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

by Alexandre Dumas

  He walked around the Place Royale five or six times, turning every ten paces or so to look at the light shining from between the window blinds in Milady’s chambers. This time, it seemed, the young woman was not quite so eager to retire to her bedchamber as she’d been for “de Wardes.”

  Eventually, the light winked out.

  D’Artagnan’s last hesitation disappeared with the light. He recalled the details of his first night with Milady and, heart pounding, brain afire, he reentered her hôtel and raced up to Kitty’s room.

  The young girl, pale as a corpse, trembling in every limb, tried to stop her lover—but Milady, alert, had heard the sound of d’Artagnan’s entrance. She opened the door to her bedchamber.

  “Come in,” she said.

  This was so brazen, so incredibly shameless, that d’Artagnan could scarcely believe what he saw or heard. He felt as if he’d fallen into one of those fantastic situations one meets only in dreams.

  He nonetheless flew into Milady’s arms, drawn to her like iron to a lodestone. The door shut solidly behind them.

  Kitty threw herself at that door. Jealousy, fury, outraged pride— all the passions that roil the heart of a woman in love—tempted her to reveal everything to Milady. But she would be ruined if she confessed to playing a part in such a plot—and, worst of all, d’Artagnan would be lost to her forever. This last, loving thought persuaded her to make the final sacrifice.

  As for d’Artagnan, he had finally achieved the object of all his desires. No longer was it a rival who was loved, but he himself—or at least, so it appeared. A little voice in the back of his mind whispered to him that he was no more than an instrument of revenge, beloved until he repaid her caresses with death. But pride, conceit, and a fever of passion combined to drown out this voice. Besides, when the enormously self-confident Gascon compared himself to de Wardes, he asked why, all things considered, he shouldn’t be loved for himself?

  He abandoned himself entirely to the sensations of the moment. For him, Milady was no longer that woman of fatal intentions who had briefly terrified him. She was an ardent and passionate mistress whose complete surrender to him seemed to prove her love.

  Two hours passed in this way.

  Eventually, their passions were spent. Milady, whose motives were not at all the same as d’Artagnan’s, was quick to return to her agenda. She interrogated the young man as to whether he already had a plan for his encounter with de Wardes the next day.

  But d’Artagnan, who had other things on his mind, forgot himself and responded with foolish gallantry, saying this was no time concern themselves with duels and sword-thrusts.

  D’Artagnan’s lack of interest in the only thing that mattered to Milady alarmed her, and her questions grew more pointed. D’Artagnan, who had never seriously considered this impossible duel, tried to change the subject, but failed miserably. Milady kept him to the subject by the sheer force of her irresistible spirit and iron will.

  D’Artagnan then thought it would be clever to advise Milady to pardon de Wardes and give up her vindictive scheme. But at the first words he said in this vein, she started and drew back. “Are you afraid, dear d’Artagnan?” she said, in a shrill, mocking tone that echoed strangely in the darkened room.

  “You can’t think that, sweetheart!” replied d’Artagnan. “But, just suppose this poor Comte de Wardes is less guilty than you think.”

  “In any event, he’s deceived me,” said Milady gravely, “and from the moment he did so, he deserved to die.”

  “Then die he shall, since you condemn him!” d’Artagnan said firmly. His tone reassured Milady of his devotion, and she immediately drew closer to him.

  No one can say how long the night seemed to Milady, but to d’Artagnan it seemed that no more than a couple of hours had passed before the pale light of dawn crept through the blinds and infiltrated Milady’s bedchamber. As d’Artagnan prepared to go, Milady reminded him of his promise to avenge her on de Wardes.

  “I’m ready,” said d’Artagnan, “but first I must be certain of something.”

  “Of what?” asked Milady.

  “That you love me.”

  “It seems to me I’ve given you proof of that!”

  “Yes—and I’m yours, body and soul.”

  “Then thank you, my brave lover! But now that I’ve proven my love, you must prove yours. Isn’t that so?”

  “Certainly,” replied d’Artagnan. “But if you love me as you say, aren’t you just a little bit afraid for me?”

