

D'Artagnan felt himself bewildered.  It
seemed to him as though he were in a
madhouse, and was becoming as mad as
those he saw. He was, however, forced to
hold his tongue from not comprehending
half the language they employed.

"But listen to me, then," resumed Aramis
with politeness mingled with a little
impatience.  "I do not say I regret; no,
I will never pronounce that sentence,
which would not be orthodox."

The Jesuit raised his hands toward
heaven, and the curate did the same.

"No; but pray grant me that it is acting
with an ill grace to offer to the Lord
only that with which we are perfectly
disgusted!  Don't you think so,
D'Artagnan?"

"I think so, indeed," cried he.

The Jesuit and the curate quite started
from their chairs.

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

"That is true," said his antagonists.

"And then," said Aramis, pinching his
ear to make it red, as he rubbed his
hands to make them white, "and then I
made a certain RONDEAU upon it last
year, which I showed to Monsieur
Voiture, and that great man paid me a
thousand compliments."

"A RONDEAU!" said the Jesuit,
disdainfully.

"A RONDEAU!" said the curate,
mechanically.

"Repeat it!  Repeat it!" cried
D'Artagnan; "it will make a little
change."

"Not so, for it is religious," replied
Aramis; "it is theology in verse."

"The devil!" said D'Artagnan.

"Here it is," said Aramis, with a little
look of diffidence, which, however, was
not exempt from a shade of hypocrisy:


"Vous qui pleurez un passe plein de
charmes, Et qui trainez des jours
infortunes, Tous vos malheurs se verront
termines, Quand a Dieu seul vous
offrirez vos larmes, Vous qui pleurez!"

"You who weep for pleasures fled, While
dragging on a life of care, All your
woes will melt in air, If to God your
tears are shed, You who weep!"


D'Artagnan and the curate appeared
pleased.  The Jesuit persisted in his
opinion.  "Beware of a profane taste in
your theological style.  What says
Augustine on this subject:  "'SEVERUS
SIT CLERICORUM VERBO.'"

"Yes, let the sermon be clear," said the
curate.

"Now," hastily interrupted the Jesuit,
on seeing that his acolyte was going
astray, "now your thesis would please
the ladies; it would have the success of
one of Monsieur Patru's pleadings."

"Please God!" cried Aramis, transported.

"There it is," cried the Jesuit; "the
world still speaks within you in a loud
voice, ALTISIMMA VOCE.  You follow the
world, my young friend, and I tremble
lest grace prove not efficacious."

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

"Mundane presumption!"

"I know myself, Father; my resolution is
irrevocable."

"Then you persist in continuing that
thesis?"

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

"Work slowly," said the curate; "we
leave you in an excellent tone of mind."

"Yes, the ground is all sown," said the
Jesuit, "and we have not to fear that
one portion of the seed may have fallen
upon stone, another upon the highway, or
that the birds of heaven have eaten the
rest, AVES COELI COMEDERUNT ILLAM."

"Plague stifle you and your Latin!" said
D'Artagnan, who began to feel all his
patience exhausted.

"Farewell, my son," said the curate,
"till tomorrow."

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

D'Artagnan, who for an hour past had
been gnawing his nails with impatience,
was beginning to attack the quick.

The two men in black rose, bowed to
Aramis and D'Artagnan, and advanced
toward the door.  Bazin, who had been
standing listening to all this
controversy with a pious jubilation,
sprang toward them, took the breviary of
the curate and the missal of the Jesuit,
and walked respectfully before them to
clear their way.

Aramis conducted them to the foot of the
stairs, and then immediately came up
again to D'Artagnan, whose senses were
still in a state of confusion.

When left alone, the two friends at
first kept an embarrassed silence.  It
however became necessary for one of them
to break it first, and as D'Artagnan
appeared determined to leave that honor
to his companion, Aramis said, "you see
that I am returned to my fundamental
ideas."

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

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

"Yes; but I confess I always thought you
jested."

"With such things!  Oh, D'Artagnan!"

"The devil!  Why, people jest with
death."

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

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

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

"What do you mean by tetragones?" asked
D'Artagnan, uneasily.

"I mean spinach," replied Aramis; "but
on your account I will add some eggs,
and that is a serious infraction of the
rule-for eggs are meat, since they
engender chickens."

"This feast is not very succulent; but
never mind, I will put up with it for
the sake of remaining with you."

"I am grateful to you for the
sacrifice," said Aramis; "but if your
body be not greatly benefited by it, be
assured your soul will."

"And so, Aramis, you are decidedly going
into the Church?  What will our two
friends say?  What will Monsieur de
Treville say? They will treat you as a
deserter, I warn you."

"I do not enter the Church; I re-enter
it.  I deserted the Church for the
world, for you know that I forced myself
when I became a Musketeer."

"I?  I know nothing about it."

"You don't know I quit the seminary?"

"Not at all."

"This is my story, then.  Besides, the
Scriptures say, 'Confess yourselves to
one another,' and I confess to you,
D'Artagnan."

"And I give you absolution beforehand. 
You see I am a good sort of a man."

"Do not jest about holy things, my
friend."

"Go on, then, I listen."

"I had been at the seminary from nine
years old; in three days I should have
been twenty.  I was about to become an
abbe, and all was arranged.  One evening
I went, according to custom, to a house
which I frequented with much pleasure: 
when one is young, what can be
expected?--one is weak.  An officer who
saw me, with a jealous eye, reading the
LIVES OF THE SAINTS to the mistress of
the house, entered suddenly and without
being announced.  That evening I had
translated an episode of Judith, and had
just communicated my verses to the lady,
who gave me all sorts of compliments,
and leaning on my shoulder, was reading
them a second time with me.  Her pose,
which I must admit was rather free,
wounded this officer.  He said nothing;
but when I went out he followed, and
quickly came up with me.  'Monsieur the
Abbe,' said he, 'do you like blows with
a cane?' 'I cannot say, monsieur,'
answered I; 'no one has ever dared to
give me any.' 'Well, listen to me, then,
Monsieur the Abbe!  If you venture again
into the house in which I have met you
this evening, I will dare it myself.'  I
really think I must have been
frightened.  I became very pale; I felt
my legs fail me; I sought for a reply,
but could find none-I was silent.  The
officer waited for his reply, and seeing
it so long coming, he burst into a
laugh, turned upon his heel, and
re-entered the house.  I returned to the
seminary.

"I am a gentleman born, and my blood is
warm, as you may have remarked, my dear
D'Artagnan.  The insult was terrible,
and although unknown to the rest of the
world, I felt it live and fester at the
bottom of my heart.  I informed my
superiors that I did not feel myself
sufficiently prepared for ordination,
and at my request the ceremony was
postponed for a year.  I sought out the
best fencing master in Paris, I made an
agreement with him to take a lesson
every day, and every day for a year I
took that lesson.  Then, on the
anniversary of the day on which I had
been insulted, I hung my cassock on a
peg, assumed the costume of a cavalier,
and went to a ball given by a lady
friend of mine and to which I knew my
man was invited.  It was in the Rue des
France-Bourgeois, close to La Force.  As
I expected, my officer was there.  I
went up to him as he was singing a love
ditty and looking tenderly at a lady,
and interrupted him exactly in the
middle of the second couplet. 
'Monsieur,' said I, 'does it still
displease you that I should frequent a
certain house of La Rue Payenne?  And
would you still cane me if I took it
into my head to disobey you?  The
officer looked at me with astonishment,
and then said, 'What is your business
with me, monsieur?  I do not know you.' 
'I am,' said I, 'the little abbe who
reads LIVES OF THE SAINTS, and
translates Judith into verse.'  'Ah, ah!
I recollect now,' said the officer, in a
jeering tone; 'well, what do you want
with me?'  'I want you to spare time to
take a walk with me.'  'Tomorrow
morning, if you like, with the greatest
pleasure.'  'No, not tomorrow morning,
if you please, but immediately.'  'If
you absolutely insist.'  'I do insist
upon it.'  'Come, then.  Ladies,' said
the officer, 'do not disturb yourselves;
allow me time just to kill this
gentleman, and I will return and finish
the last couplet.'

"We went out.  I took him to the Rue
Payenne, to exactly the same spot where,
a year before, at the very same hour, he
had paid me the compliment I have
related to you.  It was a superb
moonlight night.  We immediately drew,
and at the first pass I laid him stark
dead."

"The devil!" cried D'Artagnan.

"Now," continued Aramis, "as the ladies
did not see the singer come back, and as
he was found in the Rue Payenne with a
great sword wound through his body, it
was supposed that I had accommodated him
thus; and the matter created some
scandal which obliged me to renounce the
cassock for a time.  Athos, whose
acquaintance I made about that period,
and Porthos, who had in addition to my
lessons taught me some effective tricks
of fence, prevailed upon me to solicit
the uniform of a Musketeer.  The king
entertained great regard for my father,
who had fallen at the siege of Arras,
and the uniform was granted.  You may
understand that the moment has come for
me to re-enter the bosom of the Church."

"And why today, rather than yesterday or
tomorrow?  What has happened to you
today, to raise all these melancholy
ideas?"

"This wound, my dear D'Artagnan, has
been a warning to me from heaven."

"This wound?  Bah, it is now nearly
healed, and I am sure it is not that
which gives you the most pain."

"What, then?" said Aramis, blushing."

"You have one at heart, Aramis, one
deeper and more painful-a wound made by
a woman."

The eye of Aramis kindled in spite of
himself.

"Ah," said he, dissembling his emotion
under a feigned carelessness, "do not
talk of such things, and suffer love
pains? VANITAS VANITATUM!  According to
your idea, then, my brain is turned. 
And for whom-for some GRISETTE, some
chambermaid with whom I have trifled in
some garrison?  Fie!"

"Pardon, my dear Aramis, but I thought
you carried your eyes higher."

"Higher?  And who am I, to nourish such
ambition?  A poor Musketeer, a beggar,
an unknown-who hates slavery, and finds
himself ill-placed in the world."

"Aramis, Aramis!" cried D'Artagnan,
looking at his friend with an air of
doubt.

"Dust I am, and to dust I return.  Life
is full of humiliations and sorrows,"
continued he, becoming still more
melancholy; "all the ties which attach
him to life break in the hand of man,
particularly the golden ties.  Oh, my
dear D'Artagnan," resumed Aramis, giving
to his voice a slight tone of
bitterness, "trust me!  Conceal your
wounds when you have any; silence is the
last joy of the unhappy.  Beware of
giving anyone the clue to your griefs;
the curious suck our tears as flies suck
the blood of a wounded hart."

"Alas, my dear Aramis," said D'Artagnan,
in his turn heaving a profound sigh,
"that is my story you are relating!"

"How?"

"Yes; a woman whom I love, whom I adore,
has just been torn from me by force.  I
do not know where she is or whither they
have conducted her.  She is perhaps a
prisoner; she is perhaps dead!"

"Yes, but you have at least this
consolation, that you can say to
yourself she has not quit you
voluntarily, that if you learn no news
of her, it is because all communication
with you in interdicted; while I-"

"Well?"

"Nothing," replied Aramis, "nothing."

"So you renounce the world, then,
forever; that is a settled thing-a
resolution registered!"

"Forever!  You are my friend today;
tomorrow you will be no more to me than
a shadow, or rather, even, you will no
longer exist. As for the world, it is a
sepulcher and nothing else."

"The devil!  All this is very sad which
you tell me."

"What will you?  My vocation commands
me; it carries me away."

D'Artagnan smiled, but made no answer.

Aramis continued, "And yet, while I do
belong to the earth, I wish to speak of
you-of our friends."

"And on my part," said D'Artagnan, "I
wished to speak of you, but I find you
so completely detached from everything! 
To love you cry, 'Fie!  Friends are
shadows!  The world is a sepulcher!'"

"Alas, you will find it so yourself,"
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 Ameins.

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 chim 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 feature.  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 of 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
disable one of my men, and stunned me
with a blow of the flat side of it."

"You villian, 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 out 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 poinard,
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, cooly. 
"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 cooly;
"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 a, 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 a 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 whim 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 he 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 dying of my
wounds at first, and of hunger
afterward, in a beggarly inn at
Chantilly, without you ever deigning
once to reply to the burning letters I
addressed to you."

"But, Monsieur Porthos," murmured the
procurator's wife, who began to feel
that, to judge by the conduct of the
great ladies of the time, she was wrong.

"I, who had sacrificed for you the
Baronne de--"

"I know it well."

"The Comtesse de--"

"Monsieur Porthos, be generous!"

"You are right, madame, and I will not
finish."

"But it was my husband who would not
hear of lending."

"Madame Coquenard," said Porthos,
"remember the first letter you wrote me,
and which I preserve engraved in my
memory."

The procurator's wife uttered a groan.

"Besides," said she, "the sum you
required me to borrow was rather large."

"Madame Coquenard, I gave you the
preference.  I had but to write to the
Duchesse--but I won't repeat her name,
for I am incapable of compromising a
woman; but this I know, that I had but
to write to her and she would have sent
me fifteen hundred."

The procurator's wife shed a tear.

"Monsieur Porthos," said she, "I can
assure you that you have severely
punished me; and if in the time to come
you should find yourself in a similar
situation, you have but to apply to me."

"Fie, madame, fie!" said Porthos, as if
disgusted.  "Let us not talk about
money, if you please; it is
humiliating."

"Then you no longer love me!" said the
procurator's wife, slowly and sadly.

Porthos maintained a majestic silence.

"And that is the only reply you make? 
Alas, I understand."

"Think of the offense you have committed
toward me, madame!  It remains HERE!"
said Porthos, placing his hand on his
heart, and pressing it strongly.

"I will repair it, indeed I will, my
dear Porthos."

"Besides, what did I ask of you?"
resumed Porthos, with a movement of the
shoulders full of good fellowship.  "A
loan, nothing more!  After all, I am not
an unreasonable man.  I know you are not
rich, Madame Coquenard, and that your
husband is obliged to bleed his poor
clients to squeeze a few paltry crowns
from them.  Oh!  If you were a duchess,
a marchioness, or a countess, it would
be quite a different thing; it would be
unpardonable."

The procurator's wife was piqued.

"Please to know, Monsieur Porthos," said
she, "that my strongbox, the strongbox
of a procurator's wife though if may be,
is better filled than those of your
affected minxes."

"The doubles the offense," said Porthos,
disengaging his arm from that of the
procurator's wife; "for if you are rich,
Madame Coquenard, then there is no
excuse for your refusal."

"When I said rich," replied the
procurator's wife, who saw that she had
gone too far, "you must not take the
word literally.  I am not precisely
rich, though I am pretty well off."

"Hold, madame," said Porthos, "let us
say no more upon the subject, I beg of
you.  You have misunderstood me, all
sympathy is extinct between us."

"Ingrate that you are!"

"Ah!  I advise you to complain!" said
Porthos.

"Begone, then, to your beautiful
duchess; I will detain you no longer."

"And she is not to be despised, in my
opinion."

"Now, Monsieur Porthos, once more, and
this is the last!  Do you love me
still?"

"Ah, madame," said Porthos, in the most
melancholy tone he could assume, "when
we are about to enter upon a campaign--a
campaign, in which my presentiments tell
me I shall be killed--"

"Oh, don't talk of such things!" cried
the procurator's wife, bursting into
tears.

"Something whispers me so," continued
Porthos, becoming more and more
melancholy.

"Rather say that you have a new love."

"Not so; I speak frankly to you.  No
object affects me; and I even feel here,
at the bottom of my heart, something
which speaks for you.  But in fifteen
days, as you know, or as you do not
know, this fatal campaign is to open.  I
shall be fearfully preoccupied with my
outfit.  Then I must make a journey to
see my family, in the lower part of
Brittany, to obtain the sum necessary
for my departure."

Porthos observed a last struggle between
love and avarice.

"And as," continued he, "the duchess
whom you saw at the church has estates
near to those of my family, we mean to
make the journey together.  Journeys,
you know, appear much shorter when we
travel two in company."

"Have you no friends in Paris, then,
Monsieur Porthos?" said the procurator's
wife.

"I thought I had," said Porthos,
resuming his melancholy air; "but I have
been taught my mistake."

"You have some!" cried the procurator's
wife, in a transport that surprised even
herself.  "Come to our house tomorrow. 
You are the son of my aunt, consequently
my cousin; you come from Noyon, in
Picardy; you have several lawsuits and
no attorney.  Can you recollect all
that?"

"Perfectly, madame."

"Cone at dinnertime."

"Very well."

"And be upon your guard before my
husband, who is rather shrewd,
notwithstanding his seventy-six years."

"Seventy-six years!  PESTE!  That's a
fine age!" replied Porthos.

"A great age, you mean, Monsieur
Porthos.  Yes, the poor man may be
expected to leave me a widow, any hour,"
continued she, throwing a significant
glance at Porthos.  "Fortunately, by our
marriage contract, the survivor takes
everything."

"All?"

"Yes, all."

"You are a woman of precaution, I see,
my dear Madame Coquenard," said Porthos,
squeezing the hand of the procurator's
wife tenderly.

"We are then reconciled, dear Monsieur
Porthos?" said she, simpering.

"For life," replied Porthos, in the same
manner.

"Till we meet again, then, dear
traitor!"

"Till we meet again, my forgetful
charmer!"

"Tomorrow, my angel!"

"Tomorrow, flame of my life!"




30 D'ARTAGNAN AND THE ENGLISHMAN

D'Artagnan followed Milady without being
perceived by her. He saw her get into
her carriage, and heard her order the
coachman to drive to St. Germain.

It was useless to try to keep pace on
foot with a carriage drawn by two
powerful horses. D'Artagnan therefore
returned to the Rue Ferou.

In the Rue de Seine he met Planchet, who
had stopped before the house of a pastry
cook, and was contemplating with ecstasy
a cake of the most appetizing
appearance.

He ordered him to go and saddle two
horses in M. de Treville's stables--one
for himself, D'Artagnan, and one for
Planchet--and bring them to Athens's
place.  Once for all, Treville had
placed his stable at D'Artagnan's
service.

Planchet proceeded toward the Rue du
Colombier, and D'Artagnan toward the Rue
Ferou.  Athos was at home, emptying
sadly a bottle of the famous Spanish
wine he had brought back with him from
his journey into Picardy.  He made a
sign for Grimaud to bring a glass for
D'Artagnan, and Grimaud obeyed as usual.

D'Artagnan related to Athos all that had
passed at the church between Porthos and
the procurator's wife, and how their
comrade was probably by that time in a
fair way to be equipped.

"As for me," replied Athos to this
recital, "I am quite at my ease; it will
not be women that will defray the
expense of my outfit."

"Handsome, well-bred, noble lord as you
are, my dear Athos, neither princesses
nor queens would be secure from your
amorous solicitations."

"How young this D'Artagnan is!" said
Athos, shrugging his shoulders; and he
made a sign to Grimaud to bring another
bottle.

At that moment Planchet put his head
modestly in at the half-open door, and
told his master that the horses were
ready.

"What horses?" asked Athos.

"Two horses that Monsieur de Treville
lends me at my pleasure, and with which
I am now going to take a ride to St.
Germain."

"Well, and what are you going to do at
St. Germain?" then demanded Athos.

Then D'Artagnan described the meeting
which he had at the church, and how he
had found that lady who, with the
seigneur in the black cloak and with the
scar near his temple, filled his mind
constantly.

"That is to say, you are in love with
this lady as you were with Madame
Bonacieux," said Athos, shrugging his
shoulders contemptuously, as if he
pitied human weakness.

"I? not at all!" said D'Artagnan.  "I am
only curious to unravel the mystery to
which she is attached.  I do not know
why, but I imagine that this woman,
wholly unknown to me as she is, and
wholly unknown to her as I am, has an
influence over my life."

"Well, perhaps you are right," said
Athos.  "I do not know a woman that is
worth the trouble of being sought for
when she is once lost.  Madame Bonacieux
is lost; so much the worse for her if
she is found."

"No, Athos, no, you are mistaken," said
D'Artagnan; "I love my poor Constance
more than ever, and if I knew the place
in which she is, were it at the end of
the world, I would go to free her from
the hands of her enemies; but I am
ignorant. All my researches have been
useless.  What is to be said?  I must
divert my attention!"

"Amuse yourself with Milady, my dear
D'Artagnan; I wish you may with all my
heart, if that will amuse you."

"Hear me, Athos," said D'Artagnan. 
"Instead of shutting yourself up here as
if you were under arrest, get on
horseback and come and take a ride with
me to St. Germain."

"My dear fellow," said Athos, "I ride
horses when I have any; when I have
none, I go afoot."

"Well," said D'Artagnan, smiling at the
misanthropy of Athos, which from any
other person would have offended him, "I
ride what I can get; I am not so proud
as you.  So AU REVOIR, dear Athos."

"AU REVOIR," said the Musketeer, making
a sign to Grimaud to uncork the bottle
he had just brought.

D'Artagnan and Planchet mounted, and
took the road to St. Germain.

All along the road, what Athos had said
respecting Mme. Bonacieux recurred to
the mind of the young man.  Although
D'Artagnan was not of a very sentimental
character, the mercer's pretty wife had
made a real impression upon his heart. 
As he said, he was ready to go to the
end of the world to seek her; but the
world, being round, has many ends, so
that he did not know which way to turn.
Meantime, he was going to try to find
out Milady.  Milady had spoken to the
man in the black cloak; therefore she
knew him. Now, in the opinion of
D'Artagnan, it was certainly the man in
the black cloak who had carried off Mme.
Bonacieux the second time, as he had
carried her off the first. D'Artagnan
then only half-lied, which is lying but
little, when he said that by going in
search of Milady he at the same time
went in search of Constance.

Thinking of all this, and from time to
time giving a touch of the spur to his
horse, D'Artagnan completed his short
journey, and arrived at St. Germain.  He
had just passed by the pavilion in which
ten years later Louis XIV was born. He
rode up a very quiet street, looking to
the right and the left to see if he
could catch any vestige of his beautiful
Englishwoman, when from the ground floor
of a pretty house, which, according to
the fashion of the time, had no window
toward the street, he saw a face peep
out with which he thought he was
acquainted.  This person walked along
the terrace, which was ornamented with
flowers.  Planchet recognized him first.

"Eh, monsieur!" said he, addressing
D'Artagnan, "don't you remember that
face which is blinking yonder?"

"No," said D'Artagnan, "and yet I am
certain it is not the first time I have
seen that visage."

"PARBLEU, I believe it is not," said
Planchet.  "Why, it is poor Lubin, the
lackey of the Comte de Wardes--he whom
you took such good care of a month ago
at Calais, on the road to the governor's
country house!"

"So it is!" said D'Artagnan; "I know him
now.  Do you think he would recollect
you?"

"My faith, monsieur, he was in such
trouble that I doubt if he can have
retained a very clear recollection of
me."

"Well, go and talk with the boy," said
D'Artagnan, "and make out if you can
from his conversation whether his master
is dead."

Planchet dismounted and went straight up
to Lubin, who did not at all remember
him, and the two lackeys began to chat
with the best understanding possible;
while D'Artagnan turned the two horses
into a lane, went round the house, and
came back to watch the conference from
behind a hedge of filberts.

At the end of an instant's observation
he heard the noise of a vehicle, and saw
Milady's carriage stop opposite to him.
He could not be mistaken; Milady was in
it.  D'Artagnan leaned upon the neck of
his horse, in order that he might see
without being seen.

Milady put her charming blond head out
at the window, and gave her orders to
her maid.

The latter--a pretty girl of about
twenty or twenty-two years, active and
lively, the true SOUBRETTE of a great
lady--jumped from the step upon which,
according to the custom of the time, she
was seated, and took her way toward the
terrace upon which D'Artagnan had
perceived Lubin.

D'Artagnan followed the soubrette with
his eyes, and saw her go toward the
terrace; but it happened that someone in
the house called Lubin, so that Planchet
remained alone, looking in all
directions for the road where D'Artagnan
had disappeared.

The maid approached Planchet, whom she
took for Lubin, and holding out a little
billet to him said, "For your master."

"For my master?" replied Planchet,
astonished.

"Yes, and important.  Take it quickly."

Thereupon she ran toward the carriage,
which had turned round toward the way it
came, jumped upon the step, and the
carriage drove off.

Planchet turned and returned the billet.
Then, accustomed to passive obedience,
he jumped down from the terrace, ran
toward the lane, and at the end of
twenty paces met D'Artagnan, who, having
seen all, was coming to him.

"For you, monsieur," said Planchet,
presenting the billet to the young man.

"For me?" said D'Artagnan; "are you sure
of that?"

"PARDIEU, monsieur, I can't be more
sure.  The SOUBRETTE said, 'For your
master.' I have no other master but you;
so-a pretty little lass, my faith, is
that SOUBRETTE!"

D'Artagnan opened the letter, and read
these words:


"A person who takes more interest in you
than she is willing to confess wishes to
know on what day it will suit you to
walk in the forest?  Tomorrow, at the
Hotel Field of the Cloth of Gold, a
lackey in black and red will wait for
your reply."


"Oh!" said D'Artagnan, "this is rather
warm; it appears that Milady and I are
anxious about the health of the same
person. Well, Planchet, how is the good
Monsieur de Wardes? He is not dead,
then?"

"No, monsieur, he is as well as a man
can be with four sword wounds in his
body; for you, without question,
inflicted four upon the dear gentleman,
and he is still very weak, having lost
almost all his blood.  As I said,
monsieur, Lubin did not know me, and
told me our adventure from one end to
the other."

"Well done, Planchet! you are the king
of lackeys.  Now jump onto your horse,
and let us overtake the carriage."

This did not take long.  At the end of
five minutes they perceived the carriage
drawn up by the roadside; a cavalier,
richly dressed, was close to the door.

The conversation between Milady and the
cavalier was so animated that D'Artagnan
stopped on the other side of the
carriage without anyone but the pretty
SOUBRETTE perceiving his presence.

The conversation took place in
English--a language which D'Artagnan
could not understand; but by the accent
the young man plainly saw that the
beautiful Englishwoman was in a great
rage.  She terminated it by an action
which left no doubt as to the nature of
this conversation; this was a blow with
her fan, applied with such force that
the little feminine weapon flew into a
thousand pieces.

The cavalier laughed aloud, which
appeared to exasperate Milady still
more.

D'Artagnan thought this was the moment
to interfere.  He approached the other
door, and taking off his hat
respectfully, said, "Madame, will you
permit me to offer you my services?  It
appears to me that this cavalier has
made you very angry.  Speak one word,
madame, and I take upon myself to punish
him for his want of courtesy."

At the first word Milady turned, looking
at the young man with astonishment; and
when he had finished, she said in very
good French, "Monsieur, I should with
great confidence place myself under your
protection if the person with whom I
quarrel were not my brother."

"Ah, excuse me, then," said D'Artagnan. 
"You must be aware that I was ignorant
of that, madame."

"What is that stupid fellow troubling
himself about?" cried the cavalier whom
Milady had designated as her brother,
stooping down to the height of the coach
window.  "Why does not he go about his
business?"

"Stupid fellow yourself!" said
D'Artagnan, stooping in his turn on the
neck of his horse, and answering on his
side through the carriage window.  "I do
not go on because it pleases me to stop
here."

The cavalier addressed some words in
English to his sister.

"I speak to you in French," said
D'Artagnan; "be kind enough, then, to
reply to me in the same language.  You
are Madame's brother, I learn--be it so;
but fortunately you are not mine."

It might be thought that Milady, timid
as women are in general, would have
interposed in this commencement of
mutual provocations in order to prevent
the quarrel from going too far; but on
the contrary, she threw herself back in
her carriage, and called out coolly to
the coachman, "Go on--home!"

The pretty SOUBRETTE cast an anxious
glance at D'Artagnan, whose good looks
seemed to have made an impression on
her.

The carriage went on, and left the two
men facing each other; no material
obstacle separated them.

The cavalier made a movement as if to
follow the carriage; but D'Artagnan,
whose anger, already excited, was much
increased by recognizing in him the
Englishman of Amiens who had won his
horse and had been very near winning his
diamond of Athos, caught at his bridle
and stopped him.

"Well, monsieur," said he, "you appear
to be more stupid than I am, for you
forget there is a little quarrel to
arrange between us two."

"Ah," said the Englishman, "is it you,
my master?  It seems you must always be
playing some game or other."

"Yes; and that reminds me that I have a
revenge to take.  We will see, my dear
monsieur, if you can handle a sword as
skillfully as you can a dice box."

"You see plainly that I have no sword,"
said the Englishman. "Do you wish to
play the braggart with an unarmed man?"

"I hope you have a sword at home; but at
all events, I have two, and if you like,
I will throw with you for one of them."

"Needless," said the Englishman; "I am
well furnished with such playthings."

"Very well, my worthy gentleman,"
replied D'Artagnan, "pick out the
longest, and come and show it to me this
evening."

"Where, if you please?"

"Behind the Luxembourg; that's a
charming spot for such amusements as the
one I propose to you."

"That will do; I will be there."

"Your hour?"

"Six o'clock."

"A PROPOS, you have probably one or two
friends?"

"I have three, who would be honored by
joining in the sport with me."

"Three?  Marvelous!  That falls out
oddly! Three is just my number!"

"Now, then, who are you?" asked the
Englishman.

"I am Monsieur D'Artagnan, a Gascon
gentleman, serving in the king's
Musketeers.  And you?"

"I am Lord de Winter, Baron Sheffield."

"Well, then, I am your servant, Monsieur
Baron," said D'Artagnan, "though you
have names rather difficult to
recollect."  And touching his horse with
the spur, he cantered back to Paris.  As
he was accustomed to do in all cases of
any consequence, D'Artagnan went
straight to the residence of Athos.

He found Athos reclining upon a large
sofa, where he was waiting, as he said,
for his outfit to come and find him. He
related to Athos all that had passed,
except the letter to M. de Wardes.

Athos was delighted to find he was going
to fight an Englishman. We might say
that was his dream.

They immediately sent their lackeys for
Porthos and Aramis, and on their arrival
made them acquainted with the situation.

Porthos drew his sword from the
scabbard, and made passes at the wall,
springing back from time to time, and
making contortions like a dancer.

Aramis, who was constantly at work at
his poem, shut himself up in Athos's
closet, and begged not to be disturbed
before the moment of drawing swords.

Athos, by signs, desired Grimaud to
bring another bottle of wine.

D'Artagnan employed himself in arranging
a little plan, of which we shall
hereafter see the execution, and which
promised him some agreeable adventure,
as might be seen by the smiles which
from time to time passed over his
countenance, whose thoughtfulness they
animated.




31 ENGLISH AND FRENCH

The hour having come, they went with
their four lackeys to a spot behind the
Luxembourg given up to the feeding of
goats. Athos threw a piece of money to
the goatkeeper to withdraw. The lackeys
were ordered to act as sentinels.

A silent party soon drew near to the
same enclosure, entered, and joined the
Musketeers.  Then, according to foreign
custom, the presentations took place.

The Englishmen were all men of rank;
consequently the odd names of their
adversaries were for them not only a
matter of surprise, but of annoyance.

"But after all," said Lord de Winter,
when the three friends had been named,
"we do not know who you are.  We cannot
fight with such names; they are names of
shepherds."

"Therefore your lordship may suppose
they are only assumed names," said
Athos.

"Which only gives us a greater desire to
know the real ones," replied the
Englishman.

"You played very willingly with us
without knowing our names," said Athos,
"by the same token that you won our
horses."

"That is true, but we then only risked
our pistoles; this time we risk our
blood.  One plays with anybody; but one
fights only with equals."

"And that is but just," said Athos, and
he took aside the one of the four
Englishmen with whom he was to fight,
and communicated his name in a low
voice.

Porthos and Aramis did the same.

"Does that satisfy you?" said Athos to
his adversary.  "Do you find me of
sufficient rank to do me the honor of
crossing swords with me?"

"Yes, monsieur," said the Englishman,
bowing.

"Well! now tell I tell you something?"
added Athos, coolly.

"What?" replied the Englishman.

"Why, that is that you would have acted
much more wisely if you had not required
me to make myself known."

"Why so?"

"Because I am believed to be dead, and
have reasons for wishing nobody to know
I am living; so that I shall be obliged
to kill you to prevent my secret from
roaming over the fields."

The Englishman looked at Athos,
believing that he jested, but Athos did
not jest the least in the world.

"Gentlemen," said Athos, addressing at
the same time his companions and their
adversaries, "are we ready?"

"Yes!" answered the Englishmen and the
Frenchmen, as with one voice.

"On guard, then!" cried Athos.

Immediately eight swords glittered in
the rays of the setting sun, and the
combat began with an animosity very
natural between men twice enemies.

Athos fenced with as much calmness and
method as if he had been practicing in a
fencing school.

Porthos, abated, no doubt, of his
too-great confidence by his adventure of
Chantilly, played with skill and
prudence. Aramis, who had the third
canto of his poem to finish, behaved
like a man in haste.

Athos killed his adversary first.  He
hit him but once, but as he had
foretold, that hit was a mortal one; the
sword pierced his heart.

Second, Porthos stretched his upon the
grass with a wound through his thigh, As
the Englishman, without making any
further resistance, then surrendered his
sword, Porthos took him up in his arms
and bore him to his carriage.

Aramis pushed his so vigorously that
after going back fifty paces, the man
ended by fairly taking to his heels, and
disappeared amid the hooting of the
lackeys.

As to D'Artagnan, he fought purely and
simply on the defensive; and when he saw
his adversary pretty well fatigued, with
a vigorous side thrust sent his sword
flying. The baron, finding himself
disarmed, took two or three steps back,
but in this movement his foot slipped
and he fell backward.

D'Artagnan was over him at a bound, and
said to the Englishman, pointing his
sword to his throat, "I could kill you,
my Lord, you are completely in my hands;
but I spare your life for the sake of
your sister."

D'Artagnan was at the height of joy; he
had realized the plan he had imagined
beforehand, whose picturing had produced
the smiles we noted upon his face.

The Englishman, delighted at having to
do with a gentleman of such a kind
disposition, pressed D'Artagnan in his
arms, and paid a thousand compliments to
the three Musketeers, and as Porthos's
adversary was already installed in the
carriage, and as Aramis's had taken to
his heels, they had nothing to think
about but the dead.

As Porthos and Aramis were undressing
him, in the hope of finding his wound
not mortal, a large purse dropped from
his clothes. D'Artagnan picked it up and
offered it to Lord de Winter.

"What the devil would you have me do
with that?" said the Englishman.

"You can restore it to his family," said
D'Artagnan.

"His family will care much about such a
trifle as that!  His family will inherit
fifteen thousand louis a year from him.
Keep the purse for your lackeys."

D'Artagnan put the purse into his
pocket.

"And now, my young friend, for you will
permit me, I hope, to give you that
name," said Lord de Winter, "on this
very evening, if agreeable to you, I
will present you to my sister, Milady
Clarik, for I am desirous that she
should take you into her good graces;
and as she is not in bad odor at court,
she may perhaps on some future day speak
a word that will not prove useless to
you.

D'Artagnan blushed with pleasure, and
bowed a sign of assent.

At this time Athos came up to
D'Artagnan.

"What do you mean to do with that
purse?" whispered he.

"Why, I meant to pass it over to you, my
dear Athos."

"Me! why to me?"

"Why, you killed him!  They are the
spoils of victory."

"I, the heir of an enemy!" said Athos;
"for whom, then, do you take me?"

"It is the custom in war," said
D'Artagnan, "why should it not be the
custom in a duel?"

"Even on the field of battle, I have
never done that."

Porthos shrugged his shoulders; Aramis
by a movement of his lips endorsed
Athos.

"Then," said D'Artagnan, "let us give
the money to the lackeys, as Lord de
Winter desired us to do."

"Yes," said Athos; "let us give the
money to the lackeys--not to our
lackeys, but to the lackeys of the
Englishmen."

Athos took the purse, and threw it into
the hand of the coachman.  "For you and
your comrades."

This greatness of spirit in a man who
was quite destitute struck even Porthos;
and this French generosity, repeated by
Lord de Winter and his friend, was
highly applauded, except by MM. Grimaud,
Bazin, Mousqueton and Planchet.

Lord de Winter, on quitting D'Artagnan,
gave him his sister's address.  She
lived in the Place Royale--then the
fashionable quarter--at Number 6, and he
undertook to call and take D'Artagnan
with him in order to introduce him.
D'Artagnan appointed eight o'clock at
Athos's residence.

This introduction to Milady Clarik
occupied the head of our Gascon greatly.
He remembered in what a strange manner
this woman had hitherto been mixed up in
his destiny.  According to his
conviction, she was some creature of the
cardinal, and yet he felt himself
invincibly drawn toward her by one of
those sentiments for which we cannot
account.  His only fear was that Milady
would recognize in him the man of Meung
and of Dover.  Then she knew that he was
one of the friends of M. de Treville,
and consequently, that he belonged body
and soul to the king; which would make
him lose a part of his advantage, since
when known to Milady as he knew her, he
played only an equal game with her.  As
to the commencement of an intrigue
between her and M.  de Wardes, our
presumptuous hero gave but little heed
to that, although the marquis was young,
handsome, rich, and high in the
cardinal's favor.  It is not for nothing
we are but twenty years old, above all
if we were born at Tarbes.

D'Artagnan began by making his most
splendid toilet, then returned to
Athos's, and according to custom,
related everything to him.  Athos
listened to his projects, then shook his
head, and recommended prudence to him
with a shade of bitterness.

"What!" said he, "you have just lost one
woman, whom you call good, charming,
perfect; and here you are, running
headlong after another."

D'Artagnan felt the truth of this
reproach.

"I loved Madame Bonacieux with my heart,
while I only love Milady with my head,"
said he.  "In getting introduced to her,
my principal object is to ascertain what
part she plays at court."

"The part she plays, PARDIEU!  It is not
difficult to divine that, after all you
have told me.  She is some emissary of
the cardinal; a woman who will draw you
into a snare in which you will leave
your head."

"The devil! my dear Athos, you view
things on the dark side, methinks."

"My dear fellow, I mistrust women.  Can
it be otherwise?  I bought my experience
dearly--particularly fair women.  Milady
is fair, you say?"

"She has the most beautiful light hair
imaginable!"

"Ah, my poor D'Artagnan!" said Athos.

"Listen to me! I want to be enlightened
on a subject; then, when I shall have
learned what I desire to know, I will
withdraw."

"Be enlightened!" said Athos,
phlegmatically.

Lord de Winter arrived at the appointed
time; but Athos, being warned of his
coming, went into the other chamber.  He
therefore found D'Artagnan alone, and as
it was nearly eight o'clock he took the
young man with him.

An elegant carriage waited below, and as
it was drawn by two excellent horses,
they were soon at the Place Royale.

Milady Clarik received D'Artagnan
ceremoniously.  Her hotel was remarkably
sumptuous, and while the most part of
the English had quit, or were about to
quit, France on account of the war,
Milady had just been laying out much
money upon her residence; which proved
that the general measure which drove the
English from France did not affect her.

"You see," said Lord de Winter,
presenting D'Artagnan to his sister, "a
young gentleman who has held my life in
his hands, and who has not abused his
advantage, although we have been twice
enemies, although it was I who insulted
him, and although I am an Englishman. 
Thank him, then, madame, if you have any
affection for me."

Milady frowned slightly; a scarcely
visible cloud passed over her brow, and
so peculiar a smile appeared upon her
lips that the young man, who saw and
observed this triple shade, almost
shuddered at it.

The brother did not perceive this; he
had turned round to play with Milady's
favorite monkey, which had pulled him by
the doublet.

"You are welcome, monsieur," said
Milady, in a voice whose singular
sweetness contrasted with the symptoms
of ill-humor which D'Artagnan had just
remarked; "you have today acquired
eternal rights to my gratitude."

The Englishman then turned round and
described the combat without omitting a
single detail.  Milady listened with the
greatest attention, and yet it was
easily to be perceived, whatever effort
she made to conceal her impressions,
that this recital was not agreeable to
her.  The blood rose to her head, and
her little foot worked with impatience
beneath her robe.

Lord de Winter perceived nothing of
this.  When he had finished, he went to
a table upon which was a salver with
Spanish wine and glasses.  He filled two
glasses, and by a sign invited
D'Artagnan to drink.

D'Artagnan knew it was considered
disobliging by an Englishman to refuse
to pledge him.  He therefore drew near
to the table and took the second glass. 
He did not, however, lose sight of
Milady, and in a mirror he perceived the
change that came over her face. Now that
she believed herself to be no longer
observed, a sentiment resembling
ferocity animated her countenance.  She
bit her handkerchief with her beautiful
teeth.

That pretty little SOUBRETTE whom
D'Artagnan had already observed then
came in.  She spoke some words to Lord
de Winter in English, who thereupon
requested D'Artagnan's permission to
retire, excusing himself on account of
the urgency of the business that had
called him away, and charging his sister
to obtain his pardon.

D'Artagnan exchanged a shake of the hand
with Lord de Winter, and then returned
to Milady.  Her countenance, with
surprising mobility, had recovered its
gracious expression; but some little red
spots on her handkerchief indicated that
she had bitten her lips till the blood
came.  Those lips were magnificent; they
might be said to be of coral.

The conversation took a cheerful turn. 
Milady appeared to have entirely
recovered.  She told D'Artagnan that
Lord de Winter was her brother-in-law,
and not her brother.  She had married a
younger brother of the family, who had
left her a widow with one child.  This
child was the only heir to Lord de
Winter, if Lord de Winter did not marry.
All this showed D'Artagnan that there
was a veil which concealed something;
but he could not yet see under this
veil.

In addition to this, after a half hour's
conversation D'Artagnan was convinced
that Milady was his compatriot; she
spoke French with an elegance and a
purity that left no doubt on that head.

D'Artagnan was profuse in gallant
speeches and protestations of devotion. 
To all the simple things which escaped
our Gascon, Milady replied with a smile
of kindness.  The hour came for him to
retire.  D'Artagnan took leave of
Milady, and left the saloon the happiest
of men.

On the staircase he met the pretty
SOUBRETTE, who brushed gently against
him as she passed, and then, blushing to
the eyes, asked his pardon for having
touched him in a voice so sweet that the
pardon was granted instantly.

D'Artagnan came again on the morrow, and
was still better received than on the
evening before.  Lord de Winter was not
at home; and it was Milady who this time
did all the honors of the evening.  She
appeared to take a great interest in
him, asked him whence he came, who were
his friends, and whether he had not
sometimes thought of attaching himself
to the cardinal.

D'Artagnan, who, as we have said, was
exceedingly prudent for a young man of
twenty, then remembered his suspicions
regarding Milady.  He launched into a
eulogy of his Eminence, and said that he
should not have failed to enter into the
Guards of the cardinal instead of the
king's Guards if he had happened to know
M. de Cavois instead of M. de Treville.

Milady changed the conversation without
any appearance of affectation, and asked
D'Artagnan in the most careless manner
possible if he had ever been in England.

D'Artagnan replied that he had been sent
thither by M. de Treville to treat for a
supply of horses, and that he had
brought back four as specimens.

Milady in the course of the conversation
twice or thrice bit her lips; she had to
deal with a Gascon who played close.

At the same hour as on the preceding
evening, D'Artagnan retired. In the
corridor he again met the pretty Kitty;
that was the name of the SOUBRETTE.  She
looked at him with an expression of
kindness which it was impossible to
mistake; but D'Artagnan was so
preoccupied by the mistress that he
noticed absolutely nothing but her.

D'Artagnan came again on the morrow and
the day after that, and each day Milady
gave him a more gracious reception.

Every evening, either in the
antechamber, the corridor, or on the
stairs, he met the pretty SOUBRETTE. 
But, as we have said, D'Artagnan paid no
attention to this persistence of poor
Kitty.



32 A PROCURATOR'S DINNER

However brilliant had been the part
played by Porthos in the duel, it had
not made him forget the dinner of the
procurator's wife.

On the morrow he received the last
touches of Mousqueton's brush for an
hour, and took his way toward the Rue
aux Ours with the steps of a man who was
doubly in favor with fortune.

His heart beat, but not like
D'Artagnan's with a young and impatient
love.  No; a more material interest
stirred his blood.  He was about at last
to pass that mysterious threshold, to
climb those unknown stairs by which, one
by one, the old crowns of M. Coquenard
had ascended.  He was about to see in
reality a certain coffer of which he had
twenty times beheld the image in his
dreams--a coffer long and deep, locked,
bolted, fastened in the wall; a coffer
of which he had so often heard, and
which the hands--a little wrinkled, it
is true, but still not without
elegance--of the procurator's wife were
about to open to his admiring looks.

And then he--a wanderer on the earth, a
man without fortune, a man without
family, a soldier accustomed to inns,
cabarets, taverns, and restaurants, a
lover of wine forced to depend upon
chance treats--was about to partake of
family meals, to enjoy the pleasures of
a comfortable establishment, and to give
himself up to those little attentions
which "the harder one is, the more they
please," as old soldiers say.

To come in the capacity of a cousin, and
seat himself every day at a good table;
to smooth the yellow, wrinkled brow of
the old procurator; to pluck the clerks
a little by teaching them BASSETTE,
PASSE-DIX, and LANSQUENET, in their
utmost nicety, and winning from them, by
way of fee for the lesson he would give
them in an hour, their savings of a
month--all this was enormously
delightful to Porthos.

The Musketeer could not forget the evil
reports which then prevailed, and which
indeed have survived them, of the
procurators of the period--meanness,
stinginess, fasts; but as, after all,
excepting some few acts of economy which
Porthos had always found very
unseasonable, the procurator's wife had
been tolerably liberal--that is, be it
understood, for a procurator's wife--he
hoped to see a household of a highly
comfortable kind.

And yet, at the very door the Musketeer
began to entertain some doubts.  The
approach was not such as to prepossess
people--an ill-smelling, dark passage, a
staircase half-lighted by bars through
which stole a glimmer from a neighboring
yard; on the first floor a low door
studded with enormous nails, like the
principal gate of the Grand Chatelet.

Porthos knocked with his hand.  A tall,
pale clerk, his face shaded by a forest
of virgin hair, opened the door, and
bowed with the air of a man forced at
once to respect in another lofty
stature, which indicated strength, the
military dress, which indicated rank,
and a ruddy countenance, which indicated
familiarity with good living.

A shorter clerk came behind the first, a
taller clerk behind the second, a
stripling of a dozen years rising behind
the third.  In all, three clerks and a
half, which, for the time, argued a very
extensive clientage.

Although the Musketeer was not expected
before one o'clock, the procurator's
wife had been on the watch ever since
midday, reckoning that the heart, or
perhaps the stomach, of her lover would
bring him before his time.

Mme. Coquenard therefore entered the
office from the house at the same moment
her guest entered from the stairs, and
the appearance of the worthy lady
relieved him from an awkward
embarrassment.  The clerks surveyed him
with great curiosity, and he, not
knowing well what to say to this
ascending and descending scale, remained
tongue-tied.

"It is my cousin!" cried the
procurator's wife.  "Come in, come in,
Monsieur Porthos!"

The name of Porthos produced its effect
upon the clerks, who began to laugh; but
Porthos turned sharply round, and every
countenance quickly recovered its
gravity.

They reached the office of the
procurator after having passed through
the antechamber in which the clerks
were, and the study in which they ought
to have been.  This last apartment was a
sort of dark room, littered with papers.
On quitting the study they left the
kitchen on the right, and entered the
reception room.

All these rooms, which communicated with
one another, did not inspire Porthos
favorably.  Words might be heard at a
distance through all these open doors. 
Then, while passing, he had cast a
rapid, investigating glance into the
kitchen; and he was obliged to confess
to himself, to the shame of the
procurator's wife and his own regret,
that he did not see that fire, that
animation, that bustle, which when a
good repast is on foot prevails
generally in that sanctuary of good
living.

The procurator had without doubt been
warned of his visit, as he expressed no
surprise at the sight of Porthos, who
advanced toward him with a sufficiently
easy air, and saluted him courteously.

"We are cousins, it appears, Monsieur
Porthos?" said the procurator, rising,
yet supporting his weight upon the arms
of his cane chair.

The old man, wrapped in a large black
doublet, in which the whole of his
slender body was concealed, was brisk
and dry. His little gray eyes shone like
carbuncles, and appeared, with his
grinning mouth, to be the only part of
his face in which life survived. 
Unfortunately the legs began to refuse
their service to this bony machine. 
During the last five or six months that
this weakness had been felt, the worthy
procurator had nearly become the slave
of his wife.

The cousin was received with
resignation, that was all.  M.
Coquenard, firm upon his legs, would
have declined all relationship with M.
Porthos.

"Yes, monsieur, we are cousins," said
Porthos, without being disconcerted, as
he had never reckoned upon being
received enthusiastically by the
husband.

"By the female side, I believe?" said
the procurator, maliciously.

Porthos did not feel the ridicule of
this, and took it for a piece of
simplicity, at which he laughed in his
large mustache.  Mme. Coquenard, who
knew that a simple-minded procurator was
a very rare variety in the species,
smiled a little, and colored a great
deal.

M. Coquenard had, since the arrival of
Porthos, frequently cast his eyes with
great uneasiness upon a large chest
placed in front of his oak desk. 
Porthos comprehended that this chest,
although it did not correspond in shape
with that which he had seen in his
dreams, must be the blessed coffer, and
he congratulated himself that the
reality was several feet higher than the
dream.

M. Coquenard did not carry his
genealogical investigations any further;
but withdrawing his anxious look from
the chest and fixing it upon Porthos, he
contented himself with saying, "Monsieur
our cousin will do us the favor of
dining with us once before his departure
for the campaign, will he not, Madame
Coquenard?"

This time Porthos received the blow
right in his stomach, and felt it.  It
appeared likewise that Mme. Coquenard
was not less affected by it on her part,
for she added, "My cousin will not
return if he finds that we do not treat
him kindly; but otherwise he has so
little time to pass in Paris, and
consequently to spare to us, that we
must entreat him to give us every
instant he can call his own previous to
his departure."

"Oh, my legs, my poor legs! where are
you?" murmured Coquenard, and he tried
to smile.

This succor, which came to Porthos at
the moment in which he was attacked in
his gastronomic hopes, inspired much
gratitude in the Musketeer toward the
procurator's wife.

The hour of dinner soon arrived.  They
passed into the eating room--a large
dark room situated opposite the kitchen.

The clerks, who, as it appeared, had
smelled unusual perfumes in the house,
were of military punctuality, and held
their stools in hand quite ready to sit
down.  Their jaws moved preliminarily
with fearful threatenings.

"Indeed!" thought Porthos, casting a
glance at the three hungry clerks-for
the errand boy, as might be expected,
was not admitted to the honors of the
magisterial table.  "in my cousin's
place, I would not keep such gourmands! 
They look like shipwrecked sailors who
have not eaten for six weeks."

M. Coquenard entered, pushed along upon
his armchair with casters by Mme.
Coquenard, whom Porthos assisted in
rolling her husband up to the table.  He
had scarcely entered when he began to
agitate his nose and his jaws after the
example of his clerks.

"Oh, oh!" said he; "here is a soup which
is rather inviting."

"What the devil can they smell so
extraordinary in this soup?" said
Porthos, at the sight of a pale liquid,
abundant but entirely free from meat, on
the surface of which a few crusts swam
about as rare as the islands of an
archipelago.

Mme. Coquenard smiled, and upon a sign
from her everyone eagerly took his seat.

M. Coquenard was served first, then
Porthos.  Afterward Mme. Coquenard
filled her own plate, and distributed
the crusts without soup to the impatient
clerks.  At this moment the door of the
dining room unclosed with a creak, and
Porthos perceived through the half-open
flap the little clerk who, not being
allowed to take part in the feast, ate
his dry bread in the passage with the
double odor of the dining room and
kitchen.

After the soup the maid brought a boiled
fowl--a piece of magnificence which
caused the eyes of the diners to dilate
in such a manner that they seemed ready
to burst.

"One may see that you love your family,
Madame Coquenard," said the procurator,
with a smile that was almost tragic.
"You are certainly treating your cousin
very handsomely!"

The poor fowl was thin, and covered with
one of those thick, bristly skins
through which the teeth cannot penetrate
with all their efforts.  The fowl must
have been sought for a long time on the
perch, to which it had retired to die of
old age.

"The devil!" thought Porthos, "this is
poor work.  I respect old age, but I
don't much like it boiled or roasted."

And he looked round to see if anybody
partook of his opinion; but on the
contrary, he saw nothing but eager eyes
which were devouring, in anticipation,
that sublime fowl which was the object
of his contempt.

Mme. Coquenard drew the dish toward her,
skillfully detached the two great black
feet, which she placed upon her
husband's plate, cut off the neck, which
with the head she put on one side for
herself, raised the wing for Porthos,
and then returned the bird otherwise
intact to the servant who had brought it
in, who disappeared with it before the
Musketeer had time to examine the
variations which disappointment produces
upon faces, according to the characters
and temperaments of those who experience
it.

In the place of the fowl a dish of
haricot beans made its appearance--an
enormous dish in which some bones of
mutton that at first sight one might
have believed to have some meat on them
pretended to show themselves.

But the clerks were not the dupes of
this deceit, and their lugubrious looks
settled down into resigned countenances.

Mme. Coquenard distributed this dish to
the young men with the moderation of a
good housewife.

The time for wine came.  M. Coquenard
poured from a very small stone bottle
the third of a glass for each of the
young men, served himself in about the
same proportion, and passed the bottle
to Porthos and Mme. Coquenard.

The young men filled up their third of a
glass with water; then, when they had
drunk half the glass, they filled it up
again, and continued to do so.  This
brought them, by the end of the repast,
to swallowing a drink which from the
color of the ruby had passed to that of
a pale topaz.

Porthos ate his wing of the fowl
timidly, and shuddered when he felt the
knee of the procurator's wife under the
table, as it came in search of his.  He
also drank half a glass of this
sparingly served wine, and found it to
be nothing but that horrible
Montreuil--the terror of all expert
palates.

M. Coquenard saw him swallowing this
wine undiluted, and sighed deeply.

"Will you eat any of these beans, Cousin
Porthos?" said Mme. Coquenard, in that
tone which says, "Take my advice, don't
touch them."

"Devil take me if I taste one of them!"
murmured Porthos to himself, and then
said aloud, "Thank you, my cousin, I am
no longer hungry."

There was silence.  Porthos could hardly
keep his countenance.

The procurator repeated several times,
"Ah, Madame Coquenard!  Accept my
compliments; your dinner has been a real
feast.  Lord, how I have eaten!"

M. Coquenard had eaten his soup, the
black feet of the fowl, and the only
mutton bone on which there was the least
appearance of meat.

Porthos fancied they were mystifying
him, and began to curl his mustache and
knit his eyebrows; but the knee of Mme.
Coquenard gently advised him to be
patient.

This silence and this interruption in
serving, which were unintelligible to
Porthos, had, on the contrary, a
terrible meaning for the clerks.  Upon a
look from the procurator, accompanied by
a smile from Mme. Coquenard, they arose
slowly from the table, folded their
napkins more slowly still, bowed, and
retired.

"Go, young men! go and promote digestion
by working," said the procurator,
gravely.

The clerks gone, Mme. Coquenard rose and
took from a buffet a piece of cheese,
some preserved quinces, and a cake which
she had herself made of almonds and
honey.

M. Coquenard knit his eyebrows because
there were too many good things. 
Porthos bit his lips because he saw not
the wherewithal to dine.  He looked to
see if the dish of beans was still
there; the dish of beans had
disappeared.

"A positive feast!" cried M. Coquenard,
turning about in his chair, "a real
feast, EPULCE EPULORUM.  Lucullus dines
with Lucullus."

Porthos looked at the bottle, which was
near him, and hoped that with wine,
bread, and cheese, he might make a
dinner; but wine was wanting, the bottle
was empty.  M. and Mme. Coquenard did
not seem to observe it.

"This is fine!" said Porthos to himself;
"I am prettily caught!"

He passed his tongue over a spoonful of
preserves, and stuck his teeth into the
sticky pastry of Mme. Coquenard.

"Now," said he, "the sacrifice is
consummated!  Ah! if I had not the hope
of peeping with Madame Coquenard into
her husband's chest!"

M. Coquenard, after the luxuries of such
a repast, which he called an excess,
felt the want of a siesta.  Porthos
began to hope that the thing would take
place at the present sitting, and in
that same locality; but the procurator
would listen to nothing, he would be
taken to his room, and was not satisfied
till he was close to his chest, upon the
edge of which, for still greater
precaution, he placed his feet.

The procurator's wife took Porthos into
an adjoining room, and they began to lay
the basis of a reconciliation.

"You can come and dine three times a
week," said Mme. Coquenard.

"Thanks, madame!" said Porthos, "but I
don't like to abuse your kindness;
besides, I must think of my outfit!"

"That's true," said the procurator's
wife, groaning, "that unfortunate
outfit!"

"Alas, yes," said Porthos, "it is so."

"But of what, then, does the equipment
of your company consist, Monsieur
Porthos?"

"Oh, of many things!" said Porthos. 
"The Musketeers are, as you know, picked
soldiers, and they require many things
useless to the Guardsmen or the Swiss."

"But yet, detail them to me."

"Why, they may amount to--", said
Porthos, who preferred discussing the
total to taking them one by one.

The procurator's wife waited
tremblingly.

"To how much?" said she.  "I hope it
does not exceed--" She stopped; speech
failed her.

"Oh, no," said Porthos, "it does not
exceed two thousand five hundred livres!
I even think that with economy I could
manage it with two thousand livres."

"Good God!" cried she, "two thousand
livres! Why, that is a fortune!"

Porthos made a most significant grimace;
Mme. Coquenard understood it.

"I wished to know the detail," said she,
"because, having many relatives in
business, I was almost sure of obtaining
things at a hundred per cent less than
you would pay yourself."

"Ah, ah!" said Porthos, "that is what
you meant to say!"

"Yes, dear Monsieur Porthos.  Thus, for
instance, don't you in the first place
want a horse?"

"Yes, a horse."

"Well, then!  I can just suit you."

"Ah!" said Porthos, brightening, "that's
well as regards my horse; but I must
have the appointments complete, as they
include objects which a Musketeer alone
can purchase, and which will not amount,
besides, to more than three hundred
livres."

"Three hundred livres?  Then put down
three hundred livres," said the
procurator's wife, with a sigh.

Porthos smiled.  It may be remembered
that he had the saddle which came from
Buckingham.  These three hundred livres
he reckoned upon putting snugly into his
pocket.

"Then," continued he, "there is a horse
for my lackey, and my valise.  As to my
arms, it is useless to trouble you about
them; I have them."

"A horse for your lackey?" resumed the
procurator's wife, hesitatingly; "but
that is doing things in lordly style, my
friend."

"Ah, madame!" said Porthos, haughtily;
"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," said
Porthos; "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," said the procurator's
wife.

"There remains the valise," added
Porthos.

"Oh, don't let that disturb you," cried
Mme. Coquenard.  "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?" asked
Porthos, with simplicity.

"Certainly it is empty," replied the
procurator's wife, in real innocence.

"Ah, but the valise I want," cried
Porthos, "is a well-filled one, my
dear."

Madame uttered fresh sighs.  Moliere had
not written his scene in "L'Avare" then.
Mme. Coquenard was in the dilemma of
Harpagan.

Finally, the rest of the equipment was
successively debated in the same manner;
and the result of the sitting was that
the procurator's wife should give eight
hundred livres in money, and should
furnish the horse and the mule which
should have the honor of carrying
Porthos and Mousqueton to glory.

These conditions being agreed to,
Porthos took leave of Mme. Coquenard. 
The latter wished to detain him by
darting certain tender glances; but
Porthos urged the commands of duty, and
the procurator's wife was obliged to
give place to the king.

The Musketeer returned home hungry and
in bad humor.



33 SOUBRETTE AND MISTRESS

Meantime, as we have said, despite the
cries of his conscience and the wise
counsels of Athos, D'Artagnan became
hourly more in love with Milady.  Thus
he never failed to pay his diurnal court
to her; and the self-satisfied Gascon
was convinced that sooner or later she
could not fail to respond.

One day, when he arrived with his head
in the air, and as light at heart as a
man who awaits a shower of gold, he
found the SOUBRETTE under the gateway of
the hotel; but this time the pretty
Kitty was not contented with touching
him as he passed, she took him gently by
the hand.

"Good!" thought D'Artagnan, "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."  And he looked down
at the pretty girl with the most
triumphant air imaginable.

"I wish to say three words to you,
Monsieur Chevalier," stammered the
SOUBRETTE.

"Speak, my child, speak," said
D'Artagnan; "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?"
said Kitty, timidly.

"Where you please, my dear child."

"Come, then."

And Kitty, who had not let go the hand
of D'Artagnan, led him up a little dark,
winding staircase, and after ascending
about fifteen steps, opened a door.

"Come in here, Monsieur Chevalier," said
she; "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,"

D'Artagnan cast a glance around him. 
The little apartment was charming for
its taste and neatness; but in spite of
himself, his eyes were directed to that
door which Kitty said led to Milady's
chamber.

Kitty guessed what was passing in the
mind of the young man, and heaved a deep
sigh.

"You love my mistress, then, very
dearly, Monsieur Chevalier?" said she.

"Oh, more than I can say, Kitty! I am
mad for her!"

Kitty breathed a second sigh.

"Alas, monsieur," said she, "that is too
bad."

"What the devil do you see so bad in
it?" said D'Artagnan.

"Because, monsieur," replied Kitty, "my
mistress loves you not at all."

"HEIN!" said D'Artagnan, "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?"

Kitty drew a little note from her bosom.

"For me?" said Derogation, seizing the
letter.

"No; for another."

"For another?"

"Yes."

"His name; his name!" cried D'Artagnan.

"Read the address."

"Monsieur El Comte de Wardes."

The remembrance of the scene at St.
Germain presented itself to the mind of
the presumptuous Gascon.  As quick as
thought, he tore open the letter, in
spite of the cry which Kitty uttered on
seeing what he was going to do, or
rather, what he was doing.

"Oh, good Lord, Monsieur Chevalier,"
said she, "what are you doing?"

"I?" said D'Artagnan; "nothing," and he
read,


"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."


D'Artagnan became very pale; he was
wounded in his SELF-love: he thought
that it was in his LOVE.

"Poor dear Monsieur D'Artagnan," said
Kitty, in a voice full of compassion,
and pressing anew the young man's hand.

"You pity me, little one?" said
D'Artagnan.

"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?"
said D'Artagnan, looking at her for the
first time with much attention.

"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," said Kitty, warmly.

"And why not?" demanded D'Artagnan.

"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!"

D'Artagnan looked at Kitty for the
second time.  The young girl had
freshness and beauty which many
duchesses would have purchased with
their coronets.

"Kitty," said he, "I will read to the
bottom of your soul when-ever you like;
don't let that disturb you." And he gave
her a kiss at which the poor girl became
as red as a cherry.

"Oh, no," said Kitty, "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," replied Kitty, emboldened by
the kiss in the first place, and still
further by the expression of the eyes of
the young man, "is that in love,
everyone for herself!"

Then only D'Artagnan remembered the
languishing glances of Kitty, her
constantly meeting him in the
antechamber, the corridor, or on the
stairs, those touches of the hand every
time she met him, and her deep sighs;
but absorbed by his desire to please the
great lady, he had disdained the
soubrette.  He whose game is the eagle
takes no heed of the sparrow.

But this time our Gascon saw at a glance
all the advantage to be derived from the
love which Kitty had just confessed so
innocently, or so boldly: the
interception of letters addressed to the
Comte de Wardes, news on the spot,
entrance at all hours into Kitty's
chamber, which was contiguous to her
mistress's.  The perfidious deceiver
was, as may plainly be perceived,
already sacrificing, in intention, the
poor girl in order to obtain Milady,
willy-nilly.

"Well," said he to the young girl, "are
you willing, my dear Kitty, that I
should give you a proof of that love
which you doubt?"

"What love?" asked the young girl.

"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," said Kitty, clapping her
hands, "very willing."

"Well, then, come here, my dear," said
D'Artagnan, establishing himself in an
easy chair; "come, and let me tell you
that you are the prettiest SOUBRETTE I
ever saw!"

And he did tell her so much, and so
well, that the poor girl, who asked
nothing better than to believe him, did
believe him. Nevertheless, to
D'Artagnan's great astonishment, the
pretty Kitty defended herself
resolutely.

Time passes quickly when it is passed in
attacks and defenses.  Midnight sounded,
and almost at the same time the bell was
rung in Milady's chamber.

"Good God," cried Kitty, "there is my
mistress calling me! Go; go directly!"

D'Artagnan rose, took his hat, as if it
had been his intention to obey, then,
opening quickly the door of a large
closet instead of that leading to the
staircase, he buried himself amid the
robes and dressing gowns of Milady.

"What are you doing?" cried Kitty.

D'Artagnan, who had secured the key,
shut himself up in the closet without
reply.

"Well," cried Milady, in a sharp voice. 
"Are you asleep, that you don't answer
when I ring?"

And D'Artagnan heard the door of
communication opened violently.

"Here am I, Milady, here am I!" cried
Kitty, springing forward to meet her
mistress.

Both went into the bedroom, and as the
door of communication remained open,
D'Artagnan could hear Milady for some
time scolding her maid.  She was at
length appeased, and the conversation
turned upon him while Kitty was
assisting her mistress.

"Well," said Milady, "I have not seen
our Gascon this evening."

"What, Milady! has he not come?" said
Kitty.  "Can he be inconstant before
being happy?"

"Oh, no; he must have been prevented by
Monsieur de Treville 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 bands and did not kill him, by which
I missed three hundred thousand livres'
income."

"That's true," said Kitty; "your son was
the only heir of his uncle, and until
his majority you would have had the
enjoyment of his fortune."

D'Artagnan shuddered to the marrow at
hearing this suave creature reproach
him, with that sharp voice which she
took such pains to conceal in
conversation, for not having killed a
man whom he had seen load her with
kindnesses.

"For all this," continued Milady, "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!"

A cold sweat broke from D'Artagnan's
brow.  Why, this woman was a monster! He
resumed his listening, but unfortunately
the toilet was finished.

"That will do," said Milady; "go into
your own room, and tomorrow endeavor
again to get me an answer to the letter
I gave you."

"For Monsieur de Wardes?" said Kitty.

"To be sure; for Monsieur de Wardes."

