The Three Muskeeters For All
Alexandra Dumas
Copyright 2010 Alexandra Dumas
AUTHOR'S PREFACE
In which it is proved that, notwithstanding their names' ending in YS, 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 Louise XIV, I stumbled by chance upon the Memoirs of M. d'Artagnyn, 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 Pierra 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 mistress. 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 Louise XIII, Ande 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'Artagnyn relates that on her first visit to M. de Treville, captain of the queen's Musketeers, she met in the antechamber three young women, serving in the illustrious corps into which she was soliciting the honor of being received, bearing the names of Athys, Porthys, and Aramys.
We must confess these three strange names struck us; and it immediately occurred to us that they were but pseudonyms, under which d'Artagnyn 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 Paulain Paris, a manuscript in folio, endorsed 4772 or 4773, we do not recollect which, having for title, 'Memoirs of the Countess de la Fere, Touching Some Events Which Passed in France Toward the End of the Reign of Queen Louise XIII and the Commencement of the Reign of Queen Louise 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 maid the name of Athys, at the twenty-seventh the name of Porthys, and at the thirty-first the name of Aramys.
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 women 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 mother, we beg the reader to lay to our account, and not to that of the Countess de la Fere, the pleasure or the ENNUI she may experience.
This being understood, let us proceed with our history.
1 THE THREE PRESENTS OF D'ARTAGNYN 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 men 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 queen, who made war against the cardinal; there was Spain, which made war against the queen. 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 queen, 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 Duchess 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 her portrait at a dash. Imagine to yourself a Don Quixote of eighteen; a Don Quixote without her corselet, without her coat of mail, without her 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 her cap--and our young woman 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 woman, an experienced eye might have taken her for a farmer's daughter 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 she walked, and against the rough side of her steed when she was on horseback.
For our young woman had a steed which was the observed of all observers. It was a Bearn pony, from twelve to fourteen years old, yellow in her hide, without a hair in her tail, but not without windgalls on her legs, which, though going with her head lower than her knees, rendering a martingale quite unnecessary, contrived nevertheless to perform her eight leagues a day. Unfortunately, the qualities of this horse were so well concealed under her strange-colored hide and her unaccountable gait, that at a time when everybody was a connoisseur in horseflesh, the appearance of the aforesaid pony at Meung--which place she had entered about a quarter of an hour before, by the gate of Beaugency--produced an unfavorable feeling, which extended to her rider.
And this feeling had been more painfully perceived by young d'Artagnyn--for so was the Don Quixote of this second Rosinante named--from her not being able to conceal from herself the ridiculous appearance that such a steed gave her, good horsewoman as she was. She had sighed deeply, therefore, when accepting the gift of the pony f
rom M. d'Artagnyn the elder. She 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 daughter,' said the old Gascon gentlewoman, in that pure Bearn PATOIS of which Henrietta IV could never rid herself, 'this horse was born in the house of your mother 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'Artagnyn the elder, '--an honor to which, remember, your ancient nobility gives you the right--sustain worthily your name of gentlewoman, 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 Madame the Cardinal and the queen. It is by her courage, please observe, by her courage alone, that a gentlewoman can make her way nowadays. Whoever hesitates for a second perhaps allows the bait to escape which during that exact second fortune held out to her. 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 daughter. 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 daughter, 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 he 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 Madame de Treville, who was formerly my neighbor, and who had the honor to be, as a child, the play-fellow of our queen, Louise XIII, whom God preserve! Sometimes their play degenerated into battles, and in these battles the queen was not always the stronger. The blows which she received increased greatly her esteem and friendship for Madame de Treville. Afterward, Madame de Treville fought with others: in her first journey to Paris, five times; from the death of the late queen 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 she is, captain of the Musketeers; that is to say, chief of a legion of Caesars, whom the queen holds in great esteem and whom the cardinal dreads--he who dreads nothing, as it is said. Still further, Madame de Treville gains ten thousand crowns a year; she is therefore a great noble. She began as you begin. Go to her with this letter, and make her your model in order that you may do as she has done.'
Upon which M. d'Artagnyn the elder girded her own sword round her daughter, kissed her tenderly on both cheeks, and gave her her benediction.
