The Three Musketeers

by Alexandre Dumas

  “Your name?” said the officer, whose face was partly concealed by his cloak.

  “But what of yourself, Monsieur?” said Athos, who was beginning to bridle under this interrogation. “Give me, if you please, proof that you have the right to question me.”

  “Your name?” repeated the cavalier, letting his cloak fall and revealing his face.

  “Monsieur le Cardinal!” cried the musketeer, astonished.

  “Your name?” repeated His Eminence, for the third time.

  “Athos,” said the musketeer.

  The cardinal gestured to his equerry, who approached. “These three musketeers will follow us, as I don’t want it known that I’ve left the camp,” said the cardinal, in a low voice. “If they stay with us, we can be sure they tell nobody.”

  “We are gentlemen, Monseigneur,” said Athos. “You need have nothing to fear if we give you our word. Dieu merci, we know how to keep a secret.”

  At this bold interruption, the cardinal fixed his piercing eyes on Athos. “You have a quick ear, Monsieur Athos,” he said. “But hear this: I don’t wish you to follow me out of distrust, but for my security. No doubt your companions are Messieurs Porthos and Aramis?”

  “Yes, Your Eminence,” Athos said, as the two musketeers approached, hats in hands.

  “I know you, Messieurs, I know you,” said the cardinal. “I know that you are not entirely my friends, which I regret. But I know too that you are brave and loyal gentlemen, and that I can trust you. Do me the honor then, Monsieur Athos, you and your friends, to accompany me, and I will have an escort the king will envy, should we encounter him.”

  The three musketeers bowed to the necks of their horses.

  “Well, upon my honor, Your Eminence is right to take us with you,” said Athos, “as we’ve met with several ugly customers on the road tonight, and even had a quarrel with four ruffians at Colombier-Rouge.”

  “A quarrel? And why, Messieurs?” said the cardinal. “I am not fond of quarrelers, you know.”

  “That is precisely why I have the honor of informing Your Eminence about it myself, for otherwise you might get a false report from others and believe us at fault.”

  The cardinal frowned. “What were the results of this quarrel?”

  “My friend Aramis, here, took a slight sword-cut on the arm, but as you can see, it’s nothing that would prevent him from joining an assault tomorrow, if Your Eminence ordered an escalade.”

  “But you aren’t the sort of men to allow yourselves to take sword-wounds this way,” said the cardinal. “I’ve heard good accounts of you, so be frank with me. Come now, confess: you know I have the right to give absolution.”

  “As to myself, Monseigneur,” said Athos, “I never even so much as drew my sword. I merely picked up my man and threw him out the window, though in falling,” Athos hesitated, “it seems he broke his thigh.”

  “Indeed!” said the cardinal. “And you, Monsieur Porthos?”

  “Knowing that dueling is prohibited, Monseigneur, I hit one of the brigands with a bench. I fear he may have broken his shoulder.”

  “Well, well,” said the cardinal. “And you, Monsieur Aramis?”

  “Monseigneur, being naturally of a mild temperament, and as I am about to enter the Church, of which Monseigneur may not be aware, I tried to separate the combatants. But one of those faithless wretches slashed my left arm with a sword, and then I must admit I lost my patience. I drew my own sword, and as he charged me, I’m very much afraid that he allowed it to pass through his body. I only know for certain that he fell, and was carried off by his two companions.”

  “The devil, Messieurs!” said the cardinal. “Three men hors de combat in a barroom brawl! You don’t do things by halves. And what, exactly, was this quarrel all about?”

  “The ruffians were drunk,” said Athos. “Having heard there was a lady who’d arrived at the inn this evening, they tried to break into her room.”

  “Break into her room!” said the cardinal. “To do what?”

  “To do her violence, no doubt,” said Athos. “The wretches, as I have had the honor to tell Your Eminence, were drunk.”

  “Would this woman be young and attractive?” asked the cardinal uneasily.

  “We did not see her, Monseigneur,” Athos said.