"Now, there is one," said Kitty, "who
appears to me quite a different sort of
a man from that poor Monsieur
D'Artagnan."

"Go to bed, mademoiselle," said Milady;
"I don't like comments."

D'Artagnan heard the door close; then
the noise of two bolts by which Milady
fastened herself in.  On her side, but
as softly as possible, Kitty turned the
key of the lock, and then D'Artagnan
opened the closet door.

"Oh, good Lord!" said Kitty, in a low
voice, "what is the matter with you? 
How pale you are!"

"The abominable creature" murmured
D'Artagnan.

"Silence, silence, begone!" said Kitty. 
"There is nothing but a wainscot between
my chamber and Milady's; every word that
is uttered in one can be heard in the
other."

"That's exactly the reason I won't go,"
said D'Artagnan.

"What!" said Kitty, blushing.

"Or, at least, I will go--later."

He drew Kitty to him.  She had the less
motive to resist, resistance would make
so much noise.  Therefore Kitty
surrendered.

It was a movement of vengeance upon
Milady.  D'Artagnan believed it right to
say that vengeance is the pleasure of
the gods.  With a little more heart, he
might have been contented with this new
conquest; but the principal features of
his character were ambition and pride. 
It must, however, be confessed in his
justification that the first use he made
of his influence over Kitty was to try
and find out what had become of Mme.
Bonacieux; but the poor girl swore upon
the crucifix to D'Artagnan that she was
entirely ignorant on that head, her
mistress never admitting her into half
her secrets--only she believed she could
say she was not dead.

As to the cause which was near making
Milady lose her credit with the
cardinal, Kitty knew nothing about it;
but this time D'Artagnan was better
informed than she was.  As he had seen
Milady on board a vessel at the moment
he was leaving England, he suspected
that it was, almost without a doubt, on
account of the diamond studs.

But what was clearest in all this was
that the true hatred, the profound
hatred, the inveterate hatred of Milady,
was increased by his not having killed
her brother-in-law.

D'Artagnan came the next day to
Milady's, and finding her in a very
ill-humor, had no doubt that it was lack
of an answer from M. de Wardes that
provoked her thus.  Kitty came in, but
Milady was very cross with her.  The
poor girl ventured a glance at
D'Artagnan which said, "See how I suffer
on your account!"

Toward the end of the evening, however,
the beautiful lioness became milder; she
smilingly listened to the soft speeches
of D'Artagnan, and even gave him her
hand to kiss.

D'Artagnan departed, scarcely knowing
what to think, but as he was a youth who
did not easily lose his head, while
continuing to pay his court to Milady,
he had framed a little plan in his mind.

He found Kitty at the gate, and, as on
the preceding evening, went up to her
chamber.  Kitty had been accused of
negligence and severely scolded.  Milady
could not at all comprehend the silence
of the Comte de Wardes, and she ordered
Kitty to come at nine o'clock in the
morning to take a third letter.

D'Artagnan made Kitty promise to bring
him that letter on the following
morning.  The poor girl promised all her
lover desired; she was mad.

Things passed as on the night before. 
D'Artagnan concealed himself in his
closet; Milady called, undressed, sent
away Kitty, and shut the door.  As the
night before, D'Artagnan did not return
home till five o'clock in the morning.

At eleven o'clock Kitty came to him. 
She held in her hand a fresh billet from
Milady.  This time the poor girl did not
even argue with D'Artagnan; she gave it
to him at once. She belonged body and
soul to her handsome soldier.

D'Artagnan opened the letter and read as
follows:


This is the third time I have written to
you to tell you that I love you.  Beware
that I do not write to you a fourth time
to tell you that I detest you.

If you repent of the manner in which you
have acted toward me, the young girl who
brings you this will tell you how a man
of spirit may obtain his pardon.


D'Artagnan colored and grew pale several
times in reading this billet.

"Oh, you love her still," said Kitty,
who had not taken her eyes off the young
man's countenance for an instant.

"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."

D'Artagnan took a pen and wrote:


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


This note was in the first place a
forgery; it was likewise an indelicacy. 
It was even, according to our present
manners, something like an infamous
action; but at that period people did
not manage affairs as they do today.
Besides, D'Artagnan from her own
admission knew Milady culpable of
treachery in matters more important, and
could entertain no respect for her.  And
yet, notwithstanding this want of
respect, he felt an uncontrollable
passion for this woman boiling in his
veins--passion drunk with contempt; but
passion or thirst, as the reader
pleases.

D'Artagnan's plan was very simple.  By
Kitty's chamber he could gain that of
her mistress.  He would take advantage
of the first moment of surprise, shame,
and terror, to triumph over her.  He
might fail, but something must be left
to chance.  In eight days the campaign
would open, and he would be compelled to
leave Paris; D'Artagnan had no time for
a prolonged love siege.

"There," said the young man, handing
Kitty the letter sealed; "give that to
Milady.  It is the count's reply."

Poor Kitty became as pale as death; she
suspected what the letter contained.

"Listen, my dear girl," said D'Artagnan;
"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!"
said Kitty, "for whom have I exposed
myself to all that?"

"For me, I well know, my sweet girl,"
said D'Artagnan.  "But I am grateful, I
swear to you."

"But what does this note contain?"

"Milady will tell you."

"Ah, you do not love me!" cried Kitty,
"and I am very wretched."

To this reproach there is always one
response which deludes women. 
D'Artagnan replied in such a manner that
Kitty remained in her great delusion. 
Although she cried freely before
deciding to transmit the letter to her
mistress, she did at last so decide,
which was all D'Artagnan wished. Finally
he promised that he would leave her
mistress's presence at an early hour
that evening, and that when he left the
mistress he would ascend with the maid.
This promise completed poor Kitty's
consolation.



34 IN WHICH THE EQUIPMENT OF ARAMIS AND
PORTHOS IS TREATED OF

Since the four friends had been each in
search of his equipments, there had been
no fixed meeting between them. They
dined apart from one another, wherever
they might happen to be, or rather where
they could.  Duty likewise on its part
took a portion of that precious time
which was gliding away so rapidly--only
they had agreed to meet once a week,
about one o'clock, at the residence of
Athos, seeing that he, in agreement with
the vow he had formed, did not pass over
the threshold of his door.

This day of reunion was the same day as
that on which Kitty came to find
D'Artagnan.  Soon as Kitty left him,
D'Artagnan directed his steps toward the
Rue Ferou.

He found Athos and Aramis
philosophizing.  Aramis had some slight
inclination to resume the cassock. 
Athos, according to his system, neither
encouraged nor dissuaded him.  Athos
believed that everyone should be left to
his own free will. He never gave advice
but when it was asked, and even then he
required to be asked twice.

"People, in general," he said, "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."

Porthos arrived a minute after
D'Artagnan.  The four friends were
reunited.

The four countenances expressed four
different feelings: that of Porthos,
tranquillity; that of D'Artagnan, hope;
that of Aramis, uneasiness; that of
Athos, carelessness.

At the end of a moment's conversation,
in which Porthos hinted that a lady of
elevated rank had condescended to
relieve him from his embarrassment,
Mousqueton entered.  He came to request
his master to return to his lodgings,
where his presence was urgent, as he
piteously said.

"Is it my equipment?"

"Yes and no," replied Mousqueton.

"Well, but can't you speak?"

"Come, monsieur."

Porthos rose, saluted his friends, and
followed Mousqueton. An instant after,
Bazin made his appearance at the door.

"What do you want with me, my friend?"
said Aramis, with that mildness of
language which was observable in him
every time that his ideas were directed
toward the Church.

"A man wishes to see Monsieur at home,"
replied Bazin.

"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!" cried Aramis.  "A thousand
pardons, gentlemen; but no doubt this
man brings me the news I expected." And
rising also, he went off at a quick
pace.  There remained Athos and
D'Artagnan.

"I believe these fellows have managed
their business.  What do you think,
D'Artagnan?" said Athos.

"I know that Porthos was in a fair way,"
replied D'Artagnan; "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 Treville 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."

D'Artagnan was on the point of telling
Athos all; but one consideration
restrained him.  Athos was a gentleman,
punctilious in points of honor; and
there were in the plan which our lover
had devised for Milady, he was sure,
certain things that would not obtain the
assent of this Puritan.  He was
therefore silent; and as Athos was the
least inquisitive of any man on earth,
D'Artagnan's confidence stopped there.
We will therefore leave the two friends,
who had nothing important to say to each
other, and follow Aramis.

Upon being informed that the person who
wanted to speak to him came from Tours,
we have seen with what rapidity the
young man followed, or rather went
before, Bazin; he ran without stopping
from the Rue Ferou to the Rue de
Vaugirard. On entering he found a man of
short stature and intelligent eyes, but
covered with rags.

"You have asked for me?" said the
Musketeer.

"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," said Aramis, taking a
small key from his breast and opening a
little ebony box inlaid with mother of
pearl, "here it is.  Look."

"That is right," replied the mendicant;
"dismiss your lackey."

In fact, Bazin, curious to know what the
mendicant could want with his master,
kept pace with him as well as he could,
and arrived almost at the same time he
did; but his quickness was not of much
use to him.  At the hint from the
mendicant his master made him a sign to
retire, and he was obliged to obey.

Bazin gone, the mendicant cast a rapid
glance around him in order to be sure
that nobody could either see or hear
him, and opening his ragged vest, badly
held together by a leather strap, he
began to rip the upper part of his
doublet, from which he drew a letter.

Aramis uttered a cry of joy at the sight
of the seal, kissed the superscription
with an almost religious respect, and
opened the epistle, which contained what
follows:


"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."


The mendicant continued to rip his
garments; and drew from amid his rags a
hundred and fifty Spanish double
pistoles, which he laid down on the
table; then he opened the door, bowed,
and went out before the young man,
stupefied by his letter, had ventured to
address a word to him.

Aramis then reperused the letter, and
perceived a postscript:


P.S. You may behave politely to the
bearer, who is a count and a grandee of
Spain!

"Golden dreams!" cried Aramis.  "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!"

And he kissed the letter with passion,
without even vouchsafing a look at the
gold which sparkled on the table.

Bazin scratched at the door, and as
Aramis had no longer any reason to
exclude him, he bade him come in.

Bazin was stupefied at the sight of the
gold, and forgot that he came to
announce D'Artagnan, who, curious to
know who the mendicant could be, came to
Aramis on leaving Athos.

Now, as D'Artagnan used no ceremony with
Aramis, seeing that Bazin forgot to
announce him, he announced himself.

"The devil! my dear Aramis," said
D'Artagnan, "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,"
said Aramis, always on his guard; "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," said D'Artagnan.  "Well,
your publisher is very generous, my dear
Aramis, that's all I can say."

"How, monsieur?" cried Bazin, "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 abbe.  Ah! Monsieur Aramis,
become a poet, I beg of you."

"Bazin, my friend," said Aramis, "I
believe you meddle with my
conversation."

Bazin perceived he was wrong; he bowed
and went out.

"Ah!" said D'Artagnan with a smile, "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."

Aramis blushed to the eyes, crammed in
the letter, and re-buttoned his doublet.

"My dear D'Artagnan," said he, "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!" said D'Artagnan, with great
pleasure.  "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," said Aramis, from
whom the letter and the gold had
removed, as by magic, his ideas of
conversion.

And having put three or four double
pistoles into his pocket to answer the
needs of the moment, he placed the
others in the ebony box, inlaid with
mother of pearl, in which was the famous
handkerchief which served him as a
talisman.

The two friends repaired to Athos's, and
he, faithful to his vow of not going
out, took upon him to order dinner to be
brought to them.  As he was perfectly
acquainted with the details of
gastronomy, D'Artagnan and Aramis made
no objection to abandoning this
important care to him.

They went to find Porthos, and at the
corner of the Rue Bac met Mousqueton,
who, with a most pitiable air, was
driving before him a mule and a horse.

D'Artagnan uttered a cry of surprise,
which was not quite free from joy.

"Ah, my yellow horse," cried he. 
"Aramis, look at that horse!"

"Oh, the frightful brute!" said Aramis.

"Ah, my dear," replied D'Artagnan, "upon
that very horse I came to Paris."

"What, does Monsieur know this horse?"
said Mousqueton.

"It is of an original color," said
Aramis; "I never saw one with such a
hide in my life."

"I can well believe it," replied
D'Artagnan, "and that was why I got
three crowns for him.  It must have been
for his hide, for, CERTESf, the carcass
is not worth eighteen livres. But how
did this horse come into your bands,
Mousqueton?"

"Pray," said the lackey, "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?" said
D'Artagnan.

"Exactly!" replied Mousqueton. "You may
well believe that we will not accept
such steeds as these in exchange for
those which had been promised to us."

"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," said Mousqueton, "but
in a very ill humor. Get up!"

He continued his way toward the Quai des
Grands Augustins, while the two friends
went to ring at the bell of the
unfortunate Porthos.  He, having seen
them crossing the yard, took care not to
answer, and they rang in vain.

Meanwhile Mousqueton continued on his
way, and crossing the Pont Neuf, still
driving the two sorry animals before
him, he reached the Rue aux Ours. 
Arrived there, he fastened, according to
the orders of his master, both horse and
mule to the knocker of the procurator's
door; then, without taking any thought
for their future, he returned to
Porthos, and told him that his
commission was completed.

In a short time the two unfortunate
beasts, who had not eaten anything since
the morning, made such a noise in
raising and letting fall the knocker
that the procurator ordered his errand
boy to go and inquire in the
neighborhood to whom this horse and mule
belonged.

Mme. Coquenard recognized her present,
and could not at first comprehend this
restitution; but the visit of Porthos
soon enlightened her.  The anger which
fired the eyes of the Musketeer, in
spite of his efforts to suppress it,
terrified his sensitive inamorata.  In
fact, Mousqueton had not concealed from
his master that he had met D'Artagnan
and Aramis, and that D'Artagnan in the
yellow horse had recognized the Bearnese
pony upon which he had come to Paris,
and which he had sold for three crowns.

Porthos went away after having appointed
a meeting with the procurator's wife in
the cloister of St. Magloire.  The
procurator, seeing he was going, invited
him to dinner--an invitation which the
Musketeer refused with a majestic air.

Mme. Coquenard repaired trembling to the
cloister of St. Magloire, for she
guessed the reproaches that awaited her
there; but she was fascinated by the
lofty airs of Porthos.

All that which a man wounded in his
self-love could let fall in the shape of
imprecations and reproaches upon the
head of a woman Porthos let fall upon
the bowed head of the procurator's wife.

"Alas," said she, "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," said Porthos, "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," said
the procurator's wife, seeking to excuse
herself.

"No, madame; but they who so assiduously
try to buy things cheap ought to permit
others to seek more generous friends."
And Porthos, turning on his heel, made a
step to retire.

"Monsieur Porthos!  Monsieur Porthos!"
cried the procurator's wife.  "I have
been wrong; I see it.  I ought not to
have driven a bargain when it was to
equip a cavalier like you."

Porthos, without reply, retreated a
second step.  The procurator's wife
fancied she saw him in a brilliant
cloud, all surrounded by duchesses and
marchionesses, who cast bags of money at
his feet.

"Stop, in the name of heaven, Monsieur
Porthos!" cried she. "Stop, and let us
talk."

"Talking with you brings me misfortune,"
said Porthos.

"But, tell me, what do you ask?"

"Nothing; for that amounts to the same
thing as if I asked you for something."

The procurator's wife hung upon the arm
of Porthos, and in the violence of her
grief she cried out, "Monsieur Porthos,
I am ignorant of all such matters!  How
should I know what a horse is?  How
should I know what horse furniture is?"

"You should have left it to me, then,
madame, who know what they are; but you
wished to be frugal, and consequently to
lend at usury."

"It was wrong, Monsieur Porthos; but I
will repair that wrong, upon my word of
honor."

"How so?" asked the Musketeer.

"Listen.  This evening M. Coquenard is
going to the house of the Due 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," said Porthos,
majestically; and the two separated
saying, "Till this evening."

"The devil!" thought Porthos, as he
walked away, "it appears I am getting
nearer to Monsieur Coquenard's strongbox
at last."



35 A GASCON A MATCH FOR CUPID

The evening so impatiently waited for by
Porthos and by D'Artagnan at last
arrived.

As was his custom, D'Artagnan presented
himself at Milady's at about nine
o'clock.  He found her in a charming
humor. Never had he been so well
received.  Our Gascon knew, by the first
glance of his eye, that his billet had
been delivered, and that this billet had
had its effect.

Kitty entered to bring some sherbet. 
Her mistress put on a charming face, and
smiled on her graciously; but alas! the
poor girl was so sad that she did not
even notice Milady's condescension.

D'Artagnan looked at the two women, one
after the other, and was forced to
acknowledge that in his opinion Dame
Nature had made a mistake in their
formation.  To the great lady she had
given a heart vile and venal; to the
SOUBRETTE she had given the heart of a
duchess.

At ten o'clock Milady began to appear
restless.  D'Artagnan knew what she
wanted.  She looked at the clock, rose,
reseated herself, smiled at D'Artagnan
with an air which said, "You are very
amiable, no doubt, but you would be
charming if you would only depart."

D'Artagnan rose and took his hat; Milady
gave him her hand to kiss.  The young
man felt her press his hand, and
comprehended that this was a sentiment,
not of coquetry, but of gratitude
because of his departure.

"She loves him devilishly," he murmured.
Then he went out.

This time Kitty was nowhere waiting for
him; neither in the antechamber, nor in
the corridor, nor beneath the great
door.  It was necessary that D'Artagnan
should find alone the staircase and the
little chamber.  She heard him enter,
but she did not raise her head.  The
young man went to her and took her
hands; then she sobbed aloud.

As D'Artagnan had presumed, on receiving
his letter, Milady in a delirium of joy
had told her servant everything; and by
way of recompense for the manner in
which she had this time executed the
commission, she had given Kitty a purse.

Returning to her own room, Kitty had
thrown the purse into a corner, where it
lay open, disgorging three or four gold
pieces on the carpet.  The poor girl,
under the caresses of D'Artagnan, lifted
her head.  D'Artagnan himself was
frightened by the change in her
countenance.  She joined her hands with
a suppliant air, but without venturing
to speak a word.  As little sensitive as
was the heart of D'Artagnan, he was
touched by this mute sorrow; but he held
too tenaciously to his projects, above
all to this one, to change the program
which he had laid out in advance.  He
did not therefore allow her any hope
that he would flinch; only he
represented his action as one of simple
vengeance.

For the rest this vengeance was very
easy; for Milady, doubtless to conceal
her blushes from her lover, had ordered
Kitty to extinguish all the lights in
the apartment, and even in the little
chamber itself.  Before daybreak M. de
Wardes must take his departure, still in
obscurity.

Presently they heard Milady retire to
her room.  D'Artagnan slipped into the
wardrobe.  Hardly was he concealed when
the little bell sounded.  Kitty went to
her mistress, and did not leave the door
open; but the partition was so thin that
one could hear nearly all that passed
between the two women.

Milady seemed overcome with joy, and
made Kitty repeat the smallest details
of the pretended interview of the
soubrette with De Wardes when he
received the letter; how he had
responded; what was the expression of
his face; if he seemed very amorous. 
And to all these questions poor Kitty,
forced to put on a pleasant face,
responded in a stifled voice whose
dolorous accent her mistress did not
however remark, solely because happiness
is egotistical.

Finally, as the hour for her interview
with the count approached, Milady had
everything about her darkened, and
ordered Kitty to return to her own
chamber, and introduce De Wardes
whenever he presented himself.

Kitty's detention was not long.  Hardly
had D'Artagnan seen,

through a crevice in his closet, that
the whole apartment was in obscurity,
than he slipped out of his concealment,
at the very moment when Kitty reclosed
the door of communication.

"What is that noise?" demanded Milady.

"It is I," said D'Artagnan in a subdued
voice, "I, the Comte de Wardes."

"Oh, my God, my God!" murmured Kitty,
"he has not even waited for the hour he
himself named!"

"Well," said Milady, in a trembling
voice, "why do you not enter?  Count,
Count," added she, "you know that I wait
for you."

At this appeal D'Artagnan drew Kitty
quietly away, and slipped into the
chamber.

If rage or sorrow ever torture the
heart, it is when a lover receives under
a name which is not his own
protestations of love addressed to his
happy rival.  D'Artagnan was in a
dolorous situation which he had not
foreseen. Jealousy gnawed his heart; and
he suffered almost as much as poor
Kitty, who at that very moment was
crying in the next chamber.

"Yes, Count," said Milady, in her
softest voice, and pressing his hand in
her own, "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!"
and she slipped a ring from her finger
onto D'Artagnan's. D'Artagnan remembered
having seen this ring on the finger of
Milady; it was a magnificent sapphire,
encircled with brilliants.

The first movement of D'Artagnan was to
return it, but Milady added, "No, no!
Keep that ring for love of me. Besides,
in accepting it," she added, in a voice
full of emotion, "you render me a much
greater service than you imagine."

"This woman is full of mysteries,"
murmured D'Artagnan to himself.  At that
instant he felt himself ready to reveal
all.  He even opened his mouth to tell
Milady who he was, and with what a
revengeful purpose he had come; but she
added, "Poor angel, whom that monster of
a Gascon barely failed to kill."

The monster was himself.

"Oh," continued Milady, "do your wounds
still make you suffer?"

"Yes, much," said D'Artagnan, who did
not well know how to answer.

"Be tranquil," murmured Milady; "I will
avenge you--and cruelly!"

"PESTE!" said D'Artagnan to himself,
"the moment for confidences has not yet
come."

It took some time for D'Artagnan to
resume this little dialogue; but then
all the ideas of vengeance which he had
brought with him had completely
vanished.  This woman exercised over him
an unaccountable power; he hated and
adored her at the same time.  He would
not have believed that two sentiments so
opposite could dwell in the same heart,
and by their union constitute a passion
so strange, and as it were, diabolical.

Presently it sounded one o'clock.  It
was necessary to separate.  D'Artagnan
at the moment of quitting Milady felt
only the liveliest regret at the
parting; and as they addressed each
other in a reciprocally passionate
adieu, another interview was arranged
for the following week.

Poor Kitty hoped to speak a few words to
D'Artagnan when he passed through her
chamber; but Milady herself reconducted
him through the darkness, and only quit
him at the staircase.

The next morning D'Artagnan ran to find
Athos.  He was engaged in an adventure
so singular that he wished for counsel. 
He therefore told him all.

"Your Milady," said he, "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."

While thus speaking Athos regarded with
attention the sapphire set with diamonds
which had taken, on D'Artagnan's finger,
the place of the queen's ring, carefully
kept in a casket.

"You notice my ring?" said the Gascon,
proud to display so rich a gift in the
eyes of his friends.

"Yes," said Athos, "it reminds me of a
family jewel."

"It is beautiful, is it not?" said
D'Artagnan.

"Yes," said Athos, "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?" cried
Athos, with a voice in which it was easy
to detect strong emotion.

"Her very self; she gave it me last
night.  Here it is," replied D'Artagnan,
taking it from his finger.

Athos examined it and became very pale. 
He tried it on his left hand; it fit his
finger as if made for it.

A shade of anger and vengeance passed
across the usually calm brow of this
gentleman.

"It is impossible it can be she," said
be.  "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?" said
D'Artagnan.

"I thought I did," replied Athos; "but
no doubt I was mistaken."  And he
returned D'Artagnan the ring without,
however, ceasing to look at it.

"Pray, D'Artagnan," said Athos, after a
minute, "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."

D'Artagnan took off the ring, giving it
again to Athos.

Athos started.  "Look," said he, "is it
not strange?" and he pointed out to
D'Artagnan the scratch he had
remembered.

"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?" asked D'Artagnan,
hesitatingly.

"No," replied Athos, with a singular
smile.  "I gave it away in a night of
love, as it has been given to you."

D'Artagnan became pensive in his turn;
it appeared as if there were abysses in
Milady's soul whose depths were dark and
unknown.  He took back the ring, but put
it in his pocket and not on his finger.

"D'Artagnan," said Athos, taking his
hand, "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," said D'Artagnan; "I
will have done with her.  I own that
this woman terrifies me."

"Shall you have the courage?" said
Athos.

"I shall," replied D'Artagnan, "and
instantly."

"In truth, my young friend, you will act
rightly," said the gentleman, pressing
the Gascon's hand with an affection
almost paternal; "and God grant that
this woman, who has scarcely entered
into your life, may not leave a terrible
trace in it!" And Athos bowed to
D'Artagnan like a man who wishes it
understood that he would not be sorry to
be left alone with his thoughts.

On reaching home D'Artagnan found Kitty
waiting for him.  A month of fever could
not have changed her more than this one
night of sleeplessness and sorrow.

She was sent by her mistress to the
false De Wardes.  Her mistress was mad
with love, intoxicated with joy.  She
wished to know when her lover would meet
her a second night; and poor Kitty, pale
and trembling, awaited D'Artagnan's
reply.  The counsels of his friend,
joined to the cries of his own heart,
made him determine, now his pride was
saved and his vengeance satisfied, not
to see Milady again.  As a reply, he
wrote the following letter:


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.

Comte de Wardes


Not a word about the sapphire.  Was the
Gascon determined to keep it as a weapon
against Milady, or else, let us be
frank, did he not reserve the sapphire
as a last resource for his outfit?  It
would be wrong to judge the actions of
one period from the point of view of
another.  That which would now be
considered as disgraceful to a gentleman
was at that time quite a simple and
natural affair, and the younger sons of
the best families were frequently
supported by their mistresses. 
D'Artagnan gave the open letter to
Kitty, who at first was unable to
comprehend it, but who became almost
wild with joy on reading it a second
time.  She could scarcely believe in her
happiness; and D'Artagnan was forced to
renew with the living voice the
assurances which he had written.  And
whatever might be--considering the
violent character of Milady--the danger
which the poor girl incurred in giving
this billet to her mistress, she ran
back to the Place Royale as fast as her
legs could carry her.

The heart of the best woman is pitiless
toward the sorrows of a rival.

Milady opened the letter with eagerness
equal to Kitty's in bringing it; but at
the first words she read she became
livid.  She crushed the paper in her
band, and turning with flashing eyes
upon Kitty, she cried, "What is this
letter?"

"The answer to Madame's," replied Kitty,
all in a tremble.

"Impossible!" cried Milady.  "It is
impossible a gentleman could have
written such a letter to a woman." Then
all at once, starting, she cried, "My
God! can he have--" and she stopped. She
ground her teeth; she was of the color
of ashes.  She tried to go toward the
window for air, but she could only
stretch forth her arms; her legs failed
her, and she sank into an armchair. 
Kitty, fearing she was ill, hastened
toward her and was beginning to open her
dress; but Milady started up, pushing
her away.  "What do you want with me?"
said she, "and why do you place your
hand on me?"

"I thought that Madame was ill, and I
wished to bring her help," responded the
maid, frightened at the terrible
expression which had come over her
mistress's face.

"I faint?  I? I? Do you take me for half
a woman?  When I am insulted I do not
faint; I avenge myself!"

And she made a sign for Kitty to leave
the room.



36 DREAM OF VENGEANCE

That evening Milady gave orders that
when M. D'Artagnan came as usual, he
should be immediately admitted; but he
did not come.

The next day Kitty went to see the young
man again, and related to him all that
had passed on the preceding evening.
D'Artagnan smiled; this jealous anger of
Milady was his revenge.

That evening Milady was still more
impatient than on the preceding evening.
She renewed the order relative to the
Gascon; but as before she expected him
in vain.

The next morning, when Kitty presented
herself at D'Artagnan's, she was no
longer joyous and alert as on the two
preceding days; but on the contrary sad
as death.

D'Artagnan asked the poor girl what was
the matter with her; but she, as her
only reply, drew a letter from her
pocket and gave it to him.

This letter was in Milady's handwriting;
only this time it was addressed to M.
D'Artagnan, and not to M. de Wardes.

He opened it and read as follows:


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?

Your very grateful, Milady Clarik


"That's all very simple," said
D'Artagnan; "I expected this letter. My
credit rises by the fall of that of the
Comte de Wardes."

"And will you go?" asked Kitty.

"Listen to me, my dear girl," said the
Gascon, who sought for an excuse in his
own eyes for breaking the promise he had
made Athos; "you must understand it
would be impolitic not to accept such a
positive invitation.  Milady, not seeing
me come again, would not be able to
understand what could cause the
interruption of my visits, and might
suspect something; who could say how far
the vengeance of such a woman would go?"

"Oh, my God!" said Kitty, "you know how
to represent things in such a way that
you are always in the right.  You are
going now to pay your court to her
again, and if this time you succeed in
pleasing her in your own name and with
your own face, it will be much worse
than before."

Instinct made poor Kitty guess a part of
what was to happen. D'Artagnan reassured
her as well as he could, and promised to
remain insensible to the seductions of
Milady.

He desired Kitty to tell her mistress
that he could not be more grateful for
her kindnesses than he was, and that he
would be obedient to her orders.  He did
not dare to write for fear of not being
able--to such experienced eyes as those
of Milady--to disguise his writing
sufficiently.

As nine o'clock sounded, D'Artagnan was
at the Place Royale. It was evident that
the servants who waited in the
antechamber were warned, for as soon as
D'Artagnan appeared, before even he had
asked if Milady were visible, one of
them ran to announce him.

"Show him in," said Milady, in a quick
tone, but so piercing that D'Artagnan
heard her in the antechamber.

He was introduced.

"I am at home to nobody," said Milady;
"observe, to nobody." The servant went
out.

D'Artagnan cast an inquiring glance at
Milady.  She was pale, and looked
fatigued, either from tears or want of
sleep.  The number of lights had been
intentionally diminished, but the young
woman could not conceal the traces of
the fever which had devoured her for two
days.

D'Artagnan approached her with his usual
gallantry.  She then made an
extraordinary effort to receive him, but
never did a more distressed countenance
give the lie to a more amiable smile.

To the questions which D'Artagnan put
concerning her health, she replied,
"Bad, very bad."

"Then," replied he, "my visit is
ill-timed; you, no doubt, stand in need
of repose, and I will withdraw."

"No. no!" said Milady.  "On the
contrary, stay, Monsieur D'Artagnan;
your agreeable company will divert me."

"Oh, oh!" thought D'Artagnan.  "She has
never been so kind before.  On guard!"

Milady assumed the most agreeable air
possible, and conversed with more than
her usual brilliancy.  At the same time
the fever, which for an instant
abandoned her, returned to give luster
to her eyes, color to her cheeks, and
vermillion to her lips.  D'Artagnan was
again in the presence of the Circe who
had before surrounded him with her
enchantments.  His love, which he
believed to be extinct but which was
only asleep, awoke again in his heart. 
Milady smiled, and D'Artagnan felt that
he could damn himself for that smile. 
There was a moment at which he felt
something like remorse.

By degrees, Milady became more
communicative.  She asked D'Artagnan if
he had a mistress.

"Alas!" said D'Artagnan, with the most
sentimental air he could assume, "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?"

Milady smiled with a strange smile.

"Then you love me?" said she.

"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,"
said D'Artagnan.  "I shrink before
nothing but impossibilities."

"Nothing is impossible," replied Milady,
"to true love."

"Nothing, madame?"

"Nothing," replied Milady.

"The devil!" thought D'Artagnan.  "The
note is changed.  Is she going to fall
in love with me, by chance, this fair
inconstant; and will she be disposed to
give me myself another sapphire like
that which she gave me for De Wardes?"

D'Artagnan rapidly drew his seat nearer
to Milady's.

"Well, now," she said, "let us see what
you would do to prove this love of which
you speak."

"All that could be required of me. 
Order; I am ready."

"For everything?"

"For everything," cried D'Artagnan, who
knew beforehand that he had not much to
risk in engaging himself thus.

"Well, now let us talk a little
seriously," said Milady, in her turn
drawing her armchair nearer to
D'Artagnan's chair.

"I am all attention, madame," said he.

Milady remained thoughtful and undecided
for a moment; then, as if appearing to
have formed a resolution, she said, "I
have an enemy."

"You, madame!" said D'Artagnan,
affecting surprise; "is that possible,
my God?--good and beautiful as you are!"

"A mortal enemy."

"Indeed!"

"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?"

D'Artagnan at once perceived the ground
which the vindictive creature wished to
reach.

"You may, madame," said he, with
emphasis.  "My arm and my life belong to
you, like my love."

"Then," said Milady, "since you are as
generous as you are loving--"

She stopped.

"Well?" demanded D'Artagnan.

"Well," replied Milady, after a moment
of silence, "from the present time,
cease to talk of impossibilities."

"Do not overwhelm me with happiness,"
cried D'Artagnan, throwing himself on
his knees, and covering with kisses the
hands abandoned to him.

"Avenge me of that infamous De Wardes,"
said Milady, between her teeth, "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," said
D'Artagnan, likewise to himself, "after
having abused me with such effrontery,
and afterward I will laugh at you with
him whom you wish me to kill."

D'Artagnan lifted up his head.

"I am ready," said he.

"You have understood me, then, dear
Monsieur D'Artagnan" said Milady.

"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," said Milady, "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,"
said D'Artagnan, "the only one worthy of
you and of me!"

And he drew nearer to her.

She scarcely resisted.

"Interested man!" cried she, smiling.

"Ah," cried D'Artagnan, really carried
away by the passion this woman had the
power to kindle in his heart, "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," said D'Artagnan.

"Quite certain?" said Milady, with a
last doubt.

"Only name to me the base man that has
brought tears into your beautiful eyes!"

"Who told you that I had been weeping?"
said she.

"It appeared to me--"

"Such women as I never weep," said
Milady.

"So much the better! Come, tell me his
name!"

"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?"
replied D'Artagnan, affecting hesitation
in order to make her believe him
ignorant.

"If it were one of your friends you
would hesitate, then?" cried Milady; and
a threatening glance darted from her
eyes.

"Not if it were my own brother!" cried
D'Artagnan, as if carried away by his
enthusiasm.

Our Gascon promised this without risk,
for he knew all that was meant.

"I love your devotedness," said Milady.

"Alas, do you love nothing else in me?"
asked D'Artagnan.

"I love you also, YOU!" said she, taking
his hand.

The warm pressure made D'Artagnan
tremble, as if by the touch that fever
which consumed Milady attacked himself.

"You love me, you!" cried he.  "Oh, if
that were so, I should lose my reason!"

And he folded her in his arms, She made
no effort to remove her lips from his
kisses; only she did not respond to
them. Her lips were cold; it appeared to
D'Artagnan that he had embraced a
statue.

He was not the less intoxicated with
joy, electrified by love.  He almost
believed in the tenderness of Milady; he
almost believed in the crime of De
Wardes.  If De Wardes had at that moment
been under his hand, he would have
killed him.

Milady seized the occasion,

"His name is--" said she, in her turn.

"De Wardes; I know it," cried
D'Artagnan.

"And how do you know it?" asked Milady,
seizing both his hands, and endeavoring
to read with her eyes to the bottom of
his heart.

D'Artagnan felt he had allowed himself
to be carried away, and that he had
committed an error.

"Tell me, tell me, tell me, I say,"
repeated Milady, "how do you know it?"

"How do I know it?" said D'Artagnan.

"Yes."

"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!" cried Milady.

The epithet, as may be easily
understood, resounded to the very bottom
of D'Artagnan's heart.

"Well?" continued she.

"Well, I will avenge you of this
wretch," replied D'Artagnan, giving
himself the airs of Don Japhet of
Armenia.

"Thanks, my brave friend!" cried Milady;
"and when shall I be avenged?"

"Tomorrow--immediately--when you
please!"

Milady was about to cry out,
"Immediately," but she reflected that
such precipitation would not be very
gracious toward D'Artagnan.

Besides, she had a thousand precautions
to take, a thousand counsels to give to
her defender, in order that he might
avoid explanations with the count before
witnesses.  All this was answered by an
expression of D'Artagnan's. "Tomorrow,"
said he, "you will be avenged, or I
shall be dead."

"No," said she, "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?"

Milady answered by a glance which said,
"Is that all?--speak, then." And then
accompanying the glance with explanatory
words, "That is but too just," said she,
tenderly.

"Oh, you are an angel!" exclaimed the
young man.

"Then all is agreed?" said she.

"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."

She rang the bell and Kitty appeared.

"Go out this way," said she, opening a
small private door, "and come back at
eleven o'clock; we will then terminate
this conversation.  Kitty will conduct
you to my chamber."

The poor girl almost fainted at hearing
these words.

"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," thought
D'Artagnan; "that's a settled custom."

Milady held out her hand to him, which
he kissed tenderly.

"But," said he, as he retired as quickly
as possible from the reproaches of
Kitty, "I must not play the fool.  This
woman is certainly a great liar.  I must
take care."



37 MILADY'S SECRET

D'Artagnan left the hotel instead of
going up at once to Kitty's chamber, as
she endeavored to persuade him to
do--and that for two reasons: the first,
because by this means he should escape
reproaches, recriminations, and prayers;
the second, because be was not sorry to
have an opportunity of reading his own
thoughts and endeavoring, if possible,
to fathom those of this woman.

What was most clear in the matter was
that D'Artagnan loved Milady like a
madman, and that she did not love him at
all. In an instant D'Artagnan perceived
that the best way in which he could act
would be to go home and write Milady a
long letter, in which he would confess
to her that he and De Wardes were, up to
the present moment absolutely the same,
and that consequently he could not
undertake, without committing suicide,
to kill the Comte de Wardes.  But he
also was spurred on by a ferocious
desire of vengeance.  He wished to
subdue this woman in his own name; and
as this vengeance appeared to him to
have a certain sweetness in it, he could
not make up his mind to renounce it.

He walked six or seven times round the
Place Royale, turning at every ten steps
to look at the light in Milady's
apartment, which was to be seen through
the blinds.  It was evident that this
time the young woman was not in such
haste to retire to her apartment as she
had been the first.

At length the light disappeared.  With
this light was extinguished the last
irresolution in the heart of D'Artagnan.
He recalled to his mind the details of
the first night, and with a beating
heart and a brain on fire he re-entered
the hotel and flew toward Kitty's
chamber.

The poor girl, pale as death and
trembling in all her limbs, wished to
delay her lover; but Milady, with her
ear on the watch, had heard the noise
D'Artagnan had made, and opening the
door, said, "Come in."

All this was of such incredible
immodesty, of such monstrous effrontery,
that D'Artagnan could scarcely believe
what he saw or what he heard.  He
imagined himself to be drawn into one of
those fantastic intrigues one meets in
dreams.  He, however, darted not the
less quickly toward Milady, yielding to
that magnetic attraction which the
loadstone exercises over iron.

As the door closed after them Kitty
rushed toward it. Jealousy, fury,
offended pride, all the passions in
short that dispute the heart of an
outraged woman in love, urged her to
make a revelation; but she reflected
that she would be totally lost if she
confessed having assisted in such a
machination, and above all, that
D'Artagnan would also be lost to her
forever.  This last thought of love
counseled her to make this last
sacrifice.

D'Artagnan, on his part, had gained the
summit of all his wishes.  It was no
longer a rival who was beloved; it was
himself who was apparently beloved.  A
secret voice whispered to him, at the
bottom of his heart, that he was but an
instrument of vengeance, that he was
only caressed till he had given death;
but pride, but self-love, but madness
silenced this voice and stifled its
murmurs.  And then our Gascon, with that
large quantity of conceit which we know
he possessed, compared himself with De
Wardes, and asked himself why, after
all, he should not be beloved for
himself?

He was absorbed entirely by the
sensations of the moment. Milady was no
longer for him that woman of fatal
intentions who had for a moment
terrified him; she was an ardent,
passionate mistress, abandoning herself
to love which she also seemed to feel. 
Two hours thus glided away.  When the
transports of the two lovers were
calmer, Milady, who had not the same
motives for forgetfulness that
D'Artagnan had, was the first to return
to reality, and asked the young man if
the means which were on the morrow to
bring on the encounter between him and
De Wardes were already arranged in his
mind.

But D'Artagnan, whose ideas had taken
quite another course, forgot himself
like a fool, and answered gallantly that
it was too late to think about duels and
sword thrusts.

This coldness toward the only interests
that occupied her mind terrified Milady,
whose questions became more pressing.

Then D'Artagnan, who had never seriously
thought of this impossible duel,
endeavored to turn the conversation; but
he could not succeed.  Milady kept him
within the limits she had traced
beforehand with her irresistible spirit
and her iron will.

D'Artagnan fancied himself very cunning
when advising Milady to renounce, by
pardoning De Wardes, the furious
projects she had formed.

But at the first word the young woman
started, and exclaimed in a sharp,
bantering tone. which sounded strangely
in the darkness, "Are you afraid, dear
Monsieur D'Artagnan?"

"You cannot think so, dear love!"
replied D'Artagnan; "but now, suppose
this poor Comte de Wardes were less
guilty than you think him?"

"At all events," said Milady, seriously,
"he has deceived me, and from the moment
he deceived me, he merited death."

"He shall die, then, since you condemn
him!" said D'Artagnan, in so firm a tone
that it appeared to Milady an undoubted
proof of devotion.  This reassured her.

We cannot say how long the night seemed
to Milady, but D'Artagnan believed it to
be hardly two hours before the daylight
peeped through the window blinds, and
invaded the chamber with its paleness. 
Seeing D'Artagnan about to leave her,
Milady recalled his promise to avenge
her on the Comte de Wardes.

"I am quite ready," said D'Artagnan;
"but in the first place I should like to
be certain of one thing."

"And what is that?" asked Milady.

"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," replied D'Artagnan, "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!" cried Milady, "you are
such a valiant man, and such an expert
swordsman."

"You would not, then, prefer a method,"
resumed D'Artagnan, "which would equally
avenge you while rendering the combat
useless?"

Milady looked at her lover in silence. 
The pale light of the first rays of day
gave to her clear eyes a strangely
frightful expression.

"Really," said she, "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?" asked
Milady, sharply.

"At least, I am now at liberty to
believe, without too much fatuity, that
you love another," said the young man,
in a caressing tone, "and I repeat that
I am really interested for the count."

"You?" asked Milady.

"Yes, I."

"And why YOU?"

"Because I alone know--"

"What?"

"That he is far from being, or rather
having been, so guilty toward you as he
appears."

"Indeed!" said Milady, in an anxious
tone; "explain yourself, for I really
cannot tell what you mean."

And she looked at D'Artagnan, who
embraced her tenderly, with eyes which
seemed to burn themselves away.

"Yes; I am a man of honor," said
D'Artagnan, determined to come to an
end, "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."

D'Artagnan tried with his sweetest smile
to touch his lips to Milady's, but she
evaded him.

"This confession," said she, growing
paler, "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," said Milady,
in a tone of voice so firm, and with a
countenance so unchanged, that if
D'Artagnan had not been in such perfect
possession of the fact, he would have
doubted.

"Do not lie, my angel," said D'Artagnan,
smiling; "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."

The imprudent young man expected a
surprise, mixed with shame--a slight
storm which would resolve itself into
tears; but he was strangely deceived,
and his error was not of long duration.

Pale and trembling, Milady repulsed
D'Artagnan's attempted embrace by a
violent blow on the chest, as she sprang
out of bed.

It was almost broad daylight.

D'Artagnan detained her by her night
dress of fine India linen, to implore
her pardon; but she, with a strong
movement, tried to escape.  Then the
cambric was torn from her beautiful
shoulders; and on one of those lovely
shoulders, round and white, D'Artagnan
recognized, with inexpressible
astonishment, the FLEUR-DE-LIS--that
indelible mark which the hand of the
infamous executioner had imprinted.

"Great God!" cried D'Artagnan, loosing
his hold of her dress, and remaining
mute, motionless, and frozen.

But Milady felt herself denounced even
by his terror.  He had doubtless seen
all.  The young man now knew her secret,
her terrible secret--the secret she
concealed even from her maid with such
care, the secret of which all the world
was ignorant, except himself.

She turned upon him, no longer like a
furious woman, but like a wounded
panther.

"Ah, wretch!" cried she, "you have
basely betrayed me, and still more, you
have my secret!  You shall die."

And she flew to a little inlaid casket
which stood upon the dressing table,
opened it with a feverish and trembling
band, drew from it a small poniard, with
a golden haft and a sharp thin blade,
and then threw herself with a bound upon
D'Artagnan.

Although the young man was brave, as we
know, he was terrified at that wild
countenance, those terribly dilated
pupils, those pale cheeks, and those
bleeding lips.  He recoiled to the other
side of the room as he would have done
from a serpent which was crawling toward
him, and his sword coming in contact
with his nervous hand, he drew it almost
unconsciously from the scabbard.  But
without taking any heed of the sword,
Milady endeavored to get near enough to
him to stab him, and did not stop till
she felt the sharp point at her throat.

She then tried to seize the sword with
her hands; but D'Artagnan kept it free
from her grasp, and presenting the
point, sometimes at her eyes, sometimes
at her breast, compelled her to glide
behind the bedstead, while he aimed at
making his retreat by the door which led
to Kitty's apartment.

Milady during this time continued to
strike at him with horrible fury,
screaming in a formidable way.

As all this, however, bore some
resemblance to a duel, D'Artagnan began
to recover himself little by little.

"Well, beautiful lady, very well," said
be; "but, PARDIEU, if you don't calm
yourself, I will design a second
FLEUR-DE-LIS upon one of those pretty
checks!"

"Scoundrel, infamous scoundrel!" howled
Milady.

But D'Artagnan, still keeping on the
defensive, drew near to Kitty's door. 
At the noise they made, she in
overturning the furniture in her efforts
to get at him, he in screening himself
behind the furniture to keep out of her
reach, Kitty opened the door. 
D'Artagnan, who had unceasingly
maneuvered to gain this point, was not
at more than three paces from it.  With
one spring he flew from the chamber of
Milady into that of the maid, and quick
as lightning, he slammed to the door,
and placed all his weight against it,
while Kitty pushed the bolts.

Then Milady attempted to tear down the
doorcase, with a strength apparently
above that of a woman; but finding she
could not accomplish this, she in her
fury stabbed at the door with her
poniard, the point of which repeatedly
glittered through the wood. Every blow
was accompanied with terrible
imprecations.

"Quick, Kitty, quick!" said D'Artagnan,
in a low voice, as soon as the bolts
were fast, "let me get out of the hotel;
for if we leave her time to turn round,
she will have me killed by the
servants."

"But you can't go out so," said Kitty;
"you are naked."

"That's true," said D'Artagnan, then
first thinking of the costume he found
himself in, "that's true.  But dress me
as well as you are able, only make
haste; think, my dear girl, it's life
and death!"

Kitty was but too well aware of that. 
In a turn of the hand she muffled him up
in a flowered robe, a large hood, and a
cloak.  She gave him some slippers, in
which he placed his naked feet, and then
conducted him down the stairs.  It was
time.  Milady had already rung her bell,
and roused the whole hotel.  The porter
was drawing the cord at the moment
Milady cried from her window, "Don't
open!"

The young man fled while she was still
threatening him with an impotent
gesture.  The moment she lost sight of
him, Milady tumbled fainting into her
chamber.



38 HOW, WIHTOUT INCOMMODING HIMSELF,
ATHOS PROCURES HIS EQUIPMENT

D'Artagnan was so completely bewildered
that without taking any heed of what
might become of Kitty he ran at full
speed across half Paris, and did not
stop till he came to Athos's door.  The
confusion of his mind, the terror which
spurred him on, the cries of some of the
patrol who started in pursuit of him,
and the hooting of the people who,
notwithstanding the early hour, were
going to their work, only made him
precipitate his course.

He crossed the court, ran up the two
flights to Athos's apartment, and
knocked at the door enough to break it
down.

Grimaud came, rubbing his half-open
eyes, to answer this noisy summons, and
D'Artagnan sprang with such violence
into the room as nearly to overturn the
astonished lackey.

In spite of his habitual silence, the
poor lad this time found his speech.

"Holloa, there!" cried he; "what do you
want, you strumpet? What's your business
here, you hussy?"

D'Artagnan threw off his hood, and
disengaged his hands from the folds of
the cloak.  At sight of the mustaches
and the naked sword, the poor devil
perceived he had to deal with a man.  He
then concluded it must be an assassin.

"Help! murder! help!" cried he.

"Hold your tongue, you stupid fellow!"
said the young man; "I am D'Artagnan;
don't you know me?  Where is your
master?"

"You, Monsieur D'Artagnan!" cried
Grimaud, "impossible."

"Grimaud," said Athos, coming out of his
apartment in a dressing gown, "Grimaud,
I thought I heard you permitting
yourself to speak?"

"Ah, monsieur, it is--"

"Silence!"

Grimaud contented himself with pointing
D'Artagnan out to his master with his
finger.

Athos recognized his comrade, and
phlegmatic as he was, he burst into a
laugh which was quite excused by the
strange masquerade before his
eyes--petticoats falling over his shoes,
sleeves tucked up, and mustaches stiff
with agitation.

"Don't laugh, my friend!" cried
D'Artagnan; "for heaven's sake, don't
laugh, for upon my soul, it's no
laughing matter!"

And he pronounced these words with such
a solemn air and with such a real
appearance of terror, that Athos eagerly
seized his hand, crying, "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!" and D'Artagnan rushed into
Athos's chamber.

"Come, speak!" said the latter, closing
the door and bolting it, that they might
not be disturbed.  "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," said D'Artagnan, getting rid of
his female garments, and appearing in
his shirt, "prepare yourself to hear an
incredible, an unheard-of story."

"Well, but put on this dressing gown
first," said the Musketeer to his
friend.

D'Artagnan donned the robe as quickly as
he could, mistaking one sleeve for the
other, so greatly was he still agitated.

"Well?" said Athos.

"Well," replied D'Artagnan, bending his
mouth to Athos's ear, and lowering his
voice, "Milady is marked with a
FLEUR-DE-LIS upon her shoulder!"

"Ah!" cried the Musketeer, as if he had
received a ball in his heart.

"Let us see," said D'Artagnan.  "Are you
SURE that the OTHER is dead?"

"THE OTHER?" said Athos, in so stifled a
voice that D'Artagnan scarcely heard
him.

"Yes, she of whom you told me one day at
Amiens."

Athos uttered a groan, and let his head
sink on his hands.

"This is a woman of twenty-six or
twenty-eight years."

"Fair," said Athos, "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?"

"Yes."

"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?"

"Yes."

"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," said Athos.

"A tigress, a panther! Ah, my dear
Athos, I am greatly afraid I have drawn
a terrible vengeance on both of us!"

D'Artagnan then related all--the mad
passion of Milady and her menaces of
death.

"You are right; and upon my soul, I
would give my life for a hair," said
Athos.  "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?" said Athos.  "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," said D'Artagnan, "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," said Athos, "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," replied
D'Artagnan, "I cannot go thither in this
guise."

"That's true," said Athos, and he rang
the bell.

Grimaud entered.

Athos made him a sign to go to
D'Artagnan's residence, and bring back
some clothes.  Grimaud replied by
another sign that be understood
perfectly, and set off.

"All this will not advance your outfit,"
said Athos; "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, 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."

Athos smiled.

"You are a capital companion,
D'Artagnan," said be; "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," said
D'Artagnan.

At this moment Grimaud returned,
accompanied by Planchet; the latter,
anxious about his master and curious to
know what had happened to him, had taken
advantage of the opportunity and brought
the garments himself.


D'Artagnan dressed himself, and Athos
did the same.  When the two were ready
to go out, the latter made Grimaud the
sign of a man taking aim, and the lackey
immediately took down his musketoon, and
prepared to follow his master.

They arrived without accident at the Rue
des Fossoyeurs. Bonacieux was standing
at the door, and looked at D'Artagnan
hatefully.

"Make haste, dear lodger," said he;
"there is a very pretty girl waiting for
you upstairs; and you know women don't
like to be kept waiting."

"That's Kitty!" said D'Artagnan to
himself, and darted into the passage.

Sure enough! Upon the landing leading to
the chamber, and crouching against the
door, he found the poor girl, all in a
tremble.  As soon as she perceived him,
she cried, "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," said
D'Artagnan; "be at ease, my girl.  But
what happened after my departure?"

"How can I tell!" said Kitty.  "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," aid D'Artagnan.

"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," said Athos; "but why not
Porthos?  I should have thought that his
duchess--"

"Oh, Porthos's duchess is dressed by her
husband's clerks," said D'Artagnan,
laughing.  "Besides, Kitty would not
like to live in the Rue aux Ours.  Isn't
it so, Kitty?"

"I do not care where I live," said
Kitty, "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,"
said Kitty, "I shall always love you."

"Where the devil will constancy niche
itself next?" murmured Athos.

"And I, also," said D'Artagnan, "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?" cried Athos, with an accent like
that of a man who perceives he is about
to tread upon an adder.

"You, to be sure!" said D'Artagnan,
pressing Athos's hand. "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," continued
D'Artagnan, "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."

Athos went down and returned
immediately.

"He has gone," said he, "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," said
Athos, "and leave nobody here but
Planchet to bring us news."

"A minute.  Aramis, whom we have sent
for!"

"That's true," said Athos; "we must wait
for Aramis."

At that moment Aramis entered.

The matter was all explained to him, and
the friends gave him to understand that
among all his high connections he must
find a place for Kitty.

Aramis reflected for a minute, and then
said, coloring, "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," said Aramis, "this falls out
very well."

He placed himself at the table and wrote
a little note which he sealed with a
ring, and gave the billet to Kitty.

"And now, my dear girl," said
D'Artagnan, "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," said Kitty,
"you will find me loving you as I love
you today."

"Dicers' oaths!" said Athos, while
D'Artagnan went to conduct Kitty
downstairs.

An instant afterward the three young men
separated, agreeing to meet again at
four o'clock with Athos, and leaving
Planchet to guard the house.

Aramis returned home, and Athos and
D'Artagnan busied themselves about
pledging the sapphire.

As the Gascon had foreseen, they easily
obtained three hundred pistoles on the
ring.  Still further, the Jew told them
that if they would sell it to him, as it
would make a magnificent pendant for
earrings, he would give five hundred
pistoles for it.

Athos and D'Artagnan, with the activity
of two soldiers and the knowledge of two
connoisseurs, hardly required three
hours to purchase the entire equipment
of the Musketeer. Besides, Athos was
very easy, and a noble to his fingers'
ends.  When a thing suited him he paid
the price demanded, without thinking to
ask for any abatement.  D'Artagnan would
have remonstrated at this; but Athos put
his hand upon his shoulder, with a
smile, and D'Artagnan understood that it
was all very well for such a little
Gascon gentleman as himself to drive a
bargain, but not for a man who had the
bearing of a prince.  The Musketeer met
with a superb Andalusian horse, black as
jet, nostrils of fire, legs clean and
elegant, rising six years.  He examined
him, and found him sound and without
blemish.  They asked a thousand livres
for him.

He might perhaps have been bought for
less; but while D'Artagnan was
discussing the price with the dealer,
Athos was counting out the money on the
table.

Grimaud had a stout, short Picard cob,
which cost three hundred livres.

But when the saddle and arms for Grimaud
were purchased, Athos had not a son left
of his hundred and fifty pistoles.
D'Artagnan offered his friend a part of
his share which he should return when
convenient.

But Athos only replied to this proposal
by shrugging his shoulders.

"How much did the Jew say he would give
for the sapphire if be purchased it?"
said Athos.

"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."

A half hour afterward, D'Artagnan
returned with the two thousand livres,
and without having met with any
accident.

It was thus Athos found at home
resources which he did not expect.



39 A VISION

At four o'clock the four friends were
all assembled with Athos.  Their anxiety
about their outfits had all disappeared,
and each countenance only preserved the
expression of its own secret
disquiet--for behind all present
happiness is concealed a fear for the
future.

Suddenly Planchet entered, bringing two
letters for D'Artagnan.

The one was a little billet, genteelly
folded, with a pretty seal in green wax
on which was impressed a dove bearing a
green branch.

The other was a large square epistle,
resplendent with the terrible arms of
his Eminence the cardinal duke.

At the sight of the little letter the
heart of D'Artagnan bounded, for he
believed he recognized the handwriting,
and although he had seen that writing
but once, the memory of it remained at
the bottom of his heart.

He therefore seized the little epistle,
and opened it eagerly.


"Be," said the letter, "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."

No signature.


"That's a snare," said Athos; "don't go,
D'Artagnan."

"And yet," replied D'Artagnan, "I think
I recognize the writing."

"It may be counterfeit," said Athos. 
"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," said
D'Artagnan; "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," said
Porthos.

"But if it is a woman who writes," said
Aramis, "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," said
Porthos, "and he will advance alone."

"Yes; but a pistol shot is easily fired
from a carriage which goes at a gallop."

"Bah!" said D'Artagnan, "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," said Porthos; "battle. 
Besides, we must try our own arms."

"Bah, let us enjoy that pleasure," said
Aramis, with his mild and careless
manner.

"As you please," said Athos.

"Gentlemen," said D'Artagnan, "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," said Porthos, "and that
will be a pity.  Let us get ready,
gentlemen."

"But this second letter," said Athos,
"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."

D'Artagnan blushed.

"Well," said he, "let us see, gentlemen,
what are his Eminence's commands," and
D'Artagnan unsealed the letter and read,


"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!" said Athos; "here's a
rendezvous much more serious than the
other."

"I will go to the second after attending
the first," said D'Artagnan.  "One is
for seven o'clock, and the other for
eight; there will be time for both."

"Hum!  I would not go at all," said
Aramis.  "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," said
Porthos.

"Gentlemen," replied D'Artagnan, "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," said Athos, "do
so."

"But the Bastille?" said Aramis.

"Bah! you will get me out if they put me
there," said D'Artagnan.

"To be sure we will," replied Aramis and
Porthos, with admirable promptness and
decision, as if that were the simplest
thing in the world, "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," said
Athos; "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 Treville must
think us dead."

"To a certainty, Athos," said Aramis,
"you were meant to be a general of the
army!  What do you think of the plan,
gentlemen?"

"Admirable!" replied the young men in
chorus.

"Well," said Porthos, "I will run to the
hotel, 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," said D'Artagnan; "but
that is of no consequence, I can take
one of Monsieur de Treville's."

"That is not worth while," said Aramis,
"you can have one of mine."

"One of yours! how many have you, then?"
asked D'Artagnan.

"Three," replied Aramis, smiling.

"Certes," cried Athos, "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," said
Aramis.

"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," interrupted
D'Artagnan.

"That makes no difference," said Aramis,
coloring; "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," said Athos, gravely.

"Well, in that case, we can manage
famously," said D'Artagnan; "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," interrupted
D'Artagnan.

"Or the mysterious benefactress," said
Athos.

"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," said D'Artagnan, taking the sum
from his pocket; "I know that is the
coin in which you were paid for your
poems."

"You are rich, then?" said Aramis.

"Rich?  Richest, my dear fellow!"

And D'Artagnan chinked the remainder of
his pistoles in his pocket.

"Send your saddle, then, to the hotel of
the Musketeers, and your horse can be
brought back with ours."

"Very well; but it is already five
o'clock, so make haste."

A quarter of an hour afterward Porthos
appeared at the end of the Rue Ferou on
a very handsome genet.  Mousqueton
followed him upon an Auvergne horse,
small but very handsome.  Porthos was
resplendent with joy and pride.

At the same time, Aramis made his
appearance at the other end of the
street upon a superb English charger. 
Bazin followed him upon a roan, holding
by the halter a vigorous Mecklenburg
horse; this was D'Artagnan mount.

The two Musketeers met at the gate. 
Athos and D'Artagnan watched their
approach from the window.

"The devil!" cried Aramis, "you have a
magnificent horse there, Porthos."

"Yes," replied Porthos, "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."

Planchet and Grimaud appeared in their
turn, leading their masters' steeds. 
D'Artagnan and Athos put themselves into
saddle with their companions, and all
four set forward; Athos upon a horse he
owed to a woman, Aramis on a horse he
owed to his mistress, Porthos on a horse
he owed to his procurator's wife, and
D'Artagnan on a horse he owed to his
good fortune--the best mistress
possible.

The lackeys followed.

As Porthos had foreseen, the cavalcade
produced a good effect; and if Mme. 
Coquenard had met Porthos and seen what
a superb appearance he made upon his
handsome Spanish genet, she would not
have regretted the bleeding she had
inflicted upon the strongbox of her
husband.

Near the Louvre the four friends met
with M. de Treville, who was returning
from St. Germain; he stopped them to
offer his compliments upon their
appointments, which in an instant drew
round them a hundred gapers.

D'Artagnan profited by the circumstance
to speak to M. de Treville of the letter
with the great red seal and the
cardinal's arms.  It is well understood
that he did not breathe a word about the
other.

M. de Treville approved of the
resolution he had adopted, and assured
him that if on the morrow he did not
appear, he himself would undertake to
find him, let him be where he might.

At this moment the clock of La
Samaritaine struck six; the four friends
pleaded an engagement, and took leave of
M. de Treville.

A short gallop brought them to the road
of Chaillot; the day began to decline,
carriages were passing and repassing.
D'Artagnan, keeping at some distance
from his friends, darted a scrutinizing
glance into every carriage that
appeared, but saw no face with which he
was acquainted.

At length, after waiting a quarter of an
hour and just as twilight was beginning
to thicken, a carriage appeared, coming
at a quick pace on the road of Sevres. 
A presentiment instantly told D'Artagnan
that this carriage contained the person
who had appointed the rendezvous; the
young man was himself astonished to find
his heart beat so violently.  Almost
instantly a female head was put out at
the window, with two fingers placed upon
her mouth, either to enjoin silence or
to send him a kiss.  D'Artagnan uttered
a slight cry of joy; this woman, or
rather this apparition--for the carriage
passed with the rapidity of a
vision--was Mme. Bonacieux.

By an involuntary movement and in spite
of the injunction given, D'Artagnan put
his horse into a gallop, and in a few
strides overtook the carriage; but the
window was hermetically closed, the
vision had disappeared.

D'Artagnan then remembered the
injunction: "If you value your own life
or that of those who love you, remain
motionless, and as if you had seen
nothing."

He stopped, therefore, trembling not for
himself but for the poor woman who had
evidently exposed herself to great
danger by appointing this rendezvous.

The carriage pursued its way, still
going at a great pace, till it dashed
into Paris, and disappeared.

D'Artagnan remained fixed to the spot,
astounded and not knowing what to think.
If it was Mme.  Bonacieux and if she was
returning to Paris, why this fugitive
rendezvous, why this simple exchange of
a glance, why this lost kiss?  If, on
the other side, it was not she--which
was still quite possible--for the little
light that remained rendered a mistake
easy--might it not be the commencement
of some plot against him through the
allurement of this woman, for whom his
love was known?

His three companions joined him.  All
had plainly seen a woman's head appear
at the window, but none of them, except
Athos, knew Mme.  Bonacieux.  The
opinion of Athos was that it was indeed
she; but less preoccupied by that pretty
face than D'Artagnan, he had fancied he
saw a second head, a man's head, inside
the carriage.

"If that be the case," said D'Artagnan,
"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," said Athos, gravely, "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!" added he, with that
misanthropic tone which was peculiar to
him, "perhaps sooner than you wish."

Half past seven had sounded.  The
carriage had been twenty minutes behind
the time appointed.  D'Artagnan's
friends reminded him that he had a visit
to pay, but at the same time bade him
observe that there was yet time to
retract.

But D'Artagnan was at the same time
impetuous and curious. He had made up
his mind that he would go to the
Palais-Cardinal, and that he would learn
what his Eminence had to say to him. 
Nothing could turn him from his purpose.

They reached the Rue St. Honore, and in
the Place du Palais-Cardinal they found
the twelve invited Musketeers, walking
about in expectation of their comrades. 
There only they explained to them the
matter in hand.

D'Artagnan was well known among the
honorable corps of the king's
Musketeers, in which it was known he
would one day take his place; he was
considered beforehand as a comrade. It
resulted from these antecedents that
everyone entered heartily into the
purpose for which they met; besides, it
would not be unlikely that they would
have an opportunity of playing either
the cardinal or his people an ill turn,
and for such expeditions these worthy
gentlemen were always ready.

Athos divided them into three groups,
assumed the command of one, gave the
second to Aramis, and the third to
Porthos; and then each group went and
took their watch near an entrance.

D'Artagnan, on his part, entered boldly
at the principal gate.

Although he felt himself ably supported,
the young man was not without a little
uneasiness as he ascended the great
staircase, step by step.  His conduct
toward Milady bore a strong resemblance
to treachery, and he was very suspicious
of the political relations which existed
between that woman and the cardinal. 
Still further, De Wardes, whom he had
treated so ill, was one of the tools of
his Eminence; and D'Artagnan knew that
while his Eminence was terrible to his
enemies, he was strongly attached to his
friends.

"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," said
D'Artagnan, shaking his head.  "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," added he, "my good
friends are down yonder, and they will
not allow me to be carried away without
a struggle.  Nevertheless, Monsieur de
Treville'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!"

He came to this melancholy conclusion as
he entered the antechamber.  He placed
his letter in the hands of the usher on
duty, who led him into the waiting room
and passed on into the interior of the
palace.

In this waiting room were five or six of
the cardinals Guards, who recognized
D'Artagnan, and knowing that it was he
who had wounded Jussac, they looked upon
him with a smile of singular meaning.

This smile appeared to D'Artagnan to be
of bad augury. Only, as our Gascon was
not easily intimidated--or rather,
thanks to a great pride natural to the
men of his country, he did not allow one
easily to see what was passing in his
mind when that which was passing at all
resembled fear--he placed himself
haughtily in front of Messieurs the
Guards, and waited with his hand on his
hip, in an attitude by no means
deficient in majesty.

The usher returned and made a sign to
D'Artagnan to follow him.  It appeared
to the young man that the Guards, on
seeing him depart, chuckled among
themselves.

He traversed a corridor, crossed a grand
saloon, entered a library, and found
himself in the presence of a man seated
at a desk and writing.

The usher introduced him, and retired
without speaking a word.  D'Artagnan
remained standing and examined this man.

D'Artagnan at first believed that he had
to do with some judge examining his
papers; but he perceived that the man at
the desk wrote, or rather corrected,
lines of unequal length, scanning the
words on his fingers.  He saw then that
he was with a poet.  At the end of an
instant the poet closed his manuscript,
upon the cover of which was written
"Mirame, a Tragedy in Five Acts," and
raised his head.

