“What the devil do they think is so extraordinary about this soup?” said Porthos to himself, at the sight of the pale bouillon. It was abundant, but perfectly meatless. A few crusts swam about on its surface like the far-flung isles of an archipelago.
Madame Coquenard smiled, and at her signal, everyone eagerly took his seat.
Master Coquenard was served first, then Porthos, following which madame filled her own bowl, then distributed the crusts without bouillon to the impatient clerks. At that moment the door to the dining room opened itself with a creak, and through the gap Porthos saw the little demi-clerk who, unable to take part in the feast, was eating his bread crusts in a spot where he could inhale the aromas of both the kitchen and dining room.
After the soup the serving-maid brought in a boiled chicken, an extravagance that caused the clerks’ eyes to bulge out so far that it threatened to cause permanent injury.
“One can see how much you love your relations, Madame Coquenard,” said the prosecutor, with a smile that verged on the tragic. “This is quite a tribute to your regard for your cousin.”
The poor fowl was scrawny and covered with one of those thick, bristly skins that resist all efforts to chew through them. It must have been allowed to retire to its perch, where it had sat for a long time before dying of old age.
The devil! thought Porthos. This is pretty sad. I respect old age, but not when it’s boiled or roasted. He looked around to see if anyone shared his opinion, but on the contrary: he saw only eyes eagerly devouring in advance that sublime chicken, the object of his contempt.
Madame Coquenard drew the plate toward her and adroitly detached the two big black feet, which she placed on her husband’s plate. Then she severed the neck, which she set aside, with the head, for herself, cut off a wing for Porthos, and then returned it to the maid, who took it away otherwise intact. She disappeared before the musketeer had even had time to examine all the ways disappointment afflicted the faces of those around the table, varying according to their character and temperament.
In place of the chicken, a plate of beans made its entrance—an enormous plate, on which some mutton bones might be seen, and which at first glance might be supposed to have some meat adhering to them. But the clerks didn’t fall for this fraud, and lugubrious looks settled onto their resigned faces.
Madame Coquenard served out this dish to the young men with the moderation of a frugal housewife.
The time for wine had arrived. From a small stoneware bottle, Master Coquenard carefully poured a third of a glass for each of the young men, served himself about the same amount, and then passed the bottle to Porthos and Madame Coquenard.
The young men filled the rest of their glasses with water, then, having drunk half of that, filled them again, and so on. By the end of the meal they were swallowing a drink that had once had the color of rubies, but was now a pale topaz.
Porthos nibbled timidly at his chicken wing, and shuddered when he felt madame’s knee under the table, come in search of his. He drank half a glass of the carefully cherished wine, recognizing it as the horrible vintage of Montreuil, the terror of all sophisticated palates.
Master Coquenard saw him swallowing the wine undiluted and sighed. “Would you care for any of these beans, Cousin Porthos?” said Madame Coquenard, in a way that said, “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”
“Devil take me if I do!” murmured Porthos under his breath. Aloud, he said, “Thank you, my cousin, but I’m quite satisfied.”
A silence fell. Porthos was feeling decidedly unsure of himself.
The prosecutor repeated several times, “My compliments to you, Madame Coquenard! Your dinner has been a veritable feast. Lord, how I ate!” Master Coquenard had eaten his soup, the black feet of the chicken, and the only mutton bone with a scrap of meat on it.
Porthos began to wonder if they were mocking him, and commenced to curl his mustache and furrow his brow. But Madame Coquenard’s knee softly came to counsel him to patience.
This silence, and the interruption in service, which made no sense to Porthos, had on the contrary a terrible significance for the clerks. On a look from the prosecutor, accompanied by a smile from Madame Coquenard, they slowly rose from the table, folded their napkins even more slowly, then bowed and departed.
“Go, young men, and promote digestion by working,” the prosecutor said gravely.
The clerks having left, Madame Coquenard rose and took from a buffet a morsel of cheese, some quince preserves, and an almond and honey cake that she’d made herself.