  “You did not see her! Very well, then,” the cardinal said quickly, “it was quite proper for you to act to defend a woman’s honor. And, as I’m on my way to the inn at Colombier-Rouge myself, I shall soon know whether you’ve told me the truth.”

  “Monseigneur!” said Athos proudly. “We are gentlemen, and wouldn’t sully our honor with a lie to save our heads.”

  “And therefore I don’t doubt what you tell me, Monsieur Athos, not for a single second. But, tell me” the cardinal added, to change the subject, “was this lady alone?”

  “The lady had a cavalier in the room with her,” said Athos, “but, as he never appeared despite the tumult, he is presumably a coward.”

  “Judge not rashly, says the Gospel,” replied the cardinal.

  Athos bowed.

  “And now, Messieurs, as I’ve heard what I needed to know,” the cardinal said, “follow me.”

  The three musketeers arrayed themselves behind the cardinal, who once again covered his face with his cloak and resumed riding forward, keeping eight or ten paces ahead of his four companions.

  They soon arrived at the inn, which was solitary and silent. Doubtless the host knew to expect an illustrious visitor and had sent any other inconvenient guests on their way.

  At ten paces from the door the cardinal gestured to his equerry and to the three musketeers to halt. A horse, saddled and ready, was tied up near the entrance. The cardinal leaned down and rapped the door with a distinctive triple knock.

  A man concealed by a cloak immediately came out. He exchanged a few quick words with the cardinal, then mounted the ready horse and rode off in the direction of Surgères—which was also the direction of Paris.

  “Come forward, Messieurs,” said the cardinal. “Gentlemen, you have told me the truth,” he said, addressing the musketeers, “and it won’t be my fault if our encounter this evening doesn’t redound to your advantage. In the meantime, follow me.”

  The cardinal dismounted, and the three musketeers did likewise. His Eminence threw his horse’s bridle to his equerry, and the musketeers tied up their horses near the door.

  The innkeeper awaited them in the doorway. As far as he knew, the cardinal was only an officer come to visit a lady.

  “Do you have a chamber on the ground floor where these gentlemen can wait, one with a good fire?” asked the cardinal.

  “I have this, Monsieur,” the host replied, opening the door to his great room, in which an old, smoky stove had recently been replaced by a new one with a large and excellent chimney.

  “That will do,” said the cardinal. “Oblige me by waiting for me here, Messieurs. I shouldn’t be more than half an hour.”

  And as the three musketeers entered the chamber on the ground floor, the cardinal, without asking for directions, ascended the staircase like a man who knows exactly where he’s going.

  XLIV

  On the Utility of Stovepipes

  Apparently, without realizing it, and motivated solely by their chivalrous and adventurous natures, the three musketeers had done a favor for someone in the inn at Colombier-Rouge whom the cardinal honored with his particular protection.

  Now, who could that someone be? This was the main subject of discussion among the three friends. Eventually, since they could reach no satisfactory conclusion, Porthos called the host and asked for some dice.

  Porthos and Aramis sat at a table and began to play. Athos paced back and forth, thinking.

  While thinking and pacing, Athos kept passing by the stump of the chimney from the old stove, where it protruded from the ceiling. Every time he passed he heard a murmur of speech, and eventually this caught his attention. Stopping by the stovepipe, he heard a few w
ords that froze him in place. He gestured to his companions to hush, then stood, ear bent to the opening of the chimney.

  “Listen, Milady,” said the cardinal, “this is an important matter. Sit down, and we’ll discuss it.”

  “Milady!” murmured Athos.

  “Your Eminence has my full attention,” replied a female voice that made the musketeer start.

  “A small vessel with an English crew, whose captain belongs to me, awaits you at the mouth of the Charente, at Fort de La Pointe. It will set sail tomorrow morning.”

  “And you want me there tonight?”

  “You’ll depart after you’ve heard my instructions. Two men, whom you will find outside the door when you leave, will serve as your escort. I shall leave first; you will wait one half-hour, then leave yourself.”

  “Yes, Monseigneur. Now, let’s return to my mission. As I would like to continue to be worthy of Your Eminence’s confidence, please outline it in the clearest possible terms so there will be no chance of mistakes.”

