“The thing is serious,” answered Aramis.
“It’s a family affair,” said Porthos.
“It’s the same with valets as it is with wives,” said Athos. “You must immediately put things on the footing where you’d like them to remain. Reflect thus.”
D’Artagnan reflected. He decided to thrash Planchet for his own good, a decision he put into effect with that conscientiousness that d’Artagnan brought to everything he did. Having thrashed him well, he forbade Planchet to quit his service without his permission. “The future is bright,” he said to him, “and better times are certain. If you stay with me, your fortune is made—and I’m much too good a master to allow you to miss your chance by letting you go, just because you ask for it.”
This domestic policy of d’Artagnan’s won him a great deal of respect among his friends the musketeers. Planchet was likewise filled with admiration and spoke no more about leaving.
The lives of the four young men had merged and become communal. D’Artagnan, who had arrived from the country into the middle of a world completely new to him, had no set habits, and therefore fell easily into the routines of his friends.
They rose around eight in the morning in winter, six o’clock in summer, and went to the Hôtel de Tréville to hear their daily orders and see how affairs were going. D’Artagnan, though not a musketeer, performed the duties of one with touching dedication. He was always on guard, because he always kept company with whichever one of his friends was on duty. Everyone knew him at the mansion of the musketeers, where he soon had the reputation of a good comrade. Monsieur de Tréville, who had appreciated him at first glance, and who genuinely liked him, recommended him regularly to the king.
For their part, the three musketeers were very fond of their young comrade. The friendship that united these four men was such that they felt a need to see each other three or four times a day, whether for a duel, for business, or for pleasure. The Inseparables were always running after each other like shadows, criss-crossing the Faubourg Saint-Germain, from the Palais de Luxembourg to the Place Saint-Sulpice, or from the Rue du Vieux-Colombier back to the Luxembourg.
Meanwhile, the promises of Monsieur de Tréville began to become a reality. One fine day, the king commanded Monsieur des Essarts to accept d’Artagnan as a cadet in his company of the royal Gardes Françaises.42 D’Artagnan, sighing, put on his new uniform, which he would have given ten years of his life to exchange for the tabard of a musketeer. But Monsieur de Tréville promised him that favor after service of two years in the guards—or less, if d’Artagnan should find the opportunity to render some important service to the king or achieve some brilliant exploit. D’Artagnan consoled himself with this promise and joined the French Guards the next day.
Then it was the turn of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis to mount guard with d’Artagnan when he was on duty. The day it took in d’Artagnan, the company of Monsieur des Essarts thus gained four men instead of one.
VIII
A Court Intrigue
Meanwhile, the forty pistoles of King Louis XIII, like everything in this world, had come to an end, and the four companions had fallen into financial embarrassment. For a while Athos supported them with money of his own. Porthos had succeeded him, and thanks to one of those mysterious disappearances of his, had provided for everyone’s needs for nearly a fortnight more. Then it was Aramis’s turn, which he accepted with good grace; he succeeded in procuring a few pistoles by means, he said, of selling some of his theology books.
Next they turned, as they usually did, to Monsieur de Tréville, who gave them some advances on their pay. However, as they were already considerably in arrears this didn’t amount to much, and couldn’t carry three musketeers, plus a guard who had yet to be paid, very far. Finally, when they were on the verge of bankruptcy, they managed to scrape together eight or ten pistoles that Porthos took to the gaming tables. Unfortunately, his luck was out: he lost it all, plus twenty-five pistoles more on his word.
Then the embarrassment became distress, and the quartet, followed by their lackeys, could be seen haunting the quays and the guard-rooms, calling on their friends for meals wherever they could—for on the advice of Aramis, when prosperous they had bestowed dinners left and right, so as to be able to call in their favors when times were hard.
Athos received four such invitations, and each time brought along his friends and their lackeys. Porthos managed six, and likewise used them for the benefit of his comrades. Aramis had eight such invitations; as has already been shown, he was a man who got great results with little fuss.