Master Coquenard knit his brows at this display of luxury, while Porthos frowned at its scarcity. One could hardly call this a dinner! He looked around for the dish of beans, but it had vanished.
Master Coquenard squirmed in his chair. “It’s a feast, a veritable feast! Epulae epularum, Lucullus dines with Lucullus!”
Porthos looked at the bottle, which stood near him, in hopes that with wine, some bread, and some cheese, he might yet make a dinner. But the bottle was empty, and Monsieur and Madame Coquenard didn’t seem to notice.
“Neatly done,” Porthos said to himself. “I’ve been outmaneuvered.”
He tasted a bit of the preserves, and clotted his teeth with Madame Coquenard’s sticky pastry. Now, he thought, the sacrifice is consummated. I can only hope that madame can still get me a peek into her husband’s armoire!
Master Coquenard, after the delights of such a repast, which he termed an excess, felt the need of a siesta. Porthos began to hope that his dream might be enacted there and then; but the prosecutor insisted upon being taken to his study, where he complained until he was placed near his armoire, upon the base of which, for maximum security, he rested his feet.
Madame took Porthos into the next chamber, where they began to lay the foundations of their reconciliation.
“You can come to dine three times a week,” said Madame Coquenard.
“Thank you,” said Porthos, “but I don’t want to take advantage. Besides, I must think about my equipment.”
“Ah, yes,” groaned the prosecutor’s wife. “That cursed equipment.”
“Alas! Yes,” said Porthos. “But there it is.”
“So what does the equipment in your corps consist of, Monsieur Porthos?”
“Oh, any number of things,” said Porthos. “The musketeers, as you know, are an elite company, and require a number of items that would be excessive in the guards or the Swiss.”
“All right, then, list them for me.”
“All told, it could come to . . .” said Porthos, who would rather discuss the whole than the parts.
Madame trembled, awaiting the answer. “To how much?” she said. “Not more, I hope, than . . .” She stopped. Words failed her.
“No, no,” said Porthos. “It couldn’t be more than twenty-five hundred livres. I even think that, if I economize, I could do with no more than two thousand.”
“Good God! Two thousand livres!” she cried. “But that’s a fortune!”
Porthos frowned significantly. Madame Coquenard understood.
“I’m asking for details,” she said, “because, having a lot of relatives in trade, I’m pretty sure I can get things for half what you’d pay for them yourself.”
“Oh, well,” said Porthos, “if that’s all you meant to say.”
“Yes, dear Monsieur Porthos! For example, you’ll need a horse, won’t you?”
“A horse—yes, indeed.”
“Good! I can get you just what you need.”
Porthos beamed. “That’s fine, then, as to the horse. However, I must also have complete harness, tack, and caparison, objects only a musketeer can buy. But it won’t come to more than three hundred livres.”
“Three hundred livres,” she sighed. “Put down three hundred livres, then.”
Porthos smiled. Of course, he had the saddle and furniture that had come from Buckingham, so he counted on pocketing those three hundred livres.
He continued, “Next, I’ll need
a horse for my lackey and baggage. As for weapons, don’t trouble yourself; I have them.”
“A h-horse for your lackey?” madame stuttered. “My dear! That’s cutting the figure of a grand seigneur!”
“Madame!” said Porthos haughtily. “Perhaps you take me for a beggar?”
“Oh, no! I just thought a pretty mule sometimes looks as good as a horse, and I thought that by providing a pretty mule for Mousqueton . . .”
“I’ll go for the pretty mule,” said Porthos. “You’re quite right, I’ve seen some Spanish grandees whose entire entourage were on mules. But then, you understand, Madame Coquenard, it must be a mule with all the bells and whistles.”
“Don’t worry,” said the prosecutor’s wife.
“There’s still my baggage,” said Porthos.
“Oh, don’t be concerned about that,” Madame Coquenard said. “My husband has five or six valises; choose whichever you like. There’s one he particularly likes to travel with that’s big enough to hold the world.”
“So it’s empty, this valise?” Porthos asked, with pretended naïveté.
