hapter 1 - The Three Presents of M. D’Artagnan the Elder

On the first Monday of the month of April, 1625, the bourg of Meung, in which the author of the Romance of the Rose was born, appeared to be in as perfect a state of revolution as if the Huguenots had just made a second Rochelle of it. Many citizens, seeing the women flying towards the High Street, leaving their children crying at the open doors, hastened to don the cuirass, and, supporting their somewhat uncertain courage with a musket or a partizan, directed their steps towards the hostelry of the Franc Meunier, before which was gathered, increasing every minute, a compact group, vociferous and full of curiosity.

In those times panics were common, and few days passed without some city or other enregistered in its archives an event of this kind. There were nobles, who made war against one another; there was the king, who made war against the cardinal; there was Spain, who made war against the king. Then in addition to these concealed or public, secret or patent wars, there were robbers, mendicants, Huguenots, wolves, and scoundrels, who made war upon everybody. The citizens always took up arms against thieves, wolves, or scoundrels, often against nobles or Huguenots, sometimes against the king, but never against the cardinal or Spain. It resulted, therefore, from this habit, that on the said first Monday of the month of April, 1625, the citizens, on hearing the clamour, and seeing neither the red and yellow standard nor the livery of the Duc de Richelieu, rushed toward the hostelry of the Franc-Meunier.

On reaching there the cause of this hubbub was apparent to all.

A young man—we can sketch his portrait at a dash: imagine Don Quixote at eighteen; Don Quixote without his corselet, without his coat of mail, without his cuisses; Don Quixote clothed in a woollen doublet the blue colour of which had faded into a nameless shade between lees of wine and a heavenly azure; face long and brown; high cheekbones, indicating craftiness; the maxillary muscles enormously developed, an infallible sign by which a Gascon may always be detected, even without his cap—and our young man wore a cap ornamented with a kind of feather; his eye open and intelligent; his nose hooked, but finely chiselled. Too big for a youth, too small for a grown man, an experienced eye might have taken him for a farmer’s son upon a journey had it not been for the long sword, which, dangling from a leathern baldic, hit against its owner’s calves as he walked, and against his steed’s rough side when he was on horseback.

For our young man had a steed, which was the observed of all observers. It was a Béarn pony, from twelve to fourteen years old, with yellow coat, not a hair in his tail, but not without wind-galls on his legs, which, though going with his head lower than his knees, rendering a martingale quite unnecessary, contrived, nevertheless. to perform his eight leagues a day.

And this feeling was the more painful to young D’Artagnan—for so was the Don Quixote of this second Rosinante named—because he was conscious himself of the ridiculous appearance he made on such a steed, good horseman as he was. He had sighed deeply, therefore, when accepting the gift of the pony from M. d’Artagnan the elder. He was not ignorant that such a beast was worth at least twenty pounds; and the words which accompanied the gift were above all price.

“My son,” said the old Gascon nobleman, in that pure Béarn patois of which Henry IV was never able to rid himself—“my son, this horse was born in your father’s house about thirteen years ago, and has remained in it ever since, which ought to make you love it. Never sell it—allow it to die tranquilly and honourably of old age; and if you make a campaign with it, take as much care of it as you would of an old servant. At court, provided you ever have the honour to go there,” continued M. d’Artagnan the elder, “an honour to which, remember, your ancient nobility gives you the right, sustain worthily your name of gentleman, which has been worthily borne by your ancestors for more than five hundred years, both for your own sake and for those who belong to you. By the latter I mean your relatives and friends. Endure nothing from any one except the cardinal and the king. It is by his courage, you understand, by his courage alone, that a gentleman makes his way to-day. I have but one more word to add, and that is to propose an example to you—not mine, for I myself have never appeared at court, and have only taken part in religious wars as a volunteer; I speak of M. de Tréville, who was formerly my neighbour, and who had the honour to be, as a child, the playfellow of our king, Louis XIII, whom God preserve! Sometimes their play degenerated into battles, and in these battles the king was not always the stronger. The blows which he received from him caused him to entertain great esteem and friendship for M. de Tréville. Afterwards, M. de Tréville fought with others: during his first journey to Paris, five times; from the death of the late king to the majority of the young one, without reckoning wars and sieges, seven times; and from that majority up to the present day, a hundred times perhaps! So that in spite of edicts, ordinances, and decrees, behold him captain of the musketeers—that is to say, leader of a legion of C?sars, whom the king holds in great esteem, and whom the cardinal dreads—he who dreads little, as every one knows. Moreover, M. de Tréville gains ten thousand crowns a year; he is, therefore, a very great noble. He began as you begin; go to him with this letter, and make him your model, in order that you may do as he has done.”

The same day the young man set forward on his journey, provided with the three paternal gifts, which consisted, as we have said, of fifteen crowns, the horse, and the letter for M. de Tréville, the counsels, as may be supposed, being thrown into the bargain.

As he was alighting from his horse at the gate of the Franc-Meunier, without any one—host, waiter, or hostler—coming to hold his stirrup or take his horse, D’Artagnan spied, through an open window on the ground floor, a man of fine figure and lofty bearing, but of rather grim countenance, talking with two persons who appeared to listen to him most respectfully. D’Artagnan fancied, as was natural for him to do, that he himself must be the object of their conversation, and listened. D’Artagnan was only in part mistaken: he himself was not the subject of remark, but his horse was.

Nevertheless, D’Artagnan was desirous of examining the appearance of this impertinent personage who was laughing at him. He fixed his haughty eye upon the stranger, and perceived a man of from forty to forty-five years of age, with black and piercing eyes, a pale complexion, a strongly-marked nose, and a black and well-shaped moustache. He was dressed in a doublet and hose of violet colour, with aiguillettes of the same, without any other ornaments than the customary slashes through which the shirt appeared. This doublet and hose, though new, look creased, as garments do which have been long packed in a travelling-bag. D’Artagnan noticed all this with the rapidity of a most minute observer, and doubtless from an instinctive feeling that this unknown was destined to have a great influence over his future life.

