“I’m here, Milady, I’m here,” cried Kitty, springing up to meet her mistress.
The two went back into Milady’s bedchamber. The door to Kitty’s room stayed open, so d’Artagnan could hear Milady’s extended scolding of her servant. Finally she seemed appeased, and as Kitty helped her mistress to undress, the conversation turned to d’Artagnan himself.
“Well,” said Milady, “I haven’t seen our Gascon this evening.”
“What, Madame?” said Kitty. “He hasn’t come? Has he given up the game before reaching the goal?”
“Oh, no! He must have been summoned by Monsieur de Tréville or Monsieur des Essarts. I know him, Kitty, and I’ve got him—you’ll see.”
“What will you do with him, Madame?”
“What will I do with him? Kitty, there’s something between that man and me that he knows nothing about. He nearly made me lose my credibility with His Eminence. For that, I’ll have my revenge!”
“I thought Madame loved him?”
“Me, love him! I detest him. A simpleton, who held Lord Winter’s life in his hands and didn’t kill him. That restraint cost me three hundred thousand livres a year!”
“That’s true,” said Kitty. “Your son is his uncle’s only heir, and until he reached his majority you would have had control of his fortune.”
D’Artagnan shuddered to the marrow of his bones at hearing this sweet creature’s strident voice, with an edge she was careful to conceal in conversation, as she damned him for not having killed a man that he’d seen treat her with nothing but kindness.
“Exactly,” continued Milady. “I would have taken my revenge on him already if the cardinal hadn’t directed me to humor him—I don’t know why.”
“Oh! But Madame certainly hasn’t humored that little woman he loved.”
“The mercer’s wife of the Rue des Fossoyeurs! Hasn’t he already forgotten she ever existed? My faith, there’s a pretty vengeance!”
A cold sweat broke from d’Artagnan’s brow. This woman was a monster! He resumed listening, but unfortunately the preparations for bed were over.
“That will do,” said Milady. “Return to your room, and tomorrow try again to get an answer to that letter I gave you.”
“For Monsieur de Wardes?” said Kitty.
“That’s right, for Monsieur de Wardes.”
“He’s a man who seems to me to be the complete opposite of that poor Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Kitty.
“Begone, Mademoiselle,” said Milady, “and keep your comments to yourself.”
D’Artagnan heard the door closing, then the sound of two bolts thrown on Milady’s side of the panel. On her side, as softly as she could, Kitty turned the lock with her key. D’Artagnan then pushed open the door of the wardrobe.
“My God!” Kitty whispered. “What’s come over you? You’re so pale!”
“That abominable creature!” muttered d’Artagnan.
“Quiet! Quiet! And get out of here!” said Kitty. “There’s nothing but a partition between my chamber and Milady’s. Everything said in one can be heard in the other.”
“That’s why I’m staying,” said d’Artagnan.
“What!” Kitty flushed.
“Or at least, I will leave—but not yet.” And he drew Kitty to him. Kitty had no way to resist him without making too much noise, so she yielded.
It was a way of taking a little revenge on Milady—and d’Artagnan discovered why they say vengeance is the pleasure of the gods. With a little more heart, he might have been contented with this new conquest, but at the moment d’Artagnan felt only ambition and pride.
However, to his credit, the first use he made of his new influence over Kitty was to try to learn what had become of Madame Bonacieux. But the poor girl swore on the cross that she knew nothing about it, as her mistress never let her in on half of her secrets—but she believed Madame Bonacieux wasn’t dead.
As to the reason why Milady had nearly lost her credibility with the cardinal, Kitty knew nothing. But here, d’Artagnan was better informed than she was: he’d seen Milady on an embargoed vessel as he was leaving England and had no doubt but that her disgrace was due to the failure of the affair of the diamond studs.
What was most clear in all this was that he’d earned Milady’s true hatred, her deepest and most inveterate detestation, thanks to his failure to kill her brother-in-law.