  “What do I have to fear?”

  “For starters, that I might be badly wounded—even killed.”

  “Impossible,” Milady said. “Not with one so brave, and so fine a swordsman.”

  “Wouldn’t you prefer a means that would avoid a fight, but would avenge you all the same?” said d’Artagnan.

  Milady regarded her lover in silence. In the pale dawn light, her clear eyes spelled death. “Truly,” she said, “I believe that now you do hesitate.”

  “No, I’m not hesitating. But I feel sorry for this poor Comte de Wardes, now that you no longer love him. It seems to me the man must be so cruelly punished by the loss of your love, it’s unnecessary to chastise him further.”

  “Who told you I loved him?” demanded Milady.

  “Well, you’ve certainly given me plenty of reason to believe that you love someone other than him,” the young man said, caressingly, “but I must say, I’ve taken an interest in this count.”

  “You have?” she demanded.

  “Yes.”

  “Why should you?”

  “Because only I know . . .”

  “What?”

  “That he’s far from being as guilty toward you as he appears.”

  “Indeed?” Milady said uneasily. “Explain yourself, for I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” And she regarded d’Artagnan, who still held her in his arms, with eyes that began to smolder.

  D’Artagnan decided to make an end of this. “As you say, I’m a man of honor,” he said, “and since I’m quite sure that I possess your love—I do possess it, don’t I?”

  “Entirely. Go on.”

  “Then I’m transported with joy! . . . Except I have a small confession to make.”

  “A confession?”

  “If I had any doubt about your love for me I wouldn’t say anything—but you do love me, don’t you, my darling?”

  “No doubt about it.”

  “Then if, due to an excess of love, I haven’t been entirely straight with you, you’d forgive me?”

  “. . . Perhaps.”

  D’Artagnan put on the most charming smile he could, and leaned forward to kiss Milady’s lips, but she turned her head. “This confession,” she said, growing paler, “what is this confession?”

  “You had a midnight rendezvous with de Wardes in this very room last Thursday, didn’t you?”

  Milady didn’t turn a hair. “Me? No! Absolutely not!” she said, in a voice so firm, that if d’Artagnan hadn’t been perfectly certain that he himself had been there, he would have been forced to doubt it.

  “No deceptions now, my lovely angel,” d’Artagnan said, smiling. “There’s no point to it.”

  “How’s that? Speak! You’re killing me!”

  “Don’t worry, I don’t hold that rendezvous against you. I’ve forgiven you already.”

  “For what? Where is this going?”

  “De Wardes has nothing to brag about.”

  “How can you say that? You told me yourself about that ring . . .”

  “My love, I’m the one who has that ring! The Comte de Wardes of last Thursday and the d’Artagnan of last night are the same person!”

  The reckless youth expected her reaction to be surprise mixed with shame, and that he would just have to weather a little storm of emotion that would dissolve into tears. But he was fooling himself, and he wasn’t long in learning it.

  Milady drew herself up, pale and terrible. With a sharp blow to his ches
t, she knocked d’Artagnan aside and sprang from the bed.

  By then it was broad daylight.

  Imploring her forgiveness, d’Artagnan tried to hold her by grabbing at her nightgown of fine Indian toile, but Milady was determined to escape him. The gown tore, revealing her fair, round shoulders. With a shock, d’Artagnan recognized on one shoulder the fleur-de-lys—a brand, burned into her flesh by the hand of a royal executioner!

  “Great God!” d’Artagnan cried. Paralyzed and speechless, the nightgown fell from his fingers to the bed.

  Milady knew from the horror in his eyes that d’Artagnan had seen everything. The young man now knew her secret, her terrible secret, which she’d hidden from all the world—except him.

  She turned on him, not like an angry woman, but like a wounded panther.

  “You wretch!” she spat. “You played a coward’s trick on me— and worse, now you know my secret! For that, you die!”

  She dashed to her vanity table, opened an inlaid box with feverish and trembling hands, and drew forth a thin, sharp stiletto with a golden hilt. With this she lunged at the half-naked d’Artagnan.