As for d’Artagnan, who as yet knew hardly anyone in the capital, he turned up nothing but a breakfast of chocolate from a Béarnaise priest and a dinner invitation from a cornet of the French Guards. He brought along his small army of friends to the priest’s house, where they devoured two months’ worth of the poor man’s provisions, and to the cornet’s, who outdid himself; but, as Planchet said, “No matter how much you eat, you eat only one meal at a time.”
D’Artagnan was embarrassed at having provided his friends only one and a half dinners—for the breakfast at the priest’s couldn’t be counted as more than half a meal—in exchange for the feasts provided him by Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. He felt like a burden on their society, forgetting in his youthful enthusiasm that he’d fed that society for a month, and he put his wits to work to find a way to do better. It occurred to him that this coalition of four young men, all brave, enterprising, and active, ought to be able to find something more useful to do than fencing lessons, playing practical jokes, and swaggering around.
In fact, four men like these, four men devoted to each other, from their purses to their very lives; four men always supporting each other, never yielding, executing alone or together their common resolutions; four arms menacing the four cardinal directions, or turning toward one point; these four, whether by covert means or overt, by mine or by trench, by ruse or by force, must inevitably make for themselves a road to any goal, no matter how well defended or how distant. The only thing that astonished d’Artagnan was that his companions had never thought of this before.
He was sure that this fourfold force, like Archimedes’s lever, might lift the world if used properly. He was mulling over this idea, racking his brains for an objective, when someone rapped lightly on the door. D’Artagnan awakened Planchet and sent him to open it.
Please note that the phrase, “D’Artagnan awakened Planchet,” should not be taken to indicate that it was night, or that the day had not yet begun. On the contrary: the church bells had just sounded four in the afternoon. Planchet, two hours earlier, had asked his master for dinner, and d’Artagnan had responded with the proverb, “Who sleeps, eats.” So Planchet had been eating by sleeping.
Planchet returned to introduce a man humble in appearance and with the air of a bourgeois, a person of the middle class. For his dessert, Planchet would have liked to listen in on the conversation, but the bourgeois declared that what he had to say was important and confidential, so he preferred to speak to d’Artagnan alone. D’Artagnan therefore dismissed Planchet and offered his visitor a seat.
There was a moment of silence during which the two men discreetly sized each other up, then d’Artagnan bowed and indicated he was ready to listen.
“I’ve heard it said that Monsieur d’Artagnan is a very brave young man,” began the bourgeois, “and this reputation, doubtless well earned, led me to decide to confide in you.”
“Speak, Monsieur, speak,” said d’Artagnan, who instinctively scented something to his advantage.
The bourgeois paused once more, then continued, “My wife is a linen maid in the queen’s household, Monsieur, and she lacks neither wisdom nor beauty. I married her three years ago, though she had only a small dowry, because Monsieur de La Porte, the queen’s cloak bearer, is her godfather and protector . . .”
“Well, Monsieur?” asked d’Artagnan.
“Well,” replied the bourgeois, “well, Mon
sieur: my wife was abducted yesterday morning, as she was leaving her workroom.”
“And who abducted her?”
“I know nothing for sure, Monsieur—but I suspect someone.” “And who is this person you suspect?”
“A man who has pursued her for some time.”
“The devil!”
“But let me say, Monsieur,” continued the bourgeois, “that I’m convinced there’s less of love than of politics in this.”
“Less love than politics,” repeated d’Artagnan thoughtfully, “and what do you suspect?”
“I don’t know if I should tell you what I suspect . . .”
“Monsieur, allow me to point out that I have asked you absolutely nothing. It’s you who’ve come to me, you who said you had a secret to confide. Do as you please—stop now, if that’s what you want.”
“No, Monsieur, no; you seem to be an honest young man, and I have confidence in you. Let me say I believe that it’s not because of my wife’s amours that she was arrested, but because of those of a much greater lady than she.”
“Ah! Do you speak of Madame de Bois-Tracy?” said d’Artagnan, who wanted to give the bourgeois the impression that he was well up on affairs at Court.