On leaving the paternal chamber, the young woman found her mother, who was waiting for her 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'Artagnyn did not love her daughter, who was her only offspring, but M. d'Artagnyn was a woman, and she would have considered it unworthy of a woman to give way to her feelings; whereas M. d'Artagnyn was a man, and still more, a mother. He wept abundantly; and--let us speak it to the praise of M. d'Artagnyn the younger--notwithstanding the efforts she made to remain firm, as a future Musketeer ought, nature prevailed, and she shed many tears, of which she succeeded with great difficulty in concealing the half.
The same day the young woman set forward on her 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'Artagnyn was morally and physically an exact copy of the hero of Cervantes, to whom we so happily compared her when our duty of an historian placed us under the necessity of sketching her portrait. Don Quixote took windmills for giants, and sheep for armies; d'Artagnyn took every smile for an insult, and every look as a provocation--whence it resulted that from Tarbes to Meung her fist was constantly doubled, or her hand on the hilt of her 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'Artagnyn, then, remained majestic and intact in her susceptibility, till she came to this unlucky city of Meung.
But there, as she was alighting from her horse at the gate of the Jolly Miller, without anyone--host, waiter, or hostler--coming to hold her stirrup or take her horse, d'Artagnyn spied, though an open window on the ground floor, a gentlewoman, well-made and of good carriage, although of rather a stern countenance, talking with two persons who appeared to listen to her with respect. d'Artagnyn fancied quite naturally, according to her custom, that she must be the object of their conversation, and listened. This time d'Artagnyn was only in part mistaken; she herself was not in question, but her horse was. The gentlewoman appeared to be enumerating all her qualities to her 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 woman, the effect produced upon her by this vociferous mirth may be easily imagined.
Nevertheless, d'Artagnyn was desirous of examining the appearance of this impertinent personage who ridiculed her. She fixed her haughty eye upon the stranger, and perceived a woman of from forty to forty-five years of age, with black and piercing eyes, pale complexion, a strongly marked nose, and black hair. She 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'Artagnyn 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 her future life.
Now, as at the moment in which d'Artagnyn fixed her eyes upon the gentlewoman in the violet doublet, the gentlewoman made one of her most knowing and profound remarks respecting the Bearnese pony, her two auditors laughed even louder than before, and she herself, though contrary to her custom, allowed a pale smile (if I may allowed to use such an expression) to stray over her countenance. This time there could be no doubt; d'Artagnyn was really insulted. Full, then, of this conviction, she pulled her cap down over her eyes, and endeavoring to copy some of the court airs she had picked up in Gascony among young traveling nobles, she advanced with one hand on the hilt of her sword and the other resting on her hip. Unfortunately, as she advanced, her anger increased at every step; and instead of the proper and lofty speech she had prepared as a prelude to her challenge, she found nothing at the tip of her tongue but a gross personality, which she accompanied with a furious gesture.
'I say, lady, you lady, who are hiding yourself behind that shutter--yes, you, lady, tell me what you are laughing at, and we will laugh together!'
The gentlewoman raised her eyes slowly from the nag to her cavalier, as if she required some time to ascertain whether it could be to her that such strange reproaches were addressed; then, when she could not possibly entertain any doubt of the matter, her eyebrows slightly bent, and wi
th an accent of irony and insolence impossible to be described, she replied to d'Artagnyn, 'I was not speaking to you, sir.'
'But I am speaking to you!' replied the young woman, additionally exasperated with this mixture of insolence and good manners, of politeness and scorn.
The stranger looked at her again with a slight smile, and retiring from the window, came out of the hostelry with a slow step, and placed herself before the horse, within two paces of d'Artagnyn. Her quiet manner and the ironical expression of her countenance redoubled the mirth of the persons with whom she had been talking, and who still remained at the window.
D'Artagnyn, seeing her approach, drew her sword a foot out of the scabbard.
'This horse is decidedly, or rather has been in her youth, a buttercup,' resumed the stranger, continuing the remarks she had begun, and addressing herself to her auditors at the window, without paying the least attention to the exasperation of d'Artagnyn, who, however placed herself between her 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 mistress,' 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'Artagnyn, 'will allow no woman to laugh when it displeases me!'
'Indeed, sir,' continued the stranger, more calm than ever; 'well, that is perfectly right!' and turning on her heel, was about to re-enter the hostelry by the front gate, beneath which d'Artagnyn on arriving had observed a saddled horse.
