The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas - [Full Version] - (ANNOTATED)

by Alexandre Dumas

So Bazin was at the apex of joy. It seemed to him that this time his master really meant to go through with it. The combination of physical suffering and a bout of melancholy had produced the effect so long desired: Aramis, afflicted in body and soul, had at last set his eyes and his thoughts on religion. He viewed the double accident that had befallen him—the wound to his shoulder and the complete disappearance of his mistress—as a warning from Heaven.

  So one can well imagine why, given his master’s present disposition, nothing could be more disagreeable to Bazin than the arrival of d’Artagnan, an event that might draw his master back into the turmoil of worldly affairs that had so long distracted him. Bazin resolved to defend the door bravely. Since he’d been betrayed by the inn’s hostess he couldn’t get away with saying that Aramis was out, so he tried to persuade the new arrival that it would be the height of impropriety to disturb his master during such a pious conference. It had begun that morning, according to Bazin, and probably wouldn’t end before nightfall.

  But d’Artagnan ignored Master Bazin’s eloquent plea. He had no intention of getting into a debate with his friend’s valet and simply pushed him aside with one hand, while with the other he turned the handle of the door to No. 5.

  The portal opened and d’Artagnan entered the chamber.

  Aramis, in a black robe, with a sort of round, flat skullcap on his head, was seated before an oblong table covered with rolls of paper and enormous bound folios. At his right sat the Jesuit superior, and at his left the curate. The curtains were drawn and admitted only the mysterious half-light necessary for mystical reveries. All the everyday things one usually sees when entering a young man’s room, especially if that young man is a musketeer, had disappeared as if by magic—for, doubtless fearing the sight of them might give his master worldly ideas, Bazin had taken away sword, pistols, hat, plume, and every evidence of embroidery, lace, and decoration. In place of them, in a dark corner, d’Artagnan thought he could see a knotted scourge hanging from a nail in the wall.

  At the sound of d’Artagnan coming through the door, Aramis raised his head and recognized his friend. But to the young man’s great astonishment, the sight didn’t appear to produce much of an impression on the musketeer, so completely was his spirit detached from worldly things.

  “Bonjour, dear d’Artagnan,” said Aramis. “Believe me, I’m very happy to see you.”

  “The same for me,” said d’Artagnan, “though I’m not sure it’s really Aramis I’m talking to.”

  “It’s me, my friend, it’s me. What makes you doubt it?”

  “I was afraid I’d picked the wrong chamber and that I’d entered the cell of some man of the Church. Then another fear took me when I found you in the company of these gentlemen: I was afraid you were seriously ill.”

  The two men in black, who guessed what d’Artagnan was up to, stabbed him with menacing glares, but d’Artagnan paid them no mind.

  “Maybe I’m disturbing you, my dear Aramis,” continued d’Artagnan, “for, based on what I see here, it looks as if you’re confessing to these gentlemen.”

  Aramis blushed faintly. “Disturbing me? You? On the contrary, cher ami—I swear it. And as proof, allow me to say that I rejoice to see you safe and sound.”

  Ah! He’ll come around yet! thought d’Artagnan. That’s not bad.

  “Monsieur, here, who is my friend,” Aramis continued smoothly, indicating d’Artagnan with an elegant gesture, “has just escaped from serious peril.”

  “Praise God, Monsieur,” the pair responded, bowing in unison.

  “I haven’t failed to do so, Your Reverences,” replied the young man, returning their salute.

  “Your arrival is well-timed, dear d’Artagnan,” said Aramis, “and by joining in our discussion, you may enlighten us with your clear thinking. Monsieur the Superior of Amiens, Monsieur the Curate of Montdidier, and I are debating certain theological questions that have occupied us all morning. I’d be delighted to have your opinion.”

  “The opinion of a man of the sword doesn’t carry much weight,” replied d’Artagnan, who was beginning to feel uneasy at the turn things were taking. “Believe me, you’d better rely on the expertise of these gentlemen.”

  The two men in black bowed.

  “On the contrary,” replied Aramis, “your opinion is vital. Here’s the issue at hand. Monsieur le Supérieur thinks that my thesis should be both dogmatic and didactic.”