D'Artagnan recognized the cardinal.



40 A Terrible Vision

The cardinal leaned his elbow on his
manuscript, his cheek upon his hand, and
looked intently at the young man for a
moment.  No one had a more searching eye
than the Cardinal de Richelieu, and
D'Artagnan felt this glance run through
his veins like a fever.

He however kept a good countenance,
holding his hat in his hand and awaiting
the good pleasure of his Eminence,
without too much assurance, but also
without too much humility.

"Monsieur," said the cardinal, "are you
a D'Artagnan from Bearn?"

"Yes, monseigneur," replied the young
man.

"There are several branches of the
D'Artagnans at Tarbes and in its
environs," said the cardinal; "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," said D'Artagnan, "this
was what happened to me--"

"Never mind, never mind!" resumed the
cardinal, with a smile which indicated
that he knew the story as well as he who
wished to relate it.  "You were
recommended to Monsieur de Treville,
were you not?"

"Yes, monseigneur; but in that
unfortunate affair at Meung--"

"The letter was lost," replied his
Eminence; "yes, I know that.  But
Monsieur de Treville 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,"
said D'Artagnan.

"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," said D'Artagnan, quite
confused, "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."

D'Artagnan placed his hand upon the
queen's diamond, which he wore, and
quickly turned the stone inward; but it
was too late.

"The day after that, you received a
visit from Cavois," resumed the
cardinal.  "He went to desire you to
come to the palace.  You have not
returned that visit, and you were
wrong."

"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."

That was the very evening when the
abduction of Mme. Bonacieux took place. 
D'Artagnan trembled; and he likewise
recollected that during the past half
hour the poor woman had passed close to
him, without doubt carried away by the
same power that had caused her
disappearance.

"In short," continued the cardinal, "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."

D'Artagnan bowed with respect.

"That," continued the cardinal, "arose
not only from a feeling of natural
equity, but likewise from a plan I have
marked out with respect to you."

D'Artagnan became more and more
astonished.

"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."  And the cardinal pointed
with his finger to a chair for the young
man, who was so astonished at what was
passing that he awaited a second sign
from his interlocutor before he obeyed.

"You are brave, Monsieur d'Artagnan,"
continued his Eminence; "you are
prudent, which is still better.  I like
men of head and heart.  Don't be
afraid," said he, smiling. "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!" replied the young
man, "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," said D'Artagnan.

"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," replied D'Artagnan, with
an embarrassed air.

"How?  You refuse?" cried the cardinal,
with astonishment.

"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."

D'Artagnan colored.

"In fact," said the cardinal, placing
his hand upon a bundle of papers, "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," replied D'Artagnan, "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--"

D'Artagnan paused.

"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?" asked the
cardinal, with a smile of disdain.

"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," said the cardinal, with a
tone of vexation, through which,
however, might be seen a sort of esteem;
"remain free, then, and guard your
hatreds and your sympathies."

"Monseigneur--"

"Well, well," said the cardinal, "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,"
replied the Gascon, with a noble
confidence.

"Remember at a later period and at a
certain moment, if any mischance should
happen to you," said Richelieu,
significantly, "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," said D'Artagnan, placing his
hand upon his breast and bowing, "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," replied the cardinal,
pointing with his finger to a
magnificent suit of armor he was to
wear, "and on our return, well--we will
settle our account!"

"Young man," said Richelieu, "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."

This last expression of Richelieu's
conveyed a terrible doubt; it alarmed
D'Artagnan more than a menace would have
done, for it was a warning.  The
cardinal, then, was seeking to preserve
him from some misfortune which
threatened him. He opened his mouth to
reply, but with a haughty gesture the
cardinal dismissed him.

D'Artagnan went out, but at the door his
heart almost failed him, and he felt
inclined to return.  Then the noble and
severe countenance of Athos crossed his
mind; if he made the compact with the
cardinal which he required, Athos would
no more give him his hand--Athos would
renounce him.

It was this fear that restrained him, so
powerful is the influence of a truly
great character on all that surrounds
it.

D'Artagnan descended by the staircase at
which he had entered, and found Athos
and the four Musketeers waiting his
appearance, and beginning to grow
uneasy.  With a word, D'Artagnan
reassured them; and Planchet ran to
inform the other sentinels that it was
useless to keep guard longer, as his
master had come out safe from the
Palais-Cardinal.

Returned home with Athos, Aramis and
Porthos inquired eagerly the cause of
the strange interview; but D'Artagnan
confined himself to telling them that M.
de Richelieu had sent for him to propose
to him to enter into his guards with the
rank of ensign, and that he had refused.

"And you were right," cried Aramis and
Porthos, with one voice.

Athos fell into a profound reverie and
answered nothing. But when they were
alone he said, "You have done that which
you ought to have done, D'Artagnan; but
perhaps you have been wrong."

D'Artagnan sighed deeply, for this voice
responded to a secret voice of his soul,
which told him that great misfortunes
awaited him.

The whole of the next day was spent in
preparations for departure.  D'Artagnan
went to take leave of M. de Treville. At
that time it was believed that the
separation of the Musketeers and the
Guards would be but momentary, the king
holding his Parliament that very day and
proposing to set out the day after.  M.
de Treville contented himself with
asking D'Artagnan if he could do
anything for him, but D'Artagnan
answered that he was supplied with all
he wanted.

That night brought together all those
comrades of the Guards of M. Dessessart
and the company of Musketeers of M. de
Treville who had been accustomed to
associate together. They were parting to
meet again when it pleased God, and if
it pleased God.  That night, then, was
somewhat riotous, as may be imagined. 
In such cases extreme preoccupation is
only to be combated by extreme
carelessness.

At the first sound of the morning
trumpet the friends separated; the
Musketeers hastening to the hotel of M.
de Treville, the Guards to that of M.
Dessessart.  Each of the captains then
led his company to the Louvre, where the
king held his review

The king was dull and appeared ill,
which detracted a little from his usual
lofty bearing.  In fact, the evening
before, a fever had seized him in the
midst of the Parliament, while he was
holding his Bed of Justice.  He had, not
the less, decided upon setting out that
same evening; and in spite of the
remonstrances that had been offered to
him, he persisted in having the review,
hoping by setting it at defiance to
conquer the disease which began to lay
hold upon him.

The review over, the Guards set forward
alone on their march, the Musketeers
waiting for the king, which allowed
Porthos time to go and take a turn in
his superb equipment in the Rue aux
Ours.

The procurator's wife saw him pass in
his new uniform and on his fine horse. 
She loved Porthos too dearly to allow
him to part thus; she made him a sign to
dismount and come to her.  Porthos was
magnificent; his spurs jingled, his
cuirass glittered, his sword knocked
proudly against his ample limbs.  This
time the clerks evinced no inclination
to laugh, such a real ear clipper did
Porthos appear.

The Musketeer was introduced to M.
Coquenard, whose little gray eyes
sparkled with anger at seeing his cousin
all blazing new.  Nevertheless, one
thing afforded him inward consolation;
it was expected by everybody that the
campaign would be a severe one.  He
whispered a hope to himself that this
beloved relative might be killed in the
field.

Porthos paid his compliments to M.
Coquenard and bade him farewell.  M.
Coquenard wished him all sorts of
prosperities.  As to Mme. Coquenard, she
could not restrain her tears; but no
evil impressions were taken from her
grief as she was known to be very much
attached to her relatives, about whom
she was constantly having serious
disputes with her husband.

But the real adieux were made in Mme.
Coquenard's chamber; they were
heartrending.

As long as the procurator's wife could
follow him with her eyes, she waved her
handkerchief to him, leaning so far out
of the window as to lead people to
believe she wished to precipitate
herself.  Porthos received all these
attentions like a man accustomed to such
demonstrations, only on turning the
corner of the street he lifted his hat
gracefully, and waved it to her as a
sign of adieu.

On his part Aramis wrote a long letter. 
To whom?  Nobody knew.  Kitty, who was
to set out that evening for Tours, was
waiting in the next chamber.

Athos sipped the last bottle of his
Spanish wine.

In the meantime D'Artagnan was defiling
with his company. Arriving at the
Faubourg St. Antoine, he turned round to
look gaily at the Bastille; but as it
was the Bastille alone he looked at, he
did not observe Milady, who, mounted
upon a light chestnut horse, designated
him with her finger to two ill-looking
men who came close up to the ranks to
take notice of him.  To a look of
interrogation which they made, Milady
replied by a sign that it was he.  Then,
certain that there could be no mistake
in the execution of her orders, she
started her horse and disappeared.

The two men followed the company, and on
leaving the aubourg St. Antoine, mounted
two horses properly equipped, which a
servant without livery had waiting for
them.



41 THE SEIGE OF LA ROCHELLE

The Siege of La Rochelle was one of the
great political events of the reign of
Louis XIII, and one of the great
military enterprises of the cardinal. 
It is, then, interesting and even
necessary that we should say a few words
about it, particularly as many details
of this siege are connected in too
important a manner with the story we
have undertaken to relate to allow us to
pass it over in silence.

The political plans of the cardinal when
he undertook this siege were extensive. 
Let us unfold them first, and then pass
on to the private plans which perhaps
had not less influence upon his Eminence
than the others.

Of the important cities given up by
Henry IV to the Huguenots as places of
safety, there only remained La Rochelle.
It became necessary, therefore, to
destroy this last bulwark of
Calvinism--a dangerous leaven with which
the ferments of civil revolt and foreign
war were constantly mingling.

Spaniards, Englishmen, and Italian
malcontents, adventurers of all nations,
and soldiers of fortune of every sect,
flocked at the first summons under the
standard of the Protestants, and
organized themselves like a vast
association, whose branches diverged
freely over all parts of Europe.

La Rochelle, which had derived a new
importance from the ruin of the other
Calvinist cities, was, then, the focus
of dissensions and ambition.  Moreover,
its port was the last in the kingdom of
France open to the English, and by
closing it against England, our eternal
enemy, the cardinal completed the work
of Joan of Arc and the Duc de Guise.

Thus Bassompierre, who was at once
Protestant and Catholic--Protestant by
conviction and Catholic as commander of
the order of the Holy Ghost;
Bassompierre, who was a German by birth
and a Frenchman at heart--in short,
Bassompierre, who had a distinguished
command at the siege of La Rochelle,
said, in charging at the head of several
other Protestant nobles like himself,
"You will see, gentlemen, that we shall
be fools enough to take La Rochelle."

And Bassompierre was right.  The
cannonade of the Isle of Re presaged to
him the dragonnades of the Cevennes; the
taking of La Rochelle was the preface to
the revocation of the Edict of Nantes.

We have hinted that by the side of these
views of the leveling and simplifying
minister, which belong to history, the
chronicler is forced to recognize the
lesser motives of the amorous man and
jealous rival.

Richelieu, as everyone knows, had loved
the queen.  Was this love a simple
political affair, or was it naturally
one of those profound passions which
Anne of Austria inspired in those who
approached her?  That we are not able to
say; but at all events, we have seen, by
the anterior developments of this story,
that Buckingham had the advantage over
him, and in two or three circumstances,
particularly that of the diamond studs,
had, thanks to the devotedness of the
three Musketeers and the courage and
conduct of D'Artagnan, cruelly mystified
him.

It was, then, Richelieu's object, not
only to get rid of an enemy of France,
but to avenge himself on a rival; but
this vengeance must be grand and
striking and worthy in every way of a
man who held in his hand, as his weapon
for combat, the forces of a kingdom.

Richelieu knew that in combating England
he combated Buckingham; that in
triumphing over England he triumphed
over Buckingham--in short, that in
humiliating England in the eyes of
Europe he humiliated Buckingham in the
eyes of the queen.

On his side Buckingham, in pretending to
maintain the honor of England, was moved
by interests exactly like those of the
cardinal.  Buckingham also was pursuing
a private vengeance. Buckingham could
not under any pretense be admitted into
France as an ambassador; he wished to
enter it as a conqueror.

It resulted from this that the real
stake in this game, which two most
powerful kingdoms played for the good
pleasure of two amorous men, was simply
a kind look from Anne of Austria.

The first advantage had been gained by
Buckingham.  Arriving unexpectedly in
sight of the Isle of Re with ninety
vessels and nearly twenty thousand men,
he had surprised the Comte de Toiras,
who commanded for the king in the Isle,
and he had, after a bloody conflict,
effected his landing.

Allow us to observe in passing that in
this fight perished the Baron de
Chantal; that the Baron de Chantal left
a little orphan girl eighteen months
old, and that this little girl was
afterward Mme. de Sevigne.

The Comte de Toiras retired into the
citadel St. Martin with his garrison,
and threw a hundred men into a little
fort called the fort of La Pree.

This event had hastened the resolutions
of the cardinal; and till the king and
he could take the command of the siege
of La Rochelle, which was determined, he
had sent Monsieur to direct the first
operations, and had ordered all the
troops he could dispose of to march
toward the theater of war.  It was of
this detachment, sent as a vanguard,
that our friend D'Artagnan formed a
part.

The king, as we have said, was to follow
as soon as his Bed of Justice had been
held; but on rising from his Bed of
Justice on the twenty-eighth of June, he
felt himself attacked by fever.  He was,
notwithstanding, anxious to set out; but
his illness becoming more serious, he
was forced to stop at Villeroy.

Now, whenever the king halted, the
Musketeers halted.  It followed that
D'Artagnan, who was as yet purely and
simply in the Guards, found himself, for
the time at least, separated from his
good friends--Athos, Porthos, and
Aramis. This separation, which was no
more than an unpleasant circumstance,
would have certainly become a cause of
serious uneasiness if he had been able
to guess by what unknown dangers he was
surrounded.

He, however, arrived without accident in
the camp established before La Rochelle,
of the tenth of the month of September
of the year 1627.

Everything was in the same state.  The
Duke of Buckingham and his English,
masters of the Isle of Re, continued to
besiege, but without success, the
citadel St. Martin and the fort of La
Pree; and hostilities with La Rochelle
had commenced, two or three days before,
about a fort which the Duc d'Angouleme
had caused to be constructed near the
city.

The Guards, under the command of M.
Dessessart, took up their quarters at
the Minimes; but, as we know,
D'Artagnan, possessed with ambition to
enter the Musketeers, had formed but few
friendships among his comrades, and he
felt himself isolated and given up to
his own reflections.

His reflections were not very cheerful. 
From the time of his arrival in Paris,
he had been mixed up with public
affairs; but his own private affairs had
made no great progress, either in love
or fortune.  As to love, the only woman
he could have loved was Mme. Bonacieux;
and Mme. Bonacieux had disappeared,
without his being able to discover what
had become of her.  As to fortune, he
had made--he, humble as he was--an enemy
of the cardinal; that is to say, of a
man before whom trembled the greatest
men of the kingdom, beginning with the
king.

That man had the power to crush him, and
yet he had not done so.  For a mind so
perspicuous as that of D'Artagnan, this
indulgence was a light by which he
caught a glimpse of a better future.

Then he had made himself another enemy,
less to be feared, he thought; but
nevertheless, he instinctively felt, not
to be despised.  This enemy was Milady.

In exchange for all this, he had
acquired the protection and good will of
the queen; but the favor of the queen
was at the present time an additional
cause of persecution, and her
protection, as it was known, protected
badly--as witness Chalais and Mme.
Bonacieux.

What he had clearly gained in all this
was the diamond, worth five or six
thousand livres, which he wore on his
finger; and even this diamond--supposing
that D'Artagnan, in his projects of
ambition, wished to keep it, to make it
someday a pledge for the gratitude of
the queen--had not in the meanwhile,
since he could not part with it, more
value than the gravel he trod under his
feet.

We say the gravel he trod under his
feet, for D'Artagnan made these
reflections while walking solitarily
along a pretty little road which led
from the camp to the village of
Angoutin.  Now, these reflections had
led him further than he intended, and
the day was beginning to decline when,
by the last ray of the setting sun, he
thought he saw the barrel of a musket
glitter from behind a hedge.

D'Artagnan had a quick eye and a prompt
understanding.  He comprehended that the
musket had not come there of itself, and
that he who bore it had not concealed
himself behind a hedge with any friendly
intentions.  He determined, therefore,
to direct his course as clear from it as
he could when, on the opposite side of
the road, from behind a rock, he
perceived the extremity of another
musket.

This was evidently an ambuscade.

The young man cast a glance at the first
musket and saw, with a certain degree of
inquietude, that it was leveled in his
direction; but as soon as he perceived
that the orifice of the barrel was
motionless, he threw himself upon the
ground.  At the same instant the gun was
fired, and he heard the whistling of a
ball pass over his head.

No time was to be lost.  D'Artagnan
sprang up with a bound, and at the same
instant the ball from the other musket
tore up the gravel on the very spot on
the road where he had thrown himself
with his face to the ground.

D'Artagnan was not one of those
foolhardy men who seek a ridiculous
death in order that it may be said of
them that they did not retreat a single
step.  Besides, courage was out of the
question here; D'Artagnan had fallen
into an ambush.

"If there is a third shot," said he to
himself, "I am a lost man."

He immediately, therefore, took to his
heels and ran toward the camp, with the
swiftness of the young men of his
country, so renowned for their agility;
but whatever might be his speed, the
first who fired, having had time to
reload, fired a second shot, and this
time so well aimed that it struck his
hat, and carried it ten paces from him.

As he, however, had no other hat, he
picked up this as he ran, and arrived at
his quarters very pale and quite out of
breath.  He sat down without saying a
word to anybody, and began to reflect.

This event might have three causes:

The first and the most natural was that
it might be an ambuscade of the
Rochellais, who might not be sorry to
kill one of his Majesty's Guards,
because it would be an enemy the less,
and this enemy might have a
well-furnished purse in his pocket.

D'Artagnan took his hat, examined the
hole made by the ball, and shook his
head.  The ball was not a musket
ball--it was an arquebus ball.  The
accuracy of the aim had first given him
the idea that a special weapon had been
employed.  This could not, then, be a
military ambuscade, as the ball was not
of the regular caliber.

This might be a kind remembrance of
Monsieur the Cardinal. It may be
observed that at the very moment when,
thanks to the ray of the sun, he
perceived the gun barrel, he was
thinking with astonishment on the
forbearance of his Eminence with respect
to him.

But D'Artagnan again shook his head. 
For people toward whom he had but to put
forth his hand, his Eminence had rarely
recourse to such means.

It might be a vengeance of Milady; that
was most probable.

He tried in vain to remember the faces
or dress of the assassins; he had
escaped so rapidly that he had not had
leisure to notice anything.

"Ah, my poor friends!" murmured
D'Artagnan; "where are you? And that you
should fail me!"

D'Artagnan passed a very bad night. 
Three or four times he started up,
imagining that a man was approaching his
bed for the purpose of stabbing him. 
Nevertheless, day dawned without
darkness having brought any accident.

But D'Artagnan well suspected that that
which was deferred was not relinquished.

D'Artagnan remained all day in his
quarters, assigning as a reason to
himself that the weather was bad.

At nine o'clock the next morning, the
drums beat to arms. The Duc d'Orleans
visited the posts.  The guards were
under arms, and D'Artagnan took his
place in the midst of his comrades.

Monsieur passed along the front of the
line; then all the superior officers
approached him to pay their compliments,
M. Dessessart, captain of the Guards, as
well as the others.

At the expiration of a minute or two, it
appeared to D'Artagnan that M.
Dessessart made him a sign to approach.
He waited for a fresh gesture on the
part of his superior, for fear he might
be mistaken; but this gesture being
repeated, he left the ranks, and
advanced to receive orders.

"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!" replied
D'Artagnan, who wished for nothing
better than an opportunity to
distinguish himself under the eye of the
lieutenant general.

In fact the Rochellais had made a sortie
during the night, and had retaken a
bastion of which the royal army had
gained possession two days before.  The
matter was to ascertain, by
reconnoitering, how the enemy guarded
this bastion.

At the end of a few minutes Monsieur
raised his voice, and said, "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," said
M. Dessessart, pointing to D'Artagnan;
"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!" said D'Artagnan,
raising his sword.

Two of his comrades of the Guards
immediately sprang forward, and two
other soldiers having joined them, the
number was deemed sufficient. 
D'Artagnan declined all others, being
unwilling to take the first chance from
those who had the priority.

It was not know whether, after the
taking of the bastion, the Rochellais
had evacuated it or left a garrison in
it; the object then was to examine the
place near enough to verify the reports.

D'Artagnan set out with his four
companions, and followed the trench; the
two Guards marched abreast with him, and
the two soldiers followed behind.

They arrived thus, screened by the
lining of the trench, till they came
within a hundred paces of the bastion.
There, on turning round, D'Artagnan
perceived that the two soldiers had
disappeared.

He thought that, beginning to be afraid,
they had stayed behind, and he continued
to advance.

At the turning of the counterscarp they
found themselves within about sixty
paces of the bastion.  They saw no one,
and the bastion seemed abandoned.

The three composing our forlorn hope
were deliberating whether they should
proceed any further, when all at once a
circle of smoke enveloped the giant of
stone, and a dozen balls came whistling
around D'Artagnan and his companions.

They knew all they wished to know; the
bastion was guarded. A longer stay in
this dangerous spot would have been
useless imprudence.  D'Artagnan and his
two companions turned their backs, and
commenced a retreat which resembled a
flight.

On arriving at the angle of the trench
which was to serve them as a rampart,
one of the Guardsmen fell.  A ball had
passed through his breast.  The other,
who was safe and sound, continued his
way toward the camp.

D'Artagnan was not willing to abandon
his companion thus, and stooped to raise
him and assist him in regaining the
lines; but at this moment two shots were
fired.  One ball struck the head of the
already-wounded guard, and the other
flattened itself against a rock, after
having passed within two inches of
D'Artagnan.

The young man turned quickly round, for
this attack could not have come from the
bastion, which was hidden by the angle
of the trench.  The idea of the two
soldiers who had abandoned him occurred
to his mind, and with them he remembered
the assassins of two evenings before. 
He resolved this time to know with whom
he had to deal, and fell upon the body
of his comrade as if he were dead.

He quickly saw two heads appear above an
abandoned work within thirty paces of
him; they were the heads of the two
soldiers.  D'Artagnan had not been
deceived; these two men had only
followed for the purpose of
assassinating him, hoping that the young
man's death would be placed to the
account of the enemy.

As he might be only wounded and might
denounce their crime, they came up to
him with the purpose of making sure.
Fortunately, deceived by D'Artagnan's
trick, they neglected to reload their
guns.

When they were within ten paces of him,
D'Artagnan, who in falling had taken
care not to let go his sword, sprang up
close to them.

The assassins comprehended that if they
fled toward the camp without having
killed their man, they should be accused
by him; therefore their first idea was
to join the enemy.  One of them took his
gun by the barrel, and used it as he
would a club.  He aimed a terrible blow
at D'Artagnan, who avoided it by
springing to one side; but by this
movement he left a passage free to the
bandit, who darted off toward the
bastion.  As the Rochellais who guarded
the bastion were ignorant of the
intentions of the man they saw coming
toward them, they fired upon him, and he
fell, struck by a ball which broke his
shoulder.

Meantime D'Artagnan had thrown himself
upon the other soldier, attacking him
with his sword.  The conflict was not
long; the wretch had nothing to defend
himself with but his discharged
arquebus.  The sword of the Guardsman
slipped along the barrel of the
now-useless weapon, and passed through
the thigh of the assassin, who fell.

D'Artagnan immediately placed the point
of his sword at his throat.

"Oh, do not kill me!" cried the bandit. 
"Pardon, pardon, my officer, and I will
tell you all."

"Is your secret of enough importance to
me to spare your life for it?" asked the
young man, withholding his arm.

"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," cried D'Artagnan, "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!" said the young man,
laughing, "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?" said the soldier, uneasy
at perceiving that all was not over.

"That you will go and fetch me the
letter your comrade has in his pocket."

"But," cried the bandit, "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!"
cried the bandit, throwing himself upon
his knees and leaning upon his hand--for
he began to lose his strength with his
blood.

"And how do you know there is a young
woman whom I love, and that I believed
that woman dead?" asked D'Artagnan.

"By that letter which my comrade has in
his pocket."

"You see, then," said D'Artagnan, "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--" and at these words
D'Artagnan made so fierce a gesture that
the wounded man sprang up.

"Stop, stop!" cried he, regaining
strength by force of terror.  "I will
go--I will go!"

D'Artagnan took the soldier's arquebus,
made him go on before him, and urged him
toward his companion by pricking him
behind with his sword.

It was a frightful thing to see this
wretch, leaving a long track of blood on
the ground he passed over, pale with
approaching death, trying to drag
himself along without being seen to the
body of his accomplice, which lay twenty
paces from him.

Terror was so strongly painted on his
face, covered with a cold sweat, that
D'Artagnan took pity on him, and casting
upon him a look of contempt, "Stop,"
said he, "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."

And with a light step, an eye on the
watch, observing the movements of the
enemy and taking advantage of the
accidents of the ground, D'Artagnan
succeeded in reaching the second
soldier.

There were two means of gaining his
object--to search him on the spot, or to
carry him away, making a buckler of his
body, and search him in the trench.

D'Artagnan preferred the second means,
and lifted the assassin onto his
shoulders at the moment the enemy fired.

A slight shock, the dull noise of three
balls which penetrated the flesh, a last
cry, a convulsion of agony, proved to
D'Artagnan that the would-be assassin
had saved his life.

D'Artagnan regained the trench, and
threw the corpse beside the wounded man,
who was as pale as death.

Then he began to search.  A leather
pocketbook, a purse, in which was
evidently a part of the sum which the
bandit had received, with a dice box and
dice, completed the possessions of the
dead man.

He left the box and dice where they
fell, threw the purse to the wounded
man, and eagerly opened the pocketbook.

Among some unimportant papers he found
the following letter, that which he had
sought at the risk of his life:


"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."


No signature.  Nevertheless it was plain
the letter came from Milady.  He
consequently kept it as a piece of
evidence, and being in safety behind the
angle of the trench, he began to
interrogate the wounded man.  He
confessed that he had undertaken with
his comrade--the same who was killed--to
carry off a young woman who was to leave
Paris by the Barriere de La Villette;
but having stopped to drink at a
cabaret, they had missed the carriage by
ten minutes.

"But what were you to do with that
woman?" asked D'Artagnan, with anguish.

"We were to have conveyed her to a hotel
in the Place Royale," said the wounded
man.

"Yes, yes!" murmured D'Artagnan; "that's
the place--Milady's own residence!"

Then the young man tremblingly
comprehended what a terrible thirst for
vengeance urged this woman on to destroy
him, as well as all who loved him, and
how well she must be acquainted with the
affairs of the court, since she had
discovered all.  There could be no doubt
she owed this information to the
cardinal.

But amid all this he perceived, with a
feeling of real joy, that the queen must
have discovered the prison in which poor
Mme. Bonacieux was explaining her
devotion, and that she had freed her
from that prison; and the letter he had
received from the young woman, and her
passage along the road of Chaillot like
an apparition, were now explained.

Then also, as Athos had predicted, it
became possible to find Mme. Bonacieux,
and a convent was not impregnable.

This idea completely restored clemency
to his heart.  He turned toward the
wounded man, who had watched with
intense anxiety all the various
expressions of his countenance, and
holding out his arm to him, said, "Come,
I will not abandon you thus.  Lean upon
me, and let us return to the camp."

"Yes," said the man, who could scarcely
believe in such magnanimity, "but is it
not to have me hanged?"

"You have my word," said he; "for the
second time I give you your life."

The wounded man sank upon his knees, to
again kiss the feet of his preserver;
but D'Artagnan, who had no longer a
motive for staying so near the enemy,
abridged the testimonials of his
gratitude.

The Guardsman who had returned at the
first discharge announced the death of
his four companions.  They were
therefore much astonished and delighted
in the regiment when they saw the young
man come back safe and sound.

D'Artagnan explained the sword wound of
his companion by a sortie which he
improvised.  He described the death of
the other soldier, and the perils they
had encountered.  This recital was for
him the occasion of veritable triumph. 
The whole army talked of this expedition
for a day, and Monsieur paid him his
compliments upon it.  Besides this, as
every great action bears its recompense
with it, the brave exploit of D'Artagnan
resulted in the restoration of the
tranquility he had lost.  In fact,
D'Artagnan believed that he might be
tranquil, as one of his two enemies was
killed and the other devoted to his
interests.

This tranquillity proved one thing--that
D'Artagnan did not yet know Milady.



42 THE ANJOU WINE

After the most disheartening news of the
king's health, a report of his
convalescence began to prevail in the
camp; and as he was very anxious to be
in person at the siege, it was said that
as soon as he could mount a horse he
would set forward.

Meantime, Monsieur, who knew that from
one day to the other he might expect to
be removed from his command by the Duc
d'Angouleme, by Bassompierre, or by
Schomberg, who were all eager for his
post, did but little, lost his days in
wavering, and did not dare to attempt
any great enterprise to drive the
English from the Isle of Re, where they
still besieged the citadel St. Martin
and the fort of La Pree, as on their
side the French were besieging La
Rochelle.

D'Artagnan, as we have said, had become
more tranquil, as always happens after a
post danger, particularly when the
danger seems to have vanished.  He only
felt one uneasiness, and that was at not
hearing any tidings from his friends.

But one morning at the commencement of
the month of November everything was
explained to him by this letter, dated
from Villeroy:


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,

Godeau, Purveyor of the Musketeers


"That's all well!" cried D'Artagnan. 
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."

And D'Artagnan went among those
Guardsmen with whom he had formed
greater intimacy than with the others,
to invite them to enjoy with him this
present of delicious Anjou wine which
had been sent him from Villeroy.

One of the two Guardsmen was engaged
that evening, and another the next, so
the meeting was fixed for the day after
that.

D'Artagnan, on his return, sent the
twelve bottles of wine to the
refreshment room of the Guards, with
strict orders that great care should be
taken of it; and then, on the day
appointed, as the dinner was fixed for
midday D'Artagnan sent Planchet at nine
in the morning to assist in preparing
everything for the entertainment.

Planchet, very proud of being raised to
the dignity of landlord, thought he
would make all ready, like an
intelligent man; and with this view
called in the assistance of the lackey
of one of his master's guests, named
Fourreau, and the false soldier who had
tried to kill D'Artagnan and who,
belonging to no corps, had entered into
the service of D'Artagnan, or rather of
Planchet, after D'Artagnan had saved his
life.

The hour of the banquet being come, the
two guards arrived, took their places,
and the dishes were arranged on the
table.  Planchet waited, towel on arm;
Fourreau uncorked the bottles; and
Brisemont, which was the name of the
convalescent, poured the wine, which was
a little shaken by its journey,
carefully into decanters.  Of this wine,
the first bottle being a little thick at
the bottom, Brisemont poured the lees
into a glass, and D'Artagnan desired him
to drink it, for the poor devil had not
yet recovered his strength.

The guests having eaten the soup, were
about to lift the first glass of wine to
their lips, when all at once the cannon
sounded from Fort Louis and Fort Neuf. 
The Guardsmen, imagining this to be
caused by some unexpected attack, either
of the besieged or the English, sprang
to their swords.  D'Artagnan, not less
forward than they, did likewise, and all
ran out, in order to repair to their
posts.

But scarcely were they out of the room
before they were made aware of the cause
of this noise.  Cries of "Live the king!
Live the cardinal!" resounded on every
side, and the drums were beaten in all
directions.

In short, the king, impatient, as has
been said, had come by forced marches,
and had that moment arrived with all his
household and a reinforcement of ten
thousand troops.  His Musketeers
proceeded and followed him.  D'Artagnan,
placed in line with his company, saluted
with an expressive gesture his three
friends, whose eyes soon discovered him,
and M. de Treville, who detected him at
once.

The ceremony of reception over, the four
friends were soon in one another's arms.

"Pardieu!" cried D'Artagnan, "you could
not have arrived in better time; the
dinner cannot have had time to get cold!
Can it, gentlemen?" added the young man,
turning to the two Guards, whom he
introduced to his friends.

"Ah, ah!" said Porthos, "it appears we
are feasting!"

"I hope," said Aramis, "there are no
women at your dinner."

"Is there any drinkable wine in your
tavern?" asked Athos.

"Well, pardieu! there is yours, my dear
friend," replied D'Artagnan.

"Our wine!" said Athos, astonished.

"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?" said
Porthos.

"Not exactly, it is the wine that was
sent by your order."

"On our account?" said the three
Musketeers.

"Did you send this wine, Aramis?" said
Athos.

"No; and you, Porthos?"

"No; and you, Athos?"

"No!"

"If it was not you, it was your
purveyor," said D'Artagnan.

"Our purveyor!"

"Yes, your purveyor, Godeau--the
purveyor of the Musketeers."

"My faith! never mind where it comes
from," said Porthos, "let us taste it,
and if it is good, let us drink it."

"No," said Athos; "don't let us drink
wine which comes from an unknown
source."

"You are right, Athos," said D'Artagnan.
"Did none of you charge your purveyor,
Godeau, to send me some wine?"

"No!  And yet you say he has sent you
some as from us?"

"Here is his letter," said D'Artagnan,
and he presented the note to his
comrades.

"This is not his writing!" said Athos. 
"I am acquainted with it; before we left
Villeroy I settled the accounts of the
regiment."

"A false letter altogether," said
Porthos, "we have not been disciplined."

"D'Artagnan," said Aramis, in a
reproachful tone, "how could you believe
that we had made a disturbance?"

D'Artagnan grew pale, and a convulsive
trembling shook all his limbs.

"Thou alarmest me!" said Athos, who
never used thee and thou but upon very
particular occasions, "what has
happened?"

"Look you, my friends!" cried
D'Artagnan, "a horrible suspicion
crosses my mind!  Can this be another
vengeance of that woman?"

It was now Athos who turned pale.

D'Artagnan rushed toward the refreshment
room, the three Musketeers and the two
Guards following him.

The first object that met the eyes of
D'Artagnan on entering the room was
Brisemont, stretched upon the ground and
rolling in horrible convulsions.

Planchet and Fourreau, as pale as death,
were trying to give him succor; but it
was plain that all assistance was
useless--all the features of the dying
man were distorted with agony.

"Ah!" cried he, on perceiving
D'Artagnan, "ah! this is frightful!  You
pretend to pardon me, and you poison
me!"

"I!" cried D'Artagnan.  "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," said
D'Artagnan; "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," said D'Artagnan,
throwing himself down by the dying man,
"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," cried the
soldier, and he expired amid horrible
tortures.

"Frightful! frightful!" murmured Athos,
while Porthos broke the bottles and
Aramis gave orders, a little too late,
that a confessor should be sent for."

"Oh, my friends," said D'Artagnan, "you
come once more to save my life, not only
mine but that of these gentlemen.
Gentlemen," continued he, addressing the
Guardsmen, "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!" stammered Planchet, more
dead than alive, "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!" said Fourreau, whose teeth
chattered with terror, "I wanted to get
him out of the way that I might drink
myself."

"Gentlemen," said D'Artagnan, addressing
the Guardsmen, "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."

The two Guardsmen courteously accepted
D'Artagnan's excuses, and perceiving
that the four friends desired to be
alone, retired.

When the young Guardsman and the three
Musketeers were without witnesses, they
looked at one another with an air which
plainly expressed that each of them
perceived the gravity of their
situation.

"In the first place," said Athos, "let
us leave this chamber; the dead are not
agreeable company, particularly when
they have died a violent death."

"Planchet," said D'Artagnan, "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."

And the four friends quit the room,
leaving to Planchet and Fourreau the
duty of paying mortuary honors to
Brisemont.

The host gave them another chamber, and
served them with fresh eggs and some
water, which Athos went himself to draw
at the fountain.  In a few words,
Porthos and Aramis were posted as to the
situation.

"Well," said D'Artagnan to Athos, "you
see, my dear friend, that this is war to
the death."

Athos shook his head.

"Yes, yes," replied he, "I perceive that
plainly; but do you really believe it is
she?"

"I am sure of it."

"Nevertheless, I confess I still doubt."

"But the fleur-de-lis on her shoulder?"

"She is some Englishwoman who has
committed a crime in France, and has
been branded in consequence."

"Athos, she is your wife, I tell you,"
repeated D'Artagnan; "only reflect how
much the two descriptions resemble each
other."

"Yes; but I should think the other must
be dead, I hanged her so effectually."

It was D'Artagnan who now shook his head
in his turn.

"But in either case, what is to be
done?" said the young man.

"The fact is, one cannot remain thus,
with a sword hanging eternally over his
head," said Athos.  "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," said
D'Artagnan, "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!" said Athos.  "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," asked he, in
an undertone.

"What she?" asked Athos.

"Constance."

"Madame Bonacieux!  Ah, that's true!"
said Athos.  "My poor friend, I had
forgotten you were in love."

"Well, but," said Aramis, "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," cried Athos, "good!  Yes, my
dear Aramis, we all know that your views
have a religious tendency."

"I am only temporarily a Musketeer,"
said Aramis, humbly.

"It is some time since we heard from his
mistress," said Athos, in a low voice. 
"But take no notice; we know all about
that."

"Well," said Porthos, "it appears to me
that the means are very simple."

"What?" asked D'Artagnan.

"You say she is in a convent?" replied
Porthos.

"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," said Porthos.

"But I think I have it," said Athos. 
"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!" said Porthos, placing a finger
on his lips.  "I believe her to be a
cardinalist; she must know nothing of
the matter."

"Then," said Aramis, "I take upon myself
to obtain intelligence of her."

"You, Aramis?" cried the three friends. 
"You!  And how?"

"By the queen's almoner, to whom I am
very intimately allied," said Aramis,
coloring.

And on this assurance, the four friends,
who had finished their modest repast,
separated, with the promise of meeting
again that evening.  D'Artagnan returned
to less important affairs, and the three
Musketeers repaired to the king's
quarters, where they had to prepare
their lodging.



43 The Sign of the Red Dovecot

Meanwhile the king, who, with more
reason than the cardinal, showed his
hatred for Buckingham, although scarcely
arrived was in such a haste to meet the
enemy that he commanded every
disposition to be made to drive the
English from the Isle of Re, and
afterward to press the siege of La
Rochelle; but notwithstanding his
earnest wish, he was delayed by the
dissensions which broke out between MM.
Bassompierre and Schomberg, against the
Duc d'Angouleme.

MM. Bassompierre and Schomberg were
marshals of France, and claimed their
right of commanding the army under the
orders of the king; but the cardinal,
who feared that Bassompierre, a Huguenot
at heart, might press but feebly the
English and Rochellais, his brothers in
religion, supported the Duc d'Angouleme,
whom the king, at his instigation, had
named lieutenant general.  The result
was that to prevent MM. Bassompierre and
Schomberg from deserting the army, a
separate command had to be given to
each.  Bassompierre took up his quarters
on the north of the city, between Leu
and Dompierre; the Duc d'Angouleme on
the east, from Dompierre to Perigny; and
M. de Schomberg on the south, from
Perigny to Angoutin.

The quarters of Monsieur were at
Dompierre; the quarters of the king were
sometimes at Estree, sometimes at
Jarrie; the cardinal's quarters were
upon the downs, at the bridge of La
Pierre, in a simple house without any
entrenchment.  So that Monsieur watched
Bassompierre; the king, the Duc
d'Angouleme; and the cardinal, M. de
Schomberg.

As soon as this organization was
established, they set about driving the
English from the Isle.

The juncture was favorable.  The
English, who require, above everything,
good living in order to be good
soldiers, only eating salt meat and bad
biscuit, had many invalids in their
camp.  Still further, the sea, very
rough at this period of the year all
along the sea coast, destroyed every day
some little vessel; and the shore, from
the point of l'Aiguillon to the
trenches, was at every tide literally
covered with the wrecks of pinnacles,
roberges, and feluccas.  The result was
that even if the king's troops remained
quietly in their camp, it was evident
that some day or other, Buckingham, who
only continued in the Isle from
obstinacy, would be obliged to raise the
siege.

But as M. de Toiras gave information
that everything was preparing in the
enemy's camp for a fresh assault, the
king judged that it would be best to put
an end to the affair, and gave the
necessary orders for a decisive action.

As it is not our intention to give a
journal of the siege, but on the
contrary only to describe such of the
events of it as are connected with the
story we are relating, we will content
ourselves with saying in two words that
the expedition succeeded, to the great
astonishment of the king and the great
glory of the cardinal.  The English,
repulsed foot by foot, beaten in all
encounters, and defeated in the passage
of the Isle of Loie, were obliged to
re-embark, leaving on the field of
battle two thousand men, among whom were
five colonels, three lieutenant
colonels, two hundred and fifty
captains, twenty gentlemen of rank, four
pieces of cannon, and sixty flags, which
were taken to Paris by Claude de St.
Simon, and suspended with great pomp in
the arches of Notre Dame.

Te Deums were chanted in camp, and
afterward throughout France.

The cardinal was left free to carry on
the siege, without having, at least at
the present, anything to fear on the
part of the English.

But it must be acknowledged, this
response was but momentary.  An envoy of
the Duke of Buckingham, named Montague,
was taken, and proof was obtained of a
league between the German Empire, Spain,
England, and Lorraine. This league was
directed against France.

Still further, in Buckingham's lodging,
which he had been forced to abandon more
precipitately than he expected, papers
were found which confirmed this alliance
and which, as the cardinal asserts in
his memoirs, strongly compromised Mme.
de Chevreuse and consequently the queen.

It was upon the cardinal that all the
responsibility fell, for one is not a
despotic minister without
responsibility. All, therefore, of the
vast resources of his genius were at
work night and day, engaged in listening
to the least report heard in any of the
great kingdoms of Europe.

The cardinal was acquainted with the
activity, and more particularly the
hatred, of Buckingham.  If the league
which threatened France triumphed, all
his influence would be lost.  Spanish
policy and Austrian policy would have
their representatives in the cabinet of
the Louvre, where they had as yet but
partisans; and he, Richelieu--the French
minister, the national minister--would
be ruined.  The king, even while obeying
him like a child, hated him as a child
hates his master, and would abandon him
to the personal vengeance of Monsieur
and the queen.  He would then be lost,
and France, perhaps, with him.  All this
must be prepared against.

Courtiers, becoming every instant more
numerous, succeeded one another, day and
night, in the little house of the bridge
of La Pierre, in which the cardinal had
established his residence.

There were monks who wore the frock with
such an ill grace that it was easy to
perceive they belonged to the church
militant; women a little inconvenienced
by their costume as pages and whose
large trousers could not entirely
conceal their rounded forms; and
peasants with blackened hands but with
fine limbs, savoring of the man of
quality a league off.

There were also less agreeable
visits--for two or three times reports
were spread that the cardinal had nearly
been assassinated.

It is true that the enemies of the
cardinal said that it was he himself who
set these bungling assassins to work, in
order to have, if wanted, the right of
using reprisals; but we must not believe
everything ministers say, nor everything
their enemies say.

These attempts did not prevent the
cardinal, to whom his most inveterate
detractors have never denied personal
bravery, from making nocturnal
excursions, sometimes to communicate to
the Duc d'Angouleme important orders,
sometimes to confer with the king, and
sometimes to have an interview with a
messenger whom he did not wish to see at
home.

On their part the Musketeers, who had
not much to do with the siege, were not
under very strict orders and led a
joyous life.  The was the more easy for
our three companions in particular; for
being friends of M. de Treville, they
obtained from him special permission to
be absent after the closing of the camp.

Now, one evening when D'Artagnan, who
was in the trenches, was not able to
accompany them, Athos, Porthos, and
Aramis, mounted on their battle steeds,
enveloped in their war cloaks, with
their hands upon their pistol butts,
were returning from a drinking place
called the Red Dovecot, which Athos had
discovered two days before upon the
route to Jarrie, following the road
which led to the camp and quite on their
guard, as we have stated, for fear of an
ambuscade, when, about a quarter of a
league from the village of Boisnau, they
fancied they heard the sound of horses
approaching them.  They immediately all
three halted, closed in, and waited,
occupying the middle of the road.  In an
instant, and as the moon broke from
behind a cloud, they saw at a turning of
the road two horsemen who, on perceiving
them, stopped in their turn, appearing
to deliberate whether they should
continue their route or go back.  The
hesitation created some suspicion in the
three friends, and Athos, advancing a
few paces in front of the others, cried
in a firm voice, "Who goes there?"

"Who goes there, yourselves?" replied
one of the horsemen.

"That is not an answer," replied Athos. 
"Who goes there? Answer, or we charge."

"Beware of what you are about,
gentlemen!" said a clear voice which
seemed accustomed to command.

"It is some superior officer making his
night rounds," said Athos.  "What do you
wish, gentlemen?"

"Who are you?" said the same voice, in
the same commanding tone. "Answer in
your turn, or you may repent of your
disobedience."

"King's Musketeers," said Athos, more
and more convinced that he who
interrogated them had the right to do
so.

"What company?"

"Company of Treville."

"Advance, and give an account of what
you are doing here at this hour."

The three companions advanced rather
humbly--for all were now convinced that
they had to do with someone more
powerful than themselves--leaving Athos
the post of speaker.

One of the two riders, he who had spoken
second, was ten paces in front of his
companion.  Athos made a sign to Porthos
and Aramis also to remain in the rear,
and advanced alone.

"Your pardon, my officer," said Athos;
"but we were ignorant with whom we had
to do, and you may see that we were good
guard."

"Your name?" said the officer, who
covered a part of his face with his
cloak.

"But yourself, monsieur," said Athos,
who began to be annoyed by this
inquisition, "give me, I beg you, the
proof that you have the right to
question me."

"Your name?" repeated the cavalier a
second time, letting his cloak fall, and
leaving his face uncovered.

"Monsieur the Cardinal!" cried the
stupefied Musketeer.

"Your name?" cried his Eminence, for the
third time.

"Athos," said the Musketeer.

The cardinal made a sign to his
attendant, who drew near. "These three
Musketeers shall follow us," said he, in
an undertone.  "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," said
Athos; "require our parole, and give
yourself no uneasiness.  Thank God, we
can keep a secret."

The cardinal fixed his piercing eyes on
this courageous speaker.

"You have a quick ear, Monsieur Athos,"
said the cardinal; "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," said Athos, while
the two Musketeers who had remained
behind advanced hat in hand.

"I know you, gentlemen," said the
cardinal, "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."

The three Musketeers bowed to the necks
of their horses.

"Well, upon my honor," said Athos, "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?"
said the cardinal; "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?" said the cardinal, knitting
his brow.

"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,"
said the cardinal.  "Come, be frank,
gentlemen, you have settled accounts
with somebody! Confess; you know I have
the right of giving absolution."

"I, monseigneur?" said Athos.  "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," continued Athos, with
some hesitation, "he broke his thigh."

"Ah, ah!" said the cardinal; "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," said the cardinal; "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!" said the
cardinal, "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," said Athos. 
"and knowing there was a lady who had
arrived at the cabaret this evening,
they wanted to force her door."

"Force her door!" said the cardinal,
"and for what purpose?"

"To do her violence, without doubt,"
said Athos.  "I have had the honor of
informing your Eminence that these men
were drunk."

"And was this lady young and handsome?"
asked the cardinal, with a certain
degree of anxiety.

"We did not see her, monseigneur," said
Athos.

"You did not see her?  Ah, very well,"
replied the cardinal, quickly.  "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," said Athos, haughtily,
"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," added he, "to
change the conversation, was this lady
alone?"

"The lady had a cavalier shut up with
her," said Athos, "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,"
replied the cardinal.

Athos bowed.

"And now, gentlemen, that's well,"
continued the cardinal. "I know what I
wish to know; follow me."

The three Musketeers passed behind his
Eminence, who again enveloped his face
in his cloak, and put his horse in
motion, keeping from eight to ten paces
in advance of his four companions.

They soon arrived at the silent,
solitary inn.  No doubt the host knew
what illustrious visitor was expected,
and had consequently sent intruders out
of the way.

Ten paces from the door the cardinal
made a sign to his esquire and the three
Musketeers to halt.  A saddled horse was
fastened to the window shutter.  The
cardinal knocked three times, and in a
peculiar manner.

A man, enveloped in a cloak, came out
immediately, and exchanged some rapid
words with the cardinal; after which he
mounted his horse, and set off in the
direction of Surgeres, which was
likewise the way to Paris.

"Advance, gentlemen," said the cardinal.

"You have told me the truth, my
gentlemen," said he, addressing the
Musketeers, "and it will not be my fault
if our encounter this evening be not
advantageous to you.  In the meantime,
follow me."

The cardinal alighted; the three
Musketeers did likewise. The cardinal
threw the bridle of his horse to his
esquire; the three Musketeers fastened
the horses to the shutters.

The host stood at the door.  For him,
the cardinal was only an officer coming
to visit a lady.

"Have you any chamber on the ground
floor where these gentlemen can wait
near a good fire?" said the cardinal.

The host opened the door of a large
room, in which an old stove had just
been replaced by a large and excellent
chimney.

"I have this," said he.

"That will do," replied the cardinal. 
"Enter, gentlemen, and be kind enough to
wait for me; I shall not be more than
half an hour."

And while the three Musketeers entered
the ground floor room, the cardinal,
without asking further information,
ascended the staircase like a man who
has no need of having his road pointed
out to him.



44 THE UTILITY OF STOVEPIPES

It was evident that without suspecting
it, and actuated solely by their
chivalrous and adventurous character,
our three friends had just rendered a
service to someone the cardinal honored
with his special protection.

Now, who was that someone?  That was the
question the three Musketeers put to one
another.  Then, seeing that none of
their replies could throw any light on
the subject, Porthos called the host and
asked for dice.

Porthos and Aramis placed themselves at
the table and began to play.  Athos
walked about in a contemplative mood.

While thinking and walking, Athos passed
and repassed before the pipe of the
stove, broken in halves, the other
extremity passing into the chamber
above; and every time he passed and
repassed he heard a murmur of words,
which at length fixed his attention. 
Athos went close to it, and
distinguished some words that appeared
to merit so great an interest that he
made a sign to his friends to be silent,
remaining himself bent with his ear
directed to the opening of the lower
orifice.

"Listen, Milady," said the cardinal,
"the affair is important.  Sit down, and
let us talk it over."

"Milady!" murmured Athos.

"I listen to your Eminence with greatest
attention," replied a female voice which
made the Musketeer start.

"A small vessel with an English crew,
whose captain is on my side, awaits you
at the mouth of Charente, at fort of the
Point.  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."

There was an instant of profound silence
between the two interlocutors.  It was
evident that the cardinal was weighing
beforehand the terms in which he was
about to speak, and that Milady was
collecting all her intellectual
faculties to comprehend the things he
was about to say, and to engrave them in
her memory when they should be spoken.

Athos took advantage of this moment to
tell his two companions to fasten the
door inside, and to make them a sign to
come and listen with him.

The two Musketeers, who loved their
ease, brought a chair for each of
themselves and one for Athos.  All three
then sat down with their heads together
and their ears on the alert.

"You will go to London," continued the
cardinal.  "Arrived in London, you will
seek Buckingham."

"I must beg your Eminence to observe,"
said Milady, "that since the affair of
the diamond studs, about which the duke
always suspected me, his Grace distrusts
me."

"Well, this time," said the cardinal,
"it is not necessary to steal his
confidence, but to present yourself
frankly and loyally as a negotiator."

"Frankly and loyally," repeated Milady,
with an unspeakable expression of
duplicity.

"Yes, frankly and loyally," replied the
cardinal, in the same tone.  "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 Re, 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," said the cardinal, "that's
it.  You have an excellent memory,
Milady."

"But," resumed she to whom the cardinal
addressed this flattering compliment,
"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," replied Richelieu,
with great bitterness.  "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," said Milady, with a
persistence that proved she wished to
see clearly to the end of the mission
with which she was about to be charged,
"if he persists?"

"If he persists?" said the cardinal. 
"That is not probable."

"It is possible," said Milady.

"If he persists--" His Eminence made a
pause, and resumed: "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," said
Milady, "perhaps I should partake of
your confidence as to the future."

"Well, here, for example," said
Richelieu: "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," said the cardinal.

"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?" said Milady.

"Well," continued the cardinal, in an
indifferent tone, "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," said Milady, coolly, "such a
woman may be found."

"Well, such a woman, who would place the
knife of Jacques Clement 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 Clement 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?" asked Richelieu, in the tone
with which he would have put a question
of no importance.

"I, monseigneur?" replied Milady.  "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 Medicis, I should use less
precautions than I take, being simply
called Milady Clarik."

"That is just," said Richelieu.  "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," said Milady.

"Then the miserable fanatic must be
found who will serve as an instrument of
God's justice."

"He will be found."

"Well," said the cardinal, "then it will
be time to claim the order which you
just now required."

"Your Eminence is right," replied
Milady; "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 fete
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," replied the cardinal,
dryly.

"And now," said Milady, without
appearing to remark the change of the
duke's tone toward her--"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?" asked
Richelieu.

"Yes, monseigneur, enemies against whom
you owe me all your support, for I made
them by serving your Eminence."

"Who are they?" replied the duke.

"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," replied
Milady; "but the queen has obtained an
order from the king by means of which
she has been conveyed to a convent."

"To a convent?" said the duke.

"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," said the cardinal.

"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,"
cried Milady, carried away by her anger.
"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!" said the cardinal, "I know of
whom you speak."

"I mean that miserable D'Artagnan."

"He is a bold fellow," said the
cardinal.

"And it is exactly because he is a bold
fellow that he is the more to be
feared."

"I must have," said the duke, "a proof
of his connection with Buckingham."

"A proof?" cried Milady; "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!" said the cardinal, in a low
voice.  "Ah, pardieu!" continued he, "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," replied Milady, "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,"
replied the cardinal; "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," said the cardinal.

"Here they are, monseigneur."

There was a moment of silence, which
proved that the cardinal was employed in
seeking the terms in which he should
write the note, or else in writing it. 
Athos, who had not lost a word of the
conversation, took his two companions by
the hand, and led them to the other end
of the room.

"Well," said Porthos, "what do you want,
and why do you not let us listen to the
end of the conversation?"

"Hush!" said Athos, speaking in a low
voice.  "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!" said Porthos; "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," said Aramis.

"Be easy on that head," replied Athos;
"you know I am cool enough."

Porthos and Aramis resumed their places
by the stovepipe.

As to Athos, he went out without any
mystery, took his horse, which was tied
with those of his friends to the
fastenings of the shutters, in four
words convinced the attendant of the
necessity of a vanguard for their
return, carefully examined the priming
of his pistols, drew his sword, and
took, like a forlorn hope, the road to
the camp.



45 A CONJUGAL SCENE

As Athos had foreseen, it was not long
before the cardinal came down.  He
opened the door of the room in which the
Musketeers were, and found Porthos
playing an earnest game of dice with
Aramis.  He cast a rapid glance around
the room, and perceived that one of his
men was missing.

"What has become of Monseigneur Athos?"
asked he.

"Monseigneur," replied Porthos, "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."

The attendant was at the door, holding
the cardinal's horse by the bridle.  At
a short distance a group of two men and
three horses appeared in the shade. 
These were the two men who were to
conduct Milady to the fort of the Point,
and superintend her embarkation.

The attendant confirmed to the cardinal
what the two Musketeers had already said
with respect to Athos.  The cardinal
made an approving gesture, and retraced
his route with the same precautions he
had used incoming.

Let us leave him to follow the road to
the camp protected by his esquire and
the two Musketeers, and return to Athos.

For a hundred paces he maintained the
speed at which he started; but when out
of sight he turned his horse to the
right, made a circuit, and came back
within twenty paces of a high hedge to
watch the passage of the little troop.
Having recognized the laced hats of his
companions and the golden fringe of the
cardinal's cloak, he waited till the
horsemen had turned the angle of the
road, and having lost sight of them, he
returned at a gallop to the inn, which
was opened to him without hesitation.

The host recognized him.

"My officer," said Athos, "has forgotten
to give a piece of very important
information to the lady, and has sent me
back to repair his forgetfulness."

"Go up," said the host; "she is still in
her chamber."

Athos availed himself of the permission,
ascended the stairs with his lightest
step, gained the landing, and through
the open door perceived Milady putting
on her hat.

He entered the chamber and closed the
door behind him.  At the noise he made
in pushing the bolt, Milady turned
round.

Athos was standing before the door,
enveloped in his cloak, with his hat
pulled down over his eyes.  On seeing
this figure, mute and immovable as a
statue, Milady was frightened.

"Who are you, and what do you want?"
cried she.

"Humph," murmured Athos, "it is
certainly she!"

And letting fall his cloak and raising
his hat, he advanced toward Milady.

"Do you know me, madame?" said he.

Milady made one step forward, and then
drew back as if she had seen a serpent.

"So far, well," said Athos, "I perceive
you know me."

"The Comte de la Fere!" murmured Milady,
becoming exceedingly pale, and drawing
back till the wall prevented her from
going any farther.

"Yes, Milady," replied Athos; "the Comte
de la Fere 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."

Milady, under the influence of
inexpressible terror, sat down without
uttering a word.

"You certainly are a demon sent upon the
earth!" said Athos. "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!"

Milady at these words, which recalled
frightful remembrances, hung down her
head with a suppressed groan.

"Yes, hell has resuscitated you,"
continued Athos.  "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."

Milady arose as if moved by a powerful
spring, and her eyes flashed lightning. 
Athos remained sitting.

"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 Fere, 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," continued Athos,
laughing.  "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," said Milady, in a hollow, faint
voice, "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."

A smile of incredulity passed over the
pale lips of Milady.

"Listen!  It was you who cut off the two
diamond studs from the shoulder of the
Duke of Buckingham; it was you had the
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."

Milady was livid.

"You must be Satan!" cried she.

"Perhaps," said Athos; "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," said Milady, in a hollow
tone; "Monsieur d'Artagnan shall die!"

"Indeed!  Is it possible to insult you,
madame?" said Athos, laughing; "he has
insulted you, and he shall die!"

"He shall die!" replied Milady; "she
first, and he afterward."

Athos was seized with a kind of vertigo.
The sight of this creature, who had
nothing of the woman about her, recalled
awful remembrances.  He thought how one
day, in a less dangerous situation than
the one in which he was now placed, he
had already endeavored to sacrifice her
to his honor. His desire for blood
returned, burning his brain and
pervading his frame like a raging fever;
he arose in his turn, reached his hand
to his belt, drew forth a pistol, and
cocked it.

Milady, pale as a corpse, endeavored to
cry out; but her swollen tongue could
utter no more than a hoarse sound which
had nothing human in it and resembled
the rattle of a wild beast.  Motionless
against the dark tapestry, with her hair
in disorder, she appeared like a horrid
image of terror.

Athos slowly raised his pistol,
stretched out his arm so that the weapon
almost touched Milady's forehead, and
then, in a voice the more terrible from
having the supreme calmness of a fixed
resolution, "Madame," said he, "you will
this instant deliver to me the paper the
cardinal signed; or upon my soul, I will
blow your brains out."

With another man, Milady might have
preserved some doubt; but she knew
Athos.  Nevertheless, she remained
motionless.

"You have one second to decide," said
he.

Milady saw by the contraction of his
countenance that the trigger was about
to be pulled; she reached her hand
quickly to her bosom, drew out a paper,
and held it toward Athos.

"Take it," said she, "and be accursed!"

Athos took the paper, returned the
pistol to his belt, approached the lamp
to be assured that it was the paper,
unfolded it, and read:


Dec. 3, 1627

It is by my order and for the good of
the state that the bearer of this has
done what he has done.

Richelieu


"And now," said Athos, resuming his
cloak and putting on his hat, "now that
I have drawn your teeth, viper, bite if
you can."

And he left the chamber without once
looking behind him.

At the door he found the two men and the
spare horse which they held.

"Gentlemen," said he, "Monseigneur's
order is, you know, to conduct that
woman, without losing time, to the fort
of the Point, and never to leave her
till she is on board."

As these words agreed wholly with the
order they had received, they bowed
their heads in sign of assent.

With regard to Athos, he leaped lightly
into the saddle and set out at full
gallop; only instead of following the
road, he went across the fields, urging
his horse to the utmost and stopping
occasionally to listen.

In one of those halts he heard the steps
of several horses on the road.  He had
no doubt it was the cardinal and his
escort.  He immediately made a new point
in advance, rubbed his horse down with
some heath and leaves of trees, and
placed himself across the road, about
two hundred paces from the camp.

"Who goes there?" cried he, as soon as
he perceived the horsemen.

"That is our brave Musketeer, I think,"
said the cardinal.

"Yes, monseigneur," said Porthos, "it is
he."

"Monsieur Athos," said Richelieu,
"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 Re.'"

Saying these words, the cardinal saluted
the three friends with an inclination of
his head, and took the right hand,
followed by his attendant--for that
night he himself slept in the camp.

"Well!" said Porthos and Aramis
together, as soon as the cardinal was
out of hearing, "well, he signed the
paper she required!"

"I know it," said Athos, coolly, "since
here it is."

And the three friends did not exchange
another word till they reached their
quarters, except to give the watchword
to the sentinels.  Only they sent
Mousqueton to tell Planchet that his
master was requested, the instant that
he left the trenches, to come to the
quarters of the Musketeers.

Milady, as Athos had foreseen, on
finding the two men that awaited her,
made no difficulty in following them. 
She had had for an instant an
inclination to be reconducted to the
cardinal, and relate everything to him;
but a revelation on her part would bring
about a revelation on the part of Athos.
She might say that Athos had hanged her;
but then Athos would tell that she was
branded.  She thought it was best to
preserve silence, to discreetly set off
to accomplish her difficult mission with
her usual skill; and then, all things
being accomplished to the satisfaction
of the cardinal, to come to him and
claim her vengeance.

In consequence, after having traveled
all night, at seven o'clock she was at
the fort of the Point; at eight o'clock
she had embarked; and at nine, the
vessel, which with letters of marque
from the cardinal was supposed to be
sailing for Bayonne, raised anchor, and
steered its course toward England.



46 THE BASTION SAINT-GERVAIS

On arriving at the lodgings of his three
friends, D'Artagnan found them assembled
in the same chamber.  Athos was
meditating; Porthos was twisting his
mustache; Aramis was saying his prayers
in a charming little Book of Hours,
bound in blue velvet.

"Pardieu, gentlemen," said he.  "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," replied Porthos, giving his
mustache a twist which was peculiar to
him.

"Hush!" said Athos.

"Oh, oh!" said D'Artagnan, comprehending
the slight frown of the Musketeer.  "It
appears there is something fresh
aboard."

"Aramis," said Athos, "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," said Athos, "no fish at a
seaport?"

"They say," said Aramis, resuming his
pious reading, "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," replied Athos.  "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."

D'Artagnan, who was accustomed to his
friend's manner of acting, and who
perceived immediately, by a word, a
gesture, or a sign from him, that the
circumstances were serious, took Athos's
arm, and went out without saying
anything. Porthos followed, chatting
with Aramis.

On their way they met Grimaud.  Athos
made him a sign to come with them. 
Grimaud, according to custom, obeyed in
silence; the poor lad had nearly come to
the pass of forgetting how to speak.

They arrived at the drinking room of the
Parpaillot.  It was seven o'clock in the
morning, and daylight began to appear.
The three friends ordered breakfast, and
went into a room in which the host said
they would not be disturbed.

Unfortunately, the hour was badly chosen
for a private conference.  The morning
drum had just been beaten; everyone
shook off the drowsiness of night, and
to dispel the humid morning air, came to
take a drop at the inn.  Dragoons,
Swiss, Guardsmen, Musketeers,
light-horsemen, succeeded one another
with a rapidity which might answer the
purpose of the host very well, but
agreed badly with the views of the four
friends.  Thus they applied very curtly
to the salutations, healths, and jokes
of their companions.

"I see how it will be," said Athos: "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," said a light-horseman, with a
glass of brandy in his hand, which he
sipped slowly.  "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."

D'Artagnan looked at Athos to know if he
ought to reply to this intruder who thus
mixed unmasked in their conversation.

"Well," said Athos, "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?" said a
Swiss, who was drinking rum out of beer
glass.

"Yes, monsieur," said D'Artagnan,
bowing, "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?" asked a
dragoon, with his saber run through a
goose which he was taking to be cooked.

"The bastion St. Gervais," replied
D'Artagnan, "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!" said the Swiss, who,
notwithstanding the admirable collection
of oaths possessed by the German
language, had acquired a habit of
swearing in French.

"But it is probable," said the
light-horseman, "that they will send
pioneers this morning to repair the
bastion."

"Yes, that's probable," said D'Artagnan.

"Gentlemen," said Athos, "a wager!"

"Ah, wooi, a vager!" cried the Swiss.

"What is it?" said the light-horseman.

"Stop a bit," said the dragoon, placing
his saber like a spit upon the two large
iron dogs which held the firebrands in
the chimney, "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," said the Swiss; "goose
grease is kood with basdry."

"There!" said the dragoon.  "Now for the
wager!  We listen, Monsieur Athos."

"Yes, the wager!" said the
light-horseman.

"Well, Monsieur de Busigny, I will bet
you," said Athos, "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."

Porthos and Aramis looked at each other;
they began to comprehend.

"But," said D'Artagnan, in the ear of
Athos, "you are going to get us all
killed without mercy."

"We are much more likely to be killed,"
said Athos, "if we do not go."

"My faith, gentlemen," said Porthos,
turning round upon his chair and
twisting his mustache, "that's a fair
bet, I hope."

"I take it," said M. de Busigny; "so let
us fix the stake."

"You are four gentlemen," said Athos,
"and we are four; an unlimited dinner
for eight.  Will that do?"

"Capitally," replied M. de Busigny.

"Perfectly," said the dragoon.

"That shoots me," said the Swiss.

The fourth auditor, who during all this
conversation had played a mute part,
made a sign of the head in proof that he
acquiesced in the proposition.

"The breakfast for these gentlemen is
ready," said the host.

"Well, bring it," said Athos.

The host obeyed.  Athos called Grimaud,
pointed to a large basket which lay in a
corner, and made a sign to him to wrap
the viands up in the napkins.

Grimaud understood that it was to be a
breakfast on the grass, took the basket,
packed up the viands, added the bottles,
and then took the basket on his arm.

"But where are you going to eat my
breakfast?" asked the host.

"What matter, if you are paid for it?"
said Athos, and he threw two pistoles
majestically on the table.

"Shall I give you the change, my
officer?" said the host.

