Twenty Years After

by Alexander Dumas

  Of the two opposing sides that composed d’Artagnan’s nature, the material side had gradually won out—and slowly, without even noticing it, d’Artagnan, always in garrison or in camp, had become what we call in our time a career soldier. It’s not that d’Artagnan lost his native cleverness, but rather that he’d turned his innate finesse toward solving small problems rather than great ones, focusing on the soldier’s mundane concerns of finding comfortable quarters, good food, and an accommodating hostess.

  And d’Artagnan had found all three of these things six years before in Rue Tiquetonne, at the sign of La Chevrette.

  In the early days of his stay there, the mistress of the boarding house, a fresh and pretty Flemish woman of twenty-five or twenty-six, had been quite taken with him, but their amorous intentions had been blocked by an inconvenient husband. After d’Artagnan had pantomimed running him through with his sword a few times, one fine morning this husband had disappeared forever, after selling the best bottles in the wine cellar and carrying off what money and jewelry he could. Everyone assumed he was dead—especially his wife who, fancying herself in the condition of a widow, boldly asserted his death. Eventually, after three years of a liaison that d’Artagnan had carefully maintained, finding his lodging and his mistress more agreeable every year, as the two went so well together, the mistress decided it was once more time to be a wife, and proposed that d’Artagnan should marry her.

  “How so?” d’Artagnan replied. “That would be bigamy, my dear! Don’t even think of it!”

  “But I’m quite sure my husband’s dead.”

  “He was a thoroughly inconsiderate fellow and would certainly return just to see us hanged.”

  “Well, if he comes back, you’ll kill him—you’re so brave and masterful!”

  “Peste! That’s just one more route to the hangman, my love.”

  “So, you reject my proposal?”

  “Completely! That’s not going to happen.”

  The pretty hostess was devastated. If she’d had her way, Monsieur d’Artagnan would have been not just her husband, but her deity—he was so very handsome, and had such a proud mustache!

  During the fourth year came the campaign in Franche-Comté.35 D’Artagnan was given his orders and prepared to leave. There was agony, rivers of tears, and solemn promises to remain faithful—though all from the hostess, of course. D’Artagnan was too much the grand seigneur to make promises, other than to promise to do what he could to add glory to his name.

  There was no doubting d’Artagnan’s courage: he conducted himself admirably, and, charging at the head of his company, he took a ball in the chest that laid him out at full length on the battlefield. Everyone saw him fall from his horse, and no one saw him get up, so everyone assumed he was dead—especially those who hoped to assume his position. From the generals of the divisions who hope for the death of the commander in chief, down to the private soldiers who dream of the deaths of their corporals, everyone wants someone deceased.

  But d’Artagnan wasn’t the sort of man to be killed so easily as that. After lying unconscious on the battlefield through the heat of the day, the cool night air brought him around. He made his way to a village, knocked on the door of the finest house, and was received as wounded Frenchmen are always and everywhere: he was taken in, treated, cured, pampered even, and restored to better health than ever. One morning he set off down the road to France, once in France took the way to Paris, and once in Paris to the Rue Tiquetonne.

  But d’Artagnan found his room occupied by another man’s wardrobe, complete except for a sword. “He must have returned,” he said to himself. “Well, too bad, and all the better!”

  D’Artagnan, of course, was thinking of the missing husband. He asked the new servants where their mistress had gone and was told to the promenade.

  “Alone?” asked d’Artagnan.

  “With monsieur.”

  “Monsieur has come back, then?”

  “He must have,” the servant naïvely replied.

  “If I had any money,” d’Artagnan said to himself, “I’d leave—but since I don’t, I’ll just have to stay, take my hostess’s advice, and put this conjugal ghost to rest.”

  He’d just completed this monologue, monologues being suited to all dramatic occasions, when the servant, who was waiting by the door, called out, “Look! Here comes madame now, returning with monsieur.”

  D’Artagan glanced up the street and saw, at the corner of the Rue Montmartre, the hostess returning on the arm of an enormous Swiss Guard, who swaggered with such airs that d’Artagnan was pleasantly reminded of his old friend Porthos.

