Excitement was at its height among the musketeers and their allies. They debated setting fire to the hôtel to punish the insolence of Monsieur de La Trémouille’s household for daring to attack King’s Musketeers. It looked like this proposal would be put into action, when fortunately the bells of the town struck eleven o’clock and d’Artagnan and his companions remembered their royal audience. They succeeded in calming the hotheads, who consoled themselves by hurling some paving stones at the gates of the mansion— but the gates wouldn’t budge, so they soon gave it up. Besides, their leaders had already left for the hôtel of Monsieur de Tréville, who was waiting for them, having heard of this latest outburst. “To the Louvre, and quickly,” he said, “to the Louvre without losing a moment. We must try to see the king before he’s swayed by the cardinal. We’ll describe this thing as a result of yesterday’s affair and the two will be disposed of together.”
Monsieur de Tréville, accompanied by the four young men, marched off 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 Saint-Germain. Tréville asked to have this news repeated to him twice, and each time his companions saw his face grow darker. He asked, “Did His Majesty have any plans yesterday for this hunt?”
“No, Your Excellency,” replied the valet de chambre. “This morning the Royal Huntsman reported the tracks of a great stag in the forest. At first the king said he wouldn’t go, but he can’t resist a good hunt, and after his morning meal he set out.”
“Has the king seen the cardinal?” asked Monsieur de Tréville.
“Probably,” answered the valet de chambre, “for this morning, when I saw the horses being harnessed to His Eminence’s carriage, I asked where he was going, and they said, ‘To Saint-Germain.’”
“We’ve been forestalled,” said Monsieur de Tréville. “Messieurs, I’ll see the king this evening, but as for you, I advise you not to risk it.”
This advice was too reasonable for the four young men to dispute it, especially since it came from a man who knew the king so well. Tréville recommended they go home and wait for news from him.
As he entered his own hôtel, it occurred to Tréville that it’s always best to be the first to lodge a complaint. He sent one of his footmen to the Duc de La Trémouille with a letter demanding the expulsion of the Cardinal’s Guards from his house and a reprimand to his people for their audacity in attacking the musketeers. But Monsieur de La Trémouille, already biased by his equerry, Bernajoux’s relative, replied that Tréville and the musketeers had no right to complain. On the contrary, the duke should be the one to complain, as it was his men the musketeers had attacked and his mansion they’d threatened to burn.
Tréville knew this sort of debate between two nobles could go on forever, each becoming more rigid in his position as time passed, so he decided on a course that might end it: he would make a personal call on Monsieur de La Trémouille. He immediately went to La Trémouille’s hôtel and had himself announced.
The two nobles saluted each other politely, for if they weren’t friends, they at least respected one another. Both were men of courage and honor, and as the Duc de La Trémouille, a Protestant who rarely saw the king, belonged to no faction, politics rarely colored his social interactions. However, this time the duke’s welcome, though polite, was colder than usual.
“Monsieur,” said Tréville, “we believe we each have cause to complain of the other, so I’ve come myself to see if we can clear up this affair.”
“Willingly,” replied La Trémouille, “but I warn you I’ve already inquired into it, and all the blame falls on your musketeers.”
“You are too just and reasonable a man not to accept the proposal I’m about to make to you,” Tréville said.
“I’m listening, Monsieur.”
“How fares your equerry’s relative, Monsieur Bernajoux?”
“Very poorly, Monsieur. Besides the sword wound in his arm, which isn’t really dangerous, he had another through the lung, and the doctor doesn’t like the look of it.”
“But he’s still conscious?”
“Quite.”
“Can he talk?”
“He can talk, but with difficulty.”
“Well, Monsieur! Let’s see him, and put him under oath to speak the truth before God, whom he may have to face all too soon. I’m willing to let him judge his own case and will abide by what he says.” La Trémouille reflected for a moment, but it was hard to think of anything more reasonable, so he accepted.