Now, as at the moment in which D’Artagnan fixed his eyes upon the man in the violet doublet the man made one of his most knowing and profound remarks respecting the Béarnese pony, his two auditors burst out laughing, and he himself, though contrary to his custom suffered a pale smile (if I may be allowed to use such an expression) to stray over his countenance. This time there could be no doubt: D’Artagnan was really insulted. Full, then, of his conviction, he pulled his cap down over his eyes, and endeavouring to copy some of the court airs he had picked up in Gascony among young travelling nobles, he advanced, with one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other resting on his hip.

“I say, sir—you, sir, who are hiding yourself behind that shutter—yes, you, sir, tell me what you are laughing at, and we will laugh together!”

The man withdrew his eyes slowly from the nag to his rider, as if he required some time to ascertain whether it could be to him that such strange reproaches were addressed; then, when he could no longer entertain any doubt of the matter, his eyebrows bent slightly, and after quite a long pause, with an accent of irony and insolence impossible to be described, he replied to D’Artagnan,

“I was not speaking to you, sir!”

“But I am speaking to you!” replied the young man, exasperated by this mixture of insolence and good manners, of politeness and scorn.

The unknown looked at him for a moment longer with his faint smile, and retiring from the window, came out of the hostelry with a slow step, and placed himself before the horse within two paces of D’Artagnan.

“This horse is decidedly, or rather has been in his youth, a buttercup,” resumed the unknown, continuing the remarks he had begun, and addressing himself to his auditors at the window, without seeming in any way to notice the exasperation of D’Artagnan, who, however, remained stiffly standing between them. “It is a colour very well known in botany, but till the present time very rare among horses.”

He had scarcely finished when D’Artagnan made such a furious lunge at him that if he had not sprung nimbly backward it is possible that he would have jested for the last time. The unknown then, perceiving that the matter was going beyond a joke, drew his sword, saluted his adversary, and gravely placed himself on guard. But at the same moment his two auditors, accompanied by the host, fell upon D’Artagnan with sticks, shovels, and tongs. This caused so rapid and complete a diversion to the attack that D’Artagnan’s adversary, while the latter was turning round to face this shower of blows, sheathed his sword with the same precision as before, and from an actor, which he had nearly been, became a spectator of the fight, a r?le in which he acquitted himself with his usual impassibility, muttering, nevertheless,

“A plague upon these Gascons! Put him on his yellow horse again and let him begone!”

“Not before I have killed you, poltroon!” cried D’Artagnan, showing the best front possible, and never falling back one step before his three assailants, who continued to shower their blows upon him.

“Another gasconade!” murmured the gentleman. “By my honour, these Gascons are incorrigible! Keep up the dance, then, since he will have it so. When he is tired, he will say that he has enough of it.”

But the unknown did not yet know the headstrong personage he had to deal with; D’Artagnan was not the man ever to cry for quarter. The fight was therefore prolonged for some seconds; but at length D’Artagnan, worn out, let fall his sword, which was struck from his hand by the blow of a stick and broken in two pieces. Another blow full upon his forehead at the same moment brought him to the ground, covered with blood and almost fainting.

It was at this period that people came flocking to the scene of action from all sides. The host, fearful of consequences, with the help of his servants carried the wounded man into the kitchen, where some trifling attention was bestowed upon him.

As to the gentleman, he resumed his place at the window, and surveyed all that crowd with a certain air of impatience, evidently much annoyed by their persistence in remaining there.

“Well, how is it with this madman?” exclaimed he, turning round as the opening door announced the entrance of the host, who came to inquire whether he was hurt.

“Your excellency is safe and sound?” asked the host.

“Oh yes! perfectly safe and sound, my good host; and I now wish to know what has become of our young man.”

“He is better,” said the host; “he fainted quite away.”

“Indeed!” said the gentleman.

“But before he fainted he collected all his strength to challenge you, and to defy you while challenging you.”

“Why, this fellow must be the devil in person!” cried the unknown.

“Oh no, your Excellency,” replied the host, with a grin of contempt, “he is not the devil; for during his fainting we rummaged his valise, and found nothing but a clean shirt and twelve crowns, which, however, did not prevent his saying, as he was fainting, that if such a thing had happened in Paris you should have instantly repented of it, while here you will only repent of it later on.”

“Then,” said the unknown coldly, “he must be some prince of the blood in disguise.”

“I have told you this, good sir,” resumed the host, “in order that you may be on your guard.”

“Did he name no one in his passion?”

“Yes. He struck his pocket and said, ‘We shall see what M. de Tréville will think of this insult offered to his protégé.’ ”

“M. de Tréville?” said the unknown, becoming attentive. “He struck his pocket while pronouncing the name of M. de Tréville? Now, my dear host, while your young man was unconscious you did not fail, I am quite sure, to ascertain what that pocket contained. What was there in it?”

“A letter addressed to M. de Tréville, captain of the musketeers.”

“Indeed!”

“Just as I have the honour to tell your Excellency.”

The host, who was not endowed with great perspicacity, did not notice at all the expression which his words called up in the countenance of the unknown. The latter arose from the window, upon the sill of which he had been leaning his elbow, and knitted his brows like a man suddenly disturbed.

“The devil!” muttered he between his teeth. “Can Tréville have set this Gascon upon me? He is very young, but a sword-thrust is a sword-thrust, whatever be the age of him who gives it, and a youth is less to be suspected than an older man. A weak obstacle is sometimes sufficient to overthrow a great design.”

And the unknown fell into a reverie which lasted some minutes.

“Host,” said he, “could you not contrive to get rid of this frantic boy for me? In conscience, I cannot kill him; and yet,” added he, with a coldly menacing expression—“and yet he annoys me. Where is he?”

“In my wife’s chamber, where they are dressing his wounds, on the first floor.”

“His things and his bag are with him? Has he taken off his doublet?”

“On the contrary, everything is down in the kitchen. But if he annoys you, this crazy young fool—”

“To be sure he does. He causes a disturbance in your hostelry, which respectable people cannot put up with. Go, make out my bill, and call my servant.”

“What, sir! do you mean to leave us already?”

“You knew I was going, as I ordered you to get my horse saddled. Have they not obeyed?”