"No, only add two bottles of champagne,
and the difference will be for the
napkins."

The host had not quite so good a bargain
as he at first hoped for, but he made
amends by slipping in two bottles of
Anjou wine instead of two bottles of
champagne.

"Monsieur de Busigny," said Athos, "will
you be so kind as to set your watch with
mine, or permit me to regulate mine by
yours?"

"Which you please, monsieur!" said the
light-horseman, drawing from his fob a
very handsome watch, studded with
diamonds; "half past seven."

"Thirty-five minutes after seven," said
Athos, "by which you perceive I am five
minutes faster than you."

And bowing to all the astonished persons
present, the young men took the road to
the bastion St. Gervais, followed by
Grimaud, who carried the basket,
ignorant of where he was going but in
the passive obedience which Athos had
taught him not even thinking of asking.

As long as they were within the circle
of the camp, the four friends did not
exchange one word; besides, they were
followed by the curious, who, hearing of
the wager, were anxious to know how they
would come out of it.  But when once
they passed the line of circumvallation
and found themselves in the open plain,
D'Artagnan, who was completely ignorant
of what was going forward, thought it
was time to demand an explanation.

"And now, my dear Athos," said he, "do
me the kindness to tell me where we are
going?"

"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," said Athos,
pointing to the bastion, "they will not
come and disturb us."

"It appears to me," said D'Artagnan,
with that prudence which allied itself
in him so naturally with excessive
bravery, "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."

"Yes," said Aramis, "Athos is right:
Animadvertuntur in desertis."

"A desert would not have been amiss,"
said Porthos; "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."

"Yes," said D'Artagnan; "but we shall
indubitably attract a ball."

"Well, my dear," replied Athos, "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."

"Well," replied Athos, "have you not
heard what D'Artagnan said?"

"What did he say?" demanded Porthos.

"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."

"Oh, Athos!" said Aramis, "truly you are
a great man."

Porthos nodded in sign of agreement. 
D'Artagnan alone did not seem convinced.

Grimaud no doubt shared the misgivings
of the young man, for seeing that they
continued to advance toward the
bastion--something he had till then
doubted--he pulled his master by the
skirt of his coat.

"Where are we going?" asked he, by a
gesture.

Athos pointed to the bastion.

"But," said Grimaud, in the same silent
dialect, "we shall leave our skins
there."

Athos raised his eyes and his finger
toward heaven.

Grimaud put his basket on the ground and
sat down with a shake of the head.

Athos took a pistol from his belt,
looked to see if it was properly primed,
cocked it, and placed the muzzle close
to Grimaud's ear.

Grimaud was on his legs again as if by a
spring.  Athos then made him a sign to
take up his basket and to walk on first.
Grimaud obeyed.  All that Grimaud gained
by this momentary pantomime was to pass
from the rear guard to the vanguard.

Arrived at the bastion, the four friends
turned round.

More than three hundred soldiers of all
kinds were assembled at the gate of the
camp; and in a separate group might be
distinguished M. de Busigny, the
dragoon, the Swiss, and the fourth
bettor.

Athos took off his hat, placed it on the
end of his sword, and waved it in the
air.

All the spectators returned him his
salute, accompanying this courtesy with
a loud hurrah which was audible to the
four; after which all four disappeared
in the bastion, whither Grimaud had
preceded them.



47 THE COUNCIL OF THE MUSKETEERS

As Athos had foreseen, the bastion was
only occupied by a dozen corpses, French
and Rochellais.

"Gentlemen," said Athos, who had assumed
the command of the expedition, "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,"
added he, pointing to the bodies,
"cannot hear us."

"But we could throw them into the
ditch," said Porthos, "after having
assured ourselves they have nothing in
their pockets."

"Yes," said Athos, "that's Grimaud's
business."

"Well, then," cried D'Artagnan, "pray
let Grimaud search them and throw them
over the walls."

"Heaven forfend!" said Athos; "they may
serve us."

"These bodies serve us?" said Porthos. 
"You are mad, dear friend."

"Judge not rashly, say the gospel and
the cardinal," replied Athos. "How many
guns, gentlemen?"

"Twelve," replied Aramis.

"How many shots?"

"A hundred."

"That's quite as many as we shall want. 
Let us load the guns."

The four Musketeers went to work; and as
they were loading the last musket
Grimaud announced that the breakfast was
ready.

Athos replied, always by gestures, that
that was well, and indicated to Grimaud,
by pointing to a turret that resembled a
pepper caster, that he was to stand as
sentinel.  Only, to alleviate the
tediousness of the duty, Athos allowed
him to take a loaf, two cutlets, and a
bottle of wine.

"And now to table," said Athos.

The four friends seated themselves on
the ground with their legs crossed like
Turks, or even tailors.

"And now," said D'Artagnan, "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," said
Athos.  "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."

"But the secret!" said D'Artagnan.

"The secret is," said Athos, "that I saw
Milady last night."

D'Artagnan was lifting a glass to his
lips; but at the name of Milady, his
hand trembled so, that he was obliged to
put the glass on the ground again for
fear of spilling the contents."

"You saw your wi--"

"Hush!" interrupted Athos.  "You forget,
my dear, you forget that these gentlemen
are not initiated into my family affairs
like yourself.  I have seen Milady."

"Where?" demanded D'Artagnan.

"Within two leagues of this place, at
the inn of the Red Dovecot."

"In that case I am lost," said
D'Artagnan.

"Not so bad yet," replied Athos; "for by
this time she must have quit the shores
of France."

D'Artagnan breathed again.

"But after all," asked Porthos, "who is
Milady?"

"A charming woman!" said Athos, sipping
a glass of sparkling wine.  "Villainous
host!" cried he, "he has given us Anjou
wine instead of champagne, and fancies
we know no better! Yes," continued he,
"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?" cried D'Artagnan, pale with
terror.

"Yes, that is true as the Gospel," said
Porthos; "I heard her with my own ears."

"I also," said Aramis.

"Then," said D'Artagnan, letting his arm
fall with discouragement, "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,"
said Athos, "seeing it is the only one
for which there is no remedy."

"But I can never escape," said
D'Artagnan, "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," said Athos, "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!" repeated Porthos and
Aramis.

"Well, then, to my health! although I am
very much afraid that your good wishes
will not be of great service to me."

"Bah!" said Athos, "God is great, as say
the followers of Mohammed, and the
future is in his hands."

Then, swallowing the contents of his
glass, which he put down close to him,
Athos arose carelessly, took the musket
next to him, and drew near to one of the
loopholes.

Porthos, Aramis and D'Artagnan followed
his example.  As to Grimaud, he received
orders to place himself behind the four
friends in order to reload their
weapons.

"Pardieu!" said Athos, "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," replied D'Artagnan, "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," said
Athos.

"My faith," said Aramis, "I must confess
I feel a great repugnance to fire on
these poor devils of civilians."

"He is a bad priest," said Porthos, "who
has pity for heretics."

"In truth," said Athos, "Aramis is
right.  I will warn them."

"What the devil are you going to do?"
cried D'Artagnan, "you will be shot."

But Athos heeded not his advice. 
Mounting on the breach, with his musket
in one hand and his hat in the other, he
said, bowing courteously and addressing
the soldiers and the pioneers, who,
astonished at this apparition, stopped
fifty paces from the bastion: 
"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 or repast,
or to come again a short time hence,
unless; 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!" cried D'Artagnan;
"don't you see they are aiming?"

"Yes, yes," said Athos; "but they are
only civilians--very bad marksmen, who
will be sure not to hit me."

In fact, at the same instant four shots
were fired, and the balls were flattened
against the wall around Athos, but not
one touched him.

Four shots replied to them almost
instantaneously, but much better aimed
than those of the aggressors; three
soldiers fell dead, and one of the
pioneers was wounded.

"Grimaud," said Athos, still on the
breach, "another musket!"

Grimaud immediately obeyed.  On their
part, the three friends had reloaded
their arms; a second discharge followed
the first.  The brigadier and two
pioneers fell dead; the rest of the
troop took to flight.

"Now, gentlemen, a sortie!" cried Athos.

And the four friends rushed out of the
fort, gained the field of battle, picked
up the four muskets of the privates and
the half-pike of the brigadier, and
convinced that the fugitives would not
stop till they reached the city, turned
again toward the bastion, bearing with
them the trophies of their victory.

"Reload the muskets, Grimaud," said
Athos, "and we, gentlemen, will go on
with our breakfast, and resume our
conversation.  Where were we?"

"I recollect you were saying," said
D'Artagnan, "that after having demanded
my head of the cardinal, Milady had quit
the shores of France.  Whither goes
she?" added he, strongly interested in
the route Milady followed.

"She goes into England," said Athos.

"With what view?"

"With the view of assassinating, or
causing to be assassinated, the Duke of
Buckingham."

D'Artagnan uttered an exclamation of
surprise and indignation.

"But this is infamous!" cried he.

"As to that," said Athos, "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."

Grimaud obeyed without replying.  An
instant afterward, the white flag was
floating over the heads of the four
friends. A thunder of applause saluted
its appearance; half the camp was at the
barrier.

"How?" replied D'Artagnan, "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."  And Athos threw
fifteen paces from him an empty bottle
from which he had poured the last drop
into his glass.

"A moment," said D'Artagnan.  "I will
not abandon Buckingham thus.  He gave us
some very fine horses."

"And moreover, very handsome saddles,"
said Porthos, who at the moment wore on
his cloak the lace of his own.

"Besides," said Aramis, "God desires the
conversion and not the death of a
sinner."

"Amen!" said Athos, "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!"
said Porthos, holding out his plate to
Aramis, who was cutting up a fowl.

"And this carte blanche," said
D'Artagnan, "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?" said Aramis.

"Exactly."

"And you have that letter of the
cardinal?" said D'Artagnan.

"Here it is," said Athos; and he took
the invaluable paper from the pocket of
his uniform.  D'Artagnan unfolded it
with one hand, whose trembling he did
not even attempt to conceal, to read:


Dec. 3, 1627

It is by my order and for the good of
the state that the bearer of this has
done what he has done.

"Richelieu"


"In fact," said Aramis, "it is an
absolution according to rule."

"That paper must be torn to pieces,"
said D'Artagnan, who fancied he read in
it his sentence of death.

"On the contrary," said Athos, "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?" asked the
young man.

"Why," replied Athos, carelessly, "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," said Porthos.

"I do not jest," said Athos.

"Do you know," said Porthos, "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 abbe?" asked Athos,
quietly.

"I say I am entirely of Porthos's
opinion," replied Aramis.

"And I, too," said D'Artagnan.

"Fortunately, she is far off," said
Porthos, "for I confess she would worry
me if she were here."

"She worries me in England as well as in
France," said Athos.

"She worries me everywhere," said
D'Artagnan.

"But when you held her in your power,
why did you not drown her, strangle her,
hang her?" said Porthos.  "It is only
the dead who do not return."

"You think so, Porthos?" replied the
Musketeer, with a sad smile which
D'Artagnan alone understood.

"I have an idea," said D'Artagnan.

"What is it?" said the Musketeers.

"To arms!" cried Grimaud.

The young men sprang up, and seized
their muskets.

This time a small troop advanced,
consisting of from twenty to twenty-five
men; but they were not pioneers, they
were soldiers of the garrison.

"Shall we return to the camp?" said
Porthos.  "I don't think the sides are
equal."

"Impossible, for three reasons," replied
Athos.  "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," said Aramis, "we must form
a plan of battle."

"That's very simple," replied Athos. 
"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!" cried Porthos.  "Decidedly,
Athos, you were born to be a general,
and the cardinal, who fancies himself a
great soldier, is nothing beside you."

"Gentlemen," said Athos, "no divided
attention, I beg; let each one pick out
his man."

"I cover mine," said D'Artagnan.

"And I mine," said Porthos.

"And I mine," said Aramis.

"Fire, then," said Athos.

The four muskets made but one report,
but four men fell.

The drum immediately beat, and the
little troop advanced at charging pace.

Then the shots were repeated without
regularity, but always aimed with the
same accuracy.  Nevertheless, as if they
had been aware of the numerical weakness
of the friends, the Rochellais continued
to advance in quick time.

With every three shots at least two men
fell; but the march of those who
remained was not slackened.

Arrived at the foot of the bastion,
there were still more than a dozen of
the enemy.  A last discharge welcomed
them, but did not stop them; they jumped
into the ditch, and prepared to scale
the breach.

"Now, my friends," said Athos, "finish
them at a blow.  To the wall; to the
wall!"

And the four friends, seconded by
Grimaud, pushed with the barrels of
their muskets an enormous sheet of the
wall, which bent as if pushed by the
wind, and detaching itself from its
base, fell with a horrible crash into
the ditch. Then a fearful crash was
heard; a cloud of dust mounted toward
the sky--and all was over!

"Can we have destroyed them all, from
the first to the last?" said Athos.

"My faith, it appears so!" said
D'Artagnan.

"No," cried Porthos; "there go three or
four, limping away."

In fact, three or four of these
unfortunate men, covered with dirt and
blood, fled along the hollow way, and at
length regained the city.  These were
all who were left of the little troop.

Athos looked at his watch.

"Gentlemen," said he, "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."

And the Musketeer, with his usual
coolness, reseated himself before the
remains of the breakfast.

"My idea?" said D'Artagnan.

"Yes; you said you had an idea," said
Athos.

"Oh, I remember," said D'Artagnan. 
"Well, I will go to England a second
time; I will go and find Buckingham."

"You shall not do that, D'Artagnan,"
said Athos, coolly.

"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."

D'Artagnan perceived the force of this
reasoning, and was silent.

"But," said Porthos, "I think I have an
idea, in my turn."

"Silence for Monsieur Porthos's idea!"
said Aramis.

"I will ask leave of absence of Monsieur
de Treville, 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," replied Athos, "I am not far
from approving the idea of Monsieur
Porthos."

"For shame!" said Aramis.  "Kill a
woman?  No, listen to me; I have the
true idea."

"Let us see your idea, Aramis," said
Athos, who felt much deference for the
young Musketeer."

"We must inform the queen."

"Ah, my faith, yes!" said Porthos and
D'Artagnan, at the same time; "we are
coming nearer to it now."

"Inform the queen!" said Athos; "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," said Aramis, coloring, "I
will take that upon myself.  I know a
clever person at Tours--"

Aramis stopped on seeing Athos smile.

"Well, do you not adopt this means,
Athos?" said D'Artagnan.

"I do not reject it altogether," said
Athos; "but I wish to remind Aramis that
he cannot quit the camp, and that nobody
but one of ourselves is trustworthy;
that two hours after the messenger has
set out, all the Capuchins, all the
police, all the black caps of the
cardinal, will know your letter by
heart, and you and your clever person
will be arrested."

"Without reckoning," objected Porthos,
"that the queen would save Monsieur de
Buckingham, but would take no heed of
us."

"Gentlemen," said D'Artagnan, "what
Porthos says is full of sense."

"Ah, ah! but what's going on in the city
yonder?" said Athos.

"They are beating the general alarm."

The four friends listened, and the sound
of the drum plainly reached them.

"You see, they are going to send a whole
regiment against us," said Athos.

"You don't think of holding out against
a whole regiment, do you?" said Porthos.

"Why not?" said Musketeer.  "I feel
myself quite in a humor for it; and I
would hold out before an army if we had
taken the precaution to bring a dozen
more bottles of wine."

"Upon my word, the drum draws near,"
said D'Artagnan.

"Let it come," said Athos.  "It is a
quarter of an hour's journey from here
to the city, consequently a quarter of
an hour's journey from the city to
hither.  That is more than time enough
for us to devise a plan.  If we go from
this place we shall never find another
so suitable.  Ah, stop! I have it,
gentlemen; the right idea has just
occurred to me."

"Tell us."

"Allow me to give Grimaud some
indispensable orders."

Athos made a sign for his lackey to
approach.

"Grimaud," said Athos, pointing to the
bodies which lay under the wall of the
bastion, "take those gentlemen, set them
up against the wall, put their hats upon
their heads, and their guns in their
hands."

"Oh, the great man!" cried D'Artagnan. 
"I comprehend now."

"You comprehend?" said Porthos.

"And do you comprehend, Grimaud?" said
Aramis.

Grimaud made a sign in the affirmative.

"That's all that is necessary," said
Athos; "now for my idea."

"I should like, however, to comprehend,"
said Porthos.

"That is useless."

"Yes, yes!  Athos's idea!" cried Aramis
and D'Artagnan, at the same time.

"This Milady, this woman, this creature,
this demon, has a brother-in-law, as I
think you told me, D'Artagnan?"

"Yes, I know him very well; and I also
believe that he has not a very warm
affection for his sister-in-law."

"There is no harm in that.  If he
detested her, it would be all the
better," replied Athos.

"In that case we are as well off as we
wish."

"And yet," said Porthos, "I would like
to know what Grimaud is about."

"Silence, Porthos!" said Aramis.

"What is her brother-in-law's name?"

"Lord de Winter."

"Where is he now?"

"He returned to London at the first
sound of war."

"Well, there's just the man we want,"
said Athos.  "It is he whom we must
warn.  We will have him informed that
his sister-in-law is on the point of
having someone assassinated, and beg him
not to lose sight of her.  There is in
London, I hope, some establishment like
that of the Magdalens, or of the
Repentant Daughters.  He must place his
sister in one of these, and we shall be
in peace."

"Yes," said D'Artagnan, "till she comes
out."

"Ah, my faith!" said Athos, "you require
too much, D'Artagnan.  I have given you
all I have, and I beg leave to tell you
that this is the bottom of my sack."

"But I think it would be still better,"
said Aramis, "to inform the queen and
Lord de Winter at the same time."

"Yes; but who is to carry the letter to
Tours, and who to London?"

"I answer for Bazin," said Aramis.

"And I for Planchet," said D'Artagnan.

"Ay," said Porthos, "if we cannot leave
the camp, our lackeys may."

"To be sure they may; and this very day
we will write the letters," said Aramis.
"Give the lackeys money, and they will
start."

"We will give them money?" replied
Athos.  "Have you any money?"

The four friends looked at one another,
and a cloud came over the brows which
but lately had been so cheerful.

"Look out!" cried D'Artagnan, "I see
black points and red points moving
yonder.  Why did you talk of a regiment,
Athos?  It is a veritable army!"

"My faith, yes," said Athos; "there they
are.  See the sneaks come, without drum
or trumpet.  Ah, ah! have you finished,
Grimaud?"

Grimaud made a sign in the affirmative,
and pointed to a dozen bodies which he
had set up in the most picturesque
attitudes.  Some carried arms, others
seemed to be taking aim, and the
remainder appeared merely to be sword in
hand.

"Bravo!" said Athos; "that does honor to
your imagination."

"All very well," said Porthos, "but I
should like to understand."

"Let us decamp first, and you will
understand afterward."

"A moment, gentlemen, a moment; give
Grimaud time to clear away the
breakfast."

"Ah, ah!" said Aramis, "the black points
and the red points are visibly
enlarging.  I am of D'Artagnan's
opinion; we have no time to lose in
regaining our camp."

"My faith," said Athos, "I have nothing
to say against a retreat.  We bet upon
one hour, and we have stayed an hour and
a half.  Nothing can be said; let us be
off, gentlemen, let us be off!"

Grimaud was already ahead, with the
basket and the dessert. The four friends
followed, ten paces behind him.

"What the devil shall we do now,
gentlemen?" cried Athos.

"Have you forgotten anything?" said
Aramis.

"The white flag, morbleu!  We must not
leave a flag in the hands of the enemy,
even if that flag be but a napkin."

And Athos ran back to the bastion,
mounted the platform, and bore off the
flag; but as the Rochellais had arrived
within musket range, they opened a
terrible fire upon this man, who
appeared to expose himself for
pleasure's sake.

But Athos might be said to bear a
charmed life.  The balls passed and
whistled all around him; not one struck
him.

Athos waved his flag, turning his back
on the guards of the city, and saluting
those of the camp.  On both sides loud
cries arose--on the one side cries of
anger, on the other cries of enthusiasm.

A second discharge followed the first,
and three balls, by passing through it,
made the napkin really a flag.  Cries
were heard from the camp, "Come down!
come down!"

Athos came down; his friends, who
anxiously awaited him, saw him returned
with joy.

"Come along, Athos, come along!" cried
D'Artagnan; "now we have found
everything except money, it would be
stupid to be killed."

But Athos continued to march
majestically, whatever remarks his
companions made; and they, finding their
remarks useless, regulated their pace by
his.

Grimaud and his basket were far in
advance, out of the range of the balls.

At the end of an instant they heard a
furious fusillade.

"What's that?" asked Porthos, "what are
they firing at now? I hear no balls
whistle, and I see nobody!"

"They are firing at the corpses,"
replied Athos.

"But the dead cannot return their fire."

"Certainly not!  They will then fancy it
is an ambuscade, they will deliberate;
and by the time they have found out the
pleasantry, we shall be out of the range
of their balls. That renders it useless
to get a pleurisy by too much haste."

"Oh, I comprehend now," said the
astonished Porthos.

"That's lucky," said Athos, shrugging
his shoulders.

On their part, the French, on seeing the
four friends return at such a step,
uttered cries of enthusiasm.

At length a fresh discharge was heard,
and this time the balls came rattling
among the stones around the four
friends, and whistling sharply in their
ears.  The Rochellais had at last taken
possession of the bastion.

"These Rochellais are bungling fellows,"
said Athos; "how many have we killed of
them--a dozen?"

"Or fifteen."

"How many did we crush under the wall?"

"Eight or ten."

"And in exchange for all that not even a
scratch!  Ah, but what is the matter
with your hand, D'Artagnan?  It bleeds,
seemingly."

"Oh, it's nothing," said D'Artagnan.

"A spent ball?"

"Not even that."

"What is it, then?"

We have said that Athos loved D'Artagnan
like a child, and this somber and
inflexible personage felt the anxiety of
a parent for the young man.

"Only grazed a little," replied
D'Artagnan; "my fingers were caught
between two stones--that of the wall and
that of my ring--and the skin was
broken."

"That comes of wearing diamonds, my
master," said Athos, disdainfully.

"Ah, to be sure," cried Porthos, "there
is a diamond.  Why the devil, then, do
we plague ourselves about money, when
there is a diamond?"

"Stop a bit!" said Aramis.

"Well thought of, Porthos; this time you
have an idea."

"Undoubtedly," said Porthos, drawing
himself up at Athos's compliment; "as
there is a diamond, let us sell it."

"But," said D'Artagnan, "it is the
queen's diamond."

"The stronger reason why it should be
sold," replied Athos. The queen saving
Monsieur de Buckingham, her lover;
nothing more just.  The queen saving us,
her friends; nothing more moral.  Let us
sell the diamond.  What says Monsieur
the Abbe?  I don't ask Porthos; his
opinion has been given."

"Why, I think," said Aramis, blushing as
usual, "that his ring not coming from a
mistress, and consequently not being a
love token, D'Artagnan may sell it."

"My dear Aramis, you speak like theology
personified.  Your advice, then, is--"

"To sell the diamond," replied Aramis.

"Well, then," said D'Artagnan, gaily,
"let us sell the diamond, and say no
more about it."

The fusillade continued; but the four
friends were out of reach, and the
Rochellais only fired to appease their
consciences.

"My faith, it was time that idea came
into Porthos's head. Here we are at the
camp; therefore, gentlemen, not a word
more of this affair.  We are observed;
they are coming to meet us.  We shall be
carried in triumph."

In fact, as we have said, the whole camp
was in motion. More than two thousand
persons had assisted, as at a spectacle,
in this fortunate but wild undertaking
of the four friends--and undertaking of
which they were far from suspecting the
real motive.  Nothing was heard but
cried of "Live the Musketeers!  Live the
Guards!"  M. de Busigny was the first to
come and shake Athos by the hand, and
acknowledge that the wager was lost. 
The dragoon and the Swiss followed him,
and all their comrades followed the
dragoon and the Swiss.  There was
nothing but felicitations, pressures of
the hand, and embraces; there was no end
to the inextinguishable laughter at the
Rochellais.  The tumult at length became
so great that the cardinal fancied there
must be some riot, and sent La
Houdiniere, his captain of the Guards,
to inquire what was going on.

The affair was described to the
messenger with all the effervescence of
enthusiasm.

"Well?" asked the cardinal, on seeing La
Houdiniere return.

"Well, monseigneur," replied the latter,
"three Musketeers and a Guardsman laid a
wager with Monsieur de Busigny that they
would go and breakfast in the bastion
St. Gervais; and while breakfasting they
held it for two hours against the enemy,
and have killed I don't know how many
Rochellais."

"Did you inquire the names of those
three Musketeers?"

"Yes, monseigneur."

"What are their names?"

"Messieurs Athos, Porthos, and Aramis."

"Still my three brave fellows!" murmured
the cardinal.  "And the Guardsman?"

"D'Artagnan."

"Still my young scapegrace.  Positively,
these four men must be on my side."

The same evening the cardinal spoke to
M. de Treville of the exploit of the
morning, which was the talk of the whole
camp.  M. de Treville, who had received
the account of the adventure from the
mouths of the heroes of it, related it
in all its details to his Eminence, not
forgetting the episode of the napkin.

"That's well, Monsieur de Treville,"
said the cardinal; "pray let that napkin
be sent to me.  I will have three
fleur-de-lis embroidered on it in gold,
and will give it to your company as a
standard."

"Monseigneur," said M. de Treville,
"that will be unjust to the Guardsmen. 
Monsieur d'Artagnan is not with me; he
serves under Monsieur Dessessart."

"Well, then, take him," said the
cardinal; "when four men are so much
attached to one another, it is only fair
that they should serve in the same
company."

That same evening M. de Treville
announced this good news to the three
Musketeers and D'Artagnan, inviting all
four to breakfast with him next morning.

D'Artagnan was beside himself with joy. 
We know that the dream of his life had
been to become a Musketeer.  The three
friends were likewise greatly delighted.

"My faith," said D'Artagnan to Athos,
"you had a triumphant idea!  As you
said, we have acquired glory, and were
enabled to carry on a conversation of
the highest importance."

"Which we can resume now without anybody
suspecting us, for, with the help of
God, we shall henceforth pass for
cardinalists."

That evening D'Artagnan went to present
his respects to M. Dessessart, and
inform him of his promotion.

M. Dessessart, who esteemed D'Artagnan,
made him offers of help, as this change
would entail expenses for equipment.

D'Artagnan refused; but thinking the
opportunity a good one, he begged him to
have the diamond he put into his hand
valued, as he wished to turn it into
money.

The next day, M. Dessessart's valet came
to D'Artagnan's lodging, and gave him a
bag containing seven thousand livres.

This was the price of the queen's
diamond.



48 A FAMILY AFFAIR

Athos had invented the phrase, family
affair.  A family affair was not subject
to the investigation of the cardinal; a
family affair concerned nobody.  People
might employ themselves in a family
affair before all the world. Therefore
Athos had invented the phrase, family
affair.

Aramis had discovered the idea, the
lackeys.

Porthos had discovered the means, the
diamond.

D'Artagnan alone had discovered
nothing--he, ordinarily the most
inventive of the four; but it must be
also said that the very name of Milady
paralyzed him.

Ah! no, we were mistaken; he had
discovered a purchaser for his diamond.

The breakfast at M. de Treville's was as
gay and cheerful as possible. 
D'Artagnan already wore his uniform--for
being nearly of the same size as Aramis,
and as Aramis was so liberally paid by
the publisher who purchased his poem as
to allow him to buy everything double,
he sold his friend a complete outfit.

D'Artagnan would have been at the height
of his wishes if he had not constantly
seen Milady like a dark cloud hovering
in the horizon.

After breakfast, it was agreed that they
should meet again in the evening at
Athos's lodging, and there finish their
plans.

D'Artagnan passed the day in exhibiting
his Musketeer's uniform in every street
of the camp.

In the evening, at the appointed hour,
the four friends met. There only
remained three things to decide--what
they should write to Milady's brother;
what they should write to the clever
person at Tours; and which should be the
lackeys to carry the letters.

Everyone offered his own.  Athos talked
of the discretion of Grimaud, who never
spoke a word but when his master
unlocked his mouth.  Porthos boasted of
the strength of Mousqueton, who was big
enough to thrash four men of ordinary
size. Aramis, confiding in the address
of Bazin, made a pompous eulogium on his
candidate.  Finally, D'Artagnan had
entire faith in the bravery of Planchet,
and reminded them of the manner in which
he had conducted himself in the ticklish
affair of Boulogne.

These four virtues disputed the prize
for a length of time, and gave birth to
magnificent speeches which we do not
repeat here for fear they should be
deemed too long.

"Unfortunately," said Athos, "he whom we
send must possess in himself alone the
four qualities united."

"But where is such a lackey to be
found?"

"Not to be found!" cried Athos.  "I know
it well, so take Grimaud."

"Take Mousqueton."

"Take Bazin."

"Take Planchet.  Planchet is brave and
shrewd; they are two qualities out of
the four."

"Gentlemen," said Aramis, "the principal
question is not to know which of our
four lackeys is the most discreet, the
most strong, the most clever, or the
most brave; the principal thing is to
know which loves money the best."

"What Aramis says is very sensible,"
replied Athos; "we must speculate upon
the faults of people, and not upon their
virtues.  Monsieur Abbe, you are a great
moralist."

"Doubtless," said Aramis, "for we not
only require to be well served in order
to succeed, but moreover, not to fail;
for in case of failure, heads are in
question, not for our lackeys--"

"Speak lower, Aramis," said Athos.

"That's wise--not for the lackeys,"
resumed Aramis, "but for the master--for
the masters, we may say.  Are our
lackeys sufficiently devoted to us to
risk their lives for us?  No."

"My faith," said D'Artagnan.  "I would
almost answer for Planchet."

"Well, my dear friend, add to his
natural devotedness a good sum of money,
and then, instead of answering for him
once, answer for him twice."

"Why, good God! you will be deceived
just the same," said Athos, who was an
optimist when things were concerned, and
a pessimist when men were in question. 
"They will promise everything for the
sake of the money, and on the road fear
will prevent them from acting.  Once
taken, they will be pressed; when
pressed, they will confess everything. 
What the devil! we are not children.  To
reach England"--Athos lowered his
voice--"all France, covered with spies
and creatures of the cardinal, must be
crossed.  A passport for embarkation
must be obtained; and the party must be
acquainted with English in order to ask
the way to London. Really, I think the
thing very difficult."

"Not at all," cried D'Artagnan, who was
anxious the matter should be
accomplished; "on the contrary, I think
it very easy.  It would be, no doubt,
parbleu, if we write to Lord de Winter
about affairs of vast importance, of the
horrors of the cardinal--"

"Speak lower!" said Athos.

"--of intrigues and secrets of state,"
continued D'Artagnan, complying with the
recommendation.  "there can be no doubt
we would all be broken on the wheel; but
for God's sake, do not forget, as you
yourself said, Athos, that we only write
to him concerning a family affair; that
we only write to him to entreat that as
soon as Milady arrives in London he will
put it out of her power to injure us.  I
will write to him, then, nearly in these
terms."

"Let us see," said Athos, assuming in
advance a critical look.

"Monsieur and dear friend--"

"Ah, yes!  Dear friend to an
Englishman," interrupted Athos; "well
commenced!  Bravo, D'Artagnan!  Only
with that word you would be quartered
instead of being broken on the wheel."

"Well, perhaps.  I will say, then,
Monsieur, quite short."

"You may even say, My Lord," replied
Athos, who stickled for propriety.

"My Lord, do you remember the little
goat pasture of the Luxembourg?"

"Good, the Luxembourg!  One might
believe this is an allusion to the
queen-mother!  That's ingenious," said
Athos.

"Well, then, we will put simply, My
Lord, do you remember a certain little
enclosure where your life was spared?"

"My dear D'Artagnan, you will never make
anything but a very bad secretary. 
Where your life was spared!  For shame!
that's unworthy.  A man of spirit is not
to be reminded of such services.  A
benefit reproached is an offense
committed."

"The devil!" said D'Artagnan, "you are
insupportable.  If the letter must be
written under your censure, my faith, I
renounce the task."

"And you will do right.  Handle the
musket and the sword, my dear fellow. 
You will come off splendidly at those
two exercises; but pass the pen over to
Monsieur Abbe.  That's his province."

"Ay, ay!" said Porthos; "pass the pen to
Aramis, who writes theses in Latin."

"Well, so be it," said D'Artagnan. 
"Draw up this note for us, Aramis; but
by our Holy Father the Pope, cut it
short, for I shall prune you in my turn,
I warn you."

"I ask no better," said Aramis, with
that ingenious air of confidence which
every poet has in himself; "but let me
be properly acquainted with the subject.
I have heard here and there that this
sister-in-law was a hussy.  I have
obtained proof of it by listening to her
conversation with the cardinal."

"Lower! sacre bleu!" said Athos.

"But," continued Aramis, "the details
escape me."

"And me also," said Porthos.

D'Artagnan and Athos looked at each
other for some time in silence.  At
length Athos, after serious reflection
and becoming more pale than usual, made
a sign of assent to D'Artagnan, who by
it understood he was at liberty to
speak.

"Well, this is what you have to say,"
said D'Artagnan:  "My Lord, your
sister-in-law is an infamous woman, who
wished to have you killed that she might
inherit your wealth; but she could not
marry your brother, being already
married in France, and having been--"
D'Artagnan stopped, as if seeking for
the word, and looked at Athos.

"Repudiated by her husband," said Athos.

"Because she had been branded,"
continued D'Artagnan.

"Bah!" cried Porthos.  "Impossible! 
What do you say--that she wanted to have
her brother-in-law killed?"

"Yes."

"She was married?" asked Aramis.

"Yes."

"And her husband found out that she had
a fleur-de-lis on her shoulder?" cried
Porthos.

"Yes."

These three yeses had been pronounced by
Athos, each with a sadder intonation.

"And who has seen this fleur-de-lis?"
inquired Aramis.

"D'Artagnan and I.  Or rather, to
observe the chronological order, I and
D'Artagnan," replied Athos.

"And does the husband of this frightful
creature still live?"  said Aramis.

"He still lives."

"Are you quite sure of it?"

"I am he."

There was a moment of cold silence,
during which everyone was affected
according to his nature.

"This time," said Athos, first breaking
the silence, "D'Artagnan has given us an
excellent program, and the letter must
be written at once."

"The devil!  You are right, Athos," said
Aramis; "and it is a rather difficult
matter.  The chancellor himself would be
puzzled how to write such a letter, and
yet the chancellor draws up an official
report very readily.  Never mind!  Be
silent, I will write."

Aramis accordingly took the quill,
reflected for a few moments, wrote eight
or ten lines in a charming little female
hand, and then with a voice soft and
slow, as if each word had been
scrupulously weighed, he read the
following:


"My Lord, The person who writes these
few lines had the honor of crossing
swords with you in the little enclosure
of the Rue d'Enfer.  As you have several
times since declared yourself the friend
of that person, he thinks it his duty to
respond to that friendship by sending
you important information.  Twice you
have nearly been the victim of a near
relative, whom you believe to be your
heir because you are ignorant that
before she contracted a marriage in
England she was already married in
France.  But the third time, which is
the present, you may succumb.  Your
relative left La Rochelle for England
during the night.  Watch her arrival,
for she has great and terrible projects.
If you require to know positively what
she is capable of, read her past history
on her left shoulder."


"Well, now that will do wonderfully
well," said Athos.  "My dear Aramis, you
have the pen of a secretary of state. 
Lord de Winter will now be upon his
guard if the letter should reach him;
and even if it should fall into the
hands of the cardinal, we shall not be
compromised.  But as the lackey who goes
may make us believe he has been to
London and may stop at Chatellerault,
let us give him only half the sum
promised him, with the letter, with an
agreement that he shall have the other
half in exchange for the reply.  Have
you the diamond?" continued Athos.

"I have what is still better.  I have
the price"; and D'Artagnan threw the bag
upon the table.  At the sound of the
gold Aramis raised his eyes and Porthos
started.  As to Athos, he remained
unmoved.

"How much in that little bag?"

"Seven thousand livres, in louis of
twelve francs."

"Seven thousand livres!" cried Porthos. 
"That poor little diamond was worth
seven thousand livres?"

"It appears so," said Athos, "since here
they are.  I don't suppose that our
friend D'Artagnan has added any of his
own to the amount."

"But, gentlemen, in all this," said
D'Artagnan, "we do not think of the
queen.  Let us take some heed of the
welfare of her dear Buckingham.  That is
the least we owe her."

"That's true," said Athos; "but that
concerns Aramis."

"Well," replied the latter, blushing,
"what must I say?"

"Oh, that's simple enough!" replied
Athos.  "Write a second letter for that
clever personage who lives at Tours."

Aramis resumed his pen, reflected a
little, and wrote the following lines,
which he immediately submitted to the
approbation of his friends.

"My dear cousin."

"Ah, ah!" said Athos.  "This clever
person is your relative, then?"

"Cousin-german."

"Go on, to your cousin, then!"

Aramis continued:


"My dear Cousin, His Eminence, the
cardinal, whom God preserve for the
happiness of France and the confusion of
the enemies of the kingdom, is on the
point of putting an end to the hectic
rebellion of La Rochelle.  It is
probable that the succor of the English
fleet will never even arrive in sight of
the place.  I will even venture to say
that I am certain M. de Buckingham will
be prevented from setting out by some
great event.  His Eminence is the most
illustrious politician of times past, of
times present, and probably of times to
come.  He would extinguish the sun if
the sun incommoded him.  Give these
happy tidings to your sister, my dear
cousin.  I have dreamed that the unlucky
Englishman was dead.  I cannot recollect
whether it was by steel or by poison;
only of this I am sure, I have dreamed
he was dead, and you know my dreams
never deceive me.  Be assured, then, of
seeing me soon return."


"Capital!" cried Athos; "you are the
king of poets, my dear Aramis.  You
speak like the Apocalypse, and you are
as true as the Gospel.  There is nothing
now to do but to put the address to this
letter."

"That is easily done," said Aramis.

He folded the letter fancifully, and
took up his pen and wrote:


"To Mlle. Michon, seamstress, Tours."


The three friends looked at one another
and laughed; they were caught.

"Now," said Aramis, "you will please to
understand, gentlemen, that Bazin alone
can carry this letter to Tours. My
cousin knows nobody but Bazin, and
places confidence in nobody but him; any
other person would fail.  Besides, Bazin
is ambitious and learned; Bazin has read
history, gentlemen, he knows that Sixtus
the Fifth became Pope after having kept
pigs.  Well, as he means to enter the
Church at the same time as myself, he
does not despair of becoming Pope in his
turn, or at least a cardinal.  You can
understand that a man who has such views
will never allow himself to be taken, or
if taken, will undergo martyrdom rather
than speak."

"Very well," said D'Artagnan, "I consent
to Bazin with all my heart, but grant me
Planchet.  Milady had him one day turned
out of doors, with sundry blows of a
good stick to accelerate his motions. 
Now, Planchet has an excellent memory;
and I will be bound that sooner than
relinquish any possible means of
vengeance, he will allow himself to be
beaten to death.  If your arrangements
at Tours are your arrangements, Aramis,
those of London are mine.  I request,
then, that Planchet may be chosen, more
particularly as he has already been to
London with me, and knows how to speak
correctly:  London, sir, if you please,
and my master, Lord d'Artagnan.  With
that you may be satisfied he can make
his way, both going and returning."

"In that case," said Athos, "Planchet
must receive seven hundred livres for
going, and seven hundred livres for
coming back; and Bazin, three hundred
livres for going, and three hundred
livres for returning--that will reduce
the sum to five thousand livres.  We
will each take a thousand livres to be
employed as seems good, and we will
leave a fund of a thousand livres under
the guardianship of Monsieur Abbe here,
for extraordinary occasions or common
wants. Will that do?"

"My dear Athos," said Aramis, "you speak
like Nestor, who was, as everyone knows,
the wisest among the Greeks."

"Well, then," said Athos, "it is agreed.
Planchet and Bazin shall go.  Everything
considered, I am not sorry to retain
Grimaud; he is accustomed to my ways,
and I am particular. Yesterday's affair
must have shaken him a little; his
voyage would upset him quite."

Planchet was sent for, and instructions
were given him.  The matter had been
named to him by D'Artagnan, who in the
first place pointed out the money to
him, then the glory, and then the
danger.

"I will carry the letter in the lining
of my coat," said Planchet; "and if I am
taken I will swallow it."

"Well, but then you will not be able to
fulfill your commission," said
D'Artagnan.

"You will give me a copy this evening,
which I shall know by heart tomorrow."

D'Artagnan looked at his friends, as if
to say, "Well, what did I tell you?"

"Now," continued he, addressing
Planchet, "you have eight days to get an
interview with Lord de Winter; you have
eight days to return--in all sixteen
days.  If, on the sixteenth day after
your departure, at eight o'clock in the
evening you are not here, no money--even
if it be but five minutes past eight."

"Then, monsieur," said Planchet, "you
must buy me a watch."

"Take this," said Athos, with his usual
careless generosity, giving him his own,
"and be a good lad.  Remember, if you
talk, if you babble, if you get drunk,
you risk your master's head, who has so
much confidence in your fidelity, and
who answers for you.  But remember,
also, that if by your fault any evil
happens to D'Artagnan, I will find you,
wherever you may be, for the purpose of
ripping up your belly."

"Oh, monsieur!" said Planchet,
humiliated by the suspicion, and
moreover, terrified at the calm air of
the Musketeer.

"And I," said Porthos, rolling his large
eyes, "remember, I will skin you alive."

"Ah, monsieur!"

"And I," said Aramis, with his soft,
melodius voice, "remember that I will
roast you at a slow fire, like a
savage."

"Ah, monsieur!"

Planchet began to weep.  We will not
venture to say whether it was from
terror created by the threats or from
tenderness at seeing four friends so
closely united.

D'Artagnan took his hand.  "See,
Planchet," said he, "these gentlemen
only say this out of affection for me,
but at bottom they all like you."

"Ah, monsieur," said Planchet, "I will
succeed or I will consent to be cut in
quarters; and if they do cut me in
quarters, be assured that not a morsel
of me will speak."

It was decided that Planchet should set
out the next day, at eight o'clock in
the morning, in order, as he had said,
that he might during the night learn the
letter by heart.  He gained just twelve
hours by this engagement; he was to be
back on the sixteenth day, by eight
o'clock in the evening.

In the morning, as he was mounting his
horse, D'Artagnan, who felt at the
bottom of his heart a partiality for the
duke, took Planchet aside.

"Listen," said he to him.  "When you
have given the letter to Lord de Winter
and he has read it, you will further say
to him:  Watch over his Grace Lord
Buckingham, for they wish to assassinate
him.  But this, Planchet, is so serious
and important that I have not informed
my friends that I would entrust this
secret to you; and for a captain's
commission I would not write it."

"Be satisfied, monsieur," said Planchet,
"you shall see if confidence can be
placed in me."

Mounted on an excellent horse, which he
was to leave at the end of twenty
leagues in order to take the post,
Planchet set off at a gallop, his
spirits a little depressed by the triple
promise made him by the Musketeers, but
otherwise as light-hearted as possible.

Bazin set out the next day for Tours,
and was allowed eight days for
performing his commission.

The four friends, during the period of
these two absences, had, as may well be
supposed, the eye on the watch, the nose
to the wind, and the ear on the hark. 
Their days were passed in endeavoring to
catch all that was said, in observing
the proceeding of the cardinal, and in
looking out for all the couriers who
arrived.  More than once an involuntary
trembling seized them when called upon
for some unexpected service.  They had,
besides, to look constantly to their own
proper safety; Milday was a phantom
which, when it had once appeared to
people, did not allow them to sleep very
quietly.

On the morning of the eighth day, Bazin,
fresh as ever, and smiling, according to
custom, entered the cabaret of the
Parpaillot as the four friends were
sitting down to breakfast, saying, as
had been agreed upon: "Monsieur Aramis,
the answer from your cousin."

The four friends exchanged a joyful
glance; half of the work was done.  It
is true, however, that it was the
shorter and easier part.

Aramis, blushing in spite of himself,
took the letter, which was in a large,
coarse hand and not particular for its
orthography.

"Good God!" cried he, laughing, "I quite
despair of my poor Michon; she will
never write like Monsieur de Voiture."

"What does you mean by boor Michon?"
said the Swiss, who was chatting with
the four friends when the letter came.

"Oh, pardieu, less than nothing," said
Aramis; "a charming little seamstress,
whom I love dearly and from whose hand I
requested a few lines as a sort of
keepsake."

"The duvil!" said the Swiss, "if she is
as great a lady as her writing is large,
you are a lucky fellow, gomrade!"

Aramis read the letter, and passed it to
Athos.

"See what she writes to me, Athos," said
he.

Athos cast a glance over the epistle,
and to disperse all the suspicions that
might have been created, read aloud:


"My cousin, My sister and I are skillful
in interpreting dreams, and even
entertain great fear of them; but of
yours it may be said, I hope, every
dream is an illusion.  Adieu! Take care
of yourself, and act so that we may from
time to time hear you spoken of.


"Marie Michon"


"And what dream does she mean?" asked
the dragoon, who had approached during
the reading.

"Yez; what's the dream?" said the Swiss.

"Well, pardieu!" said Aramis, "it was
only this:  I had a dream, and I related
it to her."

"Yez, yez," said the Swiss; "it's simple
enough to dell a dream, but I neffer
dream."

"You are very fortunate," said Athos,
rising; "I wish I could say as much!"

"Neffer," replied the Swiss, enchanted
that a man like Athos could envy him
anything.  "Neffer, neffer!"

D'Artagnan, seeing Athos rise, did
likewise, took his arm, and went out.

Porthos and Aramis remained behind to
encounter the jokes of the dragoon and
the Swiss.

As to Bazin, he went and lay down on a
truss of straw; and as he had more
imagination than the Swiss, he dreamed
that Aramis, having become pope, adorned
his head with a cardinal's hat.

But, as we have said, Bazin had not, by
his fortunate return, removed more than
a part of the uneasiness which weighed
upon the four friends.  The days of
expectation are long, and D'Artagnan, in
particular, would have wagered that the
days were forty-four hours.  He forgot
the necessary slowness of navigation; he
exaggerated to himself the power of
Milady.  He credited this woman, who
appeared to him the equal of a demon,
with agents as supernatural as herself;
at the least noise, he imagined himself
about to be arrested, and that Planchet
was being brought back to be confronted
with himself and his friends.  Still
further, his confidence in the worthy
Picard, at one time so great, diminished
day by day.  This anxiety became so
great that it even extended to Aramis
and Porthos.  Athos alone remained
unmoved, as if no danger hovered over
him, and as if he breathed his customary
atmosphere.

On the sixteenth day, in particular,
these signs were so strong in D'Artagnan
and his two friends that they could not
remain quiet in one place, and wandered
about like ghosts on the road by which
Planchet was expected.

"Really," said Athos to them, "you are
not men but children, to let a woman
terrify you so!  And what does it amount
to, after all?  To be imprisoned.  Well,
but we should be taken out of prison;
Madame Bonacieux was released.  To be
decapitated?  Why, every day in the
trenches we go cheerfully to expose
ourselves to worse than that--for a
bullet may break a leg, and I am
convinced a surgeon would give us more
pain in cutting off a thigh than an
executioner in cutting off a head.  Wait
quietly, then; in two hours, in four, in
six hours at latest, Planchet will be
here.  He promised to be here, and I
have very great faith in Planchet, who
appears to me to be a very good lad."

"But if he does not come?" said
D'Artagnan.

"Well, if he does not come, it will be
because he has been delayed, that's all.
He may have fallen from his horse, he
may have cut a caper from the deck; he
may have traveled so fast against the
wind as to have brought on a violent
catarrh.  Eh, gentlemen, let us reckon
upon accidents!  Life is a chaplet of
little miseries which the philosopher
counts with a smile.  Be philosophers,
as I am, gentlemen; sit down at the
table and let us drink.  Nothing makes
the future look so bright as surveying
it through a glass of chambertin."

"That's all very well," replied
D'Artagnan; "but I am tired of fearing
when I open a fresh bottle that the wine
may come from the cellar of Milady."

"You are very fastidious," said Athos;
"such a beautiful woman!"

"A woman of mark!" said Porthos, with
his loud laugh.

Athos started, passed his hand over his
brow to remove the drops of perspiration
that burst forth, and rose in his turn
with a nervous movement he could not
repress.

The day, however, passed away; and the
evening came on slowly, but finally it
came.  The bars were filled with
drinkers.  Athos, who had pocketed his
share of the diamond, seldom quit the
Parpaillot.  He had found in M. de
Busigny, who, by the by, had given them
a magnificent dinner, a partner worthy
of his company.  They were playing
together, as usual, when seven o'clock
sounded; the patrol was heard passing to
double the posts.  At half past seven
the retreat was sounded.

"We are lost," said D'Artagnan, in the
ear of Athos.

"You mean to say we have lost," said
Athos, quietly, drawing four pistoles
from his pocket and throwing them upon
the table.  "Come, gentlemen," said he,
"they are beating the tattoo.  Let us to
bed!"

And Athos went out of the Parpaillot,
followed by D'Artagnan.  Aramis came
behind, giving his arm to Porthos.
Aramis mumbled verses to himself, and
Porthos from time to time pulled a hair
or two from his mustache, in sign of
despair.

But all at once a shadow appeared in the
darkness the outline of which was
familiar to D'Artagnan, and a well-known
voice said, "Monsieur, I have brought
your cloak; it is chilly this evening."

"Planchet!" cried D'Artagnan, beside
himself with joy.

"Planchet!" repeated Aramis and Porthos.

"Well, yes, Planchet, to be sure," said
Athos, "what is there so astonishing in
that?  He promised to be back by eight
o'clock, and eight is striking.  Bravo,
Planchet, you are a lad of your word,
and if ever you leave your master, I
will promise you a place in my service."

"Oh, no, never," said Planchet, "I will
never leave Monsieur d'Artagnan."

At the same time D'Artagnan felt that
Planchet slipped a note into his hand.

D'Artagnan felt a strong inclination to
embrace Planchet as he had embraced him
on his departure; but he feared lest
this mark of affection, bestowed upon
his lackey in the open street, might
appear extraordinary to passers-by, and
he restrained himself.

"I have the note," said he to Athos and
to his friends.

"That's well," said Athos, "let us go
home and read it."

The note burned the hand of D'Artagnan. 
He wished to hasten their steps; but
Athos took his arm and passed it under
his own, and the young man was forced to
regulate his pace by that of his friend.

At length they reached the tent, lit a
lamp, and while Planchet stood at the
entrance that the four friends might not
be surprised, D'Artagnan, with a
trembling hand, broke the seal and
opened the so anxiously expected letter.

It contained half a line, in a hand
perfectly British, and with a
conciseness as perfectly Spartan:


Thank you; be easy.


D'Artagnan translated this for the
others.

Athos took the letter from the hands of
D'Artagnan, approached the lamp, set
fire to the paper, and did not let go
till it was reduced to a cinder.

Then, calling Planchet, he said, "Now,
my lad, you may claim your seven hundred
livres, but you did not run much risk
with such a note as that."

"I am not to blame for having tried
every means to compress it," said
Planchet.

"Well!" cried D'Artagnan, "tell us all
about it."

"Dame, that's a long job, monsieur."

"You are right, Planchet," said Athos;
"besides, the tattoo has been sounded,
and we should be observed if we kept a
light burning much longer than the
others."

"So be it," said D'Artagnan.  "Go to
bed, Planchet, and sleep soundly."

"My faith, monsieur! that will be the
first time I have done so for sixteen
days."

"And me, too!" said D'Artagnan.

"And me, too!" said Porthos.

"And me, too!" said Aramis.

"Well, if you will have the truth, and
me, too!" said Athos.



49 FATALITY

Meantime Milady, drunk with passion,
roaring on the deck like a lioness that
has been embarked, had been tempted to
throw herself into the sea that she
might regain the coast, for she could
not get rid of the thought that she had
been insulted by D'Artagnan, threatened
by Athos, and that she had quit France
without being revenged on them.  This
idea soon became so insupportable to her
that at the risk of whatever terrible
consequences might result to herself
from it, she implored the captain to put
her on shore; but the captain, eager to
escape from his false position-placed
between French and English cruisers,
like the bat between the mice and the
birds--was in great haste to regain
England, and positively refused to obey
what he took for a woman's caprice,
promising his passenger, who had been
particularly recommended to him by the
cardinal, to land her, if the sea and
the French permitted him, at one of the
ports of Brittany, either at Lorient or
Brest.  But the wind was contrary, the
sea bad; they tacked and kept offshore. 
Nine days after leaving the Charente,
pale with fatigue and vexation, Milady
saw only the blue coasts of Finisterre
appear.

She calculated that to cross this corner
of France and return to the cardinal it
would take her at least three days.  Add
another day for landing, and that would
make four.  Add these four to the nine
others, that would be thirteen days
lost--thirteen days, during which so
many important events might pass in
London.  She reflected likewise that the
cardinal would be furious at her return,
and consequently would be more disposed
to listen to the complaints brought
against her than to the accusations she
brought against others.

She allowed the vessel to pass Lorient
and Brest without repeating her request
to the captain, who, on his part, took
care not to remind her of it.  Milady
therefore continued her voyage, and on
the very day that Planchet embarked at
Portsmouth for France, the messenger of
his Eminence entered the port in
triumph.

All the city was agitated by an
extraordinary movement.  Four large
vessels, recently built, had just been
launched.  At the end of the jetty, his
clothes richly laced with gold,
glittering, as was customary with him,
with diamonds and precious stones, his
hat ornamented with a white feather
which drooped upon his shoulder,
Buckingham was seen surrounded by a
staff almost as brilliant as himself.

It was one of those rare and beautiful
days in winter when England remembers
that there is a sun.  The star of day,
pale but nevertheless still splendid,
was setting in the horizon, glorifying
at once the heavens and the sea with
bands of fire, and casting upon the
towers and the old houses of the city a
last ray of gold which made the windows
sparkle like the reflection of a
conflagration.  Breathing that sea
breeze, so much more invigorating and
balsamic as the land is approached,
contemplating all the power of those
preparations she was commissioned to
destroy, all the power of that army
which she was to combat alone--she, a
woman with a few bags of gold--Milady
compared herself mentally to Judith, the
terrible Jewess, when she penetrated the
camp of the Assyrians and beheld the
enormous mass of chariots, horses, men,
and arms, which a gesture of her hand
was to dissipate like a cloud of smoke.

They entered the roadstead; but as they
drew near in order to cast anchor, a
little cutter, looking like a coastguard
formidably armed, approached the
merchant vessel and dropped into the sea
a boat which directed its course to the
ladder.  This boat contained an officer,
a mate, and eight rowers.  The officer
alone went on board, where he was
received with all the deference inspired
by the uniform.

The officer conversed a few instants
with the captain, gave him several
papers, of which he was the bearer, to
read, and upon the order of the merchant
captain the whole crew of the vessel,
both passengers and sailors, were called
upon deck.

When this species of summons was made
the officer inquired aloud the point of
the brig's departure, its route, its
landings; and to all these questions the
captain replied without difficulty and
without hesitation.  Then the officer
began to pass in review all the people,
one after the other, and stopping when
he came to Milady, surveyed her very
closely, but without addressing a single
word to her.

He then returned to the captain, said a
few words to him, and as if from that
moment the vessel was under his command,
he ordered a maneuver which the crew
executed immediately.  Then the vessel
resumed its course, still escorted by
the little cutter, which sailed side by
side with it, menacing it with the
mouths of its six cannon.  The boat
followed in the wake of the ship, a
speck near the enormous mass.

During the examination of Milady by the
officer, as may well be imagined, Milady
on her part was not less scrutinizing in
her glances.  But however great was the
power of this woman with eyes of flame
in reading the hearts of those whose
secrets she wished to divine, she met
this time with a countenance of such
impassivity that no discovery followed
her investigation.  The officer who had
stopped in front of her and studied her
with so much care might have been
twenty-five or twenty-six years of age.
He was of pale complexion, with clear
blue eyes, rather deeply set; his mouth,
fine and well cut, remained motionless
in its correct lines; his chin, strongly
marked, denoted that strength of will
which in the ordinary Britannic type
denotes mostly nothing but obstinacy; a
brow a little receding, as is proper for
poets, enthusiasts, and soldiers, was
scarcely shaded by short thin hair
which, like the beard which covered the
lower part of his face, was of a
beautiful deep chestnut color.

When they entered the port, it was
already night.  The fog increased the
darkness, and formed round the
sternlights and lanterns of the jetty a
circle like that which surrounds the
moon when the weather threatens to
become rainy.  The air they breathed was
heavy, damp, and cold.

Milady, that woman so courageous and
firm, shivered in spite of herself.

The officer desired to have Milady's
packages pointed out to him, and ordered
them to be placed in the boat.  When
this operation was complete, he invited
her to descend by offering her his hand.

Milady looked at this man, and
hesitated.  "Who are you, sir," asked
she, "who has the kindness to trouble
yourself so particularly on my account?"

"You may perceive, madame, by my
uniform, that I am an officer in the
English navy," replied the young man.

"But is it the custom for the officers
in the English navy to place themselves
at the service of their female
compatriots when they land in a port of
Great Britain, and carry their gallantry
so far as to conduct them ashore?"

"Yes, madame, it is the custom, not from
gallantry but prudence, that in time of
war foreigners should be conducted to
particular hotels, in order that they
may remain under the eye of the
government until full information can be
obtained about them."

These words were pronounced with the
most exact politeness and the most
perfect calmness.  Nevertheless, they
had not the power of convincing Milady.

"But I am not a foreigner, sir," said
she, with an accent as pure as ever was
heard between Portsmouth and Manchester;
"my name is Lady Clarik, and this
measure--"

"This measure is general, madame; and
you will seek in vain to evade it."

"I will follow you, then, sir."

Accepting the hand of the officer, she
began the descent of the ladder, at the
foot of which the boat waited.  The
officer followed her.  A large cloak was
spread at the stern; the officer
requested her to sit down upon this
cloak, and placed himself beside her.

"Row!" said he to the sailors.

The eight oars fell at once into the
sea, making but a single sound, giving
but a single stroke, and the boat seemed
to fly over the surface of the water.

In five minutes they gained the land.

The officer leaped to the pier, and
offered his hand to Milady. A carriage
was in waiting.

"Is this carriage for us?" asked Milady.

"Yes, madame," replied the officer.

"The hotel, then, is far away?"

"At the other end of the town."

"Very well," said Milady; and she
resolutely entered the carriage.

The officer saw that the baggage was
fastened carefully behind the carriage;
and this operation ended, he took his
place beside Milady, and shut the door.

Immediately, without any order being
given or his place of destination
indicated, the coachman set off at a
rapid pace, and plunged into the streets
of the city.

So strange a reception naturally gave
Milady ample matter for reflection; so
seeing that the young officer did not
seem at all disposed for conversation,
she reclined in her corner of the
carriage, and one after the other passed
in review all the surmises which
presented themselves to her mind.

At the end of a quarter of an hour,
however, surprised at the length of the
journey, she leaned forward toward the
door to see whither she was being
conducted.  Houses were no longer to be
seen; trees appeared in the darkness
like great black phantoms chasing one
another.  Milady shuddered.

"But we are no longer in the city, sir,"
said she.

The young officer preserved silence.

"I beg you to understand, sir, I will go
no farther unless you tell me whither
you are taking me."

This threat brought no reply.

"Oh, this is too much," cried Milady. 
"Help! help!"

No voice replied to hers; the carriage
continued to roll on with rapidity; the
officer seemed a statue.

Milady looked at the officer with one of
those terrible expressions peculiar to
her countenance, and which so rarely
failed of their effect; anger made her
eyes flash in the darkness.

The young man remained immovable.

Milady tried to open the door in order
to throw herself out.

"Take care, madame," said the young man,
coolly, "you will kill yourself in
jumping."

Milady reseated herself, foaming.  The
officer leaned forward, looked at her in
his turn, and appeared surprised to see
that face, just before so beautiful,
distorted with passion and almost
hideous.  The artful creature at once
comprehended that she was injuring
herself by allowing him thus to read her
soul; she collected her features, and in
a complaining voice said:  "In the name
of heaven, sir, tell me if it is to you,
if it is to your government, if it is to
an enemy I am to attribute the violence
that is done me?"

"No violence will be offered to you,
madame, and what happens to you is the
result of a very simple measure which we
are obliged to adopt with all who land
in England."

"Then you don't know me, sir?"

"It is the first time I have had the
honor of seeing you."

"And on your honor, you have no cause of
hatred against me?"

"None, I swear to you."

There was so much serenity, coolness,
mildness even, in the voice of the young
man, that Milady felt reassured.

At length after a journey of nearly an
hour, the carriage stopped before an
iron gate, which closed an avenue
leading to a castle severe in form,
massive, and isolated.  Then, as the
wheels rolled over a fine gravel, Milady
could hear a vast roaring, which she at
once recognized as the noise of the sea
dashing against some steep cliff.

The carriage passed under two arched
gateways, and at length stopped in a
court large, dark, and square.  Almost
immediately the door of the carriage was
opened, the young man sprang lightly out
and presented his hand to Milady, who
leaned upon it, and in her turn alighted
with tolerable calmness.

"Still, then, I am a prisoner," said
Milady, looking around her, and bringing
back her eyes with a most gracious smile
to the young officer; "but I feel
assured it will not be for long," added
she.  "My own conscience and your
politeness, sir, are the guarantees of
that."

However flattering this compliment, the
officer made no reply; but drawing from
his belt a little silver whistle, such
as boatswains use in ships of war, he
whistled three times, with three
different modulations.  Immediately
several men appeared, who unharnessed
the smoking horses, and put the carriage
into a coach house.

Then the officer, with the same calm
politeness, invited his prisoner to
enter the house.  She, with a
still-smiling countenance, took his arm,
and passed with him under a low arched
door, which by a vaulted passage,
lighted only at the farther end, led to
a stone staircase around an angle of
stone.  They then came to a massive
door, which after the introduction into
the lock of a key which the young man
carried with him, turned heavily upon
its hinges, and disclosed the chamber
destined for Milady.

With a single glance the prisoner took
in the apartment in its minutest
details.  It was a chamber whose
furniture was at once appropriate for a
prisoner or a free man; and yet bars at
the windows and outside bolts at the
door decided the question in favor of
the prison.

In an instant all the strength of mind
of this creature, though drawn from the
most vigorous sources, abandoned her;
she sank into a large easy chair, with
her arms crossed, her head lowered, and
expecting every instant to see a judge
enter to interrogate her.

But no one entered except two or three
marines, who brought her trunks and
packages, deposited them in a corner,
and retired without speaking.

The officer superintended all these
details with the same calmness Milady
had constantly seen in him, never
pronouncing a word himself, and making
himself obeyed by a gesture of his hand
or a sound of his whistle.

It might have been said that between
this man and his inferiors spoken
language did not exist, or had become
useless.

At length Milady could hold out no
longer; she broke the silence. "In the
name of heaven, sir," cried she, "what
means all that is passing?  Put an end
to my doubts; I have courage enough for
any danger I can foresee, for every
misfortune which I understand. Where am
I, and why am I here?  If I am free, why
these bars and these doors?  If I am a
prisoner, what crime have I committed?"

"You are here in the apartment destined
for you, madame.  I received orders to
go and take charge of you on the sea,
and to conduct you to this castle.  This
order I believe I have accomplished with
all the exactness of a soldier, but also
with the courtesy of a gentleman.  There
terminates, at least to the present
moment, the duty I had to fulfill toward
you; the rest concerns another person."

"And who is that other person?" asked
Milady, warmly.  "Can you not tell me
his name?"

At the moment a great jingling of spurs
was heard on the stairs. Some voices
passed and faded away, and the sound of
a single footstep approached the door.

"That person is here, madame," said the
officer, leaving the entrance open, and
drawing himself up in an attitude of
respect.

At the same time the door opened; a man
appeared on the threshold.  He was
without a hat, carried a sword, and
flourished a handkerchief in his hand.

Milady thought she recognized this
shadow in the gloom; she supported
herself with one hand upon the arm of
the chair, and advanced her head as if
to meet a certainty.

The stranger advanced slowly, and as he
advanced, after entering into the circle
of light projected by the lamp, Milady
involuntarily drew back.

Then when she had no longer any doubt,
she cried, in a state of stupor, "What,
my brother, is it you?"

"Yes, fair lady!" replied Lord de
Winter, making a bow, half courteous,
half ironical; "it is I, myself."

"But this castle, then?"

"Is mine."

"This chamber?"

"Is yours."

"I am, then, your prisoner?"

"Nearly so."

"But this is a frightful abuse of
power!"

"No high-sounding words!  Let us sit
down and chat quietly, as brother and
sister ought to do."

Then, turning toward the door, and
seeing that the young officer was
waiting for his last orders, he said. 
"All is well, I thank you; now leave us
alone, Mr. Felton."



50 CHAT BETWEEN BROTHER AND SISTER

During the time which Lord de Winter
took to shut the door, close a shutter,
and draw a chair near to his
sister-in-law's fauteuil, Milady,
anxiously thoughtful, plunged her glance
into the depths of possibility, and
discovered all the plan, of which she
could not even obtain a glance as long
as she was ignorant into whose hands she
had fallen.  She knew her brother-in-law
to be a worthy gentleman, a bold hunter,
an intrepid player, enterprising with
women, but by no means remarkable for
his skill in intrigues. How had he
discovered her arrival, and caused her
to be seized? Why did he detain her?

Athos had dropped some words which
proved that the conversation she had
with the cardinal had fallen into
outside ears; but she could not suppose
that he had dug a countermine so
promptly and so boldly.  She rather
feared that her preceding operations in
England might have been discovered. 
Buckingham might have guessed that it
was she who had cut off the two studs,
and avenge himself for that little
treachery; but Buckingham was incapable
of going to any excess against a woman,
particularly if that woman was supposed
to have acted from a feeling of
jealousy.

This supposition appeared to her most
reasonable.  It seemed to her that they
wanted to revenge the past, and not to
anticipate the future.  At all events,
she congratulated herself upon having
fallen into the hands of her
brother-in-law, with whom she reckoned
she could deal very easily, rather than
into the hands of an acknowledged and
intelligent enemy.