D’Artagnan returned to Milady’s house the next day. She was in a foul humor, provoked, d’Artagnan had no doubt, by the lack of response from Monsieur de Wardes. Kitty came in, and Milady was very short with her. The soubrette threw a glance at d’Artagnan that said, See how I suffer for you?
However, by the end of the evening the lovely lioness had softened. She listened with a smile to d’Artagnan’s sweet nothings, and even gave him her hand to kiss.
D’Artagnan left not knowing quite what to think—but as he was a lad who didn’t easily lose his head, he decided to continue to pay court to Milady while enacting a little plan he’d conceived.
He found Kitty at the gate, and as on the previous night went up to her room to get the latest news. Kitty had been accused of negligence and strongly reprimanded. Milady couldn’t comprehend this silence on the part of the Comte de Wardes and had ordered Kitty to wait on her at nine in the morning to take a third letter.
D’Artagnan made Kitty promise to bring him the letter the next morning, and the poor girl, mad about him, promised everything her lover asked for.
Things fell out as they had the night before: d’Artagnan locked himself in the wardrobe, Milady called, undressed, dismissed Kitty, and locked the door. As before, d’Artagnan didn’t return home until nearly five in the morning.
At eleven o’clock Kitty came to him, holding in her hand the new letter from Milady. This time the poor child didn’t even try to argue with d’Artagnan, she just let him take it. She belonged to her handsome soldier body and soul.
D’Artagnan opened the letter and read as follows:
This is the third time I have written to you to tell you I love you. Take care that I don’t write a fourth time to tell you I detest you.
If you repent of the way you’ve acted toward me, the young girl who brings you this letter will tell you in what way a gallant man may obtain his pardon.
D’Artagnan flushed and blanched several times while reading this letter.
“Oh! You do still love her!” said Kitty, who hadn’t taken her eyes off the young man’s face for an instant.
“No, Kitty, you’re wrong—I don’t love her. But I will have my revenge for her contempt.”
“Yes, I know about your revenge—you told me that!”
“How can it matter to you, Kitty? You know very well it’s only you I love.”
“How can I know that?”
“By the contempt I will show her.”
Kitty sighed.
D’Artagnan took up a pen and wrote:
Madame, until this note, I doubted it was really to me that your first two letters were addressed, so unworthy am I of such an honor. Besides, I was so ill, that I could not in any case have responded.
But today I have no choice but to believe in this excess of your kindness, since not only your letter, but also your servant affirm that I have the great good fortune to be loved by you.
She need not tell me in what way a gallant man may obtain your pardon. I will come to beg mine tonight at eleven o’clock. In my eyes, to delay it a single day more would be to commit a new offense.
He whom you have made the happiest of men,
Comte DE WARDES
This letter was in the first place a forgery, and in addition to that an indelicacy; it was even, from the viewpoint of the current day, very nearly disgraceful. But at that period people were less scrupulous of such things than they are today. Besides, d’Artagnan, from her own admission, knew Milady was guilty of much greater crimes, and thus held little respect for her. And yet, notwithstanding this lack of respect, he burned with ur
gent passion for this woman. Passion mixed with contempt, but passion nonetheless—or lust, if you like.
D’Artagnan’s plan was quite simple: through Kitty’s room he would enter her mistress’s and take advantage of that first moment of surprise, shame, and terror to conquer her. It might not work, but he couldn’t remove every element of risk. In eight days the military campaign was due to commence and he would have to depart—d’Artagnan had no time to weave a web of love.
“There,” said the young man, handing Kitty the sealed letter. “Give this letter to Milady; it’s the reply from Monsieur de Wardes.”
Poor Kitty went as pale as death, for she suspected what the letter contained.
“Listen, my dear child,” said d’Artagnan. “You know all this must end one way or another. Milady may find out that you gave that first letter to my lackey instead of to the count’s valet, and that it was not Monsieur de Wardes who opened the others, but me. Then Milady will throw you out—and you know she’s not the kind of woman to let her vengeance stop there.”
“Hélas!” said Kitty. “For whom have I exposed myself to all this?”
“For me, as I well know, sweetheart,” said the young man, “but I’m extremely grateful to you, I swear it.”
