This naïve sleep carried him to nine o’clock the next morning, when he rose to make his way to the hôtel of the famous Monsieur de Tréville, who was, in his father’s estimation, the third person of the realm.
II
The Antechamber of Monsieur de Tréville
Monsieur de Troisvilles, as his family was still called in Gascony, or Monsieur de Tréville, as he ultimately styled himself in Paris, really had begun like d’Artagnan: penniless, but rich in audacity, spirit, and shrewdness—the assets that enable the poorest Gascon gentleman to make more of his family legacy than the richest noble of Périgord or Berry makes of his. Tréville’s courage, which was greatest when the blows fell like hail, had hoisted him to the top of the ladder of Court Favor, a stairway he’d vaulted four steps at a time.
He was a friend of the king, who worshipped the memory of his father, King Henri IV. Monsieur de Tréville’s father had served Henri so faithfully in the wars against the Catholic League13 that after the fall of Paris, in place of money—a thing the Béarnaise king lacked all his life, often paying his debts with the only thing he never needed to borrow, that is to say, his wits—in place of money, Henri had authorized Tréville to take for his coat of arms a golden lion passant upon gules, with the motto Fidelis et Fortis.
This was a great deal in the way of honor, though not much in the way of wealth; when this noble comrade of the Great Henri died, he left, as his sole legacy to his son, his sword and this motto. Thanks to this double gift, and the stainless name that went with it, Monsieur de Tréville was admitted into the household of young Prince Louis. He served the king so well with his sword, and was so faithful to his motto, that Louis, one of the best blades in his kingdom, had said that if he had a friend who was about to fight a duel and needed a second, he would advise him to first choose himself, and next Tréville—or maybe even Tréville before him.
So Louis XIII had a real affection for Tréville—a royal, egotistical affection, it’s true, but an affection nonetheless. In those unhappy times a king needed to surround himself with men of Tréville’s mettle. Many might lay claim to the term “strong,” the second part of his motto, but few gentlemen deserved to be called “loyal.” Tréville was one of those rare spirits who possessed the blind courage and intelligent obedience of a faithful watchdog. He had a quick eye that saw if the king was displeased with someone, and a hand that instantly struck the offender; he was, in other words, a Besme, a Maurevers, a Poltrot de Méré, or a Vitry.14
In short, Tréville needed nothing but a chance; and he was vigilant, always ready to seize opportunity by the short hairs whenever it came within reach. Thus Louis XIII had made him his Captain of Musketeers, who were to the king in their devotion—or rather their fanaticism—what his Ordinaries had been to Henri III and his Scots Guard to Louis XI.
In this respect, the cardinal took after the king. When he saw the formidable elite with whom Louis XIII had surrounded himself, this second, or rather this first King of France, thought that he too should have a guard. He therefore had his own company of musketeers, as Louis XIII had his, and these powerful rivals vied with each other in scouring all the provinces of France, and even foreign states, to recruit the most celebrated swordsmen. During their evening game of chess, Richelieu and Louis XIII would often debate the merits of their servants. They boasted of the courage of their men, and while openly deploring duels and brawls, each secretly encouraged his own bravos to tangle with the other man’s, and was chagrined or thrilled by his men’s defeat or victory.
Tréville understood his master’s weak side, and it was to this understanding that he owed the long and constant favor of a king who lacks the reputation of being faithful in his friendships. His soldiers formed a devil-may-care legion that answered to no one but him. He paraded his musketeers before Cardinal Armand du Plessis de Richelieu with a mocking air that made His Eminence’s gray mustache bristle with fury. Tréville was well versed in the prevailing principle of war that stated that he who failed to live at the expense of his enemy, had to live at the expense of his friends.