The two went down to the chamber where the wounded man lay. When Bernajoux saw the two noble lords enter he tried to sit up in bed, but he was too weak. Exhausted by the effort, he fell back and nearly passed out.
La Trémouille revived him with some smelling salts. Then Monsieur de Tréville, who didn’t want to be accused of intimidating a sick man, invited La Trémouille to question Bernajoux himself.
The questioning went as Tréville had foreseen. Hovering between life and death, Bernajoux had no intention of distorting the truth, and he told the two seigneurs exactly what had happened. This gave Tréville everything he wanted. He wished Bernajoux a speedy recovery, took his leave of La Trémouille, and returned to his hôtel, where he sent word inviting the four friends to dinner.
Monsieur de Tréville kept good company, though his guests were always anti-Cardinalist. It goes without saying that the conversation throughout dinner dwelled upon the two recent reverses suffered by His Eminence’s guards. As d’Artagnan had been the hero of both occasions, all congratulations fell on him, with the full approval of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. They were good comrades, and besides, they’d had their turn in the limelight so often they could afford to let d’Artagnan have his.
Around six o’clock Tréville announced it was time to go to the Louvre. The hour of their audience was long past, so instead of entering by the Petit Escalier, Tréville decided to await the king with his four young men in the main royal antechamber. When they arrived the king had not yet returned from the hunt, but they waited among the crowd of courtiers for no more than half an hour before the doors were thrown open and His Majesty was announced.
D’Artagnan felt himself tremble to the marrow of his bones. The next few moments would, in all probability, decide the rest of his life. He stared in an agony of suspense at the door through which the king would enter.
Louis XIII appeared first, in advance of his entourage. He was dressed for the hunt, wearing tall boots, carrying a whip, and coated head to toe with dust. At first glance, d’Artagnan could see the king was in an ugly mood.
The king’s obvious bad temper didn’t prevent the courtiers from ranging themselves along his path. In royal antechambers, it’s better to be seen by an angry eye than not to be seen at all. The three musketeers therefore stepped forward without hesitation, though d’Artagnan remained timidly behind them. But though the king knew Athos, Porthos, and Aramis personally, he passed without looking or speaking to them, acting as if he’d never seen them before. As for Tréville, when the eyes of the king paused for a moment on him, he sustained their regard so firmly that the king was the first to look aside. Then, grumbling, His Majesty passed into his chambers.
“The situation looks bad,” said Athos, smiling. “We won’t be made Knights of the Order this evening.”
“Wait here ten minutes,” said Monsieur de Tréville. “If by that time I haven’t come out, return to my hôtel, for it will be useless to wait any longer.”
The young men waited ten minutes; a quarter hour; twenty minutes; then, since Tréville didn’t reappear, they left, more than a little uneasy about what was to come.
Monsieur de Tréville boldly entered the king’s chambers, where he found His Majesty in a foul temper, seated on an armchair and beating the dust out of his boots with the butt of his whip. Undaunted, Tréville inquired about His Majesty’s health.
“Bad, Monsieur, bad,” answered the king. “I am bored
unto death.” This was Louis’s most frequent complaint. He would often beckon one of his courtiers to stare out the window with him, saying, “Come, Monsieur, let’s be bored together.”
“How! Your Majesty, bored?” said Tréville. “Didn’t you have the pleasure of the hunt today?”
“Some pleasure! Upon my soul, everything decays, decays . . . I don’t know whether it’s because the game leaves no scent anymore, or because the dogs have just lost their noses. We start a stag of ten points, chase him for six hours, and when we’re about to take him, when Saint-Simon is already putting the horn to his mouth to sound the halloo—zut! The entire pack takes off on a false scent, after a mere two-point buck. Soon I’ll have to give up riding to the hounds, as I’ve had to give up falconry. You know, I had only one decent gyrfalcon, and he died the day before yesterday. Oh, I’m a sad and unfortunate king, Monsieur de Tréville.”
“ Sire, that is indeed a great misfortune. No wonder you despair. But don’t you still have a good number of falcons, hawks, and tiercels?”