“But then, what does this letter say?”
“Milady will tell you.”
“Oh! You don’t love me at all!” cried Kitty. “I’m so miserable!”
To this reproach there’s a sure reply that never fails to enable women to continue deceiving themselves. D’Artagnan’s response swept away all her misgivings, well-founded though they were.
Nonetheless, she cried a great deal before agreeing to deliver the letter to Milady—but in the end she decided to do so, as with everything d’Artagnan asked for.
Besides, he promised her he would leave her mistress’s room at an early hour and then go to hers. This promise finally succeeded in consoling poor Kitty.
XXXIV
Concerning the Equipment of Aramis and Porthos
Since the four friends had been on the quest for their equipment, they’d had no regular get-togethers. They dined separately, wherever they found themselves—or rather, wherever they could. Duty, also, took its part of their precious time, which was running out all too quickly. However, they had agreed to meet once a week, at about one in the afternoon, at Athos’s place, since according to the oath he’d sworn he refused to pass beyond the threshold of his front door.
Their meeting was to take place on the same day that Kitty had come to find d’Artagnan at his lodgings. As soon as Kitty had left him, d’Artagnan took himself toward the Rue Férou.
He found Athos and Aramis philosophizing. Aramis had some slight inclination to resume the cassock. Athos, as usual, neither dissuaded nor encouraged him. Athos believed everyone should exercise his own free will. He never gave advice unless asked, and even then he had to be asked twice.
“In general, people don’t ask for advice because they want to follow it,” he said, “or if they do follow it, it’s so they’ll have someone to blame for having advised them that way.”
Porthos arrived a moment after d’Artagnan, and the friends were reunited.
Their four faces expressed four different sentiments: that of Porthos, tranquility; d’Artagnan, hope; Aramis, anxiety; and Athos, nonchalance.
After a moment’s conversation, in which Porthos dropped hints that a high-ranking lady had agreed to alleviate his financial embarrassment, Mousqueton entered. He came to beg Porthos to return home immediately, where, he said with a pathetic manner, his presence was urgently required.
“Is it my equipment?” asked Porthos.
“Yes . . . and no,” replied Mousqueton.
“But can’t you tell me . . . ?”
“Just come home, Monsieur!”
Porthos rose, bowed to his friends, and followed Mousqueton.
A moment later, Bazin appeared in the doorway.
“What can I do for you, my friend?” said Aramis, in that soft-spoken manner that he displayed every time he was considering rejoining the Church.
“A man is waiting to see Monsieur at the house,” replied Bazin.
“A man! What man?”
“A beggar.”
“Give him alms, Bazin, and ask him to pray for a poor sinner.”
“This beggar insists on speaking with you, and claims you’ll be quite glad to see him.”
“Did he say anything specific that you were to tell me?”
“Yes. He said, ‘If Monsieur Aramis hesitates to come, please announce that I’ve just arrived from Tours.’”
“From Tours?” cried Aramis. “Messieurs, a thousand pardons, but doubtless this man brings me the news I’ve been waiting for.” And, rising, he hurried off.
This left only Athos and d’Artagnan. “I think those fellows have their business well in hand,” said Athos. “What do you think, d’Artagnan?”
“I knew that Porthos was doing all right,” said d’Artagnan. “As for Aramis, to tell you the truth, I’ve never been particularly worried. But you, my dear Athos, who so generously shared out the Englishman’s pistoles, which were legitimately yours—what are you going to do?”
“I’m satisfied with having killed that buffoon, my lad, since it’s always a blessing to kill an Englishman. But if I’d pocketed his pistoles they would have weighed on me like guilt.”
“Go on, Athos! Your ideas really are unbelievable!”
“Enough, leave it at that. What’s this Monsieur de Tréville told me, when he did me the honor to visit me yesterday, that you’re consorting with these suspicious English, who are under the cardinal’s protection?”
“To be accurate, I’ve been visiting an Englishwoman, the one I told you about.”
“Ah, yes—the blond woman, on the subject of which I gave you advice, which naturally you were careful not to follow.”