  “Your thesis! You’re working on a thesis?”

  “Necessarily,” said the Jesuit. “A thesis is de rigueur for the examination that precedes ordination.”

  “Ordination!” cried d’Artagnan, who hadn’t really believed what he’d been told by the hostess and by Bazin. “Ordination!” He gazed, stupefied, at the three black-clad figures before him.

  “Now,” continued Aramis, reclining as gracefully in his armchair as if adorning a Paris salon and complacently examining his hand, as soft and white as a lady’s, while holding it up so the blood would drain from it. “Now, as you’ve heard, d’Artagnan, Monsieur le Supérieur wants my thesis to be dogmatic, while I would prefer it to be idealized. Thus Monsieur le Supérieur had proposed to me the following subject, which has not been adequately addressed, and in which I admit there is material for magnificent development. To wit: ‘Utraque manus in benedicendo clericis inferioribus necessaria est.’”

  D’Artagnan, whose lack of erudition has already been touched upon, showed no more understanding of this Latin quote than he had of Monsieur de Tréville’s about the gifts received from the Duke of Buckingham.

  “That is to say,” Aramis said, for his friend’s benefit, “that two hands are indispensable when priests of the lower orders are bestowing benedictions.”

  “Such an admirable subject!” cried the Jesuit.

  “Admirable and dogmatic!” added the curate, whose Latin was actually no stronger than d’Artagnan’s, so he kept a close watch on the Jesuit to keep pace with him, and repeated his words like an echo.

  As for d’Artagnan, he couldn’t quite muster the same enthusiasm for the subject as the two men in black.

  “Admirable, yes! Prorsus admirabile!” continued Aramis. “But it requires an exegesis and profound study of the Fathers and the Scriptures. Now, I’ve confessed to these learned ecclesiastics, and this in all humility, that spending my evenings mounting guard in the service of the king has made me neglect study a bit. So I would find myself more at ease, facilius natans, in a subject of my own choice, which would be to these severe theological questions what morals are to metaphysics in philosophy.”

  “Such an exordium!” cried the Jesuit.

  D’Artagnan was already exhausted—as was the curate. “Exordium,” repeated the curate, trying to keep up.

  “Quemadmodum minter coelorum immensitatem,” added the Jesuit.

  Aramis glanced at d’Artagnan and saw his friend’s jaw gaping open. “Let’s speak French, mon Père,” he said to the Jesuit. “Monsieur d’Artagnan will be all the more edified by what we have to say.”

  “Yes, I’m tired from traveling,” said d’Artagnan, “and all this Latin is escaping me.”

  “But of course,” said the Jesuit, irritated—while the curate, who was thrilled, shot d’Artagnan a look of gratitude. The Jesuit cleared his throat. “Very well, let’s see what we can derive from this gloss. Moses, the servant of God—and, mark my words, he was no more than a servant! Moses blessed with his hands; he held out both arms, to bless the Hebrews as they slaughtered their enemies. I repeat, he blessed them with two hands. Besides, as says the Gospel: Imponite manus—not manum. Present the hands, not the hand.”

  “Present the hands,” repeated the curate, making the gesture.

  “Saint Peter, on the other hand—ahem—of whom the popes are the successors,” continued the Jesuit, “said, Ponige digitos. Present the fingers. You see?”

  “Certainly,” replied Aramis, enjoying himself, “but the thing is subtle.”

  “The fingers!” sa
id the Jesuit. “Saint Peter blessed with the fingers. The pope, therefore, also blesses with the fingers. And with how many fingers does he bless? With three fingers: one for the Father, one for the Son, and one for the Holy Spirit.”

  Everyone crossed himself, including d’Artagnan, who thought he ought to follow their example.

  “The pope is the successor to Saint Peter,” continued the Jesuit, “and represents the Trinity; the rest of the ecclesiastical hierarchy, ordines inferiores, blesses in the name of the holy archangels and angels. The humblest clerics, such as deacons and sacristans, bless with holy-water sprinklers, which simulate an infinite number of blessing fingers. And that’s the subject, simplified: argumentum omni denudatum ornamento. Though I could expand it into two volumes the size of this one.” And, in his enthusiasm, he rapped a Saint Chrysostom folio so big that it bowed the table with its weight.

