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    The Three Musketeers
    The Three Musketeers
    The Three Musketeers
    Ebook887 pages13 hours

    The Three Musketeers

    By Alexandre Dumas, Thomas Flanagan and Marcelle Clements

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    The classic adventure from the author of The Count of Monte Cristo and The Man in the Iron Mask.

    In this swashbuckling epic, d’Artagnan, not yet twenty, sets off for Paris in hopes of joining the Musketeers, that legion of heroes highly favored by King Louis XIII and feared by evil Cardinal Richelieu. By fighting alongside Athos, Porthos, and Aramis as they battle their enemies, d’Artagnan proves he has the heart of a Musketeer and earns himself a place in their ranks. Soon d’Artagnan and the gallant trio must use all their wits and sword skills to preserve the queen’s honor and thwart the wicked schemes of Cardinal Richelieu. With this classic tale, Dumas embroiders upon history a colorful world of swordplay, intrigue, and romance, earning The Three Musketeers its reputation as one of the most thrilling adventure novels ever written.

    An Unabridged Translation, Revised and Updated by Eleanor Hochman

    With an Introduction by Thomas Flanagan
    and an Afterword by Marcelle Clements
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPenguin Publishing Group
    Release dateApr 7, 2015
    ISBN9780698183438
    Author

    Alexandre Dumas

    Alexandre Dumas (1802-1870) was a prolific French writer who is best known for his ever-popular classic novels The Count of Monte Cristo and The Three Musketeers.

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      The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas

      2

      M. de Tréville’s Anteroom

      M. DE TROISVILLE, as his family was still called in Gascony—or M. de Tréville, as he had styled himself in Paris—had indeed begun life as d’Artagnan now did: without a sou in his pocket but with that fund of audacity, shrewdness, and intelligence which makes the poorest Gascon gentleman often benefit more from his expectations of a paternal inheritance than the richest gentleman from Perigord or Berry benefits in reality from his. His insolent bravery, his still more insolent success at a time when the buffets of misfortune were commonplace, had made it possible for him to vault to the top of that difficult ladder called Court Favor.

      He was the friend of the king, who greatly honored, as everyone knows, the memory of his father, Henry IV. The father of M. de Tréville had served the latter so faithfully in his wars against the League that in default of money—a lack the Béarnais endured all his life, so that he had to constantly pay his debts with the only thing he never had to borrow, that is, his ready wit—in default of money, we repeat, the king authorized him, after the surrender of Paris, to take for his coat of arms a golden lion passant upon gules, with the motto Fidelis et fortis. This was a great matter in the way of honor, but very little in the way of wealth, so when this illustrious companion of the great Henry died, the only inheritance he could leave his son was his sword and his motto. Thanks to this double gift and the spotless name that accompanied it, M. de Tréville was admitted into the young prince’s household, where he made such good use of his sword and was so faithful to his motto that Louis XIII, one of the best swordsmen of his kingdom, often said that if he had a friend who was about to fight a duel, he would advise him to choose as a second, himself first, and Tréville next—or perhaps even Tréville first.

      So Louis XIII had a real liking for Tréville—a royal liking, a self-interested liking, but still a liking. At that unhappy period it was important to be surrounded by such men as Tréville. Many noblemen might claim the epithet strong, which formed the second part of his motto, but very few could lay claim to the faithful, which constituted the first. Tréville was one of those few. He was one of those rare beings endowed with the obedient intelligence of the dog together with a reckless courage, a quick eye, and a prompt hand—one of those to whom sight appeared to have been given only to see if the king were displeased with anyone, and hands only to strike that displeasing personage, were he a Besme, a Maurevers, a Poltiot de Méré, or a Vitry. At first Tréville had lacked nothing but opportunity; but he was ever on the watch for it, and he faithfully promised himself that he would not fail to seize it whenever it came within reach. Finally Louis XIII made Tréville the captain of his Musketeers, who were to Louis XIII in their devotion, or rather in their fanaticism, what his Ordinaries had been to Henry III and his Scottish Guard to Louis XI.

      On this point, the cardinal was not outdone by the king. When he saw the formidable and elite corps with which Louis XIII surrounded himself, this second—or rather this first—king of France also wished for a guard. He thus had his Musketeers just as Louis XIII had his, and the two powerful rivals vied with each other to procure the most celebrated swordsmen from all the provinces of France and even from other countries. It was not uncommon for Richelieu and Louis XIII to argue over their evening game of chess about the merits of their respective people. Each boasted the bearing and the courage of his own and while exclaiming loudly against duels and brawls, each secretly pushed his men to quarrel, deriving enormous satisfaction or genuine regret from every victory or defeat of their own combatants. At least so it is said in the memoirs of a man who took part in some of those defeats and many of those victories.

      Tréville had understood his master’s weak side, and it was to this observation that he owed the long and constant favor of a king who does not have the reputation of being very faithful in his friendships. He paraded his Musketeers before the Cardinal Armand Duplessis with a mocking air that made his Eminence’s gray mustache curl with anger. Tréville had an admirable grasp of the methods of war of that period—he who could not live at the expense of the enemy must live at the expense of his compatriots—and his soldiers formed a legion of devil-may-care fellows whose behavior was completely undisciplined.

      Loose-living, hard-drinking, battle-scarred, the king’s Musketeers, or rather M. de Tréville’s Musketeers, were everywhere—in the taverns, along the promenades, and at the public games—shouting, twirling their mustaches, clanking their swords, taking great pleasure in annoying the cardinal’s Guards whenever they met them, and fighting boisterously in the streets, as if nothing could be more fun. Sometimes they were killed, but they were sure in that case to be both mourned and avenged; often they killed others, but they were sure of not rotting in prison because M. de Tréville was there to claim them. They all worshiped M. de Tréville and praised him to the highest degree; ruffians though they were, they trembled before him like schoolboys before their master, obedient to his least word and ready to sacrifice themselves to erase his smallest reproach.

      M. de Tréville employed this powerful weapon primarily for the king and the king’s friends, and then for himself and his own friends. And nowhere in the memoirs of that period, which has left so many memoirs, does one find this worthy gentleman accused even by his enemies—and he had many such, among men of the pen as well as among men of the sword—of deriving personal advantage from selling the services of his minions. Endowed with a rare genius for intrigue, which made him the equal of the most skillful schemers, he remained an honest man. In addition, despite sword thrusts that weaken and painful exercises that fatigue, he had become one of the most gallant frequenters of fêtes, one of the most seductive of ladies’ men, one of the softest whisperers of interesting nothings of his day; his success with women was as talked about as that of M. de Bassompierre had been twenty years earlier, and that was saying a great deal. The captain of the Musketeers was therefore admired, feared, and loved: the zenith of human fortune.

      Louis XIV was to absorb all the smaller stars of his court in his own vast radiance; but his father, a sun pluribus impar, left each of his favorites his personal splendor, each of his courtiers his individual worth. In addition to the levees of the king and cardinal, there were in Paris at that time more than two hundred smaller but still noteworthy levees, and among those two hundred levees, Tréville’s was one of the most popular.

      By six o’clock in the morning in summer and eight o’clock in winter the courtyard of his house on the Rue du Vieux-Colombier resembled a camp. From fifty to sixty Musketeers, who seemed to replace one another in relays so as to always be present in imposing numbers, were constantly parading about, armed to the teeth and ready for anything. On one of those immense staircases, upon whose space modern civilization would build a whole house, ascended and descended Parisians seeking favors, gentlemen from the provinces eager to be enrolled in the Musketeers, and servants in all sorts of liveries, carrying messages between their masters and M. de Tréville. In the anteroom, on long circular benches, sat the elect: those who had been summoned. There was a continuous buzz of conversation from morning till night, while M. de Tréville, in the study next to this room, received visits, listened to complaints, gave orders, and like the king at his balcony at the Louvre, had only to look out the window to review his soldiers.

      The day on which d’Artagnan presented himself, the assemblage was imposing, especially for a provincial just arriving from his province. (It is true that this provincial was a Gascon, and that in those days, d’Artagnan’s compatriots had the reputation of not being easily intimidated.) When he had passed through the massive gate studded with long square-headed nails, he found himself among a troop of shouting, quarreling, boisterous swordsmen; in order to force a passage through those turbulent waves, it was best to be an officer, a great nobleman, or a pretty woman.

      It was into the midst of that tumultuous and disorderly crowd that our young man advanced with a beating heart, his long rapier dangling against his lanky leg, one hand on the brim of his hat, and smiling with that half-smile of the embarrassed provincial who wishes to put up a good front. Every time he passed a group he breathed more freely; but he could not help observing that the men turned around to look at him, and for the fist time in his life d’Artagnan—who had till that day entertained a very good opinion of himself—felt ridiculous.

      It was even worse when he got to the staircase. There were four Musketeers on the bottom steps, amusing themselves with the following sport, while ten or twelve of their comrades waited on the landing to take their turn.

      One of them, stationed on the top step, naked sword in hand, was preventing, or at least trying to prevent, the three others from climbing up.

      Those three others were fencing against him with what d’Artagnan at first took for capped foils; but he soon noticed some bleeding scratches and realized every weapon was pointed and sharpened. At each scratch not only the spectators but the actors themselves laughed like madmen.

      The man who was occupying the upper step was skillfully holding his adversaries in check. A circle had formed around them. The rule was that at every hit the man who was touched would yield his turn on the waiting list for an audience with M. de Tréville to the man who had touched him. In five minutes all three were slightly wounded, one on the hand, another on the chin, and the third on the ear, by the defender of the step, who himself remained intact—a level of skill worth three turns according to the rules.

      However difficult it was, or rather however difficult he pretended it was, to astonish our young traveler, this pastime really did astonish him. He had seen in his province—a region in which tempers flare easily—much swordplay, but the daring of those four fencers was greater than anything he had ever seen even in Gascony. He felt himself transported into that famous country of giants, where Gulliver was so frightened, and yet he had not even gained the goal, for there were still the landing place and the anteroom.

      On the landing they were no longer fighting, but telling stories about women, and in the anteroom, stories about the court. On the landing d’Artagnan blushed; in the anteroom he trembled. His warm and errant imagination, which in Gascony had made him dangerous to young chambermaids and sometimes even to their mistresses, had never even in moments of delirium dreamed of half the amorous wonders or a quarter of the feats of gallantry that were here detailed in connection with the best-known names. But if his morals were shocked on the landing, his respect for the cardinal was scandalized in the anteroom. There, to his great astonishment, d’Artagnan heard criticized, aloud and openly, both the cardinal’s public policy, which made all Europe tremble, and his private life, which so many powerful noblemen had been punished for trying to pry into. That great man so revered by d’Artagnan the elder served as an object of ridicule to Tréville’s Musketeers, who joked about his bandy legs and his stooped shoulders. Some were singing ballads about Mme. d’Aiguillon, his mistress, and Mme. Cambalet, his niece; while others were making plans to annoy his pages and guards—all of which appeared to d’Artagnan as monstrous impossibilities.

      Nevertheless, when the name of the king was occasionally mentioned in the midst of all those jests against the cardinal, a sort of gag would seem to close for a moment all the jeering mouths. They would look around cautiously and appear to doubt the thickness of the partition between them and M. de Tréville’s study; but a fresh allusion would soon bring the conversation back to his Eminence, and the laughter would recover its heartiness as all his actions were held up to the most searching scrutiny.

      These fellows will surely all be either imprisoned or hanged, thought the terrified d’Artagnan, and I with them, because from the moment I have listened to them, I can be taken as their accomplice. What would my good father say—he who so strongly recommended me to respect the cardinal—if he knew I was with such pagans?

      We have no need, therefore, to say that d’Artagnan did not dare join in the conversation, but merely looked with all his eyes and listened with all his ears, stretching his five senses so as to lose nothing; and despite his confidence in those paternal recommendations, he felt himself urged by his tastes and led by his instincts to praise rather than to blame the unheard-of things that were taking place.

      Because he was a perfect stranger in the crowd of M. de Tréville’s courtiers, and this his first appearance in that place, he was soon noticed, and somebody came to ask him what he wanted. D’Artagnan gave his name very modestly, emphasized the fact that he was a compatriot of M. de Tréville, and asked the servant to request a moment’s audience with his master—a request that the other promised to transmit in due time.

      A little recovered from his first surprise, d’Artagnan now had the leisure to study the clothes and the faces around him.

      The center of the most animated group was a Musketeer of great height and haughty air, dressed so peculiarly as to attract general attention. He was not wearing the uniform cloak—which was not obligatory during that time of less liberty but more independence—but a faded and worn sky-blue doublet, and over this a magnificent gold-embroidered baldric that shone like ripples of water in the sun. A long cloak of crimson velvet fell in graceful folds from his shoulders, disclosing the splendid baldric, from which was suspended a gigantic rapier.

      This Musketeer had just come off guard duty and was complaining of having a cold, coughing affectedly from time to time. It was because of his cough, he said to those around him, that he had put on his cloak; and while he was speaking so loftily and twisting his mustache so disdainfully, everyone admired his embroidered baldric, d’Artagnan more than anyone.

      What would you? said the Musketeer. It is the latest fashion—a folly, I admit, but still it is the fashion. Besides, one must spend one’s inheritance somehow.

      Ah, Porthos, said one of his companions, don’t try to make us believe that baldric comes from paternal generosity. It was given to you by that veiled lady I saw you with the other Sunday, near the Porte St. Honoré.

      No, on my honor and by the faith of a gentleman, I bought it with the contents of my own purse, replied the Musketeer they had called Porthos.

      Yes, in about the same way that I bought this new purse with what my mistress put into the old one, said another Musketeer.

      It’s true, though, said Porthos, and the proof is that I paid twelve pistoles for it.

      The wonder increased, though the doubt continued to exist.

      Isn’t that so, Aramis? said Porthos, turning to another Musketeer.

      This one formed a perfect contrast to his interrogator, who had just called him Aramis. He was about twenty-two or -three, with an open, ingenuous face, black, mild eyes, and cheeks as rosy and downy as an autumn peach. His thin mustache marked a perfectly straight line across his upper lip; he seemed reluctant to lower his hands lest their veins should swell, and he would pinch the tips of his ears from time to time to preserve their delicate pink transparency. He spoke little and slowly, bowed frequently, and laughed silently, showing his fine teeth, which he appeared to take as much care of as the rest of his person. He answered his friend’s appeal by an affirmative nod.

      This affirmation evidently dispelled all doubts about the baldric. Everyone continued to admire it but said no more about it, and the conversation turned suddenly to another subject.

      What do you think of the story Chalais’s equerry is telling? asked another Musketeer, not addressing anyone in particular but speaking to everybody.

      What does he say? Porthos asked self-importantly.

      He says that in Brussels he met Rochefort, the cardinal’s tool, disguised as a Capuchin, and that thanks to this disguise, Rochefort was able to trick Monsieur de Laigues like the idiot he is.

      An idiot, indeed, said Porthos, but is the story true?

      I heard it from Aramis, replied the Musketeer.

      Really?

      Why, you knew it, Porthos, said Aramis. I told you about it yesterday. Let us say no more about it.

      "Say no more about it? That’s your opinion! replied Porthos. Say no more about it! Peste, but you make these decisions quickly! The cardinal sets a spy on a gentleman, has his letters stolen from him by means of a traitor, a brigand, a rascal—then, with the help of that spy and thanks to those letters, has Chalais’s throat cut under the stupid pretext that he wanted to kill the king and marry the queen to the king’s brother! Nobody knew anything about all that until you unraveled it yesterday, to our great satisfaction, and now, while we are still gasping at the news, you come and tell us today, ‘Let us say no more about it.’"

      Very well, then, let us talk about it, since you wish to, replied Aramis patiently.

      If I were poor Chalais’s equerry, this Rochefort would spend a very uncomfortable minute or two with me! Porthos exclaimed.

      And you would spend a rather unhappy quarter-hour with the Red Duke, replied Aramis.

      Oh, the Red Duke! Bravo! cried Porthos, clapping his hands and nodding his head. The ‘Red Duke’ is a capital name for the cardinal! I’ll circulate that saying, be assured, my friend. I’ve always said Aramis was witty! What a pity that you couldn’t follow your first vocation—what a delightful priest you would have made!

      Oh, it’s only a temporary postponement, replied Aramis; I will be one someday. You know perfectly well, Porthos, that I am continuing to study theology for just that purpose.

      He will be one, as he says, cried Porthos. He will be one, sooner or later.

      Sooner, said Aramis.

      He is waiting for only one thing before resuming his cassock, which hangs behind his uniform, said one of the Musketeers.

      What is he waiting for? asked another.

      For the queen to give an heir to the crown of France.

      No jesting on that subject, gentlemen, said Porthos. Thank God, the queen is still of an age to do so!

      They say that the Duke of Buckingham is in France, replied Aramis, with a significant smile that gave this seemingly simple sentence a tolerably scandalous meaning.

      Aramis, my friend, this time you are wrong, interrupted Porthos. Your wit is always leading you beyond bounds. If Monsieur de Tréville heard you, you would regret having spoken like that.

      Are you going to lecture me, Porthos? cried Aramis, his usually mild eyes flashing.

      My dear fellow, be a Musketeer or a priest. Be one or the other, but not both, replied Porthos. You know what Athos told you the other day—you eat at everybody’s table; let’s not quarrel, I beg of you. It would be pointless—you know what you, Athos, and I have agreed on. . . . You go to Madame d’Aiguillon and pay your court to her, you go to Madame de Bois-Tracy, the cousin of Madame de Chevreuse, and you are said to be very high in her favor. Oh, you don’t have to talk about your good luck! No one is asking for your secret—the whole world knows your discretion. But since you have that virtue, why the devil don’t you make use of it with respect to her Majesty? Let whoever likes talk of the king and the cardinal, and however he likes—but the queen is sacred, and if anyone speaks of her, let it be respectfully.

      Porthos, you are as vain as Narcissus, replied Aramis. You know I hate moralizing, except when it is done by Athos. And as for you, you are wearing too magnificent a baldric to pretend to such piety. I will be a priest, if it suits me, but meanwhile I am a Musketeer. As such I say what I please, and at this moment it pleases me to say that you are annoying me.

      Aramis!

      Porthos!

      Gentlemen! Gentlemen! cried the surrounding group.

      Monsieur de Tréville awaits Monsieur d’Artagnan, cried a servant, throwing open the study door.

      At those words, during which the door remained open, everyone became silent, and amid that general silence the young man crossed part of the length of the anteroom and entered the study of the captain of the Musketeers, congratulating himself with all his heart at having so narrowly escaped the end of that strange quarrel.

      3

      The Audience

      THOUGH M. DE TRÉVILLE was at the moment in a bad mood, he nevertheless greeted the young man politely and smiled when he heard d’Artagnan’s response, the Béarnese accent of which reminded him both of his youth and his native province—a double memory that makes a man smile at any age. He walked over to the door leading to the anteroom, looked at d’Artagnan as if to ask his permission to finish with the others before he began with him, and called out three times, his voice becoming louder at each name and becoming progressively more irritated.

      Athos! Porthos! Aramis!

      The two Musketeers whom we have already met, and who answered to the last two of the three names, immediately left their group and advanced toward the study, the door of which closed behind them as soon as they had entered. Their manner was not precisely casual, but it demonstrated such an easy combination of dignity and deference that it evoked d’Artagnan’s strong admiration; he saw in the two men demigods, and in their leader an Olympian Jupiter armed with all his thunderbolts.

      After the two Musketeers had come in and closed the door behind them; after the buzzing murmur of the anteroom, to which their summons had doubtless furnished fresh food, had begun again; after M. de Tréville, with a slight frown, had three or four times silently paced the whole length of his study, passing each time in front of Porthos and Aramis, who were as stiff and silent as if on parade—after all that he stopped suddenly and swept them from head to foot with an angry look.

      Do you know what the king said to me last night? Do you know, gentlemen?

      No, sir, we do not, replied the two Musketeers after a moment’s silence.

      But I hope that you will do us the honor to tell us, Aramis added in his politest tone and with the most graceful bow.

      He told me that he would henceforth recruit his Musketeers from among the cardinal’s Guards!

      The cardinal’s Guards! Why? asked Porthos, heatedly.

      Obviously he feels that his wine has been watered down too much and must be improved by adding some stronger vintage to it.

      The two Musketeers reddened to the whites of their eyes. D’Artagnan did not know what he was doing there and wished himself a hundred feet underground.

      Yes, continued M. de Tréville, becoming angrier as he spoke, "and his Majesty was right, because it is true that the Musketeers cut a miserable figure at court. Last night, while playing cards with the king, the cardinal, with a condescending air of condolence that was very displeasing to me, told a story. He described how, the day before yesterday, those hell-raising Musketeers, those daredevils—and he dwelt on those words with a sarcasm still more displeasing to me—those braggarts, he added, glancing at me with his tiger-cat’s eye, had caused a riot in a tavern on the Rue Férou, and how a party of his Guards—I thought he was going to laugh in my face—had been forced to arrest them. Morbleu! You must know something about it! Arrest Musketeers! You were among them—yes, you were! Don’t deny it—you were recognized, and the cardinal mentioned you. But it’s all my fault—yes, it’s my fault because I myself choose my men. You, Aramis, why the devil did you ask me for a uniform when a cassock would have suited you so much better? And you, Porthos, do you wear such a fine golden baldric only to suspend a sword of straw from it? And Athos—I don’t see Athos. Where is he?"

      Sir, Aramis replied in a sorrowful tone, he is ill, very ill.

      Ill—very ill? And what is his illness?

      They are afraid it may be smallpox, sir, replied Porthos, wishing to take his turn in the conversation, and if it is, it will be a pity because it will certainly spoil his face.

      Smallpox! that’s a fine story to tell me, Porthos! Sick of smallpox at his age! Never! But probably wounded and possibly killed. Ah, if I only knew! Gentlemen, I will not have you congregating in low taverns, quarreling in the streets, fencing at the crossways. Above all, I will not have you give the cardinal’s Guards—who are brave, quiet, skillful men who never put themselves in a position to be arrested, and who, besides, would never allow themselves to be arrested—any occasion to laugh at you! I am sure they would prefer dying on the spot to being arrested or to retreating even one step. To save yourselves, to run away, to flee—what splendid behavior for the king’s Musketeers!

      Porthos and Aramis were trembling with rage. They would cheerfully have strangled M. de Tréville if they had not been sure that it was only his great love for them that made him speak this way. They stamped their feet on the carpeted floor; they bit their lips till the blood came; they grasped the hilts of their swords with all their might. Everyone outside had heard Athos, Porthos, and Aramis called, and had guessed from M. de Tréville’s tone of voice that he was very angry about something. Ten curious faces were now pressed to the door, turned white with fury, for the Musketeers could hear every syllable; and even as Tréville spoke, they repeated his insulting comments to all the others in the anteroom. In an instant, from the study door to the street gate, the whole house was boiling over.

      So the king’s Musketeers allow themselves to be arrested by the cardinal’s Guards, do they? M. de Tréville continued, as furious at heart as his soldiers, but keeping his voice steady and deliberately plunging his words, one by one, like so many dagger thrusts, into his auditors’ hearts. "What? Six of his Eminence’s Guards arrest six of his Majesty’s Musketeers? Well, I know what I am going to do. I am going straight to the Louvre, as captain of the king’s Musketeers, and ask for a lieutenancy in the cardinal’s Guards—and if he refuses me, morbleu, I will become a priest!"

      At those words, the murmur from outside became an explosion; nothing could be heard but cries and blasphemies. The morbleus, the sang Dieus, the morts de touts les diables, filled the air. D’Artagnan looked for some tapestry behind which he might hide himself, and felt an enormous desire to crawl under the table.

      Well, my Captain, said Porthos, quite beside himself, it’s truth that we were six against six, but we were not captured by fair means. Before we had time to draw our swords, two of our party were dead and Athos, seriously wounded, was very little better than dead. You know Athos—well, Captain, he tried twice to get up, and fell again twice. And we did not surrender—no! They dragged us away by force. On the way we escaped. As for Athos, they thought he was dead, and left him on the field of battle, not thinking it worth the trouble to carry him away. That’s the whole story. What the devil, Captain, one cannot win every battle! The great Pompey lost the Battle of Pharsalus, and Francis the First, who was, from what I have heard, as good a man as ever lived, nevertheless lost the Battle of Pavia.

      And I have the honor of assuring you that I killed one of them with his own sword, because mine was broken at the first parry, said Aramis. Killed him or stabbed him, sir, as you please.

      I did not know that, replied M. de Tréville, in a somewhat softer tone. The cardinal has exaggerated, I see.

      But please, sir, continued Aramis, who, seeing his captain calmer, ventured to risk a request, do not say that Athos is wounded. He would be in despair if that should come to the ears of the king, and as the wound is very serious, since the blade went through his shoulder and penetrates the chest, I am afraid . . .

      At that instant the tapestry at the door was pushed aside, and a noble, handsome, but terribly pale face appeared.

      Athos! cried the two Musketeers.

      Athos! repeated M. de Tréville.

      My comrades informed me that you have sent for me, sir, and I have come to receive your orders. What do you want me to do? Athos asked M. de Tréville in a feeble yet perfectly steady voice.

      With these words the Musketeer, irreproachably dressed as usual, entered the study with a tolerably firm step.

      M. de Tréville, deeply moved by this proof of courage, sprang toward him.

      I was about to say to these gentlemen, he said, that I forbid my Musketeers to risk their lives needlessly—brave men are very dear to the king, and he knows that his Musketeers are the bravest fellows on earth. Your hand, Athos!

      And without waiting for the newcomer’s answer to this proof of affection, M. de Tréville grasped his right hand and gripped it with all his might, not noticing that Athos, despite his self-command, allowed a slight murmur of pain to escape him and turned more pale, if possible, than before.

      So strong was the excitement produced by the arrival of Athos, whose wound, though kept a secret, was known to all, that the door had remained open. A roar of satisfaction hailed the captain’s last words, and two or three of the listeners were so carried away by the enthusiasm of the moment that they showed their faces through the openings of the tapestry. M. de Tréville was about to reprimand such a lack of manners when he felt Athos’s hand stiffen within his and saw that he was about to faint. At the same instant Athos, who had rallied all his strength to contend against the pain, was finally overcome by it and fell to the floor as if he were dead.

      A doctor! cried M. de Tréville. Mine! The king’s! The best! A doctor or my brave Athos will die!

      At those words, everyone in the anteroom rushed into the study—M. de Tréville not thinking to shut the door against them—and crowded around the wounded man. But all this eager attention would have been useless if the doctor had not happened to be in the house. He pushed through the crowd, approached the still unconscious Athos, and, as all the noise and commotion greatly inconvenienced him, insisted that the first and most urgent thing to be done was to carry the Musketeer into an adjoining room. M. de Tréville immediately opened the door and pointed the way to Porthos and Aramis, who carried their comrade. Behind them walked the doctor, and behind the doctor the door was closed.

      M. de Tréville’s study, generally held so sacred, became in an instant an annex of the anteroom. Everyone was talking, haranguing, shouting, swearing, cursing, and consigning the cardinal and his Guards to all the devils.

      After a moment, Porthos and Aramis returned, the doctor and M. de Tréville remaining with the wounded man.

      Finally M. de Tréville himself returned. Athos had regained consciousness and the doctor had said that the Musketeer’s condition need not alarm his friends; he had fainted only from loss of blood.

      M. de Tréville then motioned everyone to withdraw, and all retired except d’Artagnan, who had not forgotten that he had an audience and who, with the tenacity of a Gascon, had remained in his place.

      When all had gone out and the door was closed, M. de Tréville turned around and found himself alone with the young man. The event that had just occurred had somewhat broken the thread of his ideas, so he asked what his persevering visitor wanted. D’Artagnan repeated his name, and M. de Tréville immediately recovered his memory and grasped the situation.

      Excuse me, he said, smiling, excuse me, my compatriot, but I had wholly forgotten you. I cannot help it, because a captain is like a father of a family, but with an even greater responsibility than the father of an ordinary family. Soldiers are big children, but since I must see that the king’s orders, and especially the cardinal’s orders, are executed . . .

      D’Artagnan could not restrain a smile, and by this smile M. de Tréville understood that he was not dealing with a fool. Changing the subject, he came straight to the point.

      I respected your father very much, he said. What can I do for his son? Tell me quickly, because my time is not my own.

      Monsieur, when I left Tarbes and came here, it was my intention to ask you, in memory of the friendship that you have not forgotten, for the uniform of a Musketeer. But after what I have seen during the last two hours, I realize that such a favor would be enormous, and I’m afraid I may not deserve it.

      It is indeed a favor, young man, but it may not be so far beyond your hopes as you fear, or rather as you seem to fear. But his Majesty’s ruling is firm, and I regret to inform you that no one can become a Musketeer without fighting in several campaigns, performing feats of extraordinary bravery, or serving two years in some other regiment less favored than ours.

      D’Artagnan bowed without replying, feeling his desire to wear the Musketeer’s uniform vastly increased by the great difficulties that he would have to overcome to earn it.

      But, continued M. de Tréville, fixing on his compatriot a look so piercing that it seemed as if he wanted to penetrate the depths of his heart, because of my old companion, your father, I will do something for you, young man. Our recruits from Béarn are not usually very rich, and I have no reason to think matters have much changed in this respect since I left the province. I imagine you have not brought too much money with you?

      D’Artagnan drew himself erect with a proud air that plainly said, I ask no one for charity.

      Oh, that’s all very fine, young man, continued M. de Tréville. I know that look well. I myself came to Paris with four écus in my purse and would have fought with anyone who dared to tell me I was not able to purchase the Louvre.

      D’Artagnan’s bearing became still more imposing. Thanks to the sale of his horse, he was beginning his career with four écus more than M. de Tréville had possessed at the beginning of his.

      As I was about to say, you should save the money you have, however large the sum may be, but you should also try to perfect yourself in the skills becoming a gentleman. I will write a letter today to the Director of the Royal Academy, and tomorrow he will admit you without any expense to yourself. Do not refuse this little favor. Our best-born and richest gentlemen sometimes ask for it without being able to obtain it. You will learn horsemanship, swordsmanship in all its branches, and dancing. You will make some desirable acquaintances, and from time to time you can call on me to report how you are getting on and to tell me if I can be of further service to you.

      D’Artagnan, stranger as he was to court manners, could not but recognize a little coldness in this reception.

      Alas, sir, I see how sadly I miss the letter of introduction that my father gave me to present to you, he said.

      I certainly am surprised that you would undertake so long a journey without such a letter. It is usually the only resource for us poor Béarnese.

      I had one, sir, and, thank God, such a one as I could wish, cried d’Artagnan, but it was stolen from me.

      He then related his adventure in Meung, describing the unknown gentleman in great detail and with a warmth and sincerity that delighted M. de Tréville.

      This is all very strange, M. de Tréville said thoughtfully. You had mentioned my name?

      Yes, sir, I certainly did, but why shouldn’t I have? A name like yours should be a shield to me on my travels. Why should I not put myself under its protection?

      Flattery was very current at that time, and M. de Tréville loved incense as well as a king or even a cardinal. He could not refrain from a smile of visible satisfaction; but the smile soon disappeared, and he returned to the adventure of Meung.

      Tell me, did this gentleman have a slight scar on his temple?

      Yes, one that might have been made by the grazing of a bullet.

      Was he a good-looking man?

      Yes.

      Tall?

      Yes.

      Pale complexion and brown hair?

      Yes, yes, that is he! How is it, sir, that you are acquainted with him? If ever I find him again . . . and I will find him, I swear, even if I have to follow him to hell!

      He was waiting for a woman? continued Tréville.

      He left immediately after he had spoken to her for a minute.

      You do not know the subject of their conversation?

      He gave her a box, told her that it contained her instructions, and said she was not to open it until she arrived in London.

      Was the woman English?

      He called her Milady.

      It is he—it must be he, murmured Tréville. I thought he was still in Brussels!

      Oh, sir, if you know this man, cried d’Artagnan, tell me who he is and where he is, and I will then release you from all your promises—even that of arranging my admission into the Musketeers, because more than anything else, I want my revenge!

      Beware, young man! exclaimed Tréville. If you see him coming on one side of the street, cross to the other. Do not cast yourself against such a rock—he will break you like glass.

      That will not stop me. If I ever find him . . .

      In the meantime, take my advice and do not look for him.

      All at once the captain stopped, as if struck by a sudden suspicion. The great hatred that the young traveler professed for this man who, rather improbably, had stolen his father’s letter from him—was there not some treachery concealed under this hatred? Might not this young man have been sent by his Eminence? Might he not have come for the purpose of laying a trap for him? This man who called himself d’Artagnan—could he not be an emissary of the cardinal, whom the cardinal sought to introduce into Tréville’s house, to place near him in order to win his confidence and afterward to ruin him, as had been done in a thousand other cases? He examined d’Artagnan even more earnestly than before and was only moderately reassured by the astute intelligence and affected humility he saw. I know he is a Gascon, he thought, but he may as easily be for the cardinal as for me. Let me test him.

      My friend, he said slowly, "since you are the son of an old comrade—for I think your story of the lost letter is perfectly true—I wish to make up for the coldness you may have noticed in me by explaining the secrets of our policy. The king and the cardinal are the best of friends; their apparent bickering is only meant to deceive fools. I do not want a fellow Gascon, a handsome cavalier, a brave youth who is quite fit to make his way, to be the dupe of all these pretenses, like so many others who have been ruined by falling into that trap. Be assured that I am devoted to both these all-powerful masters, and that my serious desire is nothing other than to serve the king and the cardinal—one of the greatest geniuses France has ever produced.

      Now that you understand this, young man, act accordingly. If you have—because of your family, your friends, or even your own instincts—any animosity such as we see constantly breaking out against the cardinal, bid me adieu and let us separate. I will help you in many ways, but without admitting you to my household. I hope that my frankness will at least make you my friend, for you are the only young man to whom I have ever spoken in this way.

      Tréville said to himself, If the cardinal, who knows how bitterly I hate him, has set this young fox on me, he will certainly have told his spy that the best way to court me is to rail at him. Therefore, in spite of all my protestations, if my suspicions are correct, my cunning friend will assure me that he detests his Eminence.

      It proved otherwise.

      D’Artagnan answered, with the greatest simplicity, I came to Paris with exactly those intentions. My father advised me to tolerate no slights from anyone but the king, the cardinal, and yourself—whom he considered the three most important men in France.

      D’Artagnan added M. de Tréville to the two others, as we can see, but he thought the addition would do no harm.

      I have the greatest esteem for the cardinal, he continued, and the most profound respect for his actions. So much the better for me, sir, if you have spoken frankly to me, as you said you were, because then you will do me the honor to appreciate the resemblance of our opinions. But if you entertained any doubts about me, as you certainly might, then I have ruined myself by speaking the truth. Still, I hope you will not respect me the less for it, and that is what I wish more than anything.

      M. de Tréville was astonished. So much acuteness, so much frankness, aroused his admiration but did not entirely remove his suspicions. The more this young man was superior to others, the more he was to be dreaded if he meant to deceive him.

      Nevertheless, he clasped d’Artagnan’s hand, and said, You are an honest youth; but at the present moment I can do for you only what I have already offered. My house will always be open to you, and since you will be able to ask for me at all hours and thus take advantage of every opportunity, you will probably eventually get what you wish.

      That means, replied d’Artagnan, that you will wait till I have proved myself worthy of it. Well, be assured, he added with the familiarity of a Gascon, you will not wait long.

      And he bowed in farewell, as if he considered the future to be in his own hands from then on.

      Wait a minute, said M. de Tréville, stopping him. I promised you a letter for the director of the Academy. Are you too proud to accept it, young man?

      No, sir, said d’Artagnan; and I assure you that this one will not suffer the same fate as the other. I will guard it so carefully that I swear it will arrive at its address, and woe be to anyone who attempts to take it from me!

      M. de Tréville smiled at this flourish, and leaving his young compatriot in the window recess, where they had been talking, he sat down to write the promised letter of recommendation. Meanwhile d’Artagnan, having no better employment, amused himself with tapping out a march on the windowpane and with watching the Musketeers leave one after another, following them with his eyes till they disappeared.

      After having written the letter, M. de Tréville sealed it, rose from the desk, and approached the young man in order to give it to him. But at the very moment when d’Artagnan extended his hand to receive it, M. de Tréville was astonished to see his protégé start, become crimson with passion, and rush from the study, crying, S’blood, he will not escape me this time!

      Who? asked M. de Tréville.

      My thief! replied d’Artagnan.

      And he ran out.

      The devil take the madman, murmured M. de Tréville. Unless, he added, that was just a cunning way to escape after realizing that he had failed in his purpose!

      4

      Athos, Porthos, and Aramis

      IN A STATE OF FURY, d’Artagnan had crossed the anteroom in three bounds and was darting toward the stairs, when he carelessly ran headfirst into a Musketeer coming out of another door and struck his shoulder violently, making him howl with pain.

      Excuse me, said d’Artagnan, trying to continue on his way, but I am in a hurry.

      He had scarcely gone down the first step when a hand of iron seized him by the belt and stopped him.

      You are in a hurry? asked the Musketeer, as pale as a sheet. For that reason you run into me? You say ‘Excuse me,’ and you believe that that is sufficient? Not at all, young man. Do you think that because you have heard Monsieur de Tréville speak to us a little rudely today that other people may treat us the way he speaks to us? You are mistaken, my friend—you are not Monsieur de Tréville.

      D’Artagnan recognized Athos, who was returning home after having his dressing changed by the doctor, and replied, I did not do it intentionally, and not doing it intentionally, I said ‘Excuse me.’ It seems to me that is quite enough. I repeat to you, however—and by heavens I think I repeat it too often—that I am in a great hurry. Loosen your hold, please, and allow me to go where my business calls me.

      Monsieur, said Athos, releasing him, you are not polite. It is easy to see that you come from far away.

      D’Artagnan had already gone down three or four steps, but at Athos’s last remark he stopped short.

      "Morbleu, monsieur! he said. From however far I may have come, you are not the one to give me a lesson in good manners, I warn you!"

      We shall see! said Athos.

      Ah! if I were not in such a hurry, and if I were not running after someone . . .

      "Monsieur Man-in-a-hurry, you can find me without running—me, you understand?"

      Yes. Where?

      Near the Carmes-Deschaux.

      When?

      About noon.

      About noon? Good. I will be there.

      "Try not to make me wait, because at a quarter past twelve, I will go after you and cut off your ears as you run!"

      I will be there ten minutes before twelve.

      And he again began to run down the stairs as if possessed by the devil, hoping that he might yet catch up with the stranger, who had been walking slowly.

      But at the street gate Porthos was talking with the soldier on guard. Between the two, there was just room for a man to pass. D’Artagnan thought it would suffice for him, and he darted forward. But he had reckoned without the wind; as he was about to pass through, it blew out Porthos’s long cloak, and d’Artagnan ran right into the middle of it. Porthos must have had reasons for not abandoning that part of his clothing, because instead of letting go of the piece he held in his hand, he pulled it toward him, so that d’Artagnan became rolled up in the velvet and was rotated toward Porthos.

      Hearing the Musketeer swear, d’Artagnan tried to escape from the cloak, which was blinding him, and searched for a way out of its folds. He especially wanted to avoid damaging the magnificent baldric we are acquainted with, but when he timidly opened his eyes, he found himself with his nose resting between Porthos’s shoulders—that is to say, exactly on the baldric.

      Alas, like most things in the world that have nothing in their favor but appearances, the baldric was glittering with gold only in the front and was nothing but simple leather in the back. Vain as he was, and not being able to afford a baldric wholly of gold, he at least had the half of one. It was now easy to understand why he had needed to have a cold and wear a cloak.

      Porthos, making strong efforts to disentangle himself from d’Artagnan, who was still wriggling around behind his back, exclaimed, You must be mad to run into people like that!

      Excuse me, said d’Artagnan, reappearing under the giant’s shoulder, but I am in a hurry—I was running after someone, and . . .

      And you always forget your eyes when you run?

      No, replied d’Artagnan, irritated, and thanks to my eyes, I can see what other people cannot see.

      Whether Porthos did or did not understand him, he said, giving way to his anger, Monsieur, you run the risk of being trounced if you keep on crashing into Musketeers!

      Trounced, monsieur! That is a strong word!

      It is one that a man accustomed to look his enemies in the face may use.

      "Ah, pardieu! I know very well that you don’t turn your back to yours."

      And the young man, delighted with his joke, hurried away laughing loudly.

      Porthos foamed with rage and began to rush after d’Artagnan.

      Later, later, cried the latter, when you’re not wearing your cloak.

      At one o’clock, then, behind the Luxembourg.

      Very well, at one o’clock, replied d’Artagnan, turning the corner.

      But neither in the street he had passed through nor in the one he now glanced down eagerly could he see anyone; however slowly the stranger had walked, he had been fast enough to disappear—unless he had perhaps entered some house. D’Artagnan asked everyone he met, went down to the ferry, and came up again by the Rue de Seine and the Croix-Rouge, but nothing, absolutely nothing! This chase was, however, advantageous to him in one way, because the more he perspired, the cooler he became.

      He began to think about the events that had occurred; they were numerous and inauspicious. It was scarcely eleven o’clock in the morning, and he was already in disgrace with M. de Tréville, who would certainly think the way in which d’Artagnan had left him a little too abrupt; and moreover, he had drawn upon himself duels with two men, each one capable of killing three d’Artagnans—with two Musketeers, in short, two of those beings whom he admired so much that he thought of them as superior to all other men.

      The future seemed bleak. Sure of being killed by Athos, the young man was not even very uneasy about Porthos. But since hope is the last thing extinguished in the human heart, he finished by hoping that he might survive both duels, even though with terrible wounds; and in case he did, he made the following reflections on his own conduct:

      How impetuous and stupid I am! That brave, unfortunate Athos was wounded on the very shoulder against which I rammed into. It’s only surprising that he didn’t strike me dead at once. He had every reason to do so—the pain must have been atrocious. As for Porthos . . . oh, as for Porthos, faith, that’s funny!

      And in spite of himself the young man began to laugh aloud—looking around carefully, however, to see if his laugh, seemingly without reason in the eyes of passersby, offended anyone.

      As for Porthos, yes, it’s certainly amusing, but I was a giddy fool with him too. Are people to be run into without warning? No! And have I any right to peep under their cloaks to see what is not there? He would certainly have forgiven me if I hadn’t said anything to him about that cursed baldric—in ambiguous words, it is true, but rather wittily ambiguous. Ah, cursed Gascon that I am, I must make jokes no matter what! Friend d’Artagnan, he continued, speaking to himself with all the courtesy he thought his due, if you escape with your life, of which there is not much chance, I would advise you to practice perfect politeness for the future. From now on you must be admired for it and quoted as a model of it. To be obliging and polite does not necessarily make a man a coward. Look at Aramis—he is mildness and courtesy personified, and has anybody ever dreamed of calling him a coward? No, certainly not, and from now on I will try to model myself after him. Oh, how strange—here he is!

      D’Artagnan, walking and soliloquizing, had arrived within a few steps of the d’Aiguillon house, in front of which he saw Aramis chatting gaily with three gentlemen of the king’s Guards. Aramis saw d’Artagnan too; but since he had not forgotten that it was in the presence of this young man that M. de Tréville had been so angry in the morning, and since he did not think a witness of the rebuke the Musketeers had received was likely to be at all agreeable, he pretended not to see him. D’Artagnan, however, full of his resolve to be conciliatory and courteous, approached the young men and bowed deeply, smiling graciously at the same time. Aramis nodded, but did not smile, and all four of them immediately broke off their conversation.

      D’Artagnan was clever enough to see that he was one too many; but he was not sufficiently worldly to know how to extricate himself easily from the false position of a man who begins to mingle with people he is scarcely acquainted with and interrupts a conversation that does not concern him. He was trying to think of the least awkward way to retreat when he noticed that Aramis had dropped his handkerchief and, by mistake, no doubt, placed his foot on it. This seemed a good opportunity to make up for his intrusion. He bent down, and as gracefully as he could, pulled the handkerchief from under Aramis’s foot, despite the latter’s resistance.

      Holding it out to him, he said, I believe, monsieur, that this is a handkerchief you would be sorry to lose?

      The handkerchief was indeed richly embroidered, with a coronet and a coat of arms at one of its corners. Aramis blushed, and snatched rather than took the handkerchief from the Gascon’s hands.

      One of the Guards exclaimed, Will you persist in saying, most discreet Aramis, that you are not on good terms with Madame de Bois-Tracy when that gracious lady has the kindness to lend you one of her handkerchiefs?

      Aramis gave d’Artagnan one of those looks which inform a man that he has acquired a mortal enemy.

      Then, resuming his mild air, he said, You are mistaken, gentlemen. This handkerchief is not mine, and I cannot imagine why Monsieur has taken it into his head to offer it to me rather than to one of you. As proof of what I say, here is mine in my pocket.

      So saying, he pulled out his own handkerchief, also a very elegant one of fine batiste—though batiste was expensive at that time. But it had no embroidery or coat of arms and was ornamented only with the monogram of its owner.

      This time d’Artagnan was not impetuous; he perceived his mistake, but Aramis’s friends were not at all convinced by his denial, and one of them spoke to the young Musketeer with affected seriousness.

      If what you say is so, he said, I would be forced, my dear Aramis, to reclaim it, because as you know, Bois-Tracy is an intimate friend of mine and I cannot allow his wife’s property to be bandied about as a trophy.

      You make the demand badly, replied Aramis. Though I acknowledge the justice of what you say, I refuse to give you the handkerchief because of the way you have asked for it.

      The fact is, d’Artagnan hazarded timidly, I did not see the handkerchief fall from Monsieur Aramis’s pocket. His foot was on it, and I thought from his having his foot on it that the handkerchief was his.

      And you were wrong, my dear sir, Aramis replied coldly, unappreciative of his effort to make reparation.

      Turning toward the guard who had declared himself the friend of Bois-Tracy, he continued, Besides, I have reflected, my dear intimate of Bois-Tracy, that I am no less his friend than you can possibly be, so the handkerchief is as likely to have fallen from your pocket as mine.

      No, on my honor! cried his Majesty’s Guardsman.

      You are about to swear on your honor and I on mine, and then it will be obvious that one of us will have lied. Now, Montaran, we will do better than that—let each of us take half.

      Of the handkerchief?

      Yes.

      Perfectly just! cried the other two Guardsmen. The judgment of King Solomon! Aramis, you are full of wisdom!

      The young men all laughed, and as may be supposed, the affair went no further. A moment or two later the conversation ended, and the three Guardsmen and the Musketeer, after having cordially shaken hands, separated, the Guardsmen going one way and Aramis another.

      Now is my time to make my peace with this gallant man, said d’Artagnan to himself, having stood off on one side during the whole of the latter part of the conversation.

      With that good intention he drew closer to Aramis, who was departing without paying any attention to him, and said, Monsieur, you will excuse me, I hope.

      Ah, monsieur, Aramis interrupted, permit me to observe that you have not acted as a gallant man should.

      What, monsieur! cried d’Artagnan. Do you suppose . . .

      I suppose, monsieur, that you are not a fool and that you know very well, despite coming from Gascony, that people do not stand on handkerchiefs without a reason. Paris is not paved with batiste!

      Monsieur, you do wrong to try to humiliate me, said d’Artagnan, whose naturally quarrelsome spirit began to speak more loudly than his peaceful resolutions. I am from Gascony, it is true, and since you know it, there is no need to tell you that Gascons are not very patient. When they have begged to be excused once, even for a folly, they are convinced that they have already done as much as they ought to have done.

      Monsieur, what I say to you, said Aramis, "is not for the sake of seeking a quarrel. Thank God, I am not a

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