“Much higher, Monsieur, much higher.”
“Of Madame de Combalet?”
“Higher yet.”
“Of Madame de Chevreuse?”
“Higher, much higher!”
“Of the. . .” d’Artagnan stopped himself.
“Yes, Monsieur,” the bourgeois whispered.
“And with whom?”
“With whom could it be, if not with the Duke of . . .”
“The Duke of . . . !”
“Yes, Monsieur!” whispered the bourgeois even lower.
“But how do you know all this?”
“You ask how I know this?”
“Yes, how do you know this? And no half-truths, understand?”
“I got it from my wife, Monsieur—from my wife herself.”
“And who does she get it from?”
“From Monsieur de La Porte. Didn’t I tell you she was the goddaughter of La Porte, the queen’s confidential valet? Well, Monsieur de La Porte had placed her near to Her Majesty so our poor queen would have at least one person she could confide in, since she’s abandoned by the king, spied on by the cardinal, and betrayed by everyone.”
“Ah! I begin to get the picture,” said d’Artagnan.
“Now, my wife came home four days ago, Monsieur. One of the conditions of her job is that she be allowed to come see me twice a week; for, as I had the honor to tell you, my wife loves me dearly. Anyway, on my wife’s last visit she told me that the queen is exceedingly anxious.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes. It seems Monsieur le Cardinal pursues her and persecutes her more than ever. He can’t forgive her for the episode of the Sarabande. You know about the episode of the Sarabande?”43
“Know it? I should say so!” replied d’Artagnan, who knew nothing whatsoever, but who wanted to have the air of being au courant.
“So that now, you see, his persecution is more than just a matter of hate—it’s a matter of revenge.”
“Truly?”
“And the queen believes . . .”
“Yes, yes—what does the queen believe?”
“She believes someone has written to Monsieur the Duke of Buckingham in her name.”
“In the queen’s name?”
“Yes, to make him come to Paris—and once he arrives, to draw him into a trap.”
“The devil! But your wife, my dear Monsieur, what does she have to do with all this?”
“Everyone knows of her devotion to the queen, so they want to separate her from her mistress, or frighten her into revealing Her Majesty’s secrets, or maybe seduce her into serving them as a spy.”
“Yes, that’s probably right,” said d’Artagnan. “But the man who abducted her, do you know him?”
“As I said, I believe I know him.”
“His name?”
“That I don’t know; all I know is that he’s a creature of the cardinal, one of his right-hand henchmen.”
“But you’ve seen him?”
“Yes, my wife pointed him out to me one day.”
“Is there anything special about him? How would I recognize him?”
“That’s easily done! He’s a haughty-looking noble, with black hair, a brown or tan complexion, white teeth, eyes that look right through you, and a scar on the temple.”
“A scar on his temple, black hair, a dark complexion, white teeth, piercing eyes, and arrogant,” cried d’Artagnan. “That’s my man of Meung!”
“What do you mean, that’s your man?”
“He must be—but that has nothing to do with it. No, wait, I’m wrong, it simplifies things immensely: if your man is my man, then with one blow I’ll avenge us both! But where can I find him?”
“As to that, I know nothing.”
“You have no idea where he lives?”
“None! One day, as I was walking my wife back to the Louvre, he was coming out as she was going in, and she pointed him out to me.”
“The devil! The devil!” murmured d’Artagnan. “This is all so vague. How did you learn that your wife had been carried off?”
“From Monsieur de La Porte.”
“Did he give you any details?”
“He didn’t know any.”
“And you’ve learned nothing from anywhere else?”
“Well, yes, I’ve received . . .”
“What?”
“Oh . . . it would be rash, reckless of me to tell you!”
“You keep coming back to that. Isn’t it a little late to retreat?”
“And I won’t retreat. God’s death!” cried the bourgeois, swearing to keep his courage up. “Besides, by the faith of Bonacieux . . .”