“I gave you my reasons.”
“Yes, I believe you said you were looking to complete your equipment.”
“Not at all! I now know for certain that that woman had something to do with Madame Bonacieux’s abduction.”
“Ah, yes, I understand: to recover one woman, you pay court to another. It’s the longest road, but certainly the most entertaining.”
D’Artagnan was on the point of telling everything to Athos, but one thing stopped him: Athos was a gentleman very strict in matters of honor, and in some of d’Artagnan’s plans regarding Milady he was sure there were things that wouldn’t meet with Athos’s approval.
We now take our leave of the two friends, who had nothing more of importance to say to each other, and follow Aramis.
At the news that the man who wanted to speak with him came from Tours, we’ve seen how quickly the young man followed, or rather preceded, Bazin. He rushed without pause from the Rue Férou to the Rue de Vaugirard.
On entering his house, he discovered a man awaiting him, short, with intelligent eyes, but dressed in rags. “You asked for me?” said the musketeer.
“I have asked to speak with Monsieur Aramis. Is this your name, then?”
“I am he. Have you brought something for me?”
“Yes, if you can show me a certain embroidered handkerchief.”
“It’s here,” said Aramis, drawing a key from around his neck and opening a little ebony coffer inlaid with mother-of-pearl. “Here it is. Look.”
“That’s it,” said the beggar. “Dismiss your lackey.”
In fact, Bazin, curious to know what a beggar could want with his master, had nearly kept pace with him and had arrived at almost the same moment. But all his hurry was wasted; at the beggar’s suggestion his master made a sign for him to retire, and he had no choice but to obey.
Bazin having left, the beggar took a quick look around to be sure no one could see or hear them. Then he undid the leather belt that barely held together his ragged vest, ripped open a seam in the lapel of his doublet, and drew forth a letter.
Aramis let out a
cry of joy at the sight of the seal and kissed the handwriting of the address. Then, with an almost religious respect, he opened it. It contained the following:
My friend,
It is the will of fate that we be separated for some time yet—but the glorious days of youth are not lost beyond return. Do your duty in camp; I will do mine elsewhere. Accept that which the bearer brings you, go on campaign like a handsome, true gentleman—and think of me, who gently kisses your dark eyes.
Adieu—or rather, au revoir!
The beggar unstitched his doublet further, and drew one by one from his ragged clothing a hundred and fifty Spanish double pistoles, which he stacked on the table. Then he opened the door, bowed, and departed before the young man, stupefied, had dared to speak a single word to him.
Aramis then read the letter again, and noticed it had a postscript:
P.S. You may receive the bearer with honor, as he is a Count and Grandee of Spain.
“Golden dreams!” cried Aramis. “Ah! Life is beautiful! Yes, we are still young! Yes, we still have happy days ahead of us! To thee, my love—my blood—my life! All, all, all for my darling mistress!” And he kissed the letter passionately, without even glancing at the gold glinting on the table.
Bazin scratched at the door. Aramis no longer had any reason to keep him out, so he allowed him to enter.
Bazin, amazed by the sight of the gold, forgot that he’d come to announce d’Artagnan. Curious to know whom the beggar was, he’d come to Aramis’s house after leaving Athos.
D’Artagnan was quite informal with Aramis, so seeing that Bazin had forgotten to announce him, he announced himself. “What the devil!” he said. “My dear Aramis, if these are the plums sent to you from Tours, give my compliments to the gardener who harvests them.”
“You’re mistaken, mon cher,” said Aramis, ever wary. “This is from my publisher, who has sent me the price of that poem in singlesyllable verse that I began on our journey.”
“Really!” said d’Artagnan. “Well, all I can say is your publisher is quite generous, my dear Aramis.”
“How, Monsieur!” cried Bazin. “A poem sold for as much as that! It’s incredible! Oh, Monsieur—write as much as you want! You may become the equal of Monsieur Voiture and Monsieur Benserade. I’d like that. A poet is as good as an abbot. Please, Monsieur Aramis, become a poet—I beg of you.”
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