“That’s true,” said d’Artagnan.
“Believe me,” said Tréville, “in ventures of this sort, you need to start out with four to be sure one arrives.”
“You’re right, Monsieur,” said d’Artagnan, “but you command Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, and it’s up to you to decide if they can help me.”
“Wouldn’t you have to share with them the secret I didn’t want to know?”
“The four of us are sworn to blind, mutual devotion no matter what. Besides, you can tell them you have complete confidence in me, and that will settle it.”
“Hmm. I can give them each a leave of fifteen days, but no more. I’ll send Athos, who still suffers from his wound, to the spa waters of Forges. Porthos and Aramis can accompany their friend, whom they wouldn’t want to abandon in his sad condition. My issuing their leaves of absence will prove that I authorize their journey.”
“You’re too kind, Monsieur! A thousand thanks!”
“Go and find them this minute, and get this business under way tonight. Ah! But you may have had a spy on your heels, so first write your request to Monsieur des Essarts. That way, if your visit here comes to the attention of the cardinal, it will be accounted for.” D’Artagnan jotted down his request and gave it to Tréville, who assured him that before two o’clock in the morning the leave papers would be at the homes of the four friends.
“Have the goodness to send mine to Athos’s place, if you please,” said d’Artagnan. “I’m afraid there’ll be trouble if I go home to mine.”
“Don’t worry. And now, adieu, and bon voyage!” said Monsieur de Tréville. Then, after a pause, he said, “No, wait—come back a moment.”
D’Artagnan returned.
“Have you any money?” Tréville asked.
For answer, d’Artagnan slapped the bulging purse in his pocket.
“Enough?” asked Tréville.
“Three hundred pistoles.”
“Well! You could go to the end of the world with that. Go, then.”
D’Artagnan bowed to Monsieur de Tréville, who gave him his hand; d’Artagnan took it with respect and gratitude. Since he’d arrived in Paris, he’d had nothing but good from this excellent man, whom he’d always found worthy, loyal, and generous.
His first visit was to Aramis. He hadn’t returned to the house of his friend since that evening when he’d followed Madame Bonacieux to his window. Since then, he’d scarcely seen the young musketeer, but each time he had, he’d sensed a deep sadness in his friend.
He found Aramis sitting up, somber and pensive. D’Artagnan asked a few cautious questions about this profound melancholy, but Aramis only gave as his excuse that he had to write a commentary on the eighteenth chapter of Saint Augustine in Latin for the following week, and it was that which preoccupied him.
After the two friends had been chatting for a few minutes, a servant from Monsieur de Tréville entered, carrying a sealed packet.
“What’s this?” asked Aramis.
“The leave papers Monsieur asked for,” replied the lackey.
“I haven’t asked for a leave!”
“Be still, and take it,” said d’Artagnan. “And you, my friend, here’s a half-pistole for your trouble. Tell Monsieur de Tréville that Monsieur Aramis is very much obliged to him. Go.”
The lackey bowed to the ground and departed.
“What’s this all about?” asked Aramis.
“Pack whatever you need for a fifteen-day journey, and follow me.”
“But I can’t leave Paris right now, not without knowing . . .” Aramis stopped.
“What’s become of her, is that it?” said d’Artagnan.
“Who?” said Aramis.
“The woman who was here, the woman of the embroidered handkerchief.”
Aramis turned pale as death. “Who told you there was a woman here?”
“I saw her.”
“And you know who she is?”
“I think I suspect, at least.”
“Listen,” said Aramis, “since you know so much, do you know what has become of her?”
“I presume she’s returned to Tours.”
“To Tours? It could be—I see you do know her. But how could she return to Tours without telling me?”
“Because she was afraid she’d be arrested.”
“But why didn’t she write to me?”
“Because she was afraid she might compromise you.”
“D’Artagnan, you restore me to life!” cried Aramis. “I thought I was scorned—betrayed, even. You know, I was so happy to see her again! I didn’t think she’d risk her liberty for me, but why else would she have returned to Paris?”
“For the cause that takes us today to England.”