“With no one to train them! Good falconers are a thing of the past. No one but me knows the art of venery anymore. After me it will be gone, and people will hunt with pits, snares, and traps. If only I had time to train some apprentices! But Monsieur le Cardinal is always there, never giving me a moment’s rest, always talking to me about Spain, about Austria, about England! Devil take it! . . . But speaking of the cardinal, Monsieur de Tréville, I must say I’m quite displeased with you.”
Tréville had been waiting for this. He knew the king well, knew that all these complaints were just a preamble to encourage himself, and now he would finally get to the point.
“And in what way have I been so unfortunate as to displease Your Majesty?” asked Tréville in pretended astonishment.
“Is this how you fulfill your duty, Monsieur?” continued the king, without directly answering Tréville’s question. “Is it for this that I named you my Captain of Musketeers, for this: a man’s assassination, an entire quarter in riot, Paris nearly set ablaze—and you have nothing to say about it? But no doubt I’m hasty in accusing you, no doubt the perpetrators are already in prison, and you’ve come to announce that justice has been done.”
“No, Sire,” said Tréville calmly, “it’s justice I come to demand from you.”
“What? Against whom?” cried the king.
“Against libelers and scandalmongers,” said Monsieur de Tréville.
“Ah! That’s a new one,” replied the king. “Are you going to tell me that your three damned musketeers, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, and your cadet from Béarn, haven’t sprung like furies on poor Bernajoux and injured him so badly that by now he’s probably dead? Are you going to tell me that they didn’t lay siege to the hôtel of the Duc de La Trémouille, and that they didn’t try to burn it down? Of course, that might not be such a bad thing in times of war, since it’s a nest of Huguenots—but in peacetime, it sets a bad example! Speak! Isn’t this what you’re going to tell me?”
“And who has told you this fine story, Sire?” Tréville asked calmly.
“Who has told me this fine story, Monsieur? Who but he who watches while I sleep, who works while I play, who manages everything inside and outside the realm, in France as in Europe?”
“Your Majesty must be speaking of God,” said Tréville, “for only God can be so far above Your Majesty.”
“No, Monsieur, I speak of the buttress of the State, of my only servant, my only friend—Monsieur le Cardinal!”
“His Eminence is not His Holiness, Sire.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that only the pope is infallible, and that his infallibility doesn’t extend to his cardinals.”
“Do you mean to say he tricks me, betrays me? You accuse him, then? Come, speak—admit that you accuse him!”
“No, Sire; but I say that he makes mistakes; that he is ill-informed; that he has too hastily and unjustly accused Your Majesty’s musketeers, and has relied on information from poor sources.”
“This accusation comes from Monsieur de La Trémouille, from the duke himself! What do you say to that?”
“I might say, Sire, that he is too interested in the question to be an impartial judge, but I don’t say that—far from it. I know the duke for a loyal gentleman, and I’m willing to defer the entire matter to him—but on one condition, Sire.”
“And that is?”
“That Your Majesty summons him here, and interrogates him yourself, face to face, with no witnesses, and that I shall see Your Majesty as soon as you have finished with the duke.”
“Really?” said the king. “And you agree to bow to whatever Monsieur de La Trémouille says?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“You’ll accept his judgment?”
“Without question.”
“And you’ll submit to whatever reparations he requires?”
“Certainly.”
“La Chesnaye!” called the king. “La Chesnaye!”
Louis’s Confidential Valet de Chambre, who always stood just outside the door, entered and bowed.
“La Chesnaye,” said the King, “send someone right away to find me Monsieur de La Trémouille. I wish to speak with him this evening.”
Tréville said, “Your Majesty gives me your word you’ll see no one between La Trémouille and me?”
“Nobody, word of a gentleman.”
“Until tomorrow, then, Sire.”
“Until tomorrow, Monsieur.”
“At what hour will it please Your Majesty to see me?”
“At whatever hour you like.”
“But if I come too early, I fear I might wake Your Majesty.”