  There was a moment of profound silence between the two negotiators. It was evident the cardinal was weighing in advance the terms in which he would speak, and Milady was focusing her attention to understand what he would tell her, and engrave it permanently in her memory.

  Athos took advantage of this pause to ask his comrades to lock the door from the inside, and then motioned for them to come and listen with him. The two musketeers, who loved their ease, brought chairs for themselves and another for Athos. All three then sat down, heads together, and cocked their ears toward the stovepipe.

  “You will go to London,” the cardinal resumed. “Once in London, you will find Buckingham.”

  “I must observe to Your Eminence,” said Milady, “that the duke suspects me of having been involved in the affair of the diamond studs, and His Grace hasn’t trusted me since.”

  “But this time,” said the cardinal, “it’s not a matter of winning his confidence. I want you to present yourself to him frankly and openly as a negotiator.”

  “Frankly and openly,” repeated Milady, in a tone of the utmost duplicity.

  “Yes, frankly and openly,” replied the cardinal, in the same tone. “The entire negotiation must be open and aboveboard.”

  “I will follow Your Eminence’s instructions to the letter—once you give them to me.”

  “You will speak to Buckingham on my behalf, and you will tell him I am aware of all the preparations he is making, but that they cause me no concern, as at the first move he makes, I will ruin the queen.”

  “Will he believe Your Eminence is in a position to make good on this threat?”

  “Yes—for I have proof of her complicity.”

  “I must be able to present this proof to convince him.”

  “Of course. You will tell him that I will publish the account from Bois-Robert and the Marquis de Bautru97 about the duke’s meeting with the queen during the masked fête at the Hôtel de Chevreuse. To remove any doubts he may have, tell him that he came in the costume of the Grand Mogul, which the Chevalier de Guise was to have worn, and which he bought from him for the sum of three thousand pistoles.”

  “Very well, Monseigneur.”

  “Give him the details of the night when he entered the Louvre disguised as an Italian fortune-teller. To make it clear that I’m fully informed, tell him that he wore beneath his cloak a great white gown embroidered with black teardrops, death’s-heads, and crossbones, so that if necessary he could pass as the Phantom of the White Lady—who, as everyone knows, returns to the Louvre whenever some great event is imminent.”

  “Is that all, Monseigneur?”

  “Tell him that I’m also acquainted with all the details of the incident at Amiens, and that I will have a little romance published about it, arch and amusing, with a plan of the garden and portraits of the principal actors in that nocturnal farce.”

  “I will tell him.”

  “Tell him also that I have his man Montagu in the Bastille. Although no letters were found on him, torture may make him tell what he knows . . . and perhaps even what he doesn’t know.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Finally, you may add that His Grace, in his hasty departure from the Isle of Ré, left in his quarters a certain letter from Madame de Chevreuse that is most compromising to the queen, as it proves that Her Majesty not only loves the enemies of the king, she conspires with the enemies of France. Now, can you recall everything I’ve said?”

  “Let Your Eminence be the judge: the masked ball at the Hôtel de Chevreuse; the night at the Louvre; the evening in the garden at Amiens; the arrest of Montagu; and the letter from Madame de Chevreuse.”

  “That’s it,” said the cardinal. “Your memory is excellent, Milady.”

  “But,” the lady said, ignoring the flattery, “what if, despite all these reasons, the duke stands firm and continues to threaten France?”

  “Love has driven the duke to insanity . . . or perhaps just sheer stupidity,” replied Richelieu, bitterly. “Like the ancient paladins he goes to war just to win a look from his ladylove. But if he knows that his war will cost the lady of his heart her honor, and maybe her liberty, he’ll have second thoughts—I will answer for it.”

  “And yet,” Milady continued, determined that there should be no ambiguity about the goal of her mission, “if he persists, nonetheless?”

  “If he persists . . . ?” said the cardinal. “That is unlikely.”

  “But it is possible,” said Milady.