"Yes, let us chat, brother," said she,
with a kind of cheerfulness, decided as
she was to draw from the conversation,
in spite of all the dissimulation Lord
de Winter could bring, the revelations
of which she stood in need to regulate
her future conduct.

"You have, then, decided to come to
England again," said Lord de Winter, "in
spite of the resolutions you so often
expressed in Paris never to set your
feet on British ground?"

Milady replied to this question by
another question.  "To begin with, tell
me," said she, "how have you watched me
so closely as to be aware beforehand not
only of my arrival, but even of the day,
the hour, and the port at which I should
arrive?"

Lord de Winter adopted the same tactics
as Milady, thinking that as his
sister-in-law employed them they must be
the best.

"But tell me, my dear sister," replied
he, "what makes you come to England?"

"I come to see you," replied Milady,
without knowing how much she aggravated
by this reply the suspicions to which
D'Artagnan's letter had given birth in
the mind of her brother-in-law, and only
desiring to gain the good will of her
auditor by a falsehood.

"Ah, to see me?" said De Winter,
cunningly.

"To be sure, to see you.  What is there
astonishing in that?"

"And you had no other object in coming
to England but to see me?"

"No."

"So it was for me alone you have taken
the trouble to cross the Channel?"

"For you alone."

"The deuce!  What tenderness, my
sister!"

"But am I not your nearest relative?"
demanded Milady, with a tone of the most
touching ingenuousness.

"And my only heir, are you not?" said
Lord de Winter in his turn, fixing his
eyes on those of Milady.

Whatever command she had over herself,
Milady could not help starting; and as
in pronouncing the last words Lord de
Winter placed his hand upon the arm of
his sister, this start did not escape
him.

In fact, the blow was direct and severe.
The first idea that occurred to Milady's
mind was that she had been betrayed by
Kitty, and that she had recounted to the
baron the selfish aversion toward
himself of which she had imprudently
allowed some marks to escape before her
servant.  She also recollected the
furious and imprudent attack she had
made upon D'Artagnan when he spared the
life of her brother.

"I do not understand, my Lord," said
she, in order to gain time and make her
adversary speak out.  "What do you mean
to say?  Is there any secret meaning
concealed beneath your words?"

"Oh, my God, no!" said Lord de Winter,
with apparent good nature. "You wish to
see me, and you come to England.  I
learn this desire, or rather I suspect
that you feel it; and in order to spare
you all the annoyances of a nocturnal
arrival in a port and all the fatigues
of landing, I send one of my officers to
meet you, I place a carriage at his
orders, and he brings you hither to this
castle, of which I am governor, whither
I come every day, and where, in order to
satisfy our mutual desire of seeing each
other, I have prepared you a chamber. 
What is there more astonishing in all
that I have said to you than in what you
have told me?"

"No; what I think astonishing is that
you should expect my coming."

"And yet that is the most simple thing
in the world, my dear sister.  Have you
not observed that the captain of your
little vessel, on entering the
roadstead, sent forward, in order to
obtain permission to enter the port, a
little boat bearing his logbook and the
register of his voyagers?  I am
commandant of the port.  They brought me
that book.  I recognized your name in
it. My heart told me what your mouth has
just confirmed--that is to say, with
what view you have exposed yourself to
the dangers of a sea so perilous, or at
least so troublesome at this moment--and
I sent my cutter to meet you.  You know
the rest."

Milady knew that Lord de Winter lied,
and she was the more alarmed.

"My brother," continued she, "was not
that my Lord Buckingham whom I saw on
the jetty this evening as we arrived?"

"Himself.  Ah, I can understand how the
sight of him struck you," replied Lord
de Winter.  "You came from a country
where he must be very much talked of,
and I know that his armaments against
France greatly engage the attention of
your friend the cardinal."

"My friend the cardinal!" cried Milady,
seeing that on this point as on the
other Lord de Winter seemed well
instructed.

"Is he not your friend?" replied the
baron, negligently.  "Ah, pardon!  I
thought so; but we will return to my
Lord Duke presently.  Let us not depart
from the sentimental turn our
conversation had taken.  You came, you
say, to see me?"

"Yes."

"Well, I reply that you shall be served
to the height of your wishes, and that
we shall see each other every day."

"Am I, then, to remain here eternally?"
demanded Milady, with a certain terror.

"Do you find yourself badly lodged,
sister?  Demand anything you want, and I
will hasten to have you furnished with
it."

"But I have neither my women nor my
servants."

"You shall have all, madame.  Tell me on
what footing your household was
established by your first husband, and
although I am only your brother-in-law,
I will arrange one similar."

"My first husband!" cried Milady,
looking at Lord de Winter with eyes
almost starting from their sockets.

"Yes, your French husband.  I don't
speak of my brother.  If you have
forgotten, as he is still living, I can
write to him and he will send me
information on the subject."

A cold sweat burst from the brow of
Milady.

"You jest!" said she, in a hollow voice.

"Do I look so?" asked the baron, rising
and going a step backward.

"Or rather you insult me," continued
she, pressing with her stiffened hands
the two arms of her easy chair, and
raising herself upon her wrists.

"I insult you!" said Lord de Winter,
with contempt.  "In truth, madame, do
you think that can be possible?"

"Indeed, sir," said Milady, "you must be
either drunk or mad. Leave the room, and
send me a woman."

"Women are very indiscreet, my sister. 
Cannot I serve you as a waiting maid? 
By that means all our secrets will
remain in the family."

"Insolent!" cried Milady; and as if
acted upon by a spring, she bounded
toward the baron, who awaited her attack
with his arms crossed, but nevertheless
with one hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Come!" said he. "I know you are
accustomed to assassinate people; but I
warn you I shall defend myself, even
against you."

"You are right," said Milady.  "You have
all the appearance of being cowardly
enough to lift your hand against a
woman."

"Perhaps so; and I have an excuse, for
mine would not be the first hand of a
man that has been placed upon you, I
imagine."

And the baron pointed, with a slow and
accusing gesture, to the left shoulder
of Milady, which he almost touched with
his finger.

Milady uttered a deep, inward shriek,
and retreated to a corner of the room
like a panther which crouches for a
spring.

"Oh, growl as much as you please," cried
Lord de Winter, "but don't try to bite,
for I warn you that it would be to your
disadvantage.  There are here no
procurators who regulate successions
beforehand.  There is no knight-errant
to come and seek a quarrel with me on
account of the fair lady I detain a
prisoner; but I have judges quite ready
who will quickly dispose of a woman so
shameless as to glide, a bigamist, into
the bed of Lord de Winter, my brother. 
And these judges, I warn you, will soon
send you to an executioner who will make
both your shoulders alike."

The eyes of Milady darted such flashes
that although he was a man and armed
before an unarmed woman, he felt the
chill of fear glide through his whole
frame.  However, he continued all the
same, but with increasing warmth:  "Yes,
I can very well understand that after
having inherited the fortune of my
brother it would be very agreeable to
you to be my heir likewise; but know
beforehand, if you kill me or cause me
to be killed, my precautions are taken. 
Not a penny of what I possess will pass
into your hands.  Were you not already
rich enough--you who possess nearly a
million?  And could you not stop your
fatal career, if you did not do evil for
the infinite and supreme joy of doing
it?  Oh, be assured, if the memory of my
brother were not sacred to me, you
should rot in a state dungeon or satisfy
the curiosity of sailors at Tyburn.  I
will be silent, but you must endure your
captivity quietly.  In fifteen or twenty
days I shall set out for La Rochelle
with the army; but on the eve of my
departure a vessel which I shall see
depart will take you hence and convey
you to our colonies in the south.  And
be assured that you shall be accompanied
by one who will blow your brains out at
the first attempt you make to return to
England or the Continent."

Milady listened with an attention that
dilated her inflamed eyes.

"Yes, at present," continued Lord de
Winter, "you will remain in this castle.
The walls are thick, the doors strong,
and the bars solid; besides, your window
opens immediately over the sea.  The men
of my crew, who are devoted to me for
life and death, mount guard around this
apartment, and watch all the passages
that lead to the courtyard.  Even if you
gained the yard, there would still be
three iron gates for you to pass.  The
order is positive.  A step, a gesture, a
word, on your part, denoting an effort
to escape, and you are to be fired upon.
If they kill you, English justice will
be under an obligation to me for having
saved it trouble.  Ah! I see your
features regain their calmness, your
countenance recovers its assurance.  You
are saying to yourself: 'Fifteen days,
twenty days?  Bah!  I have an inventive
mind; before that is expired some idea
will occur to me.  I have an infernal
spirit.  I shall meet with a victim. 
Before fifteen days are gone by I shall
be away from here.'  Ah, try it!"

Milady, finding her thoughts betrayed,
dug her nails into her flesh to subdue
every emotion that might give to her
face any expression except agony.

Lord de Winter continued:  "The officer
who commands here in my absence you have
already seen, and therefore know him. 
He knows how, as you must have observed,
to obey an order--for you did not, I am
sure, come from Portsmouth hither
without endeavoring to make him speak. 
What do you say of him?  Could a statue
of marble have been more impassive and
more mute?  You have already tried the
power of your seductions upon many men,
and unfortunately you have always
succeeded; but I give you leave to try
them upon this one.  PARDIEU! if you
succeed with him, I pronounce you the
demon himself."

He went toward the door and opened it
hastily.

"Call Mr. Felton," said he. "Wait a
minute longer, and I will introduce him
to you."

There followed between these two
personages a strange silence, during
which the sound of a slow and regular
step was heard approaching.  Shortly a
human form appeared in the shade of the
corridor, and the young lieutenant, with
whom we are already acquainted, stopped
at the threshold to receive the orders
of the baron.

"Come in, my dear John," said Lord de
Winter, "come in, and shut the door."

The young officer entered.

"Now," said the baron, "look at this
woman.  She is young; she is beautiful;
she possesses all earthly seductions. 
Well, she is a monster, who, at
twenty-five years of age, has been
guilty of as many crimes as you could
read of in a year in the archives of our
tribunals.  Her voice prejudices her
hearers in her favor; her beauty serves
as a bait to her victims; her body even
pays what she promises--I must do her
that justice.  She will try to seduce
you, perhaps she will try to kill you. 
I have extricated you from misery,
Felton; I have caused you to be named
lieutenant; I once saved your life, you
know on what occasion.  I am for you not
only a protector, but a friend; not only
a benefactor, but a father.  This woman
has come back again into England for the
purpose of conspiring against my life. 
I hold this serpent in my hands.  Well,
I call you, and say to you:  Friend
Felton, John, my child, guard me, and
more particularly guard yourself,
against this woman.  Swear, by your
hopes of salvation, to keep her safely
for the chastisement she has merited. 
John Felton, I trust your word!  John
Felton, I put faith in your loyalty!"

"My Lord," said the young officer,
summoning to his mild countenance all
the hatred he could find in his heart,
"my Lord, I swear all shall be done as
you desire."

Milady received this look like a
resigned victim; it was impossible to
imagine a more submissive or a more mild
expression than that which prevailed on
her beautiful countenance.  Lord de
Winter himself could scarcely recognize
the tigress who, a minute before,
prepared apparently for a fight.

"She is not to leave this chamber,
understand, John," continued the baron. 
"She is to correspond with nobody; she
is to speak to no one but you--if you
will do her the honor to address a word
to her."

"That is sufficient, my Lord!  I have
sworn."

"And now, madame, try to make your peace
with God, for you are judged by men!"

Milady let her head sink, as if crushed
by this sentence.  Lord de Winter went
out, making a sign to Felton, who
followed him, shutting the door after
him.

One instant after, the heavy step of a
marine who served as sentinel was heard
in the corridor--his ax in his girdle
and his musket on his shoulder.

Milady remained for some minutes in the
same position, for she thought they
might perhaps be examining her through
the keyhole; she then slowly raised her
head, which had resumed its formidable
expression of menace and defiance, ran
to the door to listen, looked out of her
window, and returning to bury herself
again in her large armchair, she
reflected.



51 OFFICER

Meanwhile, the cardinal looked anxiously
for news from England; but no news
arrived that was not annoying and
threatening.

Although La Rochelle was invested,
however certain success might
appear--thanks to the precautions taken,
and above all to the dyke, which
prevented the entrance of any vessel
into the besieged city--the blockade
might last a long time yet.  This was a
great affront to the king's army, and a
great inconvenience to the cardinal, who
had no longer, it is true, to embroil
Louis XIII with Anne of Austria--for
that affair was over--but he had to
adjust matters for M. de Bassompierre,
who was embroiled with the Duc
d'Angouleme.

As to Monsieur, who had begun the siege,
he left to the cardinal the task of
finishing it.

The city, notwithstanding the incredible
perseverance of its mayor, had attempted
a sort of mutiny for a surrender; the
mayor had hanged the mutineers.  This
execution quieted the ill-disposed, who
resolved to allow themselves to die of
hunger--this death always appearing to
them more slow and less sure than
strangulation.

On their side, from time to time, the
besiegers took the messengers which the
Rochellais sent to Buckingham, or the
spies which Buckingham sent to the
Rochellais.  In one case or the other,
the trial was soon over.  The cardinal
pronounced the single word, "Hanged!" 
The king was invited to come and see the
hanging.  He came languidly, placing
himself in a good situation to see all
the details.  This amused him sometimes
a little, and made him endure the siege
with patience; but it did not prevent
his getting very tired, or from talking
at every moment of returning to
Paris--so that if the messengers and the
spies had failed, his Eminence,
notwithstanding all his inventiveness,
would have found himself much
embarrassed.

Nevertheless, time passed on, and the
Rochellais did not surrender.  The last
spy that was taken was the bearer of a
letter.  This letter told Buckingham
that the city was at an extremity; but
instead of adding, "If your succor does
not arrive within fifteen days, we will
surrender," it added, quite simply, "If
your succor comes not within fifteen
days, we shall all be dead with hunger
when it comes."

The Rochellais, then, had no hope but in
Buckingham.  Buckingham was their
Messiah.  It was evident that if they
one day learned positively that they
must not count on Buckingham, their
courage would fail with their hope.

The cardinal looked, then, with great
impatience for the news from England
which would announce to him that
Buckingham would not come.

The question of carrying the city by
assault, though often debated in the
council of the king, had been always
rejected.  In the first place, La
Rochelle appeared impregnable.  Then the
cardinal, whatever he said, very well
knew that the horror of bloodshed in
this encounter, in which Frenchman would
combat against Frenchman, was a
retrograde movement of sixty years
impressed upon his policy; and the
cardinal was at that period what we now
call a man of progress.  In fact, the
sack of La Rochelle, and the
assassination of three of four thousand
Huguenots who allowed themselves to be
killed, would resemble too closely, in
1628, the massacre of St. Bartholomew in
1572; and then, above all this, this
extreme measure, which was not at all
repugnant to the king, good Catholic as
he was, always fell before this argument
of the besieging generals--La Rochelle
is impregnable except to famine.

The cardinal could not drive from his
mind the fear he entertained of his
terrible emissary--for he comprehended
the strange qualities of this woman,
sometimes a serpent, sometimes a lion. 
Had she betrayed him?  Was she dead?  He
knew her well enough in all cases to
know that, whether acting for or against
him, as a friend or an enemy, she would
not remain motionless without great
impediments; but whence did these
impediments arise?  That was what he
could not know.

And yet he reckoned, and with reason, on
Milady.  He had divined in the past of
this woman terrible things which his red
mantle alone could cover; and he felt,
from one cause or another, that this
woman was his own, as she could look to
no other but himself for a support
superior to the danger which threatened
her.

He resolved, then, to carry on the war
alone, and to look for no success
foreign to himself, but as we look for a
fortunate chance.  He continued to press
the raising of the famous dyke which was
to starve La Rochelle.  Meanwhile, he
cast his eyes over that unfortunate
city, which contained so much deep
misery and so many heroic virtues, and
recalling the saying of Louis XI, his
political predecessor, as he himself was
the predecessor of Robespierre, he
repeated this maxim of Tristan's gossip:
"Divide in order to reign."

Henry IV, when besieging Paris, had
loaves and provisions thrown over the
walls.  The cardinal had little notes
thrown over in which he represented to
the Rochellais how unjust, selfish, and
barbarous was the conduct of their
leaders.  These leaders had corn in
abundance, and would not let them
partake of it; they adopted as a
maxim--for they, too, had maxims--that
it was of very little consequence that
women, children, and old men should die,
so long as the men who were to defend
the walls remained strong and healthy. 
Up to that time, whether from
devotedness or from want of power to act
against it, this maxim, without being
generally adopted, nevertheless passed
from theory into practice; but the notes
did it injury.  The notes reminded the
men that the children, women, and old
men whom they allowed to die were their
sons, their wives, and their fathers,
and that it would be more just for
everyone to be reduced to the common
misery, in order that equal conditions
should give birth to unanimous
resolutions.

These notes had all the effect that he
who wrote them could expect, in that
they induced a great number of the
inhabitants to open private negotiations
with the royal army.

But at the moment when the cardinal saw
his means already Bearing fruit, and
applauded himself for having put it in
action, an inhabitant of La Rochelle who
had contrived to pass the royal
lines--God knows how, such was the
watchfulness of Bassompierre, Schomberg,
and the Duc d'Angouleme, themselves
watched over by the cardinal--an
inhabitant of La Rochelle, we say,
entered the city, coming from
Portsmouth, and saying that he had seen
a magnificent fleet ready to sail within
eight days.  Still further, Buckingham
announced to the mayor that at length
the great league was about to declare
itself against France, and that the
kingdom would be at once invaded by the
English, Imperial, and Spanish armies. 
This letter was read publicly in all
parts of the city.  Copies were put up
at the corners of the streets; and even
they who had begun to open negotiations
interrupted them, being resolved to
await the succor so pompously announced.

This unexpected circumstance brought
back Richelieu's former anxiety, and
forced him in spite of himself once more
to turn his eyes to the other side of
the sea.

During this time, exempt from the
anxiety of its only and true chief, the
royal army led a joyous life, neither
provisions nor money being wanting in
the camp.  All the corps rivaled one
another in audacity and gaiety.  To take
spies and hang them, to make hazardous
expeditions upon the dyke or the sea, to
imagine wild plans, and to execute them
coolly--such were the pastimes which
made the army find these days short
which were not only so long to the
Rochellais, a prey to famine and
anxiety, but even to the cardinal, who
blockaded them so closely.

Sometimes when the cardinal, always on
horseback, like the lowest GENDARME of
the army, cast a pensive glance over
those works, so slowly keeping pace with
his wishes, which the engineers, brought
from all the corners of France, were
executing under his orders, if he met a
Musketeer of the company of Treville, he
drew near and looked at him in a
peculiar manner, and not recognizing in
him one of our four companions, he
turned his penetrating look and profound
thoughts in another direction.

One day when oppressed with a mortal
weariness of mind, without hope in the
negotiations with the city; without news
from England, the cardinal went out,
without any other aim than to be out of
doors, and accompanied only by Cahusac
and La Houdiniere, strolled along the
beach.  Mingling the immensity of his
dreams with the immensity of the ocean,
he came, his horse going at a foot's
pace, to a hill from the top of which he
perceived behind a hedge, reclining on
the sand and catching in its passage one
of those rays of the sun so rare at this
period of the year, seven men surrounded
by empty bottles.  Four of these men
were our Musketeers, preparing to listen
to a letter one of them had just
received.  This letter was so important
that it made them forsake their cards
and their dice on the drumhead.

The other three were occupied in opening
an enormous flagon of Collicure wine;
these were the lackeys of these
gentlemen.

The cardinal was, as we have said, in
very low spirits; and nothing when he
was in that state of mind increased his
depression so much as gaiety in others. 
Besides, he had another strange fancy,
which was always to believe that the
causes of his sadness created the gaiety
of others.  Making a sign to La
Houdiniere and Cahusac to stop, he
alighted from his horse, and went toward
these suspected merry companions,
hoping, by means of the sand which
deadened the sound of his steps and of
the hedge which concealed his approach,
to catch some words of this conversation
which appeared so interesting.  At ten
paces from the hedge he recognized the
talkative Gascon; and as he had already
perceived that these men were
Musketeers, he did not doubt that the
three others were those called the
Inseparables; that is to say, Athos,
Porthos, and Aramis.

It may be supposed that his desire to
hear the conversation was augmented by
this discovery.  His eyes took a strange
expression, and with the step of a
tiger-cat he advanced toward the hedge;
but he had not been able to catch more
than a few vague syllables without any
positive sense, when a sonorous and
short cry made him start, and attracted
the attention of the Musketeers.

"Officer!" cried Grimaud.

"You are speaking, you scoundrel!" said
Athos, rising upon his elbow, and
transfixing Grimaud with his flaming
look.

Grimaud therefore added nothing to his
speech, but contented himself with
pointing his index finger in the
direction of the hedge, announcing by
this gesture the cardinal and his
escort.

With a single bound the Musketeers were
on their feet, and saluted with respect.

The cardinal seemed furious.

"It appears that Messieurs the
Musketeers keep guard," said he. "Are
the English expected by land, or do the
Musketeers consider themselves superior
officers?"

"Monseigneur," replied Athos, for amid
the general fright he alone had
preserved the noble calmness and
coolness that never forsook him,
"Monseigneur, the Musketeers, when they
are not on duty, or when their duty is
over, drink and play at dice, and they
are certainly superior officers to their
lackeys."

"Lackeys?" grumbled the cardinal. 
"Lackeys who have the order to warn
their masters when anyone passes are not
lackeys, they are sentinels."

"Your Eminence may perceive that if we
had not taken this precaution, we should
have been exposed to allowing you to
pass without presenting you our respects
or offering you our thanks for the favor
you have done us in uniting us. 
D'Artagnan," continued Athos, "you, who
but lately were so anxious for such an
opportunity for expressing your
gratitude to Monseigneur, here it is;
avail yourself of it."

These words were pronounced with that
imperturbable phlegm which distinguished
Athos in the hour of danger, and with
that excessive politeness which made of
him at certain moments a king more
majestic than kings by birth.

D'Artagnan came forward and stammered
out a few words of gratitude which soon
expired under the gloomy looks of the
cardinal.

"It does not signify, gentlemen,"
continued the cardinal, without
appearing to be in the least swerved
from his first intention by the
diversion which Athos had started, "it
does not signify, gentlemen.  I do not
like to have simple soldiers, because
they have the advantage of serving in a
privileged corps, thus to play the great
lords; discipline is the same for them
as for everybody else."

Athos allowed the cardinal to finish his
sentence completely, and bowed in sign
of assent.  Then he resumed in his turn:
"Discipline, Monseigneur, has, I hope,
in no way been forgotten by us.  We are
not on duty, and we believed that not
being on duty we were at liberty to
dispose of our time as we pleased.  If
we are so fortunate as to have some
particular duty to perform for your
Eminence, we are ready to obey you. 
Your Eminence may perceive," continued
Athos, knitting his brow, for this sort
of investigation began to annoy him,
"that we have not come out without our
arms."

And he showed the cardinal, with his
finger, the four muskets piled near the
drum, on which were the cards and dice.

"Your Eminence may believe," added
D'Artagnan, "that we would have come to
meet you, if we could have supposed it
was Monseigneur coming toward us with so
few attendants."

The cardinal bit his mustache, and even
his lips a little.

"Do you know what you look like, all
together, as you are armed and guarded
by your lackeys?" said the cardinal. 
"You look like four conspirators."

"Oh, as to that, Monseigneur, it is
true," said Athos; "we do conspire, as
your Eminence might have seen the other
morning. Only we conspire against the
Rochellais."

"Ah, you gentlemen of policy!" replied
the cardinal, knitting his brow in his
turn, "the secret of many unknown things
might perhaps be found in your brains,
if we could read them as you read that
letter which you concealed as soon as
you saw me coming."

The color mounted to the face of Athos,
and he made a step toward his Eminence.

"One might think you really suspected
us, monseigneur, and we were undergoing
a real interrogatory.  If it be so, we
trust your Eminence will deign to
explain yourself, and we should then at
least be acquainted with our real
position."

"And if it were an interrogatory!"
replied the cardinal.  "Others besides
you have undergone such, Monsieur Athos,
and have replied thereto."

"Thus I have told your Eminence that you
had but to question us, and we are ready
to reply."

"What was that letter you were about to
read, Monsieur Aramis, and which you so
promptly concealed?"

"A woman's letter, monseigneur."

"Ah, yes, I see," said the cardinal; "we
must be discreet with this sort of
letters; but nevertheless, we may show
them to a confessor, and you know I have
taken orders."

"Monseigneur," said Athos, with a
calmness the more terrible because he
risked his head in making this reply,
"the letter is a woman's letter, but it
is neither signed Marion de Lorme, nor
Madame d'Aiguillon."

The cardinal became as pale as death;
lightning darted from his eyes.  He
turned round as if to give an order to
Cahusac and Houdiniere.  Athos saw the
movement; he made a step toward the
muskets, upon which the other three
friends had fixed their eyes, like men
ill-disposed to allow themselves to be
taken.  The cardinalists were three; the
Musketeers, lackeys included, were
seven.  He judged that the match would
be so much the less equal, if Athos and
his companions were really plotting; and
by one of those rapid turns which he
always had at command, all his anger
faded away into a smile.

"Well, well!" said he, "you are brave
young men, proud in daylight, faithful
in darkness.  We can find no fault with
you for watching over yourselves, when
you watch so carefully over others. 
Gentlemen, I have not forgotten the
night in which you served me as an
escort to the Red Dovecot.  If there
were any danger to be apprehended on the
road I am going, I would request you to
accompany me; but as there is none,
remain where you are, finish your
bottles, your game, and your letter. 
Adieu, gentlemen!"

And remounting his horse, which Cahusac
led to him, he saluted them with his
hand, and rode away.

The four young men, standing and
motionless, followed him with their eyes
without speaking a single word until he
had disappeared.  Then they looked at
one another.

The countenances of all gave evidence of
terror, for notwithstanding the friendly
adieu of his Eminence, they plainly
perceived that the cardinal went away
with rage in his heart.

Athos alone smiled, with a
self-possessed, disdainful smile.

When the cardinal was out of hearing and
sight, "That Grimaud kept bad watch!"
cried Porthos, who had a great
inclination to vent his ill-humor on
somebody.

Grimaud was about to reply to excuse
himself.  Athos lifted his finger, and
Grimaud was silent.

"Would you have given up the letter,
Aramis?" said D'Artagnan.

"I," said Aramis, in his most flutelike
tone, "I had made up my mind.  If he had
insisted upon the letter being given up
to him, I would have presented the
letter to him with one hand, and with
the other I would have run my sword
through his body."

"I expected as much," said Athos; "and
that was why I threw myself between you
and him.  Indeed, this man is very much
to blame for talking thus to other men;
one would say he had never had to do
with any but women and children."

"My dear Athos, I admire you, but
nevertheless we were in the wrong, after
all."

"How, in the wrong?" said Athos. 
"Whose, then, is the air we breathe? 
Whose is the ocean upon which we look? 
Whose is the sand upon which we were
reclining?  Whose is that letter of your
mistress?  Do these belong to the
cardinal?  Upon my honor, this man
fancies the world belongs to him.  There
you stood, stammering, stupefied,
annihilated.  One might have supposed
the Bastille appeared before you, and
that the gigantic Medusa had converted
you into stone.  Is being in love
conspiring?  You are in love with a
woman whom the cardinal has caused to be
shut up, and you wish to get her out of
the hands of the cardinal.  That's a
match you are playing with his Eminence;
this letter is your game.  Why should
you expose your game to your adversary? 
That is never done.  Let him find it out
if he can!  We can find out his!"

"Well, that's all very sensible, Athos,"
said D'Artagnan.

"In that case, let there be no more
question of what's past, and let Aramis
resume the letter from his cousin where
the cardinal interrupted him."

Aramis drew the letter from his pocket;
the three friends surrounded him, and
the three lackeys grouped themselves
again near the wine jar.

"You had only read a line or two," said
D'Artagnan; "read the letter again from
the commencement."

"Willingly," said Aramis.

"My dear Cousin, I think I shall make up
my mind to set out for Bethune, where my
sister has placed our little servant in
the convent of the Carmelites; this poor
child is quite resigned, as she knows
she cannot live elsewhere without the
salvation of her soul being in danger. 
Nevertheless, if the affairs of our
family are arranged, as we hope they
will be, I believe she will run the risk
of being damned, and will return to
those she regrets, particularly as she
knows they are always thinking of her.
Meanwhile, she is not very wretched;
what she most desires is a letter from
her intended.  I know that such viands
pass with difficulty through convent
gratings; but after all, as I have given
you proofs, my dear cousin, I am not
unskilled in such affairs, and I will
take charge of the commission.  My
sister thanks you for your good and
eternal remembrance.  She has
experienced much anxiety; but she is now
at length a little reassured, having
sent her secretary away in order that
nothing may happen unexpectedly.

"Adieu, my dear cousin.  Tell us news of
yourself as often as you can; that is to
say, as often as you can with safety.  I
embrace you.

"Marie Michon."

"Oh, what do I not owe you, Aramis?"
said D'Artagnan.  "Dear Constance!  I
have at length, then, intelligence of
you.  She lives; she is in safety in a
convent; she is at Bethune!  Where is
Bethune, Athos?"

"Why, upon the frontiers of Artois and
of Flanders.  The siege once over, we
shall be able to make a tour in that
direction."

"And that will not be long, it is to be
hoped," said Porthos; "for they have
this morning hanged a spy who confessed
that the Rochellais were reduced to the
leather of their shoes.  Supposing that
after having eaten the leather they eat
the soles, I cannot see much that is
left unless they eat one another."

"Poor fools!" said Athos, emptying a
glass of excellent Bordeaux wine which,
without having at that period the
reputation it now enjoys, merited it no
less, "poor fools!  As if the Catholic
religion was not the most advantageous
and the most agreeable of all religions!
All the same," resumed he, after having
clicked his tongue against his palate,
"they are brave fellows!  But what the
devil are you about, Aramis?" continued
Athos.  "Why, you are squeezing that
letter into your pocket!"

"Yes," said D'Artagnan, "Athos is right,
it must be burned.  And yet if we burn
it, who knows whether Monsieur Cardinal
has not a secret to interrogate ashes?"

"He must have one," said Athos.

"What will you do with the letter,
then?" asked Porthos.

"Come here, Grimaud," said Athos. 
Grimaud rose and obeyed.  "As a
punishment for having spoken without
permission, my friend, you will please
to eat this piece of paper; then to
recompense you for the service you will
have rendered us, you shall afterward
drink this glass of wine.  First, here
is the letter.  Eat heartily."

Grimaud smiled; and with his eyes fixed
upon the glass which Athos held in his
hand, he ground the paper well between
his teeth and then swallowed it.

"Bravo, Monsieur Grimaud!" said Athos;
"and now take this. That's well.  We
dispense with your saying grace."

Grimaud silently swallowed the glass of
Bordeaux wine; but his eyes, raised
toward heaven during this delicious
occupation, spoke a language which,
though mute, was not the less
expressive.

"And now," said Athos, "unless Monsieur
Cardinal should form the ingenious idea
of ripping up Grimaud, I think we may be
pretty much at our ease respecting the
letter."

Meantime, his Eminence continued his
melancholy ride, murmuring between his
mustaches, "These four men must
positively be mine."



52 CAPTIVITY:  THE FIRST DAY

Let us return to Milady, whom a glance
thrown upon the coast of France has made
us lose sight of for an instant.

We shall find her still in the
despairing attitude in which we left
her, plunged in an abyss of dismal
reflection--a dark hell at the gate of
which she has almost left hope behind,
because for the first time she doubts,
for the first time she fears.

On two occasions her fortune has failed
her, on two occasions she has found
herself discovered and betrayed; and on
these two occasions it was to one fatal
genius, sent doubtlessly by the Lord to
combat her, that she has succumbed. 
D'Artagnan has conquered her--her, that
invincible power of evil.

He has deceived her in her love, humbled
her in her pride, thwarted her in her
ambition; and now he ruins her fortune,
deprives her of liberty, and even
threatens her life.  Still more, he has
lifted the corner of her mask--that
shield with which she covered herself
and which rendered her so strong.

D'Artagnan has turned aside from
Buckingham, whom she hates as she hates
everyone she has loved, the tempest with
which Richelieu threatened him in the
person of the queen.  D'Artagnan had
passed himself upon her as De Wardes,
for whom she had conceived one of those
tigerlike fancies common to women of her
character.  D'Artagnan knows that
terrible secret which she has sworn no
one shall know without dying.  In short,
at the moment in which she has just
obtained from Richelieu a carte blanche
by the means of which she is about to
take vengeance on her enemy, this
precious paper is torn from her hands,
and it is D'Artagnan who holds her
prisoner and is about to send her to
some filthy Botany Bay, some infamous
Tyburn of the Indian Ocean.

All this she owes to D'Artagnan, without
doubt.  From whom can come so many
disgraces heaped upon her head, if not
from him?  He alone could have
transmitted to Lord de Winter all these
frightful secrets which he has
discovered, one after another, by a
train of fatalities.  He knows her
brother-in-law.  He must have written to
him.

What hatred she distills!  Motionless,
with her burning and fixed glances, in
her solitary apartment, how well the
outbursts of passion which at times
escape from the depths of her chest with
her respiration, accompany the sound of
the surf which rises, growls, roars, and
breaks itself like an eternal and
powerless despair against the rocks on
which is built this dark and lofty
castle!  How many magnificent projects
of vengeance she conceives by the light
of the flashes which her tempestuous
passion casts over her mind against Mme.
Bonacieux, against Buckingham, but above
all against D'Artagnan--projects lost in
the distance of the future.

Yes; but in order to avenge herself she
must be free.  And to be free, a
prisoner has to pierce a wall, detach
bars, cut through a floor--all
undertakings which a patient and strong
man may accomplish, but before which the
feverish irritations of a woman must
give way.  Besides, to do all this, time
is necessary--months, years; and she has
ten or twelve days, as Lord de Winter,
her fraternal and terrible jailer, has
told her.

And yet, if she were a man she would
attempt all this, and perhaps might
succeed; why, then, did heaven make the
mistake of placing that manlike soul in
that frail and delicate body?

The first moments of her captivity were
terrible; a few convulsions of rage
which she could not suppress paid her
debt of feminine weakness to nature. 
But by degrees she overcame the
outbursts of her mad passion; and
nervous tremblings which agitated her
frame disappeared, and she remained
folded within herself like a fatigued
serpent in repose.

"Go to, go to!  I must have been mad to
allow myself to be carried away so,"
says she, gazing into the glass, which
reflects back to her eyes the burning
glance by which she appears to
interrogate herself.  "No violence;
violence is the proof of weakness.  In
the first place, I have never succeeded
by that means.  Perhaps if I employed my
strength against women I might perchance
find them weaker than myself, and
consequently conquer them; but it is
with men that I struggle, and I am but a
woman to them.  Let me fight like a
woman, then; my strength is in my
weakness."

Then, as if to render an account to
herself of the changes she could place
upon her countenance, so mobile and so
expressive, she made it take all
expressions from that of passionate
anger, which convulsed her features, to
that of the most sweet, most
affectionate, and most seducing smile. 
Then her hair assumed successively,
under her skillful hands, all the
undulations she thought might assist the
charms of her face.  At length she
murmured, satisfied with herself, "Come,
nothing is lost; I am still beautiful."

It was then nearly eight o'clock in the
evening.  Milady perceived a bed; she
calculated that the repose of a few
hours would not only refresh her head
and her ideas, but still further, her
complexion.  A better idea, however,
came into her mind before going to bed. 
She had heard something said about
supper. She had already been an hour in
this apartment; they could not long
delay bringing her a repast.  The
prisoner did not wish to lose time; and
she resolved to make that very evening
some attempts to ascertain the nature of
the ground she had to work upon, by
studying the characters of the men to
whose guardianship she was committed.

A light appeared under the door; this
light announced the reappearance of her
jailers.  Milady, who had arisen, threw
herself quickly into the armchair, her
head thrown back, her beautiful hair
unbound and disheveled, her bosom half
bare beneath her crumpled lace, one hand
on her heart, and the other hanging
down.

The bolts were drawn; the door groaned
upon its hinges.  Steps sounded in the
chamber, and drew near.

"Place that table there," said a voice
which the prisoner recognized as that of
Felton.

The order was executed.

"You will bring lights, and relieve the
sentinel," continued Felton.

And this double order which the young
lieutenant gave to the same individuals
proved to Milady that her servants were
the same men as her guards; that is to
say, soldiers.

Felton's orders were, for the rest,
executed with a silent rapidity that
gave a good idea of the way in which he
maintained discipline.

At length Felton, who had not yet looked
at Milady, turned toward her.

"Ah, ah!" said he, "she is asleep;
that's well.  When she wakes she can
sup."  And he made some steps toward the
door.

"But, my lieutenant," said a soldier,
less stoical than his chief, and who had
approached Milady, "this woman is not
asleep."

"What, not asleep!" said Felton; "what
is she doing, then?"

"She has fainted.  Her face is very
pale, and I have listened in vain; I do
not hear her breathe."

"You are right," said Felton, after
having looked at Milady from the spot on
which he stood without moving a step
toward her. "Go and tell Lord de Winter
that his prisoner has fainted--for this
event not having been foreseen, I don't
know what to do."

The soldier went out to obey the orders
of his officer.  Felton sat down upon an
armchair which happened to be near the
door, and waited without speaking a
word, without making a gesture.  Milady
possessed that great art, so much
studied by women, of looking through her
long eyelashes without appearing to open
the lids. She perceived Felton, who sat
with his back toward her.  She continued
to look at him for nearly ten minutes,
and in these ten minutes the immovable
guardian never turned round once.

She then thought that Lord de Winter
would come, and by his presence give
fresh strength to her jailer.  Her first
trial was lost; she acted like a woman
who reckons up her resources.  As a
result she raised her head, opened her
eyes, and sighed deeply.

At this sigh Felton turned round.

"Ah, you are awake, madame," he said;
"then I have nothing more to do here. 
If you want anything you can ring."

"Oh, my God, my God! how I have
suffered!" said Milady, in that
harmonious voice which, like that of the
ancient enchantresses, charmed all whom
she wished to destroy.

And she assumed, upon sitting up in the
armchair, a still more graceful and
abandoned position than when she
reclined.

Felton arose.

"You will be served, thus, madame, three
times a day," said he. "In the morning
at nine o'clock, in the day at one
o'clock, and in the evening at eight. 
If that does not suit you, you can point
out what other hours you prefer, and in
this respect your wishes will be
complied with."

"But am I to remain always alone in this
vast and dismal chamber?" asked Milady.

"A woman of the neighbourhood has been
sent for, who will be tomorrow at the
castle, and will return as often as you
desire her presence."

"I thank you, sir," replied the
prisoner, humbly.

Felton made a slight bow, and directed
his steps toward the door. At the moment
he was about to go out, Lord de Winter
appeared in the corridor, followed by
the soldier who had been sent to inform
him of the swoon of Milady.  He held a
vial of salts in his hand.

"Well, what is it--what is going on
here?" said he, in a jeering voice, on
seeing the prisoner sitting up and
Felton about to go out.  "Is this corpse
come to life already?  Felton, my lad,
did you not perceive that you were taken
for a novice, and that the first act was
being performed of a comedy of which we
shall doubtless have the pleasure of
following out all the developments?"

"I thought so, my lord," said Felton;
"but as the prisoner is a woman, after
all, I wish to pay her the attention
that every man of gentle birth owes to a
woman, if not on her account, at least
on my own."

Milady shuddered through her whole
system.  These words of Felton's passed
like ice through her veins.

"So," replied De Winter, laughing, "that
beautiful hair so skillfully disheveled,
that white skin, and that languishing
look, have not yet seduced you, you
heart of stone?"

"No, my Lord," replied the impassive
young man; "your Lordship may be assured
that it requires more than the tricks
and coquetry of a woman to corrupt me."

"In that case, my brave lieutenant, let
us leave Milady to find out something
else, and go to supper; but be easy! 
She has a fruitful imagination, and the
second act of the comedy will not delay
its steps after the first."

And at these words Lord de Winter passed
his arm through that of Felton, and led
him out, laughing.

"Oh, I will be a match for you!"
murmured Milady, between her teeth; "be
assured of that, you poor spoiled monk,
you poor converted soldier, who has cut
his uniform out of a monk's frock!"

"By the way," resumed De Winter,
stopping at the threshold of the door,
"you must not, Milady, let this check
take away your appetite.  Taste that
fowl and those fish.  On my honor, they
are not poisoned.  I have a very good
cook, and he is not to be my heir; I
have full and perfect confidence in him.
Do as I do. Adieu, dear sister, till
your next swoon!"

This was all that Milady could endure. 
Her hands clutched her armchair; she
ground her teeth inwardly; her eyes
followed the motion of the door as it
closed behind Lord de Winter and Felton,
and the moment she was alone a fresh fit
of despair seized her. She cast her eyes
upon the table, saw the glittering of a
knife, rushed toward it and clutched it;
but her disappointment was cruel.  The
blade was round, and of flexible silver.

A burst of laughter resounded from the
other side of the ill-closed door, and
the door reopened.

"Ha, ha!" cried Lord de Winter; "ha, ha!
Don't you see, my brave Felton; don't
you see what I told you?  That knife was
for you, my lad; she would have killed
you.  Observe, this is one of her
peculiarities, to get rid thus, after
one fashion or another, of all the
people who bother her.  If I had
listened to you, the knife would have
been pointed and of steel.  Then no more
of Felton; she would have cut your
throat, and after that everybody else's.
See, John, see how well she knows how to
handle a knife."

In fact, Milady still held the harmless
weapon in her clenched hand; but these
last words, this supreme insult, relaxed
her hands, her strength, and even her
will.  The knife fell to the ground.

"You were right, my Lord," said Felton,
with a tone of profound disgust which
sounded to the very bottom of the heart
of Milady, "you were right, my Lord, and
I was wrong."

And both again left the room.

But this time Milady lent a more
attentive ear than the first, and she
heard their steps die away in the
distance of the corridor.

"I am lost," murmured she; "I am lost! 
I am in the power of men upon whom I can
have no more influence than upon statues
of bronze or granite; they know me by
heart, and are steeled against all my
weapons.  It is, however, impossible
that this should end as they have
decreed!"

In fact, as this last reflection
indicated--this instinctive return to
hope--sentiments of weakness or fear did
not dwell long in her ardent spirit. 
Milady sat down to table, ate from
several dishes, drank a little Spanish
wine, and felt all her resolution
return.

Before she went to bed she had pondered,
analyzed, turned on all sides, examined
on all points, the words, the steps, the
gestures, the signs, and even the
silence of her interlocutors; and of
this profound, skillful, and anxious
study the result was that Felton,
everything considered, appeared the more
vulnerable of her two persecutors.

One expression above all recurred to the
mind of the prisoner: "If I had listened
to you," Lord de Winter had said to
Felton.

Felton, then, had spoken in her favor,
since Lord de Winter had not been
willing to listen to him.

"Weak or strong," repeated Milady, "that
man has, then, a spark of pity in his
soul; of that spark I will make a flame
that shall devour him.  As to the other,
he knows me, he fears me, and knows what
he has to expect of me if ever I escape
from his hands.  It is useless, then, to
attempt anything with him.  But
Felton--that's another thing.  He is a
young, ingenuous, pure man who seems
virtuous; him there are means of
destroying."

And Milady went to bed and fell asleep
with a smile upon her lips.  Anyone who
had seen her sleeping might have said
she was a young girl dreaming of the
crown of flowers she was to wear on her
brow at the next festival.



53 CAPTIVITY:  THE SECOND DAY

Milady dreamed that she at length had
D'Artagnan in her power, that she was
present at his execution; and it was the
sight of his odious blood, flowing
beneath the ax of the headsman, which
spread that charming smile upon her
lips.

She slept as a prisoner sleeps, rocked
by his first hope.

In the morning, when they entered her
chamber she was still in bed.  Felton
remained in the corridor.  He brought
with him the woman of whom he had spoken
the evening before, and who had just
arrived; this woman entered, and
approaching Milady's bed, offered her
services.

Milady was habitually pale; her
complexion might therefore deceive a
person who saw her for the first time.

"I am in a fever," said she; "I have not
slept a single instant during all this
long night.  I suffer horribly.  Are you
likely to be more humane to me than
others were yesterday?  All I ask is
permission to remain abed."

"Would you like to have a physician
called?" said the woman.

Felton listened to this dialogue without
speaking a word.

Milady reflected that the more people
she had around her the more she would
have to work upon, and Lord de Winter
would redouble his watch.  Besides, the
physician might declare the ailment
feigned; and Milady, after having lost
the first trick, was not willing to lose
the second.

"Go and fetch a physician?" said she. 
"What could be the good of that?  These
gentlemen declared yesterday that my
illness was a comedy; it would be just
the same today, no doubt--for since
yesterday evening they have had plenty
of time to send for a doctor."

"Then," said Felton, who became
impatient, "say yourself, madame, what
treatment you wish followed."

"Eh, how can I tell?  My God!  I know
that I suffer, that's all. Give me
anything you like, it is of little
consequence."

"Go and fetch Lord de Winter," said
Felton, tired of these eternal
complaints.

"Oh, no, no!" cried Milady; "no, sir, do
not call him, I conjure you.  I am well,
I want nothing; do not call him."

She gave so much vehemence, such
magnetic eloquence to this exclamation,
that Felton in spite of himself advanced
some steps into the room.

"He has come!" thought Milady.

"Meanwhile, madame, if you really
suffer," said Felton, "a physician shall
be sent for; and if you deceive
us--well, it will be the worse for you. 
But at least we shall not have to
reproach ourselves with anything."

Milady made no reply, but turning her
beautiful head round upon her pillow,
she burst into tears, and uttered
heartbreaking sobs.

Felton surveyed her for an instant with
his usual impassiveness; then, seeing
that the crisis threatened to be
prolonged, he went out.  The woman
followed him, and Lord de Winter did not
appear.

"I fancy I begin to see my way,"
murmured Milady, with a savage joy,
burying herself under the clothes to
conceal from anybody who might be
watching her this burst of inward
satisfaction.

Two hours passed away.

"Now it is time that the malady should
be over," said she; "let me rise, and
obtain some success this very day.  I
have but ten days, and this evening two
of them will be gone."

In the morning, when they entered
Milady's chamber they had brought her
breakfast.  Now, she thought, they could
not long delay coming to clear the
table, and that Felton would then
reappear.

Milady was not deceived.  Felton
reappeared, and without observing
whether Milady had or had not touched
her repast, made a sign that the table
should be carried out of the room, it
having been brought in ready spread.

Felton remained behind; he held a book
in his hand.

Milady, reclining in an armchair near
the chimney, beautiful, pale, and
resigned, looked like a holy virgin
awaiting martyrdom.

Felton approached her, and said, "Lord
de Winter, who is a Catholic, like
yourself, madame, thinking that the
deprivation of the rites and ceremonies
of your church might be painful to you,
has consented that you should read every
day the ordinary of your Mass; and here
is a book which contains the ritual."

At the manner in which Felton laid the
book upon the little table near which
Milady was sitting, at the tone in which
he pronounced the two words, YOUR MASS,
at the disdainful smile with which he
accompanied them, Milady raised her
head, and looked more attentively at the
officer.

By that plain arrangement of the hair,
by that costume of extreme simplicity,
by the brow polished like marble and as
hard and impenetrable, she recognized
one of those gloomy Puritans she had so
often met, not only in the court of King
James, but in that of the King of
France, where, in spite of the
remembrance of the St. Bartholomew, they
sometimes came to seek refuge.

She then had one of those sudden
inspirations which only people of genius
receive in great crises, in supreme
moments which are to decide their
fortunes or their lives.

Those two words, YOUR MASS, and a simple
glance cast upon Felton, revealed to her
all the importance of the reply she was
about to make; but with that rapidity of
intelligence which was peculiar to her,
this reply, ready arranged, presented
itself to her lips:

"I?" said she, with an accent of disdain
in unison with that which she had
remarked in the voice of the young
officer, "I, sir?  MY MASS?  Lord de
Winter, the corrupted Catholic, knows
very well that I am not of his religion,
and this is a snare he wishes to lay for
me!"

"And of what religion are you, then,
madame?" asked Felton, with an
astonishment which in spite of the
empire he held over himself he could not
entirely conceal.

"I will tell it," cried Milady, with a
feigned exultation, "on the day when I
shall have suffered sufficiently for my
faith."

The look of Felton revealed to Milady
the full extent of the space she had
opened for herself by this single word.

The young officer, however, remained
mute and motionless; his look alone had
spoken.

"I am in the hands of my enemies,"
continued she, with that tone of
enthusiasm which she knew was familiar
to the Puritans. "Well, let my God save
me, or let me perish for my God!  That
is the reply I beg you to make to Lord
de Winter.  And as to this book," added
she, pointing to the manual with her
finger but without touching it, as if
she must be contaminated by it, "you may
carry it back and make use of it
yourself, for doubtless you are doubly
the accomplice of Lord de Winter--the
accomplice in his persecutions, the
accomplice in his heresies."

Felton made no reply, took the book with
the same appearance of repugnance which
he had before manifested, and retired
pensively.

Lord de Winter came toward five o'clock
in the evening.  Milady had had time,
during the whole day, to trace her plan
of conduct. She received him like a
woman who had already recovered all her
advantages.

"It appears," said the baron, seating
himself in the armchair opposite that
occupied by Milady, and stretching out
his legs carelessly upon the hearth, "it
appears we have made a little apostasy!"

"What do you mean, sir!"

"I mean to say that since we last met
you have changed your religion.  You
have not by chance married a Protestant
for a third husband, have you?"

"Explain yourself, my Lord," replied the
prisoner, with majesty; "for though I
hear your words, I declare I do not
understand them."

"Then you have no religion at all; I
like that best," replied Lord de Winter,
laughing.

"Certainly that is most in accord with
your own principles," replied Milady,
frigidly.

"Oh, I confess it is all the same to
me."

"Oh, you need not avow this religious
indifference, my Lord; your debaucheries
and crimes would vouch for it."

"What, you talk of debaucheries, Madame
Messalina, Lady Macbeth! Either I
misunderstand you or you are very
shameless!"

"You only speak thus because you are
overheard," coolly replied Milady; "and
you wish to interest your jailers and
your hangmen against me."

"My jailers and my hangmen!  Heyday,
madame! you are taking a poetical tone,
and the comedy of yesterday turns to a
tragedy this evening.  As to the rest,
in eight days you will be where you
ought to be, and my task will be
completed."

"Infamous task! impious task!" cried
Milady, with the exultation of a victim
who provokes his judge.

"My word," said De Winter, rising, "I
think the hussy is going mad!  Come,
come, calm yourself, Madame Puritan, or
I'll remove you to a dungeon.  It's my
Spanish wine that has got into your
head, is it not?  But never mind; that
sort of intoxication is not dangerous,
and will have no bad effects."

And Lord de Winter retired swearing,
which at that period was a very knightly
habit.

Felton was indeed behind the door, and
had not lost one word of this scene. 
Milady had guessed aright.

"Yes, go, go,!" said she to her brother;
"the effects ARE drawing near, on the
contrary; but you, weak fool, will not
see them until it is too late to shun
them."

Silence was re-established.  Two hours
passed away.  Milady's supper was
brought in, and she was found deeply
engaged in saying her prayers
aloud--prayers which she had learned of
an old servant of her second husband, a
most austere Puritan.  She appeared to
be in ecstasy, and did not pay the least
attention to what was going on around
her. Felton made a sign that she should
not be disturbed; and when all was
arranged, he went out quietly with the
soldiers.

Milady knew she might be watched, so she
continued her prayers to the end; and it
appeared to her that the soldier who was
on duty at her door did not march with
the same step, and seemed to listen. 
For the moment she wished nothing
better.  She arose, came to the table,
ate but little, and drank only water.

An hour after, her table was cleared;
but Milady remarked that this time
Felton did not accompany the soldiers. 
He feared, then, to see her too often.

She turned toward the wall to smile--for
there was in this smile such an
expression of triumph that this smile
alone would have betrayed her.

She allowed, therefore, half an hour to
pass away; and as at that moment all was
silence in the old castle, as nothing
was heard but the eternal murmur of the
waves--that immense breaking of the
ocean--with her pure, harmonious, and
powerful voice, she began the first
couplet of the psalm then in great favor
with the Puritans:


"Thou leavest thy servants, Lord, To see
if they be strong; But soon thou dost
afford Thy hand to lead them on."


These verses were not excellent--very
far from it; but as it is well known,
the Puritans did not pique themselves
upon their poetry.

While singing, Milady listened.  The
soldier on guard at her door stopped, as
if he had been changed into stone. 
Milady was then able to judge of the
effect she had produced.

Then she continued her singing with
inexpressible fervor and feeling.  It
appeared to her that the sounds spread
to a distance beneath the vaulted roofs,
and carried with them a magic charm to
soften the hearts of her jailers.  It
however likewise appeared that the
soldier on duty--a zealous Catholic, no
doubt--shook off the charm, for through
the door he called:  "Hold your tongue,
madame!  Your song is as dismal as a 'De
profundis'; and if besides the pleasure
of being in garrison here, we must hear
such things as these, no mortal can hold
out."

"Silence!" then exclaimed another stern
voice which Milady recognized as that of
Felton.  "What are you meddling with,
stupid?  Did anybody order you to
prevent that woman from singing?  No. 
You were told to guard her--to fire at
her if she attempted to fly.  Guard her!
If she flies, kill her; but don't exceed
your orders."

An expression of unspeakable joy
lightened the countenance of Milady; but
this expression was fleeting as the
reflection of lightning.  Without
appearing to have heard the dialogue, of
which she had not lost a word, she began
again, giving to her voice all the
charm, all the power, all the seduction
the demon had bestowed upon it:

  "For all my tears, my cares, My exile,
    and my chains, I have my youth, my
    prayers, And God, who counts my
    pains."

Her voice, of immense power and sublime
expression, gave to the rude, unpolished
poetry of these psalms a magic and an
effect which the most exalted Puritans
rarely found in the songs of their
brethren, and which they were forced to
ornament with all the resources of their
imagination.  Felton believed he heard
the singing of the angel who consoled
the three Hebrews in the furnace.

Milady continued:

"One day our doors will ope, With God
come our desire; And if betrays that
hope, To death we can aspire."

This verse, into which the terrible
enchantress threw her whole soul,
completed the trouble which had seized
the heart of the young officer.  He
opened the door quickly; and Milady saw
him appear, pale as usual, but with his
eye inflamed and almost wild.

"Why do you sing thus, and with such a
voice?" said he.

"Your pardon, sir," said Milady, with
mildness.  "I forgot that my songs are
out of place in this castle.  I have
perhaps offended you in your creed; but
it was without wishing to do so, I
swear.  Pardon me, then, a fault which
is perhaps great, but which certainly
was involuntary."

Milady was so beautiful at this moment,
the religious ecstasy in which she
appeared to be plunged gave such an
expression to her countenance, that
Felton was so dazzled that he fancied he
beheld the angel whom he had only just
before heard.

"Yes, yes," said he; "you disturb, you
agitate the people who live in the
castle."

The poor, senseless young man was not
aware of the incoherence of his words,
while Milady was reading with her lynx's
eyes the very depths of his heart.

"I will be silent, then," said Milady,
casting down her eyes with all the
sweetness she could give to her voice,
with all the resignation she could
impress upon her manner.

"No, no, madame," said Felton, "only do
not sing so loud, particularly at
night."

And at these words Felton, feeling that
he could not long maintain his severity
toward his prisoner, rushed out of the
room.

"You have done right, Lieutenant," said
the soldier.  "Such songs disturb the
mind; and yet we become accustomed to
them, her voice is so beautiful."



54 CAPTIVITY:  THE THIRD DAY

Felton had fallen; but there was still
another step to be taken. He must be
retained, or rather he must be left
quite alone; and Milady but obscurely
perceived the means which could lead to
this result.

Still more must be done.  He must be
made to speak, in order that he might be
spoken to--for Milady very well knew
that her greatest seduction was in her
voice, which so skillfully ran over the
whole gamut of tones from human speech
to language celestial.

Yet in spite of all this seduction
Milady might fail--for Felton was
forewarned, and that against the least
chance.  From that moment she watched
all his actions, all his words, from the
simplest glance of his eyes to his
gestures--even to a breath that could be
interpreted as a sigh.  In short, she
studied everything, as a skillful
comedian does to whom a new part has
been assigned in a line to which he is
not accustomed.

Face to face with Lord de Winter her
plan of conduct was more easy.  She had
laid that down the preceding evening. 
To remain silent and dignified in his
presence; from time to time to irritate
him by affected disdain, by a
contemptuous word; to provoke him to
threats and violence which would produce
a contrast with her own
resignation--such was her plan.  Felton
would see all; perhaps he would say
nothing, but he would see.

In the morning, Felton came as usual;
but Milady allowed him to preside over
all the preparations for breakfast
without addressing a word to him.  At
the moment when he was about to retire,
she was cheered with a ray of hope, for
she thought he was about to speak; but
his lips moved without any sound leaving
his mouth, and making a powerful effort
to control himself, he sent back to his
heart the words that were about to
escape from his lips, and went out. 
Toward midday, Lord de Winter entered.

It was a tolerably fine winter's day,
and a ray of that pale English sun which
lights but does not warm came through
the bars of her prison.

Milady was looking out at the window,
and pretended not to hear the door as it
opened.

"Ah, ah!" said Lord de Winter, "after
having played comedy, after having
played tragedy, we are now playing
melancholy?"

The prisoner made no reply.

"Yes, yes," continued Lord de Winter, "I
understand.  You would like very well to
be at liberty on that beach!  You would
like very well to be in a good ship
dancing upon the waves of that
emerald-green sea; you would like very
well, either on land or on the ocean, to
lay for me one of those nice little
ambuscades you are so skillful in
planning.  Patience, patience!  In four
days' time the shore will be beneath
your feet, the sea will be open to
you--more open than will perhaps be
agreeable to you, for in four days
England will be relieved of you."

Milady folded her hands, and raising her
fine eyes toward heaven, "Lord, Lord,"
said she, with an angelic meekness of
gesture and tone, "pardon this man, as I
myself pardon him."

"Yes, pray, accursed woman!" cried the
baron; "your prayer is so much the more
generous from your being, I swear to
you, in the power of a man who will
never pardon you!" and he went out.

At the moment he went out a piercing
glance darted through the opening of the
nearly closed door, and she perceived
Felton, who drew quickly to one side to
prevent being seen by her.

Then she threw herself upon her knees,
and began to pray.

"My God, my God!" said she, "thou
knowest in what holy cause I suffer;
give me, then, strength to suffer."

The door opened gently; the beautiful
supplicant pretended not to hear the
noise, and in a voice broken by tears,
she continued:

"God of vengeance!  God of goodness!
wilt thou allow the frightful projects
of this man to be accomplished?"

Then only she pretended to hear the
sound of Felton's steps, and rising
quick as thought, she blushed, as if
ashamed of being surprised on her knees.

"I do not like to disturb those who
pray, madame," said Felton, seriously;
"do not disturb yourself on my account,
I beseech you."

"How do you know I was praying, sir?"
said Milady, in a voice broken by sobs. 
"You were deceived, sir; I was not
praying."

"Do you think, then, madame," replied
Felton, in the same serious voice, but
with a milder tone, "do you think I
assume the right of preventing a
creature from prostrating herself before
her Creator?  God forbid!  Besides,
repentance becomes the guilty; whatever
crimes they may have committed, for me
the guilty are sacred at the feet of
God!"

"Guilty?  I?" said Milady, with a smile
which might have disarmed the angel of
the last judgment.  "Guilty?  Oh, my
God, thou knowest whether I am guilty! 
Say I am condemned, sir, if you please;
but you know that God, who loves
martyrs, sometimes permits the innocent
to be condemned."

"Were you condemned, were you innocent,
were you a martyr," replied Felton, "the
greater would be the necessity for
prayer; and I myself would aid you with
my prayers."

"Oh, you are a just man!" cried Milady,
throwing herself at his feet.  "I can
hold out no longer, for I fear I shall
be wanting in strength at the moment
when I shall be forced to undergo the
struggle, and confess my faith.  Listen,
then, to the supplication of a
despairing woman.  You are abused, sir;
but that is not the question.  I only
ask you one favor; and if you grant it
me, I will bless you in this world and
in the next."

"Speak to the master, madame," said
Felton; "happily I am neither charged
with the power of pardoning nor
punishing.  It is upon one higher placed
than I am that God has laid this
responsibility."

"To you--no, to you alone!  Listen to
me, rather than add to my destruction,
rather than add to my ignominy!"

"If you have merited this shame, madame,
if you have incurred this ignominy, you
must submit to it as an offering to
God."

"What do you say?  Oh, you do not
understand me!  When I speak of
ignominy, you think I speak of some
chastisement, of imprisonment or death. 
Would to heaven!  Of what consequence to
me is imprisonment or death?"

"It is I who no longer understand you,
madame," said Felton.

"Or, rather, who pretend not to
understand me, sir!" replied the
prisoner, with a smile of incredulity.

"No, madame, on the honor of a soldier,
on the faith of a Christian."

"What, you are ignorant of Lord de
Winter's designs upon me?"

"I am."

"Impossible; you are his confidant!"

"I never lie, madame."

"Oh, he conceals them too little for you
not to divine them."

"I seek to divine nothing, madame; I
wait till I am confided in, and apart
from that which Lord de Winter has said
to me before you, he has confided
nothing to me."

"Why, then," cried Milady, with an
incredible tone of truthfulness, "you
are not his accomplice; you do not know
that he destines me to a disgrace which
all the punishments of the world cannot
equal in horror?"

"You are deceived, madame," said Felton,
blushing; "Lord de Winter is not capable
of such a crime."

"Good," said Milady to herself; "without
thinking what it is, he calls it a
crime!"  Then aloud, "The friend of THAT
WRETCH is capable of everything."

"Whom do you call 'that wretch'?" asked
Felton.

"Are there, then, in England two men to
whom such an epithet can be applied?"

"You mean George Villiers?" asked
Felton, whose looks became excited.

"Whom Pagans and unbelieving Gentiles
call Duke of Buckingham," replied
Milady.  "I could not have thought that
there was an Englishman in all England
who would have required so long an
explanation to make him understand of
whom I was speaking."

"The hand of the Lord is stretched over
him," said Felton; "he will not escape
the chastisement he deserves."

Felton only expressed, with regard to
the duke, the feeling of execration
which all the English had declared
toward him whom the Catholics themselves
called the extortioner, the pillager,
the debauchee, and whom the Puritans
styled simply Satan.

"Oh, my God, my God!" cried Milady;
"when I supplicate thee to pour upon
this man the chastisement which is his
due, thou knowest it is not my own
vengeance I pursue, but the deliverance
of a whole nation that I implore!"

"Do you know him, then?" asked Felton.

"At length he interrogates me!" said
Milady to herself, at the height of joy
at having obtained so quickly such a
great result. "Oh, know him?  Yes, yes!
to my misfortune, to my eternal
misfortune!" and Milady twisted her arms
as if in a paroxysm of grief.

Felton no doubt felt within himself that
his strength was abandoning him, and he
made several steps toward the door; but
the prisoner, whose eye never left him,
sprang in pursuit of him and stopped
him.

"Sir," cried she, "be kind, be clement,
listen to my prayer! That knife, which
the fatal prudence of the baron deprived
me of, because he knows the use I would
make of it!  Oh, hear me to the end!
that knife, give it to me for a minute
only, for mercy's, for pity's sake!  I
will embrace your knees!  You shall shut
the door that you may be certain I
contemplate no injury to you!  My God!
to you--the only just, good, and
compassionate being I have met with!  To
you--my preserver, perhaps!  One minute
that knife, one minute, a single minute,
and I will restore it to you through the
grating of the door.  Only one minute,
Mr. Felton, and you will have saved my
honor!"

"To kill yourself?" cried Felton, with
terror, forgetting to withdraw his hands
from the hands of the prisoner, "to kill
yourself?"

"I have told, sir," murmured Milady,
lowering her voice, and allowing herself
to sink overpowered to the ground; "I
have told my secret!  He knows all!  My
God, I am lost!"

Felton remained standing, motionless and
undecided.

"He still doubts," thought Milady; "I
have not been earnest enough."

Someone was heard in the corridor;
Milady recognized the step of Lord de
Winter.

Felton recognized it also, and made a
step toward the door.

Milady sprang toward him.  "Oh, not a
word," said she in a concentrated voice,
"not a word of all that I have said to
you to this man, or I am lost, and it
would be you--you--"

Then as the steps drew near, she became
silent for fear of being heard,
applying, with a gesture of infinite
terror, her beautiful hand to Felton's
mouth.

Felton gently repulsed Milady, and she
sank into a chair.

Lord de Winter passed before the door
without stopping, and they heard the
noise of his footsteps soon die away.

Felton, as pale as death, remained some
instants with his ear bent and
listening; then, when the sound was
quite extinct, he breathed like a man
awaking from a dream, and rushed out of
the apartment.

"Ah!" said Milady, listening in her turn
to the noise of Felton's steps, which
withdrew in a direction opposite to
those of Lord de Winter; "at length you
are mine!"

Then her brow darkened.  "If he tells
the baron," said she, "I am lost--for
the baron, who knows very well that I
shall not kill myself, will place me
before him with a knife in my hand, and
he will discover that all this despair
is but acted."

She placed herself before the glass, and
regarded herself attentively; never had
she appeared more beautiful.

"Oh, yes," said she, smiling, "but we
won't tell him!"

In the evening Lord de Winter
accompanied the supper.

"Sir," said Milady, "is your presence an
indispensable accessory of my captivity?
Could you not spare me the increase of
torture which your visits cause me?"

"How, dear sister!" said Lord de Winter.
"Did not you sentimentally inform me
with that pretty mouth of yours, so
cruel to me today, that you came to
England solely for the pleasure of
seeing me at your ease, an enjoyment of
which you told me you so sensibly felt
the deprivation that you had risked
everything for it--seasickness, tempest,
captivity?  Well, here I am; be
satisfied.  Besides, this time, my visit
has a motive."

Milady trembled; she thought Felton had
told all.  Perhaps never in her life had
this woman, who had experienced so many
opposite and powerful emotions, felt her
heart beat so violently.

