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

by Alexandre Dumas

  “Or his mistress,” d’Artagnan said.

  “That’s neither here nor there,” Aramis said, blushing. “At any event, he said he had orders from his mistress to put the horse in my stable, without saying where it came from.”

  “Such things happen only to poets,” Athos said gravely.

  “Well, in that case, we’re fine,” said d’Artagnan. “Which of these horses will you ride: one of those you bought, or the one you were given?”

  “The one I was given, naturally. You understand, d’Artagnan, that I could never offend . . .”

  “Your unknown patron,” said d’Artagnan.

  “Or patroness,” amended Athos.

  “So the extra one you bought is of no use to you?”

  “Not much.”

  “You chose it yourself, I assume.”

  “And with the greatest care! The safety of a rider, you know, depends almost entirely on his horse.”

  “All right, then sell it to me for whatever you paid for it.”

  “I was going to make you that exact offer, my dear d’Artagnan. It’s a mere bagatelle; take all the time you need to repay me.”

  “How much did it cost you?”

  “Eight hundred livres.”

  “Here are forty double pistoles, mon cher ami,” said d’Artagnan, as he drew the sum from his pocket. “I remember that this is the coin in which you were paid for your poems.”

  “So, you’re in funds?” Aramis said.

  “Filthy rich, my friend!” D’Artagnan jingled the pocket that held the rest of his pistoles.

  “Then send your saddle to the Hôtel des Mousquetaires and your horse can come back wearing it, along with ours.”

  “All right—but it’s already five o’clock, so let’s hurry.”

  A quarter of an hour later, Porthos appeared at the end of the Rue Férou on a magnificent jennet. Mousqueton followed him on a small but solid Auvergne horse. Porthos was swollen with joy and pride.

  At the same time Aramis appeared at the other end of the street mounted on a superb English charger. Bazin followed on a roan, leading a spirited Mecklenburg horse; this was to be d’Artagnan’s mount.

  The two musketeers met outside the door; Athos and d’Artagnan watched them from the window.

  “The devil!” said Aramis. “That’s an excellent horse you have there, my dear Porthos.”

  “It is,” Porthos replied. “It’s the one that should have been sent to me the first time, when I was the butt of the husband’s tasteless joke. But the husband has been punished, and I’m completely satisfied with the substitute.”

  Grimaud appeared in his turn, leading his master’s mount. d’Artagnan and Athos went down into the street, vaulted into the saddles beside their companions, and all four set forth: Athos on a horse he owed to his wife, Aramis on a horse he owed to his mistress, Porthos on a horse he owed to the prosecutor’s lady, and d’Artagnan on a horse he owed to Dame Fortune—the best mistress of all.

  Their lackeys followed.

  Porthos’s hopes were fulfilled: the cavalcade made a fine impression. If Madame Coquenard had been in their path and seen Porthos in all his grandeur on the handsome Spanish jennet, she would have had no regrets about bleeding her husband’s strongbox for him.

  Near the Louvre the four friends met Monsieur de Tréville, who was returning from Saint-Germain. He stopped to compliment them on their fine turnout, which quickly drew a crowd of several hundred gawking Parisians. D’Artagnan took advantage of this encounter to inform Monsieur de Tréville about the letter with the great red seal and the cardinal’s arms—though about his other letter, he didn’t breathe a word.

  Tréville approved of his planned response, and assured him that, if he didn’t reappear by the following day, Tréville would find him, wherever he might be.

  At that moment, the clock in La Samaritaine struck six. Saying they had an appointment, the four friends excused themselves and took their leave of Monsieur de Tréville.

  A short gallop brought them to the road to Chaillot. The day was waning. Carriages passed, going this way and that. D’Artagnan, keeping a good distance from his friends, peered into every carriage that went by, but saw no one he recognized.

  Finally, after waiting a quarter of an hour, with the shadows lengthening into twilight, a carriage appeared on the road to Sèvres, approaching at a rapid clip. D’Artagnan had a premonition that this coach carried the one who’d set the rendezvous. The young man was astonished to feel his heart beating violently in his chest. Suddenly, a woman’s head appeared at the window, two fingers held to her lips, commanding silence—or sending a kiss. D’Artagnan let slip a cry of joy, for this woman—or rather, this apparition, for the carriage flashed past like a vision—was his Madame Bonacieux.