“And what cause is that?” demanded Aramis.
“One day you’ll know, Aramis—but for the moment, I must imitate the discretion of the theologian’s niece.”
Aramis smiled, remembering the story he’d told his friends. “Well, then, since you’re sure she’s left Paris, nothing holds me back, and I’m ready to follow you. You say we’re going . . . ?”
“To Athos’s place, at the moment—and if you’re going with me, please hurry, as we’re losing precious time. By the way, tell Bazin.”
“Bazin is going with us?” asked Aramis.
“Maybe. In any case, it’s best that he follow us right now to Athos’s.”
Aramis called Bazin, and after ordering him to join them at Athos’s apartment, he took up his cloak, his sword, and three pistols, then opened several drawers to see if he could find a stray coin or two. But it was useless, so he followed d’Artagnan, while asking himself how it was that this young cadet of the guards should know the lady who’d visited him so well, knowing even better than him what had become of her.
As they were leaving, Aramis took d’Artagnan by the arms, looked him in the eye, and said, “Have you spoken of this woman to anyone?”
“To no one in the world.”
“Not even to Athos or Porthos?”
“I haven’t breathed a word to them.”
“Good.” With this important point settled, Aramis willingly followed d’Artagnan, and the two soon arrived at Athos’s lodgings.
They found him holding his leave papers in one hand and the letter from Monsieur de Tréville in the other. “Can you explain to me the significance of this leave and this letter I’ve just received?” said Athos, astonished. He quoted from the letter: “‘My dear Athos, it would be well, as your health requires it, to take fifteen days of rest. Go, then, and take the waters of Forges, or any others that you may find convenient, and recover. Your affectionate, Tréville.’”
D’Artagnan said, “These leave papers and this letter mean that you must follow me, Athos.”
“To the waters of Forges?”
“There—or elsewhere.”
“In the king’s service?”
“The king, or the queen. Are we not servants of both Their Majesties?”
At that moment, Porthos came in. “Pardieu!” he said. “Here’s a strange thing! Since when, in the musketeers, are men granted leaves of absence they haven’t asked for?”
“Since they have friends who ask for it for them,” said d’Artagnan.
“Ah ha!” said Porthos. “So something’s up, then?”
Aramis said, “Yes, we’re going . . .”
“Going? Going where?” demanded Porthos.
“My faith! I know nothing about it,” said Athos. “Ask d’Artagnan, here.”
“We go to London, Messieurs,” said d’Artagnan.
“To London!” cried Porthos. “What business do we have in London?”
“That’s what I can’t tell you, Gentlemen. You’ll just have to trust me.”
“But to go to London takes money, and I don’t have any,” Porthos boomed.
“Nor I,” said Aramis.
“Nor I,” said Athos.
“Well, I have,” said d’Artagnan. He pulled his purse from hi
s pocket and dropped it jingling on the table. “In this purse are three hundred pistoles. That ought to be enough to take us to London and back.” He shrugged. “But we probably won’t all make it to London anyway.”
“And why is that?”
“Because, in all probability, some of us will be left en route.”
“What is this we’re undertaking, a campaign?”
“Yes, and I must warn you, it’s a dangerous one.”
“But if we’re going to risk being killed,” said Porthos, “I’d very much like to know why, at least.”
“Much good that will do you!” said Athos.
“Nonetheless,” said Aramis, “I am of Porthos’s opinion.”
D’Artagnan said, “Is the king in the habit of giving you his reasons? No; he just says, ‘Messieurs, there is fighting in Gascony, or in Flanders; go there, and fight.’ And you go. You don’t bother yourself with why.”
“D’Artagnan is right,” said Athos. “Here are the leave papers from Monsieur de Tréville, and here are three hundred pistoles, from where I don’t know. Let’s go and get killed where we’re told. Is life really worth so many questions? D’Artagnan, I’m ready to follow you.”
“Me too,” said Porthos.
“And I, as well,” said Aramis. “Anyway, I’m not sorry to leave Paris. I can use a little distraction.”
