“Aramis, my friend, this time you’re in the wrong,” interrupted Porthos. “Your wit takes you too far. If Monsieur de Tréville heard you, you’d be the worse for it.”
“Are you lecturing me, Porthos?” cried Aramis, whose mild eyes suddenly flashed like lightning.
“Mon cher, be a musketeer or an abbot. Be one or the other, but not both,” replied Porthos. “You know what Athos told you just the other day: you try to drink from both sides of the cup. Now, don’t get angry with us, if you please—it would be a complete waste of time. Remember the pact between you, me, and Athos. But see here, you visit Madame de Combalet, and pay court to her, then go straight to Madame de Bois-Tracy, that little cousin of Madame de Chevreuse, and you seem to be far along in the good graces of that lady. My God, don’t tell us about your luck with the ladies—no one asks for your secrets, we all know how discreet you are. But since you’re so discreet, why the devil don’t you use your discretion on behalf of Her Majesty? Whoever wants to talk about the king and the cardinal, let them—but the queen is sacred. If anyone speaks of her, let him speak only good.”
“Porthos, you’re as conceited as Narcissus,” replied Aramis. “You know I hate moralizing, except from Athos. But you, ‘mon cher’, wear too magnificent a baldric to stand there and moralize. I’ll be an abbot when it suits me, but in the meantime, I’m a musketeer. In that capacity I’ll say what I please, and right now it pleases me to say that I’m losing my patience with you!”
“Aramis!”
“Porthos!”
“Messieurs! Messieurs!” the whole group cried out.
“Monsieur de Tréville awaits Monsieur d’Artagnan,” interrupted the footman, opening the door of the office.
At this announcement everyone fell quiet. Amid the general silence the young Gascon crossed the antechamber and entered the sanctum of the Captain of the Musketeers, profoundly grateful at having escaped the end of that strange quarrel.
III
The Audience
Monsieur de Tréville was in a sour mood. Nevertheless, he saluted young d’Artagnan politely, who replied by bowing to the ground. Tréville smiled on receiving this compliment, and on hearing the Béarnaise accent that reminded him of his youth and his homeland, a double memory that makes a man smile at any age. But he stepped toward the antechamber while holding up a hand toward d’Artagnan, as if asking permission to finish with others before starting with him. Then he called out three times, louder each time, his voice rising from imperative to angry: “Athos! Porthos! ARAMIS!”
The musketeers who answered to the last two names left their comrades and approached the office, and as soon as they were inside the tapestry door dropped behind them. Their demeanor, though not exactly serene, was nonetheless so nonchalant, and yet so dignified and deferential, that d’Artagnan couldn’t help but admire them. He regarded these two men as demigods, and their chief as an Olympian Jupiter, armed with all his thunderbolts.
When the two musketeers had entered and the door had dropped behind them, the buzz in the antechamber returned to normal—or even louder, doubtless increased by this summons. Meanwhile Monsieur de Tréville, silent and frowning, paced the length of his office three or four times, passing each time before Porthos and Aramis, who were as rigid and mute as if on parade. Suddenly he stopped and faced them, looked them up and down angrily, and demanded, “Do you know what the king said to me, no later than yesterday evening? Do you know, Messieurs?”
“No,” responded the musketeers, after a moment’s silence. “No, Monsieur, we do not.”
“But I hope you will do us the honor of telling us,” added Aramis, in his most polite tone, and with a graceful bow.
“He told me that from now on he plans to recruit his musketeers from among the guards of Monsieur le Cardinal!”
“From the Cardinal’s Guards! But why?” cried Porthos.
“Because he can see that our thin vintage needs to be strengthened by the addition of some strong wine!”
The faces of the two musketeers went red to the whites of their eyes. D’Artagnan wished he were a hundred feet underground.