“Yes, sir; and as your Excellency may have observed, your horse is in the great gateway, ready saddled for your departure.”

“That is well. Do as I have directed you, then.”

“What the devil!” said the host to himself. “Can he be afraid of this boy?” But an imperious glance from the unknown stopped him short; he bowed humbly and retired.

“Milady must see nothing of this fellow,” continued the stranger. “She will soon pass by; she is already late. I had better get on horseback, and go and meet her. I should like, however, to know what this letter addressed to Tréville contains.”

And the unknown, muttering to himself, directed his steps towards the kitchen.

In the meantime the host, who entertained no doubt that it was the presence of the young man which was driving the unknown from his hostelry, had gone up to his wife’s chamber, and found D’Artagnan entirely returned to consciousness. Giving him to understand that the police could deal with him pretty severely for having sought a quarrel with a great lord (for in the opinion of the host the unknown could be nothing less than a great lord), he insisted that, notwithstanding his weakness, he should get up and depart as quickly as possible. D’Artagnan, half-stupefied, without his doublet, and with his head all swathed with bandages, arose then, and urged on by the host, began to descend the stairs; but on arriving at the kitchen the first thing he saw was his antagonist, who stood quietly talking beside the step of a heavy carriage drawn by two large Norman horses.

His interlocutor, whose head appeared through the carriage window, was a woman of from twenty to two-and-twenty years of age. We have already observed with what rapidity D’Artagnan took in every feature of a face. He perceived then, at a glance, that this woman was young and beautiful; and her style of beauty struck him the more forcibly on account of its being totally different from that of the southern countries in which D’Artagnan had hitherto resided. She was pale and fair, with long curls falling in profusion over her shoulders; had large languishing blue eyes, rosy lips, and hands of alabaster. She was talking with great animation with the unknown.

“His eminence, then, orders me—” said the lady.

“To return instantly to England, and to inform him immediately should the duke leave London.”

“And my other instructions?” asked the fair traveller.

“They are contained in this box, which you will not open until you are on the other side of the Channel.”

“Very well; and you, what are you going to do?”

“I—oh! I shall return to Paris.”

“What! without chastising this insolent boy?” asked the lady.

The unknown was about to reply, but at the moment he opened his mouth D’Artagnan, who had heard all, rushed forward through the open door.

“This insolent boy chastises others,” cried he; “and I sincerely hope that he whom he means to chastise will not escape him as he did before.”

“Will not escape him?” replied the unknown, knitting his brow.

“No; before a woman you would not dare to fly, I presume?”

“Remember,” cried milady, seeing the unknown lay his hand on his sword—“remember that the least delay may ruin everything.”

“True,” cried the gentleman. “Begone then your way, and I will go mine.” And bowing to the lady, he sprang into his saddle, her coachman at the same time applying his whip vigorously to his horses. The two interlocutors thus separated, taking opposite directions, at full gallop.

“Base coward! false nobleman!” cried D’Artagnan, springing forward. But his wound had rendered him too weak to support such an exertion.

“He is a coward indeed,” grumbled the host, drawing near to D’Artagnan, and endeavouring by this little flattery to make up matters with the young man, as the heron of the fable did with the snail he had despised the evening before.

“Yes, a base coward,” murmured D’Artagnan; “but she—she was very beautiful.”

“What she?” demanded the host.

“Milady,” faltered D’Artagnan, and fainted the second time.

On the following morning, at five o’clock, D’Artagnan arose, and descending to the kitchen without help, asked, among other ingredients the list of which has not come down to us, for some oil, some wine, and some rosemary, and with his mother’s recipe in his hand, composed a balsam with which he anointed his numerous wounds, replacing his bandages himself, and positively refusing the assistance of any doctor. Thanks, no doubt, to the efficacy of the gypsy’s balsam, and perhaps, also, thanks to the absence of any doctor, D’Artagnan walked about that same evening, and was almost cured by the morrow.

But when the time of settlement came, D’Artagnan found nothing in his pocket but his little worn velvet purse with the eleven crowns it contained; as to the letter addressed to M. de Tréville, it had disappeared.

“My letter of recommendation!” cried D’Artagnan; “my letter of recommendation! or, by God’s blood, I will spit you all like so many ortolans!”

“Does the letter contain anything valuable?” demanded the host, after a few minutes of useless investigation.

“Zounds! I think it does, indeed,” cried the Gascon, who reckoned upon this letter for making his way at court; “it contained my fortune!”

A ray of light all at once broke upon the mind of the host, who was uttering maledictions upon finding nothing.

“That letter is not lost!” cried he.

“What!” said D’Artagnan.

“No; it has been stolen from you.”

“Stolen! by whom?”

“By the gentleman who was here yesterday. He came down into the kitchen, where your doublet was. He remained there some time alone. I would lay a wager he has stolen it.”

“Do you think so?” answered D’Artagnan.

“I tell you I am sure of it,” continued the host. “When I informed him that your lordship was the protégé of M. de Tréville, and that you even had a letter for that illustrious nobleman, he appeared to be very much disturbed, and asked me where that letter was, and immediately came down into the kitchen, where he knew your doublet was.”

“Then he is the thief,” replied D’Artagnan. “I will complain to M. de Tréville, and M. de Tréville will complain to the king.” He then drew two crowns majestically from his purse, gave them to the host, who accompanied him, cap in hand, to the gate, remounted his yellow horse, which bore him without any further accident to the gate of St. Antoine at Paris, where his owner sold him for three crowns, which was a very good price, considering that D’Artagnan had ridden him hard on the last stretch.

So D’Artagnan entered Paris on foot, carrying his little packet under his arm, and wandered around till he found an apartment to be let on terms suited to the scantiness of his means. This chamber was a sort of garret, situated in the Rue des Fossoyeurs, near the Luxembourg.

Then he went to the Quai de la Ferraille, to have a new blade put to his sword, and came back to the Louvre, and inquired of the first musketeer he met the situation of the h?tel of M. de Tréville, which proved to be in the Rue du Vieux-Colombier, in the immediate vicinity of the chamber hired by D’Artagnan, a circumstance which appeared to him to be a happy augury for the outcome of his journey.