“Well, you’ll have plenty of distractions, Messieurs, I promise you that,” said d’Artagnan.
“So, when do we leave?” said Athos.
“Right away,” d’Artagnan replied. “There’s not a moment to lose.”
“Grimaud! Planchet! Mousqueton! Bazin! Holà!” cried the four young men, calling their lackeys. “Shine my boots! Bring the horses from the hôtel!”
The musketeers kept their horses, and those of their lackeys, at the Hôtel de Tréville, which acted in town as a barracks. Planchet, Grimaud, Mousqueton, and Bazin departed at a run.
“Now, let’s lay out the plan of campaign,” said Porthos. “Where do we go first?”
“To Calais,” said d’Artagnan. “That’s the shortest route to London.”
“Well, here’s my advice,” said Porthos.
“Let’s hear it.”
“Four men traveling together would be suspicious, so we should split up. D’Artagnan will give each of us our instructions. I will go by way of Boulogne to clear the road; Athos will leave two hours later, and go by way of Amiens; Aramis will follow us through Noyon; and as for d’Artagnan, he’ll take whatever route he likes, but dressed as Planchet, while Planchet will follow d’Artagnan, but dressed in the uniform of the guards.”
“Messieurs,” said Athos, “my opinion is that lackeys should have nothing to do with such an affair. A secret might be betrayed accidentally by gentlemen, but it’s nearly always sold by lackeys.”
“Porthos, I’m afraid your plan won’t work,” said d’Artagnan, “since I don’t know myself what instructions to give you. I’m the bearer of a letter, nothing more. I can’t make three copies of the letter because it’s sealed, so it seems to me we must travel together.” He tapped the breast of his doublet. “The letter is here, in my pocket. If I’m killed, one of you must take it and continue on the road; if he’s killed, it’s another’s turn, and so on. Provided one of us arrives, that’s all that’s needed.”
“Bravo, d’Artagnan! Your opinion is mine,” said Athos. “Besides, we must be consistent with our story. I’m going to take the waters, with your companionship. But instead of the waters of Forges, I’ll go to take sea waters, as I’m free to choose. If we’re stopped, I’ll show Monsieur de Tréville’s letter and you will all show your leave papers. If we’re interrogated, we’ll maintain stubbornly that our only intention was to dip ourselves a few times in the sea.
“If we’re attacked, we’ll defend ourselves. They’d have an easy time of dealing with four isolated men, but four men together are a troop. We’ll arm our four lackeys with pistols and muskets. If they send an army against us, we’ll give battle—and the survivor, as d’Artagnan says, will carry the letter.”
“Well said!” cried Aramis. “You don’t speak often, Athos, but when you do, you’re like Saint John of the Golden Mouth. I endorse Athos’s plan. What about you, Porthos?”
“Me too,” said Porthos, “if it suits d’Artagnan. He’s the letter-bearer, so naturally he’s the general of this campaign. What he says, goes.”
“Very well,” said d’Artagnan, “I decide that we’ll adopt Athos’s plan and leave in one half-hour.”
“Agreed!” chorused the three musketeers.
And each one reached his hand into the purse, took seventy-five pistoles, and went off to prepare to depart at the appointed time.
XX
The Journey
At two o’clock in the morning, the four adventurers left Paris by Porte Saint-Denis. As long as it was night they were subdued and remained silent; despite themselves, they were oppressed by the darkness, and saw ambushes everywhere.
With the first light of day their tongues loosened, and their spirits rose with the sun. It was like the eve of battle: their hearts beat, their eyes laughed, and they felt the life they might be about to lose was, after all, a good thing.
Their cavalcade looked truly formidable. The musketeers’ black horses, and their warlike demeanor as they rode with the regular march of a cavalry squadron, would have betrayed them as gentleman soldiers no matter how they were disguised. Their lackeys followed, armed to the teeth.
All went well until Chantilly, which they reached at about eight in the morning. It was time for breakfast. They stopped at an inn with a sign that showed Saint Martin giving half his cloak to a pauper, which seemed to promise a generous hostelry. They ordered the lackeys to unsaddle the horses, but to hold themselves ready to depart immediately.