  D’Artagnan shuddered.

  “Certes,” said Aramis, “I acknowledge in all justice the beauty of this thesis. But, at the same time, I humbly recognize that it would be overwhelming for me. I’d chosen another text—and tell me, d’Artagnan, if this isn’t more to your taste: ‘Non inutile est desiderium in oblatione.’ Or, in other words: ‘A little regret is not unbecoming in an offering to the Lord.’”

  “Stop right there!” cried the Jesuit. “That’s a thesis that verges upon heresy! There’s a proposition similar to it in the Augustinus of the heresiarch Jansenius,74 whose book, sooner or later, will be burned by the Inquisitors. Take care, my young friend! You are leaning toward false doctrines. Take care, or you’ll be lost!”

  “You’ll be lost,” said the curate, shaking his head sorrowfully.

  “You approach the notorious question of free will, which is a deadly reef. You’re on the brink of addressing the implications of the Pelagians, not to mention the semi-Pelagians.”

  “But, Most Reverend,” said Aramis, a bit stunned by the hail of arguments raining on his head.

  “How will you prove,” said the Jesuit, overriding him, “that we should 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 mine as well,” said the curate.

  “But for heaven’s sake . . .” said Aramis.

  “Desideras diabolum, O wretched youth!” cried the Jesuit.

  “He regrets the devil! Oh, my young friend,” moaned the curate, “do not regret the devil, I beg of you!”

  D’Artagnan thought he was losing his mind. He seemed to have stumbled into a madhouse, and he felt as if he was becoming as crazy as everyone else. But he held his tongue, as he couldn’t understand half of what they were saying.

  “Hear me out,” said Aramis politely, but with an edge of impatience. “I don’t say regret; I’d never say that, it wouldn’t be orthodox . . .”

  The Jesuit raised his arms toward heaven, and the curate did the same.

  “At least you can agree with me that it would be unbecoming to offer to the Lord that with which we’re completely disgusted,” said Aramis. “Am I right, d’Artagnan?”

  “By God! I should say so,” he cried.

  The curate and the Jesuit almost jumped from their chairs.

  “The point I start from is the following syllogism,” Aramis continued. “The world doesn’t lack for attractions; I give up the world, so I make a sacrifice. Now, Scripture positively says, ‘Make a sacrifice unto the Lord.’”

  “That is true . . .” said his antagonists.

  “So, then,” continued Aramis, pinching his ear to redden it and rubbing his hands to make them whiter, “I made a little rondeau on this last year and showed it to Monsieur Voiture,75 who gave me a thousand compliments on it.”

  “A rondeau!” said the Jesuit, disdainfully.

  “A rondeau,” repeated the curate, mechanically.

  “Let’s hear it! Let’s hear it!” cried d’Artagnan. “It will be a welcome change.”

  “Not at all, for it’s religious,” said Aramis. “It’s theology in verse.”

  “Diable!” said d’Artagnan.

  “Here it is,” said Aramis modestly, not without a touch of hypocrisy:

  “You who weep for times now gone,

  “Whose days are filled with strife and fears,

  “All your sorrows will be done,

  “When to God you offer your tears,

  “You who weep.”

  D’Artagnan and the curate rather liked it—but the Jesuit persisted in his disapproval. “Beware of profane tendencies in theological matters,” he warned. “What did Saint Augustine say? ‘Severus sit clericorum sermo.’”

  “‘The sermon should be clear’,” said the curate.

  “Now,” the Jesuit hastily interrupted, seeing his acolyte going astray, “your thesis would please the ladies, of course—it would have the success of one of Maître Patru’s sermons.”

  “May it please God!” cried Aramis, transported.

  “You see?” cried the Jesuit. “The world still speaks in you in a loud voice, altissima voce. You follow the world, my young friend, and I tremble lest efficacious grace not serve to save you.”

  “Rest assured, Most Reverend, I can answer for myself.”

  “Worldly presumption!”

  “I know myself, mon Père. My resolution is irrevocable.”

  “Then you persist in pursuing that thesis?”