  Brave young man though he was, he was terrified by the naked savagery of her face, with its horribly dilated pupils, bleeding lips, and cheeks pale as death. He backed across the bed as if pursued by a venomous snake. Reaching behind the bed, he snatched up his sword, and with sweating hands, drew the blade from its scabbard.

  Paying no attention to the sword, Milady lunged across the bed at him, stopping only when she felt the sharp point at her throat.

  She tried to grab the rapier with her hands, but he kept it out of her grasp. Threatening first her eyes, then her chest, he slid from the bed, looking to make his retreat through the door into Kitty’s room. Milady, screaming like a Fury, kept trying to get at him.

  As the situation resembled a duel, d’Artagnan began to get hold of himself. “All right, belle dame, all right,” he said. “But back off, or by God, I’ll carve a second fleur-de-lys on your other shoulder.”

  “Bastard!” she howled. “Bastard!”

  But d’Artagnan, still looking for the door, stayed on the defensive. Hearing the noise they made—he maneuvering the furniture to keep it between them, she overturning it to try to get at him—Kitty timidly opened her door. D’Artagnan, whose every move had aimed at approaching this door, was no more than three paces from it. With a single bound he leaped from Milady’s chamber into that of her servant. Quick as lightning, he slammed the door, then leaned all his weight against it as Kitty threw the bolts.

  Then Milady tried to tear the door from its frame, with a strength seemingly beyond that of mortal woman. Finding the thing impossible, she thrust through the door with her stiletto, the point repeatedly penetrating the wood. Each blow was accompanied by a shrill cry.

  “Quick, Kitty, quick!” said d’Artagnan in a low voice, as soon as the bolts were thrown. “Get me out of this hôtel! If we give her a moment to think, she’ll have me killed by her lackeys!”

  “But you can’t go out like that,” Kitty said. “You’re practically naked.”

  “You’re right,” d’Artagnan said, only then realizing his state of undress. “Clothe me as well as you can, but hurry! This is life or death!”

  Kitty knew this all too well. Quickly she draped a flowered dress and a large hooded cloak over him. He thrust his naked feet into a pair of her slippers and she led him down the stairs.

  It was time: Milady had pulled every bell-cord and roused the whole hôtel. Kitty had the gatekeeper let d’Artagnan out into the street just as Milady appeared at her window, half-nude, crying, “Bar the door, you fools!”

  XXXVIII

  How Athos, Without Inconveniencing Himself, Acquired His Equipment

  D’Artagnan fled as Milady shook her fist at him from her window. When she lost sight of him she fell back into her chamber, fainting.

  The young man was in such a panic that, without a thought as to what might become of Kitty, he ran full tilt across half of Paris. The shock and terror that spurred him on, the cries of the Watch as they pursued the fleeing figure, and the mocking hoots of passersby on early-morning business, only made him run all the faster. He didn’t stop until he arrived at Athos’s door.

  He crossed the forecourt, leaped up the two flights to Athos’s room, and pounded on the door almost hard enough to break it in.

  Grimaud opened the door, peering through eyes still swollen with sleep, and d’Artagnan burst in so furiously that he nearly knocked him over.

  Despite the lackey’s habitual silence, this time he found his tongue. “Hold on there, hussy!” he cried. “What do you want with us, you trollop?”

  D’Artagnan untangled his hands from the folds of the cloak and threw back his hood. At the sight of a bristling moustache and a naked blade, Grimaud realized he was dealing with a man—probably some kind of assassin. “Help!” he screamed. “Help! Murder!”

  “Shut up, nitwit! I’m d’Artagnan! Don’t you recognize me?” the young man said. “Where’s your master?”

  “Monsieur d’Artagnan? You? Impossible!”

  “Grimaud,” said Athos, coming out of his chamber in a dressing gown, “did I hear you allowing yourself to speak?”

  “Ah, Monsieur! It’s . . .”

  “Silence.”

  Grimaud resorted to pointing a trembling figure at d’Artagnan.