  With an involuntary movement, despite his orders to the contrary, d’Artagnan spurred his horse to a gallop, and in a few strides overtook the carriage. But the window was closed, sealed shut—the apparition had vanished.

  Then d’Artagnan remembered: As you value your life, or the lives of those who love you, don’t say a word or make a move that might lead anyone to believe you recognize me.

  He stopped, aghast, fearful not for himself, but for the poor woman who’d apparently exposed herself to frightful danger to grant him this brief rendezvous.

  The carriage continued on its way without slowing, until it disappeared into the shadowy streets of Paris.

  D’Artagnan sat rooted in place, not sure what to think. If that really was Madame Bonacieux, and she was returning to Paris, why this furtive meeting, this fleeting glimpse, this forlorn kiss? On the other hand, if it wasn’t her—which was quite possible, as the light was so dim that he could easily have been mistaken—if it wasn’t her, might this be the start of some plot against him, using as bait an appearance by the woman he was known to love?

  His three companions rode up. All three had clearly seen a woman’s head appear at the window, though none of them, except Athos, knew Madame Bonacieux. Athos thought it was her; however, less focused on her face than d’Artagnan, he thought he’d also seen a second occupant of the carriage: a man.

  “If that’s so,” said d’Artagnan, “they must be transporting her from one prison to another. But what are they planning to do with the poor girl, and how will I ever find her again?”

  “My friend,” Athos said gravely, “remember that it’s only the dead we may never see again on Earth. You—and I—have good cause to know that, don’t we? If your mistress isn’t dead, if that was her we saw just now, then someday you’ll find her. And maybe,” he added, in that misanthropic tone of his, “sooner than you’d like, by God!”

  The carriage had been twenty minutes late, and half-past seven had already struck. D’Artagnan’s friends reminded him that he had another appointment. They also pointed out that there was still time to give it a pass.

  But d’Artagnan was both stubborn and curious. He’d decided to see the cardinal and find out what His Eminence wanted to say to him. He wasn’t about to change his mind at this point.

  When they arrived in front of the grand hôtel of the cardinal, they found a dozen musketeers loitering around waiting for their comrades. Only then were they informed of what was expected of them.

  D’Artagnan was well known to the honorable corps of the King’s Musketeers, and was expected to one day take his place among them. He was regarded, in advance, as their comrade, so they all heartily approved of the mission for which they’d been convened. Besides, it seemed likely to offer an opportunity to give a black eye to Monsieur le Cardinal or his men, and these worthy gentlemen were always ready for that kind of trouble.

  Athos divided them into three groups, took command of the first, and gave the second and third to Aramis and Porthos; then each group went to lie in ambush near one of the exits of the hôtel.

  D’Artagnan, for his part, entered boldly by the main gate.

  Despite the support of his friends, the young man was not without
a qualm or two as he ascended, step by step, the great stairway. His treatment of Milady had been more than a little deceitful, and he suspected her of being a political instrument of the cardinal; not to mention that de Wardes, whom he’d handled so roughly, was one of His Eminence’s loyal retainers—and d’Artagnan knew that if His Eminence was a terror to his enemies, he was fiercely protective of his friends.

  “No doubt de Wardes has described our little encounter to the cardinal—and if he recognized me, which is likely, I’m basically a condemned man,” said d’Artagnan, shaking his head ruefully. “But if so, why wait to act until now? Well, that’s simple enough: Milady has laid her complaints against me, with that melodramatic passion that makes her so fascinating, and that was the final drop that made the wineglass overflow.

  “Fortunately,” he added, “my good friends are waiting below, and they won’t let me be carried off without a fight. However, the musketeers can’t wage war on the cardinal, who controls the forces of all France, and against whom the queen has no power and the king has no will. D’Artagnan, my friend, you have many fine qualities—but these women will ruin you!”

  He came to this sad conclusion as he entered the antechamber. He handed his letter to the audiencer, who led him into a waiting room, then disappeared into the interior of the mansion.