  “I feel myself called to address that one and no other. I’m going to continue to refine it, and tomorrow I hope you’ll be satisfied with the emendations I’ve made, thanks to your advice.”

  “Work not in haste,” said the curate. “We leave you in an excellent disposition.”

  “Yes, the furrows are all sown,” said the Jesuit, “and we needn’t fear that a single seed of grain has fallen on stone, or along the road, or that the birds of heaven have eaten the rest, ‘aves coeli coznederunt illam.’”

  “Plague take you with your Latin!” said d’Artagnan, who was at the end of his rope. He’d been gnawing his nails with impatience for the last hour and was beginning to work on the surrounding skin.

  “Adieu, my son,” said the curate, “until tomorrow.”

  “Until tomorrow, reckless youth,” said the Jesuit. “You promise to become one of the lights of the Church; may heaven grant that this light be not a devouring fire!”

  The two men in black rose, bowed to Aramis and d’Artagnan, and advanced toward the door. Bazin, who’d been standing and listening to all this controversy with pious joy, sprang toward them, took the curate’s breviary and the Jesuit’s missal, and marched respectfully before them to clear their way.

  Aramis conducted them to the foot of the stairs, and then immediately came back up to d’Artagnan, who was still dazed.

  Left alone, the two friends regarded each other in a wary and embarrassed silence. However, somebody had to be first to break the ice, and as d’Artagnan appeared determined to leave that honor to his friend, Aramis said, “You see that I’ve returned to my original path.”

  “Yes, efficacious grace has touched you, as monsieur the Jesuit said.”

  “Oh, my plan to retreat from the world was formed long ago. You’ve heard me speak of it, haven’t you, mon ami?”

  “Yes, but I confess I always thought you were joking.”

  “Joking, on such matters? Oh, d’Artagnan!”

  “Dame! We joke about death, don’t we?”

  “And wrongly so, d’Artagnan. Death is the door that takes us to perdition or salvation.”

  “All right, fine. But let’s put theology aside. You must have had enough for today; as for me, I’ve just about forgotten what little Latin I ever knew. Plus, I must confess I’ve had nothing to eat since ten o’clock this morning, and I’m devilish hungry.”

  “We dine directly, my friend—only, you must recall that it’s Friday, on which day I can’t eat meat or see it eaten. I hope you’ll be content with sharin
g my dinner—we’re having tetragons and fruit.”

  “What do you mean by tetragons?” d’Artagnan asked uneasily.

  “I mean spinach,” replied Aramis, “but for you I’ll add some eggs—though it’s a grave infraction of the rules, for eggs are meat, since they engender chickens.”

  “Not a very succulent feast, but never mind—I’ll put up with it, to be with you.”

  “Thank you for making such a sacrifice,” said Aramis. “It may not do much for your body, but rest assured, it will elevate your soul.”

  “So, you’ve definitely decided to join the Church? What will our friends say? And Monsieur de Tréville? They’ll regard you as a deserter, I warn you.”

  “I’m not joining the Church, I’m rejoining it. It’s the Church that I deserted for the world, and you know I betrayed my true self when I put on the tabard of a musketeer.”

  “No, I know nothing about it.”

  “You don’t know how I left the seminary?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “Then I’ll give you my history. Besides, the Scriptures say, ‘confess unto others,’ so I’ll confess unto you, d’Artagnan.”

  “I give you absolution in advance. See what a good friend I am?” “Don’t joke about sacred things, mon ami.”

  “All right—speak, then. I’m listening.”

  “I’d been at seminary since the age of nine; I was three days short of turning twenty; I was planning to become an abbot, and that was that. One evening, as was my habit, I’d gone to a certain house of joy that I visited frequently and pleasurably—I was young, and what would you have? Youth is weakness. An officer of the guard entered suddenly, unannounced, as I was reading The Lives of the Saints to the mistress of the house. I was reading an episode of Judith to her, which I’d translated into verse. The lady was paying me all sorts of compliments, and just at that moment she was leaning right up against me as we read the passage over again. The officer had a jealous eye for this lady, and her position, which I must admit was rather intimate, wounded his feelings. He said nothing—but when I left, he followed me and brought me up short.

  “‘Monsieur l’Abbé,’ he said, ‘do you like canings?’