  Athos recognized his comrade and, phlegmatic as always, burst out laughing at d’Artagnan’s strange masquerade: his hair askew, petticoats tumbling over his slippers, sleeves rucked up, and musta-chios quivering in agitation.

  “Don’t laugh, my friend,” said d’Artagnan, “for God’s sake don’t laugh, because as sure as there’s a hell, it’s no laughing matter.”

  He spoke with such a solemn air, with such real terror behind it, that Athos immediately took his hands and said, “Are you wounded, d’Artagnan? You’re so pale!”

  “No, but I’ve just been through something terrible. Are you alone, Athos?”

  “Parbleu! Whom do you think I’d have in here at this hour?”

  “Good! Fine!” d’Artagnan said, hurrying into Athos’s inner chamber.

  Athos followed him, bolting the door behind him to ensure their privacy. “All right, talk!” he said. “Is the king dead? Have you killed Monsieur le Cardinal? You’re not looking your best, you know. Come on, talk, or I’ll die from heart failure.”

  “Athos,” said d’Artagnan, as he stripped off Kitty’s clothing and appeared in his shirt, “prepare yourself for the most incredible story you’ve ever heard.”

  “How about putting on this dressing gown first?” said the musketeer to his friend.

  D’Artagnan threw on the robe, but he trembled so much he tangled it up and put his arms through the wrong sleeves.

  “Well?” said Athos.

  “Well.” D’Artagnan leaned toward Athos’s ear and whispered, “Milady is marked with a fleur-de-lys on one shoulder!”

  “Augh!” cried the musketeer, as if he’d taken a bullet in his heart.

  “Athos,” said d’Artagnan, “are you sure the . . . other . . . is dead?”

  “The other?” Athos said, in a voice so choked that d’Artagnan could barely hear it.

  “Yes—the one you told me of that day in Amiens.”

  Athos groaned, bent over, and put his face in his hands.

  “This woman is in her middle to late twenties,” continued d’Artagnan.

  “And she’s blond,” said Athos, “isn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pale blue eyes, strangely clear, with dark eyelashes and eyebrows?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tall, and well-shaped? Missing a tooth, next to her left eyetooth?”

  “Yes.”

  “The fleur-de-lys is small and pink, and looks as if she’s tried to hide it with powder and paint?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you said she was English!”

  “They call her
‘Milady,’ but she may be French. Lord de Winter is her brother-in-law, not her brother.”

  “I must see her, d’Artagnan.”

  “Carefully, Athos, carefully. You attempted to kill her before— she’ll do the same to you if she gets a chance, and it’s not like her to fail.”

  “She wouldn’t dare. It would be as good as denouncing herself.”

  “She’s capable of anything! Have you ever seen her in a fury?”

  “No,” said Athos.

  “A tigress—a panther! Oh, Athos, I’m sorry to say it, but I’m afraid I’ve drawn down a terrible vengeance on us both.”

  D’Artagnan then told him everything, including Milady’s mad rage and her threats to kill him.

  “You’re right,” said Athos. “Upon my soul, my life wouldn’t be worth a hair. Fortunately, we leave Paris the day after tomorrow. We’re going to La Rochelle, in all probability, and once we’re gone . . .”

  “If she recognizes you, Athos, she’ll pursue you to the end of the world. Let her confine her hatred to me alone.”

  “My dear fellow! What does it matter if she kills me?” Athos said. “Do you suppose I care whether I live or die?”

  “There’s some awful mystery behind all this, Athos. I’m sure that woman is one of the cardinal’s agents.”

  “In that case, be on your guard. Unless the cardinal somehow admires you for that business in London, he’ll bear a grudge. Since the affair was secret, he can’t accuse you openly—but hatred must be satisfied, especially a cardinal’s hatred, so take care. If you go out, never go out alone. If you must eat, take every precaution. In short, mistrust everything, even your own shadow.”

  “Fortunately, I have to stay out of trouble only until after tomorrow night,” said d’Artagnan. “Once we’re off with the army, we should have only men to fear.”