After which, satisfied with the way in which he had conducted himself at Meung, without remorse for the past, confident in the present, and full of hope for the future, he retired to bed, and slept the sleep of the brave.

This sleep, rustic as it was, brought him to nine o’clock in the morning, at which hour he rose in order to repair to the residence of the famous M. de Tréville, the third personage in the kingdom, according to the estimation of his father.

Chapter 2 - The Antechamber of M. de Tréville

M. De Troisville, as his family was still called in Gascony, or M. de Tréville, as he had ended by styling himself in Paris, had really commenced life as D’Artagnan now did—that is to say, without a sou in his pocket. but with a fund of courage, shrewdness, and intelligence which makes the poorest Gascon gentleman often derive more in his imagination from the paternal inheritance than the richest nobleman of the Perigord or Berry receives in reality.

He was the friend of the king, who honoured highly, as every one knows, the memory of his father, Henry IV. Louis XIII made De Tréville the captain of his musketeers, who were to Louis XIII, in devotedness, or rather in fanaticism, what his Ordinaries had been to Henry III, and his Scotch Guard to Louis XI.

On his part, and in this respect, the cardinal was not behindhand with the king. When he saw the formidable and chosen body by which Louis XIII surrounded himself, this second, or rather this first, king of France became desirous that he too should have his guard. He had his musketeers, then, as Louis XIII had his; and these two powerful rivals vied with each other in procuring the most celebrated swordsmen, not only from all the provinces of France, but also from all foreign states.

Loose, tipsy, gashed, the king’s musketeers, or rather M. de Tréville’s, spread themselves about in the saloons, in the public walks, and the public sports, shouting, twirling their moustaches, clanking their swords, and taking great pleasure in bustling against the guards of the cardinal whenever they could fall in with them; then drawing their swords in the open streets, with a thousand jests; sometimes killed, but sure in that case to be both wept and avenged; often killing others, but then certain of not rotting in prison, M. de Tréville being there to claim them. And so M. de Tréville was praised in all keys by these men, who absolutely adored him, and who, ruffians as they were, trembled before him like scholars before their master, obedient to his least word, and ready to sacrifice themselves to wipe out the least insult.

The court of his h?tel, situated in the Rue du Vieux-Colombier, resembled a camp as early as six o’clock in the morning in summer and eight o’clock in winter. From fifty to sixty musketeers, who appeared to relieve each other there, in order always to present an imposing number, paraded constantly 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 the solicitors of Paris, who were in search of favours of any kind—gentlemen from the provinces anxious to be enrolled, and servants in all sorts of liveries, bringing messages from their masters to M. de Tréville. In the antechamber, upon long circular benches, reposed the elect—that is to say, those who were called. In this apartment a continued buzzing prevailed from morning till night, while M. de Tréville, in his office contiguous to this antechamber, received visits, listened to complaints, gave his orders, and, like the king in his balcony at the Louvre, had only to place himself at the window to review both men and arms.

The day on which D’Artagnan presented himself the assemblage was imposing, particularly for a provincial just arriving from his province. It is true that this provincial was a Gascon, and that, particularly at this period, the compatriots of D’Artagnan had the reputation of not being easily intimidated. When he had once passed the massive door, covered with long square-headed nails, he fell into the midst of a troop of military, who were passing each other in the court, calling out, quarrelling, and playing tricks with one another. To make way through these turbulent and conflicting waves it was necessary to be an officer, a great noble, or a pretty woman.

It was, then, in the midst of this tumult and disorder that our young man advanced with a beating heart. Holding his long rapier close to his lanky leg, and keeping one hand on the edge of his cap, he smiled with the embarrassment of a provincial who affects confidence.

Being, however, a perfect stranger in the crowd of M. de Tréville’s courtiers, and this his first appearance in that place, he was at length noticed, and a person came to him and asked him his business there. At this demand D’Artagnan gave his name very modestly, laid a stress upon the title of compatriot, and begged the servant who had put the question to him to request a moment’s audience of M. de Tréville—a request which the other, with a patronizing air, promised to convey in time and season.D’Artagnan, a little recovered from his first surprise, had now leisure to study costumes and countenances.

The centre of the most animated group was a musketeer of great height, of a haughty countenance, and dressed in a costume so peculiar as to attract general attention. He did not wear the uniform cloak—which, indeed, at that time of less liberty and greater independence was not obligatory—but a cerulean blue doublet, a little faded and worn, and over this a magnificent baldric worked in gold, which shone like water-ripples in the sun. A long cloak of crimson velvet fell in graceful folds from his shoulders, disclosing in front the splendid baldric, from which was suspended a gigantic rapier.

This musketeer had just come off guard, complained of having a cold, coughed from time to time affectedly. It was for this reason, he said to those around him, he had put on his cloak; and while he spoke with a lofty air and twirled his moustache, all admired his embroidered baldric, and D’Artagnan more than any one.

“What can you expect?” said the musketeer. “The fashion is coming in. It is a folly, I admit, but still it is the fashion. Besides, one must lay out one’s inheritance somehow.”

“Ah, Porthos!” cried one of his companions, “don’t think to palm upon us that you obtained that baldric by paternal generosity: it must have been given to you by that veiled lady with whom I met you the other Sunday, near the gate Saint-Honoré.”

“No, ’pon honour; by the faith of a gentleman, I bought it with my own money,” answered he whom they had just designated by the name of Porthos.

The wonder was increased, though the doubt continued to exist.

“Didn’t I, Aramis?” said Porthos, turning towards another musketeer.

This other musketeer formed a perfect contrast to his interrogator, who had just designated him by the name of Aramis. He was a young man, of about two or three and twenty, with an open, ingenuous countenance, dark mild eyes, and cheeks rosy and downy as an autumn peach; his delicate moustache marked a perfectly straight line upon his upper lip; he appeared to dread to lower his hands lest their veins should swell, and he pinched the tips of his ears from time to time to preserve their delicate pink transparency. Habitually he spoke little and slowly, bowed frequently, laughed without noise, showing his teeth, which were fine, and of which, as of the rest of his person, he appeared to take the greatest care. He answered the appeal of his friend by an affirmative nod of the head.