  In this waiting room were five or six Cardinal’s Guards who, recognizing d’Artagnan as the man who’d wounded Jussac, favored him with sinister smiles.

  These smiles seemed a bad omen to d’Artagnan, but the Gascon wasn’t easily intimidated—or rather, due to the natural pride ingrained in his countrymen, he hid any feelings of fear, even from himself. He stood boldly in front of Messieurs les Gardes, hand on one hip, in an attitude of defiance.

  The audiencer returned and gestured to d’Artagnan to follow him. It seemed to the young man that the guards, watching him leave, whispered among themselves.

  He followed a corridor, crossed a great hall, entered a library, and found himself before a man seated at a desk, writing. The audiencer announced him, then withdrew without another word.

  At first, d’Artagnan took the man at the desk for some magistrate examining his dossier, but then he noticed that the man was writing, or rather correcting, lines of unequal length, scanning the words with his fingers. Apparently, d’Artagnan was dealing with a poet. After a moment the poet closed his manuscript, on the cover of which was written: MIRAME, A Tragedy in Five Acts.91 Then the poet raised his head.

  D’Artagnan recognized the cardinal.

  XL

  The Cardinal

  The cardinal leaned his elbow on his manuscript, his cheek in his hand, and regarded the young man for a moment. No one had a more penetrating eye than the Cardinal de Richelieu, and d’Artagnan felt this regard sweep over him like a beam of heat.

  However, he kept his cool, holding his hat in his hand and awaiting the good pleasure of His Eminence, without being either too haughty or too humble.

  “Monsieur,” the cardinal said to him, “are you a d’Artagnan of Béarn?”

  “Yes, Monseigneur,” replied the young man.

  “There are several branches of the d’Artagnan family in the vicinity of Tarbes,” said the cardinal. “Which do you belong to?”

  “I am the son of he who served in the Wars of Religion with Great King Henri, father of His Gracious Majesty.”

  “Quite so. You set out, some months ago, from your province to find your fortune in the capital?”

  “Yes, Monseigneur.”

  “You passed through Meung, where there was some sort of incident, I’m not sure what—but an incident.”

  “Monseigneur,” said d’Artagnan, “here’s what happened . . .”

  “No matter, no matter,” interrupted the cardinal, with a smile that indicated he knew the story as well the teller did. “You were recommended to Monsieur de Tréville, were you not?”

  “Yes, Monseigneur, just so—but in the trouble at Meung . . .”

  “. . . The letter was lost,” replied His Eminence. “Yes, I know that; but Monsieur de Tréville is a skilled physiognomist, who knows a man at first sight. He found you a place in the company of his brother-in-law, Monsieur des Essarts, and you hope to someday join the musketeers.”

  “Monseigneur is extremely well-informed,” said d’Artagnan.

  “Since then, a number of things have happened to you. You were strolling one day behind the Carmelite convent when it would have been better for you to be elsewhere. Then, you took a trip with your friends to the waters of Forges; they stopped on the way, but you continued on the road. Naturally enough: you had business in England.”

  “Monseigneur,” stammered d’Artagnan, “I went . . .”

  “Hunting at Windsor, or some such. It’s no concern of mine. I happen to know about it because it’s my business to know everything. On your return, you were received by an august personage, and I’m pleased to see that you’ve kept the souvenir she gave you.”

  The queen’s diamond was still on d’Artagnan’s finger. He covered it with his other hand and turned the gem inside—but it was too late.

  “The next day, you received a visit from Cavois,” continued the cardinal, “who went to invite you to the Hôtel Cardinal. You didn’t repay his visit, and that was wrong.”

  “Monseigneur, I was afraid I’d incurred Your Eminence’s anger.”

  “Oh? Why is that, Monsieur? For having carried out the orders of your superiors with more intelligence and courage than another might have? Incur my anger, when you deserve to be commended? It’s those who don’t obey whom I punish, not those who, like you, obey . . . too well. For proof, remember the day when I invited you to come to me, and search your memory for what happened that same night.”

  That was the night of the abduction of Madame Bonacieux. D’Artagnan shivered; and recalled that only a half an hour before that poor woman had passed by him, no doubt still in the power of those who were behind her disappearance.