Drunk, disorderly, and insolent, the King’s Musketeers—or rather Tréville’s Musketeers—lounged around the taverns, the public squares, and the sporting greens, making loud remarks, twirling their mustaches, rattling their swords, and taking great pleasure in provoking the Cardinal’s Guards15 whenever they encountered them. They would draw their swords right in the open street, joking about the risks—and though they might be killed, they were certain to be mourned and avenged. They often slew their opponents, but could count on not being left to rot in prison for long, as Monsieur de Tréville would come to claim them. So these men sang the praises of Tréville in every key; they adored him and, hard cases though they were, they trembled before him like students before their master. They were obedient to his every word, and ready to die to uphold the honor of the Company and of Tréville.
Monsieur de Tréville employed this powerful tool primarily on behalf of the king and his friends, secondarily for himself and his own friends. Beyond that, in none of the memoirs of a time that left so many memoirs, is this worthy gentleman accused of exploiting his loyal followers for personal gain, not even by his enemies—and he had many, among men of the pen as well as men of the sword. With a rare genius for intrigue, which made him the equal of the most cunning conspirators, he nonetheless retained his integrity and remained an honest man. Furthermore, despite constant conflict and an exhausting workload, Tréville had become one of the most gallant courtiers, dashing ladies’ men, and wittiest gossips of his day. Tréville’s bonnes fortunes with the ladies were spoken of like those of Bassompierre16 twenty years earlier—and that was no small thing. By everyone, then, the Captain of the Musketeers was either admired, feared, or loved—and one can’t do better than that.
Louis XIV would absorb all the smaller stars of his court into his own vast radiance, but his father, one sun among many, allowed each of his favorites their own personal splendor, each individual courtier his own character. Besides the daily levees, or morning receptions, of the king and the cardinal, at this time in Paris there were more than two hundred lesser levees, each with its daily attendees. Among these two hundred minor levees, that of Tréville was one of the busiest.
The courtyard of his hôtel, situated on the Rue du Vieux-Colombier, resembled an armed camp, busy by six in the morning in summer and by eight o’clock in winter. Appearing in relays to ensure an imposing number, fifty or sixty musketeers continually swaggered about, armed to the teeth and ready for anything. There, ascending and descending one of those grand staircases so vast that modern civilization would fill the space with an entire house, one could see petitioners for favors, gentlemen from the provinces eager to enroll, and servants in liveries of all colors bringing messages from their masters to Monsieur de Tréville. In the antechamber at the top, on long curving benches, sat the elect, the lucky ones who were soon to be summoned within. There was a continual buzz of conversation from morning till night, while Monsieur de Tréville, in his office next to the antechamber, received visits, listened to complaints, gave his orders and, like the king on his balcony at the Louvre, had only to appear at his window to review his men and their arms.
The day that d’Artagnan presented himself the crowd in the courtyard was impressive, especially to a provincial just arriving from his province. However, this provincial was a Gascon, and at this period in particular his countrymen had the reputation of being hard to intimidate.
Once he’d passed through the massive street gate, studded with heavy square-headed nails, he found himself amid a troop of swordsmen strolling about the courtyard, calling out to one another, playing practical jokes, and quarrelling about nothing in particular. To make headway through this turbulence one had to be either an officer, a high-ranking noble, or a pretty woman.
The young man advanced into the middle of this disorderly uproar, his heart thumping, his long rapier rapping against his lean leg, one hand on the
brim of his hat, and wearing the embarrassed half-smile of the provincial. When he’d passed the first cluster of boasters he began to breathe more freely, but he couldn’t help noticing that they turned to look at him—and for the first time in his life, d’Artagnan, who until that day had had a high opinion of himself, felt rather ridiculous.
Arriving at the broad staircase, he felt even worse. While ten or twelve musketeers waited on the landing to take their turns, four of their comrades above amused themselves with the following exercise: one of the four, on the top step, naked sword in hand, tried to prevent the other three from mounting to his level. The three below fenced with him with their own flickering swords, which d’Artagnan at first took for foils, with their points buttoned. He soon saw the scratches that proved that, on the contrary, these arms were pointed and sharpened. At every scratch both fencers and spectators laughed like madmen.
