The Three Musketeers

by Alexandre Dumas

  They had just laid out their beds and barricaded their door from the inside when someone tapped on the shutter of the courtyard window. They asked who was there, recognized the voices of Planchet and Grimaud, and opened up.

  “Grimaud can guard the horses,” said Planchet, “and if you like, Messieurs, I’ll sleep across your doorway. That way you can be sure no one will come near you.”

  “And what will you sleep on?” asked d’Artagnan.

  “I have my bed right here,” said Planchet, displaying an armful of straw.

  “You know, I think you’re right,” said d’Artagnan. “I don’t trust our host’s face—he’s entirely too polite.”

  “Neither do I,” said Athos.

  Planchet came in through the window and installed himself across the doorway. Grimaud said that by five in the morning he would have their horses ready, then went and shut himself inside the stable.

  The night was tranquil until about two in the morning, when someone tried to open the door to their room. But Planchet awoke and called out, “Who goes there?” Whoever it was said he was mistaken and went away.

  At four in the morning, there was a great racket in the stables. Grimaud had tried to awaken the stable boys, but the stable boys took offense and beat him up. When d’Artagnan opened the window they saw the poor fellow lying unconscious in the courtyard, head split open by a blow from a pitchfork handle.

  Planchet went down into the yard to saddle their mounts, but the horses were still exhausted. Mousqueton’s horse had traveled for five or six hours the night before without a rider, and might have been able to continue, but by some incredible error a veterinary surgeon, who’d come to bleed one of the host’s horses, had bled Mousqueton’s instead.

  This was beginning to be annoying. Such a chain of accidents might possibly be the result of chance, but they might just as likely be the product of a plot. D’Artagnan and Athos went out to find breakfast elsewhere, while Planchet went to see if there might be three horses for sale in the neighborhood.

  At the door of the inn stood two fine horses, fully equipped for travel, fresh and vigorous. Just the thing! Planchet asked where he could find their masters; he was told they’d spent the night in the inn, and were preparing to settle their accounts with the host.

  Athos went down to pay their own bill, while d’Artagnan and Planchet waited at the street gate. Athos was directed toward a lower chamber in the back, which was strange, but it didn’t occur to him to be suspicious. He found the room indicated and drew two pistoles from his pouch to settle the bill. The host was alone, seated behind his desk, which had one drawer half-open. He took the coins that Athos gave him and turned them over and over in his hands. “These are counterfeit!” he suddenly cried. “I’ll have you and your friend arrested as coiners!”

  “You rogue!” Athos snarled, advancing toward him. “I’ll cut your ears off!” But the host pulled two pistols from the half-open drawer and pointed them at Athos, meanwhile calling for help. Athos drew his own pistols, but at the same moment four men, armed to the teeth, came in through the doors on either side of the room and jumped him. “I’m taken!” shouted Athos, at the top of his lungs. “Get out, d’Artagnan! Ride on! Ride on!”

  Two pistol shots rang out from below. D’Artagnan and Planchet didn’t need to be told twice: they untied the two horses that were waiting at the door, jumped into the saddles, buried their spurs in the horses’ sides, and left at a gallop.

  “You were closer. Could you see what happened to Athos?” d’Artagnan asked Planchet as they rode.

  “It was Athos who fired,” said Planchet. “I could see through the door. One enemy dropped at each shot, and then he drew steel on the others.”

  “Brave Athos!” murmured d’Artagnan. “And to think we had to abandon him! The same fate may await us at the next bend of the road. Forward, Planchet, forward! You’re a brave man.”

  “I told you, Monsieur,” replied Planchet, “in action, we Picards show what we’re made of. Besides, I’m in my own country here, and that puts me on my mettle.”

  Spurring on, they arrived at Saint-Omer without stopping once. They had to rest their mounts, but to prevent any more accidents from happening, they held their horses’ bridles in one hand while with the other they had a quick bite to eat from a street vendor. Then they departed again.