  “So that’s monsieur?” said d’Artagnan. “He’s grown a bit, I think.” And he sat down in the parlor where he couldn’t be missed.

  The hostess entered first, and gasped when she saw d’Artagnan. By this, d’Artagnan knew he’d been recognized; he leapt up, ran to her, and kissed her tenderly.

  The Swiss looked on, stupefied, while the hostess turned pale. “It’s you, Monsieur! Wh-what do you want from me?” she asked, dismayed and flustered.

  D’Artagnan, unabashed, said, “Monsieur here is your cousin? Or is he your brother?”

  And without waiting for a reply, he embraced the huge Helvetian, who stiffened uncomfortably. “Who is this man?” the Swiss asked.

  The hostess just choked, unable to speak.

  “And who is this Swiss?” asked d’Artagnan.

  “He’s going to marry me,” said the hostess, between gasps.

  “Your husband’s finally died, then?”

  “Vhat you zay?” said the Swiss.

  “I’ll zay plenty,” replied d’Artagnan. “I zay you may not marry madame without my permission, and I . . .”

  “Und you . . . ?”

  “And I . . . do not give it,” said the musketeer.

  At this, the Swiss turned red as a beet. He wore a gold-trimmed uniform, while d’Artagnan was wrapped in dull gray cloak; he was six feet tall, d’Artagnan was five and a half; he thought he was at home, and d’Artagnan was an intruder. “Vill you get out of here?” the Swiss demanded, stamping his foot like a man growing seriously angry.

  “Me? Not likely!” said d’Artagnan.

  “But he’ll just throw you out,” said the houseboy, who couldn’t understand how any normal man could stand up to the huge Swiss.

  “You,” said d’Artagnan, beginning to lose his temper and taking the houseboy by the ear, “get out of the way and don’t move unless I say so. As for you, illustrious descendant of William Tell, get your clothes out of my room and take them elsewhere—they annoy me.”

  The Swiss began to laugh loudly. “I, leave? Vhy vould I do zat?”

  “Ah, so you do understand French,” said d’Artagnan. “Come take a little walk with me, and I’ll explain vhy.”

  The hostess, who knew d’Artagnan for a swordsman, began to cry and tear her hair. D’Artagnan turned and said, more gently, “You should send him away, Madame.”

  “Pah!” said the Swiss, who had needed a moment’s thought to understand d’Artagnan’s intentions. “Pah! Who are you, crazy one, to ask me to take a valk vith you?”

  “I am a Lieutenant of the King’s Musketeers,” said d’Artagnan, “and therefore your superior in every way. However, this isn’t a question of rank, just of the right to quarters—and you know the custom. You want them? Then let’s take a walk. The one who returns gets the room.”

  And d’Artagnan led the Swiss away, despite the lamentations of the hostess. Deep down, she felt her heart yearn toward her old love—but since he’d insulted her by refusing her hand, she wouldn’t be sorry if the proud musketeer was taught a lesson.

  The two adversaries marched straight to the moat outside the Montmartre wall. It was dark by the time they arrived; d’Artagnan politely requested that the Swiss yield him the room and be on his way; the Swiss shook his head in refusal and drew his sword. “Then you’ll sleep here instead,” said d’Artagnan. “This is a wretched
bed, but you chose it, and it’s not my fault.” And with these words he drew steel and crossed swords with his adversary.

  His opponent had a strong wrist, but d’Artagnan far outmatched him in agility. The Swiss soldier’s rapier never even found the musketeer’s blade, and he took two wounds before he realized he’d been touched. He felt a chill, a sudden weakness, and was surprised to find he was sitting down, dizzy and bleeding.

  “Là!” said d’Artagnan. “What did I tell you? That’s the price of being stubborn. But you’re strong, and you’ll be good as new in a fortnight. Stay here, and I’ll send the houseboy along with your clothes. Farewell . . . Oh, you’ll need a place to stay: try the Chat Qui Pelote, on Rue Montorgueil. You’ll be well fed there, if I know the hostess. Adieu!”