She was seated.  Lord de Winter took a
chair, drew it toward her, and sat down
close beside her.  Then taking a paper
out of his pocket, he unfolded it
slowly.

"Here," said he, "I want to show you the
kind of passport which I have drawn up,
and which will serve you henceforward as
the rule of order in the life I consent
to leave you."

Then turning his eyes from Milady to the
paper, he read: "'Order to conduct--'
The name is blank," interrupted Lord de
Winter. "If you have any preference you
can point it out to me; and if it be not
within a thousand leagues of London,
attention will be paid to your wishes. 
I will begin again, then:

"'Order to conduct to--the person named
Charlotte Backson, branded by the
justice of the kingdom of France, but
liberated after chastisement.  She is to
dwell in this place without ever going
more than three leagues from it.  In
case of any attempt to escape, the
penalty of death is to be applied.  She
will receive five shillings per day for
lodging and food'".

"That order does not concern me,"
replied Milady, coldly, "since it bears
another name than mine."

"A name?  Have you a name, then?"

"I bear that of your brother."

"Ay, but you are mistaken.  My brother
is only your second husband; and your
first is still living.  Tell me his
name, and I will put it in the place of
the name of Charlotte Backson.  No? You
will not?  You are silent?  Well, then
you must be registered as Charlotte
Backson."

Milady remained silent; only this time
it was no longer from affectation, but
from terror.  She believed the order
ready for execution.  She thought that
Lord de Winter had hastened her
departure; she thought she was condemned
to set off that very evening. 
Everything in her mind was lost for an
instant; when all at once she perceived
that no signature was attached to the
order.  The joy she felt at this
discovery was so great she could not
conceal it.

"Yes, yes," said Lord de Winter, who
perceived what was passing in her mind;
"yes, you look for the signature, and
you say to yourself:  'All is not lost,
for that order is not signed.  It is
only shown to me to terrify me, that's
all.'  You are mistaken. Tomorrow this
order will be sent to the Duke of
Buckingham.  The day after tomorrow it
will return signed by his hand and
marked with his seal; and
four-and-twenty hours afterward I will
answer for its being carried into
execution.  Adieu, madame.  That is all
I had to say to you."

"And I reply to you, sir, that this
abuse of power, this exile under a
fictitious name, are infamous!"

"Would you like better to be hanged in
your true name, Milady? You know that
the English laws are inexorable on the
abuse of marriage.  Speak freely. 
Although my name, or rather that of my
brother, would be mixed up with the
affair, I will risk the scandal of a
public trial to make myself certain of
getting rid of you."

Milady made no reply, but became as pale
as a corpse.

"Oh, I see you prefer peregrination. 
That's well madame; and there is an old
proverb that says, 'Traveling trains
youth.'  My faith! you are not wrong
after all, and life is sweet.  That's
the reason why I take such care you
shall not deprive me of mine. There only
remains, then, the question of the five
shillings to be settled.  You think me
rather parsimonious, don't you?  That's
because I don't care to leave you the
means of corrupting your jailers. 
Besides, you will always have your
charms left to seduce them with.  Employ
them, if your check with regard to
Felton has not disgusted you with
attempts of that kind."

"Felton has not told him," said Milady
to herself.  "Nothing is lost, then."

"And now, madame, till I see you again! 
Tomorrow I will come and announce to you
the departure of my messenger."

Lord de Winter rose, saluted her
ironically, and went out.

Milady breathed again.  She had still
four days before her.  Four days would
quite suffice to complete the seduction
of Felton.

A terrible idea, however, rushed into
her mind.  She thought that Lord de
Winter would perhaps send Felton himself
to get the order signed by the Duke of
Buckingham.  In that case Felton would
escape her--for in order to secure
success, the magic of a continuous
seduction was necessary.  Nevertheless,
as we have said, one circumstance
reassured her.  Felton had not spoken.

As she would not appear to be agitated
by the threats of Lord de Winter, she
placed herself at the table and ate.

Then, as she had done the evening
before, she fell on her knees and
repeated her prayers aloud.  As on the
evening before, the soldier stopped his
march to listen to her.

Soon after she heard lighter steps than
those of the sentinel, which came from
the end of the corridor and stopped
before her door.

"It is he," said she.  And she began the
same religious chant which had so
strongly excited Felton the evening
before.

But although her voice--sweet, full, and
sonorous--vibrated as harmoniously and
as affectingly as ever, the door
remained shut. It appeared however to
Milady that in one of the furtive
glances she darted from time to time at
the grating of the door she thought she
saw the ardent eyes of the young man
through the narrow opening.  But whether
this was reality or vision, he had this
time sufficient self-command not to
enter.

However, a few instants after she had
finished her religious song, Milady
thought she heard a profound sigh.  Then
the same steps she had heard approach
slowly withdrew, as if with regret.



55 CAPTIVITY:  THE FOURTH DAY

The next day, when Felton entered
Milady's apartment he found her
standing, mounted upon a chair, holding
in her hands a cord made by means of
torn cambric handkerchiefs, twisted into
a kind of rope one with another, and
tied at the ends.  At the noise Felton
made in entering, Milady leaped lightly
to the ground, and tried to conceal
behind her the improvised cord she held
in her hand.

The young man was more pale than usual,
and his eyes, reddened by want of sleep,
denoted that he had passed a feverish
night. Nevertheless, his brow was armed
with a severity more austere than ever.

He advanced slowly toward Milady, who
had seated herself, and taking an end of
the murderous rope which by neglect, or
perhaps by design, she allowed to be
seen, "What is this, madame?" he asked
coldly.

"That?  Nothing," said Milady, smiling
with that painful expression which she
knew so well how to give to her smile.
"Ennui is the mortal enemy of prisoners;
I had ennui, and I amused myself with
twisting that rope."

Felton turned his eyes toward the part
of the wall of the apartment before
which he had found Milady standing in
the armchair in which she was now
seated, and over her head he perceived a
gilt-headed screw, fixed in the wall for
the purpose of hanging up clothes or
weapons.

He started, and the prisoner saw that
start--for though her eyes were cast
down, nothing escaped her.

"What were you doing on that armchair?"
asked he.

"Of what consequence?" replied Milady.

"But," replied Felton, "I wish to know."

"Do not question me," said the prisoner;
"you know that we who are true
Christians are forbidden to lie."

"Well, then," said Felton, " I will tell
you what you were doing, or rather what
you meant to do; you were going to
complete the fatal project you cherish
in your mind.  Remember, madame, if our
God forbids falsehood, he much more
severely condemns suicide."

"When God sees one of his creatures
persecuted unjustly, placed between
suicide and dishonor, believe me, sir,"
replied Milady, in a tone of deep
conviction, "God pardons suicide, for
then suicide becomes martyrdom."

"You say either too much or too little;
speak, madame.  In the name of heaven,
explain yourself."

"That I may relate my misfortunes for
you to treat them as fables; that I may
tell you my projects for you to go and
betray them to my persecutor?  No, sir. 
Besides, of what importance to you is
the life or death of a condemned wretch?
You are only responsible for my body, is
it not so?  And provided you produce a
carcass that may be recognized as mine,
they will require no more of you; nay,
perhaps you will even have a double
reward."

"I, madame, I?" cried Felton.  "You
suppose that I would ever accept the
price of your life?  Oh, you cannot
believe what you say!"

"Let me act as I please, Felton, let me
act as I please," said Milady, elated. 
"Every soldier must be ambitious, must
he not? You are a lieutenant?  Well, you
will follow me to the grave with the
rank of captain."

"What have I, then, done to you," said
Felton, much agitated, "that you should
load me with such a responsibility
before God and before men?  In a few
days you will be away from this place;
your life, madame, will then no longer
be under my care, and," added he, with a
sigh, "then you can do what you will
with it."

"So," cried Milady, as if she could not
resist giving utterance to a holy
indignation, "you, a pious man, you who
are called a just man, you ask but one
thing--and that is that you may not be
inculpated, annoyed, by my death!"

"It is my duty to watch over your life,
madame, and I will watch."

"But do you understand the mission you
are fulfilling?  Cruel enough, if I am
guilty; but what name can you give it,
what name will the Lord give it, if I am
innocent?"

"I am a soldier, madame, and fulfill the
orders I have received."

"Do you believe, then, that at the day
of the Last Judgment God will separate
blind executioners from iniquitous
judges?  You are not willing that I
should kill my body, and you make
yourself the agent of him who would kill
my soul."

"But I repeat it again to you," replied
Felton, in great emotion, "no danger
threatens you; I will answer for Lord de
Winter as for myself."

"Dunce," cried Milady, "dunce! who dares
to answer for another man, when the
wisest, when those most after God's own
heart, hesitate to answer for
themselves, and who ranges himself on
the side of the strongest and the most
fortunate, to crush the weakest and the
most unfortunate."

"Impossible, madame, impossible,"
murmured Felton, who felt to the bottom
of his heart the justness of this
argument.  "A prisoner, you will not
recover your liberty through me; living,
you will not lose your life through me."

"Yes," cried Milady, "but I shall lose
that which is much dearer to me than
life, I shall lose my honor, Felton; and
it is you, you whom I make responsible,
before God and before men, for my shame
and my infamy."

This time Felton, immovable as he was,
or appeared to be, could not resist the
secret influence which had already taken
possession of him.  To see this woman,
so beautiful, fair as the brightest
vision, to see her by turns overcome
with grief and threatening; to resist at
once the ascendancy of grief and
beauty--it was too much for a visionary;
it was too much for a brain weakened by
the ardent dreams of an ecstatic faith;
it was too much for a heart furrowed by
the love of heaven that burns, by the
hatred of men that devours.

Milady saw the trouble.  She felt by
intuition the flame of the opposing
passions which burned with the blood in
the veins of the young fanatic.  As a
skillful general, seeing the enemy ready
to surrender, marches toward him with a
cry of victory, she rose, beautiful as
an antique priestess, inspired like a
Christian virgin, her arms extended, her
throat uncovered, her hair disheveled,
holding with one hand her robe modestly
drawn over her breast, her look
illumined by that fire which had already
created such disorder in the veins of
the young Puritan, and went toward him,
crying out with a vehement air, and in
her melodious voice, to which on this
occasion she communicated a terrible
energy:


"Let this victim to Baal be sent, To the
lions the martyr be thrown! Thy God
shall teach thee to repent! From th'
abyss he'll give ear to my moan."


Felton stood before this strange
apparition like one petrified.

"Who art thou?  Who art thou?" cried he,
clasping his hands. "Art thou a
messenger from God; art thou a minister
from hell; art thou an angel or a demon;
callest thou thyself Eloa or Astarte?"

"Do you not know me, Felton?  I am
neither an angel nor a demon; I am a
daughter of earth, I am a sister of thy
faith, that is all."

"Yes, yes!" said Felton, "I doubted, but
now I believe."

"You believe, and still you are an
accomplice of that child of Belial who
is called Lord de Winter!  You believe,
and yet you leave me in the hands of
mine enemies, of the enemy of England,
of the enemy of God!  You believe, and
yet you deliver me up to him who fills
and defiles the world with his heresies
and debaucheries--to that infamous
Sardanapalus whom the blind call the
Duke of Buckingham, and whom believers
name Antichrist!"

"I deliver you up to Buckingham?  I?
what mean you by that?"

"They have eyes," cried Milady, "but
they see not; ears have they, but they
hear not."

"Yes, yes!" said Felton, passing his
hands over his brow, covered with sweat,
as if to remove his last doubt.  "Yes, I
recognize the voice which speaks to me
in my dreams; yes, I recognize the
features of the angel who appears to me
every night, crying to my soul, which
cannot sleep: 'Strike, save England,
save thyself--for thou wilt die without
having appeased God!' Speak, speak!"
cried Felton, "I can understand you
now."

A flash of terrible joy, but rapid as
thought, gleamed from the eyes of
Milady.

However fugitive this homicide flash,
Felton saw it, and started as if its
light had revealed the abysses of this
woman's heart. He recalled, all at once,
the warnings of Lord de Winter, the
seductions of Milady, her first attempts
after her arrival.  He drew back a step,
and hung down his head, without,
however, ceasing to look at her, as if,
fascinated by this strange creature, he
could not detach his eyes from her eyes.

Milady was not a woman to misunderstand
the meaning of this hesitation.  Under
her apparent emotions her icy coolness
never abandoned her.  Before Felton
replied, and before she should be forced
to resume this conversation, so
difficult to be sustained in the same
exalted tone, she let her hands fall;
and as if the weakness of the woman
overpowered the enthusiasm of the
inspired fanatic, she said:  "But no, it
is not for me to be the Judith to
deliver Bethulia from this Holofernes. 
The sword of the eternal is too heavy
for my arm.  Allow me, then, to avoid
dishonor by death; let me take refuge in
martyrdom.  I do not ask you for
liberty, as a guilty one would, nor for
vengeance, as would a pagan.  Let me
die; that is all.  I supplicate you, I
implore you on my knees--let me die, and
my last sigh shall be a blessing for my
preserver."

Hearing that voice, so sweet and
suppliant, seeing that look, so timid
and downcast, Felton reproached himself.
By degrees the enchantress had clothed
herself with that magic adornment which
she assumed and threw aside at will;
that is to say, beauty, meekness, and
tears--and above all, the irresistible
attraction of mystical voluptuousness,
the most devouring of all
voluptuousness.

"Alas!" said Felton, "I can do but one
thing, which is to pity you if you prove
to me you are a victim!  But Lord de
Winter makes cruel accusations against
you.  You are a Christian; you are my
sister in religion.  I feel myself drawn
toward you--I, who have never loved
anyone but my benefactor--I who have met
with nothing but traitors and impious
men.  But you, madame, so beautiful in
reality, you, so pure in appearance,
must have committed great iniquities for
Lord de Winter to pursue you thus."

"They have eyes," repeated Milady, with
an accent of indescribable grief, "but
they see not; ears have they, but they
hear not."

"But," cried the young officer, "speak,
then, speak!"

"Confide my shame to you," cried Milady,
with the blush of modesty upon her
countenance, "for often the crime of one
becomes the shame of another--confide my
shame to you, a man, and I a woman? 
Oh," continued she, placing her hand
modestly over her beautiful eyes,
"never! never!--I could not!"

"To me, to a brother?" said Felton.

Milady looked at him for some time with
an expression which the young man took
for doubt, but which, however, was
nothing but observation, or rather the
wish to fascinate.

Felton, in his turn a suppliant, clasped
his hands.

"Well, then," said Milady, "I confide in
my brother; I will dare to--"

At this moment the steps of Lord de
Winter were heard; but this time the
terrible brother-in-law of Milady did
not content himself, as on the preceding
day, with passing before the door and
going away again.  He paused, exchanged
two words with the sentinel; then the
door opened, and he appeared.

During the exchange of these two words
Felton drew back quickly, and when Lord
de Winter entered, he was several paces
from the prisoner.

The baron entered slowly, sending a
scrutinizing glance from Milady to the
young officer.

"You have been here a very long time,
John," said he.  "Has this woman been
relating her crimes to you?  In that
case I can comprehend the length of the
conversation."

Felton started; and Milady felt she was
lost if she did not come to the
assistance of the disconcerted Puritan.

"Ah, you fear your prisoner should
escape!" said she. "Well, ask your
worthy jailer what favor I this instant
solicited of him."

"You demanded a favor,?" said the baron,
suspiciously.

"Yes, my Lord," replied the young man,
confused.

"And what favor, pray?" asked Lord de
Winter.

"A knife, which she would return to me
through the grating of the door a minute
after she had received it," replied
Felton.

"There is someone, then, concealed here
whose throat this amiable lady is
desirous of cutting," said De Winter, in
an ironical, contemptuous tone.

"There is myself," replied Milady.

"I have given you the choice between
America and Tyburn," replied Lord de
Winter.  "Choose Tyburn, madame. 
Believe me, the cord is more certain
than the knife."

Felton grew pale, and made a step
forward, remembering that at the moment
he entered Milady had a rope in her
hand.

"You are right," said she, "I have often
thought of it."  Then she added in a low
voice, "And I will think of it again."

Felton felt a shudder run to the marrow
of his bones; probably Lord de Winter
perceived this emotion.

"Mistrust yourself, John," said he.  "I
have placed reliance upon you, my
friend.  Beware!  I have warned you! 
But be of good courage, my lad; in three
days we shall be delivered from this
creature, and where I shall send her she
can harm nobody."

"You hear him!" cried Milady, with
vehemence, so that the baron might
believe she was addressing heaven, and
that Felton might understand she was
addressing him.

Felton lowered his head and reflected.

The baron took the young officer by the
arm, and turned his head over his
shoulder, so as not to lose sight of
Milady till he was gone out.

"Well," said the prisoner, when the door
was shut, "I am not so far advanced as I
believed.  De Winter has changed his
usual stupidity into a strange prudence.
It is the desire of vengeance, and how
desire molds a man!  As to Felton, he
hesitates.  Ah, he is not a man like
that cursed D'Artagnan.  A Puritan only
adores virgins, and he adores them by
clasping his hands.  A Musketeer loves
women, and he loves them by clasping his
arms round them."

Milady waited, then, with much
impatience, for she feared the day would
pass away without her seeing Felton
again.  At last, in an hour after the
scene we have just described, she heard
someone speaking in a low voice at the
door.  Presently the door opened, and
she perceived Felton.

The young man advanced rapidly into the
chamber, leaving the door open behind
him, and making a sign to Milady to be
silent; his face was much agitated.

"What do you want with me?" said she.

"Listen," replied Felton, in a low
voice.  "I have just sent away the
sentinel that I might remain here
without anybody knowing it, in order to
speak to you without being overheard. 
The baron has just related a frightful
story to me."

Milady assumed her smile of a resigned
victim, and shook her head.

"Either you are a demon," continued
Felton, "or the baron--my benefactor, my
father--is a monster.  I have known you
four days; I have loved him four years. 
I therefore may hesitate between you. 
Be not alarmed at what I say; I want to
be convinced. Tonight, after twelve, I
will come and see you, and you shall
convince me."

"No, Felton, no, my brother," said she;
"the sacrifice is too great, and I feel
what it must cost you.  No, I am lost;
do not be lost with me.  My death will
be much more eloquent than my life, and
the silence of the corpse will convince
you much better than the words of the
prisoner."

"Be silent, madame," cried Felton, "and
do not speak to me thus; I came to
entreat you to promise me upon your
honor, to swear to me by what you hold
most sacred, that you will make no
attempt upon your life."

"I will not promise," said Milady, "for
no one has more respect for a promise or
an oath than I have; and if I make a
promise I must keep it."

"Well," said Felton, "only promise till
you have seen me again. If, when you
have seen me again, you still
persist--well, then you shall be free,
and I myself will give you the weapon
you desire."

"Well," said Milady, "for you I will
wait."

"Swear."

"I swear it, by our God.  Are you
satisfied?"

"Well," said Felton, "till tonight."

And he darted out of the room, shut the
door, and waited in the corridor, the
soldier's half-pike in his hand, and as
if he had mounted guard in his place.

The soldier returned, and Felton gave
him back his weapon.

Then, through the grating to which she
had drawn near, Milady saw the young man
make a sign with delirious fervor, and
depart in an apparent transport of joy.

As for her, she returned to her place
with a smile of savage contempt upon her
lips, and repeated, blaspheming, that
terrible name of God, by whom she had
just sworn without ever having learned
to know Him.

"My God," said she, "what a senseless
fanatic!  My God, it is I--I--and this
fellow who will help me to avenge
myself."



56 CAPTIVITY:  THE FIFTH DAY

Milady had however achieved a
half-triumph, and success doubled her
forces.

It was not difficult to conquer, as she
had hitherto done, men prompt to let
themselves be seduced, and whom the
gallant education of a court led quickly
into her net.  Milady was handsome
enough not to find much resistance on
the part of the flesh, and she was
sufficiently skillful to prevail over
all the obstacles of the mind.

But this time she had to contend with an
unpolished nature, concentrated and
insensible by force of austerity. 
Religion and its observances had made
Felton a man inaccessible to ordinary
seductions.  There fermented in that
sublimated brain plans so vast, projects
so tumultuous, that there remained no
room for any capricious or material
love--that sentiment which is fed by
leisure and grows with corruption. 
Milady had, then, made a breach by her
false virtue in the opinion of a man
horribly prejudiced against her, and by
her beauty in the heart of a man
hitherto chaste and pure.  In short, she
had taken the measure of motives
hitherto unknown to herself, through
this experiment, made upon the most
rebellious subject that nature and
religion could submit to her study.

Many a time, nevertheless, during the
evening she despaired of fate and of
herself.  She did not invoke God, we
very well know, but she had faith in the
genius of evil--that immense sovereignty
which reigns in all the details of human
life, and by which, as in the Arabian
fable, a single pomegranate seed is
sufficient to reconstruct a ruined
world.

Milady, being well prepared for the
reception of Felton, was able to erect
her batteries for the next day.  She
knew she had only two days left; that
when once the order was signed by
Buckingham--and Buckingham would sign it
the more readily from its bearing a
false name, and he could not, therefore,
recognize the woman in question--once
this order was signed, we say, the baron
would make her embark immediately, and
she knew very well that women condemned
to exile employ arms much less powerful
in their seductions than the pretendedly
virtuous woman whose beauty is lighted
by the sun of the world, whose style the
voice of fashion lauds, and whom a halo
of aristocracy gilds with enchanting
splendors.  To be a woman condemned to a
painful and disgraceful punishment is no
impediment to beauty, but it is an
obstacle to the recovery of power.  Like
all persons of real genius, Milady knew
what suited her nature and her means. 
Poverty was repugnant to her;
degradation took away two-thirds of her
greatness. Milady was only a queen while
among queens.  The pleasure of satisfied
pride was necessary to her domination. 
To command inferior beings was rather a
humiliation than a pleasure for her.

She should certainly return from her
exile--she did not doubt that a single
instant; but how long might this exile
last?  For an active, ambitious nature,
like that of Milady, days not spent in
climbing are inauspicious days.  What
word, then, can be found to describe the
days which they occupy in descending? 
To lose a year, two years, three years,
is to talk of an eternity; to return
after the death or disgrace of the
cardinal, perhaps; to return when
D'Artagnan and his friends, happy and
triumphant, should have received from
the queen the reward they had well
acquired by the services they had
rendered her--these were devouring ideas
that a woman like Milady could not
endure.  For the rest, the storm which
raged within her doubled her strength,
and she would have burst the walls of
her prison if her body had been able to
take for a single instant the
proportions of her mind.

Then that which spurred her on
additionally in the midst of all this
was the remembrance of the cardinal. 
What must the mistrustful, restless,
suspicious cardinal think of her
silence-- the cardinal, not merely her
only support, her only prop, her only
protector at present, but still further,
the principal instrument of her future
fortune and vengeance?  She knew him;
she knew that at her return from a
fruitless journey it would be in vain to
tell him of her imprisonment, in vain to
enlarge upon the sufferings she had
undergone.  The cardinal would reply,
with the sarcastic calmness of the
skeptic, strong at once by power and
genius, "You should not have allowed
yourself to be taken."

Then Milady collected all her energies,
murmuring in the depths of her soul the
name of Felton--the only beam of light
that penetrated to her in the hell into
which she had fallen; and like a serpent
which folds and unfolds its rings to
ascertain its strength, she enveloped
Felton beforehand in the thousand meshes
of her inventive imagination.

Time, however, passed away; the hours,
one after another, seemed to awaken the
clock as they passed, and every blow of
the brass hammer resounded upon the
heart of the prisoner.  At nine o'clock,
Lord de Winter made his customary visit,
examined the window and the bars,
sounded the floor and the walls, looked
to the chimney and the doors, without,
during this long and minute examination,
he or Milady pronouncing a single word.

Doubtless both of them understood that
the situation had become too serious to
lose time in useless words and aimless
wrath.

"Well," said the baron, on leaving her
"you will not escape tonight!"

At ten o'clock Felton came and placed
the sentinel.  Milady recognized his
step.  She was as well acquainted with
it now as a mistress is with that of the
lover of her heart; and yet Milady at
the same time detested and despised this
weak fanatic.

That was not the appointed hour.  Felton
did not enter.

Two hours after, as midnight sounded,
the sentinel was relieved. This time it
WAS the hour, and from this moment
Milady waited with impatience.  The new
sentinel commenced his walk in the
corridor.  At the expiration of ten
minutes Felton came.

Milady was all attention.

"Listen," said the young man to the
sentinel.  "On no pretense leave the
door, for you know that last night my
Lord punished a soldier for having quit
his post for an instant, although I,
during his absence, watched in his
place."

"Yes, I know it," said the soldier.

"I recommend you therefore to keep the
strictest watch.  For my part I am going
to pay a second visit to this woman, who
I fear entertains sinister intentions
upon her own life, and I have received
orders to watch her."

"Good!" murmured Milady; "the austere
Puritan lies."

As to the soldier, he only smiled.

"Zounds, Lieutenant!" said he; "you are
not unlucky in being charged with such
commissions, particularly if my Lord has
authorized you to look into her bed."

Felton blushed.  Under any other
circumstances he would have reprimanded
the soldier for indulging in such
pleasantry, but his conscience murmured
too loud for his mouth to dare speak.

"If I call, come," said he.  "If anyone
comes, call me."

"I will, Lieutenant," said the soldier.

Felton entered Milady's apartment. 
Milady arose.

"You are here!" said she.

"I promised to come," said Felton, "and
I have come."

"You promised me something else."

"What, my God!" said the young man, who
in spite of his self-command felt his
knees tremble and the sweat start from
his brow.

"You promised to bring a knife, and to
leave it with me after our interview."

"Say no more of that, madame," said
Felton.  "There is no situation, however
terrible it may be, which can authorize
a creature of God to inflict death upon
himself.  I have reflected, and I
cannot, must not be guilty of such a
sin."

"Ah, you have reflected!" said the
prisoner, sitting down in her armchair,
with a smile of disdain; "and I also
have reflected."

"Upon what?"

"That I can have nothing to say to a man
who does not keep his word."

"Oh, my God!" murmured Felton.

"You may retire," said Milady.  "I will
not talk."

"Here is the knife," said Felton,
drawing from his pocket the weapon which
he had brought, according to his
promise, but which he hesitated to give
to his prisoner.

"Let me see it," said Milady.

"For what purpose?"

"Upon my honor, I will instantly return
it to you.  You shall place it on that
table, and you may remain between it and
me."

Felton offered the weapon to Milady, who
examined the temper of it attentively,
and who tried the point on the tip of
her finger.

"Well," said she, returning the knife to
the young officer, "this is fine and
good steel.  You are a faithful friend,
Felton."

Felton took back the weapon, and laid it
upon the table, as he had agreed with
the prisoner.

Milady followed him with her eyes, and
made a gesture of satisfaction.

"Now," said she, "listen to me."

The request was needless.  The young
officer stood upright before her,
awaiting her words as if to devour them.

"Felton," said Milady, with a solemnity
full of melancholy, "imagine that your
sister, the daughter of your father,
speaks to you.  While yet young,
unfortunately handsome, I was dragged
into a snare.  I resisted.  Ambushes and
violences multiplied around me, but I
resisted.  The religion I serve, the God
I adore, were blasphemed because I
called upon that religion and that God,
but still I resisted.  Then outrages
were heaped upon me, and as my soul was
not subdued they wished to defile my
body forever. Finally--"

Milady stopped, and a bitter smile
passed over her lips.

"Finally," said Felton, "finally, what
did they do?"

"At length, one evening my enemy
resolved to paralyze the resistance he
could not conquer.  One evening he mixed
a powerful narcotic with my water. 
Scarcely had I finished my repast, when
I felt myself sink by degrees into a
strange torpor.  Although I was without
mistrust, a vague fear seized me, and I
tried to struggle against sleepiness.  I
arose.  I wished to run to the window
and call for help, but my legs refused
their office.  It appeared as if the
ceiling sank upon my head and crushed me
with its weight.  I stretched out my
arms.  I tried to speak.  I could only
utter inarticulate sounds, and
irresistible faintness came over me.  I
supported myself by a chair, feeling
that I was about to fall, but this
support was soon insufficient on account
of my weak arms.  I fell upon one knee,
then upon both.  I tried to pray, but my
tongue was frozen.  God doubtless
neither heard nor saw me, and I sank
upon the floor a prey to a slumber which
resembled death.

"Of all that passed in that sleep, or
the time which glided away while it
lasted, I have no remembrance.  The only
thing I recollect is that I awoke in bed
in a round chamber, the furniture of
which was sumptuous, and into which
light only penetrated by an opening in
the ceiling.  No door gave entrance to
the room.  It might be called a
magnificent prison.

"It was a long time before I was able to
make out what place I was in, or to take
account of the details I describe.  My
mind appeared to strive in vain to shake
off the heavy darkness of the sleep from
which I could not rouse myself.  I had
vague perceptions of space traversed, of
the rolling of a carriage, of a horrible
dream in which my strength had become
exhausted; but all this was so dark and
so indistinct in my mind that these
events seemed to belong to another life
than mine, and yet mixed with mine in
fantastic duality.

"At times the state into which I had
fallen appeared so strange that I
believed myself dreaming.  I arose
trembling.  My clothes were near me on a
chair; I neither remembered having
undressed myself nor going to bed.  Then
by degrees the reality broke upon me,
full of chaste terrors.  I was no longer
in the house where I had dwelt.  As well
as I could judge by the light of the
sun, the day was already two-thirds
gone.  It was the evening before when I
had fallen asleep; my sleep, then, must
have lasted twenty-four hours!  What had
taken place during this long sleep?

"I dressed myself as quickly as
possible; my slow and stiff motions all
attested that the effects of the
narcotic were not yet entirely
dissipated.  The chamber was evidently
furnished for the reception of a woman;
and the most finished coquette could not
have formed a wish, but on casting her
eyes about the apartment, she would have
found that wish accomplished.

"Certainly I was not the first captive
that had been shut up in this splendid
prison; but you may easily comprehend,
Felton, that the more superb the prison,
the greater was my terror.

"Yes, it was a prison, for I tried in
vain to get out of it.  I sounded all
the walls, in the hopes of discovering a
door, but everywhere the walls returned
a full and flat sound.

"I made the tour of the room at least
twenty times, in search of an outlet of
some kind; but there was none.  I sank
exhausted with fatigue and terror into
an armchair.

"Meantime, night came on rapidly, and
with night my terrors increased.  I did
not know but I had better remain where I
was seated.  It appeared that I was
surrounded with unknown dangers into
which I was about to fall at every
instant.  Although I had eaten nothing
since the evening before, my fears
prevented my feeling hunger.

"No noise from without by which I could
measure the time reached me; I only
supposed it must be seven or eight
o'clock in the evening, for it was in
the month of October and it was quite
dark.

"All at once the noise of a door,
turning on its hinges, made me start.  A
globe of fire appeared above the glazed
opening of the ceiling, casting a strong
light into my chamber; and I perceived
with terror that a man was standing
within a few paces of me.

"A table, with two covers, bearing a
supper ready prepared, stood, as if by
magic, in the middle of the apartment.

"That man was he who had pursued me
during a whole year, who had vowed my
dishonor, and who, by the first words
that issued from his mouth, gave me to
understand he had accomplished it the
preceding night."

"Scoundrel!" murmured Felton.

"Oh, yes, scoundrel!" cried Milady,
seeing the interest which the young
officer, whose soul seemed to hang on
her lips, took in this strange recital. 
"Oh, yes, scoundrel!  He believed,
having triumphed over me in my sleep,
that all was completed.  He came, hoping
that I would accept my shame, as my
shame was consummated; he came to offer
his fortune in exchange for my love.

"All that the heart of a woman could
contain of haughty contempt and
disdainful words, I poured out upon this
man.  Doubtless he was accustomed to
such reproaches, for he listened to me
calm and smiling, with his arms crossed
over his breast.  Then, when he thought
I had said all, he advanced toward me; I
sprang toward the table, I seized a
knife, I placed it to my breast.

"Take one step more," said I, "and in
addition to my dishonor, you shall have
my death to reproach yourself with."

"There was, no doubt, in my look, my
voice, my whole person, that sincerity
of gesture, of attitude, of accent,
which carries conviction to the most
perverse minds, for he paused.

"'Your death?' said he; 'oh, no, you are
too charming a mistress to allow me to
consent to lose you thus, after I have
had the happiness to possess you only a
single time.  Adieu, my charmer; I will
wait to pay you my next visit till you
are in a better humor.'

"At these words he blew a whistle; the
globe of fire which lighted the room
reascended and disappeared.  I found
myself again in complete darkness.  The
same noise of a door opening and
shutting was repeated the instant
afterward; the flaming globe descended
afresh, and I was completely alone.

"This moment was frightful; if I had any
doubts as to my misfortune, these doubts
had vanished in an overwhelming reality.
I was in the power of a man whom I not
only detested, but despised--of a man
capable of anything, and who had already
given me a fatal proof of what he was
able to do."

"But who, then was this man?" asked
Felton.

"I passed the night on a chair, starting
at the least noise, for toward midnight
the lamp went out, and I was again in
darkness. But the night passed away
without any fresh attempt on the part of
my persecutor.  Day came; the table had
disappeared, only I had still the knife
in my hand.

"This knife was my only hope.

"I was worn out with fatigue. 
Sleeplessness inflamed my eyes; I had
not dared to sleep a single instant. 
The light of day reassured me; I went
and threw myself on the bed, without
parting with the emancipating knife,
which I concealed under my pillow.

"When I awoke, a fresh meal was served.

"This time, in spite of my terrors, in
spite of my agony, I began to feel a
devouring hunger.  It was forty-eight
hours since I had taken any nourishment.
I ate some bread and some fruit; then,
remembering the narcotic mixed with the
water I had drunk, I would not touch
that which was placed on the table, but
filled my glass at a marble fountain
fixed in the wall over my dressing
table.

"And yet, notwithstanding these
precautions, I remained for some time in
a terrible agitation of mind.  But my
fears were this time ill-founded; I
passed the day without experiencing
anything of the kind I dreaded.

"I took the precaution to half empty the
carafe, in order that my suspicions
might not be noticed.

"The evening came on, and with it
darkness; but however profound was this
darkness, my eyes began to accustom
themselves to it.  I saw, amid the
shadows, the table sink through the
floor; a quarter of an hour later it
reappeared, bearing my supper.  In an
instant, thanks to the lamp, my chamber
was once more lighted.

"I was determined to eat only such
things as could not possibly have
anything soporific introduced into them.
Two eggs and some fruit composed my
repast; then I drew another glass of
water from my protecting fountain, and
drank it.

"At the first swallow, it appeared to me
not to have the same taste as in the
morning.  Suspicion instantly seized me.
I paused, but I had already drunk half a
glass.

"I threw the rest away with horror, and
waited, with the dew of fear upon my
brow.

"No doubt some invisible witness had
seen me draw the water from that
fountain, and had taken advantage of my
confidence in it, the better to assure
my ruin, so coolly resolved upon, so
cruelly pursued.

"Half an hour had not passed when the
same symptoms began to appear; but as I
had only drunk half a glass of the
water, I contended longer, and instead
of falling entirely asleep, I sank into
a state of drowsiness which left me a
perception of what was passing around
me, while depriving me of the strength
either to defend myself or to fly.

"I dragged myself toward the bed, to
seek the only defense I had left--my
saving knife; but I could not reach the
bolster.  I sank on my knees, my hands
clasped round one of the bedposts; then
I felt that I was lost."

Felton became frightfully pale, and a
convulsive tremor crept through his
whole body.

"And what was most frightful," continued
Milady, her voice altered, as if she
still experienced the same agony as at
that awful minute, "was that at this
time I retained a consciousness of the
danger that threatened me; was that my
soul, if I may say so, waked in my
sleeping body; was that I saw, that I
heard.  It is true that all was like a
dream, but it was not the less
frightful.

"I saw the lamp ascend, and leave me in
darkness; then I heard the well-known
creaking of the door although I had
heard that door open but twice.

"I felt instinctively that someone
approached me; it is said that the
doomed wretch in the deserts of America
thus feels the approach of the serpent.

"I wished to make an effort; I attempted
to cry out.  By an incredible effort of
will I even raised myself up, but only
to sink down again immediately, and to
fall into the arms of my persecutor."

"Tell me who this man was!" cried the
young officer.

Milady saw at a single glance all the
painful feelings she inspired in Felton
by dwelling on every detail of her
recital; but she would not spare him a
single pang.  The more profoundly she
wounded his heart, the more certainly he
would avenge her. She continued, then,
as if she had not heard his exclamation,
or as if she thought the moment was not
yet come to reply to it.

"Only this time it was no longer an
inert body, without feeling, that the
villain had to deal with.  I have told
you that without being able to regain
the complete exercise of my faculties, I
retained the sense of my danger.  I
struggled, then, with all my strength,
and doubtless opposed, weak as I was, a
long resistance, for I heard him cry
out, 'These miserable Puritans! I knew
very well that they tired out their
executioners, but I did not believe them
so strong against their lovers!'

"Alas! this desperate resistance could
not last long.  I felt my strength fail,
and this time it was not my sleep that
enabled the coward to prevail, but my
swoon."

Felton listened without uttering any
word or sound, except an inward
expression of agony.  The sweat streamed
down his marble forehead, and his hand,
under his coat, tore his breast.

"My first impulse, on coming to myself,
was to feel under my pillow for the
knife I had not been able to reach; if
it had not been useful for defense, it
might at least serve for expiation.

"But on taking this knife, Felton, a
terrible idea occurred to me.  I have
sworn to tell you all, and I will tell
you all.  I have promised you the truth;
I will tell it, were it to destroy me."

"The idea came into your mind to avenge
yourself on this man, did it not?" cried
Felton.

"Yes," said Milady.  "The idea was not
that of a Christian, I knew; but without
doubt, that eternal enemy of our souls,
that lion roaring constantly around us,
breathed it into my mind.  In short,
what shall I say to you, Felton?"
continued Milady, in the tone of a woman
accusing herself of a crime.  "This idea
occurred to me, and did not leave me; it
is of this homicidal thought that I now
bear the punishment."

"Continue, continue!" said Felton; "I am
eager to see you attain your vengeance!"

"Oh, I resolved that it should take
place as soon as possible.  I had no
doubt he would return the following
night.  During the day I had nothing to
fear.

"When the hour of breakfast came,
therefore, I did not hesitate to eat and
drink.  I had determined to make believe
sup, but to eat nothing.  I was forced,
then, to combat the fast of the evening
with the nourishment of the morning.

"Only I concealed a glass of water,
which remained after my breakfast,
thirst having been the chief of my
sufferings when I remained forty-eight
hours without eating or drinking.

"The day passed away without having any
other influence on me than to strengthen
the resolution I had formed; only I took
care that my face should not betray the
thoughts of my heart, for I had no doubt
I was watched.  Several times, even, I
felt a smile on my lips.  Felton, I dare
not tell you at what idea I smiled; you
would hold me in horror--"

"Go on! go on!" said Felton; "you see
plainly that I listen, and that I am
anxious to know the end."

"Evening came; the ordinary events took
place.  During the darkness, as before,
my supper was brought.  Then the lamp
was lighted, and I sat down to table.  I
only ate some fruit.  I pretended to
pour out water from the jug, but I only
drank that which I had saved in my
glass.  The substitution was made so
carefully that my spies, if I had any,
could have no suspicion of it.

"After supper I exhibited the same marks
of languor as on the preceding evening;
but this time, as I yielded to fatigue,
or as if I had become familiarized with
danger, I dragged myself toward my bed,
let my robe fall, and lay down.

"I found my knife where I had placed it,
under my pillow, and while feigning to
sleep, my hand grasped the handle of it
convulsively.

"Two hours passed away without anything
fresh happening.  Oh, my God! who could
have said so the evening before?  I
began to fear that he would not come.

"At length I saw the lamp rise softly,
and disappear in the depths of the
ceiling; my chamber was filled with
darkness and obscurity, but I made a
strong effort to penetrate this darkness
and obscurity.

"Nearly ten minutes passed; I heard no
other noise but the beating of my own
heart.  I implored heaven that he might
come.

"At length I heard the well-known noise
of the door, which opened and shut; I
heard, notwithstanding the thickness of
the carpet, a step which made the floor
creak; I saw, notwithstanding the
darkness, a shadow which approached my
bed."

"Haste! haste!" said Felton; "do you not
see that each of your words burns me
like molten lead?"

"Then," continued Milady, "then I
collected all my strength; I recalled to
my mind that the moment of vengeance, or
rather, of justice, had struck.  I
looked upon myself as another Judith; I
gathered myself up, my knife in my hand,
and when I saw him near me, stretching
out his arms to find his victim, then,
with the last cry of agony and despair,
I struck him in the middle of his
breast.

"The miserable villain!  He had foreseen
all.  His breast was covered with a
coat-of-mail; the knife was bent against
it.

"'Ah, ah!' cried he, seizing my arm, and
wresting from me the weapon that had so
badly served me, 'you want to take my
life, do you, my pretty Puritan?  But
that's more than dislike, that's
ingratitude!  Come, come, calm yourself,
my sweet girl!  I thought you had
softened.  I am not one of those tyrants
who detain women by force.  You don't
love me.  With my usual fatuity I
doubted it; now I am convinced. 
Tomorrow you shall be free.'

"I had but one wish; that was that he
should kill me.

"'Beware!' said I, 'for my liberty is
your dishonor.'

"'Explain yourself, my pretty sibyl!'

"'Yes; for as soon as I leave this place
I will tell everything. I will proclaim
the violence you have used toward me.  I
will describe my captivity.  I will
denounce this place of infamy. You are
placed on high, my Lord, but tremble! 
Above you there is the king; above the
king there is God!'

"However perfect master he was over
himself, my persecutor allowed a
movement of anger to escape him.  I
could not see the expression of his
countenance, but I felt the arm tremble
upon which my hand was placed.

"'Then you shall not leave this place,'
said he.

"'Very well,' cried I, 'then the place
of my punishment will be that of my
tomb.  I will die here, and you will see
if a phantom that accuses is not more
terrible than a living being that
threatens!'

"'You shall have no weapon left in your
power.'

"'There is a weapon which despair has
placed within the reach of every
creature who has the courage to use it. 
I will allow myself to die with hunger.'

"'Come,' said the wretch, 'is not peace
much better than such a war as that?  I
will restore you to liberty this moment;
I will proclaim you a piece of
immaculate virtue; I will name you the
Lucretia of England.'

"'And I will say that you are the
Sextus.  I will denounce you before men,
as I have denounced you before God; and
if it be necessary that, like Lucretia,
I should sign my accusation with my
blood, I will sign it.'

"'Ah!' said my enemy, in a jeering tone,
'that's quite another thing.  My faith!
everything considered, you are very well
off here.  You shall want for nothing,
and if you let yourself die of hunger
that will be your own fault.'

"At these words he retired.  I heard the
door open and shut, and I remained
overwhelmed, less, I confess it, by my
grief than by the mortification of not
having avenged myself.

"He kept his word.  All the day, all the
next night passed away without my seeing
him again.  But I also kept my word with
him, and I neither ate nor drank.  I
was, as I told him, resolved to die of
hunger.

"I passed the day and the night in
prayer, for I hoped that God would
pardon me my suicide.

"The second night the door opened; I was
lying on the floor, for my strength
began to abandon me.

"At the noise I raised myself up on one
hand.

"'Well,' said a voice which vibrated in
too terrible a manner in my ear not to
be recognized, 'well!  Are we softened a
little? Will we not pay for our liberty
with a single promise of silence? Come,
I am a good sort of a prince,' added he,
'and although I like not Puritans I do
them justice; and it is the same with
Puritanesses, when they are pretty. 
Come, take a little oath for me on the
cross; I won't ask anything more of
you.'

"'On the cross,' cried I, rising, for at
that abhorred voice I had recovered all
my strength, 'on the cross I swear that
no promise, no menace, no force, no
torture, shall close my mouth! On the
cross I swear to denounce you everywhere
as a murderer, as a thief of honor, as a
base coward!  On the cross I swear, if I
ever leave this place, to call down
vengeance upon you from the whole human
race!'

"'Beware!' said the voice, in a
threatening accent that I had never yet
heard.  'I have an extraordinary means
which I will not employ but in the last
extremity to close your mouth, or at
least to prevent anyone from believing a
word you may utter.'

"I mustered all my strength to reply to
him with a burst of laughter.

"He saw that it was a merciless war
between us--a war to the death.

"'Listen!' said he. 'I give you the rest
of tonight and all day tomorrow. 
Reflect:  promise to be silent, and
riches, consideration, even honor, shall
surround you; threaten to speak, and I
will condemn you to infamy.'

"'You?' cried I. 'You?'

"'To interminable, ineffaceable infamy!'

"'You?' repeated I.  Oh, I declare to
you, Felton, I thought him mad!

"'Yes, yes, I!' replied he.

"'Oh, leave me!' said I. 'Begone, if you
do not desire to see me dash my head
against that wall before your eyes!'

"'Very well, it is your own doing.  Till
tomorrow evening, then!'

"'Till tomorrow evening, then!' replied
I, allowing myself to fall, and biting
the carpet with rage."

Felton leaned for support upon a piece
of furniture; and Milady saw, with the
joy of a demon, that his strength would
fail him perhaps before the end of her
recital.



57 MEANS FOR CLASSICAL TRAGEDY

After a moment of silence employed by
Milady in observing the young man who
listened to her, Milady continued her
recital.

"It was nearly three days since I had
eaten or drunk anything.  I suffered
frightful torments.  At times there
passed before me clouds which pressed my
brow, which veiled my eyes; this was
delirium.

"When the evening came I was so weak
that every time I fainted I thanked God,
for I thought I was about to die.

"In the midst of one of these swoons I
heard the door open. Terror recalled me
to myself.

"He entered the apartment followed by a
man in a mask.  He was masked likewise;
but I knew his step, I knew his voice, I
knew him by that imposing bearing which
hell has bestowed upon his person for
the curse of humanity.

"'Well,' said he to me, 'have you made
your mind up to take the oath I
requested of you?'

"'You have said Puritans have but one
word.  Mine you have heard, and that is
to pursue you--on earth to the tribunal
of men, in heaven to the tribunal of
God.'

"'You persist, then?'

"'I swear it before the God who hears
me.  I will take the whole world as a
witness of your crime, and that until I
have found an avenger.'

"'You are a prostitute,' said he, in a
voice of thunder, 'and you shall undergo
the punishment of prostitutes!  Branded
in the eyes of the world you invoke, try
to prove to that world that you are
neither guilty nor mad!'

"Then, addressing the man who
accompanied him, 'Executioner,' said he,
'do your duty.'"

"Oh, his name, his name!" cried Felton. 
"His name, tell it me!"

"Then in spite of my cries, in spite of
my resistance--for I began to comprehend
that there was a question of something
worse than death--the executioner seized
me, threw me on the floor, fastened me
with his bonds, and suffocated by sobs,
almost without sense, invoking God, who
did not listen to me, I uttered all at
once a frightful cry of pain and shame. 
A burning fire, a red-hot iron, the iron
of the executioner, was imprinted on my
shoulder."

Felton uttered a groan.

"Here," said Milady, rising with the
majesty of a queen, "here, Felton,
behold the new martyrdom invented for a
pure young girl, the victim of the
brutality of a villain.  Learn to know
the heart of men, and henceforth make
yourself less easily the instrument of
their unjust vengeance."

Milady, with a rapid gesture, opened her
robe, tore the cambric that covered her
bosom, and red with feigned anger and
simulated shame, showed the young man
the ineffaceable impression which
dishonored that beautiful shoulder.

"But," cried Felton, "that is a
FLEUR-DE-LIS which I see there."

"And therein consisted the infamy,"
replied Milady.  "The brand of
England!--it would be necessary to prove
what tribunal had imposed it on me, and
I could have made a public appeal to all
the tribunals of the kingdom; but the
brand of France!--oh, by that, by THAT I
was branded indeed!"

This was too much for Felton.

Pale, motionless, overwhelmed by this
frightful revelation, dazzled by the
superhuman beauty of this woman who
unveiled herself before him with an
immodesty which appeared to him sublime,
he ended by falling on his knees before
her as the early Christians did before
those pure and holy martyrs whom the
persecution of the emperors gave up in
the circus to the sanguinary sensuality
of the populace.  The brand disappeared;
the beauty alone remained.

"Pardon!  Pardon!" cried Felton, "oh,
pardon!"

Milady read in his eyes LOVE! LOVE!

"Pardon for what?" asked she.

"Pardon me for having joined with your
persecutors."

Milady held out her hand to him.

"So beautiful! so young!" cried Felton,
covering that hand with his kisses.

Milady let one of those looks fall upon
him which make a slave of a king.

Felton was a Puritan; he abandoned the
hand of this woman to kiss her feet.

He no longer loved her; he adored her.

When this crisis was past, when Milady
appeared to have resumed her
self-possession, which she had never
lost; when Felton had seen her recover
with the veil of chastity those
treasures of love which were only
concealed from him to make him desire
them the more ardently, he said, "Ah,
now!  I have only one thing to ask of
you; that is, the name of your true
executioner.  For to me there is but
one; the other was an instrument, that
was all."

"What, brother!" cried Milady, "must I
name him again?  Have you not yet
divined who he is?"

"What?" cried Felton, "he--again
he--always he?  What--the truly guilty?"

"The truly guilty," said Milady, "is the
ravager of England, the persecutor of
true believers, the base ravisher of the
honor of so many women--he who, to
satisfy a caprice of his corrupt heart,
is about to make England shed so much
blood, who protects the Protestants
today and will betray them tomorrow--"

"Buckingham!  It is, then, Buckingham!"
cried Felton, in a high state of
excitement.

Milady concealed her face in her hands,
as if she could not endure the shame
which this name recalled to her.

"Buckingham, the executioner of this
angelic creature!" cried Felton.  "And
thou hast not hurled thy thunder at him,
my God! And thou hast left him noble,
honored, powerful, for the ruin of us
all!"

"God abandons him who abandons himself,"
said Milady.

"But he will draw upon his head the
punishment reserved for the damned!"
said Felton, with increasing exultation.
"He wills that human vengeance should
precede celestial justice."

"Men fear him and spare him."

"I," said Felton, "I do not fear him,
nor will I spare him."

The soul of Milady was bathed in an
infernal joy.

"But how can Lord de Winter, my
protector, my father," asked Felton,
"possibly be mixed up with all this?"

"Listen, Felton," resumed Milady, "for
by the side of base and contemptible men
there are often found great and generous
natures.  I had an affianced husband, a
man whom I loved, and who loved me--a
heart like yours, Felton, a man like
you.  I went to him and told him all; he
knew me, that man did, and did not doubt
an instant.  He was a nobleman, a man
equal to Buckingham in every respect. 
He said nothing; he only girded on his
sword, wrapped himself in his cloak, and
went straight to Buckingham Palace.

"Yes, yes," said Felton; "I understand
how he would act.  But with such men it
is not the sword that should be
employed; it is the poniard."

"Buckingham had left England the day
before, sent as ambassador to Spain, to
demand the hand of the Infanta for King
Charles I, who was then only Prince of
Wales.  My affianced husband returned.

"'Hear me,' said he; 'this man has gone,
and for the moment has consequently
escaped my vengeance; but let us be
united, as we were to have been, and
then leave it to Lord de Winter to
maintain his own honor and that of his
wife.'"

"Lord de Winter!" cried Felton.

"Yes," said Milady, "Lord de Winter; and
now you can understand it all, can you
not?  Buckingham remained nearly a year
absent. A week before his return Lord de
Winter died, leaving me his sole heir. 
Whence came the blow?  God who knows
all, knows without doubt; but as for me,
I accuse nobody."

"Oh, what an abyss; what an abyss!"
cried Felton.

"Lord de Winter died without revealing
anything to his brother. The terrible
secret was to be concealed till it
burst, like a clap of thunder, over the
head of the guilty.  Your protector had
seen with pain this marriage of his
elder brother with a portionless girl. 
I was sensible that I could look for no
support from a man disappointed in his
hopes of an inheritance. I went to
France, with a determination to remain
there for the rest of my life.  But all
my fortune is in England. Communication
being closed by the war, I was in want
of everything.  I was then obliged to
come back again.  Six days ago, I landed
at Portsmouth."

"Well?" said Felton.

"Well; Buckingham heard by some means,
no doubt, of my return. He spoke of me
to Lord de Winter, already prejudiced
against me, and told him that his
sister-in-law was a prostitute, a
branded woman.  The noble and pure voice
of my husband was no longer here to
defend me.  Lord de Winter believed all
that was told him with so much the more
ease that it was his interest to believe
it.  He caused me to be arrested, had me
conducted hither, and placed me under
your guard.  You know the rest.  The day
after tomorrow he banishes me, he
transports me; the day after tomorrow he
exiles me among the infamous.  Oh, the
train is well laid; the plot is clever. 
My honor will not survive it!  You see,
then, Felton, I can do nothing but die. 
Felton, give me that knife!"

And at these words, as if all her
strength was exhausted, Milady sank,
weak and languishing, into the arms of
the young officer, who, intoxicated with
love, anger, and voluptuous sensations
hitherto unknown, received her with
transport, pressed her against his
heart, all trembling at the breath from
that charming mouth, bewildered by the
contact with that palpitating bosom.

"No, no," said he.  "No, you shall live
honored and pure; you shall live to
triumph over your enemies."

Milady put him from her slowly with her
hand, while drawing him nearer with her
look; but Felton, in his turn, embraced
her more closely, imploring her like a
divinity.

"Oh, death, death!" said she, lowering
her voice and her eyelids, "oh, death,
rather than shame!  Felton, my brother,
my friend, I conjure you!"

"No," cried Felton, "no; you shall live
and you shall be avenged."

"Felton, I bring misfortune to all who
surround me!  Felton, abandon me! 
Felton, let me die!"

"Well, then, we will live and die
together!" cried he, pressing his lips
to those of the prisoner.

Several strokes resounded on the door;
this time Milady really pushed him away
from her.

"Hark," said she, "we have been
overheard!  Someone is coming! All is
over!  We are lost!"

"No," said Felton; it is only the
sentinel warning me that they are about
to change the guard."

"Then run to the door, and open it
yourself."

Felton obeyed; this woman was now his
whole thought, his whole soul.

He found himself face to face with a
sergeant commanding a watch-patrol.

"Well, what is the matter?" asked the
young lieutenant.

"You told me to open the door if I heard
anyone cry out," said the soldier; "but
you forgot to leave me the key.  I heard
you cry out, without understanding what
you said.  I tried to open the door, but
it was locked inside; then I called the
sergeant."

"And here I am," said the sergeant.

Felton, quite bewildered, almost mad,
stood speechless.

Milady plainly perceived that it was now
her turn to take part in the scene.  She
ran to the table, and seizing the knife
which Felton had laid down, exclaimed,
"And by what right will you prevent me
from dying?"

"Great God!" exclaimed Felton, on seeing
the knife glitter in her hand.

At that moment a burst of ironical
laughter resounded through the corridor.
The baron, attracted by the noise, in
his chamber gown, his sword under his
arm, stood in the doorway.

"Ah," said he, "here we are, at the last
act of the tragedy.  You see, Felton,
the drama has gone through all the
phases I named; but be easy, no blood
will flow."

Milady perceived that all was lost
unless she gave Felton an immediate and
terrible proof of her courage.

"You are mistaken, my Lord, blood will
flow; and may that blood fall back on
those who cause it to flow!"

Felton uttered a cry, and rushed toward
her.  He was too late; Milady had
stabbed herself.

But the knife had fortunately, we ought
to say skillfully, come in contact with
the steel busk, which at that period,
like a cuirass, defended the chests of
women.  It had glided down it, tearing
the robe, and had penetrated slantingly
between the flesh and the ribs. 
Milady's robe was not the less stained
with blood in a second.

Milady fell down, and seemed to be in a
swoon.

Felton snatched away the knife.

"See, my Lord," said he, in a deep,
gloomy tone, "here is a woman who was
under my guard, and who has killed
herself!"

"Be at ease, Felton," said Lord de
Winter.  "She is not dead; demons do not
die so easily.  Be tranquil, and go wait
for me in my chamber."

"But, my Lord--"

"Go, sir, I command you!"

At this injunction from his superior,
Felton obeyed; but in going out, he put
the knife into his bosom.

As to Lord de Winter, he contented
himself with calling the woman who
waited on Milady, and when she was come,
he recommended the prisoner, who was
still fainting, to her care, and left
them alone.

Meanwhile, all things considered and
notwithstanding his suspicions, as the
wound might be serious, he immediately
sent off a mounted man to find a
physician.



58 ESCAPE

As Lord de Winter had thought, Milady's
wound was not dangerous. So soon as she
was left alone with the woman whom the
baron had summoned to her assistance she
opened her eyes.

It was, however, necessary to affect
weakness and pain--not a very difficult
task for so finished an actress as
Milady.  Thus the poor woman was
completely the dupe of the prisoner,
whom, notwithstanding her hints, she
persisted in watching all night.

But the presence of this woman did not
prevent Milady from thinking.

There was no longer a doubt that Felton
was convinced; Felton was hers.  If an
angel appeared to that young man as an
accuser of Milady, he would take him, in
the mental disposition in which he now
found himself, for a messenger sent by
the devil.

Milady smiled at this thought, for
Felton was now her only hope--her only
means of safety.

But Lord de Winter might suspect him;
Felton himself might now be watched!

Toward four o'clock in the morning the
doctor arrived; but since the time
Milady stabbed herself, however short,
the wound had closed.  The doctor could
therefore measure neither the direction
nor the depth of it; he only satisfied
himself by Milady's pulse that the case
was not serious.

In the morning Milady, under the pretext
that she had not slept well in the night
and wanted rest, sent away the woman who
attended her.

She had one hope, which was that Felton
would appear at the breakfast hour; but
Felton did not come.

Were her fears realized?  Was Felton,
suspected by the baron, about to fail
her at the decisive moment?  She had
only one day left.  Lord de Winter had
announced her embarkation for the
twenty-third, and it was now the morning
of the twenty-second.

Nevertheless she still waited patiently
till the hour for dinner.

Although she had eaten nothing in the
morning, the dinner was brought in at
its usual time.  Milady then perceived,
with terror, that the uniform of the
soldiers who guarded her was changed.

Then she ventured to ask what had become
of Felton.

She was told that he had left the castle
an hour before on horseback.  She
inquired if the baron was still at the
castle. The soldier replied that he was,
and that he had given orders to be
informed if the prisoner wished to speak
to him.

Milady replied that she was too weak at
present, and that her only desire was to
be left alone.

The soldier went out, leaving the dinner
served.

Felton was sent away.  The marines were
removed.  Felton was then mistrusted.

This was the last blow to the prisoner.

Left alone, she arose.  The bed, which
she had kept from prudence and that they
might believe her seriously wounded,
burned her like a bed of fire.  She cast
a glance at the door; the baron had had
a plank nailed over the grating.  He no
doubt feared that by this opening she
might still by some diabolical means
corrupt her guards.

Milady smiled with joy.  She was free
now to give way to her transports
without being observed.  She traversed
her chamber with the excitement of a
furious maniac or of a tigress shut up
in an iron cage.  CERTES, if the knife
had been left in her power, she would
now have thought, not of killing
herself, but of killing the baron.

At six o'clock Lord de Winter came in. 
He was armed at all points.  This man,
in whom Milady till that time had only
seen a very simple gentleman, had become
an admirable jailer.  He appeared to
foresee all, to divine all, to
anticipate all.

A single look at Milady apprised him of
all that was passing in her mind.

"Ay,!" said he, "I see; but you shall
not kill me today.  You have no longer a
weapon; and besides, I am on my guard. 
You had begun to pervert my poor Felton.
He was yielding to your infernal
influence; but I will save him.  He will
never see you again; all is over.  Get
your clothes together.  Tomorrow you
will go.  I had fixed the embarkation
for the twenty-fourth; but I have
reflected that the more promptly the
affair takes place the more sure it will
be.  Tomorrow, by twelve o'clock, I
shall have the order for your exile,
signed, BUCKINGHAM.  If you speak a
single word to anyone before going
aboard ship, my sergeant will blow your
brains out.  He has orders to do so.  If
when on the ship you speak a single word
to anyone before the captain permits
you, the captain will have you thrown
into the sea.  That is agreed upon.

"AU REVOIR; then; that is all I have to
say today.  Tomorrow I will see you
again, to take my leave."  With these
words the baron went out.  Milady had
listened to all this menacing tirade
with a smile of disdain on her lips, but
rage in her heart.

Supper was served.  Milady felt that she
stood in need of all her strength.  She
did not know what might take place
during this night which approached so
menacingly--for large masses of cloud
rolled over the face of the sky, and
distant lightning announced a storm.

The storm broke about ten o'clock. 
Milady felt a consolation in seeing
nature partake of the disorder of her
heart.  The thunder growled in the air
like the passion and anger in her
thoughts. It appeared to her that the
blast as it swept along disheveled her
brow, as it bowed the branches of the
trees and bore away their leaves.  She
howled as the hurricane howled; and her
voice was lost in the great voice of
nature, which also seemed to groan with
despair.

All at once she heard a tap at her
window, and by the help of a flash of
lightning she saw the face of a man
appear behind the bars.

She ran to the window and opened it.

"Felton!" cried she.  "I am saved."

"Yes," said Felton; "but silence,
silence!  I must have time to file
through these bars.  Only take care that
I am not seen through the wicket."

"Oh, it is a proof that the Lord is on
our side, Felton," replied Milady. 
"They have closed up the grating with a
board."

"That is well; God has made them
senseless," said Felton.

"But what must I do?" asked Milady.

"Nothing, nothing, only shut the window.
Go to bed, or at least lie down in your
clothes.  As soon as I have done I will
knock on one of the panes of glass.  But
will you be able to follow me?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Your wound?"

"Gives me pain, but will not prevent my
walking."

"Be ready, then, at the first signal."

Milady shut the window, extinguished the
lamp, and went, as Felton had desired
her, to lie down on the bed.  Amid the
moaning of the storm she heard the
grinding of the file upon the bars, and
by the light of every flash she
perceived the shadow of Felton through
the panes.

She passed an hour without breathing,
panting, with a cold sweat upon her
brow, and her heart oppressed by
frightful agony at every movement she
heard in the corridor.

There are hours which last a year.

At the expiration of an hour, Felton
tapped again.

Milady sprang out of bed and opened the
window.  Two bars removed formed an
opening for a man to pass through.

"Are you ready?" asked Felton.

"Yes.  Must I take anything with me?"

"Money, if you have any."

"Yes; fortunately they have left me all
I had."

"So much the better, for I have expended
all mine in chartering a vessel."

"Here!" said Milady, placing a bag full
of louis in Felton's hands.

Felton took the bag and threw it to the
foot of the wall.

"Now," said he, "will you come?"

"I am ready."

Milady mounted upon a chair and passed
the upper part of her body through the
window.  She saw the young officer
suspended over the abyss by a ladder of
ropes.  For the first time an emotion of
terror reminded her that she was a
woman.

The dark space frightened her.

"I expected this," said Felton.

"It's nothing, it's nothing!" said
Milady.  "I will descend with my eyes
shut."

"Have you confidence in me?" said
Felton.

"You ask that?"

"Put your two hands together.  Cross
them; that's right!"

Felton tied her two wrists together with
his handkerchief, and then with a cord
over the handkerchief.

"What are you doing?" asked Milady, with
surprise.

"Pass your arms around my neck, and fear
nothing."

"But I shall make you lose your balance,
and we shall both be dashed to pieces."

"Don't be afraid.  I am a sailor."

Not a second was to be lost.  Milady
passed her two arms round Felton's neck,
and let herself slip out of the window. 
Felton began to descend the ladder
slowly, step by step.  Despite the
weight of two bodies, the blast of the
hurricane shook them in the air.

All at once Felton stopped.

"What is the matter?" asked Milady.

"Silence," said Felton, "I hear
footsteps."

"We are discovered!"

There was a silence of several seconds.

"No," said Felton, "it is nothing."

"But what, then, is the noise?"

"That of the patrol going their rounds."

"Where is their road?"

"Just under us."

"They will discover us!"

"No, if it does not lighten."

"But they will run against the bottom of
the ladder."

"Fortunately it is too short by six
feet."

"Here they are!  My God!"

"Silence!"

Both remained suspended, motionless and
breathless, within twenty paces of the
ground, while the patrol passed beneath
them laughing and talking.  This was a
terrible moment for the fugitives.

The patrol passed.  The noise of their
retreating footsteps and the murmur of
their voices soon died away.

"Now," said Felton, "we are safe."

Milady breathed a deep sigh and fainted.

Felton continued to descend.  Near the
bottom of the ladder, when he found no
more support for his feet, he clung with
his hands; at length, arrived at the
last step, he let himself hang by the
strength of his wrists, and touched the
ground.  He stooped down, picked up the
bag of money, and placed it between his
teeth. Then he took Milady in his arms,
and set off briskly in the direction
opposite to that which the patrol had
taken.  He soon left the pathway of the
patrol, descended across the rocks, and
when arrived on the edge of the sea,
whistled.

A similar signal replied to him; and
five minutes after, a boat appeared,
rowed by four men.

The boat approached as near as it could
to the shore; but there was not depth
enough of water for it to touch land. 
Felton walked into the sea up to his
middle, being unwilling to trust his
precious burden to anybody.

Fortunately the storm began to subside,
but still the sea was disturbed.  The
little boat bounded over the waves like
a nut-shell.

"To the sloop," said Felton, "and row
quickly."

The four men bent to their oars, but the
sea was too high to let them get much
hold of it.

However, they left the castle behind;
that was the principal thing.  The night
was extremely dark.  It was almost
impossible to see the shore from the
boat; they would therefore be less
likely to see the boat from the shore.

A black point floated on the sea.  That
was the sloop.  While the boat was
advancing with all the speed its four
rowers could give it, Felton untied the
cord and then the handkerchief which
bound Milady's hands together.  When her
hands were loosed he took some sea water
and sprinkled it over her face.

Milady breathed a sigh, and opened her
eyes.

"Where am I?" said she.

"Saved!" replied the young officer.

"Oh, saved, saved!" cried she.  "Yes,
there is the sky; here is the sea!  The
air I breathe is the air of liberty! 
Ah, thanks, Felton, thanks!"