This affirmation appeared to dispel all doubts with regard to the baldric. They continued to admire it, but said no more about it; and by one of those rapid changes of thought, the conversation passed suddenly to another subject.

“M. de Tréville awaits M. D’Artagnan,” interrupted a servant, throwing open the door of the office.At this announcement, during which the door remained open, every one became mute, and amidst the general silence the young man crossed the antechamber at one end, and entered the apartment of the captain of the musketeers.

Chapter 3 - The Audience

M. De Tréville was at this moment in a very ill-humour, nevertheless he politely saluted the young man, who bowed to the very ground, and he smiled on receiving his compliment, the Béarnese accent of which recalled to him at the same time his youth and his country, a double remembrance which makes a man smile at all ages. But stepping almost immediately towards the antechamber, and making a sign to D’Artagnan with his hand, as if to ask his permission to finish with others before he began with him, he called three times, with a louder voice at each time, so that he went through all the tones between the imperative accent and the angry accent.

“Athos! Porthos! Aramis!”

The two musketeers with whom we have already made acquaintance, and who answered to the last two of these three names, immediately quitted the group of which they formed a part, and advanced towards the office, the door of which closed after them as soon as they had entered. Their bearing, though not entirely composed, was full of a dignified and submissive indifference, which excited the admiration of D’Artagnan, who beheld in these two men demigods, and in their leader an Olympian Jupiter, armed with all his thunders.

When the two musketeers had entered, when the door was closed behind them, when the buzzing murmur of the antechamber, to which the summons which had just been made had doubtless furnished fresh aliment, had recommenced, when M. de Tréville had three or four times paced in silence, and with a frowning brow, the whole length of his office, passing each time before Porthos and Aramis, who were as upright and silent as if on parade, he stopped all at once full in front of them, and looking at them angrily from head to foot,

“Do you know what the king said to me,” cried he, “and that no longer ago than yesterday evening—do you know, gentlemen?”

“No,” replied the two musketeers, after a moment’s silence; “no, sir, we do not.”

“But I hope that you will do us the honour to tell us,” added Aramis, in his politest tone and with the most graceful bow.“He told me that he should henceforth recruit his musketeers from among the guards of the cardinal.”

“The guards of the cardinal! And why so?” asked Porthos warmly.

“Because he plainly perceives that his piquette1 stands in need of being enlivened by a mixture of good wine.”

The two musketeers coloured up to the eyes. D’Artagnan did not know where he was, and would have liked to be a hundred feet underground.

“Yes, yes,” continued M. de Tréville, growing warmer as he spoke, “and his Majesty was right, for, upon my honour, it is true that the musketeers make but a miserable figure at court. The cardinal related yesterday, while playing with the king, with an air of condolence not very pleasing to me, that the day before yesterday those damned musketeers, those dare-devils—he dwelt upon those words with an ironical tone still more displeasing to me—those cleavers, added he, glancing at me with his tiger-cat’s eye, had been out late in the Rue Férou, in a tavern, and that a patrol of his guards (I thought he was going to laugh in my face) had been forced to arrest the rioters. Zounds! you must know something about it! Arrest musketeers! You were among them—you were! Don’t deny it; you were recognized, and the cardinal named you. But it’s all my fault; yes, it’s all my fault, because it is I myself who select my men. You, now, Aramis, why the devil did you ask me for a uniform when you were going to be so fine in a cassock? And you, Porthos, do you only wear such a fine golden baldric to suspend a sword of straw from it? And Athos—I don’t see Athos! Where is he?”

“Sir,” replied Aramis, in a sorrowful tone, “he is ill, very ill!”

“Ill—very ill, say you? And what is his malady?”

“Well, captain,” said Porthos, quite beside himself, “the truth is that we were six against six. But we were not captured by fair means, and before we had time to draw our swords two of our party were dead; and Athos, grievously wounded, was very little better. For you know Athos. Well, captain, he endeavoured 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 believed him to be dead, and left him very quietly on the field of battle, not thinking it worth the while to carry him away. Now, that’s the whole story. What the devil, captain, one cannot win all one’s battles! The great Pompey lost that of Pharsalia; and Francis the First, who was, as I have heard say, as good as any one else, nevertheless lost the battle of Pavia.”

“And I have the honour of assuring you that I killed one of them with his own sword,” said Aramis, “for mine was broken at the first parry. Killed him, or poniarded him, sir, as is most agreeable to you.”

“But pray, sir,” continued Aramis, who, seeing his captain relenting, took courage to make a petition—“pray, sir, 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, seeing that after crossing the shoulder it penetrates into the chest, it is to be feared—”

At this instant the tapestry was raised, and a noble and handsome face, but frightfully pale, appeared under the fringe.

“Athos!” cried the two musketeers.

“Athos!” repeated M. de Tréville to himself.

“You have sent for me, sir,” said Athos to M. de Tréville in a feeble yet perfectly calm voice—“you have sent for me, as my comrades inform me, and I have hastened to receive your orders. I am here, sir; what do you want with me?”

And at these words the musketeer, in irreproachable costume, belted as usual, with a firm step entered the room. M. de Tréville, moved to the bottom of his heart by this proof of courage, sprang towards him.

“I was about to say to these gentlemen,” added he, “that I forbid my musketeers to expose their lives needlessly; for brave men are very dear to the king, and the king knows that his musketeers are the bravest fellows on earth. Your hand, Athos!”

And without waiting until the newcomer should himself respond to this proof of affection, M. de Tréville seized his right hand, and pressed it with all his might, without perceiving that Athos, whatever might be his self-command, allowed a slight murmur of pain to escape him, and, if possible, grew paler than he was before.

The door had remained open, so strong was the excitement produced by the arrival of Athos, whose wound, though kept as secret as possible, was known to all. A loud murmur of satisfaction hailed the last words of the captain, and two or three persons, carried away by the enthusiasm of the moment, appeared through the openings of the tapestry. Doubtless M. de Tréville was about to reprehend severely this infringement on the rules of etiquette, when he suddenly felt the hand of Athos contract within his, and upon turning his eyes towards him, perceived he was about to faint. At the same instant Athos, who had rallied all his energies to contend against pain, at length overcome by it, fell upon the floor as if he was dead.