“You’re called Bonacieux?” interrupted d’Artagnan.
“Yes, that’s my name.”
“Pardon me for interrupting you, but that name seems familiar to me.”
“It’s possible, Monsieur. I’m your landlord.”
“Ah!” said d’Artagnan, half rising and bowing. “You’re my landlord?”
“Yes, Monsieur, yes. And as it’s been three months since you came to my house, and since, distracted no doubt by your important affairs, you’ve forgotten to pay me my rent; since, I must point out, I’ve not harassed you once about it, I thought you might be appreciative of my restraint.”
“Why, my dear Monsieur Bonacieux!” replied d’Artagnan, “Rest assured that I very much appreciate your tact in this matter, and that if there’s anything I can do for you . . .”
“I believe you, Monsieur, I believe you, and as I was about to say, by the faith of Bonacieux, I have full confidence in you.”
“Let’s hear the rest of it, then.”
Bonacieux took a paper from his pocket and presented it to d’Artagnan.
“A letter!” said the young man.
“I received it this morning.”
D’Artagnan opened it, and as the light was beginning to dim, he approached the window. The bourgeois followed him.
“‘Don’t search for your wife,’” read d’Artagnan. “‘She will be returned when there is no more need for her. If you take a single step to recover her, you are lost.’ Nothing vague about that,” continued d’Artagnan, “but after all, it’s only a threat.”
“Yes, but that threat terrifies me. I, Monsieur, am no man of the sword, and I fear the Bastille.”44
“Hmm!” said d’Artagnan. “I don’t care for the Bastille any more than you. If it were only a matter of a sword fight, I’d venture it.”
“But, Monsieur, I’ve been counting on you.”
“You have?”
“Yes! I’ve seen you so often surrounded by proud musketeers, and I know these musketeers belong to Monsieur de Tréville, so they’re enemies of the cardinal. I thought that you and your friends, while serving our poor queen,
would be delighted to do a disservice to His Eminence.”
“No doubt.”
“And then I thought that, as you owe me three months’ rent, which I’ve never mentioned . . .”
“Yes, yes, you’ve already given me that reason, and I think it’s an excellent one.”
“And I was further reckoning that as long as you do me the honor to remain in my house, I would never mention your rent again . . .”
“Most generous!”
“And on top of this—if I must—I thought to offer you fifty pistoles if, against all probability, you should find yourself short at the moment.”
“A happy thought! But you are rich then, my dear Monsieur Bonacieux?”
“I’m comfortable, Monsieur—comfortable is the word for it. The textile business brings in something like two or three thousand crowns a year, and I profited by investing in the final voyage of the celebrated navigator, Jean Mocquet,45 so that . . . but wait a moment!” cried the bourgeois.
“What?” demanded d’Artagnan.
“There! Do you see him?”
“Where?”
“Across the street, in that doorway: a man wrapped in a cloak.”
“It’s him!” cried d’Artagnan and Bonacieux at the same time, as each recognized his man.
“By God! This time,” cried d’Artagnan, grabbing his sword, “this time, he won’t escape me!” And drawing his sword from its scabbard, he rushed out of the apartment.
On the staircase he met Athos and Porthos, who were on their way up to see him. They split left and right, and d’Artagnan darted between them. “Ah çà!” bellowed Porthos. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“The man of Meung!” cried d’Artagnan as he disappeared.
D’Artagnan had more than once told his friends about his adventure with the stranger in Meung, and the stranger’s meeting with the beautiful traveler in which he’d appeared to confide an important mission to her. It was Athos’s opinion that d’Artagnan had lost his letter in the scuffle. A gentleman, he said—and, based on d’Artagnan’s description of the stranger, he must have been a gentleman—a gentleman would be incapable of such a base act as stealing a letter. Porthos had seen nothing in the story but an amorous rendezvous between a lady and a cavalier, a meeting that had been disrupted by the appearance of d’Artagnan with his yellow horse. Aramis had said that these sorts of things were always mysterious, and it was best not to sift through them.
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