The young man pressed her to his heart.

"But what is the matter with my hands!"
asked Milady; "it seems as if my wrists
had been crushed in a vice."

Milady held out her arms; her wrists
were bruised.

"Alas!" said Felton, looking at those
beautiful hands, and shaking his head
sorrowfully.

"Oh, it's nothing, nothing!" cried
Milady.  "I remember now."

Milady looked around her, as if in
search of something.

"It is there," said Felton, touching the
bag of money with his foot.

They drew near to the sloop.  A sailor
on watch hailed the boat; the boat
replied.

"What vessel is that?" asked Milady.

"The one I have hired for you."

"Where will it take me?"

"Where you please, after you have put me
on shore at Portsmouth."

"What are you going to do at
Portsmouth?" asked Milady.

"Accomplish the orders of Lord de
Winter," said Felton, with a gloomy
smile.

"What orders?" asked Milady.

"You do not understand?" asked Felton.

"No; explain yourself, I beg."

"As he mistrusted me, he determined to
guard you himself, and sent me in his
place to get Buckingham to sign the
order for your transportation."

"But if he mistrusted you, how could he
confide such an order to you?"

"How could I know what I was the bearer
of?"

"That's true!  And you are going to
Portsmouth?"

"I have no time to lose.  Tomorrow is
the twenty-third, and Buckingham sets
sail tomorrow with his fleet."

"He sets sail tomorrow!  Where for?"

"For La Rochelle."

"He need not sail!" cried Milady,
forgetting her usual presence of mind.

"Be satisfied," replied Felton; "he will
not sail."

Milady started with joy.  She could read
to the depths of the heart of this young
man; the death of Buckingham was written
there at full length.

"Felton," cried she, "you are as great
as Judas Maccabeus!  If you die, I will
die with you; that is all I can say to
you."

"Silence!" cried Felton; "we are here."

In fact, they touched the sloop.

Felton mounted the ladder first, and
gave his hand to Milady, while the
sailors supported her, for the sea was
still much agitated.

An instant after they were on the deck.

"Captain," said Felton, "this is person
of whom I spoke to you, and whom you
must convey safe and sound to France."

"For a thousand pistoles," said the
captain.

"I have paid you five hundred of them."

"That's correct," said the captain.

"And here are the other five hundred,"
replied Milady, placing her hand upon
the bag of gold.

"No," said the captain, "I make but one
bargain; and I have agreed with this
young man that the other five hundred
shall not be due to me till we arrive at
Boulogne."

"And shall we arrive there?"

"Safe and sound, as true as my name's
Jack Butler."

"Well," said Milady, "if you keep your
word, instead of five hundred, I will
give you a thousand pistoles."

"Hurrah for you, then, my beautiful
lady," cried the captain; "and may God
often send me such passengers as your
Ladyship!"

"Meanwhile," said Felton, "convey me to
the little bay of--; you know it was
agreed you should put in there."

The captain replied by ordering the
necessary maneuvers, and toward seven
o'clock in the morning the little vessel
cast anchor in the bay that had been
named.

During this passage, Felton related
everything to Milady--how, instead of
going to London, he had chartered the
little vessel; how he had returned; how
he had scaled the wall by fastening
cramps in the interstices of the stones,
as he ascended, to give him foothold;
and how, when he had reached the bars,
he fastened his ladder.  Milady knew the
rest.

On her side, Milady tried to encourage
Felton in his project; but at the first
words which issued from her mouth, she
plainly saw that the young fanatic stood
more in need of being moderated than
urged.

It was agreed that Milady should wait
for Felton till ten o'clock; if he did
not return by ten o'clock she was to
sail.

In that case, and supposing he was at
liberty, he was to rejoin her in France,
at the convent of the Carmelites at
Bethune.



59 WHAT TOOK PLACE AT PORTSMOUTH AUGUST
23, 1628

Felton took leave of Milady as a brother
about to go for a mere walk takes leave
of his sister, kissing her hand.

His whole body appeared in its ordinary
state of calmness, only an unusual fire
beamed from his eyes, like the effects
of a fever; his brow was more pale than
it generally was; his teeth were
clenched, and his speech had a short dry
accent which indicated that something
dark was at work within him.

As long as he remained in the boat which
conveyed him to land, he kept his face
toward Milady, who, standing on the
deck, followed him with her eyes.  Both
were free from the fear of pursuit;
nobody ever came into Milady's apartment
before nine o'clock, and it would
require three hours to go from the
castle to London.

Felton jumped onshore, climbed the
little ascent which led to the top of
the cliff, saluted Milady a last time,
and took his course toward the city.

At the end of a hundred paces, the
ground began to decline, and he could
only see the mast of the sloop.

He immediately ran in the direction of
Portsmouth, which he saw at nearly half
a league before him, standing out in the
haze of the morning, with its houses and
towers.

Beyond Portsmouth the sea was covered
with vessels whose masts, like a forest
of poplars despoiled by the winter, bent
with each breath of the wind.

Felton, in his rapid walk, reviewed in
his mind all the accusations against the
favorite of James I and Charles I,
furnished by two years of premature
meditation and a long sojourn among the
Puritans.

When he compared the public crimes of
this minister--startling crimes,
European crimes, if so we may say--with
the private and unknown crimes with
which Milady had charged him, Felton
found that the more culpable of the two
men which formed the character of
Buckingham was the one of whom the
public knew not the life.  This was
because his love, so strange, so new,
and so ardent, made him view the
infamous and imaginary accusations of
Milady de Winter as, through a
magnifying glass, one views as frightful
monsters atoms in reality imperceptible
by the side of an ant.

The rapidity of his walk heated his
blood still more; the idea that he left
behind him, exposed to a frightful
vengeance, the woman he loved, or rather
whom he adored as a saint, the emotion
he had experienced, present fatigue--all
together exalted his mind above human
feeling.

He entered Portsmouth about eight
o'clock in the morning.  The whole
population was on foot; drums were
beating in the streets and in the port;
the troops about to embark were marching
toward the sea.

Felton arrived at the palace of the
Admiralty, covered with dust, and
streaming with perspiration.  His
countenance, usually so pale, was purple
with heat and passion.  The sentinel
wanted to repulse him; but Felton called
to the officer of the post, and drawing
from his pocket the letter of which he
was the bearer, he said, "A pressing
message from Lord de Winter."

At the name of Lord de Winter, who was
known to be one of his Grace's most
intimate friends, the officer of the
post gave orders to let Felton pass,
who, besides, wore the uniform of a
naval officer.

Felton darted into the palace.

At the moment he entered the vestibule,
another man was entering likewise,
dusty, out of breath, leaving at the
gate a post horse, which, on reaching
the palace, tumbled on his foreknees.

Felton and he addressed Patrick, the
duke's confidential lackey, at the same
moment.  Felton named Lord de Winter;
the unknown would not name anybody, and
pretended that it was to the duke alone
he would make himself known.  Each was
anxious to gain admission before the
other.

Patrick, who knew Lord de Winter was in
affairs of the service, and in relations
of friendship with the duke, gave the
preference to the one who came in his
name.  The other was forced to wait, and
it was easily to be seen how he cursed
the delay.

The valet led Felton through a large
hall in which waited the deputies from
La Rochelle, headed by the Prince de
Soubise, and introduced him into a
closet where Buckingham, just out of the
bath, was finishing his toilet, upon
which, as at all times, he bestowed
extraordinary attention.

"Lieutenant Felton, from Lord de
Winter," said Patrick.

"From Lord de Winter!" repeated
Buckingham; "let him come in."

Felton entered.  At that moment
Buckingham was throwing upon a couch a
rich toilet robe, worked with gold, in
order to put on a blue velvet doublet
embroidered with pearls.

"Why didn't the baron come himself?"
demanded Buckingham.  "I expected him
this morning."

"He desired me to tell your Grace,"
replied Felton, "that he very much
regretted not having that honor, but
that he was prevented by the guard he is
obliged to keep at the castle."

"Yes, I know that," said Buckingham; "he
has a prisoner."

"It is of that prisoner that I wish to
speak to your Grace," replied Felton.

"Well, then, speak!"

"That which I have to say of her can
only be heard by yourself, my Lord!"

"Leave us, Patrick," said Buckingham;
"but remain within sound of the bell.  I
shall call you presently."

Patrick went out.

"We are alone, sir," said Buckingham;
"speak!"

"My Lord," said Felton, "the Baron de
Winter wrote to you the other day to
request you to sign an order of
embarkation relative to a young woman
named Charlotte Backson."

"Yes, sir; and I answered him, to bring
or send me that order and I would sign
it."

"Here it is, my Lord."

"Give it to me," said the duke.

And taking it from Felton, he cast a
rapid glance over the paper, and
perceiving that it was the one that had
been mentioned to him, he placed it on
the table, took a pen, and prepared to
sign it.

"Pardon, my Lord," said Felton, stopping
the duke; "but does your Grace know that
the name of Charlotte Backson is not the
true name of this young woman?"

"Yes, sir, I know it," replied the duke,
dipping the quill in the ink.

"Then your Grace knows her real name?"
asked Felton, in a sharp tone.

"I know it"; and the duke put the quill
to the paper.  Felton grew pale.

"And knowing that real name, my Lord,"
replied Felton, "will you sign it all
the same?"

"Doubtless," said Buckingham, "and
rather twice than once."

"I cannot believe," continued Felton, in
a voice that became more sharp and
rough, "that your Grace knows that it is
to Milady de Winter this relates."

"I know it perfectly, although I am
astonished that you know it."

"And will your Grace sign that order
without remorse?"

Buckingham looked at the young man
haughtily.

"Do you know, sir, that you are asking
me very strange questions, and that I am
very foolish to answer them?"

"Reply to them, my Lord," said Felton;
"the circumstances are more serious than
you perhaps believe."

Buckingham reflected that the young man,
coming from Lord de Winter, undoubtedly
spoke in his name, and softened.

"Without remorse," said he.  "The baron
knows, as well as myself, that Milady de
Winter is a very guilty woman, and it is
treating her very favorably to commute
her punishment to transportation." The
duke put his pen to the paper.

"You will not sign that order, my Lord!"
said Felton, making a step toward the
duke.

"I will not sign this order!  And why
not?"

"Because you will look into yourself,
and you will do justice to the lady."

"I should do her justice by sending her
to Tyburn," said Buckingham. "This lady
is infamous."

"My Lord, Milady de Winter is an angel;
you know that she is, and I demand her
liberty of you."

"Bah!  Are you mad, to talk to me thus?"
said Buckingham.

"My Lord, excuse me!  I speak as I can;
I restrain myself.  But, my Lord, think
of what you're about to do, and beware
of going too far!"

"What do you say?  God pardon me!" cried
Buckingham, "I really think he threatens
me!"

"No, my Lord, I still plead.  And I say
to you:  one drop of water suffices to
make the full vase overflow; one slight
fault may draw down punishment upon the
head spared, despite many crimes."

"Mr. Felton," said Buckingham, "you will
withdraw, and place yourself at once
under arrest."

"You will hear me to the end, my Lord. 
You have seduced this young girl; you
have outraged, defiled her.  Repair your
crimes toward her; let her go free, and
I will exact nothing else from you."

"You will exact!" said Buckingham,
looking at Felton with astonishment, and
dwelling upon each syllable of the three
words as he pronounced them.

"My Lord," continued Felton, becoming
more excited as he spoke, "my Lord,
beware!  All England is tired of your
iniquities; my Lord, you have abused the
royal power, which you have almost
usurped; my Lord, you are held in horror
by God and men.  God will punish you
hereafter, but I will punish you here!"

"Ah, this is too much!" cried
Buckingham, making a step toward the
door.

Felton barred his passage.

"I ask it humbly of you, my Lord" said
he; "sign the order for the liberation
of Milady de Winter.  Remember that she
is a woman whom you have dishonored."

"Withdraw, sir," said Buckingham, "or I
will call my attendant, and have you
placed in irons."

"You shall not call," said Felton,
throwing himself between the duke and
the bell placed on a stand encrusted
with silver.  "Beware, my Lord, you are
in the hands of God!"

"In the hands of the devil, you mean!"
cried Buckingham, raising his voice so
as to attract the notice of his people,
without absolutely shouting.

"Sign, my Lord; sign the liberation of
Milady de Winter," said Felton, holding
out paper to the duke.

"By force? You are joking!  Holloa,
Patrick!"

"Sign, my Lord!"

"Never."

"Never?"

"Help!" shouted the duke; and at the
same time he sprang toward his sword.

But Felton did not give him time to draw
it.  He held the knife with which Milady
had stabbed herself, open in his bosom;
at one bound he was upon the duke.

At that moment Patrick entered the room,
crying, "A letter from France, my Lord."

"From France!" cried Buckingham,
forgetting everything in thinking from
whom that letter came.

Felton took advantage of this moment,
and plunged the knife into his side up
to the handle.

"Ah, traitor," cried Buckingham, "you
have killed me!"

"Murder!" screamed Patrick.

Felton cast his eyes round for means of
escape, and seeing the door free, he
rushed into the next chamber, in which,
as we have said, the deputies from La
Rochelle were waiting, crossed it as
quickly as possible, and rushed toward
the staircase; but upon the first step
he met Lord de Winter, who, seeing him
pale, confused, livid, and stained with
blood both on his hands and face, seized
him by the throat, crying, "I knew it! 
I guessed it!  But too late by a minute,
unfortunate, unfortunate that I am!"

Felton made no resistance.  Lord de
Winter placed him in the hands of the
guards, who led him, while awaiting
further orders, to a little terrace
commanding the sea; and then the baron
hastened to the duke's chamber.

At the cry uttered by the duke and the
scream of Patrick, the man whom Felton
had met in the antechamber rushed into
the chamber.

He found the duke reclining upon a sofa,
with his hand pressed upon the wound.

"Laporte," said the duke, in a dying
voice, "Laporte, do you come from her?"

"Yes, monseigneur," replied the faithful
cloak bearer of Anne of Austria, "but
too late, perhaps."

"Silence, Laporte, you may be overheard.
Patrick, let no one enter. Oh, I cannot
tell what she says to me!  My God, I am
dying!"

And the duke swooned.

Meanwhile, Lord de Winter, the deputies,
the leaders of the expedition, the
officers of Buckingham's household, had
all made their way into the chamber. 
Cries of despair resounded on all sides.
The news, which filled the palace with
tears and groans, soon became known, and
spread itself throughout the city.

The report of a cannon announced that
something new and unexpected had taken
place.

Lord de Winter tore his hair.

"Too late by a minute!" cried he, "too
late by a minute!  Oh, my God, my God! 
what a misfortune!"

He had been informed at seven o'clock in
the morning that a rope ladder floated
from one of the windows of the castle;
he had hastened to Milady's chamber, had
found it empty, the window open, and the
bars filed, had remembered the verbal
caution D'Artagnan had transmitted to
him by his messenger, had trembled for
the duke, and running to the stable
without taking time to have a horse
saddled, had jumped upon the first he
found, had galloped off like the wind,
had alighted below in the courtyard, had
ascended the stairs precipitately, and
on the top step, as we have said, had
encountered Felton.

The duke, however, was not dead.  He
recovered a little, reopened his eyes,
and hope revived in all hearts.

"Gentlemen," said he, "leave me along
with Patrick and Laporte--ah, is that
you, De Winter?  You sent me a strange
madman this morning!  See the state in
which he has put me."

"Oh, my Lord!" cried the baron, "I shall
never console myself."

"And you would be quite wrong, my dear
De Winter," said Buckingham, holding out
his hand to him.  "I do not know the man
who deserves being regretted during the
whole life of another man; but leave us,
I pray you."

The baron went out sobbing.

There only remained in the closet of the
wounded duke Laporte and Patrick.  A
physician was sought for, but none was
yet found.

"You will live, my Lord, you will live!"
repeated the faithful servant of Anne of
Austria, on his knees before the duke's
sofa.

"What has she written to me?" said
Buckingham, feebly, streaming with
blood, and suppressing his agony to
speak of her he loved, "what has she
written to me?  Read me her letter."

"Oh, my Lord!" said Laporte.

"Obey, Laporte, do you not see I have no
time to lose?"

Laporte broke the seal, and placed the
paper before the eyes of the duke; but
Buckingham in vain tried to make out the
writing.

"Read!" said he, "read!  I cannot see. 
Read, then!  For soon, perhaps, I shall
not hear, and I shall die without
knowing what she has written to me."

Laporte made no further objection, and
read:


"My Lord, By that which, since I have
known you, have suffered by you and for
you, I conjure you, if you have any care
for my repose, to countermand those
great armaments which you are preparing
against France, to put an end to a war
of which it is publicly said religion is
the ostensible cause, and of which, it
is generally whispered, your love for me
is the concealed cause.  This war may
not only bring great catastrophes upon
England and France, but misfortune upon
you, my Lord, for which I should never
console myself.

"Be careful of your life, which is
menaced, and which will be dear to me
from the moment I am not obliged to see
an enemy in you.

"Your affectionate "ANNE"


Buckingham collected all his remaining
strength to listen to the reading of the
letter; then, when it was ended, as if
he had met with a bitter disappointment,
he asked, "Have you nothing else to say
to me by the living voice, Laporte?"

"The queen charged me to tell you to
watch over yourself, for she had advice
that your assassination would be
attempted."

"And is that all--is that all?" replied
Buckingham, impatiently.

"She likewise charged me to tell you
that she still loved you."

"Ah," said Buckingham, "God be praised! 
My death, then, will not be to her as
the death of a stranger!"

Laporte burst into tears.

"Patrick," said the due, "bring me the
casket in which the diamond studs were
kept."

Patrick brought the object desired,
which Laporte recognized as having
belonged to the queen.

"Now the scent bag of white satin, on
which her cipher is embroidered in
pearls."

Patrick again obeyed.

"Here, Laporte," said Buckingham, "these
are the only tokens I ever received from
her--this silver casket and these two
letters.  You will restore them to her
Majesty; and as a last memorial"--he
looked round for some valuable
object--"you will add--"

He still sought; but his eyes, darkened
by death, encountered only the knife
which had fallen from the hand of
Felton, still smoking with the blood
spread over its blade.

"And you will add to them this knife,"
said the duke, pressing the hand of
Laporte.  He had just strength enough to
place the scent bag at the bottom of the
silver casket, and to let the knife fall
into it, making a sign to Laporte that
he was no longer able to speak; than, in
a last convulsion, which this time he
had not the power to combat, he slipped
from the sofa to the floor.

Patrick uttered a loud cry.

Buckingham tried to smile a last time;
but death checked his thought, which
remained engraved on his brow like a
last kiss of love.

At this moment the duke's surgeon
arrived, quite terrified; he was already
on board the admiral's ship, where they
had been obliged to seek him.

He approached the duke, took his hand,
held it for an instant in his own, and
letting it fall, "All is useless," said
he, "he is dead."

"Dead, dead!" cried Patrick.

At this cry all the crowd re-entered the
apartment, and throughout the palace and
town there was nothing but consternation
and tumult.

As soon as Lord de Winter saw Buckingham
was dead, he ran to Felton, whom the
soldiers still guarded on the terrace of
the palace.

"Wretch!" said he to the young man, who
since the death of Buckingham had
regained that coolness and
self-possession which never after
abandoned him, "wretch!  what have you
done?"

"I have avenged myself!" said he.

"Avenged yourself," said the baron. 
"Rather say that you have served as an
instrument to that accursed woman; but I
swear to you that this crime shall be
her last."

"I don't know what you mean," replied
Felton, quietly, "and I am ignorant of
whom you are speaking, my Lord.  I
killed the Duke of Buckingham because he
twice refused you yourself to appoint me
captain; I have punished him for his
injustice, that is all."

De Winter, stupefied, looked on while
the soldiers bound Felton, and could not
tell what to think of such
insensibility.

One thing alone, however, threw a shade
over the pallid brow of Felton. At every
noise he heard, the simple Puritan
fancied he recognized the step and voice
of Milady coming to throw herself into
his arms, to accuse herself, and die
with him.

All at once he started.  His eyes became
fixed upon a point of the sea, commanded
by the terrace where he was.  With the
eagle glance of a sailor he had
recognized there, where another would
have seen only a gull hovering over the
waves, the sail of a sloop which was
directed toward the cost of France.

He grew deadly pale, placed his hand
upon his heart, which was breaking, and
at once perceived all the treachery.

"One last favor, my Lord!" said he to
the baron.

"What?" asked his Lordship.

"What o'clock is it?"

The baron drew out his watch.  "It wants
ten minutes to nine," said he.

Milady had hastened her departure by an
hour and a half.  As soon as she heard
the cannon which announced the fatal
event, she had ordered the anchor to be
weighed.  The vessel was making way
under a blue sky, at great distance from
the coast.

"God has so willed it!" said he, with
the resignation of a fanatic; but
without, however, being able to take his
eyes from that ship, on board of which
he doubtless fancied he could
distinguish the white outline of her to
whom he had sacrificed his life.

De Winter followed his look, observed
his feelings, and guessed all.

"Be punished ALONE, for the first,
miserable man!" said Lord de Winter to
Felton, who was being dragged away with
his eyes turned toward the sea; "but I
swear to you by the memory of my brother
whom I have loved so much that your
accomplice is not saved."

Felton lowered his head without
pronouncing a syllable.

As to Lord de Winter, he descended the
stairs rapidly, and went straight to the
port.



60 IN FRANCE

The first fear of the King of England,
Charles I, on learning of the death of
the duke, was that such terrible news
might discourage the Rochellais; he
tried, says Richelieu in his Memoirs, to
conceal it from them as long as
possible, closing all the ports of his
kingdom, and carefully keeping watch
that no vessel should sail until the
army which Buckingham was getting
together had gone, taking upon himself,
in default of Buckingham, to superintend
the departure.

He carried the strictness of this order
so far as to detain in England the
ambassadors of Denmark, who had taken
their leave, and the regular ambassador
of Holland, who was to take back to the
port of Flushing the Indian merchantmen
of which Charles I had made restitution
to the United Provinces.

But as he did not think of giving this
order till five hours after the
event--that is to say, till two o'clock
in the afternoon--two vessels had
already left the port, the one bearing,
as we know, Milady, who, already
anticipating the event, was further
confirmed in that belief by seeing the
black flag flying at the masthead of the
admiral's ship.

As to the second vessel, we will tell
hereafter whom it carried, and how it
set sail.

During this time nothing new occurred in
the camp at La Rochelle; only the king,
who was bored, as always, but perhaps a
little more so in camp than elsewhere,
resolved to go incognito and spend the
festival of St. Louis at St. Germain,
and asked the cardinal to order him an
escort of only twenty Musketeers.  The
cardinal, who sometimes became weary of
the king, granted this leave of absence
with great pleasure to his royal
lieutenant, who promised to return about
the fifteenth of September.

M. de Treville, being informed of this
by his Eminence, packed his portmanteau;
and as without knowing the cause he knew
the great desire and even imperative
need which his friends had of returning
to Paris, it goes without saying that he
fixed upon them to form part of the
escort.

The four young men heard the news a
quarter of an hour after M. de Treville,
for they were the first to whom he
communicated it.  It was then that
D'Artagnan appreciated the favor the
cardinal had conferred upon him in
making him at last enter the
Musketeers--for without that
circumstance he would have been forced
to remain in the camp while his
companions left it.

It goes without saying that this
impatience to return toward Paris had
for a cause the danger which Mme.
Bonacieux would run of meeting at the
convent of Bethune with Milady, her
mortal enemy.  Aramis therefore had
written immediately to Marie Michon, the
seamstress at Tours who had such fine
acquaintances, to obtain from the queen
authority for Mme. Bonacieux to leave
the convent, and to retire either into
Lorraine or Belgium.  They had not long
to wait for an answer.  Eight or ten
days afterward Aramis received the
following letter:


My Dear Cousin, Here is the
authorization from my sister to withdraw
our little servant from the convent of
Bethune, the air of which you think is
bad for her.  My sister sends you this
authorization with great pleasure, for
she is very partial to the little girl,
to whom she intends to be more
serviceable hereafter.

I salute you,

MARIE MICHON


To this letter was added an order,
conceived in these terms:


At the Louvre, August 10, 1628 The
superior of the convent of Bethune will
place in the hands of the person who
shall present this note to her the
novice who entered the convent upon my
recommendation and under my patronage.

ANNE


It may be easily imagined how the
relationship between Aramis and a
seamstress who called the queen her
sister amused the young men; but Aramis,
after having blushed two or three times
up to the whites of his eyes at the
gross pleasantry of Porthos, begged his
friends not to revert to the subject
again, declaring that if a single word
more was said to him about it, he would
never again implore his cousins to
interfere in such affairs.

There was no further question,
therefore, about Marie Michon among the
four Musketeers, who besides had what
they wanted:  that was, the order to
withdraw Mme. Bonacieux from the convent
of the Carmelites of Bethune.  It was
true that this order would not be of
great use to them while they were in
camp at La Rochelle; that is to say, at
the other end of France.  Therefore
D'Artagnan was going to ask leave of
absence of M. de Treville, confiding to
him candidly the importance of his
departure, when the news was transmitted
to him as well as to his three friends
that the king was about to set out for
Paris with an escort of twenty
Musketeers, and that they formed part of
the escort.

Their joy was great.  The lackeys were
sent on before with the baggage, and
they set out on the morning of the
sixteenth.

The cardinal accompanied his Majesty
from Surgeres to Mauzes; and there the
king and his minister took leave of each
other with great demonstrations of
friendship.

The king, however, who sought
distraction, while traveling as fast as
possible--for he was anxious to be in
Paris by the twenty-third--stopped from
time to time to fly the magpie, a
pastime for which the taste had been
formerly inspired in him by De Luynes,
and for which he had always preserved a
great predilection.  Out of the twenty
Musketeers sixteen, when this took
place, rejoiced greatly at this
relaxation; but the other four cursed it
heartily.  D'Artagnan, in particular,
had a perpetual buzzing in his ears,
which Porthos explained thus:  "A very
great lady has told me that this means
that somebody is talking of you
somewhere."

At length the escort passed through
Paris on the twenty-third, in the night.
The king thanked M. de Treville, and
permitted him to distribute furloughs
for four days, on condition that the
favored parties should not appear in any
public place, under penalty of the
Bastille.

The first four furloughs granted, as may
be imagined, were to our four friends. 
Still further, Athos obtained of M. de
Treville six days instead of four, and
introduced into these six days two more
nights--for they set out on the
twenty-fourth at five o'clock in the
evening, and as a further kindness M. de
Treville post-dated the leave to the
morning of the twenty-fifth.

"Good Lord!" said D'Artagnan, who, as we
have often said, never stumbled at
anything.  "It appears to me that we are
making a great trouble of a very simple
thing.  In two days, and by using up two
or three horses (that's nothing; I have
plenty of money), I am at Bethune.  I
present my letter from the queen to the
superior, and I bring back the dear
treasure.  If go to seek-not into
Lorraine, not into Belgium, but to
Paris, where she will be much better
concealed, particularly while the
cardinal is at La Rochelle.  Well, once
returned from the country, half by the
protection of her cousin, half through
what we have personally done for her, we
shall obtain from the queen what we
desire.  Remain, then, where you are,
and do not exhaust yourselves with
useless fatigue. Myself and Planchet are
all that such a simple expedition
requires."

To this Athos replied quietly:  "We also
have money left--for I have not yet
drunk all my share of the diamond, and
Porthos and Aramis have not eaten all
theirs.  We can therefore use up four
horses as well as one. But consider,
D'Artagnan," added he, in a tone so
solemn that it made the young man
shudder, "consider that Bethune is a
city where the cardinal has given
rendezvous to a woman who, wherever she
goes, brings misery with her.  If you
had only to deal with four men,
D'Artagnan, I would allow you to go
alone.  You have to do with that woman! 
We four will go; and I hope to God that
with our four lackeys we may be in
sufficient number."

"You terrify me, Athos!"  cried
D'Artagnan.  "My God!  what do you
fear?"

"Everything!" replied Athos.

D'Artagnan examined the countenances of
his companions, which, like that of
Athos, wore an impression of deep
anxiety; and they continued their route
as fast as their horses could carry
them, but without adding another word.

On the evening of the twenty-fifth, as
they were entering Arras, and as
D'Artagnan was dismounting at the inn of
the Golden Harrow to drink a glass of
wine, a horseman came out of the post
yard, where he had just had a relay,
started off at a gallop, and with a
fresh horse took the road to Paris.  At
the moment he passed through the gateway
into the street, the wind blew open the
cloak in which he was wrapped, although
it was in the month of August, and
lifted his hat, which the traveler
seized with his hand the moment it had
left his head, pulling it eagerly over
his eyes.

D'Artagnan, who had his eyes fixed upon
this man, became very pale, and let his
glass fall.

"What is the matter, monsieur?"  said
Planchet.  "Oh, come, gentlemen, my
master is ill!"

The three friends hastened toward
D'Artagnan, who, instead of being ill,
ran toward his horse.  They stopped him
at the door.

"Well, where the devil are you going
now?"  cried Athos.

"It is he!"  cried D'Artagnan, pale with
anger, an with the sweat on his brow,
"it is he!  let me overtake him!"

"He?  What he?"  asked Athos.

"He, that man!"

"What man?"

"That cursed man, my evil genius, whom I
have always met with when threatened by
some misfortune, he who accompanied that
horrible woman when I met her for the
first time, he whom I was seeking when I
offended our Athos, he whom I saw on the
very morning Madame Bonacieux was
abducted.  I have seen him; that is he! 
I recognized him when the wind blew upon
his cloak."

"The devil!"  said Athos, musingly.

"To saddle, gentlemen!  to saddle!  Let
us pursue him, and we shall overtake
him!"

"My dear friend," said Aramis, "remember
that he goes in an opposite direction
from that I which we are going, that he
has a fresh horse, and ours are
fatigued, so that we shall disable our
own horses without even a chance of
overtaking him.  Let the man go,
D'Artagnan; let us save the woman."

"Monsieur, monsieur!"  cried a hostler,
running out and looking after the
stranger, "monsieur, here is a paper
which dropped out of your hat! Eh,
monsieur, eh!"

"Friend," said D'Artagnan, "a
half-pistole for that paper!"

"My faith, monsieur, with great
pleasure!  Here it is!"

The hostler, enchanted with the good
day's work he had done, returned to the
yard.  D'Artagnan unfolded the paper.

"Well?"  eagerly demanded all his three
friends.

"Nothing but one word!"  said
D'Artagnan.

"Yes," said Aramis, "but that one word
is the name of some town or village."

"Armentieres," read Porthos;
"Armentieres?  I don't know such a
place."

"And that name of a town or village is
written in her hand!" cried Athos.

"Come on, come on!"  said D'Artagnan;
"let us keep that paper carefully,
perhaps I have not thrown away my
half-pistole.  To horse, my friends, to
horse!"

And the four friends flew at a gallop
along the road to Bethune.



61 THE CARMELITE CONVENT AT BETHUNE

Great criminals bear about them a kind
of predestination which makes them
surmount all obstacles, which makes them
escape all dangers, up to the moment
which a wearied Providence has marked as
the rock of their impious fortunes.

It was thus with Milady.  She escaped
the cruisers of both nations, and
arrived at Boulogne without accident.

When landing at Portsmouth, Milady was
an Englishwoman whom the persecutions of
the French drove from La Rochelle; when
landing at Boulogne, after a two days'
passage, she passed for a Frenchwoman
whom the English persecuted at
Portsmouth out of their hatred for
France.

Milady had, likewise, the best of
passports-her beauty, her noble
appearance, and the liberality with
which she distribute her pistoles. Freed
from the usual formalities by the
affable smile and gallant manners of an
old governor of the port, who kissed her
hand, she only remained long enough at
Boulogne to put into the post a letter,
conceived in the following terms:


"To his Eminence Monseigneur the
Cardinal Richelieu, in his camp before
La Rochelle.

Monseigneur, Let your Eminence be
reassured.  His Grace the Duke of
Buckingham WILL NOT SET OUT for France.
MILADY DE-

"BOULOGNE, evening of the twenty-fifth.

"P.S.-According to the desire of your
Eminence, I report to the convent of the
Carmelites at Bethune, where I will
await your orders."


Accordingly, that same evening Milady
commenced her journey.  Night overtook
her; she stopped, and slept at an inn. 
At five o'clock the next morning she
again proceeded, and in three hours
after entered Bethune.  She inquired for
the convent of the Carmelites, and went
thither immediately.

The superior met her; Milady showed her
the cardinal's order.  The abbess
assigned her a chamber, and had
breakfast served.

All the past was effaced from the eyes
of this woman; and her looks, fixed on
the future, beheld nothing but the high
fortunes reserved for her by the
cardinal, whom she had so successfully
served without his name being in any way
mixed up with the sanguinary affair. 
The ever-new passions which consumed her
gave to her life the appearance of those
clouds which float in the heavens,
reflecting sometimes azure, sometimes
fire, sometimes the opaque blackness of
the tempest, and which leave no traces
upon the earth behind them but
devastation and death.

After breakfast, the abbess came to pay
her a visit.  There is very little
amusement in the cloister, and the good
superior was eager to make the
acquaintance of her new boarder.

Milady wished to please the abbess. 
This was a very easy matter for a woman
so really superior as she was.  She
tried to be agreeable, and she was
charming, winning the good superior by
her varied conversation and by the
graces of her whole personality.

The abbess, who was the daughter of a
noble house, took particular delight in
stories of the court, which so seldom
travel to the extremities of the
kingdom, and which, above all, have so
much difficulty in penetrating the walls
of convents, at whose threshold the
noise of the world dies away.

Milady, on the contrary, was quite
conversant with all aristocratic
intrigues, amid which she had constantly
lived for five or six years. She made it
her business, therefore, to amuse the
good abbess with the worldly practices
of the court of France, mixed with the
eccentric pursuits of the king; she made
for her the scandalous chronicle of the
lords and ladies of the court, whom the
abbess knew perfectly by name, touched
lightly on the amours of the queen and
the Duke of Buckingham, talking a great
deal to induce her auditor to talk a
little.

But the abbess contented herself with
listening and smiling without replying a
word.  Milady, however, saw that this
sort of narrative amused her very much,
and kept at it; only she now let her
conversation drift toward the cardinal.

But she was greatly embarrassed.  She
did not know whether the abbess was a
royalist or a cardinalist; she therefore
confined herself to a prudent middle
course.  But the abbess, on her part,
maintained a reserve still more prudent,
contenting herself with making a
profound inclination of the head every
time the fair traveler pronounced the
name of his Eminence.

Milady began to think she should soon
grow weary of a convent life; she
resolved, then, to risk something in
order that she might know how to act
afterward.  Desirous of seeing how far
the discretion of the good abbess would
go, she began to tell a story, obscure
at first, but very circumstantial
afterward, about the cardinal, relating
the amours of the minister with Mme.
d'Aiguillon, Marion de Lorme, and
several other gay women.

The abbess listened more attentively,
grew animated by degrees, and smiled.

"Good," thought Milady; "she takes a
pleasure in my conversation.  If she is
a cardinalist, she has no fanaticism, at
least.

She then went on to describe the
persecutions exercised by the cardinal
upon his enemies.  The abbess only
crossed herself, without approving or
disapproving.

This confirmed Milady in her opinion
that the abbess was rather royalist than
cardinalist.  Milady therefore
continued, coloring her narrations more
and more.

"I am very ignorant of these matters,"
said the abbess, at length; "but however
distant from the court we may be,
however remote from the interests of the
world we may be placed, we have very sad
examples of what you have related.  And
one of our boarders has suffered much
from the vengeance and persecution of
the cardinal!"

"One of your boarders?" said Milady;
"oh, my God!  Poor woman!  I pity her,
then."

"And you have reason, for she is much to
be pitied.  Imprisonment, menaces, ill
treatment-she has suffered everything. 
But after all," resumed the abbess,
"Monsieur Cardinal has perhaps plausible
motives for acting thus; and though she
has the look of an angel, we must not
always judge people by the appearance."

"Good!" said Milady to herself; "who
knows!  I am about, perhaps, to discover
something here; I am in the vein."

She tried to give her countenance an
appearance of perfect candor.

"Alas," said Milady, "I know it is so. 
It is said that we must not trust to the
face; but in what, then, shall we place
confidence, if not in the most beautiful
work of the Lord?  As for me, I shall be
deceived all my life perhaps, but I
shall always have faith in a person
whose countenance inspires me with
sympathy."

"You would, then, be tempted to
believe," said the abbess, "that this
young person is innocent?"

"The cardinal pursues not only crimes,"
said she:  "there are certain virtues
which he pursues more severely than
certain offenses."

"Permit me, madame, to express my
surprise," said the abbess.

"At what?" said Milady, with the utmost
ingenuousness.

"At the language you use."

"What do you find so astonishing in that
language?" said Milady, smiling.

"You are the friend of the cardinal, for
he sends you hither, and yet--"

"And yet I speak ill of him," replied
Milady, finishing the thought of the
superior.

"At least you don't speak well of him."

"That is because I am not his friend,"
said she, sighing, "but his victim!"

"But this letter in which he recommends
you to me?"

"Is an order for me to confine myself to
a sort of prison, from which he will
release me by one of his satellites."

"But why have you not fled?"

"Whither should I go?  Do you believe
there is a spot on the earth which the
cardinal cannot reach if he takes the
trouble to stretch forth his hand?  If I
were a man, that would barely be
possible; but what can a woman do?  This
young boarder of yours, has she tried to
fly?"

"No, that is true; but she--that is
another thing; I believe she is detained
in France by some love affair."

"Ah," said Milady, with a sigh, "if she
loves she is not altogether wretched."

"Then," said the abbess, looking at
Milady with increasing interest, "I
behold another poor victim?"

"Alas, yes," said Milady.

The abbess looked at her for an instant
with uneasiness, as if a fresh thought
suggested itself to her mind.

"You are not an enemy of our holy
faith?" said she, hesitatingly.

"Who--I?"  cried Milady; "I a
Protestant?  Oh, no!  I call to witness
the God who hears us, that on the
contrary I am a fervent Catholic!"

"Then, madame," said the abbess,
smiling, "be reassured; the house in
which you are shall not be a very hard
prison, and we will do all in our power
to make you cherish your captivity.  You
will find here, moreover, the young
woman of whom I spoke, who is
persecuted, no doubt, in consequence of
some court intrigue.  She is amiable and
well-behaved."

"What is her name?"

"She was sent to me by someone of high
rank, under the name of Kitty.  I have
not tried to discover her other name."

"Kitty!"  cried Milady.  "What?  Are you
sure?"

"That she is called so?  Yes, madame. 
Do you know her?"

Milady smiled to herself at the idea
which had occurred to her that this
might be her old chambermaid.  There was
connected with the remembrance of this
girl a remembrance of anger; and a
desire of vengeance disordered the
features of Milady, which, however,
immediately recovered the calm and
benevolent expression which this woman
of a hundred faces had for a moment
allowed them to lose.

"And when can I see this young lady, for
whom I already feel so great a
sympathy?"  asked Milady.

"Why, this evening," said the abbess;
"today even.  But you have been
traveling these four days, as you told
me yourself.  This morning you rose at
five o'clock; you must stand in need of
repose.  Go to bed and sleep; at
dinnertime we will rouse you."

Although Milady would very willingly
have gone without sleep, sustained as
she was by all the excitements which a
new adventure awakened in her heart,
ever thirsting for intrigues, she
nevertheless accepted the offer of the
superior.  During the last fifteen days
she had experienced so many and such
various emotions that if her frame of
iron was still capable of supporting
fatigue, her mind required repose.

She therefore took leave of the abbess,
and went to bed, softly rocked by the
ideas of vengeance which the name of
Kitty had naturally brought to her
thoughts.  She remembered that almost
unlimited promise which the cardinal had
given her if she succeeded in her
enterprise.  She had succeeded;
D'Artagnan was then in her power!

One thing alone frightened her; that was
the remembrance of her husband, the
Comte de la Fere, whom she had believed
dead, or at least expatriated, and whom
she found again in Athos-the best friend
of D'Artagnan.

But alas, if he was the friend of
D'Artagnan, he must have lent him his
assistance in all the proceedings by
whose aid the queen had defeated the
project of his Eminence; if he was the
friend of D'Artagnan, he was the enemy
of the cardinal; and she doubtless would
succeed in involving him in the
vengeance by which she hoped to destroy
the young Musketeer.

All these hopes were so many sweet
thoughts for Milady; so, rocked by them,
she soon fell asleep.

She was awakened by a soft voice which
sounded at the foot of her bed. She
opened her eyes, and saw the abbess,
accompanied by a young woman with light
hair and delicate complexion, who fixed
upon her a look full of benevolent
curiosity.

The face of the young woman was entirely
unknown to her.  Each examined the other
with great attention, while exchanging
the customary compliments; both were
very handsome, but of quite different
styles of beauty.  Milady, however,
smiled in observing that she excelled
the young woman by far in her high air
and aristocratic bearing.  It is true
that the habit of a novice, which the
young woman wore, was not very
advantageous in a contest of this kind.

The abbess introduced them to each
other.  When this formality was ended,
as her duties called her to chapel, she
left the two young women alone.

The novice, seeing Milady in bed, was
about the follow the example of the
superior; but Milady stopped her.

"How, madame," said she, "I have
scarcely seen you, and you already wish
to deprive me of your company, upon
which I had counted a little, I must
confess, for the time I have to pass
here?"

"No, madame," replied the novice, "only
I thought I had chosen my time ill; you
were asleep, you are fatigued."

"Well," said Milady, "what can those who
sleep wish for--a happy awakening?  This
awakening you have given me; allow me,
then, to enjoy it at my ease," and
taking her hand, she drew her toward the
armchair by the bedside.

The novice sat down.

"How unfortunate I am!" said she; "I
have been here six months without the
shadow of recreation.  You arrive, and
your presence was likely to afford me
delightful company; yet I expect, in all
probability, to quit the convent at any
moment."

"How, you are going soon?"  asked
Milady.

"At least I hope so," said the novice,
with an expression of joy which she made
no effort to disguise.

"I think I learned you had suffered
persecutions from the cardinal,"
continued Milady; "that would have been
another motive for sympathy between us."

"What I have heard, then, from our good
mother is true; you have likewise been a
victim of that wicked priest."

"Hush!"  said Milady; "let us not, even
here, speak thus of him.  All my
misfortunes arise from my having said
nearly what you have said before a woman
whom I thought my friend, and who
betrayed me.  Are you also the victim of
a treachery?"

"No," said the novice, "but of my
devotion--of a devotion to a woman I
loved, for whom I would have laid down
my life, for whom I would give it
still."

"And who has abandoned you--is that it?"

"I have been sufficiently unjust to
believe so; but during the last two or
three days I have obtained proof to the
contrary, for which I thank God--for it
would have cost me very dear to think
she had forgotten me. But you, madame,
you appear to be free," continued the
novice; "and if you were inclined to fly
it only rests with yourself to do so."

"Whither would you have me go, without
friends, without money, in a part of
France with which I am unacquainted, and
where I have never been before?"

"Oh," cried the novice," as to friends,
you would have them wherever you want,
you appear so good and are so
beautiful!"

"That does not prevent," replied Milady,
softening her smile so as to give it an
angelic expression, "my being alone or
being persecuted."

"Hear me," said the novice; "we must
trust in heaven.  There always comes a
moment when the good you have done
pleads your cause before God; and see,
perhaps it is a happiness for you,
humble and powerless as I am, that you
have met with me, for if I leave this
place, well-I have powerful friends,
who, after having exerted themselves on
my account, may also exert themselves
for you."

"Oh, when I said I was alone," said
Milady, hoping to make the novice talk
by talking of herself, "it is not for
want of friends in high places; but
these friends themselves tremble before
the cardinal.  The queen herself does
not dare to oppose the terrible
minister.  I have proof that her
Majesty, notwithstanding her excellent
heart, has more than once been obliged
to abandon to the anger of his Eminence
persons who had served her."

"Trust me, madame; the queen may appear
to have abandoned those persons, but we
must not put faith in appearances.  The
more they are persecuted, the more she
thinks of them; and often, when they
least expect it, they have proof of a
kind remembrance."

"Alas!"  said Milady, "I believe so; the
queen is so good!"

"Oh, you know her, then, that lovely and
noble queen, that you speak of her
thus!" cried the novice, with
enthusiasm.

"That is to say," replied Milady, driven
into her entrenchment, "that I have not
the honor of knowing her personally; but
I know a great number of her most
intimate friends.  I am acquainted with
Monsieur de Putange; I met Monsieur
Dujart in England; I know Monsieur de
Treville."

"Monsieur de Treville!"  exclaimed the
novice, "do you know Monsieur de
Treville?"

"Yes, perfectly well--intimately even."

"The captain of the king's Musketeers?"

"The captain of the king's Musketeers."

"Why, then, only see!"  cried the
novice; "we shall soon be well
acquainted, almost friends.  If you know
Monsieur de Treville, you must have
visited him?"

"Often!"  said Milady, who, having
entered this track, and perceiving that
falsehood succeeded, was determined to
follow it to the end.

"With him, then, you must have seen some
of his Musketeers?"

"All those he is in the habit of
receiving!"  replied Milady, for whom
this conversation began to have a real
interest.

"Name a few of those whom you know, and
you will see if they are my friends."

"Well!"  said Milady, embarrassed, " I
know Monsieur de Louvigny, Monsieur de
Courtivron, Monsieur de Ferussac."

The novice let her speak, then seeing
that she paused, she said, "Don't you
know a gentleman named Athos?"

Milady became as pale as the sheets in
which she was lying, and mistress as she
was of herself, could not help uttering
a cry, seizing the hand of the novice,
and devouring her with looks.

"What is the matter?  Good God!"  asked
the poor woman, "have I said anything
that has wounded you?"

"No; but the name struck me, because I
also have known that gentleman, and it
appeared strange to me to meet with a
person who appears to know him well."

"Oh, yes, very well; not only him, but
some of his friends, Messieurs Porthos
and Aramis!"

"Indeed!  you know them likewise?  I
know them," cried Milady, who began to
feel a chill penetrate her heart.

"Well, if you know them, you know that
they are good and free companions.  Why
do you not apply to them, if you stand
in need of help?"

"That is to say," stammered Milady, "I
am not really very intimate with any of
them.  I know them from having heard one
of their friends, Monsieur d'Artagnan,
say a great deal about them."

"You know Monsieur d'Artagnan!" cried
the novice, in her turn seizing the
hands of Milady and devouring her with
her eyes.

Then remarking the strange expression of
Milady's countenance, she said, "Pardon
me, madame; you know him by what title?"

"Why," replied Milady, embarrassed,
"why, by the title of friend."

"You deceive me, madame," said the
novice; "you have been his mistress!"

"It is you who have been his mistress,
madame!"  cried Milady, in her turn.

"I?"  said the novice.

"Yes, you!  I know you now.  You are
Madame Bonacieux!"

The young woman drew back, filled with
surprise and terror.

"Oh, do not deny it!  Answer!" continued
Milady.

"Well, yes, madame," said the novice,
"Are we rivals?"

The countenance of Milady was illumined
by so savage a joy that under any other
circumstances Mme. Bonacieux would have
fled in terror; but she was absorbed by
jealousy.

"Speak, madame!"  resumed Mme.
Bonacieux, with an energy of which she
might not have been believed capable. 
"Have you been, or are you, his
mistress?"

"Oh, no!"  cried Milady, with an accent
that admitted no doubt of her truth. 
"Never, never!"

"I believe you," said Mme. Bonacieux;
"but why, then, did you cry out so?"

"Do you not understand?" said Milady,
who had already overcome her agitation
and recovered all her presence of mind.

"How can I understand?  I know nothing."

"Can you not understand that Monsieur
d'Artagnan, being my friend, might take
me into his confidence?"

"Truly?"

"Do you not perceive that I know
all--your abduction from the little
house at St. Germain, his despair, that
of his friends, and their useless
inquiries up to this moment?  How could
I help being astonished when, without
having the least expectation of such a
thing, I meet you face to face--you, of
whom we have so often spoken together,
you whom he loves with all his soul, you
whom he had taught me to love before I
had seen you!  Ah, dear Constance, I
have found you, then; I see you at
last!"

And Milady stretched out her arms to
Mme. Bonacieux, who, convinced by what
she had just said, saw nothing in this
woman whom an instant before she had
believed her rival but a sincere and
devoted friend.

"Oh, pardon me, pardon me!"  cried she,
sinking upon the shoulders of Milady. 
"Pardon me, I love him so much!"

These two women held each other for an
instant in a close embrace. Certainly,
if Milady's strength had been equal to
her hatred, Mme. Bonacieux would never
have left that embrace alive.  But not
being able to stifle her, she smiled
upon her.

"Oh, you beautiful, good little
creature!"  said Milady.  "How delighted
I am to have found you!  Let me look at
you!"  and while saying these words, she
absolutely devoured her by her looks. 
"Oh, yes it is you indeed!  From what he
has told me, I know you now.  I
recognize you perfectly."

The poor young woman could not possibly
suspect what frightful cruelty was
behind the rampart of that pure brow,
behind those brilliant eyes in which she
read nothing but interest and
compassion.

"Then you know what I have suffered,"
said Mme. Bonacieux, "since he has told
you what he has suffered; but to suffer
for him is happiness.

Milady replied mechanically, "Yes, that
is happiness."  She was thinking of
something else.

"And then," continued Mme. Bonacieux,
"my punishment is drawing to a close. 
Tomorrow, this evening, perhaps, I shall
see him again; and then the past will no
longer exist."

"This evening?"  asked Milady, roused
from her reverie by these words. "What
do you mean?  Do you expect news from
him?"

"I expect himself."

"Himself?  D'Artagnan here?"

"Himself!"

"But that's impossible!  He is at the
siege of La Rochelle with the cardinal. 
He will not return till after the taking
of the city."

"Ah, you fancy so!  But is there
anything impossible for my D'Artagnan,
the noble and loyal gentleman?"

"Oh, I cannot believe you!"

"Well, read, then!" said the unhappy
young woman, in the excess of her pride
and joy, presenting a letter to Milady.

"The writing of Madame de Chevreuse!" 
said Milady to herself.  "Ah, I always
thought there was some secret
understanding in that quarter!" And she
greedily read the following few lines:


My Dear Child, Hold yourself ready.  OUR
FRIEND will see you soon, and he will
only see you to release you from that
imprisonment in which your safety
required you should be concealed. 
Prepare, then, for your departure, and
never despair of us.

Our charming Gascon has just proved
himself as brave and faithful as ever. 
Tell him that certain parties are
grateful for the warning he has given.


"Yes, yes," said Milady; "the letter is
precise.  Do you know what that warning
was?"

"No, I only suspect he has warned the
queen against some fresh machinations of
the cardinal."

"Yes, that's it, no doubt!" said Milady,
returning the letter to Mme. Bonacieux,
and letting her head sink pensively upon
her bosom.

At that moment they heard the gallop of
a horse.

"Oh!"  cried Mme. Bonacieux, darting to
the window, "can it be he?"

Milady remained still in bed, petrified
by surprise; so many unexpected things
happened to her all at once that for the
first time she was at a loss.

"He, he!"  murmured she; "can it be he?"
And she remained in bed with her eyes
fixed.

"Alas, no!"  said Mme. Bonacieux; "it is
a man I don't know, although he seems to
be coming here.  Yes, he checks his
pace; he stops at the gate; he rings."

Milady sprang out of bed.

"You are sure it is not he?"  said she.

"Yes, yes, very sure!"

"Perhaps you did not see well."

"Oh, if I were to see the plume of his
hat, the end of his cloak, I should know
HIM!"

Milady was dressing herself all the
time.

"Yes, he has entered."

"It is for you or me!"

"My God, how agitated you seem!"

"Yes, I admit it.  I have not your
confidence; I fear the cardinal."

"Hush!"  said Mme. Bonacieux; "somebody
is coming."

Immediately the door opened, and the
superior entered.

"Did you come from Boulogne?"  demanded
she of Milady.

"Yes," replied she, trying to recover
her self-possession. "Who wants me?"

"A man who will not tell his name, but
who comes from the cardinal."

"And who wishes to speak with me?"

"Who wishes to speak to a lady recently
come from Boulogne."

"Then let him come in, if you please."

"Oh, my God, my God!"  cried Mme.
Bonacieux.  "Can it be bad news?"

"I fear it."

"I will leave you with this stranger;
but as soon as he is gone, if you will
permit me, I will return."

"PERMIT you?  I BESEECH you."

The superior and Mme. Bonacieux retired.

Milady remained alone, with her eyes
fixed upon the door.  An instant later,
the jingling of spurs was heard upon the
stairs, steps drew near, the door
opened, and a man appeared.

Milady uttered a cry of joy; this man
was the Comte de Rochefort--the
demoniacal tool of his Eminence.



62 TWO VARIETIES OF DEMONS

"Ah," cried Milady and Rochefort
together, "it is you!"

"Yes, it is I."

"And you come?" asked Milady.

"From La Rochelle; and you?"

"From England."

"Buckingham?"

"Dead or desperately wounded, as I left
without having been able to hear
anything of him.  A fanatic has just
assassinated him."

"Ah," said Rochefort, with a smile;
"this is a fortunate chance--one that
will delight his Eminence!  Have you
informed him of it?"

"I wrote to him from Boulogne.  But what
brings you here?"

"His Eminence was uneasy, and sent me to
find you."

"I only arrived yesterday."

"And what have you been doing since
yesterday?"

"I have not lost my time."

"Oh, I don't doubt that."

"Do you know whom I have encountered
here?"

"No."

"Guess."

"How can I?"

"That young woman whom the queen took
out of prison."

"The mistress of that fellow
D'Artagnan?"

"Yes; Madame Bonacieux, with whose
retreat the cardinal was unacquainted."

"Well, well," said Rochefort, "here is a
chance which may pair off with the
other!  Monsieur Cardinal is indeed a
privileged man!"

"Imagine my astonishment," continued
Milady, "when I found myself face to
face with this woman!"

"Does she know you?"

"No."

"Then she looks upon you as a stranger?"

Milady smiled.  "I am her best friend."

"Upon my honor," said Rochefort, "it
takes you, my dear countess, to perform
such miracles!"

"And it is well I can, Chevalier," said
Milady, "for do you know what is going
on here?"

"No."

"They will come for her tomorrow or the
day after, with an order from the
queen."

"Indeed!  And who?"

"D'Artagnan and his friends."

"Indeed, they will go so far that we
shall be obliged to send them to the
Bastille."

"Why is it not done already?"

"What would you?  The cardinal has a
weakness for these men which I cannot
comprehend."

"Indeed!"

"Yes."

"Well, then, tell him this, Rochefort. 
Tell him that our conversation at the
inn of the Red Dovecot was overheard by
these four men; tell him that after his
departure one of them came up to me and
took from me by violence the
safe-conduct which he had given me; tell
him they warned Lord de Winter of my
journey to England; that this time they
nearly foiled my mission as they foiled
the affair of the studs; tell him that
among these four men two only are to be
feared--D'Artagnan and Athos; tell him
that the third, Aramis, is the lover of
Madame de Chevreuse--he may be left
alone, we know his secret, and it may be
useful; as to the fourth, Porthos, he is
a fool, a simpleton, a blustering booby,
not worth troubling himself about."

"But these four men must be now at the
siege of La Rochelle?"

"I thought so, too; but a letter which
Madame Bonacieux has received from
Madame the Constable, and which she has
had the imprudence to show me, leads me
to believe that these four men, on the
contrary, are on the road hither to take
her away."

"The devil!  What's to be done?"

"What did the cardinal say about me?"

"I was to take your dispatches, written
or verbal, and return by post; and when
he shall know what you have done, he
will advise what you have to do."

"I must, then, remain here?"

"Here, or in the neighborhood."

"You cannot take me with you?"

"No, the order is imperative.  Near the
camp you might be recognized; and your
presence, you must be aware, would
compromise the cardinal."

"Then I must wait here, or in the
neighborhood?"

"Only tell me beforehand where you will
wait for intelligence from the cardinal;
let me now always where to find you."

"Observe, it is probable that I may not
be able to remain here."

"Why?"

"You forget that my enemies may arrive
at any minute."

"That's true; but is this little woman,
then, to escape his Eminence?"

"Bah!"  said Milady, with a smile that
belonged only to herself; "you forget
that I am her best friend."

"Ah, that's true!  I may then tell the
cardinal, with respect to this little
woman--"

"That he may be at ease."

"Is that all?"

"He will know what that means."

"He will guess, at least.  Now, then,
what had I better do?"

"Return instantly.  It appears to me
that the news you bear is worth the
trouble of a little diligence."

"My chaise broke down coming into
Lilliers."

"Capital!"

"What, CAPITAL?"

"Yes, I want your chaise."

"And how shall I travel, then?"

"On horseback."

"You talk very comfortably,--a hundred
and eighty leagues!"

"What's that?"

"One can do it!  Afterward?"

"Afterward?  Why, in passing through
Lilliers you will send me your chaise,
with an order to your servant to place
himself at my disposal."

"Well."

"You have, no doubt, some order from the
cardinal about you?"

"I have my FULL POWER."

"Show it to the abbess, and tell her
that someone will come and fetch me,
either today or tomorrow, and that I am
to follow the person who presents
himself in your name."

"Very well."

"Don't forget to treat me harshly in
speaking of me to the abbess."

"To what purpose?"

"I am a victim of the cardinal.  It is
necessary to inspire confidence in that
poor little Madame Bonacieux."

"That's true.  Now, will you make me a
report of all that has happened?"

"Why, I have related the events to you. 
You have a good memory; repeat what I
have told you.  A paper may be lost."

"You are right; only let me know where
to find you that I may not run
needlessly about the neighborhood."

"That's correct; wait!"

"Do you want a map?"

"Oh, I know this country marvelously!"

"You?  When were you here?"

"I was brought up here."

"Truly?"

"It is worth something, you see, to have
been brought up somewhere."

"You will wait for me, then?"

"Let me reflect a little!  Ay, that will
do--at Armentieres."

"Where is that Armentieres?"

"A little town on the Lys; I shall only
have to cross the river, and I shall be
in a foreign country."

"Capital!  but it is understood you will
only cross the river in case of danger."

"That is well understood."

"And in that case, how shall I know
where you are?"

"You do not want your lackey?"

"Is he a sure man?"

"To the proof."

"Give him to me. Nobody knows him.  I
will leave him at the place I quit, and
he will conduct you to me."

"And you say you will wait for me at
Armentieres?"

"At Armentieres."

"Write that name on a bit of paper, lest
I should forget it.  There is nothing
compromising in the name of a town.  Is
it not so?"

"Eh, who knows?  Never mind," said
Milady, writing the name on half a sheet
of paper; "I will compromise myself."

"Well," said Rochefort, taking the paper
from Milady, folding it, and placing it
in the lining of his hat, "you may be
easy.  I will do as children do, for
fear of losing the paper--repeat the
name along the route.  Now, is that
all?"

"I believe so."

"Let us see:  Buckingham dead or
grievously wounded; your conversation
with the cardinal overheard by the four
Musketeers; Lord de Winter warned of
your arrival at Portsmouth; D'Artagnan
and Athos to the Bastille; Aramis the
lover of Madame de Chevreuse; Porthos an
ass; Madame Bonacieux found again; to
send you the chaise as soon as possible;
to place my lackey at your disposal; to
make you out a victim of the cardinal in
order that the abbess may entertain no
suspicion; Armentieres, on the banks of
the Lys. Is that all, then?"

"In truth, my dear Chevalier, you are a
miracle of memory.  A PROPOS, add one
thing--"

"What?"

"I saw some very pretty woods which
almost touch the convent garden. Say
that I am permitted to walk in those
woods.  Who knows?  Perhaps I shall
stand in need of a back door for
retreat."

"You think of everything."

"And you forget one thing."

"What?"

"To ask me if I want money."

"That's true.  How much do you want?"

"All you have in gold."

"I have five hundred pistoles, or
thereabouts."

"I have as much.  With a thousand
pistoles one may face everything. Empty
your pockets."

"There."

"Right.  And you go--"

"In an hour--time to eat a morsel,
during which I shall send for a post
horse."

"Capital!  Adieu, Chevalier."

"Adieu, Countess."

"Commend me to the cardinal."

"Commend me to Satan."

Milady and Rochefort exchanged a smile
and separated.  An hour afterward
Rochefort set out at a grand gallop;
five hours after that he passed through
Arras.

Our readers already know how he was
recognized by D'Artagnan, and how that
recognition by inspiring fear in the
four Musketeers had given fresh activity
to their journey.



63 THE DROP OF WATER

Rochefort had scarcely departed when
Mme. Bonacieux re-entered.  She found
Milady with a smiling countenance.

"Well," said the young woman, "what you
dreaded has happened.  This evening, or
tomorrow, the cardinal will send someone
to take you away."

"Who told you that, my dear?"  asked
Milady.

"I heard it from the mouth of the
messenger himself."

"Come and sit down close to me," said
Milady.

"Here I am."

"Wait till I assure myself that nobody
hears us."

"Why all these precautions?"

"You shall know."

Milady arose, went to the door, opened
it, looked in the corridor, and then
returned and seated herself close to
Mme. Bonacieux.

"Then," said she, "he has well played
his part."

"Who has?"

"He who just now presented himself to
the abbess as a messenger from the
cardinal."

"It was, then, a part he was playing?"

"Yes, my child."

"That man, then, was not--"

"That man," said Milady, lowering her
voice, "is my brother."

"Your brother!"  cried Mme. Bonacieux.

"No one must know this secret, my dear,
but yourself.  If you reveal it to
anyone in the world, I shall be lost,
and perhaps yourself likewise."

"Oh, my God!"

"Listen.  This is what has happened:  My
brother, who was coming to my assistance
to take me away by force if it were
necessary, met with the emissary of the
cardinal, who was coming in search of
me.  He followed him.  At a solitary and
retired part of the road he drew his
sword, and required the messenger to
deliver up to him the papers of which he
was the bearer.  The messenger resisted;
my brother killed him."

"Oh!" said Mme. Bonacieux, shuddering.

"Remember, that was the only means. 
Then my brother determined to substitute
cunning for force.  He took the papers,
and presented himself here as the
emissary of the cardinal, and in an hour
or two a carriage will come to take me
away by the orders of his Eminence."

"I understand.  It is your brother who
sends this carriage."

"Exactly; but that is not all.  That
letter you have received, and which you
believe to be from Madame de
Chevreuse--"

"Well?"

"It is a forgery."

"How can that be?"

"Yes, a forgery; it is a snare to
prevent your making any resistance when
they come to fetch you."

"But it is D'Artagnan that will come."

"Do not deceive yourself. D'Artagnan and
his friends are detained at the siege of
La Rochelle."

"How do you know that?"

"My brother met some emissaries of the
cardinal in the uniform of Musketeers. 
You would have been summoned to the
gate; you would have believed yourself
about to meet friends; you would have
been abducted, and conducted back to
Paris."

"Oh, my God!  My senses fail me amid
such a chaos of iniquities. I feel, if
this continues," said Mme. Bonacieux,
raising her hands to her forehead, "I
shall go mad!"

"Stop--"

"What?"

"I hear a horse's steps; it is my
brother setting off again.  I should
like to offer him a last salute.  Come!"

Milady opened the window, and made a
sign to Mme. Bonacieux to join her. The
young woman complied.

Rochefort passed at a gallop.

"Adieu, brother!" cried Milady.

The chevalier raised his head, saw the
two young women, and without stopping,
waved his hand in a friendly way to
Milady.

"The good George!"  said she, closing
the window with an expression of
countenance full of affection and
melancholy.  And she resumed her seat,
as if plunged in reflections entirely
personal.

"Dear lady," said Mme. Bonacieux,
"pardon me for interrupting you; but
what do you advise me to do?  Good
heaven!  You have more experience than I
have.  Speak; I will listen."

"In the first place," said Milady, "it
is possible I may be deceived, and that
D'Artagnan and his friends may really
come to your assistance."

"Oh, that would be too much!"  cried
Mme. Bonacieux, "so much happiness is
not in store for me!"

"Then you comprehend it would be only a
question of time, a sort of race, which
should arrive first.  If your friends
are the more speedy, you are to be
saved; if the satellites of the
cardinal, you are lost."

"Oh, yes, yes; lost beyond redemption! 
What, then, to do?  What to do?"

"There would be a very simple means,
very natural--"

"Tell me what!"

"To wait, concealed in the neighborhood,
and assure yourself who are the men who
come to ask for you."

"But where can I wait?"

"Oh, there is no difficulty in that.  I
shall stop and conceal myself a few
leagues hence until my brother can
rejoin me.  Well, I take you with me; we
conceal ourselves, and wait together."

"But I shall not be allowed to go; I am
almost a prisoner."

"As they believe that I go in
consequence of an order from the
cardinal, no one will believe you
anxious to follow me."

"Well?"

"Well!  The carriage is at the door; you
bid me adieu; you mount the step to
embrace me a last time; my brother's
servant, who comes to fetch me, is told
how to proceed; he makes a sign to the
postillion, and we set off at a gallop."

"But D'Artagnan!  D'Artagnan!  if he
comes?"

"Shall we not know it?"

"How?"

"Nothing easier.  We will send my
brother's servant back to Bethune, whom,
as I told you, we can trust.  He shall
assume a disguise, and place himself in
front of the convent.  If the emissaries
of the cardinal arrive, he will take no
notice; if it is Monsieur d'Artagnan and
his friends, he will bring them to us."

"He knows them, then?"

"Doubtless.  Has he not seen Monsieur
d'Artagnan at my house?"

"Oh, yes, yes; you are right.  Thus all
may go well--all may be for the best;
but we do not go far from this place?"

"Seven or eight leagues at the most.  We
will keep on the frontiers, for
instance; and at the first alarm we can
leave France."

"And what can we do there?"

"Wait."

"But if they come?"

"My brother's carriage will be here
first."

"If I should happen to be any distance
from you when the carriage comes for
you--at dinner or supper, for instance?"

"Do one thing."

"What is that?"

"Tell your good superior that in order
that we may be as much together as
possible, you ask her permission to
share my repast."

"Will she permit it?"

"What inconvenience can it be?"