“Yes! Yes!” continued Monsieur de Tréville heatedly. “And His Majesty is right, for, upon my honor, the musketeers cut a sad figure at Court. Yesterday, while at cards with the king, with an air of condolence I didn’t care for, Monsieur le Cardinal related how the day before those damned musketeers, those devils incarnate—he lingered over those words with an ironical tone that stung me to the quick—those vandals, he said, with an eye like a tiger, had been loudly roistering past closing time in a cabaret in the Rue Férou, such that a squad of his guards had had to arrest the perpetrators. I thought he was going to laugh in my face! Morbleu! You must know something about this! Musketeers—arrested! You were there, and don’t deny it! You were recognized, and the cardinal named you. Ah, but it’s my fault, yes, my fault, because I myself choose my men. See here, Aramis, why the devil did you ask me for a tabard when you’d be better off in a cassock? And you, Porthos, do you wear such a beautiful baldric just to hang a sword of straw from it? And Athos . . . I don’t see Athos. Where is he?”
“Monsieur,” Aramis replied sadly, “he is ill—very ill.”
“Ill! Very ill, you say? From what?”
“It’s feared he has smallpox, Monsieur,” replied Porthos, eager to get a word in, “a case so bad it’s certain to ruin his face.”
“Smallpox! You tell a fine story, Porthos. Smallpox, at his age? Not likely! But wounded, doubtless, perhaps killed . . . if I only knew . . . God’s blood! Messieurs les Mousquetaires, I will not have this haunting of low dives, this picking of quarrels in the street, this swordplay in the crossroads. Most of all, I will not see you laughed at by the Cardinal’s Guards, who are brave, patient, and skillful men who never have cause to be arrested—and who, in any event, would never allow themselves to arrested! I’m sure they’d rather die on the spot than be arrested. To run away, to scarper and flee—what a fine thing for King’s Musketeers to do!”
Porthos and Aramis quivered with rage. They would gladly have strangled Monsieur de Tréville, if at bottom they hadn’t felt it was his great love for them that made him speak this way. They stamped on the carpet, they bit their lips till they bled, they gripped their sword-hilts with all their might.
Outside, everyone had heard Athos, Porthos, and Aramis summoned in an angry voice by Monsieur de Tréville. Ten curious heads leaned against the tapestry and grew pale with fury, for their ears hadn’t missed a syllable of what was said, and they repeated the captain’s tirade to the whole population of the antechamber. Instantly, from the office door to the street-gate, the entire hôtel was boiling with emotion.
“So! King’s Musketeers, arrested by Cardinal’s Guards!” continued Monsieur de Tréville furiously, so that each word plunged like a stiletto into the breasts of his auditors. “So! Six of His Eminence’s Guards arrest six of His Majesty’s Musketeers! Morbleu! My path is clear! I’ll go to the Louvre, resign as Captain of the King’s Musketeers, and beg for a lieutenancy in the Cardinal’s Guards! And if he refuses me, morbleu! I’ll become an abbot.”
At these words, the murmur outside the office became an explosion of oaths and blasphemies. The air was filled with “Morbleu!”; “God’s blood!”; and “Death of all the devils!” D’Artagnan looked for a tapestry to hide behind and wished he could crawl under a table.
“All right, mon Capitaine,” said Porthos, beside himself, “it’s true, we were six against six, but we were taken by a trick. Before we had time to draw our swords two of us were dead, and Athos so badly wounded he might as well have been. But you know Athos: he tried to get up twice, and twice he fell again. But we didn’t surrender— no! They dragged us away by force, and on the way to prison we escaped. As for Athos, they left him for dead on the field of battle, not thinking it worth the trouble to carry him off. And that’s the story! What the devil, Captain—one can’t win every battle! The great Pompey lost at Pharsalia
, and François I, who was as good as anyone, still lost at Pavia.”
“And I have the honor to assure you that I killed one of them with his own sword,” said Aramis, “for mine broke at the first parry.”
“I didn’t know that,” replied Monsieur de Tréville, in a milder tone. “I see Monsieur le Cardinal has exaggerated.”
“But please, Monsieur,” continued Aramis, seeing his captain somewhat mollified and seeking to take advantage of it, “please, Monsieur, don’t tell anyone about Athos’s wound. He’d be in despair if such news reached the ears of the king. And since the wound is very grave, passing from the shoulder down into the chest, it’s feared . . .”
At that moment the tapestry was lifted, and a noble and handsome face, frightfully pale, appeared under the fringe.
“Athos!” cried the two musketeers.
“Athos!” repeated Monsieur de Tréville.