“Of course, it’s empty,” Madame replied, with a naïveté all too genuine.
“Ah! But the valise I need is one that’s well furnished, my dear.”
Madame Coquenard sighed anew. Molière had not yet written The Miser, so she had no idea she was acting the role of Harpagon.88
The rest of the equipment was negotiated in the same fashion. The result was that the prosecutor’s wife was to ask her husband for eight hundred livres in coin, and she herself would provide the horse and the mule, which would have the honor of carrying Porthos and Mousqueton to glory.
These conditions arranged, including interest and date of repayment, Porthos took his leave of Madame Coquenard. She tried to keep him by lavishing him with tender looks, but Porthos claimed the exigencies of the service, and madame had to defer to the king.
The musketeer went home hungry and surly.
XXXIII
Mistress and Maid
Meanwhile, despite the cries of his conscience and the sage advice of Athos, d’Artagnan became hour by hour more enamored of Milady. Daily the adventurous Gascon paid his court to her, convinced that, sooner or later, she couldn’t help but respond.
One evening as he arrived, in spirits as high as a man who expects a shower of gold, he once again met the soubrette under the porte cochère; but this time the pretty Kitty wasn’t content just to smile at him in passing, and took him gently by the hand.
Excellent! thought d’Artagnan. She has some message for me from her mistress. She probably wants to tell me of a rendezvous that Milady didn’t dare speak of herself. And he regarded the pretty girl with the complacent air of a conqueror.
She stammered, “I just want to say two words to you, Monsieur le Chevalier . . .”
“Speak, my child, speak,” said d’Artagnan. “I’m listening.”
“Not here, it’s impossible. What I have to say is too long and too private.”
“Well, then, what should we do?”
“If Monsieur le Chevalier would follow me,” Kitty said timidly.
“Wherever you like, my pretty child.”
“This way, then.”
And Kitty, who still held d’Artagnan’s hand, led him up a narrow, dark, and winding staircase. After they’d climbed about fifteen steps, she opened a door.
“Come in, Monsieur le Chevalier,” she said. “We’re alone here, and can talk.”
“And whose room is this, my pretty child?” asked d’Artagnan.
“It’s mine, Monsieur le Chevalier. It communicates with my mistress’s bedchamber by that door. But don’t worry, she won’t hear what we say. She never comes in to bed before midnight.”
D’Artagnan glanced around him. The little room was charmingly neat and tasteful but, despite himself, his eyes kept returning to the door that Kitty said led to Milady’s chamber.
Kitty guessed what was passing in the young man’s mind and sighed. “You’re in love, then, with my mistress, Monsieur le Chevalier?”
“More than I can say! I’m crazy for her!”
Kitty sighed again. “Alas, Monsieur! What a shame!”
“And why the devil is it such a shame?” d’Artagnan demanded.
“Because, Monsieur,” replied Kitty, “my mistress doesn’t love you at all.”
“What?” he cried. “Did she ask you to tell me that?”
“Oh, no, Monsieur! I’ve taken it on myself to warn you, out of my . . . my regard for you.”
“Thank you, good Kitty—but only for your intentions. What you have to say, you must agree, isn’t very pleasant.”
“In other words, you’d rather not believe it. Isn’t that so?”
“It’s always hard to believe such things, child, if only from vanity.”
“Then you won’t believe me?”
“I must admit that, unless you can give me some proof of what you say. . .”
“What do you say to this?” And Kitty drew a little note from her breast.
“For me?” D’Artagnan eagerly snatched the letter.
“No. For another.”
“For another?”
“Yes.”
“His name! His name!” cried d’Artagnan.
“Read the address.”
“Monsieur le Comte de Wardes.”
The memory of the scene at Saint-Germain leaped to the mind of the presumptuous Gascon. Quick as thought he tore open the letter, despite Kitty’s cry when she saw what he was doing. “My God, Monsieur le Chevalier, what have you done?”