Immediately M. de Tréville opened the door and pointed the way to Porthos and Aramis, who carried off their comrade in their arms.

When all had gone out and the door closed, M. de Tréville, on turning round, found himself alone with the young man. The stirring event which had just taken place had in some degree broken the thread of his ideas. He inquired what was the desire of his persevering visitor. D’Artagnan then repeated his name, and in an instant, recalling his memory of the past and the present, M. de Tréville was in possession of the situation.

“Pardon me,” said he, smiling—“pardon me, my dear compatriot, but I had entirely forgotten you. But what help is there for it? A captain is nothing but a father of a family, charged with even a greater responsibility than the father of an ordinary family. Soldiers are big children; but I maintain that the orders of the king, and more particularly the orders of the cardinal, should be executed—”

D’Artagnan could not restrain a smile. By this smile M. de Tréville judged that he had not to deal with a fool, and changing the subject, came straight to the point.

“I loved your father very much,” said he. “What can I do for the son? Tell me quickly—my time is not my own.”

“Sir,” said D’Artagnan, “on leaving Tarbes and coming hither, it was my intention to request of you, in remembrance of the friendship which you have not forgotten, the uniform of a musketeer. But after all that I have seen during the last two hours, I have become aware of the value of such a favour, and tremble lest I should not merit it.”

“Well, young man,” replied M. de Tréville, “it is, in fact, a favour, but it may not be so far beyond your hopes as you believe, or rather as you appear to believe. Yet his Majesty’s decision is always necessary, and I inform you with regret that no one becomes a musketeer without the preliminary ordeal of several campaigns, certain brilliant actions, or a service of two years in some regiment less favoured than ours.”

D’Artagnan bowed without replying, feeling his desire to don the musketeer’s uniform vastly increased by the difficulties which he had learned must precede the attainment of it.

“But,” continued M. de Tréville, fixing upon his compatriot a look so piercing that it might be said he wished to read the thoughts of his heart—“but on account of my old companion, your father, as I have said, I will do something for you, young man. I will write a letter to-day to the director of the Royal Academy, and to-morrow he will admit you without any expense to yourself. Do not refuse this little service. Our best-born and richest gentlemen sometimes solicit it without being able to obtain it. You will learn riding, swordsmanship in all its branches, and dancing. You will make some desirable acquaintances, and from time to time you can call upon me, just to tell me how you are getting on, and to say whether I can be of any service to you.”

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

“Alas, sir,” said he, “I can but perceive how sadly I miss the letter of introduction which my father gave me to present to you.”

“I certainly am surprised,” replied M. de Tréville, “that you should undertake so long a journey without that necessary viaticum, the only resource of us poor Béarnese.”“I had one, sir, and, thank God, such as I could wish,” cried D’Artagnan, “but it was perfidiously stolen from me.”

He then related the adventure at Meung, described the unknown gentleman with the greatest minuteness, and all with a warmth and truthfulness that delighted M. de Tréville.

“This is all very strange,” said the latter, after meditating a minute. “You mentioned my name, then, aloud?”

“Yes, sir; I certainly committed that imprudence. But why should I have done otherwise? A name like yours was to serve me as a buckler on my way. You can fancy whether I often hid myself behind it or no!”

Flattery was at that period very much in fashion, and M. de Tréville loved incense as well as a king, or even a cardinal. He could not then refrain from a smile of evident satisfaction; but this smile soon disappeared, and returning to the adventure at Meung,

“Tell me,” continued he, “had not this gentleman a slight scar on his cheek?”

“Yes, such a one as would be made by the grazing of a ball.”

“Was he not a fine-looking man?”

“Yes.”

“Of lofty stature?”

“Yes.”

“Of pale complexion and brown hair?”

“Yes, yes, that is he! How is it, sir, that you are acquainted with this man? If ever I should meet him again, and I will find him, I swear, were it in hell—”

“He was waiting for a woman?” continued Tréville.

“He at least departed immediately after having conversed for a minute with the one for whom he was waiting.”

“You do not know what was the subject of their conversation?”

“He gave her a box, told her that box contained her instructions, and desired her not to open it before she arrived in London.”

“Was this an Englishwoman?”

“He called her Milady.”

“It is he! it must be he!” murmured Tréville. “I thought he was still at Brussels!”

“O sir, if you know who and what this man is,” cried D’Artagnan, “tell me who he is and whence he is. I will then release you from all your promises—even that of procuring my admission into the musketeers. For, before everything, I wish to avenge myself.”

“Beware, young man!” cried De Tréville. “If you see him coming on one side of the street, pass by on the other. Do not cast yourself against such a rock; he would break you like glass.”

“That thought will not prevent me,” replied D’Artagnan, “if ever I should happen to meet with him—”

“In the meantime, if you will take my advice, you will not seek him,” said Tréville, and leaving his young compatriot in the embrasure of the window, where they had talked together, he seated himself at a table, in order to write the promised letter of recommendation. While he was doing this D’Artagnan, having no better employment, amused himself with beating a march upon the window, and with looking at the musketeers, who went away, one after another, following them with his eyes till they disappeared at the bend of the street.

M. de Tréville, after having written the letter, sealed it, and rising, approached the young man in order to give it to him. But at the very moment that D’Artagnan stretched out his hand to receive it, M. de Tréville was highly astonished to see his protégé make a sudden spring, become crimson with passion, and rush from the room, crying, “Ah, ’sblood! he shall not escape me this time.”

“Who? who?” asked M. de Tréville.

“He, my thief!” replied D’Artagnan. “Ah, the traitor!” and he disappeared.

“The devil take the madman!” murmured M. de Tréville.

___________________

1 A liquor squeezed out of grapes, when they have been pressed, and water poured upon them.“I did not know that,” replied M. de Tréville in a somewhat softened tone. “The cardinal exaggerated, as I perceive.”