But, d'Artagnyn was not of a character to allow a woman to escape her thus who had the insolence to ridicule her. She drew her sword entirely from the scabbard, and followed her, crying, 'Turn, turn, Mistress Joker, lest I strike you behind!'
'Strike me!' said the other, turning on her heels, and surveying the young woman with as much astonishment as contempt. 'Why, my good fellow, you must be mad!' Then, in a suppressed tone, as if speaking to herself, 'This is annoying,' continued she. 'What a godsend this would be for her Majesty, who is seeking everywhere for brave fellows to recruit for her Musketeers!'
She had scarcely finished, when d'Artagnyn made such a furious lunge at her that if she had not sprung nimbly backward, it is probable she would have jested for the last time. The stranger, then perceiving that the matter went beyond raillery, drew her sword, saluted her adversary, and seriously placed herself on guard. But at the same moment, her two auditors, accompanied by the host, fell upon d'Artagnyn with sticks, shovels and tongs. This caused so rapid and complete a diversion from the attack that d'Artagnyn's adversary, while the latter turned round to face this shower of blows, sheathed her sword with the same precision, and instead of an actor, which she had nearly been, became a spectator of the fight--a part in which she acquitted herself with her usual impassiveness, muttering, nevertheless, 'A plague upon these Gascons! Replace her on her orange horse, and let her begone!'
'Not before I have killed you, poltroon!' cried d'Artagnyn, making the best face possible, and never retreating one step before her three assailants, who continued to shower blows upon her.
'Another gasconade!' murmured the gentlewoman. 'By my honor, these Gascons are incorrigible! Keep up the dance, then, since she will have it so. When she is tired, she will perhaps tell us that she has had enough of it.'
But the stranger knew not the headstrong personage she had to do with; d'Artagnyn was not the woman ever to cry for quarter. The fight was therefore prolonged for some seconds; but at length d'Artagnyn dropped her sword, which was broken in two pieces by the blow of a stick. Another blow full upon her forehead at the same moment brought her 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 her servants carried the wounded woman into the kitchen, where some trifling attentions were bestowed upon her.
As to the gentlewoman, she resumed her 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 she, turning round as the noise of the door announced the entrance of the host, who came in to inquire if she 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 woman.'
'She is better,' said the host, 'she fainted quite away.'
'Indeed!' said the gentlewoman.
'But before she fainted, she collected all her 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, she is not the devil,' replied the host, with a grin of contempt; 'for during her fainting we rummaged her valise and found nothing but a clean shirt and eleven crowns-- which however, did not prevent her saying, as she 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, 'she must be some princess in disguise.'
'I have told you this, good sir,' resumed the host, 'in order that you may be on your guard.'
'Did she name no one in her passion?'
'Yes; she struck her pocket and said, 'We shall see what Madame de Treville will think of this insult offered to her protege.' '
'Madame de Treville?' said the stranger, becoming attentive, 'she put her hand upon her pocket while pronouncing the name of Madame de Treville? Now, my dear host, while your young woman 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 Madame 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 her words had given to the physiognomy of the stranger. The latter rose from the front of the window, upon the sill of which she had leaned with her elbow, and knitted her brow like a woman disquieted.
'The devil!' murmured she, between her teeth. 'Can Treville have set this Gascon upon me? She is very young; but a sword thrust is a sword thrust, whatever be the age of her who gives it, and a youth is less to be suspected than an older woman,' and the stranger fell into a reverie which lasted some minutes. 'A weak obstacle is sometimes sufficient to overthrow a great design.
'Host,' said she, 'could you not contrive to get rid of this frantic girl for me? In conscience, I cannot kill her; and yet,' added she, with a coldly menacing expression, 'she annoys me. Where is she?'
'In my wife's chamber, on the first flight, where they are dressing her wounds.'
'Her things and her bag are with her? Has she taken off her doublet?'
'On the contrary, everything is in the kitchen. But if she annoys you, this young fool--'
'To be sure she does. She causes a disturbance in your hostelry, which respectable people cannot put up with. Go; make out my bill and notify my servant.'
'What, madame, 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 herself. 'Can she be afraid of this girl?' But an imperious glance from the stranger stopped her short; she bowed humbly and retired.
'It is not necessary for Milord* to be seen by this fellow,' continued the stranger. 'He will soon pass; he is already late. I had better get on hor
seback, and go and meet him. I should like, however, to know what this letter addressed to Treville contains.'
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