  And with that he strutted all the way home. The houseboy was standing exactly where he’d left him; d’Artagnan sent him to take his clothes to the Swiss, who was still sitting there, dumbfounded by his opponent’s coolness.

  After that, the houseboy, the hostess, and the entire household regarded d’Artagnan as if Hercules had returned after completing his twelve labors. But once he was alone with the hostess, he said, “Now, fair Madeleine, you see the difference between a mere soldier and a gentleman. As for you, you’ve behaved like a tavern wench. More’s the pity, because as a result you’ve lost my esteem and my lodging. I chased off the Swiss to teach you a lesson, but I’m not about to stay under such a low roof as this. Hey, houseboy! Carry my things to the Muid d’Amour, in the Rue des Bourdonnais. Adieu, Madame.”

  D’Artagnan said these words in a manner both moving and majestic. The hostess threw herself at his feet and begged his forgiveness, clinging to him tenderly. What can we say? The roast was turning on the spit, the stove was glowing, and beautiful Madeleine wept adoringly. Hunger, warmth, and love all spoke together; he forgave her, and having forgiven, he remained.

  VII

  In Which d’Artagnan Is Confounded, but Receives Aid from an Unexpected Quarter

  From the Palais Royal, d’Artagnan made his way thoughtfully toward home, somewhat reassured by the purse given him by Cardinal Mazarin, but thinking of the beautiful diamond he’d seen sparkling for a moment on the prime minister’s finger.

  “If that diamond ever fell into my hands again,” he said, “I’d instantly turn it into cash. I’d buy a few properties around my father’s small château, which is a lovely house, but has very few outbuildings, and a garden plot no larger than the Cemetery of the Innocents.36 Then it’s probable some rich heiress, attracted by my nobility and good looks, would come and marry me. We’d have three boys: I’d make the first a grand seigneur like Athos, the second a handsome soldier like Porthos, and the third a refined abbot37 like Aramis. Ma foi! It would be infinitely better than the life I lead now—but unfortunately Monsieur de Mazarin is a gutless rat who wouldn’t give me that diamond.”

  What would d’Artagnan have said if he’d known the queen had entrusted the diamond to Mazarin to give it to him?

  As he turned into Rue Tiquetonne, he found it in a tumult, with a large crowd outside his boarding house. “Oh ho!” he said. “Is there a fire at the Hôtel de La Chevrette, or has the husband of the beautiful Madeleine actually returned at last?”

  As d’Artagnan approached he saw it was neither, as the crowd was in front of the house next door rather than the boarding house. Some of those gathered bore torches, and by their light d’Artagnan could see armed men in uniforms. He asked what was happening, and was told that a mob of twenty men, led by a bourgeois, had attacked a carriage escorted by some of the cardinal’s musketeers, but when reinforcements had arrived the citizens had fled. Their leader had gone to ground in the house next to the hôtel, and the troops were searching the building.

  In his younger days d’Artagnan would have run to join the men in uniform and aid them against the citizens, but his hot head had grown cooler over time. Besides, he had the cardinal’s purse in his pocket, and didn’t want to carry that into a riot. Formerly d’Artagnan had always wanted to know everything, but now he knew more than enough already. He went into the boarding house without asking any more questions.

  Inside he found the beautiful Madeleine, who wasn’t expecting to see him, as d’Artagnan had told her he’d be on duty that night at the Louvre. So, she used his unexpected return to propose a small celebration, hoping to engage him because she was worried about what was going on in the street, and had no burly Swiss Guard to protect her. She tried to draw him out as to what was going on outside, and with his own affairs, but d’Artagnan was in no mood for chat; he told her to send supper up to his room, along with a bottle of old Burgundy.

  Pretty Madeleine had been trained to obey at a gesture, like an officer’s valet. And this time around d’Artagnan had deigned to speak with her as well, so she obeyed twice as quickly.