Chapter 4 - The Shoulder of Athos, the Baldric of Porthos, and the Handkerchief of Aramis

D’artagnan, in a state of rage, crossed the antechamber in three bounds, and was darting towards the stairs, which he reckoned upon descending four steps at a time, when, in his heedless course, he ran head foremost against a musketeer who was coming out of one of M. de Tréville’s private rooms, and hitting his shoulder violently, made him utter a cry, or rather a howl.

“Excuse me,” said D’Artagnan, endeavouring to resume his course—“excuse me, but I am in a hurry.”

Scarcely had he descended the first stair when a hand of iron seized him by the scarf and stopped him.

“You are in a hurry,” said the musketeer, as pale as a sheet. “Under that pretence you run against me. You say ‘Excuse me!’ and you believe that that is sufficient?”

“Loose your hold, then, I beg of you, and let me go where my business calls me,” replied D’Artagnan.

“Sir,” said Athos, letting him go, “you are not polite; it is easy to perceive that you come from a distance.”

D’Artagnan had already strode down three or four stairs when Athos’s last remark stopped him short.

“Zounds, sir!” said he, “however far I may have come, it is not you who can give me a lesson in good manners, I warn you.”

“Perhaps!” said Athos.

“Ah! if I were not in such haste, and if I were not running after some one!” said D’Artagnan.

“Mr. Man-in-a-hurry, you can find me without running after me—me! Do you understand me?”

“And where, I pray you?”

“Near the Carmes-Deschaux.”

“At what hour?”

“About noon.”

“About noon. That will do; I will be there.”

“Try not to make me wait, for at a quarter-past twelve I will cut off your ears as you run.”

“Good!” cried D’Artagnan; “I will be there ten minutes before twelve.”

And he set off, running as if the devil possessed him, hoping that he might yet find the unknown, whose slow pace could not have carried him far.

But at the street gate Porthos was talking with the soldier on guard. Between the two talkers there was just room for a man to pass. D’Artagnan thought it would suffice for him, and he sprang forward like a dart between them. But D’Artagnan had reckoned without the wind. As he was about to pass the wind blew out Porthos’s long cloak, and D’Artagnan rushed straight into the middle of it. Without doubt Porthos had reasons for not abandoning this essential part of his vestments, for instead of letting go the flap, which he was holding, he pulled it towards him, so that D’Artagnan rolled himself up in the velvet by a movement of rotation explained by the resistance of the obstinate Porthos.

D’Artagnan, hearing the musketeer swear, wished to escape from under the cloak which blinded him, and endeavoured to make his way out of its folds. He was particularly anxious to avoid marring the freshness of the magnificent baldric we are acquainted with; but on timidly opening his eyes, he found himself with his nose fixed between the two shoulders of Porthos—that is to say, exactly upon the baldric.

Alas! like most of the things in this world which have nothing in their favour but appearance, the baldric was glittering with gold in the front, but was nothing but simple buff behind. Vainglorious as he was, Porthos could not afford to have an entirely gold-worked baldric, but had at least half a one. The pretext about the cold and the necessity for the cloak were thus exposed.

“Good Lord!” cried Porthos, making strong efforts to get rid of D’Artagnan, who was wriggling about his back, “the fellow must be mad to run against people in this manner.”

“Excuse me,” said D’Artagnan, reappearing under the shoulder of the giant, “but I am in such haste. I was running after some one, and—”“And do you always forget your eyes when you happen to be in a hurry?” asked Porthos.

“No,” replied D’Artagnan, piqued, “no; and, thanks to my eyes, I can see what other people cannot see.”

Whether Porthos understood him or did not understand him, the fact is that giving way to his anger,

“Sir,” said he, “I warn you that you stand a chance of getting chastised if you run against musketeers in this fashion.”

“Chastised, sir?” said D’Artagnan. “The expression is strong.”

“It is one that becomes a man accustomed to look his enemies in the face.”

“Ah, zounds! I know full well that you do not turn your back to yours.”

And the young man, delighted with his joke, went away laughing with all his might.

Porthos foamed with rage, and started to rush after D’Artagnan.

“Wait awhile, wait awhile,” cried the latter; “when you haven’t your cloak on.”

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

“Very well; at one o’clock, then,” replied D’Artagnan, turning the angle of the street.

But neither in the street through which he had passed, nor in the one which his glance now eagerly scanned, could he see any one. However slowly the unknown had walked, he had gained ground, or perhaps had entered some house. D’Artagnan inquired of every one he met, went down to the ferry, came up again by the Rue de Seine and the Croix Rouge, but he could see nothing of him, absolutely nothing! This race was, however, advantageous to him in one sense, for in proportion as the perspiration broke from his forehead his heart began to cool.

He began to reflect upon the events that had passed. D’Artagnan, walking and soliloquizing, had arrived within a few steps of the H?tel d’Aiguillon, and in front of that h?tel perceived Aramis chatting gaily with three gentlemen of the king’s guards. D’Artagnan approached the young men with a profound bow, accompanied by a most gracious smile. Aramis bowed his head slightly, but did not smile. All four of them immediately ceased talking.

D’Artagnan was not so dull as not to perceive that he was not wanted, but he was not sufficiently acquainted with the ways of the world to know how to withdraw with ease from the awkward position of having forced himself upon persons he scarcely knew, and having joined in a conversation which did not concern him. He was seeking in his mind, then, for the least disagreeable means of retreat, when he remarked that Aramis had let his handkerchief fall, and by mistake, no doubt, had placed his foot upon it, and it appeared a favourable opportunity to atone for his intrusion. He stooped, and with the most gracious air he could assume, drew the handkerchief from under the foot of the musketeer, in spite of the efforts the latter made to detain it, and holding it out to him, said,

“I believe, sir, that this is a handkerchief you would be sorry to lose?”

The handkerchief was, in fact, richly embroidered, and had a coronet and arms at one of its corners. Aramis blushed excessively, and snatched rather than took the handkerchief from D’Artagnan’s hand.

The young men burst into a loud laugh, and as may be supposed, the affair had no other sequel. In a moment or two the conversation ceased, and the three guards and the musketeer, after having cordially shaken hands, separated, the guards going one way and Aramis another.