  A hundred paces from the gates of Calais, d’Artagnan’s horse fell beneath him. It wasn’t going to get up again; blood ran from its nose and eyes. They still had Planchet’s horse, but now that it had stopped, it refused to go any farther.

  Fortunately, they were just outside the city gates. They left their ailing mounts on the high road, passed through the gates, and ran toward the port. At the wharf, Planchet spotted a gentleman with his lackey who had arrived just ahead of them and pointed him out to his master.

  They eagerly approached this gentleman. His boots were covered with dust and he appeared to be in a great rush. They heard him inquire if he could immediately pass over to England.

  “Nothing would be easier,” replied the captain of a ship ready to set sail, “except that this morning an order arrived that no one may leave the port without the express permission of the cardinal.”

  “I have that permission,” said the gentleman, taking a paper from his pocket. “Here it is.”

  “Have it countersigned by the Governor of the Port,” said the captain, “and I’m your man.”

  “Where can I find the governor?”

  “At his estate.”

  “And where is his estate?”

  “A quarter of a league from the city. Look, you can see it from here—at the foot of that little hill, the house with the slate roof.”

  “Excellent,” said the gentleman. And, followed by his lackey, he headed toward the governor’s estate.

  D’Artagnan and Planchet followed the gentleman at five hundred paces. Once they were out of the city, d’Artagnan picked up his pace and caught up with the gentleman as he was entering a little wood.

  “Monsieur,” d’Artagnan said to him, “you appear to be in a great hurry.”

  “I couldn’t be more so, Monsieur.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” said d’Artagnan, “because I’m also in a great hurry, and I must beg you to do me a favor.”

  “What?”

  “To let me go ahead of you.”

  “Impossible,” said the gentleman. “I’ve gone sixty leagues in forty-four hours, and by noon tomorrow I must be in London.”

  “I’ve traveled the same road in forty hours, and must be in London tomorrow by ten in the morning.”

  “That’s too bad, Monsieur—for I got here first, and won’t go second.”

  “It is too bad, Monsieur, for I got here second, and I will go first.” “In the name of the king!” said the gentleman.

  “In the name of myself!” said d’Artagnan.

  “Look, it seems to me this is a pretty pointless quarrel,” said the gentleman.

  “Parbleu! Not at all!”

  “What is it that you want?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Well, I want that order you’re carrying, since I don’t have one and you do.”

  “You must be joking.”

  “I never joke.”

  “Let me pass!”

  “I’m afraid I can’t.”

  “You know, young man, I believe I will blow your brains out. Lubin! My pistols!”

  D’Artagnan said, “You take the lackey, Planchet, and I’ll take the master.”

  Planchet, emboldened by his previous success, sprang upon Lubin. Strong and vigorous, he quickly pinned Lubin to the ground and put his knee on his chest.

  “Go about your business, Monsieur,” said Planchet. “Mine is under control.”

  The gentleman, angered, drew his sword and pounced on d’Artagnan—but he got more than he’d bargained for. In three seconds d’Artagnan had wounded him three times, shouting,
“One for Athos—one for Porthos—one for Aramis!” At the third blow, the gentleman collapsed in a heap.

  D’Artagnan thought he was dead, or at least senseless, and bent over him to take the vital order. But as he reached out, the wounded man raised his sword and stabbed him in the chest, gasping, “And one for you!”

  “And one for me—the best for last!” cried d’Artagnan furiously, nailing the man to the ground with a fourth thrust through the body.

  This time, the gentleman closed his eyes and passed out. d’Artagnan searched his pockets, found the order for passage, and took it. It was in the name of the Comte de Wardes.

  He spared a final glance at the handsome young man, who was barely twenty-five, and whom he was leaving there, lying senseless and perhaps dead. He sighed for that strange destiny that leads men to destroy each other in the interests of people who are strangers to them, and who often don’t even know they exist.