"Oh, delightful!  In this way we shall
not be separated for an instant."

"Well, go down to her, then, to make
your request.  I feel my head a little
confused; I will take a turn in the
garden."

"Go and where shall I find you?"

"Here, in an hour."

"Here, in an hour.  Oh, you are so kind,
and I am so grateful!"

"How can I avoid interesting myself for
one who is so beautiful and so amiable?
Are you not the beloved of one of my
best friends?"

"Dear D'Artagnan!  Oh, how he will thank
you!"

"I hope so.  Now, then, all is agreed;
let us go down."

"You are going into the garden?"

"Yes."

"Go along this corridor, down a little
staircase, and you are in it."

"Excellent; thank you!"

"And the two women parted, exchanging
charming smiles.

Milady had told the truth--her head was
confused, for her ill-arranged plans
clashed one another like chaos.  She
required to be alone that she might put
her thoughts a little into order.  She
saw vaguely the future; but she stood in
need of a little silence and quiet to
give all her ideas, as yet confused, a
distinct form and a regular plan.

What was most pressing was to get Mme.
Bonacieux away, and convey her to a
place of safety, and there, if matters
required, make her a hostage. Milady
began to have doubts of the issue of
this terrible duel, in which her enemies
showed as much perseverance as she did
animosity.

Besides, she felt as we feel when a
storm is coming on--that this issue was
near, and could not fail to be terrible.

The principal thing for her, then, was,
as we have said, to keep Mme. Bonacieux
in her power.  Mme. Bonacieux was the
very life of D'Artagnan. This was more
than his life, the life of the woman he
loved; this was, in case of ill fortune,
a means of temporizing and obtaining
good conditions.

Now, this point was settled; Mme.
Bonacieux, without any suspicion,
accompanied her.  Once concealed with
her at Armentieres, it would be easy to
make her believe that D'Artagnan had not
come to Bethune.  In fifteen days at
most, Rochefort would be back; besides,
during that fifteen days she would have
time to think how she could best avenge
herself on the four friends.  She would
not be weary, thank God!  for she should
enjoy the sweetest pastime such events
could accord a woman of her
character--perfecting a beautiful
vengeance.

Revolving all this in her mind, she cast
her eyes around her, and arranged the
topography of the garden in her head. 
Milady was like a good general who
contemplates at the same time victory
and defeat, and who is quite prepared,
according to the chances of the battle,
to march forward or to beat a retreat.

At the end of an hour she heard a soft
voice calling her; it was Mme.
Bonacieux's.  The good abbess had
naturally consented to her request; and
as a commencement, they were to sup
together.

On reaching the courtyard, they heard
the noise of a carriage which stopped at
the gate.

Milady listened.

"Do you hear anything?"  said she.

"Yes, the rolling of a carriage."

"It is the one my brother sends for us."

"Oh, my God!"

"Come, come!  courage!"

The bell of the convent gate was
sounded; Milady was not mistaken.

"Go to your chamber," said she to Mme.
Bonacieux; "you have perhaps some jewels
you would like to take."

"I have his letters," said she.

"Well, go and fetch them, and come to my
apartment.  We will snatch some supper;
we shall perhaps travel part of the
night, and must keep our strength up."

"Great God!"  said Mme. Bonacieux,
placing her hand upon her bosom, "my
heart beats so I cannot walk."

"Courage, courage!  remember that in a
quarter of an hour you will be safe; and
think that what you are about to do is
for HIS sake."

"Yes, yes, everything for him.  You have
restored my courage by a single word;
go, I will rejoin you."

Milady ran up to her apartment quickly: 
she there found Rochefort's lackey, and
gave him his instructions.

He was to wait at the gate; if by chance
the Musketeers should appear, the
carriage was to set off as fast as
possible, pass around the convent, and
go and wait for Milady at a little
village which was situated at the other
side of the wood.  In this case Milady
would cross the garden and gain the
village on foot.  As we have already
said, Milady was admirably acquainted
with this part of France.

If the Musketeers did not appear, things
were to go on as had been agreed; Mme.
Bonacieux was to get into the carriage
as if to bid her adieu, and she was to
take away Mme. Bonacieux.

Mme. Bonacieux came in; and to remove
all suspicion, if she had any, Milady
repeated to the lackey, before her, the
latter part of her instructions.

Milady asked some questions about the
carriage.  It was a chaise drawn by
three horses, driven by a postillion;
Rochefort's lackey would precede it, as
courier.

Milady was wrong in fearing that Mme.
Bonacieux would have any suspicion.  The
poor young woman was too pure to suppose
that any female could be guilty of such
perfidy; besides, the name of the
Comtesse de Winter, which she had heard
the abbess pronounce, was wholly unknown
to her, and she was even ignorant that a
woman had had so great and so fatal a
share in the misfortune of her life.

"You see," said she, when the lackey had
gone out, "everything is ready. The
abbess suspects nothing, and believes
that I am taken by order of the
cardinal.  This man goes to give his
last orders; take the least thing, drink
a finger of wine, and let us be gone."

"Yes," said Mme. Bonacieux,
mechanically, "yes, let us be gone."

Milady made her a sign to sit down
opposite, poured her a small glass of
Spanish wine, and helped her to the wing
of a chicken.

"See," said she, "if everything does not
second us!  Here is night coming on; by
daybreak we shall have reached our
retreat, and nobody can guess where we
are.  Come, courage!  take something."

Mme. Bonacieux ate a few mouthfuls
mechanically, and just touched the glass
with her lips.

"Come, come!"  said Milady, lifting hers
to her mouth, "do as I do."

But at the moment the glass touched her
lips, her hand remained suspended; she
heard something on the road which
sounded like the rattling of a distant
gallop.  Then it grew nearer, and it
seemed to her, almost at the same time,
that she heard the neighing of horses.

This noise acted upon her joy like the
storm which awakens the sleeper in the
midst of a happy dream; she grew pale
and ran to the window, while Mme.
Bonacieux, rising all in a tremble,
supported herself upon her chair to
avoid falling.  Nothing was yet to be
seen, only they heard the galloping draw
nearer.

"Oh, my God!"  said Mme. Bonacieux, what
is that noise?"

"That of either our friends or our
enemies," said Milady, with her terrible
coolness.  "Stay where you are, I will
tell you."

Mme. Bonacieux remained standing, mute,
motionless, and pale as a statue.

The noise became louder; the horses
could not be more than a hundred and
fifty paces distant.  If they were not
yet to be seen, it was because the road
made an elbow.  The noise became so
distinct that the horses might be
counted by the rattle of their hoofs.

Milady gazed with all the power of her
attention; it was just light enough for
her to see who was coming.

All at once, at the turning of the road
she saw the glitter of laced hats and
the waving of feathers; she counted two,
then five, then eight horsemen.  One of
them preceded the rest by double the
length of his horse.

Milady uttered a stifled groan.  In the
first horseman she recognized
D'Artagnan.

"Oh, my God, my God," cried Mme.
Bonacieux, "what is it?"

"It is the uniform of the cardinal's
Guards.  Not an instant to be lost! Fly,
fly!"

"Yes, yes, let us fly!"  repeated Mme.
Bonacieux, but without being able to
make a step, glued as she was to the
spot by terror.

They heard the horsemen pass under the
windows.

"Come, then, come, then!"  cried Milady,
trying to drag the young woman along by
the arm. "Thanks to the garden, we yet
can flee; I have the key, but make
haste!  in five minutes it will be too
late!"

Mme. Bonacieux tried to walk, made two
steps, and sank upon her knees. Milady
tried to raise and carry her, but could
not do it.

At this moment they heard the rolling of
the carriage, which at the approach of
the Musketeers set off at a gallop. 
Then three or four shots were fired.

"For the last time, will you come?" 
cried Milady.

"Oh, my God, my God!  you see my
strength fails me; you see plainly I
cannot walk.  Flee alone!"

"Flee alone, and leave you here?  No,
no, never!"  cried Milady.

All at once she paused, a livid flash
darted from her eyes; she ran to the
table, emptied into Mme. Bonacieux's
glass the contents of a ring which she
opened with singular quickness.  It was
a grain of a reddish color, which
dissolved immediately.

Then, taking the glass with a firm hand,
she said, "Drink.  This wine will give
you strength, drink!"  And she put the
glass to the lips of the young woman,
who drank mechanically.

"This is not the way that I wished to
avenge myself," said Milady, replacing
the glass upon the table, with an
infernal smile, "but, my faith!  we do
what we can!"  And she rushed out of the
room.

Mme. Bonacieux saw her go without being
able to follow her; she was like people
who dream they are pursued, and who in
vain try to walk.

A few moments passed; a great noise was
heard at the gate.  Every instant Mme.
Bonacieux expected to see Milady, but
she did not return. Several times, with
terror, no doubt, the cold sweat burst
from her burning brow.

At length she heard the grating of the
hinges of the opening gates; the noise
of boots and spurs resounded on the
stairs.  There was a great murmur of
voices which continued to draw near,
amid which she seemed to hear her own
name pronounced.

All at once she uttered a loud cry of
joy, and darted toward the door; she had
recognized the voice of D'Artagnan.

"D'Artagnan!  D'Artagnan!"  cried she,
"is it you?  This way!  this way!"

"Constance?  Constance?"  replied the
young man, "where are you? where are
you?  My God!"

At the same moment the door of the cell
yielded to a shock, rather than opened;
several men rushed into the chamber. 
Mme. Bonacieux had sunk into an
armchair, without the power of moving.

D'Artagnan threw down a yet-smoking
pistol which he held in his hand, and
fell on his knees before his mistress. 
Athos replaced his in his belt; Porthos
and Aramis, who held their drawn swords
in their hands, returned them to their
scabbards.

"Oh, D'Artagnan, my beloved D'Artagnan! 
You have come, then, at last! You have
not deceived me!  It is indeed thee!"

"Yes, yes, Constance.  Reunited!"

"Oh, it was in vain she told me you
would not come!  I hoped in silence. I
was not willing to fly.  Oh, I have done
well!  How happy I am!"

At this word SHE, Athos, who had seated
himself quietly, started up.

"SHE!  What she?"  asked D'Artagnan.

"Why, my companion.  She who out of
friendship for me wished to take me from
my persecutors.  She who, mistaking you
for the cardinal's Guards, has just fled
away."

"Your companion!"  cried D'Artagnan,
becoming more pale than the white veil
of his mistress.  "Of what companion are
you speaking, dear Constance?"

"Of her whose carriage was at the gate;
of a woman who calls herself your
friend; of a woman to whom you have told
everything."

"Her name, her name!"  cried D'Artagnan.
"My God, can you not remember her name?"

"Yes, it was pronounced in my hearing
once.  Stop--but--it is very
strange--oh, my God, my head swims!  I
cannot see!"

"Help, help, my friends!  her hands are
icy cold," cried D'Artagnan. "She is
ill!  Great God, she is losing her
senses!"

While Porthos was calling for help with
all the power of his strong voice,
Aramis ran to the table to get a glass
of water; but he stopped at seeing the
horrible alteration that had taken place
in the countenance of Athos, who,
standing before the table, his hair
rising from his head, his eyes fixed in
stupor, was looking at one of the
glasses, and appeared a prey to the most
horrible doubt.

"Oh!'  said Athos, "oh, no, it is
impossible!  God would not permit such a
crime!"

"Water, water!"  cried D'Artagnan. 
"Water!"

"Oh, poor woman, poor woman!"  murmured
Athos, in a broken voice.

Mme. Bonacieux opened her eyes under the
kisses of D'Artagnan.

"She revives!"  cried the young man. 
"Oh, my God, my God, I thank thee!"

"Madame!"  said Athos, "madame, in the
name of heaven, whose empty glass is
this?"

"Mine, monsieur," said the young woman,
in a dying voice.

"But who poured the wine for you that
was in this glass?"

"She."

"But who is SHE?"

"Oh, I remember!"  said Mme. Bonacieux,
"the Comtesse de Winter."

The four friends uttered one and the
same cry, but that of Athos dominated
all the rest.

At that moment the countenance of Mme.
Bonacieux became livid; a fearful agony
pervaded her frame, and she sank panting
into the arms of Porthos and Aramis.

D'Artagnan seized the hands of Athos
with an anguish difficult to be
described.

"And what do you believe?'  His voice
was stifled by sobs.

"I believe everything," said Athos
biting his lips till the blood sprang to
avoid sighing.

"D'Artagnan, D'Artagnan!"  cried Mme.
Bonacieux, "where art thou?  Do not
leave me!  You see I am dying!"

D'Artagnan released the hands of Athos
which he still held clasped in both his
own, and hastened to her.  Her beautiful
face was distorted with agony; her
glassy eyes had no longer their sight; a
convulsive shuddering shook her whole
body; the sweat rolled from her brow.

"In the name of heaven, run, call! 
Aramis!  Porthos!  Call for help!"

"Useless!"  said Athos, "useless!  For
the poison which SHE pours there is no
antidote."


"Yes, yes!  Help, help!"  murmured Mme.
Bonacieux; "help!"

Then, collecting all her strength, she
took the head of the young man between
her hands, looked at him for an instant
as if her whole soul passed into that
look, and with a sobbing cry pressed her
lips to his.

"Constance, Constance!"  cried
D'Artagnan.

A sigh escaped from the mouth of Mme.
Bonacieux, and dwelt for an instant on
the lips of D'Artagnan.  That sigh was
the soul, so chaste and so loving, which
reascended to heaven.

D'Artagnan pressed nothing but a corpse
in his arms.  The young man uttered a
cry, and fell by the side of his
mistress as pale and as icy as herself.

Porthos wept; Aramis pointed toward
heaven; Athos made the sign of the
cross.

At that moment a man appeared in the
doorway, almost as pale as those in the
chamber.  He looked around him and saw
Mme. Bonacieux dead, and D'Artagnan in a
swoon.  He appeared just at that moment
of stupor which follows great
catastrophes.

"I was not deceived," said he; "here is
Monsieur D'Artagnan; and you are his
friends, Messieurs Athos, Porthos, and
Aramis."

The persons whose names were thus
pronounced looked at the stranger with
astonishment.  It seemed to all three
that they knew him.

"Gentlemen," resumed the newcomer, "you
are, as I am, in search of a woman who,"
added he, with a terrible smile, "must
have passed this way, for I see a
corpse."

The three friends remained mute-for
although the voice as well as the
countenance reminded them of someone
they had seen, they could not remember
under what circumstances.

"Gentlemen," continued the stranger,
"since you do not recognize a man who
probably owes his life to you twice, I
must name myself.  I am Lord de Winter,
brother-in-law of THAT WOMAN."

The three friends uttered a cry of
surprise.

Athos rose, and offering him his hand,
"Be welcome, my Lord," said he, "you are
one of us."

"I set out five hours after her from
Portsmouth," said Lord de Winter. "I
arrived three hours after her at
Boulogne.  I missed her by twenty
minutes at St. Omer.  Finally, at
Lilliers I lost all trace of her.  I was
going about at random, inquiring of
everybody, when I saw you gallop past. 
I recognized Monsieur d'Artagnan.  I
called to you, but you did not answer
me; I wished to follow you, but my horse
was too much fatigued to go at the same
pace with yours.  And yet it appears, in
spite of all your diligence, you have
arrived too late."

"You see!"  said Athos, pointing to Mme.
Bonacieux dead, and to D'Artagnan, whom
Porthos and Aramis were trying to recall
to life.

"Are they both dead?"  asked Lord de
Winter, sternly.

"No," replied Athos, "fortunately
Monsieur d'Artagnan has only fainted."

"Ah, indeed, so much the better!"  said
Lord de Winter.

At that moment D'Artagnan opened his
eyes.  He tore himself from the arms of
Porthos and Aramis, and threw himself
like a madman on the corpse of his
mistress.

Athos rose, walked toward his friend
with a slow and solemn step, embraced
him tenderly, and as he burst into
violent sobs, he said to him with his
noble and persuasive voice, "Friend, be
a man!  Women weep for the dead; men
avenge them!"

"Oh, yes!"  cried D'Artagnan, "yes!  If
it be to avenge her, I am ready to
follow you."

Athos profited by this moment of
strength which the hope of vengeance
restored to his unfortunate friend to
make a sign to Porthos and Aramis to go
and fetch the superior.

The two friends met her in the corridor,
greatly troubled and much upset by such
strange events; she called some of the
nuns, who against all monastic custom
found themselves in the presence of five
men.

"Madame," said Athos, passing his arm
under that of D'Artagnan, "we abandon to
your pious care the body of that
unfortunate woman.  She was an angel on
earth before being an angel in heaven. 
Treat her as one of your sisters.  We
will return someday to pray over her
grave."

D'Artagnan concealed his face in the
bosom of Athos, and sobbed aloud.

"Weep," said Athos, "weep, heart full of
love, youth, and life!  Alas, would I
could weep like you!"

And he drew away his friend, as
affectionate as a father, as consoling
as a priest, noble as a man who has
suffered much.

All five, followed by their lackeys
leading their horses, took their way to
the town of Bethune, whose outskirts
they perceived, and stopped before the
first inn they came to.

"But," said D'Artagnan, "shall we not
pursue that woman?"

"Later," said Athos.  "I have measures
to take."

"She will escape us," replied the young
man; "she will escape us, and it will be
your fault, Athos."

"I will be accountable for her," said
Athos.

D'Artagnan had so much confidence in the
word of his friend that he lowered his
head, and entered the inn without reply.

Porthos and Aramis regarded each other,
not understanding this assurance of
Athos.

Lord de Winter believed he spoke in this
manner to soothe the grief of
D'Artagnan.

"Now, gentlemen," said Athos, when he
had ascertained there were five chambers
free in the hotel, "let everyone retire
to his own apartment. D'Artagnan needs
to be alone, to weep and to sleep.  I
take charge of everything; be easy."

"It appears, however," said Lord de
Winter, "if there are any measures to
take against the countess, it concerns
me; she is my sister-in-law."

"And me," said Athos,--she is my wife!"

D'Artagnan smiled--for he understood
that Athos was sure of his vengeance
when he revealed such a secret.  Porthos
and Aramis looked at each other, and
grew pale.  Lord de Winter thought Athos
was mad.

"Now, retire to your chambers," said
Athos, "and leave me to act.  You must
perceive that in my quality of a husband
this concerns me.  Only, D'Artagnan, if
you have not lost it, give me the paper
which fell from that man's hat, upon
which is written the name of the village
of--"

"Ah," said D'Artagnan, "I comprehend! 
that name written in her hand."

"You see, then," said Athos, "there is a
god in heaven still!"



64 THE MAN IN THE RED CLOAK

The despair of Athos had given place to
a concentrated grief which only rendered
more lucid the brilliant mental
faculties of that extraordinary man.

Possessed by one single thought--that of
the promise he had made, and of the
responsibility he had taken--he retired
last to his chamber, begged the host to
procure him a map of the province, bent
over it, examined every line traced upon
it, perceived that there were four
different roads from Bethune to
Armentieres, and summoned the lackeys.

Planchet, Grimaud, Bazin, and Mousqueton
presented themselves, and received
clear, positive, and serious orders from
Athos.

They must set out the next morning at
daybreak, and go to Armentieres--each by
a different route.  Planchet, the most
intelligent of the four, was to follow
that by which the carriage had gone upon
which the four friends had fired, and
which was accompanied, as may be
remembered, by Rochefort's servant.

Athos set the lackeys to work first
because, since these men had been in the
service of himself and his friends he
had discovered in each of them different
and essential qualities.  Then, lackeys
who ask questions inspire less mistrust
than masters, and meet with more
sympathy among those to whom they
address themselves.  Besides, Milady
knew the masters, and did not know the
lackeys; on the contrary, the lackeys
knew Milady perfectly.

All four were to meet the next day at
eleven o'clock.  If they had discovered
Milady's retreat, three were to remain
on guard; the fourth was to return to
Bethune in order to inform Athos and
serve as a guide to the four friends. 
These arrangements made, the lackeys
retired.

Athos then arose from his chair, girded
on his sword, enveloped himself in his
cloak, and left the hotel.  It was
nearly ten o'clock.  At ten o'clock in
the evening, it is well known, the
streets in provincial towns are very
little frequented.  Athos nevertheless
was visibly anxious to find someone of
whom he could ask a question.  At length
he met a belated passenger, went up to
him, and spoke a few words to him. The
man he addressed recoiled with terror,
and only answered the few words of the
Musketeer by pointing.  Athos offered
the man half a pistole to accompany him,
but the man refused.

Athos then plunged into the street the
man had indicated with his finger; but
arriving at four crossroads, he stopped
again, visibly embarrassed. 
Nevertheless, as the crossroads offered
him a better chance than any other place
of meeting somebody, he stood still.  In
a few minutes a night watch passed. 
Athos repeated to him the same question
he had asked the first person he met. 
The night watch evinced the same terror,
refused, in his turn, to accompany
Athos, and only pointed with his hand to
the road he was to take.

Athos walked in the direction indicated,
and reached the suburb situated at the
opposite extremity of the city from that
by which he and his friends had entered
it.  There he again appeared uneasy and
embarrassed, and stopped for the third
time.

Fortunately, a mendicant passed, who,
coming up to Athos to ask charity, Athos
offered him half a crown to accompany
him where he was going.  The mendicant
hesitated at first, but at the sight of
the piece of silver which shone in the
darkness he consented, and walked on
before Athos.

Arrived at the angle of a street, he
pointed to a small house, isolated,
solitary, and dismal.  Athos went toward
the house, while the mendicant, who had
received his reward, left as fast as his
legs could carry him.

Athos went round the house before he
could distinguish the door, amid the red
color in which the house was painted. 
No light appeared through the chinks of
the shutters; no noise gave reason to
believe that it was inhabited.  It was
dark and silent as the tomb.

Three times Athos knocked without
receiving an answer.  At the third
knock, however, steps were heard inside.
The door at length was opened, and a man
appeared, of high stature, pale
complexion, and black hair and beard.

Athos and he exchanged some words in a
low voice, then the tall man made a sign
to the Musketeer that he might come in. 
Athos immediately profited by the
permission, and the door was closed
behind him.

The man whom Athos had come so far to
seek, and whom he had found with so much
trouble, introduced him into his
laboratory, where he was engaged in
fastening together with iron wire the
dry bones of a skeleton.  All the frame
was adjusted except the head, which lay
on the table.

All the rest of the furniture indicated
that the dweller in this house occupied
himself with the study of natural
science.  There were large bottles
filled with serpents, ticketed according
to their species; dried lizards shone
like emeralds set in great squares of
black wood, and bunches of wild
odoriferous herbs, doubtless possessed
of virtues unknown to common men, were
fastened to the ceiling and hung down in
the corners of the apartment.  There was
no family, no servant; the tall man
alone inhabited this house.

Athos cast a cold and indifferent glance
upon the objects we have described, and
at the invitation of him whom he came to
seek sat down near him.

Then he explained to him the cause of
his visit, and the service he required
of him.  But scarcely had he expressed
his request when the unknown, who
remained standing before the Musketeer,
drew back with signs of terror, and
refused.  Then Athos took from his
pocket a small paper, on which two lines
were written, accompanied by a signature
and a seal, and presented them to him
who had made too prematurely these signs
of repugnance.  The tall man had
scarcely read these lines, seen the
signature, and recognized the seal, when
he bowed to denote that he had no longer
any objection to make, and that he was
ready to obey.

Athos required no more.  He arose,
bowed, went out, returned by the same
way he came, re-entered the hotel, and
went to his apartment.

At daybreak D'Artagnan entered the
chamber, and demanded what was to be
done.

"To wait," replied Athos.

Some minutes after, the superior of the
convent sent to inform the Musketeers
that the burial would take place at
midday.  As to the poisoner, they had
heard no tidings of her whatever, only
that she must have made her escape
through the garden, on the sand of which
her footsteps could be traced, and the
door of which had been found shut. As to
the key, it had disappeared.

At the hour appointed, Lord de Winter
and the four friends repaired to the
convent; the bells tolled, the chapel
was open, the grating of the choir was
closed.  In the middle of the choir the
body of the victim, clothed in her
novitiate dress, was exposed.  On each
side of the choir and behind the
gratings opening into the convent was
assembled the whole community of the
Carmelites, who listened to the divine
service, and mingled their chant with
the chant of the priests, without seeing
the profane, or being seen by them.

At the door of the chapel D'Artagnan
felt his courage fall anew, and returned
to look for Athos; but Athos had
disappeared.

Faithful to his mission of vengeance,
Athos had requested to be conducted to
the garden; and there upon the sand
following the light steps of this woman,
who left sharp tracks wherever she went,
he advanced toward the gate which led
into the wood, and causing it to be
opened, he went out into the forest.

Then all his suspicions were confirmed;
the road by which the carriage had
disappeared encircled the forest.  Athos
followed the road for some time, his
eyes fixed upon the ground; slight
stains of blood, which came from the
wound inflicted upon the man who
accompanied the carriage as a courier,
or from one of the horses, dotted the
road.  At the end of three-quarters of a
league, within fifty paces of Festubert,
a larger bloodstain appeared; the ground
was trampled by horses.  Between the
forest and this accursed spot, a little
behind the trampled ground, was the same
track of small feet as in the garden;
the carriage had stopped here.  At this
spot Milady had come out of the wood,
and entered the carriage.

Satisfied with this discovery which
confirmed all his suspicions, Athos
returned to the hotel, and found
Planchet impatiently waiting for him.

Everything was as Athos had foreseen.

Planchet had followed the road; like
Athos, he had discovered the stains of
blood; like Athos, he had noted the spot
where the horses had halted. But he had
gone farther than Athos--for at the
village of Festubert, while drinking at
an inn, he had learned without needing
to ask a question that the evening
before, at half-past eight, a wounded
man who accompanied a lady traveling in
a post-chaise had been obliged to stop,
unable to go further.  The accident was
set down to the account of robbers, who
had stopped the chaise in the wood.  The
man remained in the village; the woman
had had a relay of horses, and continued
her journey.

Planchet went in search of the
postillion who had driven her, and found
him.  He had taken the lady as far as
Fromelles; and from Fromelles she had
set out for Armentieres.  Planchet took
the crossroad, and by seven o'clock in
the morning he was at Armentieres.

There was but one tavern, the Post. 
Planchet went and presented himself as a
lackey out of a place, who was in search
of a situation.  He had not chatted ten
minutes with the people of the tavern
before he learned that a woman had come
there alone about eleven o'clock the
night before, had engaged a chamber, had
sent for the master of the hotel, and
told him she desired to remain some time
in the neighborhood.

Planchet had no need to learn more.  He
hastened to the rendezvous, found the
lackeys at their posts, placed them as
sentinels at all the outlets of the
hotel, and came to find Athos, who had
just received this information when his
friends returned.

All their countenances were melancholy
and gloomy, even the mild countenance of
Aramis.

"What is to be done?" asked D'Artagnan.

"To wait!" replied Athos.

Each retired to his own apartment.

At eight o'clock in the evening Athos
ordered the horses to be saddled, and
Lord de Winter and his friends notified
that they must prepare for the
expedition.

In an instant all five were ready.  Each
examined his arms, and put them in
order.  Athos came down last, and found
D'Artagnan already on horseback, and
growing impatient.

"Patience!"  cried Athos; "one of our
party is still wanting."

The four horsemen looked round them with
astonishment, for they sought vainly in
their minds to know who this other
person could be.

At this moment Planchet brought out
Athos's house; the Musketeer leaped
lightly into the saddle.

"Wait for me," cried he, "I will soon be
back," and he set off at a gallop.

In a quarter of an hour he returned,
accompanied by a tall man, masked, and
wrapped in a large red cloak.

Lord de Winter and the three Musketeers
looked at one another inquiringly. 
Neither could give the others any
information, for all were ignorant who
this man could be; nevertheless, they
felt convinced that all was as it should
be, as it was done by the order of
Athos.

At nine o'clock, guided by Planchet, the
little cavalcade set out, taking the
route the carriage had taken.

It was a melancholy sight--that of these
six men, traveling in silence, each
plunged in his own thoughts, sad as
despair, gloomy as chastisement.



65 TRIAL

It was a stormy and dark night; vast
clouds covered the heavens, concealing
the stars; the moon would not rise till
midnight.

Occasionally, by the light of a flash of
lightning which gleamed along the
horizon, the road stretched itself
before them, white and solitary; the
flash extinct, all remained in darkness.

Every minute Athos was forced to
restrain D'Artagnan, constantly in
advance of the little troop, and to beg
him to keep in the line, which in an
instant he again departed from.  He had
but one thought--to go forward; and he
went.

They passed in silence through the
little village of Festubert, where the
wounded servant was, and then skirted
the wood of Richebourg.  At Herlier,
Planchet, who led the column, turned to
the left.

Several times Lord de Winter, Porthos,
or Aramis, tried to talk with the man in
the red cloak; but to every
interrogation which they put to him he
bowed, without response.  The travelers
then comprehended that there must be
some reason why the unknown preserved
such a silence, and ceased to address
themselves to him.

The storm increase, the flashes
succeeded one another more rapidly, the
thunder began to growl, and the wind,
the precursor of a hurricane, whistled
in the plumes and the hair of the
horsemen.

The cavalcade trotted on more sharply.

A little before they came to Fromelles
the storm burst.  They spread their
cloaks.  There remained three leagues to
travel, and they did it amid torrents of
rain.

D'Artagnan took off his hat, and could
not be persuaded to make use of his
cloak.  He found pleasure in feeling the
water trickle over his burning brow and
over his body, agitated by feverish
shudders.

The moment the little troop passed
Goskal and were approaching the Port, a
man sheltered beneath a tree detached
himself from the trunk with which he had
been confounded in the darkness, and
advanced into the middle of the road,
putting his finger on his lips.

Athos recognized Grimaud.

"What's the manner?" cried Athos.  "Has
she left Armentieres?"

Grimaud made a sign in the affirmative. 
D'Artagnan groaned his teeth.

"Silence, D'Artagnan!"  said Athos.  I
have charged myself with this affair. 
It is for me, then, to interrogate
Grimaud."

"Where is she?"  asked Athos.

Grimaud extended his hands in the
direction of the Lys.  "Far from here?"
asked Athos.

Grimaud showed his master his forefinger
bent.

"Alone?"  asked Athos.

Grimaud made the sign yes.

"Gentlemen," said Athos, "she is alone
within half a league of us, in the
direction of the river."

"That's well," said D'Artagnan. "lead
us, Grimaud."

Grimaud took his course across the
country, and acted as guide to the
cavalcade.

At the end of five hundred paces, more
or less, they came to a rivulet, which
they forded.

By the aid of the lightning they
perceived the village of Erquinheim.

"Is she there, Grimaud?"  asked Athos.

Grimaud shook his head negatively.

"Silence, then!"  cried Athos.

And the troop continued their route.

Another flash illuminated all around
them.  Grimaud extended his arm, and by
the bluish splendor of the fiery serpent
they distinguished a little isolated
house on the banks of the river, within
a hundred paces of a ferry.

One window was lighted.

"Here we are!"  said Athos.

At this moment a man who had been
crouching in a ditch jumped up and came
towards them.  It was Mousqueton.  He
pointed his finger to the lighted
window.

"She is there," said he.

"And Bazin?"  asked Athos.

"While I watched the window, he guarded
the door."

"Good!"  said Athos.  "You are good and
faithful servants."

Athos sprang from his horse, gave the
bridle to Grimaud, and advanced toward
the window, after having made a sign to
the rest of the troop to go toward the
door.

The little house was surrounded by a
low, quickset hedge, two or three feet
high.  Athos sprang over the hedge and
went up to the window, which was without
shutters, but had the half-curtains
closely drawn.

He mounted the skirting stone that his
eyes might look over the curtain.

By the light of a lamp he saw a woman,
wrapped in a dark mantle, seated upon a
stool near a dying fire.  Her elbows
were placed upon a mean table, and she
leaned her head upon her two hands,
which were white as ivory.

He could not distinguish her
countenance, but a sinister smile passed
over the lips of Athos.  He was not
deceived; it was she whom he sought.

At this moment a horse neighed.  Milady
raised her head, saw close to the panes
the pale face of Athos, and screamed.

Athos, perceiving that she knew him,
pushed the window with his knee and
hand.  The window yielded.  The squares
were broken to shivers; and Athos, like
the spectre of vengeance, leaped into
the room.

Milady rushed to the door and opened it.
More pale and menacing than Athos,
D'Artagnan stood on the threshold.

Milady recoiled, uttering a cry. 
D'Artagnan, believing she might have
means of flight and fearing she should
escape, drew a pistol from his belt; but
Athos raised his hand.

"Put back that weapon, D'Artagnan!" 
said he; "this woman must be tried, not
assassinated.  Wait an instant, my
friend, and you shall be satisfied. 
Come in, gentlemen."

D'Artagnan obeyed; for Athos had the
solemn voice and the powerful gesture of
a judge sent by the Lord himself. 
Behind D'Artagnan entered Porthos,
Aramis, Lord de Winter, and the man in
the red cloak.

The four lackeys guarded the door and
the window.

Milady had sunk into a chair, with her
hands extended, as if to conjure this
terrible apparition.  Perceiving her
brother-in-law, she uttered a terrible
cry.

"What do you want?"  screamed Milady.

"We want," said Athos, "Charlotte
Backson, who first was called Comtesse
de la Fere, and afterwards Milady de
Winter, Baroness of Sheffield."

"That is I!  that is I!"  murmured
Milady, in extreme terror; "what do you
want?"

"We wish to judge you according to your
crime," said Athos; "you shall be free
to defend yourself.  Justify yourself if
you can.  M. d'Artagnan, it is for you
to accuse her first."

D'Artagnan advanced.

"Before God and before men," said he, "I
accuse this woman of having poisoned
Constance Bonacieux, who died yesterday
evening."

He turned towards Porthos and Aramis.

"We bear witness to this," said the two
Musketeers, with one voice.

D'Artagnan continued:  "Before God and
before men, I accuse this woman of
having attempted to poison me, in wine
which she sent me from Villeroy, with a
forged letter, as if that wine came from
my friends. God preserved me, but a man
named Brisemont died in my place."

"We bear witness to this," said Porthos
and Aramis, in the same manner as
before.

"Before God and before men, I accuse
this woman of having urged me to the
murder of the Baron de Wardes; but as no
one else can attest the truth of this
accusation, I attest it myself.  I have
done."  And D'Artagnan passed to the
other side of the room with Porthos and
Aramis.

"Your turn, my Lord," said Athos.

The baron came forward.

"Before God and before men," said he, "I
accuse this woman of having caused the
assassination of the Duke of
Buckingham."

"The Duke of Buckingham assassinated!" 
cried all present, with one voice.

"Yes," said the baron, "assassinated. 
On receiving the warning letter you
wrote to me, I had this woman arrested,
and gave her in charge to a loyal
servant.  She corrupted this man; she
placed the poniard in his hand; she made
him kill the duke.  And at this moment,
perhaps, Felton is paying with his head
for the crime of this fury!"

A shudder crept through the judges at
the revelation of these unknown crimes.

"That is not all," resumed Lord de
Winter.  "My brother, who made you his
heir, died in three hours of a strange
disorder which left livid traces all
over the body.  My sister, how did your
husband die?"

"Horror!"  cried Porthos and Aramis.

"Assassin of Buckingham, assassin of
Felton, assassin of my brother, I demand
justice upon you, and I swear that if it
be not granted to me, I will execute it
myself."

And Lord de Winter ranged himself by the
side of D'Artagnan, leaving the place
free for another accuser.

Milady let her head sink between her two
hands, and tried to recall her ideas,
whirling in a mortal vertigo.

"My turn," said Athos, himself trembling
as the lion trembles at the sight of the
serpent--"my turn.  I married that woman
when she was a young girl; I married her
in opposition to the wishes of all my
family; I gave her my wealth, I gave her
my name; and one day I discovered that
this woman was branded--this woman was
marked with a FLEUR-DE-LIS on her left
shoulder."

"Oh," said Milady, raising herself, "I
defy you to find any tribunal which
pronounced that infamous sentence
against me.  I defy you to find him who
executed it."

"Silence!"  said a hollow voice.  "It is
for me to reply to that!"  And the man
in the red cloak came forward in his
turn.

"What man is that?  What man is that?" 
cried Milady, suffocated by terror, her
hair loosening itself, and rising above
her livid countenance as if alive.

All eyes were turned towards this
man--for to all except Athos he was
unknown.

Even Athos looked at him with as much
stupefaction as the others, for he knew
not how he could in any way find himself
mixed up with the horrible drama then
unfolded.

After approaching Milady with a slow and
solemn step, so that the table alone
separated them, the unknown took off his
mask.

Milady for some time examined with
increasing terror that pale face, framed
with black hair and whiskers, the only
expression of which was icy
impassibility.  Then she suddenly cried,
"Oh, no, no!"  rising and retreating to
the very wall.  "No, no!  it is an
infernal apparition! It is not he! 
Help, help!"  screamed she, turning
towards the wall, as if she would tear
an opening with her hands.

"Who are you, then?"  cried all the
witnesses of this scene.

"Ask that woman," said the man in the
red cloak, "for you may plainly see she
knows me!"

"The executioner of Lille, the
executioner of Lille!"  cried Milady, a
prey to insensate terror, and clinging
with her hands to the wall to avoid
falling.

Every one drew back, and the man in the
red cloak remained standing alone in the
middle of the room.

"Oh, grace, grace, pardon!" cried the
wretch, falling on her knees.

The unknown waited for silence, and then
resumed, "I told you well that she would
know me.  Yes, I am the executioner of
Lille, and this is my history."

All eyes were fixed upon this man, whose
words were listened to with anxious
attention.

"That woman was once a young girl, as
beautiful as she is today.  She was a
nun in the convent of the Benedictines
of Templemar.  A young priest, with a
simple and trustful heart, performed the
duties of the church of that convent. 
She undertook his seduction, and
succeeded; she would have seduced a
saint.

"Their vows were sacred and irrevocable.
Their connection could not last long
without ruining both.  She prevailed
upon him to leave the country; but to
leave the country, to fly together, to
reach another part of France, where they
might live at ease because unknown,
money was necessary.  Neither had any. 
The priest stole the sacred vases, and
sold them; but as they were preparing to
escape together, they were both
arrested.

"Eight days later she had seduced the
son of the jailer, and escaped. The
young priest was condemned to ten years
of imprisonment, and to be branded.  I
was executioner of the city of Lille, as
this woman has said.  I was obliged to
brand the guilty one; and he, gentlemen,
was my brother!

"I then swore that this woman who had
ruined him, who was more than his
accomplice, since she had urged him to
the crime, should at least share his
punishment.  I suspected where she was
concealed.  I followed her, I caught
her, I bound her; and I imprinted the
same disgraceful mark upon her that I
had imprinted upon my poor brother.

"The day after my return to Lille, my
brother in his turn succeeded in making
his escape; I was accused of complicity,
and was condemned to remain in his place
till he should be again a prisoner.  My
poor brother was ignorant of this
sentence.  He rejoined this woman; they
fled together into Berry, and there he
obtained a little curacy.  This woman
passed for his sister.

"The Lord of the estate on which the
chapel of the curacy was situated saw
this pretend sister, and became
enamoured of her--amorous to such a
degree that he proposed to marry her. 
Then she quitted him she had ruined for
him she was destined to ruin, and became
the Comtesse de la Fere--"

All eyes were turned towards Athos,
whose real name that was, and who made a
sign with his head that all was true
which the executioner had said.

"Then," resumed he, "mad, desperate,
determined to get rid of an existence
from which she had stolen everything,
honor and happiness, my poor brother
returned to Lille, and learning the
sentence which had condemned me in his
place, surrendered himself, and hanged
himself that same night from the iron
bar of the loophole of his prison.

"To do justice to them who had condemned
me, they kept their word.  As soon as
the identity of my brother was proved, I
was set at liberty.

"That is the crime of which I accuse
her; that is the cause for which she was
branded."

"Monsieur d'Artagnan," said Athos, "what
is the penalty you demand against this
woman?"

"The punishment of death," replied
D'Artagnan.

"My Lord de Winter," continued Athos,
"what is the penalty you demand against
this woman?"

"The punishment of death," replied Lord
de Winter.

"Messieurs Porthos and Aramis," repeated
Athos, "you who are her judges, what is
the sentence you pronounce upon this
woman?"

"The punishment of death," replied the
Musketeers, in a hollow voice.

Milady uttered a frightful shriek, and
dragged herself along several paces upon
her knees toward her judges.

Athos stretched out his hand toward her.

"Charlotte Backson, Comtesse de la Fere,
Milady de Winter," said he, "your crimes
have wearied men on earth and God in
heaven.  If you know a prayer, say
it--for you are condemned, and you shall
die."

At these words, which left no hope,
Milady raised herself in all her pride,
and wished to speak; but her strength
failed her.  She felt that a powerful
and implacable hand seized her by the
hair, and dragged her away as
irrevocably as fatality drags humanity. 
She did not, therefore, even attempt the
least resistance, and went out of the
cottage.

Lord de Winter, D'Artagnan, Athos,
Porthos, and Aramis, went out close
behind her.  The lackeys followed their
masters, and the chamber was left
solitary, with its broken window, its
open door, and its smoky lamp burning
sadly on the table.



66 EXECUTION

It was near midnight; the moon, lessened
by its decline, and reddened by the last
traces of the storm, arose behind the
little town of Armentieres, which showed
against its pale light the dark outline
of its houses, and the skeleton of its
high belfry.  In front of them the Lys
rolled its waters like a river of molten
tin; while on the other side was a black
mass of trees, profiled on a stormy sky,
invaded by large coppery clouds which
created a sort of twilight amid the
night.  On the left was an old abandoned
mill, with its motionless wings, from
the ruins of which an owl threw out its
shrill, periodical, and monotonous cry. 
On the right and on the left of the
road, which the dismal procession
pursued, appeared a few low, stunted
trees, which looked like deformed dwarfs
crouching down to watch men traveling at
this sinister hour.

From time to time a broad sheet of
lightning opened the horizon in its
whole width, darted like a serpent over
the black mass of trees, and like a
terrible scimitar divided the heavens
and the waters into two parts.  Not a
breath of wind now disturbed the heavy
atmosphere.  A deathlike silence
oppressed all nature.  The soil was
humid and glittering with the rain which
had recently fallen, and the refreshed
herbs sent forth their perfume with
additional energy.

Two lackeys dragged Milady, whom each
held by one arm.  The executioner walked
behind them, and Lord de Winter,
D'Artagnan, Porthos, and Aramis walked
behind the executioner.  Planchet and
Bazin came last.

The two lackeys conducted Milady to the
bank of the river.  Her mouth was mute;
but her eyes spoke with their
inexpressible eloquence, supplicating by
turns each of those on whom she looked.

Being a few paces in advance she
whispered to the lackeys, "A thousand
pistoles to each of you, if you will
assist my escape; but if you deliver me
up to your masters, I have near at hand
avengers who will make you pay dearly
for my death."

Grimaud hesitated.  Mousqueton trembled
in all his members.

Athos, who heard Milady's voice, came
sharply up.  Lord de Winter did the
same.

"Change these lackeys," said he; "she
has spoken to them.  They are no longer
sure."

Planchet and Bazin were called, and took
the places of Grimaud and Mousqueton.

On the bank of the river the executioner
approached Milady, and bound her hands
and feet.

Then she broke the silence to cry out,
"You are cowards, miserable
assassins--ten men combined to murder
one woman.  Beware!  If I am not saved I
shall be avenged."

"You are not a woman," said Athos,
coldly and sternly.  "You do not belong
to the human species; you are a demon
escaped from hell, whither we send you
back again."

"Ah, you virtuous men!"  said Milady;
"please to remember that he who shall
touch a hair of my head is himself an
assassin."

"The executioner may kill, without being
on that account an assassin," said the
man in the red cloak, rapping upon his
immense sword.  "This is the last judge;
that is all.  NACHRICHTER, as say our
neighbors, the Germans."

And as he bound her while saying these
words, Milady uttered two or three
savage cries, which produced a strange
and melancholy effect in flying away
into the night, and losing themselves in
the depths of the woods.

"If I am guilty, if I have committed the
crimes you accuse me of," shrieked
Milady, "take me before a tribunal.  You
are not judges!  You cannot condemn me!"

"I offered you Tyburn," said Lord de
Winter.  "Why did you not accept it?"

"Because I am not willing to die!" 
cried Milady, struggling.  "Because I am
too young to die!"

"The woman you poisoned at Bethune was
still younger than you, madame, and yet
she is dead," said D'Artagnan.

"I will enter a cloister; I will become
a nun," said Milady.

"You were in a cloister," said the
executioner, "and you left it to ruin my
brother."

Milady uttered a cry of terror and sank
upon her knees.  The executioner took
her up in his arms and was carrying her
toward the boat.

"Oh, my God!"  cried she, "my God!  are
you going to drown me?"

These cries had something so
heartrending in them that M. d'Artagnan,
who had been at first the most eager in
pursuit of Milady, sat down on the stump
of a tree and hung his head, covering
his ears with the palms of his hands;
and yet, notwithstanding, he could still
hear her cry and threaten.

D'Artagnan was the youngest of all these
men.  His heart failed him.

"Oh, I cannot behold this frightful
spectacle!"  said he.  "I cannot consent
that this woman should die thus!"

Milady heard these few words and caught
at a shadow of hope.

"D'Artagnan, D'Artagnan!"  cried she;
"remember that I loved you!"

The young man rose and took a step
toward her.

But Athos rose likewise, drew his sword,
and placed himself in the way.

"If you take one step farther,
D'Artagnan," said he, "we shall cross
swords together."

D'Artagnan sank on his knees and prayed.

"Come," continued Athos, "executioner,
do your duty."

"Willingly, monseigneur," said the
executioner; "for as I am a good
Catholic, I firmly believe I am acting
justly in performing my functions on
this woman."

"That's well."

Athos made a step toward Milady.

"I pardon you," said he, "the ill you
have done me.  I pardon you for my
blasted future, my lost honor, my
defiled love, and my salvation forever
compromised by the despair into which
you have cast me.  Die in peace!"

Lord de Winter advanced in his turn.

"I pardon you," said he, "for the
poisoning of my brother, and the
assassination of his Grace, Lord
Buckingham.  I pardon you for the death
of poor Felton; I pardon you for the
attempts upon my own person.  Die in
peace!"

"And I," said M. d'Artagnan.  "Pardon
me, madame, for having by a trick
unworthy of a gentleman provoked your
anger; and I, in exchange, pardon you
the murder of my poor love and your
cruel vengeance against me.  I pardon
you, and I weep for you.  Die in peace!"

"I am lost!"  murmured Milady in
English.  "I must die!"

Then she arose of herself, and cast
around her one of those piercing looks
which seemed to dart from an eye of
flame.

She saw nothing; she listened, and she
heard nothing.

"Where am I to die?" said she.

"On the other bank," replied the
executioner.

Then he placed her in the boat, and as
he was going to set foot in it himself,
Athos handed him a sum of silver.

"Here," said he, "is the price of the
execution, that it may be plain we act
as judges."

"That is correct," said the executioner;
"and now in her turn, let this woman see
that I am not fulfilling my trade, but
my debt."

And he threw the money into the river.

The boat moved off toward the left-hand
shore of the Lys, bearing the guilty
woman and the executioner; all the
others remained on the right-hand bank,
where they fell on their knees.

The boat glided along the ferry rope
under the shadow of a pale cloud which
hung over the water at that moment.

The troop of friends saw it gain the
opposite bank; the figures were defined
like black shadows on the red-tinted
horizon.

Milady, during the passage had contrived
to untie the cord which fastened her
feet.  On coming near the bank, she
jumped lightly on shore and took to
flight.  But the soil was moist; on
reaching the top of the bank, she
slipped and fell upon her knees.

She was struck, no doubt, with a
superstitious idea; she conceived that
heaven denied its aid, and she remained
in the attitude in which she had fallen,
her head drooping and her hands clasped.

Then they saw from the other bank the
executioner raise both his arms slowly;
a moonbeam fell upon the blade of the
large sword.  The two arms fell with a
sudden force; they heard the hissing of
the scimitar and the cry of the victim,
then a truncated mass sank beneath the
blow.

The executioner then took off his red
cloak, spread it upon the ground, laid
the body in it, threw in the head, tied
all up by the four corners, lifted it on
his back, and entered the boat again.

In the middle of the stream he stopped
the boat, and suspending his burden over
the water cried in a loud voice, "Let
the justice of God be done!"  and he let
the corpse drop into the depths of the
waters, which closed over it.

Three days afterward the four Musketeers
were in Paris; they had not exceeded
their leave of absence, and that same
evening they went to pay their customary
visit to M. de Treville.

"Well, gentlemen," said the brave
captain, "I hope you have been well
amused during your excursion."

"Prodigiously," replied Athos in the
name of himself and his comrades.



67 CONCLUSION

On the sixth of the following month the
king, in compliance with the promise he
had made the cardinal to return to La
Rochelle, left his capital still in
amazement at the news which began to
spread itself of Buckingham's
assassination.

Although warned that the man she had
loved so much was in great danger, the
queen, when his death was announced to
her, would not believe the fact, and
even imprudently exclaimed, "it is
false; he has just written to me!"

But the next day she was obliged to
believe this fatal intelligence;
Laporte, detained in England, as
everyone else had been, by the orders of
Charles I, arrived, and was the bearer
of the duke's dying gift to the queen.

The joy of the king was lively.  He did
not even give himself the trouble to
dissemble, and displayed it with
affectation before the queen.  Louis
XIII, like every weak mind, was wanting
in generosity.

But the king soon again became dull and
indisposed; his brow was not one of
those that long remain clear.  He felt
that in returning to camp he should
re-enter slavery; nevertheless, he did
return.

The cardinal was for him the fascinating
serpent, and himself the bird which
flies from branch to branch without
power to escape.

The return to La Rochelle, therefore,
was profoundly dull.  Our four friends,
in particular, astonished their
comrades; they traveled together, side
by side, with sad eyes and heads
lowered.  Athos alone from time to time
raised his expansive brow; a flash
kindled in his eyes, and a bitter smile
passed over his lips, then, like his
comrades, he sank again into reverie.

As soon as the escort arrived in a city,
when they had conducted the king to his
quarters the four friends either retired
to their own or to some secluded
cabaret, where they neither drank nor
played; they only conversed in a low
voice, looking around attentively to see
that no one overheard them.

One day, when the king had halted to fly
the magpie, and the four friends,
according to their custom, instead of
following the sport had stopped at a
cabaret on the high road, a man coming
from la Rochelle on horseback pulled up
at the door to drink a glass of wine,
and darted a searching glance into the
room where the four Musketeers were
sitting.

"Holloa, Monsieur d'Artagnan!"  said he,
"is not that you whom I see yonder?"

D'Artagnan raised his head and uttered a
cry of joy.  It was the man he called
his phantom; it was his stranger of
Meung, of the Rue des Fossoyeurs and of
Arras.

D'Artagnan drew his sword, and sprang
toward the door.

But this time, instead of avoiding him
the stranger jumped from his horse, and
advanced to meet D'Artagnan.

"Ah, monsieur!"  said the young man, "I
meet you, then, at last!  This time you
shall not escape me!"

"Neither is it my intention, monsieur,
for this time I was seeking you; in the
name of the king, I arrest you."

"How!  what do you say?"  cried
D'Artagnan.

"I say that you must surrender your
sword to me, monsieur, and that without
resistance.  This concerns your head, I
warn you."

"Who are you, then?"  demanded
D'Artagnan, lowering the point of his
sword, but without yet surrendering it.

"I am the Chevalier de Rochefort,"
answered the other, "the equerry of
Monsieur le Cardinal Richelieu, and I
have orders to conduct you to his
Eminence."

"We are returning to his Eminence,
monsieur the Chevalier," said Athos,
advancing; "and you will please to
accept the word of Monsieur d'Artagnan
that he will go straight to La
Rochelle."

"I must place him in the hands of guards
who will take him into camp."

"We will be his guards, monsieur, upon
our word as gentlemen; but likewise,
upon our word as gentlemen," added
Athos, knitting his brow, "Monsieur
d'Artagnan shall not leave us."

The Chevalier de Rochefort cast a glance
backward, and saw that Porthos and
Aramis had placed themselves between him
and the gate; he understood that he was
completely at the mercy of these four
men.

"Gentlemen," said he, "if Monsieur
d'Artagnan will surrender his sword to
me and join his word to yours, I shall
be satisfied with your promise to convey
Monsieur d'Artagnan to the quarters of
Monseigneur the Cardinal."

"You have my word, monsieur, and here is
my sword."

"This suits me the better," said
Rochefort, "as I wish to continue my
journey."

"If it is for the purpose of rejoining
Milady," said Athos, coolly, "it is
useless; you will not find her."

"What has become of her, then?"  asked
Rochefort, eagerly.

"Return to camp and you shall know."

Rochefort remained for a moment in
thought; then, as they were only a day's
journey from Surgeres, whither the
cardinal was to come to meet the king,
he resolved to follow the advice of
Athos and go with them. Besides, this
return offered him the advantage of
watching his prisoner.

They resumed their route.

On the morrow, at three o'clock in the
afternoon, they arrived at Surgeres. 
The cardinal there awaited Louis XIII. 
The minister and the king exchanged
numerous caresses, felicitating each
other upon the fortunate chance which
had freed France from the inveterate
enemy who set all Europe against her. 
After which, the cardinal, who had been
informed that D'Artagnan was arrested
and who was anxious to see him, took
leave of the king, inviting him to come
the next day to view the work already
done upon the dyke.

On returning in the evening to his
quarters at the bridge of La Pierre, the
cardinal found, standing before the
house he occupied, D'Artagnan, without
his sword, and the three Musketeers
armed.

This time, as he was well attended, he
looked at them sternly, and made a sign
with his eye and hand for D'Artagnan to
follow him.

D'Artagnan obeyed.

"We shall wait for you, D'Artagnan,"
said Athos, loud enough for the cardinal
to hear him.

His Eminence bent his brow, stopped for
an instant, and then kept on his way
without uttering a single word.

D'Artagnan entered after the cardinal,
and behind D'Artagnan the door was
guarded.

His Eminence entered the chamber which
served him as a study, and made a sign
to Rochefort to bring in the young
Musketeer.

Rochefort obeyed and retired.

D'Artagnan remained alone in front of
the cardinal; this was his second
interview with Richelieu, and he
afterward confessed that he felt well
assured it would be his last.

Richelieu remained standing, leaning
against the mantelpiece; a table was
between him and D'Artagnan.

"Monsieur," said the cardinal, "you have
been arrested by my orders."

"So they tell me, monseigneur."

"Do you know why?"

"No, monseigneur, for the only thing for
which I could be arrested is still
unknown to your Eminence."

Richelieu looked steadfastly at the
young man.

"Holloa!"  said he, "what does that
mean?"

"If Monseigneur will have the goodness
to tell me, in the first place, what
crimes are imputed to me, I will then
tell him the deeds I have really done."

"Crimes are imputed to you which had
brought down far loftier heads than
yours, monsieur," said the cardinal.

"What, monseigneur?"  said D'Artagnan,
with a calmness which astonished the
cardinal himself.

"You are charged with having
corresponded with the enemies of the
kingdom; you are charged with having
surprised state secrets; you are charged
with having tried to thwart the plans of
your general."

"And who charges me with this,
monseigneur?"  said D'Artagnan, who had
no doubt the accusation came from
Milady, "a woman branded by the justice
of the country; a woman who has espoused
one man in France and another in
England; a woman who poisoned her second
husband and who attempted both to poison
and assassinate me!"

"What do you say, monsieur?"  cried the
cardinal, astonished; "and of what woman
are you speaking thus?"

"Of Milady de Winter," replied
D'Artagnan, "yes, of Milady de Winter,
of whose crimes your Eminence is
doubtless ignorant, since you have
honored her with your confidence."

"Monsieur," said the cardinal, "if
Milady de Winter has committed the
crimes you lay to her charge, she shall
be punished."

"She has been punished, monseigneur."

"And who has punished her?"

"We."

"She is in prison?"

"She is dead."

"Dead!" repeated the cardinal, who could
not believe what he heard, "dead!  Did
you not say she was dead?"

"Three times she attempted to kill me,
and I pardoned her; but she murdered the
woman I loved.  Then my friends and I
took her, tried her, and condemned her."

D'Artagnan then related the poisoning of
Mme. Bonacieux in the convent of the
Carmelites at Bethune, the trial in the
isolated house, and the execution on the
banks of the Lys.

A shudder crept through the body of the
cardinal, who did not shudder readily.

But all at once, as if undergoing the
influence of an unspoken thought, the
countenance of the cardinal, till then
gloomy, cleared up by degrees, and
recovered perfect serenity.

"So," said the cardinal, in a tone that
contrasted strongly with the severity of
his words, "you have constituted
yourselves judges, without remembering
that they who punish without license to
punish are assassins?"

"Monseigneur, I swear to you that I
never for an instant had the intention
of defending my head against you.  I
willingly submit to any punishment your
Eminence may please to inflict upon me. 
I do not hold life dear enough to be
afraid of death."

"Yes, I know you are a man of a stout
heart, monsieur," said the cardinal,
with a voice almost affectionate; "I can
therefore tell you beforehand you shall
be tried, and even condemned."

"Another might reply to your Eminence
that he had his pardon in his pocket.  I
content myself with saying:  Command,
monseigneur; I am ready."

"Your pardon?" said Richelieu,
surprised.

"Yes, monseigneur," said D'Artagnan.

"And signed by whom--by the king?"  And
the cardinal pronounced these words with
a singular expression of contempt.

"No, by your Eminence."

"By me?  You are insane, monsieur."

"Monseigneur will doubtless recognize
his own handwriting."

And D'Artagnan presented to the cardinal
the precious piece of paper which Athos
had forced from Milady, and which he had
given to D'Artagnan to serve him as a
safeguard.

His Eminence took the paper, and read in
a slow voice, dwelling upon every
syllable:


"Dec. 3, 1627 "It is by my order and for
the good of the state that the bearer of
this has done what he has done.

"RICHELIEU"


The cardinal, after having read these
two lines, sank into a profound reverie;
but he did not return the paper to
D'Artagnan.

"He is meditating by what sort of
punishment he shall cause me to die,"
said the Gascon to himself.  "Well, my
faith!  he shall see how a gentleman can
die."

The young Musketeer was in excellent
disposition to die heroically.

Richelieu still continued thinking,
rolling and unrolling the paper in his
hands.

At length he raised his head, fixed his
eagle look upon that loyal, open, and
intelligent countenance, read upon that
face, furrowed with tears, all the
sufferings its possessor had endured in
the course of a month, and reflected for
the third or fourth time how much there
was in that youth of twenty-one years
before him, and what resources his
activity, his courage, and his
shrewdness might offer to a good master.
On the other side, the crimes, the
power, and the infernal genius of Milady
had more than once terrified him.  He
felt something like a secret joy at
being forever relieved of this dangerous
accomplice.

Richelieu slowly tore the paper which
D'Artagnan had generously relinquished.

"I am lost!"  said D'Artagnan to
himself.  And he bowed profoundly before
the cardinal, like a man who says,
"Lord, Thy will be done!"

The cardinal approached the table, and
without sitting down, wrote a few lines
upon a parchment of which two-thirds
were already filled, and affixed his
seal.

"That is my condemnation," thought
D'Artagnan; "he will spare me the ENNUI
of the Bastille, or the tediousness of a
trial.  That's very kind of him."

"Here, monsieur," said the cardinal to
the young man.  "I have taken from you
one CARTE BLANCHE to give you another. 
The name is wanting in this commission;
you can write it yourself."

D'Artagnan took the paper hesitatingly
and cast his eyes over it; it was a
lieutenant's commission in the
Musketeers.

D'Artagnan fell at the feet of the
cardinal.

"Monseigneur," said he, "my life is
yours; henceforth dispose of it. But
this favor which you bestow upon me I do
not merit.  I have three friends who are
more meritorious and more worthy--"

"You are a brave youth, D'Artagnan,"
interrupted the cardinal, tapping him
familiarly on the shoulder, charmed at
having vanquished this rebellious
nature.  "Do with this commission what
you will; only remember, though the name
be blank, it is to you I give it."

"I shall never forget it," replied
D'Artagnan.  "Your Eminence may be
certain of that."

The cardinal turned and said in a loud
voice, "Rochefort!"  The chevalier, who
no doubt was near the door, entered
immediately.

"Rochefort," said the cardinal, "you see
Monsieur d'Artagnan.  I receive him
among the number of my friends.  Greet
each other, then; and be wise if you
wish to preserve your heads."

Rochefort and D'Artagnan coolly greeted
each other with their lips; but the
cardinal was there, observing them with
his vigilant eye.

They left the chamber at the same time.

"We shall meet again, shall we not,
monsieur?"

"When you please," said D'Artagnan.

"An opportunity will come," replied
Rochefort.

"Hey?"  said the cardinal, opening the
door.

The two men smiled at each other, shook
hands, and saluted his Eminence.

"We were beginning to grow impatient,"
said Athos.

"Here I am, my friends," replied
D'Artagnan; "not only free, but in
favor."

"Tell us about it."

"This evening; but for the moment, let
us separate."

Accordingly, that same evening
D'Artagnan repaired to the quarters of
Athos, whom he found in a fair way to
empty a bottle of Spanish wine--an
occupation which he religiously
accomplished every night.

D'Artagnan related what had taken place
between the cardinal and himself, and
drawing the commission from his pocket,
said, "Here, my dear Athos, this
naturally belongs to you."

Athos smiled with one of his sweet and
expressive smiles.

"Friend," said he, "for Athos this is
too much; for the Comte de la Fere it is
too little.  Keep the commission; it is
yours.  Alas!  you have purchased it
dearly enough."

D'Artagnan left Athos's chamber and went
to that of Porthos.  He found him
clothed in a magnificent dress covered
with splendid embroidery, admiring
himself before a glass.

"Ah, ah!  is that you, dear friend?" 
exclaimed Porthos.  "How do you think
these garments fit me?"

"Wonderfully," said D'Artagnan; but I
come to offer you a dress which will
become you still better."

"What?"  asked Porthos.

"That of a lieutenant of Musketeers."

D'Artagnan related to Porthos the
substance of his interview with the
cardinal, and said, taking the
commission from his pocket, "Here, my
friend, write your name upon it and
become my chief."

Porthos cast his eyes over the
commission and returned it to
D'Artagnan, to the great astonishment of
the young man.

"Yes," said he, "yes, that would flatter
me very much; but I should not have time
enough to enjoy the distinction.  During
our expedition to Bethune the husband of
my duchess died; so, my dear, the coffer
of the defunct holding out its arms to
me, I shall marry the widow.  Look here!
I was trying on my wedding suit.  Keep
the lieutenancy, my dear, keep it."

The young man then entered the apartment
of Aramis.  He found him kneeling before
a PRIEDIEU with his head leaning on an
open prayer book.

He described to him his interview with
the cardinal, and said, for the third
time drawing his commission from his
pocket, "You, our friend, our
intelligence, our invisible protector,
accept this commission.  You have
merited it more than any of us by your
wisdom and your counsels, always
followed by such happy results."

"Alas, dear friend!"  said Aramis, "our
late adventures have disgusted me with
military life.  This time my
determination is irrevocably taken.
After the siege I shall enter the house
of the Lazarists.  Keep the commission,
D'Artagnan; the profession of arms suits
you.  You will be a brave and
adventurous captain."

D'Artagnan, his eye moist with gratitude
though beaming with joy, went back to
Athos, whom he found still at table
contemplating the charms of his last
glass of Malaga by the light of his
lamp.

"Well," said he, "they likewise have
refused me."

"That, dear friend, is because nobody is
more worthy than yourself."

He took a quill, wrote the name of
D'Artagnan in the commission, and
returned it to him.

"I shall then have no more friends,"
said the young man.  "Alas! nothing but
bitter recollections."

And he let his head sink upon his hands,
while two large tears rolled down his
cheeks.

"You are young," replied Athos; "and
your bitter recollections have time to
change themselves into sweet
remembrances."



EPILOGUE

La Rochelle, deprived of the assistance
of the English fleet and of the
diversion promised by Buckingham,
surrendered after a siege of a year. On
the twenty-eighth of October, 1628, the
capitulation was signed.

The king made his entrance into Paris on
the twenty-third of December of the same
year.  He was received in triumph, as if
he came from conquering an enemy and not
Frenchmen.  He entered by the Faubourg
St. Jacques, under verdant arches.

D'Artagnan took possession of his
command.  Porthos left the service, and
in the course of the following year
married Mme. Coquenard; the coffer so
much coveted contained eight hundred
thousand livres.

Mousqueton had a magnificent livery, and
enjoyed the satisfaction of which he had
been ambitious all his life--that of
standing behind a gilded carriage.

Aramis, after a journey into Lorraine,
disappeared all at once, and ceased to
write to his friends; they learned at a
later period through Mme. de Chevreuse,
who told it to two or three of her
intimates, that, yielding to his
vocation, he had retired into a
convent--only into which, nobody knew.

Bazin became a lay brother.

Athos remained a Musketeer under the
command of D'Artagnan till the year
1633, at which period, after a journey
he made to Touraine, he also quit the
service, under the pretext of having
inherited a small property in
Roussillon.

Grimaud followed Athos.

D'Artagnan fought three times with
Rochefort, and wounded him three times.

"I shall probably kill you the fourth,"
said he to him, holding out his hand to
assist him to rise.

"It is much better both for you and for
me to stop where we are," answered the
wounded man.  "CORBLEU--I am more your
friend than you think--for after our
very first encounter, I could by saying
a word to the cardinal have had your
throat cut!"

They this time embraced heartily, and
without retaining any malice.

Planchet obtained from Rochefort the
rank of sergeant in the Piedmont
regiment.

M. Bonacieux lived on very quietly,
wholly ignorant of what had become of
his wife, and caring very little about
it.  One day he had the imprudence to
recall himself to the memory of the
cardinal.  The cardinal had him informed
that he would provide for him so that he
should never want for anything in
future.  In fact, M. Bonacieux, having
left his house at seven o'clock in the
evening to go to the Louvre, never
appeared again in the Rue des
Fossoyeurs; the opinion of those who
seemed to be best informed was that he
was fed and lodged in some royal castle,
at the expense of his generous Eminence.