  “If he persists . . .” His Eminence paused. “If he persists, well . . . we shall hope for one of those events that change a nation’s history.”

  “If Your Eminence could give me a specific example of one of these events,” said Milady, “perhaps I would be more worthy of your confidence in me.”

  “Very well, then!” Richelieu said. “When King Henri IV, of glorious memory, was about to invade both Flanders and Italy in 1610, assailing Austria on both sides, and incidentally for a reason much like that of the duke’s—well, didn’t something happen that saved Austria? Why shouldn’t the current king of France have the same good fortune as the Holy Roman Emperor?”

  “Your Eminence refers to that knife-blow struck in the Rue de la Ferronnerie?”

  “Just so,” said the cardinal.

  “Your Eminence isn’t concerned that the torture and slow death inflicted on Ravaillac, the wielder of that knife, might discourage anyone with the idea of imitating him?”

  “In every country, especially those racked by religious divisions, there will always be fanatics who ask nothing better than to become martyrs. It occurs to me that right now the Puritans are furious with Buckingham, and their preachers are calling him the Antichrist.”

  “Well?” said Milady.

  “Well,” continued the cardinal, nonchalantly, “all it would take, at this point, would be to find some woman, young, beautiful, and clever, who has a grudge against the duke. There must be such women; the duke is quite a ladies’ man, and succeeds in love by sowing promises of eternal devotion right and left. It follows that he must also have sown hatred by his continual infidelities.”

  “No doubt such a woman could be found,” Milady said coolly.

  “Well, if such a woman put the blade of a Jacques Clément or a Ravaillac in the hands of a fanatic, it would be the salvation of France.”

  “Yes, but then she would be an assassin’s accomplice.”

  “And were the accomplices of Jacques Clément or Ravaillac ever named?”

  “No—but perhaps they were placed higher than anyone dared to raise their eyes to look. The Palais de Justice doesn’t get burned down for just anyone, Monseigneur.”

  “You think, then, that the fire at the Palais de Justice98 was no accident?” Richelieu asked, in a tone of indifference.

  “I, Monseigneur?” replied Milady. “I think nothing; I state a fact, nothing more. However, I do say that if I were called Mademoiselle de Montpensier or Queen Marie de Médicis
, I would take fewer precautions than I must take as mere Lady Clarice.”

  “Fair enough,” said Richelieu. “What is it you want?”

  “I want an order that ratifies, in advance, anything I think duty requires me to do for the good of France.”

  “But first a woman must be found who bears a grudge against the duke.”

  “She is found,” said Milady.

  “Then this poor fanatic must be found, the man who will serve as an instrument of God’s justice.”

  “He will be found.”

  “Then when he has been,” said the cardinal, “it will be time to claim the order you’ve asked for.”

  “Your Eminence is right,” said Milady, “and I was mistaken to see this mission with which you honor me as anything more than it appears—in other words, to announce to His Grace, on the behalf of Your Eminence, that you are aware of the different disguises by which he was able to approach the queen during the fête given by Madame de Chevreuse; that you have proof of an interview granted at the Louvre by the queen to a certain Italian astrologer, who was actually the Duke of Buckingham; that you are sponsoring a satirical little romance about the incident at Amiens, with a plan of the gardens and portraits of the principal actors; that Montagu is in the Bastille, where putting him to the Question may make him tell what he remembers, and even things he’s forgotten; and, finally, that you possess a certain letter from the Duchesse de Chevreuse, found in His Grace’s quarters, that is extremely compromising, not only to she who wrote it, but to her in whose name it was written. Then if, despite all this, the duke persists in his designs—well, since I will have reached the limits of my mission, I’ll have nothing more to do but pray to God to work a miracle for the salvation of France. That is correct, is it not, Monseigneur? I shall have nothing else to do?”

  “That is correct,” replied the cardinal, coldly.

  “Then,” said Milady, appearing not to notice the change in Richelieu’s tone, “since I’ve received Your Eminence’s instructions regarding your enemies, will Monseigneur permit me to say a few words about mine?”

  “Have you enemies, then?” asked Richelieu.