They entered the common room and sat at one of the long tables. A gentleman, who’d just arrived by the route from Dammartin, was sitting at the same table, eating his breakfast. He said something about the weather, and the travelers replied in kind; he drank their health, and the four friends returned the compliment.
Mousqueton came in to announce that the horses were ready, and they were just rising from the table when the stranger proposed to Porthos to drink the health of the cardinal. Porthos replied, “I ask nothing better, if you’ll join me in drinking the health of the king.”
The stranger leaped up from his bench, crying, “I recognize no king but His Eminence!”
“You must be drunk,” said Porthos.
“I may be drunk,” said the stranger, drawing his sword, “but you’ll answer for that!”
“This is folly,” said Athos, “but it can’t be helped now. Kill the man and rejoin us as quickly as you can.”
The three remounted their horses and departed at a good clip, as Porthos was promising to perforate his adversary with every thrust known to swordplay.
“One down!” said Athos, after five hundred paces.
“But of all of us, why did that man pick Porthos to quarrel with?” asked Aramis.
“Porthos talks the loudest, so he took him for our leader,” said d’Artagnan.
“I always said this Gascon cadet was a well of wisdom,” said Athos. And the travelers continued on their way.
They paused at Beauvais to breathe their horses and to wait for Porthos. He still hadn’t arrived after two hours, and there was no news of him, so they reluctantly resumed their journey.
A league beyond Beauvais, at a place where the road narrowed between two embankments, they met eight or ten men with shovels working on the roadbed, filling the ruts with mud. They were flinging it around rather freely, and Aramis, afraid they’d soil his boots, told them off rather sharply. Athos tried to restrain him, but it was too late. The workers began to jeer and heckle the travelers. They were so insolent they even irritated the usually cool-headed Athos, who rode his horse against the loudest of the gang.
At this, the men retreated to a brushy di
tch, and then reappeared, each with a loaded musket. They fired a volley and the cavalcade was literally riddled with musket-balls. Aramis took a ball through his shoulder, and Mousqueton another ball where the buttocks meet the thigh. Only Mousqueton fell from his horse—not because he was severely wounded, but because, since he couldn’t see the wound, he thought he was more dangerously hurt than he really was.
“It’s an ambush!” d’Artagnan shouted. “Don’t waste time shooting back! Ride on!”
Aramis, though wounded, gripped the mane of his horse, which carried him on with the others. After a few moments Mousqueton’s horse rejoined them and galloped along at their side.
“We can use that horse as a spare,” said Athos.
“I’d rather have a hat,” said d’Artagnan. “Mine was knocked off by a musket-ball. My faith, it’s a good thing I wasn’t carrying the letter in it.”
“But, damn it all, they’ll kill poor Porthos when he passes through,” Aramis said, through teeth gritted with pain.
“If Porthos were on his legs, he’d have rejoined us by now,” said Athos. “My guess is that, once they reached the dueling-ground, that drunkard was completely sober.”
They galloped on for two more hours, though their horses were so worn out they seemed on the verge of refusing their service. The travelers had detoured onto a side road, hoping that way to avoid trouble, but at Crèvecœur Aramis declared he could go no farther. In fact, it had taken all the courage he concealed beneath his elegant form and polite manners to carry him that far. He was growing more pale by the moment, and soon they had to support him on his horse. They put him down at the door of a cabaret and left Bazin with him, since if they got into a skirmish Aramis’s valet was really more embarrassing than useful. D’Artagnan and Athos then resumed their way, in hopes of sleeping that night in Amiens.
“Morbleu!” said Athos, as they left Crèvecœur. “Reduced to two masters, plus Grimaud and Planchet. Well, I won’t fall for their monkey tricks. I won’t open my mouth, or draw my sword between here and Calais. I swear . . .”
“Don’t waste your breath,” said d’Artagnan. “Let’s gallop, if our horses will consent to it.” They dug their spurs into their mounts’ flanks and the horses recovered some of their former speed.
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