  “In fact,” continued the cardinal, “as I’ve heard nothing of you for some time, I wanted to know how you were doing. Besides, you owe me some gratitude; you must have noticed how well you’ve been taken care of, under the circumstances.”

  D’Artagnan bowed respectfully.

  “That care didn’t arise solely from my natural sense of justice,” continued the cardinal. “It’s also due to certain plans I have for you.”

  D’Artagnan was astonished.

  “I wanted to explain my plans on the day you received my first invitation—but you didn’t choose to come. Fortunately, nothing has been lost by the delay, and today you shall hear them. Sit there, in front of me, Monsieur d’Artagnan; you are quite gentleman enough not to have to listen standing.”

  With his finger, the cardinal indicated a chair to the young man, who was so astounded that it took a second gesture from His Eminence before he obeyed.

  “You are brave, Monsieur d’Artagnan, which is good; and you are prudent, which is even better. I like men of head and heart. No, no!” The cardinal smiled. “By men of heart, I mean men of courage. But despite your youth, and having just entered into the world, you’ve made some powerful enemies. If you don’t take care, they’ll destroy you!”

  “Hélas, Monseigneur!” replied the young man. “No doubt they’ll have an easy time of it, as they’re strong and have powerful allies— while I have only myself.”

  “Yes, that’s true—but by yourself, you’ve already done quite a bit, and will do more yet, I don’t doubt. But you have, I think, need of some guidance in this adventurous career you’ve undertaken— for, unless I’m mistaken, you came to Paris ambitious to make your fortune.”

  “I’m at the age of impossible hopes, Monseigneur,” said d’Artagnan.

  “Impossible hopes are for fools, Monsieur, and you’re a man with wits. Now, what would you say to a rank of ensign in my guards, and command of a company after the campaign?”

  “Ah! Monseigneur!”

&nbs
p; “You accept, don’t you?”

  “Monseigneur . . .” replied d’Artagnan, with an embarrassed air.

  “What? You refuse?” cried the cardinal, astonished.

  “I serve in His Majesty’s Guards, Monseigneur, and have no reason to be discontented.”

  “But it seems to me that my guards are also His Majesty’s guards,” said His Eminence, “and that wherever you serve in a French corps, you serve the king.”

  “Monseigneur, Your Eminence misunderstands me.”

  “You want a pretext, then? I understand. Well, here’s your excuse: advancement, the coming campaign, the opportunity to serve me— that will do for the world. As for yourself, you need the guarantee of my protection. For you should know, Monsieur d’Artagnan, that I’ve received grave complaints about you. You don’t dedicate your days—or nights—exclusively to the service of the king.”

  D’Artagnan flushed.

  “Moreover,” said the cardinal, placing his hand on a stack of papers, “I have here a whole dossier concerning you. But before opening it, I’d like to say something. I know you to be a man of resolve; your efforts, properly directed, should result in your advancement instead of leading you into trouble. Come, reflect— and decide.”

  “Your kindness leaves me speechless, Monseigneur,” replied d’Artagnan. “I recognize in Your Eminence a grandeur of soul beside which I feel no more than a worm. But, since Monseigneur permits me to speak frankly . . . ?” D’Artagnan paused.

  “Yes, yes—speak.”

  “Then, I must tell Your Eminence that all my friends are King’s Musketeers or Royal Guards, while my enemies, by some fatal destiny, all belong to Your Eminence. If I accepted your offer, Monseigneur, I’d be scorned here and reviled there.”

  “Are you so deluded by pride that you feel I haven’t yet made you an offer equal to your merit?” asked the cardinal, with a smile of disdain.

  “Monseigneur, Your Eminence is a hundred times too good to me! On the contrary, I think I haven’t yet shown myself worthy of such high regard. The siege of La Rochelle is ahead of us, Monseigneur; I will serve under Your Eminence’s eye, and if I’m lucky enough that my conduct at the siege should meet with your approval, well—at least I’ll have behind me some exploits that justify the offer of protection with which you honor me. Timing is everything, Monseigneur; later, I may have earned the right to give myself to you, but at this point I’d appear to sell myself.”