  He was soon drawn from these reflections by Lubin, who began shouting for help at the top of his lungs. Planchet took him by the throat and squeezed as hard as he could. “Monsieur,” he said, “as long as I hold him like this he can’t shout, but as soon as I let him go he’ll start up again. I can tell he’s a Norman, and these Normans are stubborn.”

  In fact, gripped though he was, Lubin was still trying to make as much noise as he could. “Hold on,” said d’Artagnan, and taking out his handkerchief, he gagged him.

  “Now let’s tie him to a tree,” said Planchet.

  This completed, they dragged the Comte de Wardes over and laid him next to his servant. Night was beginning to fall, and since the gagged man and the wounded man were some yards into the woods, it seemed likely they would remain there until the next day.

  “And now,” said d’Artagnan, “to the governor’s house!”

  “But aren’t you wounded?” said Planchet.

  “It’s nothing. Let’s deal with the most urgent business first, and we’ll attend to my wound later. Anyway, I don’t think it’s very serious.” And they set out at a trot for the estate of the worthy bureaucrat.

  D’Artagnan had himself announced as the Comte de Wardes, and was introduced to the governor’s study.

  “You have an order signed by the cardinal?” said the governor. “Yes, Monsieur,” replied d’Artagnan. “Here it is.”

  “Ahem. Yes, this appears to be in order, and drawn up properly,” said the governor.

  “But of course,” replied d’Artagnan. “After all, I’m one of the cardinal’s fidèles. ”

  “It appears His Eminence wants to prevent someone from reaching England.”

  “Yes—a certain d’Artagnan, a Béarnaise gentleman who left Paris with three of his friends with the intention of getting to London.” “Do you know him personally?” asked the governor.

  “Intimately so.”

  “Describe him for me.”

  “Nothing could be easier.” And d’Artagnan gave, point by point, a detailed description of the Comte de Wardes.

  “Is anyone with him?”

  “Yes, a Norman lackey called Lubin.”

  “We’ll watch for them, and if we can lay our hands on them, we’ll send them back to His Eminence in Paris under heavy escort.”

  “Do that, Monsieur le Gouverneur, and you’ll have the cardinal’s personal thanks,” said d’Artagnan.

  “Will you see him on your return, Monsieur le Comte?”

  “Of course.”

  “Tell him for me, if you will, that I’m his loyal servant.”

  “Count on it.”

  Delighted with this assurance, the governor countersigned the passage order and returned it. D’Artagnan lost no more time in useless compliments—he just thanked the governor, bowed, and departed.

  Outside, he and Planchet immediately set out for Calais, taking a detour around the wood and entering the city by a different gate.

  The ship was ready to sail, and the captain was waiting on the wharf.

  “Well?” he said, as d’Artagnan came up to him.

  “Here’s my pass, duly countersigned,” said d’Artagnan.

  “What happened to the other gentleman?”

  “He can’t go with us today,” said d’Artagnan, “but I’ll pay you for his passage as well.”

  “In that case, let’s go,” said the captain.

  “As soon as you can,” said d’Artagnan, leaping aboard. He was followed by Planchet, and five minutes later they were on their way out of the harbor. None too soon: they were barely half a league out when they saw a gun flash on the Calais wall, followed by a boom. It was the cannon that announced the closing of the port.

  D’Artagnan now had time to take a look at his wound. Fortunately, as he’d thought, it wasn’t a bad one: the point of the sword had hit a rib and slid along the bone. Furthermore, his shirt had stuck to the wound and held it closed, so he hadn’t lost much blood. But d’Artagnan was exhausted; they laid a mattress on the deck for him, and he threw himself onto it and immediately fell fast asleep.

  Next morning at daybreak they found themselves still three or four leagues from the English coast. The breeze had been light all night and they’d made little headway. At ten o’clock the ship finally dropped anchor in the port of Dover; at half past ten the ship’s boat put them ashore and d’Artagnan set foot on English soil, saying, “I’m here at last!”

  But they still had to get to London. In England the post was well-served by a good post-horse service; d’Artagnan and Planchet rented horses and rode, led by a postilion, who went ahead to show them the way.