  D’Artagnan took his key and his candle and went upstairs. He was satisfied with a simple room on the fourth floor, leaving the better rooms for Madeleine to rent out. The respect we have for the truth compels us to admit his room was next to the gutter and just below the roof. Here was the tent of this latter-day Achilles. D’Artagnan would camp out alone in his room when he wished to punish fair Madeleine by his absence.

  Once inside, his first act was to open an old desk with new locks and put away the purse full of coins, without even bothering to take the time to count them. A few moments later his supper arrived, along with the bottle of wine, and he dismissed the houseboy and sat down. Not to think, as one might assume, not yet: for d’Artagnan was a man who believed in doing each thing in its turn. He was hungry, so first he ate his supper, and when he was done he turned in. Nor was he one of those people who do their best thinking when abed; when d’Artagnan was in bed, he slept. In the morning, refreshed, was when his mind was clear and he had his best ideas. It had been a while since he’d had to think much about anything, but nonetheless he saved his thinking for the morning.

  At daybreak he awoke, jumped out of bed like a soldier at reveille, and paced around his room, thinking. “In ’43,” he said, “six months or so before the death of the late cardinal, I had a letter from Athos. Where was I? Let’s see . . . ah, yes, I was at the Siege of Besançon,38 I remember. I was in the trenches. What was it he said? He was living on a small estate—yes, that’s it, a small estate. But where? I’d read only that far when a gust of wind carried the letter off. When I was younger I would have gone after it, even if it meant running out of cover into a crossfire. My youth would have cost me a pretty price! So, I let the wind blow my letter away to the Spanish, who were too rude to return it to me. That was my last contact with Athos.

  “On, then: Porthos. I last had a letter from him inviting me to his estate for a grand hunt in September of 1646. Unfortunately, I was in Béarn at the time due to my father’s death, and though the letter followed me there, I was gone again by the time it arrived. They sent it after me to Montmédy, but once again it missed me. It finally caught up to me in April, but by then it was April 1647, and as the invitation had been for the previous September, I was out of luck. Now, where is this letter? It must be with my title deeds.”

  D’Artagnan went into a corner and opened an old trunk stuffed with parchments pertaining to the Artagnan estate, most of which had been out of the family for two hundred years. He searched through it, and finally he gave a cry of joy as he recognized the great looping handwriting of Porthos, followed by some spidery lines traced by the wrinkled fingers of his worthy wife. He remembered what it said, so d’Artagnan skipped through the body of the letter to get to the address: Château du Vallon.

  Porthos had included no other information. In his pride he thought everyone knew the location of the château that bore his name. “Devil take him!” said d’Artagnan. “Still the same vainglorious lummox! However, it’s nonetheless a good idea to find him first, as he can’t be short of money, having inherited eight hundred thousand livres from Monsieur Coquenard. But the other two a
re bound to fail me. By now Athos will have pickled his brain from drinking, and Aramis will be worn thin from his devotions.”

  D’Artagnan took one more glance at the letter and noticed it contained this sentence as a postscript: I write by this same courier to our worthy friend Aramis at his abbey.

  “At his abbey! Yes, but which abbey? There are two hundred in Paris and three thousand in France. And for all I know when he became an abbot he changed his name for the third time. If only I was learned in theology and remembered the subject of that thesis he discussed so earnestly at Crèvecœur with the curate of Montdidier and the superior of Jesuits!39 Then I might figure out which order he’d entered and which saint he’d taken as his patron.

  “Maybe I should ask the cardinal for a safe-conduct that would enable me to inquire at all the abbeys—maybe even the convents? That’s an

  idea . . . but it would be admitting right at the outset that I need help, and the cardinal would be finished with me. The great are only grateful when one does the impossible for them. ‘If it was possible,’ they say, ‘I’d have done it myself.’ And rightly so.

  “But wait a minute—I recall I had a letter from my old friend, in which he asked a favor of me. Yes, I remember it! But where’s this letter now?” D’Artagnan thought for a moment, then went into his dressing room and opened the wardrobe where he kept his old clothes. He was looking for the doublet he wore in early 1648, and as d’Artagnan was an orderly man, he found it hanging right where it belonged. He reached into its pocket and drew out a paper: it was the letter from Aramis.