“You sent for me, Monsieur,” said Athos to Monsieur de Tréville, in a weak but perfectly calm voice. “You sent for me, or so I’ve heard, and I’ve come to receive your orders. Here I am, Monsieur; what do you desire?” And the musketeer, impeccably dressed, entered the office. Monsieur de Tréville, moved to the bottom of his heart by this proof of courage, sprang toward him.
“I was about to tell these gentlemen,” he said, “that I forbid my musketeers to risk their lives needlessly, for brave men are very dear to the king, and the king knows his musketeers are the bravest men on earth. Your hand, Athos!”
And without waiting for an answer, Monsieur de Tréville seized his hand and gripped it with all his might. He didn’t notice that Athos allowed a slight wince of pain to escape him, despite all his self-control, and if possible grew even more pale than before.
The door had remained open, and as everyone knew Athos was wounded despite all attempts at secrecy, his arrival had created a sensation. A general cry of satisfaction greeted the final words of the captain, and two or three heads, carried away by enthusiasm, appeared around the edge of the tapestry. Monsieur de Tréville was about to reprimand this lapse, when he suddenly felt Athos’s hand clench his own and realized he was about to faint. At the same instant Athos, who had rallied all his strength against the pain of his wound, was finally overcome by it, and fell on the parquet floor like a dead man.
“A surgeon!” cried Monsieur de Tréville. “My own—the king’s— or better! A surgeon! Or, by God’s blood, my brave Athos will die!”
At Tréville’s cries, everyone rushed into the office and crowded around the wounded man in a perfectly useless frenzy of activity. Fortunately, the doctor in question happened to be in the hôtel. He pushed through the crowd to Athos, who was still unconscious, and, as all the uproar and milling about was hampering him, he demanded that the wounded musketeer be carried into a neighboring chamber. Instantly Tréville opened a door and cleared the way for Porthos and Aramis, who followed him, carrying their comrade in their arms. The surgeon came next, and shut the door behind him.
Then the usually sacrosanct office of Monsieur de Tréville became a sort of extension of the antechamber. Everyone spoke at once, ranting, haranguing, swearing oaths, and consigning the cardinal and his guards to all the devils. After a few moments Porthos and Aramis reentered the office, leaving the surgeon and Monsieur de Tréville with the wounded man. At length Tréville also returned. The patient had regained consciousness, and the surgeon declared there was no reason for the musketeer’s friends to be uneasy, as his weakness was simply due to loss of blood.
Then Tréville waved them out, and everyone left—except d’Artagnan. He wasn’t about to forget that he’d been granted an audience, and he held his ground with Gascon tenacity.
Once everyone had gone out and the door was closed, Monsieur de Tréville turned and found himself alone with the young man. The events of the past few minutes had driven the youth’s presence from his mind, but he asked his stubborn petitioner what he could do for him. D’Artagnan repeated his name and Monsieur de Tréville suddenly remembered everything.
“Pardon me,” he said, smiling, “your pardon, my dear countryman, but I’d completely forgotten you. What would you have? A captain is nothing but the father of a family, charged with even more responsibility than the father of an ordinary clan. Soldiers are big children—but as I hold that the orders of the king, and above all the orders of Monsieur the Cardinal, must be carried out . . .”
D’Artagnan couldn’t hide a small smile. Seeing this smile, Monsieur de Tréville concluded that he wasn’t dealing with a fool and changed the subject, coming straight to the point.
“I had a great liking for your father,” he said. “What can I do for his son? Speak quickly, as my time is not my own.”
“Monsieur,” said d’Artagnan, “upon leaving Tarbes to come here, I’d planned to ask you, in remembrance of that unforgotten friendship, for the tabard of a musketeer. But after all I’ve seen in the past two hours I now understand how big a favor that would be, and I’m afraid I may not deserve it.”
“It is indeed a favor, young man,” replied Tréville, “but it may not be as far above you as you think, or appear to think. However, it’s His Majesty’s decision in any case, and I regret to say that no one is received into the King’s Musketeers who hasn’t proved himself in several campaigns, through daring exploits, or by having served for two years in some other regiment of less prestige than ours.”
D’Artagnan bowed and said nothing, though he was more eager than ever to don the uniform of the musketeers now that he’d learned how hard it was to obtain it.