“Awaken me? Do you think I sleep? I never sleep anymore, Monsieur; I dream sometimes, that’s all. Come as early in the morning as you like, come at seven o’clock—but take care, if your musketeers are guilty!”
“If my musketeers are guilty, Sire, the guilty shall find themselves in the hands of Your Majesty, who will deal with them at your good pleasure. Does Your Majesty require anything more? Only speak; I’m ready to obey.”
“No, Monsieur, no. It’s not without reason I’m called Louis the Just. Until tomorrow, then, Monsieur, until tomorrow.”
“Till then, may God preserve Your Majesty.”
However little the king slept that night, Tréville slept still less. He had advised his three musketeers and their comrade to be back at his hôtel by half past six the next morning. When he left for the Louvre he took them along. He promised nothing, assuring them only that their future, and his, depended upon this roll of the royal dice.
When they arrived at the foot of the Petit Escalier, or the King’s Little Stair, His Majesty’s private entrance into the Louvre from an inside corner of the Cour Carrée, Tréville asked his men to wait. If the king was still angry with Tréville they could leave without being seen. If the king consented to receive him, he could easily send for his men.
In the king’s private antechamber Tréville found La Chesnaye, who told him they’d been unable locate the Duc de La Trémouille the night before until after it was too late for him to call at the Louvre. He’d only just now arrived for his audience and was in with the king as they spoke.
Tréville was very pleased with this turn of events, as it ensured that no one else would get a word in between La Trémouille’s audience and his own. In fact, scarcely ten minutes passed before the king’s study door opened and the Duc de La Trémouille came out. The duke saw Tréville and said, “Monsieur, His Majesty sent for me to ask for an account of the events that took place yesterday morning at my hôtel. I’ve told him the truth, that is to say, that the fault was with my people, and that I was prepared to offer you my excuses. Since I see you now, I ask that you receive them, and take me hereafter as one of your friends.”
“Monsieur le Duc,” said Tréville, “I was so confident of your integrity that I asked His Majesty for no other defender than yourself. I see that was
no mistake, and I’m grateful there’s still one man in France of whom one can speak well and not be proven wrong.”
“Good! Good!” said the king, who’d been listening to this exchange of compliments from the doorway. “Only, tell him, Tréville, since he wants to be one of your friends, that I also want to be one of his, but he neglects me. It’s been almost three years since I last saw him, and I never see him at all unless I send for him. Tell him all this for me, as there are some things a king can’t say for himself.”
“Thank you, Sire,” said the duke. “But Your Majesty should know that it’s not necessarily those you see every day—Monsieur de Tréville excepted—who are your most devoted servants.”
“Ah, you heard what I said! So much the better, Duke, so much the better,” said the king, advancing from the doorway. “So there you are, Tréville. Where are your musketeers? I told you the day before yesterday to bring them to me. Why haven’t you done so?”
“They are below, Sire, and at your leave La Chesnaye can call them to come up.”
“Yes, yes, have them come up right away. It’s nearly eight, and at nine I have an appointment. Go, Monsieur le Duc, but be sure to return. Come in, Tréville.”
The duke bowed and retired. As the door closed behind him, the three musketeers and d’Artagnan, conducted by La Chesnaye, appeared at the head of the staircase.
“Come in, mes braves, come in,” said the King. “I’m going to scold you.”
The musketeers advanced and bowed, d’Artagnan right behind them.
“What the devil!” continued the king. “Seven of His Eminence’s guards rendered hors de combat by you four in two days! That’s too many, Messieurs, too many. At this rate, His Eminence will have to replace his entire company in three weeks, and enforce the edicts with full rigor. One, now and then, I say nothing about, but seven in two days is far too many.”
“As you see, Sire, they come here contrite and wholly repentant, ready to make you their excuses.”
“Contrite and wholly repentant? Hah!” said the king. “I have no faith in their hypocritical faces. I see one lurking in the back who looks particularly Gascon. Come here, Monsieur.”
The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas - [Full Version] - (ANNOTATED) Page 9