“Me? Nothing,” d’Artagnan said. And he read:
You haven’t responded to my first letter. Are you unwell, or have you forgotten the lingering looks that passed between us at the ball of Madame de Guise? Opportunity beckons, Count—don’t let it escape you.
D’Artagnan paled. He was wounded in his vanity, but he took it for a wound to his heart.
“Poor, dear Monsieur d’Artagnan!” said Kitty, in a voice overflowing with compassion. Again she pressed the hand of the young man.
“You pity me, little one!” said d’Artagnan.
“Oh, yes—with all my heart. For I know what it is to love.” “You know what it is to love?” d’Artagnan said, really looking at her for the first time.
“Alas! I do.”
“Well, instead of pitying me, you’d be better off helping me take my revenge on your mistress.”
“And what sort of revenge would you take?”
“I would win her heart, and replace my rival.”
“I’ll never help you in that, Monsieur le Chevalier!” Kitty said vehemently.
“And why not?”
“For two reasons.”
“And they are?”
“First, because my mistress will never love you.”
“How do you know?”
“You’ve offended her unforgivably.”
“Me? How can I have offended her? Why, ever since I’ve known her, I’ve been at her feet like a slave! Tell me, I beg you!”
“I’ll never confess that except to the man . . . who can read the depths of my soul!”
D’Artagnan took another, even closer look at Kitty. The young girl had a freshness and beauty that many duchesses would have given their titles for.
“Kitty,” he said, “tell me, my dear girl, and I’ll plumb the depths of your soul whenever you like.” And he gave her a kiss, at which the poor girl turned red as a cherry.
“No, you don’t!” Kitty cried. “You don’t love me! It’s my mistress you love—you said so just now!”
“And how does that keep you from telling me the second reason?”
“The second reason, Monsieur le Chevalier,” replied Kitty, encouraged by the kiss, and even more by the expression in the young man’s eyes, “is that, in love, it’s everyone for herself!”
Only then did d’Artagnan remember Kitty’s languishing looks, their encounters in the antechamber, the cor
ridor, or on the stair, the way she brushed his hand every time they met, and her deep sighs. Absorbed in his desire to please the grande dame, he’d ignored the soubrette. One who hunts the eagle pays no attention to the sparrow.
But now the Gascon saw at a glance everything he might gain from the love Kitty had confessed so naïvely, or so brazenly: regular reports, interception of letters addressed to the Comte de Wardes, and entrance at all hours into Kitty’s chamber, so conveniently adjacent to her mistress’s. As may be seen, the sly deceiver was already contemplating the sacrifice of the poor girl in order to obtain Milady, by hook or by crook.
“Well, my dear Kitty,” he said to the young woman, “are you ready to receive a proof of this love that you doubt?”
“What love would that be?” asked the maid.
“That which I’m ready to feel for you.”
“Oh? And what is this proof?”
“How would you like it if this evening I spent the time I usually spend with your mistress . . . with you?”
She clapped her hands together. “Oh! I’d like that very much!”
“Well, then, my dear child,” said d’Artagnan, stretching himself out on a couch, “come here so I can tell you that you’re the prettiest little maid I’ve ever seen!”
And he told her so much, and so well, that the poor child, who asked nothing more than to believe him, did just that. Nevertheless, to d’Artagnan’s great astonishment, the pretty Kitty defended herself with a certain resolution.
Time passes quickly when spent in such attacks and defenses. The clock struck midnight, and at almost the same moment the bell was rung in Milady’s chamber.
“Great God!” cried Kitty. “That’s my mistress calling! Leave— leave now!”
D’Artagnan rose, and took up his hat as if intending to obey—but then, instead of going to the door to the stairs, he quickly opened the door to Milady’s wardrobe closet and ducked into the midst of her dresses and robes.
“What are you doing?” Kitty cried.
D’Artagnan, who had grabbed the key on his way in, locked the door behind him without responding.
“Are you asleep?” Milady called out tartly. “Why don’t you answer when I ring?” And d’Artagnan heard the door between the two rooms jerked violently open.
The Three Musketeers Page 39