“But,” continued Tréville, fixing his compatriot with a look that seemed to try to pierce to the depths of his heart, “but, out of respect for your father, my old companion, I’ll do what I can for you, young man. Our cadets of Béarn are not usually very wealthy, and I doubt things have changed much since I left the province. I dare say you’ve brought none too much money with you.”
D’Artagnan drew himself up with a proud air that clearly conveyed that he asked charity of no one.
“Very well, young man, very well,” continued Tréville, “I see that you’re proud. I first arrived in Paris with no more than four crowns in my pouch, and would have fought anyone who told me I didn’t have enough to buy the Louvre.”
D’Artagnan’s pride redoubled, for thanks to the sale of his horse he was starting his career with four crowns more than Tréville had had at the beginning of his.
“You should do your best to conserve what you have, however much it is,” Tréville continued, “but you should also perfect those skills becoming to a gentleman. I’ll write you a letter to the Director of the Royal Academy, and you’ll be admitted without fee. Don’t refuse this little favor. Our best-born and wealthiest gentlemen sometimes solicit it without success. You’ll learn how to handle a horse, how to fence, how to dance, and you’ll make some valuable acquaintances. From time to time you can revisit me so I can see how you’re doing, and if I can do anything else for you.”
D’Artagnan, though still a stranger to Court manners, couldn’t help but think that this was rather a cold welcome. “Alas, Monsieur!” he said. “I see now how much I miss the letter of recommendation my father gave me to present to you.”
“Indeed,” replied Monsieur de Tréville, “I’m astonished you’d undertake such a long journey without that essential asset, the sole resource of poor Béarnaise like us.”
“I had one, Monsieur,” lamented d’Artagnan, “and a good one, but it was treacherously stolen from me.” And he related what had happened at Meung, describing his gentleman opponent in minute detail, speaking with a warmth and candor that charmed Monsieur de Tréville.
“This is strange, indeed,” said Tréville, after thinking about it. “You say you mentioned my name?”
“Yes, Monsieur. It was presumptuous of me, but what would you have? A name like yours is as good as a shield on such a journey. You may well suppose I didn’t keep it a secret!”
Flattery was
common practice at this time, and Tréville was as pleased by it as any king, or even cardinal. He couldn’t restrain a satisfied smile, but it was quickly suppressed. He returned to the adventure of Meung. “Tell me, had this gentleman a faint scar on his temple?”
“Yes, as if he’d been grazed by a musket-ball.”
“A good-looking man? Tall?”
“Yes.”
“Pale complexion and brown hair?”
“Yes, yes, that’s him! How is it, Monsieur, that you know this man? Ah, if I ever find him—and I will find him, I swear it, if I have to follow him to Hell!”
“He was waiting for a woman?” continued Tréville.
“Yes! He left right after speaking for a moment to this woman he’d been waiting for.”
“You didn’t catch the gist of their conversation?”
“He delivered a box to her, told her the box contained her instructions, and that she shouldn’t open it until she reached London.”
“This woman was English?”
“He called her Milady.”
“It’s him!” murmured Tréville. “It’s him! I thought he was still in Brussels!”
“Oh, Monsieur, if you know this man,” cried d’Artagnan, “tell me who and where he is, and you need do nothing more for me. I’d even give up admission into the musketeers, for above all, I want to avenge myself.”
“Watch yourself, young man,” said Tréville. “If you see this man coming down one side of the street, cross over to the other! Don’t cast yourself against this rock—he’ll break you like glass.”
“That won’t stop me,” said d’Artagnan. “If I ever find him . . .”
“In the meantime, if you’ll take my advice, don’t go looking for him,” warned Tréville.
All at once Tréville stopped, struck by a sudden suspicion. This great hatred, so loudly proclaimed by this young man, for a strange gentleman who had rather improbably stolen his father’s letter— mightn’t this be some kind of trick? Could this young man have been sent by His Eminence to lay a trap for him? This supposed d’Artagnan could well be a spy the cardinal sought to introduce into Tréville’s house, to win Tréville’s confidence and later bring him down, as he’d done to a thousand others. He looked d’Artagnan over even more closely than before and was somewhat reassured by the young man’s humble demeanor and obvious intelligence. I know he’s a Gascon, he thought, but he might just as well be a Gascon for the cardinal as for me. Very well, let’s try him.
The Three Musketeers Page 5