  In a few hours they reached the capital. D’Artagnan knew nothing of London and didn’t speak a word of English, but he wrote the name of Buckingham on a paper, and everyone he showed it to directed him toward the duke’s town house.

  At Buckingham’s mansion they learned that the duke was hunting at Windsor with the king. D’Artagnan asked for the duke’s confidential valet, who spoke fluent French, having accompanied him on all his travels. D’Artagnan told him he’d come from Paris on a matter of life and death and had to speak with his master immediately.

  Patrick, the confidential valet, was convinced by d’Artagnan’s earnestness. He had two horses saddled, and went himself as guide to the young cadet. As for Planchet, he’d gotten off his horse as stiff as a stick, and stayed behind. The poor fellow was at the end of his strength, but d’Artagnan seemed to be made of iron.

  They arrived at the castle and inquired after the duke. The king and Buckingham were hawking in the marshes, two or three leagues away. Riding hard, they reached there in twenty minutes, and Patrick soon heard the voice of his master, calling his falcon.

  “Whom shall I announce to milord duke?” asked Patrick.

  “The young man who sought a quarrel with him one evening on the Pont Neuf, in front of La Samaritaine.”

  “That’s an unusual introduction!”

  “You’ll see that it’s better than any other.”

  Patrick galloped up to the duke and announced that a messenger awaited him, describing him in the terms d’Artagnan had given him.

  Buckingham immediately realized that the messenger must be d’Artagnan. Suspecting that something was going on in France that he ought to know about, he only asked where this messenger was, and immediately set out toward him. As he approached, he recognized the uniform of the French Guards, put his horse into a gallop and rode straight up to d’Artagnan. Patrick discreetly held back behind him.

  “Surely nothing bad has happened to the queen?” cried Buckingham, and all his mind and all his heart were in the question.

  “I don’t think so,” said d’Artagnan, “but I believe she is in some great danger from which only Your Grace can save her.”

  “Me?” cried Buckingham. “But what? I’d do anything for her. Speak! Speak!”

  “Read this letter, Milord,” said d’Artagnan.

  “This letter! Who is this letter from?”

  “From Her Majesty, or so I believe.”r />
  “From Her Majesty!” said Buckingham, turning so pale that d’Artagnan thought he might faint. He took the letter and broke the seal.

  “Why is it ripped here?” he said, showing d’Artagnan a place where the letter was pierced through.

  “I hadn’t noticed that!” said d’Artagnan. “That must have happened when the Comte de Wardes stabbed me in the chest.”

  “You’re wounded?” asked Buckingham, opening the letter.

  “It’s nothing! A scratch!” said d’Artagnan.

  The duke scanned the letter. “What’s this? Heavens above! Patrick, stay here, or rather, join the king wherever he is. Tender His Majesty my humblest excuses, but tell him an affair of the highest importance calls me to London. Come, Monsieur, come!”

  And both set off at a gallop on the road to the capital.

  XXI

  The Comtesse de Winter

  As they galloped toward London, the duke fired questions at d’Artagnan to try to get a clearer picture of the queen’s situation. He asked d’Artagnan to tell him only what he knew, not what he thought might have happened. Combining what he heard from the young man with his own information, he was able to form a pretty fair idea of the position, the seriousness of which had been conveyed by the queen’s letter, so short but so explicit.

  What astonished him the most was that the cardinal, who had so much at stake in making sure that d’Artagnan never set foot in England, had nonetheless failed to stop him en route. When the duke remarked on this, d’Artagnan told him of the precautions they’d taken, and how, thanks to the devotion of his three friends, now left scattered and bloody on the road, he’d arrived having suffered no more than the single sword-thrust that had pierced the queen’s letter (and for which he’d repaid de Wardes in such terrible coin). D’Artagnan told his story simply and modestly, while the duke listened in astonishment, as if unable to believe that so much prudence, courage, and devotion could be wrapped up in a person apparently no more than twenty years old.