The one who occupied the top step at that moment kept his adversaries at bay with marvelous skill. A circle was formed around the players and the rule was that, at each hit, the person touched should quit the game, losing his turn to his opponent. In five minutes three were lightly hit, one on the wrist, another on the chin, and the third on the ear, by the defender of the upper stair, who was himself untouched: an achievement, according to the rules, worth three turns of favor.
Though the young Gascon liked to think of himself as hard to surprise, this game astounded him. He’d seen in his province, that land of hotheads, a few of the boastful challenges that preceded duels, but the gasconades of these four fencers were the most outrageous he’d ever heard, even in Gascony. He believed himself transported to that famous country of giants that had terrified Gulliver—and he hadn’t even reached the landing, let alone the antechamber.
On the landing they didn’t fight, they told stories of women, while in the antechamber they told tales of Court. On the landing, d’Artagnan blushed; in the antechamber, he shuddered. His quick wits and vivid imagination, which in Gascony had made him dangerous to young chambermaids, and sometimes even to their youthful mistresses, had never dreamed, even in moments of delirium, of half the amorous feats, or a quarter of the exploits of gallantry, attributed here to well-known names in indecent detail.
But if his morals were shocked on the landing, his respect for the cardinal was outraged in the antechamber. There, to his great astonishment, d’Artagnan heard harsh criticism of the policies that made all Europe tremble, as well as jokes about the cardinal’s private life, affairs many powerful nobles had been punished for daring to meddle in. That great man, revered by d’Artagnan the elder, was a laughingstock to the musketeers of Monsieur de Tréville, who joked about his knock-knees and bent back. Some sang satirical songs about Madame de Combalet,17 his niece and mistress, while others made plans to harass the Cardinal’s Guards, both of which seemed monstrous impossibilities to d’Artagnan.
However, when the name of the king was dropped into this derision of the cardinal, a sort of gag closed all the mocking mouths for a moment, while everyone looked timidly around and seemed to wonder if they could trust the partition between the antechamber and the office of Monsieur de Tréville. But soon a smart remark about His Eminence restored the conversation, the laughter resumed, and none of his activities were spared.
I’m sure to see all these fellows either imprisoned or hanged, thought d’Artagnan, terrified, and me with them, no doubt. Having listened to them, I’ll be taken as an accomplice. What would my father say, who wanted me to respect the cardinal, if he knew I was in the society of such pagans?
Needless to say, d’Artagnan didn’t dare join in the conversation, only watched with both eyes and listened with both ears, straining so as to miss nothing. In spite of his confidence in his father’s advice, his inclination and instincts were with rather than against this unheard-of behavior.
As an absolute stranger making his first appearance in the midst of Monsieur de Tréville’s courtiers, he was eventually asked what it was he wanted. At this demand, d’Artagnan modestly gave his name, emphasizing that he was one of Monsieur de Tréville’s countrymen. He begged the inquiring footman to ask for a moment’s audience with the captain, a request that the other promised, in good time, to convey.
D’Artagnan, somewhat recovered from his initial surprise, now had leisure to study figures and faces. The center of the most animated group was a very tall musketeer of haughty demeanor, dressed in an outfit so outlandishly gaudy it made him the center of attention. He wasn’t wearing the musketeer’s tabard—which wasn’t yet obligatory in that time of lesser liberty but greater independence— but rather a sky-blue jerkin, a bit faded and worn, and over this a magnificent shoulder-belt, a baldric embroidered in gold, which shone like rippling water reflecting the sun. A long cloak of crimson velvet fell gracefully from his broad shoulders, revealing in front the splendid baldric, from which hung a gigantic rapier.
This musketeer had just returned from guard duty and, complaining of having a cold, coughed affectedly from time to time. That was why he’d worn his cloak, he said to those around him. He spoke with a lofty air, and smugly twirled his mustache, while everyone admired his gilded baldric—d’Artagnan more than any.
“What would you have?” said the musketeer. “It’s the coming fashion. It’s a folly, I admit, but still, it’s the fashion. Besides, one must find some use for one’s inheritance.”
“Now, Porthos!” cried one of his satellites. “Don’t try to persuade us that baldric came from paternal generosity! It was given to you by that veiled lady I met you with last Sunday near Porte Saint-Honoré.”
“No, on the honor and faith of a gentleman, I bought it myself, with my own coin,” replied the man called Porthos.
“Oh, right,” said another musketeer, “the same way I bought this new purse with what my mistress put in the old.”
“It’s true,” said Porthos, “and the proof is, I paid twelve pistoles for it.”
At this their admiration was redoubled, though not all doubts were dispelled. “Isn’t it so, Aramis?” said Porthos, turning toward another musketeer.
This other musketeer formed a perfect contrast with the one who’d named him as Aramis: he was a young man, aged twenty-two or twenty-three at most, with a suave and ingenuous manner, eyes dark but mild, and cheeks rosy and downy as an autumn peach. His delicate mustache marked a perfectly straight line across his upper lip; he seemed afraid to lower his hands, lest their veins swell; and from time to time he pinched the tips of his ears to maintain their tender pink transparency. He spoke rarely and slowly, bowed frequently, and laughed quietly without showing his teeth, which were excellent —like the rest of his person, of which he seemed to take great care. He replied to his friend with an affirmative nod of his head.
This seemed to dispel all doubts about the baldric; everyone continued to admire it, but no more was said about it, and with one of those sudden changes of thought, the conversation passed on to another subject.
“What do you think of this tale from Chalais’s equerry?” asked another musketeer, addressing no one in particular.
“And what tale does he tell?” asked Porthos, self-importantly.
“He says that in Brussels he encountered Rochefort, the cardinal’s henchman, disguised as a Capuchin monk, and that this cursed Rochefort, thanks to his disguise, had duped that simpleton Monsieur de Laigues18 into betraying Monsieur de Chalais.”
“He’s a simpleton, certainly,” said Porthos, “but are you sure about this?”
“I had it from Aramis,” replied the musketeer.
“Indeed?”
“As you well know, Porthos,” said Aramis. “I told you just yesterday. Let’s say no more about it.”
“Say no more about it! Is that how you see it?” replied Porthos. “Say no more about it! Peste! You drop it rather quickly! What— the cardinal spies on a gentleman and steals his letters by means of a traitor, a brigand, a scoundrel! With the help of this spy, he’s as good as cut Chalais�
��s throat, all under the stupid pretext that the man wanted to assassinate the king and marry Monsieur his brother19 to the queen! No one had heard a word of this until you told us about it yesterday, to our great satisfaction. Then, while we’re all still dumbfounded by the news, you come to us today and say, ‘Let’s say no more about it.’”
“Then let’s talk about it, since that’s what you want,” replied Aramis patiently.
“This Rochefort!” cried Porthos. “If I were poor Chalais’s equerry, I’d give him an ugly time of it!”
“And in return, you would pass a sad quarter-hour with the Red Duke,” replied Aramis.
“Ha! The Red Duke! That’s good, that is! The Red Duke!” applauded Porthos, nodding his head in approval. “The ‘Red Duke’ is quite charming. I’ll spread that one about, mon cher, be certain of it. He has wit, this Aramis! What a pity you didn’t follow your old vocation! What a delightful abbot you’d have made!”
“Oh, it’s only a brief delay,” replied Aramis. “I’ll be one yet, some day. You know very well, Porthos, that that’s why I continue to study theology.”
“He’ll do as he says,” Porthos announced. “He’ll do it, sooner or later.”
“Soon,” said Aramis.
“He’s only waiting for one thing to happen before resuming his cassock, which hangs just behind his uniform,” said one musketeer.
“And what thing is that?” asked another.
“For the queen to give birth to an heir to the Crown of France.”
“No pleasantries on that subject, Messieurs,” said Porthos. “Thank God, the queen is still of an age to provide the crown with one.”
“They say the Duke of Buckingham is in France,” observed Aramis, with a sardonic smile that gave this apparently simple remark a scandalous significance.
The Three Musketeers Page 4