“Now is my time to make my peace with this gentleman,” said D’Artagnan to himself, having kept at a little distance all the latter part of the conversation; and with this good feeling he drew near to Aramis, who was going away without paying any attention to him.

“Sir,” said he, “you will excuse me, I hope.”

“Ah!” interrupted Aramis, “allow me to call to your attention that you have not acted in this affair as a man of good breeding ought to have.”

“What!” cried D’Artagnan; “you suppose—”

“I suppose, sir, that you are not a fool, and that you know very well, although coming from Gascony, that people do not tread upon pocket handkerchiefs without a reason. What the devil! Paris is not paved with cambric!”

“Sir, you do wrong in endeavouring to mortify me,” said D’Artagnan, to whom his quarrelsome nature began to speak more loudly than his pacific resolutions. “I am from Gascony, it is true; and since you know it, there is no need of telling you that Gascons are not very patient, so that when they have asked pardon once, were it even for a folly, they are convinced that they have done already at least as much again as they ought to have done.”

“Sir, what I say to you about the matter,” said Aramis, “is not for the sake of seeking a quarrel. Thank God, I am not a bully; and being a musketeer only for a time, I only fight when I am forced to do so, and always with great repugnance. But this time the affair is serious, for here is a lady compromised by you.”

“By us, you mean,” cried D’Artagnan.

“Why did you so awkwardly give me the handkerchief?”

“Why did you so awkwardly let it fall?”

“I have said, sir, that the handkerchief did not fall from my pocket.”

“Well, and by saying so you have lied twice, sir, for I saw it fall.”

“Oh, oh! you take it up in that way, do you, Master Gascon? Well, I will teach you how to behave yourself.”

“And I will send you back to your mass-book, Master Abbé. Draw, if you please, and right away.”“Not at all, if you please, my good friend—not here, at least. Do you not perceive that we are opposite the H?tel d’Aiguillon, which is full of the cardinal’s creatures? How do I know that it is not his Eminence who has honoured you with the commission to bring him my head? Now I really entertain a ridiculous partiality for my head, because it seems to suit my shoulders so admirably. I have no objection to killing you, depend upon that, but quietly, in a snug, remote place, where you will not be able to boast of your death to anybody.”

“I agree, sir; but do not be too confident. Take away your handkerchief. Whether it belongs to you or another, you may, perhaps, stand in need of it.”

“The gentleman is a Gascon?” asked Aramis.

“Yes. The gentleman does not postpone a meeting through prudence.”

“Prudence, sir, is a virtue quite useless to musketeers, I know, but indispensable to churchmen; and as I am only a musketeer provisionally, I deem it best to be prudent. At two o’clock I shall have the honour of expecting you at the h?tel of M. de Tréville. There I will point out to you the best place and time.”

The two young men bowed and separated, Aramis ascending the street which led to the Luxembourg, while D’Artagnan, perceiving that the appointed hour was approaching, took the road to the Carmes-Deschaux, saying to himself, “Decidedly I can’t draw back; but at least, if I am killed, I shall be killed by a musketeer!”

Chapter 5 - The King’s Musketeers and the Cardinal’s Guards

When D’Artagnan arrived in sight of the bare spot of ground which stretched out at the base of the monastery, Athos had been waiting about five minutes, and twelve o’clock was striking. He was, then, as punctual as the Samaritan woman, and the most rigorous casuist on duels could have nothing to say.

Athos, who still suffered grievously from his wound, though it had been freshly dressed by M. de Tréville’s surgeon, was seated on a stone, awaiting his adversary with that placid countenance and that noble air which never forsook him. At sight of D’Artagnan he arose and politely came a few steps to meet him. The latter, on his part, saluted his adversary with hat in hand, and his feather even touching the ground.

“Sir,” said Athos, “I have engaged two of my friends as seconds, but these two friends have not yet come. I am astonished at their delay, as it is not at all their custom to be behindhand. We will wait for these gentlemen, if you please; I have plenty of time, and it will be more correct. Ah! here is one of them, I think.”

In fact, at the end of the Rue Vaugirard the gigantic form of Porthos began to loom.

“What!” cried D’Artagnan, “is your first second M. Porthos?”

“Yes. Does that displease you?”

“Oh, not at all.”

“And here comes the other.”

D’Artagnan turned in the direction pointed to by Athos, and perceived Aramis.

“What!” cried he, with an accent of greater astonishment than before, “is your second witness M. Aramis?”

“Doubtless he is. Are you not aware that we are never seen one without the others, and that we are called in the musketeers and the guards, at court and in the city, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, or the Three Inseparables? And yet, as you come from Dax or Pau——”

“From Tarbes,” said D’Artagnan.

“It is probable you are ignorant of this circumstance,” said Athos.

“Pon my word,” replied D’Artagnan, “you are well named, gentlemen; and my adventure, if it should make any noise, will prove at least that your union is not founded upon contrasts.”

In the meantime Porthos had come up, waved his hand to Athos, and then turning towards D’Artagnan, stopped astonished.

Permit us to say in passing that he had changed his baldric and laid aside his cloak.

“Ah, ah!” said he, “what does this mean?”

“This is the gentleman I am going to fight with,” said Athos, pointing to D’Artagnan with his hand, and saluting him with the same gesture.

“Why, it is with him I am also going to fight,” said Porthos.

“But not before one o’clock,” replied D’Artagnan.

“Well, and I also am going to fight with that gentleman,” said Aramis, coming up in his turn.

“But not till two o’clock,” said D’Artagnan, with the same calmness.

“But what are you going to fight about, Athos?” asked Aramis.

“Pon my word, I don’t very well know; he hurt my shoulder.—And you, Porthos?”

“ ’Pon my word, I am going to fight because I am going to fight,” answered Porthos, colouring deeply.

Athos, whose keen eyes lost nothing, perceived a sly smile pass over the lips of the young Gascon as he replied.

“We had a short discussion upon dress.”

“And you, Aramis?” asked Athos.

“Oh, ours is a theological quarrel,” replied Aramis, making a sign to D’Artagnan